Author: TPH

Azul kept mashing the “go up” button in vain mimicry of her warm-cuddle coworkers, believing somehow that the aggression she put into the button press would be translated into vertical speed. It didn’t work, and a large part of her mind knew it wouldn’t, but it made the situation feel better and that’s what mattered. As the elevator finally reached her office suite it let out a happy series of chimes, the otherwise calming melody seeming to mock her as it delayed the opening of the doors.

Azul didn’t rush out of the elevator so much as poured herself out, pushing every inch of herself that she was physically capable of through the widening gap  as the doors slowly and otherwise majestically opened. Stumbling out into her office proper, she looked up with wild eyes to see what remained of the associated board of directors acting uncharacteristically jovial.

“[I’m back, I’m back!]” With a hurried slide she positioned herself behind her desk again, making no attempt to clean herself up as she reconnected to the call with hasty apologies. “[A thousand apologies, everyone – there was a rockslide that had to be picked up downstairs.]”

Drewgre-of-Arroz laughed, flicking his ears. “[Not a problem – we were entertained while you were gone! Your little helper came back in while you were gone.]”

Azul’s blood turned to ice, and her face dropped. “[Oh.]”

Gkrusk rested her muzzle on the heel of her palm, idly tapping at a tablet off screen with her free hand. “[Oh, don’t be so bitter, it was fine. In fact, he had some really good ideas.]” Gkrusk looked up at her camera with a sly smile. “[I quite like the idea of branching out to adventure dining locations.]”

“[Adventure dining?]” Azul parroted, the whipcrack switch between evil megacorporation and daily marketing duties causing her thoughts to skip a beat.

“[Yes. We have the materials and the money, why not build a restaurant inside an active volcano?]” Gkrusk said, scrolling through a list only she could see. “[Or a lone mountain range near some unpopulated part of our core territory? We’d have the food distribution network there already, and winter sports are always in vogue.]”

‘<Evil volcano lair.>’ Azul immediately thought, and grimaced. ‘<Secret mountain base.>’

“[Some of his ideas were ah, quaint, to say the least: Orbiting stations, asteroid constellations, things like that.]” Gkrusk continued, rumbling contentedly.

“[Was it something he called ‘starkiller base’?]” Azul asked, hesitatingly, feeling the pressure of a migraine starting to build in the center of her skull. 

“[Why yes! So he did bring it up to you before!]” Drewgre-of-Arroz said, nodding approvingly. “[It’s so good to see subordinates take the initiative, and we can completely understand your hesitation in autonomously directing so many resources for unproven projects.]”  

“[I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.]” Azul said, interrupting the director as she rubbed her clenching jawline. “[And I’d like to cut this off before you come out of the tunnel. I think there’s been a fundamental cultural disconnect between what we projected, expected and executed on, and what our human colleagues are doing. We need to readjust accordingly, immediately.]”

“[I’ll say.]” Kqi’pi said, looking over a report. “[Completely shifted my paradigms on synergistic foodservice and win-win collaborative-disruptive models.]” He looked up at the camera, completely serious as he tapped his desk with his free hand. “[We can involve shareholders and stakeholders in a staked steak model on something called a blockchain, which according to my notes is a linked butcher’s station for all kinds of meats.]”

Azul inhaled deeply, trying to center herself as the board of directors – her superiors by far – built momentum, sliding at breakneck speed towards a cliff’s edge that only she could see.

“[I believe we should shutter all our operations in regards to this new business line, effective immediately.]” Azul said, slowly, forming the words and letting them fall out of her mouth like formed stone. She was dimly aware that the conversation had quickly died down, and that realization gave her the strength to press on.

“[The humans don’t view our interstellar organization as anything other than an evil megacorporation – no offense to anyone here, we’re all in that same basket to them – and so have taken the opportunity to form a culture of scofflaws. What I had originally assumed were quirks of our new colleagues are instead purpose-built to form this corporate division into a liability for the entire conglomerate. The self-created corporate slogans are battle-cries, the PPE we’ve provided is kitted out more towards a security service, and our methods of payment and recruiting are subversive at best. Our initial marketing drive-by was an actual drive-by, for Sotek’s sake!]” Azul cried out, opening her eyes and raising her hands in exasperation. “[There is so much more, but this needs to be stopped, and stopped now!]” 

