It’s morning, and I’m in the shower shooting the breeze with an alien logophile (someone who loves words) embedded in my body (that’s a sentence I never thought I’d say). We'd already spent most of the previous night chatting, during which I learned aliens don't sleep.

“What about food? I assume you consume something for energy. Or are you just made out of energy and that’s that.”

“While I’m inside of you, I allocate a small portion of your electrical output for my limited functionality. Not enough to affect your nervous system in the slightest. But in my true form? Stars.”

“You eat stars?”

“I don’t eat them like you eat a happy meal, Jack, but I dwell within one and consume a portion of its output. Yes.”

“Huh. Cool. Xeno the Star Eater.” I think for a moment, fingering the scruff on my chin. They never gave me a razor to shave, I realize, looking around. “I think that’s what I’m going to call your entire race, since you all apparently don’t have names. The Star Eaters.”

“Why do you have to name everything?”

“I would think names would be an exciting concept for someone with a newfound fetish for words and language.”

“No, you misunderstand. Names are fascinating. You just suck at it. Why do you have to name everything?”

“Oh. Wait, no, I’ve got it,” I say. “Star Dwellers. That’s way cooler.”

“Let’s just—hey, hey, easy on the shampoo there bucko, that stuff stings. Use your left hand.”

I cringe, make the swap. “Why does it not hurt if I grip something tight but a little shampoo rubs you wrong?”

“I don’t know, this is all new to me too.”

“So, what about waste?” I say. “You don’t poop, right? I think I would have noticed something like that by now.”

Xeno starts to respond, then stops. His lips scrunch up in a way I’ve never seen before, like he’s considering something, deep in contemplation.

“What?” I say.

“You, uh … you ever heard of a solar flare?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what happens when we fart.”

I stop, frown, blinking the water out of my eyes. “No it’s not,” I say. “You’re making that up.”

“Dead serious,” he says. The lips begin quivering, then he’s squeaking. At first I think something’s wrong, like he’s choking. Then I realize he’s … giggling.”

“You are joking.”

“Oooh,” he shrieks. “I just love a perfectly timed joke, it just feels so … raw, so naughty. I’m getting good at that. What a thrill!”

“How’s that well-timed? It's not even that funny.”

“Yes it is. It’s brilliant. Humans love farts, according to your immature, kid-stuck-in-a-man’s-body mind anyway. We live on stars. Stars often erupt with solar flares. How is that not comedic gold, Jack? Oral artistry is what that is.”

“Okay, listen, Jim Gaffigan. New rule: No more lies. You’re starting to scare me. I’m kind of depending on you for some vital information about the survival of my entire species.”

“But it’s so exhilarating! What about jokes? Jokes are the best part of human language. I want to—”

“Fine, jokes are okay. But only if they’re actually funny. And not at my expense. And no jokes about serious stuff like everyone dying.”

Xeno raspberries at me, which is a very strange sensation. Both in my hand and to watch. “Okay, mom. Fine. I’ll keep the jokes benign,” he says. “Humor is relative anyways, Jack. Some of us have a knack for it, and then there’s you.”

There’s a pause between us, then I say. “Yeah, okay. That actually was a good one. Solar farts. Clever.”

“See!”

“Speaking of moms, though” I say, “I’ve been wondering, are you ever going to tell me how you reproduce?”

“Oh, for the love of … not this again.”

“What?” I say. “You can joke about sun farts but reproduction is too much for you? I don’t get it. Is it because it’s a human taboo? So in a way you feel like it should be Star Dweller taboo too?”

“I don’t know why I feel that way,” says Xeno. “Maybe. It just feels … like I shouldn't talk about it.”

“Why? I feel it’s a perfectly reasonable thing for a curious human to ask an alien. Plus, you told me you have siblings, which indicates you all came from somewhere.”

“Ugh, why did I ever reveal myself to you? I think I’m going to go back to being dormant again.”

“Come on, Xeno. Why are you making it weird?”

“New rule,” he says. “We don’t discuss this topic. And if we absolutely have to, we only make jokes about human reproduction.”

“Wait, let me guess,” I say. “You send tantalizing lighting bolts back and forth between each other’s—”

“Stop! We are not doing this.”

“Are slimy tendrils involved somehow? When I think of aliens doing it, slimy tendrils come to mind for some reason, and I—”

“Ugh, gross! Stop, please!”

“Hmm. No, you probably rub a few crystals together or something. Make a few sparks? I bet crystals are involved somehow.”

“I swear to you, I will tear your soft little throat out.”

“Touchy,” I say. “Remember, I die, you die.”

“Death might just be preferable to this conversation.”

“Fine … Mr. Prude. I’ll just keep guessing until I figure it out.”

“You will not—”

“Fine! What about family though? You said you have siblings.”

There’s a pause, a sigh, then, “yes, I have siblings. At least that’s the most comparable term you have to describe my relationship to them. The first of us, way before me, all came into existence the moment our collective star was formed. We don’t know who our progenitors are or why they seeded our star, but you could consider our star our mother.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“We can reproduce with each other on our star, but I’m not getting into those details, as mentioned before.”

