Seconds To Minutes

The Pacific Rim convulses.
A spontaneous pandemic of hysteria and psychosis rips through the population like a psychic rupture — beginning along the faultlines of the Pacific Ocean. Empaths collapse, clawing their own chests. Children scream without knowing why. All across coastal regions, the mentally ill erupt into violence, their conditions grotesquely sharpened. Institutions meant for care become slaughterhouses. Many patients physically mutate: blotched purple welts spread like lichen across their skin, bone growths rupture through cheeks and foreheads, tongues blacken and swell. The air smells like rotting citrus and sulfur.

In Manila, psychiatric wards are left in flames, as inmates consume orderlies alive in scenes of ritualistic cannibalism. In Melbourne, a man peels off his face with perfect calm, claiming the face was “never his anyway.”

The earth follows suit.
A barrage of magnitude 6+ earthquakes hits with unnatural synchronicity. Coastal cities like Valparaíso, Tokyo, Anchorage, and Vladivostok experience not just shaking, but warping — buildings folding into themselves like origami under pressure. Deep sea hydrophones pick up chant-like rhythms in the tremors. Fishermen off the coast of Chile weep openly, claiming the ocean “has a heartbeat now, and it’s very angry.”

In the South Pacific… the sea unboils.
Near a nameless reef, waters churn without thermal activity. A thick, oil-slicked slime erupts from the waves, rising in gelatinous domes. The air above it screams — not metaphorically, but with a keening frequency that ruptures eardrums. The slime smells of ancient corruption: half-decayed leviathans, sweet rot, and blood. Nearby tourists on a luxury yacht are found later with their tongues removed and stacked neatly in a pentagram on the upper deck.

In Hawaii, the volcanoes bleed wrong.
Several vents on the Big Island detonate with verdant violence, expelling a new form of “green magma” — viscous, iridescent, and so chemically wrong that flora touched by it twists into unrecognizable spiral shapes within minutes. Locals report seeing glowing humanoid silhouettes dancing in the ash columns, mouthing inaudible words. Livestock flees into the sea.

Aircraft in Pacific skies lose the will to fly.
Dozens of planes en route across the ocean drop from the sky as if gravity had been redefined. Pilots scream of “impossible pressures,” cockpit instruments twist into unreadable runes, and passengers hallucinate great blinking eyes in the clouds. An entire fleet of drones surveying a coral reef off Papua New Guinea are swallowed mid-transmission by a spatial rupture, a silent expanding void that eats both ocean and signal.

In Tokyo, madness is televised.
A well-known, aging Diet member delivering an urgent address suddenly falls silent, eyes rolling back. He begins speaking in a language that moves backward but echoes forward, syllables clashing like broken glass. He rakes his fingernails down his cheeks until the bone is exposed, laughing with thick blood in his teeth. His head is soon a puzzle of hanging flesh. The crew cannot stop filming. The footage goes viral within seconds, and everyone who sees it begins to scratch.

In North Korea, green fire defies explanation.
Entire villages in the north erupt in silent plumes of bright green flame that behave like liquid. No sound, no heat — just structures folding inward, people reduced to silhouettes mid-scream, etched forever into the ground like atomic shadows. Radioactive sensors read negative numbers. Pyongyang reports nothing, but satellite images show new glyphs burned into fields that weren’t there an hour ago.

And in California, the earth begins to rot.
From Santa Cruz to San Diego, black slime percolates from every crack, storm drain, and tree root. It stinks like ammonia and old fish, and teems with blind, toothy larvae that burrow into anything organic. A man gardening in Fresno falls face-first into the muck and begins singing opera in a dead language. In Los Angeles, sidewalks sag as if the city is being digested from below.

Less Than 15 Minutes

Golden Gate Park becomes a genesis point of uncreation.
In San Francisco, a tide of fleeing people clogs the green arteries of Golden Gate Park — their panic animal, contagious, echoing across social media in blurry livestreams. Then: silence. All eyes turn as the earth pulses once, and ruptures. A tentacled mass, slick with embryonic sheen and impossible angles, erupts from the soil like a biological cathedral tearing through reality.

