Night had settled over the city. In the quiet of the living quarters, Zero sat cross-legged on the floor, deep in meditation. He focused inward, feeling the currents of his own magical energy, the humming connections to his other selves. The influx of power from the last Gacha pull had settled, and he could feel it now—a new capacity, a space for one more. He could make another clone.
He rose and walked to the small kitchen in the loft, grabbing a tiny paring knife. Without hesitation, he drew the blade across his palm. Dark, crimson blood welled up and dripped onto the floor, pooling into a small, shimmering puddle. As before, the blood began to curl and twist, rising from the floor like a miniature cyclone of liquid flesh and energy. It stretched and solidified, forming a perfect, naked copy of himself.
The clone blinked, looking down at his own hands, then at Zero. "Cool," he said, his voice a perfect echo of Zero's own.
Zero smiled. "Let's go," he said. "We're going to do a Gacha pull right away."
They went downstairs to the café floor. Soma was wiping down the last of the tables. He looked up, saw the new, naked Zero, and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Whoa there! Would you mind putting your dick away from the café floor? It's a place of business!"
"There's no one here but us," Zero replied calmly. "We're closed already."
Soma's eyes lit up. "Oh? Doing Gacha tonight?"
"You betcha," Zero said.
"I call dibs on one," the new clone added, his voice filled with a nascent curiosity.
Zero walked to the cash register, the holographic screen glowing in the dim light. The Gacha points stood at a healthy 4190. He closed his eyes and assumed his prayer stance. The new clone and Soma immediately followed suit.
"Dear Cecil," Zero began, his voice a mix of reverence and complaint. "God of Celestial Paperwork, Divine Intern of Domain 6-A. It is ya boy, your humble servant, Zero Ashworth. We are here to conduct our... well, it's not really monthly, but you get the idea. Your last 'rare' pull was, and I say this with all due respect, absolute garbage. But we're back, with a new brother who needs a card of his own. Please, for the love of all that is holy and properly filed, bless us with something useful. Something powerful. Something that isn't a background character."
"AMEEN!" they all shouted in unison.
"Hey, Gusteau," Soma whispered to the air. "The prayer is essential. Don't knock it."
Zero tapped the [11x Draw] button four times. With a series of satisfying ch-ch-ching sounds, four shimmering foil packs slid out of the register's dispenser. Zero smiled and fanned them out on the counter. "Let's see what we got."
He looked at the cover art, and his smile faltered. The first pack showed Cecil drowning under a literal tidal wave of paperwork. The second had him being chased by a monstrous, roaring creature made of bent staples and paper clips. The third depicted Cecil trying to fix a jammed celestial printer with a giant hammer, tears streaming down his face. The fourth showed him passed out on his desk, drooling on a stack of files labeled "URGENT."
"Oooohhh," Soma said, shaking his head. "That's a bad omen."
"I feel a disturbance in the force," the new clone joked.
"Shut up," Zero grumbled. "Pick the one you want for your first card."
The new clone looked at the four pathetic images, then back at Zero. "Can I... not gamble on my first card, guys?" he asked, his voice reasonable. "I've been alive for like, five minutes. I'd rather not have my entire existence defined by 'celestial printer jam.' Can we just open all of them and I'll choose from whatever character cards we get?"
Zero groaned, slumping over the counter in defeat. "Booo! You're no fun."
He laid the four packs out on the bar, the sad, stressed-out images of Cecil staring up at them. The new clone crossed his fingers, a nervous energy radiating from him. Soma, meanwhile, was already in a deep, one-sided conversation.
"No, Gusteau, a roux for a pancake batter is a terrible idea," he whispered to the air. "It would make it too dense. We need fluffiness, not a savory base... Yes, I know you're French, that doesn't make you an expert on everything."
Zero just smiled, shaking his head. "Alright, let's start with the paperwork tsunami," he said, picking up the first pack.
He tore it open. The first ten cards were the usual fare: [+10 Magical Energy], each dissolving into golden motes that flowed into Zero. The clone watched, his nervousness growing.
Then came the eleventh card. It glowed with a revolutionary, anarchic red.
[V]
Character Origin: V for Vendetta
Traits: A charismatic, eloquent, and theatrical freedom fighter, known for his Guy Fawkes mask and his vendetta against a totalitarian regime. A master of explosives, espionage, and philosophy.
"Oh, it's him!" Soma exclaimed. "The mask guy! Remember that movie?"
Zero's smile faltered, a painful memory surfacing. "Yeah," he sighed. "The one where our date went wrong because I slipped on some spilled soda and fell head-first into a trash bin when we were leaving the theater."
"She left you right there, covered in sticky popcorn and garbage," Soma recalled with a laugh.
"I told you I felt a disturbance," the new clone said, shaking his head.
