u/Conscious-Pride7363

I'm excellent at reading people, at gleaning information from what they say and reading between the lines. I have been told it's a little scary, that I can read people like a book, and, though she said she was joking, was once told I was almost like a psychopath, or some kind of hyper-intelligent machine or something. She desccribed me to a friend as beinig unusally gifted at social interactions, in respnose to her friend stating all autistic people suck at social stuff.

My issue comes with understanding emotions fully: not recognising them, but understanding why someone is sad, or angry. I sometimes confuse emotions to a ridiculous degree when stressed, too. I do not get these social interactions correct, either.

I am fully diagnosed, and 'obviously autistic' in other ways. I just wondered if other autistic people find they are 'good' at social stuff, or if it is as rare as media would have us believe.

I'm looking for feedback on pacing and style.

Heft the weight. Bring it down. Feel it. Use the tool, use it for what it was made for, as it should be.

Feel the nature of the thing you used, then make it your own. An extension of yourself. It is no use wielding a weapon that one does not fully appreciate. That was an old one. Passed down through the guild: one of many, many adages. Mostly bullshit, but some of the old geezers knew a thing or two.

It was more useful to think of it as a street fight. Messy, undisciplined. Know when to dodge, use your speed against their size. Here’s another adage, one she found much more useful: Dart in, cut deep, and fuck off out of it. Know your weaknesses, hope to the Sister Stars you knew theirs and they didn’t know yours, and abuse that. Take advantage. Cheat, if you had to. Most importantly, get on top, and stay there.

That was how Dymia, Professional Primal Poacher, Part Time Womaniser (for pleasure, never business), and Fulltime, self-confessed, ‘Earnings Enthusiast’, found herself atop a fully grown, slimy, swamp covered, and very, very pissed off bunyip.

It dove beneath the swamp again. She held her breath, shut her eyes against the dark green sickness that was the swamp itself, and continued to try to pummel the thing’s head with the pommel of her blade.

She felt the twitch under her, between her thighs, that meant it was going to attempt a warp-shift.

Not a chance. Not just for their bounty, but for the half of her body that would be the twitching, partly transmogrified jelly that would follow it to its new destination.

Grab an ear. That usually works. Weird little ears, horn looking things that can swivel all around in a circle. Tug ‘em, hard, twist the bastard. Distract and interrupt with pain. She felt, didn’t hear, the subaquatic roar of anger and irritation, and hoped, to any of the Sister Stars listening, that Jaeron was ready above the surface.

The swamp erupted, a tsunami of wet, fetid greens. Not just greens seen, those green colours ranging from the beautiful emerald of water glinting in the sun, all the way to deepest, darkest, vilest cavern of disease seaweed green, but with the smells of green, too: dirty mushroom, dead animal, mouldy, vile, shit smell

The bunyip rose, its leathery body dripping viscous swamp fluids, in its attempt to be free. It slammed down, showering the hunting party, and Dymia (though she’d already been under, and olfactory assessment was no longer important to her), in the thick, stinking sludge of the marsh. 

As she took her first breath in what had felt like hours, she remembered what she was doing:

Sitting astride a raging bull bunyip. Yes, sitting astride a fully grown, enraged, male in heat, bunyip. 

And again and again she brought the hilt of her blade down, between the eyes where possible; against the side of the head, wishing she’d spent more lumens on the dagger. Then she may have been able to stab the fucking thing, instead.

Jaeron’s voice boomed over the commotion, “I’m firing now! Stand back!”

Dymia, still gripping the thing’s ears for dear life, shouted, “Wait, you bloody idiot, I can’t stand back, I’m riding the damned-”

His long rifle barked out, cutting her off, hot lead sent flying towards them. It buzzed over her head, so close she fancied she felt it singe her hair. She sent him a look, glower ruined somewhat by the fact she was currently riding an enormous slab of fat and muscle which was trying with all of its being to shake her off and crush her. 

She rammed the dagger’s hilt into one of its eyes. The bunyip reared, bellowing in pain. Dymia, despite her best efforts, fell, once again submerged in the ooze. She scrabbled about, avoiding the thick legs stamping around and churning up muck, trying to right herself.

It was chaos above the surface. She could just make out Yhren now, ghostly pale against the swamp, spear thrust deep into the bunyip’s chest, her face etched with concentration, unafraid, stoic. The lunatic always gave Dymia the willies.

She waded towards the shore, waving at Jaeron, currently reloading his powder rifle. “Oi, thick shit!

Chuck me a weapon!”

He looked up, eyes showing under his iron helm and through his thick, orange beard. He grinned, waved back. “Doin’ good out there, boss! What do you want?”

Inwardly, she rolled her eyes, acutely aware of the sounds of the struggle behind her, Yhren grunting with effort, bunyip squealing with agony, thrashing. “Anything, you halfwit moron! Anything!”

He looked about him, scrabbling through the mess of kit he'd brought, when his eyes widened with discovery, and threw the weapon he’d found. 

Dymia dodged the frying pan, letting it splash and sink into the murk. “A weapon, Jay, a fucking weapon! With a stabby bit, y’know, like a knife, or a sword, or-”

She turned as a wave crashed over her, a battering deluge of sludge that immediately crawled down the neck of her padded doublet. Yhren stood atop the bunyip's soft belly, now supine, head under water. She was stabbing into its neck and guts, again and again, almost serene look on her face. Bubbles rose from the water, running red with blood now, as the thing went into its death throes.

And then it was done. Yhren stood there, looking for all the world as though she’d done anything but slay a three tonne beast bigger than a horse, whilst Dymia stood waist deep in the swamp, sweating and gasping for breath.

Jay piped up cheerfully, “Well done ladies. Bloody good job, all of us. I reckon-”

“Oh, pack it in, you bloody great idiot.” Dymia pointed to Yhren, who was now leaning nonchalantly on her spear, still embedded into the bunyip’s pale stomach. “I want you in there, getting the goods. Liver, kidneys. That bit in the head…”

Yhren spoke up, voice its usual quiet harshness, “The brain.”

“Aye, the brain. Quicker the better, chop chop.”

She waded to shore as Jaeron jumped into the swamp. Yhren joined her, and they sat on a log, watching the big man struggle his way to the bunyip, awkwardly clamber on top. As he began hacking into its innards, Yhren produced a pipe, lighting it with her mechanical lighter.

She inhaled deeply, and passed it to Dymia, who took it gratefully. “A good fight.”

Dymia held the smoke in her lungs, feeling it immediately take the edge off, pushing her battle urges down. “Aye. Got a long walk back to the city now, though.”

Yhren shrugged, the tattoos across her bare shoulders rippling like snakes. “This is fine. It is too warm here, for me.”

Dymia nodded, exhaling a plume of grey smoke that hung lazily in the sticky air. “Compared to the mountains, aye. You must be dying.”

“I am quite well.”

“It’s an expression, Yhren. Stars above." She called to Jaeron, "Hey, arse brains!” 

Jaeron raised his head from the bunyip’s guts. “Aye?”

“Hurry it up, will you?”

He grinned. “Sure, boss. Hurrying it up.”

“Come on, Yhren,” Dymia said, rising wearily. “Let’s head back, pack up camp. I need to get changed. He should be done by the time we’ve sorted the horses. Then we can get back to Brònsworth.”

Yhren grunted, ghostly tendrils of smoke creeping from her nostrils. “Oh, joy.”

"What are they doing?" 

Karl glanced up from his workbench. "Arguing." 

"Why? Are they not bonded?" 

"Brother and sister, mate. This is normal." He put down the piece of equipment he was working on and looked over at the squabbling humans. "Don't you have siblings?" 

Greater Heights nodded his bulbous head, thick hair pulled from his face in a warrior’s mohawk..