It makes no sound. It simply vibrates — and everything changes.
All organic matter it touches becomes… other. A seagull mid-flight melts midair into a swirling mass of fur, cartilage, and quartz. Trees soften into breathing filaments. A couple clutching each other turns inside-out, their eyes still moving. The thing does not attack — it unfolds life. The transformation spreads exponentially, a crawling fractal of new biology, racing outward at terrifying speed. By the end of minute fifteen, the entire western side of the city is something else. Something still warm.

Africa mourns its giants.
Across the savannas of central Africa, bull elephants begin to bellow — long, sorrowful cries that resemble alarms. Their eyes bulge, veins blackening, and their skin blisters into red, glassy pustules. They swell, as if filled with gas or divine punishment. One by one, they collapse in spasms.

From their ruptured corpses, green insects pour like a curse. Too many legs. Wings that shimmer in wrong spectrums. These things move like intention. They head for humans. Infection is near-instant: blood congeals in the lungs, memories are replaced with screaming voids, and flesh begins to gestate eggs made of chitin and gristle.
A researcher at a wildlife reserve calmly removes her eyes and whispers, “The new gods want to wear us.”

Above the Pacific, a storm without mercy or physics.
High above the central Pacific, a massive blue-black nimbus forms in silence, its scale titanic. Radar can’t lock onto it. Satellites go blind. It doesn’t move — it pulses. Those who glimpse it feel it behind their eyes. Some claw at their own skulls to let the pressure out. Others fall to their knees, mouths agape, praising it with tongues they didn’t have ten minutes ago.

The storm births a new weather: air becomes viscous, laden with whispers that translate into invasive thought. People across Hawaii and Samoa begin speaking in recursive nonsense — sentences that fold back into themselves like linguistic Moebius strips.

And then come the visions.
Everyone who sees the cloud begins to hallucinate in ways the DSM never foresaw. Textbook psychotic schizophrenia — stage seven — but weaponized.
Kaleidoscopic nightmares override reality: loved ones are seen as insects, buildings as breathing tumors. People see gods in mirrors and maggots in their veins. One man in Tahiti chews through his fingers in a trance, whispering, “I saw the syntax of the universe. It’s made of screams.”

The Pacific Rim becomes a ring of shrieking self-destruction.
Across Japan, Peru, Chile, New Zealand, Taiwan, Alaska, Papua New Guinea — everywhere the Pacific Ocean laps at civilization — the human psyche shatters in synchronized silence, then screams. People jump en masse from high-rises, clutching each other like lovers in a final ritual. Entire freeway systems clog as drivers, mid-swerve, begin smashing their heads into steering wheels in rhythmic, trance-like beats. Police radios across Manila, Seattle, and Busan report “clusters of mutual murder,” followed by static and reversed prayers.

In Vladivostok, a Russian Orthodox priest lights himself on fire inside his cathedral while the congregation kneels in rapture, burning with him, singing in tones not their own.

Indonesia unravels first.
Along the eastern coasts of Sumatra and Java, it begins with teeth.
Children biting strangers. Mothers eating their own fingers. By the time authorities respond, the crowds have swollen into cannibal mobs, moving in predatory herds, shrieking with euphoric purpose. The infection isn’t biological — it’s conceptual. One bite is enough to transmit the logic of hunger.

Within minutes, these beings are no longer recognizably human.
Their limbs stretch, their bones bend inward, and their skin peels in symmetrical spirals — some sprouting eyeless faces where elbows used to be. Some slither, some gallop, some chant.
A UN official watching drone footage from Jakarta simply walks out of the control room, sets his tie on fire, and laughs until his lungs collapse.

A globe begins to die.
In just fifteen minutes, Earth loses ten million human beings.
Ten million disappear in screams, convulsions, transformation, obliteration, or something too complex for verbs. Entire city blocks go dark. Communications break into garbled singing or silence. In Singapore, the Marina Bay Sands flickers with unnatural light before the upper floors are seen bending… upward.

The world realizes something is happening — but no one agrees what anymore.
Nations begin to pray. But by now, language has become unstable.

WITHIN THE HOUR

The laws of nature become optional. Then they become hostile.
Gravity hiccups. Light bends in loops. Tides slosh toward mountains.
In cities across the world, machines cease obeying physics — electronics refuse to function as though insulted. GPS satellites flicker with impossible coordinates. Car engines become inert lumps of warm metal. Refrigerators pulse like heartbeats. Anything remotely digital either dies, screams, or starts showing faces no one recognizes.

