It was past 7:00 PM.
Children played in the square, chasing one another under their mothers' watchful eyes. Teenagers exchanged glances and smiles, young lovers nestled on benches in the darkest, most secluded corners, and the elderly gossiped while waiting for the 7:30 mass. It was a scene of tranquility in a bucolic setting, in a neighborhood on the outskirts of a small town of barely fifteen thousand souls, located in an unremarkable state.
It was a good town to live in. Little pollution, low crime—at most the occasional cell phone theft. Anything more serious, like a homicide or bank robbery, rarely happened, and when it did, it became the main topic of conversation for weeks on end. The cement factory was the region's only industry, providing jobs and income that kept the town running smoothly, even while the rest of the world weathered a financial crisis.
A wonderful place to live compared to the great urban centers, the sprawling metropolises, and other forms of human congestion. Perhaps because of all this calm, no one was prepared for a sudden shift in circumstances.
One of the playing children stopped and stared toward the far side of the square. Seeing him freeze mid-run, his playmates came over to investigate. He said nothing, merely pointed to a spot where the light itself seemed to warp and twist, like an optical illusion.
It looked like water suspended in air.
Gradually, the distortion caught the adults' attention, and they gathered around the children. Everyone marveled at the phenomenon, though each group reacted differently. The elderly ladies crossed themselves, young people raised their phones to capture it, mothers searched for their children in the forming crowd—even passing cars pulled over to see what was happening.
It was so unusual, perhaps unprecedented, that fear and curiosity warred for dominance. Someone even mustered the courage to approach the growing mass of distortion. Poking it with a stick found nearby, nothing happened.
The onlookers breathed easier, though some still muttered that it could be dangerous. Having touched the mass with the stick, the young man felt incredible—he'd been the first brave enough to do it—yet horrible scenarios raced through his mind, drawn from every movie he'd ever watched.
He was about to turn and assure the crowd that everything was fine when the sound of an electrical discharge rang out, as if emanating from the strange floating phenomenon. Everyone began backing away from the unknown thing, taking large steps backward.
The shrill sound repeated.
Now, mothers scooped up their children and retreated at nearly a run. When the sound echoed a third time, it came accompanied by a bolt of lightning that shot from the center of that strange thing and struck the ground. It happened fast, but everyone saw it.
The electrical discharges grew more and more frequent, each accompanied by lightning bolts lancing out in every direction. By now all the spectators had retreated to a relatively safe distance. The phenomenon was becoming agitated, and with each movement, more noise and lightning erupted from it.
It was as if something were fighting to escape. A demon, an alien, a time traveler—the theories were endless. Some even shouted that it was global warming's fault, punishment for dumping plastic bottles in the rivers. Now nature was taking its revenge.
The murmuring intensified as the noise from the phenomenon increased. Though most believed it was dangerous, they refused to leave. Human curiosity outweighs even the fear of death.
Suddenly the lightning ceased, though the noise continued. As the sounds grew more sporadic, people exchanged knowing glances, as if sensing it was nearing its end. A moment of silence stretched for several seconds, broken only by a sharp scream.
A woman in her thirties or forties stood pointing at the phenomenon, clutching her son, so tightly the boy could barely breathe. What had she seen that the others hadn't? Little by little, more people began to notice something new, until it became clear to everyone.
It was as if a translucent sheet of plastic floated over the square, and someone on the other side was trying to break through. Hands—they could clearly see hands—pressing against it, trying to cross over. But cross over from where?
Someone had called the police, who arrived and pushed back the swelling crowd while several officers aimed their weapons at "it." Clearly, the security forces weren't prepared to handle paranormal phenomena.
Whatever barrier contained the would-be crosser finally ruptured. A small rift tore open in space, about five feet above the ground, accompanied by a guttural scream that chilled every spectator to their core.
The first hand emerged—human, left, gaunt, wounded and dripping blood. It hung motionless for two seconds before the second hand appeared. Identical, except it was the right hand. Slowly they separated, as if prying open a passage for the rest of the body.
The officer leading the operation signaled his men to hold their fire. Everyone understood that it appeared to be human, and if it wasn't, there was no guarantee human weapons could protect them anyway.
Just like in the movies…
As the two hands moved apart, a human head emerged—or at least it appeared human. Gradually the body revealed itself, face twisted in pain and agony, as though making a tremendous effort to break through.
An apparently humanoid figure emerged completely. Long, unkempt hair and beard obscured features still hidden by spatial distortion and shadows cast by the poor street lighting.
The first foot touched ground—barefoot, dirty, filthy to be precise. The second foot followed. Now the figure, covered in grime and blood, stood entirely free as the phenomenon sealed rapidly behind him. Average height, wearing torn and tattered clothes, several leather pouches hanging from his body—he looked like a vagrant. If not for his method of arrival, he could easily have been mistaken for just another homeless person.
His arms dropped to his sides, as if the newly arrived individual had spent his last reserves of strength. Still, he managed three stumbling steps forward. Smoke began rising from his arms, and at that moment the distinguished visitor seemed to reach his limit, collapsing to his knees and looking skyward.
The police commander approached, trying to comprehend what—or who—this emaciated figure was, covered in filth with smoke curling from his arms. When he drew close enough, he saw the man was smiling through tears.
Whether from the smoke or from weeks without bathing, a stench engulfed the area, reminiscent of burning hair. Women shrieked that the demon reeked of sulfur and began reciting prayers. Weapon raised, hands trembling, the officer heard the stranger speak before losing consciousness:
"My name is André Lima... I-I finally... made it... back..."
The news spread like wildfire: The last of the 33 heroes had returned.
That same night, helicopters touched down on the town's soccer field, shattering the peace and quiet. Hooded military personnel whisked the last hero away, leaving the world's media clamoring for answers about this André.
The few photographs of his arrival had their rights purchased for exorbitant sums. But it wasn't long before the courts placed an injunction on broadcasting the images.
Over two months passed and people returned to the monotony of their lives, all but forgetting the mysterious man's arrival. News channels stopped asking who he was and where he'd gone. The world slipped back into its normal routine, as if André had never existed.
No one stopped to ask what his arrival might mean for the world. Or perhaps someone had.
. . .
In a conference room, three people discussed precisely that—André's fate—long after the world had moved on.
"I can't agree to this!" the blond man said.
"Neither can I," added the one with black hair.
"You know perfectly well what his arrival means," the redhead said through clenched teeth. "Now that someone's managed to cross without a key, this world is in danger too."
"And what will you do?" the blond man challenged.
"What must be done to protect people. We're heroes, after all, aren't we?"