Leo lay on his bed, a tempest of pure, unadulterated irritation brewing in his chest. The universe, it seemed, was a relentless cosmic manager intent on assigning him tasks. This new development—being responsible for seventy-eight strangers in a starship he never asked for—was the ultimate pointless meeting he couldn't decline.
An idea, forged in the fires of a lifetime of avoiding work, finally sparked. Delegation.
"System," he thought, his mental voice flat with exhaustion. "Get rid of them. Tell them to go away."
A beat of silence. [Negative,] the System replied, its text appearing in his mind's eye. [The assets are fully integrated. Direct expulsion is not possible without a significant and complex act of will.]
"Ugh. Fine," Leo projected, the thought feeling like lifting a great weight. "Can you at least talk to them for me? Pass on a message?"
[Negative,] the System stated again, utterly devoid of sympathy. [My interface is bound exclusively to you, the Administrator. I am a tool, not a messenger.]
Leo's brief flicker of hope died a miserable death. Of course. The universe wouldn't even grant him a personal assistant. He let out a long, deeply frustrated sigh, the sound ruffling the impossibly soft sheets of his bed. He was going to have to handle this himself.
"Okay, okay…" he thought, rubbing his temples. "You said I'm the 'Administrator' of this... this place. Does that mean I can... I don't know, put a message on their TV or something?"
[That is within your capabilities,] the System confirmed. [As Administrator of this local reality, you can directly manifest text on their primary viewscreen. Simply formulate the message.]
That was something. Still effort, but at least he wouldn't have to actually talk to anyone. He closed his eyes, concentrating for a brief, painful moment. He pictured the bridge of the ship he could now feel hanging in orbit above him, focused on their main screen, and pushed his will outwards like a man shoving a heavy box he desperately wanted out of his way.
Aboard the Stardust Drifter, Captain Rostova and her crew were staring at the ominous [AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS] message when it suddenly vanished. In its place, new text began to type itself across the screen, letter by letter, in a plain, almost childishly simple block script.
Be quiet.
Fix my sky.
Don't bother me again unless the planet is on fire.
The message hung there for a long, silent moment, then faded. The bridge was so quiet you could hear the soft hum of the life support.
Dr. Aris was the first to break the silence, his voice a choked whisper. "Did you see that, Captain? The message didn't come through our comms. It wasn't a transmission. It was... written. He wrote on our screen from the planet's surface. He used our bridge as his personal notepad."
The sheer, casual power of it—the cosmic equivalent of leaving a sticky note on the fridge—was more terrifying than any threat or declaration of war. Captain Rostova, her face a pale mask of grim resolve, finally understood her role. She was not a prisoner of war. She was the unwilling manager of a god's private estate. And the god was displeased with the decor.
"Engineering," she said, her voice crisp and clear, cutting through the stunned silence. "You heard him. Reconfigure the quarantine field emitters to be fully transparent. Do it now."
Outside the sphere, the universe was treated to a show.
The colossal, opaque cage that had baffled the assembled fleet suddenly dissolved into perfect, flawless transparency. The view was unobscured. The fleet could now see the lush, purple-sanded planet, the man on his bed, and the captured Xylosian research vessel hanging silently in orbit above him like a hawk tamed and caged by a mouse.
On the GNN flagship, Myra Vance let out a whoop of pure, predatory joy. "He took their ship! Roll the cameras! The entity didn't just escape the trap; he made the trappers his pets! The headline: 'The Zookeeper of the Void'!"
Aboard The Sacred Noodle Bowl, the pilgrims erupted into a joyous, chaotic chorus. "A miracle!" Manny bellowed, tears streaming down his face. "He has shattered the Veil of Ignorance! He has turned the unbelievers' steel chariot into a chandelier in his holy sanctuary so that we may better witness his glorious rest!"
On the bridge of her black warship, the Elven Arbiter watched the proceedings with the placid air of a chess master observing a novice's game.
"Fascinating," she murmured, a faint, cruel smile touching her lips. "The dormant Nexus learns. It does not use force; it asserts ownership. It has turned its captors into its servants with a whisper."
"My lady, its power grows," her subordinate noted, a hint of concern in his voice.
"No," the Arbiter corrected, her voice like the chime of crystal. "Its influence grows. Its power has always been absolute. It is merely being poked into demonstrating it." She gestured to the chaotic fleet. "Let the children continue to throw their toys. Let them test the boundaries of its patience. We will continue to observe. Wait for it to do something truly interesting."
Back on the beach, the ugly grid dissolved and the warm, tri-colored light spilled down once more. The incessant hum was gone. Leo sighed, a deep, shuddering exhalation of pure contentment. He had fixed it.
He rolled over, blissfully unaware that he had just become the most terrifying and confusing landlord in the universe. All that mattered was that it was finally quiet enough to get some proper sleep.