Dr. Albus Reif stood as the Prime Minister returned to his seat. The war chamber held its breath. Not a sound—only the brittle crackle of tension, sharp as glass about to shatter.
Albus strode to the front with calm, mechanical precision and tapped the embedded panel on the edge of the sleek obsidian conference table. A soft chime, then the low hum of high-grade projectors.
Above the table, a three-dimensional orbit map bloomed to life—Earth suspended in sterile blue light, its trajectory etched in ghostly lines around the Sun.
He skipped the pleasantries.
"My name is Albus Reif. For the past five years, I've led research into the gravitational irregularities affecting Earth's orbit. What we've discovered is... terrifying in its simplicity."
He rotated the hologram with two fingers, isolating a trembling arc in the orbital path. The line dipped outward—just barely—a flaw like a hairline crack in steel.
"This was Earth's orbit five years ago." A swipe. A second line appeared—skewed, drifting farther from the Sun. "And this is where we are now."
A ripple passed through the room. Subtle disbelief. A few sat up straighter. One of the generals whispered something under his breath.
"This isn't theoretical. It's not based on predictive modeling," Albus said, voice cold and precise. "It's confirmed, measured reality. Thirty-two agencies. Independent systems. All reporting the same anomaly."
A hand shot up. A politician in a navy suit, his voice sharp with panic: "You're saying we're drifting into space? That we're going to... freeze?"
Albus didn't blink. "At the current rate? Yes. Thirty to thirty-five years. Give or take."
"And if the rate increases?" someone else called out—a voice thick with dread.
"Then we run out of time faster."
The chamber fractured into chaos.
Raised voices. Slamming fists. Denials. Accusations. Someone barked about sabotage. A cabinet minister stood halfway, pale and shaking, as if preparing to leave the room and never return.
Albus didn't flinch.
"Sit. Down."
His voice sliced through the uproar like a scalpel. Razor-edged. Final.
And they did.
He didn't thank them. Just turned back to the display.
"Now," he said coolly, "here's where it gets strange."
Another diagram unfolded—this one a projection model. The red line arced outward, consistent with the planet's decay. But a second trajectory—a blue one—split off just slightly inward. An unexpected deviation.
"This divergence began the day before yesterday."
Silence.
Then the Prime Minister leaned forward, voice tight. "Excuse me—what did you say?"
"It started two days ago," Albus repeated. "A shift in orbital behavior. Unpredicted. Unexplained. It slowed the drift."
"Why wasn't I informed?" the Prime Minister snapped. "Something this critical happens, and you wait until now?"
"Because we didn't catch it until yesterday," Albus said. "The change was nearly invisible. It didn't trigger alerts until several independent arrays flagged the same anomaly post-facto. We checked, cross-referenced, and confirmed. This was real."
He zoomed in—magnifying the kink in the orbital arc. It was minuscule. But unmistakable.
George inhaled sharply.
The day before yesterday…
That was when he arrived.
With his [RECORD].
And now the planet—X-12—was slowing. Just enough to matter.
He said nothing. But his jaw tightened. The timing was no coincidence.
Albus continued pacing, each step measured like a ticking clock.
"We ruled out solar winds. Planetary alignment. Gravitational shears. None fit. This wasn't natural. It wasn't accidental. It wasn't human."
He turned to face them.
"But whatever it was, it intervened. It altered planetary motion. Not reversed. Not stopped. Just… slowed."
Silence.
The air hung heavy. Even the loudest voices now sat mute, hollow-eyed, staring at the orbit map like it might swallow them.
---
George sat motionless, but his thoughts surged like a rising tide.
Two days ago.
That was when he arrived on X-12.
With his [RECORD].
And the planet's drift had slowed that exact day.
It wasn't proof—no chart, no formula—but he felt it in his gut. The kind of knowing that didn't need evidence, just presence. The RECORD… was anchoring the planet. Like a weight on a spinning top, nudging the wobble just enough to matter.
He stared at the orbit projection and frowned.
'Great,' he thought. 'Come in for a quiet consultancy gig, end up gravity-gluing a dying planet back into orbit. Classic overachievement'
He crossed his arms, sinking lower in his seat as the scientists and suits argued over planetary death.
'Why the hell am I even here? I'm a psychologist. I read trauma. Interpret behavior. Tell people their father didn't hug them enough. I do not diagnose celestial drift.'
A slight twitch in his jaw.
'Did I miss a memo? Did they upgrade my job to space therapist?'
He eyed the chaos in the chamber—red-faced generals, panicking ministers, and Albus Reif commanding the floor like he was delivering the last lecture before the apocalypse.
'God, I hope they're not expecting me to chime in. What would I even say? 'Hi, yes, I believe the planet is experiencing detachment issues and should consider setting better boundaries with the sun.'
His gaze dropped to his hands.
He hadn't meant to affect anything. He hadn't even known he could. The RECORD had always responded to places, people, pressure. But this... this was a planet.
A planet.
'Maybe next time, just book a therapist for the planet, not the one carrying a karmic singularity in his chest.'
Still, he couldn't ignore it.
That shift in orbit? That was him. Or rather, the presence of the RECORD. Rooted in the world like a seed that never asked where it landed.
If he extended it further… could he stop the drift?
The thought came gently. Not as hope—more like an invitation to madness.
Extending the RECORD meant embedding deeper. Becoming part of the world. He'd done it before. But a planet? That wasn't just reckless. That was commitment.
'I didn't even finish unpacking'
He let out a slow breath, watching the Prime Minister bark questions and Albus field them like a surgeon with no time for anesthesia.
'I wonder if there's a form I need to sign for this. 'Informed Consent: planetary stabilization via accidental existential mass.'
His thoughts circled.
How far would I have to go?
How much would I have to give?
And why, of all people in this room full of military brass and scientific brilliance, was he—a therapist—silently considering threading his soul through a planet's core?
He wasn't sure what unsettled him more: the fact that the RECORD could do it…
…or that a part of him was already willing to try.
The shouting hadn't stopped.
Albus stood stoic at the front, refusing to shout over them. The Prime Minister was arguing with a defense official. Someone mentioned evacuation protocols. A few were already on there last straw, barking rapid commands to aides who weren't even in the room.
George leaned back, elbows on the table, fingers steepled in front of his chin.
Then he began to tap.
Slow.
Soft.
Deliberate.
Just the pads of two fingers—tap… tap-tap… tap… tap-tap—against the smooth, black surface of the obsidian table.
At first, no one noticed. But the sound carried—just enough to slip between voices. Like a metronome in the chaos.
The rhythm was… serene.
Unnatural, almost. Like the pulse of something older than panic. A pattern that didn't belong to fear.
A few heads turned. Brows furrowed.
George didn't look up. His gaze stayed on the hologram. On the slight kink in the orbital path.
Tap… tap-tap… tap…
The voices dulled. Not instantly. But like waves losing steam against an invisible shore.
Even Albus glanced back.
By the third round of tapping, the chamber was quiet.
No commands. No accusations. Just stillness.
George finally looked up. Calm. Detached. Like he hadn't just pulled the emotional rug out from under fifty world leaders with two fingers and a pocketful of karma.
He broke the silence, voice mild. "Is this where I ask how everyone's feeling?"
A few stared. One minister blinked, as if just waking from a trance.
Albus studied him for a long second. Not hostile. Not confused.
Just calculating.
George gave a small shrug. "Sorry. Force of habit."
He let his hands rest, palms down.
But the calm lingered
Weight of his word lingered
For a moment, the chamber was aligned.
And as the orbit map spun in quiet rotation above them, George exhaled, low and even.
"Let's not waste the silence."
---