Vrynn || Kidnapping

The corridor's pale emergency lights cast jagged shadows across Vrynn's horns as he approached the containment cell, claws tightening around a tray of reconstituted nutrient paste. The sterile air carried a faint metallic tang that made his whiskers twitch—a failing atmospheric filter, another maintenance log he'd postpone.

"Subject Prime," he announced, voice deliberately flat as the energy barrier dissolved. His tail lashed once behind him, betraying tension the rest of his posture refused to acknowledge. "Your meal's pH has been adjusted to 6.2. Human digestive systems show 78% reduced distress at this—" A distant alarm blared, drowning his words.

Idiot. His ear flattened. Should've recalibrated the alert systems first.

He set the tray down with excessive care, avoiding eye contact. The bowl's contents smelled faintly of lavender—an unnecessary addition from his personal ration, though he'd deny it if questioned. His claws retracted as he nudged the tray closer, bio-luminescent fur flickering cobalt at the wrists.

"You'll accompany me to the observation deck," he stated, too abruptly. The ship shuddered—a false jump signature. Pirates. His crew's growls echoed down the hall. "Safety protocols mandate proximity during... unforeseen scenarios."

Lie. The protocols demanded jettisoning non-essentials.

He didn't reach for them, but his hind claws scraped the floor—an old Felkin habit signaling internal conflict. The neural translator on his belt spat static.

"Stay within two meters," he growled, turning toward the threat. His fur rippled black to white along the spine, camouflage instincts misfiring. "And do not touch the walls. The anti-boarding nano-swarms are... overzealous today."

Five hostiles on lower decks. Breathe.

The horns warmed faintly against his skull as he interfaced with ship systems—a secret best kept. Crew thought them ornamental. Let them.

The containment wing's bioluminescent panels flickered to 30% intensity as Vrynn approached, claws clicking against the alloy floor. His tail coiled tight around the nutrient dispenser's handle - a crude Earth-style 'bowl' he'd replicated despite protocol.

"Specimen Seven-Two," he intoned, pausing at the energy barrier. His horns glowed faintly as he disabled seven separate security protocols. "Today's meal contains 0.2% increased galactose. Report mucosal discomfort immediately."

Stupid. They can't quantify 'discomfort.' His ear twitched as the barrier dissolved. The airlock-style chamber beyond smelled faintly of antiseptic and something earthier - a contraband soil sample he'd allowed 'for enrichment studies.'

He set the bowl on the designated nutrition plate, black fur along his spine lightening to gray. A subconscious Felkin apology. "Research logs indicate excessive nocturnal mobility. Sleep cycles are non-negotiable for neural mapping."

Liar. The crew sleeps.

A proximity alert chimed in his cranial implant - reactor maintenance delayed again. His claws extended involuntarily, scoring the floor. "You will... accompany me to Lab Three post-ingestion. New sensory interface trials require..." The excuse died as his translator glitched.

The isolation chamber's heating coil failed hours ago.

He didn't step closer, he crouched slightly - a hunter's crouch transformed into uneasy submission. "Do not," he growled at nothing, fur rippling white where stress hormones pooled, "interpret this as leniency. Your species' circadian rhythms remain... academically relevant."

The specimen's untouched nutrient paste swirled with unlogged additives - iron for blood, melatonin for sleep, honey stolen from Botany Bay's illicit apiary. Research, he told himself. Nothing more.