dont store a knife with the point facing down, it damages the blade. no, dont do that either. when you store it with the point facing up you might accidentally hurt yourself when you try to grab it. dont store a knife at all actually. your blade must never leave your hand, always ready, ruthless and waiting. you know deep down that ever since you learned the stench of blood you will never be able to cast it aside. or just get a sheath for it i guess.
if you have to rely on specific scripts or turns of phrase to socialise that's totally fine, but you must NOT reveal them to your friends while slightly drunk. it's like showing how the magic trick works, you can't do it in front of them afterwards
i like dogs a lot but i can never remember the differences between breeds (apart from the few types i've actually owned/interacted with). but i know people looove their dogs and love talking about their dogs, so whenever im talking to a dog owner i'll ask what breed it is, and no matter what breed they say i'll say "oh! i've heard they have a really nice nature :D" and they always go YESSS THEY'RE GREAT and start gushing about their dog and we have a nice conversation and i build social credit with this person. anyway i told my friends about this script a few weeks ago when slightly drunk and now every time we're in public together and a dog goes past they turn to me and ask "does that one have a nice nature?" im in a hell of my own making
researching the history of education in japan and learning that, preâMeiji Restoration, peasants/commoners formed their own schools to become educated because it was the best way of fighting tax fraud.
That is, when an official told you, a rice farmer, that you owed more taxes than you really did, it was very useful if you were good enough at math to know he was lying (and could prove it) and if you were good enough at writing to write a letter to your government defending your case.
all of which is to say it's crazy that mega-corporations are now pushing education to be "what if you paid us whatever we tell you to for the rest of your life and never do math or write anything ever again"
Summary: you get a call in the middle of the night and it's the hot burnout guy who you also work with in that cheap-ass fast food place, drunk and trying to have phone sex. why are you playing along?
Both characters are above 18, this is their last year in high school!
-
You jolted awake with panic, in the middle of the night. The culprit in question was your phone's chirpy chiptune ringtone to indicate that somebody was calling you. The other culprit in question was the stupid fucking name on your screen, which belonged to your stupid fucking coworker. 'STUPID FUCKING BRIAN is calling!' was displayed on your screen, and you venomously picked it up.
If it had been anybody else, you would have let it ring, and hoped that whatever the other person needed you for wasn't a national emergency. But you happened to have a ridiculous crush on Brian, one that apparently prevented you from ignoring the call.
"Bry, whuh'fu'ju nee' f'mme?" slurred out of your mouth, as opposed to the more annoyed and crisp 'Brian, what the fuck do you need from me?' that you had planned out.
"Heyyy, pretty thing." purred a low voice through your phone, and that seemed to jolt you out of your reverie pretty fucking quickly, having to process several things at once.
You started with the loud music playing in the background, though it was through a poor speaker. You wondered if your colleague was at someone else's house party, but the music blasted seemed to be tooâŚBrian-specific. Even through the tinny speakers and the poor signal, you could make out a rowdy set of discordant beats and low bass, but you had no time to think about the genre specifics. Not with what Brian had just called you. Did he just call youâŚpretty?
"Br-Brian?" you asked, a little more awake now, realizing that he had just called you fromâŚhis room?
"Yeah, that's me." he rasped, his voice taking a low timbre, and he sounded like he was about to continue, but then trailed off.
Part of you began to wonder how many of your fantasies began like this, part of you wondered how weird it was that he was calling you in the middle of the night for no apparent reason, but all of you had school tomorrow, so you let the silence hang for a good few seconds, and then let out a soft sleepy groan.
"Look, I'll uhh, I'll catch you tomorrow in class, school literally starts in," you paused, checking the time on your phone. "5 hours."
"Wait! Wait waitâŚ" Brian stopped you, and again, he sounded like he was going to say something, but held himself back.
The part of you that found him insanely attractive was beginning to lose the argument to stay on the call with him, you needed your beauty sleep, and hours were better spent sleeping, rather than listening to Brian putting about, over the phone. The losing argument was already being horrifically beaten down, when you heard a weird noise. A strange gulping noise, which was hard to identify over the phone- until you realized Brian was drinking from a full can, or bottle of alcohol. Probably beer. With disgust, you realized Brian had called you while he was drunk. He let out a satisfied groan once he was done with one last gulp.
