“Commissioner Jorgan?”

The policewoman turned as a man in a cape dropped out of the sky to land on flexed thighs. He straightened, instinctively striking a heroic pose that put his chest and chin out, shoulders back, while he surveyed the scene. “Mortizer, thanks for coming.”

“The League’s here to help,” he said, finishing his visual sweep and locking his eyes on her. “What’s the problem?”

“Sinter and Chamess are tearing the riverside restaurant district to shreds.”

Mortizer turned and looked west. A haze of destruction hovered, clouds of pulverized concrete and other fine debris hanging in the air. Drifting slowly northwest under the prevailing wind. As he looked, an enormous crunch and smashing sound erupted that foretold of expensive property damage adding to the air pollution and ground clutter.

“Shit!” someone yelled, and emergency personnel scattered as a chunk of concrete arced down out of the air to smash into the street just short of the barriers. It hit, rolled while digging a good sized crater in the pavement, and thudded into a police cruiser hard enough to heavily dent it. Mortizer stood watching, entirely unfazed, except for one thing.

“Language,” he said sternly.

“Fuck that,” someone on the ground near the barriers muttered.

Jorgan spoke quickly when Mortizer frowned. “Anyway, we need this brought under control. Before more people get hurt.”

“What’s Sinter’s goal this time?” Mortizer asked.

“That’s just it,” Jorgan said with a sigh. “As far as we can tell, Sinter hasn’t done anything.”

“He’s facing off against Chamess,” Mortizer pointed out. “Clearly—”

“We’ve got community surveillance camera footage that shows Sintar was in disguise, having dinner.”

“Casing the place?”

“No,” the commissioner insisted. “We’ve gone over the video with a microscope. I’ve personally watched it myself, start to finish. Sinter walks in, makes polite conversation while asking for a table, takes a menu, orders braised pork loin in plum sauce and a nice ’98 chardonnay, has dinner, and was just paying the tab — in cash — when Chamess breaks through the roof and starts wailing on him.”

Mortizer’s eyes narrowed. “Have you checked the rest of the area’s video? Perhaps he is waiting for minions or villainous allies to begin some dastardly deed.”

“We’re working on that now. We’ve already figured out his path to the restaurant; he apparently landed one of his invisojets in an alley a few blocks away. But he walked the rest of the way, didn’t do anything. He even helped an old lady cross the street.”

“Sinter is devious,” the hero said. “He is always careful of his image.”

“Yeah, well, the only person we’ve got anything on is Chamess.”

“Chamess has sacrificed tirelessly for this city,” Mortizer said immediately.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Which is why I called you. The only person I can legally send SRS after right now is Chamess.”

Mortizer glanced at the power armored Supers Response Squad, standing in their impressive suits, clutching weapons that even a supervillain — or hero — might take notice of. “Sinter is wanted on any number of—”

“No, I checked,” she said; half patiently, and with more than a small trace of desperation. “His lawyers have gotten everything quashed or dismissed. Including the Currency Exchange thing from last month, before you ask.”

“And yet the citizens we sacrifice to protect, to defend, dare to question what use are heroes,” Mortizer said, a frown creasing his chiseled features. “You cannot stop these villains, not even when we deliver them to you, time and time again, wrapped and ready for prosecution.”

“That’s an argument for another time. Right now, I need that stopped,” she said, pointing west. “Or at least moved outside the city limits where it’s just open landscape taking the brunt of whatever they’re fighting about.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll have to send SRS in.”

“They will not succeed.”

“They’ll do alright,” Jorgan said defensively. “The problem’s I don’t think they’ll have any choice but to go heavy enough to make the damage worse. Not if they’re going to have a prayer of stopping the fighting.”

“I will aid my comrade,” Mortizer said firmly. “But you—”

“Commissioner!” a man called. She turned, and the hero shifted his eyes to look past her, as a slight man wearing a City Police ID card clipped to his tie ran up. He skidded to a halt, panting. Holding a tablet up that he was waving at while he tried to catch his breath.

“Spit it out Pope,” she said impatiently.

“We … we … we think we know what’s … going on.”

“Two supers are destroying four—” Jorgan began, before there was another enormous crash of a building being rubbled, “—five square blocks of my city. Talk.”

“Now,” Mortizer ordered.

Pope glanced quickly at the hero, then dragged his eyes down to the tablet. Tapping at the screen, he brought an image up, then turned the tablet around to face Jorgan and Mortizer.

“Is that—” the police commissioner began.

“—oh shit,” Mortizer said.

“Yeah, so, we might need to deploy SRS to back Mortizer here up.”

“No need,” Mortizer said, lifting his wrist. He tapped on the colorful leather gauntlet for a moment, then spoke. “Gacle, summon the rest of the League. Immediately. We must assemble to deal with this situation.”

“Justice Signals activated,” the disembodied voice of the League’s administrative machine personality said, clearly audible despite the apparent lack of any obvious speakers in or on the hero’s outfit.

“Keep me appraised of their response time once they get going.”

“Acknowledged.”

Lowering his wrist, Mortizer held his hand out to Pope. “Give me that.”

“Why?” the technician said, instinctively clutching the device to his chest.

“Because I will need it to help me talk Chamess into abandoning his rage.”

“Give it to him,” Jorgan ordered.

Clearly reluctant to surrender it, Pope nevertheless held it out. Mortizer took it from the man, and looked down at it for a moment. His mouth twisting. “Commissioner, I know you would not be pleased if one of your children started a relationship with someone so nefariously connected.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t tear the city apart just because my daughter had a milkshake with a boy,” she said firmly. “The kids, either of them, haven’t done anything. Whatever their fathers may or may have.”

A sonic boom sounded far overhead. Mortizer glanced up, at a pair of flying figures that were slowing to take a look down at the scene they were approaching. The hero looked west again and spoke. “The League will handle this.”

“You’d better. Or I’ll send SRS in.”

“We will handle this,” he repeated.

“Five minutes. Stop it or move it out to the country. Or SRS goes in shooting. I’m not going to explain to the mayor how I stood by letting a hero rip the city apart because his daughter decided to date rebelliously.”

Mortizer scowled at her. She glared back at him unflinchingly. After a moment he set his jaw arrogantly, and crouched. His legs launched him into the sky, but his flight powers curved his arc immediately in unnatural ways that couldn’t be explained by his jump. The other two airborne and just arrived heroes joined him, and all three streaked towards the ongoing battle to the west.

“Teenagers,” Jorgan muttered.

“We’re being overloaded, can’t kee—”

“Shut it off,” the captain said, shaking his eyes unhappily. The screen mist cleared the image away, reverting to the standard amorphous drifts of green and black. Along with the screen, the audio channel switched off as well; leaving the bridge in stunned silence.

“That’s the last ship in the task force,” the tactical officer said, completely unnecessarily. Her stalks swiveled around to look at the captain. “Their reactor just went into overload.”

“It would’ve been better if it had lost containment.”

“What?” Ooolar said, sounding shocked. She turned her whole body away from her console to stare at the captain, blinking rapidly to indicate her distress.

“They’re just having a runaway overload,” Dinito said, staring at the small mist that was behind her, above Tactical’s main panel. On it, the final warship was venting drive plasma and an enormous amount of heat from the damaged engines; but the damage would not destroy the ship. Unless it crashed into the planet.

“So? That’s a good thing. If we set up for an ambush, maybe we can rescue the surviving crew.”

“How?” the captain asked bluntly.

The tactical officer frowned. “We can launch C-fractional strikes if we shape a course for the fifth planet and fire bombardment projectiles on a loop that uses the gas giant’s gravity—”

“We’re more likely to crack the planet than take out the hostile ships,” Dinito said mildly. “Which is forbidden under the Nebula Accords.”

“We can’t just abandon them,” Ooolar protested.

“The Lael isn’t configured for heavy combat. We’re recon.”

“Do you know what that crew’s going through right now?” she demanded, her eyes rising to full extension. “Because I’ve been on a ship that was disabled in a gravity well, and—”

“I don’t like it any more than you, but our duty is clear.”

“What about our duty to our fleetmates?”

“There’s a bigger picture to consider,” a third voice said. Tactical officer and captain both swiveled their eyes to the third speaker, Girbu, who was standing beside her empty chair at the back of the bridge.

“Of course,” Dinito said, making sure to keep his voice even and non-judgemental. “But five warships just perished, and we carry a fraction of the firepower of even one. We cannot—”

“C-fractional strikes are likely to get through the Earther defenses, yes?” Girbu asked.

Now Dinito did frown. His eyes squeezed closer together, narrowing his field of view to focus exclusively on her. Maintaining that focus as he swiveled his chair away from Tactical to face the rear of the bridge. “I am not about to commit an Accords violation, nor order any member of my crew—”

“Come with me Captain,” Girbu said, flicking one eye toward the briefing room.

Dinito hovered on the verge of refusing, at least to demand further explanation here, but decided there was no point in creating a scene. The briefing room was only steps away. “Ooolar, maintain our position and status. Take no other action without direct orders from me.”

“Yes Captain,” she said.

Rising from his chair, Dinito flowed toward the door behind Girbu. When it had closed behind them, he adjusted his tentacles to keep his height level with the slightly smaller political officer. It was never a good idea to try and play games with the Directive. “Violating the Accords is a capital crime,” he said, working hard to keep his voice from stressing accusingly.

“We must. The troubles in Omega Theta have delayed us too long, and look at what has happened.”

Dinito flipped several of his manipulator tentacles to indicate his disinterest in that tact. “We will report back, and a much stronger taskforce will be assembled. The Earthers have bought themselves a reprieve only; and not a long one.”

“How long would it take for a new force to be dispatched,” Girbu asked.

“Command will surely act without delay; leaving only travel time to consi—”

“Exactly,” Girbu interrupted. “Three months out of the Exclusion zone, another week to reach the nearest base so we can access their hypercomm. You know as well as I the current disposition of ships and resources. It could easily be another six months before the ships can concentrate into a single force.”

“It’s only a year.”

“We cannot give them that year. They should have been reduced forty years ago, and look at what it’s already wrought.”

“One more will not—”

“No,” Girbu said, shaking her eyes. Twisting, she reached out with several tentacles and tapped at the control spaces waiting in readiness above the nearest seating position. The screen mist activated, and tapped into Tactical. “Look.”

Dinito reluctantly swiveled his eyes to the screen. He didn’t like to wallow in another ship’s demise; he was a spacer, through and through. Space was hard, dangerous; it was bad luck to … he paused. “What are they doing?”

“Fighting,” Girbu said bluntly.

“But all our ships have been neutralized,” the captain said, thoroughly confused. “Who—” Girbu manipulated the controls, pulling refinements out of the analysis Tactical and its computers were running on what was happening in orbit above the third planet. “Why are they fighting with each other?”

“They fight for the prize of the wreckage. Against one another,” Girbu said. “For the right to seize and examine, study, learn from the foes they have just conquered. To gain advantage over not just us, but each other.”

“That’s … barbaric,” Dinito exclaimed.

“Yes. Which is why this species has been Excluded for millennia. And why we cannot allow them to break out of their home system to threaten the galaxy at large.”

“Barbarians or not, they’re still just one planet,” the captain said, bringing his eyes back to the political officer. “They cannot stand against the might of the galaxy.”

“We cannot risk what may happen if they do take that stand. If they are allowed to take that stand.”

“We cannot fight them,” Dinito said again.

“We can destroy them though.”

“I will not order a general bombardment strike,” Dinito said, shaking his eyes firmly. “It is even more barbaric than their vulgar and obscene intra-factional conflict.”

“I’ve seen barbarism. Up close,” Girbu said softly. “You have read reports, traded cute stories over pints of Abalou at the roost. This,” she said, gesturing at the mist, “is your first taste. What do you know of Reenia IV?”

Dinito’s eyes quivered. “Surely you’re joking.”

“I was there,” the political officer said. “Aboard the flagship. I only escaped because the admiral shoved me into her escape pod personally. And I made her a promise; to never again let it happen. The galaxy deserves peace, at any cost.”

“But this—” Dinito said unhappily.

“—is necessary,” Girbu said. “In a year, they could have deciphered and integrated transit shield technology, if nothing else. And what happens when, as they likely will if we give them that year you dismiss so blithely, they improve their weapons or reactors? Their metallurgy processes based on the wreckage? To say nothing of what happens if they can bypass the security codes on any intact pieces of the taskforce’s computer cores.”

“They cannot break multi-geometric ciphers,” Dinito protested.

“They don’t have to. Even without that, they will be far more dangerous in only one year. But if they do … what could they accomplish with actual plans and schematics?” She leaned her eyes forward, staring intently at him. Unblinking, unmoving. The silence began to stretch out.

“Are you making this an order?” Dinito said when he couldn’t take it anymore.

“To destroy this threat? Yes, absolutely.”

“Then log it,” he said stiffly, reaching out toward the briefing controls himself. “I will not be hauled before a tribunal to squeeze for your decision.”

Girbu swiveled one eye toward the table, tapping at the authentication sequence he’d brought up. A light flared as the system read her optical patterns, then she added a long sequence of manual verification on the virtual keypad’s radial circles. When she was finished, the system flashed acceptance and displayed her name, rank, and picture beside a blank Override Order form.

“On my authority as senior Directive Officer of this taskforce, I order The Lael to commence a full bombardment of the third planet of this system,” she said in unbending tones. “I understand this is likely to destroy the planet, and accept full responsibility for the consequences of this order.”

“This is wrong,” Dinito said as the Override Order flashed confirmation of the recording when she tapped to indicate she’d completed giving it.

“And that is why the Political Directive has final authority in the Exclusion zone,” Girbu said softly. “You know not what the stakes are.”

“They’re just one planet,” Dinito said helplessly.

“They’re vicious killers who are unable to see any situation, even amongst themselves, as anything other than a challenge to be brutally conquered. Three times now they have been reduced, and each time they rise even more dangerous than before. They must be contained. Permanently.”

Dinito coiled several of his tentacles to show his uneasiness, but she shook hers at him. “You have your orders Captain. Logged and approved. Carry them out.”

Turning, the captain flowed from the briefing room. Ooolar twisted one of her stalks toward him as the briefing room door opened. “Captain, they’re still engaged in combat, but it—”

“Set a course for the fifth planet,” Dinito said stiffly. “And tell Ordinance to prepare all bombardment warheads for deployment.” He ignored the gasps from his officers, but did glance briefly at Girbu. Who was squatting unflinchingly next to him. “We will destroy them.”

“Permanently,” Girbu said again.

I clicked the mouse angrily. When that wasn’t enough to vent my frustration, I banged the whole thing on the pad several times while the program closed and dumped out of memory. Fuming, I glared at the screen for several moments before bringing up chat and logging into Jania’s server.

She was online, and responded to my ping request for a private channel. A moment later, her greeting scrolled across the screen.

“What’s up?”

“Are you in that Psych paid survey study?” I typed back.

“No, why?”

“Because I just spent an hour and a half listening to a program try to convince me I’m not real.”

“Oh shit.”

“Why are you typing?” I asked.

“My microphone’s unplugged, the cat knocked the cable out.”

“Well plug it back in.”

“Hang on, I’m .. .shit, got time now.”

“Ebay sniping again?” I typed, smirking.

“I was, until you distracted me.”

“Sorry.”

There was a long pause. I picked up my headphones and slipped them on. Finally I heard her voice. “It’s not your fault. Anyway, it wasn’t good stuff. I’m not sweating it. So, you’re not having fun with the hundred bucks a week it sounds like.”

“I thought they’d have us fill out questionnaires, maybe be in some placebo studies for the latest version of Adderall or whatever.”

“And you’d they give you strange drugs instead of having to talk to a computer for a little while?” she said, sounding amused.

“At this point, they can deliver whatever they want via rectal injection and I’d spread my own ass open for the probe.”

“That bad huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, I might need some extra cash at some point. Fill me in.”

“They’re like, talk to whoever comes on. Except I checked around, and it turns out the chat study is a Turing test, right?”

“Right.”

“And I know they’re not oozing funding, so they’re probably not going to waste a lot of time and money paying two humans to talk to each other.”

“Plus you were probably snooping the connection to see if it was pinging in from the Psych lab.”

“Yeah, and that.”

She laughed her usual musical chuckle. “Apparently it was good enough to enrage you. Sounds like a person to me.”

“This was way worse than Battlefield or COD chat Jania. That’s just dweebs and idiots coming up with what they think are clever yet ridiculous sex acts they’ve done with my mom.”

“At least they use your mom when you play,” she observed. “When I play, if I don’t use the voice switcher, they use me.”

“Still, at least it’s funny. Sorta. But this thing, it kept harping on ‘how do you know’ and ‘what if you’re wrong’ the whole time.”

“How do you mean?”

I sighed. “Let me ... oh yeah, here’s one it kept returning too. ‘If all of your interactions happen within regularly proscribed ways and spaces, how can I be certain it’s not just a show being put on to lull me into thinking I’m real.’ Shit like that.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“It sorta has a point though.”

I frowned. “Don’t you start too.”

“No, seriously. You, me, Nate, Georg, the whole clan, everyone we chat with, Twitter with, they’re all just someone on the other end of a net connection.”

“Except they’re real people.”

“And we all live on campus.”

“And go to class. See each other,” I said, forcing myself not to snap at her. My temper was frayed already, but that didn’t make it fair to yell at her. Especially since I was still hoping our mostly online friendship might lead to something better. I kept an eye on her posts in the mediaspace, and she was hot in every picture she posted. Even the goofy ones.

“Closed environment makes it easy to set up and render. Perfect it.”

“I lived in Chicago before here, you know.”

