Echoes in Eternity

[Treznor]

His world is filled with light, heat and pain. It’s impossible to focus on anything but those three all-encompassing sensations. He can see nothing but bright white even with his eyes shut tight. The thermal bloom from the explosion that engulfs him, tearing through his body and ripping past his nerve shunts. There is no negotiating with it. There is no pleading with it. There is no mercy to be had. All he could do is bear it.

He is utterly shocked by its abrupt end. He’s braced against the concussion and when it disappears he topples over. “What the hell?”

“Hello, mate.”

He blinks and opens his eyes. The world is still a bright white, but he can’t see what generates it. His fingers are unscorched and there is no pain.

“Am I dead?”

“Yes.”

“I died?”

“That’s what being ‘dead’ means, mate.”

“But I’m still conscious.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t go through a tunnel.”

“No. It was over too quickly. If your brain had time to wind down you would have gone through the tunnel and spoken with celestial beings and all that but you didn’t have that. You died as you lived, quickly and violently.”

He levers himself up with one arm and settles into a sitting position. “I’m confused. If I’m dead, how am I still conscious?”

“We couldn’t have this talk if you weren’t.”

“Who are you?”

“Well...that’s a little harder. Technically, I suppose, I’m God. But you can call me Max.”

“Max my God?” He can’t help but smirk.

“Something like that. My name is Max Barry. I’m ultimately responsible for creating the environment that allowed you to exist.”

He ponders that. “That’s not the same as saying you created me.”

“No, it’s not. I didn’t create you. That was someone else.”

“I’m still confused.”

“That’s because I’m not being clear.” The god named Max comes into view for the first time. He doesn’t have much by the way of hair but his eyes are piercing. At the moment, those eyes are pinned on him. “I’m doing this as a favor to the one who created you and gave you life.”

“You’re not the only god?”

“I use the word ironically. I created a game to advertise my book, and added a forum where people could talk about the game. The players didn’t just talk about the game, they created stories about it. You came out of one of those stories, or maybe it’s better to say you became one of them.”

“Players? Stories?”

“Come on, now. You’re supposed to be a smart brumby.”

“Excuse me, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m dead.”

“Yeah, fair dinkum. Take your time.”

“So this...player who created me. He’s technically my god? My direct creator, as opposed to you who created him.”

“No, mate. I didn’t create him. I just let him play my game. Anybody who wants to play can sign up, they just have to behave themselves. He’s a sneaky little bugger, though. He skates right on the edge of the rules, him and that sheila he writes with. She’s good people, though. Writes fun stuff.”

“Can I play this game?”

“Well, you could if you were real.”

“I’m not real? You mean I’m not a god?”

“Don’t get so wrapped up in gods and such. You’re not physical, material like me and the people who play. You’re an idea, a concept dreamed up by this guy. Everybody you ever knew is like that. Your nation, your people, your friends and enemies. They’re all characters created by other people and put together in a collaborative story setting. They each create their own nation and populate it with whoever they like.”

He feels himself losing his temper. “All the trouble I went through, the heartbreak, the danger? It was all meaningless?”

“Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t write your life. Maybe you oughta talk to him about that.”

“Yes, please.” He grits his teeth and reminds himself it isn’t healthy to try to strangle gods. Not that he hadn’t tried before.

“Here ya go. Have fun.” Max disappears. There is no fanfare, no flash of light or puff of smoke. He is simply there one second and not there the next.

“Hello, Devon.”

Treznor turns to face a tall man with long dark hair and glasses. The man is seated comfortably in a stuffed chair with one leg crossed over the other. A faint smirk rests on his lips, a smirk Treznor is intimately familiar with. Nothing else about the man is the same, though.

“So,” Treznor begins. “You’re my god?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I created you. I wrote your actions and gave you words. So in a figurative manner I’m your god.”

“What’s your name?”

“That’s not important. Most people familiar with you call me Treznor or just Trez. I picked that name as an homage to Trent Reznor.”

“Who?”

“A singer. It’s not important. What’s important is that I created you as a foil to interact with Nathicana, and the two of you took on a life of your own. I never imagined the story would go as far as it did, or as long.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why create you? Why tell your story?”

“Why do what you did to me? Why give me such a horrible life?”

“Hey, be fair. It wasn’t all bad. You had some fantastic times with Nathicana. We walked a very fine line between artistically erotic and pornographic with your sex scenes. Remember when you confessed to her in the restaurant and the lasagna ended up going to waste?”

“Okay, not all bad, but you still put me through hell. What kind of sick mind is entertained by that?”

“Hmm...fair question. It’s not that we were entertained by doing horrible things to you. It’s that we were entertained by the way you responded to life. Let me ask you this: what’s so interesting about a guy waking up in the morning, using the toilet, taking a shower, eating breakfast, brushing his teeth, getting dressed and going to work?”

“Not much.”

“Right. We don’t care about ordinary minutiae because we live it all the time. It’s not interesting to us.”

“Fine, you had to have extraordinary things happen to make things entertaining. Why couldn’t they be good things? Why did so much of it have to be so brutal?”

“Still not interesting. You know those old serials of the square-jawed hero striding through a room of enemies, bullets flying and explosions wrecking the joint and he never so much as musses his hair?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“Again, boring. I mean, if I could write my own life I’d give myself a vast array of magical powers and more money than anyone could possibly spend in a lifetime. I’d live a life of ease facing no hardship and no challenges I couldn’t solve with minimal effort. People write those all the time; we even have a nickname for stories like that. We call them Mary Sue stories.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“There’s no real conflict. No challenge. No sense that the character is really struggling, no emotion to convey a sense of loss or hope or even achievement. Hey, look at me, I’m surrounded by a hundred deadly ninjas whom everyone fears! I’ve just defeated them all at once with my invincible martial art and my really cool magic sword! See how cool I am?”

