The Underwood was not an aerodynamic vessel. It handled like a brick, shook like a washing machine, and smelled strongly of typewriter ribbon and ozone. But it had one advantage over the sleek, corporate ships of The Publisher: It had Plot Armor.
"Hard to starboard!" The Author screamed, wrestling the massive Carriage Return lever. "We're entering the Sea of Red Tape!"
Elara Vance clung to the 'E' key as the typewriter banked sharply. Below them, the Corporate Sea churned. But instead of golden fog, the air was now filled with literal red tape—sticky, glowing streamers of bureaucracy that stretched for miles, weaving a net around the massive structure in the distance.
The High Tower.
It was a monolith of white marble and black glass, piercing the violet sky of the Void. It didn't look like a building; it looked like a tombstone for creativity. Circling its spire were halos of legal text, glowing warning signs, and a storm of sentient contracts.
