To my grandson: For us inventors, the progression of humanity wanes when we can’t imagine. We put a man on the moon and made him fly, both feats, once thought impossible, became reality. Merging the stars and skies won’t be an easy feat, similar to the burdens I’ve left behind. But in my inventor’s heart of hearts, I believe you’ll figure out why the world has changed or how it’s always been… began the will.

Lark debated the wisdom behind his grandfather’s last words while waiting at the bus terminal. He had to figure out what to say to his family’s lawyer about how he’d be divvying out his grandfather’s inheritance, which entailed not only money but his legacy as well. Almost a year had passed since the funeral, and he was still dealing with this…

After inhaling a mouthful of autumn air, he released a chilled breath into the busy sky and watched the wispy vapor carry into the chorus of thrumming engines. A dull crescent-moon laid barely visible behind the colorful blur of vehicles zipping around skyscrapers. Friday mornings always felt far-off, just like his missing bus.

Forget it, by the time humanity manages to merge time and space together, the bus will still be late.

As leaves raked across the streets, Lark hid his back behind the portal-terminal. The thin metallic post shielded his body poorly; wind chaffed at his ears. Rummaging his hands deep inside his leather jacket for the umpteenth time, he hugged his sides and buried his neck under the layers of his infinity scarf. The soft cotton-like material radiated heat to his skin through smart threads, an ingenuity developed by his grandfather’s company, Runetech.

Even at the turn of a new millennium, Runetech was at the forefront of technology and fashion. But failure was often common: His grandfather’s infamous feather-hair braider, for example, tapped them out of millions, with good reason. An accessory designed to style faux feathers with the client’s hair actually replaced the hair for feathers. It wasn’t until their next hit: light-bread gloves, which sold well in the Japanese markets, did Runetech claw their way out of the red.

Still, he couldn’t help but stress over their finances. Runetech couldn’t compete with innovations like flying vehicles or teleportation terminals. Those cutting-edge products, described as “out-of-this-world,” were dubbed as alien-technology by the public and could only be sold by certain power-houses. Because the markets for alien-technology would not release information on how they were produced, any attempts to reverse-engineer these products resulted in costly failures(or so the R&D department reported).

The prevailing theory was that alien-technology came from Area 51; and like all conspiracies, convenience exempted answers.

Speaking of inconveniences, Lark peeked at his smartwatch, where a plain screen with a circle frame revealed the time in a black, blocky font.

7:36

The bus should've been here a minute ago! He shivered underneath his makeshift scarf mask, half-regretting not taking his set of gloves: a pair of toasty, smiley-faced buns. Who cares if it’s designed for girls? He was cute and cold!

His live-in caretaker, Wangshi, usually drove him to school. Well, everywhere actually. Lark missed the blacked-out windows, his heater, and the personal space of his own car. However, his caretaker claimed he needed the day off to rest, which would’ve been fine except that he noticed not only his caretaker gone but the car too.

He sniffled. A beep from his watch alerted him to his ride approaching; the bright-red city bus passed over the west block. Finally. He pressed the circular ring inside the terminal and when the synthesized voice reported, “Bus pass detected, entry accepted,” a white halo sprung around his feet. Moments later, the outline turned green as the bus went overhead. In a zap, he found himself sitting on a cushion. Chills ran down his spine as he reoriented himself.

Portals took ten seconds to work. For nine, his body disconnected from the world without knowing it. And for one, he felt annoyance.

Stupid, cheap terminals.

He unwrapped his scarf; at least the bus had the heater on. Tapping the face of his watch, a holographic keyboard pulled out above his forearm and a menu with circle-shaped applications appeared on a floating screen. The holograms drew in envious looks from fellow Dubois High students, which he was used to. But a grandma-looking character, who sat across from him, tilted her head with her eyes growing as big as saucers. He coughed and hurriedly tapped on settings to turn on the barrier which erected an invisible sound-proof wall around him. Glad to be free of prying ears, he closed the settings and noted an ad crawl across the bus interior for Soko’s Auction House.

A year ago, Soko’s revealed their alien-technology catalog beside their usual antique shows—airships, hoverboards, and more were up for grabs at the right price. But Lark only had eyes for the Trinity Watch, which was appraised for its ability to transform, sound-proof technology, and holographic properties.

Though there was one feature he hadn’t been sold on, which was soul-bounding.

Omniscient power to locate the watch with his mind? Sole ownership of the watch based on soul criteria? Unlockable functions through soul growth?—it read off like a game mechanic instead of an upgraded software feature.

