I groan, blinking to clear the blurriness from my eyes. First, I realize that I did not, in fact, die. And then part of me wishes I had, because wherever I am looks… bad.
There are rows upon rows of people. Tens of thousands that I can see, but even more seeming to stretch in every direction. Far above, the walls curve and seem to close us in, as if we’re in the mother of all bunkers.
No. It’s more like a ship.
The guess sticks when I see a floating object a little ways off. Another one of those armored, pint-sized aliens is floating in a tiny, shining metallic saucer. The craft makes no sound as it drifts through the frozen masses of people.
Even if I’m royally screwed, I can’t help marveling at the sight of it. My whole life, I’ve seen glimpses of what’s possible when people stop trying to kill each other for a few seconds. But on the surface, it’s clear that none of it mattered. Deep down, I knew we’d never get back to that place. We fell too far, and all we could do was look back and wonder “what if.”
But now… now I’m probably still about to die, but part of me is grateful I got to see whatever this is before it happens.
I drag my eyes from the ship to the other people who stand lined up, completely motionless. It’s like someone hit the pause button for everybody but me and that little alien buzzing around.
To my left, a woman looks like she’s from the tapes. She’s wearing a skirt and button-down blouse with makeup, like she’s about to head to the office.
A little ahead, I see a guy who wears an oversized white shirt and trousers that make him look like he belongs in colonial times.
The more I look, the more I see it clear as day. The people in this room are from my world, but not my time. The thought sinks like a stone, settling deep in my stomach. But I can’t move. The excitement and wonder burns, itching to get out, and all I can do is keep looking. Keep wondering what the hell is going on.
I search for some sign of a time period I don’t recognize—some hint that maybe we really did figure things out down the line. But I only see things I recognize from the tapes or things that look like they came from before.
Was that really where it ended? With people like me tearing each other to bits, year after year?
It hardly seems relevant, considering the obviously concerning circumstances. Still, I find the idea stings. Deep down, I’d always figured we’d figure out a way to fix it. That the end of the world was just a speed bump. But maybe the aliens hadn’t given us time. Maybe that’s all this was.
I decide this doesn’t mean we never figure it out. Maybe they just happened to cut off their collection around my time. It doesn’t have to mean humanity ended with us.
The alien in his little ship drifts closer, lights overhead shifting to follow him like a giant spotlight. Everything else is total darkness. A green light from his craft fires out at high speeds, briefly scanning every person he passes. My vision flashes blinding green for a split second as it zooms past me. Then the alien pauses, floating back toward me to hover in front of my face.
I get a better look at him, unable to say if he’s the same one I saw in my bunker.
I try to form words. To ask the million questions on my mind, but my mouth won’t work.
All I can do is stare back at the metallic mask helmet it wears. It’s shaped like a lamp-shade, too wide for the small body with a narrow, horizontal slit I assume are for eyes. It clutches a joystick in the center of its craft with tiny, armored fingers. The little hand darts around, tapping places inside the craft as more lights appear. Green, red, blue, purple, and one light that seems to be a color I’ve never seen before.
I can see my reflection in the shiny craft. Forced to watch as I’m lit up in every fucking color of the rainbow and that weird one that hurts my brain to think too hard about.
And then they all converge on my chest. My heart jolts with fear because I can see straight through my skin in the reflection. There’s a glassy sphere right beside my heart.
Oh, shit. They put an egg in me, didn’t they?
A voice erupts from the little craft with a robotic, slightly stilted quality. “Subject number 40,711. Welcome to the harvest. You may speak.”
“What the hell did you put in my chest, you little piece of shit? Let me move and I’ll strangle you until—”
“Speaking privilege revoked. Marking subject.”
More light fires out of the craft, burning into my neck this time. I want to wince in pain, but I can’t, which makes it even worse. I watch the smoke rise from my skin and feel it tingling. I strain my eyes, trying to read what it just wrote on me in the reflection.
I can barely make it out, but it looks like a classification system. At the top of the small cluster of tattoos, there’s a single number.
“1.”
Below that, there’s an F-, followed by an S+.
They’re grading me, but on what? The S+ could be for looks, considering I was just about the only person living in the end of the world with access to a shower and a comb. But what the hell was the F- for?
The alien’s ship-voice booms out again, halfway answering my question.
“S+ Rank power class potential identified in subject number 40,711. Current power level, F-. Marking for observation.” It paused, then added something that sounded almost like an afterthought. “Concierge assigned.”
Power class potential? I don't know what power I could have, let alone one that's supposedly a high rank—assuming their classification system is like the ones I’d seen in some tapes. Does it have to do with the glass orb? And what does it mean about the concier—
A probe-like arm shoots out, injecting something behind my ear. It burns, but then a cold spray numbs the pain.
My consciousness begins to dim again, but this time, I know better than to hope I'm dying. No, these little bastards want whatever they put in my chest. Fuck them and what they want, though. It's my egg, now. I’ll even give it a name if…
Everything swims, and then there's blackness again.