California had been considered the most progressive state in America decades before the forced migration. While this still held true today, the long coastal area was not flawless. Wealthy neighborhoods loomed high over beaches on towering cliffs. Others rolled along hilly landscapes. Suburbs were lined with townhouses on wavy roads. Elsewhere, graffiti decorated tunnels and bridges and chipped walls. City governments attempted to clean up the less desirable places by planting new trees and installing more benches and brick roads.

Always just outside of all of these communities, tall fencing created a very visible line between humanity and its unwelcome visitors. Mythos communities lucky enough to harbor elementals often left the chained links crawling with greenery. It was much easier on the eyes, after all. The fences did not act as a prison, though those living within might have a difficult time shaking that feeling. Rather, they were meant to provide something of a safety zone and act as a clear but osmotic border. These communities were packed and busy, often not unlike those which surrounded them. Apartment buildings contained the majority, and local businesses had long since sprouted up on newly marked streets.

This was the way of things. Zuul had come to accept it, though perhaps more easily than many of his peers. After all, the peak of his existence had been spent serving the human race, not being served.

“It’s all public information, but I’d be more than happy to answer the question, James.”

ESPN had touted its interview with the owners of Myth Wars for weeks. The interests ranged from the beginning of the foundation, its future plans, and the lives of the founders themselves. Some questions were understandably unnecessary, and Zuul was far too mild mannered and amiable to turn them away.

“I had been a conduit for prayer in many Mesoamerican cultures, long before the introduction of Christianity. For this, I’m also particularly sensitive to the workings of human emotions. Ha-hah! Correct, that is precisely why I tend to be the one to deal directly with our fighters.”

After all, this mythos was so calm and pleasant. He was the perfect mediator, the superb middle-man, the preferred source of feedback. Even his appearance invoked soothed temperaments. The cameras were very sure to pan out and capture his figure in its entirety. After all, he was a particularly tall creature, standing at 7’4” and boasting a trim, powerful physique to smoothly control every inch of himself. When he had entered the carefully lit room, his strides had been long and slow and even. He had raised his two lower arms to gently but firmly shake the offered hand of his host. The grip had been sure and unshakable—not for any level of tenacity on Zuul’s part, but for the thumbs at either side of his palms. Even his skin tone reflected his constantly subdued state: pale, faintly pearlescent, and touched with pink where he was softest. The flush around his tiny, high-set eyes and under his nose and dotting along his forehead left him looking particularly fragile. Not even his grey slacks or white and blue striped dress shirt could remove from the otherworldly calm he carried with himself. When he had seated himself to the far right of the U-shaped desk, he had folded his top hands on the glossy surface and raised his small, constant smile to his hosts.

“Selling out? Quite the contrary. Myth Wars allows Adiaphora and I to show mankind what our kin are capable of without causing any undue fear or apprehension. You can learn a little about us, be entertained, and help support our fighters and their communities at the same time. At the end of each bout, viewers can then see the sense of brotherhood and respect we all hold for each other. It is very much a sport, by your definition.”

Zuul proved to be particularly expressive and was quite active with his gesticulations. Frequently, he'd turn his head and smile down to his partner, both for approval and to share his confidence with her. The interview would be televised internationally. Surely there was just as much discomfort as there was curiosity in the hearts of all viewers. For the Mythos, it was an exciting event—particularly for the local Californian populace.

In a way, it seemed like everything started in New York or California, in America. At least, this is what Adiaphora had come to understand. To be fair, the first rift hadn't been in North America at all, but rather, somewhere between Italy and Africa, with the second unfurling its massive span in a swathe of paranormal activity from northern Peru and East, into Peru. Then it started in Mexico. At the same time, these 'rifts' began to sprout all over the globe. China, India, North America... It had been absolute bedlam, and Ada had been among the first. Many of her kind, the Mythos, had not seen Man in what could have been eons. Many had not been seen by man for centuries. There were times, still, when Adiaphora mused on those first days. It had taken such a surprisingly short time for man to realize that what he had once known of only in old tales and children's books was real. And once he realized it was real? He set to controlling it. It was weeks, really, but for a creature like her, there was little difference. Well, at first. But Ada walked among Man. She was forced to live and work among him. And as such? The days and nights lost their celestial flow and became the same plebeian beat that Man toiled to and in his own way, ignored.

In her heart, Ada toyed with the idea that she was...insulted. She was insulted on behalf of her brothers and sisters and all her kin, that Man collared them, wrote legislation to control them and- legislation! It was absurd! Merely because most of the Mythos were bereft of Man's brutish and violent ways (or did not exact violence beyond the rules of their creation), Man controlled them. There was a certain mortality to Mythos here, as if anything that walked solidly in the realm of man could bleed and die like him. Especially in creatures once made to serve or be served, that were no longer believed in. Of course, there were exceptions. Yet grossly, the government's hastily progressing 'science', and a once hidden vault of knowledge in the occult had been mated to form technologies that were rampantly used to subdue and control the gifts of her kind.

It was just this subject that had burned in the psyche's mind as she rode silently on the tram that morning. That, and the fighter's schedule. When it came to Myth Wars (a foolish name, as there was no disagreement. She hadn't chosen it), Adiaphora was the brains of the operation. She was almost as cool, reliable and steady as Zuul was warm and accepting, and yet, she was not beyond her more capricious or...incendiary moments. In that, Zuul was still her counterbalance. He was her friend, and he kept her even-keeled.

