CHAPTER 24: PROFESSOR DARNELL - ALWAYS BOMB ATOMICALLY

"He who writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read, he wants to be learned by heart."

— RZA, "The Tao of Wu"

In reality, the Grand Master Abbot of the Wu-Tang Clan dreamed aboard the luxury hotel ship, Hohenzollern Excelsior. He hated to be where he was, but dirty business had to be done, and it was done. Still, the psychic dreamed lucidly. His dreams felt strange, like they were some sideways version of reality—something off from his own.

Professor Darnell was alone in the old spacer. Nothing could be seen from its windows, so he figured he’d reached beyond visual contact with the Hotel Ship. He felt warm, so he stripped down to his underwear, leaving his spacesuit in a heap as he strode around in his gold chain and bare feet, his soles sticking slightly to the floor from perspiration. He didn’t know how to check the sensors or anything, but as long as life support was running, he figured he was good. He just had to get far enough for the AVP’s jamming to stop. Then he could call for help. He imagined the whole System waiting for his return.

Just like he’d planned. Professor Darnell had taken the show into his own hands and ended it on his terms. No stupid robots dragging him away, no psycho Emily taking him out.

“It was her or me,” he muttered to himself.

No one would know what happened from his AVP unless they knew exactly what they were looking at. The deniability was golden, and whatever footage came from Emily’s side would be useless. He was an old hand at handling AVP tech. Besides, this wasn’t even in System space—nobody could prosecute anyway.

He found the urinal, a basic white plastic funnel curving down into the wall without any ceremony. He relieved himself, the warm stream splattering in the funnel, and chuckled. “Here I am, Professor Darnell, day two of my daring escape from that piece-of-shit alien rock. Intact.” He flexed his arms, kicked each leg out, just to prove to himself he hadn’t been dismembered.

The first day had been all paranoia, looking out the windows to make sure he could still see the comet. But today, he was feelin' good.

“So, now what?”

It was just him, alone with his thoughts.

By the third day, though, he was crying. There was still nothing. He started craving attention, even from Huis and those Producer-types who’d hyped him up for the show. They made him feel important.

When he was a kid, nobody ever paid attention to him. His parents were like strangers on a TV show—there but not real. Familiar, but distant. Like stars. Maybe that’s why they called them stars. He figured it was all about being craved but untouchable, like Mickey Mouse.

“Play a beat. Randomize and save.”

He started to imagine the words to a new song.

“Isolation’s deep, whispers in the void,

I leave you lost, forgotten, destroyed.

In this maze, I control your disgrace,

Heart’s a beat, but I keep the pace.”

He thought about how sick it’d be if he could make contact again. Imagine them finding his derelict craft a hundred years from now—mummified remains inside. They’d be like, “Who the hell was this? Oh shit, we know!” He’d be the next reality entertainment sensation.

But none of that mattered if he didn’t make it out.

And he knew exactly how to flip his situation—get the Wu-Tang Clan’s attention. If he could make it back alive, they couldn’t ignore him. He’d already lived through the worst. If he made it through this? He’d be solidified, legendary, a street-certified intellectual with his ticket into the Wu.

“Ease up, girl, release me now,

Break these chains, you don’t know how.

I tear through lies, illusions bend,

Rewriting rules, I don’t pretend.”

He felt like this was his moment, his next-level ascension. If he could finesse his way out of here, that was it. He could finally make the Clan recognize. Maybe even get to record a verse. Bomb atomically.

He flexed his mind, thinking back to how he got here. He kept remembering the look on Emily’s face when he splashed her. The way she just crumpled. Felt weird, touching her after she’d been dosed. He’d never done somebody like that before. Sure, he’d only ever killed one other person. Did he kill Emily? He didn’t want to think about it.

Withnail-And-I—he’d shot him dead after the guy took his parents out with a steak knife. Didn’t matter if it had anything to do with him or not, at that moment, Withnail-And-I was the killer. He put daylight through his skull without hesitation.

If Darnell had wanted to murder his parents, he would’ve done it. Instead, his best friend had. And Darnell killed him. It wasn’t even about vengeance—it was a bad idea gone wrong, and he’d rolled with it because people cared more when you were dangerous.

But his parents? They never mattered. They wouldn’t have helped him. He’d seen what happened to people his age—their parents died poor and stupid, living off their kids. The economy always shifted, the class structure changed with it. His parents would’ve died broke.

At least this way, their death meant something. It put him higher up the ladder than they ever could’ve. He was on his own grind now.

And soon enough, maybe, just maybe, the Wu-Tang Clan would be callin’.

Professor Darnell couldn’t even remember what his mother or father really looked like, because they had never truly been there. They were specters of ideas, who would occasionally beat his ass over some bullshit he didn’t even remember.

He remembered getting beat with an umbrella once, for hitting a neighborhood bully. That was the last time he stood up for anyone. What was the point? The structure of reality was stupid. So, when he was given half a chance to take something back, he did.

“I had to rise, you ask me why?

Orders blind, yet I defy.

Your shadow fades, it’s tyranny,

But now I break, finally free.”

