Hi Magtok. It's you, from another dimension, and also the past. If you get this message, ****ing pay attention, me. This is the end of the world talking, and you'd do well to learn whatever you can from it, alright? I didn't spend my dying breaths sending this stuff to a parallel Nexus to you just so you could throw it all in a furnace. Two months from now, my brain is probably going to be torn out by a Mi-Go or something because I stopped to write these instead of doing something more constructive, like building new eldritch laser cannons. I'd really appreciate if my letters weren't all written in vain.
Okay, so let's take a step back and start from the beginning. My name is Thomas Godlark, formerly Lord Magtok of AMEN and owner of MagCorp. After what happened to the world, I really don't feel like calling myself a Lord anymore, or even a Magtok. I did, at first, but around a day or two after the star were right, I realized just how stupid pride and ego were. Inside became New R'lyeh, Riverside is now under the jurisdiction of Father Dagon and his frog-faced hybrid children, and I'm still calling myself a supervillain? Mortal, please.
That's beside the point, though. What I'm writing to you about, what I traded a few extra minutes of liberty from the monsters for, is a warning, a cautionary tale. My Nexus split off from yours at the height of Zee's desperate gambit to save the Nexus from the Far things. In your reality, everything went back to normal. In mine, we lost that battle. My Nexus is being terraformed as we speak by unknowable, unimaginable things, and even at the height of our power, we are still less than a speck to these things. Cthulhu is as infantile and irrelevant to them as his own Nexusian doomsday cults were to him. In the face of such cosmic insignificance, we're less than bacteria to these things. A harmless protozoa, whose great cities and satellites and people aren't enough to cause even the slightest hindrance to the most sickly, feeble, and miniscule of these foul things.
It's not all doom and gloom, though. As you'll recall, that MagCave party was going on around the same time as these events hit, meaning that I already had a wide assortment of interesting people to lock up in my home with me, to trap in the MagCave for their own good. I mean, we've had our differences with some of those party guests, Moon and Saurous especially, but since we're all going to wither away and die in a miserable little hole in the ground now, you'd be surprised by how much better we're getting along. They all owe me their lives and they know it, so I'm basically dictator-for-life until fungoid creatures eat my brain.
Anyways, that's all I have to say after the end of Week One. My plan is to have a system in place to mail all of these across our dimensions by next Thursday. Hopefully I get at least three over to you before the shoggoths and flying polyps and gods know what else get to us. Don't do what I did and ignore apocalypses just because they've never worked out before, okay? All it takes is one crucial person's apathy, and then you wind up with a splinter Nexus like mine. Good luck with your Zeus business (yep, I watched most of your life post-party on fast-forward. Not much else to do out here, honestly), and tell your Kirk that his iceberg experience went over so much better than our Kirk did. Gibbering, scabrous octo-crabs will do that to a guy.