Los Angeles was still a field of ruins.

  The city’s wounds gaped raw and unhealed: concrete split like shattered bone, steel rebar jutting at crooked angles, all beneath a sky the color of old bruises, never quite free of dust. The air was thick with the acrid tang of smoke and ozone, stinging the back of the throat. Every breath carried the faint taste of burnt plastic and scorched earth. Somewhere, the distant thrum of rescue helicopters pulsed through the haze, their blades chopping the silence into anxious fragments. Beneath that mechanical drone, quieter and more dangerous, something else moved—something that made the skin prickle.

  Lan crouched at the jagged edge of a collapsed freeway interchange, the rough concrete biting into his palms. Below him, half-buried beneath twisted rebar and slabs of asphalt, the Fenreigan power engine pulsed with a sickly, phosphorescent light. Its core throbbed in the gloom, humming at a frequency that made Lan’s teeth ache and the air itself seem to vibrate. The sound was almost physical—a pressure in the sinuses, a headache blooming behind the eyes.

  Fifteen Fenreigans stood guard in a loose ring, their armor dull and battered, weapons raised and ready. The air around them shimmered with heat and tension, the scent of alien metal sharp and unfamiliar.

  Lan exhaled, the breath catching in his chest. “It’s an insulting amount of number,” he muttered, his voice flat, almost bored, but his fingers drummed restlessly against the concrete.

  Beside him, the air shifted—something unfolded from the dark, a shadow peeling itself free from the gloom. It dropped to the ground without a sound: low, wide, spider-like. Eight jointed limbs splayed out, adhesive pads hissing softly as they gripped the broken concrete. Its skin was black and leathery, swallowing the light, so dark it seemed to drink in the world around it. No eyes. No face. Just a horizontal mouth that split open, impossibly wide, revealing rows of pale, glistening teeth.

  Little Bubble twitched, its limbs flexing with a faint, rubbery creak.

  Lan rested his chin in his hand, feeling the grit of dust against his skin. “Don’t rush,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

  Below, a Fenreigan’s helmet jerked up. Sensors screamed, a shrill, metallic wail that set Lan’s nerves on edge. Weapons snapped up, the air crackling with the promise of violence—

  Too late.

  Little Bubble moved. It didn’t leap; it flowed, a smear of darkness gliding across the rubble. One moment it was beside Lan; the next, it was inside the perimeter. The first Fenreigan vanished halfway into the creature’s mouth, armor collapsing inward with a wet, crunching sound like bones breaking underfoot. The bubble convulsed once, then sealed shut, swallowing.

  Lan winced, the sound echoing in his jaw. “Told you not to rush.”

  The remaining Fenreigans opened fire. The air filled with the sharp stink of ozone and burning metal as energy rounds sliced through the haze. But their shots bent, warping around Lan like heat haze above a summer road. The rounds curved uselessly aside, detonating against invisible compression fields with muffled, thunderous pops. Lan stood, brushing gritty dust from his sleeve, the fabric rasping against his skin.

  “Now,” he said, voice calm as the eye of a storm.

  The bubble exploded into motion. It scuttled across walls and wreckage, limbs blurring into streaks of black. One Fenreigan was dragged screaming across the ground, boots scraping against the asphalt, the sound raw and desperate. Another tried to transform before the bubble slammed onto it, jaws locking around matter that wasn’t fully formed. The scream cut off mid-syllable, leaving only the ringing silence.

  Lan raised one finger and activated sometime on his bracer.

  The last few Fenreigans froze, bodies locked in place as gravity inverted locally, pinning them mid-step. Their weapons clattered to the ground, the metallic clangs sharp in the hush.

  Lan walked past them, boots crunching over broken glass and gravel, gaze flicking briefly to the engine. The machine’s pulse seemed to sync with his heartbeat, a low, relentless throb.

  “Chen said not to destroy it,” he murmured, annoyance threading his words. “Annoying.”

  He disabled the gravity manipulator.

  The gravity well collapsed inward. The air seemed to twist, pressure dropping with a sudden, gut-deep lurch. Bones failed. Bodies fell, hitting the ground with heavy, final thuds.

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  Silence returned, broken only by the wet, rhythmic sound of feeding—the bubble’s mouth working, tearing, swallowing. The smell of ozone and iron thickened, metallic and sharp, clinging to the back of the tongue.

  Lan glanced back. “Leave two.”

  Little Bubble paused, then obediently spat two broken, barely-conscious Fenreigans onto the ground. The bodies twitched, breath rattling in their throats.

  Lan crouched, the rough concrete scraping his knees, and placed two fingers lightly against one’s head. Information poured in—a rush of alien data, cold and electric, flooding his mind.

  His expression tightened—not fear, not anger. Calculation.

  “…So that’s how you’re routing it,” he said softly, the words almost lost in the hush.

  He stood, dusting off his hands, the grit scraping his palms.

  “Alright. We’re done here.”

  Little Bubble balanced on its eight limbs, soundlessly creeping toward Lan before stopping at his feet.

