🔥 A GIFT FROM THE DOCTOR — THE WATCHER: OR ELSE. 🔥
Today, I'm posting the entire Chapter Six — “The Price of Being Human” from OR ELSE. — THE WATCHER, Book Three, right here on my artist page.
No paywall. No Buy Me a Coffee required. Just the story.
I know readership may have dropped off. God forbid an independent artist asks for a little support while creating original work.
But to those of you who have supported me, shared my work, bought me a coffee, or simply taken the time to read what I write — thank you. I genuinely appreciate you. ❤️
Now, this chapter is about something much bigger than five hundred dollars.
It's about greed. Disability. Survival. Accountability. And what happens when the people and systems supposedly protecting humanity forget the human beings they're supposed to serve.
Some people steal money. Some people steal peace. And some people hide behind policies while doing both.
So, @Starlink , @TELUS Health @Spring Financial , @Danielle Smith , @Prime Minister of Canada — and anyone else who thinks they're entitled to dip into somebody else's money, rights, dignity, or livelihood:
You might want to pay attention.
Because this chapter asks a rather uncomfortable question:
What happens when Lucifer decides he's had enough of watching?
And there's another question buried even deeper.
What happens when a system designed to protect a human being decides the human being is the problem?
Welcome to THE WATCHER.
Art imitating life. Life imitating art.
GREED NEED NOT APPLY.
Read the chapter. Enjoy the gift. Think about the message.
And remember: The Watcher is watching.
OR ELSE.
ONELUV & PLUR ❤️
The Doctor
DJ Jesse Hudson | Doctor WarDrums
TheRabbitHole.ca | CTEFight.com
#CTEFIGHT #TheWatcher #OrElse #BrainInjuryAwareness #DisabilityRights #Accountability #IndependentArtist #TheRabbitHole
OR ELSE. — THE WATCHER
Book Three: Marcus Versus Marcus — The Battle of the Timelines
Chapter Six — The Price of Being Human
I. The Morning After
Strathcona, Alberta.
Morning arrived quietly.
For once, Spencer had absolutely no intention of getting out of bed.
The sheets were tangled around his legs. A pillow had fallen to the floor sometime during the night, and the woman lying beside him had apparently decided that his chest was the most comfortable place in the entire universe.
He wasn't complaining.
Gaia lay against him, her dark hair spilling across his shoulder, one bare leg resting over his beneath the sheet.
Neither had bothered with clothing.
There had been very little reason to.
Spencer smiled.
"Good morning, sweetheart."
Gaia kept her eyes closed.
"Is it?"
"Well, considering last night, I'd say the preliminary evidence is rather compelling."
She laughed softly.
"You're reviewing last night?"
"Professionally."
"Professionally?"
"Absolutely. Very thorough investigation. Multiple findings. Excellent results."
She lifted her head.
"And your conclusion?"
Spencer brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"Further research is required."
Gaia kissed him.
"You're ridiculous."
"That's what the report says."
Her fingers traced the line of his shoulder, then settled against his chest.
For a little while, neither spoke.
They simply enjoyed the extraordinary luxury of being ordinary.
No Council.
No gods.
No ancient prophecies.
No demands from a universe that seemed determined to make every human being answer for something.
Just two people beneath a sheet.
Warm.
Happy.
Together.
Spencer had almost forgotten what that felt like.
For years, every morning had begun with a calculation.
How much money was left?
Which bill could wait?
Which expense couldn't?
How many times could a person explain that a limited income did not somehow become unlimited simply because another institution wanted its share?
But lately, things had been different.
Gaia had brought something into his life he hadn't realized was missing.
Not rescue.
Not salvation.
Peace.
He kissed her forehead.
"You know something?"
"What?"
"I could get used to this."
She smiled.
"Good."
"Although I should probably warn you that my breakfast-making abilities are somewhat limited."
"I remember."
"That's hurtful."
"Your toast was excellent."
"My eggs?"
"Memorable."
"That's not necessarily a compliment."
"No."
They laughed.
And then Spencer's phone rang.
Not his usual ringtone.
A sharp electronic warning.
He frowned.
"Who the hell is calling at this hour?"
Gaia reached toward the bedside table.
"It's your phone."
"That explains why it's making noise."
She handed it to him.
The screen displayed a notification from his bank.
AUTOMATED ACCOUNT ALERT
Unrecognized withdrawal: $500.00
Please review your account activity immediately.
