I was Lieutenant Kael Vire, call sign Echo-9, stationed at Ground Command Delta near the ruins of old Berlin. The sky had turned violet—an omen we'd learned to dread. That color meant the upper atmosphere was thinning, the magnetosphere cracking. It meant death was coming.
Above us, the United Union fleet hovered in low orbit, a cathedral of steel and salvation. Our last hope. We had 3.7 billion souls left to evacuate. The timer read 23:59:57.
I keyed the mic. "Echo-9 to Union High—do you copy?"
Static. Then a burst.
"Echo-9, this is Admiral Solari aboard Vanguard. Meteoroid trajectory confirmed. Impact in T-minus 24 hours. You must accelerate evac. Repeat—accelerate evac."
I looked out at the crumbling launch pads. Half our shuttles were grounded. The rest were overworked, overheating, barely holding together.
"That's not enough time," I whispered, then keyed the mic again. "Union High, we need more time. We're bottlenecked. Repeat—we're bottlenecked."
The line went dead.
"Echo-9, this is Sierra-12. We've lost contact with orbit. Repeat—Union High is dark."
I felt the silence like a scream. The timer ticked down: 19:42:11.
Above us, the sky fractured—a ripple of fire where the meteoroid breached the thermosphere. Civilians screamed. Children clung to rusted fences. Our last hope was severed.
"Echo-9, fallback protocol initiated," Sierra-12 said. "We're rerouting evac to Site Theta near the Arctic rift."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. My throat was tight. My hands were shaking. I looked around at my team—engineers, medics, evac officers. Some were crying. Some were arguing. One slammed his fist into a console and shouted, "We should've launched yesterday! We waited too long!"
Another whispered, "We left too many behind."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to agree. But I didn't. I just stared at the timer: 17:21:10.
We rerouted evac to Site Theta. The final shuttle was reserved for the last wave: women and children. No soldiers. No leaders. Just the innocent. I watched them board in silence. A girl named Lira smiled through the glass. Her mother was sobbing, clutching her hand until the last second.
Inside the shuttle, the AI—UT-2265—was already running launch diagnostics. We called it Opal. She spoke with a voice like calm water.
"Final boarding complete. Launch sequence initiated. Atmospheric breach in 12 minutes."
I turned to the remaining crew. "This is it. We're going with them."
No one argued. No one wanted to be left behind.
We climbed aboard. The hatch sealed. The engines roared. We lifted through choking ash, the sky fracturing above us.
14:03:44.
Then—impact.
The meteoroid tore through the stratosphere like a god's blade. Earth convulsed. Cities vanished in fire. The shockwave chased us, a wall of death.
Inside the shuttle, people screamed. A child cried for her father. A medic vomited into her helmet. One of the engineers whispered, "We're not going to make it."
Opal's voice cut through the chaos. "Hyper-jump coordinates locked. Estimated breach in 90 seconds."
I grabbed the nearest rail and held on. "Everyone brace!"
01:32.
The stars bent. Time twisted. The ship screamed.
And in the final second—just before the jump swallowed us whole—we saw it.
Earth.
She cracked like glass. Oceans boiled. Mountains folded. The cradle of mankind died in silence.
Then—darkness.
We emerged in orbit around a new world. Quiet. Untouched. The timer reset.
00:00:00.
No one spoke. Not at first. We were too stunned. Too hollow.
Then the arguments began.
"We left them," someone said. "We left billions."
"We had no choice," I said. "We did what we could."
"You call that enough?"
"I call that survival."
A woman sobbed in the corner. Lira clung to her mother. Opal's voice echoed through the cabin.
"Atmospheric scans complete. Planet is habitable. Oxygen levels stable. Radiation minimal."
I turned to the survivors. "We begin again."
But I didn't feel hope. Not yet. I felt guilt. I felt the weight of every soul we couldn't save.
And somewhere in the void, the echo of Earth whispered: Remember us.
Then—darkness.
We emerged in orbit around a new world. Quiet. Untouched. The timer reset.
00:00:00.
The timer blinked. Reset. Mocking us.
We floated in orbit around a new world, its surface veiled in clouds the color of ash and pearl. The silence inside the shuttle was thick—grief, guilt, disbelief. I felt it pressing against my chest like a second skin.
Opal's voice broke through. "Transmission channel open. United Union fleet receiving."
