The Watcher

At first, Ben thought it was a coincidence.

A small black drone, hovering at the edge of his vision. Street corners, train stations, the far end of the supermarket car park.

Always just far enough away to make him second-guess himself.

He pointed it out to his friends once. “That drone—look.”

Tom glanced up, squinting at the skyline. “What drone?”

It is right there. “You seriously don’t see that?”

Tom shrugged. “You okay, man?”

Ben tried to laugh it off. But the next day, the drone was waiting outside his window.

A week later, he tested it.

He took random turns through the city. Weaved through back alleys, doubled back through crowds. At one point, he hid in a cinema for three hours, slipping out through the fire exit.

When he emerged, it was there. Just above the streetlamp. Unmoving. Watching.

“What do you want?” he exclaimed.

The drone did nothing.

He tried reporting it. The police officer barely listened. “If it’s a private drone, we can’t really do much unless it’s harassing you.”

“It is harassing me,” Ben snapped. “It follows me everywhere.”

“Have you spoken to the owner?”

“There is no owner.”

The officer sighed. “Sir, maybe you should—

Ben never heard the end of that sentence, because outside the station window, hovering just beyond the glass, was the drone.

He turned back to the officer.

“Tell me you see it.”

The officer followed his gaze. Paused.

And then: “See what?”

Ben stopped talking about it after that.

He kept his head down. He ignored the sight of it, ignored the whirring sound it made when he turned a corner, ignored the cold certainty that it would never leave him.

Until one day, while absent-mindedly scrolling through old childhood photos on his phone, he noticed something.

A picture from his 8th birthday.

A group shot with friends.

In the background, just above the rooftops.

A small black dot in the sky. He zoomed in and realised…

The drone had always been watching him.

The Interview From Hell

Jake had been unemployed for three months when he got the call.

“Mr. Holloway, we were very impressed with your application for the Strategic Synergy Facilitator position. Can you come in for an interview tomorrow?”

He hadn’t applied for anything with a title that ridiculous, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky.

He arrived, bright and early the next morning at the office—a glass-and-steel monstrosity in the heart of the city.

The receptionist greeted him with an unsettling smile. “Mr. Holloway, the executives are expecting you. Please, follow me.”

Executives? For an entry-level job?

She led him to a windowless boardroom, where five men in identical grey suits sat behind a wide mahogany table. A single chair sat by itself facing them.

Jake sat. The chair was too low. The men loomed.

“Mr. Holloway,” the one in the centre said, steepling his fingers. “Do you know what we do here at EverGrowth Solutions?”

Jake had checked their website the night before, and it had been aggressively vague—phrases like “leveraging global potential” and “pioneering integrated paradigms.”

“I… uh… believe you’re in consulting?” he guessed.

“Yes,” the man nodded. “But also… so much more.”

The lights dimmed.

A trapdoor opened in the floor in front of Jake, revealing a pit of screaming fire.

Jake blinked.

“…Is this part of the interview?”

The executive ignored him. “At EverGrowth, we believe in nurturing talent. Developing leadership. Feeding the ancient one who sleeps beneath the city.”

“Sorry—what?”

“Tell me, Jake,” the man continued, voice calm. “Do you consider yourself a team player?”

“Uh—sure?”

“Would you be willing to make personal sacrifices for the good of the company?”

The flames in the pit flickered expectantly.

Jake squirmed awkwardly in his chair. “Okay, look. I think there’s been a mistake. I thought this was for a—what was it?—a ‘Strategic Synergy Facilitator?’”

The executives nodded.

“Yes. Facilitating synergy between your blood and the great devourer. Strategically.”

Jake stood up, hands raised. “I appreciate the opportunity and everything, but I don’t think I’m the right fit for—”

One of the executives slid a contract across the table. The letters on the page seemed to writhe.

“Sign here,” the man said. “In ink. Or blood. Either works.”

Jake sighed.

“…Does the position come with benefits?”

“401k, dental, and immortality.”

He picked up a pen.

“Well,” he muttered, “I suppose I’ve had worse jobs.”

The Confessional Booth

Father Bradley sat alone in the dim booth, the wooden walls pressing close. The air smelled of old varnish and the ghosts of a thousand whispered sins. It had been a long day, and he had not intended to stay this late, but he could not bring himself to leave. He exhaled, slow and steady. His hands were folded in his lap. Then, almost without thinking, he reached for the sliding panel and pulled it open.

