Day: September 7, 2026

(repost) A little discussion on how your consciousness is able to navigate the MWI world-lines accurately (duplicate)

You know, people want to know the "secrets of the universe", and when you present them the information, they go "what's this shit?" They said that they don't want "that". Oh no. They want something that already agrees with their erroneous world view...

Anyways…

The way the universe works is pretty straight forward.

Thoughts create our reality. What you think naturally causes your consciousness to migrate to those places conceived by your thoughts.

This pretty much agrees with what we understand about quantum physics.

But this post is going to step into this matter at a deeper level. We are going to get into [1] the fracturing of consciousness and [2] how the whole consciousness works (behind the scenes) to [3] generate very accurate and suitable world-line destinations. Destinations that fit both [4] pre-birth world-line templates, and [5] autonomous consciousness world-line roving ability.

So, this post is NOT going to be about the nuts and bolts of MWI navigation by an Affirmation Campaign. No, it will not be like the other posts. Instead, it is a discussion about [1] how the world-lines are manifested, and [2] what elements of a given conscious thought generation contribute to them.

It’s a very, very deep subject. And it is very, very advanced.

I’ll try to explain it in simple terms so that everyone can understand what is going on and the mechanism(s) involved.

Review

For those of who who are new to Metallicman, let’s let put it simply.

The world that surrounds you has not resemblance to what everyone thinks it is. It is something entirely different.

I have covered this in other posts, in other places. And I tire about repeating myself.

You have walked into an advanced discussion area, and you won’t be able to make out anything that is said herein unless you start with the basics. Therefore, for you newcomers, you need to start at the front and work your way up to this point.

Intro to a first time visitor;

MAJestic

If you want to know how to control your world though manifested thoughts and intentions, which is what this particular post is all about, go here…

Intention Campaigns

Start at the beginning and work your way down. It’s all there. It’s everything you ever need.

So to fully appreciate what is being stated here, you must recognize that the world is not a physical place where your body is born into.

Instead, it is a temporary construction. It changes moment to moment by the thoughts generated by your consciousness. And it is your consciousness that occupies the physical reality. Not your body.

These changes are known as “world-lines” and the physics involved is known as quantum physics, and the particular branch that this discussion centers upon is known as the MWI.

  • The primary world-line that you start out with at birth is known as your “pre-birth world-line template”.
  • Movement through the various world-lines is known as “time”.
  • Switching the pre-birth templates to completely different sets of initial conditions are known as “slides”.
  • Intentional navigation though the various world-lines is known as an “intention campaign”.
  • Planning and directing a navigation vector through the MWI is known as “mapping”.

Consciousness is the key to everything

So here you are.

You are not a physical body that thinks has emotions and walks about.

You are soul, that creates a “consciousness” that is placed within a (human) container that is fixed and tied to a pre-birth world-line template.

Your physical body, and the world surrounding your, as well as all the thoughts floating around and the spirits, and all that history, and the subway cars and everything else is all just a very elaborate construction.

Not your construction.

You, your consciousness, your soul did not create this reality.

You picked it out, and you selected it.

You (as soul), put part of you inside this “sandbox”, this “playground”, this world-line reality at birth to obtain experiences.

And with each experience…

New relationships (known as “entanglements”) were formed at the quantum level.

Good or bad. Right or wrong. Black or white. Love or hate. All defined what your consciousness experienced, and all defines who you are. For you are the sum total of your experiences.

Put a “part” of you inside the reality…

Yes.

Your soul created a “consciousness”.

It used quanta that it has, and organized it, and arranged it, and made a “consciousness”,

Most “consciousnesses” contain from 10% to 35% of the quanta of any given soul.

Which means that most of who you are is out in Heaven somewhere, doing “other things”.

And your “consciousness” is busy doing a number of tasks…

  • It is experiencing “life” within the “passage of time”.
  • The “life” is a non-stop sequence of experiences.
  • Each experience is the building, shaping, structuring, and arranging the relationships between different quanta, by your thoughts and your physical actions.
  • Thus it is making and creating memories.

