# ASTRAEUS PROGRAM — CANDIDATE PHYSICAL EVALUATION

## FILE #7710-F | CANDIDATE: SARAH KOVAC, 18 | STATUS: INITIAL SCREENING

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## I. BACKSTORY

Sarah Kovac had wanted to be an astronaut since she was seven years old, standing in a Nebraska cornfield with her father's binoculars aimed at Jupiter. She'd been able to identify four Galilean moons that night — pinpricks of light arranged in a line beside the bright disc — and something had locked into place in her chest. A certainty. She was going *there*.

She'd built her life around that certainty the way a cathedral is built around an altar. Straight A's through middle school. AP Physics, AP Chemistry, AP Calculus by sophomore year. Captain of the swim team — not because she loved swimming, but because the Astraeus application weighted physical fitness and she'd read that swimmers had the ideal cardiovascular profiles. She'd taught herself Russian from YouTube videos and library books because cosmonauts trained at Star City and you never knew. She'd won a regional science fair with a project on closed-loop life support systems. She'd been accepted to MIT, early decision, aerospace engineering.

And she'd applied to Astraeus the day she turned eighteen — three months ago — filling out the forty-page application in a single sitting, her fingers shaking, her heart full. When the acceptance for physical evaluation arrived, she'd cried. Alone, in her dorm room, face in her hands, crying because the door she'd been walking toward her entire life had opened.

Then she'd found the forums.

She'd read every post. Unlike Elena Vasquez — who Sarah would never meet, who had walked out of Room 11 two hours ago bleeding — Sarah had not been able to read the posts with any composure. She'd read them curled on her side in bed, phone held close to her face, her body going cold and then hot and then cold again. The capsaicin. The needles. The speculums — *seven*, progressively larger, with needle arrays. The sigmoidoscope. The enema. The breast compression. The clitoral injections. The dermabrasion of the anus. The uterine scraping.

She'd set the phone down and stared at the ceiling and thought: *I can't do this.*

Then she'd thought: *Jupiter. Four moons. I was seven.*

Then she'd picked up the phone and called her boyfriend.

---

Caleb Brandt was nineteen. Six-one, lean, quiet in the way that engineering students sometimes are — his mind always partially elsewhere, running calculations. He and Sarah had been together for eleven months. They'd met in an intro physics lecture, bonded over a shared obsession with orbital mechanics, and fallen into a relationship that was comfortable, intellectual, and physically cautious. They'd done things — hands, mouths, his fingers inside her once that she'd stopped because it hurt — but Sarah was a virgin. She'd always planned to wait until it felt right, and with the Astraeus application requiring virginal status for the baseline examination, "right" had been pushed further into the future.

Caleb knew about the exam. Sarah had shown him the forums. He'd read them with a furrowed brow and said, "That's intense," and then, "Do you want me to come?" She'd said yes. She needed someone there. Someone who loved her.

What she didn't know — what Caleb himself wasn't fully aware of, existing as it did in the unexamined basement of his psychology — was that reading the forum posts had produced a reaction in him that was not purely sympathetic. He'd read about the restraints, the exposure, the progressive speculums piercing the vaginal walls, the screaming, the helplessness — and something had stirred. Not the conscious, daylight part of him. Something lower. He'd closed the browser and hadn't revisited it, but the images had stayed — his girlfriend, restrained, exposed, penetrated with needles, crying — and they'd stayed with a warmth that unsettled him.

He'd agreed to come as her support person. He'd signed the observer waiver and the participation consent — because the form had made it sound routine, because Sarah had asked him to sign everything so there would be no delays. He hadn't thought deeply about what "participation at the medical team's discretion" might involve.

Now they were standing in the corridor outside Room 11, and the door was opening.

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## II. ARRIVAL AND PREPARATION

Sarah Kovac was five-foot-six. One hundred and eighteen pounds. An athlete's body — lean, defined, shaped by years of competitive swimming. Broad shoulders for her frame. A narrow waist. Hips that flared modestly. Her legs were long relative to her torso, muscled in the thighs and calves. Her breasts were a full B-cup, bordering on C — firm, youthful, with enough weight to shift when she moved. Her skin was fair, lightly freckled across her shoulders and chest — the kind of Irish-pale complexion that flushed easily and showed every mark. Her hair was auburn, pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were green. Her face was open, expressive, the kind of face that couldn't hide what it felt.

Right now, it showed fear.

