Tag: Cute

They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Epilogue 1

Post author By TPH
Post date May 4, 2019
6 Comments on They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Epilogue 1

Vik, Iceland. +They stopped caring, After First Contact

-+-+-+-

High President Carter sighed as yet another intern just…. Didn’t show up.

It wasn’t that interns dodging their daily duties was anything new, per se – the youth had been slacking since there were youth and things to do. It was more that this intern was part of his delegation to meet the new species that had just appeared in orbit a few days ago and triggered another wave of panic, paranoia, and brutal global crackdowns. When they finally broadcast the whole “Oh God please stop we’re not doing anything relax” message, mankind learned a few things:

(1) What had happened to them was absolutely not how First Contact was supposed to go

(2) There are more of the xeno bastards

(3) We should probably accept their offer of unconditional alliance

(4) What do you mean there are more that aren’t here yet

(5) OH GOD NO MORE SHIPS PLEASE-

So the few remaining now nigh-unstoppable superpowers of Earth got together and tried to figure out where negotiations would happen. Every country naturally said “Not in my backyard” and so, well. Iceland was voluntold that it would hold negotiations because (1) it’s basically in the middle of nowhere that’s still easily-reachable, (2) it’s still large enough to wage a limited and desperate land war if necessary and (3) what were they going to do in retaliation, not sell herring at us? Aggressively win Eurovision? Please.

And so Iceland finally came to terms with the fact that more military might and expendable lives were going to be put on it’s soil than in anywhere or at any other time in history, and subsequently voluntold the small, southernmost city… eer. Town. Hamlet? Collection of buildings the locals called “Vik” that it really should dress in their Sunday best and be prepared for guests.

The entire town shrugged, got in their fishing boats and set sail to the Faroe Islands.

So that chain of events led to High President Carter sighing in another windswept kevlar tent, tightly holding his cup of cold-war era coffee as he spoke through a translator to European Union Chancellor Viksburg, Oceania Defense Pact Minister Gopi, and Chinese Extended Economic Cooperative Zone Administrator Zheng.

“…and still no word from the Russians?”

The Chancellor shrugged and shook his head. “No. From what we can tell they’re acting as if it’s a totally headless government. We know there’s someone pulling the strings, but they’re so underground and through so many layers of smoke and mirrors that…”

“It’s impossible. We’re still months into, ah, questioning their embassy representatives, but we’ve got no luck.” The slightly overweight Adminsitrator said, rocking slightly in his fold-out chair. “Either they died, which our visitors refute, or their ambassadors weren’t kept in the loop to contingency plans.”

“None of this matters.” The Minister said, making a chopping motion with his hand. “We can embargo their people, or take their lands if necessary to find them. Right now, we have more pressing concerns.”

“Mmm.” Carter grunted, taking a sip of bitter, strong coffee. “The Latin Coalition still hasn’t finalized… anything, and I don’t think the African Union is going to join us, so it’s just us for today.”

“Yes. Just about 70% of Humanity. I think we’ll be ok.” Minister Gopi said, smirking.

“Still.” Viksburg sighed, straightening his leg with a slightly sickening pop. “It would be better to show a unified front, and not doing so doesn’t help project coherency to our new guests.”

“I think we can be given a pass, what with the civil wars and shenanigans going on.”

“Regardless, we should pr-”

There was a hail from a separate tent that was echoed by multiple others; although Humanity was becoming more interdependent on each other, there was still absolutely no way in hell that the various factions trusted each other.

That would be madness.

So instead, There was a single main welcoming and negotiating tent, and then linked to that were separate staging areas for each new Empire’s various soldiers, intelligence officers, communications technicians, interns, and various other people who stood around the coffee machine and justified their existence. Each tent was connected to various mobile staging trucks with various radar and long-range communication and identification equipment, and each one of those had apparently picked something up at the same time.

Their new visitors were arriving.

There was the subsequent flurry of activity from each Empire’s subordinates – anti-aircraft defenses kicked online and began active tracking, honor guard lined up in impressive formation, special operations soldiers buried themselves into the surrounding area – and the leaders all shared a look with each other…

…and did absolutely jack shit.

“So what are you thinking, Mr. President?”

“Trial by combat. You, Administrator?”

“Hmm. Tribute, of course. Why destroy when you can farm?”

“Aah, of course.”

There was a supersonic rumble of jets – both human and decidedly not, as the new alien dropship was enveloped by Terran atmosphere, rapidly burning off speed as it’s escorts began a lazy, high overwatch.

“Whelp. Kick ‘em in the balls if they take me out.” President Carter said, slamming back the rest of his coffee.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul stretched in the cramped compartment, clicking her teeth in anxious frustration; This was no place for a princess of the Emperor!

Well. “Princess”. She was definitely in line for The Throne-at-The-Center-of-All-Things, but it wasn’t an immediate ascension; More like… well. If there were a few unfortunate accidents and a couple dozen abdications and if her Aunt Gruazng would just go explore the unknown reaches for another 500 years then maybe. But she knew her position within the family and she knew that position is why she was there; after Fleet Operation Dust and Echoes all the policy wonks got together and decided to send their own Armada to this new alien species’ home system, heavy in culture and science ships and much much lighter in naval armaments than their Eternal-All-Lights-Within comrades. Of course a Royal Representative needed to be there, and she was trained in negotiation, cultural appreciation, etiquette…

…she was also expendable. Granted, her life would be paid for dearly, and there was an almost zero percent chance that any of the locals would try anything, given their unique… physiology and current technological level, but.

But.

But there were Eternal-All-Lights-Within dead. There was a near-zero percent chance that their AI missed, that turned out to be true. This home world did burn.

So.

So here she was. Standing shoulder to shoulder with other various ambassadors, attendees, waiting-staff, and a handful of honor guard, all stuffed into an admittedly spacious and luxurious dropship that would have allowed for room to move had it also not been stuffed with various trinkets, sweet-meats, bolts of cloth, art… To be honest, she was used to being pampered, and having anyone other than her accustomed waitstaff in the same ship sector as her was enough to put a frown on her face. The fact that she had to share it with cargo was downright demeaning! So what if they wanted “a single target to escort in case of emergencies and to reduce groundside anxiety”, they were a star-spanning empire, Damnit! They could’ve afforded a couple more ships!

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul inhaled deeply, and exhaled, idly reaching up to adjust her recently-fabricated translation collar. This home world did burn.

‘{Pull in your temper}’ she said to herself, rolling her shoulders. ‘{This is a momentous occasion and you’re Blessed by the Hunt-of-Good-Lands to have been chosen among your siblings to go.}’ She straightened up just as her Dropship bled that last bit of speed, landing on the soft alien soil so delicately that only the all-clear from her Pilot’s communicator gave any indication that they had ended their journey, let alone broke through atmosphere from the heavens. The ramp extended, the door slid open, and gentle alien sunlight bathed the interior of her ship.

And so her Honor Guard marched out, and she and her retainers followed.

“Good God.”

“Don’t you mean Good Dog?” Carter quipped as the brightly armored, slightly-larger-than-polar-bear sized …well, wolves? Bears? Gorilla-dogs? Exited the ornately-decorated ship, marching in perfect formation down the ramp and to either side. Carter knew enough from his time in the military to know honor guard when he saw them, and there was a 50-50 shot that the weapons they held weren’t loaded.

They probably carried the ammunition on them somewhere, though.

His own – and that of his colleagues – quickly snapped to attention, flags and standards waving gently in the cool breeze. He idly scanned the line, seeing the same steely-eyed yet bewildered look on everyone’s faces.

‘Welcome to my world’ he said to himself, grinning as he stood up as the Officially-looking Official disembarked. “Anyone mind if America takes the honors?”

“Go ahead, Gweilo. I’ll wait here.”

“Suit yourself, Zheng.” Charter said, adding in an over-exaggerated nonchalant shrug. “Can’t get much worse at this point, and nobody’s giving me hazard pay.”

And with that, High President Carter of the New American Empire marched forward in greeting.

“{How in the world do they balance?}”

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul turned her head slightly to her attendant’s outburst, making a mental note to discipline her later. “{That is inappropriate.}” Gew-Zgranzre whispered, keeping her eye on the local leader as he… essentially wobbled towards them. “{But not totally incorrect.}”

“{Apologies, Ma’am.}”

“{Mmm.}” Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul acknowledged, plastering on the slightly bemused but totally uninterested mask of the elite, mentally slipping into practiced and drilled forms of etiquette. Feet placed just so, arms bent just so, bracelets of heraldry extended to show lineage and birthright – she posed herself slightly, delicately, dipping her head in a greeting of equals. Mostly equals. Ok, she might have still had some knots in her fur over being shipped with the fucking cargo, but, it would be wrong for her to take it out on these innocent and relatively tiny-

“?H—z ppbt **.-@#—%r GUH.?”

“Welcome to Earth. Care for some coffee?”

“{Okay, seriously-}” Gwe-Zgranzre said, blinking as the tiny local flashed his tiny teeth at her in… greeting? She turned to look at her Banner attendant, who was doing his absolute damndest to not start laughing.

“? ##A ** …. W@@@s—** b-BU r*^^*^?”

“Holy shi- eer, wow. That’s a sound right out of my nightmares.”

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul inhaled deeply, letting the cool air calm her down. She took in notes of alien flora, of the spray of their water, of the scent of her comrades and the burn of the engines.

