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The sun burns.
Sand scatters.
Blood sprays.
A body slams to the ground, and the game is won.
Grian staggers forward, buoyed by the thrill of victory, giving half-hearted thanks to the players whose spirits circle him. He cannot see it, but he feels them watching: J-Timmy’s good-natured glance, Ren’s heated look, Cleo’s unsatisfied glare. He doesn’t think about the eyes he cannot feel, the ones conspicuously missing from the ring of mortal spirits closing in on him.
He laughs, only slightly hysterical, as he feels a stronger gaze fall upon him, not a player, but someone Watching intently nonetheless. He shakes out his hands, Scar’s blood still tacky on his knuckles, and decides to give them a worthy final bow.
As he tumbles toward the ground, the useless, colorless wings They gave him flaring awkwardly, he congratulates himself on a game well made, despite the hiccups.
He hits the ground.
And then he’s floating in nothingness.
The wings splayed around him are no longer limp and useless. It’s a shock of sensation as they finally respond to his movements. The feathers rustle and shift as he whips around, looking for some indication of where he is. There's nothing, just inky blackness and a nauseating feeling of weightlessness.
He blinks, sight digging deeper, desperately searching for anything to lock onto. There is no code to parse in this place, and without code, there is no life. Grian feels himself start to freeze up. Only the fact that he can still feel the faint thread of the Universe woven through his being convinces him that he’s not dead as well.
What a glitch that would be, killing all his friends just to win the grand prize of being dissolved.
Grian shakes his head, carefully scanning his surroundings. There is something here, something tugging him…deeper? Further? Into the void, but he just can’t see what it is.
He needs to See.
His eyes unfocus and he Looks.
The ink surrounding him unfolds, spiraling outward as his sight fractures, bringing everything into a new focus, like his perception has tilted forty-five degrees and color has turned to black and white.
The beings surrounding him become visible, expanding out of the background of existence like a 3-D kaleidoscope. He faces a crowd of looming figures, featureless masks all trained on him. They stand silently, and as he notes this Grian feels his feet land on a solid surface.
He tenses, bristles, pulls himself to his full height, aided now by the wings that flare behind him, arcing up like a shield.
“What do you want?”
They say nothing.
He takes a deep breath, looks around (don't close your eyes, don't lose Sight of them, don't show weakness), and tries to sound like he’s not terrified out of his wits and still shaky from beating a friend to death barehanded.
“What do you want?”
Well done, initiate.
The voice echoes around him, curling around again and again until it feels like they’re all screaming directly into his skull.
Grian’s eyes tighten with pain, but he does not blink, does not falter.
You have made the game well. You have proved your worth.
“What does that mean?”
You have made a game, and you have played it so very well. We are…proud of the Niche you have found.
“You were Watching.”
Yes. And we are glad. Now we are here to congratulate you.
In the back of his mind, Grian feels a bit of relief as the voices slowly begin to fade into something more manageable. He steels himself and folds his arms, trying to disguise the uneasiness he still feels below a veneer of affront.
“You want to congratulate me for winning? Why? Why did you bring me here? You could have-have left a polite note!”
No, little bird. Your winning or losing does not matter, though truly, it was a fitting end. You have reached the end of the path we hoped you would follow, when we first laid Eyes upon you so long ago.
A frisson of something runs down his spine. The memories of EVO, of being terrorized, of fighting desperately, waking up alone with the bone-deep realization that something was wrong: these are memories that everyone knows not to bring up. Memories that Grian himself does not touch; he binds them away along with his useless wings every season, just another unwanted gift from the curators of a failed experiment.
“Does this mean that whatever you did to me-did to EVO-it’s finally finished?”
Oh, little bird. Something that might have been a laugh-was there air to breath-rings across the field. You were not touched. You have been Watched, yes, but we are not so presumptuous as to force the Universe to work. We are Watchers. We do not meddle, we observe. You have come into yourself all on your own, and we are here to greet you as our equal.
