As an aspiring novelist, I had read a lot of stuff—from newspapers to conspiracy articles. But that day, as I squinted at my laptop screen, I stumbled upon something that left me scratching my head.
"What the hell is this?" I muttered with a mix of confusion and amusement bubbling up inside me. "A shadow government? And what? Someone ruined the timeline? Crazy…" I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity.
According to the article, Earth had originally been divided into seven continents and had never been unified. Instead, it was just a patchwork of smaller countries, each apparently fighting over who got to claim the best pizza toppings. And, get this: there was only one moon! Not two! I felt like I'd been handed the script for a really low-budget sci-fi flick.
"How crazy is that?" I mused, shaking my head. "I only know one sovereignty, and that's the Earth Confederacy, where I'm pretty sure the most significant battle is over which coffee shop to go to."
Realizing that reading about shadow governments and timeline disasters was not exactly the escapism I needed, I decided to pivot. UFOs were infinitely more entertaining than whatever bizarre alternate reality this article was trying to sell me.
I had read somewhere in a forum that there was a rising demand for sci-fi novels in the market.
"I could work with that."
I shortly became tired of reading and closed my laptop, the screen fading to black as my thoughts swirled around the bizarre article. I might've read a lot of stuff, but I was far from being knowledgeable. Even I knew there were two moons—everyone did! I still couldn't get over that crazy article, though.
The idea of a single moon in a world that was supposed to have two sparked something in my mind. I could definitely weave that into a plot. Isekai was on the rise lately, and the thought of a character getting pulled into a dimension where the laws of nature were rewritten fascinated me.
I looked at my calendar, the date circled in red glaring back at me. It was Sunday. I had to go to bed early, knowing I still had work tomorrow. Being a web novelist didn't really pay that much, but I'd get my big break sometime soon. I had to believe that. After all, everyone started somewhere, right?
So what's up with Sunday? Why the red circle? Sundays were my deadline, the day I either faced the glorious triumph of uploading my latest chapters or the crushing defeat of staring at a blank screen while questioning all my life choices.
Before I went to sleep, I uploaded a few chapters for my novel, The Very Normal Life of Special Agent Sam. The title was a bit of a joke; Sam was anything but normal. The poor guy found himself in bizarre situations, like investigating a theft at a psychic's convention and having to navigate a world where everyone was convinced their cat was the reincarnation of a historical figure. I had to admit, the absurdity was oddly liberating.
After finishing the upload, I scheduled a few more chapters to be released throughout the week. My strategy was simple: keep readers engaged, keep the mystery alive, and, most importantly, keep my sanity intact while juggling my day job and writing. If only I could schedule my life like I did my chapters!
I took a deep breath, letting the weight of the deadline settle in.
My heart raced at the thought of readers eagerly awaiting Sam's next misadventure. Would they find out how he managed to accidentally foil an alien invasion at a taco truck? Did I even have a plan for that yet? I couldn't remember, but that was half the fun—getting lost in the chaos and hoping that somehow, a plot would emerge from the ridiculousness.
I woke up before my alarm cried, the familiar blare replaced by the gentle stirrings of my thoughts. Mornings were never my strong suit, but something about the day ahead felt different.
I never got the chance to go to college. Too poor. Mostly lazy, though. Kids around my age couldn't find it in their bones to study while working, and I was no exception. I was only in my early 20s, so I could still take a shot at it, but most often than not, I'd rather stick to manning convenience stores and living out my dreams through fictional characters.
I knew education was important, but I wasn't looking for a long life well-lived. I'd be happy enough to reach at least my 40s. Bizarre in so many ways, I had a rather pessimistic view of life. But hey, at least I was consistent. My optimism flickered like a faulty light bulb, but that didn't stop me from dreaming about writing the next great novel or somehow stumbling into a life of accidental fame.
As I shuffled into the kitchen, the aroma of coffee filled the air, and I turned my attention to breakfast. Cooking was one of the few things that felt like a creative outlet. I cracked eggs into a pan, watching them sizzle, and contemplated what I'd write that day. Maybe I'd add a subplot where Sam accidentally gets roped into a baking competition.
Imagine the shenanigans of an alien trying to figure out how to make cookies while keeping a low profile!
"Yeah, that sounds about right," I murmured to myself, flipping the eggs with a flick of my wrist. I even managed to toast some bread without burning it—progress!
After my morning routine, I hopped on my bike, the sun peeking over the horizon as I pedaled toward the convenience store. The day felt promising, ripe with the potential for productivity and maybe a new idea for Sam's next misadventure. But then, just like that, it all went sideways.
Out of nowhere, I was blindsided by a truck. One moment, I was riding along, the wind in my hair, and the next, I was… well, let's just say my morning took a dramatic turn.
And no, it didn't send me to another world, though I could've sworn I felt the universe giggling at my misfortune. Instead, I found myself in a polished room that looked like it was straight out of a crime show. The walls gleamed, and the air was thick with tension, like I had just walked onto a movie set for a legal thriller.
