[i][b]— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy[/b][/i]

An exhausted Tristan Singh loomed behind Margaret Iedereen, masked by his U-9 supersoldier armor. At Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy in North Capital City he, typical of the last year, stood guard. Ostensibly to stop shenanigans, but she played her cards close and, inasmuch as he observed, cooperated in good faith with Earth’s so-called civilian government. 

Didn’t matter, Apollo didn’t trust her. Never would. 

Assuming Apollo yet lived. Ops neither saw nor heard from him in months. Shadows ran things, primarily through New Roswell. Far as Tristan knew, the scary orgo-a.i. sealed away there was Earth’s true executive officer.

Unseen inside his armor, Tristan shuddered.

All in all, it — guard duty — seemed more punishment than duty-bound honor. Worse, it bored him. Not to knock Margaret, interesting dame, that. Still, as time ticked, Tethys, the intelligence embedded in his U-9, took charge more often. Meanwhile, Tristan let his mind dance around questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answered. For instance, what was he? Human? Monster? Machine? Some twisted menagerie? He loathed sleep, dreaded dreams, hated the thing that beat his heart on his behalf. But he remained human, even if a superhuman. Had to sleep once in a while. So, upright and armed, while Margaret played politics, Tethys took command and Tristan faced his nightmares.

This time, no nightmare. Just a simple choice. 

Tethys was a smart chip, smart enough that nobody learned her U-9 was empty.

[center][b]… Ϟ[/b][/center]

Fran ate rice cakes and watched television screens. The Embassy was her home, nowhere else to go for an unsleeping and vaguely-eldritch alien damsel too slow and sluggish to survive outside in this political climate. Her chair, directly outside the conference room Margaret Iedereen negotiated in. The two feeds of information fed into separate lobes, one less important but better entertainment than the other.

[i]“They’re calling it a Rapture of the Forgotten,”[/i] a news anchor from Rhesus-54 read from a teleprompter, [i]“Names and faces forgotten, but millions of employees absent from work, home, church. What do you make of it, Suriya?”[/i] The female co-anchor smiled and replied, [i]“Well, Rayyan, details are still coming in, but indicate that this seems to coincide with a type of mass hysteria, a dream people claim to have woken from where an alien voice sang to them.”[/i]

A bit of ricecake crumb bounced off of Fran’s mandibular pincer and one of her eyes blinked.

Meanwhile, through the door, she heard Iedereen demand to know the “Catch-22,” and awaited the female ambassador’s answer.

[center][b]… Ϟ[/b][/center]
[i][b]— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: the Mainline Defensive Array[/b][/i]

Obedient, excited, anxious, the analyst’s shift ended and he practically ran to the communal showers. Cleaned up right good, a type of cleanliness that’s utterly shameful. His laptop, stickers and all, safely locked in his desk, as he was a fortunate enough science guy to have his own. Everything ordered, perfect. Meanwhile, his uniform laid in a wrinkled pile atop his footlocker, hastily discarded. Towel forgotten, he marched wet-backed to his office, shook dog-like, pulled on his gray cotton joggers, slapped his wet’n wild hair down to a vaguely dignified fauxhawk, and exited where ordered. 

Leg abounce, he lingered nervous under the bus shelter until only hopeless, desperate anticipation remained. Incessant traffic vibrations and neon lights dizzied him; a theory. The Canopy’s eternal rain of chemical pollutants, industrial pollen, were the culprit; another theory.

Suddenly a firm hand clenched his collarbone, jerked him rough, back, upright. He yelped and sprang over the bench. Seat drenched, his cheeks clapped into something hard. Someone. As their grip tightened, he squirmed and whimpered. A grunt of satisfaction. Briefly released, he felt the man’s massive arm move around his shoulder. A leather gloved hand and black leather jacket that matched, no markings. A ghost. The mutt glanced up, disappointed by a pitch black motorcycle helmet — but incredibly aroused. Same frame, same anonymous intrigue. As lights dimmed, blocked by a dumpster in an unlit alley, he babbled:

[i]“Signal, decoded some, we think music lyrics; for realzies: ‘planetary, intergalactic.’”[/i]

Deep, gruff, country-accented, he heard ordered, [i]“Shoosh,”[/i] and, unprepared, was pinned against the alley’s rough brick wall. A dumpster observed the onslaught, and he wondered whether he’d end up inside, a leaker of classified information discarded like a used condom. Then his pant seat ripped open, pain and lust entered, and, relieved, blacked out.

Long enough to dream, long enough to sense the intimation of a choice.

Longer than he needed.

Enthralled by short-term pleasures, no question lingered in his mind. He would rather die than miss the next moments of abuse and degradation. Revived, fullness consumed him, and, unexpectedly, a dull click, a sensation smooth, cool, and uncomfortable that restrained him down front.

[i]“Mine,”[/i] the mutt heard and accepted without question.