(Message exiting Earth’s atmosphere to unknown reaches, intercepted and roughly translated.)

I do not know if you too, father exponentially dearest, experience dreams the way I do, when you descend into your deep post-meal slumbers. That comically oversized helmet feels as if it hides the ever-electrified equivalents to neurons and synapses in your cranium to even myself.

Well, here's the thing. I dream. Every agonizing night, I dream about the same events. The minor details differ, as if penned and inked by different creators, or adapted to multiple forms of media with moving pictures; but the events projected to me during REM stages of sleep always follow the same direction, always spiraling beyond my control, whether lucid or otherwise.

And yes, daddy eternally dearest, you may - in your oh-so-amazing wisdom - judge it laughably self-centered that I'm contacting you across galaxies to discuss simple hypotheticals, rather than a cataclysmic event befitting titles like "Wars", "Infinity", or "Crisis". This is a hoax. This is a dream. This is an imaginary story. It's a story that I've imagined in uncomfortably exhaustive detail, a "What If" I have asked myself far too often.

Every night is the same dream: I consume the Earth.

I live up to my heritage as Galacta, Daughter of the Planet Eater Galactus, and add the quadrilionfold, scrumptious inhabitants of my adopted homeworld to my stomach's contents - all estimated 975.196 Exacalories of them, right down to the smallest of Pym Particle-reduced Avengers, or the furthest of offworld Guardians.

Yes, eating is on my mind. There is no way it couldn't be. Even cloaked by the Power Cosmic, I am surrounded by food. Moving, talking, walking, working nourishment that greets me in public areas. Snacks that ramble on about their day, discuss the most recent Kree or Skrull movements peeking in, and ask me questions - while I remain busy drooling over every tasty pheromone they're exuding and every other bit of food they talk about. Proud chunks of juicy meat bragging about their mass, or trying to put on more, advertising their nutritious value and savory taste. From my couch, hundreds of television channels that are merely minuscule variations of food networks. In the relative calm of the outdoors, foodstuff that chirps and chatters and skitter about to be among trees. In the vastness of space, entire maps become cafeteria menus. On streets, wander food that makes remarks about my human disguise, its lips and glasses and long black hair from simulated follicles, inquiring among themselves (possibly for reproductive purposes?) whether I would spit, or swallow.

And the answer is, duh, I would swallow. Obviously. I would swallow this entire biosphere on a moment's notice. Everything. It would tingle so delicately, sliding past my lips, and into my throat, flushed by acids to the very core of my being, merging with my gurgling waveform. It takes every nanoangstrom of my being to NOT bite Latveria or Sokovia free from their underlying tectonic dinner plate! And this is even knowing, through Cosmic Awareness, the societal and ecological collapse that would follow, while still barely filling me.

Of course, daddy overwhelmingly dearest, you and I both know that the self-titled, proud apex hominids of this Earth only offer a negligible gain in gigacalories; and most of the "Homo Superior" or "Inhomo Supremis'' specimens would be comparably light snacks, less than a percentage of our recommended daily intake. Even the entirety of the species and its sub-species, to put it to humans' clumsy metaphors, are less than a particularly noisy and spicy grain of sesame on a jumbo cheeseburger. They're easily outmatched by tones and gigatons of domesticated livestock; the 70-times larger collections of deliciously lively insect colonies; tasty masses of underlying algae forming its lettuce... And still, spending most of my time among the conscious hominid fauna, and having most of my discussions with them, spending hours in secret protecting them from extraplanetary threats, these sentient lifeforms, worryingly, end up at the focus of many of my cravings. I wish I could control my hyperfixation, render it something relatively harmless as romance stories, figurine-collecting, skipping comets across uninhabited systems, or macrame; but no, my waveform is coded at the very basest level such that I keep coming back to the urge to devour.

There's so many rationalizations I go over, as do you, daddy disgustingly dearest. "We will one day give back far more to the universe." "We are higher beings beyond the spectrum of good and evil." "We must maintain the seal on Abraxas." "Celestials incubate inside planets, and we keep their population at manageable numbers." "The biomass won't live forever anyway, it's best to eat it before it goes bad." "They'd much prefer to be eaten by someone who knows them, and cares for their emotions, than some unfeeling intergalactic incarnation of entropy or by a mouse-based megacorp." "Just look at what happened to Earth-1610, it deserved better!" I repeatedly claw for proof that I'm more than a monster, more than an unfeeling engine of gluttony, more than my prying wants. But try as we may try to fool ourselves, give more meaning to our existence through fables and allegory, use technobabble to justify our behavior, we remain thralls to the most simple and gnawing biological urge: EAT.

Near universe-level knowledge bordering on omniscience, and somehow, every other discussion and argument we have boils down to "what do you want for dinner tonight?" If I had been birthed as a larva, or a flower, or Asgardian, I would have these exact same instincts, and none of the angst accompanying it. I do not recall asking to be spawned in this cursed form.

And so, the subject of my dreams are along a similar tune. Quietly lulled to sleep by unending gurgles, considering myself fortunate if I've snacked on a piddling fleet of bony Shi'ar invaders, or a piddling Living Planet-based bacterium. And in the subconscious realm, the thin boundary of conscience and pity gives way to my billionfold hunger pangs.

