The Pits: Part One
#1 of The Pits
Author's Note: This story is no longer being worked on.
Twin doors opened, and a large metal gurney was brought in along an overhead rail. The room was small and dull grey with concrete walls. There was a holding bay set against the far wall, which the gurney moved towards, leaving the doors to close behind. The floor was grey metal, with some old brown stains right below the bay. The corners and ceiling of the room were hidden in darkness.
The gurney was hanging vertically, with a naked figure hanging suspended by his arms and legs. His carrier swivelled on the rail, so that he was facing back out the doors through which he had come. The gurney rested in the bay for a moment, then rotated so that the man was lying horizontally.
Time passed; how much, the man could not tell. He heard some beeping tones somewhere nearby, and what he could've sworn were voices. He cried out; asked if there was anyone there. No reply.
A series of large metal arms extended up around the man, each one covered in an array of macabre instruments. Blades, needles, tubes, lights and other, stranger devices that the man did not want to recognise.
They set to work: probing, jabbing, taking samples of blood and flesh. They worked industriously, ignoring the man's cries. Snake-like arms probed in intimate places. A series of transparent tubes were forced down his throat, letting him breathe while the contents of his bowels were drawn out.
Soon after, the arms receded, save one. It held a small box with a circular opening. Pinkish-purple coloured light shone from the opening onto the man's spread-eagled body. Methodically, it swept over him, making his bones clearly visible beneath his skin. Then it stopped, and disappeared like all the rest.
Shaken and violated, the man lay alone in the dark room. The arms had left a blue plastic bag hanging from the ceiling above him, with a narrow tube linking it to the veins of his right arm. He struggled against his bonds, but this only tired him. Unwillingly, he drifted into unconsciousness, and then sleep.
The next few times that he was woken up were no better. Each time, he would be awoken by the sound of the machinery warming up. The arms would rise, and begin injecting him with unknown substances, or they would draw out blood. The first time he screamed louder than he had before. The second time he cried, and begged to be released. By the third time he had no more tears, and his throat was sore, and he barely flinched.
After each set of injections the purple light would return, and wash over him once more. After the second procedure, he noticed the box had a mirror mounted on it. In it he saw his skeleton: the strangest part was seeing his own skull looking back at him, his lips, nose, eyes and hair reduced to a translucent film over his true, grinning face.
It was some time after the 3rd procedure, but before the 4th, that he began to feel something strange. Looking down his front, he swore his feet looked longer than they had before. He could not feel them; his ankles (and by extension his feet) had long ago gone numb from struggling against the restraints.
A while after the 4th procedure, he knew there was something wrong with his feet. They looked ridiculously proportioned now: they were excessively long, with thick, wide-splayed toes. They looked like the sort of feet that you'd find inside clown shoes.
He wondered if he was hallucinating, or dreaming. The thought that this was all just some horrible dream occurred to him. He wondered if he would soon wake up from the nightmare, safe in his bed. It was a comforting thought, and for a while, he believed it. Until the arms returned.
After the 5th set of injections, he found his legs were beginning to ache. He tried to bend his knees to relieve the pressure, but this made them blossom in pain. They repeatedly shifted from feeling like they were burning, to feeling ice-cold. He desperately wished he could reach down and touch them, rub them, do something to dull the pain. Soon the feelings passed, leaving him with naught else to do but sleep.
The 6th procedure was unlike the others. The arms were now armed with hoses, and sprayed warm soapy water all over his tired body. Arms wielding soft sponges rubbed him down, and four previously unseen arms descended from the ceiling. They grasped his shoulders, and held his wrists, which were released from the gurney's restraints. They lifted him up into a sitting position, facing the twin doors that he had entered through, so long ago.
As the arms washed his back, he had a chance to look at his legs. They no longer hurt, and the water actually felt quite nice. He hadn't noticed earlier, but his legs seemed to have gotten slightly shorter, with his feet growing to make up the difference. The restraints had also shifted position to match. He tried to flex his toes, but they didn't move. Something seemed to be wrong with his toenails, but he couldn't tell what.
The ceiling arms laid him flat on his back once more, and returned his hands to the restraints. They moved to his ankles and thighs, and lifted his buttocks and legs, so that they could be washed underneath as well. His feet still hung limp and numb, but they did not look sickly.
Finally, his legs were laid flat once more. The gurney beneath him began to heat up to a moderately pleasant level, and cool air blew down from the darkness above to help clear away the leftover water. He was soon dry, but not feeling much better.
The 7th procedure passed with more injections. The man wondered now how long he had been strapped to the gurney; how long he had endured the invasive procedures. He had no way of tracking the passage of time; the lighting never changed in the room. The only thing that seemed in any way regular was the actions of the arms, which was no help.
He began to develop a headache. It began as an infuriating itch in his nose that quickly morphed into a throbbing, pounding feeling right beneath his forehead. It grew worse: livid purples and blues danced in his eyes, followed by an explosion of a hundred thousand tiny points of light.
He tried to grit his teeth, but his top jaw had gone numb. His nose seemed to be getting bigger, or maybe it was longer; he could not tell which any more. His tongue was numb now, as was his lower jaw. His nose became blocked, and he choked and gagged when the air he was relying on was cut off so suddenly.
