I hate Mondays. I mean, who doesn't hate Mondays? Capitalist society is designed to make you hate Mondays. It's designed to make you hate Mondays but not be able to do anything about it. Or at least that's what Nea tells me every Monday morning at precisely six o'clock AM as she falls out of the top bunk of my bed (we arm wrestle for it every time, and she always wins) and stumbles downstairs. Of course, at that point, she screams, because I live above a tattoo parlor and Nea is not a fan of needles.

The morning of May 3rd, 2021 is no different than any other. I release a groan, cussing like a twelve year old boy on his Xbox as I topple out of the bottom bunk and throw open my tiny apartment's door, going down the stairs two at a time.

"NEA!" I bellow, grabbing her by the arm and attempting to drag her back up to my room. Smith is sitting by one of the chairs, tattoo needle poised above a disgruntled customer's arm, looking thoroughly unimpressed. I cringe. "Sorry, dude."

"Every damn Monday," Smith grumbles.

I apologize several more times as I shove Nea up the stairs and back my way up after her. Nea is rubbing at her eyes, sitting cross legged on my bedroom floor when I get inside. "I fucking hate Mondays," Nea groans.

"You told me before your idiotic screaming episode," I say.

Nea shrugs, a sheepish expression on her face. "It's a habit at this point."

"It's a habit you need to get rid of," I reply, walking into my tiny kitchen and turning on the coffee maker.

Nea follows after me, her short, dark hair tucked behind her ears. "You know what my grandfather always said," Nea starts. I sigh. "A habit is difficult to break," she quotes. "Take away the 'h' and 'a bit' remains. Take away the 'a' and 'bit' remains. Take away the 'b' and 'it' still remains!"

I snort at her solemnity. "Your grandfather was something else."

"My grandfather was a genius, thank you very much!" Nea sniffs, sitting down on one of the two crappy bar stools Smith offered to me when I moved in. She gratefully grabs the chipped, blue mug of coffee that I push across the tiled counter towards her.

"You're not wrong," I reply. "So why did he end up with an idiot like you as his granddaughter?" I reach across the counter and ruffle her hair. She makes an annoyed noise, much like that of an angry kitten.

Nea sticks her tongue out at me as she gets up, rummaging through one of my drawers in an attempt to find the clothes she's left there. "Well, I'm off to work," she says after a few moments, slinging her Google bag over one shoulder as she hops on one foot in a sad attempt to get her boots laced.

"Enjoy that," I say, leaning back against the kitchen counter and sipping from my own chipped yellow mug.

Nea snorts, running her hands through her hair. She opens the door and steps out. "Bye."

I hear a shriek far below as Nea enters the tattoo parlor. Rolling my eyes, I sit down on my bed, grabbing my phone. There are a few texts from my friends about the Dodgers game from last night. I missed it, because I was busy with Nea. We have a Sunday night tradition of cleaning up videos that our alien-video-hook-up slash interstellar-nerd friend, Bart (yes, like Bart Simpson), sends us and reposting them. We've been doing it since we were in high school. It started as our way of humoring Bart's obsession. He was your typical "weird kid" - fascinated with bugs, rocks, and anything from outer space. We got a laugh out of editing the videos that he made while hiking in the most obscure places or crossing the Nevada desert in the hopes of glimpsing alien life. He joined the U.S. Air Force, and though it's probably against policy to send us fighter jet footage of the weird crap happening in the sky, he continues to email us, and we've kept the channel up. Our few hundred subscribers have a tendency to comment ridiculous alien theories on new videos.

The world on May 3rd is the same as usual - trade war with China, rising tensions in the Middle East, Republicans using every ounce of their power to hurt trans kids. I turn off notifications from the News app out of sheer disgust. Picking up my tablet, I set to work on the graphic design project that I abandoned two days prior out of boredom. Usually, my work is fun, or at least interesting. This particular company, though, wants me to make a shit ton of flyers about lima beans. How does one profit off of lima beans? I suppose I'm profiting off of lima beans indirectly right now, though. I'll work until lunch, methodically resizing and recoloring to make the flyer more aesthetically pleasing.

There's a knock on my door an hour before noon. "Dodger," Smith says. "I need some help. Can you get down here?"

