It seems we're at an impasse.
It is the year of our LORD, 2200. My heart, my mind and my soul all bear an excruciating weight. Those in the same vein as me are beginning to meet their end, no matter what effort they make to survive, and for no reason at all. My loved ones pass, just the same as those I resent. All that I love, just as soon be goodbyes.
I am a Nobody. Centuries have passed since I was first cursed the right to utter those words and mean them, from the chasm of my heart. I have not been able to feel, to befriend, even to love, for a being beyond my power has drawn out my soul and murdered it in cold blood. It is on my hands, now, staining my fingers a deep red as I grasp at what is left and find an absence in its place.
I remember it clearly now. 1775 is the number engraved into my mind that reminds me of the year I lost it all. An angel had come unto me — a form composed of millions of quills and feathers, alight with a brilliant radiance — saying "Be not afraid," and granting me with a task. Then he, in his holiness, asked me if I wanted to give it all to preserve the Earth, the promise of Paradise following. I answered "Yes."
A parasite of my making, to torture my soul to no end. And yet I know that he was right, that without me, this world would not be able to stand on its own two feet, rather it would burn and wither away into the wind. I contain the knowledge of one million scholars, and the weight of one million stars, all amassed together into a cacophony of nothing that eats away at my being, a faceless husk to leech off of those around me until they, too, are nobodies.
To be blessed by Him in such a sardonic way leaves me beyond hollow.
A cosmic trip to ease the mind is required. As a first in a series of episodes, I am overtaken by a horrible, bright static, and when it ceases, I find myself sitting on a railing, far above ground. I allow my cane to fall to the hard pavement, before unlatching my fingers and leaping into the darkest night, only for my curse to rescue me, allowing me to drift freely. I yearn for an adventure through space and through time, and I allow it to happen, letting my matrix guide me. With another brief flash of static, I arrive at a water planet. I am in a galaxy not too dissimilar to my own. I plummet into the water, before letting myself float in its purplish hue, my hands splashing about and making a mess. It is beautiful. The clouds in the sky appear as mountains in the wind, certainly denser than those I am familiar with. There is life brewing on this planet, slow-burning in such a fashion as to hatch in many years. But I haven't the time.
Letting that deep white static overtake me once more, I come to, and find my feet failing to meet solid ground as an immense force violently draws me towards a gas giant. I stop myself in the mustard yellow air, simply allowing myself to float. Taking a breath, I jet into the planet, letting its air, but not its force, overtake me. Though I am not hurt, it still pains me. This is much, much less pleasant than the cool purple of the water. I grow tired of holding myself together and leave that wretched sight.
At once, a deep shadow is cast onto me. Confused and frightened, I turn around and face my gaze towards a multicolored show of galaxies dancing, before realizing I find myself on a planet long forsaken by its sun. It holds no value. It is just like me; never to be thought of again, as it is damned away into the vastness of eternity, only being lit by the late image of distant galaxies, one day to die out just as well. I love you. But this is not enough. Static. Black out.
Wake up. I'm not sure where I am. I see nothing but dull flames, and I begin feeling the urge to party 'til my legs give out— What the fuck? Get out of my head, you're not invited— OUT. I dig my fingers deep into the delicious Party Pie my "eyes" and rip them out. I can still see, but whatever was in my head ceased. Thank God. Take me away from there.
I black out again, and this time I awake somewhere on the outskirts of the observable universe. My vision slowly grows distorted as I feel myself being pulled across space and time. No, this cannot happen. That is invalid. I am a cosmic criminal. Let me out. I resist the pull of the wormhole and nearly escape, but it collapses in on me. I feel its claws attempting to pull me apart, but I am deeply disconnected from reality to such a degree that I slip out, as if its hands are wet. I see a bright, red light, near a mangled amalgamation of entrails, in the distance. It doesn't notice me, yet grows fearful. Fuck this, you can't contain me in a void. I am the void.
