Project:Imagine

The morning after the invasion, Wallace sat slouched in his office, nursing a cup of coffee that, for once, wasn’t laced with poison. His exhaustion was palpable—the dark bags under his eyes were evidence of yet another sleepless night. Piles of paperwork towered on his desk, a mountain he had chipped away at for hours, yet had barely made a dent. No matter how much coffee he downed, his focus blurred, and the work ahead of him seemed endless.

With a groan, Wallace stood, stretching his stiff limbs. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. He reached for the door, intent on grabbing some food. But as he twisted the handle and stepped through, the familiar surroundings of his office vanished. In an instant, he found himself not in the hallway but within the towering shelves of the Bookkeeper’s library.

“Good morning, Mr. Valentine,” a warm, velvety voice greeted him. The Bookkeeper sat at a grand desk amidst towering bookshelves, his calm, ever-knowing eyes focused on Wallace. “Apologies for the abrupt invitation, but we’ve called an emergency meeting to discuss yesterday’s events.”

Wallace blinked, still adjusting to the sudden shift in scenery. He rubbed his temples, the fog of his sleepless night clouding his thoughts. Reluctantly, he slipped off his glove, revealing the intricate tattoo on his hand—a clock frozen at the ten o’clock position. The faint glow pulsed as the Bookkeeper nodded approvingly.

A door materialized behind the Bookkeeper, glowing faintly with the same ethereal light. The Bookkeeper gestured toward it. “After you.”

Sighing, Wallace stepped through the door and into the council’s meeting chamber. It was an imposing room, dominated by a long, elegant table with thirteen distinct chairs, each marking a different hour.

Wallace slid into his seat—the one marked for ten o’clock—and scanned the room.

At the nine o’clock position sat a small woman, no bigger than a doll. Perched on a miniature chair atop the table, Celeste Lovegood looked utterly bored. Her long cyan hair was styled into twin ponytails, each tied with delicate purple bows that matched the frilly dress she wore. Her green eyes flickered briefly toward Wallace before she went back to fidgeting, her tiny legs swinging idly over the edge of her chair. Her codename was The Doll.

The eight o’clock chair remained conspicuously empty. A few members exchanged curious glances, unsure of why its usual occupant hadn’t appeared, though no one dared to speak the question aloud.

At the seven o’clock chair sat Jonathan Brooke, a serene smile playing on his lips. His fingers twirled a small mushroom, its form constantly shifting—changing colors, sprouting new shapes, only to revert to its original form. He seemed lost in his own world, amused by the simple game he played. His codename, fittingly, was The Gardener.

The six o’clock chair belonged to Sabrina Washington. Her lavender hair cascaded over her shoulders, and a small black cat-shaped hair clip gleamed beneath the soft light of the chamber. Her sharp red eyes peered over the rim of her red glasses as she surveyed the room. Dressed in a crisp white button-up shirt and a red sweater, she looked both scholarly and unsettling, especially when her gaze lingered a bit too long on the male members of the council. Her codename was The Radio, a title that hinted at her uncanny ability to gather and transmit information.

At the five o’clock seat sat a young boy, Lazarus Grimwood. His medium-length, messy blue hair fell in uneven tufts around his face, contrasting starkly with his ghostly pale skin. His red eyes, half-lidded with drowsiness, gave him an otherworldly presence, a quiet reminder that there was something not quite human about him. He wore a black sweater that seemed to swallow him whole and a white coat far too large for his small frame. As he absentmindedly clutched a plush shark, its fin peeking out from under his arm, a small, sharp fang caught the light whenever he smiled. His codename is, The Director. It was clear he was on the verge of drifting off, his body gently swaying in his chair, as if the weight of his role was too much for him to stay awake.

Next to him, occupying the four o’clock seat, was Eliza Levine, her presence starkly contrasted with the boy's. Bandages were tightly wrapped around her body, remnants of the brutal battle she had faced just a day prior. Her horn, a symbol of her dragonoid nature, had healed, but the absence of her severed arm was still painfully apparent. Her face was drawn with fatigue, her body battered, but her eyes blazed with the same fiery resolve that had earned her the codename, The Slayer. She sat stiffly, eager for the meeting to begin, eager to take action. Yesterday’s ordeal had clearly taken its toll, but there was no room for rest in her mind.

