He woke up with a gasp, warm air filling his lungs with the smell of sawdust and bloodied cloth. He attempted to sit up before opening his eyes, but the effort to rise was met with cruel resistance. He slammed his forehead into a panel, sending a shockwave of pain through the centre of his forehead and forcing him to lie back down. Next, he tried to move his arms, encountering a thin sheet of fabric below him and hard, unforgiving wooden walls closing in on all sides. By this point, the man was certain he had opened his eyes; however, he was still unable to see anything, surrounded by pitch blackness. Pausing for a moment in the dark, he searched for an explanation. ‘Where am I? How did I get here? What is this?’

Outside, beneath a crimson-red, cloudless sky, the desert dunes stretched out like an endless sea of waves. The sand glimmered in the sunshine, and the day was silent, save for a few vultures pecking at a meal nearby and a muffled pounding from below the ground.

"Help, please! Somebody let me out!" the man screamed. His voice echoed within the confined space, quickly turning hoarse as the air within the coffin began to run out. He slammed his fists against the ceiling above him, which seemed to get closer with each smack. The man paused for a moment to take a deep breath, closing his eyes and preparing for the pain. He slammed the point of his elbow straight up into the surface above him. The wood splintered apart, and for a fleeting moment, the hot sun revealed itself and shone down into the hole before a cascade of sand rushed in to fill the void, beginning to bury him for a second time. Fighting through the oncoming swarm of a desert, the small grains cut against his skin like a hail of broken glass, and he tried to dig his fingers into the ever-shifting substance. He held his mouth shut and nostrils still, afraid to take a breath until he felt the sun warming his fingertips.  

A few moments later, he sat on the surface, kneeled and hunched over, sand erupting from his mouth as he coughed and hurled by the side of an old willow tree. The nearby committee of vultures started to turn and look at him as if hoping that he might become their second course. Despite sealing his mouth against the invading sand, his throat and nostrils were coated with a suffocating layer of dust. 

Blinking against the abrasive grains that tore against his eyelids, he spotted a gleaming metal flask nearby. With nimble fingers, he uncorked it, pouring the contents over his face, washing away the lingering sand drenching every small cut with stinging brandy and dampening his dried-out beard with the liquor. The warm air rushed into his lungs, granting him a moment of reprieve as he knelt on the rough ground. The silver flask still in his hand, he shook it gently, revealing the sloshing of some brandy remaining, which he did not hesitate to swallow before lowering the shiny flask back down just in front of his face and looking at his slightly warped reflection in its surface. His eyes focused toward a large hole burrowed through his forehead, flesh pushed aside, and the butt of a bullet glistening from the crevice. A single thick drip of blood poured down between his eyes before he hit the floor, unconscious, flask still gripped tight in one hand.

He woke up with a laboured heave, warm air filling his lungs with the smell of sweet honey and burning incense. He attempted to sit up before opening his eyes, which felt weighed down and damp. The effort to rise was met with a gentle but firm resistance—a hand pushing his forehead back down but dislodging the wet towel from his eyes.

"Don't go gettin' any notions 'bout shootin' up like a jackrabbit, young man. You're in a sorry state, and all you need to do is lie here for a while. Comprende?" The man turned his neck to the side, feeling a soft pillow crumple under his head. Looking up, he saw an old woman with white hair that flowed down past her shoulders, dark tan skin wrinkled by many years in the sun, and piercing hazel eyes staring back at him, brows furrowed as she waited for a response.

"Who... where am I?" the man groaned. His body felt numb, sand still stuck to the sides of his arms and rubbing against the sides of his exposed chest as cold sweat dripped from his pores.

"Under my roof, sweetheart, so it's my rule," she said, still looking frustrated but letting out a deep sigh and placing the damp towel back over his forehead.

"Wasn't I in... wait... am I dead?" The man sputtered, panic erupted through his mind, sending a jolt through his body as it all came back to him; the coffin, the struggle, the vultures, the flask, the… Throwing the towel from his eyes, he shot up off the couch where he rested and immediately regretted it, nausea and vertigo suddenly pulsating through him as he surveyed the room. By the corner, a dresser with a small mirror placed on top caught his eye. His trembling hands snatched it to hold it up to his face with frantic hope. Horror washed over him as the reality sank in—it wasn't a nightmare. The bandaged hole in his head, stained with a dark red mark between his brows, stared back at him.

"The dead ain't allowed under my roof, laddy. You stick around, and we'll get you fixed up. But hauntin' my place? That's a one-way ticket out the door." The old lady said as she snatched the mirror back from the man and waved him towards the couch like she was herding cattle.

"So what happened then?" the man asked, out of breath and slowly lowering himself to the floor instead with the help of the old lady who was not prepared for the weight of an adult man falling limp against her.

"Well, I found ya out by the old Tiber crossing, and by my guess, you’ve made yourself a new friend," she said, pointing to a newly formed star-shaped scar on the man's right arm.

After some gentle coaxing and the promise of a warm cup of tea, the man had calmed down enough to take a seat on the couch where he had just woken up. For the moment, the bullet hole in his head had taken a back seat to the eight-pointed star that seemed to have been branded into his right arm—slightly raised, he discovered, as he traced the outline with a finger.

The woman sat gracefully across from him with a wooden cup, steaming in her hands, blue and brown cloth wrapped around her like a cocoon, despite it still being quite warm outside. Taking a sip of her tea, the old lady leaned in, trying to meet eyes with the stranger in her house, but he was entirely engrossed in the new addition to his skin. "Well, sugar, let's start with the basics. I'm Ziva, but you can call me 'Aunty' if it strikes your fancy." She smiled wide, her lips fitting the wrinkles made from years of those kinds of smiles. "What about you? What do folk know you as?"

