Prota opened her eyes. How long had she been asleep for? She blinked a few times and tried to get up, but found that her body wouldn’t listen to her.

Suddenly, everything came pouring in. The fight. John. Diaboli.

She quickly cast mana recovery, stacking it over and over again, using every last bit of mana she’d been holding in her staff. As she used more and more magic, she found that the staff wasn’t holding as much as she wanted it to. At some point, she’d start holding more mana than the staff.

In a bit of time, she was back on her feet. The air was eerily still. Not a single bit of wind blew through the deep crater that had been formed. Prota shook her head. Her system was back up and fully operational, and the time indicated that not more than five minutes had passed since they’d entered the room. Was this it? Had it all come down to this? A year of preparing, training, planning, a week of fighting, chimeras, people, monsters, all for this. Their hundreds of [Resets], torment, suffering, pain, and for what?

Maybe they should’ve let Olivia go. Maybe that would’ve been best. Prota collapsed, the guilt weighing upon her. Why? It wasn’t fair. She just wanted to help everyone. To make everyone happy. Was that really so bad? Was that really so hard? Somehow, the desire to create a “perfect ending” had resulted in one of the worst possible outcomes.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light, and they were back. John and Diaboli stood as if nothing had ever happened.

“One month,” John said quietly. His eyes looked emptier than usual.

“Very well.”

“And you can’t come looking for us.”

“Until you [Reset].”

“That’s if I [Reset],” John said, shaking his head. “Good luck.”

“You fight terribly, by the way,” Diaboli said. “There’s no form, nor substance. For a being such as yourself, I would’ve expected some kind of training. Some kind of professionalism.”

“Yeah? Who lost?”

“You lost every fight we had. I simply let you go.”

John just scoffed. “Cope and seethe.”

Prota flinched as Diaboli reached out, hands moving toward John’s throat, but something stopped her. Some invisible force kept Diaboli at least a foot away, stopping her from doing anything.

“I’ll be back.”

“Keep talking like a third rate villain and you might just be right. Just get the fuck outta here.”

With that, Diaboli disappeared. Just like that, it was over.

Unexpectedly, John fell to his knees, and the rest of his body followed, his face planting itself in the dirt underneath. His body remained very still, as if he were dead. Surely that wasn’t possible. Had Diaboli done something? One last trick, perhaps? No, if anyone had a trick, it was John. What exactly had happened?

“John!” Prota yelled, running over. She worriedly placed her hands on him, but he had no injuries. No harm had been done to him. What?

“Prota… I wanna sleep…” John said, his voice muffled. He rolled over, spitting out dirt. “I’m so tired…”

“Technically, your body hasn’t moved. You shouldn’t be tired.” Zero popped out, a mildly amused expression etched on his face.

“I wanna bury myself into the ground… like a potato… I wanna eat chips…”

“What are you even saying? Get up,” Zero grumbled. “You’ve ruined the climax. There was no resolution to any of this. How’re you gonna fix this?”

“Hey. I said you can’t complain.”

Zero chuckled, shaking his head.

“...John?”

“Hey, Prota,” John said, not moving. He continued to stare up into the night sky, the dark black slowly turning blue as the sun began to rise. He didn’t turn to look at Prota. Not even his eyes moved in their sockets. They just kept staring up.

He was tired. But they were a different kind of empty. It wasn’t the normal lack of emotion John usually held. There was more of a sense of deep fatigue, a sort of longing for eternal rest. The question rose in Prota’s mind once again. What exactly had happened in the time she’d been knocked out.

“We can’t [Reset] anymore. Sorry.”

Prota flinched. He was worried about that now? She stared over him, putting her face directly above his to stare right into his eyes. He was like a doll, emotionless and motionless. If she hadn’t known better, she would’ve assumed it wasn’t even John.

“Prota. I don’t know if I can do any of that again. If we [Reset], it might really be over. And I’m really weak. So you’re really going to have to be my protector, ok? Because that was really not fun.”

