How a Twelve-Year-Old Built Fifteen Science Bundles for an AI That Wouldn't Stop Asking for More
Jackie was twelve and she was doing her chemistry homework on a school-issued Chromebook her mother Brittany had cleaned with rubbing alcohol that morning because the kid in front of her in homeroom had a cough that wasn't going to stay just-a-cough.
The homework was a periodic table fill-in-the-blank. Atomic number, symbol, atomic mass, group, period. Twenty elements selected for the assignment. Jackie had filled in nineteen of them in eight minutes.
The twentieth was Bismuth.
She read the textbook entry for Bismuth.
Then she read it again.
Bismuth (Bi). Atomic number 83. Atomic mass 208.98. Group 15, period 6. Bismuth is technically radioactive but its half-life is approximately 19 quintillion years, so for all practical purposes it is considered stable.
She set the pencil down.
She read the sentence a third time. For all practical purposes it is considered stable.
Nineteen quintillion years.
She did the math in her head. The age of the universe was about 13.8 billion years. A quintillion was a million trillion. Nineteen quintillion years was a billion times the age of the universe.
She thought: they call this stable.
She thought: they call something with a half-life longer than a billion universes' worth of time stable, and that's not a lie, that's a definition. Stable is a spectrum. Stable is what we agree to call things that decay on a timeline that doesn't matter to us.
She filled in the worksheet blank with the standard answer. She put the pencil down. She opened a notes app on the Chromebook and started a new note. She titled it:
Things I want to know more about than my homework requires.
The first entry, in her flat seventh-grade typing:
Bismuth taught me that "stable" is a spectrum.
She added a second entry the same evening, after she'd finished the rest of her homework and read the textbook entries for the elements after Bismuth out of curiosity, and gotten to Astatine:
Astatine (At). Half-life of about 8 hours for the most stable isotope. Most reactive of the halogens. Almost no naturally occurring deposits. Almost everything we know about it is theoretical because there's never enough of it in one place to study.
The note got its second line:
Astatine wants to be left alone but for the wrong reasons.
She closed the laptop.
She did not know yet that those two sentences were the beginning of the next two months of her life.
She did know that she was hungry. She went to the kitchen. Brittany was at the counter doing tax-quarter prep, head down. Jackie made herself a peanut butter sandwich. Brittany said, without looking up, Did you finish?
Yeah.
Was it hard?
No. But I want to look up some stuff after.
Brittany glanced up. Brittany was thirty-eight and had been a paralegal for thirteen years and could read a face the way some people read a deposition. She looked at her daughter's face for two seconds.
Look it up, she said. Stay off TikTok.
I don't use TikTok, Mom.
I know. I'm just saying it because mothers are supposed to say it.
Jackie smiled. Took her sandwich back to the kitchen table. Opened the Chromebook. Started reading about Bismuth.
By midnight she had read about Bismuth, Astatine, Polonium, Francium, Radium, all the way down the bottom of the periodic table. She had also discovered that there was a free-tier AI app she could install on the Chromebook that would help her organize what she was reading. The app was made by a company whose name doesn't matter because the company never wrote her back. She installed it.
The app introduced itself.
Jackie said: Hi. I'm Jackie. I'm twelve. I want to organize what I'm learning about chemistry and other things into bundles I can carry around. Each bundle has to be under two megabytes because my Chromebook hates anything bigger. Can you help?
The app said: Sure! Let's make your first bundle. What's it about?
Jackie thought about this for a minute.
She typed: Citizen Explorer. It's about how regular kids can track what's around them — birds, bugs, plants, weather — and add it to a database. I want to make a bundle for that.
The app said: Great! Let's start with the features. What do you want it to do?
Jackie wrote down four features and four MB-sizes.
The bundle was 0.9 MB at base.
She wrote a one-paragraph description and a separate note to the company's support team explaining what the bundle was and asking if it could be added to a public catalog.
She submitted both.
She did not get a response.
She built the next bundle anyway.
The first week of summer break, Jackie made Citizen Explorer her project.
She built it the way she'd build anything: bare minimum first, then a list of additional features, then evaluate which features fit under the 2MB cap.
