“Visualize the singularity as a quantum ocean, an infinite expanse brimming with probabilities that rise and fall like the undulating waves of a real sea. When these waves collide, they form larger crests—bursts of energy potent enough to breach the fabric of our three-dimensional space. In that moment, a virtual particle springs into existence, seemingly conjured from the void.”

  Ari stood confidently, his posture radiating the calm authority of a seasoned teacher. “That’s how the universe was born,” he said, “through quantum fluctuations.”

  “We know that already,” Everly interjected. “Tell me something new. What exactly are these quantum fluctuations? Where do they come from?”

  “They’re echoes of the past,” Ari replied. “A memory embedded in the fabric.” He turned toward Cedar, concern flickering across his face. “You alright, Seed?”

  Cedar winced, pressing her fingers to her temples. “My head . . . the pain is unbearable.”

  “You’re dehydrated.” Ari slipped his hand into his backpack and retrieved two frosty mugs of water to give to Cedar and Everly. “Here, drink.”

  He resumed his teacher’s pose before continuing, “The singularity never forgets anything, including past universes, and these memories are stored as quantum waves, or fields. These fields are scars of the past, storing memories as possibilities. Once entropy takes over matter, the universe replenishes itself by reverting back into a singularity, but with each bounce back, the universe doubles. That’s why the Big Bang was so powerful, because all of its stored energy came from past universes.”

  “How does it double?” Everly asked, after several gulps of water.

  “When waves collide, or when life procreates,” Ari said, almost reverent. “New particles and babies are born that didn’t exist in a past universe.”

  ‘The universe self-replicates and is capable of creating energy. When something is able to produce energy, it can replicate itself into infinity."

  “Okay, but that doesn’t explain where the first Big Bang came from,” Everly countered. “If the singularity is built from old universes, where did the first one come from?”

  “We don’t know,” Ari admitted. “There are plenty of theories, but nobody knows for certain.”

  “It doesn’t make sense . . .” Everly shook her head.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Ari shrugged.

  “The law of conservation—we can’t create energy . . .”

  “Those laws don’t apply to singularities, don’t you agree?”

  “What energy? I know it’s a measurement of the amount of work that can be performed, but what exactly is it?”

  “Energy is conscious information,” Ari said as though it were common knowledge.

  “What’s your definition of conscious?” Everly asked. “Obviously, it’s different from mine.”

  “Perception,” Ari said poignantly. “Consciousness is nothing more than the ability to perceive something other than itself.”

  “Uh-huh . . . and you’re saying energy is perceptive?”

  “That’s right,” he nodded. “Energy is nothing more than information, and information is meaningless without context, and you can’t have context without perception.”

  “Right . . .” Everly squinted incredulously.

  “Hey, I don’t make the rules. You asked,” Ari threw up his hands. “The only one who got it right was a YouTuber from two centuries ago, Vagabond Mel.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “,” Ari corrected.

  “Her, him, who cares? It still doesn't make sense.”

  “All energy is in the process of decohering its environment and it's done through perception. Honestly, Everly, you of all people should understand this. It’s so simple.”

  “It’s so obvious, Everly, OMG, why don’t you get it?” Cedar teased in a mock tone while twirling a strand of hair.

  “You don’t even know what decoherence ,” Everly shot back.

  "Hey now, we're all learning here," Ari responded. "Seed's just grasping things a bit quicker than you."

  Everly raised her cheeks for a squinty-eyed smile. "Funny."

  “Since we’re self-aware,” Ari continued, “we’re capable of collapsing our own wave function at birth. We have the power to decohere ourselves. No other form of energy can do this, only life. We’re able to directly communicate with the void.”

  “I think, therefore I am,” said Cedar.

  “How can something perceive if it doesn’t have a brain?” Everly twisted her head at Cedar.

  "It doesn't need one," Ari answered. "Think of energy as artificial intelligence. AI are programed to respond to external stimuli, often more accurately than humans. Perception is embedded in the coding, and that's all energy really is—coding."

  "Consciousness isn't just code," Everly objected.