It grounded her, and she smiled to herself. ‘{Your new translator, you fool.}’ she chided, and reached up to flick on the slim collar, the external devices’ speakers popping on as the local bravely drew closer.

“{Greetings, locals of Earth.}”

“[GREETINGS PEOPLE.]” Her translator boomed, and she gave another small dip of her head at the leader within arm’s reach.

“Seriously, why are your lips wiggli-is THAT YOUR TEETH?!”

“[VERIFICATION. I SEE YOUR TEETH.]” The local said, leaning back and staring intently at her mouth. Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul thought to herself for a moment and gave a mental shrug – customs were customs, and who was she to judge? She passively opened her mouth and performed a gum check, moving her upper-outer, upper-inner and bottom-middle row of teeth one after the other, from left to right, before loudly rippling them back in the opposite direction. She sheer surprise of her ability – teeth use must be important to them – impressed the ambassador so much he started to fall backwards.

Started to. Quickly and delicately she reached forward, loosely wrapping her arm around the torso of the alien and holding him steady. She had… seen the footage, and knew how to better act.

As was expected of someone of her station and breeding, to another.

“JESUS GOD, WHY.”

“[FIRST FATHER. EXPLAIN.]” Her translator helpfully chirped, causing the local to again do a full-body flinch. She tried to stand up, to make sure the ambassador wasn’t hurt – or would be hurt, and breathed deeply to center herself. She took in the same notes of alien flora, of the spray of their water, of the scent of her comrades and the burn of the engines, of a newborn pup.

Wait.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul furrowed her brow and inhaled again. Flora. Water. Pack. Need. An Emptiness that needs to be made whole. Wrongness.

No.

“{Please, forgive me. Are you alright?}”

“[APOLOGY. YOU ARE UNINJURED?]” Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul stood up the Ambassador, resting her hand on his side in a comforting manner. The local grabbed her much larger arm with his smaller hands, grounding himself.

“Ye-yes. Yes. Thank you.”

“[YES.]”

“{Good. I’m glad.}”

“[GOOD.]” Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul said, smiling gently at the little one before her. He stood up fully, adjusting his clothing before pulling away –

-ah. No.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul gently tugged him back towards her, adjusting his torso covering slightly; it had folded in on itself, and was terribly wrinkled, which really wouldn’t do. The Ambassador nodded his thanks, and stepped backwards –

-ah. No.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul gently but insistently tugged him back towards her. Although she was with her Honor Guard, and various house Attendants, it wouldn’t do for him to fall over again, especially when she was responsible – somehow – for the first time. No, she should make sure he was properly grounded… a chair, perhaps? Something to lounge on? She couldn’t just leave him alone, even though she trusted these people with her life-

“Thank you, um. May I… introduce you to my people? Perhaps, my wife as well?”

“[THANK YOU. WE MAKE INTRODUCTIONS TO MY PEOPLE AND MY HEAD WIFE.]”

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul furrowed her brow again. A head wife? Already? Sure, she was no stranger to political marriages, but no, this was too early.

No.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul very purposefully unclenched her hand, letting the ambassador’s clothing go, and he took a few quick steps backwards away from her. By the empty sky, what had gotten into her?! She was The representative for Her Empire, Her People, HER FAMILY-

She gently and insistently reached forward towards her family, grabbing only empty air.

-ah. No. No. He’s… this thing was not an abandoned pup. It was not her kin, it was not her people. It was not part of her empire, it was not part of her pack, it was not from her litter, it was not, it was not, it was not.

It was not being a very obedient child.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul darted forward, wrapping the abandoned alien boy in her arms gently but forcefully. She inhaled deeply in reflex; Flora. Water. Pack. Need. Wrongness. So much wrongness, and she would set it right. Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul looked down at her new charge, smiling warmly as the alien went completely limp, draping over in her arms.

That was ok. He was not being a very obedient child, but he just needed to be loved-

Sighing to herself, she picked up the abandoned Ambassador and cradled him, turning to walk back up the ramp.

“THE BALLS, ZHENG. GO FOR THE BALLS.”

“[MALE GENITALS. PAY ATTENTION TO THEM.]” he called out to no one in particular, his petulance continuing as he was taken into the ship. As the minutes dragged on, He was joined along with a couple dozen of his other abandoned brothers and sisters, wrapped in warm cloth and protected in the center of their ship.

So much wrongness, but they would be set right.

BOOKER sighed in the cumbersome HAZMAT suit, using his approved tungsten-aluminum procurement device – AKA “the pokey stick” – to sift through some of the less reactive rubble in Piedmont Park. After the global ceasefire he and everyone else from the CDC were basically carted over here to figure out what the fuck is going to kill us all.

So far, the deadliest thing they could find were shards of aluminum from a damaged ship, a couple abandoned MREs, a few alien nuts – which were taken to a blacksite hangar, along with roughly 15 tons of dirt that they rested on – and some scattered alien tech.

“Having fun over there?” MISTY said, chuckling deeply. “Come on, we’ve got another 5 minutes and then we disrobe.”

“Yeah, but fuck this suit, man. They could’ve at least given us the airpump ones-”

“Closed system, friend.” MISTY smiled, his voice heavily muffled. “Now, let’s just finish sweeping this grid and-”

There was a noise.

Usually, this is no point of concern, but when you’re at the site of an alien ship with scattered xeno technology about, this was a point of concern. With a simple arm gesture, both men pointed in a direction and made a sign with their hands.

Roughly an entire company’s worth of weapons were pointed in that vague direction.

“What the fuck was that?” BOOKER said, scanning the area.

“Dunno, sounded like-”

MISTY never finished his sentence as out of a fucking trashcan leapt a small, dirty, feral-looking-

“Is that a DOG?” BOOKER exclaimed, laughing. “Oh my FUCKING GOD, that’s a dog!”

The two men laughed for a moment, waving down the surrounding military as the animal bounded off, obviously very distraught at spending the past few days stuck in a trashca-

-the animal stopped, and started to devour something on the ground.

“Wait. WAIT. What’s that it’s eating? It’-”

BOOKER began to run forward as the small dog ate something decidedly not terran. Other ABC agencies – the FBI, ATF, NSA, CIA – began running as well, realizing the situation. It looked up at the sprinting HAZMAT suit, opened it’s mouth and borked.

The miniature shield drone that was lodged in it’s throat took the subvoalization rush of air as a command, and ejected a small amount of energy at an appreciable enough speed to knock BOOKER right on his ass.

Everyone froze in place, save for the ATF Agents, who rose to fight their greatest battle.

Tags Sci-Fi, They are Smol, Comedy, Cute, Smol

They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 14

Post author By TPH
Post date April 27, 2019
9 Comments on They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 14

When the history books were written – or tablets transcribed, given how technology advanced so quickly – everyone universally agreed on a single point: It sucked to be a government leader during The Great Clusterfuck.If you accepted the necessary invader-aid to rebuild your society, your society didn’t trust you. If you didn’t accept the aid, your people starved, died and rebelled against you for not accepting the aid. You didn’t have the funds to build up a military to take aid from the aliens (what with having to rebuild everything else first), and once you started to work with them you’d be treading a fine line taking raw material and turning it into weapons… right in front of them. The universal draft was truly universal, if only to spread the sense of control and “peace through strength”(and that putting a human in a suit and giving him a gun was infinitely cheaper and more discrete than building a new tank).

Then you had the problem, once the universal draft was universal, as to where the fuck do all these bored recruits go? It’s not like you can just hop over the border and have a quick war without literally starting World War 3. Eer. 4.

So maybe as a world leader you finally start relaxing the draft and letting the whole free market be free again; the people that remained got to see the absolute worst trading day in all of human history. Absolutely no asset was safe – stocks tanked, bonds were declared worthless, hell, even T-bonds dropped their rates.

Have you ever seen a savings account lose money?

……that is, if you were lucky enough that your bank somehow kept your records. Seeing as how everything was digital and how shielding against EMPs wasn’t even on their to-do list, well.

…look it turns out that millions of people who suddenly had absolutely no money or credit but training with guns made for a very hostile work environment.

Site 8, USA. +3MO After First Contact.

-+-+-

President Carter had gained a limp.

The limp wasn’t permanent by any means, but his emergency offices’ chair was not the most comfortable one in the world, and it happened to just pinch a nerve in his leg that… well. Over time, gave him a bit of a limp. The Surgeon General wasn’t too concerned, as once Carter finally stopped working 19 hour days at a cold-war era desk, got back to a workout routine and changed seats it would go away. Unless it was psychosomatic. Or it just didn’t.

President Carter also sported an eyepatch.

Now this was absolutely temporary, but again, another casualty of the condition he found himself in. Bunker air just didn’t agree with him or his special eyes, and over the course of the night he rubbed the damn thing raw. The patch was more for his own protection, as continuing to fuss with the itchy orb would only do more damage. Thankfully he was able to get the gauze pad under it coated with a topical anesthetic that took some of the actual sting away, but there was still a dull ache that gave him a soft scowl. As he limped his way up a concrete ramp to a nondescript spartan elevator he grunted a greeting to the awaiting Senator Armstrong. “’Mornin.”

“Good Morning to you too, Mr. President. You look like you’re suffering a fair bit today.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we’re still here. If they haven’t fired any more weapons, why the hell can’t I go back to The White House?”

