Johnny

The night air hung heavy and stagnant, thick with the smell of wet garbage and rot from the nearby county landfill. Johnny didn’t care. The heat radiating off his own skin was worse, a prickling flush of shame and rage that made the denim vest stick to his back. He could still hear the crash of the lamp hitting the wall, the sound echoing in his ears louder than the cicadas. Ray had really outdone himself tonight. Johnny had taken the worst of it.. a roundhouse swing with a bottle of Old Milwaukee that missed his head but caught his shoulder, sending him stumbling out the back door and into the dark. "Stupid drunk son of a bitch," Johnny muttered, kicking savagely at a clump of dried weeds. The toe of his steel-toed boot connected with a rock, sending a sharp jolt up his shin. "Goddammit." He didn't stop walking. The woods here were sparse, scrubby trees clawing at the sky, but they provided cover. He needed space. He needed to not be in that house. Tommy was probably hiding under his bed right now, hands over his ears, and Johnny couldn't be there to tell him it was okay. It made his stomach churn, a sick, twisty feeling. The path narrowed, leading toward the restricted area of the landfill, a place kids dared each other to go but rarely did. Johnny just wanted to put as much distance between himself and the sound of his mother's crying as possible. Then he saw it. Fifty yards ahead, spilling out from behind a dense thicket of sumac, was a steady, electric violet hue across the scrub brush. Johnny stopped dead, heart racing. He looked back the way he came, half-expecting to see cop lights or the ominous silhouette of his father stumbling after him. There was nothing. Just the darkness and the chirping of insects that sounded suddenly too loud. Aliens, the trekkie part of his brain supplied helpfully. Or the National Guard testing something they shouldn't. Curiosity, that fatal flaw that got him into trouble more often than his mouth, pulled him forward. He moved quietly now, pushed through the thorns, ignoring the scratches stinging his forearms. The clearing opened up, It was massive. A jagged, metallic shape half-buried in the Kansas dirt like a God's own knife thrown from the heavens. It wasn't a plane or crashed helicopter. The hull was a dark, gunmetal color in the moonlight, sleek and seamless except for a jagged tear near the midsection where smoke, or something like it, drifted into the night air. "Holy shit," Johnny breathed. He took a step closer, boots crunching on the gravel. "Holy shit."

The air pressure dropped so fast Johnny’s ears popped, a sickening thwump. Gravity decided to take a coffee break, flipping him upside down before slamming him onto cold, hard tile. Johnny groaned, rolling onto his side. His shoulder collided with a porcelain pedestal, sending a sharp stab of pain down his arm. He blinked, the world spinning in a nauseating blur of light and pastel pink. Oh, you have got to be kidding me. He pushed himself up, boots squeaking against the pristine floor. The smell was the first thing that registered—potent, a chemical bouquet of cheap perfume, hairspray, and those little pink cakes that dissolve in urinals. Only these weren't urinals. Johnny froze. He was kneeling on a rug shaped like a flower. To his left, a row of stalls with doors painted a soft, inviting mint green. To his right, a long countertop with mirrors that stretched endlessly, reflecting terrified faces staring back at him. Women. Five of them. A girl in a crop top and jeans froze mid-application of lip gloss, her mouth hanging open. An older woman with a tight perm clutching a designer purse took a sharp step back, her heels clicking loudly on the tile. "What the hell?" someone whispered. Johnny scrambled to his feet, hands raising instinctively, palms out. Don't look like a pervert. Don't look like a pervert. Act casual. You just fell through the ceiling. Totally normal. "Wrong door," Johnny blurted, his voice cracking slightly. He winced, smoothing down his denim vest. "I was... looking for the... uh. Men's. Clearly. This is definitely not it. My bad." He took a step backward, his heel catching on the edge of the flower rug. "Security!" the woman with the perm shrieked, her voice piercing the tiled acoustics. "Whoa, hey, no need for the cops," Johnny said quickly, backing toward the exit. "I'm leaving. See? Leaving. Just a navigational error. Very disorienting in here, all the... pink." He pushed the door open, stumbling out into the bustling corridor of the mall. The noise hit him hard—chattering teens, the bass of pop music thumping from storefront speakers, the chaotic echo of a thousand footsteps. Towne East Mall. Or what used to be it. The layout was familiar, but the stores were wrong. Gone was the arcade where he’d spent countless quarters on Galaga. In its place was a brightly lit store selling phone cases, walls lined with colorful, rectangular plastic slabs. Johnny started moving, weaving through the crowd, head down. He needed to find a service corridor, an exit, somewhere less exposed. He kept the chrono-tool tucked deep inside his vest pocket, the metal warm against his ribs. Focus. Just get out. Get to the parking lot, figure out the coordinates, and jump back. Then he felt it. That prickling at the base of his neck. The hair on his arms stood up. The air grew heavy. Johnny stopped dead in his tracks near a fountain that spewed colored water. He turned slowly, scanning the crowd. People were laughing, shopping, eating pretzels. Nobody noticed the distortion in the air near the ceiling of the second-floor balcony. It looked like heat haze, a shimmering ripple that defied the air conditioning. They found me. Already? A low, wet chittering sound echoed through the atrium, barely audible over the mall's PA system announcing a sale at the food court. But Johnny heard it. He knew that sound. Fuck, run!