In Nairobi, a 3D printer begins printing a shape that loops into itself infinitely, eventually devouring the machine from within. In Paris, traffic lights all flash at the same frequency as brain waves during REM sleep. Hundreds fall asleep in their cars and never wake up.

From the ground, unlife rises.
Graves across the planet crack open — but not to reveal anything once human. Instead, things climb from the dirt: ossified beings, ossuaries wrapped in flesh-moss, crawling insectoid architectures whispering in languages that taste bitter to hear. Some wear pieces of 16th-century clothing. Others seem carved from time itself.

Their chants are dissonant. Their geometry is wounding to behold.
In a Romanian village, these risen aberrations stack themselves into an altar that hums. Birds nearby fall from the sky in spirals, their blood rearranging into sigils in the dirt.

In Siberia, color betrays the eye.
Roughly half a million people near Novosibirsk claim to see a new primary color — slotted somewhere between yellow and red, yet not orange. It has no name. It makes them violently ill, then euphoric, then weeping.
Painters kill themselves trying to reproduce it.
Spectrometers implode.
Some worship it as a god. Others claw out their eyes just to unsee.

The madness becomes majority.
Across the Pacific Rim, over one billion people have now fully crossed into insanity. But this is no longer simple psychosis — this is alignment with a new logic. In Tokyo, a million people stop speaking and begin drawing spirals on every surface they can reach. In Mexico City, people form perfect geometric shapes in the streets and collapse as if some ritual were completed.

The sane are the minority. They feel it — a mounting paranoia that something is looking through their thoughts. Everyone suffers: nausea, hallucinations, confusion. At this point, hallucinations are so common that no two people see the same sky. People hear music when clocks tick. Smell burning feathers when they remember love. Movement flickers in every peripheral vision.

Stones rise. Earth forgets how to be earth.
In regions across Chile, Papua New Guinea, and Oregon, massive stones levitate from the ground, forming grotesque spirals in the air. Some spin slowly, others orbit one another. They chant in harmonics no throat could produce. Time behaves oddly around them. A photographer near Valdivia snaps a picture of one — the camera ages 400 years in his hands. The photo shows his own funeral.

The Pacific nimbus becomes a godhead.
The blue-black storm over the ocean expands exponentially, birthing sub-nimbuses across the globe — lesser nodes in a planetary consciousness. It now glows from within, veins of red lightning crawling like blood vessels. Its presence is felt psychically. It doesn’t just loom — it presses inward on the collective human mind, like a voice about to speak a name too enormous to fit into a throat.

Above Earth: orbit is breached.
In low Earth orbit, the International Space Station begins to… mutate. Cameras show a soft protoplasmic foam oozing from air vents, forming twitching tentacular appendages that explore each module with infantile curiosity. Contact is lost after one astronaut is seen floating freely, smiling broadly, unblinking, while strange light patterns dance on his corneas. The feed ends with a choked singing sound.

Nuclear containment fails in blasphemous fashion.
A U.S. nuclear commander, desperate to respond, authorizes a test missile launch — but the warheads do not comply. Inside silos, plutonium sloughs into luminous blue-green jelly, pulsing with alien bioluminescence. Engineers scream as the containment metal itself bends away, as though rejecting the material it was designed to hold.

Similar failures occur globally: nuclear plants begin to melt inward, radiation levels plunge to zero, then spike beyond measure. In France, a reactor simply vanishes, leaving behind a hole from which whispers rise and time ticks backward for the local goats.

FORTY TO SIXTY MINUTES: THE WAKING OF INNER SPACE

Human minds bloom — into screaming flowers.
Without warning, millions of people across the globe are overcome by a sudden surge of telepathic and supernatural perception. Empaths collapse under the flood of unfiltered thought — not just human thoughts, but something else, older and hungrier. Entire cities become psychic amplification chambers.

People in Tehran start speaking in unison with those in Montreal, describing the same dreams. In São Paulo, a woman levitates thirty feet in the air, surrounded by screaming birds, before combusting into salt. In Cairo, a blind child begins naming the true shapes of everyone around him — most don’t survive hearing their own name.

