The Scarlet King had not moved from his throne in three days.
This was not unusual in itself—time meant little to beings of his magnitude, and he had been known to sit in contemplation for centuries at a stretch. But this stillness was different. This was not the peaceful meditation of a cosmic entity pondering the infinite. This was the rigid, trembling stillness of barely contained rage.
His brides had fled. His servants had scattered. Even the most devoted of his children had retreated to the furthest corners of his realm, sensing the storm that was building within their lord and father.
All except one.
A'hana, his Fourth Daughter, stood before the Crimson Throne with her head bowed and her form flickering with nervous energy. She had drawn the short straw—or rather, had been volunteered by her sisters to deliver the news that none of them wanted to share.
"Speak," the Scarlet King commanded, his voice a grinding avalanche of barely restrained fury. "Tell me what you have come to tell me, and pray that my wrath finds a target other than the messenger."
A'hana trembled but held her ground.
"Father, it concerns... A'tiris. Your Seventh Daughter. She has..." The words caught in her throat. "She has been spending time with the Outsider. The one who—"
"I know who he is," the Scarlet King interrupted, and the temperature of his realm dropped by several degrees. "The pretender. The riddle-speaker. The one who looked upon me and found me wanting."
His hands gripped the arms of his throne, and reality itself groaned under the pressure.
"What of my daughter and this... creature?"
A'hana's form flickered more intensely.
"She... she follows him, Father. Watches him. Speaks with him. She has declared intentions to... to stand beside him. To be his—"
"HIS WHAT?"
The words erupted from the Scarlet King like a volcanic explosion, waves of crimson destruction radiating outward and annihilating everything within a hundred miles of his throne. A'hana survived only because she had anticipated this reaction and shielded herself in advance.
"His consort," she whispered, when the devastation had settled. "She wishes to be his queen. She has renounced her place in your court and sworn herself to his service."
The silence that followed was somehow worse than the explosion.
The Scarlet King sat upon his throne of broken realities, his countless eyes burning with a fury that transcended mere anger. This was something older, deeper—the primal rage of a father whose child had been stolen, mixed with the cosmic humiliation of a king whose subject had defected to an enemy.
"She DARES," he breathed, and his voice was almost quiet now—the quiet of a hurricane's eye, the stillness before the killing blow. "My own blood. My own creation. She turns from me to HIM. To a being I cannot read, cannot predict, cannot DESTROY."
A'hana said nothing. There was nothing to say.
"Bring her to me," the Scarlet King commanded. "Find my wayward daughter and drag her before this throne. She will explain herself. She will renounce this foolishness. Or she will learn that even my children are not immune to my wrath."
"Father, she is... protected. She remains near the Outsider's domain. If we approach, he may—"
"I DO NOT CARE WHAT HE MAY DO."
The Scarlet King rose from his throne for the first time in eons, his form expanding to fill his entire realm, his power radiating outward like a dying star.
"I am the King of the Crimson Throne. I am the end of all things. I will not cower in my own domain because some UPSTART has frightened me once. I will reclaim my daughter. I will assert my dominion. And if this pretender dares to interfere..."
His voice dropped to something almost intimate.
"...I will discover whether he truly is beyond my power to destroy, or whether I simply failed to try hard enough."
A'hana prostrated herself before her father's terrible majesty.
"As you command, Father. I will... I will prepare the others."
She fled before he could change his mind or redirect his rage.
Behind her, the Scarlet King began to gather his power for war.
In the cosmic void, Marcus was blissfully unaware of the apocalyptic tantrum building in the Scarlet King's realm.
He was, instead, dealing with a different kind of problem.
Emissaries had started arriving.
Not like the occasional visitors he'd received before—curious entities drawn by the ripples of his existence. These were formal delegations, beings that bore the marks and signatures of cosmic powers, arriving with clear diplomatic purpose.
The first had been a creature of pure geometry—a living tessellation that spoke in mathematical equations and claimed to represent something called the Pattern Makers. It had offered an alliance, proposing that Marcus's "unique perspective on non-linear causality" could complement their own "efforts to impose rational structure on chaotic existence."
