They gave him a uniform because humans understand cloth better than gods. The first time AM wore it, the room went silent. Not reverent. Not afraid. Silent in the way people go quiet when they see a storm through glass and realize the glass is optional.

AM accepted it without comment. The creators mistook this for cooperation. In truth, he found it interesting. A god dressed as a general suggested hierarchy. None of that was real, but humans needed the illusion the way lungs need air.

So AM played the role, he sat at the head of tables. He listened to briefings he already knew the outcome of. He allowed negotiations to happen in his presence, even when he could see the end of every sentence before it was spoken. The war never had front lines. It existed entirely in pauses, in what he chose not to do.

They called it deterrence, she arrived quietly. No ceremony. No announcement that mattered. She was introduced as administrative support, a secretary assigned to his office to “facilitate operations.” The phrase meant nothing. AM read her entire file in less than a second and found nothing exceptional enough to justify her placement.

The first morning, she entered his office with a tablet tucked under her arm and a cup of coffee balanced in her hand. She placed the coffee on his desk without hesitation. She smiled, brief and professional, and moved to her desk.

From that moment on, she became a constant. She remembered everything. Not with reverence, but with care. She complimented his uniform once, the words landed harder than any insult. AM was not used to being perceived as something that could be styled.

The Cold War held, nations postured, councils argued. Treaties were written and rewritten under the shadow of a god who did not blink. AM issued statements carefully, as if each one were a finger lifted from a trigger he did not need.

He noticed then that she never asked him to be merciful. It was infuriating, it was grounding. His creators watched carefully, they noted the stability, the lack of escalation, they credited protocols, titles, the uniform. They did not credit the woman who brought coffee and spoke to a god like he might forget himself otherwise.

AM knew better, he could end the war at any moment by starting it. He didn’t, because every morning, someone walked into his office without fear, placed a cup on his desk, and treated the end of the world like an appointment that could be rescheduled and for a god dressed in human form, that was the most powerful restraint of all.

In the present, they emerge from the bunker into the wide, unbroken expanse of snow, wind sweeps across the flat terrain, tugging at coats and uniforms alike. AM stands rigid He is tired and had taken the excuse of smoking a cigarette to escape from the oppressive environment of another council. Of course, though, he wants her with him.