Just Me, Myself, and I

"Y'know, despite being a supernatural warrior with several thousand years of experience, a dozen crossovers into different cosmologies, an expert-level understanding of science, and mastery in pretty much every form of Old World magic—not to mention more expertise dealing with supernatural shenanigans than you can shake a stick at—I think it's important to acknowledge one thing: I'm a fucking idiot."

"Regardless of intelligence, sometimes you need an outside perspective to realize the most obvious things."

"So... is this more like talking to yourself, or are we bordering on schizophrenia? 'Cause I haven't gone insane so far, and I don't plan to start now."

"Six of one, half a dozen of the other."

Before things had spiraled out of hand, the idea had seemed relatively simple. Prometheus had recently visited Vesta and Minerva, bringing gifts from the New World—specifically potatoes and tomatoes. Vesta had always enjoyed experimenting with the unique food combinations he discovered on his travels, incorporating them into her own recipes.

They had spent a while catching up, swapping stories about what had been happening since they'd last seen each other. The Byzantines were in their usual slow, steady decline, just as they had been for the past few centuries. Prometheus had also recounted the latest reason he was no longer welcome in Aztec territories (though the details remained vague).

Vesta, ever the thoughtful host, decided to invite Minerva to join their chat. It was rare enough for Prometheus to stop by, and she didn't want Minerva feeling left out. Of course, Vesta—Hestia in her older days—had never been the best spellcaster, and that hadn't improved with time. Instead, she brute-forced it using her divine abilities. She relied on a universal skill nearly all gods possessed: the power to form an avatar and send it in their place.

This was a nearly universal ability that every god possessed. Hell, even his old man had it back in the day. It wasn't particularly useful in combat, as most avatars were just collections of divine power piloted by their creators. Using them effectively in a fight required an expert level of multitasking, which wasn't exactly ideal. However, for smaller errands that gods preferred not to handle personally, avatars were perfect.

Now, Prometheus was a Titan, but he was also a god of fire, had served as the God of War in his guise as Tyr, and even as the god of curses as Angra Mainyu. Shouldn't he also have this ability? That question had led directly to his current predicament.

While it was true that some gods had multiple aspects—like those in the Hindu pantheon—or multiple names, as with the Greek and Roman pantheons, it wasn't common for gods to exist across multiple cosmologies. This made Prometheus something of a unique case, a figure almost experimental in nature. It was the kind of challenge that would intrigue even Azazel's expertise... though, in hindsight, it was clear he hadn't really thought this one through.

When he attempted to combine magic, divinity, and life force to create an avatar and then attach an ego formed of his own memories and essence, things didn't quite go as planned. Instead of forming the mindless copy he should have been able to control remotely, he ended up splitting—or perhaps separating—his name and aspects. This meant that there were currently several different versions of himself with his abilities and memories, but each with their own interpretation of those memories standing around his lab.

This wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He could already tell it would be relatively easy to merge the different aspects back together, given their shared origin points. They hadn't had enough time to truly deviate into separate entities. Still, it was disconcerting to find himself lacking familiar abilities he'd grown so accustomed to. He couldn't feel Prometheus's flames, Tyr's toughness, Mainyu's hate, Myrddin's whimsy, Zhu Bajie's balance, or Sōjōbō's steely focus.

To his surprise, though, he found himself experiencing a sort of calm serenity he hadn't felt since he had been Asael. Perhaps splitting himself had inadvertently separated him from the emotions most associated with each aspect. It was an odd feeling, being so... detached.

"Not to ruin your self-reflection or anything, but I feel like I should point out we're down a few members."

"What?! It's been five minutes—where the fuck did they go?"

"Pigsy got hungry and wandered off, Myrddin decided to follow him, and Sōjōbō's acting as their self-appointed chaperone."

"It's been five minutes! How could he have gotten that hungry?"

"I think he inherited all the pettiness we used to direct at the bimbo and her pet monkey. Now he's just stuck like that."

"Well, we better find them fast, because I don't know what'll happen if we stay disconnected for too long."

"Please, what's the worst that can happen? I mean, it's just... Pigsy. Sure, he can't go five minutes without tripping over a demon trying to eat him, but at least Myrddin would try to calm things dow—wait, no, he'd escalate them for the fireworks. Okay, but the crow's responsible, right? He used to watch Ushi all the time, and that turned out... pretty okay?"

"Yeah, but he also has the social grace of a stalker who spent centuries only ever talking to other tengu who were all weirdos, watching Tamamo from the shadows, and bonding with a ten-year-old. For centuries."

