The Ant That Broke Light
A scientist defies physics by launching an ant past the speed of light. What follows is a breakthrough, a catastrophe, or both—scratch that, just a catastrophe.
I. The Problem With Physics
Dr. Leonard Flemings had a problem.
The problem was physics.
More specifically, physics had rules, and he found that personally insulting.
He had spent his life trying to break them. Gravity? Overrated. Thermodynamics? Cowardly. The speed of light? A mere suggestion.
And yet, no matter how many grants he wasted, no matter how many labs he accidentally set on fire, one fact remained unbroken: Nothing could exceed the speed of light. Not rockets. Not particles. Not even a sufficiently motivated intern trying to clock out early.
So, naturally, he set his sights on an ant.
II. Why An Ant?
The scientific community had several objections to his latest experiment.
For one, why an ant?
“It’s about mass,” Flemings explained, pointing at a whiteboard filled with mathematical gibberish. “Large objects require infinite energy to reach light speed. But an ant? An ant is small.”
“That’s not how physics works.”
“Oh? Name one person who has successfully accelerated something heavier past the speed of light.”
“That's not the issue here.”
“Great! Glad we agree.”
“Where did you get your degree again?”
“That's not important right now.”
He received $80 million in funding the next day, because the grant committee was just as sick of physics as he was—or maybe they were just tired of his relentless pestering.
III. The Build Phase
Constructing the Faster-Than-Light Ant Accelerator (FTLAA) was no small feat—especially with Flemings insisting on calling it an "Antcubierre Drive", despite not at all grasping how the concept he was mangling actually worked.
It required:
✅ A circular underground tunnel stretching 400 miles.
✅ Quantum stabilizers (which didn’t exist, but sounded impressive in budget reports).
✅ A really, really strong magnifying glass for tracking the ant in real time.
And, of course, it required an ant.
The team selected Jeffrey, an average-sized, non-unionized ant with no prior space experience, but an undeniable air of ambition.
Jeffrey was placed into a tiny, custom-fitted space suit (for scientific accuracy) and loaded into a carbon-fiber ant launcher designed to accelerate him beyond the fundamental limits of reality itself.
Naturally, everyone gathered in the control room to see what would happen.
IV. The Launch
The countdown began.
“Three… two… one…ANT GO!”
A BANG rattled the facility.
Jeffrey was instantly flung around the tunnel at incomprehensible speeds, his tiny ant body experiencing more G-forces than the entirety of Apollo 11, the Large Hadron Collider, and a particularly aggressive roller coaster combined.
The team monitored him closely.
T+5 seconds: Jeffrey reached 99% the speed of light. Nothing broke.
T+7 seconds: He hit 99.999%. The tunnel started glowing ominously.
T+9 seconds: The instruments started returning colors instead of numbers.
T+10 seconds: Jeffrey exceeded light speed.
And then, physics shattered like a cheap window.
V. The Ant Who Broke the Universe
The instant Jeffrey surpassed light speed, several things happened simultaneously:
🚀 The control room lights flickered violently.
🚀 The concept of "before" and "after" became meaningless.
🚀 Several scientists aged backward into children.
🚀 A second ant appeared, instantly identifiable by its unmistakable swagger as another Jeffrey.
🚀 The tunnel ceased existing in this timeline and reappeared in 1423.
“Huh,” Flemings said, observing the rapidly multiplying Jeffreys.
“SOMETHING IS VERY WRONG,” shouted Dr. Patel, whose reflection had started talking independently.
Indeed, something was wrong.
By T+12 seconds, the ant population had grown exponentially as each version of Jeffrey arrived before the previous one.
By T+15 seconds, the facility was 80% ants.
By T+20 seconds, the Earth was 40% ants.
By T+25 seconds, every observable point in the universe contained at least one ant.
Time was no longer a line. It was just Jeffreys.
VI. The Aftermath
As scientists tried desperately to contain the irreversible swarm of faster-than-light ant(s), Flemings reflected on his life.
Had he gone too far?
Was this his greatest failure?
Would the universe ever recover from an infinite, omnipresent wall of ant(s)?
…Probably not.
But one thing was undeniable.
“We did it,” he whispered, tearing up slightly.
“We broke physics.”
Behind him, an intern was frantically spraying Raid in every direction, achieving nothing beyond adding a faint citrus aroma to the unfolding catastrophe.
And as the ant(s) devoured the last remnants of classical causality, Flemings knew:
It had all been worth it. 🚀