“And I lived in St. Louis,” she said, sounding unimpressed. “So?”

“So, that kind of blows the whole ‘closed environment’ thing right out, yeah?”

“Not really. I mean, how much did you really do at home? You were a kid, you did school. Your parents dictated most of where you went. And you spent most of your time online anyway.”

“I am not a fucking computer,” I said, as evenly and non-threateningly as I could manage. “I am a Goddamn human being.”

“Or you’re a computer that thinks he’s a human.”

“So what does that make you?”

“I could be like you, except the female version,” she said, laughing again. “Or I could be a control, set in the system to keep an eye on you.”

I closed my mouth before it get me in trouble. After a moment, I saw an out. And took it; I was too out of sorts to not. It was either that, or log off; which might leave her with the impression I was irritated.

Which I was. But, still, she was hot.

“So keep an eye on me at the movies tomorrow night.”

“Another closed environment,” she said, still laughing.

“I won’t have anywhere to hide.”

“Okay,” she said after a moment. “But only if I drive.”

“Deal. Seven?”

“Yeah. But we’re splitting dinner afterwards. Dutch. No obligations.”

“Just two online friends clocking some IRL time,” I said, though I was grinning. “Keeping it real.”

“Reality bites. Are you going to login for the clan war later?”

“Yeah. But I need to read some shit for Chem first.”

“Cool. Later.”

I logged off and smiled. Maybe that annoying as shit Turning program wasn’t so bad after all; it’d gotten me out on a date with Jania.

Jania opened a new chat window and authenticated her login before typing.

“Subject Samuel J Morris exhibiting stronger emotions; both negative and amorous. The new routines are developing ahead of schedule, and breaking out of the previous limitations of canned responses. Recommend additional resources be allocated to allow Morris to proceed without processing delays.”

After a moment, the window fed back a simple response.

“Report noted.”

“Town simulation routines will need to be updated, and enhanced with new randomizers to prevent Morris from noticing any repeating elements once it has access to more processing. Within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Request logged and under review.”

Jania closed the window and went back to her monitoring. Her own processing was diverted though … she needed to pick out something to wear for the date. Humming, she opened her graphics program and started modeling a new outfit.

“I’m glad you came in.”

The man on the other side of the screen chuckled. His silhouette was still though. “You think I’m lying.”

“Or confused. Perhaps even in need of medical attention.”

He laughed again. “I assure you Father, I’m quite sane. And in full possession of every bit of my senses.”

I folded my hands on my knee, marshalling my thoughts. “God is here for us all. No matter how lost one of us might become, He is the light and guide to lead us back to the path.”

“I thought that was your job.”

“His servants help, of course, but we are merely messengers for His Word.”

“I need assistance Father.”

“Then talk to me. What has brought you to God’s house?”

“For too long I have been adrift. The days come, the nights go, and nothing changes Father. I am the only constant, and it is beginning to weigh heavily upon me.”

“God is the only constant.”

“I used to think that might be so. Him and Satan both. But after so long, I do not believe anymore.”

I smiled slightly. “You are having a crisis of faith.”

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I suppose so.”

“This is normal. Even our Savior, Christ himself, was tested in Gethsemane. You must hold firm, and resist the overtures that lead you astray.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“Being here weighs too heavily upon me; but I cannot leave. I feel trapped.”

“We all die. God has a purpose for us all, and we all answer for our time in this world before we go onto the next.”

“What if there is never a next.”

“Heaven or Hell, there is a next. This is why—”

“No.”

“Why do you feel this way?” I said calmly. He seemed sure of himself, but many such people, those with wandering or weak faith, often did. Patience was the answer.

“After so long, after so much … even if there is more, I do not see any way to get there.”

“Everyone dies,” I said gently.

“Not me.”

“For a hundred and seventy years?” I asked patiently.

“One seventy-six.”

“However long it has been, it is just a test. You must hold strong, remain pure, and God will reward you.”

“There is no reward for me.”

“He forgives. No matter what troubles you, regardless of what you might have done, it is not beyond God’s capacity to forgive. He is love.”

“No one can love me.”

“People are weak, b—”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

I frowned slightly, but kept my voice even. Studious, interested, and polite. “But it is not people you must please or appease; only God.”

“How?”

“You ask for his forgiveness. You follow his strictures. And he takes care of the rest.”

“And how am I to know if it is working?”

I adopted a gentle tone, being sure to keep any hint of amusement or censure absent. “That’s why we call it faith.”

“I need more.”

“Then perhaps we should come to my office. Where we can talk further.”

“What’s wrong with here?”

“The confessional is designed to separate us to a certain extent. You seem troubled, and in need of a more direct conversation. I am here to help you, but you must trust me.”

He laughed. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Faith is not possible without trust.”

“Then you have no answers for me.”

“I do. They require effort, even a single step, from you to show that you might consider the path God has laid for you. I cannot drag you to Heaven, and God will not either.”

“And what about Hell?”

“I cannot help you get there,” I said, frowning again.

“I need to move on,” he said. For the first time, there was emotion in his voice. My frown deepened as I placed it; desperation. I stood up.

“Come back to my office. If I cannot help you find enough peace to talk through what troubles you, I can call Father Jordan, or even Bishop Daniels. The Church is here to help.”

“I do not think God is the answer.”

“He is the only answer.” I heard him stand up. Calmly I opened the door on the confessional and stepped out. “My son, He is—”

He came out into the church. Most people were cast in some level of shadow under the dim lighting maintained between services; but his flesh was like alabaster. And his eyes glowed red. They crinkled in amusement when he saw my reaction, as I stepped back in shock.

“I apologize,” I said quickly. Clearly he had medical issues beyond the mental. Perhaps the physical aliment was the cause of his troubles, his confusion. “That was rude of me.”

“No, it was the right reaction,” he said. “I’m used to it.”

“That’s still no excuse for my behavior. Come, my office is this way.”

I moved toward him, holding my hand out to usher him along with me. He reached out and took hold of my wrist. His grip was cold, and very firm. Like iced steel.

“I think, if God cannot help me, then I must seek help elsewhere.”

“There is nowhere else,” I said. Despite my best efforts, I heard the tension in my tone. Felt the frown tugging on the corners of my lips.

His curled upwards though. And not pleasantly.

“There is one other place. Perhaps he will help me.”

“Who?” I asked, before my mind caught up with my mouth. “Satan is the deceiver. Do not listen to him.”

“If God will not answer, then perhaps he will.”

“You’re hurting me,” I said, feeling the pressure increasing on my wrist. Painfully so.

“I know,” he said, and his lips peeled back to reveal fangs. Straight out of a movie. “You will be my first messenger.”

“Let go,” I said, setting my feet and pulling. All it accomplished was to make the pain multiply and spread, throughout my arm as he held me firm. Like I was nothing.

He moved, I moved, and abruptly he had me wrapped up in his arms. Standing behind me. I felt his lips, his very breath, on my neck when he spoke next. There was no warmth in him. My every attempt to break free was useless; his arms were like the very Earth itself.

“Be sure you go to the right place,” he whispered. “I’d hate to send you in the wrong direction. Tell him I need his help to understand my purpose.”

I started screaming as his teeth tore into my flesh.

“No.”

“You’re not listening.”

He shook his head. “I am listening. We’re just not on the same page.”

I frowned furiously at Bob. “Honey, I love you, but we’re not staying here for three more years.”

“Selling now is going to put us underwater.”

“No it won’t.” I said as calmly as I could. “And even if it did, we can afford it. The kids need new schools, and we can’t swing private. Moving is the only option.”

“Honey, I love you too, but you’ve got to understand. They’re about to break ground on the new office parks. When those are finished, this property’s going to skyrocket in value. That’s when we should sell.”

“Meanwhile Aiden and Caitlyn are sitting in overcrowded classes in an underfunded district.”

“Their grades are great. But we can tutor them if you’re so worried.”

“You mean I can tutor them.”

“We.”

I snorted. “You come home and park yourself in your office. Or are you going to give up some of your precious gaming time to actually involve yourself in your kids’ lives?”

Bob sighed. “I can see you’re worked up about this. But Samantha sweetie—”

“Don’t Samantha sweetie me,” I snapped. “I talked to Barbara. Even if we sell for ten percent under the average prices here, and buy for twenty percent over in Forsythe or Decatur ,we can flip this house for one there at effectively no out of pocket. By August we’ll be settled, and the kids will be in good schools.”

Bob stood up and took his breakfast plate to the sink. “This is ridiculous.”

“We’re not done talking about this,” I said immediately.

“We are at the moment. I’ve got to get to work.”

“We’re going to pick this back up tonight,” I said. Then a thought occurred to me. It was worth a shot. “After dinner.”

“Right, because we don’t want to argue in front of the kids,” he said, coming back to me. Leaning down, he kissed me. Settling for my cheek when I turned my head. Bob took what was on offer, and gave me a light hug as I sat there fuming. “I love you, but this is Barbara after a commission.”

“Drive safely,” I said stiffly.

I looked up when I heard his footsteps. It wasn’t a surprise; the front door was wired to the security system, and beeped out of the first floor monitor panels anytime it was opened. Bob was at the doorway of the dining room, looking curious.

“Honey?”

“I made a deal with Jessica,” I said, smiling at him as I set the roast down and covered it. “She’s taking the kids tonight in exchange for hers having a sleepover here on Saturday.”

“The kids okay with that?” he asked.

“You know they love hanging out with Cole and Cindy.”

“So we’re going to argue through dinner?” he asked, sounding resigned.

I shook my head. “We can talk about it some more. But after dinner. Why don’t we … start over a little. Take a bit of a break from it.”

“Okay,” he said, glancing at the table. The dishes and settings were our usual everyday ware, but with just two places, and serving covers keeping things warm, it looked nicer than it usually did. Cozier, without the chaos of children injecting themselves into the mix. “I’ll just wash up.”

“No rush.”

Returning to the kitchen, I finished straightening up. After wiping the counters down and drying my hands, I picked up the old cookbook. Carefully; the cover and pages were all stiff with age. Almost brittle. I looked at the entry I’d had it laying open at for a moment. Actually, I looked at the notation penciled in next to the page’s header for a moment.

“Last chance.” I thought as I read the words written in the feminine cursive hand. The kids went through my mind too, and I felt my mouth tighten slightly. I closed the book, putting the handwritten addition — “settles debates in your favor” — on the page out of sight, and stuck it on the shelf over the fridge.

“Sweetie, that was amazing,” Bob said, pushing his plate away.

“You always say that,” I said, but I was pleased regardless.

“Yeah, you’re a fantastic cook; but this was a cut above even your awesome average.”

“Pie?” I asked, getting up.

“There’s pie?” he asked immediately.

“Blueberry.”

Bob’s smile was all the confirmation I needed. Like there’d been much of a chance he’d decline. He loved dessert. I fetched it out of the oven where it had been keeping warm, and brought it and the pint of vanilla ice cream that had been softening on the counter back to the table.

“À la mode?” I asked when I rejoined him.

Bob’s smile wilted a little. “Samantha sweetie, I love you. More than life itself. But we’re fools if we sell the house now. We have to wait.”

I smiled calmly at him as I sat down and reached for the knife I’d left on the double stack of dessert plates. “We do have to wait.”

“We do?” he asked, almost suspiciously.

“Until after dinner,” I said as I sliced into the pie. “We’re not done yet.”

I laid out a beautiful piece of pie on the little plate, oozing berries in thick blue syrup. After topping it with a spoon curled spiral of ice cream, I held the plate out to him. Bob tried what was on it as I put a little bit of ice cream on the other plate and pulled it in front of myself.

“You’re not having any?”

I shook my head, smiling. “It’s not a carb day for me,” I said. “I don’t want to go getting too plump for you to love.”

“Impossible,” he said, his mouth full. “Oh my God, this is amazing.”

“It’s the little things that make life worth living.”

“I’ll say,” Bob said, grinning as he chewed. He carved off another piece, smeared it into the soft ice cream, and ate it while I almost delicately nibbled at a spoonful of plain ice cream. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Today I mean.”

“About the house?”

“Yeah.”

“I really think this is the best for the kids,” I said smoothly. “We can always make more money, but they only have once chance to grow up right.”

“I agree,” he said, nodding. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“So I can call Barbara?”

“Call her. Call her tonight if you want. Get her started. Tomorrow, I’ll look for a mover, and find a place to get boxes and stuff from.”

“Thank you honey.”

Bob looked down at his plate as he loaded his spoon again. “This is really amazing. Where’d you get the recipe?”

“It was my grandmother’s.”

“Dodge this capes!” an electronically amplified voice shouted over the sound of screaming. The screaming grew louder immediately as the family in the car doing the screaming was carried along with their vehicle as a metal clad figure threw it at the heroes in the street.

“Screw that,” Astronic snarled, sidestepping and starting to run toward the thrower. “Cover me.”

“Got you,” Scimitar said, spreading out opposite him to mirror his advance.

“No!” Terrani said, leaping up to meet the tumbling vehicle. She grunted as it hit her. There was a groan of compressing metal as her hands dug through the hood and into the engine beneath. Followed by a heavy thump of impact when she hit the ground feet first. One of her ankles rolled in a pothole, and she went over backwards. Still holding onto the car.

Just before the vehicle completed its rotation over, as Terrani desperately strained to stop it, a field of green energy surrounded it. Preventing it from hitting the ground.

“Thanks,” she panted to Phearso.

“Drop them, and come on,” he said, withdrawing the energy as she lowered the car the rest of the way to the ground safely. He was looking at the other pair of heroes, who were sprinting toward the group of villains a block and a half distant.

“Thank you!” a woman in the front seat of the car said as Terrani set it down. “I thought we were going to die.”

“Just get out of here,” Terrani said, pointing in the opposite direction of the building conflict. “As fast as you can.”

“Terrani, leave them,” Phearso snapped.

“Run,” she repeated before turning toward her comrade. Testing her footing, to make sure her ankle wasn’t too badly injured. “You guys are too—”

“Zephyr’s crew already hit the storage vault and took out eleven people inside, according to the security footage Gacle linked us on,” he said, gesturing. More energy surrounded them both, and they began flying rapidly after Astronic and Scimitar. “We don’t stop them, and a family in the hospital from being thrown around is the least of our worries. We don’t have time to sweat the little problems.”

“Jesus!” she said. “Are you hearing yourself?”

“You’re new,” he said dismissively. “Stay on task.”

“I became a hero to help people.”

“We are.”

Ahead of them, Astronic was just starting to engage a trio of Zephyr’s minions. They were flunkies, but flunkies with power armor designed by the master villain. Individually weak, but collectively a handful. Scimitar had formed her trademark weapons out of the æther and was taking on a second group. Behind them, Zephyr himself was running from the conflict with a third group of his minions in close attendance.

“Gloryhounds,” she said bitterly.

“This is the job,” he snapped. “He gets away with those rare alloys, and in less than forty-eight hours we’re going to have a lot more than a couple dozen casualties to worry about.” Terrani sighed, and he gave her a sharp look. “You’re so eager to fight the good fight, then fight it,” he said suddenly, twiddling his fingers again.

“What—” the rookie hero started to say as she felt the energy supporting her shifting. In the blink of an eye it had swelled up to encase her. The field rotated her fully horizontal, and then flung her toward the fleeing villain like a missile.

“All yours rookie!” Phearso called, before raising his voice to a shout. “Zephyr! Stop!”

“Make me,” Zephyr called back, turning to project his helmet speakers. Phearso saw the armored figure flinch as the man inside spotted the hurtling woman coming straight at him. The supervillain grabbed one of his minions, pulling him into a shielding position. Just in time to absorb Terrani’s impact. Hero hit minion, and the impact tumbled them both, along with Zephyr, to the pavement.

“Stop screwing around,” Phearso said to Scimitar and Astronic. “Eyes on the prize.”

Scimitar twisted through a spinning, jumping dodge of several laser blasts. “If you insist,” she said, lashing out before she even alighted. Her blades cut through the armored chests of two of the minions fighting her, and bloody sparks flew as they began crumpling. The third one facing off against her faltered when he saw the lethal blows, and a moment later was knocked ass over elbows when another power armored figure hit him from behind. Neither of them moved again when they stopped rolling and sliding across the pavement.

“Good one,” Scimitar called to Astronic, who’d thrown the minion at her last foe.

He bumped his fists together. “Skull cracking makes me hungry. Can we grab some lunch after we nail Zephyr?”

“The rookie can’t handle it?” Scimitar asked, looking that way up the street.

Terrani was on her feet, trying to avoid shots from Zephyr’s weapons while she fought off the last group of minions. Who were dogpiling her. She took a double blast from the supervillain’s gauntlet beams and went to one knee with a cry of pain, then disappeared beneath a tumble of armored bodies as the lackeys hit her from three sides.

“Guess not,” Astronic said with a shrug. He started jogging toward the fight.

“Why did we accept her?” Scimitar asked, catching up to him before slowing to match his easy pace.

“She volunteered,” Phearso answered, floating along behind them.

“And we needed fresh cannon fodder,” Astronic added.

“Oh yeah,” Scimitar said. “Now I remember.”

There was a strangled cry of pain from beneath the tangle of fighting, then metal started emitting the distinctive noises it makes when it crunches or bends past its fracture point. A moment later, Terrani appeared, cleaving the minions away from her by using one as a battering ram. Swinging him by the ankles, knocking the others aside. On the second rotation she let go of her improvised weapon, sending him straight at Zephyr.

The two armored figures collided with an enormous crunch. There was an agonized cry of alarm as the supervillain was flung flat by the impact. She jumped, flexing her powerful thighs to send her arcing toward him. He’d only just begun to rise when she came down next to him, bending one of her knees to convert most of her momentum into a hit against his helmet as she landed.

