The aliens known as the Engineers sent their technology across the vastness of space, past untold stars, and beyond countless light years of dark and fathomless void. It was the herald for cataclysmic change, for invasion, for intergalactic war.

And the bastards did it on a Friday night.

They could have at least waited until Monday when everybody was going to be miserable anyway.

The faster-than-light package carrying the extraterrestrial technology sped toward the far end of the Milky Way galaxy, and toward a G-type yellow-dwarf main sequence star along one of its spiral arms. The alien parcel slowed to sub-light speed as it entered the outer orbit of the star’s farthest planet (technically a dwarf planet depending on who you asked), and streaked past an asteroid belt and several lifeless worlds home to nothing but gas and rock and ice.

The parcel slowed again as it approached a certain pale blue dot, then stopped between it and its singular moon. It hovered in the silence of space, an orb of pure silver a few feet in diameter. It rippled like liquid at regular intervals, as if a beating heart lay beneath its flawless surface.

The silver orb glowed from within, brighter and brighter, then exploded into tens of thousands of points of multi-hued light. Each tiny mote of light hung in space for a moment before all of them shot down to the planet below and ruined everybody’s weekend.

——————

Anya Nowicki, of the planet Earth, United States, New York, Brooklyn, 67 Stanhope Street, Apartment 7C (next to the maintenance closet) did not know the world was a few hours away from being host to alien technology. She did know that her boss, Mr. Davis, was a tremendous asshole and would likely benefit from being thrown down a small flight of stairs.

“We’ve talked about you being late before,” Mr. Davis said and looked at a printout of Anya’s shift check-ins. He was a short, bald, egg of a man, whose pale exterior was cracking with age. Mr. Davis obsessed about punctuality as if he were managing an ICU ward rather than a café.

And not even a good café, but just one of dozens of branches of a chain in the heart of New York’s financial district. The coffee at any branch of Cody’s Corner Café was a tepid watered down version of actual coffee that Anya referred to as “bean juice.” She wasn’t an expert, but she knew enough to know that what they served at Cody’s was an affront to the actual thing.

But the café had a convenient location in the lobby of one of the city’s many skyscrapers that housed at least a dozen investment firms. The low-level brokers, accountants, and other newbie financiers didn’t seem to care too much about the quality, so long as the caffeine content was on point.

And that it was cheap, which it was.

“I was only a minute late, Mr. Davis,” Anya said, trying to stop herself from sighing or rolling her eyes. Instead, she thought about how long a staircase would need to be to readjust Mr. Davis’s attitude. Five steps was hardly a staircase at all, but fifteen steps might do him too much damage. Anya thought of Mr. Davis’s rotund, egg-like form falling down the steps and then cracking open like Humpty Dumpty at the bottom, yolk and cheap coffee spilling out of him.

“That’s not the point. Late is late. One minute or one second. Early is on time,” Mr. Davis said. He scowled at Anya and asked, “Are you listening to me, Ms. Nowicki?”

“Ten steps.”

“What?”

“Sorry. Yes, sir, I’m listening.”

“This is the second time you’ve been late in as many weeks. If it happens again, I’ll have to replace you,” Mr. Davis said.

“Yes, sir,” Anya said, and before she could stop herself, snapped off a quick salute and clicked her heels together.

“Are you being smart with me?”

“Me no be smart, boss-boss,” Anya said before she could stop herself again. She clamped her mouth shut and winced. Mr. Davis scowled at her, causing the lines beside his eyes to deepen and further the impression of a fragile shell cracking. The last time Anya had seen him like this had been a few days before, when he’d been ready to fire some new kid for screwing up an order. Anya had taken the blame for that, because the kid had been on the verge of tears and she knew Mr. Davis wasn’t going to fire his most senior barista who did most of the work.

“I don’t know if you’re late because you’re just too stupid to understand how a clock works or because you’re lazy, and I don’t care. You’ll clock out in five minutes and then close tonight to make up for your tardiness,” Mr. Davis said. “Or you can find a new job.”

“You want me to finish my actual shift off-the-clock? As in, unpaid?”

“Maybe you’re not so stupid after all.”

Anya sighed and folded her arms over her chest. She had been late, and she was willing to accept a bit of a verbal brow-beating because of it.

But she wasn’t at Cody’s for community service, or to be Mr. Davis’s workhouse and verbal punching bag.

