Disclaimer: This is a fun multiverse one-shot featuring Nero Angelo, my original character from The Voidwalker Chronicles. It's a work of fiction meant for entertainment only—no disrespect is intended toward any original creators or characters.
In this chapter, we're diving into a playful "what-if" scenario. What happens when the most bored being in existence gets curious about someone as meta and omnipotent as Featherine Augustus Aurora? Let's find out.
Also, Clucknor is… still a menace.
Enjoy the chaos.
Boredom. Not the kind mortals feel on long train rides or between dull conversations—this was boredom on a cosmic scale. The kind that sinks into your very existence and gnaws at your soul like a parasite.
And for Nero Angelo, a being who had torn through realities and walked among dead gods, it was… unbearable.
He sat in the endless black of the Void, elbows on knees, head tilted back. Stars blinked out around him, like the universe was trying to entertain him and failing miserably.
Behind him, a toilet made of compressed stardust shimmered faintly. Clucknor sat atop it like royalty—newspaper in hand, legs crossed, wearing an invisible crown only he believed in.
The cosmic restroom had no walls, no doors. Just a stardust throne for a chicken with attitude.
Clucknor folded the paper with a theatrical sigh and glanced at his companion.
"Check this out," he clucked, holding the paper like it was divine scripture. "There's a chick—Featherine Augustus Aurora. They say she's practically a walking nightmare of boredom herself."
Nero didn't even glance his way. "Sounds like we'd get along by sitting in the same room not talking."
Clucknor rolled his eyes. "Nah, boss. I mean, she's a literal author-goddess-type. Writes realities for fun. Meta as hell. Everyone either worships her… or avoids her."
A faint glimmer lit Nero's silver eyes.
"Maybe you two can break each other's silence," Clucknor said with a smug grin. "Or maybe she'll rewrite your face."
Nero stood slowly, the void beneath his feet warping with each step.
"Fine. Let's stir the pot."
They arrived not through portals or spells, but by disregarding the rules that kept Featherine's domain stable. Reality around them crackled and spat sparks like it was rejecting Nero's presence, but it couldn't stop him. Not really.
Featherine's realm was quiet—a palace of thought layered upon itself endlessly. Golden threads of logic spun through the sky, and concepts hung like lanterns. Time didn't exist here. Only intention.
Nero and Clucknor strolled in like they owned the place.
Featherine sat atop a throne made of stories, her presence vast and serene, quill in hand. Her hair shimmered like violet ink, and her eyes blinked slowly, lazily, as if reading entire timelines between breaths.
She didn't look up.
"And so the glitch arrives," she said, voice layered with a thousand meanings.
Nero tilted his head. "You know who I am?"
Featherine smiled faintly. "You're the void that shouldn't exist. A narrative error not born from my pen… yet written into too many pages."
"Sounds poetic," Clucknor muttered, hopping down and pecking at a floating idea. "I hate poetry."
Featherine's gaze shifted to Clucknor. "Your companion is loud."
"Your face is loud," the chicken replied, unapologetic.
There was a pause. Heavy, loaded.
Featherine finally looked directly at Nero. "Why are you here?"
He smiled faintly.
"I'm bored."