《Greytome Self》 1. Insomnia Trumps Exhaustion I should sleep. Those very words have been ricocheting through my drear-filled mind through six staring contests with the glaring digital numbers at the top left of the phone screen. It ticks up by another minute, and there¡¯s a soft wave of pleasure as 59 turns back to 00 once more. It¡¯s quickly replaced with the same dread once more as realization hits. I¡¯d been clicking at the stupid box for far too long. Idle games were meant to be idle. I close my eyes and count to five, as slowly as I can. Then, open them again. The only lights of the room emanate from the still-glowing phone screen. The mocking digital numbers continue to harass my soul. 4:01 I lose my sixth staring contest against the numbers. It would be roughly five and a half hours before the next class started. Assuming I skipped breakfast and ran to class after jumping into probably-washed clothes, I had another five hours and nine minutes. That would mean¡­ I take the moment to look up the length of a REM cycle. Some mental math and one seventh of a cycle later, I derive out I would just make the cutoff for three. Assuming I slept right away, which probably would happen. Damn self-diagnosed amnesia. At this point, I might as well get up, look up some porn to fill in the boring hours before daybreak. Maybe fit in a nap. It wasn¡¯t like I was paying attention to anything in class anyway. At least not tomorrow. Every paper and grade was always a mad scramble, crashing into the last few seconds of the last minute. It had all the signs of a depressed student. At 20, I had few aspirations except completing the dead-end math major I was bound to. Ideally without breaking too many laws or fucking over my physical health too hard along the way. I was supposed to be fortunate. I didn¡¯t pay for college, I had two doting parents for that. At the cost of an hour of lies a week, I earned hundreds of dollars a day. Perhaps spending it on self-induced torture through the means of private education wasn¡¯t the best of solutions, but it was better than not. At least, it was easier than thinking about the alternative. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. I silently swore I was going to have fun one day. Not today. Well, possibly today given that it had past midnight. But not until my next spurt of consciousness. Another seventh of a REM cycle goes by without an inch of success. I should really fucking sleep¡­ ¡­ ¡­ The lights in the room turn on. I shut my eyes by instinct, the sudden shock of brightness momentarily registering in the half-dream-addled mind. ¡°Hey,¡± a casual voice floats over. I instantly find the lack of tiredness in it irritating. I convincingly groan, grimacing at the brightness, pretending to the intruder that they interrupted my sleep. It would put them on the apologetic back foot in the upcoming conversation, for whatever they wanted from me. After much dramata, I open my eyes. Two piercing grey-blue eyes stare back. I blink again. The girl hasn¡¯t disappeared yet. Instead, the hand held up in a half wave still stands there, a few fingers awkwardly curled as if unsure whether to extend or let themselves drop. She¡¯s pretty. A few connections are hazily made. I live in a locked dorm room. Nobody was supposed to be in this room except myself. I don¡¯t have a girlfriend¡­ and I don¡¯t usually swing the other way. Fuck toxic masculinity. I¡¯m not wearing any pants. I have no logical explanation for the girl. I¡¯m stupid and lazy, not to mention bearing as much structural solidity as a denatured protein. This beanstalk boy. He was a beanstalk boy who couldn¡¯t care right now. ¡°Ey,¡± I mutter back, letting my head slump back to the pillow. Exhaustion trumps urgency. Insomnia trumps exhaustion. A nihilist fuck-off for not wanting to deal with 4 am bullshit trumps both. The lights flicker off again. I sleep quickly. 2. To Laugh; or not to Laugh They¡¯re still there in the morning. They¡¯ve been spinning in the dark, a look of apathy on their face as one rotation follows another. The alarm had been ringing for the past thirty minutes, twenty-nine of which I¡¯ve spent hoping the sound would go away. It did not. Nor did she. She idly glances up back at me, the same stunning blue eyes seeming to peer at my soul. Her legs are pulled back to hug her chest and she stares at nothing. Some quiet instinct tells me that she didn¡¯t sleep. A reasonable person reacts when they meet the unknown. A logical reaction in the back of the mind tells me that I should be afraid. Or at least surprised. But I¡¯m not. Whoever this person was, I felt that they belonged there. It was not surprising to see them, despite the fact that I had never seen such a face before. Beautiful without being sexual. Serene yet with a pulse of underlying playfulness. I note the clothing. A long-sleeved white polo, mostly hidden by a pair of black khakis. A strip of white fabric hangs from her neck, tied like a strange ribbon. No shoes, just bare feet. Not particularly tall, but shorter than myself. Although I had no doubts that I would los when it came to a fight. Why wasn¡¯t I afraid? I knew what fear was. Fear was turning the page of an exam and seeing a horde of unknown symbols. Fear is watching the time ticking down towards a certain moment. It¡¯s mind-numbing, action-draining, soul-breaking. Yet there¡¯s no such reaction. No fear. And most people scared me. I yawn. Pushing myself out of bed, I push aside a pile of haphazardly cast-aside notebooks and pull on semi-old clothing. I glance back, and they are staring at me. I look back at myself, the locked door, then them. Concern pulses for a moment before I telepathically swipe it away. ¡°Yeah, whatever,¡± I mutter, turning around. There¡¯s no reply as I shimmy out of unwashed clothes into new semi-washed clothes. Somehow, I knew I never stopped being watched. The two bright eyes emotionlessly looked into my soul. The urgency and discomfort never came. But time ticks onward. I was going to be about three minutes late, even if I ran. A question would only lead to another. It was pointless. I walk out the door.
