"Look, guys, or girls, or whatever gender you have," you say to your alien welcome party. "Obviously there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm not mad, and you don't have to keep me here. Maybe you can just undo whatever all of this is, drop me off back on Earth, and I won't tell anyone, and we can just forget this ever happened."
They looked at each other, some of them scratched their scaly heads, and then the one who seemed to be their spokesperson turned back to face you. "I assume you could revisit Earth if you would like to do so, but that might be challenging before you've mastered our species' shape-shifting abilities. Even then, there might be some red tape to go through, since human governments tend to be somewhat touchy if there are too many unannounced aliens wandering their countries in human form."
"I'm not an alien!" you shout, frustrated. "Your data should have told you I'm a human! And now my original DNA is stuck somewhere in that big box back there."
"Such information is obvious," they say. "How many Serphenthians do think were born that way, after the billions of Earth years we've been exploring? Our primeval breeding grounds were destroyed with our planet before life formed on the one you came from. Some of us are clones, but most of us are aliens who donated our genetic samples to the communal database in exchange for hardy, changeable bodies and a chance to explore the universe as part of the oldest and most famous spacefaring race."
"So, wait, you mean to say that you guys came of one of those?" you say, pointing to the box. "Just like I did? And that's what you wanted?"
One of the Serphenthians whispers something into the spokesperson's ear. The spokesperson perks up, sticks his forked tongue out like a snake, and speaks again.
"Is this not what you wanted? What did you think a portypotti was for?"
You choose not to answer that.
"Look," you say instead, "If I'm have to be an alien now, can we at least continue this conversation when I haven't just been caught with my pants down? Maybe you can get me some better clothes for this new body, like those silver jumpsuits you're wearing, or something more fashionable, it doesn't matter."
"Ah," he says knowingly (or she? It's hard to tell what sex you are now, much less anyone else). "I forgot that most Earth cultures condition humans to cover some parts of their body at all times. These silver garments are simply staff uniforms representing the mother ship. Allow me to assure you that Serphenthians decoratively cover their bodies only for aesthetic or ceremonial purposes. We are not dismayed by your exposure of the pleasant form we share and once even envied. You need wear nothing unless you take part in something which requires some traditional garment. Even so, since you request some time to consider your situation and possibly to dress yourself, we shall lead you to your tentative habitation aboard this ship. You should leave your Earth garments here to be disposed of by custodial drones; I doubt such primitive fabrics could be comfortable against your Serphenthian skin. A small, optional wardrobe has been prepared for you, but you will find that we have a galaxy's worth of clothing options to choose from, should you so desire."
Stepping out of your pants to follow them, naked from the waist down, is not entirely comfortable for you despite the Serphenthians' clothing-optional stance. You take a few steps wearing only your top, but the spokesperson is right: the friction of cheaply woven cotton against your tightly packed scales is distracting, to say the least. You leave the room naked, hoping they're as liberal regarding nudity as they claim to be. You don't know what space they've set aside for you to stay in or what kind of clothes they've picked out for you, but you're tired of being lectured to and just need a chance process all of this.