Having finally managed to fit me into a toga with more than a little outside-the-box thinking about the usual size and shape of the human skull, it came time for me to head to the onboarding festivities.

  My small cult of apparent worshippers had, luckily, decided to observe a period of silent reverence and had taken a backseat in the general goings-on.

  Save for the small matter that my every action was being catalogued as divine revelation, I barely noticed them.

  The rest of the contingent of Liaisons had opinions on me ranging from a growing belief that I presented an existential threat to their entire existence to a sort of bemused indifference bordering on pity. These postures were nothing new to me, and I quickly adapted.

  I’d, for the time being, do as they said and try my best to blend in, at least until I could figure out what was happening.

  They ushered me down to the Garden, which, in the short period of time I’d been away, had been utterly transformed.

  Growing crowds of onboarded, toga-clad Citizens streamed into the party area, marveling at the luxurious floral arrangements and bursts of magnificent color—shades not known on Earth. Spheres of glorious light floated above the ornate festivities, giving it all an air of dreamlike majesty.

  Armies of Liaisons weaved throughout the crowds, offering trays of delicacies beyond explanation to the delighted revelers. I almost pitied the poor fools. What I would give to be so easily bought off by a little cheap fanfare.

  I resolved to keep my wits about me. I had to be careful not to fall prey to this shallow and narcotic display, no matter how flattering it felt to have a gaggle of wide-eyed zealots interpret my disgusting habit of biting my nails to the nub as a mandate of ritual sanctity.

  **

  We must have made quite an entrance, I realize now, despite my best efforts to lay low. Dozens of Liaisons surrounded us, some enraptured in holy observance, others booing and hissing to ward off my malign influence.

  And me, wearing a slapdash toga made of repurposed linens which bunched up indelicately around some of the more hunchy parts of my back.

  The heads of the other Citizens whipped around in unison to take in our strange cadre. I attempted to throw them a meek wave, but perhaps put a bit too much mustard on it, sending a tray of glistening finger foods flying into the Fountain of Fun.

  That, sadly, was the high point of my manners in the early going, as my embarrassment soon curdled into renewed indignation.

  Affecting, without really knowing why, the posture of a robo-wrestling heel, I taunted my would-be neighbors with defensive jeers in an incident that would later be known by my followers as “The Unfortunate Utterances.”

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  Luckily, my most offensive jibes were immediately drowned out by a well-timed announcement that boomed out over the proceedings.

  This left me visible to many of my fellow Citizens only as a strangely gesticulating speck in the distance, rather than the righteously wounded antihero I was so theatrically positioning myself as.

  **

  The voice, eerily calm and hypnotically demanding immediate attention, bellowed out the following:

  “Welcome, Citizens. Tonight is your first night of many unbelievable nights in the Garden.”

  Self-satisfied cheering filled the perfumed air. My antics were immediately nothing but a minor blip on a joyride careening toward eternal paradise.

  “We hope you find everything to your liking—though, of course, this is all but guaranteed,” the voice continued, eliciting riotous laughter that puzzled me.

  “Ahead of you lie the moments your entire existence was heading toward. Before you, the fruits of righteous living and belief in a System beyond yourself. Here, finally, you can truly live. Be what you were meant to be!”

  A delirium was steadily building, ready to explode.

  “But first, as promised, some minor points of order.”

  The Citizens exchanged excited glances. Everyone was clued in, evidently, to what was coming next as the voice went on.

  “Without further ado: your Ascension Metrics!”

  The sky exploded with a giddy burst of light and color. Above the heads of the Citizens, with more than a little ostentatious fanfare, a technicolor array of shapes and bars, numbers and categories boomed into existence.

  Ascension Metrics. Custom-made, but all within a general framework apparently understood by everyone, as evidenced by the eager peeks they took at one another’s displays and the accompanying gossip and chatter. Every Citizen had them.

  Every Citizen, that is, except for me.

  **

  My devotees fell to their knees and tore their togas. My detractors licked their lips at this stark evidence of my fiendish nature.

  I wondered if anyone else would notice.

  “You’re free to stay in the Garden so long as you please. Indulge yourselves, experience the highs of life you were always meant to experience. Be conscious, however, that as you do, you are being primed for something greater—should you choose that path.”

  The crowd was hanging on every word now.

  “And of course, to help you on this path, what you’ve all been waiting for: your own Wellness Companion. Each designed according to your unique psychological makeup to be the perfect sidekick in your journey.”

  A general exuberance enveloped the crowd. Companions—scores of them—initialized at once as beaming Citizens cried out in joy or recognition. Tears in their eyes, they stared off at some unseen horizon as voices that were composites of their most intimate loved ones, their most cherished mentors, or idealized selves bloomed in their heads.

  I, again, seemed to be left out of this, ambling forward in a daze as the conspicuous hum of absence filled my racing mind.

  I snatched a handful of Bliss Biscuits off a nearby tray and shoved them into my mouth in a humiliating display of self-medication. I was certain that any moment this deranged cocktail hour would find me as its main attraction, my differences too obvious to go unnoticed.

  Just as I had settled on self-immolation as the exit most befitting my stature as a minor messiah, a strange noise began to rattle in the deep recesses of my skull.

  I shook my head back and forth violently, feeling I could somehow dislodge the entity clawing toward consciousness.

  A familiar noise. A distant hum. Glitchy screeches and feedback that felt all at once familiar and alien.

  I blinked several times, straining to center it in my mind. My most ardent followers deem it apocryphal to suggest I took to beating myself on the side of the head in increasingly violent blows.

  Then, finally, it came fully into presence.

  “Hello?”

  I paused. There was a smile in the voice, relief.

  “It’s me, Meg.”