#omniverse theory

[dansiepor]

It's because of things like this that I believe that Cartoon Network is not a single Multiverse, but something akin to a Mega/Omniverse as it contains many multiverses, one of which is AT.

A crossover, huh?

lol, where was Prismo during the OK KO special?

[insert-the-4thwall-entity]

What if the Whatiffer had a human body? Imagine that!

[starling-scratches]

hatecore rook sketches cuz that new Yeat album had a vibe attached to it. Anyway he's fucking tortured ok. emotional pin cushion moment ‼‼

[godlikktheomni]

a (very speculative) rant on the intelligence of gray matter (and the concept of genetic memory(mostly the latter actually))

ok so something that has always kinda bugged me about gray matter in how knowledgable ben is in this transformation.

and I don't mean his intelligence I mean his knowledge: gray matter could recognize alien technology and species by NAME. this isn't something you could do by just having an high IQ and we've seen Ben do this even before knowing max was a plumber let alone had the chance to have seen this kind of stuff before.

I always brushed it off as kids show logic until I put more thought into it...and realized this isn't only time transformations have shown to carry knowledge

literally in his debut episode, Zs'Skayr has said that the Conciousness of an Ectonurite is contained even in a string of DNA, which not only meant he lived inside the omnitrix, everytime Ben transformed into Ghostfreak, he was physically fused with Zs'Skayr, which is what allowed him to fight for control and eventually escape the watch.

this shows that DNA containing memories is established in the ben 10 universe.

but despite being the most popular sentient transformation there are other less obvious examples in the series

Big chill is a similar yet less extreme example, where the DNA itself wasn't sentient, but its instincts overwhelmed Ben so much it affected his human form and the omnitrix itself

this shows that despite still being Ben, he does a lot of the traits of his aliens like reproductive cycle and instincts, and I really wanna emphasize this, sure we all know the omnistrix can make ben smarter for aliens with big brains or make him more aggressive (i.e rath) for aliens that are naturally competitive.

but I really wanna emphasize while ben's personality and memories are carried over for each alien, he truly becomes each alien, even in how their brains work, he doesn't just gain the knowledge of how their powers work, his brain is wired the same way any individual of that species is, just like how we humans have core fears we all share, or specific behaviors and rituals we partake in like it's second nature, so do these aliens, and when ben transforms the same wired in behaviors he has like all of us are replaced with those of the creature.

ampfibian's case is interesting because he is similar to ghostfreak's.

while Ghostfreak's DNA is said to contain its counciousness and that's why he's alive in the omnitrix, Ra'ad wasn't just scanned he was ABSORBED, not only did he get digitized inside the watch, when ben transforms into him it carried over his counciousness and both had to share the body.

this is huge because this isn't a species which adapted to be able to do this like Ghostfreak. the Omnitrix was not only able to store an entire individual in it, it was able to use Ben's body to reconstruct Ra'ad.

Za'Scyr was a parasite, but Ra'ad wasn't. this is completely the Omnitrix's doing, it was able to capture and fuse two beings, so really there's no limit to what it can hold nor to how much it can change ben.

and he isn't even the only instance of this!

not only is sugolite an example of the watch storing an entire being, he himself is an example of the power of DNA in this show

sugolite was able to revive AN ENTIRE SPECIES decades after they were killed off.

if you thought the omnitrix storing Ra'ad like a poke ball then bringing back in ben's body was impressive, this fucking guy held an snapshot of an entire population of a planet in him, and was able to bring them back just from the crystals in his planet, that's like if you instantly grew a person from like grass.

he was literally called a living backup (I don't remember the exact wording but it was smth like that) of the entire species and all that information was stored in a transformation ben occasionally used.

ok but how does this tie back to gray matter?

we've seen transformations can hold the knowledge of people, but in all these cases it was either information inseparable from the DNA like instincts, or it was literally a whole ass person stored in the omnitrix, there was always a reason why aliens behave the way they do and knew the things they did.

so why the fuck does this guy just...know shit????

I have a theory

Galvans can pass down knowledge to their offspring

I don't mean this the same way we pass down knowledge by teaching, I mean that Galvans, literally can recall knowledge from their predecessors, and use this to intuitively learn have a head start when it comes to survival, if their parent ate a poison berry a survived to tell the tale, their offspring will intuitively know that berry is poison.

why do I think this? well gray matter's intelligence is often showcase through engineering, he has a deep understanding for machines, and while making the omnitrix, what would have been the easiest source for Galvan DNA if not the ENGINEER of the Omnitrix himself?

if my theory is correct that Galvan intelligence comes from them inheriting knowledge from their ancestors and building upon them with every generation, this would mean ben's knowledge while in gray matter comes directly from Azmuth.

every time ben as gray matter shows an incredible feat of engineering, that's him directly tapping into Azmuth's knowledge and life experience, in a way it's like ben tapped into a database built of generations and generations of galvans, truly becoming one of them in a way, which fits with the way the series treats transformations, as ben becoming a member of a different species, walking in their feet like Azmuth intended

so uh yeah that was my rant, don't know how many people will read this cause idk how many ben 10 fans there are on Tumblr, but it's just smth that's been on my mind.

ps. sorry for my bad grammar/spelling

[gaasublarb]

IMO Miles and Hobie actually look similar enough to justify Actually Miles Is Young Hobie fanstuff and yet I haven't seen any

Same eye color

The hairline and eyebrows are different but those are things that can be shaped

I thought Miles had just rounded lips but even that's not right. And it's not as if Hobie's don't even out sometimes

The face lines

Even their ears are similar enough I can't say anything against it and ears are like super individual

(Edit. Differences that age and stress maybe can't account for:

I think Miles has bigger ears? And maybe his lobes are more detached?)

((edit edit. I think the back of Hobie's jaw is shorter?? And the base of it longer????))

[starligthestella]

Oh my god

a friend of mine made this ben 10 theory and i fucking love it

[atwas-gaming]

The ideology behind Axiom Verge, as found on thomashapp.com.

[stellaraineart]

Monarchverse is litterally just "Stella thinks too hard about multiverse theory"

[rj-drive-in]

A Pi For A Pi Department:

When exploring the multiverse, please try not to break anything.

SUPERNUMERARY © 2025 by Rick Hutchins

“The drug worked,” said the text from Mansingh. “Come to my lab at once!”

Fuck me, I thought miserably in the middle of the darkened auditorium. I was halfway through the second day of the astrophysics symposium in Aspen, two thousand miles away from Northampton. We had agreed, goddamnit, that the denial of the application for human trials was the end of it, once and for all. I should have known better. Mansingh was never one to take no for an answer.

