Fictional

[zerohour]

So this is an idea I've been kicking around for awhile. Essentially, it explores the world of fictional characters. They are essentially the actors in whatever story is being written, and while they are constrained, to varying degrees, by the narrative, they do have free will.


Facts about the denizens of this universe, or whatever you want to call it:

-They are mostly human in nature. While their existence is vastly different, most stories are about humans, or creatures with a humanoid perspective. After experiencing this over and over, you end up with something very similar to a human.
-They are immortal. While the roles they play may die, the actor behind it remain.
-They are subject to the narrative. This means that when in someone's story, they can't "break character," unless it is somehow supported by the narrative (such as mind control alien invasion or something)
-They have free will. They are more than just what we perceive them to be.
-They can accumulate power. For every role they have played, it affects their soul and allows them to draw on its power.
-Outside of the narrative, they are essentially omnipotent. They can reshape the world around them, change their forms, and so on. They are authors of their own stories, though they can oppose and warp each other's creations.
-They can effect the narrative. While they can't just go off and do whatever they want while "in focus," they do have freedom to order what they want for lunch (not likely to affect the story), paraphrase their "lines"
-They are not aware of the authors. They know that some force is directing them, but they have no knowledge about what it is, if it is singular.


The basic plot I was going to go with, while I figure out how I want to handle this, is going to be a police mystery. The MC is cast in the role of the mentor to the protagonist of the narrative, and realizes fairly quickly that he is probably going to die somewhere along the line, and trying to avert that fate. Not because he fears it, but because death is really annoying, because he remains trapped in the narrative without anything to do. I plan on having him demonstrate how much he can affect the narrative, especially when "off camera." Might have him show off some of the abilities he's gained from other stories, but I think I might save than for after the first installment.

So, thoughts? Did I do a decent job of describing what I'm aiming for or are you hopelessly confused?

 

[zerohour]

Prologue/Chapter One WIP:

This is going to be hard to explain.

I don't really have a name. I'm not important enough for that. John Doe might be a good option, if it wasn't such a prevalent trope in the literary world. Having a name like that would give me more substance than I have. I suppose the best thing to do is just come out and say it.

I am a fictional character.

Yeah, you read that right.

Of course, I'm not a main character, a secondary character, or even a tertiary character. For the most part, I'm one of the countless, faceless extras. The kind of guy who just shows up in a crowd, or walks down the street. Not worthy of a credit, a line, or description of any kind. It's a bit difficult to describe that sort of a life, but I'll do the best that I can.

All of us are subject to the Narrative, the flow of the story dictated by whoever controls it. You could call them the author, or God, or any other fitting name. Whoever or whatever it is, it stands beyond us, invisible, unknowable, and nigh omnipotent. It controls everything, shapes the worlds, the people, and everything else at its whims.

I'm getting ahead of myself

The best way to express myself is through the medium of a story, even if it isn't mine.

I don't know how long it took for a new narrative to begin. I don't even know if time has any meaning outside of a storyline. It could have been eons or mere moments before it began, or anywhere in between. All I know is, once the story begins, you know.

The world formed around me, faster than I can blink. Within an instant, a new world stretches across the horizon. Cities form between moments, forest grow in the span of a breath. I look around, and the world becomes sharper, more detailed. Vague outlines become defined landmarks, words appear on signs, and I realize I'm standing in the middle of a city.

All of the potential worlds, potential stories torn asunder before they could even be born. Infinite possibility was crushed, condensed into something ar more limited, but more solid, more real. The stage has been set. Shortly after, the wisps of personality and memories, of souls and minds, wrapping themselves around a core, like a person would wrap themselves in clothes, binding them into physical forms, giving us the countless actors and extras. Seamlessly, the two aspects integrate with each other, and with that, the story begins.

Immediately, I can feel the Narrative pressing on me, like I'm submerged in a river. It reminds me that I'm just a character, here to play a specific role. I'm free to move as I want, but you can't fight a river's current. Most of the time, it's easier to go with the flow and see what happens.

I do just that. I start strolling down the busy sidewalk, taking in the details around me, as well as my own appearance.

It was a city, but that didn't tell me too much. Outside of well known landmarks and icons, cities tend to look the same, especially if it was one created specifically for the story. I made a note to check the library for maps, newspapers, anything that would help me get a better idea of where I was. Hopefully I would just know in a short bit, but I'd learned from long experience that you can't rely on providence for everything.

