The Architect sandbox [The Archiverse series]

Chapter : Lyra's Bad Mood

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Click. Clack. Tap tap.

Oliver's small fingers danced across the laptop keyboard, his brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Despite his seven-year-old body, the mind behind his eyes was decades older, focused and sharp.

Suddenly—

BANG!

The bedroom door swung open violently, startling the air itself. Lyra stormed in, her usual calm replaced by stormclouds in her eyes.

"Out." she snapped, her voice like brittle glass.

Oliver blinked, looked up at her, and without a word, quietly slid off the bed. He knew better than to argue. Lyra has shown quite a temper, but when her temper flared, she wasn't one to negotiate. He stepped toward the hallway.

SLAM!

Her fist met the wall. The impact wasn't just audible—it rippled. The vines hanging from her ceiling planter suddenly curled downward, wilting unnaturally as if her anger touched more than just air.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs. Their mother, Martha, appeared in the doorway with concern already creasing her face.

"Lyra," she said gently, "what's wrong, sweetheart?"

"I got ranked C," Lyra muttered, eyes low, voice tight with frustration.

Martha exhaled and stepped forward, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a folded stack of bills—paper currency, gray and clean with no face of a leader, only symbolic engravings. Without a word, she handed it over to both of them.

Before Oliver could reach for his share, Lyra snatched the money, then yanked Oliver's hand. "We're going out," she growled.

"Okay," Oliver said softly, letting himself be dragged along. He was physically a child, after all—it made sense to play the part.

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[The Streets – A Strange Peace]

Third Person view

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The world outside their home was not what Oliver expected when he first woke up in this reality.

Smooth sidewalks stretched alongside tidy rows of buildings. Trees were neatly trimmed, and the air felt… calm. Not like the chaotic bustle of New York or the siren-laced backdrop of Los Angeles. There were no cars honking, no yelling from across the street. Even the wind seemed to whisper rather than howl.

Despite his inner age of 27, Oliver was small. Lyra, taller and older in appearance, kept a firm grip on his hand. She didn't look at him, but her fingers were tight, almost possessive.

Oliver looked up at her. "You know, C isn't that bad."

"I don't need your wisdom right now, you little boy," she muttered.

Oliver laughed quietly. She wasn't wrong, how would anyone take him seriously here when he's less than 4 feet tall.

They entered the local corner store, the door ringing with a pleasant chime. The shelves were well-stocked with unfamiliar goods—cylindrical bottles, packaged bread with foreign glyphs, glossy fruits that shimmered subtly, and chalk-white cartons of milk labeled with elegant calligraphy.

Lyra took a basket and filled it with surprising care. Despite her mood, she chose items with thought: bread, cheese, tea leaves, soap, and a couple of sweets. No impulse buys, no tantrums over toys. She might've been upset, but she was still responsible.

When it came time to pay, she pulled out the gray paper currency and handed it to the cashier. The bills looked similar to Earth dollars but lacked any historical figures—just serene imagery of landscapes and emblems Oliver didn't recognize.

They stepped back into the sunlit street, groceries in hand.

"Still mad?" Oliver asked.

Lyra didn't answer right away. After a few steps, she said quietly, "I don't like being average. I hate it."

"You're not," Oliver replied.

Lyra didn't argue. She just squeezed his hand tighter.

And for a moment, Oliver forgot he was supposed to be the adult.

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First-Person Narrative – Lyra Woods

Ugh. I could still hear that number echoing in my head like it was branded behind my eyes.

C-Rank.

Not even a B. Just… C. Like the system was saying "You're average. You're just barely useful. Forgettable."

And then I walk into my room and there's Oliver—sitting on my bed, watching Traveler videos like he's about to go pack a cloak and set out into the wild.

I didn't want to hear it. Not his voice. Not his thoughts. Not that weird little calm tone he gets like he's older than he looks.

I snapped. I know I did.

"Out."

