Put on the mask. Pretend to be who they think you are. One more time, and then you’ll never see these people again. Just put on the mask until… later. After.

  The dean, a matronly woman with hair dyed poorly brown, drones on about the senior class and their accomplishments. Most of what she says is a fabricated weave of bullshit and half facts she put together from a few quick conversations earlier this morning. She’s the kind of adult who peaked some time in high school, and now attempts to relive her glory years by forcing us to call her ‘Dean Hannah’ like we’re friends or something. She's harmless in a bad smell kind of way. If she has any hand in running the school, she’s more Oz behind the curtain than the Wicked Witch. She’d asked me, her salutatorian, how to pronounce my name fifteen minutes ago.

  My name is Samantha Foreman. I mean come on. Seriously?

  Wait. Valedictorian, not salutatorian. My eyes blur with sudden tears. Fuck.

  No, Sam, not now. The mask. Keep it on.

  The pain is like a knife lodged permanently in my lungs. Every breath I take, every beat of my heart… I force the look of pleasant attention to remain plastered on my face as the woman wastes our heartbeats at the podium. I hate her with the kind of idle hatred you have for divorce lawyers. The professors sitting to my left on the stage do all the real work, getting paid a third of her salary for at least triple the work.

  What a waste. All of it. Everything I’ve done, everything since Katie ran roughshod over my heart, wasted. It’s hard not to be mad at her, which only makes me madder at myself. Following her to this tiny Christian hellhole of a college, majoring in English of all bullshit just because she did, and trying to pretend friendship was enough. I love her enough to suffer through it all.

  Loved her. Fuck.

  “Miss Foreman?”

  That was said like it wasn’t the first time. I try to care, to look embarrassed. I’m missing the curtain of my ‘big moment.’ Graduating from college is a Big Deal, they say.

  Not here. Not now. This moment has no business being mine. It should be hers.

  My feet move of their own accord while my mind drifts in a sea of agony. The dean’s arm, too warm in the bright lights on the auditorium stage, hangs heavy on my shoulders. I try to take over the podium and get this sham of a ceremony over with, but she holds me firmly at her side. What the hell, lady? How much do you really want…

  “... and, with the tragic passing of Katherine Moore so fresh in our minds, I would like Samantha to lead us in a prayer in honor of her best friend.” The sociopath has the audacity to look at me expectantly. “Samantha?”

  Katie. You didn’t even get her name right.

  “Excuse me?” Dean Hannah says, arm tightening around my shoulders.

  Must have said that one out loud. Part of me, a very large, very loud part of me, yearns to rip this woman to shreds. How dare she speak Katie’s name like she knew her? How dare she ask me to lead a fucking prayer, when God didn’t do the one thing I asked Him for? Rage burns like fire next to the knife in my chest. It would feel so good to let it out, to—

  But no. That’s not who I am. I wear the mask they all expect me to; it’s more me than the impotent bitch screaming to be let out in the back of my mind. Taking a deep breath, I bow my head, squeezing my hands together until my fingers are white. They shake anyway. Swallowing thickly, I force my mouth to open.

  “Dear Lord—”

  “Better not say that too loud, or he’ll hear you.”

  A voice—female, stoic—sweeps through my mind out of nowhere.

  My planned prayer, already rote and meaningless, crumbles like soggy cardboard. What was that? Who was that?

  “Greetings, Samantha Foreman. You have been chosen as a Competitor in the Tournament. I am your Mentor, Kora.”

  The avatar?

  “What?” the woman’s voice is mildly surprised. “I’m not sure what you’re alluding to, human, but no. I hope you’re ready.”

  Ready? For what? How do I even know that she capitalized Mentor?

  Whispers kick up among the crowd as the silence lengthens. The woman at my side, clearly trying to hide her annoyance, says some platitude about sorrow or whatever while I stand stiffly in front of a thousand pairs of eyes. I don’t have the spare time or attention to feel embarrassed.

  “You've got this, Sam!” my father shouts from the crowd. I know, distantly, that my little brother, Nolan, sits at his side, probably bouncing on his chair.

