Catch up on chapter 1 of Eurosong protocol.

The Measurement Room 

The handler didn’t speak. 

Nor had he the night before, when he delivered Thom to his new residence just past 23:00. He handed Thom a keycard without explanation and disappeared into the corridor like a shadow from a forgotten nightmare. This morning was no different. Tall, angular, and dressed in SwedeTV-standard black with white piping, he walked precisely five steps ahead of Thom, maintaining just enough distance to preempt conversation. 

Thom had counted three right turns, one left, and then a ramp with no apparent descent before he gave up. The broadcaster’s headquarters were impossible to navigate—white on white, matte surfaces broken only by the occasional glowing icon pulsing on a wall panel. No signage, no windows. Even the lighting was unnatural. 

“Is there, uh,” Thom tried. “Is there going to be someone to talk to when we get there?” 

No reply. 

“I mean, is Petra—?” 

The handler didn’t even glance back. His footsteps didn’t falter. Thom exhaled and fell silent again, letting the rhythm of their walk pull him further inward. He thought of the apartment. Or unit, as the dossier had called it. 

His temporary home was sleek, modular, and frictionless, like a luxury hotel suite designed by someone who had only read about human comfort in theory. The walls were pale blue and grey, too cold to be soothing. The bed was narrow, with no visible sheets and pillows that conformed to his head too quickly. The windows didn’t open. When Thom tried to turn on the TV, it offered him only four channels, all playing variations of the same thing—previous Eurosong broadcasts, rehearsal footage, and slickly edited highlights from Sweden’s past national finals. 

No news. No weather. Not even volume control. 

The fridge had been fully stocked with food he didn’t recognize by name but vaguely identified as Swedish—pickled things in unlabeled jars, flatbreads wrapped in unbranded paper, and small containers of yogurt that all tasted faintly sweet and chemical. No coffee, only packets of instant elderflower tea. 

In the closet, hangers displayed curated pieces in stiff, textural fabrics: stone-colored tunics, angular jackets, wool garments with asymmetric closures and raised seams. One shirt looked like a lab coat had been tailored for a runway show. None of it was casual. Nothing resembled Thom’s old jeans or his soft, button-down shirts. Not even socks. 

When he woke up that morning, his clothes from the previous day had been folded and stacked in a sealed box labeled “Legacy Items.” 

The handler stopped in front of a blank wall. Thom nearly bumped into him as he emerged from his reverie. Before he could ask where they were, a panel beside them chimed, and the wall hissed open to reveal a long room that looked like it had been designed for a god who hated decorations. 

Bright, ribbed panels overhead pulsed with slow, living light. The air was cool but oppressively still. There were no windows, vents, or art on the walls. There was only a single black chair in the center of the room and a tall pedestal next to it holding a single glass of water. 

The handler gestured. Thom stepped inside. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the hum began. Barely audible, more felt than heard, the deep, steady vibration resonated in his chest as if the room had a heartbeat, and he was now inside it. 

The door closed behind him. He turned to look, but the seam was already gone. 

The hum in the walls deepened. It wasn’t exactly louder, but denser, like static pressing in from nowhere. Thom stood by the black chair, arms crossed loosely, eyes wandering the seamless white walls. There was nowhere to focus, no visual anchor. The whole room was a blank suggestion. 

The door hissed open behind him. No chime this time. No warning. 

The figure who entered walked silently, footsteps absorbed into the floor as though the space refused to acknowledge movement. They were tall, maybe six-two, and slim but not delicate. Their white overalls were high collared and zipless, like a designer hazmat suit. Their head was shaved on the sides, and black hair swooped up in a sharp, asymmetrical crest. No name tag. No insignia. A slim black device hung at their hip shaped like a sculptural phone with no screen. 

They didn’t speak. 

They raised their hand—long fingers, black painted nails—and snapped once. Crisp. Dry. Deliberate. And then pointed directly at Thom’s clothes. 

Thom blinked. “Uh…” 

The stylist stared. No blink. No breath. Just waiting. 

Thom shifted. “Am I supposed to—?” 

The stylist unclipped the device from their hip, turned it over in their palm, and tapped one side. 

Thom felt a hiss of fabric and a tug at his waist. He looked down in shock as the seam of his shirt gently pulled itself apart from the collar to cuff, like a magician’s napkin trick. His pants, already loose fitting, released their button and slithered slightly down his hips. 

“What the fuck,” he whispered, grabbing for the waistband. 

The stylist didn’t react. 

“I—I can do it myself,” Thom said quickly. “I didn’t realize—no one said—” 

Another tap from the device. The shirt slid off his shoulders, pooling onto the floor like it had been shed by gravity, not by choice. His pants followed, settling in a soft heap around his ankles. 

He stood there, stunned, and stripped to his underwear. The stylist tapped the device again, and the ceiling above them responded with a low, mechanical click. 

