Atom is an Alien
A first-contact short by @MadMikeMarsbergen

1

THERE are other worlds out there.

No, I'm not referring to some dumpy shithole in Beirut. I'm talking about all the other life-containing planets located within our own solar system and beyond. You probably don't believe me, eh? Well, another non-believer was a teenager named James Vaughn. He sung a similar song as you, not too long ago. He's since changed his tune. As I'm sure you will, too, once all is said and done.

So take a seat—if you aren't already sitting, of course—and give me an ear. Two, preferably, if you've got 'em.

I've got a story to tell you.

About the time an alien came down to Earth from outer-space.

And most of the world doesn't know dick about it.

2

OUR story begins at the Balderdash Park baseball diamond in Weird Place, Ontario.

It was early September. Sunday. The seventh. The sun still sweltered on days like today and the new year of school had just begun.

Two teenagers—James Vaughn and his friend Pat Durroughs—were engaging in a favourite pastime among teenage boys across the world. They had found a couple cases of two-fours, just sitting there under two towering pine trees. So, naturally, they decided to divvy up the empty bottles between the pair of them and smash them against the chain-link fence behind home plate.

Much laughter was had. Who doesn't enjoy chucking glass bottles as hard as possible and hearing the satisfying crunch, which occurs when said bottles break into a hundred different pieces. Not a question. A statement expressing the truest of truths.

James had two bottles left in his case of Molson Canadian. Pat had three in his case of Labatt Blue. Not a good situation, but both knew before they'd even started that the fun was bound to end at some point.

"Check this out, James," Pat said as he took two bottles—one in each hand—and launched them way up into the sky. The two bottles soared at opposing angles, then collided with a precision that would have made Pythagoras weep. Glass shards showered down, hitting the fence, bouncing off and through the wire mesh like a minimalist game of pinball, before falling to the sandy dirt below.

"Coooool," James said, awed by the sight. He worshipped the ground Pat walked on. Pat was his first and—so far—only friend. The two got along like pizza and pop, one hardly ever seen without the other at his side. "Wanna try and make our last ones hit each other?"

"You're on, Slim Jim," Pat said, aiming a finger pistol and grinning.

"And you're on fire, Fat Pat." Pat wasn't actually fat, but it was sort of a running joke they had. The type of humour two friends can share, but would leave an observer scratching their head and wondering where the funny was.

The two enjoyed a loud belly laugh as they moved five feet to the left and the right, both with an empty beer bottle in hand. They stood, taking aim and feeling the sort of mental link that best friends always seem to have.

A little to the left, James heard Pat say inside his head. Perfectio. Perfectio was classic Pat.

Not too hard but not too wimpy, either, James said in Pat's head. Pat relaxed his muscles a tad.

"Ready!" Pat cried out.

"Yeah, man! Let's smash this shit!" James returned, chuckling.

Both boys were about to fire off the bottle barrage when they were stopped by a high-pitched whistling sound. Their heads cocked up towards the source of the sudden disturbance—James' to the left, Pat's to the right. They each held a hand over their eyes, shading them from the sunlight and allowing for a better view of—

A ball of fire. Coming down. Down. Down to where they were standing. A flaming tail trailed the red-hot ball—whatever it was, be it missile or meteor or molten toilet.

"Look out!" James yelled, diving backward.

Pat did the same, furthering the distance between him and James. It looked like the fiery object was heading for the pine trees. Hopefully they wouldn't be ignited. That would draw unneeded attention, and if the boys couldn't get away fast enough, the glass shards they'd left could be pinned on them.

As the object drew nearer in its speedy descent, they could see it was as tiny as a shoebox and seemed to be metallic. The heat seemed to be lessening, and so the object was no longer a red-orange but a silvery-green.

Sixteen feet from the trees. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.

The object whooshed down and crash-landed in between the two trees with such masterful accuracy, it was like that had been the plan all along; as though there were some greater intelligence piloting that unknown flying object and taking it down onto a miniature landing strip.

Pat and James both dropped their bottles and raced over to the landing site, wondering what they'd see. Would it be a little green man stepping out, giving them the finger and asking if this was Venus, where the girls don't like space penis? Or would it be a hunk of space debris—perhaps a hunk of the space station orbiting above? Or maybe just a meteorite? They would just have to wait and see.

