Stupid Sexy Cryptids [131-134]

131: Saint Nikky

Evelithria descended into mad, gurgling, giggle-adjacent noises. 

If she couldn't use the fleet anymore, if Nexali's railgun bolt to the head didn't do the job… Then she would make sure that her best, most jolly assassin would conceptually, permanently erase the Emperor of Humanity from existence!

"Appreciate the pep talk, Marshall," she finally relaxed ever so slightly. "I'll call you later, if I require a cleanup."

She hung up on the serval with a determined grin.

"Cast the local Stabalist ship!" The ex-Admiral ordered, mentally rearranging her features and recoloring her feathers from jet black to gray-blue stripes with her Phase-Shift.

The ring flashed for a second trying to reach the Stabalist receiver.

Suddenly, an image of a water-maned, blue-skinned Kelpie in silver-gray uniform appeared on the holo projection.

"Good Tomorrow!" The Kelpie smiled. "I am May Hydralline, Stabalist Oversight Monitor and Tidecast Archmage. How may I be of assistance?"

"Monitor May!" Evelithria smoothed her feathers, trying to look dignified in the cramped room. "Slayer be praised, thank you for accepting this call! It's a pleasure to finally speak with a representative of the Omnithornian Senate! I've been waiting for this blessed day for so long!”

"The pleasure is all mine!" the Kelpie replied with far too much merriment. "We were quite surprised to locate an entire Frontenachii fleet and a non-magic Earth here! It's pretty exciting! I’ve never seen a world this… full of humans!”

"Exciting?" Evelithria stated, letting her voice tremble to suggest a fragile psyche teetering on the edge of collapse, which wasn't that far from the truth. She hunched her shoulders, shrinking in on herself to appear smaller, less predatory. "Oh, Monitor... perhaps from the safety of your Stabalist cruiser. But down here? In the belly of the beast? It has been an awful nightmare."

May’s eyes widened with concern. "A nightmare? Hrm. Tell me more."

Evelithria let out a bitter laugh. She glanced nervously at the door of the kobold quarters, pantomiming terror. "Monitor, please. I don't have much time before they find out I've contacted you. The memetic release weakened the defense grid and buried our Datamancers in work, but they will sort through it out soon enough, so I might not be able to contact you again.”

"Who is 'they'?" May tilted her head.

"The Frontenachii Legate Council," Evelithria hissed. "Legate Ixthia and her ruling party. The Fleet High Command." She took a shuddering breath, her mind racing as she wove the fabrication. "I am but a lowly Commander. My name is Commander Livia. I... I tried to stop them, Monitor. I tried to tell them that they kept violating the Stabalist Accords on sapient Species Rights!”

The Kelpie gasped, bringing a webbed hand to her mouth. "Violations of the Accords? We suspected as much..."

"Yes!" Evelithria spat, then lowered her eyes, looking fearful. "I'm sorry. I'm just... look at where they put me." She gestured around the cramped room. "A metal kennel. This is my punishment for speaking out. For refusing to open fire on human cities. Legate Ixthia... she stripped me of my rank, my dignity. She's a monster, Monitor May. A true monster! You must stop, censor her as much as you are able!"

She saw the hook sink in. The Stabalists loved nothing more than an informant, a whistleblower from a naughty Omnicorp that broke the rules.

"The destruction of the Capital Ship..." Evelithria continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It wasn't a mere human rebel attack. It was a direct result of Legate Ixthia's mismanagement. She overthrew our noble, godly leader Admiral Evelithria for the sake of truly dastardly plans! Ixthia's cruelty pushed the local population and our kobolds to a breaking point. And now? Now she plans to scapegoat the junior officers. Officers like me, who only wanted to follow the Frontenachii Empress's true vision of... of honorable aid to doomed worlds!"

"This all sounds quite serious," May’s tone filled with bureaucratic gravity. "If true, this warrants a Level 5 intervention. We could sanction the entire Frontenachii Fleet. We could freeze their assets in Omnithornia."

Evelithria’s heart leaped. 

Freezing Ixthia’s assets? That would be a delicious bonus. Now she needed to focus on the prize.

"I have proof," Evelithria lied smoothly. "I have logs. Personal recordings of Legate Ixthia ordering… torture of children. Evidence of interdimensional crimes. I can give it all to you. I want to defect, Monitor. I want to seek asylum under the Stabalist banner."

"A defector!" May bobbed, water droplets flying from her hair. "Oh, this is wonderful! We love rehabilitation stories! I can send a Seeker to pick you up immediately or attempt to open a gate!"

"No!" Evelithria barked, then quickly softened her tone. "No... not yet. It's far too dangerous! Ixthia has eyes everywhere. If a Stabalist Corpse Seeker gets too close to where I am kept, or if they detect an attempt to open a gate, they'll have me vaporized with a concealed ion ray before I can escape and box my Lazarus bracelet."

"Ah. I understand." May nodded. "What do you propose?"

"Firstly… I… I want to make some arrangements…" Evelithria whispered. "Legate Ixthia told me that once she is finished punishing the rebellious kobolds who helped the Emperor of Earth destroy the capital ship, she will mentally force me call Omnithornia and terminate my accounts there, use my credits to fund more torture, hurt more innocent locals!"

The Kelpie frowned.

The ex-Admiral looked up at the Kelpie girl with wide, pleading eyes. "I simply cannot allow that, Monitor. I want to liquidate my assets. I want to donate everything to a registered, charitable organization!"

May clasped her webbed hands together, beaming. "Oh, Commander Livia! Restorative justice! Philanthropy! This is exactly the kind of presentable kindness we look for!"

"Yes," Evelithria lowered her skull modestly. "It is the Order of Saint Nikky in Leviathan’s Cradle. They are an ever-holiday outreach program. They ensure that everyone gets exactly what they earned during the year. Please, let me call them… so that they can deliver their... holiday-themed aid... to this world before Ixthia takes everything from me with her brain hooks!"

"Saint Nikky?" May's eyes lit up. "Oh! The traditional See-Mass spirit! Yes, that does sound lovely. From what I am hearing on the Astral waves, this… primitive world doesn't worship the Slayer and does not even have See-Mass!"

"Yes," Evelithria said, suppressing the urge to gag. "Exactly! Please, Monitor… Let me make this one final act of charity."

"Granted!" May declared benevolently. "I will patch you through via the Stabalist hyper-relay immediately. The encryption will be absolute; not even the Legates will know you are dispersing your money!”

