https://rentry.co/cesiax

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Anonymous Report

Into the Shoal

Your legal first name is Anon, and you are about to have an unpleasant day.

It is worth especially noting that this unpleasant day is not without buildup, and it is not something you were completely blindsided by. The decision to accept an accounting job in the Shoal was, in retrospect, a questionable one-- but you were desperate. Your career had stalled out right out of college, and the alternative was Nanotrasen employment, and despite all your naivete, you know for certain that a lifetime contract is not going to help you much.

So, thus, a job on the Shoal. A job somewhere fairly far deep into the Shoal, with entirely too little information on where to go, but it was undoubtedly a job. It would pay the bills. It would help you move up, step by step, from your place teetering at the edge of spaceman poverty.

This was the plan, and were it not about to become a very unpleasant day, this would have been a fine plan.

You are currently sitting, uncomfortably, leg folded on leg, inside a space taxi with hardly enough room to breathe. It's about four feet across and twelve feet long, this cargo hold with makeshift benches on either end, and you've been packed tightly with an assortment of other immigrants to the Shoal-- though with your two-piece suit and shiny dress shoes, you're doing your best to be the most well-outfitted in the hold. Regardless, the air is stale as spacebread, shared between humans and Vox and fully-suited, huffing Plasmamen, all here for God-knows what reason.

Visibly, you're a small fish in a big pond, and this is just the ride over! But you're not thinking about any of that. Beyond all the apprehension, and the buff wordless Vox breathing hot air into your face from across the aisle, you're hopeful.

You do scan the Vox with a cursory gaze, while you're at it. It's been a while since you've seen one in person, but Vox compose the majority of the Shoal's population, and this one across from you looks about average, and terribly menacing. Vox are only tangentially humanoid-- certainly bipedal, but with a hunched pose, beak, digitigrade legs, and a tail that would put some dinosaurs to shame. They're covered in quills, by in large, which you reckon are like feathers, but a good bit more prickly.

Maybe that prickliness is why they make a natural fit for the Shoal. One could hardly call it a planet, although it is planet-sized and planet-shaped, as it's made entirely of crashed-together megaships and space stations, now hundreds of years old at its deepest point.

The taxi is approaching this alien place, now. You can feel it. The metal hull is being pelted on an almost regular basis by little asteroids, meteorites, bits of debris floating off of the steel and plasticine planet's surface. There's not much shock-bracing in the cargo hold, so you and the rest of the huddled-together passengers are rumbling along through turbulence for what feels like hours. You can't help but hate every bump, but eventually, eventually, eventually it ceases. Though the ship lacks windows, you can tell that you've entered a docking bay when the ship lands with a huge and resonant 'THUD', and the Vox sitting across from you exhales a sigh of relief.

"L-Long day?" you stammer, trying to make conversation.

He eyes you like you've stolen his wallet. "Four hours walking left," he says. His tone is exactly how you expected Shoal Vox to speak-- serrated.

You know better than to dig the hole deeper, and just give him some kind of meek smile-grimace. The moment lasts all-too-long, and is only capped off when the airlock in the back slides open with a groan. A spindly-looking ramp extends, and every passenger begins scrambling out, possessions within tight grip. You make sure you've still got your briefcase. You're the last one out as a result, just in time to witness everybody- including the Vox that looked like he could take your head off- scatter away from the vessel and descend into the crowds as fast as possible. Well, that explains why the taxi driver asked for your payment in advance!

The area in front of you is expansive beyond expansive, with a ceiling three stories tall and thousands of mingling Vox amidst the hustle-and-bustle of their economy, made up of multicolored stalls and neon signs that stick up above their bobbing heads. It would inspire some awe in you, this sight, if you weren't thoroughly nauseated by crowds. You're hit first by the light, nearly blinding when you look right up, made up of unregulated overhead lamps. Then, as you stumble forth and the taxi escapes through a force-field, the sound of chatter overwhelms you thoroughly, making waves above crowds.

The one and only consolation is that you can breathe here. It took the remainder of your savings, but your once-feeble lungs are now custom-tailored to breathe both a nitrogenated atmosphere and your own, partially-oxygen one. It does little to diminish the smell, however, of Vox in their natural habitat.

All this, and still, if you knew what your future held...

...you would savor the light while you still have it.

Regardless-- this isn't where your job is, anyway. You hold your nose shut, brace an iron grip around the handle of your briefcase, and brave the crowd to venture deeper, deeper, deeper into the Shoal.

There are hallways in the rusted steel walls, all leading into some kind of labyrinth. You remember from a pamphlet that there are supposed to be Magways, somewhere-- big, wide passages made to be trekked across at several hundred miles per hour. But there's nothing of the sort where you've landed, and it seems like you're going to have to wing it. You retrieve a little crumpled map from your pocket, but it's still only barely a help, and only on occasion. Your acceptance email said the commercial district would be 'nearby'-- but nowhere did they specify how far 'nearby' meant.

Well, that's to be expected with a new job! You've been hazed before. A chilling memory of being kicked out an airlock at Space 7-11 washes over you, and you proceed on, determined not to wuss out. You'll make it through the Shoal and show them you're plenty businesslike, and extremely capable at... writing numbers into fields, or whatever it is your job's going to be.

The halls are still lit, at least, but there's very little in the way of signage. Sometimes you find graffiti along walls, but it's in Pidgin, and it tends to read something like 'CUNT SHIT' or 'VERY FUNNY'. Not that you speak Pidgin, but... well, memories of a class or two you took in college still hang around in the back of your mind, and you can recognize vulgarity just from the sight. Still, none of it is a particular help. The map is more often wrong the deeper you get, and it keeps telling you to go further down...

Your mind wanders for a while. When you come to, you've stopped yourself in a particularly cramped hallway occupied by two things of note: first, a Vox, standing a head taller than you, resting along a half-eroded metal wall with one leg up. He's nearly naked, save for an overwhelming amount of jewelry adorning nearly every part of his spindly form, as well as a loincloth for the barest minimum of dignity. He's smoking, by the looks of it, from an antique cigarette holder, puffing up a line of grey lung-wrenching smoke.

Secondly, there's a circular protrusion from the floor, shaped a bit like a well. While not entirely inviting, it has a lip on one side where one could be expected to step directly in. Your gaze darts between the two. This Vox is the first person you've seen in ages in these unoccupied, winding tunnels of the Shoal, and that emptiness has been putting you on edge. What if you took a wrong turn a long time back, and now you're so far from your course that you'll never notice in time? What if all the errors in the map aren't errors at all, but signs that you're in a completely different place?

This sneaking worry drives you to step outside your comfort zone and ask the Vox, begrudgingly, for directions.

"Hi, uh," you mutter. Speaking Common in a place like this feels like sacrilege. "Can you... can I ask for some help getting around?"

He barely reacts, but he does meet you with his eyes. They're striking, and he has long lashes, like a secretary bird. As he nods slowly, his necklaces jingle. "Ask," he says, in a sibilant tone.

You stammer-- finding the words has never felt so hard. "Uh, I'm... I'm, uh... I'm trying to find the Alkhi-ha, uh... the Akikhua Commercial District. I think I'm, um, I'm lost? I might be lost." You uncrumple the map in your pocket and hold it out slightly, as if it means anything to this Vox.

A moment passes, while he eyes you up and down. He's searching for something, though you suppose all he'll find is a mildly sweaty intern. Finally, he speaks again. "...Lost. Very lost. But not hopeless." A little grin strikes his face; although beaks can't smile, the part where they meet his cheeks slides into a smirk. "You could take shortcut. If... desire to find your place. Or," he says, his voice developing into a whisper, "perhaps make way back home, while still have a chance."

This probably should have been a red flag. Instead, you're mildly miffed-- is he challenging your work ethic?! "Uh, I-- I have a job, I have to show up for the job," you stammer. "What shortcut?"

"Mm. Shortcut." He lowers his head slightly, and motions over to the divot in the ground beside him, a half-dozen gold bracelets ringing out as they clatter along his arm. "This... is shortcut."

You nervously step forth. Your grip over the briefcase tightens. "To... to the Akikhua Commercial District? This is a quicker r-route there?"

The Vox chitters lowly, and for a moment, you could swear he was brandishing his teeth. "In some ways."

You notice that you're shaking. Although you should grill the bird, ask him more questions, a horrid curiosity has come over you, and you find yourself moving closer to the 'shortcut'. It becomes more and more visible as you loom over it-- it isn't just a passage downwards. Instead, it drops almost directly deeper into the Shoal, with only the slightest bit of a slope to guide it downwards. You grimace in horror. You've never been a fan of heights, and this is reminding you of that terrible tube-shaped slide from your old playground. How deep does this thing go?!

As you peer into the shaft, hoping to find a bottom, you realize that there's nothing but darkness below.

You weakly mumble, "A-Are you sure this is a sh--"

Then, your breath gives out, as you're kicked- hard- in the backside. You tumble forth, out of control, and enter a horrifying freefall, down, down, down, down...

...

The welded slats that connect the panels fly past, twenty a second. You eventually collide with the floor of the chute, but you can't get any traction or control over your fall. Involuntarily, you scream in terror, your rattled voice ricocheting across the reverberant tube; every once in a while you bang against the metal and tumble, upside-down, flying in a spin, screaming your brains out. You lose grip of your briefcase. You feel one of your fancy dress shoes slip off. There's no light to orient you, only the inexorable feeling of gravity pulling you for what feels like an infinite time.

