The Command

The fluorescent bulb overhead thrummed with mechanical persistence, its rhythm nearly matching the cadence of DCI Grub's muttered complaints as he struck another match. Smoke unfurled in lazy spirals, threading between the two figures seated at opposite ends of the scarred metal table. The Arrival – as the reports labelled him – sat with preternatural stillness, his nearly seven foot frame making the chair appear diminutive. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist beneath his simple clothing, every line of him suggesting the kind of athletic perfection that belonged on ancient Greek statuary. He observed Grub through eyes that neither blinked nor wavered, while across from him, the middle-aged interrogator looked decidedly ordinary by comparison—average height, soft around the middle, his rumpled shirt straining slightly over a paunch earned through years of desk work and takeaway meals.

"Right then," Grub said, his voice gravelly from decades of cigarettes. He slapped a manila folder against the table's surface with deliberate force. "Let's begin with the basics. Name?"

The response came without hesitation, each syllable crystalline and precise: "I am designated 'Seventh' within the Collective hierarchy of The Candid."

"The Candid?" Grub's eyebrows lifted as he scratched the grey stubble along his jaw. "Some kind of offworld solar-state, right? The Sapir-Whorf system?"

Seventh inclined his head with the gravity of absolute certainty. "Correct. I have travelled to Earth in accordance with my directive."

"Directive from whom?" Grub pressed forward, studying the man's unnaturally composed features.

"From those who possess authority to command." Seventh's tone remained level, devoid of inflection.

“I was hoping for a bit more than that,” Grub complained.

“There is not, nor can there be, more. Commands exist to be fulfilled. I was commanded, and so I am here." Seventh intoned.

A sardonic smile tugged at Grub's mouth. "Just follow orders, do you? No questions, no second thoughts?"

“Of course. What is is as it must be,” the inscrutable not-quite-man replied.

Grub leaned back in his chair, cigarette dangling from his fingers. "Let's test that theory, shall we? Raise your right arm."

Seventh's arm ascended in one fluid motion, the movement revealing the corded muscle beneath his sleeve – strength that seemed effortless, controlled, like a machine designed for perfect efficiency. Grub blinked, momentarily unsettled by both the immediate compliance and the clear impression of deadly potential conveyed by the alien’s movements.

"Lower it."

The arm descended with the same precision.

"Say the word 'giraffe,'" Grub commanded, watching intently for any crack in the man's composure.

"Giraffe." The word emerged with the same grave solemnity Seventh might have reserved for reciting scripture.

Grub exhaled smoke through his nose, amusement mingling with disbelief. "You can't seriously expect me to believe you'll obey any command, regardless of its source."

"A command originates from one who commands," Seventh replied without pause. "One who commands does so in service of our collective purpose. Therefore, a command serves our purpose. Therefore, it must be obeyed."

The circular logic was airtight, impenetrable. Grub took another drag, studying this peculiar being. "Humour me, then. What happens when someone issues a command in error? What if they change their mind?"

For the first time, Seventh hesitated – the briefest flicker of something approaching uncertainty. "A command serves our purpose. It cannot be erroneous. It cannot be retracted."

Grub stubbed out his cigarette with more force than necessary, that familiar smirk returning to his weathered face. "Listen here, mate. Down on Earth, we're not quite so... compliant as you lot. We question things. Push boundaries. And sometimes—" he met Seventh's gaze directly "—we lie."

Seventh's head tilted with the mechanical precision of a curious bird. Or a hunting raptor. "Lie? This concept is unfamiliar."

"Course it is," Grub chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. "Where you're from, I imagine deception's about as useful as tits on a fish."

Though Seventh's expression remained blank, his unwavering attention suggested he was absorbing every word with an unnerving intensity.

Grub lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face. "Lying means stating what isn't true. And we Earth folk—we also use profanity. Crude language."

"Profanity?" Seventh leaned forward with evident fascination.

"Aye. Words like 'fuck.'" Grub watched carefully for a reaction. "Vulgar term for sexual intercourse."

Seventh nodded with the same earnestness he might display while receiving critical intelligence. "Understood."

"Brilliant." A strange satisfaction crept through Grub at having penetrated the alien's composure, however marginally. Unable to resist further provocation, he added, "Now say it. Say 'fuck.'"

"Fuck," Seventh repeated with the dutiful precision of a linguistics student.

The smirk dissolved from Grub's face as he found himself trapped in the visitor's unwavering stare—this being, who possessed neither the capacity for deception nor the ability to refuse a command. A cold realisation began to crystallise in his mind. He leaned back, arms crossing defensively over his chest.

"Christ," he muttered, shaking his head with a mixture of admiration and unease. "I don't pretend to understand this 'Candid' world of yours, but you people... you're something else entirely." He laughed—a short, incredulous sound. "Fuck me."

Seventh rose from his chair—and kept rising. His full height seemed to fill the cramped interrogation room. He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, each step deliberate and unnaturally smooth. This being of physical perfection and singular, inevitable intent closed the distance between them, his expression maintaining its perfect, terrible calm…

Grub remained frozen, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, his usual arsenal of words suddenly, catastrophically absent.