Endgame: The Calling

by gyani2000

A Global Deathmatch and puzzle, for the fate of humanity, played by Twelve descendants of Ancient Civilisations known as the Players. A fanfiction based on the Endgame series by James Frey.

1. 二

Endgame has begun. Our future is unwritten. Our future is your future. What will be will be.

We each believe some version of how we got here. God made us. Aliens beamed us. Lightning split us, or portals delivered us. In the end, the how doesn't matter. We have this planet, this world, this Earth. We came here, we have been here, and we are here now. You, me, us, the whole of humanity. Whatever you believe happened in the beginning is not important. The end, however. The end is.

This is Endgame.

We are 12 in number. Young in body, but of ancient people. Our lines were chosen thousands of years ago. We have been preparing every day since. Once the game begins, we must deliberate and decipher, move and murder. Some of us are less ready than others, and the lessers will be the first to die. Endgame is simple this way. What is not simple is that when one of us dies, it will mean the deaths of countless others. The Event, and what comes after, will see to that. You are the unwitting billions. You are the innocent bystanders. You are the lucky losers and the unlucky winners. You are the audience for a play that will determine your fate.

We are the Players. Your Players. We have to Play. We must be older than 13 and younger than 20. It is the rule, and it has always been this way. We are not supernatural. None of us can fly, or turn lead to gold or heal ourselves. When death comes, it comes. We are mortal. Human. We are the inheritors of the Earth. The Great Puzzle of Salvation is ours to solve, and one of us must do it, or we will all be lost. Together we are everything: strong, kind, ruthless, loyal, smart, stupid, ugly, lustful, mean, fickle, beautiful, calculating, lazy, exuberant, weak.

We are good and evil.

Like you.

Like all.

But we are not together. We are not friends. We do not call one another, and we do not text one another. We do not chat on the internet or meet for coffee. We are separated and scattered, spread around the world. We have been raised and trained since birth to be wary and wise, cunning and deceptive, ruthless and merciless. We will stop at nothing to find the keys to the Great Puzzle. We cannot fail. Failure is death. Failure is the End of All, the End of Everything.

Will exuberance beat strength? Stupidity top kindness? Does laziness thwart beauty? Will the winner be good or evil? There is only one way to find out.

Play.

Survive.

Solve.

Our "future is unwritten. Our future is your future. What will be will be.

So listen.

Follow.

Cheer.

Hope.

Pray.

Pray hard if that is what you believe.

We are the Players. Your Players. We Play for you.

Come Play with us.

People of Earth. Endgame has begun.

Omega Loxias Megalos

Aziz Mahmut Hudayi Mh, Istanbul, Turkey

Omega Loxias Megalos is bored. She cannot remember a time before the boredom. School is boring, people are boring, even football is boring now that her favourite team, Fenerbahce is being outclassed by Mansiaspor, a team close to relegation.

Omega sneers at the TV in her small, undecorated room. She is slouched onto a plush black leather chair, that sticks to her open back whenever she sits up. It is night in Istanbul, but her room is dark, lit only by the glimmering light of the TV and the streetlights of Istanbul. The window is open, and heat passes like an oppressive ghost crawling over every person's skin, playing with the sanity of people, but not Omega. Neither the humidity, not the long, low calls of ships that fill the air of Istanbul trouble her. All that troubles her, is boredom.

She wears baggy black track pants and a half tank top that is drenched with sweat, from her earlier workout. There's no point in cleaning out of the sweat that came from 500 crunches and push-ups when the heat will easily cause her to sweat again. Half her ribs show through her tanned skin. Her arms are sinewy and hard; her breathing is easy. Beads of sweat roll down her taut stomach, her hair, even dripping over her green eyes. All of Istanbul simmers in the night and Omega is no different.

A book lies open in her lap, ancient and leather-bound. The words on its pages are Greek. Omega has handwritten something in English on a scrap of paper that lies across the open page: From broad Crete I declare that I am come by lineage, the son of a wealthy man. She has read the old book over and over. It's a tale of war, exploration, betrayal, love, and death. It always makes her smile. What she wouldn't give to take a journey of her own, to escape the oppressive heat of this dull city. She imagines an endless sea spread out before her, the cool sea mist against her skin, adventures and enemies arrayed on the horizon.

She sighs and touches the scrap of paper, rubbing it, wishing that it would take her on a grand adventure. In her other hand, she holds a 9000-year-old knife, made of a single piece of bronze forged in the fires of Knossos. She brings the blade across her body lets its edge rest against her right forearm. She knows the limits of the blade. She has trained with it since she could hold it. She has slept with it under her pillow since she was six. She has killed chickens, rats, dogs, cats, horses, bulls, and lambs with it. She has killed 13 people with it.

She is 16, in her prime for Playing. If she turns 20, she will become ineligible. She wants to Play. She would rather die than become ineligible.

But the odds are almost nil that she will get the chance. Unlike Odysseus, war will never find Omega. There will be no grand journey. Her line has waited 9000 years. Since the knife was forged. For all Omega knows, it will wait another 9000 years, long after Omega is gone and the pages of her book have disintegrated.

The crowd on the TV cheers and Omega looks up from the knife. The Fenerbahçe goalie has cleared a rainbow up the right sideline, the ball finding the head of a burly midfielder. The ball bounces forward, over a line of defenders, near the last two men before the Manisaspor keeper. The players rush for the ball, and the forward comes away with it, 20 meters from the goal, free and clear of the defender. The keeper gets ready. Omega leans forward. Match time is 83:34. Fenerbahce is yet to score, and doing so in such a dramatic way would save some face. The old book slides to the floor. The piece of paper drifts free of the page and slips through the air like a falling leaf. The crowd begins to rise. The sky suddenly brightens, as if the gods, the Gods of the Sky themselves, are coming down to offer help. The keeper backpedals. The forward collects himself and takes the shot, and the ball blasts off.

