Spike walked around...himself, asleep on the hospital bed. For starters, he hated how awful he looked. Eyes swollen, skin pale, bruised and burned all over. His hair was a mess. He remembered how he'd felt then, after the great battle with Rage.
"You'll be fine," Salim said, from behind Spike. He materialized without any fanfare or effect. Spike knew he'd find him, hiding out in the snapshots of his recent past. Spike wasn't sure how he'd found his way here, but Salim didn't look annoyed or concerned. He was patient with him. Spike, though scared and frustrated with the current state of things, appreciated that.
Spike looked over at Rage. It really was the same memory...only in living color. Spike remembered, even, fluttering his eyes awake around this same time. Sure enough, his double on the cot did just that.
Spike, the one with Salim, jumped back. "Oh, that's freaky. I knew I was going to do that. This is so eerie, watching myself."
"You mean...you aren't remotely turned on?"
Spike's ephemeral form frowned. "I'm not in the mood for jokes."
"Oh, come on."
Resisting the urge, Spike laughed. "Okay, fine. Might surprise you though, big guy, but none of this is exactly sexy to me."
"Remember, all of these events happened. You cannot change them. They cannot change you. It may seem real, but it's a memory."
Spike looked up at the clock. So did his past self, in the bed. He felt a pang of anxiety strike his heart. "Damn, that means that creepy alchemist dude is gonna come in here and second now and try and shank Rage."
Salim stepped forward, in the gap between the beds, between the rivals Spike and Rage. He looked at both, Spike in particular, and frowned. He appeared to be in deep thought.
"I said the past can't be changed." Salim smirked. "And it can't. But I'm riding your timeline, Spike. I'm part of events. And even thought the past cannot be effected, per se, you can sometimes send echoes if you intersect your own timeline."
Spike frowned. "Oh yeah, back in Varla's, you mentioned that."
"Observe."
Salim leaned forward, to the Spike laying in the bed. He spoke softly, just as the door opened and the shifty alchemist-masquerading-as-ref waltzed in.
"Don't open your eyes. Wait. You'll know what to do. Just don't let him notice you. Not yet."
Spike, in the present, winced. "What the hell. I remember that. I heard that voice inside my head."
"This is the echo I was talking about.
"I thought you said we couldn't change the past!"
The alchemist went to stab Rage. Past-self Spike extended his hand and conjured up his energy barrier, preventing him. Present Spike remembered the rest and turned away, not wanting to see the alchemist poison himself again.
"I'm completing a loop," Salim explained. "We're intersecting with your own timeline. It's self-determined. You ever heard of the bootstrap paradox?"
Spike shook his head. "What!? What do you--"
And then, just like that, they were in a chilly alleyway, at night. The sky above Spike and Salim was polluted with light. Angry shouts from up ahead turned their attention towards an attractive woman in a fur coat confronting a drunkard in a business suit. Spike, from a year ago, stood by and watched, waiting to intervene.
Present Spike remembered it clearly. "Hey, this is Vegas. The night before I fought Iggy!" Spike watched himself, from the back. "Wow."
"I know," Salim. "Kind of freaky, isn't it?"
"No, I was just thinking, my ass really does look amazing! You said I can't interact with my past self, right--"
"Looks like your amazing ass is about to be kicked by this loser in the ill-fitting suit." Salim nodded to the altercation. The business man summoned several icicles, hanging mid air, aimed at Spike and Marcy Diamond, the dancer informant for Lily and Aradia.
“Get out of the way, candy ass,” the rude drunk slurred. The dagger of ice above him trembled.
Salim walked around to 'Past' Spike, and it was then that 'Present' Spike noticed how subtly undercooked his old self was. He looked at his old self, unsure. Slackened shoulders. Timid eyes. Had he really changed that much the last year?
"No, you’re right on the money," Salim said to Spike's past self. "Keep talking. Run out the clock."
Spike remembered this moment, so clearly. That voice inside his head...back then, he thought he was crazy. He wrote it off as his own conscious trying to get his ass into gear; send encouragement.
"Wait, that really was you!" Spike blurted out, as El Amante interrupted the action and helped save the day.
The giant man, Spike's psychopomp in this temporal underworld, stood back. "Damn, was it?"
"Like you don't remember?"
"I'm just closing a paradox loop," Salim said. "I probably don't even realize it. Like I said, time has its way of doing what it needs to do to keep reality intact. Sometimes, I am merely its agent."
Spike frowned. "Y'know, this really sounds like you're making this up as you go along."
"I already told you, Spike, time travel is a lame plot device. Let's just power through it. Still, if we're travelling along your recent, personal timeline, it means...we're getting closer to where we need to be."
"What do you mean?"
Salim pointed to him. "You're steering this ship, sailor, whether you realize it or not. You aretaking us where we need to go."
"I don't know--"
Now, they stood inside an even darker space--though one much more quiet than a Vegas back-alley. Spike looked around the old, dusty apartment above the tailor shop. It was his first apartment, post-discharge from the Navy. Even the way the light from the city outside travelled through the gaps in the blinds brought back memories.
"My old apartment!?" Spike ventured into the den, examining his past self fumble with an old cassette tape and television set. "This was the night before my first match. With Ryan Hartley. That was also the night I met Cian and..." Spike smiled at Salim. "When I got signed to the GSA."
"Heh. No wonder you took us here." Salim leaned forward 'Past' Spike, sitting with his strong legs tucked to his chest, listening to the player whirr to life. "Huh. That's a VHS tape? In the sixties? Hmm. Didn't think they'd be inventing those til a few years from now..."
Spike remembered this moment very clearly. It was the reason he thought his apartment was haunted. "Wait, that was you too?" But it was the second part of Salim's statement that confused him. "What do you mean? We've had video tapes for, like, ever."
"Oh? What year do you remember first seeing them?"
"Psh. That's easy. I've been recording old spellbreaking matches since..." Spike paused. His head was fuzzy. "Uh...since...?"
His memory fizzled out. Suddenly, he couldn't recall anything about television or cassette tapes. Stranger still, Spike watched as the fight footage on TV--a moment he had witnessed with his own eyes, and could recall with crystal clarity--shifted both quality and grain, turning briefly from color to monochrome.
Spike shook his head, trying to rid himself of this bizarre hallucination, only it brought on further change--the television 'blinking' into an old projector reel, with circular film canister attachment and all, and then an extremely flat television monitor with vibrant color and sound. Thankfully, the hallucination passed, and Spike's old, shoddy TV resumed its normal shape.
"What the hell!? Did you give me drugs, Salim? Is it DRUGS?"
"Calm thyself," Salim said, though he was almost as surprised as his unwitting companion at the jumping back and forth of technology. "This timeline is out of whack. You know most other universes don't even have magick, right?"
"Whaddy'a mean 'other universes'?" Spike's mind couldn't keep up with the implications. He suddenly grew very afraid--mostly for his perception of the world around him. If Salim could rewrite himself outside of history, then what other quirks of temporal magick had influenced the world Spike thought he knew?
Salim gave him a knowing grin. "One thing at a time, sparky."
"IT'S SPIKE!"
The two men followed the pre-GSA Spike down the staircase to the dusty showroom below the apartment. Spike eyed the skittering cockroaches on the wall and was very glad he'd managed to 'move on up' to better accommodations since then.
“Place is a fire trap,” 'Past' Spike mumbled in the dark, trying not to think about ghosts. He had never run into one before (thankfully) but he’d heard all sorts of spooky stories about them while travelling at sea.
Salim, standing behind him, rolled his eyes. "For a spellbreaker, you really need to grow some backbone..."
At his side, Spike flinched. "Yeah, I definitely remember hearing that too." This was insane. Spike was glad, for once in his life, to be such an air head. If he fully comprehended all that was happening around him, he thought me might go insane! "So, these voices I was hearing...it was because I was doing this," he pointed to both himself and Slaim, "with you?"
Spike stopped, just as his 'Past' self rummaged around a box of fabric at the back of the shop, destined to craft his first pair of branded trunks.
"Then that means..."
Salim completed the thought for him. "Looks like you and I go wayyy back, kid. You remember the night we met?"