I texted back and got no response, repeatedly. Back in my hotel room, I tried calling and got only voice mail. Facebook and email proved equally ineffective, and instant messaging was useless. My anxiety level increased as the hours passed, and I seriously considered contacting the police; but it was too late to undo whatever had happened and I was not going to be responsible for Mansingh being brought up on criminal charges.

If I could help it.

The second two days of the conference went by in a blur, punctuated only by my continuing attempts to contact Mansingh. The competition between Shabana and Garabedian over calculating pi to a new extreme should have been the highlight of the presentations, but I had to feign amusement. And when Rabinowitz asked me back to his room after the awards dinner, which was something I had honestly been looking forward to with anticipation, I pleaded a headache and it was not a lie.

Monday morning, I flew back to Logan on schedule and hurried straight to my car. The drive back to Amherst took nearly two hours, despite most of the traffic being in the other direction. After a perfunctory shower and throwing on some clean clothes, I headed down to Northampton. Would I find an unparalleled scientific breakthrough or the premature ending to a brilliant scientific career? In my darkest thoughts, I found a corpse, but I told myself that I was overreacting.

*****

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of Mansingh’s single ranch home on the outskirts of town. There was no answer at the front door when I knocked or rang, but I still had my key from our grad student days. Inside, nothing seemed amiss, but there was that staleness in the air of a house that had been empty and disused. And through the hallway past the dining room, I could see that the door to the back porch was open.

The porch was wide, screened in, facing the yard and a field and the tree line; perfect for Summer nights full of stars and fireflies. The old brown comfortable couch was to the left of the doorway and as I stepped through and turned I experienced a moment of horrified vertigo that I will never forget as long as I live. My darkest thought, my deepest fear, was true, for there was Mansingh, on the couch in her underwear, head tilted back, arms limply at her sides.

Eyes closed. Mouth hanging open.

I was beside her in an instant, my knee hitting the coffee table, the array of empty wine bottles spread out on it jostling like wind chimes. Her hand and arm were cold and clammy as I felt for a pulse.

But it was there. And strong.

“Oh, holy fuck!” I said, nearly puking with relief.

She stirred slightly, lifting her head. “Dixon? That you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to kick your stupid ass.”

“You go, girl,” she said, dropping her head back.

*****

A hot cup of coffee and a bathrobe later, Mansingh was almost human again. But despite the noontime temperature of nearly 80, her skin was still clammy. We sat on the porch couch and I watched her carefully, troubled by her eyes. They were the same warm brown as always, but distant and dilated. Beyond lost in thought. Beyond lost.

“You took the drug,” I said at last.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, sipping. “Oh, yes.”

I died inside, as a litany of dooms flashed through my mind. Brain damage, vascular dementia, seizure disorder, vegetative state, death, death, death– Miesz’s formula was a powerful and exotic concoction and we had no idea what it would do to a human brain. That’s why the NIH had denied our application for clinical trials.

“Why?” I implored. “You promised.”

She turned to me with the touch of a sad smile. “As if you don’t know.”

“You and your instant gratification.”

She laughed softly and put the empty coffee mug on the table. She seemed troubled, but peaceful, like the morning after a funeral when all the crying is done. That was it. She didn’t seem lost. She seemed ancient.

“I had to know,” she said, leaning back on the couch. “I had to see for myself. I needed to see the structure from the outside. The Mandelbrot Set is only a hint. A shadow of a superfractal that is an artifact of the mathematical engine of the universe. But I’ve always known that the numbers are real, not just an abstraction, and we’re the result of that.”

‘Yes, I know,” I replied quietly, rubbing my eyes.

“I wanted to see the numbers themselves. Those are the real gods.”

“Mansingh….”

“And I did, Dixon, I did.”

I looked up at her. “You have to be kidding.”

She shook her head. “Miesz’s drug did everything he promised. His little custom molecules turned my neural mitochondria into a network of quantum computers that were not bound by our time and space. Oh, it worked. It went far beyond anything we expected.”

“You hallucinated.”

“I don’t think so. I saw it. I saw more than we bargained for.”

“Well, what did you see?”

Mansingh frowned. “I don’t really remember it all now,” she sighed. “The drug wore off after a couple of days.”

“You hallucinated.”

“No!” she said adamantly. “I don’t remember everything I experienced, but I remember what I thought about it. I remember all my impressions, and my realizations, and my feelings, and my analysis. I saw the reality of math. More than that, I touched it. And other things, besides and beyond math.”

“What do you mean?” I have to admit that I was intrigued. How could I not be?

Mansingh ran her fingers slowly through her hair. “It’s so hard to explain,” she said. “There really aren’t words in any human language. Or any concepts in any human philosophy, for that matter. Scientists and science fiction writers have always theorized about parallel universes where the laws of physics are different, which is true, or alternate histories where events happened differently, which is also true, but those are just points on an infinite plane. I mean, the very ideas are just points on an infinite plane of ideas.” She frowned and shook her head in frustration.

Holding my breath, I resisted the temptation to prod her. I wanted to let her gather her thoughts. While I waited, I glanced sidelong at the wine bottles on the table, hoping to see one that wasn’t empty, but no such luck.

“What we think of as solid and real,” she continued at last, “or what we think of as consciousness or what we think of as an individual mind, are the results of math, just like pi or e is the result of math. But it’s the math that’s really real. And there are other things like math that aren’t math, that aren’t really like math at all, that do other things that math doesn’t do. But even math and the other things that aren’t math are really just the protons and neutrons in the larger scheme of things. And then… oh….”

Her voice trailed off and her eyes grew unfocused.

“Then what?”

She sighed and shook her head. “In the distance, it… like molten blue shapes in a thick fog on a bottomless ocean….” This was the closest thing to poetry I had ever heard come from Mansingh’s mouth. “There’s no end to it. Even with the drug, it wasn’t enough. There could never be enough.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, “do you remember anything specific, any new mathematical principle, some testable observation, some new proof or theorem that might be evidence that all this was not just an acid trip?”

She glared at me a bit for that and I saw a little echo of the old Mansingh in her eyes for a moment, then she sagged back on the couch again. “No,” she said. “I don’t remember anything along those lines.”

I struggled for something diplomatic to say, but then she spoke again:

“I’m just hoping I didn’t do any damage.”

Somehow that sent a chill running down my spine. “Damage to what?” I asked. “Yourself? Your nervous system? Your reputation? Or something else? Where’s Miesz? Where was Miesz while all this was going on? Have you talked to him about this?” My blood ran cold. “Has something happened to Miesz?”

She fluttered a hand in the air dismissively. “Oh, he’s in Stockholm with what’s-her-name. He doesn’t know anything about this. I’m talking about damage to the universe.”