A long curved arch began to descend, silent at first, then humming faintly with blue electricity. Its underside was covered in smooth sensor domes that blinked in synchronized rhythm. It lowered slowly, precisely, until it hovered just above Thom’s head. 

He didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he was allowed to. 

The arch passed over his body in increments, scanning inch by inch, the hum deepening as it reached different zones—shoulders, hips, thighs—every place he was self conscious. 

He could feel it measuring him—not just his dimensions but also his posture, his stance, how much tension he held in his jaw, and how his toes curled slightly inward without him realizing. 

Behind the stylist, a wall panel blinked to life: 

CORRECTABLE ZONES DETECTED. 

CALIBRATING IDEAL FORM… 

ESTABLISHING BASELINE DEVIATIONS. 

Thom felt a shiver, but not from the cold. The casual certainty of the language on the display chilled him. He looked at the stylist, who still hadn’t spoken. They tapped something on their device again. The arch retracted into the ceiling like a beast returning to its nest. 

Thom stood, bare chested, arms at his sides, unsure if he’d just been measured or sentenced. 

The stylist exited without a word. Thom stood in the white, humming room only in his underwear, unsure if he was supposed to sit, dress, or just wait and submit like a glitch in the program. He reached to pick up his shirt off the floor, but it was gone, already collected by some unseen system the moment he wasn’t looking. 

A minute later, the wall hissed open again. The stylist reentered, pushing a tall, wheeled garment rack that looked absurdly out of place in the minimalist space. The rack was jammed, crammed, with clothes pressed tightly together, hangers clinking faintly with each movement. Thom had to blink several times to process what he was looking at. 

The first outfit was a cropped bolero jacket made of iridescent red vinyl studded with artificial crystals. Next to it was a mesh bodysuit stitched with gold thread in a baroque swirl of nonsense. There was no symmetry, no modesty. The pants, if they could be called that, were translucent orange with faux snakeskin panels running down the thighs and something like a tail stitched onto the back. 

The next outfit was worse. And the one after that. 

By the sixth or seventh hanger, Thom’s stomach began to churn. These weren’t costumes; they were caricatures. A clown’s idea of confidence. Someone’s algorithmic fantasy of queer joy smashed together with marketing logic. 

Glitter-threaded harem pants with reinforced groin pouches. Neon muscle illusions printed on bodysuits in shades no human skin had ever known. A pink sleeveless jacket covered in synthetic fur that crackled slightly when it moved. 

Thom looked at the stylist. “You’re kidding.” 

They extended a hand, palm flat. The gesture was simple. First one. Change. 

Thom hesitated. The stylist didn’t move. 

He reluctantly stepped toward the rack and pulled out the first ensemble—a vinyl bolero, mesh bodysuit, and snakeskin pants. The fabric clung to his hands like static. He went behind the garment rack in a vague attempt at privacy, putting it between himself and the silent stylist. 

Slipping the bodysuit over his legs was like climbing into something pre-stretched for someone thinner, taller, and far less modest. The crotch rode high. The mesh scratched. The bolero pinched his shoulders. The pants made a sticky, artificial sound every time he took a step. 

He emerged stiffly, eyes lowered. The stylist circled him, their same black device now unfolded into a slim tablet. They tapped and scrolled as they walked, glancing at Thom with surgical detachment. At one point, they reached out and tugged lightly at the hem of the bolero, then pressed two fingers against his hip, pushing the snakeskin flat. The gesture wasn’t violent. It was worse: mechanical, like checking a box. 

The stylist tilted their head and tapped a few more times. Thom stared forward, breathing through his nose. The costume itched. He could feel sweat forming behind his knees. 

“Is this…” he began, then stopped. The stylist didn’t acknowledge him. 

He swallowed hard. “Is this what you think I should wear on stage?” 

No answer. Just another circle and more taps. 

More moments of being inspected—not like a person, but like a product. 

Thom tried on ten more outfits. Maybe twelve. It was hard to keep track. The last one involved a translucent cape and synthetic silver leggings that creaked with every breath. The stylist had watched him shuffle out of it without expression, marking notes as though tallying inventory. 

Now, the rack was nearly empty, save for one final piece. It didn’t hang like the others. It clung to its hanger like a second skin trying to go unnoticed. 

The bodysuit shimmered faintly under the harsh lighting—an intense lemon yellow, iridescent like the surface of a soap bubble. It had no visible seams, zippers, embellishments, or branding. Just a single glint of silver at the throat, a metal clasp like a locket or a docking port. 

The stylist pulled it from the rack and held it out toward Thom with both hands, the way one might offer a sacred garment. 

Thom hesitated, frowning. “Looks like a condom for the whole body.” 

The stylist said nothing. 

He took it with both hands. It felt warm and heavier than it should have been. The material was glossy but dry, almost frictionless, like silk left too long in vacuum packaging. 

