(this story reminded me that i really dont have much knowledge on the algebralians
all i ever think about is needle ok)
Nothing was happening today.
In the vast, nigh-infinite expanse of the cosmos, there are countless stories that could be told; all sorts of interesting events and incidents, woven solely by pure random chance, just waiting to be uncovered and understood. But all those mysteries, all those wonders, are only the cream of the crop. The pinnacle of what the universe has to offer. For every interesting-looking cosmic object, or every wet rock filled with hapless, pathetic lifeforms, there's also the massive, *massive* stretches of void that form the gap between such things. There's also the more barren rocks floating around, the stars that shined in an *ever* so slightly less interesting way. For every thing that could be talked about at length outside of niche, nerd circles, there were about 2,763 other things that had absolutely *nothing* one could discuss without losing their minds. Really, those estimates are probably orders of magnitude off; there's a *lot* of stuff in the universe, and a lot of boring, mundane, ordinary stuff in particular.
And speaking of numbers...
In 99.992763% of all instances, this typical normality of the universe isn't really a big deal. After all, it's not like all of existence is just some big story that's being compiled and read by some unknown higher power for the sake of some twisted form of entertainment. In those islands of interesting activity, in the places that actually hosted life, they didn't really *want* anything interesting to happen. On average, anyway.
It is the innate nature of every living being to desire action, to crave novelty and uniqueness. They do not play nicely with a rigid, unchanging routine. Even when everything is handed to them on a silver platter, even when their every want and need is taken care of, it *just* isn't enough. Through some cruel twist of fate, some practical joke by the inner workings of the universe, it is the inevitable fate of everything that walks and talks to destroy itself in its quest to make something of itself. That leads to conflict. That leads to adventure. That leads to Battles for Dream Island.
And so, plenty of those who live have plenty of exciting days. Several years worth, even. But all of those are balanced out by the days in which they *don't* want any of those things. They are finite, they are mortal. They are only capable of so much before their body fails, before they put themselves at risk of death. And so, sometimes, they desire to just rest and recuperate. They want to just sit things out for the day, then proceed to tackle things head-on tomorrow. As a result, everything becomes equal. On a given day, one of the many, *many* clueless lifeforms inhabiting the surface of some damp sphere would desire to just be left alone, to enjoy the day, to bask in all that life has to offer.
But in *this* particular instance, in this particular setting for a story, that just isn't the case.
Algebralians are these immensely powerful, all-consuming creatures that leave a trail of destruction and mayhem in their wake. They're well known and feared for suddenly showing up on everyone's doorstep, declaring themselves to be in charge, and having everyone dance to whatever tune they decide. They can absorb things, mangle others, crush cosmic forces with their bare hands, and generally can just mess around with the universe in ways that are just *unfathomable* for the layperson. The stars, the planets, the moons, all the other cosmic minutiae. Every bit of the great firmament are just toys for the living numerals to play with.
With such great power at their disposal, with the entire cosmos at their fingertips, the concept of *ever* becoming bored, of ever relaxing and sitting still, was *unthinkable*. From day to day, they were always focused on *something*. Some new escapade to keep them preoccupied, to keep them *happy*. If they're not happy, they're grumpy. And when they're grumpy, *someone* has to pay for that atrocious crime.
