Chapter 6: Don't You Know, It's the End of the World

Back when he was living in New York, whenever Spike was feeling down, he'd go to the diner, pop a coin in the juke, and order a burger and milkshake (with fries) of course. 

The eve before the big flight out to Russia, to face Firebird at the World Championships in Kitezh, Spike felt that everyone could use a diner visit now.

Of course, diners in Texas weren't the same as the ones back home. Still, anywhere with black and white linoleum, chipped, booths, coffee stains on the counter tops, chrome, and tired looks, would do. 

As the team gathered around booths, drawing attention from locals (what were so many big, handsome men doing in one place) he popped a quarter into the chrome-faced jukebox and watched as the needle hit the vinyl.

Honkey-tonk guitars, spicy snares, and Gene Vincent crooning about 'Racing the Devil'. Seemed appropriate enough to set the stage, across a black-and-white tiled floor and glow of neon signage on the wall.

To walk into the downtown diner, one could easily spot the locals from the strange, beefy fighters on the outskirts of town. The spellbreakers always received mixed company, wherever they travelled. Spike watched an elderly couple eying Akanemaru, the GSA's newest recruit, as he stared intently at his cup of coffee. 

The giant, white-haired, red-skinned, and half-horned oni looked up. "What you starin' at, huh?" That sent his gawkers scrambling for the exit. 

It also distracted the scant few patrons and diners from the crowd of spellbreakers gathered around Colt's table. Seated next to him, Lily and Slayer were the guests of honor. Spike thought Lily lacked her usual knowing smile and charm tonight. She was shaken. Tired. He'd heard only whispers of what had happened in Athens, but it didn't sound pleasant. Spike admired her guts. Of all the gang, she was the only one who had squared off against Semyon Grigorivich personally.

Spike wasn't entirely sure how Slayer of all people had made a resurgence, but if Lily trusted him, then Spike decided he was probably alright. Even so, the prettyboy 'knight' kept throwing him and Cian dirty looks.

Lily spoke, her voice horse and tired. "As it stands," she said, looking at John Henry, who nodded to her with encouragement, "Semyon currently has possession of all seven Chalices, including the one he acquired from Australia."

Her briefing was cut off by the sound of Deadboy slamming his fist on the table, knocking plates and silver wear. Tiger, sitting next to him, immediately placed his hand on his knee for comfort.

"I'm gonna rip his head off his neck," Daemian seethed. "And that's watering down what I'm really gonna' do to him."

Lily tried offering assurance. "I strongly believe he won't harm your Auntie and Uncle," she said. "Not until he's used them for this ritual of his, and intel suggests that won't be until we're all gathere."

Deadboy tensed. "Suggests? That's as helpful as tits on a bull."

"Hey," Tiger started. "I understand you're stressed. I care for your family too. Aradia's intelligence is already looking into the matter. We'll get your Auntie and Uncle back."

If that placated Deadboy or not, he didn't show it on his face.

Spike, standing (and blocked out by the taller, larger frames of his peers) interjected. "Salim said Koschei was gonna' try and use the Chalices in a failed ritual he tried to pull off a few hundred years ago."

Mr. Iron frowned. "Ko...shay?"

"Semyon's real name," Spike clarified. "He's uh...older than he looks. His glyph has kept him alive for a long time."

Mr. Iron raised his eyebrows. "How long is long?"

"Several hundred years," Spike said. "Deadass."

Colt frowned. "This crap just gets weirder and weirder."

Tiger gave him a quizzical look. "Boss, you know my magick teacher is a literal dragon that lives at the bottom of Singapore harbor, right? That our nemesis should be a few centuries old--"

"--And also Rasputin," Spike quickly added.

"And also Rasputin, should hardly come as a shock. Wait, what?"

Cian, standing with his back against the booth, shook his head and crossed his arms. "Just as how much it's feckin nuts that Salim is a...time mummy, you said?" He narrowed his eyes at Spike.

The New Yorker threw his hands up. "Look, all I know is Salim said that Koschei might be planning to unleash the equivalent of a friggin' magickal atomic bomb."

Sobering words on their own, but no more sobering than the news broadcast on the TV set above the diner counter. Concerned waitresses and harried truck drivers had their eyes trained to the chyron, mentioning 'Potential nuclear escalations between the USA and the new provisional Russian government.'

"Great," Iggy Astro snorted, tossing back their pink mane of hair, "We might get ourselves blown into little bits of himbo chunks before we even see who becomes world champion. By either a literal bomb or the weirder option."

