A man sprints through a massive crowd in Lima, chased by a colossal monster. In one hand, he clutches a cursed amulet; in the other, a magical sword. If the creature catches him and takes the artifact, it will tear open a rift to its own world - and end the world as he knows it.
He stops. Turns. Slides the amulet into his pocket and grips the sword with both hands. Man and monster lock eyes, poised for the battle that will decide the fate of their worlds. Energy pours from the blade, rippling down the street and making the beast hesitate. He feels the weight of what he's about to do - a feat his ancestors once accomplished. Now it's his turn. To save everyone he loves.
They charge.
He surges forward with strength and certainty, raises the sword, and with one devastating swing-
No, never mind, the guy just got eaten… gross… so much blood I might throw up.
Kidding!
I've seen it millions of times. I'm used to it.
Another Earth erased by an interdimensional threat. At least that means more openings in the Shadow World.
Honestly, the casting directors… The guy was selling hot dogs from a cart. How exactly was he supposed to defeat a towering abomination from beyond reality?
Listen to me - I'm starting to sound like one of the hosts. If only my job were that easy.
I'm an archivist. I record everything worth preserving - history, myth, literature, geography, economics, flora, fauna, astronomy, demography, and most importantly, the storyline. My life's work sits neatly behind a button labeled "More Information" - a button no one ever presses. There's nothing better than working all day, every day, only to know that your work is… meaningless.
Storyline - an event and/or events in a given world deemed interesting enough by the Network to be broadcast live. Storylines revolve around mains - people chosen to undergo deadly challenges that usually require them to kill or defeat someone or something.
Every branch of reality is a channel, every civilization a season, every apocalypse a finale with, let's be honest, disappointing ratings. Somewhere, in a dimension tastefully decorated in matte obsidian and corporate apathy, a group of admins debate whether a story about a plague deserves a sequel.
Who are we broadcasting to?
The Gods.
The Gods are the most powerful beings in all creation - omniscient, omnipotent, immortal. Creators of worlds and universes. Every branch in the Multiverse has them. Gods you've read about in your mythology books. And they are exactly as powerful, grand, and dangerous as the legends portray them.
The Gods are extremely bored beings. Their existence revolves around arguing and entertaining themselves. And to tip the scales in our favor, Ent. Network entertains them.
I've been doing this since the beginning. I've witnessed more worlds than anyone else. Usually, my moderator assigns me the heaviest of the heavy worlds. I hate him, but at least it gives me excuses not to go into the office or talk to my colleagues.
It's better this way. I'm an archivist. My job isn't to interfere or be social - just to record. I'm a bystander. My office is the background. Everyone has one - the space around you that you don't pay attention to, the backdrop of your life. I live in the background of humanity.
I've lived like this for eons. Few are as old as I am. I'm older than some of the admins. Most archivists from my generation couldn't handle the stress and retired extremely early.
Retirement sounds fun, right? For employees of Ent. Network, retirement means punishment. We call it "recycling." My soul will be dismantled and each molecule placed on the surface of a different sun. Then my essence will be scraped out of my body and poured into the shape of office supplies. And whatever remains of my body will be used to make tableware. It's not pleasant. I've seen it.
Something worse than retiring is being retired - because of mistakes or violations you've committed.
And speaking of that.
My communicator flashed: "You are summoned to the Assembly Hall. Floor SS66189."
Damn it. What do the admins want from me? They only summon archivists if they intend to retire them. I already have a disciplinary mark on my profile - for that city I accidentally set on fire. But that was ages ago. Come on, Ren from the neighboring branch caused an earthquake and ruined two storylines, and a year later he was promoted to Senior Archivist.
Floor SS66189. The top floor of the Administrative Bureau. I've been up here only once before - and it didn't go well. Hopefully it goes better this time. Maybe they're calling me for a promotion. If it were that, my moderator would be the one summoning me, not the admins. Let's get this over with.
I enter a massive conference hall. Why do they call it the "Assembly Hall"? It's clearly a conference room. Why not just call it that?
The hall was older than all the lower and middle floors. Its architecture was ancient. Tall, elegant columns supported the ceiling. Light streamed through two large arched windows, casting stark shadows and illumination across the stone floor. In the center, intricate patterns engraved the divine symbols of the Old Gods. Around this focal point stood several richly adorned chairs, arranged in a circle.
Once, all floors were built in this style. Now they're filled with offices. The top floor is the only thing preserved from the Old Network. The admins wanted it that way.
One by one, the admins appeared and took their seats. From left to right, each was older than the previous. I knew every one of their names and understood their nature better than anyone. They looked frightening and serious, but they were sheep in wolves' clothing. Cowards who depended on the Gods more than anyone else.
Among them, there was only one you had to be careful with. Administrator Melledon. He wasn't a sheep in wolf's clothing, nor a wolf in sheep's clothing. He was simply a wolf. He looked stern in his black suit with a red tie, but inside he was laughing with delight. What pleased him so much?
Suddenly, the oldest of the twelve admins began to speak.
"Gen857643. Operating under the name Awen Ovate."
"Correct."
The next one at the far end spoke.
"Archivist of branch SC."
"That's me."
"Previously of branch TK."
"You were there!"
"You have worked in more channels than all our archivists combined."
"Are we going to talk about things I already know?"
"You are currently assigned to moderator Gen25646… Gilles Sturluson."
"Is this how we're doing it? Because my shift ends in 13 billion years and..."
"Gen857643. Three hours, twelve minutes, and forty-five seconds ago, your moderator committed suicide."
Silence
"…this wimp!"