Lark eased inside the sleek, black vehicle. Darkness enclosed him and he could breathe easier. The leathery cushions softened into a perfect mold of his tired butt.

Air Travel magazine rated it number two on Best Luxury-Living SUV; one of the best alien-tech cars money could buy. But he had enough flying for the day and asked Wangshi if he was up for driving home.

He poured himself a cup of ice-cold water from the ice chest and a trickle of water splashed over his calloused hands. Lark hummed. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, young master.” The chauffeur replied, tipping his navy-felt hat. He peered in the mirror watching Lark’s face through the black divider. “I heard you had an exciting day today.”

The ice cubes in the glass cup swirled as he settled it into the cup holder. “Did you hear about the AA on the radio?”

“AA? Are you insinuating that I might be an alcoholic?”

Hearing a chuckle, he chided, “Waaangshi.” His caretaker’s humor hadn’t changed in the last ten years or so; the older he got, the more the old goat teased him.

“It was on the radio this morning. Luckily, no one got injured.” Wangshi adjusted the mirrors, peeking into the rear view every so often. No one else was on the road except for them.

“Mishka said one of the assailants escaped the authorities. Though none of the links I’ve read mentioned an escape, just a possible insider.”

Lark had no clue what that girl was thinking sometimes. In their four years of friendship, he hadn’t asked about her connections. All he knew was that she had an ‘in’ with the press.

“What do you think?”

“Mishka is a lovely lady. Though I think she’s dating your best friend, young master.” The driver’s black bushy eyebrows creased in a straight line. Fake concern laced his voice.

“You’re in a good mood today,” Lark remarked. “I don’t suppose your cold has affected your jokes…”

Wangshi was acting a bit too playful today, he thought and sank deeper into his chair.

He took a sip of his ice-water. That was the nice thing about using large ice cubes, they took a longer time to melt and condensation was minimal. No small chunks of ice would slip down his throat either. But, they also cooled hot metal.

He opened the chest once more and cold smoke rose to his cheeks. “I thought you said you would be resting today.”

All traces of laughter gone and a shiny gleam reflected Wangshi’s one glass eye.

“I’m always nearby. And I saw that someone needed a taste of their own medicine.”

“Without anyone noticing?” Lark cocked a brow and slammed the lid shut.

“I’m that good.”

“I’m not praising you.” Lark sighed. Squinting at the surroundings, he searched for any signs of police cars. “Did you really have nowhere else to hide it?”

“It’s temporary! Temporary!” Wangshi whined.

Lark had no words until an oncoming bicyclist raced down the lane from the opposite street. The biker bypassed the stop sign. “Watch out!”

Wangshi hurriedly pressed the brakes, when something slid against the rough carpet in the trunk.

A thud echoed; silence engulfed them.

Safe from being squashed meat, the bicyclist raised his middle finger at them, while Wangshi continued driving. “See, you don’t get this kind of attitude with air travel.”

Lark’s water teetered in the glass; the large ice cubes blocked it from spilling over. “You’re sure no one followed you?”

“Of course. I’m a professional.” His driver made a fist and thumped his chest.

Lark took a deep swallow, but it didn’t help; the car felt too hot. He sank down and adjusted the cooling temperature of the seats. His back leaned into the leather spine which separated him and the answers he was looking for. He imagined the tied-up hostage, screaming against his gags. Though, Wangshi’s methods of capture were quieter than that. He couldn’t even hear a muffle.

“You really do take your care-taking services too damn seriously.”

Other than the cyclist, it was a smooth ride home. He faced the upward slope of his house as Wangshi parked on the curb.

His family owned apartments, townhouses, and a mansion but their home would always be their little Cyan Cottage. It was the first house his grandparents were able to afford.

The backdrop of the blue walls against the white tiled roof captured the heart of his grandmother’s imagination or so his grandfather used to say. She especially loved the two dormers, etched with bird-shaped carvings, facing the eastern side. His grandfather agreed to buy the house only if he had the towering octagonal turret for personal use. It was the only area of the house that had blacked out, arched windows and faced a corner of the front yard.

Lark slammed his car door shut. He walked up the sloped pavement and turned to his driver. “Do you need any help?”

“Not necessary.” Wangshi took off his felt hat and tied back his black hair into a short pony-tail. Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. He puffed on the filter once, and exhaled two smoke rings, before the filter crumpled unto itself. Lark frowned at Wangshi’s bad habit.

“It’s cold today, so I’ll go park in the garage.” Wangshi shook off his coat and rolled up the cuffs of his white sleeves.

Of course, you will…

“I’ll set up a pot of your favorite Black Rose tea in the dining room. Drink it when you’re finished.”

“Thank you. I’ll have a gift ready for you after I’m done,” Wangshi exited with a bow and went back inside the driver seat before the car disappeared instantaneously.

Wangshi’s penthouse was attached above the garage. It was only in the later years of Runetech’s success did they attached guest rooms for overnight visitors. When Lark was five, the penthouse became Wangshi’s permanent residence.