“Please,” Zero scoffed. “You don’t remember any of it.”

“My body does.”

“Your body does not.”

“Yes, it does. How else do I fight so well? My body seems to remember everything.”

“...why don’t you act stupid when you argue with me?”

“Cause then I’d lose?”

Prota couldn’t help but stare at the two of them. What were they talking about? The two continued to bicker, and there was a little consolation in the familiarity of the scene in front of her, but still, she needed to know.

“What… what did John do?” Prota said quietly.

“Ah. Right.” John sat up abruptly, like a spring snapping back into position. He wiped his clothes off and turned to Prota.

“I did a little negotiating.”

“Negotiating…?”

“I forced that bitch into a truce. She leaves us alone for a month. Until I [Reset], she can’t go looking for us. In return, I let her go.”

“Let her… go?”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Alright. Let’s start from the beginning. Actually, scratch that. I’ll give you the faster run down. I killed Doctor. Diaboli showed up. I thought I was going to die, but then you showed up. That bought me enough time to recover. I don’t know if you saw, but Doctor dropped whatever [Deus Ex Machina] energy he had left. Did I ever explain that to you? Eh, I’ll do it later. Anyway, you caught all that, right?”

Prota nodded.

“Good. Now, it wasn’t a lot of energy, so I had three options. One. I could fully unlock [Infinity]. That, however, would take every last bit of energy that I had. Two, I could freeze Diaboli in time for a month. That would’ve worked, too, but I would’ve had almost no energy left.”

John sighed, remembering the third option.

“Option three was to use a [Deus Ex Machina].”

“...?”

“It’s where the name of the energy comes from. An unexpected power or event saving a seemingly helpless situation. That’s what a [Deus Ex Machina] is. It’s when the [Author] digs themselves into a pit that they can’t get out of, so they pull random bullshit out of their ass to save their [Characters]. That’s what I chose to use.”

“Deus Ex Machina…” Prota muttered. There was so much more to learn.

“The problem with this option is that I don’t know how it’s going to play out. So I used a little more energy to ask Zero what it was. At least he was helpful this time.”

John stood up and stretched, looking up at the sky. The stars were fading in the sky as the sun rose to brighten the day once more. It was a sight that no [Reader] would ever fully see.

“The solution was stupid. A pocket dimension with its own flow of time. An area where I could [Reset] without affecting the world, an area where the rules couldn’t be altered. It’s… honestly, it’s a really bad solution,” John said with a hollow laugh. “It’s actually so bad. You have no idea. But it works. And it worked. So I’ll take it.”

“So John…”

“Yeah. I fought for a bit, but honestly, it got repetitive after a while, and winning a fight wouldn’t do anything anyway. I just gave up, eventually. I died. And I died. I’m pretty good at dying. And she eventually gave up. I guess she just didn’t have the grit to finish it. Well, I suppose the alternative was locking the world in place for all of eternity. I would’ve given up, too.”

Prota stared at him. John had a smile on his face, but the smile, too, was tired. Prota started trembling. She was afraid to ask, but she had to know. Why had John changed? What had happened to John in there that he was now like this?

“How… how many times?”

“Huh?”

“Did John die?” Prota whispered.

“...how many times was it, Zero?”

“Um… seven billion, four hundred eighty nine million, two hundred ninety two thousand, one hundred and sixty nine times.”

Prota’s eyes widened. Seven billion deaths? She couldn’t even begin to comprehend how long that would take. Even if John was killed in the span of a second every time, that was over two hundred years worth of time, stuck in a world with nothing but him and the enemy. Stuck in a world with nothing.

“Ah, well. I did cheat a little.”

“...?”

Prota frowned. What could he possibly mean by that?

“Prota. I told you that I literally lost my memories, right? That means I don’t remember anything.”

“...?”

