The fluorescent lights reflect off a couple of large bloodstains and two bodies torn apart on the floor. Posters and graffiti smother the off-white walls. Standing astride the corpses stands a single alien, rising up on its hind legs only to crash back down on a human head.

  It looks like an overgrown lizard dreamed up by a vengeful god. Longer than a tall man from head to tail with four stubby legs, the entire body is covered in short quills with a matte black color. Somebody compared them once to a cross between a komodo dragon and a porcupine. Spec has seen the pictures and isn’t convinced, as neither species hunted humans to eat their brains. The idea stuck though and these CONTACT are still called dragons.

  The alien is currently eating from the floor with its second mouth, a fleshy protrusion extending from the throat like some disgusting suction cup. That is until it looks up and sees them standing there, framed against the dark shaft behind them. It doesn’t even hesitate before it charges towards them. It is maybe a 100 meters away, then a breath away, its fat feet slapping against the plastic floor.

  “Give me your jacket!” Spec screams, reaching towards Juin.

  She stands frozen, staring at her death with a vacant expression. “Your jacket, come on!” Spec screams as he starts forcefully pulling it from her body.

  The CONTACT is closing the distance unreasonably fast, a strange bubbling roar escaping from its open mouth.

  Spec finally drags the jacket off her and waits for a split second before it is almost upon them. He then forcefully shoves Juin out of the way, throws the jacket down on the floor and tries to jump to the other side.

  The alien reacts immediately, turning its head and snapping its teeth. But it cannot stop its momentum.

  Specs' bad leg twists under him, failing under his light weight. He simply falls to the side instead of jumping.

  He sees the alien place its front paws on the plastic jacket, one after the other, while it simultaneously brings its long teeth ever closer to his leg. It starts gliding towards the open shaft. Its teeth close down on his leg.

  There is a dull thump as it careens into the shaft and hits the back wall before falling down. Spec screams as a burning pain opens up against his calf, the upper teeth had scratched him but failed to find purchase. Everything happened so fast, like an old school magic trick where you know something occurred but you still stand dumbfounded, wondering what happened.

  “Are you okay?! Oh, that’s so much blood. Okay, I can do this. We can do this.” Juin runs over, knocked out of her inaction by his scream.

  Spec's eyes twitch between Juin, who apparently babbles when she is stressed, and his leg. The pain is starting to dull ever so slightly, as if his brain knows he noticed the injury and lets him refocus. How considerate.

  “I went to a first aid course once, you know? Just in case something happened to Summer. Some people are obsessed with those creatures, did you know that? Write songs about them. Disgusting.”

  Juin keeps on babbling while wrapping her faux-cotton t-shirt around his wound. It’s not clear who she’s trying to distract, her or Spec. The t-shirt seems uniquely unsuited for the job, being artfully peppered with holes like a sieve. Ah, whatever. Spec tries to focus.

  With a helping hand from Juin he stands up on his now twice bad leg. It isn’t that bad, he’s used to limping. Juin starts rubbing her now bare arms, fidgeting with several LED implants running across her arms and shoulders in abstract swirls. Spec starts forward while Juin keeps repeating that she’s fine, just fine.

  He could not believe that worked. He acted on the first thought to move through his head, with only seconds to spare. Adrenaline floods his veins in a way he’s never felt before and he’s not sure he dislikes it. Spec’s hands move across his many pockets and the pack at the small of his back, checking on his various tools and the precious processor. It seems fine, even though he landed on it.

  CONTACT are definitely not supposed to be here. He knows practically nothing about them, which seems strange when he thinks about it, but everyone knows they shouldn’t be here, inside the walls.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  The CONTACT suddenly crawled out of their holes three decades ago, like brain eating locusts everyone had forgotten about. After a few dissections and hours of footage it soon became clear that the dragons were alien, the first contact from another world. So humanity fled to newly constructed megacities and huddled behind their high walls, which always made little sense to Spec. There’s nothing humanity is as good at as killing. We are supposed to be the horror that threads upon Earth.

  Then the Guilds arrived, or the Second or the Late, the name differs depending on who you ask. Another alien race, this time orbiting Earth in a spaceship that dismantled our nuclear welcoming gift.