El Amante, still cuddling his romantic partner, placed his masked head into his hands. "Not even my magick can sway the hearts of men like that. There's something....evil sweeping the world right now. A bad energy. Whatever Semyon has unleashed, all hearts on Earth can feel it."

Nobody could deny that.

"Salim kept mentioning a...timeline," Spike said, scratching his head. "How it was corrupt or 'wrong' or somethin'. I wonder if this has anything to do with it."

"It's a known thing that magick can shape reality," Joseph said. "My Master has spoken of great, sealed magick before. Forbidden powers. It's entirely possible this is something Semyon is attempting to unleash." He smiled gently at Lily. "Though I would defer to our woman on the inside, for that."

That woman, Lily, grimaced. "Right." Summoning her strength, she placed her hands on the table and did her best to sound authoritative. "I had hoped to consult with Dr. Reyes before all of this went down, but he's currently in the Congo searching for a prehistoric organism that may still exist there."

"He's searching for what?" Icewolf blinked.

Kengo answered him. "Looking for dinosaurs."

"Oh. Huh."

Lily continued. "I digress. In tandem with the U.N.'s peacekeepers, Aradia special task force have been cleared to assist in the arrest of Semyon Grigorivich, who is now an internationally wanted man."

John Henry digested this information. "On Russian soil? While they're nuke happy?"

Lily shrugged. "The new provisional government is factionalized and unstable. One half might be eager to irradiate the US, but the other half fears any vestigial powers from the royal family even more than enemies abroad. In his own time, Rasputin was greatly despised and nearly led to a revolt. Now that Firebird has thrown him to the proverbial wolves and handed over all of their information--"

Colt interrupted. "Sorry, miss, Firebird did that to their own guy?"

This time, Slayer spoke up. "Vahni Rage is their president now, it would seem." 

The diner fell silent. Eyes darted. Jaws dropped. Spike tried to hide a somewhat satisfied smile, however. Look at you go, handsome bastard.

"Hell really has frozen over," Iggy smirked.

"Anyways," Lily continued, "Aradia has now been formally tasked with apprehending the man known as Semyon Grigorivich, under S-Level Clearance." She paused. "Which means extraordinary force, if necessary."

Deadboy shrugged. "F*** it; I'll do it myself if I have to. Saves all your blokes a bullet."

Lily continued. "Operation Hermes. Aradia will have its task force members disguised as spectators, hiding among the audience. Apparently, many high profile persons will be in attendance, so security will already be high. We'll use it to our advantage. According to the program, both Semyon and Colt are scheduled to appear at the close of the night and present the world championship belt to the new or defending champion. At this point, Aradia will act."

"And I'll stand the hell back," Colt added, hands up.

"But isn't Mr. Salim the world champion?" Kengo, standing around the table, asked.

Lily sighed. "And conspicuously absent. Based on my findings, and Spike's...unusual experience with him, I'm going to go out on a limb and say...we can no longer trust Salim Netjeer."

The tables fell silent again. Only the jukebox and the clinking of china cups against saucers intruded on this sobering moment.

Lily took a deep breath. "Salim is...more powerful than I realized. He was also a friend and mentor, so this isn't exactly easy for me. Mr. Netjeer had multiple chances to stop Koschei. Why hasn't he yet? It's safe to presume he has his own agenda. Assume him to be very dangerous. Aradia hopes to apprehend him as well, as one of their former founders, and take him in for questioning."

Joseph held up his hand. "Sorry, Lily, but since when does Aradia have enforcement powers?"

The girl looked sick. "Since last week when a special emergency session by the U.N. Security Council, International Criminal Court, and INTERPOL met and granted them to us."

Spike could tell that didn't set well with White Tiger, but he himself knew little of international affairs. 

"Not even INTERPOL can make arrests," Joseph pointed out. "But Aradia now can?"

Needless to say, the atmosphere in the diner was bleak. Colt, deciding on shifting the mood, brought everyone's attention back to the championships at hand. "It's a packed card, folks, so here's where we stand. Titan..."

Gio, who looked very distracted and disheartened by everything (and nobody loved seeing him sad) looked up. "Hmm?"

"Congrats, big guy, you made it this far. You'll be going up against Bear Misha."

Gio answered by flexing his biceps and causing one of the waitresses behind him to swoon into a booth. Rosa, seated next to her (new) boyfriend, Gio, rolled her eyes. "He's always doing that."

"John," Colt continued, placing the round robin sheet over the diner menu so everyone could take a look, "you'll be up against Firebird's current champ, Ivan the Wolf. Joseph? You're going against Vahni Rage, fresh off his match with Spike."

White Tiger bowed his head in respect.

