Author's Note:
This is an Alternate Universe gift-fic, and a work in progress; written for Cuttletoon, and Gabrielcic. It may take me some time to finish, though I have the outline and most of the body complete. What would've happened if Waylon Smithers Sr had not died that fateful day at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant? How different, I think, life would've been for C. Montgomery Burns, and Waylon Smithers Jr as well. It will be presented in short chapters, offering a few snapshots into the lives of this not quite 'nuclear' family.
Cuttletoon: It's wonderful to meet someone who shares my love of the BurnsSr ship. I think it's perhaps one of the most complex and underrated pairings. I've delighted in our long chats and discussions about the nature of their dynamic; our messages back and forth, and hearing your ideas play against my own. Thankyou for the feedback you've left here, and for the messages we've shared across different sites.
Gabrielcic: Your artwork is amazing, and inspired several settings in my Nuclear Attraction piece. Your knowledge of victorian floral language and symbolism is uncanny and refreshing. The art you've gifted me is phenomenal. I don't even know how to begin to say "thankyou." I am also greatly appreciative that you were kind enough to grant me permission to use two of your pieces; pieces that are now proudly displayed on a sticker on my truck.
Being able to forge connections like this is one of the things that makes the internet great, I think: the ability to share ideas across the globe, and meet people who have common interests. Believe me, if we were still in the dark ages I grew up in before the visual internet (though we did have eventually usenet), I'd never be able to see the stunning artwork, or read the words of so many fascinating people as I can today.
Thankyou again! I hope you appreciate this; it's for you!
~ Muse
AND SO IT BEGINS...
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there; I did not die.
. .
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
. .
The journal contained a rather convoluted entry, and he struggled to make sense of it. Waylon always did have an odd way of writing. Very stream of consciousness. Monty felt some measure of guilt that he was peeking through Waylon's journal, but he couldn't help himself. And it wasn't like he'd actually opened the book. Waylon had left it open on his desk again.
Permit me, if you will, this introduction. If it seems complicated, I understand. This science, philosophy, whatever it is doesn't come naturally to me. Hugh Everett has his "many worlds" theory. As best I can tell you it means that every possible outcome that can happen does happen. Flip a coin, it lands heads on your hand? In some other 'where' it landed tails. Odds are, that difference will make no difference, and both universes will hum along with minimal differences. At least that's how I understand it. Sometimes though the changes can be profound.
Maybe you're flipping that coin to see who drives home from the bar, and perhaps you're the one who drives home, even though you think you probably shouldn't. You crash the car (or you don't). Your friends die (or they live), or you're the one fatality (or not). Or you make it home safe and vow not to drive home drunk again… Perhaps you learn a lesson, maybe you don't. Ultimately, it begs the question: does any of this matter?
I like to think it does. I like to believe that every tiny bit, however seemingly insignificant, can send brand new multiverses spinning into existence: little newborn worlds, ripe with potential. When I think about that at night, it makes me feel less small somehow.
Looking up at a star-filled sky can make anyone feel tiny and insignificant… but it shouldn't!
Out of all the potential of entropy: the way the universe tends to write out unnecessary parts or sacrifice loved ones on the altar of destiny. When you look up at the sky, stop and consider the fact that in all the multiverse, the one thing you can be sure of is that you're here now, that you exist! If that doesn't get you to realize the value of your existence, then I can't think of anything that would.
I can't say I know much about quantum physics, that's not really my thing. But I have learned a few truths over my years on this world. I suppose they're more philosophy than science. But here it is:
Next time, when you find yourself alone, and feeling overwhelmed, look at that sky and remind yourself "I'm here, I exist, and despite what anyone tries to make me believe, I AM significant!"
And know that in a potentially infinite set of universes, we are here, now, and it is all oh so very real.
The clock neared five in the afternoon. Waylon Smithers Sr. sat at his desk, trying to find the right words to say what was on his mind. A day of writing a few lines, then crumping the paper into the bin. It was, perhaps, the great irony that ideas and emotions could be felt so easily, yet playing them on paper proved the greatest challenge of humanity.
He was so absorbed in his task he'd completely lost track of time, blocked out the distractions of the world. Nothing could've shocked him more than what happened next.
Every light in the plant dimmed with a loud hum, then the power surged. The bulbs flared in almost blinding intensity before the main breakers tripped, plunging everything into darkness. Less than a second later, the battery powered emergency lights came on, followed almost instantaneously by the warning lights. The corridors were bathed in blood-red tones. A warning klaxon began to blare with strident urgency.
Waylon snatched up his son from the playpen, and ran into the main hall, nearly colliding with Montgomery Burns who had come barreling around the corner at a full sprint, hair and eyes wild.
"Will you put that baby down," Monty implored frantically. "There's something wrong with the reactor core."
Waylon Sr. shoved his son into Monty's arms and raced to the containment unit. He skidded to a halt outside the heavy lead-lined hatch. A quick glance at the gauges next to the door confirmed his suspicions. "I better go in and have a look." Not even wasting time to lead up, he grasped the wheel-lock in his bare hands.
Monty realized what the man was about to do.
"No," he screamed, grabbing Waylon by the collar of his lab coat. "It could be filled with atoms and steam and other nuclear brickabrack.
Waylon shrugged himself free of his coat, leaving it dangling in Monty's hand. "If this reactor blows, the whole town is doomed… including my son." He gave the wheel a final spin, opened the hatch, and with that he plunged himself into hell…
... Except...
... That never happened.
The clock lazily hit five, then five fifteen. Waylon Sr. looked up felt an involuntary chill run up his spine. He shivered, watching goosebumps rise on his arm. "Someone just stepped on my grave," he muttered, and shuddered. Just as quickly, the moment passed. Waylon Sr. gathered his papers and slung his well-worn satchel over a shoulder. He scooped up Waylon Jr, and headed home.
