Chapter 4: Home on the Range

Standing in the 'home' arena of the GSA (a glorified warehouse with posters of the fed's all-stars strung up on the walls) Deadboy Daemian looked upon the familiar ring and scowled. Granted, it was an affectionate scowl. 

The lean, muscle bound punk scratched his armpits and yawned. "Bloody hell, I have up world domination for this?" Still, he caught himself smiling. "Can't wait to break my old mate's skulls again." Leas of all, Tiger. Then again, if I knock him flat, I won't be able to pash him after the match. Hmmm. Okay, D, note to self; figure out to destroy lover without....destroying lover. 

Dressed in a black, shredded cut-off, and wearing and purple short-shorts with the stanza "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here' on the butt, Daemian went about setting up for the show. He was fully aware that this rigorous 'set up' work was partial punishment from Colt, a way to humble him and prove Daemian was worthy of re-joining the fed. The joke was on the boss, though--Daemian liked working solo. Didn't have to bark orders at some wet-behind-the-ears rookie who didn't know a ring apron from a bib, or get chewed out for touching someone's gear the wrong way. Between set up, Daemian could even help himself to a nice coldie from the communal fridge. Time for a break.

The demon summoner slammed the switch on the boom box, quietly head banging to his sick, Aussie punk music.

As Demonic D chugged down looked upon the ring with thoughtful reminiscence. The last time he'd been here, White Tiger had thrashed him for the championship belt. Now, they were dating. How strange, the ebb and flow of fate.

"Bloody annoying too," Daemian snarled, punctuating his annoyance with a loud belch. He crushed his empty can against his head and chucked it towards the bin (he missed). With all that done, the punk with the shredded abs perched on the side of the entrance arch platform, and pretending as if he was about to suicide drop some unfortunate opponent below him. It had been awhile since he'd slaked his blood lust. But, in the few months since going 'reformed', Deadboy had learned to focus on priorities. Namely, the spooky, silk-lined coffin sitting on top of the trap door platform at the bottom of the ring.

He already knew who'd be going inside it...

"Earth to Deadboy," Colt said, coming around the side of the stage with an extension chord. The muscular, long-haired cowboy, wearing a white undershirt and jeans, looked down at the frayed chord with a frown, and tossed it away. "That's the second one today. Must be nerves."

Daemian grimaced at his manager. "Wanna practice again?" Bludger's lucky my skull is indestructible...and not much brain to begin with neither. All those piledrivers would turn a nuclear scientist into...well...Spike.

Before Colt could answer, Bruce--always in his black business suit and red tie--entered from the righthand stage, clipboard in hand. "You blokes are really gonna put on a fake fight tonight?" His jovial tone didn't match his fake derision. "Colt, this is a spellbreaking match, not a circus, mate!"

"Look at this c***," Deadboy said, nodding to his old co-worker. "Thinks he can come in and take Buck's job. How ya doin', Bazza?"

Colt rolled his eyes at the unruly Australians. "Look, y'all. I don't wanna turn into an old geezer..."

Too late, Deadboy thought.

"...and those guys who do pro sometimes have the right idea staging it. Scripted and staged allows us to keep our guys and gals in top condition for the championships. Plus, these marks don't know the difference anyway, half the time!"

Bruce was one of those businessmen who always hid his opinions behind a smile. Thankfully, his and Colt's relationship had been amicable these last few weeks--especially in the wake of Colt taking back the company from his erstwhile son. Daemian, truthfully, felt bad about what had happened. He liked Buck. The kid was a straight-shooter, and had a bit of bite to him. A bona fide talent, and never a tall poppy about it either. When Daemian had gone good, Buck was the first person to welcome him back open arms. 

Now the kid's gone and got himself a bloody glyph too. What a legend.

Also, Daemian was fully aware how much of a blowhard Colt could be when he wasn't in a good mood. Even though Daemian was content to throw back beers and break the empty bottles over people's heads for fun, he was quite perceptive too. Colt had been hitting the liquor and hitting the boys even harder in the wake of Buck's absence. Though he kept up his magnanimous façade of cowboy rowdiness, Daemian (as well as other emotional sleuths like El Amante) had picked up the vibrations from Colt's wounded heart.  

Bruce put the clipboard down on top of one of the amps, set to pump out Colt's country rock anthem, and Deadboy's melodic metal entrance music, later tonight. He scratched his head with his pinky--a gesture Daemian had seen him do back in Sydney...usually before breaking bad news.

"And...what happens when it gets out that you're staging your matches?" Bruce asked solemnly.