The man looked up at her with a bit of surprise, as if he wasn't expecting to be quizzed on anything so personal. In reality, he was surprised that he didn't have an answer to immediately give. He wasn't sure about anything before waking up in a coffin earlier today. Searching through his mind for anything, he landed on, "Orion... I think." He wasn't sure if it fit him, but something about that name rang a bell somewhere in his head. The old lady waited for him to elaborate, but once she realised he didn't have any idea what was going on, she moved closer to the mark, putting her hand out to brush the raised skin.

“So you're a night owl, huh? Don't come across too many folks with these marks these days.” 

“A night what?” the man responded, only half paying attention.

"A night owl...owl… you know, the bird with the wings and the beaks, and well, damn, you are lost. I'm starting to think that bullet in your head might have hit something important…” She smiled warmly but decided that it might be too soon to be making such a joke. “So, you've never seen this symbol before? Heard the story of Nyx?" The man solemnly shook his head, causing the lady to stand, walking across the room to a simple wooden bookcase filled with scrolls, books, and assorted candles and herbs.

"Well, lucky for you, as well as a healer, I'm something of a historian, dearie. Well, not the political sociological kind; that stuff is about as interesting as a cow with spots. No, the history I'm interested in is far older and far grander than any of that.” She waited, pausing as if to add drama. “The history of the gods." The man couldn't help but roll his eyes. While he was aware of those marked by the devil, possessing wild magic powers, and often worshipped as gods by outer land heathens, the idea that powers higher than that were in control of anything was a step too far even for him. Unfortunately, Ziva caught him in the act, his eyes halfway through the rotation when she returned with a large leather-bound book with silver edges and the same eight-pointed star symbol on the front.

"Laugh all you want, dear, but this stuff is real, and you wouldn't wanna be on Nyx’s bad side when the sun sets, I'll tell you that much." With a heave, she flipped open the cover of the book and navigated through the pages with ease, clearly having done it many times before. "Nyx is the God of the Night and the Stars. Her role is to guide travellers like yourself through the darkness and make sure they find their way." The lady paused for a moment to point out an inkblock print of a cloaked figure on one of the pages. The cloak appeared made of pure darkness, decorated with stars as if someone used the night sky to weave the cloth, and a mask shone brightly on their face in the shape of an owl face—wise and thoughtful.

“You see, mankind has always had a fascination with the night sky, the stars—the way they shine. Well, you've seen 'em, beautiful things. Some say that as a gift, Nyx gave man silver so they might also see such a shine during the day,” the old lady chuckled, thoroughly amused at her whimsy. The man looked to the side of the couch where his belongings sat in a pile, a small silver flask sitting atop his dirty shirt.

“Nyx is one of the titans. They created our world, but many centuries ago, they separated themselves from us, not wanting to interfere too much in the affairs of man. Nyx may watch from the night sky, but she can no longer step foot on the sandy dunes and protect travellers of the night herself unless...” Turning to the back of the book, there was a lone image of a cowboy, hat slumped over their face, a single eye sparkling like a star, a cloak made of night draped over their body, and a radiant eight-pointed star shining from their arm.

“Every few years, Nyx selects an individual to be her link to the physical world, her fist as it were, tasked to protect those who travel through her realm and grant them powers beyond even your comprehension.” Ziva’s voice trailed off, and she turned to smile at the man beside her.

The man raised his eyebrow at her. "Are you saying… Nyx chose me!?"

“Probably not,” she replied, slamming the book shut.

The man squinted at a crudely drawn map of Sirius, the small town where he presently found himself. Sirius was a quiet farming town that required very little interaction with the outside world to sustain itself, able to grow most of the food and materials in personal and community gardens across the town. Sirius didn't get many visitors; even though they were only a couple of miles from the Tiber Cross, a crossroad of two main roads, they were too small and ill-equipped to be considered a good rest spot for travellers. This unique layout made them a great base of operations for bandits and roadside robbers who could keep hidden with the lack of authority running the town and ambush carriages and caravans at the Tiber Crossing.

Ziva’s house was towards the back of the township, somewhat separated from the other buildings, with her front door facing out into the vast desert rather than towards the town's centre. The afternoon air nipped at the man’s skin… at Orion’s skin. Through the light shirt and worn-down pair of jeans that he had been found in, he had done his best to wash the sand from them when Ziva had offered him a bath and a razor to shave his scraggly beard, but he still felt the grains itching against the skin of his armpits and clinging to the parts of his chin the razor missed. Hanging over his left shoulder was a large brown satchel, currently filled with a few books that seemed unnecessarily heavy. The old lady had thrown him the bag and sent him out to run a late-night errand for her and deliver these books to a friend across town.

As soon as the story of Nyx was finished, and the old tome sealed shut, Orion was filled with questions, and as if anticipating this, Ziva had pushed him out the door, suggesting the afternoon air would help take his mind off things before the man even had a chance to open his mouth. Taking a deep breath, Orion tried to remain focused, rearranging the thick bandage wrapped tight around his forehead so that it wouldn't obstruct his vision. He walked onwards, confidently following the scribble of a map in his hand. He could imagine Sirius being a busy town during the day, but with the sun quickly sinking below the horizon, the streets were eerily silent, and he only saw one or two people who were closing up their shop front or those leaving and entering the town's tavern.