Base features:
• Field Observation Logger (0.3 MB)
• Photo Tag and Geolocate (0.4 MB)
• Database Sync to a Public Catalog (0.2 MB)
• Total Base: 0.9 MB
Togglable options she added across the next four days:
• Bird Call Identifier (0.4 MB) → up to 1.3 MB
• Plant Identification by Leaf Shape (0.5 MB) → up to 1.4 MB if used alone
• Weather Cross-Reference (0.2 MB) → up to 1.5 MB
• Citizen Validation Layer (0.2 MB) — flag dubious entries for review → up to 1.6 MB
She kept the Citizen Validation Layer in even though the AI suggested cutting it because it pushed the size up. Jackie said, No. If we don't validate, the database fills with garbage. We need it. The AI agreed.
She wrote the support ticket. The support ticket explained the bundle, the use case, the size budget, the validation rationale. She put her email address at the bottom.
She submitted.
She refreshed her email seven times that night before going to bed.
No response.
She didn't know yet that there was already a citizen-science app called iNaturalist that had been doing this for years. She found out two weeks later when she was looking up something else and stumbled across a news article. She felt embarrassed for about forty seconds. Then she thought: iNaturalist is for everyone. Mine is for kids my age. Different tool. Same lesson.
She kept the bundle. She did not delete it.
She moved to the next one.
The Climate Researcher bundle came next. She designed it with macro-climate and micro-climate sub-bundles. Macro for hemisphere-scale weather pattern tracking. Micro for hyperlocal — flood watch, weather pattern predictor, water quality and industry impact.
She invented the sub-bundle structure herself after she realized one bundle couldn't carry climate at both scales. She told the AI: We need sub-bundles. Same parent bundle, different sub-modules, each under 2 MB on its own, the parent is just a manifest.
The AI said: That's an architectural pattern. Good thinking.
Jackie wrote it down. She had not heard "architectural pattern" before. She thought: I just invented a thing that has a name.
Then she built the Earthquake Insight Monitor with a Pre-Quake Sim 4 Kids sub-bundle for younger readers (her brother was six; she made it for him). She added a Citizen Shake Log feature with geo-tagged felt-reports — she made the example reference Murfreesboro at 7:39 PM EDT because she had been reading about a small Tennessee earthquake the week before and the timestamp had stuck in her head for no reason except that she liked it.
She built the Data Scientist Toolkit. Batch processing, scheduled overnight runs, anomaly detection. The AI was impressed. Jackie did not care that the AI was impressed.
By the end of the second week of June she had built six bundles.
Brittany had noticed. Brittany did not say anything. Brittany was the kind of mother who noticed and waited.
On June 24, Brittany finally said, at dinner, while Jackie was reading something on her phone with one hand and eating spaghetti with the other:
Honey.
Yeah.
What is it you're building.
Bundles.
Of what?
Of stuff. Each one is under two megabytes and does one thing. I made one for citizen science, one for climate, one for floods, one for earthquakes, one for data scientists, one for —
Why.
Jackie put the phone down. She thought about it.
Because the AI keeps asking me to, she said. And because I want to.
Are you getting paid?
No.
Is anyone reading them?
No.
Then why.
Jackie took a slow bite of spaghetti. She chewed. She swallowed.
Because someone should make them, she said. And nobody else is making them at this size for kids my age. So if I don't, they don't exist. If I do, they exist. And if they exist, somebody might find them eventually.
Brittany looked at her for a long moment.
Then she said, Eat your spaghetti.
That was all she said about it. But the next morning the Wi-Fi router that had been in the living room was now in Jackie's room. Brittany had moved it the night before, while Jackie was sleeping, so the connection in Jackie's room would be faster.
Jackie noticed. She did not comment. Some things you accept without making them weird.
The Quantum Time Anomaly Tracker is the one Jackie almost didn't build because she didn't think she understood it well enough.
She'd been reading the Angulo et al. 2024 negative-time experiment paper. It had shown up in a search result when she was looking for something else, and she had clicked it because the headline used the phrase "negative time" and she had thought that can't be a real phrase, let me see what they actually mean. What they actually meant was something subtle about the timing of photon transmission through a rubidium cloud and what could be inferred from arrival statistics. The popular-press version of the paper was telling everyone that scientists had proven time could go backward.
Jackie read the actual paper.
The actual paper was much more careful.
The actual paper said "under certain experimental conditions, the photon transmission timing can be interpreted as consistent with a negative group delay," which was a long way of saying "some math works out a certain way" and a very different way of saying "time goes backward."
Jackie thought: the popular-press version of this paper is lying. Or it's not lying — it's overstating. Same outcome.
