A golden hour glass, inverted.
Jackal placed it on the marble table, next to the beautiful, bottle-shaped Chalice of Spirit. For now, he watched the sands of time fall soft and precise. He could see each individual grain collect itself. Time moved differently for him.
He took out the green gem, inlaid within a golden case shaped like an eye, and put it next to these treasures. He stared into the polished, reflective surface...or, more accurately, it stared into him.
"It's always so boring when the first dominoes start to fall," he said to nobody. Or maybe, to you. "You know those videos they have with those giant, artistic constructions? Like that scene in V for Vendetta. Oh no, I didn't make something like that. Looks like a pain in the ass. I'm just going for the easy metaphor here. Kind of cliche, but you know what, this isn't the greatest American novel. You're hear to watch hunky, male models in their underwear kick the crap out of each other."
"So, let us observe..."
---
One hour later...
Two hospital beds in a private room, somewhere near the temple. They'd moved Buck to a different hospital. Before Spike passed out, he'd heard something about him needing to be put under observation; that his glyph was unstable.
The medical magi had attended to Spike with balms and salves and bandages. Conscious now, but barely, he felt like a very sexy mummy.
He looked over at Vahni, sleeping in his cot, an IV drip connected to his hand. It was strange, how peaceful he looked in slumber. Spike could admire his beauty from close up without fear of having his spine broken. He was sure Rage had fractured it. The X-rays hadn't come back yet though. Spike hurt all over, and it was only for the medical magi's gifts (and some morphine) that he didn't pass out from the pain.
Stranger still, that they had put him and Vahni in the same room. That didn't seem right. It took Spike too long to realize there were no guards around, no security. Colt had ran off with Buck. That made sense.
But everyone else...
Spike heard footsteps. Probably one of the nurses. He closed his eyes, not wanting to talk to anybody right now. He felt numb inside. Shellshocked. Poor Buck. Hell, poor Rage. He hadn't wanted any of this.
His eyes were half-shut when his opiate-addled brain noticed that the person standing in the room, close to Rage's bed, was none other than the referee from the match. Spike thought he must be seeing things.
Don't open your eyes. Wait. You'll know what to do. Just don't let him notice you. Not yet.
That voice again. The voice Spike had been hearing since the start of last year. Now, he realized, it wasn't coming from inside. And he wasn't crazy either. This was magick. Someone had been doing this to him.
He tried to 'think back' at it. To no avail.
He kept his eyes slightly open. Spike was an expert at this. He remembered plenty of times, back in the orphanage, when he fake-slept during Sister Patience's nightly checks. He waited. He watched.
The smirk across the referee's face told Spike all he needed to know about his intentions. The serpent-shaped dagger, ceremonial and sharp, held over Rage's chest, even more so.
Spike remained calm. The ref didn't even see the extension of his hand. He made a flick motion.
The blade came down across Rage's chest. Two inches above his skin, it bounced off, as if striking an invisible wall of glass. Or rather, a barrier of pure energy in the shape of an anchor.
"Gah!" The 'referee' shouted, taken aback. His knife flew out of his hands, landing on the floor.
Rage's eyes snapped awake--his right arm going for the referee's arm. Spike forced himself not to cry out. He was, of course, asleep. He assumed Rage would burn him alive and hear the man's screams any second now.
Which was why he was surprise when Rage, still weary, said quietly, "Who sent you? The alchemists? Or Semyon?" He gripped tighter. "That ouroboros tattoo...it's the alchemists, isn't it? That shrew, Recida Di Sangro..."
The Alchemist didn't answer. With his free hand, he pulled out a small vial of sickly, green liquid, popped the cork off with his teeth, and swallowed it.
"No!" Rage hissed. "Wait."
"You should have DIED for what you did to the Castle Di Sangro," the mad Alchemist lauighed, as as his eyes began to twitch, and his mouth begin to froth. "Burn me. BURN ME! SEE IF I CARE! HAHAHAH! WE ARE EVERYWHERE. WE ARE LEGION! THE GREAT WORK WILL BE--"
Whatever this 'Great Work' was, Spike and Rage would never find out. The man fell silent. Rage let go, and his body slunk to the ground, hard as a stone.
