“No one’s ever found anything that good,” Xander said. “It’s got to be a sign. That it’s going to be you who gets chosen.”
“Whatever.” Marcus shrugged it off. But inside, he was glowing. Because Xander was right. It did have to be a sign. The ax had chosen him—had anointed him. Ever since then, he’s believed he will be chosen as the Player. It is his destiny.
But that’s not the kind of thing you say out loud.
“It doesn’t even matter which of us gets picked. Without Endgame, being the Player’s just a big waste of time,” Marcus says now. “Though I bet you’d be a chick magnet.”
“But what good would it do you?” Xander points out. “It’s not like you’d have time to actually date.”
This is a game they play, the two of them. As the selection day draws closer, they’ve been playing it more often. Pretending they don’t care who gets picked, pretending it might be better to lose.
“Imagine getting out of here once and for all,” Xander continues. “Going to a real school.”
“Joining a football team,” Marcus says, trying to imagine himself scoring a winning goal before a stadium of screaming fans.
“Going to a concert,” Xander says. He plays the guitar. (Or at least tries to.)
“Meeting a girl whose idea of foreplay isn’t krav maga,” Marcus says. He’s still got an elbow-shaped bruise on his stomach, courtesy of Helena Loris.
“I don’t know . . . I’ll kind of miss that part,” Xander says fondly. He’s been fencing regularly with Cassandra Floros, who’s promised that if he can draw blood, she’ll reward him with a kiss. “But not much else.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Marcus says. “Bring on normal life.”
He’s a few meters above Xander, and it’s a good thing, because it means Xander can’t see his sickly, unconvincing grin. A normal life?
To Marcus, that’s a fate worse than death.
A fate he’d do anything to avoid.
The counselors try their best to give the kids some approximation of a normal upbringing. In their slivers of free time, campers are allowed to surf the Net, watch TV, and flirt with whomever they want. They even spend two months of every year back home with their families—for Marcus, these are the most excruciating days of all. Of course he loves his parents. He loves Turkey, its smells and tastes, the way the minarets spear the clouds on a stormy day. But it’s not his world anymore; it’s not his home. He spends his vacations counting the minutes until he can get back to camp, back to training, back to Xander.
Deep down, he knows this is another difference between them. Sure, Xander wants to be chosen. But Marcus wants it more.
Marcus needs it.
That has to count for something.
Marcus is happy to pretend that he and Xander are evenly matched, that the choice between them is a coin flip. It’s easier that way; it’s how friendship works. But surely, he thinks, their instructors can tell that it’s an illusion. That Marcus is just a little better, a little more determined. That between the two of them, only Marcus would sacrifice everything for the game, for his people. That only Marcus truly believes he’s meant to be the Player—and not just any Player, but the one who saves his people.
They’re both pretending not to be nervous, but deep down, Marcus really isn’t.
He knows it will be him.
It has to be.
He reaches the top with a whoop of triumph, Xander still several meters behind. Instead of savoring his victory or waiting for his best friend to catch up, he anchors his rappelling line, hooks himself on, and launches himself over the cliff. This moment, this leap of faith, it’s the reward that makes all that hard work worth it. There’s a pure joy in giving way to the inexorable, letting gravity speed him toward his fate.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
And it can’t come fast enough.
The amphitheater is filled to capacity. Every Minoan within 200 kilometers is here to learn who their new Player will be. Marcus sits in the front row with all the other prospects, remembering the last time he was at this ceremony. He was young then, too young to understand what it meant or imagine that someday it would be him.
It’s strange now, thinking about his life back then. It doesn’t feel real, or at least it doesn’t feel like his life. He was a different person then, before he knew the truth about the world and his place in it. His life, the one that matters, is defined by Endgame, and by his friendship with Xander. Before them, he was just a fraction of himself. Now he’s whole.
