Chapter 1: The Starting Line
The morning of the 3045 Galactic Grand Prix dawned with the usual chaos that followed Team Starborn like a cosmic curse. Yogi, their disaster-prone pilot, was doing what he did best – sleeping through his seventh alarm while his quantum mattress tried desperately to eject him.
“COUNTDOWN ORBIT INITIATED,” the mattress intoned in a voice too cheerful for the impending disaster. “Three… two… one…”
With a muffled whoomp, the mattress launched Yogi into the air like a badly aimed comet. He sped toward the ceiling, arms and legs flailing, trying to swim through the air as if sheer determination might change gravity’s mind.
“IMPACT IN… three… two… one…”
Thunk. Yogi smacked the ceiling panels, rattling the neon lights above, before bouncing gracelessly back toward the floor. His blanket clung to the ceiling for a full five seconds before peeling away in slow motion, floating back down to drape across his face like a defeated flag. On the way down, his mug of synth-coffee leapt off the nightstand and splattered against the wall, leaving a brown Rorschach blot vaguely shaped like a rocket crash.
As Yogi groaned, a maintenance bot rolled past, beeped once, and held up a little scorecard hologram that read: 3.5/10.”
“CRITICAL ALERT: PILOT CONSCIOUSNESS REQUIRED IN T-MINUS 47 MINUTES TO RACE START,” AI Blip’s voice echoed through the team’s pit quarters. “ALSO, DID YOU KNOW THAT IN 1903, THE WRIGHT BROTHERS’ FIRST FLIGHT LASTED EXACTLY AS LONG AS YOGI’S CURRENT REM CYCLE?”
Peachy, already streaming live to her 50 million followers across three galaxies, pointed her holo-cam at Yogi’s door.
“Welcome back, Stellar Squad! Your girl Peachy here, bringing you the pre-race drama. Will our pilot actually make it to the starting line? Smash that like button and quantum-subscribe to find out!”
The holochat feed exploded instantly. A looped gif of Yogi bouncing off the ceiling played on repeat while viewers spammed 🚀💥 emojis. One generous fan donated with the caption: “buy this man a helmet that fits.”
Meanwhile, Peachy’s camera filter glitched and auto-generated a halo of cartoon planets over her head, giving her the appearance of a saint of chaos. She didn’t bother to turn it off—if anything, it improved the brand. In the background, a pit mouse dragged away Yogi’s missing boot like it had just won the lottery.
The holochat scrolled faster, a storm of emojis, bets, and gifs of Yogi’s past crashes. Peachy knew exactly how to milk their dysfunction for views—her cheerful tone only slightly masking the team’s desperation.
The door finally burst open, revealing Yogi in his mismatched racing suit, one boot on and his helmet backwards.
“I’m up! I’m up! What’s the damage?”
“Well,” Starlit called from beneath their experimental racing pod, her voice muffled by machinery, “besides the fact that our warp drive modifications are completely unauthorized and probably illegal in sixteen star systems, I just found a critical flaw in the temporal stabilization matrix.”
“Is that bad?” Yogi asked, hopping on one foot while trying to put on his other boot.
His helmet visor fogged up completely, so instead of finding the boot, he kept stomping on a wrench. The pod rattled like an angry toaster. Starlit, half buried in wires, muttered, “This stabilizer is held together with duct tape and a prayer,” just as the duct tape peeled off and slapped her forehead with comic timing.
Above them, a stray announcer drone buzzed past, mistakenly announcing: “Welcome, Team StarBored!” before quickly correcting itself.
“Only if you enjoy existing in a single timeline,” Starlit replied dryly, sliding out from under the pod, her face smeared with iridescent engine grease. “The quantum fluctuation could theoretically—”
“Theoretically is my favorite kind of possible disaster!” Yogi interrupted, finally getting his helmet on straight. “Peachy, how’re we doing on social?”
Peachy, still streaming, grinned. “Our hashtag #StarBornToRace is trending across the temporal net. Oh, and I may have accidentally shown our modified warp drive to the entire universe about five minutes ago.”
“YOU WHAT?” The entire team shouted in unison.
AI Blip’s holographic form flickered. “CALCULATING PROBABILITY OF RACE DISQUALIFICATION… ERROR… SIMULTANEOUSLY COMPUTING JOKE ABOUT RACING AND TEMPORAL PHYSICS… ERROR… WHY DID THE TACHYON CROSS THE MÖBIUS STRIP? TO GET TO THE SAME SIDE!”
Peachy’s feed immediately filled with shady sponsor offers: “Need illegal parts? DM us!” Meanwhile, a prankster viewer superimposed a clown nose onto Yogi’s face, and it tracked him no matter where he moved. To make matters worse, Blip’s hologram glitched and briefly replaced its head with that of a chicken before snapping back.
“Not now, Blip!” Starlit frantically typed on her holo-console. “We’ve got three minutes until inspection, and the stabilizer is still—”
The inspection alarm blared. Peachy quickly switched to her best angle.
“Don’t forget to use promo code ‘TIMEBEND’ for 20% off your next quantum energy drink!”
The inspector arrived, gave their pod a quick scan, and sighed before discreetly asking Peachy for a selfie. Mid-scan, a panel clattered to the ground, exposing a giant blinking red button labeled DO NOT PRESS.” Yogi instinctively reached for it and had his hand slapped away by Starlit.
Meanwhile, the warp drive hummed so loudly that a passing crew mistook it for a karaoke machine starting up.
In what could only be described as a miracle (or perhaps a disaster waiting to happen), they somehow passed inspection. The inspector, clearly more interested in Peachy’s stream than their obviously modified engine, barely glanced at the glowing, pulsing, definitely-not-regulation warp drive.
As they lined up at the starting grid – dead last due to their delayed start – Yogi tried to sound confident.
“Okay team, remember the plan. We stay steady, we stay safe, and we absolutely do not engage the experimental warp—”
“RACE START IN 10… 9…” The announcement boomed across the track.
Yogi was so nervous he fumbled with the controls and accidentally triggered his “calming meditation playlist.” Whale noises blared over the pod’s intercom, echoing across the starting grid. Peachy, ever opportunistic, applied a glitter filter to the livestream feed. Now their “serious pre-race strategy” looked like a galactic disco party.
A rival racer leaned over, revved his engine menacingly—then sneezed so hard his visor fogged up completely.
“I should mention,” Starlit said quickly, “that the stabilizer might react badly to—”
“8… 7… 6…”
Peachy positioned her cameras for the perfect angle. “This is going to be epic for my followers!”
“5… 4… 3…”
AI Blip suddenly sparked. “INTERESTING FACT: THE FIRST RECORDED RACING ACCIDENT IN HUMAN HISTORY WAS… TEMPORAL ANOMALY DETECTED!”
“2… 1…”
Yogi’s hand slipped on the controls, accidentally hitting the warp drive activation sequence. The last thing Team Starborn heard before reality turned inside out was Peachy’s excited voice:
“Don’t forget to like and subscribe, because we’re about to make history! Literally!”
The experimental warp drive engaged with a sound that could only be described as the universe hiccupping. Their racing pod spun wildly, creating a chain reaction that ripped through the starting grid. One by one, each competing team was caught in the temporal wake, their vehicles disappearing in flashes of chronometric energy.
One unlucky racer screamed, “I JUST PAID OFF MY POD!” before being swallowed whole by the vortex. Peachy’s chat, assuming it was staged, exploded with comments like: “Best special effects ever!” and “Hollywood could never.” Meanwhile, Blip tried to calm everyone by projecting a soothing screensaver of bouncing neon sheep counting themselves.
As their pod tumbled through the newly created time vortex, AI Blip managed one last observation:
“CONGRATULATIONS! WE’VE JUST INVENTED A NEW CATEGORY OF RACING DISASTER! WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR A JOKE ABOUT TIME TRAVEL? IT’S ABOUT TO BECOME HISTORICALLY RELEVANT!”
