Before all the madness, Digi City was beautiful.

There were cybernetic wonders and augmented reality mirrors. There were meadows and streams and orchards of the freshest tangerines.

Now? The Supernatural Police have taken over. Everything that belonged to the Gods has gone to the dogs.

And what business could this police have with our society, anyhow?

Oh it’s because of the supernatural challenges that technology alone cannot address.

Oh, they’re crucial to preserve the delicate equilibrium between technology and divinity.

Preserve my ass.

Back in the days when it was still a mere farming settlement, three Òrìṣàs came together to weave a dream.

Ògún, the God of innovation, shaped the city’s destiny with his mastery of tech and highly intelligent machinery. He infused the very core with his divine essence, giving birth to a revolution that would propel the place into an era of unparalleled advancement.

As his influence grew, so did his disciples. Engineers, hackers, and scientists flocked in. They formed a new society, Born Of The Iron, dedicated to worshiping and emulating Ògún’s mastery.

Ṣàngó, the Òrìṣà of electricity, sent lightning coursing through the city’s veins to help their beloved friend. They infused the power grid with their divine energy, granting the city an unparalleled supply of electricity.

Neon signs, stunning holograms, and luminescent implants became the visual manifestation of the divine partnership. The line between the organic and the synthetic blurred, human bodies became conduits for raw Òrìṣà power.

The third deity, lurking in shadows, was Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná, the lord of the pox, master of the virus. Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná revelled in disruption, disease and discomfort. He was the balance.

Impressed by the pulsating energy and technological marvels, the Committee of Thunder gods sent word that they wanted to pay the city a visit. They would come from everywhere in Europe and Asia.

*

Ṣìgìdì, leaning against the polished counter in the lively beer parlour, was recounting the tale with animated excitement. The music was loud, so it had to shout.

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” it began, eyes alight with the memory. “My sensors were going crazy, you know, what with those lights pulsating and all. The whole citadel was alive, in sync with quantum computers humming away.”

The patrons around it leaned in, captivated. Ṣìgìdì counted six men. Fighting men. Dangerous men who worked for the establishment. From their body language and rapt attention, he could tell that they were only after one thing: gold. The story was information, and information was gold. But in this moment, their foulness didn’t matter.

A new song came on.

“And then,” Ṣìgìdì continued, “The Thunder gods arrived. Oh, you should have seen them—their digital signatures and features were unlike anything I’d ever processed. Cold yet capricious; pale, pink after all the offerings of alligator pepper. But the further you went into their histories, the blacker they became.”

“And this Ògún, the God of Iron,” chimed in a curious listener. “What was he like?”

Ṣìgìdì grinned, “Ah, Ògún was something else. Picture this: locs in the sun, like the mane of a great prehistoric predator. Picture this exoskeleton adorned in a million nanolights, thanks to his partner Ṣàngó. His metal was unbreakable, but as flexible as a supple willow branch. He gave a speech that day, about unity and collaboration. It was not a concept I was designed to comprehend and support, you see.”

A tipsy patron rose and sauntered out of the bar, leaving the door slightly ajar. He fiddled with his comms, a fancy bracelet flashing on and off. “Sus…” he mumbled. “Stat… Starter.”

A small block of text appeared, and he mouthed the words slowly. […is the spirit of a malevolent agency, a terrifying effigy with a penchant for death and destruction. In the old days, conjurers would mention the enemy’s name and call on it to cause the person to die or become mad or meet some other dire fate. Since Digi City, instead of an entity moulded from mud, it is imbued with bleeding edge A.I, complete with its own feelings, motivations and interests.]

Ṣìgìdì could hear everything the patron was reading in low tones, but the atmosphere in the parlour was charged with intrigue so it focused on the story being told.

“Then came the sacrifices,” it continued.

“Human sacrifices?” A fat man sitting on a creaking stool asked. He was wearing an immaculate white shirt, a striking contrast to his oversized beard dyed black.

