Now what? That was the question Jack grappled with, and the latest problem for which had no answer for.

  Kortanaer’s death hadn’t hit the news yet. It would, Jack figured, if only for the novelty: a home invasion, just outside Geneva, where the best security system money could buy hadn’t saved the guy, and over the holiday season. Santa had come down the chimney with an assault rifle, and his elves had smashed up the place. Happy holidays, motherfucker.

  It was possible nothing would come of it. At least, not for a while. Kortanaer had been an isolated man. The type who made the best targets. It could be days, if not weeks, before someone found out that he had a bullet in his brain. Perhaps the alarm had been raised, and perhaps Phalanx had silenced it.

  Of the problems facing him, Phalanx was at the top of the list. A Golden Age titan of a hero—super strong, nigh-invulnerable, and flight-capable. He was why the Animals had never fought capes except when they knew they could win, and that was without even noting that his gaze could atomize a battle tank just as well as it’d vaporized Thomas.

  Beyond that particular concern, Jack had the personal computer of a dead man on his desk. The murder weapon, the rifle he’d carried across half the world, was not in his possession. Three witnesses could place him at the scene. He doubted Sabra would turn him in, but wouldn’t bet on it, either. He thought about calling her to explain, then didn’t.

  The guys in black were still a mystery, and that was a problem. Probably not Victory 14, but whether they were friends of the dead man or a third group of vigilantes, he had no idea. But he doubted they were lawful, and therefore doubted they’d want the attention of the police, either.

  But Phalanx? He could serve him up to the Swiss authorities like a Christmas ham, or just ensure that no one could find his body (no bodies had been discovered at the tomato farm, work still had no idea about Thomas.) But he hadn’t yet. He had asked Jack to do a job, and he had done it. Perhaps the American cape had some degree of honor.

  “Probably,” Elias said. “But when has that ever saved them?” A thought then—Monkey’s thoughts on honor, of how being the first to break the rules means you’re the last to get fucked.

  Jack shook his head. All of his other problems were of minimal consequence. He’d bought a new phone. He ran his tongue against his teeth, and found a tooth still missing. Another problem. But he could trust Sam again, so, that was something. He hadn’t been certain of that until he’d woken up with his head on his pillow, and not Sam smothering him underneath it.

  So, now what? He was on medical leave. He could call Sabra, but didn’t know what to say to her. He turned Revenant’s business card between his fingers. She’d want a look at Kortanaer’s computer, but then he’d have to explain how he got it. And, based on what he knew of her, she was hardcoded to enforce the law—and was perceptive enough to see right through him.

  Besides, he’d told Sam it was over.

  Outside, Geneva was overcast and cold. Colder than what little he could recall of Australia. The courtyard below his apartment was empty, save for Kallisto and her waffle stand. He found his jacket and, remembering what Sam said, went out to meet her.

  He approached the stand, hands in his pockets. It’d rained overnight, and the stones were still slick. “Hey.”

  She smiled. “Hey yourself. You’re looking better.”

  Jack supposed he was.

  “Thanks,” he said, because that was what people said. “How’s business?”

  She looked around the empty courtyard and laughed. It wasn’t a joke, but he didn’t want to correct her. “Let’s just say we’re lucky this is a hobby for me. And the overheads aren’t much.”

  “Do you need a hand?”

  “What?”

  “Help, I mean. I’ve got nothing going on today.”

  “And you just thought you’d help me with my cart?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  Her bright blue eyes studied him. It wasn’t quite the look he was used to—when people were trying to figure out if he was dangerous or just weird—but not far from it.

  “Hey, listen,” she said. “You don’t have to say anything, monsieur, but were you caught up in the bombing?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he replied. “What I mean is, I’m alive.”

  And the guy who made it happen isn’t.

  She said, “People say someone tried to talk the poor man down.”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah. Guilty.”

  Her eyes widened. “And you’re just... asking to help me make waffles?”

  “I don’t know about making them,” he said, frowning. “I’ve never done that before.”

  “You’ve never made waffles?”

  “I’m not from around here, if that helps. I just want to do something to help someone.”

