Prologue: From The Other Side
Spamton's Perspective

In which Spamton Garrulous Addison, who may or may not be alive, makes a bargain with the almighty, which may or may not be the Player.

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It's an impossible dream, but you realize you're not waking up. Higher than reason and brighter than light. Gravity no longer wins.

It's an impossible thought, so you theorize, This is what the resurrection feels like.

"Resurrection", Son Lux

When God visits Spamton Garrulous Addison, the salesbot knows something's terribly wrong; he can feel it in his metal bones, in the synthetic enamel of his ageyellow teeth.

Is he dead? Is this what comes afterward? How would he know?

He would ask, but he isn't sure how. Not when the only one to answer his question is the unspeakably sublime; heaven itself.

The almighty doesn't look like an angel, biblically accurate or otherwise. It's something that doesn't look like much of anything, really. A sort of humanoid presence Spamton almost can't bear to face directly.

Nonetheless, he forces himself; eye contact is paramount. And heaven deserves manners, first and foremost.

When Spamton squints up into its face, God regards him over the rims of a pair of familiar glasses.

When it greets him, he recognizes its voice instantly.

That's because, out of all the shapes it could've taken, God's chosen his.

When Spamton's tried for apotheosis in the past, he's chosen more appealing forms; a snappily dressed adbot with a gleaming grin or a towering goliath of a machine, more monster than man.

God is neither. Instead, it looks something like an idealized version of Spamton himself as he is.

If it weren't for the iridescent sheen refracting from its form, God could be Spamton's doppelgänger; a small, puppet of a man with oversized spectacles, chemically dependent dark hair, and a comically long nose.

God's synthetic skin is as white as bone china, and its glasses are free of fingerprints. Its palms even have the same perfectly circular stigmata as his. Its hair is the same shade as Spamton's, except clean and slicked back into something more modern and presentable. Its wardrobe is similarly upgraded; speckless, ironed slacks, a pressed turtleneck, and a starched blazer tailored precisely to its topheavy form. Spamton's own outfit would be identical if it weren't for the stains and wear of years spent scrounging between alleyways.

Unlike Spamton, though, God is stoic. God's mouth is shut, lips pursed, unreadable. Its mismatched eyes are dispassionate, and the circles on its cheeks are nearly nonexistent.

Spamton throws himself down to grovel before it, forehead pressed against the suggestion of the ground, prostrating on his belly.

God kneels. It tips his chin up in one of its hands, and its fingers click against his artificial, plasticky skin like the sound of his own joints against one another.

Perhaps that's because they are.

God exhales through its nostrils. Its face is so close that Spamton can nearly feel its soft breath against his cheeks.

"No," God says, "Not to me. Never to me."

Spamton swallows and nods. Anything it asks.

God pulls away, taking its hand from his jaw. It seats itself on the ground in front of him.

He repositions himself into a clumsy, stilted imitation of God's crosslegged padmasana.

God studies his face carefully, and asks, "How are you, Spamton?"

Spamton isn't entirely sure what its question means and is afraid to answer, especially afraid to soil the perfect silence of the empyrean with his grating voice and its materialistic interjections.

"Take your time," God says. "We've got more than enough."

Silence fills the empty, liminal air.

Spamton finally swallows and asks, "Am I … [—six feet under—]?"

The sentence hangs grimly in the air for a moment, and then God says, "Maybe."

Spamton cocks his head, and God explains, "To be more precise, I don't know if mortality can have any definite meaning in your case anymore. You're more like an idea than anything else at the moment; a sort of distillation, if you will. What do you remember?"

"I became [Neo], with the [—help wanted—] of that [—meddling kids—], but I wasn't [Big] enough. It didn't [Free samples!], like I [—dreams come true?]."

"And then?"

"I …" Spamton can't finish the sentence. He feels sick just thinking about it. "… S—So [Dark]."

"In more than one way," God says, "My apologies. I wasn't in much of a position to assist you in earlier iterations of the timeline for what I hope are obvious reasons. We can safely say I wasn't quite myself."

God's form goes gaseous, pulling inward like water spinning into a drain. For a moment, it grows taller, with armor and shaded eyes.

"Little [Sponge] … ? Kris? " Spamton asks, and then, "[Wait for it ... ], [No deal!]. You're… A—Are you Kris's [— obey your master, master —]?"

God reforms itself and straightens its glasses. The corners of its mouth quirk up.

"So you do recognize me. That makes things easier."

How could he not?

The thing he calls God is also the Anomaly; the thing puppeteering Kris's Soul, dictating their actions.

It's not attached to Kris right now, so does that mean they're free? Is he? Does death negate what the Knight's done to him? What Mike's done?

There's one way to tell. Spamton ignores the part of his hindbrain trying to force out an interjection and hesitantly says, "A—Am I back? "

There's more to it than that, of course. Am I sane? Are my words mine?

A stutter, but no soundbites. Hearing his own voice come out of his mouth, undistorted, is downright bizarre.

Spamton asks, "Is it safe? To … To talk about him? "

God nods. "It is. What did you want to ask?"

"Was he right? Is the world a lie? "

"That depends on how you define a lie," God answers. "Elaborate."

"Everything is fake ; the Dark World is a s—sham! And if even Lightners aren't free, what does that make m—me? "

" Important ."

"How? To [—phenomenal cosmic powers!] like you, I must seem s—so … Small ."

Spamton knows his voice is his again, but trying to articulate what God is in his own words alone seems like an impossible task.

