The first rule of evolution—at least according to the fly—was apparently: don't accidentally destroy the neighborhood.
Unfortunately, no one had left a manual.
After narrowly surviving the Catpocalypse (as the fly had now dubbed the encounter), it hovered over the backyard. The sun reflected off puddles of rainwater like tiny molten mirrors, and the flowers swayed lazily. Peaceful, serene… and utterly unsuspecting of the chaos that was about to rain down from the sky.
The fly flexed its wings. For the first time, it felt fully alive. Not just alive, but cosmically overpowered. It could feel energy coursing through its tiny veins, bending air currents, tweaking reality in ways that made no sense.
"Okay," it said to itself, buzzing in a low, serious tone. "Time to try something small. Something… manageable."
With all the concentration it could muster—which wasn't much, given its brain was still about the size of a pinhead—it focused on a dandelion. Just a dandelion. Nothing fancy.
A pulse of energy shot from its wings. The dandelion trembled… then erupted into a miniature whirlwind of petals, spores, and glittering cosmic sparks. It swirled higher, higher, faster… and then collided with the garden gnome, which promptly shattered into five million improbable pieces.
"Whoops," the fly muttered. "Maybe… slightly too much."
The neighbor's dog barked. Loud. Terribly loud. Like a foghorn with anger issues. The fly, already nervous, tried to correct its powers—accidentally generating a micro gravitational pull. The dog went flying into the air, spinning like a furry frisbee before landing… in the tomato patch.
Tomatoes exploded. Seeds rained down like confetti. The fly's wings vibrated. It had done it again. It had unleashed chaos.
"Okay, okay, maybe I should… practice on something safer," it whispered, zooming past a puddle of mud that glowed faintly from residual cosmic energy.
And that's when it noticed the humans.
A child, wide-eyed and sticky with ice cream, stared at the fly with a mixture of horror and awe. "Mom! The fly is… it's… flying weird!"
The fly paused mid-air. "Flying weird? Really? That's the best you can do?"
The mother, clutching a cell phone like a lifeline, pointed at the sky. "It's glowing! The fly is glowing!"
"Glowing?" the fly echoed incredulously. "I mean… yeah, okay, fine. Glowing. But glowing is subjective, people!"
Before anyone could respond—or even process the absurdity—the fly's wings quivered. Another pulse of energy shot out, this time larger. A small tornado erupted in the sandbox, flinging plastic shovels, sandcastles, and one very angry rubber duck across the yard.
"Okay!" the fly shouted, spiraling in panic. "Maybe I need lessons. Maybe I need—oh no—the neighbor's cat again!"
Sure enough, the cat, having survived the previous encounter, returned with vengeance in its eyes. Only this time, it wasn't alone. A flock of pigeons had joined. And somewhere in the distance, a raccoon watched, plotting.
The fly sighed. It was barely learning to walk—or fly—its evolutionary path, and already it had accidentally declared backyard war.
But even as chaos unfolded, something deeper stirred within the fly's mind. It could feel the next stage of evolution whispering. The spark wasn't just about power. It was about choice, growth… and responsibility.
Responsibility, of course, for a fly with the power to obliterate worlds, was highly overrated.
"Alright," the fly muttered, buzzing over the chaos it had created, "lesson one: control your powers. Lesson two: avoid cats. Lesson three… figure out lesson three later."
And with a flick of its newly cosmic wings, it launched into the sky, leaving the backyard slightly singed, slightly traumatized, but forever changed.
Because in this world, even a tiny fly could choose to evolve—or accidentally destroy everything.