Duff kicked the dusty hood of their rattletrap Jeep and squinted at the desert night. Shaw unfurled a map that glowed in starlight like a sheet of cosmic parchment. Around them, the Roswell plains shimmered—sand polished to glass by decades of whispered conspiracy.
“Radar ping led us here,” Duff said, tapping the map. “Whatever fell from orbit slammed straight ahead.”
They trudged over brittle yucca and half-buried cattle bones until a metallic carcass rose from the gloom. Jagged plating steamed, still hot from atmospheric fury. Emerald light pulsed through ruptured seams, casting neon ripples across their faces.
Shaw knelt beside a fractured hatch. “This isn’t Air Force hardware. Look at those glyphs—pure calculus wearing a tuxedo.” He produced a crowbar and pried. The hatch shrieked, revealing a cargo bay littered with crystalline canisters, each bubbling like soda pop in zero-G.
Out spilled dozens of luminous green bears, wobbling on gelatin haunches. They gave off a crisp orchard scent that sliced the desert musk.
Duff knelt, transfixed. “They’re not moving like candy.”
“They’re not moving like anything Earth-grown,” Shaw said, already collecting samples into their satchel with gloved precision. “Don’t taste. Not yet. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
A distant helicopter churned the air. Searchlights sliced the darkness. Duff zipped the bag. “Blue Book boys in five. We exit in three.”
They sprinted toward the Jeep as desert rocks exploded behind them—warning shots from black-ops spotters. The gummy cargo jostled like trapped fireflies.
Dust plumed under spinning tires. Shaw navigated arroyos while Duff scanned the rearview. “They’ll confiscate evidence, redact truth, and issue a weather-balloon press release,” Duff muttered.
Shaw grinned. “Let them chase tumbleweeds. We hold the flavor of the cosmos.”
Hours later, they camped beside a dry creek under a cathedral of stars. Duff brewed strong coffee; Shaw unpacked the canisters and lit a red lens lamp. Under its glow, the bears gleamed like bioluminescent organisms. Micro-glyphs spiraled across their surfaces—swirling fractals that shimmered like written thought.
“We’re not just looking at alien biology,” Shaw whispered. “We’re looking at alien culinary design.”
For three nights they studied the bears—testing, cataloging, distilling. Duff used an old copper still rigged for sugar refinement; Shaw drew schematics by firelight. From the alien template, they coaxed something Earth-born: tart, crystalline, and charged with strange delight.
When the synthesis was complete, they each took a bite.
Duff’s eyes watered. “Great galaxies,” he said, breathless. “That’s the punch of a supernova in candy form.”
Shaw scribbled in his journal marked “MJ-12 / EYES ONLY”:
Specimen Alpha—Green Gummies from Outer Space.
Origin: unknown. Effect: delicious hysteria. Potential: boundless.
By dawn, they drove into town and shared samples with bleary truckers at a diner. Eyes widened; laughter flared. Rumors flew faster than saucers.
By noon, storefront signs read TRY THE GREEN GUMMIES FROM OUTER SPACE!—hand-painted in alien-lime ink. Government men in dark suits arrived too late; the flavor already orbited local gossip.
That evening, Duff & Shaw sat on a rooftop, legs dangling over Main Street. Neon flickered below, and children chased each other with candy-bright smiles. Shaw raised a gummy in salute to the endless sky.
“The truth,” he said, “never stays buried.”
Duff bit half the bear, savored starlight tartness, and grinned. “Especially when it’s chewy.”
