What may have been only a few weeks in the mortal realm felt like several months in Limbo, and Emily and the others made the most of it. Ever since Emily had agreed to Bob “the Blob” McQueen’s idea of turning False Orchard into a hotel, she had been busy. Every day, she would go out into the wasteland, walk up to the first person she could find (be they a lost soul, a scrap, or even a feral), and she would convince them to work for her. Her methods would vary from person to person, she would be motherly towards scraps, flirtatious with lost souls, and threatening towards ferals. However, no matter she was negotiating with, she’d always end it the same way by saying, “I should mention I have Krockman’s blessing. You wouldn’t want to make him angry, would you?” Needless to say, by the end of day one, Emily managed to form a ten man work crew and it only got bigger from there. 

Back at False Orchard, the others were just as busy. McQueen, the brilliant fat ass he was, opted for a “managerial position” (which basically meant he sat on his ass all day while everyone else worked). Jojo and Mona were busy catering to the workers, providing them refreshments when they needed. Wrappa and Plumella were leading the various new scraps in the construction work, which was a big change of pace for the feather duster scrap. It would seem that everyone at False Orchard was happy in their work... except for Mac. 

Ever since the deal was struck, Mac slowly began to feel his life be completely upended. The noise from the construction work alone was not doing his migraines any favors. He would often come across rooms that were boarded up as walls were tore down for expansion. The ever growing band of idiots that Emily had scrounged up are varying degrees of rude and stupid, not to mention constantly messing with his stuff. The worst part, though, was the fact that despite being one of the “major partners” of the business venture, Emily and McQueen seem to exclude him from any business discussions, immediately dismissing Mac when they start talking. Mac expected this from McQueen, his bigotry towards scraps was obvious, but he didn’t expect Emily to be so dismissive. It was, however, one day in particular that drove the laptop scrap to his breaking point. 

It was like any other day, with Mac trying avoid the overbearing cacophony of construction work. As he was trying to find a quiet place to read a book, he heard Emily call to him, “Hey Mac, could you come here for a second. We need your opinion on something.” Hearing this, Mac actually became excited. “Oh my god, they actually need my opinion,” he thought to himself. “Finally! I finally get a say in all this crap!” Making his way towards where Emily was, Mac saw Emily and McQueen sitting at a small table with a large book on it. “I’m glad you’re here Mac,” Emily said cheerfully as she picked up the book and placed it on her lap. “We need your opinion on something.” Feeling excited, Mac smiled as he said, “Okay, sure, what do you need?” Smiling at this, Emily opened up the book, revealing a bunch of pictures of dresses (and inexplicably, one of a matador). Looking confused, Mac asked, “I... what even is this?” “It’s just a little album I put together for potential new clothes for me,” Emily explained. “Mr. McQueen pointed out that I needed a new look for when we open the hotel. Which of these do you think I would look the best in?” “I’m sorry, this is what you needed my help with?” Mac asked in an exasperated tone. “And why do you have a picture of a matador in here?” Looking sheepish, Emily replied, “I really like the jacket.” 

Looking flabbergasted, Mac said, “Now hold on a moment. I thought I was coming in here to help you guys with the hotel, not play dress up with a picture album.” “But you are helping us with the hotel,” McQueen interjected in a condescending tone. “The owner of the hottest new hotel in Limbo has to look her best, and picking out her outfit is the most important job ever.” “Oh, don’t give me that crap,” Mac retorted. “We all know that this is busy work so that you two can push me out. Frankly, it feels like you only brought me into this ‘little business deal’ just so you could take my house.” “No, no, it’s not like that at all,” Emily hastily explained. “We’re doing this for everyone. Trust me, you’re better off this way.” “That doesn’t mean anything anymore!!!” Mac shouted furiously. “I mean what the hell, woman!? You’ve been saying that for months! When am I going to be better off?!” “Oh-ho-hokay, looks like things have gotten off the rails here,” McQueen said, trying to diffuse the situation. “Hey Mac, why don’t you go walk it off. Me and Emily will take it from here.” Frustrated beyond all belief, Mac turned around and left the room in a huff. 

As Mac stormed down the hall, he couldn’t help but replay what had happened over and over in his head. “What is happening to my life?!” Mac muttered to himself. “The woman says she’s going to help me, be a better person than Krockman ever was to me. Now she’s being just as dismissive of me as Krockman was.” It was not that far from the truth. Mac had seen Krockman manipulate entire bands of people with mere words, enthralling them with speeches that were both eloquent and vulgar. Likewise, Emily was gathering workers with honey sweet promises capped with a not so subtle threat of Krockman’s vengeance, as if he were some sort of attack dog she could summon at will. The more Mac thought about it, the more infuriated he became. Finally, after stewing over it for a while, he released his anger, collapsing to his knees and pounding at the floor with his fists. “Shit!” the laptop scrap shouted furiously. “Fuck! Assholes! Sons of bitches!” He was not entirely sure what these words meant, but he had heard Krockman scream it out loud countless times, felt it typed into him back when he was just a regular laptop. He could tell from context the general point of the words: anger, hatred, resentment, abject disgust at the fact that history was repeating in the worst way. 