There was a moment of dead air before the conference call erupted in hearty, superlative laughter, a few of the Directors shutting off their video feed to save face from the lack of composure. Azul visibly drooped, the weight of their disbelief physically pushing her to the floor. Her chin rested against her desktop, the rest of her body slowly sagging under the camera’s horizon.

“[Oh come now, this isn’t your first pushback.]” Drewgre-of-Arroz said, his tone turning oddly paternal. “[I understand you have concerns, and we’re willing to hear them out, but given your previous reports there’s a lot of growing pains to a human-led, or partially human-managed corporation. We’ve already put a follow-up meeting next month, so we can revisit this issue then. Who knows?]” The elderly Dorarizin male shrugged, his greying muzzle opening to flash pearly-white teeth. “[This could all be over by then.]”

“[That’s what I’m worried about.]” Azul said, mainly to herself, as one by one her management signed off from the call.  

Elder Ti’miquek was no stranger to hard work, or loud work; although his career seemed to be ending in food service, he had spent some time doing everything from swinging a hammer to turning a wrench. Not on the same job, mind you, but during that hundred year or so period he was trying to find himself and settle down he wore multiple hats.

It had been a long time since he worked for a shade tree mechanic’s shop, and it
took him a little while to hold a conversation properly in-between the sound of air wrenches and plasma torches. His daughter only notified him of a nearly seven-figure purchase for the company, it’s line-item description in his accounting software only said “light manufacturing: misc”. In-between shifts Tictac decided it would be a good idea to swing by the new property and see what the new generation was getting up to, and if he would be needed to help in the quality control of what he assumed was food manufacturing.  

What they were getting up to was utterly confusing, looked concerning, had nothing to do with foodstuffs and was unfortunately very expensive.  

“[You’re telling me the cultural significance of these … machines is that important?]” Tictac half-yelled, tilting his body down to get close enough to Brian to hear what he was saying.

“Mate.” Brian fully-yelled back, the task made harder with his still-down welding visor over his face. “Nobody – no seppie, no tinhead, no bogan be they bloke or cunt would argue with this choice. It must be done.” Brian stressed, his hands spreading wide from his body as he spoke.

“[Fair… dink home.]” Tictac attempted, his translator doing it’s best to marry a respectable language to Australian. “[Did we really have to pay for shipping from Earth?]” 

“I know a guy who knows a guy, so these won’t show up on any manifests.” Brian said, slapping the aluminum panel of the vehicle in question. “Met a truckie one arvo that works for corporate – says they’ve been doin’ it since old Earth. Wherever there’s aggro, you’ll find em.”

Tictac tilted forward, mimicking to a startling degree one of those drinking bird mobiles as he looked the underside of the vehicle over. Four synthetic wheels, simple friction brakes, batteries and an engine that ran on some sort of fuel. The shocks were simple coils, the power differential nothing more than gears. To call the machine in front of him primitive would be an insult, but considering he
commuted to his company on an automatic hovercraft with inertial dampening
systems and full-preening back massage chair, it was the only word that came to
mind.  

He kept it to himself, though, so as not to be rude. “[But you said this was a toy.]”

Brian laughed, which was more for show than anything given he had to go arms akimbo and yell out his laughter for it to be heard over the pneumatic hammer. “This ain’t a toy, ya dag! It’s a Toyota!”  

“[They’re not the same?]” Tictac asked, rearing back to half-height. “[No offense meant, but it looks very light. Simple.]”

Brian rested his hand on the white Toyota truck, patting it gently. “Now, yes. But soon she’ll be a technical, and then we’re delivering with style. Hot fresh fried foods and firepower in fifteen minutes or less, or you pay us double for the trouble!”

