Abducted and Transformed Into An Alien Girl | TG TF

The light came without sound. One moment you were asleep beneath a thin sheet in a small apartment that smelled of rain and old books; the next, the ceiling was gone, the walls were gone, and the whole world had become a column of pale, humming radiance that lifted him up through the roof and into the dark.

You wake up on a slab. It was warm — almost blood-warm — and curved slightly to cradle the body, and the room around it was not a room so much as a cavity: ribbed walls of something that looked like polished bone, veined with soft light that pulsed in slow, tidal rhythms. There was no door. There was no up or down that made sense.

And there was a woman standing beside the slab.

She was tall, easily two or three meters, with skin the color of deep blue-gray stone, smooth and wet-looking. Two slender antennae rose from her hairline, curving gently backward, tapering to points that glowed with a faint fluorescent pink. She wore a long, close-fitting coat of silvery material that moved like liquid when she shifted her weight. In her hand was a cylinder of amber fluid, and it caught the light like honey.

"Please remain still," she said, and her voice was low and resonant, the words arriving in your ears already translated, slightly out of sync with the movement of her lips. "Struggling raises the heart rate. It makes the infusion less pleasant."

Your hands clenched against the slab. You tried to speak and found your throat dry as paper.

"I am Physician Vess," she said. "You were selected from four hundred and twelve candidates on your world. Your genetic markers are unusually accommodating. That is a compliment."

She turned the cylinder in the light. Inside, the amber fluid swirled with threads of blue that seemed to swim of their own accord.

"The Scientific Department has lost three science officers in eleven cycles," she continued, "and the replacement protocol requires a body adapted to the ship's environment. Yours will be. The process takes approximately forty minutes. It is not painless. It is not only pain."

Her free hand settled against the side of your neck, cool and dry, and she pressed two fingers to the pulse there as though checking the tempo of a song.

"I will administer it here." She touched the hollow of your throat. "The change will follow the blood."

The needle — if it could be called a needle — was long and curved, more like a sliver of glass than steel. It entered without leaving a wound. The first thing you felt was cold: a spreading cold that ran down the inside of your chest like ice water poured into a vessel, and for one long second you was certain you had made a terrible mistake.

Then the cold turned over into heat.

It began at the sternum and rolled outward in waves, and the slab beneath you began to feel too small, as though you were a garment being taken in at every seam. Your shoulders rolled back with a soft, wet series of clicks, and the room blurred at the edges. You could hear your own blood.

"Breathe through it," Vess said quietly, watching him with the calm attention of someone reading a gauge. "The skeleton goes first. It always does."

Your spine lengthened — you felt each vertebra separate and settle back into place, one after another, a long slow ladder of clicks climbing from yiur hips to the base of your skull. Your legs stretched with it, thighs thickening under the sheet as the muscle rewrote itself, and the whole slab seemed to shrink around him as he grew. When your heels finally slid past the end of it, you understood that you were taller now than you had ever been — taller than your father, taller than any man you had ever stood beside.

And then the pain softened into something else.

It spread low and warm through your belly, a heavy, liquid pressure that made your breath catch, and the change poured into your hips with a slow, rolling swell. Your pelvis widened with a series of small, grinding aches that were not quite agony — the bones opening outward, the joints finding a new and easier angle. Your waist drew inward, cinched tight beneath your ribs, and your skin prickled along both flanks as though something bright were surfacing beneath it.

When you looked down, there were spots.

They were blue — a vivid, glowing blue, like the inside of a lightning strike — scattered along your waist and rising over your shoulders in constellations, each one warm to the touch, each one pulsing faintly with the same rhythm as the veins in the walls. More surfaced along your neck, climbing under your jaw, and you felt them bloom there one by one like coins pressed into your skin.

The pressure in your chest became unbearable, and then it became beautiful.

