PART ONE: THE HAND OF GOD

𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝙼𝙴𝙻𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙻𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁. Seventeen-year-old Phoenix hadn't been sure at first, but as the purple-blue light of St Anderson's City filtered in through the ceiling-floor window, he was certain of it.

  Heavy-eyed, he picked himself up from the cherry carpet and coughed into the crook of his arm. A quake swept the high-rise apartment and vibrated through his bones. Motes of dust sprayed over his shoulders, catching his nose with a musty odour. Shifting his weight to a nearby table, on which had lain a messy pile of paperwork, he turned his hands over and examined each of his fingers, making sure this wasn't all some fucked-up dream.

  He expected them to be mashed and misshapen, but they were fine, masked with black gloves through which the tips could breathe, nails well-scrubbed and trimmed . . . Wait, well-scrubbed? That couldn't be right. His fingernails would regularly be dirty after a long day at the arcade, and he was certain he'd spent the entire night in . . . Well, actually, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd been out. He couldn't remember much at all really.

  Confused, Phoenix swallowed deep, needful breaths, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. His sight trailed along the walls, the posters of singers, video-game characters, and, of course, sexy women, dressed in bikinis and provocative wear. But there were also pictures of beady eyes scattered throughout the room, ones that, for a reason of which he wasn't quite sure, made him feel . . . vulnerable. Disgusted, even.

  Am I . . . Am I dead?

  It was a solid enough question, one that deserved a thoughtful answer.

  Raising his hand to feel his sternum, he checked for a pulse. His heart pounded like a man behind bars, and across his skin pimpled a fine sheet of gooseflesh. "This . . . This isn't right," he panted.

  Sighing, he looked down at the carpet and ran his fingers through his puffy afro, doing his best to remember what happened the night before. Try as he might, he couldn't do it. Everything was dark, empty, as if he'd awoken from a dream only to forget it moments later. He could remember some details of his past, of his best friend, Alex Ramiro, but the memories were hazy.

  Then, slowly, his eyes followed the purple-blue light all the way up to the ceiling-floor window. Had this been his room, he would have seen the great metropolitan spread of St Anderson's City, and, sure enough, he did, though not in a way he expected. Wide-eyed, he hurried over to the window and placed a palm on the glass. The buildings were levitating in a void—the infinite gulf of space, as it were. Windowed enclosures stood on their own jagged islands, and each underside was shaped like an inverted mountain. An array of wheeled vehicles floated over a clean stretch of road, undisturbed and uninhabited. Stars blinked against the thick, interstellar expanse, observing, surveying, taking note of what was to come. Then, against all odds . . . it came; not a UFO or an extraterrestrial aircraft foraged by humanity and used to voyage the cosmos. No—it was a giant human fist, or maybe an entire arm, reaching out from the bottom of the city and opening its palm in what seemed to be slow motion.

  

He backed up from the window, trying to catch his breath. "No, no this isn't real. It can't be." He balled his fists, shaking to the bone.

  He leant forward to check once more that he wasn't dreaming. Rubbing his eyes, pinching his cheek, slapping his face a little. Nothing worked. This was real. He was here, alive, aware and focused.

  Nervously, he wondered if he could die at all, if he could fly outside his apartment like a wandering ghost. With this in mind, he pried his window open, inhaled deeply, and stood out onto the balcony. If this is real . . . then I . . .

  He looked down over the railing and saw an infinite stretch of blue-purple space, dotted with trillions of stars and galaxies.

  God, what am I doing? I could fall . . .

  A loud roar exploded from outside, and a screen of blinding white light subjugated his vision. He stumbled back into his bedroom, fell onto his ass, screamed, and shielded his ears from the sound. His heart threatened to tear from its chamber, and air struggled to escape his lungs, occluded by terror. He did his best to scramble under his desk. Made it about halfway there when the blinding light disappeared.

  It took some time for his heart settle down, but it eventually did, albeit not a whole bunch. The loud noise wouldn't go away, after all. He meekly stood up, cupped his hands over the ears, and looked out through the window again, expecting the giant hand to be there, only to find an equally large green portal in its place, oozing with viridescent particles.

  Is that where the sound's coming from?

  Slowly, the roar dwindled to a hum, coming not from outside, but instead from directly behind him. He looked back. A diamond-shaped crystal was levitating in the centre of the room, backlit by a bluish-purple glow.

  By now, the building had stopped shaking—the city had stopped shaking. Phoenix recognised this and took a few steps towards the glowing rock.

  What is this?

  He reluctantly reached for the hard edges. The object transitioned to red, then green, then blue, alternating every three seconds or so. And it must have been losing its power the closer Phoenix reached for it, because by the time his hand touched the surface, all the colour had vanished, and a bolt of electricity shot through his body.

