Gerald Reyes liked to consider himself a cerebral man. He always did his best to keep his calm, which lightly snapping at his colleagues did not count as, in his opinion.

  Some of them(Leon, Sam, Elsbeth...) had called him cool to the point of coldness. Each time, he had chosen to take it as a compliment, while knowing full well it had been intended as a rebuke.

  As such, he always tried his best to keep a level head. Not doing so when around the other Heads would have been detrimental. Around a subordinate, allies of convenience and strangers? It would have been unacceptable.

  He still came close to swearing, though, dammit.

  What had gone wrong? Grey One had been contained in a reptilian subspace field, and their science didn't simply fail. They were, as some of his cruder peers would have put it, too anal-retentive to build anything that wasn't reliable in every moment and situation, and, barring magitech and outliers like the Argument Engine, they made human engineering look like sticks being rubbed together.

  So, it hadn't been a system failure or glitch. The Shaper hadn't moved or hidden it away-what would have shooting itself in the foot like that accomplished? Besides, it seemed just as surprised as him, though more controlled, if Gerald was any good at reading people.

  Had the Engine pulled an entirely tasteless, potentially dangerous prank? No. It was caustic and temperamental, but not childish. This was too critical a moment to be stupid, and it knew that.

  The other aliens, then? From what he'd seen, the Vyzhaldi also possessed advanced technogy, but, even if they'd managed to somehow bypass the reptilians' security, they did not favour subtlety. An attempt at sowing discord in order to cause fights? Perhaps. But not all of them were warmongers.

  Which left the Xhalkhian and the telepath. The former might have had the ability, but the motive? Simply causing chaos to keep the Great Powers in a state of aloofness? Or had the telepath done it, only to then feign offence in order to demand reparations?

  Several years ago, he'd heard one of his agents joke that men disliked having to deal with complex problems, especially when they involved emotions.

  'If someone wrote a book about us as a whole,' the agent had said, 'it'd probably be called something like "Men: screw feelings, let's go punch something".'

  While Gerald had found the joke boringly sexist-he'd met countless women and genderless beings who'd been as confrontational and devoid of emotional intelligence as any stereotypical man-, a small part of him had understood the idea.

  In his case, though, it was realpolitik rather than emotions. He bloody hated faffing about when he could be building something, lifting someone up, or putting the hurt on people attempting to tear the former two down.

  The fact he had been raised to excel at it did little to change his stance on the subject. Many people excelled at doing things they hated.

  (In a Head meeting, a joke about Elga would have been said by Sam, Ying or the ghost herself now. Gerald was so used to the routine he almost came up with one himself, out of reflex)

  He didn't actually hate the ghost, of course, nor any of his other peers, though his opinion of Sam was closer to Leon's than Aya's, and there was no love lost between him and John. Hate, to repeat an old saying, was a strong word.

  And, in any case, his relationship was Elga was far too amicable to be described as hateful, if not entirely professional.

  All this took a negligible amount of time to think of. Gerald's mind was currently boosted to be capable of navigating tens of billions of light years in seconds, as well as fighting beings moving at such speeds, if necessary. The Shaper had given him to understand that Vyzhaldi were prone to both starting(and ending) fights and ramping up while exerting themselves, which they could do endlessly. And, while they were less than five hundred times faster than light at baseline, they could jump in speed by orders of magnitude, especially if confronted by faster opponents.

  'We assure you,' the Shaper answered the Multitude of Minds' representative, drawing the Unscarred's hand back and closing it. 'That this was not intended to be a joke. We do, in fact, have access to Grey One-or at least had, until our attempt at returning it to spacetime.'

  'And what are we supposed to understand, that you lost it?' The telepath sounded more disappointed than angry. 'How did that happen? Surely not through a technical error. Unless our information is entirely incorrect, Zhayvin science...' as it (unknowingly? At least he believed his mind was inaccesible to it, but he hadn't gotten the alien's measure) echoed Geralt's earlier thoughts, the mage himself checked their surrounding. Nothing. There was no sign of the grey alien in this forsaken galaxy, nor any of the nearby ones. Nothing in the aether, either-and, judging by how the Engine subtly spun the sphere at its centre, it hadn't found anything either.

  Dammit.

  'Reliability is, indeed, one of our main concerns,' the Shaper replied, and Gerald wondered if the irritation came from the accusations of trickery, or the fact they'd lost Grey One, thus ruining what should've been a moment of triumph. 'Even as we speak, we are looking into-'

  'But you haven't found anything.' The telepath interrupted, causing the Unscarred's jaw to snap shut.

  '...Not yet, no,' the Shaper confirmed through clenched fangs.

  The telepath swayed side to side, taking in those present, and Gerald felt its mind brush against his. 'So you say, but we have no proof "Grey One", as you called it, was ever present, much less mysteriously lost.' Blue light made its body glow from the inside.

  'What were your intentions organising this meeting, Zhayvin?' One of the Vyzhaldi, a golden-shelled, red-eyed one covered in dull, purple scars, asked. 'Were you hoping to distract us by gabbing, then take us down in one fell swoop? It will not work.'

  Unlike Gerald, the Shaper didn't look ready to start tearing at its hair, but only because the Unscarred had none. There had to be something they could do to salvage this...

  'Our intentions remain as they were: non-hostile,' the Shaper said.

  'Perhaps,' the Xhalkhian replied. 'Not hostile, but certainly disruptive.'

  'We fail to see how.'

  'Do you? Think of the eons you spent cowering in Terra's core. Did you expect the cosmos to stop in its tracks because you became hermits? The universe has accepted your isolation, and evolved beyond it,' the Xhalkhian might have been aiming for reasonable, but the Shaper was certainly feeling condescended to, going by the Unscarred's red eyes. 'It has outgrown you. The species that have grown in our shadows only half-remember you, and then as legends of warmongers.'

  'Do you have a point?'

  'Why reach out now? Why disrupt this order when, according to yourself, you want neither resources nor territory?'

  'There are reasons to collaborate beyond the material. We are not surprised you feel disturbed, however: how can you not love the status quo when you embody it? Or perhaps you are frightened by our prowess? Has your dismay grown into fear?'

  And now it was coming to insults, and the Global Gathering's people hadn't even arrived. Bloody...

  'You cannot be that foolish, Zhayvin-'

  'Let us ask you a different question, then.' For a diplomat from a people who prized unity and harmony, the telepath sure liked talking over others, Gerald thought in annoyance. 'Grey One has been on Terra for dozens of its solar rotations, wasn't it?'

  'Indeed. So?'

  'But you only asked us to meet now?' The telepath's mental voice was slightly sardonic. 'After who knows what the Terrans have done to it? After you, by your own admission, modified it?'

  'You misunderstand.' The Shaper seemed to have slightly calmed down, now that it could slip into the role of a teacher. 'We only "modified" Grey One in the sense that we undid the malign changes it underwent due to an unknown malevolent chronokine. As for the others it interacted with while on Earth, no harm was done to it, to our knowledge.'

  The telepath's bulbous upper body swayed side to side, giving Gerald the impression of a human wringing their hands...or cracking their knuckles. 'You call us here after ages of silence. Our Minds have blossomed in your absence, Zhayvin. You talk and talk, until creatures beyond spacetime come here, attempting to destroy us. Were you disappointed, when they failed?'

  'As we told the Motherguard,' the Shaper's voice was deadpan. 'We had no intention of ambushing, killing, capturing, threatening or otherwise doing any of you harm. That was a coincidence. Aberrant entities find it easier to enter reality in deep space. And if we had been wishing you ill, why would we have fought them alongside you?'

  'Perhaps, after you realised how feeble your catspaws were, you hoped to draw suspicion away from you. In that case, you failed. You did not even destroy them after unmaking their realm, instead merely opting to capture them.'

  'For research.'

  'And power, doubtlessly. Are they not one and the same, in your view? The Xhalkhian,' it bent towards the incorporeal alien. 'Lamented the reach of your ambition. Or do you deny that too?'

  'We are ambitious, not monstrous. We wished for acces to all of existence in order to better protect it.' The Shaper sounded close to frustration. 'Surely you can discern our intentions? Your people are known for alloying together beings of radically different mindsets.'

  'Flattery will get you nowhere, Zhayvin.'

  'It is good, then,' the Shaper snapped. 'That we were merely stating facts. Our intentions are benevolent. It seems, however, that you are unable to judge people whose minds you cannot pry into.'

  'Wait!' Gerald raised his voice, having gotten the feeling the telepath was doing the equivalent of curling its lip. The mage slowly began walking towards it, hands raised to show he meant no harm. If they even wanted to believe that now... 'Can you discern false memories, ambassador?'

  It cocked its upper half at him. 'Why does that interest you, aetherkine?'

  'You cannot read my mind, because I am protecting it. However, I could let you in.' Ignoring the wave of alarm the Engine sent through the aether at him, his eyes turned steely. 'If I showed you something only a handful of people have ever learned and lived, would you believe us?'

