"Coming, sir," I say. My master is Anthonius Yonemitsu Wallenquist, or Antho for short. Yes, you've probably heard of him. But not of me. I'm just a valet, personal servant, what-have-you. He's the Hero of The Galaxy.
I find him standing bewildered in front of his wardrobe. He keeps thinking he can get dressed without my help. But I see he's gotten to the point where he realizes he's made a hopeless mess of things and can't even extricate himself without injury. I lever him out of the Arvad Ceremonial Spoon-Duel Tunic (which he had put on sideways)and leave him to remove the rest himself while I search for something more appropriate--a formality, since I had this planned weeks in advance. I even go so far as to ask, "Today you are meeting the Silverfish, sir?"
"Yes, Bentley," he says, eyes sparkling with heroic anticipation. "The first contact with an alien race from outside the Galaxy! And to think that my exploits had gained me such fame that they even asked to meet me in person!"
"Yes, sir," I say, effortlessly garbing him in the specially-made outfit.
"What is this?" he asks curiously.
"The Silverfish sent the specifications and requested that you wear it to the meeting, sir. They even had your measurements correct." Barring the extra few pounds he'd gained over a month of inactivity, of course. The only kind of exercise he got was in bed, anymore. But I'd been instructed to let him lapse in his fitness routine.
"Looks kind of snazzy," he says, admiring himself in the mirror. It had, of course, gone out of style, except on horrific backwater planets like the one Antho was from, in the reign of Dyal V. But the Silverfish were far enough away that this kind of inexcusable fashion travesty must be tolerated.
"Do we know what they look like yet?" he asks.
"The Science Department hasn't told me of any visual data received," I say, truthfully enough. I've also been instructed not to share with him the pictures I received from other sources. There's no difficulty at all in determining why they were given the name they were.
"Well, then, let's go!" he says, all gung-ho. Anyone with a modicum of sense would have insisted on a thorough briefing, but not Antho. He's Hero of The Galaxy--and, one could judge by the Silverfish's request, of more than that.
"With all due respect, sir," I say, "the Silverfish requested that I stay behind. I'm terribly disappointed, but I imagine I'll hear it all from you upon your return."
He shrugs and departs, waving cheerily.
I'll almost miss him. Oh, he was an uncultured slob, but he was kind of endearing nonetheless. But these Silverfish are too dangerous. It's judged that the death of our Hero should have the entire Galaxy up in arms, and ready to invade the next one over. The poor things won't have time to explain that they thought he was the ritual meal they requested to welcome them after their long voyage. Or to find out how their messages were deliberately misinterpreted to give us this excuse.
I, of course, will get a comfortable posting well away from any danger. A terrible shame we can't all fight patriotically against the devil-monsters, but someone has to keep the home fires burning, as it were...
I take out the Arvad Ceremonial Spoon-Duel Tunic. It always did fit me better than him.
Based on the words: Silverfish Ask Wardrobe Galaxy
With the additional condition: Must be told from the POV of a minor character
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