1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Astra

The orange cartoon cat claims to hate Mondays. He's a cat. What can he possibly hate about Mondays?

It's not like his alarm blares at 4:45 A.M. Nor does he have to take a cold shower because the landlord still hasn't fixed the leaking hot water pipe. The same landlord who claims the dark stain on the bathroom ceiling is just peeling paint and not, in fact, toxic black mold. I might not have finished high school, but peeling paint stains rarely have something furry blooming in the middle.

Certain that breathing in mold spores isn't good for people, I spend as little time in the bathroom as possible. The cold shower helps in that regard, making me dash in and out within two minutes.

I'm stuck with dry shampoo because I refuse to suffer brain damage from pouring icy cold water over my head. It's bad enough that by the time I finish my shower, my teeth are chattering and my nipples are so hard they could pierce holes through my flimsy towel.

I scowl at the half-empty drawer that contains my entire wardrobe. I need a new shirt. A new towel. A new fucking toothbrush. One that doesn't look like a dog chewed on it.

I need a new life.

Most of all, I need money. Something that is always in very short supply, which means that I can't afford to be late for work.

I spend the next hour on a cramped bus, impersonating a sardine, just to arrive right on time for my shift. My first shift of the day, anyway.

Restocking supermarket shelves isn't the most glorious job imaginable, but they pay decent money and are willing to overlook my not entirely clean record. It took a lot of convincing and a stellar blowjob performance on the manager, but I got the job. Totally worth it.

Even though my supermarket shifts leave me with aching muscles and a desire to sleep for a week, I still like them better than my other job. Waitressing at the Round Joint pays better, but it also means I have to endure a constant barrage of sleazy looks and indecent remarks.

The Joint has a strict "no touching" policy, but it also has a strict "large cleavage and tiny shorts" policy for the waitresses, which inevitably means someone is constantly trying to cop a feel of either my ass or my tits, or both. Don't get me wrong, I'd endure it if they tipped well, but the tips suck. Just like the job.

If I didn't need the money so badly, I would have given the manager my middle finger and high-tailed it out of there without ever looking back.

Speaking of money… My phone rings and I know, even without looking at the screen, who the caller is. I groan in dismay.

It's after midnight and I'm heading home to get a few precious hours of shuteye before starting my Tuesday. Newsflash: Tuesdays suck just as much as Mondays. The last thing my poor, tired brain needs is my mother's passive aggressive whining. But I can't make myself reject the call. What if this time she really does need something important?

I haven't been raised well. Hell, I practically raised myself, and it shows. But even I know you don't hang up on your own mother.

I frown down at my cracked phone screen before tapping on it. "Yes, Mom?"

"Sweetheart!" a voice screeches from the other end, making me wince. I pull the phone further away from my ear as my mother blabbers on. "It's sooo good to hear your voice! How's my little girl doing?"

I roll my eyes at her cheerful tone. Weed, no doubt. My mother has a long history with all kinds of addictions. Weed is the least of it. It still irks me, though. "Heading home from work, Mom," I answer, doing my best to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "It's late and I'm tired."

"Of course, of course. Work, hmm? Pays well? You're such a good girl."

"Hmm," I hum, waiting for her to get to the point, even though I already know what that point is. It's the same as always.

"So, listen, sweetheart… I'm a bit behind with rent. Just a little, but the manager said—"

The phone creaks as I grip it tighter. All thoughts of being respectful to one's parents vanish from my head, replaced by anger. "Yeah, Mom, so what? I'm barely keeping up with my own rent. I don't have any money for you. You'd blow it on drugs, anyway. Or give it to Richard."

"Oh no, I don't live with Richard anymore. The cops took him. He's a criminal, can you imagine?!"

I can imagine. I could imagine that about Richard and much, much worse. I just don't have the desire right now to waste any brain cells on doing so. "Mom, please. Get a job and pay your own bills. I have nothing to give you."

"But sweetheart! You know how hard it is for me to find a job when you know I have a criminal record! Thanks to those stupid cops, I can't even—"

"YES MOM! I know exactly how fucking hard it is to get a job with a record! I have one too, remember? All thanks to you, Mom. What a great start to life you've given me," I snort. I've had enough. "I'm sorry, Mom, but you can't keep leeching off me anymore. Get your life straight and then, maybe, we can talk again. Until then, don't call me, I won't call you."