Grian’s perspective of the figures before him slides, and they come together until only one remains. They stand before him, as blank and empty and featureless as the Void. Wings made of mirror shards stretch wide, reflecting his blood-spattered face.
He looks at himself and sees something painfully human. Then he looks into his own eyes and sees something other.
Distantly, he thinks that he should perhaps be screaming.
Gamemaker.
The title slides around his shoulders like a cloak, soft and welcoming, and all the terror Grian had felt fades into delight. Who cares about fear? This is power.
“Oh.”
And the Universe offers a gift. The Universe is not malicious. There is a moment of hesitation, a question mark on the end of the contract. If the power is not wanted, if it will choke and suffocate the wielder, it will be recalled. The Universe has no desire for broken students.
The power retracts slightly with the Universe’s query, and Grian grabs it tightly. This is his, this should have been his ages ago and it will not be taken away. This is his repayment, and he needs this power.
The Universe sighs chidingly, but the pause is only a millisecond. Grian nestles into the feeling of warmth, the feeling of rightness that surrounds him.
The wings that he has dragged around for years suddenly feel more real than his other limbs. He peers at them curiously, and is greeted with the same fractured shard-feathers that adorn the Watcher in front of him. There’s no need for him to open his mouth anymore, as he begins a real conversation with his new…compatriot.
I am…going to be like you?
Eventually. You have been an Initiate-a chosen possibility. We have Watched you for some time, hoping you would find a Niche.
Their voice is soft now, comforting. The cadence and shape of the words bounce around behind his eyes, bringing a sense of understanding. This is someone who deeply, truly, compassionately knows what he is feeling. And they are willing to give him answers.
A niche?
A domain. You will preside over it.
I thought Watchers were like…spies. Watching people they thought were a threat.
No, little bird, we are much more than spies. We are…for lack of a better term, we are overseers. Each of us has an aspect we are devoted to solely.
But you’re called-we’re called the Watchers.
The mortals call us Watchers because to most of them, that is all we are. It has been a very long time since an Initiate has found a Niche. You should be proud.
A niche is…whatever makes you ascend. And your niche gives you power.
Yes. You are the Gamemaker. Within your domain, and the things you create from it, you will be near to perfection.
Gamemaker…
Gamemaker indeed. Well done, little bird.
Grian smiles, and his wings break open a little further. Each new crack puts a vein of burning white into the Void that makes them up, sending tiny stars spiraling into a false abyss.
What now?
Now you will be the Gamemaker.
What does that mean?
I will repeat, little bird. Their voice sharpens. We Watchers do not meddle. You are the only one who shall conduct your domain, so you will be the only one to understand it.
Nothing comes easy with you lot, huh. If I need to figure it out by myself, can I still return home?
You may go wherever you desire. You are a Child of the Universe in blood as well as name now. You are free to do as you wish, so long as you do not interfere with another Watcher’s Niche.
I assume I’ll know when I’m getting close to one?
You will be...warned.
Well…goodbye then. I’m sure I’ll see you again, but I need to make sure my friends aren’t getting worried.
Goodbye, Gamemaker. May you play well.
And Grian-the Gamemaker-falls again, through the Universe, through the Void, until his mirror-shard wings begin to flap, begin to work. They send him through the nothing beneath everything with ease. He sails through the dark and cold with glee, powerful wingbeats bringing him quickly to the familiar section of bedrock, and the neat hole shot through it.
With one smooth motion Grian flings himself up, up through the mist and bedrock and out into the blinding sun. He perches atop the Boatem Pole, grinning wildly.
In the distance, several figures approach. Players.
The Gamemaker grins bigger. As he takes off again to greet his former opponents, he notices the wings on his back are covered now with a multicolored shock of real feathers.
Probably for the best, he thinks. Don’t want to be reflecting everyone’s true form at them all the time, might cause some awkwardness.
“Hey! Scar! Look what I won!”