The Shadow of What Comes

“Across the country,” a reporter chirped, “ceremonial gatherings continue as citizens embrace the Ascension Protocol.”

That phrase lived on every tongue: Ascension Protocol. It hung in the air like a storm warning. The definition remained elusive, a shadow that moved in too many directions whenever Miles tried to grip its meaning. Did it signify the arrival of the aliens or their unveiling? The timing was indefinite—tonight, tomorrow, or a transformation already underway.

Higher-ups said it with reverence. Anchors said it with that glazed calm. Celebrity endorsements flooded every corner of social media with carefully worded posts. Actors with millions of followers smiled in front of staged backdrops with signs or repeating slogans about “embracing the change” or “joining the future.” Musicians posted praise for the new order and proclaimed its supposed benefits. Athletes, in sweaty uniforms, made brief, authoritative statements about strength through compliance. Even minor influencers—food bloggers, travel vloggers, life coaches—shared identical messages, and trending hashtags: #AscensionProtocol, #OpenToChange, #FutureIsBright #ListentToTheAliens.

Miles scrolled and scrolled, barely able to keep up. Each post blurred into the next, the words almost hypnotic in their uniformity. What caught him most wasn’t just the ubiquity but the tone: calm, almost ecstatic. Obedience was encouraged while made to appear aspirational, like to miss out would mean falling behind. The sheer scale of participation compressed the world into something the size of a chicken nugget, and simultaneously made it more strange; even the people he’d grown up following, the ones whose quirks and failures had once made them human and their irreverent antics heroic, now sounded like spokespeople for something uncomfortably organized and overwhelming.

Even the White House press secretary praised it as if reading scripture. “The responsible path forward,” she stated during a briefing.

People lined up in parks, wearing tall furry hats shaped like cones resembling some kind of ceremonial headgear, supposedly modeled after ancient divine connection from the bronze age. Government workers handed out commitment cards, which citizens signed to pledge their unity with whatever was coming. Groups kneeled before the annular monuments that rose like gigantic chimineas. Children placed flowers at their base while proud parents stood behind them and took photos. Drones filmed crowds from above, capturing massive, coordinated movements. A new monument would go up somewhere, white stone and steel, shaped like an archway crossed with an obelisk.

In one extended clip, the president toured The Mall monument, smiling with the dazed expression of a man who’d been spiritually lobotomized. He touched one of the curved surfaces like it held an electric charge, peeked inside the glowing fire pit.

“Beautiful,” he said. “Transformative.”

Later, he gave a soundbite: “We must welcome our future. We must align with those who bring hope.”

The stock market was the real surprise. He’d expected a crash—something catastrophic that would match the mood that gripped the planet—but the indices stubbornly held their ground. A few dips, but no mass collapse. Even his retirement portfolio hung in there. It didn’t make sense. Not with monuments rising, lava consuming a city, and alien “protocols” being treated like guidelines for a company’s “values and mission.”

He knew plenty who bailed anyway. Friends who panicked and liquidated everything out of instinct. “Just in case,” they said. “Better safe than sorry.” Except safe and sorry were both in short supply.

Sickened by the media feeds and newsflashes, Miles signed on for work. The laptop screen blinked to life, the corporate logo pulsed, and for a brief second he could pretend the world was still operating on the same old rules. In the past, a slow-starting morning meant lagging Wi-Fi, missed calendar invites, a video call that refused to connect. Now those minor annoyances barely registered. Work continued in its bare, remote form while the largest event in human history hovered over the planet. Oddly nobody but a few tighter coworkers said anything out loud.

After an unproductive hour, he decided to call Andrea rather than text. “Why didn’t you tell me Mom and Dad were planning on coming to speak to me?”

“What?” Andrea’s voice crackled through the phone, cautious but curious.

“They were like Mormon missionaries,” he said with a sharp exhale. “Mom like she was about to deliver a sermon, and Dad… stiff as a board. I swear, Andrea, it was unsettling. They were trying so hard to appear calm and normal, but everything about them screamed they’re scared as much as ever.”

Andrea grunted softly. “Wow. That sounds… intense. I had no idea, really. Did they, I don’t know, lecture you about…?”

“Yes! Exactly that. About being open. About… accepting the changes,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Dad even used the word aliens. Just dropped it there like it was casual conversation. I thought my head would spin off my shoulders.”

Andrea’s voice went quiet for a moment. “Aliens? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” Miles gripped the phone tighter. “And Mom was all sunshine and positive, showing me messages from everyone she knows saying how peaceful and wonderful it all is. I mean… who are they trying to convince? Me? Themselves? I couldn’t tell.”

Andrea went quiet, too quiet.

“What’s wrong?” Miles asked.

“Got another message from Jenna last night.” Andrea almost spit out the words. “This time a text.” She read the short text aloud. The same tone. The same pattern. Like a script someone else wrote. No more than six words: All’s good here. Follow the protocols.

“It’s not her,” Andrea said. “She suffered mental illness. She rambled. Even her so-long letter ran for nearly three pages. This is not my daughter. I know that now. Miles, what’s happening?”

Miles didn’t have an answer.

He stood up, unsure whether to pace, think, run, or plan his next move. Somehow, though, the strange messages offered a chilling hint of good news. They suggested Helene’s withdrawal may not be voluntary.

“I’m sorry for all this,” Miles whispered. “For Jenna, for everything.”

“We have a bigger problem, Miles, with Mom and Dad.” Andrea let out a sigh. “They hadn’t exactly talked to me about needing to change. If anything, they’ve become quieter whenever I’m around. I don’t know how to explain it, Miles. But I don’t like it.”

“They haven’t tried to… push it on you?” Miles asked.

