Cast of Characters (more to come)

Spoiler :

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Dr. Linda Brickle

Age: 35

Occupation: FBI Intelligence Analyst

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Mackenzie Hackworth

Age: 27

Occupation: Unemployed

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Carin Yovanovitch

Age: 29

Occupation: Elementary Schoolteacher

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Angel Zacarias

Age: 30

Occupation: Auto Mechanic

Prologue

(Linda)

The alarm wakes me at noon. I have to be at work at three.

I use my sliding board to transfer from my bed to my chair and wheel myself to the bathroom where I undertake my usual morning routine: shower, brush teeth, lean forward on the toilet and prod myself until I release my bowels. I think I might have a urinary tract infection. It doesn't hurt, of course, but it smells and I do feel somewhat uneasy. I'll need to schedule an appointment. Just another thing I have to do.

I brush my light red hair but don't bother with makeup. I haven't in a while.

Rei, Asuka and Shinji join me as I roll into the kitchen. I know what they want and take the time to savor their eager meows as I hold the paper plate of turkey and giblets above them. When I lean forward, they're all over it before I can even drop it to the floor. Asuka, the ginger one, headbutts the others, but I make sure they all get their share. I lay the dish of dry food farther away, beside the water bowl, knowing it'll be ignored until later in the day.

As I eat my breakfast of yogurt, salad and orange juice, I check my mail, my forums. My fanfic has new reviews. It's almost finished. I have a vacation coming up, and it's kind of sad how eager I am to spent most of it in front of my laptop writing about a teenage girl who controls bugs.

I dress in slacks and a pullover sweater and am about to leave when I notice the light blinking on my answering machine. Who the hell calls my landline? I don't even know why I still have one. I roll to the dresser and press the button.

"Ms. Brickle," a familiar voice says (That's Dr. Brickle, asshole, I think bitterly), "this is Jim Ackermann with Ackermann and Ackermann. I represent Oliver Boyle . . ."

I wheel my chair to the garage, leaving my ex-husband's sleazy lawyer to ramble to himself.

I don't hate Ollie because he left me. Well, I do, but I'm realistic: I got shot; he didn't want a cripple for a wife. What was I supposed to say? 'Stay with me and be miserable'? It would have been nice if he waited until after the physical therapy before hitting me with the divorce papers, but whatever. We split up our possessions, our properties. I got the house and a nice share of his investments.

It was only after the Yutani Corporation hit it big, increasing the value of its stock tenfold, that Ollie decided my shares were too nice. Hence the pressure to renegotiate. Like me, the case won't stand, but this borderline harassment is wearing me down.

What makes it weird is that we both work for the Bureau. I see him around the office sometimes, though usually he's either passing by, if not outright ignoring me. I'm no longer a Special Agent, you see. We move in different circles now.

I open my sedan's door and haul myself into the driver's seat. My wheelchair I methodically disassemble and stash its parts inside. I pull out of the garage and head on to work. Even after six years and all the ways I've adapted to this new lifestyle, I still haven't quite gotten accustomed to using hand controls instead of foot pedals. But then, my commute's not far, so I don't spend much time behind the wheel anymore.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

I live on the outskirts of Livingston, a small suburban community just west of Newark. My large backyard and the nearby woodlands hints at rustic isolation, but a couple of turns and a few minutes' east down Interstate 280 puts me right in front of my FBI building.

I'm an intelligence analyst. Don't let the sexy name fool you: it's not as glamorous as it sounds. My current assignment is data-mining the financial trends of an aircraft manufacturer for signs of insider trading or corporate espionage. Not terribly dramatic, but there are ups and downs. Three years ago, I helped bust an online child pornography ring. That time, I enjoyed my job. I felt like I was doing something that mattered.

I'm just about to exit the highway when it happens. A cacophony of booms rips the air. Blazing pinpoint stars streak contrails from the sky. Craning my head to look along the top of my windshield, I see several . . . then twenty . . . then hundreds. They crisscross and swerve, banking and slowing in ways meteors most certainly do not. A car in front of me scrapes against the concrete barrier as the driver is distracted by the light show. Behind me I hear the sickening crunch of colliding metal.

My heart pounds, and suddenly my paralyzed lower half feels like an anchor stuck in mud. Chaos is around me, and I am helpless.

No, I tell myself. I am in a car. I am in control. I quickly pull onto a service road and screech to a halt on the shoulder. The shooting stars continue, though there are less of them now. Cursing, maybe praying, I wait for world sundering mushroom clouds to blast me from existence. Nothing happens. Honks blare from the highway above.

Well, this isn't a nuclear attack. Did several squadrons of military drones go full out Skynet? Is this an elaborate terrorist attack?

I push aside the last option that burbles in my brain: aliens.

That's just silly.

Either way, it's going to be an interesting day. Interesting in the 'Chinese Proverb' way. Checking to make sure the road's clear, I continue on to work.

***

(Mackenzie)

Mackenzie Hackworth awakes to thunder without rain. His eyes scratch open, and above, through the blear, he sees the overcast is tainted by drifting wisps. One brick roof to the other, telephone wires crisscross the New York alley like suspension bridges and for an electric, crash-fueled second the sky is a foggy canal over which he levitates. The sky is down. Mack is up. Anything can happen.

But the moment dies, and the sky rises to where it belongs. And Mack sinks down. On the ground. In trash.

He smells burning. Shit, not again. Garbage bags beneath him crinkle as he jerks upright and beats at his newspaper-stuffed polyester jacket. But he's not on fire. And there's enough smoke that if he were he'd be dead. Clattering aside bottles of Robitussin, he crawls to the edge of his dumpster and peeks over its lip.

The metal egg sits at the end of the alleyway. Wreathed in trash fire, half buried in shattered asphalt and pulsating with cliched green light, the Volkswagen-sized artifact smacks of something out of War of the Worlds--as witnessed by a homeless druggie.

Mack rubs his greasy beard thoughtfully. Psychotic episode? He's certainly had enough of those: ants under the skin, arguing with his dead girlfriend, turning into a werewolf. And there was that crazy zolpidem and salvia trip with the Mashed Potato Monster . . .

He did drink a lot of cough syrup last night, but it must be past noon now. He's down now. Isn't he?

He half climbs, half falls from the dumpster and in a hunched Gollum-gait makes his way towards the strangely beckoning egg. The reek of burning banana peels hits him upside the nose, and he doubles over in wet, wheezing coughs. But as if on their own accord his legs carry him onward until he's kneeling before the alien device, keeping his distance only for the flames.

The egg vents dull vapors along its base which extinguish the flames. A small iris opens in its side and aquamarine laser lights scan him up and down. With an echo of dignity, Mack totters upright and raises his arms as if to say, Here I am.

Whatever happens now, it's not like his life can get any worse . . .