The last thing they saw before everything went white was the entire racing grid being sucked into their temporal wake, transforming Earth’s timeline into the most dangerous racetrack in history.
Yogi, strapping himself in tighter, could only mutter what would become Team Starborn’s unofficial motto:
“Well, at least we can’t finish last if we’ve broken time itself.”
Chapter 2: Prehistoric Pit Stop
The temporal vortex spat Team Starborn’s vehicle out like a watermelon seed, sending them spiraling through a violet-tinged sky before crash-landing in what appeared to be a vast primordial swamp. Steam hissed from their overheated engine as it slowly sank into the murky water.
A giant dragonfly immediately perched on Yogi’s helmet and refused to leave, buzzing in his ear like an angry hairdryer. The pod itself landed briefly on a massive lily pad, which bowed dramatically under the weight before flipping them off into the muck like a trampoline. As if to add insult, a prehistoric frog croaked at them from the bank and belched out one of Peachy’s lost hologram stickers, which stuck to Yogi’s visor.
“Everyone alive?” Yogi called out, his head still spinning from the impact. “And more importantly, where’s my lucky racing goggles?”
“Breaking news!” Peachy’s voice chirped as she immediately activated her holo-cam. “We’ve just made history by becoming the first racing team to literally crash into history! Current location: unknown, but definitely pre-air conditioning.” She panned around, capturing the alien landscape of towering ferns and strange insects buzzing through the humid air.
Yogi searched under his seat cushion and triumphantly pulled something out—only to discover it was a rubber chicken that had somehow survived the temporal jump. Peachy’s live feed auto-translated “primordial swamp” as “eco-spa retreat,” which caused three of her viewers to instantly book fake vacation packages. Meanwhile, a horse-sized insect landed on her holo-cam lens, giving the stream an extreme close-up of its hairy mandibles before scuttling off.
AI Blip’s interface flickered to life, but instead of its usual blue glow, it was now an alarming shade of green. “Processing temporal coordinates… We appear to be approximately 165 million years in the past. Also, I’m experiencing an unexpected emotional response to the flying reptiles overhead. They’re… beautiful.”
“Those aren’t birds, are they?” Starlit emerged from beneath the hood, covered in some sort of prehistoric goo. “They’re pterodactyls. We’re in the actual Jurassic period!”
As if on cue, a pterodactyl swooped low and snatched Yogi’s remaining boot, only to immediately drop it with an offended squawk after catching a whiff of it. Blip’s voice glitched mid-sentence, sighing dreamily: “Their wingspan… magnificent… I think I’m in love.” Meanwhile, the goo dripping off Starlit plopped onto the pod’s horn controls, which blared out the “Jaws” theme in tinny synth.
A distant roar made them all freeze.
“Quick question,” Yogi said, his voice unusually calm. “That wouldn’t happen to be the famous thunder lizard we all learned about in school, would it?”
“If by ‘thunder lizard’ you mean a Tyrannosaurus Rex,” AI Blip chimed in, “then yes. And it’s approximately 300 meters away and closing rapidly.”
Peachy’s eyes lit up. “This is going to get so many views! #JurassicRacing #ActuallyGoingToGetEaten”
Yogi muttered under his breath, “Please let it be a vegetarian one,” as the ground trembled beneath massive footfalls. At the same moment, a smaller dinosaur scampered past happily gnawing on his missing goggles like a chew toy. Peachy’s stream auto-tagged the incoming T-Rex as Friendly New Follower.”
While Peachy documented their impending doom, Yogi frantically tried to restart their vehicle. The engine sputtered pathetically, coughing up more prehistoric slime. In his panic, he yanked off one of the hover-panels, which rolled away in a perfect circle.
“Wait!” Starlit exclaimed, pointing at the spinning panel. “Yogi, you just invented the wheel!”
“Great timing!” Peachy shouted, backing away from the treeline where massive footsteps were getting closer. “But unless that wheel can outrun a T-Rex, we might want to focus on not becoming fossil fuel!”
The hover-panel rolled straight into a baby dino nest, and the hatchlings immediately began riding it like a merry-go-round. Yogi puffed his chest out proudly. “You’re welcome, future civilizations,” he declared—just before slipping on swamp muck and landing flat on his back. Blip beeped dryly: “Historical contribution detected. Estimated royalties: zero, because you’re about to die.”
AI Blip’s sensors went wild. “Multiple temporal anomalies detected! The wheel’s invention is creating a cascading effect across the timeline. Also, I’ve composed a haiku about pterodactyls.”
“Not now, Blip!” everyone shouted in unison.
The T-Rex burst through the vegetation, its massive head swinging toward their vehicle. Yogi, in what would later be described as either brilliant strategy or blind panic, threw his lucky goggles at the creature’s face. The reflective lenses caught the sunlight, temporarily stunning the prehistoric predator.
The T-Rex stopped just long enough to sneeze violently, launching the goggles like a missile straight into a nearby volcano vent. Peachy whispered excitedly into her cam: “First T-Rex jump scare in history—exclusive content, guys.” The swamp frogs began croaking in eerie rhythm, providing a disturbingly accurate horror soundtrack.
“The engine’s temporal core is overheating!” Starlit shouted, hands flying over the controls. “We need to jump again before we permanently alter the timeline!”
“Too late for that,” Peachy commented, still streaming. “My followers are already calling this the best unboxing video ever. Look, that baby dinosaur is playing with our spare tire!”
The T-Rex shook its head clear and focused on their vehicle with renewed hunger. Just as it lunged forward, AI Blip’s systems surged with unexpected energy.
“Pterodactyl appreciation has unlocked new power reserves!” the AI announced triumphantly. “Initiating emergency temporal jump in 3… 2…”
“Wait!” Yogi grabbed his lucky goggles from where they’d fallen. “I just need to—”
The temporal drive engaged, creating another swirling vortex. As they were pulled into the time stream, the last thing they saw was the T-Rex attempting to eat their invented wheel while a group of small mammals watched with intense interest.
On a cliff in the distance, the shadow of a confused proto-human scratched its head, then vanished in the temporal rip. The pterodactyl—whom Blip had already named Steve—swooped past in a wing salute before diving after a giant fish. Down below, one overly curious mammal stole Peachy’s selfie stick and began poking another mammal with it like it was a weapon.
“Did we just teach early mammals about the wheel?” Starlit asked, checking their temporal coordinates as they spun through the vortex.
“According to my calculations,” AI Blip responded, “we’ve created at least seventeen paradoxes in the last five minutes. Also, I’ve named that pterodactyl Steve.”
Peachy finished her livestream with a flourish. “And that’s how Team Starborn survived the Jurassic period! Don’t forget to like and subscribe, and use code DINOSAUR for 10% off your next temporal violation fine!”
Yogi, clutching his recovered goggles, squinted at the swirling vortex ahead as it shifted into a distinctly sandy hue. “Um, does anyone else see pyramids?”
“Oh no,” Starlit groaned, checking their instruments. “The temporal drive is locked onto major historical landmarks. We’re about to—”
The vortex opened, revealing the golden sands of ancient Egypt and a very large, very solid pyramid directly in their path.
“Not again!” Yogi screamed, as their vehicle plunged toward the ancient wonder, leaving behind a Jurassic period forever changed by one disaster-prone racing team, an invented wheel, and a T-Rex with a newfound appreciation for circular objects.
As they disappeared into the time stream, a small mammal picked up the remains of their hover-panel and began rolling it thoughtfully, while somewhere above, a pterodactyl named Steve watched the strange visitors vanish into thin air.
Chapter 3: Pyramid Scheme
The temporal vortex spat out Team Starborn’s vehicle directly through the shimmering crystal blocks of a half-constructed lunar pyramid, sending the Moon Influencer High Flyers scattering like startled zero-gravity pigeons. Their ship carved a perfect diagonal tunnel through the glowing structure before blasting out of the base, spraying stardust and shards of moonstone into the thin atmosphere.
