The currently seven-point-seven-five suns of Copernicus-8871 rose upon the singing sands of the Great Desert and bathed the sandstone edifices of the First City with their orange hues, revealing bustling streets and soaring glass and chrome skylines. Vendors hawked their goods ("Fresh Cyclops Eyes straight from Greece-22! Bargain price!") and the governmental hovercrafts wove among the morning rush, unaware of their impending doom.

But where there is light, there is shadow, and it is in a nondescript back alley of the City that the Saviour of the Worlds was, at that moment, scrounging through the garbage bins.

"No…not this…nope, nope, nope…" muttered the bearded man, known on the streets only as 'Mustafa', "not in a hundred solar-cycles, no…ah. Yes. This will do just fine." Mustafa proudly held up a mostly clean apple, wiped it on his slightly cleaner tunic, and bit into it, humming in contentment.

Clear skies, no hangover, good food…what else could a denizen of the streets ask for? All that the good day needed to become a great one was trip down to the bar—

"Psst. Shorty."

Mustafa paused; all 13 of his teeth embedded in the apple. He glanced at the source of the noise and carefully finished what was left of the apple, before brandishing its core at a rather elf-ish creature trying and failing to appear menacing while standing in the shadows.

"Er. Hi?" Mustafa ventured.

"No time for pleasantries. You are the one known as Mustafa?"

Mustafa nodded slowly.

"Alright then. Listen up. I am Firstname Lastname from the Bureau of Catastrophe Management. There is going to be a Grade Two Event in this City in 243 seconds. Also known as a World Ending Event. With me so far?"

Mustafa nodded yet again, a little less sure this time, regretting his 10th glass of whisky the night before.

"Very good. Now, if this isn't evaded, you and pretty much everyone in this part of the universe will likely die a most horrific death. This is not ideal, as I am sure you understand. Now, standard procedure in scenarios like this is to deploy our crack team of warriors known as the 'Revengers' — they can do anything. Even if they lose once, it's almost guaranteed that they will eventually fight back the forces of evil through the sheer will of the good and all that. You know what I mean?"

Mustafa had just about reached the end of his attention span and made a non-committal sound.

"However, we have a slight bit of a problem. The Union for Marginalised and Unknown Superheroes has declared that high-class warriors like the Revengers have been getting the spotlight for much too long, and have pressured the government into allotting a 'reservation' system for disaster response. We must now allocate a certain number of disaster events to be managed by unknown faces, and not the 'over-privileged' Revengers. I feel that this entire—

"Mister Bureau man? Is this going to take long? I need to go relieve myself or we'll be having another 'event' right here."

The man from the Bureau looked at Mustafa with barely disguised disdain.

"Yes, well. Anyhow. Coming to the crux of the matter: as per the Reservation Timetable, it is now the turn of 'an urban alley-dweller, who has lived his entire worthless life in squalor' to respond to an event. You are, oddly enough, a perfect match. The next one is one I told you about in the beginning and will start in about 20 seconds. Good luck. Remember: if we die, I shall not be amused, and the Union will haunt us all for the rest of time."

And then the Man from the Bureau disappeared as if he had never been there, and a neon red laser rifle lay where he had just stood.

Mustafa scratched his nose, answered nature's call on the nearest wall, and had only just picked up the rifle for some closer inspection ("Gee, I wonder how many credits this would buy me.") that there was a loud noise overhead and the sky was filled with saucer-shaped spaceships of gigantic proportions. They rumbled as turret-like appendages whirred out of their bellies, and repositioned themselves to point towards the City.

At this critical juncture, it would not be unreasonable to expect a man of blood and sinew to freeze with fear when confronted with a Revengers Level Threat. However, even this primal reaction requires the cerebellum to function as warranted, and expecting this from Mustafa was indeed a tall order.

Mustafa compared the relative sizes of the ships' guns and his own, decided that size may or may not matter but the moment to think about that was not then and pointed the rifle at the fleet above.

He fired.

A ray of red streaked towards the lead ship and disappeared on contact with the grey hull.

And then the ship exploded in a huge display of fire and metal, taking out the rest of the ships alongside itself. Later studies would show that the laser likely managed to find the singular opening in the ship's armour (which was located at the exact location of the nuclear reactor). An event of very low probability indeed (one of the unforeseen consequences of this was a cut in funding for the Revengers and the creation of the Department of Marginalised Groups, but that's a story for another day.)

And on the ground, the man known as Mustafa decided that he had had enough excitement to thoroughly destroy any chance the day had to become a great day and went back to sleep.

The world was saved yet again, and the cosmic machinery continued trundling along.