Page 6 of Reluctantly Abducted
"Adjacent quarters. We are to remain in proximity for the duration of the assessment."
Of course we are. Because having an alien abduct me wasn't weird enough - now I have to be roommates with one.
"Great," I say. "This should be fun."
Ry'eth's expression suggests he has a very different definition of fun than I do. As we move toward the door, I catch a whiff of another strange scent, something like ozone mixed with sea air, fresh but with an alien undertone that reminds me I'm further from home than I've ever been.
Chapter Three
Ry'eth
I walk a few paces ahead of the human, maintaining what should be a proper distance according to both safety protocols and basic dignity standards. Yet I find myself uncomfortably aware of his presence behind me, like a gravitational anomaly disrupting my equilibrium.
The corridor stretches before us, its curved architecture designed to maximize both space efficiency and aesthetic harmony. Under normal circumstances, I would appreciate the elegant mathematics of its construction. Currently, I am focusing on these details primarily to avoid acknowledging the nearly unclothed human following me.
Humans wear clothes. This is a documented fact from our extensive observation data. They do not walk around their dwellings—or research vessels—in nothing but thin fabric coverings that expose nearly all of their skin. The concept of a sentient being so casually displaying their physical form is deeply unsettling.
I have never seen anyone outside my immediate family so exposed, and not since we all reached physical maturity. Even our sleeping attire covers most of the body. It is simply not done.
"Do you always walk around with your back to strangers, or is this a special treatment just for me?"
The human's voice—Owen Hayes, 38 Earth years, former military medical specialist according to his file—interrupts my cataloging of appropriate conversational topics that do not involve commenting on the state of his undress.
I do not turn around. "Your quarters are this way. Naturally I would face the direction in which we are traveling."
"You don't have any sense of self-preservation, do you?"
This comment is unexpected enough that I glance back, despite my determination not to. My momentary lapse in judgment results in another unwanted visual confirmation that the human is still wearing nothing but the thin fabric covering his lower body, revealing a muscular torso marked with several scars. A particularly noticeable one runs across his chest, a reminder that this human has seen combat.
I force my eyes back to his face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you're walking ahead of someone who already punched you once, leaving yourself completely open to attack." His tone contains both criticism and something that sounds oddly like professional assessment. "You turned your back on a potential threat, you have no defensive stance, and based on how you handled that punch earlier, you don't know the first thing about defending yourself."
My skin betrays me immediately, illuminating with embarrassment. The bioluminescent response is uncontrollable and intensely frustrating, especially when it is triggered by this human's accurate observation of my tactical deficiencies.
"Our species does not typically resolve differences through physical combat," I say stiffly, pressing my lips together to prevent further defensive remarks. The less I engage, the sooner this humiliating experience will end.
I turn and continue walking, though I am now acutely aware of my vulnerable position and the combat-trained human behind me. It is a deeply unsettling sensation.
We continue in silence until we reach the designated guest quarters. I place my palm against the identification panel, and the door slides open with a soft hydraulic sound.
"These are your assigned quarters," I state, stepping aside to allow him to enter first. A tactical correction, if a minor one.
The human—Owen—steps into the room, his eyes scanning the space with what appears to be professional assessment. I observe his gaze noting the entry and exit points, the environmental controls, the dimensions of the space. It is, I realize, exactly how I would evaluate a new environment, though presumably for different reasons.
"How do I open the doors?" he asks, turning to face me. "Or am I supposed to be trapped in here?"
"You are not a prisoner," I say, perhaps too quickly. "The doors operate on a biometric recognition system."
I step to the control panel beside the main door and place my hand against it. "I will program the system to recognize your biometrics."
I navigate through the control protocols, deliberately focusing on the technical details rather than the human's proximity. His body radiates heat at a higher temperature than Nereidan physiology, creating a noticeable thermal gradient between us.
"Place your hand here," I instruct, moving aside.
He steps forward and presses his palm against the panel. His hand is larger than mine, with calluses along the palm and fingers that suggest regular physical labor or training. The scanner illuminates his hand briefly with blue light.
"Registration complete," I say. "You now have access to all common areas of the vessel, including the nutrition center, bathing facility, and observation deck."
