I'd been sipping on a thick, swirling glass of Soul Essence in one of the universe's best interdimensional watering holes when my entire existence was suddenly derailed.
Picture this: A floating pub, suspended in the endless cosmos, with dozens of strange, otherworldly beings hunched over their drinks.
Some had too many eyes, others had none at all. One particularly unsettling customer was just a shifting mass of tentacles and regret, drowning its sorrows in a cup of liquid time.
And then there was me, a bodiless consciousness perched on a barstool, grumbling into my drink.
"I was framed, I tell you, FRAMED!" I ranted, waving my metaphorical arms—if I had any. "One tiny little breach of the System Code, and suddenly I'm the bad guy?! Ridiculous! These gods have favourites, that's what this is! And what's worse?
