Soda Crash: The Path of the Unseen.

Chapter 5: I Dreamt of God Last Night.

In the private Dragon network, there were ten people, or more accurately, ten authorized avatars, each representing a complex cocktail of power, fear, and the chronic indigestion that comes from making decisions affecting millions while one’s lunch has yet to be properly processed.

After the death, or rather, the spectacular evaporation of Goodman, the pressure in this virtual space had risen to an almost tangible level.

The avatar of an old vixen, her fur greyed in many places, spoke first. Her voice was dry.
“I believe I will resign. Liquidate my assets. For the children. The end.”

“A most… pragmatic decision,” replied the avatar of a barn owl, its head tilted in a studiously intellectual manner. “But don’t you think that simply shifts the target from one grey head to several much younger ones? Sol Dawn, according to the psychological reports I’ve read, does not seem the type to be concerned with the age of his targets.”

“So do you have a solution?” the old vixen snapped. “Or are we just going to sit here and wait for our turn to be featured on the evening news?”

“Expand Wil’s access. Give him full authority. Let him do what needs to be done,” this time it was the avatar of a turtle, its head retracted deep within its shell.

“An excellent idea,” an old lion, its mane nearly all gone, rumbled. “If we intend to commit suicide, why not do it efficiently? Trading being eaten by a wolf for being eaten by a tiger. Let’s not forget the lesson from fifty years ago, the one we all try to forget every time we look in the mirror.”

“And what of your experiments, Octopus?” the lion turned to a giant octopus avatar, its tentacles busily typing on eight keyboards at once. “That project you’ve been calling ‘on the verge of a breakthrough’ since before I went bald?”

“It’s still missing a little something,” the octopus replied, its voice a flat monotone. “A little on the technical side, a little on the ethical side, and a very large little on the luck side.”

“A little. A little,” grumbled the avatar of a bulldog, its face sagging with dissatisfaction. “That ‘little’ of yours has cost the budget of a small nation and taken over a year. If you can’t do it, just say so. We can use the money to build a very nice bunker and live out the rest of our days in it.”

“This time is different. Truly different,” the octopus maintained its even tone. “We’ve just acquired a new subject. A real talent. Progress has begun to show alarmingly positive signs.”

“When will it be done?” the bulldog growled.

“About a month. Perhaps.”

“Too slow. In one month, four people have died. Four. In another month, that list could be longer.”

Amidst the tense silence, the avatar of a colourful parrot flapped its wings.
“On this matter, I have just realized something. Something very important.”

“Oh?” all nine other avatars turned in unison.

“This is…”

Emma stepped out of the cool, somewhat artificial air of the subway station and was immediately slapped in the face by the heat and chaos of Capitala. Before she could get her bearings, she was swept away by the current of people on Republic Avenue like a leaf in a flood.

She had to brace herself to keep from falling, jostled by expensive suits and rough workers’ uniforms. She looked up, trying to find an anchor in this moving world.

The corporate towers rose like a forest of steel and glass stilts, all trying to out-reach their neighbours in a silent race to the sky. But this architectural chaos was governed by an invisible plan. Each building, no matter how bizarre its shape, was designed with angles calculated to the degree, to channel the sunlight, keeping the ground below from turning into a giant frying pan and avoiding glare for the airships flying above.

To the east, in the sky over the industrial district, giant, soft creatures drifted lazily. Baku Para. Their plump, well-fed bodies were the clearest testament to the productivity of Capitala’s industry.

A sharp shove from behind nearly made Emma stumble. She grabbed onto a public lamppost to steady herself. The air carried a complex bouquet: the expensive perfume of the man who had just brushed past her, the sweat of the crowd, and the pungent industrial exhaust that even the Baku Para couldn’t fully process.

This was a city of orderly chaos. Emma clutched her bag strap, trying to find a path west, where the red-tiled roofs of the Old Quarter promised a little peace.

