POV: ? / LOCATION: ?


I awake to the soft radiance of the evening glow. The sunlight is steeped in a redness not unlike that of Sangiovese wine.

Such a fine glass of liquor will pair seamlessly with a bucket of fried chicken. Juicy dark meat preserved in a shell of curried batter, fried twice, bubbling oil caressing that voluptuous golden glaze...

Now I'm hungry. If I don't find food, and quickly, this starving belly will turn into a black hole and suck everything inside.

First things first. Where in the world am I?

A room. Not mine, I'm sure of it. This bed had somehow materialized beneath me. Aside from my own smell, I don't detect any traces of habitation from the pillows and sheets. Not even a loose strand of hair.

Was I transported to one of those universes where the protagonist wakes up in the middle of a random town and is expected to maintain a run-down farm? Only, in my case, this is a modern setting, as proven by the electrical sockets and geometric lamps…

My head hurts when I try to think. Not just your typical headache, but it throbs as if I was dropped on the skull from a castle in the sky.

Then a door opens. The overwhelmingly bitter stench of coffee hits like a rude awakening. A spaceman walks in, a pastel-pink cup glued to his lips, his eyes wholly captured on some sheet of paper in his hand.

Holy cow. What animal wiped its ass on his hair? And where are his eyebrows? Did they fly off to outer space?

Only when the cup hits the floor and shatters do I realize that I had blurted out my commentary. The spaceman stares at me with a mouth opened wide enough for a satellite to barrel roll on through.

"You're not that hideous," I say. Oops. "You're not as ugly as I thought." Crap. It's like my brain refuses to process compliments for the likes of spacepeople, this particular weirdo in particular. If I keep talking, I might flame him so hard that his eyebrows will never grow back.

The spaceman is still gaping at me. Suddenly, like a casket slamming shut, his shock disappears behind a loosely-fitted smirk.

"Well well. So you've awakened from your slumber, my dear princess."

Gooseflesh explode down my back. Eww. Is he hitting on me? This fifty-year old creep with a space kink?!

So I grab a desk lamb and pistolwhip his chin. I must've misunderestimated my own strength, for he flies back like a paper doll, slips on the spilled coffee, and smashes his shoulder on the floor.

The crack! reverberates throughout the room.

"You… you wish to kill me that badly?" He sluggishly picks himself up. Despite that nasty fall, the smirk never leaves his face. "Unfortunately, I won't be going anywhere until I make my dream become reality."

What the hell is he sprouting on about?

"No one knows you're here," he continues, his smirk tightening to resemble a snarl. "If you value your life, you will answer my questions. First, what were you doing in the forest?"

"Forest?"

"Do not take me for a fool. I can and will make your life unrecognizable."

"Why are you threatening me?" I snap, more irritated than scared. "I just woke up on a bed that's not mine! How would I know anything about a forest?"

A low rumbling rips from deep within his throat. I get this distinct feeling that my life might really be in danger.

Suddenly, an intense pain strikes my head, so jarring that my vision temporarily splits into red, green, and blue. I squeeze my temples between my palms, trying desperately to keep my brain from shooting out of my ears.

"I'm not falling for that." I hear him say somewhere beyond the distorting static.

The next thing I know, I am flat on my back on the bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling.

"You will exacerbate your injuries if you keep treating my personal effects like cannon fodder," the spaceman grumbles. He is mopping the coffee spill. The sight of his hips swaying alongside the mop is so unnaturally domestic that I burst out laughing. Until I feel a blood vessel pop.

"Clearly you are in no condition to be of any use to me," he says. "Rest. I expect you to comply when I come back."

And… he's gone. Now even a "good night" or a "I'm sorry I got all in your face."

What a prick. He thinks he's all that with his ugly vest and stupid hair and gross eyebags and—ugh, I wasn't staring at him! Next time he comes in, I'll punch him in that golden G on his chest.

Violent fantasies dancing in my head, I close my eyes and enter the country of sleep.