Dimensions Collide: Destiny Bond Chapter 76: A Story

Chapter 76: A Story

Prota’s eyes snapped open. Her body imdiately went into overdrive, fueled by fear, but even with adrenaline pumping through her veins, she found that she couldn’t move. Her body wouldn’t listen to her. Why? What had she been doing that she was feeling like this?

Suddenly, everything ca pouring in. The fight. John. Diaboli.

She quickly cast mana recovery, stacking it over and over again, using every last bit of mana she’d been holding in her staff.

Soon, she was back on her feet. She was still weak, but she had to do sothing. She looked around. The air was eerily still. Not a single breath of wind blew through the deep crater that had been ford.

But there was no John. No Diaboli.

Was this it? Had it all co down to this? One year. Hundreds of [Resets], training, fighting, dying, and for what?

Maybe they should’ve let Olivia go. Maybe that would’ve been best. Prota collapsed, the guilt weighing on her. Why? It wasn’t fair. She just wanted to help everyone. To make everyone happy. Was that really so bad? Was that really so hard?

The desire for perfection had resulted in the worst possible action. Her insistence on saving everyone had caused her to lose everything instead.

That wouldn’t happen again.

She squeezed enough mana out to summon just one more icicle, pointing it at her throat—

Suddenly, there was a flash of light, and they were back. John and Diaboli stood as if nothing had ever happened.

“One month,” John said quietly.

His eyes looked emptier than usual.

The Demon King looked away, visibly disgusted at the situation. “Very well.”

“And you can’t co looking for us.”

“Until you [Reset].”

“That’s if I [Reset],” John said, shaking his head. “Good luck.”

“You fight terribly, by the way,” Diaboli said, turning to leave. “There’s no form nor substance. For a being such as yourself, I would’ve expected so kind of training. So kind of professionalism.”

“Yeah? Remind , who lost?”

“You did. I simply let you go.”

John just scoffed.

“Cope and seethe.”

Prota flinched as Diaboli reached out, hands moving toward John’s throat, but sothing stopped her. So invisible force kept the Demon King at least a foot away, preventing her from doing any harm.

“I’ll be back.”

“Keep talking like a third-rate villain, and you might just be right. Just get the fuck outta here.”

Just like that, it was over. Diaboli vanished, leaving nothing but air behind.

As soon as she was gone, John collapsed, first falling to his knees before the rest of his body followed.

He wasn’t moving.

Prota’s heart skipped a beat. What was going on? Had Diaboli pulled one last trick? No, if anybody had pulled a trick, it would’ve been John. Then what was going on? Why was he acting like this?

“John!” she yelled, running over.

The icicle in her hand lted to water, all thoughts of desperation gone. She worriedly placed her hands on him, but he had no injuries. No harm had been done to him. Then what was he doing?

“Prota… I wanna sleep…” John mumbled, his voice muffled. He rolled over, spitting out dirt. “I’m so tired…”

She was so relieved she almost fainted. Prota let loose a deep sigh, her legs giving out beneath her. She fell to the ground, sitting beside her brother.

Zero popped out, a mildly amused expression etched on his face. “Technically, your body hasn’t moved. You shouldn’t be tired.”

“Nn… I wanna go to sleep… sleep… just five more minutes…”

“What are you even saying? Get up,” Zero grumbled. “You’ve ruined the climax. Where was the epic fight? The satisfying conclusion?”

“Hey. I said you can’t complain. Wanna tell what you’re doing right now?”

Zero chuckled, shaking his head. He vanished, giving the siblings so ti alone.

“...John?”

“Hey, Prota,” John said, not moving.

He stared up into the night sky, the black sky slowly turning red as the sun began to rise. He didn’t turn to look at Prota. Not even his eyes moved in their sockets. They just kept staring up.

Neither of them said a word. She fidgeted nervously, opening her mouth several tis, but nothing ca out. The expression on John’s face scared her. She’d seen him tired before, but right now, he looked so fragile, so empty, like a single sound would shatter him into a million pieces. All she could do was wait for him to say sothing.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

“We can’t [Reset] anymore. Sorry.”

Prota flinched. He was worried about that now? Why did he look so… so empty? Just what happened to him?

“Prota. I don’t know if I can do any of that again. If we [Reset], it might really be over. I don’t- I can’t go through that again.”

John was saying this? The John who was comfortable with hundreds of [Resets], the John who saw this world as nothing but a [Story], that John? Just what had shattered his already non-existent psyche?

