Last night, the world ended. It’s already happened, there’s no point in crying now.
There’s a phenomenon that happens during earthquakes where the pressure and friction of the quake causes solid ground to liquefy, even concrete or asphalt. We watched people sink into sidewalks like quicksand, not even realizing what was happening until it was up to their waists. They looked around in helpless bewilderment and then caught fire, too astonished even to scream as they became human tiki torches rooted in the ground. We saw streets flow like lava, engulfing cars with people entombed inside them. We saw building sized chunks of flaming ice rain from the sky, crushing city blocks and then flash-melting into torrents of boiling water and scalding steam.
There’s only one chance to save it all. We have to go back in time and stop the Demon from awakening. We have to find the Chosen Ones and protect them until they’re ready for the Final Battle.
We won’t survive. There’s no future for us to come back to even if we do. Nobody will know us. Nobody will remember our names. All the glory and honor will belong to them. But without us, it all ends.
So we go. And we sacrifice everything, to save a future we don’t belong to, that will reject us as soon as we succeed, spitting us back into our own timestream to face the apocalypse we can’t prevent. To die ignobly and unsung as the world turns to blood and ash.