“A blood sacrifice,” the funny little imp said. “That’s the best kind.”
Peter raised his eyebrows.
“Can someone tell Evil Yoda here to tone it down a little?” Vanhi whispered.
Charlie elbowed her. “C’mon, play along a little.”
“Yeah, don’t insult the guy,” Kenny added.
Peter approached the figure. “What do we get in return, exactly?”
The small god told them.
“Who is the youngest?” Hephaestus asked. “The gods love young blood.”
“That would be Kenny,” Peter answered.
“Thanks, friend,” Kenny shot back.
Peter shrugged. “It’s true.”
“Kenny, is it?” the little god asked, and just hearing it speak one of their names sent a little thrill through the room. The Game was seamless.
“Yes, Kenny,” he answered, smiling a little self-consciously, realizing that he was talking to an animated character who existed only on their phones. Yet he blended into the room around them, as Kenny’s eyes had adjusted in a new way—all their eyes had—the way you forget after a few minutes that you’re wearing 3-D glasses or flipping between two halves of bifocals. Going between the real world and the augmented one on their phones become a sort of second nature, or more accurately a second sight.
“Well, Kenny, if you want the power of a god, you must please the gods. A thusia is called for.”
Kenny shook his head. Among the Vindicators, he alone knew what thusia meant. It was ancient Greek, straight out of Bible study. It came from thuo, “to sacrifice, slaughter, kill, to offer part of a meal to the gods.” It meant “victim.” Kenny didn’t believe all that nonsense about dying in the Game meaning death in real life, but no way was he ready for his friends to keep playing the Game without him. It was too early to lose.
“I am not your thusia,” Kenny snapped.
The little god smiled. His teeth were as misshapen as his curled foot and lopsided face. He hobbled over to Kenny and sized him up and down.
“A handsome boy. A proud boy. The gods will find you most delicious.”
“Eww,” Vanhi said. “Nobody would find Kenny delicious.”
“That’s just rude,” Kenny said.
“It’s that,” Hephaestus said. “Or you can all lose.”
Kenny studied the odd figure in front of him, cartoonish and flamboyant like a computer game, but hyperreal in his grotesque form.
“Come on, guys. We just started playing. You’re not going to sell me out just like that?”
“We all have to go sometime,” Peter said.
“It’s just a game,” Alex added.
“What about die in the game, die in real life?”
“It’s probably not true,” Peter teased.
“There has to be another way,” Charlie said. “What about a goat?”
“That’s right,” Kenny chimed in. “You’re a Greek god, right? The ancient Greeks sacrificed animals, not people.”
Hephaestus smiled. “You are an animal to me.”
“Oh, just take one for the team,” Peter said to Kenny. “It’s not like little George here is really going to kill you.” Peter walked toward the little man and jutted his arm forward, to show that it went right through him.
But it didn’t, because Hephaestus ducked right in time and harrumphed and straightened his hair and shawl indignantly.
“No one needs to die,” Hephaestus said theatrically. “Just a drop of blood will do. One drop. That’s not so much, is it? One drop of blood, for the power I have offered to bestow upon you? The Fire of God!”
“Fine.” Kenny stuck his finger forward, in front of the virtual god. “One drop. Go ahead.” He didn’t seem concerned, given that a hallucination could hardly draw blood.
Hephaestus nodded, pleased.
He hobbled across the boiler room to a section of piping that fed into a humming unit. On the flat surface were a pair of worker’s gloves, some silvery strips of cut tubing, and a small box of razor blades left behind by the workmen. When Kenny saw the open box, the dull razors stacked haphazardly inside, his smile dropped.
Hephaestus said happily, “Just one drop will do.”
“No effin’ way.” Kenny looked at the rest of the Vindicators.
No one spoke.
The mood in the room suddenly lurched, from fun to uneasy. Surely the Game wasn’t asking Kenny to actually cut himself?
“You can’t be serious?” Kenny said.
The figure just waited, tapping his good foot.
“I think he is,” Peter answered.
“He? It? It’s a freaking game. I’m not cutting myself.”
“Of course you’re not,” Charlie said.
“Well, then I guess your time in the God Game is over,” Hephaestus said pleasantly to them all.
“It’s a just a little cut,” Alex said. “I mean, one drop. That’s like a pinprick.”
“You do it.”
“Fine. I will.” Alex went for the razors.
But Charlie reached and stopped him. “No. No way.” This was the Alex he feared. The nihilist who acted as if cutting himself were no big deal, as if he’d felt much worse.
Hephaestus shook his head. “It must be the youngest.”
“The god has spoken,” Alex said.
“I play the cello. I can’t cut my finger.”
“Cut the left hand,” Alex said.
“The left hand is the one you play with.”
“Then the right!” Alex said brightly.
“I’m not doing this.”
“No one is cutting themselves.” Charlie stepped in. “I can’t believe we’re even considering this.”
“How do we know you can even give us what you promised?” Peter asked the god.
“Peter.” Charlie stepped toward him, slightly aggressive. “We’re not doing this.”
Peter seemed unconcerned.
“Oh, I can give you what I claim,” Hephaestus told them. “And so much more. And I know just who you want to use this power on. I have foreseen it. It will be a splendid victory. A most just distribution of the fury of the gods. But the time has come. You must decide. Do you want it? Will you do what it takes to get it? I will wait no longer.”
With that, Hephaestus turned his back and began hobbling away, his little cane clicking as he shuffled toward the shadows of the far corner of the dark room.
Everyone looked at Kenny. It was all on him.
“I’ll do it,” Kenny said, surprising them all.
“No,” Charlie said. Drawing blood was too far. Even a stupid pinprick. “We’re your friends.” Charlie glared at the rest of the group. “We’re not going to pressure you into this.”
“No one’s pressuring me. I want to do it. We’ve been beating around the bush all day. We all know what Kurt did to Alex. I hate that guy. We could never get him back on the street. But we can do this.”
“We don’t even know if this … thing … is telling the truth.”
“I’d spill one drop of blood to find out. Wouldn’t you? For Alex?”
“He already has,” Alex said. “Kurt took more than a drop of blood from you,” he said to Charlie. “You did that for me. Why is this any different?”
Charlie wanted to say, Because I don’t care about me. Instead, he shrugged. He was tired of playing nanny. “It’s Kenny’s choice.”
“Then it’s done,” Kenny said. “One drop.”
Kenny was a scholar, but his guilty pleasure was video games. And not just any video games. He loved the old games. The vintage adventure games. Zac McKraken, Maniac Mansion, Monkey Island. The puzzles were silly, the graphics terrible, yet they swept him away—away from the jocks, the jerks, the racists who looked down on him, the black kids who chided him for being too white, whatever that meant. He didn’t fit in anywhere, except with the Vindicators. And now he could move the game forward. For them.
Was it twisted to prick his own finger with the barest edge of a razor blade just to see what a virtual Greek god did next? Tim Fletcher and Kurt Ellers kept themselves entertained by slamming their heads into concussions. This was a small price to pay for a little adventure.
Kenny plucked out a razor blade gingerly and noted with relief it wasn’t particularly old or rusty. He could wash the pinprick with alcohol later. He’d had a tetanus shot.
So whatever.
Before he could think twice, noting the eyes of all the Vindicators were wide, he jabbed down into his fingertip and right back up and let out a yelp.
“Fuck shit,” he blurted, this from a guy who was so tightly wound he’d barely managed to say “piss off” earlier.
It cut deeper than he meant to. He held his finger up in the dim light and saw the ruby bulbs beading up and running down the side of his hand.
“Yum,” Hephaestus said.