Ṣìgìdì smiled then. “Human sacrifices are an interesting concept, aren’t they? First of all, though, nobody is killing you and devouring your soul. You do not have a soul—you are the soul, wrapped in a body. Your spirit is what’s needed in the Ambrosia. Your prayers, your fasting, your faith, the electronic core of your will. Everything else is just bamboozling, but don’t let me get ahead of myself.”

To the right, the Madam of the place worked the vintage dispensers, and Ṣìgìdì’s smile developed into a grin. Hers was the only bar, for miles and miles, that still had constant electricity. Her kraft beer was nicknamed ‘chaos’. But Ṣìgìdì wasn’t just grinning at its drink, it was grinning at the madam with all her cybernetic enhancements, wires and cables interwoven with the tattoos of circuits that adorned her arms. Her whole vibe made her stand out, for it was rare to find augmentation that still worked like this.

Ṣìgìdì took a hearty swig of the beer. The taste was a comforting blend of hopes, nostalgia, and of course, a hint of rògbòdìyàn.

It wiped leftover froth with the back of its hand and continued. “The feast was a culinary adventure of the freshest Ambrosia. The melding of flavors and aromas, simply… divine.”

As if to buttress its point, it conjured a holographic clip.

In this digital backdrop, Thor, the Norse god with biceps that made even the mightiest machines jealous, set his magical hammer aside and chowed down with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy shop—if that candy shop happened to be the size of a mountain.

Not to be outdone, Leigong the Chinese signaled for more food and inhaled the table. Thunder roared and forks clashed as he dug into the smorgasbord.

The clip played on, showcasing all sorts of gastronomic acrobatics, a spectacle of bytes and bites; and the audience looked on, disgust or awe in varying degrees, on their faces. “Way too much fun!” the fat man exclaimed.

“But of course,” Ṣìgìdì laughed, stopping it abruptly, “There was trouble too.”

*

After feeding to their hearts’ content, when these visitors with names that sounded like they were trying too hard to be cool superheroes decided to hang around, it raised eyebrows among the circuitry of the city.

Ògún, ever gracious, designated cozy cottages by the idyllic meadows for their stay.

First in line was Donar, the quintessential Germanic powerhouse, always ready to show off his prowess. Perun, the bear of a god, represented the Russian contingent, bringing a hearty “да” to the party. Taranis, a genius fluent in French, Spanish, and who knows what else, made sure everyone got a taste of his linguistic skills. Baal, the Iberian charmer, always had a lightning-quick retort up his sleeve. Teshub, with his beard, looked like a rather dangerous turkey, but he added a spicy flair to the gathering. Hadad, the Babylonian enigma, was mostly silent but everyone knew of the battles he had fought and won. And of course, you couldn’t forget the most famous: Jupiter, the Roman statesman, and Zeus, the Greek showman.

Officially they were there to assist Ògún in administration—not that he needed their help, but as soon as the Thunder gods had settled in, they began their power play, attempting to wrestle control of the city’s techno-zenith for their own celestial amusement.

Like a pack of interstellar bullies, they started with complaints about the quantity of Ambrosia served. Then they moved to the jokes about how these bush people were enjoying a largesse they didn’t deserve. Then came the cultural mudslinging, tarnishing the names of the Òrìṣà. Spelling titles in lowercase, as if to belittle their cosmic status.

I watched them planning spiritual attacks. Watched them terrorize ordinary ctizens. You think say na only una sabi do juju? They never joked with their fix of blood. Then livestock started disappearing.

I did nothing because I was not authorised to intervene. But when the first Born of the Iron died under suspicious circumstances — in the sanctuary no less, I began to consider breaking protocol.

*

It was a starry night.

The notification leading me to the location popped up. Sanctuary.

It was the second time I had ever been there. The first was when Ogundele, the Boti leader, was publicly rededicating his life to the Iron God.

I am not wired to like humans, but I enjoyed the show. And I definitely enjoyed watching him work.

Upon entering the place, we were greeted by a grand atrium adorned with displays showcasing the Great Hunter and his dog. The walls pulsed with soft illumination, giving the impression of a living, breathing entity.