It wasn’t a function listed in the brochure, and he would never have learned about it without the auction company rearranging a one-on-one meeting with the inventor. He felt indebted to his VIP status until he learned the spiel was absolute psychomancy. Had security not cleared the sellers, Lark might’ve thought the inventor was a lunatic or even a cultist.

He would’ve been okay if the conversation ended with, “Just kidding, never take it off if you don’t want to lose it! Sucker.” But the inventor insisted on giving him a booklet that reminded him of an instruction manual from a certain Swedish furniture store. “It’ll come in handy one day,” the inventor said mysteriously and left the room like a caped crusader.

A lunatic it was.

But he had no issues with the smartwatch since then. He tapped the microphone icon on the interface and voice-texted to his best friend, “The bus was more than a minute late. Where can I lodge a complaint about this?” He added a pulsing red angry face for dramatic effect. Satisfied, he sent the message and the illuminated keyboard dissipated.

His watch beeped a minute after, notifying him of a recorded message. After tapping the message icon, a defined image of Sky’s slanted jaw came into view.

“Don’t get so lazy in our last year of high school!” the boy on the floating screen scolded. A sharp gleam rolled off his glasses that only evil geniuses could pull off. “Also, don’t bug me about being late, you ass. I only got like four hours of sleep last night because you wanted to tease us instead of focusing on the damn group assignment!”

The sound of a motor engine revved up off screen and Lark rolled his eyes. Sky’s parents hated that motorbike, but they let him do what he wanted since starting senior year.

“You see this,” Sky pointed at the dark circles under his eyes. “I look like a fucking panda and I don’t own expensive concealer like Mishka, so you better stop this shit and tell me what you want.”

Lark ran his tongue under his teeth, holding back a laugh.

“Otherwise, I will sick your biggest fans on you. They want to test out some new toys mom and dad got ‘em.” Sky burst out laughing and eyed the camera sidelong.

His knee itched. Sky’s siblings, Cloud and Teddy, were twins. They were at the cute age of six and acted like angels when they wanted to; little devils when ignored. Whenever he would come over, the twins subjected him to hours of torturous playtime. In their last bout where he played the dashingly-handsome, evil dragon, the twins chucked legos at him endlessly. A lego-shaped bruise was left on his leg after tripping on lava last week.

His panda-eyed friend waved into the camera and donned a black, cat-eared helmet. “Enjoy your ride with the commoners. Meet ya later at Fuego’s.”

He swiped the screen away and looked over the air traffic. Boat-sized airships dominated the skies to skinny motorbikes on the lower channels. A scooter much like Sky’s sped over short-stacked shops, while his bus and other transport vehicles like shipping trucks and trailers migrated across channel two. On the ground level, there were a few pedestrians, college students on their hoverboards and a couple of exercise maniacs on their pedal bikes.

He reached out to the fogged-up window, pressing the moon under his finger, while the cityscape melded underneath. His grandfather never talked about the skies or the moon much that he could remember—that was more aligned with Sky’s interests—but surely, his grandfather’s will alluded to the origins of alien-technology. Knowledge he could use to vastly improve Runetech’s capabilities.

If his family were still alive, he wouldn’t feel the need to keep looking over his shoulder. But life kept advancing beyond death; that was the truth. And he was stuck on its ride, slumming it on this bus with people he didn’t know.

Then, he had a thought: If the bus suddenly braked and he flew out the window, how close could he get to the moon before having his limbs lopped off by oncoming traffic? Though, he supposed it would be ironic if his detached arm landed on the billboard advertising prosthetics at Friledaux hospital.

Wondering what his therapist would say, Lark continued to draw a smiley face onto the panel. The tip of his finger tingled as a fine crack appeared under the dotted eye.

Huh?—

Tremors reverberated through the bus and his hand recoiled to the splitting pain in his ear. The floor swayed, lurching everyone out of their seats. With quick reflexes, he planted his leg against the chair to stop himself from tumbling forward. The granny across from him flipped onto her back like a stranded turtle. All the circular buttons for activating transfers flashed red and they suddenly stopped moving.

An emergency stop? Passengers groped their way off the floors back to their seats, confusion etched on their faces. He picked up on their gasps and groans despite one of his ears ringing. When did the sound-barrier cancel out?

The granny yammered into his bad ear as he leaned over to pick her up. She tapped on his shoulder repeatedly until he finally turned to the front windows. In the channel above them, red-robed figures stood on the front-end of the Redlines’ airship. A large tear in the starboard-bow revealed its massive metal skeleton frame. The ringing in his ear became louder.

