Destroy the Godmodder 2 ended one year ago today. I'm being honest, I didn't exactly grasp the full weight behind that sentence until I typed it out right now. Maybe I still don't. The point I'm trying to make here is that it's once again September 1st, a date steeped in the niche of meme numbers. The only reason I elevated 901 to such high significance was Homestuck's (over)use of its own start date, 413, which I guess shows that though I try to not affiliate this game with Homestuck anymore, things still have a way of seeping through the cracks. Hell, the name of this epilogue - One Year Older - is a direct reference to the name of a Homestuck album.
Anyway, the epilogue. Let's talk about it. If you've been active in the DTG chat rooms at all - formerly Pesterchum, and now, Discord - then the existence of an epilogue shouldn't exactly come as a surprise. It's something I've talked about at length, but only fairly recently. Indeed, I started work on the epilogue basically a month ago, on July 30th, if memory serves me right. So what happened in between last year's September 1st and now? Why did I decide to make a new ending for a story that already had an end? Well, I'll tell you.
One of the reasons was the previous ending's ambiguity. As I said last year, the ending of DTG2 was designed so that if DTG2 was the last game, the ending would be final enough to stick, and if it wasn't, the ending would be open enough to leave room for another game. That was all fine and good, but there was a problem. It became increasingly clear as DTG0 went on that there wouldn't be a DTG3, so I had all these unresolved plot threads with no way to resolve them. The solution was to tell them in other games. DTG0 would tell some of them, and DTG: Terraria would tell some others. I mean, Bill Cipher and Split are both in the Terraria session right now!
However, there was another reason. Shortly before Act 5 released a year ago, I started work on the Probect Pinary ARG, which was told entirely through the DTG chat rooms. The ARG was cool because it involved the community, but it was bad because it involved a specific portion of it. The ARG discussed matters very relevant to the canon of DTG, and the big problem was that not everyone would be able to see them until I actually revealed the matters at hand in DTG itself, which would be a long period of time down the line. The problem was exacerbated further when Pinary began to interfere with things going on 'after' DTG2, resulting in segments outlined in the epilogue, with the players calling various DTG characters. And then I made [7x7], a short but sweet memo game wherein reality was annihilated and the players had to pick up the pieces.
It was pretty clear that I needed a convenient way to tell all of these stories in DTG itself - and I couldn't exactly tell them in DTG0, either. Though Tazz works very hard, updates to the game sometimes come at a slow pace. Which is why I decided to tell all these details through this - an epilogue. There were still other reasons, though, with one of the main ones being that I wanted to show what the Godmodder would do next. (Because come on, he was pretty obviously alive at the end of DTG2. I even italicized the "Or had he?") I had always planned to leave what was next up to the future GM, but the same problem arose - there was no future GM, which meant that the responsibility was on me.
The final piece of the puzzle came in the form of the reboot. Yes, there actually will be a Destroy the Godmodder reboot. The entire idea was brainstormed by pionoplayer, who suggested it as an alternate continuity to simplify the game's existing canon and reintroduce the game's simplicity to a newer audience. Everyone rolled with the idea, and he developed an entire universe off of it. What wasn't exactly clear, though, was how the new universe would be created. The Epilogue was really kicked off when I came up with the reveal at its end - the Godmodder would be the one to cause it. After extensive conversations to make sure piono was okay with the idea, I got to work.
And the above three posts are the end result. There you have it. The end of ends. If I'm being honest, I'm actually very proud with this. It might be the greatest storypost I've ever made for DTG2. I'm certainly happy with it, and I know everyone reading along on the Discord was, too. The epilogue really existed as a way to tie DTG2 together with the games that came after it - whether those games were DTG0, DTG: Terraria, or the reboot. After DTG2 ended and I lost the power to control the canon of the game, things sort of got messy, with spinoffs running concurrently and player plots tangling up into a ball. That's pretty much the reason why the reboot was made, but it was also, to some extent, why the epilogue was made. There were so many things I felt the need to discuss - what character X did, how object Y tied into everything, why is thing Z such a horrible W, and so on.
Some of this stuff just came together fortuitously - the idea of ВИСЦЕC had been around for a while, but the concept of it being an escape mechanism for the reboot was new - and others had already been stated in memo games, but needed to be told in the actual story - pretty much every time the players used Binary's terminal to view things. The epilogue was meant to clear up things for those in the know, and to let those not in the know be in the know. Hopefully, I've succeeded. But as a fair warning - the Pinary shenanigans aren't over yet. If you want to learn about them, you'd better hop onto the Discord! (And if you want a link to that, feel free to PM me on either here, the Terraria Forums, or Steam.)
And really, this is a goodbye in more ways than one. Because DTG0 has left the Minecraft Forums, this epilogue is likely to be the last major DTG-centric event ever put up here. So... Thanks for giving us a home for nearly four years, MCF. It means a lot.
A year ago, I'd said DTG2 wasn't finished. I'm slightly ashamed to say that it still isn't. Though I've finished some of the criteria - I typed up Crusher's Comb Rave, I edited the lost turn in Act 3, and I've gotten major work done on the chapters list - I haven't finished everything I'd intended. The turns with bad formatting haven't been fixed (at least, not all of them), the chapters list isn't officially up yet, and, most importantly, DTG2 isn't backed up via an Internet archive, and I don't have the BBCode on hand. Which means that if this site ever goes down... So does the past three years.
I know what you're thinking. Twin, you're thinking to yourself, I thought you said you'd make a Flash animation today, not an epilogue! What gives?? Rest assured, I haven't forgotten about [S] Arrive. It's just that making a Flash takes time. I mean, a lot of time. Expect it to be out by November 26th, the two-year anniversary of the Arrival, the event depicted in the Flash. If it isn't complete by then, I'll most likely just post what's finished and leave it at that. In addition, expect the official chapters list to be up soon - definitely by the end of the month. And in case you were somehow convinced Trifecta could still be a thing - it isn't. Don't get your hopes up.
As I said before, I have a few projects in the works unrelated to DTG. Pie Quest, which I started in the form of an MSPFA... has kinda died. Turns out an MSPFA is hard to maintain, and harder to draw for. I don't know if I'll ever get back around to doing it, but I really hope I will. As for The Tingleheads... We'll see when that happens. Oh, and I have another name for you: Chosen. Hopefully, that'll be my first webcomic. But hey, that's purely a hypothetical.
Well, I've once again run out of things to talk about. All I can give you is my thanks. Thanks to everyone for reading this and for supplying me with positive feedback! Thanks to Curse and the staff for maintaining the Minecraft Forums! Thanks to the Council of Fifteen for providing me with feedback for their dialogue! Special thanks to TT2000 for creating Destroy the Godmodder, and all the other GMs for creating their own games! Very special thanks to pionoplayer, for telling me what to do with regards to writing the Reboot into the story and the Piono segment, The_Nonexistent_Tazz, for clearing the idea that the Godmodder would be the cause and helping me with the Dark Carnival segment, and TheLordErelye, for going over my initial outline of the epilogue and helping me with the ВИСЦЕC segments!
An immeasurable interval encompassed in a single gesture. A swing of the clock.
Tick....
. . . .
“Heh,” the voice chuckled to itself. Crouched in a chair at an unknown point in space, arms hunched over a keyboard. Each clack of a key echoed until it was muffled by the oppressive walls. A pair of goldenrod curtains rustled in the winds of a bitter winter not yet quite realizing it was still autumn. The room was dark, and full of objects, yet anyone standing in it would never be able to tell exactly what the room contained. Such was the magic of the Veil.
“Let’s see here. What server can I terrorize today. Mineplex? Nah. Already screwed with ‘em last week. Those noobs never saw it coming. Goldencraft? Feh, maybe later. I can see some real danger with those creative plots, but I’d need time.” The voice puzzled in its chair, the glare of the computer screen providing the only light in the room. It was impossible to determine the time of day. “What I need is something quick and easy. An in-and-out type of job.” The voice scrolled through the webpage, looking through server after server, until something caught its attention.
Sick and tired of a Minecraft experience that’s chock-full of unnecessary details? Want a game as formulaic as possible?! Then hop onto the Generic Plugin-Filled Server! A hand reached from the keys, brushing through its brown hair. A set of blue eyes blinked once, then twice. “It’s perfect. So generic, so bland. And with just enough players that people will give a damn…” The voice’s hands spasmed across the keys with a flurry, pasting the server’s IP directly into the Minecraft console. “...when I obliterate it from the Internet!”
The Godmodder clicked the ENTER key, and tunneled into another universe.
. . . .
Welcome Godmodder476 to the Generic Plugin-Filled Server! The server automatically prompted as soon as the Godmodder set foot onto the perfectly, stupidly cubic environment. The Godmodder took an experimental look around. The sun was climbing steadily into the sky, and the clouds were grazing the mountaintops. The Godmodder walked forward, seeing a steady crowd of players hanging around what looked like a gigantic castle someone had built.
“Hey,” the Godmodder typed in chat. “This thing looks pretty cool. Who built it?” The general consensus pointed to a ‘DeathZombieX57.’ “Death, huh?” the Godmodder grinned to himself. “Pleased to meet you, Death. Allow me to introduce myself.” The Godmodder chose this exact moment to pull a stack of TNT from under his cape. With a flip of his hand, every cube of dynamite scattered into the skies, lighting at the same time. There was a tremendous cacophony of light and sound. All those who were in the actual castle, examining it, were vaporized. Many blocks dissolved into ash. Others still were cracked and shattered, flung to the ground below. Everyone in the area was knocked back in a stupor.
When DeathZombieX57 respawned, he spouted some curses in a fit of rage that were blocked by the server’s anti-swear filter, and then ragequit. The players of the server froze. The Godmodder hovered off the ground, his cape rustling in the wind that was all too real. He typed one last line in chat, and then went still, eagerly awaiting any type of response that could be mustered to his attack.
“You can call me The Godmodder.”
. . . .
The complaints filtered through incessantly. “SAVE US!!!!” KNIGHTS_WHO_SAY_NI yelled. “I’m just screaming because everyone else is???” Ziromix honestly typed. “WHEN THERE’S NO ROOM IN HELL THE DEAD WALK THE EARTH,” jaredsw repeatedly spammed. “TT2000 your are only hop!1” cried TheRealSlimShader. And they just kept coming. “DAE this server is terrible!” “I’m so upset! RAGEQUIT!!” “REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” “has undertale been invented yet because i feel like i’m gonna have a bad time” “AND THEY DON’T STOP COMING AND THEY DON’T STOP COMING AND THEY DON’T STOP COMING”
What seemed like a whole world away, TT2000’s eyebrow twitched, and he sighed in his chair. As the owner of the generic plugin-filled server, he was honestly at a loss. Never before had the server’s community become so… inflamed over something. TT2000 honestly didn’t really care what this godmoder was up to, but if this many people were enraged over it, it was, admittedly, probably something worth looking into.
TT2000 switched the chat to Server Staff Only and began to converse. “Hey, I think we have a problem,” he typed out. “Apparently some godmoder blew up a castle, and now the whole serve’s up in arms.” “*Server,” he hastily added. “let the players sort it out,” a mod responded. “Yeh,” another one typed out. “Weve been pretty lazy when it comes to decisions like this. i guess that’s what happens when p much anyone can apply for admin.” TT sighed. Having a lazy government made important matters so easy to resolve, but at the same time… It didn’t feel right. “Yeah, you guys are right,” he typed out after a few minutes. “We’ll check in on it tomorrow and see if things work themselves out.”
TT2000 switched to another window until he heard a voice interrupt him. “Godmodder,” it spoke. TT swore the voice didn’t sound human. There was an otherworldly echo to it. “That’s what he’s called. Not a godmoder. There’s a difference.” TT2000 spun around in his chair, finding himself face to face with a perfectly white humanoid entity, floating before him. His eyes were like two solid red discs, and he seemed to be wearing some kind of shimmering coat that spun and spiraled into infinity. Occasionally, electricity crackled across his body, which gave way to a sea of green plasma. TT2000’s eyes darted in horror. “Are… are you a ghost? Am I being haunted?? Am, am I being possessed?”
The maybe-ghost moved a bit closer. “No, no, and… kind of. I know this sounds crazy, but listen to me.” TT2000 got out of his chair, reached for a phone, and began to dial it, not breaking eye contact. “Hello, yes, Ghostbusters?” The maybe-ghost sighed, and with a flick of its wrist, TT felt a momentary searing pain against his head, like his phone had been turned into flame. A moment later, his phone was gone, faint cracks of electricity racing across his body. “My PHONE!” The maybe-ghost reclined in the air, holding it. “You’ll get it back - if you listen to me and fight your human urge to flatline in response to having your entire worldview tipped upside down.”
Sitting back in his chair and putting his head in his hands, TT2000 tentatively looked up. “...Okay. I’ll listen to you.” The maybe-ghost nodded, his head ethereal and seemingly unreal. “Excellent. Alright, here’s what you need to know. I,” the figure pointed to itself, “am the Operator. I arrived on your planet about forty five point six one two minutes ago, and have been looking for someone just like you.” TT2000 stared at himself. “...Someone like me? What makes me so special?” “You have the potential to write a great story. Don’t laugh at me, I’m being serious. Listen, I can’t exactly explain nth-dimensional fauxphysics to you, but what you need to know is that your universe - Earth - is only one of millions. A bubble in an endless realm of fiction, where stories are constantly and continually brought to life by authors, and directors, and artists, and playwrights. And it’s up to the forces of plot to dictate how those stories end.”
The Operator pointed to TT2000’s computer screen. With a snap of green light, it refocused back to the generic server, showing the Godmodder hovering in the air while the entire server raged in despair. Whenever anyone fleetingly tried to fight back, the Godmodder waved his hand, and the offender was impaled on a wall of spikes. They blinked red, either slinking back to the sidelines or ragequitting. “You might not believe it, but the Godmodder is terribly important. His story - stories, actually - could quite possibly determine the fate of Fiction itself. It is of crucial value that this fight against the Godmodder goes as it should. He must not be allowed to win.” TT2000 pondered all this. “So let me get this straight. You’re saying my universe is a lie, that this random godmoder--” “Godmodder.” “--is actually a serious threat, and that I and I alone hold the power to stopping him… and it revolves around me telling a story wherein he loses?” “You’ll have my help, of course. But basically, yes.”
TT2000 posed like a great thinker, his hand resting on his chin. He solemnly looked up and uttered, “I’m sorry, but that sounds completely and utterly fake.” The Operator arose, a bit annoyed. “Of course it’s fake! You’re living in a fictitious universe right now! But enough of that! If I tried to explain metaphysical constants to you right now, you would evaporate into taffy. If you accept my offer, however, you’ll find that it will be much easier.” The Operator dusted off his coat and put his hand forward. “If you let me inhabit your body, then I can give you omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence - as long as it’s limited to the Godmodder’s battle. You can tell this story with ease, without actually having to do anything within the server itself. And together, we can let the players destroy the Godmodder.” “...And if I say no?” “Oh, then I leave, your server is ground into ashes, and there will be no one capable of stopping the Godmodder. He will eventually force the entirety of Minecraft to ragequit, and from there, there’s no telling what he’ll do.” “I mean, this is just one Minecraft server. But at the same time… if I’m the ‘chosen one’ or whatever… I can’t exactly back down, can I.” TT2000 thought to himself, in infinite solitude. The Operator hovered over his shoulder, his hand still reached outwards.
Looking at his computer screen and seeing the Godmodder’s smug grin, so sure of his apparent victory, TT found his eyes steeling themselves with resolve. “I’ll do it. It’s about time something interesting happened, honestly!” The Operator nodded. “Then welcome aboard, Tenacious T.” TT2000 shook the Operator’s hand. His ghostlike body uncoiled and split at the seams, dissolving into green plasma. TT’s entire body shook with electricity, feeling as though untold amounts of voltage were ripping through his skin. Green flames leaked out of his eyes, consuming his vision until…
...Everything stopped.
A green haze permeated TT’s vision. He saw with infinite clarity. The Operator’s claims were true. He had universal cognizance. He could see timeline after timeline, universe after universe… And yet, he cared only for what was in front of him. TT2000’s computer had been transformed. It was wrapped within an ornate dull-green cabinet, with a holographic green keyboard twitching and fizzling to life in front of him. It merely read UPDATE TERMINAL. TT2000 sat down in his chair, examining this new hardware. It asked for a username and password - done. After several seconds, the terminal seemed to register TT as a valid user, and then he was in.
It functioned exactly the same as his actual computer, only with the inclusion of an additional application. A text editor, capable of creating words with the power to change fates. And in these initial moments of charisma, TT2000 saw the path before him clearly. And so he typed the immortal words.
. . . .
Everyone on the server, all at once, saw the sky momentarily light up with green. Even the Godmodder was momentarily disturbed. And next, came the booming voice. “DESTROY THE GODMODDER!” it beckoned, shouting from some distant cloud above. The voice resonated like a thunderclap, yet it did not knock anyone to their feet. If anything, it inspired everyone to stand. “In this game, you have to destroy a godmodder. Use any attacks you want!” The players looked at each other in surprise. There was a way to deal with him after all. Use anything and everything at their disposal. Draw from wells of limitless creativity. The Godmodder’s flawless smile faltered as the players charged forward, buoyed by tenacity.
And as an afterthought, TT2000 typed a set of rules. The first -
Don't expect your attacks to actually work.
. . . .
....Tock.
An immeasurable interval encompassed in a single gesture. The clock swings, again.
Tick....
A gleaming azure hexahedron spun its way across a starlit cosmos. Trailing it was a cubic moon marked with craters and lunar dust, blissfully unaware of the fate that would befall it mere months in the future. This same theme of cosmic destruction rung true at this very moment - though now, it was not the moon sailing towards the ground, but an asteroid. An omen of death, ripped from the jaws of space in accordance with circumstantial simultaneity.
The malicious machinery of GodCraft kept turning, nonetheless, waiting for no man nor entity. The millions of players scuttling like insects across its surface were left helpless, stuck within the spider’s web of eternal rage. The cycle was as follows - live, die, repeat. Attempting to leave was futile. Even rage is futile. The only options are to either accept your fate, or be tormented rejecting it. And yet, despite this tapestry of helplessness… there is a legend. A legend perpetuated across the server, and from there, throughout universes. Of a chosen few with the power to end everything. The power to save themselves and, in doing so, save everyone. Those who would one day destroy the Godmodder. Descended from ancient warriors caught in yet another godmodding war, they had the arms of fate behind them, and with luck and creativity on their side, how could they lose?
They couldn’t. But their victory could be obstructed, even if it was temporary. And this was to be one of those obstructions. The entire server subconsciously recognized it. They were on the precipice of their first darkest hour - and it wouldn’t be their last.
It was slightly difficult to recognize what the exact moment was, when the entire server simultaneously realized that something truly awful - something awful that stood out even amongst the general spectrum of “awful” that pervaded GodCraft - was about to happen. Perhaps it was when people realized the sky was beginning to turn red, despite the sun hovering near the top of the sky. Perhaps it was when forests started catching fire, despite there being no immediately discernible source. Perhaps it was when chunks of flaming rock began falling at scattered points across the server.
But whatever the cause, there was a point where everyone began to, simply, panic. It was a panic that intensified once people actually saw the asteroid nearing closer to the server. Some observed through telescopes. Others saw it looming on the horizon. Based on the coordinates of those who’d seen it, and how large it was in the sky according to those coordinates, the server began to glean a pretty good idea of where it would land. Deep in a jungle resting within an ocean. The information carried in waves - panicked arrays of numbers and calculations rippling throughout chat, the knowledge imparting itself onto internet forums and discussions. No one knew what to make of it. Was it the Godmodder’s latest scheme? How much damage would it cause upon impact? Did They - the Descendants - know?
The entire area was evacuated in preparation. Everyone wanted to see the asteroid fall, but no one particularly wanted to be there when it landed. Dying may have been just a nuisance, but no one was quite sure how the game would react to an asteroid impact. Perhaps you wouldn’t even respawn. And as the entire playerbase of Minecraft pondered this question, the hands the clock moved closer to the zeroth hour. The asteroid inched ever closer, hurtling through space, towards the surface of GodCraft. Aimed for a remote body of water with a jungle at its center, at the center of that jungle, a temple. And buried in a pyramid at the center of that temple was an artifact of immeasurable power - the Monolith.
The Monolith knew of the asteroid. The Descendants knew of the asteroid. The Heir of Breath, Seer of Light, Knight of Time, and Witch of Space knew of the asteroid. The Godmodder did not. But he would soon enough.
. . . .
It all happened in a flash, so it seemed.
The players navigating Monolithium, that sacred temple holding the Black Monolith, had bested its underground arena, and beaten a warrior forged from prismatic crystal. They had been given access to its innermost chambers, culminating in a long hallway that led to a pyramid with uncountable steps. Waiting for them there was the Heir of Breath - an immortal adolescent caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. And in hot pursuit was the Godmodder, backed up with legions of terrors and mechs, ready to take the Monolith for himself.
The struggle was intense but brief. In naught but a moment, the Godmodder’s forces tore a hole through Monolithium, entering the vaunted chamber of the Monolith in no time at all. Smoke and ash littered the majestic halls as the Godmodder rushed up the staircase, striking clear and true - and shattering a seal of infinity in one blow. The Monolith whirred to life, its purpose revealing itself. A machine designed to accelerate natural processes, amplify the flow of plot - to activate crucial events in a single command. Instigating a great undoing. Gaining ultimate power. The choice is in the eye of the beholder.
The Godmodder thought back, in those instants, to that day, one year ago. That last time the clock had swung, when he had made that pivotal decision to log onto that generic plugin-filled server. If there was one thing the Godmodder had learned in his time spent throughout the universe of Minecraft, it was to trust in numbers and dates. Whenever things repeated, it was plot’s way of drawing importance towards them. The Godmodder had learned to never ignore coincidence. And when the Descendants had made a beeline for a Void Artifact on the anniversary of the First Godmodding War, the Godmodder knew he needed to act.
So he’d wished for himself. Literally. Himself, from one year ago. He didn’t particularly care if it created a paradox - he wanted two Godmodders. Then, the Descendants would know the meaning of defeat. Faced with twice the power, they would surely crumble.
It was funny - how quickly victory could be obstructed.
When the asteroid landed, it brought with it destruction on an unprecedented scale. The object was so immense that it brought with it a gravitational field. The very laws of physics began to break down, stray blocks and even chunks floating upwards. The temple of Monolithium was uprooted, drifting up towards a sky lit with the fire of falling skies. The Monolith, in the middle of its summoning ritual, was forced to cut the process short to save itself. The Descendants, those immortal few, stood their ground, knowing that although they would live, it would hurt.
And it did. A lot.
The Monolith’s abyssal powers ripped through time and space, bending backwards across the fourth dimension to reach that Generic, Plugin-Filled Server. Right when the clock reached midnight, at the zeroth hour, it spun backwards several months, undoing a swing of the clock…
. . . .
As one Void Artifact did its magic, another one reformed itself from ashes and blocks. The Hexahedron’s luminous gilded form reassembled in the heart of the generic server, destabilizing thanks to a horrific glitch. The Hexahedron’s surface shifted continually with the foundations of tetrominoes, sacred geometry echoing across its surface as it spun, a low bass humming across the field. Every Descendant stood as testimony to its wonders. The cube spun upwards - with every rotation, the field stabilized just a bit more, reforming the horizon, separating ground from sky, restoring the landscape.
In the middle of it all, wrapped in the eye of corruption, was the Godmodder. Seemingly one with the Glitch, his body was mutating and metastasizing. And as the Hexahedron worked its power, reformatting reality’s Source Code, it deemed the Godmodder irreparable, indistinguishable from actual reality. It tore a hole through space to rectify the issue, sending the Godmodder through negative zones. And it was from this slip in time that the Black Monolith pulled a damaged Godmodder, sending him outwards to GodCraft, to fight in the crater of a dying world.
