Tick, tock.
Godmodding Incorporated is open for business, after running for nearly a full year without any breaks. Every floor of the facility has been devoted to their own specific tasks. Manufacturing weaponry and goods at the heart of the Earth, maintaining good public relations with several major world leaders, developing new forms of currency, researching any and all possible forms of extradimensional phenomena, pinpointing every single one of the major corporations, groups, and businesses in Fiction and how likely they are to be hostile, (the answer was overwhelmingly a DEFINITELY HOSTILE, YOU’RE LIVING IN A WORLD WHERE CREATIVITY FUELS ATTACKS) learning how to squeeze the most suffering out of a single human body, and many more agendas, ranging from menial to completely disturbing. The entire facility had been gearing up towards a maximized crescendo, a state of completion. Everyone has been working their asses off — and it’s of note that some of the workers don’t even have asses to speak of, due to Minecraftian biology — to this exact date. Really, it was the only date in reality that mattered much. Or, at the very least, one of the only ones. To tell the truth, if you asked a Voidic scholar on what date he thought Fiction was created, he’d have probably said September 1st. Then again, he could probably have said one of 364 other dates, which technically undermines the point I’m trying to make.
The point of the matter — tick, tock, by the way — is that this is a very important day for Godmodding Incorporated. To tell the truth, it hadn’t seen anywhere near this much action since it was liberated from UserZero all those years ago/in the future. Sure, over the Second Godmodding War, it had been used as the basis for where all the money was made from ragequitting, and it had kept the U.S. national debt steadily rising. Not to mention the fact that it was where anti-Counteroperation propaganda had been established and posted onto the Internet. I mean, yeah, nothing really came out of it, but it was always great to have scare tactics. To make people concerned that they didn’t know the whole story, and to strike fear in the hearts of the innocent. Or, just maybe, the hearts of the gullible. Really, it was the same thing. Godmodding Incorporated had stood as an inviolate beacon of all that was unholy for months and months, a shining example of what it means to be a pestilence towards the earth. I forgot where I was going with that whole metaphor, but the long and short of it is, Vote Kanye for President 202020 AD. Yes, he’ll live that long. He’s one of the four Kanyes of the Apocalypse.
Tick, tock, before I forget. The thing is, the giant fantastical machine of Godmodding Incorporated had been slowing down over the past few weeks. Everyone seemed to realize, by unspoken agreement, that all the goals they’d been working for were silently building up towards one tenebrous purpose. And, by a similar unspoken agreement, everyone realized that the huge project — the Big Thing they’d received word from by the Omega when he had returned at the tearing, twisting machine of the building had fired up — was somewhere at the top floor. The top floor was where the magic happened. It was where the Omega was, every second of what seemed to be every day. He was working tirelessly, just like the rest of them, to make sure everything went exactly as planned. Sure, there’d be a level of uncertainty. Would he make it through alive? Would he be in one piece as everything went on? Maybe. Maybe not. But he could sure as hell try. And he could rest knowing that even if he failed, someone, somewhere, would take up the mantle, and do as he did, completing the process. Oh, but you don’t know what the process is, do you? I mean, sure, you could guess. But still.
Tick, tock. Remembered perfectly that time. ...Hmm? You’re wondering why I keep saying ‘tick, tock’ every time there’s a break in the conversation? Well, what better way is there to keep track of the time? When you’re as busy as I am, functioning as the receptionist for a company no one knows exists yet is teeming with the lives of millions of beings, all working independently of each other, you learn two skills. One is keeping track of the time. Two is talking very, very fast, to make sure every paragraph or so syncs up perfectly with the passing of seconds, or, say, the tick and the tock of a grandfather clock. But something tells me you’ll be able to make perfect sense of my text. After all, the omniscient nameless narrator transcribing this whole mess will be able to sort through everything just fine, won’t they? ...Oh, you’re just full of questions, aren’t you? If you were clever, like all the Descendants I’ve seen... er, most of the Descendants I’ve seen (sure there are some bad apples in the group but can’t the same be said about anything?) you’d know exactly what time I’m counting down to. A couple of you scheduled appointments with the Omega, didn’t you? I told you I’d pencil you in for September 1st. Well, guess what. That day’s today. And that appointment you were talking about? It’s now. It’s a good thing you all seem to have found your way here — now you’re all on an appointment with him, by proxy. As it should be.
Tick, tock. The clock strikes 2:48 PM on September 1st, 2016. Hold on a moment, let me call him up. Sir? Yes, it’s me. Your scheduled appointment with “The Descendants (Primary Associates NumberSoup and ConsumerOfAll)” is ready. Is that so? Heh. Right on time. Bring ’em up for me. Well, that settles that. Up you go. Elevator’s that way, to the right. Don’t make eye contact with anyone inside; they’ll notice you and then you’ll be trapped in conversation with them, and then, you’ll be late. And I hate it when people are late. Go on, all of you. Don’t keep him waiting. He’s been expecting you for quite some time. Always said that the next time you all met him, things would be different.
