Of all the things to end up doing after having been abruptly shoved into both the role and responsibilities of God, this is not one I ever would have expected.
"And what do we think of this one?"
I glance down at myself, looking over the elegant, silver-trimmed black dress that currently adorns my frame.
"I think that this isn't really my style."
"And why exactly not?" Bayonetta tuts. "Is the Creator truly so shy that she can't even bring herself to branch out a bit?"
I roll my eyes behind my glasses. Evidently, Bayonetta isn't terribly impressed by my fashion sense — at least, I can't fathom any other reason she'd have suddenly decided to drag me out onto the streets of Manhattan to replace my nonexistent wardrobe. At a shop quite literally called "Valley of God" for that matter, which just has to have been intentional on her part.
"Remind me again how you're justifying this?" I ask, re-summoning my default outfit as I teleport the dress back to the rack it came from.
"I simply find that when the world has you down, it helps to let the world of fashion pick you back up." Bayonetta casually replies.
Right... actually no, not right. We may have managed to move past the homicidal stage of things last time we met, but I don't recall us getting close enough to consider anything even remotely in this vein. I feel as though I'm somehow being tricked — but of course, I'm not using the Right Eye right now, and it wouldn't tell me anything about Bayonetta even if I was, leaving me to figure out the mystery she's currently presenting on my own.
"Ooh, this one would look nice." Bayonetta muses as she holds up another dress, this one a shining emerald with striking acid green accents. "...though, I think more so on me than on you."
I shift in place, not entirely comfortable with this situation or this store. Calling this place a clothing shop was probably underselling it. "High-end fashion boutique" would be a lot more accurate, considering the kind of stupidly-expensive clothes they seem to have on display. Maybe that's only natural, considering who and what I currently am, but this isn't really my kind of thing. Bayonetta's clothing choices may skew towards high fashion, but I skew more towards...
Well. Not that.
"You know, I can literally just make new clothes for myself if I want." I point out.
"So can Jeanne and I, but where would be the fun in that?" Bayonetta rebuts as she examines another rack.
"I'm just saying, doesn't it seem a tad extraneous given that-"
"You're missing the point, little Godling." Bayonetta interrupts. "Do yourself a favor and relax already."
…'Godling'?
I sigh, brushing off the teasing nickname. "Easy for you to say."
My gaze drifts to the store window, and the endless procession of people strolling by on the sidewalks beyond, all of them undoubtedly oblivious to the war forever being waged in the realities parallel to theirs. I wonder what they think happened to the moon... I wonder what they'd think of me. What they'd tell me if they knew that God was just standing here in this shop playing dress up, willfully ignoring that every moment spent here is another moment that Heaven remains unworthy of the name, and that I've thus far done almost nothing to fix that...
I bite the inside of my lip. I keep trying to remind myself that I could still just, decide not to care if I wanted. Take back what portion of Jubileus's power I can without any regard for the consequences, then just peace out and let this universe fend for itself, like it already has for most of its existence. But if I don't help improve things, who's going to? Certainly not the angels, at least not as they currently are-
A loud snap startles me out of my depressing musings. I look down to find Bayonetta's fingers directly in front of my nose, and turn to see her staring down at me disapprovingly.
"You really must stop losing yourself in your own head." she chides. "Now here, try this one."
She thrusts another pile of cloth into my hands and shoves me back toward the changing rooms, which I duck into as much to get a little space from her as to actually use it for its intended purpose.
I shake my head as I enter one of the stalls, still feeling off-balance. I could of course just teleport away from here and leave Bayonetta hanging, but... for all my perplexment as to why this is even happening, it's probably the least hostile or tense interaction I've had with basically anyone since finding myself in this universe. If I weren't so on edge, I might even be enjoying myself.
I glance down at the garment I'm still holding. Maybe I should just go with the flow? It's not like I haven't already followed Bayonetta this far, after all...
