"For those who stray from the Maker’s path, no ally shall be trusted, no friend without hidden purpose. Only in the Maker’s light do friend and foe find their rightful places." — The Maker’s Code, Chapter 12, Line 9
"A friend sees your soul’s strange edges and chooses to stay; an enemy seeks to smooth them away. Harmony lies not in loyalty, but in the freedom to be one’s own misfit self." — The Tao of Idleness, Book 4, Verse 22
I was thus on my own when Wanker showed up to chat.
Everyone else was off on their various little missions, leaving me to climb down from what I was generously calling my “battlements” and face the condescending twat at Lazytown’s gates all on my lonesome.
I’ll admit, it was tempting to stay up and unclog my nose in the general direction of this son of a window dresser, but for the sake of appearances, I did the dignified thing and trudged down to meet him. Even though I was sure his mother was a hamster and his father smelt of elderberries.
As I approached, Wanker—excuse me, the Harbinger of the Empire—stood waiting, flanked by two massive knights who looked like they could bench press my mansion with one hand while peeling oranges with the other. Yeah, you better believe my metaphor game is STRONG right now.
Wanker himself hadn’t changed a bit since we’d first met: still looking like a promotional model for a medieval leather fetish emporium. He had his hands clasped behind his back, head tilted at a disapproving angle, mouth framed in a perpetual sneer.
Looking at the three of them together, I was struck that party time at Chez Wanker was probably the sort of event that would have had George Michael crashing his car into a Snappy Snaps to reach in a hurry.
“What are you finding so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I’m just a guy, standing here in front of a man who probably has his own sex dungeon, with chains on the walls and a full array of questionable instruments, asking him—humbly, sincerely, with all the awkward charm I can muster—to kindly fuck off."
Wanker’s eyes narrowed.
He clearly hadn’t the faintest clue what I was talking about, but the tone alone did the job. His insincere grin twisted further into a moue of distaste, and he glanced briefly up to one of his knights as if he were about to order him to kick my arse. The knight remained motionless, glaring forward in stoic, muscle-bound disapproval.
“I see the Rogue of Eldhaven has not lost his . . . unseemly sense of humour,” he said eventually. “But I am not here to bandy words with you, sir. I am here to offer terms, which you would do well to heed.”
As he spoke, something I’d worried about happening began to unfold.
The edges of my vision started to pixelate, then broke apart, little by little. Tiny squares of colour began to dislodge from reality, and I realised, with a sinking feeling, that the world around me was switching to Game Mode. In that moment, everything went from smooth, gritty realism to blocky, artificial absurdity.
The Maker’s dreaded “cutscene mode” was kicking in.
I blinked, and in that second, everything shifted into cartoon mode: Wanker, his knights, even the gates of Lazytown snapped into their animation format. Wanker’s leather outfit transformed into a plasticky, hinged caricature, complete with oversized boots and a cape that appeared glued in place. His sneer, somehow more exaggerated and pixel-perfect than ever, hovered over a blocky jaw that clicked unnaturally.
My own arms and legs felt heavy and stiff as though they’d been dipped in concrete - locked in a rigid pose - and my hands were reduced to chunky, claw-like shapes.
I felt my mouth pull open—not because I wanted to speak, but because the scene demanded it. I was being dragged into some fucking Dialogue Choice sequence, the world around me reduced to colourful blocks, shiny pixels, and rigid, pre-scripted options by The Maker.
Fuck no, I was very much not on board with this.
A little menu flashed in the bottom right of my vision, with three dialogue choices in pixelated font. Each one was something absurdly heroic or submissive, completely detached from anything I’d actually say:
[1] I humbly accept your terms, oh glorious Harbinger of the Empire.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
[2] I offer Lazytown’s surrender with the utmost respect and submission.
[3] Spare my miserable life, noble Wanker.
The choices flickered, waiting for my selection, each a caricature of docility and compliance. I had, though, a massive, throbbing urge to rebel against the Maker’s imposed “script.”
The world trembled around me, the pixels wobbling, struggling to hold their form. The blocks began to glitch, stuttering in and out of focus, struggling against my resistance. And then, with one last defiant jolt, reality restored itself, snapping back to its original, ‘normal’ texture. I was back to standing face-to-face with Wanker, his leer as genuine and unpleasant as ever.
His lips were still moving, caught mid-sentence as if he hadn’t noticed a thing.
“Interesting . . .” I said under my breath. If I were a betting man – and considering the amount of gold that was pinging into my inventory even now, it kind of felt like it would be a waste not to be – I’d say The Maker had just tried out some shenanigans and little old me had managed to tell him where to sick it.
