And after the Fenris Wolf devoured the sun, bringing a sudden and permanent darkness to the field of Ragnarok, he turned his fusion-wet muzzle toward the Earth. “Urk,” he whined, his stomach growling with the ferocity his face had worn a moment earlier. “I’m full of apocalypse and plasma. Can I have that one wrapped up for later?” Ares, trotting along on a clattering battlemech and showing a distinct lack of concern for the regional purity of this mythological narrative, handed him a styrofoam clamshell large enough to house the planet with a few side orders of moon. “Enjoy, man. You can reheat it with Alpha Centauri later.” The wolf nodded his thanks, and the two laughed with good-natured glee, their voices built from the harmonies of a few billion screams.

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