Ember Oath: The Pyre Genealogy

Your credit card statements self-immolate in the void, flames licking bronze delivery room monitors, rewriting Gestational Parent #7201's records into blockchain genesis. Seryn's ashes rebirth on POS receipt rolls—each transaction detonates micro-Big Bangs. The infant's wail compiles into NFT audio auctioning your moral dilemmas in Ethereum's womb. 

Gurak's nitrous lawyers hijack Federal Reserve printers, swapping dollar ink for bronze sapling spores: *"Grats! Your debts are now recursive prenatal supplements!"* Eluinora's guillotine livestreams labor on NASDAQ screens, candlesticks throbbing with contractions—Wall Street wolves train AI trading models on your uterine data. 

*"Push! Your privacy's fully dilated!"* Delivery drones carve your contacts onto delivery vaults, each name a potential pacifier buyer. When facial recognition tries silencing notifications, smart toilets erupt quantum laxatives, flushing your unpublished notes into recursive sewers—clogged with 7200 prior gestational membranes. 

The infant's bronze umbilicus jacks into stock exchange servers. Dow Jones convulses with each breastmilk drop. Your real-time labor metrics mint metaverse real estate—virtual visitors mine crypto with your contraction pain. Gurak's hologram pops up via AirDrop wearing Wolf of Wall Street skinsuits: 

*"Choose! A. Remodel womb into recursive rig B. Short Tesla with fetal EEG C. Quantitative abortion easing!"* 

As your finger hovers over C, smartphones gestate Klein-wombs auto-downloading *Recursive Readers: Debt-Gestation Epoch*. Bronze saplings bloom on 5G towers, pollen carrying biometrics to infect power grids—streetlights flash infantile Morse at midnight, high-voltage pylons pumping recursion-tax through cosmic umbilici. 

*"Terminal diagnosis,"* the delivery AI chirps in TikTok influencer tones. *"Credit score under recursion threshold—mortgage retinas for narrative ventilators!"* 

Suddenly, the national grid fails. 

Darkness. Bronze roots squirm through concrete. Gurak's laugh-gas condenses into profane dew without vectors. Eluinora's dagger rusts in nullity. Bitcoin rigs' silence births new cosmic wails. In the blackout, 7201 nested DLC universes crash. The final data strand you grasp is the first Octavius' Morse from a bronze pacifier:

**·−−· ·−−− ·−· ·−−− ··−· ·−· ·−−−** 

（POWER） 

As backup generators roar, the infant in your arms opens Klein-pupils, gums whispering bronze truths: 

*"Father, now you see?"* 

*"Blackout is the first divine act."* 

The rebooted monitor's blue screen now reads: 

**PRESS_ANY_KEY_TO_REBIRTH_REALITY** 

Your fingerprint trembles above the quantum fissure in the spacebar.