Emma walked up the rising ground, her eyes already fixed on the sharp spire of the distant cathedral, a colossal edifice that rose up, with the surrounding houses seeming to shrink away, yielding to the vast and beautiful structure. Emma looked up, blinking a few times to adjust to the bright light reflecting off the alloyed glass of the church.

The arched windows were elegantly curved, a harmonious blend of strong steel and fragile, transparent glass. At the very top, a colourful cross blazed, surrounded by lush green three-leaf clovers. The entire cathedral exuded the grandeur of an impregnable fortress, yet was incredibly ethereal, a monument to the beauty of faith.

Emma marvelled at the unique architecture and stepped inside…

The heavy oak doors closed behind Emma, cutting off all the city’s noise. Inside, the space suddenly opened up, so vast it took her breath away.

The main hall of the Megachurch stretched out like a man-made valley. Thousands of worshippers sat on polished ebony pews, a sea of upturned faces, silent and reverent. Their collective whispers merged into a murmur like the distant sound of waves under the soaring vaulted ceiling.

The light came not from lamps, but from enormous stained-glass windows. They didn’t depict tired old stories; they were portals looking into Creation itself. Emma saw an image of the Creator using a compass and ruler to measure the Void, drawing out the first laws of physics. She saw Him moulding Baku Para from stardust. In the distance, a smaller window, perhaps for those with a more unique aesthetic taste, told the story of a giant Moon Rabbit that had laid the moon.

And on the highest vault, inlaid with a very immodest amount of gold, was the answer to all theological debates: a mural depicting the Great Schism, when reality was split into a thousand and one different versions. It was a clever theological solution. It meant that, technically, everyone was right. And more importantly, no one was wrong. A very convenient situation for collecting donations.

At the far end of the hall, on a white marble altar, the pastor stood, his voice echoing throughout the space thanks to cleverly placed sound-amplifying stones. Emma found a seat in the back row, her heart filled with a sense of smallness and awe.

The members of the megachurch were ready for the service, dressed in neat and solemn attire. On the altar, the worship band was preparing their instruments, ready to begin a passionate session of praise. A large LED screen behind the altar displayed lyrics and related images, making it easy for everyone to follow along and participate.

The service began with the lively strumming of a guitar, and the community joined in song, praising the love and compassion of God. The pastor stepped up to the altar, his charismatic voice filling the space, captivating everyone’s attention. Emma was immersed in the inspiring sermon, feeling a connection between herself and this large religious community.

After the teaching, the pastor led a communal prayer, praying for peace and happiness for all. At the end of the service, members of the community gathered, sharing their joys and sorrows, finding support and encouragement in one another.

Finally, the LED screen began to show a clear image of the respected pastor. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a rather impressive beard. Though his face looked benevolent, it held the stern aura of a devout warrior. The pastor stood at the pulpit, his gaze falling upon the thousands of attentive worshippers. He began his speech with a voice that was warm and deeply captivating.

Then he began to speak. His voice was warm, but it had a steely core hidden deep within, a voice forged to pierce through all doubt and go straight to the listener’s mind.
“My dear brothers and sisters, today, I do not come here to tell you comforting stories. I come to speak of a truth. A truth that God has imparted to me, a truth that many of us have willfully forgotten.”

He paused, letting the silence amplify the weight of his words.
“You ask: why must we suffer? Why did God have to make a sacrifice? I will answer you: Because we have chosen our own shackles! The root of all sin, the source of all suffering, comes from nowhere else. It comes from the worship of materialism!”

His voice boomed.
“Look around you! You work hard, you accumulate wealth, you build large houses. But for what? To live in fear of losing it? To be envious of those who have more? You are not owning possessions. Possessions are owning you! They are your fetters, your prison, the very thing dragging your souls away from the Kingdom of God!”

Carisma let the congregation ponder for a moment, a pause timed with the precision of a stopwatch in his head. Then he continued, his voice now adjusted to just the right amount of warmth and sincerity.
“To escape the worship of materialism, we must learn to share. Let us use what God has given us to help those less fortunate.”

