See You in My Heavenly Kingdom

    “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be fun if you or anyone else in this house listened to me.”

    The alien drew out in a breath as he sighed & shoved his gloved hands into his lab pockets; giving the much older boy his full attention. At the very least, Vincent wasn’t Bennett when it came to harassing him on a daily basis–when it wasn’t for work purposes. He could at least give Vincent that much, the fair-skinned boy was tolerable in that regard. Clicking his tongue partially in annoyance that his time was being spent talking to the fellow resident but mostly because he’d have to remember what info he gathered the previous night. That was definitely going to be a pain once their conversation was over.

    “Something important?..I guess I have time to listen. Keep it to the main point then, so we both don’t have our times wasted.”

"Is that sarcasm I hear?"  He asked, laughing all the while.

With a tilted head and a wide grin smeared across his face, the Vincent "vessel" innocently batted his lashes at him.  A single hand reached up to poke his patched cheek, feeling the satisfying squish of the bandage beneath the force of his fingertip.

     ❛ huh ?  your fault ?  you can’t control the weather ,  can you ?  it’s exciting ‼ i like it when things are exciting ‼ aha ‼ look at it ‼ it’s so cool ‼ ❜  

      he wasn’t entirely sure why this guy wanted to apologize .  it wasn’t like he was like charlotte ,  was he ?  if he could control things like the weather ,  then maybe he was more powerful than her ‼  could he make it snow soap suds ?  or maybe he could do something funny like make a literal brain storm ‼ 

      ❛ oh …  really ?  why  ?  it’s just for FUN . if my legs go numb ,  then we can just have dr. huxley fix them ‼  hey by the way ,  who are you and how did you get into our house  ?  did you break in ?  ❜   

     if he was an intruder ,  then no one would miss him .  someone who could control the weather might have something fun to look at on the inside too ‼  perhaps he could trick him into laying down on a nice dissection table for a nap and then …  VROOM VROOM ‼ BLOOD ‼ GORE ‼ A PARTY ‼ ‼ ‼ ‼  

     ( PLEASE BE AN INTRUDER  ‼ ) 

"Dr. Huxely?  Interesting, that name sounds familiar to me.  I'm certain I recall reading about his character in one of Charles's posts, though I may be mistaken.  The plot he came from had to do with, ah..."

Gray eyes closed as he became lost in thought.  A pause; slight hesitance as he strained to recall his internet friend's stories from long ago.

Then, a warm smile slowly appeared on the Quiet God's face.  Charles's writing seemed to come back to his memory as if he had read his work only yesterday.  "Aliens, correct?  Or maybe it was demons, hm..."

Waving the subject away, Vincent thoughtfully fiddled with his hair and looked back to the hazmat-suited creation.  "Anyway, please don't mind me.  I'm just passing through.  I'm looking for an old friend.  His name is Charles.  He's the God of this world."

The vague awareness at the corner of Charles’ mind, telling himthat Vincent was in the House, in his world, ached. he had noidea how this was possible, no idea where the other God came from, noidea what he even wanted to do about it at all. As soon as herealized he had hid away, the upper floors his only solitude fromwhat felt like impending destruction.

It’s been awhile since he locked himself up there, watchingVincent navigating and exploring the House. Every time he thought ofgoing down and seeing him, of trying to explain any of this, ofapologizing… it all put a knot in Charles’ stomach and his heart inhis throat. How could he let the one he always wanted to impress themost see this rotten, worthless world? To see how much of a useless,pathetic God he ended up being? It was the disappointment he felt hewould see in Vincent’s eyes that he feared the most, hiding away fromthe latent fear he felt of Vincent himself. He always was a coward.

Even as he hid, Charles still went down to the higher up floors topick up the dead Vincent vessels. It always felt wrong somehow justto leave them there, alone and broken in empty alleyways andcorridors. There was a certain morbid comfort in holding the deadsoulless bodies, as nothing else would come to harm them in his armseven if the God couldn’t protect them from fate itself. Charles spentmost of his time at the center of the House; legs dangling on theedges of the pit while he stared down into the closed and empty eyesof millions of the same face that haunted this world. He would spendtoday there too, finding it easier to face these empty husks then thereal thing.