"Brian, I swear to fucking God, if you just called me to make me listen to you drink, I'm going to-"
"What are you wearing?" he interrupted you, with a newfound confidence that you suspected, came from the beer.
A long pause settled over the call once Brian blurted the question out, and you wondered if you heard him correctly. You were sure that you didn't, because while Brian was the type of guy to drunk dial people, it certainly wasn't to ask them what they were wearing. You gritted your teeth and ran your hand through your hair. Once again, an awkward silence took over the call, and it was up to you to end it.
"Brian, I'm going to give you another chance to say 'good night', so I can say good night back, and we can pretend you never asked that." you tiredly said, your finger moving to the 'hang up' button.
What you didn't expect, was for him to persist and commit to his fuck-up.
"I said, what are you wearing?" he asked again, his speech slurring with not sleep, but drunkenness, the former of which you wished you could indulge yourself in.
You remained quiet, unsure of how to respond.
"Man, c'mon. I'm not blind, I've seen the way you look at me in class." he scoffed, an unexpected spike of confidence that you'd never associated with him. "And at work, even when I'm in that stupid ass uniform, you look at me like I'm a hot piece of ass." he continued, and you were tempted to ask him how he knew you were staring, you thought he just happened to be completely oblivious.
"And I thinkâŚthink you're a hot piece of ass, too. With and without the uniform." he continued, his voice dipping sensually, into that low timbre he used earlier.
"So I'm gonna give you another chance, pretty thing. What are you wearing?" Brian asked, and fuck, his voice went to a low purr, a voice you'd never heard from him before. Sleep entirely forgotten, you felt yourself shivering, a chill passing over you even if your room was comfortably warm.
You should have hung up the phone. Your finger was still on the 'hang up' button, all you needed to do was to apply a bit of pressure, and you'd end the call, Brian would probably pass out and forgot he drunk dialed you and tried to initiate phone sex, of all things, and sure, you'd have trouble looking at him for a week or so, but you'd get over it, right? You'd get over it, as soon as you pressed the 'hang up' button.
"Pajamas." you stupidly said. You probably should have said a nightgown- no! No, you should not have said a nightgown- you should have hung up! What were you doing? At least Brian had the excuse of being drunk, what the hell were you doi-
"Mmm." Brian hummed with approval, his nasal voice crackling over your phone's speaker. "Tell me about the pajamas, baby doll."
Your mind faded into static, and all at once, anything else you had planned was crumpled and forgotten, a draft that would never be picked up again.
"They're uhh, a nice soft pastel. Really velvety. I think you'dâŚI think you'd like 'em. They're not form-fitting, though." you softly continued- you hoped you were doing this right, but from Brian's low grunts, you imagined you were doing alright at this.
"I can work with loose, don't worry. Means I can slide my hand up there and feel you. Got a bra up there?" he asked, and you went flush. You also felt the need to tell him that no, nobody with tits slept with bras on. What, did he think your chest needed support while you slept? But you bit back the remark, and gave an inaudible sigh, before letting yourself get lost in the moment. There was no time to dwell on semantics, the guy responsible for most of your fantasies for the past months had called you and was currently engaging you in phone sex.
"No, I don't. Y'like that, Brian?" you asked.
"So fuckin' much, pretty thing. Think you could feel yourself up for me?" he asked lowly, and you did so, gently, before realizing that Brian didn't give soft touches. You had been around Brian long enough to know that he was harsh, and if he were with you, he would take what he wanted from you, so you squeezed your chest a little harder, a whimper leaving you.
"Fuck, babe, was that for me?" he asked once you whimpered, his throat hoarse. You nodded, before realizing Brian couldn't see you- and you gave a soft 'uh huh'.
"Lie on the bed and get your top off." Brian growled, and you obeyed without question, scrambling to get your top off with a grunt. His voice was steady, command woven into it. You had heard him give apathetic remarks and disinterested dismissals, but you had never heard his voice so sexually charged. You tried to remember what people typically said in phone sex, because Brian seemed like a natural at it.
"Wish you were here, Brian, I want you to see me playing with myself like this." you said dreamily as you laid back in bed, still cupping the side of your breast and brushing your thumb over your nipple.