Handsome Colt waved it off. "Does that stop people from going to see pro wrestling fights? You're damned stupid if you think those bereft boys don't have a magick of their own. They're performers, born and bred. Hell, I always told Buck that if he ever wanted to get into..." He stopped, swallowed, and looked away. "Anyway"

Deadboy and Colt met eyes, and exchanged a wordless acknowledgment, before turning back to the conversation. "Where is old mate, anyway?" Daemian asked his boss.

Behind them, a small lightbulb on the stage perimeter burst. "Grrr." Colt glared at the damage. "He's with Varla and John Henry in New Orleans. Probably suckin' down hurricanes and having a grand ol' time without PUBLIC OUTLAW NUMBER ONE." Colt's forehead crackled with little needles of electricity, teasing out his hair. He shook his head and flattered his blonde mane, all at once deeply embarrassed with himself.

Bruce and Daemian let the Texan have his tantrum. "Mr. Iron's big comeback is an unexpected but welcome surprise," Bruce said, which was something everyone in the room could agree with. "Could be a contender to watch at the championships."

That talked Colt down from his ledge. Truth be told, Colt had tremendous pride in his dear friend and tag team partner. "Shucks, would be a long time comin' too. Fact of the matter is, John was the best there was." Colt twisted his head side to side, to make sure nobody else was present, before he lowered his voice. "Maybe even better than me. But back then, the feds were all crooked and exploitative as all hell. John's only flaw was being born in a time where your skin color could cost you an opportunity. Truth be told, I don't think we've come much further since."

"Didn't think you were much of a civil rights activist," Bruce laughed, uncomfortably. Deadboy glared at him for that.

"My boy's bi," Colt laughed. "And most of my boys are a bit...well...fruity. Hell, who hasn't had a romp in the hay with a cute, doe-eyed, muscle boy with a big..." Colt looked around to see Deadboy and Bruce turning several shades. "Er, anyways, you can't spend your life clinging to the old ways. My old man did that and caused me all kinds of grief."

"Peas in a pod, you are," Bruce huffed. He stuck his thumb at Daemian. "Back home, this one was always harping on about treaties and stuff."

"I don't like the government telling people what to do," Daemin sniffed. "Especially the people who lived on the land first, before the Albans dumped heaps of dark magi on the arse end of the world".

Daemian twisted his mouth to the side. It was hard to hate Colt. He generally tried to make space for people. Hell, he'd picked a grub like him to fight in his fed. That counted for something.

"Anyway," Bruce began, checking over one of Daemian's ring props, a cheese grater, "where is our 'Million-Dollar Manager', Mr. Salim?"

"Speaking of the ends of the Earth, he dropped off the damn face of the planet," Colt said. "Nobody can contact him. And considering he's the reigning world champ, that's a bit of concern, isn't it? Oh well, show must go on." 

Colt stood up. Daemian fully realized this man could break him in half, if he wanted to (not that such a thing would ruin him) and was suddenly very excited to go toe-to-toe with the fed president. Spike and Rage was a hard act to follow, but Colt and Deadboy promised some unexpectedly delightful carnage. They'd give those marks a show alright. 

Colt stretched out his meaty arms, and yawned. "Deadboy--I'm ready to rehearse in five." He thumbed towards the ring. "Let me confirm medical for tonight just in case I snap your arm off."

Daemian pointed to his 'surgical stitching tattoo' on his biceps. "No wockas, mate. I've beaten guys with my own arm before just fine."

Colt did the finger guns at him. "Now there's the attitude I'm looking for." Minding Bruce, Colt approached Deadboy and put a hand on his shoulder.

Deadboy stared at it as if Colt had just wiped his nose and smeared it on his shoulder. "Er...?"

"Was just gonna say. It's good to have you back around the corral, spooky stud. I know you love this sport just as much as I do, and...you just let me know what you need. Don't need to get mushy about it." He winked.

Deadboy's first instinct was to throw back something snarky and rude. He swallowed his tongue. "Right...boss. It's bloody good to be back."

Colt exited, whistling one of his country tunes. "I'll be back in two shakes."

Deadboy took a deep breath. Alright. So far, so good. 

He leaned over the coffin, trying to get a better look at the rigging. He usually came out of these things at the start of the match, so it was weirder to going into one at the end. 

Tonight's script was to have Colt and D go fifty-fifty, with Colt positioned a the seasoned hero taking down the punk coming back for revenge (art imitating life). A coffin match already demanded a bit of suspension of disbelief--nobody really expected either of the two men to actually die and get buried. But it was an edgy idea, and with the championships only a week or so away, they needed to push the GSA one last time before the big leagues.

Deadboy had already decided not to compete for the world champs. His resurgent love for spellbreaking was solely in entertainment. He'd cheer on White Tiger from the shadows, however. 

"So, the demonic prince of darkness is going to take a tumble into his own coffin tonight?"