  Lan turned toward the distant lights of a temporary military camp, the ruined city stretching out before him—silent, broken, and waiting.

  One day later — Los Angeles, 3:00 p.m.

  Los Angeles was still a field of ruins, the city’s wounds raw and open. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and distant smoke, punctuated by the low hum of rescue vehicles and the quiet, persistent grief of survivors. Yet, in the midst of this devastation, a different kind of commotion rose from a temporary military camp—a sound so incongruous it almost seemed like hope.

  “No—!! I want that! I want that!!”

  The wailing belonged to a blond boy, his cheeks flushed pink and streaked with tears. He clung to a bottle of painkillers as if it were a lifeline, golden eyes brimming with outrage and need. The soldier facing him—Lanice—looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

  “You can’t eat this!” Lanice snapped, yanking the bottle away. “This is painkiller for the injured. Not a lollipop!”

  The boy’s sobs only grew louder, echoing off the canvas walls. He threw himself at Lanice’s leg, clinging like a koala, his cries rising in pitch and volume. “I want it!! I want it!!”

  Lanice tried to shake him off, but the boy was relentless, his grip sticky with tears and snot. “You—this isn’t for you! Let go!” Lanice muttered, glancing around for help. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the “kid” was older than he looked—maybe older than Lanice himself. But in this moment, he was just a child, weaponizing every ounce of misery.

  A cluster of middle-aged women, drawn by the noise, gathered nearby. Their faces radiated maternal outrage.

  “How can he do that? A grown man bullying a child!”

  “Yeah! Where’s the kid’s mother? Why isn’t she stopping this?”

  “Probably died in the earthquake. Poor baby—now getting bullied by a soldier.”

  Lanice felt the weight of their stares, the silent accusations piling up. Now I look like a cartoon villain, he thought, his internal scream nearly audible. Finally, unable to withstand the barrage, he scooped the boy up with one arm, tucking him under his elbow like a package.

  “Fine. We’re going somewhere quiet,” he said, his voice resigned. He marched toward his tent, the picture of a “bad uncle” in the eyes of the crowd.

  Strangely, once they were alone, the boy fell silent. He let himself be carried, tears still clinging to his lashes—but now, a faint, knowing smile tugged at his mouth. The performance was over.

  Inside the tent, Lanice set him down. The boy sulked on the padded floor, glaring at the soldier for ignoring him. For a moment, the sounds of the ruined city faded, replaced by the small, stubborn drama of two very different beings.

  Lanice’s phone rang, breaking the tension. He answered, listened, and hung up. “Understood. We’ll be there immediately.” He turned to the boy, his tone shifting from exasperation to something more serious. “That power engine you found—still intact?”

  The boy—Lan—pouted, turning away. Lanice watched him, the gravity of their situation settling in. “Hey,” he said, softer now. “This isn’t a game. Earth’s survival is on the line.”

  Lan’s eyes flicked up, searching Lanice’s face. For a moment, the mask slipped, and something older, looked out. Then he jabbed a finger at the painkiller bottle. “Give me that and I’ll tell you.”

  Lanice sighed, defeated, and handed it over. “Fine. Talk.”

  “Chen already told us not to destroy the machines, right?” Lan said, cracking the bottle open. “Of course I didn’t destroy it.” He tossed a handful of tablets into his mouth like candy, then muttered, “You humans are insane. These engines are killing your planet—and you still want to preserve them.”

  Lanice was quiet for a moment, the words landing heavier than he expected. He looked at the boy—no, the being—beside him, and felt the weight of orders, of duty, of survival. “I’m a soldier,” he said at last. “I follow orders. That’s my job.”

  Lan stared at him, the hard lines of Lanice’s face reflected in his wide, golden eyes. Then, as if remembering himself, he looked down, fiddling with the bottle. “Why are you asking?”

  “Yan Qing found a way to shut them down,” Lanice said, and for the first time, his expression softened into something like hope. “But he needs a sample to test. The President ordered us to take him to that engine. I was tasked to set up a perimeter around it. We need to move.”

  “Oh, that’s it?” Lan puffed his cheeks, the childishness returning. “Still, I think destroying the machines should take priority.”

  Lanice chuckled, ruffling Lan’s golden hair as if he were just a child. “I know, but it’s my order. But still, thank you for helping us.”

  He hoisted Lan up again, carrying him as if he weighed nothing. Lan, in turn, wrapped his small hands around Lanice’s neck—a brief, genuine embrace.

  Outside, the city’s ruins stretched in every direction. Somewhere nearby, Lan’s pet—a golden retriever—slipped out of the shadows and padded after them, loyal and silent.

  A soldier.

  A child.

  A golden retriever.

  They walked quietly through a wasteland of ruins—a picture that shouldn’t work yet somehow did. In the midst of devastation, the absurdity of their little procession became a kind of hopeful scenery: a reminder that even in the darkest places, life, in all its stubborn forms, goes on.