"What?"
Suddenly, Spike was standing in a warmly lit, grander space--the antithesis of his old apartment. The fundraising gala, back in San Antonio. Spike fondly remembered the palatial ballroom. That was the night he'd met White Tiger, gotten to know Buck, and even met...
"Travel by flashback!" Salim laughed. Suddenly, he was wearing a fine, tailored suit--the same one he'd worn to the gala, in fact. "The most convenient way to travel."
"How the friggin' hell did you do that?" Spike balked.
The giant spellbreaker shrugged. "Temporal privileges."
"Why didn't I get a nice suit..." Spike grumbled.
But Salim was already preoccupied with the party room around them. They weren't far from the entrance staircase. Spike could even pinpoint recognizable faces: Liuliu in her beautiful dress, Colt in his best bolo tie, and Reina Rosa, smashing down champagne in the corner with Buck.
"The gala," Salim said, his eyes distant and knowing. "Ah, so this is it. I can feel it."
"Feel what?"
"The reason why we came here. Spike, let's split up."
Dumber words had never been spoken, Spike thought. "You sure that's safe!?
"We'll be fine." Salim pointed to 'Past' Spike, dressed in the uncomfortable rented tux he'd been forced to wear to the shindig. "Nobody can see us, but we can see events that happened in our vicinity. Listen to conversations where we weren't even present."
Spike had tuned out. He was now watching his younger self interacting with Buck--his old flame deftly moving his fingers to the nape of Spike's collar, presenting him with the little anchor lapel pin that Spike so fondly remembered.
I miss him. It was a privilege just be able to look upon him again. He was handsome, with his hair slicked back. Now, Spike could understand how dangerous a gift of magick like this could be. How tempting it would be to shelter oneself in the past, surround themselves in a comforting blanket of better days, and stay there.
Instead of chastising Spike, Salim softly smiled at the younger man admiring his crush. "He really likes you, small friend."
"Yeah..." Spike said, sadly. "Took me too long to realize it."
Salim was quiet a moment. Spike didn't bother to look up at his face. He'd come to realize that Salim was good at hiding his feelings behind other feelings. A mask behind a mask behind a mask.
"Spike...let me ask you something. And you don't need to answer me now. But, if you could rewrite your life so that you were with Buck..." He trailed off. "No. If you could rewrite everything so your parents were still alive, and supportive, and you had Buck and the title belt, would you choose that?"
Spike frowned. It was an odd question, for one, but these were odd circumstances. "You said time can't be rewritten."
"I did. And I was telling you the truth, small friend. I am merely asking you...what if it could?"
Of course, the thought had crossed Spike's mind--in a way. It had surely crossed the mind of anybody who had ever lost a parent as a child. Other times, other 'universes', when they may be alive. Back in the orphanage, on the really bad days, Spike would even fantasize about his mom and dad coming around the day room entrance and giving him a big hug.
"Yes. I've thought about it before. But...it's like..." He shook his head. It was hard to put into words.
"Go on. I'm listening."
"My life is my life, Salim. I would have loved ma and dad to have been a part of it. But...who knows what would have happened if I'd been raised with them? I might not have ended up in the Navy. Or become a spellbreaker. Or met my friends, or Buck, of hell, you. What if my dad didn't approve of me liking guys? What if my mom had me enrolled me in like some glyph academy? I would probably be a different person with a different life. I wouldn't be me...the Spike I am now."
Salim was quiet for a moment. Spike, suddenly feeling quite cold, knew better than to look behind him and meet his eyes. He felt...an intensity from Salim. He'd felt it before, in fact, at several points. He liked the man. Trusted him. But the truth was, Salim sort of scared him too...
And not just because he was the size of a truck.
"I could show you the..." Salim started. Then, he laughed. "No. No. I won't do that to you. I apologise habibi. I got ahead of myself. I like to see people happy, you understand. I want to...see everyone happy. But, let's focus at the task at hand, shall we? Now, if I recall, this was the night Mrs. Zorn gotgot by the chandelier,Phantom of the Operastyle."
Spike was thankful to change the subject--even if said subject revolved around a traumatic accident. "Damn, you're right! Gee, poor Mrs. Z. Hey, maybe we can find out who did to her!"
Salim's eyes widened with pride. "My thoughts exactly, small friend!" He craned his head towards the entrance, flanked by massive pots filled with flower arrangements. "Do you remember anything strange from that night?"
Spike did his best to recall. Thankfully, and much to his surprise, he hadn't drank heavily that night. "Oh, geez. Well, I had met you. And then I kind of did some nervous wandering around and drinking champagne...I was sort of all over the place."
Salim was patient. "Yes, yes. Anybody else you remember?"
"Hm...oh yeah, I met Recida. Bleck. And oh yeah, that was the night I met Joseph!" Spike gestured to the latticed window some paces away. "We were on the balcony over there." He remembered how giddy and shy Joseph, the smoothest of the smooth had made him. "Yeah. I remember freaking out because I saw Vahni and tried to hide. I got out there and..."
!!!
"Wait a minute." Spike moved towards the window, but stopped short. Buck passed by. Spike thought of reaching out to touch him, but remembered the task at hand. "Yeah! I remember seeing Semyon down below, in the little courtyard. He was talking to someone outside, by the river."
"The garden," Salim said. His entire persona, and body language, shifted. Spike flinched. "You need to go there. Now. Remember, he can't see you."
Spike suddenly felt as if he'd gladly walk to world's end for this massive man. He could understand why soldiers, in Salim's ancient days (Spike still couldn't quite believe his story) had listened to him. He really was a leader.
"Right! Um...but is it okay to be so far away from you? I won't blink out or get like, stranded during the Black Plague or something, right?"
"Should be fine." Salim dismissed his concern with a wave. "I mean, there's..." He shook his head, cutting himself off.
"What! WHAT? THERE'S WHAT!?"
"Nah, if I tell you it'll just make you anxious." He gave Spike a rather unconvincing grin. "You'll be fine. If you get separated from me, you'll just wake up back in Varla's apartment."
Or...be stranded somewhere in time and space, Spike thought, nervously. "Er...right. What will you do?"
"I'm going to see if I can track down Rage. Maybe I can eavesdrop and find out if he knew anything about Zorn, though judging from how Semyon deliberately kept him in the dark about the Chalice, I doubt it. You have your mission, small friend. Go forth!"
Salim left Spike to his task, and then turned on his heels towards the entrance, straightening his lapel as he did. Damn, he's a handful, the time magi thought. Still, I always pick the right one for the job. His innocence is his shield. I will ensure everything works out for him, in the end.
Salim, standing at the landing of the marble staircase, considered his agenda. Provided he does not go against me, that is.
As the GSA's 'Million Dollar Manager' mounted the steps, he found time slowly blur around him. Party goers reversed their steps in double tine, phantoms trailing after-images of themselves.
Salim's eyes narrowed. Something was amiss. Time had just rewound by ten or so minutes. But, as with all challenges and threats, Salm didn't frown. He smiled. How curious.
He noted Spike bounding up the staircase towards him.
He blinked. "Habibi, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to go down to the garden?”
Spike stopped. It was then that Salim noticed he was wearing his formal suit.
“Hello…giant man. Have we me before?”
Salim cocked his head to the side, tapping finger to his chin. He eyed Spike up and down. This was the wrong 'Spike'. That much was certain.
He noticed the absence of Buck's anchor pin and snapped his fingers in realization. “Ah, your lapel...not yet, it seems.” He gave this Spike a graceful bow, turning away. “A thousand pardons.”
He moved quickly back the way he came, not wanting Spike to see his face. Somewhere, back in Varla's apartment, Salim's Eye of Osiris was likely burning bright. Someone was interfering with this dip into the past, whether intentional or not. Which also meant Spike was in every bit of danger that Salim had told him to ignore.
---
Spike stood behind a tree. Even though he was deadass sure Semyon couldn't see or hear him, the creepy man's presence was so great that Spike didn't even want to risk it. He watched, waiting to catch a glimpse of Semyon's guest's face. It was hard to see, from this angle. Carefully, Spike ran from one bush to the other, changing perspective. He briefly eyed the balcony up above. He could see 'himself' speaking to Joseph. This was the right moment.
