The cube appeared last night.
It’s deceptively small, only about five meters across with its lowest corner only a half meter off the ground. I jump out of my Toyota Tacoma, and slam the door with a satisfying clonk. The same sand as usual crunches under my boots, worn from years of use.
Morrison pulls up and easily parks behind my truck, arriving on scene only a few minutes after me. If you didn’t know where to look, you’d think he was spry and eager to attack the day ahead of him. But I know where to look, and his eyes are bleary as he winces minutely. He’s gotten good at hiding it. He’s got an older truck; rust is steadily crawling up the frame. With any luck, it won’t fall apart a moment before he retires.
The cube appeared last night. Nobody knows where it came from. His lips are dry and parched—ah. I hand him a water bottle. “Thought you might forget,” I say with a light smile.
The sand’s blown away from below the cube, as if from some sort of energetic shockwave. “Thanks,” he grunts, as if ignoring his faults will save any face.
“Think there’ll be anyone else on the Cube Investigation Squad?”
He chuckles. “Nah, the cube”—he squints up at the cube—“hasn’t done much of anything yet, which makes it a ‘low-priority concern’ according to everyone I’ve tried to ask.”
I brush its surface. It’s unnaturally cold, much the same way it’s unnaturally floating, but nothing happens. I knock on its surface, revealing that it’s some sort of metal. Gee thanks, brain, I think with as much sarcasm and disdain as I can muster.