CWD: OE ~ Prologue

Arriod QuaJohn of A-One District’s Ultra Unit Strike Force stood just behind the tree line. As the Ultra Commanding Overlord of the Ideal CruxTerran Unified Peoples—better known as the ICUP—Arriodd knew all of his commanders and soldiers were waiting on his signal. He waited patiently in the shadows, with one hand on his very special, very deadly katana.

His sunglasses were pushed up on his head to keep his thick black hair back, and as always, a lower-face cloth covered his chin, mouth and cheeks. He wanted to see with his own eyes that the famed Assassin, Eli ‘Nacho’ Naches—better known as ‘the Shadow Killer’—was being led through the gates of Richard Crave’s compound.

“These humans are very bizarre, sir.” One of Arriod’s subordinates shuddered as she watched the basic humans with disdain. The observation made the leader frown, but he allowed her to speak so long as she maintained proper standards of stealth. “Not only do they only have one stomach, but the pupils of their eyes are disgusting. Round? It’s unnerving and unattractive.”

Arriodd, his entire generation of soldiers, and everyone currently alive on their world had grown up with the cross-shaped pupils, even though they were relatively new. For most of their shared history, CruxTerrans had been born with vertical pupils. About a hundred years ago, horizontal slits were added, and it had revolutionized civilization in all sorts of important ways.

During the original ICUP surgeries, back when the initiative began, some very effective propaganda had been turned into a proverb to encourage people to get the surgery. He breathed it now, earning looks of admiration from all sides. “The eyes are a window into the soul, and every soul is a crossroads.”

Most of the time, Arriodd didn’t care much for proverbs. Their financial or strategic value couldn't be graphed. They were pretty, but pretty didn’t keep a fighter  alive. But propaganda? Arriodd understood propaganda exceedingly well. It was both a carrot and a stick for the lowly and the ignorant. It created obedience. If the CruxTerrans were obedient, they would crush these round-eyed Earthlings.

Arriodd breathed in the night air, preparing himself to act when the humans were at their weakest. “This night is another crossroads.”

“Sir!” His people’s admiration was near reverent.

Two of the most powerful guilds on the Earth’s Starter World were merging—the Final Victory and the Gorged. It seemed impossible, but Richard Crave and Kala the Death Knight had come to an agreement and would be using the momentum of their union to counterattack the CruxTerrans. Only one fact had been able to delay the ambush the CruxTerrans had planned to crush both guilds: one requirement of the merger was that Nacho—the Shadow Killer—had to die.

More than just being an Assassin with an astounding kill count and mission success ratio, Arriodd had disturbing dreams of Nacho. He didn’t know if they were a boon or not, as the dreams didn’t seem to have any strategic value. They seemed like simple, troubling visions. But that was all over now, if his intel was correct.

Nacho was scheduled to die at first light, which would weaken the human forces and practically assure the safety of Arriodd’s political backers and various VIP’s in the bunkers. As soon as the death was confirmed, both the Final Victory and the Gorged would be destroyed. Even now, Arriodd’s well-equipped and well-fed army—a collection of UltraUnits, G-Units, and Total Units—filled the forests around the compound. The soldiers were silently killing any scouts and stragglers, which would allow the CrossTerran cooks to provide them quite the victory breakfast after Crave fell.

They would have enough meat for a long, long time.

Human breakfast sausage added a certain… something to the scrambled eggs that Arriodd enjoyed. His mouth watered at just thinking of scrambled eggs, and even mediocre ones reminded him of nice vacations he’d taken as a boy. He’d grown up visiting the plastic pebble beaches on the Eastern Glory Sea. What could be more beautiful than the radioactive glow of the factories lining the swampy rivers as industrialization reached new heights?

Arriodd toyed with his sword, idly slipping it a few inches in and out of its sheath at his side. The humans called it a ‘katana’. It seemed to be a foreign word—the Roundies had all sorts of nations, countries, states, and provinces. Theirs was a foolish method of governance, one that had been stomped out of his world centuries ago. The ICUP had divided the seven continents into districts and subdistricts for maximum efficiency; it worked perfectly.