"...considerable difficulty convincing them otherwise," Semyon said, his voice low. "These vultures are well managed, fortunately. But Zorn is smart. She must be dealt with. You can...handle her, I trust?"
"I've infiltrated parties with tighter security than this," came a familiar voice, answering Semyon with a venomous, lilting accent.
"Yes. Your abilities are very becoming of your moniker, Redback."
The man, all in black, moved to the side. Just as Spike registered the name, he saw the face.
"I bloody hate these mixers," Bruce Halsetti, promoter for Deadboy Daemian's old fed, spat. "Full of people with their heads up their own arses."
Spike was glad he was non corporeal. He might throw up. His first thought was that Daemian was completely aware of Redback's identity. Which didn't bode well at all. But no. Spike wanted to believe his old friend was better than that.
Semyon continued, placing his hands together in contemplation. "Then allow me to bestow upon you the opportunity to channel your frustration. I want Marianne Zorn gone. Or at the very least, rendered useless."
"That's the spellbreaking commission treasurer, eh? Yeah, I got me a bone to pick with her too after she snubbed sXs. Ah well. Guess she'll learn the hard way..." Bruce laughed, just as he tugged his red-branded balaclava over his face. "Don't poke a spider's nest."
Spike pressed his back against the tree and covered his mouth. Oh no, he's Redback. Crap. Crap. Crap.
"Then you know what to do," Semyon said, punctuating the statement by digging the base of his skull-tipped cane into the soft earth. "I cannot allow her to stop us from hosting the championships at Kitezh. I will not be thwarted again. With the chalices in hand, the ritual will be complete. The hand of the Goddess will be ours."
Bruce nodded, and then--most sickening of all--clung to the wall of the gala building, skittering up the wall like the spider of his namesake.
"Just like in Kitezh..." Spike repeated to himself. He remembered the strange, ghostly, medieval looking city--like something from a dark fairy tale. He remembered Semyon, or Koschei, or whatever he'd called himself across all those centuries, trying to enact some dark magick over that strange basin at the foot of the Goddess statue.
Spike looked over his shoulder, jut as Semyon turned away and began to walk towards him. His movements, and the mad intensity in his eyes, made Spike shiver. He was much too close to where he was standing.
"Oh, this is so weird. It's almost like he can..."
Semyon's hand caught Spike's throat before the young fighter could react. At first, Spike thought he was hallucinating again. There was no way...
But then, he felt the fingers squeeze tighter. Though Spike had no real neck, or breath, he felt the restrictive sensation all the same. How was this possible?
Semyon leered at him. "Caught myself a little shadow."
Spike tried to move, but whatever magick was in effect, it was more potent than his own. Still, he forced the words out: "How..."
Semyon suddenly flinched. Could he see Spike? The direction his eyes move suggested something was off about his approach. Though there was, most definitely, nothing off about his tight grip.
"The Eye of Set," Semyon muttered, holding up his cane with his free hand. The eyes of the pewter skull glowed an eerie red. Spike, trying not to panic, could just barely make out a crystalline object hidden inside the skull, emitting the light.
Semyon glared, just off to the side of where Spike's 'face' would be. It was then that Spike decided he definitely couldn't see him. Not completely, anyway.
"I can barely make out what you are. A wraith. A spirit? WHO SENT YOU?"
Spike was now more curious than afraid. What did he look like, to him? And had this happened in the past? Or had Semyon somehow travelled back with them?
"Who summoned you," Semyon hissed. "And from where? Your silhouette...it looks so...familiar."
"Hands off the twink."
Spike's eyes darted towards Salim, who had materialized behind Semyon in a burst of blue light--the same aura Spike vaguely recalled before they'd fallen into the trance leading them into the past. The giant man, with an expression far more serious than Spike had seen on him before, waved his hand.
Semyon's cane reacted--the light, suddenly dimming. As it did, Spike felt his 'body' pass right through Semyon, outside his grip. He turned around and saw the gaunt man looking around wildly for where his phantom self had wandered.
The man sneered, recomposing himself. "An interloper," he said, looking down at his cane. "Is this your demon or familiar, then?"
Spike suspected that Semyon couldn't quite make out Salim either.
"I was wise to dig this out of the Library, then." Semyon moved closer to his target, or where he expected his target to be, anyway. "But...a time magi? Impossible." He smiled, then; the same way Spike had seen Salim grin earlier when presented with a mystery. "Unless..."
Salim waved his hand again. Whatever he did, it threw Semyon off even more. He looked pissed.
"Incessant magi, working against me," Semyon hissed. "No doubt those Aradia stooges. No matter..."
The creep wandered off, presumably back inside the gala. Spike was glad to see him go.
"Are you okay?" Salim asked him friend, earnestly.
Spike glared at him. "I'm more of a twunk, just so it's clear. Also, WHAT THE HELL, SALIM!"
The giant man ignored the outburst. He had no time for Spike's emotions. "You're still alive, aren't you? What did you find out?"
"Koschei..." Spike shook his head. "I mean Rasputin, I mean Semyon, is gonna use the Chalices to do whatever he tried to do in that weird city in Russia. That's why he tried to bump off Madame Zorn! She was gonna put the whole kibash on it. And whatever he's doing there, he needs the Chalices."
Salim stared intently at the lights dancing across the surface of the river. "But why hold the World Championships there? Unless...he needs people with glyphs. Strong magick." He considered the possibility.
Anxiety swelled inside Spike's heart again. "My guy, I don't like any of this s***. What's Semyon gonna do with all this weird magick stuff?"
"Current theory? He's trying to harness the magickal equivalent of an atomic bomb."
Spike twisted his head to the side, confused. "Er...why?"
"Power?" Salim shrugged. "You saw the life lessons his dear-old daddy taught him." Salim straightened his back. He walked to the edge of the river. It showed him no reflection.
Salim laughed to himself. Not a happy laugh. "It's...so boring."
"What?" Spike approached his friend, even though his body language suggested another odd mood shift.
"Yes, boring. Dull. Powerful men are stupid and boring. All throughout history, the same Goddess-damned story, Spike. Men doing everything to maintain power and control, and then freaking out when it's out of their grasp. It's the same with fighting. Spellbreaking. One dog on top. The next day? Overthrown. Again, and again. We do this to ourselves because we're scared, because we think being strong and tough will bring us adoration, or hell, fear. It's because we're scared little boys, Spike. It starts with getting beaten up on the playground and then BAM the next day you've invaded the country next door just because it'll make you feel loved; because it'll make you a legend!"
Salim slammed his fist into the wall. It made no sound, of course, because it was a memory--but Spike flinched all the same. He froze. Salim seemed ten times larger to him now, if that were at all possible.
He didn't even girt his teeth, or glare. It was the...emptiness in the eyes, a toxic tiredness, that scared Spike most of all, as the man spoke.
"Scared little boys trying to make their daddies happy. Or trying to replace their daddy. It's fathers, Spike. Poisoning their sons. Making them afraid of every damn person who doesn't think like them, or look like them, or bow down to them. But hell, at least the real bastards, the tyrants, and the dictators, and the pharaohs and...and the TSARINAS! At least THEY DIE!"
Salim laughed, manically. "Except the real, big bastards like Semyon Grigorivich, or Koschei, or whatever he decides to go by in whatever decade he decides to piss all over and ruin with his stench. No, THAT bastard is playing for keeps. That's why I want him gone. That's why I want him dead. For good. And then..." Salim breathed.
Spike backed away.
"And then everything will be alright. I will bring about a good future. I will fix this tangled time period. Or..."
The giant's steely expression softened, just as he gently moved his lavish braid back over his shoulder. "Well, gee, small friend. Looks like I kind of went off the rocker there! Don't worry about it. I just have some...unresolved issues, okay? Don't we all. Now, what else did you learn while you were out here?"
Spike had been so utterly afraid of Salim's mad speech that he'd nearly forgotten the most shocking takeaway from Semyon's exchange with his servant. At last, Spike found his voice. "Bruce Halsetti is REDBACK."