“That’s not believable.”

“Exactly. Now you’re getting it. To empathize with a character, to get pulled into a story there has to be a sense of struggle. Just being pitted against impossible odds isn’t enough, the character has to have things go wrong and even to fail. Of course, that’s a serious challenge when you’re trying to tell a collaborative story and everybody wants to win in their own way. Everyone wants to be the hero. Instead, I wrote you. You were never the hero, you were just the protagonist, often serving as the antagonist for someone else like Nathicana. You were interesting.”

Treznor pauses. “Then why stop?”

His creator looks troubled. “Because that’s another kind of Mary Sue story, the characters that never end. You grew so much in the stories I told, developed so many plots and arcs. I had a lot of fun writing about them, I really did. But I burned out. After the children were conceived and you helped rescue Nathicana from the Big Bad Guys I wasn’t writing so much. I mean, there were so many more stories that could be told, but my heart wasn’t in it. I’d focused on you so much that part of me knew it was time to wrap it up. I should have helped write the proper, official wedding ceremony between you and Nath, and her creator was pissed at me for dropping out. She was completely justified, too; she’d tied her story so intimately with mine that me leaving left her in the lurch. I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t do much writing at all for a long time. There are lots of reasons for that but it all boils down to the fact that while I had a vision for what happened next I didn’t see a lot of challenge other than rehashing what we’d already done. Devon and Nathicana get married, and what do weddings involve? Parties and socializing! We’ve done that. The children come out of their incubators and their parents adjust to their new lives! Rather mundane. Treaties are negotiated! Already done that, too. I didn’t realize why I couldn’t write any more, but eventually I figured out that it was time to bring it to an end.”

“So when Nath -- her creator, that is -- finally convinced me to come back I decided it was years in the future from where I’d left off. I’d decided you fucked up your relationship with Naiya because of the paranoia I gave you. I decided you were tired and looking forward to retiring with Nathicana just as soon as you could pass your Empire to your overly-idealistic son. But you were conflicted about the need to get things done and make sure everyone is safe, even from themselves so you delayed your retirement. I’d long ago decided that your fate was to die by the sword as you lived by it -- through treachery and violence. You were always meant for this, Devon.”

”Why?” Treznor’s voice shakes with the emotions racing through him. Anger, frustration, regret and sorrow. So many things he wanted to do, so many things he still needs to say to Nathicana. All expressed in one word.

“Everybody loves a happy ending,” his creator replies quietly. “But no one forgets a tragedy. Remember, you were never a hero. You were an anti-hero, the man who gets things done no matter the cost. You were an amoral bastard, never truly evil but not good either. You grew beyond your innate selfishness and developed a sense of responsibility that people could admire, but no one would actually want to meet you. Not the Emperor who casually shoots people who disappoint him or no longer serve their purpose.”

“I only did that because you made me do it!” Treznor rages.

“You’re right. But that’s who you are. Platitudes aside, you’re not a good man. You’re a tragic man with a compelling story. I did horrible things to you because it made for the best story I knew how to tell, a story that was unique among all the hundreds and maybe thousands of other people writing their own stories. All the best people contributing to the forums found a way to distinguish themselves from the rest. Scolopendra, Menelmacar, Sakkra, Tsaraine, Iraqstan, Firefury, Nathicana and so many more people I had the honor to collaborate with. Too many people for me to name. It was my privilege to provide a perspective to complement theirs. But any good story comes to an end. That’s why you died, right on the cusp of what could have been a happy ending. It’s an ending to a story that I’m proud to have told.”

“So that’s it?”

“For you, yes.”

“Then why do this? Why bring me here and tell me all this? To twist the dagger one last time?”

“To say goodbye. Because for all that you were a son of a bitch, you were a glorious son of a bitch and you were mine. I loved writing you, loved having you interact with others. I tried to avoid making you a Mary Sue character, but I still put a lot of myself into you and I don’t end this lightly.”

“I don’t look anything like you.”

“No, you look like an actor I admire, a fellow named Peter Wingfield. I used his image without his knowledge or consent, but I justified it through fair use laws. It’s not like I ever made any money off it, and you became a popular character among a small circle of people.”

Treznor’s mind races trying to find some way, any way to convince this god...player...whatever to let him live. “You don’t have to kill me off.”

“True. I don’t have to, but I’m committed to the decision. Every good story must have an ending. Not everyone understands that.”

“But like you said, people like me! They like how you write me! Why take that away from them?”

“So you don’t become yet another tired cliche, still going on even though your story is done.”

“But you can think of new stories, new challenges. Nath and I were going to retire, maybe on Jewel. There are lots of stories you can write about us forging a new home out of a wilderness frontier!”

“Devon, I’m sorry. You’re already dead.”

“It’s a fake, a feint. I did it before. I hijacked an enemy fighter and I’m working my way back to civilization. Devon Treznor cheats death again! Come on, you know you want to write it!”

“Of course I do,” his creator snaps. “It’s the easy way out, a way to stroke my ego. My iconic character is just too tough, too smart and too damned stubborn to die. That’s the cliche. Every time I think it’s time to end the story, I come up with a new excuse to keep it going, another deus ex machina to prop up my Mary Sue character. People have been hinting that’s what I have planned all along, others are telling me that I should.

“No, I’m sorry Devon. It’s time to take a bow and leave while the audience still wants more.”

“So that’s it? You’re going to quit for good? One last splash and we’re both done?”

“Well...no. Your children have stories, too. We’ll see if I can muster up the creativity to tell them.”

“You’re going to torment Marcus and Nick the way you did me?”

“Not exactly. They both have very different fates from yours. Neither of them are really expecting what’s going to happen if I get around to writing it.”