He didn’t have time for women. He wanted that single great romance, but there was never enough time. In his career, there were too many women, too many opportunities. He had to taste them all. He didn’t care how well he did, because it wasn’t like they’d remember. In the beginning, he could woo women by reputation alone. But as he got older, and they stayed the same age, it became harder.

His first rejection had sent him over the edge. She was only sixteen. That’s when he met his Russian friends. Though calling them “friends” was a disservice to actual Russians. These guys were nothing but a lack of love for their fellow man, in human form, who happened to have been born in Third Russia.

A green hologram shaped like a sleek, glimmering fish-person blinked into augmented reality beside him. The avatar rippled with digital light, as though it was underwater, shimmering with an iridescent glow. Seconds later, three more projections popped into view, each resembling anthropomorphic animals with exaggerated human traits. One was a towering rabbit with a neon-lit mohawk, another a bulky wolf wearing oversized sunglasses and a jacket, and the last a fox with glowing, intricate tattoos swirling around its fur.

Professor Darnell, exhausted, dehydrated, and barely sustained by copious amounts of oleo, lifted his head from the cold floor. His vision wavered for a moment, but then he recognized them immediately. "Oh, shit. How you doin’, Proz? Doxeez? Jesteez, and Bawdz?"

These were his die-hard fans—not just digital phantoms but his holographic entourage that followed him wherever his AVP radius extended. The fan avatars beamed in real-time from different corners of the system, standing as projections in this temporary reality. Each one represented the top-ranking fans from their respective factions: the Bawdz from the ecchi-core camp, the Jesteez loyal to his MDKSA beats, the Doxeez obsessed with his influencer status, and the Proz, who worshipped everything he touched.

His vision cleared further as he took in their presence. Beyond the jammers of Huis’ ship, his personal AVP was back online, and that meant his digital crew could find him again, could interact with him again. His own private circle of fandom royalty, right here, ready to cheer him on, vibe with him, follow his every move.

He had passed back into System-Mundo. He was free.

It wasn’t just their appearance that boosted his spirits; it was what they represented. Each hologram stood as a beacon of his success, fans who had fought hard within their fandoms to stand by his side in the holographic entourage. The fox, representing the Jezteez, had spent weeks leading online campaigns to maintain her status as the top fan of his MDKSA hits, while the wolf from the Proz camp had been gunning for that position for months, sharing everything he ever touched. The fish-person was an odd one—a rising star in the Doxeez, popular for their relentless commentary on his social media presence and lifestyle.

Even though he was exhausted, drained from days of scheming and barely surviving, he cracked a grin at them. His ho’s—as he sometimes affectionately called them—were the reminder that he still had people, real people, backing him. They were proof that even in this moment of exhaustion, he was still Professor Darnell, the man whose music and life commanded a following across worlds.

`This digital entourage wasn’t just fans; they were extensions of his ego—and seeing them now meant something. The Jezteez, the Bawdz, the Proz, and the Doxeez—they were all here to remind him of his reign, and for the first time in hours, he felt like he wasn’t alone.

He had escaped. And he had his kingdom back.

“Isolation’s gone, a memory torn,

Rhythm of freedom, reborn, reborn.

Treachery left in history,

Now I build my own legacy.”

Professor Darnell’s story spread across System-Mundo like wildfire through tiger shit. His face was everywhere. The single he’d recorded while lost in space blew up, selling a whole hell of a lot of plays. Within four months, the Professor Darnell virtual idol was available. Subscribers could get their own personal copy of his humble fabulousness to educate them on the tenets of musicology. The year after his appearance and exodus from Disastronauts made him the most popular celebrity in space. Hands down.

Professor Darnell's mansion on Terra was the pinnacle of 30th-century opulence—a monument to his ego and excess. The sprawling estate, built upon the lush hills of what remained of Earth’s untouched reserves, spanned acres of prime land. His wealth, earned through his virtual empires and the AVP phenomena, allowed for no expense to be spared. The structure itself was a seamless blend of cutting-edge architectural technology and ancient Terra-inspired luxury.

The mansion’s exterior was crafted from smooth, iridescent materials that shimmered in the sun. The façade, reflecting light in a thousand subtle shades, was almost otherworldly, making it clear to onlookers that this was not just a home but a symbol of Darnell’s unbridled success. Floating above the entrance was an enormous holographic statue of Professor Darnell himself, arms crossed, gazing down like a titan from myth. The front doors were made of trans-luminal glass, capable of shifting opacity on command, creating an intimidating first impression to visitors.

Inside, the mansion’s halls stretched endlessly, covered in marble floors that glowed underfoot with each step. The ceilings were impossibly high, supported by sleek black pillars that contained internal holographic displays. These pillars often projected his likeness at a 30-foot scale, with fans and admirers on repeat, idolizing his very existence. Intricate lighting systems inlaid into the walls provided illumination, the lights changing hues with the moods of the mansion’s AI-controlled ambiance.

But perhaps the most obscene feature of all was the gallery of his sexual conquests. An entire wing of the mansion was devoted to this disturbing collection—hundreds, if not thousands, of lifelike, painted portraits of women Darnell considered his "accomplishments." Each portrait was hyper-realistic, capturing not only the appearance but the essence of these women in unsettling detail. The gallery was organized meticulously, sorted by Darnell’s personal criteria: “Favorites,” “Unforgettable Nights,” and “Muses.” Every frame was surrounded by gleaming gold and platinum, and each portrait had its own embedded digital record of what Darnell deemed to be a noteworthy experience.

