Justin Maddox's grip tightened on the phone, his knuckles pale.
"It exploded? When?" His voice was sharp, disbelief cutting through.
"Eleven-something," Jessica said, her words rushing over the line. "About an hour after launch. It's all over the news. Check it out—we'll talk more when we meet."
The call ended with a click. Justin's thumb hovered over the TV remote, then stabbed the power button. CNN flickered to life, the anchor's face grim against a looping video of SpaceY's Starship One.
The rocket roared upward, piercing a pristine blue sky, then cut to grainy orbital footage: Starship One aligning with its fuel tanker, a delicate dance at 550 kilometers.
The anchor's voice was heavy, measured.
"Moments ago, SpaceY's Starship One, one hour and twenty-five minutes into its mission, suffered a catastrophic failure during fuel transfer. The docking procedure failed, triggering an explosion that destroyed both the starship and its tanker."
Justin's eyes locked on the screen, the explosion replaying in brutal slow motion—a blinding fireball erupting in the void, debris scattering like dying stars. His pulse quickened, the image searing into his mind, an echo of the dream that had jolted him awake.
The anchor continued, her tone somber.
"Preliminary data suggests a fuel system malfunction as the likely cause, though investigations are ongoing. The tragedy claimed all one hundred passengers—scientists, engineers, explorers—carrying humanity's hopes for Mars. Alongside them, critical supplies and cutting-edge equipment were reduced to ash, dealing a devastating blow to future missions."
The screen cycled the explosion again, experts' voices layering over the chaos, dissecting the loss. Justin's breath caught. It was exactly like his dream.
He grabbed his phone, fingers flying to open YouTube. His channel loaded—a modest corner of the internet, barely scraping two thousand subscribers. A gamer by trade, he'd chased dreams of riches through Let's Plays and walkthroughs, only to crash against reality: a thousand views per video, two bucks in ad revenue. Disillusioned, he'd quit uploading months ago.
Until two months back. A vivid dream—Starship One exploding in orbit—had spurred him to record a quick video, a rambling account of the vision. He'd tossed it online, barely expecting a ripple. It hadn't even cracked a thousand views. He'd walked away, done with it all.
Now, his channel page stopped him cold.
36,200 subscribers.
His jaw dropped. He scrolled to the last video—the dream rant.
100,000 views.
The number ticked upward as he stared, climbing in real time.
He tapped the video, skipping the ad. His own face filled the screen, Sasha sprawled across his lap.
"Hey, folks, been a while," video-Justin said, voice casual. "No game content today. Gotta tell you about this crazy-real dream I had. October 13, SpaceY's Starship One launches. But… it screws up docking with the fuel tanker. Then—boom! It's gone. Just a dream, sure, but it felt so real I woke up shaking, every detail burned in my head. Anyway, hope Starship makes it to Mars someday. Catch you later."
The video ended, under a minute long. Justin refreshed the page.
110,000 views. Two hundred bucks in ad revenue, maybe more.
If it hit ten million… he could be set.
But money wasn't the issue now.
If his last dream came true, what about the one from this morning?
The aurora.
The SUV exploding.
The command center, the solar storm, the G6—a term he'd never heard before.
His mind raced, replaying the dream's fragments.
The man in the military uniform—Secretary of Defense, a face he'd seen on cable news.
Bill, the NASA chief, familiar from TV interviews.
The FEMA guy, less recognizable, but a quick Google search confirmed it: the agency's director.
And Susanna—no insignia, but tied to NERC, the North American Electric Reliability Corporation. A top executive, he found with another search.
"Big players," Justin muttered, a knot of dread tightening in his gut.
The G6 nagged at him.
He opened a new tab, searching solar storm grades.
Pages loaded: geomagnetic storms ranged from G1 to G5, the latter catastrophic—grid failures, satellite damage, auroras stretching to the tropics.
But G6? Nothing. No record.
A new level, capable of triggering an EMP, frying every circuit on Earth, plunging the world into chaos.
Not annihilation, but a step back—a decade, maybe more.
His dream hadn't shown apocalypse. No cities razed, no skies burning. Just disruption, raw and relentless.
Still, he felt powerless. No influence, no tech to stop it.
What could he do?
An idea sparked. A video.
Warn the world, even if half dismissed him as a crank.
Some might listen, prepare.
Plus, with his channel suddenly hot, another video could rake in cash—resources to brace for the storm.
Justin grabbed his phone, propped it on a tripod, and hit record.
He sat, steadying himself, then faced the lens.
"Hey, everyone. Starship One's explosion today… it's rough. Just like I dreamed two months ago, posted right here. Now, I've gotta share another dream—crazy real, from last night. Christmas Day, December 25, a solar storm hits. Bigger than anything we've seen. I saw the president on his knees, praying. A command center—top officials, defense, NASA, FEMA—scrambling as a coronal mass ejection fries everything. Satellites exploding, grids collapsing. They called it a G6. Beyond anything we've faced."
He paused, catching himself. Naming names—Defense Secretary, NASA, FEMA—could draw heat.
He stopped recording, took a breath, and rethought his words.
Safer, broader.
He hit record again.
"Alright, take two. Starship One's gone, just like my dream. Now, last night, I saw something worse. December 25, 2025, a solar storm hits—Christmas Day. The president's praying in the Oval Office. LandSat-7 blows apart when the coronal mass ejection strikes. It's a G6, a new level, triggering an EMP. Everything electronic—dead. Global blackout. I don't want this to come true, but you deserve to know. Prepare, just in case. Stay safe, folks."
He stopped recording, edited the clip with quick cuts, and opened YouTube to upload.
For the title, he needed something bold, urgent.
His dream hadn't specified a year, but pinning it to 2025 would grab eyes, spark panic—maybe save lives.
He typed:
2025 Prophecy! Catastrophic Solar Storm on Christmas! Is the End of the World Coming?
Justin nodded, satisfied.
This one would hit harder, faster.