"I am here to end you."
I'll work, I'll atone, I'll do whatever you ask of me, just please, I don't want to die.
"Live by the rules you gave those you harmed, and give all those you harmed YOUR life and go through therapy and be monitored."
Alright, I agree. -- Fighting Fit
[AN: This prompt was cut down for brevity]
Kamiron was going to live. He was also going to live to regret his choices, too. He had to live as his former employees lived. Forsaking his fortune and holdings to pay for the rehabilitation of all the others. All to save his neck from the intevitability of Pax Humanis.
His life was the booth, now, a tiny space with a cot and a closet washroom. Work for all waking hours on the things passing through the conveyor, taking breaks only for the bathroom or sleep. Food and hydration came in a tube and was directly tied to his ability to reach quota. Which changed randomly. If he hurt from his efforts, he needed to toughen up. If he was too tired, he didn't eat. If he took too many bathroom breaks, he didn't eat. If he didn't make enough product... he didn't eat.
It took two months for him to start wondering if he'd gone to Hell and not noticed.
He didn't even last half a year before he begged Pax Humanis to end him. In another three months, he did everything he could to escape the booth.
He escaped into a Galactic Standard Single's Habitat, penitentiary edition. Which was three rooms, each four times larger than the booth.
It was an immense relief.
Shaking, Kamiron fell on his knees to the padded surface. There, on the other side of the observation window, was the selfsame member of Pax Humanis who had passed the sentence.
"I'm not just an enforcer," they said. "I'm also a therapist. Shall we begin with your experiences, or your regrets?"
[Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash]
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