Chapter 2: Touchdown

2

“Officer, really... not even a clue?” Michael’s mom’s face was streaked with tears, voice hoarse from pleading. “My Mikey’s never skipped class—he always calls if he’s five minutes late! Please, you have to find him.”

The police station buzzed with fluorescent lights and the stale smell of takeout. The officer’s eyes were sympathetic but tired. He slid her a cup of weak coffee, wishing he had better answers.

He sighed, gentle: “Ma’am, we’re doing everything we can. No signs of kidnapping or ransom. We checked the college cameras—Michael was last seen leaving the dorms alone. We’re expanding the search and will contact you with any news.”

Michael’s dad stood nearby, fists clenched, eyes red. Every minute was torture. He paced a groove in the floor, checking his phone for a miracle call.

Counselors and admins promised to help, but as days dragged on, hope faded. Faculty meetings turned tense. Rumors spun. The official word never changed: no news.

Meanwhile, in orbit, the Dawn floated invisible and silent—a secret between Michael and the stars.

“All systems go. The new body’s a perfect match—down to the fingerprints and freckles.” Athena’s voice was steady in Michael’s mind.

The words hit deep—this was it. No going back.

Michael stood before the life-support pod, staring at the figure inside: his own face, perfectly still.

It was like looking in a funhouse mirror—familiar, but not quite real. His stomach flipped between pride and dread.

He took a breath, lay in the neural link pod, and let the hiss of cool mist wash over him. Panic fluttered in his chest, but Athena’s voice steadied him.

Cold fluid crept in, consciousness fuzzed—and then he opened new eyes, staring through the transparent pod cover.

He blinked, disoriented—one body to another, like logging into a new game.

He flexed his fingers, and the bionic hand moved in perfect sync. He felt the culture fluid, cold and thick, against his skin.

The sensation was uncanny—his brain said human, but every sense felt sharper, crisper, like the world had gone HD.

“How does it... feel?” he asked, using the bionic body’s voice—identical to his own. Hearing it sent chills up his spine.

“Neural connection normal, all sensory data transmission 100%,” Athena replied, calm as ever.

“Awesome.” Michael—now in the bionic body—grinned, rolling his shoulders. He felt stronger, faster, more coordinated than ever.

He did a quick lap of the lab, movements smooth and athletic, like a pro after years of training.

“Athena, make two more bionic humans. They don’t need to look like me—basic templates are fine. Set them as my assistants.” He wanted backup, just in case.

He pictured a trio—secret service, but with way more at stake.

“Command confirmed: Starting manufacture of bionic humans ‘Assistant-A’, ‘Assistant-B’. Estimated 12 Earth hours each.”

Michael watched the robots work, wondering if his new assistants would have personalities—or just blank slates ready to follow orders.

A day later, three bionic humans—Michael-1 and two generic assistants—stood at the Phantom shuttle’s hatch.

They looked like college kids waiting for a bus, if you ignored the spaceship behind them.

“Athena, set course. Return to Earth—target: the same abandoned warehouse.”

He paused, checklist running through his mind—stealth, security, all the new rules. He hesitated: Would his parents even recognize him anymore? Was he still himself, or just a ghost in a new shell?

“Course set. Enable optical stealth and radar evasion?”

Michael hesitated again. The monkey with a gun might sneak a shot at the king, but maybe it was time for the whole jungle to notice. The urge to announce himself—to see what the world would do—buzzed in his brain.

“No, cancel stealth. Enter the atmosphere normal.”

His heart pounded—this was the point of no return.

“Warning: Canceling stealth will almost definitely be detected by Earth’s systems. It could trigger unknown risks. Confirm execution?”

Athena’s tone was even, but the gravity was clear.

“Confirm.” Michael’s voice didn’t waver.

“Command received: Phantom departs. Estimated to enter Earth’s atmosphere in 30 minutes.”

As the shuttle left the Dawn, NORAD’s alarms blared in Colorado. Coffee spilled, screens flashed red, and a dozen officers barked orders.