Salim's lips twitched. "I knew it."
"YOU DID?"
"Well, I had a hunch! We gotta' get back to Texas. Nowwwwwssrsfsffsf."
Spike had been still juggling his anxieties, between the knowledge of Bruce, and the...whatever Salim's freak-out was about...that he'd barely noticed that they'd shifted time periods again.
This one, however, was unfamiliar to Spike. The air was full of fire and burning metal, but the cityscape around him was startlingly familiar. Moscow.
Spike groaned. "Again? Russia, Russia, Russia!"
Before Spike could raise his voice and seek Salim's input, he was caught off-guard by a throng of moving, angry people--citizens--marching in a solid wave towards the gilded gates of an enormous palace.
Spike froze. He'd seen this on the news. Or, at the very least, similar footage. Soldiers, armed with assault rifles, guarded the gate and shot into the crowd indiscriminately.
"Take me home, now," Spike choked. "I've seen enough of the s***, S."
Yet, just as he made the request, he noticed a blur of motion between the perimeter of rioters and the soldiers. One young, armed man suddenly doubled over, spitting blood. His compatriot fell at his side. One by one, the soldiers fell, just like the little toys Spike used to play with in the orphanage day room.
And at the front of the carnage, looming over their bodies with a cunning sneer, was Salim--dressed in a dark, gray overcoat. He picked one soldier, still alive, off the ground, and held him up in the air.
Spike recalled what Salim had told him, about the Alban soldiers in the Egyptian tomb where Salim had awoken after centuries of sleep. What he'd done to the those jerks had made Spike uncomfortable, but it was justified. They were bad guys, right? Unredeemable. Hell, they were part of the reason why Spike's parents were no longer around.
But seeing Salim now...like this?
The soldier kicked his legs, desperately, eyes resigning to his fate, as Salim looked into his eyes and smiled. The man aged rapidly, until his body resembled one of the old, withered carrots Spike had cleaned out of the pizzeria's walk-in fridge the other day. Salim, rejuvenated, turned his back and walked through the gates.
Spike's Salim, the 'Present' Salim, had turned his back to Spike, who was afraid of even speaking up.
Still, he found his voice. "Salim..." He swallowed. "You did this to these people?"
For a moment, Spike feared he hadn't spoken loudly enough. Salim didn't move. Then, he turned to Spike.
"Hmmm." He smiled. "Well, good luck, small friend. I'll be seeing you around."
His smiled faded. His eyes burned green. "In Kitezh. At the end. Perhaps it will be you, Spike, who decides what form the future will take."
One blink later, Spike found himself laying down on Varla's carpet, not a second past when he and Salim had dipped into their astral tour. And, like many occasions all throughout his own timeline, Spike was once again alone.
Standing in the 'home' arena of the GSA (a glorified warehouse with posters of the fed's all-stars strung up on the walls) Deadboy Daemian looked upon the familiar ring and scowled. Granted, it was an affectionate scowl.
The lean, muscle bound punk scratched his armpits and yawned. "Bloody hell, I have up world domination for this?" Still, he caught himself smiling. "Can't wait to break my old mate's skulls again." Leas of all, Tiger. Then again, if I knock him flat, I won't be able to pash him after the match. Hmmm. Okay, D, note to self; figure out to destroy lover without....destroying lover.
Dressed in a black, shredded cut-off, and wearing and purple short-shorts with the stanza "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here' on the butt, Daemian went about setting up for the show. He was fully aware that this rigorous 'set up' work was partial punishment from Colt, a way to humble him and prove Daemian was worthy of re-joining the fed. The joke was on the boss, though--Daemian liked working solo. Didn't have to bark orders at some wet-behind-the-ears rookie who didn't know a ring apron from a bib, or get chewed out for touching someone's gear the wrong way. Between set up, Daemian could even help himself to a nice coldie from the communal fridge. Time for a break.
The demon summoner slammed the switch on the boom box, quietly head banging to his sick, Aussie punk music.
As Demonic D chugged down looked upon the ring with thoughtful reminiscence. The last time he'd been here, White Tiger had thrashed him for the championship belt. Now, they were dating. How strange, the ebb and flow of fate.
"Bloody annoying too," Daemian snarled, punctuating his annoyance with a loud belch. He crushed his empty can against his head and chucked it towards the bin (he missed). With all that done, the punk with the shredded abs perched on the side of the entrance arch platform, and pretending as if he was about to suicide drop some unfortunate opponent below him. It had been awhile since he'd slaked his blood lust. But, in the few months since going 'reformed', Deadboy had learned to focus on priorities. Namely, the spooky, silk-lined coffin sitting on top of the trap door platform at the bottom of the ring.
He already knew who'd be going inside it...
"Earth to Deadboy," Colt said, coming around the side of the stage with an extension chord. The muscular, long-haired cowboy, wearing a white undershirt and jeans, looked down at the frayed chord with a frown, and tossed it away. "That's the second one today. Must be nerves."
Daemian grimaced at his manager. "Wanna practice again?" Bludger's lucky my skull is indestructible...and not much brain to begin with neither. All those piledrivers would turn a nuclear scientist into...well...Spike.
Before Colt could answer, Bruce--always in his black business suit and red tie--entered from the righthand stage, clipboard in hand. "You blokes are really gonna put on a fake fight tonight?" His jovial tone didn't match his fake derision. "Colt, this is a spellbreaking match, not a circus, mate!"
"Look at this c***," Deadboy said, nodding to his old co-worker. "Thinks he can come in and take Buck's job. How ya doin', Bazza?"
Colt rolled his eyes at the unruly Australians. "Look, y'all. I don't wanna turn into an old geezer..."
Too late, Deadboy thought.
"...and those guys who do pro sometimes have the right idea staging it. Scripted and staged allows us to keep our guys and gals in top condition for the championships. Plus, these marks don't know the difference anyway, half the time!"
Bruce was one of those businessmen who always hid his opinions behind a smile. Thankfully, his and Colt's relationship had been amicable these last few weeks--especially in the wake of Colt taking back the company from his erstwhile son. Daemian, truthfully, felt bad about what had happened. He liked Buck. The kid was a straight-shooter, and had a bit of bite to him. A bona fide talent, and never a tall poppy about it either. When Daemian had gone good, Buck was the first person to welcome him back open arms.
Now the kid's gone and got himself a bloody glyph too. What a legend.
Also, Daemian was fully aware how much of a blowhard Colt could be when he wasn't in a good mood. Even though Daemian was content to throw back beers and break the empty bottles over people's heads for fun, he was quite perceptive too. Colt had been hitting the liquor and hitting the boys even harder in the wake of Buck's absence. Though he kept up his magnanimous façade of cowboy rowdiness, Daemian (as well as other emotional sleuths like El Amante) had picked up the vibrations from Colt's wounded heart.
Bruce put the clipboard down on top of one of the amps, set to pump out Colt's country rock anthem, and Deadboy's melodic metal entrance music, later tonight. He scratched his head with his pinky--a gesture Daemian had seen him do back in Sydney...usually before breaking bad news.
"And...what happens when it gets out that you're staging your matches?" Bruce asked solemnly.
Handsome Colt waved it off. "Does that stop people from going to see pro wrestling fights? You're damned stupid if you think those bereft boys don't have a magick of their own. They're performers, born and bred. Hell, I always told Buck that if he ever wanted to get into..." He stopped, swallowed, and looked away. "Anyway"
Deadboy and Colt met eyes, and exchanged a wordless acknowledgment, before turning back to the conversation. "Where is old mate, anyway?" Daemian asked his boss.
Behind them, a small lightbulb on the stage perimeter burst. "Grrr." Colt glared at the damage. "He's with Varla and John Henry in New Orleans. Probably suckin' down hurricanes and having a grand ol' time without PUBLIC OUTLAW NUMBER ONE." Colt's forehead crackled with little needles of electricity, teasing out his hair. He shook his head and flattered his blonde mane, all at once deeply embarrassed with himself.
Bruce and Daemian let the Texan have his tantrum. "Mr. Iron's big comeback is an unexpected but welcome surprise," Bruce said, which was something everyone in the room could agree with. "Could be a contender to watch at the championships."