“Different fates? They won’t die?”

“Everyone dies. I’ll die eventually, just like everyone I know. But I promise your sons won’t die like you. They’ll both live to ripe old ages, each making significant contributions to the world -- and the story -- before their turn ends.”

“And Nath? What about my red-haired lady?”

A smile. “That’s not up to me. She’s not my character. You’ll have to take that up with her creator. I might be able to arrange it.”

“Yes. Please. I’d like that very much.” Treznor hates how much it sounds like he’s begging, but he has nothing else to offer.

“All right. Hold on and let me see what she says. Don’t go away.”

“Where would I go?”

“Hah.”

His creator disappears and Treznor stands in a vast wasteland of bright, white nothingness. Waiting. Thinking. Scheming to find another way he can cheat death just one more time, the way he always has.

---

This was an idea I had for one last scene with my original and favorite character, and an opportunity for me to say goodbye. The introduction with Max was not a collaboration with him, but was written with his blessing.

If you'd like an opportunity to break the fourth wall and chat with one or more of your characters, here's your chance. Please be considerate and don't bring in anyone else's characters without their consent or cooperation.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

"Well. This is ... interesting." There's nothing godlike - or goddess-like - about the woman. She sat cross-legged with her elbows resting on her knees casually, one hand holding a can of Diet Mountain Dew wet with condensation. "Sorry about all this, for what it's worth. He's a stubborn bastard when he puts his mind on something."

“Are you just going to tell me more of the same?”

“It’s your dime, Devon. You asked to talk, and I found the opportunity too intriguing to pass up.” The woman grinned. “I’m terrible with temptation that way.”

He gave her a flat look before getting to the point. "Can I talk to her?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Devon."

"Let me see her one last time. Let me kiss her. I'm going to miss her so much."

She sighed and then took a sip of her soda. "You really don't play fair. Then again, you never have. Bastard."

“You haven’t really given me a reason to.”

“Point.”

She eyed him curiously, finally nodding as she came to a decision. “Look. There’s a part of me who really wishes y’all could just settle down and retire like you’d hoped. One of those ‘just once, a happy ending’ bits. But that’s the part of me who’s gotten emotionally tied to you two miscreants,” she said, gesturing with her can. “I hate admitting he may be right on some of that, though. Those aren’t really the interesting stories. And you two haven’t exactly been headed towards riding off into the sunset with all your shenanigans.”

"Don't look at me! HE made me!"

The woman waved a hand dismissively. "Semantics. You are who you are, and would have done the same, regardless - or damn close to it."

"And it's just as much your fault as hers!"

"Rule Number One; It is never my fault."

"That sounds familiar."

“I thought it might.”

“Why can’t I at least see her? If all we are is a creation, what difference does it make?”

“Well, for one thing, your story is over. Hers isn’t. I could spin something I suppose, but it would have to make sense.”

“How do you mean?”

“If we’d dropped this bomb on you while you were in the midst of things, how would you have taken it?” she asked, arching her brows.

He scowled at that. “I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“She’s second-guessing everything right now. Coming to terms with you being gone, or trying to anyway, dealing with Marcus and his insecurities, that whole Ardan mess, and Naiya ...” She smiled wryly at that. “I suppose you aren’t entirely up to speed on all of that. You were right, by the way. Sort of.”

“What? No, I can’t leave now. Not while she’s in danger! You’ve got to put me back! Please! I have to go to her! I have to protect her! She won’t see what I see! I’m begging you, please!”

“That wasn’t very nice of me,” the woman said somewhat apologetically. “She’s fine, more or less. At least she’s not in the sort of danger you’re worried about. But it isn’t my call on whether or not you go back. That’s out of my hands.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully all the same. “I suppose there could be one possibility, peripherally at least. But there’s rules. And consequences.”

“Anything. I’ll do anything. Please, I have to see her again. I have to warn her!”

“Not too fast there, boyo. Spoilers,” she said, idly shaking a finger at him.

"You're worried about spoilers? What can I do? I'm dead!"

“The people reading this aren’t. And neither is she.” Another infuriating grin.

Treznor scowled. “I liked you better when you were abstract.”

“I seem to have that effect on some people,” she observed, swirling the contents of her can for a moment.

“All right, you hold all the cards. You said rules and consequences. What rules and what consequences?”

“You know as well as I do we don’t always get to choose our consequences. And the rules, at least to some degree, ought to be obvious by now. What I’m more curious about is just how high a price you’re willing to put on such a gamble. How much is it worth?”

“Anything. Everything. If you know me, if you’ve been...writing about me along with that other fellow all these years, you know I’ll pay any price for her.”

The woman nodded slowly, knowingly. “Oh, I know. I know. I’ll bat it around with that ‘other fellow’. Damn his hide. I think I’m going to miss you almost as much as she does.”

It was his turn to give a wry smile. “Let me guess. Us damned men? Always our fault.”

She spread her hands and shrugged slightly. “Someone’s got to take the blame, neh?”

“Is...she a ‘Mary Sue’ for you?”

“I suppose that’s a fair question. Yes, and at the same time, no. There’s things that utterly mortify me about the both of you. And there’s things I wish to hell I could better emulate. Part and parcel of the whole creation process, really. A bit tends to rub off here and there in both directions,” she admitted with a self-conscious grin.

“You just seem to share a lot of mannerisms with her. Like now. You don’t like talking about yourself.”

“I’m not all that interesting. She however, has been very interesting to work with. I’ll be sad to see her go when the time comes. Surprised the hell out of me a time or three. You both have.”

He frowned deeper and threw up his hands. “There it is again. Is that all we are? Is that all I was? Something ‘interesting’ to play with? I have to say, you two aren’t very gentle with your toys!”