"Good luck!" Spike said, through his teeth. "Hey, I only beat him by interference..."

The other spellbreakers grumbled. Colt, in particular, gave Spike a dark look. "About that..."

Spike didn't wish to press his luck. "Right," he said, hands buried in pockets. "You all have fun in Russia. I'll be cheering from the side-lines."

"The hell you will, boy," Colt said. "After dinner, come around the hotel and I'll have you sign a new contract. Don't make a big deal of it, or I may change my mind."

Spike's eyes lit up. The other guys and gals all exchanged satisfied smiles. "Really?"

"AH!" Colt said, holding up a firm finger. "What did I say? You're on thin ice, boy. Consider this a probationary period. Then again, we're all probably gonna die anyway..." He shrugged. Nobody could tell if he was joking or not. "With that out of the way, I say we stuff our faces and forget our troubles for the night. We'll worry about the end of the world tomorrow." He sighed. "If there's a tomorrow."

The spellbreakers broke off into separate conversations. Though the harried waitstaff had initially eyed them with concern, their charm (and massive food bill) soon turned the restaurant in their favor. The mood lightened. 

"Are you okay?" John Henry said, taking a seat beside Lily and Slayer. Compared to the young woman, the man was a skyscraper.

The light magi stared into a plate of half-finished French fries. "I haven't had much time to process it all." She looked up at Slayer. "The night...of the break-in to Aradia HQ, Slayer staid with me and talked it over."

John Henry lowered his stare at the somewhat evasive Firebird member. "And you trust him?"

"I do," Lily said.

"But," Slayer himself began, "trust must be earned. I may have crossed swords with you in the past..." He looked at Spike and Cian, engaged in some verbal altercation over milkshakes. "But Semyon filled my brain with honeyed words, and I acted imprudently. The carnage that man wreaked is...unforgivable. As I told Lady Suarez here..."

"You can just call me Lily."

"As I told Lily here, she has my sword. And since she is your esteemed patron, you have my sword too, Sir Iron." The knight stood and dropped to his knees, bowing his head in front of a bewildered John Henry.

"Uh...you don't need to do that," Mr. Iron said, awkwardly. "But if Lily trusts you, I trust you." He placed a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "You're a tough cookie, Lil. But even the tough need rest. If you want to talk about what happened, you can count on us."

"Thank you," Lily said, with complete sincerity. She sighed. "I must see this through to the end, which means I'll need to partition my feelings for a little while. And then." She popped a French fry into her mouth. "Bring on the therapy."

"I'll pay for it!" Colt said, perhaps a bit too cheerily, coming up behind the others (a beer in his hand). "Err...Buck mentioned trying to get a counsellor on site. Lady knows we'll need it after this. Should have probably listened and got one in sooner, but...I was too damn proud."

"He'll come around," Lily assured him. "I know my best friend. He's a moody boy, but he comes to reason eventually."

Colt and her both hoped as much, but there was a silent understanding between father and childhood friend that this time might be different. In any case, Colt politely invited Mr. Iron to come sit with him by the counter, with the promise of a cold beer.

John Henry was happy to oblige. "I talked to Sandra," he said.

"And?"

"We came to an understanding. She knows the dangers of what I'm about to do. I do too. Goddess knows we all do."

Across the way, the same couple that had given Akanemaru a dirty look, did the same to Mr. Iron.

"Sometimes," he went on, "I don't think this world is worth fighting for at all." He acknowledged the sullen oni, still sitting by his lonesome. "I've come to appreciate many of us are in similar struggles. But, with a kid on the way...something's changed. I need to fight to make this place better for them. Even if it costs me. I've already made arrangements, should I--"

"Don't say it," Colt said. "No. Nothing will happen. Other than you kicking all kinds of ass, that is. I'll lay down my life for you, John. And...er...since we're being so candid. If I may...I really should have pushed harder for you, back when we still young studs."

"Speak for yourself, cowboy," John said, with a smirk. "I'm still a young stud!"

"Ahahah! That's my tag partner, alright! But I'm serious. If someone deserved to be the champ back then, it was you. I was too prideful, worrying about my own status, to show you the support you needed. I know words don't mean squat, but..."

Mr. Iron clinked his beer bottle with Colt's. "Our blood runs thick, cowboy. You don't need to say anything. I feel the love. And, you're right, I am gonna' kick ass. I mean, someone has to show these little boys who's really in charge, right?"

Elsewhere in the diner, other intimate conversations were held over food and drink. In a twist of fate, the 'couples' of the GSA found themselves seated at the same both. Iggy (hair done up in a ponytail and wearing a cute, gingham button up) and Victor (T-shirt and signature mask) sat across from Daemian and Joseph, watching the two in the same manner as spectators viewing wild animals at a zoo.

