100 Days Until the Meteor Arrives
They will never understand.
Not even in the end, when the skies are peeled back and the oceans lift from their beds. They will scream for answers, for salvation, for a reason. But understanding is always the first casualty of fear. And I am not here to comfort them.
I'm here to end them.
⸻
Day 100
The course adjustment completed at 04:12 GMT. The calculations are perfect. Gravity did the rest. One celestial nudge, one dead moonlet sacrificed to the great machine, and the meteor began to fall—not into Jupiter's sleepwalk, but toward Earth's throat.
I watched it all from a chair bolted to the hull of a station I built in secret, financed by half a dozen shell corporations, and staffed by machines with no soul to question me.
The silence was exquisite.
They will call it madness. But it isn't madness to see the inevitable and act. It is clarity. And clarity is cruel.
⸻
Day 92
The governments know now. The tracking systems they refused to upgrade finally screamed at them loud enough to matter. I watched the press conference with breakfast.
They downplayed it, of course. "Early projections. Uncertain trajectories."
They are already lying.
It will hit. There is no intercept. No deflection. No drilling team of roughneck oil-riggers to save them. I made sure of that. The world's collective defense grid was the first thing I corrupted. Quietly. Over years. A line of code here. A falsified report there. Like rot behind plaster.
No missiles. No lasers. No last hope.
Only time.
⸻
Day 84
I've begun receiving messages. Old friends. Former colleagues. Even my sister.
Most ask why.
A few beg. Fewer threaten.
None of them understand.
This planet has failed. Not ecologically. Not politically. Spiritually.
We were given every miracle. Fire. Language. Stars. And we chose empire. Chose convenience. Chose cruelty.
Do you know how many species have gone extinct in my lifetime alone? We call it the Anthropocene, but it is really just the Age of Excuse. We didn't know. We couldn't help it. We tried our best.
They didn't. They lied.
So I became the truth.
⸻
Day 73
Someone leaked my name.
There are protests outside what they think is my estate. Torches and chants and signs painted with slogans about hope and love and justice.
Too late.
Let them scream into the wind. I am already gone. I have been a ghost longer than they realise. I left my body in the dust of the world I loved and was rejected by.
I tried to save it once.
That is the part no one will believe.
The villain always wanted this, they'll say. But I didn't. I begged. I warned. I worked with think tanks. I testified before governments. I joined your marches. Wrote your essays. Cried your tears.
And you laughed.
So I stopped asking.
⸻
Day 66
A group of billionaires made it to low orbit.
Their ship is hideous. It resembles a polished erection and sounds like a dying refrigerator. They broadcast a live video saying they would wait out the impact in space and then return to rebuild.
Rebuild what?
The Earth will not simply burn. It will churn. Tectonic plates will unmoor. Volcanic ash will blot out the sun for decades. The seas will rise and then boil. There will be no soil to till. No light to warm it. The biosphere will collapse in full. Even the microbes will mourn.
They plan to rebuild Eden in the smoking crater of Hell.
Let them try.
⸻
Day 51
I dreamt of fire last night.
Not of the meteor, no. Something more intimate. A memory.
When I was ten, I set my father's armchair on fire. He had stopped getting out of it. Stopped speaking. Sat there each day, mouth open like a drain. My mother cried every time she passed him.
I soaked the upholstery in gin and struck a match.
He woke up screaming. My mother ran in and pulled him free, sobbing, hugging, thanking me.
She said, "You saved him."
But I didn't do it to save him.
I did it because watching something burn felt honest.
⸻
Day 38
They're building temples again.
Everywhere. To every god they used to forget. I see offerings piled beneath traffic lights and shrines built beside checkout counters. One man stood naked on a rooftop and shouted his sins into the wind.
He begged for mercy.
Not forgiveness—mercy.
I suppose they've finally realised that not all sins can be absolved.
⸻
Day 25
I've stopped answering messages. I've already said what I came to say. Left my archives open. My designs, my logs, my manifestos. They're all there, like breadcrumbs leading back to the void.