Until the Imposter decided to take matters into his own hands.

When arriving with yet another vessel clutched close to his chest,the God felt something amiss. A being dressed in white, body curledup and trembling, lying on the very edge of the giant chasm awaitingit’s inevitable endless fall. In a place where stillness was eternal,it’s subtle movements were horrifying. As his mind slowed down uponthe sight, Charles tried desperately to find an answer to thisanomaly other then the one he hoped, as he inched closer toinvestigate.

Did a vessel make its way back up to the top somehow? It would bepossible, if climbing on the other bodies, if he somehow made amistake in thinking it already long gone. Or from another floor,following it’s way here blindly, finding only despair in the end. Itcertainly wouldn’t be the first time a creation had somehow made itup to the 11th floor, though usually only making itslightly past the elevator before their disappearance. He had madeabsolute sure that all the Charlotte’s and Vincent’s wouldn’t havethe clearance to even do that however, even that one particularstrange Vincent he knew existed. It wouldn’t really be possibleunless something had happened, but he could put nothing past theHouse.

None of those theories could hold up against the moment he sawstray strands of dark straw colored hair, his dead heart droppinginto the pits of his stomach instantly. A boy he never thought hewould ever see again swam in front of his vision and Charles thoughthe was going to be sick. Vincent existed in his world, here, he washere. It wasn’t just an another hallucination, another trick. Itcouldn’t be. Not when he was going to see him die again, in front ofhis very eyes.

Vincent,he’s going to… Oh god. He’s going to die.

He heard the distant sound of the elevator doors closing as hereached for the other boy without thinking, his hand inches away fromclutching around his shoulder. It was only then did he realize whathe did, stunned by his own lack of both action and inaction. What acoward! What a coward he really was, not able to do something evennow, just like before when it actually mattered. He did nothing more,not able to move the final distance to the boy’s form nor take anysteps back. The Tiny God only stared, into soulful eyes and heavyform, not realizing he was still holding on to the previous Vincentvessel that was his original purpose here.

“…Vincent…”

He couldn’t die. Not again, not if he was already a God. It wasn’tpossible. He tried. But that logic would not reach his head atthe moment, images of a bloody broken boy, head splattered on thesidewalk floor. He couldn’t see that again, he couldn’t stand thatsight again. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t.

“What. What are you doing here.”

It was 10:30 AM. The black sun shined down on them overhead.

"...Charles."

He did not want to turn around, though his body worked on instinct.  Knelt on the edge of the dark earth, Vincent glanced at his old friend from over his shoulder.  Strange how he showed his face at the absolute worst time for it.  Nevertheless, the Quiet God was not going to complain.  An endless amount of time had been spent looking for him. 

Given the expression of horror clear as day on his face, he supposed he was not too happy to see him either.  It was not a pretty sight, though not a hint of their surroundings was pleasing.  Vaguely, his panic and distress reminded him of the shocked expression he wore the first time Vincent saw him on the stairwell, holding up a flip-phone to take a picture of his bruised and battered body.

As he looked sympathetically to the deceased Vincent vessel in Charles's arms, he wondered with a sick stomach if that one died before or after that incident was replicated in one of the world's many alleyways.  It was difficult to tell with his blurry-eyed vision, straining to see through his tears.  He wiped at his face with his sweaty palms and peeked between shaky fingers amidst his efforts to hide his mourning, observing the other boy's long white hair.  Perhaps that was proof enough that the abusers who littered and swarmed Charles's world in droves had at least not gotten the chance to take out their scissors on that boy.