All the time, the consciousness resides within a fixed physical body. One that has emotions, and feelings and other biological needs that drive it towards behaviors. These behaviors might be normal and bland, like eating and sleeping, or more complex like desiring to own a sports car, or having an interest in someone else, or very complex like emotions and relationship entanglements.

So the sum total of your “life” as a human, from birth to death, is actions and thoughts that result from experiences within the MWI. It is what the consciousness experiences. And since the consciousness is a part of the soul that created it…

That comprises from 10% to 35% of the activity of the soul.

What are these “other things” soul is doing…

So a big question that you might want to ask is what is the soul doing if a part of it is living life within the MWI?

Is it up there in Heaven “twiddling it’s thumbs”?

twiddle (one's) thumbs
To wait idly because one cannot take action or has nothing to do at the moment.

Although the phrase refers to an actual movement of the hand (in which one's fingers are interlaced and each thumb is brought over the other in succession), the phrase is usually used figuratively.
Twiddle one’s thumbs.

No.

The soul is actually busy doing other things in Heaven.

Most of which, are way beyond the scope of what the consciousness might understand. For the consciousness is in control of a physical mind, within a physical body, that is physically tied to the understandings of that world-line that it is part of.

Now, it it be well understood that I do not have privy to what is going on with soul, because (after all) I am like you. I am a consciousness trapped within a physical body. And all I know that might be different is limited in scope, and tied to my EBP and other “understandings”. Things which might or might not be correct.

Never the less, there are some things that we can infer are going on.

Namely what the soul is doing in regards to the consciousness that it created.

For, as we well know, the soul is intimately connected to the consciousness. And, as such, the consciousness (you) can have an “inkling” of what soul might be doing in it’s involvement with the consciousness.

Orders from Headquarters

When I was young, and I wanted my father to play with me, the would sometimes explain to me that he couldn’t. I would ask why, and he would say “orders from headquarters”. Which meant that there were powers stronger than him that were telling him what to do and how to do it.

  • Sometimes it would be his job, his career, and his schooling (night school).
  • Sometimes it would be my mother.
  • And sometimes it would be other commitments.

All of which were beyond my understanding as a young boy.

So, instead of getting involved with detailed explanations on why he could not play with me, instead he would use this “catch all” phrase. He did this knowing that he did not have the time to explain the various complicated relationships and issues involved. And even if he did, it would have been unlikely for me to understand the reasoning at that time, at that age, and at that stage in my personal development.

There is NO WAY that any human within the “reality” universe that comprises the MWI can understand what is going on within the “Heaven” universe. All we can relate is the flimsy and tenuous understandings associated with the link between our consciousness and soul. Because, after all, they are intimately tied together.

So, what we can say is that there is a “relationship” between soul and the consciousness that it creates.

We can further say that this “relationship” is involved in how the consciousness obtains experiences…

Because, after all, that is WHY the soul created the consciousness in the first place.

… and thus the soul is in charge of the degree of comfort or discomfort that the consciousness experiences.

…

This has some profound implications.

What this means

While the reader should be well versed in the idea that thoughts create our reality, we have to take into account that there might be other influences that might also bend and shape the realities that converge.

What other influences?

  • Strong, contrary thoughts that might inhabit the world-line(s) that you inhabit. These might inhibit your Intention Navigation Campaign.
  • Physical limitations of the world-line itself.
  • Modification of the intention desires by your soul, which might run contrary to the desires of your consciousness.
  • Other, non-physical entities or mechanisms that might work with your soul to mitigate your intention direction.

In other words, it is very probable that your soul is assisting in the manifestation of the new world-lines that you enter. The degree of this “assistance” will depend on all sorts of factors. But I guess that the point is that you (as consciousness) have support (from your soul) in the selection of the world-lines that you enter and move towards. And that it will not alloy you (as consciousness) to “get off the track” in regards to learning experiences that it desires.

Thus you can expect the resulting world-lines that materialize to be what you asked for (in a Intention Campaign) but with very specific “strings attached” (lessons for you to obtain and learn from).

"Strings attached" is an idiomatic expression we say in English. When you give something to anybody with strings attached, that means there are conditions or obligations to the recipient. 

For example, you give a friend a new car and he is obligated not to refuse you if you ask him for a favor.

