Title Goes Here

This is just the prologue. Would you keep reading?

Prologue

Part 1

         Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
         You know, thinks Alex as he stares at the beautifully wrapped box, sometimes the classics just nail it. It really is the circle of life.
         This concept of inevitability, of the universe recycling itself on every level, is well known to the Game Masters--Alex, Potato, and all the rest of them. There's a reason the atom looks like a wheel, after all. Why reinvent something when borderline copyright infringement will do?
         Unconcerned about time, Alex stares at the box some more. It's small, about the size of his trusty datapad, and wrapped in purple algae. To Alex, From Potato, reads the tag.
         "I love it when things come full circle," Potato says with a smirk, referring to something that happened earlier. Or later, depending. Circles, you see.
         Alex carefully unwraps the box. Inside, resting gently on a black memory foam pillow adorably shrunken down to one-eighth its normal size, is a bowtie. Ornate, yet simple. It is made of Infinity Cloth, the rarest fabric in the known and unknown universe. It is also yellow.
         That fucker, thinks Alex.
         "Put it on," Potato instructs, his smirk morphing into a giggle that is quite unbecoming of a Game Master. The two other Game Masters, Rebar and Babcock, watch from an appropriate distance, wisely remaining silent as the ritual comes to its necessary conclusion. Or its unnecessary beginning. They're still not sure where this is going, but they're pretty sure it's happened before.
         Circles.
         Alex begrudgingly dons the yellow bowtie and gives a flex fit for a pageant. It shatters the invisible cameras because of his Glorious Strength. Were anyone to see him like this--anyone mortal, that is--they would likely convulse in a rage of steroid-induced fits and explode. This has never happened, of course, but it seems a safe assumption.
         "How long do I have to wear this?" Alex asks.
         "Until the end of the next Game," Potato says. "Standard bet. Winner picks the punishment. Don't act like this is a surprise."
         "You didn't win."
         "I beat you."
         Alex sighs. He was so sure of his Chosen. All that research and yet he still lost, his hopes flushed down the drain like an unwanted turtle before the summer solstice even hit. He really needs to stop making such stupid wagers. He itches his crotch, which reminds him.
         "And when can I wear pants again?"
         "You know," says Potato, "I don't recall ever telling you that you couldn't."
         "Ah," says Alex, looking down at Alex Jr. Cute guy. Doesn't talk much. "Right."
         Alex snaps his fingers and two of his previous victorious Chosen appear from thin air, quickly dressing their Game Master like Cinderella's pit crew. These Chosen have gotten good at this. Neither comment on their Game Master's bowtie. It matches theirs, which is, of course, the punishment.
         "Good," says Alex, now dressed in an oversized tuxedo which fits him quite snugly. "Great. Now, we all agree this is the last Game, right?"
         What goes unsaid is: As if we have a choice.
         The others nod their heads solemnly, except for Babcock, who nods his extravagantly, his tongue whipping back and forth as if he were at a KISS concert. Which, of course, would be absurd, because KISS does not yet exist, and even if they did, Babcock would never be seen at one of their concerts. KISS wouldn't allow it.
         Anyway.
         Alex gazes down at the planet. It wasn't always this red, was it? He remembers a time, long ago, probably, he doesn't have a watch, but a time nonetheless in the past when the planet was green. It was a good time, a better time.
         Venus has treated the Game Masters well, but, again, all good things come to an end. Global warming is finally catching up to the Venetians, and it is clear that they will all soon perish. Except, of course, for the winning Chosen of this final Game.
         "I'm gonna miss those fishies," Babcock says, tongue, he thinks, in cheek. He cups his eyes with his chiseled hands and uses them as binoculars. Far below them, with some minor adjustments, he can clearly see the last of the Venetians.
         Soon, there will be only one.
         This, he thinks, is less than two.