Spike, who had just had a brush with death himself, couldn't mentally take it. The raw terror, and the horror of seeing someone die in front of him, knocked him out. In sleep, he was vaguely aware of the rush of footsteps, doctors screaming in rapid Hindi.
And then, a voice, bright and sure as a lit fire. Rage's. "Spike...my lion. Thank you."
---
One day later...
By the time Spike awokee in the hospital room again, Rage had been moved. The doctors and nurses were incredibly kind to him, and he was sure by the end of his brief stay, that he had charmed all the female doctors, who kept referring to him as 'the pretty American'.
His wounds healed. It was no surprise. Sanjay had once told him of India's advanced healing magi, and their cutting edge magickal capabilities. On that note, Spike wondered how his Bronze Star coworkers were doing. Sanjay. Blue Dragon. He'd even heard rumors about some new blood scouted out in Japan, a fighter said to be a 'real ogre'. Spike looked forward to meeting him, whoever that was (especially if he was a baddie).
Fortunately, and perhaps miraculous, Spike had only sustained a minor fracture that was easily patched up with magick, rather than needing a cast or splint. He was cleared for discharge.
Spike downed the rest of his lassi, a beverage that the nurses had assured him would bring back his strength As he sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He made a note to try and find a restaurant that served these when he got back to the states.
As he finished his drink, placing it daintily on the bedside tray, Spike's ears picked up on the click of stilettos on the floor. Expecting another doctor, he looked up to see a tall, intense-looking woman with pretty eyes, a tight bun, and a rich, beautiful voice.
"You're awake," she said, sounding annoyed.
"Uhh...can I help you?"
The woman looked him and up and down. Spike thought she could be the female counterpart to Vahni Rage. Similar cheekbones. Good looking. And that intensity. The woman steeled herself and shook Spike's hand.
"Amrita Ray." She nodded to the now empty cot. "I believe...you are intimately acquainted with my brother."
It took Spike a few seconds before he realized what she meant. His eyes bugged out. "NO FRIGGIN' WAY."
"Kindly keep your voice down," the cold, beautiful woman said. "I came here only to ask you a question. As you know, the Ray family--in additions to being custodians of the Temple, are also overseers of one of the largest soma springs in the world..."
Spike squinted. "The...Ray family?"
Amrita shook her head. "Khanu didn't mention..." Then, she winced. "I mean, Vahni. Ugh, you silly spellbreakers and your...what is it that you call it again? 'Kayfabe'. Anyways, I wanted to ask your about the soma you imbibed before the match."
Spike was blunt. "It didn't friggin' work, Ms. Rage."
"...Ray."
"I think it was bunk."
She pursed her lips. "You would most likely be correct. Our tests showed it was diluted to almost zero effect." She shook her head. "You're lucky to be alive. My brother...always had a bad habit of breaking his toys." Satisfied, she turned and walked towards the door. "He told me you saved him from being stabbed. Unfortunately, the police have not been able to identify the man, nor the International Spellbreaking Commission, who is terribly--and rightfully--embarrassed they didn't catch his forged credentials."
"He was an Alchemist," Spike said. "Probably from Italy."
"Hmm. Unfortunately, their breed appears to be spreading across the continents. They're part secret society, part criminal enterprise. I presume they attacked my brother out of revenge." Amrita shrugged. "Ah well, I will merely hunt them down to the ends of the Earth."
Spike didn't doubt it. It seemed Rage's family was full of intense people. He'd hate to meet Rage's mother...
"That is all," Amrita said. "Thank you, Spike, for your honesty and your bravery. Leave the rest to me."
"Wait, you're not going to tell me what's going on?"
