All language subtitles for Human Is Taken to Repopulate Alien Planet.eng

I saw the fire cross the northern
sky while closing the chicken coop.

At first I thought it was
just a meteor, one of

those that fade before
they touch the ground.

But this one didn’t fade.
It cut the night like a torch

through black velvet and ended with a sound
that shook the mountain behind my property.

The dogs started barking,
and the snow that had

settled on the barn roof
slid off all at once.

Something deep inside me said
I should stay in the house,

but I grabbed a flashlight
and went out anyway.

The wind carried the smell of burnt
ozone and something metallic.

Over the ridge, the snowfield
glowed faintly violet.

I walked half a mile through the
drifts until I found the furrow it had

carved — a long black scar in the white.
At the end of that scar lay something

that definitely wasn’t a rock.
Smooth, curved, breathing steam.

A thin seam opened on its side
with a sigh, and a figure fell out.

She hit the snow as if the sky
had dropped a doll made of glass.

Her skin shimmered bluish under my flashlight,
her hair the color of winter clouds.

From a wound near her ribs spilled liquid
that froze before it touched the ground.

She looked at me once — eyes
completely dark — and whispered,

“Don’t call the authorities.”
Then she collapsed.

I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I just knew no ambulance

would reach this far into the valley. I wrapped
her in my jacket and carried her home.

She weighed almost nothing,
light like a bird under the coat.

By the time I reached the porch, the
porch light had gone out from the wind.

Inside, I laid her near the stove, threw more
wood on the fire, and checked the wound.

Whatever that blood was,
it steamed against the air.

Her breathing was shallow, her
skin cold but not dead cold.

Then, suddenly, her hand gripped my arm.
“There’s a medical kit… in

my ship. Compartment B-seven.”
I didn’t ask how she knew English.

I just went. The crater was
still glowing when I found

the case — smooth, seamless,
warm to the touch.

Inside were vials filled
with pulsing blue light.

When I returned, she was half-conscious,
guiding my hand to her neck.

“Inject this… here.”
I pressed the trigger.

The wound sealed like ice
closing over a pond.

She exhaled, and the color
came back to her face.

Later she would call them nanobots.
That night, I sat by the fire,

staring at the woman who had fallen from
the stars, wondering what the hell I had

done bringing her into my house.
Morning came gray and silent.

The dogs were gone, hiding somewhere in
the woods. I was cooking bacon when I

heard her voice behind me.
“I wouldn’t eat that,” she said

softly. “It smells… primitive.”
I turned.

She stood near the window
wrapped in my blanket,

bare feet on the wood
floor, studying everything

like a child at a museum.
“You can talk,” I said.

“You can listen,” she replied.
Her accent was strange — too precise

to belong anywhere on Earth.
“I’m Jack,” I said.

“Designation Lyra-Nine,” she
answered. “You may call me Lyra.”

She watched me fry eggs and asked, “Why
is the fire contained inside a box?”

“It’s called a stove,” I
said. “Keeps the place alive.”

“Alive,” she repeated, testing the word.
We ate in silence.

She tasted food like it was information.
On her wrist blinked a small disc,

and every blink made a faint chirp.
“Recording?” I asked.

“Observing,” she said. “It’s
what I was sent to do.”

Outside, snow started again — heavy
flakes drifting down without sound.

I spent the afternoon fixing the fence line
while she followed, barefoot in the snow

that didn’t seem to touch her.
She asked about the generator,

the horses, the weather.
She asked how long I’d lived alone.

“Five years,” I said. “Since my wife decided
people were easier to love than land.”

“Was she right?”
“Probably.”

Her device blinked
faster when I said that.

That night, she reorganized
my kitchen — moved

the coffee tins, the knives, the batteries.
“It’s more efficient this way,” she said.

I didn’t argue. Efficiency
was better than silence.

Three days later, the storm came.
The wind howled through the valley like

it wanted to scrape the mountains clean.
We lost power by nightfall.

I lit lanterns, filled the stove,
and found her sitting by the window,

watching the sky flash
purple through the snow.

“This is my first Earth
storm,” she said.

Her skin glowed faintly where
the firelight touched it.

“You’re shaking,” I told her.
“It’s not fear,” she said. “It’s adaptation.”

When the wind ripped part
of the roof loose, I

grabbed her hand and pulled
her toward the cellar.

She laughed once, sharp and surprised,
when we stumbled down the ladder.

Her laugh sounded like
chimes frozen in water.