“Time to find a new job then,” she said and removed her name tag and flicked it at Mr. Davis’s chest. Mr. Davis’s eyes goggled at her as though she had slapped him. “Also, go fuck yourself.”

“You have to give two weeks notice before—” Mr. Davis sputtered, but Anya was already walking away from behind the counter.

“No, I don’t,” she said over her shoulder as she approached the elevators at the far end of the lobby. She entered the nearest one and grinned as the doors closed, framing Mr. Davis’s furious ovoid form for a moment before shutting him out entirely.

Anya smiled to herself and hit the button for the thirtieth floor, humming to the dull music within the elevator as it went up. It dinged and opened upon a slick, brushed steel sign that informed Anya she had arrived at Harcourt & Simms Investment Firm. Darkness lay over the offices beyond the window, as the market had closed for the day and most of the employees had left. Only a pair of janitors, a few random desk drones, and the secretary in front remained. Anya strode straight toward the secretary’s desk in the waiting area and the slender, sharp-faced woman behind it.

The woman wore a sleek navy suit, and had her straight blond hair pulled back into a simple but stylish knot. Despite her outwardly professional appearance, her posture conveyed all the agitated malaise of an irritated house cat: she slumped in her seat and clicked idly on a mouse as her heavy-lidded eyes stared at the monitor before her. She looked up from her computer, and her expression softened as she saw Anya.

“Hey, Tori,” Anya said, unable to stop feeling like a bit of a potato whenever she was around her friend. Where Tori was slender and sharp, Anya was short and stout. Where Tori’s hair was gold and straight and long, Anya’s was copper and messy and short. While Tori always wore a slick suit and coat, Anya was stuck in her canvas apron and polo shirt. “How was the bean counting today?”

“Same as every day. How was the bean roasting?” Tori replied. Her voice was low, bored, and tired. She glanced at her computer with obvious disgust, as though it had somehow manifested the ability to fart.

“You think they actually roast beans at Cody’s? It’s some liquid that comes in a plastic tub they keep under the counter. Also, I quit.”

“You quit?” Tori raised her eyebrows.

“Davis was being a prick. He wanted me to work for free because I was two minutes late. Hell yeah, I quit.”

“That guy always seemed like a jerk. I’m glad for you, but what about, y’know, your rent?” Tori asked.

Anya blinked and then nodded, “Oh, right.”

“You forgot about rent?”

“I didn’t forget! I just… wasn’t going to take Davis’s shit anymore. And it’s not like I was in some super specific niche job you can’t find anywhere else. I’ll find somewhere else to work on Monday. Hopefully with a boss that isn’t a shitheel.”

Rent was an issue, but she also worried about the new hires. She had been on staff at Cody’s the longest, and taken the brunt of Mr. Davis’s tantrums. Now the newbies would have to fend for themselves.

A pang of guilt stung her, and she considered going downstairs to request her job back.

Fuck that, she thought. She hadn’t left one abusive control-freak years ago just to get saddled with another now.

“Well,” Tori leaned forward as she lowered her voice, “my boss is still a shitheel and I can’t afford to up and leave just yet. He told me I have to stay late and double check some of the accounting department’s numbers.”

“He wants you to do accountant work even though you’re only hired as the secretary?”

“Yup. Like I said: shitheel.”

“I imagine that’ll take you a while?”

“At least another hour or two, yeah. If you wanna get started on the weekend early, I won’t blame you.”

“Hell no. We had noraebang plans tonight and we go together or we don’t go,” Anya said and folded her arms across her chest. Tori smiled at her, then gestured at one of the slick leather chairs nearby.

“Might as well get comfy then. There’s actual coffee and some overpriced leftover pastries from this morning in the break room if you want some.”

“I might steal a few. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime,” Anya said as she pulled out her phone to pass the time while her friend finished her work.

————

They went straight to their favorite noraebang once Tori was done. One upside to having to wait for Tori to finish work was that the subway was not quite the horrendous experience it usually was during rush-hour. The downside was that both women were more likely to be creeped upon by the inevitable weirdos who somehow always mistook their guarded postures and lack of eye-contact as invitations to engage in awkward and sometimes obscene flirtations.