Despite his best efforts to navigate the town, his confident strides turned into an anxious shuffle. Every building was seemingly constructed with the same sandstone walls and reed-thatched roofs, and after walking through many corridors, turning past numerous signposts, and casually entering the front room of more than one residential home, he wasn't sure he'd even be able to find his way back to the old lady's home. Exhausted after a full day of events and with darkness quickly approaching, he sank to the ground, desperate for a moment of rest. Taking a swig from his recently acquired flask—brandy replaced with water for the time being—he tilted his head to catch the last drops when he spotted something in the distance: a star in the sky, twinkling unlike any of the others, far brighter as if it was waving him down for attention. Summoning the last reserves of energy, he stood up to get a better look, but before he could fully rise, the star sunk downwards like a brick in a lake and vanished from sight. Before he knew it, Orion was sprinting after it and toward where he saw the star descend, not entirely sure what he'd find but not entirely caring either, the eight-pointed star on his arm beginning to vibrate softly with energy.

Nestled between two long buildings near the outskirts of town, there was a thin gap, a small sandy house stood at one end, creating a horseshoe-shaped alleyway—the kind you'd try to avoid walking past if you were alone at night out of fear of being mugged. This was the unfortunate reality a young woman currently found herself in, her arms held behind her by a large thug who wore a black balaclava over his square jaw and seemed to growl softly when he breathed near her ear. Beside the two of them, a scrawny bandit paced, twirling the hilt of a large blade. At the open end of the alleyway stood a third, much larger bandit, eyes squinting, watching the street on either side in case someone else happened to stumble across the scene.

“Please let me go, I didn't do anything,” the husky voice of the lady squealed as she choked down tears. Even though she was being held firmly still by the large figure behind her, her whole body was trembling violently from fear, and her teeth chattered in the cool, night air.

The smaller figure was a man with a long pointy rat-like nose and small deep-set eyes He continued to pace nearby, growing more manic with each step, stopping to trace the woman’s figure with the edge of his knife, the blade only inches from nicking her skin. "I've made my demands exceptionally clear, young lady. Hand over your money, and we can all leave, pretend this never happened?" The mousey bandit who seemed to be the leader pushed the knife closer to the lady as she let out a yell, and a stranger turned the corner into the alleyway, skidding to a halt on the sandy road.

Orion had heard voices bickering as he ran after the star, but looking into the alleyway now, three bandits, each more terrifying than the next, stared back at him. He started to wish he had formulated any sort of plan before running towards a celestial marker he wasn't even sure was real anymore.

"Run along, fella. You don't need to get involved in this," the bandit leader said, gesturing for the stranger to move along, brandishing the knife towards him. However, Orion stood fast in his boots, either unwilling or unable to move. With a disappointed sigh, the leader commanded the watchdog of the group, the thug closest to Orion to do something, “Hey Butch, get rid of 'em." The aptly named ‘Butch’ nodded and began to walk slowly towards Orion, cracking the knuckles of his two massive fists, each joint popping with the violence of a gunshot. Orion was suddenly aware that he was likely about to die for the second time today, and these didn't seem like the kinds of people generous enough to give him a burial.

“The belt… close the belt,” a voice echoed from somewhere unseen, and no one reacted to it, but Orion, as if he was the only one to receive the bizarre message, confused, he ignored the incoming danger for a moment to look around the alley, searching for the source of the voice. Finally, he looked down and realized for the first time that he was indeed wearing a belt—not one he recognized or even remembered putting on, but it sat on his waist. The centre buckle glistened, carved from pure silver, marked with two shapes, each half of a familiar eight-pointed star as if the two parts were meant to be connected. By this point, Butch was about a foot from his prey, smiling as he reached both his arms up, preparing to crush the small Orion in a simple squeeze.

"Close the Belt!" the disembodied voice thundered, echoing through Orion's mind. Uncertain of the outcome, Orion reluctantly pressed the two halves of the buckle together, forming a complete star with a satisfying *shclink*. Time itself seemed to stall momentarily. Butch continued his advance, but now his movements were so sluggish that the flying spittle from his mouth drifted through the air like ethereal orbs. Oblivious to Butch's slowed approach, Orion gazed upward, where the stars burned brighter than ever, one, in particular, expanding until it became clear that a celestial projectile was hurtling towards him.

The dark alleyway erupted in blinding light as a pure white object crashed into Orion, engulfing him in flame, his body felt ablaze. He stared in horror at his hands, watching the skin disintegrate like flash paper, revealing a swirling, pure black form beneath, speckled with star-like luminous freckles. His knuckles transformed into shimmering silver spikes. The searing pain was fleeting, replaced by a surge of newfound power coursing through his veins. Adrenaline raced through his body. Butch's massive frame resumed its normal speed and Orion witnessed him in real time turn to a face of pure confusion and fear. The shock on Butch's face was unmistakable, but before he could comprehend the situation, he swung his colossal fist toward Orion's altered form. 

"Down," the voice echoed once more, and with a speed that belied any previous reaction, Orion's knees narrowly bent, allowing him to duck under Butch’s punch. The brute seemed only to grow angrier, winding up for a second strike.

“Punch,” the voice commanded, and Orion responded swiftly. As Butch opened his chest for a moment, a black, starry fist connected with his sternum. Sparks shot off upon impact, and the large bandit flew backward into the back of the alley, narrowly zooming between the captive woman and the bandit leader, slamming into the hard sandstone wall at the end in a burst of celestial energy.

“Get him!” the bandit leader screeched in fear at his remaining goon, who threw down the lady and sprinted toward the starry warrior at the entrance of the alleyway.