I rip apart the hole in unreality with my bare hands, unleashing my vocals to SCREAM my way out, barraged by a violent sensory overload of color, before I fall to the floor on a balcony. It has a beautiful view of the night sky, with a boreal feeling overtaking me, and I can sense that I have been returned to the one place I could make an argument for "belonging to." I turn and am met with curtains veiling a window. I lift it open, and can see… myself. I am struggling against a gunman. A memory assaults me, and I can recall this very moment, just over two centuries ago. How time flies when nobody cares. I do not care. Take me somewhere nice, perhaps… let me see the future.
I am assaulted by static as it seeps over every inch of my body and takes control of me. I watch as my body tries and fails to maintain itself. I cannot think properly. Who did this… let me out, please. My head is bleeding. I am curtained in darkness. I ask the static for forgiveness. I beg the static to take me to the present. I cry for the static. I weep for the static. The static fails me.
It is the year of our LORD, 2200. I land on my feet after falling from a skyscraper, and decide that it is not fit for me to die today. I walk down a dingy sidewalk. My cane is back, resting in my hands. Its clacking against the concrete leaves an annoying noise in my ears that ticks me off. Nobody seems to notice.
I am a violator of logic. My history is outlined by white chalk. I cannot exist. But here I am. I enter a diner. Cue man asking questions. I answer. He leaves. Minutes pass in a blur. He returns. Hands me objects. I begin a feast. A man not dissimilar to me manifests in my booth, just across from me. Babbling, in an ugly tan jacket.
"7. We need to talk," he speaks in a way that demands I inquire more. I look at him. Into his face— or whatever is in its place.
"Not today, E—"
"Yes today. Today marks forty years since the Expurgation began, and it's catching up to us. Everything's unstable, damnit. Even Heaven." He keeps moving his stupid mouth. "Someone as ontologically insecure as you doesn't need to be screwing with spacetime right now. Until the suits and wings find a cause and stop the death of all things weird, can you not?"
I look at him. Let's break it down for him.
"Hey, Emissary. Can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"Can you not give me shit today? Every year for God knows how long, you just keep going on and on about these fucking guidelines and the 'fate of the narrative' and all that jazz. Well you know what? The author isn't just gonna let their fucking narrative die." He takes a sip from a coffee mug that honest to You just appeared in his hands. "It doesn't matter that you're the New God, that things are dying, or anything else. They need this. They need me and you and that stupid angel cunt you sicked on me and that isn't going anywhere, okay?"
He just kept fucking staring at me. I hate that face he always has. He has a face?
"The universe is fine. We're both not going anywhere, okay?" I think it's getting to him. "So don't. I want to just have one more roadtrip before Azrael shoots me in the face and I die 'til I'm needed again." My items are cold. Unappetizing. I slide the plate to him. "You can have the food if you'd like. I wasn't hungry anyways." He stares at me like I shot his dog.
"Alright, 7. Just…" His mouth hangs open. "…just promise not to fuck anything up, alright?"
"Promise. And when I'm back, call me Pluto." At this point, I'm at least half-confident my fingers cross themselves. But I can't feel them. He leaves — disappears. The employees disappear. The diner disappears. Everything is consumed by static. Not again. Please. Just take me home.
Suddenly, I am made to kneel, as absence subsumes the structure of the building, replacing it with a realm devoid of thought. Despite its foundation, it reeks of hatred and malice. What is this place? Is this truly my home? I notice a castle in the distance and through the molecular gaps, I notice someone not at all unlike me sitting atop a throne built on lies and curiosity. He similarly dons a coat and trilby, and his eyes gleam crimson… the Devil. Antipathy fuels the dimensions of this place. I want not to be here. A maniacal episode almost overtakes me, but I refuse. Take me somewhere familiar, comfort me.