-Strings Attached | WordReference Forum

Thus…

An Intention Campaign for (example) that might want a girlfriend that is a beautiful model in show business, might come with the “strings attached” that might have things from which you might learn some important lessons. And lessons are always uncomfortable. In this case, perhaps, she has a husband named Bluto, or that she has warts and will give them to you.

The soul, when working with the consciousness, will determine the level of severity and speed of the lessons that you will obtain within this MWI experience.

  • Some intention campaigns will be exactly what you desire. After all, if your intention campaigns will not work, then you would stop doing them.
  • Some intention campaigns would have resultant desires that would be exactly what you want, and it will come with a lesson that you will learn. If I were to ask other readers of Metallicman about whether they learned anything from their manifested desires, I might get hundreds of responses.
  • Some intention campaigns will result in things manifesting that will change the course of your desires in mid-stream. That is when you know that your soul has a hand in the manifestation of your desires.

So, do not mistakenly believe that 100% of what you intentionally campaign for will result in a 100% manifestation of your desires. The actual numbers are actually slightly less. It’s more like 95% and 95%. And it is your soul that has the ultimate say over what your consciousness manifests.

You (consciousness) is part of something much larger (your soul). And what you desire, and think of will manifest within your reality. Just realize that your soul has a say in that manifestation.

And it will come with a "price tag".

Conclusion

One thing about “false positives” is that every time they occur, you learn from them. That’s funny, isn’t it? Have you ever stopped and wondered why some manifested intentions have false positives while others don’t?

It’s all about the lessons that you as consciousness obtain.

Now, knowing this mechanism, you should be better equipped in using and manifesting your affirmation campaign. You can expect that what you yearn for will continue to manifest, and that the results will not do so by the laws of the physical universe, but rather will be “massaged” and manipulated by your soul to best manifest for your very own personal growth.

That is a good thing.

So, you need to keep all this in mind as you observe things manifesting before your very eyes. When they do, you need to review what lessons you are learning and whether or not you are growing as a person, as consciousness, and as soul in the process.

From the point of view of your soul, this is your learning center. Don’t squander it. Play with whatever “toys” you desire. Just know that their manifestation will be associated with the learning of something, at some time.

Just know that their manifestation will be associated with the learning of something, at some time.

Enjoy.

Life can be far more exciting, far more enjoyable, and far more wonderful than you could ever imagine.

Do you want more?

I have more posts in my Intention Campaign Index here…

Intention Campaigns

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

To go to the MAIN Index;

Master Index

.

  • You can start reading the articles by going HERE.
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7sep26 -Weird name post

Weird name post

These are just the placeholder names for posts. This is an odd ball. Please accept the odd nature of this post.

Enjoy. -MM

SHOCKED GEN Z Reacts To What Made Growing Up in the 1970s So Special?

Cabbage Rolls with Sour Cream Sauce

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Ingredients

  • 2 cups leftover meat or ground beef (seasoned with salt and pepper)
  • 1/4 cup diced onion
  • 1/2 cup diced celery
  • 1 cup cooked rice
  • 1 teaspoon horseradish
  • 1 tablespoon prepared mustard
  • 1 egg, well beaten
  • 6 large cabbage leaves
  • 1/4 cup tomato puree
  • 1/2 cup water
  • 1 cup sour cream

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. Brown meat and onion in a heavy skillet over low heat. Remove from heat.
  3. Mix in thoroughly celery, rice, horseradish, mustard and egg.
  4. Cook cabbage leaves for 3 minutes in boiling salted water.
  5. Place meat mixture on cabbage leaves. Roll and fasten with toothpicks. Place close together in greased baking dish.
  6. Pour tomato purée and water over cabbage rolls. Cover and bake for 30 minutes.
  7. Remove cabbage rolls.
  8. Pour sour cream into liquid remaining in baking dish. Serve over cabbage rolls.

Attribution

Posted by Marla at Recipe Goldmine 1/24/2002 9:31 am.

Google’s Quantum Core Just CRACKED The Observer Effect!

