//------------------------------//
// Patrick 
// Story: P.A.R.T. 
// by Angels 
//------------------------------//

Patrick set his coffee down, pulling out his apartment key and unlocking the door. Entering, he closed the door with his foot, and surveyed everything he owned. Almost everything, seeing as how his bike was locked up three floors below. He didn't own much. His bike, tv, iPhone and orange cat were his most valuable possessions. He sighed, putting his wallet and keys on the counter, then proceeded to wash last nights dinner remnants off of his plate. He placed the now-clean dish and utensils on a drying rack, and wiped the day's stress from his hands along with the excess water. 

Setting out a bowl of dry cat food caused a blur named Gary to erupt from between the couch cushions. Patrick stroked his coat as the cat inhaled the small chunks of nutrition. As he finished, Gary looked up at his owner, then laid down and rolled three times to the right, then to the left. This always made Patrick smile. Gary always did everything in threes. 

During the seven and a half minutes it took to microwave some macaroni and cheese, he attempted to clean up at least some of the stuff in the room. That was all it really was, just stuff. 

The microwave gave a small 'ding', and he set the container on the table. It was still bubbling, but he didn't care. 

After dinner, Patrick opened a sliding glass door, stepping out onto his small veranda. Looking between the buildings, he could just barely see the setting sun. He watched it slowly slip under the small cresting waves of the salty sound. 

The honk of a car below brought him back to earth. Sighing once again, he went back inside, locking the glass door and moving the curtains across. Undressing, he prepared to go to sleep. 

Laying down on the couch, Patrick pulled the comforter up to his chest. He was soon joined by Gary, who curled up at his feet. "Good night, Gary." He got a meow in response. "Yeah, meow to you too." He closed his eyes, sinking into sleep.

* * *

His dream was pretty standard, as dreams go. He was in an airplane, in a window seat. Looking out, he saw the earth far below him. He could see the entire sphere he called home. But looking again, he saw a continent he didn't recognize at all. No matter which way he turned his head, he couldn't fit it into the jigsaw of continents. But as he watched, it slowly faded away, being replaced with the northwest corner of North America. His eyes wandered around the inside of the dream-ship. When he looked back outside, three small dots were shooting through the expanse of space, aimed at earth. They split up, one heading for the northwest, one for the east coast, and one in between the other two. They got smaller and smaller, fading from view. Without warning, those three areas seemed to erupt, the first with some sort of purple checker-board pattern, the second with green fire, and the third with shining black glass. They seemed to spread like a virus, enveloping North America, South America, and then the oceans along with everything else. In under a minute, the earth was a shining, patterned fireball. Patrick shrugged. He'd dreamed weirder. The dream faded, replaced by a party. Pounding music, drink in hand, friends all around... He was quickly lost in the festivities.

* * *

Patrick groped for his alarm clock, finding it and silencing it with a slap. Rolling off the couch and annoying Gary, who was still trying to sleep, Patrick got dressed and ready for work. His job entailed delivering packages by bike. His bike was his one joy in life. The thrill of speed and ultimate maneuverability, and the skill to do it in the city. He didn't get much pay, but he managed. 

He made his way to the lower garage, jumping over railing after railing in the stairwell. He made it to the bottom, opening the thick door. His bike was protected by a industrial-level lock. Pulling it from the rack, he placed his bike on the cement, mounted it, and pushed off.