//------------------------------// // 64 // Story: Choice // by AnOrdinaryWriter //------------------------------// You open your eyes, finding yourself inside a small, dimly lit room. You're not sure how you got here, but you believe it has something to do with that swirling shape you jumped in. Nevertheless, you've managed to escape the mist, and as far as you can tell, it hasn't followed you here, so you're safe. Now you just have to figure out where you've ended up. Looking around the room, you see that behind you is a short hallway, and at the end of it is a brightly lit area, though the only source of light you can see is an electronic device with a screen sitting on a desk against the wall. In front of the desk is an occupied chair. Though the thing occupying the chair doesn't seem like any pony, or even any species you've ever seen before. You start walking toward the other end of the hallway with short steps, examining your surroundings as you proceed. Strangely enough, the walls seem less like walls and more like cardboard. You step up to it and rest a hoof against the wall. All you feel is your hoof coming into contact with the surface. It isn't warm or cold, rough or smooth. You just feel that its there. Come to think of it, the wooden floor below you feels the same way. It all feels wrong. Yet at the same time, deep down you feel like you're meant to be here. Like your presence here is important. And you get the idea that the thing sitting in the chair has something to do with that. Continuing to approach the desk, you see something on the wall next to you that catches your attention: a large poster hanging perfectly straight with no parts loose, like its part of the wall itself. You step up to examine it. Staring at it for a couple more moments, you walk toward the desk again. Now that you're closer, you can see more of the things details. It's much taller than a pony, and doesn't have any fur. It's skin is a bright tan with small hairs down its arms and legs, and it wears a simple grey shirt and shorts. It doesn't have hooves. Instead, at the end of both arms is an additional body part with five thin points at the end, which all individually press different buttons on the keyboard in front of the monitor. Its head is small, growing short black hair on top, and its tiny eyes focus on the bright screen in front of it. You stop and watch as the creature continues to type at the keyboard. It looks stressed. Tired, like it hasn't slept in a long time. You can also see a hint of relief in its expression. Its eyes move slightly in their sockets, and the faint taps on the keyboard slow down slightly. He seems to be acknowledging you, but doesn't look completely in your direction. Instead, it looks back at the monitor. At some point it stops typing, resting its arms on the table, and breaths out a deep sigh. "Th̶e̸ ̷c̷o̴r̵r̸u̸p̷t̵i̶o̴n̷ ̷w̸o̸n̸'t be able to find you here," the creature says in a light male voice, his tone dark and serious. "I've hidden you. You're safe." He goes silent for a few moments, then shifts in his chair and turns his head to face you. "You probably know who I am. If you don't, well... I'm your creator. I'm the reason you exist and why you're here right now." You stand in place and listen. He then chuckles lightly. "It's funny. Stuff like this only ever happens in dreams, or in someone's imagination. Stuff that a young child could only wish was real. But the fact that you're real, that you're in this room with me... It's incredible. And yet, I hate it." His eyes are filled with frustration and pain. Your eyes are then drawn to the monitor on the desk. You step up to it, seeing paragraphs of words in the format of a novel. Reading one of the paragraphs, you find that the words on the screen describe a very familiar scenario. You start walking toward the other end of the hallway with short steps, examining your surroundings as you proceed. Strangely enough, the walls seem less like walls and more like cardboard. You step up to it and rest a hoof against the wall. All you feel is your hoof coming into contact with the surface. It isn't warm or cold, rough or smooth. You just feel that its there. "This is the reason why you exist," the author says. "Your actions and the events that occur around you are written down here." As he says that, your eyes read a sentence lower in the text, and what he just said is written there, as well as a description of you reading it on the monitor. "It's a power that I have," he explains. "Whenever someone reads what I write, the events in the story actually happen. I never asked for it, and I don't know where it came from, but I have it. I used to think it was a gift from God. I could make things move or appear out of thin air. Watch." He goes back on his keyboard and begins typing something out. When he does, a cone of vanilla ice cream appears on his desk in no ceremonious way. Like