Y/N is abducted by aliens (Patreon)

Some spooky season fun for you guys :) I'll make this a little series if you guys like it!!

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i.

If someone had told Y/N at the beginning of this week she would be involved in some clandestine operation where she would be poked and prodded at for hours on end each day -- she would have giggled and said it was better than having to take her organic chemistry final. If they would have pressed the issue, she would have rolled their eyes and accused them of watching X-files too much. And if still, they would not have let up, she might have gotten scared and fled the situation, wondering if they were all the way present or if their head was floating up in the stars. 

Yet here she was, on a Thursday she thinks, sat on a cold examination table that she was under strict orders not to move from. Her brain felt like it had been moved, dipped in black sludged then placed back in her head, and as far as she knew, or any of the people who crowd her on the day to day know, it could have been. An array of things could have happened to her, but she wouldn’t be able to tell you even a sliver of it. 

Because she was going to bed one second, and the next she woke up screaming, strapped down to something too cold to be a gurney and being wheeled down a hallway that was illuminated with bright beams. The walls were white, like a hospital, but there were no doors to patient rooms -- just a long, blank hallway, and people in hazmat suits surrounding her, instructing her to calm down. 

“I’m not going to fucking calm down!” She remembers screaming, “What’s going on? Who are you?” 

Apparently, they were the good guys -- that’s what they said. 

And apparently, she’d been abducted by aliens and they found her in a shuttle not far from their base. 

They showed her pictures, once things settled (after she’d been hosed down and thoroughly inspected once, twice, three times over, with x-rays and scans just to make sure she didn’t bring anything back with her), of her slumped in her nightgown. She was secure in the seat of a large metal contraption, that had left a crater in the earth where it landed. It was surrounded by a bright, luminous blue glow that had embedded in the dirt around it, bifurcating, and anastomosing like capillaries. Y/N saw the video that they took, she saw how they approached her slowly, tried to wake her up and they had, for a moment. 

“God, my head,” she had said to them, rubbing at her face tiredly, “I told them I needed to go home -- have an exam.” 

She fell back asleep and the video cut off.  

Y/N was so confused -- there was a block of time that’s just missing from her memory and it was so, incredibly stressful. Not only that, but she was also in some lab deep in Scotland, beneath the ground, and some scientist who went under H.S. was on his way to see her, even though she just wanted to sleep. She just wanted to be in her own room, in her own bed, and not freezing on an icy cold examination table where she was in soft restraints (they were like fat mittens, that covered her hands but wrapped around her wrist in ties that remind her of ballet slippers) in the “rare event that they implanted something inside her that they missed” (or Y/N thinks it’s in the event that she’s an alien herself). All she wore was a hospital gown, that showed all her bits if she moved too quickly, so she’s sure if there was anything in her body she would have frozen it out by now -- she wondered if the blood in her body had grown frosty by this point. 

The first few days Y/N spent in here were less than peaceful. How could they be? She was demanding answers that she wasn’t given, panicking because she was in an underground bunker, panicking because everyone around her seemed certain that she was implanted with something foreign and otherworldly, panicking because she’d seen all the Alien movies and knew where shit like this was headed. The worst of it being she couldn’t exactly remember the whole “abduction” process apart from some bright flashes and white noise every so often (but she wonders if her mind is only playing tricks oner her) and this could have been some incredibly convoluted, hashed out plan to harvest her organs and sell them on the black market. 

So yeah, the first few days she was fighting, and screaming, and demanding. She felt it was hard to believe any of their stories until they started showing her official documents, FBI agents and lawyers came by with threats and affidavits that went into explicit detail about how she needed to keep her mouth shut or she would face horrible consequences. Then it started feeling a little more real, though most of it still felt like an elaborate fever dream. 

Around the fourth day, she had calmed down some, less aggressive when someone would come and do a full medical workup, on her. She was asked the same questions, asked to do the same things, they listened to her heart, her lungs -- everything and anything they could assess was assessed. Y/N was exhausted with only a few minutes of reprieve from the moments of sleep she was able to catch. She asked them about a dozen times if they would just give her a sedative or something -- even just a melatonin --- to knock her out. They told her a few times that they could after a week when they were absolutely sure that all the tests (and retests) had results, but she wasn’t sure what was day and what was night anymore, so she asked a few times until they finally just entered the room letting her know how many days she’d been in there. 

Today was the seventh day, the woman who came in to do her assessment told her so this morning and they both shared a little cheer and a dance (some of the people who came to see her were rather nice -- there were few empathetic enough to spend more time with her than necessary, while others rushed in and out as quick as a blink of an eye). She said once she was officially cleared by this H.S. character, then she would be more than welcome to have something that would knock her out for a little while. 

“You lot promise not to do anything weird while I’m asleep, right?”  

“Ma’am, with how much we’ve done with you awake there’s no reason to get shady when you’re unconscious.” 

So, she was antsy. They didn’t let her have her phone or her computer considering she could. . .well, she doesn’t know what she could do. No matter who she told or how she told it to them, there was no way anybody would even kind of believe her if she tried to explain it. She tried to explain this to them a few times but nobody bothered hearing her out. 

Y/N was allowed to be pretty mobile, mostly to use the restroom, and prevent skin breakdown from staying in the same position either lying or sitting all day. The room she was in was just cold and empty, save for her empty breakfast tray and some pillows and blankets she’s allowed to keep with her -- there was nothing really for her to get into. She could pace back and forth all day until someone came in, brought in all their equipment, did whatever they needed to do, and left just the same. 