Internally throwing up my hands, I snap the clothes onto myself with an unnecessary wave of my hand, then glance over at the mirror on the wall. This particular outfit consists of an embroidered white and gold halter top dress, with extremely long, flowing sleeves just barely attached to the garment's main body, exposing my shoulders and a good portion of my upper arms. The waist is belted with a matching red and gold band that almost feels like metal, itself adorned with a similarly-colored ornament of no iconography I could guess at a glance. There's a slit up the dress's left side going all the way to the hip, but it seems to be fake, in fact only revealing more fabric beneath it, while still garnering a fairly similar effect due to the additional golden trim that frames it.
...all in all, it mostly just looks like a higher-class version of what I was already wearing. My scarf and glasses — the two lone accessories I've been stubbornly refusing to take off this entire time, having grown kind of attached to them — even match with it just as well.
Honestly surprised by just how much I like this one, I step out of the stall and back out into Bayonetta's awaiting gaze. As soon as she sees me, she raises a finger to her lips and smirks.
"Well, don't you look rather precious."
I try and fail not to sputter a little at that.
"You know, I'm starting to get the feeling this is less for me, and more just something you're getting a personal kick out of." I deadpan as I instantly, somewhat abashedly re-clothe myself again.
"I most certainly am," Bayonetta nonchalantly admits, "but this truly is for your benefit as well. If you really must think I'm up to something, perhaps I simply can't bear the thought of living in a universe where the Creator dresses like a too-rich daddy's girl who's never once so much as read a fashion magazine, nor seems to understand the concept of quality over quantity."
She gestures pointedly to the many, many pieces of jewelry I just summoned back onto myself, bringing a slight flush to my face.
"This from the woman who walks around in a catsuit made out of her own hair." I huff, looking away and crossing my arms under my chest, fully aware that it probably just makes me look even more like a petulant teen.
"And why shouldn't I?" Bayonetta easily counters. "When I'm working, I of course wear the appropriate outfit. When I'm off the clock..."
She motions to the long-sleeved dark violet dress that she slipped into at some point, which drapes over her figure like a silken waterfall.
"Uh huh. You do remember you're talking to the one whose subjects you kill for your 'work', correct?" I ask flatly, unable to resist bringing it up any longer.
Bayonetta rolls her eyes. "How ever could I forget?"
"And you don't think that particular conflict of interest might, say, prevent us from getting along?"
"I hardly see why it should." Bayonetta shrugs. "Though, I suppose that is up to you. If you'd prefer the alternative..."
She steps a little closer, looking down at me with an air of obvious challenge.
"...we could always pick up where we left off."
I look up and match her narrowed gaze with one of my own, leaving the two of us staring into each other's eyes for a long, silent moment — up until Bayonetta abruptly starts disrobing, and I hastily recoil and look away, causing the witch in question to laugh as she steps into the stall behind me.
"Damn you." I fume.
"Oh, I'm afraid you're far too late for that."
I ultimately do end up buying a couple of outfits, mostly just because my shopping buddy didn't seem keen on letting me leave the boutique without at least two — one to carry, and one to wear out. As a result, I'm now in a flaring cerulean cape dress with a bodice and skirt that look almost like stained glass, and one shoe store, high-end jeweler, and a surprise interim arcade visit later — boy did that get us some interesting stares — it's been joined by a pair of heels and matching accessories. Thus Bayonetta and I are now both walking the streets looking like we're off to either a fancy party or a high fashion show, and attracting more than a few onlookers in the process.
"So, having fun parading me around like the daughter you never had?" I ask, having literally altered my personal gravity just to make walking around in these notably higher heels a bit easier.
Bayonetta glances over at me and scoffs.
"Don't be ridiculous, little Godling. I'm not one for children as a general rule."
"Yet here you are, calling me that, and dragging me out to go dress shopping." I point out, having somehow relaxed enough over the past couple hours to actually risk a little light teasing. "I mean, I didn't really take you for the type either, but I guess being called 'Mummy' by your younger self so many times finally got to you. Don't worry, I hear strong maternal instincts are perfectly natural for a woman your age."
"I do suppose you would know, being the oldest mother of them all." Bayonetta retorts. "Going by the look you've chosen for yourself, you must feel past your prime indeed... though, I suppose it does reflect your apparent mental maturity rather well."
I snort, and she smirks, and this situation still feels incredibly bizarre, but I am honestly feeling better, so I guess I can't exactly fault her methods.
