FTR or are you back for more?: 

CW: Sexual content, some violence, and strong language. Contains later depictions of pregnancy, may not be suitable for some readers. 

Assyrians, Sumerians, Akkadians, and Babylonians worshipped the Anunnaki as a group of deities. This story pulls from certain aspects of their mythology but is not a wholly accurate reflection of them, and certain liberties have been taken for storytelling purposes.

This is a work of fiction and is not intended to instill or display bias or be reflective of the author's personal belief system.

PEARL

This date was tanking faster than the economy. It was my fault. Again.

The back of my neck was on fire from embarrassment, so I rubbed it, looking around the empty restaurant, hoping somebody could save me. My date was probably thinking the same thing. His eyes were locked onto my face for some reason—then I remembered.

Crap. I forgot to put on makeup to hide the burns.

When he kept staring at me, I glanced away and pretended to find the whirling ceiling fans interesting. I mean, they kind of were. Upscale. Chic. And the breeze they wafted my way felt pretty nice. A place like this was usually out of my budget, but desperate measures and all...

I was usually happy to stuff my face with whatever grease-soaked fast food I could get my hands on. But I really doubted bringing a date to a Mcdonald's was on the list of do's when trying to find a relationship.

"What happened to your face?" Flynn asked.

I cringed in my seat.

Tell him a lie. You burned yourself with a curling iron. Tell him you fumbled with a cigarette or something.

But my logical brain wasn't listening, and I blurted out the truth. Because one thing I knew among the millions of things gained in my career, was that I couldn't keep my damn mouth shut.

"Ionizing radiation burns."

I didn't even want to look at him, but I had to. I peeked at him from under my eyelashes. Yep, he was stunned, his lips all mashed into a thin line. I could see the cogs turning through his green eyes in his brain, trying to make sense of the mess sitting across from him.

He blinked, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "You mean a sunburn?"

Yeah, a sunburn! Say a sunburn!

"Gamma radiation."

Nice one, slick. We are going to die alone. 

"You know, Pearl," Flynn said, and I cringed again. I already knew what he was going to say. "I don't think this is going to work. You're hot and all, but you are a bit... much."

Hot? I snorted. He needs glasses. 

I didn't respond. I pretty much messed the date up the moment I showed up fifteen minutes late. I had sprinted to the table, my backpack of notes and art slung over my shoulder, tripping over my feet and bumping into chairs. Pretty typical of me.

My tardiness was not entirely my fault, though. Law enforcement blocked streets off, making my journey tedious. Lots of protests going on and whatnot. I forgot I was supposed to meet Flynn at five at the only open restaurant in the city.

My podcast took longer to get through; I was tackling the topic of aliens, of which the government just fessed up to their existence—the crème de la crème of material for an internet personality and an investigative journalist such as myself.

So, yeah, aliens were real. The public's response was panic.

Two nights ago, I got hold of an astrophysicist looking into cases of UAP's, also known as Unidentified Aerial Phenomena. He was trying to provoke UAP's to appear by... well, launching explosives into the sky. Guy had some major balls.

Like two tons per nut kind of balls. 

He brought along with him equipment specialists, geologists, other journalists, the whole works. He took me to some secluded ranch out in the middle of nowhere. One thing led to another...

And all of them ended up in the hospital in a catatonic state.

Except for me.

An icy shiver went down my spine at the memory of that night, along with the urge to expel my rosemary chicken and oven-roasted asparagus all over the table. The booms, the bright lights of the explosives, the strange interference with our radios... then the radiation meters going off like crazy. Way above normal background levels, too.

Then the voice. The voice I heard just before passing out...

Why can't I remember what it said to me? The voice was urgent like it was warning me. For a brief moment inside the chaos, the voice made me feel safe. Protected. Then it was gone like a fleeting breeze.

Maybe the stress of the situation had me imagining it? Ever since that night, the feeling of being watched was unshakable. Even in the comfort of my crappy, single bedroom run-down apartment. 

Shivering, I fiddled with the end of my sleeve, waiting for him to just get up and go already. 

This whole idea was stupid. The world was going bonkers and here I was having a date. People said I was pretty, but I never really believed them. Maybe that was the only reason why he said yes. 

Looks weren't everything, obviously. 

I looked out of the window to my left, eyes zeroing in on my car parked below. Police officers were setting up more roadblocks and barricades. The way out of here would not be easy. Drat.

