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Xenobiology and Xenosociology

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The water is cool and dark, heavy with some mineral or another, and impossible to see through. Roger's up to his hips in it and there's vegetation tickling his ankles. He's going to take like 30 showers when he gets back from this mission.

Somewhere in the depths of the cave, lives a creature known as The Machian Tropical Bog Terror. He's only here to snatch a few of the eggs, rumored to be made from a mixture of gold, iron, and jade, to pawn them off to a shop owner a few light years away. He's got an idea it won't be too difficult, probably just grab a few from a nest and make a run for it.

The water starts to ripple in the opposite direction, the waves coming towards him. There's a soft gurgle of water a little too close for comfort and Roger takes a moment to fit the underwater breathing apparatus to his face. The ground under his feet goes from muddy to squishy to not there at all as whatever lurks under the surface of the pool sweeps him under with it.

There's a sudden struggle, silence broken by water breaking and splashing all over the place as the many arms of the creature grab at his own limbs and splay him out, feeling around on him to figure out what he could be.

The once soft, rumbling gurgling noise turns to a high pitched, happy chirp as the tentacle like appendages feel at his cheeks in a mock kiss. The creature lets him up for air but doesn't let go, the water around them still swaying from the earlier struggle.

The tentacles are starting to get handsy, winding up pant legs and shirt cuffs.

“Hey!” Roger objects but the creature doesn't understand. The actions don't seem to be threatening or dangerous. Maybe it's just how little person to person interaction he's had in the past week but the slithering appendages actually feel quite friendly and dare Roger say, pleasant.

“God, I'm going to fuck a strange bog monster, I'm seriously that lonely...” Roger mumbles under his breath.

“Would you rather fuck a friendly, well-known bog monster?” The narrator buzzes in the back of his head.

“Well, yeah.” Roger shrugs like it's not even a joke before the creature pulls him back under again.

It takes the tentacles a while to figure out how to undo his pants but they're around his knees eventually and the monster takes a curious interest in his anatomy.

“Roger, what's that all about?” The narrator asks, Roger keeping his head above water.

“What's what?” It's hard to tell in the dim lighting, but Roger's face is pink and flush.

“Roger, you've got more going on down there than most humans.” The voice seems to be getting annoyed.

“Well that's 'cause I'm not huma-” Roger dives back under again, losing his mask in the sudden jolt and getting a mouth-full of swamp water.

“Heh, kinda sweet,” he pauses his coughing fit to comment.

“I know you're xenon but you're humanoid, why do you have...” the voice trails off.

“What, can't say a naughty word in an a-a-a-aah-adventure game.” His resolve's starting to crack under whatever's going on under the pitch black water. “Yes, I've got 'two sets'. All Xenons have egg pouches. Now can you let me have a half hour in peace I'll explain when I-i-iiah get back to the ship.”

“Have fun getting to know your weird new friend, Roger. I'll come back if you expire for whatever reason. Try not to get eaten.” It almost sounds like a radio turning off.

“You going to get out of that emergency refresher any time soon, it only has so much water.” The voice finally cuts back in.

“Fine, I guess I'm clean enough.” Roger's still damp but he slips himself into a set of extra clothes tucked away in the ship's de-con chamber.

“So... egg pouches.” The voice reverberates in the cabin, with no distinct source.

“Yeah, xenon biology involves some interbreeding stuff. We're compatible with both 46 chromosome humanoids such as Vulcans, Romulans, humans, Klingons, and each other, naturally, but we're also compatible with a local species of what you might call “Swamp Monsters.” Simple as that.” Roger settles himself into a p-leather upholstered chair, nursing a can of dehydrated iced coffee.

“But why though?”

“Well, we're technically another gender of their species, a second and third to be precise since they're hermaphroditic. Xenons are the only species capable of harboring their eggs so it's kind of a delicate eco-system. Gotta be honest though, what we just encountered was definitely not the same.”

“How do you know.”

“For one, the Swamp Terrors of Xenon are much rougher with their prey from what I remember. And it was a snug fit back then, but this guy's brood's quite a bit bigger than any of the boys from back home.”

“Rougher than that? Roger, your nose looks broken... wait... You've actually?”

“Yes, I have and they're rough and tumble, you kinda have to fight with them. Proves that you're tough enough to be a good mate. Chippy, the one I got assigned, was tough on me, broke my ankle and dislocated my shoulder. Good thing I took the pain meds they gave me before hand or my experience would have been a lot closer to traumatizing.”

“You got assigned a swamp beast to fuck?”

“Well, it's kinda like a public service thing. Whenever you get a yearly physical, if you're able, the government considers you for the position. Pretty much everyone does it at least once, like I said; delicate ecosystem, conservation efforts and all that. It's not that bad, kinda like a week at the spa, if I'm being honest.”

“So you just, got you name pulled from a hat?”

“Well not really, they factor in health and all that. I always thought it was odd that I got picked so soon after I became eligible, being a northerner and all.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh sexual selection and a lack of swamp beasts on the northern hemisphere means that those of us with deep seated non-southern ancestry have smaller guts on average. The nurse I dealt with actually thought it was kinda cute how my tummy stuck out since abdominal distortion is something you've got to be very thin and very internally petite to experience.”

“Skinny and small, that is an apt description for some of your attributes, Roger.”

“Oh leave the dick jokes to Leisure Suit Larry!” Roger crunches the now empty can and misses the trash compactor.

“So what now, you just pop those suckers out and we forget this ever happened?”

“As nice as that sounds, it'll take my body at least another hour to realize that these aren't viable and finally relax enough for me to even have a dream of getting them out prematurely.”

“You're pretty laid back for someone who's so uptight.”

“I swear to God...”

“Come on, I've got a job to do here! They pay me by the one liner.”

“Will I have to live through a slew of egg puns.”

“Possibly.”