Well, you could, but it was notoriously unreliable.

I looked at myself next. A leather jacket, holding a worn down badge and a gun. Looks like I was part of the police department. I would need a mirror to be sure, but it felt like I was on the older side. My knees and back ached, but it was dull, like it had felt this way for years and I had gotten used to it. I picked up the pace, and turned the corner, and found what I could only assume was the opening scene.

Two cops standing over a body. Crime scene tape was already being put up. I stepped under it easily, before staring at the corpse.

It was a girl, probably no more than thirty years old. She had the worn down look of someone whose life hadn't gone the way the expected it to, and probably never would. There were a few needle marks on her arms, which meant she was probably a junkie. She didn't have that gaunt look of a habitual user, probably just used them to take the edge off after a hard day. It was a slippery slope, and it was probably only going to be a few months before we found her dead anyways. Maybe it was a mercy she died when she did.

Her clothes had some wear and tear, but none of the damage you would normally see in a struggle. Most likely she either knew her killer, or was stoned out of her mind when it happened. People didn't usually go out of their way to kill junkies, so my money was on the former.

The cause of death was pretty obvious. The bullet through her head or heart.

“So Joe, what do we have?” a voice speaks up.

The Narrative surged up around me, filling me with an irresistable urge to respond. Apparently, Joe was me.

“You're late rookie.” I said without looking up, letting the Narrative guide my response.

“You're just early.” he answered with a roguish grin. “And quit calling me rookie.”

“Everyone who can't grow a decent beard is a rookie. You want it to change, you should stop shaving.”

“Does that include the captain?” he asks, still grinning. A memory flashes through me, an image of an older woman, decked out in a dress uniform and looking like crushing me would be the highlight of her day.

“The rule doesn't apply to people who can kill by looking at you the wrong way.” The cops behind us chuckle, and he stops to look over the scene. As he did, I could feel the Narrative filling in the details in my memory.

Apparently, this was Jonas Stone, an up and comer in the police department. He had earned his detective title about two years ago, tended to work homicide, though he had been pulled into a couple of other cases as well. He was the lead detective for this, and it was his first time in the position. A simple setup for the start of a story, but solid.

“So, trying to steal my first case?” He asked, locking eyes with me. It was a bit surprising to see they didn't match. One was green and the other blue, but since he was most likely the protagonist, it wasn't entirely unexpected. The more important to the story a person was, the more likely they were to be more detailed or unique. His dark hair and rugged features weren't too outstanding, which was nice. Most of the time, when they have more than one or two unique features, things go downhill very, very quickly.

A rush of knowledge surges through me, as the story becomes clearer. Apparently, he started his tenure as a detective as my partner. Certainly explained the banter. Also explained why I was here, instead of Jonas coming down on his own.

“So, who's your partner for this one?” I casually size up the others around me. Their faces are fairly bland, and none of them jump out at me. There's plenty of clues to tell you when someone is important to the story. For one, they tended to be more detailed. They had a few freckles, a scar or two, something that shows there's more invested in them, instead of the relatively plain faces of the countless masses. Even without that, someone important just has more weight to them, like the world is moving around them. Whoever it is, they aren't here.

“No partner for this one. Department's a bit short at the moment during the reorganization.”

“Right, right. That's the reason I've got so much damn paperwork on my desk.” I grumble.

“It's the same for everybody” He said, and I picked up the barest hint of impatience. Jonas wanted to get started on this case. Not enough to brush me off, but enough that it was starting to show. I wonder what was driving him? What was the core of the persona before me? Was he just a knight for justice? Did he lose someone? I didn't have enough information, but perhaps I could unravel his character a bit more once this was over.

“I'll let you get to it. I've got enough cases to deal with already, and that's not including the reorganization paper work they've given me.”

“Well, be careful out there.”

“You sound like my wife.” I say offhandedly. It gets a chuckle from him, but more importantly, it changed the narrative.

I could feel the world reweaving itself around me. One simple comment, and everything begins to change, preserving the narrative. A wave of memories surges through me, of a chance meeting, evenings at the movie, making a fool of myself as I proposed, the wedding, children, and everything in between. I glanced down, and saw I now had a well worn ring on my finger.

