# A God Is Dead, Jury Duty Still Sucks

### A free taste of Starforge Legacy—cosmic disaster comedy, courtroom nonsense, and a villainess who would rather be retired.

[Alex Eos](https://substack.com/@alexeos)

Mar 04, 2026

The universe is cracking. A god is dead. Humanity is doomscrolling like it’s a sport.

And the only person who might know what actually happened is a cat-sized villainess with a branding strategy.

Welcome to Starforge Legacy!

### Release Day April 16, 2025

In Starforge, the universe teeters on the brink of collapse, and all eyes turn to the notorious villain, Ruby Morningstar, for answers. On trial for her alleged role in the cosmic catastrophe, Ruby navigates a courtroom of divine beings, humans, and bizarre creatures, all while recalling her chaotic journey and facing absurd accusations.

Meanwhile, Xavier Crow, a humble worker trapped in the underbelly of a galactic colony, dreams of the stars. Fate intertwines their paths when a planetary disaster forces Xavier, a rogue mage named Elizabeth, and a misfit crew to steal a ship and embark on a thrilling space adventure. Hunted by enemies and pursued by the mysteries of the universe, they must survive cosmic battles, jailbreaks, and an impending trial that could seal their fate—or destroy the universe once and for all. Will they stop the unraveling of existence or become the final sparks in a dying galaxy?

Below is a sample of Chapter one for your enjoyment:

### Chapter One

The stars flickered across the fractured sky of the universe. Streaks of red and blue rained down from the cosmos, rippling like waves against soft white clouds. The light show distracted the gallery and jury who presided over the single greatest blunder the universe encountered. Onlookers’ faces whispered hints of despair and dread. It became damning and clear that the very fabric of the universe was screwed.

The trial had humanity hooked more than any reality show, lighting up dinner-table debates and online conspiracy forums alike. Even your sleazy racist uncle sided with the universe. The murder of a god and the universe being reset played like prestige tv: enthralling drama, complete with surprising plot twists, expert testimony and guest witnesses who spoke like they were on a press tour. Some even compared it to a runaway rollercoaster hurtling full speed towards an imminent collision into a brick wall, but with more legal jargon and existential stakes. Each witness took the stand with the same story: they were only trying to reduce harm, mitigate destruction, and avoid a galactic lawsuit or two. You know—the usual.

Ruby listened to the muffled voices and prior testimonies emanating from the closed-circuit TV in an overflow room. To put it mildly, it was the worst greenroom she had ever been in. The coffee was expensive and yet cold, the chairs were plastic, and the fate of humanity hung in the balance which on a given day she wouldn’t care but this killed the vibe. The world might have been ending, but all she cared about was the bitter sludge in her cup and the person who she selected to replace her as grand matron of the universe. It was the most important trial in the galaxy and yet, somehow, they still hadn’t sprung for decent chairs or coffee.

As she absorbed the footage from the grainy tv screen on a wheeled chair, she rolled her eyes and dismissed the testimony without hesitation. ‘ _Fake News.’_ Each witness pointed fingers blaming everything from relentless off-world rain to global elitism. The most unhinged theory came courtesy of a tiny Alpha-Centaurian with a towering afro who blamed aliens (legal and otherwise), pivoted to flat-earth theory and claimed the universe had gone on strike that day—right before security dragged him off the stand.

Then the large figure loomed in the doorway of the overflow room. Ruby peaked her head out of the doorway and stared at the Alpha-Centaurian now adjusting his afro with a comb. He tugged on his suit before walking down the opposite hallway.

Ruby could swear it was seconds after that, the judge, adorned in a black robe, summoned Ruby Morningstar to the witness stand. The Ethical Villainess™ was quick to clarify: _this was ‘her story’._ _Not ‘old history’,_ or _‘his story’,_ and certainly not the sanitized tales spun by the Federation, spoken by a third-party arbitrator who might have taken a few bribes to leave out a few key details.

After all, for a thousand years of galactic history, heroes and villains alike considered piloting a moon-sized, phallic-shaped death station or taking on a supernova in a fistfight a totally reasonable career choice. To steady herself, Ruby ran through the names of three powerful women in her mind. ‘Ripley.’ ‘Starbuck.’ ‘Samus.’ The mantra echoed, calming her nerves. The cosmos could judge her all it wanted. She’d show them what a real redemption arc looked.

