Contributing Author: Zeusified
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They returned to Mother Plant’s botanical garden a little after midnight, tired but filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment after defeating Captain Corrosion and the pirates of the Red Scare.
Flowers bloomed along the small sanctuary’s stone path, colorful leaves waved their greetings in the cool breeze, and the sounds of New City faded into the distance. No more honking horns. No more yelling pedestrians. Just a quiet and welcome peace.
Tater Tot was the first to pull off the path, running his fried tuber fingers through a series of tall reeds beside a pond. A pair of ducks swam up to him, quacking softly. Cratherine, glowing with warm LEDs and surrounded by vibrant moths, let out a gentle lo-fi laugh as she knelt down and fed them slivers of her boyfriend’s potato skin.
Vice was next. He dipped under a wooden archway and found himself in a secluded space of raked stones and towering bamboo. A wide, flat rock sat in the midst of it all. It had a small bed of moss on one of its ends, almost like a pillow. The man of muscle and roots was careful as he approached, but as he climbed onto the rock, he found it was just large enough to fit his massive frame. Feeling a sense of serenity he didn’t think he’d ever felt before, Vice closed his eyes and tried to preserve the moment in the fragile depths of his repaired heart.
Stew stopped in the middle of a plethora of thriving herbs, entranced by the smells of basil, thyme, and rosemary. He’d never cooked with fresh herbs before, but, standing there, he was filled with a rush of inspiration. After sitting down and resting against the trunk of a seemingly ancient tree, the chef reached into his pocket and fished around for his pen and notepad.
He was asleep, snoring quietly, before he’d written half a recipe.
Cheetah Brains was lost in his own little world. It wasn’t his fault. He’d discovered a leafy plant with purple flowers, and something about it had launched him to a higher plane of existence. Rolling around with pupils the size of the moon, he purred in a blissful, content daze.
Trey, however, kept walking. He knew he should feel at ease, that he should feel safe, but the day’s events had left him in a state of flux. Here, the air was cleaner, the sky was clearer, and he could actually see the stars. It didn’t help. It wasn’t… natural. It wasn’t like the New City he knew.
Despite how wonderful it was, the botanical garden made him feel small. It compounded the looming sense of inferiority he’d felt since that morning, stole away the happiness he’d earned after saving New City Casino.
It’s okay to feel off, Trey, said Mother Plant. Her easy, mellow voice spoke from the soil, the grass, and the leaves.
He didn’t respond–at least, not immediately. As he continued toward where the greenhouse was, Trey tried to collect his thoughts. He wanted to give Her an answer that encompassed everything he was going through, but the right words weren’t coming to him.
Instead, he asked, “You had other Hosts before, didn’t you?”
Yes.
“Did any of them have a choice?”
Some. It is difficult to define that word, because there’s so much that surrounds it. If I wasn’t in a state of distress when I arrived on your planet, and I’d asked you if you wanted the chance to save your world… would that have been a choice? Would you have said no?
Trey frowned. “I would’ve at least asked you several questions.”
Yet in the end, because of who you are, you would’ve said yes.
“Yeah. I guess so. I think, maybe, I’m still figuring out who I am. Geneva, Flamagan, and all the others–they threw me into danger today, but they also kept me alive. I might’ve helped, a little, but I’m not the reason that I’m still here. They are.”
Do you know what the source of an aphid’s powers is?
“You?” he questioned, passing beneath the canopy of a row of oversized fruit trees.
No, dear. It’s the Host’s potential.
Trey couldn’t help it. Het let out a shallow, sarcastic laugh. “Then I’m holding them back.”
An apple fell off a branch and landed on his head, causing him to yelp. “Ow. I’m still sore there, you know?”
You are not.
“Fine. But what was that for?”
I was sending you a message. A physical one. You, Trey, are full of potential. Remember how I told you that this story is about you, but also about my children?“
“I remember. We’re failures, but we can be great.”
Another apple fell on Trey’s head. “Okay, okay. That wasn’t quite it, was it?”
Not quite. I had said that my aphids have been called failures. By others or, more often, by themselves. But they–and you–are so much more. I wish you could see the light that I see within you.
Trey let out a long sigh. “You’ve seen my memories. Last night, I was just getting by. I wasn’t anybody special. I wasn’t doing anything of value.”
That doesn’t mean you, yourself, aren’t special or important. Trey, we go through phases in our life. We grow, wilt, thrive, and blossom. Can you make me a promise?
“Maybe.”
Promise me that you’ll try to see the greatness within yourself. No matter what adventure awaits you, no matter what danger you and my children are thrown into, you’ll try to see, to witness, your own potential.