That talked Colt down from his ledge. Truth be told, Colt had tremendous pride in his dear friend and tag team partner. "Shucks, would be a long time comin' too. Fact of the matter is, John was the best there was." Colt twisted his head side to side, to make sure nobody else was present, before he lowered his voice. "Maybe even better than me. But back then, the feds were all crooked and exploitative as all hell. John's only flaw was being born in a time where your skin color could cost you an opportunity. Truth be told, I don't think we've come much further since."
"Didn't think you were much of a civil rights activist," Bruce laughed, uncomfortably. Deadboy glared at him for that.
"My boy's bi," Colt laughed. "And most of my boys are a bit...well...fruity. Hell, who hasn't had a romp in the hay with a cute, doe-eyed, muscle boy with a big..." Colt looked around to see Deadboy and Bruce turning several shades. "Er, anyways, you can't spend your life clinging to the old ways. My old man did that and caused me all kinds of grief."
"Peas in a pod, you are," Bruce huffed. He stuck his thumb at Daemian. "Back home, this one was always harping on about treaties and stuff."
"I don't like the government telling people what to do," Daemin sniffed. "Especially the people who lived on the land first, before the Albans dumped heaps of dark magi on the arse end of the world".
Daemian twisted his mouth to the side. It was hard to hate Colt. He generally tried to make space for people. Hell, he'd picked a grub like him to fight in his fed. That counted for something.
"Anyway," Bruce began, checking over one of Daemian's ring props, a cheese grater, "where is our 'Million-Dollar Manager', Mr. Salim?"
"Speaking of the ends of the Earth, he dropped off the damn face of the planet," Colt said. "Nobody can contact him. And considering he's the reigning world champ, that's a bit of concern, isn't it? Oh well, show must go on."
Colt stood up. Daemian fully realized this man could break him in half, if he wanted to (not that such a thing would ruin him) and was suddenly very excited to go toe-to-toe with the fed president. Spike and Rage was a hard act to follow, but Colt and Deadboy promised some unexpectedly delightful carnage. They'd give those marks a show alright.
Colt stretched out his meaty arms, and yawned. "Deadboy--I'm ready to rehearse in five." He thumbed towards the ring. "Let me confirm medical for tonight just in case I snap your arm off."
Daemian pointed to his 'surgical stitching tattoo' on his biceps. "No wockas, mate. I've beaten guys with my own arm before just fine."
Colt did the finger guns at him. "Now there's the attitude I'm looking for." Minding Bruce, Colt approached Deadboy and put a hand on his shoulder.
Deadboy stared at it as if Colt had just wiped his nose and smeared it on his shoulder. "Er...?"
"Was just gonna say. It's good to have you back around the corral, spooky stud. I know you love this sport just as much as I do, and...you just let me know what you need. Don't need to get mushy about it." He winked.
Deadboy's first instinct was to throw back something snarky and rude. He swallowed his tongue. "Right...boss. It's bloody good to be back."
Colt exited, whistling one of his country tunes. "I'll be back in two shakes."
Deadboy took a deep breath. Alright. So far, so good.
He leaned over the coffin, trying to get a better look at the rigging. He usually came out of these things at the start of the match, so it was weirder to going into one at the end.
Tonight's script was to have Colt and D go fifty-fifty, with Colt positioned a the seasoned hero taking down the punk coming back for revenge (art imitating life). A coffin match already demanded a bit of suspension of disbelief--nobody really expected either of the two men to actually die and get buried. But it was an edgy idea, and with the championships only a week or so away, they needed to push the GSA one last time before the big leagues.
Deadboy had already decided not to compete for the world champs. His resurgent love for spellbreaking was solely in entertainment. He'd cheer on White Tiger from the shadows, however.
"So, the demonic prince of darkness is going to take a tumble into his own coffin tonight?"
Deamian heard Bruce come up behind him. The demonic jock from down under patted the side of the (fake) mahogany coffin. "Yeah, yeah, don't bloody remind me. This is Colt's little trust exercise. A lesson in humility or whatever." He sighed and stood. "I've made a real dog's breakfast of my position here in the GSA. I might as well suck up a little and give the boss a free win. Plus, he's a bit too excited to see my healing magick in effect."
Daemian snickered to himself as he leaned over to wrap up the lighting chord, picking up and making a noose. "I'm gonna have him break my bloody neck, choke me out hang-man style, and then dump me into the damn thing. It'll make the audience puke! I can't wait. It'll also make Colt look like a real bad bastard! Maybe even set him up for a heel turn--for massacring his own pupil!" Daemian laughed. "Like that'd bloody happen. Then, I just gotta wait in that coffin til the boys downstairs at the bottom of the lift pull me out."
"And...no concerns if something goes awry?" Bruce said, voice low. He stepped foerward. "Would be a terrible way to die, yeah?"
"You think this is my first time in the forever-box, mate?" Daemian snorted. "I practically sleep in these things. By the way." All smiles and fangs, the punk turned about face and swept back his shock of purple and black hair. "When were you going to tell me?"
Bruce played dumb. "Tell you what?"
"Oh, you know." A dark aura radiated off Daemian as he reached out and pat Bruce on the head. "Kind of a rotten thing to see an old mate turn out to be the assassin who tried to murder his boyfriend."
Daemian's eyes turned solid black and a cold chill swept over the arena.
Bruce barely flinched. His smile, thought not as wide as his former employee's, was somehow even more sinister than the demon summoner's. "You little fool," he seethed. "You could have just kept quiet."
The palm of Bruce's hand flattened itself against the exposed nape of Daemian's neck, just above his chiselled chest. A brief flash of green light sparked off Bruce's hand.
Daemian's eyes transitioned back to his violet-colored irises, and then rolled up inside his head. He fell backwards, over the stage, and into the coffin. The lid shut loudly behind him, echoing throughout the arena.
Bruce paced the stage, surveying his work. "Whoops!" He looked down and examined his head, still crackling with venomous magick. "Your little tricks weren't enough for my venom. Guess you'll be taking that dirt nap a lot sooner than tonight. Shame I've just botched the big show, but I guess the spellbreaking fans will have your name on their lips tonight for different reasons. Deadboy. R.I.P.!"
After collecting himself, Bruce turned back towards the stage and cleared his throat. "Help! HELP! There's been an accident!"
----
One Day Later...
The Firebird board room--an official, more-than-intimidating chamber panelled with dark wood and circled by the federation's banners. Like most old buildings in old Moscow, it carried a palatial air, helped by marble flooring and vaulted ceilings. Training barracks were to the left side of the compound; dorms to the right, with the mess hall square in the middle. It had been an old training ground for the Tsar's battle mages during the war. Like most of the nobility's properties, however, the palace had desperately sold it off during the final days of the conflict.
The board room's long table ran the length of the great, crimson carpet. Seated there were Firebird's top stars: Ivan 'The Wolf', the handsome babyface champion with a winning smile (or sinister, depending on who you asked). Or all gathered, the descendent of Russian folk heroes appeared the most nervous. He was flanked by white-haired Yaya Baga, one of the fed's devious transformation magi along with the giant Bear Misha, who sat opposite Ivan.
Rage had left an empty seat laid out for Slayer St. George, long absent and missed. And, at the head of the table, sat Vahni Rage in his burgundy, tailored suit. He sat with his hands folded, eyes on the door, one hand on his expensive, gold watch.
He was starting to wonder if they had been stood up. He glowered, making everyone else in the room deeply nervous. Vahno had forbade the rest of the roster from attending, not because he thought them unworthy (not all of them, anyway), but because he suspected matters might turn violent, and didn't want the younger blood damaged on his watch.
Finally, with a loud creak, the door pulled open. Semyon Grigorivich, with his dark suit and skull-cane, looked somewhat more dishevelled than normal (which was already saying a lot). He looked at Ivan--his babyface champion--and sullen, gray-haired, Yaya, then at bearded, bald, and mean Misha. Usually, they were all quick to avoid his cold stare.
Not today.
Rage stood, eyes full of resolve. "Please," he said, gesturing to a seat at the far end.
