The Debriefing Disaster

The air in my tiny apartment, usually thick with the scent of stale pizza and desperation, felt positively charged. Not in a good way, like when you’re about to get struck by lightning, but more like a static cling situation that’s gone horribly wrong. Arke, bless his meticulously groomed mane, was pacing. He wasn’t just pacing, though. He was *prancing*. A low, guttural rumble vibrated in his chest, a sound I’d come to associate with extreme Lyran displeasure. Across from him, perched precariously on my one decent armchair, sat two… things. They weren’t exactly people. Or aliens. They were more like sentient holograms, shimmering with an unsettling, iridescent glow. One looked vaguely like a giant, grumpy pear, and the other resembled a particularly agitated, disembodied eyebrow.

"So," the pear-thing buzzed, its voice like a swarm of particularly polite bees, "you are Arke, designated observer of Sector 7G, Planet Earth."

"Indeed," Arke managed, his voice a strained baritone, attempting a Lyran bow that nearly sent him headfirst into my coffee table. "My observations have been… extensive."