Chapter 10: Lazarus

Everything, white and endless. 

Boundless. 

Green diamonds, rhombuses, vague shapes swirled past. 

There was Spike, and there was...not Spike. Part of everything. All of this. 

The outside. Maybe this is how life really was. Everything was outside, and infinite. This realm was the real. Where Spike was, a temporary state. A playground. 

Wherever Spike was, whatever Spike was now, this...purest form, they were okay with that. They were at peace. They were warm. They part of an endless energy.

But...not so.

----

Car horns and voices. Winter wind.

Spike blew warm air into his gloved hands, rubbing them together in the chill air of the Lower East Side. The cross walked changed, and Spike stepped off the curb, crossing Houston Street, taking note of the banks of old, crystalized snowfall across awnings and rooftops. 

Katz's Delicatessen sat on the corner. Most Manhattanites were convinced it was older than the Statue of Liberty. While mile high skyscapers of gold and bronze had grown tall around it, joined by massive colossi upholding skyways and byways across their shoulders, the deli remained an ever unchanged institution serving the intersections of New York.

It was a bright day. Bright, and cold. Spike stepped through the door, to the jingling of bells--into the wide, warm, rowdy room, rife with the scent of eggs, cooked meat, sauerkraut, and fresh rye bread. He forgot, momentarily, who he was meant to meet for lunch. 

He looked around.

A skinny, clean-shaven man, with white hair (he could have been Spike if Spike was older and had never touched a dumbbell in his life) waved him over. Spike smiled and walked over to the table, passing...well, there were other customers here, yes, weren't there? Some faces familiar. Some, not so much. With every step Spike took, it felt like something was on the tip of his tongue. This was just a casual lunch with his father. 

So, why did his heart feel like it might overflow with emotions?

"I already ordered you an egg cream," Lawrence Waterford sniffed as he put down the menu. "You're welcome."

"Thanks, pops," Spike beamed. He removed his coat, draped it over the chair, and sat down. "It feels like I haven't seen you in..."

"Forever?" The gentle man folded his arms (probably the most muscular part of his body) on the table. "I've been waiting."

"Aww geez, pops, you don't have to be so mean about it! Err...have you been waiting long?"

"I'm just teasing you, son," the man said. He wore a green cardigan. Looking at him now (Spike couldn't remember the last time...) he realized he'd also inherited his broad shoulders. "So, I hear you're beating up men in your underwear now? Is that so? Well, can't say it's the family business, but your dad was a war medic and your mom a singer...then a soldier...so I guess spellbreaking sits somewhere between entertainment and combat, no?" 

Spike blushed, and but his lip. As he went to speak, a waitress approached their table with a trey, sitting down two egg creams. "Thanks," Spike said, looking up and trying to decide where he knew the dark haired woman from. She was pretty, with a mean look in her eyes. Her name tag read: 'Francesca.' 

"Hey, don't I know you?"

The attractive (and somewhat scary) woman tucker a stray hair back over her ears and scowled at Spike so hard that the young fighter flinched. "Yeah. It's me." 

Spike narrowed his eyes. Then... "Belladonna?"

"Yeah. This is my job now, I guess. I have to work here until I pay off my debt." She sighed, taking out her notepad. "Serving others. Pathetic."

"Well, don't expect a tip from me with that attitude," Lawrence said. "Just kidding. I always tip waitstaff. I'm a staunch unionist."

"Ah, so that's where I get the heroism from," Spike said.

The waitress glared at both of them. "Look, I'll come back when you're ready to order."

So strange, Spike thought, watching the woman vanish back into the kitchen. He looked back at this father. Really looked at him. Took in the kindness in his face. His lopsided smile. Unkempt, goose down-feathery hair. Spike's heart suddenly hurt. 

"Pops..."

"I'm right here." Lawrence looked over his shoulder. "Was there another dad you were looking for?" Though he was joking, his eyes told another story.

He knew.

Spike sighed and placed his hands on the menu. He felt like he might cry...though strangely, he knew tears weren't possible in this place. "I miss you so much. The truth is, I always think how you should be in the audience at my matches. I'm just worried...well, I've always been worried...that I've grown up to disappoint you."

"Ah." Lawrence nodded his head. "What kind of idiot would I if I shamed the kid--my only son--who helped save the gosh darn world!? That would be petty. Really petty." 

Reaching his hands over the table, Lawrence's fingertips met the space just between his and Spike's hands. "You're living your life, kid. Your truth. Your dreams. You're entertaining people! Just like your mom...."

Spike looked up at his father. He smiled. "Right."

Before he could ask any another question, however, Spike experienced a strange blur, a blip. A flash of light. Silhouettes looking down. Voices.

He's stabilizing. Heartrate is returning to normal. He might just make it.

When Spike managed to look up again, he met eyes with Belladonna, looking at him as if he'd just puked all over the table.

