“We know who you are. If you will, please prepare for dinner. You must be famished.” He slightly bows as he backs out of the room and closes the door behind him.
I have a million questions, starting with: How could he possibly know who I am? Those can wait. First things first. Where is the food? Because he was right. I am starving.
A pitcher of water sits on a small table across the room. I stumble down three steps and over to it. My hands violently shake as I gulp the fresh water until it pours down my chest.
The reflection in the full-length mirror gives me a jump scare. I look like shit with my sweat-stained coveralls, limp ponytail, and sunburn that is not going away anytime soon.
From here, I get a better look at the clothes laid out for me. They don’t look quite right. I tilt my head, trying to make sense of them from a different angle. They must have forgotten the rest of the outfit. This seriously cannot be all of it.
The bottoms, if you can call them that, are no more than a flimsy metal chain waistband holding two sad strips of maroon fabric. One for the front, one for the back. leaving my legs exposed all the way to my hips. This can’t be the skirt. This is the thing you wearunderthe skirt. The top is simply a molded leather bra, barely enough to cover my tits. I could punch myself for not wearing panties the last day on the station. I was between laundry days and figured no one would ever know.
I look back and forth between my ruined coveralls and theskimpy outfit laid out for me. Sand is still leaking from my pockets and the smell is awful.
Okay, iconic sexy captive outfit it is. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding and there is actual clothing down here. Coveralls are universally available. There must be a spare set I can borrow. Less than ideal wardrobe options aside, things are starting to look up.
See? Things always work out. I just needed to keep going. Soon, I’ll be on my way quicker than you can say, “Galaxy Far-Far-Away discount rack.”
Bath first, then clothes. I shake the sand out of my hair and brush off my skin, making a pile of sand on the clean floor. My mom would throw a fit if she saw the mess I am making.I’ll clean it up later, I promise.
Sunken into the ground of the adjoining bathroom is a giant steaming bathtub. No, not a bathtub. Better. One of those ancient Roman baths that can fit enough people for an orgy, and it’s all mine. The water is going to need to be drained by the time I’m done with it. I sink down in the warm chest-deep water, and all the dirt and sand floats away.
Colorful glass bottles line the edge of the tub. I twist the cork out of the one with a light citrusy scent. This is the one I want to drench myself in.
Starting at the top, I work my way down, not missing an inch of my body in my mission to get clean. I scrub the sand off my scalp and out of my ears. I dig it out from my fingernails and go all the way down to between my toes. When my fingers are wrinkled, I step out and tightly wrap a towel around my chest.
Reluctantly, I pick up the clothes and look them over once more. I set my shoulders back in defiance. I refuse to be intimidated by an outfit. I’ll wear it, and I’ll rock it.
Putting the bra on is the first challenge. I awkwardly tie it behind my back. It technically fits but doesn’t cover much. I dangle the bottoms out in front of me. Once secured, it hangs loosely below my hips, the fabric barely covering the essentials. I braid my faded pinkhair back. The strappy sandals tucked under the bed are next. They are tight and cut into my feet. I kick them back under the bed. I don’t do uncomfortable shoes.
This time, the reflection in the mirror looks familiar. A little more sideboob than I’d prefer, but I’ll take it.
I scoop up my dirty clothes and take them to the sink in the bathroom.
I run water over them and squeeze them out a few times, concentrating my scrubbing on the dirtiest and smelliest parts. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do. I hold the dripping clothes in front of me and open my door. I peer out into the dim stone hallway, a tunnel seemingly hand-carved out of rock. Small hash marks speckle the walls and rounded ceiling.
Seeing no one, I push the door wide open and walk straight into an alien, their hooded face landing right between my tits. I jump back and almost drop my clothes.
“Oh, sorry! You scared me!”
Why am I apologizing? Who waits at the door like that?
“Radiant Golden One, it is I who should be apologizing. Please, if you will allow me, the brethren have assembled should you deign to bless us with your glorious presence.” He lowers his head and waits for my response. I try not to laugh at his flowery language. Elowen would be elbowing my bare ribs right now reminding me to be respectful of other planets’ customs.
“You can call me Bri. And your name is…?” I ask, hoping it’s something I can pronounce.
“You may call me Brethren.”
“Um, okay. Can I take my clothes to the surface so they can dry out?” I ask, holding up the dripping clothes in my hand.
“Celestial Loveliness, do not concern yourself with such tasks. I will take care of your every need.”
I stifle a laugh. If Jamie heard someone call me “celestial loveliness,” I’d never live it down.
He takes the sopping mess from me and tucks it under his arm.
“Is there some way I can call home? I need to let people know where I am.”
“But…you are home,” he says with all sincerity.
