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“[i]Very, very cute…[/i]” Quayhoggr spoke in Martian, hushed and rugged, when denied his glass of hot milk. He surveyed the inventory of the bar presented to him and he noted that he had had a taste of all of them - he remembered the Saturnian Sxht'Wathur being not that bad, even, regardless on the play on words. So when he legitimately asked for the white, nutritional liquid from the mammary glands of a mammal, he thought he’d at least be respected of his choice, for the lack of choice. Yet, for the rejection, like many things he finds intriguing and compelling, he called it “cute”. 

He wouldn’t have minded the decline, but Quayhoggr was not in a particularly happy mood. On one hand, it was exhausting being him, constantly looking and observing things as a reflex rather than emote or option. On the other, it’s the one bounty they captured having committed [i]seppuku[/i] that’s got him and the entire crew down. Poole, the giant of a man, was walking over to the jukebox across the room. Not saying a word, Quayhoggr winced and tightened his eyes, not unlike a camera whose aperture narrows to sharpen its focus. Unfortunately, with the behemoth in the way, he could only see the few alien graphemes jutting out the view on the sides. Looking back to everyone, Jeremiah looking like he was mixing alcohol and his drugs - not like it wasn’t obvious that he has a drug problem, Quayhoggr having surmised upon many inspections, though he kept it to himself for now - and the others having their own form of silent solemnity, reflection, and rest, Quayhoggr just kept a still face. [i]Let them brood.[/i] he thought.  

He brooded as well. Deevee remembered staring through the glass opening of the door, the room where they had held their capture. Everyone had left to return to their quarters when he just stood there, looking at him. Admiring him. Dissecting him. He wanted to know more: the man’s IQ, his taste in literature, his choice of words, his everything. He was the perhaps the last one to watch him. In a way, he felt and latched onto that tiny bit of responsibility that he could have prevented their capture’s death. It brought back that tang of uselessness being just the team’s linguist, and nothing more. 

His attention was brought back to the dark room when Jeremiah dropped his drink, the plastic glass thudding the floor, spilling the engineer’s drink. 

He shuffled in his barstool to face the barman, his coat ruffling against itself, the stool producing a sharp metal sound of its weakened state. In Martian tongue, he spoke:

“[i]Another whiskey for this man, and can I please have my hot milk?[/i]”

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