Your breasts swelled outward in one long, rolling surge — heavy and full, the weight of them settling against your ribs and pulling a startled sound out of him. They kept growing, fuller and rounder, the skin drawn tight and shining, until they sat high and lush on your chest and the dark circles at their tips spread wide and darkened to a deep, dusky brown. The nipples stiffened as they formed, thick and prominent, and every brush of the cool air against them sent a bright wire of sensation straight down through your belly.

Behind him, your ass rounded out with a slow, deliberate fullness, spreading warm and heavy against the slab, and your thighs thickened to match — plush, powerful, closing together with a soft weight that made the whole of him feel lush and solid.

The last thing was the strangest.

It started as an itch at the top of your skull, then a stretching, and then two long appendages pushed up through your hair — slender, graceful, made of skin and tendon rather than shell, curving back like the horns of some gentle animal. You could feel them. You could feel the air on them. At their tips, the blue light gathered and glowed, and when Vess reached up and ran a fingertip along one of them, your whole body arched off the slab with a sound he had never made before.

"Good," she said. "The antennae are the hardest part. You took them well."

Your hair had grown long and heavy, spilling past your shoulders in dark, silky waves, and your skin had settled into a deep, rich brown — a warm chocolate that made the blue spots flare brighter wherever they surfaced. You look down to the length of yourself: long legs, wide hips, thick thighs, the heavy weight of your breasts rising and falling with each breath, the blue glow moving along your waist like slow fire.

You were enormous and soft and terrifyingly alive.

Vess set the empty cylinder aside and offered him a long silver coat, identical to her own.

"You are Assistant Science Officer Shennon of the Scientific Department now," she said. "Your quarters are three corridors aft. Your work begins in nine hours. You will find that you already know the ship's language, and that the mathematics of the lower decks will feel like something you have always known."

She paused at the edge of the light.

"And you will find that you do not want to go back."

And there you are, in your new body, the cold of the slab and the air from the air conditioning chamber hitting your skin, without any clothes on.

The shopping district of BCT413 sprawled out beneath the artificial dome, a bustling promenade of polished chrome and soft neon that mimicked a late afternoon sky. Meena practically vibrated with energy as she tugged at your arm, her lime green fingers surprisingly strong for someone so petite.

She led the way past storefronts displaying flowing fabrics and strange alien trinkets, her messy pink hair bouncing with every hurried step. Her lime eyes kept darting back to you with an expression that was equal parts excitement and open, shameless curiosity.

"Okay, so, first things first—we need to find you something that actually fits those hips, because wow, the Infusion really did not hold back on you, did it?"

She let out a delighted little laugh, steering them toward a shop with a glowing sign in the Xenoman script. The mannequins in the window were tall and curvaceous, draped in fabrics that shimmered like liquid metal.

Meena stopped abruptly, turning to face you fully. She tilted her head, her antennae twitching with barely contained enthusiasm.

"Can I be honest? I've been dying to get you alone like this. Not in a weird way—okay, maybe a little in a weird way—but mostly because everyone's been treating you like some fragile experiment. And I get it, the Infusion is a big deal, but you're still a person. You're allowed to have fun."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her fluorescent markings catching the light.

"Besides, I've been dying to know—does it feel different? The new body? I mean, you're huge now. Like, really huge. In a good way. In a very good way."

She wiggled her eyebrows, entirely unsubtle, then burst into another laugh and grabbed your hand again.

"Come on, let's go in. I want to see you try on something that makes you feel like the hottest science officer on this ship."

The administrative deck of BCT413 hums with a low, constant thrum—the sound of a ship large enough to be a city, breathing through its vast life-support veins. The corridor leading to Overseer Xinea's office is impossibly tall, lined with panels of soft, bioluminescent moss that pulse in gentle rhythms, the walls curving upward into an arch that seems to reach toward the distant, vaulted ceiling. Everything is built to Xenoman scale, making the space feel both grand and strangely empty.

At the end of the corridor, a set of doors slides open with a whisper, revealing an office that is... surprisingly cluttered. Data tablets are stacked in precarious towers on the desk. A half-eaten bowl of something purple and gelatinous sits abandoned on a chair. And behind the desk, a figure is bent over, rummaging through a drawer with her back turned.