As it punches the back of the net, the stadium lights up and the crowd screams, first in exaltation for the goal, but immediately afterwards in terror and confusion—deep, true, and profound terror and confusion. A massive fireball, a giant burning meteor, explodes above the crowd and tears across the field, obliterating the Fenerbahçe defense and blasting a hole through the end of the stadium grandstand.

Omega's eyes widen. She is looking at total carnage. It is butchery on the scale of those American disaster movies. Half the stadium, tens of thousands of people dead, burning, lit up, on fire.

It is the most beautiful thing Omega has ever seen.

She breathes hard. Sweat pours off her brow. People outside are yelling, screaming. A woman wails from the café below. Sirens ring out across the ancient city on the Bosporus, between the Marmara and the Black.

On TV the stadium is awash in flames. Players, police, spectators, coaches run around, burning like crazed matchsticks. The commentators cry for help, for God, because they don't understand. Those not dead or on their way to being dead trample one another as they try to escape. There's another explosion and the screen goes black. It's a glorious sight.

Omega's heart wants out of her chest. Omega's brain is as hot as the football pitch. Her stomach is full of rocks and acid. Her palms feel hot and sticky. She looks down and sees that she has dug the ancient blade into her forearm, and a rivulet of blood is trickling off her hand, onto the chair, onto her book. The book is ruined, but it doesn't matter; she won't need it anymore. Because now, Omega will have her Odyssey.

Omega looks back to the darkened TV. She knows there's something waiting for her there amidst the wreckage. She must find it.

A single piece.

For herself, for her line.

She smiles. Omega has trained all of her life for this moment. When she wasn't training, she was dreaming of the Calling. All the visions of destruction that her teenage mind concocted could not touch could not touch what Omega has witnessed tonight. A meteor destroying a football stadium and killing 38,676 people.

The legends said it would be a grand announcement. For once, the legends have become a beautiful reality.

Omega has wanted, waited, and prepared for Endgame her entire life. She is no longer bored, and she won't be again until she either wins or dies.

This is it.

She knows it.

This is it.

Chiyoko Takeda

Hateshinai Tori, Naha, Okinawa, Japan

Three chimes of a small pewter bell awake Chiyoko Takeda. Her head lolls to the side. The time on her digital clock: 5:24. She makes a note of it. These are heavy numbers now. Significant. She imagines it is the same for those who ascribe meaning to numbers like 11:03 or 9:11 or 7:07. For the rest of her life she will see these numbers, 5:24, and for the rest of her life they will carry weight, meaning and significance.

Chiyoko turns from the clock on her side table and stares into the darkness. She lies naked on top of the sheets. She licks her full lips. She scrutinizes the shadows on her ceiling as if some message will appear there.

The bell should not have rung. Not for her.

All her life she has been told of Endgame and her peculiar and fantastical ancestry. Before the bell rang, she was 17 years old, a homeschooled outcast, a master sailor and navigator, an able gardener, a limber climber. Skilled at symbols, languages, and words. An interpreter of signs. An assassin able to wield the wakizashi, the Hojo, and the shuriken. Now that the bell has rung, she feels 100. She feels 1,000. She feels 10,000 and getting older by the second. The heavy burden of the centuries presses down upon her.

Chiyoko closes her eyes. Darkness returns. She wants to be somewhere else. A cave. Underwater. In the oldest forest on Earth. But she is here, and she must get used to it. Darkness will be everywhere soon, and everyone will know it. She must master it. Befriend it. Love it. She has prepared for 17 years and she's ready, even if she never wanted it or expected it. The darkness. It will be like, a loving silence, which for Chiyoko is easy. The silence is part of who she is.

For she can hear, but she has never spoken.

She looks out her open window, breathes. It rained during the night, and she can feel the humidity in her nose and throat and chest. The air smells good.

There is a gentle rapping on the sliding door leading to her room. Chiyoko sits in her Western-style bed, her slight back facing the door. She stamps her foot twice. Twice means Come in.

The sound of wood sliding across the wood. The quiet of the screen stopping. The faint shuffle of feet.

"I rang the bell," her uncle says, his head bowed low to the ground, according the young Player the highest level of respect, as is the custom, the rule. "I had to," he says. "They are coming. All of them."

Chiyoko nods.

He keeps his gaze lowered. "I am sorry," he says. "It is time."

Chiyoko stamps five arrhythmic times with her foot. Okay. Glass of water.

"Yes, of course." Her uncle backs out of the doorway and quietly moves away.

Chiyoko stands, smells the air again, and moves to the window. The faint glow from the city's lights blankets her pale skin. She looks out over Naha. There is the park. The hospital. The harbour. There is the sea, black, broad, and calm. There is the soft breeze. The palm trees below her window whisper. The low grey clouds begin to light up as if a spaceship is coming to visit.

"Old people must be awake," Chiyoko thinks. "Old people get up early. They are having tea and rice and radish pickles. Eggs and fish and warm milk. Some will remember the war." The fire from the sky that destroyed and decimated everything. And allowed for a rebirth. What is about to happen will remind them of those days. But a rebirth? Their survival and their future depend entirely on Chiyoko.

A dog begins to bark frantically.

Birds trill.

A car alarm goes off.

The sky gets very bright, and the clouds break downward as a massive fireball bursts over the edge of town. It screams, burns, and crashes into the marina. A great explosion and a billow of scalding steam illuminate the early morning. Rain made of dust and rock and plastic and metal hurls upward over Naha. Trees die. Fish die. Children, dreams, and fortunes die. The lucky ones are snuffed out in their slumber. The unlucky are burned or maimed.

Initially, it will be mistaken for an earthquake.

But they will see.

It is just the beginning.

The debris falls all over town. Chiyoko senses her piece coming for her. She takes a large step away from her window, and a bright ember shaped like a mackerel falls onto her floor, burning a hole in the tatami mat.

