A billion stars away, a young man groaned in frustration.
He held a pen in a very threatening manner, pointing it toward the only two windows in the room. Each one stretched nearly fifty meters long, tall enough to make a cathedral jealous. The glass reflected him back in distorted pieces, as if trying to assemble a soul that was not there.
He was very glad he did not have one.
For that, he had God and Amara to thank.
Off to the Empty they would send him when the time came. A wonderful arrangement, really. Imagine being born to parents who knew their child would never visit them again after death. No Heaven. No Hell. No awkward family reunions in eternity.
Disgusting.
These lustful deities had absolutely no shame.
He leaned against the frame of the window as a cold stellar breeze slipped through the cracked seal. Today was Asteris, the Day of Stars.
Long ago, on this very day, one of the old heroes had crossed half the galaxy hunting what remained of a treacherous shadow called Treacher. Some translations called him Trevor, depending on which pocket-sized edition of the Book of Times your local universe happened to sell.
That same day also marked the moment the Bolgi were freed from slavery at the dawn of the universe.
A very important holiday.
On Earth, however, today would simply be Wednesday.
Just another painfully average Wednesday.
Another miserable day at the office. Another miserable day in his life. Someone had to take one for the team, and unfortunately that someone kept being him.
The office itself was cramped and stiff, like a muscle that had been clenched for centuries. Dirt clung to the walls and floors as if it paid rent. The air carried a powerful bouquet of early morning black coffee, dirty socks, and stale sweat.
It smelled like someone lived here.
Which, technically, someone did.
Evidence of that life could be found in the mountainous piles of unwashed laundry, some of which had not seen water in over a century. There were also things in the corners that he refused to identify out loud.
The room was barely lit by a cheap luminous light stick he had purchased the last time he visited Earth.
It flickered occasionally, like it too had given up.
"How long is this supposed to go on for?" he muttered.
He dragged a hand through his hair and sighed.
"Damnit. I am only two thousand years old."
He paused.
"Well… next week I will be."
Nobody cared.
Honestly, he was barely an adult.
Next week, he'd turn 2,000. If he were a regular Smagular on Earth, the fountains of youth would have long since dried up. But he wasn't a Smagular, and Earth wasn't his problem—well, not entirely. Still, he didn't want any smoke with The Protectors of the Path. Those guys were no jokes. Lunatics. Cultists, really.
GEOLI-1 did not care. He would live longer than them all. Longer than their plots, their games, their petty rules. The universe could collapse around him, and he would still be there, watching.
He was a Nephilim. Half Celestial.
The other half?
He preferred not to discuss that part.
That half of him had already died.
Outside stretched the endless city of X Æ A-12. A city that never slept, mostly because it never had the chance. Night ruled this place permanently. The sunlight simply refused to travel the extra star required to reach it.
So the stars picked up the slack.
They worked overtime.
Billions of them burned across the sky like glittering exhibitionists.
"Attention whores," Geoli muttered.
He squinted up at them.
"I mean beautiful. Beautiful entities. Lovely lights."
He rubbed his face.
"I cannot take this anymore."
It felt like the universe was forcing him to swallow his pride, and that was saying something. His pride was enormous.
Right.
Where was he?
Ah yes.
The stars.
To most people, a star was a massive luminous sphere of hot plasma. Hydrogen and helium locked together by gravity, burning endlessly through nuclear fusion. Scholars loved to talk about how they balanced inward collapse with outward energy, surviving for millions or trillions of years.
Geoli had read the propaganda.
Unfortunately.
"All that really means..."
His voice travelled around the empty office.
"Is that stars insist on being at the center of everyone else's business."
Attention seekers.
Every single one of them.
He jabbed the pen toward the sky again.
"One day, these Bolgi motherfuckers will—"
He stopped himself and groaned.
"Argh. I hate Asteris."
These creatures were a nightmare.
He knew that because he dealt with them every single day.
Overgrown sparks of light with superiority complexes.
His eyes drifted toward a weathered poster on the far wall.
It was an ancient relic from Earth.
A poster of the Queen Bee herself, Bree Yoncé.
Geoli softened instantly.
He adored that poster.
Too many nights had been spent crying in front of it after heartbreak. Too many mornings had begun with him matching her smile in the hope that the day might improve.
This was his altar.
And he would proudly worship her Beeness beside it.
Honestly, it was the only form of therapy that had ever worked.
Of course, nobody knew about his shameful fanboy habits.
Especially not the embarrassing part.
He used to be a huge Real Ri fan.
Used to.
He cut that nonsense out real quick.
"She betrayed me first," he grumbled.
He pointed accusingly at the ceiling.
"Siding with the Bolgi and making millions from that song."
He cleared his throat and muttered bitterly:
"Shine bright like a diamond…"
He scoffed.
"Yeah. Fucking right."
His glare returned to the stars outside the window.
"You're a shooting star, I see."
He folded his arms.
"Shooting star my foot."
***
Geoli stepped out of the office, the cheap luminous light stick flickering behind him like it couldn't believe its life choices either. The corridor stretched endlessly, walls lined with faded posters of celebrities he secretly worshipped. The faint scent of old paper, ink, and something vaguely like burnt toast wafted through the air.
At the far end of the hall, his secretary waited. A dark elf. Not the cute kind with glittery eyes and tragic backstories. No, this one was all business. Skin the shade of midnight, hair like a waterfall of ink, eyes like shards of obsidian that never blinked unless she wanted to remind you that she could.
"Sir."
Her voice like polished steel, echoing slightly in the empty hallway.
"A new batch is needed for the Cosmic Games. Earth is participating this time. Candidates must be selected immediately. Do you—"
Geoli waved her off.
"Mm, yes, yes, of course. But first… did you notice the Bolgi fields? Absolutely gorgeous today, weren't they?"
She did not move. Eyes still fixed.
"Sir, when will the products be delivered?"
Geoli tried again.
"Ah, right. Products… yes. But you know, I was thinking of taking a stroll. Exercise is important. Or maybe breakfast. Do you like breakfast?"
She tilted her head.
"Sir, when will the products be delivered?"
He groaned.
"Listen, they're in the pipeline. The pipeline is very complicated. Very. Cosmic. You know. Pipelines."
She did not blink.
"Sir, when will the products be delivered?"
Geoli glanced at the window. Stars—or Bolgi—flickered mockingly.
"You are relentless. I admire that. But Earth—our little underage planet—is fine for now. Let them sleep a bit longer. Let them eat their cake. Whatever it is they do down there."
She didn't move an inch.
"Sir, when will the products be delivered?"
Finally, Geoli slammed his palm against the wall. Not hard enough to damage the cheap paint, but just enough to feel righteous.
"The products will be delivered when I say so, alright? Stop asking."
She arched a single brow.
"Sir, when will the products be delivered?"
Geoli exhaled. He knew, deep down, this was how the universe worked. You never really won these battles. You survived them.
And Earth… Earth was his.
Earth was his. He won it in a game of billiards. Fair and square. He shivered just thinking about that game—too many sick, twisted things happened there. He lost his fiancée that day too. Gold digger. His parents outright disowned him as well. As if he cared. Geoli hated growing up in the Church, and he hated the Oblivion Sepulcher even more.
hello there! my name is GEOLI1 but you can call me jeffrey, the narrator
get it? the narrator? pfft
well if you don't get it - i'm just saying (bragging) that i'm a huge fan of tyler, the creator. Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All. Sir Baudelaire! Freaking IGOR! OFWGKTA til i die!
so...