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Loud, shrill screeches emanate from my stupid, annoying alarm clock. Still half asleep from some weird dream about fish, I look at the bright red numbers. 7:45. Dammit.

Reluctantly, I half-purposely and half-accidentally fall out of my bed. I guess I should be lucky I got stuck with the bottom bunk. Jaycee, my roommate, is still sleeping like a log on the top bunk.

I guess I should be getting prepared. First off, get dressed. I look down at what I was just sleeping in. My grey track sweatpants from 8th grade and a deep blue University of Michigan sweatshirt. I shrug, deciding that I don’t quite feel like putting on something real today.

Second, look like I belong in the world of the living. I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror. It appears almost as though I’m more hair than woman. Since class starts in 15 minutes, I wouldn’t have time to shower. I grab a brush from the sink, deciding I can always brush it nonchalantly on the way over. I also ignore the parched toothbrush, which I actually don’t think has been used since I came to college. I blame the toothpaste. We can travel across the world in a manner of hours, but nobody can seem to make a non-mint toothpaste doesn’t taste like complete crap? Ah, the fun of living in a world where you hate mint flavored anything.

Third, time to actually get going. I throw my phone, computer, and wallet in my backpack. Throwing my hood up, I can now put it on my back without choking myself by having it be pulled back by the weight of my backpack. I quickly and fairly sloppily put on a pair of dirty, white tennis shoes and tie them in some weird, oblong knots. Instead of actually trying to make some real breakfast, I grab an apple from our pantry and bite into it. It’s the soft kind, the ones that are practically mush. Yeech. Either way, it’s going to be the only real breakfast I get today.

I walk outside, and immediately regret not putting a coat on over my sweatshirt. Michigan in January isn’t exactly known for being warm and pleasant. Figures my parents would only spring for an in-state college. Why couldn’t I go somewhere where frostbite isn’t an ever-present possibility? Even so, I guess going here wasn’t my worst option. The education’s good, at least.

Apparently, I let my wind wander for longer than I thought. I’m already at the building I need to be. I open the swinging glass doors, and immediately am overcome with the marvel that is internal heating. I toss my half-eaten "breakfast" into one of the trashcans and go to my class. As I enter the huge lecture hall, I realize I am by no means the only person that rolled out of bead literally 10 minutes ago. Seriously, scheduling a history class at 8 AM on a Tuesday morning? What sort of sadistic, sociopathic nutjob runs scheduling here?

I trudge to my seat; sixth row up and fifth seat from the right. The professor walks in, and like we’re trained dogs, we all seem to pull out our computers and turn them on all in time with each other. Today’s just one of those days I just don’t feel like doing anything, so I discreetly turn on the audio-text function. Recording the class and transcribing it later is just too much work, and I don’t feel like paying Jaycee to do it again.

“Good morning, class!” the professor projects to us.

My computer, for some reason, types Hood boring mass! instead of what he actually said. Ugh. I place my forehead on the desk and groan. Today’s going to be one hell of a day.

***

“Okay, everyone,” the professor says, walking back to his desk, “That’s all the time we have today. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about the Nuclear Wars and the Treaty of Pyongyang. We’ll get to find out whether the attempts to unify Korea were successful or not!”

Acting like history is this new and unknown thing? I really hope I don’t become that when I graduate. Seriously, everyone knows about the attempts to unify Korea. Look at a freaking map; there’s your answer. Wait, am I really getting riled up over history? Looks like being a history major wasn’t such a dumb move after all.

Noticing that everyone is packing their stuff up, I decide I should, too. My screen is a jumbled mess that looks like a dictionary vomited half the words in English onto my screen. Most of it doesn’t make any sense at all. “Quickly eating electric saxophones”? If this keeps going like this, I’m failing this class for sure. I’m not even an Information Age history major, why am I in that god-awful class?

I throw open the doors, and I’m instantly covered in snow. I think I see someone familiar coming toward me.

“Morning, Keerthana!” she yells enthusiastically. It’s Jaycee, looking much too upbeat for morning.