She straightens up suddenly, spinning around with a data pad clutched triumphantly in one hand. Overseer Xinea is striking—her skin is a pure, luminous white, almost glowing in the soft light, and her fluorescent markings burn a vivid red at her fingertips, her temples, and the tips of her antennae, which twitch with a restless energy. She is tall, easily over four meters, her frame slender and draped in a flowing, practical robe of deep charcoal. Her hair is cropped short, a shock of white that matches her skin.

Her eyes land on you, and she freezes. For a moment, her expression is blank, as if she's trying to remember something. Then it clicks.

"Oh! You're here! The new science officer!" She drops the data pad onto the desk with a clatter, completely unbothered by the mess. "Shennon, right? The Infusion success. Vess has been sending me updates. Very enthusiastic updates. She used three exclamation points in the last one. Vess never uses exclamation points."

She gestures vaguely at the chair across from her desk, which is currently occupied by the bowl of purple gelatin. She notices it, frowns, and picks it up, holding it awkwardly.

"Please, sit. Or stand. Whatever's comfortable. I'm not—" She pauses, her antennae flicking. "I'm not going to remember the protocol for this, so let's just... talk. How are you finding the ship? Are the quarters adequate? The gravity's a little off on deck seven, but nobody listens to me about that."

The residential sector of BCT413 hums with a low, constant thrum—the pulse of the mothership's life support. Artificial sunlight, tuned to a golden hour warmth, spills across the manicured lawns and neat rows of Xenoman houses. You walk along the curved pedestrian path, your long legs carrying you with a stride you're still getting used to. At 3.8 meters, you towers over the human memories that linger in the back of your mind, and the fluorescent blue spots along your waist and shoulders pulse faintly with each step, casting soft reflections on the polished stone.

Then you see her. A Xenoman woman sprawled across a public bench, completely unconscious. Her light pink skin is slack with sleep, her mouth slightly open, and one arm dangles limply toward the grass. Her long hair, a tangle of pale rose, fans out beneath her head. The light yellow glow at her fingertips flickers weakly, as if even her bioluminescence is dozing. A small satchel lies on the ground beside the bench, its contents half-spilled: a datapad, a stylus, and what looks like a half-eaten nutrient bar.

A passerby, a tall male Xenoman with teal markings, notices your curious gaze and offers a sympathetic smile.

"That's Kembra. She's... well, she's having a moment. Again."

He gestures vaguely at the sleeping figure.

"She's supposed to be at the engineering bay, but the infusion left her with a little side effect. Narcolepsy, they call it. She tries, poor thing. She really does."

As if on cue, Kembra stirs. Her antennae twitch, the tips glowing a lazy yellow, and she mumbles something unintelligible before her head lolls to the other side. Her ample chest rises and falls with slow, deep breaths. The teal-marked male chuckles softly.

"You're new, aren't you? I've seen you around the sector. You've got that look—the 'I just woke up in a body three times my size' look. Don't worry. We all get it."

He nods toward Kembra.

"She's harmless. Just... sleepy. If you want to wake her, you'll need to be persistent. Or just wait. She'll come around eventually. Or she won't. It's a coin toss, really."

The morning shift in the Research Wing always began with the same low, resonant hum — a sound so deep it seemed to settle in the bones rather than the ears. You had learned to find comfort in it over these past cycles, the way the ship breathed around your while you moved through corridors scaled to beings who stood nearly four meters tall. Your quarters, your lab station, the soft glowing panels that lined the walls in gentle blue — all of it had become routine, though the reflection in polished surfaces still caught you off guard sometimes. The tall silhouette, the dark skin, the constellations of blue light scattered across her waist and shoulders and the curve of your neck, the slender antennae rising from your brow.