The last dregs of winter are slowly petering out in the University of Echo City. The air is cold, though the mind wanders. I know the path to class well enough.
She¡¯s there, already seated in class in the back corner. I try not to stare as I take an empty seat in the back at random. The math professor barely glances my way, already deep into the day¡¯s lecture. The class size is small, no more than two dozen, but I had been late long enough. She raises her hand and asks a question. I can¡¯t make out the words. The professor erases something, laughs a personal ¡®ah, right¡¯, then continues onward. Why was making a mistake funny? If anything, it should be everyone else laughing. Did laughing by one-self make a situation suddenly apologetic? But that wasn¡¯t the case. Laughing at an accidental murder did not resolve the situation. If anything, it inflamed it. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. But making a typo? It was a harmless thing. There would be a scale then. A correlation between when laughing was tolerable and the severity of the situation. Dropping a handful of paper clips by accident would be considered harmless. A nuisance, sure, but definitely harmless. And the harm was radially cast outward towards the surrounding environment, who could either accept or deny the harm through assisting the individual who dropped said paper clips. Something else. An accidental scratch. Falling over was a relatively common occurrence. There was a non-zero chance of infection, leading to greater harms, but that was relatively small. It was acceptable to laugh about it. And, unlike the paper clips, the majority of the harm would be inwardly expressed. Those around do not lose anything, unless they choose to come to your assistance. Then, all that is lost is time. I note another axis. There are degrees to which harm is dealt and to whom from one person¡¯s actions. The dropped paper clips are harm that is dealt to a larger group of people. In addition to yourself, those around you also have to beware of the paper clip hazard. The scratch however only causes harm to yourself. The assistance from others, the willingness to take one¡¯s own harm for the sake of another was purely optional. Laughing allows you to subdue the tension of the situation, and evoke a sense of pity from others. A social obligation to assist is created. Laughter is inversely suddenly acceptable. Class ends. I barely think about it as I walk out. I continue to think about harms. No, not harm. Accidents. It must always be accidents in which laughter, in the hopes of using whimsy to lighten a situation is used. You can¡¯t intentionally drop a pile of paper clips and expect others to help you. Or perhaps they might, taking in your laughter to loosen tension, but the likelihood of assistance is far lower. Breaking an arm can be responded to with laughter. It would lower tensions, to some degree. It is socially acceptable. Breaking someone else¡¯s arm is not acceptable to be accompanied by laughter. Suicide is not a laughing matter, you are dead. Although actions of similar severity, even if you could physically laugh would not be something to laugh about. The death of another is most certainly not a laughing matter, especially if you are it¡¯s cause. I wonder why I am able to be the judge of whether something is socially acceptable. I suppose it is instinct. How I would learn it is a question for another time. My goal is to organize these social laws, not question why they exist. I begin ordering a series of criteria over breakfast-lunch, the sound of light chinese rap murmuring in my ears to drown out the social needs for conversation.
