After driving for what feels like forever, we finally reach a mountain range. The vehicle begins its climb, winding higher to the altitude of our destination. Relief washes over me—this journey is finally coming to an end. It seems my owner lives far from the city, tucked away in some remote corner of the world.
When the vehicle stops, she doesn’t waste a second before shoving me out. With unsteady legs and my hands still bound, I find myself standing in the middle of what looks like a jungle. A narrow path stretches away from us, snaking further up into the mountains. Before I can catch my breath or get my bearings, she’s already barking at me to start walking.
The path takes us deep into these enormous woods. The trees loom high, tangled with thick weeds, and the air hums with the relentless buzz of insects. There are flowers too, I guess, but I’m in no state to appreciate them. I’m exhausted—completely drained. Half an hour of trudging through this wilderness feels impossible. Eventually, my body gives out, and I collapse.
Without hesitation, she grabs me by the collar of my shirt and hauls me back to my feet, dragging me alongside her like I weigh nothing. I have to admit—she’s got strength.
It’s clear now just how weak I’ve become. The feeble attempts at exercise back in my cell weren’t enough to keep me in shape. My muscles have wasted away. I’m not ready for combat, not ready to escape, not even fit for a simple walk. I’m a mess. A failure. Maybe she’ll get fed up with me and hand me back for execution. At this point, I can’t imagine I’m worth the trouble.
Lost in these thoughts, I barely notice when we reach a slope with concrete stairs. She drags me up the steps to a wooden house with massive windows. With a quick voice command, she unlocks the door, opens it by hand, and shoves me inside. I stumble forward and land on all fours, too spent to resist.
Slowly, I lift my head and take my surroundings in. The small entryway is bright, filled with natural light pouring in from the outside. All is simple, blunt, not even much alien, but there’s a stylishness to it. Several open doorways lead to other rooms, and from my angle, I can see a glass veranda door at the back of what looks like a kitchen. Beyond it, there’s a terrace.
Beneath me, my fingers brush against the soft fur of a small rug. The floors are wooden, the walls painted white. There’s a framed picture hanging on one wall and a small wooden footstool tucked neatly to the side. It’s not extravagant, but there’s an understated charm to the place.
Still on the floor, propped up on my arms, I hear her heavy steps as she stomps past me. Her feet are wrapped in some kind of cloth shoes that seem both practical and awkward to me. In elegant, widely-angled moves, she glances into each room, one by one, before turning her gaze back to me.
“Come on, stand up,” she says, her tone impatient but not unkind. “Don’t let yourself wallow too much. It’s no good wasting yourself like that.”
She pauses, her voice softening slightly. “This is your room. Over there, that’s mine. You’ve got your own space. The bed’s tailored to your size.”
Groaning, I force myself to my feet and glance into the room she’s indicated. It’s... decent. There’s a king-size bed, a stool designed for human use, and a desk. A wooden closet stands against one wall. On the floor next to the bed is another rug, this one patterned. The window is nothing out of the ordinary, but the doors throughout the house catch my attention. They’re much taller and wider than anything you’d find on Earth. Only now does it hit me: the door to my prison cell was a standard Earth size. Of course, it was meant for human intruders.
I stand there silently, taking in the sparse but cozy room. She watches me for a moment before breaking the silence.
“Okay, I’ll let you get settled. I need to check on a few things in the house. I just moved in a few days ago myself.”
And off she goes into the larger room I suspect to be the kitchen. Finally alone, a wave of weary tiredness crashes over me. The day isn’t even over, yet I already feel completely drained. It’s been too much. Dragging myself to bed, I collapse onto it, and soon a deep slumber pulls me away from this living nightmare.
Waking up again, the dim purple light outside suggests it must be evening. I lie there with open eyes, staring at nothing and contemplating my situation. She said I shouldn’t damage myself—she needs me intact. That’s an opportunity. Suddenly, I understand all those people who went on hunger strikes in desperate situations. Refugees back home once did so for protest when our government refused to acknowledge their plight. Their country was a war zone, but our officials claimed it wasn’t serious enough and told them to go back. So, they occupied a church—blessed by the priest—and went on hunger strike for at least a month.
