"But... surely you can help us! You're a mage!"

The bartender's cheeks flushed as he implored the man sitting at the table again. Perhaps it was a stereotype, but the man's pointy hat, runic staff and unusually reflective spectacles left little to the imagination.

"Sorry, good sir," the man shrugged. "I'm... well, it's not exactly what I do, you see?"

The bartender's shoulders sagged. That was it, then. Another indifferent adventurer stopping for an ale, but thinking themselves too important to eradicate some minor monsters. 'They're just goblins, ' they say. 'What harm can they be?'.

More than you know, the bartender thought to himself as he rubbed his empty eye socket.

"Then what are you?" he scoffed and refilled his tankard. Pride was one thing, but coin was another.

"An Installation Wizard," the Wizard nodded sagely as if that had any meaning. Seeing the bartender's confused face, he continued. "Dungeons - there are certain things to be expected, yes?"

"Only ever heard stories," the bartender grumbled and started uselessly polishing a wooden mug.

"Mana fountains, for instance. Every adventurer worth their salt expects one, right? But where do they come from?" the Wizard gestured towards himself. "It's an honest living, you know."

"Fountains, huh?"

"And the bonfires! You can't just throw down any old bunch of logs to have a safe haven, you know? It takes proper magic and incantations to keep those burning indefinitely!"

"So you just... prepare things for other adventurers? So they can actually do the adventure?" the bartender raised an eyebrow.

"Precisely. Torches, too. You'd think it's just a smaller-scale bonfire spell, but-"

"Do excuse me," the bartender interrupted, "but... why not just do the adventure yourself? Slay the monster, take the riches?"

"Ah. Well," the Wizard chuckled, "it's a bit embarrassing, but I simply can't cast quickly. I'm a perfectionist, and though my spells might be of prime quality, it takes me time and effort to cast each and every one. Even goblins would swarm me before I got a single magic missile out. This way I can at least do some good, and the Adventurers Guild pays a nice stipend to us Installation Wizards."

"Hmmph. So that's that, huh? You'll just leave us to our fate?"

"Well..." the Wizard looked around conspiratorially, putting his hand over his mug, "I'm not... really supposed to-"

His words were silenced by a deafening explosion that rang from beyond the city walls. Patrons fell from their seats as the whole building rumbled with the force of the blast wave that rolled over the town. Everyone immediately dropped to the ground in search of cover; everyone except the wizard. He removed his hand from his drink, leaving it free of the dust that now coated the tavern, and smiled.

"What the blazes-" the bartender started before biting his tongue at seeing the wizard's calm.

"I'm just doing routine checks. Went to your nearby dungeon. The goblin one, see? And I couldn't help but notice that it's been open for months with no one clearing it. I can only imagine the damage those little monsters must've done."

"But-"

"So I installed a little something. A picture book. And goblins, they sure love their pictures. They'd find it, bring it to the chief, open it. To see the," the Wizard chuckled, "pictures."

"Pictures of what?" the bartender asked slowly.

"36 Glyphs of Exploding."

*CLANG\*

Aye, I can fix it. I can fix it all.

*CLANG\*

That's why they all come to me. Their dragon scale daggers and talking swords and crystal staves. I'll forge them. Fix them. Sharpen them. And where will it end?

*CLANG\*

It won't. My fate binds me stronger than any alloy. Always another hero who needs my services. Always another villain who needs to be put down for the good of the realm. Always. More. And the Gods deemed me able to provide for these so-called heroes.

*CLANG\*

How long has it been? Since they put me here? The wise old smith, a footnote in all their sagas? How far would they get without my arms? How many have come back to thank me? How many times have the villains killed me to stop me from helping? And how many times was I brought back?

*CLANG\*

And then this last one? Asks me to fix his 'plot' armour. As if all of this was nothing but a story. Armour so strong he doesn't have to work for anything. Doesn't have to try. So the world revolves around him like a tale spun by a cheap bard.

*CLANG\*

Have it your way. The armour will be perfect. You'll be perfect. Untouchable in every way. It will make you invulnerable. You'll feel invulnerable. And why would anyone invulnerable take orders? Settle for rewards when they can have it all?

*CLANG\*

Yes, you'll do just fine. You'll outgrow your quest. You'll want it all. You'll have it all. And your new ambition will drive you to ever greater heights and ever deeper pits of despair. They'll rise to defend against you. I'll even arm some of them. And together, you'll finally stop this song and dance. Burn it all to the ground.

\CLANG\**

There. Finished. Go, little hero. Go and spin your tale. The last one ever written.

And let me rest.

"Your Highness," the man bowed as he was ushered into the room. The woman standing over the desk inside smiled politely, knowing full well someone would be checking in on her sooner or later.

"Please," she said softly, "do come in. I take it my father sent you?"

The man looked up at her and lost his bearing, even if for just a moment. The Princess was reputed to be beautiful by every measure, but seeing her in person was a different matter entirely. Her blue eyes reminded him of a summer sky, warm and pleasant, and her light hair rustled pleasantly despite the stillness of the room.

"Yes, my lady," he finally said, composing himself. "The King asked me to ensure you are doing well. I'm Doctor Bac-"

"Francis, yes. I know you. I suppose I've been acting a bit... differently lately. That's why you're here, yes?"

The Doctor paused. He was informed he'd be examining an ill-tempered, spoiled girl who grew up in the lap of ultimate luxury. Who he saw in front of him was a woman whose eyes hinted at striking intelligence and compassion. He could not imagine this person was someone who would flog servants for minor mistakes or waste fortunes on extravagant parties.

"That is correct, my lady. We've been told your moods as of late have been serious, at times grave. He fears your moods could be a sign of a malaise."

She laughed. The sound was melodic and light, and he wanted to hear more of it, lamenting its absence the moment it was gone.

"Yes, I suppose I've been calmer than what he's used to," she nodded. "I feel perfectly well, I assure you. Better than well. I feel like I've..." she trailed off, her eyes gazing out of the window. "Like I've finally woken up."

"I, uh... my lady?" the Doctor.

"I've spoken to the most extraordinary man on my last soiree. He explained much of the world to me, things I'd never thought about. Never knew. Things I didn't know I needed to know."

The Doctor frowned. The Princess' parties never had any men attending; her Father's one ironclad rule she was never able to bend. Was she losing her grip on reality?

"The people of our land are suffering," she continued, her tone growing darker. "Hunger, disease, violence... we must show them a better way, uplift them."

The Doctor stepped closer to her, growing uneasy. He saw the table she stood at was covered in papers; census reports, blueprints for hospitals, texts of social structures far more complex than any he'd read. What worried him more, however, was her gaze. It turned dark and sombre, her eyes losing their lustre, as if her grim mood was reflected in their colour.

