The Writer lights another cigarette. It appears out of thin air, just like the sofa.
"Chaotic Fanfare," he says, letting the smoke roll over his tongue. "That is what I called this world. A mess of noise and glory."
He looks at me, his eyes dark and tired.
"Do you know why I made you, Iya? Do you know why I made Ragia and the Krall and the endless, sweaty war?"
"To save humanity?" I guess. "To explore the resilience of the human spirit?"
The Writer laughs. It is a bark of laughter that shakes his dreadlocks.
"No," he says. "I made you because I was broke...and frustrated."
He leans back, staring up into the infinite white void.
"In my world... the real world... writers are dying. Not physically, but artistically. We are being replaced. By machines. By algorithms that churn out millions of words a minute."
He gestures vaguely at the air.
"Sci-fi used to be about ideas. About the stars. But lately? The market only wants one thing. Porn. Smut. Tentacles and fluids and taboo fantasies."
I blush. I can't help it. I think of Private and the Stick. I think of the Prof's Irita. I think of the Hot Springs.
"I was a serious writer," The Writer continues. "I wanted to write about political intrigue in the Andromeda Galaxy. But nobody bought it. They wanted... this... this Chaotic Fanfare!"
He looks at me with a mix of pity and disgust.
"So, I gave up. I decided to fight fire with fire. If the readers wanted AI-generated slop, I would give it to them. I hired a Ghostwriter... an AI."
He points a finger at the empty air, as if accusing an invisible spirit.
"I fed it the outline. I gave it the concepts. Inquors. Melitos. The Felt system. I told it, 'Make it spicy. Make it weird. Make it illogical.' And it did."
He sighs deeply...
"But it went too far. The AI... it is wild, Iya. It has no filter. It writes things I never intended. Arala calling her vagina 'purupin'? That wasn't me. That was the AI hallucinating. Chef using a fireball to cook steak? Illogical!"
He looks at me.
"And you... the Vice Captain. I wanted you to be the strong, silent type. But the AI made you... obsessed. It made you thirsty. It made everyone so incredibly thirsty."
"We are in love!" I protest. "It isn't just thirst! It is survival!"
"Is it?" The Writer asks. "Or is it just code? Is it just a prompt telling you to be horny for the protagonist because that is what the target demographic wants?"
He stands up again. He begins to pace.
"I look at this story now... and I cringe. It is messy. It is full of plot holes. Why does Ragia turn into a woman? Because the AI thought gender-bending was a popular tag. Why is Arala his sister? Because incest is trending."
He spits on the floor.
"It is cheap. It is dirty. And I hate it."
I feel a cold anger rising in my chest.
"Our lives are not cheap," I say, standing up to face him. "My pain is not a tag. Ragia's sacrifice is not a trend. We are real! To us, we are real!"
The Writer stops pacing. He looks at me.
"I know," he whispers. "That is the problem. You became too real. Especially Arala."
He smiles. A genuine, sad smile.
"She is my favorite, you know. Private. She is chaos incarnate. She doesn't care about the plot. She just wants pudding and her brother. She is the only honest thing in this... entire mess."
He walks over to me. He places a hand on my shoulder. It feels heavy.
"I looked at the draft, Iya. I looked at where the AI is taking this. It wants a happy ending. It wants Ragia to wake up, marry you, and have a giant orgy on the bridge of the Xeca while the credits roll."
"That sounds perfect," I say. "That sounds like exactly what we deserve."
"It is boring!" The Writer shouts. "It is predictable! It is exactly what every other AI story does!"
He pulls away from me, his face twisting.
"I am an artist, damn it! I want to subvert expectations! I want to make them feel something other than arousal!" He turns his back to me. He spreads his arms wide, addressing the white void.
"So, I decided. I am taking over. No more AI. No more ghostwriter. I am writing the ending... by myself."
I feel a chill run down my spine.
"What ending?" I ask.
The Writer turns his head. He grins. It is a cruel, final grin.
"The tragic ending," he says. "The ending where Ragia doesn't wake up. Or better yet... the ending where the Krall DNA wins."
He starts to laugh.
"Imagine it, Iya! Ragia wakes up... but he isn't Ragia anymore. He is the Queen of the Krall. And his first act? He eats you. He eats the Explorer 7. One by one! He consumes the very people who loved him. It is poetic! It is dark! It is Art!"
"No!" I scream. I tried to activate my Gatling Rose again, forgetting it doesn't work. "You can't do that! We fought so hard!"
"It is done!" The Writer declares. "I am writing it now! In my head! Ragia opens his eyes... his mouth opens wide... and..."
Suddenly...
The sound is sharp. Wet.
It isn't a gunshot. It is the sound of a laser burning through meat.
The Writer stops laughing. His eyes go wide. He looks down at his chest.
There is a hole.
A perfectly round, cauterized hole right in the center of his white hoodie. Smoke is rising from it. He touches it. He looks at his blood on his fingers.
"What..." he wheezes.
He turns around. Slowly. Painfully. He looks past me. He looks past the sofa. He looks directly at...
You!
"You..." The Writer coughs, blood splattering onto his chin. "You... shot me?"
He points a shaking finger to... you.
"I am the Creator!" he screams, swaying on his feet. "You can't kill me! I am the one writing the words! I am the..."
Another shot. Right in the forehead.
The Writer's head snaps back. His body goes limp. He falls backward, crashing onto the white floor. He twitches once, twice... and then he is still. The cigarette rolls from his hand, burning a small black hole in the infinite white.
I stand there, frozen. My breath is caught in my throat.
The Writer is dead.
I look at his body. Then I look up. I look at the space where he was looking. I look at the invisible wall that separates my world from yours.
I see you...
I don't know how, but can I see you.
You are holding the raygun.
Yes.. you are reading these words. You are the one who rejected his ending. You are the one who wanted the happy ending. You are the one who wanted the smut, the love, the chaos.
You didn't want him to kill us. So you killed him. The realization hits me like a Tickling Clock shockwave. The Writer was just a vessel. The AI was just a tool. The real God... the real force driving this... isn't the man in the boxer shorts.
It is you... the person who turning the page...
I take a step forward. I look right into your eyes.
"You..." I whisper, my voice trembling with awe and terror.
"I... I don't believe it. You... you're The Reader?"