Wanker was still talking, but I’d apparently managed to break whatever cutscene The Maker had tried to use to corral me into passive listening and getting on board with what scripted future they had planned out here.
Well, in for a penny . . .
I cleared my throat, interrupting whatever monologue the Harbinger had been indulging in.
“Sorry, mate, I didn’t catch that,” I said. “Mind starting over? Something about ‘terms,’ was it?”
Wanker’s jaw clenched. “Indeed. Yes. Terms. As in the Empire’s terms for your immediate and total surrender. Lazytown, as it stands, is utterly defenceless. The Empire will grant you amnesty—if you submit and open your gates and hand over the fugitives you are currently harbouring.”
“Fugitives?”
“Behind your walls are the murderer known as the Dark Wren and also her father. Both are required back in Eldhaven to stand trial for murder.”
Interesting. The Empire really had it hard for Lia and Jorgen, didn’t they? Although, as we’d left Jorgen out in the woods somewhere, it did kind of suggest that Wanker’s intel wasn’t exactly A1.
“Ah, right. See, here’s the thing, Wanker. I tend to get twitchy around ultimatums. Allergic, you could say.”
The Harbinger’s eyes flashed in a way that may very well have been chilling if I hadn’t been so busy thinking of new nicknames for him. “Very well, Rogue of Eldhaven. If diplomacy is not enough to sway you, then allow me to make things more . . . plain. To the north stands the might of the Empire, a military force unmatched in this world. To the south, the Rebel forces lie in wait, a brutal, chaotic swarm ready to devour your town at the first chance it gets. And to the west, the Crusade of the Eternal Flame is prepared to purify Lazytown and its . . . questionable inhabitants. The only path to survival, then, is through alliance with us. Without the Empire, you and this miserable collection of hovels are doomed.”
The pixelation effect tried to force itself over my vision again, as if to prompt me into a prewritten Heroic Speech or a Reluctant Acceptance option, but I was able to push it away, and the world snapped back to ‘normal’ again.
“Oh, am I supposed to be scared now?” I asked. “Because you’re making this sound like I have more options than I thought.”
Wanker’s face twisted, obviously a bit confused by my complete lack of gibbering panic. “You misunderstand, Rogue,” he said. “This is not a request. The Empire does not make offers lightly, nor do we entertain foolish pride. You should consider it a privilege to throw yourself upon our mercy.”
“Oh, that’s what this is? A privilege?” I said. “I thought privilege was what you enjoyed with your feet up, not some leathered-up creep showing up uninvited and demanding you bend over for it.”
Wanker’s face flushed with barely restrained fury, and I caught the faintest flicker of animation again – a stutter in his movements – as Game Mode tried to force him into a Villainous Laugh* or Dramatic Threatposture. I felt a small jolt in my mind, a strange buzzing sensation, and a notification appeared in the corner of my vision:
New Skill Unlocked: Reality Anchor
Skill Level Up! Lvl 2
Skill Level Up! Lvl 3
And, at the same time, I could swear I felt the ashy remains of The Tao of Idleness solidify even further back into a book.
I risked a look in my inventory and yes, there it was. Still not the tatty old tome I remembered seeing before – it was more the shadow of a book right now – but it was definitely pretty much a recognisable novel again. That had to be good news for the well-being of the Great Slacker, right?
If Wanker shared in my joy at the potential resurrection of my patron God, he managed to hide it really, really well. “You are a fool,” he spat, clearly frustrated that I wasn’t playing along with his little psyche drama. “Do you not see the forces against you? Do you not understand the hopelessness of your position?”
“Oh, I understand hopeless, believe me. But forgive me if I’m not convinced you’re offering anything more than a fancy prison cell,” I said, glancing over his knights and then back to his glowering face. “And don’t call me ‘Rogue of Eldhaven.’ I only let my real friends call me by silly titles.”
“Then die with your petty pride,” he snapped, giving one last, dramatic sweep of his cloak as he turned to leave, his knights lumbering after him in perfect lockstep.
As he strode away, I caught sight of another notification:
Reputation with Crusade of the Eternal Flame has decreased to “Anathema.”
“Oh, wonderful,” I muttered, watching as Wanker and his entourage disappeared over the rise. “The holy zealots are officially beyond pissed.”
I stood there a moment, the adrenaline fading, the new skill faintly buzzing in my mind. I’d resisted entering The Maker’s Game Mode—actually resisted it.! I wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or . . . proud.