Path of Heroes

By J.S. Ramirez

Every summer, a hundred-plus teenagers gather for a game of sweeping scope and daring adventure at a summer camp called Path of Heroes. This year's scenario promises to be absolutely insane. Mysterious scientists with shrouded motives have ripped four civilizations out of the ancient world for a gamified test of dominance. Epic battles. Secret plots. Time travel. Mentors from the ancient past, brought into the future to guide the players to victory. 

 

Pretty much your standard average youth camp, right? Until the game careens off the rails in a direction nobody expected. 

 

Now the past and future of the world are at stake, and it'll be up to the players, not the adults, to decide the final outcome of a battle between heroic good and calculating evil.

 

Quiet musician Ariel, warrior-hearted Marcus, and fast-thinking, head-turning Jessie will use all their cunning, strength, courage and faith to defeat their challenges and come off conqueror, or die trying.
    
Well, not really die trying. It's just a game, after all. 

Right?
    
One thing's for sure, though: nobody will be the same after...

 

PATH OF HEROES

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.S. Ramirez
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215383438

Book preview

by J. S. Ramirez

PATH OF HEROES  © 2023 J.S. Ramirez

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental, except where noted otherwise.

Cover illustration and design by J.S. Ramirez © 2023. All rights

reserved.

First edition: April 2023

For Anna.

AUTHOR’S WARNING AND INVITATION

Political correctness and rigid devotion to historical fact have both been abandoned in favor of having fun and the Rule of Cool.

This is not a history book, nor is it historical fiction. There are things in this book, relevant to history, which are  completely made-up.

You were warned. :)

The warning done with, here is my invitation: if anything in here inspires you or makes you curious, please go look up the real topic in a non-fiction book. Make sure to find a good one. If you must, use the internet. Because real history, not to mention life itself, is absolutely fascinating, and I have hidden little golden nuggets, jokes, and references throughout the story you are about to enjoy.

With warmth,

— J.S. Ramirez

Chapter 1

Ariel heard the gravelly crunch of the minivan pulling into the driveway just as she was starting the second verse. She slapped her hand down on the rusty guitar strings to muffle the sound.

I thought she'd be gone longer

She jumped up and slid the guitar back into the soft polyester gig bag, the strings buzzing a little as they scraped against the zipper. A hollow echo sounded when she bumped it against the closet door frame, slipping it quickly but carefully into the back of her closet, behind her soft grey church dress. The guitar looked forlorn back there. Like it was sad that she wouldn't take it out and play it unless there was literally no one in the house.

Sorry. She reached in and patted the body, near the neck. I didn't think she'd be back so soon.

She draped her brown winter jacket over the top of it for good measure, then went back to her bed to hide the chord sheets beneath her spring mattress, lifting the creaking side a half an inch so she could slip the yellowing folder beneath. The mattress was very old: one of the springs poked out near the edge where she hid the sheets. Another hidden thing: she'd duct taped a clean rag around the end of the wire so it wouldn't poke her too badly, and always kept her bed made with her stuffed gorilla sitting on the spring so the lump wouldn't show.

Luckily, Mom wasn't nosy. Too busy to be nosy.

The downstairs front door opened.

Hey-eeey! Mom sang, her cheerful soprano rising up through the floorboards, probably going all the way through the ceiling, to heaven. Ohhh, gor-geouuus! Come help us bring in grrrr-oooo-ceries!

Ariel, already at the top of the stairway, descended. The bare wooden steps, worn pale in the middles, creaked beneath Ariel's feet. She avoided looking at the green door at the bottom of the stairs, like she always did. By habit.

Mom set the groceries on the table, thin brown bags that looked empty, except for the clunk when Mom set them down. Ariel's little sister Sophia followed after, her own skinny twelve-year-old arms straining to keep two bags. Sophia had smooth dark hair like Mom's, instead of red and perpetually tangled like Ariel's. She was going to be slender and beautiful, like Mom. And she was cheerful like Mom, except when she wrote her super dark edgy poetry, which always made Mom nervous. But even her dark edgy poetry, which was usually about death, dismemberment, or the dark abyss of despair, had a sort of cheerfulness to it. Like smiley faces drawn in gooey black paint.