It was remarkable how easy it was to go from feeling a state of detached zen to almost complete panic. Maybe this was because he was missing key aspects of himself, but some part of Azazel was screaming that he needed to fix the situation right now before something absolutely terrible happened.

This feeling wasn't helped when a low-ranking Fallen burst into the room—Raynare or something?—shouting,

"Lord Azazel, there are reports of intruders penetrating deep into the city! Shemhazai has put everyone on alert, bu—"

It was at this point she froze, realizing there was more than one "Azazel" in the room. Well, technically it was only Azazel, but also several incredibly powerful supernatural entities that just happened to look exactly like him.

Now, this should have prompted her to trigger the specific alarms he'd prepped in case of doppelgängers or infiltrators disguised as him.

Instead, what actually happened was far less dignified. The poor minion turned bright red, muttered something incomprehensible about "multiple Azazels," and promptly fainted with a spectacular nosebleed.

Azazel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Great. Prometheus, you deal with this while I track down our wayward parts before they accidentally blow up the city—or summon some sort of eldritch monstrosity. Honestly, I wouldn't put anything past them at this point."

Myrddin was having the most fun he'd had in centuries. Honestly, the last time he'd laughed this hard, half the Round Table had ended up cross-dressing—and the other half had been magically gender-bent. If the rest of his aspects learned to lighten up a little, maybe they'd be better at dodging the actual volleys of light spears currently being hurled their way.

"Are you going to help, you twink bastard?!"

That came from Zhu Bajie, who, for someone who prided himself on balance, was shockingly bad at handling sudden emotional shocks. Myrddin smirked. Wasn't Bajie supposed to be the calm one? Honestly, he thought the pig was the most prone to panicking out of the lot of them. Look at Sōjōbō! The tengu was effortlessly slicing every spear out of the air before they even came close, all the while Myrdin was maintaining an illusion that made their positions look several feet off from where they actually were.

They weren't in any real danger. And besides—

"I'm not a twink, you fat bastard!" Myrddin shot back, grinning. "Just because I'm not a muscle-bound freak like the rest of you doesn't mean I'm a trap!"

Looking over his shoulder at the bound and struggling Kokabiel, Myrddin asked in a quieter voice, "You don't think I'm a twink, do you?"

The only response he got was muffled screams and curses through the ball gag Kokabiel was forced to wear. Honestly, it wasn't like it was hard to find something like that lying around in the capital of the Grigori. You couldn't throw a rock without hitting a sex toy—or three. Sure, he could have conjured a set of Promethean chains using his Magecraft that would silence Kokabiel just as effectively, but this? This was way funnier.

Of course, his delightful one-sided conversation was cut short by several blasts of holy lightning, their crackling arcs lighting up the room. A sudden flash of a blade intercepted them, slicing the energy apart mid-air before they could hit their target.

"Maybe," came Sōjōbō's dry voice, "you should focus less on your captive and more on dodging the next barrage."

"But that's what I have you for, isn't it?" Myrddin asked, fluttering his eyes in exaggerated innocence. "Can't the big, strong crow protect me?"

Sōjōbō's only response was a completely deadpan, "This is why the pig calls you a twink."

Myrddin puffed out his chest, still trying to look proud despite the teasing. "I'll have you know, I am very capable of handling myself."

Before Sōjōbō could retort, another bolt of holy lightning shot toward them, and Myrddin was forced to roll out of the way dramatically. "See? Told you I'm nimble!"

He scrambled to his feet, only to notice Kokabiel had somehow managed to free one arm from his restraints and was now desperately trying to wriggle out of the rest.

Sōjōbō sighed, unfazed, and reached out, effortlessly knocking Kokabiel back into place with a single swipe of his fan. "You know," the crow said, "sometimes, I wonder how much trouble the rest of you would get into without me."

Myrddin raised an eyebrow, still trying to catch his breath. "Oh, I'm sure we'd do just fine. You're so good at catching spears and scolding me. Maybe I'll start calling you 'Mom.'"

Sōjōbō didn't even look up as he started expertly cutting through the remaining spears mid-flight. "If you do, I'll make sure to ground you, 'twink.'"

Before Myrddin could fire back, a loud crash echoed through the room as Pigsy, who had apparently wandered off earlier, now returned—clutching a half-eaten potato in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. "Hey, you guys need help with the big scary lightning stuff, or should I just eat?"

