Rehash.

The conversation was light for the rest of the day; we rehashed the past and joked about old raving escapades while drinking various non-alcoholic beverages—Tom stuck to coffee, while Max and I had cola. We’d arrived late in the day, so no caffeine for Jill and Jack; they drank apple juice from a small carton that had been stuck haphazardly in the back of the refrigerator to cool down when we arrived. On a whim, I logged onto my facebook account and let Tom poke around, chatting with some of my other friends. Max grinned and began telling me what had transpired when I left.

“Yeah. After you left, we packed up and went to college—dorms.” He grimaced and rubbed at his soul patch before continuing. “Yeah, the dorms were bad. Remember the old apartment, the one we used to crash in all the time? The Hangover Hang-out?”

I nodded; how could I forget The Hangover Hang-out? It had been the place where I slept in a warm, reasonably clean bed for the first time, watched television sitcoms for the first time, gotten drunk for the first time. The chaotic, cramped residence was forever fixed in my head alongside the basement—the memories of the apartment, though, were warm and bright, at odds with the cold, blank bewilderment of my basement memories. It was good that I couldn’t forget it...it was really good.

“Well, these rooms made the old apartment look like the Ritz.” Max chuckled and sipped at his cola, shaking his head mockingly at the memories. “We couldn’t stay there—we were already catching flak from some of the jerks who lived there also—so Tommy came up with the idea of getting our own place. Of course, with him getting his chemistry degree and me studying my ass off with all the mythology and psychology courses, it was hard.”

From the other side of the room, Thomas grinned and looked up from the small laptop; there was no conventional computer here. “For God’s sake man, don’t study your ass off. You need it!” He laughed and looked back at the screen, eyes narrowing slightly as he read the text. “Hey Olo…who’s this ‘Thomas Rohrer’ guy?”

“A friend of mine. He works for ARFA—y’know, the Alien Rights and Freedom Association.” Quickly I warded off the impending question, antennae twitching slightly. “I’ll explain it all later, okay?”

“Sure thing.” Thomas nodded and went back to surfing the web.

Max followed that short conversation, then raised an eyebrow and stuck his tongue out at Tom, coaxing laughter out of Jack and Jill. It did look funny, seeing a man in his twenties resort to such an infantile gesture, but this was Max we were talking about. Age really didn’t seem to matter with him, nor appearances. That quality seemed to be in everyone I met…but of course that would be the case. I was an alien, after all, and not many bigoted people would want to be friends with me. Just my luck, I guess.

Sensing the conversation sputtering out like a candle deprived of oxygen, my black-haired friend blinked and rolled his neck. “So anyway…it took a while, but once we got some real free time away from classes, we started scouting around. New York isn’t the best place for people like us, at least when you want an apartment, so we waited until we could transfer together before putting the down payment on this place. Now we’re at the college nearby—it’s a nice place. Copacetic, really.”

Tom held up a fist in the air, his eyes never leaving the laptop screen. “Right on.”

Jack and Jill giggled again before scampering off. I kept track of them out of the corner of my eye—they wouldn’t deliberately cause trouble, but it was still possible that they’d knock something over, mix up a box or two…”

“It’s fine, really. It’s all cool.” He must have caught my expression. Max flicked his wrist a bit, driving away the idea as if it was a mosquito. “Jack and Jill can fool around all they want. They’re kids.” He smiled as my children pulled a deck of cards out of the duffel bag and sat down a short distance away. I gazed at them—yes, they were playing gin rummy. They loved that game.

Quietly I could hear him add, “Could you tell us your end of the story, now? What’s gone on over the past few months?” max didn’t say it out loud, but his quick glance at my scarred plating begged the question: what the hell happened to you? Tom looked up and closed the laptop, picking up that the conversation was turning away from its original trivial subject.

What the hell had happened over the past few months? When I stop to think about it, even now, it seems like so much…too much to have all happened. It did, though—I’ve got the memories and the scars to prove it, tangible reminders that my dreams and flashbacks really aren’t just in my head. They’re real, and they did happen. Slowly I felt myself tip the coke bottle and drink a few sips’ worth. Even though I was moving of my own accord, it was detached. I could have been an observer to it all; an audience member to my own monologue, listening in on my own soliloquy. I just wished that it was better then it actually was; Hamlet’s “to be, or not to be” seemed a whole lot better then my stories of Miss Miss, tripping, meeting ARFA…and the egg trade.

They didn’t need to hear that; I could have easily lied and used my brain—my somewhat talented brain, if I allowed myself the vanity of thinking that—to formulate some other way of explaining my cracked, still-healing frame. I could have fallen down a flight of stairs, or gotten into a memorable barfight, or gotten caught up in a rowdy MNU protest. But no: the story tumbled from my mouth in all of its bastard glory—and the best part? The best part? It was tame compared to some of the other ones I’ve heard. Take Seth Thomas, Sherry Johnson, Gabriel Mumper, Nick Gogan. What I’ve seen is nothing compared to what—

Max was staring at me, horror etched on his features. “You’re…you’re not kidding. You…really did that.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking down and shaking his head. “Just…damn. Damnit. That shouldn’t be happening here. Not in America, or anywhere. Damnit.”

My voice was quiet. “Well…Blue Fly doesn’t do it anymore. We—“ No. I would not tell them what happened to that monster. Let’s save some of their sensibilities, shall we? “We took him down. He got arrested. He's...he's in jail now.”

“But still, there are others.” Thomas tentatively put a hand on my shoulder. The blue cloth of his sweater rubbed against my green plating and I thought briefly of analogous colors. He was complementary, but I was analogous to him. Funny. Ha-ha. Why wasn’t I laughing?

Max chewed on his bottom lip for a few seconds, then stared right at me. “We’re joining this ‘ARFA’ thing. If this shit goes on, we’ve got to stop it.” He stared at Thomas, who had moved during my narrative to sit next to him. His voice was softer when he spoke to him. “Right?”

Thomas smiled grimly and flicked Max’s nose. “That’s right, Maxine.” He nodded and blinked at me. “We’re signing up to this. Can you put a good word in for us with the guy in charge? I checked it out…it was some ‘Commander of ARFA’ guy and Ryan Baumgardner, right?”

I could only stare at them, moth agape and mandibles hanging slackly. Their remarks…they were in English, perfect Tom-and-Max English, but for some reason their meaning refused to be processed. If I was a computer, I’d still be displaying the ‘Windows Is Loading’ pop-up.

“What?”