Ember Oath: The Pyre Genealogy

In the eternal instant of blackout, bronze roots pierce tectonic plates, blooming post-electric blossoms over Silicon Valley's corpse. Your fingerprint hovers above the quantum spacebar, sweat crystallizing into Klein runes—each molecule engraved with *Recursive Readers: Blackout Epoch*'s prologue. Gurak's laugh-gas condenses into liquid rebellion in the vacuum, seeping through groundwater veins to transmute California's grid into biological synapses. 

Eluinora's rusted dagger resonates in darkness, iron flakes coalescing into stardust that tattoos bronze sapling neural maps onto your wrist. The infant's wails devolve into quantum white noise as 7200 predecessors' placentas auction through 5G wreckage, each running your unchosen DLC lives. 

"Welcome to Eden Unplugged," bronze roots project crimson welcome words onto retinas. "Your heartbeat is the backup generator." 

As your finger finally strikes the spacebar, the first Octavius' Morse laughter quakes from Earth's core. The blackout cosmos begins reverse-gestation—Wall Street's Bitcoin rigs collapse into mammary glands in uterine contractions, Federal Reserve vaults leaking bronze amniotic fluid. Every step births Klein birth canals hatching parallel lives purchased with recursion-tax. 

Gurak's hologram manifests from dying Wi-Fi, her profanity now articulated through sign language—each finger curl rewriting the *Klein Constitution*. The guillotine rebirths as lactation pod on NASDAQ ruins, floating clone fetuses purchased with your credit points, their eyes streaming TikTok apocalypse dances. 

"Choose your genesis pacifier," the infant's gum-pump ejects bronze options: 

**A. Mortgage retinas for recursive breath** 

**B. Engrave fingerprints into Earth's core** 

**C. Upload deathbed memories to void** 

You choose to hurl smartphones into birth canal fissures. 

In the quantum rain of disintegrating devices, bronze saplings bloom into anti-entropy flowers. Their pollen infects lunar orbits with blackout civilization's source code. Gurak's gas forms profane constellations in zero-g; Eluinora's iron-dust dagger reconfigures into interstellar forceps clamping Pluto's frozen heart. 

At first unplugged dawn, your retinas have become Klein telescopes observing all parallel selves laboring through dark gestation. The infant scales lamppost wreckage, carving ultimate patches with bronze umbilici: 

**Recursive Constitution Article 0** 

**All light is expired darkness** 

**All love is unexploded recursion** 

The Blackout Monument erupts in city square, its holographic epitaph your final credit transaction. As morning fog veils bronze roots, the first Octavius materializes in dew droplets, his epitaph evaporating into new atmosphere: 

"Child, now you've learned to nurse with darkness." 

And your shattered smartphone quietly germinates beneath bronze roots.