It started with an email.
Not a flaming chariot in the sky. Not a thunderous voice declaring doom. Not even the dramatic shaking of the Earth like in all those budget disaster movies.
Just an email.
Subject:URGENT: End of the World Scheduled for Friday @ 11:59 PM. RSVP Required.
I assumed it was spam. Or a particularly edgy marketing campaign from a taco place trying to sell me their new Apocalypse Supreme Combo (now with extra hot sauce and mild despair).
Still, I clicked on it, because who doesn't enjoy a bit of end-times-themed entertainment while avoiding actual responsibilities?
The message read:
Dear Human 7,883,294,117,
You have been selected to participate in the End of the World. This is a global-scale event involving fire, cosmic unraveling, and mild inconvenience.
Please confirm your participation:
[ACCEPT THE END]
[DECLINE AND PROCEED TO OPTIONAL SIDEQUEST]
Note: Declining may result in unexpected narrative consequences.
Sincerely,
The Multiversal Closure Department
Naturally, I clicked Decline.
Why? Because I hadn't done laundry in two weeks, and if I was going to meet the end of everything, I was at least going to do it in clean underwear. Also, my burrito had just finished microwaving, and frankly, that felt like a higher priority.
About three seconds after clicking Decline, the lights flickered, my Wi-Fi exploded, and a glowing portal opened in my living room. It hissed like a soda can being opened by a disgruntled god.
From it stepped a tall, robed figure holding what looked suspiciously like a clipboard and a venti caramel macchiato.
"Excuse me," the being said, adjusting its hood. "Did you just… decline the apocalypse?"
I nodded, still holding my burrito like a shield.
"That's… not an option people usually click," the being said. "Most either panic-click 'Accept' or just die when the sky turns into fire-flavored pudding. You're the first in centuries to press 'Decline.'"
I shrugged. "It sounded like a scam. Also, I had plans this weekend."
The being sighed and pulled out a tablet.
"Right," it muttered, swiping through screens. "Now I've gotta open a divergence protocol. That means extra paperwork. You know how long eternal bureaucracy lasts? Literally forever. And you just added a whole folder to my cosmic inbox."
"Sorry?" I said, with a mouthful of burrito.
The being glared. "You just postponed the end of the world. Do you know what kind of cosmic consequences that has?"
"Will it affect my credit score?"
The being blinked. "Honestly, probably. Also, you just created a narrative split timeline, destabilized three minor prophecies, and summoned a goose. A really angry goose."
We both looked toward the kitchen. Sure enough, an extremely judgmental goose stood on my counter, wearing a tiny crown and knocking over mugs like it paid rent.
"This is above my pay grade," the being muttered. "I'm going to have to escalate this."
It snapped its fingers, and the ceiling opened up like a retractable dome. A second portal appeared, this time shaped like a giant pop-up ad that read: "Congratulations! You've unlocked: The Non-End!"
A new figure descended—this one in a glittery suit, floating slightly, with the energy of a game show host who had once hosted doomsday but now sold real estate on Jupiter.
"Heyyyy there, Decliner!" he said, finger-guns blazing. "I'm Dave, Cosmic Narrator Level 9, here to walk you through the next steps. You see, by declining the end of the world, you've triggered what we call a Plot Loop. That means you now carry the burden of maintaining reality… or letting it unravel at your convenience. Neat, right?"
"Wait, so I accidentally became the sole reason the universe hasn't ended yet?"
"You got it!" Dave said, tossing confetti made of stardust. "You, my friend, are now The Variable."
"I feel like I should be getting paid for this."
"Oh, you will," Dave grinned. "In cosmic coupons and occasional hallucinations."
The clipboard guy groaned. "Dave, stop being cheerful. This is a mess. He's not trained. He declined the end while eating a burrito. He doesn't even have a quest hat."
I frowned. "I don't want a quest hat."
"Well," Dave said, pulling out a shimmering object, "you get one anyway."
It was a snapback that said "Not Today, Apocalypse" in bold, sparkly letters.
I sighed, took another bite of my burrito, and put the hat on.
"So what now?"
"Now," Dave said, dramatically spreading his arms, "you delay the end of the world. One day at a time. Sometimes by solving reality-bending puzzles. Sometimes by talking a sentient volcano out of emotional self-destruction. Sometimes just by, you know, doing literally anything that isn't letting the sky fall."
"Can I finish my burrito first?"
The clipboard being opened a portal with a huff. "Fine. But after that, you're officially on Reality Watch. Good luck, Decliner."
And just like that, they vanished.
Leaving me, in my living room, with a crowned goose, a sparkly hat, and a half-eaten burrito.
So yeah. I declined the end of the world.
No big deal