March 26th
11:30 a.m.
Pash glanced at his watch, confirming the time as he wandered the school grounds.
"Pash!" An elderly voice called out.
He turned, spotting the source.
"Oh, hello, Teacher Grimsley. I didn't hear you coming," Pash said with a polite smile.
"Yes, about that—these hoverboards are quite handy. No more long treks for me." Grimsley patted the device beneath his feet. "I should thank you for recommending this beauty."
Pash chuckled. He remembered how reluctant the man had been. Grimsley had always complained about the distance he had to walk, but his stinginess kept him from upgrading. If not for Pash's persistent persuasion—and his own weariness at hearing the constant complaints—the old teacher would never have bought one.
"I told you you wouldn't regret it," Pash replied as they walked on together.
Their relationship was… unique. Pash could still recall their first encounter, years back. It had been during a club meeting, when Sam was still in a lower class. The students had run into a problem with an engine. No one had a clue how to fix it. But Pash, drawing from the knowledge he'd absorbed from his military-engineer parents, had proposed a workable solution—not perfect, but enough to impress. Grimsley had taken notice, and since then, they'd stayed close.
"So, any plans, young man?" Grimsley asked suddenly.
"Oh? What do you mean, sir?" Pash raised a brow, studying the teacher. The man's tiny spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, his long coat nearly brushing the ground as the hoverboard glided beneath him. The school's insignia was stitched in neat gold across his chest.
"What will you do once you graduate from this glorious institute?" Grimsley's voice carried the pride of someone who had dedicated his life to the school.
"I'm thinking of following in my parents' footsteps," Pash answered matter-of-factly. "That way I'll have mentors who can guide me down the right track."
"You know you're allowed to dream, don't you? You need not chain yourself to your parents' path."
"It's not about what I want," Pash replied quietly. "It's about what's necessary."
They passed a transparent-walled room—a sports court. Inside, players leapt and glided on shoes that propelled them like skaters, chasing a ball spinning at dizzying velocity. The objective: redirect the ball with a split-second touch and send it into the opponent's rim. An evolved, high-speed version of basketball.
Pash peered through the glass for a moment, searching for someone, before continuing.
"My parents' hearts would break if I ever went to the frontlines. But the other jobs—civilian work—barely pay enough to survive. That's why I've made my decision."
"I've always been alarmed by the way you think," Grimsley said, turning to him. "Overthinking is a sin, boy. It will eat you from the inside out until you're useless."
Pash nodded, absorbing the words as they reached the spot where they would part ways.
"I hear your birthday is tomorrow," Grimsley added. His hoverboard gave a sharp hiss as it rebalanced beneath him. "Take a chill pill, as you youngsters say. Relax. You never know what the future holds."
With that, he glided away.
"Hey, Pash, what's up?"
A group of five approached—two boys and three girls, his classmates.
"So, what's happening for your birthday? You're still holding that party, right?" one of them asked, as the group drew him into easy conversation.
---
5:36 p.m.
The sun had slipped away, leaving a blanket of twilight across the sky. The moon glowed softly, painting Foxtrot City in pale silver light.
"I don't know why they have to be so damn persistent about this," Pash complained. He sat on a bed that smelled faintly of lavender and rosewater, unmistakably feminine. Posters lined the walls, books and trinkets scattered in careful chaos.
"Still going on about that?" Caoimhe emerged from the bathroom, drying her hands.
Yes—he was in her room. They had walked back from school together, and Sam had decided to finish his homework with her before heading home.
"It's easy for you to say. But tell me—how many guys our age actually celebrate their birthdays?" Pash muttered, flopping back on the bed.
"And what would we even do?" He sighed as he and Caoimhe collapsed side by side, heads tilted away from each other, elbows nearly brushing.
"Caoimhe?" he asked after a pause.
"What?" She turned her face toward him, brows arched.
"I think you should head back to the bathroom," Pash said gravely.
Her eyes widened. "Huh? Why? What's wrong? Did something—"
"It's just that…" He leaned closer.
"Your breath stinks." He broke into laughter.
"Arghhh! You—get out!" She shrieked, shoving him off the bed and out of her room.
"I'm sorry!" he wheezed between laughs.
"we are no longer friends!" Caoimhe's muffled voice came from behind the slammed door, though she couldn't resist checking her breath against her palm even as she scowled.
"What's all the ruckus?" Another voice called. A woman—Cecil, Caoimhe's mum—appeared in the hallway.
"It's nothing, Aunt Cecil. Caoimhe's just being dramatic," Pash said, grinning.
"You're the dramatic one!" Caoimhe's indignant shout rang from behind the door, making both Pash and Cecil burst out laughing.
"Alright, Aunt, I'm leaving," Pash said after catching his breath.
"Okay, dear. Say hi to your mother for me."
"Caoimhe, I'm going!" he called.
"Get lost!" came the predictable reply. More laughter followed him down the hall.
---
6:00 p.m.
Pash strolled the bustling streets of Foxtrot City. Normally, he would glide home, but tonight he wanted to feel the ground beneath his feet, to let the hum of the market wash over him. Vendors hawked their wares beneath glowing signs, the air alive with voices and the scent of spices.
"How much for that?" he asked a nearby vendor, pointing at a neatly stacked display.
"Fifty credits," the man replied, his thick Indian accent curling around the words.
"That's too much. How about—" Pash stopped mid-sentence.
Shouts erupted.
"Hey, what is that?"
"Do you think it's a star?"
"Stars don't fall from the sky like glitter, idiot!"
Pash turned, following their gazes. Something streaked across the heavens, burning as it tore through the atmosphere. It wasn't a star. It wasn't natural.
Before he could react, the vendor bolted, running with startling speed. His voice carried back to the crowd:
"Run! Run, everybody! It's the Scryvians!"
*******