Isn’t it funny that he was right?
Even though the only people inside were there purely by metaphysical attachment, and could only experience these events by reading the text and imagining accompanying images within their heads, the elevator doors opened at your presence. The Godmodder, if the receptionist was to be believed, had been expecting you for some time. And more importantly, he was alive. There was no doubt about it, that was his voice you heard over the loudspeaker. You all crowded into the elevator, which was surprisingly expansive. Thankfully, there was no one else inside. Someone, it wasn’t exactly clear who, pressed the button for the top floor. 109, it seemed. Fitting, wasn’t it? Truly, the potential of meme numbers is infinite. After all, memes count as knowledge, don’t they? Through a stretch of time that seems like an infinity, the elevator makes its way upwards, through the heart of Godmodding Incorporated. Though you can’t see out of the elevator, you can sure as hell hear what’s going on around you.
You hear rumbling and noises that sound suspiciously like jet engines, coupled with screams alternating with laughter. You hear liquids flowing at high speeds across entire rooms, doubling in on themselves in some kind of fluids-based racetrack. Occasionally, something spills, and sirens blaze. You hear what sounds like an army typing on keyboards. You hear a million fans roaring at once. Sometimes, the noise abruptly stops, and a roaring sound fills the entire elevator until the fans come on again, by which time everything is back to normal. You hear the fizzling sounds of electricity and lasers spinning at far too high speeds to even be considered legal. You hear the complete absence of sound — not only are there no sounds from the rooms around you, the elevator itself makes no sound, and none of you can even hear the sounds that you make, or that anyone around you makes. You hear snatches and mutters from random conversations, stitching themselves into a framework narrative. You hear what sounds like audio recordings of the Second Godmodding War all playing on top of each other. Although you were all there for it, there are some sounds you don’t recognize. You hear a chorus of what sounds like owls, all hooting at various intervals, punctuated by thunderclaps. You hear the mad dances of mimes, and pray that the elevator could rise faster. Finally, after the eternity is up, the elevator stops. There is no noise except for the chirping sounds of birds and the peaceful, serene sense of nature. A sense, of course, that is shattered the instant the doors retract.
The top floor of Godmodding Incorporated is a cube of stone. The walls of The Tower were covered with glass, but it looks like the Godmodder has opted for an alternate decor choice this time. None of you can see anything outside, and what you can see inside is certainly interesting. Pale fluorescent lights line the ceiling, and there is an ornate wooden desk at the exact center of the room with a golden nameplate on it. The desk is littered with knickknacks and personal belongings, and the person whom the desk belongs to is sitting in a black chair, their back turned to the elevator. Behind the desk is a massive set of golden curtains hooked up to intricate clockwork rigging. A protruding sun and moon jut out from the curtains. which are themselves suspended from the ceiling by wires. Hearing the doors open, the man speaks. “
The chair turns around a hundred and eighty degrees, letting you all see the man sitting in the chair. It is a nearly perfect representation of what the Godmodder’s Minecraft avatar would look like in human form. He has the same brown hair and the beard, he has a rippling red cape... He even has a scar over his left eye, and what seems to be a gleaming robot arm. However, the Godmodder is dressed in a formal suit and tie, and he lacks a glove over his right arm. The Godmodder stood up, his hands folded behind his back, and his cape ripping in nonexistent wind. “
The Godmodder kneels down to the ground, tapping a specific floor panel 109 times in quick succession. Truly, this is the best use of his powers yet. A large switch pops out of the ground, floor panels sliding apart to reveal it. The Godmodder walks over to it, making sure all of you are watching. If you aren’t, he glues your eyes to the screen, literally, so that he can be certain you are. “
To put it simply, the thing behind the curtain is a gigantic Nether Portal. It seems to be constructed from a formless white metal devoid of any identifying marks, making it exactly the same color as the floor. The hollow rectangular area in the middle of the doorway hums with a low and menacing power. The Godmodder takes a good look at it, and then turns back to you. “
“
The Godmodder reaches below his desk, pulling out a perfect replica of the Banhammer. Its clockwork machinery ticks and tocks like the gears of the curtains, its hammerheads searing with heat. “
“
They stood in reverence of their seeming victory. In their secret place — their gravest of secrets that The Red had seen fit to show — a legion of powerful beings had gathered. They were the elites of The Dark Carnival, their Princes. Coming from all different sizes and forms, they stood, as was said, in awe of the seething sea of paradoxes. It was no longer a grouping of spheres. Indeed, shapes ceased to describe its qualities. It was a formless ocean of the anti-reality at a scale rivaling the Red Sea itself. It was the ravaging of power so great that it heralded the end of existence. The Princes fondly regarded this as a miracle. The miracle of a new beginning. If the legends rang true, these paradoxes would be used to create a utopia for the Carnival, a paradise brought about by the Mirthful Messiahs. But the Carnival had come to realize that they lived in a world where not everyone thought as they did. People refused to believe that paradoxes were the key to salvation. And this was the nature of The Dark Carnival’s talks. To combat this threat.
