Kadi had served her share of aliens. A whole galaxy of costumed tourists drifted through Blue’s Bar every day, chirping and chattering and role-playing their hearts out. Usually she loved it. Today, one of them was pecking straight through her patience.

A kid dressed as a green owl creature perched on a barstool, feathered head just visible above the marble counter. Enormous amber-ringed eyes stared at her without blinking. When she glanced away, it chirped. When she glanced back, it chirped louder.

Not good. Stress was the one thing she was supposed to avoid.

She adjusted the pencil behind her ear, smoothed her ‘50s diner dress, and gave the kid her brightest customer-service smile. Blue’s Bar had rules. Smile. Stay playful. Keep the mood light.

The makeup artists had already painted her brown skin a perfect sapphire, and the blue wig and tights finished the effect. She was Blue, the cheerful owner of the Spaceport’s retro sci fi diner. People came here for whimsy. She would deliver whimsy.

Even if her new friend was testing her.

She snapped a bubble of gum. The pop echoed across the diner and earned applause from two patrons at the end of the counter. She curtsied before turning back to the bar.

She dropped a fizzy tablet into a sweet drink and watched the multicolored layers swirl. "One rainbow storm," she yelled and slid it down the bar toward a guy dressed like a Stormtrooper.

The drink swooshed past the kid. Okay, time to try again.

“All right, sweetie,” she said, hand landing lightly on the counter. “What can I get you?”

More chirping. No help at all.

Two businessmen interrupted her focus. Modern suits. Lunch crowd. One of them had at least tried to play along with elf ears. The other frowned at the menu as if the words offended him.

“What is Andorian Ale?” he asked.

“Ginger ale with blue food coloring,” his friend answered.

Kadi grinned. “It is also our most popular drink with kids under twelve.”

“So this is not a bar?” the first man asked, sounding betrayed and glaring at his coworker.

“It is better than a bar,” the elf-eared one said. “Just look at the costumes.”

Since they ignored her again, she turned back to the owl. “Want the special?”

Tweedles.

“How about fried worms?" They were really deep fried clam strips, but made a pretty impressive alien looking dish. "Crunchy. Delicious.”

The owl cheeped, long and uncertain.

The pitch of the creature’s voice rubbed against her nerves, buzzing like a wasp caught behind glass.

The businessmen finally settled on lunch.

“Two of the specials,” the elf-eared man said.

“Two Area Fifty-one's,” Kadi shouted toward the kitchen.

Cookie answered with a grunt that slid into something like a purr. A few moments later, tentacles delivered steaming plates through the service window. Showmanship. It usually delighted her. Today it made her flinch.

She set the meals in front of the businessmen. The elf-eared one dug in eagerly. His friend hesitated.

“Do you have ketchup?” he asked.

Honey. A newbie.

“All I have is Venusian Slug Blood.” She plucked a bottle from a neighboring table and set it in front of him.

He recoiled.

“Oh, it makes all of Cookie’s food taste better,” she said.

A growl rolled out of the kitchen in response.

“It is ketchup,” his friend whispered.

"Squashed the slugs fresh this morning." Kadi laughed and resumed her rounds, confirming the rest of the diners were happy. Then her gaze snagged on the owl again. Always back to the owl.

It blinked slowly. Unnaturally slow.

Its gaze did not waver.

Her mom would have said owls were messengers of bad news. If you hear one, it means someone is going to die. Silly superstition. But this costume was too good. Too real. Too alive.

She made another loop through the diner, asking casually: “Anyone missing an owl?”

Several chuckles. No takers.

Figures.

She returned to the bar and tried the picture menu again. “This?”

Tweedles.

“This?”

Peeps and chirps that meant nothing.

“I am all out of birdseed,” she said, sliding the menu back into its rack.

The owl blinked again. The color of its irises shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to catch the edges of her nerves.

She slapped a glass of water in front of him. “Here. Hydrate. Think about your life choices.”

The owl leaned forward and cheeped a softer sound. Almost pleading.

Kadi stepped back. She needed space. A breath. A moment to get her footing.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “I am not losing it again.”

She smoothed her apron, squared her shoulders, and moved to the far end of the counter to reset her smile. A bubble popped again on her tongue. Sharp. Final. A punctuation mark on her frayed nerves.

She exhaled, ready to try again.

And just then, the air shifted.

Trevor wandered in.

