He walked into the office at a loss for words and a cold sting in his side. He had just saved a life, isn’t that something to be proud of? It was 6p.m. and almost everyone had gone home already. The daylight was starting to dim. He hadn’t eaten since the morning, but at least he still had the sandwich his wife made him. He took his sandwich and stepped out to his usual lunch spot outside. It was really his usual smoking spot, but he needed an excuse to smoke.
He leaned over the balcony, anchoring his elbows on the railing. His heart was cold – it felt like he was being eaten from the inside. He looked at the sandwich his wife made him. There was a note attached to the back that made him smile through the mix of emotions. ‘Have a great day at work, love. You’re my hero,’ it said. “I’m no hero,” he said, as a single tear rolled down his cheek.
“Rough day, Rick?” said a voice from behind him. He wiped the tear with his hand. “I’ve been better, Kev.” “You did good today,” said Kevin, perching next to Rick and lighting a cigarette. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” “Why’s that?” “I saved a killer, Kev. Buddy o’ mine read his file. Scott Stone. 33. Convicted o’ manslaughter at 18 and served 15 years in prison. Said he got out a few months ago.” “You saved a free man. You gave him a third chance at life. That’s a good thing.” He puffed his cigarette. “He killed a kid. Imagine how her mother feels.” “Angry?” he puffed again. “Puttin’ it lightly.” “Is that the same mother who set his house on fire?” No response. “Pain brings out the worst in us,” said Kevin, extinguishing his cigarette. “But does that mean they don’t deserve another chance at life?” “I don’t know, Kev, I’m not a judge.” “Neither am I, Rick. Our job is to save lives, and you did that today.”
It’s been days without food, and Danny is starving. It feels like he’s been on this spaceship forever. His stomach grumbles, he’s desperate for a meal, but he has work to do – important work. He starts humming his favourite song to himself, Twinke Twinkle Little Star. Not the CocoMelon version, he’s too grown up for that. After all, he’d just turned seven, and seven-year-olds don’t listen to CocoMelon. At least, that’s what he thought. “Danny, do you copy?” said a static voice from his walky-talky. “We have a problem.” “Yeah, Dad- Sir, I’m here. But you forgot to say ‘over’. Over.” “You’re right, sorry. Over.” “What’s the problem? Over.” “We’ve had some motion detected at Outpost C53. Over.” “But it’s been abandoned for years. Over.” “Turns out there’s been some recent activity, but all the cameras are out, so we need someone to go over there and check it out. The real problem is that no one’s brave enough to go.” There was no response. “Danny, can you hear me?” “Yeah, but you didn’t say over. Over.” “This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath. “Are you brave enough to investigate it, Danny? Over.” “I am. I’ll fly over and investigate. Wish me luck. Over.” “Good luck, Danny. Over.”
Danny started flying toward Outpost C53, humming a different song this time. The outpost was a wreck. The thrusters had been destroyed, the food supply had been finished, and the escape pods had all been used, but that happened years ago. What could possibly be roaming around a dump like Outpost C53? Anything important there must have been destroyed already. ‘Maybe it’s just a Space Rat,’ thought Danny. (‘Hmm, what should I call them? Space… Rat… I know! I’ll call them Sats for short.’) ‘Maybe it’s just a Sat.” He flew closer and closer to Outpost C53. There was no sign of movement apart from the debris scattered around the once glorious base. Danny made a swoosh sound as the ship landed silently.
He got out of the ship, wearing his favourite Darth Vader shirt and mask. He took out his old flashlight that he’d found at school last year and switched it on. The base was empty and quiet. He stopped humming a while ago but doesn’t remember when. Now there was just the sound of his footsteps – exactly the type of noise he didn’t want to make. He couldn’t see much through his mask, so he walked slowly, peering at every corner to ensure the area was safe. It might have been if it weren’t for a strange scratching sound he couldn’t seem to place. Every ten seconds, there was this noise. Sometimes in front of him. Sometimes behind him. Sometimes above, sometimes beneath. Odd.
After turning for centuries in the labyrinth that was his house with the light switched off, Danny began to close in on the noise. It was in the room at the end of the hall to the left – he was sure. ‘This is it,’ he thought. ‘I’m going in. 3, 2… 1-‘ His dad came walking out of the room with his phone in hand. “Sorry, Danny, I need to take this,” he said, walking back down the corridor. “I know it’s urgent, I’m on my way.” “Oh…” said Danny with a sigh. “This again.” The colour drained from his once happy face. His dad had to work again. Now he had to finish the story all by himself.
