Name: Hugh Man Guy
Age: 13.8 billion light-years; Terrestrial physicality: three decades.
Gender: Male
Appearance: If you soften your vision—or are graced with clairvoyance—you'll observe his aura vacillating between red and purple. These emanations vibrate outward from the cusp of his body and the world. It is spectra suspended in space, a wonderful mixing of hues. Sometimes it flares outward like the unfurling of a leaf. It grabs around before fading back to the main cloud. Hugh himself can't see them—you probably can't either—but they're there.
Hugh is a Cygnus starseed. He looks like how you'd expect a Cygnus starseed to look. Yet, his human body isn't extraordinary. He isn't interested in appearing beautiful, especially because he isn't a human soul. Why care about Earth fashion trends if you're not an Earthling spirit? He dresses based on what is comfortable. He'll wear a hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. He'll cycle between a few well-broken in jeans. He has a farmer's tan from all the hours he spends outside. The tan is visual when his shirt lifts after he grabs a tool from the highest shelf or when the sleeves ride up his arm.
So his appearance isn't the most expressive to others. Though to Hugh, he finds the smallest ways for himself: the cap with the most efficient clasp or a watch with the most uses. And scattered on his body, beneath his shirt and pants, are small tattoos. They remind him of his goals.
Personality: G'maw calls him brilliant. Papaw thinks he's gonna change the world. As a Cygnus starseed, there is a sense of greatness that is inherent inside of him. It gets expressed into the world, but not clearly. Hugh isn't expressive with words. He can form a sentence but they usually come off a little too weird. He's much better at expressing with his hands: cooking, sketching, and building. Earthlings seldom understand the nature of Cygnus starseeds and other indigo children.
Cygnus starseeds specifically focus on a singular goal and a desire. Their purpose on Earth is to endure, experience, and understand what was absent during their time on their home planets. Hugh endures. He knows the feeling of uncomfortable side glances. When he talks about his free time or his hopes for the new year they tolerate it but don't understand. There is always some kind of friction. A slight incompatibility. A weirdness not concentrated enough for pariahdom but enough for obscurity. This doesn't upset Hugh. Hugh has his chatrooms, his families, his shed, and his goals.
History: The Guys are close. Three generators live in the household: G'maw and Papa, Mama and Dad, and Hugh. They live in a ranch-style home that feels like an amalgamation of new-age cultures. Dad works on tinkering and innovative renovations. Most recently, he replaced the old screen door with one using the bottom of bottles for glass. They're great insulators. G'maw loves to garden, so the lawn is pruned and the air holds a nice sweet thickness of pollen. Mama makes droughts with essential oils she presses herself. She ties her own sage—a skill taught by Mama's own grandmother—and uses her collection of tuning forks to adjust the atmosphere. Papa loves to smoke what G'maw grows. Sometimes they give him visions. The Guys have comfortably lived this way for a while.
Hugh's mama feels so blessed to be raising her boy. How couldn't she? Hugh graduated at the top of his class; as a toddler, confirmation of his galactic origin prompted her to homeschool Hugh. She taught him everything—very well actually, which the neighbors found surprising. Hugh would read stories with Mama in the yard, always books about space. He digested everything: from the factual—constellation charts, astronomy textbooks, Star Wars—to the fictitious—articles rejecting alien existence and Apollo 11. And, of course, he's visited important sites of extraterrestrial contact to reconnect with his heritage. He's seen Stonehenge, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, Roswell, etc.
With his appetite to reconnect, Mama's intuition, and Papa's visions, it was obvious that Hugh possessed a truly unique Starseed soul. Papa, in a vision, prophesied that he is destined to do the great and impossible. Hugh will find home—their real home. Hugh is going to make contact with aliens.
He has to.
Activity: Out by the shed there is a dish. It is not the type you eat from, though you can. It is the type that you fling your terrestrial snail mail into the cosmos from—hoping to reach your millionth cousin because Ancestry and 23andMe don't mail across the galaxy yet. And the companies haven't responded to any of Hugh's emails about when they plan to do so. Yet.
Hugh is trying to contact aliens. That's how he spends his time—out by the dish. And when he's not out by the dish he works at his Earth family's convenience store. With his salary, he orders more dish parts: replacement resonators, lithium generators, radar detectors, stronger broadcasters. It is starting to get big. He might move it inside the shed. He doesn't want any of the technology stolen. It's expensive and important; Hugh is trying to reach home.
His desk is strewn with mostly read galactic encyclopedias. The shelves are stacked with collections of undeniable proof of contacts. Hugh probably knows everything that aliens have helped construct, every time they have shaped mankind's history. His library card is well used. It's the same one from middle school with the jagged pen marks of adolescence adding grain to the lettering. It's used weekly.
When he takes breaks you'll find him at the bar, people-watching, cracking peanuts, and being lulled by the buzz of the neon lights. They're familiar, reminding him of Cygnus. Or maybe the feeling is a placebo effect—just some dumb generational hysteria. True memory or not, he likes sitting there. It's nice, and that's enough.
Oddity: He is a Cygnus Starseed; ...none.
