“Wrong.”
Hewah flipped the young woman effortlessly, taking the immense force of her punch and redirecting it into the mat below. She slapped to the ground with a heavy thwap that echoed off the mirrors in the dojo.
“Somebody tell me what she did wrong.”
Prometheus was quick to use the error. Millennia of training many different generations throughout human history solidified each golden moment in teachability. Hewah stood up straight, crossed his arms. Both trainers wore light workout equipment, while the various trainees wore different gi styles.
A man in his early thirties raised a hand. If he was afraid of Hewah, The God of Fire, or Prometheus, The God of Lightning, both members of the Guardian High Council, he didn’t show it. The other ascended trainees held their breath. Some looked older, wizened. But most looked young, the most beautiful examples of humanity the gods could gather across a dozen worlds. Survivors of a procedure with a known 25% success rate over death.
“The strength of one’s soul – dictates.”
So went the old Guardians of Destiny propaganda. “Shepherd talk.” The rest purported to “ascend” to whatever their version of heaven was instead.
The young man spoke earnestly. Level headed.
“She sent all of her force forwards. She used all her power in one punch, and The God of Fire was able to counter such a straightforward move.”
Prometheus clapped his hands once, made a display of sparks and arcing white electricity between his two palms that made a majority of the trainees flinch. The smallest displays of power to accentuate one’s charisma and presence were always amusing to Hewah. He relished the theatrics of it in growing new pupils. Plus, flexing one’s might was an old classic amongst gods within the Guardians – it was politics and passion towards a sentiment more than anything. That everpresent dance for the public eye, corrupted and wrangled as it already was, as had been for centuries already.
“Excellent, young God of Brass!”
Hewah stepped forwards.
“A simple move like that will work a good majority of the time against your lessers. Battlefield tactics against the right enemy unit as appropriate. Perfect toolbox item for your first tour across the fronts. Mortals are fragile, even those in Seraph suits. Less somewhat a Dread Knight or Harlequin Knight who has forsaken much of their inherent divine humanity in lieu of machinery or gene splicing. It might work well in a dozen battles before the enemy adjusts, uses strategy to outwit you like Hewah, or they simply decide to crush you with overwhelming force. Fighting other immortals… Or other dangers… Is a completely different story.”
A stunned silence lingered in the dojo as each trainee looked forwards into their own futures using similar simplistic strategies. Some had Guardian Army or Navy backgrounds, amongst them. Some of the best military minds in the Theocracy.
“Some of our finest across the ages, focused only on enhancing their physical prowess with their powers. I know it is tradition amongst some god cabals – Death, Wind, with their respective interpretative ideologies and roles about or within our many shared faiths. There is no shame in devoting yourself at some percentage to a single style such as this. But the flexibility of your utility is entirely up to you as an ascendant. There are some dark gods who have mastered the styles of their peers, and some have even surpassed them. Such was the area of the heresy within any number of our era of years. We have our fallen heroes throughout the ages to look back and reflect upon. The achievements of other gods from across the millennia.”
Another hand from the same young woman nursing her shoulder from the throw.
“Lightning, sir. Who are the most powerful gods, based on either victory in combat, or simple application as to width or depth of power?”
A whistle from Hewah at that. He had grown wise over time since his own ascension some three or four millennia ago. Who could count? Everything blurred together after a while. But these newer successive generations of the ascended amongst humanity… Even headhunting them – the average intelligence and physical capability was simply impressive. Gene therapy, cloning applications, and gene remixing really had gone hog wild since X-2. More than he cared to admit out loud. Ascension only juiced such a start even harder. Nobody on the council wanted to admit out loud or to the public that the success rate was wavering between twenty five and thirty these days.
“Well, Cinder. You just asked one of the most dangerous questions known to mankind.”
Prometheus exchanged a look with Hewah, who nodded, then thumbed a direction whilst he nonchalantly offered a shrug.
The one way mirror along the one side of the dojo loomed ominously. Only the two instructors knew of the council majority lurking behind it, observing. Prometheus got the jist of the answer.