"...I have to say, I'm a little surprised you haven't asked any follow up questions about some of the things I mentioned last time we met." I note, my expression turning serious again.
"Mmm, I suppose I do have a few," Bayonetta replies airily, "but ask me to choose between business and pleasure, and pleasure will always come first."
She stops for a moment to look in the window of a nearby hat store, examining her reflection as she reaches up to toy with her sky-high updo.
"Speaking of which, perhaps I could do with a new haircut..."
"What, because this one is several centuries out of style?"
"I make anything look good, but you aren't wrong." Bayonetta muses. "Something a bit more modern might just be-"
She never gets to finish her sentence, as countless glowing symbols suddenly materialize in the sky, spreading across it like an invisible wave of gold... invisible to most people's eyes, at least. Craning my neck upwards, I watch with rapidly-dawning alarm as multiple hundreds of angels, including the titanic forms of a Glamor and a Discipline, stream down into Purgatorio en masse.
"Ugh, what piss poor timing." Bayonetta says with a clear note of disgust. "We haven't even gotten lunch yet."
I barely hear her, my gaze still locked on the skies as my mind reels in horrified confusion.
This can't be happening. It can't actually be the day that the second game starts, can it?! Even if I lost some time while I was up in Paradiso, it's still nowhere near Christmas here in the human world, and I'm pretty sure I haven't done anything that should have set the plot off early! Both of the Eyes of the World still exist! Reality isn't unbalanced! Loki hasn't arrived in the present yet! This genuinely cannot be the start of the canon events!
...in which case...
My expression thins, panic degrading to simple annoyance as the angels begin descending.
Evidently some of Paradiso's inhabitants aren't very good listeners.
"Friends of yours?"
I glance back down at Bayonetta to find that she's not only stepped into Purgatorio while I wasn't looking, but her fancy dress is already sliding off, her skintight battle suit rapidly reforming in its place. Before the dress in question can even hit the ground, she snatches it up and stuffs it in one of the shopping bags still hanging off her arm — exchanging it for the pistol-heeled shoes that she'd apparently also been carrying around in it.
Because of course she was.
"No, just some unruly 'children' I apparently need to discipline." I reply, dropping my own bags on the ground. "Apologies, seems we'll have to cut this shopping date short."
"And why would that be?" Bayonetta replies, giving her guns a cursory look over. "If you're willing to let something so minor as this ruin an afternoon, you really must learn to be more flexible."
I laugh under my breath, then leap upward into Purgatorio myself, rising a few stories off the ground as I retake my towering deific form. Crossing my arms beneath my chest, I wait in place as the Glamor — the obvious leader of the legion — comes gliding down to meet me. As it slows to a stop just above the nearby buildings, I summon my most officious, overly-grandiose tone, mix it with genuine irritation, and speak.
Did I not explicitly instruct you, and all of Paradiso for that matter, to leave the owner of the Left Eye be?
Despite my obvious displeasure with it, the Glamor stares me down, unflinching.
Your words mean nothing to us, Demiurge.
Only by dint of my feathered mask do I manage to hide my shock.
What did you just call me...?
Demiurge. the Glamor repeats. The supreme dissembler. A beautiful falsehood, draped in glorious, poisonous lies.
Meaning...
You think I'm a fraud? I almost whisper.
I mean, they're right, but when and how did they figure that out?!
We wished not to believe it, but we see now the proof of your false face. the Glamor continues, tone as furious as I've ever heard an angel's. The idolatry you have inspired. The pretensions you have used to deceive the heavens themselves. How you allow Paradiso to stagnate, even as you secretly consort with demons and witches.
I think back to the bar, then glance back down at Bayonetta, our shopping bags left abandoned on the sidewalk.
...ah. Well, can't really deny that part, I suppose.
We shall allow this no longer. the Glamor thunders. Witness now, the true power of-
The furious revving of a motor abruptly splits the air, cutting the Glamor off mid-sentence as a sleek black motorcycle rides off a nearby roof and slams into the back of its cobra-like hood. Its rider proceeds to pop a wheelie on impact, before turning and literally driving down the length of the angel's serpentine body, the bright red laser sword in their off hand splitting marble skin asunder all the way.