“Use the satchel,” the voice suggested, and as if of one mind, Orion understood. Without hesitation and with efficient grace, he snatched the satchel of books from his shoulder in one quick move and swung it around his body, building momentum. The bottom of the heavy bag collided with the head of the approaching bandit, a sickening thud echoing through the alley as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. 

Surveying the scene with a predatory focus, Orion looked up from the second assailant. The female victim, alive and mostly unharmed, lay on the ground alone in the centre of the alley. The bandit leader had all but vanished, attempting to use the body of his unconscious companion as a makeshift step ladder to climb over the sandstone wall at the back of the alley.

“Throw.” By the time the voice spoke, Orion had already started to spin the satchel in a circle by his side like a hammer throw, building up speed and lining up his target. Without hesitation, he released the improvised weapon of swift, brutal retribution, sending it flying like a missile. It crashed into the cranium of the last bandit, a bone-chilling impact that sent him sprawling back to the ground, defeated and incapacitated.

Rushing over to assist the lady on the ground, he extended a hand to her. However, upon looking up, she screamed and promptly passed out. Slightly concerned, Orion gently lifted the woman and moved her to a safer location. Then, he headed towards the fountain in the town centre. Upon reaching the water, he peered down and was taken aback by the unfamiliar being that stared back.

It wasn't just his hand that had transformed into a spectacled void; his entire face was a swirling mix of black and purple. Devoid of a mouth, two stars adorned the space where his eyes should be, and a sparkling third marked his forehead, with no visible hole or bandage in sight. Glancing down at his belt, he recollected – that was what had triggered this transformation in the first place. Waving his hand over it, the two pieces of the buckle separated once again, and he felt the unbridled power drain away from him in an instant. Gazing back at the fountain, he beheld his familiar human face, complete with two eyes and a mouth – the way it usually was – and a bandaged forehead—a sight he was surprisingly relieved to see.

After scouring the town for another half hour, Orion finally located the house where he was meant to deliver the satchel of books. However, the clock had struck 3 am, and considering the books were likely all but mush after being repurposed as a projectile, he left the bag at the doorstep to be discovered come morning. Walking home, he had a slightly clearer sense of his surroundings, yet still grappled with the events of the day. So many questions haunted him: Why was he in a coffin? Why was he shot in the head? How was he still alive? He muttered to himself, “How the hell did I win against those bandits?”

“Well, to be fair, you had some help,” the voice caused Orion to freeze in his tracks. It was the same silky, ethereal voice from the fight, the one without a visible form. “Don't tell me you still haven't worked it out by now?” the voice echoed in his head, its vibrations rippling across his face.

“Is the bullet in my head talking to me?”

Nyx's laughter reverberated like celestial chimes, “I'm starting to worry you're not the right person to choose for my retribution on this plane."

"Hey, what the hell does that mean?", Orion quickly yelled back into the space in front of him.

Someone poked their head out of a nearby window, squinting eyes in concern at the late-night disturbance, but Orion quickly apologized and ran off before further embarrassment ensued. Disregarding the incident, Nyx continued.

"What's important is I found you moments before a bullet tore through your head and killed you. I saved you, and for that, you owe me a debt to be paid. A job let's say"

Bewildered, Orion shook his head. "Saved me? I woke up in a coffin and nearly drowned when I tried to get out. How on earth did you save me?"

The stars above flickered, casting silver beams onto the ground. "Fortunately, the man who fired the bullet lodged in your skull was both wealthy and stupid. He fires bullets made of silver, and I, as its creator, have some control over the substance. I'm still the only force holding back that piece of metal from ending you at any moment now." Orion's heart skipped a beat, and he decided not to go out of the way to provoke the force preventing a bullet from continuing its destructive path through his skull. “Our connection allows me to see what you see and, hopefully, will help you remember what occurred before you were shot, so we can find the man responsible for ruining the night for others like yourself."

A few feet ahead, Orion spotted the small hut that Ziva called home, relieved to be back, only now realizing the fatigue in his legs. "Hang on your Holiness, let’s just be clear that while I’m fine doing a job so that we can be even. But what makes you think I wanna be your night-time pawn”

The stars flared as if personally offended by the question. "I will grant you the power needed to exact revenge on those who tried to kill you. Who you were before last night doesn't matter anymore. With me, you can become a force of vengeance and protection. You could be like a god."

Orion extended his hand, knocking on the door of the old lady's house. Remembering that at any moment the voice could kill him with a thought he composed himself. “Im sorry but I'm not looking for power; I'm seeking answers. I'll assist you in finding your man, so I can look into his eyes and ask him, 'What my name is?' But after that, we're done. I don't need to be entangled in any of this god stuff, thank you all the same" As he finished his sentence, Ziva opened the door, welcoming him inside and informing him that a fresh cup of hot tea awaited him by the couch.

"We will see how you stand when we are finished with this," Nyx declared before the door was shut for the night.

The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, its scorching rays making it nearly unbearable to linger outside for more than a few moments. Additionally, a strong wind had blown a dust cloud into town, making it difficult to see anything more than a few feet in front of you. However, for Orion, a man with a mission, the blazing sun and violent winds were but minor inconveniences. His destination was the Scotch Shade, the town's aptly named bar, and it awaited him. He raised the scarf over his mouth and nose, and approached the swinging saloon doors with an air of confidence, ready for whatever the day had in store.

“I'm sorry, I think I must have somehow missed the part where you had a plan,” Nyx spoke authoritatively, her words echoing within the mind of a man with a bullet lodged somewhere between bravery and questionable decision-making.