*You've done harder things than this,* she told herself, walking into Room 11. *You swam the 400 IM with a torn rotator cuff at state championships. You survived AP Calc with Mr. Henderson. You can do this.*

The room was exactly as the forums had described. Hexagonal. Dark walls. Blue-white LED strips. Four screens on the far wall. And at the center — the platform.

*Oh God. Oh God, it's real.*

She could see the restraints. The stirrups. The cuffs at every joint. The overhead camera, already active, displaying an empty platform on Screen Four. The instrument carts draped in black cloth. The enema apparatus — the tall cylinder with tubes — standing against the wall like a sentinel.

*Jupiter. Four moons. I was seven.*

"Sarah Kovac?" A man's voice — calm, professional.

Three people stood inside the room. Sarah registered them with the hyperclarity of adrenaline:

**Dr. Alexei Morin** — the same senior physician who had examined Elena, though Sarah didn't know that. Tall, gray-haired, rimless glasses. His expression was neutral but not unkind. He extended a gloved hand, and Sarah shook it. His grip was firm, warm. "I'm Dr. Morin. Senior evaluating physician. I'll be leading your examination today."

**Dr. Priya Suresh** — dark hair, sharp features, a slight smile that was clearly intentional, clearly meant to put Sarah at ease. "Dr. Suresh. I'll be assisting. We're going to take excellent care of you, Sarah."

**Nurse Tomás Herrera** — broad, silent, already at the instrument carts. He glanced at Sarah and gave a small nod — a gesture of acknowledgment that was, in its brevity, almost comforting.

"And you are — ?" Dr. Morin looked at Caleb.

"Caleb Brandt. Her boyfriend. I'm her support person."

"Good. You've signed the observer waiver and participation consent?"

"Yes."

"Your chair is there. You'll have full visual and screen access." Dr. Morin turned back to Sarah. His voice shifted — slightly warmer, slightly slower. "Sarah. I want you to know that everything we do today has a specific medical and evaluative purpose. The examination is rigorous — I won't pretend otherwise. But you are in a controlled environment with three experienced professionals, continuous monitoring, and the ability to terminate at any point. If you terminate, you forfeit your candidacy, but your safety is never at risk. Do you understand?"

*He's trying to make me feel safe,* Sarah thought. And it worked, a little. His voice was steady and unhurried. He wasn't rushing her.

"I understand," she said.

"Good. You'll need to remove all clothing."

Sarah undressed behind the curtain. She folded her clothes with the precision of someone who needed to control *something* — jeans squared, T-shirt smoothed, bra laid flat. Her bra was a 34B, light blue, underwired. Her underwear was plain white cotton. She placed everything in the clear bag and stood naked, feeling the cold air raise every hair on her body.

*Okay. Okay. You're doing this.*

She stepped out. Naked. The blue-white light made her fair skin almost luminous. Her freckles stood out — scattered across her collarbones, the upper slopes of her breasts, her shoulders. Her nipples were pink, small, tightened by the cold into hard points. The hair between her legs was neat, auburn, trimmed but not shaved — a soft triangle above her vulva. Her labia were small and closed, the inner lips not visible. Between her muscled thighs, her anatomy was compact, modest, entirely private.

Until now.

Caleb saw her — he'd seen her naked before, in his dorm room, in the dark usually, fumbling and warm. But not like this. Not under clinical light, standing in front of three strangers, her entire body exposed and vulnerable. He felt something tighten in his chest — protectiveness, he told himself — and something tighten lower that he didn't name.

On Screen Four, the overhead camera was active. Sarah could see herself walking toward the platform — a pale, freckled figure moving through the dark room, naked, small.

*Don't think. Just move.*

She mounted the platform. The padding was cold. She placed her feet in the stirrup rests and felt the leg supports separate, spreading her thighs, tilting her pelvis forward. Her vulva was exposed — presented to the room. On the screen, she could see it: the neat closed lips, the auburn hair above, the pale skin of her inner thighs. Three strangers and her boyfriend could see everything she had.

*I'm going to be sick.*

She wasn't sick. She was still.

"Restraints," Dr. Morin said.

Herrera began. Ankle cuffs — rigid composite shells, silicone-lined. The mechanical *clack* of each lock was louder than Sarah expected. It resonated in her ribcage. Right ankle. Left ankle. She pulled instinctively. Nothing. Zero movement.

*Oh God. I can't move my feet.*

Wrist cuffs. Her arms extended on the rests, palms up, forearms bare. The cuffs locked around her wrists. *Clack. Clack.* She flexed. The cuffs held her like she was embedded in concrete.