You let out a horrible grunt as you collide with the floor of the chute one final time, and the freefall becomes a slide, curling slowly to a more horizontal position. This doesn't make the experience better, because now you're rubbing in harsh friction against an endless series of metal slats, tumbling down the tube head-over-head. At some point amidst the experience you bonk your head against your lost briefcase, and the blackness of the tunnel becomes blacker...

...

...until you wake up.

You're no longer in a chute. Plunged into utter darkness, you realize you are finally on solid ground.

Your body aches like it never has before. You're laying on your chest, ass up, groaning in pain that seems to radiate over every part of you. How long were you sliding down that tube? How deep are you, now?

The air is different. You can't see a damn thing, but you can taste the atmosphere of this place-- smelling more of kerosene and rust than anything natural. You assumed you'd land on a piece of corroded metal, but- thankfully for your spine- it's more of a plastic-coated cushion. In fact, as you shift around weakly, you note that the whole floor is made out of this material. A little springy, a little smooth, and utterly chill to the touch.

You feel along this freezing-cold floor to try and get your bearings, but even your rudimentary human night vision isn't any help, because there's no light coming from anywhere, not starlight nor lamplight. There is a sound, though, a terrible humming and buzzing from far away, far below, prevalent and unerring. Is that the core of the Shoal, if there is such a thing? Is it some foul piece of machinery just aching to grind you up into bits?

Ah! Your briefcase! After a few minutes of fumbling around on your hands and knees, you finally find your most precious belonging, and clutch it as tightly as your aching muscles can manage. Once you're done 'reuniting', you undo the latches and begin to rummage through your belongings. A couple pairs of clothes, a thin wallet... but most importantly, your trusty lighter, which cost five credits and has lasted you three years. You click the flint a few times until a faint flame emits. Sure, it's barely the size of a dime, and illuminates only what's right next to it, but it might be the only light down here, and you're not about to look a gift boxen in the mouth.

You guide the flame across the plastic floor, and finally find a wall to examine. The ceilings are low enough to follow with your lighter, and you manage to locate the opening of the chute, where you plopped down on your face. Even if you had the residual upper arm strength to hoist up, it'd be a few-mile climb up a vertical shaft. As much as you hate to admit it to yourself, there's no going back, now, and you're highly doubtful that this is remotely close to the Akikhua Commercial District.

This probably isn't actually a shortcut, huh.

You'd break down in tears from it all, but you're aching too bad, and the darkness is bringing out a terrible, sinking fear, deep down inside of you. It's a primal fear-- one that makes you tremble from head to toe.

It's a small inconvenience on a list of bigger worries, but you can't even find your shoe. Despite scouring across the floor, groaning with every pain in your joints, there's absolutely no sign of it. Five minutes in, you decide to call it quits. You'll just be limping from now on, briefcase in hand, presumably looking like you're a Sol businessman who just had a terrible day at the stock market.

There's a few exits to the room-- doorless hallways which stretch on into the darkness. Utterly disoriented, you pick an entrance at random and proceed forth with a hobble. You're following a wall, composed of eerily smooth metal, tinted a murky gray. Occasionally, the steel plating is broken up by what feels like a slatted grating; by the faint firelight of your SpaceBIC, it looks like dark maintenance tunnels extend further behind the walls. From a glance, it seems like this horrible place stretches on forever.

The terrible sinking feeling in your gut gets worse. You nearly cough on the air. A thought in the back of your mind is clawing at you, tearing at your will to continue-- what if there's no way out at all?

You stumble on your shoeless foot, and land on your elbows, banging your head against what feels like... hollow plastic. Not metal. Not metal! You bring your aching self upright, panting to catch a breath with nitrogen-tainted lungs, and examine what's in front of you.

A door, sized too large for a human, made of the same tough plexiglas they used to use for airplanes interiors. You drag the flame from your lighter across its surface to discover writing, though it's not in Common. Instead, it's a finely-etched script of Pidgin, and from your residual knowledge, you can roughly translate the phrase-

'LAW ENFORCEMENT'

Thank God! Sore as hell, you've never felt more relieved in your life to see evidence of cops. Sure, they're probably not quite like Nanotrasen Security, but that probably makes them a tougher sort. Less... feminine and blonde, you'd reckon. You raise up your fist to knock, lightly at first.

The knock rings out through the cramped hallway. That incessant humming from far off persists, engulfing all sound in a fog. Nervously, you knock again, harder.

Not a sound from inside. Instead, the door slides open quickly, faster than you're able to process. You shudder and fall still, like a deer in headlights, as you stare down a pair of eyes-- lit a crimson red, fierce and menacing. Whoever they belong to stands far taller than you, and their looming, invisible figure makes you feel meek. You hold out the lighter in place, trying to get a better look, frozen in a pose, but a gloved hand emerges from the darkness. Two of its spindly claw-fingers come closed on top of the lighter's fire, snuffing it out in an instant, leaving you amidst a terrible black corridor.

A huff. A huff from behind a gas-mask. The eyes glare into your soul.

"I'm l-lost," you say, trembling over your words like a high-schooler asking out his crush. "I'm... I'm l-lost, and I need help."

For a few short, agonizing moments, the air is punctuated with nothing but the far-off hum. Then, a near-silent shuffling of boots. The figure in the doorway steps aside, with a glare that doesn't stop digging into you. It seems to say-- 'welcome inside, but not actually welcome at all.'

But what other option do you have? Already, your body's beginning to ache from the earlier fall, and your trembling legs won't take you far from here without rest. You need someplace you can get ferried up, up, to where there used to be light. You drag your sorry ass up from your terror and proceed forth into the blackness of the 'LAW ENFORCEMENT' room, past the form of the thing which once occupied the doorway.

You can hear it breathing, now. Hovering over you, as you proceed forward and to the right, plunging further inside. It huffs and inhales through a gas mask, and you can feel it crawling on your back.

The ceilings are outlined with dimmed neon signs, advertising some horrible Vox product. If not for the soft plastic floor, you'd reckon you were in a subway car. There's a light at the end of this oblong room, and you stumble towards it, briefcase swinging in a weak arm, gait lopsided, mind wandering incessantly. The distant hum of machinery is drowned out by heaving, muffled breathing, from figures you can't really make out, but which tower above you like statues. All you can manage is a few heaving stumbles over to the end of the room, and that's where you finally make out what the light is.

A desk lamp. A desk lamp, and a desk.

Being just about the closest thing you've seen to 'official' around these parts, you're aching to get close. By the time you get there, you stumble and fall, resting harshly on the unpolished wooden surface of the desk. It's a loud tumble in a quiet room, but you make it.

Your briefcase lands flat against the desk, and your elbows are all that's keeping you upright. You croon your head nervously upward to search for a police chief, a receptionist, anything, and--

Two pale-orange eyes glare at you. The lamp's reflection comes over the figure at the desk, letting you make out the faintest details. A gas-mask composed of plastic and rubber wraps around the Vox's entire head, trailing down to a suit of armor which looks like it was designed to deal with hazardous materials, with taut rubber and Kevlar intermixed in segments for flexibility. His large, imposing figure leans forward, and he rests a single gloved hand on the desk for support, as he eyes your maimed form with intensity that is hard to describe.

Just as you're trying to parse all of this, you feel that breathing on the back of your neck, again. A presence from behind you. The shuffling of footsteps, and a looming sense of dread. You try to come to your feet, but even as you stand, you're shorter than the Vox at the desk.

There's a momentary pause. You're expected to speak.

You mumble nothing-words.

A growling, restrained voice emits from the Vox, blowing hot air into your face. "Purpose?" he asks.

"I'm l-lost," you say, for the hundredth time.

"Lost..." he whispers, the word trailing off his tongue. He leans forth his head, exposing it to the light. His orange-iris eyes are intense, and surrounded by darkness, he looks a little like a Jack-o-lantern. Your first- stupid- thought is to call him Jack, but it feels like a distinctly non-Vox name.

Maybe...

...Jackh?

You regretfully settle on Jackh.

He begins rattling off words in Pidgin to the figures behind you. Suddenly you're being surrounded by the low, clicking and huffing chatter of Vox amidst a tense conversation, the kind that seems more excited than professional. You can feel three distinct, hot breaths against the back of your neck, and it makes you wince, gripping at the wood of the desk for support.

After a minute, Jackh resolutely nods, and retrieves a paper from a desk drawer, sliding it towards you. He quietly says, "Submit transfer request."

"I-I'm not trying... t-to get transferred," you mumble.

There doesn't seem to be any use. He taps at the paper with a spindly gloved finger. "Fill out."

Your trembling hands search the table for a pen and find nothing. You find your briefcase in the dark and click it open, rummaging through- blindly- for some kind of writing implement, finally retrieving a pink Star-Awesome!! ballpoint pen that you don't remember bringing, and click it open. Then, the sight of something moving in your peripheral vision. With his free hand, the Vox at the desk is sliding back your briefcase, first onto his side of the table, and then back into the inky blackness that surrounds him. For safekeeping, it seems. You don't have the energy to protest.

Instead, you lean down to squint and focus on the papers-- scrawled in Pidgin without a single word of translation.

Oh, Christ. What have you gotten yourself into?

A twinge of panic. For the first time in a long time, you're desperately trawling through your old memories of Vox Pidgin class in Space North Dakota University. This is essentially just a very, very stressful quiz, and you never were particularly great at quizzes. It takes you a full twenty seconds to decipher the first word- just the first word- and the page looks to be filled with paragraphs upon paragraphs of Vox legalese.