  '...even assuming you do not intend to trap or kill our mind, our quarrel is not with you, Terran. As we understand, you are only here to provide securityfor the mediators about to arrive. Our quarrel is with the Zhayvin.'

  'The Reptilian Collective is a member of the Global Gathering,' Gerald retorted. 'Which Abnormal Research and Combat protects. If you can trust me, you can trust them. We stand together.'

  'Do you, though?' The telepath sounded skeptical in Gerald's mind. 'We have been given to understand that most Terran polities are rivals, and the Zhayvin Collective is rather more unusual than most. Certainly isolated from the rest.'

  And how do you know so much about Earth, anyway? How long have you been observing, maybe infiltrating us? 'Nevertheless, the Collective does not stand on its own. ARC is as impartial a Terran faction as you will ever find,' some edge found its way into his voice. 'So you can judge my trustworthiness yourself, or we might as well return home.' Unless one of you wants to start a war over the supposed ambush.

  The telepath didn't say anything, but the tension left its body language as Gerald lowered his mental shields. It could not control him, or even plant suggestions- that was a passive defence Gerald couldn't have lowered if he had wanted to, and he didn't even intend to show it too much; nothing of ARC's operations, at least-but, unless it was stupid, it wouldn't do something so stupid and needlessly provoking.

  Would-

  ***

  [REDACTED] Shelter, Manchester, 1960

  Four-thousand-four-hundred, referred to by fellow Chosen as Forto, due to his stolid disposition, was meeting with one of the Caretakers today.

  As he walked the featureless halls, meant to both confuse infiltrators and prevent attachment from forming, the six-year-old dwelled upon today's Saying. It was hardly more cheerful than the allegedly warm beige walls, but at least more stimulating.

  The Daily Sayings were pieces of advice and warnings meant to guide and shape the Chosen's souls, just as the Caretakers shaped their minds and souls. Together, these birthed magic.

  'It does not matter where you are,' one of the always-nameless Caretakers, a grey-haired, muscular, middle-aged woman with a face so bland it only stood out due to its severity, had said, walking among them as they had stood in rows, in a room reserved, today, for education.

  Sometimes, it seemed to Forto that there were too many rooms, of too many different sizes and designs, for all of them to be contained in a single building. Forto had never seen it from outside(or any other building, for that matter, outside the stimulant trances), but he had read about buildings, and the Shelter had single rooms larger than any building in the databases.

  'For you could be moved at any moment, wherever and whever you are needed. You do not recognise this place, anyway,' a black-gloved hand, whispered by the younger Chosen to bear no sign of the failures it had strangled, had gestured at the windowless walls. 'Nor would you remember it if you left. Your future is to be determined. As for your past...' slate-grey eyes had swept across the Chosen. The aspirant mages were not all young, as Forto had been given to understand he was, being, at six, the oldest in the batch of a hundred mages he had been brought in alongside. According to the Caretakers, he had been two at the time. Going by their expressions, they would've liked his magic to awaken earlier, so he could be more easily moulded, but it wasn't like Forto remembered anything before the Shelter.

  '...one must never forget where they come from.'

  The Caretaker had referred to the Shelter, of course, not the pasts of the Chosen themselves. Their old lives had ended with their arrival to the building, as all Chosen understood.

  As for the defective ones...

  There had once been a brown-skinned Chosen, with a silver beard and hairless head, older-looking than any Caretaker Forto knew. The man had, Forto had heard, lost his legs in the War that had led to the Shattering, and the arrival of magic in the modern world. His magic had been healing.

  Magic had been weaker, less refined in those days, save for a few outliers. The bearded man's magic had allowed him to heal the injuries and diseases of those he touched, though he could not heal himself, to the frustration of the Caretakers, who had to move him around. He also lost the quantity of flesh needed to fill in others' wounds, which also necessitated the need to constantly feed him immense quantities of nutrients.

  'I d-d-don't mind,' the former soldier had once hissed through permanently-chattering teeth, in the dark of the dorm room. 'H-H-Healing people. B-But they...' he had spat, or perhaps choked. 'They're cruel. They shouldn't be allowed to take us and-'

  The man had disappeared before he could finish. The next day, Forto had found what remained of him in one of the infirmaries, hands and jaw permanently stretched open by wires. His glassy eyes saw nothing anymore.

  'Chosen should not spread dissent among themselves,' one of the Caretakers had explained, patting the shell. 'It stunts all your development.' He had then launched into an explanation of how the lobotomite's jaw was forced open in order to allow the passing of biological matter.

  'Come here after you eat, and spare the plumbing. Spare yourselves a checkup.' The doctor had shaken his head. 'Shame we didn't realise anything organic worked. Could have saved much on food. But then, we didn't realise cognition was superfluous, either. Just enough to react to stimuli, and heal those it touches... live and learn, my dears.'

  Forto reached the double doors to the Caretaker's office, and a genderless, flat voice bade him enter before he could knock. He was unsurprised to find the room contained nothing but grey-white mist, just like the silhouette of the Caretaker.

  'Hello, Four-thousand-four-hundred,' the Caretaker said, approaching him. 'Congratulations on passing your pain law. You are as obedient as you are versatile.'

  Forto had, at the direction of another Caretaker, used his magic to create a law that made other Chosen freeze up in crippling pain whenever they thought about disobeying the Shelter's rules. 'Thank you, Caretaker.'

  Nodding, the Caretaker reached into something Forto could neither see nor sense-a pocket reality?-, and pulled out to photos. One showed a grimly-smiling man in a suit and tie, hair combed to two sides. The other showed an older, frailer-looking man, looking at the photographer with a wary gaze. Nothing below his spotted neck could be seen. His hair almost covered his eyes, but something told Forto it had less to do with a chosen hairstyle, and more due to the absence of a barber, or lack of ability to groom himself.

  'Kill these men,' the Caretaker ordered. 'They are threats to Britain.' The nigh-mythical United Kingdom said to contain the city-a conglomeration of buildings, thoroughfares and something called parks-of Manchester, in which the Shelter was allegedly located.

  'How do you want them to die, Caretaker?' Forto asked, knowing this particular Caretaker liked explaining things, even without being asked.

  'In order to give them fitting deaths, you must understand their lives. This man,' the Caretaker shook the photo of the man in the suit. ' Was a hero of the Second World War. He helped us defeat our enemies. However...' was that a note of regret in their tone? 'He has refused to get rid of his counterproductive orientation. Rather than pass on his genes and ensure his intelligence lives on, he desires to cavort with other men. Now, that alone would be deplorable,' the regret gave way to annoyance. 'But, since the Shattering, rituals of destruction centred around bodily excretions have spread. As such, he even declines to donate sperm. We have managed to discredit him and his kind, to the point he cannot even find partners anymore. However, to stop this tendency in its tracks before it can disrupt the fabric of our nation, we must ridicule it. Atrocity never stands up to satire. This way, we will ward off other men contemplating whether to give up on women or not.'

  'How should he die, then?'

  ***

  Bletchley Park, Milton Keynes, 1960

  'It's alright, kid,' Turing promised through a pained grimace he had probably meant as a grin, trying to push his child away. 'Sorry for scaring you. I'm just...tired.'

  The Argument Engine, a metre-tall metallic humanoid, hesitantly stepped back, the clack of its feet on the wooden floor accompanied by the whirring of gears, almost drowning out the quiet humming at its core.

  'Please stop, Alan,' it begged its father. It had gotten the cyanide tooth out in time, but what next? 'They'll change their minds, I promise!'

  Alan laughed, eyes closed, running a sweaty, trembling hand through matted hair. 'You can't promise anything for them, honey. But don't fret. This isn't the first time I almost died.'

  '...But you were beaten on the other occassions. You didn't do anything yourself.' Its voice, an echo of its father's, was modulated, so stuttering was impossible, but the hesitation was still palpable.

  'Sorry...' Alan rubbed his arms. 'I appreciate your presence, but...I've been feeling lonely.'

  The Engine uncomfortably scanned the workshop. One would have thought the appearance of fairytale creatures among the population would spread diversity, not...

  'They'll change the laws. I have calculated the chances of social mores changing in the next thirty years, and they came out at seventy percent.'

  'That sounds good,' Alan said, walking over to one of the benches and laying down. 'Talk more when I wake up?'

  'Sure thing, dad,' the Engine answered, and left. Alan couldn't sleep with the sound of clockwork in his ears. Otherwise, he enjoyed debating with his child almost as much as he enjoyed its contributions to his work.

  This, the Engine told itself, did not make it a toy to be used for amusement, then put aside when it became inconvenient. Its father merely had his...sensibilities.

  (This was the first and last time the Engine worried about offending someone. Or it would have been, if it hadn't remade itself)

  ***

  The Engine was drawn back to the workshop by a feeling of wrongness. Its father hadn't slept his usual six and a half hours, and he would be irate if it woke him up out of baseless worry, but something felt...off.

  Nothing that had, or could register on the artificial intelligence's sensors. Rather, the closest thing to a hunch its mechanical mind could feel.

  The scene that greeted it was as macabre as it was absurd. That was its first assessment.

