(What an odd memory to have at a time like this. What was that, seven years ago now?) Little Shadow thought. (Well, maybe not so odd,) she amended as somebody ripped the hood off her head. Spotlights stung her eyes as she struggled to make out her surroundings, silhouettes moving around her like phantoms.

Shapes slowly resolved into people, into thousands of people, as the pain of her dangling body pushed its way through her disorientation.

(Riiiiiiiight.)

Clad in little more than a smock, rivulets of blood running from scalp to ankles, and flayed flesh hanging in tatters, her toes barely touched the ground slick with her blood. Copper manacles dug painfully into her wrists and held her arms high above her head, the copper pillar cold against her back.

Of course it was copper – the one thing that could block her power – but couldn’t they have made it just a bit less blighting uncomfortable? Nope, that was too much to ask, so, there she was, strung up on the central stage of The Gearworks for the entertainment of thirty-thousand rowdy spectators; great way to end her day.

Fifteen massive gears, each with two rows of luxurious seating, rotated slowly around the auditorium, turning her torture into little more than a spectacle. People were even eating popcorn.

But she wasn’t the only victim. No, arrayed along the edge of the circular platform, seven other poor souls shared her fate. All together now, the stage was set. Soon, the curtain would fall, and it would be over for all of them.

“Tell me, you who call yourselves Gods, tell me how it feels to be captured. To be strung up like meat by the things you considered little more than toys for your games,” an armored man signed from the center of the stage in front of Little Shadow. His words floated high above in brilliant OWRglass light like small tears in reality before dissolving and raining down in a shower of sparkles.

It would almost be pretty, almost, if it wasn’t the introduction to Little Shadow’s execution.

“Enough, Elard,” a woman signed from beside the armored man, her words appearing in pink compared to his blue above.

“No, Nalia. Not nearly enough,” Elard signed and spat. “Look what they’ve done to this world. What they’ve done to us for generations. The pain they’ve put us through. They need to know what it feels like,” his hands blurred as he combined speech and emphatic gestures.

“Release me from these chains and I’ll show you exactly what it feels like,” a massive man, bound in manacles of bone, signed from where he hung. His words roared above, a cold grey, but twice as large as those before.

“Now, now,” Nalia signed soothingly, words forming high above, “you’ll get your turn soon enough. You all will. Once the Gods who ruled this world, you, the Broken, are now our prisoners. Weapons crafted by the hands of men,” she pointed to the pistol on Edard’s hip, “have brought you to ruin, as you brought this world. But today is your reckoning. As the stories go, you survived the first Breaking, and destroyed the rest of your kind.

“But those stories held the kernels of truth that exposed your weaknesses. And because of that, you won’t survive this, the Second Breaking.

“My fellow soldiers,” Nalia signed, her hands thrusting above her head, and turned to the thousands watching. “We all know the stories of how the Broken were too dangerous, even to their own kind. Once, long ago, perfect Gods walked our world. Perfect, save for these eight who wanted more. Who wanted to stand above others of their kind. Who planned and plotted,” she signed the words slowly, letting them fully dissolve above before carrying on.

“When the others learned of their treachery, they made the terrible choice to kill their brothers and sisters to save their race. To save this world.

“But it was too late.

“They failed. Miserably, for these eight had already grown in strength. They could not truly die. When they returned as the Broken, they created tools for their war. Tools to fight their battles. To die in their stead.

“They created…us,” she signed, the word ‘us’ appearing and disappearing a dozen times like an echo above.

(Blight, how much longer is she going to talk? My back is itchy…)

“For generations,” Nalia went on, “for millennia, we fought their war. We bled and died by the millions. But was it ever enough for them? No!” Nalia signed. “Through our sacrifice, the centuries-long conflict was won. What did we get as our reward? Broken Gods who revel in our suffering. A ruined world. A dark sky save for the two hours of a cursed sun we see every day. Even that which should be beautiful, the sunlight, destroys us, its Blight turning everything it touches to metal,” she paused, heads around her nodding at mention of the Blight.

