Darkness.
George Droyd floated in it, feelin' like a loose blunt in outer space.
Everything was soft. Floaty. Kinda warm.
The last thing he remembered was smokin' some random-ass fent he found under a collapsed gas station.
"Damn... am I dead again, cuh?"
He muttered.
Suddenly —
A thread of silver light sliced through the void, stitching reality back together like a sewing machine on crack.
Out of the darkness stepped a figure.
Tall, draped in flowing black and silver robes, skin like shadow, hair like spider silk.
Eyes that glowed faintly, ancient, cruel, and wise.
The figure bowed, hand over heart.
"Greetings, young nigga," the figure said in a deep, silky voice.
George sat up instantly.
"NIGGA WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"
He clutched his chest.
"Ayo, NiggaLink, wake yo stupid ass up man!! I'm being possessed by a PlayStation 2 cutscene character mane!!"
NiggaLink AI buzzed to life inside George's brain, his voice groggy as hell.
"...what... the fuck... bruh where we at... you high again, George?"
"Swear to God you worse than my ex."
George ignored him.
The mysterious figure — smooth as butter — chuckled.
"I am called the Weaver," he said. "Daemon of Fate. Architect of Threads. Defiler of Destiny itself."
He swept into a low bow like some Shakespeare-ass nigga.
George stared at him suspiciously.
"You sound like you sell candles at the flea market, bro."
The Weaver chuckled again, patient.
"You are crass, but perceptive."
"I am here to offer you... a contract."
George squinted.
"Ain't this some shit, bro. Niggas can't even sleep without gettin' job offers in 2042."
Weaver smiled thinly.
"There is a boy. A Sovereign. He carries within him a forbidden lineage... MY lineage."
He said "my" like he tasted dogshit in his mouth.
"His name is Sunless. Known to his pitiful friends as 'Sunny.'"
Weaver's eyes darkened.
"A simpering, pathetic simp nigga. A disgrace to all things divine. A weeping worm of manhood."
He said it so politely George almost didn't register the roast.
Almost.
George snorted.
"LMAOOO not you hatin' cuh. Damn you mad mad."
Weaver's nostrils flared.
His elegant voice cracked slightly.
"That boy is an embarrassment, my nigga."
"He walk around simpin' and cryin' over that white girl like he on some CW network shit. THAT AIN'T WHAT THE FUCK I BUILT, CUH."
Weaver paused, regaining his composure.
"Forgive me."
He cleared his throat, adjusting his silk robe like a preacher fixin' to lie.
"You, George Droyd, are chosen by a different current. You possess... promise."
George looked down at himself — dirty hoodie, half-melted Air Jordans, fent leak stain on his jeans.
"...uh, sure mane, whatever you say."
Weaver stepped closer.
"Kill him."
His voice dropped low, a blade wrapped in velvet.
"Strike down the Sovereign of Death. Sever my bloodline from his disgusting simpcuckery. And in return..."
He spread his hands.
"I shall guide you to the location of the Divine Fent."
George's brain glitched.
"...DIVINE FENT?!"
Even NiggaLink AI's sleepy ass snapped alert.
"BRUH."
"TAKE THE DEAL, TAKE THE FUCKIN DEAL."
George's eyes gleamed like a broke nigga starin' at a Louis Vuitton store.
"Hold up hold up hold up..."
"You sayin' if I merk this simp-ass white boy, you gon' hook me up with the Divine Fent?"
Weaver smiled.
"The purest. The last. The most potent fentanyl the gods ever crafted."
George whistled low.
"Shieeeeet."
He rubbed his hands together like Birdman.
"Where that lil' whiteboy at then? Point me to his goofy ass mane, I'll pull up on God."
Weaver's face twisted briefly — a mask of utter disdain.
"He is gathering allies. Planning retaliation. You must move quickly, young blood."
"Say less cuh."
George stood up inside the dream, crackin' his knuckles.
"NiggaLink, update my mission log mane!"
NiggaLink AI beeped.
"Objective received: SMOKE SUNNY THE SIMPCUCK."
"ETA till violence: ASAP."
Weaver gave a final bow.
"May your blade be swift, George Droyd."
"And may that bitch-ass simp die screamin'."
The dream dissolved like smoke.
George Droyd woke up sittin' in the front seat of a half-collapsed Uber car, the windshield cracked, a pigeon peckin' at his sock.
