Hamilton | There's Nothing Like Summer In The City

A Prologue, Which Is The Only Serious Part Of This Story

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Once, long ago, the universe began.

There were about four main things in existence.

Then they split in half and became eight different things. Two versions of the same thing, y'know?

Those things were called Primordial Forces, and they were what made up existence.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering- where the fuck is Hamilton?

We'll get there. Shush. This is important.

So, eight Primordial Forces, two of each, blah blah.

There was change, represented by Leith (the constant change) and Nialie (the gradual change).

Death, represented by Emórisse (the welcoming embracer who ruled the Halls of the Dead) and Ecleson (who was such a badass lil girl that she could kill you with a touch).

Destruction, represented by Ekkria (just, like, straight-up destruction) and somebody else I can't reveal for plot reasons.

And chaos, represented by myself (also not revealed for plot reasons; just refer to me as your narrator) and a little bitch named Ari Nightlocke.

(Very few of these Forces are plot-relevant, but the fact that some are necessitates that they all be included.)

Well, time went on, and worlds got created, people started existing, creatures started existing, people colonized and murdered each other, etc., etc.

There was one world, though, that has such a low population (7.8 fucking billion people), it's considered a fucking useless data sample. It's also ridiculously small (196.9 million square miles) and only has one sentient species.

There's a 81% chance, as calculated by the most recent technology, that you're on this planet.

It's called Earth, and I fucking hate it. For legal reasons (my girlfriend is a college student there), I can't destroy it, but moons, I wish I could. It's somehow managed to be one of the worst planets I know of, and I helped create most of them.

I really don't understand what Leith sees in it, but she says they have a good basic understanding of chemistry and physics, so I'll hold her to that.

(And you little humans thought 'long-distance' was hard. How big could your 'distance' fucking be?)

Anyways, this little disaster of a planet is the only reason this story exists.

Well, namely, it's the fault of a small girl in government custody.

Alright, alright, fine. She's not a girl. But small woman sounds fucking terrible, doesn't it?

Besides, you get the point.

It's entirely Subject #69530's fault that I'm telling you this fucking story.

Go ahead, laugh at her serial number. But blame the fact that the CIA had 69,529 people listed as test subjects before her for that. Like, what the fuck?

Alright, now. If you're going to keep laughing, I'm going to stop.

Okay? Good.

If it helps, you can call her by her chosen name. We're not trying to be transphobic here.

She goes by Jameson.

Ash Jameson.

And in a month or so from when the story starts, she's gonna get up to some really cool shit.

The Hamilton shit comes in before that, though.

Buckle up, biesille.

And let's jump in.