Being a woman of Caucasian descent in Singapore raised fewer eyebrows than one might expect. The country was home to a fair number of disillusioned expats and increasing numbers of people with European heritage who had been born and raised on the island.

And as ever, Providence had an arrangement with the national government to provide housing for its most senior citizens in exchange for services. Calling it a ‘perk’ fooled no one. In the absence of any kind of paid salary, it was there to keep employees healthy enough to, in theory, be capable of a basic workload, and served the dual purpose of keeping tabs on people’s whereabouts when they weren’t in the office.

Identical arrangements were in place in most major cities worldwide, and the occasional town or village. For some people, spending thousands of years living near their original home somehow wasn’t enough, and they continued to hang around like a bad case of the flu. I, on the other hand, had about as many patriotic leanings as a housecat who had just received her monthly flea treatment, and tended to move. I liked Singapore for its dense crush of people, assortment of delicious food, and impressive cultural diversity. Although a little too hot and sticky to be ideal, for now it was as good a home as any.

The travel station deposited me down a side-alley within view of a bustling city street. Sometimes I got a few odd looks from people when they witnessed someone materialising out of thin air, but most days no one saw or noticed, and tonight was no exception.

Night had fallen not long ago, the last vestiges of sunlight replaced by the ever-present glow of a city that didn’t know how to sleep. Bursts of colour, smells and sound assaulted the senses. Crowds of people sat outdoors eating dinner or dessert, while others walked by with arms full of shopping, and others still were content to sit on benches, walls or any available spot to browse on their phones.

Everywhere I looked, red and gold decorations adorned shopfronts in the lead-up to the new lunar year. They hung from rafters and awnings, were strung across wires above the street, all emblazoned with tassels, ornamentation and messages of prosperity.

My stomach rumbled, and I regretted not ordering something to eat back at the teahouse. Working at Helpdesk was not a paid gig, and while I had no doubt I could scam the odd feast here and there, it wasn’t something I wanted to have to repeat ad nauseum just to make my stomach stop rebelling against the rest of my body.

As with housing, staff were allocated food stamps, and the kind of ingredients you could buy with those barely passed as food. It was a decision borne of pure spite, punishment for those Providence deemed unworthy. There was no good business reason for it, and while HR attempted to pass it off as a fair measure affecting everyone across the business, it took only the greatest of idiots to fail to see how unequal it was between those with powers and those without. Financial dependence: favoured tactic of abusive partners everywhere. It was almost enough to prompt me to build a balcony garden and grow my own food, but for the fact that every time I gave the idea serious consideration it made my stomach shrivel up more than the hunger.

Something soft, squishy, and slightly too hot pressed itself into my palm. Closer inspection revealed it to be a samosa. Well, I wasn’t going to say no. I bit into it, appreciating the moistness of the potatoes, and scanned the crowd for signs of my anonymous donor. They were being subtle. Definitely still watching.

I held the remainder of the samosa aloft in a toast. “Appreciated,” I called out, startling a number of passers-by who proceeded to give me a wider-than-usual berth.

No response.

I’d been intending to enjoy an hour or two in the city before heading back to the glorified shipping container that was my apartment, but it seemed I had unexpected company. It occurred to me again that this might have something to do with Tez’s test.

My phone buzzed with his incoming text. [No hints,] it said, punctuated by a pious-looking emoji with a halo.

“Sadist,” I muttered, gulping down the rest of the samosa.

My stalker clearly wanted me to know they were there. Maybe I could flush them out with a little encouragement.

Heading over to one of the restaurants, a streetside vendor whose uncomfortable metal chairs did not live up to the sublime aromas wafting out of its kitchen, I took a seat along the edge of the path near the bulk of the foot traffic. A somewhat surly-faced waitress was on me within seconds to take my order in what must have been some kind of land speed record. I was about to point out I needed a menu for that, but held my tongue when I felt something hit my shoe.

“Ah. Bear with me,” I told her, raising an index finger.

Next to my foot on the floor was a menu. I retrieved it and smiled sweetly at the server. “You,” I commented a little louder than necessary, “are being very helpful tonight. And I would love to order a kopi while browsing this selection of sumptuous delicacies. In fact, make that two.”

The tension in the woman’s face eased up a little before she moved on, which made me feel only slightly guilty. Browsing the menu, I kept most of my attention on my peripheral vision, listening for hints of my visitor. It felt very much like I was being toyed with. Like putting dangly things in front of a cat. But with the dangly things substituted by politeness.

The kopis arrived at the hands of the now-less-surly waitress, who gave me a genuine smile as she set them down. A sip confirmed it was of decent quality.

“It would be a shame to waste this second kopi,” I said, not too loud, once she’d retreated. “Especially since I’m in the mood for company.”

