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Part 1: The Astral Snare
"Ah! Eww—god, what is this?!" Celinne’s scream choked in her throat as cold, cloying wetness seeped into her nostrils, her limbs bound as if pressed by the weight of the earth itself. The darkness was suffocating, thick with the reek of decay and something sickly-sweet—honey? Her thoughts spiraled. "Crap, crap,I can't move—" Her voice ricocheted off the confines of the old bandages. "Did I just astral project as a fucking mummy?"
In a mix of alarm and disbelief, “I need to get out of here! Fuck!” With a surge of panic-astral projected out again tumbling out onto the cold, stone floor. Above her, murals of star-choked skies and ibis-winged deities leered, their colors dulled by millennia.
"Oh my God, I can’t believe I just did that" she exclaimed, she gasped for breath in the musty air of a long-forgotten dusty tomb. "Okay, that was really stupid. That was not where I wanted to go,"
“Mummified in honey? Really?“ But then it flooded back—the lineage, the duty. Queen Meritaten, Akhenaten’s daughter reborn in a world of iPhones and instant noodles. She clawed sticky linen from her face, inhaling the tomb’s stale breath wiping honey from her lashes. "Next time, maybe don't meddle with Sekhmet’s altar after midnight. Lets go back home”
"Oh god, not the Anti-Christ shit Black goo again""
Too late. The goo surged into her chest, a sentient tar searing her Lightbody.
Hours later, back in her bedroom, Celinne slumped into a chair still vibrating with the aftershocks of time travel. The hum of her fridge clashed with the phantom echoes of chariot wheels. Her walls—a mosaic of relics—thrummed quietly: a Roman gladius, a Tudor ring, a scroll penned in Queen Guinevere’s looping script. Each artifact pulsed with lived memory, a chorus of lives she’d worn like second skins.
Her phone buzzed violently on the desk, The screen lit up with a text from Kiya, Kiya’s aura practically bled through the pixels: cerulean waves, starless ocean depths, the kind of calm that could drown empires.
Kiya: Saw the tomb fiasco. How's the heart, time-bender? Still beating? Black Goo's got you, huh? Classic Nefertiti.
The Unsung Renegade | C.F. Su is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Celinne (Blue Ray Disaster): Processing anti-Christ patterns from Egypt. My heart is covered in black goo, it looks like a black hole? Feels like Satanic espresso.? Idk. It's gross. Feels like tar.
She didn’t mention the visions: obsidian veins crawling up her wrists, the dreams where her chest cracked open to reveal a pulsing void that sucked in light, sound, hope. Even now, her heartbeat thudded sluggish and thick, as if her blood had been replaced with ink from some forbidden grimoire.
Kiya’s reply came swift, a lifeline wrapped in emojis. She's technically my dad Akhenaton
Kiya: Flickered above the dish, her Blue Ray aura dissolving the goo. It hijacks carbon to mimic DNA turns saints into Sims characters. Stop solo-ing the shadow work. Our monad's assembling. Meet at 1353-1336 BCE.
Celinne snorted, but her chest warmed—a flicker of gold cutting through the rot. Their soul group, the “rainbow bridge brigade,” as she called them, had spent lifetimes colliding like atoms in God’s particle accelerator.
Kiya’s Plan:
The Goo’s tied to the Nephilim Wars Tut's reign, the green tablet. Your mom's past/present narcissism is its anchor. We collapse both.
Celinne: I think we're good for today, this should ripple into the collective.
Her laptop glowed, timelines mapped in fractal spirals. Her mind swirling with the timelines she needed to navigate. Her mission was colossal—collapsing timelines to prevent the earth from imploding, a task she undertook with the guidance of her higher self and Sirian high council. Simple, right?
By day, she’s Celinne Su, an performance energetic coach. By night, she slipped into the skin of queens and warriors, stitching paradoxes shut. Marcus Aurelius had called her "the whisper behind the empire's breath."Tutankhamun, her greatest failure—and now her key. "Start with the boy king," her higher self had murmured, "His tomb is the knot."