Sweaty, panting, and panicked to hell and back, you find yourself confused by the third word after a full, awkward minute of examination. 'Ithiynk', you think. It's got a clicking ending sound, which probably means it's the equivalent of a preposition, or something--

Then, your focus is ripped away violently by a pair of beefy hands, and your pen goes sailing into the darkness.

You're turned around, held by your wrists and pressed against the desk by a Vox who had emerged from the darkness to reveal himself-- a wide and heavy-built bird with the same gasmask-and-armor getup, apparently suitable for a tumble down a zero-gravity tunnel, whose only 'humanizing' characteristic is a pair of striking pink eyes, which shine behind his glass-plastic visors.

He grunts, "Fish out of pond," stating a fact about you that is undeniable, in a tone stern enough to feel like you've done something wrong.

You stammer, I-I'm just trying to--"

"Hush, hush. Can tell you're foreign. Very, very." You can feel his heavy breath on you, and he rubs up against you, pinning you in place against the desk.

Just then, a buzz from the walls, a hum of electricity. Small, fading neon lights from the ceiling reactivate, and it becomes clear that this apparent 'police station' really once was some kind of subway car, as rows of backlit advertisements extend across the roof. With newfound lighting, you can get a properly horrifying view of the Vox holding you- who you dub Pinky, for his striking eyes- as well as the two others who are beginning to crowd around you with interest.

To your left, another Vox, more slimly built, adorned in what looks like a Kevlar-reinforced wetsuit, like he's expecting to get dunked in a tank of radioactive waste. He wears the same distinctive gas-mask, with a pair of murky, dark cyan eyes. Keeping with your stupid theme, you decide that this one is Inky. He whispers, "First human have seen in days, hahah..."

To your right, the last of the four, who's poking his head into your personal space at the sight of you. He's the most armored of them, with bulky shoulders and a long vulture-like neck, leaning forth and tilting his head. He speaks through yet another gas-mask, and his tone is frantic, jittery. "Look like you want leave! Don't feel like belong?!" His brightly-tinted red eyes blink rapidly. You've seen that trait in plenty of your fellow classmates from Uni-- this one's fond of hyperzine, and you quietly name him Blinky.

"Y-Yes!" you burst out. "I'm just trying to get out of here, wherever- 'here' even is- and get to the commercial sector!"

A moment of pause. The Vox in front of you eye each other, and Pinky tightens his grip around your wrists. There's a spattering of chatter in Pidgin once more, and just as you're about to begin wailing in fear, utterly surrounded from all sides, something interrupts your train of thought.

A hand wraps around your chin from behind.

Jackh's hand, his long spindly gloved claws, grip your neck and chin, holding you in place. He's nearly scrunching up your cheeks with his grip, but instead of abject terror, you feel... pacified. You feel as if a switch has been thrown.

The trembling stops. Your tensed-up self relaxes. Maybe everything will be okay.

"This one," says Jackh, "looks like... possible escaped slave, from around. Best stay here." It's very matter-of-fact. There's not a trace of malice in his coarse, rolling tongue.

However, a little voice in the back of your mind is screaming.

Screaming.

Screaming.

Things are about to go very wrong.

You break into tears, and try to blubber out, "N-No, I'm... I'm a Nanotrasen citizen, a-and..." Your pleading is pathetic, and the three gas-masked Vox in front of you look between themselves, immediately disregarding your sob story. Pinky loosens his grip for a moment and pulls back, while Blinky nods frantically. You can hear a muted chuckle from Inky. Within a few short moments, you get the feeling that they're going to pounce on you.

Well, you're not about to give up that easy. Maybe if you can just get out of here, you can find some real help, and get out of this godforsaken level of Vox Hell!

You use the brief distraction to will absolutely every bit of strength from yourself, and lunge forth, breaking the grip Pinky has on your wrists, tumbling between two Vox and sprinting forward. An involuntary scream leaves your lips as you stumble. Can you outrun them?! You've got to be able to-- these horrible armored brutes are nothing but muscle and fear! One foot to another, hurrying through the dim room, approaching the exit. Maybe there's time, maybe there's time to get away, maybe you'll be lucky, and--

Oh.

You land- badly- on the foot missing a shoe. For a moment, you feel yourself suspended in air. Time stops. All your mistakes rush through your head like a bad nightmare.

You were given one last chance, and instead of seizing it, you fucking tripped.

A mighty and involuntary leap through the air.

A horrified yell of regret.

Faceplant.

Ass up, then ass slamming to the ground.

You rough up against the plastic floor, sliding a few feet forward in a defeated, powerless, stricken pose. In the few seconds it takes for you to snap out of your stupid haze, Pinky is already upon you, planting his foot on your back in a decisive kick, hard enough to expunge all the air out of your lungs. He's a heavy bird weighed down by plenty of equipment, and it nearly feels like he's going to crush you to dust, holding you down like this. You can do nothing but squeal.

Your muscles give out. Pinky grabs your arms once more, wraps them around your back, and clicks them together with cold steel handcuffs, which already begin to chafe. Christ, he's heavy, and your lungs aren't working, and it's starting to all go black--

Reprieve. He steps off of you, and pulls your limp body upright. "Chill," he grunts.

You gasp and hack for breath, amidst trying to beg, "Please, n-no, please, I'm n-not a slave, I'm not...!" Pinky just grunts and nods from behind you, disregarding it all. He's only here to hold you in a standing position, and to keep your hands bound.

Inky and Blinky emerge from either side of you. "Nice, ha, rat-fall, haha," chides Blinky. He gives your shoeless leg a patronizing little kick, and you nearly fall again. Inky, meanwhile, looks you up and down with interest, sniffing at you through his gasmask.

"Don't resist," he whispers. "Easier."

You're crying harder, now. The birds have this imposing, horrible crowd over you, crowding around, making it clear that there is no escape from here on out. You walked into the wrong doorway, and you'll surely be leaving in cuffs. Muted, breathless pleading continues to escape from your open jaw, but at this point, you and them both know it's background noise.

Having stepped out from behind his desk, Jackh emerges from the darkness. His form is truly, impossibly alien, and displayed properly in this half-full light. He has spindly limbs and a long beak, all masked behind armor and equipment, and a tarnished black cloak which hangs only to his hips. You can see his chest now, along with a shiny platinum badge, displaying the well-known Pidgin word for 'CHIEF', or 'CAPTAIN'. He has a presence, even to the two terrifying Vox stood beside him, who stand attentive to his presence. He's calling the shots. He's controlling the room.

He's breathing in your face. His air is warm, heavy... almost sensual. His eyes penetrate your soul. You can feel him breathing along your body.

"We'll need to pat down," he says, lowly. "Check for weapons."

You don't know how to respond. Inky and Blinky approach from either side of you, and start feeling your clothes up for bumps, retrieving your belongings in sequence and tearing you from your belongings. You try to cooperate, for reasons you can't explain, but you're flat-footed and terrified, and the two bulky Vox are jerking you around. You begin to hyperventilate...

The shuddering stops when Jackh clasps you around the chin again.

It's a forceful move. His soft rubber claw-tips hold you tight, and calm you down, sending a wave of relief over your body. He's staring you in the eyes hypnotically, tearing your attention away from the fear. It lets you relax your whole body.

...well.

Most of your body relaxes.

There's a feeling in your groin which cannot be denied. There's a feeling in your groin which cannot be explained. Try as you might, you couldn't help it. With all the touch, the feeling of big, strong Vox all around you, it's activating something deep and primal.

You're uncomfortable, gritting your teeth, and on the verge of crying again, but... you definitely have a boner.

Inky and Blinky stop their patdown. Pinky croons his head over your shoulder to stare at the tent in your trousers, utterly dumbfounded. These Vox have patted you down, and you're definitely unarmed, but you're... armed in another way.

You cross your legs in an attempt to get some decency, while Jackh simply steps forward, looming over you. He's no longer fixated on keeping you calm or staring at your erection, he's here simply to intimidate. "Is that why came running so deep?" he asks, his tone sibilant. "You wanted hop into the tiger pit? Get rocks off?"

A pause. A very damning pause. You eventually start bumbling, "No, no, no, no, no, no, I-- I didn't... I didn't, no."

Blinky begins to cackle uncontrollably. Inky exhales a bit of air suddenly through his mask. Pinky's grips on your arms tightens. Jackh leans so close that his mask nearly touches your nose, and he clears his throat. "Right. Likely. But..." He blinks once, slowly. "Maybe could make... little deal. Maybe unlucky human didn't bumble in here, on the record." He scrunches your chin tighter, fingers caressing your cheeks. It's an impossible soft touch against cold skin. With his off hand, he reaches down and pokes your boner.

Oh. It makes you flinch. You are absolutely diamond-hard down there, and you can't muster up any kind of explanation, adequate or not. Being in this cramped room, surrounded at all sides by bulky masked Vox, having your dick- involuntarily- poked at, it's too much, it's too much, it's too much! You're overwhelmed to the point that you feel like throwing up.

This thing in front of you, this Vox that you're calling Jackh. Why is he making you aroused? Why are they ALL making you aroused?! It's a horrible bird thing in a mask, you can't possibly find that arousing! It's in such harsh contrast with the feeling in your groin that you speak before you can even properly think through the situation. You blurt out, "I-I'm not some kind of d-degenerate! I'm just f-fucking scared of you!"

Jackh squints. You can see something shift in his expression, even through the gas-mask. He spends a moment thinking it over. "Ah," he says. "Okay."

Then, he kicks you in the stomach.