“What… what did John do?” Prota asked quietly.

“Ah. Right.” John sat up abruptly, like a spring snapping back into position.

He dusted his clothes off as if nothing had ever happened. A sense of relief washed through Prota, but at the sa ti, that sense of uneasiness lingered in the back of her mind. He was acting, the way he always did, but this ti, the cracks were showing. His act was nowhere near as masterful as it usually was.

“I did a little negotiating.”

“Negotiating…?”

“I forced that bitch into a truce. Until I [Reset], she can’t go looking for us. In return, I let her go.”

“Let her… go?”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Ok, long story short: Doctor dropped so [Deus Ex Machina] energy. You know what that is? Actually, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I got a power up, and that gave a little bit of energy. You following?”

Prota nodded.

“Good. Now, it wasn’t a lot of energy, so I had three options. The first two options don’t matter. Sothing about using [Infinity] and freezing her in ti. Both would’ve used way too much [Deus Ex Machina] energy. So I had to go with option three.”

John sighed, rembering the third option.

“Option three was to use a [Deus Ex Machina].”

“...?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a literary term for when the [Author] pulls so bullshit out of their ass to solve a solution they dug themselves into. Basically, what I’m saying is, I was given sothing random to work with.”

John stood up and stretched, looking up at the sky. The stars faded in the sky as the sun rose to brighten the day again. It was a sight that no [Reader] would ever fully see. He shook his head in disgust as he rembered the solution he’d been given.

“A pocket dinsion with a separate flow of ti. A world where Diaboli couldn’t use [Deus Ex Machina]. A world where I could [Reset] as many tis as I wanted, basically.”

“So John…”

“Yeah. I proved that I’m better at dying than Diaboli is at killing. Not sothing to be too proud of, but, well, it worked, right?”

Prota stared at him. His smile was back, giving the illusion of normality, but at this point, what did normal even an?

She didn’t want to ask. Normally, she wouldn’t have asked. But her guilt pressed in, telling her that she needed to know just what kind of damage she’d caused.

“How… how many tis?”

“Huh?”

“Did John die?” Prota whispered.

“Oh, that? Don’t worry about it.”

Prota just stared at him. She wasn’t giving up on this one.

“...how many tis was it, Zero?”

“Um… seven billion, four hundred eighty nine million, two hundred ninety two thousand, one hundred and sixty nine tis.”

What? She didn’t even know what that number was. She heard million, though, and billion ca before that. He’d died more than a million tis?

The sheer weight of this one number stunned her completely. The words were like a spell, freezing her on the spot, amplifying her guilt a seven-billionfold.

How was he still sane?

“I an, ok, look: it wasn’t that bad.”

Prota frowned. What could he possibly an by that?

“Don’t worry about it. Really. I’m still here, ok? I got a little trick for staying sane. You won’t have to worry about going nuts any ti soon.”

“John is sane?”

It was a genuine question, and a fair one at that.

“Well, ok. Sane enough,” John laughed.

The situation wasn’t really amusing. It was just that he didn’t know any other way to deal with the way he felt. Cry? Yell? What was the point? What would that accomplish?

All he could do was salvage what little cody he could out of this tragedy of an ending.

“That’s it, then. No more [Resets].”

What was anybody supposed to say to that? It was just a fact.

John took a deep breath of fresh air and began to wander, only to stop as he felt a tug at his scarf.

“...Prota? What’s up?”

“...sorry. I’m… I’m…”

She didn’t know what to say. Should she apologize? Why? Even she didn’t believe she should be forgiven for what she’d done.

Why had she wanted to save everyone? She didn’t even know who Olivia was. She’d been blinded by an ideal that never should’ve existed. Even though John had his mask on, she could see through it now. Her brother wasn’t ok. He was suffering, and he was just rolling with it, not because he wanted to, but because that was the only thing he could do.

Everyone’s death. Their ability to [Reset]. It was her fault that everything had happened. She had wanted to do sothing good, and yet good intentions did not always make for good results.

John was right. The world was a [Story]. And stories didn’t always have happy endings. But this ti, it’d been her fault.

She was a demon. A monster. Those around her suffered. Those around her died.

What was the point of any of it? Why try? Why live? Was all of this all for nothing in the end? Maybe she should’ve died in that alleyway those years ago. Maybe everyone would’ve been better off without her.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

John, anwhile, had no idea what was going through Prota’s mind, yet his thoughts weren’t that far off from hers.