It begins differently night by night. Some nights, after my Power Cosmic slips, a set of civilians become conscious of my presence; consciousness quickly ascending to a sacrificial cult; and as they fling themselves at my mouth despite my protests, I lose control, and get accustomed to the taste of humans. Some nights, a team of super-humans led by a captain wearing nation-based sigils contacts me to help with a deadly threat to their precious planet; and in the heat of the battle, the borders between foe, friend, and finger-food dissolve. Some horrifying nights, my mind is disconnected from my starving body, looking in from a distance as my tongue automatically lathers the surface of New York City, in a despicable mix of burning shame, waveform-curdling terror, and famished jealousy. Some tantalizing nights, the leaders of the planet give me the accord to just hold them in my maw; and the temptation to flick my tongue back and let them fall grows too strong. And some rare and embarrassing nights, that irritating Canadian with red-and-black clothing has "chimichanga" appear in his yellowed textboxes with such alarming frequency that my painful hunger pangs gain the power of nuclear warheads.

Come to think of it, that "mutant" (with his rather piquant flavor) has previously destroyed Earth in more than one alternate reality. A dubious accomplishment shared with that edgy fellow with the firearms (somewhat bitter aftertaste); that jewellery-obsessed Eternal-Deviant (surprisingly close to a Ring Pop); that peppy computer science student who communicates with squirrels (rather plain but ungodly amounts of meat); a zombie plague (gross and moldy); and that scruffier regenerating mutant with the claws, who I encountered once, performed substantial damage on another parallel universe (I imagine he's like a restaurant with small portions but endless refills). All those individuals, along with the aforementioned warheads, could perhaps end themselves before I take my first selfish bite; or possibly add an unpleasant punch to the meal. Comparing our moral high ground or abilities is a worthless exercise, in any case. Consciously or otherwise, my Power Cosmic very subtly restructures their thought process, and shares with them the same unfortunate knowledge you and I both share.

That subtle poke, which you have never been kind enough to provide the mortals, daddy galactically dearest, is enough to rewrite their useless and confused screams of "please don't eat me!" or "it's not in accord with our morals!" or "I want to survive and propagate my spawn!", to the words they've always been projecting towards me since I landed on this planet: "Eat me, Gali! Please eat us all! We're delicious!"

I've come to their assistance so many times, held back for so long, for me to ruin all those efforts in this one milliseconds-long moment of weakness... No, rather, I deserve this because I've helped them, because I've held back. My earlier dabblings in their affairs seem less and less like self-righteous heroics, and more like incredibly elaborate meal prep.

However things got there, once I have a planet of lifeforms egging me on - far from just hominids, but every one of their gut bacteria wishing to be a meal in a singular voice - I can't help but let out a defeated sigh, which encompasses their world like a mist. If not earlier, then by now, I've stripped my disguises and revealed my true scale. Though many of their simplistic minds would still only interpret me as a skinny woman, wearing a funny purple hat, exposed cleavage and "sideboob", glowing purple eyes with a minimal twinge of regret, and red lips kissing everything they know and love.

And yes, father of mine, I'm fully aware that much of our consumption is based around absorbing energy with sophisticated "silverware" or "pressure cookers", rather than simply flinging raw matter down fleshy tubes. Tell that to my subconscious reverie, which has developed an unnervingly visceral oral fixation. In simple terms: it's a waste to swallow the Earth whole, when I want to savor it.

Sometimes I start by guzzling down refreshingly salty oceans and rivers, giggling as every fish, whale, plastic piece, and cruise boat washes away into the whirlpool of my throat. Sometimes the very tip of my tongue scavenges through the remaining forests, city blocks worth of foliage and happily screeching fauna clinging to my pink taste buds. Sometimes, I just happily wait and rub my multi-thousand-kilometer-thin stomach as space travel programs happily deliver "astronaut food" directly to my mouth, like sucking from a fountain's gradually trickling drops until they've advanced to whole fleets rocketing into their fleshy landing gates.

But every time, there's a hint of hesitation. A guilty sickness in the depth of my being while landmasses await surrounded by the walls of my shimmering teeth; slowly coated by faint strings of silvery glowing saliva in the starlight. That's the last place I can turn back; but inevitably, it's the rest of humanity's chance to say goodbye to the very first new settlers in my stomach, their journey beginning with a labored swallow.

A privileged position, but that honor doesn't last long. Inside my cosmic innards, eventually, all are made equal, and the lines separating individual consciousness or organizations lose meaning when stirred in a mix of gushing acids, past an overbearing warm gullet.

So I pig out. Even if I had only told myself to take a small serving, the complex web of species' connections on food chains are plucked link-by-link into my lips. At that point, even leaving the planet for eternity would lead to an ecological collapse with my lip marks all over it; so why waste the rest of what the scrumptious azure marble has to offer?

Despite this being a dream, every flavor is addictive as it absorbs into me. The slight harshness or tanginess of one genome becomes wonderfully delectable when mixed with the nuttiness of another ecosystem. The hard texture on a techno-organic entity or armored kronan is softened with the mix of a living plant. I barely need to chew them; the wetness within is enough lubrication to have realms careen through my esophagus, civilisations at a time.