Nothing. Ah well, then. Plan B. Checking to make sure the waitress’ eyes weren’t on me – which proved more difficult than I’d anticipated, because she kept glancing at me every so often – I reached out with a table spoon and levered it under the bottom of the cup, then brought my fingers down on the handle.

A flash of red appeared in the corner of my eye, and in the split second I looked away, the cup sank back down onto the saucer with a clink and not a drop spilt. The spoon was gone, and the waitress was looking in my direction again, more suspiciously this time.

But I knew who it was.

“Okay, Durga,” I said, tapping the table. “This was fun, but playtime’s over.”

For a moment I thought perhaps I’d made a mistake after all, but then a familiar face sidled out of the crowd towards me, although with only the regular number of arms this time. She squeezed into the seat opposite me and proffered me the pilfered spoon with a playful smile. “I didn’t intend to disturb you, but you were making puppy dog eyes at the food,” she admitted.

“I can appreciate an honest stalker,” I said, accepting the implement. “So what’s my favourite goon doing following me around in my downtime? Did management send you to keep an eye on me?”

“I sent myself,” she replied. “I wanted to catch you one-on-one, away from the office.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the restaurant counter. “Although I suspect my being here is damaging your relationship with your friend. I think she has a thing for you.”

I glanced over, and the waitress quickly looked away. “Clearly a smart woman. But any jealousy she might have is misplaced. I don’t date the tyrant's underlings. No offence.”

“None taken,” said Durga.

Of course, I wasn’t going to date a random off the street, either, no matter how fast they could respond to a new customer. “I bet you like this,” I said, changing the subject and nodding towards the street. “They’re using your colours everywhere this time of year.”

“I don’t own them.” But she smiled.

“You could,” I said. “Someone handsome and charming could put a word in with Operations to get some copyright laws updated. Get in early, and you could call dibs on the colour palette, take out trademarks on a couple of shades of red, get the shade for gold – not the fake stuff, proper, 24-carat. Put them in a style guide for a team of designers to use in crafting you a complete public brand identity. Then sue the pants off anyone who tries to copy you. I mean, you’ve got basically half of Asia as a starting point.”

“Legal and Compliance would shut that down in a heartbeat.”

“I’m optimistic,” I said, shrugging.

“I know. But don’t you think that outlook is a little, well, cynical? Brand identity? We have more important things to focus on.”

I looked at her incredulously. Everything Providence did was geared at feeding the great PR machine. She may as well have told me she thought the sun was a particularly bright potato. “How can you not see it?”

Instead of answering, Durga crooked a finger upwards, and a moment later I looked up into the face of the waitress, neither surly nor pleased, but in some unknowable state in between. Right. Land speed record and a ninja. I realised belatedly I had no idea what was on the menu.

Durga came to the rescue, plucking the menu out of my fingers and rapidly rattling through a list of dishes that I was fairly sure was going to amount to far too much food, but it seemed to mollify our host somewhat.

“I know you have a low opinion of the business,” the warrior goddess said, lowering her voice, “but it’s what we’ve got. It doesn’t have to be so difficult. If we all work together -”

With a grimace, I flicked the spoon off the edge of the table where it clattered on the floor. The sound was lost a bit in the bustle of the street. “Spare me,” I groaned. “I’d sooner pull out my own teeth than work with the likes of those clowns.”

I understood why people would cooperate with management; the allure of being allowed to keep one’s powers was a persuasive incentive. Part of me was tempted by it myself. But what then? Tap around a computer keyboard wearing a different face? Walk around intimidating lesser deities like some kind of petty schoolyard bully? Although considering that was essentially Durga’s job, she seemed to be able to get it done without resorting to the smarm I would have expected as part of the entry criteria.

There was a larger problem here, and I didn’t think I had it in me to play the long game without it driving me certifiably insane. Besides, she was wrong. Cooperation wasn’t the magic band-aid she wanted it to be. If management deemed you a serious risk, all the good behaviour in the world wouldn’t dig you out of your hole of excrement. Lucy, who was a bottomless well of patience in comparison, had tried more than once in his long tenure and it hadn’t made an iota of difference. The tyrant had a penchant for holding a grudge, and for all his faults, he wasn’t stupid.

She didn’t press it, and settled back in her chair, fiddling with the thick plait of hair draping around her shoulder. “I don’t want us to be at odds,” she said. “I came here to talk about Clara.”

“Not much point,” I said dismissively. “I assume that one’s dead in the water. Sweet child, but not worth risking my head over.”

“Oh, Loki. What happened to it not being like you to roll over and do what they want you to?”

“It is when Themis has an alert out,” I argued. “You can’t reason with her. Not worth it.”

Durga gave me a long stare. “You forget I can sense these things. How you interacted with that girl today, it forged a bond between you. I don’t buy it.”

