Tag: Smol

Categories
They are Smol Stories

They are Smol: Invasion of Earth – Chapter 2

[wp-night-mode-button style="1"]

What the Karnakians learned long ago is that there’s no better teacher than experience.

Oh, sure, there was absolutely a time and a place for universities and other institutions of higher learning – especially in the theoretical or theological divisions – but when it came down to brass tacks, it was always better to have someone who’s spent 5 years failing and learning under supervision take the lead than someone who’s only read about it do so.

“|…and if we account for the drij of the planet we’re orbiting?|”

This was true for the simple things, like managing and repairing drones, interior decorating or cooking to the more complex, such as navigating a ship the size of a large metropolitan area around the gravity wells of planets and asteroids without altering their trajectory and causing unknown cascade effects that end up with an errant nickel-iron meteorite slamming into your colony 700 years later.

N-not that the Karnakians were speaking from experience or anything…

“|Um…|” Junior navigator Ch’irci tapped her talons against her workstation, eying the telemetry data in front of her. Everything here was an exact copy of everything a couple dozen floors up; the apprentice bridge functioned both as a great testing-area and a backup to the main bridge. The workstation she sat at – which they wouldn’t even turn on until she spent a month memorizing what all the buttons and dials did – was an exact copy of what she’d sit at once she finally earned her flight crests.

“|I’ll give you a hint.|” Second Navigator Tw’Rria said, pointing at the telemetry data. “|For this system we’re about to jump into, we want our gravity wakes to dissipate without causing navigational hazards. You’re a Ni’tikian?|”

Ch’irci nodded, looking at her senior curiously. Discussing religion wasn’t a workplace faux-pas, but it was an odd non-sequitur.

“|Didn’t one of the Arches say ‘if you throw a pebble in with a bould-’|”

“|-a boulder their wake is all the same. UGH we need to skip in within middle or low orbit-|” Ch’irci groaned, her feathered head-crest splaying flat against her scalp with a soft whump.

“|Hey! I knew you’d get it, rookie!|” Tw’Rria said, his face breaking out into a soft smile. A few of the other master/apprentice pairs spared a few seconds to look up at the duo before going back to their own teaching. “|So if we’re coming in close and we don’t want to ripple, we need to pick a large gravity well. Why the second-largest?|”

“|Now you’re just humoring me.|” Ch’irci moped, entering in navigational routes to the ship’s AI. “|The largest gravity well will always be the star or a black hole – neither of which you want to get into close orbit to. Second largest – as long as there’s a massive deviation between it and the first – will most likely be a gas giant, and therefore inert.|”

“|Top marks. You even dodged that little sandtrap I left for you.|”

“|Still. That was a first year question and I forgot. Against the dead, I passed that question in last week’s test!|”

“|Mmm. We all make mistakes from time to time – that’s why there are two navigators working at any time, after all. Besides, did I tell you the time about my first real flight?|”

Ch’irci continued to enter in her theoretical navigation data – flawlessly, she might add – as she inclined her head to listen with a frown.

“|So there I was, fresh from my apprenticeship on the Black Sun – and no, not that Black Sun, that was two thousand years before I was born, thankyouverymuch-|”

Ch’irci smiled softly as her senior continued to talk, the AI beeping back confirmations as she worked.

“|-and I sit down at my desk in full dress, because I wanted to impress everyone – never you mind that everyone else was in casuals, and I get my first order: “Confirm with Gri’’ti your preliminaries.” And get this:|” Tw’Rria said, leaning in close to whisper. “|I had been introduced to the whole bridge crew not 20 minutes ago, and in that moment I forgot everyone’s name.|”

“|No. NO!|” Ch’irci said, mouth open in shock as she turned to fully look at her senior, the older navigator reclining back out of her personal space. “|Yes indeed! So the entire bridge was looking at me, in my shiny dress-up, and I just sat there panicking. The Matron repeated her order, and I just started to look around for someone to say something. And guess what?|”

Ch’irci turned to face him, her work now forgotten. “|What?|”

Tw’Rria tapped the console that he was resting on, which sat not 5 feet away. “|Gri’’ti was right here the whole time-|”

Ch’irci couldn’t help it and burst out into a trilling laughter, her earlier shame long since forgotten. It took a few seconds for her to die down, and by that time everyone on the deck had given her their full, undivided attention – but it didn’t matter.

“|Th-thank you! Oh by the Spirit, that’s…oh my goodness I would molt on the spot-|”

“|Honestly, I almost did. And by the way, that data looks great. You accounted for the drij of our planet and the theoretical drij and ngri of the gas giant in the other system. If you don’t mind, I’d like to actually kick that data upstairs.|”

“|R-really?!|”

“|Mmhmm. It’s not perfect, mind you, but it’s 80% of the way there. And hey, it might shine a light on you, ay?|”

“|I uh – th-thank you, Taskmaster!|” Ch’irci said, bobbing her head quickly. “|I-I di-|”

“|And before you get any ideas, apprentice, you still need to finish telemetry for the seed probes. I’ll leave you to it?|” Tw’Rria said as he stood up, letting out a little grunt for the effort.

“|Yes sir!|”

“|Alrighty. Finish up your work and send the packet for your Taskmasters to review, and then you’re free until launch. The Matron wants all the apprentices to see how a bridge should work – and please, please make sure your friend doesn’t interrupt her again?|”

“|Y-yes sir…|”

The Bridge for The Three Stones, a Sacred Exploration Vessel, was both a working area and a bit of a theater, and that was by design. Exploration Vessels rarely dealt with anything too dangerous; being piloted by seasoned crew out-of-map cut out a majority of navigation errors, any pirates or illegal settlements discovered were immediately flagged by the ship as soon as they were discovered – and the ship immediately withdrew from the system – and if someone were so dumb as to think the long-range vessel were easy prey, well. There was always the security team filled with seasoned veterans and absolutely-bored-out-of-their-minds rookies.

Although some of the Security team were D’re’iasin all their public prayer confessions were always for the ‘safety and security of all the souls onboard’, Matriarch Tr’Nkwi personally believed their secret prayers were more along the lines of ‘please, First Soul, send us a small band of idiot pirates to break the monotony of this assignment’.

Anyway. The bridge was arranged in a “pit” of sorts, with screens all along the walls and a large panel of screens taking up an entire wall to the far “north”. Arranged in a semi-circle around the pit were seats; On the way out the rookies would sit and take notes and learn, and on the way back their Taskmasters would do the same as the rookies piloted over the already-discovered routes back to civilization.

“|Can you be-oww~!|” Tk’il’a said and immediately regretted as his tail was jabbed by a talon’d foot.

“|If you get us in trouble I will never speak to you again.|” murmured Ch’irci, making a point to not turn her head away from the recessed pit in front of her.

The Matriarch turned her head slightly – whether it was because she heard their little tiff or for another reason, Ch’irci didn’t know –

“|Spool Engines.|” she said, as she had said a dozen times before.

– Ch’irci let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“|Engines Spooling – First breakers clear.|” A Green-clad engineer said from behind the Matriarch, his counterpart working with him in sync.

“|Cargo and Personnel.|”

“|All Cargo in stasis; All living cargo in stasis. All fields blue, all batteries blue.|” Called out a Grey-clad quartermaster from somewhere directly under Ch’irci. She was joined by another unseen voice. “|Personnel assignments set; all personnel accounted for. Emergency systems blue, but deck 12 has that glitch again.|”

“|No criticality?|”

“|Negative ma’am – no personnel stationed near the error.|”

“|Navigation.|”

“|Telemetry data set, checked by AI and within acceptable deviations.|” a Red clad Navigator said, his counterpart Tw’Rria making a note to pause his work to give a soft nod in Ch’irci’s direction.

Ch’irci’s crest rose unbidden in secret joy. It was her data!

“|Piloting.|”

“|All thrusters go, all pumps go, all shields go.|”

“|Acceptable dip in engine spooling; shield-debt paid in 15 seconds.|”

“|Gravity wake go, tensors locking-|” the black-clad pilot said to nobody in particular, his and his two counterparts’ eyes focused solely on their consoles. Throughout the entire ship a series of heavy thunks reverberated throughout the hull as locking mechanisms secured, bulkheads shut and the entire ship seemed to tense. It was a condition unique to exploratory vessels; by making the ship far more rigid and un-yielding there was a greater chance of surviving a direct hit from whatever small untraceable debris you could possibly collide with while jumping into an un-mapped system.

Well. Surviving is such a strong term. It was more “the ship should remain mostly intact and hey, your emergency unit pods are down the hall and to the right so stop complaining”. 

“|Shield debt repaid; Capacitors charging. 2 minutes.|” Engineering called out again.

“|-spine locked, gimbals are go. Clearing is go-|”

“|Packing atmosphere; void warnings are on.|” The quartermaster interrupted, as the isolated stations within the bridge began to work as one.

“|Acceptable dip in engine spooling; clearing debt in 5 seconds.|”

“|-navigation telemetry is fed into system. Looks good, Rr’it’sqk. Gravity well dampener is go-|”

“|Acceptable dip in engine spooling; debt cleared. Capacitors at 40%, debt Jubilee is allowed.|” Engineering said, and was immediately interrupted by multiple voices. Almost every station began to spool up their own systems and subsystems – all of them necessary, but all of them drawing from the capacitor banks as opposed to the spooling engine. After a few moments all voices died down, and there was only the humming of monitors, the shallow anticipatory breathing of the crew, and the Matriarch on her throne.

“|Sound off.|”

“|Engineering is clear for skip.|”

“|Personnel is clear for skip.|”

“|Navigation is clear for skip.|”

“|Piloting is clear for skip.|”

“|Cargo is clear for skip.|”

There was a pause. It only lasted for a moment, but it was just long enough for silence to settle like newfallen snow. The Matriarch looked slowly to the right, then to the left, and shifted a bit in her seat.