He shouldn’t exist. What if he hadn’t been here? Diaboli would’ve never gotten [Deus Ex Machina] energy. She never would’ve shown up. Doctor would’ve never beaten Fate. The world would’ve gone on as it was ant to, walking toward the ending it should’ve reached.

And now here he was, ruining all that.

“Olivia. Are you ready to die here?”

Why had he said that? What was the point? To load Chekov’s gun? What if he hadn’t gotten involved? Maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe no one would’ve had to die. But…

Did it really matter?

What was the point in his actions? In anything? He’d been thinking about his life. This world. This [Story]. Combined with the existence of [Resets], he’d vowed that he wouldn’t care for anyone. After all, they didn’t matter. They were fakes that, in the end, made no difference.

And yet, just as those thoughts lingered, so did the doubts that ca with them.

His eyes snapped open as he heard the tumbling of rocks. Prota was walking away. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d let go of him. He hadn’t even noticed she was leaving.

Prota. Was there a point in keeping her?

John hesitated. This whole ti, he’d been avoiding the question, and while he hadn’t intended on answering it any ti soon, this might be the mont he had to decide.

Was it ti to let her go? His presence. It wasn’t doing either of them any good.

It was ti to admit it. He’d been secretly hoping for so kind of miracle. So sort of way to have comrades. Have friends. Have family.

But that wasn’t possible. God wasn’t listening anymore. Not those fake gods, like the Mystics or Celeste. No, he was talking about the god that was sitting in a chair, writing his very thoughts and actions in this very instant.

That god.

He closed his eyes and sat down, holding his head in his hands. The sun was growing higher in the sky, casting its rays over the ground as the frost began to lt, turning the hard dirt soft. Dew began to form on the blades of grass, reflecting the light brilliantly, creating the illusion of a shining field, but those in the crate were too far deep to see the beautiful scene.

This was a victory, but it was an empty one. It was ti to give it up. There was no need to aim for a dream that would stay nothing but that.

A dream.

“So, that’s it?”

John groaned upon hearing his own voice.

“...what do you want with ?”

“I’m just asking. Is that it?”

John felt sothing tug on his heart.

“If this is it, then that’s all it is. I’ll support you. You know I will. I just want to know if this is what you choose.”

Another tug.

“This should be it,” John said quietly. He watched as Prota slowly walked away. “No more dreams.”

He watched as she took step after step, slowly getting farther and farther away.

“No more fiction.”

“...you do realize the irony in what you’ve just said, right?”

Zero, too, watched as Prota slowly left.

“Do you want her to go?”

“For soone who’s ‘just asking,’ you’re doing a lot of instigating.”

“I’m just saying. Are you being honest with yourself?”

Fiction. The land of dreams. John cursed to himself. What was the reality of the world he was in?

“Fuck!”

He couldn’t put it away any longer. He didn’t want to give up. He didn’t want to lose soone he’d started to care for. He didn’t want to lose the one hope he’d been given. It didn’t matter if it was a false lead. It would probably end in tragedy. It would probably end in death. That was what happened to [Characters] like him.

But he wasn’t just a [Character].

In a rash decision, he got up and charged, head down, eyes closed, barreling straight toward Prota. He grabbed onto her, knocking her over with the force of his tackle, embracing her in a tight hug.

She looked at him in shock, and her eyes began to shine. Tears. She hadn’t had those in years. She’d forgotten how to cry. But now, all that repressed pain, all that bottled up anger, it could finally be released.

“Prota. This isn’t over. It’s never over.”

“But… it’s…” Prota couldn’t finish her sentence.

She buried her face in John’s chest, not wanting to look up, not wanting to face reality for what it was.

Her fault. It was all—

“Your fault?” John yelled. “It’s not your fault. It’s not even my fault. You know whose fault it is?”

He turned up, flipping off the sky. Anyone who saw him would’ve thought he was crazy, but there was one person who knew who that finger was ant for.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Fuck you! Are you having fun up there? Sitting in your chair, writing away, thinking, ‘I’m a good writer! I can make my characters suffer!’ You feel good about yourself?”

Prota looked up, shocked by the sudden outburst.

“Yeah! You know exactly who I’m talking to, and you know exactly what I’m talking about! I’m just as much a [Writer] as you are, you know that? So I’ll be taking over!”

Fiction. Reality. Why did any of that matter? What John wanted was what John would go for. Dreams were what this world was made of. The real world was the place he had little control over. Here? There was so much more.

