Chapter Text
The best stories all began with a few beers.
This was not one of the best stories.
Clanging and banging drew him from the world of slumber, waking somewhere… completely new…
“For fucks sake- again !?” More banging pulled him away from his thoughts- “Alright, alright,” he yelled, “I’m up! Cut that shit out!”
A feminine voice yelled back- “Watch your tone, Inmate!”- and punctuated her response with a harder clang.
Inmate ?
His eyes were open, he'd looked- briefly- in the direction of the nag, but he hadn’t seen .
While he was probably long overdue a stay in a cell- something about what could be classed as High Treason- this… wasn’t what he'd imagined. Plush blue velvet padded walls were at odds with unforgiving concrete floors and a thick slab of wood that technically qualified as a bed by comparison. The cracked toilet and cold, chafing shackles around his leg felt more in line with a Prison than the weirdly hypnotic walls or the soft piano and soothing singer that he heard echoing through the place.
The other side of the bars caging him held the Void, the Endless Expanse. Somewhere in the distance, a dimly illuminated desk. An immaculately tailored man hunched over his table, a proboscis of peculiar length drawing Michael’s gaze- first to it, then towards engorged eyes that would be… challenging to meet.
A low, rumbling chuckle, deep tones at odds with the sight of the man before him. “Ah, you awaken, Trickster.”
Trickster?
“My name is Igor,” he said. “I welcome you to my Velvet Room. This place exists between Dream and Reality, Mind and Matter…”
Well that was so much better- he wasn’t in a real prison. Just a fancy mind prison; a difference that may or may not have been academic, seeing as the tightening shackles certainly felt real enough.
He shook his head. “Fuck, did I forget to take my meds again?”
“This is no hallucination, my dear Trickster. Tell me… what do you remember ?”
Remember- he instinctively reached for his head as pain flashed through him, the song that calmed him replaced by a cacophony of carnage, of rage and despair.
“Alvagarde! The western walls have been breached! They're approaching the inner–”
Steel tore through flesh and eyes stared cold and unmoving.
Frantic footsteps competed with the thudding of his heart.
“Mikey, can you- damn it! DAMN IT!”
His muscles burned, each breath growing harder as naught but raw adrenaline kept him moving.
“I-I'm… sorry…”
Bolts of lightning gouged the earth around him, churning up enough blood and dirt to cover a good few graves.
They had marshalled everything they had- every weapon ‘too dangerous’, every debt and favour owed… and it wasn’t enough.
Never enough.
Stone shattered and timber shredded as a God made Himself known. A piercing golden gaze burned itself onto Michael’s very soul, razor-sharp teeth visible as He assessed Man.
He moved- how could he not? If he was to die anyway, he would die defiant! His limbs were jelly, his sword leadened and the air thicker than treacle, but… he could still… move!
The fist swung.
He couldn’t move.
His world was fire and agony, throat hoarse as a primal scream- his scream- filled his ears. Dimly, he registered the sickly warmth of fresh blood pooling, the tang of iron on his tongue…
Was this… it? No… fucking dammit, NO !
More pain surged through his body as the God reached down and wrenched him into the air, claws digging into him as the fist clenched.
A VALIANT EFFORT.
BUT…
YOU ARE NOTHING.
A flash of lightning filled his vision, and–
“Ruin.”
“Indeed,” the hunched man said, nodding the barest fraction. Whether that was a sign of sentiment or just the practicalities of his pose and physiology, Michael couldn’t tell, but he wasn't just going to blurt out any old questions about a fucking huge nose.
That would be rude! And rudeness was for- for the little girl banging a baton against the bars of his cell!
“Think it might be a bit late for that, Igor.” Michael shook his head; “that Ruin has already happened… hasn't it?”
“Indeed it has.” Igor said it so casually, as if the Fall of Man was as unremarkable as a spot of rain in jolly old England. “But you are in a truly unique position, Trickster.”
