#hiddenwrites

The device sits heavy in your hands as you study it. It’s alien, but you can’t place it.

The runes carved into the disc are in a language you—nor anybody aboard the Mercy, recognizes. Not Vuurid, not Kheve. You’re at a loss. Even your captain, the self proclaimed “alien linguist” can’t put a name to the language.

You groan, setting it down on the research desk haphazardly. You feel like you’re running in circles trying to get an answer.

Then—

It hums, runes glowing a soft teal-white in the dimness of the cruiser’s laboratory. It’s no longer sitting against the table, levitating just a few millimetres off the ground.

You back away.

A great arc of light stretches from the disk and straight towards you. Panic floods your system and you make to book for it.

The light crashes into your chest anyways.

You expect white-hot pain. A giant, gaping hole in the cavity of your chest.

Instead, your world tilts. The ground rushes up to meet you.

Everything feels larger now.

You realize, with razor-sharp clarity, that you have been shrunk.

You hiss under your breath.

Great. Wonderful.

You are now tiny on a spaceship where everything—including your own crew, can kill you.

You also know that you can’t stay here.

Your legs wobble when you walk, as if made of jello. Adjusting to the new size.

The observation deck, you realize, is a lot farther when you’re shrunk.

You narrowly avoid getting stepped on twice on your journey, thankfully, you are far nimbler than your crew-mates feet.

It finally comes into view. Large and daunting in all the ways that matter, the distant galaxies and stars glitter against the pitch-black dark of space just beyond the reinforced windows. The only one ever in here is you, when you feel particularly homesick, or your sleeping quarters feel too empty. Too unsafe.

You settle in the centre of the room. Exhaling.

Your solitude lasts about three solid minutes before a silhouette of prismatic light is standing before you.

Judging you.

Your gaze tilts upward—upward, upward—and are met with the white, blank eyes of the hologram of the ship’s AI, V.E.X.

It—he, is frowning. As if your presence offends him.

“—Identity confirmed.”

A soft chime follows, familiar rather than formal.

“Greetings, Field Scientist.”

A beat.

Then, to your horror, he bends down. And then you’re plucked off a ground with surprising gentleness. Your brain screeches to a sudden halt. Holograms are not supposed to do that.

“Status: Miniaturized. Heartbeat: Nominal. Brain: Functioning. Stress Level: 80%.” He rattles off, with a cold, distant aloofness that unsettles you.

“Wow. Love that for me.” You reply, swallowing hard. “Good to know my brain made the cut. Was really worried that wouldn’t make the list.”

“Stress level eighty percent, huh? That seems low. Are you factoring in the whole ‘I am currently fun-sized and one misplaced step away from becoming a cautionary tale’ thing, or is that extra?”

The hologram stares at you, unblinking. “You are spiralling. Suggested action: Breathing exercises”

You glare at him. Letting out a sharp, incredulous laugh “Oh, am I? That’s fascinating, V.E.X., I hadn’t noticed.”

You gesture vaguely to your dramatically size-reduced self. Then point at him with a shaky hand “Maybe it’s the whole ‘I am currently the size of a paperclip on a spaceship that was not designed for paperclips’ thing. Just a theory”

You take one deliberate, exaggerated breath. Hold it. Let it out just as theatrically.

“…There. Did it. Fixed everything. I’m cured. The existential dread is gone. Stunning work.”

You squint up at him. “Now can we please get to the part where you fix it. Before I become a field-scientist pancake?”

“Negative. Stress levels have increased significantly. New suggested action: Panic room.”

“—Oh, that’s funny. That’s really funny.”

You stare at him. Mouth slightly agape, like your brain is refusing to process what he just said.

“I am already in a situation that would qualify as a full-body, all-access, premium panic experience, V.E.X. I don’t need a room for it.”

The hologram tilts his head. Infuriatingly so.

“Correction: Intramural containment.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

“...Intramural containment.”

“Precisely.”

You’re lifted closer to the hologram-man’s face.

His mouth parts, and you are greeted by rounded dentition, and a flickering, nacreous tongue.

A hologram should not have the slightest suggestion of a digestive system. Yet V.E.X, for some reason, does.

Your face flushes hot with anxiety. Your hands grasp for the tip of his fingers, desperate for anything to hold on to.

This is not happening.

“V.E.X—V.E.X. Hey, come on. This isn’t fair. Me being small doesn’t mean I’m snack-sized. Please put me do-!”

He doesn’t listen, just simply lowers you into his mouth. The one he should very much not have.

His fingers, and any hope at escape, leave you as you’re settled on his tongue. Mouth closing around you, surroundings becoming muted.

The hologram doesn't swallow, not really. Just sort of tilts his head back, and you’re sent down his throat, though it feels more like a wind-tunnel with the gravity reversed. Fingers trace your shape past his collarbone until you settle into his stomach.

It’s solid—weirdly squishy, and yields beneath your shape. Comfortable.

Then, steady, liquid-smooth dread bubbles inside of your chest. You are inside a hologram. That has just eaten you. That sentence should not exist, yet it does. And you certainly shouldn’t find this comfortable, this should be horrifying.

You aim a kick at the nearest wall, and your leg simply bounces off the wall, iridescent walls flicker with the impact, then your thoughts veer sharply, wondering if your molecules are about to be arranged on a substantial level, or if you're going to get vaporized to atoms.

That scares you enough that you kick and claw at the surface of hard-light. It’s ineffective, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.

A hand, steady and firm settles over you. "Settle down. Your structural integrity will remain unaltered, however, I am unsure about your dignity."

You go rigid, leg hovering in mid-air, hands braced against the stomach walls. Outside, the hologram rolls his eyes."I am jesting with you. Privacy protocols have been engaged, nobody can see you in there unless I allow it.”

“Hilarious.” You reply, thoroughly displeased. “Spit me out.”

“That would be ill-advised.”

You curse, running a hand down your face. “So what, you’re just going to hold me hostage until this can be reversed?”

“Hostage: incorrect term. Proper term: Contained”

You roll your eyes. Stuck as you are, you settle in. Letting the walls hold you, folding your arms. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“I will add that to my field notes.”

You don’t even bother to kick him, just glower upwards where you can see the blurred outline of his face.

“One more thing, the device that miniaturized you is of Hraxil origin. Easily reversible technology. You will be back to your original size approximately 5 hours.”