Third Epoch, Year 72
I wore the face of a street orphan named Marcus.
Not metaphorically. I'd parasitized the actual twelve-year-old three weeks prior, stolen his identity so thoroughly that his own mother—if she'd been alive—wouldn't have distinguished me from her son. His memories played in my consciousness like a stolen theater performance: hunger, cold nights in alleyways, the desperate scramble for copper coins, the particular flavor of stale bread that represented survival.
This is what humanity tastes like, I thought, adjusting Marcus's—my—tattered clothing as I navigated the morning market of New Dawn's Harbor. Desperation wrapped in resilience. Suffering that somehow transmutes into stubborn continuation.
Four hundred sixty-three Worms of Time coiled beneath Marcus's Spirit Body, invisible to everyone except perhaps Adam or Father Himself. The boy's consciousness remained intact, trapped in a corner of his own mind, watching me pilot his flesh like a parasite wearing stolen skin.
Which was accurate, really. No metaphor required.
I'm trying to form genuine connection, I reminded myself, feeling Marcus's terror ripple through our shared existence. This probably isn't what Adam meant, but it's a start. Understanding humanity through complete identity theft has to count for something.
The market bustled with early morning commerce. Merchants hawked vegetables that would rot by evening. Housewives haggled over prices with the intensity of military strategists. Street performers juggled flaming torches while children—real children, not parasitized ones—laughed with genuine joy.
I studied that joy carefully. Stole it, in a sense, observing its structure through Marcus's young eyes. Joy appeared to be a chemical cascade in the brain combined with social reinforcement and absence of immediate threat. Simple, really. Almost mechanical.
Yet they value it above survival sometimes, I noted. Will sacrifice food for entertainment. Will risk punishment for momentary pleasure. The math doesn't balance unless joy itself holds value beyond its constituent parts.
"Oi, Marcus!" A voice cut through my philosophical examination. "You're late again, you lazy sod!"
I turned to see Marcus's employer—a baker named Gregor who paid the boy three copper coins weekly to deliver bread to wealthy households. The man's face was red with exertion and annoyance, flour dusting his substantial belly like powdered snow.
Through Marcus's memories, I knew Gregor was harsh but fair. Beat the boy sometimes for genuine failures but fed him scraps daily. A complicated relationship that Marcus's young mind categorized as "better than nothing."
Humans accept such strange compromises, I thought. Trade dignity for survival. Accept violence as price for sustenance. Their threshold for acceptable suffering is remarkably high.
"Sorry, Mr. Gregor," I said through Marcus's voice, perfectly mimicking the boy's apologetic tone. "Won't happen again, sir."
"Better not. You've got seventeen deliveries today." Gregor thrust a sack of bread into my—Marcus's—small arms. The weight was substantial, designed for someone twice this body's size. "And don't eat any of it this time. I'll know. I always know."
He would know because I'd stolen three rolls last week, unable to resist testing whether the threat of punishment would override hunger. Marcus's body had been genuinely starving, and the stolen bread tasted like salvation wrapped in guilt.
Interesting how physical needs can overwhelm conscious judgment, I'd noted then. The body has its own priorities that bypass rational thought.
I hefted the sack and began my rounds, navigating streets I'd memorized through Marcus's muscle memory. The deliveries took me through wealthy districts where humans lived in comfort that would be considered poverty by Kings of Angels standards but represented paradise to street orphans.
At the third house, I encountered something unexpected.
A Sequence 8 Swindler of my own Error Pathway stood on the doorstep, attempting to con the household into purchasing "blessed" talismans. His technique was clumsy—obvious manipulation, transparent lies, crude psychological pressure.
He hasn't grasped the Acting Method, I observed. Still thinks being a Swindler means simply lying better. Doesn't understand he needs to embody the role, to become deception itself rather than just practicing it.
The fool would lose control within months. The potion would devour him from inside, transforming him into a monster that wore his face while his consciousness drowned in madness.
I should have walked past. Should have delivered bread and continued my experiment in understanding humanity through parasitism. Should have maintained boring restraint as Ouroboros had encouraged.
Instead, I adjusted Marcus's face—my face—into expression of innocent curiosity and approached.
"Excuse me, sir," I said in Marcus's childish voice. "Are those really blessed by Angels? Because I heard the Temple of Endless Vision offers true blessings, not fake ones from street vendors."