Judging. Observing. Considering every interaction. Even scanning potential traces of thinking in need of re-education or another Shepherd’s careful hand upon theirs.
The God of Lightning removed the hand from his thoughtful stubbled chin. Hewah smiled, remembering David as it was carved. Another brilliant mind they had to keep close tabs on until his eventual death long ago. A prototype for what Shifter, back when he was Doctor, would become so many years later.
“I would consider that the most powerful were those three that were touched by The Creator himself, rather than by extension. Serania, The God of Justice. Xex, The God of Control, and Jikos, The God of Chaos. Those who received power directly from the source, rather than being recreated to a lesser extent by the subsequent indirect generations of powers to come. Some scholars even theorize on a weaker dilution of power or immortality the further we go from his grace, in our reproducing his gifts with our own powers. As you are new ascendant immortals yourselves, having just passed the ritual still breathing – I think it’s appropriate to tell you that who and how many participate in your ritual can affect the results, although not very much. Diminishing returns as far as we’ve seen after a point. Like the universe itself resists our very worship. Much debate there amongst scholars, indeed.”
A stern nodding of the head from Hewah. But it was The God of Fire who spoke next.
“The limits of a god’s powers extend as far as they can exert force upon matter and energy in close proximity. The ability to shape visual image and application of mass, strength, or will as appropriate. Depending on what techniques or styles they utilize, and the extent to which they train, the range can vary, but never more than a few hundred meters. The universe continues to resist us beyond that. Spacetime seeming to warp or distort slightly if we try. Like us gods are some sort of contagion upon our Central Universe itself. The scope or scale can vary wildly. Simple telekinesis and body enhancement are subtle talents developed early after ascension.”
Prometheus grinned, getting into it and looking sidelong at the mirror. He remembered back to the times he truly pushed himself almost to the point of breaking. The thunderstorms that almost killed him, pulling at the very atmosphere in large swaths. He was sure the intended pause for conversation might help his colleagues gossip.
He took a breath.
“There are those who have trained in the art of combustion and thermal redirection far beyond even Hewah in the Central Universe. Not that I’d ever speak the names. I’ve seen flames as blue-hot as young stars, melting armor, flesh, and even cremating bone down to ashes at unbelievable speeds. Trust me. Powers are all about how you use them and develop them. Our enemy God-Emperor’s insane physical strength and speed being exponents ahead of ours somehow pales to me in the open knowledge that he can overcome your very sense of identity and belief with only a subtle whisper of his full suite of powers – collected over seventy six thousand years. That knowledge is dangerous, even stolen as his most major boost of power was by blatant heresy.”
Another hand, from a boy who looked no more than sixteen.
“Sirs, why is every god just a god, and not a goddess?”
Thank fuck. An easy question.
“The title is one that cannot be confined to gender, or even human form. There are those who have died in the pursuit of greater forms. Such research and experimentation is now heresy in this modern era of the Guardians of Destiny for a good reason, Silence. Bone protrusions on your knuckles or ribcages like the many Gods of Death in their specific tribe are one thing – close range reapers as they are. They believe in closeness with those you kill, after all.”
Hewah interjected. Suddenly, with a raised finger.
Prometheus raised an eyebrow.
“Their Death Tribe’s religious rites involve being a comforting too-close presence as an incarnation of death itself. Replacing pieces of yourself and changing your form as transhumanism of any kind outside of cosmetic or needed wartime prosthetic pursuits – aside from such a specific tradition, is strictly illegal post-ascension. The time for such things was before you became a god, little ones. It is incredibly difficult against your regeneration. Any hint you are considering say; The Path of The Harlequin, and I’ll execute you myself – no guillotine required. Bare fucking hands.”
Another deafening silence. The mirror loomed large as each trainee considered the council members who might be lurking beyond. Some young ascendees had caught on by now to the specific choice of a dojo for this training session – often mirrored on most sides to observe martial arts technique. Poor questions, as well as those that pushed boundaries, each was appealing to each possible mentor in unique ways. Some knowledgeable about The G.O.D. in the space even had a few hopeful choice picks.