“Hey,” I reply, a little smile starting to grow on my face. Even the nastiest sourpuss has to find themselves lightening up around her. She’s one of those people that just makes you happier, no matter what.

“You look like you just rolled out of bed,” she laughs.

I can already feel her optimism flowing to me, like a reverse leech. Does that make sense? Whatever, it’s still early to be up.

“You know, you wouldn’t be that far off with that assumption," I joke back.

She giggles, making me feel even better. “You want to grab some breakfast? I haven’t had a lot to eat yet, and I know how you are in the mornings. I’ll even buy.”

Those last three words sold it for me. She sure does know how to make a college student happy. “Fine,” I say, surrendering to her unbridled happiness. In all honesty, that's my one complaint about her; it's so damn hard to stay in a bad mood around her.

***

As we walk back into our dorm building, I start brushing layer upon layer of snow off my sweatshirt. I think I can see some blue now. The RA Andrew starts walking up to us, holding a white envelope in his hands.

“Hey,” he asks, tapping me on the shoulder, “You’re Keerthana Griffis, right?”

No actually, I’m not. But I can see his mistake. There have to be plenty of Indian girls walking around U of M with the word GRIFFIS running down their pant leg.

“Yeah, I am,” I say, deciding to save my quips for someone more deserving. Andrew means well, and is pretty lax for an RA. He deserves to be spared from my anger.

He hands it to me, bids us goodbye, and walks outside. Who could be sending me a letter? If mom or dad wanted to get in contact with me, they’d call or send me an e-mail. Or they could just come, but let’s get real here.

“Who’s it from?” Jaycee asks, saying what we’re both obviously thinking. I look at the return address.

1600 Pennsylvania Ave, NW

Washington, DC 20500

My eyes widen. “Oh, my god,” I can hardly say, “That’s…”

“…The White House,” Jaycee finishes for me.

“But…Why are they sending me a letter?”

Jaycee shrugs. “I don’t know. But seriously, open it!”

I break the seal to the envelope, feeling unworthy to open something from the president while wearing sweats. A single piece of paper is folded neatly into thirds inside it. Gingerly, I unfold it and start reading loud enough so only Jaycee and I can hear.

Dear Ms. Keerthana Griffis,

You have been identified as a candidate for a project of national importance. If you wish to accept this invitation, you will become a national hero and will bring our Nation to levels unseen before in all of history.

If you plan to take a place in this task, please send us a letter to the return address. We wait eagerly for your response. Your Nation thanks you.

Jaycee has to grab my arms to make them stop shaking out of sheer shock. “No,” I whisper in disbelief, “It can’t be. This has to be some sort of joke.”

She points to the top and bottom of the page. At the top is the official White House seal, and at the bottom, the president’s signature. Yup, this is 100% real.

“That’s…amazing!” she excitedly whispers. “What could they want you for?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, shaking my head.

“Come on. There’s got to be something they need you for.”

“Okay,” I look at the ceiling and tilt my head in thought. “I was born and raised near Lansing, a city that’s only on the map because it’s the capitol of the state. I did average in high school and somehow got into U of M. I’m a Medieval history major who sits around all day long either floating around Ann Arbor or sitting in her dorm room, mooching off everyone who lives on the same floor. Yeah, sounds like something the government needs.”

“Hey,” she pats me on the shoulder and tries to cheer me up. Unfortunately for me, it’s working. “Try it. Send them a letter, and see what they do.”

I look back at the letter. She’s probably right. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? I respond to an obvious prank by telling the president that I’ll accept a job of national importance that I think they sent me?

Wait. That actually does sound pretty bad. Stupid brain, I thought we were on the same team.

***

Three loud, thundering bangs come from my door. My eyes quickly dart open, and are blinded by my clock. 4:19. Who the hell would be here at such an ungodly hour?

Luckily, I don’t have to go and find out. Jaycee jumps down, surprisingly awake for 4 in the morning, and opens the door.

“Hello, ma’am,” a deep voice says, “Is this the residence of Keerthana Griffis?”