It isn't painful as it is disorienting. You lose all power to stand, collapsing to your knees and drooling in a frozen, shocked state. You're limp in Pinky's grip.

The tenacity in the Vox has waned quickly. Inky tut-tuts, disappointed, and Blinky growls to himself. Jackh doesn't even want to look at your disheveled form. Weakness wracks through your body, but no part of you can move except for your dick, which bobs unhelpfully in its cloth prison. The Vox scatter into the dim room, and as your vision gets hazy, you feel Pinky dragging you away.

There's a cage in the corner of the room. It's four feet tall and only barely long enough for you to splay on your back, which is about all you manage as Pinky tosses you in. He has the decency to uncuff you, but there's a sense of disappointment in it. A begrudging, "Yell if problems," and he slams the barred door shut. Having no energy to say a word, you merely groan.

Now, here comes the pain from that kick in the stomach. And a whole heap of emotional pain-- betrayal, whether from Jackh, who almost seemed amicable, or from your own damn dick, for getting you on a rollercoaster of confusion. You weakly drag yourself around in your cage, feeling at its confines in the dark. There's just about nothing. The only small solace is the bench along the wall, topped with a squishy mattress, which lets you- at least- rest your aching bones. But even in the blackness of this room, you get the feeling you'll be seeing basically no privacy.

Christ.

It's all hitting you at once, now. That incessant machine hum from far off becomes all that's audible, along with your thoughts, which are finally calming down. Your problem-solving reflex- which helped you skirt through college with passing grades- is now trying to pick up the pieces, but there aren't any pieces.

There isn't anything to be done about this.

You're going to be a slave down here.

...

The hours drag on.

In still and wilting quiet, you've curled up on the 'bed', trying to get away from any prying eyes. The room outside your cage has been empty for a while, anyhow, and you never got the tip on why, but it probably won't remain that way. How long until the Vox come back? How long until a slaver comes to claim you?

Your mind has plenty of time to race. You made a lot of questionable choices, and they brought you- tumbling and screaming- to the brink. And at your most vulnerable moment, you felt emotions that... weren't right! Emotions that weren't congruent, that must have been repressed for so long.

The gas-masked birds awoke something in you.

Memories flash before your eyes in a haze. There were times during puberty you used to be fascinated with Vox, those far-off alien creatures who spoke and acted in ways completely unlike you. You didn't understand why you were so drawn to them, but... you were. It strikes you, now, that maybe that was why you came here, to work on the Shoal. Your degree was getting you nothing, your career was going nowhere, and you'd dropped just about everything else in your life. Most people wouldn't be attracted to a crime hive like the Shoal. Most people wouldn't be attracted to a Vox.

--You're getting ahead of yourself, now.

Regardless, without consciously thinking about it, you always felt like the Shoal was the right path. Being around Vox felt like the right path, even if- now- you feel like a complete idiot for stumbling so deeply into the darkness.

And there's that other part of your idiocy that's ringing in your ears like a car bomb. Even if you were to set aside all your inexplicable fascination for Vox, you can't deny that you were given a chance. Jackh offered to do... something, with you. You're questioning, now, if it would have actually been all that bad. Maybe it'd even be tolerable! At the very least, it might have meant you wouldn't be in this cramped, terrible, rust-smelling cage. Instead, your inhibitions kept you from experimenting when you got a chance, and now here you are.

All presence of those maskbirds is gone. The scent of leather, rubber, and bird, has utterly left, along with any chance you had at freedom.

Maybe you'll just sleep...

...

You're awoken with a jolt by the sound of rough footsteps outside the room. You panic-- is a slavemaster here to carry you away?! You shift in the cot to get a better look.

The door to the hallway slides open quickly, like it's in a hurry. Two of the Vox come bumbling in, one after another, still in full gear. Whatever made them leave before has been resolved, and... by their demeanor, almost drunken, they are in a different mental state than before. You quickly identify them-- the slim and sleek-suited Inky, and the bulky, twitchy-eyed Blinky, huffing anxiously through their masks.

Inky mumbles something low and questioning as they stumble in.

Blinky, in response, turns him around and grabs him by the neck. For a moment they look as if posed in a moment of violence, but it's restrained, calculated. The big Vox grunts something out that sounds demanding.

The smaller Vox shuffles in his armor, clearly struggling to breathe against the hold against his neck. He lets out an inane little chitter, which sounds almost like cackling, before nodding his head. After a few more prolonged moments, Blinky lets his neck go, and he slumps a little, struggling to recover.

You shift even further in your cell to avoid view, as Inky turns back around to face you. He's walking towards you now-- what's he want with you?! Your breath quickens, you begin to anticipate the worst, and then...

Inky reaches for something above your cell. He doesn't pay you a single bit of mind.

A jangling of something metallic. The sound of a latch being shut. When Inky turns around and walks back towards Blinky, he's wearing something below his gas mask, where the rubber meets his armor, in a conspicuous bright red. You can hardly believe it, but you're pretty sure what you're looking at is a collar. Not only that, but there's a trailing bit of wire which he's holding clasped in one hand, and which he hands to Blinky readily-- an attached leash. The notion almost makes you yelp. What the hell are these two Vox about to do to each other?

Well, they demonstrate it promptly. Blinky tugs on the leash at once, bringing the two of them together and pulling a bind around Inky's slim neck. The shorter Vox lets out a weakened squeal, but you can't help but notice a bit of pleasure in his voice. Is this their thing? Inky stumbles over on unsteady feet, and the two become locked in each other's grip. The air is filled with the sound of shuffling leather and rubber, and indecipherable Pidgin mumbles, as Inky and Blinky begin grinding against one another, right in the middle of the room, without a care in the world. With Inky's back to you, you can spot that Blinky's wrapped an arm around, and clenches- tight- against the slim Vox's ass, scrunching up the rubber and eliciting another few squeals.

It quickly isn't enough for them. Blinky heaves up Inky in his arms and nearly tosses him right on top of Jackh's desk, one of the only properly-lit places in this dim office. Although Inky's armor is thinner, it's still plenty weighty, and the desk creaks under him. He's gasping against the leash, which is pulled just taut enough against his neck so as to leave him light-headed.

This whole rigmarole has gotten the two very antsy. Blinky grunts a command to Inky below his breath, and the two begin fumbling with the heavy armor around his groin. It's a goddamn puzzle getting it open, but after plenty of latches pulled off and buttons ripped open, Blinky's genitals become visible. It wasn't at all visible within the suit, but he's absolutely rock-hard. You've never seen a Vox penis in person before. It's a murky blue hue, in a shape almost like a cone, with a thin but not tapered end. In Blinky's case, it's rather girthy, too-- certainly not floppy, and drooling a long stream of pre-cum as he pulls it out of its leather prison.

More mumbling between the two. Inky is choking and grunting and huffing desperately, and he wraps both arms around Blinky's backside. Their words aren't enunciated or clear at all, because they're the sort of dialect only spoken between lovers too passionate to be eloquent. You think you make out at least a few insults, though maybe that's just what foreplay is like for a Vox.

Said foreplay doesn't last long. Blinky is clearly needy, and you can hear his anxious, heavy panting in his mask. He pulls on Inky's leash to get them closer, closer, closer, until they're rubbing up against each other. His blue dick slides against the slender bird's stomach and groin, the softest parts of his armor, and quickly splatters him with precum.

The two are incessantly horny. Their breathing become one, as Blinky croons his head to press directly against Inky's gas-mask, rubbing foreheads and gasping into each other's filters. You can spot Inky growing a package of his own, within the tight neoprene around his groin, and...

Well, there's no getting around it.

These Vox are putting on a show for you. You don't think it's intentional; maybe they're just too horny to care, or they forgot about you completely. Regardless, you can't deny that you're getting hard, scrunched up on your bed with a perfect view. You didn't even have to get touched this time! It's not your fault!

Quickly, your erection becomes a problem. You have to shift a little just to let it grow in your pants without discomfort. By the time you realize what's happening, you're already rock-hard, antsy, breath quickened. Inky and Blinky grind with all the passion and fever you could imagine from some sick porno video online, and they're doing it only a few feet away from you. Hell, you can even smell the precum in the air!

There are no excuses anymore. You kinda... find this hot.

And you kinda regret not taking them up on the offer, earlier.

Some inner part of you, whether you want it to exist or not, is much more of a horndog than you're comfortable with. That erection earlier wasn't an accident, it was your body screaming at you to get it on, any which way you possibly could. Why didn't you just listen?!

Inky's tail swishes softly against the desk, knocking aside papers and pens. You feel a kinship with Blinky in this moment, who is far too horny to do anything productive, and just continues grinding, using Inky's bulging erection as a guideway to jerk himself off, pumping up and down and groaning with every movement. His voice has gotten raspy-- he's hailing something in-between insults and endearment, and you can't tell it all apart. He's got a tight hold of his fuckbuddy's leash, keeping them locked tightly together, and keeping Inky on the edge of actually choking.

Somewhere, deep down inside, you wish you could be doing the same.

...Or maybe you wish you could be wearing the leash.

Seeing as Blinky is horny-brained to the point of being useless, it's Inky that has to move things along. He retracts one hand from Blinky's shoulder and fumbles with his own suit, undoing a few hidden latches, and slowly slipping his member out of its prison. To this, Blinky just frots harder against Inky's stomach, grunting and groaning, and he pulls on the leash even harder, tightening the already-restrictive collar to choke Inky even further. The movement is driving the both of them mad.