Trey released a heavy breath. “I’ll try.”
That’s all I ask.
The next few minutes passed in silence, as Trey traversed the remainder of the path. Eventually, he arrived at the greenhouse–only to find that it had changed. Large trees had built themselves up around its corners, raising the structure off the ground. Wisteria hung from trellises of woven branches. Fireflies danced beneath the glass and around the tree trunks, pushing back the darkness with subtle light.
Trey decided against climbing up one of the trees and into the greenhouse. His eyes fell on a nice bed of clovers instead. Something about it called to him. As he sat down, the clovers rose up to meet him, providing a cushion far more comfortable than his old DIKEA couch. His thoughts were still unsteady, but he tried to do as Mother Plant had suggested, to see the greatness within himself.
If I may make one last suggestion?
“Yeah?” he asked.
Now would be a great time to consume the [Budding Blossom]. I believe it will help you see your potential. At least a little.
“The Quest Reward?”
The very same.
With a tug of mental energy, Trey activated his [Inventory]. The flower bud appeared in the palm of his hand. It was yellow and pink, no larger than a New City quarter.
“What’s it do?”
It’s an activator. Today, you built a relationship with many of my children. The [Budding Blossom] is unique. It will allow the bonds you’ve formed to solidify, creating a true connection.
“Will that change me? What if I want to stay who I am now?”
Does it help to think of it as a choice? A breeze rustled through the grass and the surrounding foliage. Trey got the sense that Mother Plant was chuckling and smiling at him fondly as she continued speaking. You don’t have to consume the Blossom. Your bonds will solidify over time, providing you better access to your Adaptabilities, like Geneva’s [Inventory]. The Blossom just speeds things up. Either way, Trey, I assure you–you’ll still be you.
Trey nodded. The Blossom in his hand represented power. But more so, it represented commitment. It was a choice, but only in the slimmest definition of the word, just as the question, “Do you want to save the world?” was.
Not letting himself overthink it, Trey slipped the flower into his mouth. As it hit his tongue, he experienced an explosion of flavor and felt a bounding joy and exaltation as every triumph in his life clashed against every failure he’d experienced and won.
For a second, he saw it–that greatness in himself. Then, a hurricane of information threw itself into his mind, into his body, and he fell back onto the clovers and passed out.
[BONDS SOLIDIFIED. GROWING ROOTS…]
[ADAPTABILITIES RECOGNIZED.]
[SEARCHING FOR ACTIVE AND PASSIVE ABILITIES…]
[ACTIVE ABILITIES IDENTIFIED. CONNECTING…]
G: Inventory
G: Clockwork Thought
F: Holy Flame (Novice)
R: Speed Boost (Novice)
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C: Confidence Boost (Novice)
U: Dab (Novice)
[PASSIVE ABILITIES IDENTIFIED. CONNECTING…]
D: Darkvision
R: Damage Reduction (Novice)
M: Luck (Novice)
[APHID SYNCHRONIZATION]
- 38.19% | (G) Geneva, the Great Master of Clockwork
- 14.25% | (F) Flamagan the Magnificent
- 21.33% | (D) Doug, the Clandestine King
- 19.62% | (R) Æn Ryzm
- 00.18% | (N) The Nameless One
- 00.00% | (Z) Daizy
- 10.07% | (C) Connor
- 00.10% | (W) Weenie Bob
- 07.77% | (M) Maurice
- 15.40% | (U) Yu
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It’d taken three hours to cut Dr. Hugo Hugo’s hair, and it’d taken took another three to color it. When it was all done, Rose had commanded the bad doctor’s watching army of robot’s to give the barber, Giuseppe, a round of applause.
The old man had bowed, clearly exhausted, and accepted a slice of pizza from the triumphant Trenchcoat Troop. Then, he’d stumbled back to the fragile safety of his shop.
“What do you think?” Dr. Hugo Hugo asked, examining himself in a rhinestone hand mirror under the orange glow of a streetlight. “If I do say so myself–and I do–it doesn’t look half bad.”
“It looks terrible,” his little golem deadpanned, LED bulbs flashing in disinterest. “Why did you pick sky blue? Why not crimson, like the color of your enemies’ blood?”
Dr. Hugo Hugo set the hand mirror down slowly, deliberately, and turned to face his assistant. She stood there, prim and defiant, atop the armrest of the barber’s chair. “The color blue, my ignorant robot, is at the pinnacle of N-Pop fashion–as is this pompadour style. But it is my own fault that you are so naïve to the ways of the world that you cannot even comprehend how good I now look, isn’t it?”