"You're playing with yourself?" he asked, incredulously, as if he couldn't believe you were getting off to his voice. Again, you responded with a weak 'uh huh'.
"Then keep touching yourself." he said, and it came across as more of an order than a suggestion. You closed your eyes and pretended it was Brian touching you.
"I'm lying on my bed too, pretty thing. You've got me palming my dick thinking of you, fuck, I'm so hard." he moaned, and wasn't that an erotic image.
You thought of Brian, sprawled on his bedsheets. For some reason, you imagined his bedsheets were black, like most of his wardrobe. His greasy dyed black hair would be fanned out under him. And Brian's lanky pale limbs would form awkward angles, and his arm reaching down, slender fingers wrapped around an appendage you had only dreamed of in your more perverse moments...you bit your lip, imagining how hot it was.
"I wanna be with you, Brian, wanna be on your bed too so you can hold me." you whispered, imagining his arms wrapped around you, while he whispered other filthy things into your ear. Now that you knew what he sounded like, whispering dirty secrets over the phone, you dreamed of him actually whispering in your ear, about all the things he wanted to do to you.
"Oh, you don't want that, baby. The bed's full of empty bottles, and I-" you heard a quick sniffing noise over the phone, with a few clinks of glass, and a sniffing groan of disgust.
"And I smell like shit. Like grease, sweat and booze." he grunted.
You did not trust the shiver that came over you as he said that. You were never close enough to Brian to get a whiff of his musk without it looking weird, but it was easy to imagine the disgusting mix of the grease from Mickey's kitchen, with a hot day's sweat of a shift in the aforementioned kitchen, and the nauseating overwhelming stench of stale beer bottles.
The words left your mouth before you could take them back.
"That's kinda hot." you said hoarsely, and you were met with a derisive laugh. You felt your face heat up as he laughed, as if he couldn't believe you were turned on by that.
"You like that? Maybe I should take you to my bed right now, all I'd need to do is get all these fuckin' bottles off the bed and I could show you a real good time." he said, and his voice was strained, but there was a teasing lilt, one with which you did not normally heard him speak with.
You realized, faintly, that you were the reason for that strain. Brian gave a guttural groan, and that was it- that was what Brian would sound like when he was pushing himself into you. You let yourself get lost in the fantasy, and gave a sigh mixed with a whine, lips parted.
"You're driving me wild, pretty thing. Those noises on purpose or are you really that turned on?" he chuckled.
"Can't be that hard to believe you're actually turning me on." you retorted, but there was a breathlessness in your words that reflected how bad you had it for Brian.
"You're right." Brian snickered, a mean sound you'd heard him use when he was talking about people he regarded with disdain.
"Dunno why I'm surprised. You've always got these cute puppy eyes when I look your way, like you're too scared to ask me to fuck you." he continued, and your stomach dropped.
Honesty scratched the back of your throat, compelling you to screech that Brian was right, that you would have gladly thrown yourself to him if he so much as asked. Without consciously knowing it, your fingers moved closer to the crotch of your pajama bottoms, and you tentatively gave a press against the slit. You shouldn't have been getting off to the condescension in Brian's voice, but here you were.
"I didn't- I don't have puppy eyes!" you whined, and a harsh laugh interrupted you, and you could see the mocking sneer on his face. Your denial was weak, you didn't think Brian would believe it- you barely did, yourself.
At the back of your head, you realized that the crotch of your sleeping clothes were wet. Which meant that /you/ were wet. You continued to rock your palm against yourself, sending pleasant jolts through your body as you touched yourself.
"Really?" Brian continued, and without realizing it, you were roughly squeezing your chest and pinched your nipples the same way you dreamed he would. You let out a moan, all thoughts of sleep forgotten.
"You're really touching yourself thinking of me, aren't you, baby, touching yourself over those pajamas of yours." he asked- it was an accusation but with no rancorous suspicion, it was one with the desire to. His words still had a slur to them, and you remembered he was drunk.
Your imagination did not run, it flew and left debris in its wake. You imagined yourself and Brian at one of those parties that he'd never be caught dead at. With one of those red solo cups in hand, drunk and trying to hit on you. Brian was obviously not the romantic type when he was drunk, he would have skipped the foreplay and gone straight to grinding against you, body against yours, mouth by your ear promising whatever you wanted if you let him into your pants.
