I open my eyes.

I’m back in my room, on my bed, wearing my sweat stained jumpsuit. I groan and touch my forehead. It’s really tender. There’s a hint of a lingering headache, but besides that I’m relatively okay.

I think.

I have no control over the lights, but they are on so … that means it’s day. I sit up and, oh look, there’s a sandwich and jug of water on the desk.

Nice, I’m starving.

I get up and devour it. It’s the most glorious sandwich I’ve ever tasted. Lettuce, tomato, onion, turkey—the works.

My hands, I notice, are really tender too. I pause mid-bite when I see the tiny puncture marks all over both my palms and forearms. I cringe. A naked feeling that I’d been violated in some way fills the pit of my stomach. They’d been … doing stuff to me while I slept—because of course they were.

That’s unsettling, to say the least.

This is my life now.

I put the sandwich down, turn to the camera and flip them a big ol’ birdie. It’s petty, I know, but it’s the only recourse a lab rat has.

I shower then flop back onto my bed and lie there spread eagle and completely naked. If they want to watch me, they can have the full unedited show.

I inspect the scar tissue on my palm. It's numb to me now but apparently it itself is sensitive to my touch. If I poke it just right, it quivers. Super creepy. I’m not sure I can ever get used to that.

My mind drifts to the memory of the … let’s call it the vision. It was a riveting experience, to be sure. Deep down, I feel the presence of … something. Some kind of intelligence attached to whatever this is on my hand. But that vision felt like an attempt at direct communication. It's not malicious. Not intentionally, anyway. I don’t know how I know that, but I can feel it. Consider its intentions in the interrogation room. It wanted to help me answer a question. It wanted to relay information. It knocked me unconscious and nearly blew my brains out in the process, but hey, this is new for both of us.

“Let’s just never do that again,” I say, tapping the scar lightly with two fingers.

It undulates, and I cringe.

Shortly after lunch they come and get me. Same song and dance with the gloves and the army guys. I ask Thing 1 and Thing 2—that’s what I’m calling my army escort now—if I can just go naked, but no, they say, that would be inappropriate. I ask them their feelings on doing non-consensual experiments on sleeping people. Is that inappropriate too? But they have no answer for this.

I take my time getting dressed. They wait with their hands behind their backs like good little army men, their expressions growing darker and darker by the minute.

“No Browning or Asian chick this time, huh?” I say as I slap my undies on.

“Doctor Browning and his team are presently waiting for you in the materials room,” says Thing 1 (he’s the big ugly one). “So please, pick up the pace,” he says with squinted eyes and forced politeness.

“Materials room,” I say, zipping up my suit. I slip sockless into my provided slip on shoes and walk to the door. “You people have a very straightforward naming convention for things down here, don’t you?”

They don’t respond, just nudge me into the hallway. We make the confusing trek down another set of identical paths until we arrive at a door exactly like all the others.

“How do you guys know your way around here?” I say as Thing 1 opens the door for me with a card key. Two lab coats I don’t recognize are waiting in the room for me. Without a word, they attack me with sticky electrodes. By the time they are done applying them, I’m covered from temples to fingertips. Wires jut out from all of them converging into a single device they slip into my back pocket.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

“Morning Doc,” I say, as everyone leaves the room, closing the door behind them. “Jim,” I say, nodding. “Sleep well there, buddy?”

Browning, and five other people including Doctor Shen and Jim are standing in a nook behind a console. The wall between us is transparent from floor to ceiling. An observation alcove.

Jim leans forward, pushes something on the console. “Hey, Jack.” I hear his voice over a speaker in the room.

“You guys have fun poking and prodding me while I slept last night?” I hold up my floppy gloves. “I mean, Jim, I knew you had some weird kinks in college, but this is just a little too edgy for me, man. I’m just glad I’m not sore anywhere else.”

“Mr. Cobb,” booms Browning’s voice over the speaker. “If you would please proceed to the table, we’d greatly appreciate it.”

At the far side of the room there are twelve items sitting on a long, narrow table, each with a number card next to them.

“What am I supposed to do—Oh, you want me to try and, you know, do the thing. Make them disappear, I get it. I’m going to be honest, I have no idea how any of it works.”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” says Browning. “Kindly remove the gloves and pick up the first item.”

There’s about three feet between the table and the back wall. It’s clear they want me to face them as if putting on a strange cooking show.

The first item is a small wooden block. I unstrap the gloves, flop them on the floor, and pick up the cube. I toss it back and forth a few times and give it a good squeeze.

“Now what?” I say.

I see them talking amongst themselves. Finally, Browning says. “Mr. Cobb, are you able to make this object disappear?”

“I told you guys, I’ve no idea what I’m doing or how it works.” I toss it back and forth a few times. “Oh, oh, wait a minute. Wait a minute. Yep. I think I’ve got something here. I can feel it. Oh, it’s definitely on its way. Hold on.” I lift a leg and let out a very satisfying fart. “Nope, sorry, just gas.”

I see Jim turn away from the group, covering his smile.

“Mr Cobb,” comes the booming voice of Browning. “Please move on to the next item.

A metal spoon. I pick it up, rub it in between my fingers. I blow hot steamy air on the end of it and hang it from my nose. “Nope. Sorry, Doc, I think this is a fail too.”

The next item, a pair of dice, displays a similar disappointment.

Next is a raw piece of steak. Even with my belly full of sandwich, my stomach rumbles. All this experimenting business sure makes me hungry.

I pick it up and let it rest on my left palm. It’s cold and wet. I switch it to the other hand. Nothing happens. It just sits there. I press my hands together and … nothing still.

“Huh,” I say, and drop it. It hits the table with a wet thunk. “That’s a no as well.” Thankfully, someone had the foresight to include a towel next to the meat. “Towel isn’t disappearing either, by the way. Not sure if you cared about that or … oh, no. No! You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, as I open the wooden box on spot number five. “No. Nuh, uh. I’m not touching that thing.”

“Mr. Cobb, need I remind you that coercion is an option, however your cooperation is pref—”

“Fine! Jeez. Okay. Just … how do I …”

“If you hold it by the cephalothorax, you should be just fine.”

“What part is that?”

Jim’s voice chimes in over the speaker. “Grab it by the butt, Jack.”

“Oh, I hate these things,” I say, cringing. I reach down and pinch the backend of the massive tarantula. It’s furry and squishy. I drop it back in the box, shake my hand, huff a breath, then dive back in. I’m clenching my teeth so tight they hurt. When I pick it up between my finger and thumb, its legs wriggle frantically. It’s face, or whatever the fanged end is called, reaches around for purchase unable to get me.

“Put it on your palm,” says Browning.

“No!”

“Mr. Co—”

“Okay, fine!”

At this point every orifice in my body is clenched tighter than the button down shirt Browning is wearing. The moment the spider touches my left palm, it scurries towards my wrist, then disappears.

I let out an exasperated “hah!” Something between a sigh of relief and a nervous outburst. “Did you see that? It's gone! It’s … hello? Anyone still paying attention in there?”

They’re huddled, reviewing something on a tablet. Brownings says something to Thing 1, who has joined them in the viewing room. He nods and exits through a back door.

“Mr. Cobb, please pick the steak back up please,” says Browning’s voice over the speakers.

“I thought we’d decided that was a dud?” I move to pick it up anyway. As I do, Thing 1 bursts in, pulls his side pistol, aims at my chest, and …

Bang, bang, bang!