July 16, 1945
Undisclosed Location, United States of America
History does not announce itself when it arrives. It whispers—through hurried footsteps, sealed doors, and men who haven't slept for days.
Dr. John Orwell strode through the concrete corridor with unusual urgency, his lab coat billowing behind him like an unwitting flag. To casual observers, he might have appeared almost childlike—reminiscent of a boy racing to share a newfound discovery. But Orwell carried decades of knowledge in his weathered hands, and what awaited him was no simple revelation.
It marked the death of innocence.
Above him, a speaker sputtered before crackling to life.
"Detonation test will commence in fifteen minutes," announced the disembodied voice, its clinical tone reverberating through the desert facility's hallways—precise, detached, irreversible.
Orwell reached the observation deck and slid into his seat among fellow architects of tomorrow—men who would eventually be condemned, celebrated, and immortalized in equal measure. Scientists with brilliant minds, generals with iron resolves, and silent witnesses to the threshold sat shoulder to shoulder, united by classified oaths and unspoken dread. Among them, Dr. Robert Oppenheimer slouched slightly, his lanky frame seemingly collapsing under invisible pressure, while General Leslie Groves maintained military posture despite weeks without proper rest. Their faces, etched with fatigue, betrayed the burden of their creation.
Silence enveloped them initially, heavy with anticipation.
Then Oppenheimer leaned toward Orwell, his lips forming a smile that never reached his haunted eyes.
"John," he murmured, balancing between jest and prayer, "any chance today's the day we change history?"
Orwell gazed back, words trapped in his throat. No one truly wished to hear the answer spoken aloud.
The war—the supposed final conflict—had necessitated this moment. Humanity, exhausted and desperate, had chosen not restraint but transcendence. To ensure survival, they convinced themselves they must surpass nature's fundamental boundaries.
Oppenheimer spoke again, his voice barely audible, as though confessing a sin rather than addressing colleagues.
"We are crossing a boundary today. One we may never return from."
A nervous murmur rippled through the assembled scientists, their shoulders tensing collectively.
Dr. David Hammerstein extracted a cigarette from his pocket with trembling fingers, struck a match, and lit it. The brief flame illuminated the deep furrows around his eyes before he exhaled slowly, smoke curling upward like a question mark against the sterile air.
""This test will determine everything," he said. "How wars unfold. Who governs the world. Yet I can't help wondering—what if, someday, this power turns against us?"
Silence descended upon them.
Then General Groves broke through the quiet, his voice unyielding as steel.
"Then may God have mercy on us all."
The countdown commenced.
What erupted was not thunder—but pure, blinding light.
A star materialized where none belonged. The desert held its breath as the inferno ascended, a colossal pillar of radiance tearing at the heavens. Heat swept through like divine judgment, consuming test structures, disintegrating wood, steel, and flesh without distinction. Mannequins—surrogates for humanity—vanished as though they had never existed.
Time itself seemed suspended between what was and what would be.
"My God," Edward Teller murmured, his words barely perceptible. "What have we unleashed?"
General Groves' lips curved upward.
"We've secured victory."
⸻
1945–1946
Japan burned.
Kyoto. Hiroshima. Yokohama. Kokura. Niigata.
Entire cities vanished into mere shadows etched upon stone. Imperial Japan surrendered before a single American boot desecrated their sacred soil, abandoning their Axis allies in the face of utter annihilation.
Germany stood alone, betrayed.
The final bomb descended during a speech—its leader's final declaration devoured by merciless flame. A single detonation sufficed. Centuries would pass before recovery might begin.
The world trembled before a horrifying revelation:
America did not simply win wars. America obliterated them.
⸻
The Long Silence
By the 1950s, the world pretended to move on, burying its trauma beneath new highways and suburban dreams.
By the 1980s, it reorganized itself, reshaping borders with trembling hands while old wounds festered beneath diplomatic smiles.
From the remnants of old empires rose the Union of Nations—an uneasy alliance of the former Soviet Union, China, Germany, Japan, and others bound not by trust, but by shared resentment and collective humiliation. Their leaders met in marble halls, eyes sharp with suspicion, voices soft with practiced courtesy. A new war began, not with bullets, but with spies, sanctions, and secrets whispered in shadowed rooms.