Ada herself spoke little in the interview. She had never agreed to come at all, after all, her nature was coded Em-2 Tp-5, indicating that while she was normally emotionless, she also had the capability to be unpredictable. These codes were like classifications, and in a way, handicaps; A Mythos with an Empathy level as low as her own would never be employed to, say, work with children. As such, she was mostly still, and allowed Zuul to handle most of the speaking. He was, in his own way, charming. People were comfortable around him. And while many found Ada to be small and pretty, they quickly found themselves unsettled by her dour look. There was no human warmth in her eye contact, no humor in her polite smile. And of course, the flat color of her, throughout. Surely they subconsciously associated her with something undead.

"No, I was here before him. Here, in America. I came from a people around the time of the...Etruscans, you are taught about them, right? Yes, I am an elemental....It was something like being the patron saint of weather and harvest, and the constant balance of life and death and destruction in nature. But only in my..district, you could say."

Of course, there was a precursory rise of eyebrows from the host, and some questioning on her role in all that death and destruction. Perhaps it would have been more pleasant for her to never have mentioned it, but Ada was factual and far too unbiased. It was not her fault that Man liked to ignore the necessary.

"-regardless, there's nothing to worry about."

She wouldn't be bringing death or a harvest. For that, a ghost of a smirk played on her mouth as she tapped the silver collar around her neck. Her small fingers laced as her hands settled palm-to-palm on the glossy desk. In the stark studio lights, she was somewhat washed out. Really, the both of them were rather pale, in their own ways. The wavy tumble of her hair was tamed into a bun, and for today, she had swept hair over the right side of her face and secured it behind her ear. While there was a delicate eyepatch of iron over her negative eye, she much rather preferred not to have it stared at. People, especially here, tended to accept the line of silver on her forehead as some sort of bindi, and for that, she was grateful.

"Don't be silly, James. We couldn't 'sell out' if we tried- it's simply not in our creation. Our fighters are creatures that lived martially; We are merely giving them a lucrative outlet for their purposes. And honestly, you can't tell me you all don't enjoy it. It's all just a game."

She leaned forward and grinned. The interview would air tomorrow, and that was two days before the next scheduled bout. It was good timing, good business. When the cameras stopped rolling, and hands were all shaken, she stood outside the studio with Zuul, frowning down at a touchscreen phone. They had over half an hour until the next tram.

While certain areas of the nation were quite advanced and progressive, America itself was not always the first for great changes. In fact, it was at times so far behind, yet never quite seemed aware of it. Zuul and many of the others were well aware of this, having watched these goings on for so long. They and others then in turn studied these histories, and so some information was second-and-third-hand. These were details that clever Mythos were sure to keep in mind when dealing directly with mankind. In fact, America was so trapped in a certain frame of mind that it demanded these unwilling guests cohabitate so thoroughly that they find work. Work! Ada was no human. Why then should she toil like one? Because no one was allowed to escape the monotony and structure that was the average human’s to bear.

The stout, high-cheeked woman handled herself quite well, however. She worked with Zuul’s easy temperament, and it was always quite comforting for the long creature. They created an effective balance, these two. It was not uncommon to see one glancing to the other when they handled matters of business. Today was no different. Even in their subtle body language, they provided each other with the other end of a sensitive scale. Zuul, always smiling and always so active with his hands, could be too personal for strangers to manage comfortably. Adiaphora, so matter-of-fact and straight-faced, could be too distant. Ah, but together? Harmony.

“I think it served its purpose. I’m glad it’s over.”

The walking medium brought his hands together as though in prayer, one set just below the other. However, it was not a prayer—only a representation of tension releasing and satisfaction replacing it. His two right hands opened aside, at length, to rest at her back and shoulder. His little red eyes skimmed by her hair and over the animated details of her telephone screen.

“We have time. I’d like to eat something, if that’s alright.”

Really, it depended entirely on their shared desire to do so. After all, they didn’t really need to consume. Oh, some did. There were always those who had been created to exist that way. However, these two had been little more than a natural force and statue. Considering that their eating habits weren’t based off of need, they were often based entirely around personal tastes. Zuul? Zuul liked desserts. Was that too predictable of him?

- - - - - - - - - -

In other areas of the state, the inhuman stars of the upcoming match were either preparing, or enjoying what little free time they had between preparations. Strengths were matched with comparable strengths, and the beastman loping down Pebble Beach had not been a difficult fighter to place. He was preparing, he’d argue, by forcing himself to stay on two legs and trudging through calf-deep water. Baeum could be incredibly stubborn when he felt like it, which was quite often.

While organized violence was not his forte, violence for the sake of violence was well within his realm of thought. In times long lost, Baeum might thrash through a dam to flood the valley below and alter and towns within, for better or for worse. He might devour fairies merely to weaken the mysticism of that wood, for better or for worse. None of these effects were positive or negative, in Baeum’s simple mind. They simple were. This coming fight would be much the same. It would affect the masses, and the masses were of no concern to him. More importantly, however, he could be a very proud creature. In fact, for some Mythos, pride ruled too many actions.

A great black mane shook, bounced, and whipped against broad shoulders and a curved, powerful back. In a different time and different place, this “man” had topped the size of the largest rhinoceros and conquered the roar of the hungriest lion. He had galloped and slithered on four meaty legs. He had crunched white bones in his heavy maw. Now he was mastering a size and visage which wouldn’t limit his interactions in the human realm. That didn’t mean he could not unleash himself in the arena, though, now did it?