Page 33 of Prize for the Alien Grumpus

I duck through the door to the garage, my mind racing with possibilities. If I can't leave this woman unprotected, I'll need to ensure her family accepts my presence. And I know just how to do it.

My compad connects to Earth's primitive data networks. These humans still use silicon chips. Adorable.

"Show me the perfect mate." The search results scroll past. Too slow. Far too slow.

A quick scan reveals something called "Hallmark Christmas Movies." The description catches my eye - apparently these detail courtship rituals during this peculiar holiday season. Perfect.

I adjust my neural interface and prepare for direct download. This should give me everything I need to know about wooing a human female.

"Initialize full spectrum data absorption."

The flood hits my consciousness like a plasma blast. Thousands of hours of content surge through my neural pathways in a fraction of a second.

Bakers falling for businessmen. Teachers meeting strangers in small towns. Christmas tree farmers finding love. Cookiecontests. Ice skating accidents leading to romance. Fake relationships becoming real. Small town festivals. Hot cocoa. Mistletoe. Gingerbread. Sugar cookies. More hot cocoa.

My claws dig into the concrete floor as the saccharine overload threatens to short-circuit my brain.

"SWEET MERCIFUL NEBULAS, MAKE IT STOP!"

The endless parade of perfect hair and meaningful glances and Christmas magic burns through my synapses. So many scarves. So many cardigans. Everyone owns a bookstore or a bakery or both.

I collapse to my knees, overwhelmed by knowledge of holiday romance tropes I never wanted. The garage spins around me as my processors try to handle the sugar-coated data dump.

I pull myself up from the concrete, shaking off the last vestiges of sugar-plum induced trauma. The data download may have felt like psychological warfare, but it taught me what I need to know.

These Earth celebrations require specific elements. A perfect tree. Decorations. Baked goods. Family togetherness.

And someone to protect it all.

My claws scrape against the floor as I rise. This isn't about repaying Mel for freeing me anymore. That tiny human larvae - Sam - deserves the magical holiday experience these entertainment programs promise. And Mel...

The thought of her fierce spirit, her protective instincts, stirs something primal in my chest. She attacked a creature three times her size with primitive sports equipment. For her offspring.

"Computer, access local merchant databases. Calculate optimal routes for procurement of holiday supplies."

The screen fills with data. Trees. Lights. Something called "tinsel." And here I thought it was just festive murder rope.

I make use of Melanie's vehicle rather than the motorcycle. I will need to be able to carry my purchases home easily, after all. My first stop is a Christmas Tree lot. I need to procure a type of Evergreen known as the Douglas Fir.

The human merchant's lot smells of pine sap and desperation. My image inducer makes me appear as what the movies call a "rugged mountain man" - apparently this is an attractive form.

Three rows in, I spot it. The perfect Douglas Fir. Just like in "A Cookie Cutter Christmas" when Jennifer falls for the handsome tree farmer. Except I'm not here to court the tree.

A shrill voice cuts through my thoughts. "That's MY tree! I saw it first!"

A female human in impractical footwear storms toward my target, her artificial blonde mane bouncing with each step. Her face contorts into what humans call "speaking to the manager."

"My children NEED this tree. Christmas is RUINED if I don't get it!"

I reach for my utility belt. The shrink ray feels cool against my palm.

"I suggest you reconsider."

"How DARE you! I'm calling the police!"

zap

The beam reduces her to approximately three inches tall. She squeaks in outrage, waving her tiny designer handbag.

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