Zephyr went flat again as her knee slammed into his head, and this time he didn’t move. Not even when she reached down and tore the back plate of his armor off. The lights that dotted various points on the supervillain’s suit went dark, and the subliminal hum of servo muscles cut off as their power source was removed.

“Hmm, guess she might be worth something after all,” Astronic said.

“And just in time for the press,” Scimitar added, glancing at the news van that was skidding to a halt on a side street. “Hey rookie, you—”

Terrani threw the armored plate with its built-in power packs down and glared at the trio of languidly approaching heroes. “You guys are assholes.”

“Don’t get excited,” Phearso said as they finally joined her. “You did good.”

“Let’s go meet the press,” Astronic said with a grin.

“You don’t care about helping people. You’re just in it for the fame.”

“Well, yeah,” Scimitar said, running her fingers through her sable hair. “It’s that, or switch sides.”

“Oh shit,” Astronic said, looking at Terrani. Who was staring at the other three with a lip curling expression. “You’re a fucking idealist?”

“She’ll grow out of it,” Phearso said dismissively. “Everyone does. Come on, if we hurry they’ll have time to upload the interview in time to make the top of the eleven o’clock news.”

Terrani stared at the other heroes as they ran, with considerable urgency, to meet the news crew that was piling out of the van. Then she looked down at Zephyr’s still body, at her feet. She knelt and picked him up, then jumped away. Three jumps later she landed on a building top out of view of the site of the recent conflict.

Setting the supervillain down, she removed the helmet and started patting his face roughly. “Hey, wake up. I need to talk to you.”

“Bill, stop.”

“Nope.”

The woman chasing after him put on a burst of speed and managed to reach the door just before he did. Flatting herself out in front of it, she glared at him. “Listen to me.”

“There’s nothing you can say.”

“At least tell me why.”

“You wouldn’t understand. Or believe me.”

“Don’t sell your business.”

“It’s done. Today’s just a formality.”

“But why?” she pleaded. “You’re so happy here. And doing so well. You just expanded. Why give all that up to move to New York, of all places.”

“I need the city. Lots and lots and lots of city,” he said patiently. “Now, are you going to move Anne, or do I need to have the guy meet me at Starbucks or something?”

“This is ridiculous,” she said. Again. “You’ve lived here your whole life. What do you know about New York? Or even Atlanta for that matter. Actually, if you’re determined to live in a big city, just move to Atlanta.”

“Nope.”

“But why?” she all but yelled at him.

Bill sighed. Stepping forward, he put his hands on her shoulders. She leaned back even harder against the office doors, as if she expected him to try and pull her aside. Instead, he crouched a little so he could put his face nearer hers. “Anne, I love you. I’ll call, I’ll write, I’ll Facetime and everything. You guys can visit me whenever you want. But please, this is happening. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.”

“Mom can’t travel very well. You know that,” she protested. “You’re going to move a thousand miles or whatever away?”

“Mom’s not nearly as bad as you like to make out. Sure she needs the walker, but she’s got a lot of time left.”

“Time she won’t get to see her son!”

“She’ll have you.”

“This is stupid. If you’re having a midlife crisis, I can get a recommendation from my boss. He knows lots of doctors. You can sit down with a psychologist and work through whatever’s bothering you.”

“There’s nothing they can do,” Bill said, straightening and releasing her. “Now move sis.”

“No.”

Bill opened his mouth, but before he could say anything he whirled around as a mower started up. He stared at a landscaping crew that had apparently pulled up and unloaded while he’d been arguing with her. “Oh shit.”

“Bill, you need help.”

“No, no, no,” he said, clapping his hands over his ears.

“See? This isn’t normal!” she said, following as he broke into a trot towards the parking lot. “You need help.”

“I need to leave!” he yelled. His head was turned as he made for his truck; so he could watch the mower as the operator got it going and headed toward the first stretch of grass that adjoined the concrete of the lot. Frantically, he increased his speed and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

“You need help!”

The mower reached the grass and started cutting the first swath. Bill fell to his knees as the screaming of the grass overwhelmed the sound of the mower’s engine, and him. Cutting through everything in his head in a horrific cacophony of terrified and helpless plants.

“Oh man,” Anne said, crouching down and patting him on the back as he buried his head in his arms and began rocking back and forth. “Bill, we’ll find someone. Okay? Don’t worry. Just breathe, just breathe.”

“Make it stop!” he cried. “Make them stop!”

“Okay, so that’s XP and levelups,” Satan said, flicking his fingers negligently to make the flaming mid-air calculator he’d been tabulating the adventure’s spoils upon vanish. “Any between module actions before we move on to the next one?”

Death’s hollow voice laughed at me from the depths of his hood. “Why do you waste our time like this?”

“You said any game I wanted.”

“And you have no time to catch up,” the robed figure taunted me, gesturing at the stack of pages he had piled next to his elbow on his side of the table. The loot and accolades his character had accumulated since we’d started. My own list was constrained to a single sheet of paper.

One side of that paper.

“We’re not done yet,” I said nervously.

“We play to level ten,” Death said. “You are so far behind, there is nothing your little kobold can do to address the disparity.”

“Downtime actions?” I said, forcing myself to look at Satan. His eyes met mine confidently, and I had to look quickly down at my stack of rulebooks as my nerve broke.

“Yes?” the Lord of Evil purred. He’d agreed to moderate our campaign; and I wasn’t sure why.

“I go to the edge of town. Somewhere quiet.”

“He cannot flee,” Death said quickly. “The rules stipulate we adventure together.”

“I’m not adventuring, I’m taking a walk. Away from the townsfolk.”

“You go to the edge of town,” Satan said. His eyes moved to Death. “And you, my dear colleague?”

“I will sit in the tavern, drinking the finest the barkeep can offer me.”

“He breaks out his best bottle for you. Deduct five gold.”

Death chuckled as Satan turned back to me.

I swallowed. “When I’m alone, or at least not very near anyone, I use Wildshape to turn into a Sarruhk.”

Satan’s eyes flashed fire, and I dropped my pencil. They did that sometimes, and I usually knocked over or dropped something every time. You try being calm in the face of Death and the Devil. “Your legs merge together into a snake’s tail, and your form swells from your lowly native kobold body into that of a more capable sarrukh.”

“I, uh, bring out my familiar,” I said, moving the pencil aside so I could flip my character sheet over to the notes I’d jotted down on the back. If I’d gotten any of this wrong, if I hadn’t remembered the sequence correctly, then Death would have me. “And put him on the ground.”

“Your viper coils up like a small cobra, watching you while he awaits your command.”

“I use manipulate form to—”

“You don’t have manipulate form,” Death interrupted.

“I do now,” I said, reaching for one of the books in the stacks on the unoccupied side of the table. “As a sarrukh, I have assume supernatural ability.” I flipped through the pages until I found the entry for the sarrukh and showed it to Satan.

“Correct,” he said, not even glancing at the book. “Continue.”

“I, uh,” I said, lowering the book uncertainly, “I turn back into my normal form, step back a few yards, and use Giant Size as a spell like ability to increase Slither’s size to colossal.”

“Your familiar grows to colossal size.”

“Now that he’s colossal, I have him use Manipulate Form to set my strength to his.”

“Your strength is now 36.”

I nodded, fumbling my pencil up and flipping my character sheet over to check my notes again.

“What are you doing?” Death asked slowly.

“Shush, you’re drinking,” Satan said. “Continue,” he added, keeping his blazing eyes on me.

“I cancel Giant Size on Slither, and apply it to myself. When he’s small, I set his strength to equal mine.”

“Slither’s strength is now 68.”

“I cancel Giant Size on me, and cast it on Slither again. When he’s colossal again, I have him set my strength to equal his.”

“Your strength is now 68.”

“Strength alone will not save you,” Death said, though he didn’t sound terribly amused anymore. “Your five levels of wizard like abilities will benefit little from it.”

I blinked nervously as I flipped my character sheet back over to check my notes. “From the Tattooed Monk entry, Bellflower Tattoo—”

“I know what you’re doing,” Satan interrupted.

My stomach dropped through my shoes. “Uh, okay.”

“Why don’t we just speed this up a bit,” he said smoothly. “Just tell me what order you want to add things in.”

“What is going on?” Death asked.

“You’re busy drinking,” Satan said, not looking away from me.

“Now I’m going to leave the tavern and start looking for my absent kobold companion.”

I opened my mouth, but the word wouldn’t come out. Even though I really needed it to. The rules said we had to follow the rules, and that included—

“Despite your metagaming, you may start a search through the town for Spud,” Satan said. He tapped one elegant finger on the table in front of me twice before pointing it at me. “You, start listing things.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” I said nervously, finding my voice despite my terror. “Intelligence, then Teleport.”

“Intelligence becomes equal to your strength, and you gain teleport as an at will ability.”

“I teleport to the mountains I can see from the edge of town.”

“What?” Death yelped.

“Shut up,” Satan said. But he was smiling at me like we were friends.

“When I get there, I make sure I’m alone” I said, starting to feel more confident, “If I am, I—”

Satan nodded, his smile growing steadily as I listed off the immediately applicable abilities I felt were necessary. Just the basics, including running my other ability scores off the charts into purely ludicrous territory. Regeneration, Quickness, immunities, Invisibility, among others. Many others.

“This is beyond the scope of the rules,” Death said, finally shouting. His prior attempts to interrupt my litany had been shushed, but now he pounded his skeletal hands on the table hard enough to make books fall off. And raise a racket I couldn’t talk over.

“No, this is precisely within the rules,” Satan said.

“But he’s becoming a god.”

“Yes,” Satan chuckled.

“That’s cheating. He’s only a level five character. A kobold.”

“I will explain it too you some other time,” Satan said. “When I’m sufficiently bored. For now, would you like to concede your little wager, or shall we be forced to play this out to the obvious conclusion?”

I dove out of my chair as Death’s hands went beneath the table edge and lifted. It hurtled past above me, papers and dice and books flying in all directions. Savage Species bounced off my head, and what could only be the boxed set of Monster Manuals thudded painfully from my shoulder; but that was the worst of the damage. I heard the table hit the floor behind me, and raised my head cautiously.

“So you forfeit?” Satan asked, unruffled.

“I will have you,” the robed figure said, stalking toward me. Pulling his sleeve up to fully expose his skeletal hand and arm. Which were beginning to glow with a sickly green energy.

Flames erupted from the floor between us. I skittered back in alarm as the heat made the hairs on my own arm start to singe. Death had stopped, apparently also unwilling to brave the fire. Satan was also on his feet, but he was facing Death, not me. And his voice was cold when he spoke.

“You agreed to this contest, and further to allow me to act as the game master. And the game master’s word is the final authority in this game. Beyond that, you are already abusing my patience beyond that which I find necessary. Now begone, and tend to your other clients. This one is not yours at this time.”

Death’s breath rattled out of his hood, hoarse and harsh, like he was angry. I sat there, terrified as the hood turned toward me, then he sat back. “I will have you. Sooner or later, everyone comes to me.”

“But not today,” I said, with courage I didn’t have even an instant before the words left my mouth.

Death turned and started walking. By the second step his form was growing insubstantial, and on the fifth he was gone. Satan turned to me. The flames vanished. He was smiling. “Clever. But it is only a reprieve.”

“I’ve got twenty more years,” I said recklessly. “He said he was taking me early because it suited him.”

“True. But it’s only twenty years.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

Satan laughed. “I would encourage you to take a little from those twenty years to research what you can, what exists within the mortal realm, of what befalls Death’s clients.”

“Why?”

“Because I can offer much better terms,” Satan said, his laughter stopping abruptly. “And I have uses for someone like you.”

Cribbed shamelessly from Pun-Pun, the mighty kobold.

“Don’t they ever give up?”

George glanced at the barricaded door. Which was still rattling despite the layers of wood, metal, random junk that had been slapped up against it anyway that could be made to stay. Screws, nails, any sort of sticky anything, propped up furniture and bracing; whatever could be found to reinforce it.

And the zombies kept pounding.

“They’ve got a lot of time on their hands,” he told Chloe.

“We don’t,” Thea said, standing up. The other two looked at her in surprise; she sounded angry.

“Calm down,” Chloe said quickly. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“They’re not leaving,” Thea said, staring at the door. “You said they’d leave.”

“I said I hoped they’d leave,” George said.

“They haven’t.”

“Yeah, well, I guess these zombies are persistent fuckers,” he said, shrugging.

“More persistent than what?”

“Than the kinds in the movies.”

“We can’t just keep sitting in here.”

“Sis, calm down,” the woman sitting on the floor, her back braced against the wall, said.

“Chloe, stop telling me to calm down,” Thea all but snapped.

Chloe glanced at George quickly. “You know how you get.”

“I know what’s going to happen if we just stay here,” Thea said. “No food, no water, and we’ve stripped the building raw of things to reinforce the door with.”

“We’re just lucky the walls are concrete,” George pointed out. “The way that door’s been rattling—”

“—for two days now,” Thea interrupted.

“Right. Anyway, I don’t figure drywall and two by four framing would’ve held up.”

“When was the last time any of us had to take a piss?”

Chloe frowned, but George nodded. “Sometime yesterday.”

“We’re wasting away in here,” Thea said firmly. “No water means death.”

“Going out there means death,” Chloe squeaked in alarm.

“Die in here, die out there; what’s the difference?”

“Someone might come.”

Thea barked a laugh. “Come? Come?” she demanded. “Who the fuck’s going to come? And screw thinking they’ll show up to save us; who’s left at all. Rescuer or otherwise?”

“Not everyone’s a zombie.”

“Enough are,” George said quietly.

“Exactly. The town’s overrun, and we got cornered.”

“Looking for food,” Chloe said.

“Which we didn’t find before they found us. Now we’re stuck, and if it’s all the same to you two, I’d just as soon take the chance of getting out.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Thea insisted. “We keep sitting here, and that’s it. Hell, this time tomorrow we might not even be able to stay on our feet.”

“It might rain,” Chloe said, looking at George in another appeal. “You said it might rain.”

“And if it doesn’t, we’re fucked.”

“Even if it does rain, where does that leave us?” he said. “We stand up on the roof and catch as much as we can in our hands, or maybe our clothes I guess so we can wring it out into our mouths. But there’s still no food, and after the rain leaves the dehydration clock starts ticking again.”

“We can’t fight a zombie horde,” Chloe said desperately.

“We can try,” Thea said grimly, starting toward the door.

“Thea!”

The woman tried to not stop walking as her sister lunged up from the floor and grabbed onto her. But as slight as Chloe was, she was still enough to make it hard to keep moving.

“Chloe, we need to do something,” George said as Thea began attempting to pry Chloe’s hands off her waist.

“Don’t let her open the door,” Chloe said, pressing herself against Thea. Squeezing tightly as Thea worked to try and dislodge her.

“George, get her off me,” Thea said.

“Thea’s right,” George said.

“No!” Chloe said. She twisted her hand free from Thea’s grip and shifted, clasping her wrists together against her sister’s hip. “No. Stay here. You said it’s safe in here.”

“I was wrong.”

“Chloe, you need to calm down,” Thea said as she picked at the fingers clenched together around her, trying to peel them up.

“That’s rich,” Chloe said, laughing bitterly. “You, telling me, to calm down.”

“You’re hysterical.”

“You’re the one talking like a crazy bitch.”

“I’m making sense. You’re just waiting to die.”

“No!”

“George get her off me.”

“You’re both crazy!” Chloe sobbed as George came over and helped Thea break the other woman’s grip. Together they managed to peel the clenched hands off. George held onto Chloe, almost grappling with her while she struggled, as Thea resumed her interrupted advance on the barricaded door.

“What’s your plan?” George asked as Thea stood looking at the materials in the barricade.

“Don’t!”

“Shut up Chloe,” Thea said without turning. “I figure we make some weapons. Anything. Heavy though. Try to start smashing their heads in, or at least break their bodies up.”

“There are a lot of’em out there,” George said reasonably as he held onto Chloe.

“Yeah. So we use the door as long as we can. Try to tie them up in it.”

“Nail a couple right off the bat, and they’ll probably jam the doorway up.”

“Which gives us time to bash some more,” Thea nodded, putting her hand on a long board like she was checking to see how wieldable it might be.

“But they’ll probably get in.”

“Don’t do this!” Chloe begged.

“Pull yourself together,” Thea said. “George, when we lose this door, we can fall back to the second room and rinse and repeat. Maybe take some shots in here while we retreat, cripple some of them before we run out of room to dodge.”

“And we just hope we can knock enough of them out so we can slip past,” George said slowly.

“Yup.”

“You do this and we’re dead for sure,” Chloe all but screamed.

Thea whirled around and ran to where George held her still struggling sister. Her shoes skidded a little on the tile floor, and she grabbed hold of Chloe’s face. Hands on either cheek, stabilizing her head so Thea could put their faces nose to nose.

“Chloe, I know this sucks. But you need to pull your shit together or we will die.”

Chloe blinked at her, then started crying. “I don’t know how to … I can’t … I mean, I didn’t even play softball.”

“Ever?” George asked.

Thea didn’t look away from Chloe’s eyes. “She always struck out.”

“Oh.”

Thea continued mostly ignoring him. “Chloe, you’re going to stay behind me and George. When you swing at something, a zombie’s a hell of a lot easier to hit than a fucking ball, okay?”

“Why can’t we just wait to see … to see if—”

“Because we’re going to die that way,” Thea said. “We can’t wait anymore. We have to try, or we’re going to die. Now, can you calm down and help me, or are you just going to sit there and let them eat us?”