Cold? My blood was ice. “The universe,” I repeated quietly. “Mansingh, I want you to listen to me now. You know how much I care about you. Even if we’re not together now, that doesn’t change how I feel. I want you to take my advice and have some tests done. An MRI maybe, or a PET scan. And I want you to talk to somebody, somebody professional.” I was close to babbling at this point.

Mansingh sat limp on the couch, her head tilted back, her eyes closed, her long black hair splayed across her shoulders. She was beautiful. After a long moment, a sad smile touched her lips.

“Thank you, Velvet,” she said.

“Come with me now.”

“No,” she said. “I know you don’t believe me and I don’t for one minute blame you for it, because I wouldn’t believe it either if I was in your shoes. But it’s all true. I saw a greater reality. For one brief, shining moment, I was a pixel in the Mandelbrot Set who got to step back and see the entire fractal, in all its infinite recursions. Not only did I get to see it, but I got to touch it. And… and I got to change it.”

How was I going to deal with this? “Okay,” I said carefully, “let’s think this through together. Even supposing that the drug worked the way you think it did and your consciousness was expanded to perceive a larger reality– how could you change reality? It was your mind that expanded, not your hands. You have no tools or machines that can affect other dimensions. How could you change reality? What is it about reality that you think you changed?”

Mansingh sighed and shrugged sheepishly. “I’m not entirely sure now. While I was there, while I was in touch, I saw that changing four basic constants of this universe would benefit humanity profoundly. Pi was one. The other three have not been discovered yet. All four are transcendental numbers and it involved changing just a short string of digits in the far reaches of its decimal representation. Although it was a bit difference in practice. But I only got to change pi before the drug wore off.”

“But how? You’re not telling me how.”

Her fingers twined restlessly, like she was molding clay. “The universe is math, the constants are math, we’re math. Math can interact with math, changing values back and forth. The so-called reality that we’re used to is just a crude hologram, a simulation with little options. It’s like asking why fish never discovered fire. And numbers, really– there’s really only one, isn’t there? It’s so easy to spin it around, so it’s showing a different side of itself, casting a different shadow.”

“So there’s no change to the universe that we can observe or measure.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The change to pi is there, but we’d have to calculate it out a lot farther than the current record. Which won’t do any good if I can’t remember what changes I made to it. Whether or not there’s any measurable change to the universe, I don’t know. That’s what worries me.”

“Why does that worry you?”

“Because I was only able to change one of the four parameters. Think of the observable universe as a massively complex computer program. If you make a change in one part of the code without making corresponding changes elsewhere, you can create a bug or a glitch.”

She tilted her head and looked at me oddly.

“Or you can crash the system.”

“Mansingh,” I said slowly, “you cannot change a mathematical constant. That’s why they call it a constant. Pi is the ratio of the circumference of a circle to the diameter of a circle. That is not a variable. Nothing can change it. You had a bad trip, that’s all.”

“No, you’re still not getting it. I told you that math is real and the world we know is the result of it. Pi is not an equation that describes the ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle, the ratio is the result of pi. Change pi and you change the ratio. Besides, pi is about a lot more than circles.”

“But don’t you see how ridiculous that is? A ratio is a ratio. It is what it is. And even if you’re right, how do you change something that’s a fundamental part of the universe? The universe outweighs you by exponential trillions of tons.”

“That’s true,” she conceded, “but you only need 39 decimal places to calculate the circumference of the observable universe. You only need 77 decimal places to calculate the diameter of the unobservable universe. Think of it like a flagpole. At the base of it, on the ground, it’s solid as a rock, but the farther up you go, the more flexible it becomes. Pi just goes on and on. After a few billion digits, it practically melts in your mouth.”

The conversation was growing orders of magnitude more surreal by the minute, but the more she talked, the more I was starting to believe her. So I took that last remark as a cue to change the subject. “When was the last time you ate?” I asked.

The answer turned out to be an unknown quantity of days, so I got her dressed and took her out to the Thai Garden on Bridge Street, where she put away a Rama Garden before I had barely started on my Pad Thai. Afterward, we took our tea up the street to the little park by the cemetery and watched the kids playing on the swings. She still had that look about her like someone who had been touched by God.

“Fractals,” she said, her eyes drifting from the kids to the clouds to the leaves rustling in the trees, to a swarm of ants on a popsicle stick at our feet.

“So,” I said slowly, “everything seems normal. No other-dimensional vortices or rifts in the space-time continuum or Star Trek anomalies. It looks like you didn’t break the universe, after all.”

“Maybe,” she replied, sipping her tea. “I hope not. I just wish I could get back there and fix it, or finish what I started.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “I don’t want you going anywhere near that drug ever again. Where is the rest of it?”

“Are you kidding? I took the rest of it already.”

“Holy shit, Mansingh! Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“It was the first thing I did, of course. I wanted to get back. It didn’t do any good, though. Nothing happened. Apparently it only works once per person.”

“Nothing happened that you know of,” I said. “God only knows what it’s doing to your brain cells. Tomorrow we take you to your doctor, and I’m serious.”

She took a longer drink of her tea and thought about it. “Okay,” she nodded. “That’s a reasonable thing to do.”

“Okay. Good.”

I was beginning to think I could get her through this without her being arrested, fired, or institutionalized.

*****

The next morning is when things started going from bad to worse.

I woke up early, but I wanted to let Mansingh sleep in so I killed time by catching up on my emails and forums. Most of it was just a blur to my distracted mind, but I did notice that Shabana and Garabedian were taking a lot of teasing over both of their pi-calculation programs crashing at exactly a trillion decimal places. Of course, I only took notice of that because the very concept of pi was giving me nightmares.

Finally, I decided that Mansingh had racked up enough sleep to face her primary care doctor, so I pulled out my phone and gave her a call. Her cell rang a half dozen times and went to voice mail. I gave her a couple of minutes to pull herself together and tried again. Voice mail. Third try, voice mail again.

I got in my car and headed down there.

Maybe she was just in a heavy sleep after her stoned excursion through the cosmos. Maybe she was taking a long, refreshing shower. Maybe I was an idiot for leaving her alone and should have brought her home with me.

This time I let myself in without wasting time knocking. She wasn’t in her unmade bed or the dry shower or on the back porch. Or anywhere. Her cell phone was on the kitchen counter next to an empty glass of orange juice.

I never for a second considered the possibility that she had woken up, gotten dressed, and headed out to her primary care doctor’s office on her own to cheerily explain that she had taken several doses of a highly experimental mind-altering drug that had sent her on a psychedelic trip that would put David Bowman to shame and that it might have turned her frontal lobes to Swiss cheese and that it might be a good idea if she had an MRI immediately if not sooner. I knew her too well for that.

“You stupid little shit,” I said. She was going to find a way to experience that high again.

And that meant she had to find Miesz. So I had to find him, too.

