He remembered being nervous, as any young Talgan was. The moment that made pupas tremble in their coons was upon him. The test that would decide his fate for the rest of his pathetic life was knocking at his front door, a herd of buffalions behind it. The culture of his people would have him bend over and be slowly penetrated up the eggflap with a rusty spoon. Or perhaps he was just being over dramatic. Or perhaps he was being completely sensible. 

The test would last a week. The first half was hands on. He would spar with other biyearlings, testing whether or not he was even worthy to exist on this planet. If he defeated at least three opponents, he was safe. Any more than 8, and he'd be considered for military training. He had only gotten to 5. Afterwards, he was tested on his ability to hunt, scavenge, and survive. Of course, if he failed this, he would die. He had passed fairly easily. 

The second half of the test was written. He would be tested on his critical thinking and problem solving skills. He was given math, science, reading, and failed most of it miserably. In the end, Orren suspected that it was his cooking skills during the survival portion that had gotten him his job. He remembered the sheer relief that he wasn't going to be breaking rocks or cleaning sewer systems for the rest of his life. A cook was easy, remotely safe, and fairly interesting. He had felt as though he'd won the lottery. 

Those days were long gone. Now, it was trudging across strange and alien lands, surrounded by people who had no healthy concept of fear or suspicion. The natives of these lands were so gullible that it almost made him feel guilty when he took advantage of them. It was like stepping on an egg. All he had to do to get decent fruit was pretend to be interested in a stand, distract the stall attendant, and slip something into his pocket. They took their eyes off of him so easily. And even if he was caught, the city guards were about as trained as a pup with a cold. 

Another complaint he had, which he commonly griped about, was how crowded the cities were. In Talga, people were as spread out as they could possibly get. Living in close quarters was begging to be murdered. The only exception were the military bases, one of the only places where killing your peers was outlawed for the benefit of the country. 

Orren found himself slinking through the streets of the sorry abomination that these people called civilization. He'd found out a while ago that attacking those who bumped into you like bumbling oafs was frowned upon as well. It was if natural selection didn't exist at all around here. You had to just put up with being jostled around, and if you so much as threw a punch, you were suddenly a criminal. The young Talgan brightened up a little as he came across one of the few great things the outer world had managed to create: a bar. The mysterious drink called alcohol made him feel less like biting someone's head off. He slipped inside and sat himself down at a barstool. 

"What can I get for you?" A slightly overweight human leaned on the counter in front of him. Orren leaned away with a hint of disgust. 
"I don't know. Give me some of that fermented honey and fruit shit." His voice was slightly rough. The bartender raised an eyebrow.
"You mean mead?" 
"Whatever the fuck you call it."