You rubbed the back of your thumb between your lower lips, barely covered by the wet strip of your underwear. You were soaked. From your fantasy, from listening to Brian, to knowing that he was rubbing one out too while listening to you moan.
"God, fuck, Bri, yeah I'm thinking of you! I'm so wet, wish I was there with you-" you cried out, and shame bled out of you from between your legs.
You heard Brian curse under his breath. You were reminded of how he would frequently cuss during your shifts together, often grumbling a 'fuck off' to his manager when his back was turned. It was a ridiculous thing to admire, but you adored his attitude, his derisive nature making him an absolute pottymouth.
"God, you sound like such a needy bitch. Fucking begging me even though 'm not there." Brian groaned, and his breath grew ragged. There was a faint repetitive slapping sound in the background, and you realized that was Brian jacking off. You imagined his wiry body laid on the bed, staining the sheets with sweat. A greasy fist around his cock, hips arched up.
"Fuck, gimme a second." your caller grunted, and you heard the familiar noise of him spitting- you guessed, into his palm.
You didn't even bother with hiding a whimper, but you withheld begging him to land the next glob on your cheek or in your mouth. The repetitive sound became louder, faster and was accompanied by a slight 'squish', and Brian let out a throaty moan, as if in anguish. You wondered if he jerked himself off too hard, a sort of self-flagellation that he found a friction-more-burn-than-warmth pleasure in. He would not give a shit about you, but it wasn't like he gave a shit about himself, either.
The longer you busied your fingers with your clit, the more sticky they became, coated in slick. You brushed the back of each forefinger against each side of your clit in an ever self-teasing motion, the first knuckle getting the most 'action' as you touched yourself. Your outer lips were soaked from earlier's tender but eager touches, making your motions easy to repeat. It was not graceful, but it did the job, an easy enough motion to repeat against yourself as Brian's guttural moans and grunts bounced around your head.
You hooked your forefingers and scooped up a handful of your arousal, the sticky slick clinging to your digits. You marveled at the wetness for a second, before wiping some of it off on the exposed skin of your hip, and resuming your self-pleasure, and you expected to feel the 'squelch' of your fingers against your wet lower lips, but you did not expect to hear it, and Brian snickered, much to your embarrassment.
Brian certainly wasn't shy about his noises, though, he was owning them, grunting loudly on the phone and letting out a low guttural 'fuck' every now and then. You suspected the alcohol was partly to blame, but you did not doubt that Brian was a loud lover in bed.
"I wanna feel you start slow..." you whined, and your mind had settled on slow grinding, the underside of Brian's dick rubbing against the outside of your slit, the head being brushed by soft pubes.
"That's right. When I get you, 'm gonna take it slow so you feel every bit of what I'm gonna give you." Brian goaded, and he stopped for a few brief seconds, and then followed up with a hasty addition. "My dick, I mean, 'm gonna give you my dick."
The moment was not as ruined as it might have been, had you not been freshly woken up and Brian not been drunk. You were enamored by the quick little follow-up.
"I knooow. Know you're gonna give th-that. I wanna feel you in me, I'm gonna take all of you." you said, the pinpricks of lust on your skin again. You were past the point of disbelief over what you were saying. Brian groaned, a soft 'ohh- my fucking god' as he clearly imagined what it would feel like for him.
"I wanna- Brian, I wish you could see how much I need you, I'm soaked." you continued, unashamed of how pathetic you sounded. Red colored your cheeks as you admitted words you never thought would actually say out loud to Brian.
"Bet you don't give a shit that I'm gonna see you at school tomorrow and know you're a slut. Maybe during our next shift, I'll take you out the back and give you a real pou-" he laughed, interrupted only by your mortified squeal.
"Bri- Briiian, please!" you begged, though you didn't know for what. And apparently, even if Brian didn't either, he was a fan of hearing what you had to say.
"Shit, say that again, baby? You gonna be a good bitch and beg?"
"I, please! I don't know what- maybe we could-" you stumbled over your words so quickly that they glided through the filter that should have kept them back, locked behind teeth and throat.