Semyon glared. Still, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. "It seems you have made an error, sweet Vahni. You appear to be in my chair."
Rage looked at him up and down. "You mean...my chair?"
Semyon's hand gripped tighter around the top of his skull. "So, is this a mutiny? A takeover?" He laughed. "What do you expect me to do, beat my chest and gnash my teeth and cry out, 'After all the things I've done for your ungrateful dogs!'."
"Something like that," Rage sniffed. "We've held a vote. After a thorough investigation of the events surrounding the match between Sailorboy Spike and Vahni Rage, it's been discovered that Spike's soma was tampered with, pre-match."
Semyon smirked. "An investigation done by your impartial soma refining corporation?"
But Rage had come with the receipts. He slammed down a folder, bursting with papers. "All of us gathered here have also submitted documented and dated evidence, over the course of the last year, of Firebird's use of alchemical rubedo as an enhancement drug. This has been submitted to the ISC for review. Furthermore," Rage said, tossing another manila envelop down on the desk, "A joint investigation between INTERPOL and Aradia is now underway, looking into the business dealings of one Semyon Grigorivich and his ties to the former Russian monarchy. The new provincial government, of course, has been more than happy to provide this investigation with anything they need."
Punctuating his statement with great finality, Rage leaned back in his chair and waited for Semyon to say something.
The man took a deep breath. "Let me skip to the plain truth--I could so easily have you all killed. Or, barring such extremes, ensure you are held just as accountable in whatever silly government kangaroo court has been set up in a pathetic attempt to undermine me. I could have your careers ended."
"How, darling?" Yaya challenged him. "We voted Rage in as president. It was a unanimous vote. He may be...brusque...but when it comes to loyalty, he has always had our interests in check."
"Do not make me seem like such a face, Yaya," Rage huffed. He looked to Ivan. "That is our golden boy's prerogative, not mine." Still, he couldn't help but smile. "This is just good business." Besides, if you'd killed Spike before I had the chance to ravish him, I would set this damn world on fire!
Semyon turned his nose up at this former employees. "Hostile takeovers are usually more elegant than this, Rage. I'm disappointed."
It seemed quite apparent to all in the room that Semyon was more than happy to stand and pass his judgments. Still, Rage waited. He picked up a remote control on the desk and held it, one eye on the TV screen behind him.
"The championships no longer matter," Semyon said, icily quiet. "Nor does this federation. Congratulations, Rage. You enjoy your time as president of Firebird. It will be a short one. You've already given me what I need. I still have the Black Library."
Semyon felt the air behind him move, as the door opened. What other clown had been invited to this circus, he wondered bemusedly.
"Oh, do you?"
Semyon cringed, just as Rage began to smile. "Mr. Netjeer," he said, turning to face the giant, handsome man with the long braid and golden jewellery on his fingers. "Oh, I do apologise. King Anubis. Or Jackal or..."
"Or Rasputin, or Koschei, or Semyon Grigorivich," Mr. Salim said, smiling ear to ear. "Funny thing about us long lived bastards--we never really can settle on a name!" Salim nodded to Rage. "And the thing about libraries, Semsem, is that they're full of books. Books, as you know, are full of paper. And the thing about paper is that, well, it's quite flammable."
Without looking at the set, Rage pointed the remote at the TV and flicked the power on. The other spellbreakers in the room turned their heads towards footage of a stately Russian building in the background of the Kremlin, burning.
Semyon's mouth twitched. "I see."
The movement between Semyon and Salim was so quick that normal eyes could not perceive it. Semyon raised his cane, the red skull glowing, meeting the eye-shaped, luminous blue pendant in Salim's hand. The two artefacts touched, and exploded into light.
Semyon flew across the room, sliding across the table, stopping just inches away from Rage, who didn't so much flinch. The others pushed their chairs away out of shock. Breathing ragged, and wide eyed, Semyon rose his head and looked towards Salim.
What was left of the Eye of Osiris crumbled to the ground into charred carbon, right next to the sunken-in skull that housed Semyon's Eye of Set. "Masks off," Salim said, wiping his hand on an expensive, silk kerchief inside his breast pocket. "And just in time for the world championships, too!" Semyon bolted off the table, onto his feet, before Rage could dare harm him.
"Redback has been sent to kill both Colt and Deadboy," Semyon snarled. He realized there was only one way out of the room, but he already knew Salim would allow him to leave. "And your precious little Sailor is nowhere to be found!"
Salim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we know about Redback. He's dead. Well, not dead. But he won't be bothering us any time soon." Salim made a circular motion with his index finger around his temple. Crazy.
Semyon blinked. "What?"
Now, it was Rage who stood. "Mr. Netjeer, I trust you've already summoned the authorities to manage the ex-president?"
Salim looked to Semyon, and then up to Rage. "Nah."
"...What?"
Salim stepped aside, giving Semyon clearance. The mad monk looked briefly at the smug giant, before growling and bolting out the room.
"Why the hell did you let him go?" Rage said, trying to suppress his anger. Cooler heads, it seemed, tended to prevail, these days.
At last, Salim took a seat at the table, clunking down a concealed (and rather large) bottle of champagne. "Semsem still has a part to play in this drama, I'm afraid. You want an interesting world championship, Mr. President? Then we let fate unfold as designed. Rest assured, Semyon will not be the one who gets the happy ending."
Rage's jaw clenched, but he sat back in his chair and said nothing. He had the company in his hands now, and Semyon on the run. He had his win. It was best not to push things further.
But he still had his pride. "And who will be fighting the world champion at the tournament?"
Salim smiled. "I thought you might put your hat into the ring, Rage. Well, metaphorically speaking. I've never seen you in a hat before. Of course, you won't be the only one." He twisted the cork off the champagne in one swift motion, the pop startling everyone else in the room. He watched and allowed the frothy liquid to flow onto the carpet.
"But first, we allow Semyon to reveal his hand. We backed him into a corner. That's when snakes and scorpions are their deadliest. But...in this instance, we need Semyon desperate. Trust me, Ragey, it's alllll part of the plan. Now, are you going to sit there and let me drink this Veuve all by myself, or are you cuties going to join me in celebrating?"
He held the bottle up to Rage's stunned face "To Vahni Rage. Champion and President of Firebird. Long may he reign in Hell!"
----
One Day Earlier...
"Cheap beer."
Spike placed a can of disgusting, imported beer down at the triangle at the north point of the salt pentacle he'd created in the center of Varla's kitchen floor.
He grabbed the package of chocolate covered biscuits from the counter and placed it on the eastern corner. "TimTams," he said. He paused, removed one of the biscuits for himself and popped it into his mouth. All that time travel had made him hungry.
He used a heavy metal vinyl (Talbane and the Werewolves) for the western point. Already stressed out, Spike examined the list that Deadboy had jotted down for him some time back. "Wait, seriously? Where the hell am I gonna find..."
Spike looked over at Varla's glass armoire, wherein a series of taxidermized ravens, foxes, and a vaguely human looking skull resides. Cringing, Spike took out the skull, made a face, and placed it in the center.
Finally (and most embarrassing of all), Spike ran to the guestroom where he'd been staying and withdrew the magazine hidden beneath the bed cushion. On the cover, a muscular, green-skinned demon man with horns (and pierced nipples) winked at the viewer as he coquettishly tugged down his speedo. HELLBOUND HUNKS.
"And finally...er..." Spike bit his lip as he placed the magazine in the center. "Weirdly specific smut." After examining the coffee-stained note one last time, Spike stepped out of the summoning circle and took a deep breath. He'd never performed dark magick before, let alone 'old' magick.
"Back in Black,
Hit the sack,
I summon thee, Deadboy,
Aussie, Aussie, Aussie,
Oy! Oy! Oy!"
A wind kicked up in Varla's kitchen. Shadows danced across the room, forming a vortex of violet, dark energy in the middle of the salt circle. A poof of black smoke later, and there stood a tall, muscular man--clad only in his skull-print boxers--midway through brushing his teeth.
Deadboy glared around the room, noticed Spike, and spit a wad of toothpaste on Varla's kitchen floor. "Really?"
