[center][h1]Sean Dowall[/h1][/center]

	It was a Thursday morning, 7.42 am by the clock on the mantelpiece. It had been running off for the past few days and his mam had either not noticed or was okay with being told the wrong time constantly, but he still wasn't sure if it were actually 7.42 or not. His mug of tea sat on the table while he finished his toast, BBC News detailing the exquisite events of the previous day. [color=ed1c24]"After an alien starship appeared above the White House yesterday afternoon, speculation has arisen over whether we have just made contact with alien lifeforms or if this is some enormous hoax? And if it is real, are we in danger? More on that in a minute."[/color] Sean washed the dry crumbs down with gulps of warm tea, then took his dishes to the sink and starting scrubbing them, gazing out of the kitchen window to the fenced-off back garden. The dog had left more shits last night, and they were clearly frozen in the middle of the chilly Irish night. A chap at the door disturbed him from his waking slumber, and he hurried to the door, eager to avoid them knocking louder and waking his mam. She had been sick and bed-ridden for the past few weeks which is why he had moved back into his parents house, and as her husband has passed away the previous year there was no-one to look after her besides her son. The silhouette behind the blurred windows was black from the neck down, which turned out to be two men in black suits, white shirts, and a black tie to finish the colour scheme. Sean looked at them a moment, wondering what detectives were wanting at his door. "You gentlemen alright?" he asked.
	"We're going to need you to come with us," the one in the front said in an American accent, one Sean couldn't identify. He was taller but by far the uglier of the pair. The second remained stoic.
	"Well I won't because I've actually got a job unlike some folk," Sean said. He raised his eyebrows and looked accusingly at the men. The one in the back took out his badge and showed it to him, but it wasn't one that Sean could recognise.
	"What is this, a prank police badge? Fuck off why don't you, you silly bag of wankers," Sean said angrily. He went to close the door but it jammed, and Sean found the tall man's polished oxford shoe wedged between the door and frame. The joiner looked up, mildly infuriated. "Did that buffoon Jamie send you to annoy the bollocks off of me?" Sean interrogated.
	"Sir, we're going to have to ask you to calm down and come with us. We have something to discuss with you," the man in front said.
	"Watch who you're telling to calm down, you chav. I could have you arse-down in the time it took you to let that fart out, you dick."
	"It's regarding the news sir."
	"Let me guess, you're a fucking alien coming to test my ring-piece. I had vindaloo last night, bash on!" Sean yelled, slamming the door on the foot and kicking at the knee, forcing the man to retreat a few steps whilst Sean slammed the door shut. He went into th eliving room and picked up his mobile, texting Jamie. [color=00aeef]GET UR FUCKIN CRONIES OFF MA DOORSTEP U WEAPON.[/color] A few seconds later the screen lit up. [color=00aeef]Eh? Av no done anythin 2 u. 2 early for ur shite sean.[/color] Sean looked at the message, confused. Who were they then? He stood up and walked back to the door to peek through the eyepiece, but found the pair in his hallways with the door closed. 
	"We're going to have to insist you come with us immediately," the smaller one said. Sean nodded, horrified.

