I begin this letter by, ironically, apologizing. I am not the best writer, nor the best historian. I will do my best to convey the most accurate account possible, but know that I am, of course, biased and grieved. It has obviously deeply affected my state of mind, and every day I can barely bring myself out of the downward spiral of endless thought. Forgive me.
A lot of people might tell you that it was entertaining at first, amusing even. When it happened everyone didn’t really know how to react – but eventually we all figured out how. Our melting pot of emotional reaction rapidly churned into a thick, hot rage that no one dared try to simmer. We were united, all of us, for the first time in history. But it was a slow start.
It was early September when it got there, right above one of the Galapagos Islands. A group of Spanish scientists were the lucky few to get the first look. It was small, dark, swirling, and sporadic. The media liked to say it was about a tenth the size of Rhode Island, which was not a very helpful benchmark for anyone not familiar with Rhode Island. It floated, or rather simply existed, 1.44 miles in the sky, and occasionally dropped down a few yards, much to everyone’s horror. The color of it was like staring into a black sun; mosaic waves of darkness swirled around and sparked. It smelled strongly of ammonia and sulfur according to anyone who went close, and one scientist liked to say it felt like staring death in the face.
I can’t begin to describe to you all that happened in the first few days. Scientists from every corner of the globe, every backwoods nation and fringe group, demanded access to the newest Ecuadorian landmark, whose government was not too willing to comply. At first, select small teams were permitted admission, closely monitored by the Ecuadorians. But when a U.S. carrier strike group shows up at your door, all international law and decorum goes out the window.
They figured out pretty fast what it was, a wormhole of some sort. A very, very weak one. Helicopters and planes could fly within a couple hundred yards from it and only barely feel a pull. That pull increased almost exponentially as anything went closer to it, as several birds were the unknowing producers of that knowledge. Electronic systems worked fine, and other than the small gravitational interruption, nothing was horribly wrong with the gigantic black blob in the sky. Yet.
About a month or so after it had gotten there, when the media was just beginning to start covering anything else, a black cube the size of a truck spurted out from the center of the hole with incredible force, slowed down to terminal velocity, and then sunk into the South Pacific. Of course this was all captured on film; by now thousands of cameras and satellites were aimed at it, and a city of yachters had gathered beneath, despite the smell. The whole world was shocked that the silent, putrid, black sun had actually done something other than suck up the occasional bird. I was horrified. I thought we were going to be invaded. That cube was not natural. It wasn’t a meteorite or a speck of dust or anything you’d expect to be on the other end of the line. It implied, practically proved, that something intelligent was over there.
People thought the box might be to communicate, that perhaps it was a sort of radio or beacon. We soon found out what it was. Before we even had time to get divers down there, it burst. Most of the blast was held in by the ocean’s depths but still a colossal geyser of water sprang up, almost touching the blob itself. The explosion seemed nuclear, but we were assured it wasn’t. Some sort of conventional explosives, several times stronger than any nuke we owned, had created the largest crater on Earth’s floor in the span of a second. The waves flushed rapidly in every direction, toppling the yacht city and swamping the coasts of the islands. Hundreds died instantly.
The fallout spawned itself in the form of rage and panic. Were we being invaded? What next horror would fall through the sky? How can we stop this thing, how can we turn it off? The second question was soon answered, as a day later thousands more boxes fell through, each in succession, each various sizes. A quarantine zone was declared, as everyone expected the worst. But these cubes never exploded like their precursor. They sank to the bottom, fell on top of each other, and slowly but surely piled up towards the surface.
Weeks later, when the dilapidated pyramid of boxes had begun to pierce the waterline, whoever was in charge had concluded that the threat was low enough to send someone in to investigate. The team that went in noted that the cubes were coarse to the touch despite the sea water, the edges were perfectly formed and sharp, and there were no markings to give any hint to their purpose. Taking a box back with them to the continent, the collective effort to open it began. As time ticked down, pressure mounted. Debate raged over whether it was wise to even open it at all. Pandora, Pandora, Pandora, rose the cries from the streets. But it wasn’t the people’s call to make. The boxes were soon opened, the answer revealed, and the questions began.
Garbage. Millions of boxes of garbage had been streaming from the black mass. Information trickled in, but people begged for more. It was alien, from a civilized culture. Bipeds, more advanced than us, larger, omnivores. It was amazing what we could tell from their trash. It was an instant view into some other part of our universe. When more boxes were opened we continued to learn. But there were no photos, no paintings, no art or culture of any kind. The clothing, or at least what we assumed to be clothing, was uniform and exact. Everything was bland, simple, and spartan. Soon, discoveries became rarer and rarer, as the items became just copies of the ones found prior. Finally, nothing new was opened; just a hundred or so items of compressed waste had formed their gift to us.
The pile on the other hand, had become a problem. It, combined with the blast, had devastated most of the area’s ecology. The boxes had also slowly bled a red slime, likely a coating of some sort, which had dyed the ocean for miles. All fish in the area were floating to the surface, dead and cancerous. The birds stopped flying anywhere near. The tortoises crouched down in their shells and gave in. The Galapagos were dead.
It didn’t stop. The dye and waste had slowly began to affect every drop of water on Earth. There was no one who did not feel its terror. It was biological, ecological, and psychological warfare. It was an unending barrage of terror. It was death.
So I hope this letter reaches you, whoever you are, and I hope you learn how to comprehend it. You have destroyed our planet. You have defied our attempts at reconciliation and communication, and you have been a brutal, silent antagonist for too long. It is time for you to understand. My letter to you is just one part of the millions to be sent through the rabbit hole tomorrow. Know that it is just a fraction of what you have sent us.