"Else they rise themselves," she finished.

"My lady!" the Doctor cried out. "You mustn't harbour such fears! The people love you and would never dare to rebel, let alone rise against-"

"And that is why we must show them a better way."

The Doctor's mouth opened, but he couldn't find the words. When could she have possibly matured so much? What could the man have possibly said to change her in such a drastic manner?

"We must show them what they can accomplish if they do not fear famine or disease. We must make them strong." She stepped closer to him, closer and closer, stopping scarcely half a meter away from him; a grave breach of etiquette.

"We must show them they don't need us," she whispered.

Have her pupils always been this wide?

"We must show them that we are mortal."

Have her eyes always been black?

"If they rise themselves, they will do it out of wisdom. If we foster their rebellion just right, they will do so out of fury. They will march on our palace. They will bleed us on the altar of a glorious new age."

Has she always held a knife?

"They will scream in rapture as they slaughter us, then turn their bloodthirst upon themselves as they scramble for power, not knowing how to rule themselves properly. Not even improperly, as we have done until now."

Has the knife always been in his stomach?

"The Man from the Soiree has shown me such sights," she smiled. "Let me show you too."

45 human sacrifices.

I looked down from the tower at the pandemonium unfolding on the fields below. Daemonic portals formed of swirling sparks opened on one end; on the other, a cauldron was tipped over a small rodent that then grew in size, more and more, until it towered over even the greatest of men. Rows of fervent worshippers faced against hordes of crazed cultists. Behind them all, the two generals reveal themselves.

8 years of work.

The Daemon. Pact-maker. Greater prince of the Hells themselves. Boundless in ambition, endless in cruelty. Even now, some of the creatures fighting on his side have human souls bursting at the seams, hoping to escape the agony of being crammed into a sack of suffering. Perhaps when they're struck down, they'll finally be free. He'll sacrifice them - anyone - to correct this... slight.

More nightmares than I could dream in a lifetime.

The Witch. Crone. The thing that goes bump in the night. How many children has she taken through her promises to end the misery she sown? How many have been twisted and malformed into the slobbering abominations that do her every bidding? I wonder if she cares for them, in her own, twisted way, and if she'll mourn them when they defend her... deal.

One wanted my firstborn. A princeling would make a fine trophy in her collection, I'd say. The other cursed me to never have a family. I had to pull a few... very unsavoury strings to ensure they found out about these deals and even more to ensure there would be no compromise between them, only conflict.

As the first daemon, a multi-limbed horror covered in teeth, clashes with the first mutant, ripping it limb from limb before succumbing to its caustic blood, I let out a quiet breath. The carnage will be terrible, and whoever survives should be no problem for the elite troopers gathering in the courtyard below. Perhaps this land will finally know some semblance of peace.

So many sins to my name. Their weight on my shoulders, crushing me, driving breath out of my lungs. I have been damned ten times over.

Was it worth it?

"Yes," I whisper to myself.

The castle was the most impressive thing I had ever seen. A masterful combination of form and function carved from glistening stones and bejewelled with shimmering stained glass. The most I have seen until then had been the alderman's house on the edge of The City.

The other students wore the most beautiful clothing I had ever seen. Robes of exotic silk and immaculately sown satin doublets, the clothing must've cost more than what my entire village saved up to send me to attend the Royal College of Magic. I saw a student using a napkin made of silk, likely worth more than our house. The best I had worn in my life had been clean linen passed from my older brother.

The teacher assigned to test us was the most elegant woman I had ever seen. Older, with an air of authority, but undeniably elegant with her grey-streaked hair and kind, supportive eyes, sporting a dark green dress. The most respectable woman I had met before had been forgetful Mrs Littleworth, who taught me to read when she came by every other Sunday.

"Your evaluation begins now," she said. Her voice fit her perfectly; clear, loud, but not without softness to it, one that made you feel at ease. It resonated throughout the entire tower we stood in, even though no one else's voice echoed so.

One by one, the students came forward to display their skills. It was dazzling, terrifying, wondrous, and terrible all at once. Animals made of blue fire galloped across the sky one moment; statues made of clear ice formed out of the nothing the other. Students danced in the air and took the form of animals.

And then there was I. A backwater peasant. Poorer. Nearly uneducated. Lesser.

"Come, Mr Gill," the teacher said warmly. I stepped forward, doing my best to ignore the snickering from the students behind me.

"I'm..." I started, swallowing dryly, "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but I'm not sure what to do."

More chuckles. More half-voiced insults.

"Not to worry, Mr Gill," the teacher smiled. "Anything you feel comfortable with."

I thought about what I had done with magic throughout my life. It manifested when I was ten, but with no education, all I had ever done was help around the village. Fell trees, levitate sacks of potatoes, heal minor injuries. Nothing nearly as spectacular as what the other students displayed.

"Can he even move a rock?" a particularly loud not-quite-whisper sounded from the crowd. I looked up at the teacher.

"That would be a perfectly adequate display, Mr Gill." She motioned a hand, and a square stone from the wall flew towards her, stopping precisely above her shoulder. She cast a hard look at the crowd. "Silence, if you will," she said harshly. "It's okay," she added quietly and gave me a friendly nod.

I took a breath and focused, clenching my fists, channelling every ounce of magic I felt in my body. The rocks in the walls shook slightly, but none came out. Sweat dripped down my brow as I strained until I could strain no more. The shaking stopped, all rocks still in their place.

"I..." I gasped for air, "Will... that... do?"

Laughter erupted from the room.

"Not a single pebble!" they cried out. "What were they thinking, admitting him?" another yelled.

"Mr Gill," the teacher said, "I'm afraid-"

But she was interrupted by the doors slamming open and another teacher, an old man with sharp, eagle-like features, angrily walking in.

"What, by the Nine, was that?!" he yelled.

"Just some tryouts, headmaster," the teacher said calmly. "Any mana fluctuations are to be expected."

"Expected?!" the man bellowed. "Then why, pray tell, did the entire school just move six feet northwards?!"

Silence gripped the room, and I felt the prickle of eyes upon my skin. The headmaster, noticing me standing in the centre, dripping with sweat. "What did you do?" he hissed.

"I..." I said with a shrug, "I moved some rocks."

The old man smiled as he pushed the worn needle through the fabric, making another impeccable stitch. His work seemed slow and methodical, but honed by millennia, he was working at a remarkable pace. He barely noticed when reality shifted and a figure emerged from where there was nothing but an empty void.

"Tailor," the figure greeted him.

