《BYOG》


 First Steps

    You¡¯re nervous.


    This is the first time you¡¯ve been to one of these. The first time you¡¯ve been invited to one of the most exclusive events on the planet. The kind of event that can only happen when the largest tech company on the planet breaks the code, splits open space and time, and reveals gods.


    Gods. there, on the other side of the celestial veil, watching. Or, sometimes you think maybe they were waiting. Because they¡¯re gods and of course they knew what humans were doing. What they¡¯d accomplish.


    Maybe they never guessed humans would figure out a way to put them in small square prisons, buy them on a digital public market, and take them to obscenely extravagant locations across the globe to put them in arenas to fight to the death.


    Of course, gods can¡¯t die. Not really. They pull no punches ¡ªlike the fight between Zeus and Hades a year before, which became known for its brutality¡ª but there¡¯s no end for a god.


    The driverless SUV comes to a stop in front of a mansion that, even from your vantage point near the entrance, you can¡¯t really get a full grasp on. It¡¯s the biggest building you¡¯ve ever seen. Probably worth more money than you can even fathom.


    Well, depending on how tonight goes.


    You take in a deep breath, hold it until you open the door, then let it out as you step into the brisk night air. The sun¡¯s down, so it¡¯s night, but really it¡¯s a little after one in the morning. These battles go on for hours, but your battle isn¡¯t scheduled for another 40 minutes.


    You have time.


    The SUV behind you makes a quick, happy noise, and you jump forward as the door automatically swings closed. You watch as it moves up a few feet, the door opens again, and a drunk couple piles in, all laughs and slurry banter. You smile as you watch the SUV drive off with its new passengers. You remember what that¡¯s like. It pulls on your heartstrings a little bit.


    The memory of your last relationship is still fresh, but it doesn¡¯t sting as much as it used to. Thankfully.


    You turn back to the mansion, trying to take it all in. There are so many lights on it might as well be the middle of the day. They highlight the huge stark white columns that flank the bright red front door. You don¡¯t know they¡¯re called Doric columns ¡ª you simply relate the front of the building to The Parthenon, ancient architecture that you¡¯ve only seen in books and travel shows.


    Arenas like this one are scattered all across the globe, and private ownership that builds them chooses the theme. Here, in Boston, Massachusetts, the owner decided to go with an ancient Greece aesthetic. You¡¯ve never been to any other arenas in person ¡ªthis is the first time you¡¯ve had the money to do anything worth of note¡ª but you know that others look like ancient Egyptian tombs, others like Norse town halls, and others like Aztec ball courts.


    Each of them massive in scale to hold the gods that fight within them, and the thousands of people that can afford to watch the battles in person.


    It¡¯s the one in San Francisco, though, the Shinto shrine, that you desperately want to visit.


    ¡°One day,¡± you whisper as you continue to take in the architectural glory that stands before you.


    You blink and bring yourself back to the present. Back to the moment. You start forward and join the short line leading away from the red door. You check your phone but you don¡¯t have any missed calls or messages. No one knows you¡¯re here so no one knows to congratulate you, to wish you luck. You¡¯ve kept this a secret from everyone you know. Your loved ones have no idea what you¡¯ve done, what you¡¯ve risked, to be here.


    Of course you did. You spent all of your life savings to buy the trapped god in your backpack, and even a bit more you really didn¡¯t have to get yourself to Boston. You put everything on the line for this one night, and there¡¯s a real possibility you might lose everything.


    Why would you broadcast that to your world? No, you¡¯ll keep it close to the vest until there¡¯s something worth sharing.


    A minute or two later and you¡¯re standing in front of a couple tall men wearing ceremonial Spartan armor, just without the helmets. They¡¯re massive, as if they were chiseled out of stone, but they¡¯re jovial and all smiles as they welcome you to the event. Your phone is your ticket, which they scan with their proprietary devices, and then you¡¯re in, shooed through the door that opens in front of you.


    ¡°Good luck!¡± one of the guards yells back at you as the darkness swallows you whole, the red door closing behind you and shutting out the rest of the world.