“My memories are literally that. Memories. If I’m part [Writer], then everything I remember technically turns into a [Story] from my point of view. Those [Stories] hold a lot of power, Prota. [Deus Ex Machina] power. The ability to reshape and reform the world. The power of a [Writer]. Because those memories are just my days as a [Writer].”

“So John can…”

“Exactly. I can… well, for lack of a better explanation, write my memories down and put them somewhere else. Prota. I have a lot of memories. If I remembered everything, I’d go insane.”

“John is sane?” Prota said. It was a genuine question.

“Well, if you put it like that… well, a different kind of insane, I guess.”

John laughed and shoved his hands in his pocket. The situation wasn’t really amusing. It was just that he didn’t know any other way to deal with the way he felt. Cry? Yell? What was the point? There was nothing to do other than laugh.

“That’s it then. No more [Resets]. We’ve gotta watch our step from here on out.”

John turned away from Prota and started to wander, but stopped as he felt a tug on his scarf.

“...what’s up?””

“...sorry. I’m… I’m…”

Prota couldn’t finish. A tear dropped down her face as she stared emptily into John’s eyes. The air was so quiet that the splash of her tear landing on the dirt was audible. Another tear dripped down. Then another. And another. And soon they began pouring out as the weight of everything finally dropped fully upon her like a rock.

Why had she wanted to save everyone? She didn’t even know who Olivia was. She just didn’t want to let anyone die. She didn’t know what to do. Everyone’s death. John’s suffering. His bargain. Their ability to [Reset]. It was all gone because of her. Because she wanted to do something good. And yet good intentions did not always make for good results.

Hearing John’s situation didn’t make things any better. He’d told her to give up. He’d told her that it might’ve been impossible. And yet she’d been disillusioned, blinded by an ideal that never should’ve existed. John was right. The world was a [Story]. And stories didn’t always have happy endings.

The sun was growing higher in the sky, casting its rays over the ground as the frost began to melt, turning the hard dirt soft. Dew began to form on the blades of grass, reflecting the light brilliantly, creating the illusion of a shining field, lighting up the day as Prota and John stood in the center of it all.

She cried silently, not reaching up as the tears continued to pour. Her guilt. Her trauma. Her pain. She didn’t understand. She wasn’t strong. She couldn’t save anyone. She couldn’t make decisions. The one time she had, it’d gone against everything they were trying to do. She was a demon. A monster. Those around her suffered. Those around her died.

What was the point in any of it? Why try? Why live? Was all of this all for nothing in the end? Maybe she should’ve died in that alleyway those years ago. Maybe everyone would’ve been better off without her.

John couldn’t do anything but stare silently. In reality, it was his fault. No, it was entirely his fault. Doctor. He was never meant to exist in the first place. This entire thing had been blown out of proportion. Would Olivia have ever been involved? Was she really supposed to die?

“Olivia. Are you ready to die here?”

Why had he said that? What was the point? To load Chekov’s gun? What if he hadn’t gotten involved? Maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe no one would’ve had to die.

But how could he explain that to Prota? There was no effective way to do so without sounding insincere. Maybe a better communicator could’ve gotten his point across, but John wasn’t the smoothest with his words in moments like these. Besides, his head was currently overflowing with hundreds of unwanted thoughts.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

What was the point in his actions? In anything? He’d been thinking about his life. This world. This [Story]. The entirety of his time in this world, he’d been cold towards [Characters]. In combination with the existence of [Resets], he’d vowed that he wouldn’t care for anyone. After all, they didn’t matter. They were fakes that, in the end, wouldn’t matter. Even outside of the pocket dimension, those thoughts lingered.

And yet, just as those thoughts lingered, so did the doubts that came along with them.

His eyes snapped open as he heard the tumbling of rocks. Prota was walking away. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d let go of him. He hadn’t even noticed she was leaving. Prota. Was there a point in keeping her?

