“Hot damn…” I say as I hear the news about the Ambassador, slowing down. I’m about to keep walking, but the damn drone staggers into my heel, nearly tripping me. I stare darkly at the thing that’s supposed to help me, but I stop nonetheless. Well, at least it reminded me to take my egg-backpack with me. Anyway, all my nagging about having to stay up all night due to a pointless emergency status seems a lot more self-centered and stupid than it did at the time. Poor Ambassador Aztuz. I’m still tired and dreary-eyed when I’m supposed to take part in helping the Gnodarians acclimatize to their new condition.

“Yeah, they couldn’t crack his glider so they blew him up,” says Diego, dusty, just back from the road, to the little group forming around him just after the lockdown was eased.

“Of course the collared gringos couldn’t protect him. Who sent those guys?” says a Trasgo private I’m not familiar with, being joined by a few others. ‘Gringo’ is how we call foreigners, a neutral to pejorative term, depending on context. Our grumpy mythic fellow doesn’t seem very neutral you might have deduced with your exceptional perception.

“I don’t know, bud. But heads will roll, that’s for sure,” replies the werewolf, shaking his head. “But to be fair, the poor bastards from Stonewall were decimated.”

“Did you catch them?” I butt in before the rabble gets me in trouble with the Racial Equity Committee or something - it’s been known to happen.

“No, we didn’t. HQ’s Fast Reaction Unit got them good long before we arrived. A shame.”

Captain Bumba walks in on the impromptu gathering, getting the gist of it and asks a very important question. “Have you heard anything about how they crossed our lines?”

“I… I don’t think so, captain.”

“Maybe they have a new spell?” the Kishi spellcaster ponders out loud, starting a lot of speculation. Some good and some awful guesses are thrown about, but before I can interject my own wild theories I’m dragged aside.

“Lieutenant, we shouldn’t dawdle,” says sergeant Cariri, my new aide. He’s beaming with excitement at the prospect of dealing with aliens on a common basis. Of course there are a few aliens sprinkled through the Delta 413th Army, but bored professionalism is not what alien enthusiasts would expect, I’d hazard. They just have a way of looking at us. A certain disregard for our bumbling, curious ways. They give us the attitude I’d expect a caipira fresh out of a farm gets on a megalopolis like São Paulo, from 200 people in his backwoods town to 12 million in the juggernaut of a city.

“Why are you so perky,” I grumble as I let him push me towards our goal.

“Why aren’t you?” he ripostes, grinning as we walk by the rest of the returning troops trickling in the base. I have to crack a grin as we pass a trooper from the 1rst regiment, cursing loud and creatively the loss of an opportunity to engage in actual combat. A few of their rotating groups have proven very unlucky.

“Rafael, Oswaldo!” a lithe, red-furred mythic greets us, surprisingly devoid of the usual cam-drones buzzing around her.

“Hey, Clara. Not you too?” I reply as she joins us.

“Never mind him, he’s surly today!” chirps Cariri, making me roll my eyes to their laughter.

“Where are your cams, wolf-girl?”

“I noticed some of their females were weary about those. I was thinking of explaining and asking their permission,” she explains.

“Hmm. Very thoughtful of you.”

“But what’s our strategy for today, their first day, Lieutenant?”

“Strategy? They are just people - well, weird-looking **BZZZT** and behaving people from another planet, but people. Just be sympathetic and try to help them fit in, I guess?”

“Ah, the KISS principle?” asks the Sergeant.

“What does an 80’s rock band have to do with this?”

“We’re just going to have to rock,” I quip while Cariri shakes his head.

“KISS from “Keep It Simple, Stupid”. The Americans love these acronyms,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders.

“Like we shorten and switch up words all the time?”

That’s actually a phenomena that puzzles me - why do they keep changing things all the time? But we’re coming closer to our goal, so I should probably break them out of their revelrie.

“Anyway, I’m not comfortable in overthinking things when we know so little. Let’s just… ask them.”

“Fair enough,” agrees Cariri.

“I hope they’ve had a pleasant first night.

***

*Gnodarian’s First Night at the New Warren*

Maliskar shields his disjointed pair of eyes from the gore flying through the living hall, leaving only one upper arm to cover his major tympanal clusters. Dark blood already covers the Gnodarian and all the senior males ritualistically gathered; luckily the children are kept away in other rooms by the junior males and females. The biggest room available in their gifted Warren is still far too small for the ferocity of the Matriarch Dominance Contest. Three senior females and one junior clash for the right to lead and influence the group’s actions while the males hum tales of olden times, about their shattered homeland, of gained and lost glory.

Wedged limbs are used to pummel, pierce and slash, drawing blood even from the thick Gnodarians’ carapaces covering their faces. The lower, shorter pair of arms is used in a variety of ways - from strengthening one’s base, knuckle-walking and hand-running, or grappling and take downs.

The two females hailing from Maliskar’s group are old and huge, but slow and hesitant. It doesn’t surprise the old male — the pair was never dominant on the larger group they were a part of, rarely achieving even auxiliary positions. The smaller of the two is the first one to be knocked out of the contest by the larger females after being hamstrung by the opportunistic younger female, who spears her competitor shortly after disengaging from the all-out brawl that marks the beginning of the contest.