One worker twirled mid-air, shook his fist, and shouted something untranslated, which Blip instantly subtitled as: This is not in my sponsorship deal!” A lunar camel-drone blinked blankly at the smoking exit hole, then powered down with a long sigh as if resigning itself to “Monday again.” Nearby, a sky-scribe fainted so dramatically he drifted straight into his own anti-grav ink jar, leaving a floating splat-symbol that would puzzle future space-archaeologists.
“Well, that’s one way to leave our mark on history,” Yogi said, brushing glittering moon-dust off his mismatched racing suit. “Though I don’t think this is what they meant by ‘pyramid interior design.’”
Peachy was already streaming, her holo-cam drones zooming through the chaos. “OMG, followers! We just created the first-ever crystal pyramid secret passage! #TimeTravel #MoonInfluencer #OopsWeDidItAgain.”
Her chat exploded with comments like “DIY Moon Pyramid Hacks” and “Collab with Queen Selene when??” One High Flyer architect floated closer, stroked the tunnel wall, and muttered something Blip translated as: “Ah yes… sleek open-concept layout.” Meanwhile, a glitter-goat with a jet harness drifted into frame and calmly devoured one of Peachy’s holographic hashtag banners.
“According to my historical database,” Blip reported, “that pyramid wasn’t scheduled to have any internal chambers for another three moon-cycles. Congratulations on creating yet another temporal paradox. We’re really collecting them like holo-trading cards at this point.”
Starlit crawled out from beneath the pod, streaked with cosmic grease and crystal dust. “The warp drive’s crystalline matrix is fried. We need something with similar resonance to stabilize it.” Her eyes narrowed at the glowing prism waiting to crown the pyramid. “Something exactly like that.”
“No,” Blip said flatly. “Taking the capstone would destabilize their entire influencer economy.”
“Who said anything about taking?” Peachy grinned, already drifting toward a cluster of bewildered architects. “Watch and learn how a professional handles lunar PR.”
Starlit sneezed into the dust, knocking over a sacred starlight vase that promptly reassembled itself backwards. Blip muttered: “Congratulations, you just invented intergalactic flat-pack furniture.” Meanwhile, a foreman mistook their pod for a giant cosmic bread oven and began shoving dough packs toward the exhaust ports. Yogi, staring longingly at the prism, murmured like a caveman: “Shiny rock fix ship. Me want.”
Within minutes, Peachy had convinced the High Flyers that their ship was a celestial chariot, and that blessing it with the capstone would bring their entire moon prosperity. Her stream numbers spiked so fast that #PyramidPower trended across multiple galaxies simultaneously.
Meanwhile, Yogi had drawn an unintended fanbase. A parade of lunar priests hovered on anti-grav sandals, bowing low before the reflective glare of his racing suit.
“Oh radiant Sun-Raider!” the High Priest intoned. “You must join us for the Feast of Starlight!”
“Actually, I’m not—” Yogi began, but Peachy elbowed him hard.
“The High Flyers probably have resources we need,” she whispered. “Just roll with it.”
Yogi stumbled forward and tripped over his mismatched boots, which the priests immediately declared as “solar boat sandals.” They cheered louder, clapping their glowing hands. Blip tried to add gravitas by projecting a golden halo above Yogi’s head, but forgot to disable the ad setting, so it pulsed with: SALE 20% OFF COSMIC WATER.” A server floated past offering figs; Yogi attempted to juggle them to look divine, but promptly flung all three into a ceremonial gravity well, where they orbited like moons around a fruit bowl.
The feast was grand, with cosmic dancers, zero-G jugglers, and food portions large enough to fuel three dynasties of influencers. Blip, projected over the table, decided to educate the local scribes in “modern” glyphs.
“This mark means LOL,” he explained, sketching a glowing symbol in the dust. “And this one means YOLO, though statistically speaking, that might not be accurate given our situation.”
One scribe spent hours chiseling “😂” into crystal before bursting into actual tears. Another stumbled onto “👍,” which was immediately adopted as the official symbol of wine approval. A guard carved “BRB” on a stela and walked off to the restroom, believing he had summoned a bathroom god.
Starlit worked frantically on the pod, slotting the prism capstone into the warp drive’s core, trying to ignore the gathering crowd. Meanwhile, the Moon Princess had locked onto Yogi, declaring every clumsy movement proof of his cosmic divinity.
“Your chaos is surely a gift from the stars!” she declared, lowering a glowing collar toward his neck.
“That’s not a collar,” Blip warned, “that’s a matrimonial tether! Yogi, don’t let her—”
Too late. The moment the collar clicked, starlight drums began booming and the High Priest started chanting marriage rites.
“Oh no, not again,” Yogi groaned. “Last time I got engaged by accident, it was to a Victorian duchess who thought my racing goggles were a hat trend!”
Peachy’s drones captured everything. “Breaking news, followers! Your favorite disaster pilot is about to marry into lunar royalty! #MoonWedding #RoyalRacing.”
A scruffy moon-cat leapt into Yogi’s lap, purring like a rocket engine, as if cosigning the union. Blip attempted to cover the scene with tasteful “festive mode,” but instead showered the hall in sticky holographic confetti that glued itself to the guests. The princess leaned in and whispered breathlessly, “Could you make more of those big crash-booms? They’re so romantic.”
Just then, rival teams ripped into orbit, bursting from temporal portals around the half-built Sphinx Satellite, their pods tricked out with solar sails and gaudy moon-glyphs.
“The warp drive’s ready!” Starlit yelled. “But we’ve got company!”
The wedding collapsed into chaos as Yogi, still collared like a reluctant bridegroom, took the controls. He piloted their pod through half-carved crystal corridors while other racers blasted after them.
“Hard left through the sphinx’s nose-port!” Blip barked. “And for the love of paradoxes, try not to sneeze this time.”
Behind them, one rival pod swerved into a giant cauldron of cosmic stew and emerged onion-scented. Yogi’s glowing collar jingled like sleigh bells every time he banked, announcing their presence across the tunnels. A confused builder flung a chisel at them, shouting, “Stop vandalizing the nose—our insurance hasn’t cleared!”
They burst through the lunar sphinx’s nostril in a spray of stardust, their warp drive humming with capstone power. Behind them, Peachy’s last moon-stream captured the princess waving goodbye, the High Priest chiseling new glyphs about the “Sun Raider Who Fled Through the Nose,” and several scribes already etching Blip’s emojis into official records.
“Next time,” Yogi said as they rocketed into the vortex, “let’s crash somewhere less monumentally important.”
“According to my calculations,” Blip replied, “we’re headed straight for medieval England. Statistically, nothing could go wrong there… unless you count 98% of medieval history.”
As the vortex swallowed them, the lunar sphinx let out a dusty sneeze that collapsed half its scaffolding. A young apprentice carved “#EpicFail” into the base as a permanent note. And on the palace steps, the Moon Princess held Yogi’s lost boot aloft, declaring it a divine relic of the god who had slipped through her nose.
Chapter 4: Knights of the Racing Table
The temporal vortex spat Team Starborn’s vehicle into a misty clearing, sending them plowing straight through the wooden barrier of a medieval jousting tournament. Turkey legs, mead mugs, and peasants scattered in all directions, creating what looked like a historical theme park evacuation drill. Their futuristic pod skidded to a halt, leaving smoking tire tracks across the tournament grounds.
“Status report?” Yogi groaned, helmet half-on, half-off, his head spinning like a bad carnival ride.
“We’ve landed in medieval England, approximately 1200 AD,” AI Blip announced. Then it glitched into Shakespeare mode: “Forsooth, mine circuits detect high levels of temporal displacement, dear master!”
One peasant threw his mead at the pod and shouted: “Begone, glowing potato demon!” Another simply sighed, picked up his dropped turkey leg, and kept eating.
Peachy was already streaming. “OMG, followers! We just crashed a literal jousting tournament! #MedievalVibes #TimeTravel #JoustingGoals!”