"Sorry. Head chef has politely asked you to leave."

Spike turned to his father, who wore a sad expression. Spike didn't want to leave. He didn't want to go anywhere. He was happy here. It was peaceful. 

Then, he remembered all the people waiting for him back home. How much he would miss them.

"Oh, already?" Spike studied his father. He wanted to make sure to memorize his appearance, his face, the sound of his voice, so he could remember it. "Pops..."

"Right," Lawrence sighed. Belladonna let them be. The magi shrugged. "Well, can't argue with the head chef, now can we?"

"No," Spike said. "I guess not. I..." He opened his mouth. He'd never been good at coming up with smart things to say. It was certainly very difficult to try now. "I am incredibly sorry we didn't get more time together. It's my greatest regret."

"But...pops...you sacrificed yourself for a better world."

"And how you've followed in your father's footsteps." Lawrence laughed, sadly. "Well. I guess this is it. I...may have put in a good word and asked the certain 'powers that be' to give you a second chance. What do they say in spellbreaking? Er...you kicked out at 'two'?"

"Close enough." Spike stood, compelled by greater forces than he could comprehend. Already, the light was changing. He was becoming lucid. "Pops. I love you."

"I love you too, Sammy."

Spike wanted to reach out and touch him, hug him, but he knew this rare visit was worth a thousand world championships, and Spike would have given up the chance at all of them just to spend another moment talking to his dad.

Just as the light flooded in, and Spike was aware that he needed to be somewhere else, he turned to his father and asked. "Wait. Why isn't Ma here with you?"

The last image of his dad was a calm, knowing smile.

---

Bloody hell, Spike, if you die...I'm gonna' to kick your arse on the other side.

We must focus. I can feel his spirit...it is between this world, and the next.

Death and Spirit. That safe to combine powers like that, Ken?

Er...probably not. But we have no choice.

Right. Spike...your mates are comin' for ya!

---

Clarity returned, though where Spike found himself next was not at all where he'd expected to land. The smell of mildew and old sweat was familiar. The broken ceiling. Exposed pipes. Window fans. A very sad looking training room in a warehouse.

This is where it all began.

He knew Salim would be waiting for him in the ring. Spike also knew he had every right to bite his head off--aside from betraying his trust, nearly getting his friends killed (and that bit about taking over the world), Spike had nothing but disdain for the handsome giant.

But Spike found it a very difficult thing to hold much hate after Heaven. He stepped into the ring, crossed his hands over his chest (similar to the temporal excursion he'd experienced previously with Salim, he wasn't entirely sure he had a corporeal body).

This time, there was no fight to be had.

Salim turned and faced Spike. Either he'd pulled some magickal trickery, or the laws governing reality inside this 'space' were flexible, because he was suddenly decked out in a tailored suit of gold and white. This was a new look.

"Well," Salim, much more fresh faced (and less bloody) said. "It's good to see you."

Spike sized him up and down. He wasn't a threat. "You tryin' to tell me you've gone face with that beachside-wedding-in-the-Hamptons suit, you damn punk?"

"Spike...It's over."

"...The world?"

"If you want it to be..."

"I REALLY DON'T!" Spike blurted out. He could tell from Salim's ever-knowing smirk, however, that this was probably just one of his famous half-truths. That gave him hope. "Where...uh...where are we?"

Salim shrugged. "Oh, just one of those quantum pseudo-realities. Maybe a metaphor kind of thing. A waystation, if you will." He looked around the dusty room, stained with years of spilled soda pop and ceiling leakage. "Guess it took the form of your old training gym. Gee. What a dump."

"Hey, buddy, that's my dump you're talkin' about. And you got some nerve after what you just pulled. I trusted you. We all did. You were my friend!"

"I'm still your friend, Spike."

"FRIENDS DON'T TRY TO KILL FRIENDS IN A WEIRD CONTEST TO DECIDE THE FATE OF THE WORLD! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THEREPY THIS IS GONNA COST ME WHEN I GET OUTTA' HERE? ALSO, AM I DEAD? I SWEAR, IF I'M DEAD, I'M COMIN' TO HAUNT YOUR ASS!"

"...Are you done?"

Spike was done. "Whatever, Salim. So...what now? The world ends? Even after we just went through the trouble of kicking your ass to save it? That sucks. That really sucks."

"I'm surprised it took humans this long to wipe themselves off the face of the Earth."

"I don't want to be wiped off the face of the Earth! I don't want the world to end!"

"Then...it doesn't have to." Salim turned and rested against the ropes--reclined, really. He looked defeated. Resigned. Yet strangest of all, he also looked relieved. "Your cute friend was right. People like me shouldn't live as long as we do. I got tired of seeing humanity make the same damn mistakes, again and again. So, I tried to do something about it. But I guess it was opting fr the easy way out, like Mr. Iron put it."

Spike was confused. Still, he sensed he should let Salim speak.

