One thing I’ve never liked about subways is how terribly disorienting they are. You descend into one part of the city and pop up in another without knowing which way is what, like one of those green warp pipes in Mario.

It’s especially strange when you’re traveling from the outskirts of a city. One second, you’re trapped in an alleyway behind a brick apartment and some weeds, the next you’re lost amid a forest of looming skyscrapers as busy pedestrians shoulder into you. For the directionally-inept, like myself, it’s very difficult to process.

We ascend to street-level to find ourselves in another plaza. This one is in the shape of a semicircle and lined with bulbous structures rich with summer tones like turquoise, lavender, and orange. Not a single building looks normal. They’re all dysfunctionally round. It feels as though I’m standing inside a corporate gift basket, squished among the melons, flowers, and questionable cheeses.

At the flat end of the plaza sits the convention center. At least, my map says it’s the convention center, though it doesn’t look like any I’ve ever seen.

Have you ever used an apple wedger? You know, that handy kitchen tool that slices the apple into eight perfect segments with the core isolated in the center? That’s what this looks like. Eight waxy red wedges blooming from a singular white pillar, like an apple freshly cored by a soccer mom.

Outside the building, it’s an unorganized shitshow. Thousands of people - some showered, some still very bloody - crowd the entrance, which seems to be lodged in the central core. Level 50 security guards shout over the chaos as they attempt to direct people inside.

We join the surging crowd as more survivors file in behind us. Like herded cattle, we shuffle forward, noise buzzing around us. A few minutes later, the entrance passes overhead, and we make it inside.

Given that the center of the building is a thin cylindrical core, there isn’t much to the lobby. It’s a plain round room surrounded by eight towering doorways leading to each of the showrooms. In the center is a transparent globe. I think it’s some kind of receptionist desk, but it’s hard to see through the mass of people. Above the globe is just fifty feet of empty space.

“Hey Luce, I’m headed that way!” I shout over the noise. “I’ll see you after?”

“Yeah.” She stands on her tip-toes and searches the room. “I think I’m over there. Showroom 8. See you after.”

“Good luck!”

She throws her arms around me and squeezes. Before I have a chance to react, she pulls back and washes away in the crowd.

I filter into the current heading toward door number 6. When I pass through the doorway, I trip on a set of steps, then pass through another doorway where, finally, the throng disperses into the showroom.

The event space, dare I say, is horrifyingly corporate. It’s wide and brightly lit with harsh, fluorescent lights. Twenty rows of eighty seats each face a raised platform. On the platform is a podium and a retractable banner that says “Welcome”.

At the back of the room - I shit you not - is a buffet table, complete with little plates and napkins, charcuterie boards, trays of pastries and tea sandwiches, heated chafing dishes, and - my favorite - a single glass vase with a single peach carnation.

A year after I ditched law school, back when I thought I could get my life back on track, I spent three months interning at a paralegal office, and we had a meeting in an event hall just like this, albeit one-tenth the size. A week later, I had a nervous breakdown and ended up in a psych ward, but that’s another story.

Either way, if the aliens in charge didn’t legit tractor beam this shit up in the middle of some annual company meeting, I would be shocked.

I don’t know how much time we have until the whole thing starts. There don’t seem to be any of those official-looking Level 50s ready to pounce on the podium, so there’s still some time. Half the seats are taken. A lot of people are still filing in. Only a few people are taking advantage of the food.

I meander over to the buffet, and my mouth instantly salivates. The ice cream from the grocery store is the last thing I ate. For all I know, this is the last normal food I’ll ever see.

Stomach rumbling, I load up a plate with strawberries, pineapple slices, a club sandwich, and a small chocolate danish. It feels strange to just stand there and chow down - which, given how I started today, is a real blow. I was so perfectly shameless back then. Now I’m trapped in some corporate charade, and I couldn’t feel more out of place.

I grab a chair at the end of a row and bite into a strawberry, immediately squirting red juices down my front. When I dab a napkin on the mess, it just smears the dots into big splotches. Great. Just great. At least the hotel has a magic laundry microwave. Until then, I guess I should just enjoy the fact that I’m not still caked in blood.

Over the next ten minutes, the rest of the seats fill in. A small cluster of Level 50s enter the room. Finally, the lights dim as a spotlight shines on the platform and a woman steps up to the podium.