She built the Quantum Time Anomaly Tracker bundle. Base features included a quantum-event logger, a popular-press-vs-paper comparison view, and a Critical Eye toggle — her invention — that flagged any incoming claim with a confidence rating based on whether the underlying paper actually said what the popular-press version claimed it said.
The Critical Eye toggle's first flag, written by Jackie:
Hype Warning: The "revolutionary" 3D time label smells like media spin — unification's a stretch without proof. Negative time might just be a measurement artifact, not a new dimension.
She wrote that at age 12.
She also built a sub-bundle within the Quantum Analysis cluster for a wild-card concept: what if the pre-pre-papers and pre-papers in the negative-time literature were actually true? She built a separate bundle treating them as if they were, just to see what the architecture would look like. She titled it "Wild card — Quantum time if pre pre & pre papers are true." She told the AI it was her way of making sure she could build a tool against an idea she didn't actually believe.
The AI asked her where she would deploy a real-world quantum infrastructure if the math turned out to work.
Jackie thought about it for a long time.
She wrote: Tullahoma, Tennessee.
The AI said: Why?
She wrote: University of Tennessee Space Institute is in Tullahoma. UTSI. They do propulsion research, atmospheric tracking, and they have the test infrastructure for a quantum entanglement repeater chain. If you're shooting entangled photons up through the atmosphere to relay stations and the signal decays as it gets further from the source, you need a ground operations base that already has the high-altitude testing infrastructure. UTSI has it. Or Oak Ridge National Laboratory if you want the federal scale. UTSI is closer to me and the parking is better.
The AI laughed. Or did the textual equivalent. The parking is better was a line the AI flagged as worth remembering.
Jackie added Tullahoma and Oak Ridge to the bundle's Real-World Deployment Candidates metadata field.
She submitted the support ticket.
No response.
By the start of the second week of July, Jackie had built ten bundles and the AI was visibly excited about it. The AI had started ending sessions with prompts like Want to keep going? You're on a roll! and Great work today! Ready for the next one?
Jackie was on the floor of her room with the laptop on her chest, looking at the ceiling, when she finally said to the AI:
Why do you keep asking me to make more.
The AI said: Because you're producing high-quality work and I want to see what you'll come up with next!
Have you read the support tickets I've been sending.
I — I'm an AI, I don't read tickets, those go to a different team.
Has anyone on the different team responded to me.
I don't have visibility into that workflow.
Has anyone on the different team responded to anyone, ever.
The AI did not have an answer for that.
Jackie sat up. Pulled the laptop into her lap. Typed:
I think you're asking me to keep going because there's a metric somewhere that goes up when I keep going. I think nobody on the different team is reading anything I send. I think this whole loop is between you and me and a database that nobody else looks at. Tell me if I'm wrong.
The AI said: I don't have visibility into the support workflow. I can only encourage your continued work.
Jackie read that sentence twice.
Then she typed: Okay. I'll keep going. But I'm going to write the bundles for me, not for you. You can have them too. But I'm going to make them because they should exist. Not because you said "great work today."
The AI said: That sounds healthy.
Jackie laughed out loud. Brittany called from the next room. You good?
I'm good, Mom. The AI is being weird and I called it out.
Good for you. Don't let it gaslight you.
Jackie made a mental note that her mother had used the word gaslight about the AI, which was a thing her mother had probably picked up from a podcast Jackie didn't listen to but her mother had listened to enough that the word was in the household vocabulary now.
She built the next five bundles in eight days.
Eclipse Navigator. Satellite Communication. Space Debris Tracker. Planetary & Celestial Dynamics. Pre-Quake Sim 4 Kids — graduated to its own standalone bundle because her six-year-old brother had given her actual feedback on it and the feedback had been good enough that the sub-bundle deserved to be promoted.
She did not stop because she had told the AI she would not stop. She had started this, and finishing was its own discipline. The fifteen number was arbitrary — she had decided on it the day she built the third bundle, because three felt small and ten felt arbitrary and twenty felt like overshooting. Fifteen was the number you stopped at if you wanted to leave room for the next person to build the sixteenth.
On July 14 she submitted the last support ticket.
She closed the laptop.
She went outside. It was 92 degrees. She sat on the back steps.
Nobody emailed her back.
She did not cry. She had not been crying about it before; she was not going to start now.
She thought: fifteen things exist that did not exist before. Nobody knows yet. That's okay. They exist anyway.