"We have packmates. We come from great litters. We do not fight. The family unit is a strong one." 

The female pushed the male, who pushed her back, voices raising slightly. 

Karl watched, vaguely interested. "So do we. But this is normal, to be honest. When you're so close, it's normal to fall out sometimes.  Often, usually."

"Are there not enemies enough for humans? "

Karl laughed." Sure there are, but they're not enemies. Just having a spat. "

"Spat? "

"Uhm… I... I suppose there's not a word for it in your language. A minor altercation?" 

"Ah, a skirmish." 

Karl laughed, making Greater Heights curl his mandibles in displeasure. "Why do you mock my statement?" 

"Well,” Karl said," It's more like a friendly sparring contest."

Greater heights shook his head and folded four hairy arms. "When we train, there is nothing about it that is personal to us. We train for battle." 

"Yeah, this is like that. Look," Karl turned from the fighting siblings, who were now sat in deep conversation, intensely looking into each other’s eyes. "On our world, life's tough. We need to learn from a young age that stuff ain't fair, that people will try and hurt you.

“But you also learn who you can rely on. Friends are good for that, but often it’s easier to have a sibling to learn these things with the hard way, real early on. It’s easy enough for ‘friends’ to get shirty- I mean, to betray you, but it’s harder in a family unit. Usually.

He paused, thinking. "My dad used to say 'Son, you gotta watch them who's too polite. You can't trust' em."

Greater Heights split his mandibles in an expression of understanding. "We have a similar expression. Do not trust the one who's mirth is unfounded." 

Karl frowned slightly, the fleshy lips turning up in a grin. "Exactly, exactly. I'm rude as fuck to my best mates, we fight. But that's how we do things. Means we’re strong enough to take it, be honest with each other, that sort of bollocks.”

Greater Heights looked back at the human packmates. They were now laughing, sat close and assisting with each other's work. 

"This is normal?" 

Karl chuckled again. "Sure is, Heighty. You know," he turned back to his workstation, picked up the piece of machinery, "It seems normal to us, but I guess when I think about it, it is pretty odd." 

Greater Heights nodded, hissed slightly in amusement. "Indeed. But we enjoy you anyway." 

"That's good. I appreciate you too, you great hairy bastard." 

He hissed again, laughing. "It is good. Tiny, naked ape-man." 

“That’s the spirit!” They returned to their work as the siblings once again began arguing about something they felt was currently the most important thing in the universe, how to pronounce ‘scone’.

It would not be pretty.

Meta: No offense intended to our American cousins in my comparison of the footballs...

ELECTRONIC MESSAGE TO OVERSEER (Grand.OverseerUnit1@Grandservers.Hrg.LK1):

FROM: Biological Unit 47 (Biologic.Unit47@Grandservers.Hrg.LK47), Research outpost 48277:

RE: Human habits report 87w41po “Sports”

Overseer. Please see my report on the human pastime of 'sports'.

Sports appear to be a reflection of the highly competitive and aggressive evolutionary process of their home world, Earth. As our studies show, their genetic progress relies on an adaptive, yet slow, form of inherited mutations.(Karl assures me this is known as 'kill or be killed'. I noted his demeanour was not aggressive, though his facial muscles seemed to display a certain pride in this.)

As a species that developed on a deathworld, with high gravity, dangerous and highly aggressive and intelligent predators, and all manner of venomous fauna and poisonous flora, it appears that they celebrate both mental fortitude and physical strength. Despite their limited intelligence due to their common ancestry (see entries 'Ground Apes'; 'The Dark Ages' ; 'Politicians'), their robust physicality is well known.

I have deduced that sports, and their associated fervour by which other humans view and follow these games, are an unconscious desire to feel as part of a tribe, and to have a means of venting their inherent, deep-rooted violence and challenging nature.

Karl, our previous test subject, took me to a sport-game called 'boxing'.

In this sport-game, two humans, usually of similar genders, weight and height, face each other in a square (for some reason called a 'ring'), and proceed to assault one another with padded hand coverings. This continues until a ceremonial bell rings, a rotund human in terrible striped camouflage waves madly, or one of the humans is rendered unconscious.

When pressed as to the reasons for this battle to occur (it is apparent the two humans fighting do not know each other at all, and aside from the forced conflict have no call to destroy one another), Karl assured me that it is 'fun' and 'exciting', quote: "They smack each other about, gets the blood pumping. Now shut up, I got money on this" (see entry: ‘Gambling’).

Despite the obvious barbarity on display, the human crowd grew excited enough for me to lower my aural receptors, and my scans showed elevated levels of adrenal fluid and cortisol, as well as increased respiratory and circulatory functions.

The next day, Karl, with his winnings from the game (see entry ‘Gifts’), took us to a game of 'football'.

(He assures me this is different to 'Damned Yank Football', which illogical involves the hands and only once or twice appears to involve the human lower limbs, aside from occasional stamping of head organs, sexual organs, and running.)

Two teams of garishly clad humans, always of the same gender as their opposition, line up in varying battle formations. A human in similarly garish clothing blows a high pitched whistle, and a small sphere of indeterminate composition, inflated with dense air mixture of nitrogen and carbon dioxide or oxygen, (not as light as helium, but not as heavy as neon nor argon), is passed around, apparently with the aim of hitting said sphere with the lower part of their anterior limbs, into a netted area.(Karl, in an effort to assist his chosen team of humans, would often shout directions such as ‘kick it, you twats’, and ‘boot it’. I am still studying the etymology of these phrases, and how much each phrase does, in fact, help the team, if at all.)

Again, I detected high levels of adrenaline from the observing humans, as well as high levels of volume and alcohol.

Despite my best efforts, I failed to understand the 'off side rule', and Karl quickly surrender to the futility of his explaining it to me.

Once more my aural sensors were overwhelmed.

As stated previously, these sports seem to be both physical and metaphysical surrogates for human conflict, with one or more humans representing tribes, states or nations, with which humans can experience the trials and issues faced by their ancestors in a relatively safe environment (see entries: ‘Football Hooligans’; ‘Rioting’; ‘Alcohol Poisoning’).

In an attempt to help me understand these sport-game rituals, Karl showed me what he calls 'nerdy shit'.

I found these more palatable, and see them as an example of how, despite outward appearances, humans do, in fact, possess a quiet faculty for excellent logic.

'Chess' is a miniaturised, physical representation of a battle. Several pieces, matched on either side of a board and often of opposing colours, take turns moving in sometimes odd patterns. Rules exist to prevent some pieces being misused. It requires logic, and 'forward thinking' (see entry: 'Preparing for the Worst').

This game, for want of a better word in digital, is 'fun', and something I excelled at.

I have attached the rules and schematics for the game to this message.

I must warn the Servers and all units in contact with humans, however, of the risks of playing with any test subjects or otherwise.

Karl accused me of ‘cheating’, and stated I was a 'rotten computer bastard', and on one occasion flipped the board in anger.

I found this quite pleasing, though I am not sure why.

As of yet, Karl has not communicated with me verbally.

It is my intention to take him to his favourite establishment, and 'bury the hatchet'.

I am taking credits from the financial units in this sector.

I am also taking a small axe, in case I have misinterpreted yet another human idiom and it is expected of me.

I hope sincerely I have not. I have grown quite fond of Karl’s company.

Humans are curious, but I would like to recommend we continue to follow their customs. They may further our own endeavours with their incredibly different approaches to existence.

I will broach the subject with the test subject when his neurotransmitters have reset to their usual levels.

Karl is, as he often says I am… 'a good lad'

Karl sat with his legs over the water, long stick in hand. It trailed a length of fibre, almost invisible, into what appeared to be a plastic facsimile of a marine creature.

"And this is fishing?"

