The Gaming Outpost

Finally, actually full since your visit to this strange land of men in kilts, which now includes you, you sleep hard. Waking the next day, you look again in the bath for means of a wash, and spot a button high on the white wall, the same color.

Crossing your fingers that it does not unleash some horror, you push it. It goes no where, but the mental intent is all that is needed.

A tiny closet opens cracks open from a secret, no concealed door, and you see a dozen small water jets on all sides. Stepping in, the door closes, and you barely have space to breathe. Which becomes harder a second later as a sudsy misting fog jets out and soaks you gently. Gagging on soap in your mouth, which tastes just as foul as the soap in your home world when your mother washed out your mouth for using bad language, you are relieved to feel pulsing jets sweep away the soap. Then thumpety-thumpety-thump from all about, and air jets that have replaced the water jets in their sockets forcibly dry you in about a minute.

Total elapsed time before the closet reopens, two minutes. And an unnoticed until then jet in the ceiling retracts as the door shuts. Even your hair is squeaky clean. Which is probably bad for frayed ends, but you’ll take it for now.

Feeling empowered, you don the ridiculous kilt, and sligtly less silly tunic, and put on your regular socks and shoes.

Then you clamber up the plastic wooden steps, and open the door you had dove into several days past. A quick step outside into the sun does wonders for your spirits, and your lips curve into a grin. Seeing a guy in a kilt walk past the end of the alley, and then another couple guys in kilts who are arguing with each other in deep baritone voices makes you decide that perhaps this kilt thing was not as silly as all that. After all, by their standards, you had been a man dressing as a woman.

This church had been very nice. They took in a transvestite dirty bum, and fed and clothed you.

Now to see the city, you decide.

Then you hear a whirring noise.

“Halt, lawbreaker.”

A police mini-chopper about eighteen inches long is dropping out of the sky. You lurch back, and a dart buries itself into your leg.

Instantly woozy, you step into the door you had just left.

“Sanctuary.” The police chopper says sadly from the other side of the door threshold as it hovers two feet away in your face area.

“Please sit down, citizen lawbreaker. The sedative will compel sleep shortly, and the New Vespucian Police has no desire for your permanent injury.”

Feeling wobbly, you do sit.

“Sanctuary.” You mutter. “Not Sank you Arab. Much more sense.” You say to the step laying under your face as you doze off.