How the Game is Played

Two weeks later…

I stare into the gas station cooler door, my reflection warped and stretched across glass. My face largely looks the same as it always does: pale, sharp angular cheekbones and a square chin. I smile back at the reflection, the smile reaching my mostly green eyes—yeah, those tell the real story. There's veins of subtly glowing blue threaded through the twin pools of stagnant pond water green—the indication of the magic that's still flowing through my system. I run a hand through my short black hair, a stubborn habit, and can't help but think: Today's a good day.

It's weird. Thinking that. But here I am—standing at a gas station, protein shake in one hand, energy drink in the other, and a dopey-ass grin on my face like I just got promoted to middle management at some dead-end company job and they finally gave me a nameplate. In other words: totally at peace with the mediocrity of my own existence. At least today.

"Hey there," I say as I stroll up to the counter. "Fifteen on pump one. And these two, please," I add, plunking down my drinks with the satisfying clunk.

The cashier is a wiry guy in his twenties wearing a branded polo uniform and a look that says he's spiritually clocked out. He gives me a barely-there nod, scans my stuff, and grunts something that might be "Have a good one" or might be "I hope your car explodes, jackass." Honestly, I respect either vibe.

The register dings, I tap my card, and I'm out the door, already cracking the top of the protein shake. Chocolate whey. The nectar of gym gods. I take a long sip while walking back to my car, which admittedly looks like it's being held together with dental floss.

The sun's out in full force, making the pavement shimmer like the gas station's been coated in a layer of desert-style mirage. It's definitely one of those too-hot-to-be-believable early May days. I lean against the car while pumping gas, taking another swig of protein sludge and basking in that sweet, rare feeling of post-workout satisfaction.

Earlier, I had my ass handed to me by Kyle. System-enhanced Jiu Jitsu instructor, muscles carved out of some kind of divine granite. I thought after getting out of the Bronze Gate at a staggering Level 19 that I could handle telling him to not hold back as much. Nope! Dude twisted me up like a balloon animal and then politely taught me how to escape those holds before smiling and saying, "Good! Now, again." Rinse, repeat, humbling complete.

He taught me this new sweep too—one of those low-to-the-ground things that makes you feel like some kind of martial artist magician when you pull it off. And maybe, just maybe, I did pull it off. Once. Kind of. He definitely let me do it.

Next week, I've got a boxing lesson with Jordan. I particularly can't wait for that one. The boxing lessons definitely translate a lot better when it comes to my Wizard's Fist Spell. Lefty and Righty could use an upgrade.

The pump clicks off. I put the nozzle back in its cradle, screw the cap on, and drop into the driver's seat, the leather warm and cracked beneath me. I crank the AC, take one last heroic gulp of chalky protein, and wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

Yeah. Things are good. Weird, but good.

The Save-Some-Bucks on the west side is the kind of place where hope goes to die between the dented cans of green beans and the inexplicably sticky tile floors near the frozen section. Not the one I used to work at—this one's crustier, older. The ceiling tiles are all stained with something that might be water damage or perhaps Earth's own colony of ooze creature. This place is a little more than depressing, but I promised my dad I'd help out. If he asks me for a favor, it gets done. Simple as that.

I pull into the lot, finish the last of my energy drink, and toss the can into the passenger-side footwell, where it clangs off a growing graveyard of caffeine corpses. I should definitely take the time to clean those out this weekend.

Inside the store, the air smells like cardboard and floor wax. The manager, a guy named Jeremy, is standing by the service desk looking like someone just peed in his cereal. He's balding, with a dark goatee that's trying its best to cosplay as a beard, and a belly that juts out over the top of his Dickies work pants.

"Hey," I say with a smile, offering a hand. "I'm Joseph. I—"

"Yeah, yeah," he waves me off without making eye contact. "You're the one Gary sent. Follow me."

Charming, this guy. I frown and open my mouth to say something but I stop myself. Take a deep breath in. Exhale. Smile back on. Not even this prick can ruin this day!

I follow Jeremy through a maze of aisles and into the backroom, where chaos reigns. It's like someone let a delivery truck explode in here. Pallets stacked to the ceiling, shrink wrap half-torn, boxes spilling their contents like disemboweled cardboard corpses. I hear the buzzing of overhead fluorescents and the gentle hiss of refrigeration units somewhere in the distance. It's a symphony of suburban retail purgatory.

Jeremy turns to me. "Had two trucks today. On top of the truck that showed up late yesterday. Short-staffed. Just get this sorted, alright? I need the floor clear before close."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Sure thing," I say, still smiling. Because why not? The guy's a dick, sure, but he's got that wild-eyed, sleep-deprived edge that tells me he's one register jam away from a total nervous collapse. I almost feel bad for him.

I roll up my sleeves, crack my knuckles, and get to work.

Turns out, when you can bench press a minivan and shoot energy wave blasts for fun, warehouse labor becomes…weirdly therapeutic. I hoist full pallets onto shelving one-handed, like they're made of pool noodles, whistle a jaunty tune, and let my mind wander. The repetitiveness, the simplicity of it—it's meditative.

I think about Dave for a moment.

The way he used to rattle off a laundry list of tasks he needed me to help with, but always backed me up when things went sideways. The way he tried to make the break room feel like a clubhouse instead of a coffin.

Jeremy's no Dave. But I'm not the same Joseph anymore, either. People can change. Or, sometimes, they just have a bad day. Or bad week… Hell, maybe a bad year.