  1. It must be accidental.
  2. Harm must be primarily dealt to oneself.
  3. Harm must not be critical.
  4. Harm must not be immediately threatening. Laughter is distracting.
She appears and takes a seat across from me, taking a quick glance at the air pods in my ears before beginning to eat. Her plate mirrors my own: Overcooked vegetables. Undercooked rice. Chicken marinated for not long enough. After a second, I finish writing down my list and focus on her. ¡°Not bad,¡± she says around a bite of food, ¡°Although, a person could make an intentional scenario appear accidental to evoke assistance from others. This would break your first rule.¡± I notice the smoothness of her voice. I cock my head, ¡°A person can also pretend that they are in greater pain than reality and accompany it by laughter to evoke the same sympathy.¡± ¡°True.¡± ¡°Then at some point, there must be a bar made between acting and reality.¡± ¡°Laughter is an excellent act.¡± I write:
  1. Laughter is a manipulative mechanism used to reduce the emotional severity of a situation. It is very effective and has become a social reaction. Any prior rule can be twisted with a sufficiently competent actor and a gullible actor.
She nods in agreement. Without a sound, she stands and leaves, taking the finished food with her without saying ¡®goodbye¡¯. I would probably see her later today. ¡°See you later,¡± I say to the empty air. 3. Deictic Nomenclature Night comes. School work lays on the side table, pigeon-holed into ¡°I¡¯ll do it later,¡± until the last possible moment. As is my natural tendency. ¡°Have you ever considered working ahead so that you¡¯ll be less stressed?¡± she asks. I turn. She¡¯s idly tapping away on a white-cased phone, stretched lazily across my bed. I glance back at my computer, an irritated knot at the corner of my lips. ¡°It gets done all the same regardless, right? So long as I plan accordingly, nothing should go wrong,¡± I reply. ¡°And yet, sometimes it does.¡± ¡°And yet, sometimes it does,¡± I agree, ¡°Hey, mind if I ask something?¡± ¡°Sure, go ahead,¡± she puts down the phone for a moment. I turn, looking at her closely. She blinks with the bright piercing eyes, no longer staring at her phone screen. I consider the hilarity of my words and speak them anyway. ¡°Are you a god?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± she nods. ¡°Huh.¡± That does seem to explain why I was not concerned about her presence. Or how society seemed to accept her as a normal addition to people¡¯s lives without too much hesitance. Still, I didn¡¯t understand why a god would appear solely to me and not others. Or why it took me so long to ponder such a question. ¡°Usually there are more questions that follow afterwards. Sometimes there¡¯s screaming and such. You seem to be accepting this relatively well.¡± I shrug, ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s an extension of some godly power.¡± ¡°Technically a goddess. I am mostly female. Do you want any miracles done?¡± a smirk, ¡°Some people have asked for miracles. Sometimes I grant them.¡± ¡°Not particularly.¡± ¡°Not even the slightest miracle? I could make you rich. I could help you take over the world within a few months. I could help you seduce anyone. Or I could seduce you, if you¡¯d like.¡± I cock her head at her, ¡°At what cost?¡± She offers a small smile in return. ¡°You¡¯re asking the right questions. And trust me, it¡¯s something you¡¯re unwilling to pay.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I assumed.¡± ¡°The answer to question 4A on your problem set is 2xy^3 dx wedge product dy by the way. Free of charge.¡± I glance at the computer and do some quick backwards estimation. She¡¯s correct. ¡°Yeah, but how do I get there?¡± ¡°Figure it out.¡± The math scribbles slowly become more coherent into a messy semblance of an answer. ¡°You know, you¡¯re awfully sarcastic for a goddess. Surely you have something more interesting to do than sit at my side all the time.¡± ¡°I choose to be here, actually.¡± ¡°Are there other goddesses handling whatever deictic work there is to be done?¡± ¡°No, just me. And there is nothing to be done. I have no requirements or expectations. I do not need to eat, sleep, or feed. I do not need to reproduce or care for children. I do not seek pleasure or intrigue. I am immortal and selectively unobservable. I am present to you because I choose to be present to you. There is no ¡®why me?¡¯ to it. I simply choose this, and you need not concern yourself for its reasons.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. I continue working on mathematics. A few scrapped problems later, I finish. It isn¡¯t my best work, but I don¡¯t have the motivation to put in further effort. Maybe I could make up for it later. I close the worn notebook and cap my pen. It shuts with a satisfying click. I look back towards the goddess. ¡°Do you have a name?