Danny took small, apathetic steps inside the room to the left, hoping to find something - anything. He walked into the room like he had just lost his dog. No matter what he found, it wouldn’t cheer him up. He checked the corners – his standard procedure. He, oddly enough, heard a strange scratching noise coming from behind the bed. He didn’t know whether to look or not. For once, he had no idea what it was. The bed looked innocent enough. It couldn’t be an alien, could it? No, those don’t exist, his dad told him. He reached out his hand cautiously, not knowing what to expect. His hand couldn’t quite fit behind the bed, so he laid down to look underneath. With his flashlight in hand, he looked under the dark bed. ‘Huh, nothing,’ he thought. He heard the scratching sound again. He looked to his left. Nothing. Scratching again. He looked to his right. Nothing. ‘Where’s it coming from?’ he thought. Puzzled, he stood up and turned towards the door. There it was. Danny was mortified. This was it, fight, flight, or freeze. Staring him in the face with dead, beady eyes was a real-life Space Rat – a Sat. “AAAAAAAHHHHH,” he screamed, running past the corridor as fast as he could, dashing back to his bedroom. “MAYDAY. MAYDAY. WE NEED TO EVACUATE!”
He slammed his bedroom door shut and took off his mask, panting. “We need to take the escape pod back to Earth,” he said, but no one else was there. He grabbed his toy rocket, ducked under the covers of his bed, and spun the rocket in the air. “Oh no,” he said. “We’re going to crash!” He made a deafening noise trying to imitate the flames of something falling out of orbit. The noise was piercing, hurting his ears. He was impressed with himself until he stopped, but the noise didn’t. It got louder and louder, closer and closer. He removed the covers and looked outside his window. Had he caused this? In the darkening sky, brighter than any dim star he could see, was a huge flaming mass falling straight down toward the nearby forest. His deep brown eyes could barely stand the bright flaming ball piercing through the window. Call is ignorance or sheer stupidity, his first instinct was to run into the forest and see what it could be. An alien? A Sat? A meteor? Or maybe, just maybe, a friend?
“Every time…” he said with a defeated tone. “Every time I put my pen down, my mind goes blank.” Sitting at his desk, Lee spun around in his old, worn-down chair. It was 12 o’ clock in the afternoon and he had sat down to write four hours ago. He glanced at the bin, filled to the brim with crumpled papers. “I need to buy a bigger one,” he said. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling with blank, dead eyes. What was left of the sunlight - after being blocked by the blinds - hit his face. He closed his eyes, trying to force out a few thoughts. It had been weeks since he’d written anything final. He still had six months before the book was due, but those six months felt as they were only six weeks away. He sipped his coffee slowly. He had time to waste sipping coffee. He had nothing but time. Too much time. ‘Maybe I should take a break,’ he thought. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night, I’m just tired is all.’ Lee stood up from his desk and took the bin with him to the kitchen. ‘At least I’m helping to recycle’ he thought to himself as he threw away papers from his small bin onto the larger pile of papers in the bigger bin. The rest of the apartment felt dark, isolated, and eerie. It was just him and the noise of cars driving by outside. The neighbours were at work doing what he called ‘real jobs’. Meanwhile, he’d been sitting at home all day ‘scribbling’. He called it ‘scribbling’ because it wasn’t really writing. Writing is when you write, not when you throw away your writing. Writing is when you get it right, scribbling is when you try to get it right. Sometimes he was a writer, but most of the time he was a scribbler. He took out a few slices of leftover pizza and put it in the microwave. He watched it spin round and round, with the repetitive drone sound of the microwave buzzing by his ears. The light of the microwave was the only light in the apartment that was on. Until the microwave stopped, the room reverting back to darkness. He ate his pizza like he sipped his coffee, wondering about how strange the word ‘author’ is, and how it sounds vaguely like the name ‘Arthur’. “Arthur the author,” he said to himself, smiling. He found the thought amusing. Sitting back at his desk, he felt a wave of fear looking down at his pen and papers. His first book deal had been signed last year, the first time anyone had ever paid him for his writing (scribbling). All he had to do was write it. “Six months,” he said. “If only I had more time.”
Essays, homework, and soccer practice – a regular day for Mikey as he comes home from school. One clear summer day, he steps out of the school bus parked by his house and waves goodbye to his friends with a faint, forced smile. “See you guys at the game tonight,” he says. “It’s gonna be a big one,” his voice struggling to find its strength. “Don’t let us down,” says a voice, “You’re our star player.” The bus drives off and the smile fades from Mikey’s face. He walks towards the door of his single-floored house, closes his eyes, and opens it. “I’m home!” he exclaims. No reply. He sighs, “Thought so.” His eyes sink to the floor. The empty house feels cold, barren, and claustrophobic, like a classroom at night – empty, abandoned, and so quiet, you can hear your heartbeat.
He showers and changes into his sportswear. His phone rings. Incoming call from Dad. He stares at it for a while before letting out a breath and answering the phone. “Hello, my son. I’m running late today. I was finishing up at work,” he says in a rash, deep voice. “As usual,” he mumbles, “You weren’t betting again, were you?” “Of course not, boy. You’ve got the finals match tonight. I’ll be home in ten minutes. We must arrive early so you’ll be on time for warm-ups.” “Okay cool, I’ll see you soon.” Mikey ends the call, and a brief smile lights up his face – if only for a moment. He looks towards the sky with a bitter fondness and mumbles, “He remembered.”
