NEW REALITY — 1.1

[21st October 2010]

The night the newsreader announced the conspiracy theories were true was a Wednesday. It had been a perfectly average day. A media storm was brewing in the Technosphere, and the silver linings beneath its clouds were becoming increasingly thin and difficult to find.

My world was about to change beyond recognition, but even now, with the gift of hindsight, I can't say whether it changed for better or worse. I had finished my late-night study session, and as I walked the twenty minutes home from the university to my dingy flat, my world hadn't yet altered. Everything felt ordinary. The streetlight illuminating the steps as I descended from the exit still flickered. As I made my way across the car park, a student struggled to start his car as he did every day. The corner shop's neon sign buzzed as I passed by, and the homeless man huddled on the doorstep of a derelict building still displayed his cardboard sign reading, HUMANITY IS DEAD, in messy black marker. Beneath, in smaller script, he revealed his strain of peculiarity with the words, SPARE SOME CHANGE IF UR NOT A ROBOT. I pulled my hood up over my head as I walked past. Though I wasn't blind to his misfortune, I wanted to remain blinkered from it. Maybe my humanity was dead because ignoring someone in need wasn't moral. I knew that, but like most people, I turned away from horrible things. Despite being aware of all that was imperfect about my everyday life, I didn't pay it any mind and strove to focus on the illusion of contentment. Perhaps it was pitiful how easily I accepted that some things were simply out of my control.

Only moments after I closed the door behind me, I abandoned my coat on the hook, kicked off my boots, and tossed my book bag aside with little regard for the mess I was creating.

My phone had been vibrating non-stop all the way home as new notifications poured in. I had ignored them in favour of keeping my wits about me while out on the street's past watershed. The area I lived in wasn't the city's dodgiest area, but it was by no means upper class either.

I had moved out of my parent's house in favour of the little room I now called home. I lived a relatively normal life despite suffering mild poverty, living under the thumb of my student loan. I was enjoying getting by on my own, even if it meant surviving on microwave meals and takeaways, washing my clothes in the local laundrette, and spending what little money I was left with between Thursday and Saturday nights at bars. I suppose I was happy; this chapter of my life felt like a rite of passage.

Standing in the kitchenette, in front of the microwave, wearing my pyjamas, I waited for the ping to tell me that my takeaway leftovers had been nuked to perfection. Behind me, the telly lit my tiny living room in a blue-tinted glow. The programmes were background noise, but the familiar news jingle played and grabbed my attention—mostly because I could hardly believe it was already that late—it was the ten o'clock broadcast.

Despite the composed and professional facade of the newsreader, the rest of the media was tail spinning in utter panic. Still, she stoically made her report. The main feature focused on photographs and official government documents discussing the existence of 'other' species. Similar articles leaked onto the internet about a year ago, but they were dismissed as hoaxes. Now, however, they were being given credibility on the evening news! Creatures of lore and myth were real. Scaly, horned Demonic beings, feather-winged Celestials, tiny, bug-winged Faeries, Lycanthropes; people who could transform into lupine forms and elementals who could manipulate the likes of fire and water, and even blood-sucking Vampires were no longer just fictitious, Grimm tales. They lived amongst us. Us who were now being called "Mortals". What begged belief was that these "Mythicals" had been hidden in plain sight since the time memorial.

Blinking in disbelief at the screen, I watched the pandemonium retold with utter indifference. Already, masses had gathered in protest with their picket boards, questioning humanity's safety and demanding segregation and control of the new minorities. Countless nightmares had come to life, but just as I had on the walk home, I didn't want to confront the terrifying consequences, so my mind began to minimise the issue.

Oh, come on, give it a rest. What are the chances of actually bumping into a Wolfman? I rolled my eyes at the thought, but my conscience caused me to wonder, I guess Wolfman isn't politically correct. Werewolf? No? Lycanthrope, then.

I hadn't heard the microwave's ping. I'd been watching the news. It was the ringtone of my mobile that roused me. My mum was calling. It never entered my head not to answer because, unlike many of my peers, I didn't dislike my parents—far from it, in fact—to me, they were amazing! We had a great relationship. I answered the video call to see my mum and dad's pixelated faces looking at me from the little screen. I instantly smiled, but they wore expressions that told me something unpleasant was afoot.

"Hi, sweetheart," Dad said tentatively, "have you heard the news?"

Until that chat, I had a steadfast image of my father fixed firmly in my mind. His identity was intertwined with mine—I was who I was because he was who he was. He was a fifty-four-year-old Grebo-cum-museum archivist with an addiction to espresso and a collector of vinyl records from the bygone era of his youth.

Out of the blue, my beloved dad confessed, "Listen, sweetheart, I know this may come as a shock, but you see, I'm an Elf,"

At first, I laughed. Did they really expect me to believe that? Apparently, yes. They also thought I would pack up my life in England and move with them to the safety of my uncle's cabin in the arse-end-of-nowhere—the Black Forest, Germany. An uncle who, incidentally, I now realised was also an elf. In fact, the entirety of my dad's side of the family was Elven! They informed me that my mum was 'Mortal' as if that was some sort of consolation. Ultimately, I was only half-Elf.

It was all too much to comprehend in the short hour I spent on the phone with them. Eventually, I hung up, saying I needed time to think things over and would call them back soon.

With so much on my mind, I forgot to eat and went straight to bed. Sleep eluded me. How could it not when I had just been informed that I was humanity's new enemy? It was evident from the news that Mortals viewed Mythicals as a threat. No wonder! Some were apex predators, some possessed magical powers beyond the understanding of modern science, and some could fly. The benchmark for my eighty years of mortality had now suddenly been extended to somewhere nearer two hundred. There was nothing left to do in the wake of such news; I turned over, curled up in my duvet, and cried.