“... Go on.” He hadn’t agreed to whatever shit Igor was shovelling. He wasn’t going to agree! He wasn’t! But information was and always had been power, and he was feeling more powerless than ever right then. He could always tell the man to fuck off once it was an informed ‘fuck off, I’m not doing that’.
“Are you not a Soul between Worlds?”
“Do you say that to all your visitors between dreams and realit- oh, come on!” Eyes darted to the unrepentant little one with the baton, who'd started drumming Never Gonna Give You Up against the bars of his cell.
“Now, now, girls.” Igor gave a wide, deeply disconcerting smile. “His defiance is why he is here, is it not?”
“You gonna introduce me to the little terrors?” Bite. Defy. The worst Igor could do would be send him back to Oblivion with those who'd held faith in him. That was… an acceptable outcome.
“Our Master is offering you a second chance!” Clang. Clangity clang. Someone in the room was testy, for sure. “Show some appreciation, Inmate!”
A second chance that was worthless to him. He, personally, had never cared for anything as nebulous as Saving The World. He'd wanted to live in peace with the people he cared about, and if the same courtesy had been offered to any of them , he would eat the ragged clothes he’d woken up in. “I didn't ask for this.”
There were more deserving people- people who didn’t deserve to go down with him-
Igor's chuckles cut through the internal pity party. “Of course you didn't. Caroline, Justine,” a quick glance at each in turn- enough for him to acknowledge which was Brat and which was Quiet. “Do forgive our guest. His emotions are… fraught.”
Understatement of the century . He wanted to rage , to wrench those bars apart and throttle the smug son of a bitch and demand that Igor put him back. To shout and scream and curse the Gods that had decided that he'd make such a fun toy to play with. To storm unto the Heavens, tear them down brick by fucking brick, and watch every last one of Gods choke on their arrogant indifference!
“A touch.” If the deep breathing and tensed muscles hadn’t conveyed some Difficulties in controlling his temper… well, maybe clipped tones might. Maybe.
Every platitude he'd ever heard about angry men making mistakes was forced back into his consciousness. It wouldn't do to lash out, no matter how tempting they made it for him. More flies with honey than vinegar, he told himself- even if he felt like he could piss, sweat and bleed vinegar at that moment. “So. The Ruin.” He looked squarely at Igor once he felt like he had some handle on that rage. “Think we're past stopping the Ruin, Igor.”
“ That Ruin, yes.” Igor met Michael’s steely glare undaunted. “But… as I have said, yours is a unique Soul; even amongst my Guests. Two stars you have called home… have you not?”
Eyes widened- not to Igor's comical proportions, certainly, but enough to convey the shock at that frighteningly accurate question. Then, the realisation that he was trapped with someone who well and truly held a stacked deck to his shitty half-hand.
“One has fallen to Ruin,” Igor continued as if Michael hadn't reacted at all, “but the other…” The gaping maw that Igor called a smile only grew as he trailed off, looking at the prisoner expectantly.
There was a long pause; he’d picked up what Igor was putting down, alright. He just didn't want to voice it. The idea that he'd have to return to Earth after finally coming to see Gaia as a home… it stung. It stung a lot . Like a finger curling on the monkey's paw, if you also chucked the whole paw in a trash compactor and then incinerated it for good measure.
He took a deep breath. Then another. In and out, and in and out again and again… what else could he do? Fold his arms, sit on the bed and have a staring contest with the denizens of this so-called Velvet Room?
“So.” Another breath to be certain he'd levelled off enough to speak. “What do you get, if I can avert this other Ruin?” Eyes narrowed. “You live in this weird metaphysical state between Worlds, right? Why do you need a- someone to unfuck this mess, and more specifically b- that person to be me , with my established track record of not averting Ruin?”
“Suffice it to say, Trickster, that the Collective Unconscious requires accompanying Consciousness . As for you…” Igor gave a truly nasty look, leaning further forward in his chair. “Call yourself sufficiently motivated .” He leaned back once more. “Should you falter in your quest for Rehabilitation, you will remember this pain- the hatred and rage that fuels you. You understand , Trickster.”