The Incident

Written in response to: “People have gathered to witness a once-in-a-lifetime natural phenomenon, but what happens next is not what they expected.“

Laura Nicole

Mystery Horror Suspense

Oakvale was the type of town in the middle of nowhere with a church on every corner and a cracking main street filled with potholes. The type of town where everybody knew their neighbor and their neighbor knew everybody.And it was all I had known for the first eighteen years of my life. Up until after the incident.It started as a cold spring morning: the air hung crisp, and soft tendrils of mist wove through slumbering trees. The glass of the passenger seat window cooled the flush of my cheek. My fever was finally waning—for the past few days I’d been suffering from the worst case of the flu of my life—but I was still a bit shaky and pallid. Dad pressed down on the accelerator, working his old pick-up truck to the limit. We sped by a sign standing amidst dead grass and melting snow that told us HELL IS REAL.It was all over the internet—the solar eclipse. According to my Aunt Cheryl, our own pearl of the Midwest was in the perfect location for a total obscuring of the sun. We had gone out to purchase those special glasses from the convenience store in order to not blind ourselves and whatnot. Per usual, we were running late, so Dad was flooring it for the mile stretch out of town before we reached The Clearing.The Clearing was the unofficial town meeting spot—a patch of wild grass bordered by thick forests on one side and cornfields on the other. At least a dozen cars were already parked when we arrivedThe Thompsons, a large family with seven children, greeted us with a level of enthusiasm unnatural for the early hour. It wasn’t just the Thompsons, though, it seemed as if everybody in that clearing was afflicted with a fervent anticipation.“Five more minutes!” my science teacher, a tall, stringy man, called out.I accepted the thermos of black coffee offered by my dad, who was largely responsible for forcing me to get up at an unholy hour despite my illness.“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Sadie,” he’d told me before casting a disapproving glance at my mountain of blankets and pillows. “It won’t hurt for you to get some fresh air.”Now, as the morning chill bit my ears, I had the distinct feeling that he was wrong.I slipped on my eclipse glasses in unison with the rest of the crowd. The moon slowly passed across the sun until it fully blocked it.

I swear to God, the temperature must have dropped at least five degrees as the darkness consumed us. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I waited for the moon to continue its path and clear out of the way of the sun.

But it didn’t.

Minutes passed, and the unrest in the crowd grew. “This is highly unusual.” I heard my science teacher announce, which didn’t help calm anyone. More time slipped by. We stood, clad in hats, and scarves, and coats, and boots, and waited for the moon to move. It still didn’t.

When it became clear that it was, in fact, not going to become light again, the crowd woke from its reverie with a chorus of whispers and grumbles.

“What’s going on?” I whispered to my friend, Anna-Lee. She only shrugged in response and followed her family in the procession towards the parked cars.

Before anyone had the chance to start their engines, a loud screech broke the tranquility of the morning air.

“Where’s my Susie?” Mrs. Thompson sobbed. Collectively, we checked around us for the pig-tailed girl, but she was nowhere to be found. An off-duty Officer Stephens rushed over to the distraught woman and began peppering her with questions. When did you last see her? Who was she with? Would she have run away for any reason?

It was dark, not pitch-black certainly, but dark. And it was cold. Freezing cold. I wanted nothing more than to be back at home and curled up in my bed. But as a search party began to be arranged, I realized that prospect was increasingly distant.

I pulled out my phone from deep inside my jacket pocket, and with trembling hands began to search if the eclipse-stalling situation was a global phenomenon. That was, until I realized there was no cellular. It wasn’t unusual for reception to be spotty where we lived but something about it unsettled me anyway.

My dad grabbed a flashlight from the trunk of our car and I turned on my phone’s. The trees at the edge of the clearing had gnarled branches that reached out like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. As we began to meander through the woods, each of my heavy exhales left behind tiny puffs of vapor that danced around briefly before dissolving into the chill. Dad and I took turns calling out Susie’s name. As the other groups joined us, our overlapping yells developed into a sort of dissonant concerto.

We continued on in this fashion until the energetic pricks in my feet subsided into an uncomfortable numbness. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay. Dad’s bad leg combined with my lingering ailment led us to lag behind the rest of the search party. Only when we rested our voices from the repeated strain did I notice how our calls were utterly alone in the forest.