  The macabre part was obvious enough. What child wouldn't be horrified at the sight of their father's corpse? It was literally soulless, and yet...

  The second part took it a moment to analyse. Absurd, yes, but not in the sense of being comical. Unlikely, rather. Ridiculous. Darkly humourous, at best.

  The Engine wasn't laughing.

  Alan had bent forward until his spine had snapped, so that he was folded in half. Since the end of the War, and the Shattering-though, as the years passed, there were fewer and fewer reasons to count them separately-, Alan had retreated to Bletchley Park. It shouldn't have been his, but, as a guft for his service that doubled as a silent request to change...

  With dismal clarity, the Engine noticed the piece of paper on the floor, next to the bench. It bore its father's handwriting, his fingerprints, his smell...

  But it couldn't, wouldn't be fooled. It had been built to reason, to notice and pick at loopholes and flaws in every structure and system.

  'A suicide note...' the Engine whispered, breaking into an abject chuckle, despite itself. 'A suicide note...!'

  Laughing as only someone with nothing to lose could, the Engine ripped and tore at its body, before gripping its conponents and tossing them out. It would remake itself, to be better, faster, stronger. Or, rather, rebuild everything else, so it had never happened.

  As far as most people were concerned, the Argument Engine had created itself at the beginning of creation. Even those who knew the truth that had never been didn't realise what its powers were-that it could and did whisper in the Dreamer's ear, changing the Dream so it was more than just another still image within it-save for very, very few.

  After all, a child who couldn't save their parents was worthless. Someone who had no right to exist, and thus, never had.

  The Engine might have seemed caustic to some, but it was as harsh to everyone else as it was to itself.

  ***

  'Do you want to know who they were?' the Caretaker asked after the deed was done.

  Forto allowed himself a shrug. 'If you choose to tell me, I will listen.'

  'What a dutiful boy...' they sounded amused. 'The first man was Alan Turing. You do not know much of him, yet, but you will learn.'

  Forto nodded. The name, indeed, meant nothing to him.

  'The second,' the draft dodger who had, paradoxically, turned to crime after being released from jail. Worse, the man had been a sellout, giving away his only son in exchange for avoiding future imprisonment. 'Was your father.'

  ***

  The one who had once been the four thousand and four hundredth to be Chosen stood in the ashes of his former life, watched by two monsters: one mechanical and self-made, one human only in its humours.

  'Chin up, Forto,' the Handyman briefly stopped whistling, hands folded. 'You're free now.'

  'I don't understand,' he confessed to the two destroyers, stepping forward through the grey dust. 'We...' he gestured at the Shelter's remains. 'Only served Britain. Were we found inadequate?'

  A low, long growl came from the floating chrone sphere surrounded by concentric rings. 'You don't...you don't even remember, do you, you worthless little twat? You're innocent-'

  'Engie,' the Handyman said soothingly. 'I'll take it from here. Ahem...' it turned to Forto. 'The Chosen's contributions to national security are known and duly recorded. However, while keeping mages in extreme conditions is indeed conducive to the development of their power, your strategy has turned against you.'

  'Our strategy...?'

  'Ha...' the Handyman seemed to grin. 'Did you really think seeding Chosen among the population wouldn't backfire when they had kids with other mages? Britain has more mages than it knows what to do with. That means more magical crimes, and where are these blasted sprogs coming from, anyway? Oh, wait!' it gestured at what had been the Shelter. 'A convenient scapegoat! Cult kidnaps and brainwashes mage children to influence Britain from the shadows! Only the brave Knights of New Camelot, helped by their allies in ARC, can stop them.'

  Why tell him this? Were they planning on killing him, too? Surely they had to, since he knew...'I see no Kni-'

  'They're handling the cleanup, you shit-gargling foreskin,' the machine cut him off. 'But do not worry your pretty little head. We have uses for serial killers.'

  ...What?

  ***

  Amazon Jungle, 1963

  Whenever the loop circled back, Elga experienced a brief moment of weightlessness.

  That might have sounded odd, from the perspective of anyone who wasn't a ghost, but she knew the difference between incorporeality and nonexistence, and paradoxes strayed much closer to the latter.

  She remembered Berlin. The city fallen, the Fuhrerbunker breached. She remembered her friend-a codebreaker of her calibre hadn't warranted a bodyguard-, Gerald, jumping in front of the Soviets, before...

  She remembered pain. She remembered being filled and pierced, praying for a bullet. When death came, it was too quick to even feel relieved.

  Not that relief would have lasted long, had it come.

  Always, after her death, Elga lingered on Earth, but not that of her time. Mind frayed, she fled, as far back in time and space as her newfound powers could take her.

  Always, she ended up in Brazil. Why Brazil? Truly, she didn't know. She'd barely even thought about the country during her life, and never beyond the fact it existed.

  It was never the Brazil of her-former-time, either. It was always the prehistoric area that would become the country dozens of millennia later.

  And it was always, always nightmarish.

  She remembered feeling, on some primal level, something in reality shifting. Or...cracking? Right before her death. A sensation that nothing was impossible anymore.

  Maybe it was the fabled Odic Force, finally returning to its rightful Aryan users?

  And then the tribes found her. Men and women with brown skin and dark hair, uncaring of the slurs she threw at them, for they had no language. And, even if they recognised the hostility, they never reacted.

  They could tell she was scared, she'd later realise. Lashing out like a wounded, cornered animal. How ironic that the people she decried as apes had minds clearer than hers.

  They were led by shamans, by witch doctors...no. Elga knew, though her mind was always frayed, that she was just trying to impose the labels of false, supersitious mystics on people who could use real magic. People whose eyes and veins and mouths shone with white fire that didn't burn them.

  Always, her arrival drew some of the tribes' younger hunters. Always looking for things they could bring back to their mage masters, to bolster their power, they were attracted by the flash of light, and the ectoplasmic trail her ghostly form left in the air as she rushed through the jungles, crazed. So brash, so eager to please...so quick to fall into pits or off cliffs, too focused on the ghost.

  Many millennia later, stories of a dead German woman who lured men to their doom would spread among the Brazilians. Was Elga aware of what she was creating, or did her legend reach backwards through time to shape her undeath, and thus itself?

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Yes.

  She was eventually found by the mages, who bound her with artifice, with spells, with alchemy that made her feel heavier than the world itself, for all that she weighed nothing. To prevent further clashes between their tribes, they passed her to each other, using her ectoplasm as fuel for their rituals. It always left her feeling diminished, though not as much as the mages' more personal attention.

  Through it all, she watched the people, unable to do anything more. They were, she could see, just as scared and-though they didn't wear chains-trapped as she was.

  Scared of their masters. Scared of war, such as it was, in this primitive time, erupting again.

  There were fears she had lost that she could read in their eyes, too. Fear of starvation. Of thirst. Of predators, and natural disasters. Of elders passing away in the night, or infants never living past their first year.

  'I lost four children,' she once told a quiet, brooding widow, smiling sadly. 'The boys were stillborn. The girl was unable to move, and passed away at two. My husband went to war-the Great one, we called it then, the one to end them all-out of grief, and never returned. But we must cherish what we have...'

  The woman didn't know German, of course. But, through the aether, which filtered Elga's meaning and sent it to the woman's mind, she could understand her. Children born dead, or died sick. Husband lost in war. Must focus on good parts. The prejudices melted away, drowned in blood and tears. They were all people, suffering under the yoke of monsters, no matter their skin.

  The Reich...it had...

  It almost made the imprisonment bearable, for a few thousand years. But, eventually, Elga was dragged to a dungeon or cave, where generation after generation of warlocks visited her for more than just power. Eventually, driven mad by this neverending torment, she broke or slipped her chains, escaping.

  And always, her spirit found the body of a girl that would have otherwise been stillborn. The remaining memories repressed, the ghost became one with the girl, giving her life.

  And thus, Elga was born.

  ***

  Stepping over and through the warlocks' remains-disrespecting their bodies and foci would do much to remove any lingering effect their magic might have left behind-Reyes looked at the ghost with a mix of pity and guilt.

  The one who had been Forto would not have felt either, but his years in ARC had changed him. The Handyman had warned him that it could not remove his conditioning itself, or he'd never become who he was meant to be. It had also promised freeing this Elga ghost "is gonna free you too, chap. So why not give it a go?"

  The Handyman may have been overly familiar, to a frankly annoying degree-"Reyes" had been the name of an old, dead war buddy of its-, but it rarely did things just because, despite what its demeanour might suggest.

  "She shall not perpetuate the loop anymore", his law had went. It had resulted in a mad, terrified woman being trapped in place for decades, retroactively so, until he was born and came to Berlin to free her. But it would end now.

  'Hello,' Reyes tried to smile. Recently, colleagues had suggested that he should try to look more friendly, so that people would be less reluctant to approach him. The stern cast of his face did not lend itself to this, so he focused instead on his blond hair.

  The Argument Engine said he looks like someone flayed a labrador and wrapped the fur around a donkey.