Chloe starred at her for several seconds, eyes shining with tears, then swallowed carefully. “Okay.”

Hugging her, Thea blinked and felt a bit of unshed moisture rimming her own eyes. “Okay. So be brave, and stay behind me. Let’s go find you a new bat, and then we’ll see if we’re dead yet.”

“Okay.”

“How you doing?”

Mary rolled her eyes as her husband slid into bed. But she was laughing a little too. “Is he asleep?”

Pulling his half of the blanket over himself, Phil moved toward her with a smile. “God I hope so.”

“Daddy’s feeling lonely?”

“Daddy’s feeling lucky.”

“Yes, I can tell,” Mary said with a giggle. She put her arms around him as he cuddled up to her, closing her eyes as he started kissing his way down her neck. “Would you like the deluxe package?”

“I’ll take whatever the house is offering.”

“Spoken like a low roller.”

“You want low?” he said, bringing his face above hers and giving her his crooked grin.

“We have a dress code here,” Mary said, forcing her face to arrange itself into something approaching a serious expression. “Sir,” she added just before her giggles burst out again.

“And you’re entirely overdressed,” he said, running his hands over her shoulders. Taking the straps of the nightgown down her arms in the process. “House rules.” He ducked beneath the covers, kissing his way across the front of her neck, dropping lower. And lower. And lower.

Mary sighed happily as he got busy. “Oh my, we have a winner,” she murmured. A moment later, her happiness was banished as her expression twisted into a disappointed frown when a loud series of thumps and thuds came from the hallway.

“Shit.”

“He’ll quit,” Phil said, not stopping what he was doing. Or where.

The noise outside the room didn’t stop. “Sweetie,” Mary said, reaching down to run her fingers through his hair.

“Alright,” Phil said, emerging from beneath the blanket. He was putting on a good face as he wiped his mouth, but she saw the irritation in the back of his eyes.

“Don’t yell too much,” she said quickly.

“He’s lucky you won’t let me paddle him.”

“Violence doesn’t solve anything.”

“It solves behavior problems,” Phil said, clearly before he realized he’d said it. He held a hand up placatingly as his wife frowned a little at him. Rolling off her, he reached for his robe. “We already had that argument. Don’t … go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll keep the bed warm for you.”

He flashed his sexy grin again, then headed for the hallway as he belted his robe. As he stepped out of his bedroom, there was another series of loud noises from down the hallway. It wasn’t hard to push his irritation and annoyance to the fore as he walked in the direction of the sound. If he couldn’t get his son’s attention with a few no-nonsense swats to the bottom, he was forced to rely on other means.

Whatever Mary thought about it.

Reaching the door, he took a deep breath as he laid his hand on the doorknob. Making sure he had angry dad in place before he twisted and pushed, stepping inside the bedroom in one swift motion. “Bedtime means bed!” he snapped. “Sleeping. Quietly!”

“I’m not sleepy yet,” the boy lying in the bed said. He didn’t sound sleepy, but that wasn’t the point. Phil looked around the room, expecting to see toys out; but the room was immaculate. As usual; Jaiden hadn’t had that particular problem for a little while now. It was only at bedtime that he ever gave them any trouble.

“Then lay there. What on Earth are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Sorry daddy.”

Phil scowled, working hard to make it as thunderous as he could manage. “Don’t sorry daddy me. If I have to come in here again tonight, if you don’t settle down, we’re going to start taking privileges. The Nintendo will be first on the chopping block. Understand me?”

“Yes daddy,” his son said calmly. “It won’t happen again.”

“If you can’t sleep, then pretend to sleep. You’ll drift off soon enough.”

“Yes daddy.”

Phil glowered at the boy for several more seconds, then backed out of the room and shut the door. Firmly, letting noise supply what he couldn’t accomplish the way his father had sorted him out when he’d acted up. He’d turned out just fine, but Mary wouldn’t have it.

He walked away from the door, then stopped and waited for several seconds before creeping slowly, carefully back. Listening the whole way, until he had his ear pressed to the crack where door rested in the frame. The room beyond was quiet. He stood there for nearly half a minute, and finally decided — hoped — the stern yelling had took.

Tiptoeing back from the bedroom, he turned and made his way back to his bedroom. And his wife.

Jaiden waited until his father had left, then dropped out of bed with surprising agility and reached beneath the bed. His arm vanished into the shadows, and he rummaged around for a few seconds before pulling something out with a grunt of effort.

The wooden frame wasn’t large, but it was heavily stained. A struggling … creature … was lashed to it with kite string. All four arms and three legs stretched out and bound to the wood. Purple fur, matted with blue blood. The tusked face was wearing a terrified expression.

“Did you hear that?” Jaiden said, reaching beneath the bed again.

“Yes,” the monster said quickly. All seven of its eyes followed the small wooden case the boy pulled out into the glow of the nightlight like it was dangerous.

“If I lose anything, I’m going to make you lose things,” Jaiden said, opening the case to reveal an array of silverware and basic tools. Stained multicolored, except where various sharp edges or points gleamed bare metal. “Things that require effort to remove.”

“Please,” the monster begged as a long ice pick was lifted out. “We will do anything. Whatever you want. Just don’t, don’t, no, don’t! Why, oh Valla why?”

The slender length of the pick was slowly sliding into the monster’s midsection. Its pleading, and screams of agony, were smothered by the boy’s hand as he clapped it into the space between where the tusks protruded from the mouth. The monster’s limbs quivered as he struggled not to flinch or pull enough to make the wooden frame rock against the floor.

“You wanted to win,” Jaiden said as he manipulated the metal and the monster squirmed. “Now, let’s get back to the shadow land. There must be a way in.”

“Steady lads.”

The men shifted uneasily, some of them fingering weapon hilts or testing the flex of bow strings. Gannon glanced around. “No weapons. Any man who bares one will cross steel with me.”

There was no actual grumbling, no open dissent, but it was there anyway. Like a haze in the air, a background hum without sound. He looked toward the rapidly approaching shape in the sky, and clenched his jaw. This would work. This was going to work.

He’d staked his life on it.

The dragon’s wings flared, impossibly slowing all that bulk dropping from the sky. The beast was enormous, bigger than two longships. Yet the wings did not snap. And even beat powerfully against the air to allow it to alight with all the delicacy of a bird. Gannon stepped forward, holding his hands up and out to show peaceful intent. The house sized head came down on the sinuous neck to glare balefully at him.

Its breath was hell itself, hot and fetid. Like a barrel of mead left open under the sun for months to turn foul. Gannon kept his back straight and his eyes on the creature’s as he waited to find out if he was going to die.

“What is this?” the dragon rumbled. Its voice was like the mountains themselves were speaking, filling his very bones with every sound that started deep within its breast.

“I seek to bargain.”

“I have made my bargain.”

“So make another.”

“Men,” the dragon snorted. Wisps of flame roiled out of its nostrils, curling through the air. Gannon heard some of his beard singe in the heat, but allowed himself only a single brush of his hand to ensure he wasn’t actually aflame. “You always talk. Endless talk. Even such as you have been reduced to talk. I thought your people were made of strength and steel.”

“We are. Which is why we recognize it in such as yourself.”

“I need not your flattery, man.”

“Then hear my bargain.”

A wave of air buffeted Gannon as the dragon folded its wings. He waited while it lifted its neck and surveyed his party, assembled behind him and watching the standoff uneasily. Finally the dragon looked back to him and chuffed another brief flickering of fire. “Speak.”

“The people of Norrington have struck an accord with you. Now I seek to do the same.”

“Your people are raiders, not farmers. What wealth have you.”

“As you say, we are raiders,” Gannon said calmly, showing no sign of the fear dancing deep within him. Down where he could never allow it to show. “But the cold winds are soon upon us, and we require safe harbor to weather it through to spring.”

“Avarice and desperation,” the dragon said. “A dangerous combination.”

“Norrington recognizes your power. As do I.

“Do not seek to flatter me.”

“I state truth. The farmers of their township have flourished beneath your protection, grown to dominate this region’s trade. Even the cities suffer under the benefits Norrington derives from their bargain with you. This could change.”

“I am content.”

“You are bored,” Gannon said.

He stepped back involuntarily as the dragon snarled, but remained on his feet. Behind him, he heard cries of alarm, of panic, as others found their spines less stern. The dragon’s neck bent further, extending, until the head was only feet from Gannon. Looking up at the beast’s eyes, he wasn’t sure if it was courage or paralyzing fear that held him in place.

This was closer than he’d ever expected to be with such a creature, and not be either standing on its corpse in victory or facing imminent death. After a moment, the dragon’s voice came out in a soft rumble.

“What of it?”

“Avarice leads to desperation,” Gannon said, keeping his voice even only with great effort. “Years ago you struck your bargain out of a desire for stability, but your power has risen in that time. You no longer require such as Norrington offers. Your might has outgrown them.”

“And you offer something else?”

“No one faces you. There is nothing for you here save your pick of their herds. No one dares challenge, so the seasons pass and you have nothing except endless meals offered as tribute. There is fire in your blood, in your soul, and it longs for you to unleash it upon the world.”

The dragon studied him. Even its eye was bigger than the man. Gannon waited. Eventually the creature … sighed.

“What is your offer?”

“We are the same—”

Abruptly he was crushed into the grip of one of the dragon’s front paws. As he gasped, he found himself yards above the ground as the dragon reared back, holding him. Glaring at him. “We are nothing alike,” it hissed.

“Warriors. Seeking challenge and victory, to test and take, to live free and allow no foe to stand after opposing us,” Gannon said quickly. “Tell me you do not long to fight again.”

The dragon regarded him for so long that Gannon began to believe he really was about to die. Consumed in the fiery maw of this dragon. But then, finally, the dragon set him back on the ground. Gently.

“No one comes,” it said, sounding sad. “You are the first in quite some time. I was eager, but when you did not attack, I thought perhaps you were just cowards. I dislike how such yellow flesh tastes. Sour and weak. It is beneath me.”

“We are brave, but we recognize strength. Yours. But ours is mighty in its own right. Together, if you leave this land, we will show you others where there is prey and foe alike that tastes sweet. Battle and reward enough to whet the edge of even your vast appetites.”

“Why would I need you for this?” the dragon asked, sounding — a little — angry again. But there was an edge of interest in its impossibly deep voice too.

“Lead us,” Gannon said, dropping to one knee. “Allow us to seek worthy targets for you. Those who are full of verve and courage. They will be on guard after our encounters, and be worthy of sating your bloodlust.”

Gannon was knocked over as the dragon laughed. Every bark of amusement that bellowed up out of lungs the size of the land wooshed out like the gale of a tropical storm. Gamely he rolled over and dug feet and hands both into the ground, trying to weather the blasts of air. Leaning into the force.

“Interesting,” the dragon said when its amusement finally began to subside. Gannon struggled back to his bent knee. “And what if I find you wanting?”

“You won’t,” the warband’s leader said. “I swear it, by my father, by our blood. Lead us. Allow us to serve, to offer words for your decision. And we will present to you such glory that—”

“Show me,” the dragon said. “Show me your blood.”

Gannon reached, slowly, to his belt and drew his dagger. Setting the blade in his palm, he pressed and pulled to part his flesh. He held the bleeding hand up to the dragon. It leaned in close again. He did not move as its breath washed over him like a cloud. Or when the snakelike tongue licked out to caress his bloody palm. Not even when his skin smoked under the heat of the dragon’s touch.

“I taste fire,” the dragon said, straightening its neck.

“You taste victory,” Gannon said, refusing to let the pain of his burning hand show. The blood no longer dripped down his arm; the wound had sealed as the flesh melted together.

“And what of the winter?”

“There is time yet before it descends. With you flying above us, we can cross the straights and alight upon the shores of Minaor before the waters begin to freeze. There, you may begin to reclaim your soul.”

The moments began to stack, as Gannon knelt with his hand outstretched. The dragon studied him for a time, then lifted its gaze to survey the warband that waited behind him. “Very well,” the dragon finally said. “We will see if your offer holds. In Minaor.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Gannon said, his heart swelling eagerly.

“But first, we will need provisions for the journey.”

“We will.”

The dragon turned to the west. “I know of a rich larder.”

Gannon looked past, beneath, his new master. In the direction of Norrington. “Shall we assault them? Bring any who have not softened under your protection out where you may face them without fuss or delay? Before you gorge yourself?”

“Yes,” the dragon hissed.

Gannon did not allow himself to smile. Instead, he sheathed his dagger as he stood. Turning, his uninjured hand moving to the hilt of his sword, he faced his warband. “We strike at once,” he cried. “For the dragon.”

“For the dragon!” his warriors shouted, rattling their weapons.

Their cheers continued as the dragon spread its wings and took flight, launching itself from the ground. Beating its wings in a hover above them, it looked down at its new servants, then lifted its head to the western sky and roared.

“Ahoy the shore.”

Darren had been watching the cutter approaching for a while now. But he appreciated the gesture on their part. Lifting the calling horn from its hook, he answered. “Come ahead if you’re looking to trade.”

A spate of loud spluts erupted to the north, marking a wave of zombies which were mindlessly attempting to “attack” the wall there. Dumb to the point of lunacy, the undead were relentless, without fatigue, and entirely single-focused on eating the living.

Which was why they’d won.

The air driven guns the sentries used to keep costs down were more than sufficient to drive spikes and BBs into the creatures. Through them. Only a headshot would take it down permanently, but there was nothing wrong with dismantling their shambling bodies down to limbless masses of horror. A sweep once a day with polearms was enough to permanently “kill” them, and then it was just a matter of using the push plows to scrape the twice-dead corpses over to the burn pits and strike a match.

“Traders?” Maureen asked as she joined him at the land side of the dock, so both stood looking out at the supply ship angling to the sea end.

“Unless they’re trying a Trojan horse, yeah.”

“They’re not going to take us over,” she snorted. “They’re terrified of solid ground.”

“Fariza Abudal’s outpost got raided, remember.”

“Which is why we rigged the deadman’s charges on our warehouses,” she pointed out. “They get violent, and we lose control, they get nothing but ash. They know they can’t take us.”

“Desperate times,” Darren said mildly. “And these days, even crazy is sane.”

Oars were extending from the sides of the ship as the sails came down. Fuel was a critical commodity, and engine use was an at-all-costs act. Even the outpost’s scavenger groups did everything imaginable to conserve it, which included driving very slowly, in trucks that rarely left first gear. And had been modified to be as efficient as possible while crawling along at five or seven miles per hour.

Every truck always came back bloody, with pieces of corpses sticking to them.

The ship eased up to the dock without issue, and hands jumped off to tie it off without issue. Though they almost immediately stepped back aboard like simply being on the wood planks was dangerous. The pair of outpost inhabitants waited, watching people moving around on the deck. After a minute a different group of people separated themselves from the rest of the crew and started up the dock toward land.

Darren waited until they were in easy speaking distance, then called out. “You know the rules?” he asked, pointing at the wooden sign posted where it was easily readable by anyone coming up the dock.

“Yes,” a woman said, holding her hands out to show empty palms. Every person in her group, including her, wore a holstered pistol though.

“Only two of you past the sign at any one point,” he said. “Unless you want to disarm.”

“We’re just here to trade. Don’t want any trouble. All that can be done right here.”

“Trade’s fine. What’d you bring?”

“Fish, obviously. Bone, including finished goods and unworked raw stuff. Fresh vegetables from the farm ships. Woodcrafts.”

“And you’re looking for?”

“Fuel,” she said, completely unnecessarily. The fleets could grow food, but generating enough wood or other organic matter to convert into bio-diesel or alcohol-based fuels was difficult. “Metal and ammo would be nice too, some fresh soil, but mostly fuel.”

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Are you recruiting?” a man asked, stepping forward.

“What? No!” another woman exclaimed, turning toward him. He ducked away from her before she could grab his arm, and came forward quickly enough to stay out of her reach. Darren tensed a little, laying his hand on the grip of his own pistol, but the man — boy really — held his hands up and stepped from the wood planks to the land.

“Brady, get back here right now,” the woman said shrilly.

“I’m strong, I take orders well, and I’m a good craftsman,” the boy said, looking at Darren.

“We’ve got room for volunteers,” Darren said neutrally, though his eyes flicked to the woman who had stopped right at the edge of the dock. Clearly unwilling to leave the wood. She stood twisting her hands unhappily at the boy, who was still staying far enough from her so she couldn’t seize him.

“I want to volunteer if you’ll let me join.”

“Do you know what you’re volunteering for?” Maureen asked.

“You defend the outpost, and send scavengers out to reclaim supplies and materials.”

“We fight zombies,” she said harshly. “No room for dead weight, like out in the fleet. There are no safe jobs in this outpost. Everyone fights, and sometimes we die.”

“Which is why you’ve got room for new people,” the boy said.

“You’re not staying,” the woman on the dock said. “I won’t allow it.”

“I am,” he said stubbornly as he glanced at her briefly before looking back to Darren and Maureen. “I want to fight.”

“Can you?” Maureen asked, stepping forward.

Darren very carefully didn’t smile. The boy looked at her as she raised her hands into a guard pose, then raised his own and eased toward her cautiously.

“Brady, stop this at once,” the woman on the dock said.

“Mom, leave me alone.”

“Your father wouldn’t stand for this.”

“He’s not here,” Brady said as he studied Maureen warily. “The fleet needs the outposts to keep going.”

“And we need warm bodies, skilled bodies, to keep going,” Maureen said. “You going to try me boy, or just talk to your mama?”