As quietly as I can, I pull my comforter over my head. Nothing at this hour's worth getting up for.

“Ya,” she replies, “She’s my roommate. Why?”

“Agent Moyer. Secret Service.”

Uh-oh. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that late-night visits from the Secret Service are never a good thing. I quickly throw off my blankets and look at the door. Sure enough, there’s a tall, muscular guy in a suit and dark black sunglasses in the doorway. Who wears sunglasses in the middle of the night? It’s probably part of the uniform, I guess.

Realizing I can’t delay it much longer, I hop out of bed and walk to the door. “I’m Keerthana,” I tell him.

“Do you know why I am here?” he asks.

“No.” I can honestly say I didn't; maybe it was the whole "it's the middle of the night" factor.

“You have been recruited by the United Nations to serve on a mission, and you accepted the invitation, correct?”

“I think. Was that the letter from the White House I got a few days back?”

“Yes,” he nods, “Do you still wish to be on the mission?”

“Yeah,” I say, not sure whether or not I mean it. “Can I have a few minutes to prepare?”

“Sure,” he says, walking into the hallway and pulling the door closed. Jaycee turns her head to face me, shock and confusion all across her face.

“What?!” she yells. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t know. Still, I guess I ought to pack. Want to help me?”

“Sure,” she says, smiling. She turns on the light, and we get to work, gathering some clothes and most of my non-luxury items. After forcing half my possessions into my old, disintegrating duffel bag, I squeeze a little more into my backpack and look at Jaycee, who is almost on the verge of tears. The only time I’ve ever seen her this close to crying was that time we stayed up all night watching standup on TV.

“Come on,” I ask her, “Don’t feel bad. I’m sure it’ll just be something silly and I’ll be back here soon.” It’s so surreal that I’m the one trying to comfort her. What are you supposed to do to cheer up the person who always is there to make you feel better? Making people feel good is her job, so I’m not quite sure what to do now. If she’s crestfallen, I feel I should be, too.

She pulls me in close for a hug. “Be safe,” she says, starting to choke up.

“You too,” I say back, patting her back. I slowly exit the hug and grab my backpack, throw it on, and pick up the duffel bag. I look back once more to see my roommate all red-faced and smiling. I open the door and walk out. Sure enough, the Secret Service guy is still here.

“I’m ready,” I tell him.

“Okay,” he replies sternly, taking the duffel bag from me. “Follow me.”

As we make our way to the elevator, I look around. I’ve never actually been in the hall at night. It’s eerily quiet, such a stark contrast from the daytime, where it’s unusual to see anyone with their door closed. I guess it’s good, too; I can only imagine how suspicious and rumorous it looks for me to be walking with a Secret Service agent.

We make it to the elevator, and he pushes the button to go down. It shows up rather quickly, though I imagine that’s in part because everyone else is sleeping. The ride down is really quiet. I want to ask him what it is that I’ll be doing, but frankly, I’m frightened of him. He’s hardly moved a muscle since he showed up, and even then it’s basically only been to walk. These dudes are pretty serious about their jobs.

When we get to the bottom floor, he leads me outside to a sleek, jet-black limousine that looks like it came straight from the garage of a supervillan in an action movie. The trunk, seeming to act on its own free will, opens up, and he places my bag gently inside. I follow suit and do so with my backpack, although much less carefully.

Again, as if the car was a sentient being, a door on the side near the back swings open. Agent Moyer stands next to it, gesturing me in. I do so, and am instantly swept by the inside.

There’s so much luxury in here that you could hardly believe that it’s all in the back of a car. Couches, carpet, a television, even a fridge and wet bar. Whoever wants me certainly is buttering me up. And I can say, it certainly is working.

I take a seat on one of the plush couches, and then the agent comes in and sits on a couch across from me. The car quickly starts up, and we start moving.

“So…” I start to break the awkward silence, “Can you tell me what it is I’m doing now?”

“Some of it,” he says back to me. “Right now, we’re going to bring you to a plane that will fly you to the United Nations in New York. There, they’ll tell you all about what they need you for.”