"I am by no means obligated to tell you. You are alive. Be thankful for that." She scanned him, again. "I can see why my brother thinks you're cute. There's something of...the little dog about you. It's endearing. And a bit annoying. Oh, and your handsome friend is in a different clinic. I have taken the liberty of hiring you a taxi to take you to him and his father."
"What? Really? Buck..." Spike looked at the ground. He was still in shock. Still, as a New Yorker, he was loathe not to express his gruff brand of gratitude. "Hey, thanks."
The pretty woman in the business suit and skirt shrugged. "We are hospitable here in India."
----
Whereas Vahni Rage's sleep was that of a warrior resting after a vicious battle, there was no tranquillity in Buck's slumber. As Spike looked through the partition glass at his friend, boss, and budding lover, he watched as the man in the hospital gound writhed in slumber, face contorted. Above him, a phantom light, that vague stag shape, blinked in and out. Occasionally, the image shifted into that of a wolf, a bear, a mountain lion, even the approximation of the Taamberly's cat, Zeus.
Behind the glass, Colt, dressed in a plain, white t-shirt, wrapped his arm around Varla, in a deep, violet sari, as they looked on.
It was only Colt who realized the patterns in the ephemeral quality of the images. "Sketches."
Varla turned to Colt. "What?"
"It's Buck's sketches. I know I've seen them before. His best work is always animals." Colt sighed. "I always told him to focus on human anatomy so he could do up our posters."
No staff were allowed in the room. Buck was too much a risk. The soft-spoken doctor in the handsome spectacles, Dr. Suresh, approached Colt and Varla.
He spoke candidly. "Tests are done. Buck's vitals are stable...though, as you can tell, the glyph is causing him severe mental distress. I'm afraid there isn't much we can do for that, other than sedatives."
Colt sighed, with relief. His heart hurt. "How can I repay you, doc?"
The good doctor shook his head. "There is no need for payment, Mr. Tamberly. It has been taken care of."
Varla looked at Colt with confusion. "Forgive us, doc, but we aren't from here. Surely you can just bill us?"
The doctor smiled, patiently. "It has already been taken care of by the temple, at the direction of the Ray family."
The name was initially unfamiliar to Colt. His eyes went back and forth. Then, it hit him. "Vahni."
"It seems they owe you tremendous gratitude," the doctor explained. He looked over at Buck, but wasn't concerned with the readouts on the screens hooked up to him. "If the Ray family has given their blessing, then you are honored guests indeed, and we will do everything to take care of your son."
The halogen lighting in Buck's room reflected back in the kindly doctor's eyes. "It will hard for the boy, these next few hours, but eventually he will adjust. Glyph activation late in life always causes these problems. Some, even, lose their life." The doctor quickly added, "But I strongly believe we are beyond that outcome now. We will treat Buck with pain killers, magick dampeners, and anti-psychotics."
The doctor nodded. "Your son will be alright. However, we would suggest finding him a tutor who specializes in the Physis Glyph, that is, the Glyph of Nature."
"Just like Laura," Varla said, soberly.
"Of course." Colt held his head, ashamed. "Lily had said something about siblings sharing that glyph. Goddess...what have I done..."
"Nothing," Varla said, quickly. She glanced at the doctor. "Thank you, Dr. Suresh."
"I'll be back when I make my rounds again," the doctor said, with a slight bow. He left Varla and Colt in peace.
With nobody around to watch, Colt fell against the farthermost wall from Buck's room, and sighed. "I should be ecstatic, Varl." He ran a hand down his face. He was tired. "I know Buck always felt like he was lesser because he didn't have a glyph. I always told him that wasn't the case!"
The pretty woman stared at Colt. There were parts of him that she had hoped might have changed over the years. All in all, he had grown. But she knew Colt, perhaps better than anybody else.
"But did your actions show it, Colt?"
The handsome Texan looked away. "..."
Varla, pursing her lips together, turned back to Buck's window. A flurry of motion, and the appearance of a familiar face at the end of the hallway, caught her attention. "Spike."
