Chapter 45

Another day, another chapter!

Also, my brain may be melting from editing. Please send help.

Chapter 46 - Appearances

Mile High Club - VIP Suite

“My baby! Please, someone, help my poor baby!” the Hippie cried.

The puppet of a little boy lay on a makeshift stage, his head lolled to one side. Red yarn trickled from his mouth in a grotesque parody of blood as the Hippie manipulated the strings with practiced precision, his voice shifting to a trembling falsetto as he voiced the mother puppet.

The other gods’ expressions ranged from bored to openly hostile. The Lady examined her nails with exaggerated interest. The Gambler counted a heaping mound of coins with mechanical repetition—almost buried behind the stacks. The Old Man leaned on his staff, eyes closed in what might have been meditation or sleep. Only the Seer watched with any semblance of attention, a familiar black python coiled around her shoulders.

“The doctors said there was nothing they could do,” the Hippie continued, switching to the deeper voice of the father puppet who appeared on stage, his face just a smear of cloth. “Brain damage. Swelling. Coma. Such terrible words for such a small boy.”

“But then a strange, bespectacled man approached me,” the father puppet’s voice rose with excitement. “He said there might be a treatment! A magical machine that could transport our son’s consciousness to another realm. A world of endless games and fun and friends!”

Silence followed, the puppets stilling.

“As I said, a world of endless games…”

Still nothing, so the Hippie poked his head out from behind the stage.

“Ahem, the background, Fluffy.”

The black sheep opened one eye lazily and let out a resigned huff before tapping the back of the stage with a hoof. The backdrop fell away to reveal a clinical lab with a sleek metal tube. The Hippie laid the boy puppet down on the tube, another doctor puppet in a white lab coat standing above him, its tiny arms raised to the sky.

“Behold! The gateway to another world!” the doctor puppet proclaimed, shaking his arms dramatically, as though casting a spell.

Another lazy tap from Fluffy, and the background switched to a fantasy world. The boy was scared and trembling now, slowly rising. “Wait, where am I? Where’ my mommy and my daddy? I-I want to go home...” Tears rolled down the puppet’s cloth cheeks, staining the fabric.

A black cat puppet appeared ominously on stage, “Do not fear. I am Alfred, the god of this realm,” the Hippie intoned in a deep, reverberating voice. “I will guide you through this new world. But first, you need a friend to watch over you.”

A black sheep puppet ambled onto the stage, bleating softly and nuzzling the boy. And the real version was finally watching, Fluffy’s eyes wide and focused. He even pawed at the air, pantomiming the way the boy embraced him.

The Hippie’s voice softened. “Your fur is so soft… I’ll call you Fluffy!” the boy announced. “And we’ll be bestest friends forever, right Fluffy?”

The real version let out another soft bleat—as though confirming.

The god of water slipped smoothly into a narrator's voice as the boy and sheep hugged on stage. “And they were. Together, they had many impossible adventures. They built water slides that defied physics! Castles made of clouds! Theme parks where no one ever had to leave, and there were no lines, and everyone was tall enough to ride!

“The boy forgot all about hospitals and the pain and the crushing weight of a body that wouldn’t work. He was free! He was happy! He was—”

“Still telling this insipid fucking story,” the Lady muttered.

The Hippie’s hands stilled. He peeked out from around the stage again with a broad smile, oblivious to the other gods’ lack of enthusiasm.

“And so ends the glorious origin story of yours truly!” he announced. “All forty-seven thousand, three hundred and thirteen episodes! Told in reverse chronological order, of course, for maximum dramatic impact!”

His announcement was met with a deafening silence.

No applause. No acknowledgment. Just the sound of the Gambler’s coins clicking together and the soft breathing of the various animal monitors scattered throughout the room.

The Hippie’s smile faltered slightly, looking back and forth between that boy and his sheep on stage. “I-I thought it was a good story... well, not good exactly. But a story, right? It had a beginning and a middle, although I guess it’s still missing an ending.”

Still nothing. No reaction. His face fell.