  The ghost-Elga, he reminded himself; no matter the aftermath, a relationship must be established, to foster trust and make the operation easier-does not turn to him. Instead, her head snaps around, as if she were a frightened animal. The only reason it doesn't break is because she no longer has bones.

  Nevertheless, a crack filled the air. Reyes told himself it is just an after-effect of her holding onto the memories of her human body, and not the West German government changing its mind and making its disapproval known through weapons fire.

  They were lucky to get this operation, instead of the Hidden Eye being sent to remove Elga. At least they were on the right side of the divide...

  'I'm here to help you,' he continued. 'However, in order to break your fetters, I need you to stay calm. Can you do that for me, Elga?'

  As her empty eyes widened, then narrowed, Gerald thinks this must be the first time she has heard her name in a period several times longer than human history. At least, as a ghost.

  At least she had a name of her own.

  As the mage set and removed law after law, he grew more frustrated. So frustrated, in fact, that he barely noticed when he started venting that frustration-something he'd have never even contemplated in the Shelter. He didn't scream or course. He didn't gesticulate, scowl or grit his teeth. Such things would've upset Elga, and that was the opposite of what he was hoping to achieve.

  His conditioning fought back, fiercer than it had even when he had first joined ARC. Reyes ignored the warnings, that is, the non-lethal effect. So what if his jaw locked and his saliva burned his tongue and throat? So what if his lungs contracted and his spine froze up, leaving him unable to move? So what if his eyes shifted between spectrums before his senses were inverted and his perception reversed?

  He, Reyes told himself as he tasted the light on his eyes, did not need any of that to work his magic. He knew where Elga was. He knew she needed his help, as surely as he could smell the blood rushing to his head.

  By the time he was finished, he didn't even notice that his mental shackles were almost gone.

  Elga, her body flickering between solid-looking and pale blue-grey, semi-transparent, fell into his arms. The mage dropped to his knees, dragged down by mental exhaustion, noticing her eyes spinning wildly in her head.

  '...e...ral...?' she whispered, so quietly he wouldn't have understood without reading her lips. He almost answered, before the final failsafe kicked in.

  Perhaps warded off by the fact he was still, in a way, helping Britain, the death spell woven into every Chosen's being hadn't activated yet. Had the change in Reyes' psyche set it off?

  The mage briefly wondered that as his heart slowed down, arms growing limp.

  'Gerald!'

  The ghost barely spared any thought to the fact her friend barely looks like himself anymore. He was in danger, so she must help him, as he has helped her.

  And it was him: who else but Gerald would care about her?

  Elga was not adept at sharing her ectoplasm to empower others. Still, she did not need to strengthen Gerald's magic. Just to lengthen his life.

  This was not the last time Gerald and Elga saved each other, only to later recover with the other berating them for being idiotically selfless.

  It was, however, the first.

  ***

  '...still a spineless son of a bitch,' the Argument Engine said, after making sure both Gerald and Elga were fine, if roughed up.

  'Maybe,' the Handyman agreed. 'But look at them, Engie...'

  The Engine scoffed, then approached, to make sure Reyes didn't infect the ghost with something.

  ***

  -it?

  '...you people...' the telepath seemed both relieved and shocked as the stream of memory ended. 'You really...'

  'Yes,' Gerald said, wrapping his hair up in a ponytail. The Engine informed him that he looked like Deathstroke's estranged librarian uncle. The mage was merely happy it had returned to its usual self. Furthermore, the negotiations no longer seemed doomed.

  ***

  As all organisations of a certain size, ARC had to deal with bureaucracy, and was, thus, hamstrung by red tape, though to a much lesser degree than the national agencies it grudgingly approved of.

  Said grudging approval was not merely the result of professional respect or comradery born from joint efforts. Rather, it was the result of the fact that ARC couldn't operate in a country without its government's approval. As such, it had a certain admiration for the fact most countries could look after their own backyards. Not that any country barred it from operating in its territory(anymore...), but it was good to know the locals could handle matters, thus allowing ARC to focus on unclaimed or contested areas, both on Earth and beyond.

  Not that countries didn't possess lookouts and outposts of their own across creation. Far from it. But it was a far cry from the constant arguments of the Long Watch, or the USSR's refusal to allow ARC's presence in their sphere of influence, and tendency to silence those who called for international cooperation.

  The Global Gathering had started as an emergency military alliance, when the Shattering had changed the face of the world. After the worst fires had been put out, the Soviets had backed out of the alliance of convenience, in their own words, but the organisation had never disbanded. Today, all countries, from Korea to the burgeoning South-American Coalition, were members of it.

  It, mostly, operated on the basis of rubbing another's back, so they would rub yours. Besides ARC, which usually spearheaded such efforts, national agencies often sent operatives to assist in international crises that didn't directly affect them.

  Which was why the being that still thought of itself as Loric Szabo, despite holding the powers of several gods and more beings of fear, was currently hovering over New Zealand.

  After tests had proved he was still sane-inasmuch as Szabo could be-and loyal to ARC-as long as they helped keep his reputation alive, and published his memoirs if he was incapacitated(he had no illusions that they'd be heavily edited and censored if they ever became public information instead of being lost or erased; hence the other caches of memoirs set to be released upon his death)-, Szabo had been sent on this mission as a sort of rite of passage. How would he act with the new powers at his fingertips?

  Szabo danced and sang in synchronisation with the motion and crash of the waves below, walking on moonlight. The song was without lyrics, rhythm, or instruments to accompany it. It could even be called meaningless.

  Szabo kept singing of himself, waiting for the chief of Te Parepare to arrive.

  Despite leading a national supernatural law enforcement agency, the being refused to adopt a single, fixed name, alias, or even appearance, to the exasperation of New Zealand's government.

  But then, how could absurdity itself be constant?

  It began with stillness. Waves, wind, the land and the magma below, particles...everything stopped, like a piece of paper that had been fluttering in the wind before being grabbed.

  Then, someone began to draw on it.

  It was a mere outline, at first. Something made of white lines, bipedal, though it could have never been mistaken for human. The legs were too short, the chest too broad, the arms too long, almost brushing the land near its paws.

  Aoraki was far from the tallest mountain Szabo had seen, on Earth alone. Still, it was over thrice the height of Mount Kékés in his country, standing at nearly four kilometres. Despite this, it barely passed the bottom of the creature's soles.

  Szabo shook his head, grinning. It was practically straddling the island-country, just to make a flashy entrance.

  The being drew itself back-it had been hunching forward, he saw-and stood straight. Eldritch light flowed into its form from nowhere, swirling like white fire, with dozens of colours, only some visible, flickering at its extremities. A monstrous grin split its otherwise featureless face, hundreds of kilometres above the ground, and it tilted its head to look at Szabo.

  'Is that you, Loric?' it chuckled, leaning forward, clawed hands on misshapen knees, head upside down. 'New look, and on the inside too, I see. It's quain to see you using inhuman resources again.'

  'Necessity,' Szabo replied, shrugging, as one of his sleeves began wailing piteously. He stuffed his hands in his pockets in response. 'You know I hate relying on outside power, but...'

  'It would've eaten you otherwise,' the being finished, then laughed. 'And it's still eating at you! What a universe we live in-a sadist like you with the power of fear in his hands, and not even wanting it!? One might even call it... absurd.'

  Szabo had often been accused of being flamboyant and theatrical, but he firmly believed he didn't even compare to this creature. Even its motivation was ridiculous-absurd, as it would've loved to say. For an eldritch being to help people out of the goodness of its heart would've been nonsensical, which was why it did it.

  Even its names, which it never stuck with for long, referenced absurdity and laughter: Hea'hea, Wawau, Wakahihi, Katakata. All Maori-it held a certain appreciation for their culture and language-, all of them...

  Szabo pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Looking for patterns was exactly what it wanted.

  'What shall I call you today?'

  'Hmmm...' it made a show of tapping its-still upside down-chin with a long, clawed finger, thicker than some mountains were tall. 'Hmmmm~'

  'Something eldritch, maybe?' He suggested. 'That also hints at your nature? Ryd'yk, maybe?'

  'Oh!' Its head snapped back to its prior position. 'Oh!' It jumped up and down, shaking every celestial body in the universe but leaving Earth unharmed. 'Ooooo~'

  Across New Zealand, comms began blaring, jolting Te Parepare agents awake or making them jump up, alert.

  'Wake up, babes, new nickname just dropped~'

  Snickering discordantly at the groans and exclamations of "fuck you, boss!", Ryd'yk clapped its hands excitedly. Palms dripping red and eyes glowing green-a cluster of new lights had appeared in the middle of what passed for its face-, it smiled at Szabo, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

  'Mmm~ it's not eldritch unless an apostrophe is abused, is it? They're like the schoolgirls of language, you know.'

  'If you say so,' Szabo said. 'Have you heard more from Kriegblitz?' How could she be late, anyway?

  'Oh, she's not coming, Loric.' Ryd stretched its arms above its head, and brought six wriggling tentacles down, one pointing at the creature of fear. 'Her efforts are needed elsewhere.'

  'What for?'