Visitors could interact with the portraits using the mansion’s interface, pulling up holographic memories Darnell had preserved—moments frozen in time for his own enjoyment. Each image was paired with a snippet of text written by the Professor, where he reflected on his thoughts, desires, and what each woman "gave" him. It was a monument not to love, but to possession, reducing human relationships to commodities that he alone could display.

At the heart of the gallery was Darnell’s bedroom, larger than most houses. The bed itself, a hovering platform, shifted position based on his preferences, always cradling him in optimal comfort. Surrounding the room were screens capable of turning into mirrors or windows into simulated exotic locales, such as the Martian mountains or deep-ocean depths. In this private sanctum, Darnell could isolate himself from the world, indulging in his material wealth and artificial creations, while his legacy spread through the virtual realms he controlled.

Lorenzo di Orlando, notorious AVP pornographer and associate of the Grand Duke of Rome, Marconi, slid a platter of powdered pink amphetamine salts across the low wide table of Darnell’s PX-66 elevated limousine. “Elevated” was just a fancy way of saying “hovering,” because the latter term was considered low-brow. Professor Darnell didn’t accept the drugs. Despite the prevalence in his scene, he never touched them. He used to drink, but he’d stopped after his sobering experience on the comet mine.

The Italian AVP pornographer wasn’t the most prestigious member of Professor Darnell’s entourage that night. That honor went to Theophilos Palaeologus, Prince of Sancta Nicaea, and betrothed to the Princess of Terra, whatever her name was. It had been so long since the arranged marriage had been planned that he couldn’t remember her name anymore. Apparently, it was up to the Princess to decide when the marriage would be officiated. Meanwhile, Theophilos lived off the infamy of being attached to one of the deadliest human beings in space.

Professor Darnell had once tried to pitch woo at the Princess of the System, but she’d rebuffed him elegantly.

“Not even in your wildest dreams,” she’d said. He couldn’t imagine what it would take to crack that frigid vault.

Also present was the humanoid guidance unit of the rapper who had turned himself into a car, 4 Wheel Rhymes, who ran on booze and could integrate with a luxury vehicle. His controversial transference of his consciousness into his ride had sparked debate across the System for years. Now, everyone was just used to the fact that a rapper had turned himself into a car.

By far, Professor Darnell’s most illustrious guest that evening was Dolemite, one of the six members of the Wu-Tang Clan—arguably the System’s most preeminent Cultural Doctrine. For over a thousand years, the Wu-Tang Clan had inspired humanity, from the downtrodden to the richest of the rich. Their influence on language rivaled that of Shakespeare.

The four other men in the limo brought their own cadre of courtesans, so the back of the hovering vehicle was at capacity. Professor Darnell looked around at the scene. This was it. This was living his best life, the culmination of everything he’d worked for. Everything he deserved.

Dolemite sang along to his own track playing in the background.

“Injecting energy, making heads spin like a disc.

Dolemite's the name, the life of the party,

In the Wu-Tang Clan, I bring flavor that's hearty.”

Whatever his career had been before Disastronauts, it barely mattered anymore. Even the Grand Master Abbot of the Wu-Tang Clan had reversed his earlier aversion to Darnell’s induction after hearing the harrowing details of what had gone down on that far-off, forgotten comet rock. And that night, Professor Darnell was headed to finally be inducted into the Clan.

He had made it.

The party rolled along inside the PX-66 down the highway, their destination: Madison Square Gardens.

A technological marvel with timeless elements, the iconic venue was a multifaceted hub of entertainment, cultural exchange, and technological innovation. The exterior of Madison Square Gardens boasted an intricate fusion of organic and synthetic materials. Towering spires and shimmering facades were woven with smart materials that responded to the environment, making the structure blend seamlessly into the city’s skyline. It was practically an invisible building.

As the limousine glided to a smooth stop, the hum of the engines faded, giving way to the quiet symphony of camera shutters and the distant roar of excited fans. The sleek, polished exterior of the limo reflected the vibrant lights along the red carpet, turning its surface into a softly gleaming wonder.

Flashes from cameras twinkled like stars, casting a glow over the crowd gathered on either side of the carpet. The air carried the scent of floral arrangements and the hum of celebrity chatter. Security guards stood in a line, creating a human corridor between Professor Darnell and the eager onlookers.

As he stepped from the luxurious cocoon of the limousine, a rush of cool night air enveloped him. The red carpet unfurled beneath his feet, a scarlet path leading straight into the heart of the event. The night was alive with an electric energy, crackling with excitement. It was the kind of moment you never really got used to, but Professor Darnell savored it. This was his world. His domain. The fruit of his labor.

So famous was he that no matter what you did, people would still worship you. He could beat a starlet into a pulp and cram a plastic bottle down her throat on live television, and they'd still support him. That’s how things worked. Popularity was the ultimate shield. Morality was a quaint notion that had no place in his universe, where power and fame were king.