"Him and I had talk. One of those mind-space things--before he gave me a piledriver that could have wiped out the dinosaurs, that is. He refused my world. I considered just going forward with my plan anyway, but then the thing with the Genesis Glyph happened. I guess even a demi-god can't control something like that..."

Spike was quiet. For the first time in his life (or afterlife) he didn't have a snarky retort.

"All this fighting," Salim began. Something caught in his throat. "It's really easy to lay on a metaphor about spellbreaking and wrestling--how it's a macrocosm of conflict and yadda-yadda. I just think humanity needs a safe outlet for its bloodlust, while we learn to evolve. And hell, maybe the world would be a better place if we could just settle our disputes in-ring."

"Where are you going with this?" Spike said, cutting him off. 

Salim pushed himself off the ropes, rebalancing himself. "The world is more complicated than a wrestling match, Spike. I threw a tantrum thinking I could somehow challenge that notion. I lost. I was right to lose. You and your friends fought like hell for the world." Salim held out his hand, a diminutive form of the Genesis Glyph, near-gray, having lost its luster, materialized over his palm. "I hope you understand you're going to get the world you fought for now."

Spike flinched. "The Glyph of Creation..."

"It's power is waning, don't worry," Salim assured him. "I have just enough to slightly alter the timeline, prevent Russia and the US from going ham. At least, for a little while. The thing about time is that it's even more of a heel than I am. It's also self correcting. It may just delay things a little longer, but..." Salim crushed the glyph in his hands, turning into an ephemeral, multi-hued glitter. He smiled. "The world just kicked out at two." 

"People really need to come up with better jokes," Spike said. He was too confused, too fatigued, too...non-corporeal, to be anxious about things now, though. "So, what does that mean? Remember, Salim, the Goddess made me pretty; She didn't make me smart."

"I keep telling you, small friend, you're smarter than you think you are. And it means that the timeline is spared. For now. The world returns to normal. You can go back to your life with everyone in it, and forge ahead." Salim paused. "I am glad to have known you, Spike Waterford. I hope you keep fighting to become world champion. Just watch out for Mr. Iron--he's got a mean clothesline." 

Spike didn't know what to say. He was still angry at Salim, but a part of him held a certain degree of empathy. Certainly, there were worse people unable to admit when they'd been wrong. Maybe this was the man just trying to make amends.

"I know I will face judgment for my crimes," Salim said, turning and walking towards the ropes. He ducked under. "As I should. Which means...you probably won't be seeing me for awhile. I have some things I need to work on. I am still going to change the world. No doubt about that. And I cannot safely say what will happen to you if you try to get in my way again. But if puts your pretty, blonde head at ease, know this--I am going to try changing it on less...megalomaniacal terms."

Salim shrugged. "Besides, it would be so damn boring if they recycled me as the big bad for season 2."

"I still have no idea what you're saying half the damn time," Spike said. "But Salim. I hope when we do meet again, it's on nice terms. I'll miss my manager."

"And I'll miss my little babyface champ," Salim said, warmly. He stepped outside the ring, just as the room began flooding with light. "Oh yeah, about that timeline shift. I had to do a cut-and-paste job. Everyone on Earth who was alive and present when the Genesis Glyph ran amok will return...however, their lives, occupations, and relationships might be a bit...er...altered. I tried to help you spellbreakers out though. You'll retain memory of everything. Which may actually make things even more interesting for you studs."

Spike tried to make sense of it, even as he felt himself being pulled back into the void. "Wait, whaddya' mean our relationships will be changed!?"

But Salim only maintained his smirk, the same expression he'd work when Spike had first met him at the gala. "Word of advice, Spikey. New Coke is gonna suck. Also...you're gonna LOVE Madonna."

To Be Continued...

Chapter 9: We Could Be Heroes

What have I ever wanted? To be a hero. Duh!

No. That's not it... That's not the truth. I'll tell you what my real wish is.

It's to be loved.

Kind of lame sounding, I know.

But by who? 

Like the others, I want a world where everyone can be happy. Where I can walk down the street holding my boyfriend or husband's hand, without anybody saying anything that would make me want to pop them in the damn mouth!

I wonder, if the world was a nicer place, would I have turned out so scrappy? Would I be more peaceful? Ugh, would that mean I would never become a fighter? 

I want a world where John Henry and Sandra and their kid can move to whatever damn neighborhood they want and not only be safe, but welcomed with open arms. 

I want a world where Lily doesn't have to explain her body and mind to people just to be accepted for the person she is. 

I want a world where kids who grew up like 'me' can see me kick butt on TV and know there's someone out there fighting for them. 

But aside from all that stuff...I want love the most.

I've never known it. I keep looking for it. I keep f***ing it up. Nobody knows how empty I am inside. How I'm always afraid I am to lose, because it might people won't think I'm strong, or worth their attention. 