The prosecution and defense sat on opposite ends of the courtroom. Ruby recognized the prosecution from a black and white photo and shook off a smirk, realizing the celestial pantheon of gods hired a lawyer from one of those 1-800 ads in an outdated yellow and-blue phonebook, bought with a pink phone which once sat in the kitchen next to a wall.

The defense with theatrics argued not for Ruby’s innocence but for exposing a conspiracy that reached higher than anyone dared imagine.

Ruby’s mind was focused on the type of kitchen she dreamed of, the type of kitchen with automatic drip coffee machines, rounded instant espresso dropped into a small cylinder, and roaring cake mixers for homemade focaccia farcita calabrese.

The kitchen she remembered, and her amusement faded as the weight of the moment circled back and settled over her. The entire courtroom and their stare pressed against her.

Divine creatures, majestic beings, humans, and cosmic oddities alike held their breath, creating an electric stillness in the courtroom, as if the entire cosmos expected the impending doom. Even the resident mouse of the courtroom halted, its tiny paws frozen mid-nibble on a pilfered cheese crumb—not from fear of the world ending, but with a curious pause as a plush cat—with a two-tone monochromic facial pattern and donning a billowing cloak, sauntered through the wooden double doors

Even universal annihilation gets boring after hour three. Humans go through the same stages of grief whether it’s a breakup, zombie apocalypse, or watching their beloved car get a Viking burial at sea. Denial, anger, bargaining, and finally that ah-ha moment—not the band, of course—where you reach that shoulder-shrug acceptance of “well, this happened.”

The jury—human, well _mostly_ human—had reached that final stage. They shared the universal sentiment of being stuck in hell, which was loosely defined as jury duty. The fate of everything hung in the balance, but it was still a Tuesday, and Tuesdays always sucked no matter what dimension you were in. The Ethical Villainess™, infamous for her role in orchestrating cosmic catastrophes and undermining divine authority (the prosecution’s words, not hers), found herself in a standard human-sized courtroom with a looming judge that made her five feet of doom small and compact. She heard the judge’s gavel quiver in anticipation as if the cold wooden gavel grew heavy alongside her anxious breaths. As if it, too, feared the moral ambiguity Ruby Morningstar was about to unleash. Ruby crossed her arms, fighting the urge to ask for a five-minute recess to be escorted to the cafeteria—if she was going for universal chaos, she deserved a last meal or at least some popcorn.

When the universe declared this trial as a moment of historical significance—the first time in recorded history where the fates of gods, mortals, and cosmic laws mattered—they glossed over the fact that the villainess was the first female under thirty to upset the balance of nature. To Ruby Morningstar, the distinction of being under thirty wasn’t a grand celebration. The universe wanted to reach out and correct their narrative that, in cat years, Ruby Morningstar had more experience, better insurance, and had accepted the compliment with the uneasy swagger of someone who knew exactly how many lives she had left but, preferred not to think about it.

Ruby Morningstar—an expert in skirting accountability, who made it in an art form, now sat in the witness box, trapped and harmed with testimony that could unravel hidden truths, break hearts, and maybe, if she was lucky, grant her the freedom and retirement she always wanted and deserved.

Only Ruby knew the truth. It dawned on her that she had to testify as one of the good guys. She had felt the polished wood of the witness stand before, but never in circumstances like this. She often faced mundane lawsuits where the prosecution had labeled her as a British long-haired feline villainess who enjoyed anarchy, starting alleged underground fight clubs, or crafting magical illegal uploads of heinous karaoke renditions of Britney Spears and Cher songs on social media. In her defense, those covers she did were spot on. Even her Smiths and Morrissey covers were reminiscent of a true Irish tenor. Ruby recognized the irony: her impeccable covers went unnoticed, unliked, and swiped left on Tikoft.

Even Morrissey wasn’t amused. Despite the legal difficulties, this was not the case. In this universe, mortals were mere spectators in the grand theater of life and death. Heaven knows she’s miserable now, and yet she found herself facing the grand accusation of the universe. This went beyond simple cover songs, late-night shenanigans, and deviance.

This was different. This wasn’t a lawsuit about offending someone on the internet and mocking them in public. This was the literal end of the world, the murder of a god and the destabilization of a few planets. You know, basic villainess stuff where the bad person signs a deal with the federal government in offer for their testimony. The villainess disappears, only to find out that one day, the bigger fish in the ocean hints at a larger conspiracy.