"Maybe we could go out first! Not- this is so fast! Unless you- I don't know! B-but this is so good!" you babbled, embarrassing yourself.
"Is that what you're scared of? Shiiiit, I said so before, baby, I can go slow. Least I can start slow, anyway." he crooned, and you closed your eyes, you could nearly imagine Brian beside you.
In your mind's eye, Brian was propped up on an elbow, the other arm grasped around you. Would he grab your chest? No, it's an awkward position, if you're facing each other and he's propped up like that, right? Maybe around your neck- pulling you close to his body. Against that sweaty, lanky body, where grease from the shift could ease the work for both of you. Or-or maybe he'd rest his hand on your hip, rather having that close to him than the whole of your body. Important bits, and all that! You continued to touch yourself in a faster staccato, given more courage. Your breaths grew harsher, strained, both hips and wrist moving. Your phone grew warm against your skin, the small screen sticky with your sweat. The sensation that would have once disgusted you, spurred you on.
"Lemme hear more out of you, baby, shit, I'm close." he grunted out, and your mind could barely follow his words, simple as they were, because-
"Me too, me too, Bri, I'm close- oh, shit, this is- this is the best night of my life! " you cried out, rasping the last word in an effort to mute yourself. It came out as a growl, an unintentional snarl that shocked you. But even in trying to remain quiet, the sounds of your staggered gasps were clear.
"Y'sound like you're fucking dying, like you'd die if you had my dick in you. Or you'd die without me fucking you, you sound like a fucking animal, you know?" he crooned, and the unintentional debasement was enough for you.
By your own hand, aided with Brian's words, your body contorted for the last time that night, you let out a keening noise, and you felt the carnal force of something that was stronger than you, despite having come from your own self. Which was how those pulpy novels described an orgasm. In the haze of the afterglow, you caught yourself mentally comparing the saucy novels you read, to what you'd just experienced, while wiping yourself off on your pajamas.
Your phone had fallen beside you, and you grabbed it. With an annoyance that came too soon, you realized you'd missed the sound of Brian reaching his own climax, only catching the tail end of it, but it was quickly resolved with the satisfaction that you had helped him reach such a state. You cradled your phone with both hands now, both clean, and the both of you were quiet.
Once again, you felt like the onus was on you to say something.
"That was cool..." you purred. The coyness in your voice was forced, an attempt at seduction even after the deed. You weren't sure what happened after phone sex, was it like that all the way until hanging up?
"God, I'm gonna sleep so well tonight." Brian groaned, and then let out an exhale. You could picture his cheeks puffing out, then air leaving pursed lips like a deflating balloon. But before you opened your mouth to ask him what color he liked, or some inane question about tomorrow's homework, Brian spoke, in a quiet voice. Not sexually charged as the whole of the call had been, not a randy growl.
"I mean it, y'know. You look real cute in that stupid uniform." he said, voice still hoarse from the alcohol, but softer, an appeal to you.
"I...I think you look great in yours too, Bri, I..." you trailed off, and didn't notice how your voice softened to match his until you whispered his name, and hoped that the start of your new sentence was disguised by the nickname.
"Yeah, you what?" Brian prompted, but you remained at a loss for words. Unsure of where to go from here.
"I, maybe we could do this again? Even, without the phone? You know, as in, real life? I'm groovy if you're game!" you squeaked out quickly, putting around the point.
Even as you were embarrassed by what you heard yourself say, you heard Brian laugh, though it wasn't his usual derisive laugh. It was a more affable noise, one of affection.
You'll read a post that is full of the most violently transphobic language directed at trans men and you'll be like damn what is this asshole's deal with being so unable to connect with people outside their demographic and then you go to block and the OP *is* a trans man. And then suddenly it's like ohhhh the reactionary rhetoric really got to you. You are so consumed by guilt at "becoming a man" that you really buy into all the essentialism as a way to absolve yourself as "one of the good ones" please god find some self love you make me wanna hit you
And you'll have a trans woman stick up for trans men and then get the most vile transphobic language sent her way and you're like damn, people love being really shit to trans women on this site and then the person saying this shit *is* another trans woman. And then suddenly it's like ohhh you are so consumed by the idea of some sort of inherent curse by being assigned maleness that the way to atone is to distance yourself as much as possible and punish anyone who blurs the line you need to keep to "maintain your innocence."