Buried in the torn-up grass under the pine trees, with a trench of just-excavated dirt trailing directly behind, was the metallic silver-green oblong object. It looked very smooth, like it'd be slippery to hold in your hands. Rising from the object was steam, and the air around seemed to be distorted from the heat being given off.

"Duuuude..." Pat crept closer, carefully, like he was going toe-to-toe with a wild animal, unsure whether it was going to attack.

"Pat, be careful, man," James warned from behind. He also moved slowly, but allowed Pat to take the lead.

"What is this... this thing...?" Pat asked, picking up a stick and giving the object a quick prod. Nothing happened, except for a clink sound. "It's crazy, James. I've never seen nothing like it."

"Neither," James said, biting his fingernails. An awful habit. Mom had scolded him about it numerous times, but evidently the scoldings never stuck. "Maybe touch it with your hands, or something."

Pat snorted. "Yeah, you can, Jimmy. I like my hands just fine, thanks. These babies are gonna make me a million bucks when I learn how to play like Hendrix. Just wait. You'll be seeing Perfect Pat Durroughs and the Run-Around Gang live in concert someday. Give me ten years." He poked the object again.

Nothing, other than that clink again.

"Should we tell someone?" James asked, uncertain of who to tell and what the consequences might bring. They didn't even know exactly what it was they'd be telling about, didn't know what—if anything—was inside. "The police? Anyone?"

"I don't trust pigs."

"Pat, your dad's a cop."

"Exactly."

"That doesn't—"

A sudden hiss took their conversation to a dead stop. Their heads turned to the object. On the top—where ten seconds prior it had been so smooth—a rectangular patch rose three inches and then twisted to the right, like on a corkscrew. Steam or smoke was expelled out, dissipating in the warm summer air.

"What the...?" they both muttered. Watching. Waiting. This was unreal.

An olive-green sausage-shaped thing peeked out. It looked like a turd shat from a Canada goose, but without the grass.

James and Pat blinked a few times, their jaws dropped in astonishment. They watched the thing—the alien—maneuver its way out of the object—the ship—and wiggle along, hugging the outside of it. It seemed to move like a caterpillar: A sort of rhythmic pulsing of its body, propelling itself forward. It reared its front up like a cobra. There weren't any eyes on this thing. No mouth. No legs. Nothing that seemed remotely terrestrial.

"Duuuude," Pat breathed. "Do we kill it?"

James shook his head, at a loss for words.

Then a voice came from the thing, sounding dry and nasally: "Jeeze. My commanders said you humans had poor welcoming parties, but this takes poor to a whole new level. There's more excitement at a funeral. I mean, there's only two of you—what's up with that? And you're talking about killing me. Not cool. This is like if Hitler were around to experience first contact... but without the charisma. And the ability to grow snazzy moustaches."

James and Pat looked at each other. Then back at this talking turd-like creature. They burst out laughing, holding one another to keep themselves from falling over.

"Pleased to receive such ridiculous responses from you two," the alien-turd-thing went on. "I'm Atom."

3

A game of Rock-Paper-Scissors later, and James, the loser, had been the one deemed to take Atom the alien—and his spaceship—home. He didn't want to do it, but someone had to. They couldn't just leave a damn alien—no matter how much he looked like a cross between a green turd and a caterpillar—lying around a public baseball diamond. It wouldn't paint a pretty picture of mankind's social etiquette—and Atom had skewed views already. Neither James nor Pat even wanted to think about how Atom would feel if some drunk college kids came 'round and played Hot Potato with him.

Pat said he'd walk James home—which really wasn't too much of a surprise, considering they both lived on the same street and Pat actually lived further down the street than James did.

They tried to get Atom to go back inside his spaceship, but Atom insisted on getting some fresh air. He also wanted to "take in" more of the planet and decide if it was as "ruined" as his race—the Qlaabzbwinbmdlablabsdinarians—had thought. So James had conceded and met Atom halfway. The spaceship would be carried by James, and Atom would sit inside with his head—or whatever it was—poking out through the open door.

While walking down Main Street, they saw some familiar faces. Marsha Hildebrandt—James' long-time crush, from as far back as grade one—was hanging around outside of the Harvey's with three of her girlfriends. Isabella Sistrane, Sherri Underwood and Amanda Mendelblaast giggled and gave Marsha light slaps on the arm when James and Pat drew near.

