You must learn to walk before you can learn how to run. In my case, according to my mother anyway, I was able to swim before I could walk. The freedom of movement, limited only by your lung capacity, I had always been fond of being underwater. Once again I encounter that weightless sensation, only this time it isn’t water.

Shooting upright, I emerge from the surface in a coughing fit, the viscous liquid clings to my skin as I search for solidity to grab hold of. Clearing the muck from my vision, I am met with the desire to vomit. The tile walls were spattered in dried scarlet, with a grisly trail leading to the source of the mess, the bathtub that housed me.

Fumbling with a hand behind my back, I manage to locate the plug, gagging as the drain greedily slurps down the coagulated fluids. With shaking limbs, I rise to my feet, taking care to not slip as I use the hot and cold knobs on the wall to steady myself. In an attempt to rinse off, I make the mistake of turning on the shower.

Though I had immediately shut it off, it was too late to prevent an unpleasant helping from entering my mouth. Despite spitting out the metallic-flavoured assault, I exit the tub unable to contain my insides any longer. On my knees, I hunched over the toilet bowl while a mixture of spew, tears, and snot painted their finest work. Short sputtered breaths escaped my windpipes as I dragged my body from the bathroom on all fours.

After resting upright against the hallway for a few minutes, the shaking begins to cease. The surrounding apartment is familiar, although I have not visited for the better half of a decade, seemingly unchanged by the flow of time. Shattered glass and picture frames litter the living area, silence only interrupted by the faint pattering of rainfall from above.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

Fleeing from the suffocating atmosphere, after raiding the hall cupboards for a bundle of towels, I tiptoe through the bomb field as I wrap myself from the armpits down. To my surprise, instead of the complex’s corridor I expected, the front door leads directly outside to the storm. Stepping out into the torrent, I can’t help but gawk at the building I walked out of, appearing as a simple cabin lodge, far too small to contain the apartment.

The area surrounding the hut consisted of fir trees and grassland, extending in each direction from the home until they met a cliff roughly 20 metres out. In the distance, dotted across the skyscape, were numerous suspended islands. Though visibility is shoddy, trails of smoke can be seen rising from many of them. Some are actively burning and wage against the monsoon, others only showing charcoaled husks of the buildings used as pyres.

Feet sinking into the mud, I run fingers through my hair while the natural shower cleanses me. Using my soaked makeshift covering as a scrubber, I rid myself mostly of the gory overcoat. Tossing aside the stained fabric, I head back inside equipped in an ‘almost fresh’ cloth chestpiece—no one needs to worry about the bloody handprint. My attention is drawn like a magnet to the master bedroom. Carefully avoiding the trail of sticky footprints, I entered the space in pursuit of clothing.

Drawers were left open and plundered, missing half their contents, clothing and other personal effects were scattered across the floorboards. Above the dresser, multiple pairs of green eyes inspected me from between the spiderwebbed mirror's cracks. Plagued by leaded steps I entered, feeling as if I were fighting a riptide, inner alarm bells compelled me to salvage through the piles of belongings quickly.

The blouse and leggings combo fit perfectly, as they should have, most of the remaining garments used to be mine anyway. White socks and sneakers now protecting my bare feet, I turned to head out before changing my mind to put on one more article. The grey jumper, two sizes too large and sleeves hanging past my fingertips, shelters my upper body with its sorrowful scent.

How cruel.

Warped laughter leaves my lips as I stumble through the unit with blurred vision. Stopping to wipe my eyes while grabbing an umbrella leaning against the shoe rack, I take a brief last look at the place before departing.

***

Autumn stood by the pod while tapping away at his smartwatch, the mini OLED screen projecting a note-taking application. His suit jacket had been removed and was resting on a nearby chair. A loosened tie hung freely over his partially unbuttoned undershirt.

“She’s stabilising."

“That took longer than expected, how are her vitals?”

“Heart rate returning to standard bpm after that last major spike, respiration is back to a normal rate.”

Winter sighed from the couch in response before turning back to her phone.

“Those medical records were complete bullshit, I knew we should have done a tandem dive after she fainted on us at the door.”

“Aye, it’s all good now though, Francis should be with her soon.”

Shaking her head with a scoff, Winter rises and makes her way to the balcony.

“Knowing that fucking idiot, he’s only going to cause her more distress.”

On beat with her muttering, the display flashes as the heart monitor flares sharply.

***

Circling the island yielded no results, leaving me stumped on what to do. Ignoring my sogging socks, I arrived at the remnants of a bridge. Severed ropes attached to planks were buffeted by the wind, scanning the horizon I confirmed that this feature was the same for the other floating chunks, although the other bridges were much longer.

Whoever cut these did so from this end.

Peering over the edge only revealed a canvas of deep blue, an endless ocean swaying to the melody of intermittent thunder. Imagining the freefall resulted in my stomach lurching, forcing me to backpedal from the cliffside lightheaded.

“Quite the place you have here.”

The sudden voice from behind evoked a visceral reaction. Naturally I screamed, unnaturally I tumbled, raising a finger to the hooded figure in accusation.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

Deep breaths Lorraine.

