MY OBSESSED ALIEN KING

LOWER TROPICANA

# Chapter 2

**ZOE POV**

After kicking those motherfuckers, I began the long walk back home, watching the busy streets to keep myself distracted. Even though technology has advanced so much, there's one thing it never changed: the gap between the rich and the poor. Take where I stay, Tropicana it's split into two parts. The first part is Upper Tropicana, and you can already guess it's for the rich. I even heard they have two moons up there, which I obviously don't believe, because even though I'm from an average family, I've always been sharp since childhood. Now, if someone told me there were two moons somewhere outside Africa, maybe I'd believe it, since tech out there is moving crazy fast. But Tropicana is still a little backward compared to other countries.

Pushing the thought aside, I turned into the alley that leads home. The floor is littered with empty mineral water bottles, broken pipes leaking water everywhere, and pretty much every disgusting thing you can imagine. I hate that I have to live here, but I make the most of it. My greatest wish is to one day take my parents out of this dump for good.

Five minutes later, I arrived at my house stopping at the little door, electric barbed wire coiled on top of it, which I put there myself to keep rascals away. That reminds me of the time there was a huge flu outbreak. Sounds ancient, right? But personally, I think it was some kind of experiment gone wrong, or maybe even a deliberate attempt to wipe out Lower Tropicana, because the moment the outbreak hit, news reporters flooded in to broadcast our suffering to the world including how badly we needed help, which a lot of countries actually sent. But that's where things got disturbing. The government promised palliatives to ease the impact of the disease, and the day we heard the supplies had arrived, I was the first to rush down there, fighting through the crowd. But all we saw was one small truck carrying barely anything. The moment people realized that, survival instinct kicked in and everyone started fighting over it. I fought my way through, my eyes locked on a big sack of rice I figured it would last us a month or two. Thanks to my agility (which I'll explain later for now, it's a secret 🙂‍↔️), to cut the long story short, I got the rice. But later my neighbor told me that a notorious gang calling themselves Red Cross whatever that means were going door to door taking things by force. Thinking fast, I set the rice down and hid it under a big pot.

Then I went to the backyard, grabbed barbed wire I'd scavenged from an abandoned warehouse, fixed it on top of our little gate, slipped out through the window, and ran better the house looked empty than get robbed blind.

Dragging my mind back to the present, I pushed open the old iron gate. It creaked loudly as I walked into our little apartment, which has a small sitting area with two white plastic chairs and an old TV the kind I'm sure even my grandma used back in her day.

To the left is a tiny kitchen I can barely call it that, since it doesn't have any of the things kitchens have in movies and ads. It just holds our pots and utensils; we mostly cook outside. The house was calm and quiet. Walking into the little room I share with my two sisters just a flat mattress on the floor and a standing wardrobe my father built, which all four of us share my gaze landed on my younger sister Cardi, sitting on a stool by the window. She's light-skinned, caramel-toned, with a pointed nose and full lips. From my diagnosis, very pretty most times I can't help thinking she takes after me.

Speaking of looks my eyes are pale, pale blue, like ice that hasn't decided if it'll melt. My skin is warm brown and smooth, with a few freckles dusted across my cheekbones. My nose is straight, small but sharp. My lips stay soft and full, resting quiet unless I have something worth saying. My chin tilts up, even when I'm unsure. My hair falls straight, black and heavy down my back. You could say I'm pretty, and I'm confident about it I do own a mirror, and I see how people stare. But don't worry, I'm very humble.

Turning to Cardi, I asked, "Hey, what's up? Where's everyone?"

She sighed and said, "Mom's not back from the general market yet."

What market, really it's just the place where farmers throw away their hard-earned produce to people with connections, who then haul it up to Upper Tropicana and sell it for triple the price. My mom owns a small plot at the outskirts of Lower Tropicana farmland with pumpkins, vegetables, leafy greens, lettuce, spinach, name it. That land is basically the only thing my great-grandfather left her, and honestly, it's kept us afloat, especially since my dad is a retired soldier. Not "retired" by choice, though he just came home one cold December, right when the harmattan was in full swing and we were all in a Christmas mood. I think I was only ten then; my older sister Jenna was thirteen. My dad walked in with a sullen look on his face, and my mom, sensing something was wrong, asked him gently what happened. He told her he'd been forced out of the army.

It all started because about fifty kids had been kidnapped a week earlier, and the criminals went live online, torturing them melting plastic and letting it drip onto the skin of children as young as three. It was too much, even for what my young mind could process at the time. My dad, who was a captain then, requested permission to take the case personally. In under a week, he'd found the criminals' hideout, but his superiors told him to stand down. He couldn't accept that and kept investigating anyway. The day he felt like he'd finally caught his break, he got handed his termination letter instead severance pay included, just told to go home. From that day on, our life flipped: from poor to even poorer.

My dad had to settle for a security job, and he insisted we all wake up early every single day for what was basically military-style training. That explains why I can fight and kick motherfuckers' asses. Out of all my siblings, I'm the one most drawn to combat. Even with my fighting skills, I still look delicate, like a flower but that's just a disguise. You know the saying… whatever it is, basically: don't judge me by my soft, sweet face. 😏

Turning back to Cardi, I asked if there was anything to eat. She said no, so I dug through my bag and pulled out my bargain chip the currency of this era. Checking the balance, I knew I was short on cash, so I told her calmly, "Get noodles, let's eat. I don't want to starve." She nodded, took the chip, and headed off to the closest store.

Twenty-nine minutes later, I was sitting on the cold floor of my room, eating noodles, and asked Cardi with my mouth still full, "Where's Immanuel? He's supposed to be back by now."

Immanuel is my younger brother the only son in the family, the last child, and also my nemesis. I swear he makes all of us feel small somehow. I remember last Christmas, I funded the whole meal with my own money, and I specifically wanted the chicken head, because in Africa, eating that signifies authority. Besides, there's a sweet part inside I didn't want to miss. But my brother insisted on taking it, and my dad backed him up just because he's "the only son." My mom just said, "He's a child" really, he's thirteen, practically a teenager, and should act responsible for once.