  “You put yourself between a bomb and innocent people, and act like it’s no big deal? You just come down here and ask me if I need some help? Are you a superhero?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m just a guy.”

  “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  Jack. “Perseus.”

  She kept her eyes on his, processed everything.

  “Well,” she began, “I don’t think it’s possible, Perseus.”

  “Ah,” Jack said, feeling something depress behind his ribs. “Well, no problem. Have a good—”

  She laughed. “No, wait. What I mean is: this stand is a one-person job. If you haven’t made waffles before, you’d just get in the way. And besides, it doesn’t look like I’m going to be up to my ears in orders today, does it?”

  “Right.”

  “But,” she continued, “if you really do want to do something to help someone, then I can arrange something.” He nodded at her to continue, and she did: “There’s this event tonight, at St Pierre’s Cathedral, in the Old Town, at six PM. A bunch of us get together and feed the less fortunate. Is that something you’re interested in?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. I am because you are.”

  She tilted her head. “What’s that mean?”

  “Just something a friend says.”

  Kallisto nodded slowly. “Do you know the way there?”

  “It’s fine. I’ll find out.”

  “Great,” she said, smiling. “Oh, and just one more thing: don’t wear anything too nice.”

  So, he didn’t. His wardrobe, if such a term was accurate, was all dark colors and practical styles. He’d never owned anything else. He understood accessories as far as bandoleers and webbing and holsters, and even then, the Animals had always traveled light.

  He settled on his usual jacket and jeans. He didn’t mind the cold. It just meant he could run everything a little hotter. He left the apartment without his handgun and then climbed back up the stairs for it. Having and not needing was preferable to needing and not having. And, besides, he had a permit.

  The Old Town wasn’t far. Across the river, old cobblestone streets in the shadow of Golden Age edifices. He couldn’t help but note that the roads were only just wide enough for a single car. Perhaps, back whenever they had built Geneva, that’d been the point. He eyed the men and women eating at restaurants as if he expected them to get up and start shadowing him.

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  The cathedral was the centerpiece of the plaza. It was smaller than he had imagined. The line outside the two massive doors, however, was larger than he had anticipated. Catching no sign of Kallisto, Jack crossed the plaza, went up the steps, and passed through the open doors.

  It occurred to him that he couldn’t recall standing inside a church before. Maybe a hundred pews sat in orderly rows in the shadow of great stone columns that looked like they’d stop anything short of a railgun. The stonework reminded him of Cornavin, even when he told himself it looked nothing like it.

  So did the homeless.

  He ignored them and the itching across his scalp. He headed toward the altar where a dozen or so people had set up an impromptu kitchen. There were men and women preparing soup and bread and one of them was Kallisto.

  “Perseus, hey. Come and join us. Comrades,” she said, as he approached the group and greeted them with a simple wave, “This is Perseus. He wanted to lend his energy to our cause.”

  The itching intensified. Elias, sitting in the pews, eyed the group.

  “It looks like he could use a good meal or two,” one of her ‘comrades’ said, then nodded to him. “No offense, my friend.”

  “None taken,” Jack replied.

  “Do you think you’d be better at cutting up vegetables, stirring the soup, or ladeling it out?” Kallisto asked him.

  He had no idea. “Probably that last one.”

  That was how he ended up behind the last table, handing out bowls of soup. White meat, vegetables, and a thick slice of bread. Years ago, he would’ve killed for it. Years ago, he had. There was resentment there, the stupidly self-indulgent thought that his lean years somehow meant nothing now. That these people hadn’t helped him, so why the fuck should he help them?

  Ultimately, the question didn’t matter. The man who had honed him to think that way had died being unable to let go of the pain. The world hadn’t helped Elias, so, it was his divine right to tear it down. Not because Elias was particularly opposed to the IESA or the underlying world order, but because it had slapped him in the face.

  And, of course, because his best friend had put the idea in his head.

  They’d created each other, and Jack had killed him for it. Jack let his body find the point where numbness and pain threaded together, the point where his body just became a machine, and let it focus on handing out bowls of soup to people who needed it more than he did. After a few small spills, he’d gotten a handle on it.