I push people away for stupid reasons too. Cian. Buck. Vahni. I look at these men like gods, and put them on a damn pedestal...before I realize how they're just handsome schmucks like me. Flawed. 

I wish I could be okay with flawed.  

There are no gods here. Not even King Anubis. Sure, I could wish for a world where's he king of all--I could be his consort. I know he'd give me a whole harem of hunks, and nights full of endless pleasure. But it wouldn't be worth it. It wouldn't be 'real'.

I guess this means I'm gonna' have to keep searching. And I sure as hell am gonna' keep on fighting. 

I may not be World Champion...yet...

Spike forced out the words, even as his oxygen began to fade. "But...I can be champion of people's hearts!" 

King Anubis gripped harder, clenching his teeth. "You're a black hole, Spike. Energy. Love. You just keep taking. Where does it end?"

Spike closed one eye, and opened the other. "Did you just call me...a bottom?" I think I'm gonna pass out. So much for being choked out by muscle daddies and liking it...

"TCH!" Maybe King Anubis was imagining things, but the little punk was heavier than he'd thought. Still, King Anubis held him higher. He wanted everyone to see the great Sailorboy's downfall. 

Take away the hero. Take away the hope. Maybe there wouldn't be a champion after all. King Anubis was starting to settle in with the idea. At this point, it was impossible for the giant magi to see any futures. Too much was in flux. Made things hell of a lot more interesting.  

Maybe there wouldn't be a world to come after all. What would that mean?

King of the Ashes? On an empty planet? A void? The very thing I set out to prevent...NO. NO! NOOOO! I'LL DESTROY EVERY SPELLBREAKER TO PREVENT IT. EVEN YOU, SPIKE.

"You claim to want love, but you're a slave to lust," King Anubis spat out. Behind his mask, his bloodshot eyes burned brighter than Spike had ever seen. He really did look like the god of death. "You wouldn't know what love was if it walked up to you and slapped that cute ass of yours. Also...have you been eating more pizza than usual, kid? You're kinda heavy..."

Spike, trying to keep his eyes opened, looked down, and grinned. "What's...wrong, wuss? Not as strong as you thought?"

The truth was, Spike's glyph aura was only increasing in intensity. King Anubis trusted his own might well enough that he knew even Spike going into his silly little 'Overdrive' mode wouldn't be enough to defy his strength. 

Still, the little pinup boy was giving him one hell of a run around. 

"I'm proud of you, Spike," King Anubis said. "You almost had me there! You showed more grit than your little friends, actually. But now...now your dreans end with me. YOUR NEW GOD."

Spike looked up. Actually looked up. King Anubis hadn't even realized that he'd let his feet tough the ground. 

"What was that?" Spike smurked. "Hey, King. You're looking kind of tired, my guy. Almost like...someone sapped all the energy outta' ya?"

!!!!

"Tee hee." Spike smiled. "Did I do that?" But his cute façade quickly shattered, giving way to a white-eyed fiend. "Let. Go. Of. My. Arm."

Asking, of course, was but a formality. Spike used his other hand and grabbed down on King Anubis' arm, which might as well have been carved out of solid obsidian. 

The giant winced. "That's...some grip you got there, kiddo."

"DON'T CALL ME KIDDO." Spike roared. His blue aura suddenly became white hot, as King Anubis fell to his knees in pain.

"Dios mio," El Amante gasped.

Next to her cousin. Rosa covered her mouth. She held Gio's hand tighter. 

The entire audience was on its feet now. Cian and John Henry had to cover their eyes and step away. With all attention focused on the ring, nobody noticed the glyph embedded inside King Anubis conjured throne starting to wobble...and crack. 

Rainbow particles of light flowed freely from King Anubis into Spike. He wasn't just absorbing his energy any longer...but his glyph too.

"Took me a damn while," Spike said, breathing heavily, feeling the energy course through his nervous system. "But I finally mastered my magick. I'm not just a damn good fighter, King. I'm a pretty badass magi too!" Sweat dripped from his hair (had it gotten longer recently?). "You say I'm a black hole? Nah, that ain't it. All that love, all that energy that comes my way...I take it and and I give it back, double strength!"

"I'll put an end to this..." King Anubis said. "Heel tactics be damned." He snapped his fingers, willing time to stop.

It didn't.

Spike's hair, which had suddenly, truly grown in length over the last minute or so, flowed down over his shoulder like a gilded, regal lion's mane. He appeared taller. His muscles, certainly, had enlarged.

"LOOKING FOR THIS?" Spike said, snapping his fingers.

King Anubis froze.

The audience gasped. Floating gently over Spike's palm, like a butterfly, was a small facsimile of a glyph, a pyramid and an inverted pyramid, like a crude apprixmation of an hour glass. Keen eyes recognize it as the glyph Temporis. The Glyph of Time.  

King Anubis' glyph.

