The bard was bord. So bored. She didn’t even want to remember the last time she was doing so little. The bard had traveled to a, what did these people call it, a corporate office. There, she pursued a job at the office, having heard that the corporate culture here was some of the worst in the country. The bard thought it would be a good way to practice her social skills while she waited for the rest of the adventurers to find her. What she was told was that this company, it was called something like Bright Futures the bard didn’t really care, had some of the most cutthroat management anyone had ever seen. That people were so focused on advancing their career, burning bridges, and abusing people just to push a bottom line.

Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t, the bard didn’t really care. At least she had her hair back, it was only neck length but still.

The bard stepped into the office fifteen minutes early, snapping up a coffee from the receptionist, a young waif who had learned to be absolutely terrified of the bard. The brutal tirades the bard had unleashed on the poor thing had been, well they had hardly been anything, otherwise the girl would be dead. Really, the bard thought she was being a snot nosed drama queen the first time the bard had seen her break down in tears. I mean really, the bard had hardly put any effort into her insults and threats. Relatively speaking, of course.

Her rise up the corporate ladder had been meteoric. The bard had quickly turned into a legend among Northern Alaskan Office, the way she inspired people, pushed people, commanded people, controlled people. The bard had led an engineering project, pushed the team to work overtime nearly every week, and finished under budget and way ahead of schedule. Her early rivals had been crushed underfoot, disgraced so thoroughly they lost heir jobs and wouldn’t find work anyway. She was untouchable, digging up dirt on her targets so well some of the people who challenged her had wound up in jail.

The bard drained her cup of coffee into a bathroom sink. She thought the stuff tasted awful, and couldn’t understand why anyone would drink it. Yes, the bard got coffee every morning from the receptionist, but that was just for the feeling of being in charge. Certainly not to drink it. The bard had drank swamp water that tasted better, and she had been to a lot of swamps.

The bard took the elevator up, and strode to her corner office with her heels clicking ominously across the tile floor, warning all of her approach. Her door slammed shut with a resolute slam, and the bar slump over her desk.

She hated it here. It was so boring. The most interesting thing to do was make sure she didn’t accidentally drool all over her mahogany desk. People told her that the mahogany desk was nice, and that mahogany was nice, and the bard had only barely paid attention. People told her that a lot of things were nice. Her hair is nice, her smile is nice, her performance is nice, her career is nice, her resume is nice, her portfolio is nice, her prospects are nice, her shoes are nice, her car is nice, her suit is nice, her nice is nice.

“Everyone here is a spineless, gutless, pathetic loser,” the bard groaned, making sure not to use her bardic talents, “I hate this job, I hate this place, I hate this suit, I hate my car, and I hate the people more than I have hated demons.” The bard took a moment to think. “These people are worse than elves. That’s how much I hate them.”

Nothing, nothing, happened here. The most there was to do was involve herself in the petty squabbles of office politics. Back when she was learning to be a bard, the bard was tasked with killing goblins just by talking to them. That was training, that was practice. This was…

Nothing.

The bard reeled back in her seat before swinging forward and letting her head slam into the hardwood desk. Anything to stave off boredom. Any moment now-

“Ma’am, Mr. Baxter is here,” some drone said, stepping into the bard’s office, “I- did you just hit your head?”

“I’m fine,” the bard insisted. Baxter, Simon Baxter, had joined the company a bit earlier than the bard, but his rise through the ranks had been no less incredible. A common topic in the breakroom was what would happen when the bard and Mr. Baxter inevitably clashed.

The bard couldn’t stand Simon Baxter. The man thought he was so big, and would openly challenge the bard. He was beneath her, so far beneath her that the bard knew the contest could only be boring. Maybe, if the bard hounded and harassed Baxter for a couple years and he put in the effort to improve as fast as possible, beating him would be more exciting than stomping on an insect by accident.

“Well, he wants to see you in his office,” the drone said.

“I’ll be there shortly,” the bard said, standing up from her desk.

This wasn’t going to go well.

The bard stepped into Simon Baxter’s office, the man was standing by the window and looking down at the city unfurled before him. The bard shut the door with a sharp clack, and Baxter turned to face her.

He had drawn a gun on the bard. It was smaller than the first gun the bard had been shot with.

“Well, I’ve done it,” Baxter said, “The CEO has been taken care of, and his seat is already mine. You’re the last loose end. The company will mourn the loss of your skill and talent, and your leadership will be sorely missed.”

“Don’t do this,” the bard said, “Please, don’t do this.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Baxter said, “We both know how this would go otherwise. You would challenge me, and you might actually win. I intend to live on the top of the world, and you’re not getting in my way.”

“Don’t you get it!” the bard shouted, “You’re nothing! Don’t do this!”

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Simon Baxter paused. He had a raw, powerful will that few could match, and the kind of charisma that occasionally had people asking if he was a manifested. Simon Basxter knew to expect a strange reaction from the bard, her social deftness was extraordinary. It had taken Simon a long time to set up this moment, the bribing security and paying for corpse disposal had cost Simon. He knew that the bard would try something, cut-

“I’m nothing?” Baxter said, shock slowly turning across his face, “I’m nothing! I’m Simon Baxter! You’ve put people in jail on your climb, but I’ve put people in the dirt! And I’m nothing! Let me tell you, choose your next words carefully or you’ll be nothing!”