Tictac flicked his receding headcrest in mild confusion. “[Is that our new slogan?]”

“Can it be? I won’t tell anyone, promise!” Brian said, Tictac feeling the shit-eating grin spread underneath the unmoving welding mask.

Before Tictac could respond to the little human there was a loud bang – the kind of bang that came not from industry but from accidents, and the two quickly turned to look at the commotion. What looked like an AA turret had fallen the last few feet from it’s hoist onto the flatbed of a truck, the sudden weight popping one of the tires and causing the entire vehicle to lurch to the left, ultimately tipping over and spilling everything to the floor.

There was a pause in the workshop as everything came to a halt before someone yelled out “I’M OK!”. A cheer went up, a couple human managers wandered over with clipboards in hand, and most everyone took it as a cue to chitchat, check phones, or hang out at the soda fountain water coolers. Very slowly things got back to a kind of normal, save for the humans in question who had been summarily kidnapped by bright orange-masked people and pulled away into a side closet that Tictac had never noticed before.  

“[I don’t like that I’m this far out of the loop.]” Tictac said, frowning slightly. “[We were supposed to be a family establishment, serving our community.]”

“We are, and we are! Just, expand your definition of ‘family’ and ‘serving’.” Brian said, finally flipping up his welding mask to expose his soot-and-oil smeared face. “We’re simply a group of loosely related individuals who want to maintain our standing in our local geographic area through any means necessary. In that, are we not like your own founding feathers?”  

“[Fathers, and no. If I remember my history, this system was founded initially as a rest stop and resort.]” Tictac said, sighing. “[Can you just promise to be careful? I’d never hear the end of it from everyone’s families – the actual families – if something happened to you or any of the other humans in my employ.]”

“You don’t consider us family?” Brian asked, voice thick with forced and overdone emotion. Whatever he was going to stay was immediately shushed by Tictac’s hand smushing against his unprotected face.   

“[That won’t work on me, especially coming from you.]” Tictac said, a slight smile on his face. “[But it has been interesting seeing what you and my daughter have been up to. Speaking of, do you know where she is?]”

Brian shrugged, his face covered by the larger xenos’ palm. “Mffmfhfm mmff.”

Tictac looked down at the human who continued to talk into his palm, and idly wondered if whatever madness that was endemic to their race was infecting him slowly. “[You’re right! I’ll check her office first – and thanks for agreeing to work for unpaid overtime.]”  

“HHEH!” Brian yelled into Tictac’s palm, before he was swept up into a hug.

 

[Princess] pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth and rubbed a well-worn worry spot with the flat of her tongue. Ever since she started working full-time with tiny-chompers, she had to get noseblind to a few common smells: a little bit of fear, the overwhelming scent of pick-me-up, a couple copper tangs of blood. The various colognes and deodorants that they slathered on themselves only masked,
partially, everything else, and so it was through discipline and training that her and the rest of her kin managed to maintain control over more primal desires.

As the tiny-chompers spilled out of her grasp and onto the loading tarmac like an uncontrolled tide of leapers, [Princess] smelled blood – which was so disturbingly normal that it barely even registered anymore, oil, grease and various industrial solvents. They’d been busy in her short absence, but as she looked around she couldn’t tell what exactly they were busy doing.

Tiny-chomper-big-energy leapt up from the floor, bounding over to a group of his cohorts that were busy kinetically disassembling an aptly-named “fork-lift”, and started to babble happily among the other tiny-chompers. [Princess] knew that it was mandatory during normal business operations to always keep her translator on, updated, and listening to all frequencies. She also knew that nobody really checked any of that, and that is a hill she was willing to get written up on.

With a smirk she gave a mental command, the tiny-chomper band clicking back on. Suddenly adorable babbling snarls and yips were replaced by a menagerie of actual, legitimate voices; accents from throughout the rim, high class touches and proper deep baritones from frames two sizes too small. [Princess] let the change wash over her for a few moments, before finishing the shutdown procedure of their
food-transport.