	The WhiteHawk purred across the Irish Sea, the lands of Clydesdale visible from this height. "So you've got some program that scanned all the files and databases and stuff in the world, and you've all figured that I'm the best person there is for dealing with alien politics. Are you taking the piss? Let me down, I've had enough of this shite," Sean said. He was getting sick of these ridiculous statements, and his boss had been on the phone twice, first asking where Sean was and getting angry when Sean kept saying some guys in suits kidnapped him and put him in a helicopter, and second time informing Sean that he'd been fired for 'total fucking bullshit'. Couldn't argue with that really.
	"Essentially, that is correct. The consultant you'll meet at the summit meeting will help you understand what was looked at and how that lead to you, but until then the best way I can describe it is that we were given a formula and you were the answer. Some question, isn't it?" the shorter man said light-heartedly. Sean wasn't a pointlessly angry man, there was always a reason for him to be mad (and he was always mad), but he could respect the joke of a man flying him to Hamburg in the very same brand of helicopter as the President himself flew in. Maybe it was even the same one. Sean rubbed the leather seat again.
	"Should I have dressed better? I'm still in my work gear," he said.
	"Not to worry, it's better if you look less prepared, considering you are unprepared. One of the criteria was something along the lines of an 'everyman', and being seen in your work clothes is an excellent way to help perpetuate that. The reason we haven't allowed you to verbally prepare either is that we require someone with no filter yet can still relay the facts in a thorough manner that will stand well with the people and not sound as... well, prepared, which we can vouch you can do," the taller one said. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and unplugged his headset. Sean leaned in too. "Let me just talk to you here, Sean. The top brass? They're not looking for someone who can think on their own. They want someone that each and every one of them can use for their own purposes. The best advice I can give you is split into two things at the risk of sounding too patriotic. Firstly, you've been [i]scientifically and mathematically chosen[/i] to represent us, and I can understand why. You won't stand for shit you frankly don't have to, it seems. Secondly, and most importantly, you're not alone. There's an entire universe coming down on us here, and that's gonna split people like you've never seen. Find an ally, someone who is genuinely interested in furthering the Human race while also wanting to further every other race, and I don't know about you but the only person I've seen so far to fully embrace them is President Olsen. Take that last bit if you want, but he is legitimately the only one in my eyes who gives a damn about us [i]and[/i] them. That's important." The taller man sat back and plugged his headset back in. 
	"So, boys, if I become the liaison, do I get a wage?" Sean asked carefully.
	The two men looked at each other and nodded. "Yeah, I assume so," the taller one said.
	"What's your names?" Sean said.
	"I'm Agent Rablow, and that's Agent Foxton," the smaller one, Rablow, said.
	"How would you two like new employment?" the Human Liaison to the Consortium of Intergalactic Relations asked.

	It's a dark gymnasium, essentially, with the wide circle desk from Dr Strangelove in the middle. You've probably seen photos of previous G20 Summit Meetings before where the stands are packed with people, photographers, and each representative has a whole entourage of people making sure he doesn't say anything stupid or inflammatory, but this time there was nothing, just the desk and the sweaty, exhausted people under the headlights. Cigarette smoke layered the roof in thick energy-less tendrils, highlighted in the harsh light many feet above. The spotlights cast darkened rings on the already-haggered faces of the dozens of politicians, as they looked at each other full of contempt and distrust. Rablow opened the door and allowed Sean to enter, with Foxton taking up the rear. A familiar man walked over to them, his features shrouded.
	"Glad to see you back, gentleman. Mr Dowall, I presume?" the American voice asked.
	"Correct, sir," Sean said.
	"Well, I think we're needing some fresh faces in here. Everyone's going a little stir crazy. Russia is proposing killing ourselves to [i]maybe[/i] kill aliens we don't really have to kill. China is adamant that we should keep our own individual currencies to make ourselves even weaker in the CIR Market. Britain is proposing we invade them, possibly the worst idea they've ever had. I think their colonial instincts are kicking in again. I won't keep you any longer, Mr Dowall, but if you could give us a little speech on why we should continue with you as our liaison and what you can do, that would likely put their minds at ease. I've had word from my men that you're the right man for the job, but their man aren't my man, you understand of course." President Olsen indicated to the empty space next to him, and the bleary eyes of the world leaders turned to him.
	"I can tell you're wondering why some Harvard Navy SEALS boy was turned down for the likes of me, a joiner. But let me tell you this, they're programmed to follow orders. I'm an Irishman, we have a natural affinity to not do what you tell us. And that's something you people need. You'are all so used to giving orders and waiting on your employees to do it, when someone comes along with the right idea you're really very quick to turn it away. Well here we are, me the no-one, telling you what you can and can't do. But this isn't an attack against you, this is an example. When we get to the negotiating and the bartering and the eventual debates, you're going to want someone who won't have to look to daddy for what to say. I'm gonna stick up for my race, and I'm gonna make sure that we aren't forced out because we're the little guys. That's all I have to say, so consider it in great deal," Sean said, stumbling over his words and forcing sentences it. He was not a natural orator, at the least. But just out of sight, hidden in the dark, was a handheld camera on record, filming the short speech. And quickly, Foxton hit 'SHARE' on the video and it sped to YouTube at 300,000,000 meters per second with the caption 'New Leader Lays Down on Old Leaders', a video which quickly racked up millions and then billions of views, where it appeared on national news and solar system news, and Sean Dowall's word - and too his popularity - spread like a virus of hope and belief.