“I don’t think we’d have invested so much time and effort and believe it or not, care if that’s all you were. Would it make any difference to you that I’ve felt rather awful about some of the shit we’ve put you through, or that sometimes it wasn’t even planned so much as just ... well, happened that way?” For once she didn’t seem to be teasing or playing games.

“I mentioned taking on a life of your own. It’s an odd sort of relationship between author and creation. And that’s one of the reasons we have to sometimes step back, and let the situation run it’s course. Whether we want it to or not.”

He shook his head irritably. “It doesn’t make me feel any better, now. You say you felt awful about the things you did to us, but you still did them. And we lived through them. Would you treat your own children that way? Do you even have children?”

“None of your damn business, that. But as you said, you lived through them. You thrived, even. I’d think there was more developed and created by you than a simple series of events and trials. Though I can see how that’s small comfort, all things considered. That’s something you’ll have to take up with the boss.”

“I tried. And it’s a little late now, don’t you think? We can’t go back and re-write history.”

“Told you he was stubborn.” She grinned knowingly. “Still, you’d be surprised what we can do. This is our sandbox, after all.”

He was demonstrably shocked. “I don’t understand. What can you do?”

“A ... ’do-over’ if you will. A little something he and I have been working on for the past few years. Wasn’t intended this way, but perhaps something in the way of a peace offering? In any case, I’ll have a word. See you around, Devon.”


“No, wait! What about -- “

But she was gone as abruptly as the other two had left, leaving him alone, fuming and wondering what the hell they had planned next.

“The peace of the grave, they tell me. It isn’t very peaceful so far.”

---

Posted with permission and collaboration. And with my sincere thanks to my partner-in-crime, without whom my own character (several in fact) may never have gotten where they have, nor seen the light of day.

[Midlonia]

The young man is sat at the iron table, on a pleasant summer’s morning where the birds twittered and wittered, sang their little songs and flitted about in the garden. His brown hair is spiked up, not from any style or design but because of his rising from bed only a scant fifteen minutes earlier. The young man is, for his own egotistical descriptions, portly, and quite comfortable in the striped pajama bottoms and burgundy top. On the table is a ceramic bowl, an odd old type of soup bowl repurposed for breakfast, it’s filled with a watery porridge and next to it a miniaturized beer tankard filled with a deep orange liquid.

He’s got a spoon halfway to his mouth when he stops, and a blinks a couple of times.

“Of for the love of, this early? Really you two? My breakfast is going to get cold.” The Portly Man says.

“Who are you talking about?”

The man opposite him has deep red hair, a neatly kept beard and piercing blue eyes was sat opposite, with him he only had a small cup of tea in a delicate, fine china cup.

The Portly Man sighs deeply and sets his spoon down with a clatter. “Two other creators who decided to place in front of me a fascinating idea while it’s early in the morning and I am getting ready for work.”

“Well, shouldn’t you... go?” Henry replied.

“Oh, no. I’ll make a fair crack at it now before I go and then finish it off when I get back in the evening. My clothes will probably change to symbolize it.”

“I...right, so... are you going to be like the others, all semi-mystical and such and not very revealing about themselves?” Henry said before he frowned and looked around him.

“Yeah, no. I’m James.” The Portly Man replies with a smile. “Pleased to meet you, Henry.”

“James? As in Saint James? The founder of the Church of Midlonia? Isn’t that a bit egotistical?”

“Actually more I was named after a singer and one of his songs, Sweet Baby James by James Taylor.” James replies as he lifts the spoon to his mouth and takes a bite of the porridge. “If I was a woman I’d have been called Hailey.”

“If you were a woma-” Henry replied looking slightly disturbed.

“It’s still early right now.” James snapped in reply. “My head is all over the place.”

“Then aside from one obviously forced bit of speech, how come I am so eloquent and able to think clearly?” Henry replied as he picked up his cup of tea and sipped it.

“Well, you’re my first independant character.” James replied as he continued to eat his breakfast. “Took some getting there though, admittedly.”

“How do you mean?” Henry asked as he sat back in his chair.

“Well, let’s see, you started off as a 16 year old brat on the throne with psychic powers, but that was... a long long time ago. You’d get nosebleeds all the time, and you were an only child. Basically you were a sort-of-Mary Sue.”

“Sort-of?” Henry frowned, then raised one eyebrow at James.

“Well, sort-of. You weren’t fat and had blonde hair. I homaged that early version of yourself with...”

“...my holiday in Bernabour with Sarah.” Henry finished. “Thought afterwards it was an odd thing to do.”

“Yes, but then we do crazy things for love.” James replied gesturing with his spoon. “You got your proper reboot about five years ago. I was writing a lot with a player called Rave Shentavo, quite a notorious little thing she was back then. All her characters were Mary Sues, sadly. Shame really as she could write when she wanted to.”

“And that’s when...” Henry gestured to his hair.

“Actually that was someone else’s fault entirely, yet another creator or player who spoke about my ‘big king redbeard’, when I’d never actually specified hair colour much when I redid Midlonia. I thought it sounded cool, and didn’t want to correct them, so instead you wound up as you are now. Right, you’ll have to excuse me.” With that James collected his things, got up, and headed off of the patio, leaving Henry to sip his tea and quietly contemplate what was being said.

A few seconds later, James returns, and collapses into his chair, his is tired, clearly from a long days work, curiously though he is still wearing the same clothes. He sips a drink of Fanta Icy Lemon, the bright yellow of the can clashing with the red of the top. His hair remains somewhat fly away, but more from the way he’s pushed his hand through it, which he does again as he takes a sip of his drink.

“So you said I was kind of a Mary-Sue?” Henry asks as he set his cup down delicately. “What changed?”