“General, we’ve got something weird coming in from orbit—fast. Not a missile, not a plane. You need to see this.”

A young tech’s voice cracked as he relayed the data. The general’s eyes locked on the screen, running the numbers.

“Origin? Ballistic missile?”

“No, sir. Trajectory’s all wrong. Not a missile. It’s slowing down, but still way faster than anything we know.”

Across the world, in Russia’s Space Monitoring Center:

“Unidentified high-speed target entering atmosphere—Mach 25, decelerating.”

“Calculate trajectory. Predict impact point.”

“Target decelerating smoothly, not a meteorite. Non-natural flying object, predicted impact: U.S. Midwest, near Dayton, Ohio.”

“Notify Dayton Emergency Command. First-level alert—evacuate civilians within three miles, fast!”

Orders flew across the globe: China, Japan, South Korea—every nation with a satellite was watching.

“Connect to U.S. emergency line. Is this an alien?”

“Whatever it is, it’s headed for the U.S.”

Cable news lit up. #DaytonUFO trended. Conspiracy theorists scrambled for tinfoil.

Police sirens wailed in Dayton’s suburbs. Families packed pets and photo albums, argued about escape routes, and stared at the sky.

Old men in lawn chairs aimed their phones at the clouds, the air buzzing with tension.

Above, Phantom’s hull blazed with re-entry fire. Michael watched the plasma trail through the porthole, heart pounding.

3

The night exploded.

Phantom, trailing fire like a meteor, landed with precision in the old warehouse lot on Dayton’s edge.

The shockwave rattled broken windows and set off a dozen car alarms. A dog howled somewhere in the dark.

A semi rumbled down the highway nearby, headlights strobing across the warehouse’s graffiti-tagged walls.

No sooner had the engines cooled than sirens and roaring engines closed in. Police cruisers and military trucks boxed in the lot, floodlights blazing.

Flashlights cut through the dark, crisscrossing over Phantom’s hull.

“Target landed, repeat, target landed.”

“All units, keep distance, weapons ready.”

“Seal all exits. Snipers up.”

Within seconds, soldiers formed a tight ring, rifles up. Their hands tightened on their guns, a rookie’s finger trembling on the trigger. A dog nearby barked wildly, straining against its leash.

Helicopters beat the air above, searchlights painting the shuttle ghost-white. The smell of exhaust and gunpowder filled the night.

Every eye—from the Pentagon to Moscow—watched the warehouse lot.

Inside the Pentagon war room, a general stared at a blurry thermal feed, lips tight. Every move was broadcast, every breath measured.

Phantom’s hatch hissed open, a blast of cold air sweeping out.

Every soldier froze. The searchlights converged, soldiers’ fingers tightening even more.

A figure stepped out, washed in blinding light. Not an alien monster or killer robot—just a kid in jeans and a faded hoodie, sneakers scuffed, hoodie out of style. He looked like any college student—if you ignored the impossible ship behind him.

It was Michael—the missing student from days before. Or, more accurately, Michael-1.

He paused in the hatch, squinting, face calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that makes everyone else nervous.

The two assistants stood behind him, blank-eyed and perfectly still.

“Don’t move! Hands up!” the lead officer shouted, his voice crackling with nerves.

Michael-1 complied, arms rising smoothly. The movement was too perfect.

He scanned the soldiers, calculating. His real body, far above, watched through these new eyes.

“Who are you? What is this craft?” the officer demanded, waving a tech over for facial recognition.

“I am Michael,” Michael-1 replied, voice steady. “As you can see.”

The data techs hustled, sweat beading. Moments later: “Report—target matches missing student Michael, age 20, sophomore.”

The officers exchanged glances. This was no prank.

“Michael,” the officer tried again, softer but wary. “Explain: why are you here? Where did this craft come from?”

Michael-1 lowered his hands, voice level: “It’s complicated. Let’s just say I had some... encounters.”

