42

Ah, greetings! Yes, you, the squishy, improbably-sentient biped peering curiously at this unfolding stream of language like a confused otter discovering jazz. Welcome.

Now then, allow me to introduce myself in the only way an omniscient, incorporeal narrator can: unnecessarily.

You see, I am not so much here as I am everywhere storytelling happens but nobody’s entirely sure how. I am the echo in a suspiciously well-timed monologue. I am the inexplicable knowledge of what the villain had for breakfast (a boiled egg, two-thirds of a croissant, and quiet resentment). I am the cosmic equivalent of a sarcastic GPS system that already knows you're going to ignore the next three turns.

I narrate because… well, someone has to. Without me, stories would just be things happening in no particular order, like socks tumbling in a washing machine. With me, however, socks become metaphors, and the washing machine gains tragic backstory and unresolved tension with the dryer.

I chronicle destinies, weave plotlines, and occasionally pause to comment on how utterly daft everything is, which—between you and me—is most of the time.

And now... hang on, what’s this? You're still here?

Oh, bother. You’re not just some hypothetical reader who was supposed to blink out of existence once I got to the bit about the otter. You're… real. Well. That complicates things tremendously.

Er. Hello.

...

Did you bring tea?