Thigh straps — wide bands across her mid-thighs. She felt her legs locked open, her knees prevented from closing by even a degree. The waist belt crossed her lower abdomen, pressing her pelvis flat. The chest strap went above her breasts, pinning her torso. The pelvic stabilizer — lower — locked her hips in position.

Finally, the head brace. Padded arms at her temples. Forehead band. Her skull immobilized against the headrest.

"Restraint check," Herrera said. He pulled each point. Nothing moved. "Seven-point immobilization confirmed."

Sarah was breathing fast. Too fast. She could feel her heart slamming against her sternum. On the screen, she could see herself — strapped down, spread open, her most private anatomy displayed in high resolution. Her green eyes were wide, her pupils dilated.

*I can't move. I literally cannot move any part of my body. I'm naked and I can't move and three people and Caleb can see everything and the camera is recording everything and —*

"Sarah." Dr. Morin's voice, close to her ear, calm. "Your heart rate is 122. I want you to take three deep breaths for me. Can you do that?"

She did. Three breaths. Her heart rate dropped to 114. Still high. But controllable.

"Good," he said. "That's very good. You're doing well. We haven't even started yet, and you're already showing excellent self-regulation." He placed a hand briefly on her shoulder — a warm, grounding touch. "We're going to go step by step. I'll explain everything before it happens. Dr. Suresh and Nurse Herrera are here to support. Your boyfriend is right there. You are not alone."

*He's kind,* Sarah thought. *He's being kind to me before he does the things the forums described.*

The thought made her eyes sting.

"Caleb," she said. Her voice was thinner than she wanted. "Are you there?"

"Right here, babe." His voice came from behind her left shoulder. She couldn't turn to see him. "I'm right here. You've got this."

He was looking at her body. He couldn't help it — she was the centerpiece of the room, naked and restrained and spread, and the overhead screen showed angles he'd never seen. The delicate fold where her inner thigh met her vulva. The tiny depression of her anus between her buttocks. The way the restraints pulled her skin taut over her hip bones. He felt his pulse in his throat and in his groin and hated himself for it, briefly, before the feeling was overtaken by a darker curiosity: *What is this going to look like? What is she going to sound like?*

Herrera attached monitoring leads. Pulse oximeter, blood pressure cuff, ECG pads on her chest — two of them placed on the upper slopes of her breasts, the adhesive pulling at her freckled skin.

Heart rate: 114 bpm.

Blood pressure: 134/86.

Respiratory rate: 20.

"Let's begin," Dr. Morin said. "Breast examination first, during enema retention."

---

## III. BREAST EXAMINATION — SYSTEMATIC NERVE DESTRUCTION PROTOCOL

"We'll begin with the breasts while the enema prepares," Dr. Morin said. "But first — the enema needs to be administered so it has time to work."

**Enema Administration:**

The process was efficient. Herrera positioned the nozzle — inch and a half diameter, inflatable cuff, capsaicin lubricant. Sarah watched on the screen as it approached her anus.

*That's going inside me. That red lubricant — that's the capsaicin —*

"Small pressure now," Dr. Suresh said, standing near Sarah's hip. "The nozzle is entering your anal canal. The lubricant contains capsaicin, which will feel warm and then hot. This is normal."

*Warm and then hot. She said warm and then —*

The nozzle entered. Sarah's anus stretched around it — she'd never had anything inside her there — and the capsaicin contacted the sensitive lining.

"Oh — *oh* — " Sarah's voice went high. The burn ignited across the thin mucosal surface. "That's — it's really — it *burns* —"

"I know," Dr. Suresh said. Her voice was genuinely soothing. "That's the capsaicin doing its job. It's going to prepare your bowel for the sigmoidoscopy later. Try to breathe through it."

The cuff inflated. The flow began. Hot liquid — 41°C, capsaicin-saline — entered her rectum.

Sarah gasped. The heat was wrong — not bath-warm, not comfortable, but invasively hot, and the capsaicin turned it into internal fire within seconds. She felt her rectum fill, the walls stretching, the burning solution coating every surface.

"One liter," Herrera reported.

By two liters, Sarah was crying. Not screaming — she was trying hard to maintain composure, to justify Dr. Morin's assessment that she had excellent self-regulation — but the tears fell anyway, running from the corners of her green eyes into the headrest. Her abdomen was beginning to swell — the flat swimmer's stomach pushing outward.

*Jupiter. Four moons. Breathe. Breathe.*

"You're doing very well, Sarah," Dr. Morin said. He was watching her vitals, her face, her abdominal distension — monitoring all of it. "Two liters is the first milestone. You're tolerating it well."

