Roman Miller lit up a cigarette ten minutes before the apocalypse.

Not that there was anything he needed to worry about. After spending the last year training in Thailand, he doubted that anyone in this amateur league could put up much of a fight. Still, his nerves always got the best of him before a match, even if it was against some 3-1 nobody in an Applebee's parking lot.

Roman exhaled a cloud of smoke, returning the glare from a middle-aged woman at an adjacent table. Her husband looked like a typical brawler, bald and covered in tattoos from the neck down, his burly frame sheathed in a thick layer of blubber. Looked like he wanted a piece too. The man broke eye contact first, glancing down at the cigarette before shaking his head and whispering in his wife’s ear.

“Stop trying to start shit,” muttered John. As Roman’s best friend and cornerman, he was the only other person at their table. “You already have an opponent tonight. Here, give me your left hand.”

Roman obeyed, though his gaze lingered on the couple with the staring problem.

Scarred, bulky knuckles testified to his violent past. A year of arduous physical training and minimal alcohol had further carved his physique into lean perfection. The novelty of passing out on the side of Bangla Road every night had worn off surprisingly fast. He had dedicated himself to his Muay Thai camp’s brutal training regimen with a fervor no one back home believed he still had in him--not even himself.

Turned out he hadn’t completely given up after all. There was still a little hunger left.

John gripped Roman’s oversized hand and started applying a red cotton wrap with practiced ease. “No one smokes anymore, you know. You don’t look cool. You’re just messing up your lungs.”

Annoyance broke through Roman’s pre-fight jitters. He crushed the cigarette against the bottom of his empty water cup. “You’re the one who got me hooked.”

His voice was soft, raspy. A bit weird to his own ears. The adrenaline was starting to pound in his ears and his chest and his eyes. The world looked more real than real, because his mind and his body knew he would soon commit violence.

“Yeah, sure. Ten years ago.” John fastened the last loop of the wrap and gestured for Roman’s right hand. “At some point you have to grow up, man. You can’t keep living in your car. Cover up your ink and get a real job instead of scrapping with punks for a couple hundred bucks. Jenny and I still have that spare room you can stay in while you figure things out.”

As much as Roman loved his best friend, these sanctimonious offers were beginning to test his patience. He responded, same as always, “I’ll think about it.”

An awkward silence passed between them as John started wrapping Roman’s other hand. Then all of a sudden his crooked grin broke through. “I bet it’s because you’re jealous I landed such a hot wife. That’s why you can’t accept the offer. You’re so nervous around her it’s almost funny.”

Both of them knew it was a bad joke, but it was the thought that mattered.

“Never knew how to behave around rich girls,” admitted Roman with a smile. “She’s a proper one. No, the real issue’s that squealing little demon of yours. Feels like she’s terrified of me whenever I’m around. Why would I want to listen to someone’s baby scream?”

John remained silent for a few moments as he finished wrapping the other hand. Task complete, he shook his head and slapped Roman’s forearm away. “Holly’s always screaming, man. If she only screamed when you’re around, my life would be pure bliss. Why would a three month old be scared of you anyways?”

“My domineering martial aura, I reckon,” said Roman, drawling out his light Southern accent.

John laughed. “Yeah, maybe. You’re a big guy, no doubt. Your opponent’s looked over here a few times since we arrived. Dude looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

Roman flexed his hands to test the wraps. “Perfect.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, watching the barbaric display currently taking place in the ring. Two amateur lightweights were duking it out with more spirit than skill, throwing wild shots at each other. The crowd hooted and hollered with appreciation at first, though the noise quietened down the longer the fight went on. By the end of the second round, the fighters were hugging each other for support, eliciting a few snide comments from the crowd.

“They’re already gassed.” Jake scratched his chin. “Looks like you’ll be up sooner than we thought.”

Roman nodded. The adrenaline was really starting to flow, an intensity building up in his gut. He tucked his chin to his chest and closed his eyes, his heels drumming against the asphalt. After a few moments, he couldn’t contain himself any longer.

He stood, ignoring the curious gazes turning his way. They didn’t matter.

