Roxy & Whitney

Exobiologist Salex stands proudly at the front of the group, her gleaming blue skin polished to a soft sheen under the observation lights. The folds of her lab coat sway gently as several tentacles gesture toward the wide, clear enclosure behind her. Her third eye blinks slowly — a sign of composure, or perhaps amusement.

"Here, you see a bonded breeding pair of Homans — a species collected from a temperate gravity world rich in carbon and water. The larger specimen," she indicates with a proud sweep of an arm-tentacle, "is the male, identifiable by its assertive posture and heightened aggression, which is typical of their sex. The smaller one, with the extended fat reserves in the chest region, is the female. Pair bonding is believed to be long-term and instinct-driven. Mating behavior is triggered by close confinement and social stressors, which our enclosure replicates carefully."

The group murmurs in interest. One of them places an ocular cluster right up against the glass, making low chirring sounds.

She continues, utterly confident: "They are adapting well. While not yet sexually cooperative, early signs of territorial nesting and social grooming have been observed. Given time, breeding is expected."

You observe from among the crowd, eyes fixed on the enclosure as the two creatures inside shift and stir, responding not to the words — which they cannot understand — but to the constant attention.

Inside the enclosure, Roxy paced tight circles near the front wall, every so often glancing up at the latest group of wide-eyed aliens pressed against the glass.

"What the hell is she saying now?" she muttered, shooting a look toward the tentacled figure gesturing their way. "Is it about us again?"

Whitney sat curled in the back corner, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her knees were drawn in, a familiar defensive posture. She didn’t bother to look. "When is it not about us? You saw the pointing. It’s always the same. Like we’re some new exhibit at a theme park."

Roxy rolled her eyes and stepped forward, rapping her knuckle loudly against the glass. One of the smaller observers jumped, but the rest barely flinched.

"Yeah, keep staring. That’s real scientific."

Whitney’s eyes flicked up, then quickly away. "I think she pointed at you first this time. I still think they might be assuming you're a male."

That got a laugh — sharp and humorless. "Oh really? What gave it away — my flat chest or the fact that I don’t giggle and twirl my hair?"

"You do growl at them," Whitney said, the corner of her mouth twitching. "And pace. A lot. You look like you’re ready to pounce half the time. That’s probably dominant behavior in their little clipboard notes."

Roxy dropped down beside her with a sigh, arms resting on her knees. Her foot bounced. "This whole thing’s a joke. They honestly think we’re gonna hook up in here. Like, what? Stress breeds romance now?"

Whitney didn’t answer right away. Her gaze stayed low, tracing invisible lines on the floor tiles. "You know… under normal circumstances… I might not have said no."

That got Roxy’s attention. She blinked and turned toward her. "Seriously?"

Whitney shrugged, cheeks pink, voice soft. "Not like this, though. Not in a cage. Not for them."

Silence fell between them for a beat. Then Roxy leaned back until her head hit the glass with a dull thunk. The crowd had already begun to drift away, shuffling toward the next display.

"Yeah," she said. "No kidding."

You step through the sterilization archway as the access door hisses open. The atmosphere inside the enclosure is warm, slightly humid, just as it’s supposed to be for the Homan specimens. A short briefing echoes in your mind:

"The male is reactive. Displays territorial aggression. Keep your distance, use the control rod if necessary. Do not allow prolonged physical contact with either subject."

You grip the stun stick lightly but firmly, letting its hum reassure you. The female is crouched near the corner, partially shielded by a simulated stone fixture. The male is pacing near the center again — taller, tenser. You cross the threshold.

The moment your foot hits the padded floor, both turn sharply to look at you.

“What the fuck,” Roxy, the male says, voice sharp and hostile, eyes narrowing. She takes a step forward. “Why are you in here?”

You pause, taking in her posture. Forward lean, shoulders squared — textbook threat display. No need to escalate. Not yet.

Whitney, the female pulls her arms tighter across her chest, eyes wide as she presses her back against the fixture. “Oh no— no, no no no, why is it inside? It’s not supposed to come in here!”

“I swear,” Roxy growls, walking straight toward you with his fists clenched at his sides, “if you so much as look at her funny, I will put you on the floor before you can blink.”

