Before kings, before written law, the skies opened above the twin rivers. From the dark between stars came the first visitors—tall, pale Grays and scaled Reptilian envoys—gliding down in silent flame. To the humans of clay and reed they were gods, but they sought no worship, only observation. Their vessels burned symbols into the night; their eyes reflected futures mankind could not name. Scribes chiseled their forms into rock so the memory would not fade. That single night beneath the ringed sun became legend—the moment the Alien Invasion truly began, not in conquest, but in curiosity.

The Age of Silence began. The stars dimmed, and the watchers turned inward. Humanity had learned enough—too much. The Reptilians retreated to the deep caverns beneath sacred mountains, while the Grays folded into frequency, existing between worlds rather than upon them. Their monuments were buried by sand, their voices erased by faith and empire. Yet a few remembered—the Oracle of Delphi spoke their coded phrases, and the Mayan astronomers charted their hidden alignments. The aliens did not vanish; they simply changed frequency, waiting for an age when humans would once again listen.

For the first time since antiquity, a coded burst split the desert static over Roswell, New Mexico. Radar pulsed; radios hissed. Humans called it wreckage—the Grays knew it was a beacon. Beneath the fault lines, Reptilians stirred, mapping new corridors through stone and signal. Reports were filed and redacted; airfields woke at midnight. Farmers whispered of lights with no shadows. An age of signals and secrecy began—perfect camouflage for a presence reborn. The watchers didn’t land; they nested in data, learning our language from the noise. The transmission waited.