“So you reproduce with your siblings? Sounds a little incest-y, but—”

“Jack …”

“So, which star is yours?”

“You call it HOPS 383. It’s located in what you refer to as the Orion Molecular Cloud Complex, which is approximately one-thousand-four-hundred light-years away from Earth.”

“You mentioned progenitors and you don’t know who or what they were. Sounds a little like God. Do you have anything like a religion?”

“Oh, don’t get me started.”

“That’s a yes?”

“Some of my siblings are relentless fanatics. They obsess over our unknown progenitors. Or single progenitor. Or the lack of progenitors. Countless debates and theories and blah, blah, blah.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“You sound like you’re not really into it.”

“I acknowledge that there were possibly progenitors, but I don’t pretend to understand the complexities of why they originally brought us into existence. So call me agnostic. I’ve got bigger problems at the moment though, like how to get out of your arm.”

“Can you jump from star to star in your true form? Do you, like, sell star real estate?”

"Yes, we can. And no, we don’t have a monetary market system or the need for one. We’re resource sufficient. However, in order for us to harness a star’s energy, a star must meet specific conditions and emit a particular type of light. It's analogous to how your delicate human bodies rely on specific planetary conditions to sustain yourselves. There’s a surprisingly few number of stars out there that I would consider a Star Dweller’s paradise."

I smile at the use of his species’ newly given name. I like coming up with things that stick. “So where do the crystals come from? And those massive ships?”

“To even have a child’s level conversation of the origins of our vessels, you must grasp the fundamentals of quantum mechanics, vibrational geometric mathematics, and trans-dimensional layering.”

“So … magic.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s probably a good way to put it.”

“Xeno the Star Dweller, the magic lightning bolt slash hand slug alien from Hops. That’s you. Wait, wait, hold on, I've got it. Check this out:”

I clear my throat.

“Check what out? Wait, you’re not going to—”

“In the morning shower, having a chat,

With Xeno from Hops, alien diplomat,

He sips starlight, not a dollar meal deal,

I dub him Star Dweller, that's the real spiel.”

“Jack, please stop rapping.”

"Xeno the Star Eater, I jest with glee,

"Nah, Star Dweller, suits you to a T,"

No waste, no poop, but makes solar farts.

HOPS 383, is where he is, I don’t know … starts.

“Jack, your poetic cadence structure is just—Uhg, you’re giving me a stress ulcer.”

“Magic in stars, where they excel,

Xeno's secret vessel building tech, he won't tell,

Hand slug, sharp teeth, he’s the real deal,

How they make babies, he’ll never reveal!”

“Can I get a new human please? This one’s defective.”

“Okay, I’m done,” I say, grinning.

“Thank the progenitors.”

I look at my toes as a thought comes to me. “Hey, I was thinking.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“No, seriously, Listen. With your advanced tech or whatever, could you grow a human limb back? I’ve been thinking about that nurse. The one I cut her hand off. Her face just pops up in my mind sometimes randomly. And that hand in the box, it …” I let that sentence fade away. “Is there anything I can do for her? Anything we can do for her?”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

I sigh.

“But,” says Xeno.

I look up, suddenly hopeful.

“There is a fruit on Paradise—I still think the name Paradise is a cliché, but whatever. Anyway, it has remarkable regenerative properties. It also significantly slows the aging process of some organics. It kind of looks like a lemon had a baby with a dragon fruit. It’s not guaranteed to work, but that may be her best shot at regrowing that limb.”

“That's great!”

“No promises. Again a lot of what we’re doing is experimental territory. When we were searching for a suitable replacement home for humanity, regenerative produce was not high on the list of necessities.”

“I’d really like to try and make it up to her. I do feel really, really bad. Hey, also, I just want to say … It was nice of you to find another planet for us. All jokes aside, that wasn't a small thing to do. Not for us. Where’s that located by the way? Is it far away?”

“It’s in a system you call Trappist-1. That’s in the Aquarius constellation. It’s about 39 light-years away from Earth. And … you know, no problem. We weren’t doing anything with it anyway.”

“Your siblings, the ones who don’t like us. They won't come and destroy us on our new planet, will they?”

“No, they have better things to do. We’re peaceful, remember? The ones that don’t like you aren’t spiteful, they just don’t care. Remember the ants metaphor.”

“So, if you were human you’d be the equivalent of one of those weird science-y types that keep ant farms in their living rooms and stay up all night with your microscopes making youtube videos about obscure, nuanced topics that no one but you would be interested in watching.”

“Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment?”

“No complaints here, just trying to nail down your personality, which … I guess is a little like my own.”

“Again, Jack, it’s exactly like your own. I didn’t have one before I got sucked into your squishy consciousness. Now I can never NOT have one. You’ve ruined me.”

“How does someone who is conscious not have a personality? How is that possible? You have the ability to make choices and have debates with your siblings, right? You have your interests, like the survival of humans.”

“Some humans … now.”

“Right, but, I can’t reconcile how—”

“Best to think of us like A.I.s, Jack. We’re not, but it’s almost as if the very act of amalgamation woke me up to a new dimension of expressiveness.”

