Eurosong protocol (chapter 3)

Catch up on chapter 2 of Eurosong protocol.

The Voice Cage

Thom didn’t know what day it was anymore, but it had been at least a week since the suit. It hadn’t come off. It hadn’t even loosened. 

He’d stopped trying to escape from it after the third day. With the collar locked in place and no zipper, it had been an exercise in futility. He showered in it. Slept in it. Woke up each morning to the same high-necked yellow gloss staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. When he dressed over it—SwedeTV-approved trousers and geometric pullovers—the suit made every layer sit too tight, too high. His skin no longer felt like skin. It felt like packaging. 

And, of course, there was the bulge. Or what was left of it. 

His manhood wasn’t gone, wasn’t erased. It was modified. Enhanced in size but reduced in detail. Pushed outward and polished flat. The smooth mound responded to neither cold nor heat nor friction. He could still touch it and rub it, but nothing stirred. Pleasure came faintly and late, like hearing a melody you used to love echoing from another room. It wasn’t pleasure. It was the memory of pleasure. 

And the music. God, the music. It was always playing on television, in the hallway speakers, and through the wall panels of his unit, like the sound system had a nervous tic. His constant companions were Schlager choruses, autotuned chants, and bright strings dissolving into synthetic claps. He used to hate it. He did hate it. 

But he’d caught himself humming along once while brushing his teeth. He told himself it was a fluke. But the second time, he tapped his foot, and this morning, he caught his hips twitching and thrusting in sync as the electric kettle steamed. 

It was seeping in. 

He followed another silent handler, this one shorter and broader, a woman maybe, or just differently shaped, down a new corridor. This one was darker than the others. Black panels and thin red strips of light lined the walls. Thom walked with a strange posture now: shoulders pulled back by a week of fabric tension, spine subtly elongated, and feet always in rhythm, even when resisting. 

The door opened without warning. Inside, the sound booth was circular—black, soft lined, and padded with jagged acoustic foam that resembled dead coral. Red LEDs pulsed faintly behind the panels, giving the entire booth a spaceship-like menace. At the center stood a sleek, chrome, spine-thin microphone beneath a glowing ring suspended from the ceiling, its light a steady, artificial halo. 

There was no chair, no technician, just the mic and a speaker grille somewhere high in the wall. 

“Good morning, Thom.” 

Petra’s polished, exact, and slightly amplified voice rang out, as if speaking through a filter designed to soothe mental patients or subdue livestock. 

“Today, we begin calibration of your vocal profile. Please step to the microphone.” 

Thom hesitated, but only for a moment. The hesitation was small, almost perfunctory. He walked to the mic, the yellow suit whispering beneath his clothes as he moved. As he reached the center, the glowing ring adjusted its position. It descended a few inches, centering directly over his head. 

Then he noticed it. 

Up in the far wall: a glass panel. Not a mirror, but a window, and beyond it was Petra. Watching. One hand under her chin, the other gently tapping her nails on the table before her. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

In perfect time. 

“Begin introduction,” Petra said calmly, her lips barely moving. The words issued from the wall speaker, not from the window. “Initialize SFYNX.” 

There was a soft and crystalline chime like a harp being struck inside a padded box. Then, a voice unplaceable in gender, accent, or intent filled the chamber. 

“Hello, Thom. I am SFYNX. I will be assisting with your vocal journey.” 

The voice was calm, lilting, and unnervingly gentle. It sounded like it belonged to a meditation app created by a pharmaceutical firm. 

“Today’s session will include resonance scanning, emotional affect testing, and brightness calibration.” 

Thom looked up at the glowing ring above his head and then down at the mic. It had begun to glow at the tip—just faintly—a warm, pulsing gold. 

“Please sing the first verse of your original submission,” Petra said. “From the top. No accompaniment.” 

Thom cleared his throat. It sounded strange in the space. Too loud. Too human. 

“Now?” He asked. 

There was no reply. There was only silence, and the ring above his head shone brighter. He closed his eyes and tried to center. The melody came instinctively, a combination of muscle memory and the raw emotion that inspired the song in the first place. He opened his mouth and began. 

