3. Mind Prison

"Stop, or I'll shoot you dead, scythkin." Sheriff calls out. "This time it won't be a warning. I'll shoot to kill."

"Shoot me dead, and you will bring the wrath of my brood down on your world," the scythkin replies without so much as skipping a beat.

That shuts Sheriff up. That seems to quell most of the other aliens' objections to the scythkin's behavior, actually. There is not an alien present who dares cross this creature, including me. I don't fight. I don't squirm. I don't even wriggle a little. I let myself be abducted by the big, terrible, terrifying creature with the human obsession.

The scythkin is docked along with everybody else's. There is a whole row of alien vessels dedicated to my capture here. It's almost a compliment.

"Can we sabotage the Sheriff's ship before we go?"

"Nobody else is relevant now," the scythkin says. "You'll never have to worry about anybody else ever again."

That makes me feel better, and it might even be true. I had hoped it was true with Raz, but Raz has been left behind in all of this, and he certainly couldn't have kept me safe from my enemies. That's unfortunate. I really liked him. I don't think I'm going to get to spend much time with him from now on, though.

The scythkin takes me to his ship, which is an impressive, sleek vessel. It gleams black and dangerous in the highlighter dock of the asteroid. A few curves here and there give it an almost organic appearance, like the casing of a very dangerous insect.

I am sure Raz will follow, just as I am sure the others will follow. As soon as we stop anywhere, the other owners will be on us again, finding various ways to steal me for themselves and using me for their own purposes. I'm already losing track of how many frying pans there are to leap out of, and fires to burn me subsequently.

The interior of the scythkin ship looks like a mid-century human living room. I could ask why, but it would be a waste of energy, I suspect. It's probably the same reason anybody's place looks like anything: just because.

"I need to put a fresh suit on," he says. "I am monstrous to you now. Once I take a more human form we can talk. Take a seat on the couch and wait for me to come back."

When I don't immediately sit down, he picks me up and puts me on the couch where he wants me, moving me around like a living doll. I stare up at this massive, shiny, dark creature with the shiny protrusions that represent endless danger and I try to fathom how he could ever fit himself into a human form.

He turns and walks away, apparently satisfied that I will obey him. He's right. I do obey him. I am shell-shocked, I think. The trauma of the last twenty-four hours, topped off by the reality that my life is genuinely in immediate danger is catching up with me.

I sit and I look around myself at a perfect recreation of a point of human history that existed many hundreds of years in the past. Earth tones were very in at the time, natural fibers and organic shapes. There's nothing complicated here, and ironically, nothing sharp. The couch I am sitting on is a bright turquoise which contrasts with the egg-yellow rug at my feet which is then complemented by the wood paneled walls. There are silver and black dials and little red lights mounted on some of the walls. I'm not sure what they do, but I'm sure they're not as simple as dimmer-switches and other anachronistic things.

It's like finding myself in a museum. A very cool museum. It's actually quite cozy and charming. Maybe there's some part of me that remembers when things were this way, when humans were mostly confined to planet Earth, and the biggest problem anybody had was the imminent prospect of mutual annihilation.

I wish all I had to worry about was mutual annihilation. I'd take a vague human enemy that was largely propaganda to begin with in the first place over this complete mess I've landed myself in for only the best of reasons. Nobody's asked me the reason I scammed them all yet, and if they did ask, then I'd have quite the story to tell them. But they're not asking. So I guess I'm not telling.

"You need comfort."

Sometimes, words that are intended to soothe are only effective at making one feel a great deal less good. I do need comfort, but that deep voice replete with gravel is not making me feel comforted at all.

The accountant is back. A new human suit has been donned. This one looks much the same as the first. Sandy hair, square jaw, Clark Kent type. He is wearing a day-suit again and carrying a cane over his forearm. Interesting how the universe's most terrifying beast prefers the most harmless aesthetic. I could almost forget who he is and what he is. In fact, I feel a little of the respect I had for him actively leaving my body as I behold what my mind interprets as being an ineffectual peon. Brains really are stupid things. They put way too much weight on what the eyes tell them, and not enough on what all the other thoughts are saying. Thoughts like, argh, he could kill me with a flick of his wrist at any given moment if he wanted to.

He has two cups, one in each of his hands.

"Here," he says, handing me a hot chocolate. "You will likely enjoy this."

I look down at the rich, dark liquid which smells of chocolate, which is the most perfect edible compound in the universe. I take a sip. It is good. Slightly salty, but mostly chocolatey. For a very brief moment, I have the sense that everything is going to be okay. Everything has always been okay, and everything will always be okay. The effect fades as soon as the chocolate leaves my tongue, and on the next sip, the effect is slightly muted. From there, the law of diminishing returns comes into play. I keep drinking, trying to chase the dragon of that first perfect sip, but of course that isn't possible. I finish my beverage without ever feeling quite the same reprieve from worry I felt in that first delicious taste.