Finally, Inky's length flops out of his pre-soaked armor. He's choking and cawing with pleasure, and his dick bobs with every breath; it's longer and more slender, simply drooling with precum, but there's one aspect that confuses you. His armor has opened up wide enough to show everything going on down there, and his cock is emerging from a vertical opening, with a wet sheen, which somewhat resembles a vaginal opening. You recognize this, if only through cultural osmosis, as a slit, and it's something quite abnormal for a Vox. The only time you ever remember reading about something like it is as some kind of surgery or gene mod, usually done by male models.

When you last heard about it in some glitzy magazine, you did not expect to see a slit on this gruff, albeit twinky, Vox.

Once his dick is free, it puts Blinky in a frenzy. He forces a spare hand around Inky's neck and pushes him down against the desk, sending more papers and an ink-well flying, all the while he frots furiously against the slim bird's erection. It's a squishy, wet experience, sending chills down Blinky's spine and causing him to jitter all to hell. After a few solid thrusts, he pulls his hips back fully and slides both hands down along the Vox's stomach. Inky's panting and choking happily, and it looks like he's about to get fucked in the ass.

But this is a practiced position for the two of them. Instead of giving his partner the ol' sticky dicky, Blinky slides his member underneath Inky's, frotting them in reverse, and continues sliding his length along until he's stuck it inside of Inky's slit. Once it's an inch in, fireworks go off between them. Blinky erupts into a near-yell, croaking out swears in a tone broken by his shuddering body.

It's a hell of a tight fit-- there's not a lot of real estate in there. The tightness doesn't worry him any. He thrusts in and out, first slowly, then rather quickly, filling Inky's slick and wet interior. For Inky, the feeling must be indescribable, as he's lost completely amidst his babbling. Blinky pulls on his leash, and he squeals a muffled squeal through his gas mask, huffing hard enough to fog up his visor. He barely has enough breath to make any noise, and he's using it to moan!

Blinky pushes in three inches. Inky's sensitive slit tightens, and his dick throbs eagerly. He's completely overwhelmed and searching desperately for any form of support; you spot his tail slither below the desk and wrap tightly around one of Blinky's booted calf.

At this point, you are basically watching hardcore slitfucking porn. It's at this point that you decide to sink completely into degeneracy.

You pull your trousers down enough to free your uncomfortably-hard erection, and start to masturbate in a low-profile manner. You're not enough of a horny bastard to start jerking up and down like a buffoon- and don't feel like giving yourself away like that- but with your thumb and forefinger squeezing your glans, you start to ascend into heaven. Inky and Blinky are fucking like it's their last day to live, and hell, it's a show you'll only get to see once.

Precum drools down your fingers as you squeeze yourself, and do your best to stay quiet.

Blinky is really, clearly getting off to the sensation of choking Inky. He pulls one arm back with the leash, dragging Inky's neck upwards and pressing their gas-masks tightly together in a kiss. The poor suffocating bird weakly squirms and squawks, using his restricted air supply to screech the Pidgin word for 'please', amidst a myriad of other indecipherable sounds. He's half-muffled by the collar around his neck, and his voice is warbled by vibrations going throughout his entire body. Despite being held on the edge of actual harm, he's being wracked with pleasure. Every few moments, with a corresponding jolt, his dick spurts out another line of precum between their stomachs.

You slip your thumb and forefinger down your shaft, squeezing and caressing and massaging yourself into more and more of a rise. You're imagining that sensation-- being choked out, held by a Vox much bigger than you, feeling frotted and fucked at the same time...

The sound is resonating throughout the office. Amidst their muffled voices, you can hear the rhythmic, slick slapping of Blinky's dick slipping inside Inky, again and again, finding its tight fit and sending shivers down the big Vox's spine. Precum drools down their groins, down their legs, splattering the floor. Blinky keeps them tight together with his hold on the leash, and with his spare hand, clutches Inky's soft-booted foot, which hangs in the air, stiff as the rest of his overwhelmed body.

Jesus, you're really getting into it now. It takes a lot out of you, muffling your own instinct to gasp in pleasure as you masturbate to the two Vox. You feel a wave of heat wash over you just as Inky screeches lowly-- it's a broken wail of pleasure, muffled by his mask and shortened by Blinky's grip over his neck. Blinky has slid his dick in once too far, and by the jittering and uncontrollable gyrations that Inky falls into, it seems that he's pushed on the bird's prostate through his slit. Another few broken, interrupted wails, and Inky comes to climax, all the while choking.

His slender blue shaft buzzes and throbs in a thunderous orgasm. The rest of him jitters and seizes as he's held down firmly by a still-thrusting Blinky. One spurt of cum, then another, then a few in quick succession, as Inky splatters the rubber and leather on their stomachs with hot bird-seed, all the while squealing in bliss. It's a half-conscious orgasm that takes just about everything out of him, tail knocking over the lamp, and spurting out cum is the only thing giving him a release.

Blinky sounds like he's having the time of his life. He's laughing and grunting and huffing, his equipment jangling loudly as he pounds the everliving shit out of Inky. Either he doesn't care that Inky's in the midst of a head-spinning climax, or he's really enjoying the fact that the slit is tightening with orgasm.

The littler Vox groans and moans, guttural. He's only held upright by the leash, with his head crooning back and his arms going nearly limp. He's still drooling bright white cum in spurts from his overwhelmed, frotted dick, but it's clear that the pleasure is turning to oversensitivity, and that Blinky's thrusts are draining him of sense. It's a fucking sight to behold. Against your earlier judgment, you're jerking furiously at the leashed Vox spew all over himself, both of your hands doing work. You're imagining yourself sandwiched between the two of them, if you could feel yourself splattered, if you could rub up on their dicks.

Clearly, you've abandoned all pretense. You're full-on into this. You're into all of this.

Just as Inky slides into afterglow, and his slit is tighter and wetter than ever, Blinky loses himself. Amidst his laughing and grunting, you can see his eyes roll back in his head, and he leans forth, gas-mask pressing into Inky's as he climaxes. He's pumping his slit with spooge before he's even done pounding, and finally the earth-shattering pleasure of orgasm causes him to loosen his grip on the poor bird's leash, finally allowing both of them to breathe. He moans and stumbles forth into the desk, and the both of them topple onto the desk, with Inky held down by Blinky's sheer weight, getting his over-excited dick splattered with cum.

Blinky can't support his own weight. He relies on the littler bird as a rest, and collapses onto him. They embrace suddenly and feverishly, taking every breath like it's their last. They needed that so goddamn badly.

You need it, too. You're jerking quickly now, and you've gone the bougie route of massaging your own balls. You've got absolutely no regard for how you must look, because you're awash in this. Pleasure shoots up your spine, little sounds eep from your lips, and you close your eyes to continue fantasizing more and more. You imagine yourself pressed up between them-- if you could just take a little share of that touch!

The smell of rubber, leather, cum. It's filling the air, sending you wild. You're getting closer, closer, closer, closer...

Your fantasizing is interrupted by a thud.

Thud, thud, thud. The jangling of equipment.

When you open your eyes again, dick held in two pre-stained hands, you're staring at Inky. His slit still drooling a payload. On unsteady legs, he has stumbled over to your cage and kneeled down to stare at you. His wetsuit-armor is coated in cum, and he's still catching his breath, but his cyan eyes pierce into your soul.

You freeze up. Deer in headlights. If you jerked even a little bit more, you'd absolutely explode, but Inky's gaze stops you dead. It's a rough feeling, edging like that.

"...Forgot you," Inky murmurs. It's a warm tone, though maybe this particular Vox just doesn't talk rough. He slowly tilts his head to examine you as you stiffen. "Sorry."

You don't know how to respond. You're not given much time, because Blinky shambles over, still panting, with plenty of spunk still in his step. He's giving you a much more furious gaze as he bends down. "Oh, you peeping-fuck-tom?!" he growls, at odds with the fact that he just had a mind-shattering orgasm. "Think is fuck-funny?!"

Inky tilts his head to face Blinky, appearing a bit meek. "Should tell Boss," he whispers. He tugs at his leash a little, still dangling precariously from his neck.

Somehow, you manage the energy to contest this, even if you're still unfathomably vulnerable. "N-No, I'm not-- please don't do that!"

It's completely pointless. Already, the two are upright, grumbling to themselves, re-tightening their suits a little to make themselves slightly presentable. The smell of cum still hangs in the air, as well as stains on the floor and a mussed desk as evidence for their little ritual. You watch Inky and Blinky shuffle out the door, holding one another upright, and proceed to panic in silence.

...

You don't have the strength for much during the next few minutes.

Mostly, amidst the swirling panic of being discovered, you're poking at your dick as it slowly goes down. You can't even muster a fear-boner.

This is it for you. This is the last straw, and you were already overdrawn on straws. The 'boss' is probably going to stomp in here and wreak havoc-- probably shoot you dead! Maybe it's a better fate than slavery, but you still can't help but be pissed at yourself for being such a short-sighted, horny idiot. Why did you have to interpret that thing the birds were doing- probably some kind of... Shoal ritual or something- as a porno they were putting on for you? You should've kept your mouth shut! You should've kept your pants shut.

But now it's all coming crumbling down.

...

Finally, after the longest-feeling wait of your life, the door slides open once more. All four of the Vox from earlier stroll in, their footsteps heavy, their intents utterly unclear. Inky and Blinky stand in the back, still plenty messy from earlier, while Pinky and Jackh approach your cage. You try- again- to make yourself small, but there's not much to be done. You're completely and utterly vulnerable.