Two Beyonce clones suddenly joined him, flashing perfect smiles. It was going to be a good night.

Professor Darnell strutted down the red carpet, shooting several fans with a focused energy weapon. He probably killed them, but they died screaming and happy. This was his world. A world of faith and extravagance, where the actions of the elite were mere footnotes, not consequences. He could smile at one of the Beyonce clones and think about shooting her dead right there on the red carpet. The crowd would applaud. He was lord and master of reality. The man who could shoot a Beyonce clone for the thrill. The idea was almost too good to pass up.

But he didn’t. He was saving that stunt for another time. There were more legendary feats to achieve tonight.

Inside Madison Square Gardens, the venue was an immersive experience beyond conventional entertainment. Holographic displays, augmented reality, and virtual environments transported visitors to fantastical realms. Concerts, sporting events, and cultural performances unfolded in breathtaking digital landscapes. For every person physically attending, four more participated virtually.

The featured interactive spaces blurred the lines between performer and audience. Holographic stages and 3D projections turned attendees into part of the show. This was the next era of entertainment, where the stage was everywhere, and the audience was the performer.

Darnell’s world became a swirling kaleidoscope of memories, distorted like they were viewed through a fisheye lens. Moments stretched, warped, and twisted, folding in on themselves. His childhood home loomed, the front door a gaping mouth expanding and contracting in dizzying perspective. Faces from his past bloated and bent toward him, their eyes enormous, mouths small and distant. Streets and buildings curved into surreal landscapes.

Everything flowed together in a liquid dreamscape of curved lines and distended proportions, drenched in the saturated colors of a 20th-century music video—grainy film effects, shifting perspectives. Yet, despite the dreamlike distortion, everything was clear. His life, in all its twisted, bloated glory, was laid out before him in vivid, psychedelic detail. Highs and lows, successes and failures. It was more than a trip down memory lane. It was a fisheye view into the core of who he truly was.

Billions cheered across the system, far many more than were physically in attendance. The holographic landscape distorted the crowd’s depth, making the stadium seem infinitely large. The show was at full capacity, but that didn’t surprise Darnell. He was, after all, the biggest celebrity in the entire system. Fame could be fleeting, but he had a feeling what he had with these people now might last forever.

The stage was set. Professor Darnell checked his mic and smirked. “Any of you sluts want my shit later?” He was only half-joking. Since becoming the most famous person in the system, he’d left behind the days of using aftermarket Russian drugs to coerce women into sex. When you were famous enough, that wasn’t necessary. When you weren’t, well, you had to make adjustments.

“Am I evil?” he thought.

“Naw, I am reality,” Professor Darnell said aloud, answering his own philosophical angst.

There was nothing wrong with what he did or who he was because everyone who cared was just as messed up. The whole galaxy was full of trash people. Bad people. And on that scale, he was proud to be the worst. What he did to them wasn’t his fault—they were practically begging for his attention. There was no such thing as ‘abuse,’ only the strong feeding off the weak. Or something. Who the hell cared? Everyone was in a big pit of garbage that was the System.

Throw the trash out, screw it, whatever. Trash be trash.

Tlatoani-Duke Danny Kuntz was a legendary role model for Darnell. The esteemed noble had a genetically engineered cyber forest of murderous trees where he’d feed anyone he kidnapped. Old recordings still existed of those poor bastards’ final moments, ripped apart by somewhat sentient arboreal assassins. Why’d he do it? Because he could. Sure, Kuntz got murdered by some second-aristocracy vigilante, but no one even remembered the so-called ‘boy scout’ who killed him. Danny Kuntz’s name lived on in infamy.

Now that Professor Darnell had his place in the world, he planned to exploit every angle he could find. He’d live fast, die infamously, and make the galaxy pay the price for his existence. That was real fame. He would’ve had his, and everyone else could just stand around wondering how it happened.

“WAZZUP!” Darnell shouted.

The response was a deafening roar. Across millions of homes, on planets, planetoids, space stations—everywhere—Professor Darnell was the man of the hour. To put it in perspective, a thousand years ago, humanity had rallied around Popes and evangelical leaders. Now, faith was long gone, outlawed two centuries ago, replaced by philosophy—mostly tied to music. And the Wu Tang Clan? They had become the most important doctrine of all. They replaced religion itself, more or less. To be inducted into the Clan, which had seen hundreds of members over the course of a millennium, was like being canonized in the old Catholic Church.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Professor Darnell was on the threshold of immortality, a canonical figure in the hierarchy of rhyme and reason.

“I fucking hate all of you!” he yelled.

The applause lasted so long he almost forgot where he was.

In the sky above, the holographic visages of the Wu Tang Clan appeared. First and foremost was the Grand Master Abbot, a kind soul with the burden of painting the world in too many shades of gray. Sure, the Abbot had arranged to have Darnell murdered by a reality entertainment program—Disastronauts—just to remove him from existence. But it had been with good reason. Darnell was a rotten, putrid monster, and the Abbot had tried to rid the world of his stench.