She traced a finger over a photo of Tut’s death mask, its gold dulled in the pixelated glare. How many times had she stood in that burial chamber, smelling myrrh and adolescent ambition? Too many.
Her hands hovered over the keyboard. "How do I explain this hot mess?" she wondered aloud. The cat, Bastet (a rescue, not an ancient deity, swear to Isis), blinked lazily from a papyrus-strewn shelf. "Audiences love a doomed pharaoh.
Lean into the drama—betrayal, cursed gold, a queen’s ghost weeping over his sarcophagus…” She writes on her journal, Level 2 unlocked, she wrote, that wasn’t too bad. I can’t get lost in the quantum field. The quantum limbo—a prismatic void between timelines.
“I don’t want to repeat what I did when I was in Nirvanic Mind or Solar Logos. The 4th harmonic field is called the Avatar Matrix Field 10D-11D-12D, when I was trying to recover the original divine blueprint for humanity that created as a 12 DNA Strand for the Eternal Christ principle.
But the truth was messier. Time wasn’t a line—it was a hive, each choice a swarm of possibilities. Her job? Play beekeeper. Smoke out the venomous timelines, the ones that would metastasize into apocalypses. And if she sometimes returned with honey in her hair or a gladiator’s scar? Well, occupational hazards.
Celinne's journey through history was not just about visiting. She had walked as a consort beside Marcus Aurelius, strategized alongside Akhenaten, and witnessed the rise and fall of empires. Each life she revisited was a thread in the intricate web of time that she was destined to untangle and collapse resulting in current events in present day. While doing this she picks up soul fractals of her past lives.
Celinne: Higher self, don't put me back to sleep yet. I need my matcha before another dive into more session of timeline corrections.
Staring at her laptop pondered how to approach her narrative. "How do I introduce all these lives and different time hops?" she wondered aloud, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet of her workspace. The walls around her were lined with ancient artifacts and scrolls, a testament to her deep connection to the past. She leaned back, the weight of epochs settling on her shoulders.
Some days, she craved normalcy—a life where "past lives" meant bad exes, not Cleopatra’s unfinished business. But then she’d touch the carnelian dragon amulet on her throat, feel the hum of Akhenaten’s sun hymns, and remember: the world didn’t need another influencer. It needed a weaver. A Universal Time Keeper.
Keys clattered as she typed the first line: "The sand remembers. The dead forget. And I? I stitch the two together before the stars go dark"
Bastet purred approval—or maybe just hunger. Celinne smirked.
Let history’s ghosts come. She’d survived mummy honey. Bring it on.
Deciding to start with the inception point of King Akhenaten and King Tutankhamun—a pivotal moment that could unravel many knots in the timeline.
Aftermath — Dawn Breaks:
Journal Entry:
Level 4: Goo-free. Heart: 60% Christ, 40% goth. P.S.: The Violet Ray's aesthetic touch is just glitter bombing my DNA. I'm into it.
Kiya: Black Heart neutralized. But the Needle's portals still jammed with reptilian AI. Next Friday?
Celinne: Only if you bring coffee. And the Mother's transit codes. Found a nest of trapped souls under underground stuck in a guilt loop.
Kiya: The pyramids?
Celinne: Time's a pretzel here.
Their missions are fractal. Every healed grid node in D.C. stitches a wound in the Pleiades. Every soul ferried to the Mother in Seattle stabilizes a collapsing universe in Andromeda.
Post-Mission Debrief:
Kiya: “Did your higher self approve the timeline edit? The one where we un-invented war in 12,304 BC for Nephilim wars?”
Celinne: “Sort of. Got a ‘cease and desist’ memo from the Orion Council. They’re pissed we canceled their reality show.”
Kiya: “Interstellar Bachelor?”
Celinne: “Worse. Galactic Gladiators: Blood Sacrifice Edition.”
Kiya: I think we're done for the day, I need to roll on the grass and ground.
Yet when the grid sings—clean, tri-wave, alive—they remember: this is why they signed the pre-birth contract. Well, that and the tacos.
Next time: Exorcising AI from TikTok. Bring popcorn. And holy water.
To be continued...
