World serves its own needs

Listen to your heart bleed

Tell me with the Rapture and the reverent in the right, right

You vitriolic, patriotic, slam fight, bright light

Feeling pretty psyched

"It's The End Of The World As We Know It"

R.E.M.

November 7, 2104

Washington, D.C., United States

The end of the world. How many different times, different scenarios, different players and circumstances, had been proposed since the beginning of time? Solar eclipses, lunar eclipses, floods, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, millenia changes, bombs, wars…even peace. End of calendars, end of time, prophecies both ancient and modern. Each one had passed, most of the populace even unaware of the situation, let alone the risks. Those markers passed as people held their collective breaths, then laughed, cursing themselves for even believing that it could be possible.

The times the world had come the closest to ending, almost no one had been any wiser. Near misses with catastrophically large asteroids, seconds away from nuclear war, unknown pestilence eliminated, all gone by while the people of the world danced, laughed, cried, lived, died.

And how was it that in all the history of humankind, she was lucky enough to be the one who would actually preside over the end of the world? Many a blind prophet had espoused those before, the pundits left to debate the meaning of the word last. Metaphoric, spiritual. But now, she was sure–she was actually the last.

President Diane Beckman had been volleying that idea around for months. Every time she told herself it was time to accept it, she found another reason to fight. But now her last reason was fading.

There was no stopping The Pulse.

No one but the Defense Force, and her of course, had any idea this was happening. The commander reported directly to her, as was protocol. The Vice President, her chief of staff, the Secretary of Defense–no one else had been privy to the information that had been relayed. They were the ultimate black budget, black ops, elite force.

The Defense Force had been created in 2035, after astronomers had detected what was known as the Pulse. The Pulse was in actuality a communication from outside the Earth's Solar system, the first and only one ever detected. The media had reported on it, intentionally misleading, of course, to assuage non-government astronomers both professional and amateur. They called it an "unknown source of radio waves." While that may have been factually true, on the surface, a message had been found in said transmission, a message that was undecipherable. Mathematical in nature, just as any first contact had been hypothesized, for math bridged the gaps where no other common ground was possible–language, biology, or culture.

The message had only been translated five years ago, by a civilian who had hacked into the DNI mainframe and decoded it as part of what she had believed was some adolescent prank. Although, to be fair, Charles Bartowski was hardly that–so much more that it boggled her mind. Both a godsend and a constant pain in her ass.

Upon examination, the mathematical transmission had corresponded to an exact resonance harmonic. It was traveling at near light speed…and headed straight for Earth's solar system, too direct and specific to be random. Bartowski had passed the information willingly to the DNI, who funneled it to their top scientists.

Every computer simulation that had been done had predicted this resonance could crumble buildings and disrupt the tectonic plates in the earth's crust. Scientists never agreed on anything, in her experience. The nature of science in the modern era had been that any hypothesis was provable, provided the research was paid for by the right people. Nothing was absolute–everything could be manipulated.

The scientists funded by the black budget, Beckman told herself, were above that kind of malarkey. They were telling her the truth.

The ones with access to the data all agreed. It was a keystone moment, one they had brought to her attention, as Commander-in-Chief. As if by somehow telling her, something could be done. Without letting the information be leaked, without causing mass hysteria and chaos.

The buck stops here. Harry Truman had kept that sign on his desk to remind himself that everything that happened in the government, eventually, fell on his shoulders. He made the decisions, and lived with the consequences, always cognizant of the fact that those who actually lived with those consequences weren't him and his circle. Instead, it was the people that voted for him–ordinary people who worked to keep everything running smoothly.

There was no escaping the Pulse, no place on earth that would be safe. All of humanity would perish. Everything had a beginning and an end, she knew. The beginning was billions of years ago, but under scrutiny, just one day. The end, coming very soon, would also be just one day.

"Madame President, Colonel Casey is here," the President heard announced through the interface on her desktop.

The door opened, and Colonel John Casey entered the President's office. He was in dress uniform, steel gray with black stripes down the sides of his trousers. His black boots shined. He was tall, broad, with a thick neck. The line of his jaw was sharp, pronounced, making his overall demeanor appear austere. His eyes were icy blue.

In his old life, Casey had been a Marine. Back then, his name had been Alex Coburn. He had risen to the rank of colonel before he had attracted the attention of the Beckman administration. His record was exemplary, full of commendations for valor. Like the others before him, when he was eventually recruited for The Defense Force, his death was staged, and a new identity was bestowed upon him. Alex Coburn was dead. Long live John Casey.

Casey commanded a unit of 20 men, the best of the best, all of them recycled through with new identities. Some had to die to their old lives, others had no ties to begin with, a desirable circumstance for a Defense Force recruit.