With the garment rack empty, there was nowhere to hide. He stepped into it slowly, first one leg, then the other. The material expanded and contracted with the contours of his body, seeming to readjust itself as he moved. There were no wrinkles, no sag. When he pulled the upper half over his shoulders, he gasped involuntarily. It felt like the fabric exhaled around his torso, locking into place. 

His crotch was the last part to settle. He noticed it immediately. 

The material cupped him deliberately, drawing upward in a tight sheath that pushed his bulge into exaggerated prominence, unnaturally lifted and shaped. But then, as he took another breath, the fabric changed. It smoothed. Flattened. The contours remained, but the details blurred, like watching a sculpture melt slightly into plastic. He looked down and saw… something between fetishwear and a toy—pronounced yet featureless. 

Like an action figure. 

It made him feel simultaneously huge and blank. He touched it instinctively. The suit felt like skin over skin, but it didn’t yield. It didn’t respond. 

Then came the collar. 

He reached up, found the metal clasp at the throat, and pulled it shut with a soft click. 

The seal formed instantly. A faint hiss. A pulse. The neckline fused tight around his larynx. Not choking, but absolute. He looked for a seam, a catch, something to undo it, but there was nothing. 

He reached back to unzip, but there was no zipper. 

His fingers scrambled across his spine. Nothing. 

His breath hitched. “Uh—hey.” 

The stylist didn’t respond. 

“Hey. This thing’s stuck.” 

Still silence. 

“I said it’s—Look, I can’t get it off.” 

He took a step forward. The suit compressed slightly around his thighs, then readjusted. It moved with him too well. 

He reached for the collar and tugged hard. No give. It tightened. 

“Okay, what the fuck.” 

He turned toward the stylist, breathing faster now. 

“I need you to—seriously, I need—this isn’t—” 

The stylist finally looked up from their device and tapped the screen once. 

Thom stopped mid sentence. 

A wave passed through the suit as though it tightened fractionally at every edge. Neck. Wrists. Ankles. Crotch. It made him stand straighter than he meant to. 

The stylist stepped closer, gaze empty, and spoke for the first time. Flat. Toneless. Unmistakable: 

“That one has been preselected. Your skin accepts it.” 

Thom pulled at the collar again, harder this time. His fingers slipped. The material was too slick, too tight, too responsive. Every tug only made it grip deeper like it was bracing. 

He staggered toward the stylist. “Okay, take it off. This isn’t a joke.” 

The stylist tapped the tablet, and the lights dimmed. The white glare softened into an ambient violet haze, soft, cool, and intimate. 

And then, a beat. Faint at first. Almost imperceptible. 

A soft, four-on-the-floor rhythm seeped from hidden speakers. Barely above a whisper. Just enough to vibrate the floor and settle into the soles of his feet. 

Thump… thump… thump… thump… 

Thom froze. 

His breath caught in his throat as he felt the suit respond. The fabric at his biceps contracted subtly, nudging his shoulders back. His calves were compressed slightly tighter, encouraging a straighter stance. And around his crotch, the glossy yellow material shifted again, pressing, reshaping. Polishing. 

He stepped back, but it didn’t feel like a retreat. It felt… on beat. 

“What are you doing to me?” He asked. 

No reply. 

The stylist raised their device one last time. A small green light blinked on, and then a click, soft, like a shutter. A photograph. 

They lowered the tablet and spoke again in the same flat voice. 

“Fitting complete.” 

They turned and exited without hesitation. The wall hissed shut behind them. Thom stumbled forward. 

“Hey, wait! Hey!” 

He reached the door just in time to slap it with both palms. It didn’t open. The seam had already vanished as if it had never been there. He was alone. 

Thump… thump… thump… thump… 

The music continued. Thom panted, forehead pressed to the smooth wall, then turned around slowly, back against it, trying to breathe. The suit was still tight—not suffocating, but… instructive. His limbs felt elongated and supported—like a puppet string you couldn’t see but felt at all times. 

He closed his eyes. 

Thump… thump… thump… thump… 

God, he hated this kind of music. Had always hated it. His old bandmates used to joke about it—Europop, synth-drenched dance tracks, schlager garbage. He’d called it “mall music for people who’ve never been sad.” 

And yet, his right foot tapped. Just a little. 

He stopped it, rubbed his leg, and looked down at the gleaming yellow suit smoothing everything into one plasticky, idealized silhouette. His bulge, if it could still be called that, was trapped beneath something that wanted to display and deny it simultaneously. 

He wasn’t breathing hard anymore. The panic had plateaued. His shoulders dropped. And the music, he noticed, wasn’t just tolerable now. It had… a hook. A synthetic string swell under the rhythm. The kind of thing you’d hum sarcastically, then find stuck in your head three hours later. 

He shifted his weight. One foot to the other. 

Then again. Then again. Just movement. Barely a sway. 

But it was in time. 

Thump… thump… thump… thump… 

Thom exhaled through his nose, mouth slightly open. His arms hung loose at his sides. He looked toward the ceiling, toward nothing. 

And stayed like that as the lights went slightly dimmer. 

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