Author: TPH

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They are Smol Stories

Smolive Garden, Chapter 8: Prime seating next to the kitchen

The inside of Elder Ti’miquek’s Home Style Food had undergone a tremendous amount of change, and not all of those changes were related to keeping everyone safe or dodging the inspectors/cops; certainly there were panic shelters, secret exits, smoke-bombs hidden in every table candle – the usual precautions – but a significant amount of work was put into making the place actually seem like an upscale, but secret hideaway. The floor tiling was replaced with a very durable carpet, illustrated with human games involving what looked like white vases and three-holed balls, and the faux-vinyl booths had been… well, cleaned, and re-upholstered into something a little more classy and that could be hosed off pretty easily. Small candles lit each of the 10 or so tables that still existed, with bar-seating at the counter and along the spots of un-booth’ed walls. The walls themselves were painted an off-white but not the same off-white, and in the warm, soft light of the restaurant only the most anal-retentive of interior designers would notice. Past the dining area there appeared to be groupings of low chairs and pillow-bowls scattered about in an almost haphazard way, next to an open area that suggested a bar. Past that were two double-doors that lead to areas beyond; Borkbork took all of this in the moment he stepped through the security threshold, and questioned none of it.

Questions lead to answers and answers means you lose plausible deniability.

Borkbork frowned a bit when Tiny-chomper Dropped-on-Head took Bluebell’s hand and led them to one of the booths; his hands were properly moisturized and trimmed and would have most likely been a better handholding experience for the tiny-chomper, but that was a battle he would win later. As he looked around the Tiny-chomper babbled a bit, giving them all the “necessary information” that they could ever need: He was their “host”, we should totally trust him to do a “[chef’s choice]” course, almost anything necessary for inebriation was on-tap in one way or another, and substances were frowned upon if you were doing them without sharing. Borkbork and Bluebell squeezed into the booth seating, propped up against the table by the factory-new rigidity of the plastic padding they were pushing against, as the tiny-chomper rattled off some very interesting menu items before just leaving.

“[Well.]” Borkbork said as Bluebell rubbed his hands together gently, staring at the spot where the tiny-chomper had held him. “[This… is an experience.]”

“[Yeah.]” Bluebell replied softly, grinning as he rubbed his palm slightly. “[They are quite the little charmers.]”

“[I wonder what he meant by the pre-food food.]” Borkbork mused, looking around the totally-empty restaurant as ez-listening musak started to play over hidden speakers. “[Does he mean starter dishes? Or do you think it’s more of a buffet-style where they just bring you a bunch of small dishes and you finish them up as you go?]”

“[I don’t know, honestly, I wasn’t paying that much attention – it’s all a bit overwhelming at first.]” Bluebell said, resting his hands on the table. “[But it seems nice! And we are getting plenty of access after all.]”

“[True. Speaking of!]” Borkbork said, delicately resting his elbows on the table as dropped-on-head walked back to the booth, placing down two laminated table mats that happened to double as menus. It was an interesting design choice, Borkbork thought, as he looked at the menu with a bemused smile.

“[I already got some [quiet] puppies frying for you both!]” Tiny-chomper Dropped-on-head said, showing off his tiny chompers in his little suit. “[They should be free in a few minutes, but until then, is there anything you’d like to drink? We have [soda], [soda], [soda], [soda] and tea.]”

“[Could… I get a [soda]?]” Bluebell asked, randomly picking one of the words that the tiny-chomper listed.

Dropped-on-head hummed to himself, furrowing his brow. “[Well that’s not one of the good ones but sure, to each their own. How about you?]”

“[Ah, tea please.]” Borkbork said as Bluebell attempted to study the menu a bit harder.

“[Correct or incorrect?]” Brian asked, his suit squeaking a bit as he started to squat once more. The two sapients looked at each other, the silence stretching out between them before Borkbork sighed deeply.

“[The correct tea?]” Borkbork asked, less as a question and more as a statement. “[Why would anyone order the incorrect tea?]”

“[That is correct!]” Brian said, reaching up to pat Borkbork on his forearm – and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt in Borkbork’s mind that he was a chosen tiny-chomper whisperer and was their “host’s” favorite. “[I’ll go ladle those drinks out of the tub and by the time I’m back the [quiet] puppy should be ready!]”

“[Wait, ladle?]” Bluebell asked, but the tiny-chomper had long since skittered away to parts unknown behind the “Employees Only” swinging door. He turned to ask Borkbork what he thought, but was immediately turned off by the amount of smug coming from his partner.

“[He touched me~]” Borkbork sing-songed, giving Bluebell the smuggest look he possibly could. “[He didn’t just pick the closest hand to him~]”

Bluebell looked flatly at his friend. “[He lead with the best, and dealt with the rest.]”

“[Ooo, that’s a good one, I like it.]” Borkbork replied, cut off before he could continue as the double-doors swung open, the tiny-chomper wheeling a cart out from the kitchen. The two Dorarizin removed their arms from the table and watched with rapt attention as the tiny-chomper wheeled his way over to them. On the cart were two whole tiny-chomper pitchers (!) that were used by authentic tiny-chompers to share beverages with each other (!!!) and what looked like two steaming orbs of fried dough. With slight effort, Dropped-on-head handed each Dorarizin a whole pitcher; the first was given to Bluebell and had a black, sparkling liquid inside it, and the other was placed before Borkbork; slightly brown, chilled, and see-through tea. Before he could continue to contemplate exactly what nondescript beverage he ordered, Brian slid two heavy plates across the table, each with a singular, watermelon-sized [quiet] puppy. Brian assured them both that it involved no real puppies, and that it was somewhat edible!

With the niceties out of the way, the two guests looked at each other, and then back at the tiny-chomper, who had refused to leave their tableside.

Brian had never served anyone in a professional capacity, and he was thankful that it showed; it added to the overall brand experience of the place. He also slept through the rebranding meeting – it was a point of Australian Pride to ignore marketers, after all, even if it was his own meeting and he himself was going to college for marketing – and so didn’t quite really know what kind of service he should be offering. Should it be white glove? Should it be more family-friendly or even college oriented? Or should we just attempt to see what we could get away with before the house of cards all came crashing down?

We all know which option he picked, dear reader, so let’s not pretend otherwise.

“Big Crunch!” He said, gathering the Dorarizin’s attention as he raised his arms above his head. “Big crunch!”

“[I’m… sorry, I think there’s a problem with our translators.]” Borkbork said, smiling softly with his ears as he leaned towards Brian – and was beaten back with a boop to his snoot.

“It is time for the BIG CRUNCH.” Brian repeated, pointing at the singular over-sized hush puppy on both diner’s plates. “You must. You gotta.” Brian said, really leaning into the mistranslations of off-planet communicators. “I brought you the food so that’s how it works.”

The two Dorarizin customers looked at each other across the table, passing an inscrutable expression between them before the light-blue one reached for the giant mound of fried dough. As he raised it, Brian began to chant.

“Big crunch, big crunch, BIG crunch, BIG CRUNCH-” Brian hooted, his chanting soon being joined by the other humans in the incredibly upscale and illegal dining establishment. “BIG CRUNCH, BIG CRUNCH!”

Bluebell inhaled deeply as he looked over the Hush Puppy; it was fried, thawed, and fried again – that he could tell. What he could not tell was exactly what was inside it: there were flecks of green, yellow and red, with a few chunks of something white and fleshy in there, along with what looked like a claw.

“Aww, come on mate! It’s just a shrimp ball! Shit, half of the real crab in there is the imitation stuff.” Brian said as the chanting continued, the human resting his arms on the chest-high table.

“[Wait.]” Borkbork said, pointing at the still-sizzling-hot lump of dough on his plate. “[This has authentic [earth] ingredients?]”

“Well yeah!” Brain said, laughing as he rolled his eyes. “What else did you think you were going to eat?”

Brian couldn’t continue further as he was interrupted by a gigantic cromsch, Bluebell taking the plunge and devouring an entire mouthfull of the stuff. Brian cheered, the kitchen staff cheered, Borkbork laughed and Bluebell looked just a little sick.