  Quivering, he absorbed the light from the crystal through his fingertips. He eagerly tried pulling his arm free with the other, but it wouldn't budge; a web of electricity bound his hand to the object. He twisted and squirmed until he ended up on the other side of it. "Shit, shit, shit!"

  An electric shock whipped through his body. His eyes sparked. Electricity pulsed from limb to limb, through the torso, through the neck and up to the brain, etching sharp blue lines over his black skin. His afro puffed out like a dry paintbrush, and his threadbare silver jacket burst open, unveiling a black T-shirt with the words 𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙰 𝙿𝙸𝙴𝙲𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝙴, 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙽𝙾𝚆! emblazoned in a ruddy font.

  After that, the humming stopped.

  He jerked back, slightly nauseous, as if he'd done laps on a rollercoaster. He groaned and lifted his arm, noticing a stream of electricity coalescing at the fist. He leered at it with a puzzled expression, worried and confused.

  "Wha—"

  ZAP!

  Lightning spewed out and shot through the ceiling-floor window, shattering it into a million shards and blitzing across the void. It split the outside scenery with a thunderclap. Phoenix flew backwards and struck his bedroom wall. One of the posters dropped over his left shoulder and slid across his lap.

  "Shit . . ."

  A deluge of images poured into mind: faces, objects . . . memories. Pleasant memories. He could almost touch them; they seemed just a stone's throw away.

  Phoenix winced. His eyes closed, and he inhaled deeply as he tried piecing them together.

  A voice reverberated from the darkness: Phoenix?! Are you there?!

  It was feminine and sweet, identifiable.

  Alex? Alex, is that you? Phoenix asked.

  Yes! Yes, I'm . . . I can't see anything! she cried. It's dark in here! Where am I?

  She sounded distant, as if at the end of a tunnel.

  Relax, we'll figure this out! Where are you exactly? Phoenix yelled.

  I can't see you . . . Please, I'm scared. This is a fucking nightmare . . .

  Her voice diminished with each second, eventually fading altogether.

  "Alex?" Phoenix's eyes shot open. "You there?"

  No response.

  "ALEX?!"

  Did he pass out? He hadn't the slightest of an idea.

  Phoenix pushed himself up to full height, making sure she wasn't in the room with him. And she wasn't, but the image of her was still fresh in his mind: the young girl of seventeen, his best friend . . .

  She's not like most girls . . . most people. She cares about me, and I care about her, more than anything. But . . . how . . . Where did she go?

  It felt like he hadn't seen her in such a long time, in forever, and the same went for his parents. Where were they? Where was anyone? He shook his head, said, "No," and searched the apartment. Fear knotted in his stomach as he examined the rooms, becoming tighter as the moment went on. He checked everywhere: his parents' room, the kitchen, the bathroom and, of course, the living room. But . . . they weren't there. Nobody was. Only Phoenix. He tried calling for them, even tried opening the front door to the apartment stairway, but discovered that it had been locked from the other side. So, he looked for the keys, but they were missing, too.

  He ran his fingers through his afro, sighed in frustration, then cupped his hands around the nose.

  He began sliding down against the living-room wall. He stopped once a peculiar odour wafted into his nostrils. Was that fire? The smell of burn? He couldn't tell. He had to look up to make sure there were no flames. And there weren't any. However, to his horror, the furniture began withering into tiny black particles, and after perhaps thirty seconds, into nothing at all. He stood up, slowly, and went to touch his coffee table, but by the time he did, it had already been too late. Gone. Just like that.

  This alone sent his heart into a state of shock. Then he remembered: My desk. The papers.

  "Shit!"

  He hurried to his bedroom, shoved the door open, and saw the heap of paperwork settled on his desk. He took a few steps forward, grabbed a piece of foolscap paper, found that the lighting had been too dark, and moved over to the window, where the green and purple glows of the city swept in peacefully. He read the text in silence.

THE REACH PROJECT

PHOENIX NEWMAN,

TO PUT THINGS SIMPLY: YOU ARE PART OF MY GAME. YOUR SPECIES HAS BEEN SELECTED FOR THE REACH PROJECT, AND YOU ARE ONE OF THE LUCKY, LUCKY PARTICIPANTS. DON'T WORRY, I WILL ASSIST YOU.

YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN A UNIQUE POWER, AND IT IS UP TO YOU TO DISCOVER THE EXTENT TO WHICH IT CAN TRAVEL. PLEASE TAKE NOTE THAT YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY PARTICIPANT, AND EACH PARTICIPANT ALSO HAS A POWER.

THE AIM OF THE GAME IS TO REACH THE SPIRAL, NOT THE GREEN PORTAL THAT YOU SEE IN FRONT OF YOU, THAT IS SOMETHING ELSE ALTOGETHER. YOU WILL BE TRANSPORTED TO A NEW WORLD SHORTLY.