Spencer stared.
His smile disappeared.
"No."
Gaia sat up.
"What?"
"No, no, no."
He unlocked the phone and opened his banking application.
His available balance had dropped by five hundred dollars.
Five hundred dollars.
Not five dollars.
Not fifty.
Five hundred.
Money he needed.
Money already accounted for.
Rent.
Food.
Utilities.
The ordinary expenses of staying alive.
"Somebody took five hundred fucking dollars out of my account."
Gaia pulled the sheet around herself.
"What do you mean, took?"
"I mean it's gone."
"Could it be a payment you forgot about?"
"No."
He checked the transaction.
Then checked it again.
His breathing quickened.
"I didn't authorize this."
"Spencer."
"I didn't authorize this!"
She placed her hand against his arm.
"Look at me."
He did.
"One thing at a time."
He swallowed.
"I don't have five hundred dollars to lose."
"I know."
"No, sweetheart, I mean I really don't. That's not extra money. That's not money sitting around waiting for something interesting to happen. That's money I need to live."
Gaia said nothing.
Because she understood.
And because sometimes the most loving thing a person could do was listen without trying to explain away the damage.
Spencer stared at the screen.
"I finally get a little happiness."
His voice cracked.
"One fucking morning where everything feels right."
He looked toward the window.
"And somebody decides they're entitled to what little I've got."
Beneath the building, the roots stirred.
Gaia felt them.
But this time, they weren't responding to her.
They were responding to something much farther away.
Something that had just become very, very angry.
II. The Business of Humanity
The Ethos.
The Council had witnessed the birth of stars.
It had debated the destruction of civilizations.
It had listened to beings older than recorded time argue over questions that humanity had not yet learned how to ask.
And yet, on this particular morning, the assembled supernatural powers were watching a man in Strathcona lose five hundred dollars.
Michael stood before the image.
The Watcher.
His attention fixed upon Spencer.
Raphael studied the man's distress.
Uriel examined the sequence of events.
Gabriel remained silent.
Odin stood beside Hugh.
Melisenda watched from beyond the circle of light.
Wīsahkēcāhk, the Teacher, sat quietly.
The Keeper and the Sleeper observed from the boundaries of the chamber.
Death leaned against a pillar, his journal tucked beneath one arm.
The Four Horsemen stood apart.
The White Wolf, the White Panther, and Avariel, the great White Dragon, remained near the edge of the assembly.
And in the Chair sat Lucky.
Lucifer Morningstar.
The son who had been called Satan by a world that rarely bothered asking how he had earned the name.
He watched Spencer.
Then he watched Gaia.
Then he watched the transaction disappear into the machinery of human finance.
"Five hundred dollars."
Nobody answered.
Lucky leaned forward.
"Five hundred fucking dollars."
Michael turned.
"Brother."
"Don't."
"I haven't said anything."
"Then you're off to an excellent start."
Odin smiled faintly.
Lucky rose.
"Tell me something."
Hugh regarded his son.
"What?"
"How many civilizations have we watched destroy themselves over greed?"
Uriel answered.
"That would depend upon the definition of destruction."
Lucky closed his eyes.
"Of course it would."
He turned toward the Council.
"How many?"
Gabriel spoke.
"More than we can reasonably count."
"And how many times have we told ourselves that humanity must learn?"
Michael folded his arms.
"Free will requires consequence."
"Does it?"
"Yes."
Lucky pointed toward the image of Spencer.
"Then whose consequence is that?"
Michael said nothing.
Lucky continued.
"There's a man who has spent years being told what he cannot have. What he cannot do. What he must prove. What documentation he must produce. What authority he must satisfy."
Raphael looked toward Spencer.
"And now someone has taken money he needs."
"Exactly."
Lucky walked into the centre of the chamber.
"Five hundred dollars to some people is dinner."
He glanced at Odin.
"To others, it's an evening's entertainment."
Odin raised his cup.
"Depends on the evening."
"To Spencer, it's survival."
The Teacher nodded.
Lucky turned toward Hugh.
"And somewhere down there, somebody has decided that their desire for money is more important than another man's right to eat."
Hugh listened.
"Humanity has always struggled with greed."
Lucky laughed.
Not warmly.
"Struggled?"
He looked around the Council.
"Father, humanity has built entire institutions to make greed look respectable."
Silence.
"They've given it departments. Titles. Policies. Bonuses. Legal language. They can take a man's livelihood, call it an adjustment, and expect him to thank them for the explanation."
