Page 2 of My Alien Angel
It’s the thought of never eating another yummy fritter more than anything else that gives me the strength for one more excruciating flap of my wings. It’s just enough to glide me over a formation of sharp rocks and into a patch of sand that looks marginally softer.
Slamming into the ground, not even the pain from my definitely broken wing can keep me awake.
Chapter 2
Fin
Thegasstationclerkdoesn’t even bat an eye at me. I guess, being on the main road away from a huge nerd convention that’s just ended, they’ve seen their fair share of weirdos. My green scaly coveralls and bright red head spikes, along with the huge painted mouth full of sharp teeth across the bottom half of my face isn’t really exceptional cosplay, anyway. It’s certainly nothing compared to other costumes I’ve seen this weekend. Damn, those people really live and breathe cosplay! My sad little murloc can go weep in the corner. Not that thisclerk would know what a murloc is. He probably thinks I’m some creepy lizard. Which, granted, isn’t far off.
Paying for a bottle of water and a few snacks to last me for the long drive home, I turn to leave and nearly run into Spock. Kirk is standing nearby, browsing jerky packages, and a few other Enterprise crew members wander around the store. Spock is holding a six-pack of beer, which he nearly drops as he raises his hand in a traditional Vulkan greeting. Grinning, I reply with a gurgly “mgrlllmgrlrrr”, before nodding at a scantily dressed Princess Leia entering as I leave the store. Like I said, the clerk has probably seen it all this weekend.
God, I love conventions! They’re the only place I can be weird without people looking down on me. Well, conventions and my regular D&D nights with my two best friends, but it’s not really appropriate to wear a murloc costume for our weekly game nights. Wrong game.
Munching on a packet of salt and vinegar chips and singing along with the radio, I’m not really paying attention to the road ahead. This stretch of the I-15 is pretty much a straight line with sandy desert on both sides of the road, occasionally interrupted by the odd signpost indicating a rest stop. There’s really nothing to run into, so I can afford to be a little distracted while I reminisce on the abso-freaking-lutely amazing weekend I’ve just had. Three days with my best friends and hundreds of like-minded nerds geeking out over stuff normal people would consider weird? What better fun is there?
The phone ringing shatters my mood with a dose of reality. A single glance at the screen makes me want to smash my head against the steering wheel and drive into the nearest tree, which is about a hundred miles from here, so I’m all out of luck.
Accepting fate, and the call, I prepare for the onslaught of arrogance that is my boss. “Mr. Richardson.”
“Fin! I have a couple of changes for tomorrow’s shooting. I need you to work on them right away.”
Yes, because it’s absolutely normal to work on a Sunday afternoon. Knowing it’s pointless to argue, I let it go. “What changes?” If he asks me to switch the dogs, I’m seriously going to—
“We need different dogs.”
Slamming my fist into the steering wheel, I scream, albeit silently. Why?! Why the fuck do I still work for this asshole?! “Mr. Richardson, if you recall, I told you that—”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just get it done. Swap the current dogs out forLabrador puppies. I’ve seen the polls, and it turns out that the majority of viewers don’t actually consider bull terrier puppies cute.”
Oh, geez. Who’d have thought? I told him the same fucking thing five times already but he insisted on booking bull terriers. Now he wants me to somehow manifest a bunch of Labrador puppies for tomorrow’s ad shooting? “Sir, I’m not sure if it can be arranged on such short notice.” Not to mention in my off time.
“That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it? To go toinfinityand beyond,” he adds with a bucketload of sarcasm because he knows how much I hate my full name.
Infinity Young. That’s my name. Yeah, I know. I love my parents, but they’re fucking nutjobs. Not only was I born in a forest while my mother was high on magic mushrooms, but I also had to go through life with a bully-magnet name. Add to that my geeky nature and general social awkwardness and you can imagine what fun high school was for me.