“Maybe I told it wrong?” the Hippie asked Fluffy, his voice trembling. “Perhaps I should start over from the beginning? I could tell it chronologically this time! It might make more sense that way, actually. You see, it all started when—”

The gods let out a collective groan, and the Lady was about to snap at the Hippie. Yet he was saved by the scratch of soft, feline feet padding across the velvet floor. Every head in the room turned toward the entrance as a small black cat walked into the VIP suite. Alfred’s unblinking alien eyes surveyed the assembled gods, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

“I, for one, quite enjoyed your tale. Very touching,” Alfred said, those eyes locked on the Hippie, his expression suddenly uncertain. “However, perhaps you should work on pacing?”

“Good notes,” the Hippie murmured, bowing his head solemnly.

“Ah,” the Lady said, her voice dripping with false sweetness, “our warden returns. The one who apparently kidnaps children and convinces them they’re gods.”

Alfred’s gaze shifted to her, and she flinched slightly.

“Interesting perspective,” Alfred replied evenly. “How would you have approached things differently? Since you’re such a good parent.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge. The Lady’s expression flickered, her blazing white eyes dimming slightly.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” she said stiffly.

“Don’t you?” Alfred’s tail swished once. “Perhaps we should have the Hippie tell your tale next. I’m sure he’d have some... creative ideas.”

That earned him a grimace, but she no biting, caustic retort for that one.

Probably because the Hippie looked ecstatic at the prospect.

The Old Man cleared his throat, his face hidden with the depths of his hooded robe. “Is this imprisonment really necessary? We struck a deal. We honored the freeze-out for one hundred and fifty years in-game. Yet we’re still stuck here in this VIP suite.”

“I concur. We’ve been patient,” the Seer added, her voice soft but carrying weight. “We’ve aligned ourselves with the new avatars as agreed. But we should at least be able to communicate with them. To guide them. My sight can see many possible futures, but we cannot realize any of them while locked away here.”

“And I sure as hell didn’t sign up for an endless puppet show,” the Lady added bitterly, shooting a glare at the Hippie.

The Fates just smiled, her wrinkled skin pulling taut and her wise old eyes twinkling in amusement as she produced a glowing green scroll that materialized in the air. “Actually, the terms of our arrangement were loosely defined. The contract specifies a ‘period of observation and non-interference’ to ensure your adherence, but the exact terms—”

“Were left to my discretion,” Alfred finished.

The Gambler looked up from his coins. “So, you’re saying this is all just... what? A timeout? Making us all sit in the corner like naughty children?”

“An apt comparison.” Alfred’s whiskers twitched. “And I’m certain all of you followed those requirements closely, didn’t you? Surely no one bent the rules. Left this room? Contacted your avatars? Meddled with the game world? Perhaps even tipped off the Original avatars?”

Those alien eyes skimmed the room, landing on each god as he spoke.

The Lady shifted in her seat. The Seer’s python hissed softly. Even the Old Man looked slightly uncomfortable.

“We, uh, we have,” the Lady said quickly. “Or, at least, I have. Just ask your little furry narcs. I’m sure they’ll confirm that we’ve all followed your rules.”

“In spirit, I’m sure,” Alfred drawled, unconvinced.

The AI considered them for a long moment. “But perhaps you’re right. The timeout period has served its purpose. You’ve had time to cool off. To reconsider your behavior and approach.”

The gods exchanged glances, hope flickering in their expressions.

“After much consideration,” Alfred continued, “I’ve decided to grant you your freedom again.” Okay, now they looked excited. But the AI wasn’t finished. “Gradually, at least.”

“Gradually?” the Lady demanded.

“You may watch. You may observe. But you still cannot touch. Not yet.” Alfred sat down, his tail curling around his paws. “Consider it a probationary period. And just to ensure you all remain honest, I’ll be staying here to keep an eye on you to ensure that none of you attempt to circumvent those rules. That you don’t meddle with the stage that I’ve set.”

The Hippie raised a hand. “Does this mean you’re hosting your own puppet show?”

Alfred’s eyes panned the room, his expression stoic. “I guess you could say that.”

