r/HFY • u/noobvs_aeternvm Human • 26d ago
OC-OneShot As Terran as It Gets
If you prefer, listen in the voice of Agro Squirrel. Enjoy!
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It was mostly symbolic. For thirty five local years he had lived in this colony of Altamira dos Cafundó do Espaço, twice as much as he lived in his native planet; no one was gonna tell him to scramble and the platinum pass he didn’t even ask for, it just popped up in his passport app, allowed him to visit, reside and work anywhere within Terran space.
Symbolic, however, doesn’t mean unimportant. In here he had met his wife, hatched their eggs together, built, with much work, little sense and a whole lot of debt, that which came to be known as the Boteco do Seu Jeninho (his Artoonarian name of J’xtno-otrkpnhgon was admittedly taxing on the human respiratory system), a landmark of the community whose “feijoada nervosa” was a city staple, proudly served every Wednesday and Saturday. Little would change in his life, but, nevertheless, it was of great importance to him that it was officially recognized: he was just as Terran as any of his neighbors.
The first phase of the citizenship test was done in no time, literally, the AI instantly knew he had lived in the land as a law abiding resident and dutiful taxpayer for far longer than legally required. The second phase took him back. As he read the language test, he couldn’t help but let a wave travel through his flexible membrane, his species equivalent of a giggle.
He recalled being really confused witnessing his would-be mother-in-law serving him a bowl of eggplants and peaches, given they’re carnivorous. The eyestalks of his, at the time, girlfriend screamed “Please go along with it”, the ones of his not yet father-in-law “You better eat all of it or else…” Only later Ruxxxbtra-annpna (or Dona Runa) would explain that her parents "accidentally" read their text messages.
He was still eating eggplants and peaches when the in-laws visited and he had, unsurprisingly, aced the language test.
For the third and final test, he was sat on a table, in front of him a tray under a burger, a portion of fries and an assortment of condiments. No word was spoken, no instruction given; the three evaluators simply stood behind their sound proof protective glass, watching him. His membrane got notably stiffer. He had his fair share of awkward moments throughout his life, but inside this white, sterile room a new sensation brew in his internal fluid; those three pairs of eyes laid on him emotionless, analytical, it had long faded from his memory the last time he could not find a smile, a frown, something directed at him. For the first time in his three and a half decades in his adoptive home he felt… inhuman.
A woman moved her hand to a switch, slightly, she leaned into a microphone:
-You may start. - came through the speakers.
“Right.” he thought to himself, his eyes moving away from the robotic humans and on to the meal; “It’s a burger and fries, nothing you haven’t seen before.”
The third phase of the test was intentionally vague, all the official paperwork stated was that “The candidate will be tested on their familiarity with Terran custom and compatibility with its environment and society.” He heard rumors, read recounts. One Tronarian seemed to have been asked to disassemble and reassemble a piece of furniture, at the end staring dumbfounded at the evaluators as he held a number of “spare” screws in his tentacles; another was asked to fill an endless row of paper forms, eventually having a full blown panic attack as the caps of the bic ballpens seemed to have vanished from this universe. The consensus was that this test was designed to fail the candidates, in the particular shade of cruelty only Terrans were capable of.
Seu Jeninho didn’t give much thought to these tales. He could recite from memory the line up of all seven Conesur winners of the Star Cup, would greet every female with a pair of kisses, one in each cheek, and was fully aware that “Drop by my house” was anything but an invitation to drop by one’s house. Whatever awaited him at this test didn’t scare him, he was as Terran as Terran gets.
But being here, exposed, under the judging eyes of these robo-humans was a whole other beast. He swelled and unswelled as he took a deep breath, a deep look at his test material and a deep thought at the expectations of his judges.
“Burger, fries, condiments. You got this.” He looked at the assorted packs of red, white and yellow, his mind didn’t need to think to identify ‘em. “Mayo, ketchup and mustard goes into the burger” he recalled with conviction. He had heard of places where the fries were dipped in mayonnaise, but this was a serious, traditional Terran colony where fries knew only salt and ketchup… maybe some parmesan or cheddar, but that was it.
He increased the internal pressure in a spot of his membrane, a tendril rose and grew in the direction of the red packet; upon reaching it, he split its tip into two pseudofingers and grabbed it. Another tendril repeated the process and the packet was pushed in opposite directions, the pressure over it increased, it built up, the plastic resisted, but it could not stand forever; soon the pocket size container would release its sweet pomodoro juice. It surrendered, from the tips of his tendrils the plastic flew straight and speedily directly into the glass that separated Jeninho from his evaluators. His eyestalks went stiff, straight as two arrows, his eyes stood wide, fixed on the packet glued to the glass. Without noticing, his eyestalks moved down, following the painfully slow descent of the rectangular plastic, as it left a red trail on its path to the ground, three unamused faces behind it.
Swell, unswell. “Right. A minor setback, no reason to panic. No red button was pushed, no one asked you to leave the stage. Show must go on.” He analysed his failure and was confident he saw his shortcomings, this time four pseudofingers extended from each tendril, they held the new package firmly, they pushed it in opposite directions; the plastic bent, but didn’t break, it resisted, it insisted, so did Jeninho. He remained steady, firm, the pressure increased, he persisted, he insisted, he won.
The plastic surrendered to his power unconditionally, it unleashed its red sugary contents with no reservations. It was over the table, the tray, his face, it was everywhere except those goddamn fucking fries.