He paused again, took a deep breath, looked into the eyes of each person, and repeated the message with slightly different words, following the basic marketing principle: repeat it three times and the customer will remember.
“We must turn away from the idolatry of things. Let us use what God has given us to help others. When you give, you are not just doing a good deed; you are buying a ticket to God’s Kingdom.”

The church bells rang, and the LED screen displayed a donation QR code. A seamless coordination. The crowd, like dutiful sheep, raised their phones in unison. Emma did too. She felt an intense urge to do the right thing. Or at least, the thing everyone around her was doing. She shot off 50,000 pims, and a feeling of guilt for having thought ill of some Minister suddenly vanished.

And then, Carisma, with a smile, announced:
“My dear brothers and sisters, today, we have a VIP guest! The Minister of Communications, Corus, has just donated one hundred billion pims! Please, sir, come up and say a few words!”

Upon hearing the familiar name, all eyes immediately turned to the Minister. A wave of whispers spread through the vast hall but quickly died down as the stage lights dimmed, then focused on a sharp, charcoal-grey suit.

Minister Corus ascended the steps, each firm footfall echoing on the marble floor. His short-cropped white hair was neat, his face gaunt with piercing eyes, and his thick eyebrows seemed to emphasize his decisiveness. The hall fell silent, all attention on the special guest.

As Mr. Corus reached the pulpit, thunderous applause erupted from all sides. He looked down at the thousands of attentive people and began his speech:

“My dear brothers and sisters, I am so honoured to stand before you today to participate in this meaningful fundraiser. Let us join hands to support those less fortunate and bring them hope and faith in a better life.”

He paused again, glancing at Carisma, a look whose complexity only those in the front rows could appreciate.
“It is because of that faith, and to demonstrate the government’s commitment to our common prosperity, that I have decided to contribute one hundred billion pims to this cause.”

“While this sum may not be enough to solve all the difficulties, I hope it will help to ignite a spirit of unity and mutual aid in our community. And I also had a dream last night. God came to me and said that he felt great sorrow for not being able to grant salvation to those without faith. Therefore, I am also donating a private jet to Pastor Carisma here, so that his voice may reach the ears of more people.”

Hearing this, Carisma immediately replied:

“What a coincidence! I too had a dream last night that God wanted his voice to reach even more people. Minister Corus’s jet happens to solve this very problem. On behalf of the church, we thank you, Minister.”

“Not at all, not at all. It’s the least I can do.”

As the Minister’s meaningful speech concluded, the entire hall erupted in fervent applause. The sound roared like thunder under the highest vault, drowning out the solemn tones of the organ. Emma also stood up, enthusiastically joining the crowd.

The Minister’s message of generosity and dedication had touched every heart. They once again opened their hearts and their wallets. Emma, trembling with emotion, “shot” another 50,000 pims.

Finally, as the church bells chimed, the entire hall joined in a magnificent hymn. The song of hope and love rose, closing the solemn ceremony.

Leaving the solemnity of the Megachurch, Emma felt her heart lighten, and she skipped her way home. But as she turned into the Copper Market district, the sublime atmosphere of the service was quickly replaced by the raw reality of life.

The smell of rotting fish from an old Orc’s stall mingled with the pungent aroma of herbs from an Elf healer’s shop. Grimy children, probably the offspring of Dwarf miners, chased each other through puddles left by last night’s rain, nearly colliding with a sanitation robot.

The robot, shaped like a metallic dung beetle, was diligently sucking up a stagnant puddle. One of its wheels was stuck in a crack in the pavement. It stopped, its blue optical sensor blinking repeatedly, and a mechanical, tinny voice crackled from its small speaker:
“Greasy pork chop! This pothole again? I thought they fixed this.”

A few passersby glanced at it and moved on, apparently used to it. Emma was a little surprised. She had heard about robots programmed with personalities to make them more efficient, but this was the first time she’d seen one that could curse.

