I felt my finger poking around inside my buttoned up collar where it came up against my neck. The living room’s lumpy, pale blue shag carpeting pressed onto my folded knees from beneath my dark slacks.

Dad made sure we wore our best for Mass, no exceptions.

I’d been ready since nine the morning, a full hour before we needed to leave, and as a reward for my prudence, while Sis was still eating breakfast, I got to glue myself to the television and watch Kosuke Himichi give one of his rare TV interviews—this time, on The Paul Tarson Show.

The interviewer’s face was a ship’s prow, rising up stalwart and manly from his deep blue blazer’s collar. Tarson’s pearly teeth and gelled, slicked-back hair glistened in the limelight. Himichi sat on the stately dark green sofa beside Tarson’s lacquered desk.

The interview had been going on for a bit, having begun with a discussion of manga and animation, and other details of the art. Mr. Himichi given a bit of his personal history, explaining how he’d started out as a film student for whom drawing had been a mere hobby, only to devote himself to drawing and animation as a way of coping with his wife’s untimely death.

“Animation is to live-action film what painting is to photography,” Himichi said, continuing his explanation. “It is the purest cinematic artform. And manga is but film in slow motion; we see the individual frames, rather than the cinematic gestalt that emerges when they are paraded in front of us at a brisk pace. And,” pulling his pipe out of his mouth, Mr. Himichi chuckled, “you don’t have to deal with actors and their troubles.”

The audience chuckled at that.

Paul smirked. “After that, I believe Evangeline Henrichy now has your full attention.”

The audience laughed at that. An entire generation of tabloids had grown up around Mrs. Henrichy’s scandalous escapades.

Clearing his throat, Paul tidied up the stack of green cue cards in his hands. “If I may ask, what motivates you as an artist?”

Mr. Himichi smiled cryptically. “I make what I make because I want to be god.”

The manga master stroked the tip of his short, black goatee. His brown beret hardly moved as he tilted his head back, nose up-turned.

The crowd had mixed reactions. Some laughed, others tut-tutted, heckling with disapproval.

This was part of Kosuke Himichi’s allure. His every movement was a thousand planned subtleties all at once. His mere presence was a kind of performance art. The pipe, for example, was entirely pretense. The man didn’t smoke; it was actually a bubble wand. He never drank anything harder than tonic water.

Paul Tarson’s shiny teeth showed as he grimaced at the artist’s words. “That’s…” he laughed nervously, “daringly blasphemous of you, Kosook.”

Mr. Himichi kept one leg crossed as he leaned forward and pointedly corrected the host: “Kosuke. Koh-su-keh. The u is phantom; it’s barely even there.”

Tarson’s eyebrows rose. “You sound like my high-school Munine-language teacher, only nicer.”

The audience laughed.

Himichi leaned back into the sofa. “There is a vast chasm between what is said and what one hears. This, for example, is why divorce exists.”

More laughter.

“The blasphemy is in your ears, Paul, not my mouth.” Himichi chuckled. “But, I admit, my choice of words was intentional.” He turned to the audience. “This is Trenton, after all; you can’t get anywhere in show business here without a little bit of blasphemy.”

Laughter and applause.

“Alright,” Paul said, leaning forward in his desk, “if I’m misconstruing what you said, why not tell me what you meant?”

Himichi grinned. “Gladly.”

“When we speak of godhood and the Lasseditic Godhead, I imagine most of us think about the Godhead as the almighty creator; that which fashioned the heavens and the earth.” He arced an arm upward, and then down low. “God is a maker of miracles.”

Paul nodded. “I think everyone would agree with you on that, yes.”

“In that case, all of us are already gods. DAISHU was our apotheosis.” Himichi pulled a Pocket Computer out of his pocket—a Pocket Computer being a predecessor of the modern Console—and waved it in his hand. “This nifty little thing right here? It alone makes us into gods. With it, I can speak with a man on the other side of the world. I can order medicines to treat illnesses. We have probes that spray nanoparticles in the air to seed the formation of clouds, bringing rain to parched lands. Compared to those who came before us, we are gods, and they would think of us as such, wouldn’t you agree, Paul?”

The host nodded hesitantly.

“I have no need to make the heavens or the earth,” Himichi continued. “No, the godhood I seek is far more elusive.” Stuffing his Pocket Computer back in his pocket, the manga artist stuck his pipe in his mouth and blew, producing a spurt of bubbles.

At this point, kid me was beyond delighted. I was over the Moon.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

He removed his pipe. “I want the power of eucatastrophe.” He nodded somberly. “The power of happily-ever-after. That is the power I seek. All of us seek it; that’s the human condition in a nutshell. It’s why happiness is so evanescent and beautiful. We yearn to control that which is not yet ours to command. And so, we turn to art—and to narrative, most of all. Through art, we become god. Paul, I can give my creations their happily ever afters—their eucatastrophes with but a stroke of my pen—and so can you, should you choose to take up the craft. I can save the dying child. I can end the war. I can give the troubled soul peace; I can give love to dreaming hearts.” Beneath the limelight, tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. “I can make life into what I would want it to be. And that is why I want to be god, Paul. I want to give peace, and joy, and fulfillment. If I could bring them to life—to our lives—that would be glorious. But I am a son of man, Paul, just like you, and our lovely audience,” smiling, Himichi tilted his head at the audience, “and so, unfortunately, those powers are not mine to have. I would save everyone if I could, Paul, but I can’t, because I’m just a man. Instead, I do what I can do. I give my characters their happily ever afters, and hope that, in doing so, slivers of peace, happiness, and fulfillment might find their way to the people that care about them, and, perhaps—in the fullness of time—my efforts might help make our world a better place, if only because they helped a troubled soul find solace, and the knowledge that they aren’t alone.” And he smiled. “That is what I would do if I were God. Now, Mr. Tarson, what would you do?”

