Protocol Echo
After noticing subtle anomalies in world leaders' behavior and biometric data, a government analyst uncovers a chilling pattern suggesting aliens haven’t just arrived—they’ve replaced the most powerful humans on Earth. With time running out, one final decision could either reveal the truth or silence it forever.
The President's eyes didn't match the color listed on her medical file.
They were too dark—almost black—like they absorbed light instead of reflecting it.
I only noticed because I wrote the file. I’ve worked medical clearance inside the Joint Global Liaison Office for eleven years. Blood types, eye color, gait analysis—I remember it all. Especially hers. Hazel. Not obsidian.
My name’s Mason Kirsch. Ex-combat medic turned government analyst. My father was killed in the Blackout Riots—riots triggered by the President’s “first major broadcast.” I didn’t trust her then. I trust her even less now.
It started small. A series of wellness checks came back... wrong. Leaders showed elevated hormone levels and unfamiliar neural patterns, like they were adjusting to a body not built for them. One had a heartbeat that pulsed in five-beat rhythms. Another didn’t blink for over four minutes during a diplomatic summit.
Each anomaly was flagged. Each one quietly removed from the system the next morning.
I began keeping hard copies. One by one, I cross-checked the “replacements.” The same smile. The same cadence. The same eerie phrase: “Peace requires a unified frequency.”
What the hell does that even mean?
At a security checkpoint last Thursday, I was stopped by a man from Clearance Division wearing a black badge. No name, no rank.
He stared at me too long. “You’ve been watching patterns,” he said flatly.
I swallowed. “Is that against protocol?”
“It is,” he replied. “But not for the reason you think.”
Before I could ask more, he handed me a sealed envelope. “For when you stop doubting yourself.”
That night, I opened it. Inside was a photo: the President, mid-speech—eyes jet black. On the back, scrawled in tight writing:
“Echoes are not echoes. They’re rehearsals.”
I couldn’t sleep. My watch ticked loud in the dark, grounding me. Dad’s old watch. The one he gave me the week before he died. I’d never worn it until that night.
And I noticed something.
It ticked in threes.
Tick, tick, tick... pause... tick, tick, tick... pause. A perfect rhythm.
When I held it up to the photo, the ticking aligned with the President’s speech pattern. Perfectly.
Today, I stood in the main transmission room during her annual address. All personnel were instructed to wear smart lenses—to “enhance eye-contact fidelity.” I removed mine.
From behind the glass, I watched her face flicker.
Not a screen glitch. Her skin flickered. For half a second, something underneath—pale, gray, ridged—pushed forward. Then it was gone.
She ended with the same line: “Peace requires a unified frequency.”
The audience erupted in applause.
I’m alone now in the data archive. The lights hum overhead. I’m staring at a console displaying the original medical scans—pre-flicker. In my hand: my father’s watch, still ticking in threes.
The cursor blinks beneath a single line:
“Would you like to upload Protocol Echo to public channels?”
Uploading it would expose everything.
But if I’m wrong, I’ll disappear like the others.
I look down at the photo again.
She’s staring straight at me.
And this time… she blinks.
I press Enter.
They were too dark—almost black—like they absorbed light instead of reflecting it.
I only noticed because I wrote the file. I’ve worked medical clearance inside the Joint Global Liaison Office for eleven years. Blood types, eye color, gait analysis—I remember it all. Especially hers. Hazel. Not obsidian.
My name’s Mason Kirsch. Ex-combat medic turned government analyst. My father was killed in the Blackout Riots—riots triggered by the President’s “first major broadcast.” I didn’t trust her then. I trust her even less now.
It started small. A series of wellness checks came back... wrong. Leaders showed elevated hormone levels and unfamiliar neural patterns, like they were adjusting to a body not built for them. One had a heartbeat that pulsed in five-beat rhythms. Another didn’t blink for over four minutes during a diplomatic summit.
Each anomaly was flagged. Each one quietly removed from the system the next morning.
I began keeping hard copies. One by one, I cross-checked the “replacements.” The same smile. The same cadence. The same eerie phrase: “Peace requires a unified frequency.”
What the hell does that even mean?
At a security checkpoint last Thursday, I was stopped by a man from Clearance Division wearing a black badge. No name, no rank.
He stared at me too long. “You’ve been watching patterns,” he said flatly.
I swallowed. “Is that against protocol?”
“It is,” he replied. “But not for the reason you think.”
Before I could ask more, he handed me a sealed envelope. “For when you stop doubting yourself.”
That night, I opened it. Inside was a photo: the President, mid-speech—eyes jet black. On the back, scrawled in tight writing:
“Echoes are not echoes. They’re rehearsals.”
I couldn’t sleep. My watch ticked loud in the dark, grounding me. Dad’s old watch. The one he gave me the week before he died. I’d never worn it until that night.
And I noticed something.
It ticked in threes.
Tick, tick, tick... pause... tick, tick, tick... pause. A perfect rhythm.
When I held it up to the photo, the ticking aligned with the President’s speech pattern. Perfectly.
Today, I stood in the main transmission room during her annual address. All personnel were instructed to wear smart lenses—to “enhance eye-contact fidelity.” I removed mine.
From behind the glass, I watched her face flicker.
Not a screen glitch. Her skin flickered. For half a second, something underneath—pale, gray, ridged—pushed forward. Then it was gone.
She ended with the same line: “Peace requires a unified frequency.”
The audience erupted in applause.
I’m alone now in the data archive. The lights hum overhead. I’m staring at a console displaying the original medical scans—pre-flicker. In my hand: my father’s watch, still ticking in threes.
The cursor blinks beneath a single line:
“Would you like to upload Protocol Echo to public channels?”
Uploading it would expose everything.
But if I’m wrong, I’ll disappear like the others.
I look down at the photo again.
She’s staring straight at me.
And this time… she blinks.
I press Enter.
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