Her uncle knocks on the door again. Chiyoko stomps her foot twice. Come in. The door is still open. Her uncle keeps his gaze lowered as he stops at her side and hands her first a simple blue silk kimono, which she steps into, and, after she's in the kimono, a glass of very cold water.

She pours the water over the ember. It sizzles, spurts, and steams, the water immediately boiling. What is left is a shiny, black, jagged rock.

She looks at her uncle. He looks back at her, sadness in his eyes. It is the sadness of many centuries, of lifetimes coming to an end. She gives him a slight bow of thanks. He tries to smile. He used to be like her, waiting for Endgame to begin, but it passed him over, like it did countless others, for thousands and thousands of years.

Not so for Chiyoko.

"I am sorry," he says. "For you, for all of us. What will be will be."

Sarah Alopay

Bryan High School, Omaha, Nebraska, United States

"0,1,1,2,3,5,8..." thinks Sarah counting the Fibonacci Sequence in her mind. On all sides are familiar people, fellow students, but she still feels anxious. She doesn't let it show. She has mastered the ability to feel one thing but show another.

The Principal stands, smiling, briefly searching for someone. "And so it is with great pride that I present your class valedictorian, Sarah Alopay!"

The crowd cheers, applauds, whistles.

Sarah stands. She's wearing a red cape and gown with the Valedictorian's sash across her chest. She smiles. Her face hurts, she's been smiling so much. But it's what allows people to trust her. Her smile ensures that she isn't seen as a threat to others. Just another girl, another cog within the human society.

But Sarah is happy. She is leaving one part of her life behind, to start another one. She's going to spend her summer in an archaeological dig in Bolivia with her boyfriend, Christopher, and in the fall, it's off to college at Princeton. As soon as she turns 20, she can start the rest of her life. That would indeed be the happiest day of her life.

In 742 days, she will be free.

No longer eligible.

She's in the second row, a few seats away from the aisle. Next to her is Reena Smithson, her best friend since 3rd grade. She knows Reena better than Reena knows herself. They have shared food, class notes, gossip and secrets for so long, they could be living the same life in different bodies. But as Sarah catches Reena's hazel eyes in a loving stare, Sarah knows that Reena doesn't know her. That some secrets are too dark to share and Reena will never understand Sarah's burden.

A few rows behind her is Christopher. She steals a look at him as she enters the aisle. Blonde hair, five o'clock shadow and green eyes. An even-temper and a huge heart. To her, he is the best-looking boy in the world.

"Go get'em, tiger," mouths Christopher. Sarah walks up the aisle with a big smile. She and Christopher have been together since the 7th grade. Inseparable. Christopher's family is one of the wealthiest in Omaha. So wealthy, in fact, that his mom and dad couldn't be bothered to fly back from business in Europe to attend their own son's graduation. When Christopher crosses the stage, it will be Sarah's family cheering the loudest. Christopher could've gone to private school or the boarding school where his father went, but he refused, not wanting to be apart from Sarah. It is one of the many reasons she loves him and believes they will be together for their entire lives. She wants it, and she knows he does as well. And in 742 days it will be possible. When the weight she hides from him, becomes someone else's trouble.

Sarah gets on stage. She's still counting the Fibonacci sequence in perfect order. Sometimes its the only thing that can calm her down. She has on the pink Ray-Ban Wayfarers her dad gave her for Christmas, a pair of glasses that obscures her brown, wide-set eyes. Her long auburn hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. Her smooth, bronze skin is luminous. Under her gown, she is dressed like all the others.

Yet how many others carry the weight of a millennia-old artefact onto the stage with them? Sarah wears it around her neck, just as Tate had worn it around his when he was eligible, as it has been passed from Player to Player, for 300 generations. Hanging from an ordinary chain is a polished black stone that has seen 6000 years of love, sorrow, beauty, light, sadness and death.

She steps to the mic, looks west over her class, her school. Behind the last line of 319 students is a stand of tall green-leafed oaks. The sun is shining and it's hot, but she doesn't care. None of them do. They are finishing one part of their lives and beginning a new one. They are all excited. They are all imagining the future. Future studies, jobs, love. Sarah's to be the voice of her class and has worked hard on her speech, so that she may inspire them. It's a lot of pressure, but she's used to that. All she's looking forward to is a future without Endgame.

Sarah leans forward and clears her throat. "Congratulations, and welcome to the best day of our lives, or the best day so far!"

The kids go crazy, and a few prematurely toss their caps into the air. Some laugh. More cheer, "Sar-ah! Sar-ah! Sar-ah!"

"While I was thinking about my speech," Sarah says, her heart pounding, "I decided to answer a question. Immediately I thought, 'What question is most often asked of me?' and though it's a little embarrassing, it was easy to answer. People are always asking me if I have a secret!"

Laughter. Because it's true. If there was ever a perfect student at the school, it was Sarah. And at least once a week, someone asked what her secret was.

"After thinking long and hard, I realized it was a very simple answer. My secret is, that I have no secrets."

That is as great a lie as any Sarah has had to say. She has secrets. Profound secrets. Secrets that have been kept among her people for thousands of years. And though she's done extraordinary things in school to be the most popular person in school, she's done so much more. Things the students, the teachers, Reena and Christopher can't even imagine. Like walking on hot coals, staying awake for a week straight; Sarah speaks nine languages and has five passports. While they think of her as the All-American-Girl and Homecoming Queen, the reality is that she's as highly trained and deadly as any soldier on Earth.

"I am as you see me. I am happy and able because I allow myself to be happy. I learned young that being active breeds more activity. That the gift of studying is knowledge. That seeing grants sight. That if you don't feed anger, you won't be angry. Sadness and frustration, even tragedy, are inevitable, but that doesn't mean that happiness isn't there for us, for all of us. My secret is that I choose to be the person that I want to be. That I don't believe in destiny or predetermination, but in choice, and that each of us chooses to be the person we are. Whatever you want to be you can be; whatever you want to do you can do; wherever you want to go you can go. The world, and the life ahead, is ours for the taking. The future is unwritten, and you can make it whatever you want it to be."