Elias Cassadine, the camp leader, takes the podium to deliver a speech about the import of this decision and the honor he is about to bestow. Marcus has endured many a lecture by Elias, and knows the man will drone on forever about the long-lost Minoan civilization and its tradition of heroes. How the legendary King Minos was actually an alien god, who chose the Minoans, of all peoples, to live among and rule. Elias will speak of Endgame as a sacred compact between the Minoans and the beings from the stars, a chance for this chosen people to rise above the rest—if their champion can rise to the challenge. He will boast about the camp’s rigorous training program and the care with which the instructors have selected their Player. As if it takes some kind of genius to pick out the best. Elias will talk duty and sacrifice, and how everyone in the audience owes a debt of gratitude to their new Player. He’ll blather on forever while everyone fidgets in their seat and pretends not to be bored out of their skulls.
Xander catches his eye and Marcus mimes choking himself. Put me out of my misery, he means, and of course Xander knows it, because Xander always knows what he means. For the last five years, everything he’s done, he’s done with Xander. It’s going to be strange, going forward alone. Yes, he can do it on his own, but why would he want to?
Marcus wonders whether he might be able to talk Elias into defying tradition and letting him keep Xander around. Batman had Robin, Theseus had Daedalus—why couldn’t Marcus have Xander?
It’s a brilliant idea, and he can’t believe he didn’t think of it before. He’s working up some good arguments in favor of it when he realizes that Elias Cassadine has stopped droning and excited murmurs are rippling across the crowd. Beside him, Xander has gone pale.
“Meet our new Player,” Elias says, and Marcus is already rising to his feet when his brain kicks in and processes what he’s just heard. What he’s hearing now, as Elias says it one more time, almost drowned out by the thunder of the cheering Minoans.
Xander’s name.
Xander’s name, not Marcus’s.
This isn’t happening, Marcus thinks, because it can’t be happening.
This is just a dream, Marcus thinks, because he’s had many like it—nightmares, really, but then he always wakes up.
There is no waking up this time.
This is real. The announcement has been made. The choice has been made, and it’s Xander who steps hesitantly up to the podium, lowers his head as Elias sets the golden horns atop his wild curls. A tribute to the legend of the Minotaur, these horns are the official marker of the chosen Player, and it’s Xander who will bear them. Xander who clasps his hands over his head in triumph, Xander who’s been named the best. Xander who’s been named the Player.
It’s Xander who’s won.
It’s Marcus who’s been left behind.
Things move quickly after that. They are all expected to leave the camp by the end of the week. Soon a new group of children will arrive to begin seven years of training and claim the camp as their own. Marcus and the others will go back to their families, while Xander goes forward. Somewhere.
“You really can’t tell me where?” Marcus says. They’re packing up the room they share. Seven years of memories dumped into a few cardboard boxes, taped up, and sent away. Of all these belongings, the only one that means anything to Marcus is the golden ax—and even that has lost its shine. The labrys was supposed to mean something, was supposed to mean he was chosen. Now? It’s nothing but a rusty old ax. Mar
cus thinks that he should offer it to Xander as a gift, a way of saying without saying, The future belongs to you.
Instead he tosses it in a box, and resolves to throw it away as soon as he gets the chance.
“I really can’t tell you.” Xander pulls out a pizza box that must have been sitting under his bed for weeks. That would explain the smell. “They swore me to secrecy about all Player stuff, and I don’t think they’re kidding around.”
Don’t be jealous, Marcus reminds himself, like this is even possible. Like he’s not seething with rage.
“No worries,” Marcus says. “Feel free to lord it over me with your super-special Player secrets and your exotic classified missions. I’ve got secrets too, you know. You’ll never guess what I’ve got hidden in this sock drawer.”
“A pack of condoms you ordered online and have been hoarding for so long they’ve probably turned to dust,” Xander says, without missing a beat. “Plus some incredibly foul socks.”
He’s right on both counts. It only makes Marcus angrier.
How dare Xander keep secrets?
