In Which Zetta Ponders His Options [Open]
The sensorium took on the image of the Netherworld, specifically the Overlord's Castle. Titanic stone walls covered on every sign of opulence -- paintings, tapestries, other wall hangings, framing large statues of armor than seemed requisite for such a setting. Down the immense, red-carpeted hall and through the doors to the throne room, one might see the Overlord, sitting on a throne meant for his body, not his book-self, and frowning.
For the first time since he'd woken up on this ship, with no Netherworld, no body, nothing but his raw mana power and his determination to get everything back, he was beginning to doubt that it was possible.
"They don't care," he said to himself. "They lost their worlds, but life on this freakin' ship is so great they don't care about getting them back. They don't care about their friends in the pods. They don't care about the worlds the Ohm are destroying.
"...And I call myself evil?"
Not that he cared about losing the election. It was who he lost to, and the message that it sent, that left him sitting there in anger and frustration and quiet horror.
"How the hell am I supposed to do this by myself?"
For the first time since he'd woken up on this ship, with no Netherworld, no body, nothing but his raw mana power and his determination to get everything back, he was beginning to doubt that it was possible.
"They don't care," he said to himself. "They lost their worlds, but life on this freakin' ship is so great they don't care about getting them back. They don't care about their friends in the pods. They don't care about the worlds the Ohm are destroying.
"...And I call myself evil?"
Not that he cared about losing the election. It was who he lost to, and the message that it sent, that left him sitting there in anger and frustration and quiet horror.
"How the hell am I supposed to do this by myself?"