The scythkin accountant is standing in front of me, similarly finishing his beverage. I wonder if he feels the same as I do, and if there is a faint sense of melancholy in him as there is in me.

"That was very nice, thank you." I say, polite as I can manage. "I feel as though I haven't eaten since the diner. In fact, I'm almost sure I haven't."

"I will take good care of you," he says. "I am aware of all your physical needs. I have studied your species at great length and intend to continue to do so at even greater depth."

I don't think he means to be threatening. Perhaps he can't help it. Perhaps being constructed from pure menace means he can't say anything that I will find comforting, no matter what he says.

He takes the cup from me and disappears again. I note, in a belated sort of way, the way the mug was a sort of murky green-brown glass color. Not at all appealing in any sense, but it seems to fit the general vibe. Did he have all of this constructed from historical records? Or has he been on the universe's most intense and complete archaeological foray?

"Now," he says as he returns. "We can talk."

He stands in front of me with his feet shoulder-width apart. Taking the cane in one of his hands, he swings it back and forth in front of him, giving me a stern sort of human look that really doesn't seem like anything for me to worry about.

"You've behaved badly," he says. "But that's not your fault. That is how all humans behave when left to their own devices. Scythkin understand this about humans. That's why I intend to train you for my own, and depending on your performance, you will either remain my mate, or have your mind wiped and put into a comfortable simulation in which you will live out the rest of your days blissfully unaware of the fact that the world you live in is not real."

"Wow," I breathe. "I thought death was bad, but you've actually managed to come up with something worse than that."

"The simulation is painless," he says. "Unlike the punishment you have due, which will be anything but. I want you to stand up and remove your clothing."

The more aliens are different, the more they are exactly the same. I don't think the accountant is going to seduce me the way Raz did. He expects me to obey him. Am I going to obey him? Do I really have a choice?

"Stand up," he prompts me again.

"Is there some other way to resolve this?"

"You have put yourself in lethal danger," he says, his tone calm and patient, yet firm. Maybe he doesn't look like an accountant. Maybe he looks more like a headmaster. He seems genuinely disappointed in my behavior, which makes sense. He doesn't know me, so he doesn't know that this behavior is actually very reasonable, all things considered.

"I'm not going to do what you're saying. Sorry."

He clenches his jaw, and I wonder if his face is going to come bursting out of his face.

"You need to be disciplined. I was shot because of your behavior."

"You were shot because Sheriff shot you. He's the one you should be taking this up with."

He reaches down and pulls me up to my feet. I know how much strength is lurking beneath the human suit. I know what horrors and dangers have me in their grasp at this very moment. But I am looking into the mild-mannered face of a man, and my human brain just won't acknowledge my foolishness.

"I am going to take you for my own. The others will be paid as necessary to pursue other mates. You will learn to submit to me and to my law. And you will start now."

He waits for me to undress, but of course I can't now. I've already said I wouldn't, and doing as he says up front would really set the kind of precedent that…

His finger peels back from his suit, and a long, bladed claw emerges in its place. Wordlessly, he cuts the clothing from my body, running his finger against my skin with the most delicate of touches, so carefully that he does not so much as leave a scratch on me. It does destroy every bit of clothing I am wearing. It slides from my body and flops to the floor in a pile of fabric scraps which will require mending if I am ever to wear them again.

"I will ensure you obey me," he says.

He turns me around and pushes me firmly down over the back of the couch. The rest of his suit stays in place, but when I glance over my shoulder, I see the flash of that single scythkin claw giving away the true nature of the beast who has me in his grasp.

The cane whips through the air. I hear a swish, and then a CRACK.

For a brief moment, I feel nothing. Maybe he didn't hit me. Maybe… oh no. An icy-hot flash bursts through my body, making me suddenly aware of every inch of my being. The stripe where the cane landed is especially painful. It feels as though there is some ongoing damage occurring in its wake.

I scream in outrage and fly back up off the couch. His hand is there, pushing me back into position, but I have no interest in submitting to a beating from a judgmental alien. I don't like pain, and I don't tolerate it. But he is powerful and much, much stronger than I am, so what choice do I have? A second and third stroke land, each of them met with a screech and wail on my part.

"Let me go, monster! Let me fucking go!"

"Quiet," he says, looming over me in this mid-century mad interior. "You will learn to be disciplined with some kind of decorum. I will not have a human mate who thinks yelling is appropriate."

"You're hitting me, you oversized fucking roach!"

"Now that is just disrespectful," he says, his tone mild, but his disappointment clear. "None of us is able to choose the form in which we are incarnated. Calling me a roach because I am bothering to do what should have been done to you long ago is very rude."

I almost feel guilty on the receiving end of that lecture. He's right, I am rude. But that is the least of my sins, really.

