By Amie Pouliot
The corpse on the table had a melted eye socket, no pulse, and a sticky note on its forehead that read: Don’t eat Carl’s yogurt.
Mariana Vale adjusted her gloves. “You’re contaminating a crime scene, Luke.”
Luke James, wearing two left shoes, a NASA hoodie, and a baseball cap that read “Rebel Alliance Flight School,” squinted at the body. “I thought it was a warning. Or a will.”
“It’s passive-aggressive fridge drama,” Mariana said, sighing into her hand.
“Which clearly escalated into murder,” he whispered, eyes wide behind thick glasses. “This is just like the spice rack incident on Level Nine of the Orgellan cruiser. Except fewer casualties. And more yogurt.”
Mariana sighed again. “You’re not supposed to touch anything.”
“I’m helping! Like Chewbacca! But, y’know, smaller and less hairy.”
“You are not Chewbacca.”
Luke leaned over the body, uninvited. “No signs of blunt force. The neural scarring in the retina suggests a focused plasma arc, probably from a disruptor wand calibrated to minimal combustion.”
She stared. “You got all that from an exploded eyeball?”
He grinned. “And the smell. It’s got that fresh-ozone-sizzle vibe. Oh, and toast! Very rare on Earth. You people usually kill each other with, like, stairs. Not this.”
Mariana turned away before she could say something she’d regret. She activated the recorder. “Victim: Carl Breen. Tech analyst. Mid-forties. Found collapsed at his workstation. No external trauma. No drugs. No known enemies. Currently smells like a barbecue accident.”
“Maybe he was a Jedi,” Luke whispered.
“Please stop.”
“Fallen in battle, struck down by a Sith who coveted his blueberry yogurt. I sense disturbance in the fridge.”
“Luke.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t make me sedate you again.”
They worked in silence for twenty blessed seconds.
Then he said, “I brought you a gift.”
“Oh no.”
Luke pulled a mangled object from his hoodie pocket. “I made you this lightsaber replica. It’s also a flashlight. It hums when you twist it.”
“You brought a glow stick to a morgue.”
“Technically, it’s also a data scanner calibrated to detect trace radiation and glitter. But yes, it glows.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I just want to help,” he added, tone sincere. “You Earthlings have so many unsolved deaths. It’s truly fascinating. You trip on carpets. You ingest fish voluntarily. You willingly press your tongues to frozen poles.”
Mariana turned to him slowly. “You’ve been watching YouTube again, haven’t you?”
He looked guilty. “I wanted to understand Earth courtship rituals.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Anyway,” he said, quickly, “Carl didn’t trip. He was definitely murdered. The quartz trace in his bloodstream proves it.”
She froze. “Quartz?”
Luke nodded. “Compressed crystal filaments. Laced with silver. Definitely an injector. Probably experimental. Possibly interstellar.”
“You’re not even pretending to be normal anymore.”
“I was trying. I wore matching socks today. Technically.” He pulled up his pants to reveal two black socks—one with pink pigs, the other with egg rolls.
“Are you CIA? Interpol? From a planet where shirts don’t button properly?”
He looked down at his misaligned collar. “I’m with the Earthan Initiative,” he said finally. “We’re a peaceful observational force sanctioned by the Galactic Union to study pre-spaceflight worlds. Mostly from orbit. But, well… I might’ve portal-hopped into a Cheesecake Factory by accident and decided to stay.”
She just stared.
“I love your planet,” he said earnestly. “The food. The memes. The completely illogical political systems. It’s like watching The Phantom Menace, but all the time.”
“You think this is fun?”
“I think you’re brilliant,” he said, eyes gleaming. “And I think you’ve been alone in this lab so long you’re starting to talk to the dead more than the living. Which makes you the ideal companion for galactic research.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Slowly reached for her phone.
Luke panicked. “Wait! I’ll prove it. Please don’t call your military. Your missiles are very pointy, and your tanks are so loud, and I don’t even have a spleen!”
He darted to the autopsy scanner, flicked it to X-ray mode, and stuck his hand in.
His skin shimmered like a bad hologram and disappeared. Beneath it: green-scaled flesh, six long fingers, and glowing golden veins that pulsed like bioluminescent circuits.
Mariana blinked. “Oh.”
“Ta-da,” he whispered with a smile.
Three hours later, Mariana sat at her desk, half-watching as Luke attempted to toast marshmallows over the sterilizer.
“Autopsy report, case 2086,” she dictated. “Victim: Carl Breen. Cause of death under review. Notes: burned retinas, quartz injection residue, and possible yogurt-related motive. Likely interstellar tech. Likely silencing operation. Maybe Martigan. Maybe marketing.”
She clicked off the recorder.
Luke waved a marshmallow at her. “You want to come with me to interview the coworker? I’ve made disguise bands out of tinfoil. Very official.”
“I have real forensic tools,” she muttered.
“Perfect. We’ll be the dream team! Like Kirk and Spock! Or Mulder and Scully! Or that one time R2-D2 teamed up with a toaster!”
She stood slowly. “This is why I drink,” she said.
Luke beamed and tossed her a marshmallow. “Also, I confiscated Carl’s yogurt. I think it’s cursed. But if it’s not, dibs.” He saluted with the tinfoil bracelet. “May the corpse be ever in your favor.”
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Hahaha this was so funny! I loved Therrus’ personality in this and the pop culture references were on point! 😂👏🏻
This story’s hilarious. “You brought a glow stick to a morgue.”