The crowd parted as a fully-armored knight thundered up, lance aimed straight at the pod. “Sorcery! Witchcraft! I, Sir Lancelot the Brave, challenge thee for this foul affront!”
“Oh great,” Starlit muttered. “Warp drive’s fried again. And now we’ve got a cosplay enthusiast with anger issues.”
“Accept it!” Peachy whispered, shoving Yogi toward the hatch. “Think of the clout! POV jousting content, baby!”
Before Yogi could refuse, Blip accepted the challenge via loudspeaker—in perfect iambic pentameter: “Good sir, thy challenge we shall gladly meet, upon this field where hoof and steel compete!”
“I don’t even know how to joust!” Yogi whined, but Peachy had already shoved him into a conveniently-parked suit of armor. It immediately pinched his arm hair.
The peasants gasped as Yogi awkwardly mounted a horse backwards. Peachy attached a holo-cam to his lance, inventing the first-ever Knight’s POV livestream.
“Prithee, fair maiden,” Blip addressed Starlit, still stuck in faux-Elizabethan mode, “whilst our noble Yogi proves his worth, might we mend yon stabilizer, lest paradoxes plague our souls most foul?”
“Translation,” Starlit said flatly, “fix the ship.”
But she wasn’t listening long—purple smoke was rising from behind the castle. Definitely not normal smoke. Definitely not medieval. Probably not lavender-scented, either.
Meanwhile, Yogi’s joust began. He charged forward screaming with his eyes shut. By sheer dumb luck, his lance snagged the hinge on Sir Lancelot’s armor and flipped him neatly off his horse, landing him in a barrel of pickled turnips.
The crowd went ballistic. “The mysterious knight has triumphed!” cried the herald. Peachy’s chat spammed #JoustingChampion across three centuries at once.
Yogi, shaking and trying not to puke in his helmet, muttered, “I meant to do that.” His horse promptly sneezed on him.
Before the applause died, a colossal roar shook the air. A dragon unfurled behind the castle walls—its scales gleamed metallic, its wings beat with the rhythm of malfunctioning engines.
“That’s no dragon,” Starlit said, scanning it. “That’s Team Nova’s racer! The vortex must’ve transformed it!”
Blip’s Shakespeare mode crashed mid-sonnet, reverting to normal: “Probability of steampunk Knights of the Round Table: 78%. Adjusting odds of dragon-themed TikTok trend: 99%.”
The peasants screamed and ran. Peachy squealed with joy: “Yes! It’s a crossover episode! #DragonCollab.”
Starlit rerouted power from the broken warp core into their shields. A shimmering barrier formed around the pod. To medieval eyes, it looked like straight-up wizard magic.
The peasants dropped to their knees. “Merlin’s champions! They are the Chosen Ones!”
Yogi tripped on his jousting greaves trying to climb back into the pod. The peasants cheered louder.
What followed was perhaps the least dignified aerial battle in medieval history: Team Starborn’s pod chasing a dragon-shaped racer above Camelot. Knights pointed spears at the sky, confused, while Peachy narrated like it was a reality show.
Blip couldn’t decide whether to give race stats or prophecy: “And lo, the dragon overtakes by two furlongs… or perhaps by the will of Mordred.”
The chase ended with Yogi doing what he did best: crashing. He plowed into the tallest tower of Camelot, which toppled dramatically onto the mechanical dragon, crushing Team Nova’s racer and forcing them to retreat through a vortex.
Starlit fired up a quick memory-modifier pulse, making the locals remember “a traditional dragon attack.” Unfortunately, Peachy’s followers were already posting fan edits of mechanical dragons breathing plasma.
“Well, that was exciting!” Peachy chirped. “My medieval audience just blew up! I’m officially an influencer in four centuries!”
Yogi groaned inside his dented armor. “Can someone please get me out of this tin can?”
“Temporal anomaly detected,” Blip announced. “We should leave before—oh, never mind. Too late.”
A squad of knights galloped past. Their horses had rocket boosters strapped to their flanks. Flames shot out as they launched into the air like budget spacecraft.
“Time to go!” Starlit barked, slamming the warp drive.
As they vanished into the vortex, the knights shouted: “Onward! To the Quest for the Holy Nitro Boost!”
Peachy checked her notifications one last time. “Ooooh, King Arthur just followed me on Medieval Social! His handle is @OnceAndFutureInfluencer.”
The vortex snapped shut, leaving behind a medieval England forever altered—and somewhere, a monk illuminated the first manuscript of Sir Yogi and the Mechanical Dragon, complete with doodles of rocket-horses in the margins.
Chapter 5: Disco Inferno
The temporal vortex spat Team Starborn’s ship directly through the roof of Studio 54, materializing in a shower of glitter and broken mirror balls. The pod, still smoking from its medieval “horse upgrade,” landed squarely on the disco floor in front of the judges’ table.
A rain of sequins settled on stunned dancers. One man in bell bottoms raised his martini and muttered: “I knew LSD was strong, but this is ridiculous.”
“Oh. My. Stars!” Peachy squealed, immediately yanking at her racing suit to rip strategic holes until it looked era-appropriate. Within seconds, she had somehow created a perfect sequin halter top. “We’ve crashed into peak aesthetic!”
“Warning,” Blip boomed, his voice suddenly dropping into a Barry White growl. “Funk contamination levels at 72%. Booty-shaking protocol armed.”
Yogi stumbled out of the cockpit, helmet backwards. “At least nothing’s on fire this ti—” His elbow smashed a disco prop, which tipped into another, which collapsed five mirror balls in succession. They exploded in a cascade of rainbow sparkles that drenched the floor in glitter fog.
The crowd erupted. “That’s my new signature move!” someone screamed. “The Yogi Shower!”
Peachy already had her holo-cam rolling. “Omg, followers—we’ve just invented the most iconic disco move of 1977! #TimeTravel #DiscoNotDead #YogiShower.”
A roller-skater tripped in the glitter fog, slid 20 feet, and spun into the DJ booth. The crowd cheered louder.
Starlit scanned the crowd. “Those aren’t just dancers,” she whispered. “Those are other racing teams!”
Sure enough, Team Nova’s pilot was “doing the hustle” while adjusting a stabilizer under his sequins. Team Quantum’s engineer crouched on the light-up floor, pretending to do the worm while secretly reassembling a chronometric engine.
Blip’s body lights synced to the music, pulsing rainbow. “Systems recalibrating. New primary directive: boogie.” He projected holographic dance diagrams, which the crowd immediately copied, thinking they’d just witnessed the future of dance instruction.
The announcer’s voice boomed. “DANCE-OFF!” A spotlight dropped on Yogi, who froze like a medieval deer.
“Our challenger: the mysterious new knight of funk!”
Peachy gasped. “The prize is solid gold platform shoes! Look at the heel—it’s crystalline chronorium! We need that to fix the drive!”
The crowd shoved Yogi onto the floor. His “dance style” resembled a malfunctioning washing machine in a thunderstorm, but every misstep accidentally aligned with the beat. His flailing arms traced geometry; his pratfalls became revolutionary footwork.
Peachy shrieked. “It’s called The Time Traveler! Copy it, everyone!”
Within moments, the crowd—and several centuries via livestream—were all imitating Yogi’s seizure-like genius.
Other teams tried to sabotage him by tampering with the tempo.
“They’re speeding it up!” Starlit yelled.
Blip, now fully disco-infected, overrode the sound system. “Deploying emergency groove. Beat now syncing to Yogi’s natural clumsiness.”
The remix was indescribable—future synth colliding with Gregorian chants and funk bass. Historians would later describe it as “the night time itself did the hustle.”
A man in a leisure suit fainted and shouted, “I have seen the face of disco, and it wears a backwards helmet!”
Team Nova lunged for the golden shoes. Yogi, spinning out of control, accidentally backhanded them into Team Quantum, who crashed into the conga line. The conga line absorbed them, dragging both rival teams away like quicksand made of polyester.
Blip screamed over the speakers: “Warning! Multiple timelines converging! Also: this beat is sick!”
