Mia Delgado was broke. Not cute broke, like skipping lattes to afford concert tickets, but cat-food-for-dinner broke. At twenty-seven, she was a barista with dreams of being a music producer, a half-finished SoundCloud profile, and a bank account that laughed at her. Portland’s rent was a nightmare, so when she found a Craigslist ad for a $300-a-month room in a shared apartment, she didn’t ask questions. She just grabbed her duffel bag, her ancient laptop, and her last shred of optimism and showed up at a crumbling Victorian house with a neon sign that read “Cosmic Vibes Only.”
The door was answered by a seven-foot-tall figure with skin like a disco ball, four arms, and a smile that could power a small city. “Greetings, Earthling!” it boomed, its voice a mix of Siri and a game show host. “I am Zorblax, your new cohabitant. Welcome to the pod!”
Mia blinked, clutching her duffel. “Uh, hi? I’m Mia. Is this… the right address?”
“Correct!” Zorblax waved her inside, its arms flailing like an overenthusiastic octopus. The living room was a fever dream: mismatched furniture, a lava lamp the size of a fridge, and a rug that pulsed with neon patterns. Two other figures lounged on a couch that looked stolen from a sci-fi set. One was a gelatinous blob with googly eyes, slurping a smoothie through a straw. The other was a humanoid with electric-blue hair, scrolling on a tablet that projected holograms of dancing cats.
“This is Glorp,” Zorblax said, pointing at the blob, “and Vix, our cultural analyst. We’re from Planet 9, temporarily stationed here for research.”
Mia’s brain short-circuited. “Planet 9? Like, the hypothetical one astronomers argue about?”
“Hypothetical no more!” Glorp burbled, its voice like a kazoo underwater. “We parked it behind Neptune. Bad neighborhood, but great rent.”
Vix looked up, her eyes glowing like LEDs. “You’re the new flatmate? Fascinating. Your profile said you’re a ‘music creator.’ Is that part of the human mating ritual?”
Mia choked on air. “What? No! It’s just… music. For vibes.”
Vix tapped her tablet, a hologram of Mia’s Craigslist response floating up. “Vibes. Intriguing. We’ve studied your TikTok archives. Many humans dance to attract mates. Will you perform the ‘Renegade’ for us?”
Mia dropped her duffel. “Okay, hold up. You’re aliens, and you think TikTok is how we hook up?”
“Correct,” Zorblax said, pulling out a phone that looked like it was made of crystal. “We’ve mastered the ‘Savage Love’ choreography. Observe!” It launched into a dance, arms flailing, hips wobbling, and Mia couldn’t decide whether to laugh or run.
The first week was chaos wrapped in glitter. Mia’s room was a closet with a mattress and a window that overlooked a dumpster, but for $300, she’d sleep in a shoebox. The aliens, however, were a problem. Zorblax, who claimed to be a “quantum sociologist,” kept trying to “observe” her by staring intensely while she ate cereal. Glorp, a biochemist, left gooey trails on every surface, claiming it was “nutrient-rich exudate.” Vix, obsessed with human culture, blasted TikTok trends at 3 a.m., narrating them like a nature documentary: “The human performs the ‘WAP’ ritual, signaling fertility and aggression.”
Mia tried to set boundaries. “Guys, no dancing in the kitchen at midnight. And Glorp, stop oozing on my laptop.”
Glorp wobbled apologetically, its eyes bobbing. “My apologies, Mia. My exudate is a sign of affection.”
“It’s a biohazard,” Mia said, scrubbing green goo off her keyboard. “And Vix, TikTok isn’t a mating ritual. It’s just… dumb dances.”
Vix frowned, her hair sparking. “But the algorithm rewards synchronized movement. Is this not how you select partners?”
“No!” Mia said. “We go on dates. Coffee, movies, maybe a bar. Not… twerking for clout.”
Zorblax gasped, its skin flashing like a strobe light. “Fascinating! We must experience this ‘date’ ritual. Arrange one, Mia! We’ll observe discreetly.”
Mia groaned. “I’m not dating so you can take notes.”
But the aliens were relentless. By day three, they’d hacked her dating app profile, changing her bio to “Vibe Curator Seeking Cosmic Connection.” Matches flooded in, mostly from crypto bros and one guy who offered to pay her rent in Bitcoin. Mia deleted the app, but Zorblax printed out the profiles, taping them to the fridge with notes like “Potential mate: owns air fryer, high status.”
The real trouble started with the landlord, Mr. Kowalski, a grumpy retiree who smelled like mothballs and suspicion. He showed up unannounced, demanding the rent. Mia handed him $300 in crumpled bills, but the aliens, unaware of Earth currency, offered a sack of glowing coins stamped with Saturn’s rings.
Kowalski squinted at them. “What’s this, Monopoly money?”