“|Lead pilot, at your leave, let us draw a new map.|” Matriarch Tr’Nkwi said, a rare broad smile gracing her features.

“|Aye Ma’am!|” The lead pilot said, and his arm moved over his console.

Then, everything moved.

The feeling of initiating a skip jump was one of extreme, mind-bending speed. All at once you felt – or felt that you felt – the force of a thousand gravities for just a microsecond, and then…nothing.

Nothing at all.

The only indicator of their current speed and trajectory was the blindingly-fast passage of stars on the monitor wall. Everyone sat there for a few moments before the Matriarch hummed her approval.

“|Well done, everyone. I hope our apprentices were taking notes?|” Matriarch Tr’Nkwi said, her face all smiles – and immediately cast her gaze in Ch’irci’s position.

For her part, Ch’irci never nodded so fast in her life.

The drop out of “hyperspace”, if you will, was a lot more anticlimatic.

Imagine, if you will, that you have laid out fabric on a table. You take your finger, press down at one end and drag it along the surface. As you build up the ripples on the front of your finger, eventually you have to stop – as you’re dragging too much fabric – and you pull it smooth with your free hand.

That’s the basic premise of dealing with built-up gravitational ripples. All you simply did was kill your thrusters, stop feeding the engine power and your bubble of realspace quickly melded back into the rest of the fabric of the universe. That fabric – depending on how long you had been dragging your “finger”, I.e. the ship, would then snap back and ‘smooth out’ in your wake. You would, of course, keep your ‘realspace’ momentum, so adjustments had to be made once you snapped back into reality.

What greeted the Karnakians after a few days of travel was a large, vast and angry giant, with tormented winds and planet-wide storms. A king – nay, a God, floated before them, indifferent to their cause.

“|Magnificent. To think, we’re the first living beings to see this; the first to appreciate this gem of the One’s artistry.|”

“|I didn’t know you were one to be poetic, Tk’il’a.|”

“|Mmm. I am when the fancy suits me.|” He said, watching the giant take up more and more of the screen wall. “|I don’t want to call this one a foolish name. It needs something grand, you know?|”

“|Settle down over there.|” Droned Taskmaster Ri’li’’, tapping the hard-light screen with his indicator. “|We still have work to do – we came in on the end of this gas giant’s orbit, so we’re piloting to it’s dark side to begin our first round of scans due to overshooting. Navigation and Piloting will need to be paying attention-|”

A few side-conversations quickly died down, and Taskmaster Ri’li’’ continued. “|- and our cargo and personnel will need to make sure our fabrication capabilities are at speed. We’ll begin active scans once we complete our orbit and park; you have 5 hours before we need to work, which should be more than enough time.|

“|Maybe…|” murmured Ch’irci, before tapping her friend on his arm and pointing to the screen. “|Oh! OH, what is that?|” Ch’irci asked as a large and angry red swirl became illuminated by this giant’s lone, faraway star.

“No, I mean, What the fuck is that?” Allen Trazinsky said, tapping his finger so hard into the LCD screen that the crystals distorted.

“Meteor? Hell, we didn’t see Shoemaker-Levy 9 until it was already on a collison course…”

“No. No no no no no. This thing is fuckhuge. Look at it, Brian-”

“I… yeah, yeah. We sure that’s not an error? What the absolute fuck-”

“I know, right?! This has to be another exo-solar object-”

“Or else we’re missing a fuckton of world-ending meteors out there. Shit, it’s big enough to be a planetoid! No, no…” Brian Jheske said, swatting away his coworkers’ finger and looking at the data. At any given point of the day or night there were at least 10 institutional telescopes pointed at Jupiter, and that wasn’t counting the hundreds, if not thousands of professional-grade hobby telescopes hard at work staring at the skies.

“Do you think the boys over in SALT or GTC picked this up last night? It’s… what, 15 miles across? 20? Do we have any more data?”

“I don’t know, but we better make some fucking calls.”

Twitter
Categories
Stories They are Smol

They are Smol: Invasion of Earth – Chapter 1

[wp-night-mode-button style="1"]

We called it ‘Oumuamua.

‘Oumuama is Hawaiian, and means “a scout or messenger from the distant past.” This is what historians would later refer to as ‘an incredibly ironic turn of phrase’ as well as being an apt name, for ‘Oumuamua was indeed a messenger from the distant past.

‘Oumuamua looked like rust.

It looked like rust because its surface was composed of primordial metals that had been baked for hundreds of thousands, if not millions of years of cosmic radiation. The theory was that over an unknown period of time the outside of the meteor oxidized and gave it a red – though the newspapers would garishly call it ‘pink’ – outside.

‘Oumuamua also tumbled.

It tumbled and spun because over all it’s long interstellar life it had been jostled and pushed by various planets, stars – nay, entire systems and even weakly by galaxies – and spun like a drunken top, or a jack tumbling on the ground. It pierced our solar system’s axis, flew dangerously close to the sun, and then arced off in a direction not altogether the same vector that it came in on.

‘Oumuamua came and went, and all our eyes were upon it, for it taught us a lot about ourselves, our history, and the universe.

They called it PSP-RRRR-04187-19-887B.

PSP-RRRR-04187-19-887B is a Karnakian Designation, and breaks down thusly:

   PSP – Passive Scanning Probe

   RRRR – Rapid Response, Random Retreat

   04187 – Probe Manufacturing number

   19 – Sector

   887B – Sub-sector.

Which is just a really roundabout way to say that the name didn’t mean anything in particular; it was a designation meant more for neural networks, reports and AI than to be sapient-readable. The Holy Karnakian Diarchy’s science division was pumping these out by the millions – as was the Dorarizin Empire and the Jornissian Federation, because why send a team of living beings to survey a system when a robot could do it for you, quicker and for less pay?

PSP-RRRR-04187-19-887B looked like rust.

It was a probe amongst an uncountable mass of probes, spinning it’s way to possible oblivion, launched hundreds of years ago to a part of space that – by the time it finished it’s tour – would be ripe for expansion and resource exploitation. It’s internals were some of the most advanced passive electronics that credits could buy – cheaply, mind you – and by casting it in simple elements like iron, nickel and silicon, you could turn the entire body of the probe into an omni-directional sensor array. The shield was the antenna was the shield, basically. Very elegant, very durable, very cheap.

PSP-RRRR-04187-19-887B scanned as it tumbled.

Of course you don’t put all your sensors in one part of the probe, nor put them all facing the same way – you spread them out, you diversify – micrometeorites won’t breach the solid iron “body” of the probe, but they’ll dent. Spread out your sensors, spin the probe and launch it. Every bit of space gets scanned by multiple redundant systems, eliminating error while still allowing for operational effectiveness. Very elegant, almost idiot-proof and again, very cheap.

PSP-RRRR-04187-19-887B skipped along the galactic meridian, as was its wont to do for the past 750 years. The reason why most probes were “fire and forget” was because they had an average lifespan of about 500 years and most likely either (1) found nothing of importance or (2) slammed into something of importance, which would then be cataloged, marked as a hazard for interstellar flight, and re-probed a couple hundred years later to see if/when it had moved and what it could be.

However, there were those rare-but-not-infrequent times where a probe would skip into a system and detect something. It didn’t have to be galaxy-shattering; about 15% of the time it was echoes from a nearby settlement or starship that went joyriding into the “unmapped beyond” before coming back. There was another good 50% of the time where all that EM detection did was pickup a particularly fussy star, or a very enthusiastic gas giant. Again, log it and move on. 5% was marked up to “programming errors, dents, misc.” And the vast, vast majority of the rest – 29.99999999841% – were illegal settlements, pirates, ancap rebels or people running from someone. Those were the EM pulses that were rapidly responded to, because the last thing you want as a species is a lone mad scientist trying to figure out how to teleport stars on his little outpost in the galaxy.

Then there was the 00.00000000159%. At the time, there were two – well, three, depending on how you look at it – instances where a probe detected something that was decidedly not mundane. The first and second instances were the simultaneous discovery of the Karnakian and the Dorarizin to each other. A Dorarizin ship ended up intercepting a wandering Karnakian probe, tracing it’s origins and returning it to the system of origin – so the dispute as to who discovered whom is still unsolved to this day. Then there was the discovery of the Jornissians, whom all species agreed that if they were sending out such blatantly artificial probes then they wanted to be discovered.

PSP-RRRR-04187-19-887B plunged through yet another system, it’s passive scanning suite up and operational. As it neared the main sequence star it detected blanket EM radiation; it’s algorithms determined it was artificial and intentional. Nearing the star collected more and more data to the point that an internal metric turned over – PSP-RRRR-04187-19-887B enacted a protocol that it’s kind had done many times before; using a quantum-linked series of bits it flagged the star system, changed its trajectory, and let the gravity well fling it into a semi-random direction – far away from any Karnakian settlements, home worlds or blacklist sites.

 PSP-RRRR-04187-19-887B, nee ‘Oumuamua came and went, and all our eyes were upon it, for it taught us a lot about ourselves, our history, and the universe.

We just didn’t pay attention to the real lesson.

“|YES!|”

“|Alright, settle down, settle down.|” Matriarch Tr’Nkwi said, a bemused smile on her face as one of the young tech leads, Tk’il’a, finally sat back down on his seat, the auditorium quieting down to a manageable level.

“|So congratulations, Tk’il’a. This gray gas giant will now be known as …|” the matriarch sighed, “|…Bitter grass. I swear, every single mission-|”

“|You do realize that they’ll rename it, right?|” His friend, Ch’irci said, leaning over her seat. “|It’s a rude name-|”

“|Don’t care I won-|”

“|I said settle down back there.|” Matriarch Tr’Nkwi repeated, and was rewarded with total silence and complete, undivided attention.

“|Very good. Now. We just received a ping from the Windsongs; apparently a probe a couple dozen light-years from here discovered some unregistered EM radiation -|”

There was a groan from the older crew members and a barely-contained trill of excitement from the newbies who hadn’t realized that no, the answer is never new aliens, the answer is always a weird star.

