PA – 4 – Tom Hiddleston
In 30 years, planetarion.com will be played with hand gestures and fully voice activated. A voice will call out at hh:00:20 (after tick has been processed): “forty thousand, three hundred twenty six INCOMING HOSTILES”, with the capitalized letters read / red with full effect. Everybody will pick the Morgan Freeman voice probably, but Margaret Thatcher’s a good second. DEATH from Terry Pratchett’s the de-facto voice, if you don’t pick one.
The war room was still. Captain Rob Rawballs—sleepless, stimmed, mildly offended by the smell of his own shirt—watched the server tick over to hh:00:00.
Tick.
Twenty seconds of silence as the backend processed. The calm before the report.
At hh:00:20, the voice arrived.
“Forty thousand, three hundred twenty-six INCOMING HOSTILES.”
It came smooth, deliberate—cool and British with just a hint of mischief. It sounded like someone had put Tom Hiddleston inside a server rack and told him to announce the apocalypse.
“All Tarantula-class. From 6:2:9 and 1:3:5. For the sixth time.”
Rawballs rubbed one eye. “Still those two? Not even in the same alliance?”
“Correct. One in PFU. One in <Add>. No declared links. Yet they keep arriving arm-in-arm like prom dates.”
“They been landing in the same bracket?”
“Yes. All six landing ticks fall between 10:00 and 12:00 server time. Daily. Consistent. Clinical.”
“That’s not coordination. That’s a morning routine.”
“Like brushing your teeth. Or cheating badly.”
Rawballs sighed. “So what does the Tactical Operations Matrix make of it?”
“T.O.M. believes they’re either running a tight schedule… or the dumbest coordinated attack in the galaxy.”
“Notify Fiery.”
“Already done. Report includes fleet timing, repeat pattern, alliance mismatch, and tone of mild disbelief.”
Rawballs watched the incoming waves paint the radar again—perfect arcs, zero deviation. The sixth hit in a row.
“Fiery replies: ‘It’s not ticket-worthy yet. But they’re getting lazy. Let them keep going.’”
“We’re bait now?”
“You’re the lab rat. Please chew accordingly.”
The radar flared red. Tarantulas inbound. Again. Rawballs leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Would you like to record a farewell message to your roids?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll log the silence as consent.”
The clock ticked over to hh:59:00. The next tick loomed.
“Would you like me to begin composing your next eulogy?”
“Make it a haiku.”
“Already working on it. It opens with: ‘So many spiders…’”