The Third Invasion: Mercy

Mercy

Chapter One: A Running War



We were lucky, the world ended when winter faded.

Flannel clutched the handgun tightly, not allowing his only hope for survival to escape from his grip. Sweat made such prolonged holdings riskier than he was comfortable with yet under the circumstances he hadn’t much of a choice. Though his fingers aches fierce he held steadfast resolve: he wouldn’t allow it to end here, not after all he had been through, not after all he sacrificed.

The creaking sound of wood shot out, in this racked house of many years even the slightest motion was felt. The boots, the sound, moved in unison so it was difficult to determine how many were actually in the house proper. Flannel estimated around half a dozen, though it could easily be much more. Eventually the sound shifted and changed from the second story downwards; they were headed down the stairs. Dust fell from the ceiling in copious amount. From this Flannel knew there were at least a dozen… after so long of hide and seek with the Free Market dogs he had become skilled in such obscure identification techniques.

The sounds dulled, almost as if half of the intruders vanished. Still creaks and moans, the house warning flannel to flee, but not enough to warrant escape, not yet anyway. From the direction of the sound Flannel knew they were coming down the hallway. Soon they would be within reach of his room, soon they would discover him.

Then, finally, the doorknob turned, slow and steady. This indicated that the point man was new, inexperienced. Flannel rejoiced, for in this giveaway he knew that no harm would befall him. He quickly glided across the floor and positioned himself at the pointman’s left (Flannel’s right). He pushed himself against the wall and waited. In moments the door was fully open and like the fools that they were the F.M.S soldiers failed to clear the corners as they entered. In this, Flannel stroke: he raised his gun, took aim and fired.



The firefight was intense, if not a bit short. Flannel killed several members of the infiltration team quickly. This enabled him to glide into the middle of their formation and slice at their vernable armor with his dagger. As expected red flowed freely thus causing disorder in the enemy ranks. From this chaos Flannel was able to dispatch the last of the soldiers and make his escape out into the warzone which had been Portland.

An explosion nearby blew his body backwards and slammed him into the house. He rose quickly, knowing that he would not have much time to escape before the pigs noticed their missing team, and fled down the street to his right. He ran as fast as his legs allowed; his muscles straining to keep up with his adrenaline. His chest heaved in and out as his lungs gasped.

He had to push himself, for if he didn’t death would surely take him. All around him mortars carved out private homes, bullets flew through the air, and sickly mushroom clouds dominated the distance. On the ground, only barely noticed as Flannel rushed by, were the stolen limbs of the innocent; hands, legs, bodies half together, and more all littered the crater strewn tar.

Such was a normal sight though; in this world nothing was depraved. All actions, no matter how heartless, were commonplace as people etched out a means of living; any means which would enable them to survive for another day. Flannel wasn’t an optimist nor an idealist: he knew this was coming. Such was why he had raided several presumably abandoned houses in an effort to locate food. His journey was long and he would need all the resources he could lay his hands on.

The only things which had caught him off guard were the speed in which the Free Market Society reached the town. Flannel had originally estimated that it would take F.M.S forces a week to reach the town, giving him more than enough time to scavenge for food and equipment. But he was wrong. The Society arrived in only three days; coming in through seldom used routes had sliced away a nice chunk of traveling time. This in turn had meant that all the time they had saved was used against him and the unsuspecting town.

While eventually a defense of the city was mustered well over half had fallen before such was organized. Once ready though the city resisted with all their might; they knew what awaited them if the Society won: execution, or as the Society phrased it, “cleansing.” Portland was considered a Fringe settlement. I.E inhabited by alien sympathizers. Any such notion was absurd, of course. No one in any so-called “Fringe Settlement” had any feelings, let along sympathizes, for the hiểu lầm; not for the creature which had ravaged earth. Such notions were pure fantasy.

Still, the Society ruthlessly hunted down and brought to heel anyone-person, or community-which sought to live outside its jurisdiction. Their excuse was, as always, in the interest of worldly security. A worthless term to working people who ebbed to make ends meet by any means necessary. Such a train of thought only mattered to those who controlled society when the hiểu lầm showed up: the rich, the bankers, the capitalists and military pawns. To minorities like Flannel, however, such a notion of protection via imprisonment was not just incorrect but a bloody insult.

