《I was Reincarnated as Melon Husk》


 Spoilers: I Die

    Life is good, and I mean that with my whole heart! Yesterday we found a can of red fruit, which was wonderful - any day with food is a good day. There''s always something to look forward to. Like the way the sun rises every morning, painting the sky with hues of red and orange, performing its daily ritual of trying to murder everything beneath it with excessive enthusiasm.


    I adjust the frayed brim of my hat, a faithful friend that''s been with me through thick and thin. The sun''s rays are relentless these days, but I count myself lucky. My dark skin handles the heat better than most. Poor Siddy used to say she could get sunburned just thinking about the sun, and she probably did - she was magical like that. "With the ozone layer playing hide and seek, it''s a good thing you''re not here to feel this heat, Siddy," I murmur with a smile. "Though you''d probably find a way to make us all laugh about it."


    Vince walks beside me, his eyes scanning the horizon with that particular brand of glee that rivals the murder-sun above. At fourteen, he''s the youngest in our group, and despite being the only survivor from when a bridge decided to rearrange his family into goopy abstract art, he carries himself with enthusiasm that puts us curmudgeons to shame. The lack of everything below the elbow on his left arm makes it tough for him to balance, but he treats it like more of an inconvenient fashion choice rather than a disability.


    "Do you think we''ll find anything today, Lonny?" he asks, glancing up at me with the kind of hope that makes you want to resurrect civilization just so you don''t disappoint him.


    "I have a good feeling about it," I reply, which is what I say every day, because sometimes lies are kinder than the truth. "Maybe we''ll even stumble upon a Twinkie."


    His eyes widen with excitement, like I''d just suggested we might find a unicorn that poops AA batteries. "Really? You think so?"


    "Why not? Stranger things have happened." I wink at him. "Remember when we found that bag of yellow fruit?" The fruit had turned out to be dried lemons, hard as baseballs and about as edible, but we''d laughed for days about our "yellow gold."


    "That was the best day ever," he says with a grin that could power a small city, if we still had those.


    We approach the remains of an old supermarket, its once-bright sign faded and hanging askew like a drunk trying to look professional. The windows are shattered, and the walls are cracked, but it''s still standing¡ªa testament to resilience, or maybe just really good concrete. They don''t make ''em like they used to, mainly because they don''t make ''em at all anymore.


    "Alright, everyone," I call out to the other six members of our group trailing behind us, our little parade of persistence. "Let''s see what treasures we can find. Stay safe, and if you need anything, just holler." Or scream, or whisper dramatically - we''re not picky about communication styles in the apocalypse.


    They nod and spread out, their faces a mix of determination and quiet hope.


    "Stick with me, Vince," I say. "We''ll check out the front aisles."


    He falls into step beside me as we step through the broken doorway. Inside, the air is cooler, carrying a hint of stale mold and dust. Sunlight filters through the gaps in the ceiling, casting myriads of cross shaped geometries on the floor.


    "Were these places really filled with food and people?" Vince muses. "Could they really eat as many cans of fruit as they wanted?"


    "I remember it well," I say, though memory''s a funny thing - it tends to add sparkles to the before-times. "Kris used to bring me to places like this when I was about your age. She''d let me pick out a treat if I''d been helpful." Looking back, I probably wasn''t as helpful as she pretended I was, but that was Kris - finding excuses to be kind in a world that was running low on kindness.


    "Kris sounds like she was a wonderful person."


    "She was," I agree softly, remembering how she''d sing off-key while sorting through supplies, how she''d tell terrible jokes just to make people groan. "She took care of me when I had no one else, and taught me about the world. Both the one that was and the one that came after." She had a way of making even the end of the world sound like just another chapter in a very long book.


    We walk past empty shelves and scattered debris. I keep an eye out for anything useful¡ªcanned goods, paper, and hardcore drugs if we¡¯re lucky.


    "Hey, Lonny?" Vince says after a while.


    "This is Lonny."


    "What does a Twinkie taste like?"


    I chuckle. "Well, it''s sweeter than the peaches we had last month and spongy like charcoal. The insides are smooth and creamy like oil. I never had one in the before, but the one we had a few years ago made everyone happy. Or maybe we were all just really tired of beans."


    He smiles like I''ve just described heaven, if heaven was mass-produced and individually wrapped. "It sounds amazing."


    I ruffle his hair. "If we find one, we''ll share it. I¡¯ll convince everyone to let you pick your piece first. Promise."