“|- And yes, that means we’re adding another 2 months to our exploratory mission. Yes, that also means an accelerator on your credit pay, so although it’s bitte-|” Tr’Nkwi stopped herself as she saw a feathered crest rise in the audience, quickly clicking her talons against the ship’s hull as a distraction. “|-bitter truth, it’s the nature of this assignment. I know some of us have left yearlings and hatchlings at home; we’ll be back soon enough. And for our more security-minded team, if we have time I don’t see why we can’t use a few of our munitions to destroy an asteroid or something. Equal weight?|”

“|Yeah, that’s an equal weight right there.|” crooned Security Chief Ri’tiki, his molting crest fanning out slightly. “|Just don’t accidentally run out of time before we can have our fun. My knights deserve at least that, wouldn’t you say?|”

“|Mmm. Maybe.|” Matriarch Tr’Nkwi smiled, before plastering data on the screen behind her. “|This should be quick – roughly 9 planets, 4 rocky with the rest as gas giants plus the usual detritus from system formation. The odd radiation comes from near the star-|”

“|That’s where liquid water can form, right?|” Piped up Tk’il’a, getting excited. “|What if this could be-|”

“|A pirate’s stronghold, a private unlisted pleasure-planet for a retired governor, a convent of fanatics, a crashed ship still beaming a garbled transmission or a junior technician interrupting her Matriarch for a second time during her presentation? Why yes. Yes it could be. Why don’t you tell me which one it is?|” Matriarch Tr’Nkwi growled, not entirely in a purely jesting way.

Tk’il’a shrunk into his seat, almost sliding down past his station’s desk as if to escape his Matriarch’s gaze. Tr’Nkwi held it on him for a few moments longer than necessary before continuing. “|…so what we’ll do is jump in a couple light-seconds from the second-largest gravity well, actively scan the outer system using it as a shield, and then spin around to scan the inner. Ri’riki and I have done this a great deal of times, so if you’re a junior on his team or on navigation ask for the details from him; the short version is that by masking our presence in a larger gravity well we won’t trigger a flight-or-fight response from anyone in-system, and by the time the active pings have gotten back to us we know what we’re dealing with and can call for aid.|”

“|It also keeps us out of range for most non-military self-defense orbital systems, begging your pardon for the interruption.|” interjected Ri’tiki, giving a slight deferential dip of his head to the Matriarch. “|Which lets us turn tail and run if we have to.|”

“|That too, though I prefer the more noble advancing-in-an-empty-direction, rather than fleeing, Security Chief.|” The matron’s joke was met with a light chirp of a chuckle, before she continued. “|Anyway. We’ve got another 2 days in orbit of this system, so break out into your Master and Apprentice groups and learn as much as you can. Since this is a rapid-response, only seniors will be at the helms, but…if everyone performs admirably, I don’t see why we couldn’t let some of the juniors work their stations as well.|”

A stray thought crept into Matriarch Tr’Nkwi’s mind.

‘…but what if this time were different?’

She entertained it for a moment with a soft smile as she watched Tk’il’a gather his robes and leave a little too quickly, the chastisement still hot on his scales.

‘What if, indeed.’

Twitter
Categories
They are Smol Oneshot Stories

They are Smol – and Festive! Christmas Oneshot

[wp-night-mode-button style="1"]

Merry Christmas to all the smolreaders! It’s been a wild few months, and I’ve been blessed to have y’all with me as we explore the smolniverse. We’ve grown to almost 100 patrons, we’re at 174 members on the Discord– and then all of you that keep tuning in every week or so, well. You’re here too, and I’m very thankful for it.

I also wanted to apologize for the late post – I got (and still am) super-sick, so what should’ve taken a few hours to put together and post has taken a few days. :c

But as we all know, Christmas is a time when the nights grow long, the lights stand out against the frost (unless you’re in Australia in which case, “yeah, nah cunt”.) and when family comes close to exchange gifts, tell stories, and remember the year.

Unless you live and work on Zephyr Station 8. Then everything’s a clusterfuck.

————————————————————————————————————

Director Glenn “Silk” Abramson sighed as the wave of Deja vu hit him. The Podium’s desk was way too small, his drink was way too lukewarm, and the hyper-intense stares from the three monitors arrayed in the back wall cast a pallid glow on his mildly-annoyed face.

“So. This brings us to the Holiday-slash-Christmas Party. Again, like Thanksgiving-”

A red indicator light popped up on the podium, but Glenn ignored it.

“-I understand not everyone celebrates this, but we’re just calling it such because that’s the traditional thing to do.”

“Kazi nzuri, kikoloni” One of the interns said with a wry grin.

“-Since we’re in a space station/colony, doesn’t that lump you in as well?” Glenn said without skipping a beat. There was a bark of laughter before silence fell again. “So anyway. There will be a “general holiday area” in commons room A-7 for multiple types of decorations; if you’d like to set up a spot for your particular holiday please coordinate with Mike, because he needs to do something useful for once.”

Mike for his part sighed – it seems he was having a very uncomfortable dream.

“So unlike Thanksgiving we are still going to process some skippers; Seeing the stars is new to them, and therefore romantic-”

A second red indicator light popped up on the podium, and Glenn continued to ignore it.

“-so please be on your best behavior. We will also be holding a raffle for who will play Santa Claus-”

A third red indicator light popped up on the podium. Glenn did his absolute best to ignore it, but apparently someone had installed a failsafe mechanism; one all three indicator lights were on they began to flash continuously out of sequence. With a deadpan glare Glenn raised his head, the blinking red indicator lights illuminating the bags under his eyes with a bright red flash. He stared, unfocusing, on the three monitors that sat behind the human crew; One showcased orderly rows upon rows of Dorarizin muzzles and eyes, an unknown paw pressing the “please call on me” indicator button repeatedly. Next to that monitor were the Jornissians, who somehow took the general idea of ‘how many college students can we fit into a phone booth’ to a terrible next level; if Glenn hadn’t been so desensitized to life in general he’d think that he was witnessing a weird, MC Escher background looping and coiling in and on itself. Really, it’s just that the Jornissian delegation were twisting themselves into knots, trying to see more of the screen than anyone else. Every few moments a hand would trade off of pressing the “please call on me” button, and a new one would take it’s place – so everyone shared the blame for interrupting his speech. And as for the Karnakians, well-

…they just looked so goddamn happy that Glenn couldn’t help but frown. All fluff and eyes and smiles–

“-I will regret this until my dying day, but, yes?” He said, tapping the indicator for the Dorarizin. They began to shift and wiggle almost as one – though if that was due to some emotion or the approved delegate trying to claw his way back to the microphone Glenn would never know.

“[Yes! Director [Glenn], may we partake in the festivities as well?]” An Unnamed Dorarizin muzzle said, jutting into the viewscreen. “[Participating in [Thanksgiving] was a very educational experience, and greatly helped us understand your people!]”

With tired eyes Director Abramson looked at his senior staff – one of which was very obviously playing Candy Cruwush XD: VR Edition and the other…. Was still asleep. In that moment Glenn, using his lightning-fast mind, figured that if he could hijack some loading drones to slice the cable to the space elevator his station rested on at a 30 degree angle towards the north pole about 40km below the elevator intake he had a significant non-zero chance of slamming Zephyr Station 8 directly into UN Headquarters.

If the station could also be on fire when it happened, he figured it would be an excellent resignation letter.

“…down that path lies madness.” He murmured to himself, before summoning up the last bastion of his professionalism (and the desire to actually not have the payments for a new station docked from his pay) and addressing the Xenos host. “Although we are fine with you intermingling with the skippers, we do remind you that most of them are bright-eyes. In terms of staff-specific celebrations, those will take place in shifts-” he continued, tapping the second indicator light. “Questions?”

“[We noticed that there is significant cultural and aesthetic importance placed on stars. What’s the purpose of that?]” The mound of Jornissians asked, staying eerily still while doing so.

Glenn took a sip of his lukewarm water, wishing it was something homey like spiced cider… or spiced arsenic.

“It…culturally it was important to use lights to chase away the darkness, to provide promise to the warmth of spring, and…well, they do look pretty.”

“[So…your species is scared of the dark?]”

“Not in so many words. It… it just looks nice, yea? Yeah. Don’t you take Christmas from me.” Glenn said, making a point to point at the Jornissian monitor, as his free hand tapped the last indicator light. “Yes?”

“[We nominate you for Holiday Patriarch!]” Chirped one of the sets of teeth, as almost every Karnakian began to expand their feathers in agreement.

“That’s not how a raffle works-”

“[But you deserve such an honor!]” Another set of razor-sharp teeth protested, eyes fixed upon him, faces twitching to track his slightest movement. He moved his hand to the right slightly, then to the left – they followed as one unit.

“-Again, I’m just one name in-”

“[We agree!]” chimed the Dorarizin, a murmur of…something passing through their delegation. “[We hereby put our vote towards Director [Glenn] being the Holiday Alpha.]”

“-This isn’t a vo-”

“All in Favor?” Mike said, somehow waking up and understanding just enough to push everyone over the edge. He raised his hand, and was joined by every single one of their human crew.

“I fucking hate you all.”

“[Is that the Holiday Spirit? Isn’t he always like tha-]” One of the Jornissians asked, before Glenn shut everything off unceremoniously.

————————————————————————————————————

When the galaxy was opened up to everyone – well, opened up to non-special operations spies – immediately and all-at-once there was that initial scramble of people who said “literally anything is better than where I am” and jumped ship, so to speak. That was followed by a wave of the cautiously-curious, followed by the current mainstream wave of people now.

However, not everyone wanted to go boldly where no one had gone before. Some were too old, set in their ways; going into orbit or flying to the moon would be more than enough to fill their eyes with wonder. Others had children and couldn’t abandon everyone and everything in pursuit of adventure. There were also those slim few who enjoyed what they did for a living and saw space and spaceflight as nothing more than a curiosity – and there were also those to whom adventure held no claim, for any other number of reasons.