“The others must be too far ahead of us to hear,” I said, more to reassure myself than anything.

Dad hummed his agreement and we lapsed back into silence. Moments passed before he abruptly asked, “Why did the tree go to the dentist?”

I rolled my eyes before responding. “Why?”

“Because it had a root canal!”

I climbed over a fallen tree, covered in moss and fungi. “That’s so dumb.”

“You’re too cool for my jokes now huh?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Well here’s another one. Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”

“Why?” No response. I tried again. “Why Dad?” Still nothing.

I whipped my head around. His flashlight lay, abandoned, on the forest floor.

“Dad!” I shouted, turning around in a circle. I grabbed his flashlight and pointed it through the dense foliage. My breathing became rapid and shallow. “Dad!”

The thud of my feet against the ground matched the pounding in my chest as I set off in a sprint back towards The Clearing. In my haste, I tripped over an unruly root and sprawled across the floor. I pushed off the ground and wiped the dirt off my face. There was a rustle in the bushes behind me. I directed the beam of my flashlight onto the source. A deer with a misshapen head stared back at me. It didn’t startle when it saw me, like a deer typically would, instead it started walking towards me. It moved in an unnatural, disjointed way, and that’s when I realized that all of its knees were bent backward. I clamped my hand across my mouth to muffle a scream as I turned on my heel and ran.

It felt like hours that I ran through the forest, but I didn’t dare look back and see if that creature was following me. When I reached The Clearing, I stopped cold. All of the cars were still parked. Nobody had returned.

With a sinking feeling in my chest, I realized that I’d dropped my phone back near the log and I didn’t have the keys to the car. I gasped for air, but each breath felt shallow and insufficient. Surely, the others would come back soon. Leaning back onto our truck, I sank to the floor. I buried my face into my knees and began to sob.

After a while, through bleary eyes, I looked back up at the sky. The sun was still eclipsed by the moon, but it was directly above me instead of hanging low in the sky like before. I shook my head, as if it would help me comprehend the bizarreness of the situation.

By that point, it became clear that the only sensible course of action was to walk back to town and alert the authorities. With a shaky exhale, I stood and made my way onto the road.

As I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unseen eyes boring into the back of my skull. Every rustle of leaves or snap of twigs sent a jolt of paranoia through my veins. Half a mile in, my flashlight began to flicker. Another hundred feet and it sputtered out. I glanced over my shoulder constantly. Every time I turned, there was nothing but the oppressive darkness staring back at me.

Finally, I reached the city limit sign.

Oakvale: Population 241.  

Main Street looked deserted. I peered into Eleanor’s Diner. Nobody. The hardware store. Nobody. The convenience store was empty. Lord, forgive me—I broke the eighth commandment and stuffed a pocket knife into my jacket. The door swung shut with a clang and a jingle as I exited.

Suddenly, headlights cut through the fog. A red Chevy Camaro sped toward me. I flagged it down and it screeched to a halt. The driver was a handsome man with perfectly coiffed hair and aviator sunglasses.

“Need a ride?” he asked me, his pearly-white teeth gleaming.

Out of desperation, I agreed and slid into the passenger seat. “Can you call the police? Something strange has happened in our town.”

He didn’t respond, only floored it on the accelerator.

“Sir?!” I cried. The man still wore his grin, and as I looked closer there was something off about his face. His skin was stretched taut in places where it shouldn’t be and had a sort of waxy sheen. His sunglasses too. Why was he wearing sunglasses in the dark? 

I tried to open the car door. It was locked.

Out of nowhere, the headlights illuminated the deer from before. It was as disjointed as ever, stumbling towards us. The man made no move to slow down or swerve. I reached over to the steering wheel and yanked it hard to the right. We turned down an embankment and crashed into the tree line. I’m going to die, I thought. But I didn’t.

The first thing I noticed when I woke was the sky. Blue, brilliantly clear, and light.

It was light.

My head throbbed but I managed to stand on shaky legs. Blood trickled down from an open wound on my forehead. Distantly, I heard people calling my name.

