Mark gaped, entirely at a loss. Proprietress attempted to rescue him.

"Human Mark, would you help me?"

Mark twitched between his support columns. The puppet had drifted up behind him, silent as a ghost.

"Wuh! Yes? Help you? How?"

"Would you join me in the dark corner of my lair?" The pinata-eye of the Quotidian puppet jiggled in the direction of, yes, a very dark corner of the restaurant. There were many cobwebs over there.

Mark cleared his throat and smiled. "You know, I would love to join you, but I'm in an important meeting right now."

"I would like to ask the favor of your advice." She spread her puppet's four legs.

"Pitiful," said mix Sty. Her eye-wiggle conveyed admiration, but Mark didn't know that.

"You seem unnerved," said Proprietress. "Is it because I seem to be offering you a gift with an undefined exchange rate?"

"I would not accept such an offer," mix Sty confirmed.

"Let me assure you, Human Mark, that if you only follow me into the dark corner, I will certainly get something out of the bargain."

Mark imagined himself as a drained husk. "I'm sure you will," he said, "but I really have to get back to my conversation with mix Sty."

Both nonhumans, more skilled at using their translators than Mark, realized that the human was terrified. They wondered why.

Proprietress caused her puppet to make a submissive gesture. "I understand," she said. "Enjoy your meal, and excuse my intrusion."

Threads spooled out and the papier-mâché limbs lowered in sync with the bulbs of soup as they descended to rest on the table.

The human and the Quotidian stared at their lunches and each other. Mark wished it was possible for him to know what she was thinking.1

Mark cleared his throat. "We were talking about my performance?"

"We were talking about how I hated your performance."

Mark sighed.

"Yes. We hired you to put on an amusing shamanic display. Your political commentary was unnecessary and offensive."

Oh, finally! Mark hid his smile, but couldn't help but slump with relief.

He had been in conversations like this. Granted, on the other side, but he still knew what not to do. He didn't protest that the Quotidian must have misunderstood his performance, or ask her what the hell she was talking about. Instead hung his head and spoke, "I am deeply sorry for any hurt I have caused. I can assure you that I had no intention of doing so, although, of course, that in no way excuses my behavior. I am eager to know how I can make sure the offense I caused never happens again, and I think the first step toward that healing is improved communication, so I can know better your needs and expectations."

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Perfect," said mix Sty. "That's the sort of material I want. I see you are confused."

"No," Mark lied. "But, yeah, I do think that our communications could be improved."

"I agree. That is why I have instructed my translator to track your emotional responses. I wanted to make sure that your comedy is intentional, and I see that it is not."

Mark felt trapped. This feeling increased when mix Sty said, "There is no way out for you. I suggest you contact the Pitiful Species Funding Committee before you contact me again."

Mark took a deep breath. "We at the United Nations Embassy — "

Mark's translator clicked. "Mark, this is Laura."

"Laura. Later! I have things to discuss with mix Sty."

"No." The Quotidian everted her jaws and snatched her soup-bulb off the table. It went crunch. "I'm done." Juices dripped down her legs as mix Sty slid out of her perch. Mark watched her go, breathing hard, heat rising in his face.

Crystals tinkled in the ceiling.

"Human Mark?"

Mark's head twitched up. "What? What is it?"

"May I ask one more time for an exchange of favors?"

Mark rubbed his forehead. "What are you talking about?" Stupid. Stupid! What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he get a grip on nonhumans? What was wrong with them? "I've just had a very — fine. It's fine. But, no. I need to go back to the Embassy."

"I will not drain your time, Human Mark. I will even reciprocate first with advice: you would do better in these negotiations if you learned to understand your guest's emotional responses."

"Ha." Mark couldn't help the bitter laugh, like an escape of gas. Nonhumans were nonhuman. If this disastrous, incomprehensible conversation had proved anything, it was that nonhuman emotions couldn't possibly be mapped onto anything Mark could understand.

And what was he even talking to now? External memory storage wired into a spider brain the size of pinhead. That's what Koen had said. He might as well accept advice from a chatbot.

"Thank you for that advice," he said.

Proprietress waited for Mark to continue. When he didn't, she considered the odd flavor of his responses. Anger and cynicism. Disappointment and frustration. Fear. Fear. Fear.

She needed more data. "Human Mark," she said, "would you please repay me now?"

Mark paused in the sad and slimy task of extracting himself from his chair. "I thought my translator already paid you."

"Advice for advice. Would you please direct your attention to the dark corner, and tell me what you think?"

There was a soft sound against the floor, and Mark turned to look.

A round torso. A pair of arms and another pair of legs. A pulpy face tufted with hair. A yellow rain-coat.

"I have been working on a project to please my neighbors and put them at ease."

The marionette was crude in shape, but it moved with eerie perfection. Its head and hands moved in fluid synchronicity with the words coming out of the translator, making gestures that not only appeared perfectly human, but specifically…Mark.

"Do you have any recommendations for improvements?" The puppet's head tilted to the side. Its legs bent as if actually supporting its weight. Its chest bobbed as if it contained working lungs. How long had this spider been studying Mark, to learn so much about him? How much did she know?

"No," he said. "I have to… have to… go."

Mark fumed as he walked back to the Embassy. He trembled. He'd failed and he didn't know why.

A win. A win. He needed a win. Alright, so the Mr. Grumbles thing. He could do it! He could knock that thing out of the park.

1In fact, Sty mix Sty was thinking about how to renew one of her clones' tubs of skin-ointment without causing offense.