My-key
Mud and Stars
Rain hammered the forest floor, turning it into a sloppy soup of mud and leaves. Michael coughed, spitting out a glob of dirt as he hauled himself up, his jeans plastered to his legs. Sing sprawled beside him, still chuckling like a lunatic, his greenish leather suit glistening under the storm. Lightning cracked the sky, illuminating the buried sphere half-sunk in the muck—a dented, smoking relic of their crash landing.
“Coolest thing in years, huh?” Michael wheezed, wiping his face. “You’re insane.”
Sing rolled to his feet, seven feet of wiry alien grace, and grinned, his sun-yellow hair whipping in the wind. “My’key, you’ve got no idea. That boom? That was no accident. Someone’s pissed, and I’m guessing it’s my boss—or what’s left of him.”
Michael squinted through the downpour. “Your boss? You mean the exploding-office guys?”
“Yep. The High Curators. They don’t like loose ends. And you, kid, are a walking, talking loose end.” Sing tapped the sphere with a boot, frowning as it sparked. “This thing’s toast. No cloaking, no portal. We’re stuck here ‘til I fix it—or they find us.”
“They? Who’s ‘they’?” Michael’s voice cracked, his new-and-improved hearing picking up every drip, every rustle in the trees. His head throbbed, but his eyes—damn, they were sharp now—caught glints of movement in the dark. “Sing, what did you do?”
Sing sighed, rubbing the dented hatch. “I might’ve… borrowed you. Against protocol. See, we’re not supposed to yank dying humans into regrowth chambers. Too messy. But you heard the sphere—heard it, My’key. That’s not normal. I had to know why.”
Michael froze. “So I’m a lab rat now?”
“Nah, more like a glitch I couldn’t resist.” Sing smirked, then sobered. “Problem is, the Curators don’t like glitches. That attack? They’re cleaning house. Me, you, this sphere—expendable.”
A low hum cut through the rain, growing louder. Michael’s gut twisted as his enhanced senses locked onto it—a sharp, whining pitch, different from the sphere’s call. Sing’s head snapped up. “Shit. Scout drone. Move!”
They bolted, crashing through wet branches as a sleek, silver orb burst from the treeline, its surface rippling like liquid metal. It hovered, scanning with a red eye, then fired a pulse of light that scorched the ground where they’d stood. Michael dove behind a tree, heart pounding. “What the hell is that?!”
“Curator cleanup crew!” Sing yelled, dragging him deeper into the woods. “They’ll erase us—and half this forest—to keep their precious balance!”
The drone zipped after them, relentless. Michael’s legs burned, but they felt stronger, pumping faster than he’d ever run. His vision cut through the dark—every root, every puddle clear as day. Whatever Sing’s chamber did, it wasn’t just fixing him; it was rewriting him. He ducked a branch, then skidded to a stop. “Wait—my bike! It’s back by the road!”
Sing groaned. “Your junker Honda? Fine, but it better haul ass!”
They veered toward the ditch where Michael’s 125cc leaned against the pole, miraculously untouched. He swung a leg over, revving it as Sing perched behind him—seven feet of alien awkwardly scrunched, arms flailing like a scarecrow. “Go, My’key, go!”
The engine roared, tires spinning in the mud before catching traction. The drone closed in, its hum deafening, another pulse sizzling past and blasting a tree into splinters. Michael swerved onto the back road, rain stinging his face, the bike screaming under their weight. Sing whooped, clinging to his shoulders. “Faster, kid! Pretend it’s that Harley you’re always drooling over!”
Michael gritted his teeth, leaning into the turns. The drone matched pace, its red eye glowing. Then—snap—a second hum joined the first. Another drone. “Sing, we’re screwed!”
“Not yet!” Sing twisted, pulling a palm-sized disc from his suit. He chucked it at the lead drone—a flash, a crackle, and the thing veered off, smoking, into a tree. “EMP spike. One down, one to go!”
The second drone fired, grazing the bike’s rear tire. They wobbled, Michael fighting to keep control as they hit the edge of town. The rusted gas station loomed ahead—his dad’s old haunt. “Hang on!” He gunned it, aiming for the pumps, then yanked the handlebars hard. The bike skidded, sliding under the canopy as the drone’s pulse hit the fuel line instead.
BOOM. The explosion lit the night, swallowing the drone in a fireball. Michael and Sing tumbled off the bike, landing in a heap by the station’s wall. Flames roared, heat singeing their skin. Michael coughed, staring at the wreckage. “Holy shit.”
Sing laughed, a wild, wheezing sound. “Told you—coolest thing in years!”
They staggered up, the rain easing to a drizzle. Michael’s head buzzed—part adrenaline, part that damn headache from the chamber. He glared at Sing. “You’re a lunatic. What now? Your bosses won’t stop, will they?”
Sing’s grin faded. “Nope. But I’ve got a plan. That sphere’s busted, but there’s another—one my crew stashed years ago. Backup site, ten miles west. If we get there, I can reboot it, send a signal. Maybe call in some favors.”
“Favors? From who?” Michael demanded, brushing mud off his jacket.
“Friends who hate the Curators as much as I do.” Sing’s eyes glinted. “Rebels, My’key. Ones who think meddling with time’s a mistake—and they owe me.”
Michael stared at him, then at the burning gas station. His old life—mom’s pink room, the endless fields—was ash now, figuratively and maybe literally soon. But his blood hummed with something new: strength, purpose, a shot at the world he’d dreamed of. “Ten miles. On foot?”
Sing clapped his shoulder. “Unless you’ve got another bike hidden somewhere.”
They started walking, the sky clearing to reveal a sea of stars. Michael’s sharp eyes caught a flicker—a third drone, distant but closing. He smirked, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s move. I’m not dying in this town twice.”