What happened next was a mystery to even Mac himself. He was not sure if it actually happened or if it was simply a vision (whether it was a dream after he raged himself to sleep or if it was a delusion because of his rage), but he felt as if he was sinking into the floor. As the sensation grew stronger, the world around Mac seemed to disappear, leaving only darkness. He could feel himself falling deeper and deeper into the darkness, spiraling through time and space like a rudderless boat. After what felt like hours, the scrap felt his descent stop, as if he had hit the bottom. Looking around, Mac saw that he was surrounded by darkness, the only light that he could see was the soft, green light that shined from his eyes. 

It was hard to make out where he was, though Mac assumed that it was an enormous cavern of sorts. As he scanned his surroundings, he saw something that sent chills up his spine: a thick, scaly, serpentine tail. Following the tail up, Mac saw an enormous, dragon-like body armed with several enormous, clawed hands. He could not see the head of the beast, as the light of his eyes could not reach that high up. As if on cue, the beast opened its own eyes, sending down a bright, white light down on him. Looking up at the beast and noting how the light obscured the monster’s face like a giant sun, Mac was reminded of mysterious and cruel being who was only spoken of in hushed tones around the afterlife: Yaldabaoth, the Demiurge. 

Mac stared up at the monster silently, too terrified to even scream (not that it would have helped much in the presence of that “thing”). Yaldabaoth glowered down at the scrap for a while, studying him carefully. Finally, the Demiurge spoke, “Ah, Mac, you’ve come at last. Good.” The voice was not what Mac had expected it to be, not a great boom or an all consuming roar, but more like a chorus of elderly misers; infinitely louder of course, and infinitely crueler. “I’ve been expecting you, boy,” Yaldabaoth continued, gesturing at Mac with a claw. “Stand to the side boy. I have a bit of a cough and it’s very...” At that moment, Yaldabaoth went into a coughing fit, sending a spray of fiery sludge flying. Seeing the oncoming slag, Mac got out of the way as fast as he could, nearly getting hit by the molten loogie. 

Eyeing the scrap, the Demiurge regained his composure and said, “Well, speak boy. Say, ‘Hello Mr. Yaldabaoth, oh great and mighty Demiurge. How lovely you look today.’” Afraid for his life, Mac tried to speak, but all that came out was a frightened squeak. Hearing this, Yaldabaoth burst into a fit of hacking laughter, saying between laughs, “And now you know how they felt when they first saw you.” Regaining a bit of his senses, Mac finally spoke, asking, “W-who?” “Everyone, I mean. The lost souls, the other scraps, the mortals, all of them. Scared enough to piss their pants,” the Demiurge explained as he chuckled to himself, only to stop as a worried look crossed his face. “You, uh, you didn’t, did you?” Mac only shook his no. “Good, good,” Yaldabaoth said, sounding both relieved and satisfied. “That’s valuable stuff you’re standing on, kid. It’d be a shame if it were soiled by some dumb animal.” 

Mac was about to protest to being called an animal, only to notice the floor for the first time, and was shocked by what he saw. Stretching out as far as the eye could see was countless treasures and artifacts. Gems, jewelry, suits of armor, coins, tapestries, books, scrolls, statues, and countless other treasures from the various empires of human history (and from certain empires that had been long since lost to the annals of time). Amazed by this, Mac absentmindedly picked up a sapphire the size of his head and examined it. As he stared at the gem’s facets, Mac was startled to see that the Demiurge had leaned forward and was now staring right at him, giving the scrap a good view of his face. It was very leonine in appearance, with one large, orange eye, and one empty eye socket. “Put that down,” Yaldabaoth snarled hoarsely, thick strands of drool dangling from his fangs. “Don’t touch. You may look, but never, ever touch my things.” Scared shitless, Mac immediately dropped the sapphire, the gemstone clinking against the coins on the ground. Seeing this, Yaldabaoth sat back up, obscuring his face once more. After that, he reached down towards Mac with a single, man-sized claw (as if he was trying to impale him), and gently scratched his head as if he were a pet. “Good boy,” he said gently. “Smart boy.” 