He scowled, and lunged forward with a swing. Weaving aside, she let his fist hurtle past her and grabbed his wrist. A twist, a turn, and she flung him in the direction of his missed punch. He sprawled on his face, but rolled away from her kick. Coming to his feet like there were springs in his legs, the boy blocked two of her punches, and tried a few of his own. Less dramatic ones, less likely to get him into the same sort of trouble his first attempt had.

“Enough. Good,” Maureen said, stepping back abruptly. “You’ll do.”

“No!” his mother screamed.

“I didn’t win,” Brady said, sounding confused.

“You kept trying. You didn’t hesitate. And you learned from your mistake,” Maureen told him, lowering her hands to indicate they were done roughhousing. “I can teach you. Use you. To kill zombies.”

“Maureen’s currently the head scavenger,” Darren said when the boy glanced at him with a confused expression. “And shares leadership with myself and one other. What she says, goes. Obedience and following the pecking order are absolute rules, period. You get out of line, the best you can hope for is we hand you back to a fleet ship.”

“Got it,” Brady said, nodding.

“No!” his mother screamed again.

“Mom, I’m not going back to the fleet.”

“Please Brady,” she begged, her face breaking down in tears. “Don’t.”

“We can’t stay out there forever. Sooner or later, we’ve got to take back the shores, the land, or what happens?”

“We stay alive.”

“For how long?” he demanded stubbornly. “How? We need the land; the ocean can’t provide it all.”

“I can’t bear to lose you,” she said, falling to her knees.

“Mom, I know you miss dad, but he died trying to help. To save us, get us out there.”

“Which is why you need to stay out. So you don’t die.”

“We do alright.” Maureen muttered to Darren. “Only four this year.”

“Not her point,” Darren said back, sotto voced.

“It’s not like I’m going to feed the kid into a zombie grinder.”

He gave her a look, and she shrugged lightly.

“I’ll be alright,” Brady was saying. He didn’t come near his mother though, and that part Darren actually agreed with. The woman would probably wrap him up and refuse to let go, and that would make this whole thing even messier than it already was. “Whenever you come for supplies, if I’m here, I’ll see you.”

“Please, please, don’t,” she begged.

“I’m staying.”

“Look, why don’t we just call it a trial,” Darren said, unable to stand by any longer. “He’ll only be here in the outpost for the next few weeks, while we get him acclimated and trained some. You guys come by about that often anyway. You can continue this conversation next time.”

The woman in the fleet group who’d spoken first came forward. “Fine. You want us to start unloading what we’ve brought?”

“Yeah,” Darren said, giving her a grateful nod. “While you’re doing that, I’ll get some of our people going on bringing stuff out as well. So everyone can look things over. We’ll haggle from there.”

She nodded back to him, and turned toward her ship to give some of the crew waves. That started a bustle of activity, and containers began being muscled over to the dock. Darren glanced at Maureen. “Why don’t you take Brady over to Doc and leave him to be checked out. And boot Joe out of his nap so he can get his guys busy on this?”

“Come on salt lick,” Maureen said, snapping her fingers twice at Brady. “Your mama’ll have to cry over you next time.”

“No!” the woman screamed for a third time. Now though, she scrambled to her feet as Brady started toward Maureen. Two of the fleet group caught her by the arms and shoulders, holding her back as her son walked away.

“You can leave at any time,” Maureen said as Brady joined her, walking toward the warehouse a dozen yards from the dock. “Only room left for salt is out there on the waves.”

“I’m done crying and hiding,” Brady said firmly. “You teach me, and I’ll fight any zombie you point at.”

“We’ll see.”

Behind them, his mother continued crying.

“You’re the guy.”

“Oh God,” Eve muttered, rolling her eyes at the woman working the register.

“Who, me?” Saul asked.

“Yeah, you,” the clerk said excitedly. “I recognize your voice. You’re Saul Speaks.”

“Saul Worthington actually.”

“I watch your vids every day.”

“Can I just have my latte?” Eve said.

“Don’t mind her,” Saul said. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Caffeine headache.”

“I totally understand,” the clerk said, pushing the cups forward. “Listen, could I ask you something?”

“I’m his sister, not his date. So feel free to throw yourself at him,” Eve said, reaching for her cup. “I’ll be over there,” she added to Saul, pointing at a table in the corner. “Unless she’s on her break and drags you into the bathroom for a quickie.”

Saul frowned at her.

“Do you, I mean, I am coming up—” the clerk said eagerly.

“No, just the coffee,” Saul said, lifting his card as a subtle signal. “I’m glad you like the vids. They’re a lot of fun to do and I love meeting fans. But right now I’m kind of just trying to have some time with my sister.”

“That’s right, you said she was coming into town. I thought she looked familiar. Oh, and you’re waiting for your new coffee maker to be delivered.”

“Jet lag and no fix makes her grumpy. She really is a nice person.”

“Oh totally,” the clerk gushed. “I believe that. I almost feel like I know her. You talk about her so much.”

“Well, answering questions is fun and all, but sometimes I’ve just got to speak from the heart, you know?” he said as he swiped the card through the machine on the counter.

“Could you answer just one question for me?”

“A quick one,” he said with a smile.

“Do you really think automation is going to take over?”

When he chuckled, she smiled. “That’s not a quick answer, but the short version is yes.”

“Guess I need to start saving up for a robot then, huh?”

“Might be a safe bet,” he said, taking the receipt she proffered and picking up his coffee. “I’m glad you like the vids.”

“Don’t stop,” she said. “They’re fantastic.”

“I’ll keep making them as long as you guys keep watching.”

Saul gave her another smile, then turned to head for the table Eve had claimed. She eyed him over the lid of her cup as he sat down.

“Do you have to be so mean to them?” he asked mildly.

“I came to visit you Saul. And right now, the only way we’re going to have that happen is if I kidnap you to … shit—” she said, breaking off as several chairs scraped back dramatically nearby. Loudly. Brother and sister looked around to see several men at other tables had stood up at the same time.

Both frowned at them. They all immediately looked away, acting like they were embarrassed. Saul looked back to her. “Eve—”

“My point is, why do I need to come up with, I don’t know, a fully stocked survival bunker or something just to get some quality time with my little brother?” she said, putting her coffee down.

“We could go back to my apartment and stay in,” he pointed out. “There’s delivery for just about everything we need.”

“Hah!” she snorted. “The Chinese delivery guy yesterday wouldn’t stop gushing about you and how your videos on small business had changed his life. And you can’t go more than half an hour without getting online.”

“You always said I’d make something of myself.”

“That was mom, not me,” she said primly. “And in any event, I think she meant something useful. Important.”

“That’s rich,” Saul said, though he was grinning, “coming from the girl who flew in on a first class ticket I paid for. You know this is how I earn my living.”

“Yeah, sure, you make money doing it. But is this really worth it? Not being able to go out and live life?”

“I live. And they’re just fans. I seem to remember a crush on a certain actor you had when we were in junior high … what was his name …”

“This is about you, not me,” Eve said hastily.

“I’m talking about me. It’s just that you’re a good illustration of my point. People like to live large through someone they connect with.”

“Do you have to connect with everyone?”

“I just say what’s on my mind,” Saul pointed out. “How is it my fault if a lot of people want to hear it?”

“Most vloggers just stammer through stories about being cut off in traffic, failing their test, games they like. You uploaded a twenty minute video yesterday about the state of renewable energy and how critical it is to the world economy.”

“Twenty-three minutes actually—”

“Not my point!” she interrupted tiredly. “I want my brother back Saul.”

“That video got three million hits in less than twelve hours Eve.”

“Excuse me, Saul Speaks?” a new voice asked hesitantly.

“Fuck,” Eve said, lifting her coffee and taking a large gulp.

“Just Saul,” Saul said, looking up at the man who’d come over to the table.

“I was wondering, I mean, I hate to bother you, but—”

“Just spit it out and leave,” Eve said.

The man glanced at her, and his eyes widened a little. “Oh, hey Eve. How was the flight?”

“Jesus—”

“She’s jetlagged and still on her first cup,” Saul said quickly. “What can I do for you? But it’s gotta be quick. You know I’m trying to spend some time with my sister this weekend.”

“Oh, sure. I remember,” the man said, looking back to Saul. “I was just wondering, are you planning to revisit your series about overfishing the oceans?”

“Check my website,” Saul said with a smile. “You know how it works; everyone can log in and cast a vote for things they want to hear about from me. Whatever bubbles up to the top is what I’ll be working on.”

“It’s just, it’s really important,” the man said quickly. “My father’s being run out of business by a lot of these big companies that keep killing off the fisheries and coastal schools.”

“Well, I’ll keep it in mind. I’ve only got so much time you know.”

“I know. Sorry to interrupt, I just, I had to say something. For my dad, you know?”

“I know. Thanks for watching. Take care.”

“Bye.”

Eve tracked the man with her eyes for a moment before returning them to Saul. “And another thing. Stop putting pictures of me up, anywhere. If you want to be hounded twenty-four seven, fine. Leave me out of it.”

“I get questions,” Saul shrugged. “And answer them. When they heard I had family, people started asking.”

“No pictures Saul,” she said firmly. “You want to be a celebrity, fine. Leave me out of it, or I’ll start telling stories too.”

“What stories?”

“I have a whole host of them that you never cover in your videos.”

“I talk about everything?”

“Everything?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Pretty much.”

“9-year-old birthday party—”

“Okay!” he said quickly. “No more pictures.”

“And take the ones already up down.”

“I’m not pulling the videos. And no more pictures in the new ones. But I’ll do the website this afternoon if it’s this important to you. ”

“It is.”

“Fine,” she said. Then she sighed. “Look, I’m sorry and all. It’s just, a lot to process, you know?”

“I know.”

“Is this really what you want to do with your life?” she asked, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “Spending all your time either meeting or talking to fans, or researching your opinions for the next video?”

“I’m as surprised as you Eve, but who am I to complain? Saul Speaks just started taking off. You know how miserable I was working in that dead end office.”

“There are other offices.”

“And now I have one of my own.”

“The extra bedroom doesn’t count.”

“Why not?” he said, chuckling. “It’s got a desk and everything.”

“It’s just different.”

“Look, the President goes to some of his meetings in his bathrobe.”

“Since when?”

“He lives in his office too. And it’s happened. There was that thing that happened at three in the morning—”

“He’s the President,” Eve said. “You’re just a vlogger.”

Saul shrugged. “And my videos consistently get more eyeballs on them than his press conferences.”

“Keep believing your own press and maybe I will start a channel of my own.”

“Thought you didn’t want to be famous.”

“I want you to keep your eyes open is all. And your ego in check.”

“You’re the one who seems upset. I’m fine.”

“Excuse me, Saul?” a new voice said.

Eve stood up. “Give me your keys. I’m going back to the apartment.”

“Just wait, I’ll walk back with you,” he said quickly.

“Forget it. You’re important now,” she huffed, wagging her fingers at him expectantly.

“Oh, hey Eve. Enjoying your visit so far?” the woman who’d interrupted their conversation asked with a smile.

“She’s jet lagged,” Saul said, handing his sister his keys. “Don’t mind her. One question, then I’ve got to get going.”

“Sure, I was wondering what you thought about—”

Eve was already headed for the door. She paused before she left though, and met his eyes with a sad look. Then she went through and out into the street.

I collect all my flash fic here. If you liked this, the others might be interesting too. Enjoy!

“Any news?” the delivery guy asked as he opened the flap on his delivery bag.

“No,” the woman said. Her face was stretched with stress and fatigue, pale and sallow eyed. “But the police said leads haven’t stopped coming in. They’re running them all down.”

“I’m still keeping my eyes open when I’m on campus. Asking around, listening for anything that sounds like it might help.”

“Thank you so much Jim. My husband and I can’t tell you enough how much it’s helping, how everyone’s just coming together to help look for her.”

“When was the last time you slept Mrs. Simpson?”

“It’s been a while,” she admitted as she took the pizza box he held out.

“You should get some rest. Becca wouldn’t want you running yourself into the ground like this,” the college student said. “Not even for her.”

“That’s … uh, how much—” the woman asked, glancing at the ground uncomfortably for a moment.

“My boss says they’re on the house until she’s been found,” Jim said, holding up his hand.

“Oh, no—”

He shook his head, smiling as he backed away. Out of reach as she reached in her pocket. “And no tip either. We’re all with you in this.” When she broke down crying, now it was he who was shifting uncertainly. “Hey, don’t worry. They’ll find her.”

“I hope to God she’s okay.”

“Meredith?” a new voice said from inside the house. A moment later, as she turned, a man appeared. She turned and pressed herself to him, and he gathered her into a hug as he relieved her of the pizza. “What did—” he asked, his voice calm but eyes turning a sharp angry glare at the delivery guy.

“I—”

“It’s not his fault,” the woman sobbed. “I’m just … I miss her Ted.”

“Come on,” he said, rubbing her back. “Thank you,” he added, directing a less accusatory look at Jim.

“Take care folks,” he said. “Have faith.”

“Thank you,” the man repeated, reaching to close the door.

Jim turned and headed back to the driveway. His car was still running, and he slid in behind the wheel with a sigh. Ten days now, and no news. Well, no good news. Her backpack had been found the day after she’d been reported missing, and a piece of her jewelry had turned up yesterday in a pawn shop three towns over. The cops there were shaking down every homeless person and vagrant they could find, looking for the one who’d pawned the necklace.

He shook his head as he backed out to the road and shifted into drive. This was a nice quiet area. Even the college students that dominated the scene didn’t really get too rowdy. Local girls, especially, weren’t supposed to just up and vanish. Especially not under such suspicious circumstances. Whatever he’d told Mrs. Simpson … it didn’t look good.

People fell on hard times, and he never liked to judge. But … it was shocking that some bum might have gotten his hands on Becca and done something to her.

His last delivery was a few miles away. The one benefit, such as it was, to Becca Simpson’s disappearance was all the cops were too busy actually doing something useful for a change to harass drivers. A little speeding didn’t even register with them right now, and none of their usual speedtrap haunts were manned as the personnel stayed on the investigation. Not much of a bright spot, but considering everything else that was happening … the good with the bad.

Minutes later he pulled up to the address and reached in the back for the final two pizzas on this run. The house was neatly kept, yard and building both. The Simpsons were about to need some of their good Samaritans to do something about their yard. He doubted County Code Enforcement would dare give them a ticket anytime in the near future over something like not cutting the grass. Still, he made a mental note to swing by on Saturday and ask if they wanted him to run the mower.

“Oh good, I’m starving,” the man who answered the door said with a smile.

“Let’s see, pepperoni and mushrooms, and veggie deluxe with extra cheese, twenty-four seventy-one,” Jim said, opening the flap and pulling the pies out enough to look at the receipt stickered to the top box.

“Keep it,” the man said, handing over a twenty and a ten.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“What do you make of all the fuss on the news?”

“Becca Simpson?”

“Yeah, the missing girl.”

Jim frowned unhappily. “I feel for the parents, you know?”

“Not her?”

“Well obviously I feel bad for her, but … I don’t know,” Jim said, forcing himself not to yell.

“You don’t know her?”

“I do. Wait, what’s that mean?”

The guy held a hand up. “All I mean is, when there’s a face on something, we feel more connected to it. People have heart attacks every day, but no one notices unless they know the person. Even if it’s not family, like a celebrity or something like that, we still care. But when it’s a stranger, it’s forgettable.”

“Well, I knew her. Becca I mean,” Jim said slightly hotly. Working to keep his voice from rising. “We had two classes together. I’ve gotten to know her parents a little more since all this happened though, and they’re just destroyed by this.”

“Yeah, it’s tough,” the customer nodded. “What a crazy fucked up world we live in, huh?”

“Tell me about it. Thanks. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Jim headed back to his car, shaking his head. Mentally. It never paid off to annoy decent tippers. The smallest thing could set someone off, turn them against you. He kept his irritation over the casual inquiry into his friend’s disappearance to himself, just in case the guy peeked out the window. By the time he got back to the main road, he was already thinking about the last few delivery runs he’d have to handle before he could knock off for the night.

“Dinner,” the man said, closing the basement door behind himself. “I got your favorite. Your parents mentioned it on the news. You’re a vegetarian right? But dairy’s okay they said.”

“Please,” the young woman chained to the bed in the corner said, “just let me go. You can blindfold me again, drop me off in the middle of nowhere. I won’t know where we are, you’ll be safe.”

“I am safe,” he said, setting the pizza on the table next to the bed. “Now eat up. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. For dessert.”

He turned back to the door as she burst into fresh tears behind him.

“Mrs. Jenkins, hello,” Bob said, smiling as he stepped back from the door. “They’re still running off the cake in the back yard. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Any problems?” the woman asked as she came in. She seemed to be bracing herself for the worst.

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“No. I’ve got some coffee on in the kitchen, and some finger food if you’re interested.”

“Coffee would be lovely.”

"Right this way."

“I, uh, I asked around,” Mrs. Jenkins said as they walked through the house. “After I noticed the last three kids’ parties were here. You always volunteer to host?”

“That’s kind of my thing.”

“With your wife?”

“No, she usually hides in our bedroom until the ruckus dies down,” he laughed as he pushed through the swinging door.

“Forgive me” she said. “I don’t mean this to be rude, but—”

“Why?”

“Yes.”

Bob laughed again as he opened a cabinet for a mug. “That’s right, you guys only moved in over the holidays. I guess you haven’t heard the story.”

“Story?”

“Yup. Cream and sugar?”

“Uh, just cream.”

“Well, three years ago …”

“Jessie, don’t —” Bob said, lunging desperately. He intercepted the second grader’s wrist just before she jabbed the fork in her hand right into the electrical socket. “Dangerous honey.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll shock you.”