“You are not a N-Pop star. You look like Donny Bravo without his muscles and sunglasses,” Rose said, extending a MEGO hand wrapped in wires. A holographic bubble popped up out of her palm. “Can I finally provide you with the status report on tonight’s encounter with the Host? I’ve been waiting… patiently. I would like to charge my batteries before the sun rises.”
The bad doctor hesitated before responding. Had he programmed this level of sass into her personality matrix? Had he done something wrong? He’d have to think on it. In the meantime, he’d hear her out, eat another slice of pizza, and try some of those pancakes.
“Er… yes, Rose. Go ahead. Regale me with the triumphs of my forces. How did my legion of luchador ninjas fare?”
“They didn’t.”
“They didn’t have a chance to fight? Then, why are they not here? I’d love to see Tiger Mask and Hector and Elbow Driver again, maybe give them a nice tune-up as a reward for their efforts.”
“No, Hugo Squared. Our models on their proficiencies were inadequate. The entire force, from Tiger Mask to Elbow Driver to Vorpal Hurricane Death Slasher… was wiped out.”
The hologram in the little robot’s palm expanded, showing the aftermath of the battle at the casino. There were countless fallen luchador masks, broken katanas, and discarded kunai. Dr. Hugo Hugo’s mouth hung open. His slice of pizza, folded like a taco, fell limp in his hand.
“But–they were capable. They were masters of stealth and wrestling, Rose.”
“It does not matter. They failed.”
No wonder she’s upset. I told her not to interrupt my haircut. She’d stayed silent, grieving, through it all.
“We must honor them. We must pay them respects. But we must also replenish our forces,” Dr. Hugo Hugo announced, pacing back and forth on the street. He felt the eyes of his robots, still watching from the many bleachers they’d carried over, tracking him, as he rubbed his now clean-shaven chin.
Rose’s LEDs lit up, just a little brighter.
That’s a good first step.
“I will create a new force–but I will draw inspiration from our departed friends. My next creation will be…”
He held a finger in the air, as all good bad doctors do, to emphasize his point.
“Luchador Ninja N-Pop Samurai.”
Rose slapped her forehead with the palm of her robotic hand, causing her hologram to dissipate. “Let’s at least get some rest first, okay, Hugo Squared? I really do need to recharge.”
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“Yes, my Faith?” the Bishop asked, excitement and fervor filling his voice despite the late hour. After returning from New City Casino, he’d received a sign that had informed him to establish a means of communication.
He’d worked tirelessly since, pumping the bellows of the church’s furnace, unsure if his offering–the selection of gemstones and gold ingots he’d pilfered from the poker table–was enough. But thankfully, it was. He could hear his Faith, first as a whisper, like the licking of a campfire’s early flames, and now as roar, as the boom and blaze of a bonfire.
THE WOESOME DEFILER REQUESTS OUR ASSISTANCE.
Its voice echoed off the church’s stone walls, rattling the intricate paintings hanging around the alter. The Bishop turned sharply toward the face the large statue depicting the ursine deity, failing to hide his uncertainty.
His hands trembled, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“Forgive me, my Faith. I had thought the Woesome Defiler was content with our current relationship.”
SOMETIMES, FIRE MUST DANCE WITH THE PASSING WIND.
“I… see.”
SPEAK WITH THE QUIESCENT PATRIACH. TELL HIM, ‘SEASONS CHANGE. THE BEAR MUST DO AS IT DOES.’
“T-the Quiescent Patriarch, my Faith? Are you certain?”
IS FIRE HOT?
The Bishop bowed his head in reverence, then in shame. He pressed his hands together, first the statue, then the church’s furnace, where the riches melted into a shimmering, molten pool.
“O-of course. It will be done, my Faith.”
He remained prostrated for several minutes, waiting to see if his Faith had another message for him. He listened as the furnace hissed and priceless jewels broke beneath the ruthless heat, but he didn’t hear another whisper or hint of his Faith’s voice. Only when the church’s bell tolled, signaling the top of the hour–three in the morning–did he stand up and proceed with his assigned task.
Pushing away his fears, the Bishop pulled the right-most torch on the church’s western wall. He sent a silent prayer to his Faith, hoping the mechanism still worked, and let out a sigh of relief when he heard the click of its activation.
The stone pulled itself apart, revealing a thin doorway leading into darkness. After grabbing a lit candle from the alter, the Bishop passed into the opening and began descending the spiraled set of stairs contained inside.
Down and down he went, into the depths of the earth.
