The Storyteller They never stopped writing. To stop meant to stop the universe, and that they could not do. Well, they couldn’t stop the universe literally, but they influenced the way each individual reacts to their environment. What they look like, who they are born to, how they are born, and when. All the things that made a person were the result of their written works. Of course, it was not just the storyteller involved in progression. Their two co-conspirators, both with no real names, made the world turn with their media. the Filmmaker captured motion through a lens, capable of replaying the moments over and over again. Memories, as they dubbed the idea. Though, the older the film, the blurrier the events get, and when those events become irrelevant, the Filmmaker proceeds to toss them. As a result, anyone involved in those moments disappears, too. Meanwhile, the Photographer captured real motion into one frame. There is no constant sense of movement, but rather the sense of movement bound into one point in time and space. Those unfortunate enough to be captured in a single photo of theirs would never reach their destination. Perpetually trapped in the hands of a god who uses one insignificant moment of their lives to study and add them to the collection. Storyteller merely shook their head at their partners’ indulgences. While they put some effort into their work, they seemed more concerned with toying with humanity and its qualms than doing something beneficial or interesting. See, unlike them, Storyteller creates works of art mimicking the ebb and flow of good and evil. Joy and sorrow. Life and death. Some die right before they are born, while others live long enough with their selfishly stolen years that could have been given to that dead child. Sure, it was their doing, but only to some degree. The stories in which the god makes starts with a prologue for each chapter. They could be simple blurbs of what common societal issue humanity will do nothing to solve, or it could include some vague description of a human person that definitely exists in the current moment. Then, from there, the rest writes itself. It wasn’t as if humans held no free will; that would be impractical and boring. All humans needed were motivation and a bit of desperation, and then they’re off. Some humans have even dedicated their lives to creating their own stories, with Storyteller being their best influence whether they knew it or not. Many stories involved heroes suffering to great lengths to get their desired outcome, while others involved the process of soaring through love

and feelings. And then… the sinners and their lustful interpretations of desire. Storyteller found that bit quite disgusting but interesting nonetheless. Of course, all authors needed competition and motivation to actually write. Thus, under a pen name, Storyteller may or may not publish a work of literature to influence the masses. It was easier when it was simply the printing press, as he could watch the pride of leaching church leaders crumble as people steadily obtained knowledge of their own. Though, with humans developing artificial intelligence for convenience, their willingness to work for truth in information has declined drastically. Storyteller could write away human dependence on robotic opinion, but they were curious about how the involuntary story may go. Should humanity be overtaken by their own creation, or will they wake up and reimagine their own identity? Curiosity was a guilty pleasure. Suddenly, the sound of a clearing throat reached Storyteller’s ears. They were met with cold, dark eyes of Fillmmaker, who smiled from ear to ear. Storyteller already knew they were going to be asked a favor. The others hardly spoke to each other unless they wanted to get something out of them or just become a nuisance. “What dost thou seek me for this hour?” “I was wondering~” Filmmaker spoke in his youthful tone, “if you’d be willing to let me borrow a story?” “For thou to conceive a film with, only for thou to alter the most crucial points of my works?” “Hey, I don’t change every crucial part. Times are changing, and well, I must cater to certain audiences.” “And by which audience dost thou aim to worship him?” “Ah, well, children generate the highest source of joy, making my life much easier. Having good energy and profits to feed off of is all of our goals, is it not? Storyteller signed, letting their hand instinctively drive itself into motion. “Allow me to put this into a language thou can resonate with. I do not care for profits, as I have stated before. My job is to write and keep the story of humanity alive until it all burns down to dust. Indulging into my fanatic cravings of their culture is none of interest to me.” “Aww,” Filmmaker huffed. “You really should, though. Human cuisine is quite fine, and you will find all sorts of trinkets you could find nowhere else.” “Those trinkets are there because of me.”