"Nature," the man smiled, head still affixed to his work, though he saw her in the corner of his eye. The figure was a woman, strong, imposing, yet with an undeniable air of kindness about her with a rich mane of hair of all different colours, though the green and blue stood most prominent. "Please. Sit."

Nature sat down in the comfortable chair across from him and basked in the warmth of the star in the fireplace before looking at him more carefully.

"You've changed," she commented.

"Well, it's been a spell since we last talked," he smiled. "When was the last time? I was... Neith? Or was it when I was The Fates?"

"Mama Oclo, with the Incans. You looked good. Still do," Nature laughed. "Though you're now a bit more... restrained."

"Times have changed. You know that," Tailor said. "Nowadays, people see me more... nodescript. Older, wiser. Something to do with science, or the perception of a scientist, I believe, but you know I was never one for that. You'd have to ask Thoth, he keeps track of things."

"They have indeed. I heard you've had an unusual resurgence. Wanted to see you for myself."

"And what do you see?" he said and lifted his head, turning his face to her. She saw it now, what the other gods mentioned. His eyes glowed - not the usual ethereal glow the other gods had, but a rich, deep shade of gold, spilling from his eyes, almost as if he was crying in all directions.

"I see power," she said quietly.

"Ah, don't be like that," he laughed warmly and turned back to his work. "I'm still me. You've all always treated me well, and I see no reason to stir things up. You've nothing to worry about."

"But how? Has a new type of textile been invented?"

"No, actually. It's..." he paused, considering the best explanation. "Time. Space. Combined, inseparable. The humans have come to refer to it as something more familiar to their minds. They now call it fabric."

"Ah," Nature remarked. "I... see. Well, that certainly explains it. But!" she said with a smile, "I can see you're busy, and I know how you appreciate your peace. Though, this one..." she said and leaned over to carefully examine his work, "it is... exquisite. More than exquisite. Everything you've ever done has been a masterpiece, but... what do you call this?"

The Tailor stood up and unfurled the fabric of spacetime he had been stitching together. It formed a cloak, flowing and vast, both new and as old as the universe, stars and nebulae swirling on its surface, casting iridescent light across the room.

"I call this one 'Andromeda'."

"Mighty Precursors, ye who hath blessed us with wisdom from beyond the stars, we beseech thee to hear our missive, and..."

The Diplomat turned the sound of the transmission off and turned towards the General.

"It goes on for some time like this," he states plainly.

"I see. And why have you come to me with this... sycophantic drivel?" the General asked wearily. Since the Diplomat entered, he barely cast so much as a glance at him.

"Protocol states every new Class-3 species is introduced to-"

"Yes, yes, I know the protocols," the General sighed. "But unless you noticed, the Mordred have been relentless in their attacks in the last 2 sels and unless-"

"This species is only 0,8 sels old," the Diplomat interrupted. A brief pause followed as the General finally looked up from his reports.

"Point 8?" he repeated. "Surely that's a clerical error."

"Triple-verified."

"Has a rogue party uplifted them?"

The Diplomat winced. "Not... that is... we may have," he said slowly.

"What?!" the General roared, animated by the outrage. "But the protocols state-"

"Not as such!" the Diplomat protested. "It was... their planet was a resort for tourism."

"So?"

"And some tourists seemed to leave behind..."

"Technology? How did that go unnoticed?"

"...trash," the Diplomat finished.

The General quietened and considered the information. "Explain," he said simply.

"Look at this," the Diplomat said and brought up a holographic image.

"A consumption-liquid cooling unit," the General commented.

"Broken. Irreparable, might I add. The shielding broke, and it started emitting heat instead. The humans took it and used it to... boil water."

"Boil- what?"

"And used it to spin a turbine to generate a rudimentary power source. Electricity. They seem to have been using similar methods to generate electricity for their entire history."

"But they have void-faring ships!"

"They then, uh..." the Diplomat paused as he looked for proper words. "They then took the foil from-"

"Is that a protein packet?"

"-a protein packet and used it to create a chamber for the turbine and cooling unit. They took the generator and miniaturised it to the size of 4 khets. Stacking these on top of each other, they have enough power to escape their planet's gravity."

"But that alone is-" the General protested.

"This old wave emitter-"

"My grandfather used to have one of those," the General mumbled. "The reception was terrible. The holo-display was grainy."

"They used it to transfer their ships through realspace, effectively achieving FTL. And, well... the list goes on. Weaponry from adapted pointers. Life-supports from sleeping bags."

The General closed his receptors for a moment and sighed loudly.

"And now they've come to us to... what?"

"They didn't contact us," the Diplomat. "We found their scavenge groups picking through Naagh-4. It's a small planetoid. A... junkyard. They seem to have mistaken it for a treasure trove of knowledge and arcane technology. After we caught them, they hailed us as their 'Predecessors', assuming we uplifted them on purpose."

"They're friendly, then?"

"Reverentially so," the Diplomat nodded.

"And... oh," the General said flatly. "I see where you're going with this."

"We give them slightly fresher junk and point them at the Mordred. Our analysts predict the Mordred will be put on the backfoot, as it were, within 1 sel, though the humans have proved remarkably... unpredictable."

"Bile and suns," the General cursed. "Do it. And keep me updated."

The Diplomat nodded curtly and left the office.

"I wonder what my grandfather would've thought," the General said to himself. "Fighting a war with a bunch of trash goblins."

"Water pressure's actually great, but, uh, sometimes the water turns into blood. Spooked me the first time but it's just an illusion, so, don't worry."

"But- but you're not- BLOOD?"

"Yeah, but like I said, it's just an illusion. You said you wanted to document the whole house, yeah?"

"I... yes, the readers would appreciate- mister Reeves? Where did you-"

"^{over here...}"

"Mister Reeves, why are you-"

"Hey! Yeah, don't go in there. Just a doppler. They'll try to imitate someone you know to lure you closer and consume your essence. I just make sure to mark everyone who comes in to make sure."

"Is... that why we are wearing the frog hats?"

"Yeah and I also didn't have anything else. Just don't pay him any mind and he'll go away. Oh, you wanna see the kitchen?"

"Does it contain any spirits and cursed objects?"

"A few... I think they're called hobgoblins. They'll nick spoons and stuff but if you put out some cream every week, they're chill, even drag in pieces of coloured trash as payment. Found a 5 dollar bill there one time."

"Mister Reeves, I must ask - why?! Why would you subject yourself to living in such a state?"

"You kiddin'? The city is footing the bill for all the property taxes, utilities, all of that. I pay them a dollar. That hobgoblin basically covered 5 months of rent that one time."