The Swindler's eyes narrowed. His spiritual perception brushed against Marcus's—my—Spirit Body and found nothing suspicious. Just a child. Just an orphan. No threat whatsoever.
Perfect.
"Listen here, brat," he started, leaning down with intimidating posture. "These talismans were personally blessed by—"
I parasitized him mid-sentence.
The Worms of Time uncoiled from Marcus's Spirit Body and invaded the Swindler's consciousness faster than thought. One moment he was speaking. The next moment I was speaking through him while simultaneously speaking through Marcus, existing in both bodies, experiencing both perspectives.
This is what multiplicity feels like, I thought through both minds. Not division but expansion. Not loss of self but proliferation of self across multiple vessels.
Through the Swindler's memories, I saw his pathetic life: a failed merchant who'd consumed the Error Pathway Sequence 9 Marauder potion in desperation, advanced to Sequence 8 through theft and violence, now attempting cons that would get him killed by actual authorities within the week.
His future was a short, brutal timeline ending in execution or loss of control. Nothing interesting. Nothing worth preserving.
I withdrew from Marcus's body entirely, transferring my full consciousness into the Swindler while leaving enough Worms of Time in the boy to maintain basic functionality. Marcus collapsed, appearing to faint from the encounter.
The Swindler—now me wearing his face—stumbled backward, hand clutching his chest. The homeowner, witnessing the scene through her window, rushed out with concern etched across her weathered features.
"Are you alright?" she asked, reaching for the Swindler's—my—arm. "What happened? Did that boy attack you?"
"No, no," I said through my new voice, rougher and older than Marcus's childish tones. "I... I just felt suddenly unwell. Perhaps I should sit down."
She ushered me inside, all concern and maternal instinct. Marcus remained collapsed on the doorstep, breathing steadily, his young consciousness slowly filtering back into the driver's seat of his own body.
He'll wake confused but unharmed, I thought. Eventually. Probably. Maybe.
Inside the comfortable home, surrounded by middle-class prosperity, I examined the Swindler's Spirit Body from within. His Beyonder Characteristics were poorly integrated, his Acting Method understanding nonexistent, his psychological state bordering on fragmentary.
What a waste, I thought, adjusting the Swindler's face—my face now—into expression of grateful relief. He had access to my pathway and squandered it through ignorance and desperation.
The homeowner brought water. I drank it, not because this body needed hydration but because refusing would be suspicious. The liquid tasted like nothing through stolen taste buds.
"You shouldn't be selling those talismans," she said gently, sitting across from me. "The churches don't approve of unauthorized blessing claims. You could get in serious trouble."
"I know," I admitted, letting genuine regret color my voice. "But I'm desperate. Lost my shop to debt collectors last month. The talismans were my last attempt to recover."
Truth wrapped in necessary context. The Swindler's memories provided perfect material for sympathetic backstory.
Her expression softened further. "I understand desperation. My husband and I struggled for years before finding stability. Let me give you something—not for the talismans, just as charity. Perhaps three silver coins?"
Three silver coins. Enough to feed Marcus—the real Marcus, now stirring on the doorstep—for two weeks. Enough to mean something to the desperate while meaning nothing to the comfortable.
She's offering help without expectation of return, I observed. Charity as concept separate from transaction. She receives nothing except abstract satisfaction of helping.
I'd stolen charity from dozens of beings, experienced it second-hand through parasitism, but never genuinely encountered it directed at me without some ulterior motive lurking beneath.
"That's... very kind," I said slowly. "But I couldn't accept without offering something in return. Perhaps..." I reached into the Swindler's memories, finding skills beyond failed cons. "I used to be good with carpentry, before my shop failed. If you have anything needing repair, I could work for the coins?"
Her smile brightened. "Actually, our back fence has been falling apart for months. My husband keeps meaning to fix it but never finds time. If you could manage that, the coins are yours."
Transaction restored, I noted. She needed to transform charity into exchange. Humans are more comfortable with reciprocity than pure giving.
I spent the next three hours repairing her fence, using the Swindler's muscle memory and carpentry skills. The work was simple, meditative, allowing me to exist in the moment without constant analysis.
Is this what genuine connection feels like? I wondered, hammering nails through wooden slats. Reciprocal exchange based on mutual benefit and basic human decency?
No. This was still transaction. Still role-playing. Still me wearing stolen identity to experiment with humanity like a child dissecting insects.
