The First Penance: Public Apology for 'Bad Art'

The Conduit's disembodied voice, still echoing in Ethan's head despite his desperate attempts to ignore it, was unwavering. “Atonement, Ethan. Your path to power lies through Atonement. To mend the fractured reality, you must first mend the fractures within yourself.”

Ethan groaned, clutching his head. He was sitting on the cracked vinyl of a diner booth, nursing a lukewarm coffee that tasted suspiciously of old socks. Across from him, the reflection in the window showed a man on the verge of a breakdown. Graffiti-induced visions, interdimensional entities, and now… penance. His life had officially become a very strange, very bad, art film.

“And what, pray tell, constitutes Atonement in this context?” he’d asked the voice earlier, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He hadn’t expected a straightforward answer, but the Conduit’s reply had still managed to take his breath away.

"Your first act of Atonement," the Conduit had boomed, resonating deep within Ethan's skull, "concerns your art. The… lackluster nature of your artistic endeavors requires public contrition."

Ethan nearly choked on his coffee. “My art? You’re judging my art? Are you kidding me? I poured my soul into those… those attempts!”

He knew, deep down, the Conduit was right. His art wasn't exactly setting the world on fire. He’d spent years flitting between styles, dabbling in impressionism, abstract expressionism, even a disastrous foray into performance art involving a papier-mâché pigeon and a very confused group of tourists. The results were… underwhelming, to put it mildly. Critics – well, the two who'd actually bothered to review his work – had been less than kind. “Derivative,” one had sniffed. “Lacking in originality,” the other had declared. His mother, bless her heart, had called them “interesting.”

“Specifically,” the Conduit continued, oblivious to Ethan’s internal turmoil, "you will publicly apologize for your artistic failings in front of the Art Institute of Chicago. You will acknowledge the mediocrity of your creations and vow to strive for… betterment."

Ethan stared blankly at the reflection staring back at him. Public humiliation. That was the price of saving the world. He rubbed his temples, the caffeine doing little to alleviate the impending headache.

“And if I don’t?” he’d challenged, a faint hope flickering within him.

“The Voidborn will continue their insidious infiltration,” the Conduit had replied, its voice laced with a chilling finality. “The fractures will widen. Reality will unravel.”

So, here he was, a few hours later, staring down the barrel of his first, and hopefully not most embarrassing, act of Atonement. He drained his coffee, the bitter taste a fitting prelude to the ordeal ahead. He paid the bewildered waitress, leaving a generous tip as a preemptive apology for whatever karmic disruption he was about to cause, and stepped out onto the bustling Chicago street.

The Art Institute loomed before him, a majestic beacon of artistic achievement. The grand staircase leading up to the entrance was crowded with tourists snapping photos of the iconic bronze lions flanking the doorway. Ethan felt a wave of nausea. He was about to stand in front of this monument to artistic excellence and publicly declare himself a failure.

He wandered around the block a few times, trying to summon the courage, or at least a semblance of it. He imagined the headlines: "Local Artist Makes Public Apology for Being Awful," "Chicagoan Embraces Mediocrity in Bizarre Public Stunt," "Is This Guy Serious?"

Finally, with a deep breath and a silent prayer to any deity who might be listening, Ethan approached the Art Institute. He chose a spot on the sidewalk, directly in front of the entrance, hoping the sheer audacity of his location would somehow lend him some confidence.

He cleared his throat, his voice trembling slightly. “Excuse me,” he began, addressing the bewildered tourists milling around him. “Excuse me, everyone. Can I have your attention, please?”

A few people stopped to look, their faces a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Ethan pressed on, his heart pounding in his chest.

“My name is Ethan Bellweather,” he announced, his voice gaining strength. “And I’m… I’m an artist. Or, well, I try to be an artist.”

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the small crowd that had gathered. Ethan ignored them and continued.

“For years, I’ve been creating… things. Paintings, sculptures, performance art involving pigeons… and, frankly, they haven’t been very good. Actually, they’ve been pretty terrible.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his self-deprecation to sink in. A few more people had stopped to listen, their expressions now ranging from amusement to outright bewilderment.

“I’ve been… derivative. Unoriginal. Lacking in vision. In short, I’ve been a mediocre artist.”

He cringed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. This was worse than he’d imagined. He wanted to run, to disappear into the crowd and forget this whole thing ever happened. But he couldn't. The Conduit’s words echoed in his mind: Atonement. The Voidborn. Unraveling reality.

He took another deep breath and forced himself to continue. “So, I’m here today to apologize. To apologize to anyone who has ever had the misfortune of viewing my art. To apologize to the art critics who wasted their time writing scathing reviews. To apologize to my mother, who always tried to be supportive, even when she clearly wanted to gouge her eyes out.”

He paused again, letting the silence hang in the air. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. This was excruciating.

“I vow,” he declared, his voice trembling slightly but gaining conviction, "to strive for betterment. To learn from my mistakes. To create art that is, at the very least, slightly less terrible.”

He finished his impromptu apology, his body trembling with exhaustion and humiliation. He expected jeers, laughter, maybe even a tomato or two hurled in his direction. But instead, something unexpected happened.

A woman in a bright floral dress stepped forward, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You know,” she said, “that takes a lot of courage. To admit your flaws, to be so… honest. I admire that.”

A few other people murmured in agreement. A young man with a sketchbook approached Ethan and said, “I’m a student here. I think what you did was pretty cool. It’s easy to get caught up in the pressure to be perfect, but it’s important to be able to laugh at yourself.”

Ethan was stunned. He hadn't expected… acceptance. He’d braced himself for ridicule, but instead, he was met with a surprising amount of empathy.

As he stood there, basking in the unexpected wave of support, he felt a strange sensation coursing through his body. A tingling energy, a subtle shift in his perception. It was faint, barely perceptible, but it was there. The magic. The Atonement was working.

The Conduit’s voice echoed in his mind. “The fractures begin to mend. A small price paid for a significant gain. Continue on the Path of Atonement, Ethan. The journey is long, but the reward is the salvation of your world.”

Ethan nodded, a newfound determination hardening his gaze. The public apology had been humiliating, excruciating, and utterly bizarre. But it had also been… strangely liberating. He had faced his fear, embraced his shortcomings, and, in doing so, had unlocked a small piece of his potential.

He thanked the small crowd for their attention and, with a newfound spring in his step, walked away from the Art Institute. The weight of his artistic failures hadn’t completely vanished, but it felt lighter, less burdensome.

As he walked, he focused on the sensation of the magic flowing through him. It was subtle, but he could feel it, a faint warmth spreading through his veins. He experimented, trying to manipulate the energy, to shape it, to control it.

He focused on a nearby pigeon, visualizing it changing color. At first, nothing happened. But then, with a surge of effort, the pigeon’s feathers flickered, momentarily shifting from gray to a vibrant blue before reverting back to their original hue.

Ethan grinned. It was a small victory, a tiny step forward. But it was proof that the Conduit was right. Atonement was the key. Humiliation was the price. And saving the world… was going to be a very strange and embarrassing experience. He could only imagine what the next act of Atonement would entail. Opera singing? Competitive eating? Maybe he'd have to publicly admit his addiction to reality TV? The possibilities, terrifyingly, seemed endless. But as he walked, he knew one thing for sure: he was ready, or at least as ready as he could be, to face whatever bizarre penance the Conduit threw his way. The world was counting on him, even if they didn't know it yet. And Ethan Bellweather, the mediocre artist, was finally ready to embrace his destiny as the Atonement Arcanist.

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