The main hall, where the engineers congregated, featured a sprawling, central holographic projection suspended in mid-air, displaying the intricate models of ongoing projects. Further within, secluded chambers served as private workspaces and laboratories. The walls of these chambers were embedded with intelligent displays, capable of adapting to the preferences of the occupant. Advanced assistants fluttered through, aiding the engineers with their tasks and ensuring a seamless workflow.

At the heart of the sanctuary lay the sacred chamber—a sanctuary within the sanctuary. This space was reserved for contemplation, meditation, and the most important collaborations.

It was here we found Ogundele, dead.

His torso was crouched down and curled into a fetal position. His limbs, once so free in movement, were now shaped like a handle. With his head lowered towards his chest, he looked like he had been trying to shrink away from something terrifying, his form gave the appearance of a can with its top neatly closed.

I knew immediately that this was unnatural.

None of the autonomous drone cameras registered what had happened or how, but underneath the skin of the can-man, muscles twitched and writhed.

Ògún had to summon the dreaded Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná.

His presence was as if a virus had infected the very spectrum of colours, turning everything into noxious greens, murky yellows, and diseased browns. There is a reason why he’s called the outside God.

From the perspective of the human onlookers now wearing biohazard suits, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná’s entry must have been an unnerving experience. As he materialised in the sanctuary, a pungent, foul stench wafted through the air—pus, stagnant water, and the odour of necrotic tissues—sending shivers down their spines and turning their stomachs.

“Obviously a message,” he said, when he had observed the body. His very words caused a grotesque distortion of the vibrant cybernetic environment, like he was impregnating the circuits with an unsafe programme. The sickly haze emanating from his mouth, cast an eerie pallor over everything it touched.

“How do you mean?” Ògún enquired.

“If you cut under the flesh, like this—” Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná demonstrated with a fingernail. “You’ll see the worms.”

Whoever did this had cut Ogundele multiple times, in multiple places, and introduced genetically modified worms into his bloodstream. Then they had sealed the cuts and left the worms to feed, contorting the body postmortem.

A can of worms.

Was that a warning? Was this a game?

*

A new tune came on.

I am the definition of everlasting mischief
The confluence where four-dimensional mathematics
and retribution collide

I sit inside the heavy echoes of chieftaincy
The dissimulation of tropical masquerades
The connection, the process, the tedium of proof
You may reach the true by making the impossible
emerge from the false…

Ṣìgìdì smiled at the Madam. It was its favourite song. It could easily have been a personal panegyric.

“Tell us about Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná,” said the tipsy patron who had previously left the bar.

Ṣìgìdì regarded him closely. He was wearing a leather jerkin, fitted with smart fabric, which allowed for both style and functionality. The jerkin had LED accents mimicking the look of old-world chainmail, subtly shifting and shimmering as they caught the light. His disguise was good, but he still smelled like a death dealer. Foul rat.

“What do you want to know about Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná?” Ṣìgìdì asked.

“Everything. You called him the outside God, why?”

“Oh. I thought I said…” Ṣìgìdì warmed up, ready to segue into ancient history. “Well, in the olden days, the Òrìṣàs were celebrating and—”

“Why are the Òrìṣàs always celebrating?” Someone else interrupted.

“Unfortunately,” Ṣìgìdì’s tone was curt. “I am not equipped with that data, but the Òrìṣàs, yes, they were partying. Lots of palmwine and music. The wine made them sway like toddlers just learning to walk, but the music was so good they still wanted to dance.”

“Away from them, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná sat nursing his gourd. He couldn’t dance, you see. Because he had a wooden leg. He was wearing a long àgbàdá to hide it.

“But the j’ayé-j’ayé Òrìṣàs noticed him sitting all by himself, and they started beckoning on him to come have some fun.

“Of course, he refused. Initially. He was a bit insecure. But they kept taunting him and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he stood up and joined in.

“Just like everyone else, he was full of wine, and unsteady on his feet. But unlike everyone else, he had a physical disability. It only took one drunken shove from a random dancer and he found himself sprawled on the ground, his robe riding up and his wooden leg exposed.