The three o’clock chair was empty, a silent testament to the one who presided over these gatherings—the enigmatic Bookkeeper. Everyone knew that this seat belonged to him, though he rarely needed to occupy it. He was the invisible force that controlled this space, his influence felt rather than seen, a constant presence in the room, despite his absence.

At the two o’clock seat sat a strange and unsettling figure. His attire was immaculate—a black suit and tie, the very picture of formal elegance. But the little that could be seen of his skin was deathly pale, almost like a corpse preserved too long. His most defining feature was the crude paper bag he wore over his head. The face drawn on it was grotesque in its simplicity—a pair of circular scribbles for eyes, and a blank expression that gave him an eerie, childlike aura. His name was unknown, but his codename was whispered with both curiosity and dread, The Harvester. His movements were subtle, almost mechanical, as if the person beneath the bag was as lifeless as his outward appearance suggested.

The one o’clock seat was occupied by a woman who, despite the heaviness of the room, exuded an air of calm. Her eyes were a brilliant, soothing blue, like a serene sky after a storm. A crown of flowers adorned her head, each blossom a different species, vibrant with color and life. Her face, however, bore a long, jagged scar that cut diagonally across it, a testament to battles fought and survived. She wore a black, frilly dress, an odd contrast to the natural beauty of her floral crown, and as she casually ate an apple, she seemed utterly unbothered by the tense atmosphere. Her name was Eve, and her codename is The Origin.

At the head of the table sat the most commanding figure of them all—Alexander Jones. His mere presence dominated the room, every other occupant either revering or fearing him. His blue eyes were sharp, almost predatory, scanning the door as if he could will the meeting, to begin with a glance. Around him was an oppressive aura, a barrier that caused his body to hover slightly above his chair. To accommodate this unnatural levitation, his chair had been lowered, though it did nothing to diminish his overwhelming presence. On his hand was a tattoo of a clock, but unlike the others, this one was without hands—a symbol of his unmatched authority. His codename is, The Monarch. Even in a room filled with powerful individuals, he alone held the weight of a king. The council was waiting for him to speak, and when he did, they knew the real discussion would begin.

Moments after, Frank walked through the door, the tattoo on his hand pointing to eleven o’clock. The room went deathly quiet as every council member noticed something alarming—the nail that was usually embedded in Frank’s forehead was gone. Instantly, the tension in the air thickened, and several of the members reacted with lethal intent.

Celeste, who had been resting in her tiny form, suddenly expanded, her body growing until she towered over Frank like a giantess. With one swift motion, her massive hand gripped his head, her eyes narrowing with caution. Simultaneously, Jonathan conjured a sword of thorns, the barbed weapon pulsing with green energy as he rushed toward Frank, aiming for his heart. Lazarus, who had barely been conscious moments ago, had already conjured a spear made from his own blood, its crimson point poised to pierce Frank at any moment.

“Enough already!” Alexander's voice cut through the chaos like a thunderclap. His authority was absolute, leaving no room for defiance. “I don’t need any more casualties in my ranks. Sit down, you fools.”

The room fell silent. Each of the council members lowered their weapons, grumbling apologies as they took their seats. Frank stood unfazed by the threat, a wry smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“You must have expected this, given your… reputation, Frank,” Alexander said, his tone carrying both amusement and danger.

Frank met his gaze with cold disdain. “I would have only killed them if they actually attacked me. You, on the other hand, I might just kill now… for what you did.” His voice was venomous, the hatred unmistakable.

Alexander leaned back in his chair, unfazed by the threat. “Yeah, yeah. Calm down, Frank. You know you can’t beat me. Now, why don’t you tell me—why drop the act? Why reveal that the nail in your head was never real?”

Frank sighed, rubbing the spot where the fake nail had once been. “So you knew all along? Of course, you did.”

“I know everything that happens within my facilities,” Alexander replied, his voice cool and unbothered. “Now, sit down.”