Everyone is quiet now.

"I am looking west, beyond the bleachers and trees, are the lands of my ancestors. Above is the sky. Below is the earth. All around is life, and life is -"

Sarah is interrupted by a sonic boom in the sky. A bright streak breaks over the oaks, scarring the blue sky. It doesn't appear to be moving, just getting bigger. For a moment everyone stares in awe. A few people gasp. One person clearly says, "What is that?"

Everyone stares until a solitary scream comes from the back row, and it hits the whole assembly at once. It's like someone has flipped a switch for panic. The sounds of chairs tipping over, people screaming, total confusion. Sarah gasps. Instinctively, she reaches through her gown and grabs the stone around her neck.

It's heavier than it has ever been. The asteroid or meteor or comet or whatever it is, is changing it. She's frozen. Staring as the streak moves toward her. The stone on the chain changes again, feeling suddenly light. Sarah realises that it's lifting into the air under her robe. It works itself free of her clothing, pulls in the direction of the thing that is coming for them.

This is what it looks like.

This is what it feels like.

Endgame.

The sounds of terror fall away from her ears, replaced by a stunned silence. Though she has trained for this day, for half her life, she never thought it would come. She was hoping it wouldn't for 742 days. She was supposed to be free.

"Sarah!" screams Christopher yanking her off stage. They have maybe seconds before the fireball hits. Its riveting, terrible and all too sudden audible that it throws Sarah's instincts into a frenzy.

"Come now!" Christopher yells. His face is red with alarm and the heat, his eyes are watering. She can see her brother and her parents at the bottom of the steps. They have seconds. Maybe less.

At the last moment Christopher and Sarah vault of the stage. They shut their eyes and crumple onto the grass. The necklace is pulling on Sarah's neck so hard, it digs through her skin. Suddenly, it pulls free and seeking out the meteor and at the last minute, the fireball changes direction, stopping a thousand feet short and skipping over them, like a flat rock on a smooth lake. It happens so quickly that no one can see it, but Sarah realises that she has been spared. Because she is the Player of the Cahokian.

The meteor flies over the cement grandstand and impacts a quarter mile to the east. The school building is there. The parking lot. Some basketball courts. The tennis courts.

Not anymore.

The meteor destroys them all.

Boom.

They are gone.

Those comforting and familiar places where Sarah has spent her life—her normal life, anyway—are gone in an instant. Everything wiped away. A new chapter has begun, just not the one Sarah hoped for.

A shock wave rushes out and over the field, carrying dust and darkness. It hits them hard, flattens them, knocks them down, blows out their eardrums.

"Sarah!" she hears someone yell. "Sarah!" Her father emerges from the dust cloud that was the stage, he is carrying her mother by her arm.

"Dad!" she says getting up and taking the other side. "Where's Tate?" they ask each other simultaneously.

"I am here," says Tate emerging from the chaos that was once the audience and 319 graduating students. He has an ear-to-ear grin as he comes to Sarah holding something reverently. "I found it," he says triumphantly, "It's on, it's on for real."

He is amazingly clean, as though the whole thing passed him over. One hand is in a fist; the other holds a grapefruit-sized hunk of gold-and-green rock streaked with black veins of metal.

"Nukumi," says Sarah's father reverently.

"Nukumi," says Sarah distraught.

"What?" asks Christopher, collecting himself.

Sarah says, "Nothing-" but is cut short as an explosion sends shards of metal flying through the air. A six-foot-long piece of steel embeds itself into the middle of Tate's chest. He is dead. Gone in an instant. He falls backwards, Sarah's stone pendant and the piece of green-veined rock still in his hands.

Her mother screams; her father yells, "No!"

Sarah cannot speak. Christopher stares in shock. Blood oozes out of Tate's chest. His eye is open and staring, lifeless, to the sky. His feet twitch, the last bits of life leaving him. But the stone and the pendant, they are safe.

This is not accidental.

The stones have meaning.

Carry a message.

This is Endgame.

Vijay Saxena

Malcha Wildlife Reserve, New Delhi, India

"Why now?" thinks Vijay Saxena, starring east into the early light. He is sitting on top of a tiled roof of the little forest-covered buildings of Malcha, looking far east, past the business and government districts of Connaught Place and the Indian Parliament. Smoke from these important places fills the sky. But it's not because of excessive traffic and overcrowding, that these places are usually used to.

Vijay brings his knees closer to his chest, allowing him to free his hands. He's ordinarily dressed for a teenager in India, in a black t-shirt and blue jeans. He's wearing a ruined white hoodie, covered in red and black stains. Covering his neck is a blue cashmere scarf. He looks like a protagonist at the end of a Hollywood action movie. But he knows that he's no protagonist. To his people, maybe.

But to the rest of the world, he is their enemy.

Vijay carries the distinct ocher skin and dark brown eyes native to the Indian subcontinent, which fall under the shadow created by his dense, long hair. In his 5 feet 8-inch frame, he's generally shorter or smaller than others but still swift. He's only 17, but his mind is older. He has spent more time sharpening his mind, rather than his body, to the extent that he has an IQ of 164 and an eidetic memory. Neither of those traits came naturally to him. His face carries an ordinary look. The look he puts on in front of a mirror each day. The look that does not give away what's going on in his mind. The look that he's another ordinary school-boy, in the land of a billion people.

But the truth is, he's not.

Vijay removes his scarf and then his hoodie. In the brief moment that his neck is naked, a feeling of intense cold and discomfort passes over him. In the blatant heat of the Indian summers, his bare neck still feels a winter's chill. Unlike the rest of his body, his neck is a shade of deep-sea blue, which looks and feels like a beacon for all the people nearby. He quickly wraps his neck in the scarf once more, feeling warm and safe once more.