While the Union clung to oil and decay, their factories belching smoke into leaden skies, American scientists turned inward, seeking salvation in laboratories where fluorescent lights never dimmed.
From nuclear waste—humanity's greatest sin—they discovered redemption. Dr. Eleanor Chen watched through reinforced glass as the first successful reaction illuminated her team's faces with an otherworldly glow.
Plasma.
Clean. Renewable. Limitless. The word itself seemed to pulse with possibility.
Energy was no longer scarce. Children no longer learned to fear the dark.
And when energy is infinite, imagination follows, unfurling like a sail catching wind for the first time.
Plasma reactors powered cities, their gentle hum replacing the roar of coal plants. Solar farms spanned continents, silver panels tracking the sun like faithful worshippers. Then came plasma weapons—rounds that burned emerald green, vaporizing flesh into luminous residue. General Hayes held the first prototype with reverence and dread, feeling its weight not in pounds but in consequences. The world laughed when America abandoned lead and gunpowder, calling it foolish sentimentality.
They stopped laughing when terrorists were erased in seconds, reduced to glowing slag that cooled slowly in desert winds. Satellite footage leaked online showed green flashes followed by silence—a terrible, complete silence.
The Union demanded plasma technology, pounding tables in diplomatic chambers, their faces flushed with rage and fear.
America refused, its representatives maintaining calm expressions that masked sleepless nights and endless debates.
A spy stole the formula—slipping past guards whose retinal scans showed no sleep for thirty-six hours—but never returned home. His handler waited at the rendezvous point until dawn, watching shadows for a man who had become one.
⸻
2050–2070
Resources vanished into thin air. Water, gold, currency—all rendered worthless.
The Union, driven by desperation, invaded Alaska seeking precious plasma reserves.
What they encountered defied expectation.
Genetically modified soldiers stood waiting, their eyes vacant yet focused, engineered for absolute obedience and perfected for lethal efficiency. Their muscles rippled beneath specialized armor, faces betraying no emotion as they awaited commands.
General Alexander Ward, a tactical genius with ice-cold veins, crushed the invasion before lunchtime—not to defend plasma reserves, but to test his revolutionary combat system. His thin lips curved into a satisfied smile as information leaked across secure channels. Combat data flowed, confirming superiority beyond doubt.
Ward transformed from military general to national hero to charismatic politician, his ambition burning brighter with each calculated step. The public adored him, unaware of the calculated mind behind the charming facade.
By 2068, he claimed the Vice Presidency, his voice resonating through homes across America, promising security and prosperity.
By 2070, Americans lived without fear, their days brightened by android labor that handled mundane tasks. Advanced cryogenics promised extended life, while artificial intelligence managed complex systems with flawless precision. Hushed rumors of lunar colonies whispered through classified channels, making hearts race with possibility.
The impossible had become routine, woven into daily life like breathing.
⸻
2077–2078
The Union struck first, their patience finally exhausted.
Nuclear warheads rained down on plasma refineries across North America—ancient weapons of mass destruction wielded by dying nations desperate to ensure mutual annihilation. The sky burned orange and black as missiles tore through clouds, leaving trails of doom in their wake.
They failed to understand one crucial thing.
America had planned for this catastrophe, had anticipated this moment for decades.
Beneath the soil, over two hundred fortified bunkers sealed shut with pneumatic hisses. Inside these underground sanctuaries, humanity slept in cryogenic chambers while the surface burned, mutated, and collapsed into myth. Children, parents, scientists, and soldiers—all preserved in dreamless sleep while radiation reshaped the world above.
On September 24th, by noon, the Union fired its last missile, its resources finally depleted.
The world ended with both a bang and a whimper.
⸻
The steady hum of plasma generators never stopped, their rhythm marking time in the darkness.
And somewhere, buried beneath layers of ash and forgotten history, the future waited to wake, patient and inevitable.
This is where our story begins, in the silence between heartbeats.