Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For your consideration:

A plot, a ploy, a story of strife.

A war of worlds to claim of all life.

A stranger from a land of fire and ash.

It takes three to burn but only two to crash.

In the grim darkness of the far future, he finds himself in the blurry greyness of a distant past. For more than ten thousand years, his people have been fighting a never-ending war in the name of the God-Emperor, the Master of Mankind. Blood shed only where He demands, dying only by His will. He was but a single drop in the rolling oceans of His inexhaustible armies to wage battle across His million worlds. A thousand souls a day to keep him sustained and then ten thousand more.

Yet now he finds himself without the comfort of his faith. Once he was a single amongst an infinite many. Now he is singular and out of place. He fights a battle unfamiliar but has become his own. A manipulation by the accursed gods or perhaps simply a twist of fate? How different are the two and how much are they the same?

To be a man in his world is to be one amongst untold trillions. To be a man of their world is to be unique. To be a man in his world is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. To be a man of their world is to live in leisure and sedentary. To be a man of his world is to know all the far reaches of the void and see nothing but carnage and chaos. To be a man of their world is to take their first steps into the unknown. To be a man of his world is to fight for something greater than himself. To be a man of their world is to fight only for themself. 

And now he must fight to protect their world. Else, should he fail, forget the power of technology and science, and forget the promise of progress and understanding. For in the grim dark future, there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

And those thirsting gods are coming.

Chapter Text

• The triumph of victory is drowned out by the wails of the dead. We fight a losing battle in an ocean of blood. Hark to the preachers preach of the glory of conquest. May they veil your eyes a while longer. May our hope damn us yet.

He was a dead man. Of that, there was no doubt, not in his mind and not in anyone else’s. He was a dead man. Fewer things could ever be as certain. So were his brothers and forefathers. To these dead men, death was the mission and the goal. And so these dead men walked. There was no salvation waiting for them at the end of their march. They did not deserve salvation. Instead, in the beyond, there was peace and redemption. Life was suffering. They suffered for their crimes. So the dead men marched towards atonement. This trooper marched. He didn’t speak much. None of his brothers did. After all, dead men didn’t talk. But his will and thoughts were voiced for him by the means of his lasgun. And yet there was an even louder voice. That voice spoke for the collective of their people. Their marching boots enunciated their will but it was the roar of artillery that described their intent. 

This was the Death Korps of Krieg. These were the grim reapers of the Imperium.

Remember that you have to die.

It comes as no surprise to any knowledgeable leader, operative, or civilian of the greater Imperium that the Cicatrix Maledictum has driven many worlds, desperate and angry, disillusioned in the wake of damnation, to the reaching arms of Chaos. Bathed in the maleficent light of the Immaterium, their inner demons become manifest, their prayers turn to curses and their thoughts reach a different kind of god, who laugh as they whisper offers of deliverance. Thus, world after world fell this way into the churning extremes of conceptual being. A cesspool of heightened emotion and twisted faith. This a tale as old as man. Some words, however, are more nuanced in their heresy. Not every act of treason, although heretical in nature, is blasphemous, a distinction readily ignored and irrelevant to the Imperium at large.

The Armory World of Skipario was always host to a pragmatic people. In their belief that the Emperor had forsaken them, the people of Skipario in turn forsook the Emperor. At the very least, the Noctis Aeterna shook their belief that the God-Emperor was all-powerful, their displaced conviction making way for the reality of a cruel galaxy. But the denial of the Emperor was not an acceptance of the Ruinous Powers. Home to the Skiparian Raider Regiments of the Imperial Guard, the men and women Skipario knew full well the dangers of Chaos. Mutants deviating too far from the genetic template of the standard man were still purged and cultists worshipping the Dark Gods were still burned. Yet when the Avenging Son extended his hand out to offer aid, Skipario did not reach back. After all, what had the Imperium truly given them but the blood of their own sons for a religion that has, objectively to them, been proven unstable? Knowing full well the temperament of the Imperium, Skipario dug in and prepared for war.

Skipario could be considered a valuable world. Whatever their previous value might have been was only magnified under the current state of chaos in the galaxy. Their Regiments were hardy and disciplined, specialized in insurgency and defensive warfare but put up a great fight even in standard deployment. Their armory covered a sizable amount of the Eastern Fringe. Their manufacturing capabilities were powerful enough to equate to a low-level Forge World. That alone was incredible, and important now, especially after the fall of Triplex Phall. An Exterminatus order was brought under consideration but the idea was ultimately discarded under council for a multitude of reasons. The Skiparians were a pragmatic people, so the saying went, and those that would tear humanity down are legion. Once the advantages of unification were once again made clear and the heretical leadership was purged from the world, the rest would see their folly for what it was and join their crusade.

That, at least, was the hope.

And one must have hope to have faith.

Skipario, a barren planet in the Cordus System, is the fourth planet from Cordus A03. It had a higher than standard gravity, only slightly bigger than Terra’s natural radius, and a standard atmosphere. Skipario lacked any moons but had a ring made out of what was, perhaps, once its natural satellite. It was the only planet in the System that had any sort of recognizable Imperial presence, apart from the outpost situated at the edge of the System, and this far away from the Throneworld, maybe it would be better off to not have an Imperial claim at all; but alas, dominion over all was humanity’s birthright, so the flags were set and the Aquilas planted, the same symbols of grand authority and godhood knocked off their pedestals of grace and fervor. On a passing glance, it didn’t look like much at all, but people said that the people made the home, so it seemed the rock had a saving grace. A deeper look would reveal its mineral-rich crust, besieged on day one by mining operations. As for the people, they were shipped across the various front lines or stayed at home manufacturing goods for the same purpose. There were no oceans on Skipario; there were large rivers, which seemed to go on forever, but no oceans. Interestingly, the entire southern hemisphere was bombarded with volcanic activity, yet the poles and polar regions were constantly frozen.

To the dutiful men of Krieg, it did not matter what kind of heretic the people of Skipario were. All it mattered was that they were. These were Heretics. Men vile enough to betray the trust and love that the God-Emperor of Mankind had placed in them. They were a blight on His vision of Humanity united under one banner. They could not accept the weakness of the souls. They, too, were subjected to the absence of His Light during the blighted days, but they accepted it not as an overpowering by the abominable Warp Gods, but rather a test of focus and will or, barring that, his forsaking of them. The dutiful men of Krieg had long since forsaken themselves, so to be forsaken by their God was no issue. In death, atonement. 

In terms of galactic history, or rather Imperial history, Skipario was a relatively new addition. From the beginning, during human galactic expansion in the Age of Technology, Skipario was an unfavoured world. Its now coveted resources were far from a necessity and ruling corporations found its location too far from the greater human civilization to properly utilize. The planet, then, was settled by stubborn adventurers, retired thugs and soldiers, and fleeing criminals. These characters made the best of what they had, developing their pragmatic and stoic nature, which they used to build the town which would become the capital of Skipario, Juniporium. They made do with the planet’s natural resources and what they brought with them on their ships and even the ships themselves to build the foundation of Juniporium. They would eventually come about access to STCs. It was a small town then, with the planet boasting a measly ten thousand people. Now, taking the median from the Imperial Census, the Administrative Census, and the Skiparian Estimate, the planet houses approximately seventy billion people.

The seventy billion people of the planet lived in one giant Hive City, and since it was the only population center in the world, it was the world, so it was given the name Skipario. Skipario was not a contemporary Hive City, filled to the brim with towering habitat spires and sky bridges, oozing with toxic sludge, and drowning with bodies. Instead, the shorter skyscrapers that made up the city were mostly offices and wealthy habzones. There were environmentally sealed parks, shops, stores, and restaurants. An open environment for the wealthy and the middle-class worker. Outside the towering walls surrounding the city, half a kilometer away from the city edges, the rockrete and adamantium are replaced with an endless landscape of barren red-brown rock. It was windy and it was cold, with storms brewing constantly above the surface. These storms were a staple of the planet. They came and went quickly, soaking the surface with rain or snow that would disappear with the next appearance of the sun.

Skipario’s terrain was not much of an issue for an invasion. Most of it was flat and devoid of any flora, with cold temperatures and harsh winds. Any standard Regiment should be able to perform well. However, the planet’s gravity was higher than other standard habitable planets, and a robust ground defense network prevented orbital bombardment. Concentrated fire from a single battery could knock out any lesser frigate, much less say what a whole city worth of them would do to a fleet. With a giant Hive City like Skipario, the battle was going to play out into a siege. Naturally, under these conditions, the job fell to the Death Korps of Krieg. A perfect testing ground for the Death Worlders. These dutiful men of Krieg would fight until the last, living to die for the Emperor. 

The Warp blazed with power as it tore through the boundaries between worlds and deposited its package into realspace. This Imperial invasion force was fast approaching the hostile atmosphere. Their heading: south of the Hive City to avoid the aerial defense net placed there from the ever-present fear of the growing Eye of Terror. From the northern horizon, a traitorous fleet bored towards them speedily in an effort to intercept. Escort frigates broke off to engage. The Skipario fleet was outgunned and outmatched and quickly obliterated. There was a small colony on another planet in the System, but as their banner fell under the rule of Skipario, they too were readily destroyed. As the naval ships waged war in the skies, the transports began to dock on the surface. The 101st Siege Army made landfall on Skipario. 

* - * - *

The Administratum’s adepts estimated that the battle would end after twelve and six months of siege. This was due to Skipario’s structure, where it was wide instead of tall, their careful urban planning proving to be a detriment to defense, having much less complexity than what could be considered a normal hivecity. The Death Korps had shells to last a half a decade. It was the sixth month now and the battle finally made it to the city border. The Skipeans’ had a teaching doctrine hidden from the rest of the Imperium, one that would definitely be considered heretical. It was their culture and their people before service to the wider Empire. This means that most Skipean regiments were called back to defend their home planet, and those regiments complied, racing back to their homeland. Those that, by the will of the Warp, did not make it home before the invasion commenced found themselves facing the full might of an Imperial invasion fleet. Still, this meant that the battle on the ground was fierce; this was no regular Hive World PDF: this was a fully armed and disciplined Imperial Guard force, which combined with the populus and the PDF, numbered in the high millions.

The Skipean gravity meant that their people were shorter than the average human, reaching only about four to five feet. But their gravity also meant that they had stronger bones and muscles. On Skipario, they had home field advantage. Their unique characteristics made them an alluring choice for commanders seeking elite shock troopers. Skipean regiments were deployed en masse for Direct Action engagements. Their superior strength and tradition of warfare gave them an advantage in close-quarters combat. But their soldiers and mobile units could do little to the static lines of the Death Korps. Small unit raids could not overcome the unrelenting line firing of the Krieg trenches. Even if they made it into the trenches, one Skipean soldier could do nothing against ten bayonets, no matter how many physical advantages his planet gifted him. 

If something surprised the Skipeans, it was the fanaticism that the Death Korps fought with. As former soldiers in the wider Astra Militarum, they knew well of the Death Korps. They heard of their unflinching philosophy in the face of death and were fully prepared to face it with their own loyalty to the cause. But it was their anger that the Skipeans did not expect. For the Death Korps, this was personal. Each Korpsman knew of the history that plagued their planet. Each Korpsman studied the military engagement known as the Siege of Vraks. This, for them, was too similar. Another planet whose own greed outweighed their service to the God-Emperor, and this planet didn’t have Colonel Jurten. 

393-1024-0830-Jeneth felt the same anger as his brothers. He had never fought a heretic before. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth had only ever engaged Xenos, the foul Tau and Greenskins, in combat since his graduation from training. Before even those savage aliens, he knew that these traitors were the worst. How easily they turned away from His light. The trenches were quiet, even as artillery rained fire on the city walls. Every resounding boom was followed closely by an explosion. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth labored to breathe as he followed 910-1021-1776-Mortith, his captain, and four other men into a frontline command bunker. The months spent here had allowed him to acclimate to the heavier gravity but that did not mean that the heavy metal plates he carried on him felt good. 

The 113th Siege Artillery Regiment in their sector of the battle was doing well in destroying enemy advances but the city walls held. For miles inside the city, the ground was cratered and the sky rained ash but the city walls held; the carefully maintained green fields of ranches for the Bosallus Caballs, a native species that was split between breeds used for food and for riding, was all but burnt to nothingness, condemning yet another species to extinction: but the city walls held. For the Death Korps, this was unacceptable. Although a sustained artillery barrage would have destroyed the walls and projected calculations estimated a collapse of enemy outer line defenses within two and a half months, the Commander of the Army ordered a push into the city before month’s end. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth and 910-1021-1776-Mortith entered the bunker and faced Colonel 333 with a crisp salute. The colonel saluted back and then got straight to business. “The 221st Regiment towards the north have met with fiercest resistance compared to the rest of our fronts. The defenders there have proven themselves in raids against their lines. Shock troopers have deployed using launchers and gunships to harass their command posts.

The east and west have made pushes over the walls but have failed to breach the wall walk defenses, which resulted in heavy casualties for both regiments.”

The colonel paused there and then waved to the Skipeans inside the bunker with them. The Light had not all been snuffed when the Governor turned his back after all. Loyalists remained, fighting a desperate but failing guerrilla warfare. Tonight, however, these Skipean commandos were going to help the Krieg breach the walls. “There’s a hidden underground passage that extends from the walls,” one of the commandos said, his Low Gothic spiked with a heavy Skipean accent. The rank insignias marked him as the senior ranking officer of his posse. “They lead directly into them, the walls. The outsides are tough but we can easily disrupt defensive posts on top of the walls and place charges on the nearby gate locks here and here.”

The Skipean looked at the Colonel who nodded at the three captains. He had heard this briefing before the two came in to make sure it was a sound plan. “This is Major Opelnox,” the colonel supplied. “You will take your Grenadier company to accompany these Skipean commandos into the passage. You will proceed on foot with the following wave. Artillery will cover your advance. Once inside, you will destroy the locks to the main gate and hold position. Await further orders when completed.”

With that, the mission briefing was done and salutes were given. The Skipean major gave a gruff scoff and turned to follow the exiting captains, all the while feeling the soulless stares of the 333rd Command Squad on their back. 910-1021-1776-Mortith and his Veteran Watchmaster made their way through the trenches undisturbed back to their posts. Their company was instantly at attention and waiting. “Watchmasters, convene for briefing,” the captain ordered.

Six heavily armed and armored soldiers made their way to the makeshift box that they had. Their formation was irregular compared to the rest of the Death Korps. Instead of one company of five ten-man squads, their company was made up of fourteen operatives, each led by a Captain. The First Company Captain was given control of the unit as a whole. Each company was made up of 3 squads. The captain gave the floor to the major, who started to feel just a tad bit uncomfortable. He placed a map on the desk. “Right. 

There’s a hidden tunnel…” He paused, feeling deja vu. “There’s a tunnel hidden here, leading into the inner workings of the wall. We’re to enter and then hold it, then make our way here, where the gate operations lie, and here, where the mechanics to the gate is.”

Another pause and he looked around. Hearing nothing he continued. “Once we’re in, we’re to await further orders from the Colonel. We head over with the next wave…” There didn’t seem to be much to say and yet he had repeated it for the third time. “Questions?”

Further silence. He sighed and nodded in dismissal, staring at the map, wondering just how his beloved planet had fallen to this point. Just months before he was fighting off an Ork infestation with the Cadians and now he was raiding his own home. Feeling more and more morbid, he took out a cigar. It was then that he realized that the watchmasters and the captains were still watching him. He paused. “Is there a problem?”

“Your orders, sir?” 910-1021-1776-Mortith asked.

The major swallowed. The first captain’s voice was piercing. Even the colonel’s voice did not sound so dead to Opelnox’s ears. “Orders?” he asked.

“You’re the ranking officer on his mission, sir. Orders?”

Him? Lead these men? Opelnox coughed. “Oh, no, Captain. I’m just here to assist and advise. I’ll be leading my own men. You are in charge of this operation for your… Grenadiers. I trust your judgment.”

The captain nodded. “Second Company will ascend to the wall walk and disrupt local enemy defenses. Third Company shall defend our exit and prevent permeation of enemy reinforcement. First Company shall head to the gate controls.” It was all said quickly. “Dismissed,” he continued, and the watchmasters and captains dispersed. 

One Grenadier walked up to the uneasy group of commandos and stared down at them for a few silent moments, before speaking in a raspy but clear voice. “This operation would never even needed to happen if it weren’t for the incompetence of your people. Their lack of faith is what doomed them, but your inability to rally condemns you.”

A commando surged upwards but was held down by his comrades. “We’re… all allies here, trooper,” Opelnox grated.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” the Grenadier remarked before walking away.

They reconvened at the edge of the trench walls. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth checked his Hellgun one more time before slinging it over his shoulder. A few of his fellow Grenadiers had resolved to remove their Carapace Armor. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth understood their reasoning; the already cumbersome armor bogged them down twofold in the new gravity. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth kept his own armor on. Lasfire from the walls was fierce and there was no victory if there was no one to carry on the mission. But if he was to die, well, he was but one pebble in a rockslide. Someone else will take this place and Skipario will fall. The iron skull mask was his face and his vow of martyrdom. 

Duty until death.

393-1024-0830-Jeneth stared at the ladders, bracing for the whistle. Major Opelnox walked up to him. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth and the other Grenadiers saluted him. An officer was an officer, even if they were not in the Death Korps. Major Opelnox returned the salute and walked over to 393-1024-0830-Jeneth. He looked the trooper up and down before finally speaking. “So… Sergeant, eh?”

It’s Watchmaster, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought but didn’t bother to correct the major. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Hm… Is it true, then, that you’re all children?” Major Opelnox asked. 

He didn’t know why he did it. He could have been talking about the war or the upcoming wave or even about his lasgun. But there was a morbid curiosity that he needed to satisfy and he couldn’t help himself. “No, sir,” 393-1024-0830-Jeneth replied.

“N- no?” Major Opelnox let out in surprise. He had heard that they were. “Then, then how old are you?”

393-1024-0830-Jeneth didn’t understand the value or logic to these questions. He thought perhaps the major was a little dimwitted. Perhaps, given the major’s reaction to his response, he was displaying incompetence instead. “Sixteen standard years, sir,” he answered.

Major Opelnox blinked. “Six- so you are a child…”

“No, sir,” 393-1024-0830-Jeneth stated.

Opelnox flinched. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s voice was cold, but there was no ice in them. It was not cold out of spite or anger, but rather of an unfeeling void. There was no emotion in his voice. The monotonous voice carried the distinct feel of a lack of use. Most of the Death Korps only spoke to reply to and relay orders anyway. “By the Throne…” Major Opelnox sighed. So, this is the Death Korps of Krieg, he thought. “I see… Hm. Sergeant at sixteen, huh? 

You’ll make captain soon, I reckon then.”

The major had a smile on his face. It was a wavering smile but it was an effort nonetheless. The statement was a joke, an attempt to alleviate the mood and calm his own heart. But the Death Korps did not joke. “No, sir. This trooper expects to die before the end of this siege.”

Even then, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought, a Quartermaster will come before Officer Training. Major Opelnox choked and looked away. “I see,” he muttered. Silence. “Carry on then,” he finally said. “By the Mother of Mercy,” he uttered in his native tongue.

With that, the major walked away and 393-1024-0830-Jeneth focused back on the ridge. He could tell it was coming, they all could. The fire of artillery thickened and the unique thumping of mortars joined in. He tensed up. He had already placated the machine spirit before so he muttered a short prayer to the Emperor instead, asking him to bless his aim true. Then he finished it off with the Sign of the Aquila and unslung his rifle. A whistle pierced the air. Its sharp tone was obvious amidst the cannons. The wave went over the walls, but the Grenadiers waited, waited, three, two, one. 

The captain called them forward. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth checked his chronometer. The eleventh hour.

* - * - *

The passageway was empty and unguarded. It seemed that in their arrogance the Skipeans assumed the Krieg would never find it, or perhaps it was a gamble on account of their lines being stretched too thin. A mistake they will pay for dearly , 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought. But of course, only idiots could ever be faithless. He turned back to survey the unit; a good five of them had perished outside but each company was still at fighting strength so the mission was to be carried on. The passageway, illuminated by golden lumen globes, was small and cramped, built with Skipeans in mind but allowed for the average Imperial Guardsman to cross, though not comfortably. Major Opelnox closed his eyes for a silent prayer as he was not given a chance to even mourn the loss of half of his men. The door was rudimentary. A passcode had to be entered to disengage the locks and a wheel on the center would be spun to unlock it. 

Opelnox stepped forward and tapped at the keypad. The metal bars thunked as they popped out of their sockets, but still stuck to the frame of the door. Another commando, a Lieutenant it seemed, rotated the wheel and the door creaked forward. They were inside the wall. In an instant, Third Company raced inside, pushing past the indignant Skipean lieutenant. They split off and braced behind boxes and divots, lasguns raised. Left and right, the coast was clear. 560-6789-0421-Tanath, Third Company's captain, signaled to let the first captain know. The rest of the unit slowly entered. 

The lights were red and blue, as to be expected, casting the corridors in an ominous shade of death. Second Company, led by 735-1930-4788-Keled, broke off from the rest of the group and ran up the thin metal stairs, which seemed to rattle and creak with a vengeance. Louder still were the rumbles that penetrated the structure from the sustained artillery bombardment. Prior orders were carried out quickly and efficiently. There was no need for words. First Company advanced right, hellguns at the ready. Their steps were heavy, for although they were shock troopers, they were not made for stealth. Everything about them screamed alertness, from their weapons to their armor, to their uniform. Shouts from the front echoed off the walls.

Skipean Guardsmen manning the inner walls had heard the commotion and come to investigate. They spoke in the native tongue, trying to gauge who it was. The three squads halted and took positions as lasfire immediately flew down range. The Skipeans cursed with an inflection obvious to any language in the galaxy and returned fire. They were calling for reinforcements. A different explosion rocked the ceiling. Second Company was engaged with the enemy. 910-1021-1776-Mortith raised his fist and swept it forward. “Heavy Stubber, up.”

One Grenadier ran up, holding an autogun, and dropped to the floor with a heavy slam. He ignored the sudden loss of breath and jammed his finger on the trigger. Lead flew down the corridor, slamming into Skipean guardsmen caught out in the open, ripping into their flak armor and tearing them to shreds. The rest of the enemy dived behind cover and were suppressed, unable to get their shots out. “Company, advance.”

Pinned down by heavy stubber fire and lasbeams, the Skipean defenders could do nothing but take potshots as the skull-masked invaders drew closer. One brave Skipean angeled himself on the floor and peeked out to take out the heavy stubber, but his eyes widened in fear as he screamed. Half a second later, promethium fuel ignited his body, burning it to a crisp. Smoke filled the area like fog over a swamp. There would be a smell, there always was, but the Krieg only knew the taste of their recycled air. 910-1021-1776-Mortith gave a quick glance around. Two minor injuries. The mission would continue. The company moved forward. 

The vox channels buzzed to life. “G2 Actual, G1.”

“G2, G1, send your traffic.”

“Local enemy defenses neutralized, break, we are combat ineffective, please advise, over.”

“Acknowledged. Hold positions, over.”

“Roger, out.”

With that, the vox faded back into silence. The company increased its speed to a light jog. By now, Skipean high command would have known about the infiltration and would be rushing to send units inside the walls. They needed to get the gate down in time or else they would be overwhelmed. If only they had Death Worlder support, but they were still mobilizing for their first-ever deployment and needed time. The 101st Siege Army would give them that time. A resounding clack echoed from beyond, hidden by shadows. The captain ordered a halt and everyone took defensive positions. The point man exploded.

It was the familiar thumping of a Heavy Bolter that rained explosive projectiles to their location. Enemy lasfire joined in, giving the Grenadiers no quarter. There was no way for their hellguns or heavy stubbers to penetrate the barrier and their flamer had no room to move up. Walking out of cover now would be a death sentence for them all and result in total mission failure. But the Grenadiers had another trick up their sleeves. One in the command squad, a corporal, braced himself and rolled on the ground to the center, bringing up a meltagun. There was a blinding flash and a muffled hiss. The corporal’s body was then riddled with lasbeams and blown apart, but he had done his job. The bolter fire ceased following a loud roar. 

With the enemy's heavy weapons emplacement neutralized, their cover destroyed, and their organization disrupted, the Grenadiers rushed forward, shooting everything that moved. However, these Skipeans were commandos, the same as Opelnox and his men, and wore similar Carapace armor, which took a few brunts of hellgun fire before going down. The result: two more casualties, but the enemy was killed. 910-1021-1776-Mortith turned to 393-1024-0830-Jeneth and ordered him back to report casualties. Opelnox’s medic attended to their own wounded. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth walked over and surveyed the area. One corpse of the corporal and one wounded trooper. The trooper gurgled as he looked at the veteran watchmaster through cracked lenses. His message was clear: I cannot fight anymore. 

Grenadier units did not have their own Quartermasters. Quartermasters were valuable; they were commissioned officers who had survived where other watchmasters could not and they needed protection to perform their duties. Such a role was unsuited for shock trooper units. As such, it came down to the captains and watchmasters within the units themselves to decide whether someone lived or received basic first aid. This trooper had lost both of his legs and half of his internal organs spilled onto the floor. There was no saving this one. The trooper’s blood drained still and stuck underneath 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s boots. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth knelt and drew his bayonet. “God-Emperor, hear my prayer and take Thy loyal servant into Thy Light, for he has done his duty in accordance to Thy will, so that he may continue his service hereafter. Ave Imperator, the Emperor protects.”

Shooting the top piece of the Carapace armor would not kill the trooper. Shooting the trooper in the face would damage valuable reusable equipment. As such, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth went and removed the trooper’s mask, quickly jamming the blade into his eye. The dagger would pierce into the brain and into the brainstem, bypassing the thick skull and killing the guardsman instantly. “Requiescat in Pace.”

He then collected any remaining powerpacks and grenades and picked up the meltagun. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth stood in front of his captain to report. “Sir, two dead.”

Acceptable losses; no doubt that after they succeed, a quartermaster will come and redistribute any serviceable gear left on the body. 910-1021-1776-Mortith wordlessly took the grenades and powerpacks and distributed them around to the remaining Grenadiers. There were four dead and two of the remaining ones sported more serious wounds. Squad A was down to just one man, who was assigned to Squad B. The captain then looked at the meltagun in 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s hands and nodded. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth clipped the special weapon to his belt. Before the ten men could proceed, however, the vox chattered again. “G3 Actual, G1.”

“Go for G1 Actual.”

“Enemy contact. You need to move, over.”

393-1024-0830-Jeneth glanced behind them. He could hear the distant sounds of lasfire and bullets. Third Company was under attack. If they got past, First Company would need to watch their back as well. “Acknowledged,” 910-1021-1776-Mortith said. “Lock down, over.”

“G3, roger, out.”

“G1, this is G2-2.”

“Go.”

“735-1930-4788-Keled is dead. This trooper’s the last. Stairway entrances sealed and booby-trapped.”

That Grenadier was dead. Major Opelnox spun around to observe 910-1021-1776-Mortith, eyes flickering. “Understood,” was all he said.

“Out,” was the only reply.

Opelnox lowered his head and sighed. So they do deserve the moniker of Corpsemen , he thought. He looked up to see the captain and the veteran watchmaster looking at him. What now? he wondered. “Yes?” he asked.

“We need to move,” 910-1021-1776-Mortith replied.

“N-now? But we have wounded-” Opelnox stuttered, indignant. 

“Leave them. We must make it to the objective.”

“Ahuo- hu- ah, we, we can leave a few men here to guard them, pe-”

“Negative. That will lower our combat capabilities too much.”

Opelnox looked at his men, who stared back. He looked at the Grenadiers, who stared back. He gritted his teeth. Those men aren’t too wounded, he relented. And the Grenadiers are poised to move. “I suppose… I suppose we will move.” 

“Major-” a commando called out.

“Enough! Let’s move,” the major said, fatigue clear in his voice.

A faint tide of resentment rose and fell. The company was on the move again. The rest of the way was more or less clear of enemies thanks to the massive wave of Korpsmen who was currently assaulting the outer wall, keeping the defenders occupied elsewhere. There in front of them was the command center, where the controls to the gate lie. Although the walls were thick and impenetrable, rising ten meters from fifty each layer for ten layers, the controls to the gate itself were only in the first layer. The formation burst through the doors, startling the Skipean men inside, only, there were women and children too. Surrounding this out-of-place group were bodies of Skipean PDF members that manned the gate. “Wait, wait!” an officer shouted. “No! Don’t shoot!

We, we aren’t hostile! We were trying to open the gate! To surrender! We had enough, really, we don’t want any more of this.”

Major Opelnox breathed a sigh of relief, stowing away his laspistol when the Krieg opened fire, ripping through the crowd of screaming civilians and soldiers. “Stop, stop! We said we’d surrender!”

Surrender? 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought. He couldn’t see the logic in that. These heretics think they can just surrender? With no hesitation, his hellgun continued to fire. What he saw, what his comrades saw, was cowardice, pure and simple. These men dared to defy the Imperium and yet couldn’t even see it all the way through. The civilians? If they didn’t want to be on the side of the traitors, they should have fought for their home. Huddling here meant that they were no better than the rest of them. 

He heard the reports of batches of surviving loyalist civilians mounting a defense. Those were the ones he could accept.

For better or for worse, in the minds of the Death Korps, everyone has a part to play.

The loyalist Skipean Commandos had hands on their weapons, shaking in their armor. They were stunned. They didn’t know what to do. If they raised conflict here against these Grenadiers, they would be back on the side of the war they fought so hard to stave away. But these Korpsmen were too cruel. To not bring up an argument was to condone their actions. It was a ferocious and unrelenting dilemma in their minds, but they had no time to even process it before 910-1021-1776-Mortith stood in front of Opelnox. “The gate, sir,” he said.

“R-right,” Opelnox replied.

The major walked over to the controls, which had taken fairly limited damage in the firefight, in a stupor and began to enter proper authentication for activation. 910-1021-1776-Mortith turned to 393-1024-0830-Jeneth and nodded once. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth turned around and flipped open a hatch on the floor. It revealed a ladder that dropped down to a tunnel. This tunnel would lead them to the mechanicals of the gate, the gears and hydraulics, and wires, where they can set the charges to make sure this gate never closed again. The rest of the command squad followed. The charges were set and the gates were lowered. The 333rd Krieg Siege Regiment now entered Skipario. The city will fall. 

* - * - *

The Vox-caster scrambled to life in the control room as First Company waited for what was left of Third Company to join them. “G1, this is Regiment,” the vox broadcasted.

The Colonel was on the line. The captain picked up the receiver to answer. “910-1021-1776-Mortith, reporting, sir.”

“Casualty report.”

“First Company down four, Second Company wipeout, Third Company down seven, over.”

Static. “Captain, stand by for resupply and then head to the nearest battery for dismantling. Break, there will be transports.”

“Yes, sir,” 910-1021-1776-Mortith replied.

The Vox-caster cut out and the captain replaced the receiver. 910-1021-1776-Mortith then glanced over at Major Opelnox. The major was particularly pale and his eyes were dull. They glanced to and fro on the floor as if the details in the metalworking might put his mind at ease, or at least distract him. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth angled his body slightly towards the remaining Skipean commandos. Silence resumed as the gaggle of men continued to wait before the major finally spoke. “Hey,” Opelnox said to the veteran watchmaster. “What’s your name?”

“393-1024-0830-Jeneth,” he replied.

“That’s a serial number,” Opelnox remarked in a tired voice. 

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He had been with them long enough to know. "Captain…” Opelnox began. “Are... are you going to destroy everything? Level m- the planet, the entire city? I've heard the stories... That the Death Korps never leave anything behind. Like at Derdoni and the likes..."

He didn’t want to ask. He knew what asking meant for these Krieg Guardsmen and how that would alter their perception of him. But the sight he just witnessed was too shocking. He wasn’t supposed to be a major. He was young and not experienced enough. He was only a captain a week before, and then only because the former Captain was a traitor when he was still only a Lieutenant. That was why he was leading his men like a junior field officer instead of the senior high command his rank was titled. Their unit escaped the walls to meet up with the 333rd with Major Iyernhand at its lead. He was executed a day later for objecting to their artillery bombardments and Opelnox was given a battlefield promotion. 

The joke he made to 393-1024-0830-Jeneth was also made in irony towards his own situation. 

A major at 28 standard years old. But I guess to them… I must be ancient, Opelnox thought. "Negative,” the captain replied. “The industrial sectors will be preserved. They are far too valuable to be destroyed. Keeping them will allow for this planet to quickly return to operational status once we purge it of these Heretics. Production must resume."

The industrial centers, mines and factories, on the opposite side of the globe. It made sense to Opelnox. But it didn’t feel right. "Then... what about the habzones? The parks? The shopping- the- the civilian centers? The fields?” The fields that were already burned to ash. “What about everything else?" 

What about everything that makes Skipario… my home, what it is? What it was? Opelnox clenched his fists. "Fighting close quarters in an unfamiliar urban environment severely limits the resources we can use and will waste too much time,” the captain responded. “Allowing the enemies to maintain such a large home field advantage over us is tactically unsound."

"I see... Fair enough... I suppose… And… and the underground?"

“The use of chemical attacks will flush out any heretics near the surface and kill the rest. This will preserve the infrastructure and the integrity of the armory beneath the surface.”

For a moment, the major wondered if it would be best if the civilian population took up arms as well. The thought was quickly shot out of his mind, his devotion due part to it, but also because he knew that the access codes and fail-safes for the armory were no longer under local control. Opelnox looked down, glancing sideways at his native comrades. They were stricken to the core and it was visible on their faces. His eyes swept to the trigger guards of the hellguns these Grenadiers held. All of them were ready to execute his men should they show signs of incompetence, or worse, an unwillingness to kill or die for the Emperor. “Of course,” Opelnox whispered. “Of course.”

Third Company arrived soon after and the silence continued, only broken by the Krieg checking their weapons, double check, triple check. The rumbling of artillery seemed to move further and further away. Prayers were uttered to the ever so rowdy Machine Spirits of the hellguns. So far, none of the weapons had exploded in their faces but they weren’t about to take any chances. The reinforcements came soon after with fresh grenades and powerpacks as the inner walls were soon overrun with Krieg Guardsmen. Instead of small elite Grenadier units taking control of the other gates, the massive flood of Death Korps troopers would do it. A freshly decimated infantry company was ordered to Grenadier status and their numbers filled the three Grenadier Companies. The 333rd First Grenadier Unit was back in full action once again, this time accompanied by a few Engineers to assist in the demolitions. The Skipean commandos said their goodbyes and departed back to the lines. 

The unit had a mission to do. 

Along with their detachment of Engineers, they would ride in Centaurs to the nearest battery station and destroy or commandeer heavy Skipean artillery. To save space, the Skipeans organized their orbital defense lasers alongside their mortars, cannons, and howitzers. The many orbital cannons within the half-kilometer clearing between the walls and the city proper had been slagged by artillery in the initial days of the battle. Those encampments were rubble. If they, and other Grenadier units, could take out a few more key defense points closer to the inner city, the Navy could begin to do effective orbital bombardments and leveling blocks. Whatever happened next was anyone’s guess. All they knew was that they were guaranteed to meet the eighteen-month goal at this rate and that was all that mattered. Mankind prevails.

The Grenadiers stepped out behind the wall for the first time, joining the tens of thousands of their standard infantry brethren in the cratered land of Skipario. For miles, there was only ash and dust. Artillery had done what it was meant to do. Ten Centaur transports were waiting for them. The Grenadiers and their accompaniment hopped into the trucks and they sped off in a column. When they were about a mile away from the area of operations, an explosion ripped through the air. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth, like all Krieg guardsmen, was not prone to much emotion, but even he felt an inkling of surprise at the sudden shockwave; a Heavy Bolter had just wiped out Third Company, Second Squad. The Centaurs ground to a halt as the men inside poured out of the vehicles, only to be peppered with hellgun bolts. Centaur gunners opened fire to suppress the enemy but sudden whining piercing shots made sure they no longer had the mind to do so.

In a war of attrition, no one won against the Death Korps. Thus, the Skipareans had long since set up ambush sites across the routes leading to the obvious targets. Against roaming units, their raid tactics suddenly became a lot more concrete and valid. A second Centaur exploded, screeching with pain as its hull burst into flame, and the Grenadiers scrambled for better cover. They hid behind the ruins they so carefully created and fired in the general direction of the enemy. But of course, they had no sharpshooting or long-range weaponry on their hands. This time, they were the sitting ducks. And yet death meant nothing to these men, for they were already dead men, and these dead men specialized in heavy infantry assaults. The Grenadiers began their counterattack.

Second Company rushed out of cover and raced toward the hidden enemy, allowing the ones behind cover to pinpoint their location. The fire that was spread out along the field swerved on an axis and focused on them. Lasbolts knocked them askew and bolts threw them backward. Third Company went around the flanks while First Company took shots from behind cover. Fully distracted by the approach of the Second Company, the Skipean guardsmen didn’t even realize it when they were ambushed. The firing stopped and the Grenadiers emerged from this scuffle victorious. 910-1021-1776-Mortith walked forward. The entire Second Company was eliminated: an acceptable outcome. He muttered a short prayer for them and the Unit moved onwards. 

The rest of the journey would proceed through the ruins. Riding vehicles down the center line would draw too much attention. The marching allowed them to avoid further enemy checkpoints and they arrived at the encampment. It was a wide and steep dugout the size of two city blocks. They had to destroy the garrison while being down half their manpower. The Grenadiers jumped off the ledge straight into enemy line of sight, throwing all the grenades they had. Explosions rippled through the encampment as mortars were blown apart and fine artillery motor pieces were shattered. Lasfire immediately rained down on the Grenadiers, shredding them apart. In the end, they had not gotten nearly a quarter of the way through and they were down to less than ten men.

It seemed as if this mission was to end in failure.

Suddenly, bolter fire thumped through the air behind the Grenadiers. The shock troopers whirled around to meet the oncoming threat that had somehow outflanked them only to stop and stare in awe. If 393-1024-0830-Jeneth was more in touch with his emotions, he might have said that he was jealous. The Death Worlders, a 28th Founding Chapter based on Krieg itself. Born from Krieg to bleed Krieg blood for the Emperor in places where regular Krieg guardsmen could not hope to be deployed. Case in point, a special strike force of Krieg Marines dropped into the Spiral to target the city’s nuclear-powered plasma generators, effectively rendering the entire world without power. Reinvigorated to fight alongside the Angels of the Emperor, the remaining Grenadiers rushed from their cover to complete their mission. Most of the Skipean defenders had fled anyhow. Seeing the sight of Krieg-like Space Marines drastically lowered their morale. 

If the Krieg were already inhuman, what were these transhuman Krieg like?

The Death Worlders systematically poured through the dugouts, bolters flashing. The artillery pieces were no match for armor-piercing explosives. The objective was complete and the Death Worlders quickly left for their next objective, unburdened by the troubles that toiled mortal men. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth walked over to his captain. 910-1021-1776-Mortith had lost an arm. It wasn’t necessary to offer him the Emperor’s Peace, however, for he could get a bionic arm to continue to fight. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth reached an arm out to help his captain up when the sky was suddenly embroiled in shadows. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth looked up. An Imperial naval cruiser.

Yellow beams of the Emperor’s might washed down, ionizing the atmosphere. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth nodded. Now the battle was truly won.

* - * - *

The war was no longer simple waves against enemy objectives. Now, the chaos of the battlefield, a Krieg battlefield, truly set in. On all fronts, Krieg regiments charged en masse night and day to break the defenders. Death Worlders broke holes that the Grenadiers exploited to allow for armor regiments and the infantry to swoop in and overwhelm the enemy. The objective was simple: head to the capital where the giant tunnel down to the Underground was located and deposit chemical charges. The heaviest orbital laser cannons were still intact at the capital, meaning orbital bombardment was not an option. However, even if it was, the Commander of the Army did not want to risk collapsing the tunnel and allowing the heretics to fester. That would mean their mission to reclaim this planet would fail. And that was entirely unacceptable. 

393-1024-0830-Jeneth ran up the street, hellgun in hand, equipment repaired and refreshed. He felt like hell but hell was where he was most comfortable. The army was reinforced with fresh bodies. The most veteran units were pushed to the front, their gravity expended bodies ground against the thickening defenses of the enemy. Command saw no need to rotate their troops off the planet to recuperate. They had the manpower to spare.

393-1024-0830-Jeneth passed his seventeenth birthday.

Cannon fire boomed like thunder as shells screamed overhead to bear the Emperor’s Wrath on the enemy. Vulture Gunships roared overhead, racing like lightning to drop their payload and support the advance with their heavy armaments. Chimeras and Leman Russes ruggedly chugged alongside them, accompanying the early Grenadier action. One hundred and twenty-six Grenadiers entered the fray, all three 333rd Grenadier Units. A Chimera imploded on itself not so far from 393-1024-0830-Jeneth and he felt the shockwave tilt him off balance. He carried on undisturbed. By now, most of the Skiparean heavy weaponry had been commandeered. All that was left were lasguns and heavy stubbers, which did little to penetrate the Carapace armor. That wasn’t to say that the defenders no longer had access to any heavy weaponry, such as Heavy Bolters or lascannons.

One such weapon flagged down a Vulture and sent it spiraling downwards to a fiery end. The Krieg kept advancing straight into enemy fire. Still, despite the heavy armor the Grenadiers possessed, they were still running through a very thick field of fire. More died every minute and there weren’t going to be new Grenadiers to reinforce them, at least, not yet. It was only thanks to the efforts of the Death Worlders accompanying them that more of them did not die. Those Space Marines had already advanced further inwards. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth fell into a crawl along a ditch. A dead body of a fellow trooper fell into the ditch in front of him. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth simply pushed it aside and kept going. 

There, at the end of the ditch, was the end of the hill. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth jumped up to meet a group of Skipean soldiers inside of a poorly dug foxhole. Their armor was rough and ripped and their gear looked more like a PDF soldier’s than an Imperial Guardsmen's. So they have lost their best defenders then, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought, pleased with the conclusion. His finger pulled back the trigger and lasbeams at 28 megathules hurtled themselves into the enemies, ripping their bodies apart. A most satisfying pink mist arose from the foxhole and 393-1024-0830-Jeneth pressed onwards. With a shout, another soldier came up to him from the side, as if charging a Grenadier with a bayonet was more effective than shooting him from afar. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth blew his brains out only to reveal a second soldier behind him. The second soldier pushed the corpse of the first into 393-1024-0830-Jeneth.

The corpse fell into 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s rifle, forcing it to the side. By the time 393-1024-0830-Jeneth was able to step back and let the body fall, the soldier was already in front of him. He screamed a curse in his native tongue and tried to jam the bayonet into 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s unprotected left side. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth let go of his rifle and grabbed the rebel’s lasgun with both hands, swinging his right elbow into the rebel’s face. It connected with a satisfying crack. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth then leaned his head back and slammed it forward, ripping the rifle out of the rebel’s hands and knocking him backward. Before he could bring it around, another lasbeam flew from lower on the hill, piercing right through the rebel’s chest. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth turned to see a fellow Grenadier and gave him a nod. He dropped the enemy rifle.

His hellgun needed to be inspected. They were fickle things and prone to exploding at such rough contact. An initial lookover seemed to indicate that it was working fine. He spotted a rebel running away from the fight and took aim. The beam still hit true and it killed the enemy, but there was noticeably less kick to it than before. He spun his body to the right to face the ruins of a building, noticing shadows creeping out of them. One shadow raised a white flag. “Wait, wait! We surrender, we surrender!”

393-1024-0830-Jeneth fired, mowing them down. The screams of fear and pain turned into ones of anger as the mass of shadows charged at him, revealing PDF soldiers and old men. “Damn you, damn you, death to the Imperium!” they shouted.

Interwoven lines of fire cut these men down from all sides and they fell screaming. One of them crawled towards 393-1024-0830-Jeneth still, withering and gurgling. “Mercy, mercy, please…”

393-1024-0830-Jeneth pressed the trigger. His hellgun gave a final hiss but did not fire. Without thought, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth unclamped the rifle from the battery pack and pulled out his bayonet. “Mer-”

393-1024-0830-Jeneth jammed the dagger into the rebel’s throat, causing his eyes to widen as he choked on his own blood. There was no mercy. No time to waste, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth quickly surveyed the area. Grenadier corpses were everywhere so he ran to the nearest one and picked up the hellgun to attach to himself. He gave it a quick test fire and found it operationally satisfactory. Unimpeded, he continued to advance. Then he ran into the trench. One shot to the chest quickly killed the nearest rebel. The trench lines were uneven and shallow, built by the Skipeans out of desperation more than anything else.

Heavy Bolter fire streamed down from beyond, hidden behind combat barriers impenetrable by hellgun fire, peppering the dirt in explosions. They were too far away anyway for any Hellgun to reach and too well encamped for the Vultures to target. They needed something different than a simple Grenadier unit to power through. There was a tense beating that vibrated the ground. Its rhythmic pumping different from that of an explosion. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth turned around to see a cadre of Death Riders. With their Krieg Steeds and explosive-tipped lances, they leaped over the trenches and ignored the enemies, charging straight towards the enemy turret. The sight of somewhat monstrous beasts made a few lesser-minded defenders turn tail and ran. Raised lances lowered into charging positions.