There was another nondescript cry from the dining area, and Ti’miquek spared a glance from the grill to look out through the serving window. His patrons were enjoying their dishes; the dusk-blue Dorarizin male had ordered a baked lasagna dish – well, his interpretation of the dish – along with some garlic knots and a light salad. His partner had ordered the spaget, which in true human tradition was a single piece of dough stretched into a noodle and served on a plate, along with party chips – the bowl of fun that changed based on what could be stolen from the college vending machines that day. Neither of those flavor vacations were what caused the cry of joy, no. The cry came from the fact that Brian was spider-crawling over both of the patrons, apparently trying to steal the last heavy garlic knot for himself, and being teased by the two Dorarizin males as they tossed their knot between them.

No jokes came to Ti’miquek’s mind, but he’s certain there should be something there.

“What’s up?” Little-needs-protecting Plays-with-sand asked as he cleaned the warming trays for the fifth time that night. “Everything ok?”

“[I still can’t abide this.]” Ti’miquek said, checking the temperature of his still-idling grill. “[I was fine with all of you trying to help my daughter, and I was even surprised with the amount of work everyone put in to refurbish the place; it’s not to my style, but it does look good.]”

“So what’s the problem?” Jack asked, sliding a step-stool over to his partner-in-cook. “You look down.”

“[No, I’m looking out there to my patrons.]” Ti’miquek said, correcting the human. “[I’m not serving them much of anything different – sure the menu’s cut down, but most everything translates to the new one – but they’re… well.]”

Jack looked out the same window, watching with morbid curiosity as Brian spiderman crawled along the wall to follow the garlic knot that was being tossed between the Dorarizin. “They… seem to be pretty entertained. They’ve also eaten most of the food, which is also a good sign, right?”

“[Well, yes.]” Ti’miquek said, nodding softly. “[But is it a good value? Are they going to be happy with the final experience?]”

“Whelp.” Jack said, turning off burners on the stove. “It’s an experience and also an experiment. If it works out, it’ll be great – and if it doesn’t, then they at least have a story to tell, right?”

Ti’miquek sighed as he wiped his hands on his apron. “[Fair. However, I’m going to be a bit of a tusker-taker here and demand to cut their bill.]”

Jack huffed as he pulled one of the larger cookpots from the back burner, stepping down the stepstool as he pulled it closer to the edge. “A bit of a what?”

“[Ah, hm. Tyrant?]” Ti’miquek said, pondering as he walked over to the ticketing machine, punching in his code to change the order bill. “[I am ignoring the plan and doing what I think is right for the customer.]”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions!” Jack grunted, wrapping his insulated arms around the bottom of the still-uncomfortably-warm pot. “So what’s the goal?”

“[We’re overcharging them for what they’re getting.]” Ti’miquek stated, matter-of-factly. “[So I’m going to reduce their cost by a factor of 10.]”

“Woah.”

“[We’re still going to make off of these two the same amount I’d till in a day, so it’s not so bad.]” Ti’miquek said, smiling to himself. “[Still insane to see that many zeros on a print out, though.]”

There was a grunt of effort as Jack shifted the weight of the pot onto his body, his legs shaking a bit at the sudden unexpected heft. “Wh. Well just remember – you’re. Hoo. Paying us illegal wages, so that money won’t go as far as y-hew, think. Oh dear.” Jack said, as he suddenly felt the weight get away from him.

Ti’miquek turned around just a bit too late to help. “[What do you mean – OH DEAR!]”

Borkbork picked up the 4,000GRC tab, not because he was being altruistic – both he and Bluebell shared the same vacation savings fund, so it’d all wash out in the end anyway – but because the tiny-chomper presented it to the table after being fed their garlic knot, and if Bluebell started this whole thing then it was only fair that he get to end it. He didn’t mind the payment either; almost every other tiny-chomper spotting restaurant or spa cost 10 times as much, and even then a sighting wasn’t guaranteed, but this? This little hole-in-the-wall restaurant was everything he could have hoped for and more.

Bonus points for the tiny-chomper letting out a “victory screech” before shutting the door to the restaurant behind them, leaving the two Dorarizin alone in the nearly-abandoned parking lot.

“[Well.]” Bluebell said, smiling wide as he adjusted his robe. “[I think we should come back here again~!]”

Borkbork laughed a bit, zipping up his dress-vest. “[Mmm, the new safe word is speak easy? That should be easy to speak.]”

Bluebell inhaled deeply, sighing in the cool night air. “[Well, what now? We don’t have to go to the hotel just yet, and the night is young…ish.]”

Borkbork looked at his friend with a grin, spinning on his heel to walk backwards to the car. “[Why, my dear, we go find some college students to tease.]”  

“[Wait, really?!]” Bluebell said, suddenly blushing a fierce azure. “[I-I was just teasing you!]”

“[Oh? But the whole ampitheatre and everything?]” Borkbork said, giggling. “[Besides, what’s a good trip without a few misdemeanors? They’re not reported, after all, especially if they’re just against property…]”

“[Wh. Ah.]” Bluebell stuttered, the dusky-blue Dorarizin following his friend, dumbfounded. “[Ehn. Can we please stay out of jail?]”

“[Mmmmmmmaybe.]” Borkbork said, smiling as he leaned against their transport, the vehicle leaning slightly against his weight. “[Tell you what. I’ll make sure not to get us into jail, again, if you let me share.]”

Bluebell growled, ducking his head as he unlocked their transport. “[The tiny-chomper told us to keep silent – we could all get in trouble!]”

The two Dorarizin looked at each other, separated only by the distance that their luxury transport provided, as a desperate battle of wills was waged.

Borkbork grinned, ferally. “[Oh?]”

He opened his door, and Bluebell did the same, the two men sitting down almost in unison. He said nothing, but stared out the window as the transport eventually spooled up to full power and lifted off… just to where the signal was the strongest.

“[I’m telling everyone.]” Borkbork said to his reflection in the window, and laughed.

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Smolive Garden, Chapter 7: Welcome to the cool kids club

The sun was setting.

Borkbork knew this, not just because he felt the yellow starlight turn orange against his closed eyes, nor because he knew what time Bluebell rented the personal transport craft and so could guesstimate when this planet’s sunset was going to occur. No, he knew this because in the transition period between day and night, the air carries a certain heaviness, in both temperature and scent. Things seem to get weighted down when night falls, which is why Borkbork was taking the time to savor the irony:

Their personal transport, which was currently 2-seater top-down convertible, could also fly.

Borkbork let his head rest just outside the window, the furious wind whipping around his silver-speckled mane in a roar one could only hear a few thousand feet up in any given planet’s atmosphere, and let himself get lost in his own thoughts.

‘{I really need to get atmo rated. Ground and sea is too limited.}’ Borkbork said internally, the bite of the air getting progressively colder as the denseness of night settled in. ‘{I also need to get out of the house more often. Sometimes it feels like I’m losing who I used to be.}’

He opened his eyes, the last rays of sunset peeling back, a haze of orange slowly seeping into a deep blueish-black. Looking down, he mused they must be passing over a large lake or ocean; nothing looks so black as water at night.

“{It’s as dark as the pits!}” Roared Bluebell over the cacophony of the wind, the autopilot being ever-so-gently nudged by his right hand, his left arm hanging out the other side of the transport.

He turned to Borkbork, grinning wide. “{Sorry! Just saw you looking down there!]”

“{Lake?}” Yelled Borkbork, and Bluebell shook his head in the negative.

“{Ocean!}” Bluebell said, leaning in over the shared center console to spare his voice a bit, his safety restraints straining against his frame. “{But it’s Forest and then inland – 30 minutes!}”

“{It’s as black as the mudflows!}” Borkbork suddenly said, the thought percolating in the back of his head finally coming out. “{Remember?! When we were like-}”

“{180? Yeah! YEAH!}” Bluebell said, getting unreasonably excited. “{Oh man, I wonder if this place has mudflows! Could you imagine – we could see if there’s a body scene here!}”

“{With the tiny-chompers?! HAH!}” Borkbork roared, his laughter barely drowned out by the wind as he leaned back in his seat, the electronically-warmed foam padding contouring to his body perfectly. Bluebell rolled his eyes at his friend’s laughter as his breath came out in frost; once night fell it fell, especially up here. With a light gesture of his hand against the control rod his rented transport, a personal luxury land/air taxi, descended and began to slow. As they bled speed and height a thin, metallic ribcage pushed itself out of the back of the transport and silently connected to the front windshield. With another gentle tap and a crackle of electricity, multiple layers of hard light, distributed energy and general personal shielding kicked in, and at the speed of light the sound turned off. 

