Misha’s world spun like a cheap carnival ride as consciousness clawed its way back. One moment, he’d been trudging down a quiet street, earbuds blasting some angsty indie track, and the next—nothing. Blackout. Now, his eyelids fluttered open to a blinding, sterile white that seared his retinas. He squinted, heart thudding in his narrow chest, as the room came into focus. Smooth, featureless walls. A ceiling that seemed to pulse faintly with light. No windows, no doors, no anything. Just… white.
“Where the hell…” he muttered, voice cracking as he pushed himself up on shaky arms. His sneakers squeaked against the slick floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the suffocating silence. His backpack was gone. So was the familiar weight of his phone in his pocket. Panic bubbled up, hot and sour, as he stumbled to his feet. “This isn’t right. This isn’t—oh, fuck, this isn’t Earth, is it?”
Before he could spiral further into a full-blown meltdown, a seam split open in the wall with a hiss, and two figures slithered in. Misha froze, mouth agape, as his brain scrambled to process what he was seeing. They were tall—too tall—with limbs so elongated they looked like they’d been stretched on a medieval rack. Their skin shimmered, a sickly iridescent green, and their eyes were bulbous black orbs that seemed to suck in the light. When one of them spoke, the sound was a grating mix of a kazoo and a malfunctioning synthesizer, vibrating through Misha’s skull.
“Specimen designation: Human Male, Misha Kovalenko. Age: Nineteen. Status: Viable,” the first alien buzzed, tilting its head at an unnatural angle. “Strip, human. We have no time for your primitive dawdling.”
Misha blinked, his brain short-circuiting. “Wait, what? Strip? Who the fuck are you, and where am I?” He backed up, hands instinctively crossing over his chest. “I’m not just gonna—did you say ‘specimen’? Like I’m some lab rat?”
The second alien stepped forward, its movements eerily fluid. “Correct, little mammal. You are aboard the Xytherian Research Vessel, selected for study of human reproductive mechanisms. Your clothing is irrelevant. Remove it, or we will do so with less… delicacy.” Its tone was sharp, dripping with condescension, as if Misha were a toddler refusing to eat his vegetables.
“Reproductive mechanisms?” Misha’s voice shot up an octave, his pale cheeks flushing. “You mean my—oh, hell no. I’m not signing up for some alien porno experiment. Take me back, right now!”
The first alien emitted a sound that might’ve been laughter if it didn’t make Misha’s teeth ache. “Your consent is not required, soft-skinned one. Your physiology is fascinatingly primitive. Now, strip, or shall we peel you like one of your Earth fruits? I assure you, our tools are quite… efficient.”
Misha’s hands hovered over the hem of his hoodie, his mind racing for an escape that clearly wasn’t there. “This is insane. You’re insane. I’m dreaming, right? I ate some bad ramen, and now I’m in a fever dream with two discount sci-fi rejects.”
“Insult us again, human, and we’ll start with your tongue,” the second alien snapped, its voice buzzing with menace. “Clothing. Now. Or do you require a demonstration of our patience’s limits?”
Swallowing hard, Misha fumbled with his hoodie, yanking it over his head with trembling hands. The aliens watched, unblinking, their heads tilting in sync as if cataloging every awkward movement. His T-shirt came next, and he nearly tripped over his own feet kicking off his sneakers. By the time he was down to his boxers, his face was a blazing shade of red, and the aliens’ commentary wasn’t helping.
“Look at this one, Zykra,” the first alien hummed, gesturing at Misha’s scrawny frame. “So frail. Barely a structure to support itself. How do they survive with such pitiful musculature?”
“Indeed, Thalos,” the second—Zykra—replied, its tone dripping with mockery. “And such a pale hide. Does it even see your star? Or does it hide in burrows like a frightened rodent?”
“Shut up,” Misha snapped, clutching his boxers like a lifeline. “You don’t get to roast me while I’m standing here half-naked for your creepy science fair project!”
“Fully naked, human,” Thalos corrected, stepping closer. “Do not test us further. We have quotas to meet, and your modesty is a laughable hindrance.”
With a groan of pure humiliation, Misha shoved his boxers down, kicking them aside as he covered himself with his hands. The aliens didn’t even flinch, their black eyes scanning him with cold precision. Zykra made a buzzing tsk sound. “Such a small specimen. Are all human males so… underwhelming?”
“Fuck you,” Misha muttered, ears burning. “Let’s see how ‘impressive’ you are without pants, you overgrown glow stick.”
