Sorrowful wails trail after you.. They are in despair in the way that only people working their daily 9 to 5s can be. Even still, they are not enough to stop your long strides that take you further and further away from the center of the city.
“After him!!” one aide screams. “Lord Scien escaped from the meeting again!”
“Someone, call his bodyguard, Lucas!” Another cries out. “He's the only one who can detain Scien...!”
(Well. That one does get you to walk a bit faster. You’re not intimidated.)
The first aid whines again. “We need him to look through and approve the backlog of papers, and... ugh... My head...”
Their head? Please. All they do is bring the papers to you. You’re the one who actually has to think about the fate of the wretched country.
Well, less wretched these days.
“Unbelievable...” You complain, even as your path takes you towards the outskirts of the island. You meander through the commoner streets of Coene without concern. Even all these years later, people don’t know what their god walking among them even looks like. You pass through the streets, unknown, even though you’re in all their history books. “They’re not even giving me time to pay my respects. I already told them I had plans, and still they were brazen enough to schedule yet another meeting...”
You, the genius scientist, Scien Brofiise, who freed the country from the curse, breezed through the streets of your domain with a bottle of wine in hand.
“As soon as I opened the country, they buried me in politics and legislation... I miss my days at the Institute.”
Peace and quiet, uninterrupted for years at a time. Only you, your research, and the occasional basket of food left by your assistant. Where you are now, forcibly elected to the highest position of power by a Parliament you structured but never intended to run—you can only call it a necessary evil. One you’d like to escape from soon.
Still, that fades into the background now as you approach a small grave by a familiar orphanage.
You think to yourself: ‘I know it’s too late for regret, but I lost a promising successor and the only person who I would call my equal... Maybe I could have avoided their demise if I had focused my research on retaining personalities... Then again, they’re both together now as mother and son in the same grave...’
“You two have as many quarrels as you want in Hades like any normal family. You may not have noticed, but you two are just like each other in your extreme, two-sided personalities.”
You pour the wine you randomly chose over the grave where the two of them slept. Immediately after, you take out a letter from your pocket. You know what it is, based purely on its return address. Another research facility across the sea.
A letter requesting your presence in another country to collaborate in research on time travel. You know certainly that if you participate it would be very likely that the technology could be realized within a few years, but...
You don’t read the letter. You tear up their plea for help, sent under the guise of collaboration. It is but one of many invitations that you’ve received since opening the country, as the globe has become aware of the scope of what you’ve accomplished. Without the guidance of the genius beloved by God, time travel would likely fade into mere fantasy. But that was fine.
You frown, thinking of the words of a botched time traveler who came to you from a different timeline. The version of you that stopped aging at 18 was far more out of control. You used an innocent man as a test subject, and killed another that you swore to protect in your desperation. And still, that Scien Brofiise could not find a way to get rid of the curse with those sacrifices.
You cannot accept another existence of yourself foolish enough to accomplish nothing. You could never tread that same path.
The torn letter gets carried with the wind, and you regard the grave once more.
The resting place of the only two friends you’ve had in your near hundred years of living. Irreplaceable people who you failed to save. A foreign feeling makes a home in your chest, and you wonder if this is what people call loneliness. Remorse.
“Now then, I should be going.” You shake off the feeling, and declare your next steps. “I’m off to see your son and daughter start a new beginning... It’s out of character for me, but it’s my duty as the oldest.”
Fortunately, you’ve decided to pursue a new research topic—genetic disorders—which had no shortage of cases to explore. If you are indeed a god, you could be selfish and arrogant. As long as your work saves those who suffered in despair, who would judge you?
Following the new emotions in your modified heart, you—the man who became god—set out on a path that would lead you to even greater heights. ]
no subject
Sorrowful wails trail after you.. They are in despair in the way that only people working their daily 9 to 5s can be. Even still, they are not enough to stop your long strides that take you further and further away from the center of the city.
“After him!!” one aide screams. “Lord Scien escaped from the meeting again!”
“Someone, call his bodyguard, Lucas!” Another cries out. “He's the only one who can detain Scien...!”
(Well. That one does get you to walk a bit faster. You’re not intimidated.)
The first aid whines again. “We need him to look through and approve the backlog of papers, and... ugh... My head...”
Their head? Please. All they do is bring the papers to you. You’re the one who actually has to think about the fate of the wretched country.
Well, less wretched these days.
“Unbelievable...” You complain, even as your path takes you towards the outskirts of the island. You meander through the commoner streets of Coene without concern. Even all these years later, people don’t know what their god walking among them even looks like. You pass through the streets, unknown, even though you’re in all their history books. “They’re not even giving me time to pay my respects. I already told them I had plans, and still they were brazen enough to schedule yet another meeting...”
You, the genius scientist, Scien Brofiise, who freed the country from the curse, breezed through the streets of your domain with a bottle of wine in hand.
“As soon as I opened the country, they buried me in politics and legislation... I miss my days at the Institute.”
Peace and quiet, uninterrupted for years at a time. Only you, your research, and the occasional basket of food left by your assistant. Where you are now, forcibly elected to the highest position of power by a Parliament you structured but never intended to run—you can only call it a necessary evil. One you’d like to escape from soon.
Still, that fades into the background now as you approach a small grave by a familiar orphanage.
You think to yourself: ‘I know it’s too late for regret, but I lost a promising successor and the only person who I would call my equal... Maybe I could have avoided their demise if I had focused my research on retaining personalities... Then again, they’re both together now as mother and son in the same grave...’
“You two have as many quarrels as you want in Hades like any normal family. You may not have noticed, but you two are just like each other in your extreme, two-sided personalities.”
You pour the wine you randomly chose over the grave where the two of them slept. Immediately after, you take out a letter from your pocket. You know what it is, based purely on its return address. Another research facility across the sea.
A letter requesting your presence in another country to collaborate in research on time travel. You know certainly that if you participate it would be very likely that the technology could be realized within a few years, but...
You don’t read the letter. You tear up their plea for help, sent under the guise of collaboration. It is but one of many invitations that you’ve received since opening the country, as the globe has become aware of the scope of what you’ve accomplished. Without the guidance of the genius beloved by God, time travel would likely fade into mere fantasy. But that was fine.
You frown, thinking of the words of a botched time traveler who came to you from a different timeline. The version of you that stopped aging at 18 was far more out of control. You used an innocent man as a test subject, and killed another that you swore to protect in your desperation. And still, that Scien Brofiise could not find a way to get rid of the curse with those sacrifices.
You cannot accept another existence of yourself foolish enough to accomplish nothing. You could never tread that same path.
The torn letter gets carried with the wind, and you regard the grave once more.
The resting place of the only two friends you’ve had in your near hundred years of living. Irreplaceable people who you failed to save. A foreign feeling makes a home in your chest, and you wonder if this is what people call loneliness. Remorse.
“Now then, I should be going.” You shake off the feeling, and declare your next steps. “I’m off to see your son and daughter start a new beginning... It’s out of character for me, but it’s my duty as the oldest.”
Fortunately, you’ve decided to pursue a new research topic—genetic disorders—which had no shortage of cases to explore. If you are indeed a god, you could be selfish and arrogant. As long as your work saves those who suffered in despair, who would judge you?
Following the new emotions in your modified heart, you—the man who became god—set out on a path that would lead you to even greater heights. ]