Anya's decision

Chapter 4 – Anya’s prepared for her execution 

The heavy steel door of Cell 12 groaned open with a sharp, pneumatic hiss.

Lydia stood on the threshold alongside two clinical nurses, their expressions solemn and professional. Lydia looked down at the inmate, her voice quiet but carrying the absolute weight of the final order. 

"12, it's time." 

Anya slowly sat up on the bunk. In the centre of the cell stood the heavy steel transport trolley, equipped with rigid leather limb restraints, the blackout hood, and the full apparatus required for the transfer. The chemical fog of the tranquilizers kept her movements slow and docile, stripping away any last shred of resistance. 

The two nurses stepped into the cell, taking Anya firmly by the arms. Without a word, they lifted her from the bunk and guided her rigid, straitjacketed form out of the cell, leading her toward the transport chair to begin the final prep sequence.

The heavy metal door of the clinical prep room sealed shut behind them, cutting off the hum of the cell block. In the centre of the sterile, white-tiled room stood the specialized gynaecological chair, its steel stirrups angled upward and a crisscross network of thick leather straps dangling from every armrest and base. 

Lydia stepped close to Anya, her voice low, steady, and entirely professional, though her fingers trembled slightly. 

"Everything is going to be explained to you, 12," Lydia instructed, her eyes locking onto Anya's. "They are going to walk you through every step of what they are doing and why they are doing it. If you get scared, squeeze my hand. But understand this: the preparation will not stop. Once it starts, it continues to the end." 

Anya gave a slow, drug-softened nod. 

The two nurses moved in, unbuckling the heavy canvas straitjacket and unlocking the steel-reinforced chastity belt and institutional diaper. As the heavy restraints were lifted away, Anya felt a sudden, breath taking rush of air against her bare skin—a fleeting, phantom second of absolute freedom before the cold reality of the room set back in. 

Weak and uncoordinated from days of heavy sedation, Anya was slowly maneuverer onto the padded leather surface of the gynaecological chair. Her bare legs were lifted and placed into the cold steel stirrups. 

The medical technicians moved with practiced, emotionless efficiency. Thick leather straps were pulled tight across her chest, waist, thighs, and ankles, pinning her immovably to the chair. Anya sank back against the headrest, her bare body fully exposed and completely locked down, ready for the preparation sequence to begin.

The senior nurse, a veteran of the execution block who had spent years assisting Anya with countless preparations, stepped forward with the first tray of medical vials. 

"Administering anti-nausea injectables," the nurse announced, her voice flat and clinical. "This ensures your digestive tract remains stable and prevents physical rejection reflexes during the internal trauma." 

She depressed the plunger into Anya's IV port. Seconds later, she picked up a second syringe. 

"Administering amphetamine dose," she continued, looking down into Anya's heavily sedated eyes. "Calculated precisely to counteract the tranquilizers and keep your nervous system fully conscious, responsive, and aware through the entire execution procedure. You won't slip away or lose consciousness; you'll feel every single second." 

The nurse paused for a fraction of a second, the strange inversion of their roles hanging heavily in the sterile air. For years, Anya had been the one standing on this side of the tray, orchestrating the final moments of the condemned. Now, she was the one receiving the dose. 

Anya offered a faint, tired smile up at her former colleague. 

The nurse offered a small, grim smirk in return, acknowledging the bitter irony before immediately snapping back into professional detachment and carrying on with her work.

The nurse’s voice was an even, unhurried drone of clinical explanation, masking the harsh reality of the mechanical prep beneath a veneer of medical routine. 

"Saline injection into the vulva, labia, clitoris, clitoral hood, root, and anal sphincter," the nurse recited, her fingers moving with steady, emotionless precision.

With each penetration of the fine-gauge needle, Anya felt the cold fluid fill and stretch her most sensitive tissues. The natural contours of her body were forcefully reshaped from the inside out, swelling into rigid, artificial fullness under the pressure. Manual pressure pumps were brought in next, snapping securely over the engorged areas to maintain the maximum surface tension required for the electrical leads.

The stinging pressure was intense, but the amphetamines racing through her veins kept her nerves hyper-aware, refusing her the mercy of numbness.