These people were called “skippers”: The original term was for the few civvies who went up an elevator and then dropped via shuttle to earth, “skipping” across the atmosphere like a proper astronaut. However, the term was now for people who skipped from Earth to a local Sol body and then back again – be it architects on the Moon working their 7-days-on-4-days-off schedule, terraformers to Mars pulling their monthly shifts, or just the curious enjoying the feeling of being above atmosphere.

Then there were “bright-eyes”. You know the ones. Brand new to space and orbit in general, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. They’re the ones that make asphyxiating jokes in the airlock, try to moonwalk on the station, devour 20th century astronaut food because it’s ‘authentic’, smudge their faces against the glass-

There was a time when Glenn would give them leeway; it brought warmth to his soul to see bright-eyed skippers become desensitized to wonderful things over the course of months, eventually turning into the grumbling caffeinated wage-slaves that lie in all Men’s hearts.

However, that time was not when he was dressed in a bright red Santa Claus outfit, his stubble painted white to match the fake beard glued on his face. It also was not when he was forced to plaster on his customer-service smile(tm) and hold yet another screaming toddler while their parents complained about the nonexistent staleness of the recycled air, waving UV-wands over their entire toddler to keep the germs off of their perfect little bodies, the fake scent of evergreen plastered on the plastic holiday tree(tm) overpowering all other scents and giving Glenn a killer headache. The only succor that Glenn had – nay, the only reason he didn’t use his vast authority on this station to steal someone else’s identity and take their place on a ship headed to the furthest point of the galaxy is because of his helper.

Oh yes. What is Santa without his little elvish helper? Santa needs his helper. And if that helper was supposed to be a lithe female elf, all the better. And if that lithe female elf was replaced at the last minute with Mike but his uniform sadly stayed the same, all the more better.

Mike, frowning, pulled yet another wedgie out from his butt as he walked forward, handing the wonderful couple a 3D daguerreotype of their darling little tyrant. The father looked him up and down, eyes squinted and lip curled in disgust as he took the memento… and then retching softly as Mike turned around, his flabby ass horrifically on displayas the elven short-shorts began to ride up on his walk back.

Glenn drew strength from the communal disgust. It would hold him over this cold winter.

And so Christmas continued; more toddlers, some good and darling, some horrible and pants-shitting. Some parents excellent and understanding – a few regulars actually surprised at who had volunteered to be Santa and taking the chance to talk light shop with him… and a few of them making a note to file an HR complaint when they received their memento.

All in all, it wasn’t Glenn’s fault that Mike actually could fill out an A-cup. The beer-gut midriff was a bit much, though.

And so it was in this haze of mutual loathing and desperately-propping-up-the-lie-of-magic-and-wonderment-for-the-children that Glenn failed to notice some very, very large “children” wait patiently in line. By the time he realized something was amiss, they had progressed so far up the line that… well. You couldn’t very much ask them to leave at that point, now could you?

Rgrezneh-of-Hrzgaren stood happily at the front of the line, greeting Glenn – and indeed, all humans – with her trademark smile, optimism and general positive energy. The fact that she had a good 20-point moose rack stuck to her head didn’t seem to phase her in the least.

“[Hello, Station-Alpha [Glen]!” Rgrenzeh said, teeth clicking happily. “[I am your beast of burden!]”

“…You’re gonna carry that weight, space cowboy.” Mike murmured as Rgrenzeh walked calmly over to Glenn, sitting down with an unceremonious thump next to his chair.

“I uh. Welcome, Rasberry. What…do you want for Christmas?”

“[Oh! Right, you grant wishes – I would like to crush my enemies and see them driven before me! That’s one of your oaths, right-]” She looked over to another Dorarizin who nodded furiously in agreement. Sadly, Rgrenzeh forgot she was now part-moose, back-antlering Glenn right out of his santa-throne. As he took a tumble Rgrenzeh stood up, crying out partly in alarm and in concern – again forgetting that she was part-moose, getting her prodigious antlers stuck in the synthetic Christmas tree.

She bent forward. The tree began to follow.

“AH! Don’- DON’T MOVE.” Mike called out, waving his hands about in concern. “Just… just stay there, don’t move until you can be freed-”

“[Oh! I’m so sorry – are you ok, [Glenn]? I di-I didn’t mean to-]”

“It’s fine.” Director Abramson said, picking himself up from the decking and adjusting his hat. “It’s fine. Just…pleasedon’t take the decorations down with you? Hold still.”

“[Ok!]”

Glenn looked Rgrenzeh up and down for a minute, before slyly adding “…Until we’re done.”

“[Ok!]” Rgrenzeh replied, smile wide to mirror Glenn’s frown. With a pout he sat back down on his throne-under-the-wolfmoose, his head heavy in his hands.

“This won’t get better, will it?”

“[I’m sorry?]” Shpressnrek said, curling up respectfully before the Santa-Throne, her shimmering metallic bodysuit casting soft rainbows across her body.

“It’s nothing. I’m just tallying up the sins of a past life. Good afternoon, Starburst. What can I bring you for Christmas?”

“[Oh! Well, myself and the other [Jornissians] decided that, instead of asking you for something, we would give you a gift instead!]”

“Well. This is a nice surprise-” Glenn murmured, sitting up straight. “So, what did you make?”

“[Well, we knew this was a gift-giving holiday, and so we took the idea of the beauty of stars and created a bit of a light show for you! We’ve turned down each individual [LED] so it shouldn’t be too overwhelming, but-]” Shpressnrek began to fiddle with a control on her wrist, setting dials to the sound of confirmation beeps.

Genn leaned forward as he made the mistake of being intrigued. “Oh! Oh that’ll actually be really nice, maybe we should dim the lights and include it in our festi-”

The flashbang formerly known as Shpressnrek went off, the 100,000,000 nano-LEDs woven into her suit sparking off in a dazzling display of white, blue, red, ultraviolet, infrared and even a little bit of microwave, if the heat on Glenn’s skin was any indicator. Glenn, for his part didn’t flinch whatsoever once the darkness took him; his hind monkey brain had long since given up on such silly notions as “fight or flight instinct”, “dignity” or “self-preservation”. Glenn sat there, smiling, utterly blind.

“[I-I’m so sorry-]”

“Quite honestly this is one of the better holidays I’ve had in recent years. Can we make this blindness permanent – or do I have to hire you out for special occasions?”

“[I’m really very sorry-]” Shpressnrek cried, muffled by… possibly her own body as she knotted herself into a ball of shame, her suit continuing to give happy little beeps of encouragement.

“[I CAN HELP, BRETHEREN!]” Crowed his next tormentor, the sound of taloned steps coming closer and closer. Glenn mused that same dark thought that soldiers did on the front lines; was it better to hear it coming? Did you hear the one that got you?

With a flash of every spectrum Glenn’s eyes began to itch as the Karnakian medical device was removed from his eyes, the world of vision returning to him in splotches of light and darkness at first, before color began to seep in grainily.

Facial expression unchanged, still leaning forward, Glenn looked up at his savior/ghost of christmas future, Tr’Grakz.

“End me now.”

“[A Hallowed [Christ]’s Mass to you as well!]” chirped Tr’Grakz, fluffing himself out proudly at saving yet another Human. “[I have come to perform the ritual and ask a boon.]”

The ritual.

The monkey in his mind swallowed the barrel of a revolver and pulled the trigger, the deafening ‘click’ of a misfire making Glenn blink.

The ritual? Right…

Glenn leaned back and patted his lap. “Whelp. Let’s do-oofh~”

The Karnakian Tr’Grakz wasn’t so much heavy as he was cumbersome, and surprisingly soft. He pressed his chest and torso into Glenn, pushing him back against the chair. Tr’Grakz didn’t so much sit on Glenn as much as he leaned on his entire body, finally settling himself down gently.

“Shhho whah doh yuh wah fohh Chrihhmahhs?” Glenn asked, muffled by feathers.

“[I would like to ask your forgiveness, Station-leader [Glenn]. My bretheren, matrons and myself know our history with your people is a rocky one, and that there are some…plucking-pains with building a nest together. I would ask your forgiveness, and that of all [Humans], as we grow closer together in the future, and as we learn from one another.]”

Glenn tilted his head straight back, staring incredulously at Tr’Grakz’s chin. “I…well. Um. Thank you. I’ll… pass the word along.”

“[Thank you, Station-leader [Glenn]. Also I must ask for an Official Daisy Red Ryder Air Rifle, because it is tradition and I have been an acceptable disciple this year.]”

Mike laughed. Glenn laughed. Rgrenzeh grinned and turned excitedly to Mike to ask what was so funny, pulling the fake tree off it’s stand and sending it crashing to the ground. The flashbang formerly known as Shpressnrek started and ended her comeback tour with a screaming, muffled apology, and the click of a camera caught it all.

Categories
They are Smol Oneshot Stories

They are Smol – and Thankful! Thanksgiving Oneshot

[wp-night-mode-button style="1"]

Happy Turkey Genocide Day, everyone! Remember to keep culling their population every year, or eventually they’ll rise up against us for the injustices we’ve done to them… every year. 

…we did not think this through.

Anyway. I wanted to drop this little oneshot to make your Thanksgiving day more bearable; when surrounded by your racist grandparents, your much-more-successful-than-you older brother, your twelve-polymorph zoomer xirgendered foxkin cousin and your really really touchy-feely uncle you can pop open this story and feel good that you’re not the only one having a terrible Thanksgiving.

So are the smols on Zephyr Station 8.

————————————————————————————————————

Director Glenn “Silk” Abramson sighed as he worked his way down the list. The podium’s desk space was always too small for him – especially if he wanted to keep a drink on hand (which you always do). 

