Conduit

Prologue

All of the infinitely diverging rivers of time and space flow from a pond of collective human unconsciousness. We gods call it Abraxis. It is the birthplace of all of humanity’s gods and mysticism. All of the psychic energy of the multiverse coalesces into pure, glistening thought. I am a product of that cosmic primordial soup. I am the god of the story. I regret to tell you that this is the end. The end of a story that is mighty and terrible. We gods, are a product of you. We are projections of your mind’s archetypal structures. We create you, and you create us. It’s rather like an ouroboros. In that way, it is odd, then, that humans are obsessed with bookends. A story has to have a beginning, middle, and end. So, it was only natural that you all would ascribe an end to your gods. From Ragnarok til Revelation, it’s a narrative formula. Why you humans are so utterly unimaginative will always be beyond me. Big, insipid man with an invincible deus ex machina for a sword, slaying the indestructible dragon. The fucking heroes’ journey on repeat over and over again. It disgusts me, frankly.

Unfortunately, I am currently living in one such journey. Our hero is a child soldier brought to face the rogue warriors of God. Yes, the Christian one. His goddamn angels are tearing the multiverse apart as we speak. However, he’s too busy to snatch the feuding tots up by the ankles before they tear the playground apart. He is currently tasked with wrestling all the cosmic horrors you all spit out of that multiversal primordial soup. He contends with all of the writhing leviathans that would cull the multiverse of all life if they had the opportunity. Too bad his progeny are going to do it for the beasts. Michael and that brat Lucifer are going to clash. A clash that will, in all likelihood, erase all of the multiverse. Infinities upon infinities of worlds, all lost to simple sibling rivalry. We can’t interfere. If we fight those two, it’ll all be destroyed just the same. So our hope, if there is any, rests on the shoulders of a mortal.

Call me Morpheus, the King of Stories. I decided that I ought to tell this story because the worst thing in life is an untold story. That’s why I relay this to you. This is my attempt to let these people live on, if only in memory. If a story is told, then in a way, it will live on forever. Maybe even past the gods. However, it’s funny and a little embarrassing, but I’m not very good at telling stories. It isn’t my fault, though. I’m made of the stuff, story, that is. Narrative threads run through my body like the veins of yours. I exist in a story, so understand that my telling one is a bit like the conscious breathing of a panic attack. This is a laborious task. As a result, it may seem that I am sometimes leaving things out. Trust that I will elaborate further on this in the tale.