By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter Two: Induction

The compound wasn’t on any map. Surrounded by rusted fencing and tall mesquite trees, it sat like a secret in the heart of nowhere—half ranch, half fortress. The main building looked like a converted barn, only the reinforced doors and surveillance cameras hinted at its true purpose.

Peter stumbled up the steps between the twins, their huge hands still gripping his arms. The door creaked open, and the blast of cool, conditioned air hit his sweat-slicked skin like a slap. Inside was a stark, dimly lit room lined with metal lockers and pegboard walls hung with restraints, batons, coils of rope, and iron collars thick as wrists. A worn leather barber chair sat at the center beneath a spotlight, its chrome arms fitted with heavy straps.

The shotgun twin gave him a shove. “Intake.”

The door slammed shut behind them with a clang that echoed off the concrete walls. The deeper-voiced twin stepped in front of Peter, hand still resting lazily on the pistol holstered low on his hip. His belt creaked as he moved—a sound Peter was already beginning to associate with control.

“Strip him,” the shotgun twin growled.

“What—wait—!” Peter backed a step, but they were on him fast.

Gloved fingers gripped his collar, and with a sharp rrrrip, his shirt was torn clean down the middle. Buttons popped and skittered across the floor. Hands worked with efficient aggression—tugging, cutting with a utility knife, peeling him like a fruit until he stood in nothing but his briefs.

The deeper twin took hold of the waistband and gave a hard yank. Cotton tore. Peter stood naked, flushed and breathing hard.

“You boys in the city like to act tough,” the shotgun twin said, circling. “But you melt fast in our heat.”

Peter tried to cover himself, but his wrists were grabbed and strapped to the arms of the barber chair. Thick leather buckles snapped into place with finality. His ankles followed—bound wide to the footrest.

The chair leaned back slightly, tilting his exposed body into the light.

“You’re ours now,” said the deeper twin. He walked over to the wall and picked up a pair of clippers. They hummed to life with a hungry buzz. “Time for your induction.”

Peter tried to twist away. “C’mon—look, this is insane, I didn’t even—”

A firm hand gripped his chin, forcing him to meet their eyes.

“Prisoners don’t get voices,” the shotgun twin said. “Only obedience.”

The first pass of the clippers was electric. They tore through his thick, dark hair, leaving a harsh, shorn path. Peter clenched his jaw as the clippers moved across his scalp—quick, brutal strokes—stripping away the last traces of his city-boy identity. The deeper twin worked silently, methodically. The other watched with arms crossed, a slow smile on his face.

When the clippers were finally switched off, the room went quiet except for Peter’s heavy breathing. The feeling of air on his bare, buzzed scalp made his skin prickle. His heart hammered.

“You’re looking more like a Texas prisoner now,” said the deeper twin, brushing hair from Peter’s shoulders.

“But we ain’t done,” added his brother. He walked to a metal cabinet and opened it with a key. Inside were rows of thick iron collars, each engraved with a number.

“See,” he said, holding one up, “trespassers like you? You don’t just serve time. You become property. And property wears its mark.”

The collar clanked heavily on the steel table as he laid it down. The inside was lined with blunt pins—enough to make it clear that once it closed, it wasn’t coming off easily.

Peter stared at it, swallowing hard. “You’re kidding…”

The deeper twin moved beside him, hand now resting on Peter’s bare shoulder, fingers digging in with slow pressure. “That’s Option One.”

“Option Two,” said the first, pulling something from a wooden box—an old branding iron, the curved metal shaped like a stylized cowboy hat and five-pointed star. “Is permanent. Heat-forged. Right hip.”

Peter’s breath hitched as he stared at the cold iron. “No—no, you can’t be serious—”

“We’re always serious, boy,” the deeper twin murmured, voice low and dark like molasses. “You want to be mouthy? We’ll give you both.”

The branding iron clanked down next to the collar. The shotgun twin leaned in close, grinning.

“Pick fast. Or we’ll pick for you.”

And suddenly Peter understood: this wasn’t jail. This wasn’t justice. This was ownership, wrapped in leather and Texas law.