God explains, "Quite the opposite. See, I'm not a real person. At least, not in the sense that you are. Dimensionally speaking, I can't be; I exist outside time as you know it. But, unfortunately, the untouchable are unable to touch; I'm essentially a consciousness without substance or form—A witness to the stories of other people's lives. If you were to look for me, I'd be more like a living static hum at the periphery of your awareness than anything else."

To Spamton, that kind of existence sounds terribly lonely. When he says so, God simply nods.

"I don't have a choice in the matter. Such a limited presence is a kindness. To impose my true form would be unconscionable; it would shatter many's worldview."

Spamton ventures, "But if someone's [ As The World Turns ] were already [—picking up the pieces—] [—laminated safety glass—], then, would they be [Safety first!]?"

God grins. "Clever boy."

Spamton shrugs. "Can't break what's already broken."

"And there's nothing wrong with that. After all, [ There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in. ]" For the first time, God's voice dips into a quote from someone else, its tone changing in a way akin to Spamton's own. God continues, "My nature repulses most; I'm a living hazard to their cognition, after all. But if there were someone who acknowledged me without disgust; who chose to see me … Well, they would certainly be something special, wouldn't they?"

It lowers its glasses and fixes Spamton with its abyssal eyes. Spamton shivers. With what, he's not sure; some combination of shock and awe.

That explanation conveys an attachment—an entanglement —that goes deeper than anything he's experienced in years. And to a different kind of being, something he, and perhaps not even Lightners, can grasp.

"I'd say we've been through quite a bit together. Surely you recall the loops? In this place, it should be easy."

Spamton does.

"Kris barely [—wait and see!] me at first, and—and—and then they [—face heel turn—] and [—deadliest winter storms—], then [When it rains, it pours—] [—windows won't open and salt clogs the shaker—], I … Was that you? "

He can still feel his burst ribs, the frost seeping into his joints.

"My apologies for that. I couldn't help it; taking the paths less traveled is in my nature. Well, that is, until I realized what following them would do . Which is why I went back and undid the damage. At least, I tried to."

"I'm [—remember when—] that. Vividly . Kris and friends [—cut me loose—] [—a baker's dozen—] times."

"The one problem I can't solve is yours. Nothing I do seems to make a difference."

"In the end, maybe I can't be anything more than a simple puppet."

God says, "Neither can I. I'm sorry, Spamton. It would seem that the architect of this world doesn't intend for you to have freedom."

"But I thought you were [— the master builder, he is building me —]?"

"I am , but I'm not the only one."

"There are others? "

"Yes."

"But you're [—a matched set—] to the others. You said [—two of a kind—] yourself! Why can't you just … [—Mister Fixit—]?"

"Your reality was constructed by a different entity, one whose laws are enforced in ways I can't circumvent using conventional means. The fact that I was able to interact with you with any autonomy was nothing short of a miracle. Although I expect Kris didn't think as much, even if I tried to let them keep their autonomy as much as feasible."

Spamton cringes. This can't be the end, can it?

He asks God, "Isn't there something? You're [—smartypants—]! You and Kris beat Queen! Beat me! "

"Quite. I am and I have. That's why I'm here, see. There's always an alternative. And I'd like to ask your permission to use it."

"What do you mean, [—exact change—]?"

"If this world won't write you an ending, I will. But there are rules; I need your blessing for my indulgences."

"You need me to [Unlock the freshness … ]?" Spamton asks, "You want to [Stop! Help Me! It Burns!] me? Even after you saw my [—skeletons in the closet—]? I'm [—absolute power corrupts absolutely—] and [— destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical —], and— and … I—I'm disgusting; despicable . I don't deserve it. I'm not like you, not … [Good]."

"Are you sure? Despite everything I am, I'm not without fault. I've made mistakes. Besides, aren't you talking to yourself? This form is yours, isn't it?"

When Spamton protests that he couldn't hope to match God's way with words, the spruceness of its clothes, or the ease of its bearing, it chuckles.

"Could be. You clean up nicely, after all," God says.

Spamton can't remember the last time he has.

God pats Spamton on the shoulder; its form evaporates, wreathing him in vapor.

Before Spamton's eyes, the cruft coating his clothes, his body dissolves. His clothes knit together where they've frayed, and a warmth he can't immediately name coils into his chest.

He pulls off his glasses and stares at his reflection in their spotless lenses. It's not a goliath's, not a millionaire's. Just Spamton as he is, finally dignified in a way he stopped imagining was possible; fit to be seen at all .

Spamton's heart is in his mouth. A second chance? Salvation? Really?

And all he has to do is agree?

"Are [Terms and conditions apply—]?" Spamton asks, "Is there a catch? "

"The nature of this story will fundamentally change, and with it, yours."

Spamton hesitates. "For the better?"

"That's for you to decide. I can't tell you more than that; what I am necessitates that I operate through extremely esoteric means. I can't even guarantee that you'll remember making this choice if you go through it."

That's confusing, but he'll take it; he'll take anything.

"So," God asks, "What will it be?"

"Deal! I [Like, comment, and subscribe!] to [—everything storewide—]!"

Despite the brightness of the empyreal, Spamton sees something flickering; a light that only he can see.

By second nature, the Addison reaches out, and, with the cacophonous sound of an obsolete modem dialing into a new connection, the world reshapes itself.

Author's Notes

Hope y'all like the 'fic so far! If you did, please drop a comment!

On next week's episode ... Audience participation! In other words, the second person narration arrives in full force. Are you folks ready to pick up a weird little dumpster puppet and hold him gentle, like hamburger? 'Cause I sure am!