“RUN.” Screamed the boy.

Mateo dove to the ground just as the courier closed his fist. There was a strange, puckering sound, and the light shot through a crack in his fingers. It flew over Mateo’s back as he hit the ground and rolled. He jumped up, scrabbling at the medical box where it lay on the floor, trying to pick it up. He panicked and let go of the box, dived for the ground, digging his face into the dirt and cringing in fear. Nothing happened. He glanced over.

The courier knelt on the ground, furiously digging his palms into the sockets of his eyes, muttering and moaning. A strange light shone from his body, lighting up the bones of his hands, pulsing. It made him easier to see. Mateo finally saw the man’s face clearly.

He noticed the strange depth of the wrinkles on the man’s face. He noticed how the flesh of the man’s forehead rose up around the eye, like a crust. Somehow, he eyeball had been forcibly inserted. It was huge, the size of a child’s fist, twitching violently from side to side as if in ecstasy. In a similar manner, his fingers flailed and clenched, lit in the bone by the perverse, gray light.

Mateo jumped to his feet and ran for the box and put it in the open locker, slamming down the seat of his bike. He spun, flung up his hand and ripped a thick stream of fire through the channel in his arm, hosing down the crouching figure. It hurt to dredge such hot fire so quickly, but it was necessary. At these temperatures anyone other than a rhata would receive third degree burns in less than a second. He jumped into the seat and, just as he kicked off, glanced back.

He gasped.

The courier was standing up.

He wasn’t even singed.

Mateo stomped fire into the bike and shot off, riding parallel to the fence. The racetrack was large. At full speed it would take him nearly fifteen seconds to get to the other end. Fifteen seconds was a hell of a long time. Mateo felt the panic rise, in his throat and in the movement of his stomach, and he shoved it roughly back down. What the fuck was going on? The man was a Mantled. What forces was he messing with here?

“Serpentine,” said the childlike voice, eerily calmly. The voice was like a cold ointment on a throbbing wound. Reality thickened around him. “If that light touches you then it will cut you in half.”

Mateo grunted and curved the bike slightly to the left. As if on queue, another bolt of strange light shot over his shoulder. He could feel the heat of it, even half a meter away, but it nearly invisible—a translucent line of power. A moment later another bolt shot out, this time directly over his head. Then, immediately again, it shot out far to his left. Then there was a coarse, warbling sound, and the strange light sprayed vaguely behind him. The boy giggled. “This guy needs to practice,” he said. “Maybe we should be dead by now.”

The unmistakable roar of a combustion engine filled the arena. The courier was back on his bike. Mateo glanced around him, continuing to weave his bike left and right at random intervals, excruciatingly aware that this could only go on so long, but the courier didn’t shoot again.

Mateo scanned the boarder of the racing oval. There was nothing but seats, steps going up to the higher ranks, the bunker on the far side, and the occasional ticket booth. If he wanted to escape he would have to get past the courier and through the exit.

Finally, the courier shot again. Only this time he hit the ground. The earth to Mateo’s right exploded, twice, as if struck by artillery. A huge wave of heat and thrown dirt flew over the bike, wobbling it. Mateo hunkered down. He reached the end of the fence and wrenched the handlebars right, drifting the bike low, face to face with the floor.

The ground detonated behind him. The bike bucked forward, wobbled. He dragged the handlebars into position, threw heat into the mounts, and the bike jumped forward, racing back the way he had come. He fondled the flank of the bike, finding and then drawing the metal pipe from its plastic holster, holding it parallel with the bike.

He couldn’t see the courier.

If he took the exit, he’d have his back to courier for almost a full minute.

This was his only option.

Another burst of light shot out over the top of his head. Briefly Mateo could see the outline of the courier, sat on his bike halfway between the fence and the exit. Waiting.

Mateo swerved, keeping himself in a serpentine and praying his bike was dark enough. Ten long seconds driving directly towards the man trying to kill him—it felt like a lifetime. He adjusted his grip on the metal pipe.

It all happened in a blur. A flash of terrible white light, bursting all around him. The courier lit up, the skeleton beneath the flesh bright and visible, shining gray. Mateo was blind. He stuck out the pipe and there was a crunch and a collision and the pipe was dragged away from him. Now he was speeding into who-knows-what on the back of his F-bike.