“{Woah!}” Bluebell yelled in the relatively-silent cab, the wind roaring through only the open windows on either side. “{Come on, let’s get this thing sealed!}”

The two Dorarizin pulled in their offending limbs, and the cabin – now realizing there were no living blockages in the way – crackled shut the cabin. Instantly the air pressurized slightly, the internal circulation systems kicking on as both heating and filtration started to do their things.

“{Just to be on record.}” Bluebell said as their ears adjusted to the new speaking and hearing volume. “{I think the tiny-chompers would probably get buried alive in the pyroclastic flow, but maybe they could still bauble?}”

“{No. No way.}” Borkbork said, trying to gauge by his friend’s expression if he was still yelling or not. “{You get one of those within a dome? It was already hard enough to crack crust, but now you’re asking rescue to trench open the volcano? Nah – they’d never risk it, and the expense would be too much and they couldn’t say no.}”

“{Fair point, fair point.}” Bluebell replied, finally at his normal indoor voice. “{So now I have to ask – did you notice we have seasons here? You still, yanno?}”

“{Do I still believe that seasons are superior to perfection, and the answer is always a yes!}” Borkbork replied, reaching down to pick up his somewhat-alcoholic beverage. “{I know you love having the perfect day and scheduling your weather, but there is a certain charm to each season being utterly unique.}”

“{Sweetmeat, please. Imagine knowing what to wear every single day – really, imagine it. Imagine knowing how to accessorize with the day’s sunset, or enjoying meteor showers on demand! It’s all so wonderful, and you don’t have to deal with, well.}”

Borkbork grinned. “{The unfortunate truth that chaos and randomness exist in the universe and that, rather than being a lone pebble against a flood, we should be content to be a mountain holding a stream?}”

“{I told you marrying that Zgrak’’r girl was gonna get you back into plata.}” Bluebell sing-songed, reaching for his own drink as he let autopilot assume direct control. “{Bet you’re glad I told you to enroll your pups into hearthsday school classes now, hmm?}”

“{I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about; that was a totally independent decision on my part.}” Borkbork stated, tilting his head so far back that his nose touched his headrest, waving his drink defensively in the direction of his friend. “{And anyway, if this was an idea of yours, it doesn’t mean all of them are winners! Seasons are best.}”

Bluebell sighed, overly-weary, as he took a deep drought of his incredibly stiff and sweet drink. “{Living on an arcology station does not expose you to any more dangers than living on a planet, or on a normal hoop; if anything, it’s the best of all worlds. You’re large enough to have your own stable atmosphere, all the weather is optimized, you can make-to-order your own land if you really want to, there’s so many good things about it! Like – like no bugs.}”

“{I’m fine with bugs. They’re my little odd-legged friends.}” Borkbork said, returning his body posture into something slightly normal. “{I worry about long-term sustainability; station living is as cheap as it is because everyone knows those things are almost always totally scrapped every thousand years or so as they do a full refit. Your arcologies are supposed to be modular fixes, but those are going to be really expensive and I’m not so sure about paying the premium to live somewhere that I might have to leave anyway is a great idea. Plus? Planets are natural. Literally no upkeep.}”

Borkbork drank deep, letting the cold spice mix crackle down his throat, savoring the heat that bloomed from his chest after a few moments. “{Ah, damn, that’s the good stuff. But really? Really. Seasons let you accessorize more.}”

“{Oh here we go.}” Bluebell said, downing the rest of his drink in one go and slamming it into the trash compactor chute. “{Bite it.}”

“{Seasons.}” Borkbork said as he leaned forward, his windswept mane keeping most of it’s poof as he held his hands between them – as if holding an imaginary globe. “{Be they hot and dry, cold and wet, or any combination therein, they allow you to build up quite a wardrobe. Now you pick any, oh, two? Four?}” Borkbork said, rotating the imaginary globe between them. “{And if those are your major seasons, the ones you didn’t pick are your minor seasons. If you like cold and wet, your other major season will be hot and dry. Your minor seasons are hot and wet and cold and dry; those need a wardrobe too. Maybe you just have rainy and dry seasons – fine, point still stands that topography is going to give you all sorts of niche surprises on a natural planet, with seasons. But I know you.}”

“{Oh? Friends for this long, and you think you know me?}” Bluebell sassed, reaching for another unopened drink. “{The mysteries of my past would carve out the rest of the amphitheater of Kraurg’khst.}”

“{You once called me in the middle of my wife’s homecoming, crying, because you found a squelec and wanted to keep it.}” Borkbork said, slowly. “{And you did not think for a minute that the phrase, pops like a squelec, meant anything?}”

“{You swore you’d die before telling anyone. Remember that, that’s a death pact.}” Bluebell said, pointing a finger at his friend as he cracked open his next drink with his teeth, ripping a hole in the can with one fluid motion. “{Can’t go back on those.}”

“{Mmm. But I know you, and what I’m trying to say is that seasons give you unique food.}” Borkbork replied, reaching down to see if any of his drinks were left. “{The same product, but grown and harvested in wildly different conditions, gives you wildly different flavors and textures, and you can’t get the same experience importing, I know this, look at me~}” Borkbork sang-teased Bluebell, who for his part took interest at the inky blackness outside his window. “{That’s the entire reason why we’re on this trip to begin with, which means you know I’m riiiiiiiight~}”

“{Hm. I will admit nothing!}” Bluebell said, and for the rest of the ride down the two chatted amiably.

Borkbork stared at the … establishment, and attempted to put together the right string of words to ask what he was meaning to ask. When that adorable tiny-chomper in his little red suit asked them to go visit his family, there was absolutely no way he could say no. What he had assumed was that the tiny-chomper would direct them to an … exclusive, potentially VIP establishment run by a group with very deep pockets, and the two of them would get a million credit treatment for dirt cheap because we’re the tiny-chomper’s friend. What he did not expect was a shopping center that was designed a couple centuries ago, but still tried to modernize as much as they could for the times. It was admirable, sure, and obviously run by hard workers, but… really?

“{That transport probably costs as much as this restaurant.}” Borkbork said over his shoulder as he smoothed down his semi-formal clothing. “{You sure that little rug-tugger isn’t playing a prank on us? I hear they like to do that – something about their height determining how mischievous they are.}”

Borkbork was right to be concerned; the windows of the establishment they were directed to were tinted to total opaqueness, and even seemed to be sound-proofed; the doors were rebuilt and something was done to the front if the leftover construction dust and debris was anything to go by. A sign used to hang up above their heads, but now it’s void was all that could be seen, and even then only closely; someone had scrubbed the top of the building clean of grime, removing all but the faintest of shadow outline, and Borkbork could only really tell because of the loose electrical connections and still-unfilled bolt holes that jutted out of the wall in planned intervals. Whomever ran this establishment had gone to sudden great pains to seem abandoned and unused, while the rest of the mostly-empty shopping center seemed eerily normal in comparison.

“{I’m sure, and I’m sure we’re going to be fine.}” Bluebell said, tapping the anti-theft nub on in his palm, before slipping the rental key token into his midsummer robe. “{We’re not too overdressed, we’ve saved up enough to give this a shot and if it’s nothing, we can still go back to the real resorts… just not the ones we originally picked out.}”

“{Well.}” Borkbork said, rolling his shoulders as he walked towards the door. “{If anything, we’ve got a story to tell.}”

“{That’s exactly right! Besides, this is a college town, which means there’s a party going on somewhere right now. We’ll find it if this doesn’t pan out.}” Bluebell said, smiling as he looked down at the handwritten note. “{Nothing lifts your spirits like teasing college students, trust me.}”

Borkbork laughed, rolling his head in astonishment. “{Really?! You?!}”

“{The entire amphitheater.}” Bluebell said, turning to his friend as he knocked on the door. “{I mean it.}”

“[What’s the password?]”

The two Dorarizin froze as the synthetic voice drowned out a very human one.

“{I have a note, but I can’t read tiny-chomper.}” Bluebell said, suddenly stepping back as a latch opened up in the center of the door. Bluebell looked at Borkbork, who could only shrug, and decided to toss the note in. The latch clacked shut, and the two Dorarizin stood outside in the cool night air, utterly silent. Moments turned to seconds, turned to minutes, and as Borkbork opened his mouth the door slowly swung open into pitch darkness.

“[Step inside please.]” The tiny-chomper voice said, this time from far within the inky blackness. “[Both of you, together. You’ll fit.]”

