SHUTTLE (any gender, mid twenties to late life)
Everything down here is going to be wiped out.
We can't stop it, Chris. We never could.
As soon as I did the preliminary research, it was clear that at the very best, the missiles would be like a spider shooting a web at a falling apple. The meteor would sustain minor damage, then it would smash the shuttle into dust. Then it would continue down to earth. As it will.
As. It. Will.
Sorry to hurt the military's pride, Chris. You guys are outmatched. And I suppose, you've been duped too; I'm sorry about that as well. The missiles have no fire power. They never did, I never bothered working on that: Still, I'm surprised you figured it out so quickly. But today's as good a day as any to give you my proposal:
Chris, the missiles aren't weapons but processors. I designed them to recycle carbon dioxide: A lifetime supply of oxygen on the shuttle. There's also enough food in that thing to last five years.
I designed the shuttle for survival.
You have a choice, Chris. You can turn me over to the military. I'll be executed. Maybe I deserve it. But then everybody else will be killed by the impact in less than a month so justice kinda goes out the window, doesn't it?
The other option is to take your kids and go up in the shuttle with me. Most of my life, I only really cared for myself... Ha! I've never even owned a goldfish.
But I think I care for you, Chris. And I know you care about your family. The shuttle can support all four of us, no problem. We'll survive and we'll figure out what to do next.
What TO do next? Chris?
Copyright 2016 by Matt Haynes. If you would like to use this piece, please credit: "Courtesy of Matt Haynes and The Pulp Stage"