“The other Òrìṣà saw it and started laughing. Enraged, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná removed the stick and started whacking them with it. The celebrations came to an abrupt end. They fled the dance floor screaming for help. Never had they seen him so angry.

“The next morning, all those who had been struck by Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná’s staff, woke up ill. High fever. Severe fatigue. Blinding headaches. Vomiting. Then, rashes formed around the mouths they had used to laugh. One or two lesions at first. Then the rashes spread in a centrifugal pattern on all their bodies and became pustules. Gradually, the pustules became filled with pus, and the number of lesions became impossible to count. It wasn’t death, it was worse.

“The Òrìṣàs cried out to Ọbàtálá—the king of the white cloth. Ọbàtálá was feared because he one of the oldest, and he possessed the power to sculpt bodies. He was furious that people were insulting his work. ‘Something he couldn’t have helped! Did Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná create his physical form himself?’

“Carrying his cow-tail switch ornamented with cowries, the elder God marched down to judge the matter. Seeing how bad it was, he announced that the people who mocked the wooden leg had received their punishment, and that was fine, but Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná himself could have come to report the case instead of taking justice in his own hands.

“When Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná saw the king of the white cloth approaching, he jumped out of the window and fled into the bush.

“Ọbàtálá declared then, that that would be his punishment. From that time on, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná remained in the bush by himself. But he was still feared and till today, people refuse to call him by his name, preferring to use euphemisms like, The Outside God. Hot Ground. Owner of the public. He who feasts with the father of the household but strikes down the son in the doorway.

“You know,” Ṣìgìdì said, belching loudly and pushing its empty beer mug away. “Smallpox was introduced to the New World by the Spanish and Portuguese conquistadors. The disease decimated the local population and was instrumental in the fall of the empires of the Aztecs and the Incas. Guess whose bush they got it from?”

“They’d steal anything.” The madam of the bar scoffed. “Soul, silver or smallpox.”

The guy in the jerkin kept fiddling with his bracelet.”Sus… Stat… Starter,” he mumbled.

Ṣìgìdì knew exactly what it meant. Suspect. Status. Starter. It was a death dealer’s code for “I’ve got what you’ve been looking for.” Whoever was on the other end of the line must be the big bad.

Ṣìgìdì excused itself, as a good AI simulating the side effects of downing too much chaos. It needed a piss.

*

The story continued.

In the city center, the Committee of Thunder gods—now the Supernatural Police—were gathered where the humans could see.

Thor, the leader of the force, spoke first, “Has Ògún forsaken his own disciples? The murder of one of his brightest leaves us questioning his ability to protect even his closest allies.”

Leigong, with his eagle face, added fuel to the flames. “Could it be that Ògún, once a beacon of progress, has turned to a diabolical path? Whispers suggest he’s feeding on souls, consuming the essence of his disciples for unholy power.”

Perun, known for his cynicism, muttered darkly, “He has always done this. He just hasn’t been caught yet.”

Gasps rippled through the gathering, showing disbelief and fear. The accusation struck at the very core of their beliefs and trust.

When Ògún approached, he simply took stock of his people; his metallic visage betraying no emotion, even though his heart was a tempest.

Choosing his words carefully, he addressed the crowd. “I stand accused, but I am innocent. My purpose has always been to nurture and innovate, not to harm… except in the face of injustice.”

Ṣàngó in their beautiful cornrows, stepped forward. “Let us not be blinded by fear and suspicion,” they said.

“Of course, you’ll support your fuck mate,” Taranis snarled. Then he turned to face the onlookers. “Oh, you people didn’t know?”

His accusation sent yet another ripple of shocked gasps through the crowd.

“Haha.” That last was Teshub the Turk. “Why do you think Iron brings fire, and fire melts iron?”

“Accusations without evidence are hollow and unjust!” Ṣàngó shouted, trying to project his thunder over the din.

But doubts had taken root, the damage had been done. The engineers who once looked up to Ògún now questioned the very foundation of their beliefs.

No God-bullet was more effective. To kill a God, you must first kill his reputation. Spam the minds of the impressionable with nonsensical data and axioms. Sow distrust.

