She woke up to a boot in her side.

Her sister often has to wake her up in the mornings, but this is a tad aggressive. Before she could have another thought, pain interrupted.

Her body felt like it'd been through the spin cycle. Soreness radiated out from her core, keeping her warm as a chill wormed its way to her bones.

"I said get up."

The voice above her was harsh and powerful. As her body protested, she found herself standing. She just wanted to fold up and cry, maybe barf too, but she had to stand.

Tears escaped her eyes, just a few. Enough to clear her eyes. Though she wished they hadn't.

In front of her was a man. He had massive arms and legs, straight out of a bodybuilding magazine, but a gut that managed to push past his chest. It's as even every ounce of fat in his body migrated to the middle. More shocking, he was short. She's 5'2'', and this man was a head shorter than her.

Everyone around her was short. She felt like Dorothy coming to Oz, but the house fell on her instead of the witch.

Not all of them were human either. There were some lizard-people and dog-people and...she didn't know. They were marching but without that military precision. It was more of a coordinated stumbling forward.

Not wanting to stand out too much, she followed. With a single step, she cleared ground. She'd always been a fast walker, but that required her feet to pound the pavement. She looked down, and it was far away.

If she felt anything beyond pain, she would have noticed it before. This wasn't her body. She could be beaten and not remember, brain trauma or some other brain wrongness, but she couldn't just grow a foot taller.

She faceplanted. Whether it was the shock or being unfamiliar with this body, she went down--hard. Old wounds that were new to her flared up. She would have been embarrassed if this whole situation wasn't utterly ridiculous.

It stopped being ridiculous with the first crack.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

By the sixth crack, all she wanted in the world was to go home.

By the tenth, all she wanted was for it to stop.

Soon she lost count, and soon after, passed out.

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"She should have been able to handle it," said a young voice.

"You should have known her limits. They're no use whipping or feeding just to die on accident," said the man with the boot. Bootman.

At least she's worth more than a dead body. The whipping seemed like it happened in a dream. This may not be her body, but she feels what it feels--what she feels?--she didn't know.

A breeze caressed her back. Too bad her back was a lump of wrecked flesh at that point because the gentle touch of wind seemed to rip it open all over again with caked and drying blood the only defense between the world and this body's insides. She groaned loud enough for the men to hear.

"If you want to level as a [Slave Master], you need to learn to control your [Slave]s. We have another week of travel. I want you to turn this one around by then without killing it." Bootman punctuated his statement with his classic kick-in-the-ribs. It distracted her from her back pain, if nothing else.

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Leaves crunched underfoot as Bootman walked away. They were nice boots. Dark brown leather with some sort of inlay along the outside. No steel toe, which is on oversight she elected not to correct.

She was on her stomach, dirt in her mouth. She heard the shuffling of feet around her as everyone kept their distance. She turned her head to the side to see YoungVoice, but she pulled her back open farther instead. Moving was not going to be an option.

"You need to stand up," said YoungVoice. The last word squeaked out, ruining the command of it. YoungVoice was not good at this slaving thing. She didn't know if that was a plus or a minus in his favor.

She didn't think she could survive another whipping, so she tried. As expected, she ended up in pain and further into the ground. She'd have to be carried or left behind.

"Stand up," said YoungVoice. This time it was commanding.

She felt her limbs start to push her up. She got a third of the way there before a hot flash of pain coursed through her body, and she fell. She didn't lose consciousness, but she would have if she could have.

"Fuck," said YoungVoice, a sentiment she shared, "we need to get moving now."

Right now, she was an in-immense-pain-Sammy, not a get-a-move-on Sammy. So she was not very hopeful about YoungVoice's prospects.

Sammy was almost sorry for YoungVoice. They were stuck in this situation together. Wait, she wasn't sorry at all. YoungVoice was a [Slave Master] or a [Slave Master]-trainee. Why would she feel sorry for YoungVoice? How quickly did she fall for the Stockholm Syndrome thing?

YoungVoice went in front of her and laid down on her stomach. Her? Sammy was surprised that YoungVoice was a girl. She was tall and lithe, almost to the point of being gangly. Auburn hair fell to the side as YoungVoice looked at Sammy with her walnut eyes.

"[Monkey-see Monkey-do]," said YoungVoice. Then, she stood up. First onto one knee, then the other.

As YoungVoice stood, Sammy acted as her mirror. The tearing in her back didn't matter because she wasn't in control. Her body moved in concert with YoungVoice's body. Before she could take a breath, she was on her feet.

Sammy felt like she was going to explode. She wanted to cry. She wanted to shake. She wanted to collapse. She wanted to pass out. But instead, she marched.

She followed YoungVoice for miles. Each step jabbed into her back. Worse than the pain itself, she didn't know if the pain was real. Not being able to react had convinced her that what she felt must be an illusion. It wasn't a reach, not when she was in a strange body in a stranger place. She felt her sanity straining at the edges. She wondered if she wasn't already insane.

Each step took her further and further away from her sense of selfhood. She was saved from an all-expenses-paid padded cell by gaining back some control. First, she could move her fingers a little. She tapped her middle finger and thumb together to the tune of "Staying Alive."

She repeated the lyrics in her head.

"Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Stayin' alive, stayin' alive."

It became an anthem. A little bit of controlled insanity to keep the rest at bay.

Then she could direct the swing of her arms. She adjusted to avoid the sorer parts of her back.

Ahead of her, young-voice kept marching along. They reached on alcove, a sheet set up along the side kept out the wind as dozens of people laid nearly one on top of the other.

YoungVoice led Sammy to the sheet. YoungVoice turned to Sammy to look her in the eyes, and Sammy collapsed. YoungVoice dragged her to the pile and pushed her on before walking away.

A fever overtook her, and Sammy started to shake and sweat. She expected her neighbors to be aggravated, but they just ignored her. She laid on her stomach, wishing she could huddle into a fetal position.

Her consciousness took the opportunity to escape. As she approached dreamhood, she heard a booming voice.

Class [Slave] Achieved.

Nope, she thought. She would not be a slave. Not now, not ever. She would die first. Hopefully, death would bring her back to her world, but she would not be this even if it didn't. She would not be this.

The voice listened.

Class [Slave] Rejected.

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Salvia was dead. Either this was heaven, or she slept in the wrong place and would be killed. Either way, she was dead.

It was soft, and it was warm. A thick white blanket covered her entire body, making a cacoon. She sunk into the mattress. She imagined this must be how the gentry sleep. Sunlight streamed through the dividers over the window, illuminating the pale walls around her.

She refused to look around; instead, she focused on the ceiling above her and the comfort. She was afraid that if she figured out where she was, it would all go away.

"Hey, are you up?" A voice called from outside the walls. It was the voice of a young female. There was no hostility in it, but she didn't want to try her newfound luck.

She jumped out of the bed and walked over to the door. It was modern but poor, a simple handle over a white door with rectangles insets.

She opened the door with her head down to the young miss's shoes.

"I am up, ma'am," she said, hoping she could stay here after being punished for sloth. She never woke up after sunrise. She had skills that ensured it. Any punishment would be deserved.

"Cool," said the young miss, and she left.

She stood there for a minute, waiting for young miss to give a command or a reprimand. None came.

What was she supposed to do here? Being a level 23 [Slave] meant nothing without a command.

And why the hell was she so short?