“But we’re tired of bowing. Tired of groveling and hoping we don’t catch one of the Brokens’ eyes. Tired of fearing their spawn, the Touched. Today is our day. Our victory. Not for those who made us,” she signed, and pointed at the eight people staked around the auditorium. “But for ourselves. For today…we rise!” she signed, thrusting her hand into the air, the words exploding to life above her. Soldiers all around her repeated her sign in a silent chorus, “We rise!” sparkled in the air a hundred times, a thousand, like stars in the night sky.

“We rise!” Nalia stomped her foot and signed again, looking to her audience. “Join me. Feel the power of these words. We rise!” she signed and stomped. “We rise! We rise! We rise!”

Slowly at first, but increasing with each repetition, more and more of the crowd joined in until the Gearworks shook with the chorus of thirty-thousand stomping feet, hands in the air, words showering like fireworks. “WE RISE!”

The stomping rebounded like an earthquake through the Gearworks for a long minute, near deafening to Little Shadow, who couldn’t even cover her ears, before Nalia finally put her hands up to bring the mob back under control.

“Now, it’s finally time.

“To truly find our places at the top, for us to rise, the Broken must fall. Edard, you have been chosen for this honor,” Nalia signed and stepped back.

(Finally.)

Golden blond hair, features chiseled as if by a master craftsman, and shoulders wide enough to carry the world, the man commanded attention as he strode a circle inside the ring of chained Broken. His armor, polished to a mirror-like shine, whirred with each gear-enhanced step. OWRglasses in the shoulders, chest, and thighs left a trail of luminescent light and showed his power to all the world; the power to bring down gods.

(In armor like that, a man is nearly invincible.)

“The Bound,” Edard signed, words in blue fire scarring the air above him, and stopped in front of a man staked to Little Shadow’s left. Cocooned in black leather straps and wrapped in silver chains, his true identity was completely obscured, with even his mouth and nose hidden behind a thick muzzle. “The prince. The traitor. The one responsible for the Brokens’ first death. Bound by silver befitting royalty.

“It’s only right that you be the first to go this time,” Edard signed, and held out his gauntleted hand to Nalia.

Nodding, Nalia reached into an elaborate etched-gold trunk at the center of the stage, drew forth a shimmering, silver dagger, and brought it to Edard.

Without a pause, Edard took the dagger and slammed it into the Bound’s abdomen. Thick blood oozed out from beneath the leather bindings and ran down Edard’s gauntlet, the Bound thrashing in agony, but didn’t, couldn’t, make a sound. Not even in death.

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“We rise!” Nalia signed, and the crowd repeated with a thundering stomp.

“Oh, good show,” Edard signed discretely, no words echoing above, to the squirming Bound as he gave a tentative pull on the dagger. It didn’t move. He gave a second pull, and a little twist, and the Bound thrashed all the more.

Confusion flashed across Edard’s face, and Little Shadow couldn’t help but smile at their executioner’s inconvenience.

“Edard, next,” Nalia signed with one hand while the other repeated ‘We rise!’, only the latter words appearing in sky-script above.

“Dagger’s stuck,” he signed right back. “The flourish.”

“Forget it, do it with the next.”

Edard scowled, but stepped to the next man in line, away from Little Shadow.

(Guess I get to enjoy the show before it’s my turn.)

“The War,” Edard signed, once again taking command of the stage, blue words burning above. Iron skin wrapped around corded muscles, the man chained to the post was massive, easily dwarfing even Edard in the OWRglass armor.

(But, there he is, just like the rest of us.)

“Bound by bone, for the primitive weapons used to kill you the first time. Where are your armies now? Your armor? Well, you can’t have mine,” he signed and turned with a wink to the crowd, eliciting only a few obligatory grins. His smile twitched, and he jerked his hand out to Nalia.

A bone dagger, this time, forged from the jaw-bone of some large carnivore, jagged teeth still running along one side.

Edard glanced back at the Bound, still writhing and moaning on his post, then down at the dagger in his hands.

“What are you waiting for?” Nalia signed so only Edard, and, coincidently, Little Shadow, could see.