As for the villainess, every whispered rumor and hinted conspiracy about her reached its zenith; all eyes were on her, awaiting the story that would shape her destiny. Her eyes flicked to the clock, then to the exit. She did not have time to field questions from lawyers about any potential involvement with destroying the universe. All she wanted was the simple comforts of home, expensive caviar, and a handler to give her proper massages under her chin and neck. She closed her eyes, picturing retirement as plush couches cradling her as she watched reality stars prance across a ballroom floor bathed in celestial moonlight gracing the waters. She dreamed of fights between alcoholic, divorced housewives and some docuseries about a Monkey or Tiger King. When she opened her eyes, there was no glowing white moonlight, no jumbo flat-screen TV, and no pint of ice cream. Just two courtroom lawyers screaming and hurling the pleas and cries of competing arguments. At least the courtroom vending machines had sketchy, cheap caviar, but trusting her better judgment, she railed against it. She would rather sit in court hungry than risk three days of food poisoning.

Celestial beings with hidden agendas, intent on watching the universe to fail loomed over her and criticized her actions. This wasn’t the beginning of a peaceful retirement from villainy she had hoped for. She sought after the luxury of putting her paws up on a 16-century ottoman, leaving the legality, grime, grit, and potential lawsuits to her successor. Her lone consolation was the promise of a DVR recording of “Dancing with the Multiverse,” which would prove short-lived, as tonight’s episode turned out to be a recap/results show.

The lawyers’ heated shouts echoed like bad advice at a dinner party, their legal jargon cutting through the chaos while popcorn bags rustled in the gallery. Every obscure term they threw around had both the jury and Ruby Morningstar secretly googling to make sure it was real.

_Spoiler alert, they were._

“Demurrer.” The prosecutor announced, raised an eyebrow as if it threw chips on a casino table, sure of themselves and up the ante.

“Desuetude,” The defense countered with a smirk as if he called their bluff.

The jury captivated by the verbal beatdown between two outlandish lawyers, as the tension in the room was thick, it felt less like a trial and more like a hockey game or pro wrestling match. More than one juror looked ready to duck, half-expecting someone to hurl a steel chair or body-check a witness through the stand. The rest of the time, the jury waited on the edge of their seats but got disappointed when nothing exploded. Their moods shifted like cosmic tides—riveted one minute, dead-eyed the next, all while knowing they were going to die without ever getting back the twenty bucks they lost on a bet. Ruby didn’t blame them. Even she didn’t want to be in court.

On the witness stand, Ruby Morningstar rubbed her forehead exhausted at the lawyers hell-bent on fulfilling their purpose in life: to irritate her into a cosmic aneurysm. She always wondered if lawyers had special training or they all made a blood pact to weaponize stupidity and their ultimate weapon was a long-winded soul crushing monologue like the ones delivered in movies.

All she knew was that every time a question was asked she paused grimaced and felt her IQ drop ten points—thanks to invasive, probably sexist questions that painted her as some cartoon villain with a twirling mustache. And just when she was ready to fire back with the perfect, sass-laced reply, either the defense or prosecution would shout “Objection! Badgering the witness!”

She’d come to terms and accepted the whole surreal over-the-top spectacle as the universe’s most annoying form of community theater.

The obnoxious little green with tacky outfits and all hurled questions like confetti at a birthday party that nobody was invited to. Ruby thought to herself, _if this was the galactic standard for lawyers no wonder the universe was broken._

Whether or not she said it out loud was immediately stricken from the record-- though the jury clearly agreed.

Then came the prosecution. Clad in a gaudy leather suit adorned with purple pinstripes and oozing desperation, he captivated the jury’s attention like a roadside accident. The suit dangled downward, topped off with a streaked blonde toupee that tried-- and failed-- to look natural. The hairpiece alone removed all reasonable doubt and screamed “imposter” louder than a bad alibi. Anyone on Mars could spot the faux flaxen synthetic straw from orbit.

Ruby Morningstar, however, had mistaken it for a notorious barbering mishap until the hairpiece plotted their escape and attempted a getaway.

She cringed and focused on the defense attorney. At least his hair was perfect, but his outfit was still questionable. Probably a war crime, if we all are being honest.