The holo-display shifted, the silver-gray-blue of the Stabalist ship interior dissolving into the static of a long-range dimensional connection.

Evelithria sat up straighter on the smelly bunk.

The image slowly resolved itself into a view of a cozy-looking, dimly lit cabin. A roaring fire crackled in a hearth made of black stones. Colorful stockings hung from the mantle. A large See-Mass tree glittered with a thousand magitek stars. In a large, red, leather armchair below the tree, sat a curvy female figure obscured by shadow, save for the glint of massive, curved horns and the glowing embers of yellow eyes.

The Omnid wore a fluffy red hat and an excessively jolly red and white sweater with a picture of a female Krampus carrying a huge bag over her shoulders.

"Ho, ho, ho, HO!" The Omnid laughed. "You've reached Saint Nikky's Workshop. You catch us at a busy time. We are checking our lists twice!"

"Hello, Saint," Evelithria declared, sounding extra jubilant. "It's your most... devout donor, Livia Frontenachii. I have a donation to make and a request for aid! Most urgent!"

The figure leaned forward, coming into the light. Yellow, goat-like eyes narrowed. A long, red, prehensile tongue flicked out to taste the air. "Hrm. How urgent are we talking about?"

"Very!" Evelithria said, careful to keep her tone extra-benevolent for May's benefit. "I have identified a number of fine individuals on this Earth who are in desperate need of... The Slayer's holiday spirit. I want to hire your full sleigh service. The premium… Interdimensional package. With the reindeer, presents and holiday songs!"

"The reindeer are tired," Nikky rumbled, tapping a long, black claw against the armrest. "And the feed for them is expensive. Interdimensional travel requires a lot of... cookies and milk."

"I am liquidating my entire savings account for your charity, Saint," Evelithria said. "Formicanull Frontenachii Omnicorp Account 94-34-99-214-85. Password '8492'. Take it all. Enough for milk, cookies, and a brand new sleigh."

Nikky paused. She picked up a red ledger and tapped it rapidly. "Hmmm… That is... a lot of cookies. Appreciate the donation. This must be for someone truly special."

"Yes! He is… truly the kindest, nicest boy in the omniverse," Evelithria confirmed. 

"And who might that be?"

"You've seen the broadcast from this dimension, I hope? The Emperor of Mankind who just destroyed the Frontenachii Third Fleet capital ship?"

"Ah, yes," Nikky nodded. "I have indeed witnessed his... curious speech."

"I want presents delivered..." Evelithria said sweetly. "To him, and all of his friends! Omnids, kobolds, humans, whoever works for him really, whoever is aiding his wonderful mission on this Earth for freedom and independence! Especially the lovely starry-antlered girl who ran away from home. She needs a visit from the Krampus. A present half-wrapped in gold ribbons for her and your best lullaby! I know that Starshady loves the See-Mass spirit, and… if you visit my workplace after, my friends at Formicanull would love to hear how much she appreciated your songs!"

"How festive! Yes, of course! I do drop by your office from time to time," Nikky chuckled. "You want it to be a nice surprise?”

"Yes!" Evelithria nodded. "I want them to be surprised. I want them to hear the bells and rejoice in the Slayer's See-Mass spirit of giving!"

"We live to serve," Nikky closed the red ledger with a snap. "We will load my Sleigh with our finest… presents. Expect us down the chimney shortly. I'll jump to the… Stabalist array sending out this signal, yes?”

"Yes! Do thank the local Stabalists for their assistance with some fine presents! After you're done delivering presents to the goodly boys and girls, remain for a while and spread love and joy across this entire wonderful planet, for they know not of the Slayer! Thank you, Saint," Evelithria chirped. "Merry Ever-See-Mass!"

"Merry Ever-See-Mass, Lady Livia!" The Krampus replied grinning from ear to ear.

The connection ended. The ex-Admiral smiled. 

Hopefully, there was enough cash in Formicanull’s account for Niktavia to depopulate this entire treasonous planet. They had conversed in code that only she and the hunter understood. Niktavia didn't leave anyone alive after she was done and her entire charity was a front for a hand that only delivered permanent death to all.

"Oh, that was beautiful!" May praised. "A Frontenachii Wendigo Commander spreading the joy of See-Mass! I knew that you all weren't awful!”

"Yes," Evelithria whispered, staring at the blank wall of the fox-smelling room, imagining the Emperor's screams when presents ripped him apart from within and See-Mass trees bloomed in his veins and bones. "It truly is the season of giving. Thank you for giving me this opportunity, May!”

“You are most welcome!” The Kelpie smiled. “Now about the crimes of your superiors…”

“Yes, of course,” Evelithria said. “I'll tell you all I know. Legate Ixthia…” 

The Wendigo began listing her opponents' criminal businesses in Omnithornia. Ixthia and the others would regret crossing her today. 

Once Niktavia was done dispensing ‘holiday joy’ to the people of Earth and the Stabalists, then Evelithria would ask her to deliver life-ending presents to the treacherous Legates as well. 

Everyone would get just rewards for their deeds soon enough.

132: The Great Coniferous Conversion

Sergey Lebedev pressed his eye to the plössl eyepiece of his Celestron EdgeHD telescope, adjusting the focus knob to keep track of the alien warship.

The balcony of his Capitol Hill apartment offered a mediocre view of the cosmos due to the aggressive light pollution of Seattle, so he could not monitor the stars that well. Thankfully, the moon and the ten-kilometer ship looming above it were big enough contrasting targets. 

Inside his apartment, every screen starting with his phone, to his EltiQ tablet, to his old Galasonic TV that has been dead for a few years now collecting dust in the closet, to his smart fridge, to his modem and router, all blared the same distorted and resonant voice.

"...I'm going to bend you over my knee and… teach ALL OF YOU to love humanity!"

The Emperor of Earth was speaking to everyone.

The same corroded voice spoke through every car radio outside, pulsed from every apartment window, somehow, inexplicably buzzed from everything electronic.

The Astrophysicist had no idea who the Emperor was, but he enjoyed the jibe of his words, loved the idea that humans were space orcs that somehow outwitted, fucked over the far more advanced Wendigos and their animal-predator invasion force.

Sergey admired the jagged silhouette of the ten-kilometer warship against the gray expanse of Mare Tranquillitatis. He watched the thrusters flare, the ship accelerating.

"He's de-orbiting," the astrophysicist muttered to himself. "Holy shit. He's actually doing it. Terminal velocity vector locked.”

