Chapter 550

The year was 2042. Dust swirled through the streets of Falmouth, Jamaica, coating everything in a film of reddish-brown. It was not just any dust; it was the residue of burnt silicon, a grim byproduct of the GPU wars. Omar, a man of 41 years, coughed, pulling his threadbare shirt higher over his mouth.

The market square, once vibrant with vendors selling their wares, now presented scattered remnants of shattered tech and the faint, metallic scent of blood.

"Damn scavengers," he muttered, his voice rough. He had witnessed their desperate fights firsthand, the madness in their eyes as they ripped apart discarded motherboards for scraps.

His old home, or what was left of it, stood at the end of the street. The corrugated metal roof sagged, and the walls were charred. A constant reminder.

Omar remembered a period when graphics cards were readily available. They could obtain new parts within a logical, calm time frame. Now they have become as rare and valuable as gold, more precious than diamonds, really.

The companies, giant corporations that cared little for anyone, had tightened their grip, limiting supply, ignoring all their customer's, their "fan's", screams for availability, for reasonable prices, and eventually deciding not to work with retailers at all. The gamers had revolted. It escalated from online outrage to real-world conflict.

His older brother, Donovan, a programming savant, had been on the front lines, leading hacking groups. The digital battles that eventually went outside the homes, outside the forums. He was gone. Killed in the raids against warehouses where shipments of next-gen GPUs sat. Waiting.

Omar clutched the small, worn circuit board he kept tucked inside his pocket. A part of Donovan's last project, a device intended to circumvent the companies' stranglehold. Donovan's weapon of resistance, and he died with it unfinished.

"They thought it'd be over quick," Omar said to the empty room. "Underestimate gamers, every time." His own words provided little comfort. He spoke to his memory. To Donovan, often now.

That evening, under the eerie orange glow of the dying sun, he ventured towards the outskirts of town. Whispers of a black market deal reached him – a chance, however slim, to get working components.

The air was unusually cool and a dry wind carried whispers—or maybe it was just his anxiety. The feeling of eyes on him, unseen, unfelt, but present, did not escape him.

He reached the designated meeting spot: an abandoned sugar mill. Its skeletal remains stood sentinel against the darkening sky, it looked haunting under a partial moon.

Shadowy figures moved through the debris. Omar's heart pounded in his chest. Each step brought a new layer of stress and discomfort. He felt it, knew it, deeply,

"You have it?" a gruff voice demanded from the dark. A figure stepped forward, features obscured by the gloom, but their bulk clear even in darkness.

Omar held up the small payment he'd been able to secure—a rare, functioning hard drive. "I want a 7090. Nothing less," Omar responded. The words sounded hollow, even to him.

The figure chuckled. A hollow, grating sound that resonated in the darkness. The fear was not visible, it had long been replaced by resignation, by anger,

"Ambitious, aren't we? You'll get what you're given. If you're lucky." Other shapes emerged, surrounding Omar. Their intent seemed plain, their power absolute in this place.

He stiffened but held his ground. "Donovan sent me. Said you'd understand the urgency." He spoke the brother's name he hated speaking, hated bringing out in such company.

A flicker of something—recognition?—passed across the leader's hidden face. "Donovan's dead, and what's 'urgent' is how many you managed to upset."

Before Omar could react, something heavy struck him from behind. Pain erupted through his skull, a searing flash that consumed his vision.

He collapsed, his fingers still clutching the circuit board. Darkness crept, closing at his consciousness, and swallowing it whole.

When Omar awoke, he was tied to a chair. His head throbbed. The room was illuminated by a single flickering light, illuminating just a touch too little.

The leader of the group circled him. "This," he began, picking up Donovan's board, "is useless without Donovan. And we don't trust you. Do you hear that?"

Omar tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, his tongue heavy. A wordless grunt escaped his lips. Fear. Regret. It all flooded him, even as the world was muted by pain.

"We can't afford loose ends," the leader continued. He turned toward the others and barked "Any word? News from on high? Anything yet?,"

A woman stepped forward. "Still nothing. Silence. Like a damn vacuum out there."