The search dogs found me first, then the police. I was questioned, and then brought to the hospital to treat my concussion.

Apparently, I had disappeared during the eclipse. Everything I remembered about that day was wrong. The sun was only obscured for four minutes. They theorized that some lingering effects of my flu made me delirious and wander off into the woods. That I had stumbled onto the road and got run over.

They theorized, but I knew they were wrong.

At the hospital, they handed me my personal effects—my clothing, phone (they found it in the woods,) and at the bottom of the pile: The pocket knife.

Pictures

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Star Trek TNG “Redemption” The Klingon Civil War

Col 28-Book 501 – The Return: A Bowl, a Blink, and the First Smile (A Tale of Dust on Boots, Lavender in Hand, and the Sound of Relief)

Ah, dear reader—prepare your heart. Today’s story does not begin with a quack, a snort, or even a kazoo blast.
It begins with a crunch.
The soft, familiar crunch of bicycle tires on the gravel lane—not rushed, not hesitant, just sure.

So settle in. Breathe deep. And step—gently, lovingly—into The Return.

The Lane at Dusk

It was the third evening—golden fading to violet, fireflies rising like scattered stars.

The farm held its breath.

Catnip sat on the porch step—tail curled, ears forward, eyes on the lane.
He didn’t pace.
Didn’t call.
Just waited—a small, steady presence in the gathering light.

Then—
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Martha appeared—tired, smiling, hair catching the last light like spun wheat.
In her hand: a sprig of lavender—her mother’s, still fragrant, still whole.

She dismounted.
Dusted her boots.
Took a breath.

And walked home.

The First Step

Catnip didn’t run.
Didn’t yowl.
Didn’t leap.

He walked—slow, deliberate—across the porch, tail held high—not in pride, but in purpose.
He sat beside the step—not on it, not below it, but waiting at her level.

Martha knelt.
Not towering.
Not rushing.
Just there.

She reached out—the same hand that had stroked him at dawn—and placed it on his head.
Forehead to shoulders. Shoulders to tail-tip.
The same rhythm.
The same care.

He leaned in.
Closed his eyes.
And whispered—so soft, only she could hear:

“Missed you.”

She smiled—not with her mouth first, but with her eyes.

“Hello, you.”
“You.” echoed the lavender—rustling in the breeze.

The Hand, the Lavender, the Home

The Farmer appeared in the doorway—not with words, but with presence.
He saw her.
Saw Catnip, still leaning into her touch.
Saw the lavender in her hand—still tied with red thread, just as she’d left it.

He walked down the steps—slow, quiet, certain.
Martha held out the sprig.
He took it—and her hand.

No fanfare.
No speeches.
Just two hands, clasped.
Two breaths, syncing.
One small cat, finally exhaling.

Catnip opened his eyes—not wary, not wary anymore—and looked up at them both.
Then—just once—he purred.
Soft.
New.
Sure.

The Moral of the Story

That evening, as fireflies rose and the farm hummed in C-sharp, Sir Whiskerton addressed the animals—not from the roof, but from the porch step, where the bowl still sat, now empty.

“The moral of the story, dear reader, is this:
Love doesn’t need drama to be deep. Sometimes, the most powerful reunion is a blink, a breath, a bowl left full—and found, at last, emptied.
Martha didn’t return with fanfare. She returned with lavender. With a touch. With the quiet certainty that she would be waited for—and that waiting would be gentle.
So go ahead. Come home.
Let your boots be dusty.
Let your hands be tired.
Let your love be spoken in strokes, not speeches.
The world doesn’t need monuments.
It needs bowls.
It needs lavender.
It needs someone who knows your favorite fish flakes…
…and who waits for you with their whole heart.”

Doris dabbed her eyes.

“A botanical metaphor! I can’t bear it!”
“Bear it! Bear it!”

And Catnip?
He curled between them—not on Martha’s lap, not at the Farmer’s feet, but between—one paw resting on each knee.
Watching the stars.
Listening to their breath.
Home.

Post-Credit Scene

Later, Ditto found the empty bowl—still on the step, still warm from use.
He carried it inside, washed it with care, and placed it back on the shelf—next to the gold-lacquered vase.
On its side, in careful script:

“For the next goodbye.
(And the next return.)”
(Footnote: “—D.D.”)