Pinky squats, while Jackh simply bends down, poking his head near the bars. His gaze is utterly transfixing. He speaks in a low and definitive tone, without any hesitation. "I have been told... you're a voyeur. Getting off to my men."

You shuffle to try and hide your pre-stained trousers.

"That," he says, suddenly forceful. He reaches a spindly finger into the cage, pointing at your groin. "There. Same as before. Hard to deny, with proof in front of us."

"N-No," you stammer, for some reason.

You see him blink slowly behind his visor. "...Cut shit. Explain yourself."

A brief pause while you take a breath. "I-- just got nervous," you say. "I'm really... r-really spooked."

Pinky begins to chuckle under his breath. Jackh seems miffed, leaning his head further between the bars. His stare is making you freeze up. "Excuse works once. Excuse doesn't work twice. Explain yourself," he states again. "EXPLAIN YOURSELF."

Jesus.

Where are you even going to begin, with this one?

"I think I'm horny," you say.

Jackh claps his beak softly in his gas mask. "Tsk. At odds with surroundings. You've been arrested, held captive for slavers. Why are you horny?" You hear Pinky drop into full-on laughter, drooping his head.

A beat passes. "I guess... uh... chemical imbalance?" you hazard, but it's wrong, and you need to correct it immediately. "Uh, I think it's... because you're Vox, a-and you were manhandling me."

"Not manhandling you right now," Jackh comments. Then, he points his spindly index claw at your crotch. "And yet."

You notice- after he does- that you're erect again. His presence is completely overwhelming. You stutter, "O-Oh." Your dick is poking out against pre-stained trousers, and it's throbbing against your will. "It's th-the way you're talking to me," you manage to say.

The Vox squints. "Not normal behavior. Would you agree?"

"Yeah," you admit, "it's not normal."

He's pushing you now. "Why do you think- khech- this is happening?"

The low hum of far-off machinery fills the air, and fills your mind. You flatten out a little in your cage to ponder the question again. It's at odds with what you suppose is reasonable, being attracted to these birds, to this situation. You realized you were gay a few years ago, which wasn't that hard to get over, but... being a Vox fetishist? Reveling in the smell of cum and rubber, in the darkest and dankest reaches of the Shoal? It's a lot to take in.

"I guess... I'm kind of attracted to Vox," you finally say. "I didn't know. And... and it makes me feel really weird. But earlier, when you guys offered to do something with me, I-I felt... I feel really bad for saying no."

"Mm." Jackh pauses. He pulls his head back, and you can't read any kind of expression behind that murky visor. He turns around to the rest of the Vox, and they converse for a moment, in hushed tones. Pinky perks up. Blinky calms down. Inky stares at you with cum still dripping from between his legs. After a brief discussion, Jackh brings his gaze back to you. "Slaver is already coming for you. There's khitha we can do about that. Said and done. But." He slides his hand through a slat in the bars, and clasps you by the chin, again. Your groin warms up, and you melt into his grip, his slender fingers squeezing your soft skin. "Chance... has not entirely passed."

"O-Oh," you say.

Behind him, Pinky chuckles softly, and gives you a nod. You turn to Inky and Blinky, who are both chittering to themselves over you.

"You want... chance, then?" asks Jackh, pulling back.

You answer honestly. "I want to experiment."

A quiet little click sounds out through the still air. With his free hand, the Boss-Vox has unlocked your cage, and slides open the door fully. The instinct that you know is supposed to be there- the instinct to run- is dead quiet. Jackh pulls away his grip from your chin, and offers his hand to you. You feel a surge of energy, and clasp his hand tightly, as he leads you out into open air, for the first time on your own volition.

You're unsteady, where you stand. Pinky approaches from your left, and Inky from your right. Very suddenly, the Vox are surrounding you, but instead of being ready to capture you, they're giving you glares-- enticing glares. Jackh is the tallest of the three here, with his incredibly imposing armor, a sleek black against the dim backlight of the room. Just from the sensation of being the center of attention, you're pitching a hell of a tent in your trousers, and you can't stifle your nervous smile.

"Well," says Jackh, "you're ready?" Without waiting for an answer, he undoes a few straps on his suit. You see a glint of blue through an opening on his groin armor-- he's limp now, but with his spindly fingers, he begins massaging himself.

With your grip a little shaky, but your mind racing with sudden excitement, you start to take off your belt, trying to free your erection. You stutter, "I-I've never..." Inky swoops in from the right. He looms over you, his slender figure filling your view. With one swift motion, he pulls your belt free effortlessly, and it clatters to the floor.

"Will help," he whispers. You let out an excited gasp as his rubber-gloved hands roll over your body. He strips you below the waist, pulling down your trousers and your underwear, revealing your soft, pinkish skin to open air. Your pants clatter on the floor, and you step out of them. It's cold, but Inky's hands are warm, and your dick nearly aches from how hard it is. You feel so odd just standing here, and you're not sure what to do next. You're unfathomably horny, surrounded by Vox ready to pounce on you, and yet you don't know what to do next! Your mind races for a few long moments, and then you come up with an idea.

It's a bit of a deranged idea. A couple days ago, you would chide yourself for having this idea. Still, it bubbles to the surface, and you try to bring it into reality. You weakly bring up your hand, and point at the spot above your cage, where there's a collar on a metal hook, alongside a long, thin leash. It looks just like Inky's, but... you want this one to be yours.

Pinky lets out a chuckle, but it doesn't seem like an entirely mean-spirited one. He steps over, retrieves the collar from its hook, and holds it up in front of you. "Wanna do like that, eh?" he asks.

"Yeah," you respond, straightforward in your degeneracy. "Like he d-did."

Blinky pipes up from behind the rest of them. "Pocking voyeur!"

To this, Pinky pays no mind. He looms in front of you, but his demeanor is cautious. He clicks the collar open on one side and offers it to you, but you don't take it from him-- moreso guide his hands with yours. The moment is oddly intimate. He moves slowly, wrapping the collar around your neck and bringing it just tight enough to latch, without compressing on your airpipe any. "You're nice when chill," Pinky chuckles, his voice coarse. "Got pretty eyes." He holds the long, spindly wire leash loose, dangling on the floor.

"Uh, th-thanks," you stutter. You feel your face heat up a little, as you stare deep into him; despite being a very buff Vox, his pink irises shine brightest, and warmest, through his visor. "You too."

A sudden yank around your neck. You're brought face to face with Jackh, who has taken hold of the leash and thus acquired full control over you. For all the intimacy that Pinky brought with his gaze, Jackh has a truly hypnotizing effect on you. The heat in your face moves quickly to your groin, and you stand unsteady on your shoeless foot. "Come," he commands. His member pokes up straight from between his legs, nearly rubbing up against his stomach armor. It's thin and glistening in the dim light of the office, and from this angle, held by the neck, you're being driven mad by the possibilities. A little bit of drool escapes your lips...

He jerks you forward, and you follow along, drunken with lust. With his other hand, he spins around the office chair from behind his desk, and brings it in the center of the room, where he plops down with a hefty thud. He continues stringing your horny form along by the pull of your leash. His thick, armored tail curls around the back of the chair and onto the floor, flopping up and down slowly. He's not wagging it, so much as he's hungering over you, staring at your body up and down.

You've never considered yourself twinky. Your body is all-in-all pretty average. But you've been stripped down to your shirt and your socks, with a throbbing dick just begging for attention, and the collar has turned your demeanor submissive, all of a sudden. Jackh pulls you closer, closer, closer, and your eyes are brought down to his long, slender dick...

It's time to commit.

One more yank, and your legs buckle and fold. You fall to your knees in front of him. Jackh's black armor looms over you, and he glances between you and his bobbing cock. "Show us," he says, quietly, "what human lips can do." His huffing voice is lower, and breathier, than ever. You can hear every exhale through his mask, as you crawl forward. Finally, you rest your elbows on his padded knees, and rest your knees right by his booted talons. It feels natural to clasp both hands around his shiny blue penis, and as you do so, you feel just how warm he is. He lets you squish your soft, chill fingers into his flesh. Every movement causes a spasm in his legs, tapping talons against the floor and sending a shudder up the length of his wet member. You can't help but sigh with lustful joy, blowing hot air on his length. It's so reactive-- oozing precum from a thin tip, buzzing happily with stimulus.

A clenching sensation on your scalp. His fingers, his lovely long claws, clasp your head enough to be controlling. You nearly buckle over into a moaning fit right then and there. He guides your skull closer to his member, but doesn't shove your lips around his length just yet. Instead, Jackh shoves spindly gloved thumb in your drooling jaw, and you clasp around it instinctively, sucking on his finger, driven by a case of completely unreasonable horniness.

"Ah," he chuckles, his silky-smooth voice clashing with jolts of pleasure up his spine. "They'll do wonders..."

The compliment makes you melt into him. Your dick drools a long line of precum onto the plastic floor. Unable to speak with his finger in your mouth, you just nod a few times, feeling crazy, before leaning further between his legs. You want to please Jackh-- you can't help wanting to please Jackh. It feels good following his orders, feeling him yank on your collar.

You taste his gloves, and his finger forces its way around your mouth. The air is filled with the scent of precum and Vox musk. Not only can you hear Jackh huffing, but the room is filled from all sides; as you lean close enough to feel the bird's dick against your face, the other Vox enjoy stand close and enjoy the show. You can spot Inky and Blinky in your peripheral. Apparently, the earlier bout didn't totally tire them out, and Blinky has gotten right to fingering Inky's slit, in open air, without hesitation. The heat of the moment is starting to burn your brain. It's time to get to work.

