The Final Eight




It seemed like 8 was the magic number after all. Just out of reach of the double dice roll. But what the hell were they then? The opposite of gods – a kind of anti-pantheon – the final eight controlling the destiny of the time; and what a time this was.

Marco and Seth seemed dead-set against each other, but the fallout from this opposition, rather than a mutual negation, just appeared to create a new apartheid. The city was, in the hands of Marco, becoming splintered; a bureaucratic monster only open to some. Seth was trying to destroy the city altogether. He saw it as a lumbering leviathan – no, what we needed was speed, SPEED. He would do all he could and Ennio, out of control now, could mop up the rest, her pleasure unbound.

None of this mattered to Venn. He saw his time approaching and reveled in it. He had hooked up with Gregor and they were busying themselves with itinerancy and spending Gregor’s severance package. Trying to convince everyone that space still existed in three dimensions. The city held nothing for them.

When Gregor had last seen Jerome he was heading south. He didn’t ask where he was going but Gregor knew the answer well enough. Jerome must have thought Marco was a better bet than Venn, and maybe he was right - or perhaps the wastes had just become too crowded for him.

No one had seen Photeus for months. Everyone assumed he had taken Clio and they were hiding out somewhere hatching something big. It would have to be...