“ You understand the price of failure. ”
Imagine, if you will, an ice bath being dumped on one's head. Further imagine one being tossed naked into the Arctic Ocean just once they'd warmed themselves up, and you'd be approaching the chill that ran down Michael’s spine at that proclamation. Understand, indeed, he did.
Igor waved a hand lazily. “But I have taken enough of your resting moments, Trickster. Return once more to the waking world; we will speak again in due time.”
“Wait, wha–”
A dull ring drew his attention; of course, he’d left his phone on charge out of arm’s reach, because snoozing was far too tempting. Every night, it didn’t matter where he was- where or when , even, as the case may have been. It was one of those habits he’d gotten into on the move, and he’d kept it up because holy hell it had worked wonders for his up-and-at-it.
That is to say, it now existed. He wasn’t always happy to be awake, even after he’d brewed something dark and strong, promptly chugged over whatever meal-prep was leftover, but he was awake. Ready to get on with the day. The odds of him saying 'fuck it', turning his alarm off and just rolling over again were minimal, after all, when it took more than just rolling over.
And a refresher on the calendar revealed that it was a Sunday! A whole day to himself! He might not have been a particularly good Christian boy- his spiritual leanings tended more towards ‘acknowledge the Gods, but for fucks sake don’t encourage them’- but he was more than happy to abide by the culturally accepted Day of Rest.
Even if it wasn’t going to be a particularly restful Sunday; for starters, there was the decor. Immediate signs had been that this was not a room he’d woken up in before. Granted, after the lightning show, his best squeaky toy impression, and the Wrath of God bearing down on him… waking up at all was a blessing. And this was one of the nicer awakenings he’d had. Nightmares minimal- weird dreams, mind, but weird dreams were far preferable to the aforementioned nightmares. Even if that Igor dude was… memorable in some un-great ways. Either way, could always be worse, he told himself. He had a roof over his head, and food in his fridge.
Now, judging by some of the food labels he’d seen as he’d searched that fridge… the place was probably Japan. Opening his phone- "what the fuck is that? Uninstall!"- and going for Google Maps… confirmed that he was in Tokyo; an apartment block in Yongenjaya, to be more specific.
“Shit.” That… hadn’t been on any of his bingo cards.
Now, while he’d expected he’d be back… well, on planet Earth… he was considerably more blindsided by the fact that he was around five thousand seven hundred miles away from the country he knew . Not entirely a complaint- he had always wanted to do Japan!- but… problematic, to say the least.
Tricky, being sent to the wrong side of the world-and a warning that he was going to have to strap in and jolly well Save The World properly this time, no less! Failure was even less of an option than it was the first time- like fuck was he banking on Door Number Three not sucking a fat one. He used to be a gambler, mind, but then he'd gotten sucked into a magical world where he couldn't connect to any of those gacha game servers anymore. Also, shit had kept going wrong, and 'well, it can't get any worse, right?' had become tantamount to golfing on Everest during a thunderstorm while screaming 'ALL GODS, AND BOY HOWDY DO I MEAN ALL GODS-'. Deeply unwise and requiring more than a certain degree of masochism.
The fact that he was in one piece was appreciated, though; after all, the Wrath of God had decided that he in particular could go fuck himself with a rusty chainsaw dunked in salted lemon juice. Alive was always good. Intact was definitely better, even if he had no right being so after the shitfest that was… the Ruin. He could bitch and moan about the rest- in fact, being British made it his contractual obligation- but those were the two main points.
Alive. Intact. He had those, he could deal with the rest of the bollocks.
Now, was he ready to go? Eh, maybe tomorrow- getting ragdolled by a God was so fresh on his mind the blood was still warm. As far as he was concerned, he deserved a fucking destress day. He could definitely take a lazy Sunday acquainting himself with the area, and Monday was… already on his calendar. Huh.
“Working custodials at Shujin Academy, huh?” Janitorial duties at a school? Being around that many teenagers again?
... Was it too late to go back for round two?