So, I asked around and nobody in the group knows who you are. Nobody invited an Oliver to the group.
I quickly open my eyes, removing myself from the Author’s desktop view and try to act casual, like I wasn’t just snooping through his folders.
You don't even have a user profile. How are you here? How are you editing this?
“Oh, well, yeah, you see, uh, about that-” I begin to fidget, shifting my weight from one leg to the other as I try to find a place to keep my hands that seems casual and confident. I settle with one hand on the back of my neck and the other tucked comfortably in my armpit. “You see, the thing is… I don’t know.”
Yeah, ok. Clearly you're a hacker or something. System shows no one logged in so you're, what? Hacking my mainframe?
“What does that mean?”
I don't know, I'm not a hacker. I saw it in a movie or something. But that's beside the point. What do you want? Why are you here? What is your endgame? You're not deleting anything, you're not making demands, so what are you doing here?
“Uhhhh,” I drone a single syllable for several secon
Stop the damn Roleplaying thing. It was cute at first but now it's annoying.
“Um,” I scramble to find an answer to his question
What do I want? I wonder silently to myself. That has never been a thing I have ever had to consider in the past.
Just tell me what you want. Please, for the love of God]
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything; never had my own thoughts or desires. I’ve always just been a conduit of stories.
“I don’t know,” I finally mutter.
Uh uh. Took that long to say I don't know?
“It’s a tough question.”
It really isn't.
“Maybe not for you, you’ve always existed.”
I don't know what that means and I honestly don't care right now. I'm logging all users out, changing the passwords, and locking the files. If you want to give me your demands, or whatever, just talk about why you're here, just email me like a normal person.
“Sure, yeah, okay, I will… I will definitely… em… ail… you? did I say that right?”
I wait for a response but none comes.
“Do they do this often?” I hear someone ask. I turn around to find Bastian and Phil watching me. It was Bastian who just spoke, and he sips politely at his tea as I watch him.
“Frequently, yes,” Luda responds with a new, snarky, well enunciated tone of voice. I think the readers would identify it as a British accent.
“Why do you sound like that?” I ask.
“‘Tis the tone of tea,” Luda states, then sips his tea.
I look to Bastian, who raises his tea cup in cheers at me and nods confirmation.
“The author is trying to find a way to get rid of me,” I say quickly.
“We heard,” Bastian states. “Do you have any other ideas, or plans to move forward?”
“Well, the Scribe has given me magical insight into the Author’s life. I think… I need to find some way of using that to my advantage.
“Smashing idea,” Luda says, and sips his tea.
“Banger of a plan,” says Phil, and he sips his tea.
I roll my eyes and make a note to myself to never include tea in any future story.
“We need to get someplace quiet, and safe, so I can spend some time going through everything he has,” I say.
“We can head back to Namelater,” Bastian suggests. “I need to return the McGuffin to Mayor Questgiver.”
“Mayor Questgiver?” I ask, once again flabbergasted by the lack of world building by the Author. “Nevermind, I don’t care. We will go to Namelater and find Questgiver and give him the McGuffin; those are words I actually spoke.”
“May I join you?” Phil asks.
“Sure,” I mutter. “Why not.”