"Yeah," I whispered, trying to seem apologetic. "Sorry, I have a bit of an excited personality and no filter. Have you seen me online? Watched any of my stuff?"

"I have."

Well, okay, so why was he surprised? I looked into his eyes and raw disappointment flooded my brain like a toxin. He was a good-looking film student and had black, shaggy hair and a lean build. He was hot and refined in his tailored black dress shirt, too. 

 I didn't even have a chance because of my personality. Ever since I basically got canceled for showing my ass online—regrettably—in a drunk rant about the Pentagon's declassified documents, my friends ghosted me.

Nobody wanted to associate with me.

I was a conspiracy theorist.

I wanted somebody to be with, to share my findings with, to explore with. I longed for something else, but I wasn't entirely sure what that something else was. It just felt like a void was there, waiting to be filled.

Loneliness, I thought, and made a face.

He stood up and wiped his mouth with his napkin again. "I think I'm just going to go."

"Alright, thanks for dinner," I mumbled, not even looking up as he left. "Thanks for giving this a shot, even with all of the chaos happening—" 

He was already gone. 

Figures. 

There goes another failed date—seven in total so far since I started dating, both men and women. Every one of them ended like this. My reputation would follow me to the grave, regardless of the fact that I was right all along.

I leaned over the table and took his drink he didn't touch and took a sip.

Gross. Cucumber water. 

My sketchpad provided me with the opportunity to draw the strange metallic orb that appeared in the sky a few nights ago, right before our radiation detectors went bonkers. About thirty minutes later, somebody tapped on my shoulder.

"Miss?"

Blinking, I sat my pencils on the table. A guy waiter, dressed in black and white, who seemed to be the only one working, frowned at me, his hair falling into his eyes. Kudos to the owner who had the gusto to have a restaurant open, because I wouldn't. Not with the public's frantic response to the big news.

With the confirmation of aliens being real, slave wages and shit healthcare shouldn't be the bare minimum, so I agreed with the public's anger. We lived only to work towards earning the right to die. And paying for our own caskets. 

"Are you the owner of the blue Toyota up front?"

I frowned. "Uh, yeah?"

"It's being towed."

What?

I dashed to the window, scattering my sketches all over the floor, practically unspooling my chaotic brain for the server to see. My face caught aflame. Wouldn't be the first time I embarrassed myself, would it? Wouldn't be the last, either.

Sure enough, there was my trashy Toyota Carola—of which I named Big Bertha—being hoisted on a flatbed trailer below. A brown-haired man wearing a company cap wrote on a clipboard, like it was just a normal day. It was true that the law was still present, for the time being, but this made little sense.

"That's not right. I didn't break any laws," I growled. "Is this what towing companies resort to nowadays to make money? This is illegal!"

I was quick to throw my drawings into my bag to have a chat with the jerk taking away my only form of transportation. If he wouldn't listen, I would make him listen. I was good at talking. At some point, I would exhaust him.

I flew outside, almost shattering the glass door as I slammed it shut behind me. The streets were empty, barricades lining the streets. The city was in for another protest tonight, and by the look of the many police cars a few streets down, it was going to be a big one.

"What do you think you are doing?" I snapped at the man who didn't even look up from his clipboard.

Sweaty, curling hair fell into his dark eyes as he turned to me. "Hello. Are you Pearl Blankenship?"

I blinked.

How did he know my name? Did he run my tag somehow? Maybe he watched my podcast? If he was a fan, I could use that to my advantage.

If he was a hater, I was totally screwed. "Uh, yeah? Look. I didn't park illegally. You can't take my car. You—"

"Don't worry about your car."

His lip curled up into a smile at the side. Confusion was the only thing keeping me from going total Karen on this guy. I would like to speak to your manager, sir. But who would that be? Some dude in a suit, lounging behind a mahogany desk, cashing in on taking advantage of people?

He glanced down. I did, too, and realized there was a gun pointed at me with his left hand. It was low and out of sight.

I just stared at it, the blood in my veins turning into ice, because I had never had a gun pointed at me before. "Hey, hey. Whoa! Put that away, dude." My voice was pleading. "I don't know what I did to deserve this, but I don't want any trouble, okay?"

I glanced at the cop cars in the distance, sure not to make any sudden movements. I could scream for help, but he'd probably just shoot me. In the blink of an eye, my life could end. How freaking sad would that be?