I blinked, trying to process what had happened, and that's when I realized I was cuffed to a chair. My heart raced as I looked around. In front of me stood a rather serious-looking man in a black suit, his expression as unreadable as a fortune cookie without a message.
He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing. "What were you doing on January 21, 2002, at 6:46 in the morning?"
I opened my mouth, ready to give him a snappy comeback about my breakfast routine or how I was probably pondering the mysteries of the universe—like why people keep their cats dressed in little sweaters—but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I just blinked at him as confusion and disbelief swirled in my mind.
"Uh… trying to make it to work?" I finally managed, my voice shaky and uncertain. "But I think you have the wrong guy. I mean, I don't even know what day it is today!"
He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "This is not a joke, Mr.—"
"Just call me 'Convenience Store Guy.' It's easier."
"Convenience Store Guy," he repeated, his tone flat. "We have a serious matter to discuss regarding your whereabouts at the time specified."
My mind raced. "Look, if this is about my parking skills, I can explain. I swear I left enough space for the guy who parks next to me! And if you want to talk about my writing, I can tell you about my protagonist, Sam. He's got some crazy stories—"
He cut me off with a wave of his hand, clearly not interested in my novel's plot twist. "We're not here to discuss your writing career. You were involved in an incident that requires an explanation."
My heart sank. This was not how I envisioned my day going. I had just wanted to jot down some ideas for a baking alien and instead found myself cuffed and interrogated like I was a character in one of my own novels. I glanced at the one-way mirror, half-expecting my readers to be watching, placing bets on how I'd wiggle my way out of this one.
"So, what's my charge? Attempted grocery store hijinks?" I attempted a grin, though it felt more like a grimace.
He didn't even blink. "You might want to take this seriously, Mr. Bright."
"Fine, fine," I sighed, slumping in my seat. "Let's get to the bottom of this, then."
"Robin O. Bright. Convenience store employee. Web novelist. 22 years old. Born on the First of November. Orphan. Raised in Hopeful Hearts Home. Finished Senior High School under the General Academics Standard track. Finished Junior High School under Special Program in Arts with specialization in Creative Writing. Did I get everything right?"
I stared at him, wide-eyed. "Wow, you've really done your homework, huh? You missed my favorite color, though. It's blue, in case you were wondering."
He didn't even crack a smile. I guess guys like him didn't do humor.
"Let's stay on topic," he said, his tone colder than my convenience store's freezer section. "We're interested in your connections and activities on January 21, 2002, at 6:46 in the morning."
My brain scrambled for answers, but I was drawing a complete blank. "Uh… I was going to work and… ugh… brain hurts."
He leaned forward, his gaze drilling into me. "Think harder, Mr. Bright. This is no laughing matter."
I gulped. Whatever this was, it was way above my pay grade. "I think a truck hit me," I muttered, the only clear memory floating around in the fog of confusion.
He scribbled something on his notepad, like he had just heard me confess to a crime. Then, without missing a beat, he looked up and asked, "Are you aware it is Year 2025 right now?"
I blinked. "What? What the fuck?" I stared at him, trying to process what he just said. "Come again? Please tell me I didn't just jump forward in time…"
He gave me that deadpan stare again, like I'd just asked him if water was wet. "You heard me correctly, Mr. Bright. It's the year 2025."
I slumped back in my chair, feeling like the floor had been pulled out from under me. "No way… this has to be a prank. Am I on some sort of reality show? Did I end up in some weird sci-fi story I accidentally wrote in my sleep?"
But the seriousness in his face didn't waver. There were no hidden cameras. No laugh track. This was real—way too real.
"So you're telling me I… what? Skipped twenty-three years like I was hitting 'fast-forward' on life? What's next, you're going to tell me aliens are involved, too?"
He didn't answer. Which only made me more nervous.
The man provided, "No, aliens aren't real. Cryptids are real."
What? I blinked at him, trying to wrap my mind around this bizarre twist.
I faked a laugh, the sound hollow and nervous. "Ha ha ha~"
He stared at me with a dull look in his eyes.
"You aren't joking."
"No, I'm not," he said flatly. "The truck that hit you—we think it's a cryptid."
I gaped at him. "You're serious right now? You expect me to believe that a truck—like, an actual vehicle—was a cryptid? What's next? A Sasquatch driving a getaway car?"
He didn't respond, his face as expressionless as a mannequin. I rubbed my temples, feeling the pressure of this strange reality weighing down on me. "So, let me get this straight. You're telling me that the very thing that nearly flattened me was not just a regular truck driver having a bad day but some kind of mythical creature?"
"Correct."
I leaned back in my chair, thinking I was on the deep end of crazy. "What does a cryptid even look like when it's masquerading as a truck? Is it like a shapeshifter? A Bigfoot in a trucker hat?"