"It hurts!" I exclaim. He is still keeping me pinned to the couch, but he has not used the cane again. It feels incredibly vulnerable to be naked and beaten, especially in what looks like some old fashioned living room. The scene is domestic, and almost human. It calls to some part of me, an ancestral memory of living this way.

"It is supposed to hurt. I see you have been mated, too. You have been used by another because of the position you put yourself in. Do you realize how furious it makes me to know that this perfect body has been defiled by another male? Do you know how completely you belong to me?"

I squirm against the somewhat rough material of the couch, feeling it brush against my nipples and belly as I try to arch my ass away from the cane. That does nothing to stop it from landing for a fourth time with a flick of his wrist that ignites fresh sting.

"I will take your silence as an indication that you do not yet understand how important you are."

"Why?" The question comes in an anguished wail as a fifth stroke lands.

"You are human. You are a little oasis of potential, rare genetic material. You are a unique creature among unique creatures, and you are acting in a way that will get you killed. There is numahn Sheriff who wishes to execute you. That is unacceptable."

"You won't let him, will you?"

SMACK! The sixth stroke lands, making me writhe and cry and all the usual reactions to being punished. I cannot help myself. Any remnants of dignity are gone, shredded in the wake of his damn cane.

"This is a traditional method for punishing wayward humans," he says, standing back to let me squirm and try to process the pain. "I think it is very effective. You seem to be listening in a way you were not listening before. I hope that this has been a lesson to you."

"Is that it? Are we done?"

"For now," he says, his tone softening slightly.

I am on my knees on the couch. He remains towering over me, his human suited form looking very imposing. There's still that one scythkin claw showing, that reminder of what he is really. My mind is swiftly alternating between feeling terribly brutalized and incredibly protected. Sheriff's not coming through this guy. Nobody is. The others are absolutely out of luck if they think they're going to claim me now.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. I know it's what he wants to hear, though I'm not really sorry.

"I hope you are. Now. Come. You need to be bathed, dressed, and fed."

I like the sound of that. I don't like the feeling of walking with my ass covered in tight, hot lines from the cane, but I do like the way my bare feet curl into the long pile of the carpet as I follow the scythkin's tall, suited form through the interior of his ship that feels like a human home.

I don't know his name. I'm curious, and I almost want to ask, but I also don't really want to be on the receiving end of the question. I have no intention of telling him my name. My name is the last thing I have that is actually mine. It's the one thing I have no intention of turning over to anybody ever again.

He leads me into a bathroom with white ceramic tile on the floor, a mint colored bath, and matching other objects. Toilet, sink, it's all an interesting green color that gives me nostalgia for a time I never experienced. He removes his jacket, hangs it up on a hook on the back of the bathroom door, and rolls his sleeves up his rippling forearms. I keep almost forgetting what he really is, then that flashing claw keeps reminding me. This creature has me off-balance in so many ways.

The bath is run, hot steaming water filling the interior of the tub in a way that seems very inviting to me — or would if I hadn't just been caned and left in a very shamefully downcast mood as a result. It is hard to maintain any kind of attitude with those lines reminding me how easily he handled me, how he gave me a punishment that I could not evade.

"Step in," he says, offering his hand to me to help me get into the bath without slipping. He is obviously very concerned with my wellbeing. He cares. But his care is painful, a lesson I learn yet again as I try to sit down in the bath and discover first that bending is not comfortable, and then that the hot water meeting those cane welts reignites them all over again. A third new pain comes when I have to sit on my caned flesh and be bathed by the alien.

"Ow!" I complain. "This is inhumane. This…"

"Quiet," he censures me. "The pain is the point."

A zap of excitement rushes through me. There's something about his tender mercilessness that makes me feel as though I am in the right kind of danger. Warm water laps around me, foaming bubbles starting to accumulate on the surface as he kneels down next to me and begins lathering a washcloth.

"I have dreamed of doing this with my very own human for longer than I can express," he says as he starts running it over my shoulders. I push my hands down against the bottom of the bath and levitate as much as I can, or float, I guess, anyway, point being, I am trying to keep pressure off my punished bottom. That becomes impossible when he starts washing me. He presses down, not hard, but hard enough to push me firmly down against the ceramic base of the tub.

He sounds genuinely happy while handling me. I have to admit that it feels nice to be taken care of in this way. It has been a long time since anybody cared about me in any way in particular. I close my eyes and I float up a little higher in the bath as he moves to scrub my back instead.

"This is so good," I murmur, surprising myself with the sentiment. I thought I would hate this. I should be hating this. I'm being treated as if I have no agency, as if I am an owned thing. I am being petted and cosseted. I start to close my eyes as the heat and ache of the cane's infernal work starts to come together and be less of something that hurts, and more of something that feels almost good somehow.