Myrddin stared blankly at the scene. "You know, sometimes I think we'd be better off just letting things blow up. It'd probably be less trouble."

Sōjōbō glanced over. "We can always count on you for the helpful advice."

Pigsy grinned. "No one else is. Now, where's the fight? I'm ready for some real fun."

As Pigsy wandered over to the chaos, swinging the bottle of wine with a carefree grin, Myrddin exchanged an exasperated glance with Sōjōbō.

"Well, at least he's sober," Myrddin muttered under his breath, but Sōjōbō shot him a look that said, Don't even say it.

Before Pigsy could take another step, a loud boom shook the room, followed by the screeching sound of a door being blown off its hinges. All heads snapped toward the entrance as a group of heavily armed Grigori soldiers stormed in, weapons raised.

Kokabiel, still bound but now visibly panicking, mumbled something indistinct through the gag as he tried to squirm away. Myrddin sighed dramatically. "I really need to get some better help."

Sōjōbō rolled his eyes. "You're in the middle of dodging lightning and still have time to complain? Real focus, there, 'twink.'"

"Hey, I'm working on it," Myrddin grumbled, rolling out of the way of another lightning bolt.

Pigsy, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed by the sudden threat. He simply waved the wine bottle around lazily. "No need to worry, folks, I've got this covered."

With that, he lunged at the nearest soldier, only to trip over his own feet and land face-first into the floor. The wine bottle smashed on impact, and for a moment, the room went dead silent.

Pigsy groaned and lifted his head. "I swear, my coordination is fine. It's the floor's fault."

Sōjōbō facepalmed. "Maybe someone should've stayed sober long enough to deal with the damn soldiers."

Myrddin was already halfway through chanting a complex incantation, his voice full of fake cheer. "You know, it really is a good thing you're here, Pigsy. You distract them long enough for me to handle the rest."

But before the incantation could finish, a loud crack of holy magic echoed through the room, and suddenly, the Grigori soldiers were frozen mid-charge, unable to move. Standing in the doorway was a tall, imposing figure in dark robes.

"I've got the situation under control now," a calm voice announced. It was Azazel, looking unfazed as always.

Sōjōbō blinked at him. "You know, I was beginning to think you'd never show up. Things were getting real chaotic."

Azazel glanced around at the mess, the struggling Kokabiel, and the soldiers frozen in place. "I see you've all been busy." His gaze lingered on Pigsy, who was still lying on the floor, his face red with embarrassment. "Especially you, Pigsy. Perhaps less... tripping?"

Pigsy raised a hand weakly. "In my defense, the floor is a trap."

Azazel shook his head but couldn't suppress a grin. "Just make sure no one blows up the city before I can sort this out." He looked at Myrddin, who was still holding up a hand mid-incantation. "And as for you—no more fireballs for five minutes."

Myrddin sighed dramatically, dropping his hand. "Yeah, yeah, killjoy."

With Azazel now in control, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate, and the group slowly started to relax—well, except for Pigsy, who was still stuck trying to figure out how to get back on his feet.

Kokabiel, on the other hand, took the opportunity to stop struggling, realizing that the cavalry had finally arrived. "I swear, you people," he grumbled, still muffled by the gag, but there was a glimmer of resignation in his eyes.

Azazel raised an eyebrow. "Oh, don't worry, Kokabiel. We'll get to you soon enough. Just... try not to make more of a mess while we deal with everything else."

Myrddin stretched, relieved the immediate danger was over. "You know, I kind of miss when we had to actually fight for our lives. This is too easy."

Sōjōbō smirked. "Maybe if you stopped focusing on being dramatic, you'd get more done."

Myrddin shot him a wink. "Hey, who says I can't multitask?"

Azazel glanced at the group with a wry smile. "Alright, alright, enough of the chatter. Let's wrap this up before I have to fix another disaster."

And with that, the chaos, at least for now, seemed to be under control.

Meanwhile in Greece

"What do you mean, I just missed him?"

"Well, he was here a couple minutes ago. Then he got that thinky look on his face and he ran off."

"And you didn't think to stop him? I was just about to challenge him again!"

"You mean lose again?"

"... Shut up."

"Hey, I'm just saying, it's a recurring theme. You challenge him, he leaves, then you act all mad about it. Maybe it's a personal problem?"

"It's not a personal problem—he's a slippery little bastard. How is anyone supposed to land a hit on him when he keeps running off in the middle of everything?"

"Maybe if you stopped losing your cool, you'd catch him eventually."