I stepped forward. My legs were still trembling. "Echo-9 to Union High. We've made it. Survivors aboard. Awaiting response."
Static. Then a voice—clear, formal, rehearsed.
"This is Chancellor Veylan of the United Union. Echo-9, you are confirmed. Congratulations on surviving the Great End. Your bravery will be remembered."
I didn't respond immediately. I looked at the faces around me—Lira curled against her mother, the medic still pale, the engineer with blood on his knuckles. I keyed the mic again.
"Survival came at a cost," I said. "We left 3 billion behind. For every child aboard, a thousand died. For every launch, a thousand burned."
Silence.
Then I said it. Cold. Calm. Final.
"You left us to die."
The line went dead for a moment. But the silence wasn't empty—it was heavy. You could feel it. Like gravity. Like guilt.
People in the cabin turned toward me. Some nodded. Some looked away. Some just stared at the floor.
Then the voice returned. Not Chancellor Veylan. 12 voices. In perfect unison.
"It seems you did survive."
That was all they said. No apology. No explanation. Just that.
"Return to the main fleet," they continued. "Docking Bay 7. We'll speak further once you're situated."
The call ended.
Opal's voice resumed. "Course plotted. Docking sequence initiated."
I turned away from the console. My hands were shaking again. Not from fear. From rage.
Docking Bay 7 – United Union Main Fleet
The shuttle hissed as it locked into place. The hatch opened. We stepped into the cathedral of steel—the main fleet, pristine, untouched by ash or fire. Soldiers lined the corridors. Officers watched us pass. Some saluted. Some didn't.
Whispers followed us.
"That's Echo-9." "They came from Earth." "They saw it die."
Inside the captain's office, the tension was thicker than the hull plating. My crew gathered. Some sat. Some paced. One stared at the wall like it held answers.
"Why did you look so angry?" the medic asked me. "When they spoke to you?"
I didn't answer. I just stared at the timer on the wall. It was counting up now. Measuring time since the jump. Since the end.
00:03:17.
Command Deck – The Upper 12
The 12 stood in a circle, their uniforms gleaming, their faces unreadable. They called me in. Alone.
"Captain Vire," one said. "You've done the impossible."
I didn't sit. "You abandoned us."
Another spoke. "We made a decision. The fleet couldn't risk exposure. The magnetosphere was compromised. We had to preserve leadership."
"You preserved yourselves."
A third leaned forward. "And you preserved the innocent. That was your directive."
I stepped closer. "You gave me that directive knowing it meant death for the rest."
They didn't flinch. They didn't argue. They just nodded.
Then one said, "Before your arrival, we received a signal. From the planet."
I froze.
"They have satellites. Communication arrays. They knew we were here before we landed."
I looked at the screen behind them. A message blinked in alien glyphs. Translated. Roughly.
"We see you. We welcome you. We are not alone."
The room went silent.
Then the whispers began.
"What if they're hostile?" "What if they're advanced?" "What if they're survivors of something worse?"
The 12 conferred. "We will make contact. 1200 hours. All captains present. Main deck."
I turned to leave. But one voice followed me.
"Captain Vire. You carry the weight of Earth. But now you carry the future."
I didn't respond. I didn't believe them.
1200 Hours – Descent
We gathered. The fleet aligned. Engines roared.
Then the gravity shifted.
Alarms blared. Opal's voice rang out. "Gravitational anomaly detected. Descent locked. Impact trajectory confirmed."
We Were Falling!
I shouted to my crew. "Evac pods! NOW!"
They scattered. The pods launched—metal seeds flung across the sky, hoping for soft soil.
I climbed into mine last. The hatch sealed. The stars vanished.
The Planet Surface – Unknown Presence
He stood tall.
Cloaked in shadow, his form radiated a pressure that bent the air around him. Those who glanced his way felt it instantly—a weight in the chest, a tightening in the throat. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence was declaration enough.
He stood with absolute confidence, unmoving, unyielding. A monument of hight. The sky above him cracked with descending fire—life pods streaking like dying stars.
Around him, his followers stirred. Silent.Tense.
They didn't ask questions. They didn't need orders. They felt the shift. They felt the command in his stance.
Without a word, they moved. Deep into enemy territory.
Quick and silent, they vanished into the forest—darkness creeping through mountain-sized trees. They leapt from branch to branch, shadows gliding across bark and mist, careful not to disturb their lovely neighbors. He laughed.
The Hunt Had Begun.