I was woken up by the noises outside. As soon as I opened my eyes, I sensed something abnormal. I pulled open the curtains and looked outside the window—the scene was unusually turbulent. I scratched my head, bleary eyed, and mumbled, “What is going on… I was planning to sleep until...” 

“Maria!” My mum suddenly broke in, leaving the pitiful door trembling and creaking, as if complaining about all the brutality. “Jesus, you just woke up? Quickly, look at your phone! The headline news. An alien civilization is heading toward earth and will soon arrive at our city!” 

This message hit me so hard that I felt as if I was still immersed in my dream, where I had eaten three zombie brains and swum among sharks with legs. 

Aliens. 

Even in 2666, when most people felt alienated from society by all the fast-paced technological developments, this message seemed like the plot of a sci-fi movie. 

My father, by contrast, was still sitting beside the dining table, typing on his computer just as he did on all the other days, fighting with the numbers and curves—it seemed like nothing could impact a middle-aged man’s working passion. 

He thumped the table and shouted, “Damn! Wrong numbers again!” Ignited passion. 

I took my notebook and walked out of the building—if aliens took over the earth when I was outside, at least I could leave a note so my family could find some black-suited people with black umbrellas and have them stand silently in tribute in front of my tomb, pretending that I had been a secret agent from an underground organization. 

As my thoughts buzzed in the beehive in my head, a group of young people grabbed my attention; they were waving banners with giant, blood-red handwritten words: “Unite, humans, join our anti-alien clubs!” “Biggest crisis in human history!” “Get out, aliens!” 

Wow. I thought. Incredible. They truly do think that waving banners and shouting slogans in human languages can tackle the aliens. 

Suddenly, my brain buzzed and I lost my vision for a second. When I came back to consciousness, I saw an enormous fifty-story oval spacecraft landing on the ground, and a bizarre voice started speaking directly in my brain. 

“Listen, homo sapiens, give up your futile resistance. I’m here on behalf of our royal leader, coming to enslave your inferior species. According to our imperial edict, we will colonize  your planet. From now on, every one of you must work ten hours every week for our civilization—no matter your gender, ethnicity, current profession, or sexual orientation! We will offer you food, shelter, and entertainment after you finish your work.” 

The crowd gasped. The young people slowly put down their banners. A young girl stepped out and hesitatingly asked, “Are you sure it will be ten hours every week?” 

The bizarre voice boomed again, “Definitely. No objections accepted.” 

After a short moment of silence, the crowd erupted, cheering. My father must be a part of this celebration at his spot beside the dining table. 

Now, the “anti-alien clubs” encountered a new crisis: everyone seemed to prefer being  enslaved rather than resisting the aliens. A title of “slave” in exchange for unending resources, happiness, and stability—a worthy quid pro quo.