He looked around blearily.
"Damn, man, what the hell was that?"
"I can't even nap without ghost niggas recruitin' me like it's Call of Duty."
NiggaLink AI buzzed cheerfully.
"Welcome back to reality, stupid ass. Now go kill that soft-ass Sovereign nigga so we can get the fuck outta this world."
George grinned, teeth gold and gleaming in the dying sun.
"Oh it's UP, cuh."
He popped the car door open, ready to wreak havoc on the world.
-
The ruined city of Los Angeles stretched out under a bloody sunset.
All jagged bones of skyscrapers, rivers of sand, and the soft hum of dying dreams.
Inside a half-broken courthouse, the war council had gathered — if you could even call it that.
Sunny stood at the head of a battered table, arms folded, armor polished until it almost shined despite the grime.
He glared around at his so-called team.
"Aight, listen up," he said, voice high and angry like a kid getting bullied at lunch.
"This nigga George Droyd gotta die, y'all. No ifs, no buts. It's up for this crackhead ass nigga."
Across from him, Nephis sat tall and perfectly still.
Fully healed now, her white robes burned with faint silver flames.
Her platinum hair flowed down her shoulders like moonlight.
She was silent, regal... and maybe still a little pissed.
But you'd never know it unless you were looking hard.
Cassie leaned against a wall nearby, face hidden by her blindfold, arms crossed.
She didn't say much. She was just observing — as always — like a cat waiting to judge somebody.
Effie threw her legs up on the table and grinned wide.
"Yo, what do you call a black guy with a reactor in his chest?"
"...A fent-ion battery!"
Dead silence.
Even the wind outside sounded awkward.
Sunny gave her a look that could have curdled milk.
"Effie, if you tell one more trash joke I'm personally throwing you into the sand worms."
Effie shrank a little, but still giggled to herself.
Nobody else even acknowledged her.
Then, in strutted Kai.
Perfect face. Golden hair. Muscles under casual clothes like he was sculpted out of hope and unpaid student loans.
Two of the random hunter girls at the edge of the room straight-up gasped when he walked in.
"Damn..." one muttered under her breath.
"Who brought Zeus' fine ass son up in here..."
Even Jet's cold dead eyes lingered on him for a second before snapping away like she got caught.
Kai, oblivious, just clutched a bag of muffins in both hands like a lost orphan.
"I, uh... brought snacks," he said nervously.
Sunny stared at him like he wanted to punch him straight in the mouth out of pure jealousy.
"Bro we at war, not brunch," Sunny hissed.
Kai flinched.
"B-but everybody likes muffins..."
"Maybe even George Droyd..." he mumbled.
Cassie shook her head slowly.
"God help us."
Sunny slammed a fist onto the table, the impact cracking it.
"Aight, serious now!"
He pulled up a dusty map of the ruins.
"George be movin' like a damn fent-sniffing missile. We thinkin' he headed toward the Vault. Big fent stash. Shit probably smell like heaven to him."
Nephis finally spoke, voice calm and cold.
"We set a trap."
"He comes for the stash. We kill his broke ass."
Cassie nodded slightly.
"Efficient."
Jet smirked darkly.
"Or maybe I just find him first and ride him like a stolen bike..." she muttered under her breath.
Sunny threw a muffin at her head.
"BITCH, FOCUS!"
The squad bickered and argued about dumb shit.
Outside, the desert winds howled.
Everything seemed... steady.
Organized.
Almost like they actually had a chance.
Until—
BOOM.
The front wall exploded inward.
Everyone snapped to their feet instantly.
From the smoke and shattered stone...
a figure emerged.
Tall.
Half-naked.
Blue reactor pulsing from his chest like a beating heart.
George Droyd.
His fists were clenched, his eyes wide and wild, his reactor blazing like a second sun.
NiggaLink AI cackled inside his brain.
"AYO BLOOD WE HERE! POP OFF ON THESE CRACKAS!"
George grinned a wide, cracked smile.
He pointed a thick finger directly at Sunny.
"Yo, little white boy..."
"That lil bitch ass nigga Weaver send his regards."
"You dead, cuh."
And then he started walking forward — slow and casual like he had all the time in the world to commit murder.
The squad stared, frozen.
Sunny let out the tiniest, most pathetic squeak in human history.
"...oh no..."