"I don't even want a milkshake."

"Bloody hell, Joey," Daemian pouted, staring at Joseph's untouched vanilla milkshake (Daemian, naturally, got chocolate). "A few kilojoules won't hurt you, champ!" He coughed him, gently, on the arm.

Joseph frowned. "I need to be in top condition for the match."

"Ugh, your stress is contagious." Daemian sipped his milkshake and eyed his companions across the table, as if suddenly aware of their presence. "And what the hell are you looking at, mask face?" He looked towards Iggy with considerable more patience. "Bestie?"

"You two are so damn cute," Iggy cooed. "You'll give me diabetes before either of those milkshakes do."

El Amante cushioned his hands against his cheek in rapturous admiration. "Ah, young love. It's one of my favorite kinds of love. And I love all kinds of love."

Daemian stuck out his tongue. "Blech! What are you talkin' about it, you dogs?"

But Joseph was, if anything, amused by Daemian's irritation. "I think they have a point, Lachlan. I can call you that in public now, right?"

The dark magi turned bright red, but nodded shyly.

"Where is your big, sexy buddy?" Iggy asked. Over at the counter, Akanemaru suddenly cocked his head, interested.

"It's Brax's hot yoga night down at the rec center," Daemian explained. "It's how he destresses. Mad lad knows his asanas. What...what are you looking at me like that for, you weirdo?"

Joseph, ever cool-headed and charming, smiled and sipped his milkshake. "Just reminded how cute you are."

"Grrr! I'm not cute, I'm scary!"

"Two things can be true," Iggy added with a smirk. 

Next to them, El Amante gave them a kiss on the cheek. "Ah, but it is the nature of love to attract the opposite. Dark and light. Hero and villain."

"You know I just play a bad 'they'," Iggy huffed. "I'm actually a very nice person. What? Don't give me that smug look, Daemian, I'll arm bar you!"

Thankfully, Victor was there to keep the peace. "Daemian, my dark amor...why don't you tell Joseph what you've been brainstorming with me?"

The dark magi's instinct was to grab and brandish his fork. "Don't you use your pelvic magics on ME, love witch."

"Hahaha! My handsome, I weave no sorcery. This is all you."

"Ugh, fine." Daemian stabbed his fork into his overcooked steak, making everyone at the table flinch. "I'm not very good with my emotions," he began.

Iggy smiled. "We've noticed.

"But...Joseph...I've been thinking." The punkish Australian scratched his neck and bit his lip. "Do...do you wanna go 'round with me?"

Joseph stared at him incredulously. "I...beg your pardon?"

"If I can translate Australian," Iggy said, clearing their throat, "I believe he said..."

"Boyfriennnnnndssss." Daemian elongated the word, pointing to himself and Joseph. "Youuuuu....mee....boyfriends?"

Joseph glared. "I will hit you. Actually, I won't. Because I do not hit my boyfriends."

He punctuated the statement by giving Daemian a quick, but potent, kiss on the lips. "Unless...they ask me to?"

Daemian, practically swooning, tried very hard not to turn red. "I...would let you hit me. Ugh. Fine. Okay, Cards on the table, mate, you're the coolest cat I've ever tussled with, and you make me CRAZY. Crazier than normal! Which is pretty damn crazy. Let's try this stupid thing. See how it goes."

Though everyone could tell Joseph was overjoyed, the Tiger kept his cool. If anything, it was El Amante, whose eyes had practically turned into two beating hearts (while next to him, Iggy pretended not to be happy) who was marking out. 

"It just so happens I brought a gift to commemorate this occasion," Joseph said, putting a small, black, gift box on the table.

Daemian eyed it suspiciously. "What if I hadn't asked you out?"

"Oh, I knew you would." 

"Grrr." Regardless, Daemian picked up the box, turned it over, inspected it, sniffed it, bit into it once for good measure, before yanking off the box and tossing it over his shoulder. 

Behind him, a gruff, oni voice growled. "WHAT PUNK JUST THREW THAT AT ME!?"

Inside the box, cleaned and pressed, was Daemian's old, green, black, and gold wrestling trunks--the gear he'd worn to his epic, championship belt defending fight with White Tiger (and lost). Per White Tiger's gimmick, he'd claimed the villain's gear. Daemian had always chalked it up to him having a weird underwear fetish.

But in this moment, he could not contain his happiness. "You jerk..." 

