[Oppenheimer ?,?,? ]: Yo, Copernicus! Did you see the whack fireworks? The Emperor slapped the friggin' moon! Event of the century! What a speech, am I right?

  It took Sergey a minute to get his thoughts in order, to claw his mind away from the nightmare of the infected moon.

  Oppenheimer. The group admin. The extra-extrovert dude who organized Emerald City fur-meets and furry cons which Sergey occasionally participated in.

  [Copernicus ???]: Yes, I saw it. Oppie, the moon is infected. Physics is broken. I saw a fractal tree growing in a vacuum. It hurts to look at it, pretty sure it gave me a fucked up dream about Neil Armstrong. I need a drink.

  [Oppenheimer ?,?,? ]: Way ahead of you. Listen. New community challenge dropped. Operation Florida-Lunar fireworks!

  [Copernicus ??? ] Florida? Are you planning for us to hit up a con in Miami?

  [Oppenheimer ?,?,? ]: No, you turnip. It means "Make Earth the Florida of the Multiverse." The aliens are stuck here now, I bet. Their biggest ride exploded. We need to show them a good time before they decide to laser us all for blowing up their shit.

  [Copernicus ??? ] Are you serious? Show them a good time? They're giant animal people who are probably mad as fuck about one of us blowing up their ship. I’ve been staying away from them for a reason.

  [Oppenheimer ?,?,? ]: Tall. Murderous. Hot predator girls in your area.

  [Oppenheimer ?,?,? ]: What more could you want? Come on, get outta your place and get ur ass here. Make Love, Not War! We need to integrate them. Fraternize. Get out there and mingle. If they're dating us, they won't vaporize us. Get what I'm saying?

  [Copernicus ??? ] I already told you, I’m an astrophysicist, not a pickup artist!

  [Oppenheimer ?,?,? ]: You're a human with a pulse and you look decent in a flannel. Chicks dig smart guys. Specially, alien chicks. Get to The Tipsy Sasquatch tonight! Target of opportunity: Any stranded Omnid or prad babe looking sad about their exploded ship. Buy them a drink. Explain gravity and shit. Get a girlfriend for the sake of mankind! Come on, everyone is already here, celebrating!

  Sergey stared at the phone. There was a photo there of his friends in partial costumes, looking happy drinking. Oppenheimer asked him to join pub outings several times this week, but he rejected the offers, terrified of getting his face clawed off by one of the aliens.

  His head thrummed, the migraine returning.

  Neil Armstrong. The bells. See-Mass. The damned dream felt far too real, far too horrible, pushed him to act, to do… something outside the norm.

  [Oppenheimer ?,?,? ]: Come out, come out! Don't be a scared kitten. Go get laid for humanity! I'm out here right now buying drinks for my fav leopard lady. Catch up! Everyone’s doing it! Cash prizes for whoever bags an alien GF first!

  [Copernicus ??? ] how mad are they at us?

  [Oppenheimer ?,?,? ]: that's the thing, none of them are mad at us! if anything, they’re super impressed that one of us blew up their capital ship somehow. Bigly opportunity to get it on tonight, get ur ass to the pub, come on. Adventure of a lifetime!

  Sergey sighed.

  Something inside him snapped, allowing him to overcome his social anxiety. He had to tell someone about his dream, share the dire warning of coniferous doom. The Astrophysicist didn’t believe in bullshit like precognition, yet the dream of the moon felt… prophetic.

  Oppenheimer knew a lot of people.

  Maybe he knew someone in the military, someone who could help prevent whatever was coming.

  The Tipsy Sasquatch was a dive bar in Fremont. According to Oppenheimer, it had become the “unofficial watering hole for alien babes”.

  The neon pink and blue sign flickered in harmony with the moon-tree headache pulsing behind Sergey’s eyes as he parked his Pontiac beside it.

  The bar was packed. Humans were celebrating the Emperor's speech. They clinked glasses and shouted toasts to "Victory."

  The aliens were there too. A group of Pradavarian soldiers and a bewildered-looking Omnid Wendigo huddled in booths. They nursed high-grade alcohol and watched the TVs on the walls with varying expressions.