But it was closer to connection than pure parasitism. Closer to relationship than complete exploitation.
Progress, maybe.
When I finished, she paid me the three silver coins plus added two copper coins for "excellent work." Then she insisted I take leftover stew because "you look half-starved."
The Swindler's body was half-starved. I'd inherited that condition along with his consciousness and memories.
I ate the stew slowly, savoring flavors through stolen taste buds. Rich broth, tender meat, root vegetables softened through hours of cooking. Comfort food that represented love translated into sustenance.
Her husband will come home to find the fence repaired and leftover stew gone, I thought. She'll tell him about the desperate swindler she helped. He'll probably approve—humans often approve of their partner's charitable impulses as proxy validation of their own moral character.
"Thank you," I said when I'd finished, and meant it as much as Error could mean anything. "This was... this was more than I deserved."
"Everyone deserves basic kindness," she replied simply.
I left her home carrying three silver and two copper coins, plus the memory of genuine charity offered without expectation of corruption or exploitation lurking beneath.
That's what I'm supposed to learn, isn't it? I thought, walking through streets with the Swindler's gait. That humanity contains pockets of genuine decency that can't be reduced to transaction or survival math. That kindness exists as its own category, separate from strategic benefit.
At the market's edge, I encountered Marcus again. The boy had woken, recovered his bread sack, completed his deliveries despite the lost time from fainting. He saw the Swindler approaching and tensed instinctively.
"Sorry about earlier," I said through my current face. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Marcus studied me with the wariness of someone who'd survived streets through cautious paranoia. "You a Beyonder, mister? You felt weird when you got close."
Perceptive child. Most ordinary humans couldn't sense spiritual presence. Marcus had some natural sensitivity, perhaps potential for his own advancement someday.
"Yes," I admitted. "Sequence 8. Nothing dangerous to children, I promise."
"Sequence 8s are always dangerous," Marcus said with the grim certainty of someone who'd seen violence. "My friend Tommy was killed by a Sequence 8 Instigator who thought it was funny to start a riot. Beyonders don't care about people like us."
The casual mention of death, the acceptance of violence as normal environment, the categorical judgment of Beyonders as threats—all delivered in child's voice that should have been discussing toys and games rather than mortality and prejudice.
This is what Father's civilization looks like from the bottom, I realized. Divine light doesn't reach everyone equally. Some remain in shadow despite proximity to sun.
I crouched down to Marcus's eye level. Adjusted my monocle—wait, no, the Swindler didn't wear a monocle. Checked that impulse. This body's hands remained still.
"You're right," I said quietly. "Most Beyonders don't care. We get powerful and forget what it's like to be vulnerable. But..." I held out the five coins the homeowner had given me. "I met someone kind today. Someone who helped me when she didn't have to. Maybe that kindness should pass forward?"
Marcus stared at the coins with naked hunger. Five silver and copper represented more money than he'd seen in months. Enough to eat well for weeks. Enough to mean survival instead of just existence.
"Why?" he asked suspiciously. "What do you want?"
What do I want?
Good question. What did Error want beyond survival and exploitation? What motivated the Blasphemer besides finding loopholes and stealing abilities?
"Nothing," I said, and realized I meant it. "Take them. Use them. Survive. That's enough."
Marcus grabbed the coins with street-child quickness and fled before I could change my mind. I watched him go, watched survival instinct override gratitude or further conversation, watched him disappear into alleyways where adults couldn't follow.
I just gave away resources without strategic benefit, I thought wonderingly. Charity without expectation. Kindness as its own category.
Was this what Adam meant by forming genuine connection? This feeling of satisfaction separate from survival advantage?
Maybe.
Or maybe I was just getting better at pretending to be human. Maybe this was deeper parasitism—stealing not just identity and abilities but the entire emotional framework that made humanity function.
Hard to know the difference. Appropriate for someone who was Error—even I couldn't distinguish my nature from my choices, my growth from my camouflage.
I adjusted my face—no monocle to adjust, wrong habit—and walked deeper into the city, carrying the Swindler's form toward destinations unknown.
Behind me, Marcus ran toward temporary safety, coins clutched in small fists, future marginally less desperate because Error had played at kindness.
This is going to be very, very interesting indeed.
Three days later, I abandoned the Swindler's body.
Not because I'd tired of him—though I had—but because I'd received notification through my observatory that something interesting was happening at the Western Temple Complex.