Renowned for his psychic powers, the Grand Master Abbot bore the unique responsibility of prescribing and judging individual morality. It was an impossible task for one person, but the Abbot had the capability. What had once been a music gig had morphed into a philosophical role, and it wasn’t fair. But life never was. And bastards like Darnell had taken full advantage of that. The Abbot had tried to kill him through machines, but when Darnell survived and became a pop culture icon, there was nothing left to do but bring him in and attempt to contain his chaos.

Darnell had called the bluff, and the established order of morality was crumbling. But there was still one last play, and it involved her. The girl. Was she divine? The Abbot didn’t know. But she haunted his dreams like one.

The Grand Master Abbot, burdened by his failure, appeared to tolerate the vile existence of Professor Darnell. It was tragic—an impossible toll of human suffering would follow. The Abbot looked to his diminutive Japanese companion and said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

But Professor Darnell wasn’t a good man. And he didn’t do nothing.

He took the girl by the hand, told her it was time to do his duty, and that only she could save the System from the tyranny of one man. He said untold lives would be exploited, and the only person who could stop it was her—the girl from his dreams.

The Grand Master Abbot joined the group-simulation:

“I rise as the Supreme, the lyrical sage,

Guiding minds through the wisdom of this hip-hop age.

My words transcend time, enlightening souls,

A spiritual journey, where consciousness unfolds.

From the depths of my being, profound insights pour,

Bringing peace and harmony, forevermore.”

He wore black-framed glasses and had a modest, well-kept beard. His eyes crackled with benevolent wisdom. He was the moral compass of space, the Grand Master Abbot of the Wu-Tang Clan, a symbol of monastic values. The Pontifex. A bridge between mankind and enlightenment in a world without religion.

The second member of the Wu-Tang Clan manifested as a hologram within the Square Gardens. His name was Ittō, the wandering saberkind. He spent his days traversing the uncivilized wilds of Mars, armed only with his voice and a blade with an atomic edge. The lone samurai. Half African-American, half Japanese, and undoubtedly the deadliest swordsman in all of reality. Ittō had defeated seven Yakuza assassins, and no one could touch him. Miyamoto Musashi? A student. Ittō’s blade shook the heavens. The baddest motherfucker to ever wield a sword. He could deflect hypervelocity railgun rounds, and he had—many times. He was the god of battle.

“Impeccable swordsman, my rhymes strike like steel,

Ancient tales of samurai, my spirit reveals.

With each word I wield, I honor the art,

A warrior of words, tearing worlds apart.

Through battles of rhythm, my journey unfolds,

From ancient scrolls to the future untold.

Ittō, the lyricist, the samurai of sound,

In the Wu-Tang Clan, true legends are found.”

The galaxy was rough, and Shah Unique, aka The Constable, rounded up the worst of the worst. He was the Bass Reeves of the 30th century, hunting down and arresting half a million fugitives. To be fair, he nabbed three hundred thousand in one shot when he took down the Cult of Zan Naharis on the Martian moon. At three hundred years old, he was the most powerful and dangerous cyborg to ever exist. Robocop times two. The greatest force for justice the universe had ever known.

“I bring justice to the mic, lyrical constable,

Shedding light on the darkness, my words unstoppable.

Social and political, the issues I address,

Fighting for equality, striving for progress.

With sharp intellect, I dismantle the lies,

Awakening minds, opening their eyes.

In the Wu-Tang Clan, righteousness prevails,

Together we stand, as injustice fails.”

Next came RA-SON (Righteous Allah Sincere Order Nobility), the last holdout of religion in a galaxy that had abandoned it. He saw through the veil of disbelief and rekindled faith in a jaded population. A saint of sound. A lyrical hero. He had saved more lives than biochemists Herbert Boyer and Stanley Cohen, the pioneers of GMOs. He fed the universe.

“Divine wisdom flows through my lyrical tongue,

Five Percent teachings, the foundation I've spun.

Rooted in knowledge, my rhymes elevate,

Enlightening souls, revealing our true state.

The universe unfolds within each word I speak,

Self-realization, the journey I seek.

RA-SON, the messenger, the voice of truth,

In the 30th century, I bring enlightenment’s root.”

The next to appear was Dolemite, whose lyrical excerpt Professor Darnell had already heard in the limo. Dolemite was the man of the streets. The boss of bosses. He knew kung fu and was a human tornado. He claimed to be the Devil’s Son-in-Law, the “dragon” of MLKB.

“In the Wu-Tang Clan, I leave an everlasting mark,

Second-aristocracy rap, lighting fires in the dark.”

But Professor Darnell specifically hated the final member. Johnny Tough. The two had been at odds ever since Darnell’s failed induction into the Wu-Tang Clan seven years ago. Johnny Tough had grown up in the streets of Detroit—the worst place to be from. A concrete jungle, run by corporations that didn’t care about the people. Johnny carried the relics of Jack White and Iggy Pop. He was Street beyond Street. The OG. Born a nobody, but he had clawed his way into the greatest band in existence. Professor Darnell hated him for it.

“From the concrete jungle, I rise with might,

Gritty lyrics paint pictures, my story takes flight.

Survival's my anthem, resilience my core,

Through struggles and triumphs, my rhymes explore.

A voice that commands attention, with stories to tell,

Johnny Tough, the storyteller, breaking barriers and shells.