Like the other Level 50s I’ve seen - aside from Phinny the primate -, the woman has a large nose, wide mouth, and a short forehead. But again, her ancient human aesthetic stops there. Sunwashed blonde hair travels down her shoulders in a cascade of ringlets, and she’s wearing a sparkling leotard with out-of-control puffy sleeves. I’m pretty sure this is what qualifies as fashionable in this world. For all I know, she’s some kind of celebrity.

She stands with her shoulders back, her glossy lips curved into a practiced smile. Her eyelashes are outrageous. They have to be fake. Even her nails are manicured. If someone told me the apocalypse would be full of cosmetics and corporate speak, I would have just let the matriarch eat me.

“Good afternoon, everyone! Welcome to the official Global Initiation Meet & Greet Orientation. We are so pleased you have made it this far and would like to congratulate you on your courage and tenacity. So far, our numbers show that nearly 8,000,000 of your fellow man have arrived at this point, with an estimated total success rate of almost 21,000,000. Well done!”

The Level 50s all smile as they give an obligatory clap. Their audience gapes at them. Most look bewildered. Some look downright furious.

“So without further ado, let me introduce myself! I’m Crin, the Co-Head of the Global Initiation Committee and proud vassal to the House of Pinelock, this center’s namesake. Today, we are going to give you a brief history on the Global Initiation, what it means to participate, and how we are here to help you be the best you can be!”

“Now, let me be clear. Due to the amount of time allotted and the fact that I’m sure you all are very exhausted, we’re going to keep this as brief as possible. If you’d like to know more, please refer your queries to the Index or visit one of the many libraries designed for your perusal. This iteration’s residents, designated by their ‘Level 50’ title, may also assist, if they are so inclined.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“So, who are we, what is the Global Initiation, and what happens to you and your planet now that it has begun?”

A holographic projection appears beside her. It’s hard to say exactly what it is. There’s a lot of rings and a lot of domes and something that looks akin to an engine. Maybe a spaceship? Or a space station?

“We are the interplanetary conglomeration known as the Volese Assimilation. That’s right! You are not alone in this universe. But contrary to the prediction of your theorists and television shows, we all belong to the taxonomic family of primates known to you as hominids. Sorry, no little green martians, everyone! It’s just us.”

She chortles at her own joke. No one else does.

“Anywho,” she says, gesturing to the image floating beside her, “This is one of our many homes currently floating amongst the stars. I believe this is the… the Synergy 2?”

She glances at her Level 50 cohorts. One of them shrugs.

“Well. They weren’t always our homes. Once upon a time, we had a planet to call our own. You see, tens of millions of years ago, we humans evolved on a distant planet known as Vole. As our species is wont to do, we evolved and we created a vast civilization that spanned the globe. Sadly, as our species is also wont to do, we made the planet less and less hospitable to life.”

“Thus, we formed an evacuation plan. We built spaceships, and we created what I believe you would call an ‘Ark,’ a container housing every species of flora and fauna that we could gather.”

“But before we left, the strangest thing happened. Great monsters rose from the depths. Terrible creatures, amalgamations of species we’d long forgotten about, began to tear down our cities and destroy our people.”

“Thus, we fled to the stars, and we searched for another world to call our home. However, we didn’t trust ourselves. If we found another planet, would we destroy it as well? Was human civilization destined to end in ruin? Was our greed, our competitive spirits, our violent natures fated to destroy us?”

Around me, people shift in their seats. There’s a guy toward the front who keeps popping out of his chair, only for someone to pull him back down. He’s clearly chomping at the bit to rush the stage, though who knows what he’d do once he got there. He probably doesn’t know either.

I have to admit this all seems pretty galling to force us into a lecture about humanity’s faults when they just made us run through a gauntlet of horrors. Galling and kind of incredulously funny. Like Gal Gadot singing “Imagine.”

An image of a galaxy appears.

“Thus we began the Grand Experiment,” our host continues. “We implanted thousands of habitable worlds with thousands of hominid subjects - as well as planet-customized evidence of natural evolutionary processes. We didn’t want you thinking you were dropped here supernaturally, of course.”

Ouch, creationists.

“And yes, that means your planet’s history has been a little bit, shall we say, fudged. For instance, our records show that you actually had dinosaurs until only three million years back. So not sixty-five million years ago, as your textbooks indicated. We had to fumble with the evidence a bit. Remove fossils. Plant new ones. I think you had some religious debate regarding that. We do apologize.”

“Anyhow, after distribution, we put ourselves in stasis so that the experiment could bear fruit. Roughly 800,000 years later, one of our seeded planets finally grew its first fully fledged civilization! We woke up and watched with anticipation as these new humans built settlements, developed cultures, and learned the wonders of art and language. And within just five thousand years, they destroyed the planet as well.”

