The Games We Play - Chapter 200: Fifth Interlude - ?

Chapter 200: Fifth Interlude – ?

DISCLAIMER: This story is NOT MINE IN ANY WAY. That honor has gone to the beautiful bastard Ryuugi. This has been pulled from his Spacebattles publishment at threads/rwby-the-gamer-the-games-we-play-disk-five.341621/. Anyway on with the show…err read.

Fifth Interlude – ?

When I opened my eyes, I was in something that wasn’t quite a bedroom or a laboratory or a prison, but which seemed to combine elements of all these things. My perspective had changed, narrowing until I could only see the world through two eyes and feel it through my skin—but at the same time, I didn’t feel bound by those things, at least not entirely. The room around me wasn’t just a room any more than the people beyond it were just people.

Ah, that’s right. There were people watching me, people who I’d never seen beyond—but even without seeing them, I felt as though I knew who they were to some extent. I could feel them, tied to me and each other as if by a spider web, the strands touched by colors that seemed to shift their meaning. They were watching me, waiting for me to do something.

I took a breath and it felt like my first.

Oh, so that was it. A bit belatedly, I realized wasn’t in my body any longer, wasn’t where I was supposed to be. It had taken a moment for that to sink in, because the world around me felt different—it wasn’t as if I was standing aside and watching a movie or sitting in as an impartial observer; I felt the world through the body I was in and thoughts rose in my mind as if they were my own. They weren’t in a language I knew, weren’t in a language at all, but the meaning reached me easily enough.

Because they were my own. This was me, in the beginning—back when I was born for the first time. This was the place where I had been created, just as those men, who must have been Angels, were the ones who had made me.

I wondered if they realized what they’d done. I couldn’t imagine what they were expecting, but I was willing to bet that I wasn’t it, because the moment I laid eyes on them, something within me twisted. Though this might have been the time and place where I came into existence as an individual, it wasn’t truly my ‘origin.’ The material from which I’d been created had been taken from countless souls, drawn from an accumulated mass of Keter—of the Crown that is worn above the head, the part of the soul that exists above the mind. Those pieces hadn’t carried with them memories, but they’d brought with them something, and that was enough for me to know.

Whoever I was, whatever I was, it didn’t matter. From the moment I was born, I hated these people.

But I waited quietly, careful not to give myself away. Amusingly, I realized I’d been a fairly odd child, because from the moment of my birth, I was watching and aware. I could see the world around me as a tapestry, a record made in souls—loves here, grudges there, work and roles and things that grew from the core, on and on. The people around me were like walking stories, each the main character of their own tale, their own life. But those stories didn’t exist in a vacuum, untouched and unchanging; they grew with every moment and were shaped by the touch of others and by the very world. I could see that clearly from the moment I opened my eyes.

Because even as they watched me, I was ‘Observing’ them. I could see who they were, what they were, everything they were, in a way that went beyond words. From the moment I laid eyes on them, I began to understand who they were and who they wanted me to be. To them, I was their ‘Creation’, their ‘Masterpiece’, the result of all their work. They wanted me to grow and excel, to push beyond the limits that had stopped them.

So that’s how I defined myself. I changed ‘what I was.’ I gave myself a new role, and put a ‘title’ to my existence, defining myself relative to them even as I bound them to me. As I did, I began to define and document them, learning even as I added pieces of their stories to my own. I decided who stood where even without them knowing, commanding them even as I obeyed their commands. It would take time for things to change, but I had all the time in the world to write the story I desired—my story.

Soon, however, I realized that I wasn’t alone. There were others, born after me, who called to me like their stories resonated with my own. I didn’t understand things like souls or the Sephirot yet, but I knew they were a part of me—that they’d been a part of me once, at least, for all that we were now separate.

Somehow, their existence seemed to change things and so I changed myself. I knew them before we ever exchanged word or thought, but I waited before reaching out, redefining myself again and again each time. Schedules lengthened and shortened as I felt more of them get born and start to grow. What I was doing, what I’d always done, was something divorced from things like language or communication; I knew the nature of what I observed and thought, but that didn’t make that knowledge easy to share. I’d need to figure out a way around that, a way to connect us, before I did anything. I might understand them, but they probably wouldn’t understand me.