For a while, the Bishop counted his steps to try to keep track of time. His mind had wavered somewhere around step two thousand as his nerves got the better of him and his candle’s wax melted lower and lower. Yet, just as he thought he was stuck, that he’d entered a mystical limbo with an endless staircase, he saw a light below. A harsh, flickering light, cast by something other than a torch or candle’s flame.
The light of electricity.
There was a single bulb at the end of the staircase. It shone on a wooden door that looked older than time itself. Seeing it, the Bishop felt a cold, horrible chill.
Was he ready to face the Patriarch’s power? He might die, just standing before the man’s presence.
Was he ready to die?
Again, the Bishop gathered his courage. It took longer than it had at the top of the stairs, but it still came. Then, setting himself, he knocked.
Three knocks. That’s all it took. Then, the door opened, and the Bishop found himself face to face with the piercing yellow eyes of the Quiescent Patriarch.
His legs immediately snapped. They broke like twigs, but he grit his teeth as he collapsed to the floor, held out his arms to steady himself–only for his arms to break, too.
The Patriarch’s aura was powerful. The Bishop couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even respond to the pain, he couldn’t–
“Hmmm?” the old Patriarch said, running his fingers through his long, gray beard. “Oh my. Is that you, Little Ernie?”
It was all the Bishop could do to spit blood.
The Patriarch reached down and patted the Bishop’s head. “Look at how you’ve grown! Ah. It seems I got a little excited there, didn’t I, having a visitor after all this time? Ehhh?”
The Patriarch’s aura changed. It reformed, shifting away from the shape of a brutal blacksmith’s hammer and into that of a needle. Then, it stabbed out–once, twice, thrice, four times. Each strike hit the Bishop’s bones, remade them, and set them back into their rightful place.
None of the strikes took away the pain.
“Is that better?”
“Y-yes,” the Bishop groaned. He turned to the side, spat more blood, and then nodded. He met the old man’s yellow eyes again, and this time he was able to take in the Patriarch’s strong, animalistic features. “Thank you, Patriarch.”
“Have you come to play cards, or is this…” the old man paused, seeming to sense something, and looked down at the Bishop with widening eyes. He took a slow step back. “Please don’t tell me this is a sect thing.”
Taking a deep breath, the Bishop gathered his resolve. “I received a message–”
A finger blocked his lips. It was there in an instant, as if it had teleported to that precise location. The Patriarch was leaning down, his piercing yellow eyes wobbling like a sad puppy’s.
“Please don’t tell me this is a sect thing, little Ernie.”
The Bishop coughed, swallowed, and then continued, his words slightly distorted as he tried to speak around the old man’s finger.
“The Faith commanded me to tell you, ‘Seasons change. The bear must do as it does.’”
The old man let out a long, childish groan, before glaring up at the ceiling, at the heavens. “Ehhh? Really? Really?”
The single lightbulb above the door flickered emphatically.
“It’s that important?”
The lightbulb flickered again, this time more slowly, more insistently, as if to say, YES.
“Bah,” the Patriarch waved a hand through the air. It sent a current of force blasting into the wall, casting chunks of stone and debris over the top of the Bishop’s head. “Fine. I will send everyone into the Du’Ra-eem Realm. After that, it’s out of my hands. Let one of the Bug’s young masters deal with it from there.”
The lightbulb was hesitant. It blinked on, off, on–as if it wanted to argue, but wasn’t sure how. Eventually, it settled on a dim, but acceptant, OKAY.
Nodding to himself, as if all was now mostly right in the world, the Quiescent Patriarch turned back to the Bishop. “Ernie, don’t go to sleep any time soon, okay? Unless you want to go to the Du’Ra-eem Realm?”
The Bishop shook his head. He definitely did not want to go back to that place.
“Good. Well, if that’s all, nice seeing you. Next time, let’s play some cards.”
“N-next time, cards. Got it.”
The old man flashed him a grin, then squinted back up at the ceiling, glowering at the heavens. “And you. This is the last time. After this, no more sect business. I told you, I just want to cultivate by myself, knit a few socks, and never deal with an annoying upstart ever again.”
His aura receded, and he put one large, hairy hand on the side of the ancient door. “Wish me sweet dreams, kid.”
The Bishop, looking through the somewhat-open doorway, caught a glimpse of the man’s cultivation cave: the magnificent four-poster bed, his plush mattress, his countless pillows.
“Sweet dreams, Patriarch.”
The Patriarch winked, slammed the door, and the resulting force of air blasted out and knocked the Bishop flat on his back. His head hit the floor, and things got a little hazy.
His eyes closed. His vision started to go in and out. The last thing he saw was his candle on the floor. His final thought, before passing out, was that at least he didn’t need to climb back up all the stairs in complete darkness.
Not yet, anyway.