How was the Emperor going to survive this?! Was this a suicide run? It couldn't be, the words weren't that of a martyr. The Emperor sounded like he was going to keep going, to further screw with the aliens, as if flying their capital ship into the moon wasn't enough…

Sergey watched as the massive warship dove into the lunar surface like a dagger.

The impact was silent and the brilliant flash blinded him momentarily, making off-colored stars and fractals dance in his eye, his head throbbing.

Sergey recoiled, blinking away purple spots, then jammed his eye back to the lens. The thermal bloom was massive, but as it faded, he saw the aftermath.

The crash site was a burning crater of liquid plasma and…

"That's definitely not normal regolith displacement," Sergey muttered. "The ejecta pattern is wrong. It’s moving... organically. What… what the hell is that?"

He watched on, his migraine intensifying.

"It’s not dissipating," Sergey whispered. "The debris cloud isn't following ballistic trajectories. Whatever it is… it’s… spreading out."

From the burning crater, a gargantuan, freakish other-ness bloomed. 

It looked like a tree, yet it was wrong, less like a physical thing and more like a shadow-inverse silhouette. It was darker than the black of space and also burned bright, making him squint, screwing with his eyes and head. 

The explosion-born thing sucked in the ambient starlight and the sun’s reflection off the regolith. It was a jagged fractal, and in parts… looked aggressively biological in its geometry. 

The longer Sergey stared and the inverted tree, the worse the sharp, needle-like pain spiked behind his eyes.

Stop looking. His brain warned him. This is probably an information hazard. Look away.

He couldn't.

The inverted "tree" grew in real-time. Massive and nebulous roots lashed out across the grey plains of the Mare Tranquillitatis. They moved like oil spilling through water as they sought purchase on the vacuum itself.

Sergey adjusted the declination, moving the telescope to the edge of the unnatural bloom.

His heart hammered against his ribs. He knew the map. He knew the terrain of the moon by heart.

Sergey knew the limits of his equipment. He knew that even with the best atmospheric conditions, the diffraction limit of his aperture meant he couldn't resolve anything smaller than a crater a kilometer wide. 

He couldn't see the American flag. He couldn't see the descent stage of the Eagle. The Apollo 11 landing site was just a set of coordinates to him. 

0° 40′ 26.69″ N, 23° 28′ 22.69″ E.

The black and inverted roots raced on, spreading close to the sacred site.

"No," Sergey hissed. Bile rose in his throat. "Don't go there. Don’t eat our lander!"

The writhing darkness crept across the craters. It ignored the lack of atmosphere. It ignored physics, moved with unnerving leaps. 

It headed straight for the coordinates of Tranquility Base.

He imagined the historic site. The spindly gold-foil legs of the LEM. The TV camera. The footprints left in the dust since 1969. He couldn't see them. He felt their impending decimation. The shadow-roots reached the approximate area. They curled around the site like fingers closing over a marble.

The pain in Sergey's head intensified as he squinted at the coordinates of the lunar lander. The headache shifted from a spike to a roar. It felt like static was being injected directly into his optic nerve. The geometry of the unnatural tree was wrong. It radiated colors that he had no name for. It folded in on itself with angles that shouldn't exist and branches that went in instead of out.

"What the fuck are you?" Sergey gasped, concerned that the contamination from the destruction of the alien ship would consume the entire moon at this rate.

The black and not-black infection pulsed. A dark and necrotic bruise spread across the moon’s face. It beat with a faint rhythm that made Sergey’s vision swim, his eyes watering.

The sheer scale of the event overwhelmed him. Humanity had just punched a god in the face only to have something eldritch crawl out of the wound.

Had the Emperor of Earth just awakened Cthulhu sleeping inside the moon? Were they all fucked now?

He was unable to tear his eyes away from the eyepiece until he felt ill, broken, sheared by the roots of the inverted tree that somehow reached out to him, infested his thoughts. 

Sergey slumped back into his plastic patio chair, finally looking away from the telescope. 

The night sky spun overhead. The inverted tree seemed to expand through him. It filled his mind and pressed down on him.

He passed out on the balcony with a pained groan, eyes closing as his brain started to boil from within.

. . .

Sergey Lebedev stood on the Moon.

The silence of space pressed against his ears. The grey dust beneath his fuzzy slippers felt like powdered ash. He had no idea how he was even breathing and realized that this was a dream. 

Just a stupid dream his mind created from staring at the shear in reality for three hours.

Ahead of him stood the Lunar Module Eagle. Gold foil gleamed in the harsh and unfiltered sunlight. The foil was peeling. 

Something… rotting and wrong lay underneath, like metal fused to wood fused to… writhing flesh.

"Houston," a voice suddenly crackled inside his skull. "Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has... landed."

The voice didn't travel through sound waves as there was no atmosphere on the moon. It vibrated directly in Sergey's mind.

He turned. A figure in a bulky and white A7L pressure suit stood there. The name tag read ARMSTRONG.

"Neil?" Sergey asked, speaking without sound.

"The Eagle has landed," the figure repeated, staring at the Earth hanging in the black. The voice slowed down, warped like a record left in the sun. 

“You died in 2012, Neil…” Sergey let out. “You know, I always wanted to talk to you, to wonder what it was like for you to stand out here, to look at every human on Earth above you…”

"That's one small step for... a ghost. One giant leap for... the abyss,” Neil stated with a static-warped voice.

The astronaut turned to face Sergey fully.

The gold visor of his helmet was cracked. Through the fissure, Sergey saw TV static. Glitching digital snow formed the vague shape of a man who had been dead for over a decade. A smile woven from colorful flickers appeared and vanished.

"The surface is... fine and powdery," the static-voice buzzed. "I can kick it up loosely with my toe. It adheres like... powdered charcoal. Like soot."

Neil raised a gloved hand and pointed. Sergey turned.

The dead astronaut pointed toward the horizon behind them where the inverted-shadow-tree loomed. It was infinitely tall. Its branches raked the violet stars out of the sky, dove into elsewhere, reached into the abyss and pulled something ghastly from its innards.

Sergey’s mind wobbled sideways as he looked at the liminal tree blossoming on the moon with two and five dimensional edges. He looked back at the dead astronaut, blinking tears away.

"It has a stark beauty all its own," Neil’s voice pulsed in Sergey’s head. "Like the high desert of the United States. But it's changing, kid. Can't you hear it? Magnificent... desolation."

“Yes,” Sergey let out. “It is pretty freaky, ain't it? What will happen to us next, Neil?”

