“Mmkaaay...” I start, but think, Hang on. This explains something. Earlier, I absolutely noticed that there were two lunch tables, one of which was devoted entirely to shallow coolers filled with chocolate products. I just thought these aliens loved providing us with happy confections. Now I’m getting the impression there’s a lot more to it.
Thus, under Gracie’s hawk-like stare of warning, the moment she frees my face I dutifully shove a piece of medically-dispensed chocolate in my mouth. There’s a moment of expectant silence while I chew and where everyone watches me with concern, giving the chocolate a moment to work its magic, I guess. Then Gracie takes the remainder of my chocolate bar so my hand is free, and the hob examines my arm even more meticulously than Bash did—but he doesn’t spit on me. Gracie walks off with my chocolate while he works, and it’s decent chocolate, not the cheap stuff, so I’m keeping an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t snack off of it while I’m laid up in the field hospital. Bash paces impatiently beside me.
When the medic hob is done, he presses my arm gently back to my side to signal that I’m all good. Yet the hob is eyeing me, hesitating about something. His lips part, like he’s about to speak—but then he flinches, gaze dropping.
Huh. Although he’s tall with athletic, timeless good looks and a charming face—my first impression that told me he was suffering a confidence issue over his medical skills is readjusting its assessment. This guy isn’t just worried about his mastery and suitability as an (alien)man of (human) medicine. From his behavior and the way his body keeps a deliberate distance from my body like he’d hate to encroach my personal space, I see he overall seems to lack a normal amount of self-awareness. Here he is, a truly handsome male specimen—he should be strutting. He should be stunning my wits with strong eye contact and a million-dollar smile. Instead, he shows no assertiveness as he braces himself to talk to me. I think he might even be hunching.
He whispers, “Can I…” before seeming to think better of it, biting off any other words as he glances away and gives his wings a slight shaking out rather than finishing his question.
I’m curious. “Can you what?”
The hob’s eyes dart to me, then strangely, to Gracie’s back. She’s talking to some of the women who came with me today. All new girls here. Gracie looks to be threatening them. She’s waving my chocolate bar in their faces like it’s a machete, not the block-form of an easter bunny.
When I sloowwly turn back to the hob, his face is easy to read: he’s conflicted.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He looks surprised that I’ve asked. “I’m Jonohkada.”
“Nice to meet you. And just spill it,” I tell him. “You have me all kinds of interested.”
His gaze snaps back to me, his eyes wide. “I do?”
Strangely, Bash—who’d just started to stalk over to the wagon driver—stops dead in his tracks, his back going ramrod straight.
My eyes bounce between the two aliens. “Yeah, you’ve got me interested. I want to know what you were going to say. Otherwise it’ll nag at me, keep me wondering.”
Bash’s shoulders seem to relax by a fraction—but then he moves to the driver-hob and great amounts of angry pointing (using his claws, horns, and tail blades) along with a little bit of fire breathing (the literal kind, although plenty of figurative fire-breathing too if Bash’s strident growls are any indication) commences. Even the alien horse ducks its head. At first I think it’s following the conversation—it’s an alien, after all, so there’s no telling how cognizant it is—but then I see it’s trying to reach for the tail end of a leather strap that fits in a V over its breastbone.
It’s not bowing its head in contrition. It’s trying to chew itself loose.
The animal is so going to eat all of the humans milling nearby, the same ones Bash is pointing out to the hob, like it’s the driver’s fault for flirting and not watching his quick-to-consume-limbs creature.
Roy Rogers’ Trigger it is not.
“Ah,” Jonohkada says, a rueful smile hitting his lips. “Well then, there’s something that’s been nipping at my mind ever since I began studying human literature. I’ve read countless medical journals, and although many sing the benefits of chocolate,” he confides, his deep voice pitching to whisper-level, “not once is chocolate mentioned as a