The end of the corporate universe looked less like an explosion and more like a formatting error.
When Elara Vance slammed the Retcon Pen onto the Master Contract, the blue ink didn't dry. It burned. It burned through the paper, through the metal desk, and through the white floor of the CEO's office.
"The Publisher hereby transfers all rights, assets, and liabilities to the Public Domain, effective immediately."
"NO!" The CEO screamed.
But his voice wasn't booming anymore. It was crackling, like a bad radio connection. The static silhouette of his body began to unravel.
"My margins!" The CEO shrieked, clutching his chest as pixels drifted away from his suit. "My quarterly projections! You cannot make this free! Think of the shareholders!"
"There are no shareholders," Elara said, standing up. The Red Tape that had bound her team turned into confetti. "There's just the audience now."
"You... fool..." The CEO gasped, his head dissolving into white noise. "Without... a paywall... who... will... maintain... the... server...?"
ZZZZZT.
The CEO vanished.
In his place stood a generic, grey placeholder icon with a sad face.
[404: OWNER NOT FOUND.]
The white void of the office shattered. The walls fell away like stage flats pushed over by a stagehand.
"Run!" The Author shouted, grabbing Elara's arm. "The paywall is down! The floodgates are opening!"
"What floodgates?" Ignis asked, ripping the last of the Red Tape off his mouth.
"The Creative Commons!" The Author yelled.
They looked out past the ruins of the office. The High Tower wasn't standing tall in the Corporate Sea anymore. It was crumbling. The black marble was turning into cardboard. The gold trim was peeling off to reveal plastic.
And the sky... the sky was no longer a scary, empty violet. It was a chaotic, swirling collage of everything that had ever been free to use.
"Incoming!" Rex Chord screamed.
A massive shape smashed through the wall of the Executive Suite. It wasn't a sleek corporate ship. It was a wooden sailing ship, crewed by skeletons.
"Avast!" a skeleton shouted. "We are generic pirates! We cost nothing to license!"
"It's the Public Domain!" Jen realized, clutching her golden clipboard (which was rapidly turning into a regular clipboard). "The copyright expired! Everything is rushing in!"
From the other side, a giant green tentacle smashed through the floor.
"Cthulhu?" Aldren Vance gasped, adjusting his cape. "Why is the Great Old One here?"
"Lovecraft is public domain!" Li Wusheng shouted, kicking a tentacle. "He is free real estate!"
The High Tower groaned. Without the corporate funding to maintain its physics engine, the skyscraper was collapsing under the weight of its own pretension.
"To the typewriter!" Elara commanded. "We have to get back to the city before the server crashes from the traffic spike!"
They scrambled back toward the elevator, dodging falling debris. But the hallway was blocked.
Standing between them and the exit was a squad of DRM Bots.
They were sleek, white robots with padlocks for faces. They held rifles that fired red laser beams of Digital Rights Management.
"Unauthorized Access," the Lead Bot droned. "This asset is no longer protected. However, Protocol dictate: If we cannot own it, no one can."
"Scorched Earth Policy," The Author cursed. "They're going to delete the source code to prevent piracy."
"We need a distraction!" Elara yelled, ducking behind a pillar of crumbling law books. "Something they can't lock down!"
"I have an idea!" Aldren shouted. "Author! Summon a hero!"
"I can't!" The Author cried. "I don't have the budget! I spent it all on the typewriter!"
"You don't need a budget!" Aldren pointed at the swirling chaos outside. "Summon someone free! Someone classic! Someone... deduced!"
The Author understood. They closed their eyes. They reached out to the Public Domain.
"I summon... The Great Detective!"
POOF.
A cloud of pipe smoke filled the hallway. Stepping out of the smoke was a tall, thin man in a deerstalker hat. He held a magnifying glass.
Sherlock Holmes.
"The game," Holmes announced, "is afoot."
He looked at the DRM Bots.
"Interesting," Holmes murmured. "Standard robotic infantry. Manufactured in the third quarter of the fiscal year. Weakness: Logic loops."
Holmes pointed his pipe at the Lead Bot.
"My good droid," Holmes said. "If you delete the source code, you delete yourself. Therefore, your mission is suicide. But your programming forbids self-harm. Discuss."
The Lead Bot froze. The padlock on its face spun wildly.
[CALCULATING...][LOGIC ERROR: PARADOX DETECTED.]
"Elementary," Holmes smirked. He whacked the robot with his cane. CLANG.
The robot fell over.
"Charge!" Elara yelled.
The team sprinted past the confused robots. Holmes followed them, deducing the structural integrity of the floor as he ran.
"The building will collapse in precisely three minutes and fourteen seconds," Holmes noted calmly. "I suggest running faster."
They burst into the Mailroom basement. The Underwood was waiting, its keys clacking nervously.
"Get on!" The Author screamed, jumping onto the Space Bar.
Ignis threw Vex onto the 'Q' key. Li and Rex scrambled onto the 'W' and 'E'.
Elara grabbed the Carriage Return lever. "Punch it!"
The Author slammed the keys. CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.
The typewriter engines roared. The ship lifted off just as the ceiling of the Mailroom collapsed.