In the flicker of a
single candle, I saw thin

veins of blue light move under her skin
— like lightning captured inside glass.

“You’re glowing,” I said.
“It happens when I’m… afraid,” she admitted.

“We’re not going to die,” I said.
“You lack sufficient data to support

that conclusion.”
I laughed, and for

the first time, she laughed back.
The house shook, but it didn’t fall.

When the storm passed, the world
outside was buried chest-deep in snow.

The barn door was gone, the
radio tower bent like wire.

We spent days digging paths between
the house and the generator shed.

By the fifth day, I’d stopped
wondering if she was real.

She sat by the stove reading
one of my old manuals,

her eyes moving too fast
to belong to a human.

“Your species documents
everything,” she said.

“But you don’t understand loneliness.”
“Maybe because it’s the only thing we

don’t need to write down,” I said.
That evening she showed me her wrist

device — a projection flickered above
it: maps, chemical charts, human DNA.

“My people are losing our world,” she
said quietly. “The star we orbit is

expanding. Every year we lose another
city to the heat. We need a new home.”

“So you’re exploring,” I said.
“Evaluating,” she corrected.

“To see if you can coexist with
us. Or if you must be removed.”

I stared at her.
“And what have you decided?”

“I haven’t,” she said, and
turned the projection off.

A week later, the valley froze so
solid the trees cracked at dawn.

She came to me by the window and
said, “I’ve disabled the recorder.”

Her voice trembled slightly.
“My true mission was reconnaissance.

Observation before colonization. But
I no longer trust the directive.”

“You’re saying your people
plan to take Earth.”

“They will if I report compatibility.
They believe

survival is justification enough.”
“And what do you believe?”

She looked at the mountains, where the
sun was trying to climb but couldn’t.

“I believe… I’ve found something
I was not programmed to feel.”

I didn’t know what to say.
The silence between us

was heavier than the snow outside.
Finally I said, “If you want to stop them, lie.”

She nodded slowly.
“I will. But lies have gravity.”

That night she took me to
her ship, half-buried in ice.

Inside, walls pulsed like
living metal, breathing faintly.

She showed me holograms
of her world — vast domes

under a red sun, cities
collapsing into fire.

“We need a planet,” she said,
“but not at the cost of yours.”

She touched my chest gently,
fingers cold as snow.

“With you, I know
coexistence is possible.”

I didn’t think. I just kissed her.
Her lips were colder than air

and tasted of ozone and rain.
When she pulled away, her eyes were wet.

“If I report emotional compromise,” she
said, “they’ll send another. Someone

efficient. Someone cruel.”
“So what do we do?”

“Nothing that leaves a record,” she
said. “In ten days, they’ll come for me.”

The ten days slipped by like a dream.
We fixed the roof, rebuilt the fence,

listened to the ice groan
in the river at night.

She learned to drink coffee
— one sip at a time,

grimacing.
I learned that

silence didn’t hurt when
she was in the room.

But every night she
stared longer at the sky,

at the point where her rescue would come.
When the ship finally arrived, it came

quietly — no thunder, just a ripple of wind
that sent snow spiraling from the trees.

Its lights spread over the valley like dawn.
She stood in the doorway with my

the coat around her shoulders.
“Come with me,” she said. “Please.”

I didn’t pack a thing.
I just followed her through the snow.

Behind us, the farmhouse
faded into the white,

lamp in the window shrinking
to a single star.

Inside the craft, gravity turned sideways for
a second, and the valley fell away beneath us.

Through the viewport I watched the fields
and trees disappear, the world flattening

into shadow and then into blue.
“Will you regret this?” she

asked as Earth became
a circle of light.

I thought about the house,
the dog, the silence.

“Regret requires something
worth staying for,” I said.

Now, months later, I write
this from another sky.

Two suns rise here — one
gold, one pale white.

Lyra walks among violet crops that
grow twice as fast as corn ever did.

We built a cabin by a lake that glows at night.
The air tastes clean, sharp, electric.

We’re not alone.
Other ships have

come — humans who chose love over gravity,
and her kind who chose mercy over conquest.

Lyra’s device says it’s day 387 without isolation.
She’s pregnant.

We don’t know what our child will be —
human, alien, or something entirely new.

Sometimes, when the larger sun sets and
the air turns the color of frozen fire,

I remember that night on Earth, the storm,

the sound of her laugh against the wind.
People say love falls from the sky.

They’re wrong. Sometimes
it crashes into the snow,

and you have to decide whether to dig
it out… or follow it into the stars.