Never have I ever met a human that gives me the sense of having been horribly neglected by the circumstances of their birth such as to have been assigned as such instead of as one of us. And never have I ever realized so thoroughly that my terrible prejudice has for so long prevented me from even considering a human to be a person. Speaking with July has removed scales from my eyes and made me realize that even our language’s lack of a term for ourselves as a species sets us up to underestimate those who inhabit this planet in our absence. I have been wrong and will continue to be wrong if I do not make an immediate change in literally every aspect of my life that matters. How could I have been so ignorant?

Dancing as a human does is not as unnatural as it looks. While they definitely touch each other more in the process, it is not unpleasant. July leans into the padding of my inflatable costume and I can feel her hands on my body as the fabric rubs my feathers in the wrong directions. I wonder what those hands would feel like without the interference of multiple layers and so many lies. Surely she had figured out what I am before now.

Leaning against her, cheek to human cheek, I feel her abruptly stop moving and am filled with the terror that I have done something wrong. I need to make amends.

“I’m sorry,” I say, a low sound in my throat that should be heard over the music. “I’d undo it if I could.”

Her hands clench the fabric of the costume in tight fists. If I make even one small wrong move she will rip the costume and expose me in front of everyone present as a Troo.

And I have finally used their term to apply to myself.

“I know I’ve done you wrong,” I continue speaking. “I know just being here is an unkindness toward everything you stand for. If you’re in the rebellion I can’t fault you for it. We deserve your hate.”

Instead of ripping the costume off of me, she pulls me closer to herself. I do not know what she is thinking, but my ability to think clearly falls to pieces as her soft fingers press against the sensitive ridge at the top of my tail. She can’t possibly know what she does to me. I feel the display feathers at the crown of my head tremble without any intent.

I hiss involuntarily and my head drags down against her shoulder. She seems to have figured out the shape of me well enough to speak directly into my ear. It seems obvious now that I have been speaking with an enemy this entire time. But I cannot think of her as an enemy. She is too insightful, too beautiful, and has already put thoughts in my head that are at complete odds with the concept of enmity.

“I forgive you.”

Her voice, so raw and without any deliberate alteration drives like a spike through my heart. I freeze in place, every single one of my feathers trembling with something resembling fear. Or, as Mercutioodon put it, the sharpest of knifes with which we might wound each other.

I cannot speak. I reach for her and forget the costume’s limitations. I am prevented from holding her against me in the way she holds me, but I can place my gloved hands on her shoulders while a shuddering sob escapes the both of us.

I do not deserve this woman.

We cling together through one song, and another. It is only when the music’s pace picks up that I pull away just enough to ask her if she wishes to please sit with me again.

And she leads the way again. We return to the bright yellow vehicle, but walk around to place it between us and the continuing revelry. It is privacy enough.

I remove the costume. It is good that I am still wearing my normal clothing beneath it. The white uniform with its little silver pips makes me feel more confident than I could possibly be even with the anonymity of the disguise. And in truth, the bulk of my wardrobe was most recently burnt to cinders and I am at the mercy of my mother’s taste in clothing at the present and a uniform is worlds better. In trying to smooth my feathers down again I realize that my display feathers are refusing to flatten against my head as they should. It is embarrassing and impolite and I do not want her to think that I am some kind of terrible pervert.

July slowly touches the feathers on my arms, setting fire to my spine. I close my eyes and swallow the fear. There’s not any kind of proper manners for interacting with humans that recognizes that they are people. I don’t know how to act, and I have to instead try to intuit what the right thing to do would be based on nothing but our short interactions. And I find myself wanting her to keep touching me.

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So I do not pull away.

I open my mouth, just a crack. Just a tiny amount. I know I have sharp teeth and that humans do not share this trait. I peek through one slitted eye to try to determine if she is as affected as myself. Her so very mobile lips flush as she bites them in what might be nervousness. The fake feathers attached to the arms of her costume tremble gently and I realize that she is shivering.

