Throughout the history of humanity, great changes have rarely occurred on specific dates. Cycles of transformation usually span entire generations — as in the Industrial Revolution or the world wars. It has always been difficult to determine precisely when these eras truly begin. Often, the causes are small, yet they produce waves that, over time, reach the whole of civilization. Tracing the origin of such events is so complex that the very attempt becomes an epic. After all, how can one pinpoint exactly who did what, when, and in what way?
The very difficulty of understanding this chain of causes and effects inspired a famous metaphor:
"The beating of a butterfly's wings in Japan can cause a hurricane on the other side of the planet."
"So that means you're kind of a philosopher?"
"Well… no. Few people are interested in history and languages, but it is precisely this knowledge that allows us to prevent things like wars from happening."
"So you're unemployed?"
"No, of course not… I mean… I'm a historian and a linguist. And a mechanic, when I need money."
"Why don't you just say you're a mechanic? You talk about things I don't understand, that seem important, but in the end are useless."
"The way you say it, it sounds like what I do is useless."
"That's not it… it's just that I really can't understand what you're saying."
"Hmmm… maybe I can help you. What do you think about the date November 22, 2037?"
"Hey! I know what date that is. That was when we received the Contact."
"Exactly. The Contact. That changed everything."
At the bar, a white-haired man was talking to a visibly uninterested woman — although she seemed to be making an effort to create some connection. The man was me. The woman was someone I met on a dating app.
To be honest, I never wanted to be there. It was my sister who insisted. I know I'm strange, but I didn't think I deserved that. I started well: I asked her age, what she liked… The problem arose when I talked about myself.
Having an IQ of 162 never helped me much. People are naturally limited — and in some respects, that is even positive. There are studies that associate lower intellectual rumination with greater satisfaction in relationships. As my sister likes to say: "Ignorance is a blessing."
"The Contact was something I studied deeply. In fact, I was the one who translated the last part of the message."
"You're lying, right? I saw it on TV: it was a team of the 20 greatest specialists in languages and dialects from the four mother planets, after nearly 70 years of work. I don't remember hearing your name. Besides, no one from any colony was relevant enough for those who live outside the Doma — except bourgeois."
She had a point. My name is not exactly discreet: Leonidas Achilles. My (adoptive) mother was never very creative, and my father, a renowned historian, never worried about what society would think when naming his son after two of the greatest myths of Antiquity. The philosophical idea was beautiful, in a way. But it didn't spare me from bullying — in moderate and intense doses. Perhaps my above-average cognitive ability made everything worse. I prefer not to think about it.
"In fact, those twenty scholars only advanced in the translation when they applied my linguistic structuring formula to decipher the final part of the message."
"So it wasn't you."
"Think of it this way: if you design the blueprint, buy the materials, provide the tools, and hire the labor… who are you in the construction of a house?"
"Maybe a lying idiot."
Before I could respond, she threw her drink in my face and stood up to leave.
"You're weird."
"Yes… I know."
There wasn't much to do. Being who I was was as complex as it was lonely. To me, everyone seemed semi-literate.
At least she knew the date.
Even today, people still talk about the Contact, almost a hundred years later. I have always been fascinated by that civilization's approach. They granted us access to technologies never before seen. However, only one thing truly mattered: the "Oasis."
The Oasis was a gift — a place where human beings could teleport. At first glance, it seemed like an extremely hostile planet, yet one that offered riches proportional to its dangers. That was how they explained it to the ignorant.
The truth was more complex: it was a synthetic quantum structure, composed of subparticles organized by non-deterministic principles — a system in which matter and energy operated in duality and massive quantization, forming something singular in the known universe.
But that concept was far too advanced. I preferred to sum it all up with a simpler word: game.
Of course, it wasn't a game in the traditional sense. There, you really died. The reality was that inhuman powers and impossible creatures lived and proliferated in that place — a world ruled by rules as different as they were incomprehensible.
"Leo, what happened? What did you do?"
"Sis… as always… I did nothing."
My sister looked at me with suspicion. And, honestly, she was right. After the fourteenth failed date, I began to consider the possibility — deep down — that perhaps, in part, it was my fault. Statistically, something should have worked by now. By the golden ratio, I was easily a 9.5 — I don't say 10 because some people find my white hair strange, a consequence of an autoimmune disease.
"Leo, I don't know what else to do."
"Lena, don't do anything. I'm a lost cause. How much was the bill? I'll pay and we'll leave."
"Leo… I won't be able to. I met someone. I think I'll stay a little longer."
She discreetly pointed to a man — rating 6.85. Honestly, even without being biologically related to me, my sister rated higher than that guy. What probably attracted her were the man's bulging muscles.
