Alien Then Realizes "Wait...humans Also Feed Family And Friends. Jim Ensures I Don't Skip Meals. Am I...family?"

Alien then realizes "Wait...humans also feed family and friends. Jim ensures I don't skip meals. Am I...family?"

"Am I family?"

Jim looked across the table and smiled as he passed a few more rashers of bacon over to Chix.

"We've served together for over eight years. You're the godfather of my son."

Jim's toddler, Charlie, sat on the floor playing a simple game of trying to grab Chix's tail as its tip wriggled back and forth.

"You helped Akiko get to the med bay when she went into labour."

Akiko was in the kitchenette area of the quarters, pouring herself another cup of coffee, "I think you were more scared than I was," she laughed to herself.

Chix almost shuddered at the memory. Egg-laying was so much more civilised. There were fewer fluids involved.

If Jim noticed Chix's discomfort, he said nothing. "You've saved my life, at least half a dozen times, I gave you an open invitation to come over to breakfast every morning, last year we went a whole parsec off-course to get you back home in time to see your oldest hatchling get married."

Chix nodded, "screw the company and its schedules," he muttered under his breath. It had been Jim's mantra during the entire trip.

Jim shook his head, that same smile still on his face. "And you only ask now, NOW, after all that, if you're family?"

Akiko joined them at the table, giving her husband a little kiss on the cheek as she sat down, "Chix," she said with all seriousness, "you were family the day you came aboard."

Chix almost felt like crying. Though that might have been because Charlie had finally caught his tail. The little one had a strong grip.

Humans are Space Orcs “Facial Expressions”

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“Why are we even here?”

At the front of the room, The Grizzled Tesraki Bridge officer took his seat. One of his ears was partially mangled, and his dark Ochre fur stuck up in strange places only adding to his grizzled appearance.

In the front row, the young Tesraki that had spoken tapped a foot impatiently against the floor.

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Humans are called space angels. What they don’t tell you, however, is which type of angel they can be.

The Dictionary of Universities defines “angel” first and foremost as “an immortal and divine creature from religion, who serves to carry on the will and messages of a god, normally by protecting and communicating with mortals”. The second paragraph says “a word used to describe someone who protects and takes care of others”. The third, and most controversial one, is “someone who is good-natured”.

“Good-natured” is relative amongst species. The consensus is that “good” refers to “not harming or being cruel to others, but not ignoring them”. “Natured”, however, is for an intelligent creature that will always prefer, without even properly thinking about it, to do and be good.

Humans do not fit in to the third definition of “angel”. Their morality, like the majority of species, is to be morally gray. There are many other definitions that they also do not fit.

The krook have angels. They are described as “divine creatures as dark as the depths of the infinitude of space, who, once upon a time, were mortals, much like us, but ascended after many lives of choosing to be good”. Wonderful creatures that whisper soft healing melodies for mortals to be safe.

Humans, when they discovered other intelligent creatures, were described as being similar in habit to those angels. They sang beautiful songs that restored entire planets. They sang and danced around, helping plant life grow and for animal life to once again thrive.

But humans don’t come from the depths of space, nor do they live many, many, many times of goodness, do they? But they sing.

The nobos fear the wrath of angels. If they are too selfish, too greedy or too ambitious, an angel would come, wielding a sharp blade, and would cut their selfishness, greed or ambition in half. They would take a part of it with them, and come back a day or two later with a crooked item made of blood. If the cruel nobos doesn’t undo their ugly deeds, the item consumes them.

The nobos saw what the humans did, when they declared war. They saw the blood and they saw the oranges and red, and they saw the teeth and they saw eyes that haunted many for years and years to come. The nobos were selfish, and thus were gifted evil items.

But humans didn’t make those things with blood. It was with iron, and it didn’t eat the nobos. It was a set of statues they would have to display around their museums, as a grim apology for the war.