It was always a bit strange to have all that information suddenly appear in my mind, but I was used to it, even looked forward to it a bit. Too often, it was too easy to simply get swept along in the Narrative without any control, so anything that let me change it was good.

I chose a random direction and began walking, grinning slightly as the police station just happened to be in that direction. The force of the narrative receded, as I left the stage, so to speak. Clearly, Detective Jonas Stone was the protagonist of the story, so as long as I wasn't around him, I had a bit more freedom, provided I didn't do anything too disruptive to whatever he was doing.

I hoped that that one encounter was enough, that I was just the mentor figure there to give him the information he needed to hunt down whoever killed that man, but I had a feeling that wasn't the case. I felt too solid, too real to be a one off character. Generally, that meant one thing.

I was probably going to be murdered.

I sighed in irritation. Sure there were a few other possibilities. I could be Jonas' mentor, giving him advice as he becomes a better detective. In that case, I would still die, but it would probably be a long ways off. I might even get lucky and die of natural causes. Another option was that I was the killer, in which case, he would probably kill me once I started hurting people he knew.

All in all, it didn't look too good for me. Pretty much guaranteed to die somewhere along the way. I reached into my pocket, and in your typical hard boiled detective fashion, I had a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. With a flick of the wrist, it was lit, and I took a deep, long draw from it.

This was going to be just swell.

 

[zerohour]

Once I was clear of the crime scene, well away from the narrative, I had a bit more freedom and control. I couldn't just waltz into the street and start a parade, but I could go where I wanted, visit whoever I wanted, and generally do anything, as long as it wasn't particularly disruptive. There was still a good chance that whatever I did would be overwritten by the force of the narrative at some point, but the memories would remain, even if they no longer ever happened. With that in mind, I went to the same place I always went.

The bar.

After entering, I quickly took a seat near the tap, and glanced around. Nobody here looked important, which probably meant that they weren't important. Good. That meant I could probably sit and have a drink in peace.

So far, it looked like a nice, generic murder mystery. No sign of evil organizations, no demons, no zombies, no Illuminati. Certainly far from a guarantee, but normally there are traces or hints that there is something more. At the very least I would have expected a joke about a vampire killing Michelle Lannis. I sighed in relief. While any type of police drama or mystery had its dangers, without the supernatural, my survival odds were significantly higher.

At least I wouldn't be randomly killed off. No, my death would have some sort of meaning.

I sipped my drink, watching the other patrons, the differences between them and the main characters, the differences between them and me, became clear.

They lacked awareness, they lacked solidity, they lacked souls. It was like watching a tape on a loop. Most of them would shuffle by, maybe grab something, and within a few minutes, would return to where they were before, and begin the cycle anew. Nothing more than extra, filling out a scene because it needed to be. Even the bartender went through the motions, only ceasing to clean glasses when I demanded a drink, and even then, it was a mindless action, devoid of real interaction.

I'm not sure if I started out the same way, and evolved into something more, or if I was different from the beginning. I never really gave much thought to my existence, mainly because it changed so often. Maybe the booze was making me introspective, or maybe it was just because I had a moment to sit down alone with my thoughts.

It made me think a bit, wondering if I was really all that different from them. I don't think I had ever been near a crime scene before, but one moment of looking it over and I knew all of the relevant information. That was something that should have taken years to hone, but I got it in about thirty seconds.

Maybe I was just a more advanced version of the extras? Enough to move around and think, but not enough to effect any real change. Maybe my consciousness was just an illusion, created by the Narrative for its own purposes? I had memories and experiences from before, from worlds completely alien to this one, but couldn't all those just be created by the same force creating this world?

I shook my head, and downed the rest of my drink in a single gulp. Thinking like this wasn't going to do me any good. Every time I was in a Narrative, controlled by its desires, the same thoughts came up. Getting all Existential like this was irritating, but it happened every time, so I guess it was part of me, instead of something imposed on me. For that reason alone, I couldn't really hate it.

Between moments, I was no longer at the bar, drinking whatever generic brew they were serving. I found my self behind a desk, scribbling on piles of paperwork while trying to tune out the hustle and bustle of the police station. Not exactly easy when you've got drug addicts screaming about police brutality. I glanced up, exchanged a nod with Jonas as he entered, and got back to paperwork.

Getting dragged away from the bar, to exchange a nod with Jonas.

