The Masterpiece

Time did not exist in the Oubliette. It might have been a day or a century.

The Curator stood before the throne in the center of the Sanctum. He looked tired. His alabaster skin was cracking, graying.

"My shift is done," he said.

Elara sat on the throne. She did not look at him. She looked at nothing.

She was breathtaking. She was a construct of diamond, gold, and starlight. She had no need for breath, for food, for love, or for movement. She was the definition of value. She was the most expensive thing in existence.

"You are the Perfection," the Curator said, his voice fading like a dying wind. "You are the Curator now."

He crumbled into dust, blowing away into the ventilation shafts.

Elara remained.

She sat perfectly still. Her platinum face was frozen in an expression of serene indifference. She possessed all the riches of the earth. She was safe. She was beautiful.

Deep within the diamond cage of her chest, a tiny spark of consciousness remained—the last vestige of the girl from the Slag-Heap. It wanted to scream. It wanted to scratch the itch on a nose that no longer existed. It wanted to die.

But Perfection does not die.

Elara sat, waiting for the door to open, waiting for the next empty soul to walk in, so she could help them become just like her.

She waited in the silence, a prisoner of her own upgrade, shining in the dark forever.