Switch: Alien Invasion/Violence&S*x-Chapter 156: Allies
"Is everything okay?" Stephanie asks me quietly, her voice careful, as if she does not want to startle me further. I nod, though my mind is racing through possibilities and consequences.
"And they all believed you?" I ask into the phone, my voice quieter than I intend, threaded with disbelief that I cannot quite disguise. I am still trying to process how effortlessly this appears to have unfolded, still attempting to trace the path from one hushed conversation in the mountains to what now sounds like the beginnings of something organized and deliberate. My fingers tighten instinctively around the phone, pressing it harder against my ear as though increased pressure might somehow force clarity into the situation, might make the whole thing feel less unreal.
"Dude, you’re kind of a celebrity on campus. Everybody’s been noticing odd things happening around you, and after that scene with Richard and Tina in that basement, well, let’s just say the football team needed no convincing."
I let my eyes drift closed as he talks, and memory rushes in uninvited. That night flickers across my mind in jagged flashes, sharp and electric, like lightning splitting open a dark sky. For a few seconds I cannot form a response. Richard bullied me for years. He humiliated me in crowded hallways where everyone could see. He slammed locker doors beside my head. He made jokes at my expense loud enough to echo. He treated me as though I were an inconvenience barely worth acknowledging. He turned my daily existence into something I endured instead of lived. I carried that resentment like a hidden weight, heavier than I ever admitted.
And now he is an ally.
I knew he was no longer openly hostile. I had felt the shift after the basement incident, sensed that something fundamental had changed in the space between us. But risking his life to stand beside me is something entirely different. That is not casual support offered in passing. That is a conscious decision. That is commitment.
"Dude, you there?"
The sound of Dennis’s voice pulls me back. I realize I have been silent long enough for him to question whether the call has dropped. "Yeah, yeah," I answer, drawing in a breath that feels thinner than it should. I drag my hand slowly down my face, grounding myself in the simple friction of skin against skin, trying to steady the swell of emotion pressing outward from my chest. "Have everyone ready at our place before sunrise. Make sure they know this will be no picnic. Their lives will be at risk. I need them to understand exactly what that means. No one shows up thinking this is some kind of adventure."
On the other end of the line, Dennis does not push back. He does not try to soften what I have said or turn it into something lighter. I can hear the shift in his breathing, the way his tone settles into something firm and resolved. When he answers, there is weight in it, a quiet acceptance of what lies ahead. Then the line clicks, and the call ends without flourish or drawn out goodbye.
The silence that follows feels unnatural. The room seems to hold still, as though even the air is waiting. I lower the phone slowly, aware of the faint tremor in my hand, and begin explaining everything to the three women in front of me. I repeat Dennis’s words carefully, describing who is coming and why. I list names. I talk about the teams. I mention Richard. I explain that Serena has promised to rally the cheerleaders. I recount how Rose stood beside Dennis in the mountains and made the decision not to run.
As the implications settle in, they move toward me almost at once. Arms wrap around me from different directions, their relief and fierce pride colliding in a rush of warmth that nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. Stephanie’s grip is steady and unyielding, as though she is anchoring me in place. Stacy laughs, but there is a tremor beneath the sound, disbelief mingling with exhilaration. Mary presses her forehead briefly against my shoulder, a quiet gesture that feels ceremonial, as if she is marking this moment as something that matters. Tina steps close enough that I can feel the heat of her beside me, her eyes bright with something protective and unspoken.
We might not have an army yet, but we have more than a handful. We have numbers. We have people choosing to stand their ground instead of retreating into the mountains and hoping danger passes them by.
Even so, a small part of me recoils at the thought of my friends stepping directly into harm’s way. The responsibility presses against my ribs like a physical weight, insistent and heavy. I never asked to stand at the center of something like this. I never asked to become the reason others might bleed. But as I look at the determined faces around me, I understand with sudden clarity that this does not belong to me alone.
This is their fight too.
⸻
All told, my task force numbers seventy two people. When I repeat the number silently to myself, it feels almost abstract, like something pulled from a statistic rather than real life. Seventy two individuals. Seventy two separate fears. Seventy two choices made in the dark hours before dawn.
I am stunned when I step outside my dorm and see them gathered there in the early morning stillness. The moon hangs high, pale and watchful, casting silver light across the campus lawns. The sun has not yet begun its ascent. At this hour the university is usually silent, but tonight there is a low hum of anticipation threading through the air.
The football, basketball, and cheerleading teams stand in loose clusters. The hockey and swim teams have joined as well, along with friends from around campus. Some faces I know well. Others I recognize only in passing from lecture halls and crowded cafeterias. Among them stands a gray haired man with a military haircut, an AR 15 slung securely over his shoulder, his posture so straight and deliberate it looks carved from something unyielding.
"Sergeant Major Wilson, retired, at your service," the older man says, snapping a crisp salute that slices cleanly through the murmurs.
I return the salute, though mine lacks his precision, and stare at the assembled group. Behind me stand Stephanie, Stacy, Mary, and Tina, their presence steadying in a way I cannot fully describe. Off to my side, Dennis and Rose speak quietly with Richard. Richard’s expression is solemn, stripped of the arrogance he once wore like armor.
"I understand you are the man in charge," Wilson says, studying me with an assessing gaze that feels measured and thorough.
"Um, yeah, I guess." The words leave my mouth before I can polish them, and I am acutely aware of how young I must sound.
His eyes linger for a fraction longer, weighing posture, tone, composure. Whatever doubts he has, he keeps them to himself. He does not undermine me in front of the others, and that restraint earns my respect immediately.
"Do you mind if I get this group into some kind of order?" he asks, glancing back at the loosely assembled crowd.
I nod with visible relief, and he pivots sharply, his voice rising with practiced authority as he begins issuing commands. The sports teams respond quickly, bodies falling into lines with the familiarity of routine drills. Shoulders square. Feet plant. The others follow their lead, shuffling into rows, straightening their backs, trying to mask nerves with determination.
When the formation settles, Wilson turns back and salutes once more.
"They are all yours, sir."
This time, when I return the salute, my hand feels steadier. "Thank you, Sergeant Major."
I look past him and meet one hundred forty four eyes fixed on me. The symmetry registers somewhere in my mind, a small mathematical anchor amid chaos. Twelve squared. A strange comfort.
I swallow, aware of the dryness in my throat, and step forward slightly so my voice will carry.
"I do not know what you have been told," I begin, hearing the slight strain in my own words, "but an alien race of demons will be here in a few days to destroy the human race."
The statement lands heavily. Murmurs ripple outward. Some faces show disbelief. Others show dawning fear. A few exchange glances, searching for reassurance that this is a joke.
"Another race has come to help us and has already done so. Some of you may have heard or seen things happening around me that did not make sense at the time. Things you could not explain. Moments that felt impossible."
Gradually, the murmurs subside. The air feels charged.
"I have the ability to change the quantum state of things around me, and I plan to use that ability to stop the demons before they reach Earth. Thank you, Jesse, for that terminology," I add quietly.
"Prove it!" someone shouts from within the formation, the challenge sharp and unfiltered. A wave of agreement follows.
Wilson’s jaw tightens slightly, but I understand. They are not soldiers. They are students standing on the edge of something terrifying.
"Who said that?" I call out, sweeping my gaze across the rows, and people start to shuffle, but no one steps forward. "If you do not have the courage to face me after yelling that, how will you find the courage to fight the demons?"
