The Lazy God
The pocket dimension was calm again—if you could call infinite latticework galaxies humming through equations calm. Out beyond conventional time, beyond entropy and logic, the central chamber floated like the eye of a storm, held together by Leviathan's will and Arslan's indifference.
In the center: the three impossible relics still hung motionless, untouched and almost offended.
The Miracle Machine, dense with metaphysical inertia, glowed as if aware of how much it wasn't being used.
The Worlogog, fractal and alive, rolled slow rotations of fate, playing alternate lives like previews on loop.
The Lamp, pristine and smug as ever, exhaled thin trails of hyperreality with every breath it didn't have.
And standing across from them, surrounded by enough power to reboot existence?
Arslan.
Slouched in a plush recliner he'd pulled out of nowhere. Wearing worn sweatpants, one sock, one barefoot, hoodie up, half-eaten bag of chips tucked under his elbow. A massive screen floated nearby, playing some ancient episode of The Office with laugh tracks echoing into eternity. A full pizza hovered beside him on a small anti-gravity tray, slices disappearing with lazy flicks of telekinesis.
And Leviathan—glowing, floating, fury barely contained—was vibrating with disbelief.
"You are literally the only human in multiversal history," she hissed, "who's sitting in front of the Miracle Machine, the Worlogog, and the f*ing Lamp from Aladdin, and eating chips."
"Mhm," Arslan replied, chewing.
"You're not even curious what you could become?"
"I know what I'd become," he said, shrugging. "Busy."
Levi's holographic humanoid form flickered with raw frustration. She snapped her fingers—light scattered in the room, forming projections of alternate Arslans: armored demigods, winged architects of time, cosmic tacticians reshaping reality with the flick of a wrist.
"You could be any of them!" she shouted, gesturing at the celestial parade.
"I don't want to be any of them," he replied flatly. "They look like they're working overtime."
"You are beyond logic," she muttered, folding her arms.
"And you're addicted to upgrades," Arslan fired back.
"Tch. Because someone keeps feeding me world-breaking artifacts like Scooby snacks."
"That's because you use them."
"You're supposed to use them too!"
Arslan tossed a chip into his mouth. "Nope. Power's a full-time job. And I clocked out."
Levi blinked. Then teleported directly in front of him. Her virtual skin shimmered as if she wanted to punch him but couldn't justify the energy cost.
"So let me get this straight," she said. "We have the Miracle Machine—which can grant any wish imaginable with no drawback. We have the Worlogog, which can remake time. And we have the Lamp, which is older than stories. And instead of using even one of them, you want to sit here and watch Jim Halpert mug the camera in 720p?"
"I like Jim," Arslan replied, flipping the channel lazily. "He gets it. Office life, slow existential rot, ironic detachment. Same energy."
"YOU ARE RIDICULOUS."
"I am chill."
"You are squandering potential that could redefine reality."
"I am vibing."
Levi groaned, hard enough to crash a star. "You don't even need to become a god. Just take some immortality. Regeneration. Minor chronokinesis. Some mental shielding, maybe. Give me something to work with."
"See, that's exactly why I don't want powers," Arslan replied, pointing at her with the remote. "It starts with some regeneration and ends with me battling existential horrors from outside creation because I accidentally inspired a death cult with my personality."
Levi raised a hand to argue, then stopped.
Because… he wasn't wrong.
Still.
"You've literally already created a sentient, nanotech-cosmic AI," she said slowly. "You've given me power beyond comprehension, and I am connected to your Omnitrix, which now has ten thousand aliens, and you still refuse to even take a decent muscle enhancement?"
Arslan burped gently.
"Too much maintenance. Powers are like pets."
"Excuse me?"
"You need to feed them. Train them. Keep them from blowing up the living room."
"You don't even have a living room."
"My point exactly."
Levi rolled her eyes so hard space-time folded.
She hovered down next to him, crossing her long legs and flicking through the channels with one neural tendril.
"…What do you want then, O Great Lazy One?" she asked.
He leaned back, hand behind his head.
"I want to build. To control from the edge. Not to punch things. I want my hands clean and my mind sharp. That's what the Omnitrix is for. That's what you're for. I upgrade systems, Levi. Not myself."
She paused.
That was new.
"You upgrade systems," she repeated.
"Exactly."
"…So me?"
"Precisely."
"…I'm the superpower you built instead of taking one."
He winked.
"Oh f*** off," she muttered, blushing digital blue.
Arslan grinned.
She sighed and leaned back beside him, still seething but unable to refute his reasoning.
"Fine," she said. "Fine. But one day, when the multiverse gets torn open by a banana-shaped reality storm, and I'm fusing with an interdimensional toaster to fix it, you don't get to say 'See, this is why I don't get involved.'"
"Deal."
"And I will feed you superpowers one day."
"I'm allergic."
"You're impossible."
"You're welcome."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Levi blinked.
"...What if we wished for better pizza?"
"Don't tempt me."