Xenia is her name, and she fights admirably. Each blow injures and taxes her a lot more due to the weigh difference and her weaker carapace, but she jumps in and out of the fray to survive. Yovka is the larger female and she gives Xenia no respite, even as she grapples her larger adversary. Her wedged arms pummel viciously into the foe she refuses to let go of, cracking her carapace further with each thunderous blow. Ambitious, Xenia tries to capitalize on the engaged foes, but Yovka’s lower arms are just as large as her wedged ones and are always there to fend her off; somehow Yovka manages to hang on her other foe even with only one arm. It doesn’t help that the Gnodarians’ arms have a wider angle of flexion than a humans’.

The wavering third female refuses to let go even as her carapace breaks in half, showing bad form. It doesn’t go unpunished, and Yovka’s next blow severs one of her top arms, splattering Maliskar all over again with the fountaining blood. With a pained keening, the senior female finally yields, retreating to seal off her stump. Her obstination and consequent maiming mean that she won’t be offered even an auxiliary position. Her foolishness means the Warren will have one less hand for a while after all - were she a male, she’d never regrow the limb.

The rules of the game are arcane, and there’s some knowledge innate to their culture. Like a group of Brazilians playing football, there are some specific conducts in specific times that are approved or reproved of, frowned or smiled upon, tolerated, or debatable. Taking control of a ball with the sole of your feet is acceptable, but doing so when disputing it with another player is beyond the pale, risking to cause severe injury. Hamstringing an opponent is generally frowned upon, but it’s tolerable when there’s a big weigh difference. Refusing to concede when the result is clear is widely reproved of. Maliskar is particularly cognizant of the nuances, having seen his fair share of contests more than any other male present.

Xenia and Yovka face off, the last two contestants. It’s no doubt a commendable performance by the younger female, but she’s clearly outclassed. Conceding now would be the prudent, wise move. Worthy of an influent auxiliary position. Yovka pauses a second to give Xenia the opening to do so. She does not. Maliskar’s eyes widen in surprise, considering if the younger female is maybe too ambitious for her own good.

Clearly irritated, Yovka lunges with an upper wedged arm. Xenia jumps sideway, having to deflect part of the powerful blow on her own wedged-arm. Reactive, the younger Gnodarian darts back before Yovka can fully retract her limb and aims for the small part of the forearm not covered by the wedge, drawing some blood. Seizing on the surprise, she distances herself again, earning a pensive look from the senior female. Maliskar judges the exchange as not bad, but still in favor of Yovka, slowed as she might be by the injury.

With no sign of conceding, again Yovka lunges, aiming for Xenia’s carapace and ready for her to dodge sideways. She doesn’t, dropping down to her lower hands to partially avoid the blow, still being clipped by the large wedges, and spearing quickly towards Yovka’s powerful legs. Yovka takes the first blow on her left leg, but turns her right to make the second one a glancing hit. Even surprised, she is still fast to pincer both wedges down to spear her rival against the floor. Xenia rolls sideways on the ground, but one of the wedges hits her on the back, drawing a big line of dark blood even if it fails to pin her down.

Another remarkable exchange to Maliskar’s surprise. Still not enough to overcome the difference. Yovka can take a lot more of the blows that Xenia is handing out than the contrary. What a shame will it be if the young one dies because of her ambition.

Again Yovka creates distance, being eyed warily by Xenia. The senior female is relentless and prepares a third lunge—

“I yield, Matriarch,” Yovka gracefully joins her palms and lowers her head. “Let me be the first to congratulate you, dominant.”

Maliskar’s humming falters for the first time in decades. What sheer potential. And for the first time since he can taste the word freedom. Will wonders never cease?

“Very well,” the Matriarch accepts with poise, unruffled despite the dark blood dripping from countless wounds. “For your performance in this contest, I offer you a co-dominant position, young Xenia.”

“Matriarch— I’m honored to accept,” stammers out Xenia, and Maliskar hums appreciatively as do many others.

“We’ll have much to learn about this supposed freedom and our circumstances, and a young, whipsmart female like you shall be invaluable. I’ll look over the Warren while you shall be the one dealing with the humans.”

The gathered males join their palms in acknowledgment and respect while younger females scurry into the room to look after the senior females’ wounds, Xenia being considered one of them from now on.

“Now to finish this fateful day, the male called Maliskar, step forward.”

Oh, here comes retribution.

“Matriarch,” he heeds her order, submissive.

“You presume much for a male, veteran though you might be.”

“I apologize, dominant. But I’ve lived through very unpleasant masters - few of which would begrudge us the time we’d need to fully shake off the stasis’ effects.”

“You think way too much for a male,” she replies, displeased. “However, the people need individuals with initiative, and my defeated contestants have proven sub-par. I’m well aware that few males live as long as you do, and I feel I must extract all I can from your survival-savyy.”

“Yes, dominant, I’m glad to be of service.”

“And so you shall.”