  Kallisto’s friends didn’t know what to make of him, and that was fine, because he was still estimating them. He kept one eye on them, one ear listening. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d ended up helping the efforts of some odd cult. Not a Transcended cult, no way the IESA would let one metastasize in the heart of the Functioning World, but something else. Something weird. Sometimes, they mentioned a dragon. That didn’t strike him as particularly Christian.

  So, he worked. Men and women shuffled through and left with a bowl of soup, a slice of bread, and a thank you, God bless you, or something muttered that Jack took as gratitude but could’ve been an insult and, hell, he couldn’t blame them if it was. Perhaps they knew the same thing he did: that this was a bad patch job on a sucking chest wound, and they’d all be here the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that—

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re the last person I expected to be working here. Hey, man, can you cut that bowl with something that might add a little spice?”

  Jack recognized the voice, the placid predator’s smile beneath the parka’s ragged hood. Sam’s friend from the Lucky Round, her former brother-in-arms.

  Reynolds.

  “What you get is what you get,” Jack replied, handing the bowl over. “And I’m volunteering.”

  “Yeah? You can’t throw in a little phasmite? Hey, I don’t see Sammy with you.”

  Jack frowned. “I don’t think she likes being called Sammy.”

  “We’re buddies,” Reynolds explained, grinning, and it was not reassuring.

  “Now, unofficial business trumps volunteer work. Step over here with me for a second. It’s time for confession.”

  And it wasn’t negotiable, of that Jack was certain. He stepped out from behind the table.

  “Perseus?” Kallisto asked.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Reynolds led him to the far side of the pews, to the base of one of the massive pillars. Jack was keenly aware of the handgun at the back of his jeans. He had to shoot him. His guard was... about as down as it would get. If he missed his chance now, he likely wouldn’t get another.

  Reynolds turned to face him.

  “Hate to say this, but I’ve gotta take you in.”

  The moment stretched out. Jack felt himself adjust his footing. Take a breath. Reached toward his back.

  Slowly, Reynolds tugged his parka back and revealed own sidearm, huge and imposing, the sort of thing that looked like it could put a hole in an armored truck, the sort of thing that one could not carry in Switzerland, holstered securely. Even if Jack could outdraw him, if it wasn’t a clean kill, Kallisto’s people would be picking bits off him off the holy altar.

  “I’ve got enough rounds in this beast to kill every single one of your friends and a few of those homeless fucks for good measure,” Reynolds said, like it was a joke, and let his jacket slide over his weapon again.

  “I’m just fucking with you,” he added, laughing. “Like I give a shit what you’re doing here. I don’t even give much of a shit that you iced Korty, if we’re being honest. Guy was an asshole, and I would’ve liked to do it myself. Creepy son of a bitch, right?”

  But then his voice dropped low, and his eyes widened, his focus tightening.

  “But keep your dick out of our business. Or I’m going to rip it the fuck off.”

  The man was taller, heavier, and monstrous in a way that went beyond animalistic kill-or-be-killed. Jack had no doubt that he was telling the truth. “Okay,” Jack said. “Message received. Now, I’d like to get back to my work.”

  “Not so fast,” Reynolds said. “That was unofficial. This next part isn’t: you’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  There was only one thing it could be.

  “Kortanaer’s computer,” Jack said.

  Reynolds grinned. “Knew you’d know.”

  “Worried I might’ve cracked it open?”

  “Nah, not really. Wouldn’t be here if you did.”

  “But someone else is. Someone really wants it back.”

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” Reynolds said. “All I know is they’re bitching up a storm about it, breathing down my neck. So, listen, I’ll be just outside, sitting on the bench closest to the door, begging for change and all that. When you’re done here, you run on home, and you bring me that computer.”

  “And if I don’t? If I take it to the IESA?”

  Reynolds shrugged theatrically. “Then we hand them your rifle. Maybe we torch your apartment building. Denying an asset is as good as recovering it. You ain’t got no cards to play. Don’t think we’re not watching you, or your pretty little friend. I’m on a tight fucking leash right now, but I won’t be forever—you get me?”

  Jack felt his teeth clench.