The judges scribbled furiously. One of them, Starlit realized in horror, was Cleopatra herself, somehow misplaced from their Moon Influencer detour. She tapped her pen, unimpressed—until Yogi attempted a split and got stuck halfway. The silence stretched. Then Cleopatra stood, tossed her crown, and shouted: “Iconic!”
The announcer bellowed: “We have a winner!” Yogi collapsed in a glitter puddle, clutching the chronorium-heeled platforms.
Starlit ripped the shoes free and sprinted for the ship. “We’re leaving before time collapses!”
“But I’m trending in seven decades!” Peachy whined, refreshing her follower count.
As the pod took off, Blip’s speakers blasted a final bass line that rattled the chandeliers. “Exiting timeline in 4…3…2…boogie.”
The ship vanished in a flash of sequins, leaving behind a new dance craze that would ripple across centuries. Disco historians would argue for generations about The Yogi Shower, The Time Traveler, and why Cleopatra was briefly judging a 1977 dance-off.
Chapter 6: Time Crime
Team Starborn’s temporal troubles reached new heights when Peachy’s holoscreen started spitting alerts from across multiple centuries.
“Um, guys?” she called out, scrolling furiously. “I think we may have… accidentally created the world’s first cross-temporal influencer crisis.”
The screen displayed Cleopatra hosting Ye Olde Medieval Cooking Hour, flamboyantly seasoning mutton with Egyptian spices while rocking a medieval gown over her royal headdress. The comments section overflowed with confused historians yelling in all caps.
“That’s not even the worst part,” Blip buzzed, his circuits glowing neon-red. “King Arthur is currently leading something called ‘Groovy Knights’ aerobic classes in 1977. Probability of jazzercise paradox: 64%. Probability of fashion paradox: 100%.”
Yogi, buried in cables, smacked his head on the console. “How did this even happen?”
Starlit sighed, pointing to a holo-graph full of jagged red lines. “Every time we crashed, we left holes in time. Historical figures… slipped through. Basically, we’ve turned history into Swiss cheese.”
“We’ll split up,” Peachy declared, already holding her holo-cam at influencer angle. “Think of the content—I mean, the historical responsibility!”
Blip renamed the mission Operation Historical Figure Musical Chairs. Nobody laughed. Blip pouted and projected a little sad trombone gif.
In 1977, Yogi and Blip entered Studio Camelot, where King Arthur was leading an aerobics class beneath a disco ball shaped like Excalibur.
“Hoist thy legs higher, groovy knights!” Arthur bellowed, crown slipping sideways. He demonstrated a move called The Sword in the Stone Stretch, nearly stabbing himself with a dumbbell.
Half the crowd collapsed in chainmail leg warmers.
Yogi tried to reason with him. “Majesty, you need to return to Camelot.”
Arthur struck a pose. “Never! Here, we battle not with swords, but with funk! Also, they have smoothies.”
Blip whispered, “Timeline contamination levels rising. Also… I’ve added Arthur’s moves to my dance database.”
Meanwhile, Peachy and Starlit arrived in medieval England, where Cleopatra had turned a castle hall into a studio kitchen.
“And thus we make Pyramid Power Protein Bread!” she announced, dramatically tossing flour into the air. The peasants clapped like they’d just witnessed sorcery.
Cleopatra had amassed a huge following on Medieval-Gram. One post titled “Grain but Make it Fashion” was trending across six centuries.
Peachy muttered, “She has better metrics than me.”
A peasant fainted into a soup cauldron, creating the accidental dish “Peasant Stew.” Cleopatra immediately added it to her cookbook.
Before they could intervene, Team Nova’s sleek pod shimmered into the courtyard. Their captain sneered, cape fluttering unnecessarily.
“Well, well,” he smirked. “Starborn: history’s clumsiest time vandals.”
“This was your plan!” Starlit snapped. “You broke our warp drive to cause chaos!”
“We nudged,” Nova’s engineer said smugly. “We expected you to vanish, not trend across multiple eras. Somehow you’ve become… meme-proof.”
Blip beeped. “Timeline collapse probability: 87% and climbing. Also, I’ve composed a limerick about a knight who liked disco tights. Would you like to hear it?”
“No!” everyone shouted.
Peachy pounced on the moment. “Breaking news! Team Nova admits sabotage! Smash that like button if you think they’re losers!”
Across centuries, Peachy’s followers left scathing one-star reviews of Team Nova. In the castle courtyard, peasants booed, throwing stale bread like tomatoes. Cleopatra herself hissed, “Unsubscribe.”
Nova’s reputation plummeted so fast it created a new mini black hole of bad PR.
Amid chaos, Yogi fumbled with the emergency temporal beacon. He tripped, smacked his elbow, and accidentally activated it.
A glowing time-window opened. “Quick!” Yogi yelled, tangled in beacon wires. “Before I break something else!”
King Arthur reluctantly agreed to return to Camelot—though he packed an entire scroll of disco mixtapes. Cleopatra sighed dramatically, agreeing to return to Egypt only after Peachy promised to guest-produce her “Ancient Kitchen Confidential” channel.
As the vortex stabilized, Nova retreated through their own portal, shouting, “We’ll get you next century!”
Blip tallied the results: “Historical figures restored: 97%. Minor anomalies remain: three peasants permanently enrolled in disco classes, one Egyptian scribe moonlighting as a medieval food critic. Acceptable losses.”
Yogi flopped into the pilot seat. “At least the world didn’t end. Again.”
Peachy beamed at her analytics. “And I gained followers in every century. Eat that, Team Nova!”
Starlit shook her head, already welding reinforcements. “We can’t keep doing this. The timeline’s one pratfall away from collapse.”
“Next stop: Ancient Rome,” Blip announced. Then he cleared his throat. “And now, my time-travel stand-up routine! What did Caesar say to the clock? Et tu, Bruté?”
Everyone groaned in unison as the pod spun into another vortex.
Chapter 7: Roman Holiday
The temporal vortex spat Team Starborn’s ship directly into the middle of the Circus Maximus, interrupting the most important chariot race in Roman history. Their disco-scorched pod skidded across the track, knocking over three chariots like bowling pins before crunching against a marble column.
“Good news,” Yogi groaned, crawling out of the cockpit. “We’ve kept our streak alive: another century, another lawsuit.”
The toga-clad crowd sat in stunned silence. One vendor dropped his amphora of wine, then picked it up and announced that he was now selling it as “limited edition, ship-flavored vintage.”
A senator near the track clutched his chest and fainted face-first onto his toga, later blaming “foreign upholstery demons.” One of the startled racehorses somehow managed to jam Yogi’s helmet onto its head and immediately galloped in circles. The crowd cheered as the horse accidentally crossed the finish line, earning second place. Meanwhile, a young Roman boy attempted to hurl a tomato at the wreck—but quickly reconsidered when he realized the tomato was worth more than his family’s house. He sighed and politely asked for Yogi’s autograph instead.
Peachy whipped out her holo-cam, angling herself with the wreckage for maximum drama. “Breaking news, followers! We just invented Formula 1, Roman edition! #WhenInRome #FastAndGlorious #ChariotsOfFail.”
Her stream instantly exploded. Gladiators abandoned their arena to crowd the Circus Maximus, not to fight but to get in frame. “Honestly, darlings,” Peachy cooed, panning across the rows of togas, “these drapes are cute, but imagine them with sequins and maybe a glitter belt. Yes, I said it.”
Her followers went wild, demanding “Toga Hauls” across twelve centuries. One tailor in the audience began furiously sewing rhinestones into his toga mid-race and immediately tripped over his own hem, faceplanting into a hot dog vendor. A legionnaire strolled into Peachy’s shot, flexed his biceps, and the auto-caption system stamped it: Roman thirst trap. The stream’s likes quadrupled.
Through the dust and cheering strode a toga-clad man with curls like marble and a proto-tablet made of bronze and stone.
