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Welcome to the Outworlds™
- Narrator
- Feb 1
- 6 min read
The Outworlds™
The seven planets, plus their astral island nodes, are scattered across Quadrant 7B, the aftermath of an empire stretched across too many stars with too little self-awareness.
Earths expansion, marketed them as “Diverse immersive living environments,” apparently humanity’s best effort at the next evolutionary leap. But look closer and the Outworlds resemble a high-concept escape room scripted by imperial design—another illusion of choice, with walls painted to look like open sky and a horizon of possibilities.
Realm Report: Vorathis Prime
Alias: The Empire of Endless Distraction
Status: Functioning as designed. Unfortunately.
Welcome to Vorathis Prime, where the lights never go out. Humanity’s self-proclaimed “crown jewel of post-Earth expansion,” it sparkles—mostly with reflective surfaces and novelty. From orbit, it’s breathtaking: opalescent towers, cloud-stitched skylines, vertical gardens trailing like luxury scarves, domes refracting sunlight into algorithm-approved hues of serenity. A cinematic postcard from a utopia that doesn’t blink.
Zoom in, however, and the rendering begins to glitch.
This realm was architected—literally—by the Architect of Excess. It’s a perfectly engineered feedback loop of pleasure on demand. The population is stuck on a hedonistic treadmill powered by curated serotonin spikes and high-end FOMO.
Need joy? There’s a tiered pricing plan. Can’t afford the experience? Then there’s a holographic version available until the trial expires.
Observed Incidents:
• Subject 248-FX: Mid-40s, asleep beneath a VR canopy, replaying a moment where someone once cared. 93rd loop.
• Subject 771-MK: Adolescent. Swiped through fourteen identity presets before settling on one for the day. Ate breakfast in three realities simultaneously.
• Subject 999-RA: Collapsed mid-lift. Diagnosed with “Premium Fatigue” after back-to-back JoyStream upgrades. Treated with silence and quietly removed.
Vorathis Prime sells the abyss in premium wrapping: “You’re almost there… once you can afford this… just one more…” There is no destination—only shimmering new selves that never arrive. The ache is the anchor; the craving is the code.
Note: Nothing real lasts long on Vorathis Prime. Especially not the self.
Realm Report: Ozdranis
Alias: The World That No One Wants
Status: Ongoing existential shrug.
Originally pitched as “Oz”—a haven of aesthetic bliss and optimised comfort—Ozdranis was the flagship Outworld. The brochure glittered: “No hassle. No hardship. Just harmony.”
And ease they got. Too much of it.
Under the curated comfort, sloth-like entropy fermented. Entrepreneurs, engineers, and anyone with initiative were gently exiled early on (classified as “stress-inducing anomalies”). Those who remained were Loyal Loungers™, devotees of Do-Less culture. Effort was considered a trauma response. Eventually, the infrastructure decayed—along with the people. When no one changes a lightbulb, eventually all the lights go out.
Ozdranis has not been abandoned. That would require effort. It has entered a post-enthusiastic era.
The primary inhabitants are the Empty Ones—offspring of casual-consumption citizens who dissolved into apathetic longing when supply chains collapsed. People drift into silhouettes of who they never had the energy to be, whispering through the fog of wanting, waiting for deliveries that never come.
If this seems bleak, rest assured: it is. I take no pleasure in reporting accuracy.
Current Conditions: Ambient twilight. Curtains never drawn. Public spaces empty. Infrastructure crumbling in soft resignation. A culture like a drained battery clinging to fantasies of what was promised.
Notable Observation: If Vorathis Prime is the banquet, Ozdranis is the digestive regret. A cautionary tale in soft focus. Haunted not by what happened—but by what never did.
Realm Report: Shadovan
Alias: The Kingdom of False Faces
Status: A masterclass in curated self-erasure.
Shadovan—the Outworld masquerade ball that never ended. If the galaxy had a theatre district engineered by amnesiacs with commitment issues, this would be it. The skyline sparkles. The architecture breathes. Buildings shift to match the mood swings of citizens. (Logistically impractical. Aesthetically essential.)
Here, truth is considered bad manners, and identity is a rental renewed at sunrise. Upon induction, each citizen selects a mask—mandatory, naturally. From that moment, existence is tied to performance metrics: charisma value, aesthetic index, drama quotient. Think social-credit meets performance art with a dash of “pick me” desperation.
Reinvention is religion. Authenticity is treason.
Speech is rehearsed. Affection strategic. Relationships? Rotating guest appearances. The bolder the persona, the louder the applause.
Over generations, citizens adapted to total self-alienation. Most forgot they were ever anything other than well-lit. Masks rarely come off—unless you are a by-stander, identity-less or lost in obscurity.
At this point in my audit, I questioned whether anyone in this realm has ever experienced silence. I doubt it.
To ask “Who are you, really?” is considered psychological assault.
Diagnostic Summary: Shadovan is a realm of holographic intimacy—connection without contact, expression without essence. A paradise for shapeshifters, celebrities, and anyone allergic to being known. Everyone is seen; nothing is witnessed.
Realm Report: Suryavan
Alias: The Industrial Enlightenment Complex
Status: Utopian glow with mild cultish aftertaste.
