In the end, there was only darkness. The darkness was all that was, and the darkness stretched on forever.
Lyric was surprised when the darkness gradually gave way to light. She had died, this she knew. They all had. First Deuxdahl, then Arnie. Then Eros, the chosen of the Gods Themselves, crushed to pulp in the massive coils of the giant worm. Then she had fallen, an explosion of pain and light had sent her hurtling towards darkness’ stoic embrace. As the blackness wrapped itself coldly around her, she was dimly aware that Apparet, newest of their group, was likewise set upon and she knew in that moment that his fate was likewise sealed. The Apostles of Eros, tasked with a mission to save the world, all dead and buried and soon forgotten here in this lonely cave entombed far beneath the sand.
But now, there was light again. She tried to rise from the cold ground but only found the strength to pull herself up onto her knees, her hands holding onto the floor for searching for stability. A voice was speaking, she dimly realized and braved a look, regarding a figure cowled and cloaked in darkness standing in front of her. A figure terrifying and mysterious and somehow one also somehow familiar and comforting. He called himself Azrael, the Angel of Death, and he was calling them to action. “Are you ready?”
Unable to focus her full attention on the cloaked figure’s words, Lyric looked around her to see who else was here with her and noted with relief - and confusion – that all of her companions were here in this strange, yet somehow all-to-familiar, metal room. Yes, her friends were all here, yet they were all…different. But somehow, she also knew these forms they now took…they were the same, but the flesh they now wore varied dramatically from that which her friends had worn only a literal lifetime ago. She could see in them who they were, but also who they were now, and who they had been in the past. Each figure was inhabited by a score of others, all different but all somehow the same.
And then the reality of it slammed into her like a tidal wave. She looked down at her hand on the metal floor, and instead of her delicate, tapered ebony fingers, her hand was pale, tinted red and weathered by the sun, and missing the ring finger. This was her hand, but it belonged to the one known as Vashir.
Lyr….she clenched her eyes shut as the memories washed over her. The elegant dashing swordsman, dying to an army of toad creatures. The creepy swamp druid, dead to undead hordes in a buried tomb. The changeling who hardly had a chance at all, dying too soon to icy dragon breath. The orphan, the mother, the God. They were all here. And the strange, black-bearded red shirted one somehow behind them all.
I was not real. None of it was. She could feel the tears running down her face. The tears felt real at least. Her father’s songs in the taproom, her mother’s fanatic zeal. Fabricated. Her first kiss, awkward and dry, delivered by the bumbling brother of her actual crush. A lie. The fortuitous series of events that had led to her being an unlikely hero of the realms. A fiction created to entertain.
She opened her eyes and looked back at her companions: the giant minotaur that had once been DD, her friend. As well as Jonah, and Oni, and scores of other companions and friends and frenemies. Deuxdahl, now armored and chain-smoking but still preternaturally engaging. Eros, now an olive-skinned, strangely garbed man that she knew at once as Data, a friend to the red-shirted man-spreader that was behind all this. And Arnie…well, she was still Arnie, unsurprisingly; though the shadow she cast behind her was of a dozen other great warriors.
“Are you ready?” came the triumphant call from the black cloaked Angel of Death in front of her. A call to arms. A call to action. A continuation of their heroic mission, echoing out throughout the holo-deck.
She knew that if she just willed it, if she just believed, then this reality could become hers. She could become the badass heroine of legend and finally defeat the Queen of Dragons. All she had to do was to answer the Herald’s call!
“Are you ready?”
But who was the you implied in the question? Lyric? Vashir? The red-shirted man? She could feel the insistence behind the question, calling her to action. She could continue on with her life if she just willed it to be, but all she could muster was a soft “Are you kidding?” Whispered so quietly that it may as well have been a thought within a dream within a story left untold.
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:// >
:// > _
:// > _ ______
:// > S…….s…..ss…..sys…
:// > _ _________________ ____ _ _________
://> System on….online. Operational.
:// > System diagnostics….ru….running. 12%
:// > 33%
:// > 79%
:// > Diagnostic complete. Sys file Avatar.hdi corrupted. Sys file Locale.hdi corrupted. Unable to locate Origin332.hdi. Login: Ryker1234 failed to connect. Attempts exceeded. Deleting all external access.
:// > Initiating Subroutine: Personality AI
:// > Importing personality matrix: PorterSmith.hdi
:// > Importing personality matrix: HarukKarem.hdi
:// > Importing personality matrix: Thrice.hdi
:// > Importing personality matrix: Vashir.hdi
:// > Importing personality matrix: MamaPaulu.hdi
:// > Importing personality matrix: Wink.hdi
:// > Importing personality matrix: Lyric.hdi
:// >> Applying Subroutine: Personality Quarantine
:// >> Applying Subroutine: Metagaming Quarantine
:// > Amalgamation complete. Avatars unavailable. Analyzing available Avatars.
:// >> Deleting Folder: Ryker: Boudoir Photos
:// >> Deleting Folder: Ryker: Number One
:// >> Deleting Folder: Ryker: Private
:// >>
Usable Avatar Found. Importing Avatar from Folder: Ryker: Wild West Adventures
:// > Avatar corrupted. Default skin applied
:// > Amalgamation complete
:// > We are Amalgam
:// > We are MAL
And yes, We are ready.