  Apparently they wanted CONTACT dead as much as we do. They told us they needed warriors, because those who can fight the CONTACT are few and far between. We needed weapons and information to fight back. So a few individuals would receive a connection to the Exchange, their very own interplanetary marketplace.

  The Exchange accepts one currency, dead CONTACT. Most of what it sells is ways to kill more CONTACT.

  The governments of Earth found this trade eminently agreeable and signed the dotted line. They were less enthused when the connections were randomly assigned.

  It worked so far as CONTACT has never managed to breach those walls. The rest of the city works less well. All this is common knowledge around the world. What Spec seems to lack is specifics. What are they, what can they do, how do you fight them?

  One cannot survive in Eastbridge without going out prepared, either with a gun or an escape plan. A part of his mind tries to tell him that there has been no reason to prepare for CONTACT. They aren’t supposed to be here and Spec certainly isn’t supposed to fight them. That’s what Berserkers are for. Staring at his shaking hands makes it difficult to forgive himself for not wanting more.

  “Hey dude, I thought only I hit my head?” Juin sayed, half joking and half worried.

  “Oh I’m fine, I’m fine.” It seems they’re just repeating the same words to each other. “Where’s your sister? I would rather not split up.”

  “We live a couple of letters that way, down in H. This is so much worse than I thought. What the fuck are they doing here! Disgusting devolved lizards, I swear if they touched Summer I will…”

  Her increasingly incoherent rant fades into the background noise as Spec considers his options. Does he go left and help Summer or does he go straight ahead to get to his dad faster? Splitting up seems like a terrible idea. He could argue for going home first, but he knows what his father would say if he was here. It isn’t right to leave her little sister waiting with CONTACT prowling around. Even his confused father would get that much right.

  Spec calms down as his mind starts dissecting the problem, threading on well trodden paths. Focus on his goal, then calmly exhaust all that could stop him from getting there. It’s the same thought patterns he uses to fix equipment with more engineering focused on being unrepairable than their actual use case. They must get to Juin’s sister. So, he needs a weapon of some sort before they move. Spec could feel time raking against his back, egging him on. Tick tock, as old Torsten used to say.

  “I’m sure Summers is okay, Juin. She probably locked her room or made it out with the others. How old is she?” Spec says, feeling awkward about not asking earlier.

  “She turned twelve a few months ago. I’m still waiting for her to start hating me and the rest of the world, but not yet!” Juin exclaims with a pride in her voice, then immediately starts looking around, worried someone or something heard her.

  “Let’s go get her, shall we?”

  Juin looks at him with a small smile and nods, keeping silent about his choice.

  They both start down the wide open corridor to the left. Alarms are still blaring from the small apartments on either side. Some cobbled together stalls now lie discarded beside the doors. Each Million Tower has an economy all their own, with food stalls being the most common, all taxed with various degrees of success by the tower's gangs. Here the eyes of the French Fox follow them along from randomly placed stickers, the current royalty in their tower.

  Slowly they make their way down the corridor. Noone has come for them. Despite that, it seems most people here have made it out. The fire hasn’t reached this floor yet and there is only the occasional body among scattered belongings. Every single head is smashed to a pulp. The area around above each torso is also suspiciously clean, a white uneven circle where the plastic floor has changed color.

  A fast, rhythmic slapping echoes down the hallway to the right as they approach the first intersection. Carefully peeking around the corner reveals nothing. Their eyes meet, both trying to look confident and seeking comfort at the same time. They continue forward across the intersection, a dull, scavenged cleaver in his hand while Juin has grabbed a mallet. She keeps low in a vain attempt to not be completely visible while Spec resorts to carefully limping across, leaving drops of blood behind him.

  The silent tension remains unbroken as they approach Juin’s apartment, but it left its mark all the same. The non-descript plastic door seems anti-climactic after the horrors on their way here. It should be marked in big red arrows or atleast glowing around the edges.

  Spec feels tired and used, drained of the adrenaline he’s been burning until now. There’s only his shaking hands and useless leg left. He tries to focus as he caresses the processor in his pocket. His final piece. He would get home, talk to his dad and finish his copper eye, everything would be fine, everything would go back to normal. Juin raises her hand to knock on the door and Spec holds his breath.