First fic, yay! Penny Arcade is owned by Jerry Holkins and Mike Krahulik. Penny Arcade Adventures: Episode 1 was created by Hothead Games and is not owned by me. I own nothing by my words,

Four Gods wait on the windowsill,

Where once Eight Gods did war and will.

And if the Gods Themselves may die,

What does that say for you and I?

First verse of The Quartet of the Dusk of Man, Tycho Ephemerous Brahe

New Arcadia, 1922

I stretch my arms and yawn as the sun rises over my perfect life, in my perfect neighborhood, on this perfect morning, in the… mostly perfect burg of New Arcadia. I say "mostly perfect" because from the city's metaphorical fingertips to its metaphorical black heart it oozes with crime, corruption, poverty, and oh, so much evil! But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The name's Carlos Winters; you may call me Winter. Not Carlos, nor Carl, or Winters, or Mr. Winters, or Snowy –especially not Snowy- just Winter. I'm just your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill, tax-paying, law-abiding citizen of this load-of-bull city. I live on Desperation Street (called that because you'd have to be quite desperate to buy a house there), just to the left of the house at the veeeeery end. I've got no friends (blame that on the fact that 99.98% of the people in this damned city is a complete asshole), but that dosen't bother me, nope, not one bit. I mean, I have my hobbies, including, but not limited to: lounging about doing nothing, snarking at passersby, being a total loser, and gardening.

I don't not mean to brag, but I am quite skilled in the field (pun intended) of gardening. My flower patch out back has three fucking colors of roses in it and I can rake up tons of leaves in less than an hour. In fact, that's why I was outside on that day; autumn has just started to settle in, like a deadbeat couch surfer at a family reunion, and I was raking up some leaves that dare to trespass on my lawn. I gave them a good raking and bunched them up into one small pile much too big to be a cluster and yet too small to be a heap.

After smiting the floral invaders, I sighed an accomplished sigh and started to untense my muscles. It was at this time that –as my guard was lowered- another, single, villainous leaf decided to ambush me on the front. Groaning in annoyance, I grabbed my trusty rake once again and began to lean over to vanquish this lone survivor, but then I felt something: A tremor; a mediocrely strong tremor, strong enough to give me pause. I looked around for the source… Nothing. It's definitely nothing, I think to myself, shrugging, before returning to my work.

As the corpse of my fallen enemy enters the pile-up of the now-deceased army of plantlife, more tremors appear, steadily growing in power and, like a fool, I ignore them, at least until a large shadow falls over me. This is enough to get me to turn around and look. And what a look it was; behind me was one huge –and I mean huge- motherfucker easily towering over my simple, one story abode. Although the lack of proper lighting in the dawn prevented me from catching all of the beast's features, the fucker's size and glowing red eyes made me freeze up in terror.

As I repeated my Zen mantra in my head…

HOLY FUCKING SHIT! HOLY FUCKING SHIT! HOLY FUCKING SHIT-!

…The monstrosity raised its leg to take one big step forward, presumably on me. Fortunately, the step was not on me. Unfortunately, it was on my house.

…My…house…

…My fucking house!

Mt mouth left agape in shock, the giant continued on its way, making strange whirring noises as it trudged down the lane and leaving footprints in the asphalt of the roads, I was able to get a better look at the creature from behind. It was rather bulky and cylindrical in appearance and steam puffed out of a spew on its head as it moved. There were simple, razory digits on its hands and it appeared to be mechanical in origin. What were those fancy-shmancy science dudes calling those things? Row bods? Yeah, something like that.

Things are far worse than I imagined. spoke a voice in my head. I thought we had all afternoon, at least. We were even going to windsurf, weather permitting. I has planned to windsurf later that day, but it probably wouldn't've happened due to my lack of fundings or enthusiasm or knowledge of where the fuck one can windsurf.

I've had this voice talking to me in my head for quite some time. I don't remember when he showed up, or even why, for that matter. He's just kinda… there. He's asked that I do not dwell on his "mysterious identity." I dwelled on it for about a year or so before deciding that I don't give a rat's ass, not that he was convinced. He still urges me not to because, and I quote, "Your life, and the lives of others, may well depend on it." I doubt that but, as I said, I don't care. He hasn't ever hurt me (He's actually helped me numerous times, it's because of him I got this house) and he's the closest thing I got to a pal or roommate, so I just don't bother investigating the matter.

We must direct ourselves toward more useful endeavors, the voice continues. For example: that was a rather large robot-.

No shit, Sherlock, I respond mentally.

ShutupI'mtalking, he snaps at me. After clearing his inexistent throat, he says, and it was being followed by two strange men…

I think to myself, were there two strange men? I was too busy freaking ou- I mean, too busy focusing on my mantra that I kinda zoned out for a moment.

If he heard my thoughts, he must have ignored them. We must chart the winding course of our destiny, he said in a "dare-to-be-badass" sort of way. What say you?

I sighed again. Well, I contemplated, today was supposed to be an ordinary, do-nothing day; I'd mill about the house, doin' my thang, handling my awesome garden, maxin', relaxin' all cool, when that bitch comes and has the gall to literally crush my expectations of the day, not to mention my house, my stuff, and my freaking garden! It is so totally on you metalwork bastard! I flip off the machine, now way off in the distance. It can't see me now, but I don't care, I'm too pissed at this point.

That's the spirit! says the voice, barely containing his excitement. Onward!

Yes, I answer with a clenched fist. 'Tis time to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of... well, do something to some kind of dog…

We best be on our way. The voice reminds me. I'm sure it will come to you eventually.

Oh, right, I says. I take a few steps off my property before stopping, turning around to pick back up my weapon of choice: The rake. I grasp it in both hands and whisper to it,

"Come rake, let us begin our dark work!"

And so begins to tale of Carlos Winter: A story of action, laughter, rage, and friendship. But little did the would-be her know that his story would bring about a great cataclysm:

The end of all things…