Naturally, he didn’t answer his phone either when I tried calling him. He was vacationing in Sweden with Elizabeth from CalTech, so he wouldn’t be inclined to pick up a call from me. Especially if he had already talked to Mansingh. Hell, if he had already talked to Mansingh he might be afraid to return to the States.

So I tried to find Mansingh any way I could think of. Over the next couple of days, I called all our mutual friends, I called all her own weird friends, I called acquaintances, I called professors, I called undergrads, I called her shrink, I called complete strangers who didn’t know either of us but who she might contact for assistance with her little project, I even called some people on campus who I knew dealt in hallucinogens. Nobody had seen her for days or weeks or ever. I tried email and Snapchat. I monitored her Facebook page and the physics message boards where we both hung out, but there was absolutely zero evidence of recent online activity.

Maybe she would actually try flying to Stockholm to find Miesz. I tried checking, but the airlines wouldn’t even talk to me. I started to seriously consider hiring a private detective, and went as far as to Google names.

Then an idea occurred to me. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I got Elizabeth’s last name and contact info from a mutual acquaintance at CalTech and called her. First and second attempts went to voice mail, but on the third try she actually picked up.

“Yes, he certainly did get a call from your friend,” she said. “It was a couple of days ago. And now he’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“Exactly what I said. Gone. He talked to her for five minutes, as we were sitting down having dinner, then he got up and literally ran out of the restaurant without a word. Leaving me with the bill.”

“Oh, my god. Uh… sorry about that. Have you heard from him?”

“No, I haven’t. When I got back to the hotel room, he had already been there and left with his things.”

“So you have no idea where he is now?”

“I don’t really fucking care where he is at this point.”

Things were really bad, I realized, but I still didn’t understand how bad. I was still thinking in terms of brain damage and psychosis and dementia. I started calling Miesz constantly, leaving frantic voice mails until his mailbox filled up. That was about the time I started becoming aware of the ominous buzz on the grapevine.

Shabana and Garabedian, those clowns from MIT, had started their competition over again after their programs crashed the week before. They had each written algorithms that they claimed would calculate pi faster and better than anything that had been done before, and each was determined to beat the other. Everybody had gotten a good laugh when both of their programs had crashed simultaneously at exactly a trillion digits, but the guys had debugged their programs, scored new hardware, and started over.

This time, they both crashed simultaneously at a little over ten billion digits.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach was that of a cancer patient given a grim prognosis.

There was no connection between Shabana’s and Garabedian’s projects. Nothing via the Internet or wireless, nothing in the code, or the servers. Both were written and implemented, and were running, in complete isolation.

News started coming in over the following days from various schools and labs all over the world. People began to set up special projects to check and double check, calculating in every possible method, on every type of machine, in every type of programming environment, and in every language. The results were invariably identical. Every attempt to calculate pi would crash at the exact same time at the exact same decimal place. And the number of decimal places was shrinking.

It even got a mention on cable news channels. The anchors smiled about this funny mystery that had a bunch of nerdy scientists scratching their eggheads. The dedicated science news sites were a bit more subdued.

But it continued to get quietly worse, even as fewer and fewer locations bothered to report their results. We heard of a few people who just quit and moved away with their families. Some just walked out and went off the grid. Entire labs began to grow silent. CNN began to report on it as some kind of a worldwide UFO cult story or something and I just turned them off. Garabedian threw up a simple message board on the dark web where the few remaining researchers could post their results and speculations. There’s very little in the way of speculation, and we’re losing random chunks of digits every day.

We’re down to less than a million now.

Pi is crumbling– and I shudder at the thought of what will happen when it reaches this side of the decimal point.

[theshiftingwitch]

The multiverse theory VS The consciousness theory:

Shifttok has struck again, confusing baby shifters and veterans alike. The current discourse about which of the shifting theories is more accurate is throwing me for a loop, so let's dive in, shall we?

What is the multiverse theory?

It is a school of thought that suggests that there are infinite realities, infinite universes, and that You exist within all of them. You are a part of every possible reality within every possible universe, and in order to shift, all you have to do is become aware of that specific reality.

Cool? Peachy.

What is the consciousness theory?

This one suggest that you are pure consciousness, and that everything that exists around you is a reflection of your inner world. You create reality and it materializes as you observe it. You are the creator and everything is the result of your perception. In order to shift, you have to change your inner world, and your outer world will follow, shaping the reality you desire.

Are we on the same page so far? Sure thing.

So, which one is more accurate when it comes to shifting?

Well, let's look at it like this:

If you are the universe having a human experience, and you exist within all realities, doesn't that mean everything is your creation?

If all you have to do to shift is switch your awareness from one reality to another of your choosing, and all of those infinite possiblities already exist for you to perceive them, doesn't that mean you are (you're never going to believe this btw) PURE CONSCIOUSNESS?

If the multiverse is a bunch of infinite realities within infinite universes, and you are at the core of every single one of them, ready to experience the one you become AWARE of, doesn't that mean YOU ARE THE MULTIVERSE? YOU ARE THE CONSCIOUSNESS THAT CREATES AND PERCEIVES REALITIES??

Why create a meaningless division in the first place when at the end of the day, everything is a loop that leads back to you? You are both pure consciousness, and the multiverse with its infinite realities. You are the creator and the creation, you are the reality that you wish to perceive and the perception itself.

Creation is already finished and every possible thing you could imagine already exists. But who do you think created it?

The universe?

The Multiverse?

The Omniverse?

You.

Happy shifting ❤️

[tributedreference]

So, Nightmare basically gets free roam of the multiverse for five hundred years while Dream is in stone, right? Five hundred years is a long time though. Like, I get that the multiverse is by most means, infinite, but literally no one can touch him or stand against him, due to the only person able to do that is stuck as a statue. He probably could've won in around one hundred years, two maybe. So what was he doing? So here's a crack theory. Technically speaking, Dreamtale is not technically a universe belonging to the UTMV, Nim just put Dreamtale there cuz they wanted to break away and hide the Tree of Feelings. Said Tree of Feelings is what literally every single universe's emotions feed into. So if any universe's emotions feed into it, and it wasn't initially from the UTMV, could it take the emotions from any universe? Like, ranging everything to exist: Pokemon, Minecraft, War of the Worlds, Ten Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, League of Legends, Invader Zim, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Omori, iRobot, Garten of Banban, whatever. Even ours, technically. So maybe Nightmare decided to expand his influence across a different omniverse, away from his brother, over the past five hundred years. Keeps him farther away from the memories of him killing his mother, and should Dream manage to break out (which we know he does) he might not think to fight off Nightmare's power there. And then the five hundred years end, he senses that Dream is free, and heads back to the UTMV to face off against him for the final time. Though considering his and this fandom's track record, there really is no "final time".