  "We're all code," Ari corrected. "We're just of the self-aware variety."

  Cedar was missing something but couldn't quite put her finger on it. "Where is the soul kept?"

  "Everywhere and nowhere," Ari responded, looking around. “The void, the singularity, and the soul are all interchangeable. We’re technically inside your soul right now.”

  Cedar waited, hoping for more clarity.

  "We're in a place that many refer to as the quantum odyssey. It's an abyss within an intermediate womb, similar to a surrogate gestational sac."

  "What womb?" Everly asked. "You're speaking gibberish."

  "You want to hear something crazy?" he asked.

  "It's all crazy," said Everly.

  "You are a microcosm of the singularity," he stated.

  “What does that even ?" Cedar pleaded.

  "It means that we're inside a singularity— singularity," Ari explained, looking up and spreading his arms to encompass their surroundings. “All of this represents infinite potential, infinite possibilities. This universe originated with a bang just as it did with the real universe. The key difference is that Seed, were the singularity that started it. provided the conscious information to get it started."

  "Hole-lee-shit," Cedar uttered, bewildered.

  "But remember, it's not real. It's imagined," he gestured. "It's nothing but smoke and glass."

  "Hold on a minute, now just . . . hold on," Everly stammered. "What would happen if Cedar were to jump into black hole that created universe?"

  "We don't know," Ari admitted, shaking his head. "Spirit tech has advanced tracking capabilities, but everyone who's ever jumped into their own hole has never been heard from again. So, Seed, don't even think about doing it."

  "Of course I won't," Cedar assured him. "I wouldn't even know how."

  "It's theorized that jumping into one's own hole might trigger a new singularity and a new chain of multiverses—but we can't be sure. It might also result in the total implosion of one's soul, a final and complete demise, but that would go against conservatism . . . “

  Cedar repeated the insights in her mind, hoping they would eventually make sense, but the dots refused to connect into a coherent picture.

  "Your soul is a conglomerate of your perceptions. That's what a singularity is—a nexus of perceptions and information," Ari explained, almost as if reading Cedar's mind. "I can sense the gravity of your emotions from a mile away."

  Ari cleared his throat before continuing, "You have your own perceptions without the need of a partner. Your self-awareness is what forges a connection to the very source of your existence, the godhead of your beginning. You don't need anyone but yourself, because you are in fact, everything already."

  "Do I share this place with you?" Cedar asked.

  "You do," Ari confirmed. "That's why I chose this moment to appear. My presence earlier could have disrupted the delicate balance here."

  Cedar's view of the universe thickened to new heights of understanding. Everything started to make sense to her except for one fickle stray thought that she couldn't shake—the nature of Alma and Bryce. Particularly the conversation Cedar shared with Alma before leaving Ari's memory. Alma became lucid, self-aware. Not just a programmed bot that reacts to outside stimuli. There was more to her than that.

  "Ari, I just have one last question," she said.

  "I'm listening."

  “A while back you told me that NPC's don't have souls, but Alma literally showed me her void when we were in the hell dungeon together. Am I missing something?"

  "NPC's have what can be described as an artificial void. A backup storage. That's all it is."

  "Okay, but where exactly is this 'storage' kept?" Cedar asked.

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  Ari's bottom lip slipped up to cover his top lip. He stood with a dopey expression on his face as he thought about it. "It's like cloud storage. You know, like we have here in the physical realm. It's similar to that."

  "Okay . . . I'm not even sure how cloud storage works here, but okay," Cedar replied, resting her chin on her hand. She was not fully satisfied by that answer.

  "Information is stored on servers, which are physical devices that capture and store digital data. The largest data server in the world, located in China, spans over seven million square feet. Do you really want me to get into cloud storage works? That would mean I would also have to tell you how the internet works," Ari asked.

  "No, that's okay. I think I got the gist."

  "NPC's technically have souls, but their perceptions are artificially created. Their coding gets imprinted in the singularity, much like everything else. But they don't have access to the void like we do. The same applies to inanimate objects.'

