Stormbringer: Book 2 of the Wyrd

Epilogue

The Bemani Room was deafeningly loud. That was its charm.

An adjunct next to the gym at LB head office, partitioned into cubicles each housing a single arcade machine: two Dance Dance Revolutions, two Dance Evolution Arcades, plus one ancient Dance Maniax from somewhere deep in the bowels of the '90s. The machines were free, like the gym. Provided as exercise of a different kind, and they were always busy. Always.

Sigmund went there with Em sometimes, after work. Sometimes like today. They were both oldskool and, more importantly, unco, meaning they stuck mostly to DDR. When they weren't hanging out on the plastic couches, chugging water from the cooler, waiting for other people to have a turn.

"Is Wayne coming?" They'd been back in Miðgarðr for three days. Back to electric lights and cell phone reception and—importantly—people not trying to kill them, or start wars, or whatever.

"Nah." Em shook her head. "Says she's not feeling well. I reckon she just stayed up too late last night, binging on vicwalks."

"'Vicwalks'?" In the background, Sigmund could hear Caramell fight for airspace with RE-VENGE, overlaid with the cheering and booing of a synthetic crowd. Sigmund tried not to think of screaming. Or explosions. Or the stink of centuries-dead corpses or the way dvergr blood slowly lost its glow as it oozed between—

(no)

"Some new ARG thing she's into," Em was saying, gulping water, oblivious to Sigmund's thoughts. "A creepypasta from some mates of hers or whatever."

"Oh," said Sigmund. Across the room, a guy in a neat suit squared his shoulders and prepared to fail out on "Invader Invader" for the fifth time in a row. His briefcase sat waiting for him not two feet away.

"What's your boy's excuse?"

"I've hardly seen him since we got back. I think Arin's chained him to his desk or something." Sigmund tried not to wince as soon as the words left his mouth. Then, before Em could make a comment, "How do you do it, man?"

"What?"

When Sigmund turned, Em was looking at him, all dark hair and furrowed brows. Not different, really, to the Em of last week or last year. The Em before the Em who'd seen gods die and the dead go to war. Sigmund wondered how something like that could happen, could leave someone so unaffected.

"How do you deal with this." He waved his hand. Not at anything in particular, just around. "After . . . after."

Understanding dawned on Em's face. "Ah," she said, chin raising a little and eyes turning away.

"I mean," Sigmund said into the silence. Into Em's silence, given the roar of the music. "It's just . . . I try, y'know? I go to work, and I sit at my desk, and I . . . I try. But it's not the same. How can it ever be the same, knowing what we know. How do you go back?"

But Em just shrugged. "You know it's . . . different for me, right?" she said. "I mean. Weird shit . . . I'm used to weird shit. I guess this time"—she sighed—"this time I'm just glad it's real."

She looked down, at her hands, all chipped black nail polish and skull-shaped rings.

Not so long ago, Em had spent her senior year of high school in and out of hospital, convinced shadows were infecting people with a poison that turned their organs to black slime. She'd survived the experience. Just.

And now it was happening all over again. Except this time? This time, Em wasn't alone. If they were going crazy, they were all going crazy together.

"I've been thinking of going back to school," Sigmund said, mostly because it seemed safer than old memories.