Senator Armstrong shrugged as he made space for the temporarily-crippled President, nodding to an attendant to work the elevator controls. “You know as well as I do – if the White House isn’t secure you’re no-”

“Yeah, yeah, not allowed back in, but hell, even this bunker isn’t secure. For fuck’s sake, we’re meeting the aliens for another weekly conversation right outside.” Carter grumbled, idly pressing his fingers against his patch – as pressing didn’t count as rubbing and he wouldn’t get in trouble with the Surgeon General.

“It’s… less from the aliens and more from your constituents. We had another missile attack on the front lawn again.”

President Carter sighed, and remained silent and still for a few seconds as he took in the news. “Well. Did the bastard at least watch for back blast this time?”

“Yep. Three of ‘em, actually. Still didn’t take down the shields, but, having alien tech stapled to the lawn of our seat of government isn’t-”

“Yeah. Bad Optics.”

“Hah.”

Carter looked flatly at his friend, who looked away sheepishly. “So that wasn’t a pun?”

“Steven, I’m drinking powdered coffee that’s older than my parents, I’ve been eating MREs for months, and I shit on a hole in a concrete slab with toilet paper that feels mummified. The thought of getting out of this hellhole is the only thing that’s keeping me together-”

“Right, right. Well. Good news is that our ‘friends’ are here to talk about…yanno. The everything.”

“You mean the global depression that actually put the Fed on suicide watch? What are they offering now?”

Armstrong grinned widely and swept his arm forward as the elevator door opened up, the ‘secret’ door built into the side of the mountain slowly swinging open in the distance to let in the pure, unfiltered sunlight.

“Nanomachines.”

They were arranged in a semi-circle again. The Heads of State, not the paperwork – though that was too, if you wanted to get technical about things. Each Secretary was behind their very own fold-out desk, under a gigantic makeshift-but-semi-permanent tent, the idle wind bowing in the canvas ‘walls’ every so often. Although it should’ve been spacious – the tent was one of those massive event tents, after all – it felt very cramped due to the various attaches, generators, satellite equipment, servers, refreshment tables and the guards.

Good lord, there were a ton of guards.

This was partly because of the most successful jobs program in the history of Mankind, and also because of the small contingent of aliens who were coming down in the same pockmarked ship from the initial invasion. Whether it was a sly jab at the military prowess of the United States, or if the aliens were concerned about our object permanence, President Carter didn’t know or care. Right now, it’s about survival – survive the next day to see the next week to see the next month… one fire to put out at a time.

“[IS GOOD?]”

President Carter sighed externally and slumped again. Man-made fires were one thing; For instance, Texas had declared independence again – immediately followed by various counties within the nascent state deciding against independence, and then forming some microstates – now that was a fire, but one that could be handled. This, this was another conflagration and unfortunately, as this was being recorded for posterity’s sake there were no handy bottles of liquor available for him to steal a few moments of peace from. Other than the few discontented murmurs from the rest of his staff the tent was quiet. His Health and Human Services Secretary, Andrew Hernandez, took the easy way out not five minutes ago via a temporary sanity break once he finally parsed the new gift bestowed upon us from the heavens, and had to be tranquilized and hauled out of the tent after he wouldn’t stop laughing.

The lucky bastard.

“No. Is not good.”

“[HE LAUGH. LAUGH GOOD.]”

The Diplomat, who was absolutely unceremoniously named Aaaaa (on account of how it looked and your usual response to what it sounded like) tilted his head in an almost birdlike fashion as it’s translator parsed what he was hearing from the exhausted president’s lips. It thumped it’s padded tail against the ground – again, whether that was a display or a nervous tick, Carter had no idea and still didn’t care.

“[WE GIVE TINY MACHINES FOR HEALING. HEAL MANY. SAVE MANY. MANY FIGHTS. MANY HURT. THIS HELPS.]”

“And we thank you for that. But it’s… not good.” President Carter said, dropping the debriefing folder down on his fold-out table. It contained… well, a lot of things he just didn’t understand, but the gist of it was that it was a machine that built nano-machines that cured about 90% of diseases – if you trusted the alien technology enough to inject it into your body. Considering he was sitting in a tent in the middle of the Appalachian mountains with fully-functioning electrical everything based off of solar-powered satellites, alien tech had a great track record. They were offering multiple machines to every single population center that wanted ‘em. Hell, some were probably agreeing to get them not even realizing what they are.

“[FOR WHAT PURPOSE.]”

“It puts more people out of jobs. It ruins more infrastruct- more building. More investment.” President Carter said, his one good eye screwing shut as the same conversation played in his mind from a few months ago. ‘What about…all this? All of it?’ he asked himself, wondering idly if a depression could get worse. Aaaaa stood there, tilting it’s head one way, then another, before turning around and saying something to his team behind him. There was very obviously a heated conversation, datapads and trinkets being pulled out and referenced furiously. His guard used to raise their weapons whenever any of ‘em moved, but now…

Again. It’s the greatest Jobs program of all Time. It’s also not like they could stop ‘em if they decided to go all blood-sport about it.

“[BUT SAVE LIVES. MONEY FOR LIFE.]” Aaaaa suddenly said, rounding back towards the President quickly – as if he was struck with an epiphany. “[MONEY FOR LIFE.]” Aaaaa repeated, almost incredulously.

“Well, yeah. Hospitals don’t grow on trees.”

“[SAVE ALL. ALL FREE.]” Aaaaa growled, obviously frustrated at the limitations of his translator, as he began to wave his arms about. “[LIFE NO PRICE. NO MONEY FOR LIFE.]”

President Carter shrugged.

Aaaaa just stared at him in confusion.

Another 8 Trillion dollars of R&D, Medicine, Infrastructure and jobs evaporated between the two of them.

The interesting thing about the Armada was not necessarily just it’s size, although it was massive, nor it’s firepower – even though you could argue at the time of it’s assembly it was the most powerful fighting force in all of creation. No, the most interesting thing about the Armada was it’s diversity, because when dealing with a known unknown you have to prepare a little bit for everything, and The Diarchs made sure everyone put aside their petty differences for such a momentous occasion. As with any of the species’ empires, it was less one homogeneous galactic bloc and more a few very large states and some medium-to-minor outlying conclaves that all agreed to play nice. More or less. Regardless, they assembled science barges, medical ships, military ships – of course – but also trading vessels, biome ships, entertainment yachts, floating museums… the list really did go on.

Certainly, soldiers at arms numbered in the hundreds of millions – but the sheer personnel necessary to muster those millions numbered in the billions. For every drop pod soldier there were quartermasters, mechanics, armsmen, priests, doctors and other support personnel. For every one of those there were also chefs, janitors, therapists, maintenance crew, subordinates and miscellaneous ones besides. For every one of those there were logistics captains, cargo haulers, raw material processors, entertainers, street vendors, civilian shuttle pilots… you get the point. The tip of the spear is useless without the rest of the spear, and without the hand that holds it, and…

Anyway. Billions of Karnakians stood in confused, often mute stupor as the primitive world below them bowed, broke, stood up again, and then fell over and caught fire. Repeatedly.

You have to understand, Billions stood and watched this. Billions, who had their own hopes, dreams, allegiances and alliances, their own senses of right and wrong. Even if you sniffed through and filtered all traffic, you’d have to watch the watchmen, and then watch those who watch the watchmen, and…well. That’s assuming your pyramid of paranoid parsers could determine what messages were really talking about food poisoning from Ship Sector 118-F’s kitchen, and which ones were coded to Inquisitorial agents back in the home worlds updating them on the unfolding clusterfuck out in the field. That’s not counting tracking all the ships that are coming and going, resupplying and returning home.

So really, everyone in the back of their mind knew it was only a matter of time until the Diarchs stopped getting filtered reports about a “slight kerfuffle”, and a short amount of time after that when the Galactic Community as a whole saw what had happened and would come knocking.

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ of the Eternal Holy Karnakian Crusade And It’s Infinite Legions’ knew this in the back of his mind, and so spent every waking moment of his and his advisors’ time to setting right the great tragedy that they had inflicted upon this primitive race; not only was it the right thing to do, but it would also allow the necessary negotiating room for his people to… hopefully not face reprisals from their other neighbors.

Hopefully.

Site 8, N.A.E. +7MO After First Contact.

-+-+-

High President Carter of the New American Empire sighed as he limped his way back to The Damned Tent. As the Healthcare Industry crashed, bounced back up and then crashed again, more and more jobs were furiously created by the Government in order to… well. Not have a civil war. Problem is, you can only ship soldiers around to the same few cities doing the same few ditch-digging jobs before some of them wise up and begin to cause trouble. When that’s the case, and your external enemy is not longer really a thing, well… you’ve got to get creative.

A few backroom deals here, a few nods there, and it was determined that the best thing for everyone involved was for America to absorb it’s neighbors.

And sure, there were the few patriots who refused, and the ones who fought against the “liberators” of his armies, but in the background almost everyone was for it. Once Canada and Mexico were “freed”, infrastructure projects began in earnest. Rebuilding roads, putting up bridges, all on the backs of American laborers.

All for jobs. For a temporary distraction, to buy much needed time to rebuild whole economies and ways of life.

For putting out a fire.

“Aaaaa.” High President Carter said, nodding to the alien ambassador as he walked into the tent, unceremoniously dropping his constantly-weary body on the fold-out metal chair. 7 Months in a bunker, with no end in sight – especially now since he was dealing with insurgents from former NAFTA members – had removed his last fucks to give. “So. What’s this now?”