Meditation and controlled breathing had never done much to calm his mind. Instead he slipped into his usual shadowboxing routine. Much easier to lose himself in a flurry of blows, slipping into a trance as he focused on the snap of his wrists, the transfer of momentum along his body, his head weaving side-to-side to avoid imaginary counterstrikes.

No, all that prattle about changing diapers and rotting away in a cubicle wasn’t the life for him. The so-called ‘real world’ was boring. Fake. He only truly felt alive when he was fighting, tapping into those primal urges to overcome--to dominate--that modern folk suppressed by any means necessary.

After he punched away the last of his nervous energy, Roman relaxed and tilted his head up to the night sky. Cool air coursed through his lungs, escaped through his nostrils.

Some sort of weather phenomenon appeared to have distorted the moon’s appearance. It was five times its normal size, and its blue-green hue tint made it look like an eldritch eye looming above the mortal world.

He watched as a colossal tentacle emerged from the dark side of the moon and wrapped around the entire center.

“What. The. Fuck,” Roman said under his breath.

Before he could point the anomaly out to John, the crowd roared in approval. The third round of the fight had just begun, and one of the lightweights had already knocked himself out by charging headfirst into a high kick.

“---and what a finish from the local superstar Jake Barnes!” said the commentator, whose role seemed more like that of the DJ at a middle school dance. “A devastating knockout in the beginning of the third round to knock. You. Off. Your. Feet!”

After his voice faded away, the speakers began to blare some generic pop song to fill the silence.

John finished politely clapping and glanced back at Roman, who appeared not to be paying attention at all. “You’re up, pal.”

Roman snapped out of his reverie. The crowd had distracted him for a moment, but his attention had immediately returned to the night sky. Full moon, scattering of stars. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Pull yourself together, man, he told himself. The last thing he wanted was to have some sort of psychotic break in public.

He could do this. All he had to do was stand around for a bit, listen to some jabbering, and knock his opponent out. After that he’d celebrate with a pack of smokes and check out the bar scene in this lame little town. Easy enough.

At least this event minimized the theatrics. In some of his past fights he had endured the whole spectacle: walk out from the lockers to some rap or hardcore metal, crew hyping him up, screens zooming in on his face while displaying his name and stats. At least the meager audience here wouldn’t be able to see every pore on his face as he struggled to remain composed.

An official standing outside of the ring gestured for them. Roman strolled over towards his designated spot, fidgeting with his hand wraps once again. Though he could usually resist the mild compulsion to align everything in sight perfectly, a growing sense of unease kept dividing his attention. At least John followed close behind him, a familiar and comforting presence.

Am I seriously losing my mind over this fight? Roman thought.

The official was a large, cheery fellow in nondescript black clothes. He smiled at the pair. “Roman Miller? I recognize you, of course, but I gotta confirm. Cool to you see you in a little podunk town like this. Really.”

Roman nodded and forced a smile. “No worries.”

“Hold tight for just a moment, please.” The official waved a hand in the direction of the ring. “Some leftover drama from the last one.”

The loser from the last fight had regained consciousness and managed to stumble back to his feet. Judging from his red face and animated gestures as he argued with the referee and his crew, he was one of those fools who refused to accept defeat. Probably didn’t even realize he had been down for the count. Eventually his coach somehow convinced him to calm down and discuss the matter elsewhere.

Knockouts were funny like that sometimes. Nothing like the movies where someone would wake up a few hours later with a headache at most; people mostly came back from Lalaland pretty quick with a bastard of a concussion, or they didn’t come back at all.

Two minutes before the apocalypse, Roman coughed and stared back up at the night sky. After a moment he placed two fingers against his neck and measured his pulse. Around 120. High, but nothing crazy right before a fight.

“Something wrong?” said John.

Roman peeled off his t-shirt and tossed it to his friend. “Thought I saw something weird a bit ago. I don’t know. Shouldn’t have taken that extra caffeine pill, I guess.”

John draped the shirt over his shoulder, his face creased with worry. “I’ll be honest with you, man. You look shook up. Don’t force yourself if you don’t want to. You don’t have to prove anything just because of your last fight--”

Roman held up a slightly trembling hand. “I’m good.”