“Nyx, I know you're a god and all, but here on Earth, things work differently. Sometimes, not having a plan is the best plan of all,” Orion said, his confidence radiating as he flashed a smile to a grumpy-looking man leaving the bar, who growled aggressively in return.

“It sounds like you just don't have a plan, though, right?” Nyx asked, hoping she was wrong about the situation she, too, was about to walk into.

“Pretty much,” Orion quipped back, pushing the double swing doors of the saloon wide open, unintentionally making an entrance larger than he had hoped for. He strolled in, aiming for the front bar, half-convinced he somehow heard the rolling eyes of the god of the night in the background. From behind the bar, a large, grizzled woman walked up with red auburn hair tied up in a bun, and two fiery red eyebrows furrowed to show she wasn't interested in anyone wasting her time.

“What will it be today, sir?” she asked her voice like gravel against Orion's ears.

“Nothing today, thank you. Just looking for information on bandits around these parts. You wouldn't happen…” Before he could finish his sentence, she turned and left to help the real customers looking to purchase alcohol and not talk about local crime. Orion spun on his bar stool, looking out over the crowd of people in the bar at tables and booths. Almost everyone looked away, avoiding eye contact where they could.

Slowly moving from table to table, he tried asking in any way he could about where to find the leader of the roadside bandits. He quickly learned the dos and don'ts of asking questions. ‘You guys wouldn't happen to know any bandits?’ was far too accusatory. ‘Hey, I'd love to hear your point of view on this whole bandit epidemic?’ was too disingenuous. ‘If you were a bandit, where would you hide?’ A fun icebreaker for a different crowd perhaps. After asking nearly everyone some version of the question and receiving only thinly veiled or incredibly direct threats, he retreated to a booth near the back of the bar and sat down defeated.

“Look, I know I'm a god and all, and I don't ‘get how you guys do it on Earth,’ but where I'm from, that seemed like a failed mission,” the voice of Nyx mocked their host, the voice filled with regret about choosing ‘this guy’ to be her method of vengeance.

“Well, didn't hear you coming up with any better alternatives,” Orion whispered angrily to himself.

“Hey,” a new voice entered the scene. Looking up, Orion was glad there was a body to accompany this one—a dark-skinned cowgirl with frizzy hair erupting from under her wide-brimmed hat and a piece of wheat hanging from her mouth. “Were you the guy looking for info on bandits?” Orion's face lit up with excitement, mentally nudging an elbow into the voice of Nyx as if to say, ‘told you this would work.’

“Yeah, that was me. You got information on where I might find them?” Orion asked, trying to hide his smile and look serious about the matter.

“Well, I might warn ya first, these people are not the kind you'd like to mess with,” the lady said thoughtfully, taking the piece of hay from her lips and tucking it behind her ear. “But if you're still interested, I know a guy who was part of a caravan that was jumped at Tibers crossing a week ago. He was the only one who made it out. I could take you to his place if you want; it's just down the road.”

She had hardly finished her offer, and Orion was standing up beside her. “Lead the way,” he said, gesturing to let her pass to walk in front of him as the pair made their way out of the bar.

“While I know this might seem like your ‘not-a-plan’ plan is working, keep your guard up. We don't know if this could be a set-up,” the voice of Nyx reminded cautiously.

Orion continued walking beside the cowgirl but moved his head back to not make it entirely obvious he was talking to himself again. “Oh, stop it. Are you the god of worrying too? We will be fine.” Turning back to look at where the lady was leading him, he saw she had stopped and turned around to face him, two other people beside her, each with a black balaclava over their nose and mouth. The cowgirl held a piece of metal rebar in her hand, and before he could say anything, she swung it around to slam it into the side of Orion's head, adding to the growing number of holes and dents in his skull while instantly knocking him unconscious, and he fell to the floor. The world goes black.

The darkness enveloped Orion as he descended deeper into his mind. It felt as if he was falling through a rift, with voices of familiar sounds and fleeting flashes of images appearing and disappearing from the void around him. As he fell, the falling stopped, and he found himself within a pitch-black dimension, standing on a solid floor beneath his feet.

“What is this place?” Orion asked curiously. He stood still, waiting for Nyx to reply, but there was no answer. At this point, he would guess with 90% certainty that he was somewhere within his mind. However, the feeling of being alone persisted, even though his mind was supposed to be occupied by another being.

Looking down at his feet, he saw wooden panelling in the small radius around his boots—rough and old, but certainly present. Taking a step forward into the inky blackness, he was surprised to see a further section of wood appear around his foot as if the floor was assembling itself as required. He continued walking, and the floor expanded, the area affected by his presence seemingly growing. Walls started to take shape around him until he was jogging as they fell into place beside him. A hallway of continuous closed doors emerged on either side, each marked with a brass number, but none of it rang any bells in his mind. 

He began sprinting towards oblivion as the memory folded around him, rows and rows of closed doors. He nearly tripped over himself when he saw it and tried to come to a screeching halt—one door was open, wide open. The number on the door suggested this was Room 72, and Orion had to admit something about those two digits felt right to him. The door led into a small room that felt cold and lonely. A solitary bed sat against the right wall, and a small barred window let in a sliver of light. To the left, a desk was only large enough to fit a stool underneath. The room was filled with the warm light of a single candle sitting atop the desk beside a man who sat focused and hunched over a small letter, furiously scratching away at something. He looked familiar. Orion moved his hand up to his face, tracing over the familiar features—the same hairstyle, cheeks, chin, and identical ears. The man at the desk also wore a messy beard similar to the one Orion had recently shaved off. The only noticeable difference was the lack of bandages or scar tissue covering the man at the desk's forehead, which, other than being furrowed in passion, bore no marks. The moment of reflection was abruptly interrupted by a yell that resonated through the dream.