He, too, was a [Character]. Just because he was aware of that fact didn’t an that he should let the [Author] stomp all over him. There were always two sides to a coin. Maybe he was destined for pain. Maybe he was destined for loss. But being aware of that ant there was sothing he could do about it. Sothing he could fight for.

He was an [Anomaly]. Soone who existed in the world and yet understood what it truly was. Soone who existed in this world yet understood that they were nothing but words and images.

But, while everyone might be fake, he was just as fictional as they were, so didn’t that make this world “real?”

And if he was going to drown in despair, then he might as well take the one breath he’d been given. Even if it was his fate to be pushed under the waters, he would struggle for as long as he could.

He looked down.

“It’s not your fault,” John said through clenched teeth. “Even if it is, we can always bla it on them. Because in the end, it’s that motherfucker who put us here. And if they put here, then I’ll get myself out of here.”

A feeling of warmth spread through Prota as John pulled her in tighter.

Her subconscious had finally accepted that she had found a “ho.”

Tears stread down her cheeks like a river, soaking John’s hoodie as she buried her face into his chest, clinging on tight, refusing to let go. She wanted to be protected. She wanted to be safe. She wanted to be allowed to make mistakes, to be forgiven, to be treated as a person instead of a demon.

And she’d found the one who would do that.

“I don’t care if it’s your fault. Even if it is, I don’t want you to bla yourself. Because we can always just pin it on that bastard. It won’t be our fault. It’ll never be our fault. You know why? Because in the end, it’ll always be that bastard’s fault. Do you understand?”

“Hey. You still like reading, right? Reading stories?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you like good stories.”

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

“Zero.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to write a good story.”

The soul didn’t say anything. He just sat there, waiting for John to continue.

“I want to write a story that I can enjoy. I don’t want a story that the [Readers] will enjoy. You asked what a good story is, right? It’s a story that’s enjoyable. That’s fun. An escape from reality, an escape into a world we would never experience otherwise. A story that challenges us, makes us think, makes us feel. One that connects us to the [Characters], makes us cry, makes us laugh, makes us happy and sad.”

He glared defiantly at his clone, who was watching patiently, waiting for John to co to his final point.

“And that’s not what I want. I don’t give a shit about any of that. What’s wrong with being selfish? What’s wrong with being a little bitch? I want to be happy! ! Not them! ! So I’m gonna write a [Story] that I enjoy!”

His voice was a roar now, a cry of pain, of suffering, of a rage that reached the heavens themselves.

“A [Story] that’s enjoyable for , a [Story] that’s fun for , sothing that challenges , makes think, makes feel. A [Story] where I get to connect to the [Characters], not those bitchass [Readers]. ! Do you understand ?!”

John finished his rant, panting. He sat down, still holding onto Prota, and felt his body relax as the stress poured out. He closed his eyes and fell back, letting the cool morning air wash over him. He had to do sothing eventually, though.

Right. If he wanted to go against what the [Author] wanted, that ant defying the [Plot]. The [Plot] where soone had to die. He didn’t know if Olivia had had to die or not. Maybe without him, she would’ve lived. Maybe not. None of that mattered.

They, too, deserve to be happy. They, too, have people they care for.

John stood up with a grunt. “How much energy do I have left?”

“What are you trying to do?”

“You know damn well what I’m trying to do.”

John put Prota down and held her hand.

“Hey. Wanna see sothing cool?”

The cold in Prota’s body was gone. John’s body was burning, heated by nothing other than the blood pulsing through his veins. As she closed her eyes, leaning against him, she could feel his heart beating hard, beating fast. She looked up into his eyes and saw… sothing. She didn’t know what it was, but it was better than nothing.

It was better than before.

“Hey. Answer the question.”

“Enough. Just barely enough.”

John walked over to Fate. An intricate yet simple wooden fountain pen fell into his hands. He twisted off the cap to reveal a golden nub. The tool felt out of place in John’s hand, and yet he gripped it as if he’d been using it his whole life.

Prota nearly cried out as John shoved the pen into his head, but instead of piercing through flesh, it rely passed through. When it ca out, a single red page ca with it, black ink forming unintelligible scribbles. As soon as the tip of the pen touched the page, the ink flowed into the pen, filling it up to the brim.

“[Deus Ex Machina],” John whispered, writing words Prota couldn’t read.

