Gods Are Cruel

Hope regains consciousness to the scent of smoke, incense, and blood. The first thing her senses register is that overpowering reek of oud and metal.

The second thing is the wet on her face and hard ground beneath her. Clearly she had been crying in her sleep, either that, or whoever had picked her up made her bleed. The second is more plausible - her bones ache, tiredness running marrow deep. She’s not surprised that, as she shifts, pain lances through her at all angles. People don’t tend to be all that caring with unconscious bodies that appear almost dead.

Hope opens her eyes to finally take in what the pile of flesh she’s calling her body has been dropped into. She immediately locates the scent of incense as coming from two huge, ornate burners, standing either side of an altar. A slab of marble, with rivets carved into it, clearly to drain whatever is laid on the slab and guide the fluids to the unrecognizable but clearly demonic symbol engraved into the flooring. Some plants lie in baskets on the four corners of the altar, most of which Hope can’t recognise and certainly none she can name, but they do add to the overpowering stench. Huge floor standing candelabras are the only lighting, casting a golden glow on everything. The same symbol as on the floor is carved into them, carved onto everything. The room seems to be a repurposed lecture theatre, with old, stone seats in an ascending circle surrounding this main platform. And of course, Hope is witnessing all of this from behind bars. Because why would she have her freedom?

What disturbs her most, though, is the cage directly across from hers. It’s as large as hers, square, clearly built to hold a person, or maybe three at a push. Technically, it's not the cage that's disturbing, but the person inside it.

Amy. Her partner in business, and from last month, partner in life too. A beautiful woman Hope couldn’t ever imagine a life without. She spent months agonising over her feelings for Amy, and on the same day she was going to confess, Amy beat her to it.

‘The bastard’, Hope always calls her when retelling the story. Affectionately, of course. Said with more affection than Hope can properly contain within her heart.

Seeing Amy beaten and bruised isn’t an uncommon thing. Neither is this situation for Hope.

Both of them have a rather unique partnership. To understand this situation, it’s easier to rewind a few years. Or a few billion.

Every universe is made in one of two ways - by random chance, or divine intervention. What neither science nor religion ever fully captures however, is the link. Any human spawned by random chance becomes a god for a new universe, should they put their minds to it. Any creative who has sat down to write, or paint, or sing, and thought of an entirely new world has created that world somewhere in the ever expanding infinity of space. And sometimes, if said creative is ‘psychotic’ enough, they can see into their own universes and become a God in a more traditional, informed sense.

These Gods play with their humans like pawns. Despite being one and the same, flesh and blood, they hold a level of power their poor creations do not. Which leads to a reputation for their becoming somewhat sadistic, or at least, no longer considering the humans they play with to be the same as themselves. So, when they have a hole in the story that needs some experimental work, or simply any scenario they want to play out, they borrow characters from other Gods and shuffle things around.

Got it? Good.

Hope and Amy are two of those characters, been through hell and back together. Literally speaking, they have been sent to multiple universe’s ideas of Hell. They didn’t start this journey together but they sure will finish it together.

Amy had been in this business one year and Hope six months when they found each other. People tend to die quickly here, since fantasy or crime genres tend to be the ones who steal other’s characters most often. Normal humans like themselves, ordinary boring side characters, succumb quickly to demons, devils, ghosts, axe-murderers, dragons – you get it. But alas, as long as you can pass screening, you’re shoved into the mix. And unless you manage to get favour from a God willing to come save you, once you’re dead, your soul is discarded. The lucky ones return to their own universe with no memory of what happened except maybe a dream. The unlucky ones have their souls torn to shreds and since matter cannot be truly created or destroyed, we all wonder what that feels like.

But Hope and Amy managed to stay in the game for longer than most. And every so often, after that first meeting, they’d come across each other again. Any duo or group mission, they so happened to be in it together. And after a series of unfortunate events that are a story for another day, they managed to work out a contract with a higher God than most.

Neither of them die, ever. They are in this game until the bitter end. Playing chess against beings that control the board whilst they’re just pawns, the best thing they could have done at that time was buy themselves time. So, they both did exactly that. Both divinely protected and bound together for eternity, or at least, until they can work out how better to survive this nightmare.

Caught up? Wonderful.

So, Hope isn’t strictly too worried. Now, there is a small clause in their contract, which rests at exactly this moment. When they are in a new dimension (thus, no longer the property of the last God to use them and not under their protection), but have not received the rules and mission statement yet (i.e not claimed by the new God, almost dropped off at their doorstep) they are vulnerable. But, they are also under no obligation to remain in this universe and considered ‘out-of-sight’ by whomever their new God is, so if somehow they managed to escape whatever universe this is, they could effectively run away. It’s a loophole Hope purposely left in, high risk yet high reward.

Besides, a situation like this is rare. And it’s even rarer for a God to take their time in assigning them these rules, since it is in the deity’s best interest to do so as fast as possible.

But looking at the situation, Hope can’t help but wish they’d hurry up this time.

What disturbs her is not the injuries littering her or her partner’s bodies. Nor the cuffs holding them both to the wall.

What does disturb her is the fact there are only two cages. And only Amy and herself exist in what is incredibly obviously a room dedicated to sacrifice.

To murder.

It is clearly not intended for both of them to make it out alive.

“Amy.” Hope whispers.

Her voice is hoarse, croaky. She’s clearly dehydrated, any fluid probably poured into the scabs beginning to form over split skin all over her body.

Amy stirs, eyelids fluttering. Hope watches her go through the same process she did - breathe, take in what you can without showing you’re awake. Then move, slightly, a shift of the hips, something that can be passed off if needed.

Then those blue eyes that Hope fell in love with opened.

