As a white man that loves self-degrading brownies, I want to make something enjoyable for both of us. Please feel free to DM'd with feedback! Love y'all

A Place of Purpose

In the final days before systematic collapse, the white nations stopped pretending.

There were no more peacekeeping missions, no more aid drops wrapped in flags, no more hollow speeches about dignity and democracy. When the aquifers ran dry and fertility plummeted past repair, they tore off the mask.

They did not come with handshakes. They came with drones, warplanes, breeding contracts, and official declarations of resource and genetic reclamation.

They said it plainly: "You have failed your lands and yourselves. Now your bodies will serve for the last opportunity of our species."

And they did.

The world was redrawn overnight. What was once called the “developing world” was reclassified as a global labor and reproduction sector under the stewardship of GENISYS, the Global Ethno-National Imitative for Survival, Youth, and Security.

In the areas of the map left over from the old world's East Asia came a place of production. What were once areas of unfocused human activity and culture became refined centers of purpose.

Men of strength were reduced to automated laborers to work in factories and fields until the weight of their fragile bodies forced them into heaps on the ground. Forced to endure a living of sweat and groans for the betterment of their enlightened overseers.

Women were equally reduced, but where the reproduction capabilities of their dark brothers did not contribute to white society, they were put upon a pedestal of inferiority. The fertile wombs and their soft bodies could still serve a purpose if they were properly recalculated. These women would under go deep reeducation to strip away all the flaws from the old world and birth them anew, free from their names, their languages, and eventually, their doubts.

This arrangement had first upset many formerly 'civilized' people around the world, but few could argue against the impact it had on them. At the cost of a people seen as other to themselves, and although they would never admit it publicly, beneath them as well, stability was restored to a western world panicked by collapse. Any guilt left over by this exchange was subdued by what was given to these people of color: Order. Purpose. Belonging.

And Zaena had accepted it all.

She stood before a cracked wall-length mirror, smoothing her pale skirt over her hips, brushing imaginary dust from her collar. Her figure had filled in nicely, breasts that hinted at their potential for breastfeeding, soft cheeks that gave her a sense of a naive girl, and wide hips that rose the length of her skirt bottom higher than her peers. Her handlers said she had a “compliant temperament” and a “pleasantly delicate genetic admixture.” South-East Asian, trace Chinese, with pale yellow skin that browned quickly in the sun but glowed golden under tower lights.

She was proud of that. At nineteen, she thought she was the physical cumulation of all things that made a dutiful house servant.

Pride in appearance was not a sin in the education she received, or at least as long it served to fulfill her role. They had taught her that in week three, just after the isolation phase. Her instructors, white, aging women with stiff posture and distant smiles, had shown her the charts: birthrate graphs, heritage purity zones, acceptable vocal registers. She’d studied them the way girls used to study fashion catalogs.

In the evenings, she was taught posture, oral service techniques, etiquette, obedience triggers. In the mornings, she was drilled her life's charter:

- An impure womb for my pure owner

-A quiet mouth in his house

-A grateful heart for my place in his life

She would recite it word for word during her practice routines. Sometimes out loud, and other in her head. She often did, to herself, in moments of doubt. Not that there were many. By now, the words felt like home.

She did not dream of escape. She dreamed of selection and servitude.

She had passed three rounds of internal assessment. The first three were easy, recounting the lessons that have been taught to her since a child. It was merely retelling all the things she had clung to her as her purpose. Today was different though. This physical examination would be done by subjective evaluators in the things she did not directly control.

The light was warm, sterile, and complete with no shadows, no place to hide. Zaena stood still in the center of the white chamber, arms at her sides, spine perfectly aligned, chin slightly dipped in practiced submission.

A soft mechanical chime echoed overhead.

From behind a seamless white panel, three women stepped forward.

They were dressed identically: pale grey coats, buttoned at the neck, the insignia of GENISYS embossed on the collar. Their shoes made no sou nd on the floor. Their faces were lean and emotionless, but the eyes told a different story. Cold, exacting. Watching with judgment sharpened by years of irrelevance.

They looked tired, Zaena thought, but not indifferent. One of them, perhaps sixty, with deep cheekbones and thin lips, studied her the way one might a piece of livestock. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just clinically.

“Z-2148,” the lead assessor said. “Begin undressing.”

Zaena obeyed immediately. She pulled the drawstring of her issued skirt, slipped the cloth from her shoulders, and folded it at her feet in silence. She stood bare under the lights, breathing slow and steady, fighting the urge to shiver. Not from shame, she had been taught that modesty was a flaw, but from the thrill of proximity. She was being seen.

The older matrons circled her.

Their hands were gloved in soft fabric.

“Face symmetry: adequate. Slight deviation in left jawline. Mark it,” said one.

Another leaned close, pulling a small silver tool from her pocket. She brushed Zaena’s hair back, exposing her ears, her hairline, the curve of her skull. Measured. Recorded.

“Eye shape: almond, compliant. Skin tone: light yellow. Brow arch... acceptable.”

They did not speak to her, only about her.

They took their time at her mouth. One Matron pressed gently at Zaena’s lower lip, pulling it down, revealing teeth. They were white, not naturally, but by whitening treatments. She kept her breath steady. Inhale, exhale.

“Teeth: even. Mouth proportion: optimal for oral service.”

Zaena almost smiled. That was a high mark.

Next came the breast inspection.

The matrons stood in front of her, and one nodded.

Zaena raised her arms.

They handled her with the precision of women who no longer felt desired by others for their own figure, only evaluation. They lifted, squeezed, measured weight, density, and elasticity. Fingers pressed near the areola. One assessor jotted notes on a pad.

“Development suggests positive lactation response. Nipple tone: pale brown. Responsive. Mark it.”

The oldest looking matron was less gentle.

Her grip was firmer, her gaze less hidden. She held Zaena’s breast a moment longer than necessary, then released it with the faintest sigh.

“They always give the best ones to these brown things,” she muttered, half to herself. The others ignored her.

Finally, the lower inspection.

Zaena was instructed to step onto a raised platform and place her feet wide at painted markers. She did so without hesitation. Her arms at her sides, eyes still downward. Her training had taught her this moment mattered most.

A soft bar of light projected beneath her, casting a clear view upward to a lens embedded in the ceiling.

One of the older women crouched, inspecting closely. Fingers parted her gently, without announcement, recording shape, tone, and skin elasticity.

“External lips: symmetrical. Color within optimal hue range. No scarring. Pelvic angle: correct.”

The older Matron again lingered a moment too long, staring, not with clinical observation, but with something deeper. Loss, maybe. Or envy.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” she said finally. “They breed better.”

The others nodded.

The lights dimmed slightly. The lead assessor stepped forward, her ornate coat perhaps compensating for what her skin lacked beneath.

“You may redress,” she said. “Prepare for the obedience and service evaluation.”

Zaena bowed her head, a slow, reverent dip, and retrieved her shift.

She dressed without rush, hands steady. Her skin tingled where they had touched her, but not from shame. From satisfaction.

She had pleased them. She could feel it.

And soon—soon she would please him, whoever he may be.

//END Chapt. 1