"We are not alone in the universe," the ghost said. The static in his visor swirled violently. "There is... kzzzzhhh… an alien fleet in orbit.”

“I've been watching them,” Sergey agreed. “Will they retaliate?”

“Not openly…” Neil replied. “Not like… her… kzhhhh… She is coming.”

“Who?”

“The Jolly Butcher."

Sergey blinked, trying to make sense of Neil’s words.

"The Great Coniferous Conversion looms," The astronaut's static-face shifted, new words stitched together from his famous lunar broadcast. It resolved into an image of pine tree branches covered in decorations and flashing stars. "Unlike the Front… e… na… chii… Wen.. di.. gos… She doesn't want slaves, doesn't feed on fear. She wants to turn us all… into festivus…"

Neil took a step toward Sergey. The movement was jerky, like stop-motion animation with missing frames.

"I am at the foot of the ladder," Neil intoned. "The LEM footpads are only depressed in the surface about... one or two inches. But the roots go deeper. The bells go deeper."

"What bells?"

"Listen," Neil hissed.

A low and rhythmic tolling vibrated through the lunar regolith.

"I'm going to step off the LEM now," Neil said.

His suit began to bulge from within.

"Neil?" Sergey backed away.

"It's a very simple matter to hop around," the ghost said. His voice distorted into a terrifying, eerie carol. "Hop. Hop. Hop."

The white pressure suit expanded. It stretched like a balloon. Lumpy shapes pushed against the fabric from the inside. They were shaped like… boxes. Wrapped gifts with sharp corners pressed against the material.

"Beautiful view," the ghost gurgled. "Is that... tinsel?"

Green needles erupted from the joints of the suit. Red ribbons burst from the life-support backpack.

"Neil!"

"Good luck, Mr. Gorsky," the ghost whispered. “It’s up to you now.”

The visor shattered outward.

A torrent of silver bells, festive decorations and pine branches and needles poured from within. The suit ballooned to the size of a boulder. Something massive and jolly writhed inside, getting bigger with each passing moment. Roots ripped through Neil’s boots, digging into the lunar regolith.

The sound of Christmas carols entwined with bells began pulsing through the air. The words being sung by a girl were wrong, praising the Slayer and raving of the Leviathan, chorusing of the ever-watchful Wormwood Star that ended all life and bloomed life anew.

"Merry... See-Mass… one… and all," the thing inside the suit groaned.

The suit exploded and massive Christmas tree branches whipped at Sergey, sending him flying backwards, his mind tearing at the seams.

. . .

Sergey woke up with an undignified yelp. He flailed his arms at a pine tree that turned out to be his telescope, nearly swatting the entire thing off the balcony.

"Bells," he gasped, grabbing the precariously wobbling telescope. His heart felt like it was attempting to escape his chest. "Fucking bells."

His phone suddenly buzzed against his thigh in his pants. It vibrated with a persistence that pulled the astrophysicist back to reality. He fumbled it out of his pocket. 

It was the "Cascadia Furs & Science Enthusiasts" private telegram group.

Sergey swiped the screen with his thumb, blinking blearily at the notification.

133: Comet

[Oppenheimer ☢,‿,☢ ]: Yo, Copernicus! Did you see the whack fireworks? The Emperor slapped the friggin' moon! Event of the century! What a speech, am I right?

It took Sergey a minute to get his thoughts in order, to claw his mind away from the nightmare of the infected moon.

Oppenheimer. The group admin. The extra-extrovert dude who organized Emerald City fur-meets and furry cons which Sergey occasionally participated in. 

[Copernicus ❍⩊❍]: Yes, I saw it. Oppie, the moon is infected. Physics is broken. I saw a fractal tree growing in a vacuum. It hurts to look at it, pretty sure it gave me a fucked up dream about Neil Armstrong. I need a drink.

[Oppenheimer ☢,‿,☢ ]: Way ahead of you. Listen. New community challenge dropped. Operation Florida-Lunar fireworks!

[Copernicus ❍⩊❍ ] Florida? Are you planning for us to hit up a con in Miami?

[Oppenheimer ☢,‿,☢ ]: No, you turnip. It means "Make Earth the Florida of the Multiverse." The aliens are stuck here now, I bet. Their biggest ride exploded. We need to show them a good time before they decide to laser us all for blowing up their shit.

[Copernicus ❍⩊❍ ] Are you serious? Show them a good time? They're giant animal people who are probably mad as fuck about one of us blowing up their ship. I’ve been staying away from them for a reason.

[Oppenheimer ☢,‿,☢ ]: Tall. Murderous. Hot predator girls in your area. 

[Oppenheimer ☢,‿,☢ ]: What more could you want? Come on, get outta your place and get ur ass here. Make Love, Not War! We need to integrate them. Fraternize. Get out there and mingle. If they're dating us, they won't vaporize us. Get what I'm saying?

[Copernicus ❍⩊❍ ] I already told you, I’m an astrophysicist, not a pickup artist!

[Oppenheimer ☢,‿,☢ ]: You're a human with a pulse and you look decent in a flannel. Chicks dig smart guys. Specially alien chicks. Get to The Tipsy Sasquatch tonight! Target of opportunity: Any stranded Omnid or prad babe looking sad about their exploded ship. Buy them a drink. Explain gravity and shit. Get a girlfriend for the sake of mankind! Come on, everyone is already here, celebrating!

Sergey stared at the phone. There was a photo there of his friends in partial costumes, looking happy drinking. Oppenheimer asked him to join pub outings several times this week, but he rejected the offers, terrified of getting his face clawed off by one of the aliens.

His head thrummed, the migraine returning.

Neil Armstrong. The bells. See-Mass. The damned dream felt far too real, far too horrible, pushed him to act, to do… something outside the norm.

[Oppenheimer ☢,‿,☢ ]: Come out, come out! Don't be a scared kitten. Go get laid for humanity! I'm out here right now buying drinks for my fav cheetah lady. Catch up! Everyone’s doing it! Cash prizes for whoever bags an alien GF first! 

[Copernicus ❍⩊❍ ] how mad are they at us?

[Oppenheimer ☢,‿,☢ ]: that's the thing, none of them are mad at us! if anything, they’re super impressed that one of us blew up their capital ship somehow. Bigly opportunity to get it on tonight, get ur ass to the pub, come on. Adventure of a lifetime! 

Sergey sighed. 