"Not on the floor, not on the floor!" Spike winced. "I gotta' clean that up. And...uh...you...do hygiene now?"
Daemian rolled his eyes. "It's Joseph. He...wait, why the hell am I tellin' you this, you dog?" He stepped out of the circle and immediately arm dragged Spike into a headlock. "What the bloody hell am I doin' here, Spikey!? You better have summoned me for a damn good reason, you little bludger!"
Spike easily removed himself from under Deadboy's (Strangely washed) armpit, pulling him into a hug instead. "Daemian! I missed you so much. And you smell...good? (Is that lavender and mint?) I'm a bit concerned..."
"Awww, Spikey. I missed you too, chook." Deadboy held him out at arms length, then looked him up and down. "Hey, since I'm just in my boxers..." He said, slowly starting to pull them off. "Wait...IS THAT MY PORN!?"
Spike pressed his hand over the towel, to Daemian's abs. "There's no friggin' time for that now! Something really scary is happening. That's why I called you here. We gotta' get to the GSA on the double!"
"Scary's my middle name, Spikey! Well, actually, it's Matthew. But what's going on?"
"Bruce...is Redback!"
"WHAT!?" Daemian's eyes turned hollow black. "That bastard. Ugh, figures. He was a right s*** PR agent."
"Oh...er...I didn't expect you take that at face value." Spike scratched his head.
The demon summoning Aussie crossed his arms. "I'd had my suspicions. Damn it; he's at the bloody GSA ready to set up a match with me and Colt!"
"OH NO!"
"Don't worry." Deadboy nodded. It was probably the first time Spike had ever felt like the crazed punk had remotely grasped the concept of empathy. "Leave this one to your big mate, Damo."
"But Damo, my guy, he's like a deadly assassin!"
"Yeah, well I'm deadlier. And CRAZIER. So, he's the one who tried to hurt White Tiger?"
Spike's jaw dropped. "Damn it, that's right. He's been on our case for awhile, huh? Do we call the cops or what?"
"Nah, don't trust the pigs." Deadboy stuck his hand out. Clouds of darkness and swirls of purple light formed around him. "I'll open us a portal back to the GSA. Go grab your jump bag, Spike."
"I'm a pizza waiter, Deadboy," Spike called over his shoulder as he ran to the bedroom to get his suitcase. "Do you think I even have a friggin' jump bag! Besides, Colt doesn't even want me back at the GSA."
"Yeah? Well, everyone else does. I'm on the card tonight, and I can choose whichever damn person I want to do valet for me. Colt can kiss my bloody arse if he wants to have a whinge about it."
Spike returned with a clumsily stuffed suitcase. "Damn it, I forgot to water the plants. It's fine. I'm sure Varla will understand."
Daemian summoned his darkness, and opened the portal onto a long, black corridor. "Oh, Bazza. You bloody mucked up now..."
----
One Day Later...
Colt nearly tripped over his own massive legs trying to make his way from the stage. "Lachlan!"
Bruce leaned over the trap door leading to the basement--the mechanism that was meant to take Deadboy's coffin down "into the earth" and deliver him safely to the crew and staff below. The red-faced man dabbed at his face with a kerchief. "Oh, thank Goddess! Colt, I tried to stop the damn thing, but it locked up and took him under. I...I...couldn't get him out."
For a moment, Colt said nothing. His eyes darted back and forth, and he took a step back. "Lachlan..."
"You should go call the authorities," Bruce said, sullenly. "It...may be too late, however."
Colt placed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, head bowed low. "Really?"
"I know. This must be quite a shock."
"No, it's just...funny."
"I...beg your pardon?"
Colt shrugged, putting on his best country-boy smile. "Yeah, real funny. Because, Brucey, you ol' son of a gun--the kid looks like he's just fine to me!" Colt looked over Bruce's shoulder.
The middle aged Australian man frowned. Then, he felt the air around him grow colder, more tense. A chill slithered down his back. He didn't need to turn around. Nevertheless, he felt the icy hand on his shoulder...and the fingers digging in deep.
"Long time no see....mate."
Bruce swallowed. He turned around, coming face to face with the devil.
Or, close enough. Deadboy Daemian stood there, no worse for wear, giving Bruce his most sinister of smiles, while plumes of dark energy dissipated off his intimidating, muscular form.
Bruce took another step back. "D...Daemian! Well, a bloody miracle, that is." His path backward was suddenly blocked by Colt's hard body.
He was trapped.
Daemian maintained his evil aura, savouring his old co-worker's fear--especially as Deadboy reached up to his chest and peeled off the thin, nearly invisible layer of plastic-like bandaging that he'd placed on his chest and exposed limbs, knowing Bruce would most likely target one of those areas. Nurse Wheeler had set him up with the material, normally reserved for banding wounds and burns.
Bruce had been so shocked by this sudden deception that he failed to notice the coffin, sitting upright, behind Daemian--just like in his eerie entrances.
"Shadow magick," Daemian explained, sticking his tongue out and licking his teeth in a maniacal, wolfish display. "Cheap and nasty teleportation."
"Well!" Bruce stammered, trying to slowly manoeuvre himself out of the way. "That's great!"
Just as he turned on his heels, Colt caught him by the throat. "You poked the wrong armadillo today, hoss," Colt leered. "Messin' with my kids."
Bruce had not retaliation. He went numb with Colt's quick and sharp injection of enough voltage to bring the man to his knees.
"Redback," Daemian spat, circling around the man, on the hunt. "Of course it just had to be a fellow Aussie with a name like that." He yanked the man up by the neck, forcing his face dangerously close to Daemian's own. "You tried to kill Tiger. Not only my boyfriend, but a Goddess-damn saint in my eyes. Do you think I'd forgive you for that?"
Bruce found his tongue, momentarily looking up into Colt's eyes, pleading mercy. Then, the killer remembered his pride. His tone changed. "Well, have a sook why don't you, miserable brat! Ice Cream Man should have left you to rot in prison. Descendent of convicts and warlocks alike. Nothing but filth!"
Daemian leered, digging his nails into the man's cheek, drawing blood. "Do you know why I ended up in prison in the first place?"
Now, Colt felt the need to intervene. "Woah there, Tex. We agreed to call the sheriff."
Daemian vibrated with rage. The shadowy miasma around him only grew and intensified. "You agreed, boss." His voice dripped with syrupy venom.
Of course, Redback knew all about the later. With a cutting sneer, he shot his hand out at Deadboy, eager to put him away for good.
Lachlan caught his wrist with little difficulty. His hands covered by motorcycle gloves, he was immune to Redback's toxic magick. He twisted Bruce's hand into a wristlock, forcing him to stand up.
"YEAH, NAH! Don't try it, mate. You're f***ed."
Bruce winced. "GAH! My hand."
Colt couldn't tell if Daemian had broken it, but if not, he was on the verge. "D. That's enough."
It wasn't. "You leave this one with me, boss!" Daemian snarled. "He's about to find out why you don't f*** with my mates. OR MY BOYFRIEND."
Bruce had no defense. He forced himself to stand taller, leveraging Deadboy's joint lock. Deadboy just laughed and revered his arm into a hammer lock, driving it up Bruce's back.
"How much taller on your tippy toes can you stand," Deadboy whispered, sadistically into his ear.
"Lachlan, we can talk this out! I can tell you everything I know about Firebird. About Semyon Grigorivich."
Colt's eyes bugged out. "Wait...Deadboy."
"I AIN'T LISTENING!" Daemian shrieked. Choosing violence, Deadboy pushed Bruce away with a kick from his Doc Martins, positioning Bruce for maximum punishment. The dark magi made a swirling motion with his leather-clad glove, channelling a vortex of shadow on the ground. "Come to me, tag partner."
On his hands and knees, all Bruce could do was look up at the growing, dark shape rising out from the hollow black. Piercing, glowing white eyes burrowed into his soul. The hulking, muscular leather-clad demon--Braxius--loomed over his prey, growling.
"You..." The demon said in his resonate, bone-chilling baritone. "You've hurt many. Without remorse. You bring pain and death to the innocent. All for what? It matters not. Nothing you say will you spare you...from the judgment of The Infernals."
