Saying “Fuck it” actually motivates me more than “You can do this”.
This is because there’s always a part of your brain that’s like, “But what if I CAN’T do this?” and you’ll still freeze.
But if you say “Fuck it,” you’re saying “You know, whatever happens, happens. If it’s not perfect, so what. I’m gonna try, and if I fail, then – fuck it.”
There are 34 gigantic eggs lining the
coast of Iceland’s Merry Bay. They were
sculpted out of granite to honor the 34
species of birds that nest in the area,
and each one is the shape, pattern, and
color of the birds’ actual eggs. They’re
all about the same size, but the egg that
represents the red-throated diver, the
area’s official bird, is much bigger
than the rest.
The humans had very little warning. After all, it wasn’t like they could evacuate the planet. The ships landed everywhere – in cities’ downtown, in the suburbs, in the mountains, in the forests, in the deserts, in the Arctic Circle – systematic and precise. There was no hope for rescue or mercy; the human race had reached its end.
But then squads started disappearing along the Great Lakes and the northern Atlantic coastline, always in remote areas, never too close to human settlements. There was no sign of them except for their armour which lay scattered in pieces, like it had been ripped off their bodies by some great animal (but the invaders knew no animal on plant Earth could do that; they had prepared for every eventuality). Over the course of a week, thirteen squads went missing. That was 260 soldiers just…gone.
And then they disappeared while inside human borders. Always at night. The invaders had to wonder if they were dealing with some kind of genetic hybrid that the humans had created and then unleashed upon the world. No one saw anything, but the damage was indisputable: smashed-in doors of the houses and buildings the invaders had usurped, armour in pieces like a child’s play-thing, and the blood – unforgiving stars, the blood. Whatever they were up against, it (or they because how much could one creature…kill?…eat?) was clearly animalistic but it was clever and cunning. There was nothing in the invaders’ databases to help them, no strategy or tactic, no protection. The surviving humans which were kept as information resources had nothing to say on the matter, although one old man, with weathered brown skin and long black hair, who had been silent throughout the entire fiasco, muttered a word that held no meaning for the aliens and little meaning for the other humans: “Wendigo.”
The invaders knew when to retreat and retreat they did. Every single unit pulled out of the area and moved farther west or south. But that meant nothing to a creature that had developed a taste for alien flesh and which possessed an insatiable appetite.
-:-
For the most part, the humans were civilians, untrained in fighting, but that did not mean that the would-be conquered lay down without a fight. Even the children picked up blunt or sharp objects to defend themselves and their homes.
And sometimes, the children didn’t have to pick up anything at all.
There was something different about the nocturnal cycles on this planet, something that whispered in the audio receptors and sent a wave of cold sliding up the spine. The higher-ups attributed it to how far out they were in the system: things were weirder out here. It was just the way it was.
But when Gahf and his squad barged into a tall, living complex, he knew that ‘weird’ was not just weird. They moved through the complex, breaking down doors and taking the unprepared humans from their beds. Looking around the room he had just entered, Gahf was alarmed by the pictures (barely more than colourful, scribbled blobs) tacked to the yellow walls. Two figures featured prominently: what appeared to be a human girl-child and a massive, black…thing with blue eyes.
A noise nearby caught Gahf’s attention and he smiled, readjusting his pulse rifle, and slid to his knees beside the bed. Bending down, he caught sight of a small head of messy, black hair.
“Come out,” he said, poking the human in the head with his barrel. “We have your parents. Come out now.”
The child blubbered, and Gahf could smell the salt from the tears the thing shed. He sighed. He didn’t like to harm children but this was his job. There could be only one dominant species on this planet. He sighed again and stood, pointing his rifle at the mattress. The energy could easily reduce human-made tanks to dust particles – a bed would be no problem.
His finger was on the trigger when something very not human grabbed his ankle. Gahf fell with a yell, the energy pulse striking the ceiling and disintegrating it. The bed upended with a crash just as another limb shot out, snatching his gun away and throwing it. The rifle went through the wall! Gahf managed to raise his head and looked up into a wide face with thick, black fur and blue eyes. Black slits for pupils thinned, and a growl wafted through the suddenly-freezing air.
What in all the systems was this?
And how had it fit under the bed?
