VIXTorama II

An alien research base has appeared in the forest. A cargo-net canopy hangs overhead, strung with lights; vines and ferns spill down around a sunken lounge, low lamps glowing teal among the leaves. The seating is soft, low, and sized for humanoids — someone wanted them comfortable. All of it faces a glowing monolith.

A 10’ cube, rooted. Three sides covered in alien writing. The fourth glows with slow, morphing shapes. A low throbbing comes from inside. Two control pedestals nearby, crowded with luminous, unlabeled knobs — the cube responds to every turn.

Wait — one thing here is written in hundreds of human languages, and it isn’t on the cube. A panel at the edge of the lounge, the same message in tongue after tongue. “We Come In Peace.” “Nous venons en paix.” “Békében jövünk.” The forest has moved in; whoever left it is long gone, but the machine still runs, still listens.

Are we observing the aliens, or are they observing us?