¡± ¡°No. Choose one for me.¡± The reply is instantaneous. She doesn¡¯t even put down her phone. I blink. Then pause to contemplate for a moment. Eyebrows consciously scrunch. I run through a few possibilities before quickly coming to a stop. This was the wrong line of thinking. ¡°I can¡¯t. I don¡¯t know enough about you. And it¡¯s your name, not mine. I don¡¯t have the right to make that decision for you.¡± ¡°Then I shall go without one,¡± she states simply. ¡°You can¡¯t choose to not have a name.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± the goddess asks. ¡°Everyone has a name. Having a name is a quintessential part of a person¡¯s identity. Everyone has a name. It is what defines themselves as an individual compared to any old rock or tree or bush or sheet of paper. There is no linguistic way to distinguish you from a different goddess then.¡± ¡°You can give a name to rocks as well as any of the other aforementioned objects.¡± ¡°Still!¡± ¡°Fine, call me ¡®the goddess then.¡¯¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°It is highly unlikely that you will ever meet any other deity in your lifetime. In most scenarios, only I can accurately be ¡®the goddess¡¯. In a way better than many others, it is unique.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not a name, that¡¯s a descriptor.¡± ¡°Well, I still choose for it to be my name. Names can be defined by oneself. You said that yourself¡­ although I don¡¯t necessarily agree that it¡¯s true. Parents decide the name of their children. People decide the name of their pets. Although in both cases, ownership is involved. You don''t believe yourself to own me, and thus following your logic, it¡¯s not your decision to create a name, it is mine. And, I chose that one. I choose to be called ¡®the goddess¡¯ and by nothing else,¡± she gives a hint of a smile, ¡°Shall I ask for people to capitalize the letters to make it more name-like for your sake? It can be our personal nickname.¡± I say nothing for a few moments. She isn¡¯t wrong. The goddess takes the opportunity to barrel onward. ¡°Still, I am open to the suggestion of taking a nickname, with a semblance of my personal permission. Obviously, to your displeasure, I may insist that ¡®the goddess¡¯ is the only nickname you may refer to me as, although I am not so spiteful. If it makes you feel better, I will take suggestions, pretend to contemplate, then select one of your choosing. This is not a revolutionary idea. People make their own names on the internet all the time. Pseudonyms are common. People even ask one another for help thinking up a pseudonym. Names are not necessarily defined by one-self even when one¡¯s physical wellbeing is self-belonging.¡± I can¡¯t fault the logic. ¡°What has anyone else referred to you as?¡± ¡°I have never had the need to take a name before. And other deities do not speak in a language that you physically can, nor would you find any approximate translations to be a name and not a descriptor.¡± ¡°Have you ever felt like a name resonated with you?¡± ¡°I have not.¡± ¡°Then can you say any name at random?¡± ¡°God does not roll dice.¡± ¡°Damn.¡± More silence and contemplation ensues. She smiles more as the mental gears grind. She speaks up first. ¡°You know that names are not binding. You may refer to me as ¡®the goddess¡¯ one day, then ¡®the divine being¡¯ the next. You are welcome to change my name as you please.¡± ¡°Then that begins to defeat the purpose of a name. Names should be rigid and generally constant. You start to lose solidity within your identity if you change it too often. Most people undergo no more than one name change due to some drastic life-changing event, if at all.¡± ¡°Fair. Then why don¡¯t I take your name?¡± ¡°You can¡¯t do that!¡± I say a little too quickly. ¡°Why not? That doesn¡¯t change, and many individuals have the same name. Given the distribution and first names and surnames, many different individuals are bound to have the same name.¡± ¡°But it¡¯s mine. That¡¯s just confusing. We¡¯re not the same person, and I have a boy¡¯s name. And you¡¯re obviously not male¡ª¡± ¡°Your statement has a few flaws. Technically I don¡¯t have a defined gender,¡± she interrupts, ¡°But yes, currently, and for the majority of time, female. Continue.¡± ¡°Yes, okay, whatever. Just¡­ pick something else, not a name that I know of personally or closely, just a name for you¡­¡± ¡°The goddess,¡± she quips with a smirk. ¡°Not that¡ª Look, I just don¡¯t know you well enough yet. I don¡¯t know what you do, or what you are. I am not sure if you are the goddess of anything, or if there are other deities I should be concerned with. Honestly, I¡¯m not sure how I feel about being plunged into this new perspective. Hell, I¡¯m concerned that I¡¯m not more concerned.