"'Course," I say, setting down the granola bar I've been nibbling on and dropping the tablet onto my bed. I follow Smith downstairs. This is part of our agreement - Smith gives me reduced rent rates in exchange for my artistic prowess. Okay, I might be exaggerating a little bit. I'm not as good at tattooing as Smith, but I'm close. He gets free labor and my rent is cheap. It's a pretty sweet deal.

Three customers that I don't recognize are sitting in three of the four leather chairs that Smith has set out. There are two men and a woman, all with different parts of their clothing rolled up. A tall, burly black man (Hercules) is sitting in the chair closest to the door, reading from an Us Weekly magazine. A wide-shouldered redhead (who I'll call Ginger) is sitting into the chair next to Hercules, scrolling through Instagram on his phone. What? I tend to name people I don't know in my head based on what they look like. I know you do too. An Asian woman who looks like she could crush skulls with her pinky fingers is sitting in the chair closest to the stairs. She has a magazine in her hands too, but she doesn't look like she's reading it. Her eyes keep lifting to scan over the space that we're in. Smith, who's standing in front of me at the base of the stairs, fiddles nervously with a piece of paper that he's holding.

"Holy shit," Hercules exclaims. "Henry, you have to see this!" Ginger leans over Hercules's shoulder to look at the page.

Ginger makes a disgusted noise. "I never liked the royal family."

Hercules frowns. "I always thought they were kinda cool." He holds up the page. "But, according to Us Weekly, courtesy of Oprah, they're racist scumbags."

"That issue is at least a month old, if not more," Skullcrusher says, eyes still fixed on her magazine. "Smith, have you brought your helper back yet?"

Smith seems shocked out of his anxious reverie, and clears his throat, leading me into the room. "Yes. He's right here. This is Dodger."

I give an awkward wave. Skullcrusher looks unimpressed. "Is everyone in here a midget?" she asks. (Smith is on the shorter side.)

"I'll have you know that I'm a solid five-foot-four," I say, mostly joking.

Skullcrusher raises her eyebrows. "I apologize," she replies sarcastically.

Smith looks uneasy. "They want these done in the next two hours," he says, handing me the wrinkled piece of paper that he's been holding. I scan the paper, slightly bewildered at the pictures, and nod. "I'll start here. You start at the last chair." Smith tears off one of the three designs that is printed onto the page. He claps me on the shoulder. "Thanks, bud."

"Sure," I reply. I head over to Hercules, who sets down his copy of Us Weekly and gives a little wave. "Which of these two are yours?" I ask, showing him the half-torn page. Two of the three Powerpuff Girls are printed onto the page.

"Bubbles," Hercules answers, pointing at the one with pigtails.

I nod. "I'm Dodger, by the way."

"Tyrique," he replies, giving my hand a firm shake. "Everyone except Lily calls me Bubbles, though," He leans in, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "She thinks it's unprofessional." Tyrique puts the last word in air quotes.

I laugh. Lily, who I'm assuming is Skullcrusher, shoots a glare at me, and I quiet down immediately. "Do you all have nicknames?" I ask.

Tyrique nods. "Henry is 'Blossom' and Lily is 'Buttercup.'" He grins. "You know, since she's such a ray of sunshine." Tyrique shifts a little in his seat. "Nobody really calls them Blossom and Buttercup, though."

I nod. "So, where do you want the tattoo?" I ask.

Tyrique indicates his exposed forearm. "Right here."

"Awesome," I say. "Let's get started."

When I'm done with Tyrique's tattoo, I move on to Henry. He's getting Blossom tattooed on his calf. "Have you seen the news lately?" Henry asks.

I glance up at him. "I read a bit this morning. Depressing stuff."

Henry nods in agreement. "Anything interesting?" Tyrique asks, peeking at us over Us Weekly. "I haven't caught up with all the scandals in ages."

"My sister told me that Kim and Kanye are getting divorced," Henry pipes up.

"I swear the divorce rate in America is higher than the marriage one," Tyrique says, shaking his head.

"That's not possible," Lily, who hasn't spoken this entire time, interjects.

"Nobody asked you," Tyrique replies, rolling his eyes.

"I'm just saying," Lily shrugs.

