Giant robots? Prophets that spoke through advertisements? Talking kittens?
It all sounded like something from a cartoon.
Dr. Henry Weston looked over the list of ramblings from his most recent patient. The man obviously suffered from severe delusions and paranoia. He tapped the clipboard holding the documents containing the patient's statement.
"I hate my job." He muttered.
Psychotherapy had seemed so intriguing when he'd first decided to pursue it as a career. So many years of school, so many years of education, and so many books. This of course led to many experiences, and many patients. No wonder he was growing tired of it all.
He supposed it was the utter feeling of failure that he hated. He was paid tremendous sums of money to have sit-down sessions, with myriads of problem-afflicted people. These sessions never seemed to do any good. Some found their sanity while talking with him, and gave him the credit for it. Weston knew better though, people could only cure themselves.
Weston was nothing more than a fraud. He felt like the audience rather than the doctor, watching his patients, the actors carry on their life story, and sometimes coming to a happy ending, sometimes not. The outcome was always different.
He placed a weary palm against the door and opened it. For his own safety, the patient, a "Michael Ruden", sat strapped to a chair. The restraints were for the safety of both doctor and patient.
Michael was a young man, around in his mid twenties, Weston guessed. The man had a narrow face, and very large, blue eyes. If it hadn't been for his ravings upon the paper, Weston would have thought him the picture of sanity. Michael sat so calm within the chair, he was almost regal.
"Michael, good to see you," Walton said, putting on his classic "Ken-Doll" smile, "You feeling all right?"
"My name isn't Michael, it's Rubicon. I'm not human, remember?" The patient insisted.
Weston shrugged, he played around with the idea of immediately making the man aware of his own delusions, or playing along for the sake of building trust. He decided to follow with the latter plan. If he didn't have any information, he couldn't get around to pulling the man from his own dementia.
"All right, Rubicon," Weston said, "Sorry. Your paper just has you listed as Michael. You now your 'earth-family', is very concerned about you. Your wife sounded very upset over the phone."
"Mere mortals cannot understand my purpose." Rubicon snapped.
Weston placed an index finger on the bridge of his nose. He would assuredly be prescribing the man, anti-psychotics. Weston reached behind his back, and dragged a metal chair away from the wall. He sat down, keeping his eyes on Rubicon.
"So, from what I gather," Weston said, "You first realized your destiny when a kitten told you?"
"No, it was a synthetic being, compromised of dreams and electricity, trapped inside the form of a kitten." Rubicon said.
"But still a kitten?"
"It's more complicated than that-"
"It was still a kitten though."
"Yes."
"What color was it?"
"White, with brown spots."
"Did it have a pink nose?"
"Yes, it did."
"So...a combination of dreams and electricity, trapped inside of a white, brown-spotted, pink-nosed kitten, told you that you were not human?" Weston asked, unable to keep from smirking. It was often necessary to show a patient how ridiculous his words sounded.
"Yes sir." Rubicon answered, not even aware of Weston's sarcasm.
"So, you began a quest to find out who you were, right?"
"I already completed that quest, Doctor."
"Of course, you are Rubicon, a Warrior God, in charge of protecting the galaxy!" Weston exclaimed, reading from the patient's paper. It all sounded like some bad sci-fi film. "So, is this where the giant robots come in?"
"Minorians," Rubicon said, "They are robots that come in the form of dust mites. So small, that we cannot see them. One day though, the dust mites will trigger a response, and they will grow into monstrous machines. These robots will then march on a destructive rampage, resulting in the end of life as we know it."
"But you're going to stop them, right?" Weston asked, "You, the God, our protector!"
"Yes...why do I detect your mockery?"
Weston smirked, "Surely you hear yourself. This is completely ridiculous. None of this can be real. If you're such a god, why can't you break free of your confines? How are you supposed to save us from these dust-mite robots, if you can't even break out of a chair?"
"But I can!" Rubicon exclaimed.
Weston smiled. This had become very amusing in a short amount of time. He found himself driven to prove this madman wrong.
"Fine," he said, "Do it."
Rubicon nodded. He bit his lower lip and looked down at the belts holding him to the seat. They would be near unbreakable. The buckle on the restraints themselves were as thick as his wrists.
Weston watched Rubicon push against the white belts repeatedly. He flexed every muscle in his body, coughed and gasped, and even tried to lift his fingers to tear at them.