The gift lasts seconds to minutes — and it hurts. The mind rejects what it sees.
Mass seizures. Bloody noses. Eyeballs bursting from too much seeing.
Some weep with joy. Most bite through their own tongues in terror.

The animal kingdom rebels against biology.
Across the planet, animals twist into blasphemies — grotesque forms that seem designed by a mad sculptor who only saw evolution once in a nightmare.

• Horses in Spain lose their skeletons and ooze across landscapes in silky trails, singing lullabies in perfect Latin.

• Swarms of crows in Canada form shapes in the sky — equations, maybe — before falling to earth as black snow.

• Cats simply vanish, then reappear days later, larger, and with too many eyes.

Zoos become cathedrals of the profane. Dogs forget their names. Whales beach themselves willingly and whisper secrets in voices that sound human but wrong.

Science watches its soul rupture.
At CERN, and across other major particle physics labs — Fermilab, SLAC, KEK, Gran Sasso — subatomic particles rebel. Constants begin to drift. The Higgs field flickers like a dirty bulb. Neutrinos gain mass. Quarks mutate mid-measurement.
Physicists weep not from fear, but from awe: “It’s speaking back,” one says.

But in upstate New York, a smaller accelerator pushes further than intended — and something answers.

Within minutes, a long, thin area, nearly a mile in length, forms like a scar across spacetime, centered on the particle lab. Its borders shimmer like gasoline on water, but with a texture that disobeys the eye. Inside, nothing obeys.

Light no longer moves straight. People within become… conceptual. Screaming silhouettes made of angles and memory.
A rescue team enters. The footage shows them slowing — not in time, but in intention. By the time they cross the threshold, they’ve become living filigree. Their thoughts leak into nearby radio stations as static opera.

Death toll climbs catastrophically.
The global toll now reaches 150 million human lives — a number as meaningless as it is immense.
Not all die cleanly. Some remain alive through what should have been fatal wounds, bodies trapped mid-transformation, begging incoherently in dozens of languages.

Some become something else entirely — new species, new philosophies.
They no longer recognize humans.
Or maybe they recognize them all too well.

IN SEVERAL HOURS

The sea gives birth to theology.

Along the entire Pacific Ring, the ocean no longer behaves like water — it contorts, folds in on itself like a colossal muscle contracting in labor. From the newly heaving trenches, unhallowed things rise: titanic silhouettes limned in phosphorescence, glistening towers of flesh, bone, and machinery that never should have been assembled together.
Each entity carries with it a weather system — localized storms of boiling snow, reverse lightning, or columns of solid fog.

On the shores of Fiji, people prostrate themselves before a spiraled giant with no eyes but a thousand mouths, each whispering a separate language known only to the dead.

The sun writes sigils in fire.
The solar disk flares with never-before-seen intensity. Astronomers — those few still alive and sane — scream that the sun is thinking. Enormous, fractal geometric patterns emerge across its surface — mandalas etched in plasma, glyphs visible even to the naked eye.

Solar storms reach Earth in moments, defying physics. Radio waves burst with universal truths too large to understand.
Some watch the sun and go blind. Others see too much and ascend gibbering into the sky.

The solar system begins to obey new gods.
On Jupiter’s moon Io, a continent-sized pentacle of volcanoes bursts open, spewing black-red magma laced with glowing silver strings that drift up — toward space. The geometry is unmistakably deliberate. A message. A ritual.
Earth’s remaining observatories lose signal at once.

On Mars, the colossal Mons Olympus belches out black ooze that reflects nothing. It behaves like a vacuum made liquid.
Satellite images briefly show shapes within the ooze — cities? Memories? — before transmission ceases.
A whisper reaches Earth days before light could have: “You are not the first.”

The Himalayas forget gravity.
A massive section of the Himalayan range begins to collapse upward, disobeying tectonics. Entire mountain chains lift into the sky like drifting cathedrals of stone, cloaked in perpetual tremors that resemble chanting. These earthquakes are rhythmic, precise — like breath.
Locals kneel in trance-like ecstasy as the Earth sings itself into new forms. The mountains begin to orbit each other.