Flannel scanned the upcoming track of road and sharply turned right. He was coming to an intersection. He was in luck. The intersection was relatively deserted, which meant, that the Free Market goons had yet to capture this section of the city; it meant they had arrived near the north, not the south. Though it meant that Flannel would have to drive deeper into alien held land, when push came to shove, as it currently was, the choice was clear: take your chances in the Forsaken territories; at least there you might avoid the aliens.

Flannel skirted past the few civilians which clogged up the roads and bolted onto the high-speed launcher. When on the large red pad the forces of technology would propel the individual through the air at high speeds with the goal of landing on the connected twin pad. Simple but effective tech. Flannel rushed onto the platform, shocked eyes following his footsteps; disbelief that someone would dare to enter into hiểu lầm held lands without armaments.

In his youth Flannel’s friends had called him a daredevil for his penchant for crazy stunts. Evidently such habits hadn’t yet worn off; even if the modern stunts he performed were out of desperation rather than adolescent need. While he felt a twinge of joy at remembering his friends, remembering their smiles and jokes, their bodily expressions, he also knew the somber truth: what he was about to do was reckless, it wasn’t the action of a reasonable person. It was the action of a man who had lost everything yet for perverse reasons still felt the need to live.

He leaped onto the launching pad. His feet connected and instantly he felt the forces of science accelerate his being into the unknown; air pushing against his frame with all the intensity of ammunition detonating. The ride took the breath out of his lungs. He was simply lucky that it was a short ride. Moments later he had arrived at his destination; he wobbled off of the sister pad and collapsed to his knees. Disoriented he puked, vomit spilling onto the sidewalk like rain.

No time for rest though; while his stomach rumbled for food, though his feet ached, and despite his back nearly shot, he couldn’t rest not when he had only just arrived in Augusta and still needed to make it home before nightfall. He sullenly thought that there would be plenty of time to rest when he was dead. An occurrence which he was positive would come sooner rather than later. Regardless, he picked up his backpack and trudged on; the oppressive heat assailing his body while regressive thoughts consumed his mind.



Chapter Two: Unwinnable



Flannel marched along the side of the road careful not to stray too far from the concrete. Losing track of his only link to his destination wouldn’t bode well for the rest of his travel. Though the road was pot marked with the result of warfare it was still walkable, if only barely.

After he had left the launching pad Flannel had made his way along the highway. The sights caught his mind’s eye if for only a brief moment as the glimpses of ruins half remembered from childhood. Though the houses were partially destroyed and the river trashed with the lifeless corpses of the forgotten, this area seemed like home. A home away from home, he reminded himself. His actual home was still some ways ahead-at least a couple dozen more miles. A trek which he intended to finish before the night sky eclipsed the sun.

Gliding along the road Flannel pushed his body to its limit and found that after so much activity he had reached his limit. He had to rest. Not for long, he assured his conscious, but just long enough to restore his limbs to their former glory.

He found a place to sit, a bench which was placed near a city map stand; a stand which one day, long ago, told tourists of the locales worth spending money on. Flannel lowered himself slowly onto the bench yet felt like he had fallen off a cliff when he had completely sat down. So great was his pain that he felt as though his entire nervous system was aflame. He was not looking forward to standing up.

During this brief respite he allowed his mind to wander. His thoughts gave him comfort. Simple thoughts they were, reflective of his modest upbringing, yet such treasures were his own and he loved them with all his heart. Images of his youth swam through his mind: playing with friends during recess, fighting with his brother over who was able to play a new video game first, and discovering his first love; the sensation of kissing and how good it felt to finally be intimate with another boy. Voices rattled in his ears telling him of the better days of when things were simple. Father, mother, brother… all spoke to him in their own way.

Help me…

Brother, he thought. The voice was rough like the person it belonged to was still in the troughs of puberty and as such his voice broke uncontrollable. A young voice…

Please…!

A voice too young to be his brother’s…

Flannel bolted upright, grabbing hold of his backpack in a single motion. He placed it on his shoulders and grabbed his dagger, tugging it out of its sheath. Cautiously he approached the bench to look behind. His dagger raised expecting anything. He had been stupid to let his guard down in an area without first thoroughly checking in behind the bench. The bushes and debris had clouded his judgment while tiredness whittled his resolve to be a proper scout. He had been lucky that whatever was behind there hadn’t attacked him while he relaxed.

Hand clutching his dagger, fully ready to stab and hack away at whatever presented itself to him, Flannel jumped on top of the bench and looked behind. He saw not a foe but a weakling. A boy. A young boy of perhaps thirteen years lies behind the bench. His hand appeared to be forced against his stomach, perhaps in an effort to stop lessen the pain of some old wound.