But the truth is, he won't be safe. No one will.

He is tired. He hasn't slept all night. He contemplates trying to sleep again. He lies back down and shuts his eyes, against the intensifying light of the sun. He hopes that he will finally fall into a dream. But vivid memories of the night before keep flashing past his closed eyes. Vijay's mind races, his heartbeat quickens, and sleep continues to elude him.

It may elude him for the rest of his life.

Vijay opens his eyes once more, breathing heavily. A single tear falls from his left eye. He angrily lifts his left arm up and slams it down, onto the surface of the roof. A couple tiles shatter upon impact. His hand and forearm begin to bleed from a sizeable cut. The pain makes itself known but soon retreats to another corner of Vijay's mind. Even physical agony can't distract him from the images that have stolen his peace.

For in those images, there is no peace, but destruction and death.

Vijay closes his eyes once more. This time he doesn't fight it. He embraces the memories and images of the night before. His mind takes him there effortlessly, like hitting play on a DVD. He was dancing. Celebrating under the cover of the forests another year of survival and prosperity for his people, his family, his line. They sang and danced, threw offerings of food into the bonfire and danced more. Vijay saw his people; looking happy as ever, taking a day off from their responsibilities to their nation, to celebrate what they had accomplished in secret.

They celebrated their fantastical ancestry, from the gods under the moonlit night. They celebrated the foundation of Harappa nearly 10,000 years ago. All the different personnel in the forest, undergoing the initial training to serve the line. Soldiers and spies. Civil servants, engineers and doctors. Scholars, Priests and Priestesses. And one person who trained for it all. One Player. Hidden from the world under the cover of the restricted forests. Carrying the responsibility to serve their brothers and sisters. To serve their fellow descendants of a great Line. To serve Harappa.

But here, under the starry sky, he is just an unmoved piece on the chess board. Waiting for Endgame. Hoping. Praying the millennia-old prophecy doesn't come to fruition. It won't come for him. He will not be moved in this game.

Endgame. The ever-present fantasy, subject to his constant imagination. He imagines the death and destruction prophesized with its coming. In a world where nothing of the future is written, Harappan scholars think of it as the ultimate constant. One final test of Darwinism, between humans. And it, like so many before him, refuses to leave his mind in peace.

He remembers being part of the circle that formed around the bonfire. He recalls looking at the girls. He remembers looking at one particular girl. A priestess in her blood red, apprentice robes, dancing gracefully with her friends. He looks at her friends. Some haven't adorned themselves as modestly as herself. Some have adorned themselves in too much. But this priestess has found a balance. Something about her attracts Vijay.

"What do we have here?" asks Sathvik, a boy his age. They are about the same height and have been friends for nearly 5 years. What differentiates him, is the shirt and tie that he wears. It's the standard attire for a civil servant or those training to perform those duties within official Government braches, as representatives of Harappan interests. He speaks in perfect English. Over 16 languages are spoken in this camp, but English is learnt and spoken by everyone.

"You were always the better judge, you tell me," replies Vijay. His eyes are still drawn to the same girl, who spins gracefully at the centre of them all.

"I don't think I have seen you look at girls for this long, my friend," Sathvik says, seeking to see who Vijay was looking at. "Are you looking at the new one?"

"The new one?" he asks.

"Priestess, the one who's spinning."

Vijay smiles and looks at Sathvik. "No, I am not looking at the new Priestess."

"Okay," chuckles Sathvik. "I'll just add staring into space occupied by colourful people, into the list of things Vijay Saxena doesn't do."

"Shut up," says Vijay flustered but amused. He looks back at the dancing girls.

"And again!" teases Sathvik. "Honestly, what brings about this sudden discovery of women, my friend."

"Women? They are teenagers. So are we."

"But are we?" Sathvik says in a philosophical voice, mocking Vijay. He goes over to a nearby bucket and removes two bottles of Coke. He offers one to Vijay.

"You know I don't drink that stuff," Vijay says holding his hand up in refusal.

"It's not for you, idiot. Look," he says pointing. The priestess is now walking away from the others, taking a seat at a nearby log. She sits alone. Vijay takes the bottle in his hand and thinks.

"Remember," says Sathvik. "Conquer fear, to be victorious," quoting a famous advertisement in Hindi.

"And, why aren't you taking this opportunity yourself?" he asks.

Sathvik smiles. "You see my naive friend. You don't send the commandos until the police have failed."

Vijay laughs at his friend's endearing pragmatism. "If I crash and burn, you will pick up the pieces. It's a good strategy."

"Chanakya would be proud, don't you think?" says Sathvik. His smile lingers on for a moment but quickly dissipates as he sees Vijay's expression change slightly. "I am sorry," he quickly says. "Shouldn't have brought it up."

"Don't be," says Vijay putting on a smile once more. "I am going for it." He turns and walks slowly, not showing any intention or purpose. Just another outlier in the party. He stands by a nearby tree, the priestess about 6 feet to his left. She's still breathing heavily. Vijay can see her more clearly now that she isn't moving.

Vijay tries to think about how to begin the conversation. Asking her name seems to direct, makes him look too inquisitive. Perhaps he will ask her something he already knows.

"Are you new here?" he says in Hindi, in her direction. She turns to look at him. He has a much clearer look of her face. He can tell she's from the Northern regions. Guessing that she knew Hindi was just a hunch based on her features. The lighter skin of the Northern parts, and peculiarly green eyes.

"Yes," she replies. "I came here from Rakhigarhi. I am finishing my apprenticeship soon." Vijay nods. She still looks too young to be in her final years of training. So he asks something else, he already deduced.

"Aren't you too young to be in the final year?" he asks walking closer. He offers her the bottle. She pauses for a moment and takes the bottle, smiling.