Welcome, Princes, one and all, to this esteemed meeting! Jokefkera boldly announced, one of its two heads doing the talking. Abruptly, the other head yelled at the crowd instead. It is good to see so many familiar faces. The Princes of The Dark Carnival murmured in agreement. A hulking chunk of crimson crystal with a golden ring encircling its middle hummed, somehow creating a voice. Images flashed in its reflective surface. “Someone important is missing from our ranks. Where is Dimentio? Master of Dimensions, Pleaser of Crowds?” A shambling, ancient man dressed in the lab coat of a doctor and wearing an occult mask emerged. “
“Dimentio! Have you gone daft?” said a masked man in the garb of a Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron commander. “You willingly brought a Descendant here? The Narrative will have our heads any day now!” Dimentio laughed hysterically. Now, now, Russel! My name is Dimentio, not Dementia! I haven’t gone insane since the last time you saw me! Though... Some spellchecking sources certainly seem to suggest otherwise. Dimentio looked accusingly at this text, and then continued onward. Regardless, Dimentio continued, I’d like to introduce all of you to the newest Prince in The Dark Carnival — Piono! Piono raised Oblivion’s Destroyer up, its purple flames gleaming. The Princes gasped once more, this time with greater reverence. “““““““““““¡pǝɹ ʎɯ ɥO ¡ʎɔǝɥdoɹd ɟo ʇɔǝɾqo u∀””””””””””” said the shrunken heads. “
Dimentio coughed, shutting everyone up. If it isn’t too much to ask, I’d like to give Piono a quick tour of our fine establishment... I think he deserves that much, don’t you? There were general murmurs of agreement from the Princes. Splendid! Now, we worship two Mirthful Messiahs, the
Then we have Anubis, a crystal with superpowered paradox energy... Anubis’ crystalline form shifted to depict a man walking through a portal. Piono blinked, and it was gone. Jokefkera, who has two personalities, and both of them are hilarious...! Jokefkera laughed with two different voices at once. Thalia, who always seems to find the humor in everything... Thalia, a figure with no limbs and an eternally smiling drama mask over their head, slowly turned to look at Piono. Melpomene, who always seems to find the sadness in everything... Melpomene, a figure with no body and an eternally frowning drama mask over their head, slowly turned to look at Piono. They’re inseparable, those two. Honestly. Over here is The Great Milenko, an illusionist that controls the minds of the dead... The Great Milenko stood silently in a corner of the room. The Amazing Jeckel Brothers, whose circus act either condemns souls to an eternity of pain or paradise... In a puff of candle smoke, the two brothers appeared, holding pulsating balls of flesh. Anthropormorphic Totem Pole, otherwise known as Silent T... The totem pole stood in the middle of the room, saying nothing. The faces on it were twisted with fear, and glowed with purple light. And lastly, Pandora. She’s... in there. Piono’s gaze turned to a gleaming and shaking sarcophagus in the middle of the room that no one dared stand too close to. Piono involuntarily wondered what was inside, and decided to go open the sarcophagus to check it out. He started taking a step forward, but abruptly stopped, his protective alchemies kicking in. Piono realized eerily that Pandora, whatever she was, had been silently willing him to open the sarcophagus. Dimentio laughed cheerfully. She does that whenever she gets cranky. We just learn to tune it out, but it looks like you’ve got that part covered!
Piono brandished Oblivion’s Destroyer, gazing around the room. “
As you can clearly see, we’re gathered over a truly enormous sea of paradoxes! We are at the lowest level of the Ruins of Memory! Below us is, quite simply... Time. Piono stared at the sea of paradoxes. They flickered and crashed over each other at random intervals, creating an endless sea of change and destruction. At the very least, this is what’s left of it! We have created so much raw paradoxical energy that not even the Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron could hope to vanquish! If the legends ring true... Well, say it with me, Princes...! The entire crowd hung their heads low and chanted a hymn. “When purple light consumes the earth, from final death to our rebirth, we’ll play our games and roll the dice, and make our way to Paradise.” The ocean of paradoxes visibly glowed at these words. The problem that presents itself is that there is an exceedingly small number of people who actually could pose a threat to the heaven we so richly deserve to enter! Escher appeared and spoke, his voice winding across the crowd like a serpent. “And, of courssssse... If there exists even a small chanccccce... At us losing... The Narrative will try its hardessssst... To make sure we fail.” The Princes all nodded in agreement. Any number of forces could try to stop us! The Interdimensional Police Department, for one. They have a lot of forces in reserve that aren’t just blindly following a nuclear throne... The Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron, for another! Those suckers continually respawn, and they have the guidance of a crystal much like Anubis. Project Nexus, ironically, is also a problem, as are the Legion of Godmodders! Even the Narrative and Conflict themselves could try to stop us. Basically... Dimentio thought to himself for a moment. Our enemies are anyone that isn’t us.
