If you ask ten historians when the world changed, you'll get twelve answers and at least one invoice. Some swear it was a Tuesday—statistically the most boring day of the week, which feels exactly like fate's sense of humor. Others claim it started on a Wednesday in Mumbai, a Friday in Paris, and a long weekend in New York. What everyone agrees on is this: somewhere between lunch and collective panic, human beings started doing things human beings should not do.
We're talking about the big stuff. Not tax fraud or reality TV. We mean throwing buses like shot put, punching cracks into mountains, calling down rocks from orbit like it's a food delivery service with poor boundaries. The CCTV footage is still online if you know where to look (don't bother; it's mostly shaky cams and people shouting "Bro!").
Scientists called it an "emergent anomalous distribution of human capabilities." Politicians called it "a teachable moment." Talk show hosts called it "tonight at nine." Your aunt called you to ask if there's a WhatsApp forward that can give her powers.
And the rest of us? We called it The New World, because branding is important when the sky is falling in chunks.
Origin Stories (Choose One; No Refunds)
The first question on everybody's mind—after "Am I now legally allowed to sue gravity?"—was how. Where did the powers come from? Why some people and not others? And why did a cricketer in Nagpur suddenly start shooting sparks whenever he sneezed—conveniently roasting only the opposing team—right as his side was losing?
If you're looking for a satisfying, peer-reviewed answer, please stop. We don't have one. What we do have are theories, which, for all practical purposes, are answers with PR.
Theory One: The Gods Did It.This theory has remarkable staying power because it allows everyone to be right and louder than everyone else. With so many religions, the debate quickly devolved into a pan-subcontinental sales conference, complete with banners, discounts, and loyalty programs. Every religious entrepreneur—sorry, fanatic—stepped forward to announce that yes, in fact, their God had rolled out the patch update. Limited-time offer. Terms and conditions apply. (Some groups even printed glossy brochures featuring lightning bolts and motivational quotes that were absolutely not from the original scriptures but had great kerning.)
Unfortunately, interfaith panels lasted approximately six minutes before collapsing into arguments over catering. Which, if you've ever attended an interfaith panel, tracks.
Theory Two: Nuclear Fallout, But Make It Pop Culture.A contingent of people insisted this was the result of radiation from years of nuclear tests, satellites, and the general habit of modernity to microwave food. These brave minds went one step further: they signed online petitions asking governments to "detonate one more" right on their homes so the power could "activate properly." The petitions gathered thousands of signatures, mostly from people who think sunscreen is a conspiracy. Authorities, in a rare global moment of restraint, did not oblige.
Theory Three: Cosmic RNG.The universe, being a chaotic mess of vacuum and tantrum, occasionally throws dice. One day it rolled a critical success. Or a critical failure. The evidence suggests both, sometimes in the same person. The technical term for this is nobody knows, which is a fancy way of saying "please stop asking, we are as confused as you are."
If you're annoyed, we sympathize. Not knowing is deeply un-Instagrammable.
The Great Lottery (Terms and Conditions: Cruel)
Powers didn't arrive all at once. They showed up in waves, like monsoon showers that ignore the forecast—and your laundry. The first wave was spectacular: titans lifting ferries out of floods, a woman in Ladakh whistling an avalanche back into place, a schoolteacher in Lagos convincing a hurricane to take tomorrow off. The second wave was powerful but a little weird: a teenager who could shoot rasgulla syrup (sugar syrup) from his palm—great against 'diabetes' villains, disastrous for keyboards. The third wave had… breadth. Diversity. One man in Peru could hear people's intentions; his neighbor's life goal turned out to be mastering pineapple pizza, so the town mayor promptly revoked the poor man's license. A retired headmaster in Jaipur could converse with birds; his current hobby is teaching pigeons to salute.
By the fourth wave, impatience had become a global pastime. Waiting for your lottery—that is, for your powers—to "drop" was the new national sport. People tracked symptoms like stock prices: "I felt a tingling in my left elbow; is that telekinesis?" "My cat has been staring at me more than usual; am I a telepath?" "I burped and the bulb flickered; should I call the power ministry or Marvel?"
It got worse. Office productivity fell because everyone was busy checking whether they could fly (spoiler: most cannot, and those who can shouldn't try it near metro lines). Schools started teaching "superpower safety assemblies," which primarily involved telling children not to set each other on fire, a message children took as a challenge.
And then came the news stories. Oh, the news stories.