Frank glanced around the room, his eyes meeting the glares of the other council members. Some were barely concealing their contempt, others were waiting for any excuse to attack him again. But he simply shrugged and found his seat. The tension remained palpable, the unease shared by all except Alexander, who watched Frank like a predator eyeing prey.

Suddenly, Harvester’s dull, monotone voice broke the silence. “A danger is coming… Jonathan, brace yourself.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened, his relaxed posture stiffening. “W-what are you talking about?”

Before anyone could react further, the door slammed open again, and Markus Valentine stormed in, his eyes ablaze with fury. The air in the room grew thick with murderous intent as he set his gaze on Jonathan.

“Spatial Sever,” Markus growled, his voice trembling with raw power as he slashed his hand through the air.

Reality itself buckled. The space around the desk warped and shattered, a rift opening with an explosive crack that sent shards of the desk flying in all directions. The table, once sturdy and grand, splintered apart as if it were made of glass, scattering debris across the room.

“The danger… is here,” Harvester intoned, his monotone voice unwavering amid the chaos.

Jonathan barely had time to react as he stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding the full brunt of Markus’ attack. The rest of the council members immediately moved, some preparing to intervene, others watching with interest. The room, once filled with tension, now crackled with the energy of imminent battle.

Markus stood at the head of the room, his voice a low growl that carried the weight of absolute certainty. “Sit down, or I will kill each and every one of you… except for my brother.” His eyes swept over the council members, daring anyone to defy him.

No one did. They all knew he wasn’t bluffing. Markus, codename, The Reaper, had earned that title for a reason—he was a force of nature, a walking death sentence if he chose to be.

Without a word, the other council members obeyed, though tension lingered like a storm cloud ready to burst. Markus strode over to Jonathan, his every step filled with barely contained fury. Without warning, he slammed his boot onto Jonathan's chair, stopping just inches from the man’s crotch. The threat was clear, primal, and brutally effective.

“I’ve got a few questions for you,” Markus said, his voice low and venomous. “If I don’t like your answers, or if you refuse to answer, I’m going to pulverize your testicles, then chop off your head.” His eyes burned with a wrath that promised pain, no hesitation in the threat.

Jonathan shifted slightly but remained composed, though his face paled under the weight of Markus’ glare.

“I don’t trust you. Not after what happened yesterday,” Markus continued, the edge of suspicion sharpening his tone. “How is it that the day the Alpha Facility’s two strongest members are out is the day we get attacked? Explain that to me.”

Jonathan’s calm demeanor never wavered. “It wasn’t just our facility. Multiple facilities were attacked that same day. How could I have known it would be the worst possible timing for an invasion?” he countered, though his tone lacked its usual certainty.

Markus leaned in, his face inches from Jonathan’s. “You made the schedule. You were at a meeting with the boss. I was at a meeting with Lazarus when normally my brother would be dealing with that vampiric little shit,” he said, pointing at Lazarus, who glared but remained silent. “So why send me? Why cripple the facility like that?”

Jonathan’s eyes flickered with frustration. “I’ve been working with Wallace on analyzing something... a blood test that’s been taking longer than expected. I even made sure Eliza would be there to compensate for our absence.”

Markus scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “And they just so happened to send someone with pure hatred for Eliza. Too many coincidences, Jonathan.”

Jonathan sighed, a hint of exhaustion creeping into his voice. “Seeing as Ivan discovered a spy, I’m inclined to agree that there’s more going on here. But it’s not me. So quit your damn paranoia.”

Before Markus could respond, Alexander’s voice cut through the rising tension. “Markus, sit down. And the rest of you—stop trying to kill each other.”

Reluctantly, Markus removed his foot from Jonathan’s chair, the threat hanging in the air like a guillotine yet to drop. He returned to his seat, though his eyes never left Jonathan, suspicion still simmering beneath the surface.

Then, in a move that took everyone by surprise, the Bookkeeper entered the room. His presence was as sudden as it was unexpected. With a casual snap of his fingers, the shattered table reassembled itself, the splintered wood knitting back together as if the damage had never occurred. He took his seat, not explaining his appearance, though his mere presence spoke volumes.