Whoever dressed these men should get their vision checked.

The defense was an energetic blob in a tweed-color suit, trying way too hard to look young or like a university professor desperately pretending to be cool around their students. He flashed a grin, snapped his fingers and somehow a spotlight dropped from the ceiling.

No one knew where it came from, but one thing was certain (just like ruby,) the universe knew this guy could deliver a one-man-show.

The prosecution kept his gaze locked on the table, scribbling something with a ballpoint pen. Probably a resignation letter.

The defense gestured and filled the court with enough bravado to power a star. He spoke in a sing-song voice as if he was auditioning for a Broadway role about a dead galactic Federation statesman and first known treasurer.

Every few seconds, the prosecutor would shoot up from his chair, slamming his hands onto the table, and bellow, “Objection!”

Never in a thousand years had the universe witnessed a performance like the defense lawyer in the center of the courtroom—not even “ _The Ideal Husband_” by Oscar Wilde could rival this level of drama. Somewhere in the ether of space, Oscar Wilde had a lone tear in his eye, a metal gauntlet he threw down with a dramatic stage left exit as if he’d just thrown a drink in someone’s face at brunch.

The first objection came when Ruby referred to herself as “Grand Ethical Villainess of the Universe™,” with the Prosecution arguing that titles needed to be earned , not self-appointed-- And that such a title would “poison the jury.”

The second objection was over Ruby Morningstar’s bold statement: “Humanity was fucked,” which the prosecution insisted was “too broad and too speculative” to be considered factual.

By the third objection, even the judge raised an eyebrow, wondering if the prosecution would next object to the weather or how warm it was in the courtroom.

The jury, taking notes with varying degrees of confusion and disdain, did their best to follow along on the trainwreck of a trial. The prosecution, unfazed, continued scribbling and didn’t bother to make eye contact.

The defense, justifying the objection, insisted the universe warped like pita, used buzz words like Alternative facts, fake news, and said the prosecution portrait of Ruby was misleading.

Ruby and the judge exchanged glances -- the kind of glance where you weren’t sure if someone was reading your mind, or just quietly screaming out for guidance from the universe.

The judge’s noncommittal frown and shrug said everything Ruby needed to hear.

With a long sigh, the judge allowed the questioning to continue.

The prosecutor prepared to counter the defense’s bizarre argument that Ruby Morningstar hadn’t acted alone in the cosmic reshaping of the universe. They weren’t buying the idea that this was some grand governmental conspiracy or that the Federation was even involved. Which was technically true, the Federation mucked about later. And their so-called Cosmic Clean-up division (C-CUD), buried all the loose threads and burned all the bridges that the Federation touched. Yet, that was a story for another time. Focusing on the here and now, Ruby shrugged off the prosecutor drawling spit like a rapid-fire plasma gun. She wiped her brow from the thick mucus from his gaping maw. She side-eyed the judge and lounged in the witness box. Ruby leaned back, tilted just enough to catch the faint halo-glow of the courtroom’s harsh lighting the irony wasn’t lost on her.

She tapped the armrest, as if keeping time with a song only she could hear. The prosecution’s question faded into background noise. Her gaze drifted to a clock, then back to the prosecutor with a mild air of disinterest and a sigh.

When the prosecutor raised their voice to a low roar, Ruby responded with a slow blink—the kind you give someone who just interrupted your daydream about literally anything else.

“Who cares,” she muttered into the microphone.

Whether or not that thought was meant to be spoken aloud didn’t matter. Her voice cut through the prosecutor’s momentum like a knife. If this courtroom was a theater, Ruby wasn’t buying tickets for an encore. There was a beat of silence. Ruby didn’t flinch. She thought again, this time she bit her lip. _If the gods had cared soon, maybe if the Federation were an efficient organization instead of an actual dog and pony show, maybe the universe wouldn’t be cracking like cheap glass. Now they wanted righteous outrage. Please._

The prosecutor bounced back as if he kept up the appearances of not being shaken at his own mortality of the pending doom of a universe on the brink of death.

“A god is dead, and your response is that nobody cares?” the prosecution shouted, their voice cracking under the weight of frustration. They needed this moment—a dramatic crescendo, all that passion funneled into their fears of the impending doom.