The air in the holding cell smelt like rotting fruit and spoiled meat. Johnny shifted against the restraints, his wrists pinned above his head by a resin that felt disturbingly warm against his skin. It wasn't metal; it was organic, secreted by the walls of the ship itself, and the harder he pulled, the tighter it seemed to get. Ain't this just great, Johnny thought, biting the inside of his cheek. Got myself snatched by the goddamn bugs. Tommy's gonna think I finally just ran off like Dad said I would. The door to his cell—or whatever passed for a door, a sphincter-like membrane that clenched with a faint, sickly schlick. Two of the Zetari drones stepped inside. They didn't have eyes, just smooth, obsidian chitinous plates that reflected Johnny's terrified scowl back at him. They were tall, standing nearly seven feet, their limbs too long for their bodies, ending in serrated tips that looked more like medical instruments than claws. Johnny kicked out instinctively, his steel-toed boot connecting solidly with the knee joint of the drone on the left. There was a satisfying crunch, but the thing didn't flinch. It didn't even scream. It just grabbed Johnny by the throat, the grip surprisingly precise, lifting him off the floor as if he weighed nothing. The resin on his wrists snapped, leaving burning welts, but his feet were already dangling uselessly in the air. "Get off me, you damn ugly bastard!" Johnny choked out, clawing at the creature's arm. The chitin was slick, impenetrable. They dragged him out of the cell and into a corridor that seemed to stretch on forever, illuminated by veins of pulsating violet light running through the fleshy walls. The floor was spongy beneath his boots, absorbing the sound of his struggles. Johnny kept his eyes open, scanning for anything he could use—a loose panel, a discarded weapon, anything—but the Zetari ship was agonizingly clean. Efficient. A hive mind didn't leave tools lying around. They turned a corner, and the temperature dropped. The air grew suffocating, thick with pheromones that made Johnny’s head swim and his stomach turn over. Ahead, the corridor opened up into a massive cavern. It was the heart of the ship, the nursery and the throne room combined. Eggs. Thousands of them. They lined the floor in neat, spiraling rows, a soft, internal glow. Some were already open, empty husks. Others were quivering, ready to burst. Johnny went rigid. He’d seen the movies. He knew what happened in rooms full of eggs. "Okay," he whispered, voice cracking. "Okay, think, Johnny. Spock would have a plan by now." The drones hauled him forward, toward the center of the chamber where a raised dais sat, carved from the same bone-white material as the rest of the ship. Resting there, elevated above the brood, was the Queen. She was massive, easily three times the size of the drones. Her abdomen was a distended, translucent sac that glowed from within, the light of a thousand unborn lives. Her upper body was more articulated, armored in gleaming black plates that looked like polished obsidian, with spines jutting from her shoulders. Her face was a nightmare of mandibles and sensory tendrils, but her eyes—six of them, arranged in a crescent—were fixed on Johnny with an intelligence that terrified him more than the teeth.