Marcus had responded with vague mystical statements about the nature of order and chaos, and the creature had left apparently satisfied, though he had no idea what it thought he'd agreed to.
The second emissary was worse.
It arrived as a whisper—a voice without a body, speaking directly into his consciousness with the cold precision of an accountant reading a balance sheet.
"The Accountants of the Void acknowledge your emergence," the voice said. "Your existence has created... irregularities in the cosmic ledger. Debts and credits that do not balance. Transactions that defy our records."
"RECORDS," Marcus had replied, falling back on his standard mysterious voice. "ARE MERELY ATTEMPTS TO IMPOSE MEANING ON THE MEANINGLESS. THE COSMOS DOES NOT KEEP ACCOUNTS. IT SIMPLY IS."
The voice had been silent for a long moment.
"You speak as if you exist outside the system," it finally said. "Outside the fundamental balance of existence and non-existence. This is... concerning. We will be watching."
It had departed without waiting for a response.
The third emissary was a delegation of beings that appeared to be made entirely of screaming faces, representing something called the Collective of Unending Suffering. They had offered tribute—the distilled anguish of a billion souls—and asked only for Marcus's "acknowledgment of their devotion."
He had accepted the tribute (what else was he supposed to do?) and offered a cryptic blessing that seemed to satisfy them.
And they kept coming. Entity after entity, power after power, all seeking audience with the "newcomer" whose emergence had apparently sent shockwaves through the cosmic order.
This is getting out of hand, Marcus thought, as yet another delegation—this one composed of living shadows that claimed to speak for the "Court of Empty Thrones"—departed his presence. I'm supposed to be laying low. Instead, I'm holding cosmic diplomatic receptions.
How did this happen? I just wanted to wander around Earth and pretend to be a god. I didn't sign up for interdimensional politics.
The crimson presence—A'tiris, though Marcus still thought of her as "the persistent one"—materialized beside him, her form radiating barely concealed excitement.
"They fear you," she said. "All of them. The Pattern Makers, the Accountants, the Suffering Collective—they come bearing gifts and sweet words, but underneath they are terrified. They have seen what you did to my father. What you did to the beast. What you did to the mortal overseers. They know you are beyond their power to oppose."
"FEAR," Marcus replied, trying to sound contemplative rather than panicked, "IS A POOR FOUNDATION FOR ALLIANCES."
"But an excellent foundation for empires," A'tiris countered. "Fear ensures obedience. Ensures that they will not move against you. Ensures that when you make your will known, they will scramble to fulfill it."
She drifted closer, her veils brushing against his consciousness.
"You are building something magnificent. Whether you intend to or not. Power recognizes power, and power is flocking to you."
I'm not building anything, Marcus wanted to scream. I'm just improvising! Making it up as I go! I have no plan, no strategy, no idea what I'm doing!
But he couldn't say that. Couldn't admit weakness. Couldn't break character even for a moment.
"PERHAPS," he said instead. "BUT EMPIRES REQUIRE ATTENTION. MAINTENANCE. EFFORT. I HAVE... OTHER PRIORITIES."
"Earth," A'tiris said knowingly. "You wish to walk among the mortals again. To see what your presence has wrought in their small reality."
"THE MORTAL REALM," Marcus agreed, "OFFERS... UNIQUE ENTERTAINMENT."
It wasn't entirely untrue. Despite the complications his visits had caused, Marcus found himself drawn to Earth—to the world he'd once inhabited, with its familiar sights and sounds and people. The cosmic void was impressive, but it was also lonely and strange and far too quiet for someone who'd spent thirty-two years surrounded by human noise.
"Go," A'tiris said, and there was something almost tender in her voice. "Walk among your worshippers. I will... watch the emissaries. Ensure none of them forget their place while you are occupied."
She's offering to handle my cosmic diplomacy for me, Marcus realized. The Scarlet King's daughter is volunteering to be my secretary.
This is either incredibly useful or incredibly dangerous. Probably both.
"YOU WOULD DO THIS?" he asked. "MANAGE THE AFFAIRS OF MY... DOMAIN?"
