Arón Firehand

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Simon Ulcrates sat at the table, deep in thought over his aunt when a small child hopped up onto Parcival's throne next to him. It instantly changes into a thousand different chairs at once, and then settles on an ambiguous form.

"Who are you?" Simon asked, witnessing this.

"I'm Arón," the child replied. "And you?"

"I'm Simon." He looked around. "Are you... supposed to be here?"

"Yeah, my cousin brought me here," he replied. He looked at the book in front of Simon. "So one of the ghost time lords gave you a book?"

"What?" Simon asked.

"In order to stop a time war, my cousin overwrote that the council of time lords were all simulacrums of himself. So there's thousands of Aaron Firehands running around writing time. However, some of them need emotional support, so another Aaron writes all these books to help people get through traumatic instances. Your instance must have been very traumatic if Aaron gave one to you."

"You mean... Aaron cares about people?" Simon asked.

"He used to, but people didn't like him, or were intimidated by him. So he locked his feelings away. His dreams are only unlocked once every year, and that is his dream to become president."

"He wishes... to pursue politics?" Simon asked, confused.

"Yes, he knows everything there is to it. He created this nation, why shouldn't he rule it? It was his in the beginning."

"Then why doesn't he use his... powers... to achieve his political dreams?" Simon asks.

"Because he doesn't want to be a tyrant that gets what he wants through power and deception. He wants to win fairly, not like this president."

"You're, what, seven years old? How can you know anything about this?" Simon asked, shaking his head.

"Actually, I'm about 1,000 years old. My cousin's about 44,000,000,000."

Las Aminour never ceased to amaze, and fear, Simon.

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