Humanity falls below 5% coherence.
At this stage, 95% of all human minds are lost — infected, fractured, or utterly consumed by the arriving pattern. Language breaks down globally. People crawl, slither, shudder, or dance without meaning. Families forget each other’s names. Memories drip from mouths as if they were saliva.

• Some see strings connecting all living things — and begin plucking them until the connections snap.

• Others are immobilized by existential seizures, rocking back and forth while muttering equations they never learned.

The body follows the mind.
Roughly 25% of humanity now exhibits physical abnormalities:

• Extra limbs, often twitching independently.

• Skin that turns transparent, revealing squirming things beneath.

• Heads splitting open like blooming flowers.

• Torsos fused into other torsos.
  In New Delhi, a woman births a screaming, feathered cube.
  In Oslo, a boy’s bones reconfigure nightly into new arrangements of purpose.

Death loses meaning.
At least half a billion people are now dead — primarily by suicide.
But many suicides are ineffective. People hang themselves, but continue twitching and speaking in dead languages. Those who drown continue bubbling words.
One man in Buenos Aires stabs himself 36 times and doesn’t stop walking.

In morgues, the dead are found gesturing, hands forming signs that spell nothing — or everything.

ONE DAY

The world is no longer whole.
Half the globe is now blanketed by a colossal dark storm, its lightning no longer white but veined with bruised violet and rusted crimson, flickering in fractal patterns that make some fall to their knees and vomit. The clouds shift too intelligently, circling in glyphic loops — as if they’re spelling something only birds understand.

In many places, the sky rains not water, but slime and shapes — twitching polyps, embryonic cubes, embryonic limbs with nowhere to go.
People open their mouths to scream and find other screams already inside.
The storm is not just overhead — it’s inside minds, murmuring, shaping thoughts like clay.

The world’s architecture becomes alien.
Buildings deform as if mourning. Steel bends into arches that curve toward the Pacific.
Familiar cities twist into labyrinths of flesh-brick and breathing plastic.
Subway systems spiral downward for days without bottom. Entire neighborhoods rotate on their axes, and what was once east is now before.

In the forests, trees bend in synchronized motion like watching eyes.
Some woods become sentient biomes, humming in frequencies that sterilize all who enter. Bark peels back to reveal faces of wood, silently mouthing secrets that rot teeth.

Reality frays.
Geography has become non-Euclidean in tone and temperament. Villages float, or duplicate endlessly, creating recursive ghost towns. Time zones dissolve. Days become stacked. Gravity fluctuates like a heartbeat.

People wake in places they’ve never been, or halfway between two.
On CCTV, a woman in Copenhagen vanishes mid-step, then reappears in Kinshasa, blindfolded and speaking perfect Swahili — her tongue too long, her eyes sealed shut with honey.

Rifts open. Not all of them close.
Across the globe, shimmering tears in reality gape open like wounds in the air. Through them pour things — not always creatures, not always from elsewhere — some are thoughts given skin, some are misremembered gods, some are echoes of future species.
People step through by accident and return… commented on.

In Kazakhstan, an entire army battalion marches into one such rift. None return. Except the uniforms, hours later — each filled with gelatinous replicas softly muttering the names of extinct flowers.

Humanity is no longer human.
By now, half of the remaining humans have become something else. Some are predatory — insectoid, feral, bloated, religious.
Others are lost to form entirely — clouds of song, sentient liquids, clusters of thought-bees.
Those who remain “intact” are clinically insane, unable to form coherent thought without incanting the same syllables over and over: “Phnglui… Phnglui… Phnglui…”

Diseases spiral out of taxonomy.
Sickness spreads — but what is disease anymore? What is host, what is symptom?
Viruses carry memories instead of RNA.
Skin sheds languages.
One illness makes people believe they are cities and begin absorbing others into themselves.

The sky betrays its patterns.
The moon darkens to a deep arterial red — not reflective, but emitting. It pulses.
Constellations rearrange in impossible alignments. Ancient star maps are invalid.
Astronomers report seeing impossibly large shapes moving between stars, as if they were watching back.

Several billion are lost — in every sense.
Gone. Converted. Consumed. Sublimed. Dead. Something worse than dead.
Even the dead from centuries past have returned — not in spirit, but in mass. From crypts, urns, catacombs, ossuaries, battlefields, sunken ships — they reassemble.