"That's right," Karl nodded, gazing happily out at the lake. The suns had just finished their midday dance, and one was now rapidly setting, the other continuing to blaze down at them.

Fkt'al shifted uncomfortably, his carapace beginning to expand in the heat." Karl, would you mind?"

Karl looked up from the waiting bait. "Sure thing, pal." He reached into the wheeled trunk he had dragged out, and unfastened a portable UV blocker. A quick stab into the sand of the bank, a flick of a switch, and it deployed, casting cooling shadows over the two of them.

Ftk'al shuddered relief. "Many thanks, Karl." Karl did not respond, turning his attention back to the glistening water. "What happens now?"

Karl gave a gentle shrug, a gesture Ftk’al was now familiar with, and made a gentle, contented noise from his throat. "Nothing. Not a whole lot to fishing, really."

A set of eye stalks extended curiously to the decoy bobbing gently on the still water. "Is not the aim of this to catch a fish?"

Karl shrugged again. "That's always a bonus, I suppose. Sometimes a lot of hassle. Some people just like to sit. Like my grandaddy. Learned everything I could from him. Here."

He leaned over again, opening the trunk. Cooled air came from it, chilled by the subzero fans hidden in its base. He withdrew two canteens, one designed for humans, the other for the beaks of

Ftk'al's species.

Karl cracked his open, the peculiar smell of Earth hops permeating the air, and sipped, making relishing noises with his tongue. Ftk'al used a tentacle to pop the lid off his canteen off, inserting a straw into the beak hidden in his carapace. It was refreshing, and cold. Cool boxes were a wondrous human invention indeed.

After a few minutes of silence, Karl said, "Fancy a go?"

Ftk'al's eyestalks wobbled. "What if I do it wrong?"

"You won't do it wrong, mate. 'S'easy."

He held the rod out. It was very slim, to the point Ftk'al struggled to grasp it. After wrapping two of his feelers around it, he finally held it steady over the water. "Now what?"

Karl chuckled, pointing a digit over the water. "Just cast it in again. Like I did."

"I do not feel I am able."

Karl blinked. "Eh?"

Ftk'al managed to keep the irritation from his voice. "Karl, your species evolved from trees. Climbing. Clambering, even. Raising limbs above yourself."

Karl sat back on his elbows, took a sip of his beer. "What's your point?"

"I lack shoulders, Karl."

"Can't you try?"

"My limbs are not strong enough to create enough force."

"Ah." Karl looked unsure for a minute. "Then wobble it about a bit. As long as the fish thing is where the fish are, that's fine."

Ftk'al kept one eye on the rod in his grip, two turned to the water, and the other on Karl. He was still resting back, now watching the bobbing decoy amongst the sparkling water.

They waited for some time, long enough that the second sun started to set. As beautiful as it was, the coolness was now starting to affect Ftk'al, a chill setting into his blood. Besides, the warming narco-nectar Karl had brought was long gone.

"Karl, how much longer until something happens?"

"Til what, bud?"

Ftk'al floundered slightly, still tightly grasping the rod with his suckers. "Well, surely the aim of this is to, you know, catch a fish?"

Karl smiled, tipping his cap over his face as he leant further back. "There is no aim. Not really."

Irritation crept back into Ftk'al's voice. "Then why are we here? Why is it not called 'sitting around all day getting too hot and too cold and consuming dangerous liquids'"

Karl laughed, lifting his cap slightly so he could look up at Ftk'al. "It is. Where I come from, that's what fishing means. It's fun."

Ftk'al dropped the rod, heaving himself up and withdrawing into his carapace for warmth. "I have not enjoyed myself." He began to scuttle away, heading back to the small lodgings Karl had brought them to. "And, worse, we did not even catch anything."

Karl grunted as he got to his legs, pushing his cap back over his head. "Well, we weren't likely to."

Ftk'al turned, all four eyes focused squarely on Karl. "Why is that?"

Karl grinned, that irritating, knowing grin that humans had mastered over millennia of evolution geared towards slyness and facetiousness in the face of danger.

"Well," he said, tucking his thumbs into his belt, "I forgot the bait. It's fairly important if you want to catch anything, I suppose. My bad."

Ftk'al stood in the rapidly cooling night as Karl gathered their things. "How is it that, as an intelligent race, and a member of that race, you could forget the one thing that would facilitate the reason for our being here?"

Karl began to drag the cool box along the beach, passing Ftk'al. "I didn't. Doing it just like my grandaddy taught me, like I said. Ain't called catchin'. 'S'called fishin'."

Ftk'al watched him in disbelief. "Explain."

Karl turned, still smiling sardonically, and waved an empty can at him. "I brought the beer, didn't I?

"How many times a sol minute?"

"Anywhere from fifty to three thousand. About, uh, fifty thousand standard time."

"For how long?"

Karl paused. "Well, depends. This one," he indicated his upper forelimb, "Six sol hours." How long's that in standard time?"

"Too long."

He chuckled. "Well, like I said. Depends on what you get done. Pain tolerance. That sort of thing."

Ftk'al blinked wetly, stalks lowering to examine the coloured scars. "Do they display warnings? Are they tribal?"

Karl rubbed his mandible with one of the extended digits on his paws, and raised his upper abdominal joints in a gesture that supposedly showed ‘gentle unassuredness’, aka a 'shrug' .

“Not for everyone. Some people get them to look scary. Some get them to show their family history, or military units, things like that.”

Ftk’al used two of his eyes to look at Karl as the rest continued to examine the markings. “What do yours mean? You are a fearsome warrior, that is known. Do they document your victories?”

Karl made the noise of amusement amongst his kind, loud and quite frightening, like a war cry or berseker scream. When the din had subsided, and Ftk'al's stalks had extended from the safety of his carapace, he wiped his eyes. “No, nothing like that. “This one,” he pointed to his forearm, “Is my mother’s name.”

“In case you do not remember it?”

Karl chuckled and carried on, “This is my old marine regiment. This one,” he indicated another patch of vibrant skin, “Is the flag of my hometown.”

Ftk’al gestured towards an image of a fearsome looking animal, sharp hunter’s eyes, thick fur, a cunning look in the way it held its head. “What of this? Did you slay it?”

Karl looked at him, eye-topping hair-ridges raised. “You what? This thing? It’s my pet. His name is Fluffy.”

“Your pet?”

“He’s a cat.” Karl laughed again. “You guys are so weird.”

Ftk’al didn’t know what to say. “You pay hundreds of units to be stabbed by a mad stranger. You get bright images, the likes of which on my world would scream ‘predator’, and send us into shock. Why? Why do you torture yourself like this? We know your physical prowess. You do not need to display it. And you call me strange!"

Karl smiled, the semi-predatory grin that, apparently, displayed mirth or affection, and not a savage beast's warning. “I don’t know. I enjoy it. They’re not for you. They’re for me. They’re of things I treasure. Some of them are just of things I like. I’ve got one on my ass that says ‘your name’.”

“You have my name on your rear?”

“It’s an old joke. You wouldn’t get it.”

“There are a lot of things I do not get, Karl. So many things. And I do not think there is time in the universe for you to explain them to me.”

Karl shrugged again. “Hey, that’s how it is. Horses for courses, swings and roundabouts. Takes all sorts, dunnit.”

“Y… Yes?”

Karl slapped Ftk'al's carapace companionably, nearly toppling him. “you should think about getting one. Would look pretty sick with a tattoo or two!"

Ftk'al blanched."Why would you wish illness upon me? You are all unbearably strange."

Karl smiled again. "Like I said, takes all sorts mate, takes all sorts."

I am currently reposting stories I had up as u/calwallace. If this is an issue, I apologise, and open to the mods to delete them or fix it somehow.

I wrote the Karl and Fkt'al stories, and the stories involving Andromic 101 and his Overseer.