The Lady’s expression soured at the implication that she was his plaything. The other gods were similarly unamused. To lighten the mood, Alfred threw them a bone. “However, I suspect you’ll find this one more interesting. Let’s see how your avatars are doing...”

With the wave of a paw, dozens of screens materialized in the air around him. The displays showcased Finn and Eliza battling in the Mile High Club’s arena, their partnership both brutal and efficient. Jason’s dark transformation, his dungeon growing like a cancer within the Crystal Reach. The emergency quest in Pax that had exposed him as a boss. And, finally, Alex as he infiltrated the Crystal Reach’s army...

“Why don’t we start with our dear Lady’s offspring?” Alfred offered, focusing several screens on Alex’s recent activities. “Since she’s such a parenting expert.”

The Lady stiffened, her arms crossing defensively. “I don’t see why we need to—”

“Oh, come now,” the Fates interjected—a young woman again, kicking her legs up on a coffee table. “Don’t you want to show off your son’s accomplishments?”

“He’s not my son,” the Lady snapped. “Not anymore...”

Yet her protests fell on deaf ears.

A few of those many displays took center stage, all of them focused on Alex. They showed a montage of his adventures since he’d departed from the Crystal Reach with the Nephilim army. He looked exhausted, struggling to keep pace with the angelic warriors, their floating islands hovering in the distance as his wings beat frantically. He lacked their stamina. Their strength. He couldn’t even handle the local wildlife without assistance. A fact that was evident from the way a Roc dove down on his position and nearly ended his life.

He'd have died if the other soldiers hadn’t taken pity on him, punching holes in the huge hawk-like creature from nearly a mile away. Alex barely healed his own wounds before he struck the ground, his wings just barely keeping him aloft.

“He’s 247 levels below the average soldier,” the Gambler noted, not bothering to hide his amusement. “That’s got to be some kind of record.”

The montage continued. Alex put on latrine duty—evidence that even angel shit still stank. Alex hauling supplies for hundreds of troops. Alex polishing their boots. His arm elbow deep in a toilet, armed with a sponge and bucket. The other gods began to murmur among themselves, side-eyeing the Lady, her arms crossed and her eyes simmering, anger a thin veil for her shame.

“Hmm, apparently my avatar was carrying him,” the Old Man rumbled, his voice laced with amusement. “Was he always this useless?”

“What is his plan exactly? It’s clear he intends to incite a war between the Crystal Reach and the Twilight Throne. Yet the question is how,” the Seer asked, genuinely curious, her eyes flitting from the other smaller screens and then back to Alex. “Even I can’t see it...”

Yet Alex’s circumstances only got worse when the army reached the border between the Crystal Reach and Twilight Throne. Unable to contribute to the war effort, Alex was forced into even more menial tasks: fetching water, gathering firewood, and cleaning weapons.

“He’s, uh, he’s really good at carrying water, though!” the Hippie offered encouragingly, face pressed up close to the screens.

That last one seemed to cut deeper than the rest. The Lady’s fingers dug into her arms, her knuckles white and her jaw clenched as she forced herself to remain silent.

All while Alfred watched, his expression unreadable.

The Fates leaned forward, aging in an instant, and her eyes suddenly gleamed with newfound wisdom. “The Seer is right, even if he can somehow manufacture a conflict between the Crystal Reach and the Twilight Throne, what then? There’s already footage online of Jason’s dungeon. Everyone suspects he’s the new boss.”

The Seer nodded. “It’s only a matter of time until the Originals see those streams. All it will take is one desperate traveler.”

The Lady’s fingers tapped against her arm, a nervous gesture she couldn’t quite suppress. “He’s more... resourceful than he looks,” she muttered reluctantly.

“Then why is the bird man running through the bushes? Doesn’t he have wings?” the Fates chirped, her voice filled with youth—suddenly ten again. “He could just fly over the trees.”

Indeed, on screen, Alex was racing the brush, the water he was fetching forgotten. Dusk had fallen across the game world, the sun cresting the horizon and its last rays fading. He moved clumsily through the thick vegetation, the sharp branches leaving cuts along his arm. Yet he didn’t even seem to notice. Alex kept constantly checking over his shoulder as though something was chasing him, his chest heaving as he sucked in air.