Darkness.

The other side of the confessional was empty.

He hesitated, staring at the vacant space, the silence stretching between the wooden lattice. The kneeler on the other side was untouched, the candlelight barely grazing the edge of the shadows.

And yet—

He felt something there.

A strange sensation settled over him, an impulse he did not understand. Then, before he could stop himself, he spoke.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

His voice did not sound like his own.

He sat perfectly still, waiting. The hush of the church seemed to press against him, thick and watchful. The weight of his own words lingered in the air, waiting for something—an answer, a response.

There was none.

And yet he continued.

“It has been… too long since my last confession.”

A pause.

A breath.

“I have killed a man.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. He did not even know where they had come from, only that they were true.

His fingers curled in his lap.

“I killed him with my silence.”

A creak of old wood.

The shadows beyond the screen seemed deeper now, stretching towards him. He could not look away.

“I killed him by pretending not to see.”

The candlelight flickered.

The words did not stop. They pulled themselves from his throat like thread unraveling.

“I let him drown beneath his sins because it was easier than saving him. Because if I had reached for him, I might have been dragged under too.”

His breath came too quick now. A tightness curled in his ribs, a pressure in his chest.

“I killed him,” he whispered.

The hush of the confessional swallowed his words.

Nothing but the echo of his own breath, the weight of his own voice pressing back against him.

Silence.

The Ghost Who Wouldn’t Leave a Bad Review

Mark knew the Airbnb was haunted the second he walked in.

It wasn’t the creaky floors or the flickering lights. It wasn’t even the way the temperature dropped ten degrees every time he passed the bathroom. It was the muttering.

Low, whispering complaints from the walls, like a disappointed pensioner in a supermarket queue.

At first, he thought it was his imagination. Then, on his first night, as he settled into bed, a voice groaned from the corner of the room:

“Ugh. This place used to be so much nicer.”

Mark sat up, in a panic. “What?”

The voice sighed. “Back when Mrs. Holloway owned it. Before they put in those godawful spotlights. I mean, honestly. Who renovates a Victorian home with IKEA lighting?”

Mark turned on the bedside lamp. The room was empty.

“Are you… a… a… ghost?” he barely managed to ask.

“Obviously. Who else would be complaining at this hour?”

Mark blinked. “You’re… upset about the lighting?”

“And the décor,” the ghost grumbled. “They painted over the original wallpaper, you know. Floral print. Absolutely stunning. Now? Just blank white walls. No personality. No history. No soul.”

Mark pulled the covers up. “You don’t, like… want to kill me or anything, do you?”

“What? No, no, I’m not that kind of ghost. I just want people to know this place has gone downhill.”

Mark exhaled. “Oh. Well, I mean, I guess you could leave a bad review?”

There was a long pause.

“I couldn’t do that.”

“…Why not?”

“Because Jeremy is lovely.”

“Jeremy?”

“The host. Sweet man. Bakes his own bread. Uses real butter, not that margarine rubbish. You can’t just destroy someone’s livelihood over a few bad design choices.”

Mark stared at the ceiling. “So you’re just going to… haunt this place forever and complain about it?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Have you talked to Jeremy?”

“Oh, sure. I ruffled some curtains. Moved a mug. He thought it was a draft.”

Mark sighed. “Look, I’ll mention it in my review if you want. I’ll just say, like, ‘Great stay, friendly host, but the ghost thinks the house has lost its charm.’”

“Hmm. Maybe also note that the pillows are a bit too firm?”

“Sure.”

“And that the Wi-Fi cuts out at night?”

“Okay.”

“And that it wouldn’t kill them to put one antique back in here? Just one. For the aesthetic.”

“Fine.”

“You’re a good man, Mark.”

“Thanks, Ghost.”

He heard a satisfied sigh. Then silence.

The next morning, Mark left a five-star review.

Jeremy replied, thanking him for the feedback and promising to look into the Wi-Fi issue. He didn’t mention the ghost.

But when Mark checked the listing a month later, he noticed the place had been updated.

A single antique chair in the corner.

Mark smiled. Somewhere, a ghost was finally at peace.

Your Life in Customer Reviews

By the time I realised I was dead, I was already in line.

The queue stretched a long way, a slow-moving procession of the newly departed. There was no pain, no fear—just a strange sense of acceptance, like I was waiting for a coffee I hadn’t ordered but was happy to drink anyway.