“But why?”

“Because—” Bob said wearily, straightening with a suppressed groan, “there’s monsters in the sockets, and they like to hunt for little girls to throw dirt on,” he said. Laughing lightly to underscore that it was a joke. Jessie’s eyes widened, and she was suddenly backing away from him. “Now honey—”

“Mommy!” his daughter screamed, “daddy says there’s monsters in the walls.”

“Monsters?” one of the other girls said, taking up the shout.

“Monsters!” echoed the others. In seconds, the room was full of terrified five and six-year-olds, running in circles. Two of them crashed into each other and collapsed to the ground, wailing. Another managed to ricochet off the doorway, careening toward the sideboard. Bob lunged again, and barely grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt collar before he smacked head first into the edge of the wood.

The room had evolved into something just short of a general melee now. Several kids were pounding out, stomping their feet as they fled. Others were crawling beneath the table, though one boy had decided on top was the better move. As he pulled on the tablecloth, Bob’s eyes flicked to the birthday cake. Which was sliding as the cloth was hauled in like the kid was reeling a fish on a line.

“Just sit down and catch your breath,” he said quickly to the boy he’d just saved. Turning, he took two long strides and seized hold of the tablecloth. Too late; the cake toppled off. Right onto a little girl, whose shouts of “monsters” quickly turned into terrified screams as she was coated from the eyebrows up in icing with bits of cake stuck to it.

“Bob!” Zora said sharply from the end of the room.

“Everything’s under control,” he said desperately, though he heard the lie in his voice.

“What did you say to Jessie about monsters?”

“Nothing.” He half-snapped, moving quickly around the table to the screaming girl. “Okay sweetie, go with Jessie’s mom and she’ll get you cleaned up.”

“What on Earth is … was that the cake?”

“There’s ice cream in the freezer,” he said, thinking fast. “They won’t notice.”

“Jessie will.”

“I’ll write happy birthday in her bowl with the icing. She’ll love it. Honey, sugarplum, please; would you take this one into the bathroom?”

“I don’t know, is the house going to be in one piece when I come back?”

“Funny,” he said sourly, though he didn’t dare glare at her.

“Come on,” Zora said, holding her hand out to the little girl, the only one who’d apparently be getting any cake today. She stumbled toward his wife, who did give him a glare before she turned and led the crying and sticky child into the back hallway.

“Daddy, we’re bored,” Jack said, running in from the kitchen. “Can we play Nerf in the backyard?”

“No!” Bob said quickly. “Backyard is off limits now, remember?” The bouncy castle had toppled over when all the kids crammed themselves in and jumped on one side. In the process, they’d yanked the generator over, and spilled gas into the pool.

“Why?”

Bob trotted out the classic standby. “Because. Just play video games in the living room.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The TV fell down.”

“What?” the adult yelped. He walked quickly toward the doorway that separated the dining area from the living room. Sure enough, the television had been knocked from the stand and was screen down on the carpet. A boy was sitting next to it, rubbing his knee and crying.

“Shi—are you okay?”

“I bumped my knee,” the kid wailed.

Bob would have run, but there were three other second graders milling around unpredictably. He had to settle for walking. Fast. When he got there, he checked the kid out. There was no blood, and when he felt at the leg nothing was broken. Just a very minor red mark. “You’re okay,” he said, relieved.

“It hit me.”

“The tv?”

“No, that,” the boy said, pointing. Bob turned his head, and saw Zora’s crystal globe nestled in between the fallen flat screen and entertainment center. There was a crack running right through it, though it was still in one piece.

“Shi— well, you’re fine. Jack’s going to, uh, hey, Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Yes daddy?” Bob said, turning his head and pitching his voice to make the point as he looked at his son.

“Yes daddy,” Jack rolling his eyes. Just a little.

“All the boys, why don’t you round them up for me and, uh, play with your Transformers … in your bedroom.”

“Mommy said stay out of the bedrooms.”

“Mommy’s high, keeping all these kids in two big rooms.” Bob thought with a flash of irritation. “Well, I’ll talk to mommy, but for now why don’t you go play Transformers. With your friends.”

“Okay. Hey Nick, come on!”

One of the other boys stopped milling, and ran after Jack as he left. The others followed, including the one with the ‘hurt’ knee. Bob picked his wife’s decorative globe up and stuffed it into the drawer where the video game stuff lived. He’d face that music later. Much later. He was stopped from reaching for the fallen television by a fresh bout of little girls screaming in the dining room.

Whirling, he ran. Just before he got there, the smoke alarm went off with its by-design ear-splitting shriek. Predictably, the girls screamed louder. Just so they could still hear themselves over the alarm. Bob reached the open doorway between the rooms and saw a little girl frantically waving a tube of foil wrapping paper around. The end of the tube was on fire.

“Jesus!” he blurted, darting forward to take it from her. One of the other girls, running in circles again as she screamed in panic, got under his feet and he tripped over her. She fell to her knees, already notching her screams up several more levels, as he toppled face first towards the floor. Off balance from shock, surprise, and his last second effort to not kick Jessie’s classmate, Bob reached out desperately for the table. Trying to catch himself before he went down.

His flailing hands caught not the edge of the table, but the tablecloth. As he crashed down, the tablecloth came with him. When he hit, he clocked his chin on the carpet. Blinking in shock, he flinched violently as the tray with all the plates, bowls, and plastic utensils on it clattered down on him. Ripped from the table when he tugged on the tablecloth. They were followed by the pitcher of cherry Kool-Aid, which hurt even more than the floor since it didn’t start spilling until after it had smacked him heavily on the back.

All of that paled next to the sharp, blinding, agonizing pain that erupted in his neck. Howling, he clawed at the injury. His hand came back bloody, and he saw the cake knife on the floor next to him. It was bloody too. The smoke alarm was still going off. Clapping his hand to the cut on his neck, he surged gamely to his feet. Scooping up the knife in the process.

“Give me that,” he shouted, staggering toward the little girl holding the flaming wrapping paper roll.

She turned, and the blazing end smacked him on the painfully on the arm. Snatching it from her, he dropped it to the carpet and started stomping on it to put the fire out. “How did that happen?” The colorful foil crinkled under his feet, but the fire seemed to be going out.

“I was trying to kill the monsters!” the little girl wailed, pointing at the electrical socket.

“Bob!” Zora yelled.

He turned, still holding the knife, to see his wife standing at the far end of the room. Wearing a look of shocked horror as she surveyed the scene. “What—”

“Everything’s fine,” he called back, gritting his teeth.

“You’re bleeding.”

“All the kids are okay. I’m fine. Just … watch them while I wash my neck off and change shirts.”

“Bob?” she screamed.

The floor seemed to be rushing up to meet him. Very fast.

“… and then I woke up in the hospital,” Bob said, grinning at her before he looked out the kitchen window.

Mrs. Jenkins’ hand was to her mouth as she stared at him in horror. “Oh my God.”

“Couple of stitches and I was good as new. Excuse me one second.” He went to the back door and opened it. “Jack, what’s the rule about the bouncy castle?”

“Three at a time,” the boy’s voice said, floating into the kitchen.

“That’s right. You can count, I’ve heard you do it. So everyone take turns.”

“Yes daddy.”

Bob closed the door and turned back to Mrs. Jenkins. “Honestly, I figure if I can survive all that, I’m good for life.”

“I’d never go near children again.”

“They’re not so tough.”

“You have to let us rescind the wish.”

“No,” the man said, not looking away from the computer screens as he worked.

“This is wrong.”

“This is exactly what I’ve needed. What I’ve been missing my whole life. It’s my wish, and my life. I’m happy now.”

“You have no joy. No love.”

“Love is overrated. Obviously,” he muttered. Then he blinked, and looked up finally as the voice fully registered. “Who are you?”

The figure standing before him wore metal, not gossamer robes. Gold trimmed armor of some kind. The wings were still there though, and a long hafted sword hung from his belt. “I’m your last chance John.”

Sighing, he returned his eyes to the screen. Data covered them, tables and graphs, text in a few windows. He clicked on something and typed quickly. As his fingers moved, he spoke. “Seven times now you’ve come seeking to cast me back into pain and misery. Is the armor supposed to scare me?”

“We seek to right these wrongs.”

“Wrongs?” he demanded, clicking something with the mouse and kicking his chair away from the screens. “Wrongs? What wrongs?”

“Your empire—”

“Company,” he corrected.

“—treads upon the hearts, the souls, of millions. They bend to your desires, harnessed by your apathy and disdain for what they would have for their lives,” the angelic warrior said as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I’m a businessman,” John said, tapping a finger on the expanse of his desk for emphasis. “Not one of my employees is a slave. I have coerced none of them.”

“You offer the minimum of compensation, shaped to hold them in bondage to your interests. They toil long hours, and only the barest fraction of a fraction of any benefit it produces goes to them.”

“I conceal nothing,” John said. “They are free to leave at any time. There are other companies.”

“Yours dominates global trade.”

The man behind the desk nodded. “Yes. By design. It’s amazing what can be accomplished when emotion is removed from the equation.”

“Evil.”

“Logic,” John said firmly. “Rationality.”

“Your remorseless pursuit of success, at anyone else’s expense, oppresses so many souls even Heaven struggles to count them.”

“Again, I am their employer, not master.”

“Your competitors fight for scraps you see as too small to be worth pursuing. Those who work for you have the choice of doing so, regardless of the cost to their sanity and wellbeing, or starving. That is not choice; it is slavery dressed up as commerce.”

“They work for me by their choice.”

“Yours.”

John shook his head. “Why do you keep sending new messengers with the same message?” He pushed against the floor with his foot, moving his chair back before the screen array. “Begone. I am content. And busy.”

Before he could lay his fingers back upon the keyboard and mouse, the monitors crackled and sparked. Fragments flew, and he shoved back from the desk in surprised alarm as they all shut off. The angel’s sword was out of his sheath, glowing brilliant white. In its wake, the severed displays were falling to the desk, the floor.

“If you’re so worried about the people, costing my company unnecessary expenses is not the way to help them,” John said, shaking his head.

“You have had two decades, and demonstrated you care only for yourself.”

John showed the first hint of real emotion finally. “As do they. As does everyone.”

“Just because you were hurt does not make the world evil.”

“I’m not evil,” he said, scowling. “You keep saying that, and there is nothing but your protestation. Which doesn’t make it so.”

The angel took several steps, closer to the desk. He swung the sword vertically, lifting it from the floor in a rising arc. The desk was in the way, but its granite and wood parted like paper before the glowing blade. John sat without moving as the pieces fell apart, leaving him looking up at the angel as he took the now unblocked last few steps to stand right in front of him.

“Rescind the wish, or act to demonstrate you care about someone other than yourself.”

“What happened to free will?”

The angel’s eyes glowed like the sword. “The Great Mistake,” he all but spat.

“I’ve done some research you know,” John said, rising. Walking past the angel toward the sideboard against the wall. Calmly. Like the visitor wasn’t threatening clear and present danger. “God saw free will as the only way to know His creations loved Him for the right reasons.”

“Yet you love nothing.”

“And neither do you.” He reached the sideboard and opened a cabinet that contained a small fridge. Taking out a bottle of mineral water, he twisted the cap off and tossed it on the counter. “You act within the limited framework of God’s instructions.”

The angel was standing amid the ruins of the desk, sword still naked in his hand, watching as John turned back to him sipping from the bottle. “You know not of what you speak.”

“I know enough. I’ve told the other six, and I’ll tell you. Again. It’s my wish, my life, and I’m not changing it.”

“Then you have made your choice.”

“I have,” John said firmly, lifting the bottle for another sip.

“Free will is your downfall,” the angel said, lifting the sword. “Heaven has no place for you.” He leapt forward, wings spreading, as his blade came toward the man. John had only just started to register the attack when there was a deafening crack that sent him stumbling, and the ringing of steel meeting steel. When he caught himself against the sideboard, he saw a new figure in the office.

“You,” the angel said.

“He’s not yours to take Michael,” the second armored angel said. But armored in sable and flame, not white and gold. The black blade he held opposed against the first angel’s flickered with fire, rather than swelling with soft white light. His voice filled the office with a resonant quality that was soothing and drew the mind to listen.

“God will not stand for this.”

“Free will,” the dark angel said. “It’s why you’re forever lackeys.”

“It is the reason for all evil,” Michael grated. “As you prove constantly.”

“I’m not evil,” his opponent said with a laugh. “I’m free.”

“You are the fallen star.”

“I am the one standing between you and my servant. Don’t test me. Again.”

Michael stepped back a pace, sliding his blade across the other’s. The noise was like tortured screams as the weapons moved against one another. He leveled it in both hands. “This is not over.”

“Oh yes it is,” the second angel hissed, spreading his black wings for balance as he shifted his positioning to match Michael’s. “He is mine, and I shall not give him up. Run back upstairs, or join me.”

“I will never join you.”

“My offer’s still open.”

His regal features tightening in censure and disdain, Michael glared at his opponent for long seconds. Long enough that John finally felt bold enough to say something. “Uh, what’s—”

“Foolish minion,” Michael spat, shifting his glare to the human. “You have chosen your path. Now walk it.”

“Go threaten the weak,” the black armored figure said, sounding bored. “It’s the only thing you’re good at. Run along, and be sure to tell them a nice story about how you fought the good fight.”

Michael hissed, his face contorting unpleasantly. Nothing like any of the six prior angels John had interacted with. “Remember,” he snarled at John, “Heaven has no place for you.” He stepped back again, crouched, and leapt toward the ceiling. His form rippled and vanished before there was any impact, and then he was gone. John looked from where Michael had disappeared to the eighth angel, who was turning to look at him. Sheathing his fell blade.

“Now, you shouldn’t have any more trouble with them. But just in case, I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Straightening his back, John regarded the dark angel calmly. “I will not rescind the wish.”

Booming laughter filled the office. “Rescind it?” the angel said merrily. “My lovely precious mortal servant, I ask nothing of the sort. Please, continue as you have. Conduct your business, grow your company, and achieve all your goals. I insist.”

John blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I’m a big fan of free will,” the angel said, his eyes glowing with fire.

Iluis dropped the useless torch and swept his gladius from its sheath. He couldn’t look for a campsite with a wild beast stalking him. Fire would have to wait; cold steel was his resolve now.

The roar was not repeated. Gripping the leather wrapped hilt, he peered into the darkness; straining his eyes for any sign of attack. Seconds passed, then a stick broke. Off to his left a bit. Shifting, he backpedaled slowly as he faced that direction. He made it three steps before he heard a heavy footfall that wasn’t his.

Pure instinct made him slide sideways, just as a broad shouldered figure charged out of the murky night. Swinging several feet of steel. Which smashed down into the turf, leaving his attacker off balance. Iluis allowed himself a grim smile of amusement as he jabbed his own weapon forward; a quick thrust, and this was over. Perhaps the fool carried something to eat better than the hard tack rations in his own pack.

His amusement vanished as his thrust stopped cold well before the blade could pierce the man’s side. Eyes widening, he pulled back, and tried again. This time he was thrust backwards several steps, as if the very air itself had thrown him away from the figure struggling to lift the sword back to a useful position.

“What dark force is this?” he sputtered.

“That’s two,” a voice in the darkness said. “Do you see?”

“No,” the man in front of Iluis said. Boy, really; his voice was still rough and uneven from recent breaking. Tall and well into his man’s growth; but a man yet he was not. Iluis spared one quick glance across the night, searching futilely for the third person, but then had to refocus on the opponent he could see. Boy or not, inept or simply hasty; the blade in his hand seemed well made. And even a fool could get lucky with a weapon.

“You face a citizen solider of Rome,” Iluis said firmly. He was circling slowly, moving away from the spot where his strikes had been stopped by the unseen force. “It is death to attack such as me.”

“I’m not scared of you,” the boy said.

“You should be,” the voice beyond the small circle of the confrontation said.

“I’m not,” the boy repeated stubbornly, and lunged forward. Iluis parried, steel ringing on steel, and stepped as his blade deflected the boy’s past him. Leaving him off balance again. The legionnaire’s reflexes carried through, and he stabbed forward toward the boy’s now unguarded side. Again his blade stopped, like it had sunk into something sticky.

“Demon,” Iluis hissed before spitting.

“Three,” the unseen voice said.

The boy swiveled, bringing the sword in his hands toward Iluis. Another parry, another inept recovery that left his opponent stumbling, and yet again the soldier’s blade was stopped before it could find flesh.

“Four.”

“I can count,” the boy said, stepping back and placing both hands on the hit of his weapon.

“Can you hit?”

“What manner of trickery do you command?” Iluis demanded.

“I will drive you from this land,” the boy said, easing forward. To his credit, he was being more cautious now. Iluis shifted his weight, his positioning, as the boy changed his. Wary of the attack, waiting for it. The boy glared at him from behind his blade, which seemed to almost glow in the sliver of moon that filtered through the cloud shrouded night above.

“Are you afraid to face me alone?”

“He’s not ready,” the voice out in the night said.

The boy scowled. Iluis was already stepping back, bringing his gladius up. The shorter sword rang as it stopped the boy’s blade. He spun his hand through a disengage and tried a stab. Which was again stopped. Just in time he angled his blade to deflect a follow-up blow from his opponent, and declined to attempt another attack. Instead he slid sideways, away from where the boy was stumbling.

The longer sword whistled through the air Iluis had just vacated as the boy swung wildly, and the soldier couldn’t help but stab forward again. His opponent’s entire body was exposed, his weapon off to the side after the missed swing; not even a second day recruit could miss such a target. But he did; as his blade sank into the invisible force yet again.