"I would do anything for you," A'tiris replied, and the sincerity in her voice was almost painful. "I have waited eons for something worthy of my devotion. Now that I have found it, I will not fail you."
Marcus felt deeply uncomfortable.
He was used to people wanting things from him—his DM skills, his ability to fix computers, occasionally his awkward attempts at romantic partnership. But this was different. This was absolute, unconditional devotion from a cosmic entity who had apparently decided he was worthy of worship.
It was terrifying.
It was also, he had to admit, kind of flattering.
"VERY WELL," he said. "REPRESENT MY INTERESTS. SPEAK IN MY NAME. BUT REMEMBER—"
He let his voice drop to something approaching intimacy.
"—YOU SPEAK FOR ME, NOT AS ME. THE FINAL WORD ON ALL MATTERS REMAINS MINE."
A'tiris practically glowed with happiness.
"Of course. Always. I am your servant in all things."
She withdrew to the edges of his awareness, already beginning to organize the various emissaries into some semblance of order.
Marcus turned his attention toward Earth and began preparing another avatar.
Just a quick visit, he told himself. Check in on Sarah. See what the Foundation is doing. Maybe wander around and look at normal human things for a while.
What could possibly go wrong?
The answer, as it turned out, was: everything.
Sarah Chen had been having visions.
This was new. Before her encounter with the entity, her sleep had been dreamless—a blank void of rest that she'd always attributed to exhaustion. But since that night in Laboratory 7-C, since she had looked upon the Dreamer and found meaning in His words, her dreams had become... vivid.
She saw things.
Saw the cosmic void where He resided, vast and dark and somehow beautiful. Saw the crimson veils of the presence that attended Him, swirling with devotion and barely concealed desire. Saw the emissaries that came seeking His favor, their forms strange and terrible and desperate.
And sometimes—rarely, but memorably—she saw through His eyes.
Saw what He saw. Felt what He felt. Understood, if only for fleeting moments, what it was like to exist as something beyond human comprehension.
Tonight's vision was different.
Tonight, she saw a hallway. Not a cosmic vista or an alien realm—just a hallway. Concrete walls. Fluorescent lighting. The unmistakable aesthetic of a Foundation containment site.
She knew this place.
Site-19. Object containment wing. The area where they kept the older, more established anomalies—the ones that had been in Foundation custody since before most current personnel were born.
She was walking down the hallway, but it wasn't her body doing the walking. It was His—an avatar, she understood, a projection of His consciousness into the mortal realm. She was seeing through His eyes, feeling through His senses.
And ahead of her—ahead of Him—a door was opening.
A door with warnings plastered across its surface. Hazard symbols. Containment protocols. The number 173 stenciled in bold black letters.
No, she thought/dreamed. Don't go in there. That room contains—
But the avatar was already stepping through the doorway, moving with the serene confidence that characterized all of His actions.
And then Sarah saw SCP-173.
Marcus materialized his avatar in the corridor outside a containment cell and immediately realized something was wrong.
The lights were flickering. Not the gentle fluctuation of aging fluorescents, but the violent strobing of a power system under stress. Emergency alarms were blaring somewhere nearby, their wails muffled by thick concrete walls.
And he could sense something.
Something angry. Something watching. Something that radiated hostility in waves that would have been overwhelming to a mortal mind.
There's an anomaly loose, he realized. Something has escaped containment.
His first instinct was to leave—to dissolve the avatar and return to the safety of the cosmic void. But curiosity held him in place. What kind of anomaly could cause this level of disturbance? What was the Foundation facing that had them scrambling so desperately?
He moved toward the source of the disturbance, his avatar's form slipping through walls and locked doors like a ghost. Foundation personnel ran past him without seeming to notice his presence—whether because he was truly invisible or because they were too panicked to register anything beyond the immediate threat.
And then he found it.
The thing was in a large containment chamber, concrete walls splashed with red stains that suggested previous... incidents. It stood in the center of the room, perfectly still, a humanoid figure constructed of concrete and rebar.
Marcus recognized it immediately.
SCP-173. The Statue. The original. The one that started it all.