“Saturnian credits!” Glorp burbled. “Highly valuable in the Oort Cloud!”
Kowalski’s face turned purple. “You freaks think you can scam me? I’m calling the cops!”
Mia jumped in, panic rising. “No, no, it’s a mix-up! We’ll get you cash, I swear.”
Kowalski jabbed a finger at her. “One week, Delgado, or you’re all out!”
The aliens were unfazed. “Eviction is a quaint Earth custom,” Vix said, scrolling her tablet. “On Planet 9, disputes are settled via telepathic dance-off.”
“No dance-offs!” Mia snapped. “We need $1,200 by next week, or we’re homeless.”
Zorblax’s skin pulsed. “Fear not! We’ll acquire your Earth currency through cultural assimilation.”
Mia should’ve known that was a bad sign.
Their plan was a disaster of intergalactic proportions. Zorblax decided to “assimilate” by busking downtown, performing a four-armed interpretive dance to a remix of whale sounds and dubstep. A crowd gathered, mostly to film the chaos, and Zorblax earned $12 and a half-eaten pretzel. Glorp tried selling its “nutrient-rich exudate” as a skincare product, but the health department shut it down after a customer’s face turned sparkly green. Vix, convinced she’d cracked human commerce, posted a TikTok of herself levitating while lip-syncing to Cardi B. It went viral, but the comments were all “Is this CGI?” and “Aliens are so 2020.”
Mia, meanwhile, picked up extra shifts at the coffee shop, but $1,200 was a pipe dream. She came home one night to find the aliens in the living room, surrounded by holographic blueprints and a pile of glowing orbs.
“What’s this?” she asked, eyeing the orbs, which pulsed like tiny stars.
“Our emergency plan!” Zorblax said. “These are quantum trade beads. We’ll sell them to fund your ‘rent.’”
Mia’s stomach dropped. “You can’t sell alien tech on eBay! People will notice!”
Vix waved her tablet. “Not eBay. The dark web. Humans love mysterious objects.”
Before Mia could stop them, Glorp posted the beads on a sketchy forum, listing them as “Cosmic Energy Spheres, $500 each, no refunds.” Bids rolled in, but so did trouble. A buyer named CryptoWarlord69 demanded a video demo, and Zorblax, eager to please, livestreamed an orb exploding in a shower of glitter that set the couch on fire.
Mia doused the flames with a fire extinguisher, screaming, “You’re going to get us arrested!”
Glorp wobbled, its eyes drooping. “We only wished to help, Mia.”
Mia sighed, her anger melting. “I know. But we need a human plan, not a galactic one.”
The human plan was a last-ditch gig: a pop-up DJ event at a local bar. Mia mixed tracks, blending lo-fi beats with alien-inspired synths she’d secretly recorded from Zorblax’s whale-dubstep abomination. The aliens helped—sort of. Zorblax worked the crowd, its four-armed dance moves drawing a mob of hipsters. Glorp served drinks, its gooey limbs surprisingly adept at pouring IPA. Vix live-streamed the event, her holographic effects making it look like the bar was in a nebula.
The night was a hit. The bar was packed, tips flowed, and Mia’s SoundCloud gained 2,000 followers. By closing time, they’d made $1,500—enough for rent and a new couch. Mia high-fived Zorblax, who tried to reciprocate with all four arms and nearly knocked her over.
But the chaos wasn’t over. The viral livestream caught the attention of the Galactic Oversight Council, a bureaucracy of aliens who monitored Planet 9’s Earth operations. A hologram of a stern, tentacled official appeared in the living room, scolding the trio for “unauthorized cultural interference.” Apparently, selling quantum beads and dancing on TikTok violated 17 intergalactic laws.
“You’re grounded to Earth until further notice,” the official barked. “And you, human, are now an honorary ward of Planet 9.”
Mia blinked. “Wait, I’m what now?”
“You’ve been adopted,” Vix said, her hair sparking with excitement. “You’re one of us!”
Mia groaned, but a laugh slipped out. “Great. I’m stuck with you weirdos.”
Zorblax beamed, its skin flashing rainbows. “We’ll teach you the ‘Savage Love’ dance. It’s mandatory for citizenship.”
Life with the aliens never calmed down. Glorp’s goo kept clogging the sink, Vix’s TikTok obsession led to a viral video of Mia accidentally levitating during a nap, and Zorblax started a book club for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which it took way too literally. But Mia didn’t mind. The rent was paid, her music was gaining traction, and her flatmates, for all their chaos, were family.
One night, as they sat on the pulsing rug, eating pizza (Glorp insisted pineapple was a sacred fruit), Mia raised her glass. “To surviving intergalactic roommates.”
“To surviving you,” Zorblax teased, clinking glasses with all four hands.
Mia grinned. She’d come for cheap rent and found a cosmic adventure. And maybe, just maybe, she’d try that TikTok dance. For science.