An hour later, Mikey’s dad arrives in a hurry and eagerly grins at Mickey. “Come, boy. We must go,” he says. Mikey grabs his supplies and packs them in the back of the white Toyota Carina. They drive to the soccer field in silence. Plenty of cars are already parked outside the school. On the field are two teams of red and blue, the Eagles and the Sharks respectively. The Sharks coach notices the car and yells for Mikey to warm up. Mikey’s face goes red as they rush towards the field. “Sorry I’m late, coach,” he says. Coach pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re always late, Mikey,” he says. “It’s five o’clock, the match starts at six. You have an hour to get ready.” “Yes, coach. I won’t let you down.” “This is the biggest game of the season, Mikey. You’d do well not to.” Mikey joins the other players for warm-ups while his dad eagerly greets a few other parents in the stands, shaking their hands and enthusiastically striking up a conversation.
An hour of intense warm-up routines later, it’s finally time for the match to begin - Mikey’s team, the Sharks, versus the Eagles. The opening ceremony starts with roaring drums and deafening music as cheerleaders perform their routines. Mikey bends forward with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. He starts to panic, pacing back and forth. He pauses and sees his dad in the crowd, cheering. His breathing slows down before going back to normal. “You got this,” he says to himself. The teams run out onto the field. The crowd’s cheer is deafening, but Mikey doesn’t hear a thing. He’s tunnel-visioned on nothing but the game - only occasionally looking over at his dad in the bleachers.
The whistle blows and the game begins with Mikey as striker. The ball goes back and forth as Mikey struggles to score. He’s getting tired, his breaths are getting heavier and deeper. The Sharks barely take the lead for the first half. He sees his dad in the crowd, he seems anxious. “I’ll win this for you,” he says. At half-time, Mikey drinks some water and peers out of the locker room to see the other parents pushing and laughing at his dad in the crowd. “They think I’m gonna lose,” he says. He looks at his dad with loving eyes. “We’ll show them.”
The second half starts and the ball moves fast like the golden snitch, the crowd can barely keep up – the ball is just a blur. Eventually, it moves to Mikey, in prime position for his first goal. He sees the ball flying towards him as he runs to keep up. He manoeuvres the ball past the defenders, aims, and shoots. Time seems to stop as the ball soars through the air, only to land out of bounds. With only a few minutes to spare, the Eagles play the throw-in, sending the ball to centre field. The ball slowly makes its way toward the Sharks’ goal as Mikey peers at the crowd, anxiously looking for his dad. His eyes shift back to the ball, right outside the goal. “Defend the goal!” he exclaims. The opposing striker shoots. A look of terror falls on Mikey, and his heart stops. “Goal!” exclaims the announcer. The crowd cheers, but all Mikey can hear is silence. A player runs past Mikey, bumping his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. He’s in shock. All he can do is stare, not at the ball, but at the stands. His tunnel vision shifts from the game to the crowd. His heart begins to race as he struggles to hold back his emotions. His cold face turns to boiling red. He runs off the field straight into the bleachers. His eyes are glued to his dad. A group of men surround Mikey’s dad, cheering, celebrating, and patting him on the back, as they shower him with money. “You lied to me!” Mikey exclaims with tears falling from his face. “What? Of course not, son,” says his dad. “You’d have to be an absolute fool to believe that!” “What’s on the paper, Dad?” “Mikey, I can explain.” He snatches the paper and reads, ‘Eagles: 1. Sharks: 0.’ “What do you want me to do? We’re struggling!” “You could at least bet on me.”
“Okay, are you ready to start? 3… 2... 1... Welcome to Reno’s Revolutionary Revelations! Where we uhh… what does the script say?” I mutter under my breath as the next part of the tour starts. “Your tour is just the beginning of your journey into the world of solving crime and-“I say as someone cuts me off. “I’m not here for the tour, Miss Reed. I’m here to report a crime,” says a boy in a deep, stoic tone. I’ve clearly misread this situation.
He stands four feet tall with a slender build, wearing a black suit that clearly doesn’t fit him with sunglasses. His face stern as the Queen’s guard. “I need to speak with your boss, Mr. Reno Rey-,” his voice cracks as he continues, “Ahem. Mr. Reno Reyes. There’s going to be a robbery.” He looks serious, like this is important. I ask him if he has an appointment. He responds by simply stating, “This is urgent.” I agree to take him to Reno. He’s usually incredibly busy, booking appointments weeks in advance. Not very helpful when it comes to solving crime quickly, but at least he gets the job done… or takes credit for it. I show him the way to Reno’s office. Go straight down the long hallway until you see the fire alarm and turn right. Just how I was taught.
As we approach Reno’s door, we hear the loud, booming sounds of sirens, paired with flashing red lights signaling an emergency in the building. We look at each other. For the first time, I see some panic behind those glasses. “Don’t worry, everything will be alright,” I say, barely believing myself. The door bursts open straight off its hinges, almost decapitating me in the process. A large shadow looms over the two of us in the exact shape of- “It’s him!,” exclaims the boy in the oversized suit. With flashing red light illuminating his chiseled jaw and muscular frame, there stands the famed investigator himself. We’re doomed.
