The Bemani Room was deafeningly loud. That was its charm.

An adjunct next to the gym at LB head office, partitioned into cubicles each housing a single arcade machine: two Dance Dance Revolutions, two Dance Evolution Arcades, plus one ancient Dance Maniax from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ’90s. The machines were free, like the gym. Provided as exercise of a different kind, and they were always busy. Always.

Sigmund went there with Em sometimes, after work. Sometimes like today. They were both oldskool and, more importantly, unco, meaning they stuck mostly to DDR. When they weren’t hanging out on the plastic couches, chugging water from the cooler, waiting for other people to have a turn.

“Is Wayne coming?” They’d been back in Miðgarðr for three days. Back to electric lights and cell phone reception and—importantly—people not trying to kill them, or start wars, or whatever.

“Nah.” Em shook her head. “Says she’s not feeling well. I reckon she just stayed up too late last night, binging on vicwalks.”

“‘Vicwalks’?” In the background, Sigmund could hear Caramell fight for airspace with RE-VENGE, overlaid with the cheering and booing of a synthetic crowd. Sigmund tried not to think of screaming. Or explosions. Or the stink of centuries-dead corpses or the way dvergr blood slowly lost its glow as it oozed between—

(no)

“Some new ARG thing she’s into,” Em was saying, gulping water, oblivious to Sigmund’s thoughts. “A creepypasta from some mates of hers or whatever.”

“Oh,” said Sigmund. Across the room, a guy in a neat suit squared his shoulders and prepared to fail out on “Invader Invader” for the fifth time in a row. His briefcase sat waiting for him not two feet away.

“What’s your boy’s excuse?”

“I’ve hardly seen him since we got back. I think Arin’s chained him to his desk or something.” Sigmund tried not to wince as soon as the words left his mouth. Then, before Em could make a comment, “How do you do it, man?”

“What?”

When Sigmund turned, Em was looking at him, all dark hair and furrowed brows. Not different, really, to the Em of last week or last year. The Em before the Em who’d seen gods die and the dead go to war. Sigmund wondered how something like that could happen, could leave someone so unaffected.

“How do you deal with this.” He waved his hand. Not at anything in particular, just around. “After . . . after.”

Understanding dawned on Em’s face. “Ah,” she said, chin raising a little and eyes turning away.

“I mean,” Sigmund said into the silence. Into Em’s silence, given the roar of the music. “It’s just . . . I try, y’know? I go to work, and I sit at my desk, and I . . . I try. But it’s not the same. How can it ever be the same, knowing what we know. How do you go back?”

But Em just shrugged. “You know it’s . . . different for me, right?” she said. “I mean. Weird shit . . . I’m used to weird shit. I guess this time”—she sighed—“this time I’m just glad it’s real.”

She looked down, at her hands, all chipped black nail polish and skull-shaped rings.

Not so long ago, Em had spent her senior year of high school in and out of hospital, convinced shadows were infecting people with a poison that turned their organs to black slime. She’d survived the experience. Just.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

And now it was happening all over again. Except this time? This time, Em wasn’t alone. If they were going crazy, they were all going crazy together.

“I’ve been thinking of going back to school,” Sigmund said, mostly because it seemed safer than old memories.

The comment earned him a glance, and half a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Two days’ of thinking was still thinking, right? “I mean, with the game and stuff. It’s a big job, so . . . PU has a course on game dev. Could be fun.”

“Nothing about uni is fun,” Em said, but she was smiling.

----------------------------------------

They played two more rounds, until the sweat dripped down Sigmund’s back and he was pretty sure he’d earned his dessert. He waved goodbye to Em in the LB foyer, taking the long way around towards the doors. The short route would’ve taken him past the lifts. Past the spot with the new tiles and the gleaming grout he was trying not to see. Trying so much, in fact, that he didn’t notice someone approaching from that direction until an arm had threaded with his and a voice hissed, “Keep walking! Act natural!” into his ear.

“What? La—”

“Sssh!”

Lain was wearing a black hoodie, black scarf, black jeans, aviator sunglasses, and a black ball cap pulled down low over his face. He looked absolutely ridiculous.

Somewhere up above, Sigmund saw the red blinking of the LB CCTV cameras.

“You escaped, huh?” Sigmund felt the corner of his mouth turn up into a smile, his fingers lacing through Lain’s black leather gloves.

“I said sssh. She doesn’t know.”

Sigmund very much doubted that. Especially when they approached the exit and the doors began to slide slowly closed.

“Hold the doors!” Lain shouted, to no one in particular. Sigmund buried his face in his hand as everyone in the foyer turned their way, including at least three security guards. Then Lain let go of Sigmund’s arm, dashing forward and leaping out of the building in a perfect double summersault just before the glass slammed shut.

The foyer broke out into startled applause and a scattering of laughter, but Lain was already gone, vanishing down to the stairs and out of the building. The only thing left behind was his hat.

Sigmund just rolled his eyes. “He’s had a long week,” he offered by way of explanation.

One of the guards nodded. “I feel that, mate.”

When Sigmund approached the exit, the doors slid open. As he walked through, he glanced up at the sensor and said, “I’ll bring him back tomorrow.” He grabbed the hat as he went.

Outside, the sky was dark and heavy, not quite raining. Sigmund found Lain hiding between the huge stone slabs of the LB statue, pressing himself against the rock and looking around in an exaggerated fashion.

“Did we escape?” he said, when Sigmund walked up.

“What did you do to Arin, man?”

Even behind sunglasses, Sigmund could feel Lain’s eyes shift from side-to-side. “ . . . Nothing.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t you lie to me, birdboy.”

Lain extracted himself from the statue, following Sigmund away from the building, across the road and towards home.

“I, uh. I told Nic I was considering retirement.”

Sigmund’s step faltered at the words. The truthful words. “Why would you—?” Lain loved LB. Lain was LB. He couldn’t retire. Gods didn’t get to retire . . . right?

“Er, well . . .” Lain winced. “It was just a thought. Nic was pretty clear on it not being a viable option. I think she’s punishing me for even thinking it. I have to read reports on how many reports I have to read.”

In the distance, thunder rumbled. Sigmund tried not to remember a smell like overcooked bacon.

(natural phenomena, just the shock wave from lightning superheating the air)

When the first few drops of rain began to fall, Lain raised his hood and burrowed his chin into his scarf. When he extended his arm, Sigmund accepted. It took a few moments for them to fall into step; Lain’s strides longer and faster than Sigmund’s own awkward shuffle. But it was getting easier. This walking together thing. Much easier.

Not that it’d been very difficult to start with.

“Well,” Sigmund said, “how ‘bout we take you home. Have some dinner. Then, uh”—don’t blush don’t blush don’t—“then you can give me that biology lesson you promised.”

“What bio—” Lain started. Then caught on to the mental image Sigmund was sending his way. “Oo-oo-oh,” he said. “That biology lesson.”

“Sound good?”

“Sounds pretty good, I’d say.”

“Good. Then, afterwards, when I’m asleep, you can finish up whatever Arin wants you to do.”

“Hey. Wait a second—”

“Because, like. No offense? I love you, but I do not want to be on your VP’s bad side.”

No response. One step, two steps. Three. When Sigmund looked up, Lain was smiling, big and soft and doofy.

Overhead, the rain began to fall.