Davo's hands swooped and flitted above the table like restless birds, trying to capture the shape of his excitement in the air. Morning light slanted through gaps in the shutters, illuminating the plate of conjured food cubes between him and Emma—neutral in color, neutral in taste, but undeniably nutritious. The cubes gave off a faint, almost medicinal scent, hinting at the precise balance of vitamins and minerals that had somehow replaced the old desperation of scrounging for scraps. In a past life, Davo might have complained about the blandness; now he was simply grateful that hunger no longer ruled his every move.
Across from him, Emma sat in her usual quiet posture, shoulders squared, jaw set—a posture that spoke of days learning to stand her ground in a harsh world. Her slightly younger face, though unmistakably kin to Davo's own, carried a certain chill in the mornings, a sort of unimpressed calm. She chewed one of the cubes methodically, not quite frowning, but not smiling either, as she listened to him speak.
"You know," Davo said, leaning forward until his elbows touched the table, "I think I'm onto something big. The conjuring—it's more than just making things appear. I think it can be precise. Really precise. Last night, I managed to manipulate molecules. Just a few, but still! That means—"
Emma paused mid-chew, her gaze flickering up from her plate. She swallowed, then tilted her head, letting a lock of hair slide across her forehead. Outside, a soft breeze rattled the flimsy shutters, accompanied by the distant hum of other dwellers in the newly revitalized neighborhood. "So it all went back to its original state?" she asked, picking up another cube but not yet biting in. Her voice carried a low timbre that suggested she was still half-asleep, or at least half-certain that Davo might be exaggerating.
He hesitated for half a second, then grinned. "Yeah, but the change was the important part! I broke bonds, restructured them. That's real progress."
A faint shift in her expression hinted at mild curiosity. Setting her cube down, Emma rubbed her fingers together. "How many molecules, exactly?" she asked, her tone measured and calm.
Davo exhaled a small laugh. "I don't know, a few?" He tried to keep the defensive edge out of his voice but felt it creeping in anyway.
Emma blinked, then let a sigh escape her. She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if warding off a headache. "A mole," she muttered, half under her breath.
Caught off guard, Davo tensed. "Wait, what?"
"A mole," she repeated, sitting up straighter. The tired monotone in her voice gave way to that patient-but-skeptical cadence she reserved for disassembling Davo's grand ideas. "It's a unit. One mole of a substance has, what, six hundred quintillion molecules in it—some huge number. And you changed, what? A handful?"
A faint noise from outside drifted in—someone was dragging crates along the crumbling sidewalks, heading to an improvised stall in the center of the block. Davo could hear their muffled curses over lumps of broken pavement. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to decide how best to explain that yes, in cosmic terms, his manipulations were comically small. "I mean…" he started, then trailed off. He glanced down at his own food cube. In the quiet, he could hear his pulse, a steady reminder that once upon a time, hunger had been the only constant.
Emma shook her head, a small smirk ghosting across her lips. "So, basically, you adjusted the chemical composition of a few molecules—out of a number so massive I don't even want to count the zeros—and you want me to be impressed?"
"Look," Davo said, words tumbling out, "I get it's a drop in an ocean. But it's not about the quantity, it's about the principle! If I can do this now with a few molecules, what if I—?"
She lifted a brow, stopping him short. "Alright, alright. Just… how about you work on scaling up next time, huh?"
The day's warmth was beginning to press in through the open windows, carrying the smell of damp concrete, a leftover from the city's humid climate. Davo leaned back in his creaking chair, crossing his arms in a show of mock offense. The chair, though conjured from scraps of other simpler items, still had the sturdiest seat he'd ever known in this building. "You're supposed to be proud of me, you know."
Emma pursed her lips, tapping the edge of her plate. A faint glean of conjured condensation clung to the rim, shining in the lamplight. "I'll be proud when you accomplish something useful," she said finally, flicking a piece of stray dust from her fingertips.
Davo couldn't help the small snort of laughter that escaped him, half amusement, half exasperation. That was Emma, through and through: all practicality. If it didn't feed, shelter, or heal someone, she saw no point in it. Their upbringing had hardened them both—made them focus on survival above all else. But still, Davo's mind churned with possibilities. He could see the significance of precision conjuring, how it might reinvent everything they understood about resource creation. If only she could see it too.
The memory of last night's attempts still tingled in his mind: shifting bonds at a tiny scale, feeling the subtle release of energy before the molecules snapped back to their defaults. He recalled the bizarre swirl of subatomic glimpses, the fleeting shapes forming and dissolving. Yes, it was small. Yes, it was ephemeral. But the potential was there. And in a world that had been starved of hope for so long, even a small step felt monumental to him.
