“Knowledge is power, power comes at a price.” I hold the pamphlet up to my face for most of the ride reading the motto over and over. My father is
bringing me along on this trip, far from home. He never told me where I was going, just that I deserve to know. I don’t know what he’s talking
about when he says this. We are in a strange place, in a desert, in a limo, driving farther and farther away from the airport.
“Daddy, are we there yet?” I ask my father.
“No, not yet Samael.” He responds, never taking his eyes away from the window.
“But I’m bored.” I scream, throwing myself on one of the luxurious seats. “I want my laptop.” I scream again in my shrill, childish voice.
My father is rich, I am spoiled.
The limo comes to a halt, forcing my little body forward.
“Now we’re here” my father says, “be good.”
The door opens, and my father steps out. I follow him and am greeted by a gun wielding tour guide. He wears a grey shirt with the logo “First
Contact Inc.” and a baseball cap made out of tin-foil that says the same. He looks down at me, resting the giant weapon on his shoulders.
“How are you, little fella?” He says, a smile on his face.
I suddenly become shy, and lose all ability to speak.
“Here take this” he says, handing me a tin-foil hat just like the one he wore. I suddenly become excited, the gift exhilarating me and I put it on
my head with glee.
“Samael” my father says. I turn see him wearing the same hat. He kneels down, his eyes level with mine. “Do not take this off, do you understand
me? Do not it off.” He says sternly, grabbing the front of my hat. “Come with me” he says, grabbing my hand.
A man comes in front of him, this one down not have a gun. He whispers something in my fathers ear, and looks down at me. He whispers something again,
and my father hands him an envelope bulging with money. The man flicks through it; all I see is the number 100 in green.
My father kneels down to me again. “We are going to be separated once we go down the stairs. I’ll be waiting for you, okay?” I look and see a
rock ahead of us. I notice strangeness in the rock, and realize there is a secret covering to it. I think that the stairs must be hidden there. My
father speaks again, “Samael, listen to me. This is very important. Do not take the hat off, never take the hat off. You’ll go with this guy.
Listen to him, for once follow instructions.” My father points to the man with the gun. He takes my hand and walks with me to the rock, the two
strange men walking side-by-side us.
The man without the gun puts his hand on a part of the rock, and the rock slides open. There are stairs within, leading downward.
It is cold at the bottom of the stairs, and it looks like a museum. It is quiet too, but that is how it usually is in museums I think. The man with
the gun takes me away, grabbing my hand walking me away from my father. I do not protest, remembering my fathers words.
He brings me to a room filled with other children. All of the others are wearing hats like the one I was given. It looks like a party, with loud
music, food, and noise. There is a stage at the front, and rows of seats facing towards it.
I hear a metallic clink behind me, and see the man with the gun walk forward. I look behind, and the door has a metallic bar across the wood. The
“Take a seat, take a seat everyone” I hear the man with the gun say, standing atop the stage. I sit along with everyone else. “Now my boss wants
me to say stuff like ‘Courtesy of First Contact Inc. I reveal to you’ blah blah blah and stuff like that. You want me to get to the fun stuff
A roaring “yes” comes from the seated throng of children.
The lights turn off, it is dark. I cannot see in front of me. I hear strange noises, and a child scream that he is afraid.
The lights turn back on. Four children have changed, the ones at the four corners of the square of seats. They are tall, taller than the man in front,
with eyes bigger than my hand. They are thin, with a brownish grey skin color. I run for the door. It is locked, and cannot be moved. Five others join
me, screaming and crying for freedom. The rest are hypnotized, walking towards the front. I notice a door has opened in the middle of the stage;
colors are coming from it, and a bright light. I scream louder.
The four start to converge the five of us. One of the children banging against the door drop their hat. He drops instantly, screaming about voices and
that there is too much of something. He is shaking, begging for it to stop. The man with the gun rushes forward, putting the hat back on. The
child’s screaming stops, and he walks like the others toward the front.
The four things come forward again, and I watch in horror as they touch the foreheads of my three other companions. They walk forward as well, dazed
and hypnotized. I scream the loudest I have in my life, begging for freedom, or for the things to leave me alone. I now know fear, I now know dread. I
see an appendage come towards my head.
It is like a dream. I see only fragments, children playing with anti-gravity toys, a four dimensional puzzle that stumped me, a piece of paper that
wrote out my thoughts without me having to move, a hat to go over the one that I was wearing. All of the children are happy, myself included.
I wake up in the limo, my father staring out the window. It is cold now, and I know I am almost home. I feel different, smarter, artistic. I see a pad
of paper with drawings that look like a professionals work, and know I had drawn them. I flick through the pad and see mathematical equations, biology
sketches and notes, and much more. I know I have made all of it.
I look up stunned, and look through the window. I see my reflection in it, and the hat I was wearing. It was made of tin-foil with the logo “First
Please be gentle with your criticism, this is only my second jab at writing this kind of genre.
First Contact Inc. in reality (don't want to get flamed for using the name without giving credit)-
First Contact, Inc. (FCI) is a technology company created to provide Insurance Companies immediate access to critical information and provide customer
support during catastrophic insurance events.
edit on 11-3-2012 by insanedr4gon because: typos