From June 6th, Friday, to June 7th, Saturday

"Attention, please," said the man who appeared on the screen. "For those who don’t know me, I’m Keith Nelson, Deputy Administrator of NASA. As we all know, the Apophis meteor is on a fixed trajectory that will result in planetary impact on March 21st of next year. We’re estimating an extinction-level event. However, over the past month, we’ve been working on a plan."

Keith pressed a button, and the screen displayed a sleek animation of satellites, drones, and a monstrous experimental weapon resembling an electric cannon, nicknamed "Project Prometheus."

"We are developing a high-energy plasma cannon that will soon be placed into orbit. If our estimates are correct, a precise shot could destroy or redirect the meteor before it reaches critical range. The weapon will be operational by the end of January. Maybe... we can save the Earth," said Keith, clearly exhausted.

A moment of silence.

Then, a sonic hell.

"Magnificent! We must contribute our resources immediately! This is the only way forward!" said Archambault, standing from his seat in excitement.

"You intend to strike against God’s will? Deny the promised salvation of the faithful? Those who believe will be taken to God’s Kingdom. Those who defy Him will be lost!" the Pope shouted.

"You say we can’t shoot rocks because they’re sacred? Hah! Maybe I’ll marry the meteor! Make it a Russian citizen!" Dobrovolsky sneered.

The room quickly devolved into chaos. People shouted in dozens of languages, with translators giving up entirely. Some ambassadors and presidents made the sign of the cross. Others stood up and left. Some applauded; others screamed in despair.

But amidst the uproar, a calm, elderly man stood up. He had brown skin, white hair and a white mustache. His name was Tamatanga Taomati, president of Kiribati.

"Excuse me... but what if you miss the shot?" Tamatanga asked, looking at the screen where Keith remained.

The room went silent again. So did Keith, who seemed to brace himself before replying.

"If we miss... we could fragment the meteor. It could break into many pieces and strike multiple areas. That would be worse," replied the NASA deputy administrator.

The meeting was being broadcast worldwide, and within minutes, it was all anyone could talk about. Both apocalyptic and non-apocalyptic factions protested in the rain-soaked streets.

The apocalyptics shouted that "humanity’s blasphemous arrogance is the reason for all of this," that "God must cleanse the Earth," and that people should "reject Prometheus and accept salvation," while the non-apocalyptics protested in support of science. But violent protests also erupted. Both churches and research facilities were vandalized and surrounded by protesters.

From inside his filthy room, Zek was recording another video, showing screenshots of news reports about the UN meeting.

"My faithful... this Prometheus thing, man... it’s a lie from those guys. They want you to believe they’re gonna try and stop the meteor, man..." Once again, Zek leaned in close to the camera, eyes wide. "Them, man... the millionaires, the leaders... they’re all leaving this planet before the meteor hits. They ain’t shooting shit..."

June 7th, Saturday.

That rainy Saturday morning, Iris got out of bed in her blue pajamas dotted with stars and headed to the kitchen for breakfast, grabbing a slice of toast that looked more like charcoal than bread. Her mother was busy boiling water for coffee, humming one of the religious hymns that had become popular in recent days and now played on many radio stations, while her father flipped through a Bible.

"That American satanist at the UN wants to defy the divine plan. Using weapons against a gift from our God," her mother said, without turning around.

"It’s madness. They want to fire on God’s chariot, the vehicle He chose. It’s Babel’s arrogance all over again," said her father, still fixated on the pages.

"Why do we have to believe it’s a gift?" Iris asked carefully. "And... what if it really is a meteor? Are we just supposed to accept death like that? What if the scientists are right? Shouldn’t we at least consider their side?"

"You’ve been seeing internet nonsense again, haven’t you?" her mother said, turning to Iris with an angry glare.

"No, it’s just that..."

"Don't 'just that' your mother!’" her father snapped, rising from his chair. "You’re questioning divine truth. After everything. After the Pope’s prophetic dream. After the meteor appeared exactly as foretold. What more do you need?"

"I don’t know! I just don’t see why we have to stop thinking rationally..."

"You think you’re better than your own family?" her mother yelled.

"This internet is turning you into one of those filthy deniers and blasphemers," her father muttered, sitting back down.

Tired of the argument, Iris simply walked out of the kitchen and back to her room.

"And to think I was so worried about them during the storm..."

She didn’t want to cry. But it was hard not to when it felt like the whole world had chosen to die smiling.

Jonas and Thérése were sitting in front of the living room TV, watching a cartoon on a streaming service. But they were interrupted when their grandmother stepped in front of the screen, holding a calculator, a notebook, and a rosary.

"Dear grandchildren, it’s all here. The numbers, the savings, the pension, even the cash box I keep under the bed. If I sell the TV, the fridge... I think it adds up to almost 10,000 euros. Enough to donate to the Church of the Radiant Return. Maybe even more if I sell the wedding ring from your grandfather—God rest his soul."

Thérése moved aside to try to keep on watching the TV, while Jonas just sat there stunned.

"What? You’re gonna sell everything?" the boy asked.

"We can’t take any of it with us, Jonas. But our souls, our obedience, our devotion... those are the currency of the divine," the elderly woman replied.

"But if you send all the money, what will we eat?" Thérése asked.

"Fasting is a gift, my little sunshine. A sacrifice. A path to Heaven," she said, smiling and kneeling to stroke Thérése’s hair.

Thérése looked at Jonas, hoping her older brother would say something—but he didn’t know what to say. He loved his grandmother, but something in her had changed. She used to laugh at the absurd. Used to buy them candy on Fridays. Used to call him "sunshine." Now she called him "chosen one" and barely smiled.

"I’m going back to my room..." Jonas said, walking out of the living room.

He opened Squawk, and, as always, the top trending topics were Project Prometheus and, once again, Zek Prophète. On PikPok, an edited video of Zek in the rain with epic background music had gone viral, racking up 40 million views in just a few days. Half the comments praised Zek. The other half insulted him—the mildest insult being "drunken moron."

Jonas turned off his phone screen. It felt like the whole world was screaming. He missed the occasional silence.

That night, in Renata’s house, she could hear her stepfather and mother arguing from inside her room.

"Are you insane? Giving our money to a cult while the government tries to save us?" yelled her stepfather, a man with short black hair and a goatee.

"It’s not a cult!" her mother, a woman with long, straight black hair, snapped back. "You don’t understand! We’re all going to die, and all you care about is yelling that ‘taxation is theft’!"

"I care about facts!"

"You only care about yourself!"

Tired of the fighting, Renata put on some music and logged into Squawk under her new account: @meteorman42, with a profile picture of one of her digital drawings—a man wearing a star-shaped costume. She was even using a VPN.

She dove into every trending topic: science, religion, Zek Prophète... It was almost a war. She didn’t join the fray with memes or conspiracy theories. She fought with links, sarcasm, and cold detachment.

On a post that read "the meteor is God’s weapon," she replied, "What caliber? .38 or 9mm?"
On another that praised Zek, she wrote, "He lives in a shack and drinks the cheapest beer you can buy."

She didn’t think she was making a difference. That wasn’t the point. The point was, she was doing something. Reacting—even if it was from behind a mask of anonymity.

Then she heard more noise. Yelling and things breaking.

"Silence... please... just for a bit... why won’t this world end already?"

287 days left.