Amalgam Universe

An alien and a human with a Han and Chewbacca-esque relationship

(I don’t think Hwell counts, that looks more like babysitting)

[AN: Well, yes, but Hwell does spend large volumes of time making gurgling noises…]

Ruscis still couldn’t believe this was happening, but a duty was a duty and this… being… hadn’t left her side since the convoluted happenings that involved saving its life.

“You remember what I said,” Ruscis repeated. “Stay non-threatening. It’s bad enough I’m a Soncamur, but with a human in tow?”

The human hung its head and made a chain of noises few could understand. Ruscis had made the effort.

“No, they aren’t going to shoot at us if we play it right. I know these people. They put up with deathworlders.”

Grumble mumble murmur sigh.

“It was a shock to me, too. I never knew I came from a class one death world. You’ You’re robust enough to come from a class four. That’s impressive. Nobody usually survives encounters with class four deathworlders.”

The human glared at her. Argued in its thick, nigh-incomprehensible tongue.

“You know that, and I know that. But when it comes to getting free drinks at the bar? Let me do the talking.”

Snort. A roll of its expressive eyes.

“Okay. Fine. Free drinks and your supply of theobromine.”

*

Ruscis could tell the exact moment when her human had started unloading the hold. It was the faces of the other cogniscents interrogating her as a potential threat.

“That? Oh yeah. Saved it’s life back on Cestus Three. Been following me around ever since. Guess it’s grateful. And since I’m clearly not dead, you can register that human as mostly harmless, too. Thank you kindly.”

“Does it have a name?” said the Chitanian behind the counter.

“Yeah, sure. But I can’t pronounce it. I call it ‘Red’. Hey, Red! Come here and tell the nice bug your name…”

“Victoria,” said the human.

“See? Utterly unpronounceable.”

“…answers to 'Red’,” murmured the Chitanian. “Do you intend to obtain any controlled substances?”

“Only theobromine. Red needs it to live.”

Red nodded enthusiastically.

[Muse food remaining: 58. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Turnabout is fair play: Something the aliens consider utterly mundane and/or harmless, that is dangerous or terrifying to humans.

It was a disaster. The freshly-introduced Ambassador Harry still hunkered in her improvised bunker of relatively solid furniture, butter knife held tight to her chest in a white-knuckled grip. The ability to speak had left her and she would slash or stab at anyone who came close.

Until Sui'dut came to sort out the mess. Sui'dut, the only alien Harry trusted on

Ridiculous fact of the day: We went to the moon before we thought to put wheels on suitcases.

Some things are essential for cogniscent development. The ability to control heat is one. Civilisation in any form is another.

It is impossible to have a planet where the entire population are dancers. People must eat. People must learn. People must make insipid sitcoms and nobody knows why.

But some things… don’t always happen in the correct order.

“Wait,”

“Aliens do not understand papercuts.”

The death world menace flinched, howling in agony. “Idonotfirkinbelievethis!” It dropped the weapon it was holding. “Agodsdamnedpapercut. Afterallthis, agodsdamnedpapercut…”

The huddling assembly of survivors blinked in confusion. This creature had survived toxic gas, lacerations, contusions, concussion, shock, awe, and extremes of temperatures… and now it was halted by a relatively minor injury to its apparently thick hide.

It wasn’t even bleeding, there.

Yet the creature stopped. Retreated,

Prompt: That trick where you come up behind someone and pop a paper bag to make them jump, most often portrayed when someone is working on something that could (but probably won’t) explode.

[AN: I must have hit a nerve on the Interwebs, yesterday. Twenty-three notes on one silly story because of an equally silly side-fling. Must resist the temptation to do that from now on]

To the Galactic Alliance, need-to-know information is information that every citizen, denizen and in denizen

It was a companionable quiet, with the rhythmic “whud, whud, whud” of the engine accompanied by various tapping and clanking of everyone doing their jobs. Eventually everyone’s noises gradually synced with the main beat and suddenly the Lion King happened.

“I swear sir, I left for four seconds and they started a musical number" 

Goryx stared out at the rows of humans - still working, of course - as they continued to sing.

"TILL WE FIND OUR PLACE,