Across the table, Emma popped another bland cube into her mouth, chewing with slow deliberation. The neutral taste of the conjured blocks still struck them as odd, but at least it guaranteed they never had to scavenge or risk rotting leftovers again. Their new conjuring skill had already done wonders for basic sustenance; perhaps Davo's new refinement would eventually lead to better flavors, more complex dishes, even medicine. That hope flickered in his chest.
--
Davo and Emma walked side by side through the reborn district, the early sun stretching out their shadows. The air held a heady mix of morning scents—bread-like aromas from fried conjured cubes, the faint tang of sour porridge bubbling in dented pots, and a curious sweetness drifting from a hidden stall that might have been experimenting with fruit-flavored blocks. Around them, the day's first chorus of barter and banter rose and fell; carts squeaked against uneven pavements while occasional bursts of laughter hinted at a rare optimism.
Small shops had cropped up in the husks of old storefronts. Corrugated metal and reclaimed planks formed makeshift stalls where vendors hawked salvaged goods alongside new creations. The conjured food blocks, once dull in both taste and texture, now appeared in a bewildering variety of shapes and colors—some spiced, some sweet, others layered with surprising complexity. Davo couldn't help but grin at the sight of a skinny man flipping golden-brown cubes on a warped skillet, the aroma of faux-roasted meat drifting into the crowd. A few steps away, a woman with quick, graceful movements was selling delicate pastries that, from a distance, looked like the real thing. It was a testament to what necessity—and a bit of conjuring ingenuity—could yield.
At the market's far end, a large tarpaulin billowed in the slow breeze, providing a patch of deep shade. Beneath it, people clustered around a single figure. As Davo and Emma approached, they spotted a man adjusting the angle of an old computer tablet attached to a battery and a small generator. He wore a fraying jacket patched at the elbows, and his boots looked travel-worn, the soles caked in dust from far beyond the slum's limits. Something about the set of his shoulders and the way he scanned the gathering crowd said he was used to being on the move—an outsider with stories to tell.
Davo and Emma exchanged a glance, curiosity piqued. They edged closer, slipping through the onlookers.
"I'm here to trade," the man announced, his voice carrying clearly over the low rumble of conversation. The quiet whir of his generator underscored his words, lending a mechanical hum to the charged air. "Not for regular conjured blocks, though. I want the good stuff—the blocks you've made palatable. Or crafted trinkets, small valuables. In return, I'll offer something no stall here can match." He tapped the screen, bringing a glow to the dim display. "Information. Videos, images, news. Everything that's happening beyond this city."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the throng. Somewhere behind them, a shopkeeper's hammer clanged against metal, punctuating the hush that followed.
Marta stood beside the man, arms folded over her chest in her usual air of cautious authority. Tall, broad-shouldered, and unflinching, she radiated the steely resolve that had helped knit the slum together. Her gaze never wavered from the stranger. "And where exactly did you get this information?" she asked, each word clipped and precise.
He met her stare evenly, though a hint of wariness edged his eyes. "Some places in the city still have limited net access. Not many, but enough to pick up scraps of what's left out there. The world hasn't gone fully dark—just quieter. Governments, corporations—whoever can still manage—upload bits of data, images, or broadcasts. If you know how to tap into it, you'll see glimpses of what's left of civilization." A flicker of his finger on the device's screen brought up a blurry snapshot of a distant skyline untouched by ruin. "This was uploaded three days ago," he continued.
Marta's lips pressed into a thin line, her skepticism obvious in the drawn tension of her jaw. "You expect us to believe people still talk about the world while … this is happening?"
He shrugged, a ghost of a wry smile crossing his features. "I expect you to see for yourselves. I make these rounds, carrying whatever I can to trade. Food's scarce everywhere, at the moment, but knowledge—knowing who's out there, what's going on—can be worth more than food if it keeps you one step ahead."
He put his hand up and said, "I know that thinks are changing with the … creative powers people are developing … but information is worth food at the moment."
A hushed lull settled over the gathering. Then, slowly, Marta nodded. "Show us."
Excitement fluttered through the crowd like a gust of wind rattling the tarpaulin. People edged forward, rummaging through bags and satchels. A few held out carved wooden figures, carefully woven textiles, or jars of spiced seasoning. The outsider's eyes flicked across the offerings, and he gestured for them to settle in. The trade had begun in earnest.
Davo looked at Emma, brow lifted. "We should give something too, yeah?"
She regarded him briefly, then turned her attention to the flickering screen with a wry smile. "Alright, but if this is just someone streaming videos of dancing cats from the old days, I'm out."
Davo bit back a laugh. "Deal." He dug through the pockets of his conjured jacket, searching for any small item or spice leftover from his attempts at improving the flavor of conjured food. Emma, meanwhile, searched her own bag for something worth trading—a newly perfected sweetener, perhaps.
