The Age of Mankind

"So you're saying that the Gods are toying with our lives." Maitho raised his finger. "Correction, they are toying with everyone's lives. This is all just one big game to them."

"No," said Cray. "They are toying with the lives of the Guardians, who in turn keep their operation alive."

"And what kind of operation are they running?"

"That, I haven't been able to figure out."

"Is that right? Or is it that your contact among the Gods has not been able to give you more information?"

Cray raised his eyebrows. It was the only subtle change that indicated that the man was surprised.

Maitho continued. "Oh come on. Anyone could have figured that out. You think you got all your information because you have money and power? You may have influence. You may have an army large enough to populate a small town. But you are still a mortal. A person who belongs to the land of the humans, not the realm of the Gods."

"You're quite perceptive."

"Thanks, but I don't need a compliment."

"Merely an observation."

"Right," said Maitho and leaned forward. He placed his arm on the table. He noticed Cray's children shift their posture. They were like wolves who were ready to pounce on their prey. For the time being, Maitho ignored them. He turned his attention to their father. "So you're telling me that there is a benevolent God or Goddess who has betrayed their kind? Some kind of mission to save humanity, is that it?"

He pushed back the chair and stood up. One of the Cray children—the son—slipped his hand into his jacket so fast, it could only be the result of years of training. Maitho ignored him and walked to the edge of the patio, where a small white fence separated the land of marble, metal and bricks from the land of trees, birds and wonder. He noticed that during his journey from table to fence, the senior Cray hadn't so much as flinched. Or if he had, he was great at hiding his reactions.

Maitho heard the sound of a breeze whistling through the plants. He saw the beating of wings and the skittering of paws.

Cray's voice interrupted his admiration of the scenery. "There are no benevolent Gods. Only opportunists. Benevolence is their marketing campaign. Their facade. The message you see on the posters so they can attract you to their cause."

Maitho wanted to enjoy the peace of the view before him. Oh how badly he wanted to do that. But he knew that his mind needed to be elsewhere. And so he began to delve into the information he was given, sorting through the bits and pieces. He turned around, leaning back against the fence and hoping that it was sturdy enough. It would be embarrassing if he broke the barrier and fell to the other side. "You knew about my past missions," he said, his voice calm and focused. "You knew about the people I saved. In fact, from what Raiden has told me so far, you know about my habits."

Cray waited for a moment before responding. "What's your question, Mr. Oruba?"

"Do you know about the Celtic team as well?"

"Of course I do."

"Then what about the other Guardians? Do you know about them as well?"

The old man smiled and lifted his head. A moment of pride. "I thought you would never ask." he snapped his fingers. His daughter reacted. She walked past the table, throwing a hard glare at Maitho as she passed him by, and disappeared inside the house. "She likes you," offered Cray as a comment, his eyes twinkling with delight.

"Enough to maybe stick a knife in me the first opportunity she gets."

"You and my children hadn't exactly met in the friendliest of circumstances."

"That's great. I'm not exactly looking for friends."

"It seems that is a sentiment you don't want to get rid of, even with the Celtic team."

Maitho hesitated. "They are good people." He sounded like a broken record, having said the same thing to Raiden earlier.

"Not exactly a response I was looking for, but I shall let it slide."

But Maitho didn't want to. Not without explaining himself. "It's complicated. I am comfortable in my own company. I don't know how to handle the presence of others. Plus, they were close before I joined them and they will remain close long after I'm gone."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

There was so much more Maitho wanted to say, but he thought the better of it. He recollected moments he had shared with the Celtic team. Bevan's support. Quinn's kindness. Epona's partnership. Brigid's control. They were each a part of his memory now, and he realized that despite the friction he had to endure, fighting alongside others gave him a sense of wholeness that he couldn't explain. It had been a long time since he had been in the company of those with whom he felt confident about fighting for something.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the daughter, who was holding a tablet in her hand. It was of a kind Maitho had never seen in his life. She avoided looking at him and headed straight for the table, placing the device on the glass surface with care. She swiveled the device, making it face Maitho, and tapped the screen. The tablet booted to life, after which she returned to her previous position behind her father.

Cray pointed his palm towards the device. "Go ahead. This should answer your question."

Maitho stepped forward with hesitant steps, as though he was approaching an explosive device. Perhaps that was indeed the case, except that this device would probably explode with information that he might not be ready to see. Still, he needed to find out. He needed to know.

He looked at the tablet. It wasn't locked. Instead, he could see the main screen, which has a simple black background. In the center of the screen was a document icon.

Maitho looked up at Cray, who simply stared back. The old man didn't react, nor make any movements. He sat there patiently.

Raising his hand, Maitho tapped the icon. It opened into a folder, containing several folders arranged in a list. He looked at the name of the first folder.

Maitho Oruba.

He looked at the next one.

Raiden Thorvald.

"Your last name is Thorvald?" Maitho asked the Norse Guardian.

"Quite powerful isn't it?" said Raiden.

"I was going for ancient."

"Ancient is powerful, especially in our world."

