"Professor Kipple, if you tell me one more time that the alien might be in the ventilation system, I swear by the Twin Moons I will—" General Grawl's voice cracked mid-sentence, his usually slicked-back green hair now sticking up in wild tufts around his antennas. He slammed a four-fingered hand down on the holographic map table, sending a ripple of distorted light through the projected cityscape.

You placed a gentle hand on Grawl’s arm, a calming affect that worked instantly—The tension in Grawl's forearm eased beneath your touch, his breathing slowing just enough to notice. Professor Kipple, wisely, took this as his cue to retreat into the shadows of the command center's blinking consoles, muttering something about "double-checking the break room."

Grawl exhaled sharply through his nostrils—a sound you'd come to recognize as his version of counting to ten. His fingers flexed, then stilled against the table's surface. "You," he said without turning, voice rough-edged but quieter now, directed only at you, "are the only person on this planet who doesn't make me want to rip my own antennas out."