Chapter 2 - Next Assignment

"Fit for what?"

"𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭."

The void around us shimmered. The colliding galaxies below began to slow, their spiral arms freezing in a breath-taking sculpture of ultimate violence and beauty. Points of light—countless points of light—began to rise from the frozen scene. They weren't stars. They were… bubbles. Each one contained a flickering, cinematic scene.

I saw a knight kneeling in a rain-slicked courtyard. A star-ship pilot wrestling with a malfunctioning console. A young woman in a simple apron, pulling a loaf of bread from a clay oven. A dragon, coiled around a hoard of glittering treasure, its eye opening with intelligent malice. A thousand, a million lives, all happening at once.

"𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞," the being said, Its voice now a whisper that contained the roar of an exploding sun. "𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭. 𝐀 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐞. 𝐀 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐱, 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞."

It was all dawning on me with horrifying, exhilarating clarity. This wasn't Heaven. This was a casting office.

"You're… you're not God."

"𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐚 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫. 𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 '𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐤𝐚𝐢', 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭? 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝." 𝐈𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐛 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥. 𝐀𝐧 𝐚𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭."

The being—the Curator—extended a shadow-hand. In its palm swirled a dozen of the reality-bubbles, merging and splitting, showing glimpses of epic battles, quiet moments of sorrow, and breathtaking landscapes.

"𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞. 𝐀 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐝—𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧, 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮… 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 spark… 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐞."

It offered its hand closer.

"𝐒𝐨. 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞. 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞? 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲? 𝐒𝐜𝐢-𝐅𝐢? 𝐀 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞-𝐨𝐟-𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐚? 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞," 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬."

I looked from the being's hand to the infinite tapestry of worlds. My death wasn't an end. It was a cliff-hanger. And the next chapter was waiting to be written. But..."What's in it for you?" I asked firmly. From what the Curator had just said, souls that had completed their "story" were rare. Yet I was just an ordinary guy, living an ordinary life. People like me are literally the reason why the saying "a dime a dozen" exists. What could a God-like entity want me to do that, say, a politician or rebel or actor couldn't? People with experience, with rich lives, with a damned fucking better story than me. So again I asked.

"Why?"

I looked from the being's hand to the infinite tapestry of worlds. My death wasn't an end. It was a cliff-hanger. And the next chapter was waiting to be written.

But...

"What's in it for you?" I asked firmly.

The swirling galaxies beneath us seemed to pause in their silent, majestic dance. The Curator's shadow-outline remained perfectly still. The offer hung in the air, and I let it hang. From what the Curator had just said, souls that had completed their "story" were rare. Yet I was just an ordinary guy, living an ordinary life. People like me are literally the reason why the saying "a dime a dozen" exists. What could a God-like entity want me to do that, say, a politician or rebel or actor couldn't? People with experience, with rich lives, with a damned fucking better story than me.

So again I asked.

"Why?"

The silence stretched, not as an absence of sound, but as a presence. It was a heavy, listening silence. Then, a pulse of what I could only interpret as... respect... emanated from the Curator.

"A pertinent question. The first of many, I suspect. You are correct. A 'dime a dozen' is an apt, if crude, quantification for the common consciousness." The shadowy form gestured, and a million of the reality-bubbles around us shimmered with scenes of mundane lives, quiet deaths, and forgotten stories. "The multiverse is built upon them. They are the background characters, the set dressing, the necessary chorus."

Another gesture, and a handful of bubbles glowed with a fierce, brilliant light. I saw the politician mid-rally, moving thousands with his words. I saw the rebel taking a bullet for her cause. I saw the actor receiving a standing ovation. "These are the protagonists. The ones whose choices create seismic shifts in their narratives. They are valuable. Sought after."

The brilliant bubbles winked out, leaving me alone with the Curator's infinite, patient gaze.

"But you ask what I want. You speak of the richness of their stories. But you misunderstand the medium." The Curator's form flowed, condensing into something more focused, more intent. "I am not a collector of finished paintings. I am a connoisseur of blank canvases and the quality of the primer."

It drifted closer. "The politician? His canvas is already covered in the thick, stubborn paint of ambition and power. The rebel? Hers is stained with the indelible pigment of ideology. The actor? A layer of vanity and perception obscures the raw material. Their stories are rich, yes, but they are also... set. Their choices become predictable. Their paths narrow. They are masterworks in their own right, but they are finished."

The being's "hand" now hovered before me, not offering the bubbles of worlds, but instead, a single, faint image appeared within it: my reflection. Not the terrified face in the truck's windshield, but me, as I was moments before the impact. Head down, lost in a story, utterly ordinary.

"You. You are not a masterwork. You are potential. Your story was not rich, but it was open. You had no grand destiny, no overwhelming passion, no defining trauma. You were... unformed. A clean, primed canvas." The Curator's voice lost its cosmic echo, becoming almost intimate. "That is what is 'in it for me.' An operator with minimal baggage. A consciousness that has known the mundane, yearned for the extraordinary through fiction, but has not been hardened by it. You are adaptable. You possess the one thing those 'richer' souls have burned away in the forging of their own stories: plausible deniability."

"Deniability?" I echoed.

"You can be placed anywhere, in any role, and you will believe it. You can adapt because you are not already someone else. You can be a hero, a villain, a baker, a king, and you will not be fighting against the ghost of your past life as a prime minister. You will simply be. For the narratives that require a truly fresh perspective, for the worlds that need a catalyst that is not already poisoned by its own history... you are not a dime a dozen. You are a rarity."

The image of my face in its palm shifted, showing the moment of impact, the brief, pure terror before the end. "And you have one more quality. You have nothing to lose. You have already faced the end. The fear of mortality, the great limiter for all living things, is gone. You know the worst has already happened. And you are still here. That makes you... fearless. And fearlessness in a protagonist makes for a very, very interesting story."

The hand retracted, and the image faded.

"So. That is the transaction. I provide the stage, the context, the narrative potential. You provide the blank slate, the adaptability, and the courage of one who has already died. We will craft a story together. Does this satisfy your query?"

It did. It was terrifying, and egotistical, and somehow the most honest deal I'd ever been offered. I wasn't chosen because I was special. I was chosen because I was empty. And in that emptiness, I had the potential to become anything.

"Just out of curiosity, are there more of your kind? Will I be performing for you alone or an audience of cosmic horrors?"