I never understood her romantic complexities. We're no longer in the Stone Age. Choosing a partner based on physical strength rather than intellect always seemed like a logical mistake to me.
"All right. I'm leaving."
I stood up. It wasn't the first time my sister stayed late at a bar — after all, that's what the place was made for.
"Leave the key in the usual place. And, if you can, use the headset tonight."
"Got it. Take this money. Bye."
I left quickly. I wasn't upset. Things were the way they were. I didn't fit in socially and paid the price for it. There was no emotion — only human complexity operating like a zero-sum game.
In the end, I was an anomaly, doomed not to perpetuate my genes.
And that was fine.
"At least I have you, right, beautiful?"
"Hey… is that a Lancer Evo? My God, it has the full kit!"
I confess I was surprised. The car, in itself, was already a relic — few were manufactured. But the simple fact that they didn't mistake it for a Lancer GT was already a victory. The main difference lay in the all-wheel drive and the original chassis structure. Still, what truly surprised me was the enthusiasm coming from a female voice.
My hands were still holding the key when a woman approached, radiating a happiness I couldn't fully comprehend. I was passionate about speed, but it was rare to find someone like that — especially nowadays, when cars fly or hover over the sea.
"Hi, my name is Carla. Can I get in to see the interior? I didn't know this relic still existed."
"Honestly, I'm kind of drunk, so I don't know if I want you getting into my car. And how did you figure out it's an Evo and not a GT?"
My mind was cloudy. And she was beautiful — perhaps one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Even after nearly thirty-six years, it still surprised me to realize that women like that existed in that colony; maybe she was from outside. She had fire-red hair and sun-kissed brown skin.
"Oh, that's easy. Look at the position of the license plate. Did you know the Evo was one of the few cars authorized to place the plate on the side instead of the center? And there's a very complex technical reason for that."
"The grille isn't decorative. It needs a large intercooler, and the plate in the center would block the airflow."
She seemed embarrassed by my interruption. In that same instant, I realized I might have ruined her enthusiasm. Even so, perhaps there was still hope.
"I think…"
"That's right!" — she perked up again. — "Very good! So… can I get in?"
I was still confused — and completely hypnotized. I ended up giving in.
"Could you take off your shoes first? I cleaned the carpet today…"
"Of course."
Her immediate response caught me off guard. I always felt I had to justify my "strange requests." But for that scarlet-haired woman, I would have explained as many times as necessary.
"My God… you kept the original seats… the dashboard… you didn't modify anything… Wait — it doesn't have autopilot? I'm in loooove!"
"Excuse me?"
"With the car," she added, laughing.
As she examined every detail with shining eyes, a man approached. He was the type my sister would love — at least for one night. But he seemed irritated.
"Hey, babe, what the hell are you doing inside this car?"
"Baby, look at this! Remember I told you I wanted one like my dad's? Can you believe one of these still exists in this colony? I thought there weren't any left on the planet!"
He grew even more tense.
"Hey, skinny, how much do you want for this junk?"
"It's not for sale."
He stepped closer, invading my personal space.
"Could you step back? I… don't like men that close."
He didn't appreciate the answer. He spat in my direction.
"Hey! What are you doing? Leave the guy alone!" she said.
"Shut up! This loser disrespected me. I'm going to have a talk with him."
As I wiped my face, I felt something growing inside me — an old impulse I hated. I tried to stay calm.
"The car isn't for sale. I don't want trouble. Take your girlfriend and leave. I'm drunk and just want to go home."
He stepped even closer. He was at least ten centimeters taller. Even standing straight, I only reached his chin.
"I think you don't understand who you're talking to. You're going to leave this car here and walk away. I'm going to screw my girlfriend on this seat and I'll make a point of finishing on your upholstery. Got it?"
As he spoke, he lifted his shirt and showed something tucked at his waist.
"A Luger 9mm, with an extended magazine."
"So you know what it is," he said. "And you know what it does. Now move."
He drew the weapon and pointed it at my leg.
"Curious… how do you plan to use it with the safety on?"
He frowned and looked at the gun. The instant he looked away, I acted.
I drove my elbow into the side of his neck — the cervical plexus area. Intense, incapacitating pain, but not lethal. When his grip loosened, I struck his nose with a short, direct blow. Not brutal — just enough to neutralize him.
The distance was too short for gentler alternatives.
"My God! What did you do? You killed him!"
"No. He'll wake up in pain in a few hours. Sorry, that gun doesn't have an external safety. I couldn't wait."
"What are you talking about?!"
She knelt beside her unconscious boyfriend. I picked up the weapon and disassembled it in seconds. The panic on her face turned into shock.
"Who are you?"
"I… my name is John. John Wi…"
I paused.
"Just kidding."
And I left.