Andrea hesitated. “Not outright. Not yet.” She exhaled again. “Honestly, even my therapist started framing compliance as a way to reduce anxiety, talking around the Ascension Protocol without naming it. Like surrender was some kind of self-care.”

“That’s really weird,” Miles said.

“I’m going to stop seeing her.” Andrea’s voice softened. “But Miles… we don’t have to agree with them, any of them. We don’t have to bend just because we’re scared.”

Miles leaned back against the couch. “I’ve been trying to keep my head down, manage my work, manage Helene, manage myself… and suddenly it’s like the ground moved under me. And they’re standing there expecting me to hold on to some sort of faith in what’s coming.”

“You don’t have to,” Andrea said firmly. “Just don’t zone out on me, okay.”

“At least it’s getting them out of the house,” he said, aiming for a joke, something to break the tension. But even as the words left his mouth, there was no lightness to anything anymore—not in that version of the world.

Miles closed his eyes for a moment. Then Andrea said, “I wasn’t going to mention it, but I got a text from Jerry. It wasn’t some template, unfortunately. Just his usual nonsense.” She read: “Sorry everything ended the way it did. Funny how we’re all being sorted out now. Hope you’re well. Have you seen my bong. That kind of thing.”

Miles couldn’t help but chuckle. His former brother-in-law—self-centered, a bit of an eccentric—was ultimately good-natured. He’d always hoped Jerry and Andrea might have worked things out. They married young, and over time the strain of raising a mentally unstable daughter had only widened the cracks.

“Everything’s just a little strange, isn’t it?” Andrea said with a snort, a little venom in her voice. “One way or another, always something.”

— — —

International news gave the word strange a broader definition.

Germany’s markets were in freefall. Layoffs hit factories and corporations at rates the highest since the 1980s. Footage showed employees packing boxes with bewildered expressions while quotes from politicians encouraged people to maintain calm.

France—Helene’s France—gurgled in turmoil too. Pockets of riots broke out throughout the country: Paris, Lyon, Marseille. Streets filled with smoke, sirens, crowds tearing down barricades while others erected their own, sometimes within the same block. It wasn’t clear who fought whom anymore.

Some screamed allegiance to the Ascension Protocol. Others shouted for autonomy. Others still blamed the government, or the aliens, or the Jews, or the United States.

Meanwhile, Russia’s military pressed into Ukraine and Poland.

NATO spokespeople insisted retaliation was unnecessary because “the extraterrestrials will take care of Russia soon.”

Russia’s prime minister claimed he’d received direct communication from the aliens urging him to advance. No one but his supporters believed him. But that was enough to ignite more chaos across Europe.

Miles watched footage of Paris specifically—burned-out kiosks, empty cafes, police in riot gear, smoke drifting across the Seine. The Eiffel Tower loomed like a silent witness.

He texted Helene again. Veuillez simplement me dire que vous allez bien. Quoi que ce soit. This time he uttered a silent prayer for her to receive the message and respond.

Twenty minutes passed. An hour. Two. Then his phone buzzed.

He almost dropped it grabbing too fast.

Her message read: Tout va bien! Ne vous inquiétez pas. Tout est tranquille. Je suis heureuse! J’espère que vous l’êtes aussi.

Happy? Helene rarely used that word in French—she’d use the more colloquial refaite—and never with an exclamation point. Three exclamation points might’ve given her a stroke. And she had used the kind of French a native speaker would use with a shop clerk.

He immediately dialed her number. Again, straight to voicemail. He went into the kitchen. Helene had left behind her chamomile tea. He disliked the taste, and wasn’t thrilled with the aroma, but he decided to brew a cup anyway.

Steam rising from his mug, he tugged his laptop so he could view the screen, pulled up an airfare search engine. Three minutes later, he had a reservation page up for Paris. A flight left in three weeks: economy class, nonrefundable, routing through Toronto and Frankfurt, the only tickets available—nine thousand five hundred dollars for one way economy. Combined with his original, nonrefundable November booking, the trip’s cost had already climbed past twelve thousand dollars.

Yet Miles felt sick rather than relief at finalizing another new purchase.

Beneath the realization that life had slipped under something else’s control lay that darker truth Miles had been fighting to avoid. Even if the messages were fabricated by an omnipotent power, one question remained, sharp and unyielding: what if Helene didn’t want him to come?

He didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to share such feelings with anyone. Didn’t want to believe she’d shut him out intentionally. Their relationship—equal parts passion, curiosity, and long-distance invention—had always been built on messages, calls, visits stitched together by hope. But now? The text messages from her had a scripted quality. And he hadn’t heard the softness of her voice since he had left her at the airport. A wall had been built. By someone, or something.

For the first time since she left, the possibility surfaced: she might have been relieved to get on the plane.

He kept replaying little moments: times she hesitated before speaking, times she slumped, visibly exhausted by being caught between two families, two countries, two expectations. And then her parents—formal, politely distant, and suspicious of Americans. Suspicious of him. He was five years older than Helene; maybe her parents had perfectly reasonable concerns—any parents would—about their daughter dating an older foreigner who lived in the power corridors of Washington, D.C.

His French, he had to admit, was pathetic. He could order coffee, ask for directions, tell someone the bathroom was on fire—thanks to online lessons he tried to commit to but couldn’t—but not much else. It stood to reason the only person in her family he bonded with was her three-year-old niece, who accepted monosyllabic speech as perfectly normal.

With the aliens in the mix, he became the unpredictable foreigner. To them, he was the man destined to drag their daughter into a far-flung part of the globe or perhaps the wrong side of history.

The quiet in the house had a tangible aloofness, almost like it was mocking him. But by whose hand?