The host’s mouth drooped open. The audience was utterly silent. No one really knew what to say. Paul nervously shuffled the interview cue-cards in his hands, though they soon spilled out of his grasp, rustling slightly as they settled onto the table.

“An excellent interview,” Mr. Himichi mumbled, nodding to one in particular. Turning around in his seat, the manga artist pulled a bag up from behind the dark green sofa, leaned forward, and plopped it onto Tarson’s desk. The bag was filled to the brim with free copies of various Himichi opuses, and all of them were autographed. Then, he got up, walked up to Mr. Tarson’s desk, shook the perplexed host’s hand and walked out the door, and by the time the stage crew realized what was happening, he’d already stepped out of the studio’s back door and vanished into an unknown taxicab.

Young me had watched the whole thing grinning like a madman.

“What happened next?” Andalon said. “I wanna know what happened next!” Her words ripped me out of the memory and back into the clockwood.

I smiled slightly. “They were sold at auction, and for very high prices. Himichi’s stunt caused a media bonanza.” I’d always wondered how many of the people in the audience ever actually read those graphic novels, rather than treating them as status symbols—mere commodities.

From her perch on the branch, Andalon nodded. “He’s super cool.”

“Yeah, he is,” I said. “I think he’d make for a pretty interesting god. He’d certainly be a creative one.”

Suddenly, Andalon appeared on my branch, standing beside my crossed legs.

“I think you can do it, Mr. Genneth,” Andalon said. “You wanna fix things. You like to make them better.” Then, with a nod, she hugged me. “I trust you.”

I sat in place, unsure of how to react, filled with a confused mix of emotions.

Eventually, Andalon stepped back.

“You really think I can do it?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Yeah! And, if anything gets scary, you got the en-gee chainslaw!”

I supposed I did.

“But what if I goof it up again?” I asked.

She looked me in the eyes. “Then you try again. You try and try and try. Do whatever you can do.”

I clenched my fists. “But how can I get them to listen to each other?”

We were blinded by our self-regard—our pleasures and our pains. The Plotskies certainly were. They were mired in their irreconcilable differences.

Some said those chasms were unbridgeable: that we’d never be able to fully understand one another, be it for the limitations of our perceptions, or the supposed fallibility of the fallen human spirit. I was circumspect toward the limited-perception argument, and my burgeoning wyrmhood was proving me right—though, even if the Green Death had never come upon us, I’d like to think that technology might one day enable us to bridge the gap.

But, as to that other reason—the human malfeasance… to fully rebut that, you’d need to assert that, deep down, all people were truly good at heart. I very much wanted to believe that was true, but I just didn’t have enough faith to make that leap. And, even if I did—especially if I did—I didn’t think it was my place to make that judgment. But, I did believe that all people had the capacity to do good. And for me, that was enough.

But would it be enough for the Plotskies?

“How do I get them to understand one another?” I added.

“Well,” Andalon said, “when you show me stuffs from your head, I feel what you feel, Mr. Genneth.” She smiled. “It lets me know how nice you are. And Andalon—Big Andalon… I know she learns stuffs by lookin’ inside the peoples in the wyrmeh. Maybe…” She pursed her lips in thought. “Maybe you can show the Plotsies the peoples inside each other?”

Holy fudging shirtballs.

She was right. I could.

I shook my head, growing more anxious by the second. “B-But, what if I mess up?”

“I dunno,” Andalon said, “but…” she looked me in the eyes, “if you don’t help them, who will?”

I exhaled sharply.

“Fudge,” I muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“A very smart man once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result.” I smiled. “By that definition, I guess I really am crazy.”

However afraid of failure I might have been, the thought of doing nothing terrified me more than anything else. I had no idea what I was doing, and it wasn’t okay. But that’s why I had to try. I had to learn, and practice, and experience and grow, otherwise, I’d always have no idea what I was doing. And that really wasn’t okay.

“I guess I really am doing this,” I muttered.

It’s like I said: I was addicted to helping people.

I traced a finger along the air in front of me, in a line of light that cut a slit in the sky. I knew the Plotskies’ memories like the back of my hand, and if they weren’t going to acknowledge one another for who they were, the least I could do was show them in their stead. I imagined there was a good chance this would end horribly and blow up in my face. And, strangely enough, I took comfort in that.

If being human meant being messed up, then no amount of wyrm transformation could ever take my humanity away from me. If anything, it might even enhance it.

“You gonna do it?” Andalon asked.

I nodded. “Yep. What’s the worst that can happen?” I added, sarcastically.

Andalon smiled. “Miss Leen and her family get so mad and sad that they turn into demons and go with the Darkness and everything becomes horrible for them for ever and ever, and Mr. Genneth and Andalon will be very very sad and stressed.”

I cringed at that.

Fudge.

Chuckling, I wagged a finger at her. “One of these days, Andalon, I’m going to explain the meaning of sarcasm to you.”

She hopped in place. “Andalon is excited!”

I smiled. “Hold on to that attitude.” I stared into the slit, and the light and sound and memory and soul that poured out from its ethereal edges. “Where we’re going, we’ll need it.”

I offered the little spirit girl my hand.

“Let’s go try to save some souls,” I said.

And we stepped in.