Some call it the death of billions. But really, I see it as a mercy killing.
You were all so tired. So divided. So afraid. Now you don't have to be. There's no future to dread, no debt to pay, no justice to dodge. Just ninety-nine more sleeps and then nothing.
They say fear of death is universal.
But what if death is release?
⸻
Day 12
They launched another mission.
A half-functioning rocket cobbled together from international scraps and funded by desperation. Their payload is a nuclear payload designed to nudge the meteor. It won't reach in time.
Even if it did, it wouldn't be enough.
I watched the launch from my bed. Drank something expensive. Dressed in silk.
It was beautiful.
They still believe effort can redeem them. As if throwing a stone at a god's eye will unmake its gaze.
⸻
Day 3
The animals know.
They've grown quiet. Less migration. Less song. As if some signal only they can hear is whispering across the world: lie down.
And the children too. I've seen them on the screens—small faces turned skyward. Some still play. Most do not.
There is a kind of hush, now. As if the planet itself is holding its breath. Waiting. Not for rescue.
For release.
⸻
Day 1
They've begun killing each other in the streets.
Not for resources. Not for hate. Just for noise. For sensation. As if, in the face of nothingness, violence is the only real thing left.
I do not weep.
This is what you chose. Every act of cowardice, every cruelty dressed as pragmatism, every lie you told yourselves so you could sleep at night. All of it led here. Not because I brought the meteor—but because you deserved it.
I was simply the one willing to pull the final lever.
⸻
Day 0
There is light.
Not the kind we made. Not the soft hum of cities or the bitter bloom of war. This is the light of annihilation. The kind that strips bone from shadow. The kind that resets the board.
I am not watching it from a throne. I am not in a bunker or an escape pod.
I am here, on the surface.
With you.
Do not mistake that for mercy.
I wanted to feel it too. The final truth. The fire that does not judge, only consumes.
My name will not be remembered.
That is the point.
There will be no monuments.
Only silence.
⸻
[END]
They will never understand.
Not even in the end, when the skies are peeled back and the oceans lift from their beds. They will scream for answers, for salvation, for a reason. But understanding is always the first casualty of fear. And I am not here to comfort them.
I'm here to end them.
⸻
Day 100
The course adjustment completed at 04:12 GMT. The calculations are perfect. Gravity did the rest. One celestial nudge, one dead moonlet sacrificed to the great machine, and the meteor began to fall—not into Jupiter's sleepwalk, but toward Earth's throat.
I watched it all from a chair bolted to the hull of a station I built in secret, financed by half a dozen shell corporations, and staffed by machines with no soul to question me.
The silence was exquisite.
They will call it madness. But it isn't madness to see the inevitable and act. It is clarity. And clarity is cruel.
⸻
Day 92
The governments know now. The tracking systems they refused to upgrade finally screamed at them loud enough to matter. I watched the press conference with breakfast.
They downplayed it, of course. "Early projections. Uncertain trajectories."
They are already lying.
It will hit. There is no intercept. No deflection. No drilling team of roughneck oil-riggers to save them. I made sure of that. The world's collective defense grid was the first thing I corrupted. Quietly. Over years. A line of code here. A falsified report there. Like rot behind plaster.
No missiles. No lasers. No last hope.
Only time.
⸻
Day 84
I've begun receiving messages. Old friends. Former colleagues. Even my sister.
Most ask why.
A few beg. Fewer threaten.
None of them understand.
This planet has failed. Not ecologically. Not politically. Spiritually.
We were given every miracle. Fire. Language. Stars. And we chose empire. Chose convenience. Chose cruelty.
Do you know how many species have gone extinct in my lifetime alone? We call it the Anthropocene, but it is really just the Age of Excuse. We didn't know. We couldn't help it. We tried our best.
They didn't. They lied.
So I became the truth.
⸻
Day 73
Someone leaked my name.
There are protests outside what they think is my estate. Torches and chants and signs painted with slogans about hope and love and justice.