Ahead, a glowing kiosk hummed gently, a friendly blue light flickering above it. A digital voice chimed:

“Thank you for living! Please rate your experience.”

I frowned.

The person in front of me, a hunched old man in a tweed jacket, tapped the screen hesitantly. His expression shifted from curiosity to horror. He muttered something under his breath, then shuffled off into the mist.

The screen blinked invitingly. It was my turn.

Welcome to the Afterlife Feedback Portal!

Life of: Daniel Everett

Status: Concluded

Time Spent Alive: 38 years, 4 months, 12 days

Total Rating: 2.9 / 5 stars

Two point nine? That was dangerously close to “would not recommend.”

A glowing progress bar appeared. “Review Breakdown Loading…”

Relationships – 2.5 stars

• “Started strong but lost momentum. Needed better communication skills.” ★★☆☆☆

• “Girlfriend of three years? More like unpaid therapist of three years.” ★★★☆☆

I winced. That was… uncomfortably fair.

Career – 3.0 stars

• “Showed up to work on time. Mostly.” ★★★☆☆

• “Had potential, but spent too much time on Reddit.” ★★☆☆☆

• “Boss liked him. Colleagues tolerated him. Printer hated him.” ★★★☆☆

That last one stung more than I expected.

Personal Growth – 1.8 stars

• “Kept saying he’d learn a language. Never did.” ★☆☆☆☆

• “Joined a gym. Went twice.” ★☆☆☆☆

• “Had an epiphany about life’s meaning once. Forgot it immediately.” ★★☆☆☆

The screen flickered. A new section appeared.

Regrets – Most Common Mentions:

• “Too scared to take risks.”

• “Spent more time looking at screens than faces.”

“Would you like to leave a response?” the kiosk asked.

I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the screen. What was there to say? That I tried? That I thought I had more time? That I wish I’d paid more attention, held on to people tighter, been braver, been better?

The screen pulsed.

“All feedback is final. Thank you for existing.”

A door opened, and I stepped through.

The Disciples of Grit

It started as a joke.

One night, after too many beers and an ill-advised deep dive into self-help YouTube, I posted a tweet:

“Success is a mindset. Stop making excuses. Wake up at 4 AM and start winning at life.”

I thought nothing of it. I went to bed, dreaming of a long, lazy Sunday.

The next morning, I woke up to 12,000 retweets.

By lunchtime, my inbox was flooded with messages. “Thank you, Master.” “Your words changed my life.” “I have cast aside weakness and now exist only to WIN.”

I checked my profile. My follower count had exploded overnight. I had somehow become an influencer. Worse—people were treating me like a guru.

I decided to lean into the bit. I tweeted:

“The weak want comfort. The strong seek discipline. CHOOSE WISELY.”

It got 50,000 likes. Someone turned it into an inspirational Instagram post with my face superimposed over a stock image of a mountain.

By the end of the week, my followers had a name: The Disciples of Grit.

A month in, I had a website, a Patreon, and an army of devoted followers who were doing everything I said. I told them to quit caffeine—they did. I told them to sleep in the woods for mental toughness—several nearly froze to death. One guy even tattooed WAKE UP AND WIN across his forehead.

At some point, I should have stopped. Instead, I started selling online courses.

$499.99 – The Masterclass on Grit

• Week 1: Destroying Weakness (Starting With Your Sleep Schedule)

• Week 2: Eliminating Friends Who Don’t Support Your Hustle

• Week 3: Why Emotions Are for Losers

The money poured in. Brands reached out for sponsorships. My face was plastered on T-shirts with slogans like “PAIN IS A CHOICE” and “CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES”.

Then things got weird.

One of my followers emailed me: “Master, when do we march?”

I blinked at the screen. March?

I scrolled through my Discord server. My followers had been… organising. Stockpiling supplies. Talking about “overthrowing the weak.”

I logged onto X. The hashtag #GritRevolution was trending.

I slammed my laptop shut.

I had accidentally started a cult.

I tried to shut it down. I posted, “Hey guys, maybe let’s not form a militant movement? Also, please don’t call me ‘Master.’”

The comments were instant:

• “A test! The Master is testing our loyalty!”

• “Yes, we must remain humble. Let us crush the weak in silence.”

• “Master, we have already begun.”

I turned on the news. There had been rallies. People in homemade WAKE UP AND WIN uniforms were chanting my slogans in the streets.

