June 3rd, 2042 – New Jersey

  The sky was beautiful the night humanity lost its last chance at a future. I remember that most clearly - how the explosion bloomed like an artificial aurora, painting the darkness with streaks of orange and blue and venomous green. Like humanity’s potential wisping away into dust and ether.

  "I guess that's it," Kris said quietly. I remember her face more clearly than the light show - the way her eyes looked like they were searching for a hope beyond the one that had just died. Her expression half puzzled and half despairing as she watched humanity's last chance spiral into infinity in a thousand glittering pieces. She'd taught me about shooting stars once, about making wishes. I wondered if these falling stars counted, and if so, how many wishes were burning up with them.

  The room erupted into chaos. Mr. Owens slammed his fists into a keyboard so hard the keys scattered like teeth. Professor Lee started laughing, a horrible sound that turned into pathetic wailing. Patty just sat there, staring at their screens, mouth moving in silent calculations that would never matter again.

  "What do we do now, Kris?" I asked, my voice small against the weight of what we'd just lost.

  She looked down at me, tears catching the light of humanity's last launch. "We lick our wounds, we cry, and we grieve. Tomorrow, we will continue what we've been doing for the last four years." A pause. "We survive."

  I didn't understand then what AURELIA1 really was - didn't know that those pretty lights in the sky were the death of something called the Atmospheric Uranium Radioactive Emission Luminosity Array. Kris had tried to explain it to me once, how it would help us find safe places to grow food. "Like a map to treasure," she'd said, "except the treasure is soil that won't kill us."

  "We can try again!" I said, because that's what you're supposed to say when adults are sad. "I know you can do it, Kris!"

  She smiled at me, the kind of smile that hurts to remember. "I know it's difficult to see me sad, Lonny, and I know you just want to help cheer me up. You're a good boy." She touched my cheek. "But there's nothing more we can do. Remember when we talked about Kessler Syndrome?"

  "Yeah!" I brightened. "With the marbles! When we kept adding more every time they hit each other until the whole table was covered!"

  "Very good." Her voice was gentle, like when she had to tell me again and again that we couldn’t leave our bunker. "When we lost AURELIA1, it was like when we had the table half full, but then we got unlucky and shot a marble into a bunch of other marbles. We knew adding another marble was risky, but we had to try. And now..." She looked back at the sky, where the last traces of the explosion were fading. "Now the table is completely full."

  It wasn't until years later that I truly understood what I'd seen in Kris's face that night. She wasn't just mourning a failed satellite launch or a lost project. She was gazing into an abyss. An inevitability was unfolding in real time, humanity's status had just changed from 'endangered' to 'functionally extinct.' In one beautiful, terrible flash of light, we'd locked ourselves in a dying world and thrown away the key.

  For many years, I could still see those colors in my dreams. Orange like the fires that had sent smoke to block out the sun. Blue like the oceans filled with radioactive poison. Green like the last food that would ever grow on the earth.

  But even more so, I could see Kris's face, and hear her words. In the face of annihilation, she had taught me to live.

  ***

  November 6th, 2024

  “You cook?” Marissa asks, her voice dripping with disbelief as she watches me methodically dice a carrot. Her tone is sharp, like she’s caught me in a lie. Which, to be fair, she kind of has—Melon Husk wouldn’t know a carrot from a carburetor.

  “Yeah,” I say, holding up the carrot like it’s a trophy. “A bit rusty, though.” Rusty is an understatement. The last time I cooked vegetables, it was over a fire made of broken furniture, and the carrots were more gray than orange. But this? This is a carrot. A real, honest-to-God carrot. It’s beautiful. It’s crunchy. It’s not glowing. I could cry.

  I keep chopping, letting myself fall into the familiar rhythm. It's almost peaceful, if I don't think too hard about my situation. Just me, a sharp knife, and vegetables that won't give anyone radiation poisoning. Goddamn, I missed veggies.

  Marissa’s eyes narrow. “I wouldn’t have expected you to know your way around a kitchen.” Her tone is light, but there’s a sharpness underneath, like she’s testing the weight of a knife. To be fair, Melon probably couldn’t boil water without setting off a fire alarm.

  She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a particularly baffling math problem. “Clearly.”

  The silence stretches, thick and AUKward, until Henry materializes in the doorway like a particularly helpful ghost. “Sir,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose in a way that suggests absolute indifference. “Your meeting with the president-elect has been rescheduled. He wants you to meet with Vikas Ponziwala to discuss…” He glances at his tablet and sighs, like the words physically pain him. “MEME’s role in the transition.”

  I nod, trying to look like I know what any of that means. “Thanks, Henry. Want an apocomelet?”

  “An… apocomelet?” He blinks, his expression suggesting he’s just been asked to eat a live grenade. “No, thank you, sir.” He adjusts his glasses again, as if trying to shield his eyes from the sheer absurdity of the situation. “Mr. Ponziwala will be in the boardroom in thirty minutes.”