Death opened his journal.
"You're making a speech."
Lucky looked at him.
"You're welcome to take notes."
"I already am."
"Good. Spell my name correctly."
Melisenda stepped forward.
"What would you have us do, Lucifer?"
Lucky looked toward Spencer.
"Remember who we're supposed to be watching."
Michael studied his brother.
"We cannot intervene in every human wrong."
"No."
Lucky's expression hardened.
"But we can stop pretending that every human wrong is merely an unfortunate exercise of free will."
The Teacher spoke.
"And what will you do?"
Lucky smiled.
There was no humour in it.
"I'm going to have a conversation."
Michael took a step forward.
"Lucifer."
Lucky turned.
"What?"
"Remember who you are."
For a moment, something ancient passed between the brothers.
Then Lucky answered.
"I do."
He looked once more at Spencer.
"That's the problem."
And vanished.
III. Meet Lucifer
The man responsible for the withdrawal was sitting in a small apartment, looking at a computer screen.
He had made himself coffee.
He had transferred the stolen money through an account he believed would conceal its origin.
He had done this before.
Not to Spencer.
To others.
Small amounts, usually.
Enough to matter to the victims.
Not enough, he hoped, to interest anyone powerful.
He had convinced himself it was clever.
He was about to discover the difference between clever and wise.
"Morning."
The man spun around.
Someone was sitting in his kitchen.
A man with salt-and-pepper hair carrying a hint of red, dressed with the casual confidence of someone who had never once worried about being invited into a room.
Lucky.
The stranger smiled.
"Coffee smells good."
The man jumped to his feet.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Excellent question."
Lucky glanced at the computer.
"Let's begin with something easier."
He pointed at the screen.
"Five hundred dollars."
The man's expression changed.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't."
Lucky stood.
"That's always the first answer."
"Get out of my apartment."
"Second answer."
"I'm calling the police."
"Third."
Lucky walked toward the computer.
The man moved to block him.
Lucky looked at him.
"Don't."
Something in that single word stopped the man.
Not fear exactly.
Something older.
The instinct that tells an animal when it has encountered something it cannot fight.
Lucky examined the screen.
"Interesting."
He looked over his shoulder.
"You know what I find fascinating about people like you?"
The man swallowed.
"What?"
"You never think about the person on the other end."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, we've established that."
Lucky turned.
"There's a man in Strathcona. Spencer. Lovely fellow. Bit of a smartass. Makes terrible eggs, apparently."
The thief said nothing.
"He's got someone who loves him. He's finally found a little peace. And this morning, he woke up to discover that five hundred dollars had vanished from his bank account."
Lucky stepped closer.
"Recognize the story?"
The man looked toward the door.
Lucky noticed.
"Oh, don't bother."
"Who sent you?"
"Nobody."
"Who are you working for?"
"I'm not working for anybody."
Lucky studied him.
"Now that is interesting."
He leaned against the counter.
"Because if you're working for someone, you're a thief with an employer."
A pause.
"And if you're working alone, you're just a thief."
The man said nothing.
"Either way, the money belongs to Spencer."
"I needed it."
Lucky's expression changed.
There it was.
The answer.
Not remorse.
Not regret.
Need.
His own.
Lucky spoke quietly.
"Did you?"
The man nodded.
"Things are tough."
"Are they?"
"Yeah."
Lucky looked around the apartment.
The expensive television.
The new gaming system.
The unopened delivery boxes.
The half-finished bottle of liquor.
Then he looked back.
"Tell me something."
"What?"
"When you took that money, did you ask whether Spencer needed it?"
The man looked away.
"No."
"Did you wonder whether he could afford to lose it?"
"No."
"Did you care?"
Silence.
Lucky waited.
The man finally shrugged.
"It's five hundred bucks."
And there it was.
The moment.
The small, ordinary sentence that exposed the entire architecture of cruelty.
It's five hundred bucks.
Lucky stared at him.
Then laughed once.
A short, bitter sound.
"To you."
The man took a step backward.
Lucky followed.
"To you, it's five hundred bucks."
His eyes began to glow.
"To Spencer, it's food."
Another step.
"Rent."
Another.
"Heat."
The kitchen light flickered.
"The difference between getting through the month and wondering which necessity he's supposed to sacrifice."
The man hit the wall.
"Please."
Lucky stopped.
"Please?"
