The chamber was a singularity of polished obsidian and starlight, suspended in the void between galaxies. It was a space designed for beings who had long ago traded physical bodies for digital godhood. At the center of the vast, circular floor stood Architect One, the only physical presence in the room, draped in robes that seemed to swallow the light.
Six pillars of light erupted around the perimeter, and the holograms flickered into existence.
"The metrics are stagnant," the Weaver began, her holographic mask of silver filigree shimmering as she paced within her light-beam. "The Core Worlds are bored. We've given them empires, we've given them star-wars, and yet the engagement drops by three percent every solar cycle."
"Because there is no grit left in the simulations," the Gatekeeper rumbled, his segmented ebony mask tilting toward the center. "They want to see the struggle of the primitive. They want to see the moment the sophisticated soul breaks under the weight of a dying world."
"The 'Humanity Trials,'" the Oracle whispered, the featureless gold of her mask reflecting the cold stars above. "Specifically, the Earth-Prime archives. The 'Walking Dead' scenarios always provide the highest emotional yield. Fear is a universal currency."
"We've run that scenario a thousand times," the Chorus interjected, their spherical white mask glowing with a steady, haunting light. "Rick Grimes. The Governor. Negan. The audience knows every beat. They know who lives, who dies, and how the moral arc ends. It's no longer a story; it's a museum exhibit."
The Cartographer's crystal mask shifted colors, displaying a miniature nebula. "Then we change the variable. We don't just drop a pawn into the maze. We drop someone who thinks they have the map."
"Meta-knowledge," the Scryer added, the geometric patterns on his bronze mask vibrating with excitement. "A player who knows the 'script' of that world. The audience will watch not just to see them survive, but to see if they can actually outrun Fate itself. The tension between the 'known' and the 'new' will be intoxicating."
Architect One finally spoke, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the floor itself. "And who would be the target for such a... experiment?"
As if summoned by his voice, a lattice of pure code and blinding white light materialized in the center of the circle. This was the System.
"Targeting parameters established," the System's voice hummed, a flat, digital resonance. "Searching the archives for a consciousness with the perfect blend of desperation, intelligence, and familiarity with the Earth-Prime 21st-century media."
"Find us someone who has nothing left to lose," the Weaver commanded. "Someone whose real life was a cage, so they'll treat this nightmare like a playground."
"Searching," the System responded. The air in the room crackled as millions of lives were scanned in nanoseconds. "Filtering for high-trauma resistance... filtering for narrative awareness... filtering for 'The Terminal' archetype. High contrast between physical frailty and mental iron."
"Show us," Architect One ordered.
A holographic screen expanded in the center of the Council. It showed a sterile hospital room, a rhythmic heart monitor, and a girl with pale skin and dark, defiant eyes staring at a television screen.
"Target Identified: Asset 734-Alpha. Status: Discardable." the System announced. "Probability of narrative deviation: 98.4%. Probability of audience entertainment: Absolute."
"Commence the 'Apex' protocol," Architect One said, a dark smile hidden behind his swirling vortex mask. "Let her think she's changing the world. The audience is waiting."