These revenants are not echoes.
They walk. They chant.
Some are stitched together from mismatched bones. Others are bloated with the new matter, moving with gelatinous grace.
Whole continents now echo with the sound of wet footsteps and ancient languages.

They do not ask for recognition.
They ask only that you kneel.

ONE WEEK

The Earth is no longer a planet. It is a wound.

The skies have lost all structure — they churn in colors without name, shades primal and unfinished, as if the fabric of visible reality has been diluted with something older than physics.
Clouds spiral in sick, intelligent cyclones, dragging with them cities, mountains, and memories. The ozone sings. Aurorae flicker at the equator. Lightning dances in inverted geometries, branching downward into the crust and pulling things up.

The world is a blighted carcass — moaning in rhythms that mimic language, as if Earth itself is trying to speak Him. Storms crawl across continents like migrating organs.
Flesh grows on buildings.
Tectonic plates weep ichor.
Forests slither and beat like hearts.

All life has turned against its old definitions.
Birds no longer fly, they hover in screaming cubes.
Fungus covers entire regions like brain tissue.
Rivers boil in perfect spirals.
Insects become the dominant force — now the size of cars, with consciousness like shattered mirrors.
There are no more species. Only expressions of the name.

Most minds are gone. The rest are praying.
Almost every remaining human — or what remains of human — is caught in a continuous, automatic incantation, a mantra of desperate reverence, an echo of an echo of a dream once had by something much larger than mankind.

His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name…

They chant as they rot. They chant as they consume each other.
They chant while submerged. While aflame. While drifting through vacuum tears.
It is no longer speech. It is no longer worship.
It is compulsion, forced through tongues like a final exhalation of the collective soul.

The atmosphere stinks of burnt memory.
Ash rains from the moon, now split open like an eye, bleeding soft light that nourishes only the wrong things.
Mountains have inverted, reaching down into the molten marrow.
The oceans churn with cathedrals of bone.

Reality no longer holds. The calendar curls. Clocks bleed.
What is day or night when the sun weeps triangles? When stars rearrange into instructions?
When gravity turns inwards?

The human species is now an afterthought. A faded experiment overwritten.

There is no more language.
No more culture.
No more resistance.

Only… His Name.

His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name. His name…

HOUR 366

The last human in northern Europe breaks.
Deep beneath the frost-gnawed soil of what once was Norway, in an abandoned cobalt mine, a man remains — the final echo of a species that once named stars and wrote poems.

His mind held longer than most. He remembered birthdays. Faces. The sound of wind through birch trees. But now those memories rot inside him like old fruit.

Something inside his head… opens.

Stalks—organic, iridescent, twitching with taste and purpose—burst from his eye sockets, reaching outward like antennae searching for the divine. He begins to laugh in seven voices. The laughter dissolves into a wet chewing sound.

He finds what’s left of his family — six twisted corpses, fused in a mass of rotting flesh, once human, now conjoined in obscene rhythm.
They were dead. Or not.
They were… fucking something.
Or everything.
Or him.

He crawls into the pulsating mound and begins to eat them in the wrong order.
He chews until he forgets names, language, time.
He becomes part of the thing, still chanting, still alive, still digesting.

Above, Earth’s final cathedral grows.
In the heart of the Pacific, rising from a sea now thick with black ichor and uncountable limbs, a monolithic structure surges skyward.
It is not a building.
It is not a mountain.
It is not… describable.

Miles high.
Miles deep.
A spike in the crust of the Earth. A thorn in the side of reality.
Its architecture is biological recursion, made from bone, steel, thought, and obedience.
It throbs. It grows. It chants.

From space, it resembles a black mandala, a cancerous crown stretching its influence across oceans. The boiling water around it froths with tentacles, sacrificial matter, and the remains of ships, buildings, islands, continents.

Satellites pick up no more transmissions — only vocalizations, low and constant, a subsonic droning that penetrates bone:

“He rises, He rises, He is the first and the last and the space between. He was always inside. He is not from there. He is the place. He is the word. He is the mouth.”

And then, the signal fractures.

In the middle… ahh… nnn… no. I… can n… not ahh…
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