  Sergey adjusted his glasses and smoothed down his flannel shirt.

  Operation Florida. Right. Just be… nice and harmless. Don't get vaporized.

  He looked for Oppenheimer, aka Steve.

  Steve was easy enough to find. The loud, brunette man occupied the largest circular booth near the back, wearing a pair of fluffy coyote ears and holding court like a king. He was flanked by their usual Comicon crew: "DorkVader" Tom, "Darwin" Dave, and Sarah aka “C4P4” currently dressed as a generic anime catgirl wearing a dress with the cute droid’s depiction on it.

  They weren't alone.

  Squeezed into the booth with them were two pradavarians, a Clouded Leopard sitting beside Steve and a Badger, who looked mildly interested as Tom loudly tried to explain the rules of Dungeons and Dragons using beer coasters and peanuts.

  "Copernicus!" Steve roared, spotting Sergey. "Finally! You made it! Ladies, gents, and extraterrestrial guests, the starscape-obsessed chosen one has arrived!"

  Sergey felt painfully underdressed as he slid into the booth next to Dave.

  "Drink," Steve commanded, shoving a shot into Sergey's hand.

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  "Oppy, did you get my text?" Sergey hissed, knocking back the shot. The peppermint schnapps and vodka burned all the way down.

  “Which text?” Steve asked.

  "I saw… An inverted fractal tree eating the landing site,” Sergey said. “And then Neil Armstrong told me about… bells and… other stuff… in my dream."

  "Ohhh!" Steve laughed, clearly not taking the astrophysicist seriously. "Space dreams! Look around you and forget about the moon for tonight, man! The aliens are sad ‘cus their ride got towed to the moon scrap yard. They need comfort. They need culture. They need..." He grinned deviously. "Operation Florida!"

  "Oppy, this is important, damn it," Sergey muttered, eyeing the badger, who was currently eating a peanut shell and all.

  "No! Diplomacy is important," Steve insisted. "We are the ambassadors of funk. The emissaries of chill. Quit radiating anxiety and get out there. Find a nice, lonely alien warrior-princess and explain the Roche limit to her until she swoons!”

  "..." The astrophysicist stared at his friend.

  Another vodka shot was shoved in his direction. He chugged it with a wince. The lunar headache lessened slightly, the dream of Armstrong receding to the back of his mind.

  Maybe it was all indeed just a stupid dream…

  "Go man!" Dave pushed Sergey out of the booth. "Hit on whoever catches your eye. We gonna make bets!"

  "I..." Sergey fretted.

  “You can do it! For humanity! For the species! For the plot! Everyone has to ask an alien girl out tonight! That's part of the challenge!” Steve declared.

  “Don't come back till you talk to a cute prad,” Sarah giggled. “We're all watching.”

  "Watching and judging!" Tom added, throwing him a thumbs up.

  Sergey stumbled into the crowd on wobbly legs. He navigated through the press of bodies, dodging a group of humans teaching a drunk reptile-prad how to do the Macarena.

  He needed a target. Someone who didn't look like they would rip his arms off at a glance.

  His eyes landed on a solitary figure at the bar.

  A Tiger pradavarian. She was staring morosely into a glass of whiskey. Orange and black fur covered her face.

  Okay. Tigers are cats. Cats like attention, right? She looks drunk enough. Maybe she won’t eviscerate me on the spot?

  Just... be cool. Say a few words and get back to your friends. You can do this.

  Sergey approached the girl, thoughts colliding with each other.

  Physics. Stick to physics!

  "Excuse me," Sergey let out, swallowing nervously.

  The Tiger looked from her drink, gold eyes narrowed. "What do you want, human? Going to make fun of us like the others?"

  "I, uh..." Sergey leaned against the bar, struggling to look casual. "I couldn't help but notice the tidal forces in here are intense. It's like... you're a black hole. I'm a cloud of hydrogen gas drifting past the Roche limit. I feel myself… being pulled apart by your gravity."

  He felt like an awkward idiot. This is why he didn’t come to these meets before.

  "What?" The tiger blinked.

  "The... Roche limit," Sergey continued. He was sweating excessively now. "It's the point where a satellite breaks up due to tidal forces. Because... you're attractive. Gravitationally speaking."