    The silence is deafening. For a second you find it¡¯s hard to breathe and there¡¯s a tightening in your chest as a childhood fear of the dark suddenly rears its ugly head after years of being dormant. Above you, embedded lights brighten to life, engulfing you in bright white light.


    The entire room shifts around you, and you can hear something that sounds like a grinding gear. You¡¯re moving ¡ª not up or down, but rather forward.


    Your hand reaches out, desperately reaching for something, and, thankfully, your knuckles rap against a rail. As you grab it, as the interior light washes over you, your heart slows to a nominal rate. You take in another deep breath. The backpack on your shoulders feels a tad heavier, and you shift a little to adjust the weight.


    Better.


    The transport comes to a smooth stop. There¡¯s a brief pause and you think, maybe, there¡¯s something on the other side of the sliding doors in front of you. There¡¯s a muffled sound coming from out there, you¡¯re sure of it. You lean forward a little, listening, trying to figure out what it is.


    The doors slide open with a pneumatic sound, and suddenly there are lights and cheers and boos and fireworks and other sounds you can¡¯t identify. A cacophony of controlled chaos. You¡¯re on the outside of the arena, walking under stacked, auditorium-style bleachers. Popcorn and cotton candy and other candies rain down from the heavens.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    You dodge the debris as you walk further inside. The transport is already gone, ready to shuttle other fans and competitors to the fighting grounds.


    A tunnel leads you inward. There are posters of gods on both walls: Greek, Egyptian, Japanese, Chinese, Norse, Christian, Islamic, and Jewish. Gods you recognize and some you don¡¯t, even with the names splashed across the posters in stylized fonts. You¡¯ve tried to do your research, but ultimately your nights of learning have always led to battle tactics.


    You¡¯ve known which god will be your competitor tonight for weeks. That¡¯s where your focus has been. Watching battle footage and learning everything you can about the way previous civilizations prayed and worshipped and, in some cases, sacrificed.


    The hallway connects to a breezeway with shops and food. It¡¯s loud here, but nothing compared to what pounds at your eardrums from above. As you pass by a cart hawking churros your stomach grumbles, but you ignore it.


    Moving quickly, you find your way to one of the connecting passages that leads to the bleachers. You need to see it. You¡¯ve been waiting for this moment for so long, your entire life it feels like, and now you¡¯re here. You can¡¯t waste any more time. You need to see it before you¡¯re thrust into the madness of the battle.


    You emerge and your breath is snatched from your lungs.


    From this vantage point, you can see the entire fighting arena. It¡¯s massive. Easily the size of 15 or 20 football fields, but the floor isn¡¯t grass, but rather reinforced concrete. The typically white surface area is covered in incandescent celestial blood, the clear indications of a recent bout.


    The crowd is a single living organism, wrapped around the arena on all sides, several hundred bleachers high. There are no empty spaces.


    Four pillars similar to the ones out front stand at the corners of the arena, towering upwards towards the stars, several hundred feet high. You already know how this works, and you¡¯ve seen plenty of video, but seeing it in real life still manages to make your knees a little weak.


    Those pillars lead to an invisible barrier that only shimmers if you look at it the right way. Which you do now, shifting your head a little bit to the left like you¡¯ve seen in the tutorials. Sure enough, the star-filled sky seems to come to life, like water being tapped by a gigantic finger. You can¡¯t stare at it too long or you¡¯ll risk getting nauseous.


    Still, you smile. That field has a name that you can¡¯t remember at the moment, but you do recall that it¡¯s powerful enough to disintegrate a god. And it¡¯s the same energy that¡¯s present in long, flat boxes attached to the four Doric pillars. They work automatically, and will launch an invisible wall if one of the gods tries to escape.


    Not that any do. There is a general belief, one you subscribe to, that the gods enjoy all of this. That, deep down, they are relieved to be able to work out their centuries-long aggressions. Some believe the fight between Hades and Zeus, what slowly devolved into a battle that could only truly be described as a bar brawl, proved this point.


    Even as they pummeled one another, their laughter filled the arena in London.


    Of course, no one can speak to the gods, and the gods do not speak to humans, so no one can know for sure.


