As Darlington was pinned down by an invincible force, he felt like eating his own heart.
The sensation was not physical. It was deeper a craving for self-destruction that rose from the core of his being, that whispered to him in the voice of his own despair. Consume yourself. End this. There is nothing left.
He felt so powerless. As if everything had no meaning.
The plans the careful, meticulous plans he had woven in his mind like a spider weaving its web were all gone. Shattered. Destroyed by the mere presence of these women, these gods, these monsters who looked at him and saw nothing but entertainment.
I'm weak.
The thought was quiet. Accepting. Final.
Does it even matter whether I plan or not?
He looked at the golden mask. At the silver mask. At the infinite cruelty behind both.
These people will kill me.
Then, all of a sudden, a small flutter happened in his heart.
It was not hope. Not courage. Not anything so noble. It was something colder a shift, a settling, a rearrangement of the chaos inside him.
Darlington became calm.
His breathing slowed. His racing heart steadied. The tears that had been streaming down his cheeks stopped.
No. He said it to himself, his inner voice firm. No, I can't react. I can't be angered.
He looked at the two women at the golden mask, at the silver mask, at the gods who had come to mock him.
I need to hold it in.
His jaw tightened.
I need to feed my hatred for them.
He took a breath.
I'm weak. There's nothing I can do to them physically.
His eyes red from crying, raw from despair hardened.
But that world... that game you all created...
He smiled.
Thank you for not killing me.
His smile widened.
I'll use them. And one way or another...
His voice dropped to a whisper.
...I'll kill you.
The one with the silver mask moved.
Her black gown flowed behind her like shadow, like night, like nothing. She approached Darlington her steps silent, her presence suffocating and reached down.
Her hand gripped his chin.
She lifted his face.
Forced him to look at her at the silver mask, at the darkness behind it, at the something that lived beneath the metal.
"Observer of the world Earth..." Her voice was soft, almost gentle. "Congratulations."
Darlington's face filled with shock.
"You have managed to entice the gods."
How?
The question screamed in his mind. What? How? What does she mean?
She giggled.
The sound was high, light, innocent utterly wrong coming from a being who radiated such darkness.
"Oh, you're surprised, aren't you?" She tilted her head. "Well, there's no need to be surprised."
She released his chin, letting his head drop.
"The gods are superior to you, of course." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "They can see everything."
She stepped back, folding her arms.
"What did you think?" Her head tilted further. "That you could deceive us? Defy fate?"
She laughed a short, sharp sound.
"You are not above fate."
The two of them the one wearing the silver mask and the one wearing the gold spoke together.
Their voices merged, overlapped, became one.
"YOU TRASH. "
And both laughed.
The sound filled the void echoing, reverberating, pressing against Darlington's ears until he could hear nothing else. It was not mocking. It was not cruel. It was simply... dismissive. The laughter of beings who had seen empires rise and fall, who had watched gods die and be reborn, who found the struggles of a single human amusing.
The one with the silver mask spoke again.
"Oh, yes." She tapped her chin. "We aren't done, are we?"
The golden mask nodded.
"Oh yes that's right." Her voice brightened. "For giving the gods quality entertainment... a reward is due to you, is it not?"
She paused.
"Hence..."
She stretched out her hand.
Her skin was black as coal dark, matte, absorbing the light that touched it. Her fingers were long, slender, impossibly graceful.
"This is it."
She touched his head.
Her palm pressed against his forehead cool, smooth, wrong. For a moment, nothing happened. Then
Ink.
It poured from her hand black, thick, alive. It flowed over his face, his neck, his shoulders. It spread across his chest, his arms, his legs. It covered every inch of him, consuming him, becoming him.
The ink behaved as if it were alive.
It pulsed. It breathed. It moved across his skin with a purpose he could not understand, carving patterns, writing something in a language he could not read.
Darlington could not move.
Could not speak.
Could only feel.
Both the one wearing the gold mask and the one wearing the silver mask spoke together again.
"I can't believe it." Their voices were filled with something that might have been wonder. "A gift... to be given to a person like you."
The ink continued to pour.
"This gift..."
Their voices dropped.
"...meant for the warriors of Valhalla."
Darlington lay on the invisible floor, covered in living ink.
The women stood over him, their masks gleaming.
And the grey void watched.