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Anya usually took up a rather guarded position in front of her friend during subway rides. Her brothers had all been happy to teach her some moves from their wrestling and football teams or boxing classes (despite her mother’s protestations that such things were “inappropriate,” for a girl). While Anya would never think she could win in any serious fight, she knew and had practiced enough to deter any half-hearted perverts that wouldn’t take the less subtle hints that they weren’t interested.

Tori had perfected a rather impressive death-glare over the years that could stop a drunken lech at ten yards. And if that didn’t work, she also had a can of bear mace in her purse. The death-glare was usually enough.

Thankfully, the subway was relatively drama-free that Friday, and they arrived at the Taebak Noraebang just in time to get the last room. The Taebak Noraebang (or Amazing/Cool Singing Room) was equidistant between Anya’s and Tori’s apartment buildings, and so was the perfect place for them to get drunk and then stagger home whenever they felt like it. Coincidentally, they almost always felt like it every Friday. Anya’s neighbor, Mr. Choi, also worked the front desk and would frequently sneak them extra bottles of soju or free snacks.

They spent the next two hours belting out some of their favorite songs in the privacy of the enclosed and neon-lit singing room. Tori chose mostly 80s power love ballads and cheery pop songs, while Anya favored the glam and classic rock selections. They both joined in for some of the recent K-Pop songs and show tunes.

Tori was on her fifth soju and soda while Anya thought she might be on her tenth, but details got fuzzy past drink number six. A polite knock at the door interrupted her thoughts as Mr. Choi poked his head into the small room and smiled. He was an older Korean man with gray hair, a round face, and very thick glasses.

“Sorry ladies, it’s been two hours. Would you like to buy another hour or are you finished for the evening?” he asked.

“I can go for three more hours,” Tori slurred and held up four fingers. Anya snorted and shook her head.

“How’re you this much drunker than me? You had like, two drinks.”

“I had five!” Tori protested, held up three additional fingers, and scowled.

“Are you both okay to get home? I’ll be done in another hour or so. I wouldn’t mind escorting you two,” the older man said.

Anya smiled but shook her head. She was still mostly sober. She wouldn’t trust herself to drive, but walking shouldn’t pose a problem. Besides, the walk back to their respective apartment buildings was short enough and well-lit. She’d made the late-night drunken stumble home from Taebak Noraebang on more than one occasion with Tori in tow.

“C’mon, you,” Anya said and helped Tori to her feet. Tori slumped against her and chuckled.

“You’re so short. Like a little… short thing.”

“Just don’t puke in my hair.”

“That was one time.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cash or credit?” Mr. Choi asked as they approached the counter and cash-register.

“Oh, uh, credit, I guess,” Anya said and fumbled in her purse with one hand while her other steadied Tori.

“No way,” Tori produced her card from the handbag at her side. “My treat this week. Your treat when you get a new job. With no shitheels this time.”

Anya blushed a little, but only nodded and said, “Thanks, Tori. I’ll get you back next time.”

“Be safe out there,” Mr. Choi waved at them as the women left the warm neon embrace of the noraebang and went back out into the chilly night.

Brooklyn—and particularly Bushwick—in winter was not the loveliest part of New York. Snow from a week ago had had enough time to pile up into black and brown piles of slush and discolored ice along the edges of the streets and sidewalks. Barren trees scratched at the night sky with their naked branches. Wind from the ocean bit sharply as it swept between Bushwick’s stumpy buildings. It was a far cry from the pleasant breezes one could feel on Coney Island in the summer.

The chilly air had the side-effect of sobering Tori up just enough that she didn’t need to lean on Anya so much to maintain her balance. Both women still needed a few extra moments to navigate around the dirty piles of snow or precarious patch of ice on the sidewalk, but they made it to Tori’s building without incident.

“Thanks Anya,” Tori said when they arrived. “You wanna sleep on my couch tonight? It’s a long walk to your place from here.”

“Not that long,” Anya replied. “Especially since I don’t have to carry your drunk ass.”

“You barely carried me. You got plans this weekend?”

“Job applications!” Anya said with obvious forced enthusiasm. Tori made a retching sound then hiccuped and actually retched and covered her mouth.

“Well, I can help with those, too. I need my toilet right now though. Bye!” Tori gave a quick wave to Anya before dashing inside, hand over her mouth. Anya laughed, then began the walk back to her place.

She tried to ignore any thoughts of how she was going to pay rent next month if she couldn’t find a job, but the cold in the air forced her to consider it. If her landlord kicked her out of her apartment, she’d be at the mercy of the elements. She didn’t even have a car to camp in as a last resort.