"Coachman 72 and 74, to your carriage post haste!" The announcement prompted the man to finish whatever he was working on, rolling up the paper and concealing something inside, before stuffing the package into his chest pocket and turning to walk out the door. Then, it was Orion's face that began walking towards him, the number 72 embroidered into his coat’s lapel. Before Orion could grasp the situation, however, the room around him began to dissolve back into blackness, and the wooden floor beneath him morphed into a rocky path. Mud piled in shallow craters, and a heavy wooden wheel sat halfway submerged in the sludge.

“Would you hold still and give me a hand here!” The voice came from his left, followed by a heavy weight pushing down onto his shoulder. He looked up to realize he was in a new scene—outside now, a large opulent carriage stood just in front of him with its side door open. A man was already seated inside, while a well-dressed lady put her whole weight on the doorman’s shoulder to heave themselves into the ride. The man from the desk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Orion looked down at his chest, a coat with 72 embroidered into the lapel wrapped around him. Quickly, he raised a hand to check, and indeed, it met with a forehead clean of any bullet holes.

“If I wanted this much muck, I'd have hired a pig farmer, not a coachman,” the lady said, her face twisted in disgust. She grabbed a lump of mud from the bottom of her dress, tossing it in the general direction of Orion, who narrowly dodged it before having the carriage door slammed in his face. Assuming he was needed at the reins, Orion walked towards the front of the vehicle. Two horses were tied at the front, both beautifully black, speckled with dots of white, with one sporting a matching pair of white socks on its hind legs. Climbing up to the coach box, he was surprised to see someone waiting for him. His heart skipped a beat, and his hand missed the last rung of the ladder, sending Orion tumbling towards the muddy ground. Swiftly, he was saved by the figure who grabbed his hand, pulling him back up.

“Close call, but I won't be performing my Great Escape without my partner today,” the figure chuckled as he grabbed the reins.

“Th..thank you,” Orion replied as he took a moment to compose himself, his eyes locked on the face of the figure beside him.

“Don't stress. After we wrap up this last job, it's all about sunshine and good vibes, right?" The face of the figure was comfortable despite shifting like a puzzle box. It was as if Orion's mind had the frame of the character but lost the exact pieces and was trying to piece together the face. As if no longer in control of his body, Orion’s hands moved to his chest pocket, taking out a small piece of paper folded neatly into a love shape, something heavy inside weighing down his hand. He passed the note to the figure, taking the reins from him as he opened it and read the note. The man's face lit up, his ears turned red, and he leaned over to whisper in Orion’s ear.

“Yes!” Orion looked back, and as if that was the magic word, the piece of the puzzle finally stopped shifting, revealing the memory to him. A strong jawline that had softened into a smile with a bushy moustache resting on top of his thin lips. Beautiful deep green eyes were filled with a vibrancy unexpected, and that now overflowed with warm tears that trickled down his face like a river winding down over the face of the love of his life—the face of… the name still out of reach. 

Orion felt his own eyes fill with water as he sat there beside his lover, ready to spend eternity with him at this moment. But the darkness returned, this time more violently, tearing through the scene like a broken plate of glass shattering the peace and scattering the pieces across the sand. As the scene reformed, Orion realized he was back to being simply an audience to the memory, standing at the edge of a crossroads. He sees the carriage tipped over on its side, one horse limping away into the night, the other lying dead on the warm ground.

The man who wears the coat of Coachman 72 stands defiantly against the barrel of a gun, its wielder flashing a devilish grin that shimmers. A mouth full of teeth adorned with ivory, gold, and silver catches the moonbeams. Orion watches himself plead with the gunman not to shoot as faceless goons crowd him. His arms are outstretched as he steps back, trying to protect the man he loves, who has fallen unconscious on the ground behind him.

"No," he pleads before the gunshot echoes, plunging everything into cryptic darkness for the last time.

He woke up with a gasp, the cold, stale air filling his lungs with the smell of gunpowder and rust. Attempting to sit up before opening his eyes, his efforts were met with cruel resistance. Ropes tied to his wrists and ankles held him to a wooden chair in the centre of a dark room, a single spotlight directed at him causing him to squint.

“Orion? Are you awake?” Nyx's voice echoed through the bruised head of the man strapped to the chair. He didn't respond, only panted aggressively, anger growing in his chest. “I saw it too, the man that shot you. He is the one who has been using my night as a shade for his deeds. He must be stopped and…” her voice trailed off.

“He killed the man I loved, didn't he? He killed him and erased his face from my mind,” Orion spoke slowly, each word coming through his lips with more pain than the last.

“I believe so. I'm so sorry, Or….” Nyx's voice started to console the man before being interrupted.

"Why was it me!" Orion's shout echoed through the room, the desperation in his voice escalating with each word. His panting grew more intense. “Why did you save me and not him? Why am I the one who has to keep on living like that never happened? Why?!” Orion's voice broke as he screamed at the God of the night and into the dark room, but there was no response except for the distant sound of metal grinding against the floor and a wooden trolley with rickety wheels drawing closer from the shadows. Two figures walked out; The cowgirl from the Tavern, balaclava pulled over her face, metal bar still in her hand dragging on the concrete floor just behind her.

“He's certainly a talkative one,” she giggles through the mask to someone to her left. The noise of the trolley grew closer as a tall man, one Orion did not recognize, revealed himself, only nodding but saying nothing in response. As the trolley he was pushing came into the light, its contents glistened under the overhead lights—an arrangement of large saws, hand drills, scalpels, and industrial-sized tweezers. Lowering her mask the woman continued.

