Breeder ~ A Kylo Ren Fanfiction

67

The regime of Grandfather Bee was like nothing I'd yet experienced on Starkiller Base. After the forced impregnation, attempted rape by General Hux, death of multiple friends, and two failed escape attempts, I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse.

But they did.

I'd already suffered a thousand cuts, some tiny slices, others so deep I almost bled to death, but the change of guards was like being set on fire in addition to all the other wounds. The sheer humiliation of changing in front of the male harpies, whom I internally dubbed 'gargoyles', as they leered at us, ogling our pregnant bodies, especially the ones who hadn't started to show yet, was torturous enough, but they also watched us use the toilet and wash ourselves. Our already limited conversation opportunities were restricted into nonexistence. I'd never make another friend like Anika or Amma, and neither would anyone else, not in this oppressive silence. Ariel occasionally attempted to communicate through a few blinks, but I didn't bother to reciprocate the effort, my internal fire extinguished.

The simple meals were replaced with mashed gruel for a few days, but even that was too good for us disgusting Breeders because, within the week, they exchanged it for a meal supplement.

As they lined us up to inject the concoction directly into our necks, I turned to one of the gargoyles in a panic.

"I can't take that," I croaked, my voice hoarse from disuse.

The guard gave me a pale-lipped smirk. "And why is that?"

"Because I have..." I searched in my memory for the term Ben used in the infirmary. "I have hipoxy-intolerance; those supplements could kill me."

He rolled his eyes derisively, preparing a syringe. "We are well aware of your allergy, B-3025. Unlike Grandmother Bee, Grandfather Bee does not intend to run the gestation suites with utter incompetence. We've formulated your dosage without hipoxy."

"Are you sure?'

"Yes."

"But-"

His hand gripping my hair and yanking my head violently to the side stole the words from my mouth. Under Grandmother's regime, we were treated like porcelain dolls, psychological torture used in lieu of physical punishment. The other day a woman complaining too loudly of back pain got tasered in the side and we all watched her cripple to the floor with rapt horror. The entire room held it's breath, waiting to see blood start to pool between her legs, the telltale sign of a miscarriage, but she merely rolled over, moaning with pain, her baby still secure in her womb.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say they didn't care about our babies anymore. Perhaps this new Death Star was powerful enough to conquer the whole galaxy, and they no longer required the diplomatic power of women from every planet and system, nor the assurance of another generation of First Order warriors. It wouldn't be long before they disposed of all the Breeders...

The needle piercing the skin of my neck brought tears to my eyes, clearing all other thoughts from my brain other than the sharp, stinging sensation. I didn't mind; I preferred the pain to the gnawing uncertainty that plagued the majority of my waking hours.

"You see," the pale-lipped gargoyle said smugly. "No harm, no foul."

I didn't respond, knowing I'd already used more than my daily quota of words, and needless speech would receive cruel retribution. I sat down in the armchairs, which still remained though the fireplaces had been blocked off for obvious reasons. This is all we had to occupy our time, sitting with our thoughts, staring at the walls or each other, the guards watching us like hawks. Every time my eyes landed on the metal panel that covered what used to be a roaring hearth, I thought of Lynx, silver-eyed and frail, slinking around with her hand on her belly, hypnotized by the might of the First Order. My hand twitched, remember the fiery agony that engulfed it when she tried to burn me alive. I could still smell her blood as it gushed from the wound in her stomach, felt its sticky warmth, even tasted it on the edges of my lips as it spurted and sprayed like a busted spigot.

Vomit spilled from my mouth, the acid ripping open my throat and mouth, snot issuing from my nose. I shot up from my armchair only to keel over, hitting the floor hard.

"Astrid? Astrid!" Ariel fell to her knees beside me, cradling my head. "Someone help her."

"What is it?" a gargoyle asked, annoyed yet agitated.

"She's throwing up."

"Yes, I can fucking see that, but why?"

I hacked up the last few clumps of biles, weeping from shock and embarrassment. "Hipoxy," I managed to choke out.

"That's impossible, the formula doesn't contain any hipoxy."

"Who cares about the fucking formula, just look at her!" Ariel shrieked.

The gargoyle's eyes went wide as marbles at the insult. Swift as a whip, he backhanded the dark-skinned woman across the face, knocking her away from me. But that did nothing to stop my moans of pain, and a few of the braver women crowded around, anxiously cradling their stomachs.

Sighing, the guard pinched the bridge of his nose, jaw clenched. "Call the infirmary," he shouted to one of his grey-clad subordinates. "Tell them to plan for the arrival of another patient."