Chapter: 1  YEET ATTICUS!

      Apathy Jane, a woman whose emotional spectrum ranged from "mildly unimpressed" to "couldn't care less" whenever possible, was rudely yanked from her tranquil, dreamless sleep at 2 a.m. by a sound that could only be described as a pterodactyl undergoing a particularly dramatic and painful colonoscopy. The piercing shriek echoed through her quiet home, shaking loose the dust bunnies from beneath her bed and sending a primal jolt of alarm through her.

"What was THAT???" Jane leaped from her bed to the ceiling, her usual state of calm completely shattered.

She stumbled out, her limbs still heavy with sleep, and began a treacherous, nocturnal journey to her son Atticus’s room. Her usual path became a labyrinth of unseen dangers. First, the doorframe of her bedroom seemed to leap out and shoulder-check her with the force of a linebacker. Then, she tripped over one stray shoe, then the other, somehow managing to do a mid-air gymnastics routine before crashing into the hallway wall. By the time she reached Atticus’s door, she looked less like a concerned mother and more like a human-sized pinball.

Peeking into the dim room, her heart did a frantic little jig against her ribs. In the center of the floor, bathed in a soft, otherworldly glow, stood a creature that defied all earthly logic. It was about three feet tall, its tiny form shimmering with a metallic blue sheen, like something plucked from the depths of a futuristic ocean. Its eyes, multiple shiny orbs of holographic pink light, glowed with a silent, hypnotic movement, reflecting from the small hallway nightlight.

"What in the...?" Jane's brain, still sluggish with sleep, tried to process the impossible. Was this it? The long-awaited alien visitation she’d always been so apathetic about? The thought seemed to linger for a bit too long before a small, hard object bounced off her forehead with the force of a slingshot and a very distinct thunk.

Dazed, Jane instinctively fell back on her most reliable, and only, defensive maneuver—a rusty fighting pose she remembered from an old karate movie. She slowly raised her hands, palms outward, fingers splayed, in what she hoped was a menacing display of martial arts prowess. It looked more like a person trying to fan a very slow-moving fire. She thought, This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman, doing martial arts against... well, against whatever this is. Of course an alien would happen upon our home first. Even half awake, Jane knew she was Murphy's Law.

She squinted at the creature, its glowing pink eyes seeming to bore into her very soul. A deep, instinctual fear, the kind that bypasses logic and goes straight for the "run away and hide" part of the brain, surged through her. This thing was going down. For Atticus. For the sanctity of her quiet, pterodactyl-free nights. Seriously, who needs this at 2 AM? she mused.

Fueled by a surge of maternal panic, Jane lunged forward. She had one simple goal: yeet the alien out of the house and straight back to whatever celestial dumpster it crawled out of. But her socks, slick on the hardwood floor, betrayed her. She went sliding across the floor in a flurry of flailing limbs, her leg arched and ready to deliver a "crane kick" that would make even Mr. Miyagi proud.

It was in this moment, as her foot was poised to make impact, that she finally reached the light switch. The sudden flood of light did not reveal a menacing alien, but a very pissed-off, non-verbal Atticus. His tiny face was a sticky mosaic of a melted holographic DVD cover. The pulsing pink eyes were actually the reflective holographic eyes of Dory and Nemo from the movie Finding Dory, now clinging to his face with the tenacity of a barnacle, thanks to the spilled sippy cup. The metallic blue scales? That was the rest of the DVD cover, which had temporarily fused to his cheek in a messy, glittery mess. The unholy scream that had started it all? That was Atticus, a very unhappy camper, whose spill-proof sippy cup had, in fact, spilled all over him, melting the DVD cover to his face. The projectile that hit her head? The now-empty sippy cup.

As the pieces clicked into place, Jane's maternal brain rebooted. The “fight” part of her brain, which had been preparing to launch a full-scale assault on an alien, promptly powered down. The “rational” part, which had been napping, stirred to life and gently nudged the “laugh hysterically” part.

Her body, a tangle of limbs and socks, slowly deflated. "Had the neighbors heard their screams? Has anyone called the police... or animal control?? How did that entire situation even sound to neurotypicals?" She thought to herself. She slid into a puddle of a human on the floor, breathing heavily, the adrenaline fading and the sweet, sweet return of practiced apathy settling back in. She glanced from her silent, but angry, son to the now-tattered DVD cover. She could handle this. This was just a change of clothes and bedding and maybe a new sippy cup. Definitely not an alien encounter. 

She just needed to remember one thing: no more watching alien cartoons before bed.

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