"It would be easier to talk to you if you sat down, Neelkanth," she says between sips. Vijay quietly makes his way around the log and sits down. He realises how she has dodged his question, and now the burden of continuing the conversation lies with him.

"What gave it away?" he asks. She looks at him and points at her neck, indicating at the scarf.

"Not many people here know why you wear that," she remarks.

"Many people are new here," he replies, indicating at his earlier question. She smiles. The invisible token of maintaining the conversation passes onto her. He can see her thinking about her next response.

"The past few years, I dedicated myself to the study of the ancient scripts," she says, answering his earlier question. "I finished theosophy faster that way. Now, I am just finishing this final stage, after which, it's just waiting for a posting to spread enlightenment."

"Or control the population, with your translation of God," commented Vijay.

"So, you disapprove Neelkanth?" she asks.

"I don't have the authority to disapprove anything," says Vijay.

"Of course you do. All you have to do is remove the scarf and everyone will see that God walks amongst them," she replies, making a sweeping motion, indicating at the people in front of them.

"I don't think to have a blue neck, classifies me as a God. If you cut me, I will bleed. If you poison me, I will die," he replies. He likes the exchange that he's having with this priestess. "How can a mortal, be a God?"

"Since when did only immortals become Gods?" she asks excitedly. "Lord Rama was a mortal. Lord Krishna was mortal. And since when did Gods become impervious to injury? Isn't Lord Shiva called Neelkanth, because he drank the poison from the churning of the seas, but to avoid dying kept the poison in his throat for all eternity?"

"Wow," he laughs. "You have an answer for everything."

"It's a simple matter of consciousness and matter. Together, they form us and the Gods. Sometimes both. But nothing is written, and maybe we are wrong about the whole thing. In the end, what will be..."

"Will be," Vijay says completing the proverb. There, Endgame makes its presence known once more. The immortal proverb that hasn't changed since the inception of Harappa 10,000 years ago. There is silence between them, which is loudly filled by the celebration around the bonfire. A cool breeze is flowing eastward, moving around them, like a graceful ghost under the full moon. Beyond the bonfire, Vijay can see the dim lights coming from the urban parts of the capital. It is something else at night. But right now, he wants to know more about the curiosity that is this Priestess.

"What's your name?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"What is yours?" she asks.

"Don't you know? I am Neelkanth, the drinker of poison," says Vijay, inciting a giggle

from her. She pauses and thinks for a moment.

"My name is..." She stops speaking.

Vijay turns his head to the direction she was looking when she froze. He sees two snakes.

"Don't worry. Stay still…" he says to her. "They won't do anything, if we stay still." Vijay moves slightly to his left, getting closer to the priestess. The snakes haven't shown any interest in them yet. Maybe they will be left alone.

"They won't attack us, without reason. Right?" asks the Priestess. She continues to smile, but her voice is shaky. Vijay slowly extends his hand, toward the priestess. She looks at him and puts her hand in his.

"We will be fine," he says reassuringly.

It does the trick. The Priestess leans in, drawing on Vijay's energy, to become confident. But he can still feel her heart, hammering wildly.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

She looks at him. Her smile dissipates into a beautiful sadness. She looks helpless. It's an expression that sends a chill down his spine.

"Two snakes, Neelkanth," she says sorrowfully. "One snake protects the house. The other brings the news of death."

Both of them see it. It lights up the sky, in a bright flash of yellow. It's as though the Sun has risen into the night. A huge burst of sound makes everyone in the camp look at It. It grows brighter by the second. Suddenly the joyous clamour has turned into a silent awe, but not soon enough, it turns into panicked screams.

It, is a huge flaming ball of molten rock. For a moment it looks like It is headed straight for them. But it changes direction. It's going eastward, with the breeze. As the distance grows between them and the meteor, They can see that it's really two large meteors, going at different trajectories from the same point. Large fires erupt from the heavily crowded areas of Connaught Place, and the symbolic North Block of the Secretariat Building.

Vijay can't believe it. It wasn't meant to happen for him. But it is here. He is the Player and this is his Calling. Never did he imagine it would be this destructive. Never did he imagine his people would be hurt in such a wanton way.

"Dear God," says the Priestess. The snakes have disappeared. Vijay tries to convince himself that they weren't an apparition. The Priestess looks at Vijay. Everyone in their encampment is still screaming, crying. People are all over the place. They are just spectators. They will remain spectators. Watching the game that decides their fate.

Watching Endgame.

But not Vijay. He has to do something. More importantly, he has to get his piece.

"Everyone!" he yells, standing up. He quickly manages to gain everyone's attention. He speaks English, so everyone can understand him. "Our brothers and sisters need help. Military and medical personnel, with me!"

He quickly organizes a relief team and becomes part of one of the many vehicles that leave the forest compound. They add to the ranks of the first few ambulances and fire-brigades. They pull people trapped in the hellish fires of the impact zones. Vijay knows he can't get hurt, but others can. For now, the Players are immune to danger. He braves the fires and pulls half-burning men; screaming and helpless women out. He's covered in blood, but it isn't his. Ashes fall as buildings disintegrate around him in the flaming frenzy. His eyes burn. His ears are deafened by the fires and nearby explosions of the aftermath.

He searches. He goes into the fire, to search for his piece, but returns with people around his shoulders. An orphaned child, a burned woman; a really fat man missing his arm, but no piece.

No Calling.

The fires finally begin to die down. They have fought the fires for nearly four hours. It's past midnight and they are still finding survivors. The crisis is nearly at its end.

Vijay spots a large crater on the ground, where the fires have been extinguished. A plume of smoke rises to the top, from the crater. He walks closer. There is a small shadow within the smoke, in the centre of the crater. Vijay slowly approaches it. Something luminescent glows through the smoke, like a faint blue neon light. As he walks towards it the smoke retreats. Finally, it reveals a small girl. She's holding a disk-like rock, about the size of a large mango. It's radiating a bluish hue.