Scum manifesto radfeminism is such a cancer in that it leaves trans people to deep fry in guilt about an utter non-issue while wriggling away from actually being responsible for the harm they are causing to their own circles and everyone else. You cannot wokely use essentialism, AMAB trans people people are not doomed by birth assignment--that is terf shit. AFAB trans people are not doomed by "choosing maleness"--that is terf shit. Y'all should drop pretending it's transfeminsim and just become evangelists the way you are centering your theory around sin.
On the topic of humans being everyoneâs favorite Intergalactic versions  of Gonzo the Great:
Come on you guys, Iâve seen all the hilarious additions to my âhumans are the friendly onesâ post. Weâre basically Steve Irwin meets Gonzo from the Muppets at this point. I love it.Â
But what if certain species of aliens have Rules for dealing with humans?
Donât eat their food. If human food passes your lips/beak/membrane/other way of ingesting nutrients, you will never be satisfied with your ration bars again.
Donât tell them your name. Humans can find you again once they know your name and this can be either life-saving or the absolute worst thing that could happen to you, depending on whether or not they favor you. Better to be on the safe side.
Winning a humanâs favor will ensure that a great deal of luck is on your side, but if you anger them, they are wholly capable of wiping out everything you ever cared about. Do not anger them.
If you must anger them, carry a cage of Xâarvizian bloodflies with you, for they resemble Earth mo-skee-toes and the human will avoid them.
This does not always work. Have a last will and testament ready.
Do not let them take you anywhere on your planet that you cannot fly a ship from. Beings who are spirited away to the human kingdom of Aria Fiv-Ti Won rarely return, and those that do are never quite the same.
Basically, humans are like the Fair Folk to some aliens and half of them are scared to death and the others are like alien teenagers who are like âI dare you to ask a human to take you to Earthâ.
We knew about the planet called Earth for centuries before we made contact with its indigenous species, of course. We spent decades studying them from afar.
The first researchers had to fight for years to even get a grant, of course. They kept getting laughed out of the halls. A T-Class Death World that had not only produced sapient life, but a Stage Two civilization? It was a joke, obviously. It had to be a joke.
And then it wasnât. And we all stopped laughing. Instead, we got very, very nervous.Â
We watched as the human civilizations not only survived, but grew, and thrived, and invented things that we had never even conceived of. Terrible things, weapons of war, implements of destruction as brutal and powerful as one would imagine a death worldâs children to be. In the space of less than two thousand years, they had already produced implements of mass death that would have horrified the most callous dictators in the long, dark history of the galaxy.Â
Already, the children of Earth were the most terrifying creatures in the galaxy. They became the stuff of horror stories, nightly warnings told to children; huge, hulking, brutish things, that hacked and slashed and stabbed and shot and burned and survived, that built monstrous metal things that rumbled across the landscape and blasted buildings to ruin.
All that preserved us was their lack of space flight. In their obsession with murdering one another, the humans had locked themselves into a rigid framework of physics that thankfully omitted the equations necessary to achieve interstellar travel.Â
They became our bogeymen. Locked away in their prison planet, surrounded by a cordon of non-interference, prevented from ravaging the galaxy only by their own insatiable need to kill one another. Gruesome and terrible, yes - but at least we were safe.
Or so we thought.
The cities were called Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In the moment of their destruction, the humans unlocked a destructive force greater than any of us could ever have believed possible. It was at that moment that those of us who studied their technology knew their escape to be inevitable, and that no force in the universe could have hoped to stand against them.
The first human spacecraft were⌠exactly what we should have expected them to be. There were no elegant solar wings, no sleek, silvered hulls plying the ocean of stars. They did not soar on the stellar currents. They did not even register their existence. Humanity flew in the only way it could: on all-consuming pillars of fire, pounding space itself into submission with explosion after explosion. Their ships were crude, ugly, bulky things, huge slabs of metal welded together, built to withstand the inconceivable forces necessary to propel themselves into space through violence alone.
It was almost comical. The huge, dumb brutes simply strapped an explosive to their backs and let it throw them off of the planet.Â
We would have laughed, if it hadnât terrified us.
Humanity, at long last, was awake.
