--- London, England. Year 2022. ---
"Thank you, please come again."
*Dingling
Customer number two hundred and fifty-six today. It's a bit like counting sheep, honestly, except the sheep want cigarettes and exact change.
Pheww. Smiling twenty-four-seven is such a chore. My face hurts.
For the record: five foot ten, short blonde hair, sapphire-blue eyes, and a face best described as "average, but trying". That's me, stood behind the counter of a small minimart, staring out into the distance.
"Leon! Snap out of it, smile. Customers want to see you smiling — it's psychology. Whatever THAT face is doing will only scare away children."
"Yes, sir." I salute my boss and aim a smile in his direction.
"Good lad. Clean up on Aisle Four while you're at it."
So yeah. This is the glam life at twenty-one. You'd think a degree in Computer Science would have me well off by now, but things don't always pan out the way you want, particularly in the modern world. Not unless you've got the right family name or a ridiculous pile of money behind you, and I checked — I have neither.
Still, for all its downsides — the baby sick, the occasional "violent" shopper — working here has its perks.
A sudden scent of roses drifts past my nose.
*Sniff*Sniff
"Awh, now that is the good stuff..."
"Did you just say something, Leon?"
Amy is staring directly into my eyes. Hers are big and round, red and purple, swirling — heterochromia, the doctors call it — and this close they make it very hard to remember what I was saying. Her blonde hair usually hangs to her hips; today it's up in its neat work bun, which does nothing to help my concentration.
"Uh — nothing. Have you seen the mop? I need to mop y— Aisle Four. I need to mop Aisle Four."
Phew. Close one, there Leon.
"...Right, yeah. It's at the back, by Aisle Six." She gives me a smile, warm as anything. "Good luck."
My heart feels like it physically melts.
"Thank you."
She walks off carrying a box of stock, swaying a little with each step — though that might just be my imagination. I shake my head at myself and go to find the mop.
Nothing particularly interesting happens for the rest of the shift, by minimart standards. A man in a high-vis jacket shouts at me because we've moved the brown sauce. We have not moved the brown sauce; it has stood on the same shelf since roughly the Bronze Age, but I apologise on its behalf anyway, because the customer is always right and the sauce can't defend itself. A while later, a woman shouts at me because her scratchcard didn't win, which is a level of shooting the messenger I almost respect. In between, one of our regulars comes in for her Tuesday shop on a Friday, because she likes to keep us guessing, and I carry her bags to the door while she tells me, in strict confidence and at shop-wide volume, that her nephew is doing very well in insurance and that I should think about insurance. I tell her I'll think about it. In reality, I won't.
And I glance at Amy whenever she passes the counter, which is just professional awareness of a colleague's location and nothing more. The young men of Croydon seem remarkably fond of needing her help finding things they're standing directly in front of; to be fair, so do some of the young women. Aside from that, I hold my smile up with clothes pegs... alright, that last bit was slightly exaggerated.
The evening goes soft and orange through the windows, and the shop empties down to its last few regulars, quiet enough that you can hear the fridges hum.
*Dingling
"Boss, I'm off for the evening. Take care of yourself. You too, Leon."
"Will do," we chorus, boss and employee, in embarrassing unison.
Amy smiles at the pair of us and heads out, and once her back is safely turned, I stare after her with the dignity of a man watching the last bus pull away.
"Heh. One day, maybe. But not yet. Gotta work hard so I can properly support myself, help my family — a girlfriend comes somewhere after all of that."
"Hehe. No chance, kid." Boss Steve grins at me, clearly having enjoyed the whole broadcast. "But if you ever need advice, Big Boss Steve is always here to help."
"Maybe you're right. But I have to try. Four years we've worked together now, and I've been saving every penny I can. If I can make something of myself — properly, something real — then I'll have the courage to ask her."
"Heh. You do work hard, kid, I can't deny that, so who am I to judge? I'll be rooting for you. Just don't get your hopes too high, ey. Something awfully mysterious about that young lady."
"I know. She's magical."
"Not what I meant, kid." He scratches his chin, eyes on the door she left through. "She seems too good to be here, that one. Don't know how to put it. More going on than she lets show. Anyway — enough of that. Good job today. Go on, clear off home, I'll finish up."
"Thanks, boss. You're a legend."
"Hahaha! LEGEND, is it? I like the sound of that." A big laugh, from deep within his chest, and then he points a stubby finger at me. "Just you remember this legend when you get to that high and mighty place, ey."
And then, because Steve is Steve, the laugh softens into something genuine.
"You're a good kid. Always stick to that."
"I will, boss. Right — I'm off, see ya."
