“Hi, Lizzy!”

  Oh, hell. I’ve died and gone to the glittery afterlife.

  “Come on!” Jenny’s voice ricochets around the room like a pixie on espresso. “It’s breakfast time! We get to pick what we want. They’ve got everything—pancakes, bacon, eggs, waffles, hash, ham…” She keeps going, a one-woman menu chant with more sparkle than a thousand cheerleaders.

  Let me die. Again.

  Her breath tickles my ear. “There’s steaming porridge with honey from Highland bees, bannocks still warm from the griddle, slabs of salty back bacon crisp at the edges, fried duck eggs, wild mushrooms, and black pudding.”

  I groan. “You looked that up just to torment me.”

  “And tea. Proper Scottish breakfast tea. Strong enough to stand a spoon in.”

  “Virtual tea doesn’t count.”

  “Virtual bacon tastes exactly like real bacon,” she sings. “Come on, Bluebell, it’s your first day here. Don’t you want to start it with something perfect?”

  “Perfect would be Dad bringing it to me in bed.”

  A pause. Then, softer: “I can set the table by the fire… and you can pretend he’s sitting with you.”

  Damn it. That’s cheating.

  I crack an eye open. Four eyes stare back—two dancing bright blue, two dark brown and far too amused. Jenny and Teressa. Great. I have roommates. The “fire” in the hearth flickers with exactly the same pattern, looped like a lazy gif. Even its warmth is generic, the kind that prickles skin but never quite sinks into bone.

  “Come on,” Tess teases, “get dressed. I’m hungry!”

  I flip her the bird.

  “Name a time and place,” she whispers, winking.

  “Kiss my arse,” I yawn, rolling out of bed.

  “Wash first.”

  Matching snickers follow me to the dresser—then stop dead when I open the top drawer.

  Every inch is crammed with MacLaren tartan. Not kilts—oh no, Mira’s gone full fever-dream Highland cosplay. Pleated mini-skirts so short they’d make a cheerleader blush, matching lace-trimmed crop tops, tartan arm-warmers, knee-high socks, and a ridiculous half-cape with gold fringe. Even the underwear is plaid—soft brushed cotton against my fingertips, seams so delicate I can feel each stitch.

  The second drawer is worse: a fitted bodice with silver buttons and a built-in push-up effect, a sporran the size of a grapefruit dangling silk tassels, glossy black over-the-knee boots with tartan insets, and—folded neatly in the corner—an actual, daddy-sized, great kilt, its wool pleats pressed sharp as paper.

  Behind me, the snickers boil into laughter.

  I glare at the ceiling. “Mira…”

  “Yes, Bluebell?” she purrs.

  “Why does my wardrobe look like a Highlander got abducted by an anime convention?”

  “Your roommates expressed a desire to help you feel at home. I have optimized your cultural signifiers for visual impact and policy compliance.”

  The laughter rolls on.

  “Not funny,” I tell Jenny and Tess.

  Jenny snickers, “Sorry?”

  “Mira, give me something decent to wear.”

  “I apologize, Miss Loren, your initial wardrobe is complimentary. You will need to earn coin to purchase new or additional items.”

  I boil. Something is going to die. “Where’s my bow?”

  The laughter vanishes into a collective gasp.

  “Weapons are not permitted outside the practice range and designated hunting reserves,” states Mira, flat but with a hint of appalled disgust.

  “Shite.”

  Tess adopts a soothing tone. “Come on, Lizzy.” The mischievous gleam returns to her cheeks.

  “It’s like, the cutest outfit ever,” Jenny chimes in, her Irish lilt clashing horribly with a mock California Valley Girl accent.

  I yank the scraps of lace and string masquerading as underwear from the drawer and wrestle myself into them. The lace is cooler than I expect, clinging lightly to my skin. My mood grudgingly lifts—not because I like the look, but because at least I’m not shivering in bed anymore. Digging deeper, I unearth a pair of sheer tartan pantyhose, a mini-skirt, cropped halter top, belt, sporran, and cape. The fabrics range from silky-slick to the warm scratch of wool, layering into a ridiculous, mismatched armor of texture. By the time I finish, only my midriff and face are left uncovered—but the warmth and weight of the outfit settle me more than I want to admit.