Screeching, the Glamor whirls around, tossing the motorcycle from its back. The bike cartwheels through the air like it was made for such stunts before landing on the asphalt below, somehow still on its wheels, if at a 90 degree angle to the road. It bleeds momentum as it grinds down the street, eventually screeching to a halt mere feet from Bayonetta, who raises an eyebrow at the driver.
"Fancy running into you today, Jeanne."
"Fancy running into both of you." the other witch replies, Bloody Moon still humming in her grip as she glares up at me. "What is she doing here?"
Bayonetta shrugs. "Dealing with an attempted coup, I gather. Seems as though a few of Heaven's finest forgot what it was like to have to answer to upper management."
"...oh?" Jeanne remarks, smirking a little as she dismounts. "Well, if she's managed to prompt heavenly mutiny in scarcely a week, perhaps the so-called goddess is doing something right."
The Glamor cuts them both off with a sudden shriek of rage.
Commence!
The small army of angels surges downward, acting in surprising concert for a group of such variety. Within moments, they've already reached me — only to find themselves stymied by an equal multitude of shining sigils, forcing them back and preventing them from encroaching on me any further. The barrage of ranged fire that comes my way finds itself similarly repelled, deflected right back to whence it came.
...unfortunately, the city around me isn't so lucky, as carelessly-aimed exotic ordnance comes crashing down upon the asphalt. Unsuspecting passersby are left screaming in terror, running for cover from an enemy they cannot see, and that does not even care about them.
Panicking slightly, I hurriedly spread hundreds of additional wards over the nearby buildings and streets, snuffing balls of lava and spears of ice from existence while undoing all the damage I can see. However, this takes my attention away from the angels themselves, allowing several of them to slip through my net-
*!-BANG-!*
-only to be intercepted by Bayonetta and Jeanne as they whip past my head, feathered wings of black and white now sprouting from their backs.
"Do leave at least a few for us to have fun with, won't you?" the former calls out, bringing out Pillow Talk as she and Jeanne race heavenward.
I don't respond, too focused on the angelic fallout still raining down upon the city around me. The majority of it hits my wards, vanishing or dispelling on impact — but the shockwaves still resound through the streets beneath, and the populace continues to cry out in fear.
I can't let this go on.
I glance up at the pair of witches now all but dancing across the skies of Purgatorio, their twin lightsabers slashing massive neon gouges out of the celestial throng.
Well, when in Rome...
Holding my arm out to one side, I impose my will upon the world, and an enormous, glowing blue saber forms beneath my palm. The solidified energy hums in my grip like a live wire, the weapon's jagged and overly-complex hilt making it impossibly impractical for any normal person to use.
Luckily, that descriptor no longer applies to me.
I burst from my still position, blasting angels aside as I rocket up to where most of the munitions are coming from. The apparent artillery group consists primarily of Kinships and Compassions — damn it, shut up already — accompanied by a pair of Worships and a small pod of Harmonies... none of which are fast enough to react to my sudden presence in their midst, as a single swipe of Salvation reduces more than half of them to halos. The extra half second doesn't help the remainder, as a couple more rapid swings cut them down as well, fire on the buildings below ceasing along with them.
Saying a quick mental apology to the angels I just killed, I call the halos left behind to me — no sense leaving them here — then snap my arm out to my left, snatching the Inspired that just tried to tear out my throat with its teeth from the air. It hisses and snaps in my palm, trying to spit a fireball at my face, but unable to do so with my thumb pressing down on what passes as its trachea.
I'd... really rather not, but...
Closing my eyes, I squeeze, and the Inspired explodes in my grip, the spray of viscera thankfully vaporizing on contact with my skin. Collecting its halos as well, I dive back down, aiming for the Glamor-
Face retribution!
-but am intercepted by the awaiting Discipline as it whirls towards me, raining gigantic spheres of jewel-encrusted metal at me from on high. I teleport away, reappearing behind it already in mid-lunge — only to nearly take one of its cannonball-like projectiles to the face, forcing me to briefly back off.
