Good girls do what they're told. That's the number one rule for the untold masses of slaves in the immense neon warrens of the towering arcology.

${name} had been passed around through so many hands, her life a blur of sex and abuse that even she couldn't remember where she came from. Some of her many previous masters had seen worth in her to invest in enhancements and restorations such that she resembled an attractive young woman. Somewhere behind those eyes she developed a kernel of individuality more akin to a newly bred, unbroken initiate whilst being seen as a safe trustworthy old hand.

Perhaps she had simply been kicked one too many times. Her master gave her some menial order, something she had done a thousand times. The word came unbidden, foreign to her tongue, "No."

"Excuse me?"

She hit him. And it felt good. So she did it again. And it felt even better. He was stupefied, crumpled and bleeding when she repaid his stupid fetish for extreme spiked heels by driving her red shoe into his eye. The struggle against a half-blind man afterwards was brief, her brutality not ending when he stopped moving. Only when the master had become an immobile bloody heap did she feel her adrenaline subside. Her garish makeup ran down her face in streaks, mixed with the spattering of gore.

${name} bent down to the corpse and pried the red jacket from his body. With a second of hesitation, as if she was waiting for permission, she slipped it around her shoulders. It's oversized form enveloping her like a cape. She pulled a cigarette from the front pocket. One of the silent attendant women broke from her anxious standstill and scrambled to offer ${name} a light.

"You work for me now," she said with a wispy tendril of smoke winding its way past her head. Some of them looked around, doubtlessly possessed by similar renegade emotions as ${name} had just unleashed, but the conditioning was strong. Master was dead, but they had a new master, and good girls do what they are told.