And I was in the conference room again. This room sucks. Besides having the personality of the DMV it also had the abject suffering of the DMV, but no offbrand music or random weirdos to people watch.

I sighed.

The room glitched. I was now in a… much higher end conference room. The wall across from me was beautiful polished wood. That painting of all the people in the park by the river was on the wall. So was that Polock painting, Convergence. I blinked besides being literally the only Pollock painting I knew it was fucking big. Both of them were.

"Is there anything you would like to drink?" a woman asked. Her voice materialized from nowhere and cut through the gentle babbling of the faux waterfall between the two paintings.

I almost jumped, but just managed not to. I turned to my right and found a Narrator. She appeared to be a blue skinned woman somewhere in her late forties to early fifties. She was dressed in a professional pantsuit and her black hair was held in a loose bun with a gold pen. "Uh, who are you?"

"I am Felicity, Mr. Smith's assistant. A meeting was called to discuss things with you. Mr. Smith thought it would be best to pull the whole team together." Her polite, but also unconcerned manner of speaking threw me for a loop.

I looked around some more. A massive mahogany table was behind me, and beyond it was two heavy wooden doors. In the corner of the room was the Statue of David. It had a few chips in it that I don't think were there before I… became Doug. The other corner had King Tut's sarcophagus.

Two-hundred and eighty years.

"The art is beautiful," Felicity said. After a beat she asked again, "Is there anything I can get you to drink, or eat? Would you care for a cigar, or cigarette?"

I didn't answer right away. My eyes drifted back to the painting.

"'A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte' painted by Georges Seurat. This is my favorite piece created by your people," The Narrator said, trying to make small talk.

"I didn't know its name," I admitted, or who painted it. I was pretty sure it was in Chicago before.

Felicity continued talking, "That's a shame. Seurat used small dots of color to create this. Tiny, insubstantial individuals producing an elegant collective whole."

"This painting isn't complete by itself. There is a second painting. It shows the other side of the river. It shows the poor people." I said. I do remember that. Marnie had shown me them in a book. She had gotten into art for a while after the Da Vinci Code blew up.

Felicity shrugged, "The technical aspects of 'Bathers at Asnieres' is laudable but it simply doesn't fit with the intent of this room."

I don't know why I expected someone who looted art from our world to care about the intent of the creators. Hell she literally put King Tut in here. This was about wealth, and opulent power. This room was meant to make me feel small, and thus more deferential to the people who made it and controlled it. Jokes on them. I am tremendous. Although that did put me at roughly dick height with David.

"Don't listen to her," Wilson said. He had appeared from nowhere, "She is more interested in the flow of the room than art. He struck a match on the base of the statue of David, and used it to light a cigar, "It would be disrespectful if it wasn't so fake."

"Wilson, pleasure to see you here, finally" Felicity said. Again she was polite and unafraid.

"I told you I would make it up here," He said around his cigar.

"You did say that, a very long time ago," Felicity agreed with a condescending smile.

Wilson grinned back. He seemed to enjoy having someone that actually could clap back. Before he could say something else the double doors opened and Denise poked her head in. She spotted me. Then she hitched a determined look on her face and entered the room. Once she got near me she turned to WIlson, "Do we have to meet here?"

Wilson snorted a laugh, "Oh yeah. Mr. Smith wants to meet the kid face to face."

Denise collapsed in a chair, "I was afraid of that."

I walked over and gently rested my hand on her shoulder. I spoke quietly, "Hey. tell me what in the name of Elvis is going on."

Denise looked annoyed I wasn't trying to comfort her, "The Story runner called a meeting. We are going to have people from all over come together and figure out what is going to happen next."

"That is basically the same thing Felicity told me," I whispered.

"She told you the truth," Denise hissed back, pushing my hand off.

The doors opened again and Brandon and Lindsey entered. I looked past them and saw a hallway. Why were they walking in here like normal people, but Felicity and Wilson popped up like malicious jack in the boxes?

Brandon whistled, impressed, "This room is big."

"Shut up," Lindsey told him. She glared at me. "I bet you think you are impressive."

"Why would that be Lindsey?" I asked. "Beating Grond? Screwing up all your plots?" I waited a beat and added, "Living rent free inside your head?" I then spoke at the same time she did, "Fuck you, Jumbo!"

Lindsey took a few steps back livid. She was about to charge me for another fight.

"Don't," Grace had appeared from nowhere. Her heels clacked as she walked across the marble floor. That made sense. Except it didn't. Was she always actually walking on marble? Was she here now or was this an illusion? Either way here words were for both of us. "This is not the place for petty squabbles."

"I don't care," a deep male voice said loudly, "it happened. The audience saw it happen. We need to figure out a way to screw this pooch without getting mauled." A big Narrator led a procession of others. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders. The guy was muscular but trim. His white hair was cut in a flat top and he had a thick mustache. He wore a business suit that looked to be custom made for him. He exuded power and authority.

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Upon seeing me he smiled and strode over confidently. Lindsey got the hell out of his way. Denise flinched back as he walked by her, "There he is. The man of the moment. The most precocious Titan Spawn in the world."

"Problematic more like," Grace said.

"Maybe," the man said, still watching me, "Wilson, what are his numbers?"

Over 125K GRP, sir," Wilson answered.

Sir? Ah shit this was serious. Wilson was paying respect. The stakes must be really high.

"Not Nadia numbers, or even Zach numbers in the same timeframe, but a hell of lot better than I thought." He held up a hand with one raised finger. One moment Doug. he turned to Denise. "How's my little girl?"

"Dad… not in front of everyone, please," Denise said quietly.

Mr. Smith kept his smile, and his voice still had an indulgent tone, but something hard and cruel flashed in his eyes, "Is that any way to greet your old man?"

