The morning after the Selection was unnaturally quiet. Cities once alive with the noise of daily life now moved with muted purpose under the weight of occupation. Alien vessels hovered above major population centres like harbingers of a new era, their silent dominance a stark reminder of humanity’s swift fall. The world's governments had crumbled almost instantly, leaving people adrift in an unrecognisable reality.

  Ryan’s family had been transported to a re-education facility, a massive, gleaming structure that rose where the council building once stood. The halls smelled sterile, like antiseptic and steel, and were dotted with screens displaying the same looping footage: smiling human faces working alongside the invaders, their voices filled with the scripted cheer of assimilation.

  In their assigned room, the tension hung thick in the air, suffocating and oppressive. Massive screens filled each wall, broadcasting live feeds of chaotic battles unfolding in a dense, alien forest. The terrain was unforgiving, its twisted trees and unnatural flora casting ominous shadows over the desperate fighters below. Terrified and desperate, people clashed with monstrous creatures far beyond their understanding or capability.

  One by one, they fell.

  The screams of the dying, raw and unrelenting, merged with the guttural roars of the beasts, creating a symphony of carnage that filled the room. Blood slicked the forest floor, painting it a dark, crimson red, while the alien creatures tore through human bodies with savage efficiency.

  There was no escape from the nightmare displayed on the screens, no reprieve from the relentless horror of the slaughter. The walls glowed with the haunting light of carnage—battle after battle, death after death, played on an endless loop. The counter in the corner ticked down like a macabre metronome, a grim tally of the lives extinguished.

  One of the kids in the room broke under the weight of it. They slid to the floor, trembling, their hands clamped tightly over their ears as if trying to block out the shrieks of agony and the guttural roars of monsters. Tears streamed down their face, their muffled sobs adding a heartbreaking undertone to the cacophony from the screens.

  In the corner of each feed, a counter ticked down relentlessly. It had begun at a staggering 700 million—those chosen to participate in “The Tithe.” Now, less than 600 million remained. Over a hundred million lives lost in just twenty-four hours. The number was incomprehensible, a horrifying reminder of the sheer scale of the slaughter.

  The initial "occupation" had been anything but peaceful. Swarms of spherical drones, each no larger than a tennis ball, descended upon the world’s cities. At first, humanity resisted, fighting back with everything they had. It was a futile gesture lasting mere hours. The drones carried an arsenal of advanced weaponry, their most horrifying tool being a neuro-disruption pulse capable of shutting down brain function in an instant. Victims would collapse, their bodies alive but, unresponsive. Those subjected to the full force of the attack bled from their eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—a grotesque spectacle that left even hardened fighters frozen in horror.

  The resistance crumbled under the weight of this unstoppable force. The drones did not tire, did not falter. They swept through the cities and towns like a plague, systematically subduing or exterminating anyone who dared oppose them. The killing, however, was only half the strategy.

  The other half was psychological warfare, an unceasing barrage of propaganda streamed directly into the minds of every human being via the newly installed “interface.” Voices of celebrities, trusted leaders, and icons of every culture and creed spoke soothingly, encouraging compliance and submission. Whether these figures were real or mere simulations was irrelevant—their words dissolved the last vestiges of willpower like acid.

  Faced with this two-pronged assault—merciless drones on one side and psychological manipulation on the other—humanity had no chance. Those who remained could only watch as the Tithe counter dropped, powerless to stop the carnage.

  In the room, no one spoke. There was nothing to say. Every tick of the counter marked another death. Another life erased. And they all knew—the clock wasn’t stopping anytime soon.

  Ryan's father sat rigid on a bench, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. His wife stood near the small window, staring out at the horizon, where alien machinery was already reshaping the landscape.

  “It’s your fault he’s gone,” his voice broke the silence, rough and low, like gravel.

  She turned to him, her face pale but calm. “You don’t mean that.”

  “The hell I don’t,” he snapped, standing abruptly. His frame loomed in the small space as he pointed a trembling finger at her. “You’re the one who voted for him, how could you do that to your own son!”

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  His voice cracked with the weight of his fury and grief. “Now he’s—” His words faltered, and he turned away, sitting down again, gripping the edge of the bench until it groaned under the pressure. "I won’t give up on him"

  “We don’t even know where he is,” his mother said, her voice trembling but steady. “Or if he’s alive.”

  “He’s alive,” Ryan’s father said, turning back to her. His jaw was set, his eyes blazing with a determination that bordered on madness. “And I’m going to get him back.”

  “How?” she asked, her tone sharp. “Look outside. They’ve won. There’s nothing left.”

  “For now,” he said, his voice dropping into a growl. “But this isn’t over. I’ll play their game, bow my head, do whatever it takes to stay alive. But the first chance I get—” He paused, breathing heavily. “I’ll find him. I’ll bring him back. And I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done.”