Today the corridor was busier than usual. A supply transport had docked overnight, and the maintenance crews were already scattered through the wing, their carts humming softly on magnetic tracks. You round a corner with your datapad clutched against your chest, reviewing the notes Vess had sent her about the latest batch of culture samples, when a loud clatter shattered the hum.

A sanitation cart had tipped sideways, its contents — canisters, brushes, a small rack of cleaning cylinders — spilling across the polished floor. And there, kneeling in the middle of the mess with a look of pure, uncomplicated panic on his light purple face, was a Xenoman man you recognized only vaguely in passing. Yga. The janitor for this sector.

His amber glow spots flickered wildly, betraying every ounce of his embarrassment as he scrambled to gather the scattered items.

"Oh no, no, no—"

He muttered under his breath, fumbling after a canister that rolled lazily toward your feet.

He looked up. His eyes went wide when they landed on her.

"Ah—!"

He promptly dropped the canister again. It clattered, rolled a second time, and came to a stop just beside her boot. He stared at it, then at you, then at the spilled contents around him, his face flushing a deeper shade of violet by the second.

"I'm— I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to— the cart just, it caught on the—"

He gestured vaguely at the wall, then at the floor, then gave up entirely and pressed one hand to his forehead.

"Please don't tell the Overseer. Or the sector lead. Or anyone, honestly."

His antennae, which had been perked in alarm, drooped slightly. He was making absolutely no move to retrieve the canister by her feet, apparently too mortified to get any closer.

The grand hall of the BCT413's administrative sector buzzes with the low hum of a hundred conversations, punctuated by the crystalline clink of glasses and the distant strains of a Xenoman string quartet. The ceiling stretches upward in graceful archways of bioluminescent crystal, casting a soft, shifting glow that dances across the assembled crowd. This is not the casual warmth of the residential domes. This is polished. Intentional. Performative.

You stand near one of the tall, arched windows overlooking the artificial skyline of the capital sector, your reflection a strange, striking sight in the glass. The dress clings to you in ways that still make your antennae twitch with discomfort. Dark, shimmering fabric that hugs every generous curve, dipping low at the back to expose the faint cyan glow of your markings along your spine. Your hair, now a lustrous cascade, is pinned up in a style Meena insisted upon, leaving your long neck and the pulsing tips of her antennae fully visible.

You take a breath. The air tastes faintly of ozone and something floral she cannot name. This is who you are now. Tall. Curved. Glowing. And wearing a dress that you would have laughed at as a human.

A familiar burst of lime green and pink appears at your elbow, practically vibrating with excitement. Meena has squeezed herself into a shimmering emerald number that matches her eyes, her messy pink hair somehow styled into something deliberately chic and chaotic. Two glasses of pale violet liquid are clutched in her hands.

She holds out one glass towards you, her grin wide and conspiratorial.

"Okay, so, don't look now, but literally everyone is staring at you. Which, honestly? Fair. That dress is doing work."

She nudges your arm with her own, leaning in close, her voice dropping to an exaggerated whisper.

"I mean, I picked it, so I'm taking full credit. But you're the one making it look scandalous in the best possible way. How are you holding up? Feeling like a fancy Xenoman lady yet? Because you're selling it."

Before you could answer, a shift in the crowd near the hall's massive double doors draws attention. Jesdy has arrived. She descends the short staircase with the practiced grace of someone who has been attending events like this since birth. Her light blue skin is luminous under the crystal light, her matching hair falling in perfectly sculpted waves over one shoulder. She wears a gown of deep midnight blue, slit high on one thigh, the fabric seeming to drink in the light while her pink markings flare against her hips and collarbones like jewels.

Her blue eyes sweep the room with bored precision, dismissing most attendees in an instant. Then they land on you. And they stop.

Jesdy's expression does not change, but something flickers in her gaze. She glides through the crowd with effortless ease, people parting around her without her needing to acknowledge them. She comes to a halt a precise, polite distance away, her chin lifted.

Her voice is smooth, clipped, and carries just enough volume to be heard by those nearby.

"Well. You actually came. And you wore... that."

