Metallic Genealogy

"Morpher," the short, regally-dressed boy shouted across the room. "You're looking as gangly as ever!"

The named man showed a wrinkled smile. He had just begun to walk forward, arms outstretched, when he was stopped by some large-muscled guards holding axe-like cudgels. Morpher was but a regular-sized man, somewhat on the tall side through no fault of his own. He had a bland face accentuated with a pointy black beard on his chin. He was dressed akin to a businessman, though his true vocation was difficult to verbalize.

"To sides your weapons," King Gavery III squeaked, sounding as child-like as he looked. "I and Morpher have known each other for years. Old friends, you see." He rolled his eyes from his men and then back over to his guest. It was at this point that Morpher could see Gavery was no longer sporting the normal white/iris/pupil configuration, but had opted for a more mechanized replacement. Outwardly displaying an animated design, his eyes were in a constant state of fluctuation. (At the moment, they were displaying lazy clouds across a blue sky, with the occasional bird flapping by). Unseen were probably further enhancements to which Morpher would never be privy, but he assumed the main function was to draw the gaze of Gavery's subjects away from his small body.

The two tense guards expressionlessly retreated to their former position next to the pre-pubescent ruler, and a blank-faced man, with bushy facial hair in a bright yellow jacket, entered the room and whispered in the king's ear.

"You've grown, My King," Morpher observed, holding out his hands and cocking back his shoulders. "Although I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose."

"No. It's what comes with adulthood, I've heard. My physicians tell me that in a few years I might even be as tall as you."

"I should be so honored, My King."

"Yes. And with my genes, they say, I might grow even taller -- perhaps tallest of all the kings before me."

Morpher smiled respectfully. "Of that, I have no doubt, sire." If there was one thing he knew, it was not to point out the diminutiveness of an Andle-avian king, as the entire race had a fine love of puns. If one were to imply his ruler was lacking in height, one might find oneself leaving the planet short a few of his most cherished parts.

The child king slapped his hands together, and the man in a yellow jacket left the room, bowing graciously.

"I think that perhaps it is time for us to get down to business..."

Never one for small talk, Morpher thought bitterly to himself. While he was thankful this engagement wouldn't be drawn out for longer than was necessary, especially since smiling and use of complementary language for long periods of time was lacking in his own social repertoire, he felt that simply getting down to business after such a long trip, was more than a little disappointing. However, he knew that Gavery's views of 'getting down to business' were much different than that of the common man's.

As if to illustrate this point, the man in the yellow jacket reappeared, followed by a mass of differently shaped aliens, all in the same attire. Each was carrying some sort of food tray.

"Have a seat, sir," an alien resembling a bi-pedal cat-fish said, having, as if by magic, materialized behind Morpher.

"Hmmm," Morpher said, stunned by this creature's sudden appearance. "What seat is that now?" There was no table to be seen, no chairs or even anything that closely resembled such things.

"One moment, sir," the waiter said in a deep, nearly mouth-less tone.

With a noiseless turn of events, from the floor up was produced, (likely by hard-holography) a very fancy dining table, complete with baroque-style chairs.

The child king took his seat at the top of the table: (a smaller table had appeared onto the larger one, along with a chair of the same style as the rest – but seven feet taller and more jewel encrusted.) With the help of four of the alien waiters, each making the sturdy impression of a component part of a step ladder, Gavery climbed up and sat down.

"Which course would you like to be served first, sir?" the catfish-faced waiter asked, once Morpher was into his seat.

"Er...What manner of selection...?"

"Mandoov, balblatz or cordeaure, sir. Which would you like first?"

This Andle-avian custom of eating all three meals at one sitting still flustered Morpher a bit, having only been present during meal hours once or twice previous to this. Bewildered, he began to wonder why each meal was bothered even to be given a name. Other than to differentiate certain generic styles of cooking (or not cooking as in the case of balblatz), the labeling seemed pointless.

"Mandoov, please," he said, interpreting the gurgles coming from his empty stomach. Mandoov was lighter, and more like the breakfast food he was used to back home. "I don't want to completely confuse my system."

"I really don't care, sir," the alien said, in his deep, droll voice. "I merely asked as it is my duty. Not out of interest."

"Oh, so?...," was all Morpher could think to say at the moment. Angrily, he unfolded his napkin with a slap and dropped it into his lap.

The waiter walked to the cart and came back with a silver dome.

"Morpher," came the voice of the child king from his position ten feet or so in the air.

"Yes, My King," Morpher yelled back.

The waiter lifted the dome, and with a serving fork, picked up a broiled bracket (a small burrowing creature, any one of a variety of species, cooked in a vat of it's own blood) and threw it into Morpher's plate ungracefully.

"I seem to remember you as a sort of sure-shot," the king called down. "Am I right in this fact? A 'never-miss' with a gun. Are these appropriate terms of the marksman trade?"

Morpher looked down at his food with a sour expression on his face. He turned up to the king, cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled in the affirmative. However, even with the added focus his word was barely heard. At that instant at least forty aliens were jumping onto the table, pulling up serving trays, carts of tools and live animals.

The child king pointed to the leg of a small, bison-like creature, and an alien waiter proceeded to remove the massive drumstick using a kitchen tool with all of the grace of a chainsaw: blood spattered against the wall, Morpher himself and each of the aliens. It managed to cover the table entirely but failed to hit the king completely as though the little ruler were protected by an invisible shield. It was at this point that Morpher realized the practicality of the king's high seat. Prior to this, he assumed that Gavery wanted just to appear superior to everyone else.

"Acetech," Gavery said to his bushy-faced waiter, snapping his fingers and pointing at his plate. "Quickly." The man, whose once yellow jacket had now turned a dreadful orange, obliged by placing the ripped limb onto his master's plate.

"Are you still as good?" the king asked, before biting into the still bleeding wound.

"Of Course!" Morpher said, looking down at his own meal and suddenly feeling a little revolted by it.

"When's the last time you've been to Fanster-grantz," Gavery said through a bloody mouthful.

"Begging the king's royal pardon!"

"Well," Gavery squeaked, wiping his face on the shirt sleeve. "There's someone there I want you to assassinate."