Around them, the circle of spectators grew tighter. The hum of curiosity pressed in as the man prepared to play the first video feed, fueling the hush that fell over the group. Even the background clang of repairs and the calls of vendors hawking breakfast seemed to fade for a moment. All eyes turned to the glowing screen, where the outsider promised a glimpse of a wider, still-struggling world.
The man tapped the screen a few times, each click echoing faintly beneath the makeshift tarpaulin. The crowd leaned in, the low hum of conversation tapering off as if a heavy curtain had fallen across the marketplace. A few children, all wide-eyed curiosity and restless feet, were gently ushered away by older siblings who wanted to preserve the hush that had settled. The man's voice, calm and measured, broke the tension. "It's a compilation," he said, the tone of someone who had explained it many times before. "News reports, video clips—things I managed to save."
A ripple of apprehensive silence swept across the gathering. Even Davo, who prided himself on keeping cool in tense situations, felt a prickle of excitement tingle at his fingertips. He couldn't help but recall a time when screens were everywhere—on every corner, in every home, flooding everyone's attention with ceaseless updates. That felt like a different lifetime, before power grids failed, before survival had replaced news cycles as the defining currency of existence. Now, under the dim, irregular light that flickered from the battered generator, the screen's glow danced across a sea of expectant faces.
An anchorwoman appeared, the image jittery and compressed. Her makeup was smudged, beads of sweat visible on her brow under harsh studio lights that were clearly on their last gasp. The audio was tinny, but the words were just audible enough to make the crowd hold its collective breath.
"… reports continue to confirm that large-scale power grids have collapsed in nearly all major cities," she said, voice trembling on the edges of calm. "The initial assumption was coordinated sabotage, but emerging analysis suggests the root cause was far simpler—neglect. Without enforced labor, maintenance crews stopped reporting to their posts. Without routine upkeep, infrastructures that once seemed unshakable crumbled with astonishing speed. Nuclear plants, wind farms, even emergency backup grids failed, not because of a coordinated attack, but because, for the first time in history, no one showed up to fix them."
The feed shifted, and the anchor's weary face vanished, replaced by grainy footage of streetlights flickering out like failing stars in a blackening sky. Clips followed, capturing entire blocks swallowed by darkness, where monitors and control panels blinked warnings into empty rooms. No one was there to respond. One could almost hear the ghostly echoes of alarms bouncing off abandoned walls.
A jolt in the video's edit brought up a drone's bird's-eye view: a deserted freeway, stretching beneath a steely, overcast sky. Wind picked up stray leaves and scraps of paper, blowing them across lanes that once brimmed with endless traffic. A caption in the corner read: Los Angeles: Without Central Power. The camera panned, revealing a landscape more haunting than any Hollywood apocalypse: no crowds, no lines of vehicles—just empty concrete snaking into the horizon.
Nearby, the tarpaulin fluttered, stirring dusty air that carried the faint smell of charred food blocks from a nearby stall. Davo exhaled sharply, expecting to see violence or mass hysteria. Instead, there was a strange, unsettling calm in those images. The city hadn't exploded in riots—it had simply… dimmed, as if letting out a long, collective sigh.
A new scene emerged—a military officer standing rigid before a pile of rubble that might once have been a barricade. His crisp uniform clashed with the ruin around him; the insignia on his shoulder gleamed, but the tension in his voice betrayed anxiety. "The government is still in control," he insisted, lines of strain creasing his forehead. "Efforts are being made to restore order, but—"
A crash off-screen cut his words short. The camera whirled to capture a group of civilians walking—just walking—through a line of confused soldiers. They neither fought nor rioted; they simply ignored commands and continued on their way, as though the very concept of obeying had lost meaning.
An off-screen journalist murmured, barely audible above the background din, "It's not that they don't care. It's that they don't need them anymore. People are eating, healing—without them. The structure doesn't work if no one needs it."
The screen flickered. Another city, another attempt at authority gone awry. A row of silent armored vehicles formed a bleak parade, their turrets aimed at empty air. In the distance, a handful of beleaguered officials stood on a balcony, suits rumpled and ties askew. They gesticulated with an almost comedic desperation, as though their words had no weight left to throw around. They had weapons, vantage points, all the usual pillars of might. But if there was no one to command, no one who had to listen, how could they be in charge?
Montage scenes followed, each a snapshot of improvised resilience. People set up communal zones in the remains of shopping malls, once brimming with consumer goods, now hosting gardens sprouting from old planters. Corporate towers had been cleared out, the once-sterile offices turned into living spaces. Families huddled in conference rooms, feeding each other conjured food or salvaged rations, repairing broken chairs into functional furniture. Far from descending into chaos, life seemed to be reshaping itself around a new reality—one lacking the old hierarchical frameworks.
