[ WP ] Ten years ago a race of shapeshifting aliens attempted to infiltrate and take over the world . They were all rooted out and killed . All except you .

Their planet had been dying anyway, he told himself as he laid in bed at night, crisp Egyptian cotton sheets caressing his now pale, human flesh. If they had n't come to Earth, they'd of all died anyway he repeated once more inside his head. 
 
 He had no reason to feel guilty that he was still alive on this strange, new planet - not even just *alive* but alive and flourishing, despite likely being the last of his species. 
 
 It was survival of the fittest, the trickiest, the luckiest; the thoughts echoed around his skull, backing themselves up with new, human mottos and theories and logic he'd learned over the last decade. Darwin, he told himself, would have at least agreed with him. 
 
 But yet, some part of him still felt a little guilty. Maybe it was the death, or maybe it was the loss of everything he'd grown up knowing, or maybe it was just how *good* he felt on Earth. 
 
 - 
 
 They'd come almost exactly ten years before, fleeing a planet that orbited a dying and unstable sun. Most of them had already died; the generations before them choosing not to multiply, suicide taking more, famine and disasters still others. 
 
 One small ship was all it had taken to get them there, and it had landed discretely in some far-flung corner of the planet, somewhere that was cold and lonely and empty. There, they'd made plans; some wanted to blend in, some wanted to conquer, still others wanted to start a new civilization there and deal with the future as it came. 
 
 But all he had cared about was leaving that awful, desolate tundra - and so he had volunteered to go forth and scout and relay information back to them. For once in his existence, they'd praised his bravery and armed him and supplied him and sent him out like he was a hero. 
 
 For a while, he liked to tell himself he'd tried. He'd headed in one direction, over long stretches of dark blue ocean until he hit some place green and swampy and wet; then, he'd continued North on foot or by human means of transportation, changing himself to fit with each group he met. 
 
 That, he found, was harder than he imagined. At least, he told himself, he was probably helpful there - for he had spent long, sweaty nights in the jungle and hard, hot days in the deserts of this new, wild land telling the others just how difficult it was to really, *truly* seem human. 
 
 They just knew, he told them; they knew if you were n't human, even if you learned how to speak their language and adapt their customs. One little thing - and bam! - they knew you did n't belong, and off you were again. 
 A hand gesture with some small, round brown people had gotten him run out into the jungles; and eventually he'd met some even stranger people, who seemed to know every painted member of their group like the back of their hand and were not at all convinced by his antics. 
 
 Things got easier, he found, when there were more people around; big, cold cities hid him better than little villages and tribes ever could, but even then people were suspicious. He had no money, he had no legal standing, no paperwork to back up his lies - and all of these things mattered very much to the humans. 
 
 By then, more scouts had been sent out - and their luck often was worse than his own. One died from exposure, another met their fate at the claws of a lesser earth-beast in some wild area, and then a third was captured and exposed. 
 
 With each death, his relays back became shorter and fewer as his paranoia grew. Would they catch him next? Or would they simply run him ragged until he died from exhaustion? Would being an outcast get him killed, at the hands of some fowl-smelling vagabond under a bridge? Or maybe some wild animal would grab him next? 
 
 Eventually, as their numbers migrated further and further into society, the news broke. *Flesh Stealers Caught in New York*, read one tabloid; *Shape-Shifting Extraterrestial Found in New Guinea* shouted another. 
 
 Panic. Riots. Paranoia. More humans killed humans than his own people, it seemed - as fears grew and neighbors turned on one another - but still they all fell, one by one. 
 
 But, mean while - where was he, exactly? What had he done to help? 
 
 Well, he'd survived, he told himself once again. The race had n't died out completely, even if it had been reduced to what was technically one low ranking young male. He'd done his duty anyway, simply by continuing to exist. 
 
 Like that turtle, that Darwin had done something or another with; the one he'd read about in a yellow-trimmed magazine about six, maybe seven years ago. 
 
 Lonesome George. He'd continued doing his job, just by existing. 
 
 * 
 
 The city stood out to him as something new and different as soon as he entered it. Even in other big cities, someone cared or noticed you; they wanted to know why you were out there, or where you were from, or what you were doing with your life. 
 