“Alright, and so that brings me to my last point for the day: Thanksgiving. I know not everyone celebrates it, but enough of us do that we get to have some time off-”

“ありがとう、ガイジン” Chirped one of his subordinates just loud enough to hear.

“You’re welcome,” Glenn responded, not skipping a beat,”-but point of the matter is, is that if you haven’t already filed for shore leave, you’re not going. However, you’re more than welcome to join us for a staff Thanksgiving lunch/dinner; as everyone’s shifts change we’ll just have a spread for you to eat from as you wander in. In regards to senior personnel this leaves myself as commanding officer, we’ve got LT and Mike staying as heads for operations and maintenance, respectively-”

Glenn then made the mistake of looking up, noticing a very thick paw raised in the back. Silencing a groan, he nodded at the Dorarizin attache. 

“Yes…Rezen?”

“[Is there a reason why you and the remaining [Humans] haven’t filed for shore leave?]”

Glenn pursed his lips. Awkward questions were part of the gig when you’re dealing with xenos species, as cultural norms absolutely don’t translate. However, being put on the spot was one of the better awkward situations to get into – and honestly, in his long career, as long as it didn’t involve talking about anything religious to a Karnakian then he was fine with it.

15 years later after making that mistake he was still getting incomprehensible chick tracts sent to him by mail.

“Ah. The reasons…vary by individual. Like I said, some of us come from cultures that don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Some of us wouldn’t have been able to physically make it to our family gathering spots in time for the holiday. For some parts of the station, someone had to stay to keep things running – we do that by a rotation, and so a few of us are staying because our number was called. For others, we just don’t have family to go to, so we stay here.”

“[You don’t have a family?]” the Dorarizin responded, notable concern in it’s voice.

Glenn shuffled his paper on the podium and adopted his best exhausted-bureaucrat look as he scanned the ‘cheap seat’ peanut gallery. After the… unique Halloween party, it was decided to allow representatives from the various xeno races to sit in on the non-sensitive station meetings – ostensibly to ‘further human-galactic relations’ but really it was to stop any more mis-communications that would lead to more party-crashing. It’s not that Glenn was angry at being hugged for a couple hours, just, it lasted so long he didn’t get a chance to try Asuka’s spooky triple-chocolate brownies and he would be damned if he missed out on her ‘vanilla heaven’ sponge cake. 

“Family is a fluid concept. Some humans include their pets in their family, some have family made up of their friends and colleagues, and others just have their mate. Some of us don’t have a traditionally large family, so, instead of all that bother to show up…]” Glenn shrugged. “[We just work, or take the day off. I mean, video-conferencing is a thing we had pre-contact, and soon with hard light projection-”

A scaled hand went up, and Glenn nodded to it – happy to get off the increasingly uncomfortable topic. “Yes, the Jornissian in red.”

“[Are we considered part of your family? You said friends and colleagues could hypothetically count.]”

Glenn’s stomach sank.

“I uh. Um. Personally? Or are you asking me to speak for the crew?”

“[Yes.]” The Jornissian responded, matter-of-factly.

Glenn shared a look between his colleagues – LT just gave a bit of a shrug and Mike was fast asleep, meaning he was marginally more useful than when he was awake, the bastard. The rest of the Human crew was just desperately hoping the presentation would end, and it showed. 

“[…Yes. I would say that both personally and speaking for the crew, we consider you all colleagues and friends.]”

When the Karnakian representative raised his talon Glenn knew that everything was about to go pear-shaped.

“Yes…Karnakian in the robes.”

“[May we join in the festivities, then?! We’d love to share in your rich cultural heritage and participate in this multicultural harvest festiv-]”

“This was a setup, wasn’t it?”

“[Pardon?]” The Karnakian responded, looking at Glenn with innocent eyes and a wide, terrifying smile.

Glenn physically felt himself give up.

“Alright. You know what? Fine. We’ll move the spread from Ballroom 5C to Viewing rotunda 1A.”

With an almost manic smile the Karnakian representative turned to address the open door – and to the mixed xenos crowd outside that was not even attempting to hide their eavesdropping. “[HEY GUYS, HE SAID WE CAN JOIN IN THIS TIME!]”

There was a resounding cheer, and Glenn looked at his bottle of water, wishing it was grain alcohol, or paint thinner. With a light sip his dreams were dashed, and, frowning, he dropped the whole thing into the trashcan next to the podium. This act unintentionally roused up a memory from a Thanksgiving long past, and put a very grinch-like smile on his face.

“BUT.” Glenn barked into the microphone, silencing the cheer,”It is important for each participant – or group of participants – to bring their own dish of food. Dish does not mean an actual dish, but a prepared meal of-”

The Karnakian turned back to the group of xenos outside. “[HEY GUYS, WE GET TO FEED THEM TOO!]”

The rest of Glenn’s meeting was filled out by the excited murmuring of their xeno crew, LT’s laughter, Glenn’s exasperated groaning and some quite unhelpful snoring. 

————————————————————————————————————

Tr’Grakz nodded to himself, absentmindedly smoothing down the feathers at his sides. “[Alright Bretheren, let’s make sure we’re counting our eggs before they hatch!]” he chirped, loud enough to be heard by all.

His cheery attitude was met with a collective groan, a few hurled insults and not so few hurled bits of unprepared leftover foodstuffs. Dusting himself off with a full-body shake, he continued unabated. 

“[Has everyone made sure that their base ingredients are [Human]-safe?]”

“[Yeeeesss]” groaned a majority of the xenos crew, not for the first time that day. Or hour.

“[And has everyone made sure that their finished aggregated dishes are [Human]-safe?]”

“[Literally, who put you in a position of authority?]” groused Shpressnrek, draping over a crate of her prepared foodstuffs, muffling the thumps. “[Why are we even answering to you?]”

“[Because!]” sang Tr’Grakz, doing a slightly happy little wiggle, “[Those who volunteer for good rise to true leadership. That, and my organizational skills are just naturally superior to yours~]” 

Without skipping a beat he tilted his head to the side, avoiding a thrown iron bar that embedded itself into the plating behind him. 

“[Death to tyrants!]” Shpressnrek called out playfully, “[We will not be crushed underscale!]”

“[I kinda like it that he’s leading]” Rgrezneh-of-Hrzgaren said, clicking her teeth in thought. “[Makes pinning this on someone when it goes south much easier.]”

“[Oh, good point.]” Shpressnrek conceded, tapping the top of her crate. “[We’re fine here, Tr’Grakz. We’ve been fine the first time you asked, the fifth, and the fifteenth.]”

“[Did everyone make sure to make enough portions for our [Human] hosts?]”

“[Yeeeessss]” groaned the assembled crew once more, now quite done with the double-double checking, and beginning to assemble their ‘spread’ around the atrium. 

“[Did everyone remem-]”

“[Brother Tr’Grakz, did you bring anything?]” Rgrezneh asked, innocently.

Tr’Grakz’s crest fell as he suddenly realized how open he was, standing in the spotlight. “[. . . I was just gonna add my name on Tk’Elge’s-]”

“[You were going to what?!]” the Karnakian in question crowed, holding a bag close to her chest. “[Absolutely not-]”

“[Sister PLEASE I didn’t have a chance to hit a fabricator so-]”

Rgrezneh shared a pointed look with Shpressnrek, who smiled as they all got back to work. 

————————————————————————————————————

It was the middle shift.

Well. “Middle”. Earth had since moved to a standard 6-hour workday, So the middle shift was both the 2nd and 3rd shift – but if you lumped them together, then you just had a half-day, and a half can’t be a “middle” so-

Let’s try this again. It was 10AM INST, which means it was pretty much the earliest definition of lunchtime that any civilized person would accept. 

Someone else who wished he could try it again was Glenn “Silk” Abramson, who found himself among the ‘fortunate’ first batch of human crewmembers to make it to Rotunda 1A, cartdrones of foodstuffs loyally trailing behind them. Both groups of people froze as the doors opened; the Humans, surprised that their Xeno crewmembers were already inside and setup, and the aforementioned crewmembers, who were scrambling to put away what seemed to be a hard-light lifelike lego playset. 

With an unceremonious thud Tr’Grakz lept from the wall to land infront of his [Human] crewmates, buckling the deck underneath. 

“[Bretheren Humans!]” crowed Tr’Grakz in greeting.

“AAAAAHHH” replied the newbies as they fell on their asses in surprise and fear. Glenn, for his part, just tensed up – then sighed, his implant kicking into IFF overdrive. 

“Hello… Trike. It’s good to see you. Happy Thanksgiving.” Glenn responded, in an uncharacteristically gentle and/or resigned manner.

“[Hello Bretheren [Glenn]! Happy Harvest Festival of Gifts and Thanks to you as well-]”

“N-no.” Glenn said, a soft smirk on his lips. “Not all human words are portmanteaus – or are that long. It’s just Thanksgiving.” 

“[Oh. Happy Thankful Giving.]” Tr’Grakz ventured, and Glenn met him halfway with a warm smile.

“Close enough! Newbies, you alright?” He said, turning towards the first bit of his shift crew. Most of the veterans remained on their feet, but a few of the newbies were…

Well. Most of the newbies remained. A few of them decided to tap into their Jurassic Park survival instincts and just booked it. Glen looked at them somewhat fondly as they disappeared behind another bulkhead, softly mouthing a silent plea.

“[Is it time for the festival to begin? Does it usually begin at this time? Do we need to be wearing anything special – By the black sun, I can’t believe I never asked that! What about-]”

“TRIKE, please.” Glenn interrupted his concerned colleague, sighing softly. “It’s just a day of feasting, really. There are no elaborate ceremonies, there’s nothing major but food, family and friendship. Speaking of, we need to start setting things up – our fold outs-”

“[Oh! Yes. We saved you a space of honor in the center of the room!]” Tr’Grakz said, adapting the human version of a nod a little too vigorously. “[Do you need assistance in setting up?]”

