Convergence Of The Self
Convergence Of The Self
A Sentient Weather Special Report
Jack Miller, mercenary extraordinaire, left Earth before the apocalypse and returned to a world unravelled. As his pod plummeted through ash-choked skies, he had no idea he was about to meet his past, present, and future selves in a cosmic game of identity roulette.
Good evening, listeners. This is Bob Nine, your voice in the void, bringing you a special report on a most peculiar occurrence.
Today, we witnessed the return of one Jack Miller, a man who left our world behind long ago. The descent of his pod was anything but graceful, dear listeners, screaming through our ash-choked skies. As it plummeted towards our beloved wasteland, I couldn't help but wonder: was Jack coming home, or had home come for Jack?
The pod struck the desolate landscape with a thunderous boom, followed by the shriek of tearing metal. Steam hissed from ruptured coolant lines, mixing with the acrid stench of burnt ozone. The scent hung in the air, a potent reminder of the day the sky caught fire and the clouds rained ash. But that, dear listeners, is a story for another time.
Jack emerged from his metal cocoon, gasping and sputtering. The atmosphere, thick with particulates and the lingering echoes of humanity's hubris, greeted him with smothering, slightly toxic enthusiasm.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he found himself in a world both familiar and alien. The streets, once bustling with life, now lay broken and silent. This wasteland was true to its name - a barren expanse of cracked earth and twisted metal, scorched by the disapproving gaze of an angry god.
Jack stumbled forward, each step a negotiation with gravity. His muscles, accustomed to the sterile embrace of artificial gravity, now rebelled against Earth's insistent pull. The planet itself seemed to be trying to reclaim him, to pull him back into its cracked and broken bosom.
Now, dear listeners, I must pause here to remind you of the importance of regular exercise. The Unity Council's mandatory calisthenics program isn't just for show, you know. Remember: a limber citizen is a compliant citizen. And now, back to our tale of Jack and his many selves.
As Jack navigated the alien landscape of his former home, movement caught his eye. A figure darted between the skeletal remains of rusted-out vehicles. Jack's heart leapt at the sight of another person, but his legs, those treacherous pillars of flesh, refused to cooperate. He stumbled, catching himself on the corroded hull of an abandoned truck, the metal flaking away beneath his touch.
Rounding a corner, Jack came face to face with... himself. But not the self he knew. This was Jack as he had been - young, perhaps 16 or 17, with all the charm and poise of radioactivity.
The two Jacks regarded each other with a mixture of fascination and horror. The younger Jack sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he accused his older self of poor cosplay choices. Oh, the irony of youth, dear listeners. Always so quick to judge, so slow to recognize the cruelty of the universe.
As the Jacks tried to establish their respective realities, a new voice cut through the desolate air. It was a sound that could only be described as a choir of rusty hinges. There stood elderly Jack, his white hair a wild halo around his head, belting out warnings of star-eaters and impending doom.
Now, dear listeners, I know what you're thinking. "Bob," you're saying, "surely this is just a hallucination brought on by excessive exposure to the Whispering Winds." And to that I say: if only it were that simple. For you see, as our Jacks confronted each other, reality itself seemed to hiccup again.
The old man's body began to twist and contort, bones snapping with sickening cracks. Blood spurted from his mouth as he was lifted into the air by some invisible force. And then, with a sound reminiscent of a watermelon meeting a wood chipper, the elderly Jack was no more.
Panic seized our remaining Jacks. They scattered, the teen Jack sprinting with the energy of youth and terror, while our original Jack battled against his own rebellious muscles.
But the universe, dear listeners, was not done with its cosmic japes. A new Jack appeared - middle-aged, grey-streaked, and wielding a length of pipe like the sceptre of some post-apocalyptic king. This Jack screamed of demons and hell gates, his eyes blazing with the kind of fervor usually reserved for those who've found religion at the bottom of a bunker bottle.
Our original Jack, fresh from the stars and woefully uninformed about Earth's recent unpleasantness, found himself adrift in a sea of conflicting narratives. Viruses? Alien invaders? Demons? His mind reeled, trying to reconcile the world he'd left behind with this fractured, apocalyptic landscape. As he struggled to make sense of it all, the very air thickened, time and space becoming as malleable as putty in the hands of a bored god.
One by one, our Jacks fell victim to the whims of this fractured reality. The middle-aged Jack, suspended in mid-air, clawed at his throat before his head exploded in a fountain of gore that would have made even the most hardened Bunker 51 resident wince. The teen Jack, reaching out in desperation, was swallowed by the very ground beneath his feet, vanishing with a sound reminiscent of an emptying drain.
And our original Jack? Oh, dear listeners, his fate was perhaps the cruellest of all. For as he spun in panic, expecting at any moment to be snatched up by the invisible forces that had claimed his other selves, he found himself back in his orbiting escape pod.
The air was stale and metallic, heavy with the scent of recycled oxygen and broken dreams. Jack's mind reeled as memories flooded back - the job, the explosion, the betrayal. It had all been a hallucination. Or had it?
Shaking off his confusion, Jack turned to the pod's control panel. His fingers flew over the keys as he composed a message: "132317... Mission successful. Device secured. Will deliver as planned. No witnesses. Expect full payment on handover. Rendezvous 91." He hit send, a grim smile playing on his lips. The job was done, and soon he'd be rich enough to disappear forever.
As the message winked out of existence, reality decided to throw one last curveball. The pod's interior began to shift and warp, its metal walls rippling like water. The control panel melted beneath Jack's fingers, and the stars visible through the viewport swirled.
Jack found himself falling through a void of impossible colours and mind-bending geometries. He was surrounded by infinite versions of himself, all sharing in this cosmic rollercoaster ride. His body began to stretch and distort, merging with his other selves in a way that would have made even the most avant-garde artist say, "Now, that's a bit much."
And so it is, dear listeners, Jack Miller, or what was once Jack Miller, continues his eternal fall through the depths of space and time. A cautionary tale, perhaps, for those who think they can escape the long arm of Bunker 51's peculiar brand of reality.
In a world where even gravity can't make up its mind, it's best to keep your feet firmly planted on the ground. Or the ceiling. Or whatever surface happens to be pretending to be the ground at the moment.
Stay tuned for our next segment: "Quantum Entanglement: Is Your Other Self Living Your Best Life in Another Universe?"
Remember, in the darkness of Bunker 51, we are all each other's eyes. Stay vigilant, stay alive, and whatever you do, don't listen too closely to the walls. This is Bob Nine, your voice in the void, signing off.