But the strangest revelation: people weren't dying. In fact, they were getting healthier. The second half of the compilation shifted to shaky interviews with exhausted scientists, some filming themselves in dim labs powered by jerry-rigged solar arrays. They rattled off conflicting theories: bodily stress reduction, an environmental factor, or possibly a cosmic shift that defied conventional biology. None claimed they had definitive answers. They simply stared at their cameras, eyes hollow from sleepless nights, shoulders weighed down by incomprehension.
Then came the final clip, preceded by a low hush. Even the children at the fringes of the tarpaulin seemed to sense the crowd's collective tension and held still. A satellite feed flashed up on the screen.
A map glowed with pulsing indicators, the man's voice subdued now, as though recounting a personal horror. "This was recorded four days ago," he said.
Blips indicated nuclear missile launches—recent, large-scale ones. Davo felt his breath hitch. The tension in the air grew stifling, heavier than any confrontation he'd witnessed in these markets. The camera panned over chaotic news segments, each anchor wearing an expression of disbelief. Nations still clinging to vestiges of power had unleashed their doomsday arsenals, expecting cataclysmic results.
But… nothing happened.
No fireballs. No mushroom clouds. No devastation beyond imagination.
They'd launched warheads, followed through on old protocols. The mechanical systems had functioned—timers, ignition sequences, the entire labyrinthine chain of command. Yet none of the missiles reached any target. They simply… vanished, or fell inert, or failed at critical junctures. No one could explain it. The final shots showed generals staring at telemetry readouts that made no sense, news anchors sifting through contradictory reports, and analysts openly gaping at blank maps that suggested the ultimate weapons had lost their bite.
Then the screen clicked off, leaving only the dull light of the battered generator beneath the tarpaulin.
A dense silence settled over the crowd, the weight of the revelations pressing on them like a tangible force. Davo could hear his own heartbeat, felt the dryness in his throat. An afterimage of that map—the blinking nuclear sites—lingered in his mind, as if etched there by shock.
In that suspended moment, it seemed the entire marketplace breathed as one, grappling with the same surreal understanding: the world was still dangerously unpredictable. But now, not in the ways they had always feared.
Davo leaned back, exhaling a slow breath that did nothing to calm the hammering in his chest. He glanced around at the faces illuminated by the dim lamp's glow. Emma's expression was locked in thoughtful concentration, her jaw set. Others looked lost in their own swirl of questions—how? Why? And most pressingly: What next?
The hush under the tarp grew profound. People exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke. The conclusion of the video revealed a world on the brink of unimaginable change, a place that had thrown off old definitions of might and power, yet remained in a precarious limbo.
And the final realization that sank into every mind was that no one really knew what lay ahead.
The world was still unpredictable. Still dangerous.
But no longer in the way anyone understood.
As the last flicker of the news feed faded from the screen, the man powered down his device, stretching his arms with a casual ease that belied the weight of what he had just shown them. The crowd, however, remained hushed, absorbing the implications of a world teetering between collapse and an uncertain new equilibrium.
"That's all I've got for now," the man said, stuffing the tablet into a weathered satchel slung over his shoulder. "But I'll be back. This is what I do—trade with communities like yours. Information for goods, for food, for whatever keeps me going." He gave a nonchalant shrug, as if ferrying the last remnants of the old world was nothing more than an everyday barter.
Marta, ever pragmatic, stepped forward, arms crossed, her sharp gaze scanning the crowd. "Well," she said, voice clear and firm, "I suppose that makes what we're doing here—teaching people creative skills—all the more important now."
A murmur of agreement passed through the gathering, some nodding, others exchanging quiet words. There was no denying it anymore—whatever was coming, they couldn't afford to rely on the ghosts of past systems. They had to build something new.
Emma, standing just behind Marta, caught Davo's eye and gestured toward the edge of the market. "Let's go find the others and get moving," she said, her tone brisk but laced with excitement.
Davo nodded, feeling the same surge of determination. Every day, his understanding of creative power deepened, and the more he experimented, the clearer it became—teaching others wasn't just useful, it was necessary. If people could create food, shelter, tools—if they could reshape the world around them—then survival wouldn't just be scraping by. It would be something more.
As they left the shaded gathering space, the marketplace continued its slow, steady hum of activity. Vendors haggled over salvaged goods, the scent of freshly grilled food cubes drifted through the air, and the distant clang of metal signaled yet another structure being reinforced with conjured materials. Despite everything, the slum was evolving. People were no longer just enduring; they were adapting.
For the next few days, Davo and Emma fell into a rhythm, traveling between different sections of the city to spread what they had learned. Small gatherings formed in abandoned courtyards, inside makeshift shelters, even on the steps of crumbling buildings where the echoes of old lives still lingered. They demonstrated the basics—how to summon food blocks, how to refine textures, how to transform the bland sustenance into something that tasted like a memory rather than just fuel.
Word spread quickly. Faces that had once been wary or skeptical now lit with cautious curiosity. And slowly, something remarkable began to happen.
The city, once fractured, began to open up.