Breaking News, Usually by Accident
Take the now infamous Werewolf Incident. A gentleman in a middle-class apartment complex began hearing terrifying nocturnal noises from his neighbor: low growls, scratching, the occasional howl. Convinced he was about to become a statistic in a supernatural documentary, he called the police, two live YouTube channels, and his mother. The police arrived, weapons drawn, cameras rolling.
The neighbor opened the door, sweaty and… profoundly embarrassed. There was no transformation, no moonlit fur, no blood-stained tiles. Just… a very human hobby pursued with more passion than acoustical discretion. The police shut the door, the cameras cut the feed, and somewhere in the city a soundproofing company launched a very successful ad campaign.
Other headlines were equally inspiring:
MAN IN DELHI CLAIMS TELEPORTATION; COMMUTES TO GURGAON INSTANTLY; STILL ARRIVES LATE.
WOMAN IN CHENNAI HEALS PLANTS WITH A HUG; NEIGHBORHOOD BANYAN TRIES TO ELOPE.
TEENAGER IN PUNE BENDS SPOONS WITH MIND; RESTAURANT DEMANDS PAYMENT.
KOLKATA SCIENTIST ACCIDENTALLY DELETES GRAVITY IN HER BEDROOM FOR TWO DAYS; LANDLORD REQUESTS IT BACK WITH SECURITY DEPOSIT.
Only the last one was true. The rest were click-ads wearing journalism like a fake mustache.
S to F: The Officially Unhelpful Scale
Humanity loves labels. If we can't understand a thing, we grade it. Enter the Ministry of Unanticipated Phenomena (MUP), a department that definitely did not exist a few years earlier and now had a logo, a hotline, and enormous bags under its eyes.
The MUP unveiled a classification system for powers:
S-Class: Catastrophe on legs. Mountain punchers. Meteor wranglers. Reality gets nervous when they sneeze.
A-Class: City-level game-changers. Flood-diverters, power-grid whisperers.
B-Class: Professional-grade. Lift a bus (carefully, please), outrun a train.
C-Class: Useful in a crisis, impressive at weddings. Great for fire drills, mine rescues, and party tricks that win you free dessert. Mildly inconvenient to enemies and occasionally to friends.
F-Class: Also known, in official documents and unfortunate memes, as Fail. Not because people are failures, mind you, but because their powers… are.
Examples of F-Class powers include: being able to make any doorbell ring slightly longer; perfectly predicting yesterday's weather; growing more than one extra eyebrow hair per year; and, in one peer-reviewed case, puking after drinking just beer.
If you're offended on behalf of F-Class holders, you're not alone. Many felt insulted, as if being ordinary was a moral failing. Petitions were filed. Hashtags trended. A brief movement arose to rename F as "Fine", but the internet had already settled on Fail, because cruelty scales faster than nuance.
The irony, as every bored philosopher pointed out, is that the scale was never the point. An S-Class can destroy a mountain. An F-Class can fix your printer. Which one do you need on a Monday?
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In the weeks after the New World began, governments did what governments do: they formed committees, printed pamphlets, and reminded everyone to remain calm, preferably in queues. A new economy sprouted overnight. There were power coaches, ethical consultants, meditative mentors, and at least three apps that promised to "optimize your inner hero" through push notifications and microtransactions.
Insurance companies adapted immediately, because of course they did. New policies appeared: Act of God, Act of Neighbor, Act of That Guy From Floor 3 Who Thinks He's Thor. Premiums rose faster than a pyrokinetic on a windy day.
Schools updated their timetables. Physics classes now included short units on "exceptions," which is to say, "please memorize the rules so you know exactly what you're breaking." PT periods introduced anti-collision drills. Parent-teacher meetings were spirited.
There was also the question of villains—a word we used cautiously because labeling people who can pulverize bridges is a delicate exercise. For every earthquake-puncher in a cape, there were three opportunists realizing that invisibility pairs nicely with embezzlement. The good news: most criminals, powered or otherwise, were as bad at planning as ever. The bad news: the ones who weren't made the news a lot.
The world adjusted. It was either that or hyperventilate forever.
Within months, cities evolved. Billboards advertised capes with fire-retardant lining. Delivery apps added a "teleport-friendly" option. Local governments painted landing zones on rooftops, which were quickly repurposed as selfie platforms. Public address systems added a fourth language: Screaming.
Some changes were mundane. Gyms introduced "S-Class hours" (which were mostly empty because S-Class people don't pay for gyms; the treadmills are terrified of them).