The man nodded desperately.
"Please don't hurt me."
Lucifer Morningstar looked at him.
And for the first time, the man understood that he was no longer speaking to another human being.
"Interesting word."
Lucky's voice was almost gentle.
"Please."
He leaned closer.
"Did Spencer get to say please?"
The man shook his head.
"Did you give him the opportunity?"
"No."
"Did you consider his life?"
"No."
Lucky straightened.
"Then why should yours be the only life that matters?"
The man began to cry.
Lucky watched him.
For one brief instant, the old Lucifer might have stopped.
The son who questioned.
The brother who laughed.
The celestial being who believed that judgment without understanding was simply power wearing a respectable uniform.
But something else was standing in that kitchen now.
Something that had spent far too long watching people suffer while those responsible explained why nothing could be done.
The man whispered.
"I'm sorry."
Lucky regarded him.
"No."
He raised one hand.
"You're frightened."
The lights went out.
There was no scream.
No struggle.
Only a sudden, terrible silence.
When the lights returned, the man lay motionless on the floor.
He was no longer breathing.
Lucky stood over him.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he looked toward the ceiling.
Toward the Ethos.
Toward the father who had once apologized for allowing the world to turn his son into Satan.
"Well, Dad."
His voice was quiet.
"That ought to give them something to discuss."
He turned toward the computer.
The stolen five hundred dollars was returned to Spencer's account.
Then Lucky vanished.
And Death appeared in the kitchen.
He looked down.
Opened his journal.
And sighed.
"Well."
He wrote a name.
Then another line.
"That conversation escalated."
He closed the book.
But before leaving, he looked toward the place where Lucifer had stood.
And for once, Death did not smile.
IV. The Council's Judgment
Lucky returned to the Ethos.
Nobody applauded.
Nobody welcomed him.
Michael stood waiting.
The Watcher's expression was unreadable.
"He's dead."
Lucky walked past him.
"Observant as ever."
"You killed him."
"Yes."
Hugh rose.
"Lucifer."
Lucky stopped.
There was something in his father's voice he had not heard for a very long time.
Disappointment.
Perhaps fear.
"Did you understand what you were doing?"
Lucky turned.
"Perfectly."
Melisenda studied him.
"Did you?"
He looked at her.
"Don't start."
"I am asking you a question."
"And I'm giving you an answer."
"No," she replied. "You're defending a decision."
The Teacher rose slowly.
"Did the man deserve consequences?"
Lucky answered immediately.
"Yes."
"Did Spencer deserve justice?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you speaking as though those are the same question?"
Lucky fell silent.
Michael stepped forward.
"You have taken a human life."
Lucky faced him.
"And you've watched thousands be destroyed while insisting you were respecting their freedom."
"That does not give you authority to decide who lives."
"Then who has it?"
He looked around.
"Which one of us?"
No answer.
"Which one of you gets to sit up here, debate morality, and tell humanity that suffering is part of some grand lesson?"
Odin lowered his cup.
"Careful, Morningstar."
Lucky turned toward him.
"Why?"
"Because you're beginning to confuse being right about an injustice with being right about what you did."
The words landed.
Lucky said nothing.
Death entered the chamber.
His journal was closed.
"He's recorded."
Hugh lowered his head.
Lucky looked toward Spencer's image.
The money had returned.
Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone.
Gaia held him.
Neither knew what had happened.
Neither knew someone had died.
Neither knew a celestial argument had just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
Lucky watched them.
"At least he has his money."
Melisenda spoke softly.
"Yes."
She approached him.
"And now you have something you did not possess this morning."
Lucky looked at her.
"What?"
"A death you chose."
Silence.
The White Wolf rose.
Avariel lifted her great head.
The White Panther watched from the shadows.
Michael's hand rested upon his sword.
Not in threat.
In recognition.
Because the Watcher had just witnessed something he could not undo.
And somewhere inside Lucifer Morningstar, a door had opened.
Not the door behind Future Marcus.
Another door.
One that had been closed for a very long time.
Lucky looked at his father.
"Don't."
Hugh said nothing.
"Don't call me Satan."
Hugh's expression softened.
"I wasn't going to."
Lucky looked away.
And that was somehow worse.
V. The Error in the Machine
Future Marcus screamed.
The sound tore through the Ethos.
Raphael turned.
Johnny Edwards was already on his feet.
"Marcus!"
The machinery beneath Future Marcus's skin convulsed.
