"Are you gonna kill us, too?" Iggy responds to Massacre's words.

Silence across the air.

"No."

"...Their parents. What did you do to them!?"

"A little genius like you doesn't know how to listen now, does it?"

"I said... They're all dead.."

Iggy takes a step back.

From nowhere, a wounded Writer appears on Massacre's hand.

"Writer!" Iggy and the pickle shout at the same time.

"Oh? So you followed me here again?" Massacre asks the pickle.

"You sicko." The pickle replies.

"Why would the higher ups give me a camera of sorts? No matter. All you can ever do is look."

A tearful stare at the children of the village from Writer...

...I knew that this was going to happen sooner or later. That's exactly why they sent me here.

THREE YEARS AGO...

I was a renowned writer whose sole purpose is to create the framework of the very stories you've watched on the screen.

EXT. CANNA'S HOUSE - AFTERNOON

Three gunshots.

"...This script. Very excellent... Very good. Approved."

I had some language barriers with some directors but we managed to pull through.

"Best Screenplay goes to... WRITER SMITH!"

I've been in the limelight a for few times.

...But I never knew I'd be given a role that could determine the fate of a thousand lives.

"Smith? The Director of Foreign Affairs called."

"How many times do I have to say to them that I'm not working under a goddamn convict for a stupid propaganda film~"

"It's because of the recent genocide incidents, Smith."

"...What does it have to do with me?" I asked my peer.

"Pray tell."

I got called by the higher ups of The Industry. Aware that this might be some sort of allegation against me, I thought of many things to clear my name as I walked through the doors of the office.

"...Smith. You're a good writer." The director told me.

She turns around, fixing her glasses.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

"That's it?" I replied.

"You heard of the recent genocide runs, right?"

"...Am not a part of it."

"Oh, God, of course you're aren't."

"Then why the fuck did you call me here?"

"It's because we noticed a pattern, Smith. Look at this data. Here."

I was given a list of locations and their respective scores. Some as high as 98, other as low as 13.

"The Kingdom of Nerigrey was brought down to its knees by some... sort of vigilante shit. It's entertainment index? 14. This happened with Isolas and the Hitachi Tribe as well, both with entertainment indexes of 12."

I looked at the data carefully.

"All survivors have shared traits. A few were authors, some were hardcore fans, and a bastard convict from prison that wrote a novel." She told me.

"From that data, we can deduce that this... thing, is after those who don't have creative standards, a brain like ours, basically." She added.

"...What does it have to do with me?" I asked her.

"We had to lay off 20 percent of our workforce and dispatch them to places with low entertainment indexes. Draw straws, and you're one of them."

"Heh, better than working with that stupid convict, no doubt." I replied.

"Basically, what The Industry wants you to do is to save as many lives as you can by enabling their creative minds. Inspire them, train them, change their culture if they have to."

She draws closer to me.

"And while you guys are doing that, we force our fucking brains to work nonstop to provide content and inspire these people. Best thing we could do~ new tech isn't ready."

The last thing I saw was her sultry look on her face.

"Any objections?"

DAYS LATER

And so, I was assigned to Little Farmland. She told me to do what I got to do.

"Thanks for letting me hitch a ride, miss!"

"...The name's Rhonda."

I found out their ways.

"No time for those stupid bedtime stories; sleep already! We have crops to harvest tomorrow!" '

"Burn all the storybooks; teach these children how to work at a young age!"

"Music won't feed you plenty, Ciriaco! Our crops will!"

...Now I get exactly why this place is at risk.

The children aren't children.

A few days later, I bumped into a kid in dreadlocks with a smiling tomato in his mouth. He was holding a bunch of papers out, his hands filled to the brim with storybooks he spared from burning.

That was when I met Iggy for the first time.

"S~ Sorry!" He told me.

"No, it's fine."

I picked up a fallen page, reading it.

John: WHERE'S MY FUKING CAKE!?

Alison: You left it when I'm still in my early 20s, John.

John: ...Is this about our failing relationship again?

Alison (Complaining): Yeah, you make it like that.

John (Scottish): I just want my fokken cake, man.

"So, a storyteller?"

"Yeah... but I'm also a script writer!"

From that moment on, I knew exactly where to start.

"Want me to teach you the Industry Standard?"

I remember seeing stars in his eyes at that time.

I knew he was gonna be a hero.

"Gather as many kids as you can, Iggy. We're starting a story club in this town."

"All right!"

...

But I kept the genocide incidents secret all this time.

I forgot the reason why, but that perhaps was a big blunder on my part...

PRESENT DAY

Massacre on the pedestal.

"So you're the one they sent here, Writer Smith?" Massacre asks as he holds Writer mercilessly.

"Why are you doing this~"

"My goal is none of your business. I did exactly what I have to do."

Massacre tosses Writer to the children.

"Writer..." Iggy replies.

"Now shut up and take care of my creative little geniuses."

"For them to be spared like this... You must be a great apprentice." Massacre adds, telling Iggy.

He aims his toy shotgun at Massacre.

"Iggy! NO!" Writer's hand reaches for Iggy.

Silent intimidation.

"...The little kid wants to play? So be it." Massacre says.

"Tell me. How are you supposed to beat me, again?"

"I..." Iggy replies, shaking.

Writer shakes his head. The pickle closes his eyes.

Iggy drops his toy shotgun and raises both his hands.

"...Don't know."

"I figured so." Massacre replies.

He walks away from the commotion.

"Enough time has been wasted... It's time to go."

As Massacre walks away, Iggy takes the opportunity to strike. With his entire might, he grabs his toy shotgun and runs towards Massacre.

But before Iggy can lay his hands on him, he disappears.

A panting Iggy gets on his knees.

"There's no way... There's no way he killed them all."