Jackh pulls his thumb from your mouth, and forces your head further. Your neck presses into his rubber-covered thighs, and you push your face into his squishy length. You kiss him in the dick without even meaning to, and a dribble of precum slides down his tip, onto your forehead. His grip on your head tightens. He wants more. And you're dying to give it to him.

Another kiss, another kiss, another kiss, and you work your way up his shaft, until your lips caress the sleek, oozing end of his penis. Despite the low lighting of this office, it shines a magnificent blue, and buzzes against your skin. You can hear Jackh let out a long, resolute sigh, as you claim your prize and close your lips around his tip. Faintly salty precum splashes across your tongue, and you swallow his eagerness happily. He's starting to feel you suck on him, and closes his legs slightly against your neck, holding you firmly in place to continue worshipping his dick.

Your own member buzzes in excitement, but for now, you're just here to suck this thick-dicked Vox to completion. You haven't exactly done this before, but you suppose it's a little like an ice cream cone-- just lick and suck slowly down his length, savoring the taste and texture. Jackh lets out a resolute hum from behind his gas mask, approving of every little movement you make, as you take more and more of his tip into your mouth. You go deep enough to feel his throbbing dick push against your tongue, and you push back. It's a slow process, and you savor the taste and scent of his precum.

A few inches down, you hit a nerve with your blowjob, and Jackh spasms. His cock, buzzing eagerly, gets thrust up by an involuntary movement, hitting you in the back of the throat. You gag slightly and your dick spews a glob of precum onto the floor.

Jackh likes how it feels, shoving himself up your throat. He does it again, this time on purpose, cutting off your airflow and filling your whole mouth up with Vox cock. Jesus, he's strong-- you can't put up any resistance. Another thrust, and you gag again, sucking down precum delivered straight to the back of your throat. "I hope you're ready," he stammers, clenching your hair into clumps.

Behind you, a spattering of amusement and arousal from the other gas-masked Vox, who surround you at every side. You can smell the scent of excited Vox fill the room, and just as you're starting to fantasize about pleasing all of them at once, you're rocketed into the present with a glob of cum rolling down your tongue. Jackh grunts harshly through his vocoder and starts filling you. "Take--" There's not enough time to react!

Vox cum is thick, globby, and a little sweet. You feel your first-ever birdseed from Jackh's throbbing cock as he direct-deposits a payload in several distinct packages. The viscous substance drools down your throat and you get tired swallowing it down, and all the while, the bulky Vox shudders and jitters happily. Your lips seal around his base, and some ancient blowjob instincts keep you gripping his cock through the storm of his climax.

The cold of the room evaporates. You're heated, sweaty, excited. Jackh continues pumping your throat until it feels like you're going to die, and then you choke, and cum starts drooling down your lower lip. The volume of his full load is too much to contain, and you're left with a splattered chin. It's hard to breathe, but you gasp through your nostrils again and again, swallowing down his seed, and finally sputter backwards off the shuddering Vox to wipe your mouth clean.

A few long breaths. A stupid, wide grin on your face. Jackh still holds you by the scalp, but lightly, and... lovingly. Your knees hurt a little from your knelt position, but you're still utterly rock-hard, a little agonizingly so.

"G-Good," he says, his voice croaking on the first syllable. "...Good."

The sound of shuffling fills the air from every side. Jackh lets your head go, and you lean back, just in time to spot all three of the other Vox in your peripheral.

Inky, his out-and-open dick extending from a cum-splattered slit, hard once more, shuddering as he examines you. Blinky, breathing quickly, fingering himself and his fuckbuddy. To your left, Pinky, who possesses the heftiest Vox cock you can imagine, which is extending out of a makeshift opening in his armor and hovering right by your face. He lets out a soft chuckle once you notice his length. "Ready more, eh, businessman?" he asks.

You stammer out a weak syllable of protest. "I guess," you finally manage, unable to contain a little elated laugh.

"No, me first," grunts Blinky, and he pushes Inky aside to get closer to you. His throbbing length has only gotten more excited by all the commotion, and now he's trying to fight for a spot inside your mouth.

Inky slithers behind, his thin suit allowing him to slip under Blinky's tail and hover right in front of you, his sopping wet length beginning to drool onto the floor. You're trapped between all three hefty Vox, with no proper idea where to start, lest you upset one.

"Ikhivi." You hear Jackh's resounding voice, and all three of the 'policemen' respond to it with utmost attention, their heads turning back like birds to a rooster's crow. "Have respect. Has only one mouth, but two hands, and... penis. Find smart use. Don't let catch... fighting over him."

During his monologue, you had already begun sucking on the underside of Pinky's dick. You're not exactly one to sit on your hands-- not when they're slick with your own precum.

The birds are only loosely following the guideline of 'not fighting over him', as they crowd your personal space and drop in with all the subtlety of... well, horny armored Vox. Blinky shoves his buzzing length against the side of your head, and Inky lowers you to the floor with a forceful movement of your shoulders. Your knelt position eventually crumbles to one where you're splayed on your ass, with your dick swinging upright. You try to improvise quickly; with one hand that isn't keeping you from falling over, you reach onto Blinky's throbbing cone and begin to give it some quick, satisfying jerks. It's at least enough to keep him from screeching at you, for now.

Your main attention goes to Pinky. For all the beauty in his eyes, his absolutely colossal member is a whole new kind of natural wonder, and his entire groin smells of musk and pre. You're aware from your biology classes that Vox don't really sweat, but he even tastes like pent-up need, and you're happy to indulge him. He lurches forward, planting his foot on your leg, and placing your head trapped between his legs, forced to suck on his dick from beneath. You get the inclination to kiss all over him, though... his rounded, softly-quilled asscheeks have been released from his armor, and it feels right to worship them. Things really get started when you take a chance, and start massaging his perineum with your tongue. He jitters suddenly and breathily, like he's been put on ice.

"Pock," he grunts, his talons clenching at your bare leg. Thank God he's wearing boots. "Never... had that. Keep doing. Please keep doing, pretty-eyes, kheheh."

That's not a problem at all, you think, with your face buried in a full inch of Vox crotch. You lick and push on the sensitive spot between his ass and the base of his dick, with every little movement sending him into hysterics. Your work on Blinky's handjob is a little more of an afterthought, as you're dedicating yourself entirely to pushing Pinky over the edge, but the twitchy idiot doesn't seem to mind. He lets out angry-horny chirps every now and then, pushing the head of his cock into your palm like a crazed animal.

Then, just as you're most enjoying the situation, with your dick throbbing eagerly, you feel a wet, tight sensation wrap around your tip. Inky is... mounting you. With his slit.

You're quickly sliding inside of his interior, with his dick frotting yours from above. You go a little wide-eyed-- you weren't expecting this! With the combination of your own dripping precum, and the load deposited in his slit by Blinky, it's a very easy travel, despite the tightness. The feeling sends a limb-quivering shock up your spine, and you let out a broken and involuntary moan.

Inky chitters, "Fuck me," in the clearest and loudest tone you've ever heard him use. He kneels above you, and squats up and down to help you thrust into him, hands-free. With his slender rod rubbing against your stomach, you're starting to feel overwhelmed with the number of dicks being shoved at you. Thankfully, Blinky alleviates that.

He shouts out a furious, "Ghhaakhh!" and retracts from your handjob, still sopping-wet. "You don't get pock him! I GET POCK HIM!" He stumbles around to Inky's backside, who is currently crooning his gas-masked head back in pleasure. He wraps both hands around the slender bird's neck, who gasps out happily at the sensation of control, and kneels right behind. With one quick movement, you can feel his dick entering Inky's ass, pressing against his insides just as you do. You two are filling this twinky fucker, and it seems he's determined to compete.

All the while, Pinky continues chiding you for more, having stepped over your legs to stand right above you. He retrieved your leash, and pulls against your neck, beckoning you to continue worshipping his groin. It comes naturally to keep sucking on his perineum, but you decide to take a chance with his ass, too. Not just his rounded cheeks, which are already driving you mad, but it's easy enough to poke your nose and lips in-between, inserting your tongue into his puckered hole. You thank your lucky stars it's squeaky-clean, and Pinky's knees buckle from the rimjob, giving you even more of a faceful of Vox butt than you bargained for.

Blinky grasps Inky's neck tightly for support at first, but soon he's too horny and needy to keep himself upright, so he wraps both arms around the slender bird's midsection, pumping and rutting in equal measure to ravage Inky's ass. You continue in accordance, pumping your tired hips up to slide inside of his tight slit-- there's not a lot of room in there, but your jittering dick isn't Vox-sized, so it makes up the difference.

"C-Cum in," Inky squeaks. He gyrates back and forth to milk the both of you. Blinky responds immediately to the demand; having been pushed to the edge just watching you, he breaks under only the slightest command. You hear a few frantic 'schlks', and his jizz pools out of Inky's wrought ass, sliding a lesser-sized load onto the plastic floor. His climax compels him to let out a horrible, frantic screeching sound, and he quickly loses his ability to stay upright, what with the heavy armor.

A loud, sudden 'ka-thunk', and the orgasming Vox falls out of his fuckbuddy and onto the floor, only to continue cumming on his own idiotic self.

Inky doesn't see this as any reason to slow down. On the contrary-- he begins focusing entirely on driving you mad with overwhelming lust, sitting up and down on your overexcited dick, finally giving it a much-desired hole to pound. You feel his length slap against your stomach with every thrust, getting wetter each time. It's not going to be long for either of you.