Flannel wasn’t having any of it though. He has seen elaborate rouses before involving children and wasn’t going to allow himself to be taken out by such a puppy. Not without determining who this lad was anyway. He barked out some questions.

“Who are you!”

The boy moaned in pain clearly not in a mood to respond. The only reaction Flannel received was that of an anguished cry pleading for help. He wasn’t letting him off the hook though so he again barked out the same question only this time louder.

“I said,’ WHO ARE YOU! Answer me, now!” The air itself seemed still.

Eventually the boy answered, though his answer was partially obscured by his freely flowing tears.

“Anon, my name is Anon!” The boy choked out, his sobbing causing a dissonance between his words and larynx. “Please,” he said while coughing back tears “Help me, it hurts so much!”

Flannel hesitated, if he helped this boy, assuming he was on the up and up, his journey would be delayed by several hours, at least. He might not make it back home in time. It wasn’t a hearty proposition, nor very beneficial to him, to stand by and help. Not at least while he had places to be.

Still, the boy looked to be in deep trouble. And Flannel felt a sort of emotion for this fellow traveler. Perhaps it was akin to looking back in the past and seeing his own helpless self… or maybe it was just him getting soft, but whatever the cause, Flannel felt obligated to assist. He sheathed his dagger and jumped from the bench to in front of Anon; his foot’s blisters hurting like hell when he landed.

He grabbed Anon by his ragged shirt collar dragging him onto the road. He laid him down in the middle of a bright spot, where the sun had managed to break through the overwhelming clouds and give humanity some light, however fleeting it may be. Flannel removed Anon’s death like stomach grip so he could investigate what was causing the lad so much discomfort. To his surprise it was something that he never had expected.

When he saw the discolored skin, visible through his tattered shirt, he knew right away what ailed the boy: Metallic Rot. Humans with the Rot, as it was commonly called, lived for but hours. In those brief hours of existence the inflicted individual felt more pain than what was bearable. Many went into shock and died before the disease itself killed them. One knowledgeable on the rot, a disease which spread through the planet when the Hiểu lầm descended, could tell how far it had spread by how discolored the victim’s skin was.

For the boy, however, this task was all too easy. His entire midsection was a mess; red, blue, yellow, green… all colors and more mixed in his pigmentation turning his color to that of the grim reaper’s paint palate. Flannel had seen few cases like Anon’s. Usually death took victims by the time a single color appeared. But this boy, this boy was a fighter. How brave he must be, Flannel thought, to have survived this long.

Though his mind told him he shouldn’t Flannel didn’t take head. From his backpack he removed a single pill, a capsule the size of a pen head, and instructed Anon to swallow it. “It will help with the pain” he said. Dutifully obeying, desperate for anything to make the pain stop, Anon complied and swallowed without hesitation. They waited in silence for the medication to take effect. The only break in the never ending quit was the sound of Anon’s crying. Yet even that faded in time.

Minute passed and Anon’s tears subsided. He looked up at Flannel and smiled. His grin seemingly saying, “Thanks.” Wobbly Anon managed to stand upright. Flannel helped him by placing his arm under and through his shoulder to the extent where he was supporting Anon.

“Does your body feel numb?” Flannel asked.

Anon replied in a somewhat drowsy manner, “Yeah…”

“Great, it means the pill is working.”

“I need to find my mother… I was supposed to wait for her near that bridge. Could you please take me there?”

Flannel could see the bridge the boy spoke of. Though it was still far off in the horizon it was nonetheless a locale which they could travel to in under an hour. Flannel agreed and together they made the tedious march. One foot in front of the other, they walked.

Making small talk about their lives before the alien invasion Flannel learned that Anon wanted to be a music student. He wanted to specialize in creating thought provoking music for video games and movies. A noble intention indicative of youth, Flannel thought. In return for sharing such information Flannel told Anon of his own dreams; of wanting to see the great cities of the world with his partner; of graduating from the premiere schools and using his education to help the working class. More importantly, however, Flannel told Anon of his dream of returning home to his childhood house to live out the rest of his life in the manner in which he was raised. He told him that even with the aliens here he was determined to make it back; which is why, he explained, they encountered each other.

Anon laughed. Not in mockery but in shared happiness. A sort of joined desire to fulfill one’s dreams even though their situation made its completion unlikely. That even in the face of insurmountable odds they wouldn’t be derailed at their dreams.

