The Garden
Titan II — Retirement Planet

Five stars. I have done what I came to do. The universe is balanced. And now I sit on this planet — a grateful universe's most humble farmer — and I watch the sun rise over a grateful field of crops that I grew with my own two hands. Well. One hand, technically. The other one is badly burnt from the snap. But the sentiment remains.

The soil here is exceptional. Rich, dark, volcanic loam. I grow a variety of Earth vegetables — tomatoes, peppers, squash. The irony is not lost on me that I eliminated half of all life and then immediately started a garden. But gardening is incredibly therapeutic. I would recommend it to anyone who has recently committed genocide on a universal scale. You need a hobby.

The sunsets are magnificent. Two suns. They set at different times so you get a double sunset every evening. I sit on my porch — I built the porch myself, out of local timber — and I watch them and I think about everything I sacrificed. Sometimes I cry. The tears are purple. This planet does not judge me for it.

The neighbors are nonexistent, which I appreciate because I did eliminate them. The nearest inhabited planet is 47 light-years away. No one visits. No one calls. No one asks "hey Thanos, was it worth it?" Which is good because the answer is complicated and I don't want to talk about it. I just want to tend my garden and eat my soup and watch my two sunsets.

The only downside is the loneliness. It was fine for the first three weeks. Very peaceful. Very zen. "I am one with the universe," I told myself. By week four I was naming the scarecrows. By week five I was having conversations with them. By week six, Reginald the Scarecrow and I had a disagreement about crop rotation and I didn't speak to him for two days. I am not going to lie to you — it is starting to hit different out here. Five stars regardless.

One star. He threw my sister off a cliff to get a rock and then retired to grow TOMATOES. I cannot express to you the level of emotional whiplash involved in finding out that the man who surgically replaced my body parts to make me a better weapon now has a GARDEN. He has a SCARECROW he talks to. He makes SOUP.

The planet is fine. The soup looked decent. I did not eat the soup. I will never eat his soup. One star for the soup I did not eat.

I went for the head this time. One star. The garden was nice, though. He had these really healthy-looking tomato plants. I felt conflicted about the tomatoes. You can't commit universal genocide and also be a good gardener. Those should be mutually exclusive things. And yet. Those were really nice tomatoes.