As this old Godmodder’s body spawned on the new server, it scarcely had time to take in the scenery, finding itself crushed under tons of rubble. Drawing in his energy and punching upwards, the Godmodder tore a hole through bedrock, leaping out to find himself face to face with… himself. And a new crowd of players. The seemingly generic server had been pulled out from under him, replaced by a server absolutely buzzing with information - its code was in a mindscape, it contained millions of players, and an eighth of it had just been annihilated by what seemed to be an asteroid. Entire chunks were left glitching, suspended in the air, the world simply unable to process what had occurred.
The Godmodder looked at his future duplicate with absolute confusion. The two Godmodders locked eyes, turning away from the players. “Wh… where am I??” said the Godmodder. “Quiet, me. Just call yourself ‘Godmodder Prime’ for now, that’ll make things easier for both of us,” the other one replied. “Uh… okay,” Godmodder Prime nodded. “I think I can do that. Now, can you answer my question?” The Godmodder held up his hand and shook his head. “Afraid not. Don’t want to spoil anything. All I can say is, you’re in the future. And right now, your job is to fight those noobs for me.” Godmodder Prime looked at the unfamiliar crowd. There were some faces he recognized, but some notable absences. “Now that’s something I can do. But, uh, aren’t you gonna help me? You know, two ultrapowerful warlords against a bunch of noobs sounds great to me! Nice entertainment. Could use some popcorn. Buttered popcorn. Delicious.”
Pondering this greatly, the Godmodder merely shook his head. “Nah. You’re better off doing it alone. The original plan was to have us both fight together, but… you’re a version of me from the Glitch, aren’t you.” At this, Godmodder Prime’s body momentarily deteriorated into hazy teal static. “I’m taking that as a yes.” Godmodder Prime coughed up ones and zeroes. “Last thing I remember… from “the past…” Is some giant golden cube restoring everything, and me going through some tunnel… into here.” The Godmodder nodded. “That’s what I thought. Listen, uh, don’t take this personally, but I don’t want to look at you ever again. Got it?” Godmodder Prime sneered. “What, do you hate yourself or something.” “No, look, it’s a scientific fact. If we hang around each other for too long, it could screw up some major stuff with the integrity of the universe and whatnot. Gotta stay separated.”
Godmodder Prime contemplated this, but nodded in understanding eventually. “Alright. Glad we’re on the same page,” the Godmodder grinned. He started to fly away, hiding behind rubble, before Godmodder Prime shouted out something. “Wait! Do… do we win? On that server?” The Godmodder stopped in midair, before tersely replying, “...No spoilers.”
He then flew off into a field of bedrock, cracking under the stress of death.
Of course we didn’t win, he thought. We’re the bad guys.
....Tock.
An immeasurable interval encompassed in a single gesture. The clock swings once more.
Tick….
Very well, then. The Council of Nine hereby sentences you, Dr. H. M. Phage, T. E. of ‘the Hospital,’ to an eternity of damnation. You will be forced to wander this realm’s concrete halls - forever. “Boy howdy,” the bacteriophage cheerfully quipped. “This reminds me of the mono-gleaming! I’ll surely be having a splendid time here, fellow slabs. Oh, and in case you chaps ever need your spiralings rectified, here’s my card! I’ll be seeing you!” The bacteriophage walked on its four spindly legs, right out the vast doors of Limbo’s Court.
Thank · that’s over. Those zone-based freaks just keep pouring in. I’d tell him that he’s the 11,446th ‘Dr H.M. Phage’ we’ve received, but I doubt he’d even view it as something that’s wrong. How are there so… many of them? Such were the comments from the Council of Nine, a parliament of nine Endermen that governed Limbo, one of Fiction’s afterlifes. To exist in Limbo was truly a cruel fate. All who entered found themselves squeezed and crushed into mere shells of who they once were, after eternities spent wandering its unending myopia.
Take some solace in the fact that the next soul coming from the Hospital will arrive in around seven thousand blinks, the Head Councilman sighed. Drawing a stack of paper from his robes and stacking them into the shape of a brick, he began examining them carefully. What if I blinked seven thousand times really fast, hm? Another Councilman countered. Then what would you do? The Head Councilman grimaced, irritated. You can’t affect the passage of time by blinking, frifth’ngon. But you know that. You’re just saying it to elicit a reaction from me. The Councilman laughed, making no noise. And it worked.
Enough mindless talk, said another Councilman. Who’s next on our list. The Head Councilman examined the papers further. That was our last ‘customer’ for the ‘day.’ Apparently, a good amount of our arbitrary perception of time will now be spent dealing with… the Chosen One. All nine Councilmen bowed their heads and crossed their arms, murmuring in another language. Hail the Hat-Tamer. Hail the Ghost-Capturer. Hail the Holy Churg. The prayer done, all Councilmen looked at each other once more. Do you think we have done enough to aid him, brother? The Head Councilman bowed. I hope so. The Outsider has done much to thwart the Chosen One. He has gained a great foothold within our machine, and is coming dangerously close to achieving the Ultimate Reward. We must rectify this issue immediately. Another Councilman’s eyes leered. Why don’t we just crush this errant soul into paste where he stands? Our power here is unlimited. We could end him in a single strike.
The Head Councilman shook his head. It is not that simple, brother. The Outsider… we did not deal with him when we had the chance. When him and his duplicate first arrived here, many arbitrary periods of time ago… We could have stripped them of their links to their Suns, and turned them into shadows. But we didn’t. We felt the prospect of the two of them attacking each other for an eternity was a just punishment. How wrong we were. When the Outsider’s brother escaped… we were left with a horribly angry First Guardian. One whose fire could take a crushingly long eon to burn out. And now, we are stuck with him. The Council sighed in unison. Is there anything we can do? Someone spoke. There must be some way to deal with the Outsider, even if he is wrapped in the flames of time and clothed with the words of an author.
“Nah. There isn’t.” The voice cut clean through the quartz pillars of the Court, startling the Council of Nine. They turned to see a hideous face looming in the massive computer monitor behind them. One whose skin was bleached white, whose hair was wild and messy, and whose emerald glasses reflected with broken light. His grin stretched across the corners of his face, and when he opened his mouth to speak, red plasma bubbled from within. This was Split, the Outsider. “I mean, you could try, ya Council of Windbags. But you wouldn’t get very far.” The Head Councilman grimaced beneath his robes. Enough of this. Leave our antechamber - and our Antichamber - immediately, you scarlet ibis. “Wow, now you’re calling me a bird? Thanks??” It was supposed to be a dig at how you’re, you know, dead. But sure. Have it your way. Your neck is long and skinny enough to be that of a bird’s anyway. Split stepped back in mock outrage. “Don’t blame me, blame the artist that draws me. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, Y--”
ENOUGH! I have half a mind to label this as entirely meaningless drivel and ignore you, but the other half of me knows better. You’re up to something. But what. Split merely laughed cheerfully. “Ah, of course this has meaning. Distractions always have meaning!” The entire Council gasped in shock, turning away from the computer screen to look at Split, standing right in the middle of the Court. You fiend! Trespassing on holy sacred ground! “Like I give a vat of ink about ‘sacred ground.’ The only god I worship is me. Wait, no, that sounds really stupid. ...As a matter of fact, I didn’t know you guys worshiped a god.” Of course we do. All creatures of the Void give praise to the Greatest of Secrets, whose unfathomable scales carved the gap between worlds, oozing forth beacons of eldritch power. “Tch. Not a very well-kept secret, huh.” You… you know what we mean.
“No, I don’t think I do, actually. I mean, what is the Secret of the Void? I get that it’s a dragon. Y’know, an incomprehensible being that created the Void and whatnot. But what’s the secret that you’re all keeping about it, huh? Its name? Its favorite color? Its Social Security number?” The Council of Nine looked each other in the eyes, which burned with monochromatic flame. There is no secret, Outsider. Now leave our council hall, or we will force you to leave. “Uh, news flash, buddy,” Split smirked. “Last I heard you were just talking about how you couldn’t deal with me.” Split kept advancing, a sword of red flame forging itself in his hands. “Okay, so the way I see it, we do this the easy way - wherein you let me keep talking to this kid - or the fun way - wherein I decapitate all of you and keep talking to this kid. Please,” Split said, grinning intensely. “Choose the fun way.”
The Council of Nine stared at each other, speaking telepathically. ‘There are but two options. One - we call the Secret of the Void here.’ ‘What?? Are you insane?’ ‘If we call him here, he can deal with the Outsider!’ ‘If we call him here, he will punish us for our incompetence. He feels we should be responsible. Self-sufficient. Like his precious Chosen Few was.’ ‘By the Secret’s Head, they couldn’t do half of what they did without him! It isn’t fair.’ ‘...Limbo isn’t fair.’ There was a silence. ‘...And what of option two.’ ‘Metachronism.’ ‘You’re joking.’ ‘I wish I was. It’s looking more like a valid option with every passing second.’ ‘It’s blasphemy! It’s outrageous! It’s…’ Split kept advancing forwards. “Boy, all of you are sure doing a great job not talking. C’mon, bureaucrats. Gimme something to work with here.” The Council of Nine’s souls all spoke in unison. They knew what they had to do. ‘It’s our best shot. O Greatest of Secrets… forgive us for what we are about to do.’
“Right, that’s it. I’m bored. Fun way it is.” Split prepared to flashstep directly for the Council of Nine, the image of his body blurring and warping, but he was blocked by a metaphysical wall. Blown backwards, his sword skidded against the tiled floor, cooling into disuse. “What the… What tricks are this?” The Council of Nine floated above their podium, their robes whirling in the wind. Their eyes gleamed with light kaleidoscopic. O god abyssal, hear our plea. Fix mistakes we hate to see. Hear our words and see our power. Turn back to time’s zeroth hour. Split took several steps back, looking genuinely appalled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Eons of light escape our grasp. Even in death, our fate is clasped. Yet light that steers our fates shines true. Through winds of winter, and fires, too. Let tessellations reign at last. Let us recall the recent past.
The winds in the Council Hall materialized into a spinning crucible of light, from which a trio of liquids were poured in, bubbling in the shapes of tetrominoes’ outlines. They shone with light metachronistic, surging and pooling together into a sickly orchid color. Split’s entire face lit up with this color as a cylindrical beam of holographic flame connected with his body. A horrific explosion resonated across the Court, slicing through quartizine tiles like putty. Split’s entire body was knocked out of this post, sailing through the forum background. The last thing the Council of Nine saw of him was a look of murderous rage, which was honestly quite typical of him. And then, he was a speck on the metaphysical horizon.
The Council of Nine descended back to their seats, the light dissipating from their eyes. That… went well, one of them began to say. I feel unclean, another retorted immediately. Do not worry yourselves, the Head Councilman spoke. We did what we had to do. There was a long stretch of contemplation, then. As the Council stood in wait for the Chosen One’s return.
. . . .
Darkness rushing on all sides around him. Wind whipping in his ears, intermittent lights flashing in his star-spangled eyes. Split awoke in complete freefall, descending through a metaphysical purgatory. He was in a limbo beyond Limbo. Split grimaced, his red hoodie twirling and spinning as he fell. Looking down, Split saw that there was no discernible ground rushing up to meet him, which was nice. And when he looked up, he saw a tiny pinprick of light from above - no doubt the way he’d entered this… place.
Split concentrated intensely, sticking his arms out. Pulling itself from red plasma was his sword, Broken Anachronism, once more wrapped in fire. Split switched its form, the clock in its center turning into a compass, and its blade metamorphosing into a rod. Split poked at his own chest with the rod, which glowed with a golden light. Immediately, the wind died in Split’s ears. He found himself hovering now, at a standstill. Split twisted around to his perception of what ‘right-side-up’ was and looked ahead of him, at the source of the lights he’d seen.
It seemed to him that what he thought were many different lights, sporadically centered around wherever “here” was, was actually a single point, repeated an infinity of times. The light was coming from a grey platform constructed from two squares, one folded on top of the other. Suspending the platforms were a set of four orchid tendrils. And hovering above was a set of four characters that Split had trouble identifying. A brown and silver behemoth, some zippy orchid shape, and what looked like two blurry robots - one a dull gold, and the other bright orchid. The more Split looked at them, the more he felt he should know them.
Glancing at himself hesitantly, Split called out to speak. “Hey!” he shouted. “Can any of you hear me??” But they made no indication that he could. As Split concentrated even further, though, he began to hear snippets of their voices. One of them spoke in harsh tones clipping themselves together. Another - the small orchid thing - seemed to have no indoor voice, a hollow cadence, and a digital edge to their speech. The golden robot sounded like a robot pretending to be a human woman, and as for the orchid robot… it sounded like if a snake could talk. It made Split’s spine crawl. With that revelation - the comparison to a snake - it clicked for him.
Split had never seen these figures in the flesh before, but he knew things. It came with being a First Guardian. There was no more doubt in his mind - hovering this endless expanse away from him was the Arrival. Earth’s best hope in destroying the Godmodder. Were they locked in this place by the Council? Did they make it? Split wanted to find out, but at the same time… he didn’t want to concern himself with any of it. There was something else on his mind. A Reward.
Split pointed the rod of his sword upwards, and he immediately began to zoom up, up, and away. On his way closer to Limbo, Split could hear snippets of the Antichamber - that cursed, fractalline maze in which the Chosen One, Flare Flames, traveled to reach the Reward. His adventure had been guided through the voices of lost souls - but recently, Split’s voice had shouted louder than anyone’s. He had taken over the adventure, and was hoping to grow so influential that he could reach through the adventure and take the Reward for himself.
Finally. He would get an amazing hat.
But the Council had thwarted his efforts. It would take tremendous work to make it back in time. The best thing Split could do was climb into infinity, screaming through time as he re-entered Limbo from elsewhere.
For once, Split thought to himself, time isn’t on my side.
....Tock.
An immeasurable interval encompassed in a single gesture. The clock swings, penultimately.
Tick....
All was quiet. Bitter winds were whirling through the land, making no noise yet carrying with them infinite cold. The sun was beginning to slip towards the horizon, painting the sky with arrays of colors, all splashed on top of each other and dripping down the canvas. Standing in the middle of this forgotten portion of the world was a tower, jutting clean through the earth and scraping the sky. One hundred and nine stories high and forged from nigh-impenetrable stone, the only sign of activity is the tower’s kaleidoscopic logo: GODMODDING INCORPORATED.
The tower had been working ceaselessly ever since the return of its chief executive, the Omega, a couple of months prior. They had worked throughout a bitter autumn, pursuing a goal infamous for its complexity, incongruity, and unexplainability. No one quite knew what they were working on. The tower’s inhabitants, all of varying races and universes, full of terror yet pride, all had specific jobs to do. Go into the earth, mine out pieces of stone, and compress them in divine furnaces using your own blood as offerings. Take a trip into the Void and collect some artifacts from abandoned temples while running from eldritch abominations. Extract some liquid from the Inky Abyss. Code a multidimensional computer debugger. And the list just went on.
No one quite knew what they were working on. No one quite knew they were unwittingly ending their reality.
. . . .
The Godmodder had work on his mind, as well. Never stopping, and never tiring. Plunging through the icy depths of other worlds to find exactly what he needed to do in his quest. To make to the heart of existence. A realm where everything could be undone. Everyone who had wronged him. Everyone who he’d wronged. Everyone who fought him, and everyone who was affected by him. Everyone that was below him, and those who he viewed, at best, as equals. Even those pesky forces of plot, so it seemed, would be at least partially undone.
Through his work, the Godmodder had become a cold shell of his former self. He was fueled by an unending desire to be rid of this world. Advice still rung in his ears. To not think as large. To return to his roots. In his own warped and battered mind, that is exactly what he was doing. He was starting fresh. Wiping the drawing board. Creating a clean slate, for everyone. And when all was said and done, they would thank him for his efforts. They would either thank him, or die ignoring him.
And there the Godmodder sat, at the sole chair in the top floor of his facility, with his head in his hands, and the glossy, emboldened nameplate of RICHARD ‘OMEGA,’ CEO on it. The room was cluttered, with everything jumbled together. Teleporters so the Godmodder could jump between important floors were littered everywhere. Personal belongings, still smouldering with ash, were strewn between them. Computer monitors stacked on top of each other, salvaged from governments gone by, hissed with static, sometimes spitting out data on printer paper. Standing behind the Godmodder, like a monolith, was a gigantic transparent case containing rusted clockwork and machinery. Draped around it was golden cloth.
The Godmodder sighed, examining his watch and noticing the date. His mind dimly registered that it was December 7th. A date which would live in infamy. Unwanted memories filled the Godmodder’s head as he got up and trudged onwards, picking up his steaming hammer and preparing to walk towards an anvil. Drawing some metal from a cabinet, the Godmodder raised his hammer over his head, and brought it down with a whistling sound.
Clang.
He remembered one year ago, when a serpent had invaded his life and constricted everything he’d built. When dead pixels and negative infinities had tormented him and the universes he called home and, ultimately, fractured and divided his very mind. When a universe away, a Descendant in white fought against an Outsider to secure a Reward.
Again. Clang.
He remembered two years ago, when the second war had just started, and was beginning to develop darker overtones. When the focus had been shifted away from him for the first time, and onto some nondescript artifact of judgemental fury. When he tried to use a cheap ploy to secure ultimate power. It wouldn’t be the last time.
Again. Clang.
He remembered three years ago, when he first sat hunched in his chair, staring at his computer screen. When he had scrolled through that list of servers and picked the one he thought would be easy to invade. Easy. What a joke it all was. The Godmodder gritted his teeth for abiding by UserZero’s philosophy.
Again, goddamnit, again. Clang.
He remembered four years ago, when he waged a zeroth war that hardly seemed important when compared to the war of future’s past. When an angelic devil with wings ripped from plot and a gaze that could shatter panes of glass attacked him for trying to make a name for himself. When gates had been opened, and the fates had conspired to start the godmodding wars in the first place.
AGAIN. Clang.
He remembered five years ago, when he had just started his quest for becoming the greatest godmodder. When he was fresh out of the Great Halloween Hack that started the fires of darkness in his heart. When he began to have doubts about himself, after suffering some setbacks and defeats against other, powerful godmodders. When he spat with rage that he would not stop until every other godmodder was dead.
It was a pact sealed in blood, and the heat of the forge.
Clang.
He remembered six years ago, when he, Richard, was just discovering Minecraft. When he engaged its creator in excited talks about what he should add, what he could do, what he could create and destroy. The Godmodder laughed to himself, now. Notch was a false idol. And the Godmodder was a nonbeliever.
The hammer whistled downward again, and stopped short of its goal.
Richard’s head hung low. He looked at the metal he had hammered. It was neither smooth, nor rippling with heat. Each of his strikes had misshapen and bent it horribly out of alignment. Taking several steps back, he shouted, swung the hammer, and cleaved straight through the anvil. It bisected, paused, and then shattered into dozens of pieces. Richard stared at it with a blank fury, letting go of his Banhammer, whose fires shut off. It toppled to the ground, and Richard knelt.
“Why,” he muttered to himself. “Why am I doing this to myself? Why is it necessary?” Richard’s body folded inwards. “I’ve… never worked like this before. Never exhausted myself to this point. I can’t feel pain, I don’t sleep, but… why do I feel so tired?” Richard shuddered, walking to a mirror. His hair was disheveled, his clothes faded and tattered. His mechanical arm was dull and worn, and the scar over his eye pained him. “I… I’m not some perfect machine. I need to take a break. I need to know when to quit.”
But as he was having these doubts, Richard kept returning to the date, obsessively. December 7th. December 7th. Always, it seemed, around this time, something tremendous happened. It didn’t take much effort to go back through the archives, and to pinpoint circumstantial simultaneity. Coincidences specifically arranged. Important puzzle pieces stacked on top of each other. Fiction building higher and higher, towards a coalescence. Richard’s hands trembled. “...I need to be reminded. They need to be reminded. Of how we got here.”
The Godmodder straightened himself up and kicked the ground with absurd force. The entire room shook, the Banhammer flipping from the ground and pirouetting through the air. The Godmodder grabbed it by the handle, its twin heads shimmering with steam. The Godmodder tapped his ear twice, a low whine filling the speakers of the entire facility. The well-oiled machine of Godmodding Incorporated faltered. “Attention, all workers. On behalf of the Omega, I’d like all of you to report to Floor 72. It’s time we remembered.”
. . . .
The entire facility had gathered in a single room, which stretched much farther than the actual dimensions of Godmodding Incorporated should have allowed. It seemed to resemble a gigantic movie theater, with vast walls of wooden paneling designed to mimic Minecraftian architecture. Rows upon rows of reclining chairs inclined up the hall, with various stations sectioned at the hall’s sides, selling conveniences and foodstuffs that were, predictably, horribly overpriced.
At the very front of the room, taking up the entire northern wall, was a gigantic set of goldenrod curtains. Terrors, decoy godmodders, and the like all crowded to their seats. All the while, the voice of the corporation’s secretary calmly yelled orders across the intercom. “Make your way to your seats in a neat and chaotic fashion, ladies, gentlemen, and mentlegen. Watch the tramcar, please, and remember to pick up your Too Far!™ Juice for $7.12 - or, if you have a portion of a soul you can lend, for free. You’ll just owe us a favor down the road, you get the idea. Tick tock, everyone, the show’s due to start in thirty-two seconds. Don’t be late, now.”
And of course, in thirty-two seconds’ time, the lights in the entire floor abruptly shut off, leaving everyone in total darkness. A single guitar chord echoed in reverse across the room as Yes’s Roundabout began to play. The golden curtains drew apart, a single column of light blasting from the projector to illuminate the movie screen. Standing in front of it, dressed in a fine-pressed tuxedo, was the Godmodder. “Thanks for comin’, guys, seriously. I’ve had this idea for… not that long, honestly. But it sure does feel like a long time coming.” The Godmodder vanished in a puff of smoke, and suddenly he was sitting in the crowd, with a front-row seat. “I felt it’s time we took just one break, huh? And what better a day for it than today. December 7th. A day that will live in…”
The spotlight shut off, and the projector in the other side of the room whirred to life. The movie screen lit up with a stylized scarred eye; under it read GODMODDING INCORPORATED PRESENTS: ...And soon afterwards, in bold golden text, read the title: INFAMY. The screen went black, with the Godmodder’s voice beginning to play. Imagine, if you will, another world. A few swings of the clock away. This world is free from the influence of gods and kings. There is only man. And it’s so, so boring.
Until I come to town, that is.
The screen burst to life in a display of light and sound. There, shown in the majesty of film, was a complete recreation of the Psi-Godmodding War in its heyday, so picture-perfect it was as if it had been pulled directly from the Godmodder’s mind - and it had. Flying over all others was the Psi-Godmodder himself, his hood spiraling and trailing in the flames, and bolts of darkness shooting from his arm. Fighting on all sides were the twelve Ancestors, shining with mythological spectra. Weapons collided against weapons, attacks of unbridled creativity launching themselves at supersonic speed. And standing there in the middle of it all, with wide-eyed glee, was the Godmodder’s Minecraft avatar. It was so young that it even lacked his trademark red cape.
There I was, the narration continued. Standing in the first war. The first of many. But this was one was really special, wasn’t it. Forged in the fames of winter and fought by a chosen few, standing against the self-proclaimed first evil of God. That’s a load of bull, if you ask me. Herobrine should get that title. But hell, no one talks about him. After all, I’m the better godmodder. At least - not yet. The scene shifted, into a tundra of blazing cold. Orchid galaxies flickered by in the skies above, the main focus of the screen comprised by a complex machine of white pouring out the holographic interstellar display, and two figures fighting alongside it. One, dressed in a red coat and lacking a face. The other, in twin folds of red and green, with a double-edged blade. The Godmodder stood in the foreground, once again, in absolute awe. This battle. The one in the Arctic. It’s what really got me thinkin’ about this whole godmodding business. It opened my eyes to how Minecraft was so much more than a game some guy made. It was a portal to another world. Like a drug, I guess? But drugs only let you hallucinate about firing lasers out of your eyes and whatnot. With godmodding, I could do it for real. And so, I did.