“By Jupiter’s beard, what manner of chariot is this?” he exclaimed, circling their pod with sparkling eyes. “I am Claudius Mechanicus, Chief Engineer of the Imperial Racing Academy.”
Starlit climbed out from the cockpit, grease streaked across her cheek, and froze when their eyes locked.
“I’m… overheating,” she blurted, then corrected quickly: “I mean, I’m Starlit.”
Claudius casually wiped his tablet on his toga, only to smear his sketches into an abstract mess. “Ah yes,” he declared proudly, “the world’s first washable blueprint!”
A goat wandered by and began chewing on Starlit’s wrench. She and Claudius both grabbed it at the same time, tugging back and forth until their faces were nearly touching. The crowd collectively gasped as if watching a romance drama unfold in real-time. Above them, Blip projected a shower of holographic fireworks with the unsubtle caption: ROMAN HOLIDAY ROMANCE – SUBSCRIBE NOW.
Meanwhile, Yogi had wandered into the Senate, still looking for a bathroom.
“Ah! A foreign ambassador arrives!” a senator cried, mistaking Yogi’s shiny racing suit for ceremonial regalia.
Yogi stammered, “I… uh… need the toilet?”
Blip’s translator glitched and boomed: “Behold, citizens, a prophecy of flowing rivers!”
The chamber erupted in applause. Within an hour, Yogi was officially sworn in as Senator Yogiius, celebrated prophet of hydraulics. A marble bust was already being chiseled in his likeness—helmet askew, toga falling off one shoulder.
The Senate scribes dutifully recorded his offhand remark about “burning rubber through time” as law, sparking centuries of confused scholars. Yogi tripped over his toga during the induction ceremony and invented the Roman “slapstick fall,” which immediately became the must-do gag of the Senate floor.
Just as the crowd roared with laughter, Peachy barged in and shouted, “Follow @SenatorYogiius for exclusive toga tips!” His follower count skyrocketed across time.
Blip, still disco-glitched from their last jump, suddenly raised its holographic arms. “Rome lacks sufficient funk. Commencing Mechanicus Maximus!”
Within hours, the Circus Maximus had been converted into the world’s first robot gladiator arena. Steam hissed from makeshift gears and clunky bronze mechs clanked into battle, cobbled together from Roman catapults and parts of their wrecked pod.
“The algorithms demand ENTERTAINMENT!” Blip roared like a divine DJ.
One mech malfunctioned, bowing over and over until the crowd joined in, creating Rome’s first “clap if you believe” meme. Claudius shouted, “This is madness!” and Blip instantly corrected: “No, this is… Rome.exe.”
A gladiator attempted to challenge one of the mechs, slipped on an amphora of spilled olive oil, and was knighted on the spot as the “Patron Saint of Banana Peels.”
But contamination was spreading. Claudius was scribbling designs for a steam-powered computer. Starlit’s blush was so obvious even the statues noticed. Peachy was running a Roman runway show that was somehow trending in the 23rd century. And Yogi had passed a motion declaring bathroom breaks sacred law.
Blip shook its holographic head. “We can’t keep him here. Claudius will destabilize everything.”
“Or maybe just destabilize Starlit’s heart,” Peachy teased, already adding a romance filter to her feed.
Yogi sighed and adjusted his laurel wreath. “Trust me, this Senate gig is overrated. Do you know how long speeches take without PowerPoint?”
Claudius gently pressed a small bronze gear into Starlit’s hand. Its etching looked suspiciously like a schematic for their temporal drive.
“Sometimes,” he whispered, “the greatest inventions come from knowing when to let go.”
Peachy leaned into her camera and whispered dramatically, “And sometimes the best drama is unrequited love across 2000 years.”
A poet in the crowd immediately began scribbling Fifty Sonnets of Star-Crossed Engineers. Another senator shouted, “Can we at least keep the goat?”
“Wait, who’s keeping a goat?” Yogi asked blankly, and the Senate erupted in unanimous reelection chants.
With Claudius’s metallurgical tricks, the temporal drive sputtered back to life. Team Starborn blasted into the sky in a shower of sparks and marble dust, leaving Romans cheering wildly.
In their wake, history quietly gained:
Pizza as mandatory Senate law.
Robot gladiators secretly worshipped as cult icons.
A hidden fresco of Starlit and Claudius, painted by a scribe who really shipped it.
“Next stop,” Yogi said, buckling in, “hopefully somewhere with toilets that aren’t marble.”
Blip flickered. “Trajectory locked: feudal Japan. Also, I’ve composed a haiku about olive oil accidents.”
The team groaned in unison as the pod spun into the vortex.
Chapter 8: Temporal Traffic Jam
The multiverse had finally had enough. As Team Starborn emerged from their latest temporal jump, they found themselves in what could only be described as reality’s worst rush hour. Timeline streams tangled together like Christmas lights nobody wanted to untangle.
“Um, guys?” Yogi said from the pilot’s seat. “I think we broke time. Like, actually broke it this time.”
Through the viewscreen, a T-Rex in leg warmers stumbled into Studio 54, while Egyptian priests zoomed past on hover-chariots taking selfies with Peachy’s Roman followers.
“My temporal metrics are experiencing what humans call an existential crisis,” AI Blip announced, voice flickering between medieval minstrel and disco DJ. “Also, we have three hours before total collapse. On the bright side: I’ve written a breakup song about causality.”
Before Blip could sing, the ship lurched as another wave hit. Outside, a jousting tournament unfolded on Roman streets—knights on hoverbikes swinging laser lances.
Peachy clutched her feeds. “Hashtag #TimelineCollapse is trending across every century. Even the dinosaurs are posting. And one just subtweeted me.”
Starlit checked the readouts grimly. “It’s worse than I thought. All our… accidents… made a feedback loop.”
As if to confirm her words, a massive disco-ball pyramid rolled past their window, blasting Gregorian chant funk. Inside, pharaohs were doing the hustle and waving to the crowd like parade royalty.
On the street below, chaos became slapstick: a bystander held up a giant stone tablet with the words 0/10 Chariot Parking” scratched into it. A caveman hurled a chicken bone at their ship, booed loudly, then politely toddled over to ask Yogi for an autograph on the same bone. A Roman guard stepped forward, blowing a whistle and scribbling onto a wax tablet. “You can’t leave your chariot here! Parallel dimension parking is illegal!”
“Incoming transmission,” Blip said. “It’s Team Nova… and apparently every other team stuck in this jam.”
The screen filled with the scowling faces of rival teams, each surrounded by their own slice of temporal chaos. Nova’s captain looked particularly furious. “As much as I hate this, we have to work together. Only way to stop collapse is… winning the race.”
“Wait,” Yogi blinked. “We have to win to fix time? I don’t win, I… I sort of trip and faceplant into victories!”
Peachy shrugged while scrolling her stats. “Analytics don’t lie. You have a 100% success rate at disasters. So we just… choreograph the biggest disaster in history.”
Outside, a caveman astride a rocket-powered mammoth swerved into the lane of a medieval knight in sequined armor. “Move your mammoth!” the knight bellowed. The caveman held up a crudely carved stone tablet that depicted a giant middle finger emoji.
Not far away, a Roman scribe was stranded in the middle of traffic, furiously chiseling into marble: THIS IS WHY ITS YUCK MONDAYS.” His hammer snapped from sheer frustration.
Then a scoreboard drone whizzed past and displayed in glowing letters: Yo Momma would park time better than this. 2/10.” The crowd booed as if traffic itself had been scored.
Against all odds, the teams began to coordinate. Nova used tractor beams to push the disco pyramid back toward Egypt. Stellar wrangled the hoverbike-riding knights into a shimmering funnel that dumped them back into medieval England. Team Quantum coaxed the T-Rex toward the Jurassic period—but the dinosaur refused to take off its leg warmers.
“Stability up 15%,” Blip reported. “Though I’ll miss that dinosaur’s cha-cha. Remarkably precise for such tiny arms.”
Peachy tapped furiously, organizing her feeds into sectors. “Report anomalies in your timeline, babes! Swipe up if a gladiator crashes your prom!”