Something inside him snapped, allowing him to overcome his social anxiety. He had to tell someone about his dream, share the dire warning of coniferous doom. The Astrophysicist didn’t believe in bullshit like precognition, yet the dream of the moon felt… prophetic. 

Oppenheimer knew a lot of people. 

Maybe he knew someone in the military, someone who could help prevent whatever was coming.

. . .

The Tipsy Sasquatch was a dive bar in Fremont. According to Oppenheimer, it had become the “unofficial watering hole for alien babes”.

The neon pink and blue sign flickered in harmony with the moon-tree headache pulsing behind Sergey’s eyes as he parked his Pontiac beside it.

The bar was packed. Humans were celebrating the Emperor's speech. They clinked glasses and shouted toasts to "Victory." 

The aliens were there too. A mix of drunk Pradavarian soldiers and the occasional bewildered-looking Omnid huddled in booths. They nursed high-grade alcohol and watched the TVs on the walls with varying expressions.

Sergey adjusted his glasses and smoothed down his flannel shirt.  

Operation Florida. Right. Just be… nice and harmless. Don't get vaporized.

He looked for Oppenheimer, aka Steve. 

Steve was easy enough to find. The loud, brunette man occupied the largest circular booth near the back, wearing a pair of high-quality coyote ears and holding court like a king. He was flanked by their usual Comicon crew: "DorkVader" Tom, "Darwin" Dave, and Sarah aka “C4P4” currently dressed as a generic anime catgirl wearing a dress with the cute droid’s depiction on it.

They weren't alone.

Squeezed into the booth with them were two pradavarians, a clouded leopard sitting beside Steve and a badger, who looked mildly interested as Tom tried to explain the rules of Dungeons and Dragons using beer coasters and peanuts.

"Copernicus!" Steve roared, spotting Sergey. "Finally! You made it! Ladies, gents, and extraterrestrial guests, the starscape-obsessed chosen one has arrived!"

Sergey adjusted his glasses, feeling painfully underdressed. He slid into the booth next to Dave.

"Drink," Steve commanded, shoving a shot into Sergey's hand. 

"Oppy, did you get my text?" Sergey hissed, knocking back the shot. It burned all the way down, tasting of peppermint schnapps and vodka. 

“Which text?” Steve asked.

"I saw something. A tree. An inverted fractal tree eating the landing site,” Sergey said. “And then Neil Armstrong told me about… bells and… other stuff..."

"Ohhh!" Steve laughed, clearly not taking the astrophysicist seriously. "Space dreams! Look around you and forget about the moon for tonight, man! The aliens are sad. Their ride got towed to the moon scrap yard. They need comfort. They need culture. They need..." He grinned deviously. "Operation Florida!"

"Oppy, this is important, damn it," Sergey muttered, eyeing the badger, who was currently eating a peanut shell and all.

"No! Diplomacy is important," Steve insisted. "We are the ambassadors of funk. The emissaries of chill. Quit radiating anxiety and get out there. Find a nice, lonely alien warrior-princess and explain the Roche limit to her until she swoons."

"..." The astrophysicist stared at his friend.

Another vodka shot was shoved in his direction. He chugged it with a wince. The lunar headache lessened slightly, the dream of Armstrong receding to the back of his mind. Maybe it was all indeed just a stupid dream…

"Go man!" Dave pushed Steve out of the booth. "Hit on whoever catches your eye. We gonna make bets!"

"I..." Sergey fretted.

“You can do it! For humanity! For the species! For the plot! Everyone has to ask an alien girl out tonight! That's part of the challenge!” Steve declared.

“Don't come back till you talk to a cute prad,” Sarah giggled. “We're all watching.”

"Watching and judging!" Tom added, throwing him a thumbs up.

Sergey stumbled into the crowd on wobbly legs. He navigated through the press of bodies, dodging a group of humans teaching a drunk reptile-prad how to do the Macarena.

He needed a target. Someone who didn't look like they would rip his arms off at a glance.

His eyes landed on a solitary figure at the bar.

A Tiger pradavarian. She was staring morosely into a glass of whiskey. Orange and black fur covered her face. 

Okay. Tigers are cats. Cats like attention, right? She looks drunk enough. Maybe she won’t eviscerate me on the spot?

Just... be cool. Say a few words and get back to your friends. You can do this.

Sergey approached the girl, thoughts colliding with each other.

Physics. Stick to physics. 

"Excuse me," Sergey let out, swallowing nervously.

The Tiger looked from her drink, gold eyes narrowed. "What do you want, human? Going to make fun of us like the others?"

"I, uh..." Sergey leaned against the bar, struggling to look casual. "I couldn't help but notice the tidal forces in here are intense. It's like... you're a black hole. I'm a cloud of hydrogen gas drifting past the Roche limit. I feel myself… being pulled apart by your gravity."

He felt like an awkward idiot. This is why he didn’t come to these meets before.

"What?" The tiger blinked.

"The... Roche limit," Sergey continued. He was sweating excessively now. "It's the point where a satellite breaks up due to tidal forces. Because... you're attractive. Gravitationally speaking."

"Are you comparing me," she slurred slightly. "To a celestial singularity that destroys everything it touches?"

"I mean... metaphorically?" He swallowed.

“Uh-huh,” She yawned, treating the astrophysicist like he was a particularly uninteresting bug. “What else you got?”

Sergey shuddered, feeling that this particular conversation was already doomed to collapse in on itself. "Did you know that stripes are technically a form of camouflage designed to break up your silhouette in tall grass?"

The Tiger stared at him. "Oi! You calling me… a grass-hiding coward?"

"What? No! I was just mentioning the evolutionary advantages of—"

"You mock my stripes?" Tiger stood up. She kept standing up. She was tall. Too tall for his linking. "You think I hide in grass like a Green? I hide in nothing! I stand in the open and kill!"

"I didn't mean—"

The tiger grabbed Sergey by the front of his flannel shirt. She lifted him off the ground with one hand, bringing him face-to-face with a muzzle full of very sharp, very white teeth.

"I should bite your head off," she growl-purred, hot, alcohol-smelling breath washing over his face. "I should crack your skull like a walnut and drink your jelly."

"Please don't drink my jelly," Sergey whimpered, dangling helplessly.

"Carrla! Put the primitive down!" A sharp voice barked. Sergey quickly determined that the voice came from a Commander inhabiting a nearby booth. The Wendigo’s antlers were draped with Mardi Gras beads.

"He's makin' fun of my stripes, Commander!" Carrla shook Sergey like a ragdoll.

