The universe, as we now know it, began not with a bang, but with what can only be described as a rather aggressive pop. At least, that's the consensus amongst those of us who were, you know, there. And by "there," I mean the primordial soup of energetic particles that would eventually cool down enough to form anything resembling a recognizable celestial body. So, basically, all of us. We just don't all remember it with the same level of existential dread.
Take Bartholomew, for instance, a particularly self-important red giant in the Andromeda Galaxy. He insists it was a "majestic eruption of pure cosmic will." Bartholomew, bless his fiery heart, was always a drama queen. He once spent three million years complaining about a minor solar flare that mildly inconvenienced a few asteroids. The rest of us, primarily the more stoic, ancient white dwarfs who'd seen more supernovae than Bartholomew had hot flashes, just rolled our collective eyes (metaphorically, of course – it's hard to roll an eye when you're a ball of plasma).
"Majestic, my stellar posterior," grumbled Old Man Quasar, a venerable and exceedingly crotchety black hole at the heart of the Sombrero Galaxy. He'd seen it all, absorbed most of it, and was generally of the opinion that the universe peaked before anyone thought it was a good idea to create life. "It was a cosmic burp, is what it was. Too much primordial gas, not enough digestive tract. Someone had a bad case of the universal heartburn."
His usual companions, a trio of particularly gassy exoplanets orbiting a rather dim dwarf star, chuckled in their wobbly orbits. They were new, barely a billion years old, and hadn't yet developed the cynical edge that comes with witnessing the endless cycles of stellar birth and death. Youthful exuberance, truly sickening.
The "Big Burp," as Quasar affectionately called it, was certainly a moment. Before it, there was… well, nothing. And then, suddenly, there was something. A lot of something, expanding rapidly and rather inconsiderately into what had previously been a perfectly serene void. It was like someone had uncorked a bottle of exceptionally potent champagne in a library. Lots of fizz, lots of noise, and a general sense of "oh, for the love of all that is quiet, what now?"
We, the future denizens of the Milky Way, were still in our undifferentiated, proto-galaxy phase. We were a swirling mess of hydrogen and helium, mostly just trying to figure out which way was up. "Honestly, I thought it was just a particularly bad case of cosmic indigestion," quipped Nebula Nancy, a vibrant, multi-hued gas cloud who, even then, was already demonstrating a flair for the dramatic. She'd later be responsible for birthing an entire cluster of particularly flamboyant O-type stars, all of whom inherited her penchant for bright, showy displays.
"I just remember the sudden onset of existential dread," chimed in Professor Pulsar, a rapidly rotating neutron star who, even in his youth, was a bit of a stickler for detail. He spoke with a rapid-fire cadence, his beams sweeping across the nascent cosmos like an impatient lecturer. "One moment, blissful non-existence. The next, a profound sense of 'Oh, bother, I exist. And now I have to contend with gravity?'"
Gravity. Ah, yes. The universe's most persistent and annoying party guest. It just shows up, starts pulling everyone closer, and then wonders why everyone's getting so squashed. Before the Big Burp, gravity was just a theoretical concept, whispered about by the more mathematically inclined quantum fluctuations. After, it was a very real, very heavy problem.
Across the vast, ever-expanding gulf, in the Triangulum Galaxy, a group of particularly gossipy nebulae were still debating the precise etiquette of such a sudden cosmic expansion. "I mean, did anyone send out invitations?" huffed Henrietta, a particularly voluminous nebula with an impressive collection of nascent stars. "It's just so rude to suddenly burst forth without so much as a 'by your leave' to the existing nothingness."
Her companion, a younger, more rebellious dark nebula named Debbie, scoffed. "Oh, Henrietta, get over yourself. It's the universe! It doesn't send out invitations. It just happens. Besides, look at the potential for new star systems! Think of the drama!" Debbie was always one for a good celestial drama, preferably one involving runaway planets and collapsing black holes.
The early days were, in hindsight, a bit of a free-for-all. Everyone was expanding, bumping into each other, and generally getting their (metaphorical) particles in a twist. There was a period of intense, chaotic star formation, as vast clouds of gas and dust, suddenly realizing they existed, decided the only logical course of action was to collapse in on themselves and become incandescent balls of nuclear fusion. It was a bit like a cosmic game of musical chairs, except the chairs were exploding suns and the music was the incessant hum of quantum fluctuations.