*He says I'm doing well. I'm crying and my insides are burning and he says I'm doing well. Is this what 'well' looks like?*

Three liters. The cramps hit — deep, rolling waves of pressure that made her abdominal muscles seize against the waist belt. Sarah groaned — a low, involuntary sound that she couldn't suppress. Her belly was round now, taut, the skin stretching over the fluid.

"Three liters. Good. Past the halfway point," Dr. Suresh said.

Four liters. Sarah screamed for the first time. A sharp, explosive cry as a cramp bent her body against every restraint. Her swollen belly was visible on the screen — dramatically distended, her swimmer's abs outlined beneath stretched skin. The capsaicin was deep in her colon now, burning tissue that had no experience with this kind of stimulus.

"Please — " she gasped. "It's so much — I'm so full — "

"One more liter, Sarah. You're almost there. You're being very brave," Dr. Morin said.

*Brave. He called me brave. I'm screaming and crying and he called me brave.*

Five liters. Sarah's scream was longer this time — sustained, wavering, as the final liter pushed her small body to its limit. Her abdomen was enormous — a tight, swollen dome. She looked eight months pregnant, her slender frame distorted by the volume of burning liquid trapped inside her.

"Five liters. Retention cuff engaged. Timer: thirty minutes," Herrera said.

"Good," Dr. Morin said. "Sarah, you're going to hold that for thirty minutes while we do your breast exam. I know it's uncomfortable. The cramping will come in waves — breathe through the peaks, rest in the valleys. We're right here."

*Uncomfortable. He said uncomfortable. I have five liters of pepper-water locked inside me and it feels like my organs are dissolving and he said UNCOMFORTABLE.*

Sarah was crying steadily — quiet, hiccupping tears. On the screen, she could see her distended body, the nozzle in her anus, the tube connecting her to the reservoir. She looked away.

Caleb was in his chair, leaning forward. His eyes moved between Sarah's face — the tears, the flushed cheeks, the clenched jaw — and her swollen belly, and the nozzle visible between her spread buttocks. His mouth was dry. His heart was pounding. He was fully erect in his jeans and had been since the restraints were locked. He crossed his legs and pressed his hand against his thigh and tried to think about orbital mechanics and could not think about anything except the sounds Sarah was making.

---

**Breast Examination:**

"Sarah," Dr. Morin said, positioning the instrument tray. "Your breast examination uses what we call the systematic nerve destruction protocol. It's more involved than a standard exam. I'm going to explain each step before we do it, and I want you to tell me if you need a moment at any point. However, the procedures themselves cannot be modified or shortened."

*Cannot be modified or shortened. So I can ask for a moment, but not for mercy.*

"The first phase is deep-tissue injection mapping," he said. "We inject contrast agents into each breast quadrant to illuminate tissue structures. The agents include capsaicin compound, substance P analog, and concentrated histamine. Each targets different pain pathways. This is medically necessary for our tissue assessment."

Sarah stared at the ceiling. Her breasts — firm B-cups, pink-nippled, freckled on the upper slopes — rose and fell with her rapid breathing. The cramps from the enema rolled through her in waves, each one drawing a flinch and a small cry.

"How many injections?" she whispered.

"Thirty-six per breast. Seventy-two total."

*Seventy-two needles in my breasts. Seventy-two.*

"The needles are 16-gauge for the first round and 14-gauge for the second and third rounds."

*Fourteen-gauge. That's — I got my ears pierced with a 16 and it hurt for days —*

"We'll begin."

Dr. Morin took the right breast. Dr. Suresh took the left. Both doctors positioned simultaneously, each holding a 10ml syringe with a 16-gauge needle — over 1.6mm in diameter, visibly thick.

"First injection. Capsaicin compound. Upper outer quadrant, bilateral."

Dr. Morin's gloved hand cupped the outside of Sarah's right breast, stabilizing it. She felt the warmth of his palm through the nitrile, the firmness of his grip on her intimate flesh. Then the needle tip dimpled the freckled skin of her upper breast.

"Small stick," he said.

It was not a small stick. The 16-gauge needle drove through her skin and into the breast tissue with a resistance she could feel — a meaty, deep puncture that was nothing like a blood draw. The needle sank to its hub. Sarah's breath caught — a sharp inhale, her eyes widening — and then Dr. Morin depressed the plunger, and capsaicin compound flooded into her breast tissue.

The burn began in a pinpoint and *expanded* — a blooming sphere of chemical heat radiating outward through the glandular tissue. Sarah gasped, then cried out — a sharp "Ah!" that echoe