The room fell silent, an unspoken tension now laced with intrigue. It was rare for the Bookkeeper to attend these meetings—his involvement meant something significant was at play. Everyone’s eyes turned toward him, but no one dared speak first. The game, whatever it was, had just shifted in a way none of them had anticipated.

“Now that everyone is here, and hopefully, you’ve all gotten your energy out,” Alexander began, his tone cold and authoritative, “I have some unfortunate news. The eight o’clock chair is now vacant. Jeremiah Oswald was slain by Nikolai yesterday. With both his death and Eliza’s injuries, we now have two open seats on the Council.”

The air in the room seemed to freeze. Shock rippled across their faces, but no one dared voice it. The weight of Alexander’s calm declaration hung over them like a guillotine. Jeremiah’s death was not just a loss—it was a seismic shift in the Council’s power.

Breaking the silence, Eliza slowly stood, her body stiff from the pain of her recent battles. “Until I can remove the curse preventing my arm from healing, I will step down from the Council,” she announced, her voice steady, though her eyes betrayed the exhaustion she was trying to hide. The revelation added another layer of tension to the room.

Alexander’s expression remained unreadable as he continued, “That brings us to our first priority, filling these vacant seats. I would like each of you to propose a candidate for the Council.”

Jonathan was the first to speak. “I would like to request Mia Stone, codename, The Swan,” he said, his voice confident. “She assisted in the battle yesterday, holding her own against two powerful Awakened. She even slew one of them. Mia has demonstrated remarkable resistance to madness—something invaluable for our ranks.”

Frank leaned back in his chair, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I would like to propose Ivan Osborne, codename The Lich. His destructive potential—both in ability and artifact use—far surpasses even Eliza’s. Unleash his artifact, and he’s on par with an unsealed Markus,” Frank stated, his eyes gleaming with ambition.

Markus, sitting silently until now, let out a small huff of laughter. “Unsealed Markus,” he muttered under his breath, clearly amused by the comparison.

Wallace cleared his throat. “I suggest we keep the seats open for now. We’ve had numerous promising Awakened come through our facilities. Some could be future Council members. Personally, I would like to endorse Iris Blackwell,” he said, his voice filled with conviction.

The Bookkeeper, who had been observing the conversation with his usual calm detachment, spoke up in agreement. “I will second Wallace’s endorsement of Iris Blackwell,” he said in a soothing tone that rippled through the room.

A murmur of surprise passed through the Council. It was rare for the Bookkeeper to align himself so publicly with anyone, and it added an unexpected weight to Wallace’s proposal. Eyes darted from one member to another as they processed the implications.

Markus leaned forward, his voice a low growl. “If we’re doing that, then I’d like to throw in a student as well—Charles Wells,” he said.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Makes sense. He’s unlikable and aggressive, just like you,” he quipped, earning a glare from Markus.

“I can still make good on that threat,” Markus snapped, his eyes narrowing.

“Then I’d like to change my answer,” Frank interjected, his grin widening. “I will endorse Maxwell Lumiar.”

As the Council continued their heated discussions and deliberations, the room’s atmosphere shifted when Harvester, typically reserved and eerily calm, spoke again in his low, monotonous voice, “A danger is coming.”

Before anyone could react, the door to the chamber exploded inward, sending a shockwave through the air. In the entryway stood a figure that commanded immediate attention: Baal Zebub. His twisted grin and confident swagger filled the room with a sense of impending chaos.

“What a tricky little space this is," Baal began, his voice oozing with amusement. "But once you've been here before, it's surprisingly easy to find your way back.” His laugh was chilling, reverberating through the Council's hall.

The Bookkeeper, usually composed, furrowed his brow. “How did you breach my library?” His voice, though calm, carried a sharpened edge.

“Oh, it's quite simple,” Baal responded, almost mockingly. “I found a door—any door will do—and devoured the space between it and the connection to your little sanctuary,” he explained, his smile widening in delight. “Really, you should lock your doors better.”