My bath is over. I know this, because having washed and rinsed me to his satisfaction, he lifts me out of the bath without warning and begins toweling me dry. Ensconced in a fluffy prison, I surrender to the scythkin's care. I don't understand why he's obsessed with me, but there's no doubt that he does indeed give a damn. I feel like a stray animal having been taken in by a kind but stern trainer.

"Now," he says. "Time to dress you."

He has a dress on hand, a wrap-around garment that fits me because it would likely fit anyone. It also has the dubious advantage, from his perspective, of being easy access in every single way. It is a pale pastel pink in color, and it comes with a pair of matching shoes. Unlike the dress, the shoes don't quite fit. It is hard to make one size fits all footwear. There's probably some kind of lesson in that.

Fortunately, they're on the larger side rather than the smaller side, so I can sort of make them work. I scuff along from the bathroom to the kitchen, which is located through a sliding door that is the only thing that looks like a spaceship so far. A silver sliding door with a middle part opens up to reveal a kitchen with a similar color palette to the bathroom but with more pops of lemon-yellow color along with the mint green.

He dons an apron, giving me a crooked handsome smile as he does. I feel a little pang of sadness that he is trying to hide himself from me. Does it feel odd for him to have to pretend to be something other than what he is?

"Why do you wear the human suits?"

"It is practical. Our kind are feared, and our faces, in our native form, are off-putting."

He thinks he is ugly. But he's not. He's fucking awe-inspiring.

"I will never see anything as incredibly cool as what I saw when you first came out of that suit in the diner," I say. "You're incredible. You're the most impressive creature I have ever seen."

"Thank you," he says, smiling. "But I'll keep the suit on for the moment. I like the way it feels. I get to be contained and to play at civilization. It is rare a scythkin is allowed to enjoy recreational pursuits. I'm making pancakes, with bacon, banana, and maple syrup."

"That sounds amazing."

I sit at a Formica table with white and green checks and I wait for him to feed me. There is a little cushion on the chair which makes the whole thing more comfortable than it would otherwise be. I wait to be fed, while feeling very odd. Nothing about this is customary to me.

"You look as though you've been hungry for a while," he notes.

That question is uncomfortably close to something that probes the truth about me, so of course I have to evade it immediately.

"This just tastes so good. Pancakes are light and fluffy and hot, syrup sinking into them just the right amount, and the bacon is crispy, its saltiness offsetting the sugar in the banana and the syrup. It's perfect."

He looks very pleased with my compliments, and why shouldn't he? I mean every word of them. This is real human food, and that is rare to encounter in this day and age. I eat two plates full and end up feeling a pleasant kind of stuffed I haven't felt in a very, very long time. He is taking care of me so perfectly. This is how a human woman should be treated. Well, apart from the caning, but maybe he doesn't understand the significance of it, or have any idea how it feels. Maybe he read in a book somewhere that human females should be disciplined. Maybe I can dissuade him from ever doing that ever again.

"You are going to be happy with me," he says, his smile warm.

I almost believe him. I find myself wanting to believe him. What if this is my happily ever after, being the personal property of an alien who caters to my every need?

"More hot chocolate?"

"Yes, please."

I really don't need any extra food right now. I am so comfortable. I am so completely catered to.

"Is this what life will be like?"

"Well," he says. "We are not always going to live on my ship, of course. I intend to transport you to a human simulation."

"Human simulation?"

I thought I'd heard of everything, but the universe is constantly coming up with new things to horrify me. The term ‘human simulation' gives me images of people stuck in pods being farmed by machines. Surely he can't mean that. It would be so derivative and horrifying. I don't think he secretly intends to hurt me. His demeanor is that of a kindly 1950's husband explaining how things will be to his wayward new wife.

"You will live in a contained environment, in which you will be kept safe from any and all dangers, including the ones you seem so eager to court."

"You mean I'm going to live as a prisoner."

He lifts a brow at me. "Hardly. Prisoners are not afforded the kindnesses and personal attentions I intend to bestow upon you. Once your mind has been wiped, you will no longer hunger for your wild life…"

"Excuse me?"

"You will no longer wish to run amok. You will…"

"Back a bit," I say. "The part about the mind-wiping. What was that?"

"Humans do better when their reality is controlled," he says. "You've been suffering from an abundance of choices that have left you lost, confused, and self-destructive. Once you are implanted in the simulation you will live the life you were designed by nature to live. You will be happy. You will have no other option."

I keep the smile on my face, forcing it to remain in place because I cannot let him see the wild panic that is scrambling around in my belly like a feral hare. I have to get away from this alien. This is a fate worse than death. At least Sheriff only wants to hang me. This scythkin wants to take my mind and make it, and everything else, his slave.

"Oh," I say, sipping at my chocolate even though it seems to now curdle in my stomach. "And how long until we get to the simulation?"