Tori would likely be fine with her being roomies for a while, but she didn’t want to impose on her friend like that.

She knew her mother would welcome her back with open arms and a closed mind.

Anya shuddered at the thought.

Never.

Anya took out her phone as she walked and opened the photo app. The last couple of years were all pictures of her and Tori and a few of their other casual friends, all in New York, all smiles. The photos before that showed Anya and her three brothers: all of them broad and stout and copper-haired, each with a faint constellation of freckles across their noses.

When it was just a picture of her and her brothers, the smiles were genuine, relaxed. Sometimes somebody would be laughing.

If their mother were present, the smiles were still there, but they had changed. They were stiff, stretched, and tight-lipped. Everyone’s back seemed too rigid, their shoulders bent forward as if anticipating some sort of blow from behind. The only actual smile to be had came from the concrete slab of a woman lurking behind her children. It was not one of happiness, but satisfaction. Satisfaction that her children knew their place, and knew to be cowed, and knew who was in charge of them and their lives.

The most recent photos only had Anya, her mom, and two of her brothers.

Nobody was smiling in those.

As for their father…

The only photos of him were a few physical copies Anya’s oldest brother had saved back when she had been in grade school.

Anya pushed the thoughts aside as she came up to her apartment building. She had enough on her plate with finding a new job and figuring out how to make her withering bank account last as long as possible. Mulling over how her mother might cackle if she came crawling back to South Carolina after failing to make it in the city wouldn’t help.

For now, she still had her apartment, and tomorrow Tori would come over and help her look for work. She trudged up the stairs (“Elevator under repairs,” the two week old sign in the entryway still read), and let out a heavy sigh as she closed the door to apartment 7C behind her and leaned against it.

Apartment 7C was little more than a glorified closet with a kitchenette and a bathroom, but it was a monster when it came to devouring her monthly income.

The living area was cramped but cozy, and held only the necessities: a bed, sofa, dresser, coffee table, and a small desk with a laptop on it. It was mostly stuff Anya had gotten second hand, and it was all ratty or scarred. The couch had some patches she had sewn onto it to keep the stuffing in, the coffee table needed an old paperback to hold up the left side, and the bed was lumpier than she would’ve liked, but it was all clean and comfy.

The only item in the apartment that Anya had gotten brand new was the gaming laptop her oldest brother had gotten her for Christmas when she’d first arrived in New York. That had been the last gift she’d received from him or anyone else in the family, after their mother had told them if Anya wanted to make it on her own then she would do exactly that, and they shouldn’t bother with her anymore.

Anya once again pushed those thoughts away, changed into her flannel pajamas, and sat on the couch beside the narrow window that looked out on Stanhope Street. She smiled to herself as she watched the few pedestrians braving the cold, listened to the hum and honk of traffic, the dull background soundtrack of the city itself.

New York was crowded, expensive, smelly, and a constant rat race. But after a couple of years, it felt like home. Moreso than her actual home in Clemson had ever felt. It was her city, and she didn’t owe anyone there anything.

Looking for a new job would be a pain in the ass, but worth it. She hadn’t left the bullshit her mother subjected her to just to deal with more of the same here. Her little brother hadn’t made it out. She had.

Anya looked up at the light-polluted sky and saw how the winter night burned a faint orange from the countless lamps below. That was the only thing she truly regretted about the city: no stars. The only twinkling in the sky came from satellites or airplanes. A small price to pay to have her own life.

She watched an airplane pass by, the red and white lights at the tips of its wings blinking at her from high above. Red, white, red, white, red, orange, orange.

Not blinking anymore, but solid.

The plane moved on, but the pinprick of orange light remained and continued to grow. It sparkled a deep mandarin, visible even through the lights of the city, glowing like a tiny little sun. Unlike the satellites or aircraft, it wasn’t moving. It remained still in the sky, winking at her. She stared at the light above her and winced when it shined on her, directly into her eyes.

“What the f—” she started to say when her window shattered and then her entire apartment was spinning around her. She tumbled backward, only somewhat aware of a burning sensation in the center of her chest. She smelled something burning. Her head hit the wooden floor of her apartment with a loud crack.

Before she lost consciousness she thought, Helluva start to the weekend, and then the apartment went dark, and Anya went with it.