The scene shifted, into a realm of absolute chaos. Jack-o’-lanterns lit up the skies, cascading in rows upon rows. Portals to Hell, stacking on top of each other. Purple fire licking across rooftops built by the gods, ghasts singing ballads of cats that screamed through it all. Explosions of dynamite rocking castle walls, griefers in masks running around without a care, and Mojang, those infallible gods, trying to make sense of it all. And standing in the middle, once again, was the Godmodder, who casually lit another cube of dynamite with some flint and steel, chucked it into the mayhem, and watched it burst into color and sound. Fast forward nearly another year later, and it’s Halloween. The Great Halloween Hack of 2010, to be precise. That was really the start of my darkness, I guess. The start… of my infapfffHAHAHA, nope, can’t do it. Can’t title drop that with a straight face. The scene shifted, a ton of events playing in fast forward. After that, things got a bit messy. I tried to climb up the ladder as fast as I could. I had some great moments… The movie showed the Godmodder kicking a figure glad in golden armor into the depths of a volcano, then picking up a ring from the ground, putting it on, and walking away. ...And some not so great moments. Then, the movie showed the Godmodder kneeling in a metal rain below an indeterminate statue. In his hands was a ripped glove meant to hold some kind of symbol. But if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s fighting. I fought my way right up to the top, and it was there I stayed. Also, a whole ‘nother war happened at this point, so let’s play the footage at normal speed, huh?
The scene shifted rapidly, showing the Godmodder bickering and yelling with another figure, clothed in red. UserZero, the antagonist of the Zeroth Godmodding War. The fight, which spread across a plethora of still images, got more and more confusing and intricate as it went on, powerful gatekeepers looming across the sky, the Godmodder battling other godmodders, bones and flowers ripping through the field, pacts and slayers of gods raging against the eternal machine. All the while, gates and trees loomed ever closer in the mystical sands of time. It’s funny, honestly. I feel like I never remember this war the same way twice, sometimes. But I remember plenty. The fights I waged, the faces I met. And how it all ended - with me winning! The montage ended with the Godmodder standing triumphantly on top of a hill, his right arm adorned with a glove inscribed with a golden omega. Standing in silhouette against a kaleidoscopic sky, a huge Hollywood-esque orchestra accompanied the moment.
Record scratch. And then I went out and killed every single godmodder.
The Benny Hill theme began to play at maximum volume as various photos took up the screen in a slideshow. On each one, the Godmodder was posing with a disintegrating corpse - the bodies of the godmodders he killed. One was being crushed by a tower of golden anvils. Command blocks and jagged holes littered the environment. Another was being fed feet-first into what looked like a bed of spikes from Super Meat Boy. They seemed to be completely conscious. Another still was impaled on top of a gigantic mountain of Decoy Godmodders. Yet another seemed to have been stabbed with the OP Scale. And the list continued. No, I’m not joking. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but ya get my point. I tracked all of the suckers down, making sure they could never respawn. Making sure they could never challenge me again.
The slideshow faded, showing an image of the serene tower of Godmodding Incorporated. And you all know how that story ended. I took the company I got from UserZero, rebuilt it in the middle of nowhere, and legally changed my name to the Godmodder. The Godmodder. Proper noun. After that, to be honest, there was a whole bunch of non-events. I terrorized random servers, got people to ragequit - I was on my way to being a really huge Richard, if you get what I mean. Until that one fateful day… A day that would live in infamy.
Yes. Nailed it.
The screen shows heavily dramatized footage of the Godmodder bending over his computer screen and wiping sweat from his forehead as he intensely mashes buttons on his keyboard. Lines of green code pour over his monitor until, with a single triumphant press of the ENTER key and an ominous chorus, the screen flickers to a perfectly generic Minecraft server. What are you talking about, that footage is exactly what happened. It’s pixel-perfect.There I was, at any rate. A perfectly generic plugin-filled Minecraft server. I expected everything to be so easy - I’d go in, force everyone to ragequit, and go out. What I didn’t realize was that Minecraft had caught up to me. There were players there, with fate on their side, and stars in their eyes. They had the power to resist rage - and the power to kill me. Naturally, we fought. How else does anyone settle their differences? Peace? Diplomacy? More like sleuth diplomacy.
Those were the days, the Godmodder said. Clips of the First Godmodding War flashed by. Citricsquid and the Godmodder stared each other down intensely, code rippling in the former’s hands as a beam of white-hot power, as if it had been ripped right from the Banhammer, blasted the Godmodder into smoke Citricsquid turned and left, and the Godmodder clawed his way out from the rubble, shadow congregating around his body. He hadn’t been killed. Not by a longshot. And then - a random player scooped up the snow of the tundra into a nuclear ball and flung it skyward. One mushroom cloud later, and the Godmodder arose from the gargantuan, fog-filled crater. With an unholy screech and a gaze of plutonium, he threw trash all over the ring, contaminating the battlefield beyond return. And then - the Godmodder writhed and flopped around the field as a squid, sneaking into a tank and dismantling it from the inside out. Attacks aimed at him pierced through the tank’s armor like swiss cheese, and when the whole thing fell like a house of cards, the Godmodder shot through the sky with perfect aim, careening over all in the way only a flying squid could. All the while, a gate of mystery loomed from behind, continually chiseled away by a hero of Brine and their pickaxe. And then -
Times grew dire. The players were learning how to adapt to utter hell. They were conjuring up juggernauts faster than one could blink. Relics from elemental eras, crowdsourced books, and literal gods. The Godmodder took it all in stride, resorting to underhanded tactics, as he felt he should. And then - the gate was opened, peeling away the world and revealing the uncaring Void that surrounded it. It was a taste of the cosmic horrors to come, just months later. The Godmodder peered through the gate and saw the shifting fabric of reality before him. Yet he did not step through. And then - his health dwindled, forcing last resorts and contingencies to be pulled from underground. Outside the movie, the Godmodder watched, enraptured. Everything was as he remembered it. The dragon and skeleton of pure terror, besieging the land with pink flame and skulls of rippling cobalt. And then, once those final terrors fell, a system error. Variables left unaccounted before coalesced into a churning hurricane of entropy. The tenets of the Void, those inviolate abyssals, were teetering on the edge of destruction. And then, once the error was corrected through clock swings, a forsaken fortress. Castle walls stockpiled over excruciating hours of work. Forces converging on hoards of treasure - an unearthed legend. Both forces, pulling out their last stops. Waves of golems surging from factories, facing off against mechanical magic, pure Australian grit, and shrines of the past. And then, once the castle was crashed, a promotion. Faster than anyone could blink, the tide of the war was upheaved. The Godmodder was an administrator now, and he controlled the game. Entities, charges, all that hard work - erased with a single command. It was the closest anyone had come to feeling rage in a long time. And it nearly worked.
But then - after all that, there were two cards yet to be played. The Godmodder closed his eyes for the last time, sealing himself in a spell of healing. And the last guardian to protect him - a tank forged to lock the universe’s strongest warrior in eternal combat. A turret with one single, insoluble purpose. To destroy. And combating it was a serpentine horror - he that shaped the Void. Reality’s most ancient secret, concealed in the form of a demiurge. With emerald novae, the dragon pushed back the turret’s ire. And amidst a sea of terrors, the players focused everything they had on stopping the Godmodder’s spell.
And then -
Debris filled the air. Spare parts, dying machinery, globules of pink fire. The dragon twisted and turned through the sky, traveling across universes to return to its abyssal home. Which left the players forming a ring around the utterly defenseless Godmodder. You know the rest of the story. Long story short - I died. I lost an arm, and I lost an eye. Funny in retrospect, considering exactly what would happen later. Honestly, that war had a sense of innocence to it. The stakes weren’t nearly as high, for one. I was having… fun, in my own perverse sort of way. And I’d bet they were, too, through it all. But that’s not where this story ends. Far from it.
My infamy would spread, throughout the universe. And it would soon capture all of it. The screen faded to black, and a new set of goldenrod curtains opened, revealing a fenestrated wall. Images cycled through its four frames. The second war - and the largest. Only thing that comes close to it was that Zeroth War. But despite the larger-than-life setting… The over-the-top feeling it conveyed… The satisfaction in knowing millions of people were raging at my feet… It was so unfulfilling. For starters, I lost - again. No shame in admitting that now. But my defeat ran deeper than that. The entire war, I was… Humiliated. Overshadowed. Defied. Sure, nothing would have - or could have - happened without me, but at the same time… I began to have a taste of what it was like to be on the bottom again.
I felt powerless.
One pane of the fenestrated wall lit up. It was nighttime on GodCraft. Embers of light danced through the dying sky, but they were not stars. Each one was an individual battleship, painted in the red colors of an alien empress. They carried drones, turrets, and soldiers across the world, to terrorize, loot, and destroy. The Alternians were allied with the Godmodder in theory, but in practice - he knew they had their own agenda. They were working for someone. Something. And all the while, Scratch - that wretched puppet - had kidnapped the players. Those chosen few the Godmodder had sworn to destroy. They had been whisked away to some idiotic mansion on a chartreuse moon, and all the while, the Godmodder had been left to rot. He stared at the sky for long stretches of time, then. Waiting.
Another pane of the fenestrated wall lit up. The sky was blood-red. Storm clouds swirled around a battlefield tinged with orange. A spirographical, labyrinthine portal hovered in the air, carrying with it a ship of artificial furniture. The forces of the Counteroperation - Earth’s defense against the Godmodder - floated with such arrogance, acting as if they’d already won. The Godmodder, righteously angered, rushed forward to attack - only to be completely and utterly blocked. He was blown away, knocked backwards, held in place. The assailants, with their orchid eyes, could manipulate code, just like he did. Just like he did. The Godmodder raged against the machine, but it did him no good. His robotic arm was snapped in two, and the Godmodder felt a piece of himself die with it.
A third pane of the fenestrated wall lit up. The Godmodder was standing triumphantly in front of a massive granite pillar - but it was uprooted from the ground and thrown aside. A chitinous, wretched spike was driven into the earth in its place, as seas of insects swarmed from all points in the world, drowning the planet in sickly death. The Godmodder’s own challenge had been surrendered to bugs. And then - the Godmodder floated in the abyssal reaches of the Void, carrying with him the Ancestral Artifacts of legend. Right as he was about to claim ultimate power, it was knocked from his grasp. Scratch had showed his faceless mug again, and with but a phrase and a wave of his idiotic Disc of Mojang, the Godmodder felt his vision tunnel as he was sealed within a tuba. Pure fear raced through his mind. He shuddered and sank into tubaphobia once more. In the audience, the Godmodder averted his eyes.
The final pane of the fenestrated wall lit up. The sky was black - no sun or moon lit it. The only light came from a horrible, cascading orchid glow, washing endless fleets of bedrock in its power. The Godmodder, a horrid corpse, twisted his head upwards, staring at the light in awe. He was surrendering himself to… a higher power. The camera panned upwards, showing a bronzed block descending in a column of gold. It carried with it the antagonistic laughter of fate. The leering faces of agents swirled in the void above, ascending into static. The screen shut itself off.
It gave me time to think. About what being a godmodder meant. About what it really meant to be feared, and to experience rage. Y’see - you’re only as powerful as the people below you say you are. Beat up a bunch of noobs, and they’ll tell everyone how you bested them. Then when the people above them challenge you, and you kick them into the ground, and you work your way up until you’re the greatest goddamn thing this side of reality, everyone listens to you.
You only hear the good things. The stories of your horrible greatness. The ideals you set out to achieve, and met. Until the day you meet some force you can’t control, and could have never accounted for. And then you realize that once upon a time - that force was you. And you reveled in making that poor noob feel like crap. And now, you feel like crap! And then you realize how much it stings. Makes ya feel like you’re living a shallow existence, pretending to be the greatest.
See how it goes? Even with ultimate power, I can still have doubts. Doubts caused by the fact that there… there’s always someone better than me. Tch. Never really said that out loud until now, I… guess. Now I know how they felt. All those I ever wronged. I know what it’s like to, even for a minute, be on the bottom. I’d forgotten what it was like. And I don’t ever want to feel that way again.
Now, the ultimate question. Why am I telling you this? Well, I figured - we all need some break time. A day to reflect. A day to remember. So when you leave this theater and reminiscence on what a great movie this was (a 109% on Rotten Tomatoes isn’t a fluke), I want you to think about something. And I want you to take it to heart. Let it fuel you to do even better, to improve yourself. To put your all into this project, moving forward.
I am not the rule. I am the exception. I am infamy. I am Richard. But more than that - I’m the Godmodder.
Now, who the hell are you?
....Tock.
A truly immeasurable interval, encompassed in a single gesture. The clock swings, rounding up to the inevitable end.
Tick....
. . . .
“Have you ever wondered about time,” the Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron officer said. “To third-dimensional mongoloids, it’s this ceiling hovering over them, marching forwards. To second-dimensionals, the very concept of time is as alien as depth, perhaps moreso. But break beyond that barrier and enter the fourth-dimension, and then you see it.” “Mmh,” the officer next to him said, enjoying a sip of Tang. “I remember the first time I saw it. ‘Twas a marvelous experience. The room I was in stretched to infinity, every point in time it would ever experience expanding and receding before my eyes. I was walking through it, seeing the shadows of those below me. Seeing every step they’d ever take, and ever did take. Then I blinked, and I was back.”
The original officer - Hughes was his name - nodded. “Kinda like how mine went. And all the while I was aware that somewhere up there, there had to be a fifth dimension. One keeping me anchored from going any higher. One I couldn’t reach.” The other officer - Xenos - responded in turn. “The ether, yes. SOUL territory. Time expanded outwards, and ether retreats inwards. I’ll tell you, though, it’s really the ninth-dimensionals that have it made. Complete access to metachronism? Yes, please.” Hughes nodded once more, turning around and talking to someone else. “It, uh, just occurred to me that you probably have no idea what we’re talking about.”
Build shrugged. “I’m used to it, honestly. And I’ve heard worse.” Hughes turned back to Xenos after nodding. “So,” Xenos spoke. “Where are we taking this… ticking time-bomb.” Build fumed from behind his glasses. “To the infirmary,” Hughes stated. “Subject Layer 523/Block C90/Hash 033 has been complaining about…” Hughes tilted his head up, as if trying to remember items from a list. “Vivid dreams, frequent headaches, and feelings of nihilism and existential angst.” “I know what’s wrong with him,” Xenos quipped. “He’s a teenager.” Build gritted his teeth. “You’re really making me feel welcome here, you guys. Seriously. Gotta hand it to you.” “Need I remind you, 523/C90/033, that you are officially imprisoned within these headquarters. You feeling welcome is not exactly our immediate concern.” “Oh, it isn’t?” Build inquired. “Then what is?” Xenos continued marching forward. “You are a problem that we must solve. So that’s what we’re doing. Solving you.”
The trio walked in silence after that.
They walked on the floor, under the floor, through some halls, re-enacted that Scooby-Doo door joke entirely on accident (Build caught himself staring at the other versions of him far too often), walked on the ceiling, walked in an impossible triangle, and passed what looked like a gigantic vault until they made it to Nexus C410 - the Infirmary. “Here you are,” Xenos said, motioning to the door. “Step inside and you’ll be in the care of our doctors.” Build stepped in front of Hughes and Xenos, twisting the door’s cubic lock and entering the Infirmary. The entire room seemed to be circular, the floor warping to become the walls, then the ceiling, then the other wall, and then back to the floor. The tables were mostly empty, bar a few unfortunate individuals - one had purple crystals covering their whole body, and another seemed to be babbling incoherently, occasionally spasming with magenta energy.
A figure in a black lab coat with a purple nameplate - Asclepius - stepped forward. “Ah, 523/C90/033. So glad you could make it - but then, I doubt you are. Right this way, please.” Asclepius motioned to the nearest hospital bed. Build sat on it uneasily before leaning fully back. It was actually quite comfortable. As soon as his head settled into position, a number of monitors and flatscreens began ticking away, calculating information about his vitals. Asclepius sat on the chair adjacent to Build, pulling out a digital tablet and examining it.
“You entered this facility Paradate 09/01/E412512/O4124/N2016, is this correct.” “Uh… sure.” “You qualify as a theta-class prisoner under the watchful eyes of the Galactic Infantile, Sacred Time Giant of the Time Mountains, is this correct.” “Theta class? Sounds right.” Asclepius’ eyes narrowed. “Are you aware we do not have a birth date on file for you.” “I wasn’t until you just told me, but I honestly should have expected it.” “Explain.” “Well, uh, when I first got here, some of the officers told me that under their files, I… don’t exist.” “Do you have any idea as to why this discrepancy has occurred?” “...I’ve got an idea, alright.”
Asclepius peered at Build intently. He looked incredibly nervous, so Asclepius decided to drop that line of questioning - or at the very least, save it for later. “Now - says here you have been admitted to to our infirmary on account of your vivid dreams, frequent headaches, feelings of nihilism and… existential angst.” Asclepius twisted in a sneer. “I believe I have made my diagnosis. You are a teenager.” Build’s head snapped forward in an expression of undiluted rage. “Are you joking me,” he sputtered. “I thought that was obvious. But let me take this time to inform you that as a medical professional certified in seventeen varying dimensions, I will do whatever is in my power to diagnose exactly what is wrong with you. Now - from the beginning.”
Asclepius leaned back. “When did these headaches and dreams start, exactly.” Build concentrated. “Well, it was... after the Operator left my body.” An eyebrow was arched. “You were possessed?” “I guess you could call it that? I mean, he was a First Guardian, kind of. But he only really had true power once he inhabited someone’s body. I was still me throughout the whole thing, I just had extra powers.” “What kind of powers.” “I... don’t exactly feel comfortable telling you.” “What kind of powers.” Build avoided looking at Asclepius. “R... reality warping. Omniscience. Omnipotence.” “If I may amend my earlier diagnosis - not only are you a teenager, you’re a Mary Sue.”
Build had to be forcefully restrained into the hospital bed to avoid jumping up and yelling at everything in sight. “I suppose I should add ‘violent mood swings’ to your list of symptoms,” Asclepius sighed. “WHAT IS YOU GUYS’S PROBLEM?” “Grammar, Stanley.” “SHUT. UP.” Build frantically spasmed. “You keep saying how you’re going to help me, and here you are, just making things worse! Get to the POINT!” Asclepius nodded. “From the sparse data I have on file for you, coupled with the pieces of information you have shared to me and my colleagues, I believe I have a fairly comprehensive grasp on your entire life story. I should be able to diagnose you from this data.” Build rolled his eyes. “Prove it.”
“The name you currently go by is Build, though that is not your given name. I say ‘given,’ but I am unsure as to who exactly gave you your name upon birth, or if you were even born at all. What few sources there are suggest that you were merely dropped onto the Earth several years ago, and you proceeded to live an utterly boring life until you got involved with the Godmodding Wars. Judging from what you just told me, you were possessed by an “Operator,” who gave you the ability to warp plot, shaping the story of the Godmodding Wars. I don’t exactly know how it was under your guidance that the Conflict rematerialized and brought reality dangerously close to the end of ends, but here we are. Then the Operator left your body, no doubt putting you through severe mental trauma. I doubt your split personality helped much, either. Which has left your mind fractured and still hanging on to some leftover bits of green plasma, in an attempt to rekindle its own flagging omniscience.”
Build just kind of blinked in shock for a while. “...You got all that from me yelling at you?” Asclepius shook his head. “I’ve known about you for quite some time, Build. Your exploits of reality warping and changing the underlying fabric of plot basically guaranteed you’d be noticed by every major force in the Void. To think, if only we’d captured everyone involved in that Godmodding War while we’d had the chance...” “Well, why didn’t you?” Asclepius looked at the ground. “It’s... not that simple. Not anymore.” “And let me guess,” Build said after several seconds of silence. “You’re not just gonna spill your secrets to any old theta-class prisoner that waltzes into the infirmary, are you.” Asclepius straightened up. “Not normally, no. But for you - I think I can make an exception.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Asclepius headed for the door. “Follow me, Build. I must show you something.”
. . . .
Asclepius explained to Hughes and Xenos that he’d be taking Build on a quick “field trip.” The two insisted they come along, as Build was a prisoner, and not to be brought anywhere without security at his heels. And so, the four of them traveled across the headquarters, passing through doors on walls and ceilings, through chasms flooded with spaceships, and through what seemed like gladiatorial combat arenas. “I assume you’ve heard of Globnar by now,” Xenos muttered as an aside. Finally, Asclepius rounded a corner into a hallway labelled METAL RAIN. “What in the world...” Build muttered to himself. “Come along,” Asclepius stated.
Stepping inside the hallway, Build found himself in a circular chamber. Set up around the elliptical wall was what looked like a sheet of metal, gleaming in the low levels of light the chamber produced. In the exact center of the room was a cylinder with computer interfaces streaming out of it. Asclepius whistled, and in moments, another officer had entered the room. Asclepius murmured something into the officer’s ear, and they ran to the cylinder, touching and navigating through it in the frenetic way Hollywood liked to pretend hackers messed with computers.
Build adjusted his glasses, and jumped back when the cylinder hummed in response. “Don’t be so concerned, 523/C90/033,” Asclepius muttered. “You carry a paradox with you at all times, of course some of our instruments would have reactions to it.” “Instruments? Like, musical instruments?” “You could say that.” Build looked at what the other officer was doing curiously, but their fingers were flying across the machinery too fast for Build to glean anything of substance. “Why’d you bring me here, then? I mean, all I can play is the piano. I’m not exactly a master at the... ‘sheet-of-metal-stretching-across-a-room.” “It’s called,” the officer working with the machine said, with a hint of annoyance, “the Metal Rain. Can’t you read the sign?” Build shrank back slightly.
“So, how does this thing work?” Build asked. The officer finally stepped back, as if admiring his handiwork. He then turned to Build. “Simple. You put your hand onto that cylinder, strap yourself into the chair that’ll spring up, and try not to vomit the small extracts of thyme left in your body once the room starts spinning.” The officer slapped Build on the back and walked away. “Have fun!” Asclepius, Hughes, and Xenos all stood outside of the room, watching as it sealed itself shut. Build gulped, turning to the room’s center. Now that he was alone, things seemed much more quiet. Much more still. It was a calm before the storm.
Tentatively, Build stretched out his arm and let his hand touch the computer interface. There was a harsh buzzing sound as the outline of Build’s hand was traced in thin air, directly above the cylinder. Materializing behind the cylinder was a chair - in the barest sense of the world. It was two rectangles stacked onto each other - one positioned horizontally, and the other vertically. It didn’t look like it had been designed with comfort in mind. Build sat down, and was immediately pinioned by metal straps. He struggled to get out, but then abruptly stopped as the lights in the room shut off entirely.
Slowly, yet surely, the metal rounding the room began to spin. Build could see now that there wasn’t a single sheet of metal - it was actually a series of nine interconnected metal panels, all arranged with the utmost precision next to each other. As the metal panels spun, they reverberated with a dull, warbling bass. It made the hairs on Build’s neck stand up. His eyes became itchy. His glasses grew hot on his face. As the metal spun faster and faster, the warbling bass intensified, growing louder. Getting closer. Build felt dizzy - as if he was the one spinning, and not the walls. He struggled to pay attention to anything. He felt that if he closed his eyes, he’d spin into infinity, and never return.
And then, the metal panels reached their terminal velocity. They spun in an unbroken elliptical whirlwind across the walls, lights reflecting off of them and screaming around the room’s circumference. The bass tones encompassed Build’s entire existence, peeling into his mind like a knife, and dissecting his thoughts. The bass reached its apex as Build’s glasses became unbearable to wear. With a howl, Build lunged his head forward, knocking his glasses off. They clattered to the ground, steaming and smoking. Held by the light of the metal panels, their visions of universes danced on the room’s walls. And suspended in this cosmic light, the metal rain began.