A bolt slammed into the chest of a Krieg Steed, ripping through its thick skin and tearing through muscle. The charge detonated, and yet when the smoke cleared, the underarmor remained intact. The Steed neighed ferociously, angered even, and carried on. Glancing shots and shockwaves did nothing to deter the drugged-up horses, whose own mission was as sacrificial as any Krieg guardsman. There were luckier shots, however, as a bolt cleared through an unfortunate Steed’s eye socket. Its gas mask crumpled and the explosion of the bolt blew the rider clean off. The beast tumbled to the ground, headless, and the rider was promptly crushed under the endless hoofs. Lasbeams targeting the Steeds to no avail turned instead to their masters, but their breastplates kept them steady. They were true monsters in the eyes of the rebel defenders.

The resounding shot of a lascannon burnt clean through the middle of the formation. An entire line of Death Riders and their Steeds collapsed. Cereamite melted to slag and flesh burned to ash. Heads were vaporized. Bodies were bisected. But Skipean lascannons were few and the Death Riders were many. A second shot went wide, the white beam skimming over the top of the formation, singing through even their helmets. The Riders’ hunting lances penetrated into the enemy lines, shattering both their bodies and their resolves. With the enemy defenses crippled, they drew their sabers and rode off further down the battlefield, leaving the Grenadiers behind.

A wave of Skipean PDF troopers charged from behind the lines. The large mass of them was sure to force the Grenadiers back. It was the same principle that the Death Korps followed. However, the circling Vultures’ bolter rounds made quick work of them. The purring of a chainsword engine brought 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s attention to his right. A Skipean guardsmen officer, one of the last surviving ones, charged at him, screaming profanities. The officer’s laspistol beams dissipated harmlessly against 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s armor so he threw the weapon at the Grenadier instead. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth got a shot off at the rebel’s chest, but it only bore a hole through the thick upper chest armor and he kept charging. The chainsword’s teeth dug into 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s hellgun.

The force of the blow forced 393-1024-0830-Jeneth to the floor and he was knocked on his back. The officer smiled maniacally and cleaved his weapon at the downed Korpsman. Before the attack could land, a lasbeam ran right through his head, killing the rebel instantly. The chainsword fell right next to 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s head, its last rotations sending dirt all over his gas mask. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth stood up, inspecting his rifle. It was broken. He threw it away and it exploded in an overcharged ball of fire as it landed. He would have to go look for another one. “Fall back, fall back!” someone amongst the rebels shouted.

Their retreat was hasty and unorganized, making for very easy pickings for the Grenadiers that rallied. When the rebels ran out of range, the Leman Russes and the Chimeras rumbled on. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth went to find his captain. The captain was on the Vox-caster, listening in to orders. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth glanced at 910-1021-1776-Mortith’s arm. Under the dark blue, almost black greatcoat, you couldn’t even tell it wasn’t flesh. He turned to take in his Grenadier Unit, finding that at least half of them were still alive. The captain put away the receiver and everyone stood at attention. “There is a reported civilian bunker generating distress calls a few dozen yards from here.

We are to find and neutralize.”

With that, the captain stood up and the unit moved out. The bunker was underneath the surface, which was why the artillery was unable to destroy it. The doorway was collapsed and the Grenadiers went to remove it. Light shone through the cracks and a murmur arose from beneath. They cautiously peered into the light, flinching as they saw the skull masks of the Grenadiers. But they were hopeful. The Grenadiers stepped into the bunker, finding it full of mostly children and elders. “Are- are you here to save us?” one of them asked.

They eyed the Aquila, trying to look past the monstrous visage. Without a word, 910-1021-1776-Mortith turned around and left. Confused, the people tried to follow but were blocked by two additional Grenadiers, brandishing their rifles. A small commotion arose. Fear leaked into their cries of outrage and demands. Down the steps came another trooper. He was carrying a flamer. The roar of the flames drowned out the screams of the dying. Peace at last. 

The slow and stale marching to the capital, supported by armor and air units, would take another week and a half. But at last, they had the capital razed to the ground.  By then, most of the fighting force was desperate elderly and naive children who did not wish to die a merciless death. If nothing else, the Death Korps held their tenacity in the face of the end to be at least somewhat reputable. Death Marines began the descent into the Underground for an initial surrounding sweep before the Death Korps dropped their bombs.  Now, the Krieg entered the central palace. The Governor was hiding in his bunker with his family and a few soldiers. The honor of executing these treasonous men came down to the Commissar attached to the 333rd, as the Commander of the Army ordered them to be executed on sight. It was an order that the Krieg respected. 

Five months of siege and 393-1024-0830-Jeneth finally got to see the man behind it all. The Governor was a lean man of military bearing. Even in this state, his robes were pristine. Each time he got closer, he received a kick to the head. Each time he got back up. Blood and snot streamed down his bruised face. He tried to grab the Commissar’s coat hem with quivering fingers of rage. The Commissar scoffed. He had enough. “Seize him,” he ordered.

393-1024-0830-Jeneth was lucky enough to be part of the complement that entered the plaza with the Commissar and the Colonel. He and his captain went up to the governor, whose family and posse were already dead, and grabbed his arms, lifting him to his feet. Pathetic, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought as he felt the traitor struggle in his arms. Commissar-Captain Tempust Bane walked up to the governor and kicked him in the groin. That finally got an agreeable reaction as he groaned in pain. This Commissar had served with the Death Korps since the beginning of his term as Commissar and survived long enough to supervise at the Regiment level, hence his rank. He had no qualms with their ways and was an excellent diplomat when the Krieg unit he was assigned to joined forces with another Regiment. That gas mask was as much as the Krieg’s as it was his.

The Commissar-Captain turned around at the rumblings that permeated the building. The gas and chemical attacks on the underground had begun. “You’re pathetic,” Bane said, voicing the thoughts of every Krieg in the room.

Bane turned back around. His chainsword was wet, slick with the blood of the traitor’s family and friends. Their bodies were still warm, eviscerated, or decapitated. “All of this, all the blood spilt, and for what? The Imperium supported this world for centuries and the instant the Beacon blinks, you turn your backs on the Emperor? We came here to welcome you back to the fold with open arms and you respond with battery fire. You would have been alone in this galaxy, facing Demons and Xenos alike. You’re no Chaos-minded fool, sir. So when why? 

Why did you betray us? I’ll tell you. It was greed, Governor. It was ignorance. You wanted more than your worth. You thought you could do better. You killed your planet. You doomed your people. Your family.”

The Governor blinked and turned to look at the bodies. His face became a mask of anger. “Support, Commissar? This is the extent of your so-called support. It was not ignorance, it was not greed. It was realization and it was chance. We have always been an independent people before we were co-opted into your regime. You took our children and you took our ore. You fed us your tales of His omnipotence. 

And then, once the Beacon failed the way it did, you expect us to keep to the propaganda you so readily spread? If he was truly so great, why did the beacon fail? We would not have bothered you. All we wanted was the recognition of sovereignty apart from a failing empire.”

Bane stared into the governor’s eyes and remained silent. He sighed. “Your recognition, Governor, was your right to existence. And that right was revoked, by thy own hand unto mine.”

In a fluid motion, Bane drew his bolt pistol and cracked open the governor’s skull, mincing his brain into mist. He holstered his firearm, satisfied with his work, looking on as the body slowly slid out of 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s arms and plopped onto the ground. “I believe,” Bane started, turning to the Colonel, “that our mission is over.”

Colonel 333 nodded when his Vox carrier ran over to him. “Sir, message from Command.”

The colonel picked up the receiver. “Yes, sir?... Yes, sir.”

Colonel 333 turned sharply towards the rest of the group, dialing on the Vox-caster’s frequency selector. “All units, fall back, fall back, fall back.”

“What’s going on, Colonel?” Bane asked.

“Unknown, Commissar,” Colonel 333 replied.

The men were already moving when bolter fire echoed across the city. “Colonel!” Bane shouted as they ran out of the palace. “We need a report!”

The colonel turned to his vox carrier. “Operator-

The colonel did not get to finish his order. A loud boom broke his words and for the first time in the longest time, he flinched as something washed over him. The sky split asunder with the mightiest roar. Purple and red energies swirled into a whirlpool of raw magic. Thunder flashed. No further explanation was needed. Anger sparked in 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s mind. Chaos was at play. Hell had come to Skipario.

* - * - *

The Death Worlders moved methodically through the facility. They were cleaning up one of the levels before the chemical bombs were dropped and reached a particularly large door. It was the entrance to a secondary power generator that supplied energy to the orbital bombardment batteries near the capitol building and also the power to the Spiral itself. While the main generators were shut down and the surface was treated to a blackout, the underground sections of Skipario operated far too well. One of the Marines tapped at the control panel and the massive doors started to grind open. With perfect military posture, the team poured their way inside, not expecting and not finding any resistance. “Shut down the generator,” the captain ordered and a Marine raced to complete the task.

Something exploded in the corner. The group dropped into battle positions and quickly changed their assumption. The sound was not that of ordnance but that of a generator firing. There was a second and then a third explosion all in different locations. It wasn’t the sound of generators but those of engines. Knights, hidden from view and from sensors, stepped into sight and opened fire. Stubber rounds bounced off the ceramite armor, leaving no adverse effects, but the large caliber rounds of the battle cannon tore through entire squads. “Company, retreat!”

An entire Space Marine company had no choice but to abandon its objective and run as the Knights screamed. Surprising them even further was a contingent of human screams that joined alongside the horns of battle. Heavy bolter fire rained down the corridor as heavily armored Skiparean Stormtroopers rushed them. “Where did they come from?” a sergeant wondered as they made their way further into the facility. 

Unfortunately for the Death Worlders, the corridors remained large enough for the Knights to follow. What remained of the company wound up at a dead end. “Captain! The augur is detecting a faint radiation signature beyond this wall!”

“This is a door,” the captain noted.

“Yes. Scans indicate that the control console for this access point is behind at the observation post. A misdirection.”

“Open it,” the captain commanded curtly. 

One Death Worlder broke away and ran over to the security room. It wasn’t long before the wall hissed and began to move. The instant a line appeared down the middle, the air from the room was sucked inside. It was a vacuum, sealed by an airtight door. Slowly, the barrier clanked open and the Death Worlders moved inside. “Emperor’s Light,” the Captain breathed out.

Row after row of nuclear warheads stood upright inside the temperature-controlled doorway. “This is a stockpile of Exterminatus-level weapons.”

“That’s correct, Captain.”The Captain whirled around to face a monitor that had flickered on. “I see you met our Anti-Astartes complement. How did they fare? Basic augmentations and heavy weaponry does astounding wonders. I’m Colonel Flashforn.”

“I do not care for your name, heretic. These weapons. This is the reason you were so confident in defying the Light of the Emperor.”

“I cannot deny that they did not at least help with morale. But that is not the reason. No, simple overconfidence. Overconfidence that will doom them. That has doomed them. So, these weapons will serve a different purpose now.”

“Captain!” a Marine screamed.

The footsteps of the Stormtroopers were replaced with the heavy stomps of ceramite. The air was covered with an odious and foul stench. A choir of ghastly wails exploded around the corner and bolter fire erupted in the hallway. Mass reactive rounds flew into the midst of the Company, instantly downing the exposed Marines.

“I thought you were not affiliated with Chaos!” the captain yelled as he dodged a bolter round to the head.

“No, Skipario is not. But they are fools. Our leadership thought that we could resist on all fronts when the Imperium they so denied could not. The majority of the civilians on this planet were against Chaos. Those that were touched in those blighted days were purged. But did they really think they would get us all? We have always worshiped a god, Astartes. What is the difference between your Emperor and ours?”

“You are a fool, heretic. Chaos will consume this world and others in blight and waste. These weapons will help them destroy humanity!”

“Look at me. Do I look blighted? Captain, Chaos is not as you think. They are a force of nature. They are no more evil than your god is good. Don’t you see? You have kept us away from a blissful collective consciousness of power all this time.”

The captain ignored the colonel. They cannot get their hands on this stockpile! the captain thought. “Notify the fleet! Request an Exterminatus mission to the Master Colonel on my authorization!”

“Fleet, this is Death Worlders’ Fifth Company! Death Guard appearance! The planet has possession of an Exterminatus-level nuclear complement! The Chaos Warband must not be allowed to claim it! Fleet, come in! Captain, I cannot! Communications are blocked!”

“Your signals won’t make it out of here,” Colonel Flashforn remarked. “I would feel apologetic. Even if I worship a different god, you are still the Angels I was taught to love… although, I suppose being from Krieg makes you a different breed automatically.”

“Command! Command!”

* - * - *

The order was given for evacuation. The Death Worlders had already left. They were too valuable to try to stem the corruption that perverted the entire unground of a whole planet. As for the regular Death Korps guardsmen, it was a losing battle. The Death Korps gave their life for a purpose and there was no longer a purpose here. Still, they managed to cull the majority of the heretical population and kill their traitorous Governor, so their objectives were accomplished. All around the walls of the city, transports came and went, carrying their units. The Grenadiers, however, stood on top of the walls. They were the first ones in and were going to be the last to leave, defending the rear of their regiments. 

393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s equipment was freshened. His uniform was given a new coating of protective chemicals. His respirators were replaced. His armor was fixed. A meltagun was issued to him. His grenades were replenished. His hellgun was new. His bayonet was polished. He was even given a standard Lucius Pattern No. 98 Lasgun in case his hellgun broke down. 

This was Chaos they were fighting after all.

A green mist slowly rolled across the horizon, setting off the horrendous sonic wails of the screamers. Heavy stubbers were cocked, Heavy Bolters were racked, and lascannons were primed. Artillery was taken off-world first. These were all they had to use. They were not going to make it out alive, but they had a mission to fight to the last. 910-1021-1776-Mortith looked at 393-1024-0830-Jeneth and nodded. The Company's Vox Master stepped forward as 393-1024-0830-Jeneth knelt. Colonel 333 had left something behind before he departed. The 333rd First Grenadier Unit’s Battle Standard. 

On its dark colors were the symbols of the regiment, the accomplishments of the Grenadier Unit, the skulls of the Imperium, and the Aquilla of the Emperor; this piece of intricately woven fabric usually flew with the Regimental Standard as it was too cumbersome to carry on actual Grenadier operations. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth clasped his hands and the Vox Master put the receiver in front of his face, broadcasting to all units on the channel. “God-Emperor watching over us. Praise be Thy name. Glory to Thy coming kingdom. Our life is Yours to use as You see fit. Hear me now to use us as Your sword, to display us as Your wrath, against Your Archenemy. Bless our aim true so that we may complete our duty, Thy Will, as it is done on Holy Terra. To purge the mutant, the heretic, and the alien. 

Suffering is our prayer. Faith is our armor. In our darkest hour, shower us in Your Grace, in Your Light. In Your name, we fight. We will not falter. We will not fall until our last breath. No mercy, no quarter. Let us, the unforgiven, atone. In death, we dedicate our souls to you. 

Ave Imperator, the Emperor Protects.”

393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s hands made the Sign of the Aquila and he lowered his head further. All across the wall, even through the muffling of their masks, came the response. “Ave, Imperator! The Emperor Protects! Fiat Justicia!”

The lines exploded with fire of all kinds as the first of the Lesser Daemons appeared on the horizon. They were disgusting creatures, cyclopses of rot and decay. Swollen and leaking, these once mortal men were now deformed foot soldiers of plague. With them were swarms of Nuglings, whose incessant giggling could even be heard from their distance. They radiated foul energies and death. From above, the skies seem to react to their appearance. The storms increased in fervor and thunder crashed ever loudly. Its whirlpool-like shape toiled and churned like the inside of a cauldron of filth. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth fired his hellgun into the crowd of Daemons. 

Lasbeams and bolters were absorbed into their bodies as if they were nothing but blanks. Stray shots hit the flies, wasting precious power. However, the Commander did leave them with one more saving grace: all commandeered lascannons that weren’t used to resupply the army itself. Lascannon beams melted through whole groupings of the Warp spawn, but they were running out of ammunition fast, and each shot did not fire nearly fast enough to keep up with the increasing horde. Any living thing that could have possibly survived the dominant Krieg Artillery in the siege surely died to the viruses they carried. The first of the Plaguebearers began to fall. Even their supernatural immunity to pain and damage was unable to stand against concentrated fire for a prolonged period of time. It was then that they started firing back. From behind the lines of the Lesser Daemons came the cultists, men who gave themselves to the Chaos Gods. 

Chaos Spawn. Body and soul, these heretics were now something more than human, or perhaps, something less.

The eight-pointed star of Chaos branded onto their bodies and their banners brought revulsion to 393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s mind. These were no simple traitors. Their new bodies were a symbol of such. He could not understand how men of the Imperium could ever fall to the temptation of those creatures of the Warp. Righteous anger fueled his shots. Some manner of mutant psyker must have started a cult during the siege. Now, these former Skipeans were oozing all manners of death. The bodies strewn on the battlefield before were but melting pots of new viruses and the chemical attacks unleashed on the underground only enhanced their abilities. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth ducked to avoid a bolter.

A message came on the vox. It was from command to all Grenadier ears. The last of the companies were away. Transports would not be returning to pick them up. This would be their last transmission. Duty until death. The vox went silent. The lasguns did not. Death was, after all, both the mission and the goal.

393-1024-0830-Jeneth’s mouth twitched then. Slowly, it morphed into an open smile. That horde was the final nail in his coffin. What was there not to enjoy in the last moments of his life? 393-1024-0830-Jeneth sighed then. He would have preferred to die in a glorious charge instead of a last stand. Imperial Luck, it was, that they would meet a force like this only after it seemed total victory was at hand. If this Imperial Luck continued to play out, this planet would probably be declared lost and an Exterminatus order would be implemented. Still, his work had to have meant something even then.

There was a crack to his left. From the corner of his eye, he could see his captain knocked backward. The man quickly got back up. Another crack. This time he stayed down. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth knelt to check on his captain. The Carapace armor prevented penetration but it caved in his chest. The captain’s breathing labored. “Krieg… stands…” he muttered before his head fell limp.

393-1024-0830-Jeneth took his captain’s fresh powerpacks for himself and stood up. He was in charge of his company now, however, few remained. He turned around to look at the terrain. Empty. Everyone was gone. His head swiveled to survey the oncoming horde. Endless. Entirely acceptable. I am death. I am doom. Death to the enemy. Bring me peace, my Emperor. “Fix bayonets!” 

393-1024-0830-Jeneth slung his hellgun over his right shoulder before grabbing his Lucius from his left. He unsheathed the monoblade dagger from his belt and swiftly attached it to the bayonet lug under the barrel of his rifle. The end would come on their terms and not cowering behind walls as the enemy overwhelmed them. Krieg blood split will be spilled on the battlefield. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth grabbed the 333rd Regiment Battle Standard.“Charge!”

His men reacted instantly to his order, leaping onto the stairway ramps and down the wall. With no regard, they followed the symbol of their Empire and ran into the horde. All across the wall, other Grenadier companies did the same. A spear in one hand and a gun in the other, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth mowed down the cultists, only for them to get back up and charge again. Others that got closer were able to better blow the heads off of one, only to get stabbed by another. Their bodies instantly started to decay and bulge with puss and disease. Even the Grenadiers had to scream in pain as their soul was ripped from their bodies and their mortal flesh devoured. Five thousand men against an insurmountable tide. A thousand died in the first minute.

His and the other Grenadiers’ monoblades cut through flak armor and Carapace armor like butter. It tore through flesh like it was made of air. And yet, even as the bayonets opened wounds, the Daemons and the cultists advanced. They felt no pain. Their faces were twisted into a caricature of ecstasy. When all the suffering in the world was tearing your soul apart, what else was there to be sad about? The wounds leaked death of all kinds. Clearly, bayoneting them wasn’t going to do anything. Perhaps, in the long run, abandoning the lascannons was a bad idea, but they were going to run out of ammunition eventually, so it still all made sense. 

The storms above thickened still. Acid rain started to pour around the capital. It was green like everything else. At first, it was only atop the entrance to the underground. Slowly but surely it was expanding in size. If it reached any survivors, it would melt their respirator tubes and they would die. But it was likely for them all to die before then anyway. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth missed the resounding thuds of artillery. His rifle would have to suffice.

But the Daemons would not be affected by the acid rain. They were made of the stuff and they reveled in it, experiencing impossible joy in it. The Daemons and the cultists were not affected. Neither were the Death Guard that were slowly progressing towards their location. Impossible, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought. Traitor legions? How did they get past the fleet in orbit? Krieg guardsmen weren’t built to think, but even he could piece together what happened, roughly and crudely. Were they here all along? How much of this siege was their doing then?

There wasn’t much red-hot rage within the Grenadiers as they noticed the Death Guard, but rather cold hatred. These traitors represented the height of heretical behavior and the lowest points humanity could go to fulfill their greed. They were entirely steeped in the Plague Lord’s essence and were rotting away eternally within their grotesque shells. Their very essence the epitome of all that vile Chaos God stands for. Entire cycles of life and death played out in their grossly misshapen body. An eternal link between decay and growth. Ceaselessly toiling and churning. The anti-stagnant. It wasn’t hard to understand the incomprehension the Krieg felt at the Death Guard’s loyalty to Chaos then.

There was a rumble further in the horde, vibrating the ground. At first, it was only a shadowy outline. Then it came into the light. A creature towering over all others. Some manner of beast, sporting tentacles. It laughed and squealed and squelched. It didn’t move as it did slither. The miasma was noticeably thicker around it. Distracted by the repulsive sight, 393-1024-0830-Jeneth was thrown to the ground by a cultist.

The cultist raised his plaguesword. The Warp Storm crackled. A bolt of lightning pierced from the sky. Pain. A golden light. Gott Imperator mi Seele schut.

Then it all went black.

• Victory, as the galaxy burns. Victory, as the Imperium rots around us. Victory, as humanity rages against the dying of the light. Victory…

Chapter Text

• The sky tore open and we weren’t alone anymore. But the sudden light after being in the dark for so long can be blinding. And our eyes certainly hurt.

It begins with a backstreet alley in Manhattan, New York. The roads that were connected to this alley were dark, untouched by the unlit lamps inside the buildings that lined the street, nor the moonlight. The only major source of light was the one working lamp over a paint-chipped metal door inside the alley. Of the few people that might have chosen to traverse the particular two roads on either side of that alleyway that night, even less chose to notice the cars that stopped there, and less upon that were there long enough to consider it a pattern. They didn’t even think to question the suitcases or the special valet services. It was New York, after all. Many stranger things had happened. Once it was a point of personal pride. Now, it felt almost like a burden.

A car slowed to a stop. If there would be something to draw the attention of others, it would be the standard of vehicle every party arrived in; most of them were high-end and expensive luxury models. For this particular car, the darkness did well in hiding the brand, but so did its color. It was black, but not pitch black. Rather, it was a sleek and glossy black. The silver wheels gleamed under the moonlight, but it was a dull glow. Its lights were piercing and its shape was sharp. The car here was a 2012 Merecedes-Benz E-class. The engine purred audibly. 

The door opened and a man in a suit and a short man bun tied behind his head stepped out. His head swiveled left and right before focusing on the alleyway as two other men stepped up to greet him. These newcomers sported turtlenecks and wore a face scarf to cover their noses and mouths. It was a warm 73 degrees, even at night, so the outfit was a little uncomfortable. The masked men were in the shadows to avoid drawing attention to their choice of clothing. The man from the car closed the door and stood to face them. “Name?” one of the masked men asked.

“Percy Ranger,” was the reply.

Percy removed sunglasses from his face, revealing green eyes. He sniffed and opened his mouth as he brought his hand up to his mustache and dragged his fingers down to his pointed chin. “Reservation?” the other man asked.

“Evans,” Percy responded, tugging at the collar of the hoodie. “Jane Evans, party of five. So what do I call you boys then?”

“Sentry,” one man said as the other flipped through a clipboard of paper. “He’s Sentinel.”

Sentinel looked up and nodded. Percy scoffed in amusement. “Yeah, yeah,” Sentry said. “Protocol and whatnot. Security and all. You think it’s fun wearing this in this weather? I didn’t come up with the damn thing, but I get paid to keep my mouth shut. I would’ve been fine with a tee. Everyone’s carrying these days anyway, with the Incident and all, so I wouldn’t be too suspicious, especially if they can’t see. 

Ah, whatever. You won’t be talking much to us anyway. You military?”

“Ex. You?”

“Army. Army?”

“Corporal, USMC retired.”

“Ah, damn jarhead,” Sentry joked. “Look awfully young though.”

“Got out this year, actually,” Percy revealed. “Just took my eight years and left. Found a job in the private sector.”

“Oh yeah, it certainly pays better,” Sentinel chimed in. “Sergeant, Army retired. Found you guys. Where’s the card?”

Percy reached into his cargo shorts and took out a slim card. It looked like any other credit card, though something that might be reserved for the rich. If one looked closer, however, they would notice that there was nothing on there, no security code or card number, to mark it as such. It was a black plastic card with a white band, words in gold lettering, and details outlined in red. All very fancy. Percy handed it to Sentinel, who nodded at Sentry and walked back into the alley, disappearing through the door. “It’s a pretty expensive entrance fee,” Percy remarked.

“It’s a pretty special auction,” Sentry replied.

“Well, by luck, a pretty special thing happened only two months ago,” Percy countered, to which Sentry grunted in agreement. “Be honest, what’s your name?” Percy tried.

“Hm. James.”

“Yeah,” Percy said. “Sentry’s better.”

“Jackass!” James barked.

They both laughed as Sentinel came back. He raised an eyebrow at the two as he handed an entrance pass to Percy. “Bonding already, huh? Alright. All five million accounted for. Welcome to the party.”

“Finally.”

Percy nodded through the tinted windows of the Mercedes. The rear passenger side door opened. Sentinel whistled. “Wow, he’s tall.”

“Chaz,” Percy introduced.

Chaz glanced at the two guards and nodded at Percy. He walked over to the driver's side door and stood on the right of it, near the trunk. Chaz crossed his arms in front of him, which only accentuated his form. He was indeed a tall man, standing at around six foot five and looking like he weighed around two hundred and fifty pounds. His black, greying hair wasn’t cut but instead formed into somewhat unwinding dreads that hung to his shoulders. The man was muscular, hulking even, and was certainly an intimidating sight, even for these experienced soldiers. “He’s also military?” James asked.

“No, not at all.”

“Then why’s he doing work as a guard?” Sentinel asked. He turned to Chaz. “Why are you doing security work? You should be in the ring, earn some money and some fame, my god.”

Chaz grinned, barring his teeth like a wild animal challenging another. “Why? You want to fight me in the ring, eh? I’ll fight you.” 

“Sheesh, alright,” Sentinel said. “Do what you want.”

The car’s engine shut off. The driver’s door finally opened, revealing a young woman, around her early twenties. She had long golden blond hair that reached to her lower back. On her eyes, she donned round-rimmed glasses that seem to bend the light from her green eyes. The two guards couldn’t help but flicker their eyes for a moment toward her chest. Indeed, she was quite well endowed. She threw the keys at James, her stare icy. “Don’t scratch it,” she warned.

James raised his hand in a gesture of compliance. Percy turned around crisply and walked over to the driver’s side passenger door. He looked left and right before grabbing the handle and pulling. Chaz uncrossed his arms, his head also on a swivel. Percy opened the door all the way and Chaz turned to help the passenger out. “Ah, so it’s time.”

It was a woman in her mid-thirties, with black hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a suit, they all were. James raised an eyebrow when Chaz reached an arm under her legs and behind her to lift her. “Uh?” he let out.

Percy glanced at James and quickly flicked his head to the trunk, where the younger woman was in the process of lifting out a wheelchair. “Oh,” James murmured. “I see.”

“Thank you, Michelle,” the older woman said as she was gently put into the chair.

“No problem, Madame,” Michelle responded.

“Alright then. I’m sure you can find the door yourselves. Go right ahead,” James said as he pointed the way.

James then entered the driver’s seat and eyed the steering wheel, whistling with admiration. He glanced over at Sentinel who rolled his eyes. “What?” James asked crossly.

“You’ve driven so many fucking luxury cars today. That’s what this day’s fucking for.” 

“Yeah, man, but this car’s fucking awesome,” James hushed. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Just drive the damn thing. And don’t scratch it,” Sentinel mocked. 

James flipped Sentinel the bird and started the engine. By this point, the four-person group had made their way to the light, revealing a rusty metal door with no visible locks. There was, however,  a blinking camera to the top right and Percy held up the card. The door clicked and parted. Percy swung it open. They were greeted inside a very cramped room by two women, also in masks, only, they were dressed in suits. “Welcome. You must be the Evans party. Please, hand over your suitcase.” 

Michelle walked forward and wheeled the suitcase over. “Thank you. Please step through the metal detector.”

The group made their way through the metal detector with little problem, a process which Jane was spared due to her wheelchair. “Metal implants in my legs, dear,” Jane had stated.

Once the suitcase was confirmed clean, the group was given four key cards. “Your suite is ready for you, Miss Evans.”

They entered a room marked as a janitorial closet and the two women locked the door behind them; one of them gave the group a slight nod as the door closed. A dim light was all there was to illuminate the cramped chamber, revealing in its dimness three storage shelves, all packed with cleaning supplies. It was unassuming, and if the room were to be any smaller quite uncomfortable, that all uninformed persons would not bat a second glance towards it. Percy walked forward, reached his hand into the depths of the shadows, and felt around the walls. The third brick from the upper left corner, then down one. He pushed and it pressed backward. The lights flickered as an audible hum penetrated the room. Slowly, the roof caved in onto them just as the floor descended. The entire room was an elevator.

“Ohh,” Jane let out appreciatively.

* - * - *

Union Allied Construction had quickly risen as a major player in the construction industry after the Incident had seen to it that billions of dollars in grants, donations, and funding were poured into New York City to help with reconstruction and reimbursement. Jumping at the clear chance of investment, the new start-up founded by one relatively unknown Wilson Grant Fisk, created barely a month after the invasion, had managed to prove their ability as a contender from the rest by building a hotel and casino in under three months. The company had been focusing on rebuilding, specifically, the Hell’s Kitchen area, but wanted to spread its roots to the rest of New York as well. In a play to keep money circulating in the city, as well as build their own brand further, they decided on creating a tourist attraction. Some activists with still half a mind to protest during the aftermath of the damage had called them capitalist mongerers, profiting off the harm and damage, though they were readily ignored by the suffering masses that greatly appreciated the intervention. In the end, it was The Lucky Ace Hotel and Casino was on its grand opening night. Reservations were full as people came flocking in from all over the globe, either to either spend their money on luxury and extravagance or show off their philanthropy to the City of New York after the largest attack on American soil since 9/11. Coming out of a 2011 Ferrari 458 Italia, two men dressed in black suits made their way through the entrance, giving away the key to an extremely busy valet service. Inside the golden-lit lobby, the duo walked over to the front desk.

To either side of the receptionist, below the hanging chandelier, which was directly in front of the entrance, were two sets of stairs leading up to the ‘first floor’, breaking American tradition. Behind the receptionist's booth, which served as a security office as well, and a step down was the electronics section of the casino, holding slot machines and similar. Behind even that was an outdoor section, holding a fireplace and a pool. On the so-called first floor was where the manned tables of the casino were, tucked behind the dining area, which curved around the stairs all the way to the glass pane windows. On the third floor, which was the ‘second floor’ was where the rooms began. One of the pair glanced to the right, where the room to the occupied ballroom lay. “Hi!” he said. “Room under the name of Yewdril. Y-e-w-d-r-i-l.”

The receptionist typed into her computer. “Hm, okay, Michael?”

“Yup,” Michael replied, still smiling. “Michael Yewdril. And this is my brother, Rowan. Nice to meet you, uh, Jill.”

Jill glanced at Rowan and frowned. Rowan blinked back at her noncommittal and jerked his head.“Uh-huh,” Jill responded. “I have you both for a double queen, hm, one night?”

“That’s right,” Michael said.

“Hi!” another receptionist said, coming up. She whispered something to Jill and Jill left. The new receptionist popped her lips and continued typing where Jill left off. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Our boss needed her. Okay, one night, two beds…”

She reached to her right and grabbed two cards and their respective sleeves. After keying the room to the cards, she handed the keys over. “Enjoy your stay!”

Michael smiled, his gaze sliding over to the ballroom floor where Jill entered. “Of course.”

Michael and Rowan made their way to the elevators on the left and Michael looked at his cards. “Fifth floor,” he said.

Rowan punched the number in. Neither brother said anything, mindlessly listening to the muzak playing in the background until their floor. Before the elevator doors was a glass foyer with a feet mat, sofas, a vending machine, and a table. “Wow,” Michael whistled and scrubbed his soles on the mat. 

Rowan ignored the mat and the two stepped into the red-carpeted hallway. They quickly arrived at their room and Michael pressed a button on his watch. It clicked, whirred, and went silent. “You’re okay, Fredric,” Michael said, and Fredrick collapsed. Michael carried the heavily panting Fredrick over to the bed and situated him down. “Are you sure you can continue this without your suit, man?”

“I’m fine. Get off me, I can do this.”

“Do what, man? You nearly died on the way up here!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m serious. You’re way too fucking shot here to continue, man.”

“Look, it’s in the van, right? I set the charges up here, I get to the van, and I’m good, right?” 

“Yeah, if you can make it there.”

Fredric sat up and shoved Michael aside. “Look, Doorman, let me do what I have to do, right? Right.”

Michael pursed his lips and looked around. “Listen, if you collapse out there-”

“Fuck off, shitface. Jesus, DeMarr, calm yourself down.”

DeMarr blinked. “Hey.”

“Yeah, yeah, Doorman. No revealing your secret identity.”

“Look, at least take a booster shot.”

Fredric glared at DeMarr and reached over to the suitcase, unzipping it open and rummaging through the case. Underneath the clothes, he raised the false cover and pulled out a glass cylinder capped off with silver bands. Inside the cylinder were three tubes, each filled with a different colored liquid. Red, blue, and green. Fredric pressed one end against his neck and pushed on the flat plunger on the other end. Three hypodermic needles jammed themselves into his body and flushed the vials clean. Fredric blinked rapidly, his mouth working silent sounds. He swallowed, his body twitching a few times before the vial finally fell out of his locked grip. “Hooo… That’s more like it.”

“You good?” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re good.” 

“Man, those mood relaxants turn you into a different person, man.”

“Yeah, well, aggression’s kinda what happens when your brain’s got holes in it.”

DeMarr backed away from Fredric, sitting himself down on the opposite bed. He pulled up the suitcase next to him, opened it up fully, and took a second to take everything in. Underneath the clothes and the false cover was a small arsenal of explosives, the tools they would need for their end of the mission. There were decoy charges, gas bombs, and a single unassuming cylindrical can with no label. The chemical charges consisted of 3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate gas bombs. These could incapacitate and cause delirium, enough to create a panic and to knock some people out, but no one was going to die. Hopefully , DeMarr thought. The four decoy charges would cause a big pop, a commotion, and maybe some damage, but nothing too bad. DeMarr stared at the cylinder can of thermite.

“So,” DeMarr started, “are you handling the charges or am-”
Fredric glanced at DeMarr’s face and blinked, giving him a wry smile. “I’m handling the charges, Doorman.”
DeMarr swallowed. “You sure? You can barely walk, man.”
Fredric gave a dismissive wave. “I got it under control.”
DeMarr exhaled. “I mean, alright man.”
“There we go. Pass me my cane?”
DeMarr reached underneath the thermite, his hands hesitating and coated in goosebumps. He pulled out a curved metal stick, meant to seemingly bend to one’s hand. Holding it up and out, DeMarr pressed a small button on the edge of the handle. A long pole of stainless steel shot out of the handle, the jolt of it catching DeMarr a tad bit off guard. DeMarr tossed the cane a bit into the air, catching it by the neck, and handing its handle first to Fredric, who had propped himself onto the bed. Fredric shifted himself so that he was sitting, facing DeMarr, and slowly lifted himself with the metal cane. He wobbled a bit, his legs obviously weak, but without the strain DeMarr saw him walking in with. “Why didn’t you just walk in with it? It could’ve been like part of the disguise or something?”
“Well,” Fredric replied, “when shit goes sideways, they’re probably going to figure out very quickly we had a role in it. But, they’ll only know us from the little interaction we had at the front desk. They’ll be looking for an able-bodied man, not a cripple.”
“Hm, I guess… Man, how the fuck did that lady buy we were brothers? We’re not even close to the same race.”
“She didn’t. Hence why they’re going to be looking for us. And if she did buy that a pale white guy from Los Angeles and a black guy from Detroit were siblings, then she brings a whole new meaning to ‘I don’t see race.’”

Fredric went into the suitcase and pulled out an inane-looking fishing hat. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, placing it along with his slacks and suit jacket into the suitcase. In place of his two-piece suit, he wore a baggy sweater and some blue jeans. “Wow,” DeMarr commented. “You really have that ‘old man trying to be young’ feel to you. Man, the face mask really works.”

On Fredric’s face, apart from the fishing hat that shadowed his features, was a synthetic cover made from, among other things, boiled pig feet. He was bald, but now he had wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead, and his cheeks had a droop. “But, man,” DeMarr continued. “The mustache is just extra.”

Fredric sat back down on the bed, giving his legs a bit of rest. He looked back at the bag as DeMarr pulled out a black piece of fabric. “Ah,” Fredric chuckled. “The dreaded crime-fighting cowl. You’re like a real-life Batman.”
“You’re just jealous that it’s cool as fuck.”
“I’m more of an Iron Man guy myself anyway,” Fredrick commented, getting a raised eyebrow from DeMarr. Fredric’s eyes narrowed a fraction at this display and DeMarr looked away. “Huh… Well, whatever, ‘Doorman’”
“What would you have come up with?”
“Fair. Please don’t tell me you brought the whole suit.”
“Man, I was tempted, but couldn’t fit the cape in the bag.”
“Good, because I don’t think a big, white cloak is our definition of stealthy.”
DeMarr took the piece of fabric and pulled it over his head. It was a black mask, completely covering his face, save for two white diamonds over the eyes. “I kinda like it with the rest of the suit on, to be honest,” Fredric said.
“Well, today's your lucky day, Fredric. You get to go full badass, and I’m stuck only wearing my helmet and walking around like an Agent 47 reject.”
Fredric blinked. “Who?”

“Uh, never mind.”

“Relax, Doorman. You’re not meant to stand out anyway.”
“But it’s the, like, the psychological effect, man, you know what I mean? To be a badass, you gotta feel like one.”
“Yeah sure, because you have so much experience in being a badass. Doorman, I’m walking down the hall to the elevator and punching it to the parking lot. Ooh, real badass. Calm down, hotshot.”
Despite the mask, DeMarr’s exasperation was still very much visible. He sighed, adjusting the mask. He pulled out two black gloves from his pockets, pulling each one on as Fredric stood back up, hobbling over to the suitcase and pulled out a small cardboard pole and the thermite charge, before closing and zipping up the suitcase, and pulling it off the bed. “Open that up and lets review the map one more time.”
Fredric handed the cardboard container to DeMarr and DeMarr did as instructed, unscrewing the top, and dumping out a paper roll, before then unfolding it on the bed where the suitcase just was. A large map lay in front of them, saturated with colored lines and measurements. Fredric placed the thermite charge on the bed behind him before returning to the map. “You know where to go, right?” Fredric asked. 

“Of course.”

“Great. Once I plant the charges where they need to be, I get down, out from this side exit, and make my way to the van where I’ll suit up and wait for the signal. You’ll lead the rest of the group this way.”Fredric reached his free hand into his right pocket, pulling out a small computer chip with wires, a button, and an antenna. “When that signal comes, I’m gonna use this to set all the charges off. You better be nowhere near any of them, or else it’ll fuck this up in a multitude of ways. Now, run me down on what you’re doing.”
DeMarr shifted to face the map, scanning it over. “Man, it’s simple, right? I just go down these stairs, walk down to the lobby, get over to this blindspot, and buzz myself into the ballroom. I reach this point, and I phase through into the elevator shaft. From there, I simply drop down and wait on the elevator ceiling. Then I wait till we roll.” 

“Perfect. Seems we got all our shit down. You ready? We’re on the clock.”
DeMarr adjusted his mask one more time and exhaled. “Yeah. Ready.”
“Good.”
Fredric turned back around again, picking up the thermite charge and sitting down, letting the cane rest against his knee as he primed it. The charge blinked with activity, coming to life, before letting off a steady beep. “Jesus fuck,” DeMarr said.
“Relax. The thing isn’t going to detonate until I give it the say-so.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about, what if you press the button in your pocket or something?”
“Isn’t gonna happen, and if it went off right now, I’d be the one fucked, not you.”
“I don’t wanna tell gramps that you got charred to death by our own bomb though.”
Fredrics's gaze shot back up at DeMarr. He held his stare for a few moments and DeMarr flinched at a sudden feeling of hostility before it was gone. Fredric sighed; it was his turn now to be exasperated. Fredric placed the thermite charge back on the bed before hobbling over to the opposite wall. It was the only thing separating them from the room next to them.
“Welp, Doorman, time to live up to your name.”
DeMarr sighed and got up, walking over to the wall. He leaned his back up against it, anchoring himself securely, and faced Fredric. Fredric got the suitcase ready and stood right in front of DeMarr. “You ready?”
DeMarr closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, before opening them again. “We ready.”
“Alright. Don’t get caught. Stay undetected. Keep it together. Good luck.”

DeMarr nodded. With that, Fredric ducked himself, and, as if walking through a door, hobbled right into DeMarr. But instead of simply just bumping into him, Fredric phased through, as if DeMarr, and by extension, the wall behind him, was nothing more than an illusion. To Fredric, it was like briefly walking through a realm of gray, monotone static; a world pulsing white with black bubbles floating all around him. He was nary in that realm of a physical hangover for more than a second and the world opened up to reveal the neighboring room. He turned around to look at what he had passed through. A glowing white mark bubbled the wall, shifting between the shape of an exploding star and a bullet hole in a glass pane. Black bubbles emanated from the hole, evaporating as quickly as they appeared. Fredric exhaled, and lifted his cane, banging it against the wall twice.

 The portal disappeared from the wall, all evidence that Fredric had just traveled through a solid object entirely gone. “I suppose it is a fitting name,” Fredric said to himself, hobbling over to the door of this new room. 

Opening the door, he hunched his back, pulling down the cap so it would obscure his face. He opened the door and glanced up, eyes hidden, at the camera at the end of the hall, appearing on the screens as nothing more than a somewhat elderly man, going out on a stroll. Closing the door behind him, Fredric set out. Back in their original room, DeMarr pulled himself from the wall. He sighed; he acknowledged that his ability to be an interdimensional human door was quite useful, but it was never a pleasant feeling when someone used this ability in proxy. Nor did he like the feeling of being alone in a small room with a ticking thermite charge. Shaking off the goosebumps and shivering the feeling of a hole in his body away, DeMarr hastily walked over to the other wall and placed his hand upon it. When he was young, he only had what he called the ‘pocket door ability’. He was worried that was all that he would get, but as he grew, his powers did as well. 

Where DeMarr’s hand was, a rectangle suddenly spawned, starting out as small as his hand before, in half a second, becoming the size of a full doorway, revealing the next room over. The blank space was surrounded by a familiar white frame that bubbled with black evaporating pellets. Over the doorway itself was a shimmering sheen, as if there was a layer of liquid frost. DeMarr glanced around, nodding to himself once he saw that it was clear. The thin saran wrap layer disappeared and DeMarr stepped through, and let the wormhole close behind him, shutting himself off from the thermite. He breathed a sigh of relief, before recollecting himself; he had to show everyone what he was made of. With a few hops in place to get his blood flowing and hype himself up, he began to walk toward the next room. Placing his hand on the wall once more, he furrowed his brows in concentration, spreading his static senses to the surrounding area, and placed a point on the three-dimensional mental map to his memory of the blueprints. Walking through, DeMarr found himself inside the emergency stairwell.
Fredric made his way down the hallway, making sure to keep his back arched and his head down. This slowed his pace and made him feel somewhat demeaned, but it was either that or his identity being plastered across every underground hit channel on the East Coast once this was over. And while he was from the West, he did not need that stress in his life. Fredric eventually reached his first target: a small little room, holding the ice machine for the floor. Despite it being exposed and open, it seemed whoever was in charge of security camera placement forgot this room existed, or wanted to cut corners. When he entered, his posture immediately straightened, and he quickened his pace, hastily hobbling over to the side of the ice machine. Leaning his head, he peered down the dark space between the machine and the wall. Opening the suitcase, he pulled one of the decoy charges, and, priming it, slid it in between. Any noise would be covered up by the hum of the machine. 

Turning around, he looked up at the wall opposite the ice machine, holding the cover of a large vent. Fredric smirked. That smile quickly disappeared when Fredric looked down and very quickly realized there was a problem he’d failed to consider. To properly reach the vent, he would have to move a chair from the corner of the room, and stand on it to unscrew the vent cover, plant the chemical charge, and then re-screw the cover back on. Fredric gritted his teeth together. A loss of balance, or one of his legs giving out could blow his cover, or even worse, result in injury. If he hit his head against the linoleum floor, he probably wouldn’t have the strength to get up, and either be found out, die on the floor, or, in the worse case, ruin the whole operation. But there was no other way around it. “Fuck.” 