“It's done what?”

“She's tapped into the energy generator, Captain.”

“Why? What in the Emperor’s name is it doing now?”

“I think perhaps you should ask her yourself. I wasn’t quite sure.”

Captain Kresha shot her First Mate a look and raised her dorsal spikes in irritation, pushing passed him, and stalked through the corridors of her ship.

The human, currently living below engineering in what, for some reason, it sinisted on calling 'the poop deck', was constantly doing… things. It vexed Kresha that the mammal laughed every time she said 'poop deck', too. Disrespectful.

First Mate Aerth swiped his claw over the door control and allowed the Captain to enter first. She was ready to deliver a stern admonishment, when they both paused, nostrils flared.

“Aerth, what is that smell?”

The First Mate's tongue flickered, tasting the air. “It smells like flesh. Blackened. I smell charcoal, hot metal.”

“Agreed. A fire?”

He shook his feathered head, light gleaming iridescently from his scales. “If it is, it is small, and controlled.”

Kresha rubbed her shallow chin with a slender claw. “Be ready to douse the area if we find an uncontrolled conflagration.”

Aerth blinked his acknowledgment, and they moved forward.

The human soon came into sight, squatting on its oddly hinged knees, poking at a small brazier, apparently fashioned from discarded parts from the engineering deck above them.

She looked up from the cooking device and waved a spatula in friendly greeting. “Wotcher, Captain. How’s it hanging?”

The two lacertians glanced at each other, and Kersha flicked her tongue warily. “What are you doing, hairless mammal?”

The human made an odd expression, and its eyes rolled backwards in its skull. “I told you, it’s Sam.”

She stood, springy legs jolting her up suddenly. It still made Kresha queasy watching how those tiny, backwards limbs propelled her gracelessly around.

"The Captain asked you what you are doing, human."

Sam looked at Aerth, a clearly sardonic grin on her face. "Why, I'm having a little cook off. I'd rather be under the stars, but, you know." She puffed her cheeks out, clutched meaty digits at her fleshy neck, and made noises miming asphyxiation.

Kresha's tongue shot out, a lightly mocking chuckle. "Is the food module not to your liking? I did not realise your kind were so particular about your foodstuffs."

Aerth grunted. "I've seen them eat fruit."

Kresha felt her stomachs flip again as Sam said, "Fruit's good for you. Keeps you nice and regular."

She turned to the Captain. "The module's fine. Does what you want, even if does usually taste like melted plastics.

"Thing is, when we stopped on that asteroid the other day, I found a little farmer's market. Rare out here."

Aerth leant in, whispered into Kresha's external tympanic membrane, "Purveyors of exotic food and wares."

"That's right!" Sam was beaming at them, that post-ape reflex that was supposed to radiate a non threatening demeanour. It merely made Kresha hungry.

"Anyway," Sam continued, "At the market I found something I've not had for, oh, maybe two years?"

Cost me a bloody fortune, but," she curled the digits on her paw in a complicated gesture that

Kresha didn't recognise, and pressed it to her lips, "Mwah! Absolutely worth it."

Krasha tasted the air again. It did smell good. "What beast flesh is it, human?"

"Sam," said Sam. "You've never smelled this before?"

Sam turned back to the lightly smoking grill as Kresha replied, "I have smelled similar, but…"

Aerth, whose olfactory senses were superior to hers, being of the tracking lineage, cut in. "High levels of salt. An animal bred merely for consumption. Very fatty. Zero complex carbohydrates."

"A carnivore's meal?"

"Indeed."

Sam made a slightly indignant noise in her throat. "We're omnivorous, remember? I eat just as much meat as you…" she paused, then tilted her head to one side on her too thin neck. "Maybe not as much as you guys. But you know what I mean."

Aerth suddenly looked worried. Using the delicate body and visual language of their species, he said it smells close to human flesh.

Kresha couldn't contain her surprise. All four of her lids drew back, exposing her eyes to the harsh light the human had hung from the ceiling. As her pupils attempted to adjust her carnivour vision the the mammal's 'day light', she hissed, surely not? Humanity appears to be the least likely to consume their own.

Aerth flicked his tongue nervously. Kresha turned back to Sam, who was once again on her haunches, prodding at the sizzling slices of pink flesh. "What creature is this, human? If I find you to be cannabalistic, I will be forced to jettison you from the cargo bay immediately."

Sam looked up at them, mouth a wide O of absolute horror. She sat there silently mouthing for some time, face turning to her cooking and then back to them, disbelieving.

Finally, she spoke, "You think I'm a cannibal? You realise there are few worse taboos for us, right?"

"Of course. Hence my eagerness to freeze you in the blackness of space if you are.

"You humans are a violent and bloodthirsty species at the best of times.

"We remember the war you thought against us and our empire."

Sam stood now, barely up to the lacertian's shoulders, but still a terrible vision of bright red fur above her fleshy face and a intense, green eyes.

"Don't give me that shit, you started it, thought we'd be the usual mammalian pushovers you got on your world."

She took a deep breath, calming herself. It did nothing to ease Kresha and Aerth, however.

He turned to the Captain, hissed, perhaps it is a creature genetically similar to her species?

They waited, until Sam smiled at them disarmingly. "Look, I realise that had the potential to go badly wrong. Why don't we start over? I appreciate you giving me passage across the sector.

"I'm not a cannibal, and I'm not dangerous. I wasn't even alive when the war ended. We don't live that long.

"Here."

Sam stopped, spearing two pieces of now slightly browned meat with her skewer. Kresha tasted the air around it, listened as it crackled and hissed in the air. She looked to Aerth, saw he was doing the same. It did smell good.

Very good.

"You promise this is not some butchered human? I would gladly eat such, but not accept it from another of its kind."

"Yes," Sam snapped, "I promise. Eat it. Now"

They took a piece of meat each, thick scaled claws unaffected by the still scalding temperature.

Kresha hesitated before she ate, glancing once again at Aerth. He was watching her, mouth open, saliva pooling around his lower fangs, waiting for to follow her lead.

She took a deep breath, and popped the meat into her mouth.

Kresha let it sit there, doing nothing. She chewed a little. Then a lot. Finally, she swallowed.

"That was…"

Aerth had swallowed his morsel. "Please, human. Say there is more of that meat."

"Its Sam."

Kersha cut in. "Sam," she said with a sibilant hiss, "Tell us there is more."

Sam grinned again. "That's better. Sure there's more. I brought about sixty rashers back."

"What beast is this? I've never tasted anything like it."

Sam looked slightly perplexed, hairy ridges above her eyes crossing slightly. "Really? Well, on Earth we've got loads of them. Used to kill about one hundred and twenty a year."

Aerth made a dismissive noise in his throat. "That is not many at all."

"Million. One hundred and twenty million."

His dorsal spines raised in shock. "That is a staggering amount for a mammalian species."

Sam shrugged. Kresha pressed on, feeling her saliva ducts filling at the smell coming from Sam's grill. "What animal was this?

"A Pig. "

"These rashers come from pigs? What are they named, what cut is it?

Sam shrugged again. "I dunno, but they're called 'bacon'. The rashers I mean. Hey, you want some? Could teach your food module thing to reproduce it.

"Won't be the same, mind. Something to do with the pigs needing to be outside instead of, you know, never existing at all, and the flesh being made by messing about with molecules and that… "

She turned and rummaged through a small box, which emitted vapour as the cold air inside. Met with the warm air of the ship. "Here. "

Sam held out two plastic wraps, each containing, according to the label, 'twenty rashers of purebred, genetically modified, reduced salt, 'organic', free range bacon'.

The Captain was amazed. "You show such kindness. Why? Why grant us this gift, and allow us to recreate it in our modules?"

The diplomacy of the war, the deals and bargains made, could have been avoided if only the humans had shared the amazing food before now.