The boy's arms and, indeed, part of his face, were bandaged. Someone, a fan perhaps, had gifted him an elegant, navy blue kurta. He looked rather fetching, Varla thought.
The blonde boy looked at the adults, and then over at Buck. He pressed his hands to the glass, his eyes shining wet. He'd been crying.
Colt looked over at Spike, as the color drained from his face. He scratched his head. His mouth twitched. He had so many things he wanted to say to Spike, but he knew he'd just trip over the words and make them both look foolish if he didn't just cut to the chase...
"You did well, Spike, Quite the show." He spoke in a horse monotone, completely uncharacteristic of the bombastic showman from the Lone Star Nation. He sighed. "But...I suppose I don't need to tell you that what you did was beyond reckless and could have gotten yourself killed."
Spike felt like he was back in the headmaster's office again. He gave Colt the dignity of making eye contact. "No, sir," he said, with a small voice.
Colt nodded. "And...I suppose I don't have to tell you that talking Buck into coming to India was well against my wishes." He sighed, quite exhausted. "I...am angry with you. Hell, this is me minding my temper." He looked over at Varla, who nodded with understanding.
"This is a rare thing, Spike. And you would be wise to be grateful, young man. However, despite your victory the other day, I am afraid you put my son's life at risk, as well as your own, going against GSA safety guidelines."
Spike swallowed. He sensed where this was going. This was almost worse than his match with Rage...
"Per contract, Buck is currently unable to perform his duties, which means ownership of the GSA automatically transfers back to me as its primary stakeholder. So, with that said--and wishing you the best in the world--I release you from your contract, Samuel Waterford." He paused. He was trembling. "You are no longer an employee of the GSA."
Spike held back the tears, even as the invisible dagger pierced his heart. "...Yes, sir."
Colt looked him over, like it was the first time they'd met. "Do...do you have anything to say?"
Spike shook his head. He forced a smile. "No, sir." He extended his hand, graciously.
Colt took it, and shook it. He held it longer than Spike expected, before he broke away.
Varla, on the verge of crying herself, looked between the two men. "Colt..."
"It is what is is," Colt said.
Spike understood. He turned away, not wanting his childhood hero to see his tear-streaked face. "I'll...be going now. Um...can you maybe just let me know how Buck is. Somehow?"
Colt nodded, gravely. "I can certainly do that. Oh, and you'll be paid out, of course. Unfortunately, you will have to leave the compound. I've already arranged a flight back to New York, and Varla here has graciously allowed you to stay at her old apartment in Manhattan. We'll send your stuff."
Spike nodded. This was it. "Thank you, sir. For the opportunity."
---
The others were waiting for him outside the hospital. It was interesting, Spike thought, how he was so on the verge of crying his eyes out and then...
...nothing.
All of them stood there, dressed in their civilian clothing. They all looked so...normal, Spike thought. Stripped of stage makeup and done up hair and flashy gear. Still, there hints are their true nature. Daemian, all in black. Iggy, with a flash of neon. White Tiger, in black and white.
Spike sighed, head hung low. Well, now I can't cry, can I? "Guys. Oh geez. Not like this."
"We know what happened," Iggy said. Somehow, he always looked like he was smiling. "I'm...really sorry, kitten."
El Amante looked askance. Of all of them, he was the only one still in some form of fighting gear (his mask). "We...have some thoughts about how Colt handled things. I know I shouldn't say that as head of HR, but--"
"But he's being a bloody p****," Daemian spat.
Tiger glared at him. "He's our boss. That being said...I concur with Daemian, in far cruder terms."
"Where will you go!" Gio blurted out. "Oh, Rosa says hi." he scratched his neck.
Icewolf, already crying, threw himself at Spike, clutching him in a tight embrace. "B-b-broooo! Not like this, bro!"
"Oh no," Spike said, to Robbie, "Don't you start! I'll start too." He had already started tearing up, of course. No use hiding it. These were the strongest men in the whole damn world, as far as Spike could tell. There was nothing for him to hide from them.