“Oh fuck, it’s anti-alien cultists! They’re still kickin’ it!” someone from his school shouted and a few more curious passengers crowded to the front. Lark’s watch emitted a buzz. A notification from the news app: Breaking News: AA Cultists Sighted in Sa—

Lark swiped away the notification, deeply unsettled. Why were they here?

Cultists waged attacks against supporters of new technology, and the culminating fear helped establish the Allied Agency to fend off the terrorists worldwide. In horrible, but expected fashion, the Internet ridiculed the cult-like terrorists as anti-alien and clickbait headlines emerged: The AA Cultists versus the AA Agents.

Don’t wanna be on the wrong end of that meeting, but someone should take charge.

The mockery drew short though when the cultists evaded annihilation since their debut in 2050. Their objectives remained unclear as their activities declined over the years and infrastructures rapidly integrated alien-technology.

They aren’t looking for me, are they? He glowered and squeezed the strap of his backpack. Instead of worrying, people like his schoolmates pulled out their phones. Getting stuck on top of the channel ramp gave the cameras an almost perfect angle of the catastrophe.

“Doesn’t the ship look like it’s sinking?” a passenger raised their voice. Channel three vehicles were heavyweights, as per protocol, but Redlines prided in their cruise-like airships. The behemoth tipped nose-first down into the second channel, where at least three car lanes fell under its shadow.

The atmosphere strained as people realized those in the trajectory of the downed airship were waiting inside floating coffins. “Why aren’t those folks at the Allied Agency evacuating everyone?” a terrified passenger yelled at no one in particular.

Lark dug his fingernails into his palms. The trapped cars were within reach, but he didn’t have the power to do anything, except watch everything unfold.

His attention shifted to the radio: “Attention passengers, this is Agent Farrows speaking from the Allied Agency. There’s been an incident with an airship in channel three. Please remain calm until all channels clear for safety.”

No one spotted where the agents were, but a large elastic bubble encapsulated the entire airship, stopping it from descending further. The cultists withdrew a couple paces, perhaps not expecting this countermeasure and began fleeing the scene by foot.

What’s that bubble made of? Lark wondered as he yawned; his lack of sleep catching up to him. The granny raised an eyebrow at him and he couldn’t look her in the eye.

“They’re making a quick getaway,” an onlooker remarked. Lark caught glimpses of red cloaks fluttering in the wind. Are they using airboots?

The cultists skipped over the frozen vehicles like stepping stones, but he couldn’t see if their feet propelled off of the hunks of metal. That is to say, normal shoes couldn’t do those dance tricks.

But one wrong move and they could slip and fall to their deaths. Lark watched in amazement as one cultist had already reached the edge of the airspace with an unnatural burst of speed and looked ready to charge into a skyscraper.

“What the hell?” Passengers who were cramming their phones to the top of their windows lowered their devices to eye-level as two bodies dropped in front of the bus. One culprit fainted inside the same bubble that was encapsulating the airship, and the other one landed on top of a double-decker tour-bus further down their lane. Blood leaked everywhere from his head to his shoulders. Considering he fell from channel three all the way down to channel one, it was a miracle his body was still in one piece.

The sleepiness fled Lark’s clouded vision when the granny suddenly yelped. The culprit who was supposedly down for the count had his arms raised like a zombie rising from the dead.

“H-he’s got a gun!” the elderly passenger gasped and then fainted while clutching one hand to her chest.

Lark caught the fainting woman before she went completely limp in his arms. His heart thundered as he looked outside again for the gun. All he could see was a red, metallic surface over the terrorist’s hands. Gloves?

The passengers that heard her, leaned against the walls to make themselves appear as small as possible. But there were others, like his schoolmates, who kept recording.

“Hey, are you alright? He’s not holding a gun. It’s okay.”

“It’s not?”

The old lady cracked an eye open and looked out the window.

“It’s a bomb!”

She fainted once again, this time with two hands stitching her chest together.

Hey now…!

“Get down!” the loudspeaker rang. The roof rattled.

From the shocked faces of the trapped travelers in the surrounding cars, everyone inside the bus could safely assume, someone was indeed on the roof.

The zombie-looking cultist swiveled his torso in the direction of their bus and his palm was outstretched in an awkward high-five. Lark’s arms tingled as he instinctively shielded his face. For some reason, the cultist’s palm felt dangerous even though they were more than ten cars apart.

And he was correct. In the next moment, a steely sheen coated the cultist’s palms and rising from it, he saw purple vapors. Then all the smoke converged into a singular form, condensed and blazing with energy.

Lark shoved the old lady under his arms and pulled his coat over her as a fiery ball blasted out of the cultist’s hands.

He really shouldn’t have taken the bus today…