Chapter 13: The Leaky Container Problem
Mike's stomach growled again, reminding him that while the glowing fruit was nice, he needed something more substantial. At'chii seemed to notice his glances around the room, their eye brightening with what he'd come to recognize as their "helpful host" expression.
They produced what looked like... Mike's brain struggled to process it. If a lobster and a cockroach had a baby, and that baby was the size of a dinner plate. But before he could even express his "nope," a more fundamental concern hit him.
"Wait, wait," he held up his hands in a stopping gesture. "How do we know if this is even safe for humans? I mean, the fruit didn't kill me, but..."
At'chii's eye crinkled with understanding. They gestured, and a holographic display materialized above the food. Complex patterns of light danced through what looked like a molecular analysis. Different structures lit up in various colors, and At'chii seemed particularly interested in the one's glowing purplish blue. They pointed between these patterns and Mike repeatedly, their movements suggesting these were markers of compatibility.
"So... purple means won't kill the human?" Mike asked dubiously. The alien's technology was impressive, but he wasn't entirely convinced. "You're sure about this?"
At'chii's bioluminescence pulsed in what seemed to be reassurance. They pulled up more displays showing detailed analysis of the food's composition. The amount of information was overwhelming, but the consistent purplish-blue glow was apparently meant to be comforting.
"Um... could it at least be cooked?" Mike made vague gestures mimicking fire and cooking. At'chii's eye crinkled at the edges - apparently, they had a high-maintenance alien on their hands who needed both molecular analysis AND heat treatment.
A few minutes later, the whatever-it-was came back steaming and fragrant, with another holographic analysis showing even more purplish-blue markers. Mike poked it hesitantly with the utensil At'chii had provided. The shell cracked open to reveal white meat that actually looked... edible?
"Okay, think this through," he muttered to himself. "Crabs are basically sea bugs anyway. You eat those. This is just... a bigger bug. That's been scientifically proven safe. Probably. No big deal."
At'chii watched with obvious interest as he took his first tiny, experimental bite. His eyebrows rose in surprise - it tasted remarkably like crab meat, sweet and tender. The alien's bioluminescence brightened at his obvious approval, though they kept the analysis display running as if to reassure him about each subsequent bite.
Still, as he continued eating, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that somewhere, a cockroach was looking at this thing and thinking "Cousin Steve sure grew up fancy."
The bug-crab thing was surprisingly filling, but it also made Mike acutely aware of how thirsty he was. He hadn't had anything to drink since... well, before running terrified down a beach from a tentacled alien who turned out to be a surprisingly attentive host.
"Um, water?" he mimed drinking, feeling a bit like a tourist trying to communicate in a foreign country. "You know, H2O?"
At'chii's eye focused intently on his drinking gesture. They quickly produced another holographic analysis display, this one showing what looked like different liquid compositions. Various containers materialized as holograms, each filled with different substances, their molecular structures floating above them.
Mike watched as At'chii sorted through these virtual options, their bioluminescence pulsing in concentration. Each liquid was subjected to the same rigorous analysis as the food had been, with At'chii paying careful attention to those purplish-blue compatibility markers.
"Just... plain water would be fine," Mike tried to suggest as the analysis became increasingly complex. He was beginning to suspect that getting a simple drink might turn into another lengthy scientific procedure.
At'chii's eye crinkled in what might have been apologetic understanding. One tentacle gestured at the molecular displays while another made a circular motion that seemed to say "Better safe than sorry." After all, they'd already discovered their guest needed special food preparation - who knew what specific requirements his liquid intake might have? A small container materialized through the room's systems.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Mike drained it immediately, then made the gesture again.
At'chii's bioluminescence flickered in what might have been a worry. Another carefully analyzed container appeared. Mike drank that too.
By the fourth container, At'chii's eye had narrowed slightly. Their tentacles moved in quick, precise patterns, apparently documenting this unprecedented rate of liquid consumption. The molecular analysis displays now include absorption rates and hydration metrics. After the sixth container, their bioluminescence took on a distinctly concerned pattern.
When Mike made the "shower" gesture – mimicking water falling over his head – At'chii went completely still. Their eye fixed on him with growing alarm as he tried to explain through gestures that humans needed to be periodically doused with water. Not just drinking it, but completely immersing themselves in it.
The creature's tentacles moved rapidly, adding to their scientific documentation. The analysis displays now showed full human body diagrams, with water requirements highlighted in increasingly distressing patterns. Mike could almost read their disbelief: These creatures need constant hydration? Like some kind of mobile plant? Their tentacles moved in increasingly agitated patterns as they calculated the sheer volume of water one human required for basic functioning.
When Mike indicated he needed to use the bathroom again – a direct result of all the water – At'chii's eye closed briefly in what could only be described as existential despair. One tentacle reached for their analysis displays while another began calculating what appeared to be long-term water storage solutions.
The next time Mike made the drinking gesture, At'chii's tentacles moved with the weary resignation of someone who had inadvertently adopted the most high-maintenance species in the galaxy. They created not just one container of water, but a small stockpile, each one carefully analyzed and marked with those purplish-blue compatibility indicators. Their bioluminescence pulsed in what seemed to be a silent prayer for the species that somehow achieved space travel while requiring constant hydration.
Mike's frequent trips to the alien bathroom facility were starting to paint a disturbing picture for At'chii. Their tentacles moved frantically through the holographic display as they documented the input/output ratio of human water consumption, their bioluminescence flickering with increasing concern at the pattern emerging.
The creature that had crash-landed in their research zone wasn't just consuming water - it was operating in some kind of perpetual water cycle. Input, process, output, repeat. Over and over. Their eye tracked Mike's movements between the water supply and the bathroom with growing scientific horror.
When they finally brought up their calculations in the holographic display, the numbers seemed to offend their every sensibility. The sheer inefficiency of a biological system that required such constant replenishment while retaining so little of the actual water... Their tentacles drooped as they added another note to their observations: Humans are essentially leaky containers.
Mike's attempt to explain the concept of "eight glasses a day" through gestures only made things worse. At'chii's bioluminescence dimmed to almost nothing as they processed this information. Their notations became increasingly frantic: Species require a minimum of 8 water units EVERY rotation cycle? Purpose: Maintains basic functions? Processing efficiency: Catastrophically low?
The next time Mike headed for the bathroom, At'chii's eye followed him with what looked like a mixture of scientific fascination and deep concern for the evolutionary choices that had led to this point. Their tentacles added another note to their growing documentation: Subject expels approximately the same volume as intake. Query: Why not simply retain water?
One tentacle reached for their fruit bowl while another added a new section to their notes titled "Concerning Biological Inefficiencies of Earth Species." Their bioluminescence pulsed in patterns that seemed to ask the universe how such a water-dependent species had survived long enough to achieve space travel.
The final straw came when Mike tried to explain the concept of human swimming - voluntarily submerging in large bodies of water for recreation. At'chii's tentacles performed their now-familiar existential despair dance as they added yet another note: Species appear to have a psychological attachment to water beyond basic biological requirements. A possible explanation for continued survival despite catastrophic design flaws?
---