 But not here. Here, no one cared or asked. They just assumed. 
 
 In some cold, windy city a homeless man had asked him for his life story and nearly ratted him out when he stalled too long. Here, he'd been able to get a job and an apartment and no one had even raised an eyebrow. 
 
 Then, he'd learned just what exactly they *did* out here. They did n't care, it seemed, because that was this city's industry - lying, on a massive scale, for profit and entertainment. They did n't care, because they figured you were there for that. 
 
 And so nervously, from the corner of his dingy apartment he'd called up someone on a whim. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn to enjoy life on Earth. 
 
 * 
 
 Her office was small and cramped and smelled like strange, dirty smoke; she was short and square, with curly hair poofed up like cotton candy and long nails the color of cherries. 
 
 `` So, sweetheart, you got the looks but do you got the talent?'' She'd asked him, lips the same color as her nails curling into a grin. `` Ai n't all a face game, you know. Ca n't get you more than a Kmart commercial just on that.'' 
 
 `` Oh, no, no... I've... I've really trained the last few years, studied with some of the best, and... and also out on the field, all over Earth.'' He spoke slowly, but confidently - his own slight smile across his full, perfect lips; sky-blue eyes twinkling above chiseled cheek bones. `` I really think I have what it takes.'' 
 
 `` Well, we'll see what everyone else says, honey, but I can probably get you in the door at least with that face.'' She smirked a little wider, gray-green eyes gleaming beneath caked-on raccoon mascara. `` So, what'll I be callin' you when I'm tellin' folks about this hot new stud in town?'' 
 
 `` Uh, well, my name's George Brandon, but I was thinking maybe of going by Lonesome George...'' He began, only for a long, bony finger to be waved before him. 
 
 `` Nah, sweetie, you ai n't a soft'n'sweet crooner and this ai n't 50s Hollywood no more,'' She scolded, tsk-tsking him, `` We'll get you somethin' fun and sexy, do n't worry.'' 
 
 * 
 
 One K-Mart commercial had lead to another, and soon he was the face of Desperado Whiskey and then the hand-model for Flavor Watches, but the real break had come with a teen drama about a girl who fell in love with a handsome, but untrustworthy alien. 
 
 The irony had n't been lost on him, not entirely. 
 
 Soon, his face and his new name were plastered everywhere, as he hid in plain sight and watched his species dwindle on the nightly news; as his former friends and distant relatives were picked off one by one, while they tried to hide like rats. 
 
 * 
 
 `` Say, Mr. Decker, I'm sorry to open with this, but...'' The skinny blonde girl from *People* began, `` How do you feel about playing an alien - and not, necessarially a very kind one if we're supposed to believe what we're seeing - with the'invasion' going on around us? Do you think your show is at all insensitive, all things considered?'' 
 
 He smiled politely, straight white teeth shining in the stage lighting. 
 
 `` Well, first of all, call me Scott,'' He said with a gentle laugh, before continuing, `` But, really, I feel that fiction just follows reality, when it's not just coincidence. People like seeing what's going on in the media just as much as on the news, so I do think that's helped popularity. But no, no - I do n't think it's insensitive. We're winning, after all - the invasion has already been a failure, I've heard.'' 
 
 He gulped nervously, smile faltering for a slight second. 
 
 `` Besides, I think people want to have a more human face to these creatures. Something they can really visualize and understand, so that the reality of it is easier to swallow. Aliens might be here, but they're losing, and that's even the case on television. Poor imitations, running and hiding and not faking human very well.'' 
 
 * 
 
 They were losing, he realized. They never had a chance of winning, could never have taken over or really blended in. 
 
 Not more than one, hiding in plain sight and loving life. 
 
 Partying. Drinking. Fucking. Trying strange drugs and going strange places and eating strange food. 
 
 It was the time of his life, he told himself, even as he sweated through his expensive sheets. 
 
 He was doing his job by existing. He did n't need to feel guilty for feeling good. 
 
 
 -- - 
 
 Second unproof read quickly written story in two days. Sorry for any errors!