It was painful but the duo came to a halt near the bridge’s sidewalk. Flannel lowered Anon onto the ground careful not to hurt him. Flannel figured this was where they said goodbyes.

“Thank you” Anon whispered “I can wait for my mother here, she should be along any time now.” Flannel took a few steps back and stared at Anon in pity. He knew the truth. Though Anon might not want to accept it because he was too long Flannel understood that his mother was dead. Even if she wasn’t, by some miracle, the boy wouldn’t last the night. The painkiller he took would only last another couple hours and by that time he might not even draw breath.

Flannel considered killing the boy but withdrew the idea. Scolding himself, Flannel reprimanded his callous presumptions: he wasn’t god and couldn’t judge others. He was powerless to help. So he betrayed his humanity and left the boy by the roadside, to surely pass in a most ungodly manner. He walked the length of the bridge and never once looked back.

Chapter Three: Hope on Empty

Flannel walked along the desolate path. Leaving behind the confines of the urbanized city he was approaching the rural countryside, with buildings becoming scarce and crystalized trees becoming the norm. The trees, encased in a bright silver material, were the result of Metallic Rot. The Rot had actually been named Metallic for its effects on plant and animal life; though not actually metallic the disease striped away organic flesh leaving the bones bleached silver while the flora life hardened into a diamond like material.

The Metallic Rot was everywhere and it was spreading exponentially fast. Already thousands upon thousands of miles of North America were inflicted with this strain and more would fall before the end. There was no cure, no remedy, only death. Flannel often reflected how bleak the situation was but never could bring himself to admit defeat; perhaps he was an optimist but he believed that someday, when the Aliens left, the world would be able to be rebuilt into something better. The trees would thaw; the dead would be buried and from the ashes of misery would raise the new world.

Flannel often thought such thoughts when he was walking. Fantasies such as imagining a utopia was the only construct which enabled him to maintain a swift walking pace in the midst of such oppressive heat. Wherever the Hiểu lầm annexed the atmosphere changed. Though the climate was gradually shifting before they arrived, once the Hiểu lầm settled into an area indefinitely the locale climate heated up like a brick oven.

Flannel reckoned it must be at least 95 degrees if not higher. As cruel as it sounded the deeper in enemy territory he went the hotter it would be. His home, unfortunately, was deep in the Hiểu lầm held countryside. He would reach there alive. He would be burned and miserable, but he would make it.

Wiping the sweat off of his brow Flannel turned into a new road. He had been walking for hours yet was still miles from his destination. Already the skyline began to dim with the vague hints of an impending dusk, an inscrutable sight as there was little light to be seen even during the day. He would have to pick up the pace if he wished to make it home before the evening settled in and pitch blackness overtook all.

~ ~ ~

Rounding a bend and climbing up the great hill Flannel was rewarded. By the time he took that last step the sight which greeted him was of his childhood home. Perched on a hill, obscured by crystalized trees, was Toiler’s Manor. Just behind toiler’s Manor, scraping the sky like a behemoth, was a Hive Spire; the home of occupying Hiểu lầm forces.

No fear divided Flannel, however. He wasn’t in this game for life, he was in it for purpose. The tower explained the higher than expected heat, now in the early hundreds, but such would not deter him when he was so close to his objective. The sight of the tower and house simply gave him strength, for they represented how far he had come.

In front of him was the last hill and though steep he would overcome. With every step came the feeling of being torn asunder, the sensation of being made of fibers too weak to sustain a large weight. He felt as if he would burst and spill his guts onto the road. Every step was a chore and a miracle. Half-way up the hill he momentarily thought he wouldn’t make it, he collapsed. Yet, astonishingly, he came pulled himself back up again. He managed to walk and when he couldn’t walk anymore he crawled.

His hard labors paid off, however. After an unprecedented 30 minute trek, up a hill which under normal circumstances would have taken someone only a few minutes to climb, he set foot onto the driveway. Crawling past the burnt out husk of a tank, its carapace a hollowed wreck, which was so hot that its armor glowed with the shimmer of red, he mounted the stairs and shuffled into his childhood home.



Flannel cried uncontrollably. Though the emotional resonance of being back in his family’s home struck him hard it took the dim photo of his murdered love to throw him over the edge.