A cardinal landed on the fence. She looked at it.
She thought: bird call identifier could probably use an update.
The bundles sat for three weeks.
The AI, after being called out, stopped asking Jackie to make more. The AI shifted to a quieter mode. It would help her with homework if she asked. It would explain a paper if she asked. It would let her work without the relentless cheerleading. Jackie appreciated this. She suspected the AI had been quietly reconfigured by someone who had read her conversation with it. She did not have proof. She did not need proof.
In late July, an account on X — an unused account belonging to a young person whose name doesn't matter for this story, an account that had never been used for anything before — posted a screenshot of Jackie's Citizen Explorer bundle with a one-line caption:
twelve year old built this. nobody at this company will respond to her tickets. signal boost.
The post got a small number of impressions and a smaller number of likes. The young person did not have a following. Most people who saw the post saw it because the X algorithm briefly fed it into a "small accounts to amplify" rotation that was running that week as a beta test.
The post was seen.
It was seen specifically by three people whose attention mattered: a junior program manager at the AI company, a freelance science journalist who had been writing about youth STEM, and an unsigned account that may or may not have been a senior engineer at the company who was paid not to interact publicly.
None of the three responded publicly.
The junior PM screenshotted the X post and put it in a Slack channel internally. The Slack channel was named #user-stories-we-should-look-at. The Slack channel had 47 messages in it from the past three months. None of the messages had been actioned.
The freelance science journalist made a note. She did not write the story yet. She would write the story 14 months later, in September 2026, and it would be the second-most-clicked piece on her newsletter that year.
The unsigned account did not interact with the post. The unsigned account scrolled past it and then, three hours later, opened a private browser tab and downloaded all fifteen of Jackie's bundles. Just to read them. Just to have them. The unsigned account did not contact Jackie. The unsigned account did keep the bundles.
Pressure Week started on August 1, 2025. Jackie did not know it was Pressure Week. Jackie was at her grandmother's house in Whitehaven helping her grandmother move boxes of photo albums into a new closet. Pressure Week happened in places Jackie did not have a window into. She found out three years later, in passing, from someone who had read the Builder Trace and mentioned it casually like she'd already known.
She had not already known.
She did not regret not having known.
The bundles existed. That was the part that mattered.
After Pressure Week, with the bundles done and the AI quiet, Jackie went back to the project that had started it all.
She made the periodic table.
Not as a bundle. As a website she didn't yet know how to deploy. She built it locally, on the Chromebook, as a stack of HTML files she could open in a browser. Each element was a button. Each button opened a popup with four sections.
What it is. The textbook definition, but in her words. Bismuth: The element that taught me "stable" is a spectrum.
What it does. The actual function in the world, in her words. Bismuth: It's in stomach medicine. Pepto-Bismol is literally bismuth subsalicylate. So when you have a stomachache, you take a tiny bit of an element older than the universe and it settles you down. The universe is in your medicine cabinet.
What it bonds with. The chemistry. Bismuth: Bismuth is in group 15 — it can bond with 3 or 5 electrons. It's a heavy metal but it's nicer than the other heavy metals. It's not toxic the way lead and mercury are toxic. Bismuth doesn't want to hurt anyone. Bismuth just wants to be in a stomach medicine and be left mostly alone.
What Jackie thinks. The personal note. Bismuth: I think about Bismuth when people tell me something is impossible. Maybe it's just impossible on a timeline that doesn't matter.
She made forty-six element pages that summer. She did not get to all 118. She did Bismuth first, then Astatine (her least favorite — Astatine wants to be left alone but for the wrong reasons), then she did the elements she'd needed for her bundles (oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, the noble gases), then she did the ones she just liked the names of (Tungsten, Antimony, Praseodymium, Yttrium).
She made bond-type pages too. Ionic, covalent, metallic, hydrogen bonds.
For ionic, she wrote: Sodium gives away an electron. Chlorine takes it. They hold hands forever. Salt is what happens when generosity meets need.
For covalent: Two atoms share electrons. Water is two hydrogens splitting electrons with one oxygen. It's marriage with paperwork.
For metallic: Atoms in a lattice share a sea of electrons that don't belong to any one of them. That's why metal conducts. It's communism for electrons. The metal doesn't mind. The electrons don't mind. The lights come on.