Vincent shuddered at the memory and went back to a child's pose, his fingers aimlessly twisting through his gray hairs and pulling, pulling, PULLING in frustration and guilt.  How could he possibly answer the other God's question?  The body count surrounding them was all the more imperative to be discussed.  Two arms, two legs, one head, a heart, a brain, and all the rest dangled in Charles's arms: but what was the missing piece?  What was the most important part missing from all the Vincent vessels inside Charles's House?  A soul was what made a life matter.  It guaranteed there was going to be something better for them in the future.  A soul was a golden ticket to a new heavenly kingdom, a paradise for them where fantasies could take root and flourish.  Instead, within Charles's chasm of pain and darkness, all Vincent could smell was rotting flesh and decay. The blood on his hands scared him half to death.  Instead of continuing to pull at his scalp, Vincent's hands gripped tightly on the pit's edge in front of him, causing a few pebbles to fall into the depths below from in-between his fingers.  "It's my fault they're just empty vessels, isn't it?"  He asked, finally.  His voice was shaky and raised in volume, tone seemingly unable to be controlled with the rush of panic coursing through his veins.  As foolish as it was to ask, for he knew he was at fault, the words came out regardless. Standing up from the edge of the pit proved to be difficult.  His knees felt weak.  And as he turned to face Charles and the body he held in his arms, the Quiet God felt a wave of nausea pass through him.  One of his hands formed into a fist and covered his mouth, while the other — "They don't have any soul data," Vincent rasped, reaching out for only a moment to brush the pure white strands of hair out of the vessel's face.  He stopped short, however, as the pain in his chest tightened its grip on his heart.  Tears threatened to fall once again, so Vincent shut his mouth tight for a moment and forced his expression to flatline.  The Quiet God waited for the pressure behind his eyes to leave him before he spoke again, choosing to instead stare at Charles.  Only at Charles's face.  Only his.  If he continued to acknowledge the corpses in the room, he was definitely going to lose himself completely to the hopelessness of it all. He needed to get ahold of himself. "...There's no meaning or use for them, so they die, right?"

“My question is a rather important one, but the pleasure is tosee you as well. Though you call me by the erroneous name thatCharles so kindly gifted me, your company is enjoyable.”

Umbrella Man straightened back up atthe greeting, finding himself enjoying the look of a God craning hisneck just to talk to him. The echoing hall combined with the somewhatflashy gestures showcased something else that the Imposter quiteenjoyed about this world and its God; a unique sense of presentation.Yet another sign of creations made to delight an audience, despiteits utter lack of it to his knowledge. Or at the very least, itsavoidance of him due to the quiet God or otherwise.

Perhaps that was just another aspect ofthe game they were playing. Although private conversations betweenthem were hard to come by, he could already tell that his words weremaking its mark on the child. That intelligent gleam in his eyes,mind racing to try and deduce where his final act led, were anabsolute thrill to watch. Even better, he seemed to enjoy it as well,an eager participant in his game of truths. Of course, as terriblyfun the journey to said truth was, the final result was the real testof everything he had prepared wasn’t it? When the story was finallyput into the hands of the quiet God and his actions decide it all.Perceptions of darling Charles broken and cracked, how will theirfaces twist into shades of despair nor joy?

While it would be much moreentertaining with an audience, he must admit this entire plot had acertain amount of enjoyment for him, by itself alone. Charles was afool to think he could go without those secrets being spilled to hisoh-so-beloved one. How easily an desire to understand another couldbe turned selfish when not offering up anything in return, to onlyuse one’s love for your own private sense of comfort and improvement.Really, it would have been better if he just stuck to those falseidealizations and memories, that would stay consistent to the lie atleast. How weak minded humans always ended up being.

Still, he supposed he should thankCharles for making it so much more interesting for him.Vincent too, for being such a interesting piece to play with as well,much better then the boring empty vessels that lined the cage of theHouse. Knowing why exactly he was being drawn to the the God didn’tlessen that interest in any capacity, the measure of a piece whowished to play his game, who ached for that knowledge, wasundeniable. It had grown tiring being around nothing but puppets,who’s knowledge and roles he had already well acquainted himselfwith, long ago. Real beings had a much better spark to them, capableof so much more, who were so much more. Why wouldn’t he wantto be around such wonderful beings? Death becomes even moreentertaining from the amusement the dead bring.

Just another reason why the dearpuppeteer’s disappearance was truly a tragedy.

“Wonderful. Perhaps you can showme the answer to my question on our stroll then.”