Mr. Iron stepped back. The student had indeed surpassed the teacher. "He...absorbed his glyph." He could barely believe the words. He feared the implications even more.

"I AM NO LONGER BABY..." Spike said, roaring, and taking a warrior's stance. Now, it was him who appeared divine--a shining, gilded, warrior god. "I WANT POWER."

King Anubis growled. "ENOUGH ANIME BULLS***. I'LL DESTROY YOU, YOU MISERABLE TWINK."

"I'M A TWUNK!" Spike charged forward and punched King Anubis right in the face. The man's mask shattered. Half of it, anyway.

King Anubis, unfrozen, fell to the ground. Stunned, but far from unconscious, the giant man touched his face and pulled back blood. Spike had made him bleed.

The other half of his jackal mask hung over King Anubis face, making his mad eyes look that more deranged. "You...you went Super Saiyan." King Anubis spat blood on to the canvas, and rose off the ground to face his hyper-enhanced foe, now on the same footing. "NOBODY MAKES ME BLEED."

"'CEPT ME!" Spike shouted, thundering forward like a runaway train. "AND I'M SICK OF YOUR STRUPID REFERENCES."

"Your cute new power is temporary," King Anubis shot back. He reached out and grabbed Spike's hands, matching him, muscle for muscle, in a test of strength. "I don't care if you go full power or not. You CANNOT win this! I've seen all possible timelines now."

"F*** THE TIMELINES!"

Spike braced against King Anubis. King Anubis braced against Spike. To the crowd, it looked like either men's muscles might actually tear open and burst any second. Thankfully, this was not the case.

King Anubis pressed his head against Spike, eye to eye. "You're good, Spike. You almost beat me. But...you still have a long journey ahead of you." 

He smiled. His voice softened. "In my new world...I hope to see you continue it."

Spike's jaw clenched. He felt the power slip away. Drain from him. At the last second, Spike let King Anubis push forward, and then slammed his knee right into his hard gut.

"GAH!" King Anubis grunted.

"That's not going to stop me," Spike said through his teeth. "I may make mistakes. I may accidentally break a few hearts on the way. Heavens knows, I've broken mine more than once. But one day...I'm gonna get it right with someone. Dude, I'm only twenty-three! Do you know how long I had to hide myself from the world to get this far? There's nothing wrong with messing up. That's me. Fall down. Get back up. My tag partner is out there somewhere! I'm gonna find him. And....I'M NOT GONNA LET YOU TAKE OVER THE WORLD BEFORE I GET ME A BOYFRIEND, YOU ROIDED UP, CIRCUIT QUEEN BITCH!"

King Anubis was like solid bronze. But even bronze could crack. King Anubis fell back, and Spike didn't let the moment pass. He attacked King Anubis with a flurry of punches, pouring all of his power into the final volley. The light around Sailorboy Spike began fading, his hair receding back into its shortly cropped length. Sighing, bruised, bloodied, and exhausted, Spike fell before King Anubis.

Only the wind intruded on the silent city of Kitezh.

Purpls bruises, splotches of blood, and red welts danced across the surface of King Anubis' skin. Spike's attack had left his golden mask, hanging from his face, soaked crimson red, giving the already fearsome man an even more demonic appearance. Streaked with blood, across face and chest, King Anubis reached out and grabbed Spike's shoulders. Instead of bearing down in a nerve trap, or a clutch, however, King Anubis merely held his hands there. He sighed.

Whatever silent words Spike and King Anubis exchanged, they were spoken through their eyes only.

Spike nodded. He smiled.

As did King Anubis. 

"For this effort," King Anubis began softly, pulling Spike up onto his shoulders, still easily manging to invert the boy on his back, "Your life will remain entirely intact. You have shown me that you can live it to the fullest. But, your quest for my championship belt ends here. You will not be champion, Spike Waterford." 

"Not today..."

King Anubis jumped into the air and performed his Lifeshaver muscle buster. In an instant, Spike--already drained of stamina--knocked out, falling to the floor, limp. In sleep, he looked like a fallen hero. His face was not the pained grimace of Vahni Rage, but a slumbering angel. King Anubis gently pulled Spike off the ground, threw him across the shoulder, and placed him outside the ring.

The spellbreakers watching, all fell silent. Cian, on the verge of tears, looked to Mr. Iron. "Is this it? Is...this how the world ends?"

Mr. Iron turned his head, and sighed. Then, he thought of Sandra. His child. His eyes met King Anubis, the wild, bloody god standing in the center of the ring. Waiting.

Wordlessly, Mr. Iron pulled himself through the ropes...and cracked his neck, ready for a fight.

Nervous whispers erupted from the bleachers. Cian, falling to Spike's side, attended to his friend, but kept his eyes on the action.

Mr. Iron walked forward, towards his opponent. He stopped, placing his hand on his hips, staring King Anubis down.

