The ink over Darlington's body began to seep into his skin.
It crawled across his flesh like living things slithering, burrowing, becoming. The blackness spread from his fingertips to his palms, from his palms to his wrists, from his wrists to his arms. It climbed his neck, his face, his scalp.
His skin turned dark.
For a second, it was pitch black the color of void, of nothing, of the space between stars. He was a silhouette, a shadow, a hole in the shape of a man.
Darlington looked at his hand.
"I'm black," he exclaimed.
The words were absurd. Childish. Utterly insufficient for the magnitude of what was happening. But they were the only words he had.
Then, after another few seconds, the ink began to drip out from his body.
It poured from his pores, his eyes, his mouth black droplets falling from his skin, splattering against the invisible floor, pooling around his feet. The darkness receded, leaving behind flesh that was pale, trembling, human.
Darlington felt something.
It was not a feeling he could explain. Not pain. Not pleasure. Not anything he had a name for. It was the sensation of being written, of having something added to his very essence, of being changed at a level deeper than flesh and bone.
He looked at his hands.
They were his hands. The same hands that had held comic books, that had written equations, that had clenched in grief as his world ended.
But they were different.
He could feel it.
Immortal.
The word echoed in his mind. Immortal. Immortal. Immortal.
The lady wearing the golden mask came to him.
Her white robe flowed as she moved graceful, inevitable, terrible. She reached down and grabbed him by the neck.
Her grip was cold.
Not the cold of ice. Not the cold of death. Something deeper the cold of a being that had never known warmth, that had never needed it, that found the temperature of human flesh amusing.
That weakness kept eating at Darlington.
The powerlessness. The inability to fight back. The knowledge that he was nothing more than a toy in her hands, a plaything for beings who had existed since before his ancestors had crawled from the mud.
He wished he had the power to kill her.
As she stood there her golden mask inches from his face, her hand around his throat, her breath cold against his skin he wished it with every fiber of his being.
But he did not.
He could not.
He was weak.
She spoke.
"By the order of the god Loki." Her voice was formal, ceremonial, absolute. "Of the Court of Heavens..."
She tightened her grip.
"...you have been granted the elixir of immortality."
She tilted her head.
"A gift originally meant for the one who will conquer Valhalla."
Darlington's eyes widened.
Loki.
The name echoed in his mind a god of mischief, of chaos, of fire. A being who had tricked gods and men alike, who had destroyed and created in equal measure, who existed outside the boundaries of order and reason.
The god Loki has taken great interest in you.
Her voice continued.
"Your will to live. Your will to dispose of all." She paused. "As such, he orders..."
Her grip loosened just slightly.
"Darlington the observer..."
She leaned closer.
"Entertain me. "
The words hung in the air like a curse.
"In return..." Her voice softened. "...I, Loki, the god of mischief, will support you. To conquer Valhalla."
Darlington left in shock.
Support me. The words repeated in his mind, echoing, reverberating, refusing to settle. Support me. Support me.
Why would he want to do that?
His thoughts cascaded a waterfall of questions, of doubts, of fears. What was there to gain from this? What did a god of mischief want with a broken observer from a dead world?
What is there to gain from this?
He could not help but be sprung into a cascade of thoughts each one leading to another, each one darker than the last.
What is his angle?
What does he want?
What am I to him?
The lady with the golden mask threw Darlington from her grip.
He tumbled across the invisible floor rolling, spinning, fetching up against nothing. He lay there, gasping, his throat bruised, his mind reeling.
She went forward to her sister with the silver mask.
The two of them stood facing each other one in white, one in black; one with golden mask, one with silver; one radiating light, the other darkness.
They extended their hands to each other.
Their fingers interlaced.
They hugged each other very closely together pressing cheek to mask, chest to chest, heart to heart.
Their bodies began to turn into smoke.
The gold mask lady turned into white smoke pure, bright, rising.
The silver mask lady turned into black smoke dark, heavy, sinking.
The two streams mingled, swirled, became one.
And then
There was nothing left.
No white smoke. No black smoke. No golden mask. No silver mask. No women. No gods.
Nothing left but a Darlington that sat down.
A man who was lost from light.
He sat there for a long moment.
The void stretched around him infinite, empty, indifferent. There was no sound. No smell. No presence. Just him, and the nothing, and the weight of everything that had just happened.
He said to himself, his voice barely a whisper.
"Why would he do that?"
His brow furrowed.
"A god... support me?"
He touched his chest over his heart.
"A god... grant me the gift of immortality?"
A tear poured out from Darlington's left eye.
It traced a path down his cheek slow, warm, real. He watched it fall, watched it splash against the invisible floor, watched it disappear into nothing.
He bit his tongue.
The pain was sharp grounding, clarifying, human.
"Is this a joke?" His voice cracked. "No it has to be a joke."
He looked up at the grey void at the nothing that had once held gods, that had once held masks, that had once held the promise of something more.
"So it's a game to you guys?"
His voice rose.
"A form of entertainment? A game where you reward people based on how well they make you laugh?"
He clenched his fists.
"It must have been really funny for you all when you killed them." His voice trembled. "You must have enjoyed every moment of it."
Tears streamed down his face.
"Taking them away from my life."
He laughed.
The sound was bitter, broken, beautiful.
"Immortality." He tasted the word rolled it on his tongue, felt it settle in his chest. "I've been granted immortality."
He looked at his hands at the hands that would never age, never decay, never die.
"I can't help but laugh and cry at the same time." A sob escaped him. "What kind of gift is that?"
He spread his arms.
"How will immortality help me in this state? I'm just an observer." He shook his head. "Perhaps if I were in Valhalla, it would be helpful."
His arms dropped.
"But you didn't give me a gift." His voice was quiet. "You just laughed at all my efforts."
He looked at the empty space where the women had stood.
"If you really wanted to give me a gift..." His voice cracked. "...couldn't you have at least brought them back?"
He smiled a sad, hopeless, aching smile.
"Wouldn't that be wonderful?" He laughed again wet, ragged, desperate. "It would be great."
He pressed his hands against his face.
"No, I'm not even begging for much." His voice was muffled by his palms. "Even an illusion I would have loved an illusion of them. At least it would drive me."
He lowered his hands.
"Or couldn't you have used something to tie me down to help you? Like a promise to bring them back... or to take me to that day?"
His eyes burned.
"I would even love it if it were an infinite cycle. Repeating itself." He paused. "It would be painful. I know. But at least..."
His voice dropped.
"...the pain would not be greater than this."
He sat there Darlington, whose will was at the edge of being broken apart.
Only if it was...
He shook his head.
Only if it was...
He looked up at the grey void at the nothing that watched him, at the gods who did not care.
"Okay." He wiped his face. "I'll put on an act."
He smiled.
"It will feel really good as you're watching won't it? The feeling of me in despair." His smile widened. "It must be exciting."
He spread his arms.
"That's the point, isn't it?" His voice rose. "O gods enjoy your entertainment. For it shall be spectacular."
He lowered his arms.
"Is this the heart of a man?" He asked the question to the void to the gods, to the nothing, to himself.
"Then what is the difference between Darlington and the gods?"
He thought about it.
"For the gods..." He spoke slowly, deliberately, carefully. "It is entertainment. Excitement. The thrill of inflicting pain on the world."
He paused.
"And for Darlington..." He touched his chest over his heart. "What could it be?"
He closed his eyes.
"Selfishness?"
He opened them.
"Revenge?"
He shook his head.
"Or love?"
He looked at his hands at the hands that would never die.
"Or could it be..."
His voice dropped.
"...hate?"
Darlington sat alone in the void.
And the grey nothing watched.