"Oh, great," James muttered to Pat, feeling his Adam's apple getting caught in his throat. "Be silent and stay still!" he hissed to Atom.

"Ladies," Pat said, tipping his invisible hat as they passed by.

"Hey, James." Marsha waved and gave her long black hair a feel.

James gulped. "Hi, Marsha," he said quickly, and they had gone past. Phew. Crisis averted. Mission Control: Everything is A-okay.

Then Atom felt it necessary to chime in with: "Are you beautiful creatures getting in some fine dining?"

"What!?" the four girls all cried, giggling and mock-retching.

"Did you say that, James?" Marsha asked, raising her voice above the din.

James stopped dead in his tracks. Sweat poured from his armpits.

"Duuuude." Pat slapped his forehead and tickled Atom, making the alien quiver. "Think fast, Jimmy."

Turning around, James cleared his throat and faced the girls. "Uh, yeah. You're beautiful, Marsha."

Her face went bright red. She didn't say anything. She was too delighted to say anything. Instead, she turned to her friends and they got to chatting some more—this time about James being a total cutie (and that Pat wasn't so hard to look at, either).

James wiped the sweat off his forehead.

"Smooth." Pat elbowed him.

They continued walking home.

The only way it could get worse would be if they ran into Damien.

They didn't, thankfully.

4

THEY went down Fenulli Boulevard. James' house was the third one on the left. Pat's was further on down, about eight houses, and located on the right side of the street. They stopped outside of James' house, a large grey-bricked place with a black-shingled gable-style roof. It looked like pretty much every other house on the street, the only difference being the colour of the brick used.

"So this is where I leave you," Pat said dramatically. "Stay safe, friend." He looked down at Atom, whose head—for lack of a better term—was directed at him. "You take care of him, Atom. Okay?"

"If you're looking for a babysitter," Atom started, in his typical but charming dry tone, "that'll be five bucks an hour. And I don't do bedtime stories. But I will if you order me a pizza."

James and Pat both chuckled.

"I'll be fine, man," James said. "Just... don't tell anyone, eh?"

Pat looked shocked, with his mouth stretched into a comical O. "I would... never!"

"I know, man."

"Pat doesn't have the balls to talk about aliens invading his precious planet." Atom snorted at his own joke.

Pat waved his goodbye and headed off to his own house.

James watched him go and then started up his driveway, past Dad's red Ford F450 and Mom's silver Volkswagen Jetta.

"Those rides look pretty flash," Atom chimed in. "How long for takeoff?"

James ignored that, eyeing the front door. He thought better of going inside that way. After all, he was holding a metal spaceship the size of a shoebox, with a sarcasm-loving, talking worm-turd-caterpillar-thing inside. Yeah, no. He'd go around through the back door and maybe he could make it upstairs without raising his parents' red flags.

He went to the back door and turned the doorknob. Of course it was locked. Just his luck. "Shit," he groaned.

"Do you kiss your sister with that mouth?" Atom asked.

"I don't have a sister."

"So if you did, you would? Gross!"

James rolled his eyes. He didn't have a key. Looked like the front door would just have to do. "Okay, Atom. Keep quiet, please. For your own safety. I doubt my parents will take too kindly to having an alien in the house." He went back to the front of the house and opened the door as carefully as he could. Stealth was the name of his game.

Inside the house, he could hear the sound of the five-o'clock news blaring away the day's stories. Oil mogul Frankie Phatt still missing. Strange reports of masked vigilantes in Weird Place. Another resident of the neighbouring town of Dokerton vanished without a trace, bringing the total up to three in the last month alone.

James attempted to tiptoe past the living-room, and up the stairs to his room, but his parents were watching the hallway. Waiting for him.

"Have a fun time, James?" Dad asked from his easy chair, his head looking over the back. He had his nightly news-hour beer in his hand. Looked half-done.

The question seemed loaded. Like Dad knew he'd witnessed a tiny spacecraft crash-land down at the baseball diamond. "Uh, yeah, Dad. Lots of fun times. Pat's getting pretty good at ball."

Mom looked at his hands. "You didn't bring a glove?"

"Nah," James said, quickly thinking up a good lie. "Pat brought two."