* * *

         Elsewhere, above Mars.
         "Turkey," Katie says, calling her house to order. It is a good house, and it is her house. It is a house fit for a Game Master. The sigil is that of a bush. This, Katie reminds herself, is what happens when you let the people vote.
         Today, because Katie's mansion is undergoing yet another renovation, this time to install a swimming pool, the Game Masters have assembled at Harold's place of abode. So, Katie thinks, this is what it's like to call your house to order at someone else's house. It's not bad.
         "Here," says Turkmenistan.
         "Harold," Katie calls. Harold's favorite Chosen, Pumpernickel, blasts a trumpet.
         "Present," Harold confirms.
         "Simon."
         "Hello," says a prerecorded message from the oversized datapad in the center of the room. "You've reached Simon. Sorry I can't be there right now, but if you'll leave a message at the beep, I'll try and get back to you sometime."
         Katie throws a goblet at the screen before the beep, shattering it into exactly eight million pieces. She snaps her fingers and another one of Harold's Chosen flies in, deftly swapping a new screen for the old. Yet another Chosen sweeps up the shards. The life of a champion.
         "I'm getting sick of that guy," Katie says to Turkmenistan and Harold. "Always phoning it in, but never here. How does he win so often?"
         "He's good at plotting," says Harold.
         "Like the soil," says Turkmenistan.
         "No," says Harold. "I mean, he's a good strategist."
         "Oh," says Turkmenistan. "That makes more sense."
         "I don't care. I'm sick of that guy," Katie repeats. "Screw him. He's never here, yet he keeps winning. And his rule killed off nearly every Martian. Thou shall have no water? Who picks that?"
         Turkey and Harold nod. They don't disagree, but they're not exactly innocent, either. Harold is responsible for the canals that now look more like sewer drains; Turkmenistan is responsible for the weather. Not that he can actually control it, but he's definitely responsible for letting people know about it. And right now, there's a storm a brewin'.
         Even Katie is responsible for that ugly red hue. Oops, she is prone to saying. She thought it would turn out more magenta.
         "I hate to say it, guys, but I think this might be our last Game," Katie continues as she looks out at the desolate landscape. "We barely have any options as is, and I'm not too confident that they'll make it through the year."
         "Yeah," says Turkey. "And also, that storm looks not so good."
         Katie nods without having any idea why. This, she is also prone to doing.
         "So," she says, "we're all in agreement? We play this last Game, and then we call it quits?"
         "Yeah," Harold says. Then, after a pause that lasts an ungodly amount of time, he adds a word that will change the fate of the universe forever. "Unless..."

* * *

         Alex's personal datapad buzzes. He looks around, realizes no one cares, no one even seems to realize he's there, those selfish pricks, and opens the secure message from Katie.
         The smile forms slowly. Yes, he thinks, yes, this could work.
         Just when he thought it was over.

Part 2

         "Tell me her proposal one more time," Babcock says, one eyebrow raised. The other is also raised because he can't do just one. "Just in case Rebar missed it during the break."
         Alex sighs. Oh, how he would love to kick Babcock out of the Game. The moron never wins and does nothing but infuriate Alex with his constant babying. But, he thinks angrily, there are rules, and he's pretty sure he helped write them. Better to ignore the doofus than to risk offending Rebar and Potato.
         "Both our Games are in peril," Alex says for the seventh time. "It's just a matter of time before our Venetians can't swim and their Martians can't fly."
         "Right. Mermaids. Flying monkeys. With you so far."
         "And when the Venetians can't swim and the Martians can't fly, what happens?"
         "They...die."
         "Right. And if everyone is dead, do we have anyone to play with?"
         "No?" Babcock answers hesitantly. He never was good with math.
         "Exactly. That's all there is to it. Her proposal is that we combine Games while there's still time. Create a new set of players to choose from and play a new Game. Simple."
         Babcock's face is blank. The concept of time is hard for eternals to comprehend. Alex tries it a different way.
         "If we combine Games, we get to keep playing."
         Babcock grunts, raises his hand.
         Alex sighs. "Yes, Babcock."
         "Playing what, exactly?"
         Alex sighs again. "The Game."
         "Right. And what does 'peril' mean?"
         Instead of snapping Babcock's neck like he so badly desires, Alex instead snaps his fingers. A gilled Chosen appears with a chalk board. Alex can't remember which Game she won. It's not important. What is important is chalk, in that he has none. Alex snaps his meaty digits again, and the chalk board is miraculously switched out with a dry erase board, complete with three fading markers and an uncleaned eraser pad that's fraying at the edges. Alex draws a big circle and says, "This is us."
         "Right," says Babcock. He is taking notes in case this is on the test.
         Alex draws another big circle to the left of the first big circle, with this new big circle slightly overlapping the previous big circle.
         "This is them."
         "Left," says Babcock. His massive fingers furiously type on the datapad.
         Alex shades in the overlapped portion.
         "This is the new Game."
         Babcock raises both hands this time.
         Alex sighs and snaps his fingers thricely. Two new Chosen in matching yellow bowties appear. Each rub one of Alex's distinguished temples. Babcock chews his pineapple loudly and watches in awe until the Chosen are pushed away. He then watches normally while wondering where he got a pineapple from.
         "You know what? I'm just going to move on. Her proposal is simple," Alex says, addressing only Rebar and Potato now. Babcock is still analyzing the whiteboard while munching on the pineapple's royal crown. He looks confused, and that is because he is. "We'll each finish out this last Game. Them on Mars, us on Venus. But instead of the two winners joining us and lovingly adhering to our each and every need, these two champions will instead be moved over to a middle ground."
         "Earth," Rebar says with a knowing nod. "I get it now."
         "Yes," says Babcock, with less of a knowing nod and more of what a fish might look like out of water. "I get it, too."
         Alex pushes on. He's surrounded by morons.
         Forever.
         "We'll leave the two winning Chosen with a bottle of wine, some smooth jazz, and a blanket. Then we'll come back in a few years and start a new, bigger Game with their ancestors. A combined Game."
         "Like an expansion pack," says Rebar.
         "Exactly."
         "A new Game...with Katie?" Potato says. He does not like Katie. It is likely because the last time he saw her, she kicked him in the scrotal region. To be fair, he deserved it. But Potato does not play fair, and therefore does not believe he deserved it.
         "Yes, and the rest of her group."
         "So, eight of us," says Rebar. "Playing one Game."
         "Right."
         "Sounds like a recipe for disaster," says Potato.
         "And soup," says Babcock.
         "What do we do in the meantime?" Rebar asks.
         Alex smiles.
         "We go on vacation."