    As we move deeper into the store, something catches my eye¡ªa faint glint near the base of a toppled display. I kneel down to get a closer look.


    "What is it?" Vince asks, peering over my shoulder.


    I reach into the gap and pull out a slightly squashed package, wiping off the layer of dust that''s been protecting it from discovery like the world''s most ineffective security system. My heart skips a beat, which these days is less about romance and more about cardiac surprises.


    "Well, would you look at that," I say, holding it up like an archeologist who''s just discovered proof that ancient civilizations had lewd magazines. "A box of macaroni."


    Vince''s face lights up. "No way!"


    "Seems like today''s our lucky day."


    He beams at me, and for a moment, the weight of the world feels a little lighter.


    "Let''s keep looking," I suggest, placing the stale noodles in my bag. "Maybe we''ll find more surprises."


    We continue our search, pushing deeper into the retail archaeology site, and that''s when I spot it - a section where some shelves and roofing have collapsed against each other, forming a sort of tunnel. The kind of tunnel that practically screams "this is definitely not a trap" in that way that usually means it absolutely is. Beyond it, I see the glint of metal¡ªcans, maybe even some jars, the holy grail of post-apocalyptic shopping.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "I think I see something back there. Someone may have tried to stash some goodies there and forgotten about them." I tell Vince, my voice carrying that special tone of ''I''m about to do something stupid but potentially rewarding.'' "Wait here while I check it out."


    "Let me get it, it¡¯s too small for you to fit," he says earnestly.


    "That arm is no good for crawling, champ." I hand him my bag, trying to sound responsible and adult-like, as if anyone still knows what that means anymore. "Let the others know we found some noodles. We''ll need to boil some water." Assuming we could find water that didn''t need to be convinced not to kill us first.


    ¡°I¡¯m staying here with you.¡± He replies with a particular tone that makes me feel irritated and proud in a way that only rebellious teen can.


    "Ok, ok." I agree, because sometimes it''s easier to give in than to argue with someone who''s perfected the art of concerned puppy eyes. "Just stay back from the opening."


    I crouch down and start to crawl through the narrow space. The roof beams creek above me, but they seem stable enough - "seem" being the operative word here. Wait, is that a spoiler? Just forget I said that for about 30 seconds.


    As I reach the other side, I find a small cache of canned goods, their labels faded but intact. A regular post-apocalyptic treasure trove, naturally the word ¡°treasure¡± gets more mileage these days.


    "I reach out to pick up a can, and that''s when I see it - a dust-covered package beneath, its yellow wrapper peeking out like a ghost of civilization past. My heart stops for a moment, which turns out to be good practice for what''s about to happen. As I reach out, my fingers trembling like I''m disarming a bomb (which, in a way, I suppose I was), I reveal a dull yellow cake in a plastic pouch.


    "A TWINKIE!!!" I shout victoriously, my voice echoing through the store like I''d just discovered the cure for the apocalypse. "I actually found one!"


    "No way." Vince says in disbelief, his voice small and wondering. "I wouldn''t joke about something like this, champ."


    As I toss my prize out of the makeshift cave, I feel a slight shift above me. The kind of shift that makes you realize that maybe, just maybe, crawling into a structurally unsound pile of rubble wasn''t your brightest idea. Before I can react, there''s a soft crack¡ªa sound that sends me into a panic, because nothing good ever comes from architectural onomatopoeia.


    I lose feeling in my body and my vision goes black. There''s a frantic voice shouting for help, though I wish they wouldn''t - I''m trying to die with dignity here, thank you very much. I feel cold and tired, which is probably not a great sign. Everything goes silent. I''m weightless, untethered from the world, almost as if I¡¯m falling, I know I¡¯mn making it sound fun, but it really isn¡¯t.


    In the quiet that follows, memories flood my mind, because apparently that''s what your brain does when it''s checking out - puts on a greatest hits compilation. First up is Kris, smiling at me with that look she had - part saint, part retail worker who''d seen too much. Her eyes are full of whimsy as she tells me more about a world I had barely known. A world that had everything but where people still wanted more. It was a mythical era when people complained about Wi-Fi speeds and thought the end of civilization would be more zombie apocalypse, less "everything is on fire and we''re out of sunscreen.". She taught me to find beauty in everyone, to appreciate their company and what time we had together, which in retrospect feels a bit on-the-nose given my current situation.


