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After a week's confinement in a bondage crate that doubled as a shipping container, Cinua inhaled his first breath. He had hoped for something more. The prison facility's recycled air was sterile and piny, as if he had been mistakenly shipped to an off-world hospital. But his container's lid clattered to the floor, and when he saw Raiko leaning over him with a toothy grin, even that slight hope of an administrative mistake vanished like a grain of sand in a midnight tide.

"Did you have a comfortable trip?" the Starweaver cooed, clad in his archetypal skin-tight ebony suit lined with luminous stripes of blue and a half-skirt frilled with gold. A pair of ram horns crowned the peaches-and-cream fox and a ring of black fluff draped across his neck.

His captor's words dripped with sarcasm, yet the beige floppy-eared dog couldn't manage more than a muffled "Mr-mrfff..." in response. Raiko had specifically requested the traitor be fit with a vulpine-styled synthetic muzzle-gag and stuffed into a shipping container a size too small. The shipping container was solid metal and featured a high-security magnetic lock that required use of its numberpad. Cinua hadn't even heard the number of keypresses the container required: Not a clang nor whisper penetrated its metal shell. He heard only a built-in device pumping air into his nostrils or food through a pinhole-sized hole in his muzzlegag. And otherwise he waited, deep in the dark.

Synthetic straps wrapped his ankles to his thighs, forcing his heels to dig into his plush cheeks, permanently bent. Strict too were the straps around his shoulders, a small harness that fastened his arms behind his back, hands together, trapped in a reverse prayer. He had been lowered sideways into a recess within a block of thick rubber, carved to his exact proportions, and another slab of the material was placed above once he had been secured, heated just enough to melt, adhere to Cinua's prison, and then chilled enough to congeal into a solid, featureless latex block with the prisoner trapped within.

"You're not very talkative, are you?" Raiko stood on the latex slab he had just removed with a plasma cutter and leaned over the 3-feet wide by 1-foot tall container to pull Cinua from his latex prison like a doll from its box. A glacial chill radiated up his knees from the station's sanitized metal floor.

"FFF-FRMNPMPH!" The dog shook his head, snorted, thrashed, and stomped his knees in a stupor.

Raiko shook his head, tsking, and ran his fingers through Cinua's hair. "Shhh... Sweetheart, you tried to steal a spacefaring vessel with those cute friends of yours -- but you know space travel is reserved for only the few I find worthy. And yet," the intergalactic ruler spread his arms, "here you are. Your bravery was commendable, so I feel, in a way, you're worthy of this. You enjoyed spaceflight in that box of yours, and now you get to live out your days here amongst the stars. Blackstar is a prison facility, yes, but as a space station it does have its perks..." With a sashay of his hips, Raiko turned away to face a tiered wall of lockers. Almost to spite him, the vixen bent forward at his hips to open a locker near the floor; he hummed idly to himself, hips swaying to and fro.

"Nhrmph--NRMPH!" Cinua whined out. His heart was racing, was thrashing... The escape should have been smooth and effortless. He had freed a baker's dozen of enslaved friends, boarded a space shuttle at His Divine Grace's compound in the dead of night... It was scheduled for transit within the hour and yet the shuttle's fuel cells were entirely depleted. By the time the FoxGuard, the Starweaver's personal escort, had breached the flight control room, the shuttle's engines were still noisily gurgling on what few drops of fuel remained. The renegades were hogtied with synthetic cords, fit with their vulpine muzzle-gags, and in came Raiko humming a tune, a hand on a pouty hip, the other swirling a pair of handcuffs around a finger. Someone had given them up, that much Cinua knew...

"Ah, here we are. I think orange will look good on you." His captor held out an orange, full-body latex sleepsack and framed it across the dog's body. It resembled a prison uniform only by color and the barcode printed across its back. Otherwise, it was unmistakably a straitjacket. "Nhm. Definitely your color." Raiko sauntered over, his heels click-clacking against the facility's solid tiles. He pushed Cinua down face-first and the dog was certain things were bound to get tighter, but surprisingly the straps holding his arms in a reverse prayer began to lose their tautness. This was his chance, little might it be, and yet before the pup had a chance to crawl away on his hands and knees, Raiko had flipped him over and tugged Cinua into his lap like a toy. He held the struggling beast's wrists together in front of him. His harness was rearranged, and despite the dog's lethargic wriggling soon those straps were snuggly caressing his forearms, tugged tighter, tighter, until the lower portions of his arms were flush and his palms were forced to grip the opposite elbow crease.

"All your friends have been turned over to the Acquisition Department for mandatory reconditioning. They'll go back to their mines in my service, blissfully living out their days unaware that you ever existed. And yet here you are, squirming, whining, and I offer you a permanent vacation in the stars for your treason. I suppose you just can't please some people..." Raiko removed the traitor's anklestraps with a flick of his wrist and one continuous pull. Warmth and blood coursed through his toes again. He motioned to stand, but he soon stumbled. After a quiescent week secured in immobility, his cramped muscles refused to stretch fluidly. Raiko made no motion to remedy his burden. Firmly were his ankles joined and bound -- though a strip of fabric was positioned between them to offer some consolidatory comfort. And then Raiko labored upward, strapping together his calves, his thighs, each with a dexterous, graceful motion. In the Starweaver's grasp, the synthetic straps danced with a life of their own.