Lydia stood beside the gynaecological chair, her hand tightly clasped in Anya’s. She could feel Anya’s fingers trembling against her palm as the preparation descended further into the intimate, mechanical phases.

"Keep breathing, 12," Lydia whispered, her voice tight with strain. "We're almost through the prep phase."

The nurse set down the syringe tray and turned to a sterile instrument kit resting on the stainless-steel trolley beside the chair. With a pair of surgical forceps, she lifted a small, gleaming device from the foam lining. 

It sat tiny and compact on the tray, coated in a thick layer of medical lubricant that glistened under the harsh overhead theatre lights. It was the "pair of anguish"—the internal mechanical spreader designed to anchor and tear the lower tract from within. 

Lydia tightened her grip on Anya’s hand, giving a firm squeeze. "Explain it," Lydia instructed quietly, her voice steady. "Step by step. She needs to know." 

The nurse nodded, looking down at Anya’s hyper-aware, amphetamine-sharpened eyes as she positioned the device. 

"This is the internal mechanical spreader, standard designation for the terminal array," the nurse explained, her tone entirely devoid of hesitation. "It is coated in sterile lubricant to ease insertion into the lower vault of the vagina, resting just against the lower uterine segment." 

She brought the device closer, the cold metal gleaming inches from Anya's exposed skin. 

"Once you are transferred into the execution chair and the sequence begins," the nurse continued, "the internal mechanism of this device will engage in tandem with the primary rod. While the main shaft drives upward, the segments of this spreader will mechanically unfurl and expand outward from within your vaginal canal. It is designed to maximize internal surface contact for the electrical current while simultaneously fracturing the pelvic floor, splitting the vaginal walls apart, and tearing directly through the surrounding muscular and connective tissue." 

The nurse paused, letting the clinical description sink into Anya's conscious mind before moving into position. 

"It ensures absolute structural failure from the core," the nurse concluded softly. "Are you ready, 12?"

Anya gave a slow, trembling nod, her eyes locked onto Lydia’s face as the amphetamines kept every nerve ending buzzing with hyper-focused clarity. 

Lydia squeezed her hand tighter, her voice softening with a mix of sorrow and grim pride. "That's my brave girl, Anya," she whispered, leaning in close so her voice was the only thing cutting through the sterile hum of the medical equipment. 

The nurse adjusted her grip on the lubricated device, positioning it carefully at the entrance of Anya's vaginal canal. 

"Proceeding with insertion," the nurse announced, her tone shifting instantly back to pure protocol. 

The cold metal pressed inward, sliding smoothly past the lubricated tissue as the spreader was guided deep into the vault, coming to rest precisely against the lower uterine segment. The internal mechanism sat dormant, locked and primed, waiting for the final transfer to the execution chamber where the true sequence would begin.

The nurses shifted their focus back to Anya's upper body, moving with cold, mechanical efficiency. 

With the saline injections and vacuum cups having forced Anya's breasts and nipples into maximum engorgement, the sensitive flesh was primed and hypersensitive. The senior nurse picked up the first set of conductive electrode clips from the tray. 

Carefully and precisely, she attached the small, metallic clamps directly to Anya's swollen nipples, securing the wiring harness. Next, she handled the specialized metal chastity bra, positioning the rigid plates over Anya's chest and making sure the nipples touched the metal of the Chasity bra. 

"Securing conductive matrix," the nurse announced, her voice clinical and detached. 

She pressed the metal bra firmly down against the engorged tissue, fastening the back clasps until it locked tight. The interior surface of the bra was lined with dozens of tiny, needle-sharp metallic spikes designed to bite directly into the skin of the breasts and nipples. 

As the clasps clicked into place, Anya felt the microscopic points pierce the surface layer, ensuring a low-resistance pathway and absolute electrical contact across the entire chest wall for maximum current flow when the system activated.

Lydia watched the final component lock into place, her thumb tracing the back of Anya's trembling hand. The preparation phase was nearly complete.

Lydia kept her hand firmly locked in Anya’s, her thumb rubbing soothing circles against her knuckles while she maintained her gaze on the attending nurse.