THERE ARE NO RULES BECAUSE THERE IS NO WAY TO CHEAT.

THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE WINNER. THE FIRST PERSON TO REACH THE SPIRAL WILL BE THE ONLY VICTOR. THE REST OF YOU . . . THAT WILL BE UP FOR ME TO DECIDE.

UNTIL THEN,

HAPPY TRAVELS,

LOVE,

GOD!

  He scowled and ripped the paper in two. "What the fuck is happening to me?!" He glanced at the posters of buggy eyeballs, ran over to one, and ripped it from the wall. On the other side was another piece of foolscap paper, on which the same text about the Reach Project was written. But at the bottom, there was something extra. He tore it from the panel and went over to the window to read it once more.

IT SEEMS YOU'RE NOT TOO HAPPY ABOUT THIS, MR. NEWMAN.

I PROPOSE AN OFFER:

ENTER THE GREEN PORTAL AND LEAVE. GO BACK TO YOUR NORMAL LIFE, BUT AT THE PRICE OF ALEX RAMIRO.

OR

TAKE PART IN THE GAME. AND, JUST BECAUSE I LIKE YOU SO MUCH, I'LL GIVE YOU AND ALEX A CHANCE TO WIN.

YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS TO DECIDE. IF YOU MAKE NO DECISION, YOU WILL AUTOMATICALLY BE THROWN BACK TO YOUR HOMEWORLD.

  "Alex? But . . ." He had to choose now. The room began withering away into the same black particles he'd seen in the living room, beginning with the ceiling, then the walls, then the desk. He tensed and squeezed his temples in frustration. A thrum erupted from outside, the same as earlier, though not as loud, and continuously building in volume.

  After fifteen or so seconds, he raised the paper in the air and shouted, "TAKE PART IN THE GAME, TAKE PART IN THE GAME! I WANNA TAKE PART!"

  The sound halted. The building stopped decaying into black dust, and he could think clearly again. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything vanished: the outside, the city, his room. Everything. He fell down into a deep, empty expanse. He screamed and let go of the paper.

  After about ten seconds, he saw clouds emerge from the darkness. He fell right through them, into a bright and urban environment. He struck the ground painlessly, as if he were a cushion, but nonetheless groaned, relieved that the experience was over—for now.

  He stood up. He was outside a tall, menacing structure, one that he'd never seen before. It had this perspective that was completely alien to him, as though it were crafted by the hands of a higher being.

  The sky was overcast. Rain padded gravely along the ground, the pellets popping on his jacket shoulders. And as the moment went on, he registered that this alien feeling wasn't necessarily exclusive to the building in front of him, but to the entire city behind him as well. When he turned around, he saw a sprawling city with vast verticality. The buildings were mostly open, with space for cars to park and helicopters to land. They appeared, by several lengths, to be under construction, somewhat industrial and no doubt on the cutting edge of architecture. Along the streets, blown clean by a period of grim December winds, there wasn't a person to be seen, nor a bird or dog or cat. It was pure isolation. Then Phoenix noticed a figure begin to coalesce on the horizon. An answer to what it could have possibly been already idled in the back of his mind: the Spiral. Rubbing his eyes with leather-gloved hands, mouth agape in confusion, he stared at the entity. Just what the hell was going on here? There was still so much to be explained!

  First of all, who was this “God”? And what did he want with Phoenix? With anyone? The possibility of this game being manmade was minuscule, so this being definitely wasn't human. Unless this was all . . . a simulation. Could it be? Still, that would be a pretty damn sophisticated simulation; humanity hadn't even begun to perfect public transport, let alone create entirely new worlds with perfect realism. There was just no way. And what was the point of reaching the Spiral? What would happen if Phoenix didn't? Would he . . . die? Hard to tell. He didn't want to find out.

  He gazed around the urban city, thinking: What am I supposed to do? That spiral . . . How am I supposed to get there? Time would tell, he supposed, still unaccepting of the whole ordeal. When he looked down at his right fist and flexed his forearm, he felt a buzz run through the bone. The edge of his knuckles glowed blue on command.

  ZAP!

  A lightning bolt flared across the street and obliterated most of a nearby lamppost. The remains toppled over and landed in the middle of the road, pitching glass shards across the tarmac.

  Phoenix rocked back onto his ass, startled. He had remembered doing this already in his room, so, naturally, he expected to go flying into the edifice. SPLAT! Dead. Game over. Then . . . Well, he didn't know what would happen after he died in this world. Maybe that was it. Maybe once he died in this world, he died for good. He would never get to see his parents or Alex or any of his friends again; that would be it. Forever cast into an infinite period of uncertainty.

  But none of that happened. Not yet, thank God.

  Phoenix picked himself up off the pavement and took a few steps towards the Spiral, grasping his electrified arm, and after a moment, began pacing.

  If she's out there, I'll find her.