    It¡¯s certainly possible that humans have, against the better judgment of life itself, managed to imprison gods and force them to fight against their will.


    A centipede of discontent runs up your spine, but you ignore it. As far as you¡¯re concerned, the bigger questions are not meant for you to answer. You are here to do one thing: battle. Nothing else matters.


    You need to focus. You check your watch and see you only have thirty minutes before you¡¯re scheduled to appear in the fighter¡¯s room. You glance around, looking for signs that will tell you where to go, but you don¡¯t see any. You remember your phone has a map, so you start to pull it out of your pocket, but the audience stops you.


    You hadn¡¯t noticed at first, but there was an arena-wide silence that had settled in just a few moments before. But now the volume is ramping up again, louder, and louder, and you realize it¡¯s because there are two people standing in the arena.


    You know you should be making your way to the fighter¡¯s room, but you can¡¯t help it. You can¡¯t move. You¡¯re captivated by the idea of what¡¯s about to happen, because you¡¯ve seen it so many times in videos, heard about it from firsthand retellings. But now you¡¯re here, and it¡¯s real, and this is everything you¡¯ve ever wanted.


    An announcer¡¯s voice fills the arena, booming over the still-growing cheers: ¡°LADIES and GENTLEMEN! You have already seen some rousing battles tonight! But! You haven¡¯t seen anything YET! Are ¡ª you ¡ª ready?¡± A pause and the audience¡¯s decibel levels intensify. ¡°Now entering the arena, we have Hewitt Daccord of Seattle, Washington! And his combatant, Khalid Singh of Istanbul!¡±


    The cheers somehow manage to reach a new level of deafening. You almost put your hands over your ears.


    ¡°Daccord!¡± the announcer commands.


    The man standing on the far side of the arena from you waves to the audience, they scream in return, and then he throws a box down in front of him. It glows a brilliant red-gold, just as bright as the celestial blood that stains the floor.


    ¡°Khalid!¡±


    The other man doesn¡¯t wave. He¡¯s all business as he tosses out his own glowing box. This one is blindingly purple and red, forcing you to look away from it. You¡¯ve never heard of a box being that bright. You think this might mean something, but you¡¯re not sure. You can¡¯t quite put together the pieces.


    The answer arrives a moment later.


    Khalid¡¯s box lifts off the concrete, spinning in place just a few feet off the ground. Faster, until there¡¯s no discernible details left. Just light. Purple and red, two distinct colors that, a second later, combine into one ¡ª and then a shockwave erupts through the arena.


    You¡¯re almost knocked to the ground from the force of it, but you stay upright. You watch as the god within Khalid¡¯s box emerges, a swirling mass of shaded purples and reds. Scales that seem to go on forever. A massive roar quiets the crowd for a handful of seconds as you watch, and they watch, the form of the Norse god J?rmungandr unravels itself within the arena, taking up half the space with its elongated frame.


    The crowd¡¯s appeals for action intensify. You stare with an agape jaw. You¡¯ve never seen something so beautiful or terrifying or monstrous in your life. As far as you know, this is the first time J?rmungandr has been used at a battle.


    The crowd¡¯s reaction to the god¡¯s presence only confirms this. They realize the same thing you do: this is history unfolding right in front of your eyes.


    You can¡¯t help but notice Daccord, standing like a statue in the arena, has realized the same thing as he stares up at the giant snake-god in front of him.


    In response, Daccord¡¯s box lifts off the ground, starts spinning, and there¡¯s another flash of light and another shockwave, albeit not as bright and not as powerful as the first. A giant of a man appears in front of J?rmungandr, with dark skin, gold armor, and the head of a lion with a full mane of hair.


    You can¡¯t help but smile. Narasimha. Here, tonight.


    Your watch makes a sound, forcing you to look away. You¡¯re being summoned. You¡¯re late.


    Late for the rest of your life.


    You start running, feeling the weight of your own box on your back, bundled away in the backpack you used in high school, which feels like a lifetime ago now.


    Your god is next.


    You¡¯re next.

 Doomed

    You¡¯re pretty sure the room is soundproofed. It¡¯s the only way to explain why it¡¯s so quiet in the large space. You¡¯re not that far removed from the arena you left behind, and as soon as the doors closed behind you, the crowd and the fanfare died away.