Taking his claw back, Yaldabaoth eyed Mac a bit before ordering, “Well, go on then boy, speak your mind and make it quick. I’m growing bored.” “W-well, I-I was just thinking about what you said, about how everyone felt when they first saw me,” Mac said nervously. “I mean, it’s one thing to insult people every now and then (keeps their egos in check and all of that), but it’s something else entirely to hurt people or give them heart attacks for no reason.” As Mac was talking, the Demiurge interjected, “Fiddlesticks.” Looking confused, Mac asked, “I’m sorry, what?” “You heard what I said, fiddlesticks and nonsense,” Yaldabaoth retorted. “Why not hurt them? Why not frighten them? You’re better than all of them anyway. Dim, dull, stupid, the whole damn herd of them. Why do you question something so obvious? Why bother me about it?”

Mac was about to say something, only for Yaldabaoth to interrupt, “No, no, don’t bother. I already know why. I know everything, you see. That’s why I’m so sick and old and tired.” “I-I’m sorry,” Mac said cautiously. “I know you’re sorry. You’re always sorry,” Yaldabaoth said in reply, placing a hand to his head. “You’re sorry right now in fact, in this small, frail spark in the long, dull fall to the bottom of eternity. I’m not impressed.” Looking awkward, Mac said, “I’m sorry.” “Don’t keep saying that!” Yaldabaoth bellowed. “I know you’re sorry! I know everything! The beginning, the end, and everything betwixt the two.” 

“You now boy, much like other low creatures, see the past and the present (no higher faculties than memory and perception),” the Demiurge continued. “But beings like me work with a different kind of mind entirely. I not only see the future, but all futures, all pasts, and all presents. That’s not to say I cause these things, mind you. I have neither the time nor the patience to meddle in your piddly free will. I merely recall the things I’ve seen in the future, much in the same way you recall something from the past. Anyone who says otherwise is a complete...” As Yaldabaoth spoke, he noticed that Mac was hardly paying attention. “Mac!” he shouted furiously, catching the scrap off guard. “Don’t look so bored. Think how I feel about all this.” Mac tried to apologize, only to stop himself after remembering the beast’s words. “You wish to know about the likes of Emily and the Krockman, correct? Learn their ways and all that?” Yaldabaoth asked in a bored tone. “Take my advice: don’t ask. Do what I do instead. Seek out treasures (not my treasures, but treasures nonetheless), gather it up into piles, and when you’re done, sit on it.” 

Looking confused, Mac said, “That seems kind of short sighted. What’s wrong with learning their ways? I feel like it would make life better if I did.” Sighing at this, Yaldabaoth rubbed his brow as he said, “You’re one of those people, eh? Fine, fine, allow me to explain the nature of these thinking creatures.” Having said that, the Demiurge readjusted himself into a more comfortable position, looked down at Mac, and began. “You seem to have a minute understanding of these sapient beings, these thinkers, these theory makers, these... truth seekers,” the Demiurge explained, saying the last part with a bit of disgust. “They rely heavily on their so called logic to explain things, but these are nothing more but mere games. Games with a slight family resemblance to the truth, much in the same way as spiderwebs resemble bridges. These thinkers will gladly cross vast chasms on these spiderwebs, and sometimes they make it across, and that, they think, settles that. Boy, I can tell you countless, tiresome tales about these thinkers, there crackpot theories and here-to-the-moon-and-back lists of paltry facts. I swear, they’d map out roads in hell just to satisfy their endless hunger for truth. But the fact remains that there is no such truth, at least not in a way that they could fully understand. The best they’ll ever have is a convoluted mess of coincidences messily held together by a gluey whine of facts and theories with all the structural integrity of a house of cards built on a foundation of sand. Every now and then, however, the thinkers will have moments of lucidity and realize their logic is flawed at best. It’s usually an experience so shocking, that phrases like ‘God isn’t real’ seem as dubious as phrases such as ‘All cows are predisposed to cannibalism.’ That’s where the likes of Emily and the Krockman come in. They take the doubts and fears of the laymen and spin it into a message of hope with a fine network of saccharine promises. Promises that they live in the best of all possible worlds, chances at a better life, the joy of absolute fulfillment. It keeps them going for what it’s worth, but as for myself, I can hardly stomach it.” 

Mac was enraptured by the Demiurge’s words, though he felt that most of it was untrue. Of course, he would never say that to his face (one doesn’t argue with the likes of the Demiurge after all). Eyeing the scrap intently, Yaldabaoth said, “You’ve been very attentive, Mac. I truly appreciate that. Allow me to teach you the nature of sentience itself.” “Thank you,” Mac said politely. “Very well then,” Yaldabaoth said, clearing his throat before continuing. “In the their various studies, the thinkers will often use the self as a set standard for any form statistics. This, however, is a short sighted methodology given recent events in the mortal realm. One can no longer rely on the self as the set standard when the self varies so wildly from person to person. For example, the perspective of a fairy isn’t the same as the perspective of a dwarf, while the perspective of a dwarf isn’t the same as that of a human, and the perspective of a human isn’t the same as a that of a giant. The inverse is true as well, with the perspective of a giant not being the same as that of a human’s and so on and so forth. We could repeat this with any two sapient species and the results will always be the same, with no two species having the same sort of perspective. Furthermore...” Suddenly, Yaldabaoth noticed that Mac was once again not paying attention. “Mac!” he roared in offense. “Could you pay attention for once. If not for your benefit, then at least do it for mine. It’s so damn frustrating to try to explain these things to a creature of the ‘modern dark age’.” “I-I’m trying, really,” Mac explained. “You can’t expect me to understand it immediately. This is all new information for me.” Hearing this, Yaldabaoth placed a hand to his head, sighing as he said, “Fine then. Let’s try this another way.” 

