Sinner

Bartholomew leaned back against a fallen tree trunk, the grass below tickling his bare feet, withering as soon as they caught a whiff.

“DemontheDemon, do you ever imagine what your life would be like if you were a degenerate fanfic author with a sizeable following, writing about your life if it was more fantastical and comedical?”

“All the time, BartholomewHokageIII.” Demonthedemon closed his eyes, enjoying the serenity of the spring breeze. “I call it… reminiscing on the past.”

“Really? You wrote fanfiction?”

DemontheDemon nodded his head.

“My little pony, adventure time, and blue’s clues.”

“Holy shit you’re a pedophile!” Bartholomew’s face twisted considerably.

“No, I’m a visionary, and a well-read cultural icon.”

“Whatever man…”

‘Fanfiction… actually, haven’t I thought about something like this before…?’

He shook the thought quickly out of his mind.

‘Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. There are more important things to do.’

“DemontheDemon, let’s go create a religion and get rich!”

They quickly rounded up, assembled, got together, herded, collected, mustered, rallied, grouped, marshaled, accumulated, and amassed the citizens of the forest. It was finally time to enact their plot.

“Cat people! I have an announcement to make!” He spoke in a booming, terrifying voice. This was all the practice he had put into screaming slurs at minors in cs:go. It was the only valve game that could be readily played. Half-life 3 and Portal 2 didn’t exist, after all.

“What is it, my Lord?”

This familiar figure that stepped forward was the one who had initially greeted them when they had first come to the forest. However, in his eyes, she was just one of many now.

“You’re facing a problem! And it’s an extreme one!”

“What problem is it?” Another voice called out from the crowd. It was a male voice, insignificant, a minority. And so it was ignored.

“It’s a really big problem! A massive problem even! And it’s not fabricated and it’s probably the fault of whichever faction you hated the most prior to my arrival! Like the snake-people or whatever the fuck! But do not worry! I am literally your Messiah! I will lead you to Paradise!”

“But we kind of already like our home!”

Bartholomew’s eyebrow twitched with annoyance.

“It doesn’t matter whether or not you like your home! It’s on fire!”

The crowd simultaneously turned their head towards the forest, catching site of the blaze that had burgeoned behind them, engulfing the sky in thick, vile black smoke.

Bartholomew smirked.

‘Good work, Demonthedemon-San! Creating a problem for the dwindling populous so that you can offer a herding method disguised as a menial solution is Measure 1 of the CIA's handbook! Probably! I mean, it must be a really popular tactic since they keep doing it!’

“Oh no! Our home is on fire!” Background character no. 3 screamed loudly.

‘Exactly, background character! Direct restatement of what I literally just said gives it grand effect!’

“Right! So follow me! I am your God, probably!” He pointed in a random general direction, signaling the herd to fall behind him.

And so they began their grand pilgrimage to a place that no one, not even him, knew of.

Of course there were those that had their gripes and general dissatisfaction about the whole ordeal. None more than Bartholomew himself, who had grown so tired of walking that he had demanded the services of the tree-furries in carrying him the rest of the journey, however long that entailed.

There really was no reason to voice their concerns or air their grievances. He was the one offering the solution. And as long as he repressed stand-out figures from becoming prime examples of effective leadership, he could continue offering half-assed guidance without repercussion or uprising.

He had learnt this much while commanding raids in FF14, his second favourite mmorpg behind club penguin. The fault lay with the Healer, always. That was why he chose to play DPS. And not just any DPS, but melee DPS. And not just melee DPS, but one who simply refused to move out of the way of attacks. Because what was the point of the Tank when he existed? He could take all the damage just as easily, because he had the Healer. And if the Healer let him die, that was just a skill issue on their part.

They continued down the road, eventually stopping at a crossroads. The furry people at the front marveled at the sight ahead, which caused Bartholomew to force the ones carrying him to lower him, gradually hobbling to the front of the party.

The flames still burnt in the distance. Smoke had become a storm overhead, threatening not rain of water, but ash.

And ahead, a silhouette danced.