    Like a god shut off your hearing.


    The disquieting feeling it left behind faded quickly enough, mostly because what lay before you gobbled up your attention. The space was well-furnished with ornate architecture like outside, but on a much smaller scale. You used to watch this show on some premium cable network about a warrior-turned-gladiator, and this room reminds you of those sets.


    Like someone is trying too hard to sell something. Whether that¡¯s a feeling, or curtains, you can¡¯t be certain.


    Whatever the reason, the result is beautiful and inviting. Several sofas are scattered around the room, and there¡¯s a large rectangular table in the center that offers up a banquet of food. Fruits, vegetables, meat that still has steam twisting away from it. The smells alone are enough to make your stomach flop over itself, reminding you that you haven¡¯t eaten since the morning.


    Your eyes glide around the rest of the room, taking in the marble statues of Greek gods you recognize: Ares with his shield and spear; Hermes with the wings on his ankles; and Poseidon with a carved wave at his back and his trident held above his head.


    That pose is familiar to you. You¡¯ve seen it before ¡ª but in real life. That was the final moment of Poseidon¡¯s last battle, the one where he had defeated the wolf-god Fenrir. The only thing it¡¯s missing is the small human in front of him, doing the same pose without a trident.


    Yuki. That¡¯s her name. The fighter who controls Poseidon.


    She hasn¡¯t lost a battle yet.


    That will be you one day. Starting tonight.


    Your stomach convinces you it¡¯s time to eat something, so you walk over to the table and pick through the fruits. You take two handfuls of color and walk around the room, not wanting to sit. You¡¯re too antsy to stay still. You¡¯re only minutes away from what will ultimately become the deciding moment of your life.


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    The doors open, and you watch as someone walks in. They¡¯re wearing a hood over their head, making it impossible to see their face. But you don¡¯t need to. In fact, it¡¯s the white hood with the gold trim that makes them instantly recognizable.


    Astraia Aetos.


    Your eyes peel down to her hip, and, there it is: the leather satchel she keeps at her side at all times. The medium-sized bag that holds the white-and-gold cube that hides one of the most powerful gods in existence.


    Zeus.


    Your heart races and your palms are sweaty. Astraia Aetos isn¡¯t supposed to be here tonight. She fought Zeus only one week ago, and typically fighters are on a minimum two-week rotation.


    Astraia walks further into the room, up to the table with the food, and grabs a handful of grapes. She takes a few into her mouth before she turns to face you, just as her other hand pulls down the hood.


    You already knew Astraia was beautiful ¡ªyou¡¯ve seen more interviews with her and the other combatants than you can count¡ª but it¡¯s an entirely different thing to see her in person. What you always thought was a trick of the camera, something designed by her PR team, you realize is real: her blue eyes capture not just the clearest blue waters of the ocean, but the individual bright flecks sparkle like the stars.


    Set within her pale skin and below her long, flowing blonde hair, Astraia Aetos doesn¡¯t look real.


    But here she is, standing in front of you with the faint line of a smirk on her lips.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re¡ª¡° she stops before she can finish the thought, and suddenly, her pale face isn¡¯t so pale anymore as it flushes a bright red. Her hands shoot up to her throat as she stumbles backwards, only barely missing the corner of the table.


    You watch in horror as she makes the most awful sounds and her face continues to shade, going from a bright red to a deeper hue in just a few moments.


    *She¡¯s choking*, you realize. You dart over, moving behind her and wrapping your arms around her midsection. She doesn¡¯t fight you because her hands are too busy groping at her throat as she fights for oxygen. You lift her up and squeeze, doing your best to recall the movements necessary for the Heimlich maneuver.


    Once, twice, a brief pause as her entire body convulses against you, and then a third time. Harder than the previous two.


    She coughs and gags and then there¡¯s a grape on the floor, bouncing away from you both.


    You release her and take a step back, watching as she takes long gasps in and out. She wipes tears from her eyes, then, after a few moments, she straightens her back and looks at you.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she says, that smirk long gone.


