Days pass in my single-room cell. Food is served, dishes are collected, then food again. Serve, take away, serve, take away, over and over. A monotony. No window. No books. Not even a TV. Boring days leading to a nigh end. It’s fine. It’s better this way—not seeing anything interesting, not talking to anyone, not getting to know anybody. The opposite would just make death harder.
The aliens are showing their true colors now. They couldn’t lure me into their asylum of betrayal. They must’ve realized by now that I won’t give up any intel. So, they’ll just let me die. Like this. And no one will know.
There’s a good chance my mother was never informed of my capture or impending death. I opted for the "no notification" clause in the recruitment papers. That way, I buy her almost another year of peace. She’ll think I’m hard at work in some secret lab, while the monthly salary still rolls in automatically. The state pays for the registered year, whether you’re still alive or not. I haven’t called her in weeks, but I warned her in my last conversation: I’d have to cut contact for a while because the bureau was keeping a tight watch on classified research. She seemed impressed. So, she’s fine. For now.
Then, finally, something different happens. They bring me new clothes and tell me to shower thoroughly. I hadn’t cared much about cleanliness these last few days, but maybe they’re right. One should look proper before an execution. I follow their instructions. A guard gestures for me to sit and wait, then leaves. I wait. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. The door opens, and the Meses woman from the court steps in. She shuts the door behind her with one hand while standing tall, watching me closely.
I hold my breath. As a biologist, you notice when a life form is well-trained. The interplay of muscles and movement is part of the study, after all. This woman—this Manide—is anything but weak or clumsy.
She pulls out a device from her other hand, opens it, and approaches me. Handcuffs. She points at my hands, and I slip them through without protest. It’s clear now: she has the honor of escorting me to my death, and I won’t resist. This will be done with dignity.
We leave the cell. She leads, I follow. As we walk through the corridors, humans and Meses pause to watch us pass. No one says a word. There’s a strange rhythm to our march: corridor, gate, yard, gate, and finally, the exit.
Outside, the street is overwhelming. Vehicles pass or fly by, towering buildings of exotic design loom overhead, enormous trees sway, and a glaring sun shines under a light blue sky with a strange pearly shimmer, like mother-of-pearl. My brain is overloaded. After weeks in a dull cell, this is almost too much.
I must’ve lost my balance because she grabs me by the collar, steadies me, and hoists me into a waiting vehicle. I stumble onto the floor, trying to climb into the seat. She follows me in and shuts the door behind her, silencing the chaotic outside world. The vehicle starts moving on its own, probably some sort of autopilot.
She crosses her long legs, casually drapes an arm over the seat next to her, and gazes out the window, avoiding eye contact. I’m grateful for that. It gives me a moment of privacy, time to adjust to my surroundings.
We’re driving through what looks like a vast alien city. Strange signs, buildings, parks, Meses walking around, and even a few humans. Everything feels surreal. Yet, the more I look, the more I realize something odd—there are no signs of war. This must be a major city, a strategic target. So where’s the damage? The radiation sickness? Everything here is so...normal.
I strain my eyes, searching for some evidence of the war’s toll. But I find nothing. Could it be an illusion? Like they do in regimes. Deluding outsiders with a perfect world by leading them along a carefully staged path, while the reality—their true environment—is utterly devastated by mismanagement and ruin.
Frustrated, I finally break the silence, even though I know she likely won’t understand my language. “Aren’t you suffering from radiation?”
To my shock, she responds in English. “Why?”
My skin prickles. “Because...we’ve been bombing you. Constantly. With radioactive materials.”
Unfazed, she points at the sky. “See that rainbow shimmer?”
Cautiously, I eye upwards.
She continues calmly. “The deflector shield. It protects the planet.”
“What?!”
“Deflector shield,” she repeats. “It pushes everything back into space.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. All our efforts, all the bombing—it did nothing? She looks back at me, not with malice, but as if explaining something simple to a child. I feel humbled. Seconds ago, I was marching to my death, and now I’m being guided through alien knowledge I never imagined.
We drive on, leaving the city behind. The buildings become smaller, the landscape greener, with strange plants and fewer people. It makes sense—executions happen in remote places, away from prying eyes.
But then, out of nowhere, she puts on music. Alien music. It’s hauntingly beautiful, with instruments I don’t recognize, yet it strikes a chord deep inside me. Slowly, tears begin to fall. I can’t stop them.
She notices and asks, “Missing home?”
Anger bubbles up. “That’s a strange question for someone about to be executed!”
“Executed?” she raises an eyebrow. “Oh, no. That’s been postponed. I filed for a common clause.”
She reaches behind her seat and pulls out a stack of papers, handing them to me. The text is in an alien language. I can’t read it.
“What is this?”
“It’s the clause. It concerns you. But we don’t provide translations. You’ll have to learn the language.”
“What does it say?”
“It says you’re my property.”
Her property? I stare at her, stunned. “That’s slavery!”
“Well, yes. If you want to call it that.”
My horror is beyond words. All dignity is gone. I’ve become someone else’s possession, like a pet. And then, as if it’s the most normal thing, she adds, “Oh, and you’re not allowed to harm yourself. You’re my property now, so no damage. No suicide. Got it?”