The girl extends her arms out, offering him the rock. She looks at him, with an expression of helplessness. The same helplessness the Priestess had hours ago. Vijay's stomach fills with acid as he notices something wrong in the way she sits. Vijay takes the rock and glances behind her. His eyes tear up at the sight. Shards of glass are embedded into her back. Her arms drop lifelessly. She dies sitting up.

The memory is enough to force Vijay's eyes open. He won't be able to forget the fires, the death, or the girl's dying expression. His mind will make sure of it.

The sun has risen fully. The rock has seized radiating light the way it did. Vijay knows what he must do with it. With his still bleeding hand, he makes a fist, squeezing blood down onto the rock. It glows again, becoming unnaturally cold. Little lights glimmer all around the rock. The lights look random at first, but Vijay can see through the deception. The little lights translate into glyphs onto his mind's eye, telling him his destination.

He was being a normal person. Talking to his friends. Talking to a girl. He could have continued being a normal person and served his Line. But not anymore. Endgame is far from normal. He will have to travel far from home and fight in foreign lands, against foreign enemies, who have as much to lose as him.

Vijay isn't unprepared. He has trained for this moment his entire life. He has trained with every weapon created in human history. He has tried to expand the limits of his mind and beyond. The stakes are high, but he is prepared. Or so he thinks.

Vijay knows where he must go. He knows what he must do. And he has seen what failure will lead to. There will be more death. There will be more destruction. But he must Play. Play for his life. Play for his line.

"What will be, will be," he whispers.

This is Endgame.

Jago Tlaloc

Tlaloc Residence, 12 Santa Elisa, Juliaca, Puno, Peru

Jago Tlaloc's sneakers crunch across broken glass. It is night and the streetlights are out. Sirens wail in the distance, but otherwise, Juliaca is quiet. It was chaos before; when Jago first headed for the crater in the city centre to claim what had been sent for him. In the madness, survivors poured into the streets, shattering shop windows, taking whatever they wanted.

The looting will not sit well with Jago's father, who runs protection for many of the local businesses. But Jago does not blame his people. Let them enjoy some comforts now, while there is still time. Jago has a treasure of his own: the stone, still warm, wrapped in his satchel and tossed over his shoulder.

A hot wind rushes through the buildings, carrying ash and the smell of fire. They call Juliaca the Windy City of Peru for good reason. Unlike many of his people, Jago has travelled well beyond the city limits. He has killed at least twice on every continent, and still, he finds it strange to visit a place where the wind is missing.

Jago is the Player of the 21st line. Born to Guitarrero and Hayu Marca just over 19 years ago. Once Players themselves, several years apart, his parents now run this part of the city. From the legitimate businesses to the illicit materials that flow through the neighbourhood's back alleys, his parents take a cut of everything. They are also philanthropists, in a way, turning around their often ill-gotten money to open schools and maintain hospitals. The law does not touch them, refuses to come near them; the Tlaloc family is too much of a resource. In just a few more months, Jago would have become ineligible and joined his parents in the family business. Yet all empires must crumble.

A trio of shadows peels from the mouth of a nearby alley. The figures block the sidewalk in front of Jago, looking wolfish and dangerous.

"What you got there, my friend?" hisses one of the shadows, nodding at Jago's satchel.

In response, Jago flashes his teeth, which are perfectly straight and white. His maxillary lateral incisors are each capped with gold and each inset with a small diamond. These gems glint in the moonlight.

The three scavengers shrink back, "Sorry, Feo," says the leader, "we didn't recognize you."

They should be scared, but not of Jago or the power of his family, though Jago is strong and merciless, and his family more so. They should be scared of what is to come. They don't know it, but Jago is the only hope these people have. Once, the power of his family was enough to keep this neighbourhood and its people alive and happy. Now that responsibility falls to Jago.

He passes by the thugs without a word. He is lost in thoughts of the 11 other Players, scattered around the world, each with a meteor of their own. He wonders what they will be like, what lines they come from. For the lines do not know the other lines. They cannot know. Not until the Calling.

And the Calling is coming.

Will some be stronger than him? Smarter? Will one even be uglier?

Perhaps, but it is no matter.

Because Jago knows that he can, and will, kill them all.

Baitsakhan

Gobi Desert, 222 km South of Ulaanbataar, Mongolia.

Baitsakhan wants it, and he's going to get it.

He rides hard south into the Gobi Desert with his twin cousins, Bat and Bold, both 12.5, and his brother, Jalair, 24.5.

Baitsakhan has been 13 for 7 days and is just eligible for Endgame. He is happy about this.

Very happy.

The meteor fell in the middle of the night two days ago in the vast central nothingness of the Mongolian steppe. A small group of old yak herders saw it, and they called it into Baitsakhan's grandfather Suhkbataar, who told them to leave it alone or they would be sorry. The herders listened. Everyone in the steppe knows to listen to Suhkbataar in strange matters like these.

Because of this, Baitsakhan knows that the space rock will be there, waiting, alone. But when they are about a half mile from the impact zone they see a small group of people, and a worn Toyota Hilux, sitting in the distance.

Baitsakhan reins his horse and slows it to a walk. The other riders pull alongside him. Jalair draws a brass telescope from a saddlebag and looks across the plain. He makes a low sound.

"Who are they?" Baitsakhan asks.

"Don't know," says Jalair. "One wears an ushanka. Another has a rifle. Semi-automatic. The truck has three external gas cans. One of the men is leaning on a long pry bar. Two are bending to the ground. The one with the rifle is going toward the Hilux."

Bat rests a longbow across his lap. Bold absently checks his smartphone. No signal, of course, not this far out. He opens Super Mario Run and starts a new game.

"Do they have the rock?" Baitsakhan asks.

"Hard to tell . . . wait. Yes. Two are carrying something small but heavy. It's wrapped in leather."

"Have they seen us?" Bat asks.

"Not yet," Jalair says.