  "Are you comparing me," she slurred slightly. "To a celestial singularity that destroys everything it touches?"

  "I mean... metaphorically?" He swallowed.

  “Uh-huh,” She yawned, treating the astrophysicist like he was a particularly uninteresting bug. “What else you got?”

  Sergey shuddered, feeling that this particular conversation was already doomed to collapse in on itself. "Did you know that stripes are technically a form of camouflage designed to break up your silhouette in tall grass?"

  The Tiger stared at him. "Oi! You calling me… a grass-hiding coward?"

  "What? No! I was just mentioning the evolutionary advantages of—"

  "You mock my stripes?" Tiger stood up. She kept standing up. She was tall. Too tall for his liking. "You think I hide in grass like a Green? I hide in nothing! I stand in the open and kill!"

  "I didn't mean—"

  The Tiger grabbed Sergey by the front of his flannel shirt. She lifted him off the ground with one hand, bringing him face-to-face with a muzzle full of very sharp, very white teeth.

  "I should bite your head off," she growl-purred, hot, alcohol-smelling breath washing over his face. "I should crack your skull like a walnut and drink your jelly."

  "Please don't drink my jelly," Sergey whimpered, dangling helplessly.

  "Carrla! Put the primitive down!" A sharp voice barked. Sergey quickly determined that the voice came from a Wendigo inhabiting a nearby booth. The alien Commander’s antlers were draped with Mardi Gras beads.

  "He's makin' fun of my stripes, Commander!" Carrla shook Sergey like a ragdoll.

  "I do not care if he insulted your mother," the Wendigo stated. "We have orders from the Legate Council. The Green Fleet is in orbit. The Stabalist Oversight monitors are watching and their reps could be anywhere. No eating any locals tonight. We are… being veeeery civilized, polite and friendly." She ground the sentence out of herself with visible effort.

  Carrla huffed. "You are lucky, puny man." She dropped him, opening her fist.

  Sergey hit the floor hard, scrambling backward on his hands and feet. The tiger sat back down, muttering about "hippie regulations" and "fucking flower-loving Greens."

  "Physics check." Sergey stared at the ceiling with a groan, rubbing his aching behind. "Momentum conserved. Right. That was a bust. Definitely never talking to another prad girl ever again." He mumbled to himself.

  "That was a terrible pickup line."

  The new voice was melodic and amused. It came from directly above him.

  Sergey turned his head in the direction of the speaker.

  Standing beside him was... legs. An incredible amount of legs. Black, sharp digitigrade claws that turned into dark legs that slowly became more orange like a sunset. As Steve’s eyes travelled up the slender and long legs, her outfit made his brain careen sideways.

  She wasn’t encased with the standard, intimidating, magitek, black hexasuit like the Commanders and misc servants of the Frontenachii armada.

  The prad looming over him wore colorful mesh-tights and a very short, green skirt with whimsical drawings of dancing x-mas trees. Below the skirt sat a candy-cane striped G-string that barely covered anything. A fuzzy, bright red sweater featuring a knitted pattern of prad skulls wearing Santa hats sat on her curvy frame. A red choker covered in jingling silver bells inhabited her neck. Perched atop her head, nestled between large fox ears, was a green headband with felt reindeer antlers.

  Sergey deduced her species as a Maned Wolf.

  The Maned Wolf smiled down at him. It was the warmest, jolliest, most predatory expression he had ever seen.

  "You tried to explain gravity to a drunk Tiger." She chortled, leaning down and extending a hand. Her claws were painted candy-cane red and white. "Explaining veganism to a dungeon mimic would go better."

  Sergey stared at the offered hand, heartbeat intensifying. "Physics seemed… safe."

  "Physics is boring," she declared, hazel eyes flickering with emerald rings from within. "Holidays are fun. Come on. Up you get."

  She grabbed his wrist and rapidly hauled him to his feet. He stumbled, colliding with her.

  She smelled like...

  Cinnamon. Pine needles. Freshly baked cookies. Milk. Presents. The flavors of X-mas cranked up to two hundred.

  The smell of his nightmare. The scent of festivus devouring Neil Armstrong from within.