The secretions of the ogress and ogre never manifest, in form, to other species—but there exists a perimeter. Something of a barrier around the ogre or ogress that says, this space can be called mine. Something of a wall, and the wall says, anything inside belongs to me. To the ogre or ogress, this wall materializes itself to such a degree that walking through the wall feels as if they walk through mud, mire, and fire.

The conflict which ensues ends when one submits; unless I am yours, you are mine. Their worlds come together. A ruler rules, ordained.

However, to every other race and species of the galaxy—this world of theirs is a world of pheromones and odor which collapses any being with a sense of smell.

So Roman steps back from Sawyer the Ogress, covering his nose with the washcloth. Waterboarding beats the experience, and Oren chuckles at the display despite his own lightheadedness.

From a distance of yards which stretch like miles, Hella gestures Roman forward. The gesture is easy to make from outside the odorous veil, and she tosses the same wave at Oren. Fog rolls between them—he doesn't need the instruction. His orders are from his chief of stewards—although this task is unofficial because orders can not be given by stewards in break rooms, no matter the rank. But as far as the smell is concerned, the reek stinks no worse than the pious after a pilgrimage.

And Roman never worked their settlement's bathhouse, nor did he go as far as Oren had for favors: extra food, clothing, housing, water rations—Oren was the brother who worked the brothers and sisters and siblings and father and mothers of the congregation. Service for alms was his domain. The plans, half-baked, from Hella will come to fruition as a byproduct of the worker Oren has always been, so his chest puffs with pride.

"Missing Earth?" he asks Roman. He then feigns a fit of coughs because the smell lodges in his throat. The thinning rag over his mouth does nothing to save him. The show of repulsion is a sin for a steward, as the guidelines say, so his next move is to lower the rag from his nose, but the cotton sticks to his mouth as the faux-coughs continue.

"Excuse my coughing," he says to the ogress. She nods. Her focus remains on her aching body. His steps are slow, but his steps move him forward—the giantess sits on the shower floor a dozen feet away, eyes closed as if in meditation.

Roman grunts and gags and spits on the tiles. "Fuck me, you are a dank broad—"

"Roman!" Oren swings his head his brother's way. "You can't brute force this—this is service, not a hunt or a beast to be felled. Do it as though you love it."

His brother's stature doesn't falter anymore as he stands above the ogress on the floor. "My brother and I are assigned the task of washing you, ma'am. Chief Alice tells us your muscles tense after a work day?"

She opens her eyes halfway. "I stopped moving for too long, so now I'm stuck."

Roman smiles. "I see. Tense is an understatement."

The ogress nods. Oren doesn't see his reflection grimace across the tiles; his brother's naturalness towards caretaking disturbs him. Something fills his heart, and his understanding of himself rocks further.

"Believe me," Roman continues. "I understand. People raise their knees slightly when they walk like this." His performance makes the ogress smile. "But there were times on the settlement when my legs were so sore, I couldn't raise them. I had to tilt my hips up and twist to move anywhere." He performs the movement, and this time a laugh rises from her gut. Then comes a groan.

"Sorry," Roman says. "If I had my balms with me I'd rub them over your legs and back and arms, but we couldn't bring much."

She nods. "There are herbs and chemicals in the commissary. I'll pay, you make."

His hands wipe down his thighs. "I'm not the one who made them. We left him behind. We'll begin washing you shortly."

The ogress nods again; collateral motions make her groan with pain. Roman's attention turns to his brother, but the attention takes a journey: his eyes drift from the grout between the tiles to the miscellanea inside the cubbies. From the hiss of the shower, then the gurgle of pipes behind the walls. The stifling odor of Sawyer. Then, his attention reaches his brother.

"How do you want to play this?" Roman asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Serving like this is not my arena," he says, but his eyes don't reach Oren's—they have floated around him since their argument. "Planning isn't either. Playing my role will keep me, so—" His hands hang in the air, going limp at the wrist. "These are for the tasks we're given—how do you want to play this?"

Oren sighs. The circuits of his brain shift, firing information to the surface. "The key to washing a client is maintaining dignity, safety, and comfort." He looks around. The curtains and doors cannot lock. "This room is not optimal, but we don't have any options."

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"What are the issues?" Roman asks.

