Humans Are Space Orcs, Some Aliens are Smol, and There is No Escaping Your Past
Prak waited curiously in front of the ship that hired him. He was here for security, but to be able to actually secure anything, he’d need to be able to get on board; the little contraption before him was only half his height. His employers must have seen his resume and size, though, so Prak bent down to knock on the pop-tart sized door. He wished he had a pop-tart right now.
After a moment, there was a hiss as the gangway lowered and a few blobs exited. They discussed among themselves, voices silent to Prak's ears, then went in again. A few moments later, the ship shuttered and groaned. Its walls shifted and slid—and for lack of a better word—melted around itself, expanding mechanically until a more much larger transport sat in front of him. A final sigh and everything settled into place.
Prak blinked.
The now human sized door hissed open again and one of the blobs reemerged. it approached Prak and put a tiny arm on the toe of his shoe.
Can you hears me? It said. Thought?
“Uh,” Prak said, intelligently.
I am Maomi, xing-ren, e/em/eir. The blob stared unblinkingly up at Prak. You are large, but now fit inside now.
In his head, Prak thought: “ok telepathy via touch, that’s new.” Out loud, he said, “Prak, human, he/they. I am excited to work with you.”
Thank you. Before I go, I give small briefing. As you know, we transporting exotic human fruits. We hope that since you are a human, you know how to respect them and do not touching. Maomi released his boot and es voice stopped. E turned and beconed Prak to follow em.
Prak squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. It better not be the fruit he was thinking it would be. He cautiously followed em onboard. And found himself among walls lined with fresh pineapple.