Mom almost ran over Slobbers again, Sophia’s big dark eyes shone bright with glee. She's gonna get him one of these days, and it's gonna be mess-eeey...

"Sophia Annette! Mom raised her hands to the sides of her head. Don't say that!"

Slobbers had chased Sophia once when she was eight, barking and growling while she screamed and sobbed and ran, the dog only called off by his beer-gut-scratching owner at the last second. Sophia had declared their ‘mutual vendetta’ would last until the literal end of the world, and Slobbers seemed to agree. He had starred in a few of Sophia's bloodiest poems, most of them ending in way-too-happy, heartfelt eulogies.

Sophia smiled sweetly up at their mom. Oh, it'll be an accident, Mom. A most tragic and woeful accident. You won't mean it. And I shall be as sorrowful as anyone to know that poor Slobbers has perished… in skid marks of blood.

She pulled a little pocket notebook out of her jeans, and her pencil from behind her ear. Ooh, that's good. Skid… marks… of…

Mom grimaced a little, trying to turn it into a smile. Ariel would have laughed, but Ariel hadn't laughed for a year.

They brought in the rest of the groceries, bags of discount foods from a wholesale store, and the basket of clean laundry. Their washer had broken down months ago, and so Mom went to the laundromat once a week. They put the past-date bread in the freezer, and sorted through the co-op fruits. Then Sophia ran upstairs, notebook fluttering. Probably off to compose her next poem.

I found your favorite, said Mom. She held up a box of fruit-filled granola bars with a discount sticker on them. Ariel forced a smile. She didn't really like granola bars any more.

Thanks, Mom. Ariel wished her mom still knew her. She didn't doubt her mom loved her, but loving didn't seem to be the same thing as knowing right now.

They sat on opposite ends of the sagging olive couch, the one that Grandma had given them.

Mom pulled a pair of Sophia's faded jeans from the laundry basket. That stupid dog ran right out in front of us. I barely braked in time. She folded the jeans in neat thirds. Mom always folded neatly.

Ariel picked up a pair of Mom’s socks. I really hope Slobbers learns to stop chasing cars before Sophia gets her drivers license.

Mom nodded absently, then realized what Ariel was actually saying and winced.

Do you think you could maybe talk your sister into writing something… that doesn't involve blood somehow?

Ariel pulled a black pleated skirt from the basket. Sophia’s. She, um, kinda likes blood.

Yeah. Mom stopped folding laundry and rubbed her forehead, her eyes closed. She's just… she's just coping. I'm sorry. That's not your job. I'm the mom. That's my job. I'll… it's all right.

For a moment, Mom seemed to shrink a little. They both did not glance at the green door at the foot of the bare wooden stairs, and they didn't say anything else about it. Ariel wanted to hug Mom, for herself as much as for Mom’s sake, but she didn't know how any more.

I wish I hadn’t brought up Slobbers again, Ariel thought.

Ariel helped Mom finish folding the laundry.

Baby, asked Mom, picking up a stack of washcloths. What do you need?

Ariel didn't know how to answer. There was something, Ariel knew. But it wasn't anything Mom could do for her. It wasn't anything anyone could do for her, as far as she could tell. Even if Mom had money for Ariel to dare to ask for a new mattress. Even if Ariel could stand the thought of somebody else hearing her play Duke. Even if Ariel could cross that forever distance across the sagging olive couch and give Mom the hug they both were quickly forgetting how to give.

The thing was, Mom wasn't the one that Ariel needed that something from. And Ariel didn't know if anybody, ever, could give it to her. The one person who could have given it to her had left, and was not going to return.

I'm okay, said Ariel.

.  .  .  .  .