"It's no longer my trophy. After seeing you fight like hell, and be a good guy for once, I think you deserve it back."

"I am not a good guy." Deadboy sighed, and pulled his man in for a hug. "But...I appreciate this."

"Well, this is all very adorable," Iggy said, eying their overly enamoured (and overly invested) luchador, partner. "When all of this nonsense with the world championships is over, I'm going to pack the biggest bowl, lock myself in a room with this hunk here, and not come out for a whole two days. This saving the world stuff is terrible for my skin."

"Two days?" Victor, snapping out of his adoration, asked. "That'd be a new record. Are you sure you could survive it?"

"I'd rather die in the throws of passion with you," Iggy pursed, stroking their boyfriend's chin, "than to some smelly, immortal warlock."

Victor lost his composure. "Oh, mi amorrr." He went for Iggy, ready to tackle him and kiss him up in that booth.

Fortunately, being Victor's main lover, they'd built up some immunity by now, and was able to squeeze past El Amante's love takedown and make their way to the counter. "But first, coffee."

The pink haired rock star noticed Akanemaru, still sitting glumly by themselves, looking absolutely miserable. Being the new blood, and being a bit different on top of that, the red oni hadn't exactly gelled with the rest of the boys yet.

Frustratingly, it tugged on Iggy's heart strings. Maybe Spike's infectious consideration for other people's wellbeing had rubbed off on them.

Minha deusa, I'm gonna' have to start charging by the hour. "Mind if I sit here?" Iggy said, taking the stool next to the hulking oni, who had still not figured out human clothing yet, and was wearing nothing but a leather jacket and daisy duke shorts on their massive, bulking frame. "I f***ing love your hair."

"Eh?" The muscle monster looked Iggy up and down, as if they were an entirely different creature themselves. Though Aka considered punching them and walking away, the spirit of comradery took hold, and they instead shrugged. "Er...sure, knock yourself out, I guess. Warnin' you though, pinkie, I do bite."

Iggy smiled. "Same."

While the other spellbreakers feasted and and revelled, psyching themselves up for the tournament to come, Spike--still rattled and weary--slunk back over to the juke, seeking the comfort of music. He was surprised to fine Cian there, lazily flipping through the selections, but clearly just finding an excuse not to to talk to anybody else. 

Spike thought, at the very least, Robbie would take this 'we might never get a chance to say it again' turn of events to confess his feelings for Cian, but either the Canadian jock had moved on, or his competitive French fry eating contest with Kengo (that had already begun drawing a crowd) was more important to him now.

Cian looked up at Spike. "I..."

At this point, Cian could tell Spike he was his long lost cousin and the New Yorker would merely blink. "Yeah?" 

The Irish stud flinched, not used to such a deflated version of his old rival. "I'm...sorry about what happened with Buck." 

This is too nice of you, Cian. Do I really look that depressed? "Yeah, man, me too."

Cian looked somewhere between straining to find the right words to say, or throwing up. Spike was curious which would come first. "I wanted to say that I'm glad to know someone like you." He sighed. "Even if you're sometimes really annoying."

That did put a smile on Spike's face. "Yeah, same." He looked at the red head. "Is this...where we hug?"

"Yeah, sure, why not."

Though an awkward approach, Spike was glad to find his torso wrapped up in Cian's beefy arms.

"WOW, you give good hugs," Spike sputtered, genuinely surprised. "I've been missing out."

Cian blushed and let go. "Well..."

"I mean I always thought you were cute, but..." Spike coughed. "You're uh...beefy. Very hot."

If Spike meant to kill Cian by way of making all the blood rush to his face, it was working. "I...wow. Uh." He tried to clear his throat. "Well, I dunno what's going on with you and Buck but maybe...after we're done saving the world...we can uh...do something about that?"

Spike's woes were superseded by his libido. And suddenly, getting his butt kicked by Cian seemed a lot more fun than how it used to. 

"I'm still gonna break your face someday," Cian quickly added, as to not completely show Spike his hand.

"Heh. I look forward to it."

Apparently that was all Cian needed to say. He slunk back towards the others, leaving Spike to his lonesome. Spike didn't mind the solitude, for once. Flipping through the records on tap, he found one that instantly brought back a favorite memory. "I Walk the Line". A Johnny Cash croon.

"Buck liked this song..." Spike said, putting a quarter in the juke. It was a slower, thoughtful song with a country twang and a touch of the lonesome, not one of the rockabilly or big band numbers Spike preferred. Very Buck.