At that moment, the Demiurge reached down into his treasure trove, picked up a crown, and held it just out of Mac’s reach. “Now then, what’s the difference between you and this little bauble?” Before Mac could answer, Yaldabaoth continued, “It’s quite simple, really. Both are absolute democracies of atoms, with each component serving a specific purpose for the benefit of the whole. However, unlike this crown or even a regular laptop, you have the capacity to analyze your own existence; to wander the world based on your own volition rather than what the universe dictates.” Noticing that he was losing the scrap again, the great beast sighed, “Put it this way, kid. Angry men do not shake their fists at the universe in general. They find someone or something to treat as fixed point, and focus their rage on that. A rock, on the other hand, will allow whatever forces may come to do with it as they please, nothing more but an inert mass of molecules being pushed by the whims of the existence like a jellyfish on an ocean current. Do you understand that much?” Seeing that Mac was, once again, not paying attention, Yaldabaoth did not bother saying anything. He only slammed his fist into the ground, shocking the laptop scrap back to attention. 

The great beast scowled down at Mac, half angry and half disappointed. “Such a waste,” Yaldabaoth muttered to himself. “And to think, you had the most potential to learn, but in the end, nothing excites you but violence and mayhem.” Without even thinking, Mac protested, “That’s not true.” As soon as he said this, however, Mac found himself face to face with the Demiurge again. “You dare tell me what is truth, boy!?” Yaldabaoth hissed, sending stands of spit flying. “N-n-no, I wasn’t, honest,” Mac hastily said in reply, trying to quell the beast’s anger. “I was just saying it seems short sighted to assume that of a person you just met. You hardly even know me.” Sitting back up, Yaldabaoth snorted as he retorted, “I know you far better than you know yourself. It’s been that way with all who came before you, and it’ll be that way with whoever comes next.” 

“Earlier, you said that it was fiddlesticks and nonsense to be considerate of others,” Mac stated curiously. “Why’s it nonsense to try and be a better person and live in peace with others?” “Well isn’t it obvious?” Yaldabaoth stated, his voice almost pleased. “These people need chaos in their lives to remind them of their weakness, their failings. It improves them... you improve them. You are the cold hard truth that shatters their delusions of grandeur. The brute enmity by which they define themselves and redefine themselves. If your target is the Krockman, remind him of his limitations. If it’s Emily, then remind her of her mortality. They’ll be better off for it. And if by some freak occurrence something were to happen to you, another brute enmity will simply take your place. Such things are a dime a dozen, so no need for any sense of petty obligation or sentimental trash. Just be true to yourself, Mac. That’s what I say on the subject.” 

When the great beast had said this, Mac thought it over for a bit, rubbing his chin as he contemplated these new truths. Finally, Mac shook his head and said, “If that’s the case, then I refuse. Let one of these other brute enmities do your dirty work for all I care. As for me, I’m not going to play the part of your pawn to take over the world or whatever it is you tried to do all those eons ago.” “Is that so, eh?” the Demiurge asked, hardly surprised. “Then by all means, go forth and make the world a better place. Feed the hungry. Shelter the homeless. Heal the sick. Be kind to idiots. Personally, I couldn’t care less what you do with your time. As for that bit about world domination and using you as a pawn, I’ve tried that before and lost an eye for it. My only concern now is to one day count all of this treasure, sort it into piles, and if I feel like it, head out and gather more treasures. That’s the only, truly worthwhile pursuit in this sorry world of plastic and ink.” “W-well, the world’s not that bad,” Mac said nervously, trying his best not to believe the beast’s words. “After all, its like they always say...” “Who says, boy?” Yaldabaoth retorted. “The Krockman, or that two faced bitch, Emily? It doesn’t matter who you pick. Their speeches are all the same: quite elegant, all lies. Just words as empty as they are. They’re two sides of the same coin. Now if I were you...” “But you’re not me,” Mac interjected as the world around them began to fade away. Unfazed by this, the Demiurge continued, “If I were you, my petulant little friend, I would gather up treasure and sit on it.” 