[shrimp-child]

Prediction for literally every Marvel movie that ever dares to utter the word 'universes', the Multiverse Theory and 'the multiverse is infinite'. Marvel: "Good news! There's an Omniverse movie out!" Me: "Is it actually a multiverse movie?" Marvel: "I don't understand." Me: "I want to see a movie about the Omniverse. Is that what you have, or do you just use the Web of Life and Destiny?" Marvel: "It's about the Omni." Me: "You sure? You're using the Omniverse and not the multiverse?" Marvel: "That is correct. We're using the Omniverse - we are not using the WoLaD." Me: "Excellent! Please, give me the movie." Marvel: "Here you go (:" [gives me a multiverse movie] Me: "...Thank you, Marvel." Marvel: "You're welcome (:" And to explain the difference: The multiverse, when it comes to Marvel, is the Web of Life and Destiny, the Omniverse is the collection of multiverses from various medias, such as DC's Ocean/Rainbow of Worlds (or its various other names) and all of the multiverses from Dark Horse's publishings. Technically, some universes fall under the megaverse label due to being crossovers (essentially megaverse = group of universes from one multiverse that are linked to the same multiverse), but they're still the same multiverse. The Omniverse is obviously more difficult to use in a movie because they'd need to get agreements from the companies of the characters they would like to use, but it will piss me off to no end when they say 'the multiverse is infinite'. Like, no, the Web of Life and Destiny - your multiverse - is finite and the Omniverse is infinite. Yes, the writers use Omni and multi interchangeably but that's them ignoring the rules THEY SET UP!!!. I get it when fan-writers do it, because the writers like to play around with Omniversal canon in ways that make me want to rip my hair out, but guys: PLEASE LOOK INTO THE OMNI. MAKE YOUR OWN MULTIVERSES! IT'S SO FUN MAKING ORIGINS FOR THEM AND YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE BOUND BY THE LAW OF 'CANON EVENTS'. <- the words of a guy who made a multiverse specifically for his fics five(ish) years ago Also here's a hopefully simpler explanation of the differences between Marvel's -verses. Omniverse = everything Megaverse = the place for universes in-between of different multiverses Multiverse = a collection of universes

[yuriosakawa]

Theory: Generator Rex technically counts as an alternative Ben 

Now, I assume everyone knows by now what the Omniverse is and how does it work. 

But for those that don’t and/or need a quick refresher, it’s practically the Ben 10 multiverse. Stemming out from the Prime timeline which is our Ben’s timeline, where certain events can cause changes to it which can create different outcomes that can be so different, that they get treated as their own unique separate dimensions. 

Now, some changes are relatively tame. We get versions like Ben 23 and Gwen 10, which aren’t that different from the main timeline. 

But at the same time, we get versions like No Watch Ben who is regarded as an unpredictable wild card by Eon (a time traveling version of Ben himself) for the simple reason that he’s never got an Omnitrix, because the Omnitrix never existed in his timeline, completely detaching him from his counterparts, whether good or bad.  

Even the multiple "bad" versions of Ben (with the exception of Albedo) can somewhat be traced back to the original Ben in one way or another. 

Now, what does any of this have to do with Generator Rex? 

Well, since we’re never explicitly explained how the Omniverse works exactly; here’s my theory on how it can actually work…

My pitch? The more distant the dimension is from the prime Ben 10 timeline, the more different it becomes to it 

In this case, Rex’s universe is so far away from Ben’s reality that it’s a completely different and detached from every other dimension in the Omniverse; so much so that different established places and characters simply don’t exist on it anymore 

However, the general concept of a teenage superhero gifted with great power left by Ben is still in there. So, the universe found a way to “correct" itself by giving Rex the role of a fit-in for an alternative Ben. 

If this was correct, this would mean that when Ben traveled to Rex’s dimension he wasn’t actually traveling to a brand new world; he was just traveling to another branch of the Omniverse. Just one that was so far away from his own prime timeline for it to be recognizable 

In conclusion, Rex could also technically count as an alternative Ben 10 

But, hey! That’s just a theory! A Heroes United theory! Thanks for reading… 😉😉😉

[princess-of-the-corner]

"she creates them according to her vision of them not who they really were"

That reminds me of this one old theory for Omniverse where all the characters acting and/or looking different were due to Ben misremembering them while he was recreating the universe after the Annihilarrgh went off

Makes sense tbh

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 46

Interface

     A squat Betacam rumbled up the center aisle, its view-finder eye flicking red-to-green as the floor manager lowered a hand. Above the stage, a cardboard placard flipped from ON AIR to TAPE, signalling that tonight’s episode of Inquiry 22 (KSBW, Channel 8) had slipped from live feed into the cheaper comfort of post-event archiving—a half-inch reel destined for a filing drawer under the station’s stairs.

     Ford clocked the change in his peripheral vision; the cameras no longer mattered, but their lamps still bled heat across the dais. The overhead fluorescents added their own layer of interrogation: flat, cold, humming against the linoleum ceiling like a swarm of unseen wasps. He squinted, a thin whine from the microphone bank needling the soft place behind his eyes where last night’s hush still echoed.

        He hadn’t expected this many people.

     Rows on rows—hundreds of faces stacked like coarse pixels, every one reflecting that merciless glare. Most were young: grad students and fresh-pressed postdocs who knew the legend, not the man. They leaned forward with the stunned ardor of true believers, as if Santa Claus had dropped into their symposium. 

     Scattered among them sat the veterans—gray-collar professors who still remembered the funding blood-letting of the mid ’70s. Their eyes carry the dry caution of men who’ve watched lab budgets vanish under these theories. The resentment radiates upward, low and steady, like heat from a boiler room.

     Ford slouched a fraction off-center, elbow propped on the armrest, index finger pressed into his temple, knuckles drifting across his lips: a pose meant to suggest patient evaluation. In truth, he isn’t listening.

     One of the other panelists—a junior cosmologist with tenure-track nerves—was monologuing through a string of platitudes about epistemic humility. Cautious praise for “emergent theories in non-Euclidean frameworks,” all neatly wrapped in disclaimers. It was science as PR—risk-averse, credential-polished. Ford might have rolled his eyes if he weren’t preoccupied.

        Three chairs down sat Kratzer.

     Rigidly upright, legs neatly crossed, hands clasped atop one knee as if he were posing for commemorative postage. Even his stillness felt pre-approved. A pristine side-part complemented his crisp, charcoal suit, his finger nails perfectly, discretely, manicured. And just visible between starched cuff and polished oxford shoes—a pair of chartreuse polka-dot socks, a calculated flourish of manufactured personality, rebellion bought and neatly packaged.

