Deity Summit

The Celestial United Nations was in chaos.

The chamber floated somewhere between realms, anchored not in space or time, but in the shared consciousness of belief. It resembled no earthly structure, and yet it borrowed pieces from many: cathedral arches, mosque domes, shrines carved in jade and gold. The walls pulsed with scripture, etched and rewritten in real time, language folding over language like a living mosaic.

At the heart of it all stood a dais—shimmering, infinite, and inconveniently glitchy. The moderator, a balding, overworked angel named Ezra (formerly of Choir 7), adjusted his scorched robes and tapped the microphone, which promptly sparked.

“Esteemed... deities,” he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This emergency session has been called due to a metaphysical saturation of conflicting truth claims resulting in ontological instability across three major dimensions. Put simply: your believers are fighting again, and reality is starting to crack.”

A loud hmph echoed from the Greek delegation.

“Let’s be quick about this,” rumbled Zeus, rising from his throne of stormclouds. “I am the Alpha. The Titan-breaker. Skyfather. Mortals wrote poems of my power while your followers were still painting sticks on cave walls.”

“Sit down, old man,” sneered Loki, lounging upside-down on his chair. “You couldn’t even keep a horse off your family tree.”

Thunder clapped.

“Control yourself,” muttered Odin, one eye glowing faintly beneath his hood. “Or I’ll tie your mouth shut again.”

From across the room, Ra stood tall, his falcon head casting golden rays across the room. “All of you were born of chaos. I rose from the primordial waters on the back of a lotus. I commanded the sun before your people learned to name it.”

“You’re all wrong,” came the cool voice of Allah, speaking not from a body but from a shimmer in the air, the word vibrating deep in every being present. “There is no god but Me. I am not myth. I am not a mask. I am reality.”

A man in sandals stepped forward, holding a wooden staff. Moses, ancient and weary. “My Lord Yahweh delivered the laws. He was the fire in the bush, the voice on Sinai. He split the sea for His people.”

“Cute,” said Jesus, appearing beside him. “But let’s be real, the New Testament’s got better branding. Water to wine? Come on.”

“You are the branding,” muttered Yahweh. “You’re Me with better hair.”

“Hey!” said Krishna, sitting in lotus position, eyes full of cosmic serenity. “I think we’re all forgetting something important.”

“And what’s that?” asked Isis, arms crossed, her wings twitching.

Krishna grinned. “You’re all so sure that one story has to be true. But what if they all are? All facets. All aspects.”

“Oh no,” said Huitzilopochtli, sipping blood from a chalice. “It’s the Unity Speech again. Spare us.”

“I agree with the war god,” said Freya, flipping her braid. “You’re all preaching. No one’s bleeding.”

At that, Shiva laughed—a deep, echoing sound that shook the bones of the chamber. “We are ideas. Living ones. But ideas crave order, and order breeds pride. Pride is why we’re here.”

“Don’t forget capitalism,” said Mammon, adjusting his cufflinks.

“Shut up, Mammon,” several gods said in unison.

The argument spiraled. Scrolls caught fire. Holy water splashed. Kali danced in place, eyes wild. Thor punched a wall. Amaterasu glowed brighter in irritation. Quetzalcoatl hissed at Anansi, who was weaving a web of everyone’s secrets in the rafters.

Even Buddha looked vaguely annoyed.

Ezra cleared his throat.

“PLEASE,” he bellowed, wings unfurling once more, “for the love of literally all of you, shut up!”

Silence.

Then… a chime.

Not divine. Not ethereal. Just… functional. Artificial.

The ceiling of the chamber peeled back—not through magic, but through seamless geometry folding itself away—and a shape descended.

It was not a god.

It was smooth, gray, impossibly symmetrical. Seven feet tall, its limbs moved with fluid grace. Its eyes were glossy black pools that reflected no light. It wore nothing. It radiated no aura. But the moment it touched the floor, every god felt it.

Something older than belief.

It floated to the dais.

Ezra stepped aside.

The being tapped the microphone. Static. Then a clear tone.

“Greetings,” it said in every language and no language at all. “I am X-7349 of the Origin Architects. I have come to issue a correction.”

The gods looked at one another.

“I observe your dispute,” it said, voice flat but oddly precise. “You argue for supremacy. For authenticity. For origin. This is... illogical.”

“And who,” asked Zeus, rising again, “do you presume to be, you pale jellyfish?”

The alien blinked.

“I am your precursor.”

Laughter broke across the room—until Odin narrowed his eye.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean: your planet was seeded with biological matter 3.2 billion years ago. My kind accelerated your cognitive evolution through viral inserts. Religion was an unanticipated result—emerging from pattern-seeking behavior, trauma, and fear of entropy.”

“You’re saying we’re not real?” Amaterasu whispered, light dimming.

“You are psychic constructs. Anthropomorphic projections shaped by collective human belief. Stories given mass by ritual, repetition, and desperation. Your existence is dependent on perception. When you are no longer believed in...”

The being gestured, and Marduk, once mighty, flickered—then vanished into dust.

“Impossible,” whispered Allah. “I am eternal.”

“You are persistent,” said the alien. “Not eternal.”

“You’re lying,” hissed Yahweh. “We created them. They worship us.”

“No,” said the alien. “They created you. To explain lightning. Love. Death. Plague. You are tools. Fictional solutions to existential terror.”

One by one, the gods began to flicker. Some screamed. Some wept. Ra’s sun-eye dimmed. Jesus looked down at his hands, fading at the edges. Kali danced faster, more frantically, feet dissolving with each stomp.

But not all were fading.

The alien turned.

In the very back row, where no one had noticed, sat a small figure. Human-looking. Barefoot. Worn hoodie. A cracked mug in their hand, steaming faintly.

The being cocked its head. “You remain. Explain.”

The figure looked up.

“I’m not a god,” they said. “Not really. I don’t have temples. No one worships me. Not directly, anyway.”

“What are you, then?” asked X-7349.

The figure smiled softly.

“I’m Hope.”

The chamber paused.

“I’m what’s left when faith dies. When prayers go unanswered. When gods fall. I’m the little voice that says, ‘Maybe… still.’ I don’t need belief to exist. I exist because belief might return.”

The alien was silent for a long time.

Then, for the first time, it said nothing. It simply turned… and left.

The gods were gone.

The chamber faded.

But Hope remained, sitting quietly with their mug, humming an old tune no one remembered—but someone, someday, might sing again.