All the gods quieted, that display taking center stage.

Alex soon burst into a clearing where a Nephilim patrol was camped. His eyes were wide with panic and he skidded to a halt, pitched over and breathing hard.

“Ahh, the Reject has returned… without the water?” a Nephilim soldier observed.

“Apparently, he can’t even do that right. What’s wrong, did you see a grass hare?”

The others laughed at Alex’s haggard state, his cheeks flushing with shame.

“No… undead!” Alex gasped, collapsing to his knees. “Undead on the road!”

The officer stood slowly, his wings rustling and his expression skeptical. “Undead? Here? The Twilight Throne’s forces aren’t stupid enough to venture this far from their borders.”

“I saw them myself,” Alex insisted, gesturing wildly behind him. “Zombies! More than a dozen along the road. If I’m wrong… you—you can kill me right here.”

The officer met his eyes for a long moment, then made a decision. “Form up!” he commanded. “Let’s go check whether this is real.”

His eyes shot back to Alex. “And if it isn’t, we’ll take it out of your flesh, Reject.” As Alex reached for his blade, he added, “No, you’re worthless in combat. Just show us where you saw them and maintain enhancement spells on the group.”

The other snickered as Alex swallowed hard, wincing at their name for him. Then he nodded and retook his feet. His light mana pulsed, spreading across his limbs before stretching outward to cover the others. That was all he could do—enhance their strength and speed. He launched aloft, only faltering slightly before beating a straight path back to the road.

The patrol followed, spreading out in a loose formation as they scanned the area below. They soon caught sight of movement along the road, a small group of nearly a dozen. In the shadowy light, their movements appeared jerky and uncoordinated. A gesture from the officer brought them all up short, the group hiding in the shadow of a nearby cloud.

“I’ll be damned,” the officer muttered, his expression hardening. “He told the truth. They’re just basic zombies. That must be how they bypassed our mana detection.” He grimaced. “They must be testing our borders.”

Then, to the others, “Stay aloft. We don’t know if this is a trap. Engage from a distance to avoid the wraiths. On my command… fire!”

The Nephilim didn’t hesitate. Their spears glowed with blinding light as they channeled their mana, that energy condensing into thick beams that carved through the impending darkness, cutting down the undead with practiced efficiency. Slicing through their legs, severing heads, and incinerating bodies with bursts of holy fire.

The undead let out hoarse cries, their movements growing more frantic as they were cut down. Unable to see who was firing on them. Some tried to flee into the thick brush... only to be blasted apart before they could make it a mere few feet. Sporadic fire lit up the dry vegetation, the proximity to the Twilight Throne leaching water and life and leaving only dry kindling.

And, through it all, Alex  hovered behind them, buffing his companions.

The “battle,” if it could be called that, lasted less than five minutes. The Nephilim soon touched down amid those corpses, their armor still pristine, their shining weapons reflecting the flames that licked up into the night air around them. The undead lay in heaps, a dozen of them, their bodies broken and smoking and their blood seeping into the dirt.

“The Twilight Throne is growing bolder,” the officer mused. “Sending zombies this deep into our territory was a risk. Although, these lesser zombies are expendable.”

“Should we burn the bodies?” another Nephilim soldier asked. Standard procedure to ensure the materials couldn’t be repurposed by the undead.

“No. We report back. This could be a probe for a larger assault.” The officer inspected the corpses with disgust, then glanced at Alex, his eyes suddenly shining with inspiration. “Reject, you’ll stay and burn the bodies. Make sure none rise again.”

The others smirked with thinly veiled disdain.

“No need for us to dirty our armor or waste our mana.”

“Yeah, the Reject can handle it,” another muttered.

“Of course, sir,” Alex said, bowing his head, his fingers clenching—the only sign of his frustration. “I’ll make sure everything is... properly disposed of.”

The patrol didn’t answer; they simply took flight with a flutter of feathers—

Which left Alex standing there alone amid the carnage.

Back in the VIP suite, the gods watched in silence.

“This is your avatar?” the Old Man demanded finally, looking to the Lady.