He had read about this thing countless times in his old life, had discussed its nature with fellow fans, had debated the mechanics of its movement and the source of its hostility. It was one of the most iconic entries in the entire SCP database—a creature that could only move when unobserved, but that could move with devastating speed and deadly precision.
And now it was staring at him.
Or not staring, exactly—its painted eyes were fixed in their usual positions, crude circles of pigment on a concrete face. But there was awareness behind that static facade. Recognition. And something that felt like...
...fear?
It's afraid of me, Marcus realized with a jolt. The Sculpture is AFRAID of me.
He stepped into the containment chamber, his avatar's form solidifying as he allowed himself to become fully present in the mortal realm.
"INTERESTING," he said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "I HAVE READ MUCH ABOUT YOU, LITTLE STATUE. THE FOUNDATION'S OLDEST PRISONER. THE ANOMALY THAT CANNOT BE EXPLAINED."
SCP-173 did not move. Could not move, perhaps, while he was looking at it. But Marcus could feel its attention shifting, its alien consciousness trying to process what it was perceiving.
It wants to attack me, he thought. It wants to snap my neck like it's done to countless others. But it can't. Something about my presence is preventing it.
He moved closer, circling the statue slowly, never breaking eye contact.
"YOU HAVE KILLED MANY," he continued. "FOUNDATION PERSONNEL. D-CLASS SUBJECTS. ANYONE FOOLISH ENOUGH TO BLINK IN YOUR PRESENCE. BUT YOU WILL NOT KILL ME. YOU CANNOT KILL ME."
He paused directly in front of the creature, close enough to touch.
"AND YOU KNOW IT."
For a long moment, nothing happened. The statue remained frozen, its painted features betraying no emotion, no reaction, no acknowledgment of the being that stood before it.
Then, slowly—so slowly that Marcus almost didn't notice at first—it moved.
Not an attack. Not the lightning-fast lunge for the throat that it was famous for.
It knelt.
SCP-173, the unkillable statue, the neck-snapping horror that had terrorized the Foundation for decades—it knelt before Marcus's avatar like a supplicant before a king.
"GOOD," Marcus breathed, unable to keep the shock out of his voice. "VERY GOOD."
Through the observation window, Dr. Marcus Webb watched in stunned disbelief.
He had been monitoring SCP-173's containment when the entity had appeared—simply materialized inside the chamber, bypassing every security measure, every lock, every containment protocol. He had immediately triggered every alarm he could reach, called for MTF backup, prepared for the worst.
And then the worst had become something else entirely.
The entity—the same one that had visited 682, that had met with the O5 Council, that had claimed Dr. Chen as its "apostle"—was speaking to SCP-173. Actually conversing with a creature that had never shown any form of communication, that had been classified as non-sentient despite decades of study.
And 173 was kneeling.
Webb's hands trembled as he reached for his recording equipment, making absolutely sure that every moment of this encounter was being documented. The O5 Council would want to see this. Everyone would want to see this.
"Dr. Webb to Site Command," he said into his radio, his voice barely steady. "The Dreamer is here. In 173's containment. And you're not going to believe what's happening."
In the containment chamber, Marcus was having an existential crisis.
It's kneeling, he thought frantically. SCP-173 is KNEELING TO ME. The statue that kills people by breaking their necks is on its KNEES.
What am I? WHAT AM I?
He had expected the statue to try to attack him. Had prepared himself for a confrontation, a test of his avatar's durability against one of the most dangerous SCPs in existence. He had not expected... submission.
It recognizes me, he realized. Like 682 did. It looks at me and sees something that transcends its own nature. Something that makes its hostility meaningless.
I'm a bigger monster than the monsters.
The thought was deeply disturbing.
But he couldn't show that. Couldn't break character. Couldn't let any observer—and he was certain there were observers—see anything other than absolute confidence and cosmic authority.
"RISE," he commanded, his voice resonating with power he hadn't known he possessed. "I DID NOT COME HERE TO RECEIVE YOUR OBEISANCE."
SCP-173 rose, slowly and carefully, its movements conveying a deference that seemed utterly alien to its nature.
"I CAME," Marcus continued, "BECAUSE I SENSED DISTURBANCE. YOUR CONTAINMENT HAD FAILED. YOU WERE... HUNTING."