"Baseball's not all they did!" Atom couldn't help but roar into the room.

"Shhhhhh—"

"What's that you got there?" Dad asked, putting on his glasses.

He reflexively placed Atom and the ship behind his back.

"No, no, let's see it." Dad motioned for a closer look.

With some reluctance, James brought Atom and his ship over to Mom and Dad.

They both stood up to look at it under the light. Marvelled at the craftsmanship of what they thought was the storage case for a weird new plaything, probably all the rage at school. Admired the obvious latex work done on the plaything itself as they watched it move.

"This some sort of toy?" Dad asked.

"Uh... y-yeah—"

Atom cut James off: "Have you ever heard of a toy that can talk back and insult you in over a thousand different languages, most of which you haven't even heard of?"

"Wow, that's cool." Dad looked at Mom, who was also quite impressed. "These toys have really gotten better since I was a kid."

"I'm not a toy, damnit! I'm a scout from Qlaabzbwinbmdlablabsdinaria!"

"I think my boss just came back on vacation from there," Mom said, raising her eyebrows—as if to give the ludicrous claim more weight and, therefore, truth.

"Your boss was in Brazil!" Atom had reared his head up now, speaking directly to Mom. "He waxed his butt cheeks using the traditional method!"

Mom and Dad both got a good laugh out of that.

"That's a clever toy," Dad said, returning to his chair to finish watching the news and drinking his beer. "Mr. Amberson is pretty fruity."

"Very cool," Mom said, heading off to the kitchen to start making dinner.

James sighed and thanked his lucky stars. He left the living-room and headed upstairs, planning on giving Atom a good verbal reaming. Into his room. He shut the door and set Atom and his spaceship down on the bed.

"Why'd you do that?" James asked. So many questions in his head. He had to let some of them out. "Why'd you come here? How do you speak English? How do you talk, for that matter? And why can't you keep quiet when I tell you to? Huh?"

"Woah, easy there, quiz-master," Atom said, wiggling himself out of his ship and onto the soft blanket. "Wow. This feels like if the seat in my ship got screwed by a cloud, and then they let a cat adopt the baby." Atom did an erratic twitch for a few moments before settling down. "Now, first question. Why do we do anything? Oh, crap. That's a question, too. Okay. Answers I can actually give...

"I came here for reconnaissance. My kind have been watching you humans for a long, long time. We've actually turned your lives into entertainment. We watch you on these devices—I believe in your language, they'd be called idiot-boxes—and we have bets on who bites the dust, week after week. It's mindless, but it passes the time when we're not working.

"Languages. Well, Jimmy, my boy, they're all pretty easy to speak when you don't have a mouth."

"That doesn't even make sense!" James hissed.

"It makes perfect sense..." Atom replied. "If you think about it in a totally nonsensical way. And how do I talk? Well, I have something called a voice, and I emit it through these special glands in my skin. Good enough for you? I don't want to make your head explode from all the advanced knowledge. I actually like you, y'know."

James shook his head. This was too much. "Okay, okay. Forget it. But... do you mean any harm? Like, you're not here to kill everyone, are you?"

Atom laughed. "Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy... If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."

Not knowing if that was an answer to his question or not, James accepted it all the same. But he still wasn't too sure about this alien. Atom. Like, why did he have to be around when an alien crashed into Earth? Why was he the one who had to hide him and take care of him? It was too much responsibility.

5

A half-hour later, Mom called James down for dinner. He was five minutes into his buttered beans when a high-pitched wailing came from upstairs.

"Oh, for God's sake," James said, setting his fork and knife down on his plate.

"James." Mom made the sign of the cross, then held a crucifix in front of her son's face. She was quite a God-fearing woman.

"That toy like one of those Furbo thing-bobs you had when you were younger?" Dad asked, chewing on a piece of pork while he thought. "Why not bring it down. Maybe its programming goes off when it's unable to sense movement in the room, or something."

James wanted to say "that's not how it works, Dad," and "Dad, it's an alien, not a toy," but he didn't. Instead, he said, "Sure, Dad. I'll go get it now."

When Atom was back downstairs and sitting in the centre of the dinner table, no more wailing was heard. Instead he told jokes. Everyone was laughing, even James, and that made James loosen up a bit. Maybe it wasn't so bad having an alien in your home.

