Epreuve 5 • Manifestation • "The Chosen One"

Preface:

THOU ART THE CHOSEN ONE.

Every once in a while, a hero is called upon. The reasons might differ, but the end goal is the same: save the people, the world, the galaxy or the universe. In this particular case it’s all of the above. Things were objectively horrible in Oxtros, the universe in which our hero lives. The economy sucked (for lack of a better word), the environment was trashed and the people were suffering. It was a shit show, really. Thus, the need of a hero.

... THOU ART THE CHOSEN ONE.

Right. Yes. The Chosen One.

Our current hero has actively been ignoring the mysterious entity that had been calling out to him for the past twenty years or so. Although I must admit it might have picked a better moment to first reveal itself in all its glory. When he was but a young boy, The Voice intruded on him as he was taking what he thought at the time to be a very relaxing shower. The kind of shower you need after a long day of being yelled at by an overbearing mother.

He used to have an excellent shower. The kind with jets installed into the wall that, when activated, massaged your crooked back. His spine was not only crooked, it was completely out of place, as if he were a centenarian who fell down the stairs five times in a row. He was only ten, of course, and had suffered through numerous operations, but his back would never be quite right. He needed a physiotherapist, really, but his mother couldn’t be bothered to spend that many credits on a son she would rather not have had. Ryot had learned to live with it. The pain was as much a part of him as the three strands of hair on his otherwise very bald head.

Hearing booming voices echo in his mind as he was enjoying the feeling of the warm water bruising his back was something that he could then easily ignore. Everyone hears voices when they’re in pain.  

THE CHOSEN ONE.

Ah, right. Sorry. Let’s move on.

For twenty years this entity which he had nicknamed “The Voice” called out to him at random intervals. While he was standing in line for the best burger the XY-17 interstellar space station had to offer (‘You won’t believe this ain’t meat!’). While he was trying on his brand-new silk boxer shorts (‘Our bottom line is comfort for your bottom’). While he was scratching his fortieth lottery ticket of the day (‘Give yourself the chance to be batting a thousand!’). Really quite often.

But today was different.

Although The Voice had never failed its attempts to garner his attention over the years, today it was downright impatient.  

I SAID: THOU ART THE CHOSEN ONE.

Ryot shoved another spoonful of suspicious, sickly orangish mac ‘n’ cheese into his mouth. Although it couldn’t make him unhear the all-encompassing voice, it did make him feel more at ease—it was comfort food after all. Like eating a piece of home.

EXCUSE YOU.

The Voice took another tone. As if it disconnected a microphone in order to stop acting high and mighty. The sacred voice that loomed above him like a shadow had turned bitter and annoyed, tired of being ignored for years on end.

I AM TALKING TO YOU, YOU PUTRID, OVERCOOKED POTATO!

And for the first time in twenty years, Ryot knew The Voice was addressing him. ‘Putrid, overcooked Potato’? Sure. ‘The Chosen One’? Not so much. Turns out he had always assumed The Voice had been meant for someone else.

Ryot looked up, dropping his plastic spoon into the moist, yellow pasta that provided no sustenance at all. There was no real reason why he looked up instead of down—if not to avoid staring at his crotch. The Voice was everywhere at once. Even he knew this.

ARE YOU LISTENING?!

“Uhm…” he hesitated.

SO… AS I HAVE TOLD THEE MANY TIMES.

The Voice cleared its throat—if throat it had indeed—as it regained its composure.

THOU ART THE CHOSEN ONE.

“Err…” he hesitated (again). “I’m sorry but, uhm, I think… I think you’re mistaken.”

The audacity! The impudence! The horror! The creature dared talk back to its superior (in every sense of the word). The Voice was flabbergasted. Shocked. It couldn’t possibly have conceived that anyone would express such doubt at its legitimacy.

I AM NEVER MISTAKEN.

The Voice spoke with utter confidence in its statement. Denial was expected, but no longer a possibility. Chosen Ones usually went through cycles of denial and disgruntlement at having the fate of the world thrown upon their shoulders, but such is the life of a hero. This one, however, did not react in line with its expectations.

“No… I mean…. Really… You must be.”

It had been repeating its message without provocation over the years. Always with intensity, always with confidence. The fact that this monstrous, human ball sack did not even doubt his own words shook The Voice to its very core. This was not a case of simple denial. Not even of lament for its own fate. This was sheer, unmitigated belief. Ryot’s tiny pea brain was transparent. The all-powerful Voice knew he spoke every word with not a grain of malice.

I AM NOT. THOU ART THE CHOSEN ONE. THIS FATE WAS CAST UPON THEE A LONG TIME AGO. THOU CANST NOT REJECT THY FATE.

“Uhm… really sorry to have to insist but… it’s not me. Like… really. Not me.”

It was simply inconceivable to him that the hero of this galaxy—nay, the universe!—was little, old Ryot. The guy who hadn’t washed his socks in a week. The guy whose dirty sink had started its own microcosmos. The guy that slept in a hammock that vaguely smelled of mushrooms. The guy whose slithering snake creature liked to bite his big toe in lack of a better hunting opportunity. Not this guy. Surely not him!

“There must’ve been some sort of mistake…”

He did not know how godlike entities went about selecting their potential heroes, but the system must’ve been compromised for sure to land on him. Not enough oil in the pump. Too much pressure on the engines. The gauges dangerously pointing in the red. Whatever it might be, this was a notable hiccup in their selection. Ryot had nothing of a hero: not the looks, not the bravery, not the strength and not the intelligence. 0 points in all attributes (and negative 50 in charisma), thank you very much.

“Maybe you’ve overlooked something. Maybe there’s someone else with the same name. Or… uhm… maybe there’s something wrong with the numbers.”

THE NUMBERS?

It is not physically possible for mortal ears to hear the shrieking of a god. And you can thank your lucky stars for that! The numbers were off, it realized. Only by a hundred thousandth of a decimal, but they were off. How could They have overlooked this? How could They have been mistaken? And… especially… how could this maggot have known? His mind must be attuned to the Grand Plan, even subconsciously. The programming had gone haywire. Something broke in the system and although The Voice was omnisciently unaware of what that was, there was no doubt in their great mind that it was all his fault. This tiny, insignificant blob on existence had started the Causality that led to the current state of affairs of a dying universe simply by… being.

The blip had to be erased. The mistake rectified. The actual Chosen One chosen. There was only one solution for this: press restart.


A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

The babe cried out when it finally reached the surface of what had been a comfortable existence in the warm, dark waters of life’s embrace. The world was cold and inhospitable again. The echo of his mother’s voice whispering “ew” at the discovery of his ugly face bit through him like a frosty wind. He had been happy, for a time.

He’d try again.