A single pair of arms rose up behind the man's head. They both ended in dextrous metal hands, with one holding an object that looked a lot like a muzzle. They reached for the man's head, but he turned away in fear. Something warm, damp and slimy slapped against his cheek. The empty hand grasped his head firmly, and the other slid the muzzle over... his nose? He was especially confused now, desperately wishing he could see what had happened to his face. The free hand grabbed the damp thing, and pulled it round to the front of his mouth. The tug on his head made him realise: that was his tongue.
The arms did something with his tongue that he couldn't see, and then buckled the muzzle shut. It didn't feel tight or restrictive, and he could breathe clearly now. The hands slid down out of sight, replaced shortly after by a single arm. It held a hose, but did nothing. It simply hung over the struggling man with the deformed mouth and clown feet.
He settled once more into his usual state between procedures. Silently waiting for sleep to come and take him away from the pain, if only for a short while. The muzzle chafed against his cheeks, but he did his best to ignore it. He slipped off to sleep without even noticing.
He was awoken some time after by the hose-arm. It was nudging his nose, rousing him from his slumber. The muzzle felt even heavier than when he was last awake. His throat was parched and sore, but the arm seemed to already know this. As soon as he was decently awake, it gave him a refreshing drink of water poured through the muzzle. His mouth was still numb, so he could only swallow all he was given. The 8th injections followed after, and then were over. The pink light came again, but what little he could see of his warped head only confused him further. Afterwards he lay in silence, the hose occasionally giving him water to soothe his throat. Then the pain started.
It was his ears this time: once again it began as an itch that steadily grew worse. Soon his ears felt like they were burning. His hearing remained fine for a moment but soon became distorted. All sound was drowned out by a continuous low rumbling, as though he was submerged in water. Through it all he could hear the constant beat of his heart.
He became disoriented: one moment he felt like he was spinning, another he felt as though he were flying upwards, or drifting weightlessly. But what little he could see of the room's ceiling above did not move or change, and the conflict made him feel ill.
He began to cry. Not like the cries of fear during the first procedures, but desperate, sobbing cries. With his mouth bound and numb, no words left his lips. There was only the sad, primal wailing of an infant, as the man truly realised just how helpless he really was. He cried for release, he cried for help, for home, for comfort, for the good times that seemed so long ago now.
Nothing happened, save a small blessing: his head stopped spinning and his hearing returned. It seemed clearer and sharper than before, but he couldn't tell if he was imagining the difference. He took a drink of water, and slipped into an uncomfortable sleep soon after.
The 9th procedure was preceded by the IV feed being replaced. The blue bag was replaced with three orange ones, with the first being reconnected to the man's veins. The arms performed the injections, and then came the pink light. This time he saw his head more clearly: his nose and mouth had become longer, extending outwards into an animal's muzzle. He also noticed with some shock that his ears had shifted position to the top of his head, and had become wide and pointed like those of a dog or cat. He had only guessed what had happened to his ears before, as they were now completely numb.
He heard and felt something happening to the gurney beneath him. Something shifted, sliding into place with a click. He could feel cool air on his bare buttocks. There was an itch, which grew into the burning sensation that he had come to dread. It was at the base of his spine this time, and was more painful than any of the previous treatments.
He heard a crunching, cracking noise that brought a bloom of pain with it. This repeated about a dozen times, each time drawing a miserable moan from the man. He began crying as he had done before. The arms occasionally swapped the IV feed to the next bag in turn.
When the pain halted, he felt very, very tired. He took another drink, and the orange bags were replaced with a single blue one again. He cried himself to sleep.
He was woken by the hose arm. It nudged his nose, gave him a drink, and then dropped down out of sight. It was replaced by a new arm: it held a thin plastic bowl with two holes in it. It rose behind the man's head, and slotted over his skull.
The 10th injections came and went. He waited expectantly, fearful for what new pain this last procedure would bring. But this time there was no pain, only a tingling sensation that started in his feet. They were no longer numb, and he wiggled his toes experimentally. His feet felt strange and new, and he had the urge to test them by walking.
Next he felt a cool sensation from something hanging out of the rear of his pelvis. Whatever the growth was, he noted that he had the power to move it. It felt long and slender, and he realised that he had grown a tail.
His mouth was next, and felt strangest of all. He tried to move his tongue, but it was held in place by the muzzle. The hand-arms returned, and removed the device, letting him move his jaws freely. He explored his new teeth with his tongue, probing his new molars and testing his enlarged canines. His tongue had also changed: it felt oddly rough even to his own mouth, and was far longer than his old tongue had been. He tentatively reached up and out with it, and found (with some surprise) that he could lick his own nose.
His sinuses became clear, and he could breathe freely once more. The room smelt odd: cold yet clammy, with an acrid plastic smell of warm electronics rising from beneath the gurney. The smells were sharp, and oddly distinct.
Finally feeling returned to his ears, and he tested them. He found that he could move them freely, turning them from side to side where they rubbed against the head-bowl.
He rested now, relieved that this last procedure had been free of pain. He started to drift into sleep, when thoughts and memories began to appear in vivid detail in his mind. He did not recognise them: there was language, ideas and instincts that were not his own. He tried to ignore them, but he was fighting his thoughts, and he could not win. The man was forced down into the dark recesses of his own mind, and was gone.