Talent Scouting, Meat Market… Hewah wondered which was which.
Bah. Enough time for “behind the mirror psychoanalysis.”
“Enough questions! Let’s get back into some sparring! Who wants to go next? Prom?”
An older gentleman in his late forties stood up. Prometheus nodded.
Strange to be selected for ascension at such an age. The Guardians and Armada always favored the young. Experience was seen to come with the progress of immortality. Besides, the propaganda – of young, beautiful, sexy allosexual bodies – it was simply too useful to change their ways now. Such things as Cinderella Stories simply didn’t happen anymore. At least not within the G.O.D. And that had been since about 250AD.
The Years of Doubt. The 21st Century sure did sneak up on them fast!
“I’ll take you on sir.”
They assumed stances in the traditional style, at each corner of the mat. The rest spread themselves out around the edges of the mirrors, seated.
Gods needed a lot of space.
Nine students in all.
They bowed to each other, a slight bobbing of the heads as needless formality.
“Begin.”
Then there was an enormous crackling of thunder. An arc of lightning snaked out from Prometheus’ extended finger, caricatured in the shape of a gun.
The bolt of lightning hit the man and threw him backwards faster than most in the room could track. The walls shook with the thunderclap. Hewah sidestepped the six feet or so and caught him, confirming his unconscious state by catching the limp body and shaking a free hand of the discharge.
“Dead?”
Hewah shook his head. Gave a thumbs up.
“Class, remember that even as fresh immortal blood, you are now much stronger than any mere mortal human. What might kill a human through simple shock will heal for you in minutes, hours, days or weeks depending on your power. We’re not going to be pulling any punches here today. Basic healing via working knowledge and application of biology, anatomy, and medicine is a good skill to master first. That little issue of simple physical resilience is partly why open relationships between gods and mortals is forbidden. In the public eye – it is to eliminate conflicts of interest amongst other things. But I shant tell you about the pelvises shattered so completely throughout human history as to cause death in moments.”
The woman from earlier rubbed her shoulder. Hewah grinned in a way that denoted a commonality amongst genders in that prior knowledge.
“NEXT!”
Hewah took the place of The God of Lightning.
The man in his thirties stood up. Raised his hand slightly as his lips perked into the tiniest of smiles.
“Alright God of Brass, let’s see what you got.”
The two squared up. Hewah might have appeared initially to be only ten years older, yet the difference was vast, even in body language, tension, and posture. The younger man bowed, deep and full.
Hewah returned the respect.
It was much unlike the previous bout.
“Begin.”
Hewah began with a spectacle to match Prometheus this time, more performative than utility-driven. Nine small orange fireballs combusted into existence as tiny suns, glowing and casting orange across the mirrors with intense light and radiant heat. He moved his hands and body, directing them in a wide circle around himself, each in a unique orbit.
They criss-crossed as a spherical layer of armor – orbits denying any direct physical attacks for fear of burns or combustion.
“Ready, kiddo?”
A gout of flame from the palm of the younger man washed across the room, forcing Hewah to redirect it into his own constellation of flames. The tiny suns flared brightly as they fed on the kinetic, heat, and light energy.
“Cheeky fuck!”
Hewah surged forwards, peeling a streamer of orange flame from somewhere in orbit around him and snaking it back towards the young man. The faces of most trainees in the room were flushed already and beading sweat from the waves of heat. The young man pushed force into the floor beneath him, allowing his calves to shoot him sideways beyond the impact point of the fire streamer.
The gout of flame hit the mirror and scattered across it in a spray of flames. The colored foam, rubber lined mats sizzled and melted where droplets of fire sprayed across them in a rainbow arc.
“Not so fast!”
Hewah sent two of the orbiting fireballs hurtling outwards as a feint, ducking quickly in a jigging left and right pattern as he charged faster than the slower projectiles could close the gap.