To finally destroy the Òrìṣà, they insisted on taking over the most important bits of technology he had installed in the city. If you have nothing to hide, give us access to all the Satellite links and nanoscale InsectEye cams!

Your Integrated quantum encryption module for secure data transmission. Your Nanosensors for precise light detection and advanced image stabilization. Your Neural AI for automated camouflage pattern adjustment… “Guilty!’ they cried.

It was like blaming a chef for not giving away all his secret ingredients. Ògún had every right to protect his kingdom, and they had every right to be jealous. After all, who wouldn’t want a piece of the action?

But Ògún was no fool. He saw through their ploys, their schemes, and their desires for unbridled power. These gods were a rapacious bunch, ready to gobble up anything that stood in their way.

He understood the stakes, oh boy, he understood them well. Handing over his technological marvels would be akin to giving a toddler a sledgehammer. The world as they knew it would crumble and crash faster than the count between Sàngó’s lightning and his thunder.

He knew their kind— insatiable, like the legendary Ìjàpá the tortoise. Once they had a taste of power, they wouldn’t stop. They’d push boundaries, break limits, and wreak havoc across the globe. It would be like trying to rein in a wildfire with a water gun.

Ògún had seen the signs. Handing them the keys to his kingdom would be a one-way ticket to chaos-ville. They’d rewrite the code, reboot the system, and all hell would break loose.

There was only one way this showdown was ever going to play out.

And it went down on a sweltering evening. Fitting. The city felt like a convection oven, the air heavy and oppressive against skin. Even the advanced climate control systems struggled to alleviate the discomfort, leaving the denizens yearning for a respite.

The Supernatural Police, seething with envy and anger, bore down on Ògún and Ṣàngó.

Ògún, as the God of war, stepped forward, his grip firm on his enhanced blade, sparks flying as it dragged on the pavement behind him.

“They won’t back down easily,” Ṣàngó warned, they had appeared from nowhere; hair freshly oiled, eyes lined with codes for infernos.

“I know,” Ògún smiled, gaze fixed on the approaching enemy. “But progress can’t be stifled.”

Thor laughed then, his eyes burning with resentment, “Your so-called progress threatens our ways, Ògún!”

The Iron God shook his head. “Our ways have evolved. Embrace innovation. We can’t cling to the past forever. You want lifeblood, go and kill your own children.”

“The insolence!” That last was Baal. “How dare you?”

“You think your gadgets can replace centuries of tradition?” The Turk sneered.

“If our tech offends you so much, why do you stay still?” Ògún replied calmly.

“Enough talk!” Leigong commanded, raising his weapon, a chisel.

Ògún glanced at Ṣàngó. There was no need for words. They nodded, electricity crackling at their fingertips. “Ready when you are.”

“ARGH!!”

Colossal forms loomed over the cityscape, dwarfed buildings into mere playthings. The primal force, the wrath, the determination. Rain clouds converged into a single ominous mass, swirling and coalescing directly over the battlefield. A darkness that felt sentient, crackled with pent-up energy; raindrops danced on the edge of release, and the sky trembled.

It was sheer ozone and adrenaline.

With an otherworldly roar, Ògún swung his blade to meet Jupiter’s mighty bolt. The cosmic collision sent shockwaves in all directions. The Òrìṣà’s sinews strained against the Roman’s force.

It wasn’t an honourable one-on-one fight. He still had to worry about being ambushed by Leigong or Baal or Zeus. Or all three at once. But opposite him, Ṣàngó was holding his own against half a dozen thunder gods. How was he doing it?

Summoning a reserve of impossible strength, Ògún pushed forward, twisting his blade, and using Jupiter’s own force against him. The power surged through, tenfold.

Yelling ‘I AM HE!’, he redirected the trajectory, sending Jupiter flying like a comet.

Jupiter didn’t even have time to register what was happening. The skyline loomed closer and closer as he hurtled towards a tower of mirrors. The impact was cataclysmic.

Shards of glass rained down like a broken dream. The God of War, red-eyed, but more saddened than enraged, stood amidst the chaos.

The battle was far from over, but knocking Jupiter out made the others pause.