Part 1: The Astral Snare
"Ah! Eww—god, what is this?!" Celinne’s scream choked in her throat as cold, cloying wetness seeped into her nostrils, her limbs bound as if pressed by the weight of the earth itself. The darkness was suffocating, thick with the reek of decay and something sickly-sweet—honey? Her thoughts spiraled. "Crap, crap,I can't move—" Her voice ricocheted off the confines of the old bandages. "Did I just astral project as a fucking mummy?"
In a mix of alarm and disbelief, “I need to get out of here! Fuck!” With a surge of panic-astral projected out again tumbling out onto the cold, stone floor. Above her, murals of star-choked skies and ibis-winged deities leered, their colors dulled by millennia.
"Oh my God, I can’t believe I just did that" she exclaimed, she gasped for breath in the musty air of a long-forgotten dusty tomb. "Okay, that was really stupid. That was not where I wanted to go,"
“Mummified in honey? Really?“ But then it flooded back—the lineage, the duty. Queen Meritaten, Akhenaten’s daughter reborn in a world of iPhones and instant noodles. She clawed sticky linen from her face, inhaling the tomb’s stale breath wiping honey from her lashes. "Next time, maybe don't meddle with Sekhmet’s altar after midnight. Lets go back home”
"Oh god, not the Anti-Christ shit Black goo again""
Too late. The goo surged into her chest, a sentient tar searing her Lightbody.
Hours later, back in her bedroom, Celinne slumped into a chair still vibrating with the aftershocks of time travel. The hum of her fridge clashed with the phantom echoes of chariot wheels. Her walls—a mosaic of relics—thrummed quietly: a Roman gladius, a Tudor ring, a scroll penned in Queen Guinevere’s looping script. Each artifact pulsed with lived memory, a chorus of lives she’d worn like second skins.
Her phone buzzed violently on the desk, The screen lit up with a text from Kiya, Kiya’s aura practically bled through the pixels: cerulean waves, starless ocean depths, the kind of calm that could drown empires.
Kiya: Saw the tomb fiasco. How's the heart, time-bender? Still beating? Black Goo's got you, huh? Classic Nefertiti.
The Unsung Renegade | C.F. Su is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Celinne (Blue Ray Disaster): Processing anti-Christ patterns from Egypt. My heart is covered in black goo, it looks like a black hole? Feels like Satanic espresso.? Idk. It's gross. Feels like tar.
She didn’t mention the visions: obsidian veins crawling up her wrists, the dreams where her chest cracked open to reveal a pulsing void that sucked in light, sound, hope. Even now, her heartbeat thudded sluggish and thick, as if her blood had been replaced with ink from some forbidden grimoire.
Kiya’s reply came swift, a lifeline wrapped in emojis. She's technically my dad Akhenaton
Kiya: Flickered above the dish, her Blue Ray aura dissolving the goo. It hijacks carbon to mimic DNA turns saints into Sims characters. Stop solo-ing the shadow work. Our monad's assembling. Meet at 1353-1336 BCE.
Celinne snorted, but her chest warmed—a flicker of gold cutting through the rot. Their soul group, the “rainbow bridge brigade,” as she called them, had spent lifetimes colliding like atoms in God’s particle accelerator.
Kiya’s Plan:
The Goo’s tied to the Nephilim Wars Tut's reign, the green tablet. Your mom's past/present narcissism is its anchor. We collapse both.
Celinne: I think we're good for today, this should ripple into the collective.
Her laptop glowed, timelines mapped in fractal spirals. Her mind swirling with the timelines she needed to navigate. Her mission was colossal—collapsing timelines to prevent the earth from imploding, a task she undertook with the guidance of her higher self and Sirian high council. Simple, right?
By day, she’s Celinne Su, an performance energetic coach. By night, she slipped into the skin of queens and warriors, stitching paradoxes shut. Marcus Aurelius had called her "the whisper behind the empire's breath."Tutankhamun, her greatest failure—and now her key. "Start with the boy king," her higher self had murmured, "His tomb is the knot."