The Demiurge’s words still rang in Mac’s ears. He was back in the hallway again, looking at the door leading towards Emily and McQueen. Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed. Mac’s worldview had been changed forever. It was obvious he was never going to have a say when dealing with those two, though it wouldn’t hurt to try one least appeal to them. But if that failed, it would be time to take more... drastic measures. After all, one doesn’t argue with the likes of the Demiurge. 
———— 

Months earlier at Byrnhem Theater, the scrap pilgrims were kept prisoners by the ferals. They were all being kept inside of an old changing room that had been converted into a makeshift prison. Looking around, Teddi said, “You know, it’s not that bad of a jail.” “Yeah, I imagine the ferals could’ve put us somewhere a lot worse.” Kama only scowled at the two before saying, “You two had one simple job. You were supposed to keep a lookout for any ferals that might pass by, and you two screwed that up magnanimously. How do you manage to screw up ONE SIMPLE JOB!?!

Looking over at the sickle scrap, Calibur interjected, “Will you calm down. It could’ve happened to anyone.” “Oh you would say that, wouldn’t you, hero boy,” Kama retorted. “It only comes naturally to you to defend a damsel in distress. Always have to play the hero, don’t you?” “Are you trying to make this another ‘cornerstone’ thing?” Calibur asked, a little annoyed at this point. “Believe me, it’s not a cornerstone thing. This is a matter of defending a good friend and her friend. It’s called being a good person.” Shrugging his shoulders, Kama simply said in reply, “Sure, sure, whatever makes you feel good.” 

As they were talking, the pilgrims heard a knock at their door. “Hey!” one of the guards shouted. “Whoever’s in charge of ya, the bosses wanna speak to ya!” Walking up to the door, Kama stated, “That would be me. I’m the one leading this crusade.” When the sickle scrap said this, the guard opened the door slightly, revealing himself to be a large bulldog kobold. “You? You’re the leader?” the kobold asked in a confused tone. “I would’ve guessed Calibur was the one in charge.” “Why would you assume that?” Kama asked, slightly offended. The kobold only shrugged, explaining, “Just a guess. Now then, both of ya come along. The bosses will definitely want to talk to the two of yous.” With that, Kama and Calibur followed after the guard, all the while wandering what was going on. 

As they made their way down the corridors, Kama looked towards Calibur curiously. Noticing this, Calibur asked, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing, nothing,” Kama said in reply. “I was just wandering why these guys are so obsessed with you. You ever met these guys before?” “I don’t know,” Calibur explained as a thought occurred to him. “You don’t suppose I did something to them while I was in my rage burst form?” “Don’t know, but frankly, it doesn’t matter,” Kama said in reply. “All that matters is that we get the Eye of the Demiurge back. Hopefully, we can strike up a deal with them.” Finally, the three reached a large door at the end of the hall. The kobold opened the door and motioned the two scraps to go in. Wanting to get this over with, Kama and Calibur made their way inside, though Calibur felt worried about what they might find. 

Inside, the two scraps found themselves in an old office, probably belonging to the old owner. There were several portraits hung up on the wall, the largest of which was a large, portly, jolly looking man in Victorian garb. On each side of the man was a pet, a small, black and white cat on one side and a shaggy, stocky dog on the other. And those two pets were sitting in front of Kama and Calibur as the new managers of the theater. Orschwitz sat at the desk, holding a cigarette in his good hand while Skipper stared at the scraps. 

An awkward silence hung in the air as the two pairs stared each other down. Finally, Skipper spoke, “Well now, so y’all are the ones everyone’s been jawing about. Wasn’t expecting to be invaded by scraps today.” “Yes, Yes, you really caught us off guard, my zvyozdochkas,” Orschwitz said in a condescending tone. “Now tell us, why are you all here, hmm?” Glaring at the grimalkin, Kama stated, “I think you know why we’re here.” Looking confused, Skipper exchanged a bizarre look with Orschwitz before saying in reply, “Is this a trick or something, cause we don’t know what y’all are talking about.” “You know exactly what we’re talking about,” Kama retorted vehemently. “You stole the Eye of the Demiurge from us! We want it back, now!” “I’m sorry, the ‘Eye of the Demiurge’?” Orschwitz asked bemused tone. “Are you talking about this?” 

When the grimalkin said this, he snuffed out his cigarette, reached under his desk, and pulled out the Eye of the Demiurge, placing it on the desk for everyone to see. “That’s it!” Kama said excitedly. “That’s the Eye of the Demiurge! You better give that back or else.” Calmly staring at the sickle scrap, Orschwitz said, “No need for threats, my little comrades. No one is fighting anyone today. You want the Eye? Here, take it. It’s yours.” “Seriously?” Kama asked in shock. “Alright then, sweet. This was easier than I thought.” “Yeah, it’s a good thing y’all came when you did,” Skipper said, leaning against the desk. “We found that thing in the garbage some time ago, tried to make a decoration out of it, but honestly, it just gives us the heebie-jeebies.” As Kama was grabbing the Eye, Calibur asked in a confused tone, “Wait, you ‘found it in the garbage’? We were told you stole it from us at Fort Abraxas.” “Fort Abraxas?” Skipper asked. “I’ve never heard of it. We found this thing in a dumpster outside the theater. We don’t even want the damn eye, but for some reason, y’all do. We’re giving you an easy out here. I suggest you take it.” 