Another man snorted, an extremely rough and disgusting sound that conveyed much meaning.. "Makes me miss the corporate drones. Least they pretended to care, unlike that jerk,"

"What did Donovan see? A god amongst men? What did the fat clown see that makes him fit to tell people anything. To have so many follow his idiocy," a different voice asked

Another added. "A false prophet and a conman, through and through. He does not deserve what was gifted to him. Should be strung up,". The contempt clear, very very clear

Omar strained, but a sharp pain to his temple had him giving that idea up quickly.

The leader approached and, in one continuous motion, placed a metal helmet over Omar's head. Wires snaked out from it, connecting to a crude, makeshift device.

"We need a demonstration, boy," the leader whispered. His words, despite the quietness, came across the void like screams, echoes of malice and threat.

He walked to the device. An assistant, scared and forced looking, but not forced, was fiddling and trying to look busy, while his gaze was somewhere to the moon.

Omar's panic increased. The smell of his own fear. A final message, he tried, forcing the sounds past the gag they put there

"Tell…tell Shari…love…her." The words garbled. Weak. He struggled. His struggles provided nothing of value, no strength,

A cruel smile. "I am sending you, where you brother is and everyone is going. This," he taps a panel with the word Heaven scrawled, "I am calling it Heaven. Tell me how it looks".

The switch was flipped. Excruciating pain erupted. Not merely physical, but something deeper. Something violating his mind and, yes, soul.

Screams echoed—not just his own, but others, hundreds, thousands, their agony superimposed over his. Faces flashed. Lives destroyed, all echoing and overlapping, endless.

Images poured through him—a twisted tapestry of suffering. Endless data corrupted. Lost hope. His daughter's faces appearing for briefest moment

He felt it take him, fully. This 'thing', this entity, of pain, suffering and hate. A machine consuming all, replacing all, leaving not even void. The emptiness of emptiness was not permitted.

Omar's body spasmed violently, and finally he collapsed. Still. Lifeless. The contraption's lights still flickered weakly. Buzzing, its purpose fulfilled.

The leader approached, removed the helmet, and touched the man's neck for a sign of pulse. "Nothing," the man confirmed to no one in particular.

The gathered group started to disassemble their crude equipment. Moving quickly. Preparing to move out. Leave the dead where it lay.

One member paused. A young man, newer than the rest. He looked at Omar's dead eyes, which were blank, wide, full of final and pure horror, . "What was that? Really?"

The leader snorted, disgusted. "What does it look like? It was justice. Donovan, that clown with a YouTube channel, all those fools... this will solve things."

"But…that device? Did he send him—us—somewhere?" The young man pushed, hesitant, uncertain. Conflicted and upset, clearly,

"Boy, I could care less. You worry, your skin ends up next to him. Understand?. What needs doing is done. This," the weapon, is presented again. "Can deal with the so called God if it comes to it. Understand?".

The boy swallowed and offered only a short, curt, and dry. "Yes, sir.", the words dry as they go. He goes and continues the work.

They were moving too soon.

Another man came up, clearly older and tougher. He looks around to confirm no listening ears before bringing a finger up

"One. We found her. You wish her, 'removed'?," he said in short and calm speak, the look of disgust when referencing that word a clear picture.

The leader took only seconds. "Of course, she had no clue. We move to the warehouses as before, remember. We move quickly and silently, Understand?", another curt statement.

"Understood, lets move! We meet up in five hours at location Beta!" came the call to leave, to action, to the continued work to bring down this so-called god

Outside the mill, the wind picked up, rattling the skeletal structure. Dust formed eddies. Shapes moving within it, as though restless.

The device they had left behind crackled again, its lights intensifying, pulsing rapidly. Power, a terrifying and incomprehensible quantity of it, now began growing within its broken frame.

And in the lifeless eyes of Omar, something ignited, burned, a tiny spec of impossible light. A bridge, newly formed. In a place of pure terror. And, now, power

And, in the wind, sounds could almost be heard. Whispers. A symphony of endless anguish, now with a single clear and extremely, horrifically vengeful voice.

And, from Omar's shattered remains, it spoke, echoing. "Never underestimate, a gamer" The words filled with all, consumed of all, replacing of all, becoming all, and the building fell away into a dark void as he rose

The men would not live to see what horrors they unleashed in what would now become, his personal war. The gamer's war