Charles insists poker is a game of honesty.
I think that's hilarious, considering he's the literal creator of the universe.
We sit across from each other in my mindscape—a space that stopped resembling anything physical a few billion years ago. There's no table, no cards, no chips, yet all of those things exist anyway because we both agree they do. The deck shuffles itself. The cards feel real in a way that has nothing to do with touch.
"House rules," I say, watching him deal. "No future sight. No peeking. No omniscience."
Charles raises his hands in mock offense. "I already agreed. I'm not cheating."
"That's exactly what someone who cheats would say."
He laughs, a warm, echoing sound that vibrates through my consciousness. I gave him the name Charles a long time ago. He never asked for it, but he didn't reject it either. Somehow, calling the Creator of the universe by a casual human name made him feel… manageable.
The game is fair. Completely fair.
My intelligence is monstrous now—probability trees unfolding in real time, behavioral prediction models running subconsciously—but even I can't brute-force uncertainty when the deck itself is fundamentally random and Charles is barred from divine interference.
That's what makes this dangerous.
We aren't betting chips.
We're betting ourselves.
I push in my ante. One of my abilities—sealed, conditional, and irrevocable if I lose.
Charles matches it with something new. A power I don't yet possess.
The first few hands are uneventful. Losses and wins cancel out. I fold aggressively. Too aggressively. Charles notices.
"You're scared," he says casually, stacking nonexistent chips.
"I'm cautious," I reply. "There's a difference."
"Same thing, from where I'm sitting."
The tension isn't emotional—it's existential. One bad read, one unlucky draw, and I lose something I can never replace. Intelligence alone doesn't save you from variance.
Then the cards turn.
Perfectly.
Not impossibly—just… right.
I win the first game.
Charles leans back, studying me. "Beginner's luck?"
"Hardly," I say, though my relief is very real.
He honors the bet immediately. The new ability unfolds inside me like a mathematical proof snapping into focus.
I can absorb the powers of the other Infinity Stones through contact.
Not copy. Not channel.
Absorb.
Their functions, their authorities, their cosmic domains—folded into my own existence, just as the Mind Stone had been.
That alone is terrifying.
I should stop there.
I don't.
We play again.
The second game is worse. Longer. Sweat would be dripping down my back if I still had one. I calculate odds until the concept of chance starts to feel personal. Charles gives nothing away. His face is calm, relaxed, amused.
I almost fold.
Almost.
Then I win.
I don't smile. I don't celebrate. I just exhale a thought I didn't realize I was holding.
Charles nods slowly, impressed despite himself. "Two in a row."
"That's it," I say immediately. "I'm done."
"Already?" he asks. "You're on a streak."
"That's how streaks end."
He chuckles. "Fair."
The second ability settles into me, vast and limitless.
Infinite energy—but conditional. Elegant. Perfectly balanced.
Whatever form of power my host body uses—magic, cosmic, divine, psychic—it will never run dry. No exhaustion. No depletion. No upper ceiling imposed by fuel or reserves.
Only control will matter.
I sit back, mind racing through implications I don't have time to fully process yet.
Charles watches me quietly.
"Most people would've kept going," he says.
"Most people don't understand how expensive losing is," I reply.
He smiles again. Not wide. Not mocking.
Proud.
Far away, something stirs in the universe. A pull I recognize instantly.
The game is over.
The waiting is almost done.
And now?
Now I'm ready.