“Oh, well. I did, you did. Rave actually taught me how to write a lot better and I’ve been teaching myself more too, then on... well, you developed yourself and then suddenly I realised I was thinking; ‘How would Henry deal with this?’ Then, there you were, in my mind’s eye running off without me thinking about it at all about what you’d do, you just... showed me.”

“Are you really telling what is supposedly an artificial construct; ‘I think, therefore I am’?” Henry replies, somewhat amused with a half smile.

“Effectively.” James shrugs

“Alright, enough about me. What about Sarah?” Henry asks as he leant forward, his finger going to his ring which he turns slowly.

“Well, she started out as someone else’s character, your relationship... complicated matters and by the end of a story we did, she was unsuitable as a totally independant character, she’s better supporting you as a Queen, than as his Prime Minister.” James says as he finally sets the can down with an empty clack. “She’s now basically in my control now, already she’s starting to whisper how she would do things versus how I’d write them, quite a difficult thing to do when the original person isn’t yours.”

Henry slumps back and sighs a little before looking at James again and sitting forward, lifting his cup of tea up and taking another, measured sip.

“And all of this?” He gestures with his cup. “I find it odd we’re sat on the patio of some small country house.”

“Well this place isn’t real, of course. It’s an amalgam of ideals, the patio is mine... as are the furniture we’re sitting on. The house, is called Upton House about an hour from where I live... oh the garden is entirely fabricated but would be my ideal.. could I ever afford the time for such a thing.” He gestures to the garden which is filled with begonias, roses, primrose and wisteria.

“I think you know what I mean.” Henry replies. “You created all of it after all.”

“Oh!” James laughs. “Yes, quite right, yes sorry. Midlonia... good lord where to begin.”

He takes a moment and looks at Henry with some amusement. “Well, let’s see. This would be the third iteration of Midlonia, it’s definitely the best, the most detailed and for me the most interesting.” He scratches his nose for a moment then sits back fully in his chair, both hands resting on his stomach, with his thumbs pressed together. “It started 10 years ago, in what I perceive as reality.” He grins. “I loved a game called Tropico, so at the time the first version of Midlonia was a funny little place that was basically a caribbean island, complete with all the outdated silly technology that frequently went with the place. To be honest it wasn’t very imaginative, didn’t have much in the way of power or ability and I quickly tired of it.”

Henry watches him intently and the nods for James to continue.

“So that lasted about a year, then we have the second version. The flag changed from what is now the Church of Midlonia’s symbol to that of the dove, something which has remained throughout. It was set on a plain red background and I called it the ‘Bird of Peace soaked in blood’. Surprisingly that still exists on the Greater Royal Navy’s flag. Now this one was chaotic, again not much detail, borders expanded and collapsed without any regard for what they were useful for and the stories were... frankly dreadful.” James laughs and shakes his head. “Really were, I am not kidding. There was one bit where the Porphyrians were actual Vampires and oh gosh...” He laughs a little more, then stops and settles back into a more controlled state. “So around 2008, some 5 years on from all that, another creator...”

“The Commonwealth?” Henry asks as he points to James with his tea cup.

“Clever. Yes, the Commonwealth, or The Freethinkers. He started a very interesting story, called The Commonwealth Is A Land Of Contrasts.” James smiles. “It’s still sort of running now, in it’s closing stages and has retroactively become the first part of a 3 act story. I’m writing the second act, and we’re both going to sit down one day and hash out the third.”

He picks up the can and rattles it again, and then swigs at the dregs. “So the Midlonia that emerges during that story is darker, cleverer, more well thought out and considered. Colonies became fixed and their cultures, eventually creating an amazingly myriad multi-faith, multi-ethnic and multi-factioned state. It has a culture, economy, style of writing which flows very easily for me. Sadly it did mean sacrifice. Heruss for example became the leader of the Midlonian side of the Pheonix Plot, but it was his time to be put into the background and to be honest a turncloak can soon turn it again for his own ends. I ran out of interesting things to do and he was more a relic from the earlier period, the Rave period to really last into the current, better state.”

“Why? Why change things so much, why make it so a previously loyal servant would....”

“Because I can, because the story dictates it, because I want to, because other characters tell me this is more likely to happen. Because logic. Dictates.” James says as he taps the can on the table. “At the end of the day many of my major characters represent parts of my personality. Midlonia is their sand box to be let loose within. Heruss was too much of an idealised version of me. He’d used up too much to be interesting to me any more. His brother however... Franz? Much better as a continued face of hatred, irrational fear and any other nasty bits and pieces. You, before you ask, represent duty and honour, so take comfort in that at least.”

“So, why tell me all this? How will this fit the narrative weave you claim?” Henry says as he frowns deeply at everything he’s been told.

“Oh, I am afraid I am going to infuriate you on that one, your story is only just reaching an interesting point. I’m going to pull an old TV show trick and it was all just a dream... you’ll remember talking to someone here, but what about? Afraid it will vanish the second you think of it. Turrah”

Henry sat bolt upright in his bed in the Grand Palace in Swadlincote, he slowly turned his head to look out the open window where the rain drummed down onto the balcony, heavy raindrops pinging off of the stonework. He blinked, twice, then shook his head.

An arm reached up and came across his middle, a cascade of blonde hair appeared before a pair of beautiful eyes shone out from under the curtain of hair. “Henry? What’s wrong?” Murmured Sarah half sleepily.

“I, uh... nothing, just an odd dream I woke up from suddenly.”

“Mmm, what was it about?” She continued sleepily.

“...I don’t know.” Henry said frowning further before shaking his head and settling down back onto the bed. “I really can’t remember.”

[Chrinthanium]

As the sun rose over the airport runway, a tallish man with a stocky build walks down the earthen driveway from a farm house that all who land at the airport can see with clarity. The house is white with dark shingles on the roof. The farm that embraces the structure is 106 acres with newly-sprouted beginnings of a corn field. As the man walks down the driveway, he notices a familiar face standing halfway between the house and the road in front of it.