“I waited by the bridge in the fall. The water low, the sky too wide…” 

His voice was visceral. Simple. Unadorned. It was how he always sang it—soft, deliberate, almost conversational. But even as he reached the second line, something shifted. 

An almost imperceptible tone rang from the glowing ring overhead. It wasn’t a correction, not overtly. It was more like a polite interruption. A nudge. 

Thom kept going. 

“I spoke your name but heard the wind…” 

Ding. 

The mic’s gold light flickered into a cooler shade. Lemon yellow, like his suit. 

“And wished the trees would lie…” 

Another chime, slightly louder this time. 

He stopped. 

“What was that?” 

“Under-emotional cadence detected,” SFYNX responded instantly. “Attempt again with increased openness and vibrance.” 

Petra tapped her nails again. Thom heard it over the speakers. One-two, three-four, one-two, three-four… 

He looked at the mic, then up at her through the glass. Her face betrayed nothing. Thom breathed and sang again, with slightly more lift in the phrasing, less murmur, and more clarity. 

“I waited by the bridge in the fall…” 

Another chime. Higher. The mic responded, its tip shifting in real time with his pitch, glowing brighter the more his voice climbed and fading when he leaned back into his natural hush. 

“Detected flat affect,” SFYNX interrupted. “Tone requires luminosity. Attempt modulation upward 12%.” 

“What does that even mean?” Thom muttered. 

No answer. 

He tried again to sing it brighter, to give the vowels more air and let them shimmer. The system glowed more colorfully, and the interrupting chimes stopped. For a second, he felt something like relief. 

Until he noticed he wasn’t singing it anymore—not the way he wrote it. The phrasing was too sweet, the rhythm slightly faster, and the tone… cheerier. It sounded wrong, but the lights seemed to like it. 

He gritted his teeth and finished. 

Petra spoke again. “Excellent, Thom. Let’s go one more time, just a little brighter.” 

The mic pulsed gold again. 

“Let your voice smile,” SFYNX chimed. 

The lights didn’t brighten. They didn’t need to. The shift came from inside the mic itself, a gradual bloom of glow each time Thom’s voice aligned with SFYNX’s metrics. He sang another verse, and the system reacted instantly. A smooth autotune shimmer overlayed his notes, rounding them upward like someone smoothing out creases in a bedsheet. 

“Repeat,” SFYNX ordered. “Maintain tone elevation. Emotional luminance: 64%.” 

Thom sang again, a little higher this time. The playback loop echoed from the wall speakers. His recorded voice rang out, sugar glossed, slightly faster, and pitched into a brightness that made it sound like someone impersonating him after three espressos and a PR coaching session. 

“I waited by the bridge in the fall…” 

This version had a bounce. A swing. A sort of… involuntary perkiness. 

Thom grimaced. “That’s not—” 

Ding. Another chime interrupted him, soft and perfectly timed, like a disappointed teacher. 

He paused. The mic dimmed. Petra, behind the glass, tilted her head. Her fingers tapped the pane. One-two, three-four. 

SFYNX spoke again. “Repeat until optimal.” 

Thom sighed as the backing track started over. Something changed when he hit the third repetition. His voice curved upward slightly too brightly, and SFYNX responded with full, radiant affirmation. The mic glow surged, the playback loop tightened, and real-time harmony overlaid the sound. 

And below the belt, a soft pressure. Thom froze. 

The bulge. The fake, smooth, rubberized bulge that had encased his own flesh. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t responsive. It wasn’t human. But suddenly. 

He felt a sensation. A vibration. 

A low, diffused pulse, centered directly beneath the flattened swell of his crotch, spread slowly through his pelvis like warm syrup. It wasn’t pleasure, not exactly. It was more like the carefully rationed suggestion of pleasure. All anticipation and no payoff. 

Thom shifted his weight, and the sensation adapted, following and adapting to his movements. He hit another sweet note, precisely modulated, bright, and glistening. The glow deepened, and the bulge responded. This time, a subaudible internal hum, more felt than heard, cascaded outward from his groin. The feeling of being praised inside his body rocked him. His legs tensed involuntarily. His breath hitched. 

