Hideo stood before his creation, overlooking the being before him. The frosted blonde hair, the piercing blue eyes, the physical specifications of the human form were exactly as he had imagined.
But the questioned remained of if the non-human attributes had been properly recognized.
"Mike, I would like you do the something for me."
The words came softly, warmly, a father's request to his prepubescent son.
Without waiting for a reaction from Mike, the scientist went on.
"I would like for you to head out into the city…and get me some batteries."
"Get me some batteries."
"Batteries."
There was no thought, there was no delay. As soon as the order had been given, the newly born hybrid of flesh and metal had bolted out of the laboratory he was forged in, leaving a roughly human-shaped hole in the wall of concrete behind him.
"…hm, the Bahsahkah function seems to be working well."
Smirking to himself, Hideo returned to his research, returned to his thoughts.
Returned to the base madness that was his narrative of self.
Every self has a different way of making a Form. A room containing a set of tapestries which thrum with the life of their crafter. A forest overgrown with Eldritch abominations that only exist within a twisted mind. A flawless sky, overladen with the white-gold light of the sun.
Now wipe it all away. Wipe it away and picture a void. A black void, endlessly expanding in all directions.
Litter this void with stars, stars of every conceivable size and color, myriad to the point where merely trying to understand their impossibility of quantity could break your mind and shatter your soul.
This is the inside of the devil's die.
You stand in the center of this void, an empty husk.
Set.
-Initiate.
The starting penalty is three.
Death by madness. Death by happiness. Death by love.
To begin, understand that the world is an illusion. Understand that you are a sleepwalker, blind. Understand that the web of interactions you believe to have constructed with other selves is a mere falsehood created by a monster dangling a reflective surface before your nonexistent eyes and that the second you close your eyes to escape the monstrosity you have created for the most transient instant when you reopen then to see your good work you find that it has all been wiped away.
You are the Other. You are the world. You are the demon of Laplace who creates the illusion.
You must understand this. You must, because soon it will begin. Soon the damned event of your own devising shall begin and it will all come shattering apart.
You created something. Thus, the intermediate penalty is five.
Death by electrocution. Death by suffocation. Death by burning. Death by stabbing. Death by dehydration.
Do not curse your world, for to curse it is to curse yourself. Do not curse yourself, for then this game will all be for naught.
Have you understood yet? I hope so.
What it means, indeed.
For if the world is an illusion.
If the man is an illusion.
If the knife is an illusion.
There is nothing wrong with it. There is nothing wrong with nothing killing nothing.
So then, go forth. Go forth and explore the depths of depravity you sought to create. Nobody will blame you but yourself.
The end has not yet been given.
The starting penalty was for understanding. The intermediate penalty was for creating.
-But you created something greater than your mind could comprehend.
Thus, the true penalty is one.
The final penalty is a hapless suicide which you yourself will perform in the evanescent dance to the end of eternity.
A mad roar echoed throughout the streets of the great city, Gonzoupolis, as a natural disaster tore through them.
Tendons snapped as Mike tore his arm out of a man's neck, and blood spurted onto his face. He spun and sheared another enemy's head off his shoulders with fingers that had hardened themselves into glistening metal, indulging in the thrill of mortal combat. With a thrum of raw energy, trashcan lids left his side to slice more men to ribbons.
He leapt back into the fray, lifting a set of nearby trashcans by the force of his will and launching each into three more bystanders. He willed the trashcans upwards, and each tore its way out of the top of his enemies in a misshapen fountain of blood. An overly plump police officer came at him, and Mike blocked his strike with a new trashcan lid. The law enforcement screamed as his hand cracked against the metal. He screamed louder when Mike drove its twin into his stomach and twisted. The trashcan-human hybrid leaned towards the dying officer and gave a feral whisper.
"tats wat yew git 4 kelng teh poles awnoff meh] mai deds teh hed eff teh erth poles fegt/"
A package of batteries laid by his feet, forgotten amidst the chaos.
Every human gave him the same look before they died. It was fear, obviously, but fear came in many different forms. It wasn't the fear of a bigger, more powerful man—Mike somehow knew that fear. It was closer to, but still not quite, the fear of a hurricane or an earthquake. It was the same way Mike imagined the villagers would look up at a dragon as it came to devour them. It was the fear of a monster. The fear of a god.
Mike reveled in the bloodletting. He stopped caring about anything but death, the only way to get batteries was to kill. The desire to protect something is the desire for another to violate it. The only way to buy anything is to kill everything. This was the meaning of the Black Friday. This was the meaning of his errand. He stopped worrying about the purchase itself, so long as he could experience the chaos.
The rampage of the trashcanman had begun, and none were safe.