  “I get you,” he said. “Fine. It’s done, it’s over. I’ll bring you the laptop. But after that? If I see you again, Reynolds, I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Reynolds met Jack’s gaze with a broad grin and wide eyes, and waggled a finger at him. It was very much the gesture of someone who found the prospect of imminent violence more amusing than anything else.

  “Not if I see you first,” he replied. “Anyway, thanks for the soup. Say hi to Sammy for me, Jack.”

  So, he knew who he was. Reynolds walked away, and Jack didn’t watch him go. His body was shaking off the imminence of violence, and the back of his shirt was damp with sweat. He had the distinct impression of being watched, and shivered. He glanced toward the doors. There was Reynolds, standing there, watching him with those hollow eyes and placid smile, and then he stepped out into the night.

  Monsters were creatures of degrees, Jack knew. Just about every person he’d known or worked with was a killer or tied up in dealings that might as well have made them killers. Relationships where trust was guaranteed because everyone had a gun under the chin of someone else. Jack turned away and swallowed. Let out a long, shaky breath as he stepped past the pillar and put the meeting behind him. Reynolds was something else, a specimen rarely seen: the type of monster who’d pull one of those triggers simply because he could.

  Kallisto found him as he returned to his spot on the line.

  “Perseus? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Who was that guy?”

  He shrugged. “Friend of a friend.”

  “You looked like you were going to kill him.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “He has that effect on people.”

  What else could he do? Jack ran through ideas as they washed up the pots and pans outside the cathedral, noting Reynolds was exactly where he’d said he would be. All of his ideas ended with his death, and maybe that of others. It was one thing to gamble with his own life—as Elias had put it, you pay your money, you take your chances—but Jack knew it was another thing to have others put up cash in a hand they had no stake in.

  So, he brought him the laptop. Reynolds smiled and shook his hand, and then they parted ways. For good, hopefully. Jack contemplated shooting him in the back of the head, but knew that Reynolds had to have someone peering at him through a scope. And besides, it was over. He’d killed the man who had blown up Cornavin Station. Whatever Phalanx and Reynolds were truly up to, it wasn’t his fight, and he had to let it go.

  Sam was asleep when he returned to the apartment. Elias was there, sitting on the couch. “Go away,” Jack muttered, and he did. He stood in the bathroom and looked into the mirror, and saw no hint of Elias in his reflection. Because he was dead.

  He had to let go.

  For a time, he stood there and thought. Now, he had given everything up—at least, that is what he told himself. Elias had died six months ago and, in a way, Jack along with him. Both Monkey and Leopard lost forever within the ruins of SHIVA, like some myth where they were forever wrestling within the depths of the underworld. Tonight, perhaps, he’d finally lay them both to rest.

  “So, this is it,” Elias said.

  “I’ve spent six months clean,” Jack said, to the mirror. “The last time I’d spent six months without hurting someone else? Christ, I must’ve been a kid. I can’t go back to this. I can’t go back to hurting people because that makes more sense to me than this.”

  “Phalanx and his pals—they won’t stop, Spots, you know that. There’s something happening here. An American hero leading a squad of black-ops murderers? Who had you kill one of their own? Take it from me, buddy, this is something special.”

  “So? I can’t listen to ghosts anymore. It’s done. It’s over. I don’t need you anymore.”

  Elias nodded. “Do you remember werewolves?”

  “Sure. They were your second-favorite story.”

  “Does the man become a monster or the monster become a man? I always used to think about that.”

  Jack grinned, in spite of everything. “No, you didn’t. You just liked the idea of turning into a wolf. Anyway, it’s the first option.”

  His hallucination chuckled. “When you can see it from the outside, sure. But maybe the werewolf forgets. Maybe it’s a matter of perspective.”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a fairy tale.”

  “Maybe, Spots. But a fairy tale got us pretty fucking far. If only.”

  “Yeah. If only. Goodbye, Elias.”

  And then he was gone. Jack remained where he was. He thought of Wukong, the monkey who’d challenge gods and devils and overturn the balance of the world, of the cosmos, for a laugh. He thought of Elias and Sam and Kallisto and werewolves. Maybe he was right. Maybe if the monster shifted back and forth enough times, maybe if it wanted to be a man more than anything else, it could find some way to reclaim its soul.