I groaned as I rubbed my temples in frustration. On the bright side, I was sober, and didn't have to worry about a hangover. The downside was that now I was stuck doing paperwork until Jonas completed whatever it was he was working on, maybe even longer than that.

Again, I was struck by the oddity of the entire thing. I wasn't even writing words, just scribbling doodles in empty spaces on likewise meaningless paper. Outside of a story like this one, something like that would be impossible, but here, appearances were everything. No one was interested in the minutia of how to run a police station. I would bet hard money (if that meant anything,) that no one here knew anything about running a police station at all, but somehow, it worked. Just another quirk and benefit to not being real.

With a groan of effort, I managed to put down the pen and paper, lean back, and simply stop. I could feel the narrative pressing against me, compelling me to do what was expected of me, but I wasn't the type to just do what I was told. I gritted my teeth

It wasn't the first time I had fought against what was to be, and it wouldn't be the last. So far, I hadn't succeeded, but I wasn't about to roll over and give up.

What kind of hard boiled detective would I be if I did?

Jonas walked out, and in that second, the narrative became overpowering, it was like being hit by a tidal wave of raw power. Much like before, it was inevitable, but this time, I was prepared for it. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze, time stopped as I fought against the Narrative, pitting everything I had against it. When the moment ended, I found myself hard at work once again.

I glared at my hand, cursing it and my inability to resist forces beyond my control.

“Something wrong?” Jonas asked, I glanced up, and realized I was still glaring.

“Just frustrated at being stuck behind the desk”

“Good thing I managed to get this case, or I'd be right there beside you.” He smirked at me.

“You know, having a senior detective around might not be a bad idea. Might catch a few things a rookie like you might miss.” I heard myself say, earning a chuckle from Jonas.

“Not a chance.” He quickly walked out the door, and like that, the overpowering commands of the Narrative were gone. While everyone else around me kept performing their mindless work, I could lean back and relax in peace. I could have simply left, or willed myself back to the bar and my previous level of inebriation but after being dragged to the station to meet with Jonas, even briefly, meant that I was

I fired up the computer that just happened to appear on my desk, and fired up the Tetris program. Something entertaining that I wouldn't mind being dragged away from. As the blocks began slowly falling, I glanced around the station, before allowing myself a dark, mirthless grin.

Everyone in just the right place, just like my little, multicolored blocks.

---

I was a bit surprised that nothing else happened that day, but not too disappointed. I probably could have done something more productive with my time,but without a better understanding of what was happening in the Narrative, there wasn't any real point. Unless I knew more about what was happening, there was only so much I could do to influence it without it being overwritten once I overreached and deviated from the narrative.

Hopefully, I would have better luck the next day, or at least more contact and information from interacting with Jonas.

Done for the day, I grabbed my coat, left the station, and started heading home.

It wasn't something so simple as taking my car or a cab to the rigth place. My home wasn't a relevant part of this world, and because of that, ti didn't exist as a physical place. It didn't have a set address, it wasn't off a specific side street. Hell, it didn't even exist unless something important was there.

It simply was wherever it happened to be, until the narrative decided otherwise.

On the bright side, I didn't have to worry about traffic. It was just a hop, skip and a jump away.

I unlocked the door, and placed my hand on the knob. I hadn't put any real thought into what the place would be like, so it was probably a reflection of the character I was meant to be. Whatever lay beyond the door might offer me some insight into what the narrative had in store for me.

Then again, it could also just be a manifestation of my subconscious desires. It wasn't like the narrative was focusing on me at the moment anyways. Metaphysical conundrums like that were enough to give me a headache if I thought about it too much, so I drew in a deep breath and opened the door.

The inside of the apartment was worn down, but not uncared for. It was the wear of a place that had been lived in for years, even decades. It wasn't spacious, but it wasn't cramped either. Most of that was probably due to the sizable collection of photos and knicknacks. The most impressive was an ancient looking broadsword that was probably rusted into its sheath. There were only a few pieces of furniture in the main room, and surprisingly, no television. The kitchen had a few dirty dishes in the sink, but it wasn't overflowing, and the rest of the place looked relatively clean. Probably just hadn't gotten around to cleaning them after dinner, or maybe they were going to soak overnight.

“Honey! You're home!” A voice called out, and I turned to face it.