A pulsing, scratching drum beat laid itself over the bass, which now whined in and out of focus, shaping itself and sifting through various forms. Throughout its modulations, actual images began to become clear on the panels, which hovered there like animations. Build recognized them all too well, his stomach sinking to his legs and his eyes forcing themselves closed as he drifted to a restless sleep. They were his dreams. The worst of his dreams.
. . . .
Build saw himself, locked in a car that was driving itself. He’d awoken to find himself in the car for no discernible reason. The car had been left on, and without warning, it started leaning, inching forward. Within seconds, it was cutting across lanes of traffic. Build heard tires screeching and flailing. He narrowly avoided death what must have been dozens of times. When Build had found the courage to look through the window, he saw that the car was making a beeline for a bridge - and it was speeding down a hill. The car picked up a terrifying amount of speed as it beelined for the bridge, until it spun completely out of control, tumbling down the hill and careening into the water. Build saw himself, flying, upside down, as shards of glass and metal rained and cascaded over him.
Then, he plunged into the icy abyss of the sea, and knew no more.
. . . .
Build saw himself, lying in the middle of a land filled with trees. He’d awoken to find himself reclining on a fallen log, and had turned to see the smoking wreckage of some metallic craft off to the side. Following the footprints etched into the earth, Build came across another clearing of trees. Some huge shape was in the middle of it - a figure seemingly made of wood. Build stifled a scream. He recognized this thing. It was the king of Tabletopia - Ikea. And unfortunately, Build had a pretty good idea of what he was doing in a forest.
Ikea made the motion of turning a doorknob, although there was no door in sight. When he pulled as if he was opening the door, an elliptical hole punched itself through reality, crackling with blue energy. A portal. Once Ikea stepped through, Build looked to his left and right - a futile gesture - and ran for the portal himself. He ducked through right as the thing shut behind him. The clanging sounds of his feet touching the tiled floor alerted the numerous figures roosting there to his presence. Slowly, they turned.
Build saw Ikea’s wooden form withered and rotted, hanging from a noose. Bill’s body had been shattered, his hat lit on fire. His eye had simply been removed from its socket, and he, too, hung from a noose. Stepping from the shadows were ten beings, cloaked in darkness. They raised their hand, and Build’s vision flashed with symbols too unholy for words.
. . . .
Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them, Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them, Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them, Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them, Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them,
. . . .
Build saw himself, rotting in some decaying tomb festering underground. His skeletal head craned to the skeleton eternally resting by his side. Build’s jaw creaked open, a serpentine voice slithering out. "Хаве И стартед а фире, бротхер?" The other skeleton turned and cackled, their bones rattling and coming undone. "Ыес. Тхе фире рисес."
The catacombs blasted themselves to pieces, undone by the statue of a triangle keeping watch over his forest of swaying trees.
. . . .
Build saw himself, rendered in complete black-and-white. He was in a very official-looking room, sitting in a chair next to a man in a suit. In front of him was another man in a suit, sitting at a panel with a series of microphones next to it. The man sitting at the panel cleared his throat, and started to speak. “Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, members of the Senate and the House of Representatives. Yesterday, December 7, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy - the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.” Though there was no audience, the air was suddenly filled with roaring applause and cheers. The walls of the room cracked under the pressure, the noise continuing to pour forth. The metal rain sliced through the skin of the men in suits, pulping their bodies. Build rose in horror, trying to run for safety, but every step was incredibly slow and exaggerated.
Build could only watch as a sheet of metal rain tore into his body, whining with low bass tones.
. . . .
Build saw himself in a house of cards - literally. It was a house constructed entirely of playing cards. Aces, sevens, jacks of all trades, hell, even jokers. Reclining in the middle of this bicycle abode was a freakishly tall figure, decked out in a white fedora and an expertly-ironed white suit and pants, coupled with a black tie and shoes. His long and slender limbs reached for a cup of coffee, which the figure sipped with purpose. Once the figure put down his drink, his head turned to Build.
Build swore every molecule in his body shat themselves when he saw the figure had no face. And it didn’t help when one grew itself, either. The eyes were bulging and intense, the nose was crooked, and that godawful grin stretched across its chiseled, luminescent head like a gash. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SON,DADDY boomed with pride. I AM SO, SO PROUD OF YOU. Build took several steps back, resisting the uncontrollable urge to reply, “I love you so much, DADDY!” Seemingly sensing he was being ignored, DADDY unhinged his jaw and jumped onto the ceiling, crawling around it like a spider. His tongue swiped towards Build, who could only stare.
And then, something inside Build broke. Or perhaps, something inside him was fixed. Build was done being tossed through all these dreams. Here he was, one of the few people who were supposed to be able to shape destiny, and he was letting his own head mess with him. No. Not anymore. He was done letting his head mess with him. He’d conquered his own personality. He was the master of his own mind, not some freakish daddy from hell.
Build’s eyes crackled with lime energy, an emerald ephemeral seeping through his veins. Like liquid power, Build flashstepped across the room, ripping DADDY’s tongue from his mouth. He bled cake mix instead of blood. Build energized DADDY’s tongue with green energy, turning it into a bomb and lobbing it towards the ceiling. It detonated in an explosion that toppled the entire house of cards.
Build found himself in a completely featureless green void. He blinked once, then twice. Great. All that effort to break through the prison of his dreams and now he was in the blandest room he’d ever seen. At least his room had designs on its walls. Build stalked across the void, muttering curses to himself - when, suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. Build had started hearing voices. Snippets of conversations, from outside of the room. The voices spoke in ways that he instinctively recognized. “What shall happen next,” said one who sounded suspiciously like Bill. “WHO KNOWS?” cackled... It couldn’t be. But it was. Split. “Hah,” Battlefury soullessly intoned. Perhaps he’d sound more likely when he ranted about dogs.
Build started to panic. Here he was, locked in a room with his dreams, and they were talking to him again. The Descendants. But there wasn’t a phonograph this time. And he didn’t think they were using Binary. So how were they able to see him? Build was inches away from flying off the handle, but he restrained himself. His hands balled into fists, but he thought about the last time he’d talked to the players. It hadn’t gone well because of how much he’d wanted to distance himself. How much he was still bitter. But after talking to the Operator for the last time… After accepting the fact that he’d be returning to Destroy the Godmodder… After being subjected to this punishment within the Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron HQ… Build felt he was ready. Ready to acknowledge their existence. But not quite ready to talk. So he decided to ignore them for now. Yet, at the same time… Something still drew his attention. It wasn’t the voices, specifically. There was something else.
A pink light flickered in the corner of Build’s vision. He turned to look. “Do my eyes deceive me, or...” Build craned to look. Carved into the wall of the room was a recess containing a hovering, fluttering globule of pink fire. Its light cascaded across the room, lighting everything up in shearing pink tones. Warping and contorting around the pink fire was a chat client - and lines of text streamed across it. It was the players. They were watching him, and talking to him. But more important than that was the fire. Symbols congregated above it, and it flickered with an intensity that suggested it was active. Watching. Sentient.
Build’s glasses reflected the unholy pink, and he felt drawn towards it.
Cautiously stepping forward, Build tried to speak to the flickering mass. “Are... Are you...” But no other words escaped his lips. The fire crackled and surged, exploding. The warping text client shot from the wall, spiraling and tunneling into unpleasant visions. A drifter sitting by a fire. A set of impossible mountains. Burned parchment in scrambled tongues. A robot with the eye of a triangle. Build sped away from the fire as fast as he could, running down an impossible corridor. But wherever he ran, the pink glow intensified. When Build dared to look back, he screamed. Twisting, oily black hands were snaking across the hall, reaching out to grab him. They all trailed from the fire, and symbols of pink geometry were burned into their ‘skin.’
Build ran as fast as he could, knowing in his gut that it was hopeless. He didn’t have the courage to summon up another torrent of First Guardian energy. He was too disoriented. But what he knew - or at least, what he was hoping for - was that the Descendants were still there, listening. “GUYS!” Build shouted. “A LITTLE HELP??” There were several agonizing seconds of silence, but then Generic’s voice bubbled through, containing a single command: kinkshame. Build spun around and pointed the most accusatory finger he could manage, yelling - despite his voice cracking - “K... Kinkshame!”
The hands only sped up as they approached him. Build saw a sphere of darkness close itself around him, the limbs lunging for the kill. He accepted death, aware he’d just wake into another dream. But then - there was a triumphant slash. Build saw that a figure had leapt through the sea of limbs and sliced it cleanly in two. Hands and arms fell this way and that, corrupting into ash. The cubic figure, a silhouette of olive, landed to the ground with a thud, sheathing his sword and dusting himself off. Build adjusted his glasses. They shocked him when he touched them. Hesitantly, Build called out. “Who... Who are you?” The figure walked forwards. With each step, they became clearer. Build saw a head of disheveled hair - some of it was burnt off. He saw a rippling coat covered with bandages and symbols. He saw a set of goggles covering the figure’s eyes, and a scarf covering their mouth. “...Good question,” they plainly spoke. Build recognized him, then. From his voice. With a bitter taste in his mouth, Build recognized the Scribe. The man whom, in the Zeroth War, swore to unlock the Gate and create a new world. A better world.
Whether or not he succeeded didn’t matter. What mattered was that he existed at all.
“Tell me, Red Glasses,” the Scribe coolly said, cutting off any chance of Build going on an anger-fueled tirade. “What exactly are you doing here?” Build looked around. He was in the middle of a grey expanse. Not wanting to risk anything, he said, with as little emotion as he could manage, “Where is here.” The Scribe chuckled, then, and his next words literally sucked the color out of the environment. “Why, the ЕНДС ОФ ТХЕ ЕАРТХ, of course.” Build’s mouth hung in shock. He had been reduced to a white outline against a seething black world. A range of mountains jutted out of the earth, stretching up to a swirling, seething, row of thunderheads. The Scribe materialized behind Build’s back, savoring his paranoia. “No...” Build found himself saying. The word was snatched from his ear by the sounds of howls. “Yes,” the Scribe boomed. “Hear the wind. I’m coming closer.”
Build took more steps back. His eyes trembled, his head shook. He knew this was a nightmare. He knew it wasn’t real. But he couldn’t stop it from happening. He couldn’t. Build held his head in his hands, but the Scribe’s voice came back into focus. “Look. Beyond the mountains. Do you see what I see?” Build’s head shook itself upwards, trying to see beyond the sharp rows of mountains. He saw nothing at first, but then - something showed itself, as if fading from fog. It was, put simply, the largest door Build had ever seen. Two gigantic pillars, inscribed with four circles each, flanked it. “No, no...” Build mumbled. “You can’t...” The Scribe’s voice grew distorted. Demonic. “Oh, but you’re wrong. I can. And I will. ‘Don’t let him open the door,’ they said… What a joke that was. You should let me open the door, Build. Then...”
The Scribe turned back to Build, and he didn’t have any eyes. “Then, you can finally go home.” Build’s vision tunneled. The earth opened before him, and he fell into an endless abyss.
. . . .
Build woke with a start. He found himself still strapped in the Metal Rain’s chair. He blinked several times to stop the world from spinning, rubbing his eyes when that didn’t help. Build breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the metal was no longer moving. The chamber was still again. The door opened. Asclepius, Xenos, Hughes, and the other officer all filed in, as if they were in a funeral. The other officer messed with some buttons, and Build’s restraints were removed. He tended to his arms and picked up his glasses, which were now cool to the touch. Build tried to walk, but fell as he took a single step. He remembered how dizzy he was.
“I doubt you’ll be able to talk, either,” Asclepius said, helping Build up. “So I’ll let you know what exactly that was. The Metal Rain is a therapeutic tool. Whenever we have officers complaining of vivid dreams similar to yours, we put them through it. It reaches into their head once we give the machine the officer’s serial number and have them sit in that chair, and pulls the offending dreams from their brain, playing them like movies. It has the effect of forcing the mind to relive every dream in order, with the hopes that the machine will be able to piece together what exactly they mean. I doubt you’ll remember every dream you just went through. But we saw all of them. Every one.”
Build felt confident enough to speak, yet he still mumbled. “And… what were my results? How’d I do?” Asclepius’ mouth turned to a line. “How many of those dreams do you remember just seeing.” Build looked to the side. “Uh, six? That last big one basically counted as two, anyway.” Asclepius’ eyebrow arched. “Which dream do you remember as your last?” “The... the one with DADDY. And the hands, and the fire.” Asclepius nodded. Hughes’ expression turned to pure and utter disgust. “Well, that was not the last dream we saw,” Asclepius continued. “There was one other following it. And I’d say it holds the key to your current predicament.” Build looked at Asclepius expectantly, hoping he’d continue. He didn’t. “A-and you’re not gonna tell me what it is? You’re leaving me here in suspense?”
Hughes spoke, this time. “You’re better off not knowing, 523/C90/033. Now come on. Back to your cell.” Asclepius held a hand to silence Hughes. “If I may, commander. I haven’t yet properly diagnosed our patient here. I want him to understand.” Hughes sighed, giving the impression that he desperately wanted this whole debacle to be over with. “Fine. Go ahead. Say some medical mumbo jumbo.” Asclepius nodded, and then appraised Build. “This final dream… was rather alarming. You were walking through a grey void that slowly turned to amethyst. There was a gray door, with a navy blue symbol on it. An eight, with a line horizontally carved through it. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” A fire lit in Build’s eyes. He thought he knew where this was going, now.
“You conversed with this figure - he called himself ‘Malpeiyc’ - by the door in a grey suit. He had orange hair, and stars in his eyes. It gave the impression that there was something behind that door that was important. A conference, perhaps. You edged to the doorknob, and when you touched it, you fell through a set of amethyst curtains. On the other side was a peculiar set of beings.” Build’s skin paled by a factor of three. “Does... this ring a bell to you?” Asclepius intoned. “Keep going,” Build urged. “There was a half-human girl calling herself Azure... Four armored beings calling themselves the R4 Council... A purple door named S.O.L.I.D.U.S., a blue cube peculiarly called... the Godhead... and a floating eyeball.” Build nodded. “And let me guess,” he said. “They were meeting to talk about buying MTT Industries. They mistook me for one of the Advanced Superiors. And then they kicked me out, brought Interrobang in, and then I got back in because I used a suit, and then Interrobang died, and I took his glasses, AND--” Asclepius held up his hand. “I do believe that is enough. Yes. That is the dream we saw.”
Build just kind of stared at his hands for a while. “Would you care to enlighten us on what that dream represents?” Asclepius asked Build calmly. Build continued, his voice shaking. “I… It had to do with some other thing. Some… other game.” Asclepius nodded. All four officers met each others’ eyes simultaneously. Build noticed. “You all know what my dream means already, don’t you. Y-you just wanted to hear it from me.” Xenos stared Build right in the eyes. “I am legally not allowed to answer that question.” Build threw up his hands in disgust and scowled. “Okay. So you showed me my dreams. Great! Not like I’d forgotten them. Now tell me, why those are connected with why my mind is fractured, and why you didn’t get involved in the Godmodding Wars sooner. Tell me.”
Asclepius started to respond, but Hughes shoved him aside. “No. No, I’m done with this. You’re not just going to random prisoners and spilling our secrets. I’ve thought about this whole Godmodding War shtick, and I don’t care if this guy is from them, or from the salt mines of Sector Joebob within the quasi-seething. You are not discussing confidential matters with your patients. Just give him a diagnosis, and be done with it.” Asclepius remained stoic, but looked significantly paler than before. He sighed. “...Very well. Build, your symptoms appear to be the direct cause of incredibly severe cerebral epistaxis.” Build blinked. “Cerebral epistaxis?” “Epistaxis is a nosebleed. Cerebral relates to your brain. If your brain is having a nosebleed, then…” Build thought about it. “...Then something’s screwed up,” he said after intense deliberation.
“To bluntly summate it, yes,” Asclepius continued. “Your mind is fractured. I can see remnants of a Shatter - a Shatter so violent it did not quite resolve your split mind into two separate halves. There are still cracks. Cracks no doubt exacerbated by your fractured existence. I will not claim to fully comprehend how you ended up on Earth, but however you got there, it did a number on your mental stability.” Build’s skin once again turned white as a ghost. “No doubt this has caused you to cognize other, completely theoretical realities. Your trip into ‘Malpeiyc’s’ abode is the primary example.” “Are… are you telling me that stuff in my dreams actually happened. Like, for real.” Asclepius shook his head. “Thankfully not, otherwise the metachronistic powers that be would be executing Fiction for bypassing Section 0 Subsection 1 Coda 0 of the Intergalactic Fenestration Accord. No, I didn’t make that up right now, shut up. In essence… You perceived a hypothetical scenario that didn’t come to pass. Yet the fact that you are able to dream up such a phenomenon is, in and of itself, incredibly perplexing. The amount of paradoxical energy required for a task on that scale is truly immense.”
All eyes turned to Build’s glasses. As if to illustrate Asclepius’ point, they sparked magenta. “I… is there a cure?” Build hopefully asked. Asclepius looked at Build peculiarly, as if he was a plate of china. “It depends. Do you enjoy having control over your limbs, and retaining memories beyond a span of five minutes.” “What kind of a question is that.” “I’m just saying. Some gaseous nitric conglomerates don’t exactly have a need for either of those.” Build nodded with mock understanding, and then restated his question. “I was being serious before,” Asclepius responded in turn. “I can’t exactly do that without fundamentally changing what it means to be you. Your mindscape would be heavily modified, and the feedback may even unanchor you from this dimension entirely. It’s entirely possible you’d return from whence you came. So, with that, no. There is no cure.” Build looked at his glasses. Same as ever, they shone with the cosmos. “Y… Can’t you, like, unparadoxify my glasses?” Xenos shook his head. “Your glasses - whatever the hell they are - are… too strong for even us to handle.” He looked embarrassed to be admitting the PAES had trouble with anything. “To nullify that paradox would be like reopening an old wound. A wound cutting through existence.”
Build’s hands shook. He slowly put his glasses back on his head. “So, what. You brought me all the way here, just to tell me that I’m gonna keep having these dreams, forever, and that there’s nothing I can do about it unless I want to stop being me??” Asclepius looked at Build and shrugged. “I… sincerely apologize. It’s the best I can tell you.” Build gritted his teeth in complete irritation. “Fine. Thanks for the help, Assclepius. Just… just take me back to my cell.” Build’s head hung low. Xenos and Hughes nodded, beckoning for Build to follow.
And so, he did. He followed them all throughout the headquarters, until all three of them realized something. There were only three of them, yes. Asclepius and the other officer had stayed behind at the Metal Rain. So why were there four sets of footsteps?
All three people turned back at once, staring at this unexpected fourth member of their party. There was a vaguely rectangular shape behind them - the opened front door of reality. A door that had just been opened by force. The figure that had walked out of it was the source of the footsteps. It was a gleaming, metallic facsimile of a standard Minecraft avatar. Every part of their artificial body shined with a luminescent, intense, purpose. There was this indeterminate fire in their eyes that radiated power. Resting in their arms was a double-barrel shotgun, fashioned out of wood, with steam curling from its end. The figure cocked the shotgun, and spoke in a low, completely human voice, that cut through the entire headquarters. “Tch. You servants of infants need to invest in better security. Try building a wall next time.”
Hughes and Xenos spoke to retort at once, and most likely to call for backup, but they didn’t get the chance. Quicker than Build could see, this robotic figure had pulled out another gun from hammerspace, firing two projectiles and ejecting a plume of smoke. Metal pincers screamed through the air and snagged Hughes and Xenos by the neck, magnetically pinning them against the ceiling. They were stuck. Other officers were beginning to notice the commotion, but the robot didn’t seem to mind. He just walked forward. And Build walked backward.
“Wh… What the hell is going on??” Build found himself asking. “Who are you?” “Oh, wow,” the robot laughed. “All this time, and you don’t even recognize me. Guess you only knew things when you relied on some green ghost to help you.” Build stared blankly, trying to walk back as fast as he could without tripping. “...You mean you seriously don’t know? Too bright to see. Robotic. Carrying a shotgun, for Donald’s sake.” And then it clicked in Build’s head. “G… Goanna? But I… I thought you were trapped in a lotus eater machine!” “Just shows how much you care about your mistakes,” Goanna spat. He levelled a shotgun directly at Build’s face, his hand on the trigger “I never forgot. Once I gained cognizance of the world outside that cursed machine… Once I remembered the existence I’d left behind… I swore I’d never stop until I broke myself free and hunted you down. I want you to take my place. I want you to share my fate.” “Are you kidding me?? Y-you’re gonna kill me just for dealing with a legitimate threat to the war? Come on! It was common sense!”
At this, Goanna laughed even harder. “Kill you? No, no, no. You’re misunderstanding. I told you that you would share my fate. Why would I kill you…” The ends of Goanna’s shotgun gleamed with a white-hot intensity. Build suddenly felt very, very hot. “...When I can lock you in your own broken mind?” Build tried to run. He really did. He turned his back and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. But Goanna’s shotgun - whatever it was - practically fired a wall of light. It was impossible to escape. Build felt it hit his back and wash over his head. His eyes rolled upwards, and he was dimly ware of himself tumbling to the ground. And then there was darkness.
Goanna calmly walked forwards, ignoring the other Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron guards. He scrutinized Build’s body and, with the strength of a robot, picked him up and carried him back through the door of reality.
“Sweet dreams, Adam Mason.”
...Tock.
The clock stops. Time has reached a standstill. And so has plot.
Sorry to burst your bubble, but this game is over. The post I just made was a piece of fiction commemorating the original thread's four-year anniversary. If the concept of attacking a godmodder intrigues you, however, you can post on the current thread here. http://forums.terraria.org/index.php?threads/destroy-the-godmodder-0rigins.47834/
Three weeks ago was December 7th, 2016. The END OF YEAR 4. At that date, it had been four years since TT2000 had originally posted the first "Destroy the Godmodder" thread, here on this very forum. I felt it would be cool to make a series of 'short' stories - one for every 12/7 we've had. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea, brought upon by FDR's famous speech about Pearl Harbor, in which he called 12/7 "a date which will live in infamy." I just decided to flesh out some previous events in the series to start - like showing what was really going through the minds of the Godmodder and TT2000 at the start of DTG1, and bringing back Zero Hour and Monochromium. But after that, I hadn't really done any major events within DTG2. 12/7/15 and 12/7/16 were completely up for grabs. So I went wild with them, forging an entirely new path.
The main idea that I was going with for Infamy was remembering. The idea that it's okay to turn to the past for advice, and that you should always remember where you came from. It's what the Godmodder was doing with his whole slideshow, and it's what I hope all of you now understand after reading through it. The future may not be certain, but the past is. (Unless you're in, like, some Orwellian future. In which case, good luck.) And as for that final part with Build... Those two dreams he'd experienced were based off of weird image-based stories I uploaded on the DTG Discord channel, called Daddyquest and Corporateclustergorillaquest. The latter involved TheLordErelye's own text adventure, Abyssal Oddity, which takes place outside of Fiction entirely. Why is Build able to dream something like it up? Well, that's the problem, isn't it. Build's predicament will likely conclude in a quest similar to those two (it might just be through text, though). I'll probably upload all three on imgur or something.
Well, I guess that's all I've got to say. Now that I'm done with Infamy, I'll be able to continue work on the DTG2 flash animation [S] Arrive (which never stopped being a thing that was happening, despite me missing the date it was supposed to release at). I'm not going to pretend I know when it will be done. The best I can tell you is,
/
Destroy the Godmodder 2 ended one year ago today. I'm being honest, I didn't exactly grasp the full weight behind that sentence until I typed it out right now. Maybe I still don't. The point I'm trying to make here is that it's once again September 1st, a date steeped in the niche of meme numbers. The only reason I elevated 901 to such high significance was Homestuck's (over)use of its own start date, 413, which I guess shows that though I try to not affiliate this game with Homestuck anymore, things still have a way of seeping through the cracks. Hell, the name of this epilogue - One Year Older - is a direct reference to the name of a Homestuck album.