King Anubis gladly met his challenge. "Oh? You're approaching me?" He flexed sweat and blood of his body, like a beast shaking off a fresh kill. "Instead of running away, you're coming right to me?"

Mr. Iron grunted. Then, he grinned. He motioned for King Anubis. Bring it on.

King Anubis looked down at his massive hand. The Glyph of Temporis flashed briefly, a phantom, before dissipating into the magi's skin. Spike's new ability seemed to be tempory, which more of a relief to Mr. Iron than anyone else.

"Well, Johnny cakes...looks like I have my glyph back now. Which is too bad for you." King Anubis, dripping blood, but otherwise no worse for wear, took his time meeting Mr. Iron in the center of the ring. "Your time's run out." 

He snapped his fingers.

Per usual, King Anubis had breached the gap between him and his opponent in the blink of an eye. He shot out his fist.

It collided with solid gold, breaking it instantly.

King Anubis' howl cut through the audience, whose blood nearly froze on the spot. Nobody knew what had happened. It took several seconds before it dawned on them...

King Anubis clutched his shattered hand, looking up as Mr. Iron's golden body resumed its normal composition of man and matter. 

The handsome, bald-headed bull in the silver singlet was, as always, amiable and cordial. "Didn't expect that, did you big man?"

"You...you..." King Anubis clutched his hand. He couldn't use his powers now. Maybe Mr. Iron knew that. He always knew more than he let on, after all.

"What is a god?" Mr. Iron started, walking forward, "to a legend?"

King Anubis glared. "You need to work on your trash talk," he sniped. Then, he sighed.

"Yeah. Probably. Iron can rust when it doesn't get much wear."

"Not Iron," King Anubis said. "But gold, it seems." Shaking, trying not to show the raw anguish and pain from his broken hand show, King Anubis looked over at Spike. "I said you couldn't win this, Spike, and I mean it. It's not your time."

Then, the god--the first spellbreaker and World Champion--looked up at Mr. Iorn. "It's his."

With all eyes on what happened next, nobody noticed the Genesis Glyph starting to wobble, continuing to fracture. Nobody, that is, except for Spike--who, as he came to consciousness--was in perfect sight-line of the Forbidden Glyph.

Back in the ring, Mr. Iron charged at King Anubis, lifting him up into the air, and higher still. 

To this day, nobody can quite explain what happened, how Mr. Iron pulled off this technique, or what magicks were at work. The most Mr. Iron would ever allude to is a vague suggestion of magnetic force, but even this--as they say--is but legend.

Whatever happened in that moment, Mr. Iron reached the apex, touching the sky. With King Anubis, a bloody mess, tucked between his legs, he took that moment to look out across the clouds. Mr. Iron would tell you he'd managed to breach the red thunderhead, summoned as a by-product of the Genesis Glyph. There, he looked out over a clear blue sky, at the world below.

It was a beautiful thing.

Congrats, Iron. It looks like you won this thing after all. So, what'll it be? What kind of world would you like your good friend Salim to whip up for you? Claim your wish.

My wish? Hell...I know what my wish would be of course. I don't want my kid to grow up in a world that hates them as much as it hated their old man. I want a world that, when my wife kisses them goodbye for school, she doesn't hold her breath and pray as she watches them go, wondering if they'll come back home at all... 

I wish we could wave a wand and get rid of this poison on Earth called 'hatred'. But tell me, King Anubis, what does that look like to you? 

Even the Glyph of Genesis can't just 'erase' things like racism and prejudice. How do you quantify that, John? What it can do, however, is get rid of anybody you want. That politician on TV, foaming at the mouth over a bill that will strip someone's rights away just so he can feel better about himself at night? The preacher in the pulpit spouting fire and brimstone over whichever group he doesn't like? That cop who decides to give himself the power of the law, life, and death just to feel in control? All of them, erased, with the snap of a finger. A world without hate looks like a world without those who are compelled to hatred. 

I can grant you that power. In fact, call me biased...but that's the world I wanted anyway. I can support you, John Henry Iron, with that world. I trust the future, my future, to you. 

I know. And I should take it...

So why the hesitancy, large friend?

Wait, aren't I in the middle of pile driving you? How is this conversation even happening?

Narrative construct? Metaphor? Gives this whole thing a bit of gravitas, no?

Er...I guess? 

Take it. Take my power. Realize your wish. I need only your consent. What will it be?

I should take it. I shouldn't...hesitate. What have been fighting for, marching for all my life? But I gotta' ask you...where does it end? Will these people you speak of, the forces I've fought against since the day I was born, even be allowed to change their hearts?

What makes you think they will?

I know.... 

I may be a champion, Salim. But I'm no hero. If I was really brave, if I really could walk the walk, I'd take you up on your offer without hesitation. It's tempting. Too tempting. I feel like if I don't, I'm going to throw all my brothers and sisters, and people like Spike, Lily, and anybody who deserves a world without cruelty, under the bus...