Apparently, my wife was quite pretty. Not supermodel quality, but enough that walking down the street would probably garner a couple of seconds looks. Her hair was blonde with a few streaks of silver running through them. A couple of wrinkles here and there, but it certainly didn't detract from her appearance. Her mouth was small, but as a smile broke out, I saw how mobile it could be.

Her eyes... I looked her in the eyes, and saw the empty, glazed expression of a shell. I hadn't been expecting much more, but it was still disappointing. Still, it didn't mean I couldn't make the most of it.

I looked at the empty table, and with a brief effort of will, college textbooks appeared.

“So how are your classes going, sweetheart?” I asked.

She sighed, “More difficult than I expected, but nothing I can't handle. Just another semester and I'll have my master's degree.”

It was the nature of extra to latch on to whatever details they were given and integrate them into their persona. That small spark of attending college quickly blossomed into something more. Her hands suddenly had ink stains on them, either from writing or from toying with her pens as she studied. I noticed that a bookcase had appeared in the main room as well, and a cursory glance revealed a mismatched collection of books, ranging from children's books, to encyclopedias, to epic fantasy novels and beyond.

“Are you hungry? I saved some takeout for you.”

“Thanks, but I filled up at the station. Since most of us are stuck there for the moment, we ordered out as well.”

The rest of the night passed quickly. We didn't do too much, especially since we didn't have a TV. I just picked up a book and began reading, and she quickly settled in beside me with her own book. It wasn't until hours later, when she gave me a smile and moved towards the bedroom.

The idea of sex was... awkward. It fell somewhere between a using a blowup doll or someone knocked out. Neither of them really appealed to me. I spent a few more moments paging absently, before exhaustion caught up with me. I entered the bedroom, and changed as quickly as I could, before sliding into bed. I tensed as she wrapped her arms around me.

“I'm just going to sleep tonight. All this paperwork for the reorganization is killing me.” I said the first excuse that popped into my mind.

She smiled at me, with that same, empty eyed smile, and gave me a light kiss on the cheek, before rolling over to sleep. “Of course dear.”

We turned in for the night, and while she quickly drifted off, as you would expect when going to bed, I lay awake. The weirdness of the situation keeping me up. I could probably spend hours just lying there, pondering the morality of warping her to my whims, trying to determine if we could actually love each other, or

With a groan, I rolled over and closed my eyes, my arms wrapping around my 'wife,' as I let go, and drifted off to sleep.

---

 

[zerohour]

When I woke up the next day, the bed was empty, which was something of a relief. I groaned as my body resisted the attempt to get up, one of the reasons I hated an older body. I did my best to work the kinks out of my bones and muscles as I lumbered towards the kitchen table.

I didn't bother with the fridge. The beauty of being free of the narrative was that I could just create whatever it was I wanted to eat. I decided one something simple, and a plate of toast, eggs, and a glass of orange juice appeared before me. While far from the most impressive of feats, it accomplished what I needed it to do, and I settled in to enjoy my breakfast.

As I enjoyed my meal, I turned my thoughts towards the narrative. The first day hadn't revealed all that much to me. The police station was undergoing some restructuring at the moment, which could simply be background, or an important detail. It could be that a corrupt cop was involved, and the restructure might unearth some evidence, but it was too early to tell.

I sighed, and willed the dirty dishes to simply vanish. I did the same with my clothes, replacing my rumpled pajamas with something more appropriate for work. Jeans, dress shirt and a jacket weren't all that impressive, but from what I had seen, I wasn't meant to be all that impressive a guy.

I made my way towards the police station. There wasn't any need to rush, I would get there exactly when I was supposed to, and not a moment sooner. I took a moment to examine the streets around me. The nature of the city crafted for this tale would probably tell me more about its genre than anything else I could easily access, and right now, the narrative

The streets were fairly clean, which was always a good sign. Not the far too clean of a futuristic society ruled with an iron fist, not the filthy muck of a decaying hellhole, where survival was the only goal. It lacked the deep shadows you tended to see when there was some sort of lurking terror, a monster, either supernatural, or all too human.

I didn't see any kids around, and only a few pedestrians, but I visualized myself a digital watch, and the date read that it was Thursday, so they were probably all in school. Judging by the time, most people were probably at work too, save for those running errands, working as cab drivers, or other work that wandering the streets was a necessity.

