Let's set the scene.
I'm sitting on a levitating bean bag chair made of stardust and suspiciously sentient memory foam. Dave's pacing like a nervous intern who accidentally formatted the moon. I'm toggling reality settings from my new admin console—which, for some reason, looks like a vintage Nintendo controller fused with a waffle iron.
"Okay," Dave says, arms flailing, "we need to stabilize causality, implement boundary logic for paradox loops, and maybe un-revoke bird existence before lunch."
I look at the menu.
Time Axis: Curved
Gravity: Optional
Bird Status: Reconsidering
Reality Integrity: 46% and falling
Cosmic To-Do List: [1] Prevent Omniversal Collapse
"Eh," I shrug. "I'll get to it."
Dave practically short-circuits. "No, you won't get to it! You have to. Reality isn't a hobby, it's a full-time job with terrible hours and no bathroom breaks!"
I stare blankly. "I need coffee before I deal with multiversal entropy."
"YOU DON'T NEED COFFEE, YOU NEED TO—"
I pause the universe.
Literally. Pause. One tap of the [Admin Pause Protocol] and everything freezes mid-motion. Dave's caught mid-rant, mouth open, one finger in the air like he's casting a very unenthusiastic spell. Outside, a comet halts mid-explosion. Somewhere, a baby dragon remains eternally in the middle of sneezing glitter.
I sip my cosmic espresso in blissful silence.
But that's when she shows up.
The lights dim.
The admin console trembles.
And out of a rift stitched together by obsolete computer code and forbidden poetry steps a woman in an obsidian suit, heels clicking against the void like a countdown.
Her name tag reads:
K.A.I.A.
(Karmic Algorithmic Intervention Authority)
Title: Auditor of Existential Compliance
"Hello," she says in a voice that sounds like an HR memo being read by a thunderstorm. "You've triggered seventeen hundred violations of metaphysical protocol and failed to submit your Consciousness Compliance Form 42B."
I blink. "What?"
"You didn't sign the waiver," she clarifies. "For becoming God."
"Dave didn't give me a waiver."
"Typical Dave," she mutters, tapping something into a clipboard that projects a spreadsheet made entirely of moral consequences.
She gestures at the paused universe. "This? All this unauthorized tampering? Disqualifying. You've introduced too much whimsy. Not enough existential dread. Where's your darkness arc? Where's your morally gray descent into power-mad tyranny?"
I shrug. "I just wanted a nap and maybe a burrito."
"That's not godly conduct," she snaps. "By Article ∞.14 of the Celestial Compliance Act, your admin rights are hereby revoked pending investigation."
The console vanishes.
My bean bag dematerializes.
And suddenly I'm falling—not through space, but through layers of reality, each more abstract and weirdly bureaucratic than the last. One is made entirely of floating existential receipts. Another is a room filled with every awkward conversation you've ever had, playing on loop.
Then—impact.
I land in a bland, fluorescent-lit office. The kind with beige carpet, motivational posters ("Don't Question Reality—Manage It!"), and an ancient coffee machine humming like it knows dark secrets.
Across from me sits… me.
No, really.
A version of me. Clean-shaven. Wearing a sharp suit. Radiating smug competence.
He looks up and smiles. "Welcome to the Echo Chamber."
"I'm sorry—what?"
"I'm you. The original Administrator. The real one."
I blink. "So what am I?"
"A backup copy. Emergency consciousness. Insurance policy, really. When I got deleted in the last collapse, the system restored you from a subconscious imprint."
My brain does cartwheels. "So I've been... filling in?"
"Yup," he says cheerfully. "You did well! Mostly. The blanket fort defense buff was inspired. But then you got... creative."
"You mean I ruined it."
He shrugs. "No, you reinvented it. Which is worse."
I rub my face. "So what happens now?"
He leans forward, eyes gleaming. "Now I take over. Fully. You get retired. Painlessly. Probably. Unless the Karmic Authority decides you need to be recycled into a time-loop ferret."
"What if I refuse?"
He grins wider. "Then we have a conflict. And conflict means—"
The room dissolves into a reality-glitch battle arena, complete with dramatic lighting, floating platforms, and a booming announcer voice.
"CONSCIOUSNESS CLASH: ADMIN VS. BACKUP"
I suddenly have a burrito in one hand and a debug sword in the other. Original Me has summoned a logic vortex shaped like a flowchart wielding a staff of Pure Consequence.
"Your move," he says.
So I make it.
I throw the burrito.
Direct hit. Cheese to the face. He stumbles.
Then I leap, striking with the sword—each slash spelling out paradoxes:
IF (Admin == Removed) THEN
REALITY = NULL
The arena flickers. The battle intensifies.
Explosions of karma. Lightning made of regret. One platform is literally powered by unresolved daddy issues.
But then—
I find it.
The hidden option.
Floating just above us, barely visible, flickering like a forgotten cheat code.
[Reboot System as Collaborative Entity?]
I reach for it.
Original Me sees it too. We both lunge.
And just before impact, I press it.
Everything goes white.
I wake up.
In my apartment.
No epic arena. No clipboard-wielding HR goddess. Just me.
And Dave.
Holding two burritos.
"You okay?" he asks.
I sit up. "I think I merged with myself."
"…Neat."
I check my phone. A new notification.
[Admin Status: SHARED]
Welcome to Co-Existence Mode
Universe now running on Dual-Core Consciousness
Please avoid arguing with yourself in public
I grin.
I'm still here.
Still in charge.
Just… with myself.
Dave hands me a burrito. "So… what's next?"
I take a bite, already thinking.
"Let's make birds immortal and give rainbows taste."
The stars blinked nervously.
But this time?
They were kinda into it.