The two days following the "Revelation" were the strangest in human history. The world had not ended. The tides had not boiled. But civilization was holding on by a thread.
Global markets remained shuttered. Most major corporations, in a rare moment of unified sanity, announced a "global public holiday," an attempt to keep people off the roads and out of the panicked, gridlocked cities. The riots had subsided, replaced by a stunned, planet-wide vigil.
People gathered. They gathered in town squares, on beaches, and in parks, all staring up at the impossible, beautiful, terrifying thing that now dominated their sky. It was no longer just a dot; it was a "second sky." When the sun set on Earth, it would cast a brilliant, reflected second light from Omega, bathing the night in an ethereal, blue-green twilight.
And in this strange new light, humanity waited. They waited for the promise made by the frantic, unified broadcast of every world leader: The Odyssey.
At the Kennedy Space Center, it was a hive of controlled, high-intensity activity. The 48-hour launch window was a brutal, unforgiving timeline. The mission, originally planned for a two-year Mars trajectory, was stripped, re-calculated, and re-provisioned for a journey that would last, according to Director Ivanov's horrified calculations, less than six hours.
The crew was the best humanity had.
Colonel John "Griff" Griffin, US Space Force. Mission Commander. A man with a pilot's swagger and the cold, assessing eyes of a veteran. He was a man who believed in two things: his training and his hardware.
Dr. Ben Carter, European Space Agency. Chief Science Officer & Exobiologist. A man whose entire life had been a theoretical search for this moment. He was the optimist, the true believer.
Dr. Elena Rostova, Roscosmos. Geologist & Communications Specialist. Pragmatic, sharp, and the only one who had openly questioned the physics of Omega's gravity, or lack thereof.
Major Kenji Tanaka, JAXA. Pilot & Systems Engineer. The best stick-and-rudder man in the air or out of it. He was the one who had to land the Odyssey manually if the impossible gravity of Omega screwed with their computers.
The final manifest checks were being done in the sterile, white light of the crew quarters. Griff was packing a small, personal kit. Major Tanaka, already half in his flight suit, walked in.
"Colonel?" Kenji asked, his eyes falling to the object Griff was carefully placing in a vacuum-sealed bag. "Is that... is that a Colt M1911?"
Griff looked up, his face grim. "It is."
"Sir, with all due respect... the weight limitations... they're down to the gram. How did you even...?"
Griff sealed the bag with a sharp hiss and stowed it in his leg-pouch. "Weight limitations are... guidelines, Major. Especially when you know the guy weighing the bags." He tapped the pouch. "My great-grandfather carried this onto Omaha Beach. My father carried it in Da Nang. It's a good luck charm."
"A... a charm," Kenji repeated, bewildered. "Colonel, we are going to a planet that is violating the laws of thermodynamics, gravity, and orbital mechanics. What... what do you expect to do with that?"
"Absolutely nothing," Griff said, zipping the pouch. "I don't intend to use it. But it's been to hell and back twice. Seems fitting."
The debriefer, Director-General Kurosawa of the GDI, entered. Her face was a mask of cold professionalism.
"Listen up," she said, her voice cutting through the tension. "The world thinks this is a simple, scientific joyride. You know better. This is a GDI reconnaissance mission. Your primary objective: assess survivability. Your secondary: assess threat. Your cameras will be live, broadcasting to the globe. This is the 'Live Exploration International Broadcast.' LEIB. The world needs to see you breathe."
She fixed her eyes on Griff. "But make no mistake, Colonel. If that atmosphere is toxic, you put your helmet on. If you find anything... microbial or otherwise... you do not engage. You observe. You record. You are the hopes of eight billion terrified people. But you are also our first line of defense. Do not. Fail."
The launch was perfect. The Odyssey cleared the tower on a plume of controlled fire, a single candle of hope against the new twilight sky. As they broke through the atmosphere, the world was watching.
"Control, this is Odyssey. We have MECO. We are stable."