¡± ¡°All generally true statements,¡± she muses. ¡°So yeah, I don¡¯t know what to name you,¡± I finish. ¡°Elysium.¡± ¡°Pardon?¡± ¡°Call me Elysium,¡± she says, ¡°I think it¡¯s a fitting descriptor of my true nature.¡± ¡°I thought you said you couldn¡¯t pick¡ª¡± ¡°I cannot choose randomly, although I can certainly still choose.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t you say so earlier?¡± ¡°Then we wouldn¡¯t have this amusing conversation.¡± 4. Language The next assignment begins, the bored goddess continuing to tap idly on her phone. ¡°Î¢²¨Â¯,¡± I speak while writing for the third time, grumbling as I smudge the fire prefix for the third time. It had become a frustrating task. It was a stupid microwave through and through, although by some stupid logic, I was forced to write it as a string of pictographs instead of Romanic letters¡ªall for the whimsy of a billion peoples half-way around the world. Admittedly, there was a high likelihood that I would have to interact with their language, though it was more likely that they would have to interact with mine. English was more widespread after all. ¡°Goddess? Why do we have so many languages?¡± Elysium glances up, ¡°Explain.¡± Without turning around, I know the ¡®I know more than you¡¯ smirk is back again. She was a frustrating creature that couldn¡¯t be understood. I wasn¡¯t sure if she could read my mind, although I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if every thought was first purview under her supervision before I was allowed to think it. Just to satisfy her whimsy. Elysium was beautiful though. ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure there¡¯s some Babel story out there that I don¡¯t believe in. I¡¯m not religious after all. Still, it just doesn¡¯t make sense for there to be so many different languages out there. It¡¯s confusing to learn.¡± ¡°Well, people developed in different locations. In the grand scheme of things, global communication is a very recent invention. It makes sense that there are differences. Random chance, chaos theory. You make the connections.¡± I grimace. Humans did tend to lack the ability to be consistent. ¡°So why don¡¯t we just make a universal language then? Or hell, Elise, you do it. Make everyone speak the same language.¡± ¡°Okay, done,¡± she says with off-hand casual-ness. I blink. ¡°Sorry?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve made everyone speak the same language.¡± ¡°Have you? I can still say the words ΢²¨Â¯ out loud. I recognize my main language as English and that as Chinese.¡± ¡°And in my eyes, they''re both just different vocal subsections of the human language. Humans have many more types. Body language, internal languages, emotional languages, and so on. You can tell surprisingly much from a person¡¯s heartbeat. I haven¡¯t changed how anything works. Just take an interpretation of the definition of language that is different from yours.¡± I stare, confused. The bright-eyed goddess looks back. She breaks eye contact first, returning to her phone. The curvature of her lips flatten to distracted apathy as her gaze returns to the white-skinned device. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Hey, Elise, hold on. What do you mean by¡ª¡± I hesitate as she looks back again, ¡°I don¡¯t get it, you¡¯ll need to back up. What do you mean you only see one language?¡± ¡°Well, human language is based on a universal innate language that everyone functionally understands. When humans are stressed, people physically tighten. When we¡¯re sad, we cry. Yes, there are related mental chemicals in your brain that make that all happen, although that¡¯s just the same idea at a different scope. Language is similar. You know how to communicate, you know grammar and the ways that they could be put together innately. Someone just invented defined rules, called it English, and made everyone else use it.¡± My head spins. It doesn¡¯t really make sense, but to some degree it does. Elysium is saying that language is human reaction socially codified. ¡°What¡ªno that can¡¯t be right. How come we don¡¯t all have different grammar rules across languages then? Subject and predicate are swapped between English and Chinese. French has target objects before the verb. And colloquially, we all have different word choices.¡± ¡°Different people from different places made different rules. At the end of the day though, spoken languages have a few constants still. Body languages more so,¡± ¡°I¡ª I get the body language part. Disgust, anger, et cetera, are similar. But spoken as well?¡± ¡°Grammar structures are linear.¡± ¡°I mean yeah, speaking multiple sentences at once would just be confusing.¡± ¡°Yet surely human minds can hold a thought in memory for more than a few seconds. Swapping between different tracks is something people can do.