  “Great,” I say, waving him off. “Thanks, Henry.”

  He leaves, and I turn back to the stove, where the first omelet is just finishing up.It’s a little overdone—crispy around the edges, just the way Siddy liked her fried spam. The thought slips out before I can stop it. “First one’s yours, Marrissy—uh, Marissa.”

  She freezes, fork halfway to her plate, and for a moment, her mask slips. There’s something in her eyes—recognition? Amusement?—but it’s gone before I can pin it down.

  “Marrisy?” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “That’s a new one, Mr. Husk.”

  I busy myself with starting another omelet, trying to cover my slip. “Sorry. You just… remind me of someone I used to know.” Used to know doesn’t even begin to cover it. Siddy was practically my sister in all but blood, the kind of person who could make you laugh even when the world was literally on fire. Marissa’s nothing like her—cold where Siddy was warm, sharp where Siddy was soft—but there’s something in the way she watches me, like she’s cataloging every word, every gesture, every lie.

  “And who was that?” she asks, her tone polite but with a nanometer thin edge.

  I focus on the eggs, on the simple miracle of fresh food. “Someone I was close to. She… didn’t make it.” The words hang in the air, heavy with things I can’t say. “She didn’t make it” sounds too small, when what I really want to say is that she died in my arms, her last meal a simple can of expired peaches, that we all decided to give to her, despite knowing that her time was up. She whose laugh I can sometimes hear when I close my eyes.

  Marissa takes a bite of the omelet, and for a moment, her careful composure cracks. “This is… actually good.”

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  “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?” I say, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. Cooking was one of the few things I was good at in the… Before—After? “These hands have worked magic with expired beans and canned tuna.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Expired beans and canned tuna? That’s… specific.”

  I shrug, plating my own omelet. “Maybe I’m full of surprises.”

  “Maybe you are.” She sets down her fork, her gaze sharp and calculating. “But something’s off about you.”

  The spatula clatters from my hand. Behind us, the sun rises over the city, casting the room in a warm, golden light. It’s not the post-fallout red I’m used to, but it’s close enough to make my chest ache. I turn to face her, and for a moment, I see something real in her eyes—a flicker of a lioness.

  “Perhaps we could…?” I start, trying to hold her gaze.

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Last night, you were lusting after me like a prepubescent boy. This morning, you’re looking at me like an old friend. With respect, Mr. Husk, I am a professional.” She stands, smoothing her dress with a practiced elegance. “Henry has my information if you’re in need of my services.”

  Before I can respond, Henry’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Mr. Husk, Mr. Ponziwala has arrived early. He’s quite excited about making ‘MEME’ the dankest department in government…” The intercom clicks for a second and Henry’s muttered voice slips through, “Are you fu…”

  Marissa pauses at the door, her hand resting on the frame. “Oh, and… Melon?” My heart stops. “The omelet really was good. Your friend would have liked it.”

  And just like that, she’s gone, leaving me standing in the kitchen with a spatula in one hand and a sinking feeling in my chest.

  I look down at the omelet, still warm on the plate, and for the first time since I woke up in this strange, shiny world, I feel the weight of everything I’ve lost.

  Until I could get an idea of what was actually happening, I would need to play the role of Melon Husk.

  ***

  The boardroom was a monument to excess, all glass and steel and the faint smell of ammonia cleaner. Standing at the opposite head of a massive table in the “Ministry of Efficiency, Modernization, and Empowerment” was Vikas Ponziwala, his smile as manufactured as his hairline. He had the air of a man who had just discovered a way to sell sand in the Sahara and was already drafting the PowerPoint.

  “Melon!” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with the kind of enthusiasm a cannibal would have upon strolling into a funeral. “So good to see you. The twat you sent during the party—truly groundbreaking. Everyone should be free to lead. Genius. Pure genius.”

  I forced a smile, the kind that felt like it might crack my face in half. “Thanks, Vikas.” I said while searching Melon’s memories. “It was a paradox about how if everyone leads, no one leads…” I deduced, unsure whether or not Melon even realized the irony of his statement.

  “Melon,” Vikas began, his voice still halfway to a yell and dripping with faux gravitas, “the problem with government isn’t that it’s inefficient. It’s that it’s too efficient—at wasting money on lazy and entitled peons. What we need is a bold, visionary approach to streamlining operations. A complete reimagining of how the public sector functions. And I’ve got just the ideas to make it happen.”

  I suppressed a grimace. “Let’s hear them.”

  “First,” he said, holding up a finger with way too much intensity, “we outsource all government services to private contractors. Why pay a bloated bureaucracy when we can leverage the innovation and efficiency that our CEO friends have worked so hard to achieve? Think about it: instead of the Department of Motor Vehicles, we have Uber DMV. An app that cuts out the middleman. We get drivers to train drivers. You need a license? Open the app, request a driving instructor, and bam—they bring the test to you. Efficient!”

  I blinked. “But... how do we make sure the drivers are properly vetted and who pays the instructors?”

