Three recruits filed into the small white training chamber, boots scraping softly against the concrete floor. The air inside was stale, with a faint smell of disinfectant. At the far end of the chamber stood Warden Emely, ready to oversee this part of the recruits training. She stood tall, almost statuesque, wrapped in a semi-transparent latex bodysuit that shimmered under the bright ceiling light. The material clung to her athletic frame, offering both mobility and protection in equal measure. Her gas mask, polished and pristine, hung loosely by one strap at her hip, and the pouches on her belts held the other tools for today’s training. The reason for this outfit in the field was the distracting view the suit could provide, just the extra edge during missions. As criminals tended to find it hard to notice her putting on her mask while they were ogling her body. Now, it was an extra test to see if the recruits could remain focused, even in harsh conditions, and because it was a bit of a guilty pleasure for Emely.

The recruits stood at attention, already sweating beneath their BCPU training uniforms with their masks still snugly inside their carriers. There were only three of them, selected and perfected through layers of thorough screening and training. This was not a simple boot camp. This was refinement.

Emely’s voice rang out, calm and deliberate. “Welcome to endurance training,” she began. “You’ve all been briefed. But now, you're going to feel why we wear what we wear.”
She walked a few slow paces in front of them, her boots clicking with authority. Then she stopped and briefly opened the pouch at her belt, showing the CS gas grenade nestled within.
“No filters. No protective lenses. No mercy. Only your lungs, your eyes, and your nerves .”
She looked each of them in the eye.
“Touching your mask is surrender, and exiting the room means disqualification. If you stay in and remain conscious for more than one minute, you pass. That’s all.” The recruits nodded in understanding.
“However,” Emely then added, “the recruit who endures the longest, without fleeing or collapsing, earns a full week of paid leave. I imagine that sounds enticing after the past weeks of training.”

There was no reaction from the recruits. But the shift in posture was telling.
“Before we begin,” she said, reaching for the gas mask at her hip, “Watch carefully. You can't practice this enough.”

Emely brought the mask to her face, holding it firmly in place. Her movements were practiced, efficient, and almost graceful. She narrated each step as she performed it.
“Pull the harness over your head,” she did so, guiding the straps into place.
“Then tighten the cheek straps”, adjusting both at the same time with sharp, determined tugs.
“Clear the mask. Exhale sharply while covering the exhale valve.”
She demonstrated, and a burst of air audibly escaped past the peripheral seal of the mask.
“Then check negative pressure: cover filter, inhale, and hold. If the mask collapses inward, you’re good.”
She adjusted the traps once more.
“Adjust final fit if needed. Tighten, but don’t overdo it.”
Her voice, now slightly muffled behind the mask, was still calm and clear.
“These masks are your lifelines. Treat them with respect, and they’ll serve you well.”

She reached down and retrieved the grenade, her grip steady as she pulled the pin and kept the spoon tight under her thumb.
“Alright, ladies, have fun”, she said as she let go.
A metallic ding echoed through the chamber as the spoon was thrown off. The recruits’ posture stiffened.

After a few eternal seconds of ear-deafening silence and anticipation, a sharp hiss erupted as white CS vapor spewed outward in a growing cloud. Emely put her head right in the escaping plume without hesitation, having full confidence in her mask. The fumes were slowly filling the chamber, curling and twisting, quickly swallowing the floor and then their knees. The recruit’s first contact, on the other hand, had immediate reactions: eyes clamped shut, bodies tensed, coughing fits rippling through the stinging air. But none of them ran. Not yet.

Emely walked the perimeter of the small room, the active grenade still in her hand, dragging a tail of concentrated gas behind her. She paused occasionally, letting the fumes curl right into the recruits' faces. She tilted the grenade, directing the plume toward their nostrils, their eyes. She wanted them to know that this was what carelessness, or delay, might feel like in the field.
The first recruit was tearing uncontrollably, not from fear, but from the sheer involuntary reaction of the gas. Thick strings of mucus dripped from her nose as her breathing turned raspy. But she stayed upright.
The second recruit dropped to her knees, gasping, spit pooling at her chin. Her hands trembled beside her thighs, but she didn’t reach for her mask.
The third leaned against the wall, eyes nearly swollen shut, hacking deep coughs from her chest, but still alert. Still standing.

A buzzer sounded softly above them, signaling the one-minute mark. They’d all passed.
But it wasn't over yet.
Another twenty seconds passed, then thirty. The second recruit finally gave a strangled sob and crawled toward the door, stumbling out of the chamber on all fours. She collapsed just past the threshold, where medical assistance was waiting with cold water and a neutralizing rinse.
Ten more seconds and the first recruit made a lunge toward the wall, trying to steady herself. But Emely stepped into her path, not stopping her, just watching. The girl choked, made one last whimpering breath, then bolted out the door, collapsing next to the other.
Only one remained.
Barely upright, back against the bricks, twitching, soaked in tears and sweat, her body convulsing from the coughing, but still conscious. Defiant.
Emely stepped forward, and finally, the grenade stopped hissing, her expression slightly smug. “Done,” she said flatly.

The recruit slumped to the floor in relief, still coughing, but with a big smile on her face.
Emely crouched beside her, “Good. You’ll last.”

She stood and addressed the other two, who were still recovering just outside the doorway.
“You all passed,” she said. “You know now what this feels like and what it does to those without protection.”

She glanced back at the final girl, whose coughing was calming slightly.
“As for you... Enjoy your week off.”

Emely dropped the spent grenade into a steel bin and turned on the ventilation system as she stepped out of the training chamber.

—

You may be wondering: “Why the transparent latex?”
Answer: “Because hot.”

This is number 4, of the “protrait” series, with only Kim left before resuming the regular gassing scenes. Making these artwork hase been a nice learning experience and am am happy that they are received well.

Feedback and or art tips are always welcome.