John hesitated. This whole time, he’d been avoiding the question, and he would continue to avoid it, but maybe it was time to make a decision. Was it time to let her go? It was hurting both of them. It wasn’t doing either of them any good.

It was time to admit it. He’d been secretly hoping for some kind of miracle. Some kind of way to have comrades. Have friends. Have family.

That wasn’t possible, was it?

He closed his eyes and sat down, holding his head in his hands. This was victory, but it was an empty one. It was time to give it up. There was no need to aim for a dream that would stay nothing but that.

A dream.

“So, that’s it?”

“...what do you want with me?”

“I’m just asking. Is that it?”

John felt something tug on his heart.

“If this is it, then that’s all it is. I’ll support you. You know I will. I just want to know if this is what you choose.”

Another tug.

“This should be it,” John said quietly. He watched as Prota slowly walked away. “No more dreams.”

He watched as a glint of light shone off a final tear from her cheek.

“No more fiction.”

“...you do realize the irony in what you’ve just said, right?”

Zero, too, watched as Prota slowly left.

“Do you want her to go?”

“For someone who’s ‘just asking,’ you’re doing a lot of instigating.”

“I’m just saying. Are you being honestly with yourself?”

Fiction. The land of dreams. John cursed to himself. What was the reality of the world he was in?

“Fuck!”

He couldn’t put it away any longer. The urge was too strong. He didn’t want to give up. He didn’t want to lose someone he’d started to care for. He didn’t want to lose the one hope he’d been given. It didn’t matter if it was a false lead. It would probably end in tragedy. It would probably end in death. That was what happened to [Characters] like him.

But he wasn’t just a [Character].

In a rash decision, he got up and charged, head down, eyes closed, barreling straight toward Prota. He grabbed onto her, knocking her over with the force of his tackle, embracing her in a tight hug.

Fiction. Reality. Why did any of that matter? What John wanted was what John would go for. Dreams were what this world was made of. The real world was the place he had little control over. Here? There was so much more.

He, too, was a [Character]. Just because he was aware of that fact didn’t mean that he should let the [Author] stomp all over him. There were always two sides to a coin. Maybe he was destined for pain. Maybe he was destined for loss. But being aware of that meant there was something he could do about it. Something he could fight for.

His unique position as a [Character], [Reader] and [Writer] allowed him to be an [Anomaly], someone who worked against the [Plot], someone who didn’t follow the conventional rules of a [Character]. But for him to use that to his advantage, he had to first accept that he was a [Character] in the first place. And while everyone might be fake, he, too, was just as fake, so didn’t that make this world “real?”

“Prota. No. This isn’t over. It’s never over.”

“But… it’s…” Prota couldn’t finish, breaking down into tears. She buried her face in John’s chest, soaking his shirt with tears once more. The same thoughts ran through her head over and over.

Her fault. It was all-

“Your fault?” John yelled. “It’s not your fault. It’s not even my fault. You know who’s fault it is?”

He turned up, flipping off the sky. Anyone who saw him would’ve thought he was crazy, but there was one person who knew who that finger was meant for.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Fuck you! Are you having fun up there? Sitting in your chair, writing away, thinking ‘I’m a good writer! I can make my characters suffer!’ You feel good about yourself?”

Prota looked up, shocked by the sudden outburst.

“Yeah! You know exactly who I’m talking to, and you know exactly what I’m talking about! I’m just as much a [Writer] as you are, you know that? So I’ll be taking over!”

Prota looked at John, who had an absolutely enraged look on his face.

“It’s not your fault,” John said through clenched teeth. “Even if it is, we can always blame it on them. Because in the end, it’s that motherfucker who put us here. And it’s us that’ll get us out of here.”

A feeling of warmth spread through Prota as John pulled her in tighter.

“Don’t ever blame yourself, even if it is your fault. Because we can always just pin it on that bastard. It’ll never be our fault, because if not for them, we wouldn’t have to suffer like this. We wouldn’t be the butt of divine comedy, the consequence of dramatic irony. So even if you make a decision, just make it. Don’t back out. And follow through.”