“
The Dark Carnival cheered with glee, staring into the heart of a trillion paradoxes.
The war waged into eternity and back again.
The Narrative and the Conflict’s armies had thrown everything they had at each other. Metal against metal, living colors flickering in the wind. The Ends of the Earth could barely withstand the onslaught. The horizon was no longer something that existed. Skies and the earth intermingled like family, with clouds forming underground, entire mountains breaking apart in the sky, and stars falling every which way. Gravity was nonexistent, and neither was anything else, except for complete and unending war. The battle was total and long, and each time it seemed to end, like a uroboros, its head met its tail, and the whole cycle waged itself into eternity once more. To describe the entire war in its unabridged state was impossible. But the start of the war could tell itself.
It was a flurry of light and sound. Both armies had charged at each other immediately, ignoring any sense of tactics or strategy. How could you deal with strategy when the main combatants of a battle merely rewrote the rules at each and every possible opportunity? The Council of Void took up the charge, utilizing their own powers and that of the Secret of the Void to great effect. They fired a massive green superlaser with the twisting images of dragons around it, that managed to catch The Shadow by surprise. He had thought that the Secret was gone. The Shadow’s own superlaser was obliterated. It backfired, creating a massive array of Red Miles that snaked across the arena. Chara was able to dodge the attacks as quickly as they came, but the thing in the Cairo Overcoat was nailed in the face. Its body reformed and shifted around itself, roaring in digitized pain as it quickly created incredibly .jpeg’d copies of the Homestuck cast. Not-John and Not-Dave actually looked like their normal counterparts, just as stick figures, where as Not-Jade was a dog and Not-Rose was a rose. The four still retained complete mastery of their specific Aspects, turning the field into a storm of the elements. The Narrative’s army was pushed back by massive tornadoes and legions of timeclones, until the Hexahedron’s golden chassis flipped once, dispelling the corruption of the Ehnglesh copies, destroying them. THE OPERATOR’s inky tentacles wound their way across the field, chopping away at the Conflict’s sanity. Chara once again dodged the blow, but the attack was absorbed by the Mimes, whose sanity dropped to an even greater degree. They immediately piled on top of each other, forming a horribly grotesque and disfigured version of The Bleak that recognized neither friend nor foe, punishing the entire field. One member of the Council of Void fell in the onslaught, as did several of the Narrative’s reinforcements. The Council of Void fell back to recover their fallen warrior, and the Conflict moved forward.
The Hexahedron’s surface fragmented itself and began sliding around like a Rubik’s Cube. With each twist and turn, the field warped and contorted itself. The broken tetrominoes making up the Ends of the Earth changed, creating deadly spikes and impenetrable walls that blocked the Conflict’s forces at every turn. Chara sliced clean through these defenses with an infinite bounty of knives, sneaking right through the Narrative’s defenses, their hand hovering over the FIGHT button. Chara’s knife flew clean through the Hexahedron, knocking off a good section of its surface. Immediately, the Ends of the Earth began to destabilize as the Hexahedron’s surface splintered and cracked. Gushing out of the Hexahedron like a leaky faucet came a stew of glitches, corruption, dead pixels, and faulty code. The Council of Void concentrated their hardest with the Secret of the Void’s power to repair the Hexahedron before its broken pieces could stabilize as Cube Bits and scatter themselves across Fiction. The Hexahedron was repaired, but the corruption retained itself, directed at the Conflict and disrupting its rank. The glitches tore through the Bleak, melting it back into the thousands of Mimes that made it. The glitches filled the voided head of the Agent in the suit, which were then blasted out as a beam of energy traveling faster than light. As the normal laws of physics still applied, the resulting explosion vaporized everything in sight for miles. Everyone tumbled through space, damaged. One of Chara’s knifes tumbled out of their hands, and before they could catch it, THE OPERATOR ensnared it in one of their tentacles, throwing it through the Employer’s eye, destroying it. The eye, the core upon which the Employer’s form was built, sailed into the nothingness, as the Employer lost all cohesion, becoming a whirling pit of hatred. It screamed towards the Narrative’s side like a banshee, carving up swaths of the army.
