The bicentennial celebration was a special day.
Two hundred years had passed since Earth was abandoned. The rich, the politicians—anyone with means—fled into the sky, leaving a broken world behind. But centuries later, Earth has been restored.
Now the colonists wish to return. Whispers spread of strange envoys spotted in deserted coasts and silent valleys—off-world messengers testing Earth’s readiness, never lingering long enough to be understood.
Yet Earth’s new leaders, the Organized Crime Families turned noble houses, are not fond of sharing power.
The Wyrd Interlude:
Centuries of old lies and desperate exodus have crumbled to dust. Abandoned seeds took root in silent soil, and crime-born kingdoms rose as lords of a reborn Eden. No sacred truths, no moral grace—only the measured balance of vice and need. Here, power is unforgiving, and past sins linger like smoke on the horizon. This—is wyrd fiction.
Earth had been doomed—an ecosystem circling the drain. They left, claiming it was to preserve the species. Those left behind received the courtesy of a laid-off employee: a nod, a thank you, and a hollow wish of good luck.
The aftermath was chaos, a medieval horror. Organized crime seized power in every corner. The rich had abandoned not just people, but the industries that destroyed the planet. Without those engines of ruin, the world began to heal. The space explorers hadn’t planned on that. Nor had they foreseen how truly organized crime could be.
The logic of crime is simple: no people to exploit, no business; no business, no money; no money, no power. By accident, criminals forged stability. Formerly illegal vices—drugs, sex, gambling—became staples of life. True freedom. After two hundred years, humanity thrived. Crime families became noble houses, their bosses now Lords. They gave people what they wanted, and thus ruled.
The early decades were harsh, but criminals know how to handle other criminals.
Rapists, murderers, and violent parasites weren’t imprisoned or reformed—they were executed, publicly. From this evolved a doctrine: no external masters, no distant overseers. Earth would bend to no foreign crown—cosmic or terrestrial.
Generations of hardship passed, and science and exploration found favor again. With each new line of noble blood, humanity looked outward.
On the bicentennial of Earth’s abandonment, man again reached Mars. As the world celebrated this return to greatness, a young nobleman named Josiah made his way to a secret meeting in New England.
Walking corridors lined with relics of the old world—maps of vanished nations, rusted tools—Josiah remembered his grandfather’s stories: ancestors left to starve in ruined cities, mothers hawking scraps of hope.
He clenched his jaw. The time had come to answer that centuries-old betrayal.
A hush blanketed the next corridor, the air heavy with the scent of old varnish and stale incense. His footsteps echoed softly against polished floorboards, each tap a reminder of how quiet this place was meant to be.
As he neared the hall, a stray thought lingered: could the old wounds be healed instead of avenged? He dismissed it.
The hall was empty, all but for two ambassadors. They stood nearly ten feet tall, with limbs stretched and gangly. They wore skintight suits, and a high neckline of armor held the backs of their skulls in place.
One extended a hand of elongated fingers, trembling as he struggled with the increased gravity, hoping kindness could mend ancient wounds. A faint mechanical hum emanated from his suit’s joints, as if micro-servos strained to maintain his posture in Earth’s pull
“I see the effects of prolonged low-gravity life are now proven,” Josiah said.
He was the eldest son of House Gadd.
“My name is Ambassador Tomothy,” said the man on the left. “This is my counterpart, James.”
James nodded. “Your Lordship.”
“Will your father be joining us?” Tomothy asked.
“Not today,” Josiah said. “He must attend the celebrations.”
“And you have authority to speak for him?” Tomothy gestured.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Very well. We—”
“Let us speak candidly,” Josiah interrupted. “Why are you here?”
Tomothy cleared his throat. “We offered technology to accelerate your development as a gesture. We’ve evolved and seek to remedy old errors, to heal old wounds and return as equals. A greater galactic governance, including aliens and other species, awaits Earth’s participation; we wish to integrate you.”
Josiah smiled thinly. “I’ve met your predecessors, the scouts. The skeleton crews you sent taught me something: you’re weak. You brought knowledge, healing technology, seeds for our soil, hoping we outgrew brute force. But physically, you’re twigs we can snap.”
“This thinking is unwise,” Tomothy said.
“Is it?” Josiah leaned forward.
“We have the means to claim Earth by force,” Tomothy said softly, “but we choose restraint.”
“Good,” Josiah drew a pistol and fired. Tomothy’s skull painted the wall, and for a heartbeat, nothing moved—not even breath.
James gasped and stumbled back. “Why—”
Josiah aimed at him—“I wonder, is the message stronger if you return and tell your ex-human kin we want no part of their galaxy, or if you never return?”
James trembled. “Such violence would be unwelcome.”
“Then run back,” Josiah said, lowering the gun. “Tell them that such violence is all they will find here.”
“I do not understand,” James said. His voice shook with horror and disbelief.
“We refuse governance. We won’t barter our triumphs for subservience.”
“But—” James started.
“—One more word, and your absence delivers the message.”
The ambassador fled.
Josiah circled the table, pausing over the alien corpse. He considered, for a brief moment, what might have been if cooperation had won the day.
He stepped over him and looked to the window beyond—fields once barren, now lush beneath a sky they reclaimed themselves. This was their world, hard-won and unforgiving. They were better off.
The Wyrd Curtain:
The once-abandoned now repel distant heirs who seek amends. Echoes of betrayal and ambition settle into quiet resolve—this Earth bows to no foreign crown. Here, soil and flame belong to those who endured the dark. Eyes lift to the stars, in wonder—and Wyrd Worlds yet await.