Anyway, the epilogue. Let's talk about it. If you've been active in the DTG chat rooms at all - formerly Pesterchum, and now, Discord - then the existence of an epilogue shouldn't exactly come as a surprise. It's something I've talked about at length, but only fairly recently. Indeed, I started work on the epilogue basically a month ago, on July 30th, if memory serves me right. So what happened in between last year's September 1st and now? Why did I decide to make a new ending for a story that already had an end? Well, I'll tell you.
One of the reasons was the previous ending's ambiguity. As I said last year, the ending of DTG2 was designed so that if DTG2 was the last game, the ending would be final enough to stick, and if it wasn't, the ending would be open enough to leave room for another game. That was all fine and good, but there was a problem. It became increasingly clear as DTG0 went on that there wouldn't be a DTG3, so I had all these unresolved plot threads with no way to resolve them. The solution was to tell them in other games. DTG0 would tell some of them, and DTG: Terraria would tell some others. I mean, Bill Cipher and Split are both in the Terraria session right now!
However, there was another reason. Shortly before Act 5 released a year ago, I started work on the Probect Pinary ARG, which was told entirely through the DTG chat rooms. The ARG was cool because it involved the community, but it was bad because it involved a specific portion of it. The ARG discussed matters very relevant to the canon of DTG, and the big problem was that not everyone would be able to see them until I actually revealed the matters at hand in DTG itself, which would be a long period of time down the line. The problem was exacerbated further when Pinary began to interfere with things going on 'after' DTG2, resulting in segments outlined in the epilogue, with the players calling various DTG characters. And then I made [7x7], a short but sweet memo game wherein reality was annihilated and the players had to pick up the pieces.
It was pretty clear that I needed a convenient way to tell all of these stories in DTG itself - and I couldn't exactly tell them in DTG0, either. Though Tazz works very hard, updates to the game sometimes come at a slow pace. Which is why I decided to tell all these details through this - an epilogue. There were still other reasons, though, with one of the main ones being that I wanted to show what the Godmodder would do next. (Because come on, he was pretty obviously alive at the end of DTG2. I even italicized the "Or had he?") I had always planned to leave what was next up to the future GM, but the same problem arose - there was no future GM, which meant that the responsibility was on me.
The final piece of the puzzle came in the form of the reboot. Yes, there actually will be a Destroy the Godmodder reboot. The entire idea was brainstormed by pionoplayer, who suggested it as an alternate continuity to simplify the game's existing canon and reintroduce the game's simplicity to a newer audience. Everyone rolled with the idea, and he developed an entire universe off of it. What wasn't exactly clear, though, was how the new universe would be created. The Epilogue was really kicked off when I came up with the reveal at its end - the Godmodder would be the one to cause it. After extensive conversations to make sure piono was okay with the idea, I got to work.
And the above three posts are the end result. There you have it. The end of ends. If I'm being honest, I'm actually very proud with this. It might be the greatest storypost I've ever made for DTG2. I'm certainly happy with it, and I know everyone reading along on the Discord was, too. The epilogue really existed as a way to tie DTG2 together with the games that came after it - whether those games were DTG0, DTG: Terraria, or the reboot. After DTG2 ended and I lost the power to control the canon of the game, things sort of got messy, with spinoffs running concurrently and player plots tangling up into a ball. That's pretty much the reason why the reboot was made, but it was also, to some extent, why the epilogue was made. There were so many things I felt the need to discuss - what character X did, how object Y tied into everything, why is thing Z such a horrible W, and so on.
Some of this stuff just came together fortuitously - the idea of ВИСЦЕC had been around for a while, but the concept of it being an escape mechanism for the reboot was new - and others had already been stated in memo games, but needed to be told in the actual story - pretty much every time the players used Binary's terminal to view things. The epilogue was meant to clear up things for those in the know, and to let those not in the know be in the know. Hopefully, I've succeeded. But as a fair warning - the Pinary shenanigans aren't over yet. If you want to learn about them, you'd better hop onto the Discord! (And if you want a link to that, feel free to PM me on either here, the Terraria Forums, or Steam.)
And really, this is a goodbye in more ways than one. Because DTG0 has left the Minecraft Forums, this epilogue is likely to be the last major DTG-centric event ever put up here. So... Thanks for giving us a home for nearly four years, MCF. It means a lot.
A year ago, I'd said DTG2 wasn't finished. I'm slightly ashamed to say that it still isn't. Though I've finished some of the criteria - I typed up Crusher's Comb Rave, I edited the lost turn in Act 3, and I've gotten major work done on the chapters list - I haven't finished everything I'd intended. The turns with bad formatting haven't been fixed (at least, not all of them), the chapters list isn't officially up yet, and, most importantly, DTG2 isn't backed up via an Internet archive, and I don't have the BBCode on hand. Which means that if this site ever goes down... So does the past three years.
I know what you're thinking. Twin, you're thinking to yourself, I thought you said you'd make a Flash animation today, not an epilogue! What gives?? Rest assured, I haven't forgotten about [S] Arrive. It's just that making a Flash takes time. I mean, a lot of time. Expect it to be out by November 26th, the two-year anniversary of the Arrival, the event depicted in the Flash. If it isn't complete by then, I'll most likely just post what's finished and leave it at that. In addition, expect the official chapters list to be up soon - definitely by the end of the month. And in case you were somehow convinced Trifecta could still be a thing - it isn't. Don't get your hopes up.
As I said before, I have a few projects in the works unrelated to DTG. Pie Quest, which I started in the form of an MSPFA... has kinda died. Turns out an MSPFA is hard to maintain, and harder to draw for. I don't know if I'll ever get back around to doing it, but I really hope I will. As for The Tingleheads... We'll see when that happens. Oh, and I have another name for you: Chosen. Hopefully, that'll be my first webcomic. But hey, that's purely a hypothetical.
Well, I've once again run out of things to talk about. All I can give you is my thanks. Thanks to everyone for reading this and for supplying me with positive feedback! Thanks to Curse and the staff for maintaining the Minecraft Forums! Thanks to the Council of Fifteen for providing me with feedback for their dialogue! Special thanks to TT2000 for creating Destroy the Godmodder, and all the other GMs for creating their own games! Very special thanks to pionoplayer, for telling me what to do with regards to writing the Reboot into the story and the Piono segment, The_Nonexistent_Tazz, for clearing the idea that the Godmodder would be the cause and helping me with the Dark Carnival segment, and TheLordErelye, for going over my initial outline of the epilogue and helping me with the ВИСЦЕC segments!
I'm TwinBuilder! And as always,
Stay tuned.
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
PART 1: IMMORTAL WORDS
PART 2: HANDS OF THE CLOCK
PART 3: LIGHT METACHRONISTIC
PART 4: COALESCENCE
PART 5: METAL RAIN
An immeasurable interval encompassed in a single gesture. A swing of the clock.
Tick....
“Heh,” the voice chuckled to itself. Crouched in a chair at an unknown point in space, arms hunched over a keyboard. Each clack of a key echoed until it was muffled by the oppressive walls. A pair of goldenrod curtains rustled in the winds of a bitter winter not yet quite realizing it was still autumn. The room was dark, and full of objects, yet anyone standing in it would never be able to tell exactly what the room contained. Such was the magic of the Veil.
“Let’s see here. What server can I terrorize today. Mineplex? Nah. Already screwed with ‘em last week. Those noobs never saw it coming. Goldencraft? Feh, maybe later. I can see some real danger with those creative plots, but I’d need time.” The voice puzzled in its chair, the glare of the computer screen providing the only light in the room. It was impossible to determine the time of day. “What I need is something quick and easy. An in-and-out type of job.” The voice scrolled through the webpage, looking through server after server, until something caught its attention.
Sick and tired of a Minecraft experience that’s chock-full of unnecessary details? Want a game as formulaic as possible?! Then hop onto the Generic Plugin-Filled Server! A hand reached from the keys, brushing through its brown hair. A set of blue eyes blinked once, then twice. “It’s perfect. So generic, so bland. And with just enough players that people will give a damn…” The voice’s hands spasmed across the keys with a flurry, pasting the server’s IP directly into the Minecraft console. “...when I obliterate it from the Internet!”
The Godmodder clicked the ENTER key, and tunneled into another universe.
Welcome Godmodder476 to the Generic Plugin-Filled Server! The server automatically prompted as soon as the Godmodder set foot onto the perfectly, stupidly cubic environment. The Godmodder took an experimental look around. The sun was climbing steadily into the sky, and the clouds were grazing the mountaintops. The Godmodder walked forward, seeing a steady crowd of players hanging around what looked like a gigantic castle someone had built.
“Hey,” the Godmodder typed in chat. “This thing looks pretty cool. Who built it?” The general consensus pointed to a ‘DeathZombieX57.’ “Death, huh?” the Godmodder grinned to himself. “Pleased to meet you, Death. Allow me to introduce myself.” The Godmodder chose this exact moment to pull a stack of TNT from under his cape. With a flip of his hand, every cube of dynamite scattered into the skies, lighting at the same time. There was a tremendous cacophony of light and sound. All those who were in the actual castle, examining it, were vaporized. Many blocks dissolved into ash. Others still were cracked and shattered, flung to the ground below. Everyone in the area was knocked back in a stupor.
When DeathZombieX57 respawned, he spouted some curses in a fit of rage that were blocked by the server’s anti-swear filter, and then ragequit. The players of the server froze. The Godmodder hovered off the ground, his cape rustling in the wind that was all too real. He typed one last line in chat, and then went still, eagerly awaiting any type of response that could be mustered to his attack.
“You can call me The Godmodder.”
The complaints filtered through incessantly. “SAVE US!!!!” KNIGHTS_WHO_SAY_NI yelled. “I’m just screaming because everyone else is???” Ziromix honestly typed. “WHEN THERE’S NO ROOM IN HELL THE DEAD WALK THE EARTH,” jaredsw repeatedly spammed. “TT2000 your are only hop!1” cried TheRealSlimShader. And they just kept coming. “DAE this server is terrible!” “I’m so upset! RAGEQUIT!!” “REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” “has undertale been invented yet because i feel like i’m gonna have a bad time” “AND THEY DON’T STOP COMING AND THEY DON’T STOP COMING AND THEY DON’T STOP COMING”
What seemed like a whole world away, TT2000’s eyebrow twitched, and he sighed in his chair. As the owner of the generic plugin-filled server, he was honestly at a loss. Never before had the server’s community become so… inflamed over something. TT2000 honestly didn’t really care what this godmoder was up to, but if this many people were enraged over it, it was, admittedly, probably something worth looking into.
TT2000 switched the chat to Server Staff Only and began to converse. “Hey, I think we have a problem,” he typed out. “Apparently some godmoder blew up a castle, and now the whole serve’s up in arms.” “*Server,” he hastily added. “let the players sort it out,” a mod responded. “Yeh,” another one typed out. “Weve been pretty lazy when it comes to decisions like this. i guess that’s what happens when p much anyone can apply for admin.” TT sighed. Having a lazy government made important matters so easy to resolve, but at the same time… It didn’t feel right. “Yeah, you guys are right,” he typed out after a few minutes. “We’ll check in on it tomorrow and see if things work themselves out.”
TT2000 switched to another window until he heard a voice interrupt him. “Godmodder,” it spoke. TT swore the voice didn’t sound human. There was an otherworldly echo to it. “That’s what he’s called. Not a godmoder. There’s a difference.” TT2000 spun around in his chair, finding himself face to face with a perfectly white humanoid entity, floating before him. His eyes were like two solid red discs, and he seemed to be wearing some kind of shimmering coat that spun and spiraled into infinity. Occasionally, electricity crackled across his body, which gave way to a sea of green plasma. TT2000’s eyes darted in horror. “Are… are you a ghost? Am I being haunted?? Am, am I being possessed?”
The maybe-ghost moved a bit closer. “No, no, and… kind of. I know this sounds crazy, but listen to me.” TT2000 got out of his chair, reached for a phone, and began to dial it, not breaking eye contact. “Hello, yes, Ghostbusters?” The maybe-ghost sighed, and with a flick of its wrist, TT felt a momentary searing pain against his head, like his phone had been turned into flame. A moment later, his phone was gone, faint cracks of electricity racing across his body. “My PHONE!” The maybe-ghost reclined in the air, holding it. “You’ll get it back - if you listen to me and fight your human urge to flatline in response to having your entire worldview tipped upside down.”
Sitting back in his chair and putting his head in his hands, TT2000 tentatively looked up. “...Okay. I’ll listen to you.” The maybe-ghost nodded, his head ethereal and seemingly unreal. “Excellent. Alright, here’s what you need to know. I,” the figure pointed to itself, “am the Operator. I arrived on your planet about forty five point six one two minutes ago, and have been looking for someone just like you.” TT2000 stared at himself. “...Someone like me? What makes me so special?” “You have the potential to write a great story. Don’t laugh at me, I’m being serious. Listen, I can’t exactly explain nth-dimensional fauxphysics to you, but what you need to know is that your universe - Earth - is only one of millions. A bubble in an endless realm of fiction, where stories are constantly and continually brought to life by authors, and directors, and artists, and playwrights. And it’s up to the forces of plot to dictate how those stories end.”
The Operator pointed to TT2000’s computer screen. With a snap of green light, it refocused back to the generic server, showing the Godmodder hovering in the air while the entire server raged in despair. Whenever anyone fleetingly tried to fight back, the Godmodder waved his hand, and the offender was impaled on a wall of spikes. They blinked red, either slinking back to the sidelines or ragequitting. “You might not believe it, but the Godmodder is terribly important. His story - stories, actually - could quite possibly determine the fate of Fiction itself. It is of crucial value that this fight against the Godmodder goes as it should. He must not be allowed to win.” TT2000 pondered all this. “So let me get this straight. You’re saying my universe is a lie, that this random godmoder--” “Godmodder.” “--is actually a serious threat, and that I and I alone hold the power to stopping him… and it revolves around me telling a story wherein he loses?” “You’ll have my help, of course. But basically, yes.”
TT2000 posed like a great thinker, his hand resting on his chin. He solemnly looked up and uttered, “I’m sorry, but that sounds completely and utterly fake.” The Operator arose, a bit annoyed. “Of course it’s fake! You’re living in a fictitious universe right now! But enough of that! If I tried to explain metaphysical constants to you right now, you would evaporate into taffy. If you accept my offer, however, you’ll find that it will be much easier.” The Operator dusted off his coat and put his hand forward. “If you let me inhabit your body, then I can give you omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence - as long as it’s limited to the Godmodder’s battle. You can tell this story with ease, without actually having to do anything within the server itself. And together, we can let the players destroy the Godmodder.” “...And if I say no?” “Oh, then I leave, your server is ground into ashes, and there will be no one capable of stopping the Godmodder. He will eventually force the entirety of Minecraft to ragequit, and from there, there’s no telling what he’ll do.” “I mean, this is just one Minecraft server. But at the same time… if I’m the ‘chosen one’ or whatever… I can’t exactly back down, can I.” TT2000 thought to himself, in infinite solitude. The Operator hovered over his shoulder, his hand still reached outwards.
Looking at his computer screen and seeing the Godmodder’s smug grin, so sure of his apparent victory, TT found his eyes steeling themselves with resolve. “I’ll do it. It’s about time something interesting happened, honestly!” The Operator nodded. “Then welcome aboard, Tenacious T.” TT2000 shook the Operator’s hand. His ghostlike body uncoiled and split at the seams, dissolving into green plasma. TT’s entire body shook with electricity, feeling as though untold amounts of voltage were ripping through his skin. Green flames leaked out of his eyes, consuming his vision until…
...Everything stopped.
A green haze permeated TT’s vision. He saw with infinite clarity. The Operator’s claims were true. He had universal cognizance. He could see timeline after timeline, universe after universe… And yet, he cared only for what was in front of him. TT2000’s computer had been transformed. It was wrapped within an ornate dull-green cabinet, with a holographic green keyboard twitching and fizzling to life in front of him. It merely read UPDATE TERMINAL. TT2000 sat down in his chair, examining this new hardware. It asked for a username and password - done. After several seconds, the terminal seemed to register TT as a valid user, and then he was in.
It functioned exactly the same as his actual computer, only with the inclusion of an additional application. A text editor, capable of creating words with the power to change fates. And in these initial moments of charisma, TT2000 saw the path before him clearly. And so he typed the immortal words.
Everyone on the server, all at once, saw the sky momentarily light up with green. Even the Godmodder was momentarily disturbed. And next, came the booming voice. “DESTROY THE GODMODDER!” it beckoned, shouting from some distant cloud above. The voice resonated like a thunderclap, yet it did not knock anyone to their feet. If anything, it inspired everyone to stand. “In this game, you have to destroy a godmodder. Use any attacks you want!” The players looked at each other in surprise. There was a way to deal with him after all. Use anything and everything at their disposal. Draw from wells of limitless creativity. The Godmodder’s flawless smile faltered as the players charged forward, buoyed by tenacity.
And as an afterthought, TT2000 typed a set of rules. The first -
Don't expect your attacks to actually work.
....Tock.
An immeasurable interval encompassed in a single gesture. The clock swings, again.
Tick....
A gleaming azure hexahedron spun its way across a starlit cosmos. Trailing it was a cubic moon marked with craters and lunar dust, blissfully unaware of the fate that would befall it mere months in the future. This same theme of cosmic destruction rung true at this very moment - though now, it was not the moon sailing towards the ground, but an asteroid. An omen of death, ripped from the jaws of space in accordance with circumstantial simultaneity.
The malicious machinery of GodCraft kept turning, nonetheless, waiting for no man nor entity. The millions of players scuttling like insects across its surface were left helpless, stuck within the spider’s web of eternal rage. The cycle was as follows - live, die, repeat. Attempting to leave was futile. Even rage is futile. The only options are to either accept your fate, or be tormented rejecting it. And yet, despite this tapestry of helplessness… there is a legend. A legend perpetuated across the server, and from there, throughout universes. Of a chosen few with the power to end everything. The power to save themselves and, in doing so, save everyone. Those who would one day destroy the Godmodder. Descended from ancient warriors caught in yet another godmodding war, they had the arms of fate behind them, and with luck and creativity on their side, how could they lose?
They couldn’t. But their victory could be obstructed, even if it was temporary. And this was to be one of those obstructions. The entire server subconsciously recognized it. They were on the precipice of their first darkest hour - and it wouldn’t be their last.
It was slightly difficult to recognize what the exact moment was, when the entire server simultaneously realized that something truly awful - something awful that stood out even amongst the general spectrum of “awful” that pervaded GodCraft - was about to happen. Perhaps it was when people realized the sky was beginning to turn red, despite the sun hovering near the top of the sky. Perhaps it was when forests started catching fire, despite there being no immediately discernible source. Perhaps it was when chunks of flaming rock began falling at scattered points across the server.
But whatever the cause, there was a point where everyone began to, simply, panic. It was a panic that intensified once people actually saw the asteroid nearing closer to the server. Some observed through telescopes. Others saw it looming on the horizon. Based on the coordinates of those who’d seen it, and how large it was in the sky according to those coordinates, the server began to glean a pretty good idea of where it would land. Deep in a jungle resting within an ocean. The information carried in waves - panicked arrays of numbers and calculations rippling throughout chat, the knowledge imparting itself onto internet forums and discussions. No one knew what to make of it. Was it the Godmodder’s latest scheme? How much damage would it cause upon impact? Did They - the Descendants - know?
The entire area was evacuated in preparation. Everyone wanted to see the asteroid fall, but no one particularly wanted to be there when it landed. Dying may have been just a nuisance, but no one was quite sure how the game would react to an asteroid impact. Perhaps you wouldn’t even respawn. And as the entire playerbase of Minecraft pondered this question, the hands the clock moved closer to the zeroth hour. The asteroid inched ever closer, hurtling through space, towards the surface of GodCraft. Aimed for a remote body of water with a jungle at its center, at the center of that jungle, a temple. And buried in a pyramid at the center of that temple was an artifact of immeasurable power - the Monolith.
The Monolith knew of the asteroid. The Descendants knew of the asteroid. The Heir of Breath, Seer of Light, Knight of Time, and Witch of Space knew of the asteroid. The Godmodder did not. But he would soon enough.
It all happened in a flash, so it seemed.
The players navigating Monolithium, that sacred temple holding the Black Monolith, had bested its underground arena, and beaten a warrior forged from prismatic crystal. They had been given access to its innermost chambers, culminating in a long hallway that led to a pyramid with uncountable steps. Waiting for them there was the Heir of Breath - an immortal adolescent caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. And in hot pursuit was the Godmodder, backed up with legions of terrors and mechs, ready to take the Monolith for himself.
The struggle was intense but brief. In naught but a moment, the Godmodder’s forces tore a hole through Monolithium, entering the vaunted chamber of the Monolith in no time at all. Smoke and ash littered the majestic halls as the Godmodder rushed up the staircase, striking clear and true - and shattering a seal of infinity in one blow. The Monolith whirred to life, its purpose revealing itself. A machine designed to accelerate natural processes, amplify the flow of plot - to activate crucial events in a single command. Instigating a great undoing. Gaining ultimate power. The choice is in the eye of the beholder.
The Godmodder thought back, in those instants, to that day, one year ago. That last time the clock had swung, when he had made that pivotal decision to log onto that generic plugin-filled server. If there was one thing the Godmodder had learned in his time spent throughout the universe of Minecraft, it was to trust in numbers and dates. Whenever things repeated, it was plot’s way of drawing importance towards them. The Godmodder had learned to never ignore coincidence. And when the Descendants had made a beeline for a Void Artifact on the anniversary of the First Godmodding War, the Godmodder knew he needed to act.
So he’d wished for himself. Literally. Himself, from one year ago. He didn’t particularly care if it created a paradox - he wanted two Godmodders. Then, the Descendants would know the meaning of defeat. Faced with twice the power, they would surely crumble.
It was funny - how quickly victory could be obstructed.
When the asteroid landed, it brought with it destruction on an unprecedented scale. The object was so immense that it brought with it a gravitational field. The very laws of physics began to break down, stray blocks and even chunks floating upwards. The temple of Monolithium was uprooted, drifting up towards a sky lit with the fire of falling skies. The Monolith, in the middle of its summoning ritual, was forced to cut the process short to save itself. The Descendants, those immortal few, stood their ground, knowing that although they would live, it would hurt.
And it did. A lot.
The Monolith’s abyssal powers ripped through time and space, bending backwards across the fourth dimension to reach that Generic, Plugin-Filled Server. Right when the clock reached midnight, at the zeroth hour, it spun backwards several months, undoing a swing of the clock…
As one Void Artifact did its magic, another one reformed itself from ashes and blocks. The Hexahedron’s luminous gilded form reassembled in the heart of the generic server, destabilizing thanks to a horrific glitch. The Hexahedron’s surface shifted continually with the foundations of tetrominoes, sacred geometry echoing across its surface as it spun, a low bass humming across the field. Every Descendant stood as testimony to its wonders. The cube spun upwards - with every rotation, the field stabilized just a bit more, reforming the horizon, separating ground from sky, restoring the landscape.
In the middle of it all, wrapped in the eye of corruption, was the Godmodder. Seemingly one with the Glitch, his body was mutating and metastasizing. And as the Hexahedron worked its power, reformatting reality’s Source Code, it deemed the Godmodder irreparable, indistinguishable from actual reality. It tore a hole through space to rectify the issue, sending the Godmodder through negative zones. And it was from this slip in time that the Black Monolith pulled a damaged Godmodder, sending him outwards to GodCraft, to fight in the crater of a dying world.
