[b]Anathet![/b]

[They are cruel. They are above. They will take you and break you into pieces.] Tia is agitated; you feel clay crack under your skin, hear the aftershock of a sharp retort. [I have to keep you safe,] she continues. [You are my friend.]

There is an undercurrent there. Possibly an unhealthy attachment. The kind of desperation that suggests you might be her only friend.

[You should hide under the city, where it’s safe, and—]

Oh, whoops. Her head tilts as she picks up on your recent associations with the undercity. [Who is Oumou?] If you didn’t know better, you’d say she sounds jealous.

(Oumou is the Malian bouncer who took you out for fried tofu. Two years your senior, her day job is animal husbandry in one of the Agricultural Blocks, and she used to work at a women and children’s center in Halcyon. She’s got a laugh that starts [i]low[/i] and you’re not quite sure whether she’s interested in you or just intrigued by your audacity. She’s hard to read. How did the date go, by the way?)

***

[b]Canada![/b]

This is the most awkward parade float you have ever been on. You have an honor guard of janissaries that are mostly decorative; everybody here is very, very aware that the minute you spring into action, Shamash will be the one responding. So instead they’ve been assigned to glower at the back of your head so that Jezcha can feel like she’s been a big girl.

Another example of the awkward energy is the question of what, exactly, to do about your face. Shamash hasn’t commented on it, yet, but your incredible beauty is a thing of legend already, and you’re walking around veilless. So a compromise has been made and you are currently hidden from the city behind multiple fans and banners being held by a retinue under strict orders not to look at your face.

“When did they train you?” Shamash does not look down at you, standing at the prow of the massive chariot-themed parade float. But he does modulate his heavily-synthesized voice so that it doesn’t deafen you. “We thought we had kept the Zhianku out,” he adds, with a wave of his hand to the adoring cheers of the assembled Annunaki (themselves underneath umbrellas and elaborate tents, being fanned and served chilled drinks) and the Faithful (abasing themselves and praising Shamash in a dozen tongues, both alien and terrestrial). “Was it after our arrival?”

Probing. Looking for information. Or just making awkward small talk. The complicating factor is that you probably have no clue what a Zhianku is. Is the Cat a Zhianku? That totally makes sense, right?

***

[b]Marianne![/b]

Strange things happen in the half-relic of the Shamashi arena. The racetrack is the cultural center of this temple complex, but there’s no way that the High God will simply challenge Canada to a race. No, it’s going to be a beatdown. One that, for the sake of the human race, Canada Taliv must lose.

This is a place of avarice and hunger. Illicit deals are made here in the private boxes, and forbidden pleasures from across the stars are smoked. The Shamashi are overly helpful in assisting the Marduki in preparing the decrepit place for a proper gladiatorial spectacle, and you can taste their anxieties, their lies, their sins. But they are sins not within your purview to punish, by and large, save that they ignore the slaves who clean the stands and wipe down the stained seats and polish the stairs until they shine.

The game must be rigged, just to be sure that shield does not heroically doom humanity. Canada must be made to lose. And there are so many places where you may play here, yes, yes: the unattended power couplings, the labyrinth of half-abandoned tunnels, and the hidden stashes of strange fruits and crushed powders. This is your domain now, though the sun shines so bright at midday. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow, [i]non[/i]?