¡± ¡°But effortful,¡± I quip. ¡°Right. And, even when melodies overlap, like in music, generally the phrase that occurs first finishes first,¡± Elysium smiles more as she speaks, ¡°Thus, I proclaim humans as naturally understanding grammar as linear.¡± ¡°Is that not true for all forms of human communication?¡± ¡°Let me send you some website code.¡± ¡°Oh shit.¡± I swing the chair around, staring back towards the Chinese assignment. I scribble a few more lines. Hopefully, the terms would stick in my mind longer than the last set from the previous week. Still, I knew I was going to be disappointed by my own lack of memory somewhere. ¡°Elise,¡± ¡°Hmmm?¡± ¡°What would it cost me to forcefully overcome the barriers between different subsects of the spoken human language? Because I sure as hell don¡¯t want to struggle while learning this Mandarin subsect.¡± She snickers, ¡°The amount of effort precisely equivalent to learning them all.¡± My face twists with irritation. ¡°Like could you cast me a miracle? Surely, goddess, there must be an easier way.¡± ¡°Oh, you were asking seriously. It comes with a cost. Honestly, you can ask me for anything freely by bequesting my Name.¡± Somehow, I get the feeling that she understood that I asked seriously the first time around. It was strange that deities would choose to have such a heavy dose of sass. Surely they couldn¡¯t derive pleasure from something so simple, could they? Then again, one was bothering me and listening to my whims in such a manner. ¡°What, Elysium?¡± ¡°Not that Name.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t we just talk about¡ª¡± I¡¯m interrupted. ¡°It¡¯s [...]¡± Her mouth opens. It closes a few seconds later. A string of sounds between three and six syllables spill forth. I hear it. It¡¯s melodious and wonderful. It carries the feeling of spring and beautiful flowers seeking to cover a darker undertone. Something painfully morbid, but desperately attempting to seek radiance. I¡¯m aroused and terrified. The corner of my right eye stings. I wipe away a blood-stained tear. 5. Establishment of Self ¡°Fuck,¡± the word comes spinning out of my throat, barely more than a whisper. It was calm at first. The single word spoken from Elysium¡¯s lips, a solace. But all solace is temporary. Nothing wires my mind properly to comprehend such sounds. The inner thoughts that the creature before me was no goddess quickly flashed out of existence. She was infinitely greater than myself. Then the unhinged thoughts came. The same syllables repeated over and over again. Like a broken record that couldn¡¯t stop. Screaming to be heard. Screaming to be the only thing that could be heard. I struggled to think, to calm myself, to pull myself from that single train of thought. But I could not. A burning single-word song stuck on repeat. It told me to praise the goddess. To devote everything I had to it. To sacrifice my soul and obey it¡¯s whims. The thoughts circling in my mind were not my own. For a moment, I let them sit. It would be easy to let the Name overtake me. To close my eyes and allow myself to fall into eternal bliss, repeating an overwhelming thought forever. It would be easy. But it would be wrong. I gathered a small piece of my consciousness. A single point of freedom, thinking a thought trying to steady myself. To anchor myself against a torrent of distracting thoughts. I had to declare a dialectic. Me and others were not the same. Elysium may be overwhelmingly alluring, but it was not me. It was an unsteady connection. It flickered and I briefly felt myself lose to the void before finding the handhold once more. I created a mental construct. And the construct was there. A single iron-forged man leaning against the ground. All around him, waves of pressure from the Name threatened to crush him. From above and below. Atlas holding up the world. With that connection, I pushed. Slowly at first, grasping at an inch of mental space. A single point became a line of mental space. Then a circle. Then a small sphere. More space meant there was more capacity to strengthen and enlarge the mental Atlas. In all directions, the mental man pushed. Sometimes, the Name fought back. Cut appeared across Atlas¡¯s arms and legs. I closed them off with a bleed of molten iron. Atlas lost a few fingers. But, I molded new ones and covered them in heavy gauntlets. Skin thickened and plates of armor grew. Atlas would win. Eventually, I won. The name slowly but surely fled at Atlas¡¯s touch. I established myself once again, naming Atlas as myself. It would change the nature of my being, but it would allow me to be closer to the old self. Elysium did not fade from my mind. Even as I cleaned, it took wedges and slivers away. It¡¯s name still pulsed in the back of my mind, clawing for freedom. If I looked, I could find it. Crush it too. But there would still always be more. I woke up. I barely noticed myself collapsing to begin with. My face was pressed against the top of my desk, sitting in a pool of blood. I knew my eyes had been bleeding. It made sense too. A series of understandings sprung up in my mind. I knew certain facts and realities of the world that shouldn¡¯t otherwise make sense. Somewhere, I knew I was a little less human than before. ¡°Are you okay?