“Okay, second question. If it’s the UN who needs me, why’d they have the US send me a letter? Why didn’t they just do it themselves?”

“To arouse less suspicion. The White House sending letters is a lot less conspicuous than the United Nations doing such.”

Yeah, the US government sending me a letter isn’t sketchy at all.

After what only seems like a few minutes, the car stops and the door swings open again. He steps out, and I follow him. I put on my backpack and grab my duffel bag, then look around. We seem to be on some airfield in the middle of nowhere.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“That’s classified,” he quickly snaps back at me. Man, this guy is pushy.

“Okay,” I say, trying to hold back my cynicism, “What do we do now?”

He points at something in the distance. I look in the direction of his arm, and sure enough, there’s a small plane sitting there. “That plane will take you to New York. I regret to say I will not be accompanying you. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I say back to him. I personally can’t say I regret that he won’t be with me; something about him rubs me the wrong way. Probably all his seriousness.

As I walk toward the plane, I actually start to get excited. I’ve never been in one before, and only seen one in person a few times before. Aviation really declined in the 2100s after more efficient, cleaner, and safer ways of traveling were made. Still, for all that it’s worth, flying is a great way to get around. No roads or railways or laws even to abide to when you’re thousands of feet above the ground.

The inside of the plane is as nice, if not nicer, than the limo’s interior. There’s even a small bed and a bathroom, fully equipped with a shower. Whatever I’m considered important for I must really be huge, otherwise they wouldn’t be pulling out all these stops. And it’s all wasted on me, because the only thing in the room I want is that bed. It just looks so soft and fluffy! I put down my bags and climb into it; it’s one of those fancy smart ones that conforms to your position to optimize comfort. I make myself comfortable (assisted largely in part by my bed) and I’m dead asleep in practically seconds.

***

Some sweet sounding, flowing orchestral music awakens me. I realize it’s the clock right by my bedside, which now reads 6:40. My room seems abnormally bright for this time of day, so I go to the window and check. My eyes see the sprawling city of New York City, which seems to stretch for thousands of miles, engulfing every square inch of everything that lies within the horizon. We’re about to touch down on the East Coast; I guess that also explains why it’s so bright for 6 AM.

I decide that since I’m going to the UN, I should probably look decent. I open the front pocket of my backpack and look inside for my shampoo and body wash. Dissatisfied with it not being there, I move to the next pocket. Then the third one. Where in the hell is it?

I rip open my duffel bag and search inside there as well. Frustrated, I kick it. Did I seriously forget to pack them? I swear, I’ve disproved Darwin many times over by managing to survive this long.

Defeated and distraught, I grab a towel and walk into the bathroom. To my surprise, there’s some complimentary soap, body wash, shampoo, and conditioner in here. Did they see this coming? Probably not, seeing as none of it is the brands I buy. Still, I don’t think they’ll notice if I swipe them when I’m done.

I take off my dirty clothes and walk into the shower. I set the temperature on the interface to 110 degrees, and the water comes spurting forth. It’s wonderfully hot and relaxes me. Then there’s the toiletries they have. Using only a small dollop of the body wash, I manage to get my whole body and still have a little leftover. The shampoo is some exotic-looking word that smells like…fruit? It’s something I’ve never smelt before, and that’s the only way I can describe it. I don’t use the soap or conditioner, but seeing as I might in the future, I decide to keep them anyways.

I step outside, and the fan instantly kicks in, absorbing almost all the steam before I can even realize what’s going on. Now I’m cold. Oh, well.

In a few quick motions, I dry myself off completely, save my hair, which I let keep some water to make it easier to work with. I then wrap the towel around myself, go get the little amounts of makeup I packed, and start working.

When I’m done, I decide not to try anything too fancy with my hair, and instead brush it and put it into a ponytail. Now that my head’s all done, I can get dressed.

I open my duffel bag and silently thank Jaycee for convincing me to pack some formalwear. I packed a skirt, leggings, some nice shoes, and a clean blouse, all of which I wear. I throw on my dingy overcoat over it all, even though it sort of ruins the look. I just hope this meeting isn’t outside; I wouldn’t be able to show off the fact that I dressed fancy for the first time since…I graduated high school, last May.

