Chapter 2: All Hail Lord Nancy
"We do not sell products. We sell gods. We do not save souls. We erase them and draw ours instead." — Mirror 3
Thank you, my dear ❤️ I'm ready now.
The blood of Madame Rosaline had long dried on the cobbled streets of Lunaria, but its scent lingered — sweet, scorched, and divine. Her martyrdom did not silence the world. It cracked it wide open. 🎭
For a moment, even the ivory towers of Nancy's Productions trembled. Generals allied with the Corporation had perished in the public revolt, factories burned, and sales dipped. But these were mere scratches to a beast whose heart beat not with life, but with profit. The death of Rosaline, though not predicted to be so brutal and public, had always been a calculation. ✒️
She was not killed by accident. She was fed to fire — a pyre lit not by faith, but by fear.
It was then, inside a black-marble cathedral guarded by silent men in blue scarves, that the 11 shareholders gathered. No names. No faces. Only monikers: Mirror 1 to Mirror 11. Reflections of capital. Echoes of nothing. They spoke in turns, not with words, but smiles curved like crescent moons.
🪞"The death of Rosaline was effective," spoke Mirror 7. "But unpredictable. People responded too humanely."
🪞"So," smiled Mirror 4, "let us ensure next time they don't stay human."
🪞"Let them worship what they consume."
🪞"And consume what we command."
And so, the cult of Nancy was born.
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No poisons. No riots. This time, they chose faith as the most powerful drug. 💊
The world of Lunaria, though powerful, was tired. Ancient industries had fallen. War businesses had dried. People had turned to soft things: entertainment, children, dreams. Nancy's Productions, already a behemoth of child-oriented goods — powders, candies, cartoons — now decided to build not a brand, but a god.
And gods are not built on ethics. They are built on weakness.
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💋 The religion of Nancy began in whispers. Virgin women were hired — lonely, widowed, or desperate. They were told they would meet Nancy's Brother, the emissary of their red-haired deity. "Obey him," they were told. "And you will be holy." These women, many with children, were branded crimsons and welcomed into the cult.
Money was offered. Prostitution disguised as pilgrimage.
Even worse — the children.
Cartoons taught them to obey. Powders taught them to crave. Orphanages sold them for "visits to heaven." Those too dirty, too poor, or too proud were not invited — they were either ignored or made slaves. ⚰️
No one harmed a self-respecting soul, because self-respect makes you a better customer.
No one touched the rich — they were partners.
No one saw the Mirror Lords, but they watched all. Behind every business, every ad, every smile on a child's toy, there was a Mirror.
And in the center of it all stood the great temple of their cult:
The Crimson Glasshill. ⛪
There, under towering stained glass windows, sat a monstrous statue of Nancy — no longer a cartoon, but a cloaked goddess. Red-haired. Empty-eyed. Her mouth slightly open, like she was still whispering commandments. Beneath her stood:
1. Crimsons — Worshippers. Obedient. Rewarded.
2. Blues — High priests and businessmen. Guardians of the Mirror. They do not touch the commoners. They simply... own them.
3. Slaves — Prostitutes, disposable workers, broken creatures. Forbidden from even seeing the statue. 👁️🗨️
The system was elegant. A seductive horror wrapped in velvet ribbons and cherry candy. A vampire's kiss. A serpent's lullaby. And the world obeyed.
---
But stories don't always obey.
Stories escape.
And one such story belonged to two men: Tom Bushhy and Timmy Knell.
Tom was a printer press owner, ragged and tired. His presses were too old, his papers barely read. Timmy was younger — a murderer once, now seeking redemption through honest ink. Both were invited to the Crimson Glasshill. Not as worshippers, but photographers. 🎞️
They were welcomed warmly. Guided by elegant Blues who spoke in soft voices. They saw a world of gold-trimmed robes, incense, and silk. But behind one curtain, Timmy met her: Lilly, a little girl with eyes like frozen sapphires. She smiled at him. Then, a scream.
They watched — helpless — as a visiting nobleman took Lilly away. They were not allowed beyond that hallway. But curiosity burned hotter than fear. They followed.
What they saw in that forbidden chamber haunted them.
Lilly, crying. Tied. The nobleman. Laughing.
They ran. They ran like hell.
---
Back at their press, their conscience split.
Timmy wanted to publish. "Let the world see," he cried.
But Tom — oh Tom. He saw what the cult offered. A box. A gift. "For your silence." Gold. Jewels. Wealth.
He took it.
Timmy spat at him, slapped him, and left with the photographs. Tom, shaking, opened the box.
It was a bomb.
In seconds, Tom Bushhy was a pile of blood and ash.
---
Timmy, unaware, went to the police with his evidence. The officers smiled at him. Hugged him. Cheered. "We will bring them down," they said. "Go home, brave boy. Tonight, we eat."
He smiled back. Maybe, just maybe, he had atoned.
But on his walk home, he felt it — dizzy, weak, cold. He collapsed behind an old stone wall. His last thoughts were of Lilly.
"Did I save her?" he whispered.
Then — silence.
Behind the wall, two officers stood.
"He's dead."
"Lord Mirror said to ensure he didn't reach the High Office."
"Another soul for Nancy."
They walked away. Blue scarves flickering like snakes. 🐍
---
The cult endured. The powders kept selling. The cartoons kept airing. The statues kept rising.
And somewhere in a dark chamber, the Mirrors laughed. 🪞
"People are the disease," whispered Mirror 6.
"And we," said Mirror 2, "are their cure."
"Let them worship their chains."
But not all hope was gone. The tale of Lilly... had only just begun. 👧
To be continued.
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