“[WE DID NOT KNOW OF YOUR MONEY TRADE WHEN WE GIFTED YOU.]”

“Ok, starting off with an understatement. This is good so far.” He grunted as he lifted his now apparently permanently damaged leg with his arm, crossing it over his good one. Xenos tech worked – some said too well – but as a head of state he couldn’t be compromised on the off chance that there was something … not above board in the technology. So he remained merely human, and suffered for it.

“[OUR WORD TRANSLATORS WORK GOOD ENOUGH TO HOLD BETTER DEBATE SPEAKINGS WITH YOUR PEOPLE, WE FEEL.]” Aaaaa said, dipping his head in what his xenobiologists were assuring him was a deferential gesture. “[OUR LEADER LORD VANGUARD PROTECTOR FIGHTER PURIFIER MAN WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK WITH YOU, AND TALK.]”

The tent grew quiet, and Carter smacked his lips together. “I feel like… Something got lost in translation there, but, alright. Fuck it. Here? Or-”

“[BY VIDEO ON SCREENS.]”

“Of course. Of course I can’t escape this fucking bunker… right! Well. Go ahead and put him on video by screen, then.”

“[YES. WILL BRING YOU SCREEN, WILL HAPPEN NOW.]”

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ of the Eternal Holy Karnakian Crusade And It’s Infinite Legions shifted uneasily in his chair, a slightly exhausted warble escaping his throat as he prepared to have the first of what would hopefully be many fruitful conversations in his… well.

It was an apology tour, plain and simple.

First Contacts are always touchy subjects, and it takes months, if not years for languages to get translated to the point that you could feel confident that what you said is what you meant. It was an unfortunate truth, because languages evolved differently based on underlying biology, and then have millenia of culture ontop of that to add nuances that are so ingrained into the language as to appear almost natural. Then, of course, you had to throw out all assumptions on how to speak that language, because you didn’t know if words changed based on who you spoke to, or your position in society, or your distance from the home star – nothing was a given.

His programming team would be commended on any other circumstance; quick thinking and long hours had shortened their timeline down to just a couple months, and the idea of starting with the periodic table and moving out from there helped lay the groundwork for some of the more basic words. The real problem was that there were just so many words: Not only did they speak thousands of languages on this one planet, but each language in and of itself had regional dialects, and then slang ontop of that!

He was assured that their language matrices were far enough along that they would convey more complex meaning, and that by careful and slow conversation they could begin negotiating a withdrawal that would not only leave this species in a better position, but also not create an entire race of enemies that would hunt them down in a couple hundred years in a bloody genocidal war of attrition.

At least, he hoped so.

Straightening his back he rolled his head, his neck popping in various places.

“|Um. High Lord-|”

“|Uri’krei, please. It is our duty to not harm our brothers, and we have done them a great ill. I will not be persuaded from returning to them 7-fold what we have taken.|”

“|It’s uh. Not that.|”

“|Well then, what is it? We’re about to go live with one of their leaders-|”

“|Ah. I’ve… received an encoded message.|”

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ sat there, flatly looking at his EM Lord. “|And.|”

“|It’s… from the Embassy of the Noble-Family-Hunters-Yearning-For-Life… asking us what we’re building way out here in the middle of nowhere, and reminding us about our mutual defense pact.|”

“|No.|” High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ groaned, vigorously scratching his molting feathers free from his neck in an uncontrollable stress response.

“|And they wanted to let us know-|”

“|Noooooooo.|” High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ growled, his claws dragging up and down his neck in anxious patterns.

“|-that they should be warping in any minute now-|”

The cameras turned on.

“|GREAT SOUL DAMN IT.|” High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ roared, his fists slamming against his console.

“[GREETINGS. SAME GREETING TO YOU. WE ARE SAME SOULS.]” A very haggard looking local said, dipping it’s head in greeting. “[A GOOD DAY FOR YOU TOO.]”

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ screwed his eyes shut for a moment, composing himself, before opening them again and plastering on a forced smile. “|Greetings, Noble Leader.|”

“[GREETINGS.]”

“|We are very, very sorry for the pain we have caused you.|”

“[YES. NEW PAIN DAILY.]”

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ winced. “|Y-yes… and we are sorry. We wish to give you more-|”

“[NO. PLEASE NO.]” The local said, shooting up straight in his seat, his arm lifting up in a possible pleading gesture. “[NO MORE HELP.]”

“|You… would say what that help is. We want you to prosper.|”

The local put it’s head in it’s hands, letting out an untranslatable groan that High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ could identify with on a spiritual level. “|We… we want to be allies. To help you on your way to the stars.|”

The leader looked up, his gaze seeming to pierce The High Lord as if he was but a mere hatchling. “[WHAT COST.]”

“|None.|”

It was at this fortuitous time that the (who we wound up calling The Dorarizin) ‘scouting’ fleet showed up in orbit around the planet Earth, hovering for only a few moments before gently – but loudly and insistently, broadcasting a signal that roughly translated to “{Well what’s all this then? Is that a new species?! WHY IS EVERYTHING ON FIRE-}” but High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ wasn’t paying attention to that particular hail. No, his eyes were plastered on the screen before him, where the local leader was hailed by his own EM Lord-equivalent. There was some yelling – parts of it translated, parts of it not – before the leader stood up and ripped his top clothing off, letting out an untranslated and inarticulate yell as he bodily lept onto Diplomat Quri’rurag, attempting to choke him through his environmental suit.

“[TINY MACHINES, CHILD. I CAN ONLY BE HURT EMOTIONALLY.]” A much larger native bellowed as he tackled Quri’rurag, dragging him down to the ground.

Tags Sci-Fi, They are Smol, Comedy, Cute, Smol

Stories They are Smol

They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 13

Post author By TPH
Post date April 19, 2019
4 Comments on They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 13

Springdale, Arkansas, USA. +5 DAYS AFTER CONTACT.

-+-+-

The sound of boots on broken glass broke the silence, and Carl gripped his shotgun a little tighter as he swept the Target for looters. He wasn’t expecting any, but he heard through the radio that if your area was still without power, you should “shelter in place”. This was also codeword for “the cops aren’t there right now” and well. Carl sighed internally as he scooted a particularly garish discount rack out of the way with his foot, the sound purposefully made to raise eyebrows, suspicion… anything. The Target – the store, not something he was hunting – thankfully, had incorporated skylights into it’s ceiling, so as long as it was daylight he could see all across the store – and nothing but the store looked back at him.

“Well. This was a whole lot of nothing.”

And indeed, it was. In Tornado country everyone kept multiple radios, and the ones that were in hidey-holes or basements or even under enough metal to deflect the EMP still worked. He, personally, was out hunting when the invasion hit, so he just… kept hunting. An overnight trip turned into a 2 day weekend turned into him being the most popular man in the neighborhood when he finally rolled back home with a working vehicle and radio. NPR still ran – when it was able to – but everything else was basically co-opted by 24/7 Government Updates. It was somewhat hilarious to him to see his friends and neighbors – people who didn’t trust no gub’mint listen with rapt attention in his living room to updates from DC (or wherever the bunker they were broadcasting was from) explaining how things were going, casualties, where troops were handing out food, medicine, clean water-

“[FRIEND.]”

Carl turned, nonplussed, at his tail.

“D’ya fuckin’ mind?”

He picked up this stranger about 2 miles back mainly because he was the only vehicle still running (at least, that he’s run into) after the EMP went off, and when you see a Ford F-150 from the early 60’s shuddering it’s way around Teslas and Mustangs, over sidewalks and through stopsigns – literally, in some cases – you tend to attract attention. It’s not like Carl wanted to be followed, but it was more a matter of his top speed was about 60MPH if he was pushing it, and the damn thing just kept pace with his vehicle.

“[FRIEND. HELP.]”

“I think not. NO. Go away!” Carl yelled, trying to shoo the alien stranger away with the barrel of his gun as it poked it’s head around the busted sliding-glass doors. It was useless – the shorty he made and used only blew out his window and did nothing to stop his accomplice, so. It was relegated now to a very expensive and very illegal pointing stick.

But I won’t tell the ATF if you won’t.

Grumbling to no one in particular Carl helped himself to a couple shopping carts, making his way first to the “sporting goods” section – ammunition is always necessary, after all – and then once he loaded up there, he’d hit the various dry goods areas. Water filters would be important; it’s not like anyone needed tents or whatnot, as everyone’s houses still stood. The real pain in the ass is cooking and cleaning; cereal and water gets old real quick, and some people had display fireplaces, which, really! Why the fuck would you have a fireplace just to look nice and not actually be usab-

“[ANOTHER. FRIEND. QUESTION.]”

“I was talking out loud again, eh?” Carl said, looking behind him to see the towering alien duck under the steel door bar, standing up inside the store properly.

“Well, might as well – it’s good enough company, seeing as how you’re not the chatty type.”

The alien just looked at him, and Carl scowled.

“Don’t give me that – you can understand me now! You should at least try to talk to-”

“[FRIEND. HELP. QUESTION.]”