  I spin on my heel. “Happy now?—gods and demons…”

  They’re kitted out in identical outfits—minus every scrap I added for modesty—each in her own family tartan. I glance from myself to them… and start to giggle. Their skirts dangle precariously from one hip, unzipped, while their cropped tops rest just beneath their breasts. Compared to them, I’m practically overdressed.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Seriously?”

  Jenny nods, eyes glittering.

  “Yes,” Tess says, “the nanobots don’t rule here—”

  “This is the first chance we’ve had to wear anything,” Jenny sighs, blushing. “It feels kind of naughty.”

  I stare. On Earth, absolute nudity was the rule. Solar-powered nanobots lived in every body, and they demanded bare skin to feed. Most of the world stripped down without a thought, and those of us who didn’t were easy targets for jokes. My enclave was different. Governed by the Seshat AI, we wore tan-through fabrics that kept our Swarms satisfied without shedding every stitch. People mocked us for it, called us prudish, backward. And yet here—suddenly—I was the one prepared. My upbringing, once a burden, felt like a blessing.

  In the VR mindscape, rules bend as easily as light. A ballgown at the beach, a bikini in the Himalayas, a simple shift at breakfast—none of it matters to the nanobots maintaining our physical bodies. The four ruling AIs even promised to perfect a non-solar power source before the colony ships reached landfall, but here in simulation they have other priorities. Clothing isn’t just utility; it’s pedagogy. We aren’t only learning how to farm, hunt, and build. We’re being taught who wore what, when, and why—the grammar of cloth as culture. On Earth, most had gone generations without needing such lessons. For me, raised in weather and laundry, it’s second nature. Perhaps that’s why Jenny and Tess have been assigned as my roommates—novices grinning like apprentices before their first rite.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I say, smoothing the skirt across my hips like a lecturer preparing a demonstration. “I’ll lose the leggings and cape if you two put on some underwear.”

  “Lose the Glengarry bonnet too,” Tess replies, already rifling through her dresser with the air of someone negotiating ceremonial terms.

  Jenny wrinkles her nose. “What’s underwear?”

  I blink. “You’re joking.”

  But their laughter dims. No joke.

  “Mira?” I ask.

  “Yes, Bluebell?” purrs the AI.

  “Did they attend orientation?”

  “No, Miss Loren—”

  “They were during the Summer Games,” Tess cuts in, crossing her arms. Several pale scraps of cloth dangle from her fingers like relics of a forgotten age. “Are these what you mean?”

  Jenny tugs open another drawer and holds up folded linen, as if handling artifacts. “Oh, those things! What are they for?”

  Anthropologists love that question. Function and meaning are never quite the same. I hesitate. Bras long ago drifted into ornament for women our shape, and panties were equal parts modesty, hygiene, and superstition. My mother swore “good girls wore them,” though history suggested most of the world hadn’t bothered. They serve a purpose during your ladies’ week, but otherwise?

  “They keep you clean under short skirts,” I explain, “and they smooth out what the fabric doesn’t hide.”

  Two blank stares.

  “Who cares?” they ask together.

  Memory tugs—a dare from an old boyfriend, a month without underwear, and a quick education in chafing. “Sometimes,” I say carefully, “they protect delicate skin from rough seams.”

  Jenny eyes her half-shirt, suspicion warring with curiosity. Tess twists the bra in her hands like it’s alien technology.

  My imaginary stomach chooses that moment to growl. “Strip,” I order, shedding my own outfit. What follows is less lecture than ritual: cotton sliding over skin, straps settled, waistbands checked. I show them how to tug a skirt to test for modesty, how to flex shoulders to see if a halter will interfere with a bowstring. Comfort, I explain, is a weapon. Cultures collapse without it.

  By the end, the three of us stand clothed in something more than fabric—warm, covered, and inducted into a shared tradition. Jenny twirls at her reflection, delighted. Tess smirks at hers, a convert. As for me, I still distrust Mira’s skimpy sense of style, but at least now I feel armored—ready for battle, a festival, or breakfast. In anthropology, clothing always means more than cloth.

  As I open the door, a translucent window blinks into existence at eye level:

  Social Insight +1

  Basic Leadership +1

  New Skills Unlocked:

  ? Cross-Cultural Adaptation +1

  ? Textile Management +1

  ? Basic Roommate Diplomacy +1

  It lingers just long enough for me to read before fading like steam from a teacup.