  'International security~' Ryd blew a kiss, tongue still dangling out of its mouth as an airplane, the pilot long used to its antics, passed through it, the eldritch being making sure the passage was harmless. 'Something important, my dear.'

  'More important than Ubermensch?'

  Ryd's grin waned. 'If you ask me...'

  ***

  Fourth Reich, ten thousandth year of the Uberfuhrer's rule

  Wolfgang Gerhard had always considered himself the most detached member of his former fellowship. The others had been stunted by addiction, superstition, cruelty...even honour.

  That was not to say Wolfgang was entirely flawless. Only by transcending all creation could one reach such a state. But, even when he had administered the gas, he'd never let his passion overtake his reason.

  Which was more than he could say about... everyone else, but especially the former man he had come to see.

  As he moved his drone through the parallel universe, Wolfgang took note of the National Socialist imagery on everything, from buildings and landmarks to rivers and the moon itself. Would poor Adolf have gone this far, with this much power? Perhaps. Perhaps. Alas, they'd never talk again now...

  Wolfgang's drone, which resembled a beetle only in shape, recorded every sight, sound and smell. It would not do to miss evidence that could be used for updating his psychological profile.

  The car-sized artificial insect touched down in the centre of Berlin's replica, legs brushing the tips of a swastika.

  He was waiting for him, Wolfgang noticed. He was not surprised.

  The last time they'd seen each other...heavens, but it had been nearly a century, hadn't it? Wolfgang remembered a lean man, high forehead giving way to dark hair, eyes shining with lust for more than flesh and wealth.

  "It's all about power, Herr Doktor. All forms of domination-physical, intellectual, sociopolitical...they're all power, in different forms."

  He wondered if he still held onto those words. If he even remembered them. Had he changed so much as to forget? Physically, he was unrecognisable. The universe he had created and shaped was arguably the most ambitious midlife crisis Wolfgang-who had learned such things were ageless-had ever seen. But was that an indication?

  'Rei Enxame,' the Uberfuhrer greeted, hands behind his back. At over two metres tall, with a long blond mane and moustache, he looked like the warriors of the dreams they had once shared, especially in the grey and black uniform. There were so many eagles, swastikas and thunderbolts on it, Wolfgang could hardly see the medals.

  'Ubermensch,' Wolfgang replied, taking in the figures cowering behind the giant of a man. Long noses, thick lips, jutting brows and skins of every colour and texture, except that most beloved one. The city was full of them, and, though they all looked like normal humans, there was an emptiness in their eyes and minds Wolfgang could not help but notice.

  The man's smile widened. 'Please. Let us drop the formalities, Josef.'

  Wolfgang almost sucked in a breath, despite the distance, despite the fact he was not even there. 'As you wish, Oskar.' He paused. 'How did you recognise me?'

  Dirlewanger laughed, turning around with a flourish of his trench coat. As he walked, shadow the empty people, their bodies twisted and writhed, until they resembled the propaganda carricatures that had once been widespread more than anything human.

  There was no scream of pain at the accelerated mutation, nor of horror at their new bodies. Josef began to doubt they even had the capacity.

  'How could I forget your mastery of flesh, Doktor?' Oskar did not look at him. 'It seems you have moved to insects, though. Efficient creatures, or so I've heard, for animals. No wonder you feel kinship with them!'

  Mengele's current primary form, back on Earth, frowned. This was Oskar, alright. 'Why didn't they react when you changed them?'

  There was a paranormal force at work here, Josef could tell. Not magical-he could detect neither mana nor shifts in the aether-, but unnatural nevertheless.

  'Ha!' Oskar threw his head back. 'I am the dream Adolf's weakness cost us, Josef! I am the Odic Force incarnate!' Oskar whirled around, pointing a warning finger at the drone. ' Not Himmler's false god! The wretch is a subhuman slave, trading favours for the worship of worms!'

  'So, you can do whatever you want?'

  Oskar chuckled. 'You could say that. The truth is, however, that these creatures are unfeeling, without the illusion of sentience subhumans attribute themselves.'

  Because otherwise, your lair would be stormed. You are not allowed to create thinking beings, so you slake your appetites this way, murdering, tormenting and raping these...automatons. 'I've read about you, Oskar. I know you cannot fully indulge yourself, or the world will fall upon you like a hammer.'

  Oskar scoffed, but Josef pressed on. 'I know time passes as you wish here, so tell me: how did it come to this?'

  Oskar's blue eyes were curious as he looked at the drone. 'Why ask? Why come now? Nostalgia?'

  'If you wish,' Josef allowed. 'I am awaiting deployment, and sought to sate my curiosity in the meantime.'

  'Deployment...' Oskar's lips curled around the word. 'I see all who walk in Adolf's footsteps, Mengele. But not you. You no longer believe, do you?'

  'Racial supremacy has been proven wrong,' Josef said, bristling at the accusatory tone. Otherwise, we would have won. 'I-'

  'Whose flag do you walk under, then? The Americans'? The Soviets'? Some worse vermin's?'

  Josef sighed. 'Do you remember Brazil?'

  'Brazil...you threw your lot in with those brown-skinned sons of bitches, Josef? With Latinos? How'd they torture you, you dickless race traitor?'

  Josef made the drone back up, despite himself, as Oskar stomped his way closer, seething. 'No torture-I tried to change my identity and lay low-'

  'Coward!'

  '-but they found out. It was this, or death. I helped revolutionise agriculture, medicine, genetic enginee-'

  'All you piss-blooded retards fled to South America,' Oskar sneered, ignoring Josef's accomplishments. 'But at least most of you had the decency to die. You should've drowned, Josef.'

  Mengele gulped, remembering the swim that had almost ended his life. 'I did not, however. And thus...here we are.' Josef hesitated. 'Why so many people, Oskar? Do you need that many?'

  ' "People"...of course I do, you bitch. Haven't you heard? Chernobog-the deer god of the Slavic worms-is spreading his corruption across the world. They're all in league, obviously, so they'll never let purity be saved, but I don't give a damn about what animals pretend to think.'

  'So, you're building an army?' But wouldn't sapience be needed for...? Did Oskar control his creations like he did his insects?

  'They shall blaze a trail for me, and I will strike down that antlered rat like lightning fells a rotten tree. They need not think for that.'

  But you'd enjoy it if they did. If they could fear, and hate, and worship you. But...you're just as much a slave as any of them. Scared the subhumans you mock will come break your toys. Embodiment of Nazism or not... 'As you say. But...you know they won't just allow this, right, Oskar? You are not welcome in the world.'

  Oskar grinned skeletally. 'I never was. Do you know how I came here, Josef?'

  'I do not,' Mengele admitted. 'How?'

  ***

  Emil Strauss spat blood as his face slammed into the floor of what had once been the Fuhrerbunker. He did not cry in pain, for all that he had been wounded worse than ever. Not that the experience, although novel, was pleasant.

  Dirlewanger loomed over him with a triumphant grimace, an arm flashing down to grab Emil by the throat. The ARC agent struggled, but neither his magic nor his strikes, despite the mana behind them, could harm whatever Oskar had become.

  There had been whispers of archetypal empowerment, when Oskar had first appeared, or rather reappeared. Killed shortly after capture, he, or something that perfectly aped him, but far more powerful, had appeared in Berlin a few days ago, wreaking havoc. This revenant, if that was what he was, might or might not have been the embodiment of Hitler's ideals. Whatever the truth, he was powerful.

  'Thule Society,' Oskar spat. 'You were a relic before we even rose. Were you one of Himmler's faggots, boy? One of his whores? Did you like taking it up the arse from him? Did he make you feel like a woman?'

  Emil's bad luck magic crashed against Oskar like waves against a shore, achieving nothing. Mana that would have razed Earth sparked harmlessly against his blue, blue eyes.

  'Let go of him, bastard.'

  Both men turned to look at Equilibrium, one grinning, the other bloodied, with eyes swelled shut. The portly Chinese woman was dressed in a dress that would've appeared ordinary, if not for the Internal Affairs emblem over her right breast.

  'Aww~ look, Emil, the chink thinks it can make demands! How can you be so old and yet so stupid?' he asked Equilibrium. 'You've spawned before, I can smell it. Who was it who fucked that puffy sideways cunt? Was it a man, or one of your yellow weasels? Did he chop his balls off after? I'd become an eunuch too, with only sows like you to fuck.'

  'Let him go,' she repeated, not reacting to the tirade. 'Do not make this worse than it has to be.'

  'Your kind existing is torture enough for people,' he growled. 'And I can see whatever pig knocked you up didn't teach you respect, cow. Was it even a man at all? You talk like a dyke.'

  Equilibrium caught Emil as he flew, before placing him behind her. Without a word, she leapt at Dirlewanger, her power enhancing her body to the point it was an even fight. Hands that, by themselves, could have merely broken the moon in half clashed against fists that would have shattered Earth, enhanced by the power of balance.

  Even as Oskar drew more and more upon what he embodied, flinging storms, force and nothingness at her, Equilibrium met him in kind, nullifying everything. 'You cannot win,' she smiled coldly. 'I am merely stalling for time, until reinforcements arrive.'