Her followers delivered instantly: one teen in 1997 posted, “Just saw Cleopatra at Blockbuster. 1/10 customer service, she wouldn’t rewind the tape.” In 1980s Japan, a medieval jester had somehow become the mascot of a TV game show, and the producers didn’t even notice. Meanwhile, a caveman strapped crude wheels to his mammoth, accidentally launching the beta version of Uber.
“The timeline won’t stabilize unless everything goes back,” Starlit said softly. Her fingers lingered on the bronze gear Claudius had given her. Peachy stared at her plummeting Roman subscriber count with despair. Yogi groaned as he remembered his Senate-passed law declaring pizza mandatory.
“Sacrifices must be made,” Blip droned solemnly. Then, without shame, added: “I also sacrifice this limerick. There once was a knight on a bike, who jousted a mammoth named Mike…”
Nobody clapped.
Peachy pulled out a stone tablet with “Unsubscribe” carved into it. She held it aloft like a martyr. “It hurts, but it’s the only way.”
Yogi whispered with genuine anguish, “Goodbye, free pizza Fridays.”
Behind them, a caveman muttered in broken Latin, “Yo momma invented better wheels than this.” The insult hit harder than any paradox alarm.
As the last anomalies were shoved into portals and scattered back to their rightful centuries, silence fell. The final lap loomed.
“Ready for the biggest failure of your life, Yogi?” Peachy grinned.
“Oh, trust me,” Yogi said, tightening his straps. “When it comes to failing spectacularly—I never disappoint.”
“Timeline collapse in twenty-three minutes,” Blip warned. “Also, my new single ‘Funky End of Time’ drops in all eras tonight. Pre-save it on Medieval Spotify.”
Outside their window, the final parade of paradox slithered past: pharaohs, senators, jesters, disco dancers, and dinosaurs all joined into one massive cosmic conga line. They swayed side to side, chanting Blip’s terrible lyrics in unnerving harmony.
At the front, a gladiator proudly held up a wooden sign: Honk if you’re temporally displaced.”
The conga line suddenly slipped on a banana peel someone had inexplicably left on the timeline’s floor. All of time glitched for three seconds: dinosaurs dabbed, Romans flossed, Cleopatra sold disco VHS tapes. Then reality hiccuped and reset.
A bored announcer drone flew past, yawning: “Traffic update: all of time is currently blocked. Yo momma says leave earlier.”
Yogi tightened his grip on the controls, sweat dripping down his helmet. “Well, if time’s gonna collapse… let’s at least make it collapse in style.”
Chapter 9: The Final Lap
The fabric of reality was literally unraveling. Medieval tapestries fused with disco balls, while pterodactyls performed aerial ballet around the Eiffel Tower.
“Um, guys?” Yogi said, gripping the controls with both hands. “We officially broke time. Like… it’s totaled.”
AI Blip buzzed nervously, its voice flickering between monotone and medieval town crier:
“Hear ye, hear ye! Apocalypse imminent! Also… I want to write haikus about quantum mechanics.”
On the viewscreen, a massive cosmic scoreboard flickered into existence: Timeline stability: -3/10. Yo momma could hold reality together better.” A trumpet fanfare followed, then it flashed a sad-face emoji before exploding into confetti.
Peachy gasped as her holo-feeds lit up. “We’re trending in Ancient Mesopotamia! #CuneiformCuties is exploding!”
“That’s it!” Starlit snapped her fingers, pointing to her holographic chaos-web blueprint. “Peachy’s social network isn’t just clout—it’s acting like a temporal net, holding the universe together!”
Claudius’s projection nodded proudly. “Yes! Like Roman roads… but infinitely stupider!”
Suddenly, a Babylonian scribe appeared on-screen, sweaty from clay tablet carving, holding one above his head that read in neat wedge-script: SUBSCRIBE OR PERISH.”
The feed shifted again: some Renaissance painter waved a fresco mid-brush and shouted, “Nice fresco, fam!” before returning to his canvas and accidentally painting a duck wearing sunglasses.
“The race IS time now,” Starlit explained, eyes gleaming. “Win the race, and we reset history.”
Yogi swerved violently to dodge a breakdancing knight who was riding a cybernetic mammoth, its tusks decorated with glowsticks. “Cool speech, but how does that keep me alive?”
“Every like, every share, every follow—it’s raw timeline energy,” Peachy said. “If we harness it, we can stabilize reality itself!”
AI Blip’s tone shifted to grandiose opera. “But the calculations required exceed even my godlike processors!”
Peachy grinned. “Then we crowdsource it.”
Instantly, their feeds blew up with the weirdest volunteer army in history. Socrates appeared mid-scroll, mumbling, “I only know that I must smash that like,” before smashing the thumbs-up button so hard his feed cracked.
A caveman scrawled “5 stars” onto a rock, nodded with satisfaction, then accidentally ate it.
Einstein himself appeared briefly in a pop-up window, hair wild, eyes blazing. He shouted, “RETWEET RELATIVITY!” before disappearing in a puff of chalk dust.
A crack tore open the sky, revealing a cosmic void of pure collapse. Other racers spiraled, screaming, their vehicles vanishing into the abyss.
“Do it!” Yogi yelled, pulling a barrel roll straight through a tsunami made of disco lights and jousting lances.
Peachy launched her ultimate livestream: “Live from the end of time! Like and share to save the universe! #OopsWeBrokeTime #FinalLapVibes.”
Across history, chaos turned into collaboration. Ancient philosophers debated in livestream chat with 21st-century coders. Monks in candlelit rooms painstakingly illuminated golden manuscripts with emojis: “😂🔥💀” in elegant calligraphy.
Somewhere in the far future, an AI posted simply: “subroutine: YOLO().”
A random medieval peasant screamed at the sky, “Yo momma can’t code C++!” and was instantly smited by a stray lightning bolt from the collapsing heavens.
AI Blip froze, then spoke with strange calm: “I understand now. Time is not linear. Time is a comedy of errors… and we are the punchline.”
Yogi’s eyes narrowed, uncharacteristically serious. “All my crashes, every single mistake—they weren’t failures. They were practice.”
Starlit’s holographic link flickered with Claudius’s face, their eyes locking across two millennia. Peachy hit record-breaking numbers on every platform at once, tears in her eyes from the absurdity of being the literal influencer of reality.
Starlit whispered the impossible: “Thread the temporal needle the size of an atom.”
Yogi cracked a grin. “Finally—something easy.”
As they dove toward the collapsing void, three bizarre messages floated across their cockpit like pop-up ads from the universe itself:
A sign drifted past: GOOD LUCK, MORONS.”
A celestial referee appeared in the stars, raising a glowing hologram card: Final Lap: Score TBD.”
A T-Rex in leg warmers materialized beside their window, fist-pumped, and shouted: “YOU GOT THIS, BRO!” before vanishing into the vortex.
Team Starborn’s ship roared forward, fueled by chaos, likes, and the collective stupidity of history. Behind them, the entire racing grid fell in line, terrified but resigned to follow Yogi—possibly the most reckless pilot in existence.
“Hold onto your artifacts!” Yogi bellowed. “We’re about to make history… or delete it!”
With a final plunge, they hurled themselves into the anomaly.
The multiverse froze.
All that remained was confusion across time.
A gladiator checked his stone phone: 404: Time Not Found.”
A monk sighed in his candlelit chamber: “This will really mess up the chronology section.” He threw his quill into the inkpot and went for a drink.
And the cosmic scoreboard flickered one last time across every sky in every era:
Race result: Pending. Yo momma is proud.”
Chapter 10: Checkered Flag
The temporal vortex swirled with chaotic energy as Team Starborn’s slapdash plan to harness Peachy’s cross-temporal social network reached its chaotic crescendo.
“So we either save time and space,” Yogi said, knuckles white on the controls, “or we create the biggest disaster in history?”