The Earthlings were chaotic creatures with faintly amusing ideas on personal freedom with a utilitarian bent. It was probably why they had so many different kinds of foods all around their world—or what had been their world before the Juxtaposition. That was one of their only redeeming features, in his mind: the sheer decadence of their foodstuffs. It didn’t matter though—not anymore.

Arriodd mostly got his information from hungry people, and hungry people talked about food. A lot. Many mentioned something called ‘tacos’. From what he understood, it was meat inside a fried shell. Then someone explained to him that the shell didn’t need to be fried. As he had come to understand it, they just did it to increase the flavor and calorie count. Shaking his head, he muttered disdainfully, “Incredibly wasteful.”

The Patrons had given both the humans and CruxTerrans a new language to use: Juxtaposition tongue, or Patronese. Even so, some words didn’t translate well. For example, back on CruxTerra, there had been the word ‘eejailspee’. As he had explained to captive humans during his clinical trials on determining the limits of their subpar minds, ‘eejailspee’ was the fear a person felt when their government had imprisoned or killed all of their friends, and they were next on the list.

Arriodd had not experienced eejailspee himself. From an early age, he knew that it was better to be the jailor than the jailed, so he’d risen as fast in the ranks of the ICUP as he could manage. Questions were often punished, so he learned to keep his curiosity to himself. One of the reasons he had been promoted so rapidly was because, unlike so many others, he could control himself. Another reason? He loved games, all kinds of games, as much as he enjoyed breakfast. What was survival and political power, other than the most dangerous game that he could attempt to play?

It had been three years since he’d emerged from the Evaluation World, having scored nearly perfectly. He’d perused the Evaluation Mall for a very long time, since time had stopped meaning anything, and the Patrons had seemed perfectly willing to let him shop forever. In fact, he had considered shopping forever as a possible strategy. How angry would the Patrons be if he sat out their entire game in the Evaluation Mall?

Although it had taken a bit, Arriodd’s curiosity had eventually gotten the better of him. He did take the time to read every single description of every single class, and every single skill in those classes. He’d thought he’d compiled a good working knowledge of the Juxtaposition’s game elements, but he hadn’t been completely certain why anyone would choose to spend their Evaluation Points on being a Satiation Player. He’d been slightly tempted, since judging by the Evaluation World, food was certainly going to be important. Both Hunger and Thirst were tracked on their Stat Sheets, and both were necessary in using one’s Skills.

Arriodd could’ve even become a Common Cook, the most expensive class available. The Patrons thought they were clever, assuming they had successfully hidden the importance of the class. But it wasn’t their call to ignore the class; it was his. In the end, since he was sure he didn’t truly comprehend all the variables, he decided to go with the most powerful Body Player class: a Paladin. In the Juxtaposition, his military skills would be the most useful tool at his disposal. A soldier didn’t rise through the ranks of the ICUP without winning the military games between the districts, and that meant excruciating training. He wasn’t about to waste all that effort on a class with weaker combat potential.

There was one final glaring difference between the CruxTerran and the earthlings. On the Earth’s Starter World, pockets of people had organized themselves into various guilds. On CruxTerra, the ICUP took control immediately, killed anyone who disagreed with their methods, and brought the entire globe back under control in about six months. Since then, UltraUnits had been plundering dungeons with ruthless efficiency and working for the benefit of the ICUP, which acted as a single massive guild with an Ideal Leader at the top.

Regardless, Arriod knew what that man really was: a figurehead. Arriod was the voice of the military, and he held true authority for his people. A smile that no one could see graced his lips at that moment. He had won the game before; now he just needed to do it again.

As projected, the CruxTerrans had discovered some rebels, some martyrs, and a whole faction that had tried to form a guild and live underground. Just people being troublesome people. In that behavior, the Roundies and the CruxTerrans were the same—both races did crazy things when not properly guided.