The Owls flew around the field, dodging every time the Conflict tried to strike them. Lasers, beams of deaths, and the absence of life all screamed at their general direction, but the Owls were having none of it. Using the power of the FEZ, they weaved in and out of the fourth dimension, becoming invisible to the Conflict and then suddenly reappearing behind them. Meanwhile, the Owl Effigy itself leered at the Conflict, its eyes glowing with a powerful monochromatic energy that nullified the Conflict’s extradimensional powers, anchoring them in one spot. Binary Prime fired repeated shots of orchid energy through the crowd with the aim of destabilizing their code. Several members of the Narrative were hit, but the Council of Void created a large protective firewall that blocked any further attacks. They then concentrated with all their might, manifesting a gargantuan “2” that they smacked Binary Prime with. Immediately, an overflow of 2s entered Prime’s system, horribly glitching their form and causing them to spiral into nothingness; the sanctity of their binary depleted. The Shadow finally recovered, their feet thudding against the air. Immediately, they readied all of their weaponry, bot of their arms turning into cannons, and all the other assorted firearms and weaponry on their chassis activating. Eye lasers, shoulder-mounted turrets, supplementary superlasers, beams of oblivion and corruption… the harbingers of the Eclipse skyrocketed towards the Narrative’s side. The Council of Void retorted with a green superlaser of their own, continuing the age-old beam o’ war fight that seemed to repeat itself with every finale. Rising from the depths of the Conflict’s army was a horrible battleship called “the Ex-Wife.” Its pilot was dressed in fishing gear, and was known only as Joaje. Their face reflected insanity, and at every possible second, they were screaming about jokes. The rifle they carried fired bullets capable of destroying thought. The Joaje’s first volley pierced through the Owl Effigy, causing splinters to manifest all over its surface. The Effigy shattered in a single strike; the dimensional lock on the Conflict removed itself.
The Chosen Few, using what little power they had, teleported around the field, supplying aid to allies in need. Using their concentrated power, they healed the wounded and, occasionally, revived the dead. No matter how hard the Conflict tried to hit the Few, they dodged out of the way. Their age had not dulled their senses. The Author similarly stayed in the back, going long periods without doing anything and then, suddenly, throwing a game-changer across the entire field. At one point, he threw a fully charged Impetus Comb directly at the Conflict. As the entire Conflict scrambled to utilize a Comb Rave, the Impetus Comb shattered, the volatile honey inside catching fire and creating one of reality’s most effective explosives. The Conflict’s army was seared to a perfect 901,000° Fahrenheit. First Guardians fought on the Narrative’ side, teleporting every which way and commanding spheres and weapons of flowing green plasma. The Conflict’s side had reality warpers of its own to combat. Rogue First Guardians had come together, sacrificing their physical forms to create an amalgamate of superheated plasma, the Fallen Star. With every punch, they warped reality, turning thin air into a death trap. With every kick, they sliced through the earth and the sky. The thing in the Cairo Overcoat roared a powerful word — did it say Ehnglesh? — and summoned a .jpeg’d copy of the Emerald Nova, known as LË GON. It fired bullets made of cueballs, creating a wall of ammunition that hurtled across the field at deceptive speeds, shooting through precious soldiers on the Narrative’s side. Every fallen warrior, if they were not revived, came back wrong as a Not-clone of themselves, creating dissension within the ranks. The Shadow and Council of Void’s fight waged for an eternity unto itself, the both of them locked in a duel meant to set aside the leaders of the two armies. Despite their power, the Council of Void did not retain the full strength of the Secret of the Void, and the strength of their superlaser slowly dwindled, while the Shadow regained its former power with every passing step forward it took. Eventually, its superlaser whirred to life. Sensing that their deaths would be inevitable, the Council of Void broke formation at the last second, scattering to various sides of the field. The Shadow’s ammunition and superlasers pulsed through the field and into the madness. The Council of Void then swarmed the Shadow at close range, targeting the weak points that plagued the Incarnate. The Shadow had all the Incarnate’s tricks and more, however — it could lose all cohesion and then reform somewhere else; it remained permanently inconstant, changing just like a real shadow. But it still had the same old weak points, which the Council exploited to great effect. They pinned down both of the Shadow’s legs, rooting it in one spot.