John Henry, arms folded in front, looked absolutely angry. But not at him. "Blondie, I'm coming back to New York with you. Personal escort. While...I agree with Colt somewhat, I ain't letting you go back alone. You return to NYC a damn hero, got it? And that's what you are. You kicked Rage's butt!"
Spike gently pushed Robbie off of him. "Well, I definitely had some help." He looked down at the ground. "This is so friggin' weird. I hope Buck is okay. I...I don't know what to say. To any of you."
White Tiger personally placed his hand on Spike's shoulder. "This isn't the end, cub."
Cian, who at this point hadn't said anything, approached Spike himself. He extended his hand. "Boyo. I refuse to believe this is the end. We need our rematch. I gotta' take down the man who took down Vahni Rage."
Spike gladly shook Cian's hand. It was so odd, now. He wished things had gone differently between them. He wished he had swallowed his pride a hell of a lot sooner. He wished he could have been there for Cian when he was most vulnerable, and gave him in the kindness he needed.
But...Spike wished for a lot of things. Especially in that moment.
Kengo approached Spike next. The gentle sumo looked him in the eye, and gave him a deep bow. "My precious roommate, Spike. Let me tell you something. In Japan, we do not judge people by the status of their job, or source of income, but the pride in which they demonstrate their expertise. Garbage men and women, for instance are considered highly respectable members of society. So, whatever you do, you will be wonderful."
Spike bit his lip, mostly to force back a sob. "Kengo..."
The giant man nodded to him. "Now. Go be a good garbage man, Spike."
Spike cocked his head to the side. Leave it to Kengo to stop the tears...though probably not the way he intended. A bit puzzled, Spike nodded. "I'm not sure...I. Er. Yes! I will. I will be the best garbage man. And the cutest."
He looked out over all those faces. His brothers. His lovers. His mentors. His friends. "Thank you, so much guys. You were all my best buds during the most important years of my life. I'll see you in New York, I guess..."
----
One week later...
"Are all the women as pretty you, where you come from?"
Mediterranean light from the blue sky outside the arched, latticed windows illuminated Lily Suarez's face as she looked up from her desk in Aradia's Greek branch.
The young woman with the strawberry blonde hair looked up at Georgio, handsome and weedy. "I'm sorry?" She blinked. "Texas?" Her eyes fell upon the framed phot of her and the boys back home. Buck. I hope you're alright.
Georgio, from the records department, held the files Lily had asked for, and nodded to her cup holder. "That flag."
Lily looked down at the little trans pride flag she had picked up at one of the pride rallies she'd attended when she was in Texas. "Oh." She blushed. "Yes. We...uh...are all known for our extraordinary beauty."
Georgio practically salivated. "Well then. Got those files you were looking for."
Lily swallowed. This was awkward. She took the files, snatched them out of his hands really, and placed them on her desk. "Thank you, Georgio."
"Coffee sometime?"
She looked at him blankly. "It's the trans flag, you dolt."
Georgio, deeply perplexed, looked at Lily, the flag, and then back at her. "Oh. Huh. Just like my cousin, Alyssa. So...coffee, when?"
Lily wanted to place her head on her desk and cry. Still, Georgio was at least sweet about it. "Um, I'm quite busy at the moment, but I'll let you know."
Smiling wolfishly, Georgio slunk away down the rows of cubicles and office plants, leaving Lily to her own devices.
The glyphologist, and top-tier Aradia researcher, slunk back into her desk chair and breathed deeply. "Thank Goddess." But not was not the time to relax. She stared down at the files. Even reading them here felt dangerous.
She grabbed the folder, muttered an excuse to the secretary, and vanished into the interior of the Aradia building, with all of its marble, Grecian influence, and testaments to magi of yore. She reached the library, made a point not to write her name in the visitor log, and found the furthermost, private study cubicle.
The smell of old tomes comforted her, as always. It was all she could do to put her mind at ease. She'd heard what had happened in India, to Buck, Spike, and the others. Her heart had broken for them. But feeling bad wasn't going to change things. It never did. She knew exactly how to manage her support.