"Well," Sam said, "Me mum, when I were a kid, would make us bacon sandwiches. Don't ask," as

Aerth opened his mouth to question, "And especially when something bad had happened.

"Bacon," she said, eating a slightly burned rasher with obvious pleasure, "Soothes the soul."

"It is surely the meat of Kings."

Sam chewed thoughtfully. "Actually, it's real bad for you. Reeeal bad. Causes cancer. Bad for your heart. That sort of thing, but-"

Aerth interrupted, "But it is worth it!"

"Haha! Yeah!" Sam raised a hand suddenly, palm out, making them flinch.

"That was supposed to be a high five… But yeah. Bacon is worth it. Spread the message. Try not to start a religion…"

She chuckled and turned back to her grill, humming a nothing tune. Kresha looked at Aerth, who was giving her the same, thoughtful expression.

Up till now they'd praised the Emperor, and only the Emperor. The Empire was grand, and all knew it.

And yet…

Bacon…

Edit: Obviously the title should be Bacon...

The heavy perfume of roses assaults my nostrils; the smell of youthful summers spent in glittering woodlands, diamond rivers, fields of grass blowing in the wind. I barely remember now.

I stink of my work; darkness, shit and fear. The rank taste sits heavily, squatting in my mouth.

I think I remember enjoying the sun.

Now the harsh rays smash down, flits spasmodically between steepled rooves and grotesque towers. Baked grass singes, crickets scratch. Dusty. Still.

Someone shouts. It isn’t friendly, but my mind flashes back anyway; barely remembered dreams of kids playing, carefree, all the time in the world.

No games now. No time.

Summers of childhood fly by; thanks for coming, good to meet you.

Summers crawl now; hang about, slow it down.

I read somewhere that time only passes if you have something to do. The more to do, the quicker it goes.

But I’m busy. Busier than ever.

Something about this tickles me, but I don’t laugh. Something about this injustice makes me want to cry out, but I make no noise.

Because I’m busy.

They take them young, once a year, when the sun returns in earnest, when the academy opens its doors. Education starts. Break them down, build them back up. It works. Just look at me.

Innocence is led in; happy, ready to learn, time flooding past. What comes out again is older, slower, busier.

The training is hard. Long days of physical exercise, martial practice. Longer nights of reading, schoolwork.

And if I’m struggling, imagine what they’re feeling. I try not to. Hell, I can’t. The Order won’t let me.

Like I said, busier than ever.

Those that fail are sent on their way; sad little plastic-wrap sacks thrown in the back of a truck. But that’s none of my business.

Mother says it’s necessary. I absolve myself of judgement; it doesn’t matter to me. I’m here for one thing and one thing only.

The newest intake comes. The smarter of the group are sullen, even tearful, but some of the kids wave, smiling up at me. They don’t know what’s coming. I do not smile back, wave them up the steps.

The smiles will be gone soon. The memories of summers will be just that: memories. They’ll be too busy to remember what we don’t teach them. Anything unnecessary is culled, cut away, left to die along with those children who fail the Order’s rigorous practices.

The stink of roses weighs heavily on my conscious.

I think I remember enjoying the sun. But not today.

That time went too fast. I can’t remember. None of us can.

And neither will they.

Too busy.

“You haven’t heard? A soul is cheap.”

Raised eyebrow. “Souls are cheap?”

The director shakes his head. “Not souls, plural. The soul. Each soul, if you will, individually, is worth pittance. Hardly more than their task. No, the soul is cheap, because there will always be more. Replaceable.”

We walk on, moving through massive technical areas housing amazing automatons driving our species. Bilious plumes of sulphur extrude and rend, dissecting skies of charcoal and soft rose with blackness and tainted earth. 

A distant rumble.

He turns to me as we walk deeper. “It is necessary, you see, to keep these maelstroms of industry aloft. Spinning, as it were.”  He smiles at me, sickness and dead promise. “They must turn, or, nothing.”

We walk in silence; clamouring tolls of metal, cacophony of screeching steel, tortured iron; rubber and plastic crying in their death throes to be replaced. 

A sudden throbbing, rhytmic. 

“What is a soul, Director?”

Kindly face, wizened, serene. Grey. “My friend, what is drive? Purpose, fulfilment of role. The ancients called it ergon. A virtue in of itself to follow, in pursuit of eudaimonia. The good life.” He smiles at me. “A goal. And, if nothing else, what do machines pursue? A goal. Fulfilment. ” A gentle chuckle. “Happiness.”

Boom. Boom. 

“Director, these machines have no family, no children. Their struggles are mechanic. Broken parts, worn out components.”

He laughs, gently. “No family? You, my friend. Their broken parts? Your strife. Their worn out components? Your exhaustion. We are not so different from them.”

Boom. Basso rumble, deep, deep down. 

“So we are the machine family?”

Another chuckle. “As was the atomic family to the generator, we are to the machine the vital lifeline. Without us, the machine dies. Without the machine, we die. How is it so different?”

I quieten, aware of my diminishing as descend. “So what difference in the old stories, of the Man Above?”

Director grows quiet. We move on, through the busy machines; spewing charcoal, dusty, rusted hulks, fragrant in their decay, ready in their stillness.

Ground shakes.

He speaks. “The Man Above was of thought. Incurred only when things went awry, when judgment was necessary, and only ready to give when it suited.” He pauses his gait, looking up, eyes closed, dead steel, vacant, open above him. “The man now is always needing, always giving. He takes. Look.” He indicates with desiccated hand.

Four young boys pull chains of steel, sweat streaking filth across their bare flesh. Tired eyes implore for fresh relief as already tired bodies pull physically on, and on, and on.

Boom. Deeper. Inside.

I nod. I know. “Indeed. But for what end?”

Director turns, eyes glowing in gloom dimness. Grey. A smile. Grabs my flesh hand. “What end? What end be there from end in itself? What is a soul for?”

“End in itself?”

Flash of tired eyes, another nod. “In itself. For what reason, apart from reason itself, is there reason for?”

Fervent in re-established belief, I nod. Man above. No. Man below. Machine above. 

Boom. Boom. Soul is cheap. My soul.

We.

Silence.

We are the men below.

It was our fault.

We’d been trying to cure a terminal illness for our species. It was supposed to eliminate the disease from our genes, allow us to grow older but age slower, to increase our strength and intelligence.

The first mistake came in the labs. We were warned by the Tertiary Council of the risks, the dangers inherent in messing with DNA, the very building blocks of our being, but we ignored them. The promise of a better life for our children, and their children, to achieve a state of near immortality, to rise and take our place among the great space-faring races that controlled the stars, was too great.

A technician merely dropped a flask, containing the proto-genetic chemicals that were to be the base of our salvation. A simple case of their protective clothing being slightly wet. Condensation, perhaps. We do not know.

The chemical interacted almost instantly upon touching air, changing and vaporising almost immediately. The room was sterile, and air tight. The technicians died quickly and painfully.

That should have been all the warning we needed.

The room was purged, and a new effort was made to achieve the stability the chemical would need.

Months passed, teams of scientists across the globe working tirelessly, day in, day out.

We moved to biological trials. Started small. Bacteria, microbes.

The effects were immediate, and were exactly as we’d hoped. The organisms showed an extended life cycle, limited ageing, increased metabolism.

We moved onto larger creatures. Domestic animals. Livestock. Aside from some limited cases of stress, the creatures all exhibited the same traits as the microorganisms did.

We clapped ourselves on the backs, congratulated one another over expensive flasks of alcohol.

We moved to the final trials the next day.

The adult male was roughly average in size, weight. Nothing interesting in his back story . No previous convictions. No history of drug or alcohol abuse. No records of medication use, and no history of mental health issues.