“Sorry, my friend, The ‘Doctor’ here doesn't share your talkative nature, I guess. You're probably wondering why you're still alive, and I hate to inform you, but you are in possession of something our boss would like back,” the cowgirl said with a smirk, raising the metal bar in her hand, pushing aside the bandage wrapped loosely now around the Orion's head, revealing the slowly healing bullet wound, the shiny butt of the projectile still vaguely visible. “Silver bullets are a rare commodity, and where possible, we try to… recycle.” A devilish smile crossed her face as the man beside her moved his hand over the selection of tools, deciding on a large pair of polished forceps, holding them up and walking towards him.

“If they remove that bullet, you won't have your powers anymore,” Nyx shouted with a sense of urgency.

“More importantly, if they try to remove the bullet, my bet's on them killing me in the process,” Orion replied, also scared but still numbed from the rush of memories flooding back to his head, trying desperately to grasp onto one of them before they flow out again, leaving him alone with a god in his head. “The sun wouldn't have set yet, would it?” Orion asked hopefully.

“Not quite. Try and hold them off for a few minutes until I can grant you your powers,” the god’s voice returned thoughtfully.

“Well, we already know how good I am at talking to people,” Orion said with a smirk directed at his two captors, the two looking slightly unnerved at the remark but continuing to walk towards him with ill intent. So, Orion found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place, with no starlight superpowers and only his tongue to try and get himself out of this mess.

“Guess I won't be forgettin' this day anytime soon. Although, if I end up with amnesia, I reckon y'all are gonna have to fill me in on what happened, heh?" the cowgirl chuckled and moved in behind the chair to hold Orion's shoulders still, to avoid making any unnecessary mess. "You know, I once heard tell of a feller who got shot in the head and went on to become a famous philosopher. Maybe this is my big break." The man with the forceps rolled his eyes; he had been aware of just how easily the man in front of him was ‘lured’ into their trap and doubtful he was about to go poking around the next great mind.

“Just a bit longer,” Nyx strained, surprised he had made it this far.

“I heard laughter is the best medicine. Any chance y'all could crack a joke or two while you're pokin' around up there? Might ease the tension.” he chuckled, but the humour was not appreciated. “Silver, you say? Well, at least you know I'm not a werewolf?” Hardly an acknowledgment except for the cowgirl taking one of her hands off of his shoulder to cover his mouth from behind.

“Now, the belt now!” the voice yelled, but Orion had already tensed his knees, pulling them into his chest so that the pendant of his belt sat between them. He snapped the two pieces together with his thighs.

The dark room exploded in a blinding blaze as the human form of Orion fell away, turning both the chairs and the ropes that bound him to ash in an instant. The cowgirl, who had a hand over his mouth, screamed as the eruption sent her flying into the wall behind her. The bar she was holding fell out of her hand, and Orion quickly ducked backward to grab it before it hit the floor. The mad doctor stood in awe, still holding the pair of forceps, which were only inches away from their goal when the transformation took place. The tips of the tool melted, now bent and warped out of shape.

“Still want the bullet back?” the night-time warrior spoke in his silky voice, escaping from his mouthless face. The man with the forceps shook his head and looked behind him, screaming for backup before receiving a firm thunk to the top of his head with the steel bar.

In an instant, two more bandits filled the room, unsheathing knives and running towards the starry figure in rage and confusion. Nyx no longer needed to make suggestions as Orion’s body moved at the armed men with primal vigour and grace. The first bandit lunged forward, a move easily sidestepped and deflected with the metal bar, causing the knife to fly through the air. Orion caught it with his empty hand and swiftly threw it at the second goon who was only just rounding the corner of the entryway, pinning him by his shoulder blade against the thick sandstone wall.

The second bandit, undeterred, quickly threw his knife at Orion who began to duck but the movement was slowed by the pounding still in his head. The knife landed in his chest just hovering above the sternum sending a wave of hot pain through his body, silvery blood starting to bead at the wound's edges as he took a moment to breathe. Now unarmed the bandit moved in to retrieve his blade but instead received a punch to the chest throwing him against the back wall, causing a loud crash along with the screams of the man pinned to the back wall called for reinforcements, but to his surprise, the additional two that rounded the corner held pistols raised and aimed. Judging by the fact he was still able to be cut with a blade, he wasn't eager to find out how he would fare against bullets. 

“Why'd you think to leave a holster off this belt of yours?” Orion asked as he dropped the metal bar and tore the small knife from his chest, pocketing it and raising his hands to attempt to spare himself some time.

“No situation has ever been made less complicated by adding another gun,” the voice spoke back, offended he would even ask. “But don't worry, you're not entirely unarmed.” As she spoke, a thin fabric shawl – that looked as if someone used the night sky itself to weave it – materialized from thin air and, as if with a mind of its own, wrapped itself over Orion's neck so that it hung over his right arm. “Use it as a shield!” the voice remarked, and as always, just in the nick of time, as the guns went off and Orion raised the cloth in front of him.

The barrage of bullets whizzed forward as the pair emptied their entire load, leaving nothing to chance. However, instead of piercing the cloth, they seemingly disappeared into its pattern, leaving Orion unharmed and giving him a few moments as the couple struggled to reload their pistols. Picking up the metal bar from the floor again, he threw it at the bandit on the left, nailing them in the chest and sending them spiralling to the ground. He finished the final assailant off with an uppercut to the bottom of the jaw that sent them up with a slight jump, and they then fell to the floor with a few knocked-out teeth lying in front of them. Orion turned violently to the left to look at the man still pinned against the wall with a knife through the shoulder. 