Brushing her lucky sunflower pendant with her fingers, Lily made sure nobody else was around, as she opened the files in front of her. To most, they seemed a jumble of boring financial records, pay stubs, and reimbursements all related to one specific employee of Aradia.
But to Lily, who always trusted her instincts, these files told a story.
"Sorry, Salim," she said to herself, as she thumbed through the records. "I really don't mean to pry into your life, but...to be honest, something about you has been bugging me for the longest time...."
----
Later that night...
About a mile away from Aradia HQ, in the penthouse of a swanky athans apartment, Salim stood on his balcony, nursing a glass of (very expensibe) wine that Gio had sourced for him, and stared down at the string of lights over the bustling cafe. A singer--and a very good one at that--strummed her guitar, singing a song about love and fate. Salim had heard many songs like these before. They never got old. He smiled, raised a glass to the full moon, his oldest and most trusted companion, and retreated back inside, latching the balcony door behind him.
The phone rang. Right on time. Salim waited, deliberately, for two chimes, savouring the mouthful of wine--the last time he would probably enjoy a tranquillity like this for quite some time--before he picked up the receiver.
"Miss Suarez," Salim said, cheerfully. "To what do I owe the honor?
"Hey, Salim. How did you know it was me?"
"Oh, call it a talent. It's a bit late. Is everything okay? Hope you aren't still working a this hour. Ah, and I heard about Buck."
"Yeah. I'm..." She trailed off.
"I understand, habibi. I always sensed a power there. I just hope he's okay."
Salim and Lily spoke for some time. Salim indulged her. She was a good woman. Smart as hell. But, like most people her age (early twenties) it took her a considerable amount of time to muster the courage to get to the damn point.
"I feel like so much is happening, so quickly," Lily sighed. She was confiding in him. But...Salim sensed something else behind her words. A hidden motive. "Aradia has beefed up security. With all that happened in India, it makes sense. I just feel like...everyone has their heads up their asses that they can't see the danger in front of them. Pardon my French."
"Ce n'est pas un problème," Salim said, with a perfect accent. "Well, we are in Greece, habibi. It's called a Greek tragedy for a reason. And, you know, Lil," Salim started, "There's an old saying I'm fond of. I believe it comes from Russia, actually. There's decades where nothing happens. And then there's weeks where decades happen. Or...something like that."
Salim sighed, swirling his wine. "To be blunt, I have had one long decade this week." He stared down at his Rolex. It was about time...
"I'm right there with you," Lily said, over the phone. "I'm actually heading to India to see Buck, Colt, and Spike. But...I'm afraid of leaving Aradia."
Salim paused a moment and closed his eyes. "I can safely say that you and everyone else will be find if you decide to go to India. Trust me."
"Well, I usually do..."
Salim smiled, at the curious hesitation in the woman's voice. Though he said nothing of it.
He moved on to more vital matters. "Intel suggests Jackal got the seventh Chalice. Which means two of them are still in play, three if you count the one still somewhere in Australia."
He anticipate the awkward pause to follow. He felt bad for her. She was good. Very good. But she was sill out of her league.
"Just be careful, Salim," Lily said. "I feel like things are starting to close in. Oh, by the way, I hope you don't take offense to this, but I was just wondering...."
And here. We. Go. "Yes?"
"Exactly how long have you been with Aradia?"
Salim's mouth twitched. "Oh, since way back. End of the war, I think? 1945."
"Huh. I thought the war ended in 1947?"
"Well, maybe in this timeline..."
"What?"
"Oh, it's nothing. But to answer your question, I was on the board of directors during the foundation."
"Hmmm."
Salim smiled. Tried to suppress a laugh even. She was right on queue. 3...2...1...
"You...told me once that you came from an old Egyptian family."
"Very old," Salim said. This was as far as he was willing to go, however. "Hey, I would be more than happy to tell you all about it sometime, but I actually have some business to attend to." His eyes darted to the balcony door. It was no longer latched. He smiled. "Let's do lunch soon, okay? Ciao."
