Other Side Of The Glass

Posted on Sun Mar 8th, 2026 @ 3:39am by Commodore Lucian Marshall

591 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: The Hand That Rocks The Babe
Location: Unknown Subterranean Location.
Timeline: U.S.S. Dreadnought En Route.

The wind was never the problem.

That was the lie we sold them.

“It’s airborne,” It had been said, standing behind tempered glass while markets bled red across ticker tapes. “It’s tragic. Unprecedented. We are doing everything in our power.”

Everything. The word tastes different down here.

The bunker lights never dim. There is no night beneath the earth, only the soft, clinical glow of systems that were tested long before the first cough echoed through a hospital corridor. The filtration units hum in steady rhythm, a mechanical heartbeat. They were installed five years ago.

Five years before the first reported case.

“Casualty projections?” A voice asked.

The woman across the room does not look up from her tablet. She no longer flinches at the numbers.

“Current estimate: forty-two percent global mortality. Climbing.”

Forty-two. We used to argue over single-digit approval ratings.

On the central display, the continents are fractured mosaics of fading signals. Cities wink out like dying stars. Supply chains collapsed within days. Governments followed. It was astonishing how quickly order dissolved once breath itself became suspect.

We learned that during the simulations.

“Have the agricultural zones been… secured?” I ask.

“Yes, Minister.”

Minister.

A title for public consumption. Down here, hierarchy is simpler. Those who knew. Those who didn’t.

Outside the blast doors, the wind claws at the world we curated — the world that required pruning. Eight billion mouths. Eight billion demands. Water tables sinking. Arable land thinning. Economies bloated on endless growth.

Unsustainable.

The word appeared often in our briefings. Unsustainable populations. Unsustainable emissions. Unsustainable expectations. And then the solution presented itself. Not a weapon. Not officially. A correction.

Elegant in its design. Highly transmissible. High lethality. But selective, statistically skewed toward density, poverty, pre-existing strain on resources. The models were exquisite.

We never intended it to spread this far. That is the only part that kept most awake. A tremor ripples faintly through the reinforced structure. Not from outside. From within, the distant echo of something metallic slamming shut.

“Sector C reports unrest,” the woman says, finally meeting my eyes. “Some of the secondary personnel have realized the antivirals were placebos.”

I nod slowly.

Placebos were necessary. Hope maintains order longer than truth.

“And containment?” One man asked.

“In progress.” Another replied.

A pause.

“They’re asking why their families weren’t included in the evacuation lists.”

Of course they are.

Families complicate things. Emotion clouds mathematics. The selection criteria were clear: skill sets essential to rebuilding. Genetic viability. Psychological resilience. Loyalty metrics.

We cannot rebuild civilization on sentiment.

“Remind them of their contracts,” A gruff voice spoke.

The woman gives a faint, humorless smile. “They’ve stopped believing in contracts.” Another tremor. Louder this time. Dust sifts from the ceiling like gray snowfall.

For a fleeting moment, I imagine the bunker cracked open, the doors torn wide by a mob that somehow survived the coughing, the hemorrhaging, the way lungs filled like drowning men on dry land. I imagine their faces when they see us: well-fed, well-rested, preserved.

We told them to stay home. We told them to trust us. We told them the wind was the enemy.

On the main screen, a live feed flickers to life from a city once used to host a climate summit. The skyline is a skeleton. Fires burn unchecked. Bodies lie where they fell, too numerous to bury. The camera tilts upward, catching sheets of dust moving across the streets in slow, apocalyptic waves.

It is beautiful, in a way.

Reduction always is.

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