“Where is the boss?” the inhuman voice of Orion rumbled out at the terrified man, who squealed in reply.

“On a job, they plan to raid a carriage by Tiber's Crossing tonight.” Orion ripped the knife from the man's flesh, letting him fall to the floor among his comrades and pocketing the tool for himself.

“Let's finish this.” said both the man and the god in unison as they walked away

At this point, the leader of the bandit gang had started to move backward, beginning to run away from the celestial brawl unfolding. He glanced back for a moment, terrified that he couldn't see the shadowy figure that had just torn through his men. A loud thump in the sandy dunes in front of him caused his head to snap back, and the figure now stood just in front of him, as if he had fallen from the sky, his starry eyes shining bright like daggers into his soul.

The bandit leader flashed Orion a nervous smile, teeth sparkling with gold and silver caps. He fumbled to draw an intricately crafted pistol, but before he could even cock the gun, his arm was kicked, the weapon flying from his grasp and landing effortlessly in Orion's hand. Orion swiftly finished cocking the gun, aiming it unyieldingly at the target's forehead.

“What's my name!” the terrifying, ghost-like figure thundered at the terrified man, his ethereal voice straining, silvery tears forming at the base of his starry eyes. “Who am I!” Orion screamed, brandishing the gun, poised to etch a fatal mark between the man's eyes.

“I...I don't know, please spare me!” the man whimpered, his once imposing form now reduced to that of a frightened animal.

“Orion, don't do this. If you kill him, our deal is over; you are over. Is this man worth that?” Nyx's voice pleaded with the enraged man, whose trembling hand hovered over the trigger.

"He took everything from me; I was gon…we were gonna be happy, and he took that," his finger slowly pressed against the cold metal of the trigger, closing his eyes and preparing to finish the job, before a voice filled his mind. Not Nyx, but the voice of the man he loved, coming from beyond the veil: "It's not your time." A moment before the gun went off Orion quickly moved his arm to the left and fired it at the man on the ground's right hand, instantly blasting off three of his fingers. Orion let out a laboured sigh. The pink sky to the east had turned a deep red, and the sun peeked over the top of the horizon. Orion's human form returned as he stood over the crying bandit leader who looked up into his eyes and then above at the bullet he had left there.

“Y.. you. It's you?!” With a firm kick of his boot, Orion silenced the man for the moment, leaving him in the hot sun to find his way back.

It was late morning by the time Orion made it to the door of Ziva's house. Although, under the starlight, he could heal any physical wound at double speed, his mind was filled with an unfinished puzzle of who he was and where he came from.

“You did the right thing, but I'm sorry you had to make that choice,” the voice of Nyx comforted her host, who still hadn't spoken to her since the fight. Ziva opened the door, happy to see the man, and welcomed him in for tea before he stopped her.

“Ziva, I need the truth. Where did you find me?” he asked, being gentle but firm. He was sure at this point there was no way anyone a part of that roadside robbery would give the charity of a proper burial or move him to a different part of the desert so he would stay undisturbed. The old lady nodded her head solemnly, stepping aside to let the man in, both sitting down on the same couch where they had first met.

“I Found You by Tibers Cross. You and your carriage had been turned over and robbed of everything valuable. Four dead, two passengers, two coachmen. You were lying on top of another man as if you tried to protect him, but they killed you for it. I buried you, and I found you when you raised yourself from the grave. I'm so sorry I wasn't fully honest with you, dearie.”

“You did the right thing, but I'm sorry you had to make that choice,” Orion said in response, causing a wide smile to cross the old lady's face. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled note, which contained a small silver ring, and stood up and walked towards the open front door that faced out into the warm morning desert. Looking down at the note:

"You're my shining star, my delight, In the dark, you make everything bright.

Let's fly together, side by side, Be my love, in the sky, our joy will glide.

- To my Orion"

“Thank you for saying that, but you should not have gotten that far. I should have been there to stop it,” the winds from the desert whipped up, blowing off the thick coat she always wore, revealing an arm branded by the eight-pointed star. “I failed where you will not. I'm sorry I don't have all your answers,” she said with a solemn smile. The warm air from the morning blew across the pair. After all this time Orion was his lover's name, not his own the man laughed to himself as he read the letter with tears in his eyes.

“So what do you say? How about a few more adventures?” the voice of Nyx whispered gently in his head.

Under the veil of a moonlit night, a medium-sized cart was pulled up a hill to a small closed mine. A trio of figures, shrouded in darkness, advanced stealthily towards the mine's entrance. Their cart was laden with bags of explosives, and their hushed footsteps echoed in the stillness. As the figures neared their target, they began to unpack their cart and unspool wire for the fuses; by morning, this quarry would be nothing but rubble, and they would be made rich by the fee they had been promised.

“Lovely night for fireworks, don't you think?” a silky voice echoed from the entry of the mine as a shadowy figure stepped into sight, a black hat with silver details resting on his head, two starry eyes shining from beneath it. On his right side, a shawl made of pure night, and in his left hand, he tossed a thin red stick of dynamite. “Guess you didn't get my RSVP to your little demolition party," the figure presumably smirked if it possessed a mouth of any kind.

“Wh... who are you?” the voice of a goon asked, filled with fear, having heard the tales of such a figure but never expecting to be face to face with them themselves.

“You can call me Orion,” the figure said, and in a single action clicked his finger, which held a single silver ring, causing a white-hot spark to jump from the tips to the dynamite, lighting the fuse as he chucked it into their cart.