He put down the phone, tossed back the wine (what a waste) and placed his chin on his ring-laden hands.
"Be very, very careful Lilly, my sweet. You're smart. Perhaps too smart for your own safety."
With that, Salim--giant that he was--stood and stretched. He looked over in the direction of the curtains. As with everything else in his luxuriant apartment, they were very fine and very pretty to look at.
"Hellllooooooooo?" Salim addressed the silent room. "Are you going to come out, or are you going to make this difficult for the both of--"
The soldiers, all clad head-to-toe in tactical gear, sprung out from behind the curtains and the back of the couch and took aim at Salim. They didn't hesitate. Ears plugged, their silencers shot round after round into Salim's chest, riddling him red with bullets.
The man's body smoked. In fact, Salim was still standing when he, the elegant giant, fell back onto the table, snapping it off the legs and spilling the wine glass on the floor. It shattered, mixing with his blood.
Salim Netjeer, head skewed to the side, smiled...as the blood trickled from his mouth and poured out onto the polished wood.
The assassins were efficient. Rifles still pointed at the massive businessman, they circled his corpse. Their leader put the butt of his rifle against Salim's jaw, pushing against it.
When he was satisfied, the tactical commander pressed his finger to his earpiece. In Russian, he said, "Tell Cypher he's dead. We got...?"
He stopped. He should have been used to the death spasm of a body. Back in Crimea, he'd seen many a freshly dead soldier twitch. Something about the nerves...
Then, his ears picked up on a strange noise. His men, ever reliable, cocked their guns.
The tinkle of bullets hitting the ground was, to the commander, a familiar sound. However, he had never seen bullets come out of wounds before, ejected like so. He saw metal pass back out from the holes in Salim's shirt, completely torn asunder (yet strangely, no blood). The bullets fell to the ground, out of Salim's wounds, as his body resealed itself.
The corpse spasmed. "Ouch," Salim said, eyes fluttering back to life.
"FIRE!"
More bullet hail. This time, in a panic. The room filled with smoke. It was a rookie mistake, the commander thought. Now, they were blind!
Even worse. They were out of bullets. The commander heard the tell-tale click of spent cartridges. He looked to his men, silhouettes in the bullet fog.
Then, he heard the first neck snap, the ensuing grunt, and the body fall. He turned to his left. Another man down. Panicking, he went for a cartridge. It was gone. How?
From out of the fog, a shirtless Salim Netjeer, riddled with muscle, looked down at the commander. He held up the cartridge, smiling.
"Lose this?"
Panicked, the man went to butt the giant brute with his gun. It was no longer in his hands, even though it had only been there
"A second ago," Salim said, looking down and admiring the rifle in his arms. "Oh man, this one's a beauty, isn't she?"
The commander panicked. Who was this man? He turned, looking towards the balcony door. Salim was already behind him.
"GAH!"
The giant, still smiling, grabbed the commander by the throat and held him. "Okay, so first things first..." Saim leaned forward.
He was no longer smiling.
"That...really....F***ING HURT! But not as much as this is going to hurt you."
The commander swallowed. His handler hadn't mentioned anything about Salim Netjeer having a glyph. What was this?
But that was the last thing that travelled through the man's head. Forever. Salim removed the man's tactical mask. He wanted to look into his eyes. Old eyes in a young face. Man had to be in his
"Thirties," Salim said, cocking his head to the side. "Or...is it forties? Huh? What? Fifties? Wow, you look like you're aging in rapid time!"
Salim smiled, watching as wrinkles and lines appeared on the man's face, deepening. His eyes sunk, as did his flesh.
"Eighties, actually? Geez, you're old for a commander. You look like my grandpa Djeb. Hey, sir, you don't look so good! You're practically skin and bones!"
The skeleton that Salim now held in his hands, still dressed in military garb, crumbled at his touch. Nothing but a pile of dust remained.
