They never should have taken the humans.
When the Galactic Coalition found Earth, they expected an easy victory. The humans were primitive—barely capable of space travel, their technology laughable compared to the galactic standard. The Coalition needed new subjects for their experiments, and the humans, with their chaotic nature and fragile bodies, seemed ideal candidates.
The invasion was swift, overwhelming. In less than a day, every major human city had fallen. The survivors—millions of them—were captured, caged like animals, and transported to the research stations scattered across Coalition space.
I was stationed at Research Station Theta, deep in the void. We were tasked with studying human physiology—pushing them to their limits to uncover the secrets of their strength and weaknesses. At first, it was as we expected: the humans were weak, fragile, easy to break. But then… something changed.
One of the humans, a male we had dubbed Specimen 47, stopped reacting to the pain stimuli. His heart rate would spike, but he didn't scream anymore. He didn't cry. He just… stared at us, eyes filled with a cold, calculating intensity. We increased the pressure—more pain, harsher conditions—but Specimen 47 remained silent.
Then the others started doing it too.
At first, we thought they were breaking mentally—succumbing to the trauma. But no… they were adapting. Day by day, they began to resist the pain, resist the fear. Their bodies, once fragile and weak, began to heal faster, fight harder. We ran test after test, but the results were the same: the humans were evolving, right in front of us.
And then Specimen 47 escaped.
It was impossible. The containment cells were the most secure in the galaxy—nothing, not even the strongest species, could break free. But he did. We found the guards dead, their weapons untouched, their throats slit with surgical precision.
One by one, the humans freed themselves.
We tried to regain control, but it was too late. They weren't prisoners anymore—they were predators. They moved silently through the station, hunting us, taking us down like we were the prey. I watched them tear through our defenses, their faces devoid of emotion, eyes cold and dead.
They came for me last.
As I sit here, hiding in the dark, I can hear them outside the door, scratching. They don't speak. They don't scream. They've learned. They've become something far more dangerous than we ever imagined.
We thought we could break them.
But in the end, the humans broke us.