"I figured you'd show up eventually," said the tallish man as he approached.

"Who, me?" asked the familiar face.

"Yes, you. Considering the idea, the concept born a tad over a week ago, I kind of figured you'd be around, Nate."

Nate, the familiar face paused in slight fear, "You, you know who I am?"

"Know who you are? You could say that. In fact, I know everything about you. I know you better than you know yourself."

"I'm afraid this leaves me at a slight disadvantage because I don't know who you are."

"Well, let me formally introduce myself. The name is Christopher. Most people call me Chris."

"Pleasure to meet you, Chris."

"Likewise. So, I guess you're here because of the others."

"Well, yes."

"And you have all the same questions to ask like, 'why did I do this, and why did I do that' to you."

"Well, it did cross my mind, Chris."

Chris turned towards the farm road that went down through the farm, "Follow me and let me explain."

Nate decides to follow. Chris waits until Nate gets side-by-side with him then takes him down the farm road.

"Nate, it started with an idea. An idea I had inside me that needed to be set free, almost like giving birth to a child. You were the idea."

"Well, I suppose that I should thank you for giving me life. Though, if I am your idea, your creation, I think you have a lot to answer for."

"Do I? No offense, Nate, like a living human, you took on a life of your own. You didn't turn out quite like I expected. Don't get me wrong, I am very proud of how you turned out, and I really do love you like a father loves a son, but, you're not who you were supposed to be, exactly."

"What was I supposed to be?"

Chris sighed, "Well, honestly, you were supposed to be a young prince in a magical land. You were supposed to be powerful, militaristic, and dark. Instead, you turned into you. I can't it is entirely your fault you're the way you are, I had a hand in it, as well as others."

"Others?"

"The group who took me in, the group with whom I gave you life, developed your personality, your entire being, and your story. When I created you, you were a young, inexperienced emperor who had just been handed a large empire in North America. You reigned there until another one of us creators left the group and I had a new idea for you. I moved Chrinthanium to Australia and a few other nearby places. That's where you became the man you are now. It was glorious. You were spectacular. You flourished there. Most of the stories written about you came from there. In fact, to this day, that set up you had there was the best set up for you."

"I don't think I understand or follow."

"It doesn't matter. That was all preliminary. Information needed to give some brief context to what I want to say. Nate, I need you as much as you need me. I have so many stories to write that I don't know where to begin. I want to write what comes next."

"What comes next, Chris?"

"Your entire life. The things that I want to have happen to you, and the things I have to do to you even though I don't want to."

"Like my death?"

"Including that, yes."

"But I'm only 28."

"I didn't say you were going to die tomorrow. I just said including your death. I really have no idea when that will be. I haven't written that part of your life yet."

"And I hope you don't write it anytime soon, either."

"That will depend. I'll know when it is time."

"And what else do you plan to do to me? Haven't you already subjected me to enough? I mean, you killed my father when I was young. I loved him like you wouldn't understand. It's been four years and hardly a day goes by that I don't think about him."

"No, I understand. I understand far too well. Problem is, I wasn't interested in writing his story. I was interested in writing yours. There is one problem with being the heir-apparent, Nate. You don't get the job until the person who currently sits on the throne dies. You needed to be emperor from the beginning. So, I began with your father's death and worked from there."

"You couldn't have left me be a prince longer? I mean, weren't there stories about my days as a prince you wanted to write?"

"I suppose there are stories there I could tell, but, it had to be this way to bring the idea of you into reality. I wasn't interested to me. You are the story."

"But...."

"Don't worry, Nate. You won't understand this, but you wouldn't be who you are if it hadn't happened."

"So, I guess that you have to be cruel to be kind?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Nate stopped walking and started staring at the ground, "Can I ask you some questions?"

"Fire away."

"Will I find true love?"

"Hopefully."

"Hopefully?"

"Yes, hopefully. I don't know if you will or if you won't. We'll see how it all turns out."

"If you're my creator, then shouldn't you already know this?"

"No. You're life isn't predetermined. I have stories to write about you, vague ideas of what I'd like to write, but, there are no cold, hard facts about your future that are written yet. It's all up to the way it pans out. Remember, I'm not the only one involved in this. There are other 'creators' out there who will, as we interact, and as I have you interact with their characters, take the story one way or another. If I had your life planned out already, I probably wouldn't be interested in telling your story."

"I see."

"You're taking this all in quite easily, I see. Are there any questions you have?"

"Well, i mean, what questions would you have if you could speak to your creator? Those kinds of questions burn inside me right now, but, based on the fact that you haven't predetermined anything, I don't think you can answer these questions. But, well, I do have one question that I think you can answer."

"Shoot"

"You said I flourished in this Australia place. You said that it was the best thing that happened to you in regards to writing me. If it was so good, why take me from that place?"

"Ah, that is the question. I jumped too quickly, moved everything to a new location, and, well, I just don't see you going back there now. Besides, you have a new life now."

"A new life?"

"Yes, outside of that group of 'creators' that I was playing with. A much larger stage for you. Hopefully, you'll join the great pantheon of characters that have gone on into infamy. But, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll just be another character who lives and dies and, apart from those with whom he came in contact with, few others are aware of you. We'll see how it goes. Though, if I could tell you one thing about your life, it would be the fact that you're a good person underneath it all."

"Well, I suppose that's something."

"And that's about the most concrete answer you'll get from me."

"Do I have a happy ending or a tragic one?"

"Eh, this again? Your ending will be whatever it needs to be. I really can't say anymore than that. We'll see how your story goes."

"I had to try to see if you would give me an answer."