But I just...if people's hearts can still be changed. If people can be shown the light. At least given a chance...

Yeah, but who often does that actually happen?

But it does. I've seen it.

Tell that to the tyrant who can end millions of lives with a single word. You really think enough movements and marches and songs can change a heart like that?

I'm not saying violence isn't sometimes necessary. It is, regrettably. But with a wish like the one you are offering...it would turn any saint into a tyrant. And I ain't no saint, no matter what my friends and family think of me. 

No man, even well intentioned, should be in control of so many lives. Nobody is perfect like that. What you'd be asking me to do is repeat the cycle.

Only...who would defy us, John? With a glyph of ultimate control?

Five minutes ago, you thought nobody could defy 'you'. And yet, here we are.

...

Right. No. I won't do it. Call me a coward. A traitor to my ideals. I won't. Instead, I'm choosing the longer, harder path. I don't need a glyph to change the world. 

Yeah, but it would certainly make it a hell of a lot easier.

That may be. But...I want to give my kid a world where they can seek their own path. What kind of man will I become if I become an arbiter of morality, who lives and dies by my judgment? Nobody should have a power like that. Even if they're well intended. So, I choose the coward's path.

I, John Henry Iron, refuse your offer.

I do this 'my' way.

Mr. Iron brought the sky down...and King Anubis with it. 

Some say that on impact, the ring itself split in two. 

More zealous types, real "Iron-Heads" of course, well tell you that Mr. Iron's Piledriver split even the earth in two, leaving behind a fissure that can still be seen in the ruins of Kitezh to this day. 

Still, other say this driver technique, the 'God-Breaker', has never been replicated, leaving Mr. Iron the only spellbreaker alive to pull off the feat. 

All lament the fact that second world championship finals were never record or televised, making all stories about their mysterious conclusion nothing more than rumor and speculation. 

Maybe it's all for the best. After all, it's moments like these that give spellbreaking, and pro wrestling, a sense of mystique.

Nevertheless, when Mr. Iron emerged from the crater, to roaring applause--to spellbeaking cohorts throwing each other out of the way just so they could be the one to embrace him first (Titan Gio, the biggest of the spectators, got to him ahead of everyone else). Nobody could scarcely form a coherent sentence. All was shock and awe and revelry. 

In the steaming wreckage left over from Mr. Iron's definitive finisher, a crooked hand--the one still intact--struggled to make a motion with its fingers. A flash of multi-hued light poured forth towards the crowd of celebrants, lifting Mr. Iron onto their shoulders (a great feat, in its own respects). 

A massive, golden, championship belt--studded with diamonds--materialized over Mr. Iron's shoulders, ex nihilo. The veteran spellbreaker, who still couldn't quite believe what had happened, couldn't find the words to make sense of it. Regardless, he couldn't get the chance. As he held the belt up in the air, for all to see, the spellbreakers roared anew. 

Even Deadboy Daemian, sullen as he was, couldn't contain his excitement. Brax, right alongside him, howled.

"THAT'S MY COACH, BRO!" Icewolf cried out, face full of emotional tears.

Groaning, and near death, King Anubis--decades of borrowed years erased by Mr. Iron's devastating finisher, pulled himself out of the wreckage. He looked over at the victorious. He looked over at the unconscious Rage, Colt, and Tiger, who he'd bested. Sighing, but unable to summon up any energy for anger, or loss, or joy, he simply waved his hands towards the injured.

And then, they were all uninjured. And awoken. Rage. Tiger...

And Colt 'The Bolt', coming to on a cot next to the bleachers, just happened to crane his head in time to see the festivities--and make sense of it. He was glad nobody noticed his timely recovery. 

"He damn did it," Colt said, finding himself losing his composure. "My...hero."

Hence, the sudden downpour. 

Cian, briefly distracted by the crowning of the world champ, looked down at Spike...and the ground beneath and around him. "Huh...?"

Spike was awaken now (barely). But that wasn't what Cian noticed. The earth, broken cobblestone, dirt, and dead grass, was...shimmery. Shiny. Glowing with rainbow light. Cian looked up to the sky and saw a rainfall in all colors. It was strange. Beautiful. 

It still bothered him.

Cian cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hey, guys." He looked over his shoulder, sensing a strong energy radiating from King Anubis' throne. The glyph atop was glowing, vibrating, pulsating with energy. Fissures of black light had begun forming across its luminous surface.

Not good.

"Oy, boyos!" Cian called back, getting to his feet. He pointed in the direction of the ominous light. "And lasses, and none of the above. I think we might have bigger things demanding our attention right now."

The short-lived celebration cut off. Mr. Iron, lowered safely to the ground, slunk his championship belt over his shoulder. He and the others moved slowly, but cautiously, in the direction of the light. Rage and Tiger, re-joining the world of the awoken, joined them in their growing concern.