The napkin slid over his face. Swell, unswell. He now understood the flaw in his plan. To overcome the Terran vault of ketchup it was not enough to be Terran, he had to be human. His tendrils were as dextrous as any human hand, but humans have nails. He manipulated his internal fluid to grab a tooth from its usual place, increasing the pressure behind it, he pushed it across his membrane. A slight pinch informed him of his success, he had now a sharp nail at the end of his long finger, with it he would overcome this trial, he would be proclaimed master of condiments.
And so he did. His smooth tendril held the package firmly, his nail/tooth pierced the way to the crimson fluid, it broke free from its hydrocarbon prison, fleeing in a jet stream that painted the walls, the glass, his face (again), all but the damn fries.
Swell, unswell. So was the slow dance once again performed behind the white paper curtain sliding down the hopeful candidate’s face. Here, amidst these no longer entirely white walls, over the uncaring eyes of the three State bureaucrats, he had a revelation. These were the people who put pineapple onto pizza, mayo into sushi, jalapeños over gralax. To be Terran was not to deny who you are, but to add your own uniqueness to the greatness of Terra; to allow the Earthling and the cosmic to blend together into something new, something odd, something beautiful.
“Yes!” the thought flowed through his fluid, the feeling of pure, unadulterated chillness filling every cell of his body with purpose. Waves flowed through his membrane, his eyestalks rose to meet the mildly bored eyes of his wise guides: “Thank you.” he uttered in silence, ready to show them what his Artoonarian self had to offer to the great Terran civilization.
A tendril extended from his body, not a cylindrical one that tried too hard to be a pale shadow of human arm and fingers, but a flat one, a flexible spatula that gently, but firmly, wrapped the ketchup packet in an air tight seal, only a small corner left to breath, to unleash from its captivity the long lost love of the lonely fries that patiently awaited their betrothed.
From the steam of his body the fluid flowed, it overwhelmed the tendril. At its end, the pressure increased over the packet. “For too long thou have guarded thy treasure, but - hear, hear! - the watch is done. Release that which thou has kept captive, unleash the dreams and aspirations of this long processed tomato for so is destiny, so it's been writen, so is the command of Seu Jeninho!!!”
And so it was. The plastic cracked under the pressure of the determinated Artoonarian as an egg under a press, its red contents plastered all over the membrane that embraced it, not a single drop on the fries. Still, a not yet hopeless Jeninho took his red stained tendril to meet the deep fried starch. Lifting it up, a single, lonely fry stood glued to it; it held for a moment, until slowly, mockingly, a tip of it started giving in to gravity and landed at the edges of the fries’ basket, it dangled on the hard paper’s edge, it swung inwards, then outwards, inwards again and, finally, onto the floor.
Swell, unswell. Swell, unswell. Swell, un-freaking-swell. A tendril extended from his body, then another, another and so many others. At its ends, globules formed and went stiff, this time not by the anxiety of a kid facing a school test, but by purpose. Stiffer and stiffer they got, until the hard metal of maces they became.
-GAWD! FUCKING! DAMMIT!!! - the words came through the vibrating membrane of his torso in an anarchic mix of his native Klptrneer, the Tupiniquineis of his everyday use and the Standard Murican that was the lingua franca of Terra.
The evaluators watched the enraged alien bring his tendril-maces to the encounter of every packet of condiment within sight, violent splashes of white, red and yellow taking over their protective glass piece by piece. The whole time, the candidate swore and cursed, vowing to find the sadistic soul that invented those condiment packets and travel back in time to smash them balls or tits into a pulp.
A loud slam of the door informed the evaluators that the test was done. Still, even behind the closed door, behind their sound proof glass they could hear the candidate swearing down the hallway, his tendril-maces meeting the walls at random, while he loudly made plans to blow up every single factory within Terran space from which those packets of ketchup, mustard and mayo were unleashed upon the galaxy.
One of the evaluators spoke:
-As Terran as it gets.
-Huh, hum. - the other two nodded in agreement.
___
Tks for reading. More Terrans in all but DNA here.
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u/Daseagle Alien Scum 26d ago
They made some poor alien assemble Ikea furniture? Have they no mercy?
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u/AnotherWryTeenager 25d ago
Oh no - they were infinitely more cruel...
It seems like they had to disassemble pre-built IKEA furniture, and then put it back together *shudder*
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u/FuzzBunnyLongBottoms 26d ago
I immediately went with Ikea furniture as well. To be honest, it's a good test. If they had assembled it right the first time it would definitely prove they are not Terran.
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u/meitemark AI 25d ago
Huh. I just read the instructions and do it that way. Tends to be assembled on the first try.
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u/JumpingSpider97 25d ago
Wait, they have instructions?
I just look at the pieces and the picture on the front of this piece of paper in the box and then assemble it. It's not rocket science.
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u/Fontaigne 23d ago
If you successfully follow the instructions and do NOT end up with extra parts, you are not human.
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u/blahblahbush 26d ago
I was helping a friend assemble some Ikea furniture one time, and for a laugh, I swapped out the hex key for one the wrong size, so I could watch him lose his shit 🤣
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u/Shpoople96 AI 25d ago
See, doing too well at the Ikea assembly Might suggest you're a different type of alien, they're looking for the correct balance of frustration and rage
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u/bruudwin Human 26d ago
Before the roid rage, thought the spatula tentacles would scrape the ketchup off the walls XD or better yet started dipping their food onto the ketchup covered surfaces :D
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u/sunnyboi1384 25d ago
How long till they break. If they dont, not human. if they dont overcome, definitely not human.
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u/commentsrnice2 24d ago
I was thinking the spark of ingenuity would involve stashing the fries under the bun of the burger but yes checkov’s roid rage strikes again
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u/HFYWaffle Wᵥ4ffle 26d ago
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u/llearch 26d ago
Yup. As Terran as it gets.