As Spike nodded his head along, wondering where his erstwhile crush was now, the diner bells announced the entrance of a new patron. Spike, half-sunken into a day dream, smiled and thought how perfect it would be if he looked up to see Buck, soaked from the pouring rain (it wasn't raining) smiling at him in his usual sarcastic way.

"I knew you would..." Spike, forgetting himself, said as he looked up. "Oh."

The tall man in the burgundy peacoat was, with his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, almost barely recognizable., After all, Spike had only ever seen Vahni Rage in the most revealing trunks, with all of his muscles on display. Turned out, the man knew how to dress himself.

Spike had also never seen Vahni Rage, the man with the permanent scowl, look...somewhat awkward before. "Oh."

Out of shock, Spike fell back onto the juke's control panel, sending the mechanism off kilter and making the record scratch and stop.

Everyone else in the room looked up. And held their breath. "Ohhhhhhh."

Dead silent in the diner. Rage turned his head and surveyed all the wide-eyed gawkers staring at his illustrious form. "Is...there something on my face?"

Before anybody in the room could decide whether this dramatic entrance called for blows, Slayer St. George sat up from his chair next to Lily, and gave a deep bow.

"Sire!"

The knight-themed spellbreaker approached his old comrade and got to his knee.

"N-no," Rage said, looking askance. "Not here. Not necessary. Please, for the love of gods, stand up, Sev."

"Right!" The long haired, pretty boy knight did as told.

"Slayer. I am happy to see you are not dead. I...owe you an apology. I should have usurped Semyon sooner and came to find you. I was blinded...by ambition." He glared at the others, his head suddenly ablaze. "AGAIN, WHAT ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT?"

All the other spellbreakers broke their stare and returned to their separate conversations.

By now, Spike had decided that his old-time rival was no longer a threat. He approached Rage, though cautiously. "Vahni..."

"Spike."

"Rage."

"Sailorboy."

Well, this was getting nowhere fast. Firebird's big, bad champion--outside of a ring context---struck Spike as the strong, silent type. Perhaps, even a little awkward. Maybe he was more comfortable talking with his fists. 

Spike looked at Colt, who gave him a confident nod. If things turned south, Spike was pretty sure the entire GSA could take him down, if needed. After all, he had done it (almost) single-handedly.

This wasn't a ring. And there was no reason to keep up the anomosity anymore, not when there were greater stakes at hand. "Is it true," Spike began, "that you're Firebird's president now? Also, did you...just apologise to someone?"

Spike anticipated a punch to the face, but instead, Rage gave him a sly smirk...and not a completely malevolent one either. "That smack to the head you gave me must have done funny things. I hadn't gotten a chance to speak to you after the incident in the hospital. I would like a word. Alone."

"Are...you going to kill me?"

"If I killed you here it would be boring, and honestly don't flatter yourself."

"Okay. Because if you had to kill me, I'd like some say in the matter."

"I have a feeling it involves my massive biceps around your neck, but I digress." His eyes darted to the door. "Outside. Now."

Thinking he was about to get himself into a street fighter, Spike turned and gave his crew an assuring 'thumbs up', letting them know he could handle this on his own. Colt and Mr. Iron, however, were wary.

In the back alley, Spike expected himself to get jumped by Rage and the rest of Firebird, but was so 'over it' that he welcomed a scrap, just to distract himself. There were no looming shadows, no Redbacks or King Anubises lurking behind the dumpsters or garbage bags.

Spike began. "Are..."

It was only for Rage's gentle, firm approach--a hand behind Spike's neck--that Spike allowed him to kiss him on the lips. The heat was still there, but less intense. Spike felt...congratulated. Shy, at first, he returned the gesture, letting Rage (several inches taller than himself) hold him and kiss him passionately, but with the welcome suggestion of deeper respect.

"A kiss, for my conqueror," Rage said, breaking away. "And the man I will destroy in battle someda...oh...no?" He looked at Spike and quickly (unexpectedly) stepped back, hands up, as if he was concerned (concerned!) that he'd offended him.

"No, I am VERY into it. I have a history with fire magi."

"What?"

"Never mind. It's just..." Spike's head spun. What was going on? Why was he letting Rage kiss him? And why did he...suddenly feel very safe around him? The man was the worst heel of the lot, after all.

As if admitting to a deep embarrassment, Rage slunk his shoulders back and sighed. "Right. So...if you want undeniable proof that I am here on good terms, then know this, Sailorboy--I have erased my mark of humility, my brand, from every worthless little jobber who ever dare--"

Spike lowered his stare. "No....what do we call them?"

Now it was Rage who looked like he might be ill. "Worthless....little opponent?"

"Try again."