Bluebell and Borkbork looked at each other before timidly, tentatively squeezing into the relatively small doorway and immediately losing each other in a blackness that was very obviously manufactured, and very obviously total.

“[We’re giving you a quick scan, don’t worry.]” The tiny-chomper said, sounding much closer now. The black turned a deep blue for a few seconds before light finally bloomed; the two friends found themselves on their hands and knees in what looked like a drunk tank security booth. In the center of the room stood a tiny-chomper behind a reinforced plasteel screen, waving happily, her little outfit bright with vibrant colors; benches lined the walls near her booth, and the closer you got to her the nicer things seemed to be, with what looked like local magazines and even a few vending options standing proudly on either side of her station. To the right, the entrance, and to the left was what Bluebell assumed was an exit into this very same room.

“{What was that?}” Borkbork said, shaking his head as he stood up. “{I lost everything there for a moment – no senses, it felt like I was freefalling!}”

“[Yeah I got a cousin that works down at the safe space manufacturing plant, this is a refurb model, so no worries!]” The Anne-Marie beamed, waving her two customers over. “[I’m tiny-chomper doublechecker, and thank you for coming!]”

“{That didn’t answer any of my questions.}” Borkbork said, walking slowly towards the human, who was nodding in the affirmative.

“[That’s correct! Now will it just be the two of you?]” Tiny-chomper Doublechecker asked pulling up two comically large menus and sliding them underneath her glass wall onto the service shelf outside. “[I need verbal confirmation.]”

“[Yes?]” Bluebell responded questioningly.

“[Wonderful! We are going to record these responses, and if we get got, you get got, got it? Good.]” She pointed down at the menus, which upon actual inspection weren’t menus but instead, terms of service. “[You’re leaving all your communication devices with me, there’s a dampener field in there so don’t try to use an implant to broadcast or record either. Now.]”

Bluebell and Borkbork leaned forward in rapt attention, and the tiny-chomper sighed. “[No, I mean, now.]” To emphasize her point, she rattled the collection box from her side, causing the flap to shake violently.

The duo “oh”ed softly, and after a brief rummaging around pockets, deposited their phones, tablets, beads and bobs into the bin.

“[Good, now I can actually start. You never lead, you only follow – if a tiny-chomper tells you to do something, you do it, and if they tell you to stop, you stop. Get it?]”

“{Yes.}” The duo replied, the dawning realization that ‘oh shit this was actually happening’ happening to them at the same time.

“[You fuck up, you get shot. Yes. Yes. Rock salt, birdshot, slug, spite round until empty; my advice is as soon as you see the gun stop what you’re doing, because we only carry automatics.]” Tiny-chomper Doublechecker said, as nonchalantly as describing the weather last week. “[Got it?]”

“{Yes.}” The duo responded, dumbstruck.

“[We know you, we like you, you come back. We don’t, you don’t. You make it a problem, we show proof of you committing multiple regional-class felonies. Good?]”

“{Uh.}” Borkbork said, turning to look at Bluebell. “{Do we-}”

“[You’re really way too late you know.]” The tiny-chomper said, grinning. “[The fact that you’re here is already not [acceptable], so you might as well go all in. Just don’t be dumb or everyone’s going to have a bad time, alright?]”

“{Yeah, alright.}” Bluebell said, nodding as he turned to Borkbork. “{What? I didn’t come all this way to back out now.}”

“[That’s the spirit of my favorite patrons!]” crowed a voice from behind an opening door, the warm light of a cozy restaurant-slash-speakeasy pouring into the ‘welcoming’ room. In the middle of the doorway, behind no protective gear other than what looked like a civilian leisure-pressure suit, crouched a tiny-chomper who was giving his species it’s namesake showing of teeth to Borkbork. “[And I love converting the nonbelievers!]”

He stood up, pointing to his chest with his thumb. “[I’m tiny-chomper dropped-on-head.]” Brian Cooper said, before suddenly pointing at Bluebell. “[’An tonight we’re gonna see if you can fit an entire [quiet] puppy in your mouth.]”

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Smolive Garden, Chapter 6: I know a guy who knows a guy

The general hustle and bustle of any given planet’s spaceport was almost identical to that of any other airport, trainport, carry-port or port-port; thousands of people coming and going with merchants and food cards making a quick buck in-between. The exteriors of these stations were mostly the same, with layout modules and navigation lanes that had been standardized over millenia. However, the interior of each station was very much within the purview of the local governing body, and was usually one of the first impressions exo-solar visitors would get of their hosts. Because of this, the station and elevator interiors were meant to make a statement, be it one of riches and wealth, one of hearth and home, or one of brutalist architecture and cold utilitarianism. The interior design was left to the locals, and due to the lack of paint-by-numbers kits, sometimes things got a little bit unique.

Gentle expanse, up until just a few short decades ago, was the kind of station that wasn’t necessarily a backwater, but wasn’t a tier-1 megasystem – it fell somewhere in the middle. Sure, there were pillars and tiles made of obsidian and silver and gold, the local governor welcomed you with a pre-recorded speech, and the “best local food” was always just a few feet away from any offloading ramp. That all changed after the Moths attacked and after their subsequent… domestication. Gone were the bland yet somewhat homey pictures and holograms of planet life, instead replaced with videos of high-speed low-drag humans clinging to an oversized goth butterfly as they raced around a sportsball loop. There was new cuisine, new adventures, new science and new products to enjoy, and for better or worse the humans and the allure of humans had taken center stage from the time you stepped off your ship until the time you got back on. At least, that’s how the system-wide government marketing department wanted, and according to their tourist tax revenue, it was working.

“{I don’t get it.}”

The Dusty-blue Dorarizin male turned towards his fellow traveling companion, lowering his bag to the floor with a magnetic thunk as he attempted to read his fellow Dorarizin’s expression. His companion had stopped dead in the middle of a somewhat busy lobby, and the flow of passengers and light goods started to move around them like water around a rock. “{What do you mean?}”

“{I mean.}” His earthy-brown furred friend replied, pointing towards the very-empty human section. The human section was arranged in an amphitheater-like design, with rays of benches radiating out from a central focal point, with a gated continuation of the human-section behind the central point, leading to parts unknown. This, in and of itself was nothing out the ordinary for any visiting human; the benches were slightly padded, the tables were the right height, there were plenty of free outlets for your smaller devices, and everything was sectioned off properly to stop any general chaos that would ensue when you keep hundreds of people together against their will due to scheduling delays. Earthy-brown was pointing at all that, and at the lone human who stood in the welcome-center cylindrical tube of knowledge, but not specifically at either. He was, instead, pointing at the first of many small, bronze pillars, connected by a strand of velvet. “{That.}”

Dusty-Blue flicked his ears slightly condescendingly as he raised his hand. “{They’re called tiny-chompers, and they’re these little sweethearts about yea tall-}”

“{Oh tug on the last tuft! I don’t mean that.}” Earth-brown replied, rolling his head to the side. “{Look at the welcome area: the ropes. Why do they have a maze of ropes?}”

Dusty-Blue opened his mouth to respond with the obvious “it’s for managing people” but then thought for a moment: Most other places he’d been to – the ones without tiny-chompers, of course – didn’t have an easy rope maze to get to the entrance; usually people just queued up like normal adults and waited around for their turn. That would mean that rope mazes for humans existed because either (1) they are incredibly easy to corral with just a piece of rope, (2) they are unable to stand in line properly and efficiently, or just (3) that they really do like mazes but don’t actually want to get lost. Dusty-blue thought hard, and realizing that none of the obvious answers shed a good light on their new neighbors, decided to do the obvious thing and just ask.

“{Come on.}” Dusty-Blue said, waving his hand as he picked up his bag and hefted it over his back. “{Let’s go ask – we might even run into one or two of the tiny-chompers as well, if that’s not a projection over there.}”

Greg sighed as he watched the two Dorarizin talk among themselves, casting furtive glances and gestures at his customs station. It’s not that he hated his job – he enjoyed being the go-to person for new people and visiting families for Gentle Expanse, and telling them all of the fun stuff to do and generally building excitement for his home. It’s just that, well. If you work with people, on your feet, in the front line of a pseudo-retail environment (the gift shop DOES count), you just end up getting tired. It’s nothing personal, really – it’s just… well. Making sure you’re happy the whole shift through is exhausting and sometimes the mask slips.