Panicked, I booked a flight to Mexico. I shaved my head. I deleted all my social media.

It wasn’t enough.

This morning, someone knocked on my door. A man in sunglasses and a Disciples of Grit hoodie stood there, grinning.

“Master,” he said. “We found you.”

Congratulations! You’re the Chosen One

Dave Saunders had spent his Tuesday afternoon the same way he spent most Tuesday afternoons: avoiding work, scrolling on his phone, and wondering how early was too early to microwave a pasty.

Then, the sky cracked open.

A booming voice echoed across the office, rattling coffee mugs and making Sandra from HR spill her tea. “DAVID SAUNDERS,” it bellowed, “YOU ARE THE CHOSEN ONE.”

Dave sighed.

“Right,” he muttered. “And what exactly am I chosen for?”

A golden portal materialised in front of his desk, swirling with celestial energy and an unreasonable amount of dramatic lighting. A robed wizard stepped through, staff in hand, eyes glowing with divine knowledge.

“Oh, brilliant,” Dave said. “Another one.”

The office workers stared. The IT guy took out his phone to record. Sandra was still mopping up her tea.

The wizard looked momentarily flustered, then recovered. “The prophecy has foretold your coming! The Dark Lord is rising! You alone can save the world!”

Dave swivelled slightly in his chair. “Yeah, see, I’m really busy today, so…”

The wizard blinked at the empty desk and the Microsoft Outlook tab open to a blank email draft.

“But—but you’re the one!” the wizard stammered. “Born under the Blood Moon! Marked by fate! A warrior destined to wield the Sacred Blade and bring balance to the realm!”

Dave took a sip of his lukewarm instant coffee. “Alright, couple of things. One, I was born in Stoke-on-Trent under some very ordinary streetlights. Two, I don’t ‘wield’ anything. The last time I tried axe-throwing at a stag do, I nearly took out the instructor.”

“But the prophecy—”

“The prophecy can get in line,” Dave said, pointing at his inbox full of ignored emails. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t really have time for all that ‘hero’s journey’ nonsense. I’ve got a report due by Friday and a dentist appointment I’ve already rescheduled three times.”

The wizard hesitated. “But… the fate of the world—”

The wizard stared. The entire office stared. Even the IT guy had stopped recording.

“But… this is not how these things should work,” the wizard finally muttered.

“Well, maybe you lot shouldn’t keep having Dark Lords popping up all the time,” Dave pointed out.

The wizard’s eye twitched. His dramatic celestial glow flickered slightly.

“Besides,” Dave continued, taking another sip of his coffee, “even if I agreed to this, what’s the deal? Do I get paid? Dental? A company horse?”

“You would be rewarded with eternal glory,” the wizard said weakly.

“Uh-huh. And how’s the annual leave policy?”

“…There isn’t one.”

“Right. Yeah, no, I think I’ll pass.”

The wizard’s shoulders slumped. He turned to leave, then paused. “What if I offered you a powerful enchanted sword?”

Dave shrugged. “Can I trade it for a Greggs voucher?”

The wizard sighed, muttered something about “the end of civilisation,” and vanished into a puff of mystical smoke.

Dave leaned back in his chair. “Honestly,” he said, “some people just don’t know how to recruit properly.”

And with that, he returned to his phone, scrolling until it was an acceptable time to microwave his pasty.

The Mirror Test

The test was mandatory. These days, everyone had to take it, no exceptions.

Sofia sat in the sterile white room, as the doctor reviewed her results. The Mirror Test was simple—look into the machine, let it scan you, and wait for confirmation. Human. That’s what it was supposed to say. 100% human.

The doctor wasn’t speaking. His face had gone slack.

“Something wrong?” asked Sofia.

The doctor’s eyes flicked up to her, hesitant. “It’s… probably just an error.”

He tapped at the screen, then hesitated.

“Could you look in the mirror for me?” he asked. His voice was too careful, too neutral.

There was a large mirror on the wall opposite her seat. It ran from the floor to the ceiling, wide enough to reflect the entire room. She had already glanced at it before. It was just her, sitting in an empty chair.

Still, she turned her head.

The mirror was empty.

Her chair was there. The table, the lights, the doctor standing there—his face pale, his breath uneven.

But she wasn’t there.

Sofia looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers. She touched her face, felt the warmth of her own skin. She was here. She was real.

