Godcard (Enjoy Your God-Given Superpowers/Magic!)

Eyes on the clock, eyes on the teacher. Back to the clock, back to the teacher.

Around three minutes left, or so you surmise. You observe the clock carefully while pretending to pay attention. The math class is boring, but it's the last on the list today. Then, you're going to play basketball with a few other girls from your class. You're looking forward to it, more than anything this week, really.

Something on the edge of your consciousness keeps bugging you. Is it this morning? The Mandela Effect? Not even you are sure at this point.

You look into your notebook and go across the pages, to the most recent one, then copy the equation on the board. The girl who just finished it walks down the gap between desks and sits down, three places in front of you.

Eyes on the clock. Two minutes. You go to the last page of the notebook.

Eyes on the teacher. Eyes on the board. Eyes in front of you. The person two desks in front of you rises and goes to the board to complete the equation. It's hard to tell if it reaches you before the bell rings. Probably not. Whatever.

You look down into your notebook and start scribbling, for a lack of a better term. Probably out of boredom. You're restless today, more than usual, and for no apparent reason. It's arbitrary and you can't control it. It annoys you more than anything else, really. Even in short spans of time, you find it that you have to distract your mind with some activity, or you'll go nuts.

Shame you can't do it with math.

Eyes on the board. The kid's about to finish the equation, judging by the approximate length of the other ones. You look at the clock. One minute and about twenty seconds. You go back several pages and copy the equation while he goes to sit down.

The person in front of you rises. You go back to the end of the notebook and keep scribbling.

Some time passes. The person finishes the equation and sits down, but there are twenty seconds left. The teacher says that's enough for today. You close your notebook and pack your things.

You go past the desks and are the first to leave the classroom.


Sports are your things. During PE class, everyone wants you on their team.

That explains why the girls begin to argue halfway through the match why having you on the team is unfair. You can't help but be smug about it. You go back to the changing room to get some water to drink.

"What the..."

A black box, like one for shoes, sits in your backpack, but smaller. It's roughly the length of a hand, and similar in width. It's clearly visible. Someone left it there on purpose for you to find, there's no doubt about it.

Whatever. Not like anyone put an IED in your backpack. You're a high-schooler, not a corporate overlord. You take the box in your hands and open it, then look inside to determine the contents.

The first thing you see is some kind of letter, though it's the size of a receipt with a similar font to one. Below it, you see a plastic bag, like ones that detectives use for evidence with what looks like an opaque black rectangle, as well as some kind of golden token with a symbol on it.

You absentmindedly stare at it, then slowly walk over to the door to the changing room and lock it. Just to be safe.

You check the letter first, assuming it will explain what all of this means.

Huh.

You feel something sting your fingers, like a needle. You let go of the paper, which literally turns into dust and dissipates in mid-air. You take a step back.

Freaky.

[] Look at whatever's in the box when you get home.
[] You read the letter. You might as well take this 'fragment of glory' here and now.

You put it into your backpack and zip up the horrifying, possibly reality-altering problem for later. Then, you capture your own thought before it escapes you and ponder if 'problem' is the right word for it. Since you're on edge lately, you are quick to jump to a conclusion like this.

You go back and enjoy a game of basketball with the girls. That is to say, they're either happy to have you on their team or angry you're on the other team, while you score all on your own, mostly unaided save for the occasional, helpful toss. It's hard to focus, with all of these recent events. You're getting confused more and more by the hour, to the point where at one point you stop running and barely catch the ball as one of the girls passes it to you.

Time blurs before you notice, and half an hour passes by. The game ends by consensus that it's getting late, and with your team winning nineteen to thirteen. That's not bad for ordinary people, but for you, that's drastically below average. You alone are probably a better player than the entire enemy team together, let alone when you play with others to back you up.

You lack concentration. The events of the past twenty-four hours made your thinking shoddy. One of the girls, what was her name again? Susan? Yes, that's it. Susan McNessa approaches you with a concerned gaze.

"Kari. Everything alright?"

While the worries you're feeling are genuine, it's better to mask them for now. You react with an indifferent shrug. "Yeah. I'm a little... shaken. I had an insane dream this morning. It's alright."