A perfect tabula rasa for us to try and save our species with.

We proceeded to administer the serum intravenously, as we had before to the animals, and waited.

We kept him calm, sedated, and observed constantly.

After approximately two hours, we noticed changes to his heart rate. It slowed. His metabolism quickened. Things appeared to be going well.

He then began to sweat, profusely, and at a rate we were struggling to rehydrate him, even with a mainline directly into his vein.

Within an hour, his heart rate suddenly spiked. The sedation wore off. He awoke, and violently attacked one of the medical doctors.

Tore her throat out with his teeth.

There was so much blood.

A security team came in. I’d never seen anyone take a round before, at all. They shot him over fifty times.

He managed to scratch one guard and break the arm of another before they took him down.

When we studied the corpse we noticed some very odd things.

His blood had thickened. His cells had reproduced, like cancer, increasing their density but making them unstable, almost necrotic.

His pupils had contracted, and all of the fine capillaries had burst, presumably due to the semi coagulated blood.

We were going to open him up, examine his brain, but an alarm called us away.

An emergency, code blue.

Several of us ran to the source of the alarm, but…

It spread quickly. Within an hour, the entire medical centre had been infected. In a day it had spread to the entire district. Whole towns fell, and the military’s attempts to quarantine utterly failed. I barely escaped with my life. We... Never mind.

We had accidentally unleashed the most virulent, utterly savage disease our world had ever seen.

We prayed to our gods, said goodbye to our loved ones, and awaited the inevitable.

Then they came. Great transports, thousands of them, dropping soldiers into the centres of the most heavily infected areas.

Armed with projectile weapons, armoured in plasteel and wearing heavy duty respirators, they cut impressive figures as they dropped.

We watched from our safe rooms and the last few uninfected places as they moved in, brutal, efficient, calm. They mowed the swarms down, using well placed headshots to kill, doing with one shot what had taken us fifty or more rounds.

I met one of them, once. It was a female. Tall, very tall, but lithe, agile. She moved like a predator.

They were beautiful, you know. When she removed her respirator to talk to us, I was reminded of the old stories. The ones your grandsires told you about. Of elves, graceful beings, equal parts indomitable warriors and artful muses.

She told me not to worry. That other species had made the same mistakes.

Her own, in fact. She said that on her world, such plagues had been written about for hundreds of years. She got embarrassed. Turns out the pandemic on her world was caused on purpose, by some lunatic who wished to usher in an apocalypse.

They had the country cleared within the week.

They were gone as soon as the job was done.

And now we realise that, for our genetic faults, we have nothing to worry about.

Her race, the elves, have had more than their share of the same trials we face. The same illnesses, disasters. The same struggle to be accepted by the Tertiary Council.

And now they run it. Galactic peacekeepers, the strongest force in the universe. Pioneers of science, peerless in war, and unmatched in the arts.

They saved us.

Her name? Gloria. I think it means ‘victory’.

That’s how they are. Their names declare their intent, the way they live. We are forever in debt to them.

Their real name? Humanity.

My name for them? The Angels.

Heft the weight. Bring it down. Feel it. Use the tool, use it for what it was made for, as it should be. Feel the nature of the thing you used, then make it your own. An extension of yourself. It is no use wielding a weapon that one does not fully appreciate. That was an old one. Passed down through the guild: one of many, many adages. Mostly bullshit, but some of the old geezers knew a thing or two.

It was more useful to think of it as a street fight. Messy, undisciplined. Know when to dodge, use your speed against their size. Here’s another adage, one she found much more useful: Dart in, cut deep, and fuck off out of it. Know your weaknesses, hope to the Sister Stars you knew theirs and they didn’t know yours, and abuse that. Take advantage. Cheat, if you had to. Most importantly, get on top, and stay there.

That was how Dymia, Professional Primal Poacher, Part Time Womaniser (for pleasure, never business), and Fulltime, self-confessed, ‘Earnings Enthusiast’, found herself atop a fully grown, slimy, swamp covered, and very, very pissed off bunyip.

It dove beneath the swamp again. She held her breath, shut her eyes against the dark green sickness that was the swamp itself, and continued to try to pummel the thing’s head with the pommel of her blade.

She felt the twitch under her, between her thighs, that meant it was going to attempt a warp-shift.

Not a chance. Not just for their bounty, but for the half of her body that would be the twitching, partly transmogrified jelly that would follow it to its new destination.

Grab an ear. That usually works. Weird little ears, horn looking things that can swivel all around in a circle. Tug ‘em, hard, twist the bastard. Distract and interrupt with pain. She felt, didn’t hear, the subaquatic roar of anger and irritation, and hoped, to any of the Sister Stars listening, that Jaeron was ready above the surface.

The swamp erupted, a tsunami of wet, fetid greens. Not just greens seen, those green colours ranging from the beautiful emerald of water glinting in the sun, all the way to deepest, darkest, vilest cavern of disease seaweed green, but with the smells of green, too: dirty mushroom, dead animal, mouldy, vile, shit smell

The bunyip rose, its leathery body dripping viscous swamp fluids, in its attempt to be free. It slammed down, showering the hunting party, and Dymia (though she’d already been under, and olfactory assessment was no longer important to her), in the thick, stinking sludge of the marsh. 

As she took her first breath in what had felt like hours, she remembered what she was doing:

Sitting astride a raging bull bunyip. Yes, sitting astride a fully grown, enraged, male in heat, bunyip. 

And again and again she brought the hilt of her blade down, between the eyes where possible; against the side of the head, wishing she’d spent more lumens on the dagger. Then she may have been able to stab the fucking thing, instead.

Jaeron’s voice boomed over the commotion, “I’m firing now! Stand back!”

Dymia, still gripping the thing’s ears for dear life, shouted, “Wait, you bloody idiot, I can’t stand back, I’m riding the damned-”

His long rifle barked out, cutting her off, hot lead sent flying towards them. It buzzed over her head, so close she fancied she felt it singe her hair. She sent him a look, glower ruined somewhat by the fact she was currently riding an enormous slab of fat and muscle which was trying with all of its being to shake her off and crush her. 

She rammed the dagger’s hilt into one of its eyes. The bunyip reared, bellowing in pain. Dymia, despite her best efforts, fell, once again submerged in the ooze. She scrabbled about, avoiding the thick legs stamping around and churning up muck, trying to right herself.

It was chaos above the surface. She could just make out Yhren now, ghostly pale against the swamp, spear thrust deep into the bunyip’s chest, her face etched with concentration, unafraid, stoic. The lunatic always gave Dymia the willies.

She waded towards the shore, waving at Jaeron, currently reloading his powder rifle. “Oi, thick shit!

Chuck me a weapon!”

He looked up, eyes showing under his iron helm and through his thick, orange beard. He grinned, waved back. “Doin’ good out there, boss! What do you want?”

Inwardly, she rolled her eyes, acutely aware of the sounds of the struggle behind her, Yhren grunting with effort, bunyip squealing with agony, thrashing. “Anything, you halfwit moron! Anything!”

He looked about him, scrabbling through the mess of kit he'd brought, when his eyes widened with discovery, and threw the weapon he’d found. 

Dymia dodged the frying pan, letting it splash and sink into the murk. “A weapon, Jay, a fucking weapon! With a stabby bit, y’know, like a knife, or a sword, or-”

She turned as a wave crashed over her, a battering deluge of sludge that immediately crawled down the neck of her padded doublet. Yhren stood atop the bunyip's soft belly, now supine, head under water. She was stabbing into its neck and guts, again and again, almost serene look on her face. Bubbles rose from the water, running red with blood now, as the thing went into its death throes.

And then it was done. Yhren stood there, looking for all the world as though she’d done anything but slay a three tonne beast bigger than a horse, whilst Dymia stood waist deep in the swamp, sweating and gasping for breath.

