Program Zero

They collided, and the world shook. The shockwave from their impact rippled through the arena. Protective System glyphs brightened at the force of the impact. There were booming sounds of laughter as the two were knocked back from each other. They charged forward again, the thunder of their collisions the only sign that anything was happening at all. Delegations clutched their chair handles. Cameras staggered and corrected, their lenses struggling to capture what no modern lens was meant to hold.

Another boom sounded. Vaerros met Shango in the heart of the blast, laughing through his tusks, battleaxe sweeping down in an arc heavy enough to destroy city blocks. Shango stepped into the swing, lifted a hand. The axe struck a pressure that hadn't been there a heartbeat earlier; the force fanned, split, and rolled around Shango's fist that went to meet the Orc Titan's face. But instead, it fizzled out on the mighty Orc's palm. The waves of power that could carve stone to dust barely left scratches on the Warchief's hand.

The orc's grin widened. Shango's mouth tilted in a lazy half-smile.

The world began to understand what kind of fight this would be.

Vaerros gripped Shango's wrist and hurled him across the arena, then gave chase. Every stomp birthed new teeth of obsidian; every breath pulled iron up from his very veins to plate his arms and ribs. He swung his axe at the airborne Shango, each blow shaving off a piece of alloy so thin it could not be seen, each strike carried by a focused shockwave.

Shango gathered himself in midair and extended his hand to meet the shockwave. But the moment his fingers touched, he sensed the odd rhythm. He quickly pulled his hand away and propelled himself aside with a burst of vibration. Looking down, he saw a sharp cut through his suit, almost drawing blood. That invisible strip of alloy clashed against the barrier, leaving a scar across it. The 3rd Seat's eyes narrowed, and with a wave of her hand, the cut in the barrier was healed and strengthened.

Vaerros pressed the assault. Each swing was like a beat of a drum, and Shango tried to catch his rhythm. Slabs of obsidian and shards of iron joined the chorus of shockwaves that raced toward him. A slab of obsidian hurled at his skull broke on a ripple that burst from a casual grunt. The shards rebounded, caught by eddies of vibration. The thin, nearly invisible blades were dodged with artistic precision. Every swing from Vaerros was met with a deliberate, unexplainable movement from Shango. The delegations could not agree on what they were seeing.

"He's playing with him," a general whispered, white-knuckled, gripping his armrest.

"He's… dancing," a child watching in a living room on the other side of the world said.

"He's caught his rhythm," Cefketa murmured, amused.

Vaerros's storm thickened. He tore up a ring of stone spires, flicked his axe, and slung the circle inward to cage Shango. In that circle, hundreds of thin alloy blades hid. He would not be able to dodge.

"There it is… got it," Shango cooed to himself, as he gained what he needed.

The boy exhaled once—one long, measure-marking breath—and the ring of earth and blades shattered in silence. Just a singular undulating beat rippled from its center. Everything faded away like dust in the wind, atomized by a single breath. Shango stood there, posture loose.

"Well, alright," Shango called, voice carrying like a snare hit. "Looks like you boys do have a bit-o rhythm."

Vaerros laughed and punched the floor.

"You say your Bumi can do the same things I can? Can he do this?" His muscles writhed like snakes under his skin. He sprang forward faster than before, the System behind him blazing. Shango's eyes widened—he was barely able to keep pace with the hulking figure's momentum.

By tracking the vibrations Vaerros emitted while moving, Shango managed to follow him—until he turned to face his attacker and found only a statue of iron, in the Orc's image, its axe raised high.

"Bollocks!" Shango felt movement all around him, but only saw the iron statues. He heard a booming laugh from above. Vaerros was crashing down like a comet, his System blazing.

"Where are you looking?!" Vaerros shouted as he plummeted, while Shango felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

The decoys...those statues… moved.

They bore down on Shango with strength equal to Vaerros. Shango gathered his strength to block and repel them, but as he dealt with the statues, the full weight and might of Vaerros bore down on him. The impact was cataclysmic. The 3rd Seat had already strengthened the barrier in anticipation. Out of the devastation, a small figure was jettisoned into the barrier walls. His suit was in tatters. Gasps rang out from everyone watching.

In a studio, a broadcast anchor who had practiced sounding calm her entire life failed for the first time.

"He's down," she said into a microphone that caught the hairline crack in her voice. "He's—he's down."

In the circle of thrones, one of the Seats leaned forward, amusement fading. Zyvaroth's lips thinned. The orc did not press; he stood with his axe at rest and rolled his shoulders as if warming them. His grin did not change. The iron statues had been reduced to scraps, turned into mist, and re-entered the Orc's bloodstream.

Cefketa's fingers tightened once on the arm of his throne. "You're not done, are you, kid?" he said, too low for mics to catch. Mythara and the Tiny Tots said nothing. The Conductor smiled.

"Fuck'in ow, mate!" Shango muttered to no one in particular. "Nope, nope… Bumi can't do that. I hope he's taking notes, though."

Shango stood, his wounds rapidly healing.

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"Alright, you got my blood pumping… Overclock," he muttered.

His System flared back to life, and the air around him changed. Vaerros squinted as he stared at the human. If he hadn't seen him there with his own eyes, he wouldn't have known anyone was there at all. Shango had melded his personal vibration with that of creation—he was both there and not.

Shango's outline wavered, threatening to vanish altogether. He walked forward, each step cracking the ground meant to hold their clash. He settled into a relaxed stance, bouncing rhythmically on his toes. He motioned at Vaerros with two fingers.

"Wanna dance?"

Vaerros answered with a roar that shook the entire room. He charged forward with the same baffling speed. The axe came down—met by a forearm wrapped in a shearing plane of vibrations. The axe recoiled, and Vaerros struck again, and again. Shango did not only defend. He struck at the Orc's forearm and used vibrations to slide in closer, negating the reach advantage.