My voice is not like hers. It is not human. I have no difficulty in mimicry of a wide range of sounds, both natural and not. It is why our language cannot be spoken by humans but we have no challenge with theirs.

Singing is something we do quite a lot of during the courtship process. I had planned to practice more before singing at all in front of Trosaline, but this is the right time and this is the right woman. And I do not want her to feel nervous around me.

“I’d give my everything to you,” I sing in translation, attempting to bridge the cultural gap. “Follow you through the garden of oblivion. If you fall I’ll catch.”

Her breath catches and I see her eyes widen behind the feathered mask. A human voice can only make one sound at a time. We are not so limited.

“If you love I’ll love. Don’t be scared, we’ll be safe together.”

It’s a simple song, and over too soon. She presses her soft, fleshy lips to my mouth and I don’t even know what she’s doing. But I like it. I guess I am some kind of pervert.

If I am, what does that make her?

With utmost caution, I respond by running my claws down her back. Humans lack our spinal ridge, but if I can enjoy her soft lips on the scales that line my mouth, perhaps she too finds some satisfaction in having the analogue to her tail ridge touched. Having misjudged poorly, I find that there is the opposite of a ridge and pull her body closer to mine instead.

Her lips part and her tongue forces its way into my mouth. I respond by doing the same. I have no idea what we’re doing.

“Wait,” I plead, almost keening, and she stops. Her hands reach up and hold my face. They are so soft, so gentle. “I don’t know the logistics,” I confess.

“The logistics?” she echoes back to me.

I indicate with a small turn of my head the wrinkled skirt and how the feathers of it are in disarray.

“Oh!” She quickly steps away from me to correct the skirt. “We really shouldn’t,” she admitted, “I hardly know you.”

“I yearn to know you better,” I croon in response. Unbidden, I feel my display feathers briefly flash in her direction. It was not something I intended to say. I just want her to feel at ease with me.

That should not be nearly such a concern, as she has touched all of me that is easily available to touch, and if one includes what has been touched by her tongue inside my mouth that is much more. My feathers flutter briefly with nervous energy.

The exposed skin of her cheeks flushes bright red. It isn’t something I’ve seen happen before. I don’t know what it means.

“I want to get to know you better too,” she says quietly. “But I don’t know how it would be possible. If I were seen with you…”

She does not have to finish the sentence.

“You’re not a collaborator,” I confirm.

She shakes her head for an aggressive negative response.

“You would not be hurt by my family.” I touch her cheek gently with the back of one claw. “I could protect you.”

“But I could not change anything if I abandoned mine.”

She leans towards me again. Her skirt flattens against my legs. I hold her in my arms gently and breathe in the scent of her hair, herbal and warm.

“Will you write to me?” I ask, spurred on by some kind of strangely inspired spontaneity.

“How will you reply?” she asks, looking very suspicious of me.

“I can always come here.” I indicate the park. “Just tell me when to be here and I will do it.”

“And no one will follow me?” She looks around the park, and I can tell she is judging its security features. It has few, but the best of them is how difficult it would be to get a drone into the town without it being noticed. They aren’t small enough for daytime stealth, and they are most definitely not silent. I do not know how she judges the area, but my estimate is that it would be secure enough.

“I will not allow it.”

She looks over my uniform and then rubs the silver pips on my collar between two careful fingers.

“If we were to work together,” July hesitates. She stops fondling my clothing and steps away very carefully. “If we were to be partners on this project, do you think you are placed well enough to ensure a Troos Truce?”

I picture my mother’s reaction to the suggestion.

“It wouldn’t be easy,” I admit, “there are so many people on both sides who would have to be convinced of our sincerity.” I consider the possibilities.

We agree to exchange written communication and she helps me back into the costume. It is not help I need, but I do not decline.

If, in the process of threading my tail back into the costume’s hollow tail, she happens to run her soft fingers along the sensitive spinal ridge, then that is something I will have to relish the memory of in private. I do not think she knows how she has so thoroughly enchanted me with her innocent caresses.