In the Wu-Tang Clan, I leave an everlasting mark,

See my rap, lighting fires in the dark.”

The five spectral hip-hop kings loomed over Professor Darnell, their expressions masking their reluctance behind professionalism.

Professor Darnell stood proudly in the holographic environment, moments away from achieving his lifetime dream. He was ready.

Then another figure stepped into the spotlight—Hajime Mashite. She wore flowing silks and sunglasses with lenses shaped like isosceles triangles, looking sharp and cruel. He knew her. She was a survivor too. Suddenly, it hit him—she had also escaped Caitlin’s deadly comet. How had he not known that? Maybe he had? Reality felt slippery. But none of that mattered. The moment she stepped into his spotlight, he knew what was about to go down.

There was going to be a fight.

He eyed her up and down. "Yo, sexy," he said.

She said nothing.

The crowd roared in anticipation. To his shock, it wasn’t all for him. Half of them were chanting her name.

"Haji! Haji! We missed you! We love you, Hajime!"

What was happening? Professor Darnell glanced at the hologram of the Grand Master Abbot, who was smiling. Had the old bastard found a new way to block his dream? No way. This was his world now.

Hajime shot him a look that said, Not anymore.

The Grand Master Abbot spoke, "Two rival inductees present themselves before the collected masses of humankind tonight to determine who will join the illustrious order of the Wu-Tang Clan."

He introduced both competitors. "At the end of this contest, one shall rise, and one shall fall."

He laid out the rules: Respect. Originality. Wordplay. Metaphors. Flow and delivery. Crowd engagement. Timing and consistency.

Then he asked, "Prepared or freestyle?"

"Freestyle," Hajime said.

Professor Darnell couldn’t believe it. Freestyle was his thing, not some pop idols. She didn’t have his skills. He agreed to her terms. This would be easy. Hajime didn’t look worried.

The baseline dropped hard, low and pulsing, with deep 808s rumbling like thunder in the background. A sharp snare crackled, slicing through the air with precision, while hi-hats hissed, fast and relentless, forcing both rappers to keep time. Underneath it all, there was a gritty, distorted synth humming like a growl, menacing but constant, building the tension. The rhythm wasn’t just aggressive; it was militant, commanding each verse to hit harder, daring anyone to falter. The crowd swayed in sync, bodies moving to the beat's hypnotic pull. Every drop felt like a countdown, daring both competitors to keep up or get buried.

"Yo, I'm Professor Darnell, master of the craft,

AVP's king, y’all know my path.

Wu-Tang's bloodline, chest drippin' gold,

But you, Hajime, your story’s old."

"Your name’s a flicker, while mine's ablaze,

I’ll burn you out in a thousand ways.

You talk big, but here's my confession,

After this battle, you’ll need a session."

The crowd cheered, but Hajime just swayed to the beat, letting his words bounce off her like bullets off steel. She was calm—too calm. Darnell’s taunts hadn’t phased her one bit. Then, with a subtle smile, Hajime began her attack.

"Yo, Darnell, listen close and clear,

Your rhymes are brittle, full of fear.

AVP may gleam and flash,

But behind the scenes, you're all just trash."

"Gold chains? Yeah, they weigh you down,

But in this battle, I’ll wear the crown.

Ecchi-core, MDKSA, you fake that thrill,

But I’m the artist here, with all the skill."

Hajime’s bars cut deep, her delivery smooth, like a blade slicing through air. The crowd erupted, half in awe, half in shock. Darnell’s swagger faltered, just for a moment, before he rebounded, anger flickering in his eyes.

"Yo, Hajime, girl, you’re talkin’ tough,

But all that glam won’t be enough.

You walk the line, think you’re on top,

But I’ll break you down before you drop."

"You act like an artist, but you’re just a phase,

I’m immortal, here to stay.

You can’t touch the legacy I bring,

You’re a puppet—can’t even pull your own strings."

Darnell sneered, gesturing at her slight frame, trying to undermine her with every jab. But Hajime didn’t flinch, her movements now more fluid, as if the rhythm coursed through her veins.

"Darnell, Darnell, your fame’s built on lies,

Behind closed doors, you wear a disguise.

Philosopher, scholar? That’s all a front,

When the truth drops, you’ll be on the hunt."

"In the dark where your secrets creep,

Your glamour fades, your soul’s asleep.

You call me a phase, but I'm risin' high,

My truth shines bright—you can’t deny."

Darnell faltered, her accusations stinging deeper than he expected. She was striking too close to home, unmasking his carefully constructed persona in front of the world. His reply came out more defensive than he liked.

Darnell leaned into the mic, his eyes narrowing as he sneered at Hajime.

"Yo, Hajime, you actin’ all bold,

But let’s get somethin’ straight—Professor Darnell’s the gold.

You best remember the name when you speak,

Or I’ll show you why they call me the beast of the beat."

Hajime paused, letting the crowd’s jeers fill the space. She raised an eyebrow, almost amused at his need to assert dominance.

Hajime flowed effortlessly, her voice sharp and cutting through the air.

"Darnell, Darnell, your facade’s on blast,

Using women, can't hide your past.