I always wondered what they thought they could achieve with a government as stubborn as ours. Miraculously, they ended their strike, and everything seemed to work out fine. The newspapers stopped covering it, but one independent outlet later noted they were still okay, still around. Maybe they got what they wanted quietly? Probably. If it worked for them, why not me? This is the kind of power I still have, even in my current situation. A hunger strike could be my weapon. It might take weeks, maybe a month. It’ll be hard, but I’ll endure. I have to. I will—
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. The silence shatters, leaving me startled. I mumble, “Yes,” and the door creaks open. It’s her again, standing in the doorway.
“I’ve made dinner for us. Come,” she says.
Reluctantly, I rise, already deciding to demonstrate my hunger strike in front of the food. To make it work, I need to show absolute resolve. Following her into what turns out to be a kitchen-dining room, I notice a table big enough for six people, though she’s carefully arranged our seats with enough space between us. She gestures to my chair and then sits down across from me. On the table, there are six small dishes of food, arranged almost like Spanish tapas. Each dish is vibrant with different colors, and next to my glass of water sits a fork and knife—very European, I think. Nothing here screams “alien,” except maybe the food itself. There are vegetables I don’t recognize and meat that’s impossible to identify. Chicken? Beef? Something else?
Not that it matters. I won’t eat.
She starts eating and motions for me to do the same, but I just sit there, staring. After a while, she looks up, noticing my stillness. “Is something wrong with the food?” she asks.
“I’m on hunger strike,” I declare.
She eyes me calmly, takes a sip of water, sets her glass down neatly, and responds, “How unfortunate. If you don’t eat, I can’t let you run errands to the village down there on your own. I can’t risk you collapsing along the way.”
“I can go to the village alone?” I ask, startled.
“Yes, of course. I don’t have time to babysit you all the time.”
Dumbfounded, I stare at her. If she’s willing to let me go out alone, this changes everything. Escape could be possible—eventually. I’d need to prepare carefully, gather supplies, maybe even find allies among the villagers. Who knows? Perhaps some Meses despise slavery as much as I do. The idea of walking to the village alone opens up an entire world of possibilities, far better than starving myself. But for any of that to work, I need to stay healthy. I need to rebuild my strength.
And so, I pick up my fork and eat. Every single dish. Oh dear, they’re delicious! Prison food kept me alive, but now I realize just how starving I’ve been. This food is rich, filling, and bursting with flavor. I clean every plate, even licking my fingers when I’m done.
She watches me thoughtfully before speaking again. “Okay, but today was an exception. I cooked for you because I wanted to. From now on, you’ll learn how to cook step by step, handle daily routines, and serve meals properly. There’s also a particular way of eating you’ll need to learn. You’re in a different world now, and you’ll need to adapt.”
Managing to sit up straighter despite my full stomach, I nod slightly. Fine. I’ll play along. I’ll learn. I’ll train. I’ll gather supplies in secret. One day, when the time is right, I’ll disappear. I’ll escape this place for good.
##
After three weeks, a routine has definitely been established. I wake early in the morning and sweep the floor with a broom and dustpan. Strangely enough, there’s nothing even remotely close to a vacuum cleaner, let alone a cleaning robot. She mumbled something once about how that kind of equipment isn’t suited for the mountain environment. Well, whatever. So I clean the house while she’s still asleep—or at least, I think she’s asleep. Maybe she’s not. Her door is always tightly shut in the mornings.
Once I’m done, I make breakfast. After finishing, I knock on her door. She joins me at the table, and we eat together. Then she gets herself ready to leave. Where she goes, I have no idea. I leave the house as well, heading into the nearby village to do my errands. The village sits a little lower on the mountain, and I follow a narrow path that winds down the slope through dense, green jungle. Birds chirp, crickets buzz, and other strange animal noises join the symphony. I love the walk.
For someone who once dreamed of being a biologist—and who had only ever experienced wilderness through the internet or TV back on Earth—this feels as close to paradise as it gets. Finally, through bizarre twists of fate and a grim destiny, I get to experience the real wild. Except, of course, it’s not Earth’s wilderness, and I’m even less free to study it. Oh, the irony.
In the village, the Meses—or rather, the Manides—already know me well. They call themselves Manides because, in their modern version of English, it simply means “people.” One of them explained that “Meseteem” is a corrupted form of an ancient Ge’ez word, a language from Earth’s Ethiopia. According to him, it just shows ignorance of the old pronunciation. Their language incorporates Ge’ez words, and they go to great lengths to preserve the ancient sounds. There are even scholars dedicated to that study. Since I can’t speak their language, he politely suggested that it’s better for me to use “Manide.” He had such a friendly way of explaining it that I didn’t mind going along with him.