    Then there''s Siddy, who I loved like the sister I never had (and now never will, thanks to this inconvenient case of death I''m developing). A woman whose body just couldn''t handle the demands of living with so little - turns out you can''t survive on optimism and expired multivitamins forever. She would have loved Vince, probably would have taught him to embrace gallows humor and an appreciation for obscure and invented swear words. She could be strict, but it was always out of love, like a drill sergeant who bakes cookies.


    Speaking of Vince - the first new person our group had met in four years, found with his arm pinned under the same rubble that had turned his family into a particularly morbid architectural installation. We were so happy to welcome him into our group, meeting other people was a real treat, even better than finding biscuits that only had two colors of mold instead of three. He was so shy at first, but became part of our family in no time.


    And of course, there''s the Twinkie, that golden idol of preservatives and syrup, now probably crushed under the same weight that''s busy turning my spine into little crumbs. I hope it survived, if only because dying for a squashed snack cake would be adding insult to fatal injury. My only regret is that I won''t get to see the kid''s face when he takes his first bite. Well, that and all the other regrets, but who''s counting when you''re in the midst of experiencing terminal architectural disagreement?


    "Sorry, champ," I whisper into the void. "I tried."


    As my mind takes its final lap around the track of consciousness, it lingers on the world of the before. I don''t miss it, which is probably for the best since it''s not coming back. Nobody acted like they were happy to see each other back then, and people never treated Kris like the beautiful woman she was - too busy establishing work camps and collecting firearms. I wonder, now that I''m dying, will I see her again? That would be nice. Maybe she''s got a heavenly apartment with air conditioning and a fully stocked pantry. Though knowing my luck, I''m probably headed to wherever they keep all those people who used to say "living my best life" unironically.


    And I died.


    ***


    "Lonny?" Vince called out, his voice echoing in the dusty air like a lonely bell at a funeral that nobody bothered to attend.


    Being extremely, comprehensively, and irrevocably dead at this point, I didn''t answer. Death has that effect on one''s ability to articulate. Even if I wanted to respond, my new status as a former person made small talk rather challenging.


    The rubble had become my extremely uncomfortable final resting place, though I suppose comfort doesn''t matter much when you''re busy being deceased. The Twinkie lay there at the entrance to my impromptu tomb, its faded yellow packaging somehow untouched by the collapse, as if it were an offering to the sacred tomb of the saint: Littlius Debbius.


    "Lonny!" Vince''s voice cracked like sundried charcoal as he stumbled forward, his good arm reaching out toward the fallen shelves. The others came running, their footsteps kicking up dust that danced in the sunbeams like confused ghosts.


    "What happened?" Maria asked, her weathered face creasing with concern. She''d seen enough death to recognize its handiwork.


    "He found¡ªhe was trying to¡ª" Vince couldn''t finish, but his eyes fixed on the Twinkie, that stupid, wonderful piece of preserved cake that had cost someone their life. Again.


    They searched through the debris with the careful reverence of archaeologists, though they weren''t looking for artifacts but for their friend who had just joined the ranks of the professionally dead. The cans I''d found rolled across the floor like discarded dice, each one marking another possibility that would never come to pass.


    Vince picked up the Twinkie with trembling fingers. His tears left clean tracks in the dust on his face, and for a moment, he looked older than his fourteen years¡ªold enough to understand that sometimes the universe gives you exactly what you wished for, but takes something infinitely more precious in exchange.


    "He said we''d share it," he whispered to no one in particular, because the only person who needed to hear it was currently unavailable, having taken up permanent residence in the great beyond. "He promised I could pick first."


    He broke the cake into seven roughly equal pieces, picking a piece that had a little more cream than the others for himself and handing out the rest, and with tears streaming down his face he took a bite and laughed.


    ¡°Ith sssoo thweeet!¡± He said with a smile.


    ***


    So now you''re probably wondering about why I''m telling you this story, and more importantly, how I''m telling you this story, especially the part that comes after my (semi) dramatic exit from the land of the living. Fair questions, both of them.


    The thing is, this is just the beginning of my tale, because apparently the universe wasn''t done with its favorite scrappy dude with a girl¡¯s name. When I woke up (after my rather permanent nap), I found myself in the past, inhabiting the body of someone I vaguely recognized from the old internet- you know, the ones who kinda had a big part in the whole apocalypse thing. Yes, after I died, I was reincarnated as a billionaire, because apparently karma has a sense of humor.