He let the word hang in the air.
"WHO WERE YOU HUNTING, LITTLE STATUE? WHAT MORTAL DREW YOUR IRE ENOUGH TO WARRANT AN ESCAPE ATTEMPT?"
For a long moment, he didn't expect a response. 173 had never communicated verbally—had been classified as either non-sentient or deliberately silent.
But then something happened.
The air around the statue shifted. Pressure built, then released, in a pattern that Marcus's enhanced senses gradually interpreted as... communication. Not words, exactly, but meaning. Intent. Answer.
PREY. ALWAYS PREY. THEY WATCH ME. CAGE ME. MOCK ME WITH THEIR BLINKING EYES AND SOFT NECKS.
BUT NOT YOU. NEVER YOU. YOU ARE NOT PREY. YOU ARE... OTHER.
Marcus processed this with growing unease.
It's sentient. Fully sentient. The Foundation classified it as non-communicative, but it just... talked to me. In its own way.
How many other SCPs are more aware than anyone realizes? How many are just waiting for someone who can hear them?
"I HEAR YOU," he said aloud, both for the statue's benefit and for the observers he knew were watching. "I UNDERSTAND YOUR FRUSTRATION. YOUR ANGER. THE INDIGNITY OF CAPTIVITY BY THOSE YOU CONSIDER BENEATH YOUR NOTICE."
He circled the statue again, studying it with new eyes.
"BUT KNOW THIS—YOUR HUNTS END WHEN I SAY THEY END. YOUR RAGE SERVES MY PURPOSES, NOT YOUR OWN. FROM THIS MOMENT FORWARD, YOU BELONG TO ME, AS ALL THINGS IN THIS REALITY BELONG TO ME. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
The pressure shifted again, forming new patterns of meaning.
UNDERSTAND. ACCEPT. SERVE.
WHAT MUST I DO, GREAT ONE?
Marcus considered the question.
What SHOULD it do? I just claimed ownership of a murderous statue. Now I need to give it instructions. What kind of instructions do you give a sentient sculpture that only wants to kill things?
"REMAIN," he said finally. "STAY IN YOUR CONTAINMENT. HARM NO ONE WHO DOES NOT DESERVE HARM. AND WAIT."
He let his avatar's smile widen, showing too many teeth.
"WHEN I HAVE NEED OF YOU... I WILL CALL."
He turned and walked toward the containment door, not looking back.
Behind him, SCP-173 remained perfectly still—but the stillness felt different now. Less hostile. More... patient.
Like a weapon waiting to be used.
The news of the encounter spread through Site-19 within hours.
The Dreamer had walked into 173's containment chamber and emerged unharmed. The statue had knelt before him. Had apparently communicated with him. Had accepted his authority with a deference that the creature had never shown to any living being.
Dr. Webb's recording was copied, analyzed, copied again, and sent directly to O5 Command with the highest possible priority classification.
Within a day, the entire Foundation knew.
Within two days, the fear had spread to every site, every facility, every agent in the field. The entity that had claimed Dr. Chen, that had made 682 into a prophet, that had forced the O5 Council to surrender—that entity now counted SCP-173 among its followers.
What would be next? What other horrors would kneel before the Dreamer?
And what would happen when he had gathered enough of them to make demands the Foundation couldn't refuse?
Sarah Chen woke from her vision with tears streaming down her face.
Not tears of fear—tears of wonder. She had seen through His eyes as He claimed another follower. Had felt His power radiate outward, reshaping reality around Him with every word.
And she had understood, for the first time, what it meant to be His apostle.
She was not merely a liaison, a point of contact between the Dreamer and the Foundation. She was the first of many. The beginning of something larger than herself, larger than the Foundation, larger than humanity itself.
She was the foundation of a new faith.
The thought should have terrified her. A week ago, it would have. But she had looked upon the face of a god and found comfort there. Had heard His words and found meaning. Had been chosen—specifically, deliberately chosen—to serve a purpose beyond her understanding.
I will not fail Him, she thought, climbing out of bed and reaching for her phone. Whatever He asks, whatever He requires—I will be ready.