Markus raised an eyebrow, a smirk creeping across his face. “Not a bad idea, breaking down the space between realities like that.”

The Bookkeeper shot a cold glare in his direction. “Don’t get any ideas,” he warned, the icy tone unmistakable.

Baal, unfazed, strolled casually into the room, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he surveyed the Council members seated around the table. “Quite an intriguing assembly you’ve got here,” he mused. “Monsters, gods, demons, immortals, cosmic horrors, living artifacts… and of course a few humans. Truly fascinating.”

The room fell eerily silent, each member exchanging wary glances. Baal's words pierced deeper than simple observation—he had exposed the hidden truths that some had worked hard to conceal. Secrets that could unravel trust in this already delicate gathering.

Baal’s grin widened, relishing the tension. “Anyway, I’d like to make a proposition.” He stepped forward, every movement brimming with dark intent. “Help me retrieve my remaining fragments—my eyes, my fang—and maybe a few of the Sins' hearts. In return, I’ll join you. Surely the old King of Demons, an ex-god, is worthy of a place on this Council?” His tone was dripping with confidence, as if the deal was already sealed.

Harvester, as always, remained still, his voice cutting through the tension like a whispering blade. “I would like to endorse Baal,” he said slowly. “The man I seek to kill has one of your eyes.”

Baal paused, intrigued. His gaze shifted toward Harvester. “I like you,” Baal said, his voice tinged with a sinister admiration. But then, without hesitation, he stepped onto the table, looming over Harvester with unsettling ease. “However, I don’t trust anyone who hides their face.”

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as Baal and Harvester locked eyes, their standoff holding the entire Council captive. It felt as if the very fabric of reality trembled under the weight of their power.

“Fine, is this better?” Harvester said in a low, almost dismissive tone. With a snap of his fingers, the paper bag covering his face vanished.

The room collectively held its breath. Before them stood a strikingly handsome man, his features sharp and elegant. His long white hair framed a face marred only by the dark bags under his dull, tired azure eyes. His gaze remained fixed on Baal, unwavering.

A quiet gasp came from Sabrina, her excitement barely contained. “That's him!” she whispered, leaning over to Eliza, her eyes sparkling with recognition. “That's the handsome man who saved me from my stalker! Oh, how I’ve waited for this day!” she added, her voice trembling with joy.

Eliza, raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

But Baal was less impressed. His eyes narrowed, the playful smirk never leaving his face. “Do you think that cheap, false look would fool me? I can see right through that façade.”

Harvester didn’t flinch. “If you don’t believe me,” he said calmly, “then devour my memories.” With a simple gesture, a small purple orb of energy materialized in his hand, floating toward Baal.

Baal’s grin widened, eager to accept the challenge. Without hesitation, he opened his mouth and consumed the orb. A split second later, his head violently exploded, spraying blood and fragments of brain matter across the walls. The shock was palpable. Gasps echoed throughout the chamber as Baal’s lifeless body slumped forward.

But only for a moment.

Before anyone could even process what had happened, Baal's head began to reform. Skin, muscle, and bone knitted themselves back together in a grotesque yet mesmerizing display of regeneration. Moments later, Baal sat upright, entirely whole once more, looking more amused than ever.

“Woah,” Baal chuckled, wiping the blood from his hands. “I devoured so many memories that I died instantly. I had to devour the very concept of death just to survive that. It’s been a while since someone managed to kill me, even for a moment. I couldn’t even begin to process those memories of yours, Harvester. Fine, I’ll side with you, you bastard.”

With a casual flourish, Baal plopped down into Jeremiah Oswald’s old chair, propping his feet up on the table without a care in the world. The room was deathly silent, the sheer audacity of his action sending ripples of shock through the remaining members.

Alexander’s cold, authoritative voice cut through the silence. “I’ll allow it,” he said, his blue eyes narrowing as he took in Baal’s defiant posture. “We’ll keep one slot open, and Baal will take Jeremiah’s old seat. Now that this matter is resolved, we must focus on our next issue—the coordinated attacks on the Alpha, Beta, and Gamma facilities that occurred yesterday.”