“Oh, now you want to help! Sure, here!” Carl snarked, rolling the shopping carts away from him in no direction in particular. “Look! We’re right next to the card aisle! Let’s see if we can just help each other!” With grand, sweeping steps he marched right into the center of the greeting card aisle, spinning around a couple times in mock search. “Hmm. Nope! This isn’t where the ‘we invaded you on accident and we’re sorry’ cards are! Maybe they ran out – could we hand out a ‘At least we lowered your emissions!’ consolation card? No, that seems a bit too cheeky. OH!”

Carl pulled out a generic ‘hope you feel better’ card and waved it at the alien, who was still a few dozen feet away, watching the spectacle unfold. “I’VE GOT IT! WE’RE SORRY FOR BLASTING YOU BACK TO THE STONE AGE. HOPE YOU ENJOY DYSENTERY!”

“[FRIEND. APOLOGY. HELP. QUESTION.]”

“Oh fuck right off.”

Good news: Grilling was in this season!

“Nnngh. Fucking Charcoal.”

Bad news: Grilling was the only way to cook this season!

Carl lowered his bodyweight as he pushed – one behind the other – two carts loaded with bags of charcoal briquettes. His ‘companion’ was standing next to his truck awkwardly – he had been shooed away from helping pack the bed multiple times, and so instead just stood and watched as the lone man finally wrestled the last two carts near the truck. Those carts joined a few others that held water filters, ammunition, dry and canned foods, solar panel generator packs and board games.

Yes, board games. Not like the Playstation 7 was going to work anytime soon.

The Government news called it a Carrington Event – the thing that knocked out the electronics – basically a global EMP. Stuff that was hardened against an attack like that were relatively ok; submarines, military installations, some hospital generators, things lacking an electronic brain and backup substations made it, for the most part. Literally everything else wasn’t doing so well.

It hurt Carl, on a fundamental level, to know his son’s Nintendo was now just a $800 paperweight – and that of course the warranty wouldn’t cover it.

“[FRIEND. HELP. GO. QUESTION.]”

“Yeah, I’m about to go fuck right off back home, without you.”

The alien pointed to the horizon, and Carl followed his arm – and scowled. Floating over his city was one of their ships, cables and gantries being built into his city with their technology for some unknown purpo-

“[HELP.]”

“No. I don’t fucking trust you.” Carl growled, angrily throwing charcoal bags into his truck bed. “I don’t care if they have power, if they have ‘help’” he spat, “They probably can’t get out. I don’t give a shit. I’m not going, and you can’t make me.”

“[HELP.]” The alien said, gently, its’ feedback almost making a cooing noise as it took a step forward. Like a flash, Carl whipped out his sawed-off shotgun, pointing it between the alien’s eyes. They stood like that for a few seconds before he turned the gun on himself, the alien physically tensing.

“No. I don’t fucking trust you.”

The alien stepped forward, and Carl pressed the slightly warm barrel to his flesh, staring intently, unflinchingly at the beast.

“[PLEA. HELP.]”

“No.”

And they stood like that for just a few more moments before the alien backed off, slowly, and watched Carl pack the truck in peace.

And Carl went home alone.

???????????, USA. +6 DAYS AFTER CONTACT.

“[WE. GIVE. POWER.]”

“Yeah, fuck it, that’s a fair trade.” The Man in The Tower said, rubbing his temples.

He was not in Langley anymore – hell, he was one of the first ushered out to Site 4 – and he was not behind his mahogany desk – the utilitarian steel-and-aluminum furniture lacking all the charm of everything not designed to survive the apocalypse. Worst of all, however, was that he was not properly caffeinated for this.

“Jesus. What are we even looking at here?” President Carter murmured, reviewing a handful of the tower of files that crowded him for his attention. “It’s not like we can force them out of our airspace, but-”

“[WE. GIVE. POWER.]” The Diplomat said, wincing – or giving what the humans would assume was a wince – as his voice boomed from the translator-collar strapped to his neck. “[GIVE. FOREVER.]”

“I’m assuming they’re saying they’ll power us until we can unfuck our grid.” Interior Secretary Wiltjen said, turning the schematic over in his hands – upside down, to the side, holding it like an eye-spy for a few seconds before shrugging and putting it back in place. “Like you said Andy, not like we can tell them to fuck off. Actually, speaking of fucking off, have we been able to-”

“The Russians?” Defence Secretary Gates said, half-laughing. “They’re not taking anyone’s calls. Our embassy, along with literally everyone elses’, has been trying to get someone to answer, up to and including physically breaking down the Kremlin’s doors. Nothin’.”

“[WE. GIVE-]”

“Yes, yes, fuck off already.”

“Don-”

“Oh don’t give me that, Andy.” Defence Secretary Donald Gates said, rummaging around at his feet for a still-full bottle of whiskey. “I’ve given you my debriefing; the fact that we’re not all alien-chow by now is their doing, not ours. Fuck, we don’t even know what we were seeing there for a few points – did you read that bit about teleportation-”

“Yes, I did, like everyone else did. The POINT, Don, is that we have some sort of decorum in this… ceasefire negotiations.” President Andrew Carter sighed, slapping his folder against his own metal desk. “If we don’t, then what’s the point of going on? If we just give up because we, we…”

Donald grunted and hefted another bottle to his lap. To his credit, he didn’t drink it immediately, and instead turned to yet another top-secret super-important file. Without so much as a word he reached forward for a scattered pen and began to add his recommendations to the executive order. They – that is, the heads of state, not the executive orders – were arranged in a semi-circle in the stark bunker, bare concrete walls arcing forward, graced only by incandescent lighting that was installed probably sometime in the 1950’s, and turned on exactly once to check if it worked.

There was a good few minutes when everyone first arrived at the bunker that they thought the place was on fire. Turns out, an inch of dust on incandescent bulbs burns!

Regardless, this was the last-resort location that allowed those living heads of government to continue the American Experiment in relative secrecy and safety. Relative being the key word, because no bunker could sustain the weaponry that was leveled against it from these invaders, and nobody on staff knew how the aliens figured out where they were. One day, they were sequestered away directing the desperate defense of their homeland, the next there was a gift basket placed outside the vault door and a booming request from the heavens (and on every radio frequency) to “STOP. FRIEND. STOP.”

It was enough to get everyone to pause for a moment, and that was enough for the invaders to start the ancient and noble game of charades.

The alien shifted from leg to leg, chittering something to it’s superiors. He was known as The Diplomat – but everyone there knew it was a quirk of translation, and his true name was unknown. Regardless, every nation-state had a “The Diplomat” talking with them, offering them the same deal – free, unlimited, universal power for absolutely nothing in return, which of course meant something was up. The schematics already shared with the scientific community showed the manufacturing steps to make lightweight, hyper-photosensitive material, giving solar panels a damn near 100% efficiency rate. There were also schematics for capacitors, for battery banks, for wireless electrical distribution – all of it not 200 years ahead of mankind’s technological prowess – at best.

They also included how the satellites they were building around the planet used those technologies.

“Ok, so what’s the next steps, chief?”

Carter sighed. “Well, we need to project order and stability-”

He was interrupted by the uncorking of a bottle, and he glared at his Defense Secretary who just shrugged. The Man In The Tower shifted in his seat, coughing slightly. “Right, so? You’ve got Congress 100% in your pocket right now.”

“Universal Draft? Get everyone trained, make them feel safe – or at least, project safety. Make them feel like we were equals at the negotiating table, I figure. How say the other members of NATO?”

“Roundabout the same.” TMITT said, literally rubber-stamping a series of orders with complete disregard to his duty. “People feel better when they can see something being done – anything being done – even if it doesn’t work. Hell, look at the TSA – that bought us decades. Also, for what it’s worth, I just heard that England’s already building pillboxes in Swindon.”

“And these satellites-”

“[GIVE. POWER. ALL.]”

“Well that answers that. Taking it literally, it means free energy for everyone, everywhere. You-toh-pea-ah.” Science and Technology Adviser (STAS) Jessica Clifford said, spinning a pen between her fingers. “Of course… huh.”

“What?” President Carter said, rolling his shoulders. “What now.”

“Well. Just… if we’re beaming free energy to everyone, everywhere, at all times… what happens to this?” Jessica said, waving her hand about in a vague, northernly direction. “All this infrastructure. The dams, the coal mines, the power plants. These wireless receivers act as step-down capacitors and batteries, so there’s literally no need for an energy grid; everyone just becomes their own grid.”

There was a brief pause in the low murmur of communication, as various trains of thought ground to a halt.

“And it’s not like we can’t implement this technology; not only did these bastards beam it to literally everyone, but they’re already building the infrastructure for it. If we don’t take advantage of it ourselves, that’s a strategic advantage to our enemies, but, like. Where does this all go, though? What the fuck do we do with the grid? The Hoover Dam? Or the TVA?”

President Carter closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting out a low groan, his body slouching so far into his seat that his fingertips brushed against the caps of various helpful, but as-of-still-yet unopened bottles of respite.

“…That’s 5 Trillion dollars of equipment.” Jessica continued, her voice seeming smaller.

“Not counting the jobs.” Secretary of Labor Bill Forrest said, tapping his pen a couple times against his desk. “Don’t need polemen if there are no poles.”

“So we need the universal draft, and…shit. Give me a list of other infrastructure projects, we might as fucking well-”

“[WE. HELP.]” The Diplomat helpfully added, his forehands wringing against themselves in his exosuit.

Nobody had the heart to correct him.

Tags Sci-Fi, They are Smol, Comedy, Cute, Smol

Stories They are Smol

They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 12

Post author By TPH
Post date April 13, 2019
6 Comments on They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 12

Kursk, Russia. +2 Hours.

