Deep beneath the United Nations headquarters, in a bunker designed to withstand nuclear war, humanity's last organized resistance gathered.
The emergency facility was dimly lit, the air thick with desperation. Reinforced walls enclosed them like a fragile cocoon, offering the illusion of safety—yet everyone inside knew that if the enemy found this place, those walls would crumble in seconds.
Around the room, screens flickered with distress signals. Live feeds showed the destruction unfolding across the globe—London collapsing, Beijing engulfed in flames, Rio de Janeiro systematically erased. Static-laced voices crackled through the speakers as the last surviving resistance groups attempted to coordinate their defenses. Each transmission ended more abruptly than the last, leaving behind only silence.
At the center of the room stood General Adebayo. His uniform, once pristine, was now stained with dust, sweat, and the weight of billions of lives. A deep smudge ran across his brow where his trembling hand had wiped away grime. His body carried exhaustion, but his eyes remained clear—the eyes of a man who had seen too much and refused to look away.
He inhaled sharply, steadying himself against the cold metal of the table before pressing the recording button on the communications console. His voice, when it came, was firm, yet beneath it ran a current of raw emotion—the voice of a soldier who knew his words might become humanity's last testament.
"This is General Adebayo," he said, each syllable deliberate. "If anyone out there can hear this… Earth is falling."
A pause. A tightening of his jaw as the weight of the words settled.
Around him, the remnants of the United Nations Security Council stood in muted silence, watching with grim resolve.
"They came for the trees. For the WoodDust," he continued, the importance of the words apparent in his tone. "And we fought—we fought with everything we had. But the K'tharr are relentless. This isn't conquest. It's erasure. Of our people, our history… our very right to exist."
He turned toward one of the screens cycling through destruction—Tokyo burning, the Atlantic fleet sinking, Lagos reduced to rubble. Each image struck like a blade, but he forced himself to witness them.
"We're holding the line," he said, though the lie sat heavy in the air. "But we won't hold it forever. We need help. If there is anything—anything—left out there that can fight for us… this is the time."
He exhaled, the weight of billions resting on his shoulders.
A moment later, the transmission ended. The screen before him faded into static—a quiet representation of the world's fading hope.
In the silence that followed, no one spoke. What words remained when the world was ending?