The doctor’s eyes were darting toward the door. His gaze was terrified, looking around her instead of at her.

Then, too softly, he whispered, “What the hell are you?”

A sharp click came from the door behind her. Locking.

Then the lights flickered out. The doctor screamed.

Sofia always felt more comfortable in the dark.

A Day in the Life of a Pigeon Who’s Seen Too Much

06:00 – The Awakening

I jolt awake, heart pounding. The nightmares are back. The things I’ve seen. The horrors. The discarded chips left to rot. The toddler who gripped a handful of bread and then… just walked away. The betrayal.

I shake off the memories, ruffle my feathers, and fly off into another day of survival.

06:30 – Breakfast

The scent of stale dough lingers in the air. Near the bin, a chunk of bagel sits in the dust, untouched. My instincts scream at me: Trap. I’ve seen it before. An easy meal never comes without risk.

I scan the area. No hawks, no sudden movements. Hunger gnaws at my gut. I swoop down, talons scraping pavement, and peck cautiously.

It’s good. Too good.

Then I hear it—the flutter of wings.

Terry. The bastard.

“Oi, that’s my bagel,” he squawks, landing hard beside me.

There’s no discussion, no diplomacy. He lunges. We spiral in a flurry of wings, beaks snapping, feet clawing. The bagel is forgotten, kicked aside, rolling ever so slowly into the road—right into the path of a double-decker bus.

Gone.

We pause, both panting. Terry glares at me. I glare at Terry. The battle is over, but the war? The war never ends.

11:30 – The Child

The park is busy. The air smells of damp grass, fried food, and uncertainty.

Then I see him. A small human. Sticky hands. Beady eyes. The scent of bread clings to him like a warning.

The others are moving in, but I stay back. I’ve been in this game too long. I know better.

He lifts a chubby hand. A smile spreads across his face.

Then—chaos.

He screams in delight, throws the bread into the air, then charges at us, arms flailing.

The flock erupts into a frenzy of wings and terror. Feathers rain down.

I barely escape, wings beating furiously, my heart pounding. Never trust the small ones. Never.

15:00 – The Forbidden Zone

A pigeon I don’t recognise lands beside me. His feathers are ruffled, his eyes darting back and forth.

“You ever been to The Station?” he asks.

I shudder. The Station. Where birds go in but never come out.

“I knew a pigeon,” I say, voice low. “Tried to grab a chip off the tracks once.”

The memory haunts me. The screech of metal. The blur of motion. The feathers everywhere.

“Stay away from The Station,” I whisper.

The strange pigeon nods. Then, without another word, he flies off into the grey. I watch him go, wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

19:00 – The Sky is Ours

As the sun sets, we gather on rooftops, watching the city below. The humans hurry home, their heads down, their bodies hunched against the wind. Trapped in their strange routines.

We are free. We are everywhere.

A gust of wind rattles the city. The last light of day gleams off glass and concrete.

Then I see it.

Below, a man drops an entire sandwich.

Silence.

Then the cry goes up. A battle cry.

The flock descends.

Feathers, beaks, claws—we are a storm, an unstoppable force.

Tonight, we feast.

The Price of Light

The sun costs six credits a minute. Most people can afford an hour or two each day, rationed in golden slices—just enough to keep their bones from aching, just enough to pretend. The wealthiest can bask for as long as they like, sprawled under its glow in the glass towers of the city centre. The poorest live in the permanent cold-shadow of the lower levels, where frost bites at their skin, and the streetlights flicker like dying embers.

I can afford twenty minutes a week. But I steal more.

The rooftops are high and dangerous, but if you climb fast enough, you can reach the edges of the paid-light zones, where the sensor fields falter. It’s only a few minutes before the enforcement drones sweep by, but in that time, the sun feels real, mine. I let it paint my skin, let its warmth seep into my bones, let my body remember what the world used to be.

That’s where I find the girl. She’s crouched at the edge of a rooftop, staring at the city with wide, unblinking eyes. She’s maybe twelve, rail-thin, wrapped in layers of threadbare fabric. I nearly leave her alone—there’s an unspoken rule among roof thieves—but something about her makes me pause. She isn’t just basking. She looks… terrified.

“You okay?” I ask.

She turns, eyes catching the light like a stray cat’s. “It’s real,” she whispers.

I frown. “What?”

“The sun.” She lifts a trembling hand toward the sky. “I thought it was a lie.”

