"Just out of curiosity, are there more of your kind? Will I be performing for you alone or an audience of cosmic horrors?"
The sensation of amusement returned, a ripple that made the very starlight seem to shiver. "An audience of cosmic horrors," the Curator repeated, the phrase rolling around in the void as if it were a delightful new confection. "A melodramatic yet not entirely inaccurate turn of phrase. Yes, there are more. We are a... collective. A consortium. You might think of us as authors in a grand, eternal workshop, or perhaps critics at an infinite festival of narratives."
A new image bloomed in the space between us, not a bubble of a world, but a complex, shifting structure that looked like a neural network made of galaxies and shadow. Countless points of light, each one a consciousness like the Curator, were connected by threads of shimmering potential.
"I am but one curator of one sector of the multiverse. My colleagues oversee their own narratives, their own stable of protagonists. We observe, we trade notes, we occasionally wager on particularly intriguing storylines. We crave entertainment over all, but prefer not to muddy our hands personally. Instead, we seek our fun through lower dimensional means"
The image shifted to show two of the brilliant points of light focusing on a single, swirling reality-bubble. I saw a knight fighting a dragon, and felt a faint, distant sensation of appraisal, like two art critics leaning in to examine a brushstroke.
"Your performance, as you put it, will primarily be for me. I am your patron, your editor. Your success enhances my portfolio. Your failure is a data point for analysis. However, should your narrative prove particularly compelling—unpredictable, emotionally resonant, genre-defying—it may be syndicated. Others of my kind may observe. Your story could become... popular."
The way it said "popular" carried a weight that felt immense and terrifying. It wasn't about fame. It was about becoming a subject of study for entities whose very thoughts shaped realities.
"Does the idea of an audience unsettle you?" the Curator asked, its tone one of genuine, clinical curiosity.
"Wouldn't it unsettle you?" I shot back. "Knowing your every choice, your every moment of pain or triumph, is being watched and judged by things you can't comprehend?"
"No," it answered simply, without ego. "It is simply the nature of existence. All stories require a teller and a listener. The alternative is silence. Oblivion. The true death, where not even a memory of your story remains. Is a story told in a vacuum with no one to hear it truly a story at all? Here, you are guaranteed to be heard. Is that not a form of immortality?"
It had a point. A frightening, cosmic point, but a point nonetheless. To be forgotten was the final, true splattering of the self. This... this was something else.
"So it's not just you," I summarized. "It's a whole committee. And I'm your new... intern."
"Apt," the Curator pulsed with approval. "Now. Shall we discuss the benefits package?"
"Just before we do...You said preforming well will attract attention and-maybe, I don't know-sponsorship? But what if I do poorly? will you directly pull the plug and toss me into oblivion?"
"Perish the thought" the Curator dismissed my worry emotionlessly. "Once the show begins, even if we find it boring it worthless, we will merely shift out gaze to someplace more interesting. To interrupt an actor in his stride, no matter how lacklustre it may be, is unbecoming of any audience. That said, failing to at least keep a minimum amount of interest will cause your act to be a single one, where you will be stuck in your original world until you inevitably die. Or go mad. Or turn to stone with the ages. Whichever comes first."
"So if I do well enough, I can go through multiple worlds?"
The Curator pondered for a moment before answering. "Consider this one of your 'Infinite Flow' novels."
Before I could say anything else, the void shifted again. The tapestry of worlds and the neural network of Curators faded, replaced by two distinct, swirling vortexes of information. One glowed with a billion familiar icons: fantasy swords, sci-fi starships, cybernetic implants, magical runes. The other was a storm of pure, abstract potential—light, energy, mathematical concepts given form.
"The package is this," the Curator's voice was now clean, precise, like a contract being read. "The ability to pick any world or setting as well as any power system. The two do not have to be compatible."
The implication hung in the air, vast and staggering. It wasn't just about choosing to be a wizard in a high fantasy realm. It was about...
"Let me get this straight," I interrupted, my consciousness reeling from the possibilities. "I could choose a low-tech, post-apocalyptic wasteland as my setting... and graft the magic system from a high-fantasy epic onto it?"
"Yes."
"Or a hyper-advanced, galaxy-spanning civilization... powered entirely by... I don't know, chi cultivation and martial arts?"
"A popular, if often unstable, combination. The societal dissonance alone generates fascinating narrative friction."
"Or..." I said, the most absurd idea dawning on me, "I could pick a mundane, slice-of-life world exactly like my old one... but give myself the powers of a reality-warping god?"
For the first time, the Curator's steady, analytical presence wavered with a flicker of what felt like... immense interest. "Now you are thinking like a Curator. That particular choice is a profound test of character. The narrative tension between infinite power and a world built on powerlessness is... exquisite. It almost always ends in tragedy, enlightenment, or a terrifying blend of both. The data is priceless."
It was the ultimate power fantasy and the ultimate narrative experiment, all rolled into one. They weren't just giving me a role; they were giving me the tools to break the system, to create something utterly unique. My value wasn't just as a blank slate, but as a creative force. A designer of my own prison, my own paradise, my own lab.
"This is the real test, isn't it?" I said, understanding dawning. "The first choice. The setting and the power. It tells you everything about what kind of story I'm going to create. What kind of *person I really am*."
"The first and most revealing choice of many," the Curator confirmed. "Do you seek to dominate? To hide? To create? To destroy? To escape? To understand? Your selections will be a direct reflection of the unresolved desires of your terminated existence. We are not just giving you a world and a power. We are giving you a mirror."
The two vortexes floated before me, infinite and waiting. The power to combine any genre with any rule of magic or science. It was the ultimate act of creation.
The Curator's final words hung in the cosmic air, a soft challenge.
"So," it said. "What will your story be?"
"You won't judge me no matter what world I pick? Even if it's already a piece of fiction?"
"How can you tell we aren't in a piece of fiction right now" spoke the Curator with a hint of underlying humour. "Everything is subjective. Everything can be observed from a higher dimension. Even we dare not proclaim ourselves the pinnacle of existence, the sole 'Real World'
That...was actually quite terrifying. The most powerful thing I've ever met, which referred to two colliding universes as a mere "crib" for stories believed a higher being was directing It refreshed my mind once again on the concept of Chtullian horror. "Azatoth the Blind God- ahh moment" I muttered.
"Do I take that as you wanting to reincarnate in a H.P Lovecraft work?" the Curator asked kindly.
"No! Gods, no," I said quickly, the image of being devoured by something with too many teeth and not enough eyes flashing through my mind. "It just puts things in perspective. It makes my choice feel... smaller. And maybe a little less embarrassing."
"The concept of embarrassment is a social construct of your former vessel. It has no purchase here. Proceed."