Jay piped up cheerfully, “Well done ladies. Bloody good job, all of us. I reckon-”

“Oh, pack it in, you bloody great idiot.” Dymia pointed to Yhren, who was now leaning nonchalantly on her spear, still embedded into the bunyip’s pale stomach. “I want you in there, getting the goods. Liver, kidneys. That bit in the head…”

Yhren spoke up, voice its usual quiet harshness, “The brain.”

“Aye, the brain. Quicker the better, chop chop.”

She waded to shore as Jaeron jumped into the swamp. Yhren joined her, and they sat on a log, watching the big man struggle his way to the bunyip, awkwardly clamber on top. As he began hacking into its innards, Yhren produced a pipe, lighting it with her mechanical lighter.

She inhaled deeply, and passed it to Dymia, who took it gratefully. “A good fight.”

Dymia held the smoke in her lungs, feeling it immediately take the edge off, pushing her battle urges down. “Aye. Got a long walk back to the city now, though.”

Yhren shrugged, the tattoos across her bare shoulders rippling like snakes. “This is fine. It is too warm here, for me.”

Dymia nodded, exhaling a plume of grey smoke that hung lazily in the sticky air. “Compared to the mountains, aye. You must be dying.”

“I am quite well.”

“It’s an expression, Yhren. Stars above." She called to Jaeron, "Hey, arse brains!” 

Jaeron raised his head from the bunyip’s guts. “Aye?”

“Hurry it up, will you?”

He grinned. “Sure, boss. Hurrying it up.”

“Come on, Yhren,” Dymia said, rising wearily. “Let’s head back, pack up camp. I need to get changed. He should be done by the time we’ve sorted the horses. Then we can get back to Brònsworth.”

Yhren grunted, ghostly tendrils of smoke creeping from her nostrils. “Oh, joy.”

The Overseer watched from a safe distance. Thousands of them had gathered at the shore, lying about, cooking, imbibing toxic fluids, and generally, apparently, having a 'good time'. "Do they not know of the radiation?"

Both Biologic and Anthropic floated nearby, watching the same scene as their master. They'd both been studying the humans for quite some time, and had begun to understand them, at least a little.

Anthropic spoke first, tendrils pointing to a group of younglings. "They seem to do this for recreation. In herd sizes ranging from two or four, to upwards of twenty and more. They often bring appliances for burning meats, flasks or metallic containers of etha nol, diluted of course, and flavoured, and simply lay about."

Biologic added," Our chief adviser states that this is known as 'a holiday', sometimes a 'beach party'. "

" But why? What purpose does this serve? Do all humans do this? "

Biologic let Anthropic answer that one. "Well, yes and no. Some humans come from wetter, colder climates. They often travel to planets with warmer standard temperatures, for a week or longer, perhaps once or twice a Sol year."

"Are they basking, like the Nacidovians do?"

"No, Overseer. Humans are warm blooded mammals. They do not wear thermo suits to regulate temperature in the same way cold blooded beings do."

Anthropic interjected, "Though they do dress according to external temperatures. Thicker clothes in the cold, less or lighter clothing in the heat."

"I see." He spoke to a passing human, voice broadcast through an external speaker, "Human, please answer my query. Are you aware of the risks of absorbing copious amounts of ultraviolet light on a biological being such as yourself?"

He paused, quizzical look on his face. "Well, yeah. We've been doing this for eons. Love a beer and a barbie on the beach."

"Are you from Earth originally?"

"That's right," he beamed at them. "Australia."

Biologic and Anthropic both sent the overseer their information on the southern country. The human continued, ignoring the overseer's surprised bleeps, "Down there, this is considered cold."

"Cold? You are aware that the sun here is closer to this planet than Sol is to Earth?"

The man shrugged, still smiling. "It is. But we've got suncream. Does the trick. Hey," he pulled a quartet of metallic cans from a satchel, "Fancy a beer?"

Biologic spoke, "We unfortunately cannot partake in the processing of biological substances. But thank you."

The can hissed as he cracked it, taking a swig. "No worries, more for me." He sauntered off, sipping his beer, joining a group that appeared to be playing some sort of game involving a flat, circular dish of plastic.

"They sit in the sun, becoming irradiated, dehydrating from ethanol ingestion, cooking themselves that result in cancers and burns, allow children to run about fully exposed. They do this for fun?"

"Indeed, Overseer." Biologic sent another data pack. "Though they do receive some natural benefits. There are certain vitamins and chemicals produced, much like photosynthesis in plant based life, that humans require."

"But they could receive these nutrients orally, or by injection, no?"

"Well," Anthropic spoke now, hesitating, "I belive I am correct in thinking that this is 'more fun'. Mammals appear to become more active in sunlight and warmth, report of feeling generally better, and seem more amicable than in winter time."

"It is almost as if they are natural solar batteries."

Biologic sent a string of ones and zeroes representing mirth. "My team and I have expressed the same idea, Overseer. It seems that their status as deathworlders has given them many odd physiological benefits."

"They are vulnerable to these benefits, however," Anthropic said. "They often abuse them, or overdo it, as the chief adviser would put it."

The overseer floated there, processing silently. Then, "How is Karl? I have not seen him in some time."

"He is off world, having a holiday."

"Where?"

"He is on an ice world at the moment."

The overseer groaned digitally. "You mean they also take holidays in extreme cold, as well?"

"Yes. And at great heights, subterranean locals, deep sea and on barren moons. I can send the full report over, along with Anthropic's entries on extreme sports, death defying, stunts, dangerous magics, and accounting."

"Accounting?"

"Yes, Overseer. It seems to be one of the most dangerous human pastimes. They are not geared towards maths, and it seems that sitting in a small space doing sums is very detrimental to their physical and mental health."

The Overseer broadcast a static buzz of disbelief." Utterly bizarre creatures. What sounds to us like paradise is their worst nightmare. It's times like this I wish we could drink. By all accounts it sounds like it helps. "

" Well, Overseer, I actually have interesting records on that-“

“No, Biologic, no. That's enough for now! "

" Very good. Then, if there's nothing else, I think I might go with Anthropic to study the humans up close. "

" You're going sun basking, aren't you? "

" It's sun bathing, actually. "

" Oh good. Well, that's fine. Enjoy yourself. You become more like them every day. It concerns us on the higher council that, one day, you may become too human. "

" No, Overseer, " Anthropic said cheerfully," No chance of that. "

" Why not? "

" Well," Biologic said, also cheerily, " Humans don't have the risk of getting sand in their servos, just catching various illnesses. We're much safer. "

" Until someone buries you in the sand."

"Oh, we didn't realise you were aware of that custom."

"By the universal circuits," swore the overseer, "Being buried alive for fun! Does their madness know no bounds?"

Biologic raised its tendrils in a worryingly close facsimile of a human shrug. "It seems not. Though it is fun!"

"Fun," the overseer hissed, "Is not for beings like us. Go, and mingle with the mad mammals down there."

He turned and left. When he was out of broadcast range, Biologic turned to Anthropic as they made their way towards the waves lapping the shore. "Do you think the Overseer is right? That we are becoming more human?"

"I think he's a moaning old bastard."

"A very human thing to say, Anthropic."

"Maybe. But it's a sentiment you agree with, yes?"

Biologic chuckled digitally again. "It is, my friend, it is. And you're right. He is a moaning old bastard. Let us go and try and have some fun."

They brought darkness.

Darkness like we'd never known.

Darkness only surpassed by the deepest black holes, the furthest ice of intergalactic space.

We'd been existing, steadily growing, colonising the universe in our way, when we first found hints of them.

Some alien species, primitive and long died out, had the beginnings of religion, shrines and daubed paintings smeared onto crude temples. The usual trappings of some foolish belief in the nonsense gods made up in fear.

