A sudden, blinding column of gold-white light pierces the courtroom ceiling, scattering papers and silencing the frantic whispers. Within it, a figure both immense and ethereal hovers—its form shifting between shapes, neither wholly human nor alien. A voice, resonant and echoing from all corners of the vast chamber and beyond, addresses the humans with chilling clarity. Judge Reynolds, chief justice, rises shakily as the being intones: "We use time like you use fire. Do you truly wish to be free, or remain as my cherished pets? You have one Earth rotation to choose." With a flicker, the entity vanishes, leaving the room stunned and shivering in the sudden silence.
Judges from every nation scramble to relay the message, their faces pale as they speak into hastily-dialed phones. The Chinese judge, flanked by aides, gestures wildly as he shouts orders in Mandarin, his words barely audible over the confusion. Outside, journalists press against barricades, their umbrellas turning inside-out in the wind, desperate for answers. Judge Reynolds steps to the entrance, flanked by nervous security, as a sea of microphones thrust forward.
"Judge Reynolds, why here? Why now?" one reporter calls. "Perhaps there is no better place to weigh the fate of our species," he replies, voice trembling but resolute. "My family is terrified. What should I tell them?" another journalist pleads. "Tell them Judgment Day is here," he says, turning back into the building.
Mr. Jones, a steely-eyed man in a nondescript suit, steps from the shadows, flashing credentials that identify him as head of the Extraterrestrial Contact Agency. Judge Reynolds turns to him, eyes sharp with expectation. "Mr. Jones, you're in charge now. The question is simple: Do we want freedom, or do we remain pets?" The air is thick with tension as arguments erupt—some plead for safety, others for self-determination. "We are after freedom. We want freedom," Mr. Jones finally declares, his voice ringing out over the din.
The golden being returns, its presence filling the court with a pressure that makes the air hum. The assembled diplomats cower as the Chinese delegate steps forward, hands trembling, holding a scroll inscribed with the world's answer. The being's eyes—if eyes they are—flare with impatience, and with a gesture, it obliterates the moon in a silent burst of light. Dust and debris streak across the heavens.
"What is your answer? Do you wish to be free, or remain as my pets?" The delegate stammers, then finds his voice. "Earth chooses freedom," he declares. A roar of approval erupts from the crowd outside, carried on the storm.
The benevolent being's mouth curls into what might be a smile, both triumphant and mournful. "As you wish. The universe is a violent place. Here is your freedom—fight for it, as all must," the being proclaims. The ships unleash their cargo, releasing a tidal wave of alien life across the globe. Some creatures vanish into forests and oceans, others stalk city streets, their eyes glittering with hunger.
Onboard the alien vessels, crews watch eagerly as chaos unfolds, their tongues flicking in anticipation. On Earth, resistance forms in pockets—humans armed with whatever they can find, fighting not just for survival but for the meaning of their hard-won freedom. The words of the being echo in every mind: freedom is not a gift, but a trial. The true judgment, it seems, has only just begun.