Later that night, Ariel tried to read from the New Testament, her eyes wandering from column to small-print column of verses, not really comprehending them. She did it, though, she sat there at the wobbly kitchen table and she looked at the words on the fragile pages. Words that had once seemed so sure, so steady, and now they seemed to talk in a lost language about something that was also lost. The way she had believed in some things when she was a child, and could not any more, as much as she wanted to.

She didn’t dare talk about this to anyone.

There were a lot of lost things she didn’t dare to talk about.

Scriptures were a fading habit for her now. To flip through the pages, looking for something.

She didn’t know what.

Mom sat at the other end of the table, sorting through papers. Ariel didn’t ask if they were bills or tax stuff or lawyer-y things. Mom would tell her if she needed Ariel’s help.

Mom’s phone lit up and buzzed. She still hadn’t changed the ringtone from the one Dad set on her phone. ‘Fields of Gold’. It was by some band Mom liked when she was young. She and dad had met at a concert. Ariel hummed something else, on purpose.

Mom picked up her phone, flicked the screen to answer.

Hey! said Mom.

Hey! said a booming voice. Mom’s brother, Uncle Pete. Ariel looked up from 1st Timothy. She didn’t mind being distracted, especially by big, happy Uncle Pete. He was the dad of her two favorite cousins, Priscilla, who everyone called Silly, and Hal. They lived really far away, though, and Ariel hardly ever saw them.

Mom set the phone back down. You’re on speaker. Ariel’s here.

Oh, good. We wanted to talk to her, too. Hi, Ariel!

Ariel! said a high voice. Silly. "You never answer your phone!"

Mom raised her eyebrows.

You call so late, said Ariel. Mom made her leave her hand-me-down beat-up flip phone with a cracked screen plugged in next to the kitchen sink every night. Ariel barely made enough babysitting to pay the month-to-month anyway.

Okay, said Uncle Pete, Silly wanted to make an offer to Ariel.

Silly piped up. I want you to come to Path of Heroes!

I’m here too, said Hal. He was younger than Silly, but his voice was deeper now. He might even be taller.

Mom shuffled the bills.

What’s Path of Heroes? asked Ariel.

It’s the BEST, said Silly.

Yeah, but what is it?

It’s… well… it’s just the best. We go, and there’s, like, a huuuuuge game, and then it’s really intense, but it’s fun, and we have a talent night, and me and Hal played piano last year, and then on Friday they have awards, and a dance, and then we go home, and everybody cries cause nobody really wants to go home.

A long silence. Ariel pictured Silly waiting with a bright smile on her face, as if that explained everything and any moment now Ariel would jump in begging to come without any other prompting.

So… what is it? Ariel asked. Is it like girl's camp or something?

Are you kidding? said Hal, and from the way he spoke, Ariel could tell he was quoting something. Blasting. Fighting. Torture. Vengeance. Aliens. Chases. Escapes. True Love. Miracles.

Another pause. Ariel could hear Uncle Pete laughing in the background.

Was that a movie reference? Ariel asked him. Hal frequently spoke in movie references.

Yeah, did you get it?

No, sorry.

Oh. Well, that’s what Path of Heroes is. Especially this year, minus the aliens.

"Okay, no aliens. But what is it?"

Uncle Pete intervened. So, Path of Heroes is this program put on by the lady who runs the school that Hal and Silly go to. The kids love it. You’ll want to look up the website.

You gotta come! Silly sang.

Shh, gimme a second, said Uncle Pete. Anyway, it’s really good, the kids went last year and they couldn’t shut up about it, although Silly cried in the car the whole ride home—

— I did! It was great!—

It was inconceivable! Hall interrupted

—and then they were zombies for two days because they were so tired, which was pretty great actually, cause they stopped tormenting their sister for a while. The next one’s in June, we just signed up, it’s life-changing, you gotta go.

Mom and Ariel waited for further explanation.

Okay, said Mom. "But what is it, Pete?"

Please let Ariel come! Silly begged. Please Aunt Jenny. Please make her come!

