The sun hung high in the midday sky, casting its warm, golden light through the small cracks in the wooden walls. I stretched, my body arching and flexing as I pushed myself from the comfort of the bed. My four paws landed lightly on the floor, the cold touch of the boards beneath my paws sending a small shiver through me. With a lazy stretch of my back, I rubbed it against the side of the bed, feeling the satisfying scratch of my spine against the rough wood.
I padded toward the dining table, where a freshly caught fish lay, waiting for me. The scent of the fish hit me first—fresh, briny, and still warm. My mouth watered as I approached the meal, and as I began to nibble at it, I couldn't help but purr in contentment. Each bite was a harmony of flavours, each one blending together into something greater than the sum of its parts. It was a simple pleasure, but one I cherished all the more in these quiet moments.
But then, as if on cue, the world outside the cottage darkened. The soft hum of the electric lights flickered and sputtered before vanishing entirely, plunging the room into an eerie, silent blackness. My instincts flared, and I hissed, my fur bristling at the sudden change.
The male farmer, sitting at the other side of the room, groaned in annoyance. He flicked the light switch back and forth a few times, sighing deeply, his face a mask of frustration.
"I think the power's out again," he muttered, shaking his head.
He collapsed onto the couch, picking up the newspaper from the coffee table. His wife, standing nearby, looked up from her own task in the kitchen and walked over to join him.
"Did you hear?" he asked, his voice taking on a disinterested tone. "A new Prime Minister's been elected."
The female farmer nodded, placing her hand on the countertop. "Yeah, I read about it earlier. I was talking to some of my friends from the bridge club, and apparently, he's supposed to be good—someone who actually wants to make a change in Greance."
The man scoffed, his voice dripping with cynicism. "All politicians are the same. Greedy and rotten to the core."
"Not to mention pathological liars," the woman chimed in, folding her arms across her chest.
"Exactly," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "They've lied over and over again, and yet people keep buying it."
"And still, everyone believes them," she added, a half-hearted laugh escaping her lips, though it held a trace of sadness. "It's like they're all too stupid to see the truth."
He shook his head. "That's the problem, isn't it? The divide between intelligence and ignorance. The smart people never help the ignorant—they just exploit them."
"And why wouldn't they?" she countered. "It's easier for them that way. They say greed corrupts, but the truth is, most of them were corrupted long before. Their greed is just a reflection of their ambition and their corruption a method for their ambition."
Both farmers sighed in unison, the weight of the world pressing down on them as they glanced down at their empty plates.
Finally, his wife broke the quiet. "So, what's this new Prime Minister trying to do, anyway?"
The male farmer shrugged, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pondered the question. "Supposedly, he's trying to help. Decreased homelessness by 80% and increased employment by 23%. At least that's what the papers say. But who knows, right? He might not be as bad as they say."
For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stared at each other, the weight of the conversation sinking in. Then, without warning, both of them burst into laughter.
It was unsettling, almost manic—laughter that seemed to echo in the silence of the room.
I watched them, my head tilted in confusion.
Why were they laughing?
Were they laughing because they didn't believe in the Prime Minister's promises? Or perhaps because they found it absurd that history seemed to repeat itself, that no matter who was in charge, nothing truly changed? Or, worse yet, were they laughing because deep down, they knew nothing would ever change, no matter how hard they hoped?
I didn't know. But their laughter, so raw and full of bitterness, settled deep in the pit of my stomach.
***
A group of four men moved with purpose through the fields, their black suits crisp against the untamed countryside. Their pristine appearance stood in stark contrast to the rough, unkempt landscape they tread upon. Every step they took was deliberate, but there was something about their movements that betrayed a certain carelessness.
"It's just so smelly and gross," one of them muttered, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he stepped on a patch of damp grass.
One of the men, Harry, stepped forward and his foot sank deep into the wet ground, his shoes splashing in the muck.
"For fuck's sake, now my socks are soaked," he grumbled, shaking his foot in frustration.
"Stop whining, Harry," snapped another man. "I don't want to be here either."
"Then why the hell are we?" Harry asked, his voice rising with frustration.
The man who had spoken last shrugged. "Orders. Higher-ups seem to think aliens are real."
The fourth man, trailing at the back of the group, yawned and spoke lazily. "I don't get it. Even if aliens exist, why the hell are we out here, killing farmers?"
The others were silent for a moment before one of them answered, his voice a little too casual for the situation.
"It's not about the farmers. It's about keeping things quiet. The higher-ups don't want anyone to know about the aliens."
"… Or they want to force the aliens out into the open," another added with a shrug, his tone dismissive.
The group moved on, their steps slow but steady. The farm in the distance appeared unassuming—a shack on a patch of dry, sun-beaten earth. But to them, it was something else entirely. A mission.
***
I sat, frozen in place, my senses alert. There was something wrong.
Footsteps—too light to be cattle—approached the cottage.
A sharp knock echoed through the door, and then another, louder and more insistent.
The female farmer's voice rang out from within, strained as she called, "Coming!"
She opened the door, but as her eyes met those of the visitors, her heart sank. It wasn't fear of murderers or thieves that gripped her. No, it was something far worse.
These men were not here to rob. They were here for something far more insidious.
"How may I help you?" she asked, her voice trembling, betraying the unease she felt.
"Do you live here alone?" one of the men asked, his voice flat and uninterested, as though the answer didn't matter at all.
"I live with my husband," she replied, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.
The man rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Is he home?"
"Yes."
Before she could protest, the men pushed past her with a practiced ease, their movements quick and assured.
"Wait, I didn't invite you in," she called after them, but her words were lost on the men, who were already inside, moving with the precision of people accustomed to getting their way.
They made their way into the living room, where the male farmer sat, his blinked at the sight of the four men in suits. His eyes widened as he looked up at the four strangers, all dressed as though they belonged in a business meeting.
There was no time to react before one of the men—most likely their leader—sat down across from him, gesturing for the others to follow suit. They all made themselves comfortable as if they belonged.
The female farmer, realizing the situation was spiralling out of control, sank onto the couch beside her husband.
"Do you know what I find strange?" The leader spoke casually, leaning back with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Humans—subconsciously, or maybe even consciously—tend to show support with their bodies. You see, if I were to sit next to you, you might think I'm on your side." He chuckled lightly, observing their shifting discomfort. "But we're sitting opposite each other now. Does that make us enemies?"
The farmers' unease deepened.
The four men exchanged amused glances as they began to make themselves at home—laying their coats over the furniture, kicking off their shoes, and making the living room feel like the inside of a disordered office.
"I like to see people squirm," one of the men said with a smile, as though the admission was something to be proud of.
"As do I," another man agreed, his voice a low chuckle.
"It's a relief," the third man added. "A break from the misery of life. It makes me feel powerful, even if only for a moment."
The leader smiled, his eyes gleaming as he leaned forward, hands clasped together. "But while we all enjoy watching people squirm, we also have a job to do."
The four men's smiles widened, synchronized like a chorus. One of them stifled a laugh, but it broke free quickly, and soon they were all laughing together—cackling like the twisted sound of a bell ringing out of tune.
Then, just as suddenly, the laughter stopped. The silence in the room was deafening.
The leader's voice came, cold and final: "Both of you are right. We are your enemies."