He didn't even argue. Just slipped off the bed like a quiet little puppet and walked toward the door. I didn't mean to hit the wall, but the anger in my chest needed somewhere to go, and the drywall didn't argue.

Then Mom showed up, soft and careful as always. She looked at me like I was a glass vase tipping off a table. And she gave me money—no lecture, no "You'll do better next time," just money. Like that was the fix for everything.

I took it. I didn't even know what I wanted to do with it.

But I knew I needed to go somewhere.

I grabbed Oliver's hand without thinking and dragged him out the door. He didn't resist, didn't complain. Sometimes he acts way too calm, and it makes me want to shake him. Doesn't he realize how weird this place is? How fake people are? How none of this is as soft and magical as it looks on the surface?

We walked.

The streets were their usual too-perfect self. Quiet trees. Polished stones. Shimmering store signs that looked like they belonged in a magazine. The kind of place where people pretend everything's fine because the city smells like flowers.

And there's Oliver—tiny, slow, way too wide-eyed. Just staring at everything like it's all so new and amazing.

He doesn't get it.

He doesn't know how fast things can break.

He doesn't know what it's like to train for years and still come up short.

He doesn't know what it means to be ranked.

He thinks this is some storybook world where you become a Traveler and everything works out.

Still… I didn't let go of his hand.

Not because I'm scared he'll run off. Not because he'll get lost.

But because… he's mine to protect. Even if he annoys me. Even if he's always watching me with that look like he's trying to understand me.

He's little. He's naïve. He asks dumb questions and says too many quiet things like he's eighty years old in a baby body. But out here? In the streets? With this city full of fake smiles and silent judgments?

I keep his hand in mine.

Firm. Warm. Unshakable.

I'm the one who has to pull him forward.

Because even if I can't fix my own messes, I'll be damned if anyone else messes with him.

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First-Person Narrative – Oliver Woods

("Bossy Sister Energy")

I just kept walking, my hand still trapped in Lyra's iron grip as she dragged me down the street. She hadn't looked at me once since we left the house, but her fingers hadn't let go either. Like I was some stray animal she didn't want to deal with, but didn't trust the world enough to let go of.

She was quiet now, steaming with that silent "don't talk to me" energy.

I stared at her. Red hair in that half-messy bun. Posture stiff. Shoulders high like she was still chewing on her own frustration.

Lyra was…

Arrogant.

Bossy.

Short-tempered.

And incredibly easy to irritate. I mean, she snapped at everything. One wrong word and suddenly she's glaring like you insulted her entire ancestry.

I sighed quietly, feet kicking against the sidewalk as we walked.

On Earth? I never had an older sibling. Not even a cousin that stuck around. No big brother. No big sister. Just me, the couch, and the flickering blue light of the television.

I used to watch Nicktoons every afternoon—Fairly OddParents, Invader Zim, Danny Phantom. I knew every rerun schedule by heart. Then there was Cartoon Network—Teen Titans, Naruto, Ben 10. A buffet of chaos and heroes, each one louder and cooler than the last.

PBS Kids was the quieter part of my day. Arthur, Cyberchase, Clifford the Big Red Dog. Stuff that felt like it cared about kids being alone.

When we moved the second time, and the only channel that came through properly was Qubo, I lived off Jane and the Dragon, Babar, Jacob Two-Two, and Zula Patrol. I pretended I hated it. But honestly? It made me feel safe. Like I wasn't so weird for talking to myself all day.

And when I was younger—Sprout. Before it turned into Universal Kids and lost its soul. I remembered watching Pajanimals and The Good Night Show like it was a bedtime ritual.

And of course, Paw Patrol. I used to hum the theme without even realizing it.

I had a thousand shows, a hundred characters, and not one of them ever told me to clean my room or stop daydreaming or "get off the laptop." No one grabbed my wrist like they owned it.

But now?

Now I had Lyra.