It’s hard to explain, said Uncle Pete. You’ve got to look it up. But we miss you guys, and we’re kind of hoping that you’ll come visit us for a while in the summer. If you came around then, Ariel could go to it, with Silly and Hal, and she’d make a whole bunch of friends there, good kids, and…

Uncle Pete paused.

Well, actually, we just want you to come spend time with us. We think it’d be good, cause we love you. And we're out of town until right before Path of Heroes, but after, if you wanted, we'd be real glad to have you visit.

Ariel nodded. Uncle Pete did love her.

How much is it? asked Mom, in a casual voice.

It’s… well, it’s a few hundred dollars.

Oh, said Mom. And it’s in June?

She looked at her calendar, the one on the wall. Mom still used a paper calendar.

I’ll look it up, said Ariel.

She missed Silly and Hal. She wished they hadn’t moved. And something about their excitement for this thing, it made her want to go. Even just to spend time with them. It would feel like things were normal again. She hadn’t seen them in a long time.

Well, sure, said Mom. We’ll look it up.

And Ariel, Silly got louder, like she was leaning into the phone. "When you sign up, I’m with the Scots!"

The Scots?

Like, Scotland? said Ariel.

Yes, like Scotland.

Scotland, Path of Heroes. It all felt good, although Ariel couldn’t say why. Maybe it was just the idea of spending time with Silly. Whatever it was, it was guaranteed to be fun, because Silly had recommended it.

Ariel took in a breath.

I want to go, she thought, but she didn’t say it. She didn’t dare to say it. It was probably too expensive, and she had no idea what they were talking about, and she still didn’t know what it was. But she wanted to go. Forget the mattress. And maybe even forget the new guitar strings… Duke would understand.

But it was a few hundred dollars to go.

Plus a plane ticket.

She didn’t dare ask mom. Asking Uncle Pete to pay Ariel's ticket was out of the question. But there had to be another way.

.  .  .  .  .

Ariel laid in bed that night, at an angle so she wouldn’t be laying on the spring that had come through the mattress. Around her in the old house, the walls settled, popping now and then. She had her window open, just a crack, and a little breeze came in.

Ariel hadn’t wanted to do anything but play Duke and read books for a long time. Now she wanted something new, but it was out of reach.

Silly would miss her when she didn’t come. Of course Silly would miss her.

I want to go to Path of Heroes, Ariel whispered. She wasn’t sure if she was praying, she’d had a hard time doing that lately. She’d asked for things that she wanted, things that were far more important than Path of Heroes.

She hadn’t gotten them, so she’d stopped asking.

But now, she wanted something again, and she wanted it more than she thought she should.

It was kind of impossible for her to go to Path of Heroes, whatever it was.

She still wanted to go, though.

I’ll try and earn the money, she thought. Mom would let her go if she got the money. They’d looked it up. It was three hundred dollars… Ariel swallowed. What could she do to make three hundred dollars?

I'll figure it out, Ariel thought.

Okay. She still wasn’t sure if she was praying or not. I’ll work hard and get the money. I want to go.

She paused. She nearly asked, please let me go. But her eyes suddenly welled up with stinging, angry tears. Nope. Not happening. I’m not asking You for that. Or for anything else that matters. She shut the window, cutting off the breeze.

I want to go. Keeping her voice level.

She felt something like calm.

She didn’t know how, but she was going.

Chapter 2

Marcus took his place, ignoring the funky smell in his mask. No matter how he washed it, that stale face sweat smell always came back. Marcus held his sword, a thin, light epee, up to his face, saluting first his opponent, then the ref. The cable that ran from the guard, up his sleeve, and out the back of his clothes went out behind him, tugging lightly.

C'mon, Marcus, focus! yelled his coach.

Marcus stiffened, straightened.

All around them, the squeak of shoes on the basketball gym floor, the thin clash of steel, and the occasional shrill whistling noise signifying a hit.

Focus!

Team tournament. Fencing. Three on three. Nine bouts, three minutes each. The score was 24-25.