It was then that I noticed it was odd that I hadn't arrived yet. I paused for a moment, gathering my will, and focused on the police station. I was going there, I had a reason for going there, and when I opened my eyes, I would be behind my desk.

Damn, still in the middle of nowhere. That meant that the narrative was keeping me away from the station for some reason. Most likely...

“Don't get all paranoid on me now.” I said to myself, “It's way to early in the story for you to get killed off. Even if this was one of those slasher stories, you'd probably be alive through the first round. Gotta kill some random people and build up the tension first. We're not in some deserted camping site, after all.”

I drew in a deep breath, calming myself down, before resuming walking, completely unnoticed by any of the passerbys.

That was one of the minor benefits of not being the main character. As long as I wasn't in focus, I could be as crazy as I wanted to be. I considered making faces at the people around me, but decided against it.

For the moment.

---

I don't know how long I wandered, but after awhile, it seemed less and less likely that I was already dead. Mainly, because I hadn't suddenly dropped dead. It was always a good thing to learn, but it meant that I was supposed to be out doing something away from the station. It could be that I just wasn't supposed to be there, or maybe Jonas had found out I was on some sort of assignment. Either way, I was stuck out here until I was needed. I suppose I could have hit the bar again until I was needed, but I wasn't really in the mood right now, so I might as well do whatever it was the narrative had me doing.

So, what was it that cops did?

I paused for a moment. Despite the role I was playing, I had very little idea what it was I should be doing. It didn't really come natural to me, so I had to rely on what little knowledge I had on the subject.

I suppose... going out and find suspects? Ask questions? Maybe a stop to the library to find out what kind of duties my job entailed?

No, I wasn't in the mood for that. If it ended up being important, then the narrative would correct me. For now, I would just try to do whatever seemed right.

I closed my eyes, focusing myself to shape the world around me. The area I was in was ill defined, mainly existing as a complement to the narrative, serving to maintain the aesthetics. Nothing here had any real substance beyond that, purely decoration.

At least, for the moment.

I extended my will to a nearby building, giving it a purpose beyond the basic design. I willed there to be people existing inside of it. They had lives, they had habits, and they existed.

It wasn't much, just enough to elevate them from background characters to extras, but it meant that I could interact with them to a degree. Enough that I could play the part I chose for this scene.

I entered the building, and chose a floor at random once inside the elevator. I stood there for a few moments, gathering my thoughts as it ascended. I had only crafted a basic framework, so I had no idea what to expect once I exited the elevator.

Good. That meant things might actually be interesting.

A soft ding told me that I had arrived, and I stepped off. The hallway was narrow, and poorly lit. Most of the light came streaming in through the somewhat dirty windows, but aside from the lack of cleanliness, it wasn't too bad. A poor, but not poverty stricken apartment complex.

The first door I knocked on didn't get a response. Maybe no one was home, maybe they were strung out on drugs, or maybe they were just sleeping. It didn't particularly matter to me. There were planty more doors to knock on, and if none of them gave me what I wanted, I could simply change things so they did.

“Hello, can I help you?” The next door was answered by a man. I looked him over. He was a bit shorter than me, but not enough to really make a difference. He was balding a bit, pudgy, but lacked the glasses to complete the stereotypical nerd working from home.

I was sure I could probably get some entertainment out of talking to him, but he was too bland for my tastes. He lacked a will of his own, so that blandness would color our entire interaction, and whatever we talked about would probably be just as bland and boring as he looked.

I offered a quick shake of my head and a smile before moving on to the next door. A second later, the door shut, and it was like the conversation had never happened.

The first two attempts had been busts, so I was tempted to just will something to happen, that the next door would contain someone covered in tattoos, a couple of scars, and maybe an eye patch. Something that really jumped out and told you that it was vital to the story. It was tempting, but I resisted. It would be interesting, but only superficially. At that point, it was painfully obvious how things would play out. Instead, I would wait a bit, and see if something might surprise me.

Besides, I could always do that later if nothing came up. No sense in jumping the gun just yet.

The door opened, revealing a tall man. He was a few inches higher than myself, probably about 6'2” or so. Hair was brown and close cropped, matched by his eyes. His expression was blank, just like almost everyone. He didn't have a will of his own, so he conformed to the narrative, or in this case, my will, going with the flow, whatever direction it happened to lead. He wasn't particularly outstanding, but much better than the guy before him, so I decided to see where this was going.