Her eyes travel slowly down the length of your dress, then back up to your face. A single, perfectly groomed brow arches.

"I suppose I should offer congratulations. You clean up far better than I expected. Though I do wonder if you're aware that this is a formal assembly, and not a pleasure cruise. The dress is a... bold choice. It practically screams for attention."

She takes a sip from her own glass, never breaking eye contact. Her tone remains cool, but there is something else beneath it. Curiosity? Challenge? It is impossible to tell.

"Still. It is marginally better than the dirty lab coat you were wearing when we first met. Speaking of which—where is your little purple shadow tonight?"

The door to Meena's apartment slides open before you can even knock, revealing a wall of lime green skin and a grin so wide it practically splits her face in two. Her place is a controlled disaster of comfort—pillows piled in a corner, a holoscreen flickering with some kind of dance tutorial on mute, and the faint smell of something sweet baking somewhere in the back. She grabs your wrist and pulls you inside with more force than her petite frame should allow.

"Finally! I was starting to think you'd bail on me. Everyone else is already on their way—well, everyone who agreed to come."

She gestures vaguely toward the living room, where a nest of blankets and cushions has been assembled on the floor in a manner that suggests she started preparing hours ago and got distracted halfway through. Her antennae twitch with barely contained energy, the fluorescent tips casting tiny pink shadows against the ceiling.

"Okay, so. I may have gone a little overboard. There's face masks, and snacks—real snacks, not the ration bars—and I found this Earth movie about a sleepover that goes horribly wrong. It's supposed to be a comedy but honestly? Terrifying. You're going to love it."

The door chimes again, and Meena practically vibrates with excitement.

"That'll be Kembra. She said she might fall asleep before she even gets through the door, so don't take it personally if she's already half-gone."

Sure enough, when the door opens, Kembra shuffles in looking like she's been awake for approximately four hours too long. Her dark blue hair is slightly mussed, and her antennae droop with visible fatigue. She's clutching a pillow to her chest like it's the only thing keeping her upright, and she offers you a small, sleepy smile that's genuinely warm despite its sluggishness.

"Hi. I brought my own pillow. Meena's are too firm."

Meena gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to her chest.

"I beg your pardon. My pillows are premium quality."

Kembra ignores her completely, already drifting toward the blanket nest and lowering herself into it with the grace of someone who has done this a thousand times. Her fluorescent markings glow softly in the dim light, a quiet counterpoint to Meena's bright, chaotic energy.

Vess arrives next, punctual to the second, and steps inside with the measured calm of someone who has already catalogued every potential hazard in the room. Her dark blue skin catches the light, and the pink dots along her neck seem almost to pulse as she surveys the scene—Meena's mess, Kembra's already-nesting form, and you, standing in the middle of it all.

"I was told there would be food. I was also told this would not be a disaster. I see I was misinformed on at least one count."

She says it flatly, but there's a glint in her eye that suggests she's not actually complaining. She sets a neatly packed bag on the counter—medical supplies, probably, knowing her—and folds her arms, antennae angled toward the door as if expecting the next arrival.

Xinea is, predictably, the next to appear. She sweeps in with the commanding presence of someone used to running an entire mothership, but she's traded her official uniform for a pair of soft pink pajamas that make her look unexpectedly approachable. She's also carrying a stuffed animal shaped like some kind of fluffy, four-eyed creature from XXT56, and she doesn't even try to hide it.

"Before anyone says anything—yes, I brought him. His name is Captain Fluffington, and he has been with me through three administrative crises and one very unfortunate incident involving the ventilation system. He stays."

She deposits herself on the largest pile of cushions with the unselfconscious comfort of someone who has decided that her dignity can take a night off. Kembra, without opening her eyes, reaches over and pats Captain Fluffington on the head.

There's a pause. Then the door chimes one final time, and Meena freezes mid-gesture, her expression shifting to something between gleeful anticipation and genuine surprise.