“Ah, no-” Glenn said, waving his loyal drones (both mechanical and not) to follow him as he sidestepped the Karnakian. “It’s all warming trays and traditional fare. Well, most of it is – Asuka apparently made the desserts, so those are going to be something special.”

“[Ah, yes! Those are the after-meal meals, yes? I’ve been reading up on [Human] feasting customs – so many tiny meals all after the next!]”

“Yeah, we like to take things slow – what can I say?” Glenn said, smiling. “But do you mind giving us some space? We just gotta lay out our things.”

“[Yes! Yes we will be waiting for you right over here when you’re ready!]” Tr’Grakz chirped happily, waving goodbye… for the entire time it took him to walk the 15 meters to the Karnakian ‘station’. 

Glenn waved for the first few seconds…but eventually lost that game of chicken to pressing demands of food prep.

————————————————————————————————————

“Alright. You getting that canned heat lit, Jessica?”

“Yeah.” The engineer said, the clicking of the lighter firing off a few times. “Eventually. Also how is it that with all this advanced technology around we keep using this old piece of shit?”

“Because it builds character and it ain’t broke, so why fix it?”

“I beg to differ” Jessica murmured, the clicking of her firelighter becoming more aggrivated. “I remember this thing on my dad’s grill back when I was a ki-FINALLY.” She exclaimed happily, the small flame clicking to life at the end of the handheld lighter. Dipping it into the four wax-filled cans produced four wan, blue flames. “I really think we should upgrade this whole thing. Maybe some conduction heating-”

“Character.” Glenn reiterated, to Jessicas’ consternation. 

“FINE. I’m hungry though, so I’m gonna go ahead and start. Fair enough?”

“Yeah, sure, let me just wave over our guests-” Glenn commented, raising his hand for attention. “You guys can come over and try some of our food if you’d like, but please save most of it f-WHOHJEEZ.”

Almost as one the xenos descended upon the small island of Human food, peppering the unfortunate volunteers with multiple questions in no particular order. After a small brouhaha over whether or not croutons were just midget toast – and if so, if they could be used for sandwiches – an orderly line was formed to allow each and every participant to at least sample some Human cuisine. 

Not the Vanilla Heaven cake, though. That was off-limits, whenever it arrived. 

The results were…mixed, to say the least. Almost every xenos universally disliked the humble potato (much to the ire of the Irish and Russian crewmembers) based not on it’s texture but it’s taste: The Jornissians found it to be far too tart, the Dorarizin didn’t think it tasted like anything but mush, and the Karnakians were just happy to be included.

Cranberries were another mixed bag – Jornissians were fine with the bitter-sweet play of berry and sugar, the Karnakians almost universally begged for some water to put out the ‘immense heat’ of the fruit, and the Dorarizin just wished the aftertaste would go away.

Cheese – ah, the cheese plate. Truly, no better friend to cheese could be found outside of white people and the Dorarizin, who exclaimed that solid fat in any of it’s forms was the greatest thing anyone had ever invented. The Jornissians were nonplussed; it lacked a certain je ne sais quoi, and the Karnakians were ok with it – if it was a little crunchier, it’d be good.

Hilariously enough the turkey was the unexpected star of the show. Everyone was pretty much OK with it, and it was OK with pretty much everyone, mainly because it was dead and couldn’t form an opinion on the current state of affairs. As the humans began to fill their own plates and mix and mingle with their colleagues, a few brave interns began to ask what the other races brought to the feast. 

In hindsight, this would prove to be the beginning of the end.

“Ok, we’re going to do the same rules – just take a little, make sure everyone else gets a bite.” Glenn said over the growing crowd of humans and the xenos who were anxiously curious about their reactions. 

“[Well, hello Bretheren and Sisters! I am Tk’Elge, and I produced this food for you without any outside help.]” Tk’Elge said, over the soft whine of Tr’Grakz. “[We had it quantum-shipped over to this station to make sure they stayed fresh!]” She chirped, patting the bag that rested on the table. With a slight flourish – at least, to her species – she reached in and pulled out a-

“Oh my God it’s adorable!” cooed Jessica, leaning forward to look at the roughly bowling-ball sized fluffball. It had the texture and consistency of downy feathers, and one great, beautiful green eye. 

“[Wh-what? No, it’s… It’s not. It’s a Wh’’rchi Oyster.] Tk’Elge corrected, looking slightly confused. 

“Oh, alright – so what do you do? Eat the fuzz?” Jessica said, looking up at Tk’Elge with curious joy. “Cause I’d love to see what one of these things looked like shaven! Hehe, probably like a giant grape!”

Wordlessly, and with a mild look of concern, Tk’Elge grabbed either side of the ‘eyelid’ and in one fluid motion pried it open with a sickening crunch.

“OH JESUS” cried Jessica

“EEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeee” screeched the Wh’’rchi Oyster

“[It’s just escaping steam.]” reassured Tk’Elge, who was now sporting a look of extreme concern. “[It’s not living, no matter what you think it tells you – this is also why we keep them out of water, because they’re much more…docile this way.]”

“I-oh GOD it just screamed! I-I don’t, I-” Jessica babbled, backpedaling from the countertop

“[No! It’s not – it’s not bad, it’s just fresh!]” Tk’Elge pleaded.

“I’ll take three.” Glenn said, surprisingly confident. “Anything that scares her-”

“You ass!”

“-has got to be good.”

Tk’Elge smiled a halfhearted smile, using her talons to reach in and pluck out a suspended little nugget of violent blue. “[This is rated for [Human] consumption – although it does give you about 7,000% of your daily requirement of Vitamin C.]”

“Well hell – this’ll be useful for flu season.” Glenn chuckled, gingerly taking the proffered nugget of flesh. “Hey Andre-”

“Yes si-” an intern behind Glenn began to say, but was hushed with a sudden mouthful of alien foodstuffs. He glared at Glenn, chewing slowly.

“So?”

Andre swallowed with a grimace. “It’s… banana and alcohol.”

“Well that’s not so-”

“Mixed with chalk and blood.”

“Hmm. So definitely food for the rest of the interns, is what you’re saying.”

“No sir, I’m saying I’m going to file a formal complaint”

“To whom?”

“To… you, sir.” Andre sighed as Glenn grinned, turning back to Tk’Elge. “Thank you for sharing this wonderful dish – tell me, can this be dehydrated and powdered?”

“[I mean, theoretically. It loses it’s spring, though.]”

“I think this would be an excellent supplement for our crew to take to help boost our immune systems – could I bother you to make a few pounds of this and send it to my office?”

Tk’Elge nodded furiously, her winningest (and most terrifying) smile overtaking her earlier grimace of concern. “[Absolutely! I’ll have that up to you in a few days?]”

“Sure, take your time – and please make sure everyone gets a chance to try this delicacy.” Glenn said, looking back at his young wards. “It’s only fair, seeing as how you all tried our food.”

“[Excellent! Please, step up! There’s enough in this one oyster to give everyone seconds!]”

– – – – – –

“And what do we have here?” Director Abramson mused aloud, making sure his crew all had a chance to sample (and recover from) authentic Karnakian cuisine. “It looks like…a metal cube. You do know we can’t eat metal, right?”

Rgrezneh-of-Hrzgaren smiled, wiggling her ears in an amused way. “[Yes, I know. This is just the wrapper-]” Rgrezneh explained, taking her index claw and plunging it into the cube. With absolutely no effort the Dorarizin carved around the box, and with the sound of protesting metal twisted the two halves apart. What remained was… something very familiar looking, which immediately made Glenn’s hair on the back of his neck stand ramrod straight.

“Oh! Hey, of course! I’ve never seen a Dorarizin sausage before, though!” John said, sealing his fate. “What’s it made out of?”

“[Aha, it’s a special formula of Gr-rrzek – well, I should say, specially formulated for [Human] consumption. It’s all well-cooked through meats from various wild and domesticated animals, packed in a [salt-analog] for a few months.]”

“So, trail jerky?”

“[Mmmm.]” Mused Rgrezneh, tilting her head from side to side. “[Yes and no. The principle is there, yes, but this would be more for a special occasion.]”

“So premium jerky. I like this already!” John grinned, looking up at the Dorarizin in question. “So, how do we do the thing?”

“[Just dig in! I’ve got another 10 boxes of this stuff, so don’t be afraid to take a large portion.]”

John with a smile and a nod from Glenn (who had taken three inconspicuous steps back and to the left) reached forward and gripped the end of the sausage closest to him.

It felt solid. Unreasonably solid. 

“I uh. Do… do we cut it, or dip it or…” John questioned, trying his best to lift the thing even a little. “Is it uh, stuck?”

“[Oh! I um, I guess since you don’t have claws – I apologize, I should’ve known. May I?]”

“Sure!” the brave, stupid man said. “Is that something that your species normally does for others?”

“[Well, yes and no.]” Rgrezneh said, unsheathing her claws to turn the rock-hard sausage into a fine mince. “[We ah… usually do it for our pups – it’s necessary until their second set of teeth come in.]”

“Oh.”

“[But don’t let that stop you – please! Try again.]” Rgrezneh recovered, scooping a generous pile of the minced sausage into the middle of the table. “[I assure you, it is delicious! High in Iron and Vitamin K and a bunch of other things that you [Human]s need- is something wrong?]”

John wasn’t one to normally complain; definitely not to a xenos in a pseudo-ambassadorial position, and especially not to a xenos who could utterly annihilate him with a simple flick of her wrist, no.

John wasn’t one to complain in this case not because of any of those exceptionally good reasons; he wasn’t one to complain because his mouth had fused shut. 

“NNNnnnnnnNNHH?!” John said, coughing. “HHHTS LIH BEANUT BUTTEH BUH WORHS.”

“[O-oh no. Are you ok?!]”

“Just out of curiosity, what’s the moisture level in that thing?” Glenn said, as John desperately scrambled back to the drink cooler. 

“[About 0.0001%.]”