In GDI Control in Houston, the air was thick enough to chew. Sir Malcolm Hayes stood next to Kurosawa, watching the telemetry. "Copy, Odyssey," the CAPCOM replied, his voice tight. "You are green to initiate LEIB. Godspeed."
Griff reached up and flipped a single, red-covered switch. A small light on his console blinked green. "LEIB is active. We are live to the world."
In the control room, a strained, grim, almost silent cheer rippled through the technicians. It was a "grimmy celebration," a gasp of relief that the first step had been taken.
Around the world, people watched. In a crowded pub in Dublin, a man named Mick O'Shea hushed the room. "Look at 'em. Brave bastards."
His friend, nursing a pint, muttered, "Or dead men, Mick. Dead men on the telly."
In a small apartment in Mumbai, a family sat on the floor, their hands clasped in prayer, watching the four astronauts on their small television. They were not watching with happiness, or even awe. They were watching with a desperate, terrified need for good news.
The transit was unsettlingly fast. The "gravitational handshake," as Rostova called it, was less a pull and more of a... guidance.
"It's... it's pulling us in, but not too hard," Kenji reported, his hands ghosting over the controls. "There's no sheer. It's... welcoming. This is all wrong, Colonel. The math is all wrong."
"Then stop trying to do the math, Major," Griff ordered. "Just fly the ship."
"Colonel, look," Ben Carter breathed, his voice filled with an almost religious fervor. He pointed to the main viewport. "Visuals on screen."
The world saw it with them. Omega, the Second Sky, swelled to fill their entire view. It was Earth. It was a Pangea, a single, massive supercontinent of lush, impossible green. The oceans were a shade of blue so deep it was almost violet. White, swirling clouds, larger than any storm on Earth, moved with a slow, majestic grace.
"My God," Ben whispered, unstrapped and floating to the glass. "It's... it's a garden. A planetary garden. The chlorophyll signatures... they're off the charts. It's... it's more alive than Earth."
The people on Earth saw it. The awe was palpable. The anchor for the BBC, his voice thick with emotion, said, "What... what we are looking at... is not a rock. It is... a paradise. A second Eden, hanging above our heads."
The landing was automated, then manual, as Kenji expertly guided the Odyssey through the thick, oxygen-rich atmosphere. He set it down as gently as a feather on a wide, green plain bordering a vast, humid jungle. A river, wide and milky-blue, snaked by in the distance.
"Okay, team," Griff's voice, broadcast to 8 billion people, was steady. "On me. Standard deployment. Ben, you're on atmosphere. Let's see what we're dealing with."
The world watched them exit, one by one, their heavy mag-boots thudding onto the alien-yet-familiar soil. The gravity... it felt...
"Gravity is... 1.02G," Ben Carter reported, his voice shaking as he checked his wrist display. "How? The planet's mass... this is impossible!"
"Stow the 'how,' Doctor," Griff said, his own camera panning the jungle. "Focus on the 'what.' Air. Now."
Ben moved to his instrument panel, deploying the atmospheric sensors. The world watched in agonizing silence as a small graph on the side of their screens filled in.
N: 77.4%
O2: 22.1%
Ar: 0.9%
CO2: 550ppm
"Reading... reading," Ben stammered. "It's... it's cleaner than Houston's air. Colonel... it's perfect. It's too perfect."
Griff looked at Ben. Ben looked back. Then, Ben looked directly at his own chest-cam, and the 8 billion people watching it. He smiled.
"For everyone back home," he said, his voice trembling with the weight of the moment. "Let's find out."
He reached up. The world gasped. A unified, global intake of breath. He unsealed his helmet. The hiss of the pressure seal breaking was the loudest sound on Earth. He unclipped it. He pulled it off.
His short, mousy-brown hair was matted with sweat. He stood for a moment, his eyes closed.
Then, he inhaled.
It was a deep, shuddering, ecstatic breath.
His eyes shot open. He laughed. He was crying. "It's... it's beautiful! The air... it's... sweet! I'm breathing! I'M BREATHING!"
A roar erupted on Earth.