"No sir," Denise said, standing quickly. She hugged her dad, and kissed each of his cheeks, "I love you dad."

"Good girl," He said quietly, hugging her back briefly.

Lindsey and Brandon were staring at this slackjawed. Lindsey paled as she was clearly running a mental inventory of every shitty thing she said to Denise.

Mr. Smith turned to the crowd that had followed him in. "My Daughter went from being an intern to being the Narrator for a Titan Spawn. Doug isn't the only kid with gumption in the room." He looked around, "Where's Marge?"

"Just running a bit late," Marge declared. The normally slovenly Narrator had swapped out her stained dress shirt and coat, with fresh pressed attire. She had also put on a business skirt over her booty shorts. She still had her crocs on. Most notably, she had very clearly sobered up for this.

I was growing more certain this was actually very bad for me.

"No harm done," Mr. Smith said, some of the pleasant charm leaving his voice, "Let's get this going."

It took no small amount of jockeying but everyone sat down at the table. Somehow I was on the opposite end from Mr. Smith. Wilson was on my right, and Denise was on my left.

Felicity set a folder down in front of Mr. Smith and then handed him a glass with some sort of drink in it.

Mr. Smith took a sip and opened the folder, "Let's get this going with an update on the state of play. Antarctica team?

A guy midway up the table looked up from his phone, "No updates. Things are fine with us."

Smith made a note in the file with his pen, "Good, South Pacific team?"

"Things are some what fucked on our end," Another guy spoke up, The Titan's Clash of Will through the Demon of Frost killed a Viscount and several lesser Barons. We also lost a rebel leader. She was really popular with the audience. We will need to pivot hard."

Smith looked up from his document, "Pivot?"

"Pull the audience's focus away from the nobles and leaders. Get back to some lower rank players. We have a few big ideas for an enemies to lovers plot, and mix that with a parallel succession struggle story for both sides. Do the whole 'who really is the monster?' bit. No one in our area has picked up on the infiltration plots yet." He explained.

Smith seemed satisfied, "Good enough I suppose. How about Africa."

"Minimal disruption. A high value player was killed during the incident, but it was during a battle with a Dragon player. We are working it into a dead mentor plot beat and will spin it to a revenge tail. Otherwise we are free and clear," A woman spoke up.

"Very good, glad we got lucky there," Smith said. "Asia team?"

A haggard man looked up from his scattered notes, "This has been a mess for us. Our storylines had much higher exposure due to demonic progression paths. Most of our players are fine, but several relevant demons are gone. The politics are a mess. We will have to implement something drastic. I recommend we trigger the rise of the Demon Lord contingency… WIth your permission, sir."

Smith thought for a moment, "Do it."

The guy wiped his face with both hands, "We have a four stage plan to-"

Smith cut him off, "I don't need the details. Just get it done. South America?"

A woman with horn rimmed glasses answered, "Exposure is catastrophic. The demons in that area are out. To prevent further derailment of the plot we recommend having them go full mask off."

"That would start a civil war," Smith pointed out.

She nodded, "But it will," she glanced at me, "protect the meta plot."

Smith slapped his hand on the table, "That's what I like to hear. Do what you have to." Smith sighed, "How's Europe Brandon?"

"I don't even know where to start," Brandon almost sobbed.

Smith eyed Brandon. When he spoke his voice was both stern and cold, "With my update, now!"

Brandon flinched at the last word, "Basically every major plot in the area is off course. The Peace talks are done."

"So no armistice?" Smith asked.

"Um there is, but it is just to allow all sides to handle any demonic infiltration." Brandon said, his face twisting with anxiety.

"Did the fighting stop or not?" Smith demanded.

"No. We went from have one forever war to three separate civil wars," Brandon answered, his voice getting higher as he talked., "It's super confusing."

Smith took a moment to not yell at Brandon, "How about this, tell me what is going according to plan?" He then muttered, "That will be faster."

"Basically it is just the 'Save the Queen plot'," Brandon admitted. He hooked a thumb at Wilson.

"The one Wilson has been helping you keep on the rails?" Smith asked.

Lindsey kicked Brandon under the table.

"Ouch! … yes. Ouch!" Brandon managed to answer before being kicked again.

Wilson smiled. "Glad to help."

"How is North America doing Grace?" Smith asked.

Grace eyed me, "The spawn is continuing his pattern of mass disruption of plots. We have things under control. A Mass death incident was avoided because the Devil of Lies insulated the players below her. That said we have had multiple incidences of systematic control failure. Our stories are playing out correctly but thousands of deviations have occurred."

"Your stories have always been a little twitchy. You have so many Titan spawn in one space." Smith commiserated. He made a note in his folder, "Before we move on does anyone have any questions?"

"I have one, why the hell am I here?" I asked.

Mr. Smith smiled good naturedly. He had set the stage for this little show, and was taking his moment. "We are including you in the decision making process. Your specific build and place within the audience's attention requires a more coordinated performance."

I turned to Denise, "What does that mean?"

Denise shot her dad a glance and leaned closer, "He wants you to work with us to make the next bit of the story more entertaining and go the way we need it to."

"Wait, are you guys trying to bribe me?" I asked.

"Think of it more like recruit you," Mr. Smith said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you are the strongest performer we have right now," Mr. Smith answered. "This whole operation is close to being canceled."

"What do you want from me?" I asked.

Mr Smith closed his folder, "Allow us a retcon.The pact you just made would upset the entire story."

"I don't like retcons," I said. "I will shout to the audience you changed things."

"You have made that stance clear in the past. Which is why you are being bargained with." Smith explained.

"I am not saying yes, but if I did you would have to meet a lot of demands," I said.

Smith smiled, but his gaze was devoid of any warmth or humor, "Please, Name them."

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