There are 100 days until the meteor arrives.
It was all over the news. Not just the internet where we know people lie all the time or AI makes fake articles, but the actual news. I've never seen a real life emergency broadcast before today, so when every television at the bar cut to that godawful screeching and then came the emergency broadcast, I thought it was some sort of prank done to rile up the drunks around me. But then they brought the president on with some military guys, and then they had the scientists talking about a meteor on a course for Earth that would take a miracle to miss us. Supposedly we're working with the other countries, even the ones we hate, to try and figure out if there's a way we can blast it up to make the impact less bad, but now they're all fighting over how to hit it fairly so it doesn't sacrifice one continent for another, or some shit. I don't know, I don't speak all this science shit, I just know mom's been crying whenever she thinks we're not around, and dad is trying to put on a brave face and go to work like the world won't end in just over three months. Me, I'm just sitting here writing stories because what's the worst that happens? It dies when the world blows up and no one ever reads it? A roleplay, forever unanswered as the internet becomes nonexistent.
There are 80 days until the meteor arrives.
I've gotten an alert, and I am excited, until I click it and see that it is a story I have been writing for some time, and while I am happy to receive a reply, it is not the one I was hoping for. Another month has passed with no word from the man controlling the character. I click on the alert and do a reply to the story I am thoroughly enjoying and wonder if I should post an ad to fill the gaps with new ones. After all, the worst one can say is no, and my shame will be lost when the meteor hits.
There are 50 days until the meteor arrives.
Another month has passed. The countries are in turmoil and the internet is filled with memes about cockroaches and furries somehow surviving the meteor. Why the furries are included, I do not know, and I tell myself it's best not to ask questions I don't want answers to. I fear the knowledge of their strength that allows them to survive catastrophic events like a meteor. I click another page, assure myself that I am caught up on all replies and that my partners are still present in this time of brewing war and the end of existence. One has bowed out to spend the remainder of the two and a half months with their family. I do not blame them, I wish them well and slide them a metaphorical mouse across the screen, then close the page.
There are 30 days until the meteor arrives.
They estimate it will arrive within the month. Thirty days, they say, give or take. It might be 32, it might be 29. The internet has become vastly unmoderated and has been overrun by trolls and furries. I fear they realize the strength in unity and overpower those of us who only want to tell our last stories before imminent death. I have three stories remaining, and the man behind the character of old has still not sent word. Others rebel against the absence of word, our Mistress of OnlyFangs contenting herself with the dungeons of dragons while she awaits word from our overlord. I have an alert, I see our overlord's name and I am rejoiced, for I have finally been deemed worthy to read what his character chooses now.
Alas, I have been betrayed. Our overlord has chosen to play Judas once more, for this alert is of a laugh at a chatroom quotes thing I posted last week. I am dismayed. Shooketh. I must find other ways to fill my last month of words before they become irrelevant.
There are 23 hours until the meteor arrives.
I feel like I'm in an apocalypse movie. The stores have been ransacked, windows broken and shelves devoid of food and toilet paper. I do not understand why people think stocking up on toilet paper and canned goods will help them survive even if the meteor did only take out part of the planet. What good will that soft Charmin cloud be when you're starving to death six months from now? Your backside might feel fresh, but your stomach will scream and claw in hunger until you take your last breath.
I log on and check for alerts, there is a large, bolded goodbye message from the admin team at the top of the page. They say they're proud to have offered this community to us until the end, and salute us without a hint of mockery for once. There are no Canadians, no Americans, we are but humans reading over our favorite stories for the last time before we cease to be. I do not check to see if the overlord has hinted at a final set of words for me. I am at peace with the stories I have written, the worlds that I've created, and I laugh at the fact that....
For once, he has the perfect excuse not to reply.
It was all over the news. Not just the internet where we know people lie all the time or AI makes fake articles, but the actual news. I've never seen a real life emergency broadcast before today, so when every television at the bar cut to that godawful screeching and then came the emergency broadcast, I thought it was some sort of prank done to rile up the drunks around me. But then they brought the president on with some military guys, and then they had the scientists talking about a meteor on a course for Earth that would take a miracle to miss us. Supposedly we're working with the other countries, even the ones we hate, to try and figure out if there's a way we can blast it up to make the impact less bad, but now they're all fighting over how to hit it fairly so it doesn't sacrifice one continent for another, or some shit. I don't know, I don't speak all this science shit, I just know mom's been crying whenever she thinks we're not around, and dad is trying to put on a brave face and go to work like the world won't end in just over three months. Me, I'm just sitting here writing stories because what's the worst that happens? It dies when the world blows up and no one ever reads it? A roleplay, forever unanswered as the internet becomes nonexistent.
There are 80 days until the meteor arrives.
I've gotten an alert, and I am excited, until I click it and see that it is a story I have been writing for some time, and while I am happy to receive a reply, it is not the one I was hoping for. Another month has passed with no word from the man controlling the character. I click on the alert and do a reply to the story I am thoroughly enjoying and wonder if I should post an ad to fill the gaps with new ones. After all, the worst one can say is no, and my shame will be lost when the meteor hits.
There are 50 days until the meteor arrives.
Another month has passed. The countries are in turmoil and the internet is filled with memes about cockroaches and furries somehow surviving the meteor. Why the furries are included, I do not know, and I tell myself it's best not to ask questions I don't want answers to. I fear the knowledge of their strength that allows them to survive catastrophic events like a meteor. I click another page, assure myself that I am caught up on all replies and that my partners are still present in this time of brewing war and the end of existence. One has bowed out to spend the remainder of the two and a half months with their family. I do not blame them, I wish them well and slide them a metaphorical mouse across the screen, then close the page.
There are 30 days until the meteor arrives.
They estimate it will arrive within the month. Thirty days, they say, give or take. It might be 32, it might be 29. The internet has become vastly unmoderated and has been overrun by trolls and furries. I fear they realize the strength in unity and overpower those of us who only want to tell our last stories before imminent death. I have three stories remaining, and the man behind the character of old has still not sent word. Others rebel against the absence of word, our Mistress of OnlyFangs contenting herself with the dungeons of dragons while she awaits word from our overlord. I have an alert, I see our overlord's name and I am rejoiced, for I have finally been deemed worthy to read what his character chooses now.
Alas, I have been betrayed. Our overlord has chosen to play Judas once more, for this alert is of a laugh at a chatroom quotes thing I posted last week. I am dismayed. Shooketh. I must find other ways to fill my last month of words before they become irrelevant.
There are 23 hours until the meteor arrives.
I feel like I'm in an apocalypse movie. The stores have been ransacked, windows broken and shelves devoid of food and toilet paper. I do not understand why people think stocking up on toilet paper and canned goods will help them survive even if the meteor did only take out part of the planet. What good will that soft Charmin cloud be when you're starving to death six months from now? Your backside might feel fresh, but your stomach will scream and claw in hunger until you take your last breath.
I log on and check for alerts, there is a large, bolded goodbye message from the admin team at the top of the page. They say they're proud to have offered this community to us until the end, and salute us without a hint of mockery for once. There are no Canadians, no Americans, we are but humans reading over our favorite stories for the last time before we cease to be. I do not check to see if the overlord has hinted at a final set of words for me. I am at peace with the stories I have written, the worlds that I've created, and I laugh at the fact that....
For once, he has the perfect excuse not to reply.