[center][i]We who found it are just men. Not gods. Not giants. Just men.[/i][/center]

 A tuft of hair began to poke into one of her eyeballs again. She should get to trimming them, eventually. But they were just the right amount of pointy. What to do, what to do. Jo was facing quite a dilemma. She made an attempt to get off of her bed and clear her head. Nada. Too tired from the night before, and a tad too hungover as well. The aimless bouncing that resulted from her futile attempts at getting up was enough for her to give up all efforts on being the least bit productive this day. Or evening. Instead, she stretched her limbs, a pleasant sensation that almost made her forget the complete glitch of an ailment that was the booze-flu, and remained in a position that kind of looked like crucifixion. Arms stretched to the sides, expression of profound agony and all. Fumbling about on her covers, and making involuntary snow angels while she was at it, she recalled fragments of previously transpired events with a mixture of amusement and "oh fuck why".

 The bruises weren't helping her relax either. With each small movement, stinging pains coursed through her low back and arms. A fight? Who knew. Her stomach wasn't bothering her that much though, but it was bound to once she decided to lay gut-down. Boy, she was a mess alright. Miraculously enough, the sudden realization that not even staying in bed could help, became the jolt needed to raise her from the ever-so comfy black hole. Rolling and practically falling out of her bed, she quickly gathered herself and adjusted her tank top with jittery motions. Scanning around an elegantly messy room, she retrieved a military-style jacket with a white, fuzzy collar and hastily put it on as she left her bedroom. She loved that goddamn jacket so much, by the way. It had a savage-meets-action hero sort of feel to it that just clicked with her on a spiritual level. Passing from a cramped kitchen, she downed a few good gulps of coffee (brewed in god-knows-when b.C.) straight from the pot, before unlocking a shoddy door and pausing for a moment to smell the fresh air.

 By the time she reached Phil's Phantaseum, the sky had began to darken in color, and clouds amassed above the town. Despite feeling like hell, she was not below enjoying the pleasant sensation of a winter's Friday afternoon. The streets were somewhat empty, somewhat sleepy, with the few remaining drivers probably returning to a warm home from their nine-to fives. Days like these, the town seemed like it was readying for bed. It was oddly charming, and Jo was glad she was instead awake. The crisp air was doing its' job well, and she was already feeling more, well, not energetic, but functional. Jo pressed her hands and face against a glass door that was, just like most of the shop's display, covered from the inside, with colorful posters of obscure decade-old movies and games to a ridiculous degree, and forming a fist, bashed against it several times with zombielike repetitiveness, threatening its' already questionable integrity.

 "Hey. Hey, Phil. Open up."

 Silence. She bashed it again, harder, and finally a fierce voice replied, muffled by the distance and perhaps a closed door.

 "Who is it? We're closed goddammit!"

 "It's your girlfriend, Phil. I'm here to rescue you from a life of crippling loneliness and tentacle p-"

 A continuous whumping sound grew louder as the store's owner drew closer, presumably knocking down all sorts of shit in the process. A somewhat plump, bearded face with rosy cheeks greeted her behind a half-opened door.

 "Hey! What's up Jaws! -Jesus Christ, you look like shit. Ya sick or something?"

 "Worse." Jo blurted out with disgust. "Hungover."

 "At it again, huh? Well, come on in, I've got just the thing for that."

 The door's hinges let loose a soft, drawn-out screech as the chubby man opened it all the way. He shortly retrieved a small remote and lowered a revolving steel door that slowly began to cover the display as his guest headed for the usual room in the back before looking around for anything new. The Phantaseum's interior was perhaps messier than its' exterior image, with shelves and tables full of mismatched game cases, comic books, action figures, other memorabilia and even VHS tapes. Despite being somewhat roomy, the sheer amount of stuff within, the walls covered with more posters than the glass panes and perhaps that one Slayhammer panorama in the middle made the space feel smaller than what it actually was, though not claustrophobic. Rather, the atmosphere more closely resembled that of an oversized pillow fort.

 Having settled in the dimly-lit back room, an even smaller space containing nothing notable other than two couches, an aged television, a coffee table, a laptop and a great stack of cardboard boxes, the two friends finally began catching up. It had been a while, after all. Pushing aside a couple of pillows and blankets, that signified the back room also served as a crude living space, Phil reached out and gave a hearty pat on Jo’s shoulder.

 “So, how you been, J-”

 “Ah, shit! Don’t touch me there, I think it’s bruised.”

 “That good, huh? So, ya managed to do anything with the job thing?”

 Jo only responded with staring at the concerned burly man, and, shuffling on her seat, uttered a disheartened “Nah.”

 “Aw, fuck dude. I wish I could give you something to do here, but I’m barely scraping by as it is-”

 “It’s alright, Phil, I know.”
 “Y’know I’d literally have nothing to-”

 “Fuck, man it’s fine!”

 Jo raised her hands in frustration, followed by a short chuckle.

 “Alright, alright. Anyways, I may have something to, uh, help with your pain.”, Phil commented, a sly grin forming on his face. She immediately responded, more surprised than anything.

 “Jesus, man, I’ve only been here for, like, five minutes.”

 Phil simply stared back at her, immobile, the same grin etched on his face.

 “Fine.”

 Soon enough, the room was filled with smoke, the last rays of the sun carving parallel lines from a small, half-closed windows’ shutters, the former placed near the ceiling. Even though she did not admit it, this whole thing was exactly what she needed. Not just the stash, though it was most certainly a nice bonus, but a simple, laid-back good time with an old friend. They laughed like mad, they caught up, Phil shared his recent love life disasters,  Jo made fun of them. And just when they were halfway through some nonsensical Webm clip, Jo felt a large, genuine smile forming on her face.  She ran her hand through the thick cloud wafting gently through the room, and for the first time in a while, she had an almost crystal-clear thought.

 And at the same time, in some faraway corner of the cosmic spheres, another being, sitting upon an impossibly massive throne, made the exact same motion. The entity's’  hand, clad in gleaming golden armor, clawed through the Mists of Scrying, and surprisingly enough, it observed the unfolding scene with great fascination.