"Next pack," Zero grumbled, grabbing the one with the staple monster. Again, ten cards of energy flowed into him. The final card glowed with a soft, gentle light.
[Wakana Gojo]
Character Origin: My Dress-Up Darling
Traits: A quiet, earnest high school student with a deep passion and incredible talent for crafting traditional Hina dolls. He is a meticulous artisan, skilled in sewing, design, and painting.
The three of them stared at the card in confusion. "Never heard of him," Soma said.
"Must have been released after we died," the clone deduced.
Zero read the description, a thoughtful look on his face. "Hey, it says he's a great designer and artisan, though. That's a good, respectable path to have. Could be useful."
He moved on to the third pack, the one with Cecil fixing a printer. Ten more energy cards. The final card had a faint, almost pathetic glow. Zero's face immediately curled into an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust. "Oh, hell no."
"What? What is it?" Soma and the clone asked in unison.
Zero flipped the card around, showing them the image of the goofy, long-eared Gungan.
[Jar Jar Binks]
Character Origin: Star Wars
Traits: Naïve and clumsy Gungan. Jar Jar Binks was the first Gungan to represent his people in the Galactic Senate. Binks was also one of Qui-Gon Jinn's companions during the Invasion of Naboo.
"FUCK him," they both said instantly.
"Trash," Soma spat. He then turned to the air. "Gusteau, you are better off not knowing who this cursed being is. Trust me."
Finally, Zero picked up the last pack, the one with the passed-out Cecil. "Last chance," he muttered. He ripped it open. Ten more energy cards vanished into him. He took a deep breath and flipped over the final card.
It exploded with a brilliant, ethereal light, the purest and brightest they had ever seen. The image was of a graceful, sharp-featured elf with long, fair hair and piercing blue eyes, an arrow nocked in his bow.
[Legolas]
Character Origin: The Lord of the Rings
Traits: An Elf prince of the Woodland Realm, son of Thranduil. A master archer with legendary eyesight, superhuman agility, and the grace of the Elven race. A loyal companion and a peerless warrior.
Zero screamed in pure, unadulterated joy. "LETSGOOOO, BABYYY!!"
"Who?! Who is it?!" Soma and the clone shouted, jumping up and down.
Zero triumphantly showed them the card. "It's Legolas! The elf archer!" They all cheered, grabbing each other's hands and dancing in a ridiculous, joyous circle on the café floor.
Zero finally stopped, looking up at the ceiling, tears of happiness in his eyes. "Thank you, Cecil! Thank you! May all your paperwork be processed with the speed of Barry Allen!"
…
Meanwhile, in the royal capital, within the opulent, moonlit atelier that served as the headquarters for the luxury brand Delacroix, a different kind of creative struggle was taking place.
Ysolt Delacroix, the celebrated owner and visionary designer of the brand, sat hunched over a massive mahogany desk. A charcoal pencil flew across a large sheet of parchment, its movements a frantic dance of inspiration. She was sketching a new design for a formal coat, but the lines felt wrong, the proportions awkward. With a sudden, sharp movement, she stopped. She slapped the pencil down, the sound echoing in the silent, cavernous room. With a frustrated hiss, she scrunched the parchment into a tight ball and tossed it onto a growing pile of similarly discarded ideas.
"Goddamn it," she hissed to the empty room.
A young, impeccably dressed assistant entered silently, placing a tall glass of deep red wine on the desk beside her. "Miss," the assistant said softly, "should I cancel the meeting with Baron Rotway for tomorrow?"
Ysolt looked out the floor-to-ceiling window, at the distant lights of the sleeping city. She sighed, running a hand through her already disheveled hair. "No need," she said, her voice weary. "It's already late. Just make sure I wake up on time tomorrow."
"Yes, miss," the assistant replied.
"You can leave," Ysolt added. "I'll be sleeping here."
The assistant just bowed and left the office, closing the heavy doors silently behind her, leaving the designer alone with her creative demons.
Ysolt leaned back in her plush leather chair, her head rocking back as she stared at the high, vaulted ceiling. "What am I missing?" she whispered. "It all feels so... hollow."
Her mind drifted back to a conversation she'd had at a recent royal banquet, surrounded by the other top designers of the kingdom. They spoke not of fabrics or stitching, but of their champions. Their inspirations. Their muses. They spoke of finding that one person whose very being was a work of art, a perfect canvas of grace, posture, and form that was perfectly in-tune with their designs. Someone who didn't just wear the clothes, but gave them life.
She sighed, a long, lonely sound that was swallowed by the grandness of the room. "Oh, gods," she whispered. "When will I meet my muse?"
Exhaustion finally claimed her. Ysolt Delacroix fell asleep in her chair, dreaming not of dresses, but of a graceful, elegant face she had never seen.
**A/N**
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**A/N**