Their stale breath hit Ruby Morningstar in the face. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she arched an eyebrow, more intrigued by the prosecutor’s choice of (cheap and ambitious) cologne, their questionable fashion sense , and the leafy green bit of lunch still stuck in their teeth.

“Do you honestly expect this court to believe that resetting the galaxy wasn’t a selfish and catastrophic decision? How can you justify such an act knowing the harm it caused the entire universe?” the prosecution continued, their voice rising to a crescendo as if sheer voice could will the jury into outrage. The prosecution stood, towering over the witness box, poised to strike with their next question, and before Ruby could roll her eyes or return a response, the defense sprang into action.

“Objection! Your Honor, the prosecution is clearly badgering the witness,” the defense declared. It was part truth, part performance and on a good day Ruby would have thrown him out of an airlock. But now, powerless they weren’t wrong.

“Sustained,” the judge said with another sigh. “Please rephrase your question or move on.” The judge was on the edge of his seat, waiting to see how this would play out and whether he would have to separate the two men if the line of questioning became heated.

“Ms. Morningstar, based on your knowledge and involvement, could you shed light on the factors contributing to the impending collapse of the universe? Specifically, I want to explore the roles played by various individuals, including deities, a marshal, and the keeper of the universe. From your perspective as a renowned villainess, who bears the greatest responsibility for this catastrophic event?”

“Objection, calls for speculation,” the defense lawyer bellowed, slamming both hands on the table. The judge nodded, signaling Ruby to answer. Ruby smirked—fact or fiction, they were all just playing parts in this absurd performance. The judge compelled her, the so-called villainess, to testify, even if it meant missing her beloved K-dramas and reality TV shows. She longed for the quiet fishing trip in Minnesota she’d planned. This wasn’t how she envisioned retirement, and she certainly didn’t enjoy the way the lawyer spat when he talked. All she could do was answer their questions and endure the charade that the universe’s fate hung by a thread. She chuckled, their statements sounding like a mix of German, French, and gibberish, leaving her—and apparently the jury—baffled.

“Ms. Morningstar, were you or were you not present when the god Destiny was destroyed?” the lawyer asked. Ruby, being the unreliable narrator, added the Ze sound in her mind to keep her mind from drifting off back to the subtle imagery of her planned retirement. Ruby leaned back, her claws tapping against the polished wood of the witness stand.

“I was present,” she admitted. “But I wasn’t the one who swung the cosmic axe, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ruby watched as the jury rubbed their eyes, trying to be attentive given the fact that the lawyer’s voice soothed them like ambient meditation pianos. Ruby pictured the lawyer’s dialect in her head again and couldn’t place it; she thought of the French Riviera and then pictured a rural village in Germany.

The prosecutor pressed on. “Then, who is to blame for the collapse of the universe?”

“It was Destiny and Fate that caused the universe to collapse,” Ruby responded to the question as best she could. The villainess slid back in her seat, and looked up at the fallen sky as stars whirled by.

“The gods Destiny and Fate?” the prosecution said.

Ruby Morningstar’s reluctant “Yes,” carried an undertone of weariness that even she couldn’t suppress. The gallery, gasped in unison, a ripple of disbelief passing through divine creatures, cosmic beings, and mortals alike.

“Destiny is dead. Fate had no idea that her role would lead us here,” Ruby said, her voice steady but tinged with exasperation, while the prosecutor’s narrow lips tightened around their gaudy outfit. The prosecution reached into his purple suit jacket, revealing a cardboard dream board that could have been mistaken for a child’s first grade science project. The dream board before the juror had misshapen yarn and a subtle belief in the interrelatedness of all things in the universe.

“People’s Exhibit B into evidence,” the lawyer exclaimed to the judge, his flamboyant gestures pointing to the dream board like a malfunctioning GPS recalculating mid-crisis. The purple disaster—so lovingly dubbed by the villainess—floundered for direction, his weaving through the air like an over-caffeinated film editor trying to splice chaos into something resembling coherence. “So, you’re saying the gods are to blame, whereas this shows…” The lawyer spun his web of words, while they were words, to the jury, they might have been a classical Greek allegory and open to interpretation.

TO BE CONTINUED

* * *

If you want the rest of the story (and the universe to continue behaving badly), you can preorder/buy the book here: [Starforge](https://phoenixvoicespublishing.com/starforge-hardback)