Their response was a synchronized hiss, and before he could spit another insult, they gestured toward the wall. Another seam opened, revealing a corridor of more blinding white. “Move, human,” Thalos ordered. “The preparation chamber awaits.”
Misha was marched into a second room, this one filled with bizarre equipment—tubes, blinking panels, and a massive cylindrical tank filled with a shimmering, viscous liquid. His stomach dropped as they guided him toward it. “What’s this? I’m not getting in there. No way.”
“You will,” Zykra said, voice slicing through his protests. “Cleansing and depilation are required. Your body hair is a contaminant. Step in, or be submerged by force.”
Reluctantly, Misha climbed into the tank, the liquid warm and slick against his skin. He shivered as it enveloped him, holding him in a strange, buoyant suspension. The aliens activated a device—a humming, vibrating tool that buzzed over his skin, shaving every inch below his neck with unnerving precision. It tickled in places he didn’t want to think about, and he squirmed, biting his lip to keep from laughing or screaming.
“Hold still, twitchy creature,” Thalos barked. “Your wriggling delays progress.”
“It tickles, okay?” Misha shot back, voice tight. “You try having a buzzsaw on your junk and see how still you stay!”
The worst came during the fourth procedure—an invasive urethral cleansing that made Misha’s eyes water and his entire body tense. The cold, probing instrument was clinical, precise, and utterly horrifying. “Oh my god, what are you doing?!” he yelped, voice breaking. “That’s not—fuck, that’s not supposed to go there!”
“Silence,” Zykra commanded, unfazed. “Sanitization is non-negotiable. Your orifices are teeming with microbes. Be grateful we do not dissect you for a closer look.”
By the time the procedures were done, Misha was hairless, trembling, and mortified. The tank drained, leaving him slick and exposed as he stumbled out. Desperation clawed at him, and he bolted for the open seam in the wall, legs pumping despite the slippery floor. Freedom, however fleeting, was worth a shot.
He didn’t make it far. Thalos and Zykra were on him in seconds, their long limbs snaking around his wrists with terrifying strength. “Pathetic,” Thalos buzzed, dragging him back. “Did you think your stumpy legs could outrun Xytherian reflexes?”
“Such a feeble attempt,” Zykra added, its tone dripping with amusement. “You flop like a dying fish, human. It is almost endearing.”
“Eat shit,” Misha spat, struggling uselessly as they hauled him into a third lab. This one was worse—clinical, cold, and filled with machinery that looked like it belonged in a torture dungeon. Two other human males were strapped to tables on either side, their comically oversized genitalia hooked to tubes feeding into massive tanks. Misha’s jaw dropped. “What the actual fuck is this? A goddamn cum factory?”
“Crude, but accurate,” Thalos replied, shoving him onto a table. Cold metal bit into his back as they strapped him down, ignoring his thrashing. “Your output will be harvested for study. Struggle if you must, but it changes nothing.”
Misha unleashed a torrent of curses, colorful and creative, as fifty electrodes were slapped onto his chest and abdomen. The adhesive was icy, each placement precise and unyielding. “You’re all sick! I’m not a fucking juice box! Let me go, you freaky bastards!”
“Your vocabulary is limited, yet spirited,” Zykra remarked, unfazed, as it adjusted a panel. “Save your breath, human. You’ll need it.”
The final indignity came when they wheeled over a monstrous device—an industrial-looking contraption with clamps and hoses that resembled a rock crusher. Misha’s eyes widened as they positioned it between his legs, cold metal grazing his skin. “No. No way. You’re not hooking that thing to me. I’ll—I’ll bite you, I swear!”
“Bite us, and we’ll remove your teeth,” Thalos snapped, securing a clamp with a click that made Misha flinch. The metal was frigid, the vibrations from the machine humming through his core as hoses were attached with clinical efficiency. His terror spiked, mingling with absurd disbelief as he stared at the setup.
“This looks like it’s gonna turn my dick into gravel,” he croaked, voice trembling despite his attempt at bravado. “What even is this? Alien Viagra gone wrong?”
“It is a stimulator and extractor,” Zykra replied, its tone cold and authoritative. “Your discomfort is irrelevant. Functionality is all that matters. Now, remain still, or the calibration will be… unpleasant.”
The machine whirred to life, a low, ominous hum that vibrated through Misha’s entire body. His heart raced, sweat beading on his forehead as the aliens stepped back, their black eyes glinting with something unreadable. Thalos tilted its head, voice buzzing with finality. “Begin phase one, human. And do try to impress us.”
The chapter hung on that chilling note, the machine’s hum growing louder as Misha’s world narrowed to the cold metal, the vibrations, and the terrifying unknown of what came next.
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