He squeezed the breaks, slowing, blinking furiously, still curving the bike left and right as before, automatically and out of panic. Something crashed behind him. No further shots came. He dropped the bike with a long slow drift, peering back.

The courier lay on the ground, twitching. The combustion bike lay fallen besides him. Mateo guided his bike closer, still cautious. The courier lay face down on the ground. He seemed to be having some kind of fit, body twitching and spasming. There was blood in his hair. The metal pipe lay off to one side with a dent in it.

Mateo jumped off his bike and slowly approached the body. He thought about leaving. That was probably the smart play—forget everything and run. But he didn’t. The man stopped spasming. He lay perfectly still. He couldn’t help himself. He stuck his foot under the man’s torso and flipped him onto his back.

Mateo cringed and looked away. The pipe had hit him in the face, reducing it to a crumpled mess. He glanced back.

The pipe had missed the eyeball. It was unharmed, lolling but totally motionless. Although, it did seem like it was staring at him…

It blinked.

A bright flash of energy shot out of the eye and hit Mateo in the chest.

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He was thrown backwards through the air and slammed against the ground. Something crunched. A circular hole was burnt away in his leather bike jacket, and there was a black burn mark on his chest. Something was aching terribly in his shoulder. His vision swam.

He groaned and rolled to the side, just as a slice of energy swung vertically up along the ground, biting into the earth and the concrete roof of the exit. This had come directly from the eye. It was tracking him. It threw up another slice of energy and Mateo dodged it, barely. He looked up to see the courier staggering to his feet, swaying in place, body loose and lifeless. The eye jerked, darting around intelligently. This time it didn’t try to shoot Mateo.

It shot the front of his F-bike.

In a flash of light and with the sickening sound of tearing metal, the fork and front wheel of the bike was blown away. The bike fell over on its side. Mateo’s heart dropped. He felt a moaning, aching sensation. It was one thing to try to take his life. He could handle that. But attacking his bike?

That was just uncalled for.

Mateo rolled to his feet and let fire rip from his palm, not caring about the damage he was doing to his flame-channels. Without his bike, this was it. Only one of them was leaving the Ghojaki Races.

He closed his hands in a half-fist and increased the pressure, directing the flame in a thinner, more potent jet. This time he aimed directly at the eyeball. It hit the courier full in the face and the man fell onto his back. Mateo stood over the courier and poured fire onto his forehead, only stopping when the pain in his arm became unbearable. He heaved in air and watched the fire dissipate.

The eyeball looked the same as before, except now it was covered with a thin, membrenous lid. He watched the lid peel slowly up and felt something around his ankle—a hand. With a jerk of inhuman strength he was flung against the ground. He bounced and rolled. Something crunched.

Alright motherfucker, thought Mateo. If you wanna play it that way… Mateo rolled back over and punched the eyeball as hard as he could with his fist.

He gasped in pain.

It was like punching a ball of steel.

His fist throbbed. He staggered to his feet, walking backwards, panicking. Slowly the courier rose to his feet, standing opposite, swaying. He seemed to relax. Mateo was all out of options.

“Who are you?” Mateo screamed, desperate. The courier shook his head. He stretched his jaw wide open and snapped it shut. The wrinkles on his face shuddered, expanding, then passing in a ripple outwards and back in. As they moved, the bones of his jaw and mouth moved back into place, and the wounds healed over. He spat out blood and looked at Mateo with all three eyes.

“I am nothing, no one.” He hung his head, muttering almost inaudibly. “I am but a vessel. You must die, child, must perish. To have looked upon the Orikon Heart… Have to kill you, have to have to. Demanded. The Master demands it.” The courier walked slowly forward. In his forehead, the eye blinked, lazily, stickily. The intensity of its attention had somehow dimmed. It seemed absent, satisfied that Mateo was harmless.

His whole body ached. His legs and arms from the overuse of his fire channels, his fist where he had punched the eye, his head where he had struck the ground. But most of all his fucking finger, which he had injured all those days ago on a night he couldn’t even remember.

The courier stood opposite Mateo, put a hand on his shoulder. Mateo was looking at the eyeball. He couldn’t move. It was like a nightmare. The courier punched him in the stomach.

Mateo dropped to his knees, coughing up blood. The courier pushed him over with his foot and stood above him. He held his hands over his eyes, bunched them into fists and pressed them into his own eyes, wincing in pain.

