Chapter 2: The Gilded Cage

I got whisked away to a space that looked straight out of a sci-fi ER. The place smelled sterile, like a dentist’s office back home, but with a chemical tang that made my eyes water.

My foot wound got the insectoid medical treatment.

Not exactly comforting—they hacked out the damaged tissue with zero anesthetic, didn’t bother with painkillers, just left it to regrow. Like fixing a torn sock by snipping off the thread and hoping it grows back.

When the numbness wore off, the pain crashed into me like a freight train. I nearly blacked out.

That’s when my assigned insectoid nanny rolled in with a basin—of all things—filled with thick, pungent cow’s milk. I had to choke it down, forcing a smile while my stomach flipped.

The nanny was over the moon, watching me like a toddler at their first birthday cake. Then, glancing around, it reached out and gently patted my head with a gloved tentacle—like a Little League coach giving a thumbs-up after a strikeout—awkward, but weirdly sincere.

I kept my cool, ate whatever they gave me, and played the obedient captive. The plan: stay quiet, gather intel, and survive.

Obedience paid off. One afternoon, after lunch, the nanny scooped me up like a kid off the playground.

It scanned its iris on a panel, activating a conveyor belt that zipped us down a corridor—bright as a Vegas casino, walls made from some otherworldly material.

We stopped at a wide room. The door opened. Inside, relics of human life were scattered—plastic stools, battered chairs, antiques that belonged in a museum.

On the far wall, about a dozen nutrient pods lined up in a row.

Each pod had someone inside.

The first one—eyes shut, mouth open—was my classmate, the academic slacker. I almost laughed with relief.

The insectoid doctor tending the pods chirped at me, then motioned to my nanny to let me down.

I limped from pod to pod. In the middle, someone stirred—Natalie, our class queen bee.

My throat tightened. What if it wasn’t really her? What if none of us were the same anymore?

I reached out, wanting to tap the glass.

Suddenly, a mechanical arm whipped out from the first pod, projecting a string of text into the air. Some kind of bio readout, maybe.

I called out to Natalie, my voice raw and shaky.

My insectoid nanny let out a sharp, happy cry—first words out of me in days. It said something to the doctor, and after a moment, the pod door hissed open. Natalie came out first, cradled by a mechanical arm, then the rest of our group woke up, rubbing their eyes and staring at me.

Relief nearly knocked me over.

But the others just cracked jokes and shrugged it off, like it was just another weird field trip.