"I do not care if he insulted your mother," the Wendigo stated. "We have orders from the Legate Council. The Green Fleet is in orbit. The Stabalist Oversight monitors are watching and their reps could be anywhere. We must be civilized! No eating any locals tonight. We are… being veeeery polite and friendly." She ground the sentence out of herself with visible effort.

Carrla huffed. "You are lucky, puny man." She dropped him, opening her first.

Sergey hit the floor hard, scrambling backward on his hands and feet. The tiger sat back down, muttering about "hippie regulations" and "fucking flower-loving Greens."

"Physics check." Sergey stared at the ceiling with a groan, rubbing his aching behind. "Momentum conserved. Right. That was a bust. Definitely never talking to another prad girl ever again." He mumbled to himself.

"That was a terrible pickup line."

The new voice was melodic and amused. It came from directly above him.

Sergey turned his head in the direction of the speaker.

Standing beside him was... legs. An incredible amount of legs. Black, sharp digitigrade claws that turned into dark legs that slowly became more orange like a sunset. As Steve’s eyes travelled up the slender and long legs, her outfit made his brain careen sideways.

She wasn’t encased with the standard, intimidating, magitek, black hexasuit like the Commanders and servants of the Frontenachii armada.

The prad looming over him wore a short, green skirt with whimsical drawings of dancing x-mas trees. Below the skirt sat a candy-cane striped G-string that barely covered anything. A fuzzy, bright red sweater featuring a knitted pattern of prad skulls wearing Santa hats sat on her curvy frame. A red choker covered in jingling silver bells inhabited her neck. Perched atop her head, nestled between large fox ears, was a green headband with felt reindeer antlers.

The Maned Wolf smiled down at him. It was the warmest, jolliest, most predatory expression he had ever seen.

"You tried to explain gravity to a drunk Tiger." She chortled, leaning down and extending a hand. Her claws were painted candy-cane red and white. "Explaining veganism to a dungeon mimic would go better."

Sergey stared at the offered hand, heartbeat intensifying. "Physics seemed… safe."

"Physics is boring," she declared, hazel eyes flickering with emerald rings from within. "Holidays are fun. Come on. Up you get."

She grabbed his wrist and rapidly hauled him to his feet. He stumbled, colliding with her. 

She smelled like... 

Cinnamon. Pine needles. Freshly baked cookies. Milk. Presents. The flavors and smells of X-mas cranked up to two hundred.

The smell of his nightmare. The scent of festivus devouring Neil Armstrong from within.

134: Seductive Festivus

Sergey recoiled, scrambling back, glasses sliding down his nose. This was no ordinary alien invader. She didn't belong, didn't fit in, stood out like a colorful Christmas tree inexplicably existing in the middle of the warzone.

“What’s wrong, cutie?” the Maned Wolf asked.

"You... smell odd," he muttered.

"I smell like cheer!" she corrected. "Come on. Take me to your glorious leaders!"

Sergey blinked at the aberrant alien, struggling to plot an escape route. "My… leaders?"

"Yeah," she said, "the prad-masquerading humans you were sitting with earlier. Your group doesn't taste like the others. You're... different."

"In a good way, I hope? You're different too," Sergey stated as the festive prad rapidly steered him back toward the large booth where his 'friends' watched with amused expressions.

"Copernicus returns!" Dave roared. "And he brings... Whoa. Is that a Christmas sweater?"

"It is a festive garment of the Slayer's most radiant See-Mass spirit!" the festive prad announced brightly, shoving Sergey into the booth and sliding in right next to him. 

The table went quiet.

The Clouded Leopard stared. The Badger stopped chewing her coaster.

"Hi!" The Maned Wolf beamed at the group, waving a clawed hand. "I am Comet Evergreen! Found this one for you!" She patted Sergey's head. "He looked lonely on the floor."

"Ha!" Tom barked a laugh. "The astronomer found a comet! That's like... uhhh... like destiny n' shit!"

Sergey glared at Tom.

"Sup! I am Oppenheimer," Steve said, pointing to himself. He gestured to the others. "This is Darwin, DorkVader, and C4P4. And our new friends, Scrut Sevviya and Knight Uarri."

Comet seemed to freeze for a second, brown eyes igniting with emerald spirals.

"Oppenheimer," she purred, "like the inventor? Lovely. And Copernicus? Like the star-gazer, yes?"

"We like science," Oppenheimer said, pouring a pitcher of beer. "What are you supposed to be? I didn't think the Frontenachii did holidays."

"Yeah, what's with the getup? You with the greens?" Uarri tilted her head. "Or you one of the Stabalist Overseers?"

"Neither! I am with the Order of Saint Nikky," Comet said smoothly. 

"Saint Nikky?" Sevviya blinked. "Which is what?"

"I serve an ever-holiday-outreach Charity from Omnithornia," Comet said. She reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a large bottle of wine with a red ribbon tied around the neck. She slammed it on the table. "The Stabalist Oversight Committee gave us a special pass to spread cheer to the indigenous unenlightened population. Ambrosia-vodka blend. Courtesy of our Saint. Drink up!"

She began pouring shots into everyone's glasses.

"A festive wolf-fox!" Steve winked at Sergey. "Great job, dawg. Keep at it and you'll totally win the pot tonight."

"I did nothing," Sergey hissed back, struggling not to stare at Comet's curvy body. "She just… appeared."

"The holidays do sneak up on people." Comet leaned her chin on her hand, turning her full attention to the group. Her eyes bored into Oppenheimer. "Your group seem... particularly well organized. Code names. Cute challenges. Is this how you coordinate the resistance with your Emperor?"

"The Emperor?" Dave snorted. "No way. Nobody knows who he is. He is like... an internet cryptid. A meme that got out of hand."

"A meme," Comet repeated, "So he has no... headquarters? No physical address I could deliver a... fruit basket to?"

"If we could sniff out his friggin' address, we wouldn't be stuck drinking here," the Scrut cheetah huffed.

"He is everywhere and nowhere," Tom added philosophically. "Like Anonymous. Or Batman."

"Batman has a cave," Comet noted, "and a butler. Does your Emperor have a butler? Perhaps a... Magic fox with too many eyes?"

"No idea," Steve said. "Before today, most people thought he was a crazy man who claimed to represent us."

"And now?" Comet tilted her head.

"We still think that he's crazy." Dave shrugged. "But like, a successful kind of crazy?"

"I think that it could be a false flag operation," Sarah said. "To weed out the local resistance! It could all be fake!"