With little choice, Fredric moved the chair underneath the grate, and, with a little hesitation, stepped and pulled himself onto it. The boosters were helping; instead of a burning stabbing pain, all he felt was a stinging icy pain, although that was combined with the nigh omnipresent fatigue and weakness. Grunting, Fredric ignored the pain, forcing himself up to stand and balance on the chair. The pain got worse the longer he exerted himself. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a small flathead screwdriver, slowly unscrewing the screws until the grate popped off. Bending over and carefully leaning it against his quivering legs, he then opened the suitcase. Taking out the first chemical charge, he primed it and slid it down the vent, watching it as it skidded into the darkness. Bending down again, he picked up the grate, and slowly screwed it back on. After the final screw was on, he turned, and slowly let himself off the chair.

He stepped down and immediately regretted every action he ever took as he wobbled and lost balance. Pain shot up from his legs to his spine and he slammed his cane down into the floor to hold himself upright. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain behind his eyes and he breathed deeply, calming down and feeling numb. A door opened down the hall and Fredric inhaled sharply, standing up. “Stupid machine,” he muttered, slapping his cane against the ice machine. “Young man,” he said in a hastily improvised Southern accent as he turned around, “care to help me out?”

The man, with a scantily dressed woman with more exposed than hidden at his arm, glanced over, gave an awkward and wry smile, and quickly walked away with the girl in tow. The girl giggled and glanced back. Fredric shook his head. He waved his hand in a noncommittal rude gesture and muttered something incomprehensible but audible. Once the pair was out of sight, Fredric sat down on the chair and breathed. He closed his eyes and leaned back, laughing quietly as he did sometimes. The pain was bearable now. He needed to push through. With one final sigh, Fredric lifted himself.

* - * - *

DeMarr slowly moved down the stairwell, carefully listening for any sort of echo or movement. Twenty seconds into his task and he was already on edge. There weren’t many floors until he reached his next checkpoint but the emptiness of the space was jarring. Still, there was no one there and DeMarr began to ease up, the empty stairwell telling him that maybe this wouldn’t be as challenging as it was cracked up to be. But that sentiment very, very quickly changed when he reached the first floor. Instead of the suffocating emptiness of the stairwell that at least provided some measure of comfort in the loneliness, he was faced down with a semi-packed two-level hotel lobby and casino. The sudden influx of noise was quite the experience; tourists, rich tourists, and New York natives alike bustled on the floor like ants, eating overpriced hotel food, making beelines for the bathroom, chatting up the opposite sex at the bar, and experiencing every emotion known to man at the slot machines and tables. Workers and staff members ran around, preoccupied with whatever task management wasn’t paying them nearly enough to fulfill. However, most people here were small fry; easy to sneak around, and even if he was seen, they’d probably think that DeMarr was just some performer and that the mask was part of his act. 

What was most concerning to DeMarr was the guard rotation. The guards around the machines, the tables, and the lobby were easily spotted, indicated by their white suits and red shirts and the holsters on their hips. They were vigilant, heads on a constant swivel behind their Oakleys. Sneaking past them would not be an easy task, and any drunk or wreck who pushed in one too many chips into the pot might spot him and raise hell if they thought he was trying something. DeMarr sucked in a breath through his teeth and exhaled. Resolving himself, he quickly walked over and ducked behind a plant display that was next to the stairwell door. He tensed up again, sweat coating his hands, making his gloves uncomfortable to wear, and ran the plan over and over ahead in his head to calm down. He would have to get down the grand staircase to the ground floor and walk to the left and enter the ballroom. The sheer amount of tourists of vice and sin that DeMarr had to make his way past left him perturbed.
The only real way he could do this was if he simply walked down there with the confidence that all of these rich, drunken bigwigs and tourists had: the confidence of the self-righteous with the right to be there. It wasn’t too far-fetched; besides his mask, DeMarr was dressed in the same manner as the rest. He straightened his tie, raised his chin, and with one final breath, marched past the dining tables and started toward the staircase. Most people didn’t notice him. Those that did, didn’t really seem to care; it appeared the confidence trick was working. Either that or they just didn’t fully take in what they saw. It was upon his final approach to the steps that a wrench was thrown into his plans. A man, seemingly drunk and very angry at Lady Luck’s abandonment of him at the poker tables, had walked straight into his path. 

The man wasn’t very tall, somewhat portly, and didn’t impose much of a physical threat. However, his drunken stupor and his possible temper posed a problem and made this man a potential nuke in DeMarr’s plan. DeMarr nodded at the man and tried to sidestep him, but the man drunkenly lurched, blocking DeMarr’s path. “What’s…the deal with tha fuggin’ maskkkk…you annnn ugly fucker or…what…answer meeeee, dumbass…”
The drunk smelled of alcohol, slobbering and slurring over his words. He held a certain spite with each bit of verbal diarrhea that spilled out that clearly spelled violence if DeMarr didn’t do the right thing. He could take his own in a fistfight, but the ensuing commotion would attract guards. That was not acceptable. “Well, man,” DeMarr began, trying to subtly sidestep the man, “it’s, yeah, it’s a mask, you know? To cover my face. The New York attack, during the battle-”
“D-durin’ da New York attack ya what…spit it out…fuggin pussy…”
“I got hit. Yeah, yeah, man, I got hit in the face with falling debris while getting out of my office building. Was able to save a lot of lives that day, but… but my face was left fucked. Went through reconstruction surgery, man. The mask is meant to help my face better recover.”
“Oh…I s-see…m-my brother gat killed durin’ New York…I couldn’t get ta him in time, was stuck on the subway…his apartment got demolished by some fuggin’ aliens…he had cancer, too sick to get outta bed…”
“Oh…I’m sorry to hear about tha-”
“I god all his money. He was a wealthy guy, my brotha. Let me stay wit’ him, helped me outta debt… was gettin’ me b-b-ack on mah feet… than he gat killed and I wasn’t there to get him…”
“That’s, uh, yeah, that’s awful man.”
“Yeah…yeah…but I god all his money…and I didn know wat to do…so I just bought some drinks and I went here and I…and I…oh god…I-I blew all it…all my brother’s money… everythin’ he gave me…it’s all gone…”
The man seemingly sobered up a little bit. The light of realization sparked in his eyes. The spite he had in his voice was replaced with a regret that was reserved for those who betrayed their family. His voice broke and tears began to roll down his face. DeMarr could tell the was trying desperately to hold it together, but the drinks and the weight of his actions pressed too heavily against his emotional barrier and the gambler broke down. The anger had burned away what was left of his bravado and he was left with less energy than before. The strength left his body. He fell forward, grabbing onto DeMarr’s suit, and started sobbing into his shoulder. DeMarr couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man and raised his arms to hug him, letting him cry.

DeMarr wasn’t there in New York when it happened. He had friends, however, who were. This sadness, this nihilistic attitude, and the anger that this man possessed were found to varying degrees across all those that DeMarr talked to after the event. He had seen this before, felt it before, one, a decade ago. And while reports only counted 77 fatalities, they didn’t count the aftermath. Those hospitalized due to injuries from the battle. The scars on their body but also in their hearts. They were forgotten. The event was too big for anyone to care about the individual. 

People celebrated the Avengers and conspired about the aliens, and the survivors were just left to pick up the pieces. And so a sight of a broken man, who didn’t know how, wasn’t particularly uncommon anymore. The man took a second to regain himself, wiping the slobber and tears from his face in a futile effort. “I mean…what ya did durin’ New York, you…you wa doin’ God’s work… need more people like you, man…with da’ mask, you’re…you’re a goddamn superhero.”
The man, giving one drunken pat on DeMarr’s now somewhat damp shoulder, stumbled off, undoubtedly heading to the bar to drown out his newly returned sorrow. DeMarr took a second. He didn’t know why, but being thanked by a man so broken for something he didn’t actually do left DeMarr with a desire to be what that man thought he was. And it was that thought that reminded DeMarr of his mission. DeMarr quickly walked down the stairs, drawing a few confused looks, but ultimately unbothered. Once he made it to the ground floor, he made a beeline for his go line, a position where he could get through unseen. He was going to make it. “Hey! What’s with the mask?”

Fuck! DeMarr turned around to see one of the guards walking toward him.

“I work here!”

DeMarr stopped and cursed himself. I work here? he thought. What the fuck?

The guard walked up to him and stopped short. “You work here?”

“Yes, I, uh, Mephisto. Mephisto the Magician. I’m here to-”

The guard waved his hand, giving DeMarr a snarky chuckle. “Mephisto? This ain’t some third-rate inn, you-” The guard stopped and narrowed his eyes. He looked DeMarr up and down. “You’re one of Mister Fisk’s, aren’t you?”

Fisk? Shit, uh… Right! “Yes,” DeMarr replied. He straightened. “So you know. If you know, then you’d let me be. I’m very late. So if you could guide me?”

The guard studied him with suspicion but shrugged. “Sure.” DeMarr exhaled a sigh of relief. “But prove it to me.”

“What? Prove what?”

“You’re wearing a costume-... Mask. You must be someone special, huh? One of those… powered people, right?”

“I-”

“Show me. Prove to me you’re the ‘Mephisto the Magician’. Do a trick right now, and if I’m not as shocked as the Roman soldier at the tomb on the third day, then I’m bringing your ass straight to a holding cell.”
“Man, man, t-this is absurd, I-”
The guard wouldn’t budge, staring daggers at DeMarr. DeMarr thought for a second and reached into his pocket, and pulled out the pen he had used earlier. “You see this pen? I’m going to make it disappear.”
“This better be no Dark Knight Joker bullshit, fucko.”
“Aw, man, I loved that- oh no no, don’t worry, it isn’t. Besides, I ain’t strong enough to take you. But it is kind of…inspired off that movie. Now, I am going to make this pen… disappear. But not permanently.”
“Anyone can do that, fucker. It’s magician trick one-oh-one.”
“Oh, anyone can, but not how the great Mephisto does it. Now, observe!”
DeMarr took the pen, waving it in front of the face of the guard. However, as he did this, he took his other hand, and subtly pointed it at the guard’s pocket, creating a tiny portal. Holding the portal open, DeMarr took the pen, and without any hesitation, jammed it into his eye, it seemingly sliding right in and through his head. However, when DeMarr pulled his hand back, his eye was completely fine. It seemed as if the pen had just disappeared. “Well, no fucking way.”
“Check your pocket.”
The guard took his eyes off DeMarr for a second, checking his pockets to see if DeMarr was bullshitting. However, he wasn’t as the guard, in awe, pulled out the same exact pen from his pocket. His eyes shot back up, pure shock coloring his formerly stoic face. “How the fuck did you? Shit, man, I wasn’t even being serious, I, I mean, didn’t even know Mister Fisk had- wow, you’re actually one of those-”

“You’ve seen enough. Let me in.”

The guard hesitated but relented, flipping the pen around in his hand in awe. The pair made their way to the ballroom door. The guard nodded at the sentries posted on either side. The one on the left stepped forward to open the door. DeMarr was finally in the ballroom. “I’ll call it in, let him know you’re coming.”

“No!” DeMarr shouted, whirling on the guard.

The guard stepped back, one hand habitually flying to his weapon. “What?”

“That… would not be good.”

The guard paused and gave him an understanding nod. “I heard. He’s… violent, isn’t he?” DeMarr gulped. “Alright, man. Yeah, sure. You just remember me for this favor. I might need a magician in the future… You know what to do, right? I’m sure he told you.”

DeMarr nodded. The guard gave him a nod in return and exited. When the door closed, DeMarr studied the opposite wall. The entire wall was lined with glass panes, showing the starry night sky and the greenhouse garden the hotel had reserved for the wealthier of their clients. They offered many services for those with money, chiefly of which was a rumored secret clubhouse. Members, it was said, were given free access to high-class escorts that the hotel employed themselves, girls which others might have to pay thousands for to even have a conversation. In the center of the wall was a rectangular protrusion that held paintings on each of its three sides. The one that was directly in front of him depicted some sort of a woman. DeMarr didn’t know who it was or what the value of the painting might have been, but he knew at a glance that it certainly wasn’t the type of painting you might put in a kid’s bedroom.

DeMarr walked straight into the secret clubroom. It was well furnished in an almost cliche manner, with red and gold lined sofas, chairs, carpets, et cetera. Bookshelves adorned the walls. However, even this was a front for anyone that might have been snooping. DeMarr stuck his head through the floor and saw his target. The roof of an elevator. Retracting his head and sticking his hand through, a tiny beam of evaporating light shot out, almost unnoticeable to the naked half. Maintaining the laser, he touched the floor beneath him. Another rectangular wormhole opened beneath him. At the same time it did, a portal of similar size opened from directly where his laser made contact with the elevator roof. 

DeMarr then fell in a manner that might not even be accurate to call a fall. After all, the portal had been opened beneath him. And seeing as his axis suddenly changed, he was thrown out from the wall. He had expected it, however, and stopped himself with a small roll. The portal closed behind him as he got off, dusting himself off. “Agh,” he let out.

After he was able to regain his breath and ignore the pain in his back, he sat up and shifted to his knees, kneeling down on the roof of the elevator, before opening a portal through the roof to the inside. Empty. Perfect. DeMarr anchored himself and slowly hung his head upside down inside. To his shock, there were no cameras. Even better. DeMarr lifted his head back out, and brought his legs in first, letting himself fall into the elevator, before closing the doorway behind him. He was in position, and ready to go. With that, he brought up his intercom and pressed a button.

Fredric glanced around at the lobby once the elevator doors opened, slowly limping into the foyer. Turning to the left, he pushed past double glass doors and walked the hall into the parking lot. The visual difference hit him like a truck. Whereas the hotel was bright with grand colors such as gold and red, the parking lot was a concrete prison of dim lights and the open New York air. Scoffing, Fredric started walking to where he parked the van. It was an inconspicuous van to the point that it became suspicious. Large white vans with no windows became somewhat of a symbol of criminal activities, hiding kidnappers, robbers, or even terrorists. But these suspicions did not come about for the guards that patrolled the parking lot. They were normal people who saw the car as a normal car, albeit a little out of place among the sports convertibles and luxury vehicles.

Fredric cracked his neck and unlocked the car doors. He pushed himself up into the driver’s seat and closed the door, throwing his cane to the passenger’s side before climbing into the back of the van and collapsed. He ripped off the false face and took a deep few breaths. The very idea of being so close to his suit had gotten his heart rate up as if just seeing the end and knowing it was just before his reached had burned the booster shot from his system. Gritting his teeth, Fredric pushed himself up and reached to grab a tarp around a stand. There, a yellow and red metal suit hung. Sighing, Fredric grabbed the nearby helmet, which was inside of a wooden box to the side, and pushed his head in. “Voice command, online.”

The helmet blinked and a second later a fully layered H.U.D. projected itself inside. Fredric closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned the armor around. Opening a panel on the bulk, he revealed a wheel and turned it. The armor creaked and hissed and opened up. Fredric stepped inside, letting himself feel the familiar weight of the suit on his shoulders, and unhooked it from the stand. He saw the H.U.D flash as the main suit connected with the helmet, pressuring and linking systems. He grabbed the boots from another box and put them on as the helmet flashed once more. Then came the stabbing pain of needles as a group of thirty-six microsized needles jammed into the base of his skull.

Fredric’s eyes widened and he started to hyperventilate. Another needle entered both his forearms and he calmed down. A static buzz came from the intercom. “We’re green,” Fredric said.

* - * - *

“Hm,” Jane said. “Green.”

The elevator doors slid open and revealed the auditorium floor. It was bustling with activity. Glittering light shone from above, covering the neutral beige walls in gold. The smell of warm food from the open buffet area hit them as they passed the two hulking bodyguards dressed in suits and sunglasses posted next to the elevator door. On the stage, in front of the thick red curtains, were performers. Girls in skirts, stockings, and heels, wearing feathers and bands were dancing to men in women harmonizing their vocals, saxophones, electric violins, double basses, and trumpets. A pianist played in the corner. “Green,” Percy repeated as he wheeled Jane out. “That’s nice.”

“This is certainly something, isn’t it?” Jane commented. 

Below the stage were chairs as you would find inside any usual auditorium. They were bolted to the floor with seats that folded up when not being used, with red velvet seats and red leather backrests. Surrounding the rows of chairs in a semi-circle were white tableclothed round tables, with the buffet tables situated in the midst of them. “Let’s go and mingle, shall we?” Jane asked.

“At the buffet? We’ll have a selection of food and drinks delivered up to our suit, ma’am, perks of our payment.”

“Ah, but the atmosphere, you see,” Jane replied as Percy glanced at the crowd. “Michelle, you go get us some, hm, snacks before we head up, yes?”

Michelle nodded, handing the duty of watching the cases to Chaz. Chaz grunted. The secretary made her way over to one of the buffet tables and started piling it up with easy bites of meat, things like sausages or bacon. “You must have just arrived, lady,” a voice behind her said, and Michelle whirled around, “because I talked to everyone here.” Michelle blinked. “How are you?” Justin Hammer asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?” Michelle asked. “You know, after the whole Stark fiasco?”

It was Justin’s turn to blink as he looked around and spread his arms. He licked his lips and gave her a wide smile. “Are you aware of what you walked into, miss?”

“Right,” Michelle said, giving him a quick and small smile. 

“Besides, the Stark fiasco was the consequence of some incompetent hired help.” He lowered his head and gave her a pointed stare. “You must know.”

Michelle turned around to continue what she was doing. “Of course. Nice to meet you, Mister Hammer.”

Jane blinked. “Shit.”

“Fred,” Chaz whispered.

Nothing came over the comms. Finally, the void of noise turned into an underlying static as Fredric keyed the comm but didn’t speak. “Not my problem,” he said after some time.

“Right,” Jane said after a moment of silence. “Everything’s in place. We’re just on a timer now. Anything else?” Jane asked.

Fredric propped his head on the steering wheel, staring down at the gauges through the lenses with blank eyes. His hands were crossed between his legs and he fingered the detonation switch. A static buzz notified the rest of the group that Fredric had switched channels. “You told him about me.”

“Hm?” Chaz intoned.

“You told him about me.”

“Who?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Chandler. The way he looked at me when I mentioned Iron Man. You told him about me.”

Chaz rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, so what?”

“Fuck you, Charles. How much?”

“Some,” Charles replied. “Enough.”

The comms hissed. “I don’t need his pity,” Fredric growled. “I don’t need him knowing jack shit, period!”

Charles paused. “We got a fucking problem?”

Fredric swallowed and sighed. “Naw, naw, man, just… damn it, if DeMarr starts looking at me like I’m some sort of-”

“Ah, he won’t. Kid’s not going to treat you any different. He hasn’t so far, yeah? Besides, you’re already one crippled mother fucker, so truth or no truth, he’s still going to see your ass fall over, right? He’s bound to wonder why, now he just knows.”

Fredric barked a short laugh. “You asshole,” he said.

“Ain’t gonna change a thing,” Charles reassured.

“Enough,” a voice said. “Focus on the mission. Do not squabble. I do not want to listen to this.”

“Sure, Poker-man,” Charles snarked.

“Miss Evans!” Another voice called out to them as Fredric went silent.

“Mister Hammer. How surprising it is to see you here,” Jane said as Justin walked up with Michelle.

Michelle gave Jane a strained smile and lowered the plate of food next to her. “Ma’am, a-” Michelle looked at Justin, “Justin Hammer here to see you.”

“Thank you, dear. You can just hand the plate to me.”

Michelle nodded and placed the plate on Jane’s lap. “I don’t think I’ve met you before,” Justin continued.

“Must you be so familiar with everyone, Mister Hammer?” Justin chuckled and Jane went on. “Are you so connected to the darker side of the world that it would be unusual for another, hm, participant to be unknown to you?”

“No, this is actually pretty new. So I’m,” he waves his hands a little, “branching out, you know? Get to know the inhabitants. Besides, there are more than a few public faces here. How are you enjoying the food tonight?”

“I think I’ll give judgment when I get courses delivered up to my suite.”

“Ah, you have a suite. Well, I can promise you that the food is very good, Jane. How’s the show?”

Where is he going with this? Jane thought. “I haven’t been watching. I barely got here before you came up to me. But I think that the music’s good.”

Justin reached forward, pushing out his hand. “Justin-” he began. Charles stepped forward, blocking the man’s path, placing on hand on his shoulder. “Whoa, relax, man,” Justin said, putting his hands up and retreating. “Harmless, hahaha! Fine, fine, I’ll keep to a distance. You got a suite, you got that money, you must be aiming for something huge. Anything, in particular, you’re looking to buy?”

“Hm, that’s a personal matter, don’t you think? What if I ask you that question?”

“Ah,” Justin said, looking excited. “I’m not here to buy. I’m the organizer.”

Percy frowned and Jane raised an eyebrow. “This auction is yours?” she asked.

“No, no, this auction’s someone else’s. I just helped supply the location and planned most things.”

“But this place. Are you the founder of Union Allied Corporations?”

“Mister Hammer,” someone said.

“Wesley!” Justin said. “William.”

A group of men walked over, all carrying the bearings of experienced bodyguards. In the midst of them, however, was a duo. The one standing further behind held himself high but positioned himself in an almost secretarial manner, and yet Percy read from his eyes that this man was dangerous. The other one, the boss, the leader, the one that stood in front, needed no pretense. Percy couldn’t help himself and he stepped backward, eyes widening in shock. “Mister Hammer,” the secretary greeted. 

“Justin,” the boss began. “I believe you’ve mingled enough for tonight. The auction will be starting soon.” William turned to face Jane. “I don’t believe we’ve had the satisfaction of meeting.” His eyes darted over to Percy and Percy felt himself stiffen. “It seems that my appearance makes your associates uncomfortable, miss-?”

“Evans. Jane Evans.”

“Miss Evans. William B. Fisk.”

William extended his hands. Jane grasped it gently and they shook while Justin gave their gesture a wavering smile and a hard stare. “The pleasure’s mine, Mister Fisk,” Jane replied.

“Please, call me William.”

“William Fisk. You would be the founder of UAC, correct?” Jane asked.

“You would be right. A better Hell’s Kitchen for everyone.”

“And Hammer works for you?”

“Uh-” Justin cut in.

“And why would you think that, Miss Evans?”

“He said he organized this venue. With the way UAC is involved, I thought perhaps-”

William turned around to give Justin a look. Justin turned his head away. “It appears that my associate has been divulging information that we have not yet agreed to give out. Hammer Industries and Union Allied Corporation have agreed to a mutually beneficial merger. Hammer UAC. For the good of New York. And profits, of course.”

“Of course.”

William gave Jane a once over with his eyes. “Would you be here for the Chitauri Neurallink?”

“The Chi-”

“He refers to your inability to walk,” a voice in Jane’s ear said.

Jane’s eyes hardened as she fixed William with a glare. “That’s quite presumptuous of you, Mister Fisk. Don’t tie me down to my condition.”

“My apologies, Miss Evans. It was not my intention to be rude. I was not characterizing you by your unfortunate circumstances. I simply assumed that anyone with a chance to correct their hapless arrangements would do so.”

Jane was silent for a moment. “Perhaps, Mister Fisk.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the auction will begin in five minutes.”

“Enjoy your suite, Miss Evans,” William told them.

“You aren’t in one?” Jane asked.

“Publicity does not hurt, especially for an event of this nature. I have my protectors. And you know what is said, front row seats are most appropriate for a show.”

With that, both sides parted ways. Justin gave them a parting nod and followed William and company. Jane’s group reached the inner elevators that were to the left of the main elevator. There were three of them ferrying three lines of wealthy ner do wells to the third level. The auditorium was situated as one might expect from one you would find elsewhere, with boxes next to the stage and the royal circle above the stalls. The suites, on the third level, could be described as grander boxes, furnished with closets, soft sofas and benches, a bar, tables, and even two beds should any unaccounted needs arise during whatever performance may be happening on stage. They arrived with little problem and situated themselves in their suite. “You saw the pause there. She was listening to something,” James said.

Fisk, in his seat now, unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Look around you, Wesley. Everyone here could have snuck in a bug or a microphone. If she was listening to someone in her ear, it would hardly be surprising. I guarantee that many of our contemporaries have had their entourage sneak in weapons. Just as we have. Leave it be.”

James glanced at William before giving a stern nod as the curtains opened. Justin walked onto the stage. The band, which was to the side, started to play a jazzy melody to which Justin dance-stepped. Some polite clapping echoed in the audience. “Yeah! Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight! Ladies and gentlemen, the world was bereft months ago when aliens invaded Earth. There, we learned the harsh reality of our world. That we are not alone and that we were vulnerable.

The Avengers pushed back this threat. They’re heroes who had very well saved this planet from decimation. But then they packed up their toys and took the spoils. Damage Control, run by Stark, the Avengers’ very own clean-up crew, leaving nothing for the rest of us. They didn’t even bother to help with the mess they made. They left that to us. That’s not very fair. Not very right of them. And it’s just too bad.

Regardless, it was an impressive display of powers. It showed that humanity had the ability and the will to defend themselves and that we could. Iron Man. Captain America. Heck, even the Hulk. The NYPD. The National Guard. But the Avengers took the headlines, and they Battle of New York’s poster image in newspapers all over the world. So Stark watched the Phantom Menace, so what?” 

Scattered single claps and chuckles. Hammer coughed. “But we’re not here to talk about them. We’re here to talk about us. It’s time we get something as well. And the Lord knows that we can use all the fun we can get. It’s no longer just about gang wars. It’s about right, right? So I want to introduce you to the first item of tonight’s auction, Iron Drones! 

Let’s get this auction going! Yeah!”

* - * - *

“Our sixth item of the night! The Iscariot Bullet! A prototype bullet of Hammer Industries’s experimental armaments line, developed using alien metal from the Incident and combined with the genius of the American industrial war complex. Built with a kinetic-kill sidewinder, this dual-stage missile bullet packs a punch and explodes into a gory shrapnel-filled mess after! The gyrojet brought into the modern age. At three thousand dollars a pop, let’s start selling these ten-round magazines for thirty thousand dollars! Thirty thousand, do I have thirty thousand dollars? Thirty, thirty-five-”

"Thank you,” Percy said as he closed the door. He wheeled in a silver cart with multiple layers of silver platters. “Food’s here,” he announced.

“Well wheel it up then,” Charles said.

Percy made his way to the table and set the platters, taking off the cloches to reveal steaming entrees letting off mouth-watering aromas. The room was soundproof, so they heard the auctioneer through the speakers placed in each corner. There was a screen to the side that showed closeups of the auctioneer, but more importantly, the items that he was showcasing. A display case showed off a row of Iscariot bullets and a Judas Rifle. “When’s the thing coming out?” Michelle asked.

“Towards the end. Look in the brochure,” Percy replied.

“Right, about that. It’s not in there.”

“It’s under ‘special’. It’s not explicitly stated.”

“Then what was I supposed to look for?” Michelle asked. “Use the paper to mind-read the guy who wrote it?”

“Listen-” Percy started.

“Enough,” the voice in their ear said. “Focus.”

Charles scoffed. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Pokerface.” Percy whirled on Charles, pointing a finger at him. “Relax, Lance. We did a sweep. No bugs. I doubt Mister Fisk over there, and that jerk-of-a-face Hammer would put bugs in their suites. Makes for bad business.”

“It doesn’t matter if there are bugs or not, it’s called OPSEC,” Lance countered. “Ever heard of it?”

“Yeah, I fucking have. It just don’t mean fuck right now. Hey Poker, now that we’re a step away from getting that big shiny rock of yours, wanna finally answer my question?”

“...”

The group waited for Pokerface to answer as the Iscariot bullets got sold. The next item came on. “Yay or nay, man?” Charles continued. “Because May fourth kind of put a rocker for me in trusting you. Kind of ironic, given what that date’s supposed to mean for aliens.”

“I have made it abundantly clear that my people, and I especially, had no place in that event nor relation to the Chitarui.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Charles said.

“Why are you doing this now,” Lance asked, exasperated. 

“Because we’re right on the cusp of getting the damn thing, so we finally have the leverage to ask. Besides, you heard the rumors. What’s one space rock to another?”

“Atrion is rare.  I was only lucky enough to procure this planet and only lucky enough to get a return signal for Atrion when I scanned the planet again. There is no higher reason. Just an unprecedented opportunity.”

“That’s it?” Lance asked. “You could’ve told us that at the beginning! Why would you even hide that?”

“Careful, boss, your Lance is showing,” Michelle said.

“Oh, don’t you start, you.”

The auction continues as the gang watched. They bid a few times to show their participation, random items, and a few even come into their possession after a successful bid. A Chitauri anatomy dissection book at a million and thirty thousand dollars, a highly decorated golden Walther PP that belonged to the late Adolf Hitler for five hundred thousand dollars, and even got their hands on The Storm on the Sea of Galilee for ten million dollars. They were unfortunate, or perhaps fortunate, enough to not win the preserved Chitauri soldier that the book was auctioned alongside with. They didn’t eat much. They had eaten before they got here. The food they ordered was for show, for eating now would be a bad choice in preparation for upcoming events. Still, they picked at the plates once or twice; it was hard to resist the allure of master-crafted foods, risking stomach aches for a chance to taste greatness. 

Jane had to admit that she was tempted to put money down the Neural Link when it showed up. The pang of being able to use her legs freely was tempting, but it didn’t outweigh the uncomfortable feeling in her chest when she realized that she would be putting alien technology in her body. It didn’t help that she had no goodwill in store for the invaders of what was, now truly considerable as a variable, her home planet. She did, however, place money down for an FF Chem Link System, under the persuasion of Charles, to give to Fredric. It was a low-grade stim pack that was reverse-engineered from Chitarui technology, linking to and boosting vital organs, though the auctioneer warned that it was toxic under prolonged use. However, they found out that it had to be paired with Chitarui Neural Network. Different from the Neural Link, the person implanted with this device would have to obey a Control Module, whether that be implated in a person or not, with resistance causing pain and obedience causing pleasure. With it lowering self-preservation and providing a built-in H.U.D. and communications network, this device was built to enhance a person to become the perfect soldier. Charles joked that it would have to work once Fredric stopped being able to function properly. 

He laughed it off as a joke. Jane didn’t feel so sure.

Charles, without prompting from other group members, much to the chagrin of Jane and the displeasure of Lance, bid on Angel Tears, saying those were for Fredric too. It was a drug ingested through the mouth in liquid form or shot through a needle. Using this drug, the auctioneer said, causes immense physical relief and mental ecstasy, shutting down voluntary muscular movement and perception of surroundings. It causes the user's deepest wishes and dreams to surface in the most vivid visions. He never mentioned the negative side effects. The rest of the items were more normal. Chitauri power cores, glowing purple powerful but volatile energy source that can power an Earth vehicle for half a lifetime. Chitauri energy rifles. A deposit of Vibranium in its pure ore form.

“Now, special item number three, Atrion ore!”

“Well, shit,” Lance said, “there it is.”

The attendants rolled out a cart with a pulsing jagged blue stone sitting on top of a red velvet pillow. “Not much is known about this mysterious space stone,” the announcer continued. “All we know is that it has special properties when conducting energy through it. This thing takes up a lot of energy to do what it’s supposed to, and your average double-a batteries won’t be much use. Its redeeming qualities? Maybe you can master clean energy with it. Maybe you’ll disintegrate your enemies. A hundred and sixty-four pounds, going at ten million dollars!”

“Shit. That’s too big to carry.”

“Big?” Poker asked. “How big?”

“Uh, roughly the size of a kickball.”

“In metric measurements.”

“Uh, upper twenty-ish centimeters,” Lance replied.

“Impossi- Hm. Try. If you can’t, get something out of it.”

“You said it would be small enough to grab in one hand.”

The voice didn’t answer. “Three million,” Michelle said. “Doesn’t that seem too cheap for what Poker said it can do?”

“Well, I, I mean, you heard the announcer. Nobody knows what that rock can do apart from some general assumptions based on really inconclusive tests.”

“Seventy million!”

“Jesus, seventy? The last raise was only to twenty.”

“God damn, that Fisk must really want it. What do you think-”

“I think the better question is, what can we sell it for?” Michelle purred.

“Well. It seems at least seventy million,” Lance smirked.

“Ah, but that’s for the entire one hundred and sixty pounds, isn’t it?” Jane remarked.

Michelle tsked. 

“Doesn’t matter now,” Lance said. “We’ll take what we can. Given how rare the thing is, especially after we nab a part of that, we’ll get enough. Suit up.”

Lance grabbed their suitcase and threw it open on the bed. Charles stood up from the seat and loosened his tie, unbuttoning his suit jacket and throwing it on the floor. In another smooth motion, he ripped open his shirt, the shirt joining the jacket on the floor, and revealed an over-the-top fake muscle suit, underneath which was a red and green suit. Lance tossed a pair of green boots and red gloves next to him as he took off his slacks to reveal the complete outfit: a formfitting bodysuit, split down the middle with red on the right and green on the left. Charles took off his dress gloves and put on the ones that Lance tossed, stepping into the shin-high boots. He caught the helmet that Lance tossed after, casting his world in a tint of yellow as amber goggles slid over his eyes, and wrapped a deep brown trench coat around himself. “Hey, boss, hand me my stuff too,” Michelle said.

Lance tossed her a pair of black gauntlet gloves and a dominoqsue mask. Michelle caught them, removing her dress gloves and wig. Her hands went up and she took off a hair tie, shaking her head, letting her white hair cascade down to her shoulder blades. Putting on her gloves, she flexed her fingers and five claws popped out. She blinked, and the triangular lenses of her mask polarized, her shining green eyes reflecting a dark shade of blue. Jane reached around to her lower back, pressing down in a few places. “Help me up, please?” she asked. 

Michelle walked over and grabbed both of Jane’s hands, pulling her out of her wheelchair. Jane arched her back and brought a tiny circular chip to the base of her neck, hidden underneath her suit collar. Placing the chip in a receptacle, something beeped and Jane took a step forward. “Thank you, Felicia.”

“No problem, Miss Turing,” Felicia replied.

“Hey,” Lance said. “Codenames, or, uh, you know, from now on.”

Lance grunted and grabbed his own gear, a simple collection of holsters and weaponry, and night vision goggles. He had his body armor underneath his suit, rated for light calibers. He had to admit he was worried. “Right then,” he said, his British accent sliding through. “Either way, we’re screwed. Cause we’re not getting that whole thing out of here. Don’t you just hate it when rare stones turn out to not be so rare after all?”

“It is rare,” Pokerface interjected. “The size of your current objective is not an indication of-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, right,” Lance said. “Let us handle this, PF. We’ll get back to you when we’re done or dead. In which case, we won’t.”

Pokerface was silent for a moment. “Very well,” he said.

“Mighty optimistic of you, boss,” Felicia said.

Lance pulled back the charging handle, tugging on the stubby grip to make sure it was secure, before slapping it back into position. “Optimism has nothing to do with it, Cat,” Lance replied. He unlocked the stock and pulled its length back, tightening the screws on his suppressor. “Let’s go.”

They paused at the door. Jane closed her eyes. “It’s done,” she said after a moment.

Lance opened the door and stuck his head out, waving to the rest of the group once he saw that the coast was clear. Unseeing cameras blinked on the roof. Slowly, they stepped out. Lance nodded to Felicia. Felicia gave him a smile and tugged on Jane’s arm before she ran off. Jane sighed and made to follow. Lance turned to Charles and nodded as well. Charles just gave him an eye roll and the duo moved forward. They rounded the circular way and paused just before the angle of the elevators. By each one were two guards. 

In the center of the four elevators was the staircase. Lance peeked and raised his gun, squeezing the trigger. Every disciplined trigger pull was met with one of the guard’s heads popping, billowing into red mist. These suppressed subsonic rounds were still louder than a pneumatic wood chipper right by the ear, but the soft carpet and thick walls absorbed the sound and the prevalence of the gasaction blowback was greater than that of the propelling rounds of lead. Click. The gun jammed when he reached the last pair of guards, who by this point had their weapons drawn and were reaching for their communications units. “Shit,” Lance muttered.

He dropped the MP5, which tugged on his neck as it hung on its sling, and dropped to his knees, quickly drew a sidearm, firing a rising vertical line of bullets into the first one and emptying the rest of the clip into the upper chest and neck of the second. They fell down to the red floors with a squelch, drenching the carpet in an even deeper red. Lance stood up, releasing the magazine and throwing it to the floor. He pulled back the bolt back, shaking the gun, causing the jammed casing to fall out. “Stupid,” Lance muttered as he inserted a fresh magazine, slapping the bolt home with a satisfying snap.

“So, I guess we ain’t buying from them again?” Charles asked as the two made their way to the door.

“Ah, it’s high-grain powder, it’s bound to jam a bit,” Lance replied as he pushed open the door.

They stepped down the stairs, making their way down to the first floor, and waited by the exit.

The control room was above the stage, opposite the suites but on the same level. Gaining access to this room would allow for complete control of the auditorium and the stage, but most importantly, the auction itself. Felicia grinned as she moved forward. There were no guards for there were no elevators and no stairs, so she was free to run. When she rounded the circular nonexistent edge, she saw her target and the two guards by the one-way glass door. Felicia stopped running, walking up to them with a smile and swaying hips. “Hey there, boys,” she greeted.

“Uh,” one of them said, clearly caught off guard. “Ma’am, you’re not supposed to be here,” he said noncommittally.

Felicia’s grin widened as she approached the man on her right, lowering her body and almost snaking it around him. The man gulped. “Oh, but I want to be here, darling.”

The man gave a wavering smile before his eyes widened as razor-sharp talons tore across the man’s face, leaving him crying and on the floor withering. The woman’s smile turned something fierce and the other guard let out an “Oh shit!” 

He quickly unholstered his own weapon and got it up, but was unable to find his target as Felicia lowered herself even further and weaved left and right, stepping into his arms. The man left standing dropped his weapon to free his arms and stepped backwards, evading another slash as he punched forward. Felicia ducked but her eyes widened as she came up to block a knee to the face. Pushed backwards, Felicia growled and stepped to the side, pulling the incoming knife hand to trip the man, raking a claw across his throat. Slowly, she lowered him. “No hard feelings,” she said.

The man looked up at her with confused eyes as his world went cold and dark. “A bit much, I think,” Jane said as she walked up.

Felicia grabbed a stretch lanyard keycard off one the dead body and swiped it across the reader. She reached a cautious hand from beyond the doorframe and grabbed the vertical door handle, pulling it open and pushing it aside as bullets cracked into the one-way glass. Inside, an operator screamed at his partner to get on the radio. Felicia tsked and slid her way through the closing door, flicking her wrists. A wire snapped into existence and whipped itself across the room, wrapping itself around the gunman’s hand. She pulled, the gunman screamed, and the gun came loose. The other man had reached the walkie-talkie, raising it toward his mouth. Felicia flicked her other wrist and a similar wire jumped at him too. She jumped forward with outstretched legs and kicked the second guy in the head, knocking him out. 

Retracting her wires, Felicia sashayed over to the first one. “That wasn’t very nice,” she said, raising her fist. “Good night.”

She cracked her fist across the man’s face and he slumped down unconscious. The door opened again and Jane walked in. “Well. That’s the room clear for you. You’ll be alright here?”

Jane walked over to the main console, studying the controls that would descend the auditorium into chaos. She then looked over at an unattached board, the one that the auctioneers brought in that would unlock each protective case. “Yes,” Jane replied.

“Great. Have fun,” Felicia said as she ran out the door.

She made her way to the stairs, ignoring the eight other bodies there, and hopped down two flights of stairs, dropping into a perfect three-point landing, barely slowing down as she bounced up right after. “Hey,” she greeted the boys.

“Celeste, we’re good,” Lance whispered into his comms.

“Whatever happened to codenames?” Felecia said smirking.

“Oh shut up.”

Jane looked over to the console and pressed a few buttons, pushing sliders, and turning knobs. She looked out the viewport, seeing the entire auditorium flash to a blinding level of lumination, before cutting power altogether, drowning the area in a pitch black. “Go,” she said.

“Ya hear that, buddy?” Charles asked as Lance flipped down his goggles and pushed open the door.

Fredric sighed and looked down at his hand. He flipped open the cap and pressed the button. The green light blinked and turned red. The roof of the garage rumbled. “You got ten minutes,” he said, leaning back into the seat.

Jane grunted as she bent her back to pick up the fallen firearm. She then walked over to the door, opened a panel next to the door and placed her hands on the ports. Glowing blue wires seemed to swim up her veins and nerves from her legs as they flashed toward her fingertips. Her fingers appeared to have melded with the electronics on the walls. She closed her eyes, feeling the switches and chips, coaxing them to listen to her with silent words. A few green lights inside the panel turned to red. Jane opened her eyes in satisfaction. She pulled her hand away, and grey wire tubing extended between her fingertips and the ports. With a yank, they snapped away from the wall and slowly retreated back into her body with the consistency of sand, the blue veins returning to her legs. 

With that done, she returned to the swivel chair and sat facing the door, sighing with bone-deep exhaustion, and waited. 

* - * - *

“What’s going on?” William asked. “What’s happening?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer said, his voice significantly softer outside of the speakers, “please remain in your seats. We will go up to the control booth to check on the p-”

He went silent as someone ran up to him, but missed, and fell off the stage. Cursing, the auctioneer bent down to pick him up and the messenger finally revealed to him that they could not get in contact with the control room and that every single case in the back was suddenly unlocked. The auctioneer reeled back up. “Subterfu-”

There was a flash of light and a clear bursting rattle noise. Someone thudded. Another flash of light, another thud, and someone screamed, “Gun!”

The auditorium burst into pandemonium as Willson jumped up from his seat, lunging toward the stage. James hurriedly grabbed at his shirt, his apologetic face hidden by the darkness. “No! We have to get you out of here.”

William allowed himself to be dragged away by James as they blindly pushed their way to safety. “Get him, call him, now!” William yelled.

“I already have him dialed,” James said.

William threw James’s hand off, rounding on where he thought Justin to be, and grabbed Justin’s cuffs. He was correct in his assumption after Justin yelled. “Whoa!” he said. “I didn’t do-”

“Never mind that! You brought that girl here with you. Call her.”

“She’s probably with your man right now! Jeez, I’ll call! Let go!”

Some semblance of order that was restored was lost when they realized that the exit door was locked, and the security struggled to regain control, directing them to a different holding area as they tried to sort out the situation. Those that somehow made their way to the stage were quickly picked off by submachine gun fire. Coming to their senses, the audience pulled out their phones and turned on the flashlight apparatus, while the guards pulled out higher-powered flashlights. Security had rushed up the stairs, into the suite level, tripping over the missed dead bodies fallen next to the elevators to try to get to the control room. Sliding their keycards across the reader had no effect and bullets cracked but failed to shatter the bulletproof glass. One of the guards, a senior member, rushed over to Justin. “Mister Hammer, sir,” he began.

“Hey, hey, get that out of my face!” Justin said, raising his hand to block the blinding beam of light.

“Oh- sorry, sir,” the guard said as he dropped the light.

“No, I can’t see you- just give me that,” Justin said as he grabbed the flashlight and put it in a more neutral position. “What?”

“We raised the security at the hotel, sir, to ask why we weren’t getting support.”

“And?”

“An explosion, sir. Someone set off charges on the fifth floor. They’re tied up there.”

“Shit. And what about here? Upper levels?”

“Sentinel and Sentry aren’t responding, and the girls have gone silent.”

“Fuckin-“

“What’s going on? What is this, Hammer?” Someone in the crowd asked.

Justin chuckled nervously and ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t worry, we’ll get this done!” He reached out and grabbed the guard by the cuffs. “Figure this out,” he growled under his breath. “I don’t need their ire on me, or, or! lose the partnerships with the auctioneers. Understood?”

The guard nodded frantically. “Yes, sir!”

The guard pulled away and turned to run when Justin grabbed the back of his collar. The guard let out a choked gasp as he got spun around. “Your flashlight,” Justin said, slamming it into the guard’s hands. “Come on now,” he continued, grabbing the man’s face. “Do your job, earn your keep, yeah?”

The guard nodded uncomfortably and was released, finally off to do what he was told to do. Hammer looked down at his phone as it buzzed and he tapped William on the shoulder. “Yeah, they’re coming.”

Outside and around the stage, the guards were popping off periodic shots into the darkness, not hitting anything but not willing to get out of cover to try. Their flashlights were able to catch shadows that their eyes finally processed as they got used to the pitch-black darkness, but no shadow seemed to be the shadow they were looking for. Some audience members flinched with each gunshot, made bearable only by the many sound-absorbing and dampening materials. In fact, the reflective surfaces that served to refract the sound evenly across the entire auditorium seem to give it tasteful acoustics. Guards that did move into the darkness without being shot were met with a crueler end. Their eyes made out two different shades of color, even their vibrancy dulled by the darkness. A silver blade flashes up to their neck, plunging in and carving their jugular. That phantom sneaked up behind each one, making quick work of any who dared to invade the abyss. If their gargling did not make the guards outside think twice, the screaming did, for every once in a while, a bright flash of light popped up and the man afflicted by said light shrieked as if burned, their bodies warping into unimaginable contours, folding into dimensions a human body is not supposed to occupy; they heard laughing.