  “Not long, now,” the woman’s voice comes again in my mind. “Prepare yourself.”

  I guess… I guess this is it. I always told Katie that I couldn’t live without her, and she always laughed and told me I was crazy. Jokes on her. Here I am, having a psychotic break in front of the entire senior class and their families. The stress of it must have finally sent me over the edge. Words appear before my eyes in a crisp blue light superimposed across the expectant faces of the crowd.

  Hello, Competitor Samantha Foreman! A lovely Earth evening to you! Prepare for initialization. Be sure you are safely away from any other life forms in order to make the transition as smooth as possible.

  I blink, but the writing doesn’t disappear, even moving to remain in the center of my vision when I turn my head. What the actual…?

  “You might want to get that woman’s arm off your shoulder. Transition can be...” the disembodied voice trails off. “Too late.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Can be what?

  “Violent.”

  The walls of the auditorium disappear as blinding light rushes towards me from all sides. The crowd disappears, my classmates, the teachers. My stomach lurches and—

  The world is white. My feet rest on a flat, unyielding surface, but I can't see the floor. There are no defining features at all, only perfect, unblemished white. I could be in an infinite heaven or a tiny cubicle. There's no way to tell. I blink. Nothing changes.

  I guess it doesn't matter. When your mind snaps like this, there's no way that anything's going to make logical sense.

  Plop.

  The sound feels like an intrusion. My eyes track it to its source. There's a drop of bright red liquid staining the perfect white to my left. Tiny speckles outline a wall nearby. Definitely not an infinite heaven. Another drop falls next to the first from somewhere above me. I shift to look up, and I feel it. A weight on my shoulder, lighter and somehow heavier than it was a moment ago. That horrid woman's…

  The weight disappears when I move, and a wet slap echoes like I'm standing in a tunnel. I turn, heart somehow beating a steady rhythm, to see what made the sound: Dean Hannah’s arm, plump and still partially covered by the black sleeve of a ceremonial gown. There's no sign of the rest of her. It's like an impossibly sharp sword sliced cleanly through her shoulder and… a weak dribble of blood leaks out. My mind finally stutters into gear.

  Enough for me to scream.

  “Holy fucking shit! Holy. Fucking. Shit. What the—”

  “The message did tell you to stand clear of other life forms,” the woman’s voice sounds again in my head. “If you'd listened, your herald would have kept her arm.”

  “My… my herald?”

  I'm going insane. Gone insane. Has to be the case. The absurdity of calling Dean Hannah my herald only reinforces it. Because, otherwise…

  “That’s what you do for your leaders, correct? It’s generally standard across all the Twelve. Send an emissary, announce your heroic deeds, list your names and titles, and so on.”

  “That's… she was the important one.”

  “Really?” Even though I can't see a face or a body, I get the impression she’s scratching her head. “She was certainly spending a lot of time celebrating you, if that's the case.”

  “It wasn't even supposed to be me up there,” I say dully. “It was supposed to be… someone else.”

  I can't say it out loud, even a month later. Focus. Focus on the voice and this batshit conversation because otherwise you’ll just start screaming.

  Disassociation can be healthy, sometimes.

  “Oh.” The syllable stretches into silence. Again, I get the impression of movement, like she's shifting awkwardly and… angrily? “But you are a Valedictus, yes?”

  I’m spared from responding as the crystalline blue writing appears before my eyes again.

  Transition complete. Flawless… well, almost flawlessly. The blood kind of ruins the cool “Where am I? Am I dead?” effect. Rude. You're not supposed to see the walls.

  Achievement! “I ruined everything!”

  You somehow managed to murder an innocent-ish woman and screw up your mysterious entrance into the Tournament!

  Reward: You know you aren’t dead. Probably.

  What the hell am I looking at? The ice blue letters are in the same place in front of my eyes, and they’re talking like… what the hell?

  Ahem. Anyway. Welcome, Competitor Foreman! I’m sure you have many questions. ‘Where am I? What happened? Why am I here? Did I leave my laundry unfolded at the foot of my childhood bed for my dad to find and sob over now that I’ve disappeared from the world?’