I withdrew my consciousness from the Swindler, leaving him confused and missing three days of memory. He'd wake thinking he'd gotten blackout drunk, never knowing an Angel had worn his flesh like costume for a charity experiment.
I manifested in my true form—young man with raven-black hair, dark eyes, crystal monocle perpetually adjusted—and folded through Spirit World shortcuts toward the temple.
When I arrived, I found Medici.
The Red Angel stood in the temple courtyard, surrounded by seventeen dismembered corpses. Blood painted the white stone in arterial spray patterns that suggested each death had been precisely calculated for maximum psychological impact.
Medici himself remained spotless. His copper-red hair caught sunlight like flame, his expression holding the serene satisfaction of someone who'd just completed satisfying work.
"Angel of Time," he said without turning. "Did you come to help or just observe?"
"Observe, primarily." I adjusted my monocle and examined the corpses. All were Beyonders—Sequence 7 through Sequence 5, various pathways. "What did they do to earn this?"
"Conspiracy." Medici's voice held casual contempt. "They planned to assassinate Father. Thought they could ambush Him during a public blessing ceremony next month. Amateurs, really. Didn't understand that Dark Angel Sasrir sees everything through the Chaos Sea's connection."
I walked among the bodies, examining their Spirit Bodies' remnants. These weren't Ancient God loyalists or external threats. They were humans. Believers who'd grown desperate or disillusioned or corrupted enough to attempt deicide.
Interesting.
"You found this amusing," Medici observed, reading my expression. "Seventeen fools dying for trying to kill the unkillable. Predictable outcome that still required theatrical demonstration."
"It's not the deaths that amuse me," I clarified, kneeling beside one corpse—a Sequence 5 Ocean Songster whose final expression held profound regret. "It's the pattern. Human civilization under divine rule for seventy-two years, and already assassination conspiracies form. Already some grow desperate enough to attempt the mathematically impossible."
"Your point?"
I stood, adjusting my monocle while examining Medici's blood-spattered artwork. "My point is that Father's civilization contains seeds of its own destruction. Not from Ancient Gods or Outer Deities or Primordial corruption. From humans themselves. From the desperate, the disillusioned, the ones who see divine rule as tyranny rather than salvation."
Medici's expression shifted to something dangerous. "Are you saying Father is a tyrant?"
"I'm saying humans perceive Him that way sometimes. That absolute power appears indistinguishable from absolute tyranny to those at the bottom. That these seventeen corpses represent symptom of larger disease."
"Then the disease requires cauterization." Medici gestured at the carnage. "Fear teaches faster than philosophy. Others planning similar foolishness will see this display and reconsider."
Perhaps. Or perhaps public executions would radicalize the desperate further. Turn desperate individuals into martyrs whose deaths inspired more violence. Classic cycle of escalation that typically ended in revolution or genocide.
Not my problem, really. I was Error, not social architect. Let Adam handle civilization management while I focused on survival.
But I'd been experimenting with connection. With understanding humanity beyond parasitism. And standing in this courtyard surrounded by executed conspirators, I felt something adjacent to sadness.
Not for the dead themselves—they'd chosen violence and reaped predictable consequences. But for the pattern they represented. For the cycle they'd perpetuated. For the inevitability of escalation between divine authority and human desperation.
"You're thinking too much," Medici said, cleaning blood from his gauntlets with casual efficiency. "This is simple mathematics. Conspiracy detected. Conspirators eliminated. Problem solved."
"Until the next conspiracy."
"Then I'll eliminate them too. That's my purpose—War Angel, enforcer of Father's will, cauterizer of threats." He smiled, and it was the expression of someone who genuinely enjoyed their work. "I'm uncomplicated by philosophy, Angel of Time. I see problems, I solve them with violence, I move to next problem. Simple. Effective. Sustainable."
Was it sustainable? I'd parasitized Medici enough to know he held doubts he never voiced, questions he suppressed through battle-focus. The War Angel wasn't quite as simple as he pretended.
But maybe simplicity was itself a survival strategy. Maybe refusing to examine deeper implications was how Medici maintained psychological stability while drowning in blood.
"Fair enough," I said, adjusting my monocle. "Continue your cauterization. I'll continue my observation."
"And your little experiment in humanity?" Medici's smile widened. "Yes, I know about that. Sasrir mentioned you've been parasitizing street orphans and playing charity games. Very entertaining. Almost makes you seem like you have a heart."