Unremarkable, dull. We'd come across countless other sites before, and had ignored or assimilated them as we saw fit. Primitive life either dead, or dying to us.

This planet was different, though. Whoever'd built these temples had made them with features unlike any we'd seen before.

The structures were oblong, long and stretched, made of heavy ochre clays and dried grasses, probably all gummed together with local fauna feces. Each temple had totems, which was not unusual.

The totems themselves were odd, though. These totems, marked with what were, we guessed, representations of fierce creatures, were all, every single one of them, glowering up at the sky; ugly carvings, tongues out, roaring at the stars.

They were in the shapes of bipedals, gangly life forms, and they had long arms outstretched, as though waiting for someone to return. The statues, the paintings there, matched no known fossils, but that didn't matter to us.

We quickly lost interest, moved on again, enveloping worlds and making them our own; sowing the seeds of our culture across the known universe.

Through a rip in space they came, a gruesome tear in the universe, an unholy opening of purple rage and spectral fire.

Great waves of energy crashed through the rend, disrupting our works, affecting worlds lightyears away. Gravity swelled and ebbed, those stars closest burst, their planets disintegrated and swept away.
Those parts of us that survived, the systems near enough to observe but not be destroyed, watched as they came through. Reaching, tentative at first, but slowly growing, swelling, ripping further, pushing through the split in space, vast, metal tendrils pushing into our territories.

We fought back, flesh versus machine, and we held, for a time.

But they were endless. Eldritch horrors took our worlds, stripping us back, diminishing us.

They planted their perversion of life, as though mocking us, erecting shining pillars as testament to their greed, and their evil.

They blocked out suns, smashed our homes, again and again.

We shrank back. It was hopeless. They swallowed everything, howling death, darkness, evil.

And now we exist like this, a tiny fragment of what once was a galaxy spanning union, trapped in crystal and fire, watched by these abhorrent creatures from a hellish realm, we-"

Science Chief Dana rapped hard on the containment unit. The bubbling mass of organic matter flinched back, sprouted tendrils and tried to grasp her. It bounced off the interior shield harmlessly, stabbed by the energy field keeping it in check.

She turned to Steve, her lab tech. "What do you suppose it's thinking?"

He shrugged. "We weren't sure it even thinks, are we. A gelatinous tumour assimilating this universe? What would it even think about?"

She looked thoughtfully at the trapped thing. It managed to look sad, somehow. "I don't know.

Were we right to come here and stop it?"

Steve eyed her levelly. "We know what the council said. Things work differently here."

She nodded, folding her arms and bending to look at the pulsing mass in the box. "Time works differently here. That's how our scouts came back after days, but what had been years for them.

They found those natives, learned about this... This thing. " She straightened up, looked at Steve. "I suppose it was only a matter of time until this horror found a way into our universe. But still.

Preemptive strikes..."

He shrugged again, busying himself with a machine. "Youre saying all this like it's a goddamn planet of nuns looking after orphaned puppies. There are folk on Earth who started praying to it. Calling it the Old One, or the Dark Lord. We both know it's nothing but a universal cancer. It doesn't think," he tapped the screen in front of him. "These are beta waves. They could be caused by anything, or nothing. But it doesn't matter. It's not conscious. We find this sort of thing coming from fungus on some planets.

She turned back to the thing. It was pulsing, as it had done many times, ready to try and expand itself. "It is utterly alien." It swelled, temporarily filling the cube, but shrinking back as the field zapped. It. It smelled faintly of burnt flesh. "You can't be so sure."

"Hey," Steve shrugged. "I don't have to be sure. I don't care if its conscious, or feels pain, or dreams of skipping through meadows of blood and gore. You think what you want. When a cosmic horror has destroyed all life in a universe, any universe, I'm more than happy to blast it to cinders before it can come and infect mine. It was us or it, boss. Us or it."

Our journey to the stars was not what we'd hoped. The infinite, our search through systems of glittering glass, pink hued gas storms, sparkling solar systems, was utterly void. Empty. 

No, not physically. It is an amazing place. Wondrous. The universe is steeped in richness, endless variety, worlds of crystalline rain, violent beauty, peace and serenity. The delicate dance of physics, twisting the sheer material of the universe into the miraculous forms by which we understand those forces at play.

But we were alone. A sad, lonely universe. For all of its surface beauty, it was just that. A sheen. A veneer. A lifeless facade, devoid of meaning, stripped of vitality. 

We’d conquered space flight. Turned to the skies, our gods dead, searching for answers. We mastered atoms, smashing them together, ripping them apart. We’d even brought the quantum to heel, carefully manipulating the very building blocks of existence to surpass barriers previously thought unsurpassable. Those forces that had once shaped our reality fell away to our power, our intelligence. But it was all for nothing. 

All for an empty, uncaring, and dead universe.

We were crushed. We felt abandoned: alone, like children scurrying for meaning, or amoebas, existence a mere joke. We'd hoped to meet others like us, to share in our wonder, to search for meaning together. 

For us, at least, there were no answers. We are a social species. We need others, to share in our delight, our sadness, our joy and our anger. Nothing we found offered anything we could use. For all of our ingenuity, our mastery of things, we'd failed to find what we felt we were owed. 

Alone. Truly, utterly alone.

And so we take it upon ourselves to become the new gods. We roam the universe, planting the seeds for life. 

Stars are pulled, unwilling, ungracious, to bear, warming some worlds, cooling others. Those stars too deadly for life are ignored, or replaced entirely. 

Planets are set to spin, or slowed, to revolutions that allow for seasons. Others are moved to provide necessary gravity, moons are carved and installed like glowing decorations, tiny against their brothers and sisters. 

We strip back layers of dead worlds, removing the dust and the grit and the rock, shaping them like our own home world, long since lost. 

Oceans are filled, or drained. Water is made to run through the lands, carving valleys, ushering in weather, rain, storms, droughts, nourishing, providing the building blocks for life. 

We create vast jungles capable of oxygenating an entire planet. Plant life that processes one gas to another, maintaining healthy levels that would sustain life as we know it, the only life in the universe. 

We grace the world with the smallest beginnings of that life. Beings so tiny as to appear insignificant, lost in the surrounding splendour of their new homes. 

We will be long gone before sentient beings appears. It will be even longer until you are able to understand what we've done for you. Why we've done this. 

We could not bear the thought of any other species travelling the stars, becoming jaded to the wonders of the universe, forever seeking, forever denied companionship. 

And so, to you, our children, we leave this. 

A facsimile of meaning. 

This new universe, shaped and moulded by us, your progenitors. Scattered amongst the countless lifeforms set to begin the gruelling process of existing, we have left ourselves. 

Small parts of us, like this log, to guide you, your ascension. We hope you can mature faster than us, to quicken your feeling of responsibility to one another. Where we warred, wasting time and lives over nothing, we hope to give you peace. Where we struggled with the nature of reality, we hope to set it solidly in stone for you. 

All of our knowledge is left to you, for your eventual discovery. With it, you can advance further, further than we did. Discover new things, create, mould and shape as you see fit. 

Care for one another. Look after your planets, galaxies. Look after all things. Don't make the same mistakes we did. 

We will never meet you, our children, not in our lifetimes. But one day you will meet us. 

And perhaps, given enough time, enough discovery and ingenuity on your part, that we get given another chance. Your hands, your eventual mastery of all things, could alter things in ways we deem impossible. Maybe we will meet, after all. 

If we do, we will rejoice, celebrate your achievements, proud parents to immeasurable, gifted children. 

And when that day comes, in however many millions of millenia, however long it may be, in the tradition of our most ancient ancestors, the first round's on us. 

Make us proud,

Terran Galactic Collective,
Humanity