A tiny spaceship landed on a rocky crag. A small astronaut leapt from the red-stripped rocket, colliding with the blue dirt of Terrafin-7. The boy looked around. He built a fire from stones and foliage and waited for signs of intelligent life. Black flame reflected in his rounded helmet when a rustling came from nearby bushes. They were all shapes and sizes. The smaller ones tumbled and rolled down the hillside while the larger ones, with spindly legs and tubular eyes, made larger strides. Miniature tendrils grasped at the rocks near the fire. The boy protested but the big ones came closer.

Funny noises came from their mouth-parts. They gestured at the boy’s chest. He wondered what they were saying and remembered the translator in his visor. They were mocking his dress, snorting and chortling with their strange appendages. He stood and moved back. He told them to remain calm. They were mocking how he walked and talked, calling him an “obliquaturs.” Their funny noises and upturned mouths suggested laughter.

The creatures continued to advance on the boy and started to peel apart his spaceship, continuing their guffawing. He ran down an embankment when their tinkering became violent. Metal shards followed him as the brutes destroyed his only hope of escape. Seeking refuge in a nearby tunnel, he hid. His oxygen was running low. Running back toward the camp he tripped over a piece of metal and smashed his visor. Clean, breathable air came to his lungs. He removed the helmet. The aliens peered from the brush, saw the boy without his helmet and made gasping noises. They bowed, even the small ones, and chanted the same word: “Grata. Grata. Grata.”