Page 165 of Godslayer
And by process, I mean what that melty-face fuckin’ god is doing to me on the threadin’ table.
Clara’s boots thud on the concrete floor of the hallway next to me. Her steps shorter, so her footfalls are like an echo of my own.
She has almost no idea what is happening right now. If we had more time, it would all come back. But our time is up. Either she trusts me, or she doesn’t.
And since we’re shoulder to shoulder, walkin’ towards an almost certain death, I’m gonna go with she does.
Which is good. Because she’s strong—very fuckin’ strong. But if this keeps going much longer, it will reach its inevitable conclusion.
I can fight forever. There’s no limit to me now. Not after what the Corrupted God has done to my body.
But we’re gettin’ close for Clara. I had to unspool seventy-four men that last time to fill myself back up. Every time, it takes more. More, more,more.
Just…more.
Like… I’m gettin’ bigger—or possibly… emptier—each time I go there. Each time I walk the worlds I disrupt the natural order of things in ways I can’t even imagine.
Well, that’s not true. I’ve got a pretty fuckin’ powerful imagination actually. I can imagine plenty. But it’s not the point. The point is, we’re done here. This is it. We can’t live like this. And I’m not sayin’ that as some romantic gesture towards Clara, meanin’ I’ll be checkin’ out with her, if she goes.
I will, but that’s not the point, either.
I mean, we just can’t do this. And this understandin’ I have about the state of the situation goes far, far beyond some romantic grand gesture.
It’s abouteverthin’.
Not just all the worlds I’m trespassin’ in, but the actual glue holdin’ it all together.
Each time I defy the Grand Design and take what isn’t mine, the foundation shakes a bit.
And these bits of shakin’ are cumulative.
They add up and there isn’t a way to even it out.
We’re fallen.
Falling.Falling, Tyse. Not Fallen.
But it is Fallen.
This, what I’m doin’, is the end of everythin’.
And it’s all his fault.
Epsilon!Epsilon!Epsilon!
Clara and I stop at the junction between the rooms. Hers, to the left, mine, to the right.
She grabs my hand. Squeezes it. “I’ll be OK.”
I nod.
She won’t be OK.
She’s never gonna be OK again.
This shit is changin’ us in ways I cannot imagine. And this time, when I say that, I mean it literally.
“You’ll be OK,” I echo her words. Then I lead her off to the left, to the open door of her lab.
