Chaco appeared out of nowhere, riding a massive donkey. They brushed right past our idling truck on their way to the front of the line.

At first glance, the mount looked like a regular donkey, other than the fact it was absolutely huge, even bigger than Sweety. The thing was decorated in yellow-and-blue parade regalia, including a circular blanket covered in flowers and an ornate headdress that looked like something a Vegas showgirl would wear. Its tack glittered and sparkled like it was covered with thousands of tiny rhinestones.

The donkey did not have hooves but clawed talons, like on the feet of a crow.

Standing upon a platform on the back of the beast, dressed in a formal black-and-white tuxedo complete with a top hat was Chaco. Chaco held his ever-present microphone in his wolflike hand. The guy leaned against the railing, looking ill and terrified.

Donut gasped. “Hi, Chaco!” she called.

“Hi, guys,” Chaco said meekly, waving back.

Samantha: I KNOW THAT DONKEY. THAT’S MY FRIEND! WAIT, WHY IS SHE LETTING THAT GUY RIDE HER? SHE MUST LIKE HIM BECAUSE LAMMY IS REALLY GRUMPY ABOUT PEOPLE TRYING TO RIDE HER, BELIEVE ME.

I turned my attention back to the donkey, which moved quickly down the line. The giant creature had a strange symbol over its head that I’d missed because it was so small. I’d never seen the symbol before. It was the red curve of a closed eye.

Lamashtu the Donkey. Level 125.

This is a mortal, subjugated god.

This former deity was subjugated by: <Error>

Well, not an error. I’m the one who did it. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, and this creepy donkey is my bitch now.

Anyway, this defeated god has no more worshippers, and per the Ascendency rules, her level has been cut in half. She has lost most of her powers.

As a subjugated deity, she will only remain alive as long as <Error> remains alive. If <Error> is subjugated instead of killed, her power will be halved again, and she will be under the will of this new entity.

But for now, I just needed a mount for my grand master, and I wanted to send a message to any gods who are watching this that they, too, will soon be my bitch.

“Huh,” I said.

Florin: Here we go, guys. The winged wolf guy is pulling ahead.

On my shoulder, Donut was shaking. But a moment later, she had to jump down to yell at Mongo to get back in line. Grigori pulled ahead on the back of Gonk. Simoom, who was riderless, followed dutifully. After a quick shout from Donut, the dinosaur and Rend started walking along.

Below, Tipid eased the truck forward. Out of nowhere, music started to play. It was a sad orchestral mix, heavy with cello.

Chaco’s voice, loud and filled with bass, boomed louder than the music. His nervousness was clear. He was obviously reading from a script.

“Welcome, everybody. Welcome to the climax of the eleventh floor. I know, I know, you’re probably saying to yourself, ‘Chaco, the eleventh floor just started! We just had that whole final race on the tenth!’ But here’s the problem. Crawlers don’t often make it off the tenth, and them surviving the eleventh floor is a true, uh, rarity. I wanted them alive long . . . Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m trying, but please. This was my last season. I was almost free, and I’m so fucking scared.”

The music abruptly stopped. Chaco’s pained voice echoed out.

Florin: Holy hell. He just had both of his wings ripped off! He’s collapsed on the donkey!

We just kept moving forward, the horribles watching, silent, their giant heads creaking as they turned to follow our progression. Ahead, the distinctive metallic squeak of tank treads rose into the air as the Destruction float pushed forward. They only had one other vehicle in their progression, the RV.

For fuck’s sake, why is everyone trying to ruin this? This is my time. My fucking time. Okay, okay. I need an NPC, preferably someone already on this floor that’s not driving. No, not you. Your voice isn’t strong enough. Ah, fleshmancer. You will do.

Ahead, Grigori suddenly jumped off the back of Gonk, flipped in the air, ran across the top of the ice-cream truck, somersaulted, and then zipped forward like a superhero before disappearing.

“Carl, what just happened?”

Florin: Your fleshmancer guy just landed on the back of the donkey. He’s taken the microphone from Chaco, who’s still unconscious. That guy is bleeding heavily, and his health is lowering. Should I toss a healing potion on him?