As this old Godmodder’s body spawned on the new server, it scarcely had time to take in the scenery, finding itself crushed under tons of rubble. Drawing in his energy and punching upwards, the Godmodder tore a hole through bedrock, leaping out to find himself face to face with… himself. And a new crowd of players. The seemingly generic server had been pulled out from under him, replaced by a server absolutely buzzing with information - its code was in a mindscape, it contained millions of players, and an eighth of it had just been annihilated by what seemed to be an asteroid. Entire chunks were left glitching, suspended in the air, the world simply unable to process what had occurred.
The Godmodder looked at his future duplicate with absolute confusion. The two Godmodders locked eyes, turning away from the players. “Wh… where am I??” said the Godmodder. “Quiet, me. Just call yourself ‘Godmodder Prime’ for now, that’ll make things easier for both of us,” the other one replied. “Uh… okay,” Godmodder Prime nodded. “I think I can do that. Now, can you answer my question?” The Godmodder held up his hand and shook his head. “Afraid not. Don’t want to spoil anything. All I can say is, you’re in the future. And right now, your job is to fight those noobs for me.” Godmodder Prime looked at the unfamiliar crowd. There were some faces he recognized, but some notable absences. “Now that’s something I can do. But, uh, aren’t you gonna help me? You know, two ultrapowerful warlords against a bunch of noobs sounds great to me! Nice entertainment. Could use some popcorn. Buttered popcorn. Delicious.”
Pondering this greatly, the Godmodder merely shook his head. “Nah. You’re better off doing it alone. The original plan was to have us both fight together, but… you’re a version of me from the Glitch, aren’t you.” At this, Godmodder Prime’s body momentarily deteriorated into hazy teal static. “I’m taking that as a yes.” Godmodder Prime coughed up ones and zeroes. “Last thing I remember… from “the past…” Is some giant golden cube restoring everything, and me going through some tunnel… into here.” The Godmodder nodded. “That’s what I thought. Listen, uh, don’t take this personally, but I don’t want to look at you ever again. Got it?” Godmodder Prime sneered. “What, do you hate yourself or something.” “No, look, it’s a scientific fact. If we hang around each other for too long, it could screw up some major stuff with the integrity of the universe and whatnot. Gotta stay separated.”
Godmodder Prime contemplated this, but nodded in understanding eventually. “Alright. Glad we’re on the same page,” the Godmodder grinned. He started to fly away, hiding behind rubble, before Godmodder Prime shouted out something. “Wait! Do… do we win? On that server?” The Godmodder stopped in midair, before tersely replying, “...No spoilers.”
He then flew off into a field of bedrock, cracking under the stress of death.
Of course we didn’t win, he thought. We’re the bad guys.
....Tock.
An immeasurable interval encompassed in a single gesture. The clock swings once more.
Tick….
Very well, then. The Council of Nine hereby sentences you, Dr. H. M. Phage, T. E. of ‘the Hospital,’ to an eternity of damnation. You will be forced to wander this realm’s concrete halls - forever. “Boy howdy,” the bacteriophage cheerfully quipped. “This reminds me of the mono-gleaming! I’ll surely be having a splendid time here, fellow slabs. Oh, and in case you chaps ever need your spiralings rectified, here’s my card! I’ll be seeing you!” The bacteriophage walked on its four spindly legs, right out the vast doors of Limbo’s Court.
Thank · that’s over. Those zone-based freaks just keep pouring in. I’d tell him that he’s the 11,446th ‘Dr H.M. Phage’ we’ve received, but I doubt he’d even view it as something that’s wrong. How are there so… many of them? Such were the comments from the Council of Nine, a parliament of nine Endermen that governed Limbo, one of Fiction’s afterlifes. To exist in Limbo was truly a cruel fate. All who entered found themselves squeezed and crushed into mere shells of who they once were, after eternities spent wandering its unending myopia.
Take some solace in the fact that the next soul coming from the Hospital will arrive in around seven thousand blinks, the Head Councilman sighed. Drawing a stack of paper from his robes and stacking them into the shape of a brick, he began examining them carefully. What if I blinked seven thousand times really fast, hm? Another Councilman countered. Then what would you do? The Head Councilman grimaced, irritated. You can’t affect the passage of time by blinking, frifth’ngon. But you know that. You’re just saying it to elicit a reaction from me. The Councilman laughed, making no noise. And it worked.
Enough mindless talk, said another Councilman. Who’s next on our list. The Head Councilman examined the papers further. That was our last ‘customer’ for the ‘day.’ Apparently, a good amount of our arbitrary perception of time will now be spent dealing with… the Chosen One. All nine Councilmen bowed their heads and crossed their arms, murmuring in another language. Hail the Hat-Tamer. Hail the Ghost-Capturer. Hail the Holy Churg. The prayer done, all Councilmen looked at each other once more. Do you think we have done enough to aid him, brother? The Head Councilman bowed. I hope so. The Outsider has done much to thwart the Chosen One. He has gained a great foothold within our machine, and is coming dangerously close to achieving the Ultimate Reward. We must rectify this issue immediately. Another Councilman’s eyes leered. Why don’t we just crush this errant soul into paste where he stands? Our power here is unlimited. We could end him in a single strike.
The Head Councilman shook his head. It is not that simple, brother. The Outsider… we did not deal with him when we had the chance. When him and his duplicate first arrived here, many arbitrary periods of time ago… We could have stripped them of their links to their Suns, and turned them into shadows. But we didn’t. We felt the prospect of the two of them attacking each other for an eternity was a just punishment. How wrong we were. When the Outsider’s brother escaped… we were left with a horribly angry First Guardian. One whose fire could take a crushingly long eon to burn out. And now, we are stuck with him. The Council sighed in unison. Is there anything we can do? Someone spoke. There must be some way to deal with the Outsider, even if he is wrapped in the flames of time and clothed with the words of an author.
“Nah. There isn’t.” The voice cut clean through the quartz pillars of the Court, startling the Council of Nine. They turned to see a hideous face looming in the massive computer monitor behind them. One whose skin was bleached white, whose hair was wild and messy, and whose emerald glasses reflected with broken light. His grin stretched across the corners of his face, and when he opened his mouth to speak, red plasma bubbled from within. This was Split, the Outsider. “I mean, you could try, ya Council of Windbags. But you wouldn’t get very far.” The Head Councilman grimaced beneath his robes. Enough of this. Leave our antechamber - and our Antichamber - immediately, you scarlet ibis. “Wow, now you’re calling me a bird? Thanks??” It was supposed to be a dig at how you’re, you know, dead. But sure. Have it your way. Your neck is long and skinny enough to be that of a bird’s anyway. Split stepped back in mock outrage. “Don’t blame me, blame the artist that draws me. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, Y--”
ENOUGH! I have half a mind to label this as entirely meaningless drivel and ignore you, but the other half of me knows better. You’re up to something. But what. Split merely laughed cheerfully. “Ah, of course this has meaning. Distractions always have meaning!” The entire Council gasped in shock, turning away from the computer screen to look at Split, standing right in the middle of the Court. You fiend! Trespassing on holy sacred ground! “Like I give a vat of ink about ‘sacred ground.’ The only god I worship is me. Wait, no, that sounds really stupid. ...As a matter of fact, I didn’t know you guys worshiped a god.” Of course we do. All creatures of the Void give praise to the Greatest of Secrets, whose unfathomable scales carved the gap between worlds, oozing forth beacons of eldritch power. “Tch. Not a very well-kept secret, huh.” You… you know what we mean.
“No, I don’t think I do, actually. I mean, what is the Secret of the Void? I get that it’s a dragon. Y’know, an incomprehensible being that created the Void and whatnot. But what’s the secret that you’re all keeping about it, huh? Its name? Its favorite color? Its Social Security number?” The Council of Nine looked each other in the eyes, which burned with monochromatic flame. There is no secret, Outsider. Now leave our council hall, or we will force you to leave. “Uh, news flash, buddy,” Split smirked. “Last I heard you were just talking about how you couldn’t deal with me.” Split kept advancing, a sword of red flame forging itself in his hands. “Okay, so the way I see it, we do this the easy way - wherein you let me keep talking to this kid - or the fun way - wherein I decapitate all of you and keep talking to this kid. Please,” Split said, grinning intensely. “Choose the fun way.”
The Council of Nine stared at each other, speaking telepathically. ‘There are but two options. One - we call the Secret of the Void here.’ ‘What?? Are you insane?’ ‘If we call him here, he can deal with the Outsider!’ ‘If we call him here, he will punish us for our incompetence. He feels we should be responsible. Self-sufficient. Like his precious Chosen Few was.’ ‘By the Secret’s Head, they couldn’t do half of what they did without him! It isn’t fair.’ ‘...Limbo isn’t fair.’ There was a silence. ‘...And what of option two.’ ‘Metachronism.’ ‘You’re joking.’ ‘I wish I was. It’s looking more like a valid option with every passing second.’ ‘It’s blasphemy! It’s outrageous! It’s…’ Split kept advancing forwards. “Boy, all of you are sure doing a great job not talking. C’mon, bureaucrats. Gimme something to work with here.” The Council of Nine’s souls all spoke in unison. They knew what they had to do. ‘It’s our best shot. O Greatest of Secrets… forgive us for what we are about to do.’
“Right, that’s it. I’m bored. Fun way it is.” Split prepared to flashstep directly for the Council of Nine, the image of his body blurring and warping, but he was blocked by a metaphysical wall. Blown backwards, his sword skidded against the tiled floor, cooling into disuse. “What the… What tricks are this?” The Council of Nine floated above their podium, their robes whirling in the wind. Their eyes gleamed with light kaleidoscopic. O god abyssal, hear our plea. Fix mistakes we hate to see. Hear our words and see our power. Turn back to time’s zeroth hour. Split took several steps back, looking genuinely appalled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Eons of light escape our grasp. Even in death, our fate is clasped. Yet light that steers our fates shines true. Through winds of winter, and fires, too. Let tessellations reign at last. Let us recall the recent past.
The winds in the Council Hall materialized into a spinning crucible of light, from which a trio of liquids were poured in, bubbling in the shapes of tetrominoes’ outlines. They shone with light metachronistic, surging and pooling together into a sickly orchid color. Split’s entire face lit up with this color as a cylindrical beam of holographic flame connected with his body. A horrific explosion resonated across the Court, slicing through quartizine tiles like putty. Split’s entire body was knocked out of this post, sailing through the forum background. The last thing the Council of Nine saw of him was a look of murderous rage, which was honestly quite typical of him. And then, he was a speck on the metaphysical horizon.
The Council of Nine descended back to their seats, the light dissipating from their eyes. That… went well, one of them began to say. I feel unclean, another retorted immediately. Do not worry yourselves, the Head Councilman spoke. We did what we had to do. There was a long stretch of contemplation, then. As the Council stood in wait for the Chosen One’s return.
Darkness rushing on all sides around him. Wind whipping in his ears, intermittent lights flashing in his star-spangled eyes. Split awoke in complete freefall, descending through a metaphysical purgatory. He was in a limbo beyond Limbo. Split grimaced, his red hoodie twirling and spinning as he fell. Looking down, Split saw that there was no discernible ground rushing up to meet him, which was nice. And when he looked up, he saw a tiny pinprick of light from above - no doubt the way he’d entered this… place.
Split concentrated intensely, sticking his arms out. Pulling itself from red plasma was his sword, Broken Anachronism, once more wrapped in fire. Split switched its form, the clock in its center turning into a compass, and its blade metamorphosing into a rod. Split poked at his own chest with the rod, which glowed with a golden light. Immediately, the wind died in Split’s ears. He found himself hovering now, at a standstill. Split twisted around to his perception of what ‘right-side-up’ was and looked ahead of him, at the source of the lights he’d seen.
It seemed to him that what he thought were many different lights, sporadically centered around wherever “here” was, was actually a single point, repeated an infinity of times. The light was coming from a grey platform constructed from two squares, one folded on top of the other. Suspending the platforms were a set of four orchid tendrils. And hovering above was a set of four characters that Split had trouble identifying. A brown and silver behemoth, some zippy orchid shape, and what looked like two blurry robots - one a dull gold, and the other bright orchid. The more Split looked at them, the more he felt he should know them.
Glancing at himself hesitantly, Split called out to speak. “Hey!” he shouted. “Can any of you hear me??” But they made no indication that he could. As Split concentrated even further, though, he began to hear snippets of their voices. One of them spoke in harsh tones clipping themselves together. Another - the small orchid thing - seemed to have no indoor voice, a hollow cadence, and a digital edge to their speech. The golden robot sounded like a robot pretending to be a human woman, and as for the orchid robot… it sounded like if a snake could talk. It made Split’s spine crawl. With that revelation - the comparison to a snake - it clicked for him.
Split had never seen these figures in the flesh before, but he knew things. It came with being a First Guardian. There was no more doubt in his mind - hovering this endless expanse away from him was the Arrival. Earth’s best hope in destroying the Godmodder. Were they locked in this place by the Council? Did they make it? Split wanted to find out, but at the same time… he didn’t want to concern himself with any of it. There was something else on his mind. A Reward.
Split pointed the rod of his sword upwards, and he immediately began to zoom up, up, and away. On his way closer to Limbo, Split could hear snippets of the Antichamber - that cursed, fractalline maze in which the Chosen One, Flare Flames, traveled to reach the Reward. His adventure had been guided through the voices of lost souls - but recently, Split’s voice had shouted louder than anyone’s. He had taken over the adventure, and was hoping to grow so influential that he could reach through the adventure and take the Reward for himself.
Finally. He would get an amazing hat.
But the Council had thwarted his efforts. It would take tremendous work to make it back in time. The best thing Split could do was climb into infinity, screaming through time as he re-entered Limbo from elsewhere.
For once, Split thought to himself, time isn’t on my side.
....Tock.
An immeasurable interval encompassed in a single gesture. The clock swings, penultimately.
Tick....
All was quiet. Bitter winds were whirling through the land, making no noise yet carrying with them infinite cold. The sun was beginning to slip towards the horizon, painting the sky with arrays of colors, all splashed on top of each other and dripping down the canvas. Standing in the middle of this forgotten portion of the world was a tower, jutting clean through the earth and scraping the sky. One hundred and nine stories high and forged from nigh-impenetrable stone, the only sign of activity is the tower’s kaleidoscopic logo: GODMODDING INCORPORATED.
The tower had been working ceaselessly ever since the return of its chief executive, the Omega, a couple of months prior. They had worked throughout a bitter autumn, pursuing a goal infamous for its complexity, incongruity, and unexplainability. No one quite knew what they were working on. The tower’s inhabitants, all of varying races and universes, full of terror yet pride, all had specific jobs to do. Go into the earth, mine out pieces of stone, and compress them in divine furnaces using your own blood as offerings. Take a trip into the Void and collect some artifacts from abandoned temples while running from eldritch abominations. Extract some liquid from the Inky Abyss. Code a multidimensional computer debugger. And the list just went on.
No one quite knew what they were working on. No one quite knew they were unwittingly ending their reality.
The Godmodder had work on his mind, as well. Never stopping, and never tiring. Plunging through the icy depths of other worlds to find exactly what he needed to do in his quest. To make to the heart of existence. A realm where everything could be undone. Everyone who had wronged him. Everyone who he’d wronged. Everyone who fought him, and everyone who was affected by him. Everyone that was below him, and those who he viewed, at best, as equals. Even those pesky forces of plot, so it seemed, would be at least partially undone.
Through his work, the Godmodder had become a cold shell of his former self. He was fueled by an unending desire to be rid of this world. Advice still rung in his ears. To not think as large. To return to his roots. In his own warped and battered mind, that is exactly what he was doing. He was starting fresh. Wiping the drawing board. Creating a clean slate, for everyone. And when all was said and done, they would thank him for his efforts. They would either thank him, or die ignoring him.
And there the Godmodder sat, at the sole chair in the top floor of his facility, with his head in his hands, and the glossy, emboldened nameplate of RICHARD ‘OMEGA,’ CEO on it. The room was cluttered, with everything jumbled together. Teleporters so the Godmodder could jump between important floors were littered everywhere. Personal belongings, still smouldering with ash, were strewn between them. Computer monitors stacked on top of each other, salvaged from governments gone by, hissed with static, sometimes spitting out data on printer paper. Standing behind the Godmodder, like a monolith, was a gigantic transparent case containing rusted clockwork and machinery. Draped around it was golden cloth.
The Godmodder sighed, examining his watch and noticing the date. His mind dimly registered that it was December 7th. A date which would live in infamy. Unwanted memories filled the Godmodder’s head as he got up and trudged onwards, picking up his steaming hammer and preparing to walk towards an anvil. Drawing some metal from a cabinet, the Godmodder raised his hammer over his head, and brought it down with a whistling sound.
Clang.
He remembered one year ago, when a serpent had invaded his life and constricted everything he’d built. When dead pixels and negative infinities had tormented him and the universes he called home and, ultimately, fractured and divided his very mind. When a universe away, a Descendant in white fought against an Outsider to secure a Reward.
Again. Clang.
He remembered two years ago, when the second war had just started, and was beginning to develop darker overtones. When the focus had been shifted away from him for the first time, and onto some nondescript artifact of judgemental fury. When he tried to use a cheap ploy to secure ultimate power. It wouldn’t be the last time.
Again. Clang.
He remembered three years ago, when he first sat hunched in his chair, staring at his computer screen. When he had scrolled through that list of servers and picked the one he thought would be easy to invade. Easy. What a joke it all was. The Godmodder gritted his teeth for abiding by UserZero’s philosophy.
Again, goddamnit, again. Clang.
He remembered four years ago, when he waged a zeroth war that hardly seemed important when compared to the war of future’s past. When an angelic devil with wings ripped from plot and a gaze that could shatter panes of glass attacked him for trying to make a name for himself. When gates had been opened, and the fates had conspired to start the godmodding wars in the first place.
AGAIN. Clang.
He remembered five years ago, when he had just started his quest for becoming the greatest godmodder. When he was fresh out of the Great Halloween Hack that started the fires of darkness in his heart. When he began to have doubts about himself, after suffering some setbacks and defeats against other, powerful godmodders. When he spat with rage that he would not stop until every other godmodder was dead.
It was a pact sealed in blood, and the heat of the forge.
Clang.
He remembered six years ago, when he, Richard, was just discovering Minecraft. When he engaged its creator in excited talks about what he should add, what he could do, what he could create and destroy. The Godmodder laughed to himself, now. Notch was a false idol. And the Godmodder was a nonbeliever.
The hammer whistled downward again, and stopped short of its goal.
Richard’s head hung low. He looked at the metal he had hammered. It was neither smooth, nor rippling with heat. Each of his strikes had misshapen and bent it horribly out of alignment. Taking several steps back, he shouted, swung the hammer, and cleaved straight through the anvil. It bisected, paused, and then shattered into dozens of pieces. Richard stared at it with a blank fury, letting go of his Banhammer, whose fires shut off. It toppled to the ground, and Richard knelt.
“Why,” he muttered to himself. “Why am I doing this to myself? Why is it necessary?” Richard’s body folded inwards. “I’ve… never worked like this before. Never exhausted myself to this point. I can’t feel pain, I don’t sleep, but… why do I feel so tired?” Richard shuddered, walking to a mirror. His hair was disheveled, his clothes faded and tattered. His mechanical arm was dull and worn, and the scar over his eye pained him. “I… I’m not some perfect machine. I need to take a break. I need to know when to quit.”
But as he was having these doubts, Richard kept returning to the date, obsessively. December 7th. December 7th. Always, it seemed, around this time, something tremendous happened. It didn’t take much effort to go back through the archives, and to pinpoint circumstantial simultaneity. Coincidences specifically arranged. Important puzzle pieces stacked on top of each other. Fiction building higher and higher, towards a coalescence. Richard’s hands trembled. “...I need to be reminded. They need to be reminded. Of how we got here.”
The Godmodder straightened himself up and kicked the ground with absurd force. The entire room shook, the Banhammer flipping from the ground and pirouetting through the air. The Godmodder grabbed it by the handle, its twin heads shimmering with steam. The Godmodder tapped his ear twice, a low whine filling the speakers of the entire facility. The well-oiled machine of Godmodding Incorporated faltered. “Attention, all workers. On behalf of the Omega, I’d like all of you to report to Floor 72. It’s time we remembered.”
The entire facility had gathered in a single room, which stretched much farther than the actual dimensions of Godmodding Incorporated should have allowed. It seemed to resemble a gigantic movie theater, with vast walls of wooden paneling designed to mimic Minecraftian architecture. Rows upon rows of reclining chairs inclined up the hall, with various stations sectioned at the hall’s sides, selling conveniences and foodstuffs that were, predictably, horribly overpriced.
At the very front of the room, taking up the entire northern wall, was a gigantic set of goldenrod curtains. Terrors, decoy godmodders, and the like all crowded to their seats. All the while, the voice of the corporation’s secretary calmly yelled orders across the intercom. “Make your way to your seats in a neat and chaotic fashion, ladies, gentlemen, and mentlegen. Watch the tramcar, please, and remember to pick up your Too Far!™ Juice for $7.12 - or, if you have a portion of a soul you can lend, for free. You’ll just owe us a favor down the road, you get the idea. Tick tock, everyone, the show’s due to start in thirty-two seconds. Don’t be late, now.”
And of course, in thirty-two seconds’ time, the lights in the entire floor abruptly shut off, leaving everyone in total darkness. A single guitar chord echoed in reverse across the room as Yes’s Roundabout began to play. The golden curtains drew apart, a single column of light blasting from the projector to illuminate the movie screen. Standing in front of it, dressed in a fine-pressed tuxedo, was the Godmodder. “Thanks for comin’, guys, seriously. I’ve had this idea for… not that long, honestly. But it sure does feel like a long time coming.” The Godmodder vanished in a puff of smoke, and suddenly he was sitting in the crowd, with a front-row seat. “I felt it’s time we took just one break, huh? And what better a day for it than today. December 7th. A day that will live in…”
The spotlight shut off, and the projector in the other side of the room whirred to life. The movie screen lit up with a stylized scarred eye; under it read GODMODDING INCORPORATED PRESENTS: ...And soon afterwards, in bold golden text, read the title: INFAMY. The screen went black, with the Godmodder’s voice beginning to play. Imagine, if you will, another world. A few swings of the clock away. This world is free from the influence of gods and kings. There is only man. And it’s so, so boring.
Until I come to town, that is.
The screen burst to life in a display of light and sound. There, shown in the majesty of film, was a complete recreation of the Psi-Godmodding War in its heyday, so picture-perfect it was as if it had been pulled directly from the Godmodder’s mind - and it had. Flying over all others was the Psi-Godmodder himself, his hood spiraling and trailing in the flames, and bolts of darkness shooting from his arm. Fighting on all sides were the twelve Ancestors, shining with mythological spectra. Weapons collided against weapons, attacks of unbridled creativity launching themselves at supersonic speed. And standing there in the middle of it all, with wide-eyed glee, was the Godmodder’s Minecraft avatar. It was so young that it even lacked his trademark red cape.
There I was, the narration continued. Standing in the first war. The first of many. But this was one was really special, wasn’t it. Forged in the fames of winter and fought by a chosen few, standing against the self-proclaimed first evil of God. That’s a load of bull, if you ask me. Herobrine should get that title. But hell, no one talks about him. After all, I’m the better godmodder. At least - not yet.
The scene shifted, into a tundra of blazing cold. Orchid galaxies flickered by in the skies above, the main focus of the screen comprised by a complex machine of white pouring out the holographic interstellar display, and two figures fighting alongside it. One, dressed in a red coat and lacking a face. The other, in twin folds of red and green, with a double-edged blade. The Godmodder stood in the foreground, once again, in absolute awe. This battle. The one in the Arctic. It’s what really got me thinkin’ about this whole godmodding business. It opened my eyes to how Minecraft was so much more than a game some guy made. It was a portal to another world. Like a drug, I guess? But drugs only let you hallucinate about firing lasers out of your eyes and whatnot. With godmodding, I could do it for real.