She watched in awe as the ink flowed back out. Fate’s pale body began to regain its colour. Kit’s fur, matted with blood, began to bristle and shake. Danjo’s body, split in two, put itself back together.

John’s hand moved like a conductor commanding an orchestra, his instrunts the fabric of reality itself.

The role of a [Writer].

“One more.”

Prota looked at John, who was staring at Olivia’s cold, dead body. Cuffs remained on her wrists and ankles, the chains long since broken. The collar on her neck was shattered, but the item that had limited her healing magic was no longer needed.

She would never heal again.

What will you do?

John stared at Olivia. One last hurdle. One last trial. The [Author] was tempting him like a snake in a garden, dangling a tempting piece of fruit. A singular ssage in his system, beckoning seductively.

[It is possible to upgrade [Determination’s] limits. The base level of [Determination] will now allow for usage of [Infinity] up to x10000. This will consu the remaining amount of [Deus Ex Machina] energy you have. Proceed?]

Ten thousand tis. The offer was tempting. It was enough to deal with almost anybody he t. He wouldn’t have to rely on Prota. He wouldn’t have to be conniving, be the one who made plans and sat in the sidelines. He could take things into his own hands.

He could be free.

Where is the real you? Why not take the power you could easily obtain? She was supposed to die anyway. She was supposed to be a source of growth for Danjo. Isn’t it an easy choice? Isn’t it obvious?

It should’ve been. It should’ve been an easy choice for John.

You can break free. You can take things into your own hands.

“And just let her die? Just leave her like this?”

It’s a [Character]. Why do you care?

“Then what about Prota?”

John stared at Olivia’s body.

“I want to save my sister.”

Why did he get to play judge, jury and executioner? Since when was he the arbiter of life and death?

“Are you ready to die?”

What a stupid question. He shouldn’t have asked if she was ready to die. He should’ve asked if she was ready to get out. His life and experiences had made him cynical.

Ironically, it was the one who’d suffered who’d shown him that there were still things to care for, things to live for. It had taken Prota’s brokenness to show him that there were still things to fix. In so sick, twisted irony, it had taken suffering and pain to show him that there was still hope.

Was this what they called character developnt? John burst out laughing. The thing he’d despised for so long had sohow turned around and shown him sothing new.

“John. I’ll let you in on a little sothing. Back when you were a normal person, a [Writer], I guess, you always wanted to help [Characters]. You knew you couldn’t. But it made you happy to imagine scenarios where you could step in and solve their problems. To be a god and do what you pleased, to solve problems no one else could.”

Why didn’t he do that anymore? Why did he treat [Characters] as expendables rather than valuables?

Bringing everyone back would lessen the impact of the struggles they’d gone through. It would remove the ideas of sacrifice, pain and suffering. But like he’d said, he didn’t care about the [Readers]. They could go and read sothing else.

But the [Characters] had only this world to live in.

“So what now? John. What kind of [Story] do you want? This world. This [Story]. You’re a [Writer], aren’t you?”

A curse. A blessing.

“You’re a puppet who has the ability to move on its own. You have a singular string attached to you, tugging you in one direction, but it’s not like you can’t resist. John. Don’t you want to make your own happy ending?”

He still hated the line. It was corny as hell. But yet, for him, it might be the only appropriate expression.

Write your own [Story].

“Not a curse. Not a blessing. It just… is.”

[Reviving this [Character] will use [Deus Ex Machina] energy. This [Character] was ant to die. By reviving this [Character], you are going against the [Plot]. The energy consumption will be higher than normal. This [Character] will obtain the role of [Side Character]]

[Warning! If you do this, you will no longer be able to extend [Determination’s] capabilities. Are you sure?]

John hesitated. He did want that power. But that would just be playing into their hands. By taking the offer, he’d just be proving that he was another little bitch, a dog on a leash, a puppet dancing on strings.

No. Logically, this might be the wrong decision to make. But he didn’t care. If it pissed the [Author] off, then there really wasn’t another choice, was there?

“Fuck it. We ball.”

A few more drops of ink fell out, the air shimring like the surface of a pond disturbed by a single drop of water. Prota felt a breath of fresh wind blow into the crater, flowing all around her, her hair and cloak fluttering violently as reality bent itself to suit John’s will.

The hole in Olivia’s head began to close, and she began to breathe one more. Her eyes remained closed, but her heart was beating.

She was alive.

John had finally stepped in and bent the [Plot] to his will. Now, things were partially in his hands.

It was ti for him to write his own [Story].