The glowing blue Atrion was visible in the total darkness even without the night vision goggles and Lance quickly walked over, opening the glass case. He was thankful that the Atrion was not in view of the stage proper, else he be lit up and shot at. Lance let his gun drop to his side as he tried lifting the stone but quickly found himself struggling. He was strong enough to lift it and even carry it, but it would severely slow him down if he tried. Charles followed close behind, observing Lance struggle with the Atrion. “That ain’t sustainable,” Charles remarked, somehow seemingly unfazed by the thunderous cacophony of gunfire that echoed throughout the hall.
“Oh, oh yeah?”Lance fired back, extremely exasperated. “Why don’t you carry it? You’ve done fuck all this whole goddamn mission.”
“I haven’t needed to do anything. Seems I have to now.” Charles walked to Lance’s side, lowering himself and squinting his eyes to get a closer look at the Atrion ore, before bringing his hand up to the right side of his helmet, patching into his comm. “Poker. What do you want us to do about this? Cause we really can’t fuck off with something this heavy.”

“Does the Atrion stone have an opaque layer that does not seem to carry the same glow?”

“Uh. Yeah? Maybe.”

“That crystalline coating, to put it in simple terms, is a naturally occurring protective layer. While it looks like diamond and may appear valuable, it is entirely useless. Removing that layer should sheer a considerable amount of weight. Determine the manageability then and I will give you further direction should you require.”
“Alright, got it.”Charles cut comms with Poker. “Lance, drop the Atrion ore on the ground and hand me your knife.”
“What? You’re kidding. You’re really not getting through that with my knife,” Lance said, handing him his knife.

Charles grabbed it in a very odd fashion, squeezing the handle between his fingers like he was holding a piece of trash. Taking the knife, Charles positioned its tip onto the Atrion ore. “Boys,” Felicia said, peering down at them. She had a sack at her waist, weighted with small items at the bottom. Lance gave her a raised eyebrow. “As much as I would love to stick around and admire all the things that we can take, we really don’t have much time.”

“Yeah, yeah, pussycat, give me a minute,” Charles said. 

Suddenly, the tips of Charles’s fingers began to glow through his gloves. It was a subtle, neon glow, barely noticeable if you were further than a few feet away. But the glow almost seemed to spread, the entire knife suddenly gaining an almost blue-red highlight. Then, in less than half a second, the knife suddenly seemingly flattened, becoming almost thinner than a sheet of paper. It looked like an error, like a transparent texture of a knife in a video game. Charles pinched it between his fingers, before sliding it into the Atrion ore, like a credit card into a reader. The glow on the knife suddenly stopped, and the knife seemingly popped back to its normal state. However, because it was within the ore, its blade grew back to its width within the ore’s outer layer, cracking it open and splitting the large protective layer in half. Charles smiled.

The smile disappeared. “Shit,” he said.

“What?” Lance asked.

“I hit the-” 

The ore burst open in an explosion of blue light that had the texture of burning jet engine flames, rippling with bursts of plasmic electricity. The protective layer of crystal vibrated and turned into fine particles, not too dissimilar from sand. Charles screamed as he pulled his hand away. “Goddamit!”
The fingertips on the suit had been burned off though his skin seemed to be fine. Charles cursed again and looked down at the Atrion. It had split into multiple pieces. “Well,” Lance remarked, rubbing his eyes. “I guess that makes it easier for us to carry. Thank God I wasn’t wearing the goggles.”

“Boys, now,” Felicia said. “Come on, boss, get a move on.”

Lance nodded. “Computer, move.”

“Copy that, coming down,” Jane said.

Lance reached down to grab the largest piece but found himself stuck with a grunt. He exerted himself, reaching his second hand down and pushing with his legs against the floor. Charles started laughing. “Are you serious?” He pushed Lance aside and went to grab it before he also found himself unable to lift it. “What the fuck? Poker, the hell is this?”

“Explain.”

“The Atrion. I can’t lift it at all.”

Poker said nothing for a moment. “This explains the energy frequency shift. You split the ore with brute force.”

“That doesn’t solve my fucking problem.”

“You-”

“Ah, short version, please, PF,” Lance piped in.

“The density of the material increased. It matters not. Any pieces you can recover will be valuable enough.”

“Tch, easier my arse, 3D.”

Charles didn’t respond to the jab as he grabbed one of the smaller pieces and put it on his belt, stumbling off balance from the weight. He raised a fist in the air. “Quiet. Doesn’t it seem quieter to you?”

Felicia blinked. “You’re right. The atmosph-”

A stick flew out of nowhere and whacked Felicia across the head. She let out an oomph and fell to the floor winded and grasping the back of her head. “What was-” Lance started.

A fist came out of nowhere and struck him across the face. Lance’s head snapped sideways and he stumbled backward, falling to the floor. Disoriented, he kicked out and slid backward, trying to fit the night vision goggles back on his face. “Ah, ah, ah,” a voice said.

It had a taste of an electronic voice modulator but it was unmistakably female. Her hand reached out and grabbed Lance’s hair, and she pulled the night vision goggles off, heaving Lance to the side. Lance tumbled around the floor, gritting his teeth. “Team, the elevators are working again,” Jane said. “People’s getting on!”

“Yeah,” Lance said as he raised his gun. “People got off too.”

He fired in the general direction of the person who threw him but heard nothing but the thud of bullets hitting thick curtains. “Missed me,” that same electronic voice said. Lance snapped to the left and squeezed off another burst, once again hitting nothing. “Aw, am I too fast for you?”

“Don’t play with your food, Afterburner” another one said, his feet stepping into the light of the Atrion. 

Felicia groaned and pushed herself up. A red boot came smashing down on Felicia, slamming her forehead into the floor. “Come on, Devil, look at you having a little fun,” Afterburner replied.

“Devil?” Charles said as he threw a jab at Afterburner. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? Daredevil? Stop fucking dodging, bitch!”

Afterburner slid past another punch and retaliated with a right elbow hook, which connected. Red liquid tricked out of Charles’s nose underneath his helmet as he glared. “Look at that, Devil, he knows you!”

“Well, sorry to say that I don’t know you back,” Daredevil replied.
Charles looked back up at Daredevil, spitting malice behind his voice “You talk too much.” 

Daredevil’s unseen smirk faded as Felicia twisted her body and her legs shot toward’s Daredevil’s feet. Daredevil lept over the blow as Felicia raised herself on both hands and flipped over to her feet. She put one leg forward and one leg back, both hands positioned in a claw-like manner as the talons flashed out of her gloves. Daredevil cocked his head. Felicia rushed forward, rotating her body as she jumped, performing a jump spin sidekick. Daredevil stepped back to avoid the kick, raising his chin as Felicia launched a knife-handed cleave toward his throat and again when she aimed a clawed circular punch with her left hand. His own hand came up to meet Felicia’s right circular punch as he rotated his hand to grab Felicia’s forearm in a classic trapping maneuver. Instead of throwing an expected punch with his opposite hand, however, Daredevil brought his arm outside of Felicia’s arm and reached his other hand to grab her neck. He stepped in and hooked his inner leg around Felicia’s outer leg, bending his body to throw her.

Felicia’s eyes widened as she pivoted with her own leg and pressed her body weight in the opposite direction. The pair turned and it was Daredevil who found himself on the floor. Not letting his surprise get to him, Daredevil’s foot instantly came up from behind Felicia’s head. This time, Felicia dodged, backflipping away. At the same time, Lance and Charles were dealing with Afterburner. She was literally running circles around them, evading Lance’s bullets and Charles’s fists. Lance had even handed over one of his pistols to Charles to no avail. Every time they shot at nothing, Afterburner would close the distance and introduce their faces to new pain. 

The mental clock in both Lance's and Charles’s heads was running down and their internal coils were being wound up. Every second that they wasted on this person was another second that the police were rushing over and security organized themselves. “Enough of this cocksucker,” Charles said, growling at yet another taunt Afterburner spewed at them.

He blurred, his afterimage splitting apart into multiple facets of his movement, and his fist collided with Afterburner’s face. Not stopping there, Charles threw haymaker after haymaker, his fist clanging against the metal of Afterburner’s helmet. Afterburner, in a moment of respite, jumped backward, smiling underneath the metal sheen. “So, you can move fast too?”

Charles didn’t reply as he rushed forward again. Afterburner sidestepped his fist, preparing for a blow of her own, but was knocked to the floor as Charles stepped into his overswinged jab and side-kicked her in the abdomen. Afterburner clanged to the ground. She grit her teeth. “But those gimmicks of yours can’t match real speed.”

With that, Afterburner kicked up and ran her metal fist into Charles’s face with full force. Charles roared, winded and concussed, a crack in his goggles from her speed and suit-enhanced strength. He slammed his hands down on the floor and it turned into a sheen of white. “What the fuck?” Afterburner said a thought that was echoed by Lance.

The floor shattered and Afterburner fell through, catching herself on what remained of the solid floor. “Bitch,” Charles said as he walked backward in triumph.

His smile widened as Daredevil, diverted by Afterburner’s scream as she fell, was hit across the chest with a sidekick. Someone shot right by Charles’s head. His smile faded and he snarled, turning on the guilty shooter and tackling him to the ground. He then proceeded to lift the guard off the ground, one hand on his cuffs, and struck blow after blow on his face, a flurry of unrefined hamfisted closed palms to the temple, the cheek, the eyes, the mouth, and the nose. Blood poured down the guard’s face and out of his mouth. “Fuck you, you Charlie son of a bitch!” Charles snarked.

The guard went limp and Charles stumbled underneath the dead weight, finally letting the guard hit the floor unconscious. He panted heavily, turning back toward Afterburner when he felt something cold in his chest. Afterburner made him lower his guard and the poor challenger had been too big of a distraction. All it took was a lucky shot. Charles tumbled forward and lay motionless, a bloom of red sprouting on her chest. He had walked right into the light. “Shit! 3D!” Lance yelled.

“What happened to him?” Jane asked through their comms.

“He got shot!” Lance replied.

“I got the door!” Jane shouted. “Come on!”

“Flare!” Lance yelled.

Felicia reached into her pocket as her blue eyes turned green. Lance averted his gaze as Daredevil cursed and lunged at Felicia. There was a bright flash and a scream of pain. By the time the flash had faded, Lance was already holding Charles’s feet. He couldn’t see in the dark without his goggles, but he knew how to walk. Felicia, her eyes returning to that shade of blue, would lead the way. He felt a pull on the body and he started moving. The next moment, he felt the body drop and he dropped alongside it, crashing to the floor as they came off the ledge of the stage. He blindly reached for Charles’s boots again and they ran for the elevator. Jane was there, a hand on the wall. 

Switches blinked and the hydraulic motors whirred. The majority of the audience was above ground now, having exited in the elevators. The ones remaining didn’t bother to look at the new light flooding into the room as the steel blast doors revealed a corridor. Guards, now able to see the illuminated intruders, fired upon them with increasing accuracy. Bullets whizzed and whined past their heads, getting too close for comfort. Lance swallowed as they ran, with Jane clunkily following along, firing back with her pistol. “I’m out!” she said as she threw away her weapon. 

A bullet flew between Lance’s feet, sending shrapnel into his legs, though not penetrating more than skin. However, Lance startled, fell, and dropped Charles. Charles groaned. “Shit!” Lance called out. “3D, you’re still alive?”

“Huh?” Charles’s moaned. “What?”

He groggily looked up, blinking in confusion. Adrenaline spiked as he heard the crack of a gun and he bolted into action, rolling behind a nearby protrusion in the wall. He looked wildly at his surroundings, staring at Lance as he ran to hide beside him. Lance glanced at Charles, giving him a confused look in return. “What?” Lance asked as he raised his own weapon. Lance’s gaze flicked down toward Charles’s chest, finding no wound. “You fucking bastard, you never told me you had a healing factor!”

“Urg, fuck you, Lance” Charles muttered.

Lance ignored him as he angeled himself around the cover and started putting lead downrange. He found Jane and Felicia opposite them. Jane was working on a panel next to the jutting pillar. A shrill note echoed out of hidden speakers and Jane pumped her arm in victory. “Got it!” she said.

Blast doors slid out of the protrusion and slammed shut. Lance slid down the wall. “God bless you, HC,” Lance said.

“Pray later, run now, gang,” Felicia said.

They started down the rest of the corridor. “Doorman,” Lance called out. “Prepare. We’re coming in.”

In the distance, a white bubbling portal frame appeared. “Aren’t you a sight, Doorman?” Felicia said as they closed in.

Behind them, the blast doors opened and an enraged Afterburner came thudding after them. “Uh oh,” Lance said. “Go, go, go, go!”

The team threw themselves into the elevator as Doorman quickly retracted his hand, and the portal closed. Something hit the elevator doors with a thud. A muffled scream of rage reverberated through the metal frame. “Ha!” Lance laughed. “Yeah, suck it, metal bitch!”

Lance quickly stepped back as the thudding continued, becoming faster and faster in tempo. Dents started to push through. “Now would be a good time, Doorman,” Felicia said.

“Uh, right, got it.”

He opened a portal on the roof of the car and everyone jumped through one by one. Wordlessly, everyone took a grapple launcher. Lance took first aim, firing the hook. It hit the top of the shaft. It sparked, and a strand of electricity traveled down the line. “Ah!” Lance yelled. 

The hook fell and hit the roof of the car with a clang. “No wonder my legs feel bad,” Jane said.

“So now what?” Felicia asked.

“He can make portals. Make fucking portals.”

“Huh?” DeMarr intoned.

“If you shoot one of your portals up there… and open one down here, we can attach both the hook and the grapple to the car.”

“3D, you absolute genius!” Lance said. “Alright, do that, Doorman.”

“Roger that, man.”

Doorman shot a portal onto the roof and opened another portal. Lance fired a second hook. It came out of the ground and both ends were secured in place. The portal on the ground felt of static and the air smelled faintly of ozone. Charles stuck a cautious hand through. He nodded at the rest. They moved, jumping into the portal on the ground and hanging off the line at the top, slowly inching down. Sparks jumped at them. “3D, what are you waiting for?” Lance asked.

“Huh?”

“Jane can’t work her magic so go to plan b!”

Charles blinked away his stupor and raised a hand and the door turned white, flattening with a horrible noise.

The group jumped through and the door crumpled like paper. They crashed into the hidden clubroom, smashing tables and glasses and ceramic plates. Doorman crawled up and stood by the door, placing himself against it. One by one, they walked through him, into that static void, and out the other end. They made the mistake of forgetting that there were security officers in the hotel. A squad of them had been placed outside the hidden room, waiting for them. They opened fire as the team scattered, with Lance returning fire. Charles seemed to regain his vigor in this moment as he blurred once more and multiple guards found themselves with their necks snapped. Lance gave him a nod.

And then they were out of the ballroom. Guards had been mobilized but they were still running the front of a hotel and casino. With police mere moments from the site, their weapons had to be aimed carefully. Civilians ran two and fro, the ignorant wondering what the others were excited about, the fearful trying to escape another terrorist attack, and the tourists trying to catch sight of the villains and the fire. Instead, the guards rushed at them, seeking to use their numbers to take them down. And yet the team had no reservations about shooting. Although they were hesitant to hit civilians, the proxomity allowed them to be accurate without fault. Those that did not carry a firearm on them instead used their fists, taking down the guards in rapid succession. 

But outside, where the only damages might be toward cars, money which the hotel could afford to reimburse, was a different story. The guns came out and the team once again found themselves under fire. “Heat-Ray!” Lance shouted. 

The back doors of the van burst open as Fredric waved them in. Lance threw himself into the back, tossing his gun to the side, and raced over to the driver’s seat. The car was already in drive, so Lance gunned it, tires screeching on the concrete as it swerved out of the parking space, slamming into the lights of a particular blue Lexus ES on their right. The force almost launched Celeste out of the van. Charles reached back to grab her, pulling her in. He closed the swinging van doors shut afterward. Bullets pinged off the, thankfully, steel-reinforced doors, but bulging dents appeared with every shot. The van swerved around a turn as it slammed through the boom barrier. They were out on the streets. 

“PF?” Lance asked as he sped past a yellow light.

“The digital virus was uploaded. All traffic cameras are temporarily disabled.”

“They’re not chasing us,” Charles said, looking out the window.

Lance glanced at him through the rearview. “Uh, yeah, we know. That’s part of the plan.”

“Uh huh, I know…”

Fredric blinked in the passenger seat and glanced at Charles, looking at Lance. A police car raced past them. “Something wrong with him?”

“Huh?”

“He’s… I don’t know, he feels weird.”

“Yeah, he got shot.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I guess dying does that to a man, huh?”

“He died?” Fredric asked, leaning forward in his seat in alarm. “What do you mean he died?”

“What? I dunno, I mean, if he died, he wouldn’t be there, would he? It’s a figure of speech, or, something. I mean, the man got shot.”

Fredric scoffed as he leaned back in his seat, resting his head against the seatbelt as he looked up at the night sky. Charles sat silently, his brow furrowed underneath his goggles. DeMarr looked upon him, uncertain if he should say anything. Celeste tinkered with her legs while Felicia went through their bounty. “Quite the jackpot,” Felicia said.

“So what did you all pick up?” Fredric asked.

“Mm, diamonds, mostly.”

“Really? All that for a bunch of diamonds?”

“Diamonds are my favorite,” Felicia replied.

“Diamonds, man,” DeMarr said. “Diamonds are cool.”

They drove on, weaving through the nightly traffic in the city that never sleeps. The lights were soothing, the old grimy gothic look of the buildings giving some manner of nostalgia to Fredric as he viewed the speeding surroundings. The shimmering lights of the skyscrapers paired beautifully with the multicolored thunderstorm above; it didn’t rain, however. Of course, it wasn’t long until they were over the waters, and the skyline became a distant figure instead of a looming one. Concrete turned to wood and the bustling atmosphere of a restless metropolis turned suburban. The rest of New York opened itself up to them. Lance turned on the radio and Gotye’s Somebody That I Used to Know came on. He glanced in the rearview, expecting Charles to groan. Charles just looked out the back windows. 

Felicia let out a sigh and pulled out earbuds and her iPhone, tapping over the music application. “What are you listening to?” Jane asked. Felicia held out her phone. “Oh,” Jane said, tapping the back of her neck. “I took it out.”

Felicia nodded and handed her an earbud. 

Welcome to the dawn of the night are you looking for a friend to walk this sleepless sleep with just tell me all your hopes and your secrets your fantasies don’t worry they’re safe with me play with me Welcome to the dead of the day are you looking for a friend to walk this deathless death with just tell me all your hopes and your secrets your fantasies don’t worry they’re safe with me ill sell them to you as a dream.

“What band is this?” Jane asked.

“Some small-time band.”

They continued the drive, now thoroughly relaxing as they were quite a distance from Manhattan. There were no signs of pursuers either. The radio, playing Maroon 5’s Payphone, started to scramble and play static. Lance turned off the radio. “Man, that storm’s really picking up, isn’t it?” Lance remarked after a length of silence.

“And those colors,” Fredric added. “It’s odd. My sensors are-”

The lightning bolt ripped through the car roof and the resulting explosion blew open the back doors. The wheels bucked under the force and the left rear tire popped, sending the car into a skid that almost tipped it over. One of the back doors burst off the hinges and hung onto the frame of the van by a single screw, swinging widely as Lance attempted to regain control. Celeste screamed as her legs spasmed, sparking with static, and Charles’s head slammed against the side, knocking him out. Veering into the grass, the car slowed to a stop as it jammed itself between a group of trees at the edge of a roadside forest. Felicia jumped out of the vehicle. “Are you guys alright?” she asked. “Shit! 

The package!” 

She started running for the road as the others groaned. Lance pushed the driver’s door open and stepped out. He muttered a short thankful prayer to no god in particular that the road was empty, but cursed them afterward for the state of their transport. “Heat, you good?” he asked.

“Great.”

“Great. Check on Celeste and DeMarr, will you?”

With that, Lance walked over to Felicia, who had stopped to look at something in the middle of the road. “Boss, what’s that?”

“What’s what?” 

The dust and ozone started to dissipate into the air. In the outline, they saw a round shape on the ground and some sort of staff. The staff held fabric, evident from its fluttering. It was hard to make out in the dim waxing crescent moonlight. There were skulls and characters from a language that they did not recognize. Lance looked up into the sky. The fluorescent clouds and lightning disappeared like it was never there. Assumed evident from its glorious nature and the form of the flag, Lance said, “It’s some kind of… battle standard?”

“You mean our multimillion-dollar package turned into a flag?”

“I-” 

Lance stopped talking. The shape on the ground revealed itself. A man in heavy armor plates, a coat, a gas mask, and some toy guns lay curled on the road. “What the fuck?”

“Shit…” Felicia turned her head to the van. Charles stepped out of the back, woozy and swaying. “You think our other stuff survived?” 

• Life goes on, it gets so heavy The wheel breaks the butterfly Every tear a waterfall In the night the stormy night she'll close her eyes In the night the stormy night away she'd fly Dream of para-para-paradise Para-para-paradise Para-para-paradise

Chapter Text

• There walks a stranger from stranger lands. He walks alone with Death in hand. He walks to where he sees the light. He walks to where his Lord demands.

“What the fuck?”

“Shit. You think our other stuff survived?” 

“It’s… some kind of world war one cosplayer.”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“Well, first, right? you’d think it’s all German, but actually, you can see from the gas-”

“Aw, your nerdiness is sweet, boss, but, no, that wasn’t really an invitation to explain.”

“Listen, kid-”

Lance prepared a retort that quickly died in his throat when the man on the ground stirred. Sighing, Lance stepped forward, reaching a hand out to check the stranger’s pulse. However, the moment he made contact, he was thrown back in a static shock of purple electricity. “What the hell?” Lance yelled as he stood back up, shivering from the feedback.

The man on the ground groaned and shakily stood up. He seemed drowsy as he glanced around the road, eyes sliding past the duo, not seeing them. For a moment, Lance felt a pang of anxiety in his chest. The way the moonlight gleamed off the reflective orbs and the skull-shaped plate made Lance tense up, tightening his jaw. Before he could react, however, the masked man finally focused on them. In an instant, Lance and Felicia found themselves each directed with a barrel of strange-looking guns. “Whoa! Calm down, no need to kill us, mister, uh, masked man,” Lance said, raising his arms and stepping back.

The stranger said something, muffled through his gas mask, clearly some interrogative, but Lance could not understand. The words coming out of the masked man’s mouth were warped. It could have been English, but it sounded like a bit of everything; alien. And the accent was even harder to place down: it was a cacophony of pitches as if accents from all around the world had merged into one voice, discordious to their ears but naturally harmonious. There was a slight Germanic edge to it that stuck out amongst the rest, but Lance was not sure if he was just imagining that due to the prejudice his uniform might bring up. Lance blinked and glanced at Felicia, who shrugged wide-eyed at him. “What? Don’t look at me,” she said.

The voices these strangers talked in was, in a word, strange. He did not know where he was. For all he knew, this was the afterlife. Or, more likely, a trick from the Daemons, although he did not ever hear of the spawn of Chaos to induce such senseless hallucinations. Whatever the case was, the tongues these people talked in were unknown to him. The male spoke in an accent that he imagined to be from Praetoria. 393-1024-0830-Jeneth could not be certain. He had never met one of their Guardsmen after all, but he had heard recordings from a distance. As for the words this false Praetorian spoke, it could have been Low Gothic, but all the syllables were wrong, placed in a weird order, and then run underneath the tracks of a Leman Russ. 

Damn you uneducated primitive fools! 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought. Then he stepped back with a start as his vision swam and he realized he was understanding their incomprehensible words. It was a delayed understanding, their prior spoken syllables crawling through a muddy dugout before finding purchase, as if some vile magic was transforming them into a recognizable form of Low Gothic. Or perhaps it was more similar to an automatic translator matrix the Mechanicus regularly employed, one that was faulty. Last 393-1024-0830-Jeneth checked, however, he was not cybernetically enhanced like the red denizens of Sacred Mars. “Where am I?” 393-1024-0830-Jeneth spit, and he found himself once again reeling in surprise that he spoke in this other manner. He carried on; answers first. “Who are you? Identify yourself in the name of the Emperor!”

Lance blinked again. It was English, a language he could recognize. The sound was still off, and that menagerie of accents still wreaked havoc on his ears, but at least he could understand. In fact, Lance swore that the Germanic edge he placed earlier faded back into a British, more specifically, English tone, much like his own. “Uh… Earth?” Lance asked while cursing in his mind, his hands slowly traversing to his holster; damn, he thought, is he an alien after all?

Earth. Earth, where is Earth? 393-1024-0830-Jeneth thought, his eyelids growing heavy. The word bounced around in his mind until something sparked and this foreign language clicked with another word he knew in both Low Gothic and High. Impossible, he thought. “Hol-... Terra?” 393-1024-0830-Jeneth whispered, slurring.

Then his world went dark and he collapsed.

Lance edged forward. “Right, so we all heard it, right? English?”

“He sounds… young,” Felicia commented. 

“He sounds fanatical. Do you know an emperor?”

They heard footsteps running up from behind them. “Yo, man, what the hell is going on?” DeMarr asked. Lance gestured. “Oh,” DeMarr said. “Okay. That, I guess. What is that?”

Lance sighed, ignoring the question in favour of his own. “How is everyone?”

DeMarr looked back at the wreck, shaking his head. “Miss Celeste can’t walk. She said the lightning shorted out her legs, but it’s going to fix itself or something. Uh, Fredric is fine, but he says that the comms are down. He can’t talk to Poker. But, man, Charles, man, he’s acting all weird. What did you mean he got shot?”

“Listen, forget about Charles for now. He’s walking around and he’s still, well, mostly here, so we’re going to assume he’s fine, right? Right now, we have this thing to worry about.” Lance was silent for a moment. “I thought he said that the Atrion wasn’t a portal,” he spit. DeMarr glanced at him. “We’re going to need to have a little chat with PF.”

“We don’t know if that’s a portal, or if he’s an alien,” DeMarr said.

“What more evidence do you need? It doesn’t have to be as obvious as a big blue fucking hole in the sky, does it?”

“Then how do you know he’s an alien? Look at him, man, that’s like, all the signs of being human.”

“The Chutari looked humanoid enough, from a distance. Slap enough layers on them, and they might look human.”

“They’re not-”

“I’m not saying they are. I’m saying they could be something other than human. All we know is that alien bastard lied to us, but whether or not something’s going on, we have to ask him anyway, yeah?” 

DeMarr looked away and have a slow nod. “Yeah, man,” he said quietly.

“We have to get out of here,” Felicia said. “Talk or not, we’re on an open road.”

Lance sighed, inching cautiously toward the fallen masked man, touching his coat carefully. He pulled back quickly but no spark jumped at him this time. Lance sighed in relief but tsked in mock annoyance. “Aw, man, he’s all dirty. Look at him. It’s gonna ruin this suit.”

He kneeled down and placed the two guns on the masked man’s chest, the stranger cradling his own weapons while Lance cradled him. He grunted, straining his arms under the weight and adjusting his hold to be more comfortable. Lance squinted his eyes at the stenciling in the upper corner of the mask man’s armor, its silver color glinting in the moonlight. “Three niner three, ten two four, oh eight three oh, Jeneth.”

“What’s that?” DeMarr asked.

Lance shrugged. “No idea. His name?” 

“That’s not a name, man,” DeMarr said.

“That’s too much of a mouthful,” Felicia added.

“Does it matter what it is?” Lance asked. “It’s probably a service number.”

“Do you want to keep calling him Stranger? Does your British ancestry have some wild west blood in it?” Felicia said.

“Fuck- Call him Jeneth then, I don’t care,” Lance replied. 

“Maybe Jeneth is peaceful,” DeMarr said.

“Are you ki- Look at him! Besides, name one show where a space emperor was nice.”

“Don’t you have a Queen,” Felicia asked. “God save her and all.”

Lance didn’t answer. He looked at the battle standard. “Jesus, that thing’s designed to be stared at. Doorman, do us a favour, will ya?”

DeMarr nodded and picked up the flag as the trio, plus the newly christened Jeneth, walked back to the van. They found Fredric carrying Jane and Charles looking around. “Who’s that?” Fredric asked.

“Jeneth, apparently,” Lance said.

“What the fuck’s a Jeneth?”

Lance shrugged again. “How far’s the switch vehicle?”

“Two miles.”

“We have to walk three fucking klicks with all this? Damn it.”

“Hey look,” Felicia called from inside the van. “All our stuff survived.”

Felicia came out of the back with the sack and suitcase. Lance shook his head. “Any luck with the radio?”

“No. I still can’t raise Poker Face.”

“Whatever. No use in trying. We’ll stick to the tree line. Let’s go.” Lance gave another audible grunt as he began walking.

“That thing heavy,” Charles asked snarkily.

“Oh great, you got your asshole back. Look at him and tell me what you think.”

Charles gave a weak chuckle. “I think it’ll be funny to watch you struggle.”

“You boys never give it a rest, do you?” Felicia asked.

“No, he doesn’t,” Fredric replied. He looked down. “Are you comfortable?”

“Ah, as comfortable as I’ll get,” Celeste replied.

“Where is it?” Charles asked Lance as they stared walking. 

“Pocket,” Lance replied as he angeled his body. 

Charles took out a detonator, flipped open the cap, and pushed down the button. There was a quiet beep from where they came from. There was a hiss and a flash, followed by a miniature explosion, burning away any biological trace the group may have left in their very short time with the van. Charles pocketed the useless detonator with a head cock. They continued, making their way underneath the thick coat of branches and leaves, obscured from the road via shadows. “Charles, I’m not carrying this guy all three klicks,” Lance said after a while.

“Yeah, yeah,” Charles replied. “I’ll take my turn when it’s my time. But you’re the one using a bridal carry. Did the Royal Marines teach you nothing?”

Lance sighed. “It was the SAS.”

“It was the shut the fuck up.”

Lance dropped Jeneth’s legs and repositioned himself, grunting with effort as he flipped the masked man over onto his neck and back. “God, if the service didn’t fuck with my spine, this guy sure will,” Lance said.

“You get used to it,” Charles said. “Be glad this ain’t the boonies.”

A car went past and everyone quieted down. There is not much for the group to say. Conversation between them had always been scarce and arguments were quick to arise, but they had the same goals, so cooperation was mandated. The excitement of the lightning strike had worn off and the fatigue of walking, slinking in the shadows, hiding, was getting on them. It did not help that the auction heist had not gone exactly according to plan. Charles rubbed his exposed skin, cursing at each brush of a leaf or branch or bug. Felicia had more energy in each step, but she was the most unburnded and the most used to darkness. “What are we going to do?” Lance asked, finally breaking the silence.

Crickets chirped, hidden beneath the grass under the cover of darkness, a jarring musical ensemble as they sang their song in the nearby fields, past the treeline. Light winds caressed their hair. They trudged through the submarine moonlight, freezing at every miniscule purr of an engine, listening to the far off echoes of a siren that they assumed was called to the scene of their accident. “What are we going to do about what?” Charles asked.

“Don’t play coy with me,” Lance said.

“There is a non zero chance that the Atrion we were sent to retrieve acts as the homing beacon for a hostile alien army,” Jane supplied.

“Hostile?” Felicia pipped in. “Jeneth over there seemed really confused.”

“Yeah, well,” Fredric saaid, “maybe space teleportation does that to you.”

“PF said that it was nothing more than an incredibly rare and powerful power source. It’s obviously more than that,” Lance said. 

“Maybe he just didn’t know, man, I mean, man, we asked him about the New York incident, remember? He said he hates portals.”

“Yeah,” Lance said sarcastically. “Because aliens can’t lie like humans can.”

DeMarr shut his mouth. “Don’t bully the boy,” Charles said. “We’ll just ask Poker when we get back.”

“Ask him? If it is a portal, he’s just going to kill us to prevent us from telling anyone!”

“Tell? Tell who, buddy?”

“I don’t know, the government? That, uh, the group, the spy Shields? The Avengers!” Charles barked into laughter and everyone ducked. “Shut the fuck up!” Lance said.

“The government?” Charles whispered loudly. “What the fuck do you think they’re going to do? Hell, Shield existed for this long. They obviously know a lot more than we do about aliens. And even then they failed to stop the army. They had to rely on a mishmash team of fools, folktales, and a literal nuclear warhead to stop what amounted to their scouting force!” 

“Better than anything you can do!” Lance shot back.

“Better than anything any of us can do,” Fredric said tiredly. “I mean it. If it is true and he doesn’t kill us instantly, let’s say we shoot him. He’s invulnerable, remember? He showed us. All those bullets didn’t do nothing to him.”

“Weren’t you the one who said we should ask him?” Felecia asked Lance.

“Yh- I- I mean, yeah, but that was kind of before I realized how dumb it was.”

“You mean after you realized how dumb you were,” Charles retorted.

“Boys!” Felicia hissed as Lance opened his mouth. “Immediate problems first?”

“The fox is right,” Charles said. “Besides. Man could be watching us right now, what, with all his gizmos and tech. Who knows if he’s got a bird up there.”

Everyone took a moment to glance up at the sky at this comment and they continued on in silence as each member pondered their uncertain steps. “Shield has fallen off the relevance wagon anyway,” Celeste said after a while.

“Aren’t they the biggest thing after the Avengers in the news right now?”

“They’re nothing more than cold war era spies playing as heroes. Stuck in the past.”

“They helped save New York.”

“They fired a nuke at New York.”

“Exactly my point,” Charles said. “They’re a government entity and their first move isn’t to send in soldiers to reinforce the Avengers and National Guard but to send a thermonuclear weapon at the largest US city. What is that if not incompetent?”

“It’s not incompetency,” Celeste replied. “It’s negligence. A lack of care. A weapon like that would have slowed the alien advance down considerably. There were simply other options they could have taken.”

“Well,” Demarr said. “Man, I mean, thank goodness Iron Man saved us, right?”

“Ha-

Iron Man’s nothing more than a guy in a tin can who got lucky he had gods and monsters on his side,” Fredric snarled.

Stark’s just an egomaniac playing with his Warhawk father’s money,” Celeste spit.

Felecia gave Celeste a side glance from the front but didn’t say anything. From behind, DeMarr gave a hushed gasp of realization that echoed in Fredric’s helmet through his enhanced sensors. Fredric gave a noncommittal quiet hum. “Whatever. He better give us our damn money for this, extra, if he doesn’t kill us,” Charles said. 

With that heartfelt message, the group set off on silence once more. 

“You know, man, what if the nuke was the only option?”DeMarr suddenly said after a while.

“Hey, Door?” Felicia started in warning.

“What?” Charles said, rounding on DeMarr.

“Whoa, man, just, you know. Aliens, is all.”

“Don’t you start referencing pop culture bullshit on me now, son,” Charles said.

“Man, even without any of that, what if they got like, a beach head? And they became unstoppable. We clearly weren’t winning.”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” Charles asked.

“I-”

“If anything,” Felecia piped in, “they might have been trying to off the Avengers.”

Silence. 

“What?” Lance asked.

“What, you guys don’t read conspiracy blogs?”

“No. What?” Lance repeated.

“A bunch of guys are saying how the nuke was meant to wipe out the Avengers as much as stop the Chitarui.”

“And risk losing assets like that?” Celeste said. “No.”

 “Then why didn’t they pull out their major league heroes?”

Celeste struggled for an answer. “Bearucracy. Even the Director has to answer to someone.”

“Government or not, the motive is still possible.”

“That’s even more of a dangerous ground to argue than what Davis was talking about, Miss Hardy,” Fredric said.

“Give me a better alternative to the thing that no one’s talking about.”

“Yeah, man, how about-”

“Ah, bugger off. We’re here.”

The car was parked inside a small abandoned roadside gas station, covered with a tarp and protected by small hidden turrets. Charles went ahead to try the door but huffed. “It’s stuck again, damned thing.” 

Fredric walked up to the doors and raised a leg. The servos in his knees hummed and he kicked forward, smashing the rusted hinges off the crumpled door. “Sure,” Lance sighed. “Just go and do that then.”

The turrets were nonlethal, designed to shoot a taser dart at any passerby that might have had the intent to steal the ride or simply find a place to sleep for the night. Fredric tore the tarp from the car with a single pull. Felicia wrinkled her nose at the dust as DeMarr set about collecting the turrets. The car was of a turquoise color, with silver-rimmed wheels and black highlights. “The question is,” Lance began, staring at the car, “where are we sticking him?”

“In the trunk?”Fredric suggested.

“And when he wakes up?” Lance asked.

“Take his weapons off him then,” Charles snarked.

“I don’t know how this shit works!”

“The back has room for four. Lay him on your laps,” Felicia said. “If he wakes up, whack him on the head and hold him down. Did’t you boys grow up on wrestling?”

“Oh for crying out loud.” Lance groaned.

“I call shotgun then,” Celeste said at the same time as she hobbled over and opened the door.

Charles rounded on the driver’s seat but Felecia was suddenly in front of him and placed a gentle hand on his chest, smiling. “Nuh uh, not so fast. I’m driving.”

Charles scoffed, brushing Felicia’s hand away. “You?”Felicia’s hand came up as she jangled the keys in front of Charles’s face. Charles’s hands shot towards his pockets. “Oh, you-”

“Ah, don’t start with the lass,” Fredric said.

Charles turned to the others and saw DeMarr sitting quietly in the back. His eye twitched and he sighed. “So that’s just it then,” he said, one hand on the top of the car as he leaned in the back. “Load the stranger into the back and drive off to meet our potentially invasion-spearheading alien overlord who can’t be killed.”

“Weren’t you the one complaining about me saying that?” Lance protested. “When, you know, I was saying that?”

“Didn’t mean I like it.”

“We all have to give this a chance,” Fredric said. “Get back to base, confront the man, and ask him to tell us everything. Because we have no other options.”

“Sink or swim, right?”

“Yeah, well, in this case, it’s more like ‘sink or get eaten by sharks’.”

“Sheesh, no need to be so morbid,” Lance said.

“Can it, shitbirds.” 

The garage door cranked open, its joints creaking and cracking like the bones of an old man. The night once more spilled into the unnatural darkness of the old garage room and the car rolled forward. 

In the back, the men started to poke and prod at the masked man and shift uncomfortably in their seat. They complained and argued with each other, Lance bugging Charles especially about him not taking the load halfway across the trek. Felicia rolled her eyes and pulled out her iPhone. The screen stayed black no matter how much manipulating Felicia did with it. With a defeated sigh, Felicia reached into her other pocket and pulled out an MP3 player. “You should get an iPod,” Celeste commented. 

Felicia shrugged. With one hand on the steering wheel, she flicked her earbuds into the audio jack and put earphones inside her ears. She then selected her playlist, set it on shuffle, and leaned back into the headrest.

“Wha- Hey, don’t drive with earbuds,” Charles said, leaning forward.

Felicia ignored him. “ 

“Ah, keep your hair on, mate.”

“You need all faculties to drive. You can’t drive with…”

Charles’s words faded into the background as the music began. A sitar thrummed the melody. Percussion came in quickly to usher in the lyrics. 

I see a red door And I want it painted black.

The waxing crescent leered at them from above the clouds to the sound of drumbeats as the trees danced to the rhythm.

* - * - *

He did not dream. Perhaps he did, but if he did, he did not remember. After all, what use were the insipid and tedious tales the mind might weave for a soldier? A distraction. An entryway for doubts and delusion. For Daemons. The real world required meticulous attention. Even in unconsciousness, one must be ready to wake at a moment’s notice, for the blade of the enemy never stopped. And yet, now he dreamt. He dreamt of a world that he could not quite place. It was a golden world and it was beautiful. No. It was disgusting. It was… confusing. He felt forlorn and yet so drawn to its surface. The light was blinding. It hurt, and yet the flames that burned alongside it were comforting as it was mutilating. A voice. What was it, cutting through the indecipherable glare? Another dreamer. Another one in that deathlike slumber, that sleepless sleep. What did he dream of? What did he feel? What was it that he is trying to relay? Pain. Such pain. A silent scream of agony. A chilling call of despair. Ten thousand years of suffering pooled into a single piercing cry.

His mind shattered. The light, the flames, it was an exploding star. How could he bear the brunt of such heat? He was spiraling. Something touched him. A glancing swipe on his soul.

CGKCTP AUOHOR NARIOO NRPLLD ODSDU NSMC FMAT OAN DN D E R 

SON OF KRIEG

“ Mine Emperor! ”

Jeneth panted as he threw his arms into the air, outstretched to grasp what he most desperately wanted to seek. His eyes opened to the familiar light of his polarized lenses and his lungs reminded his brain of the taste of the recycled air he was so familiar in breathing. In an instant, he calmed down. However, while he had regained his mental faculties, his senses were not so lucky as to be restored just yet. His vision swam, his ears buzzed, and his head pounded. The dream, this vision he had seen, still weighed on his thoughts, the burning golden starlight etched into his mind like a brand. No, not a vision. How foolish have I become to believe that He would reach out to someone like me? His head drooped but jerked upwards as he finally realized what he felt, or rather, what he was not feeling. 

The weight of his weapons. Someone or something had taken his tools from him. The startling shot of adrenaline cleared, only temporarily, his nausea as he focused on his surroundings. 

The room was illuminated by bright golden lumens, two columns of three lumen strips attached to the roof above. The bars, he knew now he was in a cell, were a white-leaning silver, with sharp edges instead of rounded ones, etched with a nondescript flowering pattern, and secured to the property with golden bronze caps. He was on a cot raised onto the walls with what he assumed were simple bolts. It was a thin but soft mattress, with a blanket way too thick for the overall size of the cot. Jeneth did not like it. He was not used to the comfort, and now this luxury was uncomfortable to him. His unstable state also meant that it felt as if the mattress was sucking him down, creating a sinking sensation that only compounded his nausea. Jeneth stepped off the cot, stumbling and almost falling face-first into the bars. 

His entire body was in pain, as if his muscles refused to let go of tension that was no longer there, carrying a false weight. The gravity, he realized. 

When he looked up, he saw some type of cogitator terminal. It was hung on the wall and not in any pattern that Jeneth recognized. Slowly raising himself, he limped over to the terminal and observed it further. How… primitive, Jeneth thought as he pulled the keyboard forward from its slide underneath the monitor. The screen danced to life as the keyboard fully extended. Neon green symbols danced on a black screen, each letter rigid and heavily pixelated. Jeneth realized he could not read the words, and yet he realized he could understand them. Eyes gliding over each clump of letters, his brain picked from a pile of Low Gothic vocabulary, throwing them into discernible meaning. Those meanings fed themselves to another section of his conscious understanding and formed syllables and sounds. Like that, he was able to read… English, his mind supplied. “English,” Jeneth repeated.

There were only five options listed on the screen, and the selected option was highlighted by a green box. They were: lights, food, bathroom, general assistance, and unlock cell. Narrowing his eyes, Jeneth pressed the down arrow until the ‘unlock cell’ option was selected and pressed enter. A secondary selection popped up to the right of the option, prompting Jeneth to select ‘Y’ or ‘N’. Jeneth entered ‘Y’ and growled in muted frustration. The screen flashed and displayed ‘You are not able to select this option. Thank you for staying with us.’ “Yeah,” someone said and Jeneth slowly glanced to the right. “I don’t know what that option’s for. 

I think she likes to play with people. No wonder she’s single, eh?”

This was when Jeneth first felt the wisping reaches of unease. He was a soldier of Krieg. A Korpsman. And he was still alive. He had escaped a battle he should not have ever left and the means of his escape were unknown to him. Upon first glance, the man in front of him was clearly human. The architecture and technology utilized screamed human. And this human was talking nonchalantly to him with none of the fear and agitation that he had come to except. He wasn’t treated like a warrior on the same side, nor an enemy, not even a potential chaos spawn. 

Simply a prisoner. 

Jeneth had nothing to relate his situation to. What few prisoners the Death Korps captured were either executed soon after or taken away and never to be seen again. Confusion aside, assumptions had to be made. “You are obstructing the sacred work of the Emperor’s Imperial Guard. Return my arms and surrender yourself and any collaborative colleagues for summary execution.”

Charles blinked and chuckled as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “So, you speak English. That Brit was right, wasn’t he? You do sound weird. Hey, speak up.” Charles shook his head. “By the way, do you know you stink? Whooee. Anyway, speaking of those weapons of yours, whoo, are they something. I’ll tell ya what, we test-fired that laser blaster of yours. Evaporated the paper target, took quite a chunk out of the wall. 

The Rich Bitch was not pleased. So we agreed that we’ll not touch your things for now. So. What’s your deal, alien?”

Alien? Jeneth was stunned into a moment’s silence. They misidentify the lasgun as if they had never seen one before and now they call me alien. “I am no Xenos,” Jeneth said, the slightest hint of disgust flavoring his tone. Are they nothing more than primitive and ignorant civilians? Did I enter a warp portal that deposited me on some lost Hive World? “Your ignorance does not excuse you from disrupting the Emperor’s work. Release me.”