I finish the last of the sorting and wipe my hands on my pants, exiting the back room just as the front door chimes and in walks my old man, still wearing that same beat-up flannel, but this time accompanied by a Save-Some-Bucks 'Regional Manager' badge fixed to the front. He's chatting with Jeremy near the registers. His face—a thinner version of my own—is all laugh lines and freckles.

I stride up, arms loose, heart lighter than I expected.

"Jesus, you're looking too damn skinny," I say, clapping him on the shoulder. "Need Mom to get some meat on those bones!"

He snorts. "Better skinny than looking like a damn washed up rugby player who missed the exit at Aussie land and ended up in Ohio."

"Strong and pretty, you mean," I say. "You're just jealous."

He grins, the kind that warms the space between your ribs.

"I'm all done," I announce, stretching my back for dramatic effect.

Jeremy actually mutters a "Thanks," looking less like a man ready to walk into Lake Erie than when I arrived. Maybe retail's version of salvation is just a kid with a System-granted Class and superhuman Strength who decides he's happy to fuck around and play retail for the day.

We say our goodbyes and Dad and I head out.

We don't drive far. We meet at a little deli off Madison Avenue with crusty bread and a chalkboard menu. No frills. Just good sandwiches and a soda fridge humming like a tired old priest giving his final sermon in the pulpit-like back corner of the small storefront. Dad orders the prime rib, extra sauteed onions, like always—he's got a thing for tradition. I get turkey, Swiss, cranberry mayo, and ground mustard.

We take them to Lakewood Park, a place that feels like childhood filtered through rose-tinted glasses. Summer days, Fourth of July firework shows, bad high school dates. Now, just us and the lake. We park ourselves on the Solstice Steps—those massive concrete terraces that overlook Lake Erie and take in the midday breeze coming off the gray-blue water. Waves lap against the rocky shore below.

I bite into my sandwich and it's a mess—mustard on my hand, bread flaking down my shirt.

"You're an animal," my dad says, watching me like I've committed a war crime with condiments. He has an extra handful of napkins at the ready.

"You raised me." I take him up on his offer, snatching one of the folded brown napkins and wiping off my non-sandwich-wielding hand.

We eat in silence for a bit. There's a couple kids tossing a frisbee on the lawn behind us. A guy on rollerblades narrowly avoids disaster by catching himself on one of the swinging benches lining the lakeside path.

"So," Dad says, brushing crumbs from his lap. "You still looking for a job?"

I hesitate, chewing slower. "I've been thinking about that."

"Uh-oh."

"I just…" I sigh. "I don't think finance is for me. Not after everything that happened in New York. I tried. I really did. But after everything?... I don't know. I think I need to do something. Else." I pause. "Actually, I was thinking of maybe doing something where I could use the System."

Dad nods. Not shocked. Not angry. Just listening.

"That's how the game is played," he says.

"Huh?" I take the last, crusty bite of my sandwich.

"Life, I mean."

"Ah," I say around a mouthful of bread.

"You get dealt a hand," he says. "You don't always like it. Hell, sometimes you're staring at a two and a seven off-suit. But you still have to play. That's life."

He finishes his sandwich and crumples the wrapper in his fist. "No mulligans. No redraws. You make the best of the cards you've got. That's how you win. And if the System's part of the world now, then maybe it's part of the hand you were dealt. You got it? Use it. Just… maybe don't tell your mother everything. You know how she is. She worries too much."

I nod, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. "This metaphor is terrible."

Dad chuckles. "You don't do any good folding every time the pot gets big," he says. "Life's out there. Go meet it head on."

He checks his watch, grumbles, and stands. "Oh, dang. I gotta go check on a couple more stores today."

He claps a hand on my shoulder, warm and heavy. "Take care, kid."

And then he's gone. Just me, the breeze, and the lake stretching out toward the horizon. I sit there, crumbled up butchers paper in my hand, and my thoughts spiral like vultures.

The Game. This Game of Gods. The secret contest we're all part of—those of us with access to the System, anyway. At first, I didn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. Then, I was too freaked out to care. Too overwhelmed to process. I chose the comfort and escape of the weightroom. But now…

Now, I keep thinking about Sloth. In fact, I couldn't stop thinking about her or the Realm behind the Bronze Gate since I'd returned to Earth. I also thought about the undead castle, Candy Land… These Realms—they were all so twisted…wrong. Was that what happened when the Contest arrived to a new world? Or were these each the byproducts of the winners of these Games, and the wish they were promised?

Were all of them shaped by someone's deepest desires? Or were they each the result of someone using their power for their own selfish desires, instead of potentially unraveling the tangled mess of a world that they left in their wake?

What was going to happen to Earth at the end of our Game?

If I win, would I use my wish? Hell, what would I wish for?

I stare out over the lake. People laugh in the background. Boats skim across the water. I'm frozen here, yet the world still turns.

I think about the deli. The park. My dad. The way even Jeremy, rude-ass manager that he is, still matters in the grand scheme of things. Still has a place here. This world, flawed as it is, matters.

So maybe I do want to play this Game. Want to win.

And I would use that wish. Not to change the world. To preserve it.

Today's a good day. A really good day. And on good days, you don't fold.You push your chips into the center of the table, smile at the dealer, and play the hand you were dealt. Because maybe—just maybe—it's the winning one.

Because that's how the Game is played.

The End of Book 1.

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