And so, I did.
The scene shifted, into a realm of absolute chaos. Jack-o’-lanterns lit up the skies, cascading in rows upon rows. Portals to Hell, stacking on top of each other. Purple fire licking across rooftops built by the gods, ghasts singing ballads of cats that screamed through it all. Explosions of dynamite rocking castle walls, griefers in masks running around without a care, and Mojang, those infallible gods, trying to make sense of it all. And standing in the middle, once again, was the Godmodder, who casually lit another cube of dynamite with some flint and steel, chucked it into the mayhem, and watched it burst into color and sound. Fast forward nearly another year later, and it’s Halloween. The Great Halloween Hack of 2010, to be precise. That was really the start of my darkness, I guess. The start… of my infapfffHAHAHA, nope, can’t do it. Can’t title drop that with a straight face.
The scene shifted, a ton of events playing in fast forward. After that, things got a bit messy. I tried to climb up the ladder as fast as I could. I had some great moments… The movie showed the Godmodder kicking a figure glad in golden armor into the depths of a volcano, then picking up a ring from the ground, putting it on, and walking away. ...And some not so great moments. Then, the movie showed the Godmodder kneeling in a metal rain below an indeterminate statue. In his hands was a ripped glove meant to hold some kind of symbol. But if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s fighting. I fought my way right up to the top, and it was there I stayed. Also, a whole ‘nother war happened at this point, so let’s play the footage at normal speed, huh?
The scene shifted rapidly, showing the Godmodder bickering and yelling with another figure, clothed in red. UserZero, the antagonist of the Zeroth Godmodding War. The fight, which spread across a plethora of still images, got more and more confusing and intricate as it went on, powerful gatekeepers looming across the sky, the Godmodder battling other godmodders, bones and flowers ripping through the field, pacts and slayers of gods raging against the eternal machine. All the while, gates and trees loomed ever closer in the mystical sands of time. It’s funny, honestly. I feel like I never remember this war the same way twice, sometimes. But I remember plenty. The fights I waged, the faces I met. And how it all ended - with me winning! The montage ended with the Godmodder standing triumphantly on top of a hill, his right arm adorned with a glove inscribed with a golden omega. Standing in silhouette against a kaleidoscopic sky, a huge Hollywood-esque orchestra accompanied the moment.
Record scratch. And then I went out and killed every single godmodder.
The Benny Hill theme began to play at maximum volume as various photos took up the screen in a slideshow. On each one, the Godmodder was posing with a disintegrating corpse - the bodies of the godmodders he killed. One was being crushed by a tower of golden anvils. Command blocks and jagged holes littered the environment. Another was being fed feet-first into what looked like a bed of spikes from Super Meat Boy. They seemed to be completely conscious. Another still was impaled on top of a gigantic mountain of Decoy Godmodders. Yet another seemed to have been stabbed with the OP Scale. And the list continued. No, I’m not joking. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but ya get my point. I tracked all of the suckers down, making sure they could never respawn. Making sure they could never challenge me again.
The slideshow faded, showing an image of the serene tower of Godmodding Incorporated. And you all know how that story ended. I took the company I got from UserZero, rebuilt it in the middle of nowhere, and legally changed my name to the Godmodder. The Godmodder. Proper noun. After that, to be honest, there was a whole bunch of non-events. I terrorized random servers, got people to ragequit - I was on my way to being a really huge Richard, if you get what I mean. Until that one fateful day… A day that would live in infamy.
Yes. Nailed it.
The screen shows heavily dramatized footage of the Godmodder bending over his computer screen and wiping sweat from his forehead as he intensely mashes buttons on his keyboard. Lines of green code pour over his monitor until, with a single triumphant press of the ENTER key and an ominous chorus, the screen flickers to a perfectly generic Minecraft server. What are you talking about, that footage is exactly what happened. It’s pixel-perfect. There I was, at any rate. A perfectly generic plugin-filled Minecraft server. I expected everything to be so easy - I’d go in, force everyone to ragequit, and go out. What I didn’t realize was that Minecraft had caught up to me. There were players there, with fate on their side, and stars in their eyes. They had the power to resist rage - and the power to kill me. Naturally, we fought. How else does anyone settle their differences? Peace? Diplomacy? More like sleuth diplomacy.
Those were the days, the Godmodder said. Clips of the First Godmodding War flashed by. Citricsquid and the Godmodder stared each other down intensely, code rippling in the former’s hands as a beam of white-hot power, as if it had been ripped right from the Banhammer, blasted the Godmodder into smoke Citricsquid turned and left, and the Godmodder clawed his way out from the rubble, shadow congregating around his body. He hadn’t been killed. Not by a longshot. And then - a random player scooped up the snow of the tundra into a nuclear ball and flung it skyward. One mushroom cloud later, and the Godmodder arose from the gargantuan, fog-filled crater. With an unholy screech and a gaze of plutonium, he threw trash all over the ring, contaminating the battlefield beyond return. And then - the Godmodder writhed and flopped around the field as a squid, sneaking into a tank and dismantling it from the inside out. Attacks aimed at him pierced through the tank’s armor like swiss cheese, and when the whole thing fell like a house of cards, the Godmodder shot through the sky with perfect aim, careening over all in the way only a flying squid could. All the while, a gate of mystery loomed from behind, continually chiseled away by a hero of Brine and their pickaxe. And then -
Times grew dire. The players were learning how to adapt to utter hell. They were conjuring up juggernauts faster than one could blink. Relics from elemental eras, crowdsourced books, and literal gods. The Godmodder took it all in stride, resorting to underhanded tactics, as he felt he should. And then - the gate was opened, peeling away the world and revealing the uncaring Void that surrounded it. It was a taste of the cosmic horrors to come, just months later. The Godmodder peered through the gate and saw the shifting fabric of reality before him. Yet he did not step through. And then - his health dwindled, forcing last resorts and contingencies to be pulled from underground. Outside the movie, the Godmodder watched, enraptured. Everything was as he remembered it. The dragon and skeleton of pure terror, besieging the land with pink flame and skulls of rippling cobalt. And then, once those final terrors fell, a system error. Variables left unaccounted before coalesced into a churning hurricane of entropy. The tenets of the Void, those inviolate abyssals, were teetering on the edge of destruction. And then, once the error was corrected through clock swings, a forsaken fortress. Castle walls stockpiled over excruciating hours of work. Forces converging on hoards of treasure - an unearthed legend. Both forces, pulling out their last stops. Waves of golems surging from factories, facing off against mechanical magic, pure Australian grit, and shrines of the past. And then, once the castle was crashed, a promotion. Faster than anyone could blink, the tide of the war was upheaved. The Godmodder was an administrator now, and he controlled the game. Entities, charges, all that hard work - erased with a single command. It was the closest anyone had come to feeling rage in a long time. And it nearly worked.
But then - after all that, there were two cards yet to be played. The Godmodder closed his eyes for the last time, sealing himself in a spell of healing. And the last guardian to protect him - a tank forged to lock the universe’s strongest warrior in eternal combat. A turret with one single, insoluble purpose. To destroy. And combating it was a serpentine horror - he that shaped the Void. Reality’s most ancient secret, concealed in the form of a demiurge. With emerald novae, the dragon pushed back the turret’s ire. And amidst a sea of terrors, the players focused everything they had on stopping the Godmodder’s spell.
And then -
Debris filled the air. Spare parts, dying machinery, globules of pink fire. The dragon twisted and turned through the sky, traveling across universes to return to its abyssal home. Which left the players forming a ring around the utterly defenseless Godmodder. You know the rest of the story. Long story short - I died. I lost an arm, and I lost an eye. Funny in retrospect, considering exactly what would happen later. Honestly, that war had a sense of innocence to it. The stakes weren’t nearly as high, for one. I was having… fun, in my own perverse sort of way. And I’d bet they were, too, through it all. But that’s not where this story ends. Far from it.
My infamy would spread, throughout the universe. And it would soon capture all of it. The screen faded to black, and a new set of goldenrod curtains opened, revealing a fenestrated wall. Images cycled through its four frames. The second war - and the largest. Only thing that comes close to it was that Zeroth War. But despite the larger-than-life setting… The over-the-top feeling it conveyed… The satisfaction in knowing millions of people were raging at my feet… It was so unfulfilling. For starters, I lost - again. No shame in admitting that now. But my defeat ran deeper than that. The entire war, I was… Humiliated. Overshadowed. Defied. Sure, nothing would have - or could have - happened without me, but at the same time… I began to have a taste of what it was like to be on the bottom again.
I felt powerless.
One pane of the fenestrated wall lit up. It was nighttime on GodCraft. Embers of light danced through the dying sky, but they were not stars. Each one was an individual battleship, painted in the red colors of an alien empress. They carried drones, turrets, and soldiers across the world, to terrorize, loot, and destroy. The Alternians were allied with the Godmodder in theory, but in practice - he knew they had their own agenda. They were working for someone. Something. And all the while, Scratch - that wretched puppet - had kidnapped the players. Those chosen few the Godmodder had sworn to destroy. They had been whisked away to some idiotic mansion on a chartreuse moon, and all the while, the Godmodder had been left to rot. He stared at the sky for long stretches of time, then. Waiting.
Another pane of the fenestrated wall lit up. The sky was blood-red. Storm clouds swirled around a battlefield tinged with orange. A spirographical, labyrinthine portal hovered in the air, carrying with it a ship of artificial furniture. The forces of the Counteroperation - Earth’s defense against the Godmodder - floated with such arrogance, acting as if they’d already won. The Godmodder, righteously angered, rushed forward to attack - only to be completely and utterly blocked. He was blown away, knocked backwards, held in place. The assailants, with their orchid eyes, could manipulate code, just like he did. Just like he did. The Godmodder raged against the machine, but it did him no good. His robotic arm was snapped in two, and the Godmodder felt a piece of himself die with it.
A third pane of the fenestrated wall lit up. The Godmodder was standing triumphantly in front of a massive granite pillar - but it was uprooted from the ground and thrown aside. A chitinous, wretched spike was driven into the earth in its place, as seas of insects swarmed from all points in the world, drowning the planet in sickly death. The Godmodder’s own challenge had been surrendered to bugs. And then - the Godmodder floated in the abyssal reaches of the Void, carrying with him the Ancestral Artifacts of legend. Right as he was about to claim ultimate power, it was knocked from his grasp. Scratch had showed his faceless mug again, and with but a phrase and a wave of his idiotic Disc of Mojang, the Godmodder felt his vision tunnel as he was sealed within a tuba. Pure fear raced through his mind. He shuddered and sank into tubaphobia once more. In the audience, the Godmodder averted his eyes.
The final pane of the fenestrated wall lit up. The sky was black - no sun or moon lit it. The only light came from a horrible, cascading orchid glow, washing endless fleets of bedrock in its power. The Godmodder, a horrid corpse, twisted his head upwards, staring at the light in awe. He was surrendering himself to… a higher power. The camera panned upwards, showing a bronzed block descending in a column of gold. It carried with it the antagonistic laughter of fate. The leering faces of agents swirled in the void above, ascending into static. The screen shut itself off.
It gave me time to think. About what being a godmodder meant. About what it really meant to be feared, and to experience rage. Y’see - you’re only as powerful as the people below you say you are. Beat up a bunch of noobs, and they’ll tell everyone how you bested them. Then when the people above them challenge you, and you kick them into the ground, and you work your way up until you’re the greatest goddamn thing this side of reality, everyone listens to you.
You only hear the good things. The stories of your horrible greatness. The ideals you set out to achieve, and met. Until the day you meet some force you can’t control, and could have never accounted for. And then you realize that once upon a time - that force was you. And you reveled in making that poor noob feel like crap. And now, you feel like crap! And then you realize how much it stings. Makes ya feel like you’re living a shallow existence, pretending to be the greatest.
See how it goes? Even with ultimate power, I can still have doubts. Doubts caused by the fact that there… there’s always someone better than me. Tch. Never really said that out loud until now, I… guess. Now I know how they felt. All those I ever wronged. I know what it’s like to, even for a minute, be on the bottom. I’d forgotten what it was like. And I don’t ever want to feel that way again.
Now, the ultimate question. Why am I telling you this? Well, I figured - we all need some break time. A day to reflect. A day to remember. So when you leave this theater and reminiscence on what a great movie this was (a 109% on Rotten Tomatoes isn’t a fluke), I want you to think about something. And I want you to take it to heart. Let it fuel you to do even better, to improve yourself. To put your all into this project, moving forward.
I am not the rule. I am the exception. I am infamy. I am Richard. But more than that - I’m the Godmodder.
Now, who the hell are you?
....Tock.
A truly immeasurable interval, encompassed in a single gesture. The clock swings, rounding up to the inevitable end.
Tick....
“Have you ever wondered about time,” the Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron officer said. “To third-dimensional mongoloids, it’s this ceiling hovering over them, marching forwards. To second-dimensionals, the very concept of time is as alien as depth, perhaps moreso. But break beyond that barrier and enter the fourth-dimension, and then you see it.” “Mmh,” the officer next to him said, enjoying a sip of Tang. “I remember the first time I saw it. ‘Twas a marvelous experience. The room I was in stretched to infinity, every point in time it would ever experience expanding and receding before my eyes. I was walking through it, seeing the shadows of those below me. Seeing every step they’d ever take, and ever did take. Then I blinked, and I was back.”
The original officer - Hughes was his name - nodded. “Kinda like how mine went. And all the while I was aware that somewhere up there, there had to be a fifth dimension. One keeping me anchored from going any higher. One I couldn’t reach.” The other officer - Xenos - responded in turn. “The ether, yes. SOUL territory. Time expanded outwards, and ether retreats inwards. I’ll tell you, though, it’s really the ninth-dimensionals that have it made. Complete access to metachronism? Yes, please.” Hughes nodded once more, turning around and talking to someone else. “It, uh, just occurred to me that you probably have no idea what we’re talking about.”
Build shrugged. “I’m used to it, honestly. And I’ve heard worse.” Hughes turned back to Xenos after nodding. “So,” Xenos spoke. “Where are we taking this… ticking time-bomb.” Build fumed from behind his glasses. “To the infirmary,” Hughes stated. “Subject Layer 523/Block C90/Hash 033 has been complaining about…” Hughes tilted his head up, as if trying to remember items from a list. “Vivid dreams, frequent headaches, and feelings of nihilism and existential angst.” “I know what’s wrong with him,” Xenos quipped. “He’s a teenager.” Build gritted his teeth. “You’re really making me feel welcome here, you guys. Seriously. Gotta hand it to you.” “Need I remind you, 523/C90/033, that you are officially imprisoned within these headquarters. You feeling welcome is not exactly our immediate concern.” “Oh, it isn’t?” Build inquired. “Then what is?” Xenos continued marching forward. “You are a problem that we must solve. So that’s what we’re doing. Solving you.”
The trio walked in silence after that.
They walked on the floor, under the floor, through some halls, re-enacted that Scooby-Doo door joke entirely on accident (Build caught himself staring at the other versions of him far too often), walked on the ceiling, walked in an impossible triangle, and passed what looked like a gigantic vault until they made it to Nexus C410 - the Infirmary. “Here you are,” Xenos said, motioning to the door. “Step inside and you’ll be in the care of our doctors.” Build stepped in front of Hughes and Xenos, twisting the door’s cubic lock and entering the Infirmary. The entire room seemed to be circular, the floor warping to become the walls, then the ceiling, then the other wall, and then back to the floor. The tables were mostly empty, bar a few unfortunate individuals - one had purple crystals covering their whole body, and another seemed to be babbling incoherently, occasionally spasming with magenta energy.
A figure in a black lab coat with a purple nameplate - Asclepius - stepped forward. “Ah, 523/C90/033. So glad you could make it - but then, I doubt you are. Right this way, please.” Asclepius motioned to the nearest hospital bed. Build sat on it uneasily before leaning fully back. It was actually quite comfortable. As soon as his head settled into position, a number of monitors and flatscreens began ticking away, calculating information about his vitals. Asclepius sat on the chair adjacent to Build, pulling out a digital tablet and examining it.
“You entered this facility Paradate 09/01/E412512/O4124/N2016, is this correct.” “Uh… sure.” “You qualify as a theta-class prisoner under the watchful eyes of the Galactic Infantile, Sacred Time Giant of the Time Mountains, is this correct.” “Theta class? Sounds right.” Asclepius’ eyes narrowed. “Are you aware we do not have a birth date on file for you.” “I wasn’t until you just told me, but I honestly should have expected it.” “Explain.” “Well, uh, when I first got here, some of the officers told me that under their files, I… don’t exist.” “Do you have any idea as to why this discrepancy has occurred?” “...I’ve got an idea, alright.”
Asclepius peered at Build intently. He looked incredibly nervous, so Asclepius decided to drop that line of questioning - or at the very least, save it for later. “Now - says here you have been admitted to to our infirmary on account of your vivid dreams, frequent headaches, feelings of nihilism and… existential angst.” Asclepius twisted in a sneer. “I believe I have made my diagnosis. You are a teenager.” Build’s head snapped forward in an expression of undiluted rage. “Are you joking me,” he sputtered. “I thought that was obvious. But let me take this time to inform you that as a medical professional certified in seventeen varying dimensions, I will do whatever is in my power to diagnose exactly what is wrong with you. Now - from the beginning.”
Asclepius leaned back. “When did these headaches and dreams start, exactly.” Build concentrated. “Well, it was... after the Operator left my body.” An eyebrow was arched. “You were possessed?” “I guess you could call it that? I mean, he was a First Guardian, kind of. But he only really had true power once he inhabited someone’s body. I was still me throughout the whole thing, I just had extra powers.” “What kind of powers.” “I... don’t exactly feel comfortable telling you.” “What kind of powers.” Build avoided looking at Asclepius. “R... reality warping. Omniscience. Omnipotence.” “If I may amend my earlier diagnosis - not only are you a teenager, you’re a Mary Sue.”
Build had to be forcefully restrained into the hospital bed to avoid jumping up and yelling at everything in sight. “I suppose I should add ‘violent mood swings’ to your list of symptoms,” Asclepius sighed. “WHAT IS YOU GUYS’S PROBLEM?” “Grammar, Stanley.” “SHUT. UP.” Build frantically spasmed. “You keep saying how you’re going to help me, and here you are, just making things worse! Get to the POINT!” Asclepius nodded. “From the sparse data I have on file for you, coupled with the pieces of information you have shared to me and my colleagues, I believe I have a fairly comprehensive grasp on your entire life story. I should be able to diagnose you from this data.” Build rolled his eyes. “Prove it.”
“The name you currently go by is Build, though that is not your given name. I say ‘given,’ but I am unsure as to who exactly gave you your name upon birth, or if you were even born at all. What few sources there are suggest that you were merely dropped onto the Earth several years ago, and you proceeded to live an utterly boring life until you got involved with the Godmodding Wars. Judging from what you just told me, you were possessed by an “Operator,” who gave you the ability to warp plot, shaping the story of the Godmodding Wars. I don’t exactly know how it was under your guidance that the Conflict rematerialized and brought reality dangerously close to the end of ends, but here we are. Then the Operator left your body, no doubt putting you through severe mental trauma. I doubt your split personality helped much, either. Which has left your mind fractured and still hanging on to some leftover bits of green plasma, in an attempt to rekindle its own flagging omniscience.”
Build just kind of blinked in shock for a while. “...You got all that from me yelling at you?” Asclepius shook his head. “I’ve known about you for quite some time, Build. Your exploits of reality warping and changing the underlying fabric of plot basically guaranteed you’d be noticed by every major force in the Void. To think, if only we’d captured everyone involved in that Godmodding War while we’d had the chance...” “Well, why didn’t you?” Asclepius looked at the ground. “It’s... not that simple. Not anymore.” “And let me guess,” Build said after several seconds of silence. “You’re not just gonna spill your secrets to any old theta-class prisoner that waltzes into the infirmary, are you.” Asclepius straightened up. “Not normally, no. But for you - I think I can make an exception.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Asclepius headed for the door. “Follow me, Build. I must show you something.”
Asclepius explained to Hughes and Xenos that he’d be taking Build on a quick “field trip.” The two insisted they come along, as Build was a prisoner, and not to be brought anywhere without security at his heels. And so, the four of them traveled across the headquarters, passing through doors on walls and ceilings, through chasms flooded with spaceships, and through what seemed like gladiatorial combat arenas. “I assume you’ve heard of Globnar by now,” Xenos muttered as an aside. Finally, Asclepius rounded a corner into a hallway labelled METAL RAIN. “What in the world...” Build muttered to himself. “Come along,” Asclepius stated.
Stepping inside the hallway, Build found himself in a circular chamber. Set up around the elliptical wall was what looked like a sheet of metal, gleaming in the low levels of light the chamber produced. In the exact center of the room was a cylinder with computer interfaces streaming out of it. Asclepius whistled, and in moments, another officer had entered the room. Asclepius murmured something into the officer’s ear, and they ran to the cylinder, touching and navigating through it in the frenetic way Hollywood liked to pretend hackers messed with computers.
Build adjusted his glasses, and jumped back when the cylinder hummed in response. “Don’t be so concerned, 523/C90/033,” Asclepius muttered. “You carry a paradox with you at all times, of course some of our instruments would have reactions to it.” “Instruments? Like, musical instruments?” “You could say that.” Build looked at what the other officer was doing curiously, but their fingers were flying across the machinery too fast for Build to glean anything of substance. “Why’d you bring me here, then? I mean, all I can play is the piano. I’m not exactly a master at the... ‘sheet-of-metal-stretching-across-a-room.” “It’s called,” the officer working with the machine said, with a hint of annoyance, “the Metal Rain. Can’t you read the sign?” Build shrank back slightly.
“So, how does this thing work?” Build asked. The officer finally stepped back, as if admiring his handiwork. He then turned to Build. “Simple. You put your hand onto that cylinder, strap yourself into the chair that’ll spring up, and try not to vomit the small extracts of thyme left in your body once the room starts spinning.” The officer slapped Build on the back and walked away. “Have fun!” Asclepius, Hughes, and Xenos all stood outside of the room, watching as it sealed itself shut. Build gulped, turning to the room’s center. Now that he was alone, things seemed much more quiet. Much more still. It was a calm before the storm.
Tentatively, Build stretched out his arm and let his hand touch the computer interface. There was a harsh buzzing sound as the outline of Build’s hand was traced in thin air, directly above the cylinder. Materializing behind the cylinder was a chair - in the barest sense of the world. It was two rectangles stacked onto each other - one positioned horizontally, and the other vertically. It didn’t look like it had been designed with comfort in mind. Build sat down, and was immediately pinioned by metal straps. He struggled to get out, but then abruptly stopped as the lights in the room shut off entirely.
Slowly, yet surely, the metal rounding the room began to spin. Build could see now that there wasn’t a single sheet of metal - it was actually a series of nine interconnected metal panels, all arranged with the utmost precision next to each other. As the metal panels spun, they reverberated with a dull, warbling bass. It made the hairs on Build’s neck stand up. His eyes became itchy. His glasses grew hot on his face. As the metal spun faster and faster, the warbling bass intensified, growing louder. Getting closer. Build felt dizzy - as if he was the one spinning, and not the walls. He struggled to pay attention to anything. He felt that if he closed his eyes, he’d spin into infinity, and never return.
And then, the metal panels reached their terminal velocity. They spun in an unbroken elliptical whirlwind across the walls, lights reflecting off of them and screaming around the room’s circumference. The bass tones encompassed Build’s entire existence, peeling into his mind like a knife, and dissecting his thoughts. The bass reached its apex as Build’s glasses became unbearable to wear. With a howl, Build lunged his head forward, knocking his glasses off. They clattered to the ground, steaming and smoking. Held by the light of the metal panels, their visions of universes danced on the room’s walls. And suspended in this cosmic light, the metal rain began.