Ice on your grill? Just a hollow shine,

In this battle, I’ll make sure you decline."

Darnell’s jaw clenched. The fact she didn’t call him “Professor” infuriated him.

"It’s Professor Darnell!" he cut in, voice tinged with rage. The crowd stirred, sensing the tension, but Hajime didn’t miss a beat.

"You think you can just walk into Professor Darnell’s town,

This water be so deep, you’re likely to drown..."

But Hajime cut him off, stealing his flow. She mocked him by finishing his verse, her voice slick with confidence.

"Hold up, Darnell, let me clear the air,

Your rhymes fall flat, they don’t compare.

You think you can win, but I’m reaching high,

I’m a true artist, trained to fly."

Darnell almost faltered, losing his rhythm. She had stolen his rhyme, twisted it, and made it her own. His face burned with fury as the crowd roared.

"You can't touch me, Hajime, I'm on the rise,

In this hip-hop world, I'm the prize."

But Hajime was faster, beating him to the punch.

"In this world of music, I rise above,

You’re just a dude, but I got the love.

Gold and jewels? They can’t hide your lies,

Your legacy’s broken, and now it dies."

Professor Darnell’s fury built as Hajime used his own words to outshine him. His anger boiled over as she refused to call him by his self-given title, and the crowd’s reaction only deepened his frustration. This back-and-forth highlighted Hajime’s quick wit and mastery of improvisation, exposing Darnell’s reliance on bravado and his crumbling confidence.

"Yo, Hajime, you don’t know what you’re sayin’,

Your rhymes are weak, not worth playin’.

You’re just a dancer, a pretty face,

But in my world, girl, you got no place."

"I’ll rise above, leave you in dust,

In the AVP, I’m the one they trust.

You call me fake, but I wear this crown,

When I’m done, you’ll be underground."

The crowd cheered, but it felt hollow to him now. Hajime’s presence was overwhelming, a force he hadn’t anticipated. She was already swaying into her final verse.

"Darnell, Darnell, your bling’s just a show,

Behind that mask, you’re hollow—yo.

You think you’re untouchable, but here’s the truth,

I’m the future, you’re the wasted youth."

"I’ll take this win, with grace and pride,

While you fall, your shame worldwide.

Gold chains and jewels? Can’t hide your sin,

In this battle, I’ll always win."

She paused, removed her glasses, and looked him dead in the eye.

"I’m Hajime Mashite, proud and true,

But I ain’t here to say 'pleased to meet you.'"

The crowd erupted, her fans chanting her name. Darnell tried to recover, but it was too late. He had lost the rhythm—and the respect of the crowd.

Hajime had gone to Professor Darnell’s demesne as an act of empathy, a last attempt at reaching his humanity. Philanthropy at its core. She didn’t want to leave him to his fate within the artificial world, trapped by his own delusions. But in the gallery of his so-called "sexual accomplishments" that she had seen while visiting his Demesne, she saw the faces of thousands of women. One of them she recognized.

O Genki.

The sight of her shifted everything. Hajime’s empathy evaporated. Her purpose became crystal clear: she wasn’t there to save him anymore. She was going to make him wish he was dead.

In the dream realm, the Grand Master Abbot watched closely, his eyes crackling with the sharp awareness that had earned him his title. He saw the exact moment Hajime’s resolve shifted, the look of cold determination replacing the compassion that had brought her there. She was no longer a mere contestant in this rap battle—she had transformed into something far more dangerous.

O Genki, he thought. The name passed through his mind like a whisper, one that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken stories.

The Abbot knew. He had seen it in Hajime’s eyes when she first stepped into the light. Her purpose had been different then, her heart driven by something softer, more forgiving. But the sight of that face, that one among the many, had severed the last of her mercy.

The Grand Master Abbot understood now. This was more than a contest of rhymes. This was retribution.

And as the battle unfolded, he watched it all with grim clarity, knowing that the story of O Genki and whatever bond had tied her to Hajime had ignited this moment. He saw it in every word Hajime spat, each bar filled with more than skill—it was vengeance wrapped in rhyme, a reckoning woven into every syllable.

Hajime wasn’t just here to win. She was here to destroy.

The Grand Master Abbot stood before the gathered crowd, casting a serious glance over the assembly. He adjusted his robes and cleared his throat before delivering the explanation that sealed Professor Darnell’s fate. His voice rang with authority, every word chosen carefully, shaped by centuries of Wu-Tang tradition.

“The battle you have just witnessed, between Professor Darnell and Hajime Mashite, was judged according to the sacred tenets of our order. As you know, the Wu-Tang Clan holds certain pillars dear in the art of rap: Respect, Originality, Wordplay, Flow, and Crowd Engagement. By the rulings of the council, Professor Darnell has been found wanting.”

He began pacing as he elaborated, the weight of his words landing on Professor Darnell like blows.

“First, we consider Respect. Professor Darnell’s frequent interruptions, his undermining of Hajime’s honor by refusing to acknowledge her as an equal competitor, and his crude barbs did not embody the spirit of the Clan. Wu-Tang teaches that power in battle comes from recognizing the strength of your adversary—not belittling them. Hajime showed grace, precision, and honor in how she conducted herself. In this regard, she surpasses the Professor.”