“Hello valued traveler – please note that you’re in the human section, and that more species-appropriate accommodations can be found to your right.” Greg said in a professional yet courteous monotone, motioning from behind his cylindrical podium to the general direction of “right”. Xenos wandering into the human-only area happened dozens of times a day, with or without other people around; it wasn’t usually a problem unless the curious tourists were lone Dorarizin near some random humans, and even then he had a pretty high-pressure near-zero celsius watered-down-vinegar hose he could hit ‘em with remotely to get his message across. Most wanderers Greg dealt with were good natured, assuming that he hosted a human-centric exhibit, or that maybe they could talk to him to get assigned a human for their stay. Very rarely were people belligerent, and in his 8 year career only one person tried to pry the bars open and escape into the gated human-only section. Station security was, of course, called, and… well.

He got the month off after that one.

“[Greetings! We are two brother-friends who are interested!]” A Dusty-blue Dorarizin called out, waving both his arms excitedly above his head from side to side.

Greg hummed to himself as he saw the Dorarizin attempt to be welcoming; they obviously had either picked up bootleg comms, or just haven’t updated from the base package. Shaking his head, Greg motioned for them both to come nearer, and with a bit too much giddy excitement the incredibly large xenos pair bounded over to his reinforced station.

“[Hello, new friend! I am [————]” Greg’s implant happily translated, playing a low tone in lieu of the Blue Dorarizin’s name. “[And he is [———].]” Greg’s implant continued, playing a higher tone. “[We have come. Why do you have rope jail?]”

Greg chuckled a bit, and decided then and there to actually try; his shift was almost over, after all, and it wouldn’t hurt to do an actual good deed for the day. He distracted the brown Dorarizin by simply placing his hand on the glass, and with barely-restrained glee the much larger, much older adult xenos placed his own hand on the other side of the barrier. With one xenos down, he turned to Dusty-Blue. “Please look for a file broadcast by any open government node within the welcome packet that says ‘local human speech update’, and run that update on your wetware at your earliest convenience.”

Dusty-Blue seemed to stare into the middle distance as he connected to the secure node, and Greg did his damnest to hide his smile as the update hit Dusty-Blue’s wetware, the Dorarizin’s tongue blepping out and back into his mouth as the update hit. He turned to look at his traveling companion, only to find that he had taken up a lot more of the glass.

“[Hi.]” Earth-Brown said, a wide smile spread across his face and ears. “[Hi. Hi! Hi!]”

“Hello.” Greg replied, grinning. “You should download the update as well.”

“[Hi!]” Earth-brown said again, smushing his cheek against the reinforced glass of Greg’s booth. “[Hi!]”

“[Oh, wow, our software version was well out of date!]” Dusty-Blue said, finally focusing on the human. “[Were you even able to understand what I was asking earlier?]”

“Hi.” Greg responded to the Earthy-Brown Dorarizin – immediately rewarded with another hello, before replying to Dusty-Blue. “Firstly, yes – it was very bad English, but I understood most of it. You’ll still want your friend to install the update, because once you get away from the “human” districts the distribution node network drops off pretty sharply outside of government buildings. You’ll also want to fill in your own nameplate, or you can roll the dice and let us fill in your nameplate for you.”

“[Is that tradition?]” Dusty-Blue asked, squatting down slightly to be on eye-level with Greg. “[My name translates to leaping-through-meadows. Can you give me a nameplate like that?]”

Greg thought for a moment, looking the eager alien over. “How about bluebell? It’s a type of flower, and you are a bit blue.”

Bluebell smiled with his ears. “[I think that will work. What about my friend here, home-gentle-will?]”

Greg looked at the Earthy-Brown Dorarizin, who greeted him once more. “[His name is Borkbork.]”

“[Ah.]” Bluebell said.

“[Hi~]” Borkbork replied, bodily pressing up against the glass just a little too hard.

“So what was your actual question?” Greg said, moving his splayed hand up the glass much to the entertainment of Borkbork. “You said something about rope jail?”

“[Hah! That’s what it translated as?! Good heavens.]” Bluebell shook his head and stepped to the side, pointing to the rope maze in the waiting area. “[We were just wondering why you have a rope maze in your waiting area.]”

Greg furrowed his brow as Borkbork said hi. “The… safety barriers? They just help people stay in a certain area, I guess?” Greg studied Bluebell’s body language as the Dorarizin dealt with a few competing emotions, before apparently ultimately settling on something sweet.

“[I… see, thank you.]” Bluebell said, as Borkbork chimed in again. “[That was all we wanted to know.]”

“Wait, wait. You don’t want to know about tourist attractions, or human cuisine, or vacation spots, or have any totally inappropriate questions about my physiology?” Greg asked, for the first time (and to the whining complaint of Borkbork) taking his hand off of the glass to rest it on his center console. “You’re not… interested?”

Bluebell ducked his head slightly. “[No! Not at all, we very much are! My brother-friend and I have planned and saved up for months for this trip! It’s just, well. Bad manners to pry into strangers’ lives, right?]”

“I’m sorry, I’m just so used to… well. People treating me like a curiosity!” Greg laughed, placing his hand back onto the glass and being rewarded with the thump of Borkbork’s paw on the opposite side, and yet another greeting. “You’re very considerate.”

“[Thank you very much!]” Bluebell said, deciding to just sit down in front of the booth. “[I feel bad for asking now, but you did offer – what should we do? Where should we go? I heard the Emerald Screen spa was a very good place to go-]”

“If you wanted to see humans in the wild?” Greg interrupted, hitting the nail on the head as Bluebell sputtered a bit before his brain caught back up.

“[When you put it like that-]” Bluebell started, before Greg dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“It’s nothing – we’re not only used to it, but it’s not bad and we help out with our planet’s economy. What’s not to love?” Greg said, shrugging. “Besides, you’re a lot better than most of the people I get; you’re looking at me as a person, which is what 90% of tourists don’t get, and so they don’t get what they really want.”

“[What do they want?]” Borkbork asked, suddenly about his wits, to the utter shock of Bluebell and Greg. Borkbork looked at his friend, slightly shocked. “[What, you thought I wasn’t paying attention? I am!]”

Greg furrowed his brow, biting his lower lip in thought. “Then why did you-”

“[Hiiiiiiiii~]” Borkbork replied, pawing at the glass. “[Lookit! They’re so small and white!]”

“Ugh.” Greg sighed. “So that’s what I’m more used to, if you were wondering.”

Bluebell frowned slightly, but not unkindly. “[I will groom his fur backwards tomorrow morning as penance.]”

“Good!” Greg said, clapping his hands – and was instantly mirrored by Borkbork, whom he was now actively ignoring. “So, although the best accommodations for you would be in Silver City, you’re going to be paying a hefty premium and you’re not going to be getting your little adventure that you’re hoping for; if this glass was not in the way, your friend would most likely have cute-aggressioned me to certain injury.”

“[I would not!]” Borkbork said, unconvincingly, and when he made eye contact with an unimpressed and disbelieving Greg, smiled and said hello.

Greg turned away, and focused his attention solely on Bluebell, utterly ignoring Borkbork creeping into his line of sight. “So, just remember to keep your hands to yourselves. You do need to be trained to handle us if you don’t want restrictions or chaperones, and most of the locals are now trained by birth on how to manage us – and vice versa.”

Bluebell’s face dropped in disappointment. “[So… there’s no… it’s not wild roaming? I can’t human-spot?]”

“I. Hm.” Greg inhaled deeply, and looked at Bluebell hard, studying his face. “Can I see your ID?”

“[My ID? My home system ID or the visitor’s visa that I got from customs?]” Bluebell asked, turning his bag over in his lap to open up the corresponding zipper.

“Either works.” Greg replied, tapping a few indicators on his console. He dismissed security asking if he was alright, notified his colleague that he can clock in but won’t be in-booth for a bit, and opened up a background check app. With a simple pip of his handheld scanner against the visitor’s visa, Bluebell’s entire public history appeared on his monitor. Greg looked for a few key indicators, given it was a Dorarizin he was talking to: Did have children at home, was married – so it’s a guy’s only vacation, it seems – no felonies or misdemeanors on his name or his pack name. Has handled infants before, so he’d get some of the analogous training almost immediately… and it was something special they saved up for.

Greg groaned internally as he felt his mask slip.