"You think that the Frontenachii blew up their own capital ship to find human resistance?" Sergey asked. "No freaking way. It's not fake. I saw the explosion through my telescope!"

"True words ‘dat." Uarri grabbed a handful of peanuts, crushing them in a fist before shoving the debris into a mouth full of sharp teeth. "Our masters are cheap bastards."

“How cheap?” Dave asked.

"My dude, they steal magic spoons from dungeons," Uarri continued, spraying crumbs. "They steal planets. They steal people. If it is shiny or magical, they put it in a box and keep it forever. Blowing up the Slayer's Sword? No ‘effin way. That is the opposite of the Frontenachii attitude. The Admiral would sooner eat her own legs than scratch the paint on her hoard-box."

“Collecting stuff is how the Frontenachii roll,” Comet agreed. 

“We should drink to that!” Oppenheimer declared, lifting up his glowing shot glass. "This is a legit victory of humanity over sexy alien opression!"

Sevviya rolled his eyes at Steve. Then she turned to the Maned Wolf.

"You," Sevviya stated, sniffing the festive prad.

Comet turned a beaming smile toward the Scrut. "Me?"

"I don’t get you," Sevviya stated. "You DO NOT smell like a normal prad."

"I told you," Comet stated "I am a charity worker from Omnithornia."

The feline leaned closer, nostrils flaring. "You smell like... wrapping paper? You smell like a song stuck in my head. You reek of... holiday anticipation? It is making my whiskers itch. All of them. It's... weird. You're like... like a walking dungeon... not a prad girl."

"It is the Ambrosia-vodka," Comet deflected, waving the open bottle. "Top shelf Omnithornian spirit, made from dragonblood diluted with the Leviathan blood! It clings to everything. Come on now, have a drink, brave Scrut."

She slid a shot glass toward Sevviya. The Scrut looked at the liquid suspiciously, then rapidly tipped it into her maw. Free alcohol was evidently a universal language. 

“Hrmmm,” she let out. “This is… verrrry expensive stuff. Top shelf. Sold only during See-Mass.”

The badger drowned her shot. The humans followed with the exception of Sergey.

“Courtesy of our newest donor!” Comet declared. “A wealthy Omnid who wished us to bring See-Mass spirit to the Slayer-deprived locals!”

“Pretty sure it’s summer here now,” Sevviya pointed out.

“It's winter See-Mass wherever I go,” Comet snapped her finger. Snowflakes started to drift from the ceiling, landing on the table. “Part of our whole charity theme, see?”

“Our? How many of you are out there?” Sergey found himself asking. Since he couldn't escape the booth, boxed in by the damned, stunning x-mas themed alien girl, at least he could investigate whatever the fuck threat she potentially represented.

“Me and my eight reindeer sisters,” Comet replied. “Plus our Saint!”

"Ugh. You are seriously driving my nose bananas," Sevviya grumbled, rubbing her muzzle. "Why do you smell so... loud?"

Comet blinked innocent hazel eyes. She poured more of the slightly glowing, viscous liquid into shot glasses. "I smell like the spirit of giving! Saint Nikky insists we bathe in high-magrad Cinnamon-Pine extract before every mission. It helps with... approachability, relaxes the uptight Omnids. Some of them can be quite... rough around the edges, you know."

"It smells like a bakery exploded inside a forest," Sevviya muttered, taking another shot. "I cannot smell your intent. I cannot smell your fear. I cannot smell anything except…”

“Joy and Goodwill towards all?” Comet tilted her fake antlers.

“Yeah that,” the cheetah huffed. “It's fucking annoying.”

The drunk humans laughed.

. . .

"To new friends!" Comet Evergreen cheered. 

The Maned Wolf raised her glass high. The little silver bells on her wrist jingled. The bottle of Ambrosia seemed bottomless.

“Drriiiiink!” Steve encouraged, waving at Sergey. “This is seriously good stuff!”

Copernicus hesitated. Every instinct jostled by the terrifying vision of the moon-tree urged him to flee this festive predator. She was too tall. Too friendly. Too jolly. Too pretty.

"Come on. Drink with us, star-gazer," Comet purred. She nudged his shoulder with her own. 

"Fake green,” the cheetah slurred. “What are you hiding under all that nutmeg?" 

"Only the spirit of giving!" Comet beamed. She leaned forward, the bells on her choker chiming. "Tell me, Sevviya Minnilissi... have you been a good girl this year? Have you served your masters well? Or have you been... naughty?"

The question hung in the air, feeling loaded.

Sevviya recoiled slightly. She looked confused, ears tilted back. "I... I follow orders. I am a soldier."

"Good," Comet declared. "Then drink. It is rude to refuse a gift from the Saint."

Sevviya looked at the glass, and then knocked it back. Her eyes widened. She coughed violently. "Slayer's Sword! That tastes like... happy memories? How?!"

"The purest Ambrosia." Comet winked. "Spiced with finest joy. Three shots and you remember your warmest holiday memory as if it was yesterday!”

Copernicus looked at his own glass. If it could take down a Scrut, it would probably kill him.

"You too, Copernicus," Comet whispered. Her breath tickled his ear. "Do not be rude. Accept the gift of my Saint."

Her caressing, teasing words seemed to force his hand into action. He drank.

It did not burn going down like ordinary alcohol.

A supernova of warmth flooded his chest, racing down his limbs to his fingertips. The prickling headache behind his eyes vanished instantly. The terror of the moon-tree receded, replaced by a fuzzy, warm sensation that everything was going to be absolutely fine.

"Whoa," he breathed out.

"Good, yeah?" Comet asked.

"Festive," he agreed, his tongue feeling loose.

Comet pulled a thick, red ledger from somewhere inside her sweater. Then, she produced a fountain pen that looked like a sharpened candy cane.

"Now," the Maned Wolf said, opening the book. "I need to know who I am drinking with. For the list. The Saint likes to keep track of... notable individuals."

"Didn't we introduce ourselves already?" Tom asked.

"I'm Oppenheimer," Steve announced proudly, puffing out his chest. "We're like... super notable!"

The cheetah at his side let out a deep sigh.

"Didn't we introduce ourselves already?" Tom asked.

"Just think of it as a festive game," Comet said as her quill scratched across the paper. "Oppenheimer. Leader. Excellent." She looked at Dave. "And you?"

"Darwin," Dave said. "Uhhh... I'm a... an Evolutionary specialist!"

"Darwin," Comet repeated, writing it down. "Specialist. Very good."