Deamian heard Bruce come up behind him. The demonic jock from down under patted the side of the (fake) mahogany coffin. "Yeah, yeah, don't bloody remind me. This is Colt's little trust exercise. A lesson in humility or whatever." He sighed and stood. "I've made a real dog's breakfast of my position here in the GSA. I might as well suck up a little and give the boss a free win. Plus, he's a bit too excited to see my healing magick in effect." 

Daemian snickered to himself as he leaned over to wrap up the lighting chord, picking up and making a noose. "I'm gonna have him break my bloody neck, choke me out hang-man style, and then dump me into the damn thing. It'll make the audience puke! I can't wait. It'll also make Colt look like a real bad bastard! Maybe even set him up for a heel turn--for massacring his own pupil!" Daemian laughed. "Like that'd bloody happen. Then, I just gotta wait in that coffin til the boys downstairs at the bottom of the lift pull me out."

"And...no concerns if something goes awry?" Bruce said, voice low. He stepped foerward. "Would be a terrible way to die, yeah?"

"You think this is my first time in the forever-box, mate?" Daemian snorted. "I practically sleep in these things. By the way." All smiles and fangs, the punk turned about face and swept back his shock of purple and black hair. "When were you going to tell me?"

Bruce played dumb. "Tell you what?"

"Oh, you know." A dark aura radiated off Daemian as he reached out and pat Bruce on the head. "Kind of a rotten thing to see an old mate turn out to be the assassin who tried to murder his boyfriend."

Daemian's eyes turned solid black and a cold chill swept over the arena.

Bruce barely flinched. His smile, thought not as wide as his former employee's, was somehow even more sinister than the demon summoner's. "You little fool," he seethed. "You could have just kept quiet." 

The palm of Bruce's hand flattened itself against the exposed nape of Daemian's neck, just above his chiselled chest. A brief flash of green light sparked off Bruce's hand.

Daemian's eyes transitioned back to his violet-colored irises, and then rolled up inside his head. He fell backwards, over the stage, and into the coffin. The lid shut loudly behind him, echoing throughout the arena.

Bruce paced the stage, surveying his work. "Whoops!" He looked down and examined his head, still crackling with venomous magick. "Your little tricks weren't enough for my venom. Guess you'll be taking that dirt nap a lot sooner than tonight. Shame I've just botched the big show, but I guess the spellbreaking fans will have your name on their lips tonight for different reasons. Deadboy. R.I.P.!" 

After collecting himself, Bruce turned back towards the stage and cleared his throat. "Help! HELP! There's been an accident!"

----

One Day Later...

The Firebird board room--an official, more-than-intimidating chamber panelled with dark wood and circled by the federation's banners. Like most old buildings in old Moscow, it carried a palatial air, helped by marble flooring and vaulted ceilings. Training barracks were to the left side of the compound; dorms to the right, with the mess hall square in the middle. It had been an old training ground for the Tsar's battle mages during the war. Like most of the nobility's properties, however, the palace had desperately sold it off during the final days of the conflict.

The board room's long table ran the length of the great, crimson carpet. Seated there were Firebird's top stars: Ivan 'The Wolf', the handsome babyface champion with a winning smile (or sinister, depending on who you asked). Or all gathered, the descendent of Russian folk heroes appeared the most nervous. He was flanked by white-haired Yaya Baga, one of the fed's devious transformation magi along with the giant Bear Misha, who sat opposite Ivan. 

Rage had left an empty seat laid out for Slayer St. George, long absent and missed. And, at the head of the table, sat Vahni Rage in his burgundy, tailored suit. He sat with his hands folded, eyes on the door, one hand on his expensive, gold watch. 

He was starting to wonder if they had been stood up. He glowered, making everyone else in the room deeply nervous. Vahno had forbade the rest of the roster from attending, not because he thought them unworthy (not all of them, anyway), but because he suspected matters might turn violent, and didn't want the younger blood damaged on his watch. 

Finally, with a loud creak, the door pulled open. Semyon Grigorivich, with his dark suit and skull-cane, looked somewhat more dishevelled than normal (which was already saying a lot). He looked at Ivan--his babyface champion--and sullen, gray-haired, Yaya, then at bearded, bald, and mean Misha. Usually, they were all quick to avoid his cold stare. 

Not today.

Rage stood, eyes full of resolve. "Please," he said, gesturing to a seat at the far end.

Semyon glared. Still, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. "It seems you have made an error, sweet Vahni. You appear to be in my chair."

Rage looked at him up and down. "You mean...my chair?"

Semyon's hand gripped tighter around the top of his skull. "So, is this a mutiny? A takeover?" He laughed. "What do you expect me to do, beat my chest and gnash my teeth and cry out, 'After all the things I've done for your ungrateful dogs!'."