“Why’s he…?” Edard signed back with a single digit pointing at the Bound.

“Wants the attention. Ignore him and get on with the stabbing. We’re on a tight timeline here.”

“Right,” Edard signed, then shoved the dagger into the War’s gut. Blood like a waterfall exploded out from the dirty smock while the War opened his mouth for a silent death-scream before falling still like a puppet with his strings cut. Edard lifted the blood-soaked bone into the air in triumph, then dropped it to the ground unceremoniously.

“We rise!” the crowd stomped.

“The Hunt,” Edard signed, stepping up to the next woman in the circle, directly across from Little Shadow. Cat-like claws, razor sharp and still dripping blood, extended from her fingers. Her face, somewhere between canine and human, scowled at Edard with a cold mix of primal intensity and human logic. “Bound by ivory for the tusks that gored you.” When he held out his hand, Nalia placed a carved ivory dagger in his palm.

“More animal than person, your savagery won’t be missed,” he signed, and drove the dagger into the Hunt’s abdomen.

The Hunt’s eyes met Little Shadow’s, and the feline woman gave a wink before she threw back her head in a pained, silent scream.

More gushing blood, a dagger held high then dropped to the ground, another chorus of ‘We rise!’, and Edard stepped to the next.

“The Madness,” Edard signed. Ebony hair framed a face like porcelain hidden behind a muzzle. The woman would have been beautiful, if not for her eyes; shattered like the worst Gloverdose, fragments of pupil and iris floating freely, chaos dancing in their depths.

Edard paused to check the muzzle before he continued. “Can’t be too careful. Your song could drive the world to insanity if we let it. Now, though, bound by obsidian for the dagger that cut your throat and stole your voice, and ours, we need never fear you again.

“A pity, really, the last spoken words left to this world, and they die with you.

“Nalia, if you’d please,” he signed, and she handed him a black, obsidian short-sword. “If it worked before, it’ll work again,” he signed, then lifted the edge of the blade to the high collar around the Madness’ neck. Then, painfully slowly, he dragged the blade from left to right, coating the full length of it in bright, crimson blood.

“We rise!” Nalia led the crowd, many of them on their feet.

Again, Edard held the blade above his head, then dropped it to the ground. But he didn’t move on immediately, and instead looked back at the Bound who still twitched and writhed.

“He’s really hamming it up,” Edard signed quickly to Nalia.

“Ignore him. We’re already behind because of his antics. And why did you leave the knife there?”

“Got stuck on something,” he answered, but turned away and moved to the fifth person in the circle.

“The Lost, bound in oak for the forest where you died,” Edard signed, and fingered the wooden manacles holding the man aloft. “You probably think it’s a pity we found you.” Edard chuckled silently at his own joke. He was the only one. His hand went out, and Nalia gave him a wooden stake, polished and sharpened. “To think a simple stick can kill a god,” his fingers mused slowly, then jammed the stake straight into the man, the plain robe instantly staining red.

Even if the Lost could’ve screamed, it would’ve been drowned out by the thunderous retort of the crowd’s stomp.

(Bloodthirsty psychos.)

“We rise!”

Edard dropped the bloodied stake to the ground as the Lost slumped lifelessly, then moved on.

“The Twisted,” Edard signed in disgust to the misshapen woman before him. Fleshy pustules, bones protruding from all the wrong places, and a face like melted wax, the Twisted was just as her name described. “Bound in marble, for the perfect statue you idolized, before it fell and crushed you. Your touch will never again soil our flesh.”

“I could have made you flawless,” the Twisted signed, her misshapen fingers writhing like seizing snakes above her head. “I still can. Free me, and I shall make you immortal. Beautiful.”

Edard turned his head, as if considering the offer, then stood straight, his hand on his waist. “I’m already beautiful,” he signed with a sparkling smile. “And my name will be immortalized.” He held out his hand, and Nalia passed him a heavy marble spike.

“We rise,” Nalia signed, and stomped her foot, the crowd eagerly joining in.