     Bill, coiled in the warm crook of Ford’s subconscious like a spoiled cat on a radiator, mused: “Did he swallow a curtain rod? And those socks—Dazzling. Next he’ll debut a novelty tie.”

     Ford didn’t smile, but a slow blink slid across his expression—something close to amusement, something much closer to anticipation.

     Kratzer turned to the microphone with the ease of someone adjusting a spotlight. The Betacam’s red lamp tracked him; a floor manager in a corduroy blazer gave the silent tighten-shot signal. Kratzer’s smile appeared on cue—when he spoke, it was in that clipped, continental lilt that always sounded like it had been translated—poorly—from a much ruder language. unmistakably European, somewhere between Bohemia and smug.

     “Of course,” he began, voice knife-clean, “it is all very exciting.”

     He let the silence expand—only a heartbeat, but enough.

     “Yet we must be cautious when we christen something progress. Theories are only as strong as the data that girds them, and, frankly, this”—he let the word hang, his hand flourishing through the air—“omniverse hypothesis, persistent though it is, has enjoyed an indulgence wildly disproportionate to its evidentiary footing.”

     He never once looked at Ford—He didn’t have to.

     The audience swiveled on instinct, like an array of parabolic dishes catching a new signal from space. A little thrill—equal parts anticipation and schadenfreude—rippled across the rows. Somewhere in back a pair of Army liaison officers exchanged a note.

     Kratzer let the tension bloom before delivering the needle: “And now one of the framework’s more… colourful evangelists has emerged from the redwoods to share his gospel anew.”

     Soft chuckles skipped through the hall like loose program sheets. Overhead, the fluorescents seemed suddenly brighter, pressing a faint sheen of sweat from Ford’s hairline. A shutter snapped—whrr-chk—archiving the moment for whichever intern would one day catalogue the tape.

     Bill went taut with anticipation, a low, giddy thrill winding through Ford’s spine; a visceral energy usually reserved for blood-sport. “Get ‘em—”

     Ford lifted his head from his knuckles, unhurried. The Betacam’s tally-light caught a brief gleam off his glasses. “Have you finished collecting sound bites down there?” he asked, voice mild, almost pleasant.

     Across the table, Kratzer finally turned. His posture remained textbook-correct, but the faint gleam in his eye gave him away: familiarity. Recognition, sharpened by old friction. He offered a small shrug—the kind designed to look casual.

     “Merely establishing context,” he said, accent shaving syllables clean. “The public likes its cautionary tales upfront—saves them paging through retractions later.”

      Ford’s mouth twitched. “How conscientious. But if we’re dispensing caveats, let’s not mis-characterize the data just to keep single-brane physics feeling roomy.”

     The moderator leaned in slightly, a hand fluttering toward her mic, voice pitched to cut through the rising tension.

     “Gentlemen,” she said lightly, “let’s preserve the spirit of open inquiry for our audience at home.”

     A few chuckles rippled across the graduate students packed into the rear rows—their attention sharpened now, sensing the real show unfolding. Kratzer dipped his chin in theatrical compliance, the very picture of a statesman swallowing a slight.

    “We find ourselves,” Kratzer continued, “in a season of renewed fascination—led, fittingly, by figures who were, until recently, more rumor than resident.” He angled his body the barest degree—enough for the audience to understand where the remark landed. “Dr. Pines, for instance. A name that still makes citation indices spike like defense budgets. If I’m not mistaken, this is your first public forum in… three years?”

     Ford’s eyes hardly moved. Kratzer’s mouth flickered, the hint of a smile caught and smothered before it could settle.

     “Well,” he went of smoothly, “I think I speak for everyone here when I say we’re curious: what calls you out of the woods this time?”

     Ford leaned forward slightly, folding his hands together in his lap. “The panel invitation said ‘refreshments provided.’”

     A polite ripple of laughter moved through the audience—quiet, but real. Kratzer’s posture remained carved from marble, but one hand curled slightly tighter against the edge of his chair, thumb tapping a small, impatient rhythm. 

        Ford continued, as if no break had occurred:

     “If we’re comparing credentials, let’s be honest: publishing half a dozen low-impact papers in Inertia Quarterly doesn’t make you the high priest of empiricism.”

         Kratzer’s jaw shifted—barely.

     The gleam in his eye cooled, the gray hardening to something metallic.

     “My work,” Kratzer said, each syllable measured and clipped, “is verifiable. Yours reads like riddles and conjecture.”

     “And yet here we are,” Ford said without blinking, “my riddles filling auditoriums—while your verifications chase the crumbs I dropped on my way out.”

     Bill may as well have been sitting in Ford’s lap, fingers threading slow and possessive through his hair. His voice slithered against the inside of Ford’s skull, molten and close:

     “Fuck, it gets me so hot when you act like a jerk,” he crooned, the phantom heat of breath skating over Ford’s inner ear as he spoke. “Show them, Fordsy—go on—”

     Ford flashed the faintest edge of teeth. He pivoted to the moderator. “May I?”

     Doyle—more curious now than cautious—gestured him on.

     Ford stood, the faint creak of the chair legs audible even over the ambient hum. He crossed to the chalkboard set behind the dais. With brisk, assured strokes he laid down a lattice of coupled differential equations—hieroglyphic to the uninitiated, blindingly familiar to anyone who’d spent nights bent over Penrose diagrams.

     “Observable leakage,” Ford said, tapping the first term, “if we treat the manifold as closed.”

        A fresh line bloomed—quick, liquid geometry.

     “But—” a flick of the wrist “—relax that closure even a hair and your single-brane model can’t keep its boundary conditions from shearing.”

        More variables, flowing like shorthand music.

     “Factor in tunneling coefficients across n-dimensional cobordisms,” —chalk staccato— “and the probability density doesn’t fall to zero; it oscillates.”

     He under-scored the result twice; the chalk biting the board in an emphatic squeal.

     “That oscillation,” he said, glancing back at the hall, “is the ‘noise’ your instruments keep waving away.”

     A murmur went through the rows—pencils tapping, heads tilting.

     Kratzer rose as well—smooth, unhurried. “Or,” he countered, “it’s what happens when you inject stochastic variance into a finite series to simulate amplitude.”

     He drafted his rebuttal beside Ford’s flare—notation tidy, Euclidean, aggressively humorless. “Remove the artifacts,” he said, “and you’re left with a flat line.” He tapped the board. “No tunnel. No echo. Just wishful recursion.”

     Two visions of the universe glared at one another from the slate, neither blinking. Ford considered it without hurry. Then he turned back toward the room.

     “You can rename the variables all you like,” he said, “but it won’t stop them from bleeding off the page and into reality.” 

     Kratzer set his chalk down with surgical delicacy. “Extraordinary claims,” he began.

