"This isn't good."
"Man, I look like a mess."
George McCullen stared in the mirror, and what stared back was the face of a 19-year-old student at Grossaint University of Arts, Troisine. His eyes—coal black—were sharp but sagging. His hair was a metallic black, slicked back enough that it was out of the way of his face. However, there were a few loose strands.
He raised his arm to brush his hair. Winced. Everything ached.
"That one was definitely rough."
The shower hissed. burned—in a good way; the aches faded, massaged by the water. He stood there for a long time. Staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Water cascaded down his back—down his legs.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed slowly.
The water began cascading around him, warped by an invisible force.
For him, all sound stopped. Everything moved at a snail's pace, as if the world were created just for him.
He opened his eyes.
A water droplet smacked the floor again.
The man sighed—long, deliberate.
The shower stopped
With a hiss, the shower curtain slid open.
Those eyes hadn't changed; still halfway shut; bags still hung below.
His bare feet patted along the floor. He swung a towel around his waist. Hunched over, hands braced against the sink. He returned to the mirror—his eyes stared back. Glowing purple galaxies.
"Were they the same ones?" he mumbled, "as… in Okopo?"
His head dropped—hung low, eyes closed.
"What do they want?"
"It's been a while since I heard that voice…" first quiet, his voice then rose, "You said you'd help me take my life back… where are you?"
He stared at the ceiling, hoping a response would come…
Nothing.
"dammit."
He stepped away from the basin—each foot swayed his whole body. Then spun, swinging the door open.
A new world came into view: a chaotic room. A single bed sat in the opposite corner—sheets hung off the bed. On the other corner: a desk—piles upon piles of textbooks and crumpled paper sat on top.
One foot left the bathroom, slipping into a fluffy slider. Then the other.
He stepped forward, grabbing a framed photo from a shelf. A photo—the McCullen family.
There were four people in total. Embracing closely. A man stood towering above them from behind, bearing a wide grin—the sign of a man content with his life. George's father. To the man's right: two women—one younger, a little older than George, and another older. But with her youthful look, you wouldn't be blamed for considering George's mother to be another sister. Finally, the last piece of the McCullen puzzle, George, to his father's left.
The student's lips curled slightly. The photo was placed back down on the shelf. He spun. Opened the wardrobe doors behind him. Hangers strung down, bearing an assortment of trousers, jackets, hoodies and shirts.
Blue jeans. White shirt. Purple corduroy jacket.
"They keep picking the worst places—" George thought aloud, "—the opposite side. Why not invade somewhere closer?" He asked sarcastically.
"Maybe I should be careful what I wish for, eh?"
His eyes flicked to the alarm clock beside his desk.
9:37
"I missed my lecture… again."
"At least I was busy saving the world this time."
He used to wonder what it was like—having powers. Now it had become one of those things. So much procrastination in the skies. It got to that point: there was no point; flying became natural to him.
Then they came; a reason came.
He stroked the glass cover of the record player with his finger. Observed the dust.
The aliens.
First in Okopo. Then in Rengappon.
Was it bad that he hoped they would keep coming?
Click. George swung the door open, then entered the corridor of the shared flat. The musty carpet left a strong odour—years of stains being left to fester. There were four doors ahead: two were his flatmates' rooms, one was the exit and the last one—the door at the end—led to the communal room.
He took a step forward. The overhead lights buzzed at a frequency that was just barely audible, unlike the sound of muffled footsteps in one of the rooms.
One of the doors creaked open.
"George, what the hell were you doing at three in the morning?"
Krista Hopkins stood at the door. She was George's roommate, another first-year student at Grossaint University, studying Sports Management.
Krista was a beautiful young woman with long, silky blonde hair that flowed down her shoulders, dyed bright blue at the tips.
Honestly, if it weren't for the fact that they were flatmates, they probably wouldn't have even spoken to each other in any normal setting. Furthermore, there's no way she'd walk out like she's just gotten out of bed: A baggy white shirt, short shorts, slippers and messy hair.
I need to say something before she gets suspicious, he thought. He couldn't tell her he was on the other side of the planet fighting aliens. She'd laugh straight in his face.
He opened his mouth—blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"Errm, Walkabout Wednesday… err-some friends from uni wanted to go out—last-minute kind of thing, you know."
She stared for a moment—one brow raised.
"George…" she giggled mockingly, "Wednesday's today… Walkabout Wednesday is tonight."
Shit, that's not gonna work…
"It's ok if you had a booty call, George, I don't care—it's not like I'm your girlfriend anyway."
That might have to do, he thought.
"Anyway, it's past nine; I thought you had a lecture today," she said, twiddling a few strands of hair around her finger.
"I… overslept."
She snorted.
"Who would've thought," she walked past, nudging my arm with her elbow, "maybe don't go to late-night booty calls when you've got uni in the morning."
Halfway through the door to the livingroom, she paused. Turned around.
"Hey George, I'm gonna do some shopping later, you wanna come? Or are you just gonna rot in your room all day?"
George didn't respond straight away—wandered the corridor with his eyes.
"Yeah, sure, I'll come."
Krista's lips curled, "Great. I'll grab some breakfast, get ready, and we can go."
George assumed it wouldn't take long—how naive. After two long hours of sitting around the living room on the rickety dining chair, she was finally ready.
The door swung open.
"You ready?" Krista asked.
She wore a baggy white hoodie—sleeves ending at her knuckles. Beige cargo trousers—equally as baggy—and some white sneakers.
