On an insignificant arm of a typical, whirly arrangement of stars, there exists one lonely such, happily zipping along its customary path around the local gravitational well. It is neither small nor particularly large, and it burns at a temperature the local denizens most usually describe as ‘nice’ and ‘comfortable.’
Humanity.
In all our history, there have been few discoveries to spark such furor. Such boundless enthusiasm. Here, finally, was a race of beings of at least… moderate intelligence, hovering right at the cusp of an interstellar awakening. It allowed us, for the first time, to observe a civilization struggling to make that all-important leap from mere local fauna to members of a larger community, a moment of our own development we have long forgotten, lost to antiquity.
Admittedly, their failure to do so in the intervening years has caused public interest to wane somewhat, which has made acquiring the funding necessary for further scientific inquiry difficult, to say the least. However, there is much left to discover about this quaint nook of the universe and the people who make it their home. With this series, we shall delve deeply into what it is that makes this odd species tick and, if we’re very lucky, discover just what is taking them so bloody-damned long.
But first, we must choose a couple of likely subjects.
Let us zoom now toward the planet upon which humanity makes its home. There are several billion individuals we might choose from, so narrowing them down is always a challenge. One might wonder where we should even begin?
Humanity exists in various concentrations across every landmass of their world, of which only five are of any note. The rest are either too small or too inhospitable to human life to be of any use—a topic we shall we return to in a later episode. Each of those remaining are further subdivided according to a strange quirk that is unique to the species.
For some inexplicable reason, humans have evolved an innate discomfort when associating with one another when their colorations do not exactly match. To the naked eye, these variations might seem next to impossible to discern. Are they not all orange, one might reasonably argue? Not so! When it comes to that one specific color, the human species can and will detect even the subtlest of shifts in hue.
The effect of which is, humanity has imposed upon itself a strange sort of restriction to their habitation patterns from landmass to landmass… with one rather interesting caveat.
For some still-unknown reason, there is one place where large colonies of diverse human varietals coexist in close proximity, allowing the scientific community ready access to samples they would otherwise have to circumnavigate the globe to obtain. And it is a convenience we shall avail ourselves of today.
Let us now zoom a little closer to that magical place, a landmass the locals usually refer to as Muraka. Here, the planet has shifted its face away from its sun, triggering a ritualistic urge in the populace to seek out the comfort of their own dwellings. This serves our purposes well. Being as unobtrusive as possible is the prerogative of any diligent scientist.
As can be seen from the lights, humans naturally congregate into large population centers whenever possible. The prevailing theory is that such close proximity provides a soothing effect on the species, and indeed, it has been observed that the farther one goes from such population centers, the crankier the populace becomes.
Which bundle of lights we choose is largely arbitrary, so let’s pick a spot somewhere in the middle.
As we smoothly glide downward and through the atmosphere, let us take a short moment for an aside. Anthropologists have previously observed that humans have a tendency to give literally everything a name, whether it needs one or not, even down to the specific patch of soil they happen to live on. Why this is remains an unknown, but one can easily imagine that having been stuck to this desolate planet for so long, they are really that bored.
Thus, we find that the specific, middley chunk of lights we have chosen is now referred to with a plethora of different monikers, such as Tek-sus, Luh-Beck, or the Armpit, depending on who you ask, leading one to assume some disagreement amongst the locals. However, that is not the case. This same pattern has been seen to remain consistent no matter where you land, with the label, Hell Hole, being one of the most common.
As it happens, this population center features an unusual concentration of migratory, young adults, who come from all over the landmass—and beyond—for the specific purpose of a shared weekly ritual whereby they gather into a large, outdoor arena and scream for hours on end, even going so far as to sublimate their natural urge to return to their own residence.
One such event is ongoing this very moment, affording us a unique opportunity…
*
Mark suppressed the urge to yawn and set his handheld game console onto the glass counter over the rows of lottery scratch-offs so that he could stretch. He hated Saturdays. Not so much the day itself, as the need to work during them. And it was not that he envied his peers. Being ‘less than a fan’ of football, for all he cared, they were welcome to their game night provided he could stay as far from it as humanly possible. Which was rare.
It was a vicious cycle.
No, what truly bothered him were the long, tedious hours of absolutely no one coming into the store followed by the literal crush of hyped up teenagers descending en masse once the game finally let out… which would be in about an hour by his clock.
“God… please let them at least win this week,” he muttered. Hyped up fans he could tolerate. Irritable and disappointed ones were an entirely different matter. That was the sort of thing that lead to property damage. Or worse, cleaning up afterward.
Twisting his upper torso until a satisfying pop sounded through the empty aisles of overpriced junkfood, he sent a dissatisfied scowl toward his recently emptied shop cup. He did not want to move again. The owner of this dump did not pay him enough to move. But he was thirsty.
So, he snatched up the the 32oz cup of Styrofoam and trundled over to the soda fountain yet again. One of the few perks of this job was that he was allowed all the free soda he could drink. Though, ‘perk’ might have been a bit of an overstatement. He was pretty sure the only reason it was allowed was because there was virtually no way of tracking something like that, and the manager had just decided to stop fighting the inevitable.