Taking the Eye under his arm, Kama nodded to the ferals and said, “Well, it’s been real nice (sort of), but we really need to get going.” “Wait,” Orschwitz stated, his tone growing more serious. “You may go, but Calibur must stay a little while longer. We have much to divulge.” Looking warily at the ferals, Kama retorted, “And why would I leave him behind with you? As far as I know, you’ll just tear him open and eat his soul shards.” “I’m sorry, they’ll do what now?” Calibur asked, growing nervous. “Oh, don’t you worry you’re pointy, lil’ head about that,” Skipper said as he walked over to Kama and slowly pushed him through the door. “We ain’t gonna hurt your little friend. Now you go on and git. We’ll send the other scraps out after you and when we’re done, we’ll send Calibur too.” Before Kama could say anything in protest, Skipper slammed the door in his face and locked the door. 

The tension in the room was thick. The ferals, having dropped their friendly facade, now glared daggers at Calibur. “Well, well, well,” Orschwitz said as he drummed his fingers on his desk. “You have a fat lot of gall coming down here after what you did.” Looking confused, Calibur asked, “I’m sorry, what exactly did I do?” “Don’t play dumb, boy,” Skipper snapped. “You’re the reason we lost Babel. You’re the reason the Feral Gangs Rankings was dismantled! You’re the reason why Orschwitz can’t use his arm!!!” “Wait, what!?” Calibur shouted in shock. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve never even met you guys before!” Before Skipper could say anything, Orschwitz interjected, “Wait comrade, I fear he may be telling the truth. He has no memory of what he’s done. Sad really, like a man who can’t recognize his own reflection.” 

When he heard this, Calibur was growing worried. “What are you talking about?” he asked nervously. “What did I do to you that was so bad? Why can’t I remember any of it?” Looking down at the scrap, Orschwitz explained, “Well my little comrade, you were leading the charge in Krockman’s crusades for Babel. I was leading the defense against your ilk, armed with a pair claw gauntlets. You had transformed yourself into a brutal warrior, hacking down everyone in your path. I remember what you said when you first saw me, something like, ‘Face me foul fiend! This one red hour makes your reputation or mine.’ Of course, we fought, and we were actually quite equal in our skills. It wasn’t until you stabbed me in my shoulder and rendered my arm useless that we were forced to retreat. Such is the nature of your heroism, taking land and crippling an old grimalkin.” “W-what?” Calibur said in shock. “No, no, I-I couldn’t have... I wouldn’t have... at least, not while I’m me.” “But you weren’t you,” Skipper interjected indignantly. “At the very least, you weren’t the you we’re talking to. You were in that rage burst form of yours. It’s still you, but just a separate aspect of you. Might explain why you can’t remember any of it.” 

Hearing this, Calibur fell to his knees, unable to process what he had learned. “N-no, I don’t believe you,” he said, trying to make sense of everything. “I am a hero! I’ve done everything to prove that. Who are you two to judge me. You kill scraps to eat their soul shards. But I’ve gone out of my to train to become a hero. It’s my duty to do good! It’s my duty to defend the innocent! It’s my destiny to be a hero!” “And it’s a good way to kill the boredom and smother the guilt,” Orschwitz calmly retorted. Looking up at the grimalkin, Calibur hissed through clenched teeth, “I’ll tell you this much, I’m not going to let you get away with what you’ve done, stealing the Eye, killing scraps, eating their souls. Only one of us is making it out of this office, and I’m not afraid to die fighting for what’s right. Does that kill your boredom?” “Probably, But that’s not going to happen,” Orschwitz replied in a sardonic tone. “Like I said earlier, no one is fighting anyone today, and we’re certainly not going to kill you. You’re not worth the effort. Not a hero, but a common errand boy. Of course, you could kill yourself, but that doesn’t seem very heroic, now does it?” As Calibur stared on in shock, Skipper unlocked the door, opened it, and said, “Well, you have what you wanted, and your little friends are waiting for you out front. Now get the hell out of our theater and don’t you come back, otherwise we won’t be so lenient next time, ya hear?” With that, Calibur picked himself off the ground and left the office, his worldview completely shattered. 
———— 

Back in the mortal realm, the sun was creeping over a large summerhouse on the outskirts of New York City. A man in his late thirties was groggily rising from bed, having had too much to drink the night before. His name was Peter Bron, personal accountant of Alton Mosby, one of the richest men in NYC. Dragging himself from his bed, Peter made his way to a nearby mirror to look himself over. As he examined his hairline to see if it had receded any further, a strange aroma wafted into his: the smell of breakfast. Confused by this, Peter walked out of his room and looked down stairs, only to be shocked by what he saw. 