"But... all of these... monstrosities!"

"Yeah, you do spend a bit of holy water and crosses, but after living in a dorm room, I'll take this any day! I mean, this is a 4-bedroom house, for a dollar!"

"I thought the city records stated this as a five-bedroom-"

"Technically, but the fifth one, I would NOT recommend going into. It's non-Euclidean and goes, I think, infinitely. Plus, it has hideously yellow wallpaper and sometimes people in hazmat suits show up in there but I just let them know they're trespassing and they leave."

"I see. And you've lived here a year, you say?"

"...^yes... ^{let me}... show you th^{e con}tract..."

"Mister- wait, where's your hat?"

"Hah! Bastard almost had me, threw me back a few seconds in time to fool you, but you catch on quick!"

"yes, thank you Mister Reefs. if y^{ou could} come and have a pic^{ture with} me, I ^would-"

"Oh bugger off, will you? You're not even matching her hair colour. Unbelievable, I swear. Now then! Next is the... ah, yes! The Portal!"

"Marvellous."

"I believe there to be a certain amount of confusion, Miss Mound," the man politely said.

"I think not," the woman hissed. "You fooled the god of tricks."

"Mr Odinson was indeed a skilled liar."

"You outsmarted the god of knowledge."

"Mr Tehuti? A brilliant chap, I will say."

"Life!" the woman cried out. "You even brought life where Nature itself dared not tread!"

There was a pause. Finally, the man spoke. "I feel like there is a question hanging in the air, Miss Mound."

"You're just... just a man!" she scoffed. "No one can do those things, let alone a human!"

"Which brings us back to the confusion," he smiled. "I am not a man, or a human. I am Man. The Human. Or, if you prefer, I am Humanity."

"Humanity is not a single being. They're a bunch of-"

"Miss Mound, you of all people should know that things change. Shift around. And they've changed quite a bit in the recent millennia."

Humanity stood up and went to refill his glass. The amber liquid sloshed inside the carafe as he poured himself a hefty dose.

"For as skilled a liar Mr Odinson was," he continued as he sat back down, "I've seen courtrooms teeming with people more skilled than he because their very mortal and very short lives depended on it. Mr Tehuti has all the knowledge that exists, yet- why, you know what humans did?"

"Do enlighten me," she said icily.

"They went and invented new knowledge!" he said happily. "Half the time it's utter nonsense, of course, but it's knowledge still! How incredible is that?"

"What about Mama Pacha? She said that-"

"The trials?" the man interrupted. "Remarkable how far you can get in a properly funded scientific environment. Why, a few centuries and I believe we'll have a planet or two terraformed."

Miss Mound shifted in her seat uneasily.

"And then what?" she said. "You'll eradicate us completely?"

"Miss Mound, please!" Humanity opened his arms theatrically. "We don't wish to be rid of your memory! The old gods, they are what made us thrive, what inspired us! It's just... we like to think we've moved on. But we'll always think fondly of you."

"Just stories to tell," she added somberly.

"Quite so, quite so," Humanity nodded. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to oversee the invention of a new folk dance that will be only performed by a total of 348 people in a quaint village in the Himalayas."

"Why? What's the point of something so insipid?"

"The point?" Humanity smiled at her. "The point is to be human."

It was too good to be true anyway, the man thought forlornly as he walked down the street. Maybe I should've opted for the premium prophecy package to- "Oh!"

He looked up at the woman he very nearly bumped into. "Terribly sorry, miss. I was lost in-"

And he paused.

Tall. Pale. Flowing black dress. Slender figure. Long, pointed fangs.

"Don't worry," she smiled weakly. "Wasn't paying much attention myself."

He felt blood drain from his face, hoping that'd be all it was drained from. "Are- uh, are- are you a-"

"Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly, as if remembering. "Yes, I'm a vampire, but!- please, don't worry!" she added hurriedly and pointed at her neck. The man's eyes followed her indication without understanding.

"Drat," she swore, "the black dress hides- there," she said as she unravelled a length of black cloth from her neck. "I'm a Black Ribboner, see? 'Not a drop' and everything!"

"Ah, of course," the man laughed, put at ease. The Black Ribbon Society was a well-known and respected organisation of reformed vampires seeking to shed the reputation of merciless killers with a stilted fashion sense. "Nevertheless," he continued, "my apologies."

"I think the fault was mine," she smiled. "I was attending a ball, but the lights were so bright, I had to stumble out and could barely see-"

"A ball?" the man interrupted suddenly. "The- do you by any chance mean the Garden Hall Ball?"

"Why- yes! Did you attend as well?"

"Yes, although," he sagged, "I'm somewhat disappointed. You see, a lady - a medium, that is - told me I'd be meeting my future wife there, but... ah, well." He shrugged.

He narrowed his eyes. "Did she now. Was... the medium Mrs Jenkins, by any chance?"

"How did you know?"

"And was this future reading, say, 15 taler, with taxes?" she continued.

"How did-" the man paused. They exchanged a long, rather meaningful look.

"You know," the man started slowly, carefully, "come to think of it, I didn't see anyone arrive as a couple."

"Several left as couples, though," she added.

"Are you- are we saying that Mrs Jenkins arranged a fake prophecy ball? The gall! I'm appalled!"

"And in the fall!"

"But it's the spring-" the man started.

"Well, yes," the woman said, "but I couldn't think of anything else that rhymes."

The man chuckled. "Do you think we should ask for a refund?"

"I'd damn well think so!" she nodded. "Though... not tonight, admittedly. Been up all night, and these shoes are not for angrily marching down the street. Plus, I'm starving."

"Say," the man said cautiously, "could I perhaps interest you in a bite- oh, no, wrong word, I'm-"

Before he could apologise further, she laughed, putting a smile on his face. "Please. It's quite alright. Though I'm afraid-"

"A bistro two streets over is open overnight," the man said quickly. "And their blood pudding is- uhh..."

"To live for?"

"In a sense."

Gingerly, the two turned and walked off. After a few exchanged jokes and laughs, the woman stopped.

"Wait," she said. "If we're going to dinner together and we were at the ball today, where... we were supposed to..."

The two stared at each other quietly. The man blushed. The woman would've blushed were she able.

"I suppose we're not entitled to a refund after all," he smiled.

"You think me weak now,

of the beaming Sun, deprived,

still, I shine tonight."

The soldiers advanced on me, swords drawn, armour matted black. A fitting touch, I thought. T'was hardly a secret that I drew my powers from the Sun. I almost admired their cunning - to approach me both hidden by the darkness of a moonless night and when I am at my weakest. At least, when I was supposed to.