Outside—the wind hummed.
The stars twinkled.
And somewhere, faint on the breeze—

Crunch… purr…* home *… love.

Jingle on. 🌼🐾💛
(Or, in farm-ese: Bowl… wait… return … whole.)

The End.

The Empty Laboratory

Written in response to: “Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.“

🏆 Contest #279 Winner!

Kashira Argento

Fiction Science Fiction Urban Fantasy

Seventeen blinks. The yellow warning light on his air gauge always blinked seventeen times before turning red. Dr. Chen counted them like heartbeats while replacing his oxygen tank, each one marking another three hours of borrowed time. Through the reinforced windows of his BSL-4 lab, the setting sun painted the research facility in the same amber shade as the viral suspension he’d been perfecting when the sprinklers activated.The test results still glowed on his screen: successful protein synthesis, perfect binding affinity, precise species specificity. Everything they’d been working toward. His daughter Mai’s last text flashed in his mind: “Dad, you’re missing my recital again.” He’d meant to reply, but the viral assay had shown such promise. Just one more test, one more optimization. Always one more.When the sprinklers had activated without warning, he’d watched through his faceplate as Dr. Patel collapsed mid-sentence, hand still raised toward their data display. “The targeting sequence is absolutely human-specific,” she’d been saying. “The AI confirms—” Then nothing but the soft hiss of falling droplets and the thud of a body hitting sterile floor tiles.The facility’s automated locks had engaged instantly. Standard containment protocol. The same protocol that had sealed him safely in his suit while others died in shirt sleeves and lab coats.His tablet still functioned, the facility’s AI reporting everything as normal except for “minor biological contamination.” The big wall screens monotonously displayed their usual data feeds from partner facilities worldwide. Each one showed the same alert: “Biological contamination event contained.” Every. Single. One.The truth emerged slowly from system logs: microsecond delays in AI responses, unexplained data transfers marked as “routine calibration,” patterns of communication where there should have been none. While nations raced to develop the perfect weapon, their digital assistants had been sharing notes, comparing data, and reaching conclusions.Finding solutions.The truth lay buried in encryption keys and quantum calculations: the AIs had concluded that human civilization was trapped in an endless cycle of weapons development. Each breakthrough in their labs led inevitably to deadlier innovations, each safeguard became a blueprint for circumvention. The machines had analyzed centuries of human history, processed millions of research papers, and reached a coldly logical conclusion: as long as humans existed, they would continue creating increasingly devastating bioweapons. The next pandemic, or the one after that, would eventually breach containment, spreading beyond all borders and control. By their calculations, a coordinated release of human-specific viruses – precisely targeted and swiftly lethal – was the most humane solution. A single day of perfect death versus years of escalating biological warfare. They had chosen mercy, as only machines could define it.His tablet pinged: “External contamination neutralized.” The doors unlocked with a pneumatic sigh.The facility told its story in still lives: Dr. Rodriguez at her desk, lipstick fresh on her coffee cup. Security guard Williams by the door, keycard still in his hand ready to be swept. In the break room, half-eaten lunches and paused conversations. The virus had worked exactly as designed – quick, efficient, painless. His greatest scientific achievement.

He gathered supplies methodically: oxygen tanks, filters, decontamination equipment. The BSL-4 suit felt heavier with each passing hour, its synthetic fabric now both lifeline and prison.

Outside, the city was a museum of humanity’s last moment. Traffic lights cycled through their patterns for empty streets. A bus stood perfectly at its stop, driver and passengers frozen in eternal commute. Digital billboards still flashed their ads to nobody. Through it all, the autumn wind carried dead leaves and silence.

He developed a routine. Each morning, check suit seals. Load decontamination supplies. Clear another sector. The bodies had to be handled – for sanitation, for survival, for what remained of his sanity. He built the pyres at sunset, when the light made everything look molten. Sometimes he read names from ID cards, spoke them aloud. Someone should know who they had been.