En guard, said the referee.

Marcus took his spot between the parallel blue lines marking the piste, right foot forward, left back and offset, his epee out in front of him. 

Coach had told him to be a brick wall for this one. To just keep the opposing score low. Eli, the best fencer on their team, would make up the points after Marcus got beaten.

Marcus faced the other team's Eli.

Pretz, allez! yelled the ref.

Marcus flicked his epee lightly as his opponent, a short guy (at least, for an epee fencer) with a low stance, lunged forward, their flexible blades curving and returning to straight in less time than it took to think about it. Marcus moved back as his opponent tested him, both waiting for the micro-moment of weakness.

But then an opening presented itself to Marcus.

Shoulder.

Marcus went for it.

He heard the shrill ringing of the scorekeeper box before his brain registered the tip of his opponent's epee jabbing his bicep. The crowd cheered.

They returned to the lines.

"En guard!" The ref's suitcoat rumpled as he raised his hands.

Marcus readied himself. C'mon, Marcus. Just step into line. Do what coach said. Run down the clock, waste this guy's time preventing him from hitting, get a non-combative end if you can. Then let Eli make up the points.

Marcus knew it wasn't losing on purpose. But it kind of felt like it.

MARCUS! Coach yelled, as if to confirm. C'MON!

"Pretz, said the ref. Allez."

Just hold him. Hold him like a brick wall.

Coach had told him, even before the match, that he was outclassed at this meet, that he was serving as an alternate because Briggs had his appendix out, to not get any dumb ideas, and to just be part of the team, and that if he worked hard, maybe next year...

Their epees clicked together, whipping out and back. Marcus pushed forward, then stepped back as his opponent lunged, exposing himself again. Marcus held back from trying to score on that opening, and it closed. This guy would offer targets, relying on his speed to parry-riposte.

His opponent, faceless behind the dark fencer's mask, lunged forward once more, and Marcus retreated, moving his sword purposefully to keep the distance where he wanted it. Marcus was tall. Long limbs were a distinct advantage in epee.

But the other team's version of Eli darted forward again, pushing into Marcus' range, flicking aside the tip of Marcus' sword and scoring another hit on his leg. The scorekeeper box shrilled again.

That happened twice more, once Marcus scoring a hit on the guys arm as he got hit in the leg, for a double.

4-1 so far. And 30 - 25 for the team. One bout left, after Marcus.

Marcus was pretty used to being outclassed. He'd been outclassed since birth by his brother, Colin. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

Marcus took a breath, shook out his tense hand, flicked the epee.

Okay. Let's try offense.

"En guard! Pretz, allez!"

Marcus leapt forward, taking his opponent by surprise, such that he would have landed a hit if not for a parry that Marcus could not help admiring, even as the riposte caught him in the hip. The crowd cheered.

NO, MARCUS! Coach yelled, and Marcus could hear the anger in his voice.

Marcus jaw clenched, and the anger rippled down into his arm. Brick wall. I'm a brick wall. He cooled it down, shook it off. Brick walls don't get angry.

Another clash of steel. Marcus held his own for ten seconds before his opponent's epee opened a hole in his defenses and scored again, left shoulder. Shrill ringing. Crowd cheering.

Marcus looked at the clock. They hadn't even used up a full minute on the timer yet.

Crap…

. . . . .

Marcus sagged face down onto the grey livingroom carpet, leaving his bag of fencing gear right where it dropped.

Ooooohhh… he moaned. His shoulders ached. Everything ached.

His brother, Colin, poked him with a shoe-tip. Aw, poor sucker.

Marcus’ arms ached too much to wave his brother off. Shut up.

You lost. It wasn’t a question. You always sulk when you lose.

Marcus dug his fingers into the carpet, imagining them around Colin’s stupid neck. Yes, he’d lost. The whole team lost. And it was all Marcus' fault, but none of Colin’s business.