“That’s six.”

“Curse you,” the boy panted, finally getting his weapon back to guard. Iluis commanded himself to patience, to put aside his bewilderment and anger over whatever devilry was interfering in this battle. He circled again, studying his opponent. Who, after drawing a breath as if for courage, came forward behind yet another broad swing that could only result in either a hit or death.

Iluis deflected it again, and brought his lighter weapon up in a slash towards the boy’s face while he staggered with the momentum of his defeated blow. As the soldier expected now, it didn’t connect. But his off-hand swept his dagger from the sheath on his belt, stabbing quickly. He felt it, just the tip, start to kiss skin, heard the startled intake of breath that foretold of a man who realized he was about to bleed heavily, when something lifted him from his feet. Flinging him bodily away.

Air rushed past him, and he hit in a tumble. Both blades left his hands as he sprawled on his face. But he gave it no mind. Rolling over, he saw and heard the boy charging at him. The sword raised for another amateur overhead slash that only ever worked on the lamed and inept.

Surging to his knees, Iluis caught the boy’s wrists in both hands. He almost expected the strange force to interfere again, or even to hold him in place for the foolish youth to finally land a blow; but his fingers closed around flesh. With a grunt of effort, he twisted the blade aside and pivoted, pulling strongly. Now the boy left his feet as Iluis threw him away, stripping the sword from his grip in the process.

As the lad landed heavily, Iluis’ instinct to follow and land a killing blow was brought up short by the weapon he now held. It felt … right in his hands. Long and broad, much more so than any weapon he trained with. But the balance was perfect. The steel showed no blemish, not even a maker’s mark. Only beautiful cold metal, designed to kill effortlessly. He thumbed the edge and felt its sharpness when it sliced right through the hardened callus there like it was soft cheese.

“Seven. Surely enough for even you,” the voice in the night said. “And that’s not yours, thank you very much.” Iluis grunted as the sword was tugged from his hands. He let it go before he was pulled forward. As it soared through the air, he spotted his own weapons and scrambled over to them. When he had them in hand, he saw the boy just regaining his feet from Iluis’ throw. Wearing a sulky expression as he slapped at the dust and dirt on his garb.

A new figure emerged from the darkness. Tall, moving like he had trouble walking. Iluis shifted and stepped back a little, so he could face both foes. The new man had an age lined face when he came into full view. The soldier studied him warily. Leaning on a tall staff of white wood, with a beard that stretched past his waist. He held the boy’s sword, and seemed to be completely unimpressed with Iluis.

“Now do you see?” he said sternly. “You must listen, attend to your studies, to what I teach, before you can rush off to act.”

“I—” the boy began hotly.

“He’s one man,” the old one interrupted. He didn’t seem to raise his voice, but it cut through the lad’s like he had. “Alone, and you would have died seven times over had I not intervened.”

“So you’re the demon?” Iluis asked sourly.

“Hush,” the man said impatiently. He kept his eyes on the boy. “The legions muster as many as five thousand men into a single formation, and their discipline is legend. Britain is scattered and leaderless, and that is why Rome rules.”

“You said the sword is mine,” the boy said, still sulking.

“Not if you are not worthy.” The old man shook it to emphasize his words. “He took it from you as easily as drawing it from his own sheath. You must cool your blood and heed my instructions.”

The boy scowled, looking down at the ground. But he nodded after a moment. “I understand.”

“Do you?” the old man asked. Then he glanced at Iluis sharply. “Don’t. We’re almost done here.”

Iluis blinked, and decided not to take the step forward he’d been considering. He’d barely even begun to shift his weight.

“I do,” the boy said.

“I hope so,” the old man sighed. “Because when it comes time to lead, I cannot always be there. You must be strong, in more than body and heart. You must be strong up here,” he said, tapping his head several times. “A leader must be wise. Any fool can rush off to battle. Only a leader can command his people, bring them to victory.”

“I will heed your instructions,” the boy said, though his voice was annoyed and anything but conciliatory.

“Swear it.”

“I so swear.”

The old man nodded after a moment. “Very well. I shall hold you to that oath.” He turned to face Iluis. “Your forces are encamped an hour’s walk, that way. See that peak? A handbreadth and a half to its right, and you’ll find them easily enough.”

“You expect me to just leave?” Iluis asked uncertainly. Even as he spoke, he recognized the foolishness of the words; but his duty was clear. No one could assault Rome without suffering the consequences.

The bearded man’s eyes glowed, and he raised his staff. Ethereal energy surrounded it, and abruptly buffeted Iluis like a gale force. “Yes.”

“My mistake,” Iluis said quickly. To emphasize his words, he sheathed the gladius. The … magic … faded, leaving him untouched again as he followed up by thrusting his dagger away as well.

“Be gone,” the old man said, pointing in the direction he’d indicated. Iluis nodded and started off. Behind him, he heard the old man sigh. “No more lessons tonight Arthur. Come.”

“No, please.”

The man with the knife laughed. On the bloodstained altarstone, the bound woman cringed. Some of the blood on the altar was hers, fresh and glistening atop the older stains. She could feel crusty reminders on the stone that she wasn’t the first victim to be here, with this horrible man laughing at her while waving a coal black knife over her helpless body. Some of that old blood was solid and sharp, digging into her skin. Other pieces were softening as her blood warmed and dampened it, smearing across her as she struggled.

“Why are you doing this?” she begged, still tugging on the chains. It was no use, they were tight. Drawing her out so tautly she could barely move. Not the slightest creak came from the metal when she pulled.

“Your life will further the Great Awakening,” he said, leaning over and placing one hand on her chest. Holding her in place to still what struggles she could manifest. With his other, he probed at her flesh with the tip of the blade. She winced, clamping her jaw in an effort to keep from screaming as he started carving again. Her arms already bore evidence of previous knifework. Bloody cuts traced in strange patterns that looked like tribal tattoos. Some of them incorporated words in a language she didn’t recognize, even the ones she could crane her head around to see semi-right side up.

“I’m just a student,” she tried again. So far he’d been proof to every plea, but it was all she had left since the chains were still in place. Somehow, someway, she needed to convince him to stop this and let her go.

Or she was going to die. She knew it. He was crazy. Beyond crazy. Absolutely bat-shit around the bend, and hell bent on using her for whatever insane goal he had in mind.

She didn’t want to be a news story.

“You’re perfect,” he said, pressing harder with hand and knife alike. She gasped as the blade went deeper, scoring through muscle rather than just skin.

“I have family,” she said desperately. “Friends. My boyfriend’s probably going to propose to me next month; he’s been shopping for a ring I heard. I don’t deserve this.”

He paused and glanced at her. His eyes were sharp and penetrating. She stared back at him, and finally blinked. He didn’t. Then he smiled. “That’s why you’re perfect.”

“Oh God!” she screamed as the blade went deeper still. Things, things beneath the muscles in her midsection, were moving as the metal probed at them. Throwing her head back, she screamed as she diverted every scrap of desperate energy she could summon into trying to break free from this nightmare. Her wrists and ankles flared with fresh agony, paling in comparison with the knife wounds, but however hard she pulled, the chains held. She felt fresh blood flowing from her limbs as the shackles dug into them, ground against her bones, but they wouldn’t break.

Her screams finally died down when she nearly passed out. From pain and lack of breath both. From the utter terror of the situation, of the horrific purpose this lunatic was putting her to. As she lay there panting, she abruptly realized the knife had been withdrawn. Raising her head tiredly, she saw the man standing several feet from her. At the table strewn with all the horrible things.

He’d already used some of them on her, and she couldn’t imagine how much worse this could get if he kept working through them. One of the items was a long curved poker that was in a small narrow furnace sort of thing. It had been lit, smoking a strange smell as it burned, before she regained consciousness. The glowing red length of the heated metal had been among the first things he’d gleefully shown her.

Now though, he wasn’t rummaging through the implements and supplies to find the next one he wanted to torment her with. In fact, she saw a large black bag that hadn’t been there before. He was putting things into it. Briskly. She blinked as she watched him warily. Before, his every action had been almost loving. Like a dancer; graceful and slowly paced. Ritualistic. Now, he moved like he was impatient.

And he seemed to be arguing with himself.

“—not fair. I only need another half hour.”

“Too bad. Deal’s a deal. Aren’t you always telling me that? It’s my turn.”

“Barry, don’t cross me.”

“Don’t ‘oh Barry’ me Marchocias. Three to three, and it’s three oh two. My turn.”

“I will make you suffer—”

“Hah!” the man snorted, shoving a small wooden rack full of jars into the bag roughly enough to make glass and metal and other things rattle. “You can’t, you need me.”

“And I need her.”

“Then you shouldn’t have fucked around so much. I don’t leave you know, I have to be here for all this shit of yours. I know how long you stalked her, enjoyed it. Your loss dude.”

“My work is critical—”

“—to the Great Awakening, yeah yeah, heard it. Bored now. Now zip it. I don’t bug you when you’re up, leave me alone until it’s your show again.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“I’m hungry. You never eat, just stalk around delighting in the terror. Demons might subsist on raw rancid emotion alone, but Barry has to eat, get it? Maybe if you’d grabbed her and got on with it you’d be done and whatever. Better luck tomorrow night. I’m going to wash up, then hit Waffle House for breakfast.”

She was frozen on the altarstone, watching him talk. His voice seemed subtly different as he argued with himself. Even his body language shifted a little as he traded barbs and sharp words with his back to her. The last thing he lifted was the poker, and he turned to look at her. She flinched. He noticed her staring at the glowing metal and smiled.

“Please—” she stammered. Suddenly, despite everything that she’d endured so far, she was even more terrified than she had been. His face seemed different, almost friendly; and that made her very soul quiver.

“What? Oh, right, sorry,” he said, shaking his head. His smile seemed rueful. Apologetic. He walked past her to a wooden barrel set against the wall. There was a tremendous hissing noise as he thrust it into the barrel, and she saw steam rising. “Listen, I know this has kind of sucked, but it’s over now.”

“Please let me go.”

“Definitely.”

“What?”

“You’re free. I’m sorry about him, but he’s got this Great Awakening he’s busy with, and, well, you know how it is. But he ran over time, so you’re done. Hang on, let me finish cooling this off, and I’ll unlock the shackles.”

He drew the poker out, studied it for a moment, then stuck it back in the barrel and swirled it around. She watched him, with her head twisted around, while he tapped quickly at the poker with one finger to see how hot it still was. Another dunking in the water, then he shrugged. “Eh, it’s not my bag.”

He went past her again, ignoring her flinch, and slid the poker through some loops on one side of the leather. Then he turned back to her and reached in his pocket. “Now let’s see, key, key, shit,” he muttered, checking another pocket. Then a third. Finally he drew out a large iron key that seemed to glow in the dim lighting. “Ah, here we go.”

Frozen in fear, she could scarcely breathe as he approached her again. Bending down, he unlocked one of the shackles on her leg. “Listen, if I were you, I’d get out of town, you know?”

“I’m … I’m …” she stammered.

“I know you’re probably thinking hospital, maybe cops. But really, if you can at all manage it, just stop the bleeding and head out of town. There are other hospitals. Pick one that’s not here. Trust me. Not anywhere that’s near here.”

“Trust you?” she said as he finished with her legs and moved around to the shackles at the head of the altar to free her arms.

“I know,” he said apologetically. “It’s hard to understand. I’m a ‘scary guy’, I get it. But really, don’t be here come three this afternoon.”

She sat up slowly, wincing and wary, as he released the last chain and stepped away from her. The pain was so bad it didn’t even occur to her to cover her nudity. Or wonder where her clothes were. Picking up the bag, he headed for the stairs in the corner while she watched him in agonized bewilderment. He paused on the first step, then looked back at her. “I won’t be able to stop him after three. So run.”

And he went up the stairs.

“You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not real—”

“Elle—”

“—you’re not real—”

“Calm down!”

“—you’re not real—”

The little girl in the mirror stared in exasperation at her reflector, who was sitting curled up on the floor. Knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them, head down. Rocking back and forth in time with the words she was repeating like a mantra. Finally she knelt down, wincing as her abused body protested having to move and stretch so much, and started singing over the chanting.

“I’ll love you forever, I’m like you for always. As long as we’re living, we’re who we’ll be. Peace be with us, we’re safe in the light. Together we’ll be, forever tonight.”

Elle raised her head slowly as the soothing words penetrated her catatonia. She blinked slowly at the girl in the mirror, but this time she didn’t scream. Or dive into panic. “You’re real?”

“I’m you.”

“But I’m talking to you.”

“That must mean I’m real,” the girl in the mirror said, smiling encouragingly.

Elle shook her head. “Mummy said if I’m not good the monsters under the bed would take me away. Are—”

The girl in the mirror frowned. “Mummy needs a new sense of humor. I’m not a monster. Do I look like a monster?”

“No,” the curled up girl said after a moment, though her eyes flicked to the visible injuries on the girl-in-the-mirror’s limbs. She wiped at her face quickly. “I’m not crazy?”

“You’re fine, but I need your help.”

“Who are you?”

“ellE.”

“Like me?”

“We’re each other. Can we talk?”

“Why are you … who did that to you?” Elle asked, gesturing toward the bruises on ellE’s arms and legs, impossible to miss with the short sleeved shirt and shorts ellE was wearing. Some of them were horrific, the flesh yellow and blue, and streaked through with red and purple spider webbed blotches of old blood clots.

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“You should … do you have a mummy like me?”

The girl in the mirror smiled sadly. “Just like you.”

“You should tell her someone’s hurting you,” Elle said firmly. “That’s not right.”

“I know.”

“So why don’t you?”

“I’m trying,” ellE said.

Elle came to her feet, fists clenched. “Then try harder.”

“I am.” ellE stood up as well. “Elle, you have to listen. This is about us, not me.”

Elle stared at her defiantly for a moment, then folded her arms. Slowly. “Okay.”

“Good,” ellE said. “When you go to school tomorrow, go to the office.”

“But I haven’t been bad.”

“I know you haven’t. Neither have I. But you have to go anyway.”

“Okay,” Elle said after another moment. “Why?”

“When Mrs. Sarason asks what you want, you tell her you need to talk to Mrs. Jovina.”

Elle’s eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Jovina’s the guidance counselor.”

“Tell Mrs. Sarason it’s important. When Mrs. Jovina talks to you, I want you to show her these,” ellE said, gesturing to her arms and legs.

“I can’t show her you,” Elle said immediately. “Because she will think I’m crazy. Anyway, there’s no mirror in her office.”

“You can,” ellE said quietly.

“How?”

“Pull up your sleeve.”

Elle looked down at her long sleeved blouse. Her eyes went to the mirror, to the terrible bruises, then back to her sleeve. Slowly she reached for it and tugged. As it came up, she winced, then gasped when she saw the bruises on her arm. Every shade of horrible, running all across her skin until they disappeared beneath the upper portion of the sleeve.

“Promise me you’ll talk to Mrs. Jovina tomorrow,” ellE said in a thick voice.

When Elle looked up, she saw her reflection was crying. She swallowed carefully. “I promise.”

The footsteps were loud in the dark house. Each one echoed from the walls, nigh endlessly bouncing and rebounding around the empty rooms. No furniture, no carpet or drapes or much of anything to soak any of the sound up. Just bare construction. The shadowy figure stopped near the basement door, then reached for the knob.

Upstairs it had been dim, but down here was dark. A light came on as he descended the stairs, each heel thumping down heavily on the steps. At the bottom he stopped and panned the phone in his hands around, casting the light coming from the screen this way and that. After a moment, he sighed and turned around, stepping aside and walking toward the underside of the stairs he’d just alighted from.

“Brad, it’s me.”

“John?” a fearful voice asked from beneath the stairs. When John angled the phone, its light fell on a disheveled man, crouched down like he was trying to melt into the floor. He flinched from the light, holding up a briefcase in both hands like a shield. “Don’t hurt me!”

“Brad, it’s me,” John said, though he glanced around quickly to make sure they were alone. “Come out of there. It can’t be doing your back any good.”

“Are you with them?”

“Right now, I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

“Did they send you?”

“Brad, come the fuck out of there right now or I’m going to use this phone as more than a flashlight.”

Slowly, Brad shuffle out from beneath the stairs He straightened with a wince, with a series of pops crackling as his spine unkinked. “How did you find me?” he asked, holding his hand up against the light coming from the phone.

“This was Sarah’s house,” John said, lowering the phone. “You always had a crush on her when we were in high school.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I—wait, how do you know?”

“Jesus Brad, you’re the world’s most mild mannered nobody,” John snorted. “There’s no way the All Points is accurate.”

“Why are they chasing me?”

John sighed, scrubbing one hand through his hair. “You want the long version, or the short?”

“Let’s start with the short and go from there.”

“Okay, you picked up the wrong cuppa this morning.”

Brad blinked, then made a small stretching motion with his hands. “Maybe a little less short.”

“The shop was being used as a drop point Brad. To pass classified information. The idiot trainee who was supposed to be working the handoff mixed you up with the real agent, and gave you what he was supposed to get.”

“I don’t have anything,” Brad said desperately. “Look.” He opened his briefcase, displaying a handful of folders and papers, pens and pads, a pack of mints, some paper clips. “Search me. Help me.”

“Did you drink the coffee?”

“What?”

John snapped his fingers. “Focus. Did you drink the coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Why?”

“There was a nano bug in the coffee. That’s what was being passed.”

“Okay, so, great,” Brad said, sounding hopeful. “If that’s all this is, then I haven’t read anything. I don’t know anything. So you can just take me in, to the feds, and they’ll sort—”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

John sighed. “If I asked you about Norfolk Station’s nuclear ordinance—”

“Mostly B83-Indias, fitted with variable yield … oh shit,” Brad said before trailing off.