Henry sighs. "Save the bickering until my tattoo is done. Dodger is too invested in your conversation, and I don't want my tattoo looking like Cardi B when I'm obviously a Barb."

"It's supposed to look like Blossom, dumbass," Tyrique says. "Plus, the Cardi-Nicki drama was over years ago, wasn't it?"

Henry raises his eyebrows. "Nobody asked you."

"Cold," Tyrique says, putting a hand over his heart. Henry snorts.

When the tattoos are done and the Powerpuff Girls (as I've taken to calling the odd trio) depart, I go back up to my room and continue working on the lima bean flyers. As it so happens, lima beans are not particularly appealing in shape, size, or color. This is more difficult than I had anticipated. I eat cheetos for lunch with my left hand while I dial my mom (for my daily obligatory phone call) with my right.

"Rajan?" she asks, the phone making her accent more pronounced.

"Hi Mom," I say. "How are you?"

I can hear the tinkle of the bell on my parents' cat, Muffin, in the background. "Good, good. How are you?"

"I'm doing fine," I say. "How's dad? How's Muffin?"

"Good," she replies. I can tell that she's distracted.

"Is something going on over there?" I ask.

"Meena is here," my mom informs me. Meena is Nea's mom. She's at least five years younger than my own mom, but they've been best friends since Nea and I were in kindergarten. There's a sour note in my mom's tone when she says, "She is telling me about this YouTube channel you have."

I roll my eyes internally. My mom has never been a lover of aliens or social media (does YouTube count as social media?). Meena, on the other hand, finds it all extremely interesting, despite Nea and I constantly reminding her that the videos we post are hoaxes. Every so often, Meena will bring up thedodginator4000 (my channel) to my mother, and she'll give me a talking to. It's never stopped me.

"When will you stop posting Bart's phony alien things?" my mom asks.

"They might not be phony," Meena sings in the background.

"They're obviously phony," my mom says. I can imagine her shaking her head.

"Dodger, you should check the news. Very interesting new story today," Meena says. Her voice is closer now, and I assume she's walked up to my mother from wherever she was sitting, likely petting Muffin. Meena loves cats. She has two of her own - Sayan and Rashil.

"The news is all propaganda, Meena," my mom snaps, exasperated now.

"Not this," Meena protests.

"Rajan, don't listen to this nonsense," my dad says, chuckling. His voice is muffled as he speaks. "How do I turn the volume up?" There's a click, and then the phone goes silent.

I roll my eyes. Only my dad would be genius enough to end the call instead of turning up the volume. I plop down on my bed, turning on my laptop to watch a recap of the Dodgers game. I got my nickname for being an avid Dodgers fan in high school. I still am, just a teeny bit less intense now. It's exactly six o'clock PM when Nea rushes into my room. I didn't know she would be coming over today; Usually on Mondays, she goes back to her mom's place.

"Have you seen the news?" Nea asks, breathing heavily from her run up the stairs. I shake my head, a quizzical look on my face. "Of course you haven't," Nea says, rolling her eyes. "Your head is in the sand at all times like a fucking ostrich."

"Ouch," I reply. She doesn't say anything, just shoves her phone screen into my face. My eyes travel over the hundreds of articles as she scrolls. "Holy shit," I breathe. "Holy fucking shit."

Nea smiles a triumphant smile. "I hate Mondays," she says, "but this one isn't so bad." She clicks on one of the articles that has a video attached, and a familiar, cringey, 2000s theme song (written and directed by moi) begins to play.

New York Times: Alien Event Occurs, Real-Life Footage Goes Viral

---

a/n:

there you have it - chapter one of cosmic soup !!! (funky name, ik)

it's intended to be comedic and slightly unbelievable, like a romcom movie without the rom :> [scicom movie? idk]

i'm thrilled to /finally/ write a story where all of the *main* characters are poc, too ! fun fact: i got the saying about how a habit is hard to break from stories about my great-grandfather :O

anyways, there was a lottttt of explaining in this chapter, but the rest is gonna go at a faster pace

i hope y'all enjoy the rest of this story as much as i'm enjoying writing it <3

(also if someone could tell me whether the cardi-nicki drama is ongoing or over, that would be great lmao i'm so lost)

<3 <3 <3