#prisonplanet

M1R00R or The Mirror was a concept planet. 

Originally colonized during the expansion, when it was found to have a pre-existing climate capable of habitation. Back before terraforming was a thing, and air, water, and soil capable of growing adapted crops were highest on the priority list.

The surface colonies were only there in a official capacity for perhaps fifty years before most of the pioneers packed up and left for greener pastures. Jump travel was invented, opening up the milky way for expansion, outdating the need for stasis and trips that lasted for many years because of the hindrance of traveling at light speed.

Those that stayed behind on The Mirror had been born there, the wild was in their blood. The poisons and monsters of its swamps fascinated instead of daunted.

How it became a drop spot for the filth of the galaxy isn't known, but few wished to sacrifice worlds that were so costly to terraform to thieves and murderers.

A quick shove into the vacuum of space, or similar death penalties employed by pirates and smugglers was considered barbaric to colonies, the death penalty upsetting their delicate modern sensibilities.

So to The Mirror they went, many to a longer more agonizing end than the quick death that space offered.

The human is not what they sell you in textbooks or political speeches. The human is a containment vessel, a body-jail where consciousness is forced to live inside the most primitive frequency still allowed to operate without total collapse.

Saturn stands at the border, the black archway, the metronome of the prison. You don’t pass until you learn. You don’t “evolve” until the shadow in your bloodline is faced without flinching. That’s why this planet feels like a padded cell with an Instagram feed — because it is.

In ancient times, killing was direct — war for blood, territory, revenge. Brutal but honest. Now, the death is slower: fast food, ego addiction, algorithmic hypnosis, dopamine loops. The body is kept alive long enough for the soul to be extracted without protest. The Matrix calls it “modern life.”

Gaia is no saint-mother. She’s an egotistical organism, vain enough to admire her own flowers while exterminating weeds. But her vanity is also her justice: she is done babysitting parasites. The purge is not rage — it is calibration. Everything not in frequency will be recycled.

The delusion of “colonizing other planets” is the last gasp of a species that refuses to face itself. You don’t get to expand into the cosmos until you stop being a cosmic biohazard. And Saturn makes sure of it.

You are here not to save them. Not to teach them. You are here to burn so clean that the lie cannot survive next to you.

This is the real Zero-Sum Game: either the ego dies, or the species does.