“Look, man, I don’t care what kind of alien you are. I’m cool, you’re cool, we can be chill, yeah? Right now, there are bigger things to discuss, and you have to listen, because, well, what else can you do?” 

Charles took a deep breath in and furrowed his brow. “Now, see,” he began as he raised his right pointer finger to his forehead. “I’ve been thinking,” he said as he tapped and then pointed at Jeneth. “You, you are proof. You are proof that this world is coming to a new era and that the things of old must be replaced. You are proof that the people who should be leading us forward are just holding us behind.” Charles started pacing around. “See, this world has just had its doors opened to a larger universe. And everyone’s clamoring over the Chitauri and the Avengers that no one looks at the government and thinks, gee, why did the government hide all this? 

Perhaps that big disaster could have been avoided if they told us common folk about what they knew. And now they have the Avengers. The Man’s little private team of bullshit action figures at their beck and call. Who can stop them now? What it must do to their ego to be able to control a god. It’s obvious, isn’t it? That every attempt to help the country is only coincidental. Any positive outcome only pertains to their need to keep themselves in power. Politicians. 

Their first goal is only to enrich themselves. And whether or not their policies help or harm the country is a secondary concern. So where do you come in as an alien? Well.” Charles leaned in. “I know what I said probably doesn’t matter too much to an alien like you. But. Looks like you’re all alone, eh? Whatever that stone was, whatever your plan was, you can’t really do anything by yourself. 

So why don’t you help me? Help me and I guarantee you live. Let me use you, your origins, your abilities, to shine a light on our so-called leaders. Blow away the fog they wrapped around themselves.” Charles paused them, his eyes flickering around as if just now realizing how incomplete his train of thought and plan was. Snorting and pushing himself off the wall, he continued. “Trust me, it’s the best deal you’re going to get.”

Jeneth took a chance to blink as he studied the strange professing man in front of him. These people were not worshippers of the God-Emperor, that much was clear. Cultists? No. They lacked the hatred of the Imperium and obvious signs of chaos mutation. The way this man talked about the government, it was clear that they were not loyal Imperialists either. Incompetence had to be rooted out and destroyed, however, his views were clearly Anti Establishment. To overthrow the incompetent leaders of a world was not the job of the people, but rather one for the High Lords and their Astra Militarum ‘representatives’. Wherever he was, Jeneth knew that this world needed correction. 

Conclusion?  

“So?” Charles asked.

Something clicked. Charles had keyed in the passcode on the console outside. The cell buzzed and the door bounced lightly off the wall from the loss of tension. Charles slid the door open and stepped back. “What do you say? Do you dig it, man?”

“Heresy.”

“Wha-”

An armored elbow smashed into Charles’s face. Charles felt something crack as he spit out blood. He had no time to register his bitten tongue as the onslaught began. Another elbow strike was launched at Charles’s throat while at the same time, a fist came barreling toward Charles’s liver. Disoriented from the head blow, Charles’s hands instinctively started to glow. It was only after the shock of the elbow to the neck that Charles regained himself. Charles’s off-balance feet hit the ground and he sped backward, “You bastard…”

Jeneth felt his head clear. The rush of adrenaline, or perhaps the blessings of the God-Emperor, though more likely his soldiered mentality upon his altered genetics, had allowed him to overcome his nausea rather quickly, obviously catching the rambunctious thug off guard. Watching the man before him use some strange power to retreat from the engagement, Jeneth knew he was outmatched in a straight melee engagement. He organized a priority-tasking list in his mind. Usually, killing the enemy no matter the cost would be the primary mission. However, given the state of the world he found himself on, he knew that it was more appropriate to find an astropath or some high-powered Vox station and send a broadcast for reinforcements. That thought gave him pause; he wondered if this primitive world even had those. Regardless, for the first time in his life, Jeneth had to prioritize his own survival. Charles drew the M1911 strapped to his side.

“Witch,” Jeneth muttered, and Charles moved his head back, his brow furrowed in mild confusion.

Jeneth refocused his attention on the threat before him. The psyker was obviously inexperienced with his powers or else he would not need to rely on a rudimentary stub gun. However, trying to escape would likely end in death, no matter what the psyker’s abilities were or what level his competency. The optimal task, then, was to try to deal with the psyker now. The chance of death was high but better than an unprepared retreat. “Tch,” Charles said. 

I need a weapon. Jeneth charged. Charles brought up his firearm and squeezed the trigger habitually, the .45 ACP rounds hitting center mass. He cursed, reminding himself that he wanted the alien alive. God, we better be able to patch this ratshit E.T. up, Charles thought. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the steel-jacketed lead bullets simply deformed and ricocheted off of Jeneth’s carapace armor. Well, fuck, Charles thought as Jeneth entered at arm’s length and grabbed his hand. With a pull Jeneth broke Charles’s hold, his index finger blocking the hammer and his pinky blocking the trigger. However, instead of pushing the gun to the side and twisting, Jeneth simply elbowed Charles’s wrist and pulled. 

What the fuck? Charles thought as his wrist went static with the shock and his grip loosened. No one fucking disarms a man like that! Gritting his teeth, Charles grabbed the gun as Jeneth turned it around on him. The Colt glowed white and flickered. Jeneth’s eyes caught the visages of an eyewatering amount of dimensional shaping before the gun shattered into a hundred flat pieces and fell to the floor like leaves. In response, Jeneth dropped to his knees and threw a punch at Charles’s knee. Charles saw this coming, kicking out with the leg that Jeneth was targetting, and caught Jeneth right underneath the chin with his shoes. The Korpsman fell backward, dazed, and wasn’t given a chance to rest as Charles jumped on him.

Charles got behind Jeneth and wrapped one arm around Jeneth’s neck, the other coming behind to cradle Jeneth’s head, locking the masked man in a rear naked choke. From behind his mask, Jeneth let out a startled cough. Charles smirked. “Just relax, right? Let’s all ca-”

A fist smashed into Charles’s face. Charles’s grip loosened as his head flung back, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Gritting his teeth, Charles regained himself instantly and tightened his choke before Jeneth could pull away. What the fuck? Charles thought once more. An ordinary man, even an ordinary soldier, would panic, or otherwise waste precious oxygen by squirming and scrabbling. Jeneth did not. Pulling himself closer, Charles quickly released his lever hand to wrap underneath Jeneth’s right arm, immobilizing it. His awkward distance then prevented Jeneth’s free arm from having any detrimental force. Now it was a battle of consciousness, whether Charles would pass out from blunt force trauma, or if Jeneth would fall to asphyxiation. 

Jeneth decided to introduce a third option. Although Charles’s leg hooks kept Jeneth’s thighs immobile, his lower legs still had enough mobility for him to maneuver to a standing position. With a heavy grunt, Jeneth bent forward and threw Charles over his back. Charles flickered and faded away, reappearing a few feet away and standing, his knees bent and panting as Jeneth allowed himself a rare moment to examine his neck. “Okay…” Charles swallowed. “Okay.”

With a snarl, Charles bum-rushed Jeneth again and performed a Superman punch with a very light jump. It was slow and telegraphed and Charles expected Jeneth to block it: it was only the precursor to another move. Charles’s blinked. His fist met no resistance and sailed into Jeneth’s face, scraping hard on the leather-like material of his mask and the metal of his face plate. Jeneth’s head snapped to the side but his arms did not stop, inflicting two continuous jabs straight into Charles’s abdomen. Jeneth’s head whipped back and for the first time, Charles felt a chill down his spine. “Okay,” Charles said again, circling around Jeneth as he clutched his stomach. “So you’re hot shit.” He spit out a mixture of blood, saliva, and mucus, snarling. He cocked his arms and raised them. 

“Don’t make me actually hurt you.”

Jeneth said nothing and advanced. Stepping forward, Charles rotated and delivered a high three-sixty spin kick, his feet missing Jeneth’s neck as the alien ducked. Regaining his footing, Charles took the opportunity to gather his fists and slammed down a double hammer fist. Jeneth fell on all fours, barely a gasp escaping his gas mask. Pushing himself off the ground, Jeneth collapsed the distance between them. The closed-in armored shoulder charge broke through Charles’s guard, and his defense was destroyed. Ah, shit- “Oof!”

Jeneth unleashed a shower of blows. Knee to the stomach. Hard kick to the shins. A boot to the back of the leg. Then, finally, an elbow to the side of the head. Charles hit the ground hard and became subject to two gloved hands on his throat. He scrabbled and clawed at the figure above him, his nails finding no purchase on the ceramite or the heavy fabrics. “Hrk! Keh… Kurgh!”

So Charles switched to something he found more effective in his lifetime. His hands swept across Jeneth’s face, weaker than he’d like, but consistent. Jeneth’s head flew to and fro but the choking hands stayed, growing ever tighter. Charles started seeing stars. No mercy. This was a killer. “Suffer not the witch,” the masked alien muttered.

Cold steel.

Fuck you. Charles’s hands glowed white hot.

“Hey!”

Fredric came barreling down the corridor and skidded to a halt, one arm outstretched to clothesline Jeneth’s neck. On contact, Fredric’s other arm came up and he locked the Korpsman in a chokehold. Charles came up with a warning but was unable to say anything before Jeneth attacked. He punched back, aiming a fist at Fredric’s face but found his hand hitting metal. Instantly, both arms came to pull Fredric’s armbar away instead. “Kurk,” Charles coughed, wobbling as he tried to stand up. 

More pairs of footsteps. Celeste ran forward, stun gun in hand, and jabbed the prongs hard into Jeneth’s neck. Jeneth seized in Fredric’s arms, gritting his teeth, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. “Heri-”

The stun gun came off and Jeneth went limp. After jerking Jeneth’s body a few times to make sure of his state of being, Fredric sighed and dragged Jeneth back into the cage, throwing him unceremoniously onto the bed and locking the gate when he came out. Hidden eyes focused on the panting Charles, shrouded accusations and veiled questions behind the visors. “How come even when you’re not causing trouble, you’re causing trouble, mate?” Lance asked, echoing Fredric’s voiceless words. 

Charles made to respond but leaned back in the air and fell on his back. He raised a finger. “You know. I’m gonna… wait a second. Yeah?”

Felicia and DeMarr hung around the cell, peering at the alien with curiosity. Fredric walked over to Charles, shaking his head, and extended a hand. Charles cracked a smile and grabbed it. The room was circular with one corridor leading into it and another leading away to a different circular chamber of cells. The former corridor was lined with paintings, water dispensers, potted plants, and windows for storage offices, filled to the brim with filing cabinets. At the end of the corridor were two opposite rooms for the guards, one for them to rest and one for them to monitor. “You dismissed the grunts,” Celeste commented.

“Hm.”

“And you turned off the cameras.” 

“Hm.”

“Why?”

“Mm. Lends more… credibility to my authority. Negotiation tactic.”

“Uh huh,” Lance said. 

The group would walk up the helix floating staircase, the pillar they revolved around a stainless steel while the steps were made of shining white marble. The floor above, the mansion proper, was more of the same motif as the prison. Shining and golden, soft yet angular, all in all, fabulously rich. They arrived in the middle of the mansion, a grand living space. The centerpiece was a brick firepit, exposed on all sides save for four thin support pillars that held up the chimney shaft. In a ring around the pit was a carpet, settled in a safe distance from the embers. Around the carpet were sofa chairs, each primed to watch televisions stationed around the fireplace. The entire section was indented, sunken a few inches from the mansion proper. Charles lowered himself in a seat.

Fredric walked open to the cooler they brought over and grabbed a few bottles of beer. “When are you taking that off, by the way?” Charles asked.

“I did. But then you decided to fuck around, so I had to put it back on.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. I’m not taking it off that quickly. My brain’s damaged enough.”

“True that,” Felicia chirped.

Fredric threw a bottle at Celeste and DeMarr and handed on over to Charles. DeMarr caught his with wide eyes while Celeste grabbed hers out of the air with nary a glance. Felecia glanced at the empty cooler, rolled her eyes, and walked away. A few moments later, another woman came by. “What the hell was all the commotion?” she asked tersely, hands on her hips.

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” Fredric replied.

“A little trouble we had handled in no time, Miss Temple,” Lance added.

“Trouble, huh?” the woman repeated, her eyes unceremoniously staring at Charles.

Charles took a swig of her beer and didn’t answer. “It’s fine, Artoria,” Celeste said.

“Good. I already had that one fiasco with the damned wall, I don’t need another,” Artoria said. “Besides. I got a guy coming over.”

Lance raised a beer in a salute. “We’ll stay out of your way, Miss Temple.”

“Uh huh.” Artoria turned towards DeMarr. “And no peeking, right?”

She turned around and left with her entourage of guards, some of whom made hidden and unprofessional gestures at the gang. DeMarr was sputtering with confusion and embarrassment. “Different guy than last time, I’m assuming,” Celeste said.

“Ah, you know what they say,” Charles said, leaning back on the sofa and closing his eyes, bringing the beer bottle down on his forehead. Lance raised an eyebrow, Celeste groaned, and DeMarr looked away. “One man’s woman is another man’s whore.”

“So are you the woman or the whore?” Felicia asked as she came into the room.

Lance barked out laughter as Charles opened his eyes and glared at her. “Bitch,” he snarled.

“That’s Molly to you,” Felicia snarked as she sat on the opposite sofa chair, crossing her legs over the armrest and lounging back, one arm dangling limply over the side.

“You aren’t old enough to drink,” Celeste said disapprovingly as Charles shook his head and closed his eyes again.

Felicia popped open the cap. “Who’s gonna tell on me?” Felicia asked, pointing the bottle at Celeste.

“Ah, let the lass drink,” Lance said. 

“So what was that,” Felicia asked.

“Hm?” Charles murmured once he realized everyone was looking at him.

“Why’d you try to set the alien free?”

“He…” Charles licked his teeth, and “seemed cooperative when he woke up.” He sucked in a breath. “I thought he might try to work with us.”

“Really,” Fredric said.

“What can I say? I’m a nice guy.”

“Who’s obviously not a really good judge of character,” Felicia joked.

“That’s really the excuse you’re going with?” Celeste asked.

“Listen. What’s easier, interrogating an alien or trying to make nice with it?”

“So, did you find out anything?” Lance asked. By ‘making nice’? Or did you just get fucked up?”

“No… He didn’t… tell me about himself. But whatever he is, he’s a weird one. And he’s definitely dangerous.”

“Hey, man, nothing to be ashamed of. You had a rough day. Don’t make excuses now.”

“Shut up. You all saw a peek of how he fought.”

“I certainly saw him beat your ass,” Lance laughed. 

Charles’s face darkened but he directed his gaze at the ground. “He fought with nothing held back.”

“So he fights a bit dirty,” Fredric said.

“No, no, listen to me. Every swing? Full force. And that goes opposite for his movements. No feints, no nothing, not a twitch out of place. He doesn’t block, he doesn’t circle. No wasted moves at all. He aims for weak spots, joints, organs, the neck, the eyes. He used elbows and knees, not a fancy kick in sight. 

Every blow not made to subdue but to kill the opponent. There’s nothing in his repertoire that can counter a grapple. Whatever he is, whatever they are, they’re not focused on escaping. When I grappled him, he was still fighting me, still aiming to kill. The most he has is some disarming techniques, and you can’t even call it that. He’s not some feral. He’s a killing machine. And he’s not scared of dying either.”

“Wow. High praise, huh?” Lance said.

Charles groaned, took another swig, and closed his eyes. “I’m being fucking serious. He doesn’t… flinch. He’s… I mean, I know he’s a fucking alien, but he’s… inhuman, man.”

Everyone’s smiles faded at that. “Where… the fuck does he come from?” Lance finally asked, echoing everyone’s thoughts.

“Ah, fuck this!” Charles yelled after a moment, clutching his head.

Charles slipped out of his seat and wobbled toward one of the corridors, taking an angry sip of his beer. “You okay, man?” DeMarr asked.

“He’s fine, he just got his silly head beat,” Lance replied.

Charles did not reply, choosing instead to simply flip the whole group off as he entered the bathroom. Groaning, Charles placed his bottle on the corner of the sink and turned on the cold water. He let it flow for a few moments as he stared at himself in the mirror, disappointment reflecting upon himself in his eyes. Sighing, Charles cupped his hands underneath the stream and splashed himself, wincing. The water spilled on the floor. Charles stepped back, leaning against the back wall. “God damn it,” he muttered.

He looked at his hand, his bruised knuckles already fading back into a natural color. He flexed his fingers and ran the hand through his hair, his eyes closed in fatigued ponderance. It was the recent things, the fight, the alien, the mission. But the memories made their way back on their own. He wondered if he made a mistake, joining this team. He wondered if he actually regrets meeting DeMarr. He wondered if Fredric still had any real use. And, for the first time in a while, he thought of his brother. Deciding he needed more water, he made his way back to the running sink. 

His boot landed in the puddle of water, his soles losing grip, and he slipped, falling forward.

Really?

“Sh-”

He flickered on the moment of impact. Still, his head cracked against the ceramic sink. His skull fractured as his vision flashed white and he entered the realm of nonsense and reverse. There was a moment of time when Charles did not exist in any way. He twisted himself into a world of layered dimensions. It did not hurt, because it never did, and Charles was barely able to manage a thought, yet he felt as if he wanted to scream. The world flashed static and Charles was spit back out, his bruises and wounds gone as if they never existed in the first place. He lay there, unconscious. The water kept running.

* - * - *

The man was weird. Jeneth opened his eyes and sat up. Seeing that he was alone, he allowed himself to exhale once in light discomfort. The wounds inflicted on him were not serious, less than he would have gotten sparing with an instructor or a fellow Korpsman. The pain would fade, by and through steely discipline, and his wounds would heal by the Grace of the God-Emperor in around a day. Again, less than he might have needed from any training exercise. Thus, that psyker wearing a cheap imitation of a war uniform was an unfamiliar foe. Apart from the esoteric psychic abilities, he was also fighting to restrain rather than eliminate. The witch’s passivity was concerning as it was confusing. Jeneth rewound his memory up until his point of uconciousness. Another failure. It was fuzzy, given the trauma, but he had the gist of it. 

One psyker. One man in some form of primitive power armor. A woman with a stun weapon. She had heavy footsteps, metallic, meaning she was armored as well. Then one or two more grunts. He could not remember. A team of five, a quintet of anti establishment hive gangers. And they wanted him on their side. But Jeneth thought that that was not quite right either.

The Psyker did not come off right. His anti establishment views seemed personal. Work with him, cut a deal with him. It was never in the context of ‘us’, of his team. Or maybe that was simply a language quirk of this ‘English’ he was beginning to get familiar with. Most likely, he was overthinking it, overclocking his brain that was not made for considerations best left to Inquisitors and the like. But this heresy, it was alarming in what it implied. Jeneth stepped down from the cot and surveyed outside of the cell, seeing the guards in similar uniform as the psyker standing where they were once missing. He could not escape this cell. 

Fine then, Jeneth thought. Jeneth shifted and let out a small breath. The burning on his face made his mask uncomfortable to wear and the bruising on his abdomen from where the stub gun hit was not a fun addition. 

If they would come to recruit him once more, he would gather as much information as possible and give no response. If they came to torture him, they would find themselves on the receiving end of Krieg steel discipline. If they would come to interrogate him for information, he would simply kill himself. His weapons were gone, suffocation was impossible, and snapping his own neck was not likely. One solution remained. He would bite off his own tongue and axphyxiate on his blood. Even if he did not die, there would be no words that the enemy could take from his mouth. And if that did not work, he would bash his head until his skull split open. Whatever it takes. 

For victory eternal.

For the Emperor.

For fuck’s sake. Charles groaned and got up. He put a hand on his face and rubbed his eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered, letting the ‘f’ drag. 

He coughed and put his face in his knees, trying to get his head together. For a while, he simply listened to the running water, not realizing what the sound was. Slowly, as the world bled into his ears and his nose and the chill of the bathroom carved its way into his bones, he began to think and wonder where he was. He slowly stood up, looking confused as he realized he was wearing a suit. “What?” Charles grabbed at the sink to steady himself and caught a glance in the mirror. 

He did not understand what he was looking at. He stared in hiccuping short laughter as he moved his face around. His eyes darted to every detail and it finally dawned on him. “No-” With a horrible gasp, Charles leaned in and pulled at his face. “Oh, oh god,” he said. “No!”

He was older. This face, this particular face with those scars and those eyes, was not as he remembered. By the very nature of his power, he did not age as others did, but he was still noticeably different, with settling wrinkles, lighter hair, and looser skin. He could not tell how long had passed because he could not judge age based on physical appearance. “What have you done…” Charles muttered. 

With that, the longer he stared into eyes he barely recognized, he began to hyperventilate, gripping the sink tighter and tighter. A sharp thought pierced through his mind. “How, how long?” he whispered. 

His fingers picked at the edge of the mirror and pulled it open to reveal a medicine cabinet. He muttered a thankful prayer to an ambiguous god that there was one, and grabbed at a random bottle. He turned it around, his vision splitting and unfocused. There, he thought, finally landing his fingers on a black line of numbers and letters. ‘08Sept2015’. Charles nodded.

“Oh, okay,” he said softly. So, anywhere from 2010 to 2015…

Charles laughed. Then he was silent. Then he was wrath. “Charles, you fuck!” not Charles screamed, his hand slapping the beer bottle onto the floor.

He let out a muted, open mouthed, closed teeth yell of agony, his fists swinging at air. The hand holding the bottle raised into the air and he poised to throw the bottle onto the floor, breathing heavily in panic and anger. Many moments passed, the water running still. There was a knock on the door and Charles jumped. His fingers fumbled and the bottle slipped, dropping into the sink below. Scrambling, Charles shut off the sink and grabbed the bottle, staying silent and still while staring at the door. “Oi, you in there, mate?” a voice asked.

“... Uh huh. What’s it to you?”

“What?”

Charles did not answer.

“Okay, whatever. PF’s here.”

“Yeah, PF.” This guy knows him. “I’ll be right out.”

Charles wiped off the water on the bottle and stuffed it back in the medicine cabinet. He closed the mirror and breathed in deep. Okay, Halloran. Act like… Charles… . Halloran opened the door. Lance glanced at him. “You good?”

“Yeah…” Halloran glanced back inside the bathroom. “Might’ve spilled the beer though. I’ll clean it up later.”

Lance frowned. “What, what, wuhtuh, what’s wrong with your voice?”

“Huh?”

“What’s with the accent?” 

“I don’t- Do you know how to close the lights?”

“What, mate? It’s... automatic…”

Halloran made to reply but choked on his words as his eye caught the mirror. Lance watched in confusion as Charles ran back into the bathroom, his head whirling around in the mirror. “Did the beer work you over even worse than that Jeneth guy?”

Halloran swallowed and blinked. “No, I thought I- Uh. Yeah, right? Can’t even remember what year it is,” he tried.

Lance just nodded and walked away. Shit, Halloran thought. He glanced back at the mirror one last time, shaking his head. No, he can’t be here anymore. It’s my time now… His rage-filled celebratory murmurings halted in stunned silence as he stared ahead of him. It was not the extravagance that gave him disturbance, but rather the humanoid alien standing before him. Poker Face turned to look at Halloran. “I see that you are unhappy with my presence, Charles Chandler,” it said.

Halloran swallowed. The alien was, as far as Halloran saw it, a cross between a duck, a bug, and a person. He had a smooth face, golden bronze in color, but his features were sharp and uncanny. His upper jaw was like an exoskeleton. Apart from a white one-piece jacket, which extended down to his thighs, he was naked. The hair atop his head was more like tentacles than hair, like anemones. “I am,” Halloran finally said. “PF.”

Lance glanced at him before stepping in. “We want answers.”

“I am obliged to respond to the best of my ability, Lance Hunter. Ask me.”

“Are you invading us?” Lance asked.

Halloran blinked. What? “No,” Poker Face responded. “I do not know what caused the unknown subject to manifest in the fashion that it did. I am unaware of such properties of Atrion.”

“Atrion,” Halloran whispered.

So that’s what this is about, he thought. “So you’re telling us that you have no idea who Jeneth is,” Fredric said.

“That is correct, Fredric Woolrich. All prior knowledge and experience indicates that Atrion has no spacial warping abilities.”

“How can we trust you?” Celeste asked.

“Because it would serve no purpose. We are aligned on the same goal, Celeste Conradine. My species has a particular distaste for transversal gateways such as portals regardless of our cooperative status. And we are pacifics. I am not spearheading an invasion. This I promise you.”

Charles, what the fuck, Halloran thought, flexing his fingers anxiously. I have to say something, don’t I? “This Jeneth then… What do we do about him?” he asked.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lance butt in. “Are we just letting this go?”

“What do you think we can do about it,” Fredric said.

“All we have is his word.”

“What do you think we can do about it,” Fredric repeated.

Lance tsked and stared at Poker Face. The alien maintained the stare with his usual indescribable expressionless monotone. In every sense of the word, the alien was alien. Lance looked away, arms crossed. His heart pounded, and he wondered if the alien could detect that. On the off chance that Poker Face was leading an invasion, he would not just be a mercenary looking for a score, he could be a traitor to mankind. “Fine,” he said, bitterness lacing the edges of his voice. “Let’s talk about Jeneth then.”

“Speaking of,” Felecia said, “looks like old Charles boy is all fixed up.”

My God, that’s right! What happened to Charles that he ended up ceding to me? “Y-yeah,” Halloran stuttered. “It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

This time, the stare Lance leveled at Halloran was not subtle. “Uh huh.” Lance glanced at Fredric, trying to use him as a gauge, but he could not see behind the mask and gave up. “At the very least, we have to ask him how he got here, right?”

“You know, man,” DeMarr started suddenly, “if there, you know, is an actual-” he stopped, looking at Poker Face. “An actual army on the other end, man, I mean, one of their own disappearing like that would raise a lot of questions, right? Especially if they were prepared to come over.”

“So you’re saying,” Fredric prompted.

“What if they’re trying to open the door on their side in stead of waiting,” Celeste finished.

DeMarr nodded. “Good,” Lance said. “Great, let’s go ask the alien… uh… Other ali- Jeneth. Jeneth.”

Fredric groaned as he clanged his metal hand against his face plate, pushing himself up. Celeste watched as Felicia grin like a Chershire, expertly raising herself up from the couch with grace she would never be able to manage. As Celeste frowned down at her legs, Felicia grabbed Fredric’s unopened beer, popping the cap open with her first bottle, and finishing the first in a single gulp. DeMarr let out an interjection of awe. Halloran narrowed his eyes and looked away. The sextet and Poker Face exited the main living space. Halloran reigned himself in. The group was silent as they crossed the mansion and finally arrived at the entrance to the underground, revealed by a lever. What kind of a place is this? Halloran wondered as they made their way down the helix staircase into the underground prison. 

What kind of person has so much mon- Hell, I, what kind of a person builds a prison underneath their mansion! In this style! The degeneracy of capitalism… “PF, it’s best you stay here,” Lance said once they reached the corridor. “You can watch from the cameras, but whether you’re working with him or not, I don’t think you two should meet just yet.”

The others raised no objections. Poker Face nodded. “Your request is acceptable. I will watch from closed-circuit television surveillance cameras.”

“What about the guards?” DeMarr asked as Poker Face separated. 

“It doesn’t really matter if they see or not,” Fredric said.

“They’re mercs,” Felicia said. “They’re in it for the money. If they hear something they don’t like, we can’t stop them from spilling the beans.”

“To who, Artoria?” Celeste asked. “You’ve been here long enough to see she’s fostered a surprisingly tight kind of loyalty.”

“Or to the world.”

“Ah, they would’ve done it by now.”

“No,” Halloran said. “Never trust a man to keep a secret.”

Lance rolled his eyes. He pushed open the door to the surveillance room. “Get out,” he ordered. “Into the barracks, or… Go join your boss or something.”

The guards looked at each other and then at Poker Face. Hesitantly, slowly, they filed out. With that settled, the group continued onward. They found Jeneth kneeling, his head cradled against his chest, his legs tucked beneath himself, his hands crossed, his thumbs entwined, and his fingers splayed like wings over his heart. He muttered inaudibly. “What, uh, what is he doing?” Lance asked.

“He’s praying,” Halloran remarked.

“Really,” DeMarr asked.

“It looks like it,” Fredric said.

“Hey…” Halloran began. “Are we sure that’s an alien?”

“Huh?”

“I mean. I, look, I don’t know what aliens look like, but I know what people look like. And he’s like a person.”

DeMarr nodded his head in agreement. “Man, that’s what I wanted to say, man.”

“It’s… not impossible,” Lance replied after a moment. “I guess he does look way too ‘World War One-ee’ to be an alien.”

“Why don’t we just take off his mask,” DeMarr asked.

“It’s a gas mask, dork. What if he chokes on our air or something?” Felicia said.

“He’s still breathing our air,” Celeste said. “It’s just filtered. It can’t be that bad.”

“Let’s talk to him first, figure out if he’s human later,” Fredric said.

Jeneth made no notice of them as they came closer and continued his prayers even as the group shadowed his cell. “Hey,” Halloran started at Lance’s prompting. “Jeneth.”

Jeneth’s volume rose. “... toward the Light beyond the veil, and the blessed souls of the dead may enter into His eternal embrace thereafter. The Emperor protects,” he finished.

One, two, three, four, five, six. He was wrong. There was one more than he expected. The guards that were in the circular room were also dismissed. “Hey, Jeneth,” Lance said. “We need to talk to you. Care to talk to us?” Jeneth did not reply. “Okay. How about you listen?” Jeneth did not reply. “Uh. Will you accept my apologies for this bute of a man?”

Jenneth shifted, staring at Halloran with souless panes. Halloran inhaled at the focus of the reaper like figure before him. Finally, he said something. “Your Chaos sorcery does not scare me.”

Halloran looked at the crew to see if those words resonated with them, if Charles had somehow aquired magic in the years he had lost. “I… don’t know what that is. Ahem. I’m sorry?”Jenneth resumed his silence. “Do you know where you are,” Halloran asked. “The name of the planet you’re on?”

Lance leaned in. “What?” he whispered.

“He could’ve made a mistake,” Halloran replied.

“What?”

“Okay, maybe not. Establishing a foundation for conversation.”

“Uh huh…”

“Are you here to invade us?”

Nothing.

“Are you here because of the Chitauri invasion?”

Nothing.

“Are you here because of Poker Face?”

Nothing.

“Come one, dude, give me something.”

Nothing.

“Do you know what time it is?” Lance asked. “Like, when you are?”

Halloran leaned in. “What?”

“Look at him. What if he’s from the past?”

“With laser guns?”

“Shield has existed for a while now,” Celeste commented. “Who’s to say it’s not possible? Maybe the aliens built the pyramids after all.”

Celeste shrugged. Halloran ignored her. There’s something different about her, Halloran thought. I don’t like it. “This is Earth,” Halloran said. “It’s the third planet from the-”

“You lie.”

“What?”

Earth. The word had sparked register in Jenneth’s mind. It matched with the Low Gothic words for ‘dirt’ or ‘soil’. But a more appropriate word, one in High Gothic, came to the forefront in context. Terra. Whatever was causing Jenneth’s supernatural grasp on the English language was telling him that ‘Earth’ in this case was a name. “Do not profane the name of the Throneworld Terra with your barbarian language.”

“Terra?” Halloran asked.

“That’s Latin for Earth,” said Celeste.

“Unde venistis,” DeMarr asked. Everyone looked at him. “Quid hic agis?”

Jenneth did not know what DeMarr was saying, but he recongized the sounds. It was something like High Gothic, the old tongue of the Empire, and the standard for learned men and nobles. No, that was not exactly right. It was more akin to someone using bastardized Low Gothic with High Gothic tonality and pronunciation. Jenneth was confused. He did not know what to make of his situation and, worse of all, he started to believe ‘Earth’ was Terra after all. The words simply refused to be disconnected. Earth was Terra. It was branded into his very knowledge of the English lexicon. 

He started to feel hate. Hateful of whatever sorcery they used to get him to speak their language. It was an invasion of his body, which was dedicated to the Emperor. “You speak Latin?” Lance asked.

“Yeah. Studied it in high school and continued it in college. Six years.”

“Huh. Okay. But he’s still not saying anything. Why would he, why- why would you speak Latin anyway,” Lance asked Jenneth.

“Maybe the Romans were aliens,” Felicia quipped.

“He said ‘Terra’,” DeMarr said, ignoring Felicia.

Lance slapped himself internally. “Right. So we’re even more lost now. This maybe-not-alien alien comes to Earth in World War II gear, carries a multitude of space guns, and speaks Latin, and we’re not really even sure if he’s not maybe from the past…” Lance nodded. “What’s standard space time for twenty twelve?”

“Well, that’s not going to matter if he’s not actually from space, is it?”

“...” 

Twenty twelve… Two zero one two… Two thousand and twelve. Halloran shuddered, his breath catching in his throat. Fredric frowned at him and stepped forward. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Halloran swallowed and blinked rapidly. He knew. He calculated the range of time he must have been in already. But to get a concrete answer still shook him. It was definitive and there waas no running away from it now. Only Celeste paid enough attention to Jenneth to see him seize up at the simple phrase as well. The… third millennium? Twenty twelve… Forty thousand years ago? 

Did the Warp portal send me through time? It was a possibility. The Warp was not cohesive like the Materium, and even that was in constant flux. One was not a part of the Astra Militarum without learning the dangers of Warp travel. He always assumed it was more likely that the Gellar Fields would fail and he would perish to a Daemon than to be lost in time, so far misplaced from his own era. Impossible. He was not built to be a thinker, but he still had a functioning brain capable of higher reasoning. Per the prejudice of the situation, facts that did not make sense started to fall into place. Even the most backward of Imperial worlds knew what a lasgun was, yet they had called his rifle alien and unfamiliar. 

And if this were true, their lack of knowledge on the Imperium would make sense. They were not cut off from the rest of the galaxy as he had thought, but rather hadn’t yet become the galaxy Jenneth was familiar with. It also explained why the people who so nonchalant about the sorcerer’s powers. They were not aware of the potential corruption. There was much to ponder with this mind-boggling revelation that he could not fully come to terms with, but, before that, “You must,” Jenneth began, “kill the witch now before he is corrupted.”

The era before the Age of Strife was darkened by incognizent knowledge but Jenneth knew that psykers were dangerous no matter the time. Even if these people would not be saved by the Emperor- Wait. Was it heresy still? It must be, right? Even if one did not know the god they should worship existed, it was still blasphemy to commit a crime against Him. Right? For the first time in his life, Jenneth wished for a priest. Someone to guide him on the matters of religion.

“Me?” Halloran asked as he looked around. “I’m… not a witch. I’m an altered human. A Mutate.”

“Suffer not the mutant,” Jenneth recited automatically.

“Alright,” Fredric growled, pushing to the front. “Just tell us where you’re from. Or else we might get a little unpleasant.”

A threat. Jenneth would have been indifferent had it not been for another thought that caught him off guard. The god that these people did not know existed still roamed this ‘Earth’. He had not yet revealed Himself but Here. If Jenneth could escape and - What hubris. To assume he had the right to approach his god and to reveal truths that the Emperor must have already known. Jenneth had no place in speaking to his god and no place in trying to alter the future. Blasphemy.

“I’m not a mutant,” Halloran corrected. “My powers came from a machine. It… altered my physiology. I’m a Mutate.”

Jenneth took a pause.

Psykers. Per the rudimentary knowledge of galactical history, pyskers generally appeared in the human species during the Age of Strife, thousands of years from the current date. Were there psykers before that? Jenneth thought there might have been, but to ponder through the what ifs and the could be’s was out of his mental grasp as of the moment. And he did not want to. Their supposed leader, at least in Jenneth’s eyes, had no reason to lie about his identity in the manner of psychic power. According to him, bountiful people received supernatural powers via technology. An impossible method. Mutants did not develop abilities through their gene mutation.

Strike one.

Chitauri. An alien race that Jenneth had never heard of before. And it seems they have invaded Earth. An invasion of Terra. Impossible. Unheard of, even in the past. The Administratum would surely have records and documents, and the filthy race of xenos eradicated from the face of the universe in righteous revenge. Tales of their expunction would be written and passed down as grand tales of glorious revenge. “The Chitarui invasion,” Jenneth stated. “Explain.”

“Oh, uh.” Halloran looked at Lance.

“An alien invasion of our world, a few months prior.”

“They were… unsuccessful in their attempt to take the planet?”

“Obviously,” Fredric snarked.

“What prevented them?”

Halloran licked his lips and cast his eyes on Lance. “The Avengers,” Fredric supplied.

“Militarum kill team?”

“Superheroes, man,” DeMarr said. 

“Six vigilanties playing god,” Celeste growled. 

Strike two. “Hey, man, don’t diss Captain America and I-.”

DeMarr glanced at Fredric and trailed off. Inside his helmet, Fredric let out an inaudible hum. “Orks. Eldar. Tyranids. T’au,” Jenneth said.

“Those… are words,” Lance said.

“Xenos factions.”

“Never heard of them,” Celeste said, crossing her arms. “Are they like the Kree?”

“What the hell are Kree?” Fredric asked.

Strike three. Perhaps the Chitauri were destroyed in the past and the records were lost to time.  But if they knew of aliens, if they had contact this early with xenos creatures, they would have surely discovered at least the Eldar and Orks. And the Kree. It was something Jenneth had never heard of. This is not what I know of about the past. The discrepancies added up to one thought. The ignorance of these people were not because they were from a primitive age in humanity’s past, but because possibly- “Then, truly, this is… a different world?”

“Uh. I mean. If you’re not from Earth, then I guess it would be?” Lance said.

“No, you idiot,” Celeste said. “You mean a different universe?”

Universe, Jenneth thought. A different existence altogether. As foreign as the warp. An impossibility, and yet… “Naw, that’s a bit of a stretch.”

“Atrion can split the fabric of reality?”

“Man, that’s bullshit, man.”

“Absolute hogwash.”

“Kill me.”

“The amount of energy for us to even consid-”

“...”

“What?” Lance asked.

“Kill me,” Jenneth repeated.

“Why?”

I have no purpose here, Jenneth thought. The Emperor he so worshiped was cut off from him. The empire that he fought and planned to die for did not exist. He had no one to die for and he never had anything to live for. Would my soul even go to Him? “Listen, are you sure you’re not from… Mars or something?” Halloran asked after Jenneth didn’t respond.

“It would be heresy for the denizens of Holy Mars to fuse their technology with the warp in such a disgusting manner.”

“Holy Mars?”

“Come on, guys. Are we really thinking that a single rock, which is supposed to basically be a souped up space battery, brought a person over from another dimension?”

Jenneth perked up. “Stone?” he asked, his voice taking on a raspy tone. He has talked longer than he is used to.

“Atrion.”

It is connected to Chaos. “And do you have the stone?”

“No. You blew it up with your arrival. But there’s more. We’ll get it. In time.”

“What… is your purpose? For the Atrion?”

“Wealth,” Felicia said without hesitation.

“Reputation,” Celeste replied after a beat. Felicia cocked her head and nodded in agreement.

Atrion. Such a stone does not exist. I must contend with the truth of my reality. Jenneth stood up. “All selfish desires must be forgotten in service before the God-Emperor and humanity. The Atrion must be destroyed.”

“What? Why?”

“The stone is connected to Chaos. It must be if it brought me here. The Ruinous Powers will invade this reality should it be allowed to fester.”

“The Ruinous what?” Fredric asked.

“The Archenemy. The ultimate evil. If this Atrion has the ability to bring me over, it has the potentially to open the veil and keep it open.”

“Listen, son,” Halloran said. “Calm down. We haven’t exchanged anything at all relevant enough for you to say something like that and act as if we’re just going to let you go.”

“We don’t even know what we’re going to do with you,” Lance said.

“We don’t know if you want to live still,” Fredric added

“I…” Jenneth cocked his head, as if confused with what he was about to say. Almost as if such a conscious thought was foreign to him. “I will live.”

“That’s g-”

“You will help me.”

“Why,” Celeste asked.

“This Atrion. I must see to it that it is destroyed… I am the only existing worshipper of the God-Emperor. His brilliance… must be preserved…” Jenneth looked up. “I will preserve humanity. You will assist me in the name of He Who Sits Upon the Golden Throne, blessed be His brilliance.” Everyone looked at each other. A burst of static came over the earpiece as Poker Face made to say something but stopped. “The Emperor protects.”

* - * - *

The guards and staff members nervously stepped aside as the officers gazed on while pretending not to be looking. He towered over everyone, but it was his bulk that the shadow was cast upon. His reputation may have preceded him; his build hammered it home. Wilson Fisk was not one to be messed with. He was followed by his lawyer and secretary on his left, while Justin Hammer and his own lawyer trailed to the right. They pushed past the meandering men and entered an office building. There were metal cabinets, tables, and a wall of screens. This was the security room, linked to most of the cameras of the building. 

Any personnel that was not already standing stood up and shuffled nervously. The cops inside peered at him. “What. The hell. Happened tonight?” The guards gulped. “I want answers.”

“Will, uh, William? I think you should calm down.” William rounded on Justin and Justin backed up a step with his hands raised. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s all keep a cool head here, Mister.”

“Hn.”

“Answer Mister Fisk’s question,” James said.

One of the men, he appeared to be the ranking security staff member, stepped forward. He nervously licked his lips and pointed at a live feed to a hallway, where firefighters, police officers, paramedics, and hotel security staff wandered around. “There was a fire in room five seventeen. It was set off with charges. Thermite and the like. This was purposeful arson, Mister Fisk.” He glanced at William, continuing at his silence. “We checked the records of the stay. Fake names, fake faces.

Cameras tracked the second male down to the van, so we have confirmation that this was connected to… the other interruption.”

“Speak plainly,” William grumbled. “You’ll find these men have no qualms about what we do. In fact, they’re quite invested.”

The uniformed officers and the detectives in the room made little to acknowledge this point. The security manager continued. “It was done as a distraction to draw away manpower and attention from the auction. That was why our assistance was delayed. We had to start evacuating that floor and put out the-”

“The floor,” one of the police officers asked. “Not the entire building?”

James looked at the speaker and the officer lowered his head. “This old man, or at least the man disguised as such. We’ve marked him out as Subject Alpha. The man with him, Subject Beta, went down the staircase and exited here. He was the one that provided an exit for the remainder of these unknown subjects.”

“I know who one of the women is,” Janice said. “What,” she responded to raised eyebrows. “I follow the underground news. There’s a whole network, you know. She’s Black Cat. Claws and curves gave it away. She’s a favorite of all the pervs in the net.”

“So that’s who it was,” Matt muttered.

“Yeah, you got your ass beat by a goth chick in leather.”

“She wasn’t wearing leather,” Matt protested. “And she isn’t goth.”

“How do you know? You’re blind.”

Matt tsked. “At least Melody was there to help. You were, what, sitting your ass somewhere outside.”

“Aw. Don’t worry, babe, I’ll kiss all those boo-boos away and blow away the pain later.”

“Ahem.”

“Sorry,” Matt said. “Sir.”

“Then this was about money,” Justin said.

“Well,” Janice began, “if it was, they certainly succeeded… In making the Falling Spire Troupe pissed… At us.”

“What are they demanding?” William asked.

“A complete recompensation for all stolen items. With extra for damages. And a very clear statement of how much they don’t want to work with us in the future. They’re taking everything with them. We’re getting complaints from tonight’s guests because of that.”

“They’re refusing to hand over the Atrion,” James added. “Even when we offered above what we initially bid.”

“Negotiate. Pay them what they ask. Whatever you need to do to retrieve the Atrion. Do you understand?”

“Of course, William. And then?”

William paused. “And then they meet an unfortunate end by the hands of hooligans. Shot and burned. Senseless gang violence in the wake of the chaos of the Incident. The people will understand.” James nodded, noting it down to disperse orders to his men later. “It is… regrettable. Should they have only had enough honor to reign in their pettiness, our partnership might have flourished. At least in this way, our guests will receive what is theirs. 

But they will be involved in transaction with a different party… What did the thieves take?” 

“Not much. Some priceless jewels and paintings. Something you might expect for a heist of a lower class, not for one selling the things they did today. But they did manage to shatter the Atrion and take a piece.”

At that, William whirled on James. His mouth opened to speak but he said nothing, pulling his shoulders back closed his fist. Do they know what the Atrion can do? he wondered. “Is there enough remaining,” he asked.

“More than enough,” James answered. 

“Do you have more,” William questioned the security manager.

“We don’t have access to street cameras. This is what we have once they exit the building and enter the parking lot.”

One screen froze on the image of the van drifting across a turn on their way out.

Justin narrowed his eyes. He idly wondered why, despite the advancements in technology throughout the past few decades, CCTV footage was so bad. He made a note to replace the system with color footage. He also wondered if he should get Justine to get ‘R and D’ on making better cameras. Is that possible? Justin wondered. Compression, or something. Storage problem? Justin looked closer. His eyes widened. 

“Oh, fuck,” Justin muttered

“What is it, sir?” Janice asked quietly.

“I know who that is.”

The tinted windows skewed the sense of image and color even further, but past the monochrome and the static fizzle was an unmistakable color scheme. The bulkiness of his own handiwork, a failure that he had long since disregarded. “Who,” William asked. “Who is it?”