  The room fell into silence again, the hum of distant alien machinery the only sound. One of Ryan’s cousins finally spoke, her voice small. “Do you really think he’s okay?”

  Ryan’s father softened slightly, sitting down beside her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “He’s strong,” he said quietly. “He’ll be okay. And so will we.”

  Outside, the world continued to shift and change under the invaders’ watchful eyes, the remnants of humanity folding into their new reality.

  The tension in the room was thick, the silence punctuated only by the grotesque sounds of the live broadcast. On the walls, massive screens displayed grisly feeds of battles, players fighting against monstrous creatures with horrifying brutality. Blood flowed, bodies fell, and the numbers in the corner of each screen ticked down relentlessly.

  The feed abruptly cut to a brightly lit studio, where three alien commentators sat at a sleek, glass desk. The first, a lanky blue-skinned creature, resembled a humanoid toad covered in swamp-green growths. Its wide amphibian mouth revealed translucent, needle-like teeth as it spoke, its voice deep and resonant.

  “Hello, folks! Welcome back to the show. We’re joined today by Jroknar and Gloobshite, two graduates of previous Tithes.” It gestured to it’s left.

  “We also want to give an enthusiastic greeting to the people of Earth—the newest members of our galactic family. May your assimilation be swift and painless. We have an especially bloody show ahead of us as we review the initial encounters for Earth’s selected participants. Let’s jump in with a spicy selection.”

  A smaller screen popped up, showing an ogre roaring as it burst the eardrums of a group of players. The monstrous creature then tore its victims apart, stomping the remains into the blood-soaked dirt.

  “Oh, oh! Look at that one!” it croaked, a loose flap of skin beneath its chin inflating like a bullfrog. “You know, I personally think the ogre mobs are underappreciated.”

  “Crroooaakk,” the toad punctuated, clearly thrilled by the carnage.

  Seated beside it was a stout, heavyset figure with a broad, scarred face. His thick blond beard was woven with small bones, and a glittering metal clasp secured his man-bun. The third commentator was a grotesque, green-skinned being with mismatched ears—one pointed, the other a torn nub—and a flat, smashed nose. Its mouth, too crowded with a chaotic assortment of jagged teeth, made it impossible to fully close, resulting in a sneering, guttural voice.

  “These humans are nothing more than sacks of meat to be hunted and devoured like livestock!” the green-skinned creature spat.

  The bearded figure turned, smirking. “Salty because your kind got stuck being the fodder mobs this round, eh, Gloobshite?”

  “Silence, you pathetic lump of gristle! Your kind isn’t even worth eating!” Gloobshite snarled back.

  Ignoring their bickering, the toad creature leaned forward eagerly. “Well, slap my thorax and call me a tadpole! That one just took down a dire wolf! Let’s rewind and take a closer look at this unexpected turn of events.”

  The main screen shifted to show a young man in a hoodie staggering toward a hulking, hooded figure. The toad gestured toward a glowing hexagonal emblem in the corner of the screen.

  “Wait, is that a harlequin? Premium subscribers, focus here to access a full breakdown on the Harlequin Consortium. And trust me, you’ll want to—this one’s got layers.”

  The shift in tone caught Ryan’s father’s attention. Until now, he’d been trying to tune out the macabre spectacle, but his head snapped up as the camera zoomed in on the young man’s face.

  “Ryan!?” he gasped, standing suddenly. Others in the room turned their attention to the screen, murmurs rising as they recognized him.

  The other two commentators were dragged off-screen mid-argument, leaving the toad creature to take over.

  “Would you look at that!” it exclaimed, voice brimming with excitement. “He doesn’t even know it, but our boy here just earned himself a rare prize. The Harlequins aren’t going to like losing one of their preferred classes to a fresh player. This is going to be delicious to watch unfold!”

  Ryan’s father stared, helpless as the scene replayed. The dire wolf fight was over in seconds but dissected in agonising detail. Frame by frame, the toad analysed Ryan’s desperate manoeuvres, culminating in the brutal moment when he drove a metal rod through the beast’s skull from within it’s mouth. The tension in the room thickened as Ryan collapsed from his injuries.

  The broadcast shifted to another group of players, the dire urgency of Ryan’s condition unresolved. Ryan’s father stood, anxiety and helplessness consuming him. His wife sat on the edge of her cot, face blank with shock, but he ignored her. Bitterness flared within him. He wasn’t ready to forgive her—not yet.

  A sudden hiss interrupted the room. A hidden panel slid open, and a tennis ball-sized drone floated in, its mechanical voice cold and precise.

  “You are required to undergo assessment and classification. Please follow me and refrain from violent action. Lethal force is authorized for noncompliance.”

  The occupants froze, the memory of the drone’s capabilities still fresh in their minds. None dared to resist. Quietly, they rose and followed the floating sphere into the unknown.