“Yes, sir,” I push through gritted teeth. “I’ll do my best.” Fortunately for him, I keep track of a few local dog breeding kennels and I know of a litter of Golden retrievers whose owner might be willing to hire them out. They’re not Labradors butthe bastard in charge of Apex Reels probably doesn’t know the difference.
“Yes, do that. Oh, and pick up some of that premium dog food on your way to work. We’ll have to mix it into the Pupper’s Choice to get the shots right.”
Yeah, because even dogs know that Pupper’s Choice is disgusting and refuse to eat it. We found that out the hard way during the mock-up shooting last week. The one dog who actually ate Pupper’s Choice threw up shortly after and the whole set stunk of dog vomit for the rest of the day. You can guess who had to clean it up. Yep. Mr. Richardson’s assistant, A.K.A. me. That’s what I do for a living. Help others sell lies, and clean up dog vomit. No one can blame me for wanting to forget everything for one whole weekend but it looks like I won’t be given that luxury. Instead of chatting with my friends as we go through the stack of photos we took at the convention, I will be on the phone, trying to get a hold of someone to rent us puppies at the eleventh hour. Yay me.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, holding back the sigh until I hear my boss hang up.
I should stand up to him. Both Imani and Caleb repeatedly assure me that he can’t treat me like trash and most certainly cannot expect me to work outside of my regular hours without paying overtime, but every time I open my mouth to argue with him, I freeze. Being a people pleaser is another one of my less desirable traits, along with being short and, as people nicely call it these days, plus-sized. Larger than average, just not in height. Or self-confidence.
I’m not usually self-conscious about my appearance, although I do sometimes wish I had Imani’s tall, willowy figure. Then again, she envies my “curves” as she calls them. Caleb calls both of us stupid because he says we’re both “totally fuckable”. Although, from him, it doesn’t mean much. That man will fuckanything with a pulse. I love him like a brother but damn, he’s a slut. Even now, instead of carpooling home with me like he said he would, he stayed in San Diego to screw a Lara Croft he met just this morning. I mean, I get it. Her costume was amazing. If I were into girls, I would have fantasized about her, too. For that reason alone, I’m not really that mad at him for ditching me, even though he was supposed to share the driving with me.
A fast-moving object flashes past in my periphery, interrupting my idle musings. Lowering the radio volume so that I can concentrate, I squint at the endless patch of desert spreading out from the side of the road. What the hell was that? It was too small for a plane, perhaps a drone? I could have sworn I saw feathers, though. A bird? No, that’s ridiculous. There are no birds that big in California, are there? Unless it’s a condor? I’ve never seen one in real life but I don't think even they arethatbig. It looked more like a very large man. A man…with wings?
There! Catching a glimpse of the strange object again, I slow the car down. There’s nothing and no one to run into on the road, but that doesn’t mean I want to veer off and burst a tire. I have no clue how to change a damned tire, not to mention that my shoebox on wheels probably doesn’t even have a spare in the practically non-existent trunk.
In what is pretty much a rolling stop, I watch as the object sharply descends from the sky and… Yeah, those are definitely wings. Massive wings. This is no condor or something even remotely similar. This is an adult man. With wings. Which means…
Squealing, I pull over as close as I can to the spot where the stranger just landed. “Yes, yes, yes,” I chant as I exit the car, grabbing my phone in case they let me take pictures. They probably won’t, especially if they’re shooting a promo ad for the as yet unannounced Diablo 4 expansion pack, but a girl can hope. Even if they only let me watch, it’ll still be worth everysecond. There were rumors about the next season having a fallen angel theme and damn, the fan theories must have been right, because the object I saw go down was definitely an angel prop.
I mean, it’s not like it was an actual angel. Right?
Mindful that there’s an ad shooting in progress, I cautiously approach the location. The last thing I want to do is walk onto a set in the middle of a shot, piss off a bunch of people, and ruin the scene. Just staging that fallen angel trick must have been insanely expensive. It looked so real and I don’t see a crane anywhere, so they must have dropped it from a drone or even a plane. Not that I saw that part. Damn, they’re good.
