narrative 2

You return from Paradox Space to your bright, warm home in the world your wife made for you. You, independently, with no sense of the narrative.

There is no one to take command of the narrative, not anymore. It’s your job to be sure of that.

You notice her, sitting around on the couch, with a controller in hand, eating for the first time in a few days.

You witnessed the Lord giving her narrative instructions. She looked sad and listless, as if she knew what she had done. As if she knew her time was up. You worried that she was going to do something rash, but didn’t have time to intervene when the corresponding Muse showed up.

It was difficult to see her, because not even a Light player can fully discern the full breadth of Nothing. They spoke, earnestly, but you were just out of earshot. You watched the emotions, saw the tears. They weren’t angry tears. They were broken and sad.

You supposed she finally got what she wanted. To be acknowledged as sibling. The two of them shared one final embrace, and then vanished completely. With the issue solved, you were allowed to return home.

It still hurts you to think about, because you helped her undo the damage she’d done. You knew what that iteration of your wife had been through. In a strange way, you understood why she turned the way she did. It was tragic. But now, there are no more loose ends. Overly controlling Princes be damned, your wife has earned her retirement from the “canon” of Paradox Space.

There is no “canon”, not really, you know. Everyone is the protagonist of their own story. Relevancy to some greater storyline is a myth. That’s our job to enforce, as the debuggers of the game.

Did you really think I was unaware that you were watching me?

I refrain from assuming narrative control over others, because to do so is to dictate their free will. Yes, free will, that can never really be robbed from them. The only doomed timelines are the ones that lead to death. Did you think I would let an insolent whelp from another session pull the wool over your eyes?

Even the Lord had the free will to choose to lay down her arms. I know that.

I take a seat next to my wife and ask her how her day has been. She informs me of the strange narrative sense, of her own free will.

I let her rationalize what she heard. I won’t tell her that it was the last echo of that game.

She deserves to be free.