After dinner, he took Atom back upstairs and busted out his homework. He got pretty stumped on a puzzling math equation. Something to do with finding the square root of x or whatever. He didn't really get it. Atom came pulsing onto the page of the textbook and gave James all the answers—even teaching him how to get those answers. He checked the back of the book and, sure enough, everything was perfect, totally correct. James even found himself starting to understand what his math teacher had been unable to teach him. All thanks to Atom the alien.

"Jimmy, your teacher sucks the fat one," Atom had said, when James told him about the method Mr. Feinstein had used to teach with.

That had made James laugh.

He went to bed at eleven PM, smiling and happy and quite comfortable under his blanket. Atom said it was cold inside his ship, since the crash had totally borked the heating system. So James let him go to sleep on his stomach, over top of the blanket.

After maybe fifteen minutes of jokes and questions about James' school, Atom and James both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Yeah, maybe it wasn't so bad having an alien.

6

WRONG.

7

DAMIEN St. Cool was one of the biggest bullies at The Virgin Of Weird Catholic School. And that wasn't just referring to his weight—which was now up to blimplike proportions—but also his notoriety. He'd inherited the cherished title from Rickshaw Raulston—who had now been demoted to bullied, following a weird incident from last year.

Damien yawned and wobbled his way off the cardboard box he called a bed. Daddy stole it from work for him. Previously, he'd slept in an empty fish tank—also stolen—but then he'd had his latest growth spurt.

"WUSS!" Daddy shouted from the front-room. "GET UP AND GET OUT!"

Damien was already dressed. He wore the same thing every day and slept in the same clothes every night. He grabbed his tattered knapsack and penguin-walked out of the room he shared with Daddy, then down the hall. He said "Bye" to Daddy but Daddy was too busy killing hookers in Grand Theft Auto V to notice or care.

He found the pack of smokes—a present from Daddy—in his knapsack and lit one up.

Off to school. Maybe he'd pummell some stupid nerds today. Yeah, he thought he would.

8

JAMES and Pat walked to school together. And after much deliberation—and many high-pitched squalls from Atom—James decided to bring the alien along, too.

"Dude, you're bringing Atom?" Pat was shocked.

"My parents both thought he was a toy, man. I think we'll be okay."

"The others will be worshipping me by the end of the day," Atom boasted.

The walk was pleasant, though every so often Pat had to transfer his guitar case to the other hand.

They arrived in twenty minutes and went in through the back entrance. There used to be metal detectors at The Virgin Of Weird, but last September—following the sudden disappearance of Mr. Gay, the old principal—the new principal had decided to remove them, calling them a scare tactic. The security guards had also been removed.

James didn't want to hang around the halls with Atom on display, so he headed upstairs to Miss Robinson's art class.

Pat said, "Peace," and went off to the music room.

9

ART was a bore (the history of modernism). And math wasn't any better—though James did impress the teacher with his newfound skills. Of course, there was a lot of commotion when everyone saw Atom for the first time, and again when Atom first spoke. Pat lied and told the other kids that he had an Atom, too, but his was at home.

But now it was lunch. James and Pat were on their way to the cafeteria, going around a corner, when a fist wrapped in fat collided with James' mouth. Atom and his spaceship went flying out of James' hands, hit a locker and landed on the floor. James himself was moderately dazed and confused, feeling his already-swelling lip. Blood.

Guffaws and chortles from a group of boys. Pat raised his fists like an old-time boxer, prepared to take on Damien St. Cool, Erwin Rommel (no relation to The Desert Fox) and Curly-Joe Richards (rat-tails dangled from the back of his head).

Damien lit up a fresh cigarette. Last one. Took a few drags and blew the smoke up at the non-functioning smoke detectors.

A pale, frail kid in the next grade passed by. "You're not allowed to smoke in school."

"Fuck off, Shanté." Damien snapped his fingers and Curly-Joe chased Shanté off. He picked-up Atom and his ship off the floor. "Well, well. What's this, Jamie Vaughn-a-suck-my-dick?"

His boys laughed hard at the insult.

"Put that down, dude," Pat said.

"Yeah, you don't know what you're doing," James added.

Damien rolled his eyes and puffed his cigarette again, examining the green worm-turd. "What is this shit?" Ashes fell from the tip of the cigarette, landing on Atom's head.