At the local market, I pick up our vegetables, dairy products, and meat. The Manides are always kind to me—so kind, in fact, that sometimes I almost forget I’m an alien here. A slave, even. On some days, I manage to secretly snag items I might need for an escape. So far, I’ve collected a knife, a small rope, a strange fire-starting tool, a cup, a bottle, and a bag. All of it is hidden under my bed, carefully bound to the underside of the mattress so no one will notice, even if they peek underneath.
The village itself reminds me of Mediterranean mountain settlements back on Earth, with tiny white houses topped by adorable terracotta roofs. But the surrounding environment here is more like a rainforest—lush and green, but filled with strange alien variations. There isn’t much technology around, and when I do see something, it always looks far more advanced than anything we have back home. The Manides seem to be more technologically advanced than us humans, yet they don’t cling to their tech the way we do. It’s... refreshing, actually.
When my errands are done, I return to the house, cook dinner, and wait for her to come back from wherever she disappears to. I’ve learned well by now which food goes on which color of dish and how it all needs to be arranged on the table. It’s complicated. Unnecessarily complicated. Everything else here is so laid back, so I can’t figure out why she insists on this one strange ritual. It puzzles me.
Before I escape, I need to ask her why.
##
My last day in the house has come. My run will start in the night when she’s fast asleep. Now, we sit together at dinner. Again, the dishes are arranged exactly as she instructed. I finally ask,
“So, I wonder, why do the dishes need to be arranged like this? Of course, you explained to me how some of them are assigned to veggies, dairy, or meat and how they symbolize six aspects: day, night, sky, planet, life, and non-life. But what’s it all about? Is it some kind of religion?”
She finishes chewing first, then takes a sip of water, preparing herself to explain. “It is an observant version of the discussion of the unseen.”
“The discussion of what? Some sort of religion, right?”
“Not entirely, in the human sense. It is simply the discussion of the unseen. That’s it.”
“Well, every religion sees itself as more than religion—some labeled concept. I’m skeptical.”
Since this is my last day with her, I dare to challenge her a bit more. But she doesn’t seem to feel provoked. She simply continues, “That’s your interpretation. It remains simply a discussion.”
“What is a discussion to you, anyway?”
She smiles. “What we’re doing right now. We’re discussing stuff.”
“Yeah, well, but we’re discussing things that can be seen. I see the food.”
“True. And you asked me why I do this.”
“Yeah, but your answer is insufficient. The reason you offer is just a label, not a real reason.”
“Fair enough. So, why restrict food consumption to a certain ritual when there’s no pragmatic necessity, right?”
“Exactly. That’s where I’m aiming.”
“Well, the discussion of the unseen is meant to help wrap the mind around things or situations we don’t fully understand yet. The food ritual is based on a proposition that evolved from a recorded, famous discussion.”
“What kind of famous discussion?”
“It’s a discussion from ancient scripture. It became significant because it addresses some basic thoughts. In the end, as a result of that discussion, it suggests that one should train their mind to commit to tasks that don’t provide immediate reason or benefit. It’s about being reliable enough to do particular tasks even when no one is there to observe, judge, or applaud.”
“So, you’re admitting it makes no sense in the secular world?”
“Not on a gentrified level, no. As you say, I admit.”
“So, I don’t actually have to do it?”
“No, you don’t. You do it only when you want to—when you wish to train your reliability and responsibility for things beyond your grasp.”
“Ah, okay, but I don’t need that. I do things or I don’t do things.”
“Right. That’s how you do it.”
“Then why should I train myself for this weird concept?”
“Only if you want to test your reliability with tasks outside your usual scope.”
“Oh, great. That’s exactly what I don’t need in my position. Most things here are already outside my scope.”
“If you don’t need it, you don’t have to do the ritual. It’s your choice.”
This would have been the perfect moment to challenge her about my slavery. After all, when it comes to choices, I’m more restricted than anyone. But since I’m planning to escape tonight, I don’t want to raise suspicion by acting too rebellious now. So, I just conclude,
“Okay, so I can choose to arrange stuff like this or not?”
“Of course you can.”
“Good to know.”