The Mantis (pt. 01)

9:07 am. February 10, 1998. Somewhere inside A.D.R.E., a secret government facility, located beyond the outskirts of Roswell, New Mexico.

A gorgeous young woman slumbers in a chair. The sounds of heavy rain hammering the glass windows and light chatter in the background awaken her. Shaking off a hazy feeling, she sits upright and stares down at her dirty black leather pants.

Bits and pieces of recent events slowly come back to her when she touches her cold, numb face. Sweeping her long purple hair to the side, she tucks it behind her ear. She attempts to stand, but collapses in the chair, evaluating the situation.

Minutes stretch into hours as she stares at the clock on the wall, listening to the women chat behind the reception desk. Boredom sets in as the morning lingers along. Her mind wanders and her eyes get heavy. Soon, she drifts off to sleep again. Eventually, the wooden door in front of her opens.

"Amber," an older woman summons, holding open the door.

"Huh," Amber mumbles, opening her eyes, searching for the voice. "Who are you?"

"I'm Karen, Dr. Thomas' assistant," she says, waiting. "How are you?"

"My head is killing me."

"Follow me," Karen says, smiling.

"Where are we going?"

"To Dr. Thomas' office," Karen says, escorting her beyond the reception area. "Do you know why you're here?"

"I - I don't remember much after the jump."

"What jump," Karen asks, glancing over her shoulder.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Have a seat in here," Karen says, opening up a door. "Dr. Thomas will be in shortly to speak with you."

With a loud thud, the office door closes behind Amber, leaving her alone inside a warm, cozy office. Despite her headache, natural lighting, hardwood floors, and contemporary furniture make the room feel somewhat welcoming. The large aquarium filled with exotic fish and huge artificial trees, however, seem to be meant more for an eye distraction than decorations, drawing attention away from a camera on the ceiling above the desk.

Wandering around in the office, she browses through various books on the shelves until her headache subsides. Soon, the door opens. A casually dressed middle aged man with wavy autumn hair and bluish - gray eyes, wearing glasses enters the room with a folder marked: confidential.

"You must be Amber," he greets, glancing at her as he makes his way to the desk. "How are you doing today?"

"I don't know," she says, putting the book in her hand back on the shelf.

"You don't know," he repeats, sliding the chair away from his desk.

"I don't feel like jumping up and down or doing backflips," she quips, walking over towards the window, "if that's what you want to know."

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing his hand. "I want to ask you some questions."

"I'd rather stand," she says, peeking through the blinds.

"You might be here awhile," he says, sitting down at the desk.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Ethan Thomas, a psychiatrist," he says, laying the folder on his desk. "I work for the government."

"I would've never guessed that," she says, glancing over her shoulder.

"I have degrees in psychology, chemistry and biology," he mentions.

"Impressive," she says, turning around to face him.

"Karen said you jumped," he says, removing his glasses. "Are you suicidal?"

"Where are the handcuffs?"

"What handcuffs," he asks.

"I was brought here in handcuffs," she insists, approaching his desk.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, laying his glasses on the desk.

"Yeah, right," she says, heading for the door. "I'm out of here."

"You're wasting your time."

"How is it a waste of time," she asks, reaching for the door knob.

"If you leave, they'll just bring you back."

"You have to let me go," she says, attempting to open the door.

"I can't -," he begins.

"I don't belong here," she interrupts, raising her voice as she spins around to face him.

"I have to evaluate you," he says, thumbing through the file.

"And why is that?"

"That's classified," he says.

"What the fuck," she says, throwing her hands in the air.

"Calm down," he says, turning on an overhead video camera. "Things will move along quicker if you cooperate."

"Fine - whatever," she fumes, removing her leather jacket.

"Let's begin with the last thing you remember in full detail," he says, lacing his fingers, "and go from there."

"I'd rather not," she says, approaching his desk again.

"And why is that?"

"Because you're going to think I'm crazy," she says, laying her jacket on the arm of a chair.

"What I think is irrelevant at this point," he says, unlacing his fingers.

After a deep breath, Amber exhales and flops down in a leather chair directly across from him. Her options are limited; she knows it. Still, he isn't the problem. Perhaps he'll be able to help her in some way.

"Well," he says, waiting.

"Vietnam 1968," she mumbles, staring at the floor.

"Excuse me," he blurts, opening up his desk drawer.

"I said - Vietnam - 1968," she repeats, raising her voice as she lifts her head.

"That's a little hard for me to believe," he says, searching for a pen.

"How would you know," she asks, crossing her legs lady-like. "Were you there?"

"I was a junior in high school," he says, staring at her breasts. "I didn't joint the military until after the war was over."

"Do you find me attractive?"