    But that''s another story entirely. One that involves a lot more corporate boardrooms and a lot fewer collapsed buildings - though surprisingly, my new life involves a lot more zombies.

 Chapter 2: The Rich Get Deader

    You are the world''s richest man, and tonight, you''re saving democracy. You¡¯re nervous, though your analysts have assured you victory is inevitable. Tonight, you¡¯re the hero who finally proves all your haters wrong. You pull up your phone to take a quick peek at your follower count - you¡¯ve gained about 10k.


    Your ownership of Z: The App for Everything (rebranded from its inferior former name, a move that many of your detractors lambasted) has nothing to do with ego and everything to do with preserving free speech. The fact that "free speech" coincidentally aligns perfectly with your personal interests and John Drumpf''s campaign messaging is just further proof that your crusade is just.


    The watch party thrums with the energy of real Americans, Drumpf¡¯s family and other true patriots, who¡¯s wisdom and prowess will be rewarded with positions in the new regime. These are your people - the ones who get your jokes, who understand that when you twit¡­Post! About replacing human workers with robots, it''s actually a deeply compassionate position because robots don''t need health insurance or bathroom breaks or basic human dignity. You''re thinking about humanity''s future, always, even when you''re posting wojack memes about your political enemies being soy-faced losers. Especially then, actually, because memes are the new marketplace of ideas.


    You see one of Drumpf¡¯s son¡¯s chatting with an escort and laughing. Did he just look your way? What is he laughing at? Could it be the meme that you posted five minutes ago?


    You decide to check if any of them had replied to your previous post.


    Less than 90M views on a post on election day? That''s practically a rounding error. You''re better than that - you''re a certified genius (ignore that childhood IQ test, it was clearly rigged by your first grade teacher, Ms. Albright). You make a note to tell your engineering team that the algo needs a tweak to better ¡°align user experience,¡± but now is the time to start crafting another banger, something that really captures the intellectual sophistication of your movement. Perhaps a photo of Don Drumpf''s face photoshopped onto Spartacus''s body? No, the people need to know about how unfairly you¡¯ve been treated for your selfless endeavors for the human race. All you want to do is ensure humanity¡¯s future and in return (((they))) try to silence you. We need to get to Mars, right after you finish revolutionizing tunnels, brain chips, and democracy itself.


    "Melon!" Don Drumpf''s voice booms across the room like victory itself. "Nobody does social media like my friend Melon here, nobody! He understands the algorithm better than anyone, and believe me, I know algorithms. I have the best algorithms!" His acknowledgement is appreciated, and you staked everything on vying his approval. It seems to have paid off.


    Your chest swells with pride. John Drumpf gets it. He understands that your support isn''t just about the hundreds of millions you''ve spent on promoting him through totally legal and definitely-not-coordinated social media campaigns. It''s about sharing a vision for America, one where regulations are optional suggestions and billionaires are finally free from the oppression of regulations and taxes - not that you¡¯ve paid any taxes in years, but you had to hire a team and jump through a bunch of hoops to avoid paying them and that was practically tyranny.


    You cheer with him, basking in the thrill of it all, barely hearing the voice in your head that sounds a little too much like your old therapist, the one who used to say things like, Maybe validation from a man who thinks windmills cause cancer isn¡¯t the healthiest life choice. But then you remind yourself who has billions of dollars and who spent years of her life in school and hard work to make middle class wages. What could she possibly know about it?


    The election results are rolling in, and they''re good. Of course they''re good - you spent the last year making sure they would be. Every time someone posted something negative about John, you personally made sure their reach was crushed harder than the autoworks at your Edison Megaplant when they tried to unionize. When that journalist tried to expose your "completely legal" campaign contributions, you had your army of devoted followers label him a pedophile because, well, that''s just what you do now.


