(hehe RDR reference go brrr)
(also, Merry Christmas)
Mark was standing in the barren wasteland that is Nevada. The particular vantage point he had chosen allowed him to see to the ends of this scorched earth and beyond. Beyond...into Matthew's realm. Into the tablet, into the computer, the code and animations and drawings and designs, machinations of his making.
He believed the term was self-aware, but he didn't think of himself as that aware.
Mark was currently drawing, holding his sketchbook in one hand and a little device in the other. He believed its real name was "walkie-talkie." Bah. It was horrible at its job, if you were intended to walk and talk with it. Mark liked his name for it better: little piece of shit.
Today was one of the few days that it actually worked. It was a simple thing: a rectangular little thing of plastic with a microphone and a speaker somewhere inside, and a radio antenna so that he could receive transmissions. The AAHW logo was etched into its back, a glaring red, just like that auditor's eyes. Mark finished his drawing and began painstakingly inking as he listened.
"Oh, god, he's coming closer-"
"-I don't want to die-"
"-he's got me!"
The agents were self-aware, but only of their own world. Mark suspected that that was why John had blinded himself. Seeing both worlds at once was always quite exhausting, especially when his movements were being written on a computer by some unseen, but not malevolent entity. He looked up. "Listening to music, youngster?" he asked.
The Author did not respond. "So you are."
Still no response. He gathered that their name was Variety - that was their trademark, after all. "Anyway, if you'll allow me, I'll take over from here."
He felt it, the metaphorical passing of the reins from the Author unto him, he was in control.
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Bloody finally.
You know, Variety acted through us. They created us, and they formed us into who we are. But I can't deny, how puzzle pieces come together...they formed us, our own piece of the universe, our own little gathering place. They keep a pretty close eye on us though.
Can't blame them. If Luke was allowed to go out into the world unsupervised, he'd probably mess a lot of things up.
Regardless, I'm happy that they gave me the reins for now. That meant that I could put away my sketchbook. I searched my nearby duffel bag for any weapons, and I found my halberd. Man, I love this thing. Best weapon in the world (and no, you can't argue with me, Luke).
I swung my halberd in my hand, getting used to its weight. I closed my eyes. I saw in my mind the enemy: a brutish, bandanna-wearing, piece of shit. The red goggles and the poise of a cold, cruel killer...all too familiar. I slammed my halberd into the ground and crushed the skull of a Soldat nearby with the ax blade, causing his skull to crack like an egg, the yellow blood spilling onto the gray grass like yolk.
Hope you weren't eating while you read that.
I walked over to the agency building, feeling the elements of the story shifting and changing under me. My power comes from the story, and my story comes from the power. We were one and the same, with three pieces of this realm divided between me, Luke, and John. The Machinery went to Matt. It's how it has been, how it always will be. And the Agency and Status Quo were both breaking the barrier between them with every battle.
Hank in the world of Machinery would not be good. He would kill everyone and anyone, and they'd die, do not pass go, do not collect $200.
That was bad, in case you didn't know.
So, with my halberd in hand, I confronted this mercenary menace and raised my half-ax, half-spear, all 100% deadly weapon, and pointed it at Hank threateningly. "Get out from here, boy," I said threateningly. "Or you'll have to pay the fiddler."
"Get him out here, and I'll settle the tab," Hank retorted.
"You think I'm joking?" I asked with an angry fire in my eyes.
"You think I am?" Hank raised his pistol - a Desert Eagle, if I wasn't mistaken - and shot at me.
I scoffed. The bullet bent and crumbled and submitted to my reality-bending will, until it faded and was gone. "What the-?" Hank said before I stabbed him with the spike atop my halberd. He coughed and sputtered as blood poured out from him.
With that, I just took a grenade, pulled the pin, and threw it at Hank, watching as the seams on his body were torn apart and his body was ripped asunder by the fiery explosion. I put my halberd away and left, marching away from the AAHW building.
Variety finished reading the story. All there was left was to give it a title. They knew what to call it.
"Playwrights - The Last Enemy to be Destroyed"
Post.
