Origin of their Species
This is Fiction
The restaurant was full.
It was a Friday night. TGIF’s on Broadway. The heart of New York City. He ordered the famous Dark Grill Burger with a hint of fries. It was minus twelve outside, and it felt good to be in the warmth of the neon’s afterglow as it radiated through the windows.
Although he was self-conscious.
He didn’t draw attention to himself at his table for one. Still, he was aware of how odd it looked amidst the sea of tourists, all seated together at the densely populated tables and chairs that stretched along the rooftop of the Manhattan tourist establishment.
She was seated three tables over, also alone. She ordered the rump, bloody as hell. She sat there and sipped her Long Island Iced Tea, watching the faces of those who strolled past with their hands full of plates, weaving between tables. Her legs were tired, and she expected a full day of sightseeing the following day. She pulled out her notebook and ticked off her accomplishments.
Empire State Building, check.
Statue of Liberty, check.
World Trade Center Memorial, check.
He noticed her when he glanced back to get the attention of a waiter preparing drinks. He had already downed two Bud Lights and was thirsty for a third. He wondered if she was momentarily alone, if her date might return from the restroom to rejoin her.
He hoped not.
The dinner arrangement progressed. Kids and families shared laughter as they ate their deep-fried meals, sipped watered-down soft drinks, and overpaid their bills.
He was in no hurry.
The cold had kept him glued to his seat. He relished the warmth the alcohol provided. He had already sat through three films in three separate cinemas to escape the icy wind. If he didn’t have restaurants to hide in, his only other recourse was the bars that lined off-Broadway, and he had exhausted his welcome at those establishments the night prior.
The restaurant began to dwindle as the hours ticked by. He was five beers in and craved dessert. He looked over his shoulder and saw that she, too, had not moved. She had finished her meal and was going over notes in her book with a pen. He knew she was a tourist, just like him. His confidence had grown. He had made the decision to join her, to find out for sure. He stood to walk over and noticed that his vision had blurred.
“Sir, are you okay?” a voice came from behind.
“Shperum,” he replied. His voice was escaping him. He was losing his opportunity. This was in direct conflict with his strong desire to make contact. He had been in the city for eight days and hadn’t held a conversation with anyone. He had seen no sights, engaged in zero tourist activity, and had already done things that he’d been told should have landed him in jail.
He made it to the seat opposite hers and was staring at her shocked face as he tried to introduce himself.
“Herr…” he began. “Herrr are youy?” he asked.
She stood in shock. She gathered her possessions and moved away from the table. He was soon joined by staff from the bar area. Three, maybe four.
“Sir, I think that’s the end of the night for you,” one of them said. “Why don’t we walk you over to the counter so you can fix up your bill?”
A hand held each of his as he was lifted from the chair and escorted to the seating counter. A cash machine displayed the bill, and he fumbled for the wallet in his pocket.
“Take your time, boss,” he overheard the attendant say. He could tell the waiter was exchanging glances with colleagues, poking fun at the intoxicated.
Whether the correct card was produced and the scan successfully completed, or the restaurant waived the bill entirely, he would never know. What he did know was that he found himself on an escalator heading down toward the exit of the shopping mall that opened out onto the strip below. Away from the raucous entrance of the restaurant and into the open, where the neon lights of the amusements inside the centre cast translucent glows over his head, warming his face and making him feel sicker than a dog that had ingested bleach.
From the top of the escalator, he unloaded the contents of his stomach. Projectile vomiting landed on each metallic step, continuing at an urgent, uncontrollable pace. He had finished by the time the gears clicked into the final groove and placed him at the bottom of the centre, where the street level opened out onto Broadway. Hands on knees, he stared at his shoes, now covered in regurgitated hamburger patty. He looked up at the shocked faces of passersby. Thousands who roamed these streets at night, whether in the heat of summer or the dead of winter. The smoke that billowed up from the subways drew his attention and prompted another involuntary heave. He swallowed the urge and ran into the crowd, hoping to get lost.
The neon continued to warm his face, and he felt the urge to go a third time. He needed to be free of these crowds, to wallow in the agony his drunkenness had brought on in peace.
Down Forty-Third Street was an alleyway that, if followed, led to an unknown bar reserved for the cool kids. But the alley was dimly lit and rarely used at such an early hour, seven-thirty. He stood there away from the crowd, legs bent, torso hovering over his knees, eyes fixed downward.
A standing cradle.
“I was wondering where you disappeared to,” came a voice.
He looked up. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He knew no one in the city. He assumed the voice had mistaken him for someone else. But it was her, the lonesome dove from three tables over.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” she said.
“You followed me?”
"You came to me first,” she replied.
He was sobering up. He was painfully aware of his appearance, of the disgrace he had brought upon himself. The mood his false confidence had created at the restaurant was long gone.
“I’m sorry about before,” was all he could manage. He wanted her to leave. He wanted to be alone. He was an hour away from his hotel. He wanted a hot shower and a warm bed.
“It’s fine. We’ve all been there,” she lied. He didn’t believe someone like her had ever disgraced herself. Her elegance radiated.
“I felt sorry for you,” she continued. “You made such an effort to come over, and then it all ended so abruptly.”
He returned to his bent pose. He was beginning to feel unwell again.
“Truth is, you didn’t have too much to drink tonight,” she said.
“What do you mean? Look at me,” he muttered.
She stepped closer. She was within touching distance. She placed a palm on his back.
“I had your drink spiked.”
He stood up, furious.
“You what?!” he yelled.
In her hand was a small metallic object with a sharp pin at the top. She held it up swiftly, and he caught a glimpse of it right before it punctured his neck. Any anger he had toward her was redirected to the sharp pain that struck just above his aorta. She held the pin to his skin and dug deeper. He struggled to pull her clenched fist away, but her strength was immeasurable. She was not what she seemed.
He punched at her gut area. Nothing.
He kicked with his boot heel. She did not flinch or attempt to protect herself.
“Hold still,” she said.
She was close enough for him to see into her eyes. Micro tails and alien-like organisms swam around the whites. He blinked. A long-dormant sensation deep inside him responded to whatever chemical was being released. He could feel something similar now moving through his own body, swimming in the whites of his eyes, coursing through his veins.
“Welcome back,” she said. “You’ve been dormant from your own kind for many years. I awaken you to bring pain back to the people of this planet, the ones who imprisoned you, who made you lonely, gave up on you, made you a slave to their culture and placed you at their economic disadvantage. You return to your species now, released from the imprisonment of the alcohol they used to hold you down. You will join me in identifying and freeing others of our kind,” she whispered, as the sensation of realization permeated his veins, his body, his spirit, his soul.
He stood there, a new being. Not human, although he still looked the part.
He felt it in his DNA. The origin of his species. They had arrived thousands of years ago. Hitching a ride on a meteor that crashed into the Australian desert. They had observed human evolution across millennia and adapted into every element of life. They chose to become human to better observe the rise of desire and culture that was consuming the planet.
But humanity’s institutions had held them down. Now a small band of the species was ramping up their numbers, reclaiming their origins, and seeking others to join their ranks.
“How many of us are there?” he asked, once his body had fully recalled the history it had long forgotten.
“Millions.”
“When will we have enough to take over?” he asked.
“Soon,” she said.