Before either woman could say anything, or even smile at the other to let them know it’s okay, a door slams open.

Hope’s attention is drawn straight to the front of the lecture theatre, where the imposing double doors now stand open. Men file in, adjusting the lighting, the flowers, the symbols. All wear uniforms, all with the same gold mask over their faces. They don’t say a word or make a sound, and filter out just the same.

Once all of those men had cleared the room, eight imposing figures walk in. All are dressed head to toe in huge, dark red robes, encompassing their beings. The only identifiable mark are the masks being worn by each of them. All made of some kind of metal with a high quality, glossy finish, each a different kind of grotesque figure. Every one of them holds a candle, of which they light with the candelabras scattered around the room.

They form a circle around the altar and start speaking some Latin that Hope never bothered to learn. She can speak the multi-universal demonic tongue easily, why default to the closest human approximation in Latin?

She's aware Amy knows Latin, or at least has picked up some useful parts along the way. But before they could even begin to share this information, the chanting stops.

And a knife slithers from one of the cultists' robes, placed down gently on the altar.

It's fine. It's fine, right? Because Hope and Amy have this deal. They're protected. Hope is always protected, at least, having the favour of another God who would step in even in this uncontracted moment. Please let it be Hope that's picked.

But despite her prayers, they move towards Amy's cage.

Hope can feel her heart hammering out of her chest. She can't think of anything else but wishing that scroll would spawn in the air in front of them, pausing time and giving them both protection. She wishes so hard she could swear she could see the scroll, but reaching out her hands go right through and she's aware it's an illusion.

They open the cage. It clings, the bars dragging against the stone floor like nails on a chalkboard. The chanting doesn't stop.

Someone is screaming. Hope comes back into focus and it's Amy, screaming for them to wait. Pleading.

“I won't struggle, just give me five minutes! Let me talk to her! Please-”

The one who's dragging her out of the cage grabs her hair hard enough to make her yelp.

That forces Hope on her feet, pulling at the chains holding her to the wall.

“Amy!” She yells, as if that's going to do anything.

But it's all her heart can say.

No one is coming for them. They are on their own, yet again, like time after time. It's what bonded them, after all. And if those scrolls don't hurry up, it's exactly what will rip them away.

They're not special. Just like every other character churned out in this cycle.

Three people pick Amy up. She's a little delirious, but she’s always been the fighter of the pair - worked out religiously before arriving in this hellhole, aspiring to be a professional boxer. Where Hope is all wire and quick thinking, Amy was the muscle that gave her word weight. Now she’s doing her best to throw that muscle around, but it’s as if she’s moving in slow motion. Still concussed, not focusing clearly.

“Amy!” Hope screams again, desperate to inject some adrenaline into her veins.

If only she could move quicker. If there was one less person. If Hope wasn’t chained up and could toss her something helpful, or make a distraction.

As it is, Amy is dropped onto the altar like a dead pig dumped on the dining table. They hold her down as one more masked figure chains her limbs up.

All that Hope can focus on is the iron encapsulating her lover’s wrists.

“Amy!”

It’s all Hope can think, the only sound she can make. A desperate cry for something to help.

They begin chanting again, half mumbled Latin that doesn’t even sound right.

“Amy!”

The last syllable draws out into an almost ragged moan as that rusty old knife, stained with other’s blood, rises into the air, picked up by what is probably just a human behind that mask.

They’ve faced demons, devils, sprites. Ghosts, demigods, angels. Creatures from timelines so far out their own minds could barely cope. Things spawned from a void, evolved into pure hunger. Animals built to be a human’s natural predator and beings altered to fill the same role.

And it’ll come to a close at the hands of someone exactly like them. Not even that, less experience than them.

A weaker human.

The knife raises and flashes, ignoring Amy’s pleas. She finally turns her head to Hope, her curls falling over her cheek in a way Hope knows annoys her.

“I’ll be back, righ-”

Shnick.

The blade, sharp, poised, slices through her throat. Those blue eyes go wide, then vacant in a second. Red spurts and splatters Hope across the face, warm on her cheek. It lands in the crevices of the altar too, flowing down and around all the markings.

The blood glows, pulsing a strange purple. All Hope can do is stare, her eyes locked onto Amy’s. She’s seen the woman dead so many times she can’t quite comprehend that she won’t be back.

But the blood punches Hope in the face with it. Glowing like that, whatever devil they were trying to summon has accepted the offering. Amy’s soul spilled out of her with the gore. The candles flicker and go out, blocking the view of those beautiful blues.

And as the creature from hell claws up to the surface, a heavenly light glows. It begins as a pinprick, then slowly descends into Hope’s view.

A cruel joke. She reaches out, hardly able to believe it. But no, the light has heat and throws shadows onto her nails. After a moment a scroll is revealed, landing gently in Hope’s shaking hands.

The candles flicker back to life, the form of a high-ranking demon standing amidst the mess.

And on top of Amy’s face, blocking her eyes from view, is an identical scroll to Hope’s.

A flicker of light catches her attention, dragging Hope’s gaze upwards. And she swears, for a brief moment, there’s Myrian. The original God they worked out their deal with. In her purple dress, smile as wide as Cheshire’s.

For once, Hope feels nothing but pure rage as she looks into her sponsor’s eyes.

Then the apparition is gone. Even the demon looks up at the sky, bemused at the appearance of such an important figure.

No-one speaks. The chanting has stopped, most of the cult members fled.

The scroll falls from where it had so precariously landed on Amy’s face. The sight of her eyes breaks the last remaining string of sanity Hope has.

In the half dark, scroll in hand, Hope sinks to her knees and cries.

You, the silent audience of Gods, watch.