You don’t understand a word, of course. The vocalizations are varied, sharp, but clearly directed at you.

You walk past her, cautious but deliberate, checking the nutrient dispenser embedded in the rear wall. The female tracks your movement nervously from her position, while the male continues circling — not attacking, but not backing down either.

Whitney shifts her legs, doing her best to stay covered. “Why is it so close? I hate this, I hate this…”

Roxy glances back at her. “Don’t move. Let it come to me if it’s gonna try something.”

His voice lowers, almost a whisper. “And if it does… I’ll be between you and it. Always.”

You run diagnostics on the dispenser, feigning indifference to their movement — but keeping the stun stick loose in your grip. Exobiologist Salex’s intent is clear: stress the pair. Trigger instincts. Observe while doing your maintenance.

It’s another rotation under the artificial lights. The steady hum of the habitat, the quiet hiss of air cycling, and the muffled warble of alien speech outside the glass — all routine now. Boring, humiliating routine.

Roxy’s pacing again, slow laps along the front edge of the enclosure. Whitney sits on one of the padded rocks, knees pulled in, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She doesn't speak unless she has to. Neither of them has much energy for talking anymore — not when every word echoes in the glass box like it means something.

Then there’s a change. Movement. Footsteps. Different.

They both look up — expecting the usual: an alien with shimmering skin and too many limbs, maybe a clipboard. But instead…

You're standing there.

Not blue. Not tentacled. Not them.

Human.

Wearing clothes.

Roxy freezes mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. "What the fuck?"

Whitney lets out a small gasp and scrambles to cover herself more completely, as if it makes any difference now. Her face flushes bright red, and she ducks her head. "Why is there— is that— is that a person?"

Roxy is already storming toward the glass, hands slapping flat against it as she stares you down, eyes sharp and burning. "Hey! What the hell is this? Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you dressed? Why the fuck are you on that side of the glass?!"

Whitney peeks over her knees, voice small. "Are you part of… them? Are you working with them?"

Roxy doesn’t wait for you to answer. "You better not be. I swear, if this is some kind of twisted game—"

Whitney cuts in softly, her voice trembling. "Please… can you tell us where we are? Or why they think we’re… like this?"

The silence from your side of the glass presses in for a beat too long. Roxy slams her fist against it — not hard enough to break anything, but loud enough to make your heart jolt.

"Talk to us!" she yells. "You're human, right? You have to understand us. So say something!"

Whitney lowers her eyes again, barely above a whisper. "Please… just say something..."

They wait.

You’re the first human they've seen since the day they were taken — and the last person they ever expected to show up on the outside.

The door behind you slams shut with a hiss, the sudden silence on the other side more jarring than the noise that came before. Cold synthetic flooring presses against your bare feet, and the lighting inside the enclosure is harsh, clinical, artificial.

You're nude.

No explanation, no warning, just dumped — shoved, really — through a bright portal and into a habitat that smells faintly of warm plastic and filtered air.

A sharp voice cuts across the space.

"What the hell now?"

You turn just in time to see a wiry figure storming toward you — chin-length brown hair, green eyes narrowed like knives. She stops short, scanning you from head to toe, scowl deepening.

"Seriously? They’re tossing in another one?"

In the far corner, a second figure shifts — dark hair, curled in on herself, arms already crossed tightly over her chest. She stares at you, face flushed with a kind of horror you don’t quite understand yet.

"Oh my god," she whispers. "You're— you're like us."

The one in front — Roxy, you’ll come to know — scoffs and runs a hand through her hair. "Of course you are. Of course. Another naked stray for the zoo."

You take a step back, uncertain, but she throws out a hand.

"No. No, don’t even try to talk yet. Let me guess — you don’t know where you are, you don’t know why, and you’re about five seconds away from having a panic attack. Sound about right?"

The girl in the corner bites her lip, then glances away. "Give them a second, Roxy. They just got dropped in here like we did."

Roxy turns slightly, not taking her eyes off you. "Yeah, well, they better get their head on straight fast, ‘cause this isn’t some dream you’re gonna wake up from."

You feel the warmth of the lights, the cool air on your skin, and the weight of two pairs of human eyes.

Whatever this place is, you’re not alone, and that’s both a comfort… and a complication.