Well, once Arriodd and his men slaughtered the Roundies, he could see about exploring this planet’s history from whatever scraps of human civilization they allowed to survive. For now, all he had to do was wait at the edge of the forest.

Or so he thought.

Something flickered to Arriodd’s right. His Patron appeared without warning in his old CruxTerra cooking whites, wearing a Quack Ball helmet—the Juxtaposition was jarring like that.

‘Hey, Arri!” the god-like being boomed, the curve of his thick pink lips revealing a humorless smile full of bright white teeth. Chubby flushed cheeks lay under small eyes and pencil-thin eyebrows, and a simple bamboo toothpick jutted out of the corner of those hamburger-colored lips.

“Johnny Meat.” Arriodd nodded solemnly at the Patron. No one had dared to call him ‘Arri’ since the fifth year of his SubSchooling, and that had included his mother, who was wise enough to know to stop at that point. He could recognize a power play, and he wouldn’t let it fluster him.

Johnny Meat plucked his toothpick out and tapped it against Arriodd’s sword. “You love that sword, don’t you? I know it’s probably hungry for a bunch of action in the morning.”

“Indeed.” Arriodd backed up and leaned against a tree. On more than one occasion, he’d thought about drawing the so-called katana to see if he could carve some ounces of breakfast sausage out of his Patron, though the objective part of his brain acknowledged that the attempt would not be in his best interest. So far, Johnny Meat had helped him on numerous occasions, though an attitude of chaos always seemed to be included.

Arriodd casually kept his hand on the hilt of his blade. “You’re not here to talk about the sword or my many deadly Skills. What are you doing here?”

“Such a blunt instrument. Do you mean that in an existential way?” The Patron toyed with his words. “Like, why is anyone doing anything? In this case, I’m a Patron of this round of the Juxtaposition, and I just got some news that is messing with every single Patron that is placing bets. I came here to personally deliver that news.”

“Do tell.” Arriodd was somewhat intrigued, but he knew better than to broadcast his emotions to this being. He and his troops were but entertainment, and watching him squirm would bring too much pleasure to the higher entity. He was surprised—they seemed to be firmly in control of the Juxtaposition, down to every person, every detail; all of reality. The Roundies found such power and knowledge an invasion of privacy. For Arriodd and the rest of the CruxTerrans, it was just a Toozday—same scrutiny, same manipulations, just a different face at the top level.

Johnny Meat squinted one eye shut. “I’d say I have some good news, and I have some bad news. Sadly for you, you might not actually exist. So… the flavor of the news probably isn’t so important.”

A shiver went through Arriodd, but he tried not to show it. “I was looking forward to a trencher of approved victory food at the dining facility.”

“As we all were.” The god waved his toothpick like an orchestral baton. “I’m not saying you’ll never get CruxTerran breakfast food again. It’s just probably not going to be you.”

“Because I won’t, or don’t currently, exist.” Arriodd didn’t understand, but this conversation didn’t bode well for his future. Futures, like pasts, required an existence. He thought he was real. He seemed real. But he was dealing with near-omnipotent people who could shape reality at a whim.

“Because you probably don’t exist,” Johnny Meat agreed easily as he gestured with his toothpick. “To get the probabilities nailed down, old Kronos really had to go all out. I mean, giving his chosen guy an extra life only to take it away would’ve been brave, but the probabilities wouldn’t have really been there. But to give two whole worlds life so he could give his guy that one boon? There you go, boy. That takes a big bloody bull’s heart brimming with bravery.”

“Bulls are male peefs, right?” Arriodd’s sword still remained in its sheath. If he didn’t exist, nothing that he did mattered. He slowly widened his stance, hand on the hilt, ready to draw the powerful blade once he got a complete picture of the situation.

“That’d be beef,” Johnny corrected as he pulled a face. “Bulls, cows, beef, hamburger, steak—lots of different words here on the Earth’s Starter World for all that. Kronos gave his guy, Nacho, a boon. Once that guy gets his throat cut, all of this ends. That includes you, Mr. QuaJohn. You, the sword, it all goes back into the big unknown until version two-point-oh hits us with its strangeness. I took notes of some things, so when I do talk to the real you next time, we can work some pretty big magic and get you to the endgame faster. This round took forever. Next round is going to be over in months, definitely less than a year, if I’m right. There’s been talk of using the Starvation Dungeon to speed things along.”