    "Melon," Henry, your assistant, materializes behind you like the ghost of a stalker. "Everything''s ready for the victory party. The, uh, entertainment has arrived." He chuckles to himself in that nasally voice of his and pushes up his thick plastic frame glasses. You feel a moment of irritation for his interruption, but it is quickly drowned out by the dull anticipation you get for said ¡°entertainment.¡± Naturally by "entertainment" he means a carefully curated selection of women and pharmacological delights have arrived, and seeing as the election is all but over¡­


    ¡°I¡¯ll be right there,¡± you say to Henry, looking back to your liege, to excuse yourself. ¡°Ha, John. The time has come now I shall, you know¨Cblast off¡­ hah.¡± You say with perfect comedic timing. He looks to and lets out a gruff laugh, patting the youngest of his sons, a baby faced giant in a suit that makes him look a bit like a middle schooler dressed for homecoming and says, ¡°We¡¯ll handle it from here, Melon.¡± He looks back at his boy and gives him a wink, ¡°Barrington, you¡¯re old enough now to start experiencing the fine things in life. Melon is a great guy to ask for advice in these things, your dad is a little too old fashioned, if you know what I mean.¡± He breaks out into a guffaw, and having been granted your exit, you make your way to a gaudily ornamented table, where Henry sits. Henry places a tablet before you, and you begin to peruse his list.


    A woman on Henry¡¯s list catches your eye. Aura was discomforting, a cold beauty, simple and perfect in a way that made you look twice just to figure out what exactly wasn¡¯t quite right about her. Big, dark eyes pinned you in place, black holes that were inescapable, framed by thick lashes left an almost soft impression in your mind¡ªbut somehow you knew she was dangerous. Her gaze had a weight to it, like she was studying you, cataloging your weaknesses, with paradoxical indifference. Skin smooth as gossamer and nearly as warm, pale enough that it practically glowed against the dark, nearly black hair she kept pulled back, which just made her look all the more severe. She was delicate-looking in a way that wasn¡¯t soft, like she might break¡ªno. If you got too close, she¡¯d shatter you.


    "Marissa Rossi, 27, Jewish-Italian immigrant," Henry says, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Very sophisticated. Speaks multiple languages. The agency says she''s especially popular with the tech crowd." He pauses, scanning his tablet. "Though she can be... selective about her clients. Turned down three billionaires last month alone."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    You study her profile again. There''s something in those dark eyes that seems to look right through the screen, calculating, assessing. Not the vacant bedroom eyes you usually see in these portfolios. Almost like she''s studying you back.


    "Any issues we should know about?"


    "Nothing serious. She''s discreet, professional. Has some strong opinions about environmental policy, apparently. The agency mentioned she can get rather... passionate about certain topics." Henry coughs nervously. "But she''s very popular with the venture capital crowd. They say she has a way of making men feel... understood."


    Your eyes narrow. "She sounds... nice."


    "Quite." Henry adjusts his glasses again. "Would you like me to arrange an introduction?"


    You should be suspicious of anyone who turns down billionaires, but something about her directness is intriguing. She is obviously interested in you. Perhaps you could educate her on the inevitability of ecological collapse, and your proposal to use free market principles to outpace it with innovation. Her acquiescence to your ideology would make excellent foreplay.


    "Yes," you mutter, more to yourself than Henry...


    "Big things coming, Barrington, big things!" Drumpf shouts from across the ballroom, his face flushed with victory and what appears to be several questionable substances. "We''re going to remake this country in our image. We¡¯re gonna make a lot of money. The future''s looking good - just pure, beautiful capitalism!"


    You grin enthusiastically, even though you''re really only half-listening. Someone just replied to your post suggesting that maybe buying a social media platform to help elect a president might be ethically questionable. You''ll have to have them banned - can''t have that kind of dangerous misinformation spreading around.


    ***


    The night blurs. You''re vaguely aware of Henry collapsed in a corner, but Marissa commands your attention. She listens intently as you explain how actually, environmental collapse is just another market inefficiency. Her eyes shine with what you interpret as admiration while you describe your grand vision of using blockchain-powered nanobots to scrub carbon from the atmosphere. You''re particularly proud of the part where you explain that polar bears should simply adapt to the free market.


    "And that''s why we need to get to Mars," you conclude triumphantly. "It''s the ultimate backup drive for humanity."


    "Fascinating," she says, in a tone that could mean anything. "Shall we continue this discussion somewhere more... sensual?" You say with every ounce of your charm.


    In your suite, she asks about your childhood. No one ever asks about your childhood. You tell her about South Africa, about being different, about being better than everyone else. She nods in all the right places, and laughs at your jokes. You excuse yourself to freshen up, riding the high of finally being understood.


    In your private bathroom, you find a note next to your usual party favors: One blue pill to sleep. Two red pills to wake up "Little Elon." You grin in appreciation for Henry¡¯s shared taste for inventing incredibly stupid names to up the absurdity of a dick joke.


    You study your reflection in the mirror - genius, visionary, savior of humanity. You pop both red pills without a second thought. After all, you''ve already saved democracy tonight. Might as well save something else.