"Well, nurse," Lydia prompted gently, her voice cutting softly through the hum of the medical equipment. "Inform 12 what you have done, why you've done it, and what it is going to do to her. Please." 

The nurse blinked, momentarily catching herself. "Ah, yes, sorry—my mind's all over the place with the protocol sequence today." She cleared her throat, stepping back slightly to ensure Anya could see her face. She took a breath before reciting the standard clinical breakdown.

"What we have just done," the nurse explained, her tone falling back into a steady, methodical cadence, "is lock the conductive chastity bra and the nipple electrode harness into place. The reason for this is to establish a primary high-current electrical bridge across your chest wall, utilizing the saline engorgement and the specialized interior spikes to ensure direct, zero-resistance penetration into the mammary tissue and nerve centres."

She paused, watching Anya's chest rise and fall beneath the heavy metal plates.

"When the current is switched on in the execution chair," the nurse continued, "the electrical flow will instantly seize the pectoral muscles and overload the nerve clusters in your breasts. It will induce continuous, maximum-voltage muscular contractions, causing severe internal burning and localized tissue destruction across the upper torso, running parallel to the primary cardiac pathway. It is designed to maximize neural stimulation and ensure total upper-body system shock right from the start of the sequence."

Anya let out a long, shuddering breath, the amphetamines making every word echo sharply in her mind.

Lydia leaned in closer, her voice soft and grounding. "Take your time and breathe, Anya," she whispered. "You need to get it right. Just focus on me."

Lydia swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the nurse before looking back down at Anya. The chemical edge of the amphetamines kept Anya entirely lucid, feeling every single point of pressure, metal, and saline-stretched tissue as the final phase of the lower preparation was reached.

"Yes, please," Lydia instructed, her voice tight. "Explain it."

The nurse stepped back in between Anya's spread legs, adjusting her position slightly to get a clear view of the clitoral and labial arrays that had just been fitted with the final set of electrodes.

"The clitoral and labial electrode harness is now fully secured," the nurse recited, her voice dropping into a steady, clinical rhythm. "The saline injections you received earlier were designed to maximize tissue volume, and the micro-clips and contact plates are now directly clamped onto the most sensitive nerve clusters of the external genitalia."

She gestured toward the delicate wiring tucked neatly against Anya's inner thighs.

"The purpose of this array is to create a localized, high-density electrical circuit independent of the internal rod," the nurse explained. "When the sequence activates, this terminal will deliver focused, continuous low-impedance shocks directly to the pudendal nerve and clitoral root. It will prevent nervous system shock from causing unconsciousness too early by keeping your lower sensory receptors in a state of hyper-stimulation, converting every pulse of current into white-hot, unrelenting pain localized entirely in the groin."

The nurse paused, checking the tension of the tiny metal clips one last time.

"It ensures complete, agonizing sensory overload from the moment the chair powers on until cardiovascular collapse," she concluded, stepping back from the table.

Lydia tightened her grip on Anya's hand, feeling the tremors running through her fingers. "You're doing so well, Anya," Lydia murmured softly, her thumb brushing her knuckles. "Just keep breathing."

The senior nurse stepped back from the gynaecological chair, checking the final readouts on the monitoring console.

"Preparation sequence complete," the nurse announced, her voice clinical and detached. "All internal arrays, saline injections, electrode harnesses, and mechanical spreaders are locked, seated, and verified."

Lydia gave Anya's hand one final, grounding squeeze, letting her thumb trace across her knuckles before slowly releasing her grip. Per the warden's strict protocol, Lydia's role as the emotional anchor had reached its limit; from this point forward, only the designated execution technicians could handle the condemned.

Two masked technicians stepped forward, unlocking the heavy leather straps that pinned Anya's chest, waist, and thighs to the prep table. With practiced efficiency, they carefully disengaged her legs from the stirrups, keeping the internal spreader and lower arrays completely undisturbed.

Anya was gently lifted from the table and maneuverer onto the heavy steel transfer trolley, her bare skin resting against the cold metal, fully prepped, wired, and exposed.

The technicians secured the transport locks, snapped the blackout hood over her head to complete the sensory deprivation phase, and gripped the handles of the trolley.

"Transfer to the death chamber initiated," the lead technician stated.