“Alright, listen to me and listen to me well, I’m going to only say this once.” Greg said, pulling off a sticky note and beginning to write. “One of my cousins – on my mom’s side – is running a restaurant… Well, helps run a restaurant down near Three Hills. It’s an invite-only place, and I’m trusting you – look at me.” Greg said, pointing his pen at Bluebell, who was listening with rapt attention. “Don’t tell anyone I sent you there, got it? Near Rah – the college – ask for where Anne Marie Beaumont works, and when you find it, show them this at the door.” Greg finished writing on the post-it and slid the slip of paper into the one-way transit box, sliding the shut box out to the outside world. Bluebell gently opened the lid to the box and pulled out the slip of paper, studying it intently. “If you do go, you keep your hands to yourself or expect to get shot.”

“[What, like, shot out the door?]” Bluebell asked, looking over the incredibly small note with a furrowed brow. “[Is that some local term?]”

“No, I mean, physically shot.” Greg said, tilting his head from side to side in emphasis to his point. “That code word is only good for this week – the next 4 days, really. If you’re cool, they’ll give you next week’s word. If you’re not, you won’t get it, and if you’re … well. Don’t be bad – I know you won’t be.” Greg said, his hand gently patting the air between them in a placating gesture. “But you need to watch out for Borkbork. You do that, and you’ll get what you’re actually hoping for, for half the price, if that.”

“[What… kind of place is this?]” Bluebell asked, turning the note over in his hands.

“It’s exactly what you’re looking for.” Greg said, pressing a button on his desk. Immediately the glass turned from clear to a black opaqueness, the booth scrolling “We’ll be back!” text in most major interstellar languages. The two Dorarizin friends looked at each other, before tapping the glass on the booth and waiting.

No response.

“[What… what does his note say?]” Borkbork asked, sniffing around the cylinder for any more genuine human interaction.

Bluebell looked at the front of the note again, the simple human scrawl on it’s plant fiber page making the object itself almost priceless. “[I don’t know… I can’t read human.]”

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Smolive Garden, Chapter 5: Everybody’s working for the weekend

“<The wonderful thing about fake flowers, other than being about as real as your last relationship, is that unlike the love you lost, these things can’t die.>”

Sreshec let out a little chuckle as the stray thought hit her out of nowhere, the iridescent black Jornissian turning around in idle wonder as if to find out from where the thought struck her. Her eyes quickly rested on the dusty crystal vase that sat on the warmcuddle table, and Sreshec rested her hands on her hips.

“<Ah, I see it was you.>” Sreshec said, slithering slowly towards the unused props. In truth, Sreshec knew that she was being silly, but reveled in it; it had been 5 weeks since she had a real day off, and the pressure was starting to build. “<You believe I have forgotten you? And so you strike at me over things you know not!>”

Sreshec dragged her fingers slowly over the grey tablecloth, months worth of dust and stagnation pulled in her wake. “<But you take such good care of yourself~>”

Sreshec paused, looking down with disdain at the empty vase like the dames in the telenovelas she indulged in, before bursting out laughing, the disheveled manager slumping against the smaller furniture a bit too hard. “<Haha~! Ah, whew… lick the other one it’s hotter.>” Sreshec sighed outloud, smiling. With careful hands she began to clean the props, musing about what her next steps would be. The restaurant business was stratified into a few broad categories: the unaffiliated everyman, the franchise, the chef’s venture and the dining group. The least prestigious group was where all of the bad press mostly came from, and it was usually in terms of fraud and quality, but the halo of those complaints had to be handled by everyone else. Franchises had people like Sreshec, in think tanks, trying to figure out how to capture a new market, and use that market as marketing. Committees move slow, if at all, so first mover advantage was still out there. Chef’s ventures would be the next and only real contender for taking the lead, but brilliance in cooking does not always equate to brilliance in business, and people fall out of favor.

That left the dining groups; only the best of the best. Sreshec frowned as she cleaned the vase, rubbing the whitish cloth against the crystal. No one had even teased out a potential solution, and that gave her plans weight with the board – so difficult a problem it is to solve. The fact that some competing groups were considering an alliance was downright concerning.

Gentle Expanse lived above and below her, the planet reflecting off of the adjusted mirrors to create an almost kaleidoscopic effect, and Sreshec stared into that middle distance for a bit lost in thought. The multiple monitors on her over-cluttered workstation switched into standby mode, their bright light turning into a dim glow, before ultimately shutting off. Sreshec naturally kept the artificial lights low, and so her workstation and impromptu bedroom was soon only lit by the reflected light of her target market.

The Market.

“<What a pain.>” Sreshec thought, as she tossed the vase from hand to hand. “<Either you buy from the warmcuddles for actual highway robbery, or you build and they bury you in red tape. If you’re off-world you’re not welcome on local, and if you’re local you’re not really in the game; good luck gathering a lobby even through M&A.>”

Sreshec frowned with concern as she placed the clean-ish vase on the bare wood tabletop with a heavy thunk. “<What did warmcuddle Commissioner No-I’m-Serious mean when he said ‘I legally have to tell prospective tenants that it’s all lined with explosives.’? He laughed afterwards, so I thought it was a joke, but…huh.>”

She paused for a few moments, her eyes glazing over as a particular storm system raged on in the bus sized mirror outside her dome, the various articulator arms behind the mirror face slowly rotating it from side to side. “<Maybe the answer is to buy land and build from the ground up, after all. We hire the best attorneys, get all the permits, sit on all the ice, and at the end of it… what. If it was that easy, we’d see it by now, right?>”

Sreshec mused to herself, and with a delicate hand gesture, thought her computer awake again, her implants remoting into the terminal. She should start her search looking for… cities and towns that get enough warmcuddle traffic that they’d be familiar with them. Buying the best professionals wouldn’t be the problem; land is land, and making more of it is cost prohibitive. What do the locals do? What sports evolved here? How have the warmcuddles integrated themselves over the past few decades? What in the frozen hell was Mothing?

With a defeated sigh, Sreshec admitted to herself the unfortunate truth: Her curiosity had gotten the better of her, and now she was back in it.

And so her break ended.

The roller clattered in the paint tray, it’s handle hitting the vinyl-foam floor with an unsatisfying paff. Brian inhaled deeply as he stared at his slowly-drying masterpiece, and then kept inhaling, breathing deeper and deeper and de-

“[Nope, nope.]” Sesame said, the Jornissian dropping the crate she was moving and darting towards the Human. “[We’re not leaving you in here with wet paint, not again.]” She said, tugging Brian out of the renovated restaurant by the back of his shirt.

“That was only four times! Three of which were accidental!” Brian complained, stumbling out of the newly-and-mostly-renovated Elder Ti’miquek’s Home Style Food. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Sesame moved a bit too quick, and ended up gently tossing Brian out of the restaurant on his ass. This sight was immediately celebrated by everyone in the parking lot, who erupted in cheers and applause.

“Well that’s one way to make an exit.” Jack said, taking a seat on the curb next to his prone friend. “At least they pressure wash the sidewalk once a week.”

“Doesn’t make it any softer, mate.” Brian replied flatly, grimacing as he propped himself up on his elbows.  He looked back down into the restaurant and sighed, his right hand raising up in a placating gesture as he attempted to calm down a mortified Sesame. “Sheila, it’s fine, really!” Brian called out, before laying back down on the concrete sidewalk. “Cunt. Could’a thrown me on some tits instead.”

“It’s always been man’s dream to fly, not to land.” Jack grinned, shaking his head. “Wow, that was way too poetic, even for me.”

Brian rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. “Yeah bro, you doing alright? Did you go into the paint room too? You can tell me.”

“No, it’s not that – I don’t have a problem.” Jack said, looking back behind him as Sesame peeked her head out the front door. “Mainly, I’m just surprised at how this is actually coming together. I’ve never been a part of a big project, so it’s kinda nice. Has me reflecting n’ shit.”

“Yeah.” Brian grunted, stumbling to his feet. “It is do, mate! But, whew. This was probably the easy part; now we have to make it work.”

“[Can we um.]” Tomtom said, tablet and stylus in hand. “[Not do this during reno hours?]”

The trio of friends looked at Tomtom, dumbstruck at the change in demeanor and style that their friend had adopted. Soon they collected themselves and silently began to debate; a glance here, a nod there, the understanding that comes from years of friendship filling the gaps… and a private call. That helped a lot too.

A consensus was reached; Sesame leaned against the doorframe, her spine going slack. Jack leaned back, propping himself up on his arms. Brian immediately hit the dirt again, laying out in his best paint-me-like-one-of-your-french-girls pose, and all three of them just gave her a look.