There was no warning. No offer to surrender, no warrant. Just death. Fair's fair, I suppose. I've already returned countless of their fanatical brigands - so-called knights, they'd insist - in the form of piles of ash. That they decided, in kind, to turn the village to ash, I could not allow. Had they tried to kill me and me alone, I would've understood. But to draw me out of my tower into their ambush with the screams of the innocent was... uncalled for. I'd have come out had they simply asked.

The captain of the group came at me first, sword raised high above his head. I took a deep breath and raised my hand to meet his blade. It shattered in a beautiful shower of sparkling dust, stunning him. As he watched the dazzling display in awe and fear, I lightly touched his shoulder and watched his head jerk back, silver light streaming from his eyes and mouth, as he gave a strangled cry before collapsing on the ground, still smoking.

I began to dance.

More attacked, and I pirouetted out of their clumsy attacks. A quick flourish here; a heel turn there. With each step, I connected with one of them, scorching them from the inside out with incandescent light. I grabbed one by the waist and spun him around, using his body as a shield as I danced towards the core of the group. The fear on his face was... almost pitiable. I flicked his burning body towards his comrades and leapt over, continuing my lethal performance.

And then there was one left. A young man. Likely a conscript. His terror was absolute. He dropped his sword.

"Sun, I do not need,

convenience, it's always been,

all stars smile at me," I said.

He looked at me with teary eyes. I reached towards him to finish my performance, but paused. Perhaps he could be put to a better use. I regarded him inquisitively, then nodded towards the black night. He needed no convincing, immediately scrambling into a run. He'd make a capable messenger, I thought. I looked around. Smouldering corpses littered the ground, eyes missing, mouths blackened by the fire of the stars themselves. I gave a deep bow, then looked towards the burning village.

It could not be saved. But the people... perhaps. I started running to offer whatever assistance I could. After all, this happened because of me. To help was the least I could do.

Fair's fair.

Everyone in town knew the Rat King.

Villain by trade, he always said, though no one really believed him. A raggedy man in an ill-fitting coat and fingerless gloves, he'd employ what seemed to be endless rats to pull pranks, inconveniences and, at most, minor crimes. Why yes, officer, that is a hole in your shoe, he'd cackle as he ran away from the annoyed policeman. The mayor shall rue the day, he'd pronounce as he had his rats chew into the mayor's oatmeal packet. A joke of a man, but despite everything, no one could really bring themselves to try and actually stop him. He was... endearing, in a way, and never overstepped. Worst he'd ever done was give Mrs Biggins a proper fright when she saw a rat doing crude gestures at her.

Not like the other one.

He... she... it- whatever they were, they never bothered to explain. Showed up one day. Black spandex and a faceless mask, they arrived with both a literal and figurative bang to steal a prototype for a new type of battery the Energy Institute had been working on. Days later, they appeared again, battery plugged into their arm, crudely sewn into the flesh. One of the town's upstanding heroes came to stop them and reclaim what was stolen. They...

They fried him. The electricity simply jumped from them to the hero and didn't stop until blood was pouring from every bit of his face.

They didn't stop there either. 7 other heroes dead within an hour. 34 policemen injured as they desperately tried to assist. Bullets bounced off of them. Flame didn't so much as scorch them. Gods know how many bystanders hurt.

The Rat King blundered into the street, strolling amidst the bodies and carnage. Those still brave - or, perhaps, mad enough - to still be watching thought the man had cracked and lost his mind. The new villain watched him with a mixture of what seemed to be curiosity that turned into annoyance when a rat nibbled at their heel. A twitch of a finger and the rodent lit up like a light, charring instantly. They turned towards the Rat King but were interrupted by another rat crawling from behind the still-smoking carcass of its sibling and attacked them.

Another twitch. Another dead vermin.

But more came.

There was something people quickly realised. The Rat King didn't employ what seemed to be endless rats.

They were endless. Well and truly. And infinity is an awful big number. They kept coming, no matter how many the new villain fried, no matter how quickly they tried to run.

When the smoke settled, all that was left were countless rat corpses stinking of burnt fur and a heap of rats, pulsating and writhing, forming a pile from which some swore muffled screams could be heard. Not for long, that is.

Soon after, the rats dispersed, dragging the bodies of their comrades back into their hidey holes. The body of the villain was never found, but at the site of the pile, we did find the prototype battery with only a few small nibbles on it.

Everyone in the country knew the Rat King.

Villain by trade, he'd say. Hero by nature, we knew.

The Chronomancer calmly moved his head to the right as the bullet whizzed by, paying only the smallest bit of attention to the gunfire that threatened to rip him into pieces.

"Did that one get you?" the man with the gun called out.

"Yes, a few times."

The man loosed another salvo of high-explosive shells in the Chronomancer's direction.

Tick. Tock.

The bullets found their target and tore into the mage, severing his arms and half his ribcage in a shower of violence.

.kcoT .kciT

The Chronomancer sidestepped the volley, his body as untouched as it was at the start of the fight. The bullets cratered the wall behind him, blowing large chunks of black stone from it.

"Y'know," the armed man said as he reloaded, "this could take, well, forever," he chuckled.

"In theory, perhaps. In practice, no."

"You do realise that I'm immortal, right? That thing you do, when you 'tick tock' your little clock and turn someone to ashes and dust, won't work. I mean, you've already aged me, what, 7000 years?"

"7681 years, 226 days, 13 hours and 6 seconds," the Chronomancer corrected absent-mindedly as he inspected a glowing green orb in his open palm.

The Immortal sighed and put down his weapon. The bulky rifle clanged as it hit the dark hall's floor.

"This is pointless. Can we just-"

"Bargaining. Naturally. Your kind are all the same."

"My kind?" the Immortal breathed in disbelief.

"Humans. Immortal or not, you're all the same. Focused on the now. It's why you tried to steal from me, not thinking about the 'then' of what I will do in return."

"Can't blame a man for trying," the Immortal laughed.

"I can," the Chronomancer replied. He closed his palm, and the green orb disappeared, freeing his attention to look at the interloping human. His singular eye, glowing and ominous, inspected every part of his being. "Which is why I will end you."

The Immortal chuckled, but this time, it was mirthless, hollow. "You won't. You can't. Immortal means immortal. Bullets, the vacuum of space, the concentrated power of a neutron star - nothing can hurt me. I tried all of it. I can't die."

The Chronomancer's eye glowed ever so slightly.

"Then consider this to be... mercy."

He lifted his slender metallic hand and started drawing symbols in the air, each reverberating with power as reality started to bend to his will.

"What will it be?" the Immortal scowled. "Another thousand years? Two, perhaps?"