I let the static take me, covering my body and seeping inside of me once more. It is a solace. I feel my feet touch the ground, and—
I am standing at a helipad. A calendar at a security booth places me in 2000. I gaze off into the deep desert, and — staring intently — I can see this building. And myself. I face back around and walk towards the entrance of the building, but a guard asks me for an I.D. I shake his hand and he presents a biometric scanner. I access it and he lets me go. He doesn't seem to notice that it presents his information afterward. I walk through the door and see a giant room with several pathways. I notice one labelled "Administrative Quarters." Walking through, I am greeted with mahogany hallways that lead towards nowhere in particular. I want to see someone. I approach a door labeled "Site Director." I peer through the window. The weary Dolloran Light sits at an office desk, biting her nails. She's worried she'll lose her job because of an accident. She is always so stressed. She passed along less than two centuries ago. A poor dream loser. I close my eyes and let the static kill my presence. Right before I fully leave, she looks up at the window. She almost saw me.
I open my eyes to my very own "dreamland." Ceiling stars hang from a deep blue ceiling — or painted into the walls — with four doors prompting me to go anywhere. I politely reject the offer, sitting on a floor that resembles the Earth's lunar partner. Such a lovely place. A classical piece presents itself as ambience. A dramatic andante of beautiful proportions. I rest for a few moments, calming my head. For just a second, I could swear I saw the Devil, with all of his six wings, standing in the dim-lit corner.
Not the end.
I neglect to leave, but I must. A voice behind me beckons.
One last time.
It is the year of our LORD, 2200. I am on a Hawaiian beach. The sun assaults me, and I am powerless to its advances. I lift myself, limping over to a nearby hanger. I try to place my trilby atop, but it falls through as if it weren't there. I catch it and return to my seat, letting it droop over my head. My cane lies across my body. An intense light begins to shimmer in the sea — violet death. A skeletal figure approaches me, and a gong sounds, the incessant ringing failing to disturb my lovely little laydown.
Despite being a freak of nature, the thing that has been pursuing me for four centuries isn't affected by whatever is killing us off. In fact, despite what would be popular belief, he is absolutely thriving, in an odd way. Whether it be by my powers leaving me, or his simply overpowering me, I cannot remember his name. Not a fault of my own, but of reality. That's okay, though, as most simply title him O5-4.
I blink, and now he stands over me, blotting out that sweltering sun. I have no need for the hat that is drooping over my head, so I drop it to the floor. It fizzles into obscurity, as all things surely will.
I look downwards at my feet; my legs are gone, too. No need for a cane anymore. I let it drift away into the wind, in some sort of pathetic anticlimax.
"Hello again, N," he speaks. He doesn't move his mouth— he wills it into the air. His sudden conversation catches me off guard.
"Hi, John. I take it it's about time? I'm down with a bad case of the cosmic cold."
"Mhm. It was a good run. Almost sad to see you go," he assures. "But also, I'm more than certain you'll be back soon enough. Different form, different time."
"Yeah. I'm not going anywhere for long. I will be back. But I think it's time to rest for…" I trail off.
He shuffles. "I know what you mean. Take care."
"Thank you," I weakly mutter. "And goodnight."
Night suddenly falls, and a deep slumber awaits me. As he draws a revolver and hammers it, I don't so much as flinch when he squeezes the trigger, setting a bullet on the path straight to my forehead, sure to kill me. My curse attempts to rescue me from certain death again, causing my systems to overclock and my perception of time to slow to a screeching halt. I can see it clear, now; the violet glow from his ribcage, the bullet peeking from his gun, the expressionless sorrow in his face. An apostate soul to guide me to my creator, that I may return to Them and face Them again in a way They cannot recognize.
The stars are beautiful in their clarity. I can see Little Dipper from here. Strange.
My gaze falls back down and I know what I have to do. I must die tonight. Someone above me wills it.
I draw a pocket watch from my sleeve and press it. Before my curse can even react to my action, I am rendered dead by a loud— BANG!