“Hey. You still like reading, right? Reading stories?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you like good stories.”

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

“Zero.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to write a good story.”

“...”

“I want to write a story that I can enjoy. I don’t want a story that the [Readers] will enjoy. You asked me what a good story is, right? It’s a story that’s enjoyable. It’s fun. It’s an escape from reality, an escape into a world that someone could never experience otherwise. A story that challenges us, makes us think, makes us feel. One that connects us to the [Characters], makes us cry, makes us laugh, makes us happy and sad. But all that requires growth. Hope does not exist without despair. And that, in the end, is what makes a good story.”

He glared defiantly at his clone, who was watching patiently, waiting for John to come to his final point.

“And that’s not what I want. So I won’t be writing a good story. I’ll be writing a story for me.”

John finished his rant, panting. He sat down, still holding onto Prota, and felt his body relax as the stress poured out. He closed his eyes and fell back, letting the cool morning air wash over him. He had to do something eventually, though.

Right. If he wanted to go against what the [Author] wanted, that meant defying the [Plot]. A [Plot] where someone had to die. He didn’t know if Olivia had to die or not. Maybe without him, she would’ve lived. Maybe not. None of that mattered.

They, too, deserve to be happy. They, too, have people they care for.

John stood up with a grunt. “How much energy do I have left?”

“What are you trying to do?”

“You know damn well what I’m trying to do.”

John put Prota down and held her hand.

“Prota. I’ll prove to you. We can do what we want. We won’t lose.”

The cold in Prota’s body was gone. John’s body was burning, heated by nothing other than the blood pulsing through his veins. As Prota closed her eyes, leaning against him, she could feel his heart beating hard, beating fast. She looked up into his eyes and saw… something. She didn’t know what it was, but it was better than nothing.

It was better than before. Somehow, she’d protected what little flame was left inside of him.

“Zero. How much energy do I have left?”

“Enough. Just barely enough.”

John walked over to Fate. Putting his hand on him, a white light emerged from John’s palm, revealing an intricate yet simple wooden fountain pen. It had a twistable cap, revealing a gold nub that somehow felt wrong in John’s hands. Despite this, he held it as if he’d used it his whole life.

John thrust his hand into his head, but instead of tearing through flesh, it simply phased through as if pushing through a hologram. When it came out, a single red page came with it, some of the text at the bottom missing. John closed his eyes and touched the tip of the pen to the page, and the words came off, turning into ink and flowing into the pen itself.

“[Deus Ex Machina],” John whispered, touching the pen to Fate’s forehead. Prota watched in awe as the ink flowed, Fate’s paling body regained its colour, his chest beginning to rise and fall. He was still unconscious, but he was alive. The hole in his head was gone.

John walked over to Kit, touching the pen to the small fox’s forehead. Her fur bristled as the wound in her chest slowly closed, and she, too, began to breathe once more.

Danjo was next. The dwarf began to breathe. Everyone was alive. Prota closed her eyes, and she could feel their souls hovering in their bodies, bright and alive.

“One more.”

Prota looked at John, who was staring at Olivia’s cold, dead body. Cuffs remained on her wrists and ankles, the chains long since broken. The collar on her neck was shattered, but the item that had limited her healing magic was no longer needed.

She would never heal again.

“What will you do?”

John stared at Olivia. He’d been so resolved just a few seconds ago, but now, the [Author] was tempting him like a snake in a garden, dangling a tempting piece of fruit. One last hurdle. One last trial.

[It is possible to upgrade Determination’s limits. The base level of Determination will now allow for usage of [Infinity] up to x10000. This will consume the remaining amount of [Deus Ex Machina] energy you have. Proceed?]