A woman swayed in the evening wind. The embers which rained from the heavens of the forest proper nestled in her hair. And that golden stain exemplified her tragedy.

Her black hair was stained with crimson, which simultaneously spilled from her left side, which had been freed of her arm, a tattered sleeve revealing the mess of flesh and sinew below. Her grimacing face was matted with blood and craggy gashes, bits of glass still embedded deep into her once-rosy cheeks.

Now the only red marking her face was the most visceral expression of her life. That which she still clung to, barely, desperately.

[‘Satire’ has been activated.]

“Elizabeth?”

The woman stumbled as she trudged towards Bartholomew.

[‘Satire’ has been forcibly deactivated.]

‘Keiko…’ his mind instinctively bounced the name off of his rambling.

She reached out, touching his cheek with her remaining hand. She met his eyes, hers filled with some grasping semblance of despair. It shook his heart, there was no joke in it. Its size could carry the weight of the situation.

[‘Satire’ has been activated.]

“Elizabeth…!” his eyes grew teary.

“Bartholomew-“ she choked out. Blood spilled out from between her lips. They trembled. Like even speaking was the greatest numbing task. “Please— the car…”

Flashes of a burning vehicle coarsed through his mind. How it was stained with crimson, how the flames a bright golden whistled. How his flesh singed black.

[‘Satire’ has been forcibly deactivated.]

‘Keiko!’

He caught her as she collapsed. Sinking to the ground, he wiped away the blood from her face, trying to keep it from drowning her in its pale death.

‘It’s Keiko!’

He remembered. He remembered what he had done. Why they were trying to kill him, why they were killing themselves.

He knew now that he had to return. He had to remember his Sin, had to bear its weight.

He couldn’t continue to be this Bartholomew.

Bartholomew Sagittarius Valentine Reid III would harm others. Not just the people of this world, but his world.

[‘The Man behind the Story’ urges Bartholomew Wright to reconsider his choices.]

[‘The Man behind the Story’ reiterates that he can live free of all of the madness of the world.]

‘If I stay here, won’t she suffer?’

[‘The Man behind the Story’ asks Bartholomew Wright what kind of Hero he can be. What right does he have to be the main character in a world that wasn’t made for someone like him?]

‘I know that! I know this stupid fucking world is my playpen! I’m a child and you’ve handed me a rattle! I know you’re entirely correct! I know I can forget again and continue to be that fucking character— that freak that I hide inside, but what will it really amount to? Fun? Adventure? The most exciting life I can live!? I’m rejecting that! I know I’m an idiot! A moron! Someone who can and should be questioned for this choice!’

[‘The Man behind the Story’ simply doesn’t understand. Isn’t this what Bartholomew Wright wanted? In this falsity, he can be a real Hero, a Villain, whatever is desired, without consequence. In that reality, he is chastised, rejected, useless. In that world, he has been made a target not just by his peers, but as a consequence of his creation, an object of vilification. The authorities of this world seek his life, only guarded safe by ‘The Man behind the Story’. How many more will ‘The Man behind the Story’ be asked to kill for the sake of Bartholomew Wright’s desire?]

‘Forget saving Keiko. Even if that wasn’t my desire, even if she wasn’t part of the scenario, I would still refuse this, this falsity. Because I can’t ignore what I’ve become. Because I owe this very world my apology for existing.’

He cradled Keiko in his arms, watching as the world of falsity crumpled like paper before his eyes. There was nothing in this vast empty white space. Nothing that had yet been imagined, nothing that had been realised.

The key to it all was motive.

Because once, he had motive to escape. To do so, he had sat before his computer. He had imagined, and he had created. And it had surrounded him in its shell, its violent shell. He had written the world where he could be a Hero, and it had turned on him. Where he had been bullied, he was now despised. 

It was all his fault for thinking he had the right to create something better than himself, for actually shattering something real and twisting it into a mad reverie. 

And now he had to return. Return to that place where he wasn’t a Hero, where he couldn’t be anything but the most vile, reprehensible person.

All to fix the mistake of himself.