Life on Earth

“There’s life on Earth,” I say.

And instantly regret it.

The room goes feral. An Elder gasps so hard his lung almost escapes like a bat out of hell. Another clutches his chest, as if I just slapped him with the raw, wet fish of truth. Someone in the back actually faints—which is impressive, considering our blood is basically mist and anxiety.

“Blasphemy,” they hiss, scandalized. “Too much oxygen. Too much poison in the air.”

Yeah? Well, we’re living off the farts of ancient machines, so maybe we shouldn’t be throwing shade.

But fine. Let them gasp. Let them clutch their pearls (or whatever counts as pearls when you’ve been living in a glorified tin can for generations). I know what I saw.

Because I look.

Through my seeing device—two dozen cracked lenses duct-taped to an unholy assembly of rusted pipes, looted from some ancient ruin. It’s held together by corrosion, spit, and the sheer audacity of desperate hope. Every time I look through it, I half expect to see my own reflection rolling its eyes.

Weeks on end, for two years, I drag it out onto Montes Apenninus, just past Archimedes Crater, like a lunatic on a mission from God—except our gods are gasping asthmatic pyramids, and they’re dying.

And there it is. Earth. The cursed green jewel. The ex we ghosted centuries ago. The "thing we don't talk about" hanging in the sky like a glowing middle finger to everything we stand for.

We were taught to never look. Never think about it. Never whisper its name, lest Earth hear us and drag us back into its poisoned embrace.

But I look anyway. Maybe out of stubbornness. Maybe because I enjoy suffering. Maybe because I’m a contrarian jackass.

And Earth looks back.

And there’s something there.

Not the total plant-based apocalypse we left behind. Not moonfolk. Not even the mythical humans—the ancient horror villains from bedtime stories, the ones who drowned Earth in biomass, turned civilization into a giant compost heap, and left us up here, huffing machine breath and calling it home.

No. This is worse.

Feathers.

But not the soft, cute, pettable kind. No. These are murder feathers—sharp, oily, bruised-colored things. The kind of feathers that make you think, oh, this thing has opinions, and none of them involve mercy.

It’s got beady little eyes that radiate pure, undiluted judgment. Like it already knows my credit score and dating history.

And in its claws, it holds… something. A bone-and-glass monstrosity. A seeing device. Crude. Ugly. Watching.

It looks at me.

And I look at it.

And we both know.

One day, they’ll come.

If we don’t go to them first.

But let’s be real: we’re never going first.

We don’t do first. We don’t do brave. If the pyramids started coughing up gold, we’d run screaming, convinced it was demon piss. If Earth sent an invitation carved in diamonds, we’d nuke it, bury the ashes, and hold a ceremony to ward off bad omens—then die choking on our own acute radiation poisoning.

They could show up with a cosmic PowerPoint titled “How to Be Friends,” and we’d still blow them out of the sky. Just in case slide three was “Step 1: Eat the Moonfolk.”

Or maybe they’ll come as enemies, all claws and fire and absolutely zero interest in a PowerPoint. And they'll wipe us out. Snap us like dry twigs. Honestly? Our bones are so brittle, they might shatter just from the sonic boom of them arriving.

And I think—does it matter?

Does it change the ending?

I could tell the Elders I’m Galileo-level right. Give them an excuse to launch the nukes. Which, let’s be honest, would immediately malfunction, explode in the launch tubes, and kill us all in one poetic, irony-laced fireball.

Death by fear.

Fitting.

Because, you see, the Breathing Pyramids are already dying. You can hear it in every shuddering breath. Every coughing wheeze. Every slow, pathetic grind of ancient gears.

We pretend it’s fine.

We pretend the air isn’t getting thinner by the hour.

We pretend that when someone collapses, it’s just “a cold.” A cold that happens to murder you in four days, but sure. Just a cold.

Our gods are dying.

And we’ll die with them, because there’s nowhere else to go. If I tell the Elders what I know, they’ll just add it to the growing list of “Earth things that will kill us instantly,” and call it a day.

And Earth?

Earth will wait.

Because Earth doesn’t care. Earth has been waiting longer than we’ve been lying to ourselves. Earth is that ex who knows you’ll come crawling back.

Except we won’t.

Maybe it’ll reach up with one long green arm—or in this case, claw—and pull us down like a ripe moonfruit.

Or maybe it’ll just forget we were ever here.

And honestly? I don’t know which is worse.

Because none of it matters.

We stare at each other, me and the feathered nightmare.

Two idiots holding up scraps of glass, like we’re gods peeking through the curtains.

And I wonder—am I looking at my end?

Or their beginning?

But again, it doesn’t matter.

Because the stars don’t care.

The void doesn’t care.

The pyramids definitely don’t care—they’re too busy dying.

And my people?

We care about fear first, facts never.

And soon, we won’t care at all.

So I do the only sane thing.

I shut up.

I apologize. Tell them I’m sick—probably delirious from the cold. And they nod, like ah, yes, she’s got the classic four-day death flu.

The commotion settles.

They let me go.

And I let them die slow and scared, praying to dead or dying machines.

Better that than nuking someone because I opened my mouth.

We’ll rot in peace, like good little moonfolk.

Because the end’s coming either way.

And honestly?

That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.