White light.

Five days ago, with his little shadow puppets beneath the streetlamp, Tempest had told the story of the first time he'd ever seen an arma in person. How he'd been so curious, enough to get on their nerves, yet also flattering them that someone would take such an interest.

Four days ago, Tempest had told the story of an old garduian who'd lived in a meteor crater. How a traveler had met them again and again, trying to convince them to leave, to no avail. Yet when tragedy struck the traveler's family, the garduian comforted them, asking to hear of their kin and the place they had lived.

Three days ago, Tempest had told the story of a tourist, who'd spent a week living among eolin-i-mere on a warp point. How they'd watched as ships flew by, each on their way to somewhere, with hints of the people within and their purpose.

Two days ago, Tempest had told the story of a murder mystery within the members of a secret conspiracy in a small asteroid mining colony, whose leader had been murdered in the middle of the night (he'd tried keeping things simple, but the idea had gotten away from him a bit).

Yesterday, Tempest had told the story of a fleetomine who became pen pals with a krell, and how over the years and months, the two grew close, learning each other's language in culture, sending anime and plushies along with letters, and eventually having a joyful first meeting.

Today, there'd been news. Rumours. It could've been many things. Yet he felt he knew what had happened. There'd been a small hive of angels living in an asteroid belt he'd kept in contact with. There'd been notails he'd exchanged information with. Contacts, scattered about here and there, all silent now.

His words, thoughts, tumbled in place. Snapped like a pond of piranhas. Erupted through the ground. Going around and around in a circle.

Ah well.
Alas, alack.
C'est la vie.
That's what he said. That's what he'd say. Wasn't it?

...Nah. Not this time.

No poems. No pithy judgements and observations. No lying down and listening to music.

He left the street corner.

A light shines brightly through the sky. It is bright and
Wait no it's morning.

A bird of poet teal lands near the AI here to
No never mind talking animals are tiresome.

The AI is

In the dawn of the day a

Simple, generic elevator music plays, as he prepares himself.

The elevator to the Poetnix's floor opens. Crumbled and burned papers litter the floor. The room feels endless. Some books stacked so high they disappear into a mist above. An anomalous domain.

Tempest steps forward with great caution, feeling tense as he approaches. Yet, he pauses at the sight of Barley. Wasn't that the guy who made Blockmon?

...Still. He felt there was an appropriate way of going about this. So he bends forwards and bows to the Poetnix, sweeping two arms to one side as he holds the other two to his chest.

Barley carefully thinks over his words, making sure to check it for possible rewrite exploitations.

The Poetnix begins to write with his talons. The scene unfolds behind him.

The Poetnix pulls out a blank book and starts writing. Unlike the other images that were shown last time, these are more crude, less formed.

Fictional.

The Poetnix pulls back up his Bizz and Zapp AU book.

At first it was a stage for me
Actors, props and mockery
Then I found a different way
I saw and talked and wished to stay
And now it's gone, too much to bear
Despite it all, I still care

Tempest goes inside.

The elevator opens. The Four Poet birds leap out and point at the Creator.

And so, the universe was revived, and Zoo Corp was disbanded. It took many years for things to return back to normal, but it did.

And finally, stories that were more than the dull degrading world of Zoo Corp were allowed to bloom once more. And Tempest was happy for millions of years until the universe ended.