It was a slow process. It took them nearly a hundred years to reach their nearest planetary neighbor; a hundred more to conquer the rest of their solar system. The process of refining their explosive propulsion systems - now powered by the same force that had melted their cities into glass less than a thousand years before - was slow and haphazard. But it worked. Year by year, they inched outward, conquering and subduing world after world that we had deemed unfit for habitation. They burrowed into moons, built orbital colonies around gas giants, even crafted habitats that drifted in the hearts of blazing nebulas. They never stopped. Never slowed.
The no-contact cordon was generous, and was extended by the day. As human colonies pushed farther and farther outward, we retreated, gave them the space that they wanted in a desperate attempt at⌠stalling for time, perhaps. Or some sort of appeasement. Or sheer, abject terror. Debates were held daily, arguing about whether or not first contact should be initiated, and how, and by whom, and with what failsafes. No agreement was ever reached.
We were comically unprepared for the humans to initiate contact themselves.
It was almost an accident. The humans had achieved another breakthrough in propulsion physics, and took an unexpected leap of several hundred light years, coming into orbit around an inhabited world.
What ensued was the diplomatic equivalent of everyone staring awkwardly at one another for a few moments, and then turning around and walking slowly out of the room.
The human ship leapt away after some thirty minutes without initiating any sort of formal communications, but we knew that we had been discovered, and the message of our existence was being carried back to Terra.Â
The situation in the senate could only be described as âabsolute, incoherent panicâ. They had discovered us before our preparations were complete. What would they want? What demands would they make? What hope did we have against them if they chose to wage war against us and claim the galaxy for themselves? The most meager of human ships was beyond our capacity to engage militarily; even unarmed transport vessels were so thickly armored as to be functionally indestructible to our weapons.
We waited, every day, certain that we were on the brink of war. We hunkered in our homes, and stared.
Across the darkness of space, humanity stared back.
There were other instances of contact. Human ships - armed, now - entering colonized space for a few scant moments, and then leaving upon finding our meager defensive batteries pointed in their direction. They never initiated communications. We were too frightened to.
A few weeks later, the humans discovered Alphari-296.
It was a border world. A new colony, on an ocean planet that was proving to be less hospitable than initially thought. Its military garrison was pitifully small to begin with. We had been trying desperately to shore it up, afraid that the humans might sense weakness and attack, but things were made complicated by the disease - the medical staff of the colonies were unable to devise a cure, or even a treatment, and what pitifully small population remained on the planet were slowly vomiting themselves to death.
When the human fleet arrived in orbit, the rest of the galaxy wrote Alphari-296 off as lost.
I was there, on the surface, when the great gray ships came screaming down from the sky. Crude, inelegant things, all jagged metal and sharp edges, barely holding together. I sat there, on the balcony of the clinic full of patients that I did not have the resources or the expertise to help, and looked up with the blank, empty, numb stare of one who is certain that they are about to die.
I remember the symbols emblazoned on the sides of each ship, glaring in the sun as the ships landed inelegantly on the spaceport landing pads that had never been designed for anything so large. It was the same symbol that was painted on the helmets of every human that strode out of the ships, carrying huge black cases, their faces obscured by dark visors. It was the first flag that humans ever carried into our worlds.
It was a crude image of a human figure, rendered in simple, straight lines, with a dot for the head. It was painted in white, over a red cross.
The first human to approach me was a female, though I did not learn this until much later - it was impossible to ascertain gender through the bulky suit and the mask. But she strode up the stairs onto the balcony, carrying that black case that was nearly the size of my entire body, and paused as I stared blankly up at her. I was vaguely aware that I was witnessing history, and quite certain that I would not live to tell of it.
Then, to my amazement, she said, in halting, uncertain words, âYou are the head doctor?â
I nodded.
The visor cleared. The human bared its teeth at me. I learned later that this was a âgrinâ, an expression of friendship and happiness among their species.Â
âWe are The Doctors Without Borders,â she said, speaking slowly and carefully. âWe are here to help.â
@dalekteaservice this is BRILLIANT are you published anywhere other than one the interwebs because this legit made me shiver, laugh, and literally goddamn cry a little you are AMAZING - have you considered writing science fiction professionally? Because youâre definitely good enough to have a shot at it.Â