"Yeah, clear off, ya hear? Hahaha."
*Dingling
Boss Steve is such a good guy. Tough when he needs to be, but gold all the way through. Four years he's put up with me now, and I honestly couldn't tell you whether it's the job that's kept me afloat or him.
Right. Better head home before it gets dark. Cue the walking montage... oh yeah, this isn't a movie... oof.
Lights flicker on all around, under a deep auburn sky. Small skyscrapers tower along the road; taxis rush past at a blistering snail's pace, jammed in with every other car on the street. London doing London things.
"Ah, smells like city. Smells like engineering. Smells like... sh*."
I keep walking, and the city slowly shrinks around me — the crowds thinning street by street, the shopfronts giving way to takeaways and then to front doors — until I reach Meridian House. Home of exactly one dream and quite a lot of damp.
Inside, the lobby is what it always is: one strip light flickering, the carpet worn thin where shoes turn for the stairs, and Janice at the reception desk.
"Evening, Janice. How've things been?"
The old lady behind the reception desk beams at me. Don't let the cardigan fool you: Janice may look small and grandmotherly, but when she gets serious, only Hercules could stop her — and I'd give her decent odds. I once watched her clear a bloke six-foot-five and built like a bodybuilder out of this lobby with nothing but a broom and a tone of voice. He left with his tail between his legs.
"OH, laddy! Eye, it's been a'right. Quiet as usual, nothing noteworthy. My Trev's been a wee bit poorly lately, mind — retired postman, that man, forty years on his feet, and now he's off his walks. No like him at all. Anyway — how about you, lad? How's it going with that girly of yours? What's her name — Emma? Amber? Amy?"
"It's Amy, Janice. And there's no progress to report. Got a lot more to do before I'm anywhere near that hurdle. All good otherwise — just work, work, work. Only way to survive these days. Give Trevor my best, yeah? Tell him to rest up."
"Have a nice evening, Leon."
The lift grinds its way up to the fifth floor — *Ding — and at the end of the corridor, number 512 lets me in after the little wiggle the key always needs.
"Ahh, home sweet home."
A plain, bare flat greets me. Compressed kitchen tucked in the right corner, basic appliances. A living room that's mostly bed against the left wall, a TV, a small couch, and a coffee table holding the whole arrangement together. At the far end — "far" being a generous eleven feet — a full-length glass door opens onto a very narrow balcony, where my washing hangs drying.
I check the fridge. Not much. I check the cupboard above—
—and I am greeted by a great holy blinding light.
"What is— OMG."
The light fades, and there it stands: one mighty cup of ramen, shimmering gloriously upon the shelf.
I'm saved.
*Pop*Chee*Simmer
"Itadakimasu."
*Num*Nom*Slurp
"Mmm. So good. That silky smoothness just melts into the mouth. Ahh. Bliss."
Bowl rinsed, cupboard shut, a good day's work behind me and a satisfying meal within me. Better get some fresh air before bed.
I slide the glass door open and step out onto the balcony. Quick check of the washing — still damp — then I lean on the bannister and look out at the city. It's gone nine. I can feel the night's cool on my arms, and the traffic has dropped from a roar to a murmur. London stretches away in every direction, lit up for miles. It's a good view. It's most of what this flat has going for it.
"Hah. I do wish things had gone differently. All that intellect going to waste, just because of how the world's built. But I'll change things. Hard work goes a long way, and with money — and this brain — I'll make something of myself. Whatever that turns out to be."
*Twinkle
"Huh. What a pretty-looking star... wait. Is that thing getting bigger?"
I squint at the shining white point in the sky. Definitely getting bigger.
"Could be a meteorite. Well — if it is, I'm fu**ed either way, so hopefully not. Ooh, maybe it's the oh-mighty Ramen-kun god, come to bless my future endeavours!"
The light grows. And grows. It swallows most of the sky, most of my vision, blindingly, impossibly close—
"Oh sh*—"
Bam.
It slams straight into my face, launching me back through the open door and onto the very firm floor. And then it's gone — no burn, no rock, no crater, no trace it was ever there at all — and as my consciousness starts sliding away, something speaks clearly inside my head.
— WELCOME, HOST. THE KARDASHEV SYSTEM WILL NOW ASSIMILATE WITH THE HOST'S BODY. HOST CONSCIOUSNESS WILL BE SHUT DOWN TO EASE ASSIMILATION. ESTIMATED TIME TO ASSIMILATION: 9 HOURS. —
"Wh-at th-e fu* wa-s tha..."
*Slam
Unconscious, and away with the mighty Ramen faeries — our story truly begins.