"Not long. A few days. I know you will no doubt feel impatient to reach such a happy place, but I will ensure you are well taken care of in the meantime."

The slowest, most terrifying sense of horror is beginning to creep through me. This creature is a monster in the truest sense of the word. He will deprive me of the thing that makes me most essentially human. He will take not only my freedom, but my understanding of what freedom is. He'll take my brain and turn me into his little plaything. God knows what he'll do to me. He's the only one who will know, because I'm going to be completely without my fucking mind.

"Wow," I say. "Thank you very much. That's very thoughtful of you."

I need to get off this fucking ship. I need to find an escape vessel, or a life pod, or some kind of whatever. Hell, I'll take an insulated bubble that ends up floating inexorably through space until such time as I end up perishing of hunger rather than be taken to this simulation he seems to think will be nice.

"Could I have a tour of the ship? It seems so amazing."

He smiles at me. "Don't worry about the ship. You are going to need to get used to worrying about yourself and your behavior. And your bed time, which it now is. You are excused from the table."

I take that as a sign to get down, which I don't mind doing because it means I get to move around the ship a little more. The scythkin, who has still not introduced himself by name, leads me to another room inside his vessel — but not before I finally crack and ask him what he's called.

"What should I call you?"

"You can call me Atlas."

"Atlas," I repeat. "You can call me Sandy."

"Cute name," he says.

"Thanks," I smile back. I wonder if he notices that it is more forced now.

I notice that there's a real pain in my ass again, as if the realization that the safety I thought I felt here is just another brand of danger, has made all my senses go heightened again the way they do when I have to try to survive. Usually I at least have the luxury of my situation appearing threatening, but on Atlas's ship everything is sickeningly perfect.

"This will be your room," he says. "You'll have the same one when you enter the simulation."

This room was decorated by someone who collated a set of period-specific images of a room belonging to a female generally. There're a lot of flowers in vases. Too many, really. Everything that can be pink is pink, and that which cannot be pink is either crystal glass or gold. I am sure this is someone's dream room.

The bed is big enough to fit two people quite comfortably, but it would barely fit a scythkin and a human. That makes me wonder if he can, you know, do the deed in his human suit. It also makes me curious as to what a scythkin's cock is like. Would I survive it? Or would it be brutally bladed the same way the rest of him is?

I glance over at him and see him looking down at me with one of those expressions that people give you when they are hoping you will like something they have done for you. He made this room for me, just as he made everything else in this ship for me. He must have wanted a brainwashed little human all of his own so badly.

The bed has a pink floral coverlet, of course, and a lot of strangely shaped small pillows that appear to have eyes. I pick one up, noticing that it also seems to have arms and legs of a kind. It's almost human-shaped, except for the head, which is much more animal.

"What are these?"

"They are teddy bears," he says. "They're small stuffed effigies of one of Earth's most deadly predators — though there has been some debate as to whether bears posed more of a threat to women than men did."

"Are they supposed to be scary?"

"No. They are comfort items. Humans need comfort items."

"Do they need this many?" There has to be a dozen of these at least in various shapes, sizes, and in various clothing. Some of them have little jackets. Others have little pants. It's all out of the realm of my experience. I've never had a comfort item. I've had to get comfortable in other ways.

"I did not know which ones you would like," he explains. "This way you have a choice of several and can choose your favorite. Which one would you like to take to bed?"

"I, uh…"

Raz, the spy, he wanted to fuck me. He did fuck me. I assumed all the aliens wanted some kind of carnal contact. If this scythkin does, he has a somewhat twisted approach to it. He is looking after me as if I am juvenile, but of course I am a fully grown adult.

"You know I am an adult woman," I say.

"Of course you are. That is the entire point."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"You want a mate? Like, a sexual mate?"

He gives me a look that I find rather hard to read. Is it disapproving? Does he find me forward?

"I intend to mate with you, yes. But tonight, my sweet human, you will be looked after, as I suspect you were not looked after before. I want to give you all the experiences you need in order to feel safe. You are going to be taken care of, Sandy. You are going to know what it means to be properly attended to."

He gestures to the bed where a pink frilly nightgown with lace around the neck, cuffs, and hem awaits me.

"Put it on," he says.

Again, I am forced to be naked in front of him. Forced? I suppose he doesn't have to ask twice after the display he gave me the first time. He still has that claw extended on his otherwise human hand. I suppose it's not worth changing the entire suit over a single finger — and it does remind me of my place.

I remove my dinner dress and foot coverings and replace them both with the nightie. The hem drags the floor when I walk, in a very dramatic sort of way.

Atlas, the massive, terrifying alien, pulls back the blankets and moves most of the teddy bears to the other side of the bed, preparing me for bedtime.

