""How about I give you, an out-of-this world experience."
. ⋆ ✧ * ⌖ ˖° *˚˳⌖ ⋆ * ･ﾟ : ⋆ .
A group of aliens find their way to earth to save it from a havoc. They begin to squat with a egomaniac scientist who doesn't give a damn. Soon enough, the inva...
I see them bloom, For me and you ूʚ̴̶ .̠ ʚ̴̶ ूƈूʚ̴̶ ʚ̴̶ ूƈूʚ̴̶ .̠ ʚ̴̶ ूƈूʚ̴̶ .̠ ʚ̴̶ ूƈ
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Seven men, that are alien. How the heck could I have lost them too easily? Possibilities saying 'this wasn't such a great idea'.
What are the possibilities, one might ask. One; They managed to freak another human out, after turning back visible and in their alien skin. Two; They saw that the reformist were no longer taking on an attack on earth.
If I can't find them, I'll take on the second option: They left.
Only if my legs can carry me around the large perimeter. I have been search both highs and lows for the aliens. The concierge place wasn't of much help and neither was the cafeteria hall. Yes, even that.
Left for me to search, is the parking lot. Who knows if the aliens have already entered another person's car without permission. Now no one would experience such and their esophagus left intact. I know mine was almost taken out.
I stopped in the parking lot in search for any in distress car or a petrified somebody. But none. Instead what caught my attention was the large window hiding in the bushes so perfectly one might have missed it.
I make my way there and a loud erupting gasp leaves my throat. It was a freaking space ship. It is so large. Large enough that it makes me wonder how, for three weeks, someone missed this. The door are open, it tempts me to enter.
And I do.
There wasn't much light in the space ship. Only a purple light flickering on and off from the intermission board with had a rimose metal palette.
There were no windows. Only -one, two- four seats; three others lined up on the long side of the rectangular prism and one sitting opposite. The first noticeable thing was the utter lack of motion.
It did not feel like any sort of future tech, the walls, it felt like the back of a truck. It was barren, smooth, it appeared as dirt brown walls in the lack of light, with sharp corners at the vertexes; but where was the motion?
No.
I turn on my heels to exit the perfectly conventional vehicle but halt when an annoyed grunt is heard coming from the disabled flammable fuel cell. On instinct my legs move toward the sound.
His broad shoulders bare before my eyes, sweat glistening like oil. His muscle contracting in tensed frustration of trying to raise a fallen tank. When his side profile comes to view, I get a glimpse of how perfectly his bangs stick to his forehead.
If he continues to try to raise that fallen tank, I might not be able to avert my gaze from this unholy scenery. How much working out can one Alien possibly do in a day?