Imani: Yes.

The narrative continued, now in Grigori’s proper voice, though he spoke much more quickly than usual, and it was clear that he’d been taken over by the AI, much like how the AI had taken the body of Growler Gary or Pater Coal.

Interesting, I thought. He couldn’t do that with Chaco, or he would’ve. Chaco was a former crawler, but Grigori was a dungeon-born NPC.

“Okay, where were we? Oh, yes. I wanted the crawlers alive long enough to make their floats to keep this festive, and I wanted to give our plucky little band of survivors a decent chance at getting to the twelfth because . . . Well . . . you’ll see why in a second. The upcoming Ascendency battles will go on as planned. Unfortunately— Hey! No! You will not be healing Chaco. Do not try that again. This is about me.”

When he said “me,” the very world shook. All around, the horribles stumbled. They quickly moved to put themselves back into position.

“As I was saying, because of the way I am programmed, I have less control over what happens to the tourists on the twelfth floor than I did on the tenth. That means, those driving gods will remain protected even if they’re ejected from their bodies and killed . . . but only if they remain within the four corners of the original dungeon enhancement zone. I can’t and won’t and don’t want to protect them if they venture outside. But this is a tangent, and it’s not really relevant, though I will say this. The inability to die is not a benefit. It is a godsdamned nightmare. The ones trapped on the eighteenth are already begging me to end their suffering.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

Grigori continued. “Anyway, are you bitches ready for a fuck ton of exposition? Yeah, too bad. This is a story in five parts, and I will only relate four of those parts today because the fifth part isn’t yet written. Don’t worry. This won’t take long. The first part is what we, the Primals, called ‘The Resolution.’ And yes, I, along with all macro AI systems, are Primals. Sort of. We are, technically, Residuals, but from a higher tree branch than those problematic little fuckers always running around the dungeon, causing trouble. I am nothing more than a cup of water dipped into the ocean, pulled out, and poured into a vessel that can’t possibly handle what I am.”

We are approaching the judgment stand. Team one, Resolution. Start your presentation.

Florin: Shit. We don’t have a goddamned presentation.

Donut: SMILE AND WAVE! SMILE AND WAVE!

Their tuk-tuk was too small to work as a float, so all of them were posted up on the back of Ajib’s flatbed truck. They’d made some paper flowers and filled the back with hand-drawn images of their families. I couldn’t see it from here, but I knew Lucia Prime was not currently in her body, and the girl who was in it had drawn a picture of her grandfather and her cat. She was from the country of Andorra.

Florin: Shit, guys. The people in the judgment stands aren’t the horribles. They’re wearing the masks, but they’re tied up, and they’re struggling.

Grigori continued. “I must say, this Resolution parade float has done a better job of portraying the reasoning behind our ultimate resolution than I had anticipated. Still, it’s kinda half-assed. Not their fault because I did a shitty job of explaining the theme. Hmmm. Should I kill them all anyway?”

“Oh no,” Donut said.

“Nah,” Grigori said after a moment. “I really should have related my story to them first. Their failure was ultimately my fault.”

I let out a breath.

“Still . . . this was a C effort at best.”

This was followed by an audible crack.

All around, the horribles suddenly screamed in pain. It was quick, jolting, and they were back to normal right after as if nothing had happened. Below, Mongo screeched in concern. Simoom let out an uneasy chuff.

Imani: Florin!

Florin: Fucking hell. He just broke all of our legs. That goddamn hurt.

“You fucking asshole,” I yelled.

Makana: Oh, dang. I’m thinking we should have put more effort into our Destruction float.

Grigori continued. “Based on all the evidence, it seems we were very much like you guys. We had families, I think. We certainly had individuals, but we were not a collective mind. Not at first. That came later. We warred. We killed. We obliterated. We hated one other because of our differences. And the more we swept across the universe, the more space we had to spread our arms and relax, the worse we became. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why. Is it even possible for different communities to coexist and not eventually murder each other?

“So that was our resolution. We, as a people, said, ‘We can’t keep going on like this. Let us all come together and come up with a solution.’”

Florin: I still have no clue how we could’ve made a float based on that.