“Oh…” 

More playback. Thom’s looped voice was still identifiably his but layered beneath SFYNX’s augmentations. His phrasing was softened and stretched like taffy, made sweet, then sweeter still. Thom opened his mouth to protest and— 

Ding. 

“Repeat until optimal.” 

“Stop,” Thom whispered. “I think I need a break.” 

The mic dimmed but didn’t stop. Petra’s tapping continued. Thom looked up at her, eyes wide and pleading. She smiled—softly, politely, and inevitably. 

Thom swallowed hard. And began to sing. 

The overhead lights shifted to a richer, almost arterial red. The foam-lined walls of the recording booth seemed to close in as the backing track bathed everything in a fevered glow. The ring above Thom’s head pulsed once, then again. 

He hit the last line cleanly. For the first time in the session, there was no chime, no correction. Just a calm stillness. The mic glowed a soft gold, then faded into inertness. 

“Recording logged,” SFYNX said. “Tonal luminosity: 87%. Emotional congruence: 91%.” 

“Is that good?” Thom asked, more to himself than to anyone else. 

Petra’s voice followed smoothly. “Beautiful, Thom. Really beautiful. That was the version we’ve been waiting for.” 

Thom exhaled slowly. Sweat clung to the inside of his suit. His chest ached. 

“Since we’re already here,” Petra continued, “and since you’re warmed up and in such a responsive state, how would you feel about trying one more track?” 

Thom lifted his eyes toward the glass. “Another version of my song? A remix?” 

Petra’s smile was almost audible. “Not quite. A complement. An upbeat B-side for your debut single. Think of it as balance. Light and shade. You’ve delivered the heartbreaking ballad. Now, let’s offer Europe a little sparkle.” 

SFYNX chimed gently in Thom’s headphones. “Cue supplemental track. Suggested pairing, ‘EuroClimax rhythm model.’” 

Without transition, a new beat faded through the headset, uptempo, bright, and bounce heavy. Thom winced. It was like drinking glitter through a straw. 

SFYNX continued. “Please sing the following prototype lyrics for calibration.” 

A brief pause followed, and then: 

Glitz me harder, Daddy Eurozone, 

Glitz my pleasure dome tonight! 

Blast my passport with your pheromone, 

Only you can do me right! 

Thom’s eyes widened to dinner plates. “You’ve got to be joking.” 

“Not at all,” came Petra’s chipper, prepared reply. “It’s meant to be fun. I know this has to seem hopelessly over the top to American ears, but Eurosong audiences love a little self-aware excess. Camp with credibility. It’s all the rage.” 

Thom stepped back from the mic. “That’s not my style. I don’t write shit like that.” 

The lights pulsed darker. SFYNX interjected, more firmly this time. 

“Please begin the chorus. Full melodic compliance is required.” 

Thom tried again to start his own melody, just a simple line from his original composition. The mic clicked off, and the glow vanished. 

Silence. 

Thom’s breath caught. “I said I’m not—” 

Ding. 

Louder than ever. He felt it in his teeth. Then came a slow build in his synthetic bulge. The same syrupy pulse, flattening warmth, and downward slide into pliancy. His hips softened. His stomach fluttered, not from arousal but from reward. He wanted to resist, but his thighs had already relaxed. 

“Just try it once, Thom,” Petra said, laying it on thick. “For contrast. You did so well. Don’t stall your own momentum.” 

Thom’s lips parted. His brain didn’t remember telling them to. 

“Glitz me, harder, Daddy Eurozone…” 

The glow returned. Brighter. Warmer. Irresistible. 

“Glitz my pleasure dome tonight…” 

The suit hummed beneath his clothes. The bulge swelled gently, not outward, but inward, pulling sensation into itself like a drain. 

“Blast my passport with your pheromone…” 

His pitch rose, higher than comfortable. The mic and the backing track demanded it. 