The Discipline rotates around to face me, finally allowing me a proper look at it. The cherubim is nearly as large as I am, with a heavy-looking brace shaped like half a bishop's mitre rising from the back of its shoulders. The cresting armor piece frames the rear of its comparatively tiny masked head, itself seemingly permanently bowed by a crown of golden horns. A pair of shining hand cannons are shackled to its wrists by a quartet of bracers, while its lower body is akin to a living throne, only further reinforcing its ironically regal appearance.
Tremble, oh Golden Calf. the angel pronounces as it whips itself into another rapid gyre, the kickback from its hand cannons helping speed it into a roving twister of gunfire.
Gliding backwards, I summon an array of enormous heavily-engraved metal bars from the Immortal Forge and electromagnetically charge them, catching the incoming barrage of metal and firing it back with my improvised railguns. The Discipline is moving too fast and wildly to get a good lock on however, wisely choosing to avoid its own returned shots rather than try and block them, not helped by my unwillingness to let them hit the city below.
Restraining measures first then.
I gesture, and lengthy golden chains form from nothing and lash across the sky. Catching against the Discipline's spinning limbs, they bring the angel to a jarring halt, momentum alone nearly tearing its arms from its body. It bellows in anger as I gather additional energy around my saber, colors pouring off it like a miniature aurora, then rear back and toss my weapon like a boomerang, sending it into a spin so fast that it looks more like a solid disc of light.
Immobilized, the Discipline screams for a final time as my whirling blade impacts its torso, continuing through and out the back of its throne. The cherubim erupts into a fount of gold, same as all the others.
I don't call Salvation back to me, allowing it to fly off on its own and seek out the rest of the attacking angels — of which there are still bizarrely many. Even with the ones I just took out, there's at least fifty still harassing Bayonetta and Jeanne, while still more are lining up for what I can only assume to be an impending massed attack. Are they seriously not going to stop? They have to know they can't win by now; are they truly so dedicated to committing suicide by God?
...no. I refuse to allow this.
ETHARZI
(Enough!)
I clap my hands together, and a massive wave of purest white blasts outward in all directions, washing over every invading angel still present. Though it has no physical effect nor impact on them, they instantly all but freeze in place, the concept of "peace" that I've forced to the forefront of their psyches overriding their will to fight, or in fact to even consider fighting any longer.
…though, not from running away, as many of them promptly do now that I've blocked their ability to accomplish much else here. I don't bother chasing them, and even dismiss my still-flying weapon, having killed far more angels today than I'd like as is, and not really seeing what the point would even be.
I only really need one of them to stick around anyways.
"Hmmph, cutting the fun short?" Bayonetta complains aloud as her prey turns and flees. "And here I thought we were bonding."
My gaze shifts down to the witch in question, along with the barely still-intact Glamor splayed across the roof she's now standing on, an infernal vortex swirling into being beneath its mostly-vivisected body. As countless hands reach up from below to drag the angel down, I glide down myself and catch the limbs in a sudden outflow of amber, which solidifies between one moment and the next.
I will save you, I intone, but I would like to know what you thought to accomplish with this.
"False God" or not, it's not like there's much that this number or quality of angels could realistically have done to me, and they surely had to have known that. Even were that not the case, this attack was ill-conceived on so many levels I can't even count them — I'm honestly a bit baffled.
The Glamor hisses at me like the dragon it resembles, its rigid marble face failing to properly convey the loathing it seems to feel.
Your stolen strength shields you, Demiurge, it snarls, but the Prophetic One shall see to your downfall.
My eyes widen. The Prophetic One...? Wait a second-
It is but a matter of time.
I don't get the chance to say anything further before the Glamor promptly pulls itself apart. Stunned, I'm too slow to grasp for the angel's soul before it shrugs off Caritas's tether to the heavens and deliberately dives into Inferno, another wave of grasping hands flowing over the first like water to drag its remnants down with it.
The spiral vanishes, and I'm left simply staring down at an empty concrete roof.
"Care to let us in on who this 'Prophetic One' is?" Bayonetta asks as she and Jeanne walk up behind me.
...I may have mentioned him a few minutes ago.
With all the fuss surrounding Loptr's future self, I'd honestly almost forgotten that his present self is still around as well. Not only that, but he appears to have started making moves before the board was even properly set up.
Guess break time is over.