“Master,” he croaked. “Honor me?” There was a pause. The courier let out a small gasp of pain. “Of course, of course. Now, Master, yes.”

Mateo rolled over, meaning to crawl away and get on the combustion bike. The courier kicked him in the stomach. He collapsed. He must have passed out.

Crunching. The sound was of crunching. Someone was approaching. He blinked, looking up. The courier stood above him, holding the strange white and red medical box which Mateo and his friends has stolen from the Penzo several days ago. He seemed to be fiddling with the lock, muttering to himself. The eye was locked onto the medical box, ignoring Mateo.

Mateo sent up a flash of flame from his palm, bathing the courier. The medical box dropped to the floor and rolled onto its side, slightly ajar. Mateo felt the courier grab his wrist, force him down, pin him to the ground. He was muttering. The bloodshot eye was glaring at him, glancing often at the medical box.

The courier scrabbled with Mateo’s helmet, but it was too awkward, one handed with his head on the ground, the strap caught under his collar . The courier gave up and punched him in the stomach. Mateo blacked out. He came to. He couldn’t breath. Everything went dim and again he lost consciousness. When he came to, the courier had his hands under the helmet. Around his throat.

I can’t breathe, thought Mateo. Oh, fuck, oh. I can’t fucking breath. I’m going to die. I’m go-

A voice cut through his panic.

“Okay, Mateo. Now you have to calm down. You’re not going to die, but you do have to try something otherwise then maybe you will.”

Fuck you, Poro. You don’t know anything. You’re dead. You left me. Maybe I’m dead too, but fuck if I’m going to listen to you.

“Calm down and listen. I am not your brother Poro. I am trying to save your life. Can you still feel your finger? The one that hurts.”

Mateo was losing all sense of who he was and what was going on. Okay Poro, he thought, dreamily. Finger hurts real bad. Why does it still hurt? Everything else has…stopped. Above him, the courier was a blurry silhouette, blocking out the night sky. Above him was a huge eyeball, staring at him, creamy white. It looked happy.

“Mateo, I want you to take your finger and point it at the eye. Then, I want you to feel that pressure at the end of it and push. Okay?

Mateo wasn’t really here anymore. He riding on the back of his brothers F-bike that first time, so long ago, when he was a kid. It was a happy memory. He felt safe. You could always trust Poro. Poro looked after you. Sure thing, bro, he thought, happily. He’d never felt so happy. His whole body felt dim and warm. He reached up with his free hand and pointed his finger like a pistol at the eyeball. Then he felt that strange pain in it, and he forced it all to the tip of his finger, and then he forced even more pressure into the tip.

There was a cacophonous sound. The sound of thunder cracking, of metal snapping, of mountains crumbling.

The eyeball exploded in a fleshy burst.

The courier fell over, dead.

Mateo lay on the ground for a while, breathing steadily, watching the colour slowly come back into the world. He looked at the tip of his finger, and he saw the smoke curling up from it. The body of the courier lay to his left, and the half open medical box lay to his right.

He could hear a strange sound. Music. Thin, distant music. Transluscent ribbons of grey light floated above the body of the dead courier, rippling through the air. It was as if his spirit were floating up into his heaven. There was something in the way these ribbons moved through the air and rubbed against it that caused the music. Mateo sat slowly up. He looked at the ribbons for a long time.

There was another sound. The wet, squelching sound of something organic. He looked to his right.

Something was crawling out of the medical box. The same thing as he’d seen before: something silvery and gelatinous, resembling a jellyfish. Several tentacles preceded it, seemingly testing the air, but now the bulk of the creature had slipped from the box to the ground, trailing more tentacles. It was edging towards Mateo, shining dimly with a flickering array of technicolour lights.

It seemed harmless. It was very small. This wasn’t all of it—there was more in the box, when he’d seen it before. Perhaps it was two or three life forms, rather than one. Mateo peered closer, looking at it. He was still in a daze from the fight. Life seemed to be happening to him, rather than the other way around.

The tentacles shot out, grappling with Mateo’s face and around the beck of his neck. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He pulled against the tentacles. It had no effect. The creature flexed and reeled in its tentacles, swung up and forward, thumped against his chest, wet and meaty and cold. Mateo scrabbled backwards through the gravel. He grabbed the creature, pulled it away from him, but it slipped through his fingers, drew upon its tentacles, and forced its way into his mouth.

For a second time, Mateo fainted.