"Eesh," Salim grimaced. "All over my new carpet?" He sighed, pressing his fingers against his face. "Now, that's much better. So spry! I was going to go for botox next week and now..." he turned to the two corners, hands grabbing their legs in a fetal position, guns abandoned, in the corner of the room. "Now I don't have to! Isn't that great for me?"
Before either of them could respond, they blinked--and found their throats each in Salim's hands. He raised them both into the air, with eyes.
"I always love it how their feet kick out in a panic like that," Salim said. He smiled. "Russia, eh? Come on, it's gotta' be Russia. I can practically smell the vodka on your breath. And why is Russia always the villain, anyway?"
He zeroed in on the soldier on his left. He was a young man with a shaved head. Not exactly good looking, but not ugly either. Kind of plain, actually. Salim looked deeper, into his timeline, tugging on threads and connections...
It really was like a messy sort of tapestry, time. An ugly thing. Beautiful too, in a way. So many threads. Countless. Salim traced the soldier's. All soldiers threads were sort of the same, in the beginning. Kind of boring. War was boring.
Ah, but there...
When not on tactical assignment, the soldier held his desk job in central Moscow. Every day, at 8 AM, he went to the same cafe and ordered the some coffee, from the same barista. He would smile at her. He never asked her out (the soldier was married and too boring and busy to have an affair), but he always showed her courtesy.
Two years from now, that barista finds herself at the edge of a roof. Gray sky. But Moscow is always beautiful in the gray. She looks out, wondering how much it will hurt when she jumps. If she should close her eyes. If the note she left behind was sufficient.
Then, she thinks of the soldier who always comes in. Still always comes in. Something about his smile. She can't explain it. Nobody can, really. But she thinks of herself as part of his life. Just a small part. A smile can mean so much, really.
For some reason (and not even Salim can explain such things) she backs away from the roof. 'What am I doing?' she asks nobody. But it's okay. Sometimes, even the best of us falter and give in to despair.
But not today.
Further, Salim tugs the threads.
Six years from now. The former barista looks into a microscope. She nearly faints at what she sees...but for all the right reasons. Careful always careful, the scientist calls over her assistant. She can't believe that, only a few years ago, she was in a coffee shop paying off a degree she never thought she'd be smart enough to use.
Now, she's sure of it. The cure. She's found the cure...
And Salim knows she has, of course. He's seen where those threads lead...this barista's threads, that is. All over the world. A tangle. A messy, ugly, beautiful tangle. Her delayed death, delaying millions of others by proxy.
In the present, Salim lowered the soldier with a sigh. "No. Not you. You're needed." He looked to the other soldier, the one struggling in the grip of his right hand. "You, however...I can see nothing but an endless sea of empty bottles and bad decisions. Consider this a mercy..."
As with the commander, the soldier aged in rapid time. It wasn't a painful process, or at least it never seemed that way the thousands of times Salim has done it before. They just look...tired, in the end. Resigned.
Until? Only dust.
The soldier, the one that's still alive that is, looked up at Salim, trembling.
Salim stared down down at him. Still, smiling. Always, smiling, like a certain canine hunting across the desert dunes of Egypt. "Run."
The soldiers stammered. He tripped over his feet. "Goddess..."
"Your Goddess isn't here now," Salim said, as he watched the soldier run out the door. "Only...me."
Quiet now. Salim glanced over at the wine stain, the ashes of men, and the pile of bullets that had been inside him, only a few minutes previous.
"Ah, Semyon. You dirty rat. Doing exactly what I hoped you would." He looked down at the soldier, with his neck stepped, and pressed the front of his shoe against his cheek.
Salim walked over to the desk, watching as the last sand in the hour glass fell from the top. Satisfied, he placed his finger on the Chalice of Wisdom, pondering Semyon's intent, even now. He grabbed the eye-shaped pendant and held it close to his chest.
"Hmmm. I think I may just need to pay the Tsarina a little visit..."
To Be Continued
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