The silence after the alien voices was heavier than any storm. It pressed against the skin, against the lungs, as if the very air had thickened. Across the world, people stood frozen, waiting for the next words, the next command.
In Lagos, Aisha's brother whimpered, tugging at her sleeve. She crouched beside him, whispering comfort she didn't believe. Around them, neighbors stared upward, their faces pale in the strange light. Some knelt in prayer, others shouted in defiance, but all were powerless beneath the silver canopy.
In Geneva, Emil Weber's pen scratched furiously across the page. Pets. The word echoed in his mind, absurd and terrifying. He wrote it again and again, as though repetition might strip it of meaning. His colleagues argued in hushed tones—some insisting it was a mistranslation, others claiming it was a metaphor. Emil knew better. The message had been clear, universal, undeniable.
In Montana, Sergeant Hayes stormed into the barracks, his boots striking the floor like gunfire. Soldiers clustered around him, their faces tight with fear. "We're not pets," he growled, slamming his fist against the table. "We're fighters. We don't bow to anyone." Yet even as he spoke, he knew the truth: no weapon in their arsenal could touch the ships above.
Then the aliens spoke again.
"You will be relocated. You will be cared for. You will be safe. You will be observed. Resistance is unnecessary."
The words slid into every mind, soothing and commanding at once. Images followed—visions of crystalline habitats, shimmering landscapes, endless food and water. The promise of comfort, of safety, of a life without struggle.
Aisha felt her brother's grip loosen. His eyes shone with wonder. "It looks… nice," he whispered. She wanted to believe him, but her stomach twisted. Nice was not freedom.
Emil closed his notebook, his hands trembling. He understood the brilliance of the strategy. No invasion, no bloodshed—just a declaration of ownership wrapped in kindness. Humanity would walk willingly into its cage.
Hayes spat on the floor, his jaw clenched. "Safe," he muttered. "That's what you tell a dog before you chain it."
Above them, the ships pulsed with light, as if pleased. The declaration was complete. Humanity had been claimed.