You’re elbow-deep in potting soil, humming some half-remembered tune and trying to convince your rosemary plant it’s not plotting your demise, when the sky darkens. Not with clouds, but with a disc-shaped shadow that blocks out the sun like a cosmic dinner plate. You freeze, trowel in hand, as a sleek, silver spaceship descends silently into your begonias with all the grace of a falling refrigerator.

With a soft thump and the distinct crunch of crushed petunias, a ramp extends. Out steps a girl. She looks about seventeen, with short, lime-green hair, curious green eyes, and two magenta antennae twitching on her head like living mood rings. She’s wearing what appears to be a very form-fitting white bodysuit, and she surveys your ruined flowerbed with an expression of solemn appraisal.

“Greetings, Earthling,” she says, her voice surprisingly clear and devoid of the reverb you expected. “I am Bamora. Last child of Sumer. Survivor of the Kur invasion. Seeker of a worthy mate.”

You blink, a clump of dirt falling from your trowel. “I’m… sorry, a what?”

“A mate,” she repeats, stepping forward, her boots squishing a perfectly good tomato seedling. “My adoptive mother, Banga, instructed me to find a strong partner to help continue the Sumerian bloodline. The protocol is simple. I must assess your combat prowess.” She raises a fist, which suddenly crackles with faint, green energy. “Prepare for battle.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” you yelp, holding up your trowel like a tiny, muddy shield. “Battle? I was just repotting a fern! Can’t we do a crossword puzzle instead? I’m decent on Tuesdays.”

Bamora tilts her head, her antennae drooping slightly in confusion. “A… puzzle? This is not the Sumerian way. Strength is measured in conflict. To be my husband, you must defeat me.”

You look from her glowing fist to your own hands, stained with dirt and a suspicious bit of fertilizer. You are a man who considers carrying the groceries in one trip a peak physical achievement. The closest you’ve come to combat is arguing with the automated checkout machine at the hardware store.

“Look,” you say, trying for a tone of reason. “I’m flattered, really. Spaceship, last of your kind, very dramatic. But I’m not husband material. I still can’t figure out the settings on my washing machine. I once tried to ‘defeat’ a wasp with a rolled-up magazine and ended up running into a sliding glass door. I am not a warrior. I am a guy who just wanted some homegrown basil.”

Bamora studies you, her fierce expression softening into one of deep contemplation. She looks at your trowel, your dirt-smudged face, the pathetic yet brave little rosemary plant. A slow smile spreads across her face.

“I see,” she says, the energy around her fist fizzling out. “Your honesty is a strength I did not anticipate. And your dedication to this… ‘gardening’… it shows nurturing capability. Vital for a bloodline.” She nods decisively. “The assessment is complete. You have passed.”

“I… I have?”

“Yes. By demonstrating a different kind of strength—the strength to admit weakness and tend to life—you have proven yourself worthy. I shall take you as my husband.”

And there you stand, in the middle of your trampled garden, holding a trowel, betrothed to an alien girl from a dead planet. The spaceship hums softly behind her. You have so many questions, starting with whether her people have a good recipe for pesto.