The man sighed, as if my jokes were draining his last nerve. "Focus, Mr. Bright. We need to ascertain whether you have any injuries or memories related to the encounter."
"Great, I'm suddenly the key witness in a cryptid hit-and-run," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "What am I supposed to do, sketch a picture of the truck or something?"
"Actually, yes. If you can remember any details, it would be helpful."
I leaned forward, my curiosity piqued despite the absurdity of the situation. "Alright, so let's say I play along with this. What kind of details are you looking for? Was it a Ford, a Chevy? Did it have glowing eyes?"
The man jotted down notes, clearly unfazed by my sarcasm. "Just tell me what you remember. Anything could help."
I sighed, racking my brain for anything useful. "Okay, okay. The truck was big. Like, really big. And it came out of nowhere, almost like it was—" I paused, trying to find the right words. "—like it was stalking me?"
"Stalking?" He looked up, interest piqued.
"Yeah! I mean, I swear I saw it following me for a bit before it hit me. Like it was waiting for the right moment. And then… everything went black."
He nodded, jotting down my words with a determined look. "That's good. Any sounds? Smells? Anything unusual?"
I thought hard, the memories still jumbled. "There was this strange noise… kind of like a low growl mixed with engine revs. And… I think I smelled something sweet, like candy? But that could just be my imagination running wild."
The man's brow furrowed as he wrote. "A growl and a sweet smell. Noted. Thank you, Mr. Bright. This could be more complicated than we anticipated. What else?"
I hesitated, unsure whether I was about to make things weirder or get myself even deeper into trouble. "Well… last night, I was reading a conspiracy article about how there was supposed to be just one moon, that there were seven continents, and that the Earth Confederacy had never—"
Before I could finish, the man practically slammed his fist on the desk, the sharp sound echoing in the sterile room. "Forget everything about what you've read."
My eyes widened at his sudden outburst. "Uh… why?"
Usually, when a conspiracy was right, it was because there was some ugly truth lurking behind it… or at least, that's how it was supposed to go in most novels. This whole thing was starting to feel like one of those novels, and I couldn't help but feel like I'd just stumbled into some forbidden chapter I wasn't supposed to read.
He leaned forward, his voice a low growl, and I was starting to wonder if he might be the cryptid. "Because, Mr. Bright, certain truths are better left uncovered. The world operates in ways that the public doesn't need to know about. The article you read… it's dangerous, and it's based on things that shouldn't even be whispered, let alone published."
I stared at him, my pulse quickening. "So… you're telling me there is some truth to it? I mean, I know it sounded crazy, but—"
"Forget it." He cut me off again, his eyes narrowing. "If you value your life, you'll stop asking questions about things that don't concern you."
My mind was spinning. "Not concerned? Dude, I just got hit by a truck-cryptid and thrown into a secret government interrogation room. I think I'm officially concerned!"
He rubbed his temples like I was giving him a migraine, but there was something in his expression—a flicker of something darker. "You have no idea how deep this goes, Mr. Bright. You've seen a glimpse of something most people never even dream about, and that already puts you in danger. As a 'mundane,' you should put your nose where it belongs."
I flinched at the way he spat the word mundane, like it was some kind of insult. It stung in a way I didn't expect, as if it was a label I wasn't supposed to bear.
"I want to go home," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I know my rights—"
"You aren't going anywhere unless I say so," he interrupted, his tone cold and final.
My stomach twisted. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. "I didn't ask for any of this," I muttered. "I just wanted to go to work, maybe write a chapter or two—now you're telling me I'm in danger because of something I don't even understand?"
He leaned in, his eyes locking onto mine. "Exactly. You didn't ask for this, but you're in it now. And until we figure out why that cryptid came after you, you're not going anywhere."
I wanted to argue, to tell him that this was all ridiculous and that I had every right to leave. But something about the way he spoke, the way he knew things I didn't… made me hesitate. There was more at play here, something bigger than just a freak accident or a conspiracy article I'd stumbled across.
"Look," I started, trying to keep my tone even, "I get that there's some… stuff going on that's way over my head. But I'm not involved in any of this. I'm just a regular guy. Why would a cryptid—or whatever that was—target me?"
He raised an eyebrow. "That's what we're trying to figure out."
Great. Now I was some kind of puzzle for a shadowy government agency. "So, what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait while you guys play detective?"
"For now, yes." His voice softened, but only a little. "Until we can guarantee your safety, you're staying under our supervision."
I groaned, leaning back in my chair. "This is insane. I don't even know what a cryptid is, and now I'm in cryptid witness protection? What's next? Do I get a secret identity and a new life in some remote cabin?"
He didn't answer right away, just continued staring at me with that unnerving intensity. Finally, he said, "In some cases, we've had to relocate individuals for their own protection."
I blinked. "Wait—seriously? You're not joking?"
"No, Mr. Bright. I don't joke."
Fantastic. My life was officially turning into one of my own novels, except way less fun and with far fewer explosions.