Marionette (A 'The 5th Wave' Fanfiction) [COMPLETED] #wattys2017

Prologue

    I hate sleeping under the exposed sky littered in billions upon billions of stars staring back at me. I hated the stars even before the Others—one of my many issues. Who knew priorities can change so radically? Back in the day I would worry about my next performance, or another week at school with tests and god-forsaken schoolmates, or Grandad's health. Now the task is simple: Stay alive. Don't die.

    Not that I didn't consider death as an option. It seems like the easiest getaway from this world the Others claimed as their domain and morphed it into their own image. They must be the most disgusting creatures alive, then. To them humans are only rodents that leave mess and rubbish wherever they go, tarnishing the good lands. What does the owner of the house do? Gets out the bug spray. The idea of them owning us is bone-chilling.

    However, they didn't get the bug spray and finish the job quickly—they needed to get their hands dirty, ripping every single hair out of our heads, piece by piece, then moved to other parts for a slow and painful death.

    My point is dying the easy way is what the Others would probably expect of us. That's not what the billions of people died for. If I go down, I go down standing (hopefully like those superheroes in the action films and not like a dog getting a treat) and fighting all the way. No quitting.

    When the world was ending, I had my rucksack. The same one I would take to all my after-school classes every Mondays, Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays.

    I spent hours at the same studio every week and I'm pretty sure if someone, for whatever reason, dropped me there blindfolded I would find my way to any place. I needed—the lockers, the changing room, the bathroom, the gym and the mirrored studio with barres at every wall and an older wooden piano right from the glass door.

    So at 3:40㏘ on the mentioned days I walked down the avenue in my worn-out combat boots (I never liked trainers), jeans and army jacket, carrying nothing but my house keys, a passed-on mobile phone, ID card in a hidden pocket above the breast of my jacket and a black rucksack.

    My phone was rended useless in the First Wave, my ID got washed away in the Second Wave, and my keys got nicked sometimes during that interval. The rucksack is still with me, though, with all its possessions from the good-old days.

    I wish the stars weren't so cowardly, hiding behind the green blob of the Mothership, owned by the Others. It's easy messing with us from so high up, isn't it? How about you get your shining galactic arses down here and face us? Us, as in humanity. Or what's left of it. I hope I'm not all that's left. That would be a bad joke. Really, really, really lame. Any person—or thing—with that sort of humor is plain cruel.

×Dictionary×

Trainers- sneakers
Nicked- stole