The universe, as I know it, is a petri dish left unattended in the back of a classroom: chaotic, self-governing, and a little disgusting if you look too close. And I've looked far too close, far too often. My name is Alec Carroway—not that it matters. Names are more for other people than for yourself, anyway. I'm the type that people forget at parties, but remember in the gradebook because I annotate conversations in the margins of my mind.
If you're here for action right out of the gate—explosions, duels, shadowy figures squabbling over the fate of kingdoms—you're probably going to have to enjoy some build-up first. The gods (or whatever corporate hacks oversee the cosmic script) insist on a slow burn. They like their main character put through a proper existential blender before anything spicy happens.
My story doesn't start with an apocalypse, a tragic betrayal, or a prophesied chosen one. It starts on an ordinary Thursday. Rainy, gray, and absolutely intent on humiliating my only pair of decent shoes. Not that you'd care about that, but that's the kind of relationship we're going to have. I overshare. You under-care. Works for me.
As for my role? Imagine the class clown trying his hand at being the teacher for a day, or a gamer thrust into a real-life quest with the cheat codes disabled. I observe. I comment. Occasionally, I try to stay alive.
Welcome to my narrative. If you're disappointed, blame the universe. Or blame me; I'm used to it.
End of Prologue