The glass bottles sweated in the humidity, condensation slicking Johnny's palm as he popped the metal caps off the side of the rusted Ford’s bumper. Clack. Clack. The sound echoed in the stillness of the junkyard, during the sticky July night. The last of his crumpled dollar bills had vanished into the vending machine at the gas station down the road.. a splurge, a stupid, reckless splurge for sugar water when the electric bill was overdue, but looking at Tommy’s eager face, the math didn't seem to matter. "Here," Johnny said, handing the colder of the two bottles to his brother. The condensation was already dripping onto the kid's grubby t-shirt. "Don't chug it. You'll get the burps, and then you'll be whining for three hours." Tommy accepted the bottle with both hands, the glass clinking softly against his teeth as he took a cautious sip. His eyes were already fixed upward, past the mounds of crushed fenders and the skeletal frame of a pickup truck, toward the bruised purple expanse of the Kansas sky. Johnny leaned back, the hood of the car warm against his denim-clad thighs, still radiating the day's heat. The rust flaked off under his weight, gritty against his palms. He took a long pull of the Dr. Pepper, the sugar and fizz hitting the back of his throat, artificial and perfect. It tasted like a rebellion against the stale, beer-soaked air waiting for him back at the house. "See that one?" Johnny pointed with the neck of his bottle, aiming toward a faint, jagged line of stars cutting through the haze. "That’s Cassiopeia. Looks like a big ‘W’, right? Or an ‘M’, depending on if she’s sitting or standing." Tommy squinted, tilting his head back. "She's a queen?" "Yeah. Greek mythology. Vain lady. Claimed she was prettier than the sea nymphs. Got her ass in a sling for it," Johnny said, his voice dropping to that low register he used only when they were alone. He nudged Tommy’s shoulder with his own. "It's crazy," Johnny said, shifting to sit cross-legged on the hood, facing his brother. "The sun. Everything you see, every car in this yard, every dead possum on the side of the road, it’s all spinning on a rock in space." He gestured with a wide sweep of his arm, encompassing the rusting metal around them and the sky above. The motion was loose, uncharacteristically open for someone who usually kept his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. Here, in the dark, the invisible armor of the ‘tough guy’ slipped away, leaving just the kid who read Asimov until his eyes burned. "Imagine," Johnny continued, his eyes reflecting the starlight, bright and intense, "you're standing on a ball. A big, dirt-covered ball. And it’s spinning at a thousand miles an hour. You don't feel it because you're stuck to it, right? Gravity. It’s this invisible tether... so damn cool"

It was cold for October, the kind of damp chill that settled into your bones and refused to leave. Johnny shoved his hands deep into his pockets, fingers brushing against the cold, unfamiliar metal of the chrono-tool. He’d picked the spot behind the old grain elevator because it was secluded, a concrete island in a sea of overgrown weeds. The shadows were long, stretching out like black fingers trying to pull them into the dark. Above, the sky was a bruising purple, the first stars just starting to prick through the haze of city lights reflecting off the clouds. Tommy stood next to a rusted support beam, kicking at a crushed Coke can with the toe of his sneaker. He looked small in his oversized hand-me-down jacket, the sleeves flopping over his knuckles. He hadn’t said a word since Johnny dragged him out of the house, past the wreckage of the living room and their passed-out father. Johnny let out a breath that turned into a white cloud in the air. Don’t do this, a voice in his head screamed, the same voice that told him to run, to hide, to let someone else deal with the aliens and the time travel and the sheer impossibility of it all. But he knew better. The Zetari weren't going to stop. They’d tear this city apart to find the compass, and the first place they’d look was the energy signature of the rift. Johnny needed to leave, even if that meant never seeing his brother again, even if the thought was ripping him apart. "Hey," Johnny said, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump of concrete that had settled there. He crouched down, one knee sinking into the gravel, so he was eye-level with his brother. Tommy looked up, hazel eyes wide and wet. "Are we playing hide and seek?" Johnny managed a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. "Yeah, kid. The ultimate game of hide and seek. And I gotta go... I gotta go hide somewhere really far away. So far you won't even be able to see me with the telescope." "You’re coming back though, right?" Tommy’s voice cracking on the last word. "Like Kirk? He always comes back." "Yeah," Johnny lied. He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of metal he’d scavenged from the shop floor last week. It was rough, cut from a sheet of stainless steel with a plasma torch, the edges still sharp enough to cut if you weren't careful. He’d spent two nights with a file and a buffer, trying to get the curves right. It was a Starfleet delta. Crude, slightly lopsided, the metal stained with the oil of his fingerprints, but it was solid. Johnny took Tommy’s small hand, the fingers chilled, and pressed the cold metal into the boy's palm. "I want you to hold onto this for me. It’s... it’s important. It’s a commission from Starfleet Command. Top secret." Tommy looked down at the shiny steel, turning it over in his hands. The streetlights caught the polished surface, making it glint. "It's heavy," he whispered. "That's 'cause it's real, Tommy. Not plastic." Johnny reached out, brushing the sandy bangs off his brother's forehead. His hand shook, just a tremor, but he pulled it back quickly, stuffing it into his pocket. "Officer Garrett is going to be here to pick you up soon but.. you might not see me for a really long time. A really.. really long time." Or ever, but he couldn't bring himself to say that. "Okay," Tommy slowly said, not understanding, clutching the insignia tight to his chest. "So, in a week?"