    You try to stay composed, all things considered. ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    A loud beep resonates through the fighter¡¯s room. You look around as if to locate the source, but when you look back at her, Astraia is still watching you. And when she speaks, you feel the air catch in your throat¡ª


    ¡°Thanks for the assist, but don¡¯t think for a second that means I¡¯m not going to wipe the floor with you out there. You¡¯re dead.¡±


    --and you wonder, if only for a second, if maybe choking on a grape might not be such a bad thing.


    Because gods can¡¯t die.


    But you sure can.

 Beginning of the end

    ## BYOG 3


    You are not prepared.


    In an act of kindness, repaying you for your effort in saving her life, Astraia has confirmed why she¡¯s here in the fighter¡¯s room with you, and that your worst fear is coming true: you¡¯re about to fight one of the most skilled combatants in the circuit, who just happens to command one of the most powerful gods in existence.


    You are going to die.


    She said as much, and, for whatever reason, you believe her. You have no reason not to. After all, every single combatant she¡¯s gone up against has died, and their god shoved back into their prison to be sold to someone else on the public market.


    Technically, Astraia Aetos hasn¡¯t killed anyone herself. That would disqualify her from the fighting circuit, and she¡¯d be in a federal prison. But no one can jail a god. No one can reprimand them. If another fighter is killed during one of the battles, that¡¯s simply the price they pay for being in the ring.


    Of course, every fighter knows their god is more capable, more powerful, if they are in the arena with the gods during the battle. No one has ever offered up a proper reason why, but it¡¯s a belief that no fighter would dare ignore.


    Winning a battle in this circuit can earn a fighter life-changing money.


    Losing a battle, even if it doesn¡¯t lead to a death, can ruin a fighter¡¯s life.


    This sport is not for the faint of heart.


    You know that. You were ready. You were prepared for the battle that was supposed to be ahead of you. You read the books you needed to read, and you scoured social media to learn as much as you could about the fighter you¡¯d be facing. You know everything there is to know about Vishnu, a god that¡¯s built around the idea of protection.


    You were ready to test those limits. You were prepared to win.


    And now you know that won¡¯t happen. Instead, you face the real possibility that you won¡¯t be leaving this arena at all.


    It sinks in that you should have texted someone. Told one of your loved ones that you were here, you were going to be a fighter in the Celestial Circuit. You should have said *something* to *someone*.


    Now, you¡¯re going to die here alone. And it won¡¯t be until the news breaks the story that your family will find out ¡ª if they even see the news themselves. You get a flash of an image in your mind, showing you what it will be like for your mother and your brother to find out from a neighbor that you¡¯re dead.


    You watch, and you *feel* as your mother breaks down, her sobs shaking her entire frame as your brother stares into the distance.


    You pull out your phone and tap the screen a few times, pulling up your contact list. You scroll once and reach the end. Your mom¡¯s name, Yuri, waits for you at the bottom. You tap a few more times, but before you can make the call your thumb hovers over the green call button.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± you whisper to yourself, making sure to keep it low enough that Astraia cannot hear you.


    You pocket your phone and look towards the other fighter in the room. You consider pleading to her, telling her this isn¡¯t how tonight was supposed to go. But she knows. She just doesn¡¯t care.


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    For her, this is just another fight. Another guaranteed win. An increase to her bank account.


    You don¡¯t mean anything to her.


    The lights in the front of the room flicker. Everything about this place is so expensive, so well-kept, that the change in ambiance is enough to grab not just your attention, but also Astraia¡¯s. You both watch the front of the room as if you expect to see something there, some kind of explanation for the malfunctioning equipment.


    Behind you, Astraia stands up. ¡°What the hell is that?¡±


    You see it, too. Or, her. You see *her*, too. There¡¯s another woman in the room, standing in the area where the lights clicked off and on. But, as you stare, you wonder if maybe your mind is playing a trick on you.


    She¡¯s there, yes, but it¡¯s more like an outline of a person. Someone tall, with a lithe frame and piercing eyes that might as well be drilling right down to your soul. Everything about it makes you uneasy, like you¡¯re seeing something you shouldn¡¯t be.