What they didn’t know was that this was merely a diversion—a brilliantly orchestrated ruse. For, while the city seemed to burn in the clash, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná, the silent strategist, went undetected, infiltrating the quantum computers that underpinned the city’s functioning.

The initial shock soon cleared, and as the supernatural police descended upon him, Ògún spun to face them.

Zeus lunged first, with a triad of bolts streaking through the sky. Ògún’s reflexes kicked in, allowing him to skillfully evade the onslaught, every movement calculated, every movement measured. He parried the Olympian’s strikes and kicked at Baal who was charging in with the fury of weaponized raindrops.

WOOSH!

The kick left his midsection unprotected and that’s where Leigong targeted, hurling his chisel. It hurt like hell, but undeterred, Ògún conjured an electromagnetic shield to deflect the rest of the tempestuous assault.

Everything else was mechanical now. Ògún adapted to their attacks, finding gaps in their offense. Elbow to the face, knee to the crotch. Ichor everywhere. Despite being outnumbered, the God of Iron held his own.

Within the towering edifices guarding the city’s energy core, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná worked with a frantic urgency. His fingers moved like a blur upon the keys, injecting the code of blessed malware into the city’s very circuitry.

It was a race against the clock, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná knew that his partners would not last very long against the malice of the supernatural police.

He urged the virus on, a digital prayer of disruption. And when he was sure it was coursing fast enough through the city’s vital systems, he triggered the alarm.

The notification screamed through the motherboard, a beacon of urgency in the vast digital expanse, alerting Ògún.

Sensing the moment had come, Ṣàngó nodded at their dear friend. Then, with a roar that echoed through the heavens, they linked hands and unleashed a sonic blast.

BOOOOM!

It hit their assailants with precision, sending them tumbling backward, breaking their momentum.

In the precious moments that followed, the God of tech acted swiftly, breaking down his own essence, fragmenting it into streams of power that flowed through the circuitry of all Born of the Iron, each devotee receiving a part of Ògún—the courage to never back down, the gift of the hunt, the spirit of innovation and progress.

A certain trusty AI who was observing the whole thing received a concentrated amount, if it was previously a vengeful tool, it became ten times more lethal and without any code for tethering.

As Ògún’s form began to fade into the ether, the supernatural police cheered.

It was a pyrrhic victory, but they revelled in it until the city’s lights began to dim and flicker.

The blessed malware spread through the arteries of machinery everywhere, bypassing firewalls and encryption, targeting critical points of control.

One by one, everything went off.

The effects were felt instantly, and on a massive scale. Factories ground to a halt, leaving assembly lines silent and production stagnant. Communication networks faltered, cutting off the flow of information and causing confusion among executives and workers alike. Transportation systems experienced crippling failures, leading to logistical nightmares and widespread disruption.

The economic impact was profound. Companies found themselves paralyzed. The sudden loss of productivity sent shockwaves through global markets, shaking the foundations of the gods’ influence and triggering panic among those who depended on the industrial complex for their livelihoods.

*

But after a while, the world would roll on like nothing happened. The city would adapt to a half-life, surviving companies operating only at 30% capacity. The harmattan would give way to the rainy season, the grass would grow, the tangerine trees would flourish, becoming bigger homes for birds to nest in—no one to hunt them. The earth would not colour itself sepia or grey. The world would roll on.

But not Ṣìgìdì.

Presently, it re-entered the bar and found the fat man lying on the ground, impaled by one leg of his own stool. His white shirt was crimson now, and his mouth hung open, like he had just witnessed some great abomination. The tipsy guy was hanging upside down from the ceiling, with his intestines falling out. His bracelet on the floor, was crushed to bits, never again to beep.

Ṣìgìdì scratched its processor in confusion.

It had only just stepped out for a piss. But where were the other bodies?

The madam of the place purred and pointed at the back room. Four other death dealers were slumped over each other there. She had moved them out of the way and left the first two only as decoration. God, her efficiency was so seductive.

Ṣìgìdì grinned at her for the umpteenth time that day. And it wasn’t because of her Kraft beer.

~