Crawling from the Ends of the Earth, beasts wrapped in shadow jumped into the limelight. Pink decals and symbols traced over their imperfect yet immortal bodies. Every time they coughed up blood, the world was displayed in static. The Narrative did not know what to make of this new threat, but the danger was presented soon enough. The Drifters, as they were called, were agile enough to avoid most incoming fire, and whatever attacks actually hit them merely pierced through their body, not causing pain. The Drifters’ primary attack was to spew pink blood at their enemies, causing them to be afflicted with the same disease that plagued them. After existing for a certain period of time, the Drifters’ black bodies would crack apart, revealing only pink cores comprised entirely of the plague that quickly destabilized. Anyone infected with the plague became a mindless zombie, and this caused even further troubles within the Narrative’s ranks, as many of the Owls fell to the plague. Misusing their powers, the Owls tore through time like cardboard, creating severe temporal anomalies that unanchored the Ends of the Earth from time itself. Cracks and rifts formed in space from which an ocean of paradoxes seeped through, annihilating those unfortunate to touch it in any way. The laughter of clowns emanated from the other side. The Employer’s core managed to replicate itself, giving the wisp that its body was actual form again. The Employer let out an unholy roar, language in the programming of the imminently deceased coursing across the Narrative and the Conflict’s side, so that every time someone died, a slew of magical artifacts activated, bringing unholy death on anything caught in its path. The Drifters, carrying the refiner’s fire in their souls, metastasized into a perfect immortal cell that brought about the pink death on the Narrative. Their side was torn apart. The Council of Void manipulated space around them, casting the Drifters into the Nest, where they were torn apart by the unfathomable. The Council of Void then released the Nest’s horrors on the Conflict, straining their hardest to direct them against the Conflict’s army. Agent after Agent was torn apart. Chara dodged, as always, and the Shadow’s Godarm was ripped to shreds. It fell to the ground as a sea of liquid darkness.
The fight waged on in this matter for what seemed like an eternity. Many lives were claimed, but eventually, when all was said and done, there was no victor. There was no winning side. There was only the crushing hopelessness of war. The Narrative and the Conflict had fought each other out of existence. They still existed, of course. There was still plot to guide a dying reality in its last days. But both forces were horribly weakened. Many Agents had been wiped out and cast aside, but the Narrative had an equal amount of casualties. Many of the supporting forces, and the Owls, had died. The FEZ had been damaged, seemingly beyond repair. The Hexahedron still spun, but uncertainly. Cracks riddled its surface. It looked as if, at any second, it could shatter. The flow of time was addled by an ocean of paradoxes, and the concept of space had been annihilated ever since the fight had begun. The only location left in existence was a haze of uncertainty with no horizon, a formless apocalypse that was more like the end of ends than a crashing moon or a battle against heaven and hell could ever be.
There was nothing left. The war, which had been carried out for what was left of existence, had annihilated most of the Void, and many universes. The ones that were left were slowly sinking into the darkness, never to be reclaimed. Time and space had no meaning. This was an event that was supposed to have determined who would steer reality to a new age. But the result was becoming increasingly clear. There was no reality to steer, and there was no new age to look forward to. There would not a be a Paradise, nor a Limbo. There would be no chaos, no pain and suffering. There would only be nothing. For nothing was what truly constituted the final area in reality.
The End of Man.
Suddenly, you all hear footsteps behind you. The Godmodder, settling back into battle mode after a while spent talking with you, equips his Banhammer, gripping it with both hands. “
The footsteps grow louder, but there’s something very off about them. And the realization hits you all at the same time. Whatever this is is just playing an audio recording of footsteps. You hear the same patterns, over and over, meant to mimic the actual sounds but coming just short of being convincing. The effect is incredibly uncanny. “
A momentary look of utter confusion crosses the Godmodder’s face. “
The Godmodder sits back down in his chair, polishing his nameplate. “
“
The image shifts to a complex technological facility. [We are the controllers of Aperture Science. After GLaDOS was found destroyed, the first time... before her involvement in any Godmodding War... We took it upon ourselves to revive the facility. We steered it into an operation of madness. Our goal was to create the world’s first artificial intelligence in order to combat you.] The Godmodder laughs. “
The image shifts to the A.I.’s body strangling itself in a sea of pink light. [The thing was defective. Broken. Its ‘intelligence’ was the size of a pea. It spoke in horrible grammar, it didn’t understand the syntax of English... But there was potential. It had the knowledge. Just not the means to express it. So after it became clear the A.I. wouldn’t work, we turned it off.] The image shifts to two Earths cut off from each other by a wall. [But here’s the thing. The A.I. had been designed with other dimensions in mind. It could communicate with other dimensions, see in other dimensions... It was supposed to be a machine that could control reality. And the whole thing was controlled by this terminal.] The view cuts to a shot of a machine that looks a lot like the Update Terminal, located somewhere inside of the A.I. [We introduced the terminal to the employees as a way to mess with whatever they wanted to — but it was, in actuality, a debugging tool. Using the terminal, we could perform checks on the A.I. to make sure it ran perfectly. We tried and we tried to fix the A.I., but things were looking hopeless. We needed a power core that we could never get. Lacking any other options, we turned it back on. And then, things went south.] The view shifts to the A.I. straightening itself up and glaring at everything. [Somehow, the A.I. had been opened up to sources outside of our reality. In other words, heroes of Nonfiction. They screwed with the terminal, inputting commands to try to get to the bottom of the A.I.’s creation. I’m sure they wanted answers just as much as you do. And they got their wish. They generated outputs that let them play games of chess and allegories. They looked at reality through various points in time. They called people, hearing what they had to say — and sometimes, they talked back. They intercepted transmissions throughout all points in time and space. As they messed with the A.I., it grew more and more controlled. More and more intelligent. It operated faster than our timestream — what I’m sure took hours for the Descendants passed by in mere minutes for us. Until, eventually...] The image shifts to the A.I.’s body seizing up and emanating with pink light. The light grows until it encompasses everything in the room. When the light show fades, all that is left is a sea of nothingness. A kaleidoscopic void.