At the very least, my work would be out there... somewhere. All of my files. All of my slave labor to understand exactly what the government was keeping from us. Some of it was recorded online, but not all. The thought made my stomach flip.

But I had bigger priorities right now.

He smiled again, his stubble face as prickly as the fear shooting down my spine. "Don't even think about yelling. If you want to live, get in my truck. Keep your cell phone. If I see you reaching for it without asking, we are going to have problems."

Problems. Okay. What did that mean? I didn't even have to think about obeying. My life was on the line here, and this guy was unhinged. Why did he want me to keep my cell phone, though?

I swallowed. "Okay. I'm just going to go to your truck, then."

My heart pounded, adrenaline turning my eyesight all fuzzy. I moved slowly, hands splayed in front of me, showing him I was keeping them out of my jacket pocket where my cell phone was.

His white tow truck sat idling, streaks of black smearing the metal like it went through rough terrain to get here. I needed to memorize as much as I could in case I escaped. This guy couldn't get off the hook.

I noted the company name and his badge, but it could have been fake for all I knew. He smelled of sweat. Badly. He also had a pretty gnarly scar on the side of his temple. Did he run into a pole as a kid, or something?

"Go through the driver's side. Slide over to the passenger seat."

Right. So he could monitor my hands. What awful timing. The burns on my face started to itch.

I opened the driver-side door, hauling my shaking frame into the seat. The cab smelled like oil and cigarettes. The dusty brown seats creaked under my weight as I slid to my side. He followed quickly after.

As he drove, leaving my car and dignity behind me, he tilted his head in my direction, his voice deceptively nice. "Don't worry, Pearl. I don't want to kill you. You've been chosen to live through what's about to happen, which is a blessing in disguise. The name is Brandon, by the way. The name tag is fake. Just calm down, and everything will be alright."

Yeah, I sort of figured the name was fake. In regards to being calm, what a load of horseshit.

My hands became slick as I thought about his choice of words. I've been chosen? That sounded.... weird. Too weird. This guy was certainly crazed.

He must have been listening to too many conspiracy theories—the wrong ones. He probably hated me because I tore those theories apart every day in my career, pointing toward the truth.

What was he going to do with me?

What did he want with me?

I steadied my shaking hands. "Look, guy, I'm sure whatever is going on in your head seems very real to you, but how is doing this going to help? I've done nothing wrong. I've hurt nobody."

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, sliding out a smoke. He tossed the now-empty pack at my feet. "Hurt nobody, huh? Ain't you that one whacky conspiracist shouting like a deranged dumbass online? Think of all the people that you must've given a headache."

I was too anxious to be offended. He could just... turn off his internet connection, you know. "What does that have to do with anything?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "In thirty minutes, nuclear missiles are going to launch from every country on the planet. Don't know why. Just will. The smart ones are already in bunkers. I was told to find you, to keep you alive. We are going to ride this out in a hole in the ground."

Hole in the ground? He is taking me to a hole in the ground? I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling nauseous. I played along, trying to snuff the fear out of my voice. "Who wants me alive, exactly?"

He lit his cigarette with a green lighter, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke out. He tossed the lighter onto the dash. "I can't give you that answer, because I don't know, alright? Just listen to me and do what I say and you won't get hurt. Sound easy enough?"

Once he realized what he was saying wasn't the truth, then what would he do with me? I knew his name. Obviously, he wouldn't want a kidnapping charge.

He could easily chop me up into bite-sized pieces, put me in a vat of acid, leaving nothing behind. He could tie cylinder blocks to my feet and throw me in a lake somewhere, and nobody would give a damn, because the world was too whack right now to care. Not that they cared about me, anyway.

But maybe I didn't need to worry about that, because sirens blared, their shrill, high wine rattling the windows, even with the car in motion. My cell phone went off in a way that sounded like an amber alert, but I was too chicken to check it. He told me not to touch my phone.

I shrank against my seat. I gazed at Brandon from the corner of my eye.

He smirked. "Go on, look at your phone. Promise I won't shoot you for it."

"Maybe, just, like, not shoot me at all? For any reason?"

"Check your phone."

With shaking fingers, I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen.

EMERGENCY ALERT

BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO OREGON. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

Dread seeped into my veins like poison, my lungs seizing.

Maybe Brandon wasn't so crazed after all.