-+-

The Brutalist architecture stood tall – monolithic – and for a city of almost 600,000, totally and completely silent. Cars were abandoned on the highway, trains stopped running, and if it wasn’t for the electrical hum of wiring and the flickering of lights, the errant open door wafting the scent of now-burning food into the street, or the still-babbling televisions and radios it would seem that the city itself was abandoned.

It would seem.

Russia was no stranger to battle, and to fighting on their own territory – from the wars brought to it’s borders from Sweden and France to their own incursions into Europe, the land and the people had a long memory of bitter fighting. Kursk was, of course, no stranger to this grim task; It was sieged by the Vikings and the Nords in winters beyond memory, it had shuddered at the touch of the Mongol horde – this was, of course, not counting the dozens if not hundreds of times it had traded hands among the Rus themselves in the time before writing. Much blood had watered it’s soil, for it sits in a strategic position; take Kursk, and you have a foothold into Moscow, or to cutting Russia off from the Black and Caspian Seas. Most recently, Germany tried to take it.

Tried to.

Qro’roi looked up at the tall, looming and somewhat decrepit building, searching the windows and open balconies for the movement indicator his HUD pinged him with. He cycled through multiple spectrums of light, and even attempted to penetrate the building with a form of sonar, peeling away the outer layer to give him a hint of what lay within.

Nothing.

Qro’roi shuddered, and continued down the broad road before him. He had landed much like his brothers and sisters, and much like them there was the general panic of the local populace. Some reported terrifying the populace into fleeing – which was understandable, as their equipment wasn’t exactly designed to look friendly – whereas others were reporting disinterest, and in some cases even gifts and welcoming. Qro’roi wished he was in any of those other categories because then things would make sense. His AI notified him during planetfall that he was landing in a populated area. He hit a park – or at least, an empty field of some sort – and by the time he emerged

Nothing.

But it was the obvious wrongness of the Nothing that got him. It’s as if the entire population looked up and made the same conclusion, and then vanished into thin air. There were no stragglers, no attacks – some of his unit in other cities not 40 leagues from him reported locals ramming them with vehicles or pelting them with improvised missiles, or even engaging with their military – which again, made sense. But in this city he and his squad were unmolested. Granted, they were dispersed, as changing trajectory means also making sure that an accidental detonation of munitions doesn’t daisy-chain and become a conflagration, but closing that gap between battle brothers is what PT in full gear was for. Qro’roi paused at an intersection and leaned out carefully, letting his HUD scan for any signs of the locals, or of military machinery moving in, or of anything that would make it seem like the population was real and that this wasn’t some purpose-built fake city – which apparently these aliens had, oddly enough.

Nothing.

Qro’roi sighed, his suit beginning to up the dose of anti-anxiety and paranoia medications, helping him keep a cool head as he fully turned the corner and began to run down the center of the road, weaving in and out of abandoned land vehicles – still on, still running, still blaring music or language or static. There was nothing living, however, and a-

Movement.

Qro’roi quickly – so quickly his boot dug a furrow into the paved road, lowering his body to reduce his overall surface area and tensing the springs of his legs to dodge the upcoming assault-

“?Давай, давай. У бабушки есть еда для тебя, малышки.?”

“?Come, Come. Grandma has food for you, little ones.?”

-of a lone local, hunched over, wrapped tightly in cloth and scattering food for the indigenous winged animal population. Qro’roi stood silent, still, as he watched the local reach into a crinkling bag, crumbling up something inside and pulling it out, scattering the broken crumbs in a semicircle around it’s feet. It’s movements were slow and halting, and with dawning realization Qro’roi realized this being was old for it’s species. Really, really old. The overall scene of this creature sitting nonchalantly in the central gathering area inside the U of a giant, monolithic, seemingly abandoned building performing a ritual that he himself had seen on countless other worlds was absolutely absurd.

“|Qro’roi? Noticed you stopped and your heart rate spiked. Everything ok?|” Squad leader Oi’’iie chirped in his ear almost immediately.

“|C..contact.|”

“|Oh?|”

“|Yeah. Elder, just…feeding the wildlife.|”

“|Hah!|” Rag’re’a coughed, clearing his throat. “|Really now.|”

“|I’m going to check it out.|”

“|You realize this is a trap, right?|” Tt’kir’a interjected, laughter bubbling in his voice.

“|Of course.|” Qro’roi clicked his tongue in irritation. “|I’m not an idiot. I just don’t want us ending up like SOOTHSAYER companyu and having to take shelter in the underground from the locals.|”

“|Ok, granted, but being underground isn’t that bad – especially in a regional capital, eh?|” Rag’re’a questioned, audibly cycling through contextual menus. “|Also, update incoming.|”

“|Mmmm. Say that after spending 2 weeks in a sewer to wait for a guard shift change and then we’ll talk.|”

“|Yeesh~. Now I know why you have such a sour disposition!|”

“|I hate you so much, Tt’kir’a.|”

“|Aww, that’s what keeps the relationship special~! So what’s your goal?|” Rag’re’a said, half-paying attention.

Qro’roi stood back up and gave a whole-body shrug – not that the local could understand his body language, or even paid attention. “|Get close, stand nearby. Don’t harm her, hopefully the others who are in hiding see that and come out. If I can figure out how to ‘surrender’ then I’ll do that too. Maybe word will spread?|”

“|It’s a traaaa~aaaap|” Tt’kir’a sang, and then grunted as he… well, probably fell from a decent height.

“|Probably. But this looks like a residential building – if my update is correct-|” Qro’roi tapped his helmet as it began it’s first major update, buildings around him being broadly IFF-categorized as ‘residential(?)’ or ‘industrial(?)’ or the ever helpful ‘flammable(?)’. “|So that’s fortuitous. Probably a cross-fire killzone with soldier-arms weaponry – which is why I’ll be staying a decent way away from the local, let them get it out of their system, and then we start negotiations.|”

“|That’s really dumb. Walking into an ambush, letting it trigger, and then hoping to negotiate afterwards? That’s dumb. You’re dumb.|” Tt’kir’a helpfully pointed out.

“|And that’s also why I’m not squad leader. Thoughts?|”

“|…small-arms fire only, but they start throwing grenades or bring anything substantial out and you run.|” Oi’’iie begrudgingly said, her breath coming out ragged as she began running once more.

“|Yes ma’am.|”

Qro’roi moved slowly – for his species, at least – making sure to scan the street for snipers, tagging various roadblocks and marking escape routes – before crossing the street fully to stand at the edge of the extremely obvious ambush. Qro’roi smiled to himself and rolled his shoulders, making sure to give himself a good stretch. With an obvious nod to the right, left, and front he walked confidently, if slowly, forward.

This made sense.

“?Да да Так жадно! Для всех вас достаточно, мы не убежим.?”

“?Yes, yes. So greedy! There’s plenty for all of you, we won’t run out.?”

The elder fussed and clicked her tongue, the patterned birds before her fussing over the offered food. They would jostle and fight for the scraps, and again the hand would go into the bag, and again it would provide more bread. Qro’roi let his HUD scan and record everything – both for his after-action report, and because he was honestly curious as to where the first shot would come from. The local remained seated in the middle of the decrepit, but sturdy bench, and the scattered crumbs flung out around her feet. A few brave pigeons jumped on the bench with her, trying to curry some favor or to somehow get more food.

“?Всегда такой жадный. Так предсказуемо. Мы должны быть простыми, думают они. Но я не против.?”

“?Always so greedy. So predictable. We must be simple, they think. But I do not mind.?”

Qro’roi stopped about halfway towards the elder and stood still, keeping his arms and legs spread slightly so his limbs were very visible – and so it was very visible that he was doing nothing.

“Что я против, так это плохие манеры! Пшли вон, кыш!?”

“What I mind is poor manners! Go, go – shoo!?” The elder made a waving motion with their upper limbs, scaring away a couple of the birds that had gone too close to her body. They fluttered, but not too far, bravely coming back to get more handouts. The elder reached into her bag and pulled out an entire slice of hardened bread – and, like a frisbee, flung it halfway between her and Qro’roi. A few of the birds chased after it before noticing something was off, and landed in a scattered semicircle around the discarded food, their primitive minds fighting between free sustenance and something…off. Qro’roi looked at the offered food then back up at the local, and did not move.

“?Бах, смотри! Вы приходите ко мне домой, вы не называете меня бабушкой, вы не позволяете мне кормить вас … но, может быть, вы хотите съесть что-нибудь еще??”

“Bah, see! You come into my home, you do not call me granny, you do not let me feed you… but maybe, you want to eat something else??”

The two locked eyes for the first time, one soldier to another.

The elder simply rested her hands on her lap.

The confiscated and half-assembled Panzerabwehrkanone 12.8cm “Pak” 44 L/55 that Babuskha had ripped from the Nazi army’s cold, dead hands had lain dormant within the boiler room of the soviet-bloc era apartment building before being hastily reassembled in a forcibly-abandoned room. At the signal given by the old lady, it fired a single 28kg round from deep within the apartment complex, the blast utterly destroying the walls around it and the shockwave killing Dimitri (who was a good grandson but a bit of a hooligan) as it pushed effortlessly through the window, crossed the scrub-grass “greenspace” of the inner courtyard and slammed into Qro’roi’s torso, his microdrone shield lattice shielding him from the kinetic shrapnel but not from the shockwave – the force spinning him off the ground like a top. Babushka smiled for a brief moment before the blast took her too.