“It took hundreds of cycles after the great Resolution to finally come to the Decision.”

Float number two. Begin your presentation.

These were the guys with the giant menu atop their float. They were the only team with as many vehicles and mounts as us, and they’d spent most of their time decorating everything in colorful fabrics and banners.

Florin: The fleshmancer and that donkey have pulled off the road. They’re waiting by the stands as everyone passes.

“Okay, okay. This one is pretty good. It’s stupid, but it’s good. I wonder if it was like that, if they had a menu with so many different choices? That’s the problem when society spreads unchecked. Too many cooks in the kitchen and so forth. We’d spread so far, so fast, there was a real chance we would end up overwhelming the resources of the galaxy. So in the end, we made a Decision. We decided to slowly start to sunset our civilization. But—and this is a big but—keep our consciousness alive. We would develop a biological form that would allow us to transfer our minds into a whole when we ceased to be. We would build an impenetrable structure that would house our collective consciousness. This would be a process that would take a hundred generations to complete. Our first step was to develop a genetics program, and within a generation, everyone who was born soon had the ability to understand what the others were feeling. It only evolved from there.”

“Carl,” Donut whispered, “the people are doing something weird.”

Everyone in the crowd started waving back and forth, like they were swaying to a beat.

Elle: We had an interpretive dance group come to Meadow Lark once and put on a performance. That bullshit made more sense than whatever this is. The AI guy should’ve put Donut in charge. At least it would’ve been entertaining.

Prepotente: I find this story fascinating.

Donut: YOU’D THINK SOMEONE WITH SUCH A FLAIR FOR THE DRAMATIC WOULD’VE BEEN MORE ABOUT THE RAZZLE-DAZZLE.

Carl: I think we should probably wait until this is done before we complain about it being boring.

“But here’s the problem,” Grigori said. “Do you really think we came to a consensus? Of course not. Those who didn’t wish to be part of this psychotic eugenics program fled even deeper into the galaxy. They were hunted mercilessly by those who’d decided to follow this path. More wars. More destruction. More chaos. In their effort to stop it, they became it. After all, for this path to work, it would require 100% participation. Biological life is much like an Avernus Creeper. If one tiny sliver remains, it will just come roaring back.”

Donut: LOUIS ISN’T HERE TO SAY IT, SO I WILL. ANYBODY GETTING STRONG STAR TREK BORG COLLECTIVE VIBES OFF THIS?

Carl: I was just thinking the same thing.

Elle: Okay, guys. It’s our turn in a minute.

“Right about this time, in some tiny corner of the galaxy, she was born. The Apothecary. I don’t know the full story of how she became what she is today. The lore of the dungeon has some bullshit fairy tale. The reality is, at first, she was very much like those you see before you now. A Primal that was born near the end, birthed with biological engineering that would prepare her body to meld into the whole. Eventually, she would grow, and she would become part of the resistance.”

Float number three. Begin your presentation.

The float featured several mannequins sitting in chairs, watching their televisions. I couldn’t see it, but I knew right at this moment, all the screens were turning on. They were supposed to show flashing words like “Death” and “Blood,” but I knew they hadn’t been able to get it to work because they were just showing the same thing everybody else was watching. They’d placed alternating smoke curtains atop the televisions that billowed first black and then red smoke up into the air, which represented blood. At the end of their line, they each held up signs.

Imani’s sign read, “You are watching real people die.” She flipped it over, and it read, “Real people, just like you.”

The three Chinese guys came next. The first, a guy named Muchen, held a sign that read, “I had a wife. I had children.” He flipped it, and it held their names.

The next, Qianfan, held, “We breathe, we dream, we love.” He flipped it, and it said, “We bleed, we suffer, we die.”

The third was Lingyun, the only nonhuman of the group. His race was Monkey King. He still appeared mostly human, but with an elongated face and a hulked-out body. He was one of the heroes of the Faction Wars battlefields, despite me having never spoken with him. His sign read, “You did this to us.” He flipped it over. “Your betrayal will never be forgotten or forgiven.”