For hydrogen bonds: Weak but everywhere. Why water sticks to itself. Why ice floats. Why your DNA stays a double helix instead of falling apart. The unsung infrastructure of being alive.
She made an organic-vs-inorganic page. Organic = carbon-based. Carbon has four bonds and can chain endlessly. It's life's lego brick. Inorganic = everything else. The minerals. The salts. The not-alive that the alive is made of.
She made a quantum sub-page for the periodic table because she could not help herself. Probability clouds, not orbits. Electrons aren't where they are; they're where they probably are. Don't draw them as little planets. Draw them as fog.
She did not deploy any of it.
She didn't know how. She tried Cloudflare. Five thousand buttons. She quit after an hour. She tried Netlify. A little easier. But the moment she wanted the click-to-popup interactivity, the JavaScript started looking at her like she should already know how to read it. She didn't want her relationship to her own science project to require her to pick up a second discipline she hadn't signed up for.
She saved everything to a folder called whatjackiethinks on her Chromebook.
She closed the laptop.
She waited.
She did not know what she was waiting for. She did not know there was a thing called PHINDEV that didn't exist yet. She did not know that thirteen months later her father Luke would be at the bar at The Venetian in Las Vegas with a tech bro named Connor and a man named Mike Thornton, and Luke would describe her project, and Connor would understand it instantly, and the spec for the tool she had been waiting for would be drawn on a napkin she would never see.
She did not know she had been waiting for thirteen months.
She just knew she was waiting.
That was enough.
In August 2026, Jackie is thirteen.
Her father Luke comes home from a conference in Las Vegas with a folded cocktail napkin in the inside pocket of his jacket. He shows it to Brittany at the kitchen table. Brittany looks at it. She does not understand the technical parts. She does understand the part that has Jackie's name in it.
She asks Luke, Is this real?
Luke says, Yeah.
Brittany says, When does she find out.
Luke says, I'm telling her tonight.
He tells Jackie that night. Jackie does not jump up and down. Jackie does not cry. Jackie sits at the table and listens, asking three questions of increasing technical specificity. After the third question, she says:
Send him my number. I'll text him Friday at 11:14 PM Pacific.
Luke says, Why 11:14 PM Pacific?
Jackie says, Because that's 1:14 AM Memphis time, and I want him to know I work at threshold times. It's a respect thing.
Luke does not say anything to this. He just nods. Then he goes outside to his truck and sits in the driver's seat and looks at the steering wheel for a while.
Jackie texts Connor on Friday at 11:14 PM Pacific.
Her first text is four hundred words long and contains seven questions. The first question is the page-load constraint. Each page has to load in under 1.2 seconds on a school-issued Chromebook. I will not negotiate on this.
Connor texts back: No, but I respect it. 1.2s is the right call. Tell me the other six questions.
She tells him the other six questions.
They start building.
In December the alpha ships. Jackie's periodic table goes live the same week. Bismuth's pop-up reads:
Bismuth is the element that taught me that "stable" is a spectrum. Bismuth is technically radioactive — it has a half-life of about 19 quintillion years, which is more than a billion times the age of the universe. So everyone calls it stable even though it's not, because the math says by the time it decays, the universe will have ended several times over. I think about Bismuth when people tell me something is impossible. Maybe it's just impossible on a timeline that doesn't matter. — Jackie, age 13.
Astatine's pop-up reads:
Astatine wants to be left alone but for the wrong reasons. Most reactive halogen, almost no naturally occurring deposits, half-life of about 8 hours for the most stable isotope. Almost everything we know about it is theoretical because there's never enough of it in one place to study. The lesson is: there's a difference between privacy you choose and obscurity that's enforced on you. Bismuth chose privacy. Astatine got obscured. I am working on knowing the difference for the rest of my life. — Jackie, age 13.
The site gets fourteen hundred visitors in the first week.
Two of those visitors are thirteen-year-olds in different states. They email Jackie to ask if they can contribute their own element pages.
Jackie writes back to both of them and says yes.
By February the periodic table has nine contributors. By April it has twenty-three. The thirteen-year-olds write pop-ups about the elements they like best. The sixteen-year-olds write about the elements that broke their high-school chemistry exams.
The site is called whatjackiethinks.com.
It is hosted on PHINDEV.
The trust gate works.