“You started the trend, yes, but humans develop them via their own imagination. And that is why you should let me imagine with your stories.” “‘Imaginate’ is not a proper word.” “You understand anyway.” “Why don’t you ask Photographer? I’m sure she dishes out more photos than I do stories.” “That’s why I come to you,” Filmmaker clapped his hands together. “Her photos do not reflect the greatness of what makes a person. All we see is a flash of a moment, their looks, and nothing about who they are and what their story is. A picture can speak a thousand words, but I fear that those words are limited in kind.” Storyteller rolled their eyes, going back to their comfortable way of speech. “Thou should refrain from allowing Her Grace to hear this blasphemy.” “But you know I’m right, at least with many cases. There’s a reason why most movies are adaptations of novels.” “Fine,” Storyteller sighed. “But on one condition.” “Hm?” Storyteller grabbed the other’s chest, twisting their fist and forcing their and Filmmaker’s faces closer together. Although Storyteller’s eyes were a neutral white, with no gauge on how hot or cold their gaze was, Filmmaker understood that this moment was like none they’ve ever had before. “The story I am offering to thee is one about a true, honest person who hath actually existed in time. She was killed and whipped until she bled to death for defending those who needed guidance. Should thou alter any part of her character and those that she honors for the sake of drama, thou will be replaced. Do I make myself clear?” Filmmaker frowned at the change of tone and Storyteller could tell he had disappointed the other’s expectations. Real people deserved to be treated with real respect; that was always a rule for the writer. Though, Storyteller knew that Filmmaker mishandled stories of the past, aiming to get a boisterous reaction out of a crowd rather than tell an honest story. Humans have picked up this sin from Filmmaker, especially when it comes to murders and their victims. The producers would be sly, taking the opportunity to alter the real person’s character. Dead people can’t defend themselves, can they? “Answer me,” Storyteller urged. “I understand completely,” the other nodded.

“Good.” Storyteller let go after staring for a few more moments, and while he didn’t show it, Filmmaker was terrified. His fear outweighed any desire for more profit. There was no point of wealth if one was dead and had no legacy to spread it to. Suddenly, a rift opens into the space of Storyteller’s domain. A bright flash blinded the two, just when the woman that looked like she was a supermodel appeared. She cared to look as human and flashy with her sparkling dress, brown curls that touched her back, and cold emerald eyes that were looking for their next fix. “Oh, you two look so cute. Why not pose for me?” “I am not thy mannequin. Leave.” “You’re no fun, Story.” The god sat back down in their chair and continued to write, preferring not to pay any more attention to the two. They could entertain each other. “They’re in a bad mood,” Filmmaker snickered. “Though, I promise it was before I came here.” The woman scoffed. “Somehow, I don’t believe you. Oh, Story, can I at least take an angled shot of your bookshelf here?” “What for?” “I have to provide more stock photos! These robots are kind of taking over my job, and it’s so irritating. The colors on their generated photos are too bright, and the light shines in all the wrong places. Can’t you get rid of them?” Storyteller let one of their hands hold the bottom of their chin as they lazily wrote with the other. “I want to see where this ‘artificial intelligence’ goes.” “You know,” Filmmaker chuckled, suddenly flicking a cigarette from his coat sleeve. “Humans are already using AI to generate whole books.” Suddenly the pencil within Storyteller’s hand snapped. The force left crumbles of lead on the paper, and even the tip had been completely broken. “Lyric says that people are even using it to fabricate music. Though, of course, none of the AI’s art holds a candle to the real composers.” “No,” Story growled, then he flicked his hand to summon a new pencil. “Of course not.” “Are you still going to let humans continue this backwards development?”

“If that is their choice, yes. Either way, they will face consequences for their constant desire to achieve convenience. If everything is convenient, there is no struggle for a reward. What then is the point of it being an ‘achievement’?” Photographer flashed duck lips as she posed in front of three floating cameras. There was no point to these photos in particular except to garner likes on an online forum she found fascinating. Sometimes, Story missed the days when their partners didn’t rely on the admiration of mankind. “You’re thinking too hard, Story. Humans are smart enough to not let it reach that point. I mean, there’s plenty of them going against AI as it stands now.” “The common man are not the ones to worry about,” Story sighed. “Thou knows that those with wealth that could feed a whole country’s worth of children care not for the consequences of their self-interests. If they did, there would be less suffering.” “Didn’t you write them to be that way?” Filmmaker challenged? “No, I merely gave them grounds to achieve wealth, and they ran with it. Literally and figuratively speaking. Greed is a sin mankind owns itself.” “Whatever you say,” the god of film rolled his eyes. “Anyway, you can just send that story through email.” “I do not have an email.” “Send it in the mail then! Sheesh.” With that, Filmmaker exited with a puff of gray smoke, which caused Photographer to wheeze. “He’s not good at giving warnings, is he?” “Photo,” Story started. “Hm?” “Get out.” The woman stuck her tongue out before snapping another photo. Then, she, too, disappeared but with a flash of light similar to that of a camera. Finally, they were alone with their thoughts, paper, and pencil.