POV: Cynthia / LOCATION: ?
In the wee hours of dawn, I sneak out of the lonely room. A long hallway yawns before me. With its starry walls and shining tiles, I have to rush to the nearest window to confirm that I haven't been beamed up to some villainous astronaut base on the moon.
On this floor are two doors: the one I just left from, and the one at the end of the hall, next to the see-through elevator. The latter is marked with a golden G. Curiosity aroused, I turn the doorknob and enter.
Slants of pale pink sunlight trickle in from the tall windows, lending a sleepy, magical quality to this office of edges and spikes. Unlike in the other room, the air here smells well-lived in. Punctured with the pungent fragrance of dark coffee.
A magnificent desk occupies the heart of the office. Slumped over in the chair is the spaceman himself. A black feather pen dangles from semi-clasped fingers. The periwrinkle coffee cup sits near the crook of his neck, its contents drained down to the leftover dregs.
He's out cold. And he's snoring. Holy Miltank, if he competes against a million jackhammers then he'll win first place without breaking a sweat.
Should I wake him? There's something so innately innocent about the way he's drooling on his work. Without the bulk of his heavy vest, there is nothing protecting his spine. Someone can slip a knife into the small of his back and paralyze him without him ever knowing.
I snoop through his desk. Papers. More papers. Scary-looking papers with intimidating letterheads and formidable signatures. Financial statements. Legalese. Blueprints? There's nothing useful on the surface, so I move onto the cabinets.
The first one is stocked with tools. Boring. Underneath those gizmos is a photograph. Recognizing no one, I put it back.
The second drawer is where it's at. Rows of white plastic bottles stacked like spring rolls on a party platter. There's enough painkillers in here to knock out a whole population of sleep-deprived college students!
Interesting. Who are all these for? Don't tell me he has a side gig…
Something golden glimmers beneath a heap of documents. A nameplate.
Cyrus. Cosmic Energy Development Corporation CEO.
"Cyrus?" I echo. Those syllables scrape down my tongue. As if I had accidentally swallowed a hook with my food. Very unpleasant.
At his name, the spaceman stirs.
"Good morning, sunshine," I tease.
A hand clumsily climbs to the bandages around his neck. "Mm. Summer already, Cyn—"
And he jolts up so violently that he falls off his chair, sending papers and pens flying everywhere. He looks so pathetic, stripped of all prior authority and dignity, that I burst out laughing.
Once I sober up, I jab a coy finger into his bulging eyeballs. "I've finally caught you, Cyrus!"
Instead of laughing along with me, all the color drains from his already chalky face. If I didn't know any better, I'd say, with absolute conviction, that he is terrified. Of me.
I stop smiling. "Can't take a joke?"
"How can you be so careless?" he hisses through gnashed teeth.
"Are you talking to me or the floor?" Then I get it. "Oh. You haven't had your morning coffee yet, huh?"
For a long, long moment, the spaceman glares at his bandaged hands. The gears are rotating furiously behind that giant forehead. Then he picks himself up, slowly, deliberately, and plants his knuckles into the armrests of his chair as if to steady his rattling nerves.
"How do you know my name?" he says sharply.
I gesture dramatically to his nameplate. It takes all my self-control not to flash him the one-fingered salute of the rude.
At once, his face slips somewhere else for a moment, as if he has dipped beneath the surface of a lake, and when it comes back, he is laughing. His laughter comes out all wrong, somehow. Misplaced.
"Ah, my apologies. You are right. I am barely functional without coffee. Pardon me."
And… he leaves. This weirdo is more unpredictable than lighting trapped in a glass bottle.
Once the spaceman returns, he has done his hair as well as retrieved his vest.
"Allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Cyrus." He places a palm over his heart. "I run the Cosmic Energy Development Corporation." His hand slides off his chest, revealing that ubiquitous G. "Also known as Galactic Energy."
"Galactic Energy?"
"Yes. Have you heard of us?"
Memory eludes me. "Maybe. What do you do?"
"Our mission involves the researching and manufacturing of alternative energy sources for a cleaner future. We work with most of Sinnoh's city governments, and we will continue to create products best suited for the needs of our community and stakeholders." Along with his smile, his voice is practiced and rehearsed. Perfected. It irritates me to no end.
"I'm not buying anything off of you," I huff.
That earns me a genuine chuckle. "You wound me. Regardless, how are you faring, Miss Cynthia? What have you remembered?"
"I think I'm the Champion of Sinnoh."
"Ah."
"'Ah?' You're not impressed at all." I peer at him suspiciously. "You know me!"
Cyrus winces. His lips move, but I catch none of that. He might be cursing someone beneath his breath.
"I know of you," he says slowly. "Only through television. And the newspapers."
So he's a creep and a stalker. "If I'm that famous, why were you so hostile to me?"
"Again, my sincerest apologies. Since this is our first meeting, I wasn't sure how you would react to me being the first person you saw upon waking up. As you know, my face is quite frightening."
Now it's my turn to cringe. Yet, he doesn't seem upset with my callous remarks about his appearance. He stated it calmly, as if it was common knowledge.
As if reading my mind, his eyes crinkle in a soft smirk. "I need to refill my coffee. Care to accompany me, my dear Champion?"
Anything is better than lying around with nothing to do. Plus, this Cyrus has piqued my interest. Him and his Galactic Energy gimmick.
"Sure," I say. "But don't ever call me 'dear' again unless you want your ribcage rearranged."