He gestures for me to get in. I do as I am told, because there is absolutely no choice. As tender as he might appear to be, I know there is a darkness in him, a danger that cannot be denied. All males, and pretty much all aliens, are dangerous to me.

I slip into the bed and he tucks me in snugly.

"I want you to sleep well," he says. "You need a good amount of rest. You look very tired. I know that running about the universe selling yourself to every kind of alien possible has been quite stressful for you. You'll never have to worry about fending for yourself again, Sandy. I promise that."

He drops an all-too-chaste kiss on my forehead, turns out the light and leaves the room. I lie in the dark for a long moment, just breathing and trying to get some sense of what is happening. I am cleaned. I am fed. I am tired. He's not wrong that traveling around the galaxy trying to sell myself has been stressful. It has also been demoralizing, and worrisome, and a whole bunch of other negative feelings to boot.

Suddenly, I am comfortable. I have had all my basic needs met. The temptation to relax and simply melt into the dark is quite intense. All I need to do is close my eyes, lie back, and let him take care of everything. What do I need a brain for, anyway? Has it ever done me any good? Arguably it has only gotten me into increasing amounts of trouble as my life goes from bad to worse.

My eyes are starting to feel heavy. I fight the temptation to close them, but it almost feels as though I don't really have control over them. There's a certain weight to my limbs too, that isn't always there. If I didn't know better, I'd almost say that hot chocolate had a little something extra in it.

I sit up in bed and I push the blankets back. I need to keep myself alert. I need to get off this ship. I need to resist control. I need to do what I've always done and be a complete pain in the ass. Getting up entirely, I start to swing my arms to force blood back into them.

"Don't give in," I lecture myself. "Don't let him suck you into this happy little fantasy. You're going to get the hell out of here and you're going to be free. In fact, it might even be better if the others think the scythkin has you. They might not come after you if they don't know he's lost you…"

I start to smile a little. This might actually work out very well. The scythkin, Atlas, could very well stand as a shield between me and the worst of my alien owners. Emrys and Sheriff can fuck off completely.

I wait for what feels like a very long time, until I think he's probably also gone to bed. I don't know how much scythkin sleep, but I hope it's somewhat akin to humans. I hope he's getting a good, long night's rest.

Putting my hand on the door, I worry for a second that it might be locked. If I was keeping me, I'd lock it. But Atlas didn't, and it swings open on hinges that don't squeak. Things are starting to go well for once.

Isneak out of my room, padding on bare feet. If I do manage to escape, I am going to be doing it in a nightgown, without shoes, and without any kind of funding or weaponry. It could be a mess, but then again, most things in my life are.

I move through the lounge, past the bathroom and the kitchen which loom quietly through various arched doors. I am thinking that this ship is probably a lot larger than a small house. Most of them are. I want to find a door that leads outside this little imaginary human environment and into the part of the ship where the real things are.

I find a door somewhat hidden in the walls in the lounge, between the bedroom and the bathroom. It doesn't have a handle, but it does open with a light push. Like the other doors, it has two sides which slide apart and into the interior of the ship's walls. Unlike the other doors, which lead to human-themed interiors, this one leads to a slick black interior. There are pipes on the exterior of the walls, also black and solid. This is where the real business happens. This is where Atlas becomes who he really is for himself.

I slip into the hall. I can hear my feet on the floor, making soft slap slap sounds. I am being very careful to stay as quiet as possible, but this part of the ship has a kind of cavernous ring to it. The human part was made to my scale. This isn't. This is made to scythkin scale. The walls are taller, the roof is higher, and the echoing spaces are much more echoey.

It is lit with red diodes which blink in various patterns. They almost look like letters, but not in any standard galactic script that I can read. I am sure they mean something to someone though. I hope one of them means ESCAPE PODS.

There's got to be one around here somewhere. There has to be a way out.

I keep my ear out for Atlas. I assume I'll hear a massive, lumbering scythkin who is probably itching to get out of his human suit before he hears me. If he thinks I'm safely asleep I might potentially have hours to explore the ship.

Every corner brings fresh opportunity, and fresh disappointment, right up until I go through a little door which leads to a bay with a small ship in it.

"Jackpot!" I murmur the ancient incantation to myself. This is exactly what I need. All I have to do is get into that thing and I am the kind of free I've always dreamed of. I bet those scythkin ships can move faster than anything I planned on buying. Maybe they don't have hyperspatial capabilities, but I know they'll be fun.

"What do you think you are doing?"

The inquiry catches me off guard, making my heart sink and race at the same time. I turn around to face the scythkin, whose gruff tones indicate real displeasure. Of course, he caught up to me just at the very moment I seemed to find my way out of his trap. Of course. Why would anything go right for me when it could go horribly wrong instead?

