It Won't Be Long - Season 11

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Roger Glipglorp: “Good evening… This is Roger Glipglorp."
Roger Glipglorp: "Refugees continue to pour into Absalom Station and its surrounding vessels, as the Pact Council guides the Stewards in its galaxy-wide call to retreat around the safety of the Starstone. But it is with great sadness that we must report that the Drift has just gone dark, and that all travel through it is now deemed impossible. The Pact Council has announced that any who were in the Drift at this time should be considered missing, and that they are going to focus our resources on the thousands of ships still waiting in customs."
Roger Glipglorp: "Local mercenaries and militiamen continue to return from a cataclysmic battle in the Boneyard, telling stories of gods fighting gods, oversouls capable of rewriting existence, and the destruction of Pharasma's Spire… We have all felt the strange freedom that has come as a result, and the dread that looms on the horizon. The Pact Council has asked for news sources not to speculate on events in the Boneyard at this time, and has put forth a formal summons to speak with the Dream Team."
Roger Glipglorp: "In other news…"

Roger’s face scrunches up, tears building at the end of his eye stalks, the papers in front of him crumbling as his hands form into fists.

Roger Glipglorp: “Oh, fuck it. Things are going to shit, folks. I don’t know how to dress it up pretty. We live in a dream created by a magical fourteen-year-old boy, and some hero-eating, world-ending cocksucker is trying to kill us all deader than doughnuts. There is no hope that things will go back to the way they were. Too much has been lost, too many have died…”

There is the muted sound of a doorknob being rattled in the distance, and then the pounding of someone trying to kick down a door.

Roger Glipglorp: “Quit fighting each other. Stop keeping secrets. Do what you can to help your neighbor. Do what you can to save your friends. And when those monsters come at us over the horizon — and believe me, they will — pick up a fucking gun and do something about it. The future is in our ha—”

Wood splinters in the background, and then two men in black tactical gear jump at Roger, who dodges the first, and grabs the second by the face. Suddenly, the dopey-looking newsman doesn’t look so dopey, as he smashes his assailant through the table in front of him and into the floor. When he looks up again, his tie and shirt are disheveled, and there is a wild look to his eyes.

Roger Glipglorp: “The future is in our hands. Thank you for tuning in my guys, gals, and non-binary pals. This is Roger Glipglorp, signing off forever.”

The transmission ends, and we step outside this vision for the last time, and go somewhere beyond… A vision full of overwhelming odds, powerful evils, and a small, desperate spark of hope.
We begin on the planet of Jedarat, panning across the broken wreckage of the Tempest. We see Leto Xhao strapped into the passenger’s chair, unconscious and bleeding from the crash, his hands and face laced with magical scars that glow with the purple-pink light of the Drift. Then we hear the crunching of glass, and we follow the sound to the outline of a familiar friend. Anastasia exhales, throwing her helmet on the ground, and looks up at a nearby rise. There, a ruined hotel sits in the center of an unnatural maelstrom, lightning arcing into the building as wind tears away the pieces. But Anastasia looks past this, shock building on her features, as a massive star becomes distant in the sky. Liavara, the mysterious gas planet of the Pact Worlds.
The Dreamer.
We cut away to the ruined fields of the Boneyard, where Pharasma looks out at her palace in defeat. A gentle hand pats her shoulder, and the camera follows her turning head, revealing the face of Kauma Gonjodonque.

Pharasma: “It will never be the same.”
Gonjo: “No, it won’t.”
Pharasma: “It’s a shame that I won’t be there to see it.”
Gonjo: “I’ll do the best I can, Jack.”

Pharasma nods, a single tear falling down her cheek, and then the Lady of Graves crumbles into red sand.
Then we return to the Pact Worlds, where bubble cities and small planets make their way towards the orbiting Armada. Then the camera pulls back, shifting through the thick glass of a starship window, where four figures stare at the last civilization known to man.

Delikul: “How they struggle...”

David Bastion glares at his counterpart, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

David Bastion: “When does it start?”

Three look to one, where Tommen sits in the captain’s chair, fiddling with a paperweight in the shape of a skull.

Tommen: “They’ve already seen us. Push ahead.”

Then the Dark Walkers vanish, sinking into their own shadows, and the camera zooms forward once more, staring at Absalom Station through the glass.
But then the city warps, and the Armada vanishes. The stars change, and the planet of Golarion takes the place of Absalom Station. The high-pitched scream of a child pierces the vision, running cracks through the glass, and the vision fades…