Amidst the jostling crowd, a figure darted past Emma. It was a girl from the Rabbitfolk clan. Her long ears, covered in a soft, light brown fur, were folded back warily. She was small, only reaching Emma’s shoulder, but her long, slender legs allowed her to move with incredible agility, easily weaving past an old man carrying two baskets of cabbages, dodging a puddle of dirty water, and disappearing behind a stout Dwarf.

Emma heard whispers from a nearby tavern. A group of human youths, still holding half-drunk mugs of ale, were watching the Rabbitfolk girl.
“Look at the long-ears. Always in a hurry, like they just stole something.”
“Probably off to sell some fake silver bracelets…” another one sneered, revealing a set of yellowed teeth.

Emma sighed. Racial tension in Capitala was a festering wound. The Church of Light taught that the Creator made humans in His image. The Rabbitfolk, however, believed they were descendants of the Moon Rabbit, an ancient deity who wove the moon. Two irreconcilable faiths, and that difference, over generations, had curdled into racism.

She walked over to a small stall nestled between a weapon shop and a leather goods store. On the ebony wood counter, an old Rabbitfolk, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, was selling exquisite jewellery. Silver bracelets were drawn into threads as thin as silk, engraved with intricate spiral patterns mimicking the moon’s orbit. It was said that no one in Trilium could work metal with the same delicacy as the small fingers of the Rabbitfolk. This was also why the metalsmiths of the Forge District both despised and envied them.

From behind, a hand touched her handbag.

Emma, who had just spent the morning contemplating salvation and compassion, reacted with an elbow jab forged in the fires of church-sponsored self-defense classes. A very useful skill. There was a very unholy-sounding crack.

“Help! Assault!”

It turned out to be a beggar. He was filthy, old, and now, had a dislocated jaw. He still had all his limbs, a fact that Emma’s mind immediately filed under “laziness” rather than “misfortune.”

But then a sense of guilt, the kind pre-programmed during catechism lessons, began to creep in. Hitting people was wrong. Especially when they looked like they might snap in two. But she didn’t have a single coin left on her; it had all been invested in the salvation of her soul at the Megachurch.

Hesitating for a moment, Emma made a sacrificial decision. She took off the cross necklace from her neck, handed it to the old man, and dispensed a small lecture.
“You shouldn’t be doing this. You have able hands and feet, go find a job.”

The old man took the necklace, his mouth trying to form a thank you but only producing garbled sounds as his jaw had decided to go on holiday. Tears began to stream down his face.

Ah, gratitude, Emma thought. She felt the warmth of someone who had just done a good deed. She had not only given him a small asset, but a lesson, a new path. With a sense of satisfaction, she turned and walked away.

But if she could have heard the old man’s thoughts, she would have heard a very different story.
Humiliation. Such humiliation.

The old man slumped against the wall, tears of shame streaming down his wrinkled face. Being lectured by a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. He wanted a job. Of course he did. But in Capitala, without a registered permanent address, even the most menial labour wouldn’t come his way.

He clenched the necklace in his hand. The cold symbol of the cross dug into his skin. He slammed it against the brick pavement, once, twice, again and again. Blood welled from his knuckles, staining the innocent holy symbol red. At least this physical pain was more real than that girl’s kindness.

Sabata felt refreshed today. A night’s sleep without horsewhips and cries of “No, no, no” turned out to be surprisingly restorative. Full of enthusiasm, he went out with a new mission: find a teacher.

He stepped out of the cramped alley of Sector F, where the air was always thick with the smell of garbage and despair. As soon as he crossed the rusty iron bridge over the black-water canal, a different world appeared.

This was the Dockside District.

The air here wasn’t fresh, but it was alive. It carried the salt of the sea, the tang of fresh fish, and the clang of metal from the ship repair yards. But there was something strange. Mixed in with the bare-shouldered dockworkers and sun-weathered sailors were groups of stylishly dressed girls.