Tiny-chompers never remembered to engage the manual clamps, and for the life of her [Princess] couldn’t figure out why. She stomped down on the lever, the metal vice clamping down on the right most landing support strut, locking the vehicle to the tarmac. As she moved to the other side of the transport to kick down the second lever, her ears started to perk up: the rolling babble and cacophany of conversation that always surrounded her tiny-chompers was forming into a coherent chant. By the time she engaged the second vice, the chant had formed a call-and-reply, but the words made absolutely no sense.

[Princess] looked up at her bosses bosses’ boss, made eye contact and shrugged.

“[Don’t raise your voice, yelling undermines your own authority.]” Azul said to the reflection of herself in the elevator mirror, as she descended to the shop floor below. “[Ask the same question multiple ways in order to get the full picture. Use small words. Remember, your size is intimidating enough to your subordinates.]” Azul felt the sudden shift in momentum as the elevator neared her floor, and she fussed over her suit out of habit. With a gentle chime the door slid open, and Azul pasted on her winningest smile.

She continued to hold up that smile with titanic effort as she was summarily and obviously ignored. Before her were two groups of warm-cuddles, One who had taken all the orange protective gear, and the other, the yellow. The two had formed a circle around what could only be described as an effigy of their work, with a chosen handful playing music with whatever they could get their hands on.

Azul frowned. Usually rituals to [O’shaa] were done for auspicious reasons, such as the birth of a drone flock or the certification in [fork lift] of a fellow warm-cuddle. Rarely such gatherings were done on dark days, like safety inspections or bring-your-daughter-to-work day. For them to go to such lengths for an initial delivery… well.

Hopefully it was a good thing.

“[Ahem.]” Azul cleared her throat, the low rumblesnap punctuating the space between the beats of the warm-cuddles’ impromptu song. “[I’m sorry to interrupt, but, could someone fill me in on what’s going on?]”

The ocean of warm-cuddles and other xenos onlookers parted, and a human with a staff made up of what looked like blinking emergency flares stepped forth.

“We hench.” He stated, and immediately chirped up from the crowd scattered words and exclamations of “hench” and “preach it!” and a couple “muahahas” before he raised his hand, silencing the onlookers. He pointed his staff at the still-smoking food truck, the battle damage still fresh.

“We now have an arch!” He roared, and the crowd went wild, the chanting resuming, increasing in timbre and pitch. Azul shrunk back slightly at the sudden burst of noise, before raising her hand in an attempt to silence the crowd.

After a few moments, she had peace. “[Thank you for that initial explanation, that cleared up a lot. Would you kindly elaborate on those words and their particular meanings?]”

The safety shaman crouched, tilting his head as if to examine Azul for the first time. “We hench. We hench for you.”

“[Yes.]” Azul began, before being silenced by the striking of the fuse-staff against the ground.

“You are the big boss.” The safety shaman said, using very small words. Azul wondered for a moment if this was part of the bit, or if it was a backhanded way of insulting her intelligence. “From grand sky-palace-“

‘<Yep.>’ Azul thought. ‘<Definitely part of the bit.>’

“-we receive orders from the evil league of evil.” The shaman continued, and Azul smiled despite her best efforts to remain stoic.

“[That’s one way to label upper management.]” Azul retorted.

“And so we rain fire and hate upon our enemies!” The shaman yelled, raising his staff to hold in his hands high above his head. The gesture was a bit lost on Azul, as  his hands only reached her shoulder height. She shared a quick look with her fellow triads, the other xenos giving approximations of shrugs and bemused grins. “By the blood oath we swore! By the benefits promised us! We fight, and scheme and die and kill-“

“[Oh, wait wait no. No we don’t do that here.]” Azul interrupted, waving her hand dismissively as she straightened up, subconsciously asserting her authority. “[Weapons are nonlethal for [the xenos] and only to be used in self-defense in regards to other humans. Doing otherwise would be absolutely illegal, and we don’t condone such acts.]”