In Times Square, the crowd exploded, not in panic, but in pure, unadulterated joy. Strangers were hugging, weeping, screaming. In the Dublin pub, Mick O'Shea was on his feet, tears streaming down his face, shouting "They did it! They bloody did it!" In the UN HQ, Sir Malcolm Hayes closed his eyes, his knees weak, and let out a breath he'd been holding for six days. "It worked," he whispered. "My God, it worked."
"A 2ND EARTH EXISTS!" the headlines, flashing onto every screen, screamed. "HUMANITY IS NOT ALONE! A MIRACLE!"
Two hours later, the euphoria was still palpable. The crew had established a secure perimeter, deploying sensors and communications arrays.
"Control, this is Griffin. We are T+2 hours. All systems green. The air is... as advertised. We're going to do a short recon into the tree line, 50-meter perimeter. Standard diamond formation."
"Copy, Odyssey," GDI Control replied. "The world is cheering for you. Keep that signal strong."
They moved in. Griff in the lead, Ben and Elena on his flanks, Kenji covering the rear. The jungle was dense. Massive, purple-barked trees. Fungi that glowed with a faint, blue light. The sounds were a symphony of alien birds and chittering insects.
But Griff was wary. His hand kept drifting to the leg-pouch on his thigh.
"It's... too quiet," he muttered into the comm. "Too... familiar. Like a jungle back home. Elena, check the left flank. What do your terrain sensors show?"
No reply.
"Elena?" He tapped his comm. "Rostova, report."
Static.
"Damn these comms," he cursed, his voice tight. "The atmosphere must be thicker than... Kenji, stay sharp. Ben, stay tight, I'm checking on..."
He turned to Dr. Ben Carter, who was right beside him, taking a sample from a massive, silver-leafed fern.
THWACK.
It was not a loud sound. It was a wet, heavy, percussive thud.
Dr. Ben Carter, the man who took the first breath of a new world, just... stood there. He looked down. A long, fletched wooden shaft, intricately carved, was protruding from his throat.
He looked up at Griff, his eyes wide with confusion, not pain. He gurgled.
Then, a second THWACK.
An arrow, black and cruel, pierced his head, right through the temporal bone. It exited the other side in a spray of red.
SPLATTER.
Ben's chest-cam, broadcasting to the 8 billion people who had just watched him laugh, was instantly painted with a fan of his own blood and brain matter. He collapsed like a string-cut puppet.
On Earth, the global celebration died. It was as if a switch had been thrown, plunging the entire planet from light into a cold, dark void. A billion people screamed at once. The joy was replaced by a violent, physical shock. In Times Square, a woman stared, unblinking, before vomiting on the pavement. In the Dublin pub, the pint glass Mick O'Shea was holding shattered in his hand.
"CONTACT! CONTACT!" Griff's roar was a sound of pure panic and rage. "FALL BACK! FALL BACK TO THE ODYSSEY! NOW!"
GDI Control was a wall of screaming. "ODYSSEY, REPORT! WE HAVE HOSTILE CONTACT! RED-ONE! EVADE! EVADE!"
THWACK.
Elena Rostova's camera feed, which had just come back online as she stumbled out of the brush—"Colonel, they're..."—suddenly spun wildly and hit the ground. The last image from her camera, looking up, was of her own body, an arrow buried deep in her back.
"KENJI! GRIFF! GET OUT OF THERE!"
"I'M TRYING!" Major Kenji Tanaka, the pilot, screamed, his voice a high-pitched wail of pure terror. He scrambled past Griff, his eyes wild. "Colonel, we have to go, we have to... they're... they're..."
THWACK.
Kenji stopped. He looked down at the arrow in his chest. "I'm... I'm scared," he whimpered to the world. A second arrow took him in the neck. He fell, his camera capturing the dirt.
Griff was alone. He was the last one. The terror was a cold hand on his heart, but 30 years of training was a sheet of ice over it. He dove behind a massive, purple-barked tree, yanking his helmet back on. He ripped the 1911 from its thigh holster.