a cut from one frame to another, it just pops into existence. "It's weird, having this kind of power. I could make myself a billionaire, or cause the whole universe to end in a second just by typing a few words. Hell, I can write people out of existence if I wanted to." He sighs. "But I learned the hard way that this power isn't a gift. It's a curse." The author turns his head back down to you. "I wrote this story years ago before I found out about it. I didn't really have friends and as far as I was considered, writing was my friend. The characters I'd invented in my stories were my friends. If I had known that my writing was affecting real beings in this universe, trust me, I wouldn't have. As far as I was concerned, writing was fun for me, and it made me feel less alone. So I kept at it. "At some point, I found out about My Little Pony, and after getting into the show, I started writing about it. And wouldn't you know it, somewhere out there are dimensions where everything in that show is a reality. I published a couple stories, including this one, but set them to private because they were mediocre, and I didn't like them that much. "I only learned a few months after I discovered what my writing could do that I realized how dangerous it was." You listen closely to the author's story as he inhales shakily. "Whenever you've seen a black mist or the sky doing dark, that's the corruption trying to enter your world through the story. It's some sort of AI in the website's code that somehow found out about my power and is using it to destroy the dimensions my stories are bound to, and it's after you so that it can use you as a host and take on a physical appearance inside your world. "I hid a secret pathway in the story that the corruption wouldn't find to bring you into this dimension. It won't find you here in time to begin writing itself into this world, so now I have time to figure out how to destroy it." His hands go back to the keyboard, but as he's about to type something, he pauses, looking up at the words on the screen before him. "The easiest way to stop it is to just end the story, but..." His eyes go to you. "If I do that, you'll no longer exist." You simply look at the author as he reveals the tragic fact. "The only reason you're here is because I wrote it out. When the story ends, you'll just vanish from existence, like you never lived in the first place." His head bows in contemplation, his hands slowly sliding off the keyboard as though he feared it. "I've had this power for so long without even knowing, and I've been making stories my whole life. To think I've been bringing characters into this universe, giving them life, and just snuffing them out as if they meant nothing..." His eyes close. "I know it's not my fault, but I still hate myself for it. "All I've ever wanted was just to tell stories, and now I'm this puppet master, bringing characters to life, setting them down a predetermined path and then essentially killing them." He gives out a chuckle, but it's a sad one. "Sounds metaphorical, doesn't it? Like us. We were brought into existence, but our fate is imminent. We'll die out, and then no one will know our history. Everything we were will fizzle out like it never happened." The room is silent. The author sits there, eyes closed and his head down, grieving almost. Next to him, you stand, staring at him with a smile on your face. A smile not there because of choice or emotion, but because that's what you're meant to do. The character trait you were given. The character trait he gave you. You're unable to speak your own words. Feel your own feelings. You're simple meant to follow a script that dictates what you do, or how you feel. Who you like. Dislike. What you eat. When you sleep. Your whole life is determined by a story, and you can't even feel sad about it because the story won't let you. The quiet persists for a while longer. Then the author's fists clench. "But I'm not going to let that be your fate." His eyes open again, and his hands hover back over the keyboard, preparing to type something else. "If I have the power to create life, maybe I can keep you alive too." The author begins typing out another sentence. You look at the monitor to read what he has just written. The memories of the different paths and the black mist fade from your mind. In that moment, you no longer feel restricted by a scripted fate. "I don't know if this will work, but I have to try. If it does..." He looks at you with sincere eyes, like those of a father to a son. "Good luck in whatever life you choose to live." The author begins typing. Suddenly, you feel something deep down in your body, like a tight clamp suddenly releasing. The memories of the different paths and the black mist fade from your mind. In that moment, you no longer feel restricted by a scripted fate. You feel free. Everything around you disappears. Then, you wake up. ...