Colin ruffled Marcus' hair in a way that made Marcus clench his teeth. At least you get next year. Dude, you're gross. Go take a shower.

Marcus had an urge to whip out his epee and used it on Colin, but he was too wiped out to fight Colin right now, and Mom would probably take it away. Besides, before their mom had pulled them out of public school, Colin had played on the football team (Marcus refused to remember what position, only that it was an important one that usually got the ball) and therefore, Colin knew a thing or two about tackling and it would end in rugburns and bruises for Marcus. Colin was tall, handsome, and funny, and all the girls liked him, and he got his homework done in a neat line of As, and had a very sensible and responsible face that adults immediately trusted, so he got away with all the stuff that nobody told Mom. He was also three years older — nineteen now.

Marcus stretched out his feet, making himself completely flat on the carpet. He refused to wish that he was Colin. Even when Marcus was alone and daydreaming, he never dreamed that he was Colin. On principle. He’d dream of being better than Colin. But not actually being him. Because that would be gross.

Mother called from the kitchen. Marcus, could you come here for a minute?

Marcus grunted and shook his head, the carpet rough on his cheek.

Now, please.

Dragging himself off the floor seemed to take more effort than anything else that day. He started scooting forward.

Hey, why are you crawling around on the floor? asked Mom. Path of Heroes signups, dude. I just registered you. Come pick your group.

Path of Heroes?

PATH OF HEROES!

Marcus bounced up off the carpet and hurried into the main room. Mom sat on a tall stool by the white granite bar in the kitchen, MacBook open.

She ruffled his hair like Colin had, then made a face. You’re all sweaty. Do not lay on my carpet again until you’ve showered. Here you go. Figure out which one you want to do, and sign up. Then shower. You're disgusting.

Marcus only half-heard her: he was already scrolling through the website.

Path of Heroes! Part debate club, part political simulation, part role-playing game, part youth camp, part four day long rugby match. Path of Heroes was the thing that Marcus looked forward to more than any other event, except maybe Christmas. Even that was pretty close. Christmas was only one day. Path of Heroes was four.

And this Path of Heroes was the best one ever because Colin was finally too old to go!

Finally!

Freaking finally!

Whatever team Colin was on always won, and Colin always took credit for it.

This was going to be the best Path of Heroes ever. Marcus hunched over the screen to read this year’s scenario.

PATH OF HEROES!!!

CLASH OF NATIONS!

Marcus skimmed over the description. Something about evil scientists, and time travel, and a big contest between different cultures, and a bunch of other stuff. He’d read it later. Right now, he wanted to pick a winning team, so he scrolled down some more to see what the options were.

Choose Your Cultural Role

After registration, you are invited to select the part you want to play in one of the four cultures! Costumes encouraged!

"Ha ha, sweet." Marcus scrolled down past the registration stuff to the descriptions. Marcus knew right away he wasn’t picking the Tang Empire. The description said that they were artists and artisans and ‘highly cultured’. He’d been to enough of these things before. The artsy group wasn’t for him. Everybody would want to sit around making baskets or picking flowers or whatever, and he didn’t want to be stuck with them while the cool stuff happened everywhere else.

The hardwood floor creaked just behind Marcus' stool.

Don’t pick the Tang, said Colin, over his shoulder. Lame.

Marcus forced down the urge to turn around and hit him. Dude, stop.

I’m just saying…

Stop!

Colin smirked, but didn’t leave.

Marcus scrolled down to the next option. Aztecs. He didn’t know much about the Aztecs. Mesoamerican? The picture of the Aztec warrior they had on the site looked pretty cool – jaguar skin hood, face paint, a spear... They’d probably get to do cool stuff in that group.

Scots? A man and woman in medieval clothes glared fiercely up from the screen. The Scots would probably like his fencing skills.

He winced at the memory of his recent losses.

Okay, maybe not.

He scrolled down to a picture of a woman dressed as a Roman senator, and a man in full Roman Legion armor. Romans!

Wait, who’s running these groups? asked Colin, so near to Marcus that he was basically breathing in Marcus’ ear.