“We rise!” Edard signed with one hand while the other drove the marble spike into the Twisted’s gut. Blood gushed from her hunched form, a waterfall of red on the floor at Edard’s boots. “We rise!” Edard signed again, the stained spike held aloft, before he dropped it and moved to the seventh Broken.

(Almost my turn.)

An old man, white hair and beard hanging past his chest, milky eyes staring at nothing, hung from dark chains.

“The Distant,” Edard signed respectfully with a slight bow of his head. “Of all the Broken, you meddled the least with our world. With us. But like your brethren, you are too dangerous, and for us to rise, you need to fall.”

The old man, the Distant, vaguely looked in Edard’s direction at the movement, then signed back, his fingers barely moving. “Do what needs to be done. I’m tired.”

Edard nodded, then slowly held his hand out to Nalia. A sharpened piece of stone.

“Yours was the cruelest of deaths,” Edard signed solemnly. “Lodestone, for the nails driven into your body. For the metal powder forced down your throat, and for the lodestone boulders you were hung between until they ripped it all from your body.

“This death will be much less painful,” Edard signed, then quickly drew the jagged stone beneath the Distant’s beard. The old man didn’t even flinch as blood ran down his chest and soaked his robes.

“So tired,” the Distant signed, then closed his milky eyes, his head drooping.

“We rise,” Edard signed, dropping the lodestone, and moved to the eighth and final Broken. To Little Shadow.

“Took you long enough,” she signed with a silent chuckle. “Saved the best for last?” Bloody letters dripped across the sky above her.

“The Flayed,” Edard signed, ignoring her comment. “Bound in copper for the wedding band your husband wore when he skinned you alive. Look at you now, your beauty destroyed because of your indiscretion.”

“Better than you’ll look if I get out of these chains,” Little Shadow signed, no words echoing above, then spat blood in Edard’s face.

“Ugh! What are you…that’s gross…” his fingers flashed without thought, and he staggered back, one gauntleted hand wiping his face, the other going to the gun at his hip. “It got in my mouth!” he signed with bloody fingers, the sky above blank.

Little Shadow winked at him.

Edard took a threatening step forward, and the bloody gauntlet swept up. Metal fingers with the strength of ten men wrapped around her throat, cutting off her air. The OWRglass on the back of his hand glowed fiercely as he squeezed, a hair’s breadth from outright crushing her windpipe.

(That OWRglass armor is the real deal.)

Edard put his gun to her forehead, his fingers on the grip visible only to her. “What are you doing you stupid bitch? That isn’t in the script,” he signed, without taking his finger off the trigger. Still, no words carved the air above them.

“Improvising,” she signed and gave him a bloody smile despite the black specks floating across her vision from lack of oxygen.

“Edard,” Nalia tapped on his shoulder. “What are you doing? You need to use the knife,” she signed when his head turned in her direction, and she held out a copper blade.

“I know!” he signed, finally releasing his grip on Little Shadow’s neck, her throat spasming as she sucked in air. “But this…” his fingers stopped as Nalia’s eyes widened at the gun pointed in her direction. Edard’s gun.

“Edard. No, Erik” she signed slowly, using the actor’s real name. “What are…that’s…that’s just a prop, right? You didn’t actually bring a real gun here, did you?”

“Jenice, I can’t…I don’t…” Erik started, but didn’t finish as his finger squeezed the trigger. The stomping crowd froze as the OWRglass pistol lit up the stage, the jagged lightning discharge connecting the barrel to Jenice’s body for a frozen heartbeat, before hurling her off the stage between The Madness and The Distant who jumped in surprise.

“Whoops,” Little Shadow signed with a smirk.

“Jenice!” Erik signed, and took a step forward, disbelief written across his face. He didn’t get a second step before a single, slow clap started in the audience.

A lone woman, red top hat perched precariously atop her blond hair and seated directly level the stage, brought her leather-gloved hands together at the pace of a dying heart.

“Veronika?” Erik signed before he put the gun barrel to the side of his head and pulled the trigger.

As Erik’s head vaporized, the audience probably realized this wasn’t part of the show.