    You go to your bed and lie down, as your vision fades.


    As your consciousness begins its final upload to the cloud (metaphorically speaking - your actual consciousness upload project is still in beta), your life flashes before you in brief images:


    A boy in South Africa, alone and misunderstood. Other children are idiots, brutes, inbreds. You''re different. You''re special. You''re better.


    A teenager with his first computer, finally finding his identity. The machine understands you and you understand it. Unlike people, it does exactly what you tell it to. You''re smarter than the others. The computer proves it.


    A young businessman, buying success and calling it innovation. People finally respect you, or at least pretend to. It''s basically the same thing.


    A series of wives, girlfriends, children - all interchangeable, all ultimately disappointing. They never really got you. Nobody did.


    Then darkness. Not the comforting darkness of your coding days, but the final darkness of system shutdown. You are vaguely aware that something is wrong and your body sends out a small burst of adrenaline and cortisol to help you find a solution, but your heart stops sending oxygen to your brain, and your mind dissolves into nothingness. Your last thought is about your follower count.


    I watched you die, and I pitied you. Your death was painless, but your life was agony - a constant, desperate need to prove your worth to a world you secretly feared was right about you all along. You had everything and appreciated nothing. You lived free from material want but in a state devoid of any emotional meaning. No one knew the real you, and worse, you never knew yourself. Your mourners would weep for a construct, an empty vessel of memes and market values. They would miss your money, your power, what you represented - but they would never miss you.


    ***


    I woke up screaming.


    The first thing I noticed was that I wasn''t crushed under several tons of retail architecture anymore. The second thing I noticed was that the pain in my head made me yearn for said architecture to reacquaint itself with my body.


    "Vince? You there?" I say to nobody, as I crawl myself out of a... bed? And my body works its way instinctually to a washroom.


    I turn on the faucet, and to my delight clean water pours out for me to splash on my face. It''s your face. And when I look through your eyes I don''t see my long, square, melanin-rich, scarred, and admittedly handsome face, but instead am greeted by a vaguely familiar one from the magazines of my childhood.


    It is pale and round, with a triangular dimple of a chin. The high jawline leads to small and sunken eyes topped with a too-wide brow and void leading to a receding line of thin hair.


    I scream again and my eyes wander to my flabby and distended neck, which leads to a mercilessly-shirtless, broad, and rotund torso, to which are attached spindly arms and legs that give more of an impression of a barrel with attached twigs than that of a man.


    I scream again, and my voice is higher than I remember, nasal and whiny, like a spoiled child trying to explain why actually he deserves two desserts, but not in an endearing way. It¡¯s the kind of voice that makes you want to agree just so you don''t have to hear it anymore.


    "Melon?" A concerned voice calls from beyond the bathroom door. "Are you alright? What¡¯s wrong?" A woman¡¯s voice says. Somehow I know this voice. It¡¯s¡­ Marissa, your memory informs me.


    "Uh, yeahhh." I say in a completely unconvincing tone. My eyes dart to the mirror one last time, taking in the absurd reality of my situation. The phone in my pocket buzzes - Melon''s memories tell me it''s probably another notification from Z. But when I pull it out, there''s just one message from a Johnny Drumpf:


    Melon, let¡¯s meet later this afternoon. We didn¡¯t expect to win this bigly, but celebration time is over, I want you to join me for a press conference at 9:00.


    "Marissa, would you believe me if I told you..."

 Chapter 3: MEME Lords

    June 3rd, 2042 ¨C 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¡ªMelon 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¡ªcrispy 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¡ªuh, Marissa.¡±


    She freezes, fork halfway to her plate, and for a moment, her mask slips. There¡¯s something in her eyes¡ªrecognition? Amusement?¡ªbut 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¡ªcold where Siddy was warm, sharp where Siddy was soft¡ªbut 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.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°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¡ªAfter? ¡°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¡ªa 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¡ªtruly 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¡ªat 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¡ªthey 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¡ªlike accidentally auditing your dog or garnishing your wages for a parking ticket you got in 1997¡ªbut 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¡ªunlimited 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 pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance: 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¡ªjust 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¡ªthey 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¡ªthe 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¡ª


    ¡°Yes, Mr. Musk?¡±


    ¡°Henry, I need you to find someone for me. Discreetly. She¡¯s an assistant professor at Columbia University.¡±