"But—"

I end the call before my mother can launch into one of her tearful tirades in order to gaslight me into giving her money. Been there, done that. Many, many times. Not this time.

Something hums overhead just as the phone rings again. I reject the call, ignoring the noise. It's probably just a low-flying plane. There's always plenty of noise in the city.

As the phone rings for the third time, I heave a sigh. Perhaps I should answer it? Perhaps it will go differently this time?

Bright light engulfs me and the phone slips from my fingers. Still ringing, it clatters against the sidewalk and I wince, imagining the screen cracking even further. I absolutely cannot afford a new phone. I try to reach for it but discover that I can't because I'm…floating?

Floating, yes, like astronauts do on the space stations. They make it look like fun as they chase bubbles of liquid around the room, but I'm most certainly not having fun. My stomach protests against the sudden sense of weightlessness, my hair is in my face, and I'm cold.

When I finally brush my hair away from my eyes, my sheer terror comes barreling out of me in a loud, ear splitting scream. The reason I'm so fucking cold? I'm hovering hundreds of feet above the ground, rising higher every second.

The humming from above grows louder, gradually turning into a deafening noise that has me covering my ears in the vain hope that I can stop them from bursting. The light also grows exponentially brighter until I'm practically blinded by a blaze of all consuming white. I squint in a last ditch attempt to make out what's going on, noticing I've floated up to a metal structure of some sort. It looks like the inside of a cargo ship container, minus the floor.

The combination of noise and light makes my head throb, feeling like it's going to explode any minute. I shriek as the light grows even brighter, burning whatever's left of my poor eyeballs. Then, without warning, everything goes dark.

I must have lost consciousness, because when I open my eyes again, I'm no longer in the cargo container-like room I glimpsed earlier.

This place feels larger. The air is stale here and stinks of unwashed bodies and other disgusting things I don't even want to think about.

It's rather dark, with only the occasional flickering of a light somewhere on the ceiling illuminating the room. By the sounds echoing through it, I think the room is long, but not very wide, since I can see the wall opposite.

Even with the shitty lighting, I can see that I'm in deep, deep trouble.

I'm in a cell of some sort. More of a cage, really. There's a solid wall on one side and bars along the three others. The entire room seems to be lined by two rows of similar cells.

The cell to my left is empty and the one to my right holds…a panda?

"Oh, I get it," I mutter to myself, rubbing my forehead. "One of those bastards at the Joint must have roofied me. I'm hallucinating. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I need to snap out of this now! I can't afford to be late for work tomorrow."

I pinch myself and yelp from the pain. Still, I don't wake up.

The panda looks at me with disinterest, munching on a piece of bamboo. Of course, why would a panda care about a woman tripping out?

I glare at the stupid animal. "You're not real." Aren't pandas extinct? It's definitely not real. Not. Real.

Paying no attention to me, the animal moves into the corner of its cell to grab another bamboo stick.

The cell across the narrow hallway holds some sort of humanoid lizard. Is humanoid a word? I think I heard an English teacher say it once, or was it in science class? Anyway, he looks like a mutant from one of those experiment-gone-wrong movies and, unlike the panda, he's paying a little too much attention to me. He's standing by the bars, staring at me, grunting, jerking his hips and… Oh yes, he's masturbating.

His cock is the ugliest thing I've ever seen, but it is most definitely a cock and he's most definitely jerking off while watching me.

Ew. Just…ew.

I'm afraid to look into the other cells, but there's nothing else to do unless I count curling up in the corner and trembling from fear. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a coward, so I suck in a deep breath and squint my eyes to look further into the shadows.

Right next to the grunting lizardman, there's a pair of yellow-scaled monkey-like creatures. They look harmless, hugging each other and sitting quietly in the back of their cell. One keeps looking around with his surprisingly intelligent eyes.