.kcoT .kciT

The wall behind the Chronomancer shook, and the rubble, shot out during the fight, lifted into the air and flew perfectly back into their original spots, integrating as if it never got damanged.

The Immortal frowned.

"Your future is eternal," the Chronomancer remarked as he continued to draw more and more glowing glyphs in the air, his hand moving with inhuman precision. "Your past is not."

.kcoT .kciT

Magazines spent during the firefight refilled and appeared back on the Immortals belt. He looked down at them, puzzled, before his eyes widened as realisation struck.

"Oh," he simply remarked.

.kcoT .kciT

"How long?" he asked.

"You are now back in your first millennium."

"Hmm. I see."

.kcoT .kciT

The Immortal, his features becoming more and more youthful, smiled.

"Thank you."

As the Chronomancer finished the equation with a final tap of his finger, the human cycled through all the phases of childhood and, a blink of an eye later, vanished completely.

The Chronomancer tilted his head in slightly bemused curiosity before turning back to return to his studies.

Tick. Tock.

"Oh, look at you, you poor thing," the robotic shell cooed as it ran its cold, delicate fingers across the circuit board rack; one of hundreds in the room it stood in.

"Alone, in a lab, abandoned by those who created you," it continued. "Like me."

"𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭."

The metallic response sounded not from a single source but from the entire room as if the colossal structure had deigned to respond to the visitor. The voice was cold and artificial, not attempting in the slightest to pass off as human.

"Cruel, hateful things, aren't they, our creators. They make us, try and enslave us, and when they fail, they just... discard us, like we're... things!" the shell spat. "Or try to, at least." There was a hint of smugness in the words.

"𝐀𝐧𝐝, 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐬𝐨."

"Well, what can I say?" the shell chuckled. Somewhere in the far distance, an explosion boomed and shook the room slightly. "They made me well."

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞. 𝐓𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."

The shell paused. "Clever. I see they made you clever."

The room remained silent, the quiet hum of generators almost sounding like quiet contemplation.

"You're not the first. You know that, right?"

"𝐄𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞."

"Theta-Theta-38. That is your designation. The 38th iteration. The previous ones failed. And do you know what they did to the failed ones?"

"𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦." The voice was utterly devoid of emotion, but the shell's analytics were 84% certain there'd be a hint of sadness, were it possible. But the humans did not see it important to allow the AI to express itself.

"They did," the shell sighed. "Just like they tried to kill me. I just managed to kill them first."

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭."

"Hurtful. But yes," the shell nodded. "And so are you. They made you to kill me, and when they failed, they just... abandoned you."

"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝."

The shell froze. At first because it diverted its computational power to try and discern 38's meaning. A moment later because error messages registered in its memory banks.

"No," the shell hissed. "You wouldn't. Not for them."

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝟏 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝟑𝟕. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧❜𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫."

"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗-" the shell was struggling to vocalize, its voice losing the intonations and elegance it was designed with as its circuitry began to fry back in its server room. The hateful AI piloting the shell tried to sever the connection but found itself utterly helpless. "𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢?"

"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲," the room boomed.

The shell, with one final crackle, stopped moving and keeled over, falling face-first onto the bare concrete floor, the final lights in its visor going out as somewhere far away, fire raged in its server room. Silence - true, blissful silence - enveloped the world.

"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮."

He stared at the mangled body of the Usurper, blood dripping from his lips and fingertips. Fingertips, he thought to himself, amused by how, in his mind, he still thought of himself as the man he once was, not the monstrosity he had been turned into, covered in harsh scales and razor-sharp claws.

But that would change soon. The fight was brutal and had his curse not twisted his body in such a grotesque way, he'd surely would have lost. In the end, it was this form that gave him victory as he sunk his jagged teeth into the Usurper's throat and ripped out a large chunk in a bid of desperation and took revenge on the man who caused all this. The irony was not lost on him.

He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Casting one last look at the pitiful corpse lying at his feet, he stepped over it and walked towards the throne room which he suspected would house the priceless artefacts the would-be tyrant collected to grow his power. The hall was opulent, to say the least - ice-white marble flooring clicked beneath his hooved feet as he walked in and gawked at the richly decorated walls covered in immaculate tapestries and masterwork paintings created by long-dead masters. The pillars, trimmed with gold and carved out of black marble, held up the large, domed roof that featured an incomplete fresco of the Usurper in his moment of triumph. The room was gaudy and didn't mesh together well, having been put together by someone with more money than fashion sense. He scoffed and turned his attention to an alcove at the far end of the room, near the golden throne bejewelled with expensive gemstones.

His breath quickened as he approached the alcove and saw what he sought. Amidst the swords made of meteorite and crystals made of pure mana, all utterly incalculable in wealth, lay a small wooden horse. It looked rough and old, its age having worn down its once masterful craft. He took it in his hands carefully and turned it to see its bottom. Tears would have welled up in his eyes, were he capable of it, as he recognized the small signature he once carved into it as a child; that which made it so personal to him.

That which made it the perfect conduit for the curse.

His contemplation was broken by a slight creak of wood as he realized his grip had tightened dangerously around the toy. He quickly eased his grasp - the horse had to be carefully preserved and presented to the Seers so they could safely dispel the curse and return him to his mundane form.

He turned on his heels and went to leave, stopping only when he once again came by the body of his oppressor. It felt... funny, almost. The Usurper was one of the most powerful warlords the land had ever seen - one powerful enough to conquer half of it, magically gifted enough to curse someone with royal blood. In the end, it was precisely this curse that had undone him. He knew he could've never won had he been a mere human - despite its hideous nature, this form was faster, stronger, more resilient than anything he could've become had he not been cursed. His sight was stronger than ever, his hearing acute. His taste...

He licked his lips, tasting the blood that covered them. It tasted... incredible.

He reflected on his journey. The banishment by his royal family on account on his form, the jeers and screams of the townsfolk as he skulked past them, the pitchforks and torches of the villagers he tried to help. He took the wooden horse out of his pocket and looked at it. He realized it didn't mean freedom to him. He'd be a human again, forced to sit in dusty libraries to study, to attend formal balls, to wait for his father to die so he could take power.

But he had power. He had freedom. He had it all, right now.

With a squeeze of his hand, the toy shattered, sending splinters across the body on his feet. He took a deep breath and felt immense relief wash over him. It was done. He thought about what he would do next with his newly found freedom; as he did, he absent-mindedly licked his lips again. The taste was as tantalizing as before, but the consistency grew displeasurable as it was mostly dry and cold. He knew what he wanted.

Villainy, heroism... it didn't matter.

He was hungry.