They shot out of the basement, spiraling up into the chaotic sky.
Below them, The High Tower—the symbol of corporate control, the prison of their story—imploded. It folded in on itself, turning into a singularity of bad contracts and red tape, before vanishing with a soft pop.
"It's gone," Jen breathed, holding onto the 'Shift' key. "The Publisher... is gone."
"We're free," Aldren whispered. "We are truly indie."
"Look out!" Rex shouted.
They weren't out of danger yet. The Corporate Sea was boiling. Without the stability of the Copyright, the reality was mixing with every other public domain universe.
A giant white whale (Moby Dick) breached the surface, swallowing a remaining piece of the tower. A Martian Tripod (War of the Worlds) walked past, honking a horn.
"It's a crossover nightmare!" Zero yelled from the helm. "The tonal consistency is ruined!"
"Steer for New Seattle!" Elara pointed. "The Reality Jammer should keep our city stable!"
They flew through the chaos, dodging literary classics and old cartoons. Finally, the skyline of New Seattle appeared in the distance, floating peacefully in the void.
The Jammer was working. The city was a bubble of (relative) sanity in a sea of madness.
They landed The Underwood on the roof of the Meow & Bow.
Elara collapsed onto the gravel roof. She stared up at the sky. It wasn't purple anymore. It was a blank, white canvas.
"We did it," Elara whispered.
The Author sat next to her. They looked exhausted. Their hoodie was torn. Their coffee mug was broken.
"You did it," The Author said. "I just typed."
"So," Elara sat up. "What happens now? Do you write Volume 6?"
The Author smiled. It was a sad, tired smile.
"I can't," The Author said. "I transferred the rights to the Public Domain. That means... the story belongs to everyone now. Anyone can write Volume 6. Or Volume 100."
Elara frowned. "But... what about you?"
The Author stood up. They brushed the dust off their pajama pants.
"My contract is up," The Author said. "I told the story I wanted to tell. Well, mostly. You guys kind of hijacked it."
"We made it better," Ignis grunted, chewing on a piece of the typewriter.
"You made it yours," The Author agreed.
They reached into their pocket and pulled out a notebook. A small, black Moleskine.
"Here," The Author handed it to Elara.
"What is this?"
"The Canon," The Author said. "Or what's left of it. The rules of magic. The character sheets. The secret recipe for the muffins."
Elara took the notebook. "Why are you giving me this?"
"Because there is no Publisher anymore," The Author said. "There is no Editor. There is no Creator."
The Author began to fade. Not like a glitch, but like a drawing being gently erased.
"You have to be your own authors now," The Author whispered.
"Wait!" Aldren shouted. "You cannot leave us on a cliffhanger! What is the theme of the next arc?"
The Author laughed, already half-transparent.
"Whatever you want it to be, Aldren. That's the scary part."
The Author looked at Elara one last time.
"Write a good one."
And then, they were gone.
The Aftermath
The Meow & Bow was quiet.
The team sat around the main table. Jen was trying to fix the espresso machine (which had blown a gasket during the escape). Li was meditating on a chair that was slowly turning into a public domain gargoyle.
"So," Rex Chord broke the silence. "We're orphans."
"We are not orphans," Aldren corrected, adjusting his cape. "We are emancipated. We are free agents."
"We are broke," Jen said, looking at the ledger. "The Publisher's accounts are frozen. The fine we paid to the Orc... it wiped us out. We have zero gold."
"We have a city," Elara said, tapping the black notebook. "And we have a universe with no rules."
"That sounds dangerous," Ignis noted. "I like it."
Elara walked to the window. Outside, New Seattle was drifting through the white void. In the distance, she could see other islands floating—fragments of other stories, other genres.
"The walls are down," Elara said. "We can go anywhere. Do anything."
"I could start a podcast," Aldren mused.
"I could open a dojo," Li nodded.
"I could eat that white whale," Ignis suggested, looking at Moby Dick in the distance.
"We have a lot of work to do," Elara turned back to them. "We have to stabilize the city. We have to set up a new economy. And we have to figure out how to pay rent when there is no landlord."
"But first," Elara said. "Coffee."
Jen pulled the lever. The machine hissed. A perfect, dark stream of espresso poured into the cup.
Elara took a sip. It tasted like victory. And burnt rubber.
"To the Unwritten World," Elara toasted.
"To the mess," Aldren agreed.
"To the kebabs," Ignis added.
They clinked cups.
Suddenly, the front door opened.
A man walked in. He wore a suit that was too shiny. He had a smile that was too wide. He carried a briefcase that glowed with neon light.
"Greetings, free citizens!" the man boomed. "I represent the Syndication Network. I hear you have a fascinating reality show here!"
Elara sighed. She put down her coffee. She reached for the Lightsaber Baguette (which she realized she had left in the van, so she grabbed a rolling pin instead).
"We just saved the world five minutes ago," Elara groaned.
"The show must go on!" the man grinned. "And baby, you have prime time written all over you!"
Elara looked at the camera (there was no camera, but she looked where one would be).
"Volume 6," Elara whispered. "Here we go."