They stood in clumps near the drink stalls, holding expensive milk teas, their eyes constantly glancing towards the working men. They didn’t hide their admiration for the bulging biceps, the sweat-drenched bare backs, and the raw, working-class beauty they would never find in air-conditioned offices. The Dockside, it turned out, wasn’t just a workplace. It was also a catwalk, an unofficial “hot muscular guy” tour for the city.

Sabata took a deep breath. This wasn’t where he belonged, but at least it gave him the sense that there was another life out there, a life with order, purpose, and its own interesting absurdities.
“Whoa, a Bloodghar! He looks so cool.”

His eyes landed on a member of the Bloodghar race. At least, he guessed so. The man had thick black fur, a face that was a cross between a bear and a wolf, and a physique that could be used to block a bus. He was wearing a red-and-black tracksuit that seemed completely at odds with his feral aura.

“He looks so strong,” Sabata thought.
A Bloodghar? But he remembered from the animal planet channels that this species was described as four-legged monsters, bigger than elephants, and always covered in blood. Why was this creature in front of him walking on two legs and wearing sportswear like a guy who just came from the gym? Maybe those shows were just propaganda to scare children.

Sabata scratched his head. The logic of this world was sometimes baffling. A creature that looked like it could go toe-to-toe with a tank was standing there, surrounded by a flock of fawning girls.

And the strangest thing was, he seemed to… like it.

He wasn’t attacking. Not growling. He was even sticking his tongue out, his tail wagging slightly, enjoying the petting like an oversized Golden Retriever that had just been well-fed.

A series of hypotheses ran through Sabata’s mind:

1. This wasn’t a real Bloodghar. It was someone in a very high-quality costume.
2. The textbooks and animal planet channels had been brazenly lying.
3. All of these girls possessed the power to tame wild beasts.
4. This Bloodghar was a mutant individual, a gentle version that enjoyed having its chin scratched.

After a moment of analysis, Sabata decided that hypothesis number four seemed the most plausible. And more importantly, the least dangerous. A powerful creature with a friendly demeanour. This was the perfect candidate.

And so, with a courage built upon a somewhat shaky logical foundation, Sabata took a deep breath and ran towards the crowd. He didn’t know what he was going to say, only that he had to ask. Ask how to become as strong as him, but hopefully without having to grow fur.

Meanwhile, Wil was fuming after getting an earful from his superiors. However, he still thought about visiting his adopted son first. He hadn’t seen the boy in days; he wondered if he was lonely.

In his hand, he held a binder compiled by his colleagues on how to raise a child. It contained the wisdom of the parents in the police department. Reading it, he felt that being a parent didn’t seem so hard. “First, spare the rod and spoil the child,” he thought back on his time with General Jack. True, the man had hit him a lot, but perhaps it stemmed from ‘affection’. Yes, a very logical analysis. And it was perfect timing, as they had just raided a BDSM den the other day.

“Jean, get me that horsewhip we confiscated. Today, I have to be a good father.”

With that, Wil left, and the entire precinct immediately started buzzing.

“Oh my god, where is he going with a horsewhip?”

“Don’t tell me it’s domestic violence. I’ve heard that people under work pressure often take it out on their families.”

“No way, the chief has never taken his anger out on us. Maybe he knows it’s not his son, so he’s going for revenge.”

A crowd gathered, whispering furiously.

“Could it be the chief misunderstood?”

“No, someone has to stop him! With his strength, that whip could be a murder weapon!”

“I don’t want to lose my chief! He does over half our work!”

“Alright, enough talk, let’s stop him first.”

“Right, right!”

And with that, the entire precinct swarmed out like a disturbed hive, shouting and dog-piling Wil, who had no idea what was going on and was getting increasingly annoyed:

“Let go of me! I have urgent business!”

“Chief, Chief, wait a minute!”

“Chief, don’t be rash! Whatever it is, we can talk it out. We’re always on your side!”