Bruce sputtered, one final please. "B...Brax. Please. Beggin' ya, mate! Don't..."
The demon didn't allow the accused to state his case. The monster shoved Bruce's head into his massive thighs and hoisted him into the air, darkened with shadowy cloud. With man tucked squarely between his thighs, the demon jumped onto the stage, and turned around to face the ring.
Colt whippsed his head towards Deadboy. "You ain't..."
"Oh," Deadboy laughed, making a slit-throat motion towards Brax. "I am. You're ridin' the Highway to Hell mate!"
Brax flew through the air. Colt thought he even hung there, suspended, for a moment. Then, he brought his massive weight down, spiking Bruce into the floor. By the time he landed, Deadboy was already mid-air, bringing down his weight onto Bruce's chest with his boots.
Total destruction.
Redback, bloodied and bruised, yet still somehow conscious (but barely) found himself hoisted onto his toes by his former coworker. The demoniac looked into his eyes (now facing the opposite directions), examining him.
Deadboy acknowledge Colt. If only to get the man off his case. "I'm not gonna kill him, champ. Nah. I'm just gonna have my friends on the other side...play with him for a little while." He laughed, maliciously. "When I drag him out of Gehenna--say, an hour or so from now--he'll be a changed man. Trust me."
Then, he shoved Bruce's body forward. It landed in the silk-lined coffin. The lid shut.
Deadboy snapped his fingers, opening up a new portal. Colt reeled back at the sudden rush of cold wind and the reeking stench of sulphur. A hundred or more squirming, tendrils and shadowy arms thrust through the gateway, entwining themselves around the coffin, dragging it into the dark corridor. Cold barely registered Bruce's screams, from inside his confines, as the box vanished into the portal, which shut close with a flash of light.
All was quiet. Colt, wordlessly, looked at The Infernals. Daemian's head was lowered. Brax, sniffing the air, wrapped his meaty arm around his partner's neck, and nuzzled him affectionately.
He was crying.
Patient, and concerned, Colt moved closer to his employee. He understood the man needed to enact the justice he through Bruce deserved, and he knew he'd be a damned hypocrite if he chastised him for it.
"Never really could trust anyone..." Deadboy sniffed. "Not even my own fed, apparently."
Colt nodded. "I think the scary Ice Cream guy would disagree, cowboy. Hell, he'll probably be just as shocked when he finds out. And I sure as hell promise you, kiddo, that you can trust us mavericks here in the GSA. We're family, boy."
Deadboy sighed and looked away.
"Hell, Daemian, I'd have dug up the earth with my own hands and dug you out myself, if I had to."
"Even after everything I did to you guys?" Daemian said.
Colt laughed. "Kid, you're one psycho heel. But you're a good little dogie too. You just saved our hides from that creep, for starters."
At Brax's silent encouragement, Deadboy nodded, forcing a smile. "Well, wasn't just me and Brax, boss. We...er...had help, yeah?" He looked askance.
"O'course," Colt went on, tapping his chin, "y'all will need to yank that yellow-belly'd so-and-so outta' hell eventually. As a bonafide babyface, I can't well let a bunch of demons torture him in perpetuity....even if the sum'bitch did deserve it. And what do you mean you had help?"
"Deadboy!" A somewhat grizzled, feminine voice--like the gayest mobster or old timey paperboy--called from the other side of the room.
Colt blinked, registering who'd just spike. "What in tarnation?"
From the top rope, Spike--dressed in one of Colt's old promo T-shirts--flipped off the top rope and landed easily on his feet. He gave his 'audience' a winning smile. But he refused to meet Colt's eyes.
Deadboy immediately jumped to his friend's defense, as Brax bounded forward to give Spike a tight (too tight) hug and nuzzle. "Now, don't go an spit the dummy, Tambo--"
Colt blinked. "Tambo?"
"Short for Tamberly," Spike demured. "It's...an Aussie thing."
Brax held Spike close to him, protectively, like a mama bear guarding a cub, while Daemian did the talking. "Listen, yous. Spike warned me about Bruce. He even used my own spell to summon me!"
"You're...crushing my lungs," Spike squeeked, struggling in the affectionate demon's bear hug. The monster let him go. Finally, Spike acknowledge Colt. "Oh. Er...hi."
Colt growled. Outside, a roll of thunder matched his displeasure.
Smiling awkwardly, Spike did his best to state his case. "I came through Daemian's shadow corridor. Nearly lost my lunch too. Look, Colt, I'm sorry for everything! I didn't mean to get Buck in trouble. I got...I got too cocky. But I was just lookin' out for his pride, I swear!"
Colt crossed his arms and gave Spike a stare-down. "Go on...give me a Goddess-damn reason why I don't shock you silly and have you throw out into the desert, boy."
Spike took a deep breath. The one time he didn't find Colt calling him 'boy's sexy. "I got a crush on your son, boss. And sometimes that means sticking up for him. But...I also have a lot of respect for his dad. You were and will always be my hero, and original favorite spellbreaker."
"Only favorite spellbreaker would suffice," Colt sniffed.
"And I know you were just lookin' out for me too," Spike continued. "Sometimes, even though you do your best, I think you can still be a bit old school. But I know by now that it comes from a place of love. You're worried. You try to protect us. But...Colt, we gotta' f*** up and let the universe knock us up the head sometimes."
"Knock you silly, boy," Colt said. He sighed. "Nah, Yankee, I should...." He swallowed, as if he had just been presented with a spoonful of particular foul tasting medicine. "Apologise." He looked to Daemian.
Deadboy made a rolling otion with his hands. "Come on, champ, you can say it."
"To..." Colt winced. "...Yoooou? I was..." He looked as if he might puke. "Wrrrr. Wrrrr. WrrrroOHnnn....OH I can't say it!"
"It's...okay, boss," Spike said, trying not to sound so defeated. "I'm not here as an employee. I'm here as a friend."
Colt blew a stray hair out his eyes, and slicked back his frizzy, electrified hair. "Look, son. I know you hold a candle for my kid. You want to court him? Start by talking some damn sense into him and easing him into his magick. He listens to you."
Spike couldn't believe it. Even Deadboy gave him a sly thumbs up. "Really? I have your blessing? I mean...Buck and I haven't really sealed the deal yet, y'know. And with his recent...er...developments, I'd want to go slow."
Colt crossed his arms. "If you do decide to make my boy an honest man, then you have my blessing. BUT...you better treat him right." Colt winked. "After all, you know who his daddy is." Thank goodness Buck or Spike can't get pregnant, he thought.
Spike was so relieved, and ecstatic, that he nearly forgot the real reason he'd come with Deadboy. "What's gonna' happen to that schmuck, Redback?"
"We'll have the sheriff hold him in the county jail," Colt explained. "Then again, he's one dangerous hombre. I wouldn't even trust him after Deadboy's demon buddies learn him good. I'll contact Aradia and see if they can get the feds on this."
That was good news. But it didn't offer Spike much relief. The situation was much more dire than Colt probably realized. "That's...not the only thing I came here to tell you about. You see, Salim isn't who he says he is."
Colt scratched his head. "He's not the world champion? Would you reckon, I damn near forgot that!"
"Because he made you forget," Spike said. He looked to Deadboy and Brax. "He made us all forget. He's an extremely powerful magi."
Colt winced. "I'll be damned. I can clearly remember conversations where he told me he didn't have magick. But...I knew he was King Anubis...didn't I?"
"He rewrote time!"
Colt blinked and tossed Deadboy a concerned look. "Did you...er...power bomb Spike one too many times?"
"I'm friggin' serious, Colt! He's like, a demi god, or an immortal, or some kind of time traveller--I'm still trying to figure it out. I don't think he's bad though. Hell, he kicked Semyon's butt--oh, and by the way...Semyon Grigorivich is friggin' RASPUTIN!"
The president of the GSA cocked his head to the side. "The trumpet player guy?"
"No, you're thinking Louis Armstrong." Spike shook his head. He was being out-himbo'd. "Look. I'm tired. All I can tell you is that we need to contact Lily at Aradia. I think...really bad things are about to happen!"