Before the young man could react properly, Hewah had raised his arm and snatched him up in a Half Nelson, twisting him around despite standing a good ten feet away. The two fireballs slammed into the younger man, twisting themselves into the target and burning black holes in his gei and even into his beige abdominal muscles.
“Teachable moment!”
Hewah lifted his free hand from across the mat, and the young man was pulled higher into the air out of the handhold, gasping and choking with strained effort as he clutched at his own throat trying to relieve the invisible pressure.
“Brass here forgets that weaving together multiple styles is crucial to victory against another ascendant. I may specialize in fire, yes. But Black Armada gods won’t be as kind as myself or Prometheus when it comes to distracting you with flashy fire or lightning before sending a simple pebble at subsonic speeds through your eye socket.”
Prometheus spoke up.
“And while you can heal most things aside from missing limbs, a bullet to the head is still a bullet to the head. Doesn’t matter if you’re sixteen or three thousand.”
The God of Lightning’s eyes bored a hole into the youngest pupil in the room.
Hewah released his grip, and the fireballs winked out in spurts of flame and wisps of black smoke. The younger man dropped to the mats, massaging the darker bruised skin of his throat. The bruise was already fading slightly at the edges.
“NEXT!”
The man returned to the edges of the dojo, and Prometheus took his turn.
The woman with black hair took the mats next. She seemed to have gritted herself seeing the damage the other two had endured. She bowed before Prometheus could even dip his head in acknowledgement.
“Begin.”
She moved quickly, funneling her powers into her legs the way they had first learned. A zig-zag pattern helped her dodge three quick arcs of electricity in short succession as she closed the gap. Her technique was flawed slightly, in that the waves of force made small popping sounds against the mats beneath each leg as she moved rather than being finely tuned to dissipate outwards without much sound. Fine control of each application of ascendant powers was a matter of technique of course, but it hardly mattered much against the background noise of the front lines. Prometheus as a star of propaganda reveled in such arrogant displays as letting thunderclaps ring out as loudly as possible. It had become such a staple that Guardian military protocol had been created across centuries – inventing a new feint and attached psychological warfare tactic of blasting the sounds of thunder to fool the enemy falsely about his potential presence.
“Taking advantage of my preference for range, eh?”
Prometheus shifted his body language and stance, swivelling his side to meet her. Then he became a blur, darting to the side seemingly without even moving his body. The woman tried to copy it, shoving herself with telekinesis in a similar hovering glide with much less precision. Her toes dragged the floor. Yet it still jolted her backwards just in time to avoid a fist crackling and arcing with blue electricity that whipped across her neckline. She fell back into a sitting position, struggling and kicking her legs to move further back in a crab crawl.
“Gotcha!”
Prometheus backed up all the way, then pushed himself, kicking off the mirror behind him with a mighty shattering of glass. The collective of figures seated behind it held up hands to part the sea of fragments to the sides, away from the seated chairs and standees within.
Prometheus brought his fist forward with a sonic boom behind it, punching the woman in the sternum and spiraling her backwards the two feet into the mirror opposite. Hewah jerked trainees to the side with a pull of telekinesis as she cratered into the wall and crumpled to the floor amidst the scattering shards of glass, most of her ribs and sternum clearly broken, with a few compound fractures to boot.
Prometheus turned to the collective of council members behind the shattered pane of glass.
“Overdid it a little bit.”
He grinned at Hewah.
“We’re going to need to start doing these in a hangar lined with crash pads or something.”
The dojo doors hissed open as medical teams and members of the High Council Guard rushed in, beginning to gather up and tend to those battered and bruised from the onslaught of the two mentors. Other minor gods from the Creation Tribe were being called to repair the dojo, a much different and more efficient repair process than the usual frustrating bureaucracy and work order hellscape of the rest of the organization.
Prometheus extended his arms against the flow of staff entering the space, towards his colleagues behind the open gap of the observation room.
“Well, folks? See any you like?”
Several gods gasped.
Hewah grinned.
Beelzebub scoffed.
Julian chortled.
Serania scowled.
