There's something universally unsettling about having your face broadcast across the sky.
Especially when you're a cockroach.
Bob squinted at the enormous hologram hovering above the scrapyard — his tiny form enlarged, spinning in 3D, surrounded by glowing alien text.
"WANTED," it said.
"Subject: Bob. Threat Level: Highly Unacceptable. Status: Terminate on Sight."
Bob raised one brow. "Highly unacceptable? What am I, a school essay?"
---
Target: Tiny Nuisance
Back at Resistance HQ, Maya choked on her energy drink. "Bob, they just declared you public enemy number one."
General Dev stared at the screen. "They've never marked an individual before… let alone a cockroach."
Bob, of course, took it like a champ.
"I always wanted to be famous," he said, dusting off his shell. "Didn't think I'd make it as an alien war criminal, but hey — fame is fame."
Suddenly, the scrapyard lit up.
Dropships. Three of them. Engines roaring. Sentries pouring out like spilled oil.
"Oh good," Bob muttered. "They brought the fan club."
---
The Chase Begins
Blaster fire scorched the ground as Bob zipped between car husks and junk piles, ducking into shadows, crawling through tubes, leaping over shredded tires.
"They're not playing around," Maya's voice rang in his ear.
"No kidding!" Bob shouted, narrowly avoiding a laser that vaporized a washing machine. "I liked that washing machine!"
A hunter drone swooped overhead. Bob jumped, grabbing onto it mid-air. The drone jerked wildly, trying to shake him off.
"I believe I can flyyyy!" he screamed as he rode it like a rodeo bull, punching buttons with his tiny legs.
The drone spun out and crashed into a fuel barrel.
BOOM.