  Vikas waved a hand dismissively. “Details, Melon. I don’t know. We use a rating system. The point is, we’re cutting red tape. And if costs go up, well, that’s just because value is added. Convenience. The free market at work! Next idea: we replace all IRS employees with AI.”

  “AI?” I repeated, trying to remember what AI was like in the before. Kris had used it to help translate technical documents for AURELIA1. [Fill]

  “Yes, AI!” he exclaimed, as if this were the most obvious solution in the world. “Why pay a human to process your tax return when a chatbot can do it for free? Sure, it might make a few mistakes—like accidentally auditing your dog or garnishing your wages for a parking ticket you got in 1997—but think of the savings! And if people complain, we’ll just tell them it’s beta testing. Everyone loves beta testing.”

  I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. He was.

  “Third,” he continued, clearly on a roll now, “we implement a subscription model for emergency services. Why should my tax dollars go for disaster relief in Los Angeles? That’s communism. Instead, we offer insurance with various tiers. Basic gets you police and fire services. Premium adds healthcare and education. And for the makers and breakers of society, we offer the Elite Patriot Package—unlimited access to police security, a personal lobbyist agent, and a ‘limited’ pardon guarantee at the end of the president’s term. Value added!”

  “But... what about people who can’t afford the subscription?” I asked, trying to anticipate his answer.

  Vikas shrugged. “They can watch ads. Every time they call 911, they simply sit through a 30-second commercial for reverse mortgages or prescription opioids. It’s a win-win: we monetize emergency services, and they get to learn about exciting financial products.”

  “Fourth,” he said, gesturing me forward like he was about to share a secret, “we gamify compliance. You pay your taxes on time? You get points. You recycle? More points. You attend a town hall meeting? Bonus points! And then you can redeem those points for exclusive rewards, like a ‘Skip the Line’ pass at the post office or a ‘Get Out of Jury Duty Free’ card. It’s like capitalism meets Fortnite!”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the headache that was rapidly forming. “Vikas, these ideas are... bold. But don’t you think they might be a little... impractical?”

  He laughed, a sound that was equal parts charming and terrifying. “Melon, my friend, practicality is the enemy of progress. What we need is vision. And speaking of vision, here’s my pièce de résistance: we replace all government buildings with pop-up kiosks. Why waste money on maintenance when we can just set up a tent and call it a day? If it’s good enough for food trucks, it’s good enough for the Department of Education.”

  I stared at him, trying to find the words to respond. None came.

  “And finally,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we rebrand the entire government as a tech startup. We’ll call it GovTech. Our slogan? ‘Move fast and break things—just not the things you care about.’ We’ll have hackathons, ping-pong tables, and unlimited kombucha on tap. And if anyone complains, we’ll just say we’re ‘disrupting the status quo.’ People love disruption.”

  I sat back in my chair, feeling like I’d just been hit by a freight train. Vikas’s ideas weren’t just bad—they were catastrophically, hilariously bad. But the worst part was, I could see people falling for them. In a world where irony had become the dominant currency, his plan might actually work.

  “So,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied smile, “what do you think?”

  I forced another smile, though it felt like my face might crack. “It’s... certainly ambitious.”

  “Ambitious is just another word for genius,” he replied, clearly pleased with himself. “So, are you in?”

  I hesitated, my mind racing. If I played along, I might be able to stop him before he did too much damage. But if I said no, he’d just find someone else to help him.

  “I’m in,” I said, though the words tasted like ash in my mouth.

  Vikas grinned, his teeth gleaming like a shark’s. “Excellent. Together, we’re going to change the

  As he launched into another monologue about the virtues of disruption, I couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of dread. I knew where this ended. I had lived through the final years of the American empire. I had survived ecological collapse, nuclear war, the years without sunlight, and more than a decade of what were likely the final days of human existence. Kris had taught me about many things, but history was her most passionate topic.

  She taught about the world that was. Siddy and I had listened to lectures on the turning points in the ecosystem, politics, and economics—the moments that made up a history of collective failure. The body I found myself in now, Melon Husk, was party to some of the last steps in the extinguishing of our future.

  It was time to figure out what I could do differently.

  But as Vikas droned on, his words blending into a haze of corporate jargon and empty promises, I felt the weight of it all pressing down on me. The memories of Kris’s face, the way she had looked at me that night as the sky burned, came rushing back. She had been searching for hope, even as it slipped through her fingers. And now, here I was, sitting across from a man who saw the end of the world as just another opportunity for profit.

  I excused myself from the meeting, citing a need for air, and stepped out onto the balcony. The city sprawled out before me, a glittering monument of safety, prosperity, and excess. I needed help. This wasn’t the world I knew. Melon’s memories wouldn’t be enough.

  I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen. Melon’s fingers tapped on the last person to call him.

  The phone rang once, twice, and then—

  “Yes, Mr. Musk?”

  “Henry, I need you to find someone for me. Discreetly. She’s an assistant professor at Columbia University.”