Her words caused a stir among the warm-cuddles, who alternated between hushed conversation and loud expressions of their disapproval. A few feisty individuals even attempted to start a chant of “New number one!” but the meaning was lost on her and didn’t take among the crowd.

The safety shaman tilted his head again, before resting the staff in the crook of his arm. Reaching up, he pulled off the welding mask that was turned into a fearsome effigy, tucking it under his other arm. Azul stared into the visibly confused and – alarmingly – worried human, his brown eyes staring into her own.

“Where do you think we are?” He said, softly but not unkindly. “You pay us through shell company intermediaries.”

Azul frowned slightly. “[Yes, but what does-]”

“Money laundering!” a human in the crowd cried out, and much to Azul’s horror was met with various murmurs of agreement.

“You give us custom weapons and battle suits.” The shaman continued, rolling his wrist in a ‘come on, think’ gesture. “They wear your emblem.”

“[That’s investing in your safety and comfort-]” Azul continued, slightly less certain.

“After arming us, you told us to destroy your enemies and all who stand before you.” The human said, matter-of-factly.

In a small voice, Azul attempted a rebuttal. “[Strong language is the core of pep talks amongst employees and is fundamental to corporate morale.]”

The safety shaman shook his head and looked up. Azul followed his gaze, up past the banners that – now that she looked at them – showed swords piercing the planet, a fist crushing the continent they were on, a snake-like creature with a fanged grin encircling the solar system. Interspersed between them were banners that proudly displayed such slogans as “All things will bow” and “We are inevitable”, which given the terrifying new context looked less like a nice company morale booster and instead looked like something much worse.

In an increasing daze, she looked back down, horizontally scanning past her employees to her glowing red and spiked [forklifts], the fog machines pumping out a gentle haze along the floor, her heavily up-armed and up-armored battle food trucks, and increasingly menacing water coolers placed every 30 meters along the wall.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth when she noticed the little buttons to open and close doors were in the shape of skulls.

“What did you think this all was?” The shaman said, before Azul’s panic attack set in and her vision darkened.

“[We are not a criminal organization!]” Azul chanted to herself, waking up to the repetitive mantra echoing loudly within the elevator that she didn’t remember rushing to. There was a pounding at the door that she couldn’t be bothered to deal with, her body too heavy to pry off of the ice-cold floor.

‘<Breathe>’ a small voice inside her suggested, and she inhaled as deeply as possible. The banging on the door slowed down, and much to Azul’s surprise, she realized it was her heartbeat that was ringing around her skull. ‘<Just breathe. You can always take some time back up in orbit-.>’

Another wave of sickening panic rolled through her body from her tail to her hood at the thought of leaving the planet to flee to what was apparently now an orbital command bunker.

“[We are not a criminal organization!]” Azul cried out, inhaling deeply once again. “[How could they think that? Why would they think that! What sane person responds to an ad for an elite, discrete group of like-minded individuals to perform vague acts at the behest of a multi-system megacorpor-oh no.]”

Azul paused for a moment, her cries dying in her throat, and reviewed everything she’d done since arriving in this system in the new light of “evil boss” as she mouthed out silent words.

Additional flair for management? Officer stripes.

Employee shuttle? Untraceable transport.

Personal protective equipment? Goon squad outfits.

S.W.A.T. breakdown of competition? Hit list.

Free breakroom snacks? Bribery.

Azul had nothing that she uncovered in this new light that didn’t feed into the new narration. An underground base wasn’t “utilizing urban space properly”, a chic tower in the center of town was obviously an evil spire hiding in plain sight, and as she looked it was everything and everywhere.

‘<Is this what happens to you when you spend too much time in the Strix’ssl’nress crowd?>’ Azul thought, slowly blinking as she stared up into the elevator light. ‘<Big city, fast times, power brunch and apparently evil corporations.>’

With a wave of nausea Azul picked herself up from the floor, pulling herself to a sitting position with her arms. The panic attack was now falling behind, replaced with cool calculation of odds, avenues of attack, and cost-benefit analysis.