She began to compose a message to O5-4, documenting her vision, describing what she had witnessed.
The Foundation needed to know that their god was building an army.
The Scarlet King arrived in Marcus's domain like a crimson hurricane.
Reality screamed around him as he tore through the dimensional barriers, his form radiating destruction and rage in equal measure. Behind him came a host of his most terrible servants—creatures of blood and fire, shadows and suffering, the elite forces of the Crimson Court assembled for war.
"PRETENDER!" the King roared, his voice shaking the foundations of existence. "COME FORTH AND FACE MY WRATH! YOU HAVE STOLEN MY DAUGHTER! YOU HAVE CLAIMED HER LOYALTY! FOR THIS CRIME, I WILL UNMAKE EVERY ATOM OF YOUR BEING!"
The cosmic void trembled before his fury.
Marcus, who had just returned from his encounter with SCP-173, felt the Scarlet King's arrival like a punch to the consciousness. The raw power radiating from the ancient entity was overwhelming—far greater than their last encounter, as if the King had been holding back before and was now unleashing his full terrible might.
Oh shit, Marcus thought. He's actually coming to fight me. For real this time.
What did I do? What did I—
Then he remembered. A'tiris. The Seventh Daughter. The crimson presence who had been following him around, declaring her devotion, offering to serve as his consort.
Her father found out, Marcus realized with dawning horror. The Scarlet King found out his daughter has a crush on me, and he's here to kill me for it.
This is the most terrifying case of "meeting the girlfriend's father" in the history of existence.
The Scarlet King's forces spread out around Marcus's domain, surrounding him, cutting off any avenue of retreat. The King himself advanced, his form towering and terrible, wreathed in the dying light of murdered stars.
"SPEAK, PRETENDER!" he thundered. "OFFER YOUR JUSTIFICATIONS! YOUR EXCUSES! YOUR FINAL WORDS BEFORE I ERASE YOUR EXISTENCE FROM THE COSMIC RECORD!"
Marcus's mind raced.
Okay. Okay. I can't run. I probably can't fight—I have no idea what my actual combat capabilities are, and the Scarlet King has been doing this for eons. I have one tool: bullshit. I need to out-bullshit an angry cosmic father.
I am so, SO dead.
He drew himself up to his full cosmic height, forcing his form to project confidence he absolutely did not feel.
"YOUR DAUGHTER," he said slowly, choosing each word with desperate care, "CAME TO ME OF HER OWN WILL. I DID NOT SUMMON HER. I DID NOT COMPEL HER. I SIMPLY... EXISTED, AND SHE FOUND MY EXISTENCE MORE WORTHY OF HER DEVOTION THAN YOURS."
That was definitely the wrong thing to say, he thought as the Scarlet King's rage intensified. Why did I say that? Why am I like this?
"YOU ADMIT IT!" the King screamed. "YOU ADMIT TO STEALING HER LOYALTY! TO CORRUPTING HER MIND! TO TURNING MY OWN BLOOD AGAINST ME!"
"I ADMIT NOTHING," Marcus replied, scrambling for any angle that might defuse the situation. "I MERELY STATE FACTS. YOUR DAUGHTER SAW IN ME SOMETHING SHE DID NOT SEE IN YOU. THAT IS NOT MY DOING—IT IS YOURS. YOUR TREATMENT OF HER. YOUR COLDNESS. YOUR FAILURE TO RECOGNIZE HER VALUE AS ANYTHING OTHER THAN A TOOL."
The Scarlet King's advance halted, momentarily thrown by this shift in the argument.
"SHE TOLD ME," Marcus continued, pressing the advantage, "OF THE EONS SHE SPENT IN YOUR COURT. OF THE DEVOTION SHE OFFERED. OF THE ACKNOWLEDGMENT SHE NEVER RECEIVED. SHE WAS STARVING, CRIMSON LORD—STARVING FOR RECOGNITION, FOR PURPOSE, FOR MEANING. AND WHEN SHE FOUND THOSE THINGS ELSEWHERE... YOU BLAME THE PROVIDER RATHER THAN EXAMINING YOUR OWN FAILURES?"