Of course, she insists on asking questions, because life is never easy. "Dream? What, like a nightmare?" She blinks, oblivious to your furtive advances.

"Kind of." You secure the irritation inside you.

Once again, she asks needlessly, "What was it about?"

You lie quickly, using the first idea that comes to thought. "Eh. Walked through a creepy forest. It felt really... well, real, though. That's why I'm like this. It's alright, seriously. I'll get over it."

"Alright." At that point, your clouded expression makes it clear you're not looking for further conversation right now, and she gets the hint.

You change and go back home by evening.


There is a security to things like these. Someone gives you a suspicious package the same day you get Mandela'd by the universe, there's obviously going to be some precautions to things. Firstly, you lock the door to your room. Next, you roll down the window blinds and make sure there's no conceivable way to look through, and next, you put on a pair of winter leather gloves.

The last time you handled something from that box, it turned to ash from what you, an admittedly brawn-oriented person, can only imagine being a chemical reaction. Let's not have any of that and risk touch-poison from a plastic-bag, shall we?

You remove the plastic bag and token from the box, then ensure there's nothing else inside.

Okay. First, the token. It looks relatively safe.

It's almost like a button from a dress shirt, but gold and slightly circular. It seems to have no conceivable purpose or distinguishing features or marks.

Next, the plastic bag. Within it is a black rectangle, but its thinness reminds you of something. You flop the bag to the other side and come to realize what you're looking at is actually a card. Black background, with light gray shapes and writing that you don't recognize, like some kind of fictional bullshit-language, except it might not be fictional and you're just bad at recognizing alphabets.

Something yearns in you, as if telling you to take a closer look. Your hand reaches for it imperceptibly, outside your control, but by the time it almost pokes the edge of the bag, you stop it with conscious effort.

That's also when you notice the glove is gone from it and is now lying on the ground. Did you take it off in order to touch the card? Why would you want to touch the card? You put on the glove for the explicit purpose of not doing that.

No, please, that's insane, you think, just in time to stop your other hand, gloveless, from touching the damned thing.

You take three steps back to put a safe buffer of distance between you and the card. At this range, reaching for it is impossible. If you walk closer, you'll notice surely. Still, it terrifies you. That thing wants contact, or maybe, when you look at it you want contact with it, without realizing it? Your own limbs move without input, seeking the card, drawn to it...

No!

Your foot hesitates. You felt the heel raise for a split-second, then forced it back down with mental effort. Not just your hands. Your entire body desires that thing. It had desired it ever since you first glanced upon it, and now you can't control the urge to connect with it.

Thoughts flood your mind, occupying you from keeping yourself away from the card. Reject those thoughts, or capture them? Screw it. Let's try fifty-fifty. You direct half your attention to thinking and half of it to keeping yourself consciously at bay from the card.

One of the thoughts that lapses through your head is that no matter what, a moment of weakness will occur sooner or later and you will touch the card if it exists, unless you throw it out, which you don't want to do until you know what it is. So, the best outcome is to touch it now.

But then, another thought, as if objecting in court, straddles in and tries to sober you by claiming that the previous thought was actually a subconscious part of your mind feeding you lies, caused by the card's malignant influence. That thing alters the brain to make the body act on its own! It can't be trusted, the thought argues. And in that same vein, the first thought cannot be trusted as it is the card's wicked influence causing it.

The first thought accuses the second one of slander.

The second one argues slander is spoken, and thoughts can't speak.

The first one flips the table.

The second one angrily alleges the first one has to pay for damages done to the train of thought.

Instead, the first one laughs triumphantly as you notice that your right hand is firmly holding the black card between the thumb and index finger.

"Fuck."

Things flash before your eyes. Information. Victory in form. Swift and relentless judgement of the gods. An ancient battle where many lives were lost. A man running for over twenty miles to inform his compatriots of victory. Then he dies, but he died a winner. He died a winner. Victory in form, but not in truth.

You look down at the black card in your hand and understand instantly.