Lark milled around the porch, enjoying the view of his grandmother’s front-yard garden. Though his grandmother took credit for the design, his grandfather often complained he was the sweat and tears behind it. A medium-sized cherub fountain set in white granite stood as the centerpiece. Colorful perennials circled the baby angel statue.

With a sharp intake of the fresh fall air, Lark sucked in all the sweet smells of the garden. Vanilla, oak, and cherry-scents assaulted his olfactory nerves. Although he didn’t have many memories of his grandmother, he felt like he could connect to her through here. Her garden. He would have to rethink saving a conversation with the peeing cherub another day for when times were really rough and he finally lost it.

Finished stalling for time, Lark scanned his iris through the peephole of the front door. Never questioning the functionality of his grandfather's inventions, it still surprised him when the door clicked open considering he was wearing grey contacts.

Lark hung his coat and scarf on the rack next to the door and made his way towards the kitchen. There, he set the water to a boil and searched for the Black Rose tea leaves inside the teak wood cabinets.

He grabbed a teapot off of the mounted shelf and settled it onto a flat bamboo tray. Bringing the tray into the dining room, Lark also prepared a snack platter, while helping himself to some sample bites.

Smoked salmon sandwiches with cream cheese and sliced cucumbers decorated the lower layer of the porcelain 3-tier cake stand. He piled on fruit-topped angel cakes bought from the famous Michi’s Bakery on the upper levels.

After he deemed the set-up to be satisfactory, Lark poured himself a cup of tea. Contrary to its floral name, the Black Rose tea filtered through his system like a fiery current. It nearly set him into a tea-coma, but he had things to do, and things that worried him to no end.

He passed by the charcoal-toned couch his grandfather died in. A morbid thought crossed his mind and he wondered if, in old age, he would die in the same house too. It was both comforting and unsettling

From the dining room to the living room, different decor his grandparents and parents collected from all over the world found its place. His favorite was the red bottle of Mars dust, his father sent to him when he was seven. It sat on a large, steel bookcase next to the T.V. alongside many other antiquities.

He tapped the underside on one of the shelves and the floor rotated him into his grandfather’s study.

Mishka and Sky would arrive in one hour, Wangshi had to force that cultist to talk before then and then get rid of him. Lark’s knuckles clenched into a fist, only to unravel at the sight of his grandfather’s outline on the arched window greeting him.

“Hello Lark, how was school today?”

“Enjoyable, grandpa.” He smiled. “I only have so long to go through your documents right now. Sky and Mishka are coming over today to help me analyze the thing you left here.”

“Is that wise?”

He held back a frown, the image in front of him was not his grandfather, but it had the same voice and face. Unlike his real paternal grandfather, it repeated pre-set messages and was blue. But it was better than nothing, and one of the closest things to family he still had.

“I trust them,” he answered.

“I love you, Lark. Don’t work too hard.” The outline held up a pixelated red heart and then disappeared from the window.

Lark sat before his grandfather’s lab bench. There were tinkering tool sets and a very large computer monitor on a U-shaped desk.

Originally, Lark did not have permission to access his grandfather’s secret laboratory. Growing up in Cyan Cottage, he had never stepped a foot inside, nor was he ever invited, even though everyone in the household knew about the room. Even regular people outside could see how secretive it was!

When his grandfather disappeared for long hours, it meant he was inside the lab. But on that fateful day, he was able to say, “I’m home,” to the dead man on the couch.

After the funeral, determined to see what kept his grandfather locked in, Lark went inside unannounced.

The first thing he saw and heard was the hologram on the window.

“If you’re here, it must mean that I’m dead and now you have to carry the burdens I was unable to solve.”

Sifting through the laboratory, Lark figured how his grandfather was able to run a huge company. It was because he was a madman. And all madmen had disorganized workspaces.

It took months for Wangshi and Lark to sort through the mountains of bills, documents, folders, weird inventions, toolkits, and other objects Lark termed as miscellaneous toys. If a person walked into this room, they’d say, “Wow, it’s a cyber-punk themed room,” instead of a hot mess.

But even with intense clean-ups after almost two years, he still found surprises. Had he not accidentally drop a heavy toolkit near his grandfather’s desk, he wouldn’t have uncovered the alien tech hiding in the small pigeonhole underneath the wood. Moreover, had he never entered his grandfather’s laboratory, the passions his father and mother enjoyed during their lifetimes would’ve stayed hidden from him.

He flipped through a moleskin notebook; one of the very first things he discovered, as it was one of the very few things that hadn’t collected dust on his grandfather’s desk. It contained a series of newspaper clippings, pictures, journal entries and postcards from his father and mother. They met as archaeologists in an expedition across the middle east desert and married a year later. From his grandfather’s stories, Lars and Kendra Rune weren’t interested in running Runetech, but they received a lot of funding from the company to support their little expedition crew. That’s how they met Sky’s parents, who were researchers working on their thesis in the middle east.

Their traveling expedition crew… Lark ran his fingers through the faded pages.

Both his mother and grandmother died when he was three. They got involved in a cultist attack at a shopping mall during their mother and daughter-in-law bonding vacation, while Grandpa and Lars Rune took care of baby Rune. The attack was during the height of the agency’s all-out confrontation against their organization. And like cornered rats, the cultists retaliated by bombing highly populated malls. Hundreds died during the week-long attacks.