"Ugh. Opponent who deserves dignity and respect. I have...stuck to our terms. No more branding." He thought about it. "Unless consensually. I still think my mark on your--"

"I think we should start over," Spike cut in. He was happy to ride the awkwardness; power through. "After the fight? Clean slate."

He may as well offered Rage a hundred dollar bill covered in snot. It was welcome, in a way, but undignified. "I...suppose."

I'm an adult. I beat this man before. I can have a conversation, man-to-man. "First, I wanted to thank you. The orphanage..."

"Don't make a big deal of it, lion."

"Yeah, well you sort of did the OPPOSITE thing of burning dow--"

"...What did I just say?"

"Geez, you're scary."

"Not so, when you get to know me. You saved my life, Spike. I think we're more than even. Plus, Amrita likes you, which is probably even more miraculous than besting me in combat. I have to hand it to you, my lion, you surpassed my expectations. But...from the moment we first met, I sensed you would."

What was going on here? Spike had no idea if Rage was trying to confess his love for him, make a business deal, or make peace before he slaughtered him in a back alley. Admittedly, all the prospects sounds exciting. "Is this where you burn me alive?" Spike asked.

"Perhaps I only wish to set your heart on fire." 

It was the first time Spike had ever seen Rage smile. Really smile. He was...handsome. Charming. Classical. A man with a capital M.

Spike's heart sunk for Buck, just as it rose for this new, unexpected contender in the ring of romance. Spike had promised Cian, as well as himself, that he might change his ways and not instantly fall head over heels for...well...another heel. Rage was making that quite difficult. 

"A truce," Rage said, extending his hand. "And this is me breaking kayfabe, so you can count on it." 

Spike looked down. Rage's hand was on fire. No, literally, it was burning. Spike frowned. "Okay, what--"

"It won't burn you," Rage said, sincerely. "My fire only burns when I want it to. This is how you know I'm being honest. Whether you wish to take it, is entirely up to you."

"I've seen you break twink's wrists when they take your hand at the start of a match."

"As I said, Spike. I cannot foist respect or trust upon you."

"You...cannot...'first' respect?"

"What? No, Foist. FOIST!"

"FIRST? YOU KEEP SAYING 'FIRST'!"

"Oh gods, your accent..."

Damn, if he's using words like 'foist'. Spike took his hand. True to his word, it didn't burn. It was warm. Pleasant.

  
"Kahnu."

"Hm?"

Raage blinked. "It's...my name. Vahni is a synomym for 'agni', the personification of fire. I admit, I went for the low hanging fruit. But..." He smirked again, and eyed Spike up and down. "I suppose I do love low hanging fruit."

"WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN!?"

"It means your silly attempts at anger amuse me greatly." With that said, Rage reached out and flicked Spike's nose playfully. "Perhaps you need someone who can give you lessons in intimidation."

"Bully me."

"What?"

"Nothing." Spike coughed. "My real name is Sammy. Or Samuel."

"Now that is cute. Well, it seems we find ourselves at the end of the world. How fitting. Are your prepared for what lies ahead in Kitezh."

"No." 

"Your honesty is refreshing, if not slightly disappointing." Rage paused, and gave his words some deeper thought. "I will kill Semyon myself. I should think the gods will understand. You and your band of men need not stain their hands with blood."

Spike was nonplussed. "I just assumed you'd already..."

"Taken a life before? Hmm. Perhaps I will keep you guessing. It's...more fun that way. Spike, when this is over, I would very much like to speak to you again. Either to bash your head in during a rematch, or, perhaps...lighter conversation over over tea."

"I prefer the option with food." Spike smiled.

And, miracle of miracles, Rage smiled back. "What a tremendous power you have, my lion. Not your magick. Nor your strength. But your charm. Something so many others lack."

Spike watched as Rage turned around and walked towards the alley's entrance. "It may have even worked on me."

---

Lonely and dark sat the ruined throne room of the hollow castle, buffeted by snowy winds, trailing white across broken mosaics and stone floors. Even during its brief reign Kitezh had not been a particularly large citadel, though its bell towers and steeples were indeed grand. At the border of the steppes, situated between the bloodthirsty empires of Rus and Khanate, the sunken city had integrated the characteristics of cultures both East and West--half Arabian night, half Slavic fantasy.

When Koschei had first presided over Kitezh, he was no king. In truth, the mad monk--a shadow across the candlelit corridors (why bother with electricity?) had never sought to rule. Leadership made one an easy target. To be the person pulling the strings of king or queen, however? That was always the best position.

