It was only thanks to Stacy’s translators that Aeneas’s form of communication could even be remotely considered ‘talking’; it was more like what one would expect to come out of a cat or elk or a radio without a signal, none of which involved the slightest movement of his pyramid-shaped mandibles, which clicked or twitched every once in a while, but otherwise remained completely still. His vocalizations were so odd, in fact, that even the translators had to take a few moments to spit out anything understandable. And it wasn’t even just the sounds he made—a single squint of the eye, a curl of the brow, a leaning of his ears or a swing of his tail, could completely change a simple phrase into something far more complex. It was an interesting system.

At the time his tone was oddly cheery, perhaps even joking in the way his grinning brow prevailed over narrowed, content eyes, but it was clear that dear Aeneas only wanted to help. That was all he ever wanted to do. The politeness in his translated voice could convey little else.

“I have only been here a few months myself,” the alien admitted, suddenly getting the urge to keep this one talking, “It is a large place—strange, at first, but you get used to it. Regardless—“ he was scratching his ear now, “—Introductions, right. I am Aeneas. What should I call you?”