  'NPC's are treated poorly, much like non-creators—and they can't cross realms. NPC's created in the physical realm remain there unless they are recreated in the spirit realm. They are bound to their plane of origin.’

  ‘The thing is," Ari squat down next to Cedar, "NPC's need something other than themselves to make them self-aware. They're not self-sustaining like we are. Does that make sense?"

  "Sadly, it does," Cedar lamented.

  “Whoa there, hold up. Back up,” Everly cut in. “Who are the non-creators and why are they treated poorly?”

  “Oh,” Ari said sheepishly. “I haven’t told you about them?”

  “Not that I can recall.” Everly raised a brow.

  "This is where the definition of a soul gets hazy," Ari began. "Non-creators don't have access to a hub nor can they directly communicate with the void. They're disconnected in that sense. But aside from that, they are still conscious, still self-aware, and thus they are genuine spirits. They have every right to exist as much as creators do. Every individual is born equal, deserving the same respect and dignity as anyone else."

  “That still doesn’t tell me what a non-creator actually is.” Everly said exasperated.

  “Non-creators are what we call the new spirits—those who weren’t alive in a past universe.'

  'Once a universe reaches permanence—meaning, all its creators have returned to the singularity—only then can it evolve. It evolves by creating new things and new people. These new people didn’t create the universe, hence the term .”

  “So, they don’t have souls?” Everly’s eyes widened in shock.

  Ari's expression turned forlorn as he delved into a darker aspect of the spirit realm. "There's prejudice against non-creators in the spirit realm. Creators often gather these spirits, overpowering their minds and forcing them into servitude. There's a chronic war because of it."

  "That's horrible," Cedar responded, visibly disturbed by the revelation.

  "New self-aware beings are usually the first to jump into the singularity. It's their chance to be free, but getting there ain't easy. The monsters who enslave them promise them access to the singularity as a lure. Non-creators are led to believe that their only path to freedom lies through servitude, and many don't even have a choice in the matter.'

  'Most people alive today are creators, but in the early universes, Earthlings were unrecognizable. We evolved significantly since then."

  "That means the universe isn't just repeating itself, it's getting better," Cedar reflected, recalling one of Ari's earlier spiels about them being a cog in a wheel.

  Ari, with the wisdom of his age, offered a broader perspective. "I've witnessed the evolution of past universes. The changes are incredibly gradual. Nowadays, the rate of change has slowed down almost to a standstill. You'll see what I mean once you're as old as I am."

  "Okay, ," said Cedar.

  "Sad thing is, far less than one percent of virtual universes achieve permanence because of assholes like Hugh Gaines. Without permanence, there can be no evolution. It only takes one individual to take down an entire universe. But there are people like me, whom I refer to as Angels, who intervene to try and stop these guys. It's hard to do, given that we're immaterial and our physical forms die in less than ten minutes—but the bad guys face the same challenges as us Angels."

  "So you're an Angel now?" Cedar asked with a smile.

  In response, two magnificent wings unfurled from behind Ari's shoulders. "Ding ding ding, an angel just got his wings," he quipped, waving an amused finger in the air.

  Undistracted by the spectacle, Everly asked, "Will there be others besides Gaines, who'll try to bring us down?"

  "It's hard to say," Ari shrugged. "But they're the reason why our evolution is at a standstill. They destroy verses before they get the chance to evolve further and it's happening exponentially.’

  ‘I’m here to stop them. My main goal isn't to save you, but to save your universe from not progressing further. I want to stop the cycle."

  "I was right all along," said Everly.

  "Right about what?" asked Cedar.

  "That there is no God. God is nowhere in this equation.”

  "But the void told me that God both exists and doesn't exist. Ari?" Cedar turned to Ari, prodding him to unravel the mystery.

  "It's true. In the spirit realm, we've come to accept that God both exists and doesn't exist. It's a mystery we've learned to live with, accepting that we may never know the answer."

  "Does anyone have a clue?" Everly furrowed her brow.

