Year 2030 - Alternate World
Daniel Harris lay on his bed with the curtains half-drawn, the afternoon light cutting across the room in narrow bands. The air-conditioning hummed softly, fighting a losing battle against the heat that clung to his skin.
He hadn't moved in hours.
A documentary played on the television, volume low enough to be ignored but present enough to fill the silence. A panel of experts debated supply chains and geopolitical stability, their voices calm, rehearsed, and detached from consequence.
Daniel glanced at the clock.
4:47 p.m.
Time had started behaving strangely over the past few years. Days slipped by without texture, while moments of discomfort stretched longer than they should have. He shifted slightly and winced as fabric brushed against his torso.
The rash had spread again.
It started as it always did - warmth first, then irritation. He lifted his shirt just enough to confirm what he already knew. Red, uneven patterns bloomed across his abdomen, extending farther than they had last month. The edges looked angry, inflamed in a way no medication had ever managed to soothe.
Daniel let the fabric fall back into place.
Doctors had stopped pretending years ago.
At first, they had called it an allergic reaction. Then a skin condition. Then stress-induced inflammation. Blood tests returned normal. Scans showed nothing conclusive. Each new specialist brought a fresh theory and the same eventual shrug.
Idiopathic.
That word had followed him for most of his adult life.
It hadn't always been like this.
Daniel had been healthy once; more than healthy, really. As a child, he had been restless, energetic, impatient with stillness. His parents' money afforded him freedom most people never touched. He travelled early, often, and recklessly. Mountains, forests, ruins, places that existed more in stories than itineraries.
He loved movement. Loved height. Loved the quiet danger of places where mistakes mattered.
That life ended in 2012.
He remembered the exact trip.
Antarctica. A research expedition his father had funded in part, less for science than for the prestige of association. Daniel had gone because he could. Because few others did. Because it felt like the edge of the world.
The rash appeared three days after they returned.
At first, it was barely noticeable - a faint discoloration near his abdomen, easy to dismiss. The fever followed a week later, mild enough to ignore. He kept traveling. Kept climbing. Kept pretending his body hadn't changed.
By the time he couldn't anymore, the damage was already done.
Daniel reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and took a careful sip. His hands shook slightly. That was new. Or maybe he had just started noticing it.
The documentary shifted topics. Supply chains gave way to space exploration. New telescopes. Deep-field imagery. Projections about humanity's future beyond Earth.
Daniel muted the sound.
He didn't believe in curses. Not really. But when doctors ran out of language, the mind searched elsewhere. He read everything - ancient texts, obscure histories, fringe theories buried in forgotten forums. He invited professional doctors, monks, healers, shamans. His father paid for all of it without comment.
None of it changed anything.
His father visited less as the years passed. Not out of cruelty. Out of discomfort. Daniel had never resented him for it. Men like his father measured their lives in systems and outcomes, not presence. Legacy mattered more than proximity.
His mother had left much earlier.
Daniel stopped thinking about her long ago.
He had loved a woman once. Briefly. Intensely. It hadn't lasted. He learned early that infatuation burned hotter than attachment and then it died just as quickly. After that, relationships felt unnecessary. Exhausting.
The television screen flickered as the program cut to a news bulletin.
Daniel unmuted it.
A press conference filled the screen. Flags. Podiums. The familiar choreography of significance. The President spoke carefully, every word weighed down by implication.
Daniel sat up.
This was different.
Evidence appeared. Images followed. Technical language, simplified but unmistakable. Probes. Non-human design. Confirmed trajectories. The word alien was avoided at first, then used cautiously, then openly.
Daniel felt something settle into place.
Not fear.
Recognition.
He picked up his phone and scrolled through old medical reports, fingers moving faster than his thoughts. Normal. Inconclusive. Repeated so many times it bordered on parody.
The announcement continued.
According to the timeline presented, small reconnaissance units had entered the solar system years earlier, using technology far beyond human capability. They had observed. Tested. Left.
Almost without trace.
Almost.
One error. December 2012.
Daniel's grip tightened around the phone.
The room felt suddenly too small.
He replayed the footage. Re-read the timeline. Cross-referenced dates he knew by heart. Antarctica. Fever. Rash.
It had never been a curse.
It had been contact.
Not deliberate. Not malicious. Just residue. A mistake made by something that had never considered him relevant enough to matter.
Daniel set the phone down.
The realization didn't bring anger. Or relief.
It brought clarity.
The doctors had been right and wrong at the same time. There had been nothing human to diagnose. His body was failing in response to something it had never evolved to handle.
The broadcast shifted to projections. Worst-case scenarios. Best-case reassurances. Experts disagreed loudly while avoiding the same conclusion.
Invasion was not imminent.
It was inevitable.
Daniel leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes.
He had known he was dying long before this announcement. The timelines had already been drawn. Even under optimistic assumptions, he had a few years left. Enough time to observe. Not enough time to matter.
The invasion estimates placed first contact within two decades.
He wouldn't see it.
That thought had comforted him once.
Now, it irritated him.
Daniel spent the next hours reading quietly. Reports. Analyses. Statements released and retracted. Nations postured. Markets reacted. Social media fractured into denial, hysteria, and belief.
He ignored most of it.
What mattered wasn't the invasion itself.
It was the response.
Humanity argued the way it always had - along lines of interest, ideology, and fear. Cooperation was discussed. Control was pursued. No one spoke honestly about sacrifice.
By morning, Daniel understood something he hadn't allowed himself to before.
Effort didn't change outcomes.
Structure did.
The realization didn't feel profound. It felt obvious. It felt Late.
Two years after the announcement, Daniel Harris died quietly in his apartment.
There were no witnesses.
No final messages.
On the stone that marked his passing, someone carved:
Daniel Harris
1996 – 2032
He lived quietly.
The world moved on.