  Wait, did I leave—

  If you just walk down the hallway in front of you, which you obnoxiously know about, many of those questions will be answered. Well. Many is perhaps a bit ambitious. At least one question. Or part of one, maybe. Sigh. Just walk.

  I walk, much like I walked from my seat on the graduation stage to the microphone, drifting on a wind I can’t feel, leaving behind the slowly-growing pool of thickening blood…

  My therapist, Molly, always told me I was dancing on thin ice pretending to be something I’m not. She said that wearing a mask does more than just hide my feelings, it suppresses them, and eventually that pressure will build up until it can’t be contained anymore. Guess she was more right than I realized, because the ice has positively shattered.

  Something, either a shift in the air or some sixth sense I didn’t know I had, tells me when the hallway widens into a room. There’s no sign of the change, but somehow I know. I blink, and the room is occupied with three circles glowing the same crystal blue as the writing, above which hang three images: a sword, a bow and arrow, and a spear.

  Welcome to the Tournament! The Human race, along with the eleven other sentient species of Creation, are competing for a single fabulous prize: survival! That’s right! If you or one of your fellow Human Competitors manages to win, your species ascends to a place among the holy pantheon of winners, and the other eleven will face instant and certain extinction!

  That sounds like some kind of fucked up reality television program. Without the reality part. Then again, Dean Hannah’s arm had been real, in a way that no one would fake up for television. If this is just my untethered imagination, I have to give my subconscious a hand. This is some creative shit.

  Exactly one million Competitors have been chosen from among the best and, uh, brightest, of each of the species competing, and you are one of the lucky few!

  “What do you mean, ‘uh, brightest’?” I find myself asking aloud.

  Some of the Mentors choosing for Earth made some questionable, uh… Moving on. The moment you move beyond this room, you’ll face your first Proving. Choose your weapon and prepare yourself! You’ve got… damn, that arm thing really cut into your time. Two minutes and thirteen, twelve, eleven…

  The words disappear, though a tiny clock remains at the edge of my vision, ticking down second by second. I stare blankly at the three icons floating above the three glowing blue circles. Choose my weapon?

  “What is your weapon of choice, Competitor?” Kora’s voice drifts into my thoughts again.

  “Uh, pacifism?” I say, lifting my hands helplessly. “I guess, you’re a… mentor, right? So, well, can you tell me what the hell is happening?”

  “The first Proving is a simple test of resilience. You’ll face a creature of a lower level, probably something dumb and brutish. Spears are generally good during the first few Provings, if only to keep the bigger monsters at bay, but they’re a trap. I’ve been doing this awhile, and I’ve never seen a spear Class win. Though, again, there was that Frello forty cycles ago who made third. Devilish fighter—”

  “Kora!” I shriek, watching as my time ticks towards a minute. “We don’t have time for a history lesson! What is a Proving? Monsters? Frello?”

  “Touchy, touchy, Valedictus. A Proving is a fight to the death against a monster of appropriate challenge. If you prevail through three Provings, you’ll advance and pick a Class, and the real game will begin. If you fail…”

  “Kora, what is a Valedictus?” I ask slowly, feeling the first inklings of true fear blossom in my belly.

  “What is a… the Valedictum are the finest fighters, those with empowered voices that can shatter the bones and resonate the blood of their foes. The last appeared almost a hundred cycles ago, but that Valedictus scythed easily through his foes and raced ahead to glory. Before you were transported here, weren’t you just about to address your troops?”

  “I’m so dead,” I say softly.

  The timer ticks down to zero, and the three circles disappear.

  Achievement! “Confidently idiotic or idiotically confident!”

  You decided not to arm yourself before a battle to the death with an equitable enemy.

  Addendum! Or, what would have been an equitable enemy, if you hadn’t ruined the vibe by bringing that arm along. Now, I’m going to pop some popcorn and watch you die.

  Reward: If you somehow survive, I’ll figure something out then.