It was a necessary sacrifice.

Qro’roi’s suit screamed in it’s internal telemetry, feeding data about the direction of the attack, it’s force, potential other attackers, pilot health, shield recharge rate-

“|I told you~|” Tt’kir’a sang out over Qro’roi’s grunt of pain as he landed on his feet, spinning on his heels to run out.

“?Ах вы исчадья птицефабрики!?”

“?Oh, you fowl poultry!?” yelled another bent-over elder from a balcony, and she let out a yelp as the RPG-2 fired, the backblast blowing out her sitting room.

Again, another necessary sacrifice.

The 80+ year old munition surprisingly fired true, striking Qro’rois’ back and causing him to stumble. From almost every window emerged various models of AKs, Mosins, Makarovs and PP-90s, and fire poured down upon him.

“|You are exceedingly stupid, Qro’roi.|”

“|I AM RETREATING-|”

“|Ok, not that stupid after all-|”

“|OI’’IIE I AM GOING TO KILL HIM-|”

“|Yeah, well we all kn-|” Oi’’iie suddenly grunted, and there was a small burst of static. “|Shit, I guess that was the signal.|”

Qro’roi skidded behind a vehicle, the sound of weapons fire almost drowning out the protest of the makeshift barricade he was behind. “|Well shit. Do we have a working translator yet? I’d like to yell that I come in peace or something.|”

“|Not yet – though we should very soon-|”

“|And we’ll be home for shrine season, right?|” Qro’roi growled sarcastically, instinctively flinching as another explosive round destroyed his cover – forcing him to move behind another, sturdier vehicle that was slowly chipped away behind him again. “|And what of regional?|”

“|Those unfortunate bastards who landed in the regional capital? Last I heard, they were lacing EMP worms to give themselves a breather-|”

“|Wait, what-?|”

After the fifth or sixth update to the universal translators, Humanity found out that “worm” was a terrible mistranslation for the type of creature that was native to the Karnakian homeworlds, and to the device that the special operations team was referring to. If anything, “scarab-centipede-carpenter bee” would do more justice, as it had wings … though it also had a multi-segmented body and tended to burrow into most anything – dirt, mud, clay, plants, wood, etc. Regardless, the ‘worm’s that SOOTHSAYER platoon were scattering as they regrouped did the same job as their organic counterparts; they flew and burrowed into dark nooks and crannies behind gutters, in building alcoves, under tree roots, in gutters and drains and wheel wells and air conditioning units, in concrete walls and subway floors.

All in all, the ones that weren’t shot down or otherwise destroyed were relatively safe – forgotten, for the bigger fish in font of the defenders. Maybe 3, 4 dozen survived, and when they activated the EMP was still blocked by natural shielding, by dirt and earth and metal and water. Considering each drop pod by itself was seeded with hundreds of these things, the fact that so few were activated was considered a remarkable act of constraint.

It was a localized EMP blast, no more than one or two KM in radius. The electrical grid overloaded, certainly, but Hospital generators kicked on, the Kremlin only had a temporary blackout, and deep within Moscow’s abandoned-and-unmapped subway system, electronic locks disengaged long enough for the Karnakians to force open a few Soviet-era doors.

The second, localized EMP blast was to knock out the emergency lighting, and to allow the combat-suited invaders the ability to swing open and shut the heavy steel vault doors on their own, allowing them the territory control they needed to establish a safe perimeter.

Hospitals were on their own grid at this point, so they remained powered.

The Kremlin, however, did not.

And the man who sat behind the mahogany desk in Langley prepared, for he knew what it meant for the phone to go dead. He knew before the submarine crews lost contact, he knew before the rest of the Five Eyes could blink, he knew before those scientists and radar technicians and astronomers who would stare at their instruments and begin to weep.

He knew, and shuddered, as a Dead Hand Fell.

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ of the Eternal Holy Karnakian Crusade And It’s Infinite Legions aggressively scratched his neck, the sharp pricks of pain and the sudden cool rush against agitated scales giving him the subconscious queues that he too was molting. Maybe not as bad as the now almost-bald Matriarch Tr’Nkwi – who had hurridly abdicated her status as the Diarch’s representative, gave a full debriefing, and then immediately passed out due to stress – but he was going to get there, if things kept on going as they were.

“|By all eight souls.|” High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ groaned as he split his gaze between his personal status screens, the shared conference bridge of his advisers and the planet hanging before them in silent judgment. The headache was back, and he could feel his back soul-eye doing the…twitching thing again as he mentally reviewed his plan:

Wait until a language was translated – which he was assured was any moment now – and then broadcast it over their planet, asking for a cease fire.

Negotiate with the locals for the return of all his soldiers and their equipment.

Negotiate reparations with the locals and an official apology.

Negotiate future peaceful visits over the coming centuries to check in on progress and cultural development

Negotiate benchmarks to join the overall Galactic Community.

Drink heavily.

Go get stationed on a garden world.

Drink heavily.

“|High Lord?|” EM Lord Uri’krei called out, snapping High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ from his internal checklist. “|We’re noticing a significant amount of long-range missile launches…|”

“|Well. Prepare shields, have our cutters move to intercept.|”

“|That’s the thing-|” EM Lord Uri’krei physically turned from his console to half-face the High Lord, tilting his head at the screen. “|Trajectory data says they’re aiming at their own territories.|”

“|What.|”

“|Yeah…that’s… that’s a lot of missiles… aimed at a lot of population centers. And…yeah, it looks like the phenomenon is spreading-|” EM Lord Uri’krei murmured, overlaying the planet with various indicators of launches, of missiles starting to arc into the blue planet’s atmosphere – some seeming to be on intercept courses, others literally slated to pass by each other entirely. “|I understand the concept of denying the enemy materiel, but, this looks to be a staggering blow aimed at their own neck.|”

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ of the Eternal Holy Karnakian Crusade And It’s Infinite Legions stared for the briefest of moments before a very very dark thought passed his mind. He raied a clawed hand – his implant silently sending a message to a cutter-class ship, The Butcher, to fire a kinetic slug at one of the missiles. High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’’s silent, almost zen-like body language caught the eye of his advisors, and wordlessly they turned to the main screen, whereupon various indicators were superimposed over the planet – a ship, a fired round, the closing distance and the connection with the primitives’ missile and the

And the subsequent flash of a star being born for just the briefest of seconds.

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ jaw moved, but no coherent sound was made – there was just a gutteral and primal groan as the terrible weight settled upon his shoulders, as these innocent creatures committed suicide out of spite to his hostile invasion force.

As in a dream, someone, somewhere, ordered everyone to fire everything.

And a few seconds later, for the first time in Earth’s geological history – and in recorded Human history – the Aurora Summa Terrae flashed brilliantly in the sky, as the lights below it winked out.

Tags Sci-Fi, They are Smol, Comedy, Cute, Smol

They are Smol Stories

They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 11

Post author By TPH
Post date April 5, 2019
5 Comments on They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 11

High Earth Orbit, +55 minutes

Aboard The Void’s Edge

“?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~?”

“|Well it still doesn’t look calm – or happy.|”

U’iki’ri sighed, tail drooping to rest against the deck plating. Everything – and he meant everything was going legs-up out there. When he called in for a simple sitrep and his next round of orders, he was sent to the wrong department, then put on hold. When he called again he finally got to the right person – or at least, the right officer level – but they just shrugged and told him to wait it out. So they pulled what bits of their station they could find into a stable orbit, lashed the rest into a big bundle and stuck it behind their own ship, and parked.

Seeing this did nothing to mollify their guests.

The first 30 minutes were the worst; as soon as the infiltration squad released the suited-up locals they began bouncing around, latching onto his fireteam, trying to stab them or wrestle weapons from them or puncture their suit or press all the buttons they could find – or any other number of mischievous things. When they realized their attacks were ineffective, they tried to run – and run was such a generous term – only to realize, hey. You’re on a different ship and doors don’t work for you.

So then they attacked again. That lasted another 5 or so minutes until, U’iki’ri assumed, they tired themselves out. Now they had lowered themselves onto the deck – one was sprawled out with all it’s limbs against the floor, and the other had squatted down and was just watching.

“|Do we want to try to open the hatch again, sir?|”

U’iki’ri gave a full-body shrug, not breaking eyes with the helmeted “eye” of the squatting alien. “|Honestly, why not? Surely they can’t have anything else to throw at us.|”

With a nod the technician scooted around the crude emergency life-pod and began to unscrew the hatch, swinging it slowly open-

“?AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-?”

And with that came a torrent of what looked like personal effects, some cabling, a few cushions, writing utensils and a boot. The Technician, to his credit, just gently swept the bric-a-brac over to the side, creating a neat little pile. The screaming stopped once he left the visual range of the open hatch, and for a brief moment U’iki’ri dared to let himself hope that they could make some progress. He cleared his throat and thumbed on his external speakers.

“|H-|”

“?AAAAA?”

“|. . . .|”

“|He-|”

There was an unceremonious thump as what looked like an article of clothing – possibly a boot – was tossed haphazardly and unceremoniously out of the open hatch. U’iki’ri stared at it, and then looked back at the squatting alien space explorer on-deck, locking eyes with the single black helmeted “eye” again.

