Submission in the Stars

Chapter 8: Illness and Isolation

Sweat trickled down Valentin's brow, gathering in the creases of his furrowed forehead before dripping onto the cold, metallic floor beneath him. His muscles trembled from exertion, overworked and strained to the point of exhaustion. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. His body ached, every muscle burning with the familiar pain of overuse, but it was a welcome distraction from the chaos swirling in his mind.

Each day had become a monotonous cycle of suffering and uncertainty: waking up drenched in feverish sweat, forcing down the revolting gray sludge the reptoids brought him as food, trembling as his body fought the relentless fever that gripped him, and finally collapsing into a restless sleep filled with nightmares of shambling corpses, crates, and unending terror. And then it would all begin again, an endless loop with no escape.

The injections they'd given him were far more than just immunizations. Valentin knew that much. He had long since stopped believing their false reassurances. His body felt poisoned, wracked with fever and aches that no amount of rest could soothe. He wasn't sure if he was awake or dreaming half the time, the lines between reality and nightmare blurring beyond recognition. His skin had erupted in painful hives at one point, and the memory of clawing at his own flesh in desperation haunted him. He had tried to tear the burning skin from his body, leaving deep, bloody welts that covered his torso and arms.

He remembered the strange, clawed hands of a reptoid restraining him as he thrashed, pulling at the skin with feverish intensity. His wrists had been held down as another injection was forced into his veins, and a rubber-like gag had been strapped over his mouth, muffling his groans of pain. They had poked and prodded his clammy, feverish skin, collecting the toxins that leaked from his pores, but they had said nothing to him—no explanations, no reassurances. Just silence. He had been nothing more than an experiment to them, a specimen.

And now, here he was, trying to recapture some control, some autonomy over his own body.

Pain flared through his midsection, and Valentin collapsed to the ground, groaning as his muscles screamed for relief. He knew it was foolish to push himself this hard. His body was weak, still feverish, and he was not in the condition to be exercising, but he didn't care. Movement was better than thinking. It was better than allowing his mind to spiral into the black hole of despair that loomed at the edges of his consciousness.

He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, the cold floor pressing against his fevered skin. He weighed his options: move, sleep, or think. The first was physical pain, the second brought nightmares, and the third led him into the dark corners of his mind where Jace's dead eyes stared back at him from within a crate, where the faces of soldiers he'd failed to save haunted him relentlessly. No, it was better to move. At least then his brain could shut off for a while.

Gritting his teeth, Valentin pushed himself up again. His body was drained, his muscles shaking from the strain, but he forced himself to go through the motions—push-ups, sit-ups, stretches—anything to keep himself from thinking. He tried to replicate the exercises from Basic training, but his muscles protested, the fever still burning in his veins.

He knew that the injections were doing more than making him sick. They were altering him. His body felt foreign, as if he were losing control, as if something was being rewritten inside him. He had consumed enough media growing up about abductions and experiments to know what was happening—or at least to suspect. But knowing didn't make it any easier to endure. The gray slurry that passed for food did nothing to help. It filled his stomach, quieting the gnawing hunger, but the cramps and spasms in his muscles told him that it wasn't enough. His body was starving for real nutrients, and the bland paste the reptoids provided wasn't sufficient.

Still, he forced it down. He had no choice. He needed to survive. That was the only thing keeping him going—survival.

Valentin let out a low grunt as he lowered himself back onto the floor, his muscles quivering uncontrollably. The extra effort, the constant physical exertion—it was a waste, he knew that. His body was running on fumes, and yet he couldn't stop. He couldn't let his mind wander because every time it did, the memories came rushing back. The memories of Jace, of the crates, of the blood.

His dreams, when he managed to sleep, were filled with visions of death. The faces of the soldiers they hadn't been able to save. The prisoners they had failed to retrieve. Combat Search and Rescue wasn't as bloody as other units, but it wasn't bloodless either. And prisoners—they were never handed back easily. The screams of the dying and the sounds of battle echoed in his mind during every fevered dream. In those dreams, Valentin saw himself standing over the bodies of his comrades, helpless to save them. He saw Jace, always Jace, broken and bleeding in the sand.

Jace had always been the one to pull him out of those nightmares, reminding him of his purpose, grounding him in reality. But now, Valentin had no purpose. No mission. No Jace. The blood on his hands was starting to stain his soul, and there was no one to tell him otherwise.

"Fuck," Valentin growled, slamming his head lightly against the floor in frustration. He felt like he was losing his grip on reality. Speaking to himself had become a habit, muttering words of reassurance or frustration as if there were someone else in the room. The silence was maddening. He had always preferred solitude, but now he craved even the briefest of interactions. His only companion had become the alien blanket, a strange material that had somehow become his lifeline. He clung to it at night, irrationally, but it was something familiar, something that offered a scrap of comfort in a world where everything else had been stripped away.

The first time one of the reptoids had tried to take the blanket, Valentin had lashed out. He had fought with a desperation he didn't even fully understand, as if the loss of that blanket would break him completely. Eventually, they had relented. The reptoids would now wait until he had collapsed into unconsciousness before they would take it away to wash it, returning it clean and fresh the next morning. It was a small, ridiculous comfort, but in this place, Valentin had learned to accept comfort wherever he could find it.

If that meant clinging to an alien blanket like it was his last connection to humanity, then so be it.

As his body finally gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor again, Valentin allowed himself to close his eyes. The fever still burned in his veins, and the memories continued to plague him, but for now, he would rest. His muscles twitched, his breaths came in shallow gasps, but there was a strange kind of peace in the physical exhaustion. It allowed him to stop thinking, if only for a moment.

The room was silent, save for the sound of his ragged breathing and the low, pulsing hum of the alien facility around him. Valentin lay there, motionless, feeling the cold press against his fevered skin. He didn't know how much longer he could keep going like this, but for now, he had survived another day. That had to be enough.

For now, survival was the only thing he could control.