Alien in the House

brush and a scrunchie, and anything else I could think of were in it. Shoved my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
    Turned off the alarm clock as “Honey, Honey” from ABBA came on. Took the stairs down in part because using hyperspeed meant it was faster than taking one of the elevators, and in other part because it was likely Christopher was with Jeff, and I didn’t feel like getting the “you need to practice all the time” lecture.
    Reached the first floor in record time and without issue. Congratulated myself as I slowed to a human-speed walk. So far it’d been a cheerful hyperspeed morning.
    The American Centaurion Embassy went up seven floors, down two which were basement and parking garage levels, and then went down a lot more due to the hidden elevator that connected us to the Tunnels of Doom. It was a city block long and wide, and since Operation Destruction, was connected via a steel and bulletproof glass walkway on the second floors to the neighboring building we now owned, operated, and had personnel living in, which was nicknamed The Zoo.
    The first floor, being the main entryway and therefore the place the most people who weren’t part of American Centaurion in some way would come in, had the most normal stuff in it. Offices, dining room, kitchen, and some small parlors and salons. No one was in any of the rooms as I went by, meaning they were likely all in the kitchen. This meeting seemed a lot more important all of a sudden.
    As I neared the kitchen I heard voices. “. . . been quiet for the past few months.” A voice I didn’t recognize. Supposedly the politicians here were all friends, but I knew our friends’ voices.
    “That doesn’t mean plans aren’t forming, it just means we haven’t spotted what they are.” That was a voice I recognized without trying—Chuckie was here. Know a guy since the first day of 9th grade, know his voice at any time. “Sir, I don’t want to sound negative, but you need to consider the ramifications of what you’re suggesting.”
    Sir? Chuckie almost never called anyone “sir.” Wondered if I had time to go up and change into the Female Armani Standard Issue.
    Someone’s head popped around the door. Jeff’s head, to be exact. He smiled. “You look great as always, baby. Come on, you’re just in time.”
    “Just in time for what?”
    “Just in time to meet the head of the F.B.I.’s newly created Alien Activities Division.”

 
    Gini Koch lives in Hell’s Orientation Area (aka Phoenix, Arizona), works her butt off (sadly, not literally) by day, and writes by night with the rest of the beautiful people. She lives with her awesome husband, three dogs (aka The Canine Death Squad), and two cats (aka The Killer Kitties). She has one very wonderful and spoiled daughter, who will still tell you she’s not as spoiled as the pets (and she’d be right).
    When she’s not writing, Gini spends her time cracking wise, staring at pictures of good looking leading men for ‘inspiration,’ teaching her pets to ‘bring it,’ and driving her husband insane asking, “Have I told you about this story idea yet?” She listens to every kind of music 24/7 (from Lifehouse to Pitbull and everything in between, particularly Aerosmith) and is a proud comics geek-girl willing to discuss at any time why Wolverine is the best superhero ever (even if Deadpool does get all the best lines). Because she wasn’t busy enough, she’s added on featured guest columnist and reviewer for Slice of SciFi and It’s Comic Book Day.
    You can reach Gini via her website (www.ginikoch.com), email ([email protected]), Twitter (@GiniKoch), Facebook (facebook.com/Gini.Koch), Facebook Fan Page (Hairspray and Rock ‘n’ Roll), or her Official Fan Site, the Alien Collective Virtual HQ (http://aliencollectivehq.com/).