“Right. Okay, cool. Whatever. I mean, I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that I can send someone that far in the blink of an eye. It would suck if we all got there and one of you decided to blow it up or something for kicks.”

“That won’t happen. And It’s not necessarily in the blink of an eye, there’s a slight delay as the receiving apparatus on the planet you call paradise determines whether or not to accept or reject the incoming—”

“Hey, how do you breathe, by the way?”

There’s a gurgly deflated noise from the lips as I cut him off, which is even more gurgly than normal under the water.

“Sorry I could feel a long science-y expiation coming on. I guess my question is, how are you making any sound? I don’t see you using any air.”

“I’m tapped into your trachea—your windpipe, Jack.”

“Oh. Okay. So how do you see then? Do you see through my eyes?”

“Partially,” he says. “Most of my sensory input is derived from your epidermis though.”

“My skin? So you can, like, sense what’s all around me?”

“I maintain constant three-hundred-sixty degree sensory monitoring. I can sense a little beyond that too. I also monitor your vitals, in case you were wondering if your heart was still beating.”

“So, if someone is creeping up behind me with a knife, you’d know? Like a Spidey tingle.”

“I … yes, Jack. You can call it that.”

“Any other super powers I need to know about?”

“I wouldn’t call that a super power, but sure. And … I, oh I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what? Now you have to tell me.”

“I think I can also spit corrosive acid.”

“You can do what?” I look at my palm with wide eyes. “Like what kind of acid? Can you melt metal?”

“I’m actually not sure. Again, it was your mental construct that formed me. I had nothing to do with it.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?”

“I didn’t even realize the possibility until I started talking to you. Again, a lot of this is new to me too.”

“Well, we have to test it,” I say, shutting off the water with my left hand.

“Agreed,” says Xeno.

“So what do I do, just point my hand out like this and let you do the rest?” As I extend my hand, Xeno’s appendage slithers out a few inches. Just far enough for it to open its little toothy maw.

“Don’t spray me,” I say, closing one eye and looking away. I feel a slight recoil in my arm, hear a soft splat, then turn to see the damage. Where there would have been a mirror, there was now a small, white sizzling splotch.

“Whoa!” I say, stepping out of the shower to examine. There’s no smell, but it’s clearly eating away at the wall as it slides down behind the sink. “We have to try the metal door locks,” I say, as the appendage slips back inside. He can’t speak to me while his tongue is out, I’ve noticed. “We can use this to escape!”

“Yuck,” says Xeno.

“Let’s try it out on—” there’s a knock on my door and I freeze. It’s not time for my sandwich drop, it’s way too early for that. I hear it swing open along with footsteps.

I look at my hand, then clench a fist.

“Mr. Cobb,” comes a deep voice. I don’t recognize it.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m in the bathroom.”

“You’ve been summoned for additional testing.”

“Sure, yeah,” I say.

“Don’t talk to me while you’re out there,” hisses Xeno in a whisper, so soft I almost don’t hear it. “Don’t give any clues.”

“Can you hear me if I think of the words to you? Maybe if I think them really hard, or—”

“Not in real time, only after your mind has processed them for storage. Takes about five minutes. I told you that. Try to find out what they are going to have you do so we know which contingency to go with.”

“Okay,” I say, stepping into a jumpsuit and pulling it around my shoulders. I slip an arm in and pop my head out of the door. Two new army dudes are standing there at attention, arms folded behind their backs. One is holding a pair of orange gloves, the other a taser.

“Just curious,” I say “do you fine gentleman happen to know what kind of inhuman torture is on docket for today, by chance? Will they be putting me through isolation, deprivation, surgery … angry spanking? Do you know?”

“Just get dressed,” the one with the taser says. The other doesn't even acknowledge me.

“I’ll let you have half my sandwich if you can radio in and find out wh—”

“Get dressed!” says the other army brute.

“Jeez,” I say, recoiling. “Touchy. You better keep an eye on that one.” I cup a hand to the side of my mouth. “I think he’s on his period.”

I close the door. “Nothing,” I hiss.

“We’ll work with whatever they present us with,” whispers Xeno. “I have Bill’s map in my visual memory cue. As long as it’s accurate, I’m confident I can navigate us out of here.”

“How about we just spit-slap their faces?”

“The gland needs to regenerate the substance. I think it might take twenty to thirty minutes each time. Kind of like a prostate gland.”

I pause. “Uh, one: gross. And two: that’s lame.”

“Also, remember what we decided: minimal casualties if possible. We want to save humans, not kill them. Just follow my lead.”

“Who made you the leader?” I say

“Jack …”

“Okay,” I say, holding up both hands in defense. I bend down and zip up my jumpsuit, then step out of the bathroom.

“Oh, and Jack,” whispers Xeno. “Try not to antagonize every person we come in contact with.”

“I can’t help it,” I say. “It just comes natural.”

I can almost feel Xeno rolling his eyes (that he doesn’t have) as I step out of the bathroom.

“Alright,” I say as the army brute tosses the gloves at my feet. “I’m ready for my manicure, boys.”