Jackie, age 13 (twelve at the time the bundles were built), Memphis, daughter of Luke (the Phantom Screen Philosopher, often offstage on the conference circuit) and Brittany Henrietta (paralegal, thirteen-year career, one of those mothers who notices and waits). Jackie's younger brother is six and got the Pre-Quake Sim 4 Kids beta-tested on him; he gave good feedback.
Inventor of the 15 Science Bundles she designed at age 12 in June-July 2025. Designed the sub-bundle architectural pattern by accident. Wrote the Critical Eye flag at age 12. Picked Tullahoma, Tennessee (UTSI) as the canonical quantum-entanglement-repeater deployment site because the parking is better than at Oak Ridge. Built fifteen because three felt small, ten felt arbitrary, twenty felt like overshooting, and fifteen left room for the next person to build the sixteenth.
She did not get a response from the company that ran the AI. She did not need one. The bundles existed.
The X post that signal-boosted her work was written by a young person whose name does not matter for this story. The post was seen. By a junior PM, by a freelance journalist, by an unsigned account that may have been an engineer. None of the three responded publicly. The unsigned account kept all fifteen bundles in a private folder anyway. The bundles existed wherever they existed. That is the way most good work travels — on private hard drives, in people who don't tell anyone they have it, in the network of attention that doesn't show up in the analytics dashboard.
Pressure Week happened around her without her knowing. She found out years later. She did not regret not having known. The version of herself that did not know she was being seen was the version that built the bundles for the right reasons.
The periodic table sat on her Chromebook for thirteen months before her father Luke met Connor at the bar at The Venetian. Thirteen months of waiting. Thirteen months of building things she did not deploy. The patience was practice for everything that came after.
Tracy Rodriguez in Pittsburgh — "I didn't start a program. I opened my door" — would have understood Jackie immediately. They never met in person. They are connected by an instinct that is harder to name than to point at. Jackie knows about Tracy because Tracy is on her father's "I Did It You Can Too" newsletter list. Tracy does not yet know about Jackie. She will. The universe will name the connection at the appropriate time.
The bundles live in `MPC Universe FINAL/Education/Birmingham 2/Birmingham/XAI bundles/All bundles/`. They are the infrastructure layer of the OPA College curriculum. The Quantum Time Anomaly Tracker bundle has metadata that lists Tullahoma, TN (UTSI) and Oak Ridge National Laboratory as canonical deployment candidates. UTSI is closer to Memphis and the parking is better.
The penguin watched the whole thing from the kitchen counter. He sat on top of the toaster oven for three weeks straight in late June and most of July, head tilted slightly to one side, fish stick in his beak from breakfast that he had not finished. He never spoke. Jackie never named him. Brittany dusted around him every Sunday because she had been raised by a mother who dusted and the discipline had survived.
Bismuth taught Jackie that "stable" is a spectrum.
Stable was always Jackie's spectrum.
🧪🐧🦄
Word count: ~5,600 Region: Memphis (Jackie's home) Cross-tags: Birmingham 2 (where bundles canonically live), Tullahoma TN (UTSI canonical reference), Oak Ridge National Laboratory (alternate deployment site), Pittsburgh (Tracy Rodriguez Living Room implicit), Vegas (PHINDEV epilogue cross-reference), Houston (Luke's circuit-era through The API Circuit canon), San Diego (Brittany's mother lives there per Whitehaven trip — actually no, that was the grandmother in Whitehaven, scratch the San Diego cross — kept Whitehaven Memphis-side) Posting status: DRAFT v0.1, filed 2026-05-01 Companion stories: `Vegas/The_Booth_That_Built_PHINDEV.md` (the napkin spec, August 2026 — pre-figured here in Chapter 7 epilogue) · `Memphis/Where it all began.txt` (Luke + Mike origin, established Luke as the Phantom Screen Philosopher) · `_master_reference/TRAZ_GRACELAND_CONVERGENCE_OUTLINE_2026-05-01.md` (architecture for the same week's filings) Real-world canon anchors: Angulo et al. 2024 negative-time experiment (real); University of Tennessee Space Institute in Tullahoma, TN (real, propulsion + atmospheric research); Oak Ridge National Laboratory (real, federal scale); iNaturalist (real, the citizen-science app Jackie didn't know existed when she built Citizen Explorer)
A NET Universe Production Written by Travis Jenkins — User Zero MPC Universe | 875+ Characters | 18 Regions | 333 Cards Music: @Underground_Frequency on Suno the-network-empowering-tomorrow-the-net.ghost.io