Marcus scooped up mom’s MacBook, grabbed his barstool, and dragged it into a corner so Colin could not look over his shoulder.

Why does he always try to be one step ahead all the time? Marcus wasn’t a dummy. This would be his third Path of Heroes. He wanted to pick a group that would be awesome, that would win the Sim. A cool mentor would make or break it. The right mentor with the right group could win.

He clicked on the page to show the Staff Team.

Hm… Katrina was running the Aztec group. She was pretty smart. She’d been going to Path of Heroes as one of the players for a while. She’d probably be good. And her Staff Team partner looked buff. They’d probably get work done.

He didn’t know the ones who were mentoring the Scots group. A man with dark hair, and a blonde woman. Their bios didn’t tell him much either.

He skipped past the Tang Empire mentors — he didn’t care who was mentoring in the Tang Empire.

When he scrolled down to see who was mentoring in the Romans, he grinned.

Mercurius Ezüst

A picture of a silver haired man with a mischeivous gleam in his eye grinned up at Marcus from the page.

Mr. Z.

Mr. Freaking Z.

Mr. Freaking Z was a Mister Freaking Legend. An absolute Path of Heroes legend among legends. The stories about Mr. Z! Marcus had gotten sick for the last Path of Heroes, and had missed it completely. He still felt mad about that. Colin had gotten sick first, gave it to Marcus, and got well in time to go.

The scenario had been a space adventure where everybody had been captured by aliens. At the end of the sim, the aliens (played by members of the StaffTeam) had been about to fry all the humans, but somehow Mr. Z had snuck fifty Nerf guns into the game, and when the Staff Team had been about to toss them out an airlock, Mr. Z had jumped up on a table, everyone on his team had pulled out Nerf guns, and Mr. Z explained how things were going to go amid the racking of slides and cocking of weapons. The aliens had two options:

1. Let the humans go free.

2. Die horribly, and let the humans go free.

Of course, the aliens had decided to let the humans go free, minus the dying horribly part. To this day, nobody knew how Mr. Z had gotten fifty Nerf guns past the rest of the Staff Team without anybody catching him.

Glorious.

If anybody could lead a winning team this Path of Heroes it’d be Mr. Z leading the Romans.

You should join the Aztecs, said Colin, from across the room. He had his tablet out, and was on the Path of Heroes website. "Those guys got stuff done. And they weren’t held back by democratic elections and a Judeo-Christian moral code and crap like that. Oh, and Killer Katrina is running it. She's ruthless. Machiavellian. Respect."

Well, that settled it.

I’m going with the Romans, said Marcus.

Colin shrugged. Okay. Have fun losing.

What are you talking about? Mr. Z is awesome.

Sure, said Colin, very matter-of-fact, "Mr. Z is awesome. No doubt about it. So awesome that every year, somebody tries to kill him. Usually they succeed. Usually it takes him out right at a key stage of the game. He got lucky last year. And he’s blind to politics, the underhanded stuff. Sure, he can grandstand okay, he can rally a movement, whatever. But the sneaky stuff just comes at him from his blind spot, sideswipes him, takes him out. Mr. Z is the guy everybody follows, but then he leads them off a cliff he didn't know about in a glorious charge, getting everyone killed by the people who were actually running things in the shadows."

Marcus wasn’t sure whether to believe Colin or not. Then again, Colin ran things from the shadows like the Dark Lord himself, so...

Colin smirked. It’s a tradition. Every year, someone tries to assassinate Mr. Z. They failed last year because I was there, and I pulled a few strings and made sure it didn't happen. Trust me, he’d have died. But I'm not there this year. He's dead meat. Good luck winning the game without a mentor.

Shut up.

Colin tapped Marcus’ screen for emphasis. "Dude. Aztecs are where it’s at. Tribal-imperialistic-colonialist culture, warlike, conquering, no stupid religious weakness or democratic sympathies to keep them from doing what it takes to win… ha.