Fear. The great unifier, the beginning and end. Torn from the womb, afraid, dragged from the cave into the light of this strange, new world. Then sickly or loudly, quietly for the lucky few, but all overwhelmed by our dread of the darkness creeping over us once again.

My first memory is of the darkness. Of the muck lining the cold concrete of the depths. Of the heady aroma that gripped me. Of the hole it promised to fill. I crawled out of that darkness into a pale imitation, a night pervaded by as much light and color as prey.

I was no god when I first ventured beyond the cave.

On my third moon, I learned the name of that world, New York. Around a quarter-cycle of the moon, I learned the name of its protectors, the PRT. After a half-cycle, I learned the names of its genos—the Adepts, the Blinds, Lost Garden, the Gladiators, and so many more. By the time the cycle completed, they knew mine.

Deimos.

Their dread drew me, and from their lives I drew strength. For every soul I ate, I let four more flee. My unwitting harbingers. Vermin allowed to live that they might multiply tenfold. More for the slaughter. I kept no tally after the first hundred.

But my claims of godhood were hollow. What domain ruled its god?

Providence. I learned of her by chance, overheard by happenstance as I stalked Blinds. A defunct genos, the Teeth, had fallen apart when their leader was murdered. Why? Inheritance. Powers handed down ten times over claimed, but territory and manpower rejected. Diamondback. Thief. Coward. Butcher.

Invulnerable.

Three cycles, then four more passed. I taught Diamondback my name, and I became a god.