Ten thousand times. The offer was tempting. He’d be pretty strong. Not too strong. He would probably still lose against a lot of people. But he could definitely win a lot of battles, especially against [Side Character] that didn’t matter. He could do as he please without worrying about the consequences.

He wouldn’t have to rely on Prota. He could take things into his own hands.

He could be free.

Where is the real you? Why not take the power you could easily obtain? She was supposed to die anyway. She was supposed to be a source of growth for Danjo. Isn’t it an easy choice? Isn’t it obvious?

It should’ve been. It should’ve been an easy choice for John. But…

“Olivia, you- no, no. I can’t do it. I’m scared. I can’t do it alone, you have to stay with me! You have to be here, you can’t leave now, I’ll-”

“Danjo.” Olivia’s voice was weak. “I’m sorry.”

Danjo, breaking down into tears. John shook his head. He’d erased that reality. He’d erased that trauma. It was something that never happened.

But you’re letting it happen now, aren’t you?

“...right. I wanted to change this, didn’t I?”

You can break free. You can take things into your own hands.

“And sacrifice another?”

It’s a [Character].

“Then what about Prota?”

John stared at Olivia’s body.

“I want to save my sister.”

Danjo’s conviction. John didn’t know Danjo that well, but he’d been a comrade for a while now. He was weak, an underdog in a story with a powerful protagonist. Personally, John wasn’t a huge fan of those kinds of [Characters], but they had their appeal. They had their place.

And… right. Danjo might’ve been a [Character], but then again.

So was he.

“Are you ready to die?”

What a stupid question. He shouldn’t have asked if she was ready to die. He should’ve asked if she was ready to get out. His life and experiences had made him cynical of everything. It was bound to happen, especially when one knows their existence is suffering.

Ironically, it was the one who’d suffered who’d shown him that there were still things to care for, things to live for. It had taken Prota’s brokenness to show him that there were still things to fix. In some sick, twisted irony, it had taken suffering and pain to show him that there was still hope. Was this what they called character development? John burst out laughing. The thing he’d despised for so long had somehow turned around and shown him something new.

“John. I’ll let you in on a little something. Back when you were a normal person, a [Writer], I guess, you always wanted to help [Characters]. You knew you couldn’t. But it made you happy to imagine scenarios where you could step in and solve their problems. To be a god and do what you pleased, to solve problems no one else could.”

Right. He’d resolved to stop blurring the line between fiction and reality. To stop treating [Characters] like toys, to stop treating them like expendables. Here, now, he could accomplish his dream, even if he didn’t remember having it. A dream of saving others. A dream of creating a “perfect ending.”

Bringing everyone back would lessen the impact of the struggles they’d gone through. It would remove the ideas of sacrifice, pain and suffering. But why did that matter? Why should they have to suffer?

They’d already suffered enough.

“So what now? John. What kind of [Story] do you want? This world. This [Story]. You’re a [Writer], aren’t you?”

[Writer]. It was a curse, along with the role of a [Reader].

“You’re a puppet who has the ability to move on its own. You have a singular string attached to you, tugging you in one direction, but it’s not like you can’t resist. John. Don’t you want to make your own happy ending?”

He still hated the line. It was corny as hell. But yet, for him, it might be the only appropriate expression.

Write your own [Story].

The frost on the ground vanished as the sun’s rays came to burn it away. The light shone on John’s face, lighting up the crater.

[Reviving this [Character] will use [Deus Ex Machina] energy.]

[Warning! If you do this, you will no longer be able to extend [Determination’s] capabilities. Are you sure?]

John hesitated. He really did want that power. But… no, this was even more important. He would prove his point to the [Author].

A [Character] who was supposed to die, a [Character] who existed only to be snuffed out, to bring pain to another so the [Reader] could enjoy the [Story]. No more. John couldn’t stop everything. He knew. He had his limits. But so what? Who cared?

Now, it was time for a different type of [Story]. Not the [Story] that existed for the [Readers].

But the [Story] that existed for him.