He had crawled to the living room, a massive hole in the ceiling likely the result of a cannon shell, and eased his body onto a couch. It was when resting on the ruffled couch that he saw the picture frame. Covered with nearly an inch of dust he took the frame into his hands and smeared off the decay. His fingers revealed two young boys, each in the early teens, cuddling against each other, smiles subtle but intense. On the left was Flannel, his goth look giving away hints of what he had fancied in his younger days. To the right, leaning against his left-hand shoulder, was Albert; a skinny lad wearing an eccentric school uniform, his head resting softly on Flannel’s arm.

The memory was more powerful than Flannel expected and before he could suppress his reaction he was already on his side loudly moaning, cries of despair bellowing from his throat like a pack of dogs fighting. He cried and cried but no matter how many tears flowed from his eyes he knew it wouldn’t change the past.

He grabbed the picture and brought it close. He remembered the day it was taken. Summer, perhaps nine years ago, Albert and he had just arrived home from summer school. Tired, the two settled down into a nearby chair to relax. Then mother… she took a picture, operating the camera so fast the boys didn’t have time to hide their embarrassed faces. That was the moment, Flannel now knew, that mother had accepted him for who he was. Why he didn’t see it until now he would never guess.

Regardless such memories didn’t help any with his crying and soon he grew angry; angry at the world, angry at himself… angry that he had been cheated out of happiness. He took the picture frame and threw it across the room. It satisfied him when he heard the glass shatter. Moments after, however, he was sad again. He had destroyed the last remaining fragment of Albert he had- what was his problem?! He rolled over and fell to the floor. The pain was intense enough to take his mind off of the overwhelming sorrow.

Rushing for the pain killers Flannel swallowed the last four. Enough was enough, he thought, it was time to complete what he had traveled all this way to do. He hadn’t come here to reminisce about ‘the good old days’ but rather to tie up the last knot which had been his life. Rummaging through his backpack he found the instrument which would serve as his shepherd: his combat handgun.

The entire world was dying. Forests turned still, humans eradicated in the millions, and families executed by the shrill will of madmen. No one knew how their life would end; perhaps starvation for those in the Fringe, or maybe deportation to the Society’s concentration camps for those, like Flannel, who symbolically opposed the Free Market regime. Still other variants awaited variants such as an agonizing death at the hands of the Rot.

Flannel wasn’t having any of it, in this world where everything had been stripped of him-his partner, family, and freedom; he was going to exit by his own merits and nothing less. Proudly, he pushed the gun to his right temporal lobe and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Four: Terra Pox

… and nothing. Click was all the mechanism made… click… the barrel was empty; he had no more bullets left. Flannel was taken aback: all this effort, all this time and agony to make it back to this place so he could end his life on his own terms, and yet, like a Greek tragedy, he was, yet again, cheated out of his demand. He threw the gun down and pulled at his hair in frustration. Nothing ever worked out for him.

For a long time he didn’t do anything, Flannel just sat there contemplating what to do next. He was al out of tears so in place of liquid he just hurt. He hasped in sorrow and left all pretenses behind him. He was done, there was nothing left.



So he slept. When he woke time was all hazy, as if he had been woken from a coma and the world was a fresh face. Some of his despair and since dissipated but he still was far from normal. His mind still wildly ran with the lenses of regret. Yet, he was no longer immobilized by it. He had energy, if only for the moment.

He lifted himself to his feet and walked out the door. In the distance was the Hive Tower, tall and foreboding. It was the icon of the Hiểu lầm, those alien invaders who walked the earth as titans. He remembered the first time he saw a Hiểu lầm, it was on TV, and a report on the devastation brought to Mecca was playing. The creature was tall, a bit taller than a tree, but as muscular as a bodybuilder. Flannel thought about how strange the alien was, how such a humanoid could live.

The thought brought a chill to his spine. These creatures were here to kill them all, to take their planet and colonize it for themselves. The events of the last several decades had told humanity that. First they killed almost half-a-billion in Asia, and then when they returned, after taking a short leave of absence, they wreaked havoc across the Middle East slaughtering nearly 50million souls. Now they have come here, to North America, for their third invasion attempt. They have stayed here the longest. In the other invasions the Hiểu lầm left after a few months, but not this time; this time they have stayed, two years for those who are keeping track. This time they have stayed long enough for governments to fall and civilizations to fall into disarray.