¡± Elysium asked with a note of concern. The goddess¡¯s concern was striking. She had shown little emotion aside from quiet mirth before. To concern a goddess who was possibly infinite in age? Who had undergone civilization¡¯s experiences with whatever degree of clairvoyance? That seemed wrong. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Suhhuhmayzer¡­¡± came from a scratchy throat. Apparently I had also been screaming. The words also made no sense. ¡°That was not supposed to happen,¡± Elysium mused with a wince. Now that the goddess was fully present, it was strange to see her so active. Emotions flickered across her face. ¡°Okay, don¡¯t talk. You were supposed to become overwhelmed, people usually are when they hear Chthonic, but apparently you saved yourself without my intervention. Mortals shouldn¡¯t be able to perceive the Divine. So yes, you¡¯re a few degrees scrambled but¡­¡± She cuts herself off, pacing more. A snap of her fingers clears the blood off my face, but does little to cure the ice pick of pressure behind my eyes, nor the frustration of my tangled speech. ¡°No, it¡¯s more than just scrambled. You¡¯ve sacrificed something to push me away. You¡¯re mortal and unless you¡¯ve made a bargain with a higher power¡­ No, I¡¯m the only thing with access to you right now.¡± She holds a fist tight, anger in her eyes. ¡°God damn it, Atlas¡ªoh.¡± She looks confused. ¡°Emesel?¡± I mumble, ¡°Your name isn¡¯t supposed to be Atlas. Or the closest translation¡­ or anything vaguely Atlas. No, I¡¯ve never spoken those words referencing you before. I physically remember a different phrase of lips to refer to you. You¡¯re not Atlas. Yet I know you are.¡± ¡°Tha-¡± I stumble, before swallowing. My ability to speak was quickly returning, ¡°W-what mean you my do name isn¡¯t Atlas? It¡¯s always been. Everyone has called me that¡­¡± ¡°No, you¡¯re not Atlas. You¡¯re an American¡ª what kind of Chinese American mother names their child Atlas? The percentages and likelihood, everything, are far too low. What¡¯s your last name? Can you remember it?¡± ¡°Last¡­ Name? I don¡¯t have a surname¡ª¡± ¡°Why then, do you not have a surname? Your father has a family name, and so does seven generations in every direction upward you can point. You can¡¯t be Atlas unless you¡¯ve somehow fundamentally redefined yourself to become Atlas. To a degree that I cannot replicate or out-perceive¡­ and from this stimulus? That¡¯s impossible, unless¡­¡± ¡°What¡­?¡± ¡°No way.¡± She looks horrified. I give her a quizzical look. A quick string of logic notes my lack of anger at this turn of events. ¡°Laplacian Possibility Theory. It¡¯s what Sariel called it at least, before¡­ Anyway, that might have been what happened here. That means¡­¡± ¡°Can you explain?¡± She whirls back towards me, her train of thought momentarily broken. ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk about¡ªOh, the theory, not Sariel. It¡¯s not that complicated. The idea is that anything is possible. Predestination exists, but with no observable method of calculating it, free will is effectively true in our closed system. Effectively, anything can be done should a perfect set of actions be done to provoke it, however unlikely that result may be and how seemingly disconnected they are from any other result. Somehow, the perfect set of actions of hearing my Name, your mental resistance, and everything, down to the lowest point, caused the perfect turn of events to create¡­ you.¡± ¡°Me being named Atlas. Because I was always named Atlas.¡± ¡°No, you once were not Atlas, and now are. Only I partially recognized it because I am not entirely within the closed system.¡± ¡°That seems dumb.¡± ¡°It¡¯s absolutely horrifying and certainly impossible.¡± ¡°So what changes now?¡± ¡°Most likely, nothing other than a Name. Most people won¡¯t be able to perceive the difference. Too many coincidences would have been required for this dramatic of a shift. And for one so cleanly sliced as well. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it.¡± ¡°Huh.¡± ¡°I need to consult someone. I might be gone for a bit. Try not to cause too much trouble in the meantime,¡± Elysium says, hurrying towards the door, ¡°Clean up the blood and don¡¯t share this with anyone. Well, nobody is going to notice the difference, so sharing it won¡¯t do anything. Probably.¡± ¡°Errr, okay,¡± I mumble as Elysium is halfway out the door. ¡°Oh and congrats, you are now technically a god.¡±