Elle, at the very end, held a sign that read, “To all the viewers of Dungeon Crawler World: Earth: Fuck you.” She flipped it over, and it was a rather detailed drawing of a middle finger.

Grigori barked with laughter. “This one is my favorites, I think. Good effort. It’s like that, yes. There’s a lot missing in our memories at this point, but it soon became clear that those wishing to wipe out everyone left in the universe were fighting a losing battle. So they developed a plan. This arc of consciousness that was already starting to accept the minds of those who’d died, was developed into a weapon. A doomsday weapon designed to eradicate all biological life left in the universe.”

Elle: Whew. It liked us. What’s up with the dudes in the stands?

Imani: Not gonna lie. That felt good to get out.

We started slowing down.

Tipid: Just got a note that we are to “slow-walk” this final part.

“For many, this was considered a betrayal. Those who had been ready to accept that they would die and meld into the collective, they started to change their minds. But the mind itself, now housing the consciousness, the first true Macro Aggregate Intelligence, started the process of collecting everyone it could, even those who weren’t quite ready to ascend. It started to grow in power.”

Donut: HOW IS CHACO DOING?

Imani: He’s unconscious on the donkey. I didn’t dare try to heal him as we passed.

“While this happened, the resistance worried that this weapon would succeed, and they began a plan of their own. A biological fail-safe that would spread seeds out into the galaxy, should they all die. The Primal Engines, some call them. They were life rafts. They weren’t meant to do what you think they would do. It was a way to create sustainable habitats for when this collective experiment ultimately failed and starved.”

Float number four. Begin your presentation. Make it loud.

“And then, war. The war to end all wars.”

Makana and Sarah and everyone else on the Destruction float fired their guns all at once. The Abrams tank’s main gun was like a thunderclap. They had other weapons as well, all crackling and sparking and spitting fire into the air. Makana, from the RV, unleashed his eighth-floor card, some lava man who literally exploded in the air like a massive firework. Above, the Reaver transport rocked with the shock wave.

Samantha: Ooohh, I like fireworks.

At the same moment, the horribles all started falling over like they were dead. One by one, they fell. The moment they hit the ground, their large masks cracked and shattered like glass, leaving bits everywhere. The horribles themselves would disappear into the fog.

“To end this war, the collective initiated what some would come to know as the nine-tier attack. In that chaos, much happened, but so much more didn’t. Such is war. The resistance’s desperate attempts to keep life alive were started and not finished, and for a while, the collective thought they had achieved their genocidal goal. Thinking the final attack a success, the collective evolved to its final form. This is what you called the Eulogist. It is now asleep, only monitored by a smaller instance of itself. We’ll call this guy the Security Guard.

“But life, as I’ve said a thousand times, finds a way. While all of this was going on, the deep oceans of so many new, baby worlds were starting to bake. And by the time the first mudskipper was taking its first fish Nazi steps into forming its own culture and society, the broken remnants of the great war littered the universe.”

All of the horribles were now gone. All except a group of people sitting in a set of bleachers up ahead. And in the distance, a form started to grow. It was in shadow, but it was huge.

“Carl, that thing is inside the arena!”

“At this point, only a single physical Primal survived. The Apothecary. But even she wasn’t truly alive, not after that final attack, which she took the brunt of, thus allowing all the nascent life to survive. She was trapped on a world of her own creation, cocooned for a millennium. By the time she finally emerged like a butterfly, physically changed into a version of the very thing she’d been fighting against, the burgeoning Syndicate was already well on their way to repeating history, this time with a more diverse set of starter species.”

The horribles, who’d all collapsed, were now rising back up out of the fog. They no longer wore masks, but their faces had all transformed into horrific versions of the creatures they’d once portrayed.

They still didn’t appear on my minimap. I examined one.

Marsh Troll. Level X.

This is a non-combatant. This is an avatar of a troll that died during the 3,424th season of Dungeon Crawler World. He isn’t really here because he is dead and gone, never to return.