He was off duty. She could tell by the steampunk getup and the purple lip ring that clashed with his green hair. When he was working, the ring was silver and blended with his red security uniform. His deep brown skin was makeup free tonight, highlighting the clean line of his jaw. Kadi resisted the urge to lean in closer. The scenery at the Port was sure fine.

He leaned on the bar and glanced at the green-feathered kid. Trevor always had a way of reading people. Or maybe it was just that he walked around with his eyes open. He looked back at Kadi, eyelids dipping slightly. Locked on. Reading her mood.

Kadi snapped her gum and glared at the owl.

“You pop another bubble and I am calling for reinforcements,” Trevor said.

She stepped closer to him and whispered, “I do not know why, but this kid is getting to me. He is stuck in character, but the character makes no sense.” She sighed and rubbed at the ache along her hairline. “Maybe I am just tired.”

Trevor studied her with those nightshade-purple contacts that made him look like a mischievous genie. He knew her history, knew she did not react well to stress. “You want me to talk to him?”

“Unofficially?” she asked.

Trevor was head of security. She did not want the kid getting in trouble. He had not done anything except exist. Loudly.

Trevor nodded.

“Okay, yes. See if you can get him to tell you what he wants?”

With a smile bright enough to rival a full moon, Trevor wandered over to the little green munchkin. The kid was barely over three feet tall. Kadi hoped the parents were somewhere nearby enjoying the show.

“So, sir, can I help you with anything?” Trevor asked.

The creature tweedled.

“I see. Your universal translator seems to be malfunctioning.”

More tweets. More chirps. The sound effects were unsettlingly lifelike. She shuddered. That costume must have cost a fortune.

Trevor glanced over his shoulder at Kadi and shrugged. “Tell you what, sir. Let us go find a technician to help you with that translator before you drive my friend Blue here to start drinking her own wares.” He placed a hand on the kid’s wing and gently steered the little terror toward the door.

The bar sat near the Port entrance, built into the concrete side of the building with an interior-facing glass wall. Outside was a normal city street, with a few humans staring in at the costumed patrons.

The little green creature allowed itself to be led only halfway across the room before pulling away and rushing back to the bar. It climbed onto the barstool again and tweedled at Kadi.

Her patience snapped. “Look, kid, I do not have any tweeting whatever-it-is-you-want. We are all out. We may even close early. Go ride the shuttles, will you?”

The creature’s amber-ringed eyes widened, shifting into something heartbreakingly plaintive. It blinked.

It was the most lifelike costume she had ever seen.

She sighed and plopped the pictographic menu in front of it again. “This?”

Tweedles.

“This?”

Chirps.

She dragged the menu back. “I am all out of birdseed.” She tossed it into the rack and blew a huge bubble in Trevor’s direction. The pop was sharp enough to be a distress signal.

Trevor laughed and walked out.

She saw him cross the bright promenade, flipping out his radio to call for backup.

Two red-shirted security guards met him moments later, and he led them back into the bar.

Patrons who had been quietly eavesdropping now turned openly as the three officers surrounded the little green annoyance.

“Sir, we asked you to leave politely,” Trevor said. “Now we are asking a bit more forcefully.”

The guards lifted the kid down and escorted him toward the door.

The owl grew agitated. Its head swiveled a full one hundred eighty degrees. No human neck worked like that. The tweets rose sharply, more frantic, almost pleading.

She shook her head and gave a small wave of farewell.

The owl yanked one wing free and drew a tiny blaster pistol from its feathers.

“That is supposed to be peace-bonded,” Trevor said, reaching for the toy.

The weapon whined. A flash split the air.

Trevor dropped.

Both guards fell beside him.

A patron gasped and clapped, thinking it was part of the show. The owl blasted her. A sickening thud followed as the woman hit the floor.

She did not get up.

Kadi froze. Breath gone. For a heartbeat, the universe held still.

This had to be staged. It had to be.

But the pool of blood spreading beneath the woman said otherwise.

The owl grabbed her arm.

Feathers brushed her skin, and a spark rippled across her body like static lightning. A voice echoed inside her mind.

“I do not want to harm anyone. Can you understand me?”

The chirps around her blurred. The voice was rich, controlled, undeniably real.

She nodded. And kept nodding.

A pause. A searching sensation, as if something were rifling through her thoughts.

“I want to speak to…” another long pause. “Cordell Klakowicz. He is your leader.”