"You don't care." Oren pauses, observing his brother. "The issue is privacy—anyone can walk in and catch her vulnerable. With her rank as chamberlain and her nature as an ogress—her dignity is at risk." He looks around again, then listens. "Though, we are in a lull. The emigrants and stewards are in their cabins or working. Are you comfortable with this, Chamberlain?"

"Sawyer," the ogress says. "And what you say is true—but if someone enters, I can regain their respect through my methods."

Roman's eyes widen.

"The second issue," Oren continues. "We'll only be able to do a partial bathing procedure. The full procedure entails the drying, dressing, and aftercare of the client—which is mostly administrative work—but because this is technically an unofficial task, we won't be able to—"

"You're a knowledgeable guy," Roman interrupts. Discerning whether the words are genuine or sarcastic is difficult; perhaps both, but they are to shut him up.

"What do I wash first?" he asks.

"The face. No soap—water only."

Roman steps forward, and Sawyer flinches.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

She takes a deep breath. "I am strong," she says.

He nods. "That fact needs no statement."

"Strong, but weak—our diets aren't right. I can't care for myself. My muscles are as they are and will remain, but wouldn't tighten this way if we were able to get proper meals. My folks can't recover properly. It's always an effort to wake and wash and do basic things when we're not working."

"Why is working easier than caring for yourselves?"

"It isn't. But the work is the work—to be done is its nature."

Roman begins the wash with her ears. Wetting the rag—behind and inside. Dirt and sweat builds up behind and inside if he doesn't wash for too long. Across the galaxy, people are people and are the same. What he pulls and washes from her there is vile, but the vileness washes away, washing off the cloth and into the drain. His shoulders relax and his heart settles—this can be done a step at a time.

"In honesty," Sawyer continues, "it has been days. I don't mind the smell so much, and there is a lot of work to be done. But some day, like the day before orientation, Alice tells me to figure something out. It hurts. If she is in good spirits, she will help when I beg. But today is—"

Roman puts the rag on her forehead, pressing the cloth so water flows. The ogress closes her mouth.

"Hella," Roman begins. "Hella, my sister, exhausts herself often and catches fevers." The towel slides from her forehead and down the bridge of her nose. He digs into the crevices where the nostrils and face meet. Her eyes close as the crust is wiped away. "She assisted academics and would steal books for the night. But there were some points I would have to strap her to the bed. She won't rest, she won't wash herself, she won't eat when she's learning—and she won't ask for help or let anyone help."

He pauses. "Oren. After her face, what do I wash?"

"Neck, then her back."

He wipes the grim from her cheeks, revealing, with gentleness, the verdancy beneath. "So, Sawyer, talk about something else. I'll be switching to your neck and back now."

A shudder rides through her body. Were he still on her face, he would see her cheeks redden, as if a ripening tomato. "You're a defiler," she says.

"Now why would you insult me?"

He walks around—her height is so: him standing to her shoulder blade is her sitting, cross-legged. Him touching her is as if touching a warmed stature of stone with the colors and all the stillness of moss, overgrown.

"You're breaking me down," she says. "Sending off my alarms; my instincts say to do something terrible."

"Terrible like how, Chamberlain?"

"Terrible, like pin you down and take you."

The chasms of her back heave with a breath. Roman lets the towel heat her muscles where, from experience, his own muscles tense the most. Her head tilts, her neck pops, and the towel stops moving. Her musk mingles with the steam, sharp, swimming through Roman's senses.

The motions are casual, almost careless, but Roman's hands linger sometimes a second too long. His knuckles brush her skin. Sawyer doesn't react at first, but where her muscles rise, he travels. Then, with a small shift, she leans into his touch, her voice low and amused. "Keep it up and I'll tell Alice you're a star."

Roman and Oren look at one another for the first time; if they keep this up, they will have fulfilled their half of Hella's plan—gaining leadership favor.

So Roman remains on her back. But Oren asks a question which has sat in the air the entire time: "You pin those who assist you?"

"Unless it is Alice," the ogress responds. "I can not pin her?"

"Why is that?" Roman asks.

"As she helps, she puts me beneath her. You will see."

"And as we relax you," Oren says, "And after your muscles are at ease and your soreness dulls to where you can move, what will you do?"

Her hand moves further within the darkness of her cross-legged thighs.

"You stepped into my space," she says. "You’re in my world."