Indulge me temporarily. Look up and see: through the outermost orbits of the solar system moves a mysterious and terrible planet. Unknown by telescope or any other traditional means of inference, we perceive it as breath on the back of our necks, a strange light on a deserted street. There's something wrong with that man. A voice that whispers in your headphones, beneath the Morse code. Tension rises and all the old numbers stations go dead. Theia has come back to finish the job.
I can feel it in my bones now. The gravity well's run dry. Look up; they're here already. Fiddling with radios somewhere near magnetic north. All of this is stricken from the record. Damnatio memoriae. Like electrons around an atom we spin through the void and with us spins this planet, the malfunctioning engine. It's over. Arm yourself. Bring a knife to a M.A.D. doctrine. It's almost ready. A little further now.
Here it comes.