She traced a finger over a photo of Tut’s death mask, its gold dulled in the pixelated glare. How many times had she stood in that burial chamber, smelling myrrh and adolescent ambition? Too many.
Her hands hovered over the keyboard. "How do I explain this hot mess?" she wondered aloud. The cat, Bastet (a rescue, not an ancient deity, swear to Isis), blinked lazily from a papyrus-strewn shelf. "Audiences love a doomed pharaoh.
Lean into the drama—betrayal, cursed gold, a queen’s ghost weeping over his sarcophagus…” She writes on her journal, Level 2 unlocked, she wrote, that wasn’t too bad. I can’t get lost in the quantum field. The quantum limbo—a prismatic void between timelines.
“I don’t want to repeat what I did when I was in Nirvanic Mind or Solar Logos. The 4th harmonic field is called the Avatar Matrix Field 10D-11D-12D, when I was trying to recover the original divine blueprint for humanity that created as a 12 DNA Strand for the Eternal Christ principle.
But the truth was messier. Time wasn’t a line—it was a hive, each choice a swarm of possibilities. Her job? Play beekeeper. Smoke out the venomous timelines, the ones that would metastasize into apocalypses. And if she sometimes returned with honey in her hair or a gladiator’s scar? Well, occupational hazards.
Celinne's journey through history was not just about visiting. She had walked as a consort beside Marcus Aurelius, strategized alongside Akhenaten, and witnessed the rise and fall of empires. Each life she revisited was a thread in the intricate web of time that she was destined to untangle and collapse resulting in current events in present day. While doing this she picks up soul fractals of her past lives.
Celinne: Higher self, don't put me back to sleep yet. I need my matcha before another dive into more session of timeline corrections.
Staring at her laptop pondered how to approach her narrative. "How do I introduce all these lives and different time hops?" she wondered aloud, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet of her workspace. The walls around her were lined with ancient artifacts and scrolls, a testament to her deep connection to the past. She leaned back, the weight of epochs settling on her shoulders.
Some days, she craved normalcy—a life where "past lives" meant bad exes, not Cleopatra’s unfinished business. But then she’d touch the carnelian dragon amulet on her throat, feel the hum of Akhenaten’s sun hymns, and remember: the world didn’t need another influencer. It needed a weaver. A Universal Time Keeper.
Keys clattered as she typed the first line: "The sand remembers. The dead forget. And I? I stitch the two together before the stars go dark"
Bastet purred approval—or maybe just hunger. Celinne smirked.
Let history’s ghosts come. She’d survived mummy honey. Bring it on.
Deciding to start with the inception point of King Akhenaten and King Tutankhamun—a pivotal moment that could unravel many knots in the timeline.
Aftermath — Dawn Breaks:
Journal Entry:
Level 4: Goo-free. Heart: 60% Christ, 40% goth. P.S.: The Violet Ray's aesthetic touch is just glitter bombing my DNA. I'm into it.
Kiya: Black Heart neutralized. But the Needle's portals still jammed with reptilian AI. Next Friday?
Celinne: Only if you bring coffee. And the Mother's transit codes. Found a nest of trapped souls under underground stuck in a guilt loop.
Kiya: The pyramids?
Celinne: Time's a pretzel here.
Their missions are fractal. Every healed grid node in D.C. stitches a wound in the Pleiades. Every soul ferried to the Mother in Seattle stabilizes a collapsing universe in Andromeda.
Post-Mission Debrief:
Kiya: “Did your higher self approve the timeline edit? The one where we un-invented war in 12,304 BC for Nephilim wars?”
Celinne: “Sort of. Got a ‘cease and desist’ memo from the Orion Council. They’re pissed we canceled their reality show.”
Kiya: “Interstellar Bachelor?”
Celinne: “Worse. Galactic Gladiators: Blood Sacrifice Edition.”
Kiya: I think we're done for the day, I need to roll on the grass and ground.
Yet when the grid sings—clean, tri-wave, alive—they remember: this is why they signed the pre-birth contract. Well, that and the tacos.
Next time: Exorcising AI from TikTok. Bring popcorn. And holy water.
To be continued...
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