Wednesday, April 28, 2004

Part III & IV
3

The sky was slowly getting darker as Simon sat in quiet contemplation. He’d found his favorite place in town: a hidden part of the park, where he could be alone with his thoughts. Due to his harsh treatment at the hands of his peers, he accepted solitude as a preferable state of being.

Soon, the stars were coming out. Simon loved to watch the stairs, though he knew nothing of astronomy. It was actually rather interesting; he created his own constellations based on his first impressions of the heavenly outlines. Because the next day was Saturday, he would be out all night stargazing, sleeping in until well past noon. Why get up? He had no one to miss him.

For a brief, poignant moment, Simon wished that things didn’t have to be this way. He wished that someone would care about him, or miss him. He could have been picky and wished it were Susan, but poignancy plays no favorites. Anything had to be better than being so terribly alone.

The moment passed, though,
as such moments have a way of doing; after they’re gone, their owner would deny their existence to everyone, even themselves. Simon was waiting for the sky to get bright enough to see the Lizard, one of his homemade constellations, when he noticed something: two of the stars were moving.

He’d seen shooting stars before. He knew their pattern of movement: they fell downward quickly, disappearing from sight like a poignant moment. These moving stars weren’t doing that, though; they were diving sideways and up and down. It reminded Simon vaguely of Tom chasing Jerry…

No, actually, it reminded him exactly of Tom chasing Jerry. Whatever the hell those things were, one was defiantly scared of the other.

Suddenly, the star Simon had already dubbed “Jerry” stopped. It stood still for a split-second, and then began to spiral downwards. Dozens of tinier pieces fell from it. What was going on?

Simon lost track of the aggressive star, but couldn’t help but notice where the falling star was.

It was heading towards him.

One of the tiny pieces of star debris was defiantly coming down towards him. Excited, he leapt to his feet; whatever this thing was, he would see it when it landed! Leaving his Thoughtful Spot, he raced through the dense trees in of the park’s forested area. Getting towards the picnic tables, though, gave Simon a reason to take a detour.

On the tables, Simon could
see and hear Brooks. Stevens was also there, as well as three or four other football jocks. There were beer cans everywhere. Simon shuddered when he thought of what a team of drunken football players would do if they caught him, off of school grounds, no less.

Electing to take the long way, Simon trudged through the underbrush and trees, almost getting lost as he shied away from the lampposts. Every few minutes he would glance over his shoulder to the falling star; as it got closer, he began to make out a shape…

It was a sphere, a perfect sphere, about the size of a basketball. Now, Simon was no expert, but even he knew that a geometrically perfect sphere was not a shape found in nature. Sure, something could be round, or spherical, but the fact remains: no natural force can create a perfect sphere. Logically, whatever the stars were, they must have been unnatural…

Simon managed to pull his legs free of the denser bushes and turned around again. He gasped. The falling star was now twenty feet above him, and it was coming right at him. He barely had time to comprehend that he falling star was not only spherical, but also metallic. On instinct, he turned around to run, but was suddenly struck in the back by the sphere at full speed. The impact sent him flying.

Simon marveled for a second at just how far he was being thrown by the collision just before he was driven into the ground, the sphere still grinding into his back. Everything went dark.


4

The pilot of the predator ship smiled to himself as he watched his prey spiral downwards into the planet’s atmosphere. Now, all that remained was track the artifact he sought, and his mission would be complete.

He brought his ship down.

**

Simon drifted in and out of consciousness, not feeling cold metallic tendrils work over his body. Instead, he inhabited the dim world between sleep and reality. Random events flashed through his mind: his last memory of his parents, his first memory of Susan, and his self-imposed soul searching.

There was a sudden electric jolt through his body, harshly yanking him back to the real world. He shook his head groggily, flexing his muscles. He had a dim perception of something being wrong; something was out of place.

It hit him like a ton of
bricks: the shooting star. It had struck him at a speed well above one hundred miles per hour. He should be in pain; hell, he should be a paraplegic. Yet he was fine. Why?

He performed a mental survey of his body, and everything was working normally. Nothing was out of place…except his right arm. It felt cold, like cool metal. Why was he reminded of cool metal?

He got to his feet. Maybe he’d imagined the whole shooting star thing…he looked at his right hand and screamed.

His right hand was metal. It was like his hand had been coated in liquid metal, ending in splotches around his wrist. It was silver and reflective, like a polished surface. What was going on? What in the hell was going on?!

Terrified, he ran through the park. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t just stand around. Already he had decided that whatever happened to his hand had something to do with the shooting star that struck him. How long had he been unconscious?

In his panic, he forgot his earlier caution regarding the picnic tables. So when a foot was stuck out to trip him, he didn’t see it until it was too late. The law of inertia working as it should, he was sent flying. However, instead of landing in a heap, he somehow managed to regain his balance while in mid-air. He landed on his feet; this surprised him so much he temporarily forgot his predicament.

“That wuz pretty neat, Lewis…” Brooks lisped, clearly intoxicated. “Mebbe’ you can be faster’n that in a fight!”

“Wha-why?” Simon
asked. “Brooks, you’re wasted, and being stupider than usual. I don’t have time for this…”

“He be tryin’ you, man!” One of Brooks’ teammates yelled. “Beat his ass!”

Stevens stumbled over to his compadre. “Hey, man…’member…’member what he did to your shoes…that was nasty…”

Brooks nodded. “Hell yeah! You, you’re goin’ down, you prick!”

As Simon and Brooks faced off, neither of them noticed the two strangers who stood nearby, appearing as if from nowhere. One was a tall, Hispanic girl in blue jeans and a halter-top. Her companion was a short young man, about four feet tall. He appeared to be Caucasian, and wore a green turtle neck and khaki pants.

Their enigmatic arrival was not noticed by anyone they watched, however. Brooks was circling Simon menacingly, occasionally punching the air near him.

“Brooks, I really don’t have time for this!” Simon said. “Get out of the way!”

“Don’t you order me, bastard!” Brooks yelled. He took a swing for Simon’s jaw.

Simon, acting on instincts he never knew he had, went into action.

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