But humans, on the other hand? They think of angels as divne creatures of goodness. So good, they become holy, delivering messages, doing the will of a God, protecting children and blessing those who ask for help or who are good enough. They categorise their angels (of course they do!), and many of them have appearances they consider to be horrifying.

But, above all else, their angels are holy. Their angels are good. And humans are not. Much less holy or divine. Call a human that, and they might look at you with a strange expression. Humans do not fit the first category of angel.

They do fit the second. Creatures that always looking around for others, is what the humans are. Haven’t you heard? They are trying to figure out how to donate their blood to other intelligent creatures, so they can help. They made a thing named “The Library of All Alexandrias”, containing every single piece of written language, art and sound ever imaginable, so they can protect. They are making unusual weapons that do not kill, so no one has to spill out blood.

They train each other. They watch over their libraries and museums. They walk around, wearing white clothing, always watching. In spaceships, with their colorful cloths and silks, they protect. They heal. They love.

They don’t call themselves holy. But when you are like me and see your fragile human friend risking their life to save you from pirates, asking you to keep your eyes wide open so they can sing a song you taught them so you won’t let death overtake you, taking care of your mortal wounds, you would too think that they might have a single drop of something holy.

Many creatures think humans are the second definition, but I won’t discard the first one. “An immortal and divine creature from religion, who serves to carry on the will and messages of a god, normally by protecting and communicating with mortals”.

Their divinity is one of the depths of their “Earth”, with their voices and crudeness, with the red of their interiors and stories and myths of legends. Their immortality is one kepth within their libraries, within they All Alexandrias. They protect and tell each other and us about messages they do not quite understand yet.

But one question remains. One that I fear I will never get the answer too:

Which gods sent these creatures to us?

Paranoia

Humanity has this "power"—Humanity has a lot of "powers", honestly—they call paranoia.

It's, of course, not exclusive to them. All sentient beings are acquainted with fear, and many with anxiety. But humans have—maybe unsurprisingly—a brand of their own. Paranoia. It's deep down in every single one of them, even the most hopeful optimistic.

And it's not a new development. No, many registers, both real and fictional (though those require a bit more analysis), of their existence before they even sent their first tin can to the moon show that they're incredibly paranoid. And while most of it is learned, the crucial core of it is a birthright. The fear that becomes paranoia

It's so deeply tangled with their own self that they laugh at it. They joke about it. They scoff and shake their heads and tease each other. Because it is there and their denial is shallow.

It's in there when they look at an empty space that's just big enough for something. It's there when they fasten their steps in a dark ambient. It's there when they try to break the silence before it can sit. It's there when they approach each other just openly enough to be welcome, but just closed off enough to protect themselves. It's there when they look up at the skies, or down at the deep holes and dark waters.

It's in their tales and their warnings. It's in their precautions and conspiracies. It's in their jokes about The End—whatever The End may be. It's in everything, just low-key enough that they're able to pretend it doesn't bother them. Or maybe it doesn't after millenniums of the same symphony.

Humanity is always waiting for something to happen. Something bad, something devastating. They don't desire it, and they don't want to believe it. But it's there.

None of us can put a finger on it, as they say. Some have rationalized it as "remnants of past instincts", some have laughed and claimed "madness inherent to Deathworlds". I, myself, cannot let go of the possibility that maybe there's merit to their paranoia, that maybe there's something beyond our understanding lurking, and they are the only ones so far capable of noticing it, even if they don't fully understand what they're perceiving

When I asked one of them, they shrugged. They opened a smile—that smile of unaware knowing amusement—and joked that "maybe there's something there. Or maybe Humanity knows itself so much, it knows what to expect"

I listened to the ending of your last Project ORC video and I couldn’t resist.  I hope you like it!

-codarosy

———–

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS!!!

Human Guide Page 3:

Tip No. 12: If the human is calm then it is likely everyone and everything work out just fine, especially if you have more than one human aboard.

But if the human is panicking, then that is a double-red alert situation and you better check how many escape pods you have.