"No. I mean, yes - you're attractive," he says, breaking eye contact with her.

"I thought so."

"Can we continue?

"Am I distracting you," she inquires, resting her hand in her lap.

"No - not at all," he mumbles, fumbling with a pen.

"What do you want to know about Vietnam," she asks, bouncing her leg on her knee.

"Nothing in particular."

"It was hot. God, it was hot - and humid. When it rained, it poured. And the mosquitos -"

"That's - not exactly what I was looking for," he interrupts, tapping the pen on his desk.

"It sure as Hell wasn't paradise," she quips.

"I can imagine," he says, leaning back in his chair.

"No, you can't," she says, shaking her head. "I remember it like it was yesterday."

"But it wasn't yesterday."

"Maybe not for you," she clarifies.

"Anyway, you were saying?"

"Death came at anytime during day or night," she says, pausing. "and it was hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys unless they were shooting at us. Survival depended on three simple rules."

"Only three rules," he inquires, reaching for his notepad.

"Keep your head down, eyes open and mouth shut," she explains, looking over her shoulder.

"Interesting," he mumbles, jotting down some notes. "Did you see much action?"

"All the time," she says, turning to face him, "until -"

"Until what," he asks, waiting.

"We were out on a routine night patrol - miles from nowhere, no enemy contact. Everything was going smoothly. Then, on our way back to base, we were ambushed."

"What happened," he asks, jotting down more notes.

"The jungle - it got quiet - too quiet. There was some movement on the trail up ahead. James, our point man, went out to investigate. Minutes later, he was blown to pieces."

"A landmine," he assumes, looking up at her.

"I'm not sure what it was," she says, shaking her head, "but we hit the dirt and scattered. Half of us left the trail; the rest doubled back to circle around."

"That must've been scary," he says.

"There was no time to be scared," she says, staring into his eyes. "The whole sky lit up like day and all Hell broke loose on us. Bullets and mortar fire rained on us from everywhere. It was awful."

"It sounds awful," he says, jotting down notes.

"It was a slaughter - an absolute slaughter," she says, covering up her face. "I can still hear the screams and cries for help."

"But you're here now," he says, gesturing his hand.

"In a way, I never made it out of that fucking jungle," she says.

"Were you captured?"

"Yeah, and tortured, too," she adds, sniffling.

"How did you manage to escape," he asks, scribbling down notes, waiting.

"I jumped."

"Jumped," he repeats.

"Yeah, I don't remember much after that," she says, shaking her head.

"What do you remember," he presses, fanning his pen back and forth in his fingers.

"I woke up near a burning building. Some men found me. When I tried to leave, they attacked me and took me away."

"Where'd they take you," he questions.

"I - I don't know, but a week later they brought me here in handcuffs."

"Huh," he blurts, raising his head.

"I said - they brought me here in handcuffs," she repeats, raising her voice.

"I heard you," he says, dropping his pen, "but Vietnam was thirty years ago.

Suddenly, there's a knock on the office door. Pausing the conversation, Dr. Thomas turns off the video camera. Then, he pushes another button on his desk, unlocking the door.

"Come in," he summons.

"Excuse me, Dr. Thomas," Karen says, leaning through the doorway. "Brett Scarborough is here to see you."

"Let him know I'm almost done," he says.

"Yes, sir," she says, closing the door.

Once the door closes, Dr. Thomas thumbs through Amber's folder again. She sits quietly in the chair, bouncing her leg over her knee as she studies him. Minutes later, he pushes the file to the side, then switches the camera on again.

"Is something wrong," Amber asks.

"No, not at all," he says, rubbing his forehead. "When were you born?"

"December 2, 2018."

"Are you serious," he asks, dropping his hand on the desk.

"I wasn't born yesterday," she quips.

"Do you know what year it is," he asks, staring over at her.

"Not exactly."

"Let's try a different route," he says, drumming his fingertips on the desk. "Where were you born?"

"Enceladus," she says, uncrossing her legs, then recrossing them the other way.

"I didn't get that," he says, picking up his pen. "Did you say Atlanta?"

"I said Enceladus - not Atlanta," she clarifies, laying her hand in her lap.

"And where's that," he asks, glancing up at her.

"It's located in the Saturnian system."

"So," he says, smacking his forehead, then dragging his fingers across his face, "you're telling me you're an alien."

"That's a matter of perspective."

Dropping the ink pen on the desk, he shoves his chair back away from the desk. Then, he leans back in it and laces his fingers behind his head, studying her as she rises to her feet.

"Should I be worried," he asks, studying her.

"Do you know what aggressive mimicry is," she asks, placing her hands on his desk.