A pulsing, scratching drum beat laid itself over the bass, which now whined in and out of focus, shaping itself and sifting through various forms. Throughout its modulations, actual images began to become clear on the panels, which hovered there like animations. Build recognized them all too well, his stomach sinking to his legs and his eyes forcing themselves closed as he drifted to a restless sleep. They were his dreams. The worst of his dreams.
Build saw himself, locked in a car that was driving itself. He’d awoken to find himself in the car for no discernible reason. The car had been left on, and without warning, it started leaning, inching forward. Within seconds, it was cutting across lanes of traffic. Build heard tires screeching and flailing. He narrowly avoided death what must have been dozens of times. When Build had found the courage to look through the window, he saw that the car was making a beeline for a bridge - and it was speeding down a hill. The car picked up a terrifying amount of speed as it beelined for the bridge, until it spun completely out of control, tumbling down the hill and careening into the water. Build saw himself, flying, upside down, as shards of glass and metal rained and cascaded over him.
Then, he plunged into the icy abyss of the sea, and knew no more.
Build saw himself, lying in the middle of a land filled with trees. He’d awoken to find himself reclining on a fallen log, and had turned to see the smoking wreckage of some metallic craft off to the side. Following the footprints etched into the earth, Build came across another clearing of trees. Some huge shape was in the middle of it - a figure seemingly made of wood. Build stifled a scream. He recognized this thing. It was the king of Tabletopia - Ikea. And unfortunately, Build had a pretty good idea of what he was doing in a forest.
Ikea made the motion of turning a doorknob, although there was no door in sight. When he pulled as if he was opening the door, an elliptical hole punched itself through reality, crackling with blue energy. A portal. Once Ikea stepped through, Build looked to his left and right - a futile gesture - and ran for the portal himself. He ducked through right as the thing shut behind him. The clanging sounds of his feet touching the tiled floor alerted the numerous figures roosting there to his presence. Slowly, they turned.
Build saw Ikea’s wooden form withered and rotted, hanging from a noose. Bill’s body had been shattered, his hat lit on fire. His eye had simply been removed from its socket, and he, too, hung from a noose. Stepping from the shadows were ten beings, cloaked in darkness. They raised their hand, and Build’s vision flashed with symbols too unholy for words.
Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them, Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them, Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them, Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them, Build saw himself, strapped in a chair. He looked up, and saw a series of metal panels broadcasting images. In them,
Build saw himself, rotting in some decaying tomb festering underground. His skeletal head craned to the skeleton eternally resting by his side. Build’s jaw creaked open, a serpentine voice slithering out. "Хаве И стартед а фире, бротхер?" The other skeleton turned and cackled, their bones rattling and coming undone. "Ыес. Тхе фире рисес."
The catacombs blasted themselves to pieces, undone by the statue of a triangle keeping watch over his forest of swaying trees.
Build saw himself, rendered in complete black-and-white. He was in a very official-looking room, sitting in a chair next to a man in a suit. In front of him was another man in a suit, sitting at a panel with a series of microphones next to it. The man sitting at the panel cleared his throat, and started to speak. “Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, members of the Senate and the House of Representatives. Yesterday, December 7, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy - the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.” Though there was no audience, the air was suddenly filled with roaring applause and cheers. The walls of the room cracked under the pressure, the noise continuing to pour forth. The metal rain sliced through the skin of the men in suits, pulping their bodies. Build rose in horror, trying to run for safety, but every step was incredibly slow and exaggerated.
Build could only watch as a sheet of metal rain tore into his body, whining with low bass tones.
Build saw himself in a house of cards - literally. It was a house constructed entirely of playing cards. Aces, sevens, jacks of all trades, hell, even jokers. Reclining in the middle of this bicycle abode was a freakishly tall figure, decked out in a white fedora and an expertly-ironed white suit and pants, coupled with a black tie and shoes. His long and slender limbs reached for a cup of coffee, which the figure sipped with purpose. Once the figure put down his drink, his head turned to Build.
Build swore every molecule in his body shat themselves when he saw the figure had no face. And it didn’t help when one grew itself, either. The eyes were bulging and intense, the nose was crooked, and that godawful grin stretched across its chiseled, luminescent head like a gash. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SON, DADDY boomed with pride. I AM SO, SO PROUD OF YOU. Build took several steps back, resisting the uncontrollable urge to reply, “I love you so much, DADDY!” Seemingly sensing he was being ignored, DADDY unhinged his jaw and jumped onto the ceiling, crawling around it like a spider. His tongue swiped towards Build, who could only stare.
And then, something inside Build broke. Or perhaps, something inside him was fixed. Build was done being tossed through all these dreams. Here he was, one of the few people who were supposed to be able to shape destiny, and he was letting his own head mess with him. No. Not anymore. He was done letting his head mess with him. He’d conquered his own personality. He was the master of his own mind, not some freakish daddy from hell.
Build’s eyes crackled with lime energy, an emerald ephemeral seeping through his veins. Like liquid power, Build flashstepped across the room, ripping DADDY’s tongue from his mouth. He bled cake mix instead of blood. Build energized DADDY’s tongue with green energy, turning it into a bomb and lobbing it towards the ceiling. It detonated in an explosion that toppled the entire house of cards.
Build found himself in a completely featureless green void. He blinked once, then twice. Great. All that effort to break through the prison of his dreams and now he was in the blandest room he’d ever seen. At least his room had designs on its walls. Build stalked across the void, muttering curses to himself - when, suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. Build had started hearing voices. Snippets of conversations, from outside of the room. The voices spoke in ways that he instinctively recognized. “What shall happen next,” said one who sounded suspiciously like Bill. “WHO KNOWS?” cackled... It couldn’t be. But it was. Split. “Hah,” Battlefury soullessly intoned. Perhaps he’d sound more likely when he ranted about dogs.
Build started to panic. Here he was, locked in a room with his dreams, and they were talking to him again. The Descendants. But there wasn’t a phonograph this time. And he didn’t think they were using Binary. So how were they able to see him? Build was inches away from flying off the handle, but he restrained himself. His hands balled into fists, but he thought about the last time he’d talked to the players. It hadn’t gone well because of how much he’d wanted to distance himself. How much he was still bitter. But after talking to the Operator for the last time… After accepting the fact that he’d be returning to Destroy the Godmodder… After being subjected to this punishment within the Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron HQ… Build felt he was ready. Ready to acknowledge their existence. But not quite ready to talk. So he decided to ignore them for now. Yet, at the same time… Something still drew his attention. It wasn’t the voices, specifically. There was something else.
A pink light flickered in the corner of Build’s vision. He turned to look. “Do my eyes deceive me, or...” Build craned to look. Carved into the wall of the room was a recess containing a hovering, fluttering globule of pink fire. Its light cascaded across the room, lighting everything up in shearing pink tones. Warping and contorting around the pink fire was a chat client - and lines of text streamed across it. It was the players. They were watching him, and talking to him. But more important than that was the fire. Symbols congregated above it, and it flickered with an intensity that suggested it was active. Watching. Sentient.
Build’s glasses reflected the unholy pink, and he felt drawn towards it.
Cautiously stepping forward, Build tried to speak to the flickering mass. “Are... Are you...” But no other words escaped his lips. The fire crackled and surged, exploding. The warping text client shot from the wall, spiraling and tunneling into unpleasant visions. A drifter sitting by a fire. A set of impossible mountains. Burned parchment in scrambled tongues. A robot with the eye of a triangle. Build sped away from the fire as fast as he could, running down an impossible corridor. But wherever he ran, the pink glow intensified. When Build dared to look back, he screamed. Twisting, oily black hands were snaking across the hall, reaching out to grab him. They all trailed from the fire, and symbols of pink geometry were burned into their ‘skin.’
Build ran as fast as he could, knowing in his gut that it was hopeless. He didn’t have the courage to summon up another torrent of First Guardian energy. He was too disoriented. But what he knew - or at least, what he was hoping for - was that the Descendants were still there, listening. “GUYS!” Build shouted. “A LITTLE HELP??” There were several agonizing seconds of silence, but then Generic’s voice bubbled through, containing a single command: kinkshame. Build spun around and pointed the most accusatory finger he could manage, yelling - despite his voice cracking - “K... Kinkshame!”
The hands only sped up as they approached him. Build saw a sphere of darkness close itself around him, the limbs lunging for the kill. He accepted death, aware he’d just wake into another dream. But then - there was a triumphant slash. Build saw that a figure had leapt through the sea of limbs and sliced it cleanly in two. Hands and arms fell this way and that, corrupting into ash. The cubic figure, a silhouette of olive, landed to the ground with a thud, sheathing his sword and dusting himself off. Build adjusted his glasses. They shocked him when he touched them. Hesitantly, Build called out. “Who... Who are you?” The figure walked forwards. With each step, they became clearer. Build saw a head of disheveled hair - some of it was burnt off. He saw a rippling coat covered with bandages and symbols. He saw a set of goggles covering the figure’s eyes, and a scarf covering their mouth. “...Good question,” they plainly spoke. Build recognized him, then. From his voice. With a bitter taste in his mouth, Build recognized the Scribe. The man whom, in the Zeroth War, swore to unlock the Gate and create a new world. A better world.
Whether or not he succeeded didn’t matter. What mattered was that he existed at all.
“Tell me, Red Glasses,” the Scribe coolly said, cutting off any chance of Build going on an anger-fueled tirade. “What exactly are you doing here?” Build looked around. He was in the middle of a grey expanse. Not wanting to risk anything, he said, with as little emotion as he could manage, “Where is here.” The Scribe chuckled, then, and his next words literally sucked the color out of the environment. “Why, the ЕНДС ОФ ТХЕ ЕАРТХ, of course.” Build’s mouth hung in shock. He had been reduced to a white outline against a seething black world. A range of mountains jutted out of the earth, stretching up to a swirling, seething, row of thunderheads. The Scribe materialized behind Build’s back, savoring his paranoia. “No...” Build found himself saying. The word was snatched from his ear by the sounds of howls. “Yes,” the Scribe boomed. “Hear the wind. I’m coming closer.”
Build took more steps back. His eyes trembled, his head shook. He knew this was a nightmare. He knew it wasn’t real. But he couldn’t stop it from happening. He couldn’t. Build held his head in his hands, but the Scribe’s voice came back into focus. “Look. Beyond the mountains. Do you see what I see?” Build’s head shook itself upwards, trying to see beyond the sharp rows of mountains. He saw nothing at first, but then - something showed itself, as if fading from fog. It was, put simply, the largest door Build had ever seen. Two gigantic pillars, inscribed with four circles each, flanked it. “No, no...” Build mumbled. “You can’t...” The Scribe’s voice grew distorted. Demonic. “Oh, but you’re wrong. I can. And I will. ‘Don’t let him open the door,’ they said… What a joke that was. You should let me open the door, Build. Then...”
The Scribe turned back to Build, and he didn’t have any eyes. “Then, you can finally go home.” Build’s vision tunneled. The earth opened before him, and he fell into an endless abyss.
Build woke with a start. He found himself still strapped in the Metal Rain’s chair. He blinked several times to stop the world from spinning, rubbing his eyes when that didn’t help. Build breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the metal was no longer moving. The chamber was still again. The door opened. Asclepius, Xenos, Hughes, and the other officer all filed in, as if they were in a funeral. The other officer messed with some buttons, and Build’s restraints were removed. He tended to his arms and picked up his glasses, which were now cool to the touch. Build tried to walk, but fell as he took a single step. He remembered how dizzy he was.
“I doubt you’ll be able to talk, either,” Asclepius said, helping Build up. “So I’ll let you know what exactly that was. The Metal Rain is a therapeutic tool. Whenever we have officers complaining of vivid dreams similar to yours, we put them through it. It reaches into their head once we give the machine the officer’s serial number and have them sit in that chair, and pulls the offending dreams from their brain, playing them like movies. It has the effect of forcing the mind to relive every dream in order, with the hopes that the machine will be able to piece together what exactly they mean. I doubt you’ll remember every dream you just went through. But we saw all of them. Every one.”
Build felt confident enough to speak, yet he still mumbled. “And… what were my results? How’d I do?” Asclepius’ mouth turned to a line. “How many of those dreams do you remember just seeing.” Build looked to the side. “Uh, six? That last big one basically counted as two, anyway.” Asclepius’ eyebrow arched. “Which dream do you remember as your last?” “The... the one with DADDY. And the hands, and the fire.” Asclepius nodded. Hughes’ expression turned to pure and utter disgust. “Well, that was not the last dream we saw,” Asclepius continued. “There was one other following it. And I’d say it holds the key to your current predicament.” Build looked at Asclepius expectantly, hoping he’d continue. He didn’t. “A-and you’re not gonna tell me what it is? You’re leaving me here in suspense?”
Hughes spoke, this time. “You’re better off not knowing, 523/C90/033. Now come on. Back to your cell.” Asclepius held a hand to silence Hughes. “If I may, commander. I haven’t yet properly diagnosed our patient here. I want him to understand.” Hughes sighed, giving the impression that he desperately wanted this whole debacle to be over with. “Fine. Go ahead. Say some medical mumbo jumbo.” Asclepius nodded, and then appraised Build. “This final dream… was rather alarming. You were walking through a grey void that slowly turned to amethyst. There was a gray door, with a navy blue symbol on it. An eight, with a line horizontally carved through it. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” A fire lit in Build’s eyes. He thought he knew where this was going, now.
“You conversed with this figure - he called himself ‘Malpeiyc’ - by the door in a grey suit. He had orange hair, and stars in his eyes. It gave the impression that there was something behind that door that was important. A conference, perhaps. You edged to the doorknob, and when you touched it, you fell through a set of amethyst curtains. On the other side was a peculiar set of beings.” Build’s skin paled by a factor of three. “Does... this ring a bell to you?” Asclepius intoned. “Keep going,” Build urged. “There was a half-human girl calling herself Azure... Four armored beings calling themselves the R4 Council... A purple door named S.O.L.I.D.U.S., a blue cube peculiarly called... the Godhead... and a floating eyeball.” Build nodded. “And let me guess,” he said. “They were meeting to talk about buying MTT Industries. They mistook me for one of the Advanced Superiors. And then they kicked me out, brought Interrobang in, and then I got back in because I used a suit, and then Interrobang died, and I took his glasses, AND--” Asclepius held up his hand. “I do believe that is enough. Yes. That is the dream we saw.”
Build just kind of stared at his hands for a while. “Would you care to enlighten us on what that dream represents?” Asclepius asked Build calmly. Build continued, his voice shaking. “I… It had to do with some other thing. Some… other game.” Asclepius nodded. All four officers met each others’ eyes simultaneously. Build noticed. “You all know what my dream means already, don’t you. Y-you just wanted to hear it from me.” Xenos stared Build right in the eyes. “I am legally not allowed to answer that question.” Build threw up his hands in disgust and scowled. “Okay. So you showed me my dreams. Great! Not like I’d forgotten them. Now tell me, why those are connected with why my mind is fractured, and why you didn’t get involved in the Godmodding Wars sooner. Tell me.”
Asclepius started to respond, but Hughes shoved him aside. “No. No, I’m done with this. You’re not just going to random prisoners and spilling our secrets. I’ve thought about this whole Godmodding War shtick, and I don’t care if this guy is from them, or from the salt mines of Sector Joebob within the quasi-seething. You are not discussing confidential matters with your patients. Just give him a diagnosis, and be done with it.” Asclepius remained stoic, but looked significantly paler than before. He sighed. “...Very well. Build, your symptoms appear to be the direct cause of incredibly severe cerebral epistaxis.” Build blinked. “Cerebral epistaxis?” “Epistaxis is a nosebleed. Cerebral relates to your brain. If your brain is having a nosebleed, then…” Build thought about it. “...Then something’s screwed up,” he said after intense deliberation.
“To bluntly summate it, yes,” Asclepius continued. “Your mind is fractured. I can see remnants of a Shatter - a Shatter so violent it did not quite resolve your split mind into two separate halves. There are still cracks. Cracks no doubt exacerbated by your fractured existence. I will not claim to fully comprehend how you ended up on Earth, but however you got there, it did a number on your mental stability.” Build’s skin once again turned white as a ghost. “No doubt this has caused you to cognize other, completely theoretical realities. Your trip into ‘Malpeiyc’s’ abode is the primary example.” “Are… are you telling me that stuff in my dreams actually happened. Like, for real.” Asclepius shook his head. “Thankfully not, otherwise the metachronistic powers that be would be executing Fiction for bypassing Section 0 Subsection 1 Coda 0 of the Intergalactic Fenestration Accord. No, I didn’t make that up right now, shut up. In essence… You perceived a hypothetical scenario that didn’t come to pass. Yet the fact that you are able to dream up such a phenomenon is, in and of itself, incredibly perplexing. The amount of paradoxical energy required for a task on that scale is truly immense.”
All eyes turned to Build’s glasses. As if to illustrate Asclepius’ point, they sparked magenta. “I… is there a cure?” Build hopefully asked. Asclepius looked at Build peculiarly, as if he was a plate of china. “It depends. Do you enjoy having control over your limbs, and retaining memories beyond a span of five minutes.” “What kind of a question is that.” “I’m just saying. Some gaseous nitric conglomerates don’t exactly have a need for either of those.” Build nodded with mock understanding, and then restated his question. “I was being serious before,” Asclepius responded in turn. “I can’t exactly do that without fundamentally changing what it means to be you. Your mindscape would be heavily modified, and the feedback may even unanchor you from this dimension entirely. It’s entirely possible you’d return from whence you came. So, with that, no. There is no cure.” Build looked at his glasses. Same as ever, they shone with the cosmos. “Y… Can’t you, like, unparadoxify my glasses?” Xenos shook his head. “Your glasses - whatever the hell they are - are… too strong for even us to handle.” He looked embarrassed to be admitting the PAES had trouble with anything. “To nullify that paradox would be like reopening an old wound. A wound cutting through existence.”
Build’s hands shook. He slowly put his glasses back on his head. “So, what. You brought me all the way here, just to tell me that I’m gonna keep having these dreams, forever, and that there’s nothing I can do about it unless I want to stop being me??” Asclepius looked at Build and shrugged. “I… sincerely apologize. It’s the best I can tell you.” Build gritted his teeth in complete irritation. “Fine. Thanks for the help, Assclepius. Just… just take me back to my cell.” Build’s head hung low. Xenos and Hughes nodded, beckoning for Build to follow.
And so, he did. He followed them all throughout the headquarters, until all three of them realized something. There were only three of them, yes. Asclepius and the other officer had stayed behind at the Metal Rain. So why were there four sets of footsteps?
All three people turned back at once, staring at this unexpected fourth member of their party. There was a vaguely rectangular shape behind them - the opened front door of reality. A door that had just been opened by force. The figure that had walked out of it was the source of the footsteps. It was a gleaming, metallic facsimile of a standard Minecraft avatar. Every part of their artificial body shined with a luminescent, intense, purpose. There was this indeterminate fire in their eyes that radiated power. Resting in their arms was a double-barrel shotgun, fashioned out of wood, with steam curling from its end. The figure cocked the shotgun, and spoke in a low, completely human voice, that cut through the entire headquarters. “Tch. You servants of infants need to invest in better security. Try building a wall next time.”
Hughes and Xenos spoke to retort at once, and most likely to call for backup, but they didn’t get the chance. Quicker than Build could see, this robotic figure had pulled out another gun from hammerspace, firing two projectiles and ejecting a plume of smoke. Metal pincers screamed through the air and snagged Hughes and Xenos by the neck, magnetically pinning them against the ceiling. They were stuck. Other officers were beginning to notice the commotion, but the robot didn’t seem to mind. He just walked forward. And Build walked backward.
“Wh… What the hell is going on??” Build found himself asking. “Who are you?” “Oh, wow,” the robot laughed. “All this time, and you don’t even recognize me. Guess you only knew things when you relied on some green ghost to help you.” Build stared blankly, trying to walk back as fast as he could without tripping. “...You mean you seriously don’t know? Too bright to see. Robotic. Carrying a shotgun, for Donald’s sake.” And then it clicked in Build’s head. “G… Goanna? But I… I thought you were trapped in a lotus eater machine!” “Just shows how much you care about your mistakes,” Goanna spat. He levelled a shotgun directly at Build’s face, his hand on the trigger “I never forgot. Once I gained cognizance of the world outside that cursed machine… Once I remembered the existence I’d left behind… I swore I’d never stop until I broke myself free and hunted you down. I want you to take my place. I want you to share my fate.” “Are you kidding me?? Y-you’re gonna kill me just for dealing with a legitimate threat to the war? Come on! It was common sense!”
At this, Goanna laughed even harder. “Kill you? No, no, no. You’re misunderstanding. I told you that you would share my fate. Why would I kill you…” The ends of Goanna’s shotgun gleamed with a white-hot intensity. Build suddenly felt very, very hot. “...When I can lock you in your own broken mind?” Build tried to run. He really did. He turned his back and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. But Goanna’s shotgun - whatever it was - practically fired a wall of light. It was impossible to escape. Build felt it hit his back and wash over his head. His eyes rolled upwards, and he was dimly ware of himself tumbling to the ground. And then there was darkness.
Goanna calmly walked forwards, ignoring the other Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron guards. He scrutinized Build’s body and, with the strength of a robot, picked him up and carried him back through the door of reality.
“Sweet dreams, Adam Mason.”
...Tock.
The clock stops. Time has reached a standstill. And so has plot.
awww][i suppose the million views was a bit suspicious]
Sorry to burst your bubble, but this game is over. The post I just made was a piece of fiction commemorating the original thread's four-year anniversary. If the concept of attacking a godmodder intrigues you, however, you can post on the current thread here. http://forums.terraria.org/index.php?threads/destroy-the-godmodder-0rigins.47834/
Well, the current canon thread, anyways. There are countless spinoffs in case you want more of the DTG experience.
An alternate timeline emerges.
However, we must first start from the beginning...
so this ended a year ago, huh?
well, I wasn't around much, but it was fun while it lasted
Three weeks ago was December 7th, 2016. The END OF YEAR 4. At that date, it had been four years since TT2000 had originally posted the first "Destroy the Godmodder" thread, here on this very forum. I felt it would be cool to make a series of 'short' stories - one for every 12/7 we've had. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea, brought upon by FDR's famous speech about Pearl Harbor, in which he called 12/7 "a date which will live in infamy." I just decided to flesh out some previous events in the series to start - like showing what was really going through the minds of the Godmodder and TT2000 at the start of DTG1, and bringing back Zero Hour and Monochromium. But after that, I hadn't really done any major events within DTG2. 12/7/15 and 12/7/16 were completely up for grabs. So I went wild with them, forging an entirely new path.
The main idea that I was going with for Infamy was remembering. The idea that it's okay to turn to the past for advice, and that you should always remember where you came from. It's what the Godmodder was doing with his whole slideshow, and it's what I hope all of you now understand after reading through it. The future may not be certain, but the past is. (Unless you're in, like, some Orwellian future. In which case, good luck.) And as for that final part with Build... Those two dreams he'd experienced were based off of weird image-based stories I uploaded on the DTG Discord channel, called Daddyquest and Corporateclustergorillaquest. The latter involved TheLordErelye's own text adventure, Abyssal Oddity, which takes place outside of Fiction entirely. Why is Build able to dream something like it up? Well, that's the problem, isn't it. Build's predicament will likely conclude in a quest similar to those two (it might just be through text, though). I'll probably upload all three on imgur or something.
Well, I guess that's all I've got to say. Now that I'm done with Infamy, I'll be able to continue work on the DTG2 flash animation [S] Arrive (which never stopped being a thing that was happening, despite me missing the date it was supposed to release at). I'm not going to pretend I know when it will be done. The best I can tell you is,
Stay tuned.