She turned her golden gaze to Tom.

"DorkVader," Tom said with a grin, adjusting his dark glasses. "Tactical... uh... enforcement. I can choke our enemies with the Force!"

"Enforcement," Comet murmured. The tip of her tongue poked out as she wrote. "DorkVader. Is that a rank?"

"It is a title of great power," Tom lied gravely.

"Adorable," Comet beamed. She looked at Sarah.

"C4P4," Sarah beeped and laughed, pointing to the robot on her dress. "Communications and... droid relations!"

"Communications," Comet underlined something in the book three times. "And Copernicus here is the star-gazer. The watcher."

"Yep." Copernicus nodded. The alcohol made him feel warm and important. "I see... things. Big things."

"I bet you do," Comet purred. She closed the book with a snap. "You are all so... organized. You sure you aren't the resistance?”

"The resistance?" Oppenheimer laughed. "Yeah, sure! We are totally the resistance. Resisting sobriety, am I right?"

He high-fived Uarri.

Copernicus noticed that Comet put a hand on his thigh. The heat radiating from her fingers felt intoxicating.

"Another round!" Comet announced. "On the house! We must celebrate your... bravery to flaunt victory over the Frontenachii so openly!"

"Yes! To our bravery!" Oppenheimer shouted.

Sergey inhaled. Comet smelled so good. Like a childhood Christmas morning, before he learned that Santa was just his dad eating cookies in the dark.

"You are tense, Seer," Comet observed. Her hand moved across his leg and then offered a gentle squeeze. Her claws were sharp, pricking the denim of his jeans. "Is the weight of the stars too heavy?"

"The moon," Sergey blurted out.

He clamped his mouth shut. No. Do not talk about the tree with the sus x-mas wolf! Do not...

"The moon?" Comet tilted her head. "What about the moon?"

"It is... big," he managed. "And bright. And... very far away. It, uhh, causes the tides..."

"Not so far," Comet smiled. "The Slayer's Sword reached it quite easily."

"Yeah," Tom agreed. "Big-bada-boom!"

"Boom indeed," Comet chuckled jovially. "Naughty boys breaking expensive toys. Drink with me, Seer!”

She poured more drink into his mouth before he could protest and then did a shot herself.

"You know," Comet said, leaning in until her muzzle was inches from his face, whiskers tickling his cheek. "I like a man who watches things. It shows... patience. Discipline. Are you a patient man, Copernicus?"

"I waited five years for a grant once," he mumbled, blushing.

"Mmm," the Maned Wolf hummed. "Delicious patience. You must show me your... telescope sometime. I have a list of stars I need to check."

"It is a Celestron EdgeHD," Copernicus bragged, his inhibitions dissolving in the syrup-sweet alcohol. "Eight-inch aperture. Aplanatic Schmidt-Cassegrain optics."

"Talk nerdy to me," Comet whispered. Her tail thumped against the back of the booth.

Sevviya slammed her empty glass on the table. "Why do you wear the antlers of a prey animal, Comet?" she demanded. "It is insulting to the hunter!"

Comet turned slowly to the Scrut. "Reindeer are not prey, little cat. They are transportation. And sometimes... they run over grandmas."

"What?" Sevviya blinked.

"An old Omnithornian ballad," Comet said, her smile returning instantly. "You would not understand. It requires a certain... cultural appreciation."

"She is weird," Sevviya told Uarri. 

"Eh, I like her," Uarri mumbled, half-passed out, face down on the table. “She gives great alcohol.”

"Lightweight," Comet scoffed. She turned back to Copernicus. "Tell me Seer, you meet here often? To plot? To plan your... cultural victories?"

"Every night," Oppenheimer volunteered, “we’re on a mission to conquer the invaders with love!”

“You truly believe that shit’s gonna work on us?” Sevviya slurred.

“Isn’t it?” Steve laughed. “Am I wearing you down with my persistence yet? How seduced are you by my incredible charm?”

The cheetah pursed her lips. 

“Oh, she wants you bad,” Comet purred, white-tipped orange tail swishing. “So very, very bad. But she’s afraid of her big, bad Wendigo Commander punishing her. You should go for it, Sevvy. Grab him and don’t let go. Who knows what snowstorm tomorrow might bring?”

“Oi!” The cheetah’s head snapped to the reindeer-wolf. “You know something, I don’t, Evergreen?”

"I know that life is short,” Comet replied. “That tomorrow is promised to no one. That you should seize happiness when it presents itself." She gestured at Oppenheimer with a candy-cane painted claw. "This one clearly adores you. Why deny yourself warmth and joy of the hearth?"

"Because..." Sevviya struggled to form words. "Because Commander Wattica said... said we have to be... civil. Extra professional. Especially today. Can't fraternize with the locals."

"Uh-huh. And your Commander," Comet said. "Where is she tonight? Is she here, watching you?"

"Nah," Sevviya yawned. "Probably crying in her Seeker. Or raging at the Greens. Or licking her wounds. One of her male bolds nearly decapitated her."

"Poor dear," Comet cooed. "And what about your Admiral? She’s demoted, I hear?”

“Yep.” The cheetah nodded. "Stripped of rank! Serves her right, the—" She hiccupped. "The pompous beerch.”

“Exactly! The order is in disarray! For today, you’re free,” Comet said. “Accept the gift of freedom and take what your heart desires. Because otherwise I might…”

"Might what?" The cheetah's heckles suddenly rose.

"Might ask him... for a dance," Comet grinned.

“No!” Sevviya growled, clawed hand suddenly wrapped around Steve. “He’s mine! Screw off!”

“That’s what I thought,” Comet laughed.

"Brb, bathroom time." Sarah yawned and climbed over the others, vanishing into the dim pub.

“So you are into me,” Steve elbowed the cheetah Scrutimancer with an extra-giddy expression.

“Ughhhh, yes, fine, Leviathan’s tits!” Sevviya ground out. “I’m into you, you darn persistent human, are you freaking happy?”

“Very,” Steve laughed.

Sergey laughed too, feeling totally submerged in the inescapable holiday-warmth permeating the air around them.

Maybe, Comet wasn’t a harbinger of the Great Coniferous Conversion? Maybe she really was a nice girl from an Omnithornian charity?

Maybe Neil Armstrong was wrong or lied to him? Why did he choose to listen to a spooky ghost created by an eldritch moon tree anyway? 

The moon with its ghosts was far away and Comet… Comet was right here.

Sitting in his lap. 

When did she even get into his lap?