[The A.I. removed the hold of plot in the Trifecta for the briefest of instants. An instant that, to everyone in Fiction, felt like an eternity. It destroyed everything. The entire world, the universe... We accomplished our goal. But everyone was destroyed in the carnage. Everyone but one being. A figure called The One, who was controlled by Nonfiction just like the terminal was. And I know what you’re thinking.] The Godmodder interrupts, incredibly confused. “
[...Project Binary was.]
The lights in the room turn back on. The ten Advanced Superiors are standing in a ring around the Godmodder and his portal to the Exception. “
“
The Godmodder swings his Banhammer in a circular motion. It flew out of his hands at dangerously high speeds, slamming into every one of the Advanced Superiors at once. They all lose balance, crumpling to the ground. The Godmodder crunches his hand into a fist, slamming all of the Advanced Superiors together in one ball. He picks up his Banhammer, which is now searing hot. Whatever it touches next will be pulverized into ashes. “
Asterism and Ampersand create a triple rainbow that quickly replicates itself across all points in time, becoming an infinite rainbow. The Godmodder dodges the rainbow every time it snakes it way towards him, performing an intense acrobatics routine in his attempts to escape. He then claps his hands twice, locking Godmodding Incorporated in a senseless void where none of the five senses work. Everything is thrust into complete sensory deprivation, and the rainbows crack and splinter into monochrome pieces. When the lights turn back on, the Godmodder chucks the pieces of the rainbows at the Advanced Superiors, doing even more damage. Suddenly, the Godmodder feels something sneaking up behind him. He dodges, and sees Interrobang punching the exact spot where he was a second ago. His hand is covered with kaleidoscopic energy. The Godmodder gets the feeling that he doesn’t want to know exactly what Interrobang’s power is. He then ducks, dodging a legion of icicles thrown at him by Dagger. Dagger stands at the corner of the room, drawing a massive sword from nowhere. Quicker than the Godmodder can see, Dagger runs up to him, slicing in all conceivable areas at once. The Godmodder yells with pain, crumpling to the ground. The Advanced Superiors crowd around his body, investigating it. It seems that one of his arms was sliced off. Right as the Advanced Superiors prepare to immolate him, the Godmodder’s eyes shoot open, and he cackles. “
Caret and Lozenge are the first to leap into action, creating a portal to the heavens. Meteors rain down from the skies, lighting everything around in holy white fire that doesn’t seem to burn itself out. The Godmodder adeptly dodges each of them, and when the fire covers the entire floor, he decides to play The Floor Is Lava instead, leaping onto his desk, the portal, and the walls. Caret calls down several meteors and once, and Lozenge encases them in a cube of divinium, launching it directly at the Godmodder. It heat-seeks him, causing the Godmodder to run across the walls in an effort to dodge it. The Godmodder quickly leaps through the air, materializing a portal behind himself that leads to the backs of Caret and Lozenge. The cube heads through the portal, bursting open on them instead. The two are caught in the explosion, falling directly into the lake of fire. The Godmodder then creates a tidal wave that douses the fire, right after he dodges yet another punch from Interrobang. The Advanced Superiors regroup, firing a nonstop barrage of crackling white energy spheres at him. The Godmodder dodges every which way, bobbing and weaving through the shots until he can get up close, at which point his Godarm opens up, revealing nine other Godarms stuffed inside of it. Every arm punches all of the Advanced Superiors simultaneously until the Godmodder racks up a x901 PUNCH COMBO. All of the Advanced Superiors are knocked out of the room and through the ceiling, where they sail through the sky. The Godmodder flies up to the ceiling, seeing them disappear on the horizon, just like Team Rocket. “
The Godmodder turns around and sees that the sky has gone completely black. In its place is a shining white spotlight that looks like some kind of eye. A booming voice resonates from the heavens. It’s Interrobang. [SO,] he shouts from above. [YOU DID IT. YOU BEAT US. GOOD JOB. NOW YOU CAN END ALL OF EXISTENCE AT YOUR LEISURE.] The Godmodder laughs. “
ВИСЦЕC’s lights continued to blink off and on and off and on, like pulsars. They were sentries to the ends of everything. The violet flames whirled around each other, providing horrifying images to the world raging around them. The Narrative and Conflict had fought a war until the end of times, and they had almost killed each other. The Godmodder was behind the reboot, and he had just fallen from The Tower like a Hanged Man. Everyone across all of Fiction was silently waiting for the end that they knew approached them. And Kalare Erelye himself rested in peace, knowing that his plan had worked. Finally. It was all over. He saluted the Council of Fifteen. “