Push, push, shove, shove! He groaned, and grunted. Sweat poured from every pore in his body. He grit his teeth, as if the little extra effort could help.
The effort was useless.
"You can't can you?" Weston asked.
Rubicon looked up at Weston. A look of shock and horror was on his face. He cast a terrified glance at the belts. "I-I don't understand. I should be able to-"
"Rubicon, or Michael, I do understand," Weston said, "Because you weren't contacted by an electronic-dream kitten, you are not a God, and there are no giant robots living inside of dust mites."
"You cannot fathom what danger you are in, right now."
Weston nodded, "The only danger I'm in, is of getting trapped in this office for the rest of my life. Like you, you feel trapped, Michael?"
"Well, you do have me strapped to a chair."
"Not like that...hmm. Do you know what 'crossing the Rubicon', means?"
Rubicon shook his head. Weston tapped the clipboard a few times. He looked at the exhausted young man over his large spectacles.
"It refers to when Julius Caesar cross the Rubicon river in forty-nine BC," Weston explained, "It basically means, 'no turning back'. Michael, we all want to be special. We want to cross that river with Caesar, but we're only as special as everyone else."
"What are you saying?"
Weston's shoulders slumped, "Nobody is special. This is reality. It's cold, it's harsh...but it's all we have. If your imaginings were true, that'd be wonderful, it would offer meaning to these dreary circumstances, wouldn't it? But that's all they are, imaginings."
"I was told you wouldn't believe, mortals cannot comprehend divinity." Rubicon said, though his voice trembled, unsure of his own words.
"You're not a god. You aren't here to save us from giant robots," Weston insisted, "You are just Michael, and you're a plumber. That's all you are. Nothing more."
Rubicon looked up at Weston, "I hope you're wrong."
Weston bit his lower lip, "Me too."

***

Weston awoke the next morning to a loud thumping coming from just outside his bedroom window. He groaned. The neighbor kids were probably playing their games at the highest volume they could accomplish.
"Annoying brats." He moaned.
WHOOSH!! CRASH!!
Suddenly, what appeared to be a large metallic hand, shoved it's fingers into the side of Weston's bedroom wall. A giant, red-metal hand, larger than Weston's double bed, came flying through the wall. It turned its palm upside down, and scooped Weston's roof up into the air.
Debris and rubble flew everywhere, as Weston cowered on top his sheets, staring at the metallic behemoth towering over him. The great machine was humanoid in skeletal structure, and had a dome-shaped head. Two red lights, resembling eyes sat in the center of the head.
Weston's bottom lip trembled.
"Oh my gawd," he whispered, "Oh my gawd."
It was simply unbelievable. The machine looked down at his shaking form. The robot was so huge, so powerful. Weston could just see himself being crushed beneath the weight of its mighty titanium fist.
A gust of steam shot out the robot's neck. It made a loud noise which resembled that of a train horn. Weston threw his hands over his ears.
Several flashes of light appeared, temporarily blinding Weston. He covered his eyes. What was going on?
Weston lowered his shaking fingers. He squinted, staring through the bright light. A figure stood, silhouetted in brilliance, between him and the robot. The figure was pushing back the gargantuan hand.
"GET BACK!!" Weston heard the figure shout.
Why did that voice sound so familiar?
"You are in more danger than you realize."
Of course.
"Mere mortals cannot understand my purpose.
Weston looked up, "Michael?"
The figure looked back, and gave Weston a huge, boyish grin, "I'm Rubicon, remember?"
With a loud grunt, Rubicon turned and pushed against the robotic palm. His muscles did not strain with the effort as they had done inside the office. No, he looked as if he were barely trying. Something inside of him seemed to have been transformed since yesterday.
A bolt of white-blue electricity shot through Rubicon's palms and into the palm of the monstrous robot. The robot shuddered for a moment, as the blue veins of electricity traveled through its arm and throughout its body. Then, the robot let out a final gust of steam, before disintegrating, into a thousand ashes. A gust of smoke, and large mounds of dust, were all that was left of the monster.
Weston stared forwards, in disbelief at the fantastic event he'd just witnessed. Rubicon turned his back to the rubble and grabbed Weston's hand, pulling the dazed doctor to his feet. Weston placed a hand on his forehead.
"I don't understand," he said, "This is just-I don't understand."
"I do," Rubicon said, "People are special. There are gods who walk the earth, giant robots, and talking kittens. They all exist. Life does have meaning, and we do have purpose, destiny. There is no turning away from it."