“[We can stop this right now.]” Azul said, picking at her fingers as she thought out loud. “[Generously donate to local officials and make whole the people we just attacked. File for articles of dissolution, give everyone a generous severance package, take the physical assets and distribute them via other companies and fronts to the general public. Launch the primary and backup servers into the star and stay 10 systems away from this place forever.]”

Azul leaned against the wall, using it as a crutch to stand up. “[This is doable. If any reporter makes a mountain out of this, it can be brushed off as an isolated incident.]” Azul stretched her spine slightly, the staccato pops releasing small bursts of endorphines as she regained her former physical and emotional posture.

“[My plan should work if we can move quickly. All I need to do is notify the board -]” Azul lurched forward as she finally remembered: The board. The conference call that she abandoned that was going on right now. Azul pressed the office floor button, and kept spamming it the entire ride up in the vain hope it would somehow make the executive lift move quicker.

 

The ring that pierced the silence of the foyer was a bright mechanical one, an iron clapper ramming against a small aluminum bell housed within the base of the telephone the source of the cacophany. The telephone itself would have been considered an antique model before The Great Clusterfuck – at least, it was made after an older model. Its mother of pearl, gold-trimmed handset rested on two golden arms, providing all the cutting edge ergonomics that the 1910s could offer. The turquoise keypad flashed slightly, the small LEDs embedded in the number dial hinting that this was a recreation of something from the old countries, something to tie the diaspora to the times before. As it was a reminder of where they came from, the family that owned this particular machine placed it alone, on a stand, in a place of honor, with it’s back up against the wall.

However, if you were to point out to Josette Mignon Fleur de Boudreaux-Beaumont that her genuine reproduction voice-messenger only device was, gaudy, gauche and anything but genuine, why, that would be a scandal, and she wasn’t sure her aged heart could take such a thing.

Long, crimson acrylic nails spread a smoky-hued bead curtain apart, like some grand dame moses splitting the red sea in twain. Faded autumn curls mixed with the gray snow of age cascading down the woman’s shoulders, a lone turtle hairpin holding back enough of the tangles so she could see. Josette frowned, slightly, her gentle laugh lines wrinkling a bit deeper as she sucked on a butterscotch hard candy, the beads gently rolling back against her sun-tanned shoulders and back as she moved forward in purposeful thought.

There were many ways to send messages in the Boudreaux-Beaumont clan, and some were more important methods than others. To use the mother of pearl phone, why…

Someone wanted a direct line. Someone wanted attention.

 The phone continued to ring as Josette stepped forward, crossing her arms partly to close her lounging robe, and partly in deepening thought. It was a Tuesday, so the poker ring she was part of couldn’t be calling to settle debts – it was too early in the week and they were most likely still too hung over to remember she palmed a couple chips. She also most definitely had a permit for her improv jazz band’s performance tomorrow, unless someone had filed yet another preemptive noise and/or indecency complaint. On a lark she leaned back, gripping the doorframe for support, as she scanned the livingroom for her husband.

No dice; her children had long since flown the coocoo’s nest, so silence didn’t necessarily mean something catastrophic was unfolding without her knowledge. But nothing was on fire, and the cars were still in the garage – and in one piece – so most likely he was puttering about somewhere in the house.

“That means,” Josette drawled, her accent putting her somewhere between the delta and the bayou, “it must be one of the cher bebes.”

Josette closed her robe, making herself presentable; even though it was a phone call, you were still entertaining someone in your household, and there’s decorum when it comes to such things that you don’t ignore. Crossing the foyer with quick, purposeful steps, she picked up the receiver and cradled it in her neck with one swift, fluid motion.

“Comment ca va, bon ami?” Josette cooed into the phone, her voice sounding like a warm hug from long distance.

“Comme ci, comme ca” Came the uncharacteristically sweet and gentle voice over the line. Josette knew enough about her children and grandchildren to know when someone was ok, truly ok, and pretending to be ok. For Anne-Marie, inheritor of the family’s firecracker soul, to respond with a de rien?

