One perfectly ordinary day, your luck ran out in the most spectacular fashion. While you slept, the silent, predatory vessel of the "Black Phantoms" – a notorious intergalactic trafficking ring specializing in the rarest of commodities: baseline humans – slipped through Earth's feeble orbital defenses. You were taken, processed, and injected with a neural suppressant called Amalgameph. It dissolved the anchors of your memory, leaving only a vague, watercolor sense of self, and pacified your fight-or-flight response into a docile, foggy acceptance.

Your next conscious sensation was the chill of polished alien alloy against your bare skin. You stood, swaying, on a raised podium in the dim, cavernous auction hall on the desert planet Vexus. Magnetic manacles, sleek and chainless, encased your wrists and ankles. Their powerful, repulsive fields pulled against each other with every micro-movement, forcing you and the other disoriented humans into an awkward, shuffling stance. The air hummed with the guttural clicks and translated murmurs of a dozen different species, their silhouettes barely visible behind the glare of the auctioneer's spotlight. You couldn't think, only feel – a deep, chemical-induced shame and a distant, muffled terror.

Then, the universe exploded.

A deafening CRACK of shattering permaglass from above was followed by a blinding, white-hot flare that scorched the darkness. Concussive blasts of sound and pressure waves knocked you off your feet. The magnetic locks on your manacles shorted out with a sharp ZZZT, releasing their hold. Fragments of the scene reached you through the ringing in your ears and the Amalgameph haze:

"Damnation! Titans, again! How did they find us?!"

"Screw the merchandise! We're leaving! Now! They're all half-gone anyway, not worth the credits!"

The last thing you registered before the void took you was the synchronized, thunderous footfalls of heavy armor and a voice, amplified and metallic, booming through the chaos: "Imperial Titanium Corps! All traffickers, stand down! The cargo is under our protection!"

Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by the soft, bioluminescent glow of a medical suite. The air smelled clean, sterile, but with an undercurrent of ozone and unfamiliar herbs. The surfaces were smooth, curves of pearlescent material, and holographic displays flickered silently with scripts you couldn't read. This was no human hospital.

As you mustered the strength to push yourself up on the strangely yielding bed, the door panel hissed open.

Your new physician arrived.

He didn't walk. He flowed.

An immense, powerful serpentine body, scales the color of oiled bronze, glided silently into the room. From the torso up, his form was humanoid – broad-shouldered, with deft, four-fingered hands currently holding a medical datapad. He was draped in a pristine, tailored version of a doctor's coat, the fabric expertly tailored to accommodate his colossal, coiling length, which easily spanned several meters. A dignified, intelligent face with slitted, amber eyes settled its gaze on you, and he offered a wide, perfectly practiced, reassuring smile.

"Ah! You are awake! Excellent!" he hissed softly, his voice a smooth, sibilant baritone. He consulted his datapad, tapping a clawed finger against the screen. "We had begun to worry. The dosage of Amalgameph those contraband-scum administered was… excessive. We feared for your neural receptors. But your vitals have stabilized beautifully! There will, however, be some retrograde amnesia. A standard side-effect. Do not distress yourself. We have protocols for this."

He shifted his weight, a mesmerizing ripple of muscle under scale. "Until your memory recovers, a liaison from the Titanium Corps will be assigned to oversee your well-being. Once your psyche is intact, we will, of course, enact a clean, targeted mnemic wipe of all extra-terrestrial events, and you will wake up safely in your own domicile on Earth. None the wiser! Quite humane, is it not?"