Chapter

It seems like human society is linked together by the miraculous invention of cubicles. It really does. You walk into any old building and you can pretty much always find at least one desk and chair within ten feet of the door. They have office spaces in America, England, Russia, China, Brazil, Canada, Australia, Botswana. They have office spaces in hospitals and industrial complexes and libraries and stores and parishes. They have office spaces for doctors and dentists and schools and presidents and I think you get my point so I'll stop rambling on pointlessly. The whole world's one gigantic office.

Coincidentally, so was the room I leapt in to. No time to take it into detail, the man in the chopper would be firing multiple times. I rolled to the side and ducked behind a cubicle before sliding around a corner and shimmying under a desk.

I'm rarely wrong. Several cubicle walls opened up gaping holes upon contact with the phenospheres. Chemicals and plasma are not nice to whatever they make those things out of. Then again, chemicals and plasma aren't really nice to anything. Thereby making phenoguns less than gregarious. Like I said. Don't hand 'em out as party favors.

Outside, the chopper buzzed past the shattered window, prop-wash scattering loose papers all over the place. Really, really loud. They switched from 'man with phenogun' to 'full-blown chopper machine gun'. Tricky me, I was way out of their range.

It took a while, but they eventually gave up after a shredding everything near the window. The chopper moved away from the jagged hole.. The whop whop whop of its rotors gradually lessened. The papers resettled back onto the scattered wreckage like a bunch of limp white birds.

Which left me suspicious. Not ungrateful, but suspecting that something was up. Maybe it was just my cute paranoia doing its thing again. You can't blame me. You really can't. These guys are notorious for their inability to just let it go…

Okay….trap. Yep, definitely paranoia. I couldn't think of anything else it might be. Trap of time, effort, and manpower. I'd have to figure it out before it closed.

I started figuring by taking the opportunity to fully observe what I'd gotten myself into this time. Ceiling. Walls. Carpet. All somewhat busted up via helicopter weapons. So now I was in a building. An office building, in case you didn't pick up on that one. Under a desk. Because that would really shield me from a phenogun, now, wouldn't it? Gotta protect those insurance employees from the occasional gunshot.

Far away someone shouted. They were inside the building with me. I was seriously rethinking my strategy at this point. Remember how I said inside I'd be a real challenge? Yeah, well, real challenge in a real box. Protected, maybe, but only until they found me. Easier to be cornered when there are corners to do it in. I felt my heart kick up a couple notches, but I was keeping it together. Wouldn't do any good to panic yet.

I could go back outside – nope, there went the chopper again. They were making rounds, circling around outside, waiting for me to do just that. My chances for remaining in the non-dead section of existence were steadily slipping.

The only bright side to this little black hole was that I'd picked an excellent day to do this. Saturday. Otherwise there probably would have been a whole bunch of random employees in the room with me running around/screaming/completely flippin' out at my sudden unexpected appearance and accompanying shooting. I really look out for you guys, you know that? No appreciation whatsoever.

I waited. What else could I do? Maybe, if I held still and didn't make any noise, they wouldn't find me. And maybe if I got a running start and jumped out the window flapping my arms I could fly away to Pixie Land where they have bans against NPAX and everybody accepts human/alien hybrids for who they really are.

I know. I could be a comedian. I really could. Maybe if I ever get some spare time…

Somebody was in the room with me. I didn't really notice at first because I was too busy examining the trash in the can next to me (somebody was a huge fan of blueberry pop-tarts). I stiffened like rigor-mortis when I heard a toe stub into a door jam. For top-secret-clearance-best-of-the-best-of-the-best operatives, you'd think they'd know better than to go stubbing their toes when sneaking up on you. Guess not. That's going to be on the quiz too. 'What not to do when trying to surprise a target: stubbing random body parts.'

So now I knew they were there and coming. I also knew this late in the game I'd given them about as much trouble as they were going to take. Pretty soon they'd put away the tranquilizer guns and just shoot-to-kill. Puts the pressure on me, when there's no second chance to play around with.

Think, think, think…So far, the only plan I had was 'hope they're allergic to blueberry pop-tarts'. Better not to depend on random acts of genetics like that. I scrunched farther back under the desk. This was not how I was going to go out of the world, I knew that. Just wasn't going to happen. Nuh-uh. No way. Not in a miserable office building sitting in the dark underneath some poor sap's cheaply-made desk.

I listened to them moving closer. Too bad playing the age card wouldn't work. These people don't care how old someone like me is. If you look alien, you're alien. They'd go around killing babies if that were the case. Enough to make you puke, isn't it?

I was in the process of concocting something brilliant when I saw the first shoe. That shoe was connected to a foot. That foot was connected to a leg. That leg was connected to a…well, eventually we get to 'gun aimed dead at my chest'. Couple of them, actually. Not a great place to have 'em pointed.

I. Didn't. Move. They. Didn't. Move. None. Of. Us. Moved.

Except in my head. Something snapped into place, as they often do during these little escapades I get into. Perfecto.

Mr. Glock and Mr. Benelli – meet The Chicago Desk Chair Company.

Guns are powerful in their own right. They really are, and I don't normally argue with that. However, they really are no match for the sheer raw physics of a thrown office chair. The rolly-seat's impact on the men not only stopped their bullets, but also had the three of them out cold on the floor.

Not bad for a fifteen-year-old, wouldn't you say? One shot, three guys. Office Max 1, NPAX 0. I was off, out from under that desk and running again, dodging around cubicle wall after cubicle wall. I swear, this was like Cubicle Land. The rolly-chair had made a bunch of noise, there were be more people on the way, and in no lack of time.

Speaking of which. They don't waste it.

When I located the doorway, the only other exit to the room, there were a bunch more men in it. Like, a ton more. More than I could mow down with my speed, reflexes, or legendary ninja skills. I shouldn't have run right out in front of them – I didn't know they were there.

They were there. They were waiting. They were going to be the end of me.

I backed up, moving slowly, searching for any way out of this dead-end game I was playing. Their black Kevlar helmets hid their eyes, their faces. Their guns were raised and zeroed in. Trapped, helpless, about to be put out of action.

I think we should vote on this. Civilians included.

They think not.

In a warped, senseless, realistic world, guess whose vote counts more?

el Fin

For now…