This fiery-tempered storm cloud of a girl who acted like she was twice my age and the guardian of my destiny. She treated me like a weird, fragile puzzle piece someone dropped into her perfectly sorted box.

Still...

She didn't let go.

And maybe—maybe—that meant something.

Even if she was the worst combination of control freak and mood swing, at least she wasn't walking ten feet ahead like I didn't exist.

I just wish she didn't treat me like a toy brother who needed constant dragging.

I had enough of that from life already.

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First-Person Narrative – Oliver Woods

("Late-Night Pinwheel")

The house was dark. Quiet. The kind of silence where even the fridge hum sounds too loud.

It was just past 10:00 PM, and everyone was asleep—Lyra with her room locked tight, probably still stewing over her C-rank, and Martha and Liam already off in dreamland. I had tiptoed downstairs with the stealth of a pro and dropped myself onto the couch like it was my throne.

Remote in hand. Feet up. Blanket over my legs.

This? This was the kind of comfort I hadn't had since Earth.

I flicked through the channels until I landed on Pinwheel—this universe's kid-focused mega network. Honestly, it was better than anything Earth ever cooked up. The logo was sleek, colorful, and the shows weren't just brainless noise. They actually looked… crafted.

Tonight's show?

A sci-fi animated series that instantly reminded me of Invader Zim.

The protagonist? A blue alien guy with glowing yellow eyes, sharp teeth, and a dramatic cape that fluttered even when there was no wind. He wanted to conquer a planet called Nyxus Prime, home to bizarre pink and green alien races. His goal? Take over the galaxy, obviously.

Only, instead of landing on Nyxus Prime… he crash-landed on a human-like world full of modern cities, sleepy suburbs, and confused teenagers.

And now?

He was using science, not brute force. Concocting wild inventions, wormholes, disguises, and energy siphons to slowly manipulate the cosmos from the shadows.

And the animation?

Holy crap.

It wasn't just good—it was ridiculously good.

Like, Demon Slayer good. Like that crisp, ultra-fluid style with atmospheric lighting, dramatic camera sweeps, and tiny particles floating in the air that made every movement feel heavy and real. The character designs were distinct, not recycled. Backgrounds had layers, depth, reflections… even emotional weight.

I was just sitting there, slack-jawed.

How were they animating this?

There were no obvious signs of AI rendering—none of that weird smooth-stutter vibe you sometimes catch in cheaper shows.

And speaking of AI…

God, that whole thing still left a bad taste in my memory.

From December 2024 to April 2025, back on Earth, AI had gotten so saturated in the animation and content scene that people were losing their minds. The internet drowned in "brainrot" videos—

Skibidi Toilet.

Italian Brainrot.

"That Feeling When Knee Surgery Is Tomorrow."

—funny in the dumbest way possible, but mind-meltingly repetitive. No plot. No heart. Just loops and memes stacked on chaos. Sometimes you'd laugh. Most times, you'd question your sanity.

But this?

This show on Pinwheel felt like a real labor of love.

Even though the blue alien was ranting about "hydro-quantum displacer cannons" while trying to steal someone's microwave, it had a soul.

The sound design. The pacing. The depth in every frame.

It didn't feel like a product.

It felt like storytelling.

I hugged the blanket tighter and kept watching, the blue glow of the screen lighting up the otherwise sleeping house.

And I thought:

This world may have magic and Travelers and cherrywood trees... but it also has the kind of cartoons I always dreamed about.

And honestly?

That was kind of everything to me.

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Television Scene – First-Person View

(Pinwheel Sci-Fi Animation Excerpt – Blue Alien POV)

Scene opens with a rush of starlight—comets streak past, nebulas swirl in pinks and greens, and distant galaxies spin like glowing spirals of paint. The screen pulses in first-person view, the audience seeing through the eyes of a soaring spacecraft tearing through the void.

Xanddar (VO):

"Those times I flew through the cosmos..."

