Book of the Fool, chapter 1: Out of Time

I am conscious. Not in the way one wakes up, not even with a disoriented start. I am nothing, and then I am conscious. And sitting.

Under my arse is a comfortable seat. In front of me is a table, then two entities, then an empty plane of luminous sand hills extending to infinity with one peculiar object, and then, the void.

The object in the desert is a corpse. I recognize the slippers, the shorts, the white wife beater and beige shirt. Hairy legs. That’s me. Minus the upper right side of the head. A glazed brown eye stares aimlessly, lashes stained with one last tear. I should feel nauseous, but I can’t.

A flash of pain sears my brain. I touch my temple and feel warm flesh, although I know I shouldn’t? The feeling leaves just as quickly as it came. I should be hyperventilating, but I can’t.

“Tea?”

One of the entities sitting in front of me in a leather chair much like my own is a handsome man of indeterminate ethnicity with a tan face, silver eyes, and short white hair cut and styled to perfection. He wears a white suit that would look expensive if it were not so pristine. As it is, it looks unreal. The man hands signals and the second entity approaches.

While the man could turn heads just walking anywhere, the… person? The person next to him couldn’t pass as human in the most unhinged of BDSM parties. She, tentatively, towers over both of us. Her limbs are unnaturally thin, ending in far too many fingers linked together by strands of skin like the wings of a tattered bat. Her face is barely human, haughty with high cheekbones but the features are all wrong. The skin seems stretched to the limits over… I look at her eyes and there is nothing there. Nothing. It’s like seeing a hole directly into the void beyond. I know I should be reeling in horror, but I can’t.

Despite her lawn-mower worthy mitts, the tall woman serves me tea with perfect composure in a nice white porcelain that wasn’t there just a moment ago, and because I am polite, I take it.

It’s piping hot and delicious. Earl grey with a dash of lemon. It would calm me down if there were any emotions to quell.

“Uh, thank you?”

“You are welcome,” the man in white replies with clear amusement. Then after a delay: “I know who you are.”

“Hi, I’m—”

I cut off.

“To be precise, I know everything about you from your exact age to your body composition to your genetic makeup to your memories, Steve. I know you more than any human ever knew themselves.”

He takes a sip of his cup which I would have sworn didn’t exist either.

“I have many questions,” I say, this time uninterrupted.

“I will hear you first.”

“Can you stop fucking with my mind?” I ask, and I should be worried about confronting beings that I clearly dangerous, but I can’t.

“From your perspective I have already done all the mindfucking I will ever do. Your lack of reaction is merely a side effect of this space, which is my domain, and your nature, which is that of my champion.”

“Excuse me?”

“Have more tea,” the man offers with a smile.

I recognize this expression from meetings with deans, directors, and bankers. It’s the face of a man who is sympathetic to my situation yet doesn’t intend to do shit about it. Nevertheless, I take another sip. It’s exactly as hot as it was before.

Weirdly, it helps.

“I have too many names for them to matter,” the strange man continues. “I believe the best option for you would be to know me as Chronos.”

I blink at that.

“You’re the Greek titan of time?”

“I am not, nor have I ever severed my father’s genitals before being deposed by an ungrateful son, however I am a divinity and time is my domain, so Chronos will do.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

I steal a glance towards Miss Lovecraftian wet dreams. She bows very slightly.

“This is Moragan, the Entropy. Morag for short.”

“A pleasure,” I lie.

“I am not the only divinity in this universe. In fact, there are exactly 108 of us and we play a little game. I have placed all of my tokens on you for this round, Steve. The end is simple. You will win this contest and become the archon. The ruler of all we behold.”

I wait a bit before replying to this absolute nonsense and because he’s waiting for me and because he waits exactly half a second to reply to me every time and that’s just weird and I should be unnerved, but I can’t be.

“What if I refuse? I mean, I can’t be the archon.”

“Your chance of success is, from your current perspective, exactly zero. A flat zero.”

“Then why? I don’t want any of this shit. I was very happy at home, thank you very much.”

I don’t want to die.

“It no longer matters. It is out of my hands and in any case, you cannot lose,” the god remarks over his cup.

“The fuck you mean this is out of my hands?” I demand, and strangely I can feel the barest traces of anger flaring at the edge of my psyche. I should be angrier. I want to be angry. Why can’t I be?

“It is no longer in my hands because I committed everything to creating the perfect candidate. No one can stop you now, not even me.”

“Me? I’m the perfect candidate? To be a king? Listen mate, I’m a professional cello player with the political acumen of a lobster. You don’t want me as an archon or a champion or… didn’t you say I had 0% chance of success? Hello?”