Resembling a jester who worked part time as a grim reaper, the jumpscare enthusiast hand-waved my criticisms while giggling.

From the top of his hood protruded three appendages, one to each side with the last behind, tipping the ends were diamond-shaped rubies the size of eggs. A veil of pure black shrouded the face beneath the hood, as if the surrounding light simply evaporated upon entering. Collaring the hood was a red pointed ruff, reminding me of a lotus, contrasting the hallowed silvers that dyed his robes. By his side, standing at the same height, was a crystalline encrusted staff topped by a marbled fist.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Rolling low on intimidation, I eased up on my white belt stance. Shuddering at the meagre distance left between myself and the plunge, I moved forward to meet the strange magic clown. Recovering from the giggling relapse as I neared, he cleared his throat before surrendering himself into an elegant bow.

“Apologies for the delay, the mind is fragile with the first connection. For the safety of the host, we must wait until the consciousness synchonises.”

Holding the bow for an uncomfortable amount of seconds, he rose to his previously towering height and continued.

“You may call me Francis, I shall be assisting with the migration.”

Triggering memories of my days at the ingame casinos, I cocked my head.

“The gambling god, Francis?”

“Hoho, you flatter me, child.”

Spending enough time in a game, you will inevitably be met with repeating dialogue. As the provider of abundant unique rewards, the tables and minigames had taken so many hours of my life that I was frankly embarrassed to tell other people. NPC patrons of said casinos could often be seen sending prayers to, or condemning, the being in front of me.

“Oh Francis, humble God of Chances, I’ll give anything! Just make this damned orb land on red!”

“Oh Francis, cursed demon God of Chances, you have robbed me the last time I swear it!”

The funniest part being that it wasn’t even his domain, Francis appeared in a surprising number of questlines. Most cases he was only mentioned in passing, a minor element or name drop, but the reach of his name couldn’t be understated. A very old and powerful god from the first generation of deities, Francis’ true title was actually the [God of Fate].

An itching sensation tickles at my focus, the exposing feeling of being watched, not just from Francis but from countless directions. I was a frog under the scope awaiting dissection, only pending the examination process.

Oh Francis, humble [God of Fate], please do something about the peanut gallery.

Not allowing me to hang, the god responded promptly.

“Hoho, you truly flatter me, child. Very well, I might know a trick or two.”

Though my hypothesis was correct, the idea of having my mind read freely still left a sourness in my mouth. Tapping the ground with his staff twice, the fist at the end morphed from rock to scissors, two fingers raised to form a peace sign.

“Anyone wishing to have their eyes poked out is welcome to stay.”

He merely spoke, yet it felt like a shout from how it made my ears ring. In an instant the pressure released, a few stubborn onlookers remained but it was far more manageable now. With both arms crossed, the staff floated on its own, aiming itself at faraway clouds.

“Do you think that I am bluffing?”

The standoff did not last, with all but one of the gawkers retreating. Francis clapped his hands in amusement, giving only a slight glance at the final pesterer. The black hole that he wore as a face turned to me.

“How was that? Alas, I can’t do much about the last one; it would be in bad taste to kick out your sponsor now, wouldn’t it?”

Eh? I have a sponsor already? I hope they got a discount.

Getting the feeling he was asking for confirmation, I nodded awkwardly.

“That would be rude, yes.”

I’m not one to be ungrateful, though I was wary of the faceless guarantor backing me. Tonight’s jarring events made slightly more sense as the new puzzle pieces were added.

“Wonderful, let's begin the initialisation then.”

The handy staff returning to his grasp, Francis begins to draw a magical circle in the air using its finger like a paintbrush. I hadn’t noticed until now, but the umbrella had been working overtime for no pay. The ongoing rain crashed into an invisible barrier that covered the island. Glowing runes lined the flawless symmetrical artwork; in the centre, connected by lines and star patterns, are three upright rectangles shining in golden lustre.

“[Fate Reading]”

Sucked from my body were three shimmering spheres, flattening in the air as they spun to become blank cards, each taking its place on the spell’s slots. From left to right, the cards are indented to form imagery: an upside-down man carrying too many sticks, a knight on a horse brandishing a blade, and a queen on a throne holding an oversized chalice.

“And just one more,” he said as an even larger ball of light materialised from my chest.

The other cards inched forward as the greater mass transformed into a huge card nestled behind them. The androgynous person shown wore a crown, yet sat on a simple bench instead of a throne, one hand held a sword to the sky while the other balanced a set of scales. Though the portrait was static, it gave the intense impression of a greater power within.

"Justice, is it? That explains the environment.”

That explains nothing, don’t just nod your head knowingly.

Positive that he was smirking at me underneath his veil, I waited for him to elaborate.

“It means that you lack equilibrium in your life, your balance has been broken. Justice represents restoration and realignment, whether you find that on your own it matters not, the scales will shift independent of your desires.”

The weighted words disabling my ability to retort, I contemplated in silence.

“Worry not, child, it was a positive reading overall.”

Somewhat comforted by his considerate amendment, he brings me back to the conversation.

“We have dallied long enough, next on the agenda is—would you like to meet your sponsor?”