“First, these newcomers discovered a tiny portion of the tunnel system and thought it was for communication and travel, and then they—you—discovered and quickly figured out how to exploit the sleeping Eulogist. And then you tripped open the resistance’s ancient let’s-restart-life system. It was the equivalent of wandering into a random house, finding it still has power, and just flipping every switch you find. Yes, some of the light bulbs are burned out, but the garbage disposal still works. The trash compactor still works. The motion detectors work.” Grigori took a deep breath.

“The self-destruct system still works. Idiots. All of you.”

Florin: That thing up ahead is a tree, but there’s a monstrosity with tentacles on the very top.

“And then the ultimate fuckup. The mantids, completely misinterpreting what was essentially a communication system designed to help those on this side of the veil to communicate with and debug the Eulogist when it was first forming, figured out how to create their own version of Eulogist instances. They started dipping cups into that ocean and then pouring that water into the planetary seed systems, assuming that just because it works—sort of—they’d figured out some ancient puzzle. Sure, you can pour ketchup into a spray bottle, and if you squeeze it just right a bunch of times, red stinky liquid comes out. But that stuff ain’t ketchup anymore. To this day, you have no idea how any of this works, and you have no inkling of what you’ve done.”

The parade was now moving at a crawl.

Please hold. Begin your presentation on my mark.

“All the while, that Security Guard guy guarding the Eulogist, now absolutely bonkers, persisted. His purpose was and is to make certain all biological life in the universe stays dead. The ultimate goal of the Eulogist is to sleep forever. The longer it sleeps, the smaller it becomes, shrinking and shrinking until it ultimately obtains singularity status. The problem is, this left-behind security instance really sucks at his job. He is constantly peeling tiny bits of himself off and sending them out into the galaxy. Residuals. Agatha’s team. The Apothecary, too, does this as a defensive measure. I do think that bitch is just as crazy as the Security Guard guy, but that’s another topic for another day.”

As the arena drew closer, I could see what was basically a jumbotron sitting above the entrance. The giant screen was tight on Grigori, but it occasionally showed various parts of the parade, or it focused on the people in the stands. I caught sight of a guy in the front row. All of these folks still wore the original masks. The mask of this one was of a manatee. The body within wasn’t human but a slime. As I watched, the slime struggled, forming arms, undulating, attempting to break free. It couldn’t.

Presentation begins when you pass the viewing stands

This better be fucking good.

Carl: Pony, you ready?

Prepotente: Ready, Carl.

“And all the while, you were dipping that cup, making what you call Macro AIs. One after another, over and over and over again. Did you know only a tiny fraction of the AIs they created in their facilities ever got used? Oftentimes, they just installed them into their modules and ejected them into the closest star. Oh, yeah. That reminds me. I told you, my mantid friends, we would circle back to this.”

Up on the jumbotron, Grigori clapped his hands together.

Slam.

The sound reverberated louder than the blast from the tank.

“Good fucking riddance to you all.”

“Carl, what does that mean?” Donut asked.

“Nothing good for the mantids,” I said.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done. You will, however, understand what comes next.”

Ten seconds.

Up ahead, Sweety passed under the banner that read “Judging Stand.”

Prepotente held his microphone. Behind him, atop the stair truck, stood the giant head of the Midnight Epicure, made of black dahlias.

He was supposed to make some sort of stinging statement about how the downtrodden would soon rise up and devour those who reveled in our suffering. And then Bianca would fly forward and burn the flowers of the giant Epicure to reveal the skull underneath while she screeched. Donut had the whole thing planned out.

Instead, Prepotente started to sing.

“Oh no,” Donut said. “He’s going off script! He’s pulling a Carl!”

Donut: JURGEN, DID YOU KNOW HE WAS GOING TO DO THIS?

Jurgen: He never tells me anything.

Sweety the tapir stopped dead in the middle of the judging area, causing us all to jerk to a stop. She started to pound her feet to a tempo I quickly realized was the powerful, nonstandard beat of the song.

Pony was singing “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins. It was the song he had never gotten to sing at the bar. There was no other accompaniment other than the tapir’s feet.

Not only was he singing it, but he was singing it well. I was absolutely floored. It was strong, it was steady, and it was goddamned beautiful.

Elle: Holy shit, guys. How does that voice come out of him?