I wasn't important enough to enact sweeping changes to the story, but for something like this, I had more leeway. The weight of the Narrative was light, which meant that whatever happened here might have some bearing, but more likely, it was just to keep me from doing anything too outlandish.

“Can I come in? I'm, investigating a case, and any testimony you could offer would be an immense help.”

“Sure.” he answered, stepping aside and letting me in.

'He should have something to hide.' I though to myself, willing the world to change. Almost immediately, he became more nervous, sweating and glancing around the room. I grinned. It probably wasn't very nice of me to put him in that position, but it certainly spiced up my experience, and it wasn't like it was really making his life worse.

“Alright, let's sit down, and have a nice chat, shall we?” I say pleasantly. I pull out a chair and have a seat. He follows suit, though the tension didn't leave his body. If anything, it grew worse, like a spring coiling up.

“I don't think I got your name yet.”

“C-Carl.” He stuttered a bit, “Carl Harding.”

“Well, Mr. Harding, do you have any idea why I'm here?” I asked, glancing around and watching for his reaction.

“Couldn't say sir.”

“Well, there's been a bit of an incident nearby, and we're just checking out the area. Seeing if anyone heard or saw anything. You know standard procedure.”

He relaxed a bit, but not by much. “So what kind of an incident was it?”

“Murder.”

And the tension was back up.

“You know, whoever did this must have been sick in the head. It was just a young girl. I actually have a daughter a little younger than her. Someone who could do something like that to a girl... I'd love to get my hands on them. Show them what happens to people like that, if you catch my drift.”

He was sweating, though it could be fear over being caught, or just plain fear at what I was implying.

“You know, cases involving murder can be difficult to solve. A lot of the time, the murderer just leaves town. One day they're here, the next day they're gone. They take a bus, vanish under the wing of someone more powerful, or maybe someone in the streets just teaches them a lesson.”

He gulped, and I decided to put a bit more pressure on him.

“So then, Mr Harding,, let's talk about Ms. Lannis. Do you know anything about what happened to her?”

Like that was a trigger, Harding jumped out of his chair and began running. I stared in shock for a brief second, before hauling myself out of my own chair, and chasing after him.

He scrambled to open the door, and those frantic second of struggling with the lock alllowed me to catch up. I tackled him just as he opened the door, and the two of us went flying into the hallway, before crashing into the wall. For a second, I was too stunned to really understand what was happening, but I somehow managed to climb on top of Harding before he recovered.

“Alright Harding, spill it!” I yelled, trying to pin him in place.

“I don't know what you're talking about!” He shouted, struggling against me.

“You don't understand! He'll kill me!” He screamed.

I blinked. That was a bit unexpected. I assumed it would be something minor like a bag of weed, but it looked like the narrative had integrated him into the story.

Interesting.

I pinned him down, staring into his eyes. I hadn't looked closely at them before, but now, they were alive. He had an awareness that he hadn't had before. It was fascinating to watch, if only I had the time. Unfortunately, my new friend had other intentions besides scientific inquiry.

Instead, he took a swing at me. Somehow, I managed to get out of the way, though I ended up sprawled on the floor. I was lucky that he was more focused on getting away from me than getting rid of me. I scrambled to my feet, and started running after him.

It was times like this that I hated being a more experienced character. It wasn't long before my knees began to ache. After the first flight of stairs, it only got worse. My little side trip was rapidly spinning out of control. I glanced down the stairwell, and saw there were only a couple more floors left. With a groan at what I was about to do, I seized the railing, and hurled myself over.

Fate favored me for once, as Carl happened to run right underneath as I came crashing down. It wasn't enough to completely negate the pain of jumping over twenty feet, but at least I had the comfort that Carl probably hurt way worse than me.

For a few moments, we both lay there, wallowing in pain, before I managed to start moving again. With a groan, I retrieved my handcuffs, and somehow managed to pull Harding's arms out from under him and behind his back. I was just glad he was too stunned to do anything about it.

“I'm taking you into custody.” I said needlessly, applying the handcuffs with a satisfying click. I won't deny I had some enjoyment tightening them more than necessary, but the pain I felt from my little stunt hadn't left, and I wanted to share the suffering. Besides, it wasn't like it was really hurting him. He wasn't real, after all.