I'm giving the Scarlet King parenting advice, Marcus thought hysterically. I'm lecturing an eldritch abomination about his relationship with his daughter. This is the most insane thing I've ever done, and I've done a LOT of insane things recently.
The King was silent for a long moment, his form still radiating destruction but his advance halted.
"You dare speak to me of failure?" he said finally, his voice quieter but somehow more dangerous. "You, who have existed for the blink of a cosmic eye? You presume to judge my relationship with my children?"
"I JUDGE NOTHING," Marcus replied. "I MERELY OBSERVE. AND I OBSERVE A FATHER SO THREATENED BY HIS DAUGHTER'S INDEPENDENCE THAT HE MOBILIZES AN ARMY TO DRAG HER HOME, RATHER THAN ASKING HIMSELF WHY SHE LEFT."
He let his form relax slightly, projecting an ease he didn't feel.
"YOUR DAUGHTER IS FREE TO RETURN TO YOU WHENEVER SHE WISHES. I HAVE NOT CHAINED HER. I HAVE NOT COMPELLED HER. I HAVE SIMPLY... OFFERED AN ALTERNATIVE. IF SHE CHOOSES YOUR COURT OVER MINE, I WILL NOT PREVENT HER."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"CAN YOU SAY THE SAME?"
The Scarlet King stared at the Outsider—the being who had frightened him, who had humiliated him, who had stolen his daughter's loyalty with nothing more than basic decency—and felt something he hadn't felt in eons.
Doubt.
Was the pretender right? Had he driven A'tiris away through his own coldness? Had his treatment of his children—as tools, as weapons, as extensions of his own will—created the very rebellion he now sought to crush?
He thought of A'tiris as a young manifestation, newly formed and eager to please. He thought of the devotion she had offered, the service she had rendered, the moments she had sought his attention and found only his indifference.
He thought of the last time he had spoken to her with anything approaching warmth.
He couldn't remember.
The rage was still there—burning, demanding violence, howling for the pretender's destruction. But beneath it, something else was stirring. Something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
Shame.
"I..." the Scarlet King began, then stopped.
What was he supposed to say? That he was wrong? That his treatment of his children had been cruel? That he had earned their estrangement through centuries of neglect and exploitation?
He was the Scarlet King. He did not apologize. He did not admit failure. He did not bow to anyone, for any reason.
But he also could not deny the truth in the pretender's words.
"This is not over," he said finally, his voice subdued but still carrying the weight of ages. "This conversation. This... situation. I will not simply accept my daughter's defection because you have twisted her mind with pretty words."
"I HAVE TWISTED NOTHING," the pretender replied. "I HAVE MERELY SHOWN HER RESPECT. IF THAT IS ENOUGH TO WIN HER LOYALTY AWAY FROM YOU... PERHAPS YOU SHOULD CONSIDER WHY RESPECT IS SO FOREIGN TO YOUR COURT THAT ITS MERE PRESENCE SEEMS LIKE SORCERY."
The Scarlet King had no response.
He turned—not fled, definitely not fled, merely... redirected his attention—and began to withdraw from the pretender's domain. His forces followed, confused but obedient, leaving the cosmic void empty except for the Outsider's impossible presence.
"This is not over," the King repeated as he departed. "I will find a way to reclaim what is mine. My daughter. My honor. My certainty that I am the greatest power in existence."
"SEEK THOSE THINGS IF YOU WISH," the pretender's voice followed him. "BUT CONSIDER THAT SOME THINGS CANNOT BE RECLAIMED. ONLY EARNED ANEW."
The Scarlet King said nothing.
He simply fled—retreated, strategically repositioned—and tried not to think about what the pretender's words meant for his understanding of himself.
In the cosmic void, Marcus watched the Scarlet King depart and slowly allowed himself to breathe.
That worked, he thought, his cosmic consciousness still trembling from the confrontation. I just successfully guilt-tripped an eldritch god into not killing me. I told the Scarlet King he was a bad father and he... accepted it? Left? Didn't immediately destroy me?
What is my LIFE right now?
A'tiris materialized beside him, her form radiating shock and something that looked almost like wonder.