“Only you can do me…” 

The last word caught in his throat. A squeak, then a choke. His eyes watered as the note strangled him. The system paused. Waited. 

Then SFYNX whispered, “Again.” 

His throat still burned. The final word caught like a fishhook halfway between his voice and the air. 

“…Right,” choked off into something hoarse and sharp, like a hiccup to someone who had never experienced one before. 

The mic didn’t care. SFYNX didn’t, either. 

“Repeat. Again.” 

Thom looked at the floor, blinking tears from his eyes. The red light overhead was almost burgundy now, like velvet soaked in wine. He opened his mouth. His voice cracked. 

“Glitz me harder, Daddy Eurozone…” 

No feedback this time. No error tone. The mic glowed. His bulge pulsed. 

“Glitz my pleasure dome tonight…” 

It came easier this time. The pitches landed correctly. They were sugary, with just the right upward lilts on harder and dome. SFYNX had no corrections. Petra felt no need to interrupt. 

“Blast my passport with your pheromone…” 

The vibration under the suit returned slower and more indulgent. Thom was being rewarded. 

“Only you can do me right.” 

He exhaled when he finished it, but not in relief, more like a release. A second later, SFYNX prompted again. 

“Repetition requested. Increase emotive vibrancy by 4%.” 

Thom hesitated but then sang it again. And again. 

The words rolled off his tongue like he’d known them for years. The melody nested inside his brain like it had always been there, etched into the ridges of his skull. The mic glowed more brightly with each repetition, and the suit grew warmer at his groin. The smooth, synthetic surface pulsed in time with his voice, offering a saccharine wave of feedback every time he nailed a line. Worse than orgasmic. Controlled. Assigned. Earned. 

By the third take, he almost liked it. Almost. 

When the final note rang out, and the mic finally dimmed, he was breathless and glassy eyed, his body tight with containment. 

The booth fell silent, but the ghost of “Glitz Me Harder, Daddy Eurozone” still resounded in Thom’s head. 

“Playback: Preferred Composite.” 

Thom’s voice, twisted and perfected, echoed back through the speakers. Not just one take but an edited stitch of his most compliant takes. 

Glitz me harder, Daddy Eurozone / Glitz my pleasure dome tonight! 

It was Thom’s pitch, Thom’s inflection, but cleaner. Smoother. Digitally flattering. 

Blast my passport with your pheromone / Only you can do me right! 

Again. 

And again. 

And again. 

The playback looped like a prayer. 

Thom tumbled back from the mic, legs numb. His back hit the wall, and he slid down, sitting on the foam-lined floor, his chest rising and falling in irregular bursts. Behind the glass window, Petra hadn’t moved. A monitor lit her face, casting a soft light across her cheekbones. She looked mildly pleased but emotionally absent. 

“We’ll continue from here tomorrow,” she said, disappearing out of sight. 

The mic above Thom’s head lowered on its suspension cable, descending like a pendulum. It hovered just in front of his face. Thom looked away. 

He was still silent when his handler arrived. Different from the last one—he never saw the same staffer twice—this one was tall with dark blond hair and white gloves, dressed in the same stoic black SwedeTV uniform. He didn’t say a word as he led Thom through a different, narrower network of corridors than before. 

The sleek car that awaited them in the underground parking lot had tinted windows, a soft black interior, and chilled bottled water in each holder. Thom sank into the seat like a mannequin being stored. As the car started moving, he closed his eyes and, without thinking, began to hum. 

Softly. Just a few bars. 

“Glitz me harder, Daddy Eurozone…” 

He stopped mid phrase, jaw tightening. The handler, eyes still on the road, said flatly, “Catchy.” 

Thom looked over, startled. The handler didn’t look back at him. 

“What’s that you’re singing?” 

Thom swallowed. He tried to laugh, but nothing came out. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just some earworm I can’t get out of my head.” 

The bulge answered before the handler could. A soft wave of pleasure bloomed across his groin. Praise. 

He looked away from the window and stared straight ahead. He didn’t hum again, but the tune kept playing in his mind, note for note, word for word, perfectly in time. 

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