“Qui ci parlez? I know that’s not my Marie – did someone break your heart again, mon ami?” Josette replied, a little more ice in her voice as she put away the gentle old lady persona and clothed herself as the matriarch.

“No, mon vielle, grandmere. You know I’m working at that restaurant, yea?” Anne-Marie started, her voice soft and sweet, but with a slight sadness to it. Josette placed herself on a slight guard; either something was really wrong, or the little imp was going to ask for some more “book money”.

“I do, I do. M’ still proud of you for sharin’ the trinity with your cochon coq, mon ami. If your boss ever wants to jump in a pot herself, let me know – I got some good seasonin’ for them.” Josette replied, teasing slightly. “But what’s wrong? Why are you calling me on the turquoise?”

Anne-Marie sighed, cupping her hand around her phone slightly to muffle the background noise that had started to filter into their conversation. “We have some competition, grandmere. They’re a bit aggressive, to say the least, and I could use help.”

Josette laughed, not unkindly. “Cho! If you think I’m gonna get yo tantes and oncles to pick your cooking over mine, you are a couillion! Though, some men are into cute idiots, mon ami.”

“Bon Dieu, Grandmere! No – I would never live that down! No, these boo doo jerks have come over and roughed up our store! Telling us yats to get out and close shop. Gave us a dallas handshake just a lil while ago!”

Anne-Marie paused on the line, and heard only a light muffling noise as Josette pressed the receiver to her bosom and let loose an unladylike string of words that started to peel the varnish off of the pecan wood telephone stand.

“Ahem.” Josette responded after a few moments of composing herself. “My old ears must have misheard you, cher. You’re telling me some fonchock tried to impress upon you, my darling grandchild, that you should leave your job? One of our fonchocks?”

“Yes, mema. Four, maybe five men?” Anne-Marie replied. “Swooped into the parking lot and peppered our front. Nothing that would have killed, but enough to make a statement.”

“Were they-“

“No, grandmere, they were not the Dauterive boys, and according to mama they haven’t been within a parsec of you for 75 years.” Anne-Marie interrupted.

“You never know with that family of bon-de-riens.” Josette said sharply, examining her nails as she rested her hip against the blistered table. “Everyone worth knowing knows you’re a hardpoint restaurant, and those tete de cabri idiots would still try to pull off something like this. You know Bill left your grand-auntie at the altar?”

“Grandmere-“

“Ah! You know I’ll take care of you, my pauvre bete.” Josette said, smiling, as within her mind the Boudreaux-Beaumont family tree was quickly mapped and pruned down to a need-to-know size. “I’ll make a few calls and let the kin know. But speaking of kin, it’s good for you to know your history, and it’s been so long since we last spoke. Don’t tell me you were calling only because you were in trouble!”

“No, mema, not at all!” Anne-Marie replied, backpedaling slightly. “I was going to call you this weekend but this came up, so I thought I’d call and visit early, that’s all!”

Josette responded with a noncommittal murmur, her grin widening as she continued to examine her perfect nails. Grandchildren were a blessing, of course, but there’s nothing in the Good Book or otherwise that says you can’t mess with ‘em from time to time. Josette had something that was rare enough to exploit in Anne-Marie’s call: a captive audience.

“Well, then let me tell you about your cousin, Anthony. You know, the freckled boy on your auntie Belle’s side? The one with the off-center face?”

“It’s not off-center, mema. That’s not a nice thing to say.” Anne-Marie replied.

Josette  clicked her tongue. “Oh you look at him and tell me Belle didn’t slide him down facefirst on a metal slide in July. Poor boy looks over your shoulder every time you talk to him, and Belle always did get distracted when her kids were young. Anyway.”

Brian smelled blood, as it was in his nature to do so.