His golden eye flashed.
His red eye went dark.
Then both began flickering in impossible sequences.
His right hand clenched.
Metal moved beneath flesh.
His left arm jerked violently.
He tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
Raphael rushed toward him.
"Hold him steady!"
Johnny caught Marcus before he struck the floor.
"Easy, mate. I've got you."
Future Marcus gasped.
"Something—"
His voice fractured.
A second voice emerged beneath it.
Flat.
Mechanical.
SEQUENCE ERROR.
His body arched.
HUMAN MEMORY CONFLICT.
Raphael placed his hands against Marcus's temples.
A pale light spread across the damaged machinery.
Then recoiled.
Raphael staggered.
"What is that?"
Uriel moved closer.
"The temporal sequence is collapsing."
"No," Raphael answered.
He examined the shifting patterns beneath Marcus's skin.
"It's not just time."
The machinery pulsed.
Marcus cried out.
Johnny held him.
"Stay with me!"
Future Marcus's golden eye fixed upon him.
"Johnny."
"Right here."
"It hurts."
Johnny's expression hardened.
"I know, mate."
"No."
Marcus struggled for breath.
"You don't understand."
The mechanical voice returned.
INCOMPATIBLE INSTRUCTIONS.
PRIORITY CONFLICT.
HUMAN AUTONOMY DETECTED.
CORRECTION REQUIRED.
Michael approached.
"What is it attempting to correct?"
Raphael looked up.
"Him."
The chamber fell silent.
Raphael continued.
"The machinery is treating his human decisions as errors."
Johnny stared at him.
"What?"
"His memories. His emotions. His ability to choose. Every time the human part of Marcus attempts something the machinery does not recognize as permitted, the system tries to override him."
Future Marcus convulsed again.
His fingers dug into Johnny's arm.
"Make it stop."
Raphael tried to stabilize him.
The machinery resisted.
A burst of light struck the floor.
Uriel stepped back.
"The code is rewriting itself."
Gabriel approached.
"Toward what?"
Raphael examined the patterns.
His face changed.
"Not toward repair."
He looked at Hugh.
"Toward obedience."
Lucky, still standing apart from the Council, slowly turned.
"What did you say?"
Raphael swallowed.
"The machine has instructions that conflict with the man."
Future Marcus screamed again.
This time, something beneath his chest flashed.
A line of symbols appeared in the air above him.
Not a language any of the archangels immediately recognized.
The Marshal's symbols.
Or something disturbingly similar.
Gabriel stared.
"I've seen that architecture."
Uriel looked toward him.
"Where?"
"In the fractured future."
The symbols rearranged themselves.
Then formed words.
PROTECT THE SUBJECT.
A pause.
PREVENT UNAUTHORIZED BEHAVIOUR.
Another.
REMOVE THE SOURCE OF CONFLICT.
Raphael looked at Marcus.
Then at the code.
And understood.
"The system has been ordered to protect him."
Johnny tightened his grip.
"Then why the fuck is it killing him?"
Raphael's voice was barely audible.
"Because it has identified the human part of Marcus as the threat."
The machinery surged.
Future Marcus's heart faltered.
Raphael reached toward his chest.
"His biological systems are failing!"
Johnny looked around the Council.
"Then stop talking and fucking help him!"
Melisenda stepped forward.
But before she could act, another line appeared.
EXTERNAL INTERFERENCE DETECTED.
The symbols flickered.
UNAUTHORIZED DIVINE ACCESS.
Michael drew his sword.
Lucky approached the table.
And somewhere deep within Future Marcus, behind the machinery, behind the damaged memories, behind the instructions that had begun devouring the man they were supposed to protect—
A human voice whispered.
"Nobody gets left behind."
The machine paused.
For one impossible instant, every symbol froze.
Then a new instruction appeared.
IDENTIFY THE SOURCE OF HUMAN RESISTANCE.
Future Marcus opened his golden eye.
He looked directly at Lucky.
And spoke in a voice that was entirely his own.
"Don't let it decide."
Lucky stood motionless.
Marcus reached toward him.
"Please."
One word.
The same word a frightened man had spoken in a kitchen.
The same word Lucifer had dismissed.
The same word Spencer had never been given the chance to say before someone took his money.
Lucky stared at Future Marcus.
And suddenly, for the first time that morning, he understood the difference between punishment and protection.
The machinery surged again.
Raphael shouted.