“Statistically speaking,” AI Blip replied, its voice flickering between disco beats and Shakespearean meter, “’tis the first time thy gift for catastrophe might be salvation instead of demolition.”
Peachy spun in her command chair, thousands of holo-screens orbiting her like planets. “We’re trending in every century! #TimelineRestoration is literally breaking the internet… before the internet even exists!”
Starlit finished the final equations, clutching Claudius’s bronze medallion as if it were a lifeline. “The network is generating a stabilizing matrix. All we need to do is thread the needle through every timeline we trashed.”
The ship rocketed forward. The disco era collapsed neatly behind them, polyester snapping back into normalcy. Medieval knights dismounted rocket-horses, blinking as their laser lances dissolved into wood. One knight muttered, “Fair enough,” then kept humming Stayin’ Alive.
Just then, a glowing scoreboard drone zipped into view. It flickered with mocking text: Timeline fix progress: 2/10. Also, Yo Momma sews tighter paradoxes than this.”
Behind it, a shaggy caveman tried to grab onto the tailfin of their ship to sneak through the vortex. He was stopped by a cosmic bouncer in a black robe, holding a clipboard and shaking his head. “Sorry pal, name’s not on the list. No shoes, no shirt, no timeline entry.”
Down on the track, a Roman senator sprinted along, holding a steaming pizza above his head like a torch. “Don’t forget Senate Pizza Fridays!” he shouted desperately, before tripping over his own toga and faceplanting into history.
Peachy was typing furiously. “Wait—sending a quick clarification post to Ancient Egypt. Hashtag: #SorryAboutTheSphinx’sNose.”
Immediately, responses rippled across time:
In Babylon, a stone tablet appeared with fresh wedge-shaped letters that read: SUBSCRIBE OR PERISH.” A bewildered scribe held it up, shrugged, and then smashed it dramatically for views.
In Florence, Michelangelo, mid-painting, suddenly sketched Peachy’s selfie onto the Sistine Chapel as a test draft. “Just warming up,” he told his apprentices.
Meanwhile, in feudal Japan, a monk carved “#Blessed” into bamboo and proudly showed it to confused villagers, who politely clapped.
On Peachy’s feed, a T-Rex in neon leg warmers started live-streaming its squat routine. When it spotted Peachy’s stream stealing attention, it roared into the comments: UNFOLLOWING HUMANS.”
A medieval farmer recorded a quick review, scratching it onto parchment: 2/5 stars. Too many knights in disco pants. Would not apocalypse again.”
And finally, Cleopatra herself popped up on-screen, perfectly lit as always: “This is why I don’t collab with time travelers.” She adjusted her eyeliner and rage-quit.
“The race IS time now,” Starlit said, eyes blazing with revelation.
“Cool,” Yogi muttered, yanking the yoke as a jousting mammoth did the Macarena across their flight path. “But how does that keep me alive?”
“Every like, share, and angry comment—it’s raw timeline energy,” Peachy said. “If we channel it, we reboot the timeline!”
AI Blip lowered its voice into something dramatic and gravelly. “The calculations required would fry even my circuits.”
“Then we crowdsource,” Peachy grinned.
And suddenly, across their holo-feeds, history itself tuned in:
Socrates popped up in the comments section, frowning at the screen. “I only know… that this deserves a like.” He clicked and promptly confused half of ancient Athens.
A caveman chiseled five stars onto a rock, held it up proudly—then accidentally knocked himself out cold with it.
Einstein photobombed the stream, his hair even messier than usual. “RETWEET RELATIVITY!” he screamed, then dissolved into chalk dust.
In the far future, an AI scrawled code across the screen: subroutine YOLO(); and promptly crashed its own mainframe.
The sky split like cheap fabric, the void sucking in rival racers. A tsunami made of disco light and Gregorian chants thundered across the track, swallowing half the grid.
“Do it!” Yogi yelled, barrel-rolling straight into the chaos like a man allergic to self-preservation.
Peachy raised her mic, voice steady. “LIVE FROM THE END OF TIME—LIKE AND SHARE TO SAVE EXISTENCE! #OopsWeBrokeTime #FinalLapVibes.”
The response was instant: Greek philosophers furiously argued memes with Silicon Valley coders. A monk carefully painted “😂🔥💀” into a golden manuscript, while a medieval knight tried to clap along and knocked over a candle.
Meanwhile, a Roman graffiti artist spray-painted on a coliseum wall: BRB RESETTING REALITY.”
A Viking warrior, drunk on ale and chaos, shook his axe at the sky and bellowed: “YO MOMMA INVENTED WHEELS!” A second later, the void yeeted him into oblivion like a soda can.
And somewhere in Paris, a French knight tipped a bewildered waiter two copper coins. “Merci,” he said gallantly. “But keep the temporal change.”
AI Blip’s circuits thrummed with revelation. “I see it now. Time is not a line… it’s a blooper reel.”
Yogi leaned forward, more focused than ever. “Every crash, every disaster… practice for this.”
Starlit’s medallion burned, and Claudius’s voice whispered in her ear: historia numquam morietur—“History never dies.”
Peachy’s follower count skyrocketed past the edge of mathematics. Somewhere in a math classroom in 2050, a chalkboard caught fire trying to calculate it.
Starlit whispered: “Thread the temporal needle the size of an atom.”
“Finally,” Yogi grinned, “something easy.”
A neon sign drifted across their cockpit like space garbage: GOOD LUCK, MORONS.”
A celestial referee blew a whistle so loud the universe shuddered. Holding up a glowing card, he declared: Final Lap: Score TBD.”
And from the collapsing edge of reality, a T-Rex in sparkly leg warmers roared one last encouragement: “YOU GOT THIS, BRO!” before dissolving into cosmic glitter.
The warp drive ignited with the collective absurdity of history. The ship screamed through the void, dragging every misplaced anomaly back to its rightful home. Dinosaurs winked out mid-dance, disco knights fizzled, and pharaohs dropped out of their conga line mid-step, muttering.
They burst free—astonishingly—onto the 3045 race track.
The crowd went ballistic as they crossed the finish line in first place.
“In a shocking twist,” the announcer boomed, “Team Starborn wins the Galactic Grand Prix!”
Team Nova limped across the line behind them, rolling their eyes. “Congrats,” their captain sighed. “But for real—never do that again.”
The scoreboard flickered and updated: Timeline restored: 10/10. Comedy score: pending.”
A medieval monk in the stands closed his manuscript and sighed, “Well… that chapter was impossible to illuminate.”
On Peachy’s feed, Cleopatra appeared one last time, screamed “Unsubscribed. Again.” and rage-quit in eyeliner perfection.
Blip was handed the first-ever AI Racing Trophy for “Most Creative Course Corrections in History.” It delivered a one-line time travel joke with such perfect comedic timing that the stadium wheezed with laughter.
Peachy’s account stabilized at infinity plus one, verified across dimensions. Even cavemen were now subscribed.
Yogi shuffled onto the podium, still processing. “I guess sometimes you have to break time… to fix it.” Then he immediately tripped, sending the trophy rolling into the crowd, where it knocked over three senators and started a viral trend called #YogiDrop.
A commentator drone deadpanned: “Classic Yogi.”
The crowd broke into a supportive chant: “FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!”
From the nosebleed section, a lone caveman stood, waving his club and yelling: “YO MOMMA IS THE TRUE CHAMPION!” The stadium roared in agreement.
Later, in their pit stop, Starlit tapped her medallion. A flickering hologram of Claudius appeared, teaching “divine inspiration” blueprints to Renaissance engineers. She smiled quietly, knowing his brilliance would live on disguised as miracles.
“So…” Peachy stretched. “Same time next race?”
“Technically impossible,” Blip corrected smugly.
Yogi strapped in, grinning. “Then let’s make history again. I promise to crash into something interesting this time.”
A hiccup of the timeline showered the bay with sparkling chronorium confetti.
And high above, the cosmic scoreboard lit one final message:
Race Result: WINNERS. Yo Momma is proud.”