* * *

         And so, the final Games of Mars and Venus are played. One rotation around the sun later and the two winning Chosen are transported magically, if not realistically, down to Earth, where a picnic has been set up under an old apple tree. Adam, the last of the Martians, is introduced to Eve, the last Venetian and soon-to-be-mother-of-everything-including-soup, and the board is set. There is a chemistry in the air that they haven't felt since Babcock's Accidental Bang restarted this universe all those years ago. At least it gave them somewhere new to go.
         The Game Masters gather in the clouds above. Flying through the vacuum of space is not an easy task, particularly considering their wings keep insisting on obeying the laws of physics, but flying through Earth's pristine atmosphere is quite lovely. They land delicately on dry land, each instinctively grooming their wings like a cat might, if it had wings. Alex is quick to notice that there are only seven of them.
         "What happened to Simon?" he asks after doing a quick wingcount.
         "We kicked him out," Katie spits. "You'll thank us later."
         Alex fumes silently. He didn't know he could kick anyone out. In retrospect, he probably should have read the rulebook after all. But, eh, effort. He looks over at Babcock, who waves at him whilst upside down, as he has somehow fallen upwards and is now drifting back toward the clouds.
         Alex snaps his fingers angrily, but nothing happens. Right. He doesn't have his Chosen.
         Over the last year, every winning Chosen in existence was moved to Earth's moon for safekeeping, an escrow of sorts. Winners from both Games were introduced, although the natural language barrier kept them separated, and a few monkeys eating a few mermaids didn't help the cause. As a teambuilding exercise, the Game Masters conjured up blueprints for a truly epic castle, and the Chosen graciously built it. As if they had a choice.
         To even begin to describe the final product would not do it justice; the castle is as magnificent as you can imagine, and then some. Also, it can shoot lasers. Yeah, lasers. That's cool.
         The Chosen are immensely proud of their work, but their feelings weigh less on the Game Master's minds than an empty aerosol can in a tornado.
         Nevertheless, the Chosen admire it dutifully, completely unaware that only a select few will be allowed to stay with the Game Masters when the new Game begins. The rest will be left to suffocate on the moon, or die trying.
         This gives Alex an idea.
         "Babcock," Alex yells. "While you're up there, go meet with the Chosen. Have them make the castle flightworthy. Add propellers, wings, whatever you need." He hears it as soon as he says it. "Better yet, we'll send you instructions. Don't do anything on your own."
         Babcock continues his upward fall, but Alex can just barely hear Babcock yell, "Can I paint it?"
         "No," Alex yells. "Under absolutely no circumstance can you paint the castle."
         Babcock's voice comes back faintly. "I heard yes."
         "That guy is a moron," Katie says.
         "Welcome to my world," Alex mutters.
         "No," Katie says, arms outstretched like a camel doing the splits. "Welcome to our world."

* * *

         And so, as Babcock begins the process of turning the moon castle into a flying fortress that will almost certainly be painted some ugly shade of pink, the six earthbound Game Masters gather in a circle for one last group huddle.
         "So," Potato says. "Now what?"
         "We wait," Katie says. Potato looks at her angrily. He wasn't talking to her. "We just wait."
         And with that, one by one, the Game Masters disperse. Some stay in the galaxy. Others take a trip to their favorite neighboring universe. Babcock eats some cheese.
         Alex is the last to leave. He takes one last look at his makeshift progeny canoodling under the tree. They better, he thinks, not eat my apples while I'm gone.

* * *

         Meanwhile, with smooth jazz flowing gracefully, if not erratically, from a speaker cleverly disguised as a bush, Adam and Eve fuck.