Changing Skies

Part 3- A Disguise

Radic

The blood stains were a bit of a inconvenience. Resistance is ultimately futile against the newest Slomarian handguns. Normally it just dissolves the material of Slomarians. I won't lie. The spontaneous combustion of the native justice officer wasn't expected or appreciated. But, it got the job done and I think he's still alive. (I mean, he'd better be.) This much had to be given credit. 

In order to at least be able to establish some way of contact with the earth dwellers, a disguise was necessary. The ways of which one is attained was a most uncomfortable ordeal. 

First, an identity is necessary. I need some clothing to blend with the humans and thankfully most are pretty obsessed with their appearance. In a store named after an American currency, outfits filled room after room of the large building. The walls were painted in such bright colors my eyes began to sting and the air reaked of B.O. and synthetic flowers. Humans have disturbing preferences. 

After wandering the isles for an annoyingly long period of time, and accidentally into the junior's area (how are young female humans ever supposed to maintain these unrealistic body expectations?) I discovered the men's section. Here, the underlying color scheme was even more B.O. and the shades of white, sky blue, and various dirts.

A few hours and multiple ‘almost getting caught in Slomarian form by a dressing room attendent’ incidents later, I finally finished with a few separate outfits. The one that blended in the most and would come in handy later consisted of a white T-shirt under my large, brown overcoat with white fur peeking out around the edges. Light blue jeans covered my lower half and sagged slightly around a pair grey sneakers. As I was ripping off some small irritable pieces of paper and plastic from the clothing, I tossed a handful of Talips at the cashier. 

Her jaw hung as she stared the pile of small triangles scattered across the table top. Her hand reached towards a walkie-talkie  attached to her belt. When I continued towards the door, she called out, “Security! We have a runner!” A men clad in a uniform with a taser by his side rushed over and  sprinted towards me, as the casher cheered him on. When I realized it was me he was after, I booked it into the maze of cars and hopped into the back end of a truck. 

A few moments later, movement from the vehicle slid the clothes and myself into the side of the car. As it began to leave the lot, the familiar sound of pursuing footsteps grew louder. An officer threw himself over the side  and landed parallel to myself. With a taser placed at my chest, he leaned to the window to the front and hollered, “Ma'am, I need you to pull your car over. There is a thief in your truck.” He was met with a growling Rottweiler and blaring rock music with the volume up to the setting ‘jet engine’. As he was distracted, I reached for his taser, and turned it back towards him aimed straight at his temple. Once he wrenched his arm out of the mutt's fangs, I ordered, “Take off your pants.”

The process of receiving and maintaining a disguise is necessary, but not altogether the most desirable of experiences.