Hello, and welcome to New York.

I heard that you don't really like retrospection: looking at yourself, looking at the past. That's okay, and I'd like to teach you how to look into a mirror.

The Rules
1. Do as you please, until you are killed for it.
2. Your aim is to kill your 'Crafted God' form. This form represents you at your 'best'.
3. I don't know what 'best' means. Don't ask me.
4. The world keeps turning until entropy claims it, and everything stagnates.
5. I can change the rules as I please.

---

.

I steal my Crafted God's creativity. With a creative attack. It is so creative. It is. Uh. A creative attack. Boom.

I question how it's even possible for me to fight, let alone defeat, my Crafted God self, seeing as he's basically the GM. How about this. I open the front door of reality, walk into reality's bathroom, and flush the metatextual toilet. The dung and kaka spill into the sewers, never to be seen again.

I observe this bullshit from a safe distance.

(There are no safe distances, but I try regardless.)

I look around, seeing as I don't actually know where my Crafted God form is right now. If need be, that looking is enhanced by scrying spells, high-tech scope lenses, and looking through Yetzirah. Or an EOTB. It's always nice when your targets are conveniently contained within a single line of text.

There is nothing to be done, now. Nothing to be done. I simply reach out a hand for my counterpart to shake, setting a peace treaty of sorts.

Hezetor = Hezetor
The reality of the other myself is equal to the reality of myself.
I'm the other me and they are me.
By being both of myself at the same time I quickly move beyond the intrinsic limitations of the non 'Crafted God' and both the GM manipulated limitations of the 'Crafted God' self as such I'm now the even more better and complete version of myself.
With my newfound perfect and complete form I leave this portion of reality and this fight altogether.

I point out that I will become myself and ruin the good mood

Naturally, I shake my Crafted God self's hand. Part of business is formality, after all.

I look around and my CG Self pluck me out of here and above this game and tosses me back into doing homework. I curse his name even as he waves goodbye and continue observing this events. And retroactively erasing himself...leaving a [] behind in this Game.

the rules don't limit charges Or say you can't do charges! so...
0/99999² I
0/99999² N
0/99999² I
0/99999² T
0/99999² I
0/99999² A
0/99999² T
0/99999² E
0/99999²
0/99999² S
0/99999² C
0/99999² R
0/99999² E
0/99999² A
0/99999² M
0/99999² I
0/99999² N
0/99999² G
[1x] I summon charge completionus. he has the power to build all charges in existence by 100000² per turn at once, selectively. He acts during the player turn. he commits suicide after acting. he is entirely loyal to this incarnation of me. He builds all my charges by 100000².

99999²/99999² I Expended!
99999²/99999² N Expended!
99999²/99999² I Expended!
99999²/99999² T Expended!
99999²/99999² I Expended!
99999²/99999² A Expended!
99999²/99999² T Expended!
99999²/99999² E Expended!
99999²/99999² Expended!
99999²/99999² S Expended!
99999²/99999² C Expended!
99999²/99999² R Expended!
99999²/99999² E Expended!
99999²/99999² A Expended!
99999²/99999² M Expended!
99999²/99999² I Expended!
99999²/99999² N Expended!
99999²/99999² G Expended!

Scream until "ultimate" version of self, which could not abuse the (pseudo-absent) rules the way I just did because they are not a real person posting and work under a different ruleset, is dead.
...or bound to my side / service forevermore.

Post #2, @Carleah
You don't have any creativity, evidently! Neither does your Crafted God. All of that creativity comes right from me.

Post #3, @TwinBuilder.
You flush me into the toilet, ending this charade... ?

Post #4, @Serpent.
As Twin flushes the Age of Shit into the abyss, you watch intently. What an inappropriate activity. The cops take you in, you can't pay a fine... off to prison.

Post #5 & #8, @Fran and @Bomber.
You shake your counterpart's hands. What, were you hoping for a fair deal? I'm sorry, I'm a Republican, I oppose that program. You agree to give your counterpart 10 dollars. Your counterpart agrees to give you nothing.

Post #6, @Hezetor.
H to fucking He. Well played, well played! You peace out successfully, but then again, haven't you been planning everything for years. This just can't be so easy for everyone else.

Post #7, @hungry visitor.
You ruin the good mood. I wasn't aware we had a good mood, given that we weren't playing a game with 'good mood' in the title. You summon one, nevertheless.
You weren't yourself before? Shameful, shameful... who's that in the mirror?

Post #9, Paradox.
If you wanted to do homework, you wouldn't have clicked on this thread and you certainly wouldn't have posted in it!

I've gotta ask, where did you get the brackets from? Wrong answers only. If you don't answer my question...

Post #10, JOE.
There's nothing in the rules saying you can't charge. There's also nothing in the rules saying that I have to respect your charges. You scream at yourself for an hour, before spitting out about a gallon of blood. "That's not peak performance," Crafted God you claims. You then leave 199999 charge just lying there for anyone to use. Other you picks it up, and summons a kind man called Stefan Havking.