    You want to look away, but you can¡¯t. You try, but your eyes don¡¯t get the command. You¡¯re no longer in control of your body. You simply exist in this space now.


    The lights fail and don¡¯t come back. The shadows are quick to fill the space, and you realize they really are moving, wisps of inky darkness that roll and twist and shift in the open space.


    The woman emerges from the darkness, separating herself from the void as if she¡¯s part of it. You watch as the shadows slip over her frame, sliding across her skin, serving as something like attire, but they refuse to stay still. And she cares not for modesty.


    Again, you try to look away, but your eyes refuse the command. She holds your attention and there¡¯s nothing you can do about it.


    Her gaze moves from you to Astraia. The stranger¡¯s lips move, but instead of hearing her words from her mouth, you hear them in your mind ¡ª in your voice. She speaks through you, just another sign you¡¯re no longer in control.


    In your head, you hear: ¡°Zeus is in danger.¡±


    You can¡¯t look back at Astraia, but you don¡¯t need to. For some reason, you can feel her fear, her anxiousness, as if it¡¯s permeating through the entire room. Like you and Astraia are connected by some invisible thread.


    The stranger continues: ¡°I am Nyx. I am the night. I am here to warn you, Astraia Aetos, that Zeus is being hunted. Your life hangs in the balance.¡±


    The stranger, the goddess Nyx, pauses.


    Then: ¡°More than that, the existence of everything on this planet ¡ªin the cosmos¡ª hangs in the balance. You must be prepared to fight. Or all will be lost.¡±


    In your head, Astraia¡¯s voice slips through: ¡°How can I fight something that can kill Zeus?¡±


    Nyx¡¯s attention turns to you. Your entire body is overtaken by a gentle, but noticeable vibration.


    She says, in your mind, ¡°He must help.¡±


    Your first thought becomes public knowledge in this space: ¡°Me?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the goddess of night says. ¡°You. And your trapped god.¡±


    You ask yourself, and Nyx, and Astraia because you are all one, ¡°How can Inari fight a god powerful enough to kill Zeus?¡±


    Something like a chuckle reverberates through your skull.


    Nyx says, ¡°You were lied to. *Ta-no-kami* is not in your prison cube.¡±


    Before you can ask the obvious question, the shadows around Nyx swirl into a violent, contained tornado in front of her body. When they separate, you stare at a god you have never seen before.


    Standing before you is a figure cast in dark robes with blood-red highlights. A katana rests at their hip, and a Japanese straw hat sits atop a white mask with a twisted grin pressed against sharpened silver teeth. The eye sockets are darkness incarnate, somehow just as black and all-encompassing as the shadows that swirl around the primordial deity of night itself.


    Nyx¡¯s words, cast through your voice, reverberate through your mind: ¡°This is Shinigami. A god of death. I dare say, even more powerful than my son.¡±


    The apparition of Shinigami remains still. You know it¡¯s not the real god ¡ªShinigami is tucked away in your backpack, apparently¡ª but it¡¯s still disconcerting to see the figure standing so still in front of you.


    Nyx says, ¡°You both are linked now, forever. The Titans stole Zeus¡¯s ability to kill another god centuries ago. He needs Shinigami. But you both need another, or you will fail.¡±


    Astraia says, ¡°Who?¡±


    Another ethereal chuckle. ¡°Life itself. Balance. You must find Gaia.¡±


    ¡°Mother earth?¡± Astraia says.


    ¡°Yes. You will need the immense power she contains to have any chance at defeating what¡¯s coming.¡±


    The obvious question comes from you and Astraia at the same time: ¡°What is coming?¡±


    ¡°The beginning and the end,¡± Nyx says. ¡°Chronos will stop at nothing to capture all the gods who have escaped their perches. Beginning with Zeus. And he¡¯ll destroy everything to make that happen.¡±

 To fight Time

    ## BYOG 4


    Chronos.


    You¡¯ve heard of the primordial god thanks to books and video games. But, as far as you know, Chronos is not part of the Celestial Circuit. The rules forbid fighters from acquiring gods that pre-date the cosmos because they are simply too powerful to contain.


