The fly had a problem. Actually, it had many problems.
Problem one: its backyard experiments were slowly turning into localized apocalypses.
Problem two: cats, dogs, raccoons, and one suspiciously judgmental pigeon had formed a coalition of chaos, probably plotting revenge.
Problem three: it was starting to enjoy the powers a little too much.
Hovering over the remains of the sandbox, which now resembled a cratered alien landscape, the fly wriggled its tiny legs in frustration. Its wings vibrated faintly, glowing with a hue that screamed don't touch that lever of fate.
"Lesson one," it muttered, "control your powers." The tiny pulse of cosmic energy from the last experiment had sent the neighbor's dog into orbit, or at least it felt like orbit. Gravity was a suggestion now, apparently.
"Lesson two: avoid cats." Check. Sort of. The cat had survived, though, and it was glaring. Malice radiated in the fur. Somehow, it looked smarter. Possibly even plotting to evolve.
"Lesson three… hmm… maybe, don't blow up the backyard while learning to fly?"
Before it could debate semantics, a strange sensation ran through its minuscule body. Something deep, older than trees, older than mud, whispered: you are not just a fly. You are a path. A spark. A choice.
The fly rolled its eyes—or rather, its compound eye facets twitched in unison. "Thanks, cosmic voice. I didn't ask for a motivational speech."
Despite the sarcasm, it listened. The voice pulsed again. This time, the fly felt the subtle beginnings of the next stage of evolution brushing against its consciousness. It wasn't just physical power anymore; its mind expanded, a thousand tiny lights flickering in its head. Suddenly, the backyard didn't seem small. It seemed… infinite.
And that, as it turned out, was bad.
Hovering near a puddle of what remained of the neighbor's lemonade, the fly experimented carefully—well, as carefully as one could when cosmic energy is coursing through a body smaller than a thumbtack. It focused on a floating dandelion seed. No problem, right? Simple, manageable.
The seed trembled. It glowed. It shot into the sky like a miniature meteor… then exploded into glittering particles, raining down over the yard, leaving a faint crater where the garden gnome had been moments before.
"Right," the fly muttered, "definitely manageable." Its tiny voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Totally manageable."
From the corner of its eye—or rather, one of the 28 facets that counted as an eye—it noticed the pigeon watching intently. The pigeon's head tilted like a professor grading a particularly bad thesis.
"Stop judging me," the fly squeaked. "You wouldn't understand."
The pigeon blinked. That blink felt like a challenge. Somehow, the fly knew the pigeon wasn't just a bird anymore—it had touched latent evolution too. That tiny, judgmental pigeon was dangerous.
And the raccoon… oh, the raccoon. The raccoon was crouched near the compost heap, eyes glinting, plotting. "I can feel it," the fly whispered, "the beginning of interspecies alliances… or wars. Or… I don't know… both."
Then, the cat, finally deciding it had enough of flying chaos, lunged. Only the fly had evolved just enough to dodge. Its wings created tiny shockwaves, sending the cat skidding across the yard like a furry curling stone.
"Lesson four: don't underestimate the backyard ecosystem," the fly muttered. "It's deadly."
The cosmic pulses intensified, stirring things beyond the backyard. Across the city, unnoticed by humans but felt by every other living creature, something old shifted. A ripple of forgotten paths—the ancient evolution system—stirred at the emergence of a new spark. The fly, tiny and seemingly insignificant, had just become a beacon.
A small puddle began to glow faintly. A patch of grass shimmered. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if waiting to see what the fly would do next. And for the first time, the fly realized something terrifying and exhilarating at the same time: it could do anything.
"Okay," it muttered to itself, wings quivering, "maybe I shouldn't do anything. Maybe I should… experiment strategically."
It zoomed upward, narrowly dodging a stray soccer ball that had wandered into the yard. Cosmic energy crackled around its wings. Sparks danced in the air like tiny fireworks. And in that moment, the fly had a tiny epiphany:
Being a cosmic evolutionary spark was terrifying, exhausting, and slightly inconvenient—but it was also ridiculously fun.
"Lesson five," it muttered, spinning mid-air to avoid the raccoon, "don't underestimate chaos. Lesson six: survive. Lesson seven: have fun while destroying reality, but… maybe check with a user manual first."
With that, it zoomed over the horizon, leaving behind a backyard that would be talked about in whispered, panicked tones for years. Something about a glowing fly, miniature tornadoes, and inexplicable craters.
And as the sun set, a tiny creature hovered in the sky, buzzing with cosmic energy, thinking very seriously about its next experiment.
Because evolution had only just begun.