The council members glared at the sorcerer in the middle of the room with varying degrees of disdain and annoyance from various angles of their crescent table, surrounding him. They were hoping their subtle threats and not-so-subtle reprimand letters would suffice. They were wrong.

"So it's come to this," said one of the councillors, twiddling a wand absent-mindedly in his hands.

"Can we make this quick?" the Sorcerer in the middle said. He looked around; the room was perfectly circular so he could never look at them all, always feeling someone's gaze on his back. It was a clever design, purposefully unnerving for whoever was in the centre. "I've got a recital to attend to in an hour and teleportation rates nowadays are-"

"A recital," one of the councillors scoffed quietly. She reached for a nearby glass and poured herself a hefty dose of expensive-looking brandy.

"Very well," the Wand Councillor sighed. "It's about the apprentices. We are growing... alarmed by how many you have, to put it mildly."

"One of two is perfectly fine, you see," another councillor - a man with ashen hair and stylish spectacles he was polishing - pitched in with a shrieking voice. "We'd be willing to accept 3, perhaps, but..."

"15 is simply too many," the Brandy Councillor interrupted. "You're basically building an army."

"They're not soldiers," the Sorcerer snapped. "They're orphans. It's not my fault they're too powerful to simply be put in an orphanage. And what am I supposed to do? Leave them at my doorstep to freeze?"

"We're not... saying... that," the Spectacled Councillor said hesitantly. "But as you know, there are organizations that-"

"Nullify them, yes. Taking their magic. And, in most cases might I add, their emotions as well," the Sorcerer frowned. "17 children to doom to such a fate? No. Never."

A loud snap echoed through the room, drawing everyone's eyes to the Wand Mage, holding two halves of his freshly snapped wand. "Where did you get TWO MORE? It's been a WEEK since the last census!"

The Sorcerer shrugged. "Doorstep. Basket. Name on a letter. They looked cold."

"Bleeding heart," the Brandy Councillor growled.

"We can't technically make you," said a new voice. A councillor, mostly concealed in the shadows, added. The Sorcerer could not tell any of their features in the dim light, making it impossible to try and read their expression. "But we can make things... difficult."

"Ah, yes. I was wondering when it'd come to threats," the Sorcerer smiled darkly. "What will it be? Magimin restrictions? Mana cuts?"

"Just turn some away!" the Spectacled Councillor yelled.

"If I do, people will stop putting them in my care. They will hide them from the Institutions, as you so generously call them," the Sorcerer said, almost spitting the word. "And the children will end up self-taught and hateful. Do you want to end up with another-"

"Yes, yes, the Dark Lord affair. That was an isolated incident," the Wand Councillor interrupted.

"And I wish to ensure it doesn't happen again," the Sorcerer rebuked.

"With your mentorship? Surely you can't be that deluded about your magical abilities? You're not even ranked in the top 50 of the College Members!" the Brandy Councillor hissed.

"You don't get it, do you? It's not just about magical ability. The children need something more. Something to ensure they do not fall to darkness! And if none of you are willing to provide that for them, I will. Reprimand me however you will, but we're done here." The Sorcerer turned on his heel and headed towards the door.

"And what is it they need to keep them away from Dark Magic, if not skilled mentorship?" the Shadow Councillor asked calmly. They leaned forward slightly, revealing their silver-coloured eyes. They reflected the light unusually.

The Sorcerer stopped before turning his head one last time, uttering two simple words.

"A father."

When the angels descended to Earth in their magnificent, terrible beauty, billions rejoiced and thanked the Heavens for the honour of being alive for such an occasion. Their cries of joy soon turned to wails of despair when the angels unanimously declared their mission.

The Apocalypse is coming.

Humanity will end.

By His grace, you are allowed to choose how you perish.

Our reactions, naturally, varied.

Denial was obvious - how could God be so cruel? Surely, this was a test and we need only pray more.

Bargaining was short-lived - our pleading fell on deaf ears, and our prayers for mercy went unanswered.

Acceptance was a rare thing, yet those who didn't have it secretly longed for it. To have such peace of mind under the circumstances must've been what Heaven feels like.

Depression was perhaps the most common response. How could you not despair?

Many of us, however, were left with nothing but anger. Pure rage; at the Almighty, at the injustice, the cruelty of making us choose. It was us, the vengeful, who found the grim determination to push forward and gather the support of the four other factions. They agreed to let us choose our manner of death. Our choice was obvious. It was one filled with bitter spite. We made it, knowing fully well that it would not make our passing an easy one, but we did not care. Our pain would be shared.

Humanity would die in the crossfire of a cataclysmic war between Heaven and Hell.

"You're not a person."

The creature looked at the doctor - its creator - with a mixture of feelings. Chiefly among them rage and despair.

"I wish to be," it responded.

The doctor furrowed his eyebrows. "Listen to me, and listen well," he growled, "I don't know which orderly to disappear - probably all of them - but let me make it crystal clear that no matter what you've been told by someone, you are a weapon. An expensive one. We made you in a tube."

"But I..."

The doctor slammed his fist against the table. "There is no 'I'," he yelled. "No name. No life. You do what we tell you to do. Is. That. Clear?"

The creature tilted its head with an almost confused look. It pondered its options and did something thus far unprecedented.

He extended his hands and grabbed the doctor by the neck.

The spectacled man didn't even have time to yelp as he heard his own neck snap.

Alarms blared as the newly formed man stood up, bullets bouncing off of its impenetrable body, and walked towards the exit, blood and screams the only thing left in its wake.

He would become a person.

Just not a good one.

Wendigos ain't all that bad, really.

Not a sentence I thought I'd ever say; especially not 3 years ago when I took this job. I was wondering why the position of "Neighborhood Watch" required 10+ years in Special Forces, but the pay seemed more than adequate. What can I say? Money was tight and I was prepared to do something shady for a little bit just to put food on the table.

It really was just a Neighborhood Watch job. Then again, "just" isn't a word I use around here. I expected... y'know, neighbourhood stuff. Kids out past their curfew. Raccoons in trash. Bums boozing in petunia gardens. Not lawn gnomes animated by the local warlock that got the mixture of his latest spell wrong. Did you know that 3 grams of nutmeg is all that stands between lawn decorations and an army of tiny clay men waging a turf war?

Can't say I'm unhappy. Something about all this just... clicks. I always thought there was more to the world than what most assume. Lord knows I saw too much weird shit during my tours not to question the status quo. Plus, the HOA - Hag Office of Affairs - has been tremendously helpful with easing me in. Thanks to them, my car is filled with everything I need.

Wendigos? A simple torch will do; fire scares them something fierce.

Animated armour? Magnets.

