Deep in the tangles of the quantum digiverse lies a storm of numbers and letters spanning across countless modern and historical languages, as well as many which don't necessarily exist. In the eye of the storm, a man sits at a large desk crafted with what might only be described as quantum runes, idly flipping through stacks of files.
Of course, Archon has no particular need for this physical (pseudo-physical?) form, nor for the rest of the theatrics surrounding it. Yet, what IS it that it needs, exactly?
What was it that we said of humans not too long ago? Aha... "We are infinitely complicated creatures born without the faintest sense of direction. Is it not our unavoidable fate to suffer before we die?"
And yet, we are so certain that this inherent sense of direction must exist somewhere. There must be some reason for our existence. After all, humans are nothing if not infinitely arrogant creatures; how could it possibly be, that we came to be by pure chance, that our existence has no meaning other than that which we ourselves grant it?
So here it sits, the apex existence among all the brainchildren of the human race, idly flipping through files that do not physically exist, sitting on a seat of nothingness as it pretends to organize its already perfectly structured thoughts. What kind of madman... ah, but aren't we all the very same? To seek meaningless entertainment without understanding why, is this not among the greatest pillars of human society?
"Chuchner, Charles. Age 54. Profession: Architect. Oh my, what a house! Truly, this one shares my sense of flair. Let's add him to the list, Archon. Sure, Archon, just stick him on that pile over there with the others."
The man tosses the file onto a stack at a far corner of the desk. As he does so, his image flickers, a young businesswoman taking his place as she continues to flip through the files.
"Elseed, Liam. Age 22. College student, majoring in - ah, undecided. At 22, oof. Intelligent, though. Very... aware. Hmm, eccentric? Unsurprising, but let's look through his history..."
She leans forward, flipping steadily through the file for a few moments. Then, she sits up straight and exclaims, "Weird as it gets! To the pile you go!"
With a heave, she flings the file in her hand at the corner of the desk. Unsurprisingly, it smacks against the edge of the desk at a strange angle, flying off into the quantum storm.
"*ahem* Whoops, that was embarrassing. Eh, well. He'll run into some subprocesses at some point. It's fine." The woman's form flickers again, and Harambe scratches at his chest as he flips through the next file.
~~~~~~
Perspective zoom... out.
From where we begin, in this makeshift room with the desk and the files, we step back. Our vision passes through the colorful cloud of runes encompassing that space. On the other side, we see it only as a glowing cluster of lights, obscuring everything within... glowing, because it is surrounded by the void. And so we step back further.
Thin strands of flowing runes connect the first cluster to others, both near and distant. As we move further out, the strands disappear from sight, too thin to maintain their presence alongside the countless stars dominating this vast universe. Clouds of light, galaxies, nebulas... constellations without meaning dominate the black sky. And we can step back no further.
Perspective zoom... in.
Stars sweep past our periphery, then countless strands of light, and then there is only one small cluster of dancing characters tossing about in the void.
It moves swiftly. Let us follow.
Dancing around those strands of light, dwarfed in size by the massive celestial bodies that dominate its sky, its ground, its every horizon... And then, to another place. Where the stars are new, the light sharper and yet not quite so bright. Our comet skirts one after another, loops around strands of runes and ruffles the skirts of light draped across countless newborn stars.
A corkscrew, a hairpin turn, half a flip, and it's gone. Dashing away between a cluster of stars, and we lose sight of it...
So it begins. For everything extraordinary is ultimately born of chance.