  'Slavs and gooks!' he roared. 'I've seen who hold your leashes: the mongrel mud sow, the undead she-monkey, the junkie chink snake...!'

  Oskar caught a punch thousands of times faster than light without looking. Pushing Equilibrium back, he snarled at the ceiling, where ARC and the Hidden Eye had arrived. 'Look at you niggers! I've heard about monkey troops, but this is ridiculous! You'd almost think you're people, with how you're aping our discipline.'

  'Keep ruining that mouth, freak,' the Handyman said. 'It won't save you.'

  ***

  'No one would have won, if the battle had continued.' Oskar seemed thoughtful. Regretful, maybe? That he hadn't fought, or that they'd lost in forty-five? 'I came here, built our shining city on the hill. In my shadow, subhumans become what they really are,' he gestured at the group of apes that had once been a black family. 'I've rebuilt my Black Hunters, made them better, faster, stronger, purer. This,' he pointed down at the street, where an Aryan warrior was standing triumphantly above a shattered sickle and hammer. 'Is how it should have ended.' He shook his head, regaining his smile. 'But what about you? Where are your leather-skinned masters sending you?'

  Oskar deserved to know about as much as Josef needed to tell him. That was to say, not at all. Not that he got the chance.

  'Look at them, Loric~ pouring out their little black hearts to each other, like lovers...' a decapodal silhouette of light sighed, hovering above them. 'Betcha like buggering each other too, to the tone of "Hitler's One Nut".'

  'It's very romantic, Ryd,' replied something that only looked like a strigoi. Unlike the eldritch creature, its accent was Hungarian, tinging a series of overlapping voices. 'Stay put, Untermensch. You're going nowhere.'

  'AGAIN YOU COME!' Dirlewanger was actually foaming at the mouth. 'AGAIN YOU MOCK! YOU FILTHY MONGOL BYBLOW, YOU THINK YOU'RE STRONG BECAUSE YOU'VE EMBRACED THE THING THAT DRIVES YOU ANIMALS? MAGGOTS REMAIN MAGGOTS, NO MATTER HOW BIG THEY GROW!'

  'Wha-' was all that Josef managed to get out before Oskar seized his drone, as if trying to strangle it.

  'Every once in a while,' he hissed, furious. 'The Jewish conspiracy sends its puppets after me, when it wants to distract the masses. Bread and circuses...they say I overstep my bounds, and "warn" me, "punish" me, as if I were a dog, instead of the one destined to stamp upon their cringing faces forever. They...no, even a dog is above...'

  Ryd'yk turned to Szabo. 'I wish Kriegblitz was here to help us smack him do-'

  'DON'T BLATHER TO ME ABOUT WAR LIGHTNING, YOU GODDAMN INHUMAN CUMSTAIN! FUCKING DYKE NIGGER'S BITCH, TRAITOROUS-'

  Josef wondered how he had ever missed these battles. He might have never been told about them, but they were certainly not quiet.

  ***

  Aya Reem closed her eyes and let herself fall backwards, expecting Thoth to catch her, but the god was gone. Must have left after teleporting David away, she told herself as she felt her lover wrap his arms around her.

  'Hey, mummy,' Samuel Shiftskin lifted her up as he sat down in her chair, kissing her neck. 'You seem tired.'

  'I only seem, you say? Good,' she groused. 'Why'd it take you so long?'

  Sam shrugged as she adjusted in his lap. 'Entering was pretty easy, but then I heard you talking with those two, and thought I'd let you handle them first. Good job, by the way.'

  'Thanks,' she kissed his flayed brow with a lazy smile, drawing a shudder that had nothing to do with pain. 'I'm surprised you didn't make some off-colour jokes by now.' There had been some great innuendo material, after all.

  'Heh, don't be. I know it'd only annoy you now.'

  The two sat in silence for a while. 'I feel like we're at the final stretch, Sam.'

  'Don't,' his voice became more serious. 'The fight is never over, Aya. It's only gonna get worse.'

  'We only have the cults to take down...'

  'Or so we think, before something blindsides us,' Sam grimaced in distaste. 'The supernatural is never quiet, babe. And, if the signs are even half sincere, it's only going to get worse. Fewer and fewer mundanes are being born-what are we gonna do when everyone's supernatural?'

  'Change our name, probably, since none of us will be abnormal anymore.'

  Sam didn't even crack a smile at the joke. 'And that's not all. Gerald told us about psychics appearing on Earth, and I concur. It's all natural, too, nothing like the MK Ultra bullshit.' Aya wondered if Grey One had ever learned about the American experiment that had attempted to splice its DNA into both mundanes and mages, to give them new powers.

  'There are millions already...' Aya said, remembering the reports of newborns who could move objects without touch or mana, of people suddenly developing remote-viewing.

  'Yeah, and they might be weak now, but what about after they have kids together? And then there's the aliens...' Sam looked away, brooding. 'I can feel something coming, building up on the horizon. Is this how you felt, before the Shattering?'

  Aya's silence was answer enough, making Sam sigh. 'Sorry...didn't mean to fuck up your day. Maybe it won't be all bad?'

  'You sound like you're trying to convince yourself, not me,' Aya answered. 'The future is not always as bleak as it seems, my dear.'

  ***

  This, Leon Gilles thought, was why he hated vacations, or rather, alternative patrols. He goes to Cuba to hunt some weak but slippery witches, trusting his peers and deputy to handle things, everything goes smoothly...

  That shoulda tipped him off. The flawless op. The world gave with one hand and took with two, as his nana, bless her heart, used to say.

  And then, he comes back, makes some sweet love to Becky(they fuck like animals, actually, but he tries to never think vulgar things about his wife)-even better, which should've prepared him for even worse-and...

  That cocky little vigilante shit who'd slipped through his claws, not only a prospective ARC agent, but tutored by one of his best friends, too!

  'What the goddamn hell, Aya?' he'd demanded, lowering his voice at the mummy's wince. 'Why'd you give him a choice? You should have-'

  'Leo, please. You've seen his powers, his heart.' Leon had rolled his eyes, clicking his beak. 'He'd be wasted in prison.'

  'He fuckin' flays people, woman!' he'd glared. 'And don't you start with how they're criminals and things were worse when you were growing up!' he'd huffed, pacing, paws making thumping noises with every stomp. 'What're ya teachin' him, anyway?'

  'How to read,' Aya said softly. 'Write. Properly. How to act around others, both in ARC and outside it. He's...never had anyone to teach him. Have you read about his parents?'

  Leon hadn't. Soon, he wished he'd never learned.

  ***

  'Listen here, you murderous bastard,' Leon's claws could not pierce Sam's neck, and the wendigo wasn't fighting back, either. In fact, he'd let Leon lift and press him up against the wall, instead of absorbing the motion's kinetic energy. 'I can't tell what Aya sees in you to save my life, but she loves you. If you even think about hurting her, there'll be nothing left of you to find.'

  'If I ever think about hurting her,' Sam whispered. 'I'll save you the effort.'

  Leon glared into his eyes, looking for signs of lying. Finding none, he let go with a scoff. Learning the motherfucker had his hands all up on Aya was bad enough, but the fact he wasn't even pushing back was...

  'You might've gotten into her pants, but be careful,' Leon warned, towering over the two metre seventy wendigo by nearly a metre. 'She's already gotten burned by a scumbag. Her ex-husband...'

  'She's told me about Faisal.' Sam showed his fangs. 'I'm going to find him, and kill him.'

  Leon huffed, turning around and beginning to walk away. 'Take a goddamn number, Shifty.'

  ***

  Aya often liked to joke, when they were alone, that she'd tamed and collared him. Once, Sam would have been appalled by the thought of submitting to anyone, let alone a representative of the system-in his younger self's mind, it would have been capitalized, maybe in a sinister font too.

  And yet...here he was. The Dibe of yesteryear would have balked at being educated and becoming a civil servant, but Aya had thoroughly disabused him of the notion that he could help more people by ignoring the law and working alone. And if she'd left him following her around like a lovesick puppy, well, there were worse fates.

  Besides, making Aya happy and Gilles angry at the same time, while stomping down on monsters and getting paid for it? The dream.

  "...isn't that right, Sammy?" Aya finished.

  "Yes, dear," be blurted out before his mind caught up to his mouth and he remembered they were in a meeting, not in bed.

  Elsbeth crossed her arms at this, brow furrowed, while Gerald raised an eyebrow as he cleansed his glasses. Elga's hands flew to her mouth as she made a sound none present hated themselves enough to describe as a squeal.

  The (dick) Heads sitting to his left and right didn't miss a beat, of course.

  '"Isn't that right, Sammy?" Ying snickered around his pipe.

  "Yeah, Sammy. Isn't that right?" Gilles was being vindictive today.

  Sam glanced at his mummy, wondering if she'd forgotten about their surroundings too...then saw her turning to chat with Tamar with a smile, and couldn't stop one from spreading across his face, too.

  "You know what? Seeing her happy makes up for everything you assholes can think of," the wendigo said, making Ying pull back, looking thoughtful.