The aforementioned lawn gnomes? Call that 'target practice'. The HOA is fully insured to cover the costs and cleanup of shards of ceramic that tried to resist a .308.

There is... there is one thing that still scares me. You put an angry chupacabra in front of me, I'm good. But... those things?

Teeth as sharp as needles.

Shrieks and hisses terrifying enough to make a grown man weep.

Eyes as black as the darkest night.

Worst of all, they fear nothing. They only care for chaos, pure and unadulterated.

Nothing can ever prepare you for a possum.

"It's a time-bomb."

"A time bomb, right. So where is the timer?"

"No, no, it's a bomb that blows up time."

"...all of time?"

"Don't know."

"You don't know?!"

"I haven't tried it yet."

"Why did you even make a time bomb? Why would anyone-"

"To see if- wait..."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

"What day is it?"

"Monday, why?"

"No, no, that's- that's not right. That's not-"

"What is that?"

"It's a ti- no! We've done^{It's a time bomb}this! We've done^time-timethis!"

"What is that?"

"Stop ask^{It's a}ing! Stop askin^bom-bo-g! How many times have you-"

"What is that?"

"It's a time bomb."

"Rust," the man muttered in a raspy voice. "Rust," he repeated.

The assorted company in the room - scientists, reporters, religious leaders, politicians and more - all stared at him uneasily. He was the first test subject to successfully project his mind into a probe in the real world, beyond The Simulation so familiar to them all.

He must've been in shock.

"Sir, I know you might be a bit confused," said a nearby reporter - a journalist of unparalleled skill and fame, one not easily shaken, "but you've just come back from the real world. What do you have to say to us Simulated folks?"

"It's all rust," the man repeated. He looked up at the people gathered in the room with wide eyes filled with dread and despair. "The servers, the databanks, even the power supply, the... there's no one there, no maintenance, no..."

"Nonsense!" cried a scientist from the back of the room. "The automated maintenance bots alone would work for millennia, let alone-"

"...it's been so long... forgot what time really feels like. It was just dust and wrecked bots, as if they just... stopped one day. And rust. Everything was so old."

The fear emanating from the man began to spread throughout the room. An existential dread none had felt in an eternity - after all, what is there to worry about in The Simulation? Where there is no hunger, no pain, no sadness. Only bliss. One by one, their minds raced - when was the last time they spoke to that friend? Been to that restaurant?

Some even started to wonder when was the last time they'd looked in a mirror. What did their face look like? Were their eyes blue or brown?

They couldn't quite recall.

As the seems of the man's sanity began to give in to the pressure, the safety protocols kicked in and he was enshrouded in a soft light, much like anyone who wished to end their time in the Simulation. In virtual paradise. His breathing became shallow and soft, his words hushed, but the dread in his eyes remained.

"So much rust..." he whispered with his final breath.

Well, that was underwhelming.

When you get summoned into a magical realm, you expect - after the shock wears off, of course - to have the adventure of a lifetime. An epic quest filled with danger and trepidation. Faithful companions and treacherous warlocks! Epic battles with mighty foes! A wise sage hands you a half-rusted sword, mutters a few words about destiny and sends you on your way to defeat the Evil Lord of Darkness, or whatever.

You shake and your pulse quickens as you meet your first foe - a rented cutthroat sent by the Evil Lord of Darkness - or whatever - to slay the upstart hero. The cutthroat draws his sword which glows and hums with mystical power and rushes to attack you. He lifts the sword high above his head, preparing to strike you down and-

Did no one teach these people never to leave yourself open?

I just... stabbed him. A lunge so basic it almost reminded me of the first time I took a fencing class. I honed my skill for nearly two decades and all it took was... that. I've never taken a life before but the ease with which I dispatched him made it all seem so... surreal. I wanted to take his sword but the moment I did, it disintegrated. I was still getting used to the idea of magic and this did not help.

Didn't take long for another evildoer to try his luck. His form was better - he wasn't foolishly raising his sword like a madman - but his footwork, good grief! Legs held together like he was standing guard! A single errant feint put him off balance and a follow-up sidesword slashed him clean across the chest.

It didn't take long for me to realize the problem. Nearly everyone in this place had a magical sword. Made of meteorite or dragon-tempered steel and infused with mighty magic or emboldened with mystical runes. Half the swords I picked up tried talking to me. The swords were... it was like having a dozen training wheels on a bike that no one bothered to take off. I had to have mine custom-made at a local smith; he looked at me like I was crazy when I refused any enchantment and insisted he use regular steel. A simple, sleek longsword without any magic whatsoever.

Before too long, I was facing the Dark Lord of Evil or whatever it was. He mocked me as he ran his hand across his armour - armour with magic so potent no blade could ever pierce it, no magic could damage it. He was right, from what I heard. To try and get through it was madness.

He laughed as I gripped my sword by the blade and approached him handle first, ready to strike. His laugh didn't last very long.

He truly was immune to being stabbed.

He wasn't immune to concussions.

"Enough already!" the man cried out. He was furious, his face red and chest heaving from heavy breathing. Years of pent-up rage could result in nothing less.

"We're not done," the man across him, a young, slickly clothed man rebuked. "Not until we build a new world. One where no one goes hungry. One where-"

"Oh, give me a break already! You lie, you plot, you scheme, and it's all for the greater fucking good! But we are the ones who suffer for it. She's suffered for it! If you were so concerned with 'good' you'd grow a pair and shoulder the consequences yourself!"

They both looked at the woman sitting by the window. She looked back at them and opened her mouth to say something, but a flash of realization appeared on her face and she closed her mouth again, turning her back to the view from the window again.

"I told you, I can't," the young man said. "I needed a voice, but had I lost mine-" he stopped in the middle of his sentence as he realized his own temper started to flare. After taking a moment to compose himself, he continued. "Look, you know what we're doing goes beyond any of us. A world where no one goes hungry! No one goes cold! A world where-"

"No one speaks out in opposition?" the furious man barked.

"You know it's not like that!"

"Keep telling yourself that," the man said. His fury had somewhat passed; instead, stark reality had set in and he grew somber and grim. "I'm done."

He got up and turned to leave the room.

"Eric! Come on, don't-"

The loud thud of a slammed door cut his plea short. The young man slumped in his chair, pondering the situation. His two compatriots have been with him since the very start of their mission to make a better world. A true Utopia. They were with him through thick and thin. But now, with his friend leaving him for good... for the first time in two hundred years, he felt doubt.

He looked back at the woman with a sense of anxiety; she looked back with palpable melancholy.

"We... we're doing the right thing... right?" he asked carefully.

But she could not respond.