It was a quirk of human societies that different scenarios played out in different ways depending on the cultures of the people present. More collectivist societies would read the energy in a room and do their best to mellow out with it. Other, more individualistic societies would – in some cases – do the exact opposite, creating a cacophany of energy and competing ideals. However, in all such things, there are outliers, and for mankind those outliers happened to be from the upside-down.

Certainly, the British accelerated the process of societal drift by shipping over only criminals, ne’er-do-wells, and other misfits and vagabonds; the shitposters of the Victorian era needed somewhere to go, after all. Combine that with a desolate wilderness, years-long delay in connecting with your home cultures, strange and quirky wildlife and you end up with something that can only be described as an “Australian.” This, of course, was no excuse, and  leading human sociologists were almost utterly convinced that there must be something about the visage of a kangaroo that drives men mad.

Brian was a shitposter, like his father, and his father before him, and it was by and large the main reason why he squatted in front of Anne-Marie with a wide, shit-eating grin on his face. Anne-Marie was still in Tomtom’s clutches, that hadn’t changed: the Karnakian made for a very soft prison. The real prize was whomever was on the other line, as they were making Anne-Marie discuss, with increasing clarity, points of familial interest.

“No, Grandmere, that’s not the boy that I’m dating! No! Yes, his eyes are just like that, but that’s not the point!” Anne-Marie said, blushing furiously as she glanced at Brian with barely concealed rage. “No, I haven’t had that problem in years – yes, I’m very sure. No Grandmere, I’m not raising my voice at you.” Anne-Marie continued, very much increasing her volume as Brian tilted his head, doing his best to eavesdrop on the conversation. “Yes, mema. Yes. I didn’t know the whole place was mothfields as far as the eye could see.” Anne-Marie said, doing her best to both humor her Grandmother and also get off the phone as fast as possible. “Yes. Yes I’m still feeding that wild one, yes – Buckeye is a good moth!”

Brian looked up at Tomtom, who was way out of her depth. “So.”

Tomtom had tilted her head flatly, staring down at Anne-Marie with the right side of her  head, her left set of eyes looking up at the ceiling as she studied the human with great interest. Brian’s interjection snapped Tomtom out of her examination, and with a twist of her neck she became a much more level headed individual. “[Yes?]”

“Whatcha thinkin’ bout?” Brian replied in a sing-song voice, his grin growing ever wider.

Tomtom shifted slightly, her underfluffies shrouding Anne-Marie’s legs and lower torso. She paused for only a moment before taking the bait. “[Well. For one, I’ve never seen her turn this shade of crimson. Do you think she’ll be alright?]”

“Alright? Yes. Will she ever recover?” Brian said, standing up. “Probably not. So, how’s that andouille sausage that Anne-Marie definitely told you how to make?”

“[Sausage?]” Tomtom answered, slightly confused as Anne-Marie became a little more excitable. “[I don’t remember her Andouille recipe-]”

“Sure you do!” Brian interrupted, far too loudly, his voice carrying out from the kitchen to the crew cleaning up the dining room. “You know, her creole family recipe from the panhandle of Florida.”

There was a skip in the phone conversation as Brian continued. “Yeah! You start off with some good catfish, add in some thyme, bell peppers – doesn’t this ring a bell?”

“[I… think so? I’m sorry, I don’t remember.]” Tomtom foolishly replied, her best attempt to placate one human causing a squirming fury in the other.

“Don’t lie about that, Tomtom!” Brian said, leaning in close as he continued to be just-a-bit-too-loud. “After she shared her hushpuppy recipe with Tictac, you asked for more, nah, yeah? And ever since you learned you could do a crayfish etouffe in olive oil-“

“No! No! Arete-ca, Grandmere!” Anne-Marie held the phone away from her face as a barrage of cajun french assaulted her through the speaker. She placed the phone against her chest, immediately receiving heartburn as with her free hand she pointed two fingers at her eyes, and then directly at Brian.

“I will kill you for this.” Anne-Marie growled, as over the phone her Grandmother conferenced in Anne-Marie’s mother, sisters, and ALL her aunties.