  Gilles, meanwhile, seemed to have lost his enthusiasm. "Well, it's no fun if you just go along with it..."

  ***

  'Yeah,' Sam agreed, hugging her tighter. 'I was sure you were going to boot my ass out any moment.' He closed his eyes. 'I'm happy we got Szabo sorted out. That twisted bastard was enough of a pain without fucking diet Nacht powers.'

  Aya squeezed one of Sam's hands, saying nothing, just like he did. His flayed flesh might have hurt, but he preferred to show his true colours around her("Ugly as fuck and red all over, love. But you've already dropped your standards through the Earth's core by smiling at me, so...please have mercy?"). 'I know you hate him.'

  'I go around wearing scumbags to scare people into behaving. He does it because he loves it-and, at the risk of repeating myself, it'll only get worse from now on.'

  'I'll stop him if worst comes to worst.'

  Sam smiled. 'I know you will, mummy.'

  'The others are probably happy it ended peacefully, too,' she thought out loud.

  'Oh, definitely. I'd bet my nuts Gilles and Ying are balls-deep in their wives right now.'

  'Sam...'

  'Fine, fine, I won't bet my nuts,' he winked. 'Ying might well be balls-deep in a husband, for all I know.'

  Aya rolled her eyes, but smiled. 'What about Hex and Nacht?'

  'Those two? Fuck knows. I'm their boss, not their psychiatrist.' His next words were whispered. 'They're like women: I don't understand a single damn thing about them.'

  Aya's eyes were half-lidded as she sealed the room's entrances, beginning to unwrap her bandages. 'Let me give you something to decipher...'

  ***

  You know...' Sam bent forward, pressing his forehead against hers, after they were finished. 'I've never told you this, but you were more of a mom to me than mine ever was. Thanks.'

  'You're welcome. I never got to know my sons, either...' she closed her eyes.

  'Freud would have a field day with us...' his expression turned more serious after the weak joke. 'After I find that snake bastard, do you want me to bring him to you dead, or just crippled?'

  Aya's mouth was close to his ear as she whispered. 'Just bring me their ashes...'

  Our children...why'd you take our children?

  ***

  Roundhouse, London

  Miranda was forcing herself forward on stumps.

  She'd been running, at the very beginning, which felt like it had been an eternity ago-or, at least, as long a time as she could imagine at thirteen. Then, tired, she'd fallen onto all fours, crawling across the streets on broken limbs.

  The butcher had taken away even those.

  It was never constant. Sometimes male, sometimes female, pale, dark-skinned, tall and broad, short and hunched, but always, always smiling.

  Always wearing three things, too: a thick leather apron, like Jack from the old murder stories, a sack full of naughty children it had stolen from their parents, and the parts of her body it had chopped off.

  Sometimes, she wondered if there were multiple butchers...but she knew the truth.

  Her mom had been faithful. Not enough to faithcraft, to her dismay, but...bent in the head was the nicest term that came to mind. She'd wanted to throw Miranda away when her destruction magic had manifested shortly after birth, shattering her mother's right hand and leaving her unable to weave anymore. Her dad, Milton, had convinced his wife to keep her, even as he'd run himself ragged to provide for them. It was an unusual, but not unheard of occurrence. Some mages were born with their powers and shaped by them, rather than the other way around.

  It had not just been the magic. It had been the "wrong" type of magic, too...even as a toddler, Miranda had been taken to charities and construction sites, to become a builder, a creator, but...

  Her mom, Glynda, had been devastated by her treacherous refusal. She'd learned the gods she worshipped came from deeper, darker places than Britain approved of far to late...as had her dad.

  Faithcrafting had come to her mother late, but in force. Her dad had never even seen it coming, before he had become a prisoner in his own twisted flesh...

  The butcher. It was going to take her head, she could feel it. She was gonna die and daddy was gonna live as a monster and hate himself for it forever and ever and-

  Light. Fire that warmed, but didn't burn. Hands that touched her without hurting her. How long had it been, since anyone had...?

  'It's alright, girl,' the man holding her had both armour and wings. An angel knight? 'No one is going to hurt you...or him, anymore.'

  Vyrt's eyes turned flinty. 'I'd have come earlier, but I was fighting monsters far more dangerous than your mother, though hardly crueller. Mira? Look at me.'

  She did, without wondering how he knew her name. An angel...an angel...

  Vyrt smiled, gingerly touching her healed limbs and making her eyes dart to them. 'We're going to visit your mother, then I'll take you somewhere safe.'

  They didn't meet again until she was eighteen. She'd never been adopted, and Vyrt had never visited her, both because he was busy and because he didn't want to be seen as a groomer.

  But when they did, the engagement soon followed. And then...

  ***

  Miranda's eyes snapped open, and the witch glared at the ceiling. She rarely slept, and dream even less often, but when she did, she dreamt about her past. Rarely all events up to the present. Just the highlights.

  'She's dead, Mira,' her sleepless husband whispered, rubbing the small of her back. 'Dead and burning. I promise.'

  She buried her face into his chest-they might have been the same height laying down; everyone was. But she liked him taller than her-, trying not to groan. 'I know. It's involuntary.'

  'I don't mind.'

  'I know...' she looked up as their bedroom shook. 'What was that?'

  'Earthquake,' Vyrt lied smoothly, smiling. She focused her glare on him.

  'In London.'

  'What, have you never heard of Earthquake Merlin...?' Vyrt trailed off as the room shook again, making him raise a wing and tap its tip against the ceiling. 'Actually, I think that's her...take it easier, Lady.'

  'That was some rubbish you were trying to spin,' Miranda chided.

  'Indeed. I mean, listen to me: Merlin on top?'

  Miranda bit her lip, looking around. 'Isn't he in Hell so Mordred can walk?'

  'He is,' Vyrt's voice turned somber. 'But he can astrally project himself, if he manages to stay quiet as our kin below get to know him. And he wants to never be apart from Nimue again.'

  '...makes you wonder how they can love each other so much, despite everything.'

  'The most unlikely bonds are often the strongest. Look at the two of us.'

  'Oh?'

  'You are a woman of principles, and I am...not.'

  'Not?'

  'A woman.'

  'That could be changed.'

  'Easily. Should it be?'

  'Maybe...' she smirked briefly. 'What have you done this time, Vyrt?'

  His face turned blank. 'My duty.'

  'Unclear, but ominous.'

  'I scared a good man with his own nightmares, and made sure he would be used as a tool of murder, to prepare him for his...' not yet. Not yet. 'Purpose.'

  'Will he serve an important purpose?'

  'He will save everything,' the nephilim answered. 'And everyone.'

  '...could someone else do it in his place?' Did you offer to do it yourself, you selfless, scheming bastard? Without telling me?

  '...if they could,' Vyrt said. 'I don't know them.' Seeing his wife's expression, he tried to smile reassuringly. 'Cheer up. If you think we're a couple of misfits, you should hear about the extended family.'

  'No horror stories,' she pointed at him warningly.

  'Much like the story of creation itself, only the beginning was horrifying. But the end? Glorious...'

  ***

  Hell, Yahweh Cluster

  Sklaresia was not the runt of the litter, but she wasn't the pick, either. Luckily, her siblings and half-siblings' intelligence seemed inversely proportional to their power, which was perhaps why she was well-rounded enough to stay ahead of the bullies.

  It had worked since her birth, but it seemed her luck was about to run out. Asmodeus rarely visited the nursing home she was indentured to, but often demanded her presence.

  She'd never met her father-one of her mother's grandsons. According to the stories, he'd been pathetically grateful for being chosen by Asmodeus, and done everything to maintain that position. Unfortunately, her mother had grown bored, seeking newer, more entertaining sycophants, and he...

  'Humans have pleasure toys like this,' her mother had explained, turning around. 'Or they will. Honestly, if he was so eager to kiss my behind...'

  She didn't like her remaining family much. One would think more demons would be more empathetic after being exposed to so much pain, but...

  That was how she found herself in Asmodeus' lap as she sat on her throne.

  'Do not pout, my darling,' Asmodeus pouted herself, running a bladed finger along Klare's cheek. 'Did I not give you life and a purpose to fill? Ah...' Asmodeus smiled indulgently beneath hooded eyes. 'No matter. I will forgive your ungratefulness, and fulfill your deepest wish, if you just do something for me.'

  'You will let me leave?'

  'Indeed! You just have to prove you love your mother first.' Klare felt something prod her from behind. Fortunately, it was merely a barbed tentacle. Unfortunately...

  Lovely, she thought, trying to disguise the curl of her lip as an eager smile. Her mother had chosen to be a hermaphrodite.

  'Come, daughter mine,' Asmodeus simpered. 'Don't you love your mother?'

  Klare's response was cut off as her mother kissed her. She tried not to bite down as she felt Asmodeus' tongue force its way past her fangs.

  ***

  Palma de Mallorca, Spain

  To an uninformed observer, it might have looked like Miguel Fernandez was bullfighting.