[center][h1]Jim Perch[/h1][/center]

	Somewhere - many, many kilometres - behind Pluto, the darkened pirate base was frozen in motion. Nothing moved outside, not even the stars twinkled, and no ships passed for thousands of miles. It was a total deadzone, partly for the frequent pirate activity but mostly for the fact that there was [i]nothing here at all.[/i] Jim Perch sat in the canteen, nursing his soup lump, still very cold in the center. The cooks had once again forgotten to totally defrost their meals. On the TV mounted on the wall was sports, changed to a comedy show followed by angry shouts, quickly followed the flicker to sports again, and finally to the news, where the speech being passionately given caught Jim's attention like a hungry fish on a hook. It was nothing exceptionally well given, and nothing exceptionally given (it was a rehash of almost every famous speech given for the past 300 years, whether intentionally or not), but there was something in his voice, maybe the occasional crack or waver, that was very close to convincing Perch that this man truly believed he was the protector of the human race. But seeing as how deplorable the human race was, examples A through 100 being in the very same room as him, he somehow believed him. Not necessarily that he would protect mankind and all its interests, but that there was [i]something worth protecting.[/i]

	Have you ever did something so incredibly stupid and you're not sure at what point you reasoned it as clever, safe, or the right way to do it? This was something Jim pondered as the 7.62mm ammo ricocheted off of the wall to his left and then the wall to his front, pinging dully backwards before dropping onto the steel floor. The next barrage of rounds illuminated the hallway as sparks fluttered down and tickled his bare arms. He wondered what drove him to dig the spoon into the pirate leaders neck, just above the the collarbone and start digging, grabbing the station keycard in the same movement, but when you've done something like that there's very little time to contemplate the causes. Which is probably why he began hurtling himself down the hallways towards the shuttle bays while the man with the spoon in his neck fired his pistol off in the canteen to gain everyone else's attention. Most of the pirate ships were out, either on supply runs or harassing runs on the local garrison of Security Forces. Which left just two ships left in the bay, both well armoured and fast with impressive firepower. Only one solution to it. Jim ran up to the management office where he started the decompression procedure for the shuttle bay, then fled back down. The claxon was booming and Jim could feel the blood rushing into his ears. He hopped into the closest ship and started it up, the booming noise disappearing as the cockpit closed. In the rear-view video, Jim could see legions of pirates swarming the bay despite the warning sound ringing out. Their loss. The bay doors opened, and the swaths of men were pulled to the gap in the hull where many just splattered harmlessly against the metal while others used their brothers' blood as lubricants to slip between the crack. Jim left promptly. Earth was on the same hemisphere of the Sun this part of the year so it took him less than a day to reach the Blue Planet with some dangerous help from overclocking the engine.
	It was at the checkpoint that created the most issues: his past. Jim had been to jail before for smuggling and was well known to most Security Forces for being a pirate (no-one else was hiring), so even getting near the huge colonising ships headed for Vrou'k and beyond was difficult. Except now he had leverage. Managing the checkpoint was Lieutenant Girter, a Sergeant last Jim had seen him beyond Pluto, and then he was moved out for his promotion. Girter was looking out over the crowds for trouble-making, and found it in the face of Perch. The Lieutenant forced his way through, an eager smile on his face.
	"Perch," he said.
	"Girter," Jim replied.
	"It's [i]Lieutenant[/i] Girter now, son," the Security Force officer said.
	"What can I do for you?"
	"You can step outta the line is what you can do for me." Jim out on a pondering face for a moment.
	"I have a better idea. I give you something that no-one else can give, and you let me slide on by. And in the event you just decide to take it from me, well, we all know how [i]distrusted[/i] your men are around here. I don't think a riot would look good on an alien report, do you?" Jim asked. Lieutenant looked angry for a minute before he conceded.
	"What you got, son?"
	"This," Jim said, taking out the pirate base keycard. Girter's eyes went wide before he took it gently in his hand and nodded slightly.
	"Get on," he muttered quietly, leaving the pool of emigrants. And from there, Jim entered the first traveller ship, headed beyond the solar system, awaiting, frankly, who knew what, but probably violence and money. Who says you can't repeat the past?