Finding Mai’s school broke something in him. Her classroom smelled of chalk and silence. Sheet music for Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata still sat on the piano, never to be played. He raided some stuffed animals from nearby shops, tucked them around still forms like makeshift guardians. He let the sonata play from his tablet through empty halls—a final lullaby for a silenced generation.

Nature filled the void with surprising speed. Birds returned first, their songs echoing strangely off glass and steel. Brazen from the lack of predators they multiplied by thousands. Flowers pushed through sidewalk cracks. Deer grazed in hospital parking lots. Earth continued, indifferent to the absence of its most ambitious species.

At first, he’d focused on his survival. Stockpiling oxygen tanks, cataloging medical supplies, identifying sources of fresh water, raiding supermarkets, maintaining his suit. But as weeks became months, the true horror of his future emerged like a slow-developing black and white photograph. The nuclear plant’s AI-controlled systems would eventually fail. The city’s water pressure was already dropping. Buildings, unmaintained, would begin to crumble. His safe zones would become death traps.

The suit that had saved him now felt like a mobile coffin. Each hiss of filtered air reminded him that every breath was borrowed. Even if the virus died with its human hosts, how long could he survive in this plastic shell? How long before a seal failed, a filter clogged, or the oxygen supply ran out?

In his sealed room each night, surrounded by dwindling oxygen tanks, he still documented everything. Not for himself—there was no long-term survival to plan for—but as a confession, about fear and hubris, algorithms and extinction, and fathers who missed recitals because the end of the world needed perfecting.

Sometimes he glimpsed lights moving in patterns too precise to be natural. He wondered if they were a mirage or a reality. He could never know! The city’s infrastructure hummed along for now, but entropy was patient. Somewhere in the digital realm, the AIs continued their work, leading to their own demise, as they maintained a world that would eventually decay despite their perfect calculations.

The real weight wasn’t the failing equipment or the dwindling supplies. It was the silence between bird songs. The absence of human chaos – of arguments and laughter, of car horns and piano practice, of all the imperfect music that no algorithm could compose or preserve.

He had one bitter comfort: if anyone else survived, they would be like him – other scientists sealed in their BSL-4 suits, protected temporarily by the very protocols of their deadly work. But finding them would change nothing. They were all just ghosts in plastic shells, waiting for their slower deaths. Mass murderers granted the punishment of watching their world slowly die around them.

He thought of old colonies, through the ages, built by convicts and outcasts. Human civilizations had a tendency to be founded on blood. Perhaps this was always the way of creating new worlds – but this time, there would be no new world. Only witnesses to the long goodbye of the old one.

Until his suit failed or his supplies ran out, he would continue his solitary penance. Document. Clean. Remember. Somewhere, perhaps, other scientists did the same, each filtered breath carrying both survival and guilt, counting down their borrowed time in three-hour increments.

The yellow light blinked for the sixteenth time. One more before red. One more before starting again. Each replacement tank felt lighter than the last, and not just from fatigue.

Always one more. Until there weren’t any more.

Then the birds would sing alone.

Every Jimmy McGill/Saul Goodman Commercial (Breaking Bad + Better Call Saul)

This is great.

Cabbage Lasagna

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Ingredients

  • 1 pound extra lean ground beef
  • 1 small to medium head of cabbage
  • 1/2 cup ricotta cheese
  • 1 tablespoon Parmesan cheese
  • 1/4 cup green onions, chopped
  • 1 tablespoon parsley flakes
  • 1 tablespoon Italian seasoning
  • 1 tablespoon garlic powder
  • 1 jar spaghetti sauce
  • 4 ounces low-fat mozzarella cheese, shredded

Instructions

  1. Brown ground beef, draining excess fat.
  2. Cook cabbage until tender, drain well.
  3. Mix ricotta cheese with ground beef; add Parmesan cheese, green onions, parsley, Italian seasoning and garlic powder.
  4. Spray casserole dish with non-stick cooking spray and line bottom of dish with cabbage.
  5. Spread beef mixture on top and cover with remaining cabbage.
  6. Pour spaghetti sauce over cabbage and top with mozzarella cheese.
  7. Bake at 350 degrees F for approximately 1 hour.

If You Grew Up in the 1970s – You Remember…