"You're a real Teflon A-hole, Damien," Atom said, shaking off the ashes.

"Woah!" Like they'd scorched his hands, Damien threw Atom and the ship, a sort of knee-jerk reaction.

James caught his alien friend.

"What the hell is that!? Why was it talking to me!?"

Speaking to Erwin and Curly-Joe now, Atom said: "A word to the wise: Anyone named Damien is bad news. We're talking pyromaniac or an expert in crucifix-buggery."

"Hey, shut up!" Damien shook his fist, as if it meant something.

Atom went on: "Hey, if you want to have your house burnt down in the middle of the night—while you're still in it—be my guest. Befriend Damien."

Damien St. Cool balled his fist and cocked it back, aiming for a shot between James' eyes.

Atom wasn't gonna have that. He reared-up on his back end, making circular motions with his body.

A surge of heat went through the air, raising the temperature to sweat-inducing levels. Acid-green light shot out of Atom's head like a laser beam. The light hit Damien in his ample gut, expanded its breadth until the fat bully was totally awash in that green light. Damien was lifted off his feet. His head hit the ceiling and made dust fall like snowflakes. His belly started to swell, more and more, bigger and bigger.

The green light went out. Damien returned to the ground. He had so much fat hanging from his stomach that he had to hold it up with his hands. Tears fell from his eyes. He started bawling like a baby.

Everyone laughed at him, even his friends.

"It was a real growth moment for you," Atom said. "Not that you needed to put on any more weight. You know what I mean."

Damien ran away, crying for his Daddy and another cigarette.

10

"WHAT was that?" James asked Atom, as he and Pat ditched school and left the premises through the back entrance.

"Just a little Qlaabzbwinbmdlablabsdinarian trick," Atom bragged. "We're pretty gifted creatures."

"It was awesome, dude." Pat looked up at the sky, a too-blue, white-clouded wonder. "So when are you supposed to go back to your home planet, Atom?"

"As soon as possible." No sarcasm. No wit.

"What's stopping you?" James asked, hoping Atom wanted to stay for a while. He'd grown to like the company of his new alien friend.

"My ship was damaged in the crash. It won't fly. I've tried. It's got as much lift as Damien."

"Can it be fixed?"

"Sure. If you've got enough of the required material on hand."

"What do you need?" Pat asked, as they turned onto Main Street.

"I believe you humans call it... peanut butter." Atom added, "And lots of it."

11

PEANUT butter, eh? That was easy enough to find. So, while their parents were all at work, James and Pat both raided their kitchen cabinets of any and all peanut butter. Together, they managed to find fifteen jars—mostly thanks to Pat's mom, who was a zombie-apocalypse freak.

"This enough?" Pat asked Atom, dumping the jars onto the grass.

"Perfect," Atom said. "Now that I see how much is in a jar, I really only need one."

Atom latched onto the lid of one jar, vibrated his body for a few seconds and leaped back down to the grass. The lid popped off like a cork in a bottle of wine, shooting up into the sky. Atom then used his "tricks" to levitate spoon-sized balls of peanut butter out of the jar and into his spaceship. What went on in there was anybody's guess.

After forty-five minutes of this, Atom said he was finished.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" James asked, hoping he wouldn't leave so soon.

"Sorry, Jimmy, my boy," Atom said. "It's a nice planet and all, but it used to be a lot nicer, back when you humans were all about bashing in each other's brains with big rocks. At least back then you guys were civilized."

James nodded. "So can you fly yet?"

"I'll need something to give me a running start. Something that can move."

James went to the garage and brought his bike out. "Get in your ship and I'll put it in the basket."

Atom looked at the bike and snorted. "Are you kidding me? I'm not getting in there."

"Why not?"

"That bike is ugly as. Maybe if you had some pink tassels hanging from the handlebars..."

"Oh, for the love of—"

"I'm kidding. Give me a lift."

Atom hopped inside his newly repaired spaceship and then James lifted it up, setting it down into the basket. He wheeled the bike out onto the street. Got on. "Ready?"

"I love you, Jim-Jam."

"I'll miss you, Atom."

He started to pedal. Faster. Faster. Gaining speed. Feeling the wind.

The ship's door shut. It moved. Lifted up into the air. Higher. Higher. Then it shot off into the clouds.

Gone.

To another world.