Too late.
Let them scream into the wind. I am already gone. I have been a ghost longer than they realise. I left my body in the dust of the world I loved and was rejected by.
I tried to save it once.
That is the part no one will believe.
The villain always wanted this, they'll say. But I didn't. I begged. I warned. I worked with think tanks. I testified before governments. I joined your marches. Wrote your essays. Cried your tears.
And you laughed.
So I stopped asking.
⸻
Day 66
A group of billionaires made it to low orbit.
Their ship is hideous. It resembles a polished erection and sounds like a dying refrigerator. They broadcast a live video saying they would wait out the impact in space and then return to rebuild.
Rebuild what?
The Earth will not simply burn. It will churn. Tectonic plates will unmoor. Volcanic ash will blot out the sun for decades. The seas will rise and then boil. There will be no soil to till. No light to warm it. The biosphere will collapse in full. Even the microbes will mourn.
They plan to rebuild Eden in the smoking crater of Hell.
Let them try.
⸻
Day 51
I dreamt of fire last night.
Not of the meteor, no. Something more intimate. A memory.
When I was ten, I set my father's armchair on fire. He had stopped getting out of it. Stopped speaking. Sat there each day, mouth open like a drain. My mother cried every time she passed him.
I soaked the upholstery in gin and struck a match.
He woke up screaming. My mother ran in and pulled him free, sobbing, hugging, thanking me.
She said, "You saved him."
But I didn't do it to save him.
I did it because watching something burn felt honest.
⸻
Day 38
They're building temples again.
Everywhere. To every god they used to forget. I see offerings piled beneath traffic lights and shrines built beside checkout counters. One man stood naked on a rooftop and shouted his sins into the wind.
He begged for mercy.
Not forgiveness—mercy.
I suppose they've finally realised that not all sins can be absolved.
⸻
Day 25
I've stopped answering messages. I've already said what I came to say. Left my archives open. My designs, my logs, my manifestos. They're all there, like breadcrumbs leading back to the void.
Some call it the death of billions. But really, I see it as a mercy killing.
You were all so tired. So divided. So afraid. Now you don't have to be. There's no future to dread, no debt to pay, no justice to dodge. Just ninety-nine more sleeps and then nothing.
They say fear of death is universal.
But what if death is release?
⸻
Day 12
They launched another mission.
A half-functioning rocket cobbled together from international scraps and funded by desperation. Their payload is a nuclear payload designed to nudge the meteor. It won't reach in time.
Even if it did, it wouldn't be enough.
I watched the launch from my bed. Drank something expensive. Dressed in silk.
It was beautiful.
They still believe effort can redeem them. As if throwing a stone at a god's eye will unmake its gaze.
⸻
Day 3
The animals know.
They've grown quiet. Less migration. Less song. As if some signal only they can hear is whispering across the world: lie down.
And the children too. I've seen them on the screens—small faces turned skyward. Some still play. Most do not.
There is a kind of hush, now. As if the planet itself is holding its breath. Waiting. Not for rescue.
For release.
⸻
Day 1
They've begun killing each other in the streets.
Not for resources. Not for hate. Just for noise. For sensation. As if, in the face of nothingness, violence is the only real thing left.
I do not weep.
This is what you chose. Every act of cowardice, every cruelty dressed as pragmatism, every lie you told yourselves so you could sleep at night. All of it led here. Not because I brought the meteor—but because you deserved it.
I was simply the one willing to pull the final lever.
⸻
Day 0
There is light.
Not the kind we made. Not the soft hum of cities or the bitter bloom of war. This is the light of annihilation. The kind that strips bone from shadow. The kind that resets the board.
I am not watching it from a throne. I am not in a bunker or an escape pod.
I am here, on the surface.
With you.
Do not mistake that for mercy.
I wanted to feel it too. The final truth. The fire that does not judge, only consumes.
My name will not be remembered.
That is the point.
There will be no monuments.
Only silence.
⸻
[END]