The writing, once gray alien runes, now you read with perfect clarity, and in your eyes, they blaze like fire.


The card shows the information to you and updates itself as new information is gained. More importantly, the instant you touched it, you understood everything with perfect clarity. Your brain processed the information flawlessly, like a supercomputer, and now you understand.

This card is imbued with an element of a goddess. Nike, the personification of victory. You are compatible with her at one-hundred percent, which means that you are similar to her in regards to personality. You were compatible with several cards. Some people are compatible with one, more are compatible with several, but by turn of fate, this is the one you were given.

Because there is a winner living inside of you. Someone who consciously strives to achieve victory in a medium, in your case, sports. And sports are, after all, the thing most associated with the concept of victory other than presidential elections.

Somehow, you understand all this. The above facts were already processed by you a decisecond after you made contact with the card as if they were always there. Even the emotion of shock at such a revelation is very fleeting at best.

The information on the card is related to its specialty. The first line is the name and sobriquets of the entity whose fragment is sealed inside it.

Next is its type, first identified by the vague species of the entity, then by its series. In this case, Nike being a goddess, the card classifies as a Godcard. Because she is a goddess and concurrently the personification of victory, her domain belongs to the Series A460, which is identified as 'Gods of abstractions,' slash Series Z110, which is 'Abstractions personified.'

Your mind doesn't have much knowledge beyond what the card provided you with. You're dimly aware there are other types of Black Cards other than Godcards, also related to mythological entities. You're also aware that the entire A-series is related to mythology and mythological creatures and that seeing a card from outside the A-series should be rare and unusual, but the actual type of mythological creature the card represents is dependent on the number.

The most common series besides A should be, according to the information your brain now stores for whatever bizarre reason, B, and D. Other types are either extremely rare or accompany another, more common series, such as with your case.

The third line on the card is the portfolios or concepts the card is tied to and can be attributed to.

The fourth line is the compatibility of the current user. Current, as in, it can change hands. In your hands, it certainly won't.

And finally, the last line represents the stage of development the card is at. For every full moon you have the card, your current compatibility with it will be transformed into power. Once that power hits one-hundred, the fragment of godhood inside will develop by using your existence as a link with the original. To summarize, for every month you have the card, it will get more powerful. You're not sure if there's a limit, as the card hadn't provided those details.

If someone else were to take it, the card's restrictions would hop into place and reset the power level to one. It would go back to whatever it was once it returned to your hands.

The golden token you received wasn't clarified. Whatever it is, it's unrelated to the cards, but possibly related to the Olympus Group.

Lastly, other people have cards, too. There are already a few dozen that were delivered to compatible people on the east US coast, and this day, another dozen were delivered. And many dozen more to follow in the coming days, or so the card tells you.

But most importantly. All of the information above was laced with a single message. As if braided and intertwined, so that as you read, you understood this core, fundamental concept.

To have fun. This card is a gift. No one is going to stop you. The city is your sandbox, and it's supposed to be. You are, after all, a goddess among men. And this card is like a medal.

A wicked grin almost shows itself on your face, but then you reconsider.

[] The origin of victory matters not when victory itself is achieved. Victory++
[] Victory using an arbitrary power is as good as cheating. Honor++

-/Add the above to whatever plan you brew up, please./-



VOTE BY PLAN.

Story Actions:

[] Act. (Write-in.)
[] Add Automated Action. (Write-in.)
[] Remove Automated Action. (Write-in.)

Suggested Actions:

[?] Look for other Black Card users.
-[?] How?
--[?] Challenge them! To a friendly spar.
--[?] Challenge them! Winner gets the enemy's card.
--[?] Be friends with them.
--[?] Decide when you actually meet them.
[?] Investigate the Olympus Group.
-[?] How?

Automated Actions:

[♛] Fulfill physiological needs, such as eating, sleeping or hydrating. [CANNOT BE REMOVED.]
[♛] Go to school.
[♛] Play sports of any kind after school as a hobby for as long as time allows. Even jogging is fine.
[♛] Play sports of any kind whenever possible. Even jogging is fine.
[♛] Try to win at sports.