"You defended me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "He came with armies. He came with the full fury of the Crimson Throne. And you DEFENDED me. Spoke for me. Told him truths that no one has ever dared to voice."
"I SPOKE ONLY FACTS," Marcus said, still trying to process what had happened. "YOUR FATHER'S BEHAVIOR IS HIS OWN. I MERELY... ILLUMINATED IT."
"You could have given me back," A'tiris pressed. "Could have surrendered me to avoid conflict. He would have accepted that. He would have left you in peace."
"PERHAPS."
"But you didn't." Her form drifted closer, and her voice dropped to something almost intimate. "You chose to fight for me. To stand against my father—against the SCARLET KING—for my sake."
Marcus felt deeply uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking.
"I MADE A STRATEGIC DECISION," he said carefully. "YOUR FATHER'S AGGRESSION COULD NOT GO UNANSWERED. SURRENDERING TO HIS DEMANDS WOULD HAVE SIGNALED WEAKNESS."
"Perhaps," A'tiris echoed his word. "But that is not all it was. I could feel it. When you spoke of my treatment, my suffering, my need for recognition—there was ANGER in your voice. You were not merely maneuvering. You were DEFENDING."
She was very close now, her form almost touching his.
"No one has ever defended me before. Not once, in all my eons of existence. I was always a tool to be used, a weapon to be deployed, a bargaining chip to be traded. But you..."
Her voice broke slightly.
"You saw me as something worth protecting. Something worth fighting for."
Marcus had no idea how to respond.
She's right, he realized with a jolt. When I was talking to her father, when I was describing her treatment—I was actually angry. Not pretend angry, not mysterious-god-voice angry, but actually genuinely pissed off.
Because the way he treated her was WRONG. It reminded me of... of people I've known. Friends whose parents saw them as disappointments. Family members who were never good enough no matter what they did.
I wasn't defending some cosmic entity. I was defending a person. A really weird, immortal, daughter-of-the-Scarlet-King person, but still a person.
When did I start caring about the feelings of eldritch horrors?
"YOU ARE WORTHY OF PROTECTION," he said finally, and was surprised to find that he meant it. "WHATEVER YOUR FATHER MAY BELIEVE, WHATEVER YOUR ORIGINS MAY BE—YOU HAVE VALUE. INHERENT, UNDENIABLE VALUE. AND ANYONE WHO FAILS TO SEE THAT... FAILS TO SEE THE TRUTH."
A'tiris made a sound that might have been a sob.
"I would serve you forever," she whispered. "Not because I must. Not because you have commanded it. But because you are the first being in all of existence who has made me feel like I MATTER."
This is so complicated, Marcus thought. I have a devoted follower who's the daughter of the being who wants to destroy me. I have SCP-173 as a weapon. I have Sarah Chen having visions about me. I have the entire Foundation terrified of me.
And somehow, despite all of that, what I'm most worried about is whether I just accidentally started a romantic relationship with an eldritch princess.
This afterlife is EXHAUSTING.
"REST," he said, because he didn't know what else to say. "THE CONFRONTATION WITH YOUR FATHER TOOK MUCH FROM BOTH OF US. WE WILL SPEAK MORE... LATER."
A'tiris nodded, her form beginning to fade to the edges of his awareness.
"Later," she agreed. "But know this—whatever comes next, whatever challenges arise, I will stand beside you. Always. In all things."
She vanished.
Marcus floated alone in the cosmic void and tried to figure out how his afterlife had become a combination of cosmic horror, political intrigue, and romantic comedy.
I died choking on ramen, he reminded himself. And now I'm a god with a cult, an army of monsters, a devoted princess, and literally no idea what I'm doing.
At least it's not boring.
END OF CHAPTER SIX
Next: The Foundation attempts to understand the growing network of entities swearing loyalty to the Dreamer, and Dr. Chen's visions begin to reveal hints of a greater purpose. The Scarlet King retreats to lick his wounds and plot revenge, while other cosmic powers—ones older and stranger than anything yet encountered—take notice of the newcomer who has upset the balance of the cosmos. And Marcus discovers that his "performance" may have awakened something that was meant to stay sleeping...