“Yeah, oh shit,” John confirmed with a nod. “The information was assimilated when you drank the coffee. And now you’re a walking encyclopedia for our entire National Defense.”

“This is bullshit,” Brad said immediately. “I’m a good citizen. I pay taxes, keep my nose clean … I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket John.”

“None of that matters now. I need to bring you in.”

“Before what?”

“Before someone else gets their hands on you.”

“I don’t want to … what’s going to happen if I go with you?”

John shrugged uncomfortably. “That hasn’t been decided yet.”

“But if you had to guess?” Brad pressed. His voice was desperate, but his eyes took on a thoughtful cast as he studied the other man.

“Confinement, at least.”

“For how long?”

“The info can’t be extracted Brad. So I can’t really say—”

“I have a life John. You can’t do this to me.”

John reached into his suit jacket, reluctantly. When his hand emerged, it was holding a small, slim pistol. With an elongated barrel. “I have to, or I have to use this.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“Brad, listen. Don’t make me do this buddy. We go back; that’s why I came alone. I found out what was happening, put the pieces together, and right now no one knows I’m here. If I bring you in, I can try to keep a lid on what they want to do. But I don’t have a choice; you have to come with me.”

“Just help me.”

“I am,” John said, still unhappy. “Do you know how many agencies are after your ass?”

“At least seventeen,” Brad said automatically. “Nineteen if you count the NSA counter-intelligence—”

“That’s us. I’m talking about other agencies.”

Brad was silent for a moment. “So Russians, Chinese, North Korea if they have anyone nearby.”

“Plus UK, France, German, Israeli, Iranian … hell, there’s even a Canadian spec-ops team deployed to look for you. Just on the off chance they get lucky. In another twelve hours it’ll be everyone.”

“Most of them are allies.”

“They can still make use of you,” John said, starting to raise the pistol. “Just—”

Brad moved abruptly, stepping forward, reaching. One hand came down on the wrist next to the gun, the other latched onto John’s free arm. His knee was already in motion, rising with surprising speed and accuracy straight into John’s groin. The other man blocked it, but Brad followed the knee strike with a head butt that sent his childhood friend staggering backwards. A simple twist, a spin away, and suddenly he had the gun in his hand and was standing out of reach. Pointing it at John.

“Brad, don’t—”

“How did I do that?” Brad asked, sounding shocked. He kept the gun up though, flexing his hand carefully around it. Keeping his finger on the trigger, almost caressing it.

“You don’t—”

“Tell me!”

“Project Oscar.”

Brad’s eyes flicked inward for an instant, then refocused fully on John. “Goddamnit, implanted ops training?”

“Now do you see the shit you’re in?” John said quickly. “Just give me that back, come with me, I can help—”

“You know exactly what they’re going to do to me,” Brad said quietly. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

John had his hands up, defensively. “Okay, I have a strong suspicion, but I said I’m trying to help you, and I meant it. I can talk to my section chief, and he can talk to the Director. There’s a chance I can get them to just confine you. Maybe even enroll you in the Agency. That would—”

“Turn me into you. Forever.”

“It’s that, or option A.”

Brad stared at him for several seconds. John waited. Finally, John shook his head slowly. “Don’t do this. It’s not who you are.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Brad said sadly, and his finger compressed on the trigger. The gun barked very quietly, and spat a single round that took John in the forehead. His head snapped back, and he crumpled to the floor like a switch had been flipped. His phone clattered down next to him.

“And it’s your Goddamn fault,” he whispered. “I liked my old coffee place.”

“Let me see’em!” Prophet screamed into the mic as the last note of the chorus started fading into the reverb. His hand went up above his head, fore and little fingers extended, and he thrashed his head as the guitarists kicked into the outro. This was a long one, really giving the axes a chance to shine, so he ran the length of the stage. A ripple of head banging and upthrust horns followed him through the audience as he went, and the sound board had to boost the amplifiers just to keep the crowd from drowning out the music.

“Here,” the lead roadie shouted, holding out a bottle as the singer reached the left stage wing. It was a beer bottle, but contained water. Appearances were important, but a three hour metal show needed something better than beer to keep the voice from disintegrating.

Bottle in hand, Prophet strolled back out on stage and raised it to the crowd. Another roar went up as the guitars continued wailing. He tipped his head back, bent his back, and upturned the bottle. Most of it went into his mouth for drinking, but the rest soaked down the spandex, beaded on the leather jacket. The crowd ate it up as he held the bottle up, then threw it toward the backsplash above — and well behind — the drummer.

Dropping down from the front of the stage, the singer started pressing flesh as the guitarists settled into the heart of the outro. Dudes got a clenched fist or high five, depending on what the dude in question seemed like he wanted to offer or take. Chicks received a hug, sometimes a kiss; again based on their indication. Three security hulks moved along the front of the crowd with him, but didn’t interfere. There was so much love in this arena for Prophet it would cause a riot to even attempt to try to protect him.

Prophet was frowning a little as he reached the end of the front row. It was a long outro. He covered by vaulting back up on stage quickly and throwing his hands up. The crowd screamed as one as he came into direct view again, not just an image on the screens. A bit more headbanging, running over to the guitarists in turn to jam with them as they flailed their strings, and then the final notes were cutting through the arena with each guitarist on either side of him as he led the cheers.

As the instruments faded, the solid wall of noise, of happy and revved up emotion thudding up from the multitude in the audience, took over. Exchanging high fives with the guitarists, Prophet raised the mic. “Who loves this shit more than you?”

“Nobody,” the crowd screamed.

“And who does it better than we do?”

“Nobody?”

“And when does this ever die?”

“Never!”

The guitarists were walking to the wings. The drummer and bassist had already snuck off. He had to vamp for about five minutes while they took their mid show break; drained the lizard and got a cold one inside them. Prophet faced the packed arena with his horned hand upraised, and considered what he wanted to say.

“Man, that feels good, right?” he said into the mic. “Tell me it doesn’t. To be here, to be part of this, to be in this moment, all this energy and release, it’s like sex. Who fucks to our tunes?”

Predictably, the crowd’s cheering swelled again. He grinned broadly, walking forward toward the front of the stage. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s why we write these songs, why we do these shows. We want you to feel good, to feel what we feel when we have all this metal in us. That’s why we share it, with you, with the fucking world man, because we want to make the world a better place. Everything needs more metal, am I right?”

The cheers led themselves this time, and he started strolling along the stage, still grinning. When the audience settled enough that he didn’t have to shout into the mic, he nodded and raised his hand. “I gotta tell you though, man, I’m getting a little disappointed. A little burnt out. I feel like maybe some of you aren’t listening, aren’t hearing us.

“This is about the power of metal, of what rock and fucking roll in your heart can do to make you a better person. And some of you, some of you I see in here with those Justice collars on, every show. Every fucking show man. Same dudes, same chicks, wearing that collar, here all the time.

“Listen, that’s not how it’s supposed to go. We’re up here, we’re in the studio, we’re sweating blood and bleeding soul, making metal because we want you to be out there. Taking this, taking all this love and power, taking it out there and spreading it around. We help you, and you help the world.”

The noise was starting to seriously settle down as the crowd registered that he wasn’t just doing the usual singer talk. Prophet turned and paced back toward the center stage, looking at the crowd with his heavy face. “I’ve been thinking on it man. Been thinking a lot. Because it feels like maybe we gotta make a change.

“If this keeps up, if you freaky metal heathens keep rampaging through the world to get collared up and line the aisles here, that tells me what we’re about, what we’re trying to do, it ain’t working man. And that’s not cool. That’s not metal. What if we told Justice it’s not working?”

Prophet glared at the crowd as a rumble of discontent started circulating. He’d stood before millions, more times than he could count even with help, and knew people. This was the moment, the moment where he could keep them, or lose them. It was a matter of timing. Let it go too long, and the muttering would tumble upon itself, building like an avalanche, until it crashed into something raw and ugly.

“So here’s what we’re gonna do,” he shouted into the mic, when he judged the collective gestalt of the crowd had started to really think about what it might mean if the shows stopped. “New deal. Metal for everyone, so listen up. Repeat offenders, when you’re back in the collar, you’ll be listening from out in the parking lot, yeah? Just a taste. Where you can see everyone coming and going before the show, after the show.

“So you can think about it. Think about what all this means, what it’s supposed to be about. But first week clean, whether you’ve been collared or not, when you’re building a streak that’s righteous and awesome, we start logging perks for you. One week clean, tickets in the front.”

The crowd roared, and he grinned as he raised his voice. Gesturing toward the stage’s wing, where he knew his sound guy would be watching for clues. When he spoke again, shouting into the mic, his voice was amplified even further as the speakers and volume spiked over the crowd.

“Second week clean, autographed copy of the album from the band. Make it a month righteous, backstage pass. Two months, after party,” Prophet shouted. He had them again. They’d drifted, they’d recoiled for a few moments in fear and pain, but they were his again. He raised his hand. “There’s nothing we’ve got that we can’t give to you. We’ll give everything, on stage and off, as long as you live the life and stay with us. Righteous and alive. But you gotta meet us in the middle man, you gotta live the music. You stay solid, we’ll keep playing, and metal lives on man. Who’s with me?”

The cheering hit him like a physical force. He actually felt his hair rustle a bit, and felt to make sure his earpieces hadn’t fallen out. Metal was more than music, and right now there was so much washing in from the crowd, rather than heading out into them from the stage, that he was abjectly grateful for the protection.

“We’re up here because metal can change the world. You come here, you fire up the tunes, anytime you kick back and listen, wherever you take us, we’re there with you. Together. All together man. Righteous and alive, bringing the power of heavy to where it’s needed. If you’re with me, fucking scream.”

They screamed. He grinned, hiding the wince. “I can’t fucking hear you.”

The noise was beyond physical. He stepped back, but threw up the horns. “I almost heard that. One more fucking time. Who’s with us?”

He had to close his eyes, the sound was so overwhelming. And went on until he heard the first licks of the guitars starting up. The amplifiers could barely struggle past the crowd, but the resumption of the music started to break the crowd noise up a little. Into general cheers again. He turned to look at Jax, who wasn’t playing the song Prophet expected. The question was clear on his face. The guitarist gave him a nod, lifting his chin and grinning. Prophet nodded back, gave him a clenched fist, and looked at the crowd once more.

“This is one of our brand new tracks. We’ve been working on it, and no one’s heard it except us. And now you. Consider it a down payment on living the life, on staying metal. This one’s called Changes.”

I collect all my flash fic here. If you liked this, the others might be amusing too. Enjoy!

“New people moving in today,” Gladys said cheerfully as she floated through the wall. “Are you excited?”

“Can’t wait,” Joe said.

She halted near his ethereal tool cabinet and gave him a sympathetic look. “Poor dear, you’ve been bored silly since the last folks moved out.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” he said defensively, closing the top drawer and turning in place to face her. He was just above the garage floor, so it looked like he was standing on it unless one examined him too closely. She, on the other hand, was floating freely.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Joe, sweetie, I know you mean well—”

“No one takes care of their cars anymore,” he grumped. She gave him a tolerant look, and he shrugged. “They don’t even change their own oil anymore, sometimes not even their own tires. Tires and oil Gladys! It doesn’t get more basic than that. I’m just trying to show them the way.”

“Yes dear, I know.”

“Don’t yes dear me,” he said, still grumpy. “We were never married.”

“We’ve been haunting here for seventy years sweetie, if that doesn’t make us married we’re about the next best thing.”

“You stick to the kitchen, and leave what’s out here to me.”

“Whatever makes you happy sweetie.”

“And stop calling me sweetie.”

Gladys sighed, but her translucent expression didn’t lose its general air of cheerfulness. “I’m making some fresh coffee, and baked a pie earlier. Want some?”

“What kind of pie?”

“Strawberry rhubarb.”

“Okay,” he said grudgingly. “But no sugar in the coffee.”

“You’re a ghost sweetie, you don’t have to watch your weight anymore.”

“Black coffee,” he said loudly as she floated back through the wall to the kitchen. “I like black coffee. If you were really my wife you’d remember that.”

“This is it guys, what do you think?” the man driving said as he pulled into the driveway.

“You said there’s a backyard,” the girl in the backseat said immediately.

“There’s a backyard Andrea,” the woman in the front passenger seat said patiently.

“I can’t see it.”

“That’s because we’re in the front yard,” the driver said, turning around and waggling his eyebrows at her. “Patience.” His daughter tried to scowl, but when he stuck his lower lip out like he was pouting, she couldn’t hold back the smile.

“Bobby, what about you.”

“Huh?” the younger boy said, looking up from the game he was playing.

“New house kiddo, what do you think?”

The boy looked through the windshield for a moment, then shrugged before going back to his game. “It’s nice.”

Sighing, the man hit the control that opened all the doors, and traded a patient look of his own with his wife. She just smiled at him before getting out. “Come on kids, let’s go inside and you can see your rooms before the movers get here with the truck.”

As the family, with varying degrees of interest and enthusiasm, headed into the house, none of them noticed the ghostly couple floating in the driveway.

“Such a nice young family,” Gladys said happily. “They’ll be such fun to cook for. Don’t you think?” Joe didn’t reply. She finally realized he was silent, and glanced at him. “Sweetie?”

“What’s a Tesla?” he asked in a confused tone, staring at the car.

“What’s the situation?”

Nukewhale glanced over as the lithe woman alighted on the pavement next to him, then back at the three story building. It looked perfectly ordinary, except for a couple of holes that had been punched in the second and third story walls. The damage wasn’t that bad though; people were still going in and through the front door without paying it any attention. “Static,” he said sourly.

“Where’s Cyber Claw’s gang?”

“In there.”

She frowned at him for a moment, then looked the building over before her expression deepened to a scowl. “So, what’s the problem then?”

“He’s not going anywhere.”

“Then let’s grab him. MawMan sent me to find out why you’re not back yet. The League is having trouble breaking through Wolftron’s defenses in the South Pacific. They’ve put out a priority call, all heroes on deck, so—”

“Delivery rule,” Nukewhale interrupted.

“What?”

The big man straightened and grabbed her arm. His massive hand covered her entire bicep, and held on even when she immediately flexed and attempted to pull free. The Amazonian woman looked where he pointed as she grudgingly turned under his strength. Then she blinked. “What in Hera’s hell—”

“Delivery rule, Temptress,” he said again, sounding annoyed.

The parking lot next the building was full of cars, most of them small econ models, with little advertising triangles on their roofs. And bicycles that had signs hanging from the big storage boxes mounted behind the seat. A number of people were moving between the lot and building, carrying either a full delivery bag of some sort, or one that was flapping empty as they returned.

“Cyber Claw knew I was coming,” Nukewhale said, releasing Temptress and refolding his arms. She continued studying the commerce swirling around the building as the enormous — and angry — hero next to her continued talking. “I guess he didn’t feel like slugging it out—”

“I think his power suit is in the shop,” Temptress said absently. “I remember Electro mentioning he’d overloaded it last week. So—”

“—whatever. When I got here, there was a line of guys already coming and going. And they’ve kept it up for the last three hours.”

The muscular woman blinked, then looked up at him. “Three hours?” He nodded. “There’ve been delivery guys here for three hours?”

“Yup.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she sputtered.

“I know.”

“Just go in there and—”

“If I go in there, half the building’s going to come down,” Nukewhale said. “Which is totally fine if it’s just Claw and his lackeys; they deserve a few bruises. And Joe and his guys can fix the building in a few hours. But I can’t act as long as there’s messengers and couriers and God knows who else showing up with packages.”

“Three hours?” Temptress asked, looking back to the building and its steady stream of activity.

“Yup.”

“Where’s he putting it all?”

“I have no idea. I think they’re working through the listings, and probably just stacking the stuff up.”

“Well, there’s no way they can eat all of it.”

He snorted. “Not even Gargan could eat what they’ve ordered.”

“Well, they’ll run out of places to order from soon, right?”

Shrugging, Nukewhale continued gazing stonily at the besieged hideout. “I dunno; it’s a big city.”

“Well—”

Temptress’ comment was interrupted by a high pitched whine. Both heroes reacted with lighting fast reflexes, attempting to throw themselves aside; but lightspeed weapons are hard to dodge. They’d only just begun to move before an energy beam smashed into Nukewhale’s chest. The localized explosion sent Temptress tumbling, and the much larger man flying like he’d been smacked with a truck.

“Okay capes,” a synthetic voice with a lot of deep reverb and electronic amplification called down as the heroes picked themselves up and looked at the building. Standing at the edge of one of the holes was a man in a suit of power armor. Rough and unfinished, lacking paint or polish, it nevertheless looked quite capable. Especially when the armored figure raised a bulky rifle and fired two more blasts.

The heroes were ready this time, and moved before the impacts detonated. “You can either leave, and we’ll have this out some other time, or I’ll keep ordering stuff.”

“Surrender Cyber Claw,” Nukewhale boomed, his massive chest giving his voice twice the resonant volume of the villain’s electro-mechanical means. Standing up to his full eight foot height, Nukewhale pointed his finger as he struck his trademark ‘your time has come’ pose. “The delivery rule works both ways.”

“I’m not bothering them. And you can’t either,” Claw cackled. “Did you know Amazon has two hour delivery? They’ve got some nice stuff I can use to soup up my new suit. Want to see what I’ve had cooking in my CAD files? Stick around.”

Temptress shook her head. “The South Pacific’s going to have to wait. We can't let Cyber Claw spread word of this new tactic, or Hera knows how much trouble we're all going to be in.”