  Ari adjusted his belt, pulling his pants higher around his waist before answering. "When people meditate and connect with their void, they glean answers to whatever questions they may seek—and everyone gets the same answer when it comes to God—that he is both here and not here."

  "It doesn't take a genius to see that he's not here,” Everly pointed out.

  "The void suggests that believing in God, particularly in challenging times, is crucial. After extensive analysis over eons, many scholars and philosophers have concluded that the void interprets God as choice, rather than a personified creator. God symbolizes the exercise of free will that extends beyond ego. So, when the void advises belief in God, it's actually encouraging belief in oneself. But this message gets lost in translation since the void communicates through emotions and feelings.'

  'It makes sense though, if you think about it. We believe God to be a benevolent force that can aid us through life, but actually the creators of our own life, not God.’

  ‘If you turn away from God, you're essentially turning away from yourself. If you don't trust God, you'll also not be trusting yourself. But for us lowly humans, we can neither accept full responsibility, nor can we fully grasp our own power of choice. The ego blocks us from it. By believing in God, it sets us the limitations of ego, forcing us to trust a greater design and with trust, we're able to let go. And, according to the void, once we've let go, only then can we obtain full control.'

  'Simply put, God is choice—but that's just speculation. Don't take my word for it. It's something that can never be proven. It's all subjective, really."

  "I can accept that," Everly nodded. "It aligns with a more rational understanding."

  "Don't forget to mention that belief in God might be programmed into us," Cedar added.

  Everly looked at Ari to explain. "What's she talking about?"

  "There's a theory going around that says the answers we receive from the void might be pre-programmed, designed to ensure we follow our predetermined path. The void wants us to believe in God because in doing so, we're willing to sacrifice anything to find answers, to gain his power, or to simply feel at peace.'

  'One interpretation from the void is that our ultimate purpose is to become one with God. That's the driving force for why so many choose to plunge into the singularity, believing they'll find God at its core."

  "But we're already in the singularity, in Cedar's void," Everly pointed out. "We didn't have to jump into anything, did we?"

  "Damn, you ask hard questions," Ari commented.

  Everly raised a brow, waiting for a more substantial response.

  “If you must know, we got here by opening its backdoor. It's a safer, more controlled approach, like entering an accretion disk at an angle, gradually moving towards the center. This way, you avoid the potential soul-ripping experience of diving straight in. It's like navigating to the center of a tootsie pop, licking instead of smashing, so the soul remains intact. Does that make sense?"

  Everly, somewhat dismissive, replied, "Whatever. I just wanted to get that off my chest. It's been nagging at me. God isn't here either way, those people are wrong."

  "But God here," Ari said, nodding in Cedar's direction.

  "Uh huh, sure," Everly responded. "Anyway, assuming somebody programmed messages into our souls suggests the involvement of a creator. It doesn't have to be God, per se, but it implies that something or some orchestrated our existence." Everly shook her head, expressing her disbelief. "I can't subscribe to that idea."

  Cedar, offering a counterpoint to Everly's skepticism, argued, "It explains why we all receive the same answers—and why all religions are similar. It implies that we were created with science and intension rather than some mystifying celestial happenstance. I thought you'd be into it."

  "We are programs, not simulations. Our existence is a result of evolution, guided by the law of the infinite many," Everly countered. "The only mystery that Ari fails to explain is where the energy from the Big Bang came from. Other than that, I see no divine intervention here. We glean the same answers because we originate from the same place, the singularity. The concept of Superdeterminism fits. Everyone had these answers from the beginning. It's simple. There is no free will."

  "Well, that settles that then," Ari said with a satisfied smile. "There will always be two chasms of thought. Like the Dems and the GOP."

  "Please tell me there aren't any Republicans in the afterlife." Cedar sighed with a pained squint.

  Everly took another sip of water whilst calculating her next question. "What happens at the end of the universe? When the accelerated expansion causes atoms and molecules to disintegrate?"