"I know. Anything else you want to know, or questions about me, or anything while I still have a few moments, Nate?"

"Yes, one. Could you stop me from making a fool of myself all the time?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe. If you were perfect, I wouldn't want to write your story."

"I see."

"Anything else?"

"Will I go to heaven, or...?"

Chris paused. He wasn't expecting that question. "That's a bit difficult."

"Difficult?"

"You remember me telling you about writing a story, and you being my character?"

"Yes"

"Well, uh, there really isn't an afterlife for fictional characters, Nate. When it's over, it's, quite honestly, over."

A stunned Nate started shedding a tear, "So none of this matters. I could kill a million people or worship any god, and nothing would happen as a result and there would be no punishment or reward for it."

"I.... think you should go now."

"You can't drop a bombshell on someone like that and then ask them to leave without answering!"

"Nate, yes I can. It doesn't matter. You won't remember any of this when you wake up."

"When I wake up? Chris, I am awake now."

"No, Nate, this is a dream and the time has come for you to wake up." With that, Chris snapped his fingers and Nate was gone.

[Britmattia]

Public transport looks the same wherever you are.

It's full of people remaining carefully anonymous, lost in books, e-readers, magazines, their own thoughts, whatever fills the time between departure and destination.
Headphones on, British Grenadiers up loud to block out the annoying mental patient ranting about not wanting to tag off the bus, world blocked out for now, nearly home and then something changes.
I look up and...I'm not on a bus any more. Instead of the rattle and clack of the trolley, it's the squeaking, shaking progress of a train, underground somewhere, tunnels like I remember from London decades ago.
There are no underground trains in Wellington.
I don't panic. I never panic in public. It's bad for the image, but I am afraid.
Maybe I've finally lost it. Maybe I've had a stroke and missed a few years wherein I moved somewhere they have undergrounds. I look down, The Economist is still dated the same, I fish my phone out, pause the song and look at the date.
No, that's right too. But...no network found. Not just no bars, but no network.
I'm pretty bloody certain that wherever you go in the Western world, so does Vodaphone.
Right then, somewhere else.
I look around the carriage and...a tube map, but I don't recognise any of the stations. The ads are equally foreign. The people are...strange. That's..that's a damned dwarf.
I stare.
I mean I really stare, I'm not talking a fuckin midget here, this guy looks like Brian Blessed compacted down with Robbie Coltrane-as-Hagrid's-beard added on and a nose that could do suitable work as a jet intake.
There's others.
Everywhere I look in the carriage there's something else that's immediately, tangibly not human.
What the fuck.
And they're dressed weird, like, uniforms, middle ages stuff, the people, the not-people-but-acting-like-them, they're wearing a hodgepodge of stuff that is nothing like the jacket, jeans and hoodie combo I'm in.
I feel under-dressed. And freaked out, but mostly under-dressed.

I settle down a bit. This is monumentally weird but screaming never solves things. Hitting and thinking does, right now there's nothing to hit, so...
The train slows and a tannoy rattles about arriving at Lark Hill and I decide to get off and see if I can get my bearings outside of a sealed metal tube.
The platform is just a platform, just like any other underground station in the world, but not...
The train is a humming monorail thing, painted red with "City-Link" in gold along the sides. Alright. That doesn't narrow it down bugger all.
Still more weird not-quite-humans around. Talking bipedal cat thing. Alright.
I stagger across the platform, around knots of people doing what people do at train stations, i.e. get in the bloody way, walk slowly and generally be public nuisances whilst having conversations about people you'd quite like to punch if you met them.
Escalators. Ahah. A way out.
The signage is odd though. English everywhere, but with French underneath.
Maybe I'm in Canada. Nah.
I'm sure I'd have noticed if the Canadians had taught cheetahs to walk on their hind legs and wear clothes. It would have come up somewhere along the line.
I go up the escalators, always distrusted those bloody things since I fell down one in Hong Kong Airport when I was tiny.

I reach the top and step out into blinding sunshine.
I can't see, I scrub at my eyes and...
I've never seen anything like this. Lark Hill is just that, though I don't see anything I can tell is a Lark, but I can see for miles.
It's huge. I mean really huge, I've been to London and Tokyo, I've got some points of comparison here. This place...
There is nowhere on Earth like this. It's endless. And..strange. Stone buildings, grand things of pomp and arrogance, but interspersed with half-timbered refugees from a Tudor theme park.
Then there's that. A gigantic black, glassy black, obsidian or glass or something like it, tower, looming over everything. Given how doll-tiny the buildings around it are it must be quite a stretch from here but the sheer, mouth-drying height of it gives me vertigo just trying to look up it.
Just like that I know where I am.
This is Royesse. This is the Kingdom. The mishmash of England As It Should Have Been, cobbled streets, medieval architecture and-
"Are you alright, sir?"

I know that accent. I used to hear it down the phone, asking me about my life, talking about rugby and driving and school and all the flotsam-details that make us people, that you want to know about people so you can know them. The voice isn't the same, but the accent is.

I turn around and there's two men, well, they could be men, the full face-mask makes it difficult to tell, blue-coveralls and jacket with red body-armour and yes, slung rifles.
Britmattian cops, just like the action figures I based their appearance on.
I wave my hands slightly.
"Just, just a little overawed, I'm um, new here."

Mirrored helmet turns to mirrored helmet, then they turn back to me and nod.
"Happens to a lot of people sir. Royesse is a big place. New in from the out-worlds are you?"
The accent relaxes me. The slight drawl, the uh's turned into oh's. That's my granddad talking to me down the phone from far away. It's pipe tobacco and tweed.

