“Drink?” asks an Observer, careening up with a pitcher.
Speaking of long games. “No,” she murmurs, looking away.
“I see you found your boots,” it says in a transparent attempt at small talk.
Sarya massages her half-dead hand and says nothing. The memory of being observed during a near murder is fresh enough to make conversation challenging.
“I thought you would be happy,” says the Observer. “I brought your friends. I made you a party. I let you play together and have an adventure…”
Still, Sarya doesn’t answer. She can feel the Observer staring at her, its gaze unsteady. “Well,” it says, then pauses for a noisy sip. “Maybe the entertainment will cheer you up.” It turns its back on Sarya and the fire, places its pitcher on the ground, and sits beside it. She glares at the back of its small head for a long moment before admitting to herself that she is not actually accomplishing anything. Her eyes wander over heaps of unconscious Observers between dozens of other fires. The ones that are still moving are doing the same as her Observer: seating themselves and facing the same direction. And in the direction of His collective gaze—
She squints, trying to make out details in the darkness. A train of almost identical figures has threaded its way through fires and puddles and piles of snoring Observer. They walk in threes: two holding a third by its arms. The two weave, but they walk with their heads up; every third plods with its hands behind its back and its eyes on the ground. The two are identical, dressed in Observer’s featureless tunics; every third is dressed in sloppy handmade clothing and appears miserable in a small but unique way. In the center of the line, not twenty meters away, she glimpses a burst of hair and the gleam of a bald head. Right gazes out through the crowd of Observer, its head reflecting the light of the nearest fire. Left doesn’t look away from the ground in front of it.
“Attention!” shouts a lone Observer. “Attention, if you please!”
Observer no longer seems capable of instant reactions, not even to Himself. Silence falls in a wave, and even when it has spread to the farthest reaches of the clearing, it’s only a relative quiet. There is the ever-present crackling of fires, but now it is interspersed with intermittent retches, wails, music, fistfights, and the occasional thud of a small body hitting soil. Out in the dark forest, where Mer nearly killed her, she hears a scream. She swallows; maybe Mer found other prey.
“It’s that time!” cries the lone Observer. “Before I black out completely—” The figure pauses and raises its cup for a ragged cheer from the crowd of Himself. “Time for…the entertainment!”
“Entertainment!” shout several Observers, raising their own cups to the black sky. Sarya sees one nearby fall to its hands and knees and vomit, mid-word.
“First!” shouts the Observer. “I will honor tonight’s graduating class!”
With a hundred individual gestures, the whole line of pre-Observers shivers. Their various escorts, with identical motions, pull them upright.
“Then!” shouts another. “I will honor Sarya the Daughter, the source of—and inspiration for—My merriment!”
Even in the darkness, Sarya can feel a thousand gazes turn to her. She shivers and pulls her utility suit closer to her skin.
“Fourth—” shouts yet another.
“It’s third, idiot,” Sarya hears Right murmur, his voice clear in the near-silence.
“There will be fireworks,” says the Observer, raising a cup to the black sky. “And believe Me, I won’t want to miss those.”
Throughout the clearing, small bodies whistle and slap their hands together. They shout things that Sarya doesn’t understand. Many raise cups, and more than a few of those fall over from the sudden shift in balance. Some of the silhouettes closest to the train reach out and touch the quivering not-quite-Observers, who seem to pull into themselves to escape.
“To Me!” shouts an Observer, raising a cup.
“To Me!” roars the rest of Him.
Without further preamble, the escort of the graduate nearest Sarya lay their hands on it, moving its clothing so they touch bare skin. It struggles, pulling against their hold, and even in the darkness Sarya can see the fear in its golden eyes. A blend of reactions passes down the line; Observer watches eagerly, while each graduate displays something between fascination and horror. In the center of the line, Left continues to stare at the ground while Right glares at the nearest Observer with absolute hatred.
“I have something to say!” shouts the struggling figure in a voice that pierces the night.
“It doesn’t matter,” murmurs one of its escort kindly. “I’ll know everything you know in a few seconds.”
“I’ve decided that….that you have no right!” shouts the figure. “I am a person.”
“You’re not, actually,” says an Observer, delivering a friendly clap on the back. “But you’ll be part of one in a few seconds. Now—”
“But that’s not true! I feel! I dream! I have—”
“Welcome,” interrupts Observer with a thousand smiles. “Welcome to Me.”
The figure goes rigid, and the clearing fills with a sound that chills Sarya’s bones. It’s not a scream, it’s beyond that. It’s a hiss, a long, drawn-out whimper, the cry of a creature in so much pain that it can’t do anything but make that one single sound.
But as that sound soars above the crowd, another rises to meet it. Observer moans from thousands of mouths. Twice that number of eyes roll back in His eye sockets. Hands tremble and clench. Bodies writhe in what looks like actual ecstasy, some actively seizing on the ground. Even some of the Observers Sarya thought were unconscious are now digging their hands into the filth beneath them, mouths open and drooling. Observer sighs, from deep in His massive self, as he consumes.
“Oh, yes,” Sarya hears a nearby Observer whisper from the ground. It arches its back from the wet surface. “Oh, that’s good.”
And then the horrible cacophony fades away. The graduate straightens, and its escort releases it. It strips off its handmade clothing and slips a tunic over its head. In seconds, it has raised a cup to the crowd with a smile.
“To Me!” says the Observer.
“To Me!” thunders the crowd.
Observer takes. He reaps. He moves down the line, from one to the next, unwrapping, plucking, eating minds like food bars. He welcomes each one with the same awful phrase. His appreciation during the act, if anything, grows. His moans crescendo from horrifying to absolutely intolerable.
And then Sarya sees the shine of Right’s head in the firelight. She watches as two Observers move its clothes to place their hands on bare skin—and then one of the identical figures starts and draws back, wiping its face. For a split second Sarya sees a flash of Right’s grin with a dribble of saliva below it. Even in the face of inevitability, seconds before the death of its own individuality, Right lets his scorn be known.