They weren’t leaving, not unless the armed forces could find a way to kill the creatures. So far, however, no one knew of any such way. Everything had been tried, of course. Bullets, lasers, incendiaries, nuclear and hydrogen weapons yet nothing worked. The aliens shook off such attempts to kill them and proceeded with their master plan. A plan that didn’t bode well for humanity.

Then Flannel thought of it, he knew what he would do how he would spend his remaining life: he would travel to the Hive Tower and meet his end at the hands of one of the aliens personally. Yes, it was the only alternative now.

So he set out. His body still hurt like hell from his Metallic Rot, a reason why he was hesitant to give one of his last pills to Anon, but he was resolved. Once set on a goal Flannel didn’t stop until that goal was reached. With no backpack to slow him down Flannel made decent speed though it was still impossible to tell how close he was to the Hive Tower since it was so large and there was little light to navigate the terrain with. Flannel had assumed he slept through the night but it had gotten so dark, so suddenly, he thought that perhaps it was, in fact, evening.

This worried him because if he was out when night came than travel would be impossible. Since the aliens came the clouds were dark and oppressive. A never ending smokescreen of blackness coupled with the hateful heat made Earth a hellish place for those unlikely enough to live in the new pit.

Nonetheless, he overcame once more. Against all odds he had arrived at the Hive Tower. He had just cleared a forest path when he came into the meadow which was home to the massive tower.

Something was wrong though. There were no Hiểu lầm. The entire field was empty: no guards, sentries, and watchmen-nothing! Not even the inane straggler to keep a lookout. The place surrounding the tower was completely empty. Flannel approached the tower. The Hive was a unique construct. Its surface was inscribed with miniature runes, insignias perhaps. Flannel wished to feel the surface of the tower but decided against it; it was already in the triple digits and knew that something like this was bound to be scolding hot.

He was, once more, in disbelief. Nothing… no escape, no aliens… what had happened? Even his death wish, it seemed, was too much for the universe the grant.



Flannel sat by the tower for a long time, too tired and hot to do much else. With nowhere else to go he had resigned himself to a death here. With the heat he was sure that a heat stroke would be his fatality. It was only a matter of time.

Then something happened. A noisy disruption like a hiss shot through the forest. Flannel turned around to see that the tower had sprouted a door. An opening several meters in length had cracked the side of the tower. Flannel felt himself drawn to the mysterious place. Less to do with discovering what lie within and more to do with the fact that cool air wafted from within, Flannel quickly made his way inside.

Once in the opening behind him slammed shut. He was left alone in absolute darkness, his only acquaintance being the soothing chill of the cold. He breathed in deeply happy for once. Tears came to his eyes. During any other time he would be shamed: crying over chilly air. Yet, when the last time he felt air which was below 80 degrees Fahrenheit was over two years ago, he felt no dishonor in sobbing in joy. Why the aliens had their towers chilled was beyond him but at this pint he wasn’t questioning it.

He remained in this dark space for a long time. It might have been hours, or even days, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was enjoying himself and from that he didn’t care about anything else. Somewhere in his pleasure he lost sight of who he was, of his physical connection with his body. He felt as though a phantom, gliding through the world without a care. He felt no pain, for the first time in many months he felt as he was before the Metallic Rot gained a foothold in his system.

Then a bright light flashed. Quickly it dimmed and receded to the background. Flannel was caught off guard yet was still surprised when several more ignited. They seemed to swirl around the black space like a gust of wind toying with some trash. Gradually, however, they settled down into a sort of obedience. They faded to a dull roar and simply existed.

Welcome to our home, we are The Misunderstood.

Flannel bolted upright, or what he thought was up, at this sudden intrusion. The voice was in his head, speaking directly to his mind. The feeling was that of a thief robbing your house of memories. Not a loss so much as it was a shattering of previously held superstitions about sanctity and privacy.

Flannel wondered how what was speaking to him now. He wanted to reply but didn’t know how… he had lost control of his mouth. So he winged it and communicated by silently speaking via his mind.

“Who are you” He said.

We are the creature you Humans refer to as the ‘Hiểu lầm.’

Dread crept though his body. Speaking to him now were the monsters responsible for killing untold numbers of innocents. He quaked with rage and could finally shoot back.

“Why are you here?! Why did you butchers come to our planet? Why do you murder us? For our land, you are preparing to wipe us out and settle the planet for yourselfs, aren’t you?!” Flannel shouted.

No… we have only ever desired peace-

“Peace! BULL-FUCKING-SHIT! Than why did you keep coming back and killing us?!”