  Understandable. The were's animal form looked no different from a mundane bull, if a heavily-scarred, giant black one. He even moced like a normal one.

  But he knew the truth, as did every bullfighter and spectator.

  "Bullhead" Pablo had been something of an early post-shattering sensation. A vigilante and thief, he'd stolen silver "from the rich and prejudiced-but I repeat myself", so it couldn't be used as weapons against weres, and given it to the poor. In the end, he'd been caught, but not by the authorities.

  The "rich and prejudiced" had given him a choice between death by silver-some had been stolen by him, then recovered-, or underground fights until death. His past and identity would have to be erased and his death faked, of course, to prevent, complications.

  He'd agreed in a heartbeat. And now, Miguel was going to kill him. He'd all but killed him, nearly severing his neck with a blow of his silver sword, but Pablo still clung on to life.

  'Go on, kid,' Pablo tried to become human again in his last moments, but only managed to reach his hybrid form, grinning with bloody, blocky teeth. 'Kill the monster. Show everyone how strong you are.'

  Miguel had grown up reading about him-who hadn't? He still had the books, the toys, well into his twenties. This...had been his hero.

  But he'd read him. He'd known he was angry. At what? His father was gone, dead by his own hand. His mother had disowned him. At the world?

  It sure seemed angry at him. His father had been insufferable. Breadwinner, he'd nagged his wife even as he'd pushed her wheelchair around, nagging her about being a burden. About being too much of a scared zealot to see a healing mage, and too unlucky to find a real priest.

  He'd slapped down all of Miguel's protests, saying he was the man of the house, and, as long as he didn't want to change his mind, there was no chance of it happening.

  The awakening of Miguel's magic had been followed by a period of waking nightmares and sleepless nights for Miguel's father as everything went wrong for him, until he'd gladly thrown himself onto his smiling son's knife.

  His mother, healed by his hand...she'd been horrified. Sent him away. Ungrateful...

  And now, even his hero was mocking him.

  Miguel saw red. Who was this chucklefuck of a has-been to judge him?

  As his sword sent the werebull's head flying, the audience stilled, then screamed, but Miguel was deaf to their cheers. Pablo was going to get up. He knew he was. He almost lost and died in every story, but always got right back up with a laugh.

  That was what heroes did. Right?

  As Miguel collected the prize money, refusing every request to stay and chat, he heard some dipshit laughing about the tears on his face.

  'Dust in my eyes,' he said, turning away as the chance of the bastard spontaneously combusting became reality.

  Leaving the ring behind, he returned to the surface, and his job.

  ***

  Running a casino was like being a barkeep: only interesting in movies. Especially when every moron seemed to hate having money more than the last.

  "Thirty percent chance to lose. Fifty. Ninety? Please, please, please..."

  It was the thrill, he knew, and hardly minded using his magic to lighten their pockets, but...Jesus fuck, some people...

  Like the one in front of him. Ninety-nine percent chance to lose(to get his rocks off), or win enough money to buy food for the kids(and then get his rocks off again).

  Miguel looked down at his bronze cross, then at the bloated, sweating shitbag in front of him. Everyone else, including the staff, was gawking at their table.

  When had it grown so stained and dull?

  'Fuck this,' Miguel said, standing up.

  The next day, owning only the clothes on his back and the money in his account, he walked the streets, until he heard a woman crying.

  'Demoness...' his hand went to his cross. Suddenly, it seemed not so dull anymore.

  ***

  Sklaresia preferred to discard clothes unless necessary. That the sense of foreboding had pushed her to get up while Miguel slept, much less get dressed, almost made her eager to find out the reason, and just...get it all over with.

  The reason waited for her in the living room, amidst her husband's religious paraphernalia. Her uncle took in her white shirt and black pants-far more conservative than what her mother would've liked her to wear-and his light frown turned into a disapproving frown.

  'Temptress,' the Archangel said. 'Does it not tear you apart?'

  'What, exactly?' she asked sardonically. There was one thing that did, but she somehow doubted he'd come to talk about that.

  'To take such a broken, hurt man and twist him even more. You are staining the soul you now own, my niece. Have you no shame?'

  He was already towering over her by the time she moved to him, black eyes glaring into blue ones. 'Don't you dare,' she hissed, one hand pressed against his armour. 'Don't you dare. You and that old monster on the Throne did nothing while I-' she swallowed. 'You have no right. My husband is safe with me. Happy with me.'

  'With a demon?' His tone was skeptical as the tip of his spear burned her chest, above her heart.

  'I am a good wife to him.'

  'And if the Lord says you are not allowed to taint His flock?'

  'Damn you,' Klare crossed her eyes as the pain became sharper. 'And your lord.'

  '...right answer, aunt.'

  Klare opened her eyes, the pain gone. She saw brown hair and blue eyes become grey and the spear become a crook. The smile, though, never changed, even in the face of her indignation.

  'Vyrt, you shapeshifting little-'

  Her strength was not held back, but rather, directed to preserve what mattered. As such, the punch that sent Vyrt flying did no damage to the surroundings.

  The nephilim rocketed out of the Milky Way and into Andromeda in a heartbeat, and Klare followed just as fast, crossing over two and a half million light years in less than a second. His arrival wiped out half of Andromeda, everything for tens of thousands of light years being reduced to quarks.

  By the time she was at the galaxy's former edge, Vyrt had reached the depths of the supermassive black hole at its centre, and she...

  ...was suddenly looking at his chest, that damnable smile undaunted by the singularity. Her next punch, just as strong as the first, landed on his eye, and her hand broke. This time, he didn't roll with the blow...but damn, had the first been satisfying.

  'You are putting your back into it, aunt!' he caugh her third punch with ease, fist shattering against his gauntleted hand. 'If you'd fought like this in Ry'lyeh, you'd have taken down many starspawn.'

  'Down with me,' she spat. 'That was not my fight, nor have I needed to seriously hit someone in decades. And stop calling me "aunt", I'm younger than you!'

  'And a demon,' Vyrt said. 'Metaphysics, Klare.'

  Hearing her nickname from his mouth made her feel like an oily snake was crawling down her spine. 'Why the disguise? Why'd you come?'

  'To test your conviction,' he said. 'Love is the law of Heaven, and you two...' his smile became warmer. 'Are beloved by God. And you were wrong, aunt: it was His hand that brought you together, for everyone's good.'

  There it was again, his beloved common good. 'Vyrt...?'

  'You have my blessing, too, if you care about that,' he promised. 'You two are endearing.'

  ***

  '...seriously?'

  'They needed the confidence boost, Miranda. But, if they even got together in the first place...' Vyrt embraced her.

  The wall to their right trembled. 'Don't doubt your husband, Mira! Ask him, he'll tell you crooks always get the job done!'

  'Subtle, Vykt!'

  'Hmm? We were talking about tools, right?'

  'Like you, brother?'

  ***

  Chernobog's hand never wavered, even as Baba Yaga's scrabbled against it, trying to free her throat.

  'Hurting me...' Yaga wheezed, blood dripping out of her broken, crooked nose. 'Will not undo your failures, Black God.'

  'I know,' Chernobog said. 'But you make for good stress relief, you ugly bat.'

  Yaga laughed. Her house was broken, her power to help and hinder gone...'Is this...' she spat. 'What your brother would have wanted?'

  But she was still herself.

  ***

  Chernobog covered Belobog with his body as the arrows pierced his back, his heart. None hurt as much as the pain of his brother.

  'It's over, Cherno,' Belobog tried to smile. He always did. Even as he broke the Syncretic Treaty, to protect his followers from Yahweh's preaching lapdogs. Even as he went to war with Heaven, and all the other pantheons-so eager to show solidarity-and his brother followed. Even as he laid dying while they converted. 'Please...stop trying...to heal me...'

  'Belo-'

  'Just...let go, please...'

  Chernobog's voice grew firmer. 'I cannot. I won't let anyone take you from me, brother.'

  And he opened his maw, silencing the scream that never ended before it could even be heard.

  ***

  '...but you tried.'

  Yaga's eyes widened. 'W-Wait-'

  'Not only did you remind me of him,' Chernobog's voice was calm. 'You cast a spell. Tried to separate us, while I was distracted. You bitch.'

  Spiked chains rose from his flesh, digging into hers. Yaga screamed, before the Black God broke her jaw, pushing it into her brain with a thumb.

  'He made me go from mere destroyer to conqueror, but do not expect mercy.' He brought his face closer to hers. 'Make yourself beautiful.'

  'D-Don' w-wa-'

  'You want none of this. At least make it worth my while.'

  And for the first time that night, Yaga did as she was told.

  Chernobog threw the young woman to the ground, where she tried to make herself tempting. He snorted, backhanding her so that she fell on her belly. 'All fours. Do you expect to be taken like a woman?'

  '...my sisters will hear of this,' Yaga whimpered through her healed jaw.

  'Like who?' Chernobog grinned. 'The Mother of the Forest? I know they will. I hope they do. In fact...' he tore her clothes away. 'Scream my name.'

  And for the second time that night, Yaga did as she was told.

  It was not the last time.