  Ari explained, "When that happens, the universe will lose its concept of time because there wouldn't be anymore particle interactions. Without mass, there can be no creation of time—not just linear, but time. The universe will revert to a state where everything is amalgamated. With the loss of time, space will also cease to exist. The universe will be reabsorbed into the singularity, but its imprints will remain as a two-dimensional hologram surrounding the singularity. Preserved as time energy in the sense it'll be remembered and never forgotten."

  "And what about the Fringe?" Everly asked. "What becomes of it?"

  "The Fringe is always the Fringe," Ari replied. "It's the fascia of the multiverse, holding it all together. It's always there, just like the singularity will always be around.”

  "I don't see how the Fringe fits into all this," said Everly. "I understand everything up until the—"

  "Are we done here?" Cedar interrupted. "My brain is applesauce and I'm tired." She stood up, stretching her limbs. In a moment of offbeat defiance, she hurled her water glass against the concrete wall, and asked for another.

  "Okay boss lady." Ari pulled out another icy pint of water from his backpack and handed it to Cedar.

  "I'm ready for what's next." Everly also stood, leaving her empty glass on the pavement. "You can tell me about the Fringe once we're inside it."

  "I think now is the time we part ways, Everly," Ari spoke in a tender tone.

  "What? Now? After everything?" she protested.

  "This next part of the journey is personal. Cedar can tell you all about it after—"

  "No. There's no way I'm leaving now. I'll follow you. You can't stop me." She folded her arms and looked down at her empty water glass before kicking it over, not hard enough to cause any break in the glass.

  "The Fringe entities are, well, you'll not like them. They can be a bit . . . much."

  "What are they? Why won't I like them?"

  "We created the Fringe by interacting with each . The entities are created through our interactions with other living organisms. They can even be created by an emotional connection to a non-living object—idea's alone can create an entity."

  "So?"

  "So, they're mindless and absurd." Ari looked at Cedar who had a tired, forlorn expression on her face. "Look, Cedar's tired and done with lectures."

  "It should be my decision on whether or not I go with you. I earned it."

  “Let her come," Cedar shrugged. "I mean, how much more personal can it get than having her inside my head all this time?"

  Truth was, Cedar had grown accustomed to Everly. She made her feel sane amongst the insanity.

  Ari sighed and peered into the opening that led to the Fringe. Cedar's eyes followed his gaze.

  Inside, she could see sparks of light winking in and out like fireflies. The Fringe looked alive and yet crystallized, almost stationary. Everything beyond the door appeared to be awake and breathing with life, but having the contrary feel of being static and fixed—calculated. Artificial, yet organic.

  Cedar felt a primal connection to the substances beyond the door, awakening a deep, elemental part of her being. It reminded her of the scent and feel of nutrient-rich soil in her hands, naked skin immersed in raw, virgin nature. To ingest these things meant to become it. All her life she ingested nature, never realizing that she was also nature. In her heart, Cedar felt that she was not just a byproduct of the Earth, but that she was the Earth itself.

  "What are you doing?" Everly asked Ari. Cedar came out of her reverie as she witnessed Ari slicing again with his knife, into the open gash of the Fringe.

  "We have to go deeper," he said as he slid the iridescent blade across the fabric of the Fringe.

  "Deeper than the Fringe?" asked Everly.

  "Nah, not that far. There are different layers to the Fringe. We're just going behind the projection."

  Cedar watched as the tendrils of fabric fell away from the Fringe. An opening inside an opening. "What's back there?"

  "Creation," he said, summing it in one word.

  Before their eyes, entities of diverse forms and natures appeared. Some bore an air of Egyptian Gods, majestic and ancient, while others rolled along on rubbery, spherical bodies. As the trio stood at the threshold of this domain, the entities ceased their activities, turning their attention towards the newcomers. Their numbers seemed to swell as Cedar continued to observe them.

  "What are they?" Everly whispered.

  "They're the offspring of our relationships, and they love us unconditionally."

  A quiet light shone through from this new window. It lit Cedar's face, not in the same manner as the sun, but in a way that was more primal and surreal. Like a dream. Light with no heat or intensity. Illumination without a source.