You and Your Human: Part 1
You are small. You have tall ears and a long tail you use for balance and to carry things. You are covered in orange-yellow fur. Standing on two legs, you are about three feet tall, but you do not usually stand on two legs. Your front legs have opposable thumbs. Your language is a series of chirps and squeaks.
You are very, very smart. You were a member of your species first space venture. You were sent as a doctor. In the years since, you have worked on nearly twenty different ships. You discovered you have a natural knack for languages. You know everything you would ever need to know.
But... you do not understand humans.
You have heard the stories, of course. Humans are very new to the galaxy, even newer than you, and they are feared. They are strong, able to take levels of pain that would kill even a Xephala. They choose the things they care about, and will destroy anything else without hesitation. They are unaffected by mental tortures, seeming to suppress memories that would make any other species break. They are deadly, and to be avoided at all costs.
But personally, you don't really see it. Your human is bigger than you, of course, but you know that you are small. It rips fabric easily, but it as gentle with you as a Kaysbury beetle. Terror flashed in its eyes when you tried to give it a medical examination. It shrieked like a nestling when it accidentantly cut itself on a bolt.
For Saint's sake, this thing can't even handle spice! How could this possibly be a threat?
You cannot speak with your human. Though you know many languages, you do not know the one it speaks. You are trying to learn. You have never yet found a language you could not master. Until then, you find other ways to understand him.
Your human is tall, obviously compared to you, but even compared to the pictures of other humans you have seen in books. It is good at projecting a confident aura, but it has tells. Its hands shake, just a little, when it is in an enclosed space. It clenches its paws when a Cervilian comes on screen. And it hates medical equipment. Its breathing speeds up noticeably when it is forced to be near such.
You record all your observations with a keen eye and a yellow notepad, and adjust your behavior accordingly.
Although your human seems uncomfortable around others, you need your crew back. This flight was supposed to be a test drive, trying out some of their duties in the new vehicle. You got distracted by your human, but the deadline is swiftly approaching. They will assume you dead if you do not return soon.
Your human is sleeping. You do not know if it has gone at light-speed before, and you do not have the words to explain. You hope it will not awaken.
You hop up into your captain's chair. It was made for a creature taller than you, but it will serve. You tap the appropriate command and passcode into the panel at your side. It glows and hums in acknowledgement. Your human has never been here. It does not like bright lights. You will have to ask Meritha if she can adjust it once you get back.
To your relief, the light-travel goes off without a hitch. It's always a dangerous procedure, no matter how many pamphlets they pass out, and you know it. You also know you aren't the best pilot in your crew. The only reason you were sent was for your diplomacy. You might not make it back, but at least you won't start a war.
You knock on your human's door and it emits a low beeping frequency until your human wakes up. Its lips are pointed downward and it is slumping. Your human dislikes being woken up.
"Thing? What-is?" your human says in your language. You shake your head (means negative, negate action). You know its language better than it knows yours, and you already have to translate for your crew. You have explained countless times that it is simply easier for you to learn rather than it, but your human is persistent. It is... endearing. In its way.
"New place," you explain. "New people. You okay?"
"Why?" your human answers. It looks uncertain. You jump up onto its shoulder and run dexterous fingers through its hair. Your human likes touch.
"Ship," you hesitate. "More safe with them. Them here, than you safer. Us safer."
"They are good?" your human asks. Its voice is low. It is being vulnerable, showing its emotions. You are so proud.
You nod. Your tail is swaying, your eyes are bright, your ears tall. It's honestly a little embarrassing-- you are glad your human can't read Pyrican body language. "Good. Safe."
You land upon the planet, your human by your side. It is wrapped up in tight clothes and a mask. It did not fight this, although you did not have the words to explain why. Your human never seemed to need the explanation that being a human was a dangerous thing in this galaxy. It knew.
Your crew is not here. This is the meeting spot. You checked, and double checked. It is in an isolated location, but with a mountain to serve as an easy sign if you land in the wrong place. This is the right spot. And you are here and they are not.
They... left you.
You have left ships before, of course. When you would get a new assignment, if you saw a better opportunity, if they did something you could not tolerate, if they asked you to do things you were unable to do. You are not a criminal, but you are a freelancer, which means you have run in the same vein as criminals before. Every time you left, it was professional and communicated clearly. If a fight broke out after that, well, that wasn't really your fault now was it?
You have never been left like this. You did not realize quite how much it would hurt.
You feel a gentle tap on one of your front legs, and turn around to see it is your human. It is bent down, with an expression you do not quite recognize on its face. "You-safe?" it asks. "Body tesned. Mind tensed. Me worried you?"
You are too tired to tell it to speak its native language, to not bother itself for you. You are one of the few species that can safely produce adrenaline, and although it doesn't make you a saints-damned killing machine like it does with humans, the crash is just as bad.
"Expected outcome not," you try to explain. Your small body shakes with heavy breathing. Light-travel is stressful and adrenaline is a void of a drug. "Crew should be here. Crew not here. Alone."
Your human wraps you up in a gentle embrace. You feel certain that if it just squeezed a little tighter, it could pop you like a balloon, but it does not. "I am here."
Whimpering and snuffling, you bury your face into your human and let yourself cry.
