The Cosmos

Industrial Nikrusis, churning smoggy city though it was, was not without charity. Celebrating the end of a successful donation run, General Colson of the Galaxy Federation stood upon a stage stationed in front of a recently renovated Humanitarian Immigration Cooperative. The non-profit establishment was a towering building, a glorious amalgamation of food distributors combined with a communal settlement. It would provide affordable immigration services to humans throughout the galaxy. The city's haze was broken by countless screens, some conveying the event, others looping with endless advertisement. Yet as the general's proud speech laden with gratitude and promises carried on, some screens started to flicker. Even personal streaming devices began to blur, twitch, overcome by a powerful broadcast. Screens split down the center. On the left, there was the perplexed face of the older General, whose speech was slowing to a stop. On the right, there sat a masked man.

The layers of black metal hid his eyes, and although his features seemed predominantly human, there were a number of questionable characteristics to contrast them. Skin was overly pale, hair was stark white, pointed ears protruded, steepled fingers were too long, thin lips were curled in the slightest suggestion of a joyless smile. Fanged upper and lower canines gleamed when he spoke, voice a deep and smarmy drawl. "Hello, General." Colson greeted the stranger with a question, attempting to save face by playing polite. "I'm afraid we've not met," the masked man admitted with an idle gesture, "but I know you very well. I believe it's time that your loyal audience did, too." With the shift of an arm, reaching to touch a console off screen, he flickered out of sight. A recording began to play. It was grainy, off-colored, as though the file had been corrupted and recovered many times over. Yet the voices and faces were undeniably recognizable. It was set at the eye-level of an unidentified man, who faced a vaguely younger Colson. His pressed dress uniform was lacking one or two shiny badges of accomplishment he wore at the present public address. "It's a simple strategy, gentlemen," he was saying, addressing the viewer. "We allow the interspecies peace advocates to do their song and dance, then we wipe them out. Our message will be louder than theirs: oppose the Eye's objectives and meet an untimely end. We allow a few to speak in order to quiet the rest." He held up a fist in emphasis, a rolled-up sleeve exposing the sordid organization's mark tattooed across the back of his wrist. "Albus Dralt. The Morningstar couple. You, Eli-" the raised fist became a finger pointed at the viewer "- let them speak. Then silence them forever. The rest of their kind will follow suit." "Understood, sir," the watcher murmured, turning to depart. As he did so, his view- and the recording's- passed over a table of representatives. Many faces featured there were also recognizable. Politicians, entrepreneurs and presidents of prevalent companies, all terribly influential, all terribly human.

On the leftmost side of the screen, the esteemed older, current Colson was shifting through a variety of colors. First the blood drained from his slack-jawed face, leaving him a ghastly white, then a vivid furious red oozed across his cheeks and brow. He began to shout, spewing demands for the broadcast to be ended, hollering claims that this was slander and farce, some falsified nonsense that couldn't possibly be believed. As the recording ended and the masked man reappeared, his thin smile was replaced now by a deep and dour frown. He watched in silence for some seconds as the general panicked, the crowd around him starting to murmur and move. Peacekeepers were trying to escort him from the stage, but one among them- an alien, given the strange shape of his uniform and helm- stood in their way, audibly asking to see the general's wrist. Formerly shifting angles were now restricted to one determined cameraman, who followed closely. As one Peacekeeper forced their comrade out of the way, a scuffle broke out, stunned silence rapidly turning into violent chaos as some tried to control the scene, others instigated with outraged demands. Screens across the city were being turned off, as attempts at intercepting the broadcast proved moot. Still it continued, in homes and ships all across Nikrusis. As Colson and one Peacekeeper fled for his vessel, the cameraman continued. His persistence ended when the Galaxy Federation general and Eye operative turned, kindly old face warped with menacing wrath, and fired upon him with a plasma pistol. As camera and corpse collapsed, the masked man's mouth twitched, but he spoke with a carefully controlled tone.

"What began as an attempt at representing humanity- the once 'lesser-powered' species in the Bermuda Triangle Galaxy- has become a corrupted objective. The Eye is no longer what it was when first it formed. Now it harbors a doctrine of human supremacy, dominance, tyrannical instatement. And they are everywhere. This-" he pointed to the viewer's left, to the now blacked-out screen, "-is why the Galaxy Federation has failed to extinguish them. Because they chose not to. Now, there is a war raging all around you. A war against aliens, androids, and-" with a cocky quotation formed by fingers, "allies. You have a choice to make. Continuing to live a life of intentional ignorance is an option, but if that is the life you choose to lead, you have already lost. You may believe it is beyond you, or beneath you. That such a foreign thing could never truly impact your neutral little bubble. I thought the same, once. That me and my bubble were all which mattered. You've no idea what they are capable of, what they mean to do. The Eye is slowly bringing your waters to boil, and you must act, or find yourself cooked through." "They're coming," a hushed voice insisted off-screen. The masked man paused, head turning towards the source with a nod, then faced the screen and continued with a quickened tempo. "There is more out there, something worth fighting for, killing for. Money. Family. Prestige. Something to help you sleep at night. It hardly matters what you fight for, but fight you must. A war is all around you, whether you are willing to see it or not. If you intend to survive it, it is time to open your eyes. To those of you 'in' the Eye, against your own volition... there are others like you. We are here. Find us. Get out." "Isaac, they're here!" "The Eye must be gouged from the face of this galaxy, or it, and every little microorganism floating in it, will suffer. Burn it all down. I-"

An explosion rocked the city and the broadcast came to an immediate end. In its attempt to flee the planet, a vessel named The Anvil had been struck from the sky by Galaxy Federation forces- presumably- and sent crashing into the toxic ocean. Nikrusis was left in a state of semi-panic and the galaxy- as recordings of this broadcast rapidly started to spread- felt the ripple of this event. Nikrus' President Illi'os Yorus, whose governance was sanctioned by the Galaxy Federation, had become a target of merciless media since the rumor began that he himself was an Eye representative. Stocks plummeted as the presidents seen in that questionable recording were brought to question, or went missing altogether. The Galaxy Federation faced a staggering percentage of deserters. Many die-hard Peacekeeper loyalists (or skeptics) saw this as the ramblings of an extremist, an elaborate scheme to slander a noble man or rile the people with sloppy scare tactics. Others went into hiding or disassociated with the Federation for their own safety. An anti-human group formed, the Arsonists. They were overlooked as a parody of the masked man's parting words, as an easily-dismissed "gang" of aliens, until the fires started.