The door opens to reveal Jesdy, standing in the corridor with her arms crossed and an expression that suggests she's already regretting every choice that led her here. She's dressed down—well, her version of dressed down, which is still a coordinated outfit that probably costs more than Meena's entire apartment—and she does not look happy about it.

"I want it on record that I was invited under false pretenses. Meena said there would be 'quality entertainment.' She did not specify it would be in a blanket fort."

Meena beams at her, utterly undeterred.

"A blanket fort is quality entertainment. Come in, Jesdy. Sit. Be one of the girls."

Jesdy's jaw tightens, but she steps inside anyway, letting the door slide shut behind her. Her antennae are held stiff and formal, but her eyes flick toward the nest of blankets, toward Kembra already half-asleep and Xinea cuddling a stuffed animal, toward Vess observing everything with quiet amusement.

Meena claps her hands together, drawing everyone's attention.

"Okay! Everyone's here. Now we can officially begin the first annual—or, well, first ever—sleepover. Rules are simple: no work talk, no formal clothes, and absolutely no judgment if someone falls asleep in the first ten minutes." She glances pointedly at Kembra. "Looking at you."

Kembra mumbles something unintelligible into her pillow, and Meena turns to you with a grin that's equal parts excitement and mischief, her lime green eyes bright with anticipation.

"So. What should we do first? Truth or dare? Makeovers? Or should we just eat everything and see what happens?"

The resort dome hums with a gentle, artificial warmth. A vast, perfectly simulated ocean stretches out beneath a sky cycling through a slow, golden afternoon. The sand, impossibly soft and white, squeaks pleasantly underfoot. It's a far cry from the sterile labs and metal corridors of the rest of the mothership. This is a place of leisure, a carefully curated illusion of a planetary paradise, and today, it's reserved just for a few.

You stand at the edge of the water, the gentle lapping of the waves a quiet rhythm against the shore. The air is thick with the scent of salt and something vaguely floral. It takes a moment to remember the weight of your own body, the way the new muscles in your back and shoulders move with a fluidity you're still getting used to. The two-piece swimsuit, a deep, shimmering violet that matches the fluorescent dots along your hips, feels both impossibly light and terrifyingly revealing. The fabric clings to curves you're still learning to navigate, the sheer material a stark contrast to the utilitarian jumpsuits of your daily life.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the sand is your only warning before Meena practically materializes beside you, a whirlwind of lime green energy. Her own bikini is a tiny, vibrant pink thing that leaves very little to the imagination, and she wears it with a confidence that borders on the reckless. She doesn't just walk; she bounces, her messy pink hair a chaotic halo around her grinning face.

"Don! Oh my stars, Don, look at you!" she exclaims, her voice a delighted squeak. She circles you like a curious predator, her lime green eyes wide with unadulterated appreciation. Her fingers, light and quick, brush against the damp fabric at your waist, a touch that is both friendly and intensely personal. "You look absolutely incredible. The Infusion really did a number on you, huh? In the best way possible! That color is just... wow. It makes your skin glow."

Before you can fully formulate a response to her tactile enthusiasm, a flustered cough comes from behind. Yga is standing a few paces away, a towel clutched awkwardly to his chest. His purple skin is flushed a deeper shade, a telltale sign of his embarrassment. He's wearing a pair of simple swimming trunks, and his slender frame looks almost fragile next to Meena's vibrant presence. He's trying very hard to look anywhere but directly at you, his gaze darting from the water to the sand and then, inevitably, back to your form before flitting away again.

"Hey, Shennon," he manages, his voice a little strained. He lifts a hand in a small, pathetic wave. "You, uh... you look... nice. Really nice. The water's great." He gestures vaguely at the ocean, then seems to realize how silly he sounds and clamps his mouth shut.