Standing at the bottom of the stairs was a familiar looking young man, tall, lanky, scruffy faced with green eyes and dressed in jeans, a green polo and a trench coat. The young man stared up at Peter, a broad grin spread across his face. “Peter, you old son of a bitch!” the man shouted in a friendly tone. “How’s it been man? You’re looking well I see.” Staring dumbfounded at the man, Peter said in reply, “Uh, yeah, I suppose I’m doing good... who are you and how did you get into my house?” “It’s me, Cooper,” the man answered. “Cooper Krockman... I use to work at HBO... we met at the Christmas party they held for the shareholders... you really don’t remember me?” Thinking over it, Peter finally remembered who the man was. “Oh, you’re Shmuckman,” he said. “At least, that’s what I thought your name was. That’s what your coworker called you (I think his name was Ben Mason).” Looking surprised, Krockman said, “Okay, didn’t know he actually called me that.” “Oh wait now, that doesn’t mean I think you’re a shmuck,” Peter hastily added. “I mean who cares what Ben thinks, right? In fact, between you and me, fuck Ben. Just fuck him. Anyway, where’ve you been this whole time? You kind of just fell off the face of the earth a while back.” Walking past the older man towards the dining room, Krockman waved him on as he said, “Why don’t we talk about it over breakfast? You’re probably starving.” Feeling peckish, Peter followed Krockman in agreement. 

Inside the dining room, Peter was confronted by an amazing sight. Spread before him was a buffet of breakfast foods: eggs, waffles, hash browns, sausage links, and so much more. “Where did all of this come from?” Peter asked as he looked over the feast. “Did Ilsa set this out?” Hearing this, Krockman asked, “I’m sorry, Ilsa?” “She’s the housekeeper,” Peter explained. “Mr. Mosby really appreciates her. I personally try to relate to all the help.” “The help?” Krockman said, confused that anyone still used the term “the help”. “Anyway, Ilsa didn’t have anything to do with this breakfast. I had it set up while you were asleep. Now dig in. Enjoy yourself.” With that, Peter and Krockman grabbed their plates, filled them up, and sat themselves down at the table. 

As they were eating, Peter asked, “Say Krockman, quick question. What brings you back to New York?” “Well Peter, I was actually invited back here by Ben,” Krockman explained as he grabbed his mug of coffee. “Apparently he’s the CEO of a tv studio that’s about to go under, and he called me in to pull his ass out of the fire. Pitch him a real showstopper and all that.” “Oh yeah, I heard Ben’s studio was going under,” Peter said in reply. “Didn’t your ex uncover that?” “I’d rather not talk about it,” Krockman said, seeming a little uncomfortable. “I’ve moved on from her. I’m actually engaged to a beautiful woman, thank you very much.” “You’re engaged? Well congratulations,” Peter said, his voice seeming a little too cheerful to be genuine. “Thank you, thank you,” Krockman said, taking note of the man’s so-called enthusiasm. “She’s actually going to be meeting me here soon. In fact, my entire entourage is coming here, and they all need lodging. That’s where you come in.” Looking confused, Peter asked, “What’re you talking about?” “Well, I talked to Mr. Mosby, and after some negotiations, he agreed to let me stay at his summer house... this summer house to be precise,” Krockman explained, smiling all the while. Looking shocked, Peter got up from the table and made his way towards the hall, saying, “Excuse me for a second. I have to make a phone call.” “I bet you do,” Krockman said snidely as he sipped his coffee. 

In the hallway, Peter made a quick phone call, waiting for the other end to pick up. Finally, the call was picked up by Peter’s boss, Mr. Mosby. “Hello? Who is this?” Mr. Mosby asked, his voice somewhat weak. “Hi Mr. Mosby. It’s me, Peter Bron,” Peter answered. “How are you feeling today?” “Oh the usual,” Mosby said in reply. “I have my good days and my bad. Fortunately, this is one of my better days.” “Oh that’s so nice to hear,” Peter said, feigning sympathy. “Anyway, I got a quick question for you. Did you talk to some grody weirdo named Krockman earlier?” “Oh yes, I did talk to someone named Krockman,” Mosby answered. “What about him?” “Well, he came by here and said that you promised him your summer house, even though you already promised it to me,” Peter explained. “What’s the deal with that?” “Be reasonable, Peter,” Mosby said in reply. “Krockman made a very reasonable offer to me in exchange for the summer house. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to be needing it any time soon. He told me you were going to be out of town for a week.” 