And they waited.

Tomtom rolled her hips, slowly standing up to her full height. She would have cut an intimidating shape in her slightly-fitted mass produced business suit – keyword there, would have – if not for the fact that it was very cheap material, and Tomtom was clutching her tablet against her chest like a shield. Sesame, Jack and Brian said nothing, did nothing, and just sat there.

Tomtom squawked in exasperation before sagging, dipping her head in apology. “[Look, I’m sorry, but I’m just under a lot of stress, alright? I just want this to succeed! Dad said he’d help, but now he’s just saying he’s going to stay in the kitchen! All of this is on me, and that’s-]”

“Wasn’t that for regulations?” Jack said, leaning forward in newfound friendship.

“Nah, mate.” Brian said, picking himself up from the ground yet again. “We’re building to reg, but we didn’t file for shit. Anyone who looks will assume, and anyone who inspects will assume, and we keep the money we would otherwise spend on fees. Makes things easier this way!”

“Oh wow, that’s breathtakingly illegal!” Jack said, laughing. “I love it!”

“[I still really don’t like doing it this way.]” Tomtom admitted, lowering her guard further. “[But the plan will probably work, and that… I don’t know how I feel about that.]”

“You don’t have to feel!” Yelled Anne Marie, standing in the parking lot as Doobie fussed over her outfit, connecting the battery to her suit. “That was funny as fuck!”

“[Ah!]” Doobie chided, gently twisting Anne Marie’s torso back to “straight”, the human turning with her partner. “[I think this time we got it.]”

“I hope so, and again, for the record, I absolutely fucking hate this.” Anne Marie said, looking into Doobie’s eyes. “I really do.”

“[I know, I know.]” Doobie said, soothing Anne Marie the best he could. “[At least we got the comfort settings working, so it’s not super hot anymore.]”

“Small mercies, for sure.” Anne Marie said, laughing. “I really want to make sure; are we sure we’re good to go?”

“[Yes.]” Doobie said, lifting the giant foam head that looked like Anne Marie’s own head up over the human’s shoulders. “[Now are you ready to get into costume?]”

“I fucking hate this so much.” Anne Marie replied, staring fiercely at Doobie as he lowered her own head down on her head. Anne Marie had enough ambient light coming through the suit and from her control panels that she could see the netted superstructure of the head piece, the helmet turning to the left before clicking in place.

“[How are you holding up in there?]” Doobie asked the suit muffling his voice. Anne Marie gave his general direction a thumbs-up, power finally wirelessly flowing into the final piece of her costume. Anne Marie’s foam head started to spin slowly to the right as various actuators and clamps activated…. And misfired.

“[Oh! Uh, just hold still, it should fall in!]” Doobie’s muffled voice said, the foam head picking up speed as it accelerated it’s counterclockwise motion. “[No need to panic! Yet!]”

Anne Marie sighed as the inside of her helmet started to blur; she did not want to have to show her true power level, but circumstances forced her hand. Crouching, Anne Marie placed her hands around her “throat”, and with a mighty roar popped her head off like a cork. Her aim was true, and her spinning head soared over the parkinglot… and Doobie.

“[Hey! I got it! I got it!]” Doobie called out, tracking the spinning head in it’s graceful arc. Anne Marie didn’t wait around to see if he caught it; with a violent wiggle at the hips her fake torso popped off, the spacesuit-like costume opening up in both manual and automatic processes.

“Nope! No more, not today!” Anne Marie said, shimmying out of the first half of the suit. “I’m done!”

“[Well!]” Sesame said, finally coming outside into the fresh air. “[What a day. So you say your dad isn’t helping? He’s staying on to cook for you, so food quality won’t literally change at all; that sounds like help to me.]”

“[It’s… I expected him to be more active in the planning, I guess.]” Tomtom said, sighing as she pocketed the tablet. “[He gave us good advice, but it was more …guardrails?]”

“Mmm. Maybe it means he wants you to ask for help from your friends, hmmmmm?” Brian said, snapping his fingers as fingerguns towards the anxious Karnakian.

Jake rested his head on his hand, the supporting elbow propped up on his knee. “Or, that you should assume the people who are trying to help you have good intentions, and you should give them the benefit of the doubt at least once?”

“[I said I was sorry!]” Tomtom replied, quickly walking up to the humans before sitting down next to Jack, fluffing out slightly in concern. “[Are you ok? Are we, uh, good?]”

Jack sighed and gently ran his fingers through Tomtom’s side-fluff. “It’s fine, it’s fine. You’re not doing anything wrong, and you can make mistakes and take your time; just don’t boss us around, yanno? We’ll get it done.”

“[All right… I’m sorry.]” Tomtom leaned up, making eye contact with Anne Marie. “[And I’m sorry for you too – if you want to stop being on suit duty, we can get someone else.]”

“Nah.” Anne Marie said, fanning her shirt to cool down. “These things are actually powered, and once they’re set up it’s a private little world in there. I can get paid to nap.”

“[That’s… honestly, impressive.]” Tomtom said, shaking her crest side to side in curious thought. “[You just let me know what you need, then – I’m going to do my best to listen to you all from now on.]”

“Please… stop sitting on me…” Wheezed Brian, who was roundly ignored.

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Stories They are Smol

Smolive Garden, Chapter 4: If no cops are around there is no crime

A half-dozen curious faces peered down at the reinforced glass screen, the slight warp of the reflective material twisting their faces slightly out of proportion just like a women’s changing room mirror. Every so often a finger would press gently against the glass, scrolling or selecting one thing or another, and each time the response was almost the same: utter disbelief.

“I honestly wouldn’t believe this if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.” Anne Marie murmured as she stared at the tablet, the web page for some chic bistro near the main Human Settlement in Silver City proudly displaying it’s wares underneath her fingertips. The Bistro, which had an incredibly pretentious name in every language, translated for humans roughly as “The only place in town worth it”. If you felt the name was insufferable, that would be just the tip of the iceberg; everything about the place screamed “trying too hard” mixed with “the poor need not apply”. Rustic furniture, average-joe decor, and an open floor plan would have you believe this place just moved in and was doing their best, but the sad truth is that it cost hundreds of thousands, if not millions of GRC to import real Dirt lumber and use it to pave the floors, and to use the remaining scrap wood as “authentic” human bric-a-brac to line the walls. Aliens of all kinds were shown relaxing, laughing, playing and talking in that ‘we look normal but all our brands are luxury’ kind of way, as obviously photoshopped images of humans meandered about – it was as bad as it sounds. Worse, really.

“Five hundred creds a plate?!” Jack said, tilting his head to see if he misread. “They don’t even let you pick what you eat!”

Brian squinted at the tablet, brushing aside Anne Marie’s hand to get a better look. “If they’re saying that’s a ‘standard human glass’ then… those serving sizes are smaller than my fist. How the fuck?!”

“[What is a strawberry?]” Sesame asked, tilting to the side to rest her cheek on Anne Marie’s head as she looked down at the tablet with one eye. “[Is it a flower?]”

“No, no.” Anne Marie said, unable to shake her head. “They cut the fruit like that-”

“[But it’s a berry. It’s in the name.]” Sesame responded, tucking Anne Marie’s head under the larger Jornissian’s jaw. “[You shouldn’t let your food lie to you.]”

Anne Marie reached up to lift Sesame’s head off of her own, wagging her trophy from side to side. “Listen, you may steal my warms but you’re not gonna change that name.”

“[She can do both.]” Doobie said, taking the opportunity to scroll down the list. “[So can this place. It really looks like they’re catering to an established clientele… definitely off-world. Look.]” Doobie muttered, pointing to a Moth-cocoon silk dish. “[You can damn well pick these off of the ground if you go deep enough in the forest, and it’s going for… 300GRC.]”

“Stringy-soup?” Brian laughed, sitting back on his elevated chair. “You’re tellin’ me a cunt can go on a walkabout and come back with an hour’s drinkin’ money?”

“[Seems to be.]” Doobie said, smirking. “[Most really expensive places like this will have multiple versions of the same dish, in order to mimic the taste and texture sensations across mixed-species palettes.]”

Doobie looked up, noticing that the table had gone quiet. “[I uh. My moms work in interstellar shipping…]”

“Liberal Arts Major.” Jack hissed, as he tossed a small fistfull of Hush Puppy fluff at the Dorarizin. Doobie for his part bit the softly-lobbed food out of the air, and swallowed sheepishly.