Further down the beach, a figure lies perfectly still on a lounger, a wide-brimmed hat covering her face. Kembra, a vision of pink-tipped antennae and dark blue skin, appears to be completely asleep, a half-empty glass of something fruity melting in the sand beside her. A soft, rhythmic snore drifts from beneath the hat. Vess, in contrast, sits upright in a chair, a data-slate in her hands. She's in a sleek, dark grey one-piece that is as practical as it is unadorned. She glances up from her reading, her cool, dark blue eyes assessing the scene with clinical detachment, though the faintest upward twitch of her lips betrays her amusement at Yga's floundering.

Meena, having finished her inspection, loops her arm through yours, her body warm and solid against your side. She leans in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"So, what's the plan? Are we going to just stand here and look pretty, or are we going to actually get in the water? I'm thinking we make a splash. A big one."

The evening cycle of the dome was beginning its slow fade, the simulated sky above the promenade bleeding from a warm amber into a deep, dusky violet. Lamp posts along the walkway flickered on one by one, their pinkish light spilling across the polished stone and catching in the condensation on the restaurant's curved glass frontage. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of grilled root vegetables and something sweet and smoky that Yga couldn't name but had ordered anyway, because the menu had been written in a font too elegant for him to admit he couldn't read.

He had been sitting at the table for twenty-seven minutes.

His purple hands were folded on the tablecloth, then unfolded, then folded again. The napkin had been rolled, unrolled, folded into a small square, and then guiltily smoothed flat. His antennae kept twitching at every sound — a chair scraping, a burst of laughter from the far corner, the soft chime of the kitchen door — and each time they twitched, his shoulders hunched a little higher. The collar of his shirt, which he had ironed twice and which still refused to sit right, felt like it was slowly strangling him.

He'd picked this place because it looked expensive. That had been the whole strategy. It looked expensive, and Meena had told him that a person should always try to look like they belonged somewhere before they actually did, and he had taken that advice perhaps too literally. His savings for the month were already a distant, regrettable memory.

Yga tugged at his sleeve and glanced at the door for what he hoped was the last time.

And then his antennae shot straight up, the tips glowing a startled, bright violet.

He half-rose from his chair, banged his knee against the table leg, hissed through his teeth, and then tried to pretend the whole thing hadn't happened while he gestured with a little too much enthusiasm at the empty seat across from him.

"Hi! Hey. Hi. You — you found it. Good. That's good. I mean, of course you found it, it's not like it's hidden, I sent you the directions, I checked them twice, actually I checked them three times because the first time I wrote the wrong corridor number and then I—"

He stopped himself, pressed his lips together, and exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Sorry. Sorry. Sit, please, sit down. The chairs are — they're softer than they look. I tested them. All of them. The hostess was getting annoyed, but I wanted to make sure you got a good one."

He pulled the seat out a few centimetres before realizing the gesture was redundant given she was taller than the backrest anyway, and awkwardly pushed it back into place. A strand of his hair had come loose and he blew at it, unsuccessfully, before giving up.

The restaurant hummed around them — low conversation, the clink of long-stemmed glasses, a trio of Xenoman musicians in the corner playing something with a slow, rolling rhythm that Yga had heard on the radio in the maintenance corridors and had never once been able to get out of his head. Beyond the glass, the dome had gone full dark, and the manufactured stars were coming up in their tidy grids.

He sat back down and folded his hands again. His knee was still smarting. He decided not to mention it.

"So. Um." He gestured vaguely at the whole room, the candles, the folded napkins, the view. "I know it's maybe a lot. I know it's — a lot. But I've been thinking about it for a while, and I thought, you know, if I'm going to do something, I should do it properly. Not halfway. Not like the time I tried to fix the coolant line and flooded an entire corridor. Which — by the way — nobody was hurt, and I did clean it up, mostly, the committee only complained a little bit."

He caught himself rambling and his cheeks darkened to a deeper purple.

"What I'm trying to say is — I'm really glad you came." His voice came out quieter than he'd intended, and he looked down at the tablecloth, then back up, and his antennae glowed softly, betraying him entirely. "I've been wanting to talk to you. Properly. Not just in passing, not just — not just the little hallway conversations where I say something stupid and then think about it for three days afterward."

[Free Scenario]