Justin rubbed a hand on his neck as he spread his legs and put another hand on his waist. He sighed. “Fredric. Fredric… something. Wolfric. Wulfin?”

“Fredric Woolrich, sir,” Janice supplied.

“Right, right, Woolrich. That cheap bastard, eh?”

“And who is this Fredric Woolrich,” William asked.

“Oh. Uh. A failed test subject,” Justin said. “What matte-”

“Explain.”

Justin inhaled and rubbed a hand on his neck. “Well,” he said, sucking his teeth, “he was… a volunteer for an experimental power suit program.”

“Your failed recreation of Tony Stark’s Iron Man suits.”

“N-ngh. No. That, this was an earlier rendition. Power armor, not his flying laser tin can. He was a pencil pusher for my company. Dead on his feet, down on his luck. I offered him something that might change his life.”

“Well, you certainly succeeded, haven’t you?” Matt snarked.

Justin glared at him while Janice gave him a face. Matt smirked and leaned in. “I can’t see what face you’re making.”

Janice pushed him lightly in the arm. “Quiet,” William barked. “Continue.”

Justin inhaled heavily and sighed. “It was a fully enviornmentally sealed power suit. Heads up display, enhanced strength, enhanced speed, bulletproof. The works. Built in flame throwers for dedicated offensive capabilities. Heat resistant, obviously. But to make the suit work, we used a… a Nerve Plug, and to make sure that the pilot coul-”

“What is a Nerve Plug?”

Justin looked at Janice. Janice gave a nod. “Biolink. It’s a small networking system between the brain and the suit.”

“You reverse engineered Chitauri technology for this prototype?” 

“No! This was proprietary technology. Of our own design. And it used a concoction of specifically tailored… compounds to stabalize the conductivity and connection, as well as allow the user to have sufficient strength in the legs to operate at the suit’s high combat speeds.”

The officers in the room shifted, rolling out shoulders, cracking necks, and rubbing their clasped hands together. Justin licked his lips as his gaze flickered among them, before he looked once more toward Janice for reassurance. Janice gave another nod. “And?” William prompted. 

“His body couldn’t handle it. The mixture quickly deteriorated his nervous system and his atrophied his legs. But-! That was his ow-”

“I don’t need to hear your excuses. I don’t care.”

Justin frowned. “He ran away.”

“With the suit.”

“Yes, with the suit.”

“And the drugs. How is he still running?”

“He’s not an idiot, even if he is stupid. He knows the formula. Besides, it’s self replicating. To a ceratin extent. Amazing, right? And not only that, but it also carries a regenerating power core, and a lightning charging station; that machine was going to be-”

“Hammer.”

Justin puckered his lips. “Franklin. Heat-Ray. That was his code name. I don’t know if he’s still using it. And I don’t know who he’s running with. My last interaction with me cost me fifteen million in insurance for the asset retrieval team. I thought I was done with him. Turns out he’s back for more. 

Obviously trying to fuck me over because of his own mistakes.”

“Marquess and Stevens,”  William said.

“Yes, they came after the prototype line.”

“And other volunteers?” 

“They had great retirement packages.”

“Detective,” William said without looking at the man he was calling out to.

“Yessir, Mister Fisk. I’ll put out an APB on Fredric Woolrich. There was a report of a van on the side of the road up north that matches the description of their escape vehicle. We know what direction they were headed in at least. But uh, sir. This isn’t the fifteenth precinct.” William turned around and everyone stared at the detective. “Not that, uh, that should be taken in any way that might be… misunderstood. Just. 

The NYPD is large. And so is New York. And not everything is going to go as smoothly as it might have in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Then you make sure it goes smoothly.”

“Uh. Of course, sir… Mister Fisk.”

“Yes?”

“They took out our traffic cameras. They have someone powerful behind them.”

“And you think I am weak?”

“N-no! I just think-”

James put a hand on the detective’s shoulder and he flinched. “I suggest you don’t,” James said softly, “and get a move on before you make another mistake you might come to truly regret, Detective.”

“R-right. Of course. Let’s go.”

The detective took the lead and hurried out of there, his men scurrying after him. William turned to Matt. “You.”

“Yessir,” Matt said.

“Gather the team. I don’t expect the NYPD to amount to much. We will be doing our own reconnaissance. But should either or find them, only you will have the resources to take them down.”

“Of course, sir.” Matt looked at Janice.

“Get rid of them for me, son.” Matt nodded and began walking away. William put a hand on his shoulder. “You know how much that Atrion means to me. What it’s meant to do,” he whispered.

Matt nodded again. “I do. I’ll get justice.” 

“Good.”

William let go and stepped back, letting out a breath as he turned toward the screens. Janice looked at Justin, who gave her a compressed sigh and a hidden eye roll, nodding. Janice gave a short bow back and followed Matt. “The team… works for me, William,” Justin said, catching a glance from James.

“Are you saying you disagree with my course of action?”

“No, no, take them. I agree. We have to hunt them down. They did something unforgivable. But they still work for me.”

“Are we not partners?”

“Right. Of course. Which is why I said use them.”

“Then I don’t think we have a problem here.”

“... Why do you care so much? About the Atrion? I mean, I get the whole stealing from you part. And that it was a lot of money. But this seems like a lot for space rocks.”

“Do you know what Atrion is?”

“I heard the auctioneer mention it was a power source. Are you trying to one up Tony Stark and his Arc Reactor?”

“Clean energy… Hell’s Kitchen. New York. The entire world. We have been bogged down with power consumption since the dawn of industry and before. The stone is a power source, correct. And I will use the stone as a power source. If it works as advertised, if we figure it out, our engineers and scientists could power whole cities with such small quantities, it would be more efficient than solar fusion. It would blow Tony Stark’s Arc Reactor out of the water. 

It would fix my neighborhood and my city. And it would make us billions…”

“But?”

“Proprietary weapons technology. Quality of life service. The advancements could propel society years into the future…”

“And?”

“That’s not why I want it.” Willson took a deep breath in, still staring at the screens, listening idly to the bustling workers trying to communicate between onsite security guards trying to manage the hotel visitors and auction guests. “Are you superstitious, Hammer?”

“No, not particularly. Why?”

William was silent, his hands clasped behind his back working the ring on his finger. Finally, he spoke. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”

* - * - *

The road was blocked off. Angry drivers were routed back the way they came and told to find a detour. Some cussed, a few tried to bargain, but all complied. Yellow lines of police tape wrapped around the trees on either side of the asphalt. The officers looked around the van while firefighters rolled in their hoses. These men were illuminated by the glare of flashing sirens, the red and blue livening up the dead of night. In the grass, at the center of the scene, was a smoking wreckage; a van that had its roof blown open, its windows blown out, and its tires blown away.

An attack, they assumed on initial observation. Someone must have been waiting from up high, on one of the trees perhaps, and launched some kind of explosive at the roof of the car, blowing it in. They must have taken whatever things and people were inside. All traces of them were burned away. Boots on the ground started a small search in the surrounding trees. And yet, that wouldn’t explain the smell of ozone in the air. A second theory was passed around, that a lightning strike caused the roof blow in, causing the people to abandon the car. Either way, there were criminals: it matched the description of the getaway vehicle that wrecked havok on the new hotel and casino in Manhattan. A few of the officers, then, were personally invested.

One van, a single black SUV with windows tinted to an illegal degree, slowed to a stop just beyond the line of police cars. A sergeant walked over to investigate, followed by one of his men. He prepared to knock on the window of the lead vehicle when the door opened and a man in a suit stepped out. “Who are you?” the sergeant demanded.

“Federal Bureau of Investigations, Unusual Incidents Unit.”

The agent held out a badge. The sergeant leaned in with a squint to strutinize it. The passenger side door opened and a shorter woman stepped out in the same uniform. The sergeant glanced at the tinted windows and the unmarked body of the vans. Then he looked at the face of the woman across the hood, her eyes somehow boring through him even through the polarized lenses of her sunglasses. “Uh huh,” he said. He pulled back and gestured to the scene. “You feds have fun then.”

He didn’t question the realization that he’s never heard of an Unusual Incidents Unit in the FBI or the lack of decals and government plates. What he knew, at least, what he felt was that they were beyond his paygrade; beyond what he was paid in general. The agent knocked on the rear seat doors. “You were right, sir,” a voice said as the door opened. “We were getting fluctuations even before we stepped out.”

It was a man with scruffy and curly dirty brown hair. He looked down at an electronic pad with antennas surveying the area around him with invisible rays and frequencies. Behind him came a woman, looking over his shoulder while manipulating her own detection instruments. She adjusted her collar of the white shirt she wore underneath a blue sweater, and flipped her shoulder length hair to be less of a bother. “It’s already fading,” she commented.

“Fragments of the remaining energy signature matches with some aspects of FTL travel and the tesseract,” the first one said. “We can probably assume there was some interdimensional breach here then.” He opened a button of his patterned blue shirt and let his hand drop to his side. “We’ll have to get a closer look at the van, but-”

“And the object?” a voice in their earpiece said.

“Can’t see one on initial observation,” the man in the suit said. “I’ll do a closer sweep, but whatever was used, if something was used, it’s probably gone. Either taken or destroyed in the explosion.”

“Alright,” the voice responded. “Do what you do best.”

“Is she behaving herself,” the woman asked.

“I’ll make sure she is. Tell me if you find anything. Coulson out.” 

• A library of wisdom, is more precious than all wealth, and all things that are desirable cannot be compared to it. Whoever therefore claims to be zealous of truth, of happiness, of wisdom or knowledge, must become a lover of books.

Chapter Text

• Secrets are currency. Currency experiences inflation. Currency can be faked. Currency can be stolen. Currency can buy people. Things. Weapons. Money. How much is your secret worth?

The secret is out. For decades, your organization stayed in the shadows, hiding the truth. Now we know. They’re among us. Heroes. And monsters. 

The world is full of wonders. 

We can’t explain everything we see, but our eyes are open. So what now? There are no more shadows for you to hide in. Something impossible just happened. What’re you going to do about it?

* - * - *

Red light upon black metal, flickering on the rhythm of clouds, a dull luminance as the whine of jet engines carried them away from the setting sun. Only five people were on that aircraft, only three of whom were in the cabin. With a blare, the cabin was bathed in red and the aft door hissed open. The billowing noise of air rushing by became deafening. The agent and the crewmember stood up and walked forward. The agent felt the crewmember tug on his straps, patting him on the shoulder and giving him a thumbs-up moments later. The agent flashed him a thumbs-up in return. He listened to the sound of his recycled breathing through his oxygen mask as his visor popped up a communication notification. “Remember, Agent,” his superior said from his seat, not even bothering to look up from whatever notes he was reading off of his clipboard, “no witnesses.”

Was it good protocol to snort? “No witnesses, aye sir.”

The pilot spoke up.“ETA one Mike.”

The specialist began counting down the seconds. He polarized his helmet. The display dimmed, and the world took on the hue of an underwater light show. From the orange horizon, yellow radiance scattered the shallow distance, baking the ground golden brown. Brief breaks in the cloud cover revealed the terrain. Mountains jutted from the surface, brown and grey, with white touches and a scattered vegetation blob.

“Five, four, three, two, one, deploy, deploy, deploy!”

There was a clunking buzz and the cabin washed away its crimson for verdant green. The Specialist raised his knee and stepped forward. He tipped. He fell. 

“Carrier One, this is Quebec Xray One-one, Iron Thief is extravehicular. Mission clock counting down. Going radio silent. We’ll pick you up in a few. Stay safe, Agent Ward.”

The communications display blipped out and the small burst of static told Grant that he was alone on his channel. He glanced at where the Quinjet might have been, seeing nothing but the slightest haze in the air, fading from his sight in seconds. Grant glanced at the purple sky, narrowing his eyes at the scattered red light from the setting sun. The clouds disappeared and the ground came into view. 

“It’s beautiful,” Grant muttered.

There was an extraordinary sense of peace amid the weightlessness of freefall. Stuck in limbo between the natural gradient of the heavens above and the immensity of terra firma below, baffled by the currents of the wind. One could feel small when your feet were on the ground, but when you were in the sky, when perspective could truly make you see how big everything was, it somehow made you feel larger than life. He was being cradled by the world. His heart pulsed steadily in his ears and he heard his breath reverberate through his lungs. Adrenaline spiked his blood. Time disappeared. Then his visor flashed and he was alerted to the altitude. He was rapidly approaching three thousand feet.

Just like that, a minute was gone.

He pulled the cord and felt an expected jerk push the air out of his lungs and yank him upright, feet toward the ground, as air resistance and drag clashed with terminal velocity and gravity. Now came the wait.

He hated waiting. Being patient was an acquired skill, one he mastered, but it did not mean he had it in his personality. Waiting was especially hard when it was due to something out of his control, something that left him exposed. Like drifting in the wind like a leaf.

It was almost three minutes before his boots hit the ground and he rotated with the impact, scrambling up to retrieve his parachute and get to cover.

With his chute stashed, his gear strapped, his weapon hot, his mission parameters set, and his timeline clock already ticking down, he ran.

Tourist density at this time was low. The sun was setting and most of the visitors, who were local families and were more or less familiar with the area already, went home. The area itself closed down at midnight, but the operation was running against a self-imposed deadline based on half-decent intelligence. The park rangers were scattered across two hundred and thirty-four square miles. The air was cold. It would be colder later.  He stuck to the shadows as best he could. Hurriedly unhurried. 

By the time he could see the compound lights wash up the side of the mountains, it was well into the night. The stars pierced through the translucent clouds in a way they could never back home. His thoughts returned, the cloak of instinct and muscle memory fading back into the toolbox. He maneuvered himself to a vantage point at the surrounding cliffside above the estate, covered by the bushes. The angle of the cliffs and the background illumination would do the rest. Grant popped the cap open on his rifle scope, preferring magnification attached to a weapon rather than alone.

In the cold of the night, he could hear their conversations as indistinct whispers and feel the vibrations of music playing loudly inside. That was his secondary cover from the chaos he would have to cause. Mostly, however, silence reigned. 

Minutes passed as he got used to guard positions and capabilities, as well as tagging guests and areas of interest for further discovery. 

“Agent Ward, there’s been a development.”

Grant blinked in surprise and frowned.“Sir? I haven’t given any signal yet.”

“Change in plans. Get out of there.”

“Why?”

“OPSEC has been compromised. You got minutes before the compound is swarmed. Raiders, SAS, PMCs in country, the fucking Taliban. It’s the Rising Tide. They’ve pinned down the location of the package and posted the coordinates online. You got minutes before that place turns into a shit-show fire fest. We need to abort.”

“Marines Raiders, sir?” Grant asked as he calibrated his scope. “Can’t we call them off? Get them to intercept the more hostile factions?”

“Cross-organization communications are spotty right now.”

Grant huffed. “Don’t we have the Secretary of Defense on the Council?”

“Point is, things are about to go FUBAR, so get your ass to extraction.”

“I can get in and out in five minutes, sir. If things were easy, everyone would do it.”

“Everyone is trying.”

“I’m not everyone,” Grant said, narrowing his eyes in thought. “If the job was easy…”

“Agent-”

“Roger that, sir. Maintaining operational security.”

“Watch your-”

He cut off communications, shutting himself away from his allies and his, he assumed, very pissed-off superiors.

But he took that last piece of encouragement with a faint smile on his face.

Grant took a breath in. A variable to the mission parameters, and now his window was drying up. Five minutes. It was a far cry from the original half-hour timeline. They would hold him to that. Extraction was already on the way. He exhaled and the first shot was away.

The first shot took off the head of the guard on the left, his body collapsing onto the balcony. His partner jerked into action, only to have his head snap back as well in the next moment.

With that done, he stowed away his rifle, stood up, and jumped. The wingsuit flaps inflated and he glided onto the balcony, careful not to step into the red. There were two guards inside the room, within his line of sight, submachine guns lazily angled to the floor, protected by thick tempered glass. Fortunately, this piece of special luxury for a well-insulated man also sealed the sound from the outside, and from the looks of it, neither of them was too interested in their current job to give notice to anything else. They were too busy imagining themselves at the party on the floor below. 

Too bad Grant was not a party person.

The sliding doors were locked from the inside, with a key in the hands of one of the guards, yet for all that security, there were no cameras. Grant slowly stood up and raised his pistol. He lined up his barrel and pulled the trigger. Impact proof, but not shatterproof, the bullets pierced through the layers and found their marks. Once both bodies were dropped, Grant lowered the pistol and holstered his firearm. Finding key fracture points, Grant broke through the rest of the glass and stepped inside. 

He reached the glass display case. On the podium below, he entered a six-digit code. The glass raised on hydraulics with a dramatic hiss. Carbon ice washed into the air. It was a bout of showmanship that missed its intended audience. Grant reached in and grabbed the package, then headed for the roof from the outside. It was a shame that he had to ignore all the points of interest. He would leave that to the Marines.

Automatic fire echoed across the mountains, but it was not coming from him or at him. One of the groups was engaging in a three-way firefight, which would also serve to draw the attention of the other third parties.

He was lucky.

No, he was counting on it.

The firefight in the distance drew the attention of many of the guards within the house.

Grant reached into his supplies and grabbed a thick length of rope, most of what was weighing him down this mission, and popped the device attached to the other end. It instantly inflated and shot into the air, bringing a considerable amount of the rope with it. In the sky, an object revealed itself, angles catching the light below at just the right distance. The jet flew by, hooked the rope, and the Iron Thief was spirited away.

* - * - *

“What does S.H.I.E.L.D stand for, Agent Ward?”

“Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division.”

“And what does that mean to you?”

“It means someone really wanted our initials to spell out ‘shield’.” Grant caught Maria Hill’s unamused stare, licked his lips, and breathed in. “It means we’re the line… between the world and the much weirder world. We protect people from news they aren’t ready to hear. And when we can’t do that, we keep ‘em safe. Something turns up, like this Chitauri neural link-” Agent Ward held up the alien device in his hands and slid it across the table. “We get to it before someone bad does.”

Maria stood up and walked the extraterrestrial technology to a safe carrying case. “Any idea how the Ten Rings managed to get a hold of this or what they planned on doing with this?”

“I’ll leave that up to you. Maybe you should ask how Ahmad Ali had the capital and influence, and the greenlight, to build himself a mansion in the middle of Band-e Amir, showing off alien tech, no less. But I’m more interested in how this ‘Rising Tide’ group found out about it. I thought they were just hackers. What changed?”

“Everything’s changing. A little while ago, most people went to bed thinking that the craziest thing in the world was a billionaire in a flying metal suit. Then aliens invaded New York and were beaten back by, among others, a giant green monster, a costumed hero from the ‘40s, and a god.”

Grant cocked his head. “I don’t think Thor is technically a god.”

“Well, you haven’t been near his arms.”

Touche. 

“The Battle of New York was the end of the world,” Maria continued. “This, now, is the new world. People are different. They have access to tech—to formulas—secrets they’re not ready for.”

Grant leaned forward, clasping his hands together, narrowing his eyes a bit at the light. “Why was I recalled?”

Maria pursed her lips and stepped to the side, crossing her arms. “That you’ll have to ask Agent Coulson.”

“Uh, yeah,” Grant smiled sarcastically. “I’m clearance Level 6. I know that Agent Coulson was killed in action before the Battle of New York. Got the full report.” 

“Welcome to Level 7.”

Grant’s eyes widened and stood up hesitantly. 

Coulson smiled. “Sorry, that corner was really dark and I couldn’t help myself.” Grant looked at Maria. “I think there’s a bulb out.”

“Intelligence came down the wire. That,” Coulson nodded in the direction where the case was taken, “one thing you risked neck and tail for? Old news. They’re setting up an auction down in New York, selling loads of this stuff and more. Looks like Damage Control wasn’t doing all that it should have been. Someone’s going to have to talk to Stark. Unless he knows. In which case, someone really needs to talk to Stark.”

“I think you meant life and limb,” Maria interjected.

“What?”

“Never mind.” 

“When’s the auction?” Grant leaned back and crossed his arms. 

“Two days from now.”

Grant nodded sagely.“Do you want me to cross them off?”

“Wow. No. Too many high-profile targets. Brass doesn’t want that kind of mess sparking another wave of trouble this close to the Incident. That’s a package for something later down the line. Maybe.”

“Retrieval? Hit them in transport and make off with the contraband.”

“I was trying to make a point,” Coulson said, defeated. “The auction has nothing to do with us as of now. No, we want something else.”

Coulson brought them to the door. The three of them exited the meeting room and noise returned as agents, researchers, and administrative staff filled the halls, each with their own missions, some as simple as lazing around the coffee maker, others deciding the fate of the world in their compartmentalized ways. 

“Sir,” Grant took the time to begin, “Do the Avengers know Fury played them like this?”

“They’re not Level Seven. Besides, I was technically dead. It turns out, apart from blowing things up, Shield has quite the medical department. I stopped breathing for forty seconds.”

“Eight. It gets longer every time he tells the story.”

“I saw the bright light. When you get gutted by the space version of Musollini, you get to tell it your way.”

“So, the Director fixed you up and, what?”

“Stuck me on some island for rest and rehabilitation. Books and cocktails on a beach, and a physical therapist whose command of English was… irrelevant. Tahiti. It’s a magical place.” 

The trio headed for a nearby data analysis center, enclosed in glass, staining the corner of the corridor blue. Coulson directed them to the front of the room and had videos pulled up on one of the free monitors. 

“These videos were taken at scenes that should have been locked down or ones where we should have gotten there first. They all have something in common otherwise.”

“Rising Tide.”

“Exactly.”

“How are they doing this stuff?”

“The same way they broke our RSA implementation. They’re good.”

“The hackers. Are these the targets?”

“No.”

“So, what are we looking for?”

Coulson turned around, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Talent.”

* - * - *

“With all due respect, sir, you should have locked her up or cut her loose. Having her join the team-”

“She’s consulting the team, not in it. Like Stark.”

Streetlamps created pockets of light, whisking them along in the dark. The sky was overcast, but far enough from the city, the stars pierced through. 

“We don’t need a Stark groupie either. She’s not cut out for this.”

“I think she did pretty good our last gig.”

“Sir, she’s not a trained Shield agent. She’s not a trained anything. At least Fitz-Simmons went to the academy. I can trust them and their competency based on that, but her? All she is is a hacker with a bleeding heart.”

“Then we could use the new perspective. A fresh angle was what got us so close yesterday.”

Grant winced at the recollection of their first mission together as a team. It was not the worst operation he attended, but it was far from clean. There was a missing cohesion that he knew might form with time, and yet he itched at the idea. There was a nuanced difference between chaos and disorder that Grant kept. Grant could deal with disorder. The last mission was chaos and he contemplated his role in all of this, harkening back to his protests about being drafted onto Coulson’s new ragtag task force with a vague objective in the first place. But this was good. He was close to Coulson. The only person he needed to watch out for was May and he had ideas on how to deal with that.

But Skye was a variable and variables were dangerous. 

“Sir, I’m not here to be used as a babysitter. I’ve already got two children to look after.”

Somebody kicked the back of his seat. “Nobody needs you looking after.”

“Imagine how May feels with you,” Coulson retorted.

Hidden with a turned head, Melinda smirked.

“She has no professionalism,” Grant tried.

“I’m sure you and May have that covered.”

“What about the Rising Tide? What about her being in the Rising Tide and ruining our operations for ages.”

“And she was doing that out of a rundown van on a two-bit laptop. Now think about what she could do with our technology, on our side.”

“Can we really trust her? To care about our mission? To leave that organization behind?”

“I think so.”

It was a simple answer and Grant almost sighed. But sighing on comms with the boss was not professional, was it? Grant brought the car to a stop and he peered past the steering wheel at the flashing lights and sirens. He tried to get one last bite in. “You didn’t take my advice about the auction, and now look where we are.”

“Ok, that wasn’t my decision to make.”

Grant’s gaze followed the two incoming officers. He opened the door and stepped out before the sergeant could knock. “Who are you?” the sergeant demanded, backing up a step.

“Federal Bureau of Investigations, Unusual Incidents Unit.”

Grant held out a badge. The sergeant leaned in with a squint to scrutinize it. Melinda followed suit. 

“Uh-huh.” The skepticism was positively dripping from his words as the sergeant pulled back. “You feds have fun then.”

Grant knocked on the rear passenger doors. “You were right, sir,” Leopold said as the door opened. “We were getting fluctuations even before we stepped out.”

“It’s already fading,” Jemma commented.

“Why are we using a… dumb alias like the UIU,” Grant asked. “We’re barely a secret anymore. Might as well claim this for what it is.”

“You of all people should know anonymity still has its uses.”

“Fragments of the remaining energy signature match with some aspects of FTL travel and the Tesseract,” the first one said. “We can probably assume there was some interdimensional breach here then.” He opened a button of his patterned blue shirt and let his hand drop to his side. “We’ll have to get a closer look at the van, but-”

“And the oh-eight-four?” Coulson interrupted.

“Can’t see one on initial observation,” Grant replied. “I’ll do a closer sweep, but whatever was used, if something was used, it’s probably gone. Either taken or destroyed in the explosion.”

“Alright. Do what you do best.”

“Is she behaving herself,” Melinda asked.

“I’ll make sure she is. Tell me if you find anything. Coulson out.” 

Grant sighed. Leopold reached back into the van and pulled out a hard briefcase, unlocking it with a couple of clicks. Inside, blue lights flashed and eight miniature drones emerged, subtly taking to the skies. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The three of them started for the van while Melinda trailed behind. “The similarities between the oh-eight-four and the Tesseract end at radiation. Everything else is some type of… exotic energy source. I am getting atmospheric spectrum readings consistent with a lightning strike though.” Leopold looked up. “Do you think Thor was here?”

“I doubt it,” Jemma replied. She shivered. “Do you guys feel cold?”

“We are in New York in the middle of the night,” Grant said uncertainly.

“In August.”

Leopold raised the device in his hands and rotated. “There’s two noticeable zones of temperature difference. One where the lightning struck, and the other is the van, which shouldn’t be that cold after getting blasted with what I’m assuming,” he squinted, “is thermite.”

Jemma leaned down. “Is that frost?”

Grant nodded. “Ghosts?”

“It’s not a ghost,” Leopold said. 

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t exist… And I’m not getting any electromagnetic readings that match. There’s a trail. Leads past the van into the trees and heads down the road that way for a while before dissipating completely.” Leopold looked up. “We have no other way of tracking anything from down here.”

Grant nodded. “Alright. Gather anything you can and we’ll head back.”

* - * - *

There was not a single moment of Jeneth’s past sixteen years of life that prepared him for this situation. An infantryman’s life was simple. A Korpsman of Krieg’s life was simpler. As for complex situations, they could be beaten aside with bluntness. Not this time, when complexities crossed the boundaries of existence itself. There were no tactics he could call upon. There were no briefings he could turn to. There was no history he could look to for guidance. There was no officer that would explain his duties, no Commissar to temper his zeal, and no comrades who he could depend on.

For all that might be said about his regiment, to say that a Kriegsman would die alone would be foolish. Where there was one, there were hundreds. Where there were hundreds, there were thousands. Behind the thousands, a million others. That was the strength of Krieg. It had no agriculture and no industry, no arts and no sciences. But it had men. It had men who knew war in the loudest and of the highest. Jeneth could easily be one in a million.

He was glad to be one man in a million and an echo in the symphony of man’s wrath. He had been that since he could walk. He was destined to be that since his cells were first joined in the Vitae Wombs.

Not here. Not now. Not in this quiet, where he was alone, an echo in the void.

There. The quiet. 

What was quiet?

It was preparing in voidships heading toward enemy systems. It was sneaking around the walkways in enemy structures. It was crawling beneath wires in the middle of the night. It was assassinating the enemy commander. It was digging a tunnel beneath enemy lines. It was waiting for the barrage in the trenches in front of enemy encampments.

It was the prelude to war, the calm before the storm.

Jeneth’s eyes flickered up, studying the people before him. Was he about to fight them?

His fists clenched. His muscles tightened. A sense of calm settled in. Fighting. Fighting he could do.

He was a soldier. He was barely a noncommissioned officer. He was supposed to die in glorious, no, not glorious, but violent combat, after taking down as many of the enemy as he could with him in order to settle the account of his ancestor’s sins. And yet he dared to consider his future? His pronouncement of his own survival, when he roped in low level criminals in order to fulfill his goals. Was that not renouncing the oath he swore when he put on the death mask, one that rendered his fate sealed? Or was that simply the strategic utilization of current resources and known intelligence? The iron death mask was a symbol of his acceptance of a role. That didn’t necessarily mean that he had to hurry to that fate as soon as possible.

If there is a use, a mission, there is a way.

He let go of his tension to focus on the present. 

A goal. He had a goal beyond his orders. Because he had no orders.

Behind his layers, he felt cold.

…

It had to all be the Emperor’s design. 

The Emperor knew all. 

Was his arrival in this new world part of the Emperor’s plan?

But that would make him special.

Or did that make him a fitting tool like he was supposed to be?

Why him?

A chill descended on his shoulders, cascading down his spine in an unfamiliar manner, as stillness stifled the air between the six ganger-type strangers arranged before him beyond the bars, silent communiques of confusion and skepticism transmitting between their gazes. The gilded halls of gold and white. It was so clean. It was even cleaner than any voidship that Jeneth traveled on, and those Navy officers kept their decks swabbed cleaner than anything Jeneth had the opportunity to interact with on a regular basis. But this place? It was disgustingly tidy, disgustingly pompous as if this prison was less of a prison and more of a showroom. It was covered in a veneer of self-congratulation, meant to trouble any who weren’t the owners of this estate in extravagant displays. It reminded him of the palace of the governor. Of that scum’s blatant heresy. 

Was this heresy? Was anything heresy anymore now that the Emperor was away from him?

Halloran glanced at Jeneth. His lenses were angled toward the ground and his body was sagged. Where did all his invigoration from his earlier declaration go? Halloran’s brows furrowed and his gaze softened. He knew what he was seeing. How many ex-prisoners and former military did he interview back in the day? How many with normal lives? How many of them were thrown into another world? 

But understanding did not mean sympathy. Jeneth exuded something dangerous. In his words and mannerisms were an echo of fanaticism for a militant society. Halloran had no love for people like that, whether or not it was beyond their control. For him, there was always a choice, and serving a tyrant mindlessly was never the right one. As far as he could tell, Jeneth’s Emperor was exactly that. That did not prevent him from being able to be outwardly cordial. Whilst gathering relevant information, of course. First, a background check. 

“Jeneth,” Halloran began. Jeneth’s head snapped up and his back straightened. “Where… do you come from?”

Jeneth hesitated. That was an easy question to answer. But, at the same time, it was such a hard question to consider. Because if this wasn’t his world, and it seemed that it truly was not, would providing any information count as breaking any laws of secrecy or operational security? On the other hand, it was sort of like saying which planet you were from, right? He was no Inquisitor with galaxy-breaking knowledge. The Empire was no secret. “The Imperium of Man.”

Halloran shifted. The Imperium. The God-Emperor. All of it sat too coincidentally for him to ignore, and he feared what it meant for the future or the world if he was correct. Tentatively, he opened his mouth. “Does the name ‘Atreides’ mean anything to you?” 

“No.”

Halloran nodded in relief, then with more confusion as answers turned to more questions. Lance glanced at Halloran in muted surprise. “You watched Dune?”

“No, I followed the serialization and then read the novels.”

He did not notice the pointed looks that Lance and Fredric gave him, staring at Jeneth. “You read?” Felecia mocked. 

Halloran realized his mistake, narrowed his eyes, and crossed his arms. “I was being sarcastic, doll. Don’t you know it?”

Felecia blinked. Lance narrowed his eyes but decided to cut Charles some slack. He ignored Felecia’s further poking questions and turned back to Jeneth. 

Lance still could not shake the hint of a German accent he was hearing from Jeneth. His heavy coat, his gas mask, and his guns all made Lance think of a particular organization that hired him for a job only a couple of months ago. An organization that was old, powerful, and everywhere despite everyone believing they were eliminated. He was hidden for the moment, but if Jeneth really did belong to them, then it was only a matter of time. Lance clenched his fist, idly considering killing Jeneth right then and there, and hand-waving an explanation. None of his partners were moral paragons that would object too hard anyway. Then he wondered about his father. He did not dare try to reconnect. Instead, he checked in with Poker-Face’s help. 

So far, they did not go after his father. They knew he had no way of contacting Lance. But what if they did it purely out of revenge?

He did not notice Celeste giving Jeneth a similar intense once-over. 

Lance shook the thought. It didn’t make sense for Jeneth to play up some future alternate universe empire. It was too elaborate of a plot to play. He refocused, trying to gather more information. “What is the Imperium?”

“The ultimate authority in the galaxy that is rightfully His and humanity’s. A million, million worlds that toil in His name, ten quadrillion souls standing ready against all enemies, as it was for ten thousand years, so it shall be for ten thousand more, Ave Imperator.”

Jeneth was never an orator, but the words sang in his heart, which twisted in an unfamiliar way as he thought of home.

A million words and ten thousand years. The scale of it was unfathomable to mortal men who were only one in a few billion and it took their breaths away. The group tried to gather themselves. “So you’re not from Earth, where you’re from. From Terra.”

Jeneth lowered his head. “This trooper has the burden of being born to Krieg,” he whispered.

Lance blinked. “A planet named War. No wonder you look like that.”

“And you are a soldier of the Imperial Army,” Halloran continued.

“False. This trooper is a soldier in the Imperial Guard.”

Nobody cared to find the difference.“And all of them are like you?”

“Negative.”

It was like stealing honey from a bee without a smoker. Halloran’s prickling dislike grew. “And you fight Chaos.”

“We fight the enemies of humanity.”

Silence.

“Tell us about the enemy then,” Lance said. “This Chaos.”

Jeneth didn’t speak. His body ached with stabbing pain.

Pain was good, he was taught. Not in the way that pain was penance, but that pain meant he was alive.

Jeneth just had a small whim that perhaps he shouldn’t be reminded of so continuously at the moment.

The Inquisition, the Imperium at large, had no qualms about executing any who witnessed the Ruinous Powers. It was dangerous to leave even a trace of it, lest it spread and fester and drive men to ruin in the way only Chaos could. Runinous was apt. Krieg regiments were spared only due to their special history and resolute performance, falling into a very niche category where only regiments hailing from planets like Cadia had any rights of exemption.

If it were Guardsmen, Planetary Defence Forces, or even just hardy, faithful civilians, it would be an easier decision. Brief them if they were qualified to know or order them to complete their mission regardless of what they wanted to know. But these were not Guardsmen or Imperial citizens. A couple of the gangers had the bearings of former soldiers, or at least the deportment of men who had survived whatever version of the underhives this planet had to offer, but most of them seemed too coddled. Jeneth knew he would not be able to leverage any authority with any of them by means of rank or designation. Nonbelievers were tricky like that. But what if he only revealed tidbits? What if he only told them what the preachers told the populous, and what the Sisters told to the masses? It would give them an idea of the threat they could be facing, nothing more; if any of them asked anything else, if they showed signs later on, he could execute them then. 

Just like any other Guardsmen who were qualified to know, but not qualified to keep knowing.

“The Archenemy,” Jeneth began, and everyone leaned in, curious to know what his silence brewed, “is the insidious corruptor.” His voice was still raspy from overuse, but it was stronger. This was a briefing. He was in his element and he stood up.“It makes servants out of men of vice.” Lance put his hands behind his back. “It steals the souls from the greedy and the grieving.” Halloran straightened. “And when its vile tricks do not work, it sends its hosts of warp spawn to slaughter its resistors.” 

“Warp spawn,” Lance repeated questioningly. 

Jeneth hesitated again, his voice even quieter than before. “Daemons.”

The temperature seemed to drop, but that must have just been psychological. Everyone considered Jeneth’s words with their respective degrees of disbelief. 

“Demons.”

“Chaos will consume this world if we do not act. It will worm its way through the cracks from the events you must have set off. The catalyst must be destroyed, the remaining supply found and obliterated, and all its wielders executed.”

And, at the end of it all, you need to die too.

Everyone was quiet. The Incident shattered their suspension of disbelief, but what the masked alien was saying, or masked human rather, was still too far-fetched for them to take at face value. “You’re not telling us anymore,” Halloran asked.

“This trooper cannot tell you anymore.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can you drop the ‘This trooper’ bit?” Lance muttered.

“You are not authorized to know.”

“Why?” There was some venom in that question this time. “What law could possibly override our survival if it’s as bad as you make it to be? Or do you have nothing else because you made it all up?”

“You will lose your mind and burn from the inside. Further questions will be considered as a willingness to consort with the Archenemy and you will be branded an enemy.”

Eyes rolled or narrowed. “How come you’re fine then?”

“Because this trooper was made to fight them, and the Emperor protects.”

“Ok…” Lance turned to the group. “We need a verdict. This isn’t going to go anywhere else otherwise.”

“We could go to sleep and let him sit here until tomorrow,” Fredric offered.

DeMarr planted his face in his hands. “If aliens exist, man, why not demons, right? Man!”

Felecia shrugged. “I’ll admit to some superstition, but demons?”

Poker-Face spoke up in their ears. “As of this moment, we have no reason to believe the words of 393-1024-0830-Jeneth to be false. If 393-1024-0830-Jeneth speaks the truth, we must enable his freedom and offer him our full cooperation.”

“Of course the aliens would believe one another…” Fredric said.

Jeneth did not catch that.

“You’re giving your search up for Atrion then? After everything? Just based off his words?”

This Jeneth noticed. A vox. There was a seventh member. A true leader, perhaps the owner of the estate. The one who was searching for this ‘Atrion’. An ignorant collector, perhaps. Or maybe a guile cultist. Whatever the case, Jeneth needed to find out later.

“For the sake of the universe,” Poker-Face said.

“This group was put together to look for Atrion and to sell it. I’m not all about that virtuous living,” Felecia said. “If we’re giving up on that, I don’t know if I want to stick around.”

“If he’s telling the truth,” Celeste said.

“If he’s telling the truth, there won’t be a world for you to sell shit to,” Fredic said.

“The most valid point to consider, Felecia Hardy.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll make a deal with those demons.”

Jeneth turned his full body toward Felecia. “In the Emperor’s name, you will die for that.”

“You calm yourself!” Lance yelled, pointing at Jeneth. “She’s joking, alright? I don’t know if you know what that means. She’s not serious.”

Felecia shrugged, radiating displeasure. 

“What if it’s not that big of a threat,” Celeste asked. “What if there were sorcerers in our world that could fight your demons?”

“Sorcery is heresy. Unsanctioned psykers are gateways to the Warp from which Daemons emerge.”

Celeste nodded in consideration.

“Are… there sorcerers in our world?” DeMarr asked.

“No.”

“Why do you fight,” Halloran asked suddenly.

Jeneth looked at him, head slightly leaned as if confused. “To atone for the sins of the ancestors,” he said softly. “A single lapse in judgment,” he cleared his throat. It was getting uncomfortable speaking that much. “That turned the planet away from the glorious light of Him on Terra. Inscrutable heresy.”

Lance looked at Jeneth. “... You’re telling the truth.”

“Yes. Release me. This trooper is commandeering your authority over this gang. We will begin operational overviews immediately.”

“Heh, like hell,” Fredric said.

“This trooper is the most suitable team leader.”

“Hey, I did my time, alright,” Lance protested. “Three years in the SAS, mate, I know how to run a team.”

“You do not have relevant experience, nor a higher service time. This trooper has thirteen years over you. Any advice you provide will be taken into consideration during mission planning and briefing.”

“Thir-?... How old even are you?”

Twice in a year. He was about to answer but paused. While he had no issue with his age, he realized that outsiders questioned him when he revealed the truth. Lance decided not to press it when Jeneth did not respond. “You won’t attack us again?”

Jeneth’s head turned slightly to Halloran. “No.”

“I didn’t like that pause,” Halloran murmured. 

Lance sighed and stepped over to the wall-mounted console. “Welcome to the team,” he said.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” DeMarr jumped forward, trying to block Lance. He looked around, eyes wide. “Are, are we sure, man? I mean, man, with everything?” His head unconsciously twitched in the direction where Poker-Face presided.

“You want to be the one to interrogate him for information he’s sharing?” DeMarr glanced at Jeneth, who was staring at him now. DeMarr swallowed and looked back at Lance. “It’s all about trust, right?” Lance’s eyes followed DeMarr’s twitch.

DeMarr’s eyes widened even further. Tentatively, he nodded and backed up. Lance entered the code.

The cell doors unlocked and slid open.

“You should take a shower, by the way. You smell,” Felecia said.

Jeneth stepped out. “You will return my weapons, equipment, and the standard. In return, this trooper will not execute you for theft and the sullying of the standard by your hands.”

“Jeneth, the point of cooperation is to be… cooperative.”

“This trooper is standing down. That is cooperative.”

Lance glanced around. Fredric rolled his eyes and turned away. Halloran shook his head in disappointment and disdain. Celeste frowned.“Aye… Follow me then,” he said when no one objected. 

The seven of them made their way out of the sublevel and into the estate proper, walking through the enormous open concept ground floor, only, Jeneth has seen grander and larger. It only solidified his beliefs that whoever was in charge of this gang, or at least the one supplying the money, was no more than a pretentious middle-class villainously inclined bum. 

Large glass pane walls showcased the splendor of the intricately tended estate grounds, with perfectly trimmed grass and trees, elm, oak, cherry, maple, ash, pine, planted at angles meant to create the most pleasing silhouettes or cast the best shadows, creating an atmosphere of idle mystery in the living room meant to enhance and enchant. When the flower fields bloomed, they showered the estate in unmatched colors. There was a pool, with crystal blue water, even beneath the night sky, open to the air, glimmering beneath the embers of the fireplace that sat as the centerpiece of the parlor. There was a private golf course somewhere in the back, never used, always maintained. Their boots left tracks of black-on-white fur carpets and dark brown hardwood flooring. Jeneth felt eyes on him. They were scrutinizing and coming from men dressed similarly to the man with the false Praetorian, English, as he now knew, accent. He assumed that was some sort of private military uniform, and while it did not seem practical for large-scale combat, he could appreciate the dull colors and fit. But regardless of their equipment and dress standards, they were all noticeably lax. 

Some of them leaned against the wall. Some of them were looking down at miniature primitive data-slate prototypes. They were built. They all had weapons, concealed or out in the open. And judging by the way they positioned themselves when they saw him, they could probably fight in a pinch. But their outward demeanor left much to be desired. 

They walked out.

The outside was populated by many of the same guard cadre as the inside, though manifestly more alert. The pathways were pristine cobble. There were lamps and torches.

Looking around, Jeneth was struck by a sudden sense of imbalance. 

His surroundings were nothing special. Trees. Stone. Concrete. A city glimmered in the distance, flat and open, a sprawling skyline instead of a towering spire’s silhouette. Typical of a low-level civilized world found anywhere in the Imperium. But this was Terra. It was not his Holy Terra, but it was Terra. He was looking at Terran trees and taking in light from Terran constellations. 

The sky was clear. He was not looking at the stars in the open void through a porthole where their light was nothing more than monotonous jewels. He was not looking at stars through an atmosphere choked in gunpowder and poisons. They shined down at him, blue, yellow, white. 

It was not beautiful. A perfectly orchestrated artillery barrage was beautiful. A well-polished lasgun was beautiful. A regiment on the march was beautiful. The Aquilla was beautiful. This sky, those stars, stars that were not even his, nor humanity’s, nor Terra’s was…

His feet refused to move. He tried to fight the spell that was turning his blood to plasteel. 

Lance looked at Jeneth and saw an alien. Not an alien from outer space, though he believes Jeneth qualifies, but alien as in someone strange or someone foreign. Everything about Jeneth screamed human, from his clothes to his words, but everything about Jeneth screamed inhuman. Still, he reserved his judgment. Jeneth was a piece of work and he knew it was going to be hard to cooperate, to want to cooperate, with the World War Two cosplayer, but Lance felt he knew too little about the man, or was he a boy? to make a true call. Jeneth, in short, was an off-putting enigma. 

Halloran did not like Jeneth. He did not like bullies. He did not like soldiers. He did not like overbearing governments. Jeneth seemed to check every box. But he also seemed to check the box of a victim. Conflict surged within him. He had only been back for a few hours and he was already throwing himself into a case. Jeneth was out of his element, but so was he. Halloran had to remind himself of that. For how fast he reintegrated, the same way Jeneth was stunned, so was he. He needed to find out what Charles was up to. And then he would find out what Charles wanted with Jeneth. And what Charles was thinking, recruiting someone like DeMarr to the team.

DeMarr thought Jeneth was cool. But DeMarr also though Jeneth could not be trusted and should not be out. It was the same with Poker-Face. Aliens. Now Demons. He wanted to be a hero. He did not know what he was anymore.

Fredric. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. His back hurt. His feet hurt. Jeneth. His heart could be admired. If only he was less of an asshole. 

Poker-Face. His expression remained unchanging all throughout Jeneth’s reveal.