Please allow us to finish… we have only ever desired peace with your species, but didn’t know how to obtain it. We came to your world 60 of your years ago in order to live amongst your kind as equals. We wished for harmony. Yet, we didn’t understand how we could achieve this. When we first landed and began construction on our colony in what you call China, we tried to interact with your race and establish mutual talks but found every time we tried to initiate this process your species members left.

“You mean they died, there were never any talks.”

Correct… we discovered that the fibers of your species and us are not able to inhabit one another peacefully. Our fibers overwhelm yours and cause all of your species to leave .In our sorrow we left your world and retreated to your moon where we attempted to genetically alter our being so as to allow a prosperity between our races. Our efforts, however, failed.

Flannel was disarmed… this explained the Metallic Rot, the disease, or Fibers as the creature called it. Still more question to get to the bottom of though.

“Why did your race come to our planet?”

It was not something we wanted. Long ago we had a home of our own but we destroyed it though corruptive means of living. Desperately some of our race escaped to the stars and eked out a living among the cosmos. These new settlers disavowed violence and materialism in order to find the method of broadening the scope of worldly living. This was when we encountered your race, your planet.

So, the aliens came here only because their own world was wiped out.

“If you say that you came here to find a new home, and even went so far as to alter your DNA, than why didn’t you continue altering your genes until you knew for sure that you were able to live with us?”

Such was what we intended. Yet, our fleet was desperate for resources. Our supplies ran low at the same time our Gods devised for us a solution which was supposed to make living possible. Though it wasn’t tested we had no choice but to speed the process along when our resources became scarce. We descended to your planet to once again attempt to live with you. Unfortunately, our serum failed and your species left once more. So we fled to your moon once more.

“To work on your DNA again?”

Correct… still, it seems that our efforts failed once more.

“Wait, if you altered your DNA once before, and want nothing more than to live with us, than why haven’t you gone back to the moon to work on yourselves again?”

It would be preferable but it is not possible. Each time we left your home to work on our bodies we had to evacuate our entire race and such transportation consumes great amounts of fuel. After evacuating twice we have no fuel left. And with your species unable to cooperate with our own, aside from those who are immune to the our Fibers, creating more fuel is unlikely.

Flannel was in a daze. So much had been said in such a short time. He still shook with anger; now not so much at the aliens as at this colossal misunderstanding.

“So what will happen to my race? Will we just die, leaving the plane to your kin?”

Yes, with your species Leaving at such rates it appears unlikely that your Species mates will endure the adaptation to our Fibers. We apologize for this.

“So that’s it?” Flannel cried out “we are just going to slowly die out? Your race can’t do a single goddamn thing to help?!”

We apologize for our inconvenience. The best we can do is uplift those with our Fiber immunity.

“Uplift… Fiber Immunity… you mean there are people who are immune to the Metallic Rot?”

Yes, you are one such member. You have yet to live long enough to realize it, however. If you so let us we can cause you to transcend to our plane. While we were unable to graft a solution making ourselves one of you, those of your race which show immunity to our fibers can become one of us.

Flannel thought about this for some time. His consciousness ran wild with what he heard… the entire human race… gone. A slow extinction for such proud life forms. And now he, of all people, was offered an escape route? A means of leaving behind his compatriots and joining with the creatures which he had been raised to hate? Flannel was torn.

“All right… uplift me, I consent.”

Epilogue: Remembrance

Special Unit 1 (SU1) clutched his ashes, the material which had once, long ago, been his original form and untied the bag. He heaved the bag into the air and allowed the ashes to scatter to the four winds. The grey matter was quickly carried off leaving behind nothing but memories.

Special Unit reflected: thousands of years ago this whole plane had belonged to his former body and inhabited by billions of life forms. Though those life forms were now gone they left behind innumerable amounts of evidence at their nobility. Buildings, machines and specially altered grains, which they called food, littered the planeside. SU1 grew heavy with thoughts; he grew attached to what he had been those years ago: a sickly, but determined human, who was headstrong. A quaint memory.

He had been the first, hence his name “1,” to undergo the Uplifting process but he wasn’t the last. In all thousands of others would also make the decision to transcend their fragile human forms and become part of the collective. While this didn’t excuse all those who were not able to join their species brothers and sisters, it did give a meaning to life: that even if one dies, it is all right so as long as you are reborn.

It was a mild day-300 F-and routine dictated that SU1 spend it as his old self would have sent free time: remembering who he once was.