The lovely, black haired woman in the red skirts and black tunic tilts her head. She cocks an eyebrow, the gold chopsticks keeping her hair in a bun bouncing. A quirk of her lips and the fake wax mustache on her lips goes slightly crooked. "Who are you?"
Lightly sparked sweat drops roll down the side of the golden sphere. The iris goes wide, then cycles almost shut. "I am the God of Bad Disguises," he declares.
The fake mustache bristles. She folds her arms, propping up her chest. "No you're not," she says, "I know the God of Bad Disguises and you aren't her." She thrusts her shoulders back, and the mustache tilts. "Oh! I know what this is!"
"I know exactly what this is!" Marching down the street, pushing past rikshaws, past shuffling porcelain cats, another woman with a fake wax goatee marches up and grabs the mustachio'ed woman by the shoulder. "Another fucking power play, is that it?"
The mustachio'ed woman slaps the hand away. "I had nothing to do with this!"
"You've been trying to get me fired since you fucking started," the goate'ed woman yells, poking her counterpart- who Autochthon notices is identical to her save for the different fake facial hair- in the chest, "This another one of your fucking patsies? What'd you give him to get him to play along, huh?" Then the goate'ed woman makes a sudden jerking motion with her hand, as if sliding it along some sort of long rod.
The mustachio'ed woman's face turns beat red. Next to them, a canal boat slows down to watch, several dog-faced monks staring at the argument before speeding past. "Oh, that's rich," she cries out, arms folded and turning from her counterpart with a huff "At least I don't get called the 'God of Bad Disguises and Quickies with the Subdirector!'"
During this, Autochthon glances between the two, iris narrowing, opening, lightning sparks playing over gaps between his plates. A single thought runs through the peerless, transcendent architecture that is his mind;
The fuck is this?
The Maker turns, just in time to see a naked man with skin the color of layered brick step away from the layered brick wall of the building they were next to. "Excuse me," the God of Camouflage says, "But do you need me to call the Department of Nature to mediate?"
The iris of the golden sphere narrows, lightning playing behind the silver plates. A high pitched choking sound emits from Autochthon, followed by a warble when a stick insect twice the size of a man walks over and joins the argument.
Two more gods- identical gods, who introduce themselves as the God of Badly Disguising Yourself, Bureau of Humanity, and The God of Badly Disguising, Bureau of Heaven, charge into the argument while insisting that they are, in fact, the other person. Which is when Autochthon banishes the cloak and scarecrow to Elsewhere and eases himself into the entry socket of his bipedal golden Encounter Suit.
A jade and metal bench folds inward, and becomes the cloak of a distinguished older man with a long white, braided beard. "God of Inelegant Facades," he introduces himself, "Bureau of Heaven, Department of Secrets." He strides over in long steps, stepping between the two women with fake facial hair. "What is the cause of this commotion?"
The woman with the goatee pokes the woman with the mustache in the chest. There is a bit of a bounce. "She's trying to get me fired and is passing off another of her fuck buddies as the God of Bad Disguises!"
The mustache-wearing woman snorts. Her mustache bristles. "I did no such thing! I just ran into him!"
The God of Inelegant Facades turns, as do the other assembled deities, to the three meter tall golden giant standing in front of them. "Are you responsible for this?" the senior god asks, "And..." He blinks. "Who are you?"
The facet cut eyes flash. "I!" Thunder booms overhead. "Am Autochthon!"
In truth, the addled and confused mind of the Great Maker did not entirely plan on how the gods would react to him announcing that he was, in fact, the returned Autochthon. Perhaps he expected polite apologies. Perhaps he expected supplication and prayer. Perhaps he expected an explanation for what, in fact, he just witnessed.
He certainly did not, in fact, expect them to all start screaming.