It was the year of 2087, but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint if that was when his father became withdrawn and dove into archeology work, and when his grandfather became closed off within his laboratory. But he blamed it all on this tragedy. It was one reason why he was sure AA cultists were somehow involved in everything that went wrong in his life. And another reason why he couldn’t simply unload everything onto Sky and Mishka.

On the flipside, Wangshi was the only fruitful outcome of his father’s long-term expeditions. His finger traced over the photograph dated: Feb. 2088. Two men huddled under a green canopy, resting arms over shoulders like brothers. His thumb brushed over the sunlight-streaks blurring their faces. They were archaeologists, not photographers, unfortunately. A postcard written by his father laid next to it, explaining how “adopting” Wangshi in the middle of the Sierra desert came to be.

The expedition crew made a pit stop at an oasis to refuel, and that’s when he appeared to them, wrapped in bloodied bandages while talking haphazardly in an unfamiliar language. Lars guessed it was Chinese. Before a translator arrived, Wangshi had passed out in front of them. The expedition crew stayed at the oasis and gradually nursed him back to health on Lars orders.

Long story short, Wangshi stuck with the expedition crew for two years, learning how to speak English and helping them out. Wangshi never recovered his memories to explain what he was doing banged up in the desert (that was noted in the journal). Afterward, Lars sent him on a one-plane ticket home to the Runes’ household with a letter explaining to his father that Wangshi insisted on repaying him through lifelong servitude. Lars advised his father to hire him on as Lark’s caretaker.

Grandpa Rune was distrustful of having an older, male babysitter, but he was busy with Runetech. Eventually, he saw Wangshi’s dedication as a reason for trust. A replacement was never mentioned, and Lark was very glad about that because Wangshi’s true talents came to light after the funeral.

Assassination.

Placing the journal away, Lark sat in front of the computer monitor and voiced in several instructions from his watch. “Load videos from this morning to the database. File under the folder called ‘Attacks’ with today’s date.”

The screen pulled up a processing bar along with several files opening images and videos. In the folder called ‘Attacks’, a long list of files appeared dating from the year 2050.

Unnecessary windows were clicked out and scenes from this morning replayed from when the cultists appeared to when the purple flames were extinguished by the agent’s bubble capsule.

“COSMO, I want you to prepare a summary of these videos, and extract links from news reports and pull quotes regarding why the Redlines’ airship was attacked.”

COSMO was the name of the artificial intelligence, otherwise known as an A.I, his grandfather had programmed. It was another uncovered secret on top of many, but a useful little thing, which Lark installed into his watch and SUV. The strange thing that happened with the watch though was that it asked him if it was okay to take 1 of 4 slots. He had no idea what that meant, but pressed OK anyways, figuring he would deal with it later.

“There are over 3500 articles and posts, over 300 recorded videos, audio, and images. It will take approximately 120 minutes for me to compile all the data.”

Too slow. Sky and Mishka will already be here before then.

“Fine. Delete the videos with the lowest quality or too shaky and filter out articles with unverified sources. I’ll go through those myself.”

“Deleting low-resolution videos…”

Rectangular windows opened and closed in a rhythmic pattern with consistent point and clicks.

A passenger ship carrying over a hundred passengers…headed towards a conference tour throughout East Asia. Taiwan. Malaysia. Singapore. Japan. Korea….

New technology to aid and develop aquatic cities…

Passengers were uninjured…no idea what caused the tear in the ship…police suspect a bomb…

The Allied Agency has declined to comment due to the pending investigation.

“It wasn’t a bomb,” one passenger says. “It was something unnatural.”

“A bomb would leave shrapnel and people would see an explosion of some sort. This was a clean tear. Like scissors against paper. But loud. I haven’t seen anything like it.”

Lark’s body sank lower to the floor as he stretched his legs. His hand was still on the mouse as he kept an eye simultaneously on the videos replaying on the background. No one had a clean capture of the cultist blasting the purple flame, because the agent had used that bubble material to quickly swallow it. Although no one had managed to record where the bubble came from, they could assume it was from the agent protecting them. But where did he procure it from? Why does it seem to appear out of thin air?

Why was there so little information?

The mouse flew from his grip when his watch suddenly beeped. It was a quarter to four, the time Sky and Mishka would be arriving. He hoped Wangshi was bloody done.

When the bookcase flipped around, his trusted caretaker sat at the dining table, calmly inhaling steam from the teapot.

“Your tea-making skills show improvement, young master.”

As expected, he couldn’t get over how fast Wangshi operated.

Before passing his congratulations, a shiny ring flew across the room into his reach. It was cold to the touch and at a glance, it was no bigger than a quarter. Distorted dark green waves decorated the sides, reminding him of a junk mood ring.

“Your gift. I smell alien tech on it. I've already turned him to the agency to collect the bounty. He won’t remember anything about the ring and lucky for us, nor will the agency.”

Lark acknowledged the crafty look on Wangshi’s face, silently thanking him before the doorbell rang. With no time to examine the ring further, he tucked it inside his pocket and opened the door.