In French

Two dreams summation

The sky, overspread with gloomy and laden clouds, appears on the brink of falling down in heavy, endless rain. The pouring will last a week, no less: there is no other way in this world. The important thing is to sneak away from here in time – before the cold, bone-chilling rainstorm unleashes. 

Where is here?

I am sitting on the rooftop of a skyscraper, nonchalantly dangling my legs from the ledge and leaning back on my arms; my hands grip the inner edge of the massive rooftop parapet. This is an excellent vantage point over the street on my right, the park on my left, and the small courtyard just below me. However, the scenery far below – with its once-lively landscaping and the dark asphalt road – is deserted: no movement. It's all because of them. Such as my companion sitting next to me.

“Hey, take a look, take a look,” his voice encourages me.

I ease myself forward a little, strain my eyes, and peer down to the ground: anything? There! Underneath, out of the main entrance of my building, runs a small group of people – about five or six heads. I don’t have eagle vision, so it’s difficult to count them with limited visibility from an incredible height. 

“To the right,” I state. 

“To the left,” my associate corrects. Indeed, the cluster of morons crosses the tiny courtyard and turns in the direction of the park. They then hide around the corner of a multistory, candle-like tower standing just opposite my skyscraper. I sigh in exasperation. Vaguely, somewhere from below, echoes of shouts and groans are heard, but the throat-ripping, helpless voices of despair quickly fall silent and forgotten.

“You don’t feel sorry for them at all, do you?” The one sitting next to me is interested. Almost sincerely. 

I click my tongue and shake my head, droning under my breath, “For the frigging way they tend to write and film sometimes, I already want to see all the characters quickly killed off. The sooner this nonsense ends the better.” 

“That's cruel,” notes my companion. 

I snigger ironically and retort, "Look who's talking." 

Frantically running out of the front door, another group of people shows up. This one looks even more organized than the four previous – if these new fugitives are lucky and equally bright they will make it to the road. As the day begins to cool down into a late-summer evening, I am watching other people’s doom.

“Where?” my opponent asks. 

Raising my eyebrows reproachfully, I turn to face him. What is the point of arguing with a mind-reader? And besides the unusual abilities, my antagonistic companion also looks... weird. He is two-something meters tall; he is bony and dark-skinned.

Additionally, he's got six toes and fingers, a glistening chitinous cover with corrugated muscle tubes all around, and external ribs on his chest. Elegantly bent arches above his shoulders and polished kneecap joints are more uncanny touches to his appearance. My neighbour is sitting sideways to me; his nearest leg is folded under him and the other one is flexed with the knee upwards. This noble posture allows me to study his smooth dorsal tubes, heel and elbow spikes, long serrated tail with its sharp tip, and, of course, his head. The imitation of a phallus in profile. Impressively carved ribbing on the top of the dome indicates that my associate is a mature being. Significantly more mature than others of his family, who gallop below in the yards and streets of the city.

“Are you aware they were discussing the possibility of developing intelligence as we grow older? The screenwriters and the director,” he comments, having overheard my thoughts. My companion confidentially lowers his “face” over my shoulder as if he could physically whisper these words in my ear. 

I roll my eyes. Of course, I know that.

Something cold and viscous covers my bare shoulder. I turn my head sharply to notice whitish slime dripping from the outer jaw of my neighbour. He turns away, adopting the rehearsed noble and upright pose, while I try to rub clean his sticky secretions. I only succeed in smearing it all over my shoulder and getting my left palm dirty. The ooze hangs from my hand – part of it shakes off, coming unstuck, and the other part remains hanging down in threads and clots. Without hesitation, I spread the leftovers on the shoulder of the one who gave it to me. 

He does not move. “Thanks. It's a reflex, you know, when in contact with the proteinous."

The pre-storm wind rises. I glance at the sky and chance the looming question, “Well, how much longer do we have to sit here? What are we waiting for? ”

My opponent stays motionless. Except for his tail. The jagged tail – helically wrapped around my associate's torso, passing around his back and bent leg – begins to unfold. It creeps in my direction until the tip hovers just at my right temple. "You ought to give up your story." 

I lean back, noticing the chiselled tip move synchronously with my head. “Why would I?” I ask, inching forward while the blade inexorably mirrors my futile attempts to dodge. It holds precisely at my temple.

"Thoughts are material, you know..." muses my neighbour. 

After I turn to face my companion, the point of his tail rests against my nose bridge. I declare with defiance, "In fact, the story has already been written. I just cannot think of a name."

Brandished like a cold weapon, the appendage retreats to wrap its master again and to peacefully land in his lap. By the tone of his voice, he might seem interested. "And what is the hitch with the name?"

I sigh, "I want something catchy and inclusive, but just one word. I thought of 'She-Alien,' but it sounds and looks awkward –”

Having not heard me out, he interrupts, “It's amazing how fond you are of limiting yourselves. If not by rules, then by languages. Try French.”

After eyeing him, I snicker. Then, following hazy intuition, I glance down. Exactly at that moment, I catch sight of a flock of my opponent's superficial relatives sweeping across the small courtyard. Swiftly bounding on all fours, they tear through the entrance of my skyscraper. Have they really slaughtered everyone else in the city and have no one left to hunt for? And more importantly: will my companion defend me? 

Regardless, he sticks to his guns, paying absolutely no attention to domestic turmoil. "Or you can try the hybrids – legionnaire, questionnaire," he suggests. 

For a moment, I get distracted from the thoughts of my personal apocalypse. "It might work," I say under my breath.

My associate starts unfolding; he straightens his tail, flattens his knees, stretches out, and stands up. "So try it," he underlines. 

I have no choice but to get up along with him on the rooftop parapet. Turning to face me, he steadily holds out his bony, long-nailed hand. I extend mine towards him, but his palm touches my shoulder instead and pushes me effortlessly over the edge of the rooftop.

I do not have time to feel the choking, dizzying fall, get scared, or notice the building next to me as I dive in the blink of an eye. And I absolutely do not feel pain when a solid, inevitable surface crashes into me. I cannot move, but I see the cracks and fissures of the grey walkway clearly. One second later, the view fades into total blackness. The next moment, the sight of grey pavement reappears. 

Then, oblivion.

Once awake, I grab any pen and paper I can find before the word slips my mind. Handwritten letters one by one reveal: "aliennaire."

This is the name of my fanfiction and I use this nickname on thematic discussion boards.