It was, by all accounts, supposed to be a beautiful turn of the new year.

The world was holding its collective breath, waiting to usher in a fresh new year and what would hopefully, finally be an end to the coronavirus. In some countries, New Year’s celebrations had already come and gone, with tired participants either sound asleep in bed, or performing some of their finest Irish yoga. In some countries, individuals were already enroute to their hopefully socially-distanced gatherings. Where I lived, we were still quietly waiting for the rest of the day to pass by, savouring what was left of another weekend that would feel far too short.

And then the sun went out.

The sun alone might not have been a huge cause for concern. After all, The Outage only lasted three hours and forty-seven minutes. Folks would have been frightened, sure, but life would have continued on. Across the pond, it apparently just looked like the moon winked out for a time. I imagine that most would have been too caught up in the revelry—or its lethargic aftereffects—to tell. Scientists would have made a stink about going off orbit or some such, but it seems we’re still spinning ‘round, 24 hours to a day and all that. Really, the whole thing should have been fairly inconsequential, all things considered.

But the sun took with it electricity, and that’s where humanity collectively lost its mind.

It wasn’t just the main power grid: back-up generators, closed-loop systems; nothing that conducted a charge worked. It was like the concept of a “current” ceased to exist. Every city across the world went dark. Ironically some of the more “low-tech” fireworks displays that were manually triggered instead of using computer-run time-delayed fuses continued without a hitch, and were probably all the more beautiful in absence of the surrounding light pollution.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The “old reliable all-American gas guzzlers,” as my dad used to call them, kept on going albeit without the use of their headlights. The new wave of electric vehicles coasted until the drivers had the presence of mind to slam on the brakes. And it was a complete coin toss whether the power steering systems were electric or hydraulic. Some very unfortunate drivers coasting a turn suddenly found their steering wheels all but inoperable.

Lots of different places had it rough, but it was an absolute nightmare for hospices, hospitals, and nursing homes. I don’t really know medicine, but I’d imagine that going three minutes without life support is probably fatal, let alone three hours. No one really had the presence of mind to worry about that once the lights came back on though.

The Outage accomplished one thing: it unified humanity in an unprecedented way. We had never been so alike. No matter where you were, you were either asleep, dead or dying, or losing your mind. Plenty of people thought it was the end of times, and took to an incredibly short-lived life of crime. Some lost themselves in prayer, believing that The Outage was a sign from God—or the Devil—depending on the religion. But three hours and forty-seven minutes later, the sun came back, bringing with it electricity and sanity.

As people soon came to realize, there were far grimmer repercussions than the casualties that occurred when the sun went out. For three hours and forty-seven minutes, a host of impossible things were happening behind the scenes. The Outage had completely changed the world. While the sun was out, it was as if some god rolled an enormous, cosmic die. There were no winners, only losers. Most folks either got horribly, horribly unlucky, or lived to watch it all play out.

I was one of the few who entered a third group, who became something more than human.

And I regret it to this day.