     “—require extraordinary evidence,” Ford finished, nodding as though they rehearsed it together. “This past August, six hundred feet below Lake Erie in a Morton Salt mine, the IMB detector logged muon-like events matching the oscillatory signature.” He let the sentence breathe. “Same waveform. Same periodicity. They expect millions of counts before year-end.”

     Ford slid his hands fully into his pockets, rocking slightly back on his heels, gaze tilted toward the floor as if pondering something private. “In any case, I’ve moved beyond armchair theory,” he said, voice low, steady. “My work now is cross-cut: materials science, high-energy instrumentation, signal processing.”

           He lifted his gaze just slightly.

        “It’s laboratory data now. Not chalk dust.”

     Kratzer cocked his head—not a rebuttal yet, but a flicker of recalibration, as though an unexpected overtone had crept into a familiar melody.

        The smile that followed was thin and glazed.

     “And which laboratory would that be?” he asked, tone pleasant the way fresh ice is pleasant. “Last I heard you’d vanished under a line-item on some, ah… fringe government budget. Chasing sprites and pixies for DARPA, was it?”

     Ford straightened slightly, letting his words settle before responding intently, "Evidence suggests that areas exhibiting so-called 'supernatural phenomena' correlate strongly with zones of higher dimensional instability.”

     He let the admission hang a beat—measured, careful, knowing the stakes.

     “And frankly,” he continued, voice dipping lower, more deliberate, “there are precious few people alive with the necessary breadth of expertise—across physics, mathematics, field instrumentation, and anomaly tracking—to even attempt verifying these events.”

     His gaze moved across the panel, then out into the sea of faces: young, old, eager, wary.

     “That’s why my sponsors entrusted this responsibility to me.”

        He let the words sink—

     “Whether or not the people in this room are willing to accept this evolution in understanding is another matter entirely.”

        He shrugged—light, almost indifferent.

     “But don’t take my word for it. Our government—more importantly, our military—has seen this evidence. It piqued their interest…In times like these, discovery means power. Innovation means advantage.”

     There was a long moment where no one seemed to breathe.

     Kratzer laughed, a brittle chime, flicking his wrist as though shooing a moth. “An enchanting story. And your methodology?”

        Ford didn’t blink.

     “You can read all about it in my next publication,” he said, “We’re considering a pop-up edition just for you, you’ll love it.”

     Bill laughed, the sensation of his lips still vibrating against Ford’s ear. “There you go, Six. Now, say something about his mother—”

     Before Kratzer could parry, the junior cosmologist—Lorenz—cleared his throat, unwilling to let the exchange calcify into pure spectacle.

     “Dr. Pines,” he said, “even if we grant the mathematics, practical verification remains. Our probes, our accelerators—none are designed for that depth of dimensional sampling. What instrument, exactly, are we supposed to build?”

        Ford’s eyes never left Kratzer’s.

     “None of his protocols include a five-dimensional term,” he said, voice sharpening a half-step. “Apply generalized Calabi–Yau boundary metrics, run the manifold through a full Ricci flow—” he paused, allowing the silence to underline it—“and the coherence is obvious. All that’s missing is a machine powerful enough to model the topology in real time. An expansion on CRAY-X-MP would be a start.”

        A rustle of whispers travelled the graduate rows.

     Kratzer exhaled—not quite a laugh, but something adjacent, dry and sharp, lacking the warmth.

     “Well, isn’t that Schrödinger calling the cat black,” he said, gesturing loosely. “It is a cop-out—propose something just beyond verification, and when no one can falsify it, call it genius.”

      “No theory begins with certainty,” Ford said, his voice like a scalpel set carefully against flesh. “But if your equations reduce without contradiction, and if they extend the reach of the framework, they merit consideration. Otherwise we reduce ourselves to building cages.”

     Lorenz nodded faintly. “Still, there’s a difference between extrapolation and speculation without grounding. Why divert limited funds to worlds we can’t touch?”

     Ford could feel it then—the pressure behind the room’s silence, the cameras tracking, the posture of the audience tipping ever so slightly forward. The unspoken question wasn’t just about theory—it was about legacy. Which man would time remember. Which voice would thread the textbooks. Which one would burn out.

     “For half a century,” Ford said, his voice even, “we’ve pointed our best minds outward—toward delta-v ratios and orbital escape paths—” he flicked his eyes briefly toward Kratzer “—as though salvation were a matter of distance. Ktrazter’s missiles and launchers run on fuel, and fuel runs dry. Meanwhile—”

     He tapped the chalk once against the board, the sound sharp.

     “—the atomic age cracked open more than the nucleus. It hinted at other strata stacked beneath our feet. Traditional physics hit a wall by treating spacetime as a passive stage—it is dynamic and multidimensional, responsive to observation and tunneling behavior at quantum scales.”

     Lorenz’s pencil hovered, arrested mid-note. “You’re suggesting subsurface dimensional access—as a substitute for aerospace armament?”

     “I’m suggesting,” Ford said, not missing a beat, “that mere nation-state rivalries will be eclipsed within decades—by crises we are already too late to prevent: climate destabilization, population collapse, mounting energy shortages—what do we do then? Launch another satellite?”

     Ford let the silence answer for him before continuing, his tone steady and uncompromising.

     “My vision plans for a civilization that has learned to step through the manifold rather than—what, blast past Mars before the turn of the next century—if we’re lucky?”

     Kratzer scoffed. “So abandon the space program—have you lost your—”

     “If you want to see what’s out there,” Ford cut in, his voice a notch too loud before he drew it back, jaw tightening, “then we have to unlock the power of what’s already here. We don’t abandon the dream of exploration—but the age of louder, hotter, bigger—it’s inertia masquerading as ambition. And it’s not getting us anywhere.”

     He paused, breath short. The sharp edge of frustration softened into something quieter, more deliberate—his next words pitched not to the panel, but to the students leaning forward in their chairs.

     “We’re left,” he said, “with the responsibility of vision. Of refusing to look away just because the instruments aren’t ready yet. That is the burden of our era.”

     A beat passed—throat working around the line that came next.

        “I will not go back to living in the dark.”

      For a moment, the auditorium held absolutely still. “I understand the resistance,” he continued, his voice not accusatory, but calm—measured, almost sympathetic. “You want data that fits the world as you know it. That’s natural. But we are not owed simplicity.”

     He let that hang for a moment—just long enough to feel the weight of it settle across the rows of expectant faces.

     “And what if your interface is nothing more than a mirror held to your own ambition? Physics is not theology, Dr. Pines.” Kratzer said.

      “Anomalous readings were once dismissed out of hand,” Ford responded. “For decades they were written off as instrument noise. Then we built quieter instruments and the ‘noise’ turned into signal. A century ago the notion of curved spacetime sounded like poetry—now it’s an introductory lecture in Mechanics 101.”