Arriodd wasn’t going to waste a second trying to argue with the Patron or beg for his life, or do any such thing. He would take what Johnny Meat was saying at face value. When Nacho died, both worlds would die, since this ‘game’ seemed to have been an entire simulation for one man to learn from. Sliding his sword out a few inches… he let it drop back into its sheath. He didn’t draw the weapon; he didn’t attack the Patron. No.

Once Arriodd died, another version of him would come into being. If he attacked Johnny, or admitted he’d wanted to murder the Patron since the first moment he’d laid eyes on him, then Johnny would have that information. Worse, he could use it against Arriodd’s next iteration, his real self. He’d give himself a break this time around.

However, Arriodd was desperate to know the exact nature of the Juxtaposition. What was it for? What was the end game like? Was it solely designed to amuse gods? Or did it have a higher purpose?

“Johnny,” Arriodd slowly let the question creep from his lips, “since I’m about to snap out of existence, tell me all the big secrets. It won’t matter if I know them, since I’ll be gone. There is no reason why you shouldn’t tell me.”

Johnny Meat laughed and stuck his toothpick between his front teeth. “The opposite is also true there, Arri. There’s not a single reason why I should risk the other Patrons overhearing and busting me. It’s too risky. How about I answer three ‘yes or no’ questions? Go. Better hurry. Crave is about to hit Nacho with that feather of his.”

“Is the Juxtaposition only for the Patrons to bet on?”

“No.” Johnny Meat rewarded him with a big toothy smile that showed all of his pearly white teeth.

Arriodd tried not to get upset. “Do you want to add anything to that?”

“No.” Johnny giggled. “That should be the second question, but I’ll go easy on you. You only have a few more minutes of existence left.”

“Thank you for your kindness. I’m assuming it is because we’ve known each other long enough to give each other a bit of leeway.” Arriodd paused. In the three years since he’d left the Evaluation Mall, he’d suspected that the game was more than just sport for the Patrons. Now, he’d gotten that confirmed.

“Better hurry, pal,” the Patron prodded. “Pokey-poke time over there.”

“Is the war between the CruxTerrans and the Roundies a zero-sum game?”

Johnny waggled the toothpick at Arriodd. “Oh, you’re clever. There’re a couple different questions there. Is there a war? Can there only be one winner? Or in essence, can only one world win? I’ll say yes, there is a war. Given what you know about the game after your three years here, I would assume you’d know the answer to the other question. I prefer to let your future self figure out how that all works.”

Arriodd knew his time was short, and so far, the questions had gone fairly easily. “If I win the game, would I get to become a Patron?”

Johnny raised a finger. “Hold on one moment, wouldja? Incoming message on Patron radio. Nacho is unconscious. The blade is at his throat.”

“Oh, Johnny.” Arriodd sighed and shook his head. “Mr. Meat. Right up until the end, you are toying with me. Just tell me.”

He felt the terror coiling heavily in his gut. Regardless he didn’t show the god in a sports helmet a single spark of emotion. Johnny threw his toothpick away, and his face lost all expression. “Yeah, QuaJohn, yeah. Be a good little player long enough, across enough worlds, and you get to become a good little Patron.”

Arriod felt relief flood through every part of him. One of his biggest fears had been that the Juxtaposition was unwinnable, that even if the CruxTerrans destroyed every last one of the Roundies, it wouldn’t matter. But no, there was a point to the game. One could win it and ultimately become one of the gods that controlled it.

“Last question… do the Patrons control the system?” That iteration of Arriodd would never know the answer.

Sheer annoyance filled the eyes of Johnny Meat a millisecond before the entire land around them turned to dust, then turned to nothing. Arriod didn’t get to witness the phenomenon… because he was already dust.

“We sure don’t, Arriod.”