“It happened again and again. Almost every planet we sowed succumbed to ruin. Most civilizations died out. Others, like the Volese, managed to flee.”

“At first, we felt immensely guilty. After all, we knew this would probably happen. So, dozens of failed experiments later, we decided we could watch no longer. We decided to intervene.”

“First, we attempted to lead civilizations away from destruction, but the people never listened. Then we tried evacuating them, but the people revolted. Finally, we tried waiting until there were only a few thousand survivors left before offering refuge. But those that agreed to evacuate their home planets never quite assimilated to Volese society. Their diverging evolutionary paths made them outcasts. But more than that, they hated us for waiting.”

“So now you’re thinking, ah, that’s why we invented the Global Initiation. That’s why you’re in the game of your lives, fighting for survival. We put you on Earth, you destroyed the planet, and now before you all go extinct, we’re making you compete for a ticket into the Volese Assimilation.”

“Well, that’s… half-true. You see, even more problematic than our failed attempts at intervention was a single common denominator that we had not anticipated: the monsters. Every single planet that hominids began to destroy was first overridden by monsters. Giant man-eating plants, water elementals, bat creatures. And why? Well, as it turns out, we hominids are not the only intelligent life in the universe.”

An image of the Earth appears.

“You know, your people almost got it. Gaia. Mother Nature. The Great Spirit. You had countless religions and philosophies dedicated to the notion that your planet is alive.”

“Well. They were right. She is. And she is not happy.”

“That’s why we, the Volese Assimilation, are here. We’re here to save you. And we’ve negotiated the perfect way to do it.”

“But first, a word from Earth’s very own delegate! While the planets cannot speak themselves, we have learned to interpret their internal monologues and translate them into intelligible speech. As part of our contract with each planet participating in the Global Initiation, we assimilated three of your people chosen by Earth to act as delegates and negotiate on the planet’s behalf.”

“Here is one of those three! Mike, the newest vassal to House Umbra, and official delegate of the planet Earth.”

A young ordinary human guy rises from the first row. I can’t examine him which means he registers as a participant, not a Level 50 resident. Hopping onto the platform, he phases through the hovering image of Earth and takes the podium. His jean jacket hangs open, revealing a tan retro shirt with the words ‘Tree Hugger.’ He has twiggy arms and week-old stubble on his chin.

He glances at our host, Crin. She gives a nod. With a shrug, the man leans in to the non-existent microphone.

“Hi. I’m Mike. I have a message from the planet Earth that she wants me to read to you all today.” Fishing a wrinkled sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, he clears his throat. “‘Fuck you, you oil-drilling cunts.’”

With that, he jams the note back into his pocket and returns to his seat.

There’s a long pause. I think Crin expected the message to be a little more involved. As she confers with another Level 50, the audience rumbles with building tension. People bark at one another in harsh whispers. Some sound like they’re completely losing it. It’s all so surreal, like Spike Jonze movie level bizarre.

Crin returns to the podium. “Well, thank you for that, Mike. We appreciate Earth’s cooperation in bringing this iteration of the Global Initiation into-”

A man bursts from his seat. “You 5G-manipulating cucks! We won’t stand for globalist-”

He keels over mid-sentence, crashing into the seats in from of him. Someone screams. A security guard descends from the platform, and people jump to their feet as he barges through the chairs. He grabs the man, and they both teleport away.

For a moment, no one moves. Then the tension boils as the audience erupts into a roar. Someone throws a punch at Mike, the tree hugger. Another guy tries to leap onto the platform and is rebounded by some invisible forcefield. People shout and swear. People cry. A wild pastry catapults across the room.

“Everyone, please!” Crin yells.

The doorway explodes with a squadron of security guards. Two more people go down. As a pair of guards teleports the disrupters away, the rest of the squadron forms a perimeter around the seats.

“Please, there is no need for such displays!” says Crin. “We are here to help you succeed, and outbursts of this nature will only hurt you.”

One of the guards looms right beside me, baton in hand. The wrestling singlet may not be the most intimidating uniform, but it shows off those bulging Level 50 muscles in supreme detail. I mean, forget about cracking walnuts. This guy’s thighs could split a goddamned tree.

As the guards stare us down, the chaos folds into a whimper.

“Thank you,” Crin says. “Now, onto the game of Global Initiation. Who wants to know how to play?”