"You mean - a wolf in sheep's clothing," he says, unlacing his fingers and sitting up in the chair.

"Vaguely - yes."

"It's not the same as trying to seduce me," he explains, sweeping his eyes over her.

"Why would I need to seduce you," she asks, waiting for his eyes to blink. "I get what I want more often than not."

"There's no such thing as aliens," he says, switching off the video camera, "or ghosts - or even monsters in the closet for that matter."

"I'm adaptive," she explains, picking up her leather jacket, "but I'm harmless unless -"

"So are humans," he interrupts, hitting a silent alarm button under his desk.

"Look, I've answered your questions," she says, slipping her arms through the sleeves. "Can I leave now?"

"Why are you here," he inquires, rising from his chair.

"I'm not here on vacation," she quips, stuffing his ink pen in a jacket pocket.

Suddenly, the office door bursts open. Several armed soldiers storm into the office - some in protective gear, others wearing some type of body armor. Startled, she topples over the chairs, slowing their advance as she makes a break for the open door.

Blasts of liquid nitrogen gas halt her escape. Her thin leather jacket provides some form of protection but not for long. She doubles back, searching for another route. Eventually, the freezing cold gas overwhelms her, slowing her movements. Sinking to her knees, she shields herself the best she can.

When the cloud of gas dissipates, a tall man in a dark business suit and tie steps through the doorway. The soles of his dress shoes clack against the hardwood floor as he approaches her. He pauses over her, staring down at her with his cold brown eyes - eyes that seem to mask something much darker in his soul.

When she raises her head, something about his out-of-place bad boy image seems familiar - as if she's seen him somewhere before but can't place where. Perhaps it's the distinctive, clean-cut hairstyle of his short, dusty brown hair with a subtle flare in the bangs. Maybe it's narrow trimmed mustache with the matching goatee - so wickedly evil-looking it gives her the chills.

"Take Amber downstairs," the man orders.

"Yes, sir," a soldier says, snatching her to her feet.

"Let go of me," she shouts, wrestling her arm from his grasp, then punching him in the face.

"Handcuff her," the man instructs, raising his voice.

Several soldiers converge on Amber trying to restrain her. She proves to be more than a match for them, defending herself. Punching, elbowing, and kicking them with precision-like martial arts strikes, she targets the vulnerable areas of the body, dispatching each opponent with efficiency. As the fighting intensifies, they drop like flies, screaming in pain from broken bones or backing away bleeding. Eventually, they overwhelm her, forcing her to the floor.

"Help me," she cries, stretching her hand out towards Dr. Thomas.

"Sedate her if need be," the man instructs.

"Ich nüyetta ghehein-laüdi," she mumbles, dropping her hand on the floor.

As the soldiers subdue Amber, she continues thrashing around, trying to escape. When the fight in her fades, one of them sticks a needle in her neck, injecting a strong sedative. Within seconds, she's unconscious.

"Brett -," Dr. Thomas begins, watching as they drag Amber from his office.

"Have a seat, Ethan," Brett says, walking over to the desk.

"Was all that necessary," he asks, collapsing in the chair.

"Did you find out anything," Brett asks, sliding his fingers through the frost on the desk.

"You didn't give me a lot to go on."

"I don't need excuses," Brett says, rubbing his fingertips.

"I've never run across a case like Amber."

"What's your professional opinion," Brett asks, cutting his eyes at him.

"To be honest, I think she's insane."

"Amber's not a woman," Brett says, wandering around the office, "at least not based on what we know."

"You didn't mention that in the file."

"The less you know, the better," Brett says.

"Apparently, y'all don't know much either," he says, sliding his notepad into an open drawer.

"The background check turn up nothing," Brett says, staring out the window. "There isn't any fingerprints or DNA on file for Amber either."

"I think you're taking this a little too far."

"I want your full report on my desk first thing in the morning," Brett says, turning around. "Do you understand?"

"What're you going to do with Amber?"

"Study it," Brett says, approaching the desk.

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean," he inquires, rising to his feet.

"We don't know what we're dealing with," Brett says, gesturing his hand.

"What if you're wrong," he asks, slamming his hands on the desk.

"The government doesn't make mistakes," Brett says.

"You can't keep Amber locked up forever."

"I need your signature on the release papers," Brett says.

"What papers?"

"They're in the file," Brett says.

"Sure - whatever," Ethan mumbles.

"Is there a problem, Ethan?"

"I could've swore I had a pen."

"Here," Brett says, handing him one.

Opening the file again, Ethan flips through the pages and scribbles his signature. Then, he closes it and shoves it across the desk. With a serrated grin, Brett picks it up and heads to the door, pausing at the doorway.

"I want that report," Brett reminds, glancing over his shoulder.