Valkyrie of Desire

0. Prologue

Out of darkness, light

Out of dreams, function

Belief is to cry

I am religion

—Baldr Hildrson

A narrow gray door bars the way, separating mortal from divine, and upon its silver knob hangs an "out of order" sign. Lady Darla Desire paces with a scowl marring her bronze-hued face. A wall clock ticks, resonating like a plucked razor wire. Patience is not a virtue of her fiery kind.

Down-filled pillows, plush couches, and a thick gray carpet—An ennui lover furnished this light-blue waiting room. Darla kicks a cushion. The softness inflames emotions rubbed raw, and her pointed toenails rip azure cloth. Feathers float like autumn leaves, and she coughs.

"Pantheon Gyme, damn you." She bangs on the stone door. "I demand an audience!"

Her voice echoes off the hard surface and is absorbed by the padded furnishings. Underneath her teeth-grinding rage, a tickle of worry grows.

"Come on," she says. "For an hour or even a minute, let me back inside my girl."

Footsteps squish in the carpet behind Darla. She turns to face a green-skinned man with waxy wings. Lord Icarus Path's physique is sculpted from the dreams of countless women. His shoulders are broad, and his muscles are thick with veins clear as a road map to all his points of power.

"They're closed," says Icarus.

Support drones are slaved to eternal service. How dare they be closed.

Darla narrows her ruby eyes at the hunky man. "I got booted from my host. I can't reconnect, and now Support keeps my door shut. What is happening?"

He shrugs. "Technical difficulties."

"Localized?"

"I've checked around. Not just our team. No one has access."

In a contest for who rules all, any problem could be corruption.

Darla snarls, flashing feline fangs. "I must go see what she's doing—"

"The lobby's viewing streams are down too."

"Impossible." She shakes her head. "This must be sabotage."

"Who would dare?"

Darla grunts and turns from Icarus, hiding her disgust. While he has a handsome face and a fit body, he is sentimental and naive, which has stymied their team over the years. She clenches her fists to keep her claws sheathed and practices a disarming smile before turning back.

A disembodied and genderless voice says, "Attention! All players have been purged from Pantheon Gyme. Until further notice, no new connections are authorized. Please return to New Ortome Central."

"A purge?" Darla spins about, but the walls remain faceless; not even a speaker box presents itself as a target.

Every waiting room is unique, furnished to compliment an assigned user's personality. Hers must have been designed by some halfwit psychoanalyst that picked blues to smooth her mood and soft surfaces to cushion her violence.

She settles on her winged companion and punches his chest. "My girl's in the middle of a mission."

Icarus grunts under the blow but does not stagger. "Sounds terrible."

"Yes!" She punches again, but he catches her fist. "Can't you let me hurt you?"

Letting go, he blows on his finger tips and grins. "Does your mission involve breaking more hearts?"