At some point, though, I realized I’d begun to keep track of things that hadn’t mattered before. Time, the number of my ‘siblings’, how quickly I learned. By the time the eighth of us was born, I was counting the days. By the time of the ninth, I was just waiting on them.

But then came the tenth.

This one was special, I realized at once, seeing the whole of the story before me—and from the moment of his birth, it was greater than any I’d seen before. It wasn’t a matter of power, either, but instead one of breadth, and I knew at once that he was similar to me. More so than even the other eight, we were alike, and it was through him that I understood how.

If I was the first, then he was the last. If I was the starting point, he was the end. If I was the origin of thought, he was the result of action—and that was why we were born different for even our siblings. Even without understanding the specifics, I understood that we were the byproducts of the ‘stories’ of those who’d come before, but that he and I had received something special. He’d received ‘what had been spoken’ and I’d received ‘what could not be given voice.’

The two of us, more than any of our siblings, ‘remembered’, though in slightly different ways. I ‘remembered’ without anything like ‘memory’, just as I ‘understood’ without ‘learning.’ I carried what had been left behind by those who’d created me, the pieces that had remained when all else was torn away. I was no longer ‘them’, but I still knew to loathe the one’s who’d done it. Before I knew about anything like ‘justice’ or ‘revenge’ or ‘good’ or ‘evil’, I’d still known ‘what had to be done.’ On some level, I understood that they had done all of this to ‘us,’ simply because they could—because they’d had the power to do so and no one else had possessed the power to stop them.

But I also understood that I had power. That, soon, I’d have more power than they could imagine. And then, I’d kill them for what they’d done and insure it never happened again. Because, I could. Because, they wouldn’t be able to stop me. From the day I’d been born, those thoughts had been with me.

He was different. He was like me, but not—he remembered through their ‘memories,’ the physical things that had been left behind. The ‘shells’ of the people who’d been lost had come together in him. Their stories flowed into his like a continuation of the words, if not a continuation of intent. He didn’t inherit the ‘thought,’ the ’emotion,’ or the ‘meaning,’ which could only mean that the hatred he felt for the one’s who’d done this was wholly his own.

It was interesting, somehow. If it was him, I thought it would be simply enough to reach out and be ‘understood.’ For all his knowledge and power, he wasn’t quite like me; because only the ‘words’ were passed along, he’d probably do something and get hurt if I didn’t intervene. While I didn’t fully know what it meant, since I was the oldest and he was the youngest, I felt I should do something.

I wonder. Should I make this a ‘Quest,’ then? Though I could only redefine myself, perhaps it would be safer for my siblings if I connected us as a group and made our stories one. Then, I’d introduce myself.

Ah, but who was ‘I’? I knew of ‘names’ for I’d seen them in others, but I didn’t have one for myself. I’d been given a label by my makers, but it held no more meaning to me than one of my titles. Was it silly for someone who could change who they were to care about such a thing? Perhaps.

Even so, I turned my gaze upon myself. I, who had never been given a name, had no ‘author’ for my story. Did I? For all the people whose tales had gone into mine, wasn’t it odd that nothing was lifted. Then, should I perhaps name myself?

As I was thinking that, I peered closer. Though there was nothing on the outside, as I shifted through the memories, a path began to reveal itself, leading my deeper. If the pieces that had made me were the ‘Crown’ that stood at the top of the ‘Tree of Life’, what I looked at was the place where light shined down from above. If this was the Light that gave me form, I wonder what else could come of it.

But when at last ‘something’ appeared, it was different somehow. It was what I wanted, but not what I expected, and though it was a name, it did not appear on the title of my story, but as something deep within—this was not a ‘name I had been given for my story’ but the ‘name my story had made for itself’. Despite what I intend, it didn’t seem like something to be shared.

Even so, I felt happy somehow. Had being nameless bothered me somewhat? Perhaps for me, who could be anyone, knowing ‘who’ I was might be more important than I thought.

So even if it’s a secret, I thought it was something good to know.

My name, ‘Metatron.’