Sometimes they will call over an intercom and she can speak with someone that way. They usually tell her when her food is coming down, or if someone is about to meet up with her. Y/N doesn’t know the reasoning for it, because she reckons it must feel like secretary work, but she thanks them aloud all the same. 

They sort of dropped the ball on this one though, because when the door swings open and her back is to it, it startles her immensely. She all but yelps, before her face drops into a frown, “Fuck sake,” she held her hand to her heart, staring at the assailant, “Did you ever learn to knock?” 

The man before her smiled good-naturedly, his brown hair soft and curled around his ears. She’d never met him prior to now, so she assumed he was the guy who was supposed to meet up with her, and she is almost even more certain of the fact when the white lab coat he wears (atop of a nicely fitted black button-up and navy blue slacks) has a name tag fixed to the pocket that said Harry Styles. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a small notepad, “I would like to formally introduce myself. I’m Harry Styles, I run the Astrobiology department -- I just wanted to come to check up on you.” 

Y/N’s brows furrow, but she was never not polite, “Hello, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Y/N.” 

He smiles again, “I know, Miss. Y/N. You’re the talk of the town recently.” 

“Because I fell out of the sky in a huge oval?” She watches as he scrawls something in red ink on the notepad, trying to make out the messy handwriting proves futile though as he snaps it closed, “Reckon nothing has changed about me for a week, hm? It’s not remarkable.”

“You are very remarkable,” Harry corrects her, “The human anatomy is not meant to withstand the lack of oxygen and pressure outside of the atmosphere without the proper protective guards in place. You returned relatively healthy and in a nice little package for us to discover, and a mystery to uncover that may have the answers to century-old questions,” he holds out his hand, “Very remarkable. Now come on, and give me your hand -- there’s no need for those restraints when I’m in here.”

Y/N eyes him, hesitant as she raises her right hand to meet his own and watches his face rather than his hands (though from her peripherals she could tell that his nimble fingers worked swiftly and diligently). Once her hand is released, she wriggles and stretches her fingers out, grateful for the cool air that bites them, “Thank you,” she utters, more willing this time to give him her other hand, “I wish they wouldn’t keep them on me.” 

“They’re safety measures, as you know,” he shrugs his shoulders like it couldn’t be helped, “While we study you, we have to be a hundred percent certain of your safety as well as ours.” 

“Then why are you taking them off?” She asks lamely. He’s attractive, Y/N would give him that -- his face was smooth, free of blemishes and scars. He had long eyelashes that framed soft, sea green irises that Y/N found it hard to look into without feeling a little warm in the icy temperature of the room. His hair appeared so soft that she wondered it felt like a cloud to run her fingers through. She thinks his jaw could cut glass, and he looked a little too good in his outfit, and she wondered if he realized that. She wondered if he saw her staring at his all too pink lips as well and if that’s why he smiles gently when his eyes flicker up to meet hers again. 

“Well, I trust you won’t hurt me.” 

It was weird. She didn’t think she would hurt anyone, and if someone had told her that someone would finally come in and take the damn things off about three hours ago she would have been elated -- but now she felt hesitant. With her hands free, would something snap? Some little alien nodule implanted in her would sense it and she would do something horrible? She didn’t feel any different. . .a little less helpless, but she still held her breath, and she wonders if Harry’s holding his breath for 1. . .2. . .3. . .4. . .oh, okay nothing was going to happen? 

“Well, you haven’t wrestled me to the ground, so I would say this is a good start.” 

She gives him a halfhearted laugh as she tries to catch the breath that she lost waiting for something to happen. Harry works quickly in the assessment he does on her, never doing something without asking her first, and didn’t have her step out of her gown or anything. He asks her some orientating questions - some about her current situation, some about her life prior to all of this. Y/N answers openly and honestly (someone, one of the first days she was here, told her that the more honest she was the easier it would be for everyone involved, “if something changes, we’ll be able to handle it before things could get. . .unpleasant”). He tests all her senses and reflexes, he asks if she’s been voided, or if she’s had any unusual (for her) urges lately. 

He asks her if she remembers anything, and when she shakes her head, she must seem defeated because, well -- she is, and he pats her shoulder, “It’ll come back to you. There’s a lot going on right now that you are unfamiliar with, it’s likely that your brain is suppressing the experience as you try to come to terms with your current situation.”  

He must be in there for a little over 20 minutes, scrawling stuff down in his notepad, before he’s looking up at her and asking the golden question. 

“How are you sleeping?” 

“Awfully,” she answered almost too quickly, “I wake up all through the night, I’m sore and stiff trying to sleep on this table or the floor, and no matter how many times I try to convince them to give me a little pad or something to lie down on they tell me no. You know for government operation, you lot are even worse at accommodating guests than rabid coyotes.” 

Harry chuckles, shaking his head as he finishes jotting something down on the paper -- the fifth page he’d filled with notes, “Well, that won’t do, will it? No wonder you’re not remembering anything -- your poor brain isn’t getting any rest, either,” he flips the notepad shut, “I’ll tell you what, I’m giving the clear that you can have a mild sedative and at least a day bed mattress to rest on. How does that sound?” 

Y/N could kiss him, “It sounds like you’re the only person who gives a rat about me in here.” 

“They may not be so expressive, but everyone cares for you, I promise -- we all want the same thing here.” He explains, picking up the soft restraints and looping the ties around his hand. 

“Which is what?” She pushes. 

Harry smiles, and for a moment, in his eyes, he almost looks sorry for her. 

“To get you out of here with some answers.”