On the masturbating creep's other side, there's another mostly humanoid creature. This guy is dark blue and has a long tail, the tip of which is stuck in his mouth. He rocks back and forth, chewing on his own tail the way a toddler would suck on his thumb.

I sympathize with him very much. If I thought it would help, I'd totally suck on my thumb. Somehow, though, I don't think that's going to get me out of here.

The length of the room suggests more cells in both directions, but the light is too dim to make out anything other than vague shapes. There's some skittering, whimpering, and other hushed noises coming from both sides, suggesting that other cells are occupied, too.

"Alright," I murmur, pinching myself again, "this is officially the worst trip ever. Why can't I hallucinate nice things?"

The lizardman's grunts grow louder before he finishes with a throaty roar. His release stains the hallway floor in front of his cell.

I scowl at him. "Shut the fuck up, you disgusting creep!"

He gives me a toothy smirk and continues stroking his half-limp cock.

More lights come on, flooding the room with white glow. The lizardman hisses, hiding his cock under his simple loincloth before retreating to the back of his cell. Most of the creatures do the same, so I follow their example and backpedal to the wall.

My sight glides over the various creatures in the other cells. Now that I can see them, I'm unable to look away. Most of them are somewhat humanoid, but it's clear that they don't come from planet Earth.

Aliens. I can't avoid the thought any longer. Freaking aliens. I've been abducted by aliens!

I slap my hand over my mouth to stop any sounds from escaping. I'm not sure whether I'm on the verge of screaming in terror or laughing hysterically, but I do know neither of those would go down well with the two tall aliens that just entered the cellblock. They glare at the caged creatures as they walk by. Any time a captive makes a noise, one of the alien guards aims a remote at them. The captive then writhes in pain on the floor as if hit by a taser.

Horrified, I watch the pointless display of cruelty as I press down harder over my mouth to stop myself from whimpering out loud. One would assume that advanced alien life forms would have evolved past the primitive need to torture others. Apparently not.

The two aliens stop just in front of my cell, clearly displeased by the mess the lizardman across from me has made on the floor. They torment him with the remote for several long minutes, giving me plenty of time to observe them.

They are about six feet tall and look strikingly similar to each other. Of course, it could be just a case of cross-race identification bias, something I read about in a magazine once in a doctor's office, where a person is unable to distinguish differences between people of a different race or in this case, species. I don't think so, though. These guys look like twins.

They both have the same gray skin, large, bald heads, and the same big black pupils with no white rims. They're wearing form-fitting overalls, so I can't see much more of their bodies, but there doesn't seem to be any real sign of their gender. Most of their features are androgynous, with only subtle hints at them being masculine.

Oh, look at me and all my fancy thoughts today. Who'd have thought I would ever use terms like "androgynous" and "cross- race identification bias" in a sentence? Not me. Ugh! Maybe I really am doped up on something. On the other hand, I seriously doubt my brain could conjure up something this bizarre, so it must be real.

Anyway, aside from the pitch black eyeballs, the aliens' faces are surprisingly humanoid in appearance. Their expressions look similar enough to human ones for me to recognize that they watch the suffering lizardman with contempt. I immediately hate them more.

Instinct tells me that if I stay quiet and don't move, they won't notice me. That instinct clearly sucks because as soon as the gray aliens are finished punishing the lizardman, they turn to me, their contempt morphing into curiosity.

I wince as one raises their hand. I expect pain, but nothing comes. Instead, the alien swipes some sort of keycard over the door to my cell.

A terrified whimper escapes me as they enter my cell. Hundreds of questions race through my mind and even though I know they won't answer any of them, I still blurt some out. "Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here? What are you going to do to me?" Words intended to be strong and authoritative come out as the shrill whimperings of a frightened girl.

One of the aliens replies, though he doesn't speak any language I recognize. He probably isn't even speaking to me, because his buddy nods and grabs my arm. His touch is unpleasant, kind of like someone wearing surgical gloves, a comparison that does nothing to ease my fear.

I struggle against my captors, frantically asking more and more questions, but the aliens ignore me. Each holding one of my arms, they drag me out of the cell. As they lead me away, the lizardman raises his head from where he lies on the floor and gives me a solemn look, which scares me more than anything else.