Her hair was shiny. She smelt of roses. Is this a date? George wondered.
No, of course not; she's way out of my league.
"You wanna ask Arjun if he wants to go?" George asked.
Arjun Mishra was the other flatmate. Third year. His body operates on a different clock than George and Krista: during the day, he's mostly holed up in his room except for when he's cooking food or going to class. He's quiet. Then, in the night, is where the true Arjun comes out. George has had the pleasure of going on a night out with him. He's insane—shot after shot, doesn't stop.
"He's gone," Krista replied, "went to class."
"Oh, ok. Let's go, I guess."
George swung the front door open. More musty carpets. Entered the elevator—reeked of old vomit.
Walked through the courtyard.
Up the stairs.
Round the corner.
Tapped the key fob on the scanner.
Beep.
George pushed the heavy gate with all his might. God knows why they made it so heavy.
The city was bustling.
Grossaint, the capital city of Trosine, was a coastal trading hub, the biggest trading hub in the west—the world, even. It was home to a population of just over eight million, all crammed into huge sky-rise apartments in the city as well as colonial homes in the suburbs.
Busy bodies passed by, each going about their business single-mindedly. Businessmen and women talking on their phones. Couples holding hands as they walk. Groups of tourists—mostly from the east—taking photos and pointing at the towers of glass and steel.
George felt off. The Rengappon incident spiralled in his mind. It was still pretty early, and due to the time zone differences, none of these people knew it happened yet—it happened as they slept. The bodies sprawled across the streets. The four armed monstrosities wreaking havoc on the ground. The giant ship in the sky. Even George showing up to save them.
Most of these people don't know yet.
"What the hell?" Krista mumbled, scrolling on her phone.
Her brows were buried, mouth gaping.
"L-look at this, George."
She showed him the phone.
videos online of the giant ship in the sky. She kept scrolling. Images of the giant four-armed alien's carcasses.
"This can't be… real… can it?" she whispered, scrolling through the photos.
It was.
Like a scene out of a movie—an alien invasion.
It looked like others were also learning the news: groups of people were looking at phones—eyes wide—scrolling.
George and Krista continued walking quietly, the news weighing on their minds. They passed a skyscraper. Offices belonging to the entertainment conglomerate, Rio Media. In one of the officers was a man—bored out of his mind—trying to do anything but the work he's supposed to be doing. The well-toned office worker flipped one corner inwards. Then another. Folded the whole thing in half—folded two wings.
"Perfect."
A paper aeroplane.
Tom O'Clerigh (pronounced cle-ry) analysed the masterpiece in his hand. Rotated it. His earring glistened in the sunlight leaking in from the large window behind him.
He moved the plane, aiming it at the back of one man's head.
Threw.
It bounced off the baldspot on the back of the man's head, crumpling slightly at the end. The plane smacked onto the floor, unsubstantially. The victim, Alan Richards, sighed. The female office worker he was talking to smirked—she covered her mouth. The woman turned to look at Tom.
Tom winked.
"Don't worry, love, I've saved you."
Originally leaning over the woman, Alan stepped back. Turned.
"Tom…" he grunted.
"Baldy," Tom responded, grinning.
"Haven't you got work you should be doing?"
"Haven't you? You're a bit too old to be creeping out young female workers, you creepy old man."
"Tom, you're thirty-two years old, working data entry-level. Not exactly an achievement.
Tom leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"We're wasting our lives, geez."
"Is there something I can help you with, or are you just gonna keep wasting my time?"
"I wonder how many Champions League trophies I would have won by now if I—"
"Oh yeah, spew the same old story. I almost signed for Man United's academy, but my parents couldn't afford to move. We've heard it before, shut up and get on with your job."
Tom opened his eyes, brows furrowed. He didn't like that.
"I'm sorry, Alan from marketing, am I interrupting you? Just because you sucked the boss' dick doesn't give you a pass to be a smart arse."
"You're lucky the boss hasn't fired you yet, but we know you'd just end up on the stree—"
"Woah hold on, Alan, I think your hairline's getting away—never mind, it's escaped."
Alan's expression dropped; it was a sore subject for him. His eye twitched. Teeth snared. He opened his mouth.
"Pee-yoo," Tom said, holding his nose.
Alan closed his mouth and exhaled through clenched teeth. He marched to his office, slamming the door behind him.
Tom stretched his arms wide, sighing. The chair creaked as he leaned back.
He spun—spun again.
Even with his eyes closed, he felt eyes watching him. Who cares, he thought; they're all boring idiots who tried their best, but all they could come up with is data entry-level.
They were all in the same boat as him.
There was nothing that could stop the mundanity of corporate life. Or so he thought.
Tom swept his hair forward, using his phone camera to make sure the fringe of his short brown hair was lined up properly. Checked his eyes—still green.
Then he noticed something.
The sunlight that was just there suddenly disappeared. Like a large shadow was cast upon the world.
It wasn't like a cloud covering the sun; it was instant—half a second.
He swivelled on his chair 180 degrees. Eyes shot open.
The sky had been removed from the backdrop, the city almost drowned out by the shadows of what was an object Tom had never seen before. His eyes beheld a large metal object floating above the city.
It was a long, angular cuboid with giant jets sitting on the bottom, supporting its levitation. A tower sat on top—a control room.
It released a low mechanical groan.
A spaceship.
"What the fuck…"