If the God would lead him right to theaudience, that would be even better. He snatched his own umbrella up,twirling it in a mimicking gesture to Vincent’s and opened it upabove his head. With a slight limp in his step without his makeshiftcane, he walked forward to where Vincent stood, stopping just shortof him. Very lightly he dusted off the front of his suit jacket,adjusting the umbrella handle on his shoulder.

“The cold does not bother me muchbut I take it you prefer it considering how often it occurs. Might itbe because it reminds you of your old world’s weather?”

The Imposter chuckles a bit at his ownstatement, aware that the other would not take it exactly asintended. Another hint, another game, my my he had so much to do. An arm was extended as though to gesture at the door, a invite for themto get going as they talked. He was rather eager to see where the Godliked to roam in his own world, while finding the one he had beenseeking. As well the opportunity to gain further knowledge himself, this was promising to be a delightful evening. 

Altogether it put a certain excitementinto his step, while part of his subconscious flashed emotions andimages that were not his own; Charles reading on an upper floor ofthe black castle unaware of all that went on around him. The Imposterhad plenty of time.

“Shall we then?”

Oh no, how could he be so rude to one of his guests?  He had no idea that name annoyed him.  Honestly, he should not have taken Charles's words as gospel when he first encountered this specimen.  Relying on someone else to do the work for him was unfair!  As the host, he should have taken it upon himself to ask his visitor for his preferred name upon their meeting.  It was only polite.

In any case, there was no way he could let his blunder stand.  He felt incredibly guilty for messing up almost immediately.  "My mistake, then.  I assumed that was your actual name," he clarified, his voice wavering ever-so-slightly towards the end of his explanation.  

With a forced smile, the Quiet God gazed up at the consistently umbrella-wielding creation; quietly assessing whether or not his offense was any cause for concern.  In the end, Vincent was relieved to find that there was no anger in the ever-expectant yellow eyes peering down at him.  He found Charles's bright sunny eyes to be a unique trait of his, so it was peculiar to look into the eyes of another with such a familiar visage.  If Charles hadn't told Vincent right off the bat that the man standing before him was one of his many creations formed by soul data, he would have surely mistaken them to be family related.  "I'm sorry, what do you prefer to go by?"  He asked after releasing a contented sigh.

Curious and considerate of his acquaintance's true identity and anything else he had to say, the bandage dirtied boy looked at him in earnest.  His companion seemed highly confident in his ability to give him the answer he hoped for, despite only saying that there was merely a chance in the matter.  Hopefully, Vincent would not continue to disappoint.  "I hope so," he admitted, as his gray eyes twinkled in wonder; for once, staring past the creation rather than looking directly at him.  "You appear as if you've been anticipating this conversation for some time, though I have no idea of what you're going to ask." 

His smile turned sheepish, internally questioning if his excitement and anticipation to know the inquiry was too much.  He acted just like any reader or writer would when engaging with a brand new story, utterly fascinated, captivated, and carried away with plot developments.  

"...Therefore, I can only hope to appease you, haha."

It hurt his neck to crane it so much to look up at him, so Vincent settled with second best: looking onward.  He gave him the go-ahead when requested for their departure with a subtle nod, then proceeded to lead the way (his white umbrella loudly snapped open amidst the gesture, most likely making the smaller of the two seem rather silly and awkward after jumping from the sudden sound of the object in his grasp).  The path to the garden was not long, though enough in length for them to engage in light conversation.  

Every bit of scenery around them fit in with what anyone would expect from some fanciful storybook setting.  All the short-cut grasses and leaves crunching beneath their trudging feet were a lush green.  Along with the many types of trees swayed in the heavy breeze, dancing to a tune outside of their own God's knowledge; the outside world appeared lovely in the calming rain.  There was always a wide variety to every scenic view in Vincent's world.  Due to his creations always coming from sudden ideas and aimless trains of thought with little to no organization or depth, there was nothing too consistent about the environment.  One could accidentally stumble into a desert after jogging in a snowy wood.  

Expect the unexpected: the first lesson anyone should know about his world, he supposed.  It was a plain and typical running theme, though the Quiet God did not necessarily mind it all that much.  His world's design could have turned out a lot worse.

"Is the weather not the same where you're from?  Did Charles create different types of weather in his world?"