In which our chickendino thinks things.

There was a time when Feathers dreamed of the moment he could meet an alien in person. A time when he used to be another human drone in the system, working on repeat to ensure the continued existence of humanity back in Sol, where xenos were still the minority.

What an irony, then, that now he wished to have less contact with aliens.

“[Blessed is our day!]” Said the priest/scientist Karnakian to his flock, fanning his wings in adoration at one end of the room. “[For we revel in ?ab@h-!@6$...?-]”

But, Feathers could hardly understand a word from the holy raptor, since his communication bead kept grinding to a halt at every chirp, growl and tweet it couldn’t recognize (and they were many).

It was the third day in a row that the Karnakian flock had taken him for cultural education, and while it was a necessary thing (to be fair), he wished they would understand that he did not know their language, and universal translators can only do so much before they give up in digital frustration. So, from his perspective, he was stuck in a crammed room (designed for humans in mind) in the middle of a chorus of wiggling Karnakians, all singing alien praises in a cacophony of reptilian/bird noises that scared him silly.

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“Just another hour…” Thought Feathers, teeth clenched in a forced smile as he kept gazing around awkwardly, claws interwined with the claws of his peers beside him (one of which kept giving him the eyes).

It didn’t help that he was still worried about Kibbles, since they wouldn’t let him visit him at the hospital just yet.

He wanted to apologize for ripping the ball to shreds, knowing his friend was sentimentally attached to it. But, would mere words be enough to fix his mistake?

Perhaps getting another ball-No. There were none left, he knew, and the original scientists were nowhere to be seen now, so he couldn’t ask them for help.

Maybe, if it could be repaired-But, how? He didn’t know of what it was made and how it was made. Even if he had access to a nanofabricator, he didn’t know how to configure it for the task, or feed it the right materials.

Ugh. He was now getting a headache from so much thinking, and singing, and dancing, and praising, and screeching, and getting the eyes.

“Just another hour…” Thought Feathers.