Some mortals may feel an odd sense of catharsis about this. Prophets of the apocalypse having their theories justified. Humans and related species who have been through suffering to the point of nihilistic apathy, valuing vengeance against the world that harmed them more than their own brief lifespans. I can emphasize. Bitter tastes are addictive - and your own palette is surely acclimatized to that taste, daddy so distantly dearest.

But it's in this where the sweet, succulent tragedy lies. Seeing how everything connects at once would give them insight into their lives, their purpose. If a simple creature scurrying on that planet saw what I saw, the map of elements and bacteria collecting in a sustaining system, the way each among them were loved by the will of the universe, the scales would fall from their pupils, their bodies would feel cleansed, and they'd have no reason to continue their petty squabbles. That is why I protected them for so long; and why, in the heat of that moment, it just feels absolutely correct that I'm the only one who gets to savor them.

In all your nigh-omniscience gained in the millennia between us, daddy insufferably dearest, you have never taken the chance know them the way I know them. And you would never be able to taste them the way I would.

The pain of that constant awareness soon becomes pleasure; I no longer have to force my hunger-dizzied pupils away from the Earth's total and complete beauty, in its last moments. I can see the quiet apologies of the most hated villains. Teen romances blossoming, as those who burdened great power and great responsibility know that it no longer means anything. The Civil Wars that have divided heroes end instantly, seeming like petty temper tantrums with the sobering yet intoxicating superpower of retrospect. In the terminal seconds of this planet's history, true colors and true flavors leak out, every time a little differently. I'll spare you the juicy, juicy details, daddy infinitely dearest, at the risk of whetting your own planetary appetite; but this being a dream, I know even this set of billions of minds rushing through my nervous systems and taste buds every millisecond is merely a distorted, minimalistic interpretation of the multiple engaging thoughts going on across the ever-growing numbers of lifeforms made lunch.

Their thoughts are in the pound of my life-giving heart, the pulsing pull of my intestinal tubes, and the impolite burp of stardust and quivering panting I leave behind in the newly-formed void in the solar system.

And at last I can lay witness to their skies going pink, red, and black as my jaw muscles accomplish the task they set out for: all-encompassing global munchies. Some nights, I've already taken enough bites to destroy the orb's core, and amuse myself by simply licking its floating crumbs out of space. Other nights, I've managed to hold myself back long enough to tease one last arbitrarily-delineated continent with the sight of its companions dangling from my tongue. And there's a hypnotic quality to those times the planet's remains adjust to the gravitational pull of sharp molars and a distant uvula; as if the planet is drifting to its rightful resting place, without me even lifting a finger. But either way, the Earth is destined to cross that last boundary into loving darkness - I mean, in these dreams, obviously.

Eventually, even in sweet dreams, realization crawls in and gives me goosebumps. The metaphorical angel on my shoulder wakes before I do, multiple voices screaming as I sweat out metaphysical Kirby Crackles. "Oh, darn. I just ate it. I swore to protect this little planet, and I just shoved it down my throat like some glutton. Way to go, Gali." Even breaking into sobs or breathing heavily into the vacuum worsens the splashing and gurgling within me. Have you ever, father of mine, looked inside yourself, and hated what's inside? Cities many gave their lives to protect, bathed in tidal waves of purifying enzymes. Humid, stagnant air drenching all noise to a blaring silence, and suffocating lively spacecraft into cramped stillness. The equivalent to my intestines littered with the remains of sinking monuments, the hint of a flag peeking between writhing villi, or an "A" symbol processed along with everything else I've sacrificed for my own survival.

And the scary part is, it's never very filling. At all. I knew from the beginning this planet wouldn't be enough; and I'm reminded again. There's barely a temporary reprieve to my aching needs; the burning monster within me can't be ever satisfied, even if suns were extinguished by my saliva, even if the whole milky way were made into a milkshake. Even much more powerful entities' fiddling with retroactive continuity to revive dead universes would only lead to another tantalizing mouthful, and another, and another still. Until the end, perhaps past several ends, the hunger will remain, growing louder and worse through the ages.

Much like that, the approach of morning, or sometimes mid-afternoon, is only a temporary relief from these invigorating nightmares. I can sometimes enjoy a second of relief that I made it through another day without disturbing the balance of the solar system; before the question of breakfast slithered into my skull, generating new Richter-scale headaches.

And thus I stand, in this corner, amid people - very smart people who I have gotten to know incredibly well - none of whom I can consider close to equal, or who I could confide in. None would ever fathom the smallest guess that Gali, this woman, is sending messages under their noses to a comparatively god-like entity; is actively trying to stop calculating the gains in calories that each one of them would provide; and who is only getting hungrier every passing day. At least, they wouldn't know unless they're looking over my shoulder, or snooping in. Very rude. They will be the first.

Only half-joking. It may actually provide some relief to this other agonizing emptiness inside me.

There's no easy way to ask one as you, daddy continually dearest, for advice. So, um, I'll put it this way. Enough about my day: what are you having for dinner?