I stare at her properly now, at the pallor of her skin, the way she flinches at the breeze, how her lips tremble in the warmth. And I understand.

She has never felt sunlight before.

There are rumours, of course—about the ones born underground. The ones so poor, so discarded, that they live their whole lives in the dark. But I’d never met one. Not until now.

I step closer. She doesn’t move, still staring at the sky with something like fear. “How did you get up here?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Someone left a door open.”

A mistake. An accident. And now she’s seen the truth.

The enforcement drones will come soon. The rooftop is a paid-light zone, and we don’t belong here. I should leave. But she’s still staring upward, as if she’s afraid the sun will vanish if she looks away.

“How long do we have?” she asks, voice shaking.

I check my stolen device. “Forty seconds.”

She nods. She doesn’t ask to run. She doesn’t ask to hide. She just kneels there, bathed in gold, as if memorising the feeling of light on her face.

When the sirens wail, I grab her hand.

Aliens Visit Earth and Are Immediately Disappointed

The mothership materialised over Earth in a shimmering pulse of energy. Inside, Supreme Overseer Xylox of the Galactic Concordance folded his many arms, antennae twitching with anticipation.

“This is it,” he announced to his crew. “The moment we make first contact with the dominant species of this planet.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the control room. It had been centuries of observation, endless reports, and, frankly, an exhausting amount of patience. The humans had finally developed enough technology to justify an introduction to the greater interstellar community.

“Prepare the transmission,” Xylox commanded. “Let us greet these beings of intelligence and culture.”

The communications officer, Z’rrl, activated the ship’s intergalactic broadcast system, sending a message in all known human languages:

“GREETINGS, HUMANS. WE COME IN PEACE.”

There was a pause. Then, across the world, humanity responded.

On X, #FakeAliens trended within minutes. On Facebook, thousands in cargo shorts posted aggressive, barely coherent rants about government conspiracies. Meanwhile, a group on Reddit attempted to determine the mothership’s propulsion system using only blurry screenshots.

News anchors speculated wildly. Some declared it a hoax. One station accidentally aired footage from Independence Day and caused mass panic.

Then, a missile was launched.

It didn’t even reach the mothership before exploding mid-air due to its own faulty engineering, but the attempt was noted.

The crew watched as the humans continued their baffling reactions. A talk show debated whether the aliens should be considered illegal immigrants. A group of influencers attempted to go viral by standing directly beneath the mothership and filming reaction videos, while a self-proclaimed “alien hunter” fired wildly into the sky with an assault rifle he had bought three hours ago.

Xylox turned to his lieutenant. “Check the records. Did we actually confirm these creatures were intelligent?”

“Uhh…” The lieutenant scrolled through a holographic tablet. “They built particle accelerators, landed on their own moon, and mapped the human genome.”

“Impressive,” Xylox admitted.

“They also still have diseases we cured thousands of years ago, and, um… they think pigeons aren’t real.”

Xylox narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“The pigeon theory,” the lieutenant explained, showing him a webpage. “Some of them believe birds aren’t real.”

Xylox read for a moment, then shut his eyes. He was so very, very tired.

On Earth, the situation escalated. The U.S. president held a press conference where he made finger guns at the camera and announced that America was “more than ready” to go to war with “whoever those space nerds” were. The United Nations debated whether to send a diplomat, but before they could decide, an enterprising billionaire announced plans to build his own spaceship to “challenge the aliens to single combat.”

In the meantime, Xylox and his crew continued to observe.

One human attempted to charge the mothership with a sword. Another posted a TikTok of themselves trying to “vibe” with the aliens by performing a dance. A major corporation released a limited-edition “Alien Burger” to capitalise on the hysteria.

A group of scientists, desperately trying to salvage the situation, put together a formal message inviting the aliens to discuss philosophy, science, and interstellar cooperation.

It was promptly ignored in favour of a reality TV special titled “Abduct Me!”

Xylox sighed deeply. “I was hoping for another enlightened species to share knowledge with. Instead, we got…” He gestured vaguely toward Earth. “This.”

“What do you want to do, sir?” asked Z’rrl.

Xylox considered it. “Mark the planet as ‘underdeveloped, mildly dangerous, and deeply embarrassing.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Prepare for departure.”

The mothership shimmered, then blinked out of existence.