“You don’t, huh?” In truth, so much had happened since my excursion to Portugal mere hours ago that I hadn’t even thought about what I was going to do about Clara. “Threat of demotion aside, I don’t have to stop being her parent. Just a very distant one. Happens all the time. My tenure of being present was simply shorter than most.”

“How very degenerate of you.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Except you forgot one important detail,” she added, leaning forward across the table and pointing the spoon at me, which had somehow made its way from between people’s feet to her hand. “Me.”

Looking at the vision of transcendent beauty in front of me, and aware that most of the restaurant and a good number of passers-by were looking along with me, I couldn't help but feel a bit smug. ‘Forgettable’ was not a term I would have applied to her.

I reached out and plucked the spoon from her fingers, aiming it straight back at her. “So your plan is to follow me around and intimidate me into committing to responsible parenthood? You must be bored,” I guessed.

As it turned out, they were the magic words. Durga’s shoulders sagged and she folded a little, as though the act of me saying it had given her permission to register the emotion. “I’m going insane,” she admitted, gripping the spoon with both hands in a way that suggested she was trying very hard not to bend it in half. How the spoon had made its way back to her when I’d just been holding it was unclear. “Have you ever had a job where you felt completely redundant?”

“If by that you mean being dictated to by ineffectual lunatics, then yes,” I answered.

She laughed, tried to hide it behind a cough, and choked slightly. “Don’t be uncharitable,” she said, recovering. “Actually, it’s the opposite problem.”

“You’re the ineffectual lunatic. I’m sorry.”

“You’re closer than you think. Strutting around an office, playing bodyguard – everyone knows Apollo handles any serious security threats before they require escalation. I’m just the contingency.” She sighed. “I wasn’t designed for this.”

My ears perked up at that last part. Her use of the word design in this context was telling.

“You’re a structuralist, then,” I guessed.

I didn’t know Durga that well. Providence was an insular environment by default, and after you’d worked with the same people for several centuries it was hard not to be acquainted with everybody to at least some extent, but Durga and I had rarely crossed paths in a position to chat like we were now.

One of the major things mortal religions got wrong about gods was the idea they were, if not omniscient, then at least informed about their own origins and that of the universe in general. In reality, nobody really knew how things began. Although our memories were long, there came a point for each of us where things got… messy. For some people, it was multiple sets of conflicting memories. For others, general amnesia or fuzziness before a particular date. For others, recollections that couldn’t possibly be true, or mutually exclusive with someone else’s. There were at least a couple of hundred gods who remembered creating the Earth single-handedly, for instance, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out they couldn't all be right. How the discrepancies manifested was different for everyone, with few points of commonality, which made it difficult to narrow down any convincing answers.

As a result, there were quite a few theories floating around. Structuralism was a popular one not dissimilar to a religion itself – the idea that someone or something – or, more likely, multiple someones – had designed the various pantheons and brought them into being. Whether that meant there was another tier up on the metaphysical echelon or not was another matter up for debate. The really keen structuralists liked to talk about one day tracking down the designer for the answers.

Durga nodded. “It makes a lot of sense, if you look at the evidence.”

“And do you? Look at the evidence?”

“Sometimes. If the No-Gos aren’t hoarding it all to themselves. You know what they’re like.”

As far as anyone knew them. The No-Gos – knowledge gods – were, as an oversimplification, known for being a little on the possessive side with their secrets. My hunch was that it was a smokescreen to keep up the pretence they knew any more than the rest of us. Plus whoever had come up with the nickname was a comedic maestro and I wanted to shake their hand.

“Well, well,” I exclaimed as the waitress returned with our meals in tow in another demonstration of the world’s fastest service. “I’ll remember this scholarly streak. Breaking the first rule of goons throughout history, Durga. For shame.”

“Durga?” said the waitress, speaking up for the first time since we’d sat down. “As in the goddess? You’re not really her, are you?”

It didn’t sound like she was attempting a joke. Durga and I looked at each other in no small amount of surprise.

“Ah –“

“One hundred percent correct,” I said quickly, recovering my composure. “This is her, in the flesh. Ferocious slayer of demons, invincible warrior queen and merciless punisher of evil. She’s very pleased to meet you. Unless you’re secretly evil, in which case I can probably convince her to give you a few minutes to get your will in order.”

The waitress turned her gaze to me with that unreadable expression. I felt like I could learn a thing or two from her about intimidation.

“I’m so sorry about my friend,” said Durga, all apologies and contrition. Her knuckles were turning white where she still gripped the spoon. Loki, I’m going to murder you.

“I am but a humble maidservant,” I agreed, reaching over to the cutlery and helping myself to some kway teow while Durga delved into damage control. Delicious.