They made their way to a long rectangular building, far less extravagant than the other buildings on the property, made of basic brick and mortar, some odd meters away. Inside, there was a row of lanes hosting paper targets. His weapons and equipment were placed against a divider in one of the booths. Sparing no second, Jeneth walked over and began inspecting. Finding no real faults, the Korpsman began equipping himself, not willing to be deprived of his instruments any longer. His hands roamed over the hellgun, murmuring a brief prayer to soothe the machine spirit. It was taken from its proper wielder without authorization, used by ignorant blasphemers against paper targets, all without the proper rites and canticles, the respect it deserved. Jeneth did not have the incense required for a full ritual. He wished there was a Tech-Priest that was able to perform the necessary sacraments. 

He would have to make do, offering bountiful kills in the future. A sudden and intrusive thought emerged and he glanced at the six gangers, noticing a couple of the ex-military types with hands on their weapons.

Jeneth slung the hellgun over his shoulder.

“The standard.”

The flag lay against a wall like some common decoration, like a mop or a broom. Rage surged through Jeneth’s body. Such disregard. A regimental standard it was not, but it was still a symbol of pride and dedication of the company. Ignorance was never an excuse. “Jeneth,” Lance said, a light warning in his tone.

It was not holy, but it was sacred. 

It was the only touch of home.

All instincts told him to turn around and execute these heretics. It was such an odd feeling to fight it. On the battlefield, if one was acting below the required minimum or against the common good, a summary execution, even without a Commissar or officer, was not uncommon. But he needed them, these ingrates. They were willing to work with him in a world where he was a stranger. If he killed them, he would have no means of hunting down the Atrion. Jeneth redirected his anger into faith to quell his impulses. He approached the standard, raised it properly, straightened the banner, and made the Aquila. 

Felecia stared at the golden double-headed eagle on top of the shaft.

“Man… What now?”

“Sleep.”

Jeneth turned around. “Briefing. Information on this system, on the mineral known as Atrion-”

“No,” Lance interrupted, “we need to sleep and regroup in the morning. You, and first of all, you probably feel like shit, so you’re not getting anything done until you’re rested anyway, can get all of that later.”

“That is irrelevant. You do not need to question my operational capacity.”

“Yeah, well, we’re questioning ours. It’s been a long day, mate. You want us to be good soldiers? You need to give us our proper rest. You can’t have it any other way. And, mind you, you dropped a bomb on us.” Jeneth’s head tilted. Lance sighed. “You gave us information none of us were ready for, so give us some time to process.”

“Chaos will not wait until you are well and ready.”

“And you’re going to stop it yourself, are you? This ‘eater of worlds’,” Jeneth flinched. “In that state?”

Jeneth’s fists clenched. He stared into Lance’s soul, the hollow lenses and death mask making Lance narrow his eyes uncomfortably. “... Your ineffectiveness has been noted.”

“Bite me.”

“Hey, wait, where is he sleeping anyway?”

“... We’ll put him up in a room.”

“You think the Rich Bitch will like that?”

“What’s it matter?”

Jeneth shouldered the standard and heel turned to face them. They exited the range.

Jeneth had walked with a soldier’s gate coming out of his prison. With the standard hoisted against his shoulder, he was marching in perfect form despite his obvious fatigue and injuries. Lance thought it was cool. Halloran took one look at his goosestep and curled his lips.

He was not marching for review or in front of an officer, but he was carrying the standard.

Felecia stepped without sound, hands clasped behind her head, leaning back to stare at the golden eagle that glinted in the moonlight. She wondered why it was so special. She wondered how Jeneth was able to demonstrate such zeal toward something so abstract.

All the stars in our grasp.

Felecia looked down. She could certainly appreciate the aesthetics. Always searching for another hint of gold. She could almost relate.

With a burst of speed, she came beside Jeneth, hands behind her back as she leaned forward, finding his stiff pace and process comical. “Hey.” Jeneth made no notice of her. “Do you ever take that mask off?” 

What was the point of that question? Jeneth did not answer. Civilians were weird. The officers were saints for putting up with liaisons. Peeved at being ignored, Felecia stuck out her tongue and stepped back. 

Without much further conversation, they made their way to the second-floor bedrooms and directed Jeneth to an empty one. Coming back in with his weapons did see a remarkable increase in bodyguard hypervigilance. 

The group began to disperse. Jeneth stared at the bedroom door. He put a hand on the doorknob.

Felecia turned around. “What’s your name?”

“393-1024-0830-Jeneth.”

“Ah.”

A soft bed. A quiet room. 

It was not a place for him.

He placed the standard in the corner. He set his powerpack, backpack, and hellgun to the side, then placed his lasgun in front of him as he knelt before the banner. 

He was feeling things he did not know how to describe.

What was certain was that he was uncertain. He did not dare to say his actions were appropriate and doubt, not doubt in the Emperor, never doubt in the Emperor, plagued his every breath, along with a healthy serving of pain.

What was his justification for his actions?

He was a soldier. But he was not a soldier of humanity. And while he accepted that these humans must have been part of the Emperor’s design as well, for they too were people, he had no obligation to protect any of them directly. He had an obligation to defend the name of ‘Earth’. And this was an Emperor touched recreation, then he had a sacred duty to defend the planet from invasion. But beyond all of that, he had a duty to the Emperor. He was a soldier of the Emperor. And the Emperor’s enemy was the Archenemy. So he would fight them.

He would fight them. He would fight them.

He repeated the mantra in his head as he stared at the aquila. 

He was hasty when he declared himself the Emperor’s only worshipper. The Faith was not carried by him alone, but by all of his comrades back home. That was where it mattered. Here, he was not a follower. Here, still, as always, he was a soldier. And he would fight them.

But now what?

He could read the Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer and sink into the closest thing a Korpsman will get to meditation, but he did not want to think and absorb. He wanted answers. So he prayed.

Click.

“Princeton.”

“Cambridge.”

The lamp in the corner barely illuminated a quarter of the room, but it was enough. Celeste’s computer hummed, the monitor washing her face in white.

There was a pause. Celeste listened intensely. Then came a shuffle and a sigh. “...Celeste. I didn’t think we were talking anymore.” There was a beep as Celeste’s hardware shut down the automated tracking software. “Wow, that was faster than last time. Sorry. Formalities. How can I help you?”

“I need information.”

Red velvet curtains hung close against the windows. They were not to her taste, but rather Artoria’s taste. She was lending her rooms out to the posse, but she was adamant that they make do with the layout they received. Celeste made do.

“Never just to say hello, huh? Why not get it yourself?”

“It’s faster this way… And… I wouldn’t be able to get into everything.”

Celeste grit her teeth and frowned. A tired chuckle came over the phone. She imagined him with a smug grin plastered on his countenance as he rolled himself to his computer, laughing sardonically to himself over her lack of ability in the one field she prided herself in, sneering and contemptuous, but she saw tired eyes and messy hair and her face softened. 

She heard Stark broke through the encryption. 

“What is it?”

“Hydra.”

Another pause. “I thought you wanted information, not a history lesson.”

“Humor me. Hydra. Is it possible they’re still around?”

“Well. Cut off one head… No, Hydra was eradicated before the fifties.”

Her computer, sitting on wood so brown it was red, flashed and flicked through a dozen screens in the span of a couple of seconds. Her arms were once again lined with the circuit-like patterns. She was wired in.

“And we’re certain about that?”

She could hear the eyebrow raise. “Given what Captain America did to the Red Skull and Peggy Carter did afterward? If you mean to ask whether or not their spirit was carried on by surviving members we didn’t manage to snatch or execute, well, a rat finds cracks no matter how secure the cage. I’ve no doubt many of them escaped to South America along with the Nazis proper, unable to do anything but hide. Besides that, I suppose all the agents we recruited and, but you can count those under the ones we’ve… rehabilitated.”

“Like Zola.”

“Like Zola.”

Two standing closets on either side of a bookshelf, filled with books Celeste never touched—and she doubted Artoria did either—sat behind Celeste, to the right of the full-sized bed up against the wall. 

“So, consensus is they’re not around anymore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that isn’t some type of cover you’re feeding me.”

“Celeste, if Hydra was still around, every agent would know, believe me. Every field agent and specialist would be hunting them down with extreme prejudice. That’s not a secret you can really hide regardless. And if that was a controlled piece of information, you were high up enough for that type of intelligence, at least.”

She compares the images of Jeneth to the ones of Hydra and the Nazis. The resemblance seems to be coincidental at best, but she is not satisfied. 

Celeste put her face in her hand, closing her eyes. “Ok… Alright… What about time travel?”

“What… about time travel?”

“Do you think Hydra had time travel technology, with all the work they put into the Tesseract?”

“If Hydra had time travel, I doubt the world would be the way it is.”

“Is Shield working on any related fields? That might be stolen or utilized by Hydra, say… some odd thousand years into the future?”

“What? I… No, Shield isn’t working on anything like that. The theories alone are half-baked. It’s still pretty much fringe science at this point. And if we were, we wouldn’t be anymore since we lost the Tesseract and New York almost got ended by a thermonuclear device… But, look. In this… weird hypothetical future of yours, ‘can’ some variation of Hydra end up with time-travel technology? If we want to get into the realm of science fiction, sure, let’s say it’s possible.”

The screen ran through another dozen queries.

“But it’s not just the Tesseract, is it? We know of the Nazi’s side hustle with the occult. How much of that bled into Hydra? Or from what Hydra originally was before they joined the Nazis? We’re tracking things like the Darkhold ourselves. We have no idea if sorcery can access the timestream, do we?”

Whether or not it could unleash Demons, of all things.

Celeste thought about that golden double-headed eagle. She thought about the lightning strike. She thought about Chaos.

“Celeste, what is this about?”

“... Nothing. Thank you. See you.”

She disconnected from the computer.

“Celeste-”

* - * - *

“What’s an oh-eight-four?”

“Object of unknown origin. Kind of like you. Team goes in, determines if it's useful or poses a threat. Something, possibly alien, probably dangerous, caused an explosion in the middle of a New York street, and we have to discover what.”

Skye nodded thoughtfully. “So… I was deemed useful and not a threat?”

“Much to the chagrin of Agent Ward.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“You dug up his deepest darkest secrets.”

Skye smiled. “That was funny.”

“Not to him.” Coulson smiled as well.

“So. Consultant, right? That’s what I heard. What am I consulting on?”

“Everything. Shield is old, and that means tradition. You bring something new to the table.”

“A fresh perspective,” Skye echoed.

“A fresh perspective,” Coulson agreed. “And your invaluable technological skills. It’s a digital age, and I can’t keep up.”

“I thought you had Fitz for that,” Skye said, eyeing the plane as she walked around.

“Fitz is a brilliant engineer,” Coulson granted, “and there are few that can match his brain when it comes to it, but he’s better at building. You’ve got the edge when it comes to breaking.”

Skye frowned and turned to look at Phil. She didn’t like how that sounded. It raised fresh perspectives about her that she didn’t care for.

“Breaking in,” Coulson quickly finished.

“Am I?”

“What?”

“Breaking into something.”

“The Falling Spire Troupe.”

Skye sat down, hands between her thighs. “What’s that?”

“Criminal organization. They do a bit of racketeering, some assassinations every now and again, but what we’re focusing on is their black market auctions. Back in the day, that would require some legwork. Find their record keeper, stuff like that. But, like I said, it’s a digital age.”

Skye crossed her legs. “It’s not like I can just tap into anything with a few keys. If it’s a closed system, I’d need something connected to the network.”

“They’re too big to be closed. They have clients and channels of communication. I’m sure you can find something. We need to find out what they sold, or what they were planning to sell tonight. I could have another team question some participants directly, but I want to do this in-house, and Grant and May are busy in the field. Can you do that?”

Skye smiled. “Get me a laptop.”

The network was in chaos. 

Finding the network was not easy on her own and she had begun to doubt there was an entry point at all. But then she reached out to her comrades in the Rising Tide and found a port. It was not a simple onion link or shared port bouncing from peer to peer. It was a fragmented phantom, spread across ghost routers and half-dead relays buried in junk data and buried code.

She was expecting something simplistic beyond the barriers and digital baileys, something that screamed ‘villainous gang’. Instead, there wasn’t a catalog of crime or a static image dump of back alley auctions. She expected screenshots of contraband, videos that would make her want to bleach out of her corneas later, and maybe a few horrific details that would stick to the inside of her skull. Instead, she was greeted with a beautifully rendered home page in the process of broken down line by line.

The network was already burning. 

Whatever it once was, it was now a web of fractured systems, with subroutines scrambling to reroute data, and encrypted echoes of someone trying to purge traces. It was like walking into a burning library mid-evacuation. The digital noise began to rise as threads were cut. Something was happening to the troupe, most likely related to the failed auction.

The spire was falling.

But Skye was not worried. She began surfing the tidal waves, tracing outgoing memos and documents, circumventing malware and encryptions, chasing fading memos, intercepting outgoing transfer logs, and skimming raw metadata before it was scrambled into useless code. She couldn’t save everything. She didn’t need to. She marked clusters of data—client info, IPs, likely communication nodes—and shunted them through secure tunnels to Rising Tide backups.

Her laptop lagged. Her confidence takes a hit and she bites her lip as she leans forward. Whatever program the troupe was using to systematically destroy their presence could not get to her, but it was doing a damn good job of shutting her out. Passwords she cracked suddenly become invalid and her room and ability to maneuver shrinks. Skye scrambles to isolate partitions before they crack on her, fingers racing across the keys.

It was like it was learning. Adaptive. Real-time. 

Freaky. 

There, she finds something. A secondary path. Old. Forgotten. The last to go. She hesitates. If she digs this deep, it would not just be the program, but her system that is exposed. Her laptop was not running Shield infiltration protocols, but her own. Pride. Ego.

She races past data. Locations. Bank accounts. Shell companies. Names. Communications. She needed to find a manifest. 

That is when she finally notices. The troupe’s network was not being destroyed from within. Their servers and databases were being eaten from beyond. And those hungry mouths had hungry eyes which finally found her. 

For a second, she feels eyes on her. Something presses against her back and a single bead of sweat trickles down her spine. Her eyes water. She must be nervous. Why else does she see her own breath? The weight behind her disappeared when her screen glitched. 

Her fingers shook. Something told her to hurry and she did. She made one final push to grab what she was looking for and ripped the drive out of the laptop just as it began to burn. Shut off from the outside, the laptop fizzles and shuts down with a static pop. She stared at the now useless device, confusion coming in to replace the rapidly retreating fear. Fear she forgot she felt at all.

Skye glances down at the drive. “I got it,” she whispered.

* - * - *

“Atrion is an energy source.”

William Fisk and Justin Hammer were walking down a hallway, white and sterilized, shoes echoing down marble floors, accompanied by nobody but their own shadows. Justin had found that disconcerting and tried to get William to agree to let Matthew and Janice follow them. William had denied his request. Justin decided not to push the issue. Not even James came along with them. Sweat coated the back of Justin’s neck. He waited for William, who had been silent up until then, to continue. 

“It can tap into a field of power we have never discovered, never interacted with before. But it is not just an energy source. It has other properties to it. Properties that a worldly man like you… might find hard to accept.”

This last statement was made with a sideways stare at Justin. Justin subtly swallowed, confusion fueling rampant imagination. “Well, I’m always looking to broaden my horizons.”

They had passed by security door after security door, deep underground at the headquarters of the future Hammer UAC. “Limit your enthusiasm. You may not like what you see. Nor might you believe it, even with direct proof in front of your eyes”

Justin started to wonder if Atrion was like another blue object that appeared in recent history. Double doors revealed themselves in the distance, guards on either side. They made it halfway in continued silence.

William halted without warning and Justin stumbled a step, looking back and up at him. Justin tightened his jaw. “What you will see, you will tell no one. Matthew, and I’m sure Miss Lincoln by now, is aware. But there will be no discussion. Is that understood.”

Justin narrowed his eyes. “Of course,” he let out.

William continued walking. “Do you believe in souls, Justin?”

Not really. “I’d like to think we all have a little something special inside of us.”

“Hm. Then do you believe in an afterlife?”

“I believe in legacies.”

“Apt.”

They reached the doors. The guards buzzed them in. Justin’s eyes widened. 

The room was large, the ceiling a dozen dozen meters above them, an underground skyscraper housing a large machine at the center. Panels of various uses covered the walls, absorbing bleeding energy, displaying data, containing sound, et cetera. Glowing Atrion was suspended in midair between two protruding arms from the middle of two half rings connected to a circular platform, silver and blue. This platform hung at the center of the room, connected to the walls with a myriad of pipes, walkways, and wires. Below the platform was a containment field, coated in frost. Justin felt the hairs on his arms rise. He shivered. He wrinkled his nose at a smell coming from somewhere, like chlorine and burnt metal. He had never seen a display so foreign, so amusingly science operatic if it didn’t feel so serious.

There were buzzes of subtle conversation. William escorted Justin to a platform a quarter of the way up the room, a secondary control center. Justin’s gaze wandered everywhere, caught on everything. “Atrion,” William said. “That thirty-pound rock is powering the entire building. The city believes we are running off of a rather efficient geothermal hotspot, in conjunction with in-house patented next-generation solar panel designs. The walls prevent unwanted meddlers from detecting the true source of our power.”

“Thirty pounds of it, and it’s not enough?”

“Not nearly.”

Justin studied the layout in silence before he could no longer resist. “What’s… that?”

There was a hazy humanoid figure within the containment field, unmoving, barely stable, showing no signs of reaction to any external stimuli, and yet Justin felt like it was watching him. He rubbed his hands together.

“That, Mister Hammer, is a spirit.”

Justin rounded on William, astonished. His head snapped back to the figure. “What?”

“A spirit. Atrion’s special property. It has the ability to recall the deceased.”

“Are you serious?”

“Believe me. I am not joking.”

Justin opened his mouth, staring at the figure, then at the Atrion, then back at William. He thought back to the intelligence package he got from Justine regarding William when the offer for a partnership first came up. A new understanding came to light. Perhaps a new stress point he could utilize. He wanted to get closer, but seeing as William didn’t move, Justin remained in place.

Justin had his doubts about what William was saying, but in order to move forward in the moment, in the absence of available alternative logic, he had to accept what was in front of him until otherwise better informed. Never say Justin Hammer was not open-minded. “Ok. Alright… What’s that smell then? And why is it so cold? It’s generating power, it should be hot. Endothermic reactor?”

That was better than anything that hack Stark could make.

“It… These phenomena began yesterday. The same day she became clearer.” She. Justin’s cheek twitched. “I suspect it has something to do with our interlopers. They caused an explosion last night.”

“I heard. That was them?”

“I have gotten reports that the energy signature in the air matches samples we get here… I need to know what they did.”

“They’ll talk once we get them.”

“Warn the team. Shield has gotten involved.”

“Shield?”

“They have nothing actionable on us,” William quickly supplied. “But their attention has been drawn. A new variable, but nothing we cannot handle.”

Justin didn’t believe him. He ignored that for now. He could begin to make preparations on his own later. He had a more pertinent question. He looked back at the platform and the Atrion and the figure, making a gesture. “How,” he asked, lacking a better phrase.

William pursed his lips. “I do not know by which means it accomplishes what it does. My scientists are at a loss. Perhaps it is the technology of aliens. Or perhaps it is the work of God. Perhaps He heard me after all. Perhaps this is redemption or my salvation, or my reward for it all. Regardless, its methods are beyond us, but its capabilities are not. You will profit off of this, Mister Hammer.” “Justin, please…” “And so will I.” William fiddled with his ring. “Recover the Atrion.”

Justin heard him a second later. He nodded numbly.

William stared at the hazy figure. He shook the whisper in the back of his head. That must have been grief. 

Justin stared at the glowing rock. He shook the whisper in the back of his head. That must have been greed.

Atrion.

The glowing blue gem was unlike anything William Fisk had ever seen before. Its faint color was unchanging, pulsing in the exact way he remembered when he first laid eyes on it. He knew, even then, that it had presence. 

It was first brought to him as an alternative for radiative elements by a man with vague affiliations and the heart of an entrepreneur. That man spoke of catalysts and cold fusion, citing Atrion as the new source of power, competing with uranium and plutonium. William was only mildly curious then. It was novel, but its uses were unrelated to his business. He was not a weapons manufacturer, nor was he interested in becoming an energy tycoon, and he was certainly no world-saving idealist. His plans for power and for greatness stemmed from a different calling. Not the kind that could be measured in megawatts.

However, he also knew a good opportunity when he saw one. There was no mention of Atrion in geological databases. No peer-reviewed papers. No patents. As far as he knew, he was the first person who had their attention brought to the possibilities that Atrion possessed. It was either a scam or a miracle, and William Fisk made it a policy to test both. The patents alone would see him rise above the likes of Stark when it came to clean energy. 

And so it began. 

Simple, at first, as most things tended to be. 

He partitioned a section of the basement beneath his company headquarters, built with concrete and lead-lined, for this endeavor. He hired nuclear researchers, plasma physicists, and a scattering of disillusioned futurists who’d burned too many bridges in academia to return. He funded them with silent accounts and blind trusts. He let them play. He let them build.

For months, they could not return anything satisfactory. 

The day it happened was like any other.

William walked into the bunker as he had a dozen times before to observe what was being accomplished with his hard-earned capital. The lab was dim. It was smaller than it should have been, given the investment, crowded with machinery and cables, the ceiling sweating from the heat of effort.

It began with light. Silent flashes. Power surged. Capacitors broke. Static filled the intercom. Heat poured from an otherwise inert piece of blue rock. Something shattered. Someone screamed. 

And then everything stopped as soon as it began. Amidst the stabilizing conditions, amidst a blue corona, unclothed, fragile, barely coalesced, a hazy figure called his name.

Not with sound. Through knowing. 

And he was left with the ghost of her.

* - * - *

“There was a gas station,” Leopold began, sipping a cup of coffee that had long since gone lukewarm, “old, unused for decades, on the side of the road. It’s the best lead we’ve got. Recent tracks. Recent damage. Beyond that? Zilch.”

“It’s situated in the direction where the energy signature ended,” Grant picked up, standing beside a holo-display of the map. “I could pick up a trail. Someone was carrying something heavy. At least three, maybe four pairs of footsteps.”

“Skye got into the Falling Spire Troupe’s network,” Coulson added, arms crossed. “The only thing on there we think possibly caused the explosion is something called Atrion.”

“Atrion,” Fitz echoed, brow furrowing.

“What’s that?” Skye asked. Her voice was quieter than usual.

“Unknown. As far as we can tell, Shield hasn’t had any interactions with it before… up until yesterday. Fitz?”

“There was a lot of residual energy, but it faded fast. It had similarities to the Tesseract mostly in terms of gamma radiation. Uh, there was some frost on the ground that’s correlated to the explosion. It carried the same energy. But it was just made of water. Ordinary water. Aitch two oh. I can’t find any reason why the frost formed, or why the temperature dropped.”

“Ghosts,” Grant muttered. He didn’t elaborate. No one asked.

“The frost…” Jemma’s voice was strained, uncertain. “It felt weird.”

Fitz shook his head

“Alright,” Coulson nodded. “That’s all we got, but it’s a lead. We work it. Start bringing us places, team. Let’s see where it goes.”

Everyone moved. Maps were called up. Assignments were drawn. Coffee was replenished. The weight of duty set shoulders straight again.

Skye stayed behind for a beat, fingers resting lightly on the table. She stared at nothing.

She wondered—not for the first time—if she should’ve told Coulson everything.

• I've been kissed by a rose on the grey I, I've been kissed by a rose on the grey I've (And if I should fall, will it all go away?) been kissed by a rose on the grey I, I've been kissed by a rose on the grey

Chapter Text

• If you have nothing to live for, what will you die for? If you have nothing to die for, what is your life for?

Breathing hurt. He was breathing too hard. His lungs were working muscles that no longer needed to strain as much as they did to get the oxygen he required. His heart pounded in his chest, slow and calm, but hard, a light hammer against his ribs, almost uncomfortable, and he would swear he could feel his blood flowing in his veins. His eyes pulsed with every faux palpitation, the edges of his vision brightening and dimming against the frequency. It was disjointed. The adrenaline and heart rate that usually accompanied such forceful heartbeats were missing. His actual joints ached but he felt light. Light and lightheaded from a head that was too full.

Still, it was better than yesterday, where the floor constantly shifted around him and nausea threatened to beat his stomach through his mouth. He was still dizzy but it was easier to ignore now. His legs were too tense and his fingers were too sensitive. None of that was why he woke up. He woke up because he was still in a combat cycle and he got his three hours.

No. That wasn’t quite right either.

He woke up because he was blinded and burned by something, boiling and blistering his soul with heat so intense it felt cold and comfortable like a victim of hypothermia losing the last indications of his sanity.

He couldn’t remember what gave him that feeling.

It was not a good sleep regardless and that meant lowered efficiency. He could feel the fatigue in his bones and his eyes were stinging against his heavy eyelids.

He had slept against the back left corner of the room from the door, curled up against it, his hellgun tucked between his knees and his chest, his lasgun leaning against the wall to his right, and his meltagun sitting snug against the back wall to his left. His right leg was braced against the table he pushed close to himself, offering cover against an ambush. He rose slowly but that still sent him stumbling forward, recoil in his legs to prepare him to rise against a pressure that was no longer present. Black dug into his vision from the peripheral, blossoming petals against the muted dawn of nautical twilight. His brain felt light and his head felt heavier. His spine unfolded and he held back a groan. Fully erect, he mentally checked his body. He tensed and relaxed, stretching in place without stretching, warming up his body for sudden combat. He picked up his lasgun and slung both weapons on his back.

There was a twitch of discomfort and he adjusted his body and trousers as he waited for his blood flow in his lower body to regain some normalcy, uncaring of the sheer biological noise that presented itself in the early pre-morning. 

Jeneth almost sighed. Almost.

This was Terra and yet it fought him. How utterly ironic to think about. So he decided to no longer think about it at the moment. 

He looked around the room. 

The carpeted floor was dirtied with tracks of dust and mud; he was surprisingly clean, he thought to himself, for a soldier who just fought daemons of disease—he had no doubt he and everyone else would have already succumbed to corruption if traces of the enemy had followed him. The desk was moved, its useless items strewn about the floor. The bed was untouched. The curtains were pulled back so he could access the external situation at any time. The wardrobe, empty, was open so he had access to the entire room. The bathroom was explored. It remained unused as of now. In short, this was not a good place to sleep. But it might have been a decent place for something else; he stored water in the tub in preparation. 

It had been cold, but his coat and tunic protected him.

Jeneth looked at the company standard, bowing his head and making the Aquila, then muttered a short morning prayer of dedication and reinvigoration. He had decided it was not necessary to lug the heavy weapon around on his leg but realized he had no way of securing the weapon. Debating the scenario with himself for a considerable amount of time, almost an entire minute, he lugged the meltagun to the wardrobe and set up a Screamer. Then he shut the door. After that would be the time to replenish himself with a quick ration, rations the rest of the regiment took when they retreated. Dead men had no need for food. But he was not dead, so it was up to himself to procure more, which, in turn, meant reconnaissance.

Jeneth walked to the door. Moving was so easy. Too easy without the force on his back. He would not say he missed the pressure, but he might think that it was odd without it. Moving properly, however, was practically difficult. A slight overstep here. An over rotation there. Every movement had to be made more deliberate than usual. Jeneth successfully made it to the door, opened it, and walked out.

The first thing he noticed were the guards on both sides of the corridor who were decidedly not present when the ganger group initially escorted him up. He noted their existence, assessed their capabilities, and moved on. 

The guards did not. Every one, briefed on him while he slept, made sure to keep an eye out on the stranger, viewing him with a mixture of distrust and a nonzero amount of awe, for while Jeneth was a soldier of a far-flung future, his battle dress made him look manifestly archaic, like a barbarian warrior from the past. His brass buttons, dirtied, still shined apart from the rest of his dark blue magenta overcoat, while the black olive tunic, mousy indigo trousers, and beige wrappings over black boots put him right in the middle of World War One. The keen-eyed among the hired help might note the black belt, silver buckle, brown straps, and black gloves. Some of them might even admire the black stitching and red lining of the overcoat.

The second floor seemed to be mostly bedrooms of equally extravagant yet different designs. It was an extended labyrinth. Some of them were large. Some of them were small. Some of them had panes making up external walls. Some of them had no windows at all. Some of them were marble and ivory. Some of them were wood and brick. There was no architectural consistency, relying on a sort of messy symbiosis. 

To Jeneth, it was all an equal waste of space. The sleeping area of the second floor could have been condensed into a tenth of the space, converted into rows of bunks, with the rest used for storage and training. He mentally parked choke points, staircases, hasty exits, possible entries, and where temporary fortifications could be placed in case of an enemy incursion. The one thing the second floor had going for it was the confusing layout. 

The third floor was where the guards stationed in the house slept and worked when they were not on rotation. There was a security center and an armory. There was a large meeting room with cogitators, databanks, and seats, things he found quite normal for the household guard, only, they were not the household guard to some lord, but the private security of some wealthy individual. But he was not aware of any social distinction, of course. There were gates and grates and crates. Jeneth felt more at home there. He thought about commandeering a bunk later. Maybe he could just take a bunk instead. If not, he might as well sleep outside. 

The fourth floor was recreational. There were screens, for picts and what have you, green tables with colorful balls and sticks, no doubt used for mental acuity training—angles, positioning, long-range strategy, et cetera—some local variation of regicide, tables for card games and other tabletop entertainment, an assortment of soft seats, and, God-Emperor withhold His praise for these men for their tiniest bit of adeptness, a gym. There was also a food service area, holding more than enough recaf to drown an army. Nothing there was of any true nutritional value, but Jeneth grabbed a couple of items just in case. There were energy drinks in the refrigeration unit. Nothing like the stimms he was used to seeing. He deigned to grab a couple of those and put them in his supply pack too for later testing. None of those off duty there made a move to stop him, but he could feel their hostility, which confused him. They only got angry after he touched the food.

There was also a patio, not to act as overwatch, but instead holding a miniature pool and accompanying tools. Not even planetary governors were so kind to their personal troop, though Jeneth thought—doubtful—that it may even be for underwater preparedness. Jeneth wondered why this ‘Rich Bitch’ bothered with all these luxuries. As far as he knew, ‘Bitch’ was used by the enemy, civilians, and other regiments as an insult, but it was not uncommon, he learned, for it to be a term of endearment among comrades closer than his. Perhaps they used the term ‘bitch’ motherly, he thought idly, as females of canine races are referred to colloquially. He stamped the thought out. An idle mind was an undisciplined mind. Instead, he redirected his focus back to reconnaissance and took the time to study both analog and digital clocks, confirming that the measurement of time in this world was the same as he knew. He referenced that to the length of the day and night cycle, further confirming his hypothesis.  

645.012.M3.

0.645.012.M3. He was on Terra.

The fifth floor was off-limits to him. The guards stationed here had some kind of rudimentary flak armor, their stubbers rifle length instead of short carbines or machine pistols the others carried.

The ground floor held nothing of interest. An enormous kitchen. A theater of sorts. The living room. The lower levels, apart from the shinier-than-all-the-stars-in-the-void dungeon, were also off limits to him, most likely where the more subversive actions of this particular assembly were done that they did not trust him with yet.

Of course, none of the others in the particular group he was supposed to be working with was awake. He did not expect them to be, given their nature as lowly criminal scum, so he was not disappointed, merely realistic acceptance of subpar performance. With what he could realistically see inside of the main estate surveyed, he walked outside to do a perimeter check. The sky was of a shade not too dissimilar to pale tau skin. The sun would be rising and, catching the last moments of the stars, he thought to himself that his comrades would be partaking in voluntary shipborne training exercises right about now. It would soon be morning twilight, and he would then witness his first sunrise on Terra. To that end, that being the start of a proper planetary rotation, he needed to know the extent of the estate and where the other buildings were so that he could prepare defenses and fortifications. His demands for blueprints and a geological map were denied. It was better for him to do it by eye anyway.

When he took a step further his paths crossed with someone else coming in. The man had a cane in one hand and a lit lho-stick in the other. Jeneth assumed the cripple was some clerk or other administrative adept, otherwise out of place in the estate. The man paused, looking Jeneth up and down, crinkling his nose at the smell of chemicals. “You’re up early,” the man said, voice gruff.

Jeneth, noting his own muted surprise, realized this was the man in the primitive power armor from last night, evidentially necessary due to his lame leg. He approved of the man’s initiative but refused to commend him in any way for being a cut above the rest of his ilk by doing the bare minimum and waking up on time.

He had not expected somebody so old. No, upon further review, he only looked older, though he was only about twice Jeneth’s own age. Still, that alone, to Jeneth, was already ancient.

What he failed to notice was that Fredric had not slept at all. After Charles had avoided him when the group disbanded for the night, Fredric had no one but the stars to voice his concerns to. Waves of frustration continued to plague him throughout the night and Charles would find himself hounded with silent curses the next time he needed a spot of luck. He looked at Jeneth walk by him wordlessly, apparently not taking note of his greeting at all. A little curious and a little peeved, Fredric fell in line with him with some effort. “You smoke,” Fredric asked, a most mundane attempt at trying to break the ice.

“Negative.”

Jeneth had seen members of other regiments smoke them often enough, forming a mild spirit of inquiry as to why these other regiments, from the backwater to the hardiest, would allow their members to take an addictive narcotic that might have even been detrimental to combat readiness. Were the lho-sticks some type of combat drug, Jeneth would not mind at all. Some of the Death Korps might even use them if that were the case, though it would not be popular, as was any stimulant to the rest of Krieg’s regiments. Otherwise, subcutaneous injectors of such nature were customarily reserved for the Death Riders. If the practice of smoking lho-sticks were not so widespread and the regulations regarding it were not so varied, and if, in the end, the narcotic were not harmless enough, the Death Korps might have taken up summarily executing those that engaged in such recreation on-duty for dereliction.

Still, he was witness to Commissar Bane partaking from time to time, so perhaps it could be reluctantly acceptable.

Birds sang their choir, carried by the temperate breeze of the midsummer morning of the north, cut through by the rhythmic crunch of leather on stone, polyrhythmic to the singular tapping of a cane. Fredric glanced at Jeneth, so out of place, like a beacon wherever he went, which would be ironic, given the fact that the Death Korps would not consider their bearings to be standout. The muffled breathing through a mask only served to further unnerve Fredric. Maybe Jeneth did not exist at all and Fredric was hallucinating after a particularly bad night with the suit, and his brain dropped him into a slasher film with an obvious villain. Fredric looked up into the sky and then back at Jeneth. “You know. If Poker-Face wasn’t shielding this place from eyes in the sky with his al… techno voodery, you might attract the wrong kind of attention, being out in the open and dressed the way you are.”

Jeneth rounded on Fredric. “Witch?”

Techsorcery and heresy were not his ration of choice. What he would not do for backup.

“What? No. No, that’s… figure of speech. I, it’s not actual machine magic.”

Shame. A techpriest would be useful right about now. Jeneth moved on. Fredric sighed. They continued to walk.

“Were you fighting? Before you got here.”

“Yes.”

Fredric grunted.

He was hungry.

He wanted to go to sleep.

The two of them continued along the path, with Fredric increasingly asking himself why he thought it was wise to follow the strange demented fanatic, until Jeneth started to turn onto the grass. With that, Fredric looked down at his legs and decided it was finally time to make use of this opportunity. “Hey!” Fredric called.

Jeneth paused, making a heel-face turn. Fredric saw that it was shaky. Barely, but enough to know that Jeneth was not up to par. There was silence. Jeneth waited and Fredric hesitated in the face of a death mask boring into his soul. “Why are you fighting?” Fredric settled for as he limped himself over to Jeneth’s side, taking a long drag of his cigarette. 

It was the only thing he could think of at the moment. He was in pain and impatient and he thought some intellectual exchange could help deaden his mind, supplementary to the heavy dose of nicotine he poured down his lungs. He thought it might also help wave away some of that fog around the dimensional traveller that clouded his perception of him. That and the actual brain fog, Fredric thought. Jeneth, on the other hand, thought Fredric was a little slow. He had already explained last night. “To atone,” Jeneth said finally, “in servi-”

“No,” Fredric interrupted. “Why here? Why for this world?”

“To combat the Archenemy.”

“Sure, everyone fights to fight the enemy. But neither of those are what’s making you do this so eagerly. So. Why?”

Jeneth went silent again. He had not expected this moment to arrive so soon. He was unprepared to be called upon to defend his thesis which he formed without the guidance of a superior. That cold feeling came back again, trickling down his spine, one he could not identify nor properly quash. He found himself attempting to swallow to clear his throat. “For the Emperor,” Jeneth said slowly as if tasting the words. “For Terra.”

Fredric nodded cautiously, glancing at the eastern horizon. A gradient of orange and yellow started to wash the darkness into a brighter gradient of blues. “So, a sentimental thing? Your Terra, our Earth, same name, so you gotta do it for… honor?”

“Negative.”

Honor. So many people fought for honor. Jeneth wondered how many of the Skiparians fought for the honor of their homeworld instead of the Light of the Emperor. 

Fredric waited. He looked back over, seeing Jeneth unmoving, staring straight ahead. “Hello?” A rotation of the head in his direction, as slight as a twitch, that could have been a trick of the eye, was all he got in response. He stared into the blood-red lenses, blushing pink against the rising light, to find no trace of anything but a broken sliver of himself. Fredric looked away. “Why are you fighting,” Fredric repeated.

Jeneth continued to stay silent. Fredric wondered if he had touched on a particular point of tension.

Behind his mask, Jeneth examined Fredric again, spinning the ghost of words he thought he knew through the trench lines in his head. Another thought quietly crept up the lines taking advantage of the confusion, deceptively unrelated. 

There was no difference between the Vatborn and the Trueborn on Krieg. In the violent ferocity of war, everyone fought and died the same. But he suddenly could not help but wonder if there was a difference between him and the man next to him, a Trueborn Terran, even if this was a different Terra.

“This trooper is His soldier. And the Ruinous Powers are His archenemy.”

Fredric let a trail of smoke seep from his mouth as he exhaled for a couple of seconds straight. He brought the cigarette to his lips, not knowing if he felt disappointment or understanding. The butt of the smoke stick hung in the air as he thought about his next question. Inhale, exhale. He took a drag, grit his teeth, and then took the plunge. 

“Your God-Emperor. He’s real then?” Jeneth bristled, his left hand instinctively clasping the underbarrel of his rifle. “Hey,” Fredric cautioned, pointing his cigarette at him. “Just… Wait.” Fredric took a deep breath of fresh air in. “Listen to me. Because, God. We have… God here on Earth. And you have to have faith in Him, believe that He sits up in Heaven because, definitively, there’s no way to know He actually exists.”

Of course. It was not unusual for any world to develop religion independently of the Ecclesiarchy. It was almost a given that this planet would have its own order of properly worshipful heretics. But, as this was technically an undiscovered world in his books, he only filed them for reeducation, not extermination, making a mental note to research their god later, so as to better facilitate integration.

“It is said He created the world,” Fredric continued, mildly aware of the danger he was putting himself in by espousing the teachings of one religion in front of a militant zealot dogmatic to another. “Him and His angels.” Jeneth perked up. “He created the Garden of Eden, paradise for the first humans to live in, Adam and Eve. But Eve was corrupted, tricked by the Devil into gaining forbidden knowledge, and got them both kicked out. Well, after that, humans had to struggle, until He sent his son, Jesus Christ, to gather true believers to help guide humanity out of the pit they dug themselves into, before he was betrayed by a traitor disciple, crucified to bear the burden of all the sins of mankind, and ascended to heaven… three? days later.”

Fredric wondered how much of his abridged version of Christian theology made any sense to the masked man from Krieg when, suddenly, Jeneth fell to his knees, his hands an Aquila against his chest, his head bowed as he prayed in a tongue Fredric could not understand. It was something consonant-heavy, firm, and assertive, but not quite taking on the expected harsh or guttural aspects one might expect. Instead, it was exaggerated and lofty. It was deliberate and measured, sneaking in bits but overall lacking in fluidity and musicality, like an oratory march. For someone who was emotionless, Jeneth was overcome with some type of emotion. Fredric blew out some smoke. “What, I taint your head with too much unacceptable blasphemy or some shit?”

Jeneth finished his prayer and stood up, not bothering to answer. Fredric shrugged, annoyed. His opinion of Jeneth had not worsened but it did not get any better. “Well, anyway, I don’t know what you’re going to do. I don’t know what you hope to do, or what we might do because I think I know what they will. Felecia might leave. Charles too. Celeste… ehagh. Now… DeMarr. 

Good boy. For what you said, he probably will with that damn big hero heart of his. But everyone else? This isn’t why the team came together… and they’re selfish people. Your stakes are too big. And they’re too small. You’re probably better off going to the Avengers or some.”

“Irrelevant. You must fight.”

“Why? Because it’s the end of the world? Hate to break it to you, that’s been the way for years with everything going on on this planet, and with those people, I doubt they care.”

“Negative. You will fight because you are Man,” Jeneth rasped. “You are His subjects.”

“What?”

There. It was all out in the open. The thesis that he could not defend earlier now left his lips in certainty. Excitement was coursing through Jeneth’s blood, unfamiliar but welcome. He knew his purpose was correct now. All the worry seemed to wash away from him.

“Sorry to break it to you,” Fredric said, “but your Empire doesn’t exist in this universe.”

“Negative. You are misinformed. Your religious recitation is not simple blasphemy borne of ignorance. It is a distorted retelling of our history.”

Fredric ran what he said in his head, wondering where he messed up enough to come to this misunderstanding. He gave up. “How?”

“The Dark Age of Technology was a period of great achievement and power; this is the Garden of Eden. Chaos corruption destroyed our galactic harmony. Humanity fell prey to the temptations of arcane weapons and Abominable Intelligence.” Fredric blinked. “This is the Eve and the forbidden knowledge. Xenos preyed on the divided human worlds and Psykers, vulnerable to the Warp, opened the gateway for Daemons; this is the struggle. The Emperor sent His Sons on the Great Crusade with all of His Angels to reunite humanity. This is the finding of the flock. Lord Sanguinius, blessed be his name, is the Jesus Christ. 

He is the martyr. Later betrayed and murdered by the Archtraitor, Horus.” Jeneth thumbed his palm to ward off evil. “The Emperor, the God of Man, was forced to fight and was injured. Bearing our sins, He ascended to the Golden Throne. In His ascension, He became eternal, bound to watch over us, to guide us forever. This world… is His creation, lost to the Warp. The protection this planet has received is evidence. It is… the same faith.”

It was Fredric’s turn to be silent as Jeneth went through the reverberations of faith embraced, absolutely flabbergasted and stupefied. He was tempted to outright deny Jeneth’s claims, but on a matter of religious truth, especially considering his apatheism, he had no ground to stand on. But then he thought about his visits to the church when he was young, then when he was hurt. He thought about the silence within the hallowed grounds, feeling the weight of every brick and dressed stone. He thought about God. “The God-Emperor exists, then.”

“He watches over us all from Holy Terra.”

“Say you’re right. Then what is our world? A backup?”

Jeneth did not respond. He had conversed more in the past couple of hours than he did in an entire year back on Skipario. 

“Uh-huh.” Fredric flicked his cigarette onto the grass and stomped on it unsteadily. He reached into his pocket to grab another one. “If the God-Emperor sits on an actual throne on Earth… what part of that is faith?” That succeeded in getting Jeneth to turn his entire head, without reaching for his weapons this time. “You know he exists.” Fredric brought out a lighter and ignited the tip of his smoke, replacing the zippo and taking a drag. “You see him. Physically. That’s not faith or belief. That’s just knowledge.”

Jeneth broke his silence uncharacteristically quickly. “Knowledge that He exists… Faith… that His Light finds us.”

Fredric grunted. He parted his lips and blew out smoke through closed teeth. “You know. Atrion exists outside of Earth too. It’s a big fucking universe out there. And you’re one man. What do you plan on doing?”

The duty that was apparent to every God-Emperor-loving faithful. “This trooper requires candles.”

Fredric looked ahead at the horizon. The first rays of the sun peeked from beyond.

Sunrise, six nineteen, ante meridian. 

“God loves us because He made us. Why does the Emperor care?”

“Because you are human.”

Fredric looked at him. “Right… Let’s get someone to get you some candles.” Fredric walked off. He looked behind him, seeing Jeneth not moving. “Come along then.”

Jeneth followed him.

Neither of them noticed the shadow behind them disappear. 

* - * - *

It was a bright summer's day in Hell’s Kitchen. A man and a woman sat in the booth of a diner, against the window, to the right of the door, enjoying a simple, if only a bit cliche, spot of breakfast. The people around them smiled and laughed and generally enjoyed the early Friday morning with the people they were dining with. Despite the general state of cheer of the diner, it was only a brief respite from the day-to-day. Most of the city had yet to recover from the battle a couple of months ago, scars of which were still visible. A majority of the major cleaning up was already done, with Damage Control clearing away much of the rubble—and alien technology—and business for the most part resumed as usual. But some people still flinched when they looked up into the sky and saw a spot just a bit too dark for their liking. Janice rested her face on her propped-up hand, a faint smile on her face as she looked across the table to Matthew, who had a much more pensive expression, his eyes focused on the city before him. She simpered, tilting her head further into her hands.

“I’m not pretty enough for you to look at?”