The alien seemed to somehow squat deeper.

“|Don’t you judge me.|”

Kunshan, China +35 minutes

-+-

The explosion ripped through the industrial city, followed by another and another. The shock wave of the first blast – a petrochemical plant – was enough to flatten the warehouses directly next to the factory, blow buildings off of their foundations within that same block, and shatter windows a couple kilometers away. The frequency of the following explosions eventually drove the citizens numb, huddling behind vehicles or makeshift barricades – anything to lessen the punch of the blast wave, the deafening ringing in their ears.

Lucky children coughed dust. Most coughed rust.

Streams – some natural, most now man-made – formed in the city, pooling and pouring a sickly concoction that never quite caught the light right, that stank of industry and heat and blood, that caught fire when it finally oozed down to the sparking, fallen electrical poles.

Those that weren’t lucky to die in the blast soon found their homes, what lives they had, engulfed in a chemical fire.

The fire spread; emergency services weren’t exactly quick at the best of times, and seeing as how it’s just personal belongings and not industry being destroyed – and given the current state of affairs – well. The fire spread.

The fire kicked off another few rounds of explosions, and the people gave up hope.

Then the Karnakian Drop Pods landed in a completely unrelated city.

Tokyo, Japan. +35 Minutes

-+-

“?移動してください?
“?Please Move.?”

“|Alright, let’s hold here.|”

Krrroioi checked his sight lines – a long passage to his right and to the left was kept clear, meaning they could escape underground if necessary. Urr’gra and Ikir’rei were keeping an eye on the stairs to the upper and lower levels, respectively, so if they met resistance they ha-

“?移動してください?”
“?PLEASE MOVE.?”

Krrroioi looked down at the little-insistent-innocent alien, who did not meet his gaze but defiantly stood before him. His translator had not been updated with anything even remotely rudimentary, so he was not only unable to ascertain what the smaller being wanted, but he couldn’t even tell him to escape like the rest of his kin so he’d be safer.

“|I’m- I’m sorry-|” Krrroioi said through public speakers, causing the being to jump in place. “|But this is the most defensible position for us right now. You must go to you-|”

“移動してください。私は仕事に遅刻したことがないので、今から始めたくはありません。”
“?Please move. I have never been late for work, and I don’t want to start now.?”

Krrroioi grumbled, making a point to rear back and look over and around his living roadblock. “|What’s the chatter?|”

“|Nothing useful-|” Urr’gra chirped, poking her head around the corner. “|-Maybe they’ll have some sort of language package in the next few hours. Until then, same orders before planetfall.|”

“|A few hours?-|”

“?移動してください?”
“?PLEASE MOVE“?

“|Yeah, apparently there’s hundreds of languages, not counting dialects. That’s not taking into account picking which of our languages will have the auspicious honor of being the first to-|”

“移動してください。私は私の子供たちが私を知らないほど家族の時間を犠牲にしました。これで私が残したのはこれだけです。遅くしないでください。”
“?Please move. I have sacrificed so much family time that my children don’t know me, and my wife hasn’t touched me in 10 years. This is all I have left. Please don’t make me late.?”

Krrroioi sighed yet again. Apparently body language did not translate across species. With a practiced, delicate movement (after the commnet was spammed with “DEAR GODSOUL WHAT” and “HIT IT WITH STASIS WE CAN FIX IT” a couple dozen times) he gently lowered his head, pressing it against –

– the alien raised it’s bag and pressed back.

Krrroioi gently extended his neck, and the alien lowered his body, lower limbs scrabbling for purchase against the tiled ground as they fought the strangest engagement of Krrroioi’s life. This continued in agonizing slow motion for a few moments before there was a rumble – something big and fast was coming. Krrroioi tensed up, his HUD beginning to stream information about theoretical densities, speed, location-

Krrroioi stood up and turned to face this new threat, the sudden lack of pressure causing the local alien to stumble forward. The two of them looked at each other – one tensed for battle, the other adjusting it’s clothing – as the train finally pulled into the station, gliding effortlessly to a stop right on time and right on place.

“|. . .oh.|”

“?馬鹿。?”
“?Idiot.?”

The first few trains after the salary man pried open the doors and stepped on, refused to take new passengers. Word had apparently gotten out about the aliens sitting in the station, and for public safety’s sake the conductors would just skip that exit and move onto the next one.

This lasted, as I said, for just a few trains, as there are few things that can get in between a Japanese salary man and the crushing debt of guilt and feelings of obligation he has to provide for his family by sacrificing his life at the company which owns him. Eventually people started to politely but pointedly pry open train doors, and at that point the conductors just shrugged, locked their compartments, and let nature take it’s course.

And seeing as how the aliens didn’t stand in the middle of thoroughfares, didn’t take hostages – didn’t really do much but stand and look around awkwardly, a few calls were made on their behalf. For as you know, if you’re not Japanese then you’re a 外人 – a Gaijin, and well. You can’t really be expected to function properly in society to begin with. It’s not your fault, you’re just, yanno. Not Japanese.

And so with much bowing, the transferal of pamphlets and the waving of white-gloved hands, the first (and only) intergalactic tour of the Tokyo Transit System began.

Literally anywhere in Brazil, +60 Minutes

-+-

“Você veio! Oh graças a Deus, alguém finalmente veio!”
“?You came! Oh thank God, someone finally came!?”

Bristol, England, UK. +1H 15M

-+-

“I’m not sure I like this.”

Susan peered over her book, looking at her partner-in-crime (but mostly fellow bridge player) Caroline, as the two enjoyed afternoon tea on the outside patio of their local cafe. The weather was just nice enough to allow it, and Susan was quite tired of living indoors for so long that she just had to get out and get some fresh air. The fact that there was a minor invasion going on had absolutely nothing to do with her decision, and would absolutely not impact it in any way, shape or form.

As far as Susan was concerned, the aliens must have had the same idea, because the weather was just right.

“Oh stop it. I for one quite like these new Bobbies – you know I heard the Davis’ boy ran at ‘em with a bayonet? And they just confiscated it right there! Faster than you could blink, they say!”

“A bayonet. You sure it wasn’t a butterknife again?” Caroline said flatly, snapping her biscuit on her plate. “Because we are talking about the same little Tim Davis – the one with the unfortunate head and the missing-”

“Yes, yes! He was so angry, they say! Bellowed somethin’ about not letting nobody near his skunk, whatever that means-”

“And this ‘they’ says… A bayonet, from world war one, I assume, to those things–” Caroline dipped her head to the left where one of those things, in question, was standing right on the street corner, looking quite uncomfortable as more and more people deposited hatchets, knives, gardening trowels, forks, spoons, electrical cabling, tape, VHS cassettes, various hard candies and other dangerous equipment at it’s feet. The other police officers milling about around him gave him a sort of legitimacy, and the local MP had already begun ordering banners hung for an impromptu “bin the blade” initiative/drive.

“Yes, indeed. Thank Goodness we’re getting those dangerous things off of the street.”

Caroline met eyes with the helmeted alien as it made a (what she assumed to be) plaintive gesture of “please stop giving me sacrifices this is really uncomfortable”. She shrugged and smiled into her tea.

“Yes. Those things sure seem deadly.”

Somewhere outside Oulu, Finland. +1H, 30M

-+-

“|This, is -|” Ra’gri panted hard, resting against one of the towering flora of the planet. “|-Absolutely, insane.|”

“|Look, I don’t know, I just don’t know-|” Re’tji sputtered, his head on a swivel as he looked around the frozen terrain. “|I just, I just hear and then-|”

“?En menetä.?”
“?I won’t miss.?”

The duo jumped and spun on their heels, being rewarded with the dual crack of a long rifle firing from somewhere, the bullets slamming into the shield matrix of their helmets, blossoming their vision in vivid blues and piercing whites. Then-

Nothing.

“|Why. Why can’t we see them-|”

“|Idon’tknowIdon’tknow-|”

“?Olet kaneja ennen minua.?”
“?You are rabbits before me.?”

“|Please, we mean you no ha-|” Ra’gri began, before another two-round burst of rifle fire from somewhere slammed into the side of his head, his shield matrix again saving him from the concussive strike.

“?Saanko myös lihaa, ihmettelen??”
“?Will I taste your flesh, I wonder??”

Ra’gri tensed for the shots, but they never came. Re’tji just shuddered, his helmet forcefully and rapidly switching through the entire visible EM spectrum, head still on a swivel, and still unable to see where his attackers lay.

“|I don’t like this at all, I really don’t, I’m ok if we can fight back but to just sit here and die-|” moaned Re’tji, claws working over themselves in a nervous tic. “|It’s just shots, constantly, out of nowhere, and then a voice-”

“|Listen, calm down.|” Ra’gri reached forward, tapping his helmeted head against his teammates. “|Our translator packages should be updated soon…ish. Just… let’s just keep moving. At some point they’re going to have to tire out, and we can keep moving – regroup with the rest. Lose our tail, take a breather. Good?|”

“|Y-yeah.|”

“|Come on now. You good?|”

“|Yeah. Just. I really let my guard down and-|”

“|I know, but let’s just go.|”

“|Y-yeah.|” Re’tji nodded. “|Yeah. It’ll get better once we regroup.|”

And as the two of them began to run towards the Russian border, the snowbank laughed and took a Pervitin tablet.

Tags Sci-Fi, They are Smol, Comedy, Cute, Smol