Gahf had no air to breathe which meant no yelling for help. The creature planted fists the size of Gahf’s torso on either side of his head, and leaned down. The breath reeked, the lower incisors poked up from its jaw, and when the thing brushed against him, Gahf had a momentary loss of sanity when he thought, It’s so soft!
The monster opened its maw. “Mine,” it said. “My bed. My home. Mine.”
The little human-child appeared in Gahf’s line of sight then, one tiny hand resting on the creature’s arm. The child had no fear of it, and Gahf suddenly knew what the creature meant by ‘mine’. He had heard of dogs and cats protecting their owners, but never had anyone mentioned the monsters under the bed.
Earth was not weird. It was a nightmare. And the nightmare would protect its humans.
More material to play with:
Human-projected poltergeists draining ship’s energy and invisibly attacking.
Actual human spirits, after bodies disintegrating or stolen, haunting the ships and cells and homes they were last contained in, moving and losing keys and keycards.
The figures that follow. That show up on headsets when they want to be seen. When it’s too late.
If you find you’re counting more shadows than expected, it’s already too late.
Ditto if your shadow is smaller than it should be; umbraphages will be happy to have you join their company.
The gaelic wolfmen taking up recruits, and timing their revolts from within reinforced cages with supernatural strength.
Aircraft downed by thunderbirds and dragons that clap by in a storm and blip off the radar along with the freak weather.
If a house is chilly and there’s no a/c, it gets marked for reconstruction.
The strange isolations that ‘just happen’ sometimes when the invaders find that all roads out turn back to where they started. They can radio out, but when the sun goes down and doesn’t come back up, transmissions fade on screaming.
The Bermuda Triangle is marked off-limits for a full kilometre up.
Spirit-specific earplugs are designed to block out the CONSTANT banshee screaming, once one gets on board.
Old maps made by humans become invaluable in locating the sea serpents hecking up your cool underwater base. When it’s not just the regular megafauna doing it.
Humans can be bad at judging courtesy customs; invaders, more so. Many return to base with slits up their faces for failing to mollify the scissors-woman.
A woman takes her own life rather than stay in isolation; while her body is being transferred to recycling, it sits up and bites her attendant. (They’re still looking for her but she squeezed through a crack into the ventilation. She’s not warm enough to track.)
Pupil checks become mandatory after one-too-many Black Eyed Children taunt the infantryman.
Ignore the knocking on the hull, the doors, the floors. Ignore the eyes looking at you from the monitor.
A skinstealer discovers alien hide and just has the BEST TIME OF IT.
On that note, pupil checks for FELLOW INVADERS become mandatory after one-too-many doppelgangers tell the aliens to come check out this totally rad thing they found in the bush come on you just gotta see it bro
Sage becomes the most-requested organic material. Salt, steel, and silver are ordered by the hull-full. The surviving humans steal as much of it as they can.
Windows are permanently patched-over when the aliens realise their outward-facing reflective surfaces are acting as spiritual entry points.
Humans are denied sleep when it’s shown that their brainwave patterns are interacting with and inviting their deceased relatives.
Is that a black dog or is that a Grim? Throw bacon to find out.
Is that a mangy coyote or a chupacabra? Throw bacon to find out.
Is that a bear or a bigfoot? You’re out of bacon. Heck.
Ouija boards are contraband.
If a human is heard saying the same word twice in a row, especially at night, ESPECIALLY at night and looking at a reflective surface, they are to be shot before they utter a third. (Too bad chrome is so trendy.)
The aliens learn to avoid figures in white, and marked stones, and containers of ash. Replicas make good deterrents.
They learn that even in tracking living humans, they mustn’t stare directly at the human; living on this planet has given people the uncanny instinct of knowing when they’re watched. An instinct the aliens sorely lack.
The invaders find it hard to tell what circles they’re supposed to be breaking on sight. There are salt circles, chalk circles, and inked circles. They neglect the mushroom circles.
The rebellion is dressed in Halloween. The masks people wear to scare the demons work just as well on the real monsters. (The best way to ambush is using a face that the aliens try throwing rose petals at first; by then you’ve already got their guns.)
The aliens knew that humans had conceived of a place called Hell but they didn’t think it was rooted in experience. The question they ask now is, is Hell a phenomenon local to Earth’s fields, or is this something that the oppressed can manifest everywhere?