As the satisfying hiss of brown syrup and cold, carbonated water once again filled his cup, he sent a considering glance toward the stand of Ho Hos. Those, he was not allowed unless he paid for them. Not that the rule had ever stopped him, but he did at least try to keep it down to one package per night. It would not do to overplay his hand. And besides, the last thing he needed was more sugar.
Taking a large swig before filling the cup to full once more, he grimaced in disgust. “Ugh… I’ve gotta start laying off this stuff.”
He could still remember the joy he had once felt at the merest rumor of free-access soda, but that had not lasted long. Like Midas, he had discovered what a curse ‘too much of a good thing’ truly was. Now, it just made him feel sick. Especially at the end of the day.
But it was not like he was going to resort to drinking tap water. Whatever it was the local utilities plant was pumping, water it was not. More like… Bud Light… and mud.
“Maybe some peanuts?” he muttered consideringly, then nodded. Peanuts were healthy. And a little salt might be just what he needed. Idly snatching a packet, he once more set his sights on his game console. “Alright, Abra… It’s just you and me, and I’ve got allll night. Why ya gotta make my life difficult?”
However, before he could make it back to the counter, he noticed a familiar profile just pushing her way through the door.
“God-fucking-dammit,” she groused by way of hello. “Is it ever not hot in this town? It’s past nine!”
Mark just chuckled and spread his hands. There was no point in debating the weather. ‘Mild’ was not a word the local forecasters got to use very often.
“Hey, hey! Marlboro Lights! You’re awful late. I was starting to get worried.”
The young woman scowled back at him. “Yeah, yeah. Fucking car broke down. And don’t call me that! I don’t always come here for cigarettes, you know.”
Mark just smirked knowingly before wending his way back behind the counter. “Uh huh. So… what can I get you?”
“Marlboro Lights,” she replied. Without the slightest hesitation.
“Riiiight,” Mark returned simply. “You could just tell me your name. I might even remember it.”
*
Let us pause here to make an observation.
With that seemingly innocuous suggestion, Mark has knowingly entered into a primitive courtship ritual. To be sure, he does not find this young woman particularly attractive. She is far too thin for his taste. She tends to slouch, and she does not have what he would describe as ‘curves in the right places.’ Though, what those places might be are not things science has yet described. Moreover, he has already determined that she bears certain markers which subtly conflict with his sense of ‘sameness.’
But he has decided to set those factors aside. He is only just beyond his adolescent molt, and his burgeoning male hormones require that he take the opportunity to attract the attention of whatever potential mate happens to cross his path… however wise that might be.
Also, he has noticed something new today about the young woman’s hair, which has given him a dose of much-needed confidence.
*
The young woman folded her arms irritably. “It’s Naomi. Ass.”
*
On her end of things, young Naomi has already filed and cataloged the offer… and promptly tossed it into the burn pit.
For all that Mark finds her slightly unappealing, she finds him positively repulsive. He is not nearly tall enough for her taste—though it should be noted he does stand slightly above the average for his sex—he is remarkably lacking in musculature for his age, and his skin still retains vestiges of the acute pore blockage common amongst individuals still within the adolescent period.
Worse, she can tell at a glance from the paleness of his skin and the extreme orange of his hair that he is either a member of the Cat-lick human varietal… or a Ginger. Neither of which would go over well with her pod’s egg-bearer.
*
Mark nodded, impressed. “Naomi Ass, huh? That’s not a name I’m likely to forget.”
Naomi rolled her eyes in disgust, but she did not bother to fight it. She had walked into that one herself. “Can I get my smokes now?”
“Aw, don’t be that way. I like what you did with your hair. The green streak is super cool.”
“The smokes?”
This time, Mark rolled his eyes. He had expected to be shot down, but that did not lessen the sting. Pulling the white and gray packet out of its housing above his head, he slid it over to her and started ringing up her total.
“I’m just trying to be friendly, you know,” he tried again, eying her.
“No, you’re being a dick,” she informed him. “I don’t know why I even come to this store.”
“Probably because it’s the only place within walking distance,” he observed, done with the conversation but trying not to let the bitterness creep into his voice. “That’ll be ten dollars.”
“Ten?! It was $9.48 last time!”
“And you think I had something to do with that?” Mark returned blithely.
Naomi let out an exasperated huff, and started frantically digging into her purse for change. “Look, couldn’t you cut me a break?”
“Sorry,” Mark said immediately. “I gotta catalog the tobacco sales every night. If the totals don’t match up, it’s my ass, Ms. Ass. Want a peanut?”
She shook her head once in quick dismissal. “No… damn it. I’m short.”
“Well…” Mark quickly slid the packet back to his side of the counter. “You could always go with a cheaper brand. I dunno how you feel about menthols, but Newports are pretty popular. And if not, there’s always USA Gold. But… well, I don’t know if cigarettes ever go bad, but I’ve never had to refill that shelf.”