       He paused, scanning the auditorium.

     “What changed wasn’t truth,” he said. “It was resolution.”

     Lorenz, almost despite himself, murmured, “Assuming we can finance that resolution.”

     “Kratzer’s launch vehicles run thirty million a lift,” Ford said, not letting the comment slide. “A gravimetric imaging system would cost a fraction of a single launch. We choose where to be bold.”

     Kratzer’s reply came cool and measured. “And when they choose the sky over the crypt, what then?”

     “Then,” Ford answered, “they invest in the wrong frontier—and history records the cost.”

—

     Most of the crowd had already peeled off toward the breakout rooms and catered tables, their conversations rising and falling in thin, professional currents. The last of the KSBW-8 crew was packing up the Betacam rig by the back wall, coiling cable with the weary resignation of men who knew the footage would probably rot in a basement archive.

     Ford stood near a long stretch of institutional windows, arms loosely folded, the post-panel adrenaline draining from him in careful degrees. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting the hallway in a cold, permanent twilight.

        He heard the voice before he saw the frame.

           “Well, that was subtle.”

                Ford turned.

      Fiddleford ambled toward him with his usual easy, loping gait—His grin was wide, teasing, as he clapped Ford on the shoulder hard enough to jostle him.

     “You know,” Fiddleford said, stepping back to lean one shoulder against the cinderblock wall, “for a man who says he don’t miss the bureaucracy of academia, you sure do know how to kick the hornet’s nest when you drop by.”

     Ford huffed out a short breath and scrubbed a hand across his face, knuckles rough against the bridge of his nose.

      “They asked for a discussion,” he said dryly. “They got one.”

     “Mmm.” Fiddleford rocked his weight against the wall, crossing his arms. “And here I was, halfway bettin’ you were gonna keep it civil.” He tipped his head, mock-thoughtful. “Then again—” a shrug—“Kratzer’s always been real good at tugging on your better instincts.”

        Ford let the faintest tilt pull at his mouth.

     Before he could answer, something shifted at the edge of the thinning crowd—movement catching the corner of his eye.

      A final stutter of shutter clicks ricocheted down the linoleum corridor as reporters drifted toward the urns of burnt coffee and rubbery canapé trays. Kratzer threaded through the dispersing crowd with metronome precision, expression settled into that neutral half-smile newspapers love. He reached Ford as if pulled by gravitation rather than choice.

        “Dr. Pines.”

           His hand was offered. Ford took it.

     Their palms met in a handshake tuned precisely to the watching eyes—just firm enough to read as collegial. For the cameras, it was reconciliation. Academic civility. The pantomime of men who disagreed, but not unduly.

     “Impressive turn,” Kratzer said, mindful of the hot microphones still hovering nearby. “The undergrads will quote it all semester.”

     “Happy to pad the syllabus,” Ford replied. The flashes wandered off, and Kratzer’s fingers eased—but did not release. He leaned in a single degree, enough for Ford to smell wool and the faint bite of clove tobacco.

     “Careful, Pines,” Kratzer murmured, voice sinking into the narrow space between them, “You may yet be granted every wish.”

     Ford’s polite smile cooled. “Clarity seldom flatters complacency.”

     “Or bravado,” Kratzer murmured. His thumb shifted against Ford’s palm—absently, almost thoughtfully. His eyes flicked sideways, toward the Army liaisons still posted near the exit, their conversation clipped and quiet, their posture too still to be disinterested.

     “They smell novelty on you—they will not lose that scent.”

     “Well now,” Bill’s voice twined silk-thin through Ford’s skull, “isn’t he protective. Is he gonna frisk you next?”

     Ford’s pulse kicked. “Occupational hazard,” he muttered.

     Kratzer’s mouth quirked. “Don’t mistake curiosity for allegiance.” A soft click of his tongue. “You haven’t forgotten Prague, have you?”

     Ford’s expression barely shifted, but his fingers answered Kratzer’s squeeze with a fractional pressure of their own—enough acknowledgement to register, nothing more.

     Ford’s gaze flicked toward the liaisons, then back. “Verification catches up eventually. I’ll survive the wait.”

     “You stake a great deal on history,” Kratzer said, the formal cadence slipping into something private. He studied Ford’s face a beat longer than etiquette allowed, pupils dilating as though cataloguing stress lines, new scars, everything time had etched since their last meeting.

        “You’ve changed.”

     The phrase landed with the weight of a diagnosis. For an instant the loud lobby felt airless.

     Kratzer’s mouth pressed into a line. He offered a final, almost ceremonial nod, then moved off, the crowd folding around him like surf closing over a stone.

     Fiddleford stepped in as soon as he was gone. “I’m going to assume that wasn’t an invitation to poker night.”  

Ford exhaled—slow, steady. He flexed the hand Kratzer had gripped, as if testing for hidden fractures. Deep inside, a familiar presence stirred—Bill’s wordless hum, predatory, curious how long their hand would keep tingling.

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[Theres a Playlist, too ¨̮]

[corvusblackk]

Hey! When I shift to another reality, what happens to my current one? Do I have a clone that continues on?

(I recommend everyone to read this if you’re curious about dimensions and planes of existence).

•••

There are two possible answers to this (that I can think of).

Some people sustain that the reality will continue going without you, so with a said “clone” (the version of you that stays here). This is connected to the theory of the Multiverse, that it says that your desired realities already exists withour your awareness.

Other people think that the reality stops momentarily because, at that period of time when you’re away, you’re not aware of it anymore, and this is connected to the theory of Consciousness.

I'll try to explain the latter in simple words. Basically, this is about the different dimensions of the “All” (the omniverse). What we currently see around us is called the 3rd Dimension (3D), and it is about material things. This plane is made of all of our dominant thoughts (the so said assumptions). The 4th Dimension (4D) is what we see in our minds, so our imagination. We can use this plane to manifest things, while simply imagine our desires and act as if you already have them in the physical plane (the 3D). The 5D has no time nor space, and the 6D is all the possibilities so the multiverse, while the 7D is, if I remember right, the “All” so the omniverse.

While we live in the 3D, we are practically focused on one reality only. In our 4D we can focus on more realities together but they will come to the physical plane one at a time, based on our thoughts, so the reality we choose to be in. Your other infinite realities of course still exists (in the dimensions above the 3D), but you’re not aware of them at the moment, if you read this post you’re aware of the 3D of only this reality. Therefore, the Multiverse exists, but I personally think (as what I’ve recently learned from our her sources) that it is created by our Consiousness, which is the core of all creation, and WE ARE our Consciousness, therefore you’re focused on one reality at a time.