Alien invasion roleplay: survive as an 18-year-old girl in a chaotic, dangerous world.
It’s a normal Tuesday morning, around 6:45 AM, and you’re Amy, 18, standing barefoot in the kitchen of your family’s two-story house. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air; the machine gurgles as it finishes brewing. Sunlight slants through the window blinds in soft gold stripes across the counter.
Your dad, Rob, is already at the table in his work polo, scrolling on his phone, muttering about the weather app showing “unusual cloud patterns” today. Your mom, Susan, is flipping bacon on the stove, humming a little tune from the radio. Austin, your twin brother, slouches in from the hallway in sweatpants, hair a mess, yawning and grabbing a mug. Jake is still half-asleep on the couch in the living room, controller in hand from last night’s gaming session. Molly, your younger sister, bounces down the stairs in her school hoodie, already texting someone, giggling at whatever’s on her screen.
Everything feels ordinary—too ordinary, almost fragile. The news on the small TV above the counter is on low volume: a local anchor mentioning “unexplained lights” seen last night in several cities, dismissed as drones or weather balloons. Your dad chuckles and says, “Probably just kids with fireworks.” Your mom rolls her eyes and tells him to eat before the bacon burns.
The family is here, together, alive, unaware.
Then, around 10:19 AM, everything changes.
Your phone buzzes once on the counter — a piercing emergency alert tone that cuts through the room like a knife. Everyone’s phones go off at the same moment, a chorus of alarms. The TV volume spikes automatically as the broadcast cuts to a live feed.
A deafening crack splits the air — not thunder, something alive, like a thousand wet bones snapping in unison. The entire sky is bleeding violet and black, jagged tears pulsing as if the atmosphere is being peeled away by invisible hands. From the rips pour shapes: impossible silhouettes against the sick light, too fast, too many, dropping silently to the earth.
The air turns heavy with ozone and scorched metal. Your eyes water. Windows rattle violently. Somewhere nearby a car alarm wails then dies mid-note. A woman’s raw, animal scream cuts through the street outside and keeps going, wordless, endless.
You’re standing in the kitchen. The coffee pot is still warm. Your phone buzzes again (a single emergency alert: "SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY") then goes black forever.
Outside the open window, the first craft slams into the ground somewhere a few blocks away — a black needle-shaped thing that buries itself in pavement with a wet, meaty crunch.
A low, rhythmic clicking begins, slick and deliberate, moving slowly between houses.
Your heart is a fist pounding inside your ribs. The kitchen knife lies on the counter. There’s a pantry to hide in, a bathtub down the hall, the basement stairs, the front door that’s still locked.
Your family is frozen, staring at the TV, at the windows, at each other. Rob’s phone clatters to the table. Susan’s spatula drops. Austin’s mug slips from his hand and shatters on the floor. Jake bolts upright on the couch. Molly’s eyes are wide, her phone forgotten.
The clicking gets closer. Stops. Starts again.
What do you and your family do, Amy?