Meanwhile, on Earth, a new conspiracy theory erupted. Some claimed the aliens had left because they feared humanity’s strength. Others believed they had never been real in the first place. One particularly vocal podcaster insisted the entire thing had been staged to distract people from the rise in avocado prices.

Humanity moved on.

The Galactic Concordance never returned.

Therapy for Supervillains

Dr. Evelyn Carter took a deep breath as she glanced at the name on her schedule. Lord Cataclysm. Again.

She pressed the intercom. “Send him in, please.”

The door burst open, and in swept a tall, ominous figure draped in flowing black robes, his metallic gauntlets gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Behind his elaborate mask, two glowing red eyes burned with intensity.

“I DESIRE TO SPEAK,” he boomed, sweeping dramatically into the chair opposite her.

Evelyn nodded and clicked her pen. “Go ahead, Cataclysm. What’s on your mind?”

He leaned forward, steeping his clawed fingers. “I AM WEARY.”

She made a note. “Weary how?”

“I AM TIRED OF BEING MISUNDERSTOOD,” he growled. “TIRED OF MY INFERNAL MINIONS FAILING ME. TIRED OF NARROW ESCAPES. TIRED OF—” He gestured vaguely. “BEING THWARTED IN MY PLANS AT THE LAST MINUTE.”

Evelyn adjusted her glasses. “You’ve been threatening to destroy the world for fifteen years. That sounds exhausting. Have you considered taking a break?”

Lord Cataclysm scoffed. “A BREAK? FROM VENGEANCE?” He slammed a fist onto the armrest. “THEY MOCKED ME. THE SCIENTISTS AT OMEGA LABS CALLED MY THEORIES MADNESS. I CANNOT REST UNTIL THEY—” He stopped, inhaled sharply. “But… lately, even annihilation feels tedious.”

She tapped her notepad. “Have you felt this way before?”

He shifted in his seat. “ONCE. In my early days, when my first Doomsday Device failed to launch. It was… disheartening.”

She nodded. “And what did you do then?”

“I… BUILT ANOTHER ONE,” he admitted. “And another. AND THEN A WEATHER DOMINATOR. THEN A GIANT LASER. THEN A—” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Are you suggesting I am coping through destruction?”

Evelyn gave him a look.

“…THIS IS RIDICULOUS,” he muttered.

She smiled. “Tell me about the scientists from Omega Labs.”

His red eyes flared. “THEY SAID MY WORK LACKED RIGOUR. THAT I WAS—” He made air quotes with his gauntlets. “—‘A DANGER TO SOCIETY.’ AND ‘A HOMICIDAL MANIAC.’ CAN YOU BELIEVE THE AUDACITY?”

She leaned forward. “And when you built your first death ray, did you feel validated?”

He hesitated. “…NOT REALLY. I WAS HOPING FOR MORE SCREAMING.”

“Mmhmm.”

Lord Cataclysm sank back into the chair. “THIS… THIS WHOLE THING. THE EVIL. THE MONOLOGUES. THE ESCAPES.” He gestured tiredly. “IT’S GETTING OLD.”

Evelyn tapped her chin. “Maybe you’re outgrowing it.”

“OUTGROWING VENGEANCE?” He let out a bitter laugh. “WHO EVEN AM I WITHOUT IT?”

She flipped back a few pages in her notes. “Last session, you mentioned wanting to try painting.”

He stiffened. “THAT WAS… A FLEETING THOUGHT.”

She pulled out her phone. “You emailed me a picture of your first canvas, remember?” She turned the screen towards him. It displayed a dramatic, apocalyptic sunset over a smouldering cityscape.

Lord Cataclysm stared. “…YES, WELL. I HAVE A VISION.”

She smiled. “Maybe you don’t need to rule the world, Cataclysm. Maybe you just need to paint it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, slowly, he exhaled. “DO YOU THINK THEY SELL ACRYLICS IN BULK?”

She nodded. “I can send you a few recommendations.”

Lord Cataclysm rose from the chair, his dark cape swirling. “THANK YOU, DOCTOR.” He turned dramatically toward the door, then paused. “NEXT WEEK—SAME TIME?”

She jotted it down. “I’ll see you then.”

He swept out of the room.

Evelyn sighed, stretching. A moment later, her intercom buzzed.

“Doctor Carter, your next appointment is here.”

She glanced at the schedule. Doctor Carnage. A known mad scientist with an unhealthy attachment to giant robot sharks.

She clicked her pen and smiled. “Send him in.”