Between Clicks
The deity crouched instead of sitting, one arm hooked over the back of a battered recliner like it had been hauled in from some forgotten place and left to decay with purpose. A faded Mel Gibson T-shirt clung loosely across its frame, the fabric thinned soft through devotion rather than neglect. A Mel Gibson cap, brim curved and sweat-darkened, rested low on its brow. Around one wrist, a limited-edition Mel Gibson watch caught the television’s glow — steel casing etched with microscopic scenes, its ticking steady and indulgent.
Half-lidded eyes absorbed the light of an old television floating a short distance off the floor. The convex screen hummed softly, image warping as it cycled through grain, dust, and blood.
Click.
Rewind.
Click.
A Lethal Weapon poster sagged crooked along the wall — Mel Gibson and Danny Glover standing shoulder to shoulder, faces locked in that shared exhaustion only violence and partnership ever produced. The edges curled. Tape yellowed. Time had treated it gently.
Beneath the chair stretched a William Wallace Freedom carpet, thick and worn, its weave etched with repeating runes of FREEEEDOM, the letters scarred and softened by years of passage, belief pressed into fabric until meaning became texture.
The deity remained unmoved. The screen held its attention.
On the television: a man coated in mud, jaw locked, voice tearing raw as it rolled across a crowd still weighing belief against survival.
Click.
The air behind the soul parted without ceremony.
A vertical seam opened as if reality itself had relaxed its grip and allowed a failure in tension. The soul stumbled through, momentum carrying forward faster than thought. Hands struck a surface that resolved into solidity a fraction too late, impact forcing a sharp expulsion of breath as gravity asserted itself in full. Weight, balance, orientation — each arrived at once, uncompromising.
“Oh,” the deity said, glancing sideways.
The word carried mild surprise, then settled into acceptance.
“You’re here.”
It leaned down, fingers brushing past a stack of aging VHS tapes — Mad Max, The Patriot, one cassette stripped of its label, title scratched away by time or intent — and nudged something loose with the side of its foot.
A remote slid across the Freedom carpet and came to rest near the soul’s hand.
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Old plastic. Buttons polished smooth through repetition. The battery compartment sealed with brittle tape, its function long surrendered. Inert. Heavy in a way plastic rarely earned.
The soul closed its fingers around it.
The deity watched, then lifted one shoulder in a careless motion.
“System’s baked in,” it said, attention already drifting back to the screen. “You’ll figure it out.”
Behind the soul, the tear in the air widened, exerting pressure on posture, balance, the simple act of remaining upright. Space pulled with growing insistence.
“Wait — ” the soul began, the thought dissolving before it fully formed.
The deity waved a hand without turning, dismissal practiced and effortless.
Click.
“Bye.”
The pull sharpened into certainty. The room collapsed inward — poster, carpet, chair, television — folding away like a stage struck between acts.
As the soul vanished, the deity glanced down at the place where the remote had rested moments earlier.
Empty.
A pause followed. Consideration. Then a faint exhalation, edged with amusement.
“Eh,” it muttered. “Takes too much power to use it in those worlds anyway.”
Click.
On the screen, the man raised his sword.
Cold air tore into the lungs. Mud clung thick and unyielding around unfamiliar boots. A roar surged from every direction, immediate and overwhelming, charged with life and threat in equal measure.
The remote rested in the soul’s hand.
It remained unresponsive.