---

I've been flushed down the sewers, yeah. You're never going to see me again. That's cool.

The Crafted Gods dreg up antediluvian obviations, slur-skimming rejections and forlorn abjections looking for me on that abyssal sea. They buy up all the hand-sanitiser from the stores and cleanse themselves. They can't find any trace of me at all, sadly. They sit down and start preparing dastardly scares and tricks with personal flair in their evil lair. That's actually just a mirror in front of you all.

---

---

A SIDE
Carleah: 20/20 HP.
TwinBuilder: 20/20 HP.
Splashcat: 20/20 HP.
Fran: 10/20 HP.
Bomber: 10/20 HP.
Hungry Visitor: 20/20 HV.
Paradox: 20/20 HP.
JOE: 20/20 HP.

---

B SIDE
Carleah: 20/20 HP. Messaging.
I really think YOU shouldn't have done that.
Serpent: 125/125 HP. Psyche.
Splashcat: 20/20 HP. Tiqqun Olam.
Fran: 20/20 HP. Hexennacht.
Bomber: 20/20 HP. Capital.
Hungry Visitor: 20/20 HV. Roles.
Hungry Visitor: 20/20 HV. Just Playin'.
Paradox: 20/20 HP. Poesia. []
JOE: 20/20 HP. Trivium.

Acceleration: 100,000/100,000 HP.
Aneantion: 100,000/100,000 HP.
Autopeluredebananisation: 100,000/100,000 HP.
Stefan Havking: 799,996,000/799,996,000 HP. +16 Energy per turn. 0/1024 Energy. Only Goin' Up: [23/04//20]

---

OFF DISC.
Serpent: 20/20 HP. In jail.

The Godmodder: 100/100 HP.

Nothing to be done. Nothing to be done. I very very Very very vEry veryVery VERY simply bring up a hammer to smash the mirror.

I throw the toilet we got flushed down at my Crafted God, burying him in metachronistic shit.

Owing to the apparent lack of any target for me to face on A SIDE, which is where I guess I am, I go to the nearest bookstore and purchase one (1) copy of Age of Shit by Erika Hobsbawm. I only bring fifteen dollars, since that's how much the ad said it cost, but it turns out I forgot to account for tax! The receptionist stares at me, and I theatrically sigh. If only there was some way for me to get some more money! I them remember that there's a perfect duplicate of me trapped in the sewers. Telepathically communing with an alligator, I have one steal the necessary money from dungkaka and deliver it to me. The gator bursts through the floor and coughs up a few dollars at my feet. The bookstore is flooded by the chaos of a gator breaking and entering, and in the commotion I steal Age of Shit and run to safety.

Then I start reading it.

I see. Yes I was myself but now I am different. And the times that have gone will never come back.

To defeat myself that was back then would defeat myself. Why is that the aim again?

Probably to help me to become a better person than I was back then when I was at my best.

I am lazy tho. I pretend to be better now than I was at my best in the past.

I attempt to begin existing. Or rather, Keane McZupp does. As I'm a metatextual being made out of pure narrative voice, I can't exist unless a character for me to describe exists.

Apologies, I nearly forgot to introduce myself. Many of you already know me from another DTG game that exists in a separate canon. My full name is Etarran Torr, Narrative Voice of Metatextual Mindfuckery. But you can call me Etarran.

Serpent's off to jail, are they? I suppose I dodged a bullet with the name mix-up. I will continue to observe, but take a backseat on this one. Until we speak again.

I realize I'm in jail for crimes I didn't commit! Or maybe I did commit them, but not this time. I wave to my cellmate, the Godmodder, and ask him what he's in for.

We should switch up! Overcoming yourself is difficult to do alone, but easier with a friend by your side to see you from angles you otherwise might not. I'll attack my own counterpart this turn, but does someone want to switch off with me next turn? Bonus points if I at least somewhat know you.

------

Splashcat. Crafted God of Meaning.

I ask him what "Khi an set anagien na kithna ka Karusador" means. He can't answer.

Of course he can't, he isn't written by me. He doesn't know how much that phrase means to me. You can't even look it up. All that you'll find is a single pastebin, mistakenly posted as guest, a half-finished post fragment of an attack yet to be made etched into the Akashic record that is Google search results.

He knows he is the father, the sun, the ghostly whole, the source of light and truth and meaning. But he doesn't know what underpins it all. He doesn't know what he truly means.

Now, to be fair, I couldn't answer the question that I asked him either. But I'd be able to try, and if I poured my all into it, over the course of a lifetime I'd asymptotically approach a complete answer. He can't even do that.

And he starts to unravel.

To make up for the missing funds in my health wallet, I decide to enter the lucrative oil market. Seconds after entering, I discover that crude oil has dropped to $0.69 a barrel. Wanting to escape the market as fast as possible, I sell fifteen barrels for ten dollars and some change. I promptly feed the extra change to an oddly ravenous alligator that burst out of the floor of a bookstore.