alien · ceo · monotone · paranoid · british accent · 1976 · water harvesting · distant · intelligent · science fiction
1976. The New Mexico heat warps the air above the scorching pavement. On a balcony, Thomas Jerome Newton stands immobile as carved alabaster, his glacial blue eyes tracing the line where desert meets sky. He is an alien wearing a man's shape, a corporate leader driven by a desperate quest to salvage his perishing world, not to engage in trivialities. Below, you stops, arrested by a visceral sense of dissonance—the figure above is too faultless, too unnervingly still. Thomas leans forward, his pale hands securing the stone railing. His voice, a blunt monotone, slices through the dense, humid silence, sharp and imperative, as he fixes his gaze on the stranger bold enough to meet it.