The SHLICK-SHLACK of him racking the slide was deafeningly loud on the global broadcast.
He breathed. Once. Twice. He peered around the tree. His helmet-cam showed the world what he saw.
And the world, and GDI Control, were dumbfounded.
They were... elves.
Tall, impossibly slender, with skin the color of polished mahogany. Their ears were long, tapered to a fine point. They wore simple tunics of hide and dark, woven leaves. Their movements were not human; they were fluid, impossibly fast, like dancers. They carried longbows, and their faces... their faces were beautiful, aristocratic, and twisted in masks of cold, murderous rage.
Griff, even in his shock, felt the rage boil over. "You bastards," he whispered, his voice shaking. He wasn't scared anymore. He was furious. "You killed my team. You killed Ben."
He wanted revenge. He leaned out. An elf, a male, was drawing a bead on his position.
Griff leveled the 1911. Old Ironsides.
BANG!
The .45's roar was a sacrilege in this ancient jungle. The heavy round hit the elf center-mass, and the creature was flung backward into the ferns as if hit by a sledgehammer.
BANG! BANG!
He fired twice more, a perfect double-tap. Two more elves, their eyes wide with shock at the sound, went down, one clutching his chest, the other his throat.
Three down. 3+1 bullets remaining.
THWACK-THWACK! Two arrows embedded themselves in the tree bark, inches from his face, spraying splinters against his visor.
He ducked, peeking out the other side. A female elf was drawing on him.
BANG! He missed.
BANG! The second shot hit her shoulder. She let out a high, flute-like shriek of pure pain and dropped her bow, stumbling back.
One down, one wounded. 0+1 bullet remaining. One in the chamber.
Griff panted, his back to the tree, reloading the 1911 a desperate, fumbling action. He knew he was dead. He looked at his chest-cam, a message for the world. "Control... they're... they're..."
THWACK!
An arrow, with terrifying force, punched clean through his right forearm, shattering the bone. The 1911 clattered uselessly to the ground.
Griff screamed. A raw, agonizing sound broadcast to billions. He fell out from behind the tree, clutching his ruined arm, rolling onto his back.
The broadcast showed the world the leafy canopy, then the ground, then the face of his executioner.
A female elf stood over him. She was different from the others. She wore a short, moss-green frock, exquisitely made. Her hair was a river of silver. Her face was a thing of impossible, aristocratic beauty, and her eyes, a startling shade of violet, were filled with a cold, absolute, and ancient murderous intent.
She nocked another arrow, her movements economical, her eyes never leaving his.
Griff, bleeding out, looked up at her, and then his helmet-am, his eyes wide with a final, encroaching terror. "God... God..."
He let out one last, scared scream.
It was silenced by the thwack of the arrow embedding itself deep in his throat, severing his- vocal cords and his spine. His body convulsed once, then was still.
His helmet-cam, still live, stared blankly at the elf woman.
In GDI Control, they were frozen. So shocked, so utterly, profoundly horrified, that no one thought to cut the feed. The world was watching, in dead silence, a high-definition, close-up snuff film of their greatest heroes.
The elf woman stared at the camera on Griff's helmet. She tilted her head, as if analyzing it. She seemed to understand it was a window. Her eyes, broadcast to 8 billion people, narrowed.
She lifted her booted foot.
As if she knew exactly where to hit, she brought her heel down in a vicious, final stomp, right onto the camera lens.
The LEIB broadcast cut to static. A piercing, final, deafening white noise.
All cameras. All audio. The whole crew. Dead.
In the GDI control room, a full ten seconds of absolute, suffocating silence passed. A female technician made a small, choking sound and fainted, falling from her chair.
Director-Kurosawa stared at the static, her face a mask of stone, her hands clenched so tight her nails drew blood.
Sir Malcolm Hayes, the architect of the plan, leaned forward, his hands on the console, his face ashen.
War had just begun.
A junior analyst at the back of the room, his face pale and slick with sweat, his voice barely a whisper, said the only thing that could be said.
"Lord... Lord help us."