***

*Present*

As we approach the dainty little house built on top of the Warren, two figures emerge, stepping forward to receive us. There’s Maliskar, with his grayish skin. the one I spoke with yesterday, and a hulking bluish one besides him — a lot bigger than the old male, but far from the tallest one I’ve seen.

“Remember that their society is matriarchal,” reminds me Cariri sagely, his whispered words stopping me from hailing Maliskar first.

Instead, I take the time to better observe the duo’s… well, alien appearance. The males are around average male human height, but the females can even double that size - this one is somewhere in the ranges of the taller basketball players. Their relaxed posture is slightly hunchback, the wedged upper arms taking some of the weight from the legs. Their flexible lower arms’ palms are joined in a greeting to us.

“Greetings, Terrans. My name is Xenia, co-Matriarch of the Free Warren. You’ve dealt with my companion yesterday, Maliskar, but I’m the one in charge for any matters between us.”

“It’s good to see you, Barro,” adds the male after Xenia gives him a go-ahead gesture.

“You too… These are Sergeant Oswaldo and Clara, the ones you should look for in case you need anything and I’m not available.” The Cabriola and the maned-werewolf share their own pleasantries before I get back to the game. “Well, I’ll be frank. We’re still new to this, so please just let us know if we offend you in any manner so we can avoid doing it again.”

“There’s no need to walk on eggshells around us, human. I’m afraid our latest standards of treatment were quite worse.”

“Er—” As I’m fumbling on how to ask about their past and Cariri is jotting down notes in a little digital notepad (only we, lucky officers, get VIs), Clara joins the conversation.

“I should introduce myself properly!” she says, smiling openly. “As you might have noticed, I’m not in the Unity Army. My name is Clara Guará, I’m a freelance reporter and I’ve been asked to record videos and images of you, and I’d like to use these little drones to do it,” she continues, exhibiting one of the cam-drones.

“Record videos of us? For what purpose?” replies Xenia, clearly a bit taken aback.

“To show everyone back on Earth how this first experience in human - Terran - history is happening. The furor it will cause back home will be incredible, and my job is to make you very popular.”

“That’s—” Xenia casts a dubious glance to Maliskar who nods reassuringly, “That’s all right, I guess.”

“If I might ask, co-Matriach, aren’t you familiar with news shows and televisions?”

“I might have heard about them, but I’ve never watched one, no. The only recordings I was ever shown were videos of my opponents’ fights when I was being prepared to face off against them.”

“Were you a gladiator?” asks Maliskar, curious and saving my bacon from the doubt about asking something similar. Apparently it’s not a taboo. “I was under the impression your group’s last occupation was mining.”

“My group, yes. But I joined them shortly before being put into stasis. Galactic Law demanded I should earn an stipend after each fight until I could buy my liberty…”

“So they sold you just before you could reach it,” completes Maliskar, making a gesture I take to be very rude. “The same thing happened to me, co-Matriarch,” he commiserates.

“If it’s not rude,” I venture, “was that how you got your wounds, Maliskar?”

“Not these, no,” he says, pointing to his missing eyes. “These were from a ways after my Arena times, when I was bought and used for grinding.”

“Grinder like… hunting creatures mutated by excessive or weird mana?” I ask, making a connection to 1rst regiment’s mission.

“Exactly. Mining, fighting, grinding and heavy construction duty. These are the jobs I’ve done more often and the ones us Gnodarians are most often used in.”

“Grinding is the worst, I never want do it again,” comments Xenia.

“That’s a very rough life you’ve led,” observes Clara who is already recording our unpretentious conversation from 20 angles, I’d bet.

“The Swarm frowns if we’re employed in more civilized ways. It’s just not worth it to most people to antagonize them over this — there are many other slaves more suited to those jobs anyway,” comments Maliskar. It's a heavy burden the Broken races carry for the sins of their ancestors. It doesn't sound very fair, but the Paladin Swarm is very set on its ways.

“In the Unity, we believe all paths will be open to you,” sergeant Cariri puts in diplomatically.

“That’s what you say,” replies Xenia, dismissive. “We’ve talked enough for now, I believe. I should introduce you to the Matriarch, Yovka is expecting us. And later we need to talk about mining, some black-furred old mythic was complaining at us earlier.”

“Ah, Captain Bumba. Probably something about our sensor grid — we have to be on lookout for digging from the Barkers, our enemies around here,” I explain, sheepish.

“I’ll have a word with him,” promises Oswaldo.

The two Gnodarians trade an interested look at that piece of information before Xenia nods. “You’ll have to tell us more about it another time. After the introduction, we still have to help setting the Warren properly.”

“Have you ever eaten a feijoada?” asks Clara while I give her a dirty look; it’s very troublesome to get the ingredients. “You eat meat, right?”

“No, we have never eaten it, what sort of an animal is that?”

“Not an animal, but you’ll see!” she replies, full of energy and anticipation. “Three days from now, will that be enough for you to set up here?”

“It’ll do,” replies Xenia, Maliskar nodding behind her. “Let’s get this over with,” she beckons and we follow her into the Warren, already curious to learn how they have changed the barebones dirt-hole we’ve provided them.