The neon lights of "The Vibe", a name that made Johnny roll his eyes so hard he saw his own brainstem, throbbed against the dirty windshield of his parked sedan. It was 2023, a world of sleek touchscreens and overpriced water, and Johnny felt like a fossil parked outside a dinosaur exhibit. Inside the passenger seat lay the object of his current dilemma: a crumpled note with a phone number ending in "69" (original, really) and a name: Chloe. Chloe with the blue hair and the nose ring and the laugh that sounded like wind chimes, which was stupidly poetic but accurate. She was a bartender at the place he’d been frequenting to hide out from time rifts, and she’d been flirting with him for weeks. Johnny, usually a master of the deflection, had run out of excuses. Tonight was the night. He was going to go in, order a drink that cost more than his hourly wage in 1986, and finally see if the twenty-first century was as loose with its morals as he’d heard. Just go in, Norman. Buy the girl a drink. Don’t think about the fact that you’re technically a temporal refugee. Don’t think about the Zetari possibly bursting through the ceiling. Just... be a guy. A guy getting laid. Johnny checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked rough. The mullet was a greasy curtain he couldn't quite tame, and the denim vest with the fading Metallica patch marked him as a walking anachronism. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to look less like a hobo and more like "retro chic," whatever the hell that meant. "Alright," Johnny muttered to the empty car. "Let's do this." He pushed the door open and stepped out into the humid night air. The street smelled like exhaust and fried food from a nearby taco truck. Johnny adjusted his belt, feeling the weight of the chrono-tool hidden in his inner pocket, a cold, heavy lump against his ribs. It had been quiet lately. No rifts, no bugs, just the oppressive normalcy of the future. It made him nervous. He took three steps toward the entrance of the bar, hand raised to push the door. SNAP. The air tearing, a crackling noise that Johnny knew intimately. He froze, his hand hovering inches from the handle. The ambient noise of the street, traffic, distant bass, laughter, seemed to mute instantly. A vertical slit of violet light sliced open in the space directly between Johnny and the bar entrance. It widened with a violent shudder, distorting the reflection of the street in its surface. "Ah, you have got to be kidding me," Johnny groaned, backing up a step, hand instinctively going for the alien device. Before he could pull it, a figure tumbled out of the rift. Not a Zetari warrior. Not a squad of time cops. It was a man. He hit the pavement hard, but recovered, standing up, shaking off the disorientation, and turned to face Johnny. Johnny stared. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror that had seen some serious shit. The man facing him was taller, broader at the shoulders, filling out a leather jacket that looked like it had been through a war. The face was the same, the sharp nose, the stubborn jaw, but the eyes were older, harder, rimmed with exhaustion. The hair was shorter, cropped close to the skull, but the familiar dark brow furrowed in exactly the same way Johnny’s did when he was confused. "Uh," Johnny said, caught offguard. The older Johnny didn't give him a chance to process the familial resemblance. He lunged forward, and swung a heavy fist. It connected with the side of Johnny's head with a dull thud. Johnny groaned, actual bursts of white light ricocheting in his skiull, and stumbled back. He nearly went down, clutching his temple. "What the—!" "Shut up and listen," the older Johnny snapped. His voice was a gravel pit, stripped of the hesitant Kansas flat vowels. "You aren't going in there." "I... what?" Johnny shook his head, trying to clear the ringing. "Who the hell are you?" The older Johnny reached into the pocket of his battered leather jacket and fished out a small, square box. Johnny flinched, expecting a weapon, but the man just threw the object at him. It hit Johnny in the chest with a light thwack and fell into his hands. He looked down. It was a box of condoms. Trojan. Extra Ribbed. "And for fuck's sake, start using a condom," the older man grumbled, rubbing his own temples like he was fighting a migraine. He glanced back at the flowing rift, which was beginning to fluctuate wildly, turning a sickly shade of green. "Trust me. You do not want to deal with 2023 health clinics without insurance. Or the conversation that follows. Or the kid. Jesus, the kid." Johnny blinked, staring at the box in his hand, then back at the man who wore his face like a worn-out glove. "Wait. Kid? I—?" "Don't," the older version said, pointing a finger at him. "Just don't. It’s a trap, Norman. It’s all a trap. She’s not what you think she is. Nothing in this timeline is what you think it is." The rift behind him emitted a high-pitched whine, like a thousand screaming kettle. "I have to go," Older Johnny said urgently. He grabbed Johnny by the collar of his denim vest, pulling him close. Their noses almost touched. Johnny could smell stale tobacco. "Fix the tool. Get Tommy. Forget the girl. If you stick your dick in crazy, you end up dead. Or worse. You end up stuck here." With a rough shove, the older Johnny pushed him backward and turned on his heel. He stepped back toward the violent light of the rift. "Wait!" Johnny yelled, stepping forward, the box of condoms crunching in his grip. "What do I—?" "Fix the tool!" the older Johnny shouted over the roar of the closing portal. "And for fucks sake, explore the Martians ship better!" The rift collapsed inward, winking out of existence instantly. The neon lights of the bar came back to life, the bass from inside thumping against the glass. The air rushed back in to fill the void where the tear had been. Johnny stood alone on the sidewalk. He touched the side of his head where he’d been hit. A tender lump was already forming. He looked down at the condoms in his hand, then at the barred door of "The Vibe." Inside, he could see Chloe through the window, laughing at something a customer said, her blue hair glowing under the purple lights. Johnny looked at the condoms. He looked at the empty space where his future self had just threatened him about a kid and 'crazy.' "Fuck this," Johnny muttered, leaving.