    But it dawns on you what Nyx said doesn¡¯t necessarily mean Chronos is part of the Circuit, that some combatant out there managed to contain the god that can control time. No, it actually means something much worse.


    Astraia¡¯s voice reverberates through your mind. ¡°Chronos is loose?¡± You want to be mad she stole your thunder, snatched the question out of your mouth, but you realize in your current state, caught within Nyx¡¯s grasp, you don¡¯t know if your thoughts are even your own.


    Besides, it¡¯s a painfully obvious question considering the situation.


    Still, Nyx doesn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Yes.¡±


    Even if you knew the answer, Nyx¡¯s cold, detached response sends a shiver of discontent through your entire body.


    ¡°You must leave here, immediately,¡± Nyx says. ¡°And you must do exactly as I say. If you do not, or if you fail, Chronos will dismantle the very existence of your universe. You will no longer exist.¡±


    If there are words that need to be said right now, you can¡¯t find them. Behind you, Astraia comes up empty, too.


    In a burst of clouded movement, the form of the Shinigami dissipates as quickly as it appeared.


    ¡°Hold out your arms,¡± Nyx says.


    Your arms lift away from your sides, held out in front of your body towards Nyx. You would have done what she said if you could, but, just like your mind, your body isn¡¯t yours any longer. You¡¯re a puppet and the shadows that slip around your body are the strings.


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    A sudden burning sensation wraps around your arms as a blue light slices across your skin. You can feel your flesh opening and then singing closed. Tears burst to life in the corners of your eyes, and you want to scream, but nothing comes out.


    The light dies and the pain subsides.


    ¡°There,¡± Nyx says, keeping your arms out in front of you. ¡°This is what you must do. Follow my instructions to the letter. Do not waver. Do not shy away from the tasks I have given you. You *must* do these things if you want to survive. If you want to save existence.¡±


    Written language is scrawled across your flesh. You don¡¯t recognize any of it, and you want to ask how you¡¯re supposed to follow Nyx¡¯s instructions if you can¡¯t read them, when you blink and when you look again, every mark is clear as day. Whatever language has been embedded in your arms, dead or dying, is now your second language.


    You are fluent, able to read it, and, as you whisper out a few words, speak it, too.


    Despite the pain required to make it happen, this is much easier than any app you¡¯ve downloaded to try to learn a new language.


    When you look up, the lights in the front of the room are on and Nyx is gone. Your arms drop back to your side, and you have to force yourself to start breathing again. Nyx had put you and Astraia in a form of suspended animation, forcing your body to shut down ¡ªexcept for your pain receptors¡ª as she spoke to you.


    ¡°What the actual hell was that,¡± Astraia says from behind you. You turn to look just in time to watch her collapse onto the couch. Your legs are weak. *All of you* is weak, but you force yourself to stay upright. You make your way across the room and stop in front of her.


    You try to see if Astraia received the same directions as you, but the hooded sweater she¡¯s wearing makes it impossible to see her arms. And, without your connection to her, you can¡¯t know what she knows unless she tells you.


    You feel suddenly very, very alone.


    You speak, your voice hoarse: ¡°Can I see your arms?¡±


    She looks at you like she¡¯s about to tell you to get the hell away from her, but instead she sits up and drags the sleeves of her sweater up, revealing the same dead language carved into both arms.


    ¡°It¡¯s different from mine,¡± you say, immediately unhappy with this revelation.


    ¡°She was talking to both of us,¡± Astraia says matter-of-factly, like it¡¯s the most obvious thing that¡¯s ever happened. You figure she¡¯s probably upset with everything that just happened, like you are, but the tone upset you anyway.


    ¡°So, what does that mean?¡±


    Astraia shakes her head and drags her hands through her hair. ¡°It means we¡¯re stuck together until we get this figured out.¡±


    You blink and try to make sense of it, to wrap your head around the chaos that has just fallen onto your lap. But it¡¯s beyond you. Bigger and wider and more vast than you. You¡¯re just a person, and now you¡¯re tasked with saving not just yourself, or Astraia, but all mankind ¡ª all the *universe*.


    ¡°Or die trying,¡± you say because you¡¯re nothing if not practical.