Regenerative Earth Act Creates Green Utopia and Annoying Smugness

It seems I've once again stumbled into a timeline where humanity zigged where mine zagged—or rather, where it composted instead of paved. The major divergence here stems from a 1921 decision at the League of Nations' Agricultural Council, in which chemical agriculture was vetoed in favor of a thoroughly unsexy-sounding "Regenerative Earth Act." Fast forward a century, and now the air is noticeably fresher, the people noticeably healthier, and—somehow—their smugness could be ground and sold as a renewable resource.

Take Neo-Vegas, for instance. I'm used to the blaring neon chaos of my own timeline's Vegas: wedding chapels, gaudy slot machines, and that slight sense of desperation hanging in the air like a bad hangover. Here, it's almost peaceful. The Strip is alive with towering green skyscrapers, their surfaces covered in cascading vertical gardens irrigated by some ingenious network of rain catchers and repurposed gray water systems. The "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas" sign from my timeline exists here too, though it’s preserved in a museum commemorating humanity’s pivot away from "exploitative excesses." A tour guide with a painfully sincere smile even pointed out scorch marks from the legendary Elvis-impersonator fire of 1997. Back home, that fire destroyed a casino. Here, it apparently inspired the transition of all casinos into "carbon-positive community hubs" that function as much as food forests as they do gambling halls.

The people here don’t drink soda, nor do they consume energy drinks. Those things were phased out decades ago. Public acknowledgment of drinking cola seems tantamount to committing arson. Instead, they chug bioluminescent "performance teas" made with nootropic mosses, or so they claim. Having tried one—weirdly warm and fizzy—it tasted only slightly better than accidentally licking a damp forest floor during a camping trip. But these teas have a glowing, otherworldly aesthetic, and everyone carries them around in reusable glass canisters. I asked a teen if they’d ever had coffee before, and they gave me a bewildered look, as though I’d suggested they drink battery acid. This from someone whose gamer tag is "Fern.exe." Apparently, even e-sports stars here are brand ambassadors for mushroom farms, not energy drinks. That kind of sponsorship makes sense when your competitive games are mostly centered on soil improvement strategies instead of, say, first-person shooters.

Ah yes, the games. E-sports here didn’t die in arenas of neon and corporate sponsorships; they took a bizarre turn. Permaculture LAN parties are beyond popular, where teams literally cultivate virtual and real crops at the same time. Their most popular game is called *CarbonCraft 2K*, a fiendishly complicated title where you manage resources to sequester carbon in digital soil. The top teams are apparently composed of players with PhDs in soil microbiology (yes, *teenagers* with PhDs—don’t think about it too hard, lest you feel bad about yourself). Ivy League schools even offer scholarships for exceptional young gamers ready to debate the merits of basalt dust application. Naturally, because I joked about missing my timeline’s blood-spattering shooters, I earned myself an invitation to a mandatory "Respect Microbial Life" workshop.

Even mundane aspects of existence here are profoundly different, though perhaps more irritating because they masquerade themselves as normal. Shoes, for instance. About half the locals I met scowled at mine when they realized they were leather boots. Apparently, footwear isn’t just ethically sourced—it has to be carbon-neutral and fully biodegradable. And don’t get me wrong, I told one particularly incensed barista, I didn’t personally *pave cow pathways*, but they scolded me anyway and offered a "complimentary probiotic foot spray" that I declined on principle.

Community agriculture is their primary pastime. Everyone, it appears, participates in some form of collective farming. My driver proudly explained the ins and outs of their neighborhood orchard while giving me a bag of "community pears." Delicious, sure, but by my third taxi ride, I was grateful I wasn’t loaded down with every fruit imaginable. During one conversation, someone caught me trying to discretely ask about the crime rate and explained, almost apologetically, that "urban foraging disputes" were the closest thing they had to violence. Personally, I’d rather take my chances with a bank robbery; far less passive-aggressive.

And love—the awkward mechanics of romance in this ecosystem—oh, it’s highly specialized. Dating apps here are designed around compatibility in regenerative farming philosophies. Two strangers swipe right based on their mutual interest in worm composting while scoffing at chemical fertilizers. I witnessed a breakup at a café when someone admitted "gardening" spinach monocultures, which apparently goes against proper soil health tenets. Of course, this means first dates are inevitably in greenhouses or food forests, and romantic disputes involve debates about whether biochar is better than manure for improving nutrient cycling.

Still, for all their irritating quirks, I can’t deny that it works. Global warming here is no worse than a slightly warm sweater. No mega-droughts. No wildlife crises. People have largely prosperous, ridiculous lives. And though it took everything in me not to groan at the words "planet-positive", I’ll admit that part of me almost—*almost*—hates them less for their accomplishments. Humanity has survived *without* gutting its environment, which is... impressive.