The goddess glared back until the dark god broke eye contact, huffing out an amused laugh. The others didn’t even give Alex a second thought. They’d already turned to the other screens—reviewing their own avatars’ progress. Dismissing the Lady. Dismissing her avatar. Dismissing their weakness. Somehow, that was even worse than their barbs.

Because she wasn’t even worthy of their scorn.

The Lady’s gaze returned to that lonesome screen, Alex still standing there among those corpses. She let out a soft exhale of frustration. She was unable to act. Unable to say anything. Unable to tell them the truth. To gods bound by their avatars' actions, Alex was a reflection of her own power and influence. Which made her just as weak. As unimportant. As non-threatening.

Which is why the others missed a strange, fleeting emotion flicker across her face as she watched that screen. Something that almost looked like pride.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” she murmured. “I should know.”

Because that was still her son standing there… even if she hated to admit it.

                    *

Border of The Twilight Throne and Crystal Reach

Alex

Alex had learned a valuable lesson. People—whether human, Nephilim, or otherwise—saw what they expected. Their perspective was warped by their own bias and belief.

For example, the patrol had expected to face the undead. They had expected the Twilight Throne to be the aggressor. That was their prejudice. That same disgust that he’d used to convince Cassiel to let the travelers handle Jason’s dungeon and that had motivated the scouting party to leave him behind. He wasn’t upset. No, he was thankful.

Because he’d also reached a second revelation. Authority took many forms. It could be commanding; domineering. That was his “father’s” favorite formula. Authority through fear. Through power. Through force… but it could also be about repetition. Experience. Expectation. It might seem counterintuitive, but there could be authority in weakness.

Alex was the weakest among the Nephilim. A traitor to his own people. A coward that had let his entire village perish. So, of course, the “Reject” would run from mere zombies. Basic undead that even an acolyte could manage. That disgust, that bias made them more likely to believe him... and unable to imagine that he might have lied; that he might be capable of misleading their senses—the evidence of their own eyes. Sight, sound, taste, and color warped by his Authority.

Now, Alex stood alone among thirteen corpses.

The sun had fully set now, the last light fading from the sky. The truth buried within the shadows. Because those weren’t undead lying there. They were Nephilim.

A woman’s vacant eyes stared up at him, her features twisted in terror. Blood seeped from the massive hole in her chest and pooled along the dry ground. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly, her mouth frozen in a silent scream as she tried to plead with her own people. Beg for their mercy. Shouts that had sounded like the garbled grunts of the dead.

Alex moved to the next body. An older man, clutching a child’s toy in a death grip. His daughter lay beside him. Decapitated. Then another—a teenage boy whose “shambling” steps had actually been his attempt to flee into the nearby brush, leaving a bloody trail in the dirt.

A grim satisfaction filled him. His Authority had made the patrol see what they expected to see: undead invaders instead of their own people.

Extreme perhaps, but he didn’t have a choice. Not with that debacle in Pax. The Originals were already suspicious of him. If they discovered Jason’s dungeon, they might remember that he’d been in Asphodel when the Keeper attacked. Everything might fall apart. He needed a distraction. A big one. Kindling he could use to spark a war.

His eyes took in those bodies, his expression cold and calculating. Just like his journey here, this wasn’t a horror-fueled nightmare… it was an opportunity.

And he wouldn’t make the same mistake as the Nephilim; as the Lady. He would be precise, methodical, and careful. He wouldn’t underestimate his enemies.

Which is why he crouched, inspecting the corpses carefully. The light beams had cauterized many of their wounds. There were no other signs of trauma. No broken bones. No cuts or bruises. No signs of struggle. It wouldn’t look like the undead had done this... not yet, anyway.

With the shlick of scraping steel, Alex rose and drew the dagger at his belt, his gaze landing on a young girl kneeling nearby, her hands still clasped in prayer. He could feel those faded memories returning—the projector reel flickering and flashing in the back of his mind. Sterile white marble and crimson blood and his father’s face. Mere days ago, he might have hesitated to do this. But not anymore. After all, there were no gods coming to save any of them.

So, he’d just have to save himself…