Stars streak past faster, creating warp lines as speed increases.

Xanddar (VO):

"I, Xanddar, Supreme Architect of Conquest! From the radiant constellation of Astrio..."

A constellation flickers briefly into view like a branded symbol across the stars.

Xanddar (VO):

"...in the far-flung reaches of the Kelper Belt!"

Scene shifts: the ship dives past a frozen dwarf planet glazed in ice fog, then spins toward a burning gas giant where storms swirl like crimson eyes.

Xanddar (VO):

"To the coldest dwarf planets... to the hottest liquid giants!"

Cue dramatic music—epic brass fused with space-synth.

Xanddar (VO):

"I shall conquer the galaxies, one by one, with my light-speed quantum drive—"

Cut to an animated schematic of a glowing, spiraling engine that crackles with lightning.

Xanddar (VO):

"—without disturbing the fragile web of time itself!"

Scene cuts to a Mars-like planet—crimson sky, icy blue shadows. The wind howls. Dust devils dance over sharp cliffs. Towers rise from a deep canyon glowing with energy.

Xanddar (VO):

"And on the red, cold planet of Mark..."

A massive canyon stretches out—easily dwarfing Earth's Grand Canyon. Robotic assembly lines build massive constructs in the background.

Xanddar (VO):

"...home to the largest canyon in this star system—I shall construct my base! The heart of my empire!"

Final shot: the camera pans back to reveal a massive glowing fortress of steel and crystal, with robotic armies lined up like chrome statues, ready for galactic war.

Xanddar (VO):

"My robot army will rise! My empire will begin! And no one... not even those pink-squishy Nyxians... will stop me!"

Cue theme sting: a booming orchestral + synth mix as the logo slams onto the screen—

XANDDAR: COSMIC INVASION CHRONICLES

—streaming now on Pinwheel.

Cut to static and a cheesy toy commercial.

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Third-Person Narrative – "Lights Out"

Oliver sat sunken into the couch cushions, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, a half-finished snack resting on his lap, forgotten. The room was dim except for the vivid flicker of the television screen as it bathed everything in waves of cosmic blue and starlight purple. He hadn't expected much when he turned on Pinwheel, but now?

He was hooked.

The world-building was insane—layered empires, alien factions, and politics that made Naruto's nations look like elementary school drama.

The animation? Crisp, clean, better than anything he'd seen in years—with camera angles and motion quality that rivaled Demon Slayer's most iconic fight scenes.

The effects were next level—cosmic storms, light-speed distortions, quantum sparks that danced like real electricity.

And the power system? It wasn't just blasting beams and yelling louder. There were rules. Devices. Energy types. Even time physics and tech limitations.

Oliver couldn't believe this came from a "kids' network."

This was good. Really good.

He sat there, eyes glued to the screen as Xanddar's army marched through the canyons of Planet Mark, his voice booming with confidence and madness. Oliver almost whispered aloud, "This is better than half the anime Earth ever made."

Then—

Footsteps.

His body stiffened.

A shadow approached from the stairs, and before he could react—

CLICK.

The television cut off in a flash. The galaxy vanished. The screen went dark.

Standing beside the remote, arms crossed, hair slightly curled from sleep and eyes sharp with irritation, was Lyra.

Her fiery red hair, now loose from its bun, curled wildly over her shoulders like an angry halo. She didn't need to say it twice.

"Get to bed. Now." she ordered coldly.

Oliver wanted to protest. He really did. He didn't even get to see the cliffhanger. But one glance at her face told him this wasn't a negotiation.

And more importantly?

He didn't want to wake up Martha and Liam. Not when things were finally starting to feel... stable.

Without a word, Oliver stood up, shuffled quietly past her, and climbed the stairs in silence. His mind, however, was anything but quiet.

That show... that world... Xanddar...

As he reached the top step, he whispered to himself, grinning despite the lights-out order:

"I'm definitely watching the next episode tomorrow."