He paused, picking his words carefully. “This craft, call it ‘Phantom,’ doesn’t belong to any country on Earth.”

“Alien tech?” the officer pressed.

“You could put it that way,” Michael-1 nodded. “Its origin? Sorry, can’t say. What matters is, it’s bound to me. Only I can control it.”

The word "bound" hung in the air, sparking whispers and frantic notes in every command center.

“Bound?”

“A kind of... permission binding. Only I can use it. No one else can crack it. I mean no harm. I just want to go home.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy. Even the helicopters seemed to hover in place.

Alien tech. Personal control. Uncrackable.

The world’s analysts scrambled, reality bending around the new truth.

“So, this ‘Phantom’ is totally under your control?”

“Yes.” Michael-1’s answer was firm. He played the role of lucky recipient, not mastermind.

Around the globe, governments scrambled:

U.S.: “Analyze every word. Get agents close—at all costs.”

Russia: “If this is real, the U.S. just got a game-changer.”

Japan: “Monitor closely. If the U.S. gets this tech...”

A Japanese analyst added: “Watch Midwest social media. Cross-check anything weird.”

In D.C., a senior official barked, “Tell the field—don’t provoke him. Get an expert team in. Be friendly. Tell his parents he’s safe, but we need their help.”

Above the lot, helicopters eased off a little. The soldiers stayed tense but lowered their weapons a fraction.

Experts in suits approached, detectors buzzing. Nothing made sense—the readings were off the charts or flatlined.

Michael-1 watched, patient as a statue. The assistants didn’t blink.

“Michael,” the officer said, more carefully now, “come with us—with your companions. We need to understand. It’s for your safety, and the country’s.”

Michael-1 nodded, stepping forward, the assistants moving in perfect sync. The soldiers relaxed a hair, others moved to examine the shuttle.

The moment someone touched Phantom’s hull, the air snapped—an arc of blue light, a sharp electric crack. A soldier flew backward, his suit smoking. Medics rushed in.

A shimmering blue shield flashed over the hull, humming with a bone-deep resonance. The sharp scent of scorched air filled the lot.

The soldiers jumped back, weapons raised. Tension snapped back to a razor edge.

“What’s going on?” The officer’s voice jumped, gun aimed at Michael-1. “What did you do?”

Michael-1 shrugged, calm. “Didn’t do anything. The ship protects itself. I said—only I can control it.”

He met the officer’s eyes, daring him to try again. A faint smile flickered—almost mocking. “You can try to take it. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Commanders barked, analysts shouted, chaos ruled the comms.

In the D.C. war room, the senior official leaned in: “Cease all force. Don’t provoke him. Get the expert team in. Show goodwill.”

The field commander swallowed, voice steadying as he called out: “Michael, we mean no harm. We just want to understand. If you’ll cooperate, we can help—protect you.”

“Help and protection?” Michael-1 echoed, thinking. He looked up, the power in his hands suddenly real, heavy, and terrifying.

“How about this,” he said, breaking the silence. “To show goodwill—and so you understand what Phantom can do—I’ll give you a demonstration.”

“Demonstration?” The officer blinked.

Michael-1 didn’t answer. He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers at a distant warehouse.

The gesture was casual, almost cocky.

*Snap*.

A silent blue-white beam shot from Phantom, hitting the warehouse.

The ground shook with a low, bone-deep hum. The warehouse vanished in a flash of blue-white light, leaving behind the sharp scent of scorched air and silence so thick it hurt.

A perfect void remained. No debris, no sound, just absence.

Silence.

Everyone stared, frozen. Only the faint buzz of radios and a distant dog barking proved the world was still turning.

“This... is the demonstration.” Michael-1’s voice was flat, almost bored.

No one moved. In the Dawn, far above, Michael shivered, realizing what he’d unleashed.

Somewhere above, in a Pentagon war room, a general whispered, “God help us all.” And Michael, lightyears away, realized the game had only just begun.