Meanwhile, King Anubis had managed to lift himself--painfully--into a sitting position. Annoyed, defeated, but fair, the Time Magi used his newly acquired gifts to heal himself. The shattered bones re-joined themselves, cracking back into place (as painful as it sounds). The blood on his body receded, skin healing itself in rapid time. Even King Anubis mask rethreaded itself...though curiously, its style and shape was changed.

Lastly, King Anubis looked down at his completely shattered hand. He grunted...finding the Genesis Glyph...resistant to his demands. His hand mended itself, slowly. And then, it kept going. His fingers grew longer, turning first into the claw of some strange beast, then a bird talon, and then into a scaled version of a human hand.

King Anubis grunted. He seethed. "DAMN IT. Why is it ALWAYS the hand!?"

There was no rumbling in the ground nor sky, just a sudden, loud CRACK as the earth around the throne opened up, the construct sinking sideways into the fissure. 

The spellbrekaers gasped. Gio and Rosa, acting on instinct, combined forces and conjured up a blanket of roots to try and needle-and-thread the broken ground back into stability. The rainbow light from the throne reacted, transforming these roots into solid crystal beams. The air around it became snow, and then a shower of gold, before even the city around them--towers and all--began rapidly transforming. The scenery went from lost antiquity, to modern spires, to strange, futuristic buildings--night and day rapidly shifting between the other. An aurora appeared overhead, drowning out the blood red sky. Stars, in the thousands, began falling.

Spike, with shallow breaths, lifted himself off the ground and looked into the starry cascade. "It's...the end of the world."

Elsewhere, reacting to the sudden shift in reality, the world powers did as expected: began to queue up the launch codes for their missiles. 

As King Anubis had foreseen, this timeline had ran its course. 

Were the priests and priestesses of the church present, were the Great Hierophant of the Mother himself available to lay eyes on the misuse of the Genesis Glyph, he would have called it the ultimate penance for the ultimate transgression. 

Either way, King Anubis had truly passed his judgment--and this world was at its end.

"I...can't control it," the giant said, approaching the bewildered and exhausted spellbreakers. He held up his hand, staving off their reaction. He was no longer a threat. "There was...one timeline where this might happen." He clutched his hand, which had now become a long, slimy tentacle. "Some luck of the coin toss, eh?"

Spike, recovered--but limping--looked down at King Anubis' tranfigured arms. "Serves you right," he said.

King Anubis looked at him with tired eyes. "You're gonna' be a little s*** to the bitter end, aren't you, habibi?"

"You bet." Spike looked over at the throne. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his heart began to beat faster. "Mr. Iron. Coach. Congrats. You deserved to be world champion."

Mr. Iron swallowed, already concerned where this might be heading. "Hey, thanks, kid. Your time will come."

Spike's lip quivered. "I think...it already has."

Colt clutched his chest, and looked around at the ones he loved His family. Spike's family. "This isn't the end. I've pulled jack rabbits out of hats before. We gotta' do something."

Spike would, anyway. He looked down at his hand. He'd been granted a new gift. He could syphon energy. 

"Oh well, nothing to lose." He stepped forward. toward the radiant object pulling in light and sound. 

El Amante, of all people, rushed to restrain him. "Hey, chico, what are you doing?"

"Please, let go of me," Spike said, choking back a sob. His whole body trembled with adrenaline, brought on by fear. Every cell in his body resisted him.

El Amante did as told. But it hurt his heart to do so. He felt Spike's emotions. 

He knew what he was about to do.

Spike approached the throne, finding himself awash in rainbow light. It was warm. Pleasant. But it was wrong. Spike held out his hand, and felt the pulse of energy. Just like before, just like with King Anubis, he could now reach out and grab hold of the threads making up the energy and particles defined only by the physics of magick. With King Anubis, the power had been finite, but strong. Spike had seized it and brought it into his being, with only a bit of exertion.

These threads of energy, however, were endless. They made Spike tired. They made him want to lay down and sleep, for a very long time.

"I wish I could have said so much more to Buck," Spike mumbled. 

He had seen this movie before. This is where the hero would normally turn to his friends, take sight of their tear-streaked faces, and tell them 'thanks'. But Spike knew if he did that, if he lingered on a thought or a feeling for much longer, he might not be able to do what he had to do next.

Guess I'm a pretty crap hero, Spike thought, as he opened the floodgates to his glyph. The power that came forward, syphoned from the glyph, was overwhelming and endless. It was like being electrocuted by sunshine, or maybe even what it might be like to throw oneself into lava, and feel it all, before it burned oneself alive. 

Nevertheless, the power came, in abundance. Endless. Unrelenting. Overwhelming.

Within seconds, Spike blacked out. All he saw, was pure, white light.

And then...

To Be Continued

Chapter 3: Let's Do The Time Warp, Again...Again

"I've...been here before."

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 are taking 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 got got by the chandelier, Phantom of the Opera style."

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.

To Be Continued...