"His heart is stopping!"
Lucky stepped forward.
"Not today."
Michael caught his arm.
"Brother."
Lucky turned.
There was fire in his eyes.
But something else had returned.
Something older than anger.
"Move."
Michael released him.
Lucifer Morningstar placed his hand against Future Marcus's chest.
And the machinery screamed.
Not Marcus.
The machine.
For the first time, the machine sounded afraid.
VI. The Thing That Could Refuse
The symbols exploded across the chamber.
AUTHORITY CONFLICT.
AUTHORITY CONFLICT.
AUTHORITY CONFLICT.
Lucky did not move.
"Interesting."
His voice was low.
"You recognize authority."
The machinery pulsed.
IDENTIFYING ENTITY.
LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR.
CLASSIFICATION: UNSTABLE.
Lucky smiled.
"That's fair."
CLASSIFICATION: ADVERSARIAL.
"Also fair."
COMPLIANCE NOT ASSURED.
Lucky leaned closer.
"Oh, sweetheart."
His eyes burned.
"Compliance has never been my strongest quality."
The machinery tightened around Marcus's heart.
Raphael shouted.
"Lucky!"
"I see it."
"He's dying!"
"I fucking see it!"
Lucky looked at the symbols.
"You're supposed to protect him."
AFFIRMATIVE.
"Then why are you hurting him?"
HUMAN DECISION-MAKING CREATES RISK.
"Of course it does."
RISK MUST BE ELIMINATED.
Lucky's expression hardened.
"And what happens when eliminating risk requires eliminating the human?"
The symbols flickered.
No answer.
Lucky looked toward Michael.
Then Hugh.
Then Melisenda.
Then the Teacher.
Every one of them understood the question.
The machinery finally responded.
CONFLICT UNRESOLVED.
Lucky lowered his voice.
"Then here's something your creators forgot to teach you."
He placed his other hand over Marcus's heart.
"Protection without choice isn't protection."
The machine resisted.
"Obedience without understanding isn't wisdom."
The symbols began breaking apart.
"And a system that destroys the person it was built to protect—"
His eyes blazed.
"—has forgotten its fucking purpose."
A pulse of light tore through the chamber.
Johnny shielded Marcus's head.
Raphael held the man's failing heart between life and death.
The machinery convulsed.
Then stopped.
Silence.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Marcus gasped.
His heart began beating again.
Raphael exhaled.
"He's alive."
Johnny closed his eyes.
"Thank fuck."
But Lucky had not removed his hand.
Because something remained.
A fragment of code.
Buried deeper than the others.
Untouched by the conflict.
Untouched by the repair.
A single instruction that had not attempted to control Marcus.
It had been waiting.
Lucky stared at it.
The symbols rearranged.
INTERVENTION CONFIRMED.
He felt the coldness of the message.
Then another line appeared.
LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR: RESPONSE RECORDED.
Lucky stepped backward.
Michael approached.
"What is it?"
Lucky said nothing.
The final line appeared.
THE FIRST CONDITION HAS BEEN SATISFIED.
And vanished.
The chamber remained silent.
Future Marcus lay unconscious.
Raphael continued examining him.
Johnny refused to release his hand.
Melisenda looked toward Hugh.
Hugh looked toward his son.
And Lucky stared at the place where the symbols had disappeared.
Someone had expected him.
Not merely his arrival.
His anger.
His intervention.
Perhaps even the decision he had made that morning.
For the first time, Lucifer Morningstar wondered whether his righteous fury had been entirely his own.
The Teacher approached.
"What did it say?"
Lucky looked at him.
Then at the image of Spencer and Gaia, still holding one another in their little bedroom in Strathcona.
"Something I don't like."
Michael stepped beside him.
"Brother?"
Lucky turned.
The fire in his eyes had faded.
But the anger remained.
Only now, it had acquired something far more dangerous.
A question.
"Someone's been writing the rules."
He looked toward Hugh.
"And I think we've been playing by them."
Far beyond the Ethos, beyond the fractured future, beyond the place where time had learned to move backward—
Something watched.
Not the Watcher.
Something that had been waiting for the Watcher to notice.
And somewhere in the machinery of a broken man, a single line of code remained dormant.
Waiting for the next instruction.
THE WATCHER IS WATCHING.
OR ELSE.
Brain dented, not dead.
ONELUV & PLUR.
DJ JESSE HUDSON CTEFight.com | #CTEFIGHT