"Let's introduce ourselves," Baitsakhan says.

Baitsakhan kicks his horse and it launches into a canter. The others follow. Each of the horses is light brown with a braided mane and black tail. Dust rises behind the beasts. The group around the meteorite notices them, but they don't show any alarm,

"When they draw very near, Baitsakhan reins his horse and, before it stops, jumps from the saddle. "Hello, friends!" he calls. "What have you found?"

"Why should we tell you?" the man with the pry bar says cockily. He has a low, raspy voice and a thick, excessively groomed moustache. Next to him is the man in the Russian hat. Between them on the ground is the leather-wrapped bundle.

"Because I asked," Baitsakhan answers politely.

Bat gets off his horse and begins to casually check his animal's shoes and hooves for rocks. Bold, still in the saddle. He gets his phone out and restarts Temple Run.

A short grizzled man with horribly pockmarked skin steps forward. "Forgive him. He's like that with everyone," he says.

"Shut up, Terbish," Pry Bar says.

"We think we found a shooting star," Terbish says, ignoring Pry Bar.

Baitsakhan leans toward the bundle. "Can we see it?"

"Yeah, not every day you get to see a meteorite," Jalair says from atop his horse.

"What's going on?" someone calls. It's the man returning from the Hilux. He's tall and casually holds a .30-06 at his side.

"These kids want to see the rock," Terbish says, studying Baitsakhan. "And I don't see why not."

"Cool!" Baitsakhan exclaims. "Jalair, check out this crater!"

"I see it."

Baitsakhan doesn't know, but this meteorite is the smallest of the 12. Less than 0.2112 meters. The smallest rock for the youngest Player.

"Terbish turns toward the bundle. "Altan, unwrap the thing."

The man in the ushanka bends and peels back the pony hide. Baitsakhan peers into it. The thing is a hunk of black metal the size of a small shoe box, pockmarked with glowing lattices of gold and verdigris ingots, like extraterrestrial stained glass.

Baitsakhan removes his hands from his pockets and drops to a knee. Terbish stands over him. Pry Bar sighs. The rifleman takes a few steps forward. Bat's horse whinnies as Bat adjusts the girth.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" Terbish says.

"Looks valuable," Baitsakhan says innocently.

Jalair points. "Is that gold?"

"I knew we shouldn't have shown it to them," Pry Bar says.

"Bubblegum?" Baitsakhan holds the pack of gum out for Terbish.

Rifleman frowns and moves the gun across his body, holding it with two hands.

Terbish shakes his head. "No thanks. We're going to be going now."

Baitsakhan pockets the gum. "Okay."

Jalair stands as Altan starts to rewrap the boulder.

"Don't bother," Jalair orders.

Pry Bar huffs. "You little shits seriously aren't trying to say you're taking this thing, are you?"

Baitsakhan blows a pink bubble. It bursts across his face and he gobbles it back into his mouth. "That's exactly what we're saying.

"Terbish draws a skinning knife from his belt and takes a step backwards. "I'm sorry, kid, but I don't think so. "We found it first."

"Some yak herders found it first."

"I don't see any yak herders around here," Pry Bar says.

"We told them to leave. And they know to listen. The rock belongs to us."

"He's being modest," Jalair adds. "It actually belongs to him."

"You?" Terbish asks doubtfully.

"Yes."

"Ha!" Pry Bar says, holding the rod-like a quarterstaff. "I've never heard anything so ridicu—"

Jalair cuts Pry Bar short by grabbing the rod, twisting it free, and slamming the pointed end into Pry Bar's sternum, knocking the wind out of him. Rifleman shoulders the .30-06, but before he can fire, an arrow strikes him cleanly through the neck.

They had forgotten about Bat behind his horse.

Altan, the man in the hat, gets his hands around the bundle, but Bold throws a black metal dart at him, about eight inches long and a half inch in diameter. It strikes Altan through the hat's earflap and drives a few inches into his head. He collapses and begins to foam at the mouth. His arms and legs dance. His eyes roll.

Terbish is full of terror and disbelief. He turns and sprints for the truck.

Baitsakhan blows a short whistle through his teeth. His horse trots next to him; he jumps on, kicks it in its side. It catches Terbish in seconds. Baitsakhan pulls hard, and the horse rears and comes down on Terbish's shoulders and neck. The man is crushed into the earth as the horse turns a tight circle first one way then the next, prancing over Terbish's body, crushing his bones, taking his fading life.

When Baitsakhan returns to the crater, Pry Bar is sitting on the ground, his legs in front of him, his nose bloody, his hands tied behind him. The rod is under his elbows, and Jalair is pulling up on it.

Baitsakhan jumps from his horse.

The man spits. "What did we ever do to—"

Baitsakhan puts his fingers to his lips. "Shh." He holds out his other hand, and Bat appears as if from nowhere and places a long and gleaming blade in it. "Don't talk."

"What are you doing?" the man pleads.

"Playing," Baitsakhan says.

"What? Why?" Pry Bar asks.

Baitsakhan puts the knife against the man's neck and slowly slices the man's throat open.

"This is Endgame," Baitsakhan says. "There is no why."

All 12 Players of all 12 lines receive the message.

All 12 Players of all 12 lines will attend the Calling.

The 12 Players of the 12 lines are:

Omega Loxias Megalos- Minoan, 16.24 years

Chiyoko Takeda- Mu, 17.89 years

Sarah Alopay- Cahokian, 17.98 years

Alice Ulapala- Koori, 18.34 years

Aisling Kopp- La Tène, 19.94 years

Baitsakhan- Donghu, 13.02 years

Jago Tlaloc- Olmec, 19.14 years

An Liu- Shang, 17.86 years

Vijay Saxena- Harrapan, 17.47 years

Kala Mozami- Sumerian, 16.50 years

Maccabee Adlai- Nabataean, 16.42 years

Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt- Aksumite, 18.69 years