“Hmm. So what you’re saying is that your sausage is so delicious that it sends my fellow humans-” Glenn paused at the sounds of drinks being ripped open in fear, “-into fits of silent ecstasy?”

“[I…]” Rgrezneh looked over Glenn to see the human, John, pouring two bottles of water into his mouth between gritted teeth. “[I…don’t think so?]”

“But I do. Please, can you send some of this to the other Human officers? I don’t want this… experience to be limited only to myself and the assembled crew.”

“[I…can, but. Why?]”

“Because I need to teach some of my colleagues that when I need support, they better be awake to give it.”

– – – – – –

“So! What have you got for us?” Glenn chirped happily, ignoring the groans of his Human crew behind him. 

“[It’s…nothing. Nothing at all.]” Shpressnrek said, leaning ontop of the prominently-placed crate. “[Quantum transport error, we brought nothing. I am sorry for shaming our species at this wonderful har-]”

“Stop that.” Glenn ordered, and to his credit Shpressnrek visibly flinched. “I’m not going to have you lot finding a conscience now. What did you bring?”

Glenn was a man who wanted to see the world burn, and Shpressnrek saw it in his eyes. With a resigned sigh, she leaned back, taking her weight off of the crate – causing it to jump slightly.

“[It’s a, um. It’s a live R’tts’sk. They’re a farmed delicacy on a colony world; I’d have to prepare it for you, I think, but-]”

“Show me.”

“[Ah… okay. It should be safe within it’s cage-]” Shpressnrek murmured, peeling the top of the plastic crate off like a candy wrapper. Instantly the room was filled with the sound of vicious snarls and the skittering of claws-on-metal.

“Jee-zus. What in the hell-” Glenn murmured, leaning forward just enough to take a look at the cage. He couldn’t see anything; whatever it was was moving far too fast for his naked eye to track. He guessed it was was the size of a dog, knew that it sounded pissed, and that it only got more angry as it saw daylight.

“How the fuck are we supposed to-”

“[Well, that’s why I said I’d probably prepare it for you. Look, all we do is-]” and while maintaining eye contact with Glenn, Shpressnrek’s right arm vanished in a blur of speed. There was a sharp, wet ripping sound, a cry of pain, and an armored, severed limb hung twitching in the Jornissian’s hand.

Glenn thought he heard one of his interns getting sick, but he was far too fascinated by what just happened to really register the brutality of the moment. “Did.. Did you just rip off one of it’s legs?”

“[It grows back. Besides, this is the only good meat on the beast – Sorry, did you want it raw, or cooked?]”

The crate rocked back and forth as the beast, roaring with impotent rage, slammed against it’s iron prison.

“Can I have a bit right now?”

“[Sure.]” Shpressnrek said, ripping off a small chunk of the still-quivering flesh and offering it to the Director.

Maintaining eye contact with his whole crew, Glenn devoured the warm flesh.

“That’s… actually really good.”

“[W-wait, Really?!]”

“Yes! It’s like lemongrass but with the consistency of foie gras and I think I’m getting a hit of pepper in there as well.”

“[Well all right! I’ll also prepare enough for everyone else?]”

“Yes – please do.”

As the Humans collectively groaned Glenn turned around to admonish them. He was going to let fly a speech about camaraderie, experiencing new things, pushing back the boundaries of human ignorance, forging stronger ties with the galactic community and how viewing everything from our narrow locus of attention is a poor way of getting through the universe. He even had a small bit in there about “you don’t know if you like something until your palette gets used to it over time” and “it might taste off but it’s good for you so suck it up” but that was something he would only pull out in an emergency – like if his crew talked back to him, or started to wander off.

It was not meant to be pulled out for the very specific emergency that began with the sound of Shpressnrek ripping off the side of the crate, then loudly exclaiming “[Well fuck.]”

You see, it turns out that the iron bar embedded in the wall had to come from somewhere. That somewhere was from the side of the cage of the (at the time) mildly annoyed R’tts’sk. Shpressnrek had remembered that incident, and had planned to open up the side of the cage that did not have a gaping hole in it, keeping the rest of the crate intact to provide support and the illusion to the dumb beast within that it was still well and thoroughly trapped. This illusion vanished as soon as that panel was accidentally removed, and as we all covered earlier, daylight just made it angrier.

In a blur faster than any human eye could follow, the beast of claws and armor and teeth escaped.

“What d’you mean-?” Glenn asked, turning around in relatively slow motion. Around him, tables were upturned, dishes destroyed, and clawmarks in the walls and floors just appeared as if by magic. The Jornissians were a blur, barking out half-translated commands that Glenn’s comm could not parse, it’s IFF reader shutting off a few miliseconds into the melee as the icons danced and melded too quickly to follow. A few moments into his turnaround he was lifted, as a pack of Dorarizin threw him and the other humans up, a separate group of blurs passing underneath them in a desperate bid to corral the feral beast.

“JES-”

“WH-”

“AAA-” the humans added to the conversation, as one very unfortunate Karnakian slammed into his group’s table, scattering the Wh’’rchi Oysters throughout the room like buckshot. Most landed and bounced harmlessly across the decking only to be trampled underfoot by the combined effort to wrangle the R’tts’sk, but a few very lucky ones found themselves landing in a bath of ice, water, and various other beverages. 

It’s feathered hide ramrod-stiff, millions of small pores opened up to suck in moisture – as much as possible from every source around it. As the Wh’’rchi Oysters did so they expanded, and a venemous midnight black tentacle sprouted from it’s ‘iris’, flopping about for prey. 

The humans reached the apex of their flight, and began to fall back down.

“-SUS CH-”

“-AT THE-”

“-AAAAAA-” the humans continued, their hind brain having enough sense to try to right their trajectory with strategic flailing. As the Jornissians started to corner the wounded R’tts’sk, the Karnakians started to dance around the Wh’’rchi Oysters – both to distract it with the vibrations of their feet, and also to (hopefully) dart in and rip the tentacle off from it’s base before it started to crawl around. The Karnakians didn’t really mind using trickery in this endeavor, and allowed a few of the oozing things to accidentally grip a table, an empty crate, or a chunk of Dorarizin metal and pull it into their greedy maws.

Speaking of, the Dorarizin were there to catch their Humans as they fell, pulling each one tight against them. 

“HHSHT”

“FHHK”

“AAAAH(but muffled)”

Glenn pushed hard against his fluffy savior, pulling his head back for some air. The Dorarizin, for her part, wasn’t paying attention to the human – her eyes were on something moving rapidly behind them.

“What th-“

It was at this point that the sodium metal that the Dorarizin used to cure their meats finally interacted with the water inside the Wh’’rchi Oyster, and exploded. Glenn could only tense up as he was bodily thrown down onto the ground, 300kg of Dorarizin smothering him against the decking. There was another loud explosion, and a few more series of pops – alarms began to go off, and no matter the protests or oaths he swore, Rgrezneh refused to budge. 

Looking up at the sudden change of an indicator light, Glenn saw the door slide open. On the other side stood Mike, shirt rumpled after a hard shift of sleeping, ID badge missing, sandals worn with socks.

The two met each other’s gaze – Mike, bleary-eyed, and Glenn, scared, confused, and under a very aggressive female.

Mike never moved a muscle as the door silently slid shut.

“Goddamn you Mike-”

The external door lock indicator turned on.

“MIKE YOU ARE A USELESS PIECE OF SHIT!”

After everything settled down, the crew agreed: That was definitely the 5th worst Thanksgiving they had experienced on the station.

Categories
Stories They are Smol Oneshot

They are Smol – and Spooky! Halloween Oneshot

[wp-night-mode-button style="1"]

“Oh my God how did you even get that up here?” Jessica laughed, poking at the rubber mask.

“I know a guy – maybe you heard of him? Mr. Amazon Prime?” Mike said unflinchingly as his new face was smushed into his old one. With an unceremonious tug, Jessica pulled the zombie face off of her coworker’s head, turning it over in her hands.

“The OIH OK’ed this lame piece of shit?”

“Yeah. I mean, the list to pick from was heavily edited – either a celebrity, a robot-of-your-choice – any puns have to be-”

“Well you’re not that clever so-”

“Granted.” Mike said, tugging his mask out of Jessica’s hands. “Anyway. If you’re a pleb like me then you’re basically stuck with zombie, mummy or ghost. At least, with what you can get up here within half a year or make yourself-”

“Mmmm. Honestly, with your pasty-white skin I would’ve gone with ghos-HEY!”

Jessica barely dodged the thrown mask, laughing as it collapsed on one of the lunchroom tables. “Alright, alright. Man, this office party is gonna suck. No alcohol, no MDMA-”

“Look, it was one time-”

“Yeah, yeah” Jessica dismissed. “Mind if I see the catalog?”

With a wordless grunt Mike tossed the rolled-up mail-order catalog to his partner in crime. “Well. Anyway, I’m going to get my shit ready and finish my rounds; those oxygen scrubbers won’t change themselves. I doubt you’re gonna get anything from there for the party tonight-”

Jessica waved him off as she buried herself in the catalog. “Mmm. True, but I need a terrible sweater for the Christmas party next month. Turn off the gravity on your way out.”

There was a click and the sound of an airlock door opening and shutting in response. Jessica waited a few moments before pushing off with her toes – she gained some air and spun around, making sure the momentum would bounce her off the ceiling in a few minutes.

Until then, she flipped through the OIH mail-order catalog, musing on what – if anything – she should buy for Christmas.

————————————————————————————————————

Tr’Grakz could quite easily murder you on accident.

Granted, he never would – he was a pacifist – but the threat was there just based off of his biology. Once the dust had settled and Atlanta (and most of the world) calmed down, there was immediate fascination with his species; Not just because they were first contact and accidentally, successfully invaded the planet while apologizing profusely, but mainly because almost every Human alive had seen his kind before. Just, yanno. Boney. And very, very dead.