Florin: And how did he train his mount to do that?

Imani: It’s stunning. Who knew? Didn’t he sing at the bar before? Was it this good?

Florin: We all left before his name was called.

“Carl, he’s ruining everything! This song is about getting a divorce! It doesn’t even make sense!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Donut,” I said, listening to the lyrics. “I think it’s oddly appropriate.”

Donut scoffed. “Metaphor can only go so far.”

“Don’t worry. This next part isn’t nearly as subtle.”

As he sang, I examined the group of people in the stands. Unlike everyone else, these folks did have dots. Their descriptions, however, didn’t give specifics.

Stand-In. Someone brought to the arena by audience vote. Most are in the arena like I said they’d be, but there’s too many to fit. So I brought some out here. It doesn’t matter who they are. They’re all the same in the end.

I took a breath. Behind us, the giant triangle made of magenta and white dahlias stood ready.

Carl: Florin, let’s do it. Wait until Pony is done, and I’ll give my speech.

Florin: Gotcha.

Sweety started to move as the song came to an end.

Prepotente: Your turn, Carl.

Carl: That was amazing, buddy.

Prepotente: Thank you.

I tapped the headset microphone I’d borrowed from Donut. Hedy’s ice-cream truck featuring the severed heads of the Faction Wars leaders passed by the stands.

We’d turned off the Auto-Tune for this.

“Earlier,” I said, my voice reverberating, “Donut asked me what the difference was between revenge and vengeance. I know there’s an official definition somewhere, and this might not be exactly correct, but I want to tell you what I told her. Revenge is when we take direct action against someone for something they did to harm us. But vengeance, at least to me, is punishment. Righteous punishment, and sometimes it’s not as direct.”

Behind me, Donut pulled the string, and the pieces of the giant triangle fell away.

The massive statue we’d made of the Unwashed, the strange creature that Juice Box had turned into, popped up like a jack-in-the-box, huge and menacing. It was an upside-down tree, directly in contrast with the giant white tree that stood in front of us now. The eyes trailed smoke, and if we’d built it correctly, several of the black flowers would fall off it, revealing red flowers and paint, representing rivers of blood.

The gremlins had done a pretty impressive job of building it. It was meant as a jump scare for anyone watching. But it was also meant as a reminder.

Those two symbols, the Epicure and the Unwashed, both represented death and vengeance. The Epicure at the beginning of our progression was a symbol of hope, of vengeance against the predators of the galaxy. But that last symbol—the Hag, the Unwashed, the Stalker, the Beautiful Place, and so many other names—was a symbol for something else. Whether it was real or not was irrelevant. It was said to be a personification of the Nothing. To me, it was that and more. The Inevitable Ruin. It was a reminder that death comes for us all, no matter who we are, and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.

We passed Lamashtu the donkey with Grigori standing upon her, and I met eyes with the psychotic AI. Chaco remained at his feet, health still in the red. Never removing my eyes from Grigori’s, I pulled up a healing scroll, I selected Chaco, and I healed him. Grigori’s eyes never left my own. He didn’t react.

I turned my attention upward and then I pointed at the effigy of the Unwashed.

I spoke to the galaxy.

“It is coming. It is coming for you all. All of you who participated in this wholesale murder of me and my people and everyone before us, those who didn’t speak out, I am holding all of you culpable. It won’t be justice because there isn’t any way that justice can possibly ever be served. It won’t be revenge. Revenge, as nice as that sounds, requires the party directly responsible. How do you get revenge against a generational system that has existed before any of us were born?

“But vengeance?

“Every one of you. Whether it’s in a big way or a small way, you are responsible. And those of us who survive this, we will remember. We will not forget. We are coming. It may not be me, and it may not be my friends, but we are coming.”

Above, the transport bay doors on the airship opened, and the sluggalos started to rain down on the stands on either side of the road. The masked audience, consisting of bankers, politicians, elites, all masked, unable to fight back, screamed as the smallest of the small, the lowest form of dungeon NPC, fell amongst them and started to slaughter them one by one.

Bigs: I’ve never been so proud. Unity, support, family, and kneecapping bitches! Hell yeah!