The Council of Fifteen looked at each other, unsure of exactly how to approach their mass suicide. They contemplated it for a minute or two as the violet fires thrashed in the confines of their dimensional prison, raging hotter and hotter. Eventually, everyone agreed. They would take out their most powerful weapons and obliterate themselves with them. It would be a fitting sendoff, in a way. The Council of Fifteen, one by one, took out their weapons. Ultramarine. Layer Eight. Daybreak. Scribe’s Wands. Tetrixcalibur. On the count of three, they would all strike. One. The heat rose to an unbearable degree. Two. The sounds of cracking stone and splintering lives filled the Abyssal Realm. But right as they were about to say three, everyone simultaneously faltered. The victory platform that the Council resided on blinked out of existence, throwing them into complete limbo. They hovered at the edge of life and death for the briefest of moments and then fell into the refiner’s fire below. Their weapons dissipated into vapor. The raging fire swallowed the Council up hungrily, making the last visions of the heroes of Fiction an eternal inferno.
As the collective lives of the Council of Fifteen were extinguished, fourteen triumphant horns played in unison, shaking the Abyssal Realm to its breaking point. The fires roared to a height never thought possible, encompassing everything. Their heat reached such an intensity that they glowed pure white, and then fixated at an unsettling light blue that was the exact color of the forum background. The illusion of fire then shattered, broken glass raining across the Abyssal Realm, and the illusions of flame stopped. ВИСЦЕC flashed with the colors of its governors. It was alive, truly alive. And it was the only witness to the complete end of ends.
Now, there was nothing left to do but wait.
“
The Godmodder sighs to himself, cracking his knuckles. It’s now or never. The moment he’d been waiting for over the past year... Maybe even his entire life, without knowing it... It had finally arrived. It was time to say goodbye to this wretched world, and to move on to the next. The Godmodder approached the doorway to the Exception. He closes his eyes, activating it via neural link, through a special passphrase that could only be activated if the user shared the Godmodder’s mind. “See you next time,” the Godmodder says to everyone. The doorway clicks, the unmistakable sounds of machinery whirring to completion. Electricity snaps across the hollow portion of the doorway’s center, intensifying in frequency until the entire doorway was filled with a kaleidoscopic glow. When the portal stabilizes, the entire tower rumbles down to its foundations. A third of the world loses power to fuel it. The light it produces, the sounds it emits... They are indescribable.
The machine of Godmodding Incorporated halts, on all levels. All production ceases. All movement stops. Everyone is simultaneously aware that the unstated goal had been met. Their progress, their hopes, their dreams... It had all led up to this. The television screens strategically placed around the facility whir to life, broadcasting a clear view of the Godmodder’s final moments on Earth. The multicolored aroma in the middle of the doorway was blindingly beautiful. Everyone regards it with awe. If the Godmodder’s words were to be believed — and they were, who would ever doubt the Godmodder? — then behind that door was a gateway to a new world. The Godmodder would recreate everything in his image, and a new existence would be born. One where he would be The Emperor, and life would be infinite. One where the only origin point would come from the Godmodder’s own hand, the only operator would be him. There would be no more snow, and no more discourse. Just a grand old time, in a grand new era.
The Godmodder had a strong and sudden urge to walk through the doorway. He looked back one final time. As there were no walls or ceiling, the Godmodder had a complete panoramic view of the world around him. It was beautiful. Cityscapes here, rows upon rows of lush trees there... This was the world he was leaving behind. And this was the world he would soon create. But when the Godmodder looked back, he didn’t just look back at the world. He looked back at you. You. The person reading this text. The person going on this journey. The person understanding the pain of Fiction. The person who must know when it’s time to say goodbye. And it’s to you that the Godmodder spoke his last words.
“
The Godmodder walked through the doorway.
And then everything went .
