Compliments to the chef. The food was edible.

And then they were marching.

Bootman had instructed YoungVoice to 'turn this one around,' which Sammy hoped didn't mean 'whip this slave into shape.' Her back wasn't ripped open anymore, but scars lined that jigsawed mess. She felt them over with her hands. A few of the marks were tender. She counted seven of these new scars that reached up to her shoulders, but she stopped counting the faded scars after they reached double digits.

Wounds do not close over like that. It's unfortunate that whatever super healing they had here still left scars, but no one would accuse her original body of being pretty either.

With the wear and tear, this body had strength. With every step, she could feel the force radiating from the muscles in her thighs being redirected at her butt and flowing straight up her torso. She was more tired and in pain than she had ever been before, but the body she wore felt stable. She had never walked like this, and she wondered if she was stupid for never learning to walk right.

She decided that she was stupid and walking was the least of it.

Sports for her stopped as soon as she reached middle school. That was the deal with her parents. She made some friends in soccer and volleyball, but most of the girls were the worst. It didn't help that having her in the game was the same as hiring a self-saboteur.

Now, if they wanted to debate or fake a UN summit, she would be their ace in the hole.

If the body had muscle memory that overrode her gimpy walking style, did it have other memories as well? She still thought the same way, or at least she thought she did, so it's not like she is in someone else's brain.

She wondered if she could push into this body's memories.

She thought really hard, trying to push into some memories. She scrunched her face and shook her head in deep thought. She felt ridiculous.

What if these memories overrode her own? She was a parasite that had taken hostage of another person. What if she woke her up? What if the original inhabitant was already awake, just trapped as a bumbling Sammy took her for a joyride?

That would be awful. A terrible joyride too.

Not helpful.

Speaking of not being helpful, YoungVoice came up beside her.

"Listen here, slave girl," she said. The monotone delivery made being a 'slave girl' a fact, not an insult. "The records last indicate you were a level 22 [Slave]. Has there been any change?"

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Well shit. Sammy should have asked Thebian about classes when she had the chance. Now it was time to turn on the bullshit.

"There has been no change to my class." This was technically true, which just made the whole lie easier. The first rule of bullshit: Keep it close to the truth.

"What of your [Constitution] passive? You should have been able to handle three times the whippings."

Sammy tightens her eyes as if recollecting. That should buy her a few more seconds to think. So passives presumably do something either always or usually, like some background task. Saying it failed could backfire if they are always active. It isn't something she would have any reason to turn off. It isn't tied to her body, or she wouldn't be in this mess. YoungVoice mentioned an amount she should be able to handle, so there must be a limit.

"Taxing day," she said. The second rule of bullshit: Keep it either simple or complex to the point of boring.

"Why's that?" YoungVoice looked at her for the first time during the inquisition.

Third rule of bullshit: Paint yourself negatively. No one thinks you would lie to make yourself look bad.

"I took some bad tumbles. My mistake. [Constitution] couldn't handle it all."

YoungVoice looked skeptical. Maybe she'd think 'tumbles' was code for being hit and not being a little snitch about it. That should shut down some questioning.

YoungVoice humphed and left. Sammy hoped that she could get by without her lack of passives being discovered or getting her killed.

Sammy tried to engage the slaves near here. A small girl in a ragged potato sack shied away, and a full-blown minotaur just snorted and turned away. She noticed small hubs of slaves conversing, so maybe it was just her.

As she cleared a small hill, the world opened up. She saw orange leaves stretching out to the sea. The wounded trailed curled to the left before fading into the cover of trees. Near the front of the procession, she saw Thebian, probably preaching something. Most of the slaves were made to carry satchels or folded tents. Not her, though, and not Thebian either.

Sammy spoke too soon. YoungVoice came back with two satchels and put them both on her. The whole interaction contained no communication.

She felt insulted to be ignored, even by YoungVoice.

The march immediately became more difficult. It felt like she was carrying 40 pounds old-body weight, which must be massive given the strength of new-body.

Sweat soaked her tattered garments as the chill picked up. The cold became less and less welcome as the sky darkened and the camp was made.

She deposited her satchels at the satchel pile and waited around for dinner. Her stomach produced a hollow gnawing she hoped to quiet before sleep. After a half-dozen failed conversation attempts with nearby slaves, it became apparent that the only dinner around was for the slave drivers.

That rubbed her sour as she headed to the lean-to. She looked for Thebian but didn't find him, so she set herself down to sleep.

Grogginess snatched her, then released her, as the booming voice rocked her alert.

Class [Slave Orator] Achieved.

Reject.

Class [Slave Orator] Rejected.

She would wait for a non-slave class, even if it got her killed. Sorry to whosever body this was.

She slept.