Which is why, seated upon the throne now--half of his body burned beyond recognition by that woman's potent magick--Semyon/Koschei found himself at odds with his new status. To rule, at last, would be a strange thing. But in the world to come, perhaps it would suit him.

Still, for all his many years, for all the centuries spent manipulating and coercing the rich and powerful, the mad monk expected more allies so close to the end. He'd been too precious with Vahni Rage. He could see that now. He had hoped to control Rage's power, but he'd proved a sword with a double edge. Nevertheless, seven Chalices of Divine might glittered beautifully in the firelight, situated at the mad magi's feet. When the time came, he would put them to use.

Castrated. Burnt. Aged, despite his magick, this body of his was wearing thin. It would all be worth it. Since there were no reasons to keep up appearances any longer, the former president of Firebird, and the former advisors to the Tsar, decided to drop all pretences. 

He was Koschei, the Deathless, the king of Kitezh from eras past. His double glyphs of death and life--supposedly an impossible combination--had kept him alive through countless wars and fallen empires. He could survive another day or two, until the ritual was complete.

Lonely were the halls of Kitezh, and so when Koschei's ears perked up at intrusion, he sat back on his cold throne and smiled, waiting

"Here. At the end. I expected a few familiar faces might show up." The magi had no eyebrows to raise--they had been burned off in the attempt to wrangle the Chalice of Vitality and the magi of Space and Radiation. Instead, the monk lowered his stare at the shadow at the edge of the audience room. "I cannot say, by an stretch of the imagination, did I expects yours."

Recida Di Sangro, in black furs, appeared the fusion of widow and winter witch. The beautiful Italian Alchemist stepped forward, into the firelight. 

"How fitting that we should both rule among ruins, Semyon Grigorivich." 

"I go by my true name, now. Koschei. The serpent has shed its skin. So too do I shed all guises."

"By rights, I should kill you."

The man laughed. "My dear, I am sure you could try." 

Both of them knew she wasn't here to attempt an assassination. 

Koschei spoke. "That referee at Rage and Spike's match," the scabbed over and burnt man began, "he had a curious tattoo on his chest. It bore an uncanny resemblance to your necklace."

The Alchemist pressed her gloved fingers to her ouroboros pendant. This was not the moment for deception. It was time for the naked truth. "The Alchemists seek power, yes. We align ourselves with the forces that most favor our agenda. To that extent, we  know what you're doing here, with the ritual. We Alchemists have attempted it ourselves, before."

Kosehi tilted his head to the side, and waited.

Good. She had his attention. "Though not without The Chalices. The fact that you managed to round them up, and under Aradia's thumb no less..."

"And what makes you think I'll share any of my glory with your kind?"

"Because your new world will need an army," Redica stated plainly. "And if we cannot be at the top, then we'll settle for the next best position. Also, because Aradia is at your front door, and we would be more than happy to help let them in. We could tell them exactly what you're doing and how to disrupt it." 

"And what will you do when they turn around and arrest you and your band of slithering snakes?"

"Spiting you will be as joyous as working with you. We see either option as a win. But...would it not be easier to work together?"

"...Go on."

"The Alchemists wish to hedge their bets with you, Koschei. While I, personally, was against it, I did quickly realize that we share a common foe." The woman carefully approached the throne. "One whom, I daresay, has played you and I against each other quite successfully up until this point. I am speaking of Sarapis, the Eternal. Otherwise known as Salim Netjeer, our jackal-headed double agent."

Semyon's hands, gripping the arm rests of his throne, tightened. "He remains my final obstacle. It's a stalemate. He cannot kill me, nor I, him. In truth, nobody knows what he's planning. I sense his desires go beyond mere revenge, however."

"Which is why the Alchemists are prepared to rise above such pettiness and extend an olive branch. To defeat a common foe." The woman snapped her fingers. In the darkness behind her, several sets of lights--eyes--burned in the darkness. The light from their orbitals illuminated large, bulky shapes. Living statues.

"And so, Koschei, we offer a gift of truce." She smirked. "Which is all to say...no hard feelings burning down my ancestral abode."

Semyon's eyes turned upwards, to the enchanted armors lurking in the dark. "Golems?" he said, deeply intrigued.

"When the alchemists of Prague and Rome were divided by schism, we managed to steal a few of their ancient secrets. As you can understand, Koschei, we are fully aware that now is the time to use every weapon in our arsenal. We lend them to you, willingly."

"Aren't they beautiful indeed. And such craftsmanship." Koscehi, clad in robes of gold and black, head balld and scabbed from the Eldress and her scalding magick, placed his hands on his lap. "Lady Di Sangro, I do think there may be a role for you in the world to come..."

To Be Continued...