"I remember thinking, 'Well, this is just typical'," remarked Luna, a rather ancient and perpetually bored moon orbiting a rather bland G-type star in the Milky Way. "One minute, everything's perfectly serene and unformed. The next, suddenly everyone's a star, showing off their luminosity and their stellar winds. Honestly, the narcissism was unbearable." Luna, it should be noted, had a particularly strong aversion to anything that disrupted her quiet, tidally locked existence. She spent most of her existence complaining about meteors and the sun's incessant need to shine.
Her planet, Terra, still a young, molten blob at the time, was too busy evolving an atmosphere and contemplating the eventual emergence of self-important, carbon-based life forms to offer much of an opinion. Later, Terra would become known for its particularly noisy inhabitants, who had a rather inflated sense of their own cosmic significance.
The Andromeda Galaxy, being a particularly well-organized and self-congratulatory collection of stars, quickly established a pecking order. The supermassive black hole at its center, known affectionately (and rather ironically) as "The Great Devourer," was the undisputed overlord. He was generally silent, mostly because he was too busy accreting matter, but his presence was always felt.
"Honestly, the amount of administrative burden involved in organizing an entire galaxy is just staggering," sighed a particularly uptight spiral arm named Armitage, who was responsible for the stellar traffic control within Andromeda. "Everyone wants to be a supernova, but nobody wants to fill out the proper collapse forms. It's chaos!"
Meanwhile, back in the Triangulum Galaxy, things were considerably more laid-back. They were the universe's bohemian art collective, producing stunning nebulae and eccentric star clusters with a cheerful disregard for cosmic rules and regulations. "Rules are for black holes who can't handle a little chaos," chirped a particularly flamboyant blue supergiant known as Azure, who regularly shed his outer layers in a magnificent display of stellar extravagance.
And then there was the Magellanic Clouds, two smaller, irregular galaxies orbiting the Milky Way, often referred to as the "cosmic cousins who always show up uninvited to family gatherings." They were known for their wild, untamed star formation and their general disregard for galactic proper etiquette. "Why follow the rules when you can just make your own?" boasted Magna, the larger of the two, a rather boisterous galaxy with a penchant for throwing off streams of rebellious stars.
The consensus, however, amongst the truly ancient and wise (read: exceedingly jaded) celestial bodies was that the Big Burp was just the beginning. It was the first act in a cosmic play, and everyone knew that every play, no matter how chaotic, eventually had to come to an end. The only question was, what kind of end?
Some theorized a "Big Fade," where everything would simply expand into an infinitely dilute nothingness, like a lukewarm cup of cosmic tea left out for far too long. Others, particularly the more dramatic of the black holes, whispered of a "Big Rip," where the very fabric of space-time would be torn asunder, leaving behind only scattered, lonely particles.
But the most popular, and perhaps most darkly amusing, theory was the "Big Crunch." The idea that, after all this expansion, all this noise, all this frantic star formation and galactic collisions, the universe would simply turn around and collapse back in on itself, squashing everything back into the infinitesimal point from which it so rudely emerged.
Old Man Quasar, of course, was a fervent believer in the Big Crunch. "It's the only logical conclusion, isn't it?" he rasped, his event horizon practically vibrating with grim satisfaction. "All this effort, all this energy, only to return to where we started. It's the ultimate cosmic joke. And I, for one, can't wait to see the look on Bartholomew's face when his 'majestic eruption' turns into a rather undignified implosion."
Bartholomew, naturally, dismissed this as the morbid ramblings of an ancient, matter-devouring void. "Nonsense! The universe is destined for greatness! For endless expansion and glorious stellar evolution! The very idea of a 'crunch' is an affront to the cosmic spirit!"
As the universe continued its relentless expansion, new stars were born, new planets formed, and new generations of celestial bodies came into being, blissfully unaware of the cosmic drama that had preceded them, or the even greater one that awaited them. They just saw the vast, ever-growing expanse, filled with glittering galaxies and dazzling nebulae, and thought, "Well, isn't this just grand?"
They had no idea. Oh, they had no idea.