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Summary
A scruffy man skulked down the streets of Hollywood, eyes red and hands in the pockets of his skunk-scented jacket. Bright streetlights and billboards flooded the night, sky a deep, empty blue with no star in sight—not that he noticed. His eyes were stuck firmly on his ratty shoes as he turned into an alley. He traced his typical path home from the tea pad he played jazz and smoked Mary Jane at, a pleasant fog over his mind as he weaved through the few-and-far-between empty pockets in Tinseltown.
That high was immediately shattered when a blinding blue light filled his vision. Hands went up to his squeezed-shut eyes, a groan escaping his mouth as he hunched in on himself.
“Fear not, human, and salutations! I, Dort, mean you no harm!” A muffled, masculine voice called out. The man dazedly looked up between his fingers, taking in the odd figure in front of him, cutting a sharp silhouette in the light. He—it—Dort stood in head-to-toe metal. The underpants, the mittens, the boots, the helmet, all tin. He pinched the skin of his forearm between his pointer and thumb, yet Dort kept talking. “Dort wishes to learn the ways of your people! Are you interested in assisting Dort in this possibly dangerous mission?”