Professor Darnell stood off to the side, face red with indignation, but said nothing.

“Next, Originality. Professor Darnell, while skilled, fell back on familiar crutches—recycled lines from ages past. His bars, though technically sound, were steeped in overused tropes. Hajime, on the other hand, brought a freshness to her verses. Her lines were sharp, cutting not only through Darnell’s bravado but the illusion of his entire persona.”

The crowd shifted, murmuring in agreement, as Hajime remained poised, her expression still focused, though her victory seemed certain now.

“Wordplay and Flow. Hajime’s delivery was crisp, her metaphors pointed and cutting, while Darnell’s fell flat. His attempts to twist her words back at her were met by her quick-witted retorts, which not only matched but often surpassed his attempts.”

The Grand Master paused for effect, and then his eyes landed directly on Professor Darnell, who shifted uneasily.

“Finally, Crowd Engagement. It is the people, after all, who are the true judges of any contest. And it is undeniable that Hajime commanded their attention. Every beat, every pause, was crafted to pull the audience deeper into her words. Darnell, by contrast, allowed his frustrations to dull his edge.”

He sighed, the weight of finality settling over the room.

“And so, by the judgment of the Wu-Tang Clan’s members, Professor Darnell has fallen short of the standards required for ascension. Hajime Mashite is declared the victor.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, and Hajime gave a small, respectful bow, while Professor Darnell, still fuming, turned away from the scene, knowing that this loss was not only a defeat in battle but a personal reckoning.

Professor Darnell’s golden Wu-Tang Clan emblem chain fell from his neck, as if pulled away by some invisible force. A second chain, identical in form, appeared in the air above Hajime, descending gracefully around her neck.

“You are an original, Hajime. You may join us,” the Abbot declared.

But then his gaze shifted to Professor Darnell, and the joy turned to cold, righteous judgment. “You, however, can go to Detroit.”

Professor Darnell screamed in protest as the trapdoor beneath him opened, not just physically but metaphysically. His consciousness was ripped from the moment, plummeting into the depths of his own mind. There, in the dark recesses he had so meticulously hidden away, the fears he’d buried—the failures he refused to acknowledge—waited for him.

For years, Professor Darnell had built himself up as a master of his world, an academic and artistic titan, the architect of virtual empires. But in that battle, faced with Hajime’s raw talent and truth, something shattered inside him. He couldn’t fathom that she had bested him—him, the one whose legacy was supposed to outshine all others.

The truth was undeniable: her words, her presence, had dismantled everything he believed in. She’d exposed the hollowness of his fame, the fraudulent core behind the flashing lights and gold chains. The realization was too much for his mind to bear.

As he fell deeper into his subconscious, the façade of Professor Darnell—master of the AVP and holographic world—crumbled. The carefully constructed walls around his ego began to collapse, revealing the void he had always feared: a bitter, hollow expanse filled with his shortcomings, his broken promises, and the ghosts of the people he had wronged.

He couldn’t face it.

Before the silence settled, Hajime looked down into the hole at Professor Darnell’s rapidly fading image. "Do you even know why I came here?" she asked, her voice cutting through the chaos.

Professor Darnell, still falling, barely heard her.

"I came because I thought there was something left in you worth saving. Some shred of decency," she continued, her voice firm, unwavering. "But when I saw O Genki’s face among the others—her face—it was over. You took something from her. From me. And now, I'm taking this from you."

She tugged at the golden chain now resting around her neck. "Your dream is dead. You’re not the man you pretend to be except for where you shouldn’t be. You’re just another monster.”

So, in a final act of self-preservation, Professor Darnell reached for the only escape he knew. He decided to archive his own demen, sealing away his essence within the Encephalon system, locking away the torment of failure in a digital sarcophagus. The world outside would remember Professor Darnell, the legend—but inside, where it truly mattered, he had fallen, hiding himself from the truth forever.

The trapdoor slammed shut. The crowd erupted into cheers for Hajime, the victor.

The Grand Master Abbot's voice boomed once again, filled with joyous pride. “You are tenner than November, my lady.”

Hajime almost cried, but she kept herself composed, her fingers brushing the golden chain lightly as she admired it. She glanced up at the Grand Master Abbot, a final look of respect and understanding passing between them.

"In the symphony of spacetime, we are the song unsung," she said softly.

And with that, her demen logged out of Professor Darnell’s simulation.

Meanwhile, aboard the spaceship orbiting Caitlin’s Comet, the Grand Master Abbot of the Wu-Tang Clan stirred from his sleep. He sat up in bed, his brow furrowed in contemplation. What had he just dreamed? Was any of that real? He knew it was—he could feel the weight of the truth in his bones.

The vision of O Genki lingered in his mind. He now fully understood what had driven Hajime to face Professor Darnell. Retribution. It had been a confrontation long in the making, fueled by the silent screams of those forgotten in the gallery of Darnell’s conquests.

The Abbot rose from his bed, locking the door to his cabin. A great shift in the future tugged at his precognitive senses, renowned far and wide. He could feel it—something forbidden was approaching, something that would consume everyone on that ship.

The future was coming for them all.