How dare he act like everything is the same between them, like they’re still best friends, like everything is fine—when everything is ruined?
How dare he win?
There’s an awkwardness between them now, a stiff silence, and Marcus knows it’s his fault.
“I really thought it would be you,” Xander says, not for the first time. It makes Marcus want to punch him, because how’s he supposed to respond? “So did I”?
Actually, that’s not a bad idea. So he says it out loud. Then laughs, like it was a joke.
Xander laughs too. Fakely. It’s even worse than the silence.
Marcus knows he’s acting like a spoiled brat. Like a child who doesn’t get what he wants and throws a temper tantrum. But it’s not like Xander’s any better, with this humble aw, shucks act, like he’s not loving every minute of this. Maybe it would be different if Xander would just own it, rub his victory in Marcus’s face.
That’s always been the way between them—always crowing, always bragging, never apologizing.
They could afford to be honest, because they were on such even ground.
Not now.
Now every word out of Xander’s mouth sounds like an apology, and Marcus sees that for what it is: pity.
“We’ll still be friends,” Xander says, tossing a sweatshirt in his suitcase. It’s Marcus’s sweatshirt, but Marcus doesn’t say anything. Xander’s already taken everything that matters. What’s one sweatshirt more?
“Yeah, sure,” Marcus says, not even bothering to sound like he means it. “Of course.” Because what’s Xander going to do, come home from swimming the English Channel or battling a fleet of ninjas—then go play video games in Marcus’s basement? Not going to happen.
“Anyway, I’ve got kind of a surprise for you,” Xander says.
Marcus grunts. He’s tired of surprises.
“They gave me three days before I have to leave,” Xander says.
“For your magical mystery tour.”
“Yeah. That. Three days . . . and access to a helicopter.”
Marcus freezes. Despite his foul mood, he feels his lips drawing back in a smile. He can’t stop himself.
Because he knows what a helicopter means.
“So?” Xander says, hope lighting up his face. “You in?”
With a helicopter at their disposal, they can fly from the nearby Daskalogiannis airport to Nea Kameni, a remote, uninhabited island where an active volcano pokes out of the Aegean and into the clouds. They can, as they have done before, hike up to the lip of the volcano and then rappel down into the maw of the beast, feel the heat of the lava on their backs, test themselves against the most powerful foe nature has to offer. Thirty-five hundred years ago, a volcanic eruption on the island of Thera destroyed the Minoan settlement at Akrotiri and devastated communities all along the coast of Crete. The eruption spelled the beginning of the end of Minoan civilization—now, every time Marcus bests a volcano, he feels he’s striking a blow on behalf of his ancestors. It’s rare they can find a way to get themselves to Nea Kameni—rarer still that Xander agrees to try. He may have overcome his childish fear of heights, but he’s never much liked the idea of climbing into a massive cauldron of boiling lava. Marcus usually has to butter him up for days, whine and plead and promise to do his homework, before Xander finally gives in.
Not this time, obviously.
Xander knows what he’s doing, dangling this trip before Marcus. A volcano climb is the one thing he can’t resist.
“No way will they let you,” Marcus says, trying hard to maintain his sulk. It’s tough: Even thinking about the climb has him jittery with excitement. “You think they’re going to let their precious Player risk himself on a stupid volcano?”
“Leave that to me,” Xander says. “If I can’t handle a few overprotective instructors, how am I supposed to save the world?”
Good question, Marcus thinks.
Then he thinks:
Enough.
Yes, a mistake has been made. Yes, Marcus deserved this win. Yes, he is in despair, and his life is pretty much over. But that’s not Xander’s fault. And if their positions were reversed, Xander would find a way to accept it. He would find a way to be happy for Marcus, because that’s the kind of person he is.
Marcus resolves to be that kind of person too.
He resolves to be happy for Xander.
Or at least do a better job of faking it.