"Yes. Yes I am. Um."
I pause because they're looking at each other again and I really bloody hope they're not going to ask for a passport or something because I'm pretty fucking certain a New Zealand driver's licence won't cut it.
The pair look back at me again and slightly shuffle apart, bracketing me almost, the chatty one speaking again, but his partner I'm worried to note has freed his hands so they're at his sides next to what I'm reasonably bloody certain, given I wrote them carrying them, is a stun pistol.
"Now, sir, we've been informed that someone matching your description is a person of interest to CentGov. So we're going to ask you to come along with us for a bit so they can ask you some questions."

Crap. I've been in the Kingdom about twenty minutes and I've already been picked up by CentGov. It's all very well writing about an nigh-omnipresent mostly-benevolent dictatorship up until you find yourself in it, with it taking an interest in you.

On the plus side, the flying car that zooms down to collect us is bloody cool. I'm apprehensive, but I'm enjoying this. It's strange, but fun, the half-filled in pictures in my head alive and breathing, the snowy streets, the crisp air, it's all just like it should be.
I feel at home, strangely, but I suppose I should. This is the better world I always wanted to live in after all.
The car rises smoothly up the glassy black menace of the CentGov Spire, which in person really does deserve the capitals I've always given it and we drift into a bay, all white surfaces and bright lights and white-uniformed soldiers.
I'm hustled through, handed off from police to military, moved through the building, checkpoints coming periodically as the tone of the internal architecture shifts from offices to palatial to stuff that looks like the background of places they film the Antiques Roadshow.

I'm sat at a desk, a big desk, nothing on it but a holographic photo frame that I can't see what is displaying because it's set up so the desk's owner can see it.
I wait, patiently, I'm sort of confident now because I know, I know that whatever its other flaws, the Kingdom is a good place where good men do the right thing in a clear-eyed fashion.
The door opens and a man steps through. I've never really been very good at describing him but I know who it is anyway, the uniform is a help, as is the fact that he's huge, but it's also...
Well.

I stand up and sort of twitch awkwardly. I feel like I should salute, or bow, or something.
He looks back at me, a good-looking guy, tall, pale, grey eyes, a high brow, intelligent eyes. He nods thoughtfully, then smiles at me and I smile back, nervously because this is Owen Warwick, King of Men and he is what I wanted, expected, wrote him to be.
A huge hand is extended, we shake and he speaks, the accent is different, not Rugby, this is pure RP, a King who sounds like an educated man, kindly, assured.
"I know it's a cliche, but I had expected you to be taller."
I grin, the presence of the man, it rolls off him in waves, there's nothing like it in the world, or at least, my world.
Or is this my world?
"Well, I had to rely on genetics, not narrative."
He cocks his head, expression turning slightly more serious.
"So you are him then. When I asked the Mage to let me talk to the one responsible for my fate, well, you're not really what I expected. You look-"
"Scruffy?"
He shakes his head.
"No. You look like my uncle, or at least old photos of him."
I sigh and sit back down, he's looking at me curiously, expectantly almost and I wave him to a chair, because I remember who his uncle was here, but also what he was to me. I wave him to his own chair and speak, a little hesitantly, but I must be honest here.
"That's because he was me. Or at least, a bit of me. The bit that got what he wanted, Debs, and a glorious death. The whole Kingdom is the same in a way, me externalising my wants onto a page."
"A page?"
He tilts his head, and I grin a little, a mannerism I've built into virtually every character I've ever written because my bloody dog used to do it and here it is again.
"I don't know what the Mage told you I actually was, but I'm not a supernatural or even extra-natural being, technically. I just happen to be from the universe that, for a brief moment, is the arbiter of your reality, patchwork thing that it is. Given the way things work, I believe you existed before I wrote about you and you'll keep doing so after I stop. Which is just as well because I'm bloody terrible for not writing. I write stories about the Kingdom, generally I don't finish them, but I've shaped you enough in my head to know you."

A pause, he looks at me thoughtfully, a brave man is Owen Warwick, staring at kismet in considering fashion.
"Well. Then do you know why I asked the Mage to see you?"
I think for a moment, then smile a little more broadly.
"Congratulations."
His own smile returns to its previous broadness.
"Thank you. And thank you again, my life is...well, thanking you is the least I can do. You've given me-"
I shake my head, raising a hand to silence him.
"No. I didn't give you anything. I wrote you a good life because you're a leader and a hero and you are the good man I desperately wish was really running things. You've earnt everything in your life because if you hadn't you wouldn't be the man I wanted you to be. And you are. I wanted you to be a hero because there should be heroes, shades of grey have their place, but I want there to be a King on a white horse who leads from the front and is a father to his people. You're everything I wanted to be and am not, everything there is no room for in my world."

I rub at my eyes, I want him to understand, I want them all to understand that heroes should matter. Everyone should be saved. Everyone. There should be a finer world and we should all be able to be part of it.
Owen nods, then he stands up and walks over to me, he puts a hand on my shoulder and looks down at me, because I wrote him wise as well.
"I do understand. I do. It's all right. We'll always be here, safe in the amber of the moment."
He pauses, then smiles slightly, and it's familiar, sort of, I've seen that smile in my mirror enough to recognise it.
"It's a strange thing to be an ideal. To be told you're an ideal. I'm not sure I've done the right thing in many cases, or here for that matter."
I shake my head, closing my eyes as I do.
"No. You always have. That's how I wrote you. I...I needed this. I needed to know that the Kingdom exists somewhere, that somewhere things are how they're supposed to be. I think, maybe, that I need you, more than you need me. A strange thing to tell one's creation, but true."

Public transport looks the same wherever you are.

The air moves, I open my eyes. The bus is semi-darkened, nearly empty as we come to the terminus, St Hilda's squat presence marking my stop, the crappy dairy across the road still lit up even though it's late. I was asleep and dreaming, though I can't remember what about.
It must have been a good dream.
It must have been.