"Colonel," Beckman greeted him. But she cut to the chase, never one for small talk, and certainly not with a no-nonsense man like Casey. "Please tell me you have good news."

"We found Bartowski."

Casey's flat affect was unreadable. Beckman had known Casey for a long time and she knew it had taken an extraordinary amount of strength for him to remain so stoic over a topic that traditionally had caused him so much distress.

"Did he have the Dial?" She found she was trembling with anticipation.

Casey growled, the sound resonating in his chest. "He knows where it is, ma'am."

Beckman's face was grim. "Is he not…forthcoming, Colonel?"

The slightest of emotion flickered behind Casey's icy blue eyes. "He wants a…guarantee…that the doctor is left out of all of this."

"You know I can't do that, Colonel," Beckman said sharply. "She is the only one who knows how the implant in Bartowski's head works."

"She is a civilian," Casey reminded her.

Beckman closed her eyes and rubbed her palm over her aching forehead, trying to massage the headache away. "I don't have the luxury of caring about that any longer, Colonel. Ten billion people's lives cannot be measured against Bartowski's sister's well-being. Surely he understands that."

"He does, ma'am." Casey's voice softened, compassion unmistakable. "His…solution…is…that we proceed without Dr. Woodcomb's assistance."

"He could die without it," she snapped.

"He knows." Casey's voice was just an intense whisper. "He's willing to pay that price, if necessary, to protect his sister." His voice strengthened. "As long as we're successful, it doesn't matter, does it?"

"'We're', Colonel?" Beckman asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"If he's with us, he's with us. And for us to use the Dial, well, he needs to come with us."

Beckman was so flabbergasted she jumped to her feet, though even standing she was woefully shorter than Casey, whose bulk towered over her. "I am not authorizing that, Colonel! Bartowski is unpredictable, an independent variable that I—"

"Begging the President's pardon, ma'am, but I can't—we can't do what you're asking without him."

Beckman scrutinized him. She said nothing, waiting as she silently fumed. The only hope the Earth had left was risky, crazy upon examination, but nothing could move forward without the Dial. The most crucial part of a complex quantum physics apparatus that only a handful of people understood…and not a single person understood it better than Charles Bartowski.

Except, perhaps, his father, Stephen Bartowski. But he had been missing for over 15 years now. Another unpredictable aspect in all of this, which she hated.

"I'm a soldier, not a scientist. I don't have the knowledge that he does. You know it and I know it. We're just going to have to…work with him." He said the words like an epithet. "I know it's not ideal, but what choice do we have?"

Beckman huffed and sat down hard. She buried her face in her hands.

Casey pushed farther. "Look, at the end of the day, he knows what's at stake. He may be a loose cannon, but he doesn't want the Earth to break apart into pieces any more than any of us do. Even if for him, it's more about his sister than ten billion people he doesn't know."

Beckman knew Casey was right. They were out of options. She could go down as the last President on Earth…or she could be the one who saved it.

Or, at least, that she authorized the men who could save it to do so.

"I literally have nothing else to lose, Colonel. Tell Bartowski we agree to whatever his demands are. Within reason!" she added with a wave of her hand. "He can't alter the timeline in ways that the Oracle can't account for."

"He equated it to a Ray Bradbury short story where dinosaur hunters killed a butterfly and came back to a world that was suddenly stupid." Casey sounded put out by even having to explain.

She scoffed. Who's to say that wasn't already true? "Dumber than now?" she grumbled.

Casey looked at the floor to hide his smirk.

"Don't worry, Casey, you can smile. Take any chance you can to smile, let me tell you," she said wistfully. "I trust you, and you trust him. So this is the plan. Assemble your team. We'll brief them. In 48 hours."

Casey nodded crisply. "Madame President," he said, turning stiffly on his heel, and departing.

Alone in her office again, the despair and hopelessness that had gripped her before seemed to ease. Was she crazy to believe that this unavoidable cataclysm could be stopped? That there was a way to save the Earth? She was now, afterall, just a politician.

A long time ago, she had been a soldier. She felt like she had given something up to become a politician, like she had given in instead of fighting. It was just a different kind of fight, she realized, as it had taken her all the way to the White House.

Don't be so down on yourself. You're still fighting.

Only the soldiers on the ground were the heroes. Heroes were people like Casey, who had devoted their entire life to keeping others safe, always putting themselves in harm's way to help people they didn't even know.

She said a silent prayer of thanks for Casey and wished them godspeed.

After all, if they were successful, she wouldn't remember this interaction.

Or, perhaps, this entire timeline for the past 70 years.