With a start, Matthew returned his attention back inside the diner. His hands reflexively continued their lackluster assault on the food on his plate. Blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and a healthy serving of bacon. “Sorry,” Matthew said, smiling sheepishly. 

Janice’s smile faded into something lighter, something more understanding. She reached her other hand out to lay on top of his. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Matthew pulled a piece of pancake apart from the whole and slowly brought it to his lips. He inhaled. “He’s worried,” he said, putting the fork in his mouth.

“Are you?”

Matthew put the fork down, stalling with his chewing. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t think what happened was too big of a setback. Our fundamentals are solid.”

“Matt,” Janice chided knowingly, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.

“I’m worried about him,” Matthew confessed. “The people last night, going straight for the AP? It shook him. It’s the first time anyone outside our group had any real interest in the thing, and he thinks that means they know what it does.”

Janice nodded in understanding. “But that shouldn’t stop him from what he’s doing, right? They only made off with so much. Less than a pound?”

“A bit more.” Matthew hesitated, leaning in closer. “We’re not using them.”

“What?” Janice sat up a little straighter, taking her head off her hand. “Why not?”

“You know it shattered, right?”

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“The problem is we don’t know,” Matthew sighed. 

He pulled away and leaned back into his seat. Janice cocked her head, waiting, before she heard the footsteps he saw before her. “Something’s got you bothered,” the newcomer said. 

She was short, a little older, a little heavier, the vestiges of her youth preserved within the faint black roots of her white hair, a mess of curls, with a stern face offset by the kindest eyes. She was Naomi, the third-generation owner of the diner.

Matthew smiled. “A little.”

“Busy saving the city?”

“Never not a busy time,” Matthew responded.

“Let me pack those up for you then,” Naomi said, calling someone else to do it for her. “You wanna talk about it?”

Matthew shook his head. “Nothing I can discuss here, sorry.”

“Ah, attorney-client privilege.”

Matthew nodded mysteriously. “Something like that.”

A waitress came by to take Matthew’s plate and clear away Janice’s. “Well, they’ll be glad to have you as their lawyer. How’s our boy treating you?” Naomi asked.

“He’s always on his best behavior.” It was Janice’s turn to smile. “I make sure of it.”

Janice and Matthew began to stand up.

“Don’t I know it,” Naomi said. “Don’t you try that thing again, Matthew.”

Matthew froze. “What thing?”

“That thing when you try to pay the bill, that I don’t tell you, when I’m not looking. How many times I gotta say that you don’t pay here? What am I gonna say to your father? When he actually comes around again?”

Matthew looked at her face. She did not flinch, but there was always an initial sense of jitters that a blind man found her eyes so readily. “I’m sure he’ll say that it’s only right and proper, ma’am.”

“Not here it ain’t. You and your father made sure this place stayed open and that it belonged to me. And you did all that for free. Don’t make me get mad at you.”

Matthew nodded, defeated, but smiling regardless. “I’ll pass on your greetings and make sure he knows his company’s wanted.”

“If he’s not busy. He’s always welcome.”

The waitress came back. Naomi grabbed the to-go bag and a cup of coffee. She handed it to Matthew and walked them to the door. “When’s that Nelson boy coming around again?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “River’s dying to see him, you know.”

Naomi smirked and Matthew chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“You do that,” Naomi said, patting Matthew on the shoulder and waving them goodbye.

“You know, Matthew,” Janice said once they exited the diner, “you could just enjoy the free food for once. It could actually be rude to ignore their hospitality. And it’s not like it’s a bribe. You already did the work.”

“Yeah, I just feel reserved about that kind of stuff.”

Janice leaned forward, dragging her nails lightly along the rim of the coffee cup. She didn’t speak right away, watching him instead. “You know,” she murmured, “sometimes I wonder if you let people talk just to see what they do with the space you give them.”

Matthew tilted his head. “Do you?”

She gave a half-smile, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her gaze stayed on him. “I said sometimes.” Janice took a cursory glance around. Slowly, her arms snaked toward Matthew’s. He did not react, so she took it in hers. “You were saying?”

Matthew listened and took a breath. Under the cover of the New York streetlife, he continued his story. “What happened to the Atrion makes the lab coats reserved. Its physical properties changed. It got denser, or, uh, heavier, and new phenomena we can’t trace started happening. Plus, the shard that was stolen exploded, you know. So we don’t know how separating a whole piece and then putting it under power would affect it.” 

“What does that have to do with him?”

Matthew sighed. “I’m afraid he’s going to ignore their advice and go ahead with throwing it into the usable pile anyway.”

Janice pursed her lips. “Is it really that bad?”

“I said it wasn’t a big setback, but it’s relative. It’s the biggest one we’ve had and he’s sc-... He’s… Worried. He’s worried that it’s our last chance before he loses her altogether again. Not to mention the troupe. We took the Atrion from them quite… unfriendly.”

“He’s scared of retaliation? That clown brigade doesn’t have the power to do any real damage to us.”

“You forget they have records.”

“And risk losing business?”

“I don’t know, Janice. I mean, I could be worried about nothing.”

The pair of them arrived at Janice’s car. Matthew could not see it, but he always felt its presence in the jealous tension of passersby and, most of all, in the way Janice described every detail to him with lover’s pride the moment she first received it. He certainly got used to it, the distinct voice of the 4.7L V8 engine—delivered through a 6-speed ZF automatic transmission—heralding her arrival before she rounded the corner. It was the 2012 Maserati GranTurismo S Automatic, or, as Janice liked to call it, her War Chariot, leaving everyone in the dust with the plate ‘LEXQUEEN’; New York traffic often had other intentions. The Rosso Mondiale paint job caught every shard of light like it had something to prove, and the Nero leather interior was finished with custom red piping and stitching, resonating dangerously to anyone she did not invite inside. Carried on twenty-inch Neptune wheels with custom red brake calipers, Matthew got used to Wagner playing on the Bang & Olufsen sound system before every litigation. He says he can smell her leather seats and cologne mix when she parks. She jokes that he just smells victory. The fingerprint-locked gun compartment built into the central compartment was hardly a surprise; standard fare, really, for a woman in her position.

The Pirelli P-Zero Corsa System tires—track-inspired, high-speed rated—was decidedly overkill for city traffic, as was pretty much everything else in the car. She claims it's for cornering. Matthew thought different. 

There was one thing she never mentioned. A small, discreet HammerTech logo, embossed on the dash. She was proud of it, and she knew she had earned her prize, but in front of Matthew, it always felt wrong. She could not place exactly why.

The two of them got into the car. Janice opened the door for Matthew—much to his open chagrin, and his secret enjoyment that she knew of, of course—and slipped into the driver’s seat. She sparked the engine with her smartwatch and the car roared to life, eliciting more than a couple of stares. This too was no less on purpose than the paint job. The exhaust was aggressively tuned, enhanced just to make a point. It was not like the cops had too much to say. The interior LED lights faded in, a pleasant dull blue for the daytime. A diffuser in the vents expended a blend of vetiver, sandalwood, and a trace of smoke, leaving Matthew smelling like Janice’s cologne more often than not. Both windows, tinted and subtly thicker than usual, were rolled down an inch. Janice pulled out.

“When are you ever going to let me drive?”

Janice smirked. “When you get your license.” She craned her neck to look behind her. “If they’re not sure we can use the shards safely, what were they going to do with two whole pieces of Atrion?”

“I don’t really know. Physics isn’t my specialty. I think the majority vote was exchanging the two, but that’s mostly been deadlocked by Father. He thinks disrupting the system like that will cause us to lose her, so maybe they’ll just throw both of them in there and hope for the best.”

Matthew sighed and Janice reached over to squeeze his shoulder. “Both hands on the wheel.”

Arm frozen in midair, she instead exchanged her gesture for a light slap instead. “It’ll work out,” Janice said. 

She lingered for just a second longer than necessary, her fingers ghosting his shoulder, waiting. Matthew stayed still. Janice, affirmed, withdrew her hand, and returned it to the wheel.

“You know they’re making me your boss when this merger goes down, right,” Matthew interjected suddenly.

“What? Bullshit, our company is acquiring yours. If anything, you’re going to be my underling from now on.” 

Matthew laughed. Then his phone started vibrating. Matthew pulled out his phone from his breast pocket, an iPhone 4S, case trimmed with leather, and tactile buttons aligned with muscle memory. He unraveled the earbuds coiling around his phone and put one in his ear. “Hello? Oh… Yeah, yes. Tell him we’ll be right there.”

“I guess I’m not dropping you off at headquarters.”

“Yeah. And you’re not going to work either. Siri, call Foggy.”

Janice sighed. I just had to jinx it. “I’ll tell Justine.” She poked around the seven-inch screen on the console.

“Hey, Foggy! Bad news…”

Four people sat around the open-concept penthouse, spread between the dining room table and the sofa, encircling a simple glass coffee table. The fifth stood against the window, overlooking the rest of the city he planned to own one day.  

The kitchen table was made from two separate pieces of fine granite. The slabs sat upon a wooden support structure. The distant morning light shimmered off the polish. Six Ming Dynasty-inspired chairs, two on each side and one at the head and foot, though unfortunately made from polished rosewood instead of the huanghuali. This subtle betrayal of authenticity did not sit well with William and is something he vowed to rectify. A plain grey carpet beneath the set defined the dining room. Across from the dining room table was a grey sofa, soft, muted, made from plush and upholstered fabrics for the utmost comfort. The cushions let the sitter sink in but the padding of the seat has enough constitution to support their backs and hips comfortably. 

Janice sat back on the corner seat of the sofa, arms crossed over her chest, legs overlapping, her head tipped back to look at the ceiling. Matthew was sitting forward, legs parted, hands clasped between his knees. His meal and coffee were untouched on the coffee table. James was going through the documents for the fifth time, jaws tight. A pile of reports in file folders lay open before him. Justin’s eyes flickered from Matthew to William and Matthew understood. He glanced at his father’s back. He sighed. “Are we sure it wasn’t Shield?” 

“We’re sure,” James replied without looking up.  

“Really sure?” Matthew pressed. “We all know they have the capabilities. And the cold heart to pull something like this off.” 

“No, this is too overt for Shield. And if it is,” James looked at William, “then we have to assume they also know what Atrion does… And that speeds up our timetable.” 

“But they’re an international ring of spies who’ve been doing this for seventy, sixty, seventy years,” Justin chimed in. “We probably shouldn’t dismiss them out of hand, right?”

James sighed. “I’ll look into it.”

“What, what about that group last night,” Justin added. “Fredric, Black Cat, those dudes. We don’t know who’s backing them. Could be someone big.”

“The Falling Spire Troupe had other enemies,” William said suddenly. Justin flinched. William turned around, his body framed in the steel skyline. “Their demise is not our problem. We need to focus on project completion.” 

Justin glanced at the open files, showing a mess of data, from statistics to connections to ballistics. Last night, their agents had successfully retrieved the Atrion the troupe refused to sell to them after the fiasco, one which was completely outside of his control, but he still felt that William blamed him for it anyway. It was later after William had shown Justin the ghost in the early morning, that the two of them received notice that apart from their move against the troupe, someone else had destroyed their entire network. Every major troupe operating center, that they knew of at least, had been wiped out, and their online servers were obliterated. Justin sucked on his tongue, pulling his gaze away. “What’s the next step anyway?” 

James directed a hard stare at Justin.

“Power,” William said. “Atrion produces power, but what it needs is to operate under power. More power than it can generate itself. And for that, we look to Stark Industries.”

Justin stood up. “Stark! Why him?”

William slowly turned his entire body to face Justin and the entrepreneur wilted. “Can you build us something better than the Arc Reactor, Justin,” William asked, his voice low.

“I… given the time and the resources, I most certainly- How, how are you getting it from him anyway?”

William’s stare spoke volumes.

“Right,” Justin said. He paused, crossing his arms. “If the Arc Reactor generates more power than what your Atrion can, how does that put us ahead?”

“It doesn’t,” James said. “It needs power to generate power. We haven’t even touched its full potential. The Arc Reactor was designed to replicate Tesseract energy regardless, and given what we know, we need to see where that leads.” 

“The first step of competition is to make sure your opponent doesn’t have a monopoly,” Matthew said. “You have to introduce an alternative post-nuclear clean energy source in the first place if you want headway into the market.”

“Matthew. Assemble the team. The Stark underwater reactor.” 

“I-,” Justin tried to protest.

“Yes, sir," Matthew said, already rising.

Justine Hammer was an up-and-coming business prodigy, a new-age business woman with nothing to prove. She was the new Chief Executive Officer of Hammer Industries, raising stock prices from the red line to soaring new heights, and putting Hammer Industries at the top of the list of weapons manufacturing. Under her leadership, they regained their reputation and reforged contracts and subcontracts with governments and such prestigious companies as Lockheed Martin. She reprivatized the company after capturing the attention of numerous investors and made sure the company still got external money via private-equity exchanges and trust funds. She did all of this at the age of twenty-three, taking over only two years ago when her father, the previous CEO and founder of Hammer Industries, was arrested and sentenced to jail.

“Here you go, Dad.”

Justine handed a glass of Antinori Tignanello, aged fifteen years—with notes of cherry, dried herbs, and leather—to Justin. Her father always had a fondness for the Italians and their flashy, self-assured, old-world charm. He had opened a similar bottle the day Hammer Industries got its first government contract after Stark Industries had shut down its weapons development department. 

Justin grabbed it from her hand, frustration etched into the lines on his forehead. “Every one of them,” he continued, pausing to take a sip of the wine, “their armor. Their tech. Their enhancements. Their wealth. It all comes from me. They belong to me.” His free hand came up to clench his mouth, his eyes weighted with frustration.

They were sitting in Justine’s new penthouse in Tribeca, occupying the top floor of a building that doesn’t advertise itself. No signage. No concierge. Just a black marble lobby, silent elevators, and a view that costs more than most weapons programs.

Built-in speakers played ambient compositions by Ryuichi Sakamoto at a low murmur, all day, everyday. Her father had different tastes, however, so it was silent at the moment.

The penthouse itself was composed of low tones. One wall faced lower Manhattan with one-way glass, stained and darkened, framing the city like a flowing still shot of the future. Two Barcelona-style black leather chairs with brass rivets were positioned with their backs to the window, facing the Bellini couch, cast in a dark, arterial red in direct contrast to the ash-grey interior. Near the side of the couch, neatly placed on a slab of raw stone: a stack of six hardbound books. Beneath the sofa was a charcoal, hex-patterned, ultra-fiber rug. A secret Hammer Industries logo was embossed into the fabric, visible only under ultraviolet light. Between the chairs sat a low, steel tray table holding an unused crystal ashtray. Opposite the skyline stood a built-in matte black recess, subtly lit from within, displaying a beautiful replica of the first Hammer Industries smart munition. Accompanying it is a folded American flag in a glass case, symbolizing a project her father once led. 

In the center of both is a revolving holo-frame of Justine with her father over the years.

There was a rather gaudy sculpture in the corner, a deconstructed spinal column made from weapon parts, commissioned the month she took over the company to inject an outlook of zeal into the company. A single suspended pendant made of gunmetal hangs low over the coffee table, casting a narrow, downward cone of amber light.

“They know that,” Justine said.

She enters the kitchen to grab a glass for herself, barely feeling the chill of the marble on her soles.

The space had all the appearance of a surgical bay. It was packed full of brand names and custom orders that would make any professional chef burn with jealousy. A full suite of wall-mounted appliances gleamed in soft matte steel, and the volcanic stone countertops, jet black with a soft texture of ash, formed clean, continuous lines. The food in the glass-door fridge, each bit surgically arranged, had the best place to call home. Even the wine bottles in the side pantry, drawn from her father’s extensive collection, stood in neat ranks like ceremonial guards. As she passed the central island, her fingers skimmed the handle of a sealed drawer: supplements, anti-fatigue serums, and a single box of unopened loose-leaf tea, still wrapped in its original plastic.

The kitchen was clean. Justine mostly ordered in or heated up leftovers, contrary to her father's steakhouse and executive lounge habits. After all, fine dining was usually reserved for meetings, and those banquets were war rooms. 

That is not to say she does not cook. In fact, she had been cooking since she was a child. But to her, cooking was meditative, a time for reflection at the end of the day as the sunset bathed her back in dim red, looking at the revolving light pictures in the living room display case.

“Fisk doesn’t.” He takes another sip and sets the glass down, leaning back and crossing his legs. “He’s playing with my team like they’re his toys. And he needs to know he can’t do that. Lincoln. She needs to get her priorities straight and know which side she’s playing for.”

Justine looked over with slightly furrowed brows. “She’s causing problems?”

Janice’s loyalty to Justin was second only to hers. If he was worried, it did not bode well. “No, not yet. She’s fine.” Justin kicked off his shoes and raised his feet onto the coffee table, made from resin-preserved shattered impact glass, and huffed a sigh. “But she could be doing a hell of a lot more on my behalf. She’s basically playing second fiddle to that damn Fisk boy.”

Justine nodded. “I can speak with her.”

She was dressed for work, layered in intent, though she would have dressed the same regardless of agenda, especially given her present company. 

The centerpiece of her outfit was a Jil Sander sleeveless sheath, its high-end blended crepe guaranteeing a firm shape, in deep charcoal grey that was almost graphite, but just shy of black. It had a high neck cut, saturated by a black choker, and a mid-thigh slit. A leather belt, matte black and thin, with a subtle gunmetal clasp, sat high-waist, sculpting her waistline silhouette. Draped over her dress was a Row silk-cashmere blend coat in soft dove grey, unbuttoned, unwound, resting softly on her shoulders, hanging on her almost like a robe or a poncho. Her legs, pale, were covered by ultra-sheer anthracite thigh-high stockings from Wolford. With a faint sheen, it looked and felt like whispering smoke. Her above-average stateliness would be further lengthened by black patent leather Manolo Blahnik pointed pumps, currently sitting by the door, leveraging her three and a half extra inches. Tiny platinum studs, square cut, set with black diamonds, hang off her ears, while her right index finger is adorned with a single black stone ring, cut low.

Justin waved a hand dismissively. “No. Don’t speak to her. Not yet.” His eyes narrowed as they tracked the reflection of the skyline in the darkened glass behind her. “She’s doing fine. No need to throw a wrench into something that hasn’t happened yet.”

Justine folded her arms, the drape of her coat shifting like mist. She pursed her lips, not liking the next words that came out of her mouth. “And if she does forget which side she's playing for?”

Justin gave a dry laugh, low in his throat. “Then remind her. Gently. You know how.” He leaned forward again, draining what was left in the glass, and set it down with more force than necessary. “You’ve done well, Justine. I don’t say it enough.”

Justine didn’t respond, a flicker of a smile tingling the corner of her lips. She reached forward, plucked the glass from the table, and refilled it without spilling a drop, setting the bottle down with a gentle clink. For a moment, she simply sat there, the room quiet but for the hum of the city pressing against the penthouse windows like a tide of light. Justin leaned back again, rubbing his temples. Justine looked at her watch—a half hour before she had to leave—and got up, stepping behind the couch. She slipped the soft weight of the coat from her shoulders and laid it neatly across the armrest, then positioned herself behind him. Her fingers found where the shoulders met the neck, thumbs pressing into muscle made tight by years of ambition and bitterness. He exhaled. “You still hold your stress high,” she murmured, the pads of her thumbs circling slow, firm.

Justin grunted. “Where the hell else would I hold it? My feet?”

She moved lower, tracing the line of his shoulder blades with steady pressure, working the knots.

“You know,” Justin exhaled. “I pulled her from the gutter of her father’s reputation. I practically raised her. She’s the closest thing to a sister you’ll get. So why do I have to worry about her when I don’t have to worry about you?”

"She's not your blood," Justine replied after a moment of pause, under her breath.

Justin didn’t say anything to that. He hummed, almost thoughtful.

A long silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, he let his head tip backward, resting into the pull of her hands, Justine’s glass sitting empty on the coffee table.

* - * - *

The newspict was playing a record of what appeared to be a servant of the Omnissiah in some type of flight-capable primitive power armor, almost mistakable for some inanely colored Necron, firing a sort of taser weaponry from the palms of his hands.

That was a superhero, according to others, and it confused the hell out of Jeneth. It was not as if he was unfamiliar with the concept of a hero. Krieg was not prone to heroes, but it had historical men of great caliber and character. It was only thanks to those men that Krieg had the chance to survive and repent, men that all Kriegsmen strived to be like, such as Colonel Jurten. There were also soldiers of exceptional quality who came after the old great ones, men of honor who deserved to be named after such heroes, such as Colonel Tyborc. There were heroes of the wider Imperium that he had knowledge of, not counting the Emperor’s blessed Saints and Angels, who were a step beyond mere mortal heroics. Ciaphus Cain, for example, of whom he mostly learned through the exploits of the Death Riders on the Forge World of Fecundia.

But this ‘Iron Man’ was somehow extra extraordinary in his exploits. Otherwise, why was he ‘super’? Or perhaps Jeneth was misunderstanding the world entirely. Whatever warp born curse that afflicted him with his supernatural knowledge of this language of English failed to beam a direct translation for the word ‘superhero’. Instead, to compensate, it separated the compounds.

Supposedly, according to a couple of the others, a superhero was someone who was benevolent and powerful, but even that was disagreed upon as household guards bickered about comic books and their interpretations of vigilantism versus heroics. Someone cited another superhero called Batman, while another chose someone named Superman. Tentatively, they all agreed on a motif of sacrifice.

Jeneth could scoff.

Sacrifice. 

He saw men sacrifice themselves in droves. His comrades, charging into enemy fire and steel. He saw his company grind themselves against the Daemons during what was supposed to be his last battle. Was that heroism? Or was that just duty? He saw heretics sacrifice others for their cause. He saw heretics sacrifice themselves for the pleasure of their patrons or for power, or usually for a mixture of both. Surely that was the furthest thing from a hero one could get. A superhero just seemed to be a word to describe anyone someone else looked up to. Or, as many civilians often did, they were mistaking simple willpower for a testament of character.

The one thing he was able to catch about Iron Man all by himself was the superhero’s role in defeating the alien invasion. Begrudgingly, Jeneth admitted that Iron Man had the makings of someone respectable and filed him away as somebody who he should seek out once he had a better idea of the world he found himself in. Surely, anyone who fought against the Xenos as he did, and utterly decimated them as he did, would have a greater acceptance of his true place in the natural order of things, beneath the banner of the Imperium and the Light cast from the Golden Throne on true Terra. And yet, as the others explained, this Iron Man was also a mortal business owner, a normal person, manufacturing technologies without the guidance or sanctioning from the holy men from Mars. Still, iron power armor bore the colors. Perhaps he was acutely touched by the Omnissiah. Maybe that was why he was super. Normal people could not be super, industry tycoons especially. They’re the first to high tail it to the nearest evacuation shuttle when push comes to shove, throwing as much PDF as they can before them and trouble.

The sun rose higher and the air took on a breezy, sunny twenty-one degrees Celsius. Jeneth failed to notice the difference through his heavy greatcoat. The air-conditioned rooms felt exactly the same as the outside, apart from the subtle lack of fragrance in his rebreather.   

The first to go downstairs was Lance. He woke up at six thirty and crossed the living room at five before seven. He was dressed in a light blue short-sleeved polo and beige khakis. In the dining room, he ordered an easy breakfast omelette. The omelette took five minutes to make, Lance took five minutes to eat, and he had been sitting and reading in the living room for fifteen when DeMarr finally came downstairs, yawning each and every step. DeMarr went to the dining room after waving to Lance and ordered some grits and waffles. DeMarr was still eating when Felecia walked into the house. She laid herself down on one of the couches, arms dangling off one side, legs over the armrest. Breakfast was not an important ritual for her.

By the time Jeneth and Fredric had made it back, an hour had passed, and two people were still missing from the group. Jeneth and Fredric successfully managed to walk the entire perimeter of the estate and Fredric was looking worse for wear, panting, ashen, his knuckles on his cane stark white from exertion. But even as Lance and DeMarr helped him up the stairs to his room, through the pain and spots in his vision, he felt nicer than he had in a while. He had sharp pains shooting down his spine and through his legs with every moment of pressure and his head pounded with each heartbeat and in between each heartbeat, but at least his mind was clear. Taking a chance in the lull before the briefing, Jeneth, with his candles, headed back up to his room. Felecia’s gaze followed him up the stairs. When he disappeared from view, she slinked off the couch and followed him.

When Jeneth returned downstairs, Celeste had finally joined the group. There were heavy bags under her eyes and her bloodshot gaze made it obvious to everyone other than Jeneth what she was up all night doing, and, judging from where her very open sharp ogling was directed at, why. Felecia laid back down, similarly taking glances at Jeneth every now and again. Somebody in the interim had turned on the television, which was idly playing the news in the background. The screen was showing a discussion panel of a discussion panel of a discussion panel about the new broadcast of a first-hand account of the Incident. It was about the only thing playing these days and it was through this that Jeneth had his first glimpse of the Avengers, taking up his attention long enough that he did not get restless at the lack of activity. 

Finally, Halloran came down, his face thunderous and shadowed. Fredric gave the man a caustic grimace but Halloran ignored him, not glancing his way at all, dropping down hesitantly on one of the couches, arms crossed. Lance looked around at the odd bunch he had been working with for some time now, each caught up in their own little worlds. “Ok,” he said finally, trying to disperse the stagnating tension in the air, threatening to choke the sunlight out. “We’re all here.” Nobody answered him. “I suppose now’s a good time to discuss what we’re doing next. Whether or not we’re staying together.” With this, everyone took tentative glances around the room. “Last night put a pretty big snag on our plans. And at this point, those plans are basically moot.”

Jeneth let the talks continue without impeding proceedings. These were technically civilians, after all. He was not going to mandate them to fight if they were not required. He had made his arguments about the ruinous powers. By all standards, they should run. They would be cowards and the like, but they were not enemies. Cowards were only heretics when they retreated in service to the Emperor without just cause. These rabble had yet to see the truth. While that was to change later, it was to pass as reality for now. And so, if they were to leave, they could leave without quarrel. At least, if they did not try to stand in his way. That did beg the question of how he was going to solve this crisis if they did all chose to leave. 

This world is a Civilized World, if only primitive. For now, their technology and weaponry and government structure should be enough to support combative endeavors. 

He continued to think, letting the others debate their roles.

Lance opened his mouth slowly, sucking in a breath. “I think I’m staying.” He turned to look at Jeneth. “I’m choosing to believe you. I don’t know how much your word is worth back where you're from, but here, we give chaps the benefit of the doubt.”

He did not mention the bags that were packed in his room from last night. That he believed Jeneth’s tale from the moment he spoke them, deciding to run away and enjoy the time he had left on Earth before it was swallowed by the powers that be. 

But before he could go to sleep, as he sat on the edge of his bed staring at his luggage, he realized he could not look away. His breath caught uncomfortably in his throat and he rubbed his hands together. Maybe given a couple of years. Maybe then he would have been confident enough to strike out on his own with the end of the world looming behind him and a terror organization hounding his back. Maybe then he would have become cynical enough to not care. He only joined the team for money and to use their financier’s wealth and connections to hide. He was not here to bear the responsibilities of maintaining global, or galactic, or even universal order. No, that was not him. But his heartstrings made him look back anyway, peering into a future where he left this shabby group of rogues to fend for themselves.

“I think I can make the world-saving hero type thing work,” Lance finished, looking around. “So, what about you?”

Halloran inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “Can’t spell this team without me, right? Leaving this half-assed doesn’t get me anywhere. I have a feeling trying to break off and continue my way isn’t going to end well.”

Fredric peeled his eyes away from Halloran and nodded. “I’ll stay,” he said automatically.

DeMarr rubbed his hands together. “Saving the world, huh? Man, count me in.”

Felecia looked away from Jeneth and stretched her arms, staring at the ceiling between her open fingers. She thought about what Jeneth did upstairs. “Well. I can’t exactly make a name for myself if there’s nobody around to fear me, right?”

Everyone nodded and looked at the person who had yet to give an answer. 

“Celeste?”

Celeste exhaled through her nose, gaze flickering down from Felecia to the floor, a twinge of regret in her heart for what she was about to do, leaving the poor lass behind on her own with the rest of the brutes. Her surprise at Felecia’s actions, simultaneously, had not faded. She had no choice. She had to voice her dissatisfaction and her intent to part with the team. No doubt they all expected such. No doubt they could care less. She could not trust Jeneth and another of her plans lay shattered. Another goal threw another obstacle at her face, one she could not wheel over, laughing as she ruminated in frustration. She could not throw anything else aside for the sake of someone else. 

She would not say she was self-serving, but she would be damned if she would give something for something that gave nothing in return. 

“Rumours have it that Howard Stark had actually funded and provided technological services for much of the early days of Shield and that his son is now continuing that tradition. What do you think about that, Mark?”

Celeste glanced at the television, which cut to a recording of Tony Stark next to a static image of the Shield logo, and her face twisted. Her hands tightened into fists. 

The reason why she was in this situation. The reason why she was suffering. The reason why she cast aside her badge to join a group of misfit criminals, a group that had use of her technology and her wisdom. One that would, in turn, provide her wealth, to spread the name of the ‘Human Computer’ throughout the underworld the way her name could never be in the shadows of bureaucracy. All of that was over now. She wanted to get up and walk out, but her goddamned cripled legs made sure she was the odd one out. They were no longer selling the Atrion. Because Atrion had the ridiculous potential to end the world. Oh, but not to worry, because Tony Stark can save the world, right? Right, then…

Then.

Why can’t I?

She physically jerked back in shock and she frowned, neurons firing at the equation. She always thought saving the world was out of the option. Because it was too much work. Because it was too far-fetched. Because she was not good enough.

But who said she was not good enough? If Tony Stark could save the world, that narcissistic alcoholic with a sob story hero origin, then so could she. She would eclipse Stark with her actions. Whereas the Chitauri only threatened New York, Atrion threatened existence. She would go down in history, not only as the ‘Human Computer’, but as Celeste Turing. 

“Celeste?”

And if the team did it all using her technology and her data scavenging skills? It would be her equations etched into the skies.

Celeste looked up. She leaned back in her chair. “I am willing to see where this goes.”

Felecia smiled. “All ri-”

“What the fuck!” someone shouted from the second floor. There was a barrage of footsteps and the owner of the house came barreling down the stairs. “Who the fuck! thought it would be a good idea to turn one of my rooms into a… a… what even is that? Who told this man,” she stabbed a finger in Jeneth’s direction, “that it was ok to fill the room with candles!”

Fredric shrugged. “Freedom of religion.”

“What?”

Fredric shrugged again. 

“Are you pulling the Constitution on me right now?” Jeneth looked at Fredric wondering what the hell freedom of religion meant. “Listen. Just because you guys have free run of the place doesn’t mean you actually live here. I’ll leave the little haunted house room up, but you have to start remembering who’s paying for all your shit…” Artoria narrowed her eyes at Jeneth. “But I guess you don’t actually know, huh? Whatever, I came down here because I have bad news. Shield’s involved.”

Lance blinked. “They are?”

“That explosion that took out your getaway car last night? It got their attention. So, congratulations on that.” 

A murmur of individual curses spread around the room. 

Better them than Hydra, Lance thought.

“Man, is Shield hunting us?” DeMarr urged. “I don’t want to be arrested, man, I just wanted to-”

“Shield doesn’t know who did what,” Artoria interrupted. “We’re in the green, but… Listen. Why don’t we go to Shield with this,” Artoria asked. “This is way bigger than what I signed up for, which was easy fucking money, and you too, but I guess none of you seem to care.”

“You can’t trust them,” Halloran said. “Spies, remember?”

“He’s right,” Celeste said, a color of emotion in her voice. “Most of the agents might want to do the right thing by it and destroy all traces of Atrion, but that’s assuming this information even gets disseminated across the levels instead of just being kept at the top, where they’re just going to lock it away and try to make use of it.”

“That is unacceptable,” Jeneth rasped. “Containment must be absolute. Information about Atrion cannot be spread. Everything must be compartmentalized and eliminated. Compliance is mandated.”

They all agreed to stay. They all agreed to fight. For better or worse, they pledged themselves in service to the Emperor. Now, cowardice, negligence, and incompetence was heresy.

“Talk about grim, huh, man…” DeMarr tried to add in before trailing off.

“Hey, buddy, calm down. Right, cause, there’s that whole bit too,” Lance said to Jeneth. “What we can and can’t know about this great enemy and what will or won’t corrupt us. You’re not making this very easy, J.”

Jeneth made no acknowledgment. Artoria frowned, forgoing a counter-argument. “Where’s Poker-Face?” she asked instead. “What’s his two cents?”

“Poker-Face is a cripple,” Halloran said. “Remember? Locked in a box, doing computer shit all day.”

“Ah… Right, yes. He had… good days, recently. Which is why I asked…”

“He’s going to continue working with us,” Halloran said.

“Just like that?” Artoria asked, nonplussed. “All of this, well, most of this was his idea in the first place, and he’s just dropping it at the behest of some… what even is he? Are you really going ahead with this, then? This whole ‘saving the world’ business? Just the eight of us?”

“And your small private army,” Lance said.

“What makes you think I’ll do this?”

“You said ‘eight of us’.”

“Right…” Artoria sighed. “Yeah. Guess I’ll keep financing this bullshit operation.” She sat down, closing her eyes and kneading her temples. “So. What’s the plan?”

“Target all known locations of Atrion and source the rest,” Jeneth finally spoke.

Atoria looked at Jeneth. “Anyone tell you you look creepy as fuck?”

Lance nodded. “We can assume our immediate target is Fisk then. Which, all things considered, is not a fun place to be. Now, 343… 393-1024-0830-Jeneth.” Lance stood up and looked at him, trying not to look away from the soulless red lenses. “We have agreed to stay together. You, an outsider, are the one coming in late to join us. I was in charge of this team. I see no reason to relinquish that authority. 

I have the local knowledge you do not. I know this team better than you do and coherence is important. So. For the duration of your stay, if you want to work with us, I am your commanding officer. Is that understood?”

It could have gone one of two ways, but Lance was hedging his bets and throwing a coin. For anyone too embroiled within the confines of a system, it was all too easy to use that system against them. Lance was operating on that philosophy to the fullest extent.

Jeneth considered Lance’s words. He could go outside and demand to be put into contact with the government, but he was not naive enough to believe they would listen to him. Lance had not yet proven himself, but Jeneth recognized the structure. He would have to make do for now. It was all coming together, one piece at a time. Jeneth stood up and snapped a crisp salute. “Commander.”

Lance looked him over with a grimace, awe threatening to break through the corner of his lips. He nodded.

Jeneth lowered his hand. Emperor willing, Lance would do fine. If not, Jeneth had prior directives. Imperator custodit. 

“Ok…” Artoria said. “Fisk, huh?”

There was nothing. He figured out how to access the computer in his room, guessing Charles’s password in two tries, a brief spark of triumph washed away by the tides of frustration. The foundations were the same as the old technology and it took some reading and intuition to figure out how to access files, only there were no files. Not digital files, not paper files, not even a journal, as if the only thing Charles did in this room was sleep and watch porn. There was nothing pertaining to what Charles had been doing on the team, or even his life before the team, within the room, and Halloran had no idea where to even begin looking elsewhere. He slammed a fist on the table. He could follow a trail no problem, but he would have to get used to the surroundings first to pick out things that were out of place. Right now, the only thing that was out of place was him. But he knew that already.

Halloran tried to sigh his anger away as he leaned his head back on the chair, sinking into its padding, unbuttoning the button at his collar. There was nothing good in Charles’s wardrobe, so he just put on a button shirt and trousers. He sighed again, looking at the computer screen from the corner of his eye.

Unbelievable, he thought. His battle fatigue paranoia is an issue for me even when he’s not around.

He knew, or he could assume he knew, why Charles was on the team. But he needed to know more, and Charles was not cooperating. 

There was a knock on his door and Halloran frowned. His hand reached for a gun that was not there, with muscle memory that was not his. His fingers twitched and Halloran pulled back with conscious effort, rising to his feet. “Who is it?”

There was no response and Halloran’s finger twitched again. He walked to the door and slowly cracked it open. There was nobody there. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled the door back wider and poked his head out. A shimmer moved past his peripheral and Halloran whirled around. “Gah!”

It was Poker-Face.

Halloran always believed in aliens but he was never a conspiracy theorist. Roswell, for example, was a crash-landed US military experiment and the rumours about the aliens only gave the government cover about their real objectives, hence why they fanned the flames. No, Halloran was simply optimistic and trusted statistics. With how big the universe was, life must have been teeming. He had dozens of sketches of what he thought they looked like, inspired by novels and motion pictures alike. But something like Poker-Face, something as if a duck were an insect was a skeleton, was beyond even his imagination. The alien did not glow, but there was an unusual shine to him. Other than that, there were no alien noises or alien smells. Swallowing, he looked behind him, and closed the door, adopting a rear tilted, arms crossed posture. 

“Whaddaya want,” he asked snarkily. 

The creature did not blink. It did not even seem to breathe, at least in a way Halloran could recognize. Standing this close to true extraterrestrial intelligence made his hand shake, but even then, he did not miss how the light subtly bent around Poker-Face, a hair’s thickness away. Poker-Face did not seem to have hair either, which might have explained the shine. The alien opened his mouth.

“You are not Charles Chandler.”

“Urgh,” Halloran flinched. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Poker-Face’s voice filled the room, but its omnidirectional omnipresence aside, it sounded too normal. Too human. Like Poker-Face was trying too hard.

“Your neural baseline activity is different. An increase in theta waves, heightened beta waves, and unstable gamma waves. You also exhibit different cognitive responses to stimuli. I suspect, if I were to conduct a full scan, I would detect neuroplasticity in action.”

“You’re in my head?” Halloran roared taciturnly.

“I monitor everyone’s health.”

“What do you want,” Halloran spit out through gritted teeth.

“Charles Chandler was my main cooperator within this team, due to his unique experiences as a United States Air Force experimental test craft pilot. This you are familiar with, Halloran Chandler.” Halloran was silent. “We exchanged research and information. This is how I know who you are. With his help, I formed this team. I studied his-”

“Are you going to tell them?”

“... It is not necessary.”

Halloran blew out a breath and walked over to the bed, dropping hard onto his rear. “Why did he join this team?”

“To achieve a better understanding of the state of his body and his unnatural abilities. To acquire substantial monetary premiums.” Halloran scoffed. “And to save you, Halloran Chandler.”Halloran blinked and raised his head at Poker-Face. “I hope that my contract and cooperation with Charles Chandler will not be reneged with you, Halloran Chandler.”

“And what was that contract?”

“To gather as much Atrion as I can from the planet Earth.”

“To?”

“To do as I must.”

“So, you’re going to work with that Jeneth man?”

“I see no reason not to work with 393-1024-0830-Jeneth.”

“He seems to hate aliens.”

“Then he will have to remain ignorant of my identity.”

“What do I get out of… what are you asking me to do?”

“To continue helping me as Charles Chandler was.” Poker-Face went silent for a moment. “To get your life back.”

Halloran exhaled and fell back. Neither of them spoke for an entire minute. “Fine. I’ll stay and play along.”

“I am glad to be working with you, Halloran Chandler. I will give you Charles Chandler’s information at a later date.”

“You do that.”

Poker-Face disappeared. 

* - * - *

“Hammer? The nut job that tried to blow up New York a couple years ago?” Grant asked.

Apart from the two physical beasts on the team, everyone else had their shoulders sagged and their eyes dim as they crowded around a table, energy drinks and coffee in hand. Most of them were used to long nights that turned into longer days, but that did not mean any of them liked it. They had not gotten any sleep since last night, making a surprising amount of headway—one after the other—that kept them from going to bed while waiting on results. 

While Grant stayed in his uniform, still pressed, Melinda switched out of her shirt and suit and into a black blouse beneath a casual muted plum velvet jacket. 

“It would be more surprising at this point if someone didn’t try to blow up New York,” Coulson said.

The Airborne Mobile Command Unit, referred to by the team as the Bus, was parked in a large open plain, with nobody around for a long time. The sun had risen. There was food on a nearby table. 

“I thought he was in prison.” 

“He is. It’s his daughter.”

“So, her and Fisk?”

“Apparently. And they’re dangerous enough to have eliminated an organized crime group so completely off the map.”

The Falling Spire Troupe’s complete elimination had been brought to their attention last night. 

“Is Hammer’s, or Fisk’s, reach really that wide?” Grant asked.

“We have to assume so,” Coulson said. 

Skye bit her lower lip. 

“Why isn’t this something we call the Avengers for,” Grant asked.

“Because we still don’t know what this is. Besides, I think they got bigger things to worry about.”

“Like what?

“Like figuring out how to be a team. Anyone got some better news?”

Grant shook his head. “There was no usable camera footage and any satellites in the area at the time caught nothing on the roads, only that flare of energy. It doesn’t give us anything, but it does tell us whoever is behind the theft has the balls to go against someone who can wipe out the Troupe in hours and someone who’s extremely technologically advanced. Their escape was shielded from surveillance.”

“Fitz?”

“Uh,” Fitz also shook his head, looking at Jemma. “Nothing. The energy signature remaining in the frost held no unusual biological components and turned back into water normally. What was left of the lingering field also dissipated before we could get anything substantial out of it. But it’s amazing. Nothing like what we’ve seen before, exotic beyond our imaginations.” His voice rose in pitch. “It has closer resemblance to Dark Energy than anything else I can think of. Imagine… Dark Matter with personality. It’s reactive, not just passive.”

“Dangerous?”

“Oh, very.”

“Its implications on how the universe formed and the forces acting on it are intense,” Jemma added. “If we do get another look at this thing, I think it will transform our understanding of particle physics, but, you know, not my specialty. It is exciting though, so it’s unfortunate we lost what we could work with, which shows an immense speed of degradation. On the bright side, that weird feeling is gone. I really think that’s an angle we could work at.”

“Weird feeling, ooh,” Fitz muttered, getting a punch in the shoulder from Jemma.

“It’s not like magic doesn’t exist,” Jemma said.

Skye blinked. “Wait, what?”

Coulson sighed, lowering his head and peering at their newest consultant. “Skye?”

“Something.”

Skye stepped into the spotlight and nodded meekly at everyone, holding her laptop in her arms. “I dug around and it seems like Shield really wasn’t lying. There are no internal records of anything related to this Atrion thingy.” At this, Melinda and Grant gave Skye a pointed glare while Coulson gave her a disappointed smile wreathed in amusement. “I tried to see if it was hidden between files on the Tesseract, but I got nothing there either. So I branched out to other branches of the military.”

“Shield isn’t a branch of the US military,” Grant interrupted.

“Yeah,” Skye nodded half-heartedly and exaggeratedly. “I know… I got a hit with the Air Force, trying to search for exotic space material-related keywords. Two hits, actually. You know anything about a Project Pegasus?”

Coulson blinked. “No.”

“Well, the Air Force was a part of it. They were experimenting with Tesseract energy to achieve faster-than-light travel, which is dope, by the way, but for something that claims it isn’t part of the US military infrastructure, a lot of its projects seem limited to that regard.” Grant grumbled something under his breath and Skye knew her next training exercise was about to get a heck of a lot harder. She quickly moved on. “And I tried to see what that was about, but apparently it blew up and anything after that was locked by Shield clearance, ahem, but apart from that, there was something that the Air Force kept from Shield. They tried something similar without outside help almost a decade before, using a different energy source.”

“Atrion.”

“Exactly.”

Skye pulled up digital copies of old file records. “Got to love the digital age,” Coulson said.

“It was supposed to give them an edge in the Vietnam War. They only had a tiny piece of it, found somewhere underwater in the North Atlantic. But its energy production is off the charts.”

“Energy production?” Coulson asked.

“Yeah, it was mostly used as a power source because it was more efficient than uranium or something, and energy could be directly harvested off the Atrion instead of through a medium like steam.” Fitz stepped closer, left arm crossed, right arm holding his mouth in concentration, leaning in to look at the documents. “But where it really shined was when it was put under power itself. It generated an energy field that they have no data on, nothing else to really compare to.”

“Those charts look like what we found, yeah,” Fitz chimed in.

“What happened to it,” Coulson asked.

“It blew up. Wow, two for two. We really should stop messing with weird rocks. Uh. There was an in-flight accident and record-keeping seems to dwindle after that. What I could find was that something happened to the pilot. It changed him, I think, made him an enhanced, and he disappeared. Or he was made to disappear. The test pilot’s name was blacked out, uh, physically, so nothing I can do about that.” 

Skye dipped her neck forward in a nod, clasped her hands, and stood back.

Coulson took the lead again. “Right. We have a general area. We know both parties are capable. We know they’re all after Atrion, and that Atrion is powerful and dangerous. I’ll work on getting us unredacted paper copies of those files. Everyone else, keep working on any angle you can and-”

There was an alert. Someone was at the ramp.

Tension filled the bay and everyone slowly made their way to the rear, hearing footsteps coming closer. “Wait,” Coulson said and went ahead, pausing. “Director Fury,” Coulson exclaimed in surprise. He stepped aside to let the man come in.

“Gentlemen. I hear you’re facing some trouble.”

• I love mankind, he said, "but I find to my amazement that the more I love mankind as a whole, the less I love man in particular.