She glared at him.
*
Our apologies.
It has come to our attention that our more learned viewers may have found the previous scene somewhat alarming. However, never fear. While its continuous use is known to be damaging, humans are able to inhale small amounts of smoke with little risk of permanent injury. Many even make habitual use of it for reasons ranging from simple pleasure to mourning practices to ritualized combat.
So there is no need to worry over sample corruption.
*
“Would you rather I lied about it?” Mark asked.
“Yes…? No, damn it.” Naomi rubbed at her ears as her irritation mounted. “Gya… how do you stand the noise around here?”
Mark allowed his eyebrows to ripple into an indifferent mask of long suffering before settling his bulk onto the nearby stool. “Are you talking about the crickets or the stadium?”
“Both?” she replied immediately. “I mean I get the football, but come on! Are they always this bad?”
“This time of year? Yeah.” Mark returned. “I’m just glad I don’t have the morning shift. They’re the ones that have to sweep them up. Otherwise, the smell can be a bit much.”
“How can you tell?” Naomi asked genuinely. “God, I hate this town. I mean… a slaughterhouse? Seriously?”
“What do you expect? It was a cow town way before they ever built the university.”
“But its upwind!”
Mark bobbed his head to one side. “Yeah, that’s fair. Between that and the dust storms, its a wonder anyone comes out here at all. But… it builds character. So what’s it gonna be? You want the cheap smokes? Or maybe a couple of cigars? Those things sell like hotcakes, let me tell ya.”
Naomi stared at him incredulously. “Dude.”
For a few moments, the conversation was interrupted by a rumble coursing its way through the store, setting the shelves and windows to rattle in their frames.
“What…?” Naomi spun about. “Was that an earthquake?”
*
It was not. Nor was it strictly necessary, but you must forgive us a bit of theater. It heightens the dramatic tension.
*
Mark shook his head. “Around here? No way. Probably just the jets passing over the stadium.”
“I thought they only did that to kick off the game?”
“Maybe its for the halftime show?” Mark glanced at the clock once more, uncertain of his own conclusion. By his estimation, the game should have already been well into the fourth quarter. But more than that… “Hey… is it just me, or are the stadium lights getting really bright?”
Naomi shook her head slowly. “It’s not just you.”
A tense few seconds passed as the two continued to stare, but the lights only got brighter. And brighter.
And they could not help but notice the stars gradually winking out behind them.
“Uh… hey, ass-girl?” Mark began, trying to push down his nerves. “Come over here behind the safe.”
It was a measure of her mounting panic that Naomi did not rise to the provocation. “Why?” she replied, panting.
“Because I think we’re about to get hit by a plane.”
Naomi wrung her hands indecisively, but whatever this was, it showed no sign of slowing down. The lights were so intense now, it was next to impossible to see without shielding her eyes. But just as she broke for cover…
…they winked out.
The two exchanged nervous glances.
All was still. The distant sounds from the stadium were no more. The crickets had ceased their chirping. They could not even hear the traffic from the road.
“Oh… fuck this!” Naomi croaked before sprinting for the door.
Mark’s hand shot out. “No, no, wait!”
But it was too late. Before the door had even finished rattling in its hinges, the whole of the parking lot was suffused with the most intense purple he had ever seen. It thrummed with power, burning into his retinas like the sun at midday. But he could not look away.
A raw, primal scream ripped from Noami’s throat as it bore down on her, and she jerked into the air as from a rope at her ankles.
And then it was gone.
A moment later, her smoking purse fell to the pavement.
Mark stood there in total shock for what felt to him like hours but was no more than a handful of seconds. He could not seem to remember how to breathe properly and convincing his throat to work had become an issue. He felt a deep need to run for the bathroom and find a nice toilet to curl under. Or do something. But he was like a deer in the headlights. Frozen with fear.
Then he spotted the landline. He had just witnessed… something. You were supposed to report that kind of thing. So, he quickly snatched up the receiver and tried to remember how fingers worked long enough to dial 9-1-1.
Unfortunately…
“Doo… doo… doot! We’re sorry. You have reached a number than has been disconnected or no longer in service. If you’d like to try again, please—”
He slammed the receiver back down. “Cheap son of a bitch! You can’t even pay for goddamn—”
That was when the windows shattered.
Every single one. Simultaneously.
And then with a creaking howl, the roof tore away. And he saw…
It.
He was not sure if he screamed or not. His mind decided it was probably for the best that he check out for a while.
*
< hard cut to a distant and receding view of the Earth falling away >
Well! That was quite exciting wasn’t it?
Nothing like an old-fashioned abduction to get the thorax to twitching, is there? Ah! It really does take me back…
Now, I know some of you may have looked on with concern, but have no fear for our young subjects. They are perfectly intact and safely stowed for the next leg of our journey. I have been assured by our technical department that the smoke emitted from the handbag was the result of a minor glitch in our transferral systems and has already been resolved.
So make sure you tune in next time for episode two:
The Transplant.
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