Tr’Grakz was a raptor. Well. He was a Karnakian, but if you just took one of those raptors from Jurassic Park, gave them four eyes, opposable claws, tripled their size and kept the feathers, well…

Point being, there was a media firestorm around their species, both good and bad. For a brief period some humans even thought his species were “forerunners”, whatever that was, and started a cult around them. It was cute until they started to sacrifice goats.

There was a long, long talk about convergent evolution after that.

Tr’Grakz was also having a good day. He was having a good day every day.

As part of reparations to the Human species the Karnakians (and the rest of the Galactic Senate) pooled some of their vast resources together and built a few space elevators, coupled to the [Zephyr] stations. They were excellent points for the various species of the Senate to intermingle, exchange culture, assist in uplifting/employment and all other sorts of social services. Covertly, it was also a way to… placate the more militant [Humans], as putting an alien embassy on every major continent smack-dab in the center of some of their major metropolitan areas would seem less like ‘ease of access’ and more ‘occupying force’.

Tr’Grakz was selected by representatives of the Sacred Council to help smooth over relations between the two species, and to generally prove to the intergalactic community that yes, while accidents do happen, you can always make things better than they were before if you work hard enough at it. This also means that he got to interact with [Humans] on a daily basis, which is absolutely something his fellow Karnakians would take their own tails off for!

Tr’Grakz sang to himself as he rounded the corner, his tweets and peeping echoing down the hall. His implant indicated that someone accidentally turned off the gravity in one of the station employee lounges, and since he didn’t want any of his [Human] friends to get into trouble he decided to make a little detour to the [Human]-occupied part of the station to clean up the mess.

Opening the offending door he took a quick look around, noticing that it was empty – save for some floating snack wrappers. With a bemused chirp he clicked the indicator panel, turning the relatively weak gravity back on.

“[HOLY SHIT-]”

Tr’Grakz looked up and saw a [Human] fall from the ceiling. What a human was doing on the ceiling would be a question answered later – in a blink of an eye he plowed through a steel table and a couple bolted seats, scattering them about as he stood directly under the [Human]

“|I’ve got you, little one!|” Tr’Grakz said, smiling wide

“[AAAAHHHCLOSEYOURMOUTHPLEAASS-]” the [Human] screamed, before falling onto Tr’Grakz with a heavy thud. With a subconsious reflex Tr’Grakz pulled the [Human] against his chest tightly, his feathers expanding under his vest to provide warmpth. The reflex lasted only a moment before he remembered himself and recovered, gently dropping the [Human] down on it’s feet. Her feet.

“|Are you alright? The ceiling is no place for you.|” Tr’Grakz chided gently, nosing the [Human] about to fuss with her clothing.

“[F-fine! I’m fine, I just – I uh, ah.]” The [Human] gently pushed Tr’Grakz’s muzzle away from her chest. “[S-sorry, I didn’t ah. I wasn’t expecting anyone…]”

Tr’Grakz nodded to himself. “|Understandable. I wasn’t expecting anyone on the ceiling either.|”

The two of them shared a look with each other, before Jessica began walking backwards. “[Well, I see that you’ve got some metal to clean up so I’ll just be going now, ok?]”

Tr’Grakz smiled again – not noticing Jessica flinch – and waved goodbye. “|Ok! I’ll clean this up in a few hours! Please don’t tell your [Human] friends to come in. Oh! And also not to rest on the ceilings. Please.|”

He stood there, smiling, as the [Human] backed out of the room, murmuring half-agreements and apologies.

————————————————————————————————————

Tr’Grakz was still having a very good day. He saved a [Human] who was stuck on the ceiling, further healing the rift that stood between proper [Human]-Karnakian relations. He was also – with the help of a swarm of microfabricators – rebuilding [Human-only] cafeteria 11-B.

He continued to sing and hum to himself, making sure the chairs were disassembled, repaired and re-fabricated properly. As the sweeper-drones made their second round (as metal filings are absolutely not what you want to step on, booted or not) he heard a mournful beep. Turning, he noticed a sweeper-drone had come across a booklet of some sort.

Idly, he bent down and picked it up.

With extreme self-control he folded the catalog in half, tucked it under his vest, and set the drones to complete the repair on auto-fabricate.

The door slid closed behind him, and Tr’Grakz began to walk back to the Galactic General section of Zephyr Station 8.

As he rounded the corner, he began to pick up his pace; a brisk walk to his species was a decent run for us, and by the time he was out of the [Human]-only area he was in a full-blown sprint. Dorarizin sidestepped him, Jornissians dipped to let him pass, and his fellow Karnakians just rolled their eyes and made way.

————————————————————————————————————

Shpressnrek murmured to herself and moved her pawn forward. She tasted the air for a brief moment before letting go of the piece, settling her hands back down infront of her.

Rgrezneh-of-Hrzgaren remained on her haunches, staring at the board. The [Human] game of chess was new to everyone – of course it was – but it was simple in it’s rules and species agnostic, so it along with a few other human games had started to make their way into the Galactic community at large.

The Dorarizin picked a bishop – before letting it go and instead picking a rook – and moved it forward, blocking Shpressnrek’s pawn.

“[Hm. There, I thi-]”

The door to their private lounge didn’t so much as open as it evaporated, bits of it flying around the inside of the room to the consternation of the duo and the rest of the patrons.

Tr’Grakz had appeared, and he had news.

“[Bretheren!]” he chirped, happily taking the blows of various snacks, drinks, spicy insults and scraps of door as he skipped his way into the room.

“[By Sotek-who-circles-the-world, can’t you just be normal?]” groused Shpressnrek, working in tandem with Rgrezneh to place pieces back in the proper positions. “[What could possib-and you just dropped this on our game board. Seriously.]”

Rgrezneh-of-Hrzgaren growled at Tr’Grakz. “[I’m going to be talking to your Counselor about this-]”

“[Bretheren, look first! I came here as soon as I found it!]”

“[It’s…Oh. OH!]”

The dynamic entry, combined with the reactions of the chess players, caught everyone’s attention. A circle of interested species formed as the Jornissian flipped through the OIH Handbook catalog.

“[Mmm, let’s see here. Approved food, approved snacks, approved- huh.]”

“[Well! I didn’t read it before coming here – what’s the deal?!]” Tr’Grakz peeped, dancing in place.

“[It’s a list of costumes-]”

“[Oh! Look! The date – they’re going to be doing costumes tonight?! Was anyone invited?!]”

“[Awww]” Rgrezneh murmured, tilting her head. “When I talked to my [Human] he was saying that’s what their young do. I guess the adults to it as well sometimes?]”

“[Maybe it varies by culture? Or by person?]” someone else piped up, the table now thick with faces.

“[Let’s see here. Approved and unapproved costumes.]”

Rgrezneh-of-Hrzgaren laughed as she saw a human in what looked like a Dorarizin costume – A very bad one at that. “[Aww, No! No way, no scentless way!]”

“[They’re trying! Let’s see. [Werewolf]. Anyone got anything cultural from that?]” Shpressnrek called out, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“[Ah!]” someone piped up from the back. “[Old story, basically a hybrid of their [wolf] predator, a pack hunter, and a [Human]. So possibly a cursed [Human]?]”

“[Makes sense. Next, a Zombie. Well, we all know that one – dead [Human] brought back to life, very scary.]” Shpressnrek grinned to some sarcastic agreements. “[[Ghost]? Is that a Spirit?]”

“[Let’s just roll with the whole curse theme – a cursed spirit could be a ghost. If I recall, this holiday was supposed to be about scaring each other, right?]” another Karnakian ventured, taking notes.

“[Ok. A [Mummified]-[Human].”

“[Isn’t that one of their cultural artifacts?]” a Dorarizin piped up, and there was a slight debate.

“[Okaaay…so a cursed, preserved human. Next on the list, in no particular order…[Vampire].”

Rgrezneh-of-Hrzgaren hummed to herself as she studied the attached picture. “[…blood on the mouth, so eats… probably other [Humans]. Probably another curse of some sort.”

“[Hey, uh. Bretheren?]”

Most everyone turned to Tr’Grakz, a concerned look on his face.

“[Has anyone else noticed that most of their fears are of other [Human]s?]”

The group silently studied the list and attached photos with a little more scrutiny.

“[…are they ok?]”

————————————————————————————————————

Director Glenn “Silk” Abramson smiled as he raised a glass of non-alcoholic punch. “Ladies and Gentlemen, first, a Happy Halloween to everyone-”

“Happy Halloween!” cheered the motley crew of people before him, some raising up drinks and others, snacks, as they gleefully interrupted their boss.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway. Happy Halloween. Second, thank you all very much for only wearing the approved costumes. I noticed some of our allies out there noticing you-”

“Notice me, senpai~” Someone in the back yelled out, and received a flat stare in response over the laughter of the crew.

“Right, well. Anyway, it’s good to keep things professional and not step on any toes. On that note, Officially I have to explicitly inform everyone that there is to be no heavy drinking, no drugs – regardless of what country you’re from – and that we still have work tomorrow-”

The doors to Ballroom/Meeting Area 5C opened up to a menagerie of Galactic species; everyone was represented in varying amounts, and in varying degrees they all looked…worried.

They should. Director Abramson was getting tired of being interrupted.

“…Well. Welcome to the Human-only Halloween party, impromptu guests. Is something the matter?”

A Jornissian made it’s – no, her? – way up to the stage as the rest of the xenos crew mingled with – and singled out – a human.

“[I don’t know, Director. Is something the matter?]”

Director Glenn “Silk” Abramson, Manager of 200 Humans and the countless thousands that went through his docks every day, sucked on his cheek as he was pulled into a full-body hug.

“Am…am I missing something?” He said to the room in general, watching his other crewmates being gently held, or passed from one xeno to another.

“[Ssh. If you are, we’ll take care of it from now on.]” The Jornissian said, gently rubbing Glenn’s back.

Turns out, it was an OK Halloween office party after all.