Suryavan—the fourth Outworld—was forged from humanity’s chronic existential itch. Designed to be the final answer to “Who am I?” (Spoiler: still unclear.)
At first glance, it’s a handcrafted paradise with 800-thread-count dhotis: rolling meadows, freshwater lakes, bamboo temples whispering “serenity” in twelve dialects. At its radiant centre: The Luminous Master™—a 12th-dimensional beam of benevolence whose smile boasts a higher entanglement rate than most homeworld deities. His followers orbit his transmission like emotionally bruised moths to an unattainable flame.
I briefly considered applying for enlightenment here for research integrity. Then I read the waiver.
Core Exports: • Healing Packages — now with 22% more soul. • Deluxe Trauma Flush™ — cleanse karma, cancel history. • Inner Child Express Upgrade — innocence guaranteed. • Quantum Affirmation Pods — just sit, smile, ascend.
Wholeness is available in six to eight planetary orbits—or you’re entitled to a transcendence refund.
Cultural Norms: Everything glows except individuality. Critical thinking is a blockage. Doubt an energetic parasite. Personal autonomy is gently recycled into collective unity for “vibrational safety.”
Pilgrims arrive seeking freedom and leave dressed in matching linen, chanting serenity while aligning chakras to the Master’s livestream. No edges. No questions. Just curated calm, personalised transcendence, and designer mala beads.
Diagnostic Summary: Suryavan is an enlightened echo chamber—the illusion of spiritual arrival, tastefully filtered through handcrafted humility. Here, peace isn’t found—it’s subscribed to. Transcendence? That’ll cost extra.
Realm Report: The Astran Commonwealth
Alias: The Federated Suburbia of Status & Superiority
Status: Entirely Pleased With Itself
The Astran Commonwealth attracts a certain Earth Human subtype: the Rule-Worshipping Rationalist. Those who find the chaos of life “inefficient” and respond with policy, municipal zoning, and a life manual. Everything in its place. No surprises. No unapproved thoughts.
If ambition wore a sweater vest and had a performance review with its life coach, Astran would be home.
Design Philosophy: Order over innovation. Status over depth. Politeness above all.
Regulation here is religion. Individuality permitted—if pre-approved. Creativity exists as an artisan latte foam flourish.
My request to audit a non-regulated district was denied on the grounds that “such a place would be distressing to witness.”
Cultural Observations:
• Endless suburban sprawl; cities never quite formed.
• Conversations carbonated with surface-level civility.
• Curiosity discontinued quietly—difficult to measure.
• Growth expands horizontally, avoids vertical change.
Underlying Truth: Astrans confuse structure with significance. Everything functions; nothing evolves.
Realm Report: Kirelia
Alias: Realm of Love & Longing
Cultural Programming Tagline: “All Is Love”™
Kirelia is scented nostalgia, romance-ad aesthetics, and dreamlike longing—monetised. The air is thick with pheromonal particles and mood-responsive fragrances. Districts pulse with ambient waves of lust, loneliness, and late-night playlist energy. The sky shifts colour based on collective longing—highest between 02:00–05:00 planetary time.
Original intent: a sanctuary of sacred union & shared resonance. Outcome: sensory feedback loops misdirected, keeping citizens in perpetual pursuit of “the One.”
Love became a neurochemical high endorsed by pseudo-spiritual influencers. True intimacy is “too intense for casual use.” Eye contact beyond four seconds is flagged as emotional piracy. Touch is widely available but lacks presence, currently on back order.
Observed Behaviours:
• A man cuddles a projection of his ideal partner, calibrated to trigger abandonment wounds just enough to feel the relief of reunion.
• A child raised on romance loops begins dating at age five—his first heartbreak went viral.
• A couple renew their 30-day love contract under simulated cherry blossoms—terms include mutual mirroring and no unsupervised emotional depth.
Systemic pattern: desire isn’t met—it’s fed. Just enough to maintain the chase.
Final Note: What began as a sanctuary for sacred union is now a love simulator with high user retention and zero soul integration. A beautiful trap for those who prefer longing over intimacy.
Realm Report: Thar-Korr
Common Alias: The Machine Behind the Mask Civic Branding Status: Unavailable. Marketing refused the assignment.
Thar-Korr is not misunderstood. It’s simply impolite to mention.
An industrial hellscape wrapped in functional metal. Skies bleed smoke. Ground groans under extraction quotas. Flesh is currency. Compliance law. Survival ritual. Dignity auctioned beside rusted flesh-tech and surplus memory-chips.
Planetary Function: Unapologetic exploitation. Where other Outworlds mask dysfunction, Thar-Korr skips the costume. No utopia. No curated playlists. No therapeutic mantras. Just labour, sweat, and bone-deep grind. Social contract etched in steel: Obey. Perform. Endure.
Optional clause: numb yourself with whatever your credits can afford.
Operational Paradox:
Thar-Korr isn’t broken. It’s terrifyingly intact. Every gear is calibrated to convert lifespan into output. It is the powerplant beneath the dream. A planetary scapegoat bleeding itself dry so the other realms can sip synthetic teas, pretending their pleasure isn’t built on its pain.
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