It is easy, at the base of the volcano, to imagine they are the last two people on Earth. That Endgame has come and gone, the human species wiped off the face of the planet, the two of them abandoned to live out their days on this bare rock. It wouldn’t be so bad, Marcus thinks. Blue sky and turquoise sea, days in the sand and nights by the campfire, nothing to do but race each other up and down the volcano, no one to say who won and who lost, who is special and who is not—no obligations to their people or to the future. Only the present moment, only the two of them.
The first night, sitting around the campfire, toasting marshmallows and doing their best impressions of Elias Cassadine, it’s hard to remember that this won’t last forever.
They’ve brought tents, of course, but both of them prefer sleeping under the stars. They lie on their backs, side by side, the silence between them comfortable instead of awkward. Like it used to be, before.
“What if I can’t hack it?” Xander says quietly.
“It’s only a couple thousand meters,” Marcus says. “You can do that in your sleep. And if you can’t, I’ll just toss you over my shoulder and carry you up. Not like I haven’t done it before.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Xander says.
Marcus knew that.
He doesn’t want to talk about it—not now, in this place where it’s so easy to forget. Once they leave here, Marcus will begin the rest of his life. His loser’s life. He’ll never be able to forget again. This is supposed to be their escape from all of that. And Xander is about to ruin it.
“What if it actually happens? Endgame. And it’s all on me.” Xander speaks slowly, like he knows this isn’t anything he should admit out loud. “How do they know I’ll be good enough? What if they’re wrong?”
“They’re not wrong,” Marcus says, glad Xander can’t see his face in the dark. “They know what they’re doing. They’ve been doing this for centuries, right? If they picked you, then it’s supposed to be you.”
“You sound so sure,” Xander says. “Everyone is so sure—except for me. Doesn’t that mean something? That I’m not sure?”
“Not everything has to mean something,” Marcus says. “You take things too seriously.”
“We’re talking about the end of the world,” Xander says, frustration leaking through. “I’m not supposed to take that seriously?”
Marcus says nothing.
“You wouldn’t have any doubts,” Xander says—and, incredibly, he sounds jealous. As
if Xander has reason for envy. “You’d know you could do it. You’re probably thinking right now that you could do a better job than me. Admit it.”
“Maybe I am,” Marcus says, because Xander is his best friend. And because it’s easier to be honest in the dark. “But maybe being sure isn’t always the important thing. Maybe having doubts will make you stronger.”
“How?” Xander’s voice is small, almost afraid. Eager for Marcus to tell him what to do. And for that one moment, Marcus truly wishes he had the answer—knew the words that would calm Xander’s fears and help him believe in himself.
But he doesn’t.
“I don’t know,” Marcus admits.
“Exactly.”
The morning is crisp and clear, perfect for a climb.
Neither of them is in the mood to talk.
They pack up their ropes and carabiners, then begin the long haul to the summit. The volcano looms above them, hissing smoke and ash into blue sky. It’s like climbing any mountain, but it feels different when you know what’s waiting for you at the top. When, at any moment, the cavernous mouth could spit out a glob of lava that would incinerate you in seconds.
Marcus focuses on that feeling of approaching danger. He focuses on finding handholds and footholds, on pulling himself up one arm-length at a time. On the crumbling rock beneath his fingers and the heat of the sun on his back. On the loamy smell of the rock and the twitter of distant birds. On his body, pushed to its limits; on this lonely wilderness at the edge of the world. Tunnel vision: it’s another reason he’s so good at climbing. To summit the great peaks, you have to shut everything else out. You have to believe nothing matters but making it to the top.
He and Xander do not race, not this time. Competition seems beside the point for them now. They climb at a steady pace, Marcus leading the way. Until, impatient to reach the summit, Marcus pushes himself to climb faster.
“Thought we weren’t racing,” Xander pants from behind him, which only makes Marcus speed up more.
He tells himself it’s only about getting to the top. That it has nothing to do with wanting to exhaust Xander, to prove to both of them that Marcus is still the best.