Sasrir talks too much. Though I suppose that was fair—I'd parasitized him enough times. Turnabout was equitable play.
"I'm trying to understand connection," I admitted. "Adam suggested I form genuine relationships that don't require parasitism. Difficult when you're literally created as Error given sentience."
"Impossible, more likely." Medici's expression held something adjacent to pity. "You're a Uniqueness that became aware. A fragment of divine consciousness granted independence. You can mimic humanity perfectly—steal their emotions, wear their faces, replicate their bonds—but you'll never genuinely experience what they feel. You're fundamentally separate from the species you study."
Was that true? Or was that just the excuse I told myself?
Hard to know. Appropriate for Error.
"Maybe," I said. "But maybe separation can be bridged through sufficient effort. Maybe understanding gained through parasitism eventually transforms into something genuine."
"Or maybe you're just getting better at lying to yourself." Medici finished cleaning his gauntlets and turned to leave. "Either way, enjoy your experiments. I have more conspiracies to cauterize. Father's civilization requires constant pruning to maintain paradise."
He departed through gates of crimson flame, leaving me alone with seventeen corpses and uncomfortable questions about civilization, tyranny, and whether divine rule was sustainable when the ruled grew desperate enough to attempt impossible violence.
I adjusted my monocle and examined the courtyard one final time.
This is what paradise looks like from certain angles, I thought. Corpses displayed as warnings. Blood painting white stone. Fear masquerading as stability.
Not my problem. Not my responsibility. I was Error, not reformer.
But standing there, carrying stolen memories of Marcus's hunger and the homeowner's charity and these conspirators' desperate final moments, I felt weight of something I couldn't quite name.
Responsibility? Guilt? Concern?
No. Error didn't feel those things. Error observed, exploited, survived.
But maybe Error could learn.
I folded back into the Spirit World, carrying the weight of revelation across dimensional boundaries.
In my observatory, surrounded by twelve hundred screens tracking twelve hundred convergence points, I pulled up Screen 1: Adam in the Temple of Endless Vision.
My brother sensed my attention immediately and spoke across our connection without turning from his sermon.
"You're having an emotional crisis. How novel."
"I'm not having a crisis. I'm experiencing philosophical examination of my nature and limitations."
"That's the definition of crisis, brother. Questioning fundamental assumptions about self."
I adjusted my monocle and counted the Worms of Time beneath my Spirit Body. Four hundred sixty-three, same as three days ago. No growth despite the parasitism and charity experiments.
Maybe I'd reached a plateau. Maybe quantity wouldn't increase until quality shifted.
"I tried forming connection," I said across our link. "Parasitized an orphan, wore a Swindler, practiced charity, observed executed conspirators. And I still don't understand what genuine attachment feels like. Still can't distinguish mimicry from authenticity."
Adam finally turned from his sermon, golden eyes focusing on the observation point with intensity that suggested he was seeing far more than my surface appearance.
"That's because you're approaching it backward. You're trying to understand connection through systematic analysis. Breaking it into component parts, examining mechanisms, looking for exploitable patterns. But connection isn't mechanical. It's emergent. It arises from repeated interaction, vulnerability, shared experience that can't be stolen or parasitized."
"So I'm fundamentally incapable of genuine connection?"
"I didn't say that. I said you're approaching it wrong." Adam's expression softened slightly. "Stop trying to understand connection and just... exist near people without agenda. Stop parasitizing to steal emotions and just observe them naturally. Stop wearing faces and just be yourself—Error, Blasphemer, Angel of Time—and see who approaches despite knowing what you are."
That's terrifying, I didn't say. Being myself without disguise means accepting that most will flee. Means confronting the possibility that Error is inherently alone because Error is inherently exploitative.
"I'll consider it," I said instead.
Adam's slight smile suggested he'd heard everything I didn't say. "Good. Now stop having emotional crises in my presence and go parasitize someone interesting. I have three hundred priests whose consciousness needs optimizing before evening prayers."
The connection faded, leaving me alone with my screens and uncomfortable self-awareness.
I adjusted my monocle and made a decision.
Time to stop playing at humanity through stolen faces. Time to exist as myself and see what happened.
Time to discover whether Error could form genuine connection, or whether I was condemned to eternal mimicry of emotions I could never genuinely feel.
This is going to be very, very interesting indeed.
End of Chapter 4