I turn to see that Atlas is halfway in and halfway out of his human suit. The effect is… disconcerting. One half of his body is human sized and shaped. The other half is au naturel. My mind twists like I'm looking at a sentient m?bius strip.

"Back to bed, young lady," he says firmly. "It is very naughty for you to be out here. Was one caning not enough? Do you need another six?"

"I definitely do not need another six. I don't think I could take another six."

"Then you need to get back to bed this instant, and I do not want to see you out again before morning."

Much deflated, but with the knowledge I'll later need to make good my escape, I slink back to the mid-century nightmare that is Atlas' idea of a proper environment for a human mate.

REEEeeeEEEeeeEEEeeeEEEeeeEEE!

I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of a cosmic tin opener turning this practically impenetrable ship into an easy-open vessel. The wall of my room is bowing and vibrating like crazy, and the cacophony that is made as the side of the ship is wrenched open is incredible. It sounds like the end of everything.

I accept my fate immediately, because I have very little choice. I am going to be sucked into an endless void and there is going to be nothing I can do about it. Cosmic forces are at work, and though I can fight an endless stream of ultra-possessive aliens with weird kinks, I can't fight the eternal vacuum of space.

I sit in my frilly nightgown with my knees drawn up to my chin and I wait for everything to end. Funny how much energy I spent fighting this outcome only for it to find me anyway. Some people would say that's how fate works — it's just this inexorable force that plays with us all as if we're dolls. Some of us get crushed before we've even started to live. Others get to survive to adulthood only to realize that's only delayed a terrible inevitable.

I see rotating teeth peeling through the inner skin of the wall. I hold my breath, knowing that the oxygen will be rushing out of the room now. In a second, it will be a big enough hole that I'll be sucked toward it and probably end my life in a thin stream of human paste.

There's a moment where I mentally say goodbye, and then another moment where I somehow survive. There's got to be a forcefield or some solid skin on the other side of that blade stopping a vacuum from being created, because the wall is peeling back now, and if there was space on the other side of it, I would be part of it.

I appear to be in the process of being abducted. I don't know who has the tech to clamp onto a scythkin vessel and rip it open like a cheaply wrapped gift, but I know whoever it is is someone I don't want to meet. Then again, now I think about it, whoever is on the other side of that blade probably has ill-intentions. It's not a numahn device that I'm aware of. If it was them, they'd be blaring sirens and flashing lights and generally making a big to-do out of it all. Numahns act like they're the law enforcement of the universe. They love badges and official procedures. They don't board your ship through the side of it.

This is barbaric. This is brutal. These are the actions of someone who doesn't give a damn about the law or the outcome of their actions, aside from getting what they want.

The door flies open and Atlas is there, bristling with full scythkin aggression. I watch, open mouthed as he dashes forward into the breach created in the wall by the rotating blade and starts doing god only knows what on the other side.

In that moment, I flee.

"Find the fucking escape shuttle," I curse to myself. "Find it now before either of these two find you."

I run for my life through the mid-century modern maze, and then into the reality of the rest of the ship. You'd think finding the shuttles once would mean it would be easier to find them again, but there's something about fleeing panicked that makes my brain go blank. I find all sorts of things. I find the bridge. I find the galley. I find what has to be Atlas's bedroom. But I don't find an escape pod.

The whole time I am searching, I can hear the most awful sounds reverberating through the ship's hull. It is a terrible grating, tearing sound that makes me fear for my life, and for Atlas's life. Sure, he's a creepy, bladed, somewhat insectoid creature with a hard carapace and a penchant for ancient human lifestyles, but he doesn't deserve to be sawed in half. Probably.

Finally I find the shuttle bay and the shuttle. I give thanks to all and any gods and climb into the little vessel. It's a scythkin patroller. It's fast. And it's going to ensure that anybody who sees me on their radar gives me a wide fucking berth, because nobody wants to make first contact with an alien vessel most often used for scouting new worlds to ravage.

I hit the controls and watch as the dash hums with a hundred little lights. Relief runs through me. I'm going to be okay. I might even be more than okay, with any luck.

The shuttle starts to hover, and a moment later the doors of the shuttle bay open automatically. I slam the stick forward and relish the acceleration as I slingshot my way out of the bay and deep into space.

Coming about, I finally see what was attacking Atlas"s ship. It's another ship. That's not a surprise. What is a surprise is the fact that it is painted gray and bright red and bears a very large E on the side of it.

"E for Emrys," I mutter to myself. "Thank fuck I got out when I did."

It occurs to me that the scythkin shuttle has weapons. Kind of a lot of them. Emrys' vessel has made itself immune to damage by getting so close to the scythkin vessel that there's no room for any kind of attack, but I'm not limited by that.

I decide to take a few shots at Emrys' vessel, just for the fun of it. I like the idea of him hating it very, very much.