Off came the muzzlegag with a disinterested toss, and now Raiko was on a path back to the yawning locker. The dog squirmed, his creamy thighs forced to kiss each other. "Y-you can't do this! Just t-take me back planetside, a-a-and throw me in the mines... You're a dictator, a fake, a-- AHMPH!" A fat orange ballgag squirmed its way behind his teeth, and Raiko made damn sure the straps were pulled taut.

"A god, sweetheart. Yours. You already chose your own fate the moment you rebelled against me. Even so, something tells me you'll see me in a much brighter light after a few decades here." Raiko pulled a gurney from the corner of the room. "Let me carry you to the cell and we'll get you suited up. It's the least I can do."

Cinua kicked his conjoined legs and thrashed atop the gurney. "RRNG-GMPF!" His ceaseless fidgeting didn't seem to impair the vixen as the dog was strapped and bolted to the stretcher and wheeled out of the locker bay. They were on a thin rafter suspended in a rotating hexagonal tube that served as a corridor, one of many arms branching from the space facility's core. The walls were dotted with steel-gray doors, each one identified by numbered monitors beside each gate. To Cinua it was dizzying, a never-ending, twisting array of countless avenues. But Raiko seemed to know where they were going. He pushed the cart below a hologram. It displayed a fizzled message: "MAXSEC."

They stopped somewhere down the line. The fox fiddled with a gearbox attached to the side paneling of the walkway, and suddenly it was alive, creaking, extending and rising toward one of the countless doorways in the corridor. But this one was different. This door was open. Cinua sensed the finality in this. A nugatory whimper rumbled in his throat. He curled his toes and shimmied -- It was all he could manage. Raiko didn't seem to pay his writhing any mind.

Nimble fingers made short work of the gurney's broad bindings. The stretcher tilted upward, threatening to spill the mutt into the cell: A spacious pod easily 60-feet long and 20 wide, fit with flexi-glass viewing panels spaced between padded walls. Cinua braced as he languidly slid into the room, certain Raiko had doomed him to fall and tumble deep into the cell. But as he plunged through the doorway, he coasted gradually through the air. He was weightless. A feather suspended by a string. No doubt the station's artificial gravity generators were designed to ignore the facility's storage pods.

Raiko bounded into the cell with a flash of orange, straitjacket in hand. The pair twirled softly on impact, the Starweaver embracing Cinua for a twinkle of a moment. Then came the sound of a zipper. The vixen worked Cinua into the full-body jumpsuit starting with his coupled legs. The latex gleamed in the starlight and tensed into a snug fit that squeezed every joint, claimed every crook of fur and skin. It squeezed past his wide hips, outlined the laughable definition of his flat chest, and curled around his shoulders.

The Starweaver fluffed up the latex hood of the suit and yanked it over Cinua's face until it snapped in place. A strap of the hood ran across his muzzle and trapped his ballgag away -- though at least his ears and nose were free. Hastily, a posture collar squeezed his throat from behind, covered in jingling D-rings made animate in the zero-gravity cell. The straitjacket was already skin-tight, but Raiko zipped him up from behind, compressing the squeaking fabric further. There was the sound of a snap, a padlock slipping into place.

Raiko flipped him upside-down, hands on his ankles, strapping more thick bands over the ankles of his suit -- even though they were already bound underneath -- and continued his trek down his legs. Arms, calves, thighs, strapped and squeezed and trapped. Cinua could barely bend his knees given the tautness of his latex prison. Nor could he struggle. This brought a toothy grin to he impassive vixen, who now idly spun his toy in little circles with his foot. Raiko gave the thumbnail-sized monitor on the straitjacket's chest a delicate tap. The series of D-Rings on his suit clamped down and locked the straps in place -- as if his captor's buckling just wasn't enough.

"Finally," Raiko purred. You're my goldfish in a glass bowl, Cinua. Escaping the planet was easier than you'd thought, nhm?" The fox pressed a foot against the new inmate's face and delicately pushed him away. While Cinua glided into the plush, cushioned wall that lined the bottom of his cell, Raiko was now gliding toward the door.

"The gag will feed you every 24 hours. Your suit will be cleaned every 48. In intervals of 8 hours, I believe there is a mandatory exercise period. The warden will have you bouncing in your little sleepsack on a treadmill. I'd hate to have those powerful thighs of yours wither away too much." Raiko flashed a grin. "You'll never escape this -- what you're in now. I don't even have them make keys for these locks anymore." Grasping the doorframe, Raiko returned to the gravity of the catwalk and gave a final wave. "Maybe I'll stop in sometime, see how quickly your behavior improves." The steel-gray door began to close. An alarm spun silently, casting red light. And then Raiko was gone.

From their perch through the glass, the stars seemed to rotate around the spinning room. Below him -- and moments later, above him -- his alpine homeworld spun bare and unvarnished. Light reflecting off its surface bathed his cushioned partitions in a dull green light. For one breathtaking moment, Home had forgotten where he was. He was in the national planetarium, was under the splendor of fireworks. He was in the stars.

It just wasn't exactly how he'd intended.