Subject 402-B is exhibiting a fascinating reaction.

From my vantage point in the eleventh dimension, the third planet of the G-type star looks like a shimmering marble of blue and white. To the inhabitants, it is a world of vast oceans and towering mountains. To me, it is a petri dish.

I have been assigned to monitor the "Awakening Phase." For eons, the creatures on this planet—these fragile, carbon-based bipeds—have existed in a state of blissful ignorance. They built cities, they wrote poems, they fought wars over invisible lines in the dirt. It was a quaint, repetitive cycle, much like the way the Lesser-Mites of the Andromeda nebula organize their fungus gardens.

Then, we sent the Pulse.

It was a simple test, a low-frequency probe designed to see if the species had reached a level of cognitive complexity capable of recognizing non-random patterns. The reaction was instantaneous and predictably chaotic.

I watched with a mild, academic curiosity as their "scientists" began to panic. They interpreted the Pulse as a sign of hope, then as a threat, and finally as a divine judgment. It is amusing how they insist on projecting their own emotional baggage onto a mathematical constant. They speak of "dignity" and "survival," concepts that are as irrelevant to us as the political opinions of a colony of ants.

One particular specimen, a male of the primate species, attempted to "negotiate" with us. He sent a series of signals that he believed were profound philosophical arguments about the value of life. I spent approximately 0.0004 seconds analyzing his message before archiving it under "Primitive Sentimentalism."

The most entertaining part is their attempt to "prepare." They are building walls, stockpiling resources, and forming alliances. They believe that if they can just organize themselves efficiently enough, they can negotiate a treaty with the void. They do not understand that we are not coming to conquer them. Conquest implies a desire for territory or resources.

We are simply clearing the land.

To us, the Earth is a small, cluttered plot of space that needs to be tidied before we can install a subspace relay. The bipeds are not enemies; they are simply debris. You do not negotiate with the dust on your bookshelf; you simply wipe it away.

I have just received the order to initiate the lapping sequence. In a few of their local hours, the atmosphere of the planet will be converted into a plasma state to facilitate the relay's installation.

I watch the specimen—the one who tried to negotiate—as he stands on a beach, looking up at the sky with a look of profound hope. It is a beautiful expression, in a primitive sort of way. I find myself almost tempted to tell him the truth, just to see the look on his face when he realizes that his entire civilization is nothing more than a smudge on a window.

But that would be inefficient. I simply press the button.

*** OTMES-V2: [V-05]-[REALISM]-[M3:6,M8:10,N2:1.0,K2:0.9,TI:60.0,theta:180]