It's not hard to use the weapons system. The red trigger on the underside of the flight stick is pretty self-explanatory. As soon as I depress it even slightly, a red square shows up on the HUD overlay that is being projected over the front windscreen.

I aim for the E.

Pew! Pew!Hot red charges arc through space. There's a lot of it to cover, so it takes half a minute or so for them to detonate against the hull of the hostile ship. I let out a cheer as I see the damage that is done, scuffing up Emrys' perfectly painted E. That's going to really annoy him. I doubt that I have enough weaponry to seriously harm his ship, but I sure have enough to be annoying.

I hit him a handful more times before a channel opens up on the comms. I don't know how to stop that from happening, so I am stuck with Emrys' voice filling the space. He hisses with his customary rage, which I find funny. He sounds the same right now as he probably would if someone messed up his order for fries. The guy is permanently at a hundred. I don't think he'd know zero if he fell over it. He has to be the most wound-up dude I've ever encountered.

"Desist, small vessel!"

"I could, but I won't. Should, maybe, but… shorn't."

The sentence doesn't really make sense. It doesn't really have to. It just has to annoy him, and it does that most successfully.

"HUMAN!" Emrys snarls the word over the open channel, and I can only imagine how his entire face must be contorting with rage as he recognizes my voice. "What are you doing? Does the beast not have you contained?"

"Does it look like he does?"

"What do you think you are doing, Sandy!?" Atlas' voice comes over the channel in swift order. I wonder if I interrupted them fighting one another to the death over who owns me. That must have been quite the struggle. I imagine Emrys is terribly injured.

"I'm escaping, because I don't want to be a mindless pawn in your simulation any more than I want to be a political pawn in Emrys' evil civilization. I'm a free human, and I intend to stay that way."

"I am going to hunt you down, human female. And I am going to make you regret your impudence!" Emrys' voice returns to the fray.

I get the mental image of Emrys having pushed Atlas away from the mic, and probably regretting it because of how sharp the scythkin is. I have no doubt that the bridge of his ship is a complete bloodbath. He's going to have to rest up for a good long while and feed well in order to regain his strength.

"You do that just as soon as you stop being cock-locked together with the scythkin vessel, idiot," I laugh. I know there's some small chance I might run into one of them again. After all, I still have the fucking nano-trackers inside me. That's my next mission — to untag myself.

"Sandy, I want you back on this ship this instant!" Atlas is back, and he is not happy.

"Absolutely not. Never. I'm never going into any simulation. I'm never going to give my brain over to anyone. Not even you. Not for all the pancakes in the universe."

"Sandy, you are being silly."

"Her name's not Sandy," Emrys growls. "She hasn't told any of us her real name. There's no point calling her anything other than ‘human female.' That's what she is. An impudent set of holes who… ARGH!" His comments end in a scream as Atlas does something horrible to him, presumably because he doesn't like me being called a set of holes. He's very gallant for someone who wants to take my brain and use me as a sort of eternal Stepford fuck toy.

"Sandy," he says. "Come back to the ship and we will talk about what is to be done with you."

"I'm not coming back, Atlas. I'm going as far away from here as possible. Trust me, it's better for all of us this way. Thanks for the pancakes. You can keep that fucking cane."

I turn the ship about and accelerate out of communication range. There's no point continuing to talk. I'm never, ever going to allow myself to be taken by any of these alien males.

I'm looking for a black market doctor. That's what I need, someone who can isolate the nano-tags and either deactivate or remove them. Once they're gone, I'll sink back into blessed isolation. Nobody will know who I am. I'll be free to do what I planned to do in the first place, and make the money I need to make to do what I need to do.

There's a lot of time to think when I'm rocketing through space on my own. I get to think about Raz, how seductive he was, how he made me feel like he gave a damn. Atlas, too. He made me feel like I was something precious. Something worth preserving. Yes, it was creepy as hell, the idea of being put in a simulation, but the impulse behind it was protective.

These aliens did nothing but pay for me, and already some of them care for me. When I slept with Raz, and when he tried to help me repay the debts, I had an ally. I don't have one anymore. I don't have anyone. I don't have a pretty pink bed covered in frills. I do, however, still have the galaxy's most ornate nightdress. I attacked a ship while wearing a pretty pink frilly gown. That makes me giggle. Also makes me want to talk to someone, tell them what I'm doing. But friends are a luxury I lost long ago when I left civilized space. I'm on my own. I used to feel good about that. I used to think being on my own was for the best. Kept me safe, etcetera.

But I think I got a little taste of something different. I knew what it felt like to have people care again. Alien people. Alien people with agendas. But still. I'm going to have to get used to being alone all over again.

I set the ship's coordinates to the nearest den of shady iniquity I know, and I curl up in the oversized pilot's chair for a little spot of sleep. Outside the window, the lights of stars slide by in rapid succession as I drift off in my cute nightie.