The happiest man in the room might be Pinky, however, as you show him a whole new world with your lips and dextrous tongue. After a while of rimming, and plenty of teasing at the base of his dick, you finally get to sucking his length wholesale, giving every inch a long, deserved lick. He shakes and groans and moans, and he can't speak a single word, because he's simply too out of breath with pleasure. At some point amidst the rollercoaster- although you have no idea exactly when- Pinky goes over the edge, but instead of shooting loads across the floor, his gigantic rod starts drooling piping-hot cum down its length, allowing you to swallow as much as you can. Looks like this Vox is more of a drooler than a shooter.

It's a wonderful feeling, sucking him off even as he orgasms. You can't manage to drink every drop of his neverending load, of course, and a good deal of it ends up mixed up in your hair, even as you try your best.

Two hands grip your midsection. Inky has never been more determined than right now, and he's force-fucking you with his slit even as you begin to get exhausted from lust. The tight fit massages every last inch of your dick, and the slap of your balls against his groin make the whole thing into a sensory overload... but not a sensory nightmare. To the contrary; this is Elysium, this is goddamn paradise. You fall upwards into the mountainous peaks of orgasm just as it can't possibly get any better, and your eyes roll back in your head as you do so.

One spurt-- you feel your dick pump like an earthquake is happening.

Another spurt, and Inky moans. He, too, is reaching climax. As you fill him, he splatters your bare stomach with hot, slimy Vox cum, a load that doesn't stop coming for ages.

You lose track of time. Pleasure turns off all your muscles, and you fall back onto the floor, with your diamond-hard penis doing the only moving, as you pump up Inky's slit to- and past- fullness. Your own cum pours out of his hole, even as you completely disassociate, lost utterly in a sea of glowing wonder. The chill of the floor, the unpleasant humming sound from far off, and the consideration that you've been arrested by Vox for no reason... all disappear.

You're just here, in this moment. This wonderful moment.

Inky pumps a few more long lines of cum onto your chest and stomach, squealing with delight until he, too, is completely out of energy. You feel him slump forward and onto you. He's not that heavy. His gas-mask lays inches from your face, and from this position, you can do nothing but look into his cyan eyes, and continue jizzing the last of your pent-up load into- and spilling out of- him. There's no thoughts in your mind anymore. Nothing but a resolute, fulfilled sense of lust.

A long pause.

Long enough, finally, to take a post-orgasmic breath. The scratchy tones of Vox voices don't fill the air. Instead, you just lay with a gleeful Inky hugging your chest, an exhausted Blinky half-asleep on the floor, and Pinky, who has sat down a few inches to your left, just basking in an afterglow you can tell will last a while. His pretty eyes blink slowly, and he gives you a silent, approving nod.

It turns out you actually liked that whole deal. It turns out that... well, maybe Vox aren't so bad, if your interests align.

Jackh has regained his composure, and sealed up his dick back within his intimidating black armor. From his position in the chair at the head of the room, he speaks. "...In due time, clean up. Then, we speak to human. Best nothing misunderstood."

Blinky croaks from the floor. "P-Pocking... need break."

You have no disagreement with the stupid red-eyed addict. A long, long breath escapes your lips, and you live in the moment for what feels like an hour.

...

...

...

Eventually, some dignity. Inky returns your underpants, pre-stained as they are. Pinky seems to have a fun enough time sponging up the cum, of which there is an overwhelming amount between the five of you. When all is said and done, the various Vox sit in front of you, whether leaned against something or simply on the floor. Things feel distinctly more casual.

"Well," says Jackh, his silky voice having finally recovered, "bad news first."

"Okay," you mutter.

He takes a deep breath. "...Slaver has claimed ownership over you. Very far off, and... if being honest, unlikely to have anything to do with. But is regulation to give to first claimant. According to relayed message, will return to claim in about... month."

"So I'm... going into slavery?"

Jackh pauses. "Not best thing. Maybe something will come up, prevent, but it is not job to prevent ourselves." With a softer, and- frankly- more genuine tone, he says, "Sorry."

"But," interjects Pinky, "not needed to keep in cage, eh? Not like easy job running from here, and would be restrictive. And not in way you like." He holds up your collar for emphasis, which is thankfully no longer around your neck.

You're unsure if Jackh really approves of that decision, as he lets out a miffed little sigh. But both Blinky and Inky grunt in agreement. "Yes," says Inky, "Hospitality."

Blinky grunts, "And keep in sight, so isn't such... such creep, khah. Kh. Can't lie about want sex and hide little fantasy in background. You're stuck with police-Vox, d-dipshit, so no more obstruction."

A beat passes, and you cautiously decide to ask a smart-ass question. "Are you guys actually police...?"

"Yes," says Jackh. "Tunnel pockers. Usually riot command, or need kill gangsters upsetting trade routes. When darkness permeates all, intent is to be ghosts. But can also make arrest, if target isn't half-metal and armed sixteen ways."

"Wow." You can't help but find that a little cool. You rub absentmindedly at the plastic floor. "Where... is this, though? I-I was near the surface of the Shoal just before..."

Pinky shrugs. "Closer to core than most places. Had to guess, khehhh... probably accidentally fell in corpse chute, little man. Very unlucky."

"C-Corpse chute?!" you stammer. "Some Vox with jewelry told me it was a shortcut!"

In the corner, Blinky lets out a mean laugh. "Shortcut to getting pocked!"

"Pocked," chuckles Inky.

You let out a frustrated sigh. You feel like the stupidest man in the universe, which you probably should have realized a lot sooner. "So... even if I weren't sold to slavery, it'd be really hard to get out of here."

"Oh, yes," says Jackh. "Likely to get shanked, or slaved by someone else. Magways don't travel down far, and elevators..." He lets out a deliberate cough. "Essentially, we control police checkpoint and morgue, here. But, if being honest, officer is right. Not important keep exit door locked to you. Much, much, much safer here."

"...Okay," you say, finally. You slowly nod in realization as to your situation. "This... sucks, but, uh. Thank you."

You hear the distinctive, and odd, sound of a yawning Vox to your left. Pinky scratches at the back of his neck and exhales tiredly. "That maybe all?"

Jackh nods. "For now, all have to say to human. More questions?"

You ponder for a moment, and ask, "Where do I... stay? Sleep?"

The orange-eyed police chief answers your question with another, rather disappointing question. "Cage is adequate sleeping?"

"Wait," interjects Blinky. "Bet is warm. Warm like heater sucks at warm."

You squint at the armored Vox. "I assumed the tons of armor and helmet make you guys chronically hot."

"Nope," chuckles Pinky. "Deep Shoal pretty cold, and Vox from down here also very cold. Bad combo, unless..."

Inky leans towards you. "You keep us warm."

Another beat passes, and a frustrated Jackh lets out a long sigh. "You three want human in sleeping room."

"Yes," says Blinky, and then Inky, and then Pinky.

Welp.

You can't help but show some nervous excitement as they escort you out of the room. Jackh bids you a fair night, and then you're dragged off by the three clingiest Vox you can imagine. Pretty-eyed Pinky holds you by the hand from one room to another, through a cramped hallway, through another cramped hallway, and finally into a room that's darker than all the rest of them. Once Inky shuts the door behind you, there's nothing but pitch blackness-- and three pairs of shiny-glowing eyes.

Then, metallic clicks. It's impossible to see a damn thing, but it becomes clear that the Vox are taking off their helmets. You're expecting more, but then you're dragged by the hand towards the center of the room. "You-- keep the armor on?"

"Obviously," laughs Pinky. Without the gas-mask blocking his tone, you can hear its scratchiness in full force. "During sleep, recreation... never know when assaulted, or job needs quick action. Have no idea how annoying to get whole suit on. All custom-built, twenty segmented parts..."

"Sure, b-but... the helmets come off?"

Inky leans over your shoulder. "All better to kiss with." You feel his beak nuzzle into your shoulder, and it's a little ticklish. Before he goes overboard, though, the Vox lead you further. There's a recessed part of the floor that's significantly cushioned, like a huge blanketed mattress, with a puffy comforter to boot. When you feel yourself finally coming across something that resembles a bed, you're reminded of just how tired you are. Your legs buckle, your breath gives out, and you flop down onto the mattress like a ton of bricks, letting out a resolute breath and laying on your back.

The Vox aren't far behind. Although you can only spot their eyes, they cling to you, desperate for every modicum of body warmth they can extract... and you feel them get a little handsy with your bare skin, though only to wrap around you.

Pinky hugs you lightly from the left, his bulky form crowding out half the bed and making you feel like you're being spooned.

Blinky rests to your right, curling up against you and nuzzling his beak into your shoulder.

And- in a manner that surprises you, but doesn't upset you- Inky lays on top of you. His wetsuit-like armor is the least heavy, and he feels like a nice weighted blanket. His head rests on your chest, facing upwards towards you, and you feel him give you a love-peck against the chin, before settling down and resting.

You murmur, "S-So... we just..."

"Lights are off, khivi," Blinky murmurs, amidst a loud, shaky yawn. "Can't you tell? Means time to sleep."

At the bottom of the Shoal, in its deepest and most dangerous corridors, any bit of light means staying awake to find its source. When you finally find yourself in a pitch-black room, surrounded by militant Vox probably capable of breaking your bones apart with little effort...

...all they want to do is cuddle.

And you have- for the first time in a long time- absolutely no objections at all. You nuzzle Inky's head, hug Pinky and Blinky to bring all of you closer, then lay back, take a deep breath, and let this terrible, terrifying, lustful day end.

You're safe from the horrors of the Shoal, at last.

At least, for now.