Maitho had to admit there was a great deal of sense in that statement. But he had no time to admire last names. He looked back at the list. He saw Brigid Danann's folder next, followed by names he recognized from the Celtic team. Then he started seeing names he couldn't recognize. At first, his mind formed a tunnel vision, believing that the list might be rather small. After all, just how much information can Cray obtain, even with all his considerable power. Then he noticed the size of the scroll bar, which was not even half an inch. His heart began racing.

He swiped the screen up. A dozen or so folders ran across the screen. He scrolled again. More folders. Then even more. And yet, the scroll bar had barely even crossed the quarter point. Unable to say anything, he looked up at Cray. "How many are there?"

"More than a thousand, Mr. Oruba. By that, I mean I know of every single Guardian on this planet."

"How did you manage to get all the info? It must have taken years."

"Many years. What you see is the work of five decades. Even then, the only reason I was able to accomplish all this work was because of Guardians who had managed to collect information long before I was born. Guardians such as Raiden here."

Maitho's mind began to reel with the information he was given. But he allowed himself to calm down. He didn't try to strain his attention. Rather, he allowed the questions to come to him. "So how old is Raiden exactly?"

"Oh he's lived for about two hundred years."

"Two hundred and four, to be precise," said Raiden, spreading his arms. "But there are Guardians in my own pantheon older than me. Take Erik Odinson for example. Guy has lived for a thousand years."

Maitho nodded, contemplating what had been said to him. "That means you have been saving people," he looked up at Cray, "rescuing people, for a long time."

"Of course," said Raiden and shrugged matter-of-factly.

"Please open the folder dedicated to you, Mr. Oruba," said Cray.

Maitho met the old man's look. "Why? I should know everything about my life more than you."

"I wish that were the case. In a perfect world, you and I wouldn't have to meet. I wouldn't have to reveal what I know about Guardians and you wouldn't have been in an accident. Or maybe you would. At least it wouldn't be because the Gods planned it." Cray's features turned solemn. "But this is not a perfect world. And it is time to see your imperfections, Mr. Oruba."

Maitho didn't know what to say to that. He wished he had a response. Anything to make him have the last word. It wasn't because of his pride. It was simply because he just wanted to feel as though he had some semblance of control over himself.

He scrolled up, going past the many folders until he reached the one on top. His finger hovered over the screen for a few seconds as he considered all the truths that could be possibly revealed to him. No point in thinking too hard.

He opened the folder.

Inside, he found various files in a plethora of formats. As he scrolled down, he noticed that each one was named. Address, said one. Home routine, mentioned another. Two folders appeared before the documents, nestled at the very top of the list. One was named 'Profile' while the other 'Observations.'

"The profile folder, if you wouldn't mind, Mr. Oruba." Cray spoke, a slight urgency in his voice.

Maitho didn't try to argue. Partly because there was no point in it and partly because he was curious himself. He opened the folder. He discovered more files, along with numerous videos and images occupying the space.

"The image named 92nd," encouraged Cray.

It didn't take Maitho long to find the image mentioned. Since it started with a number and the files were arranged alphnumerically, it was among the topmost files in the folder. He tapped the image.

It took a second for the file to load. Then the entire screen was filled with a black-and-white image of soldiers posing for the photograph. At the bottom of the image was the title "92nd Infantry Division."

"The 92nd Infantry Division," said Maitho. "The only African-American infantry division sent to Europe during the second World War. What are you trying to show me?"

"I'm showing you the soldiers of that division. Their faces. Look closely this time, Mr. Oruba."

Maitho did. At first he didn't see anything. Then he looked at each face in the photograph. There were nine officers in total. Six standing and three seated in the front.

Maitho scanned again. Then he stopped at the third standing officer from the left. He looked up at Cray. Then returned to the photograph. His mind swam with possibilities and explanations, each one more ludicrous than the previous. He eventually opted for the more rational one.

"So my grandfather just happened to be in the war," said Maitho. "Hardly a shocking discovery. Although, it does make me proud of myself." He smiled, a euphoric feeling coursing through his body. "Truly."

"An obvious conclusion on your part," said Cray. "Except for one small error." He leaned forward and pointed at the picture of the soldier who had caught Maitho's eyes. "And I'm sure by now you know what you are looking at."

Maitho did. "No, I don't," he chose to say instead.

"Don't deny it." Cray's words seemed to take the breath out of Maitho, who suddenly felt as though he needed to breathe. It felt suffocating, as though invisible walls were closing in on him. But he forced himself to maintain his composure. "The truth is as blatant as you might expect it to be."

It was obvious, yet Maitho resisted one more time. "This must be a trick. Have you heard of deepfake? Well, let me tell you—"

Cray interrupted him. "That is no deepfake. That isn't a manufactured image. For I don't deal with false claims. Why do that when I have the power of truth ready to answer your questions?" His voice hardened. "That is not your grandfather. That is not your ancestor. That is you, Mr. Oruba. Or at least one version of you."

Maitho's head jerked up to stare at the old man.

Cray took that opportunity to hammer in his conclusion, like drawing the curtains on an act in a play. "You haven't been on Earth for twenty-three years, Mr. Oruba. You have been here far longer than that. I'm not talking about a hundred years. Or even a thousand." he leaned back. "You and every single Guardian have been here for hundreds of thousands of years, since the dawn of mankind."

Then, with one last look of finality, he spoke. "The Guardians were the first humans on the planet."