“Look, ten years from now, maybe even five if you focused, and we could have this moment,” the bard said, “But right now? What exactly are you going to do to stop me?”

“Kill you,” Baxter said, “I am going to use my gun to kill you. What are you talking about”

“What am I talking about?” the bard balked, “What are you talking about? You think you’re going to kill me with that?”

“I’ve killed a lot of people with this,” Baxter replied, “Now, again, in your final moments, what are you going to do? Scream? Fight? Throw yourself at me? Go ahead, hit me as hard as you can. See where that gets you.”

“As hard as I can?” the bard asked. She hadn’t done that for awhile. It would kill Baxter, easily. But maybe it would hold the bard’s interest for at least a moment. She didn’t know what she would do after that, but maybe if she was lucky then-

“What are you waiting for?” Baxter demanded.

“Look, I don’t beg,” the bard said, “And I’m not going to beg now, but please just don’t pick this fight yet.”

Baxter raised the gun for the bard’s head. “And just why shouldn’t I?”

“Because what if I’m already perfect?” the bard cried.

“Perfect?” Baxter said, “You’re scared because you might be perfect? Why!”

“Because someone who’s perfect can’t get better!” the bard said, “Perfect can’t get worse! Perfect doesn’t need practice! If I’m perfect, what am I going to do? What would I even bother with! What would be the point of anything?”

“Look, you’re not making sense,” Baxter said, “Now, do whatever you’re going to do before I blow your brains out.”

“Alright, alright, fine,” the bard said, “As hard as I can hit you, just wait a moment.”

Baxter did wait a moment, curious about what the bard was planning. The bard closed her eyes, sucked in a breath, clapped her hands in front of her and focused on everything. Baxter’s heartbeat, the whine of electronics, the hum of the building’s air conditioning, the roar of conversion, the rumble of traffic, the cawing and cooing of birds, the growl of beasts in the mountains, the lapping of waves, the howl of wind, the moon, the earth, the sun, solar systems, galaxies, universes, the music of the spheres, and finally her own heartbeat. The bard attuned her will to Everything, and opened her eyes.

Baxter didn’t know what the bard was doing. It looked like she was psyching herself up for something. Was she a manifested? Baxter didn’t think she was a manifested. He had read her file, for as little as her fine said. Nobody knew how Manifestation worked, but the rumor was always that people pushed to their physical and mental limits would manifest. Still, Baxter didn’t think this was that strenuous. She was only going to die, it couldn’t be that bad, he hadn’t even-

The bard opening her eyes blew Baxter away. Her sheer presence was absurd. He dropped the gun, what could it possibly do to- to that? Baxter’s mind reeled, he broke out into a cold, clammy sweat. His knees felt weak, his back ached, and his thoughts burned. Baxter couldn’t concentrate, before the bard he knew nothing but fear and awe.

The bard opened her mouth, and Baxter realized the presence was going to speak.

“You are nothing to me.”

Baxter sunk to his knees, openly weeping. The bard’s words screamed through his head. It was he had ever heard, all he had heard, all he would ever hear. He was nothing. He was nothing. He was nothing. He was nothing, is nothing, would be nothing. Her a brief moment, Baxter had glimpsed the whole, entire universe in its impossible glory and for his hubris the universe crushed him, mind, body and soul. His eyes rolled back, his mouth hung slack, the will to live left Baxter. The ability to live vanished from him. Then, Baxter was nothing to everything.

The full extent of what the bard had done would not be understood for a long, long time. Not only had she spoken through the entire universe, her words echoed through it. What she said was cold and dark. When she returned her focus to her own body, the universe had chased after her.

What the bard had done was dark, and across the universe light and color felt dull. Aliens living in galactic civilizations thousands upon thousands upon thousands of lightyears away from the bard noted that their art, their music, their culture didn’t carry the same charm it used to. Master painters noted that colors didn’t quite look the same. Explorers looked upon unknown, alien stars not with curiosity and excitement, but with a strange sense that this just wasn’t worth it. That there was nothing worth finding.

What the bard had said was cold, and across the universe things became a fraction of a fraction of a fraction colder. Well established recipes and metallurgy needed just a bit more heat, and aliens began to bundle upon to resist the strange, unwelcoming chill that had been draped over them.

The bard’s words had echoed across the universe, and a third event occurred. As aliens traveled massive, intergalactic distances, many began to note that they had gone from somewhere that was dark and cold to somewhere warm and inviting. Colors and sounds became inviting again. It was dismissed as a strange case of the doldrums. Fewer noted that color and sound didn’t feel different, they were different. Samples of color and recordings of sound could be brought from cold and dark places and compared to the warm and bright things they were supposed to be. Fewer still noted that this strange case of the doldrums wasn’t limited to just one place. As the bard’s words continued their journey, researchers noted that it was a wave. That the time when it reached planets could be compared, contrasted, calculated into what was ultimately a direction. A direction that led thousands upon thousands upon thousands of lightyears into unexplored, uncharted, unknown space, far, far away from civilization and easy space travel.

A direction that led to Blake the bard.

There were no more mountains left to climb.

Blake wept.