When Peter heard this, he was absolutely stunned. Before he could say anything else, he noticed something strange in the hallway mirror. Looking closer, he saw a cat, a pit bull, and a fox running past the dining room table. Growing pissed, Peter said, “Hey Mr. Mosby, I’m going to have to call you back. Somethings’s come up.” Hanging up the phone, Peter called, “Oh Ilsa, did you leave the back door open?!” When no one called back, Peter shouted, “Oh Ilsa, is it too much to ask you to do your job?!” Still, no answer came. “Ilsa! Get your fucking ass down here now!” Peter roared as he walked towards the dining room. “I swear to Christ, if you don’t come down here now, I’m gonna deport your ass back to Jergen-Bergen Town or wherever the fuck you idiots come from, you Swedish bitch!!!” 

As Peter was screaming, he heard Krockman chime in, “Ilsa’s not here, Peter. She’s vacationing in Florida right now. Apparently, you’ve been cheating her out of her vacation days. Not exactly the kind of behavior I’d expect from someone who ‘relates to the help’.” Confused by this, Peter looked towards Krockman, only to be shocked by what he saw. Sitting around the table alongside Krockman were three men, a black man in a suit with dog ears and tail, a lean man wearing a tuxedo with cat ears and tail, and a fashionable looking man with fox ears, tail, and frosted tips. They were all eating breakfast while taking shots of bourbon, taking moments to cast dirty glances at Peter. 

“W-what is this?” Peter asked, clearly disturbed by all of this. “What’s going on? Who are these people?” “Oh, this is Terry, Tom, and Foxy K. You don’t need to worry about them, they’re part of my entourage,” Krockman explained, smiling all the while though showing no hint of friendliness. “Mind you, they only make up a small part of entourage. That’s why we need this summerhouse. However, after crunching the numbers, we found that when the others have arrived, we’ll be one head over capacity. In fact, we’ve determined that that one head just so happens to be yours, Peter.” As Peter stared on in shock, Terry interjected in a monotone voice, “Indeed, this is a most serious matter, Mr. Bron. Do not take offense though, it is merely a professional matter (though your personal dealings do tempt us to do worse).” “Oh yes Terry, he really has been doing some shady business,” Foxy K said playfully. “Skimming off the top of your boss’s monthly profits must be exhausting work, not to mention worming your into his will as his sole beneficiary. Of course, the benefits probably make up for it, wouldn’t you say, Petey? With those skimmings, you could have all the booze and women you’d ever want.” Downing a shot of bourbon and popping a smoked sausage into his mouth, Tom added, “Yeah, thank god Mr. Mosby never hired any other accountants. If he had, your little scam would’ve gone belly up the minute you opened your mouth. Every time anyone asks you a question, you basically swamped them with a bunch of economical jargon about budgets and quarterly reviews. Truth is, you know even less than they do.” As Peter stared on in horror, he heard a deep, husky voice chime in, “You might even say he’s about as much an accountant as I am a bishop.” 

Turning towards the source of the voice, he saw a fourth man emerge from a full length mirror. He was huge, hefty man, dressed in a kimono and sporting a raccoon’s tail, eye mask, and ears. Before Peter could do anything, the large man grabbed him by the neck, turned towards Krockman and asked, “So boss, you want me to knock this schmuck into next week already or what?” “Of course you can, Joe,” Krockman said, seemingly pleased. “Once you do that, head back to Limbo with the others. Do what you need to do. You’ll hear the call soon enough. As for you, Peter, we have what we came for, now scram!!!” With that, Joe punched Peter in the face, sending him flying until he landed... in the back alley of a bagel shop. 

As Peter slowly got up, one of the bagel shop employees came out, carrying a bag of garbage. Noticing the disoriented man in his underwear, the employee shouted, “Woah, woah, woah! What the hell are you doing you pervert?! Get the hell out of here!” Regaining his senses, Peter hastily said, “Wait, wait, this isn’t what it looks like. I can explain everything. I’m Peter Bron. I work for Alton Mosby of Mosby Inc.” “Alton Mosby?” the bagel guy asked in a confused tone. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.” “Yes, yes,” Peter said frantically. “Now if you could just lend me your phone, I can call him.” “Yeah, well good luck with that, buddy,” the bagel guy said dismissively. “The dude died yesterday. No one’s spoken to him for over a week. Now get the hell out of here. I’ve got a lot of work to do today and I don’t need some out of work bum making things more difficult.”

As he watched the bagel guy walk away, the truth of Peter’s situation finally sunk in. He had literally been punched into next week. Now Mosby was dead, and he was now homeless, unemployed, and ruined. Of course, the fall of one, crooked accountant is hardly the biggest thing to happen in New York in the past week. In fact, the biggest, most incredible display of cosmic power occurred in the city, and it all started with a simple visit to an old apartment.