The two were deadlocked in the arena's center, trading blow for blow. It became clear that Shango held the advantage. Vaerros' senses could no longer keep pace with the boy who fluttered on the edge of existence and oblivion. Even his form began to fade completely from sight.

Galleries around the world found their voices again.

"He's—he's gonna win—"

"Shango! Shango! Shango!" It started in one stadium half a world away and, like any good rhythm, spread quickly.

Cefketa did not hide the broad smile on his face.

Vaerros attacked relentlessly, but learned what Shango had become. With each clash, the boy grew stronger, faster. Each blow he took became more painful and deadly. Vaerros loved battles of attrition. His body was sturdy, his stamina nearly limitless, and he could close wounds with the iron in his blood. But it seemed he had met his natural nemesis.

"Everything's a wave, mate. Everything has a… vibration," Shango said between breaths that sounded more like counting than panting. "Even you, big man."

"Then show me!" Vaerros growled, delighted. His axe went down in a vicious curve, aiming to rip Shango in two. Shango lifted a single finger and stopped the axe dead at its tip.

"This alloy, it's not from Earth. So it took me a minute." Shango chuckled.

The System behind him hummed as the axe in Vaerros' grip vibrated and then shattered. Vaerros' eyes widened in the first real shock he had experienced in centuries.

In a café, a man who had bet his friends that Shango would show nothing interesting stood up, then sat down slowly, spilling his coffee without noticing. Among the spectators, diplomats who had prepared speeches about refusing tyranny forgot their lines.

"Finish him!" a president snarled to no one who could hear.

The next strike was not a fist. It was a palm. The heel of his hand tapped the Titan's chest—a vibration sinking deep into the Orc's bones. The second strike was an elbow across a bicep, a nudge that shifted the sway of Vaerros's next swing. In a fight like this, that was everything. The third was a short, sharp cross.

When it landed, the pulse Shango had hidden in the first two touches found the one he had just put in, and the three resonated together. Shango could do no damage to the Orc's impossibly tough hide until this point. Now he wreaked havoc on Vaerros' insides.

Vaerros laughed as blood spilled from his mouth. Spikes of iron shot from that blood, distracting Shango long enough for him to land a hard uppercut that rattled even through the boy's protective layer. They traded like that for a while—neither able to finish the other. Vaerros could not penetrate Shango's defenses. Shango could not do substantial damage through the Orc's tough hide and ability to control his body, seemingly on a cellular level, even through vibration.

Spectators stopped making noise and simply listened. Cameras stopped zooming and simply watched.

The tempo reached its peak—and then exploded.

Vaerros's joy tipped him over the line. It was not rage. It was happiness so complete that it disregarded everything else. He kicked Shango away, spread his arms, and his muscles began to undulate again. Iron seeped from his blood, muscles bulged, tusks lengthened. His frame thickened. His height climbed a head, then two, then five.

Delegations screamed. A bishop crossed himself until the gesture turned into a circle. A newscaster dropped into a chair and let tears stream down his face as he described, in perfect diction, what it felt like to be very small.

"Vaerros!" Ferradon barked.

Lunara rose, eyes narrowed. "The fool—"

Zyvaroth's mouth twitched in annoyance.

Vaerros grew.

A hand the size of a cliff reached for the stars.

Shango's wave stuttered for the first time—not from fear, but excitement.

"Let's switch it up. Worldsong," he whispered. The System behind him faded away as Vaylora glowed and wove into something new. His masterpiece, System: Worldsong—its complexity rivaling the Ionic Storm and Clockwork Paradox.

But before the full weight of the Titan came to bear, and before the melody of the Worldsong could be heard, the sea answered.

The 3rd Seat, Nethyros, rose. Her presence alone caused Vaerros to halt. The Leviathan Matriarch did not become larger than him—she made size irrelevant. Her gaze silenced the galleries, the delegations, the Seats, the cameras, the commentary, the prayers, the panic.

"Enough," she said

The half-born mountain groaned with annoyance. As he shrank rapidly back to his towering form, Vaerros lowered his head. He knew what he had done. He knew there was no excuse.

The Matriarch did not look at Shango. She did not look at Mythara. She looked only at Vaerros until he nodded in acceptance, then waved off the Leviathan.

"The Rite of Measure is not a fight to the death. It is not a fight for dominance. It is a fight to prove your strength. Without authority, there is no order. But authority has no value without strength. I believe you have more than proven your strength here. Are there any who disagree?"

Her words lay across the arena like a calm sea after a storm. None of the Seats rejected her assessment. Somewhere on Earth, a crowd started cheering and discovered there were no words left, only a long unbroken note that picked up other notes until whole neighborhoods were humming.

Vaerros looked at Shango and showed his teeth without malice.

"Good fight," he said, with genuine enthusiasm.

Shango, catching his breath, grinned back at the mountain of muscle and lifted two fingers in a lazy salute.

From the side, the Conductor finally let himself exhale. Amaterasu's eyes shone. Mythara's expression did not change.

Cefketa remained standing long enough to make a statement he did not voice, then sat, the ghost of a smile appearing on his face before it died.

Shango rolled his neck and winced. He looked down at his tattered suit, barely holding together, and then looked toward the tiny lens that had become the eye of the world. Because he could not help himself, he winked again.

Across the planet, laughter broke like rain.

The Seats lowered in their circle. The delegations looked everywhere except at their own hands. The cameras lingered on Shango until he grew bored and looked back at them with a smirk that would be painted on walls—before he playfully waved them off.

Humanity has proven its worth. But worth fades if it is not guarded. Authority, once claimed, must be held.