John looked unconvinced, but he mercifully changed the topic. “You have to take off your shoes, you know.”

Finally all but the referee and ring girl had departed from the cage.

“Ready to go, Miller?” called out the official.

When Roman glanced over, he found himself looking at a grisly parody of a human.

A skeletal figure stood in the same spot as the official. It wore the same black clothes, now comically loose and covered in foul splotches. Macerated strips of diseased flesh and yellow fat clung to its frame as if a pack of scavengers had long ago torn into it.

From its neck blossomed a dark purple rosebud in place of a head. He watched in horror as it opened; from within its unspeakable depths, infinite layers of petals unfurled in a hyperdimensional geometry that slowly and spectacularly broke Roman’s mind.

Ready to go, Miller? it whispered into his soul.

Roman blinked.

He is one of Legion. Countless robed figures identical to himself are arranged in perfect rows, floating in the endless darkness. Their mystic chants echo across reality. They hold their steepled hands aloft, and in the very center of their interlocking fingers a tiny spark glows with feeble light.

Legion peers down at the brightness locked within their grasp, and realizes each of them has captured a sun. A handul of infinitesmal planets orbit each star, home to billions of sapient minds.

One by one, down the rows, the sparks vanish as they are sacrificed to the void.

Roman blinked.

In the center of a desolate galaxy, a gargantuan blackhole consumes time and space.

It is almost inevitable that, over billions of years, such an overwhelming chaotic force will chance upon the abstract pathways necessary for consciousness to manifest. After discovering the cosmic aberration, one of the Lords of Chaos had decided to nurture this particular seed, hoping to shape it into an amusing pet. Instead, he became the first herald of a terrifying new god.

Roman floats through nearby space, less than a speck in comparison. He is a puppet with its strings cut, helpless against the inexorable gravity dragging him toward the blackhole. The golden splendor of its event horizon mesmerizes him, distracts him from the ravenous dark maw up until the moment he drifts inside.

He remains conscious only for an instant before discordant gravities twist and stretch his immortal soul into something beyond comprehenshion. In that moment, he beholds the impossible colors of Hell.

Roman blinked.

Over and over, his mind shattered and reformed. He was brought back to the precipice, forgetting only the moment that brought madness before being flung into the next vision.

Though he couldn’t recall the specific catalysts, some part of him remembered the feeling of being insane. Over and over, it was carved into his soul, until the experience itself nearly drove him mad. Right before that happened, even the memory of it disappeared. All that remained was a phantom of a phantom, an itch he could never even realize he so desperately needed to scratch.

Thirty seconds before the apocalypse, Roman blinked at the plump official.

Reality had reasserted itself. All appeared normal. The official looked more and more concerned as time dragged on. Realizing he never responded to the question, Roman offered a thumbs up.

Some distant part of him registered the announcer calling his name. A smattering of applause.

John said something. Roman ignored that too.

Unsure why his entire body felt rigid and prickled with gooseflesh, he managed to ascend the stairs and enter the cage. The door slammed shut behind him, locking him within the ring. Every fiber of his being concentrated on not pissing himself.

Black words burned themselves across his vision.

[ Realm analyzed. Parameters determined. Sul’gurrath claims the neutral galaxy colloquially designated ‘Milky Way’ as a Chaos Playground. Objections: none. Realignment confirmed. ]

Oh, that can’t be good, Roman thought, chuckling with existential dread.

[ Tenets codified: Dimensional Merge, These Violent Delights, Pseudo-Immortal Hubris, Dense Through Death, Chaos Gates ]
[ Suggestion from unknown peer: Codify Entropic Evolution; in exchange, (restricted).]
[ Accepted. New Tenet codified: Entropic Evolution. ]
[ Suggestion from unknown peer: Codify Unending Torment; in exchange, watchlaughwatchlaughwatchlaugh… ]
[ Denied. ]
[ Suggestions closed. ]
[ Modifying Chaos Playground. Sentient threshold exceeded for desired parameters; condensed to 5%. Extraneous celestial bodies converted. Native affinities and structures amplified. ]
[ As always, remember to have fun. ]