“[But… ok, so the point I’m trying to make before I was rudely interrupted-]” Doobie said, leveling his gaze at a still-defiant Jack. “[Was that usually places like this want to make sure to serve safe dishes for every species, or communal dishes that all species can tolerate. This place seems to only serve Human food. Yeah, here, they’re ‘proud to list’ one of their vendors as Aleman Farms. Possibly why there’s a premium.]” Doobie continued, furrowing his brow. “[Maybe that’s the point; they’re playing the human-access angle for all it’s worth.]”

“Mmmh. I don’t know if I like those kind of implications.” Anne Marie said, curling around to lay more comfortably on her back in the impromptu chair she made out of Sesame. “I’m not some feral animal that made your day because I happened across your path. I’m not some cat to adopt.”

“[Of course not.]” Sesame replied, looking down at her human friend, resting her arms on the smaller xenos’ warm torso. “[But that would be a lucrative angle for any business, big or small. It’s… curiosity is the hottest pebble on the beach.]”

Tomtom leaned back against the booth backrest, her head tilted in thought as she stared up at her thinking ceiling tile – the one which everyone agreed looked the best for some unspecified reason. “[So, read human cookbooks and make authentic cuisine with real ingredients. Check. Invite and make a safe space for all species to eat and enjoy. Check. Serve quality food. Check.]” Tomtom questioned into the void. “[So why can’t I sell a Corn Orb for 700GRC?]”

There came a call from the back kitchen. “[Because a dish there is an entire day’s wage in this area of the system, sweetie.]” Tictac bellowed, the sound of something frying almost drowning him out. “[There’s also not a high density of Humans out here.]”

“We’ve got the college.” Jack said, spinning the tablet his-ways-up as he assumed direct control. “But even then, a lot of us commute between enclaves.”

“[It’s a local place, sure, but is that bad?]” Tomtom asked, lowering her head to look at Jack. “[We never wanted to be exclusive.]”

“That’s part of the package, though, and you wanted to be a little hole in the wall.” Anne Marie said, pretending to do chest presses with Sesame’s arms.

“Wait.” Brian said, the marketing major (which was secretly the most useless of the degrees at the table and he should be spat upon)’s mind working on overdrive. “Wait. That’s our exclusivity. That’s our niche!”

“[No, we’re not doing anything involving bodily fluids again.]” Tomtom said, immediately staring down the Australian, who cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“Aye, that was only three times, alright?” Brian replied, not skipping a beat. “Listen. The number one thing people are coming here for is us, right? Humans, I mean.”

“[I’ve yet to see the appeal.]” Doobie snarked, resting his chin in his hand. “[But continue.]”

“Right, well, what if we could be the pull? Look, they even had those bad photoshopped people in their restaurant, right?” Brian said, scrambling over the tabletop to grab the tablet from Jack, quickly flicking through a few previous tabs as he spoke, highlighting pictures as he went. “The thing that just clicked for me – the alien actors! They’re reacting to the photoshopped in humans.”

“[Huh.]” Sesame said, squinting slightly. “[That… I didn’t pick up on that.]”

“Right! They’re obviously trying to bring in the big bucks, but there’s not that much around here locally. That got me thinking; if this is a major issue across the board, right?” Brian continued unfazed as his mania came to full force. “And considering we’re standard sight to everyone else on this rock, that means they’re trying to pull in only offworlders or ex-solars.”

“[Hm. Untrained randos and humans don’t really mix well.]” Doobie said, frowning softly. “[That might be why the images are faked, but… why? That seems so odd.]”

“The million dollar question!” Brian said, pointing his finger excitedly at his Dorarizin friend. “I bet they’re billing not just human watching, or human access, but humans as part of the dining experience. But do you really think any company is going to get away with that without being buried in red tape?”

Tomtom flicked her crest once as the thought crossed her mind, and she curled her neck back in a c to yell behind her booth to the kitchen. “[HEY DA!]”

“[I can hear you just fine young lady! You always were my loudest chick.]” Tictac called out, the sound of something being hammered dying down. “[What’s up?]”

“[Would it be easy to hire a human to help us?]” Tomtom innocently called out, and there was a slight beat as the softer rythmic hammering died down, and ultimately stopped. The silence lasted for only a moment before it was broken; it started with a bubbling up, but soon musical and hearty laughter echoed from the kitchen out into the dining area proper, drowning out several other conversations. Tictac’s almost-manic laughter continued, long and drawn out, only fading to silence as he walked into the freezer and shut the door behind him.

“[I guess that’s a no.]” Tomtom said, flipping her neck back into proper place. “[But that means it’s bad.]”

“See, I figure that too, right?” Brian said, as the other humans who are experiencing this dialog parroted “right” right back, even in their minds. “And that must be why these ads are the way they are. What if, in order to keep this diner afloat, we offer illegal access to ourselves? The food can remain shite-”

“[Hey now.]” Tomtom said, tapping a dulled claw against the human’s forehead gently. “[We are quality food at a decent price.]”

“Eeeh.” Brian said. “I’ve just grown used to it – look. We’re so small and out of the way that no one will come by to inspect, I know, I’ve been counting the months!”

“[Oh oww! It’s not that bad.]” Doobie said, coming to his friend’s aid. “[But I get what trail you left. We become a select secret, pay premium for off-world nights, by the time we get got we can claim ignorance or something like that.]”

“Yeah but fluffy-dad will know what’s up immediately.” Anne Marie said, giving up on her bench press and letting the Jornissian’s arms stretch her own off the coils. “I don’t think he will sign off on that.”

“No. But you can.” Jack said, looking slowly at Tomtom. “Aren’t you a part-owner because of that one senior project of yours? Your dad gave you like 5%, right?”

“[I. Hm. Alright, but, ok. If we’re going to do this.]” Tomtom said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “[Then we have to do this right. Let’s meet here tonight, when-]”

“[When what, daughter dearest?]” Tictac said, leaning out the serving window casually with a grin on his features. “[I told you, you’re my loudest chick. What’s the plan here?]”

“Well, this is easy!” Brian said, waving his hands as he kneeled on the table amid the food. “You’re already putting this up for sale, right? So your daughter hires us behind your back, we let that secret leak out, and you can start charging as much as you want!”

Elder Ti’miquek nodded slightly to himself, his crest barely waving above his scaleline. He inhaled deeply, before looking up at the fresh inspection certificate. “[So you really think it’s fake, huh?]”

Brian looked at the elderly Karnakian, and then up at the certificate. “Yeah. Too little variance between forms; if you’re getting this etched, there’s going to be flaws every once in a while.”

Elder Ti’miquek clicked his tongue against his teeth, before suddenly slapping the serving counter. “[Damnit! You’re the first one to get it this decade?!]”

“[Dad.]” Tomtom gasped, mortified at the new revelation. “[How- how could you?! You said-]”

“[My darling sunbeam, when you have three broods of chicks at once, you cut corners where it won’t hurt anyone.]” Ti’miquek said, shaking his head from side to side as he walked out of the kitchen. “[Besides, any real complaints about the food?]”

“Nah, not really.” Brian said, grinning. “Been comin’ here 4 days a week for years. This is my place! S’ a bit shit though.”

“[Most business laws are slaps on the wrist, especially if no real harm has been or can be done. No one’s ever complained about my food, and I’ve been here long enough, that nobody worries.]” Ti’miquek said, stopping in front of the table and looking his daughter straight in the eyes. “[So. You want to save this place so desperately that you’re willing to turn to crime? Even an innocent one?]” Ti’miquek asked, curiosity in his voice. “[Well?]”

The table fell silent, as all eyes turned towards the young Karnakian, the poor girl’s mind having long since puttered to a stop as revelation after revelation washed over her. Tik’akri looked at her father with new eyes, and studied his face for a few moments, a puzzled look splayed about her feathers, before she seemed to come to some sort of decision.

“[Yeah.]” Tik’akri said, slowly. “[I’m… young enough that I could probably get away with something like this. The money would still let me start my own place, so… yeah. That’s a risk I could take.]”

Ti’miquek smiled, wide, both in feather and in fang, as he sat down at the end of the booth, leaning in deeply. “[Oh, my daughter, now you are ready to run a business. But don’t be so clumsy. Now, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right…]”

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