I hear knocks coming from the door to the outside, which I can only take to mean that we’ve landed and we’re ready to go. I scramble into the bathroom, fill my arms with my brush and makeup, wad up my dirty clothes, and throw the provided toiletries into the ball. I rush out, shove it all into my duffel bag, and struggle to zip it up. When I do, I go to the door and open it. A man wearing a big, wool overcoat is standing there, with a man wearing shiny, polished white and blue body armor on either side of him. This must be my ride; why else would UN troops be here?

“You would be Ms. Griffis, would you not?” he asks, extending his hand to me.

I take it and I shake it. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

“I am Luke Woodward, representative of the United States for the United Nations. Pleasure to meet you.”

We walk to another limousine, and he opens the door for me. I stoop down and walk in. It’s not as nice as the Secret Service one, but it’s a limo. Can they not be nice and fancy?

As he gets inside, I can see the men getting on armored motorcycles, one in front of us and the other behind.

“Oh!” I exclaim, realizing what we’re doing, “My bags. They’re still in the plane.”

He waves his hand non-caringly. “Relax,” he says, “They’ll be taken to where you’ll be staying.”

“Also, what’s going on? First I get a letter from the White House, then the Secret Service is at my door, then I’m being escorted through New York City by UN forces. There has to be something really big going on, and nobody’s bothered to tell me yet. Will you?”

His eyes dart quickly to the front to make sure the window’s up so our driver can’t hear us. It is. Still, he leans in close to me.

“To be honest,” he whispers, “I don’t know myself. I’ve only managed to pick up a few pieces of information, and frankly, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. All I know is that it has something to do with aliens and genetics.”

“I think you have the wrong person, then. I’m a history major, not a geneticist or astronomer.”

He shakes his head almost sorrowfully. “No, they most definitely need you. Why, I don’t know. But you, for some apparent reason, are crucial to this mission’s success.”

Well, at least I got some answers. Granted, they’re pretty nonsensical, but hey. They’re still answers.

We spend the rest of the ride in silence, which isn’t very long. Luke tells me that because they have diplomatic plates, they’re exempt from nearly all traffic laws and could get to the UN faster than anyone else could. Will I get some of those out of this? The idea of going 90 down Grand River is just too good to pass up.

Stepping out of the limousine, I suddenly start to feel a lot smaller. There it is; the United Nations building, with its huge glass face glowing as bright as the sun itself. Luke practically drags me inside, as I’m still so fixated on the building.

The inside is just is amazing. The entire hallway is pristine white, not a single speck of dirt or dust anywhere to be found. The time and date of every time zone in the world is projected onto the wall by tiny little lasers opposite where the time actually falls. The EST one is situated on a large screen behind the front desk. It reads

NEW YORK – EASTERN STANDARD TIME
07:04:27
JANUARY 10, 2416 CE

There’s also a lot of other stuff on the screen, but none of it concerns me. Current weather, the forecast for the day, and a list of issues that will be presented at the next UN meeting, along with the date of it. Luke leads me past the desk and to an elevator in the corner, which would be easy to miss if there weren’t the two guards armed to the teeth standing by it. They part as they see us coming and let us in. He presses one of the two buttons on the side, and it feels like someone cut the cable. I can feel my organs already climbing up my throat as we plunge down. How far is this place, anyways?

Almost right as I finish that last thought, it stops, and the doors open. “Good luck, Ms. Griffis,” I hear Luke say.

I turn to him, puzzled. “What do you mean? Aren’t you coming?”

He shakes his head. “No, not even I have clearance. I only had clearance to bring you down in the elevator. If I step out, I’d technically be committing a global crime.”

“Oh. Well, I can go, right?”

“Yes,” he laughs. “I think they’re just waiting on you, now.”

I step out and look back. He’s smiling all the way until the door closes on him. I walk down the hallway to the only door there is and turn the knob. Maybe I’ll finally get some answers.