"Something like that," Rage sniffed. "We've held a vote. After a thorough investigation of the events surrounding the match between Sailorboy Spike and Vahni Rage, it's been discovered that Spike's soma was tampered with, pre-match."

Semyon smirked. "An investigation done by your impartial soma refining corporation?"

But Rage had come with the receipts. He slammed down a folder, bursting with papers. "All of us gathered here have also submitted documented and dated evidence, over the course of the last year, of Firebird's use of alchemical rubedo as an enhancement drug. This has been submitted to the ISC for review. Furthermore," Rage said, tossing another manila envelop down on the desk, "A joint investigation between INTERPOL and Aradia is now underway, looking into the business dealings of one Semyon Grigorivich and his ties to the former Russian monarchy. The new provincial government, of course, has been more than happy to provide this investigation with anything they need."

Punctuating his statement with great finality, Rage leaned back in his chair and waited for Semyon to say something.

The man took a deep breath. "Let me skip to the plain truth--I could so easily have you all killed. Or, barring such extremes, ensure you are held just as accountable in whatever silly government kangaroo court has been set up in a pathetic attempt to undermine me. I could have your careers ended."

"How, darling?" Yaya challenged him. "We voted Rage in as president. It was a unanimous vote. He may be...brusque...but when it comes to loyalty, he has always had our interests in check."

"Do not make me seem like such a face, Yaya," Rage huffed. He looked to Ivan. "That is our golden boy's prerogative, not mine." Still, he couldn't help but smile. "This is just good business." Besides, if you'd killed Spike before I had the chance to ravish him, I would set this damn world on fire!

Semyon turned his nose up at this former employees. "Hostile takeovers are usually more elegant than this, Rage. I'm disappointed."

It seemed quite apparent to all in the room that Semyon was more than happy to stand and pass his judgments. Still, Rage waited. He picked up a remote control on the desk and held it, one eye on the TV screen behind him.

"The championships no longer matter," Semyon said, icily quiet. "Nor does this federation. Congratulations, Rage. You enjoy your time as president of Firebird. It will be a short one. You've already given me what I need. I still have the Black Library."

Semyon felt the air behind him move, as the door opened. What other clown had been invited to this circus, he wondered bemusedly.

"Oh, do you?" 

Semyon cringed, just as Rage began to smile. "Mr. Netjeer," he said, turning to face the giant, handsome man with the long braid and golden jewellery on his fingers. "Oh, I do apologise. King Anubis. Or Jackal or..."

"Or Rasputin, or Koschei, or Semyon Grigorivich," Mr. Salim said, smiling ear to ear. "Funny thing about us long lived bastards--we never really can settle on a name!" Salim nodded to Rage. "And the thing about libraries, Semsem, is that they're full of books. Books, as you know, are full of paper. And the thing about paper is that, well, it's quite flammable."

Without looking at the set, Rage pointed the remote at the TV and flicked the power on. The other spellbreakers in the room turned their heads towards footage of a stately Russian building in the background of the Kremlin, burning.

Semyon's mouth twitched. "I see."

The movement between Semyon and Salim was so quick that normal eyes could not perceive it. Semyon raised his cane, the red skull glowing, meeting the eye-shaped, luminous blue pendant in Salim's hand. The two artefacts touched, and exploded into light.

Semyon flew across the room, sliding across the table, stopping just inches away from Rage, who didn't so much flinch. The others pushed their chairs away out of shock. Breathing ragged, and wide eyed, Semyon rose his head and looked towards Salim.

What was left of the Eye of Osiris crumbled to the ground into charred carbon, right next to the sunken-in skull that housed Semyon's Eye of Set. "Masks off," Salim said, wiping his hand on an expensive, silk kerchief inside his breast pocket. "And just in time for the world championships, too!" Semyon bolted off the table, onto his feet, before Rage could dare harm him.

"Redback has been sent to kill both Colt and Deadboy," Semyon snarled. He realized there was only one way out of the room, but he already knew Salim would allow him to leave. "And your precious little Sailor is nowhere to be found!"

Salim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we know about Redback. He's dead. Well, not dead. But he won't be bothering us any time soon." Salim made a circular motion with his index finger around his temple. Crazy.

Semyon blinked. "What?"

Now, it was Rage who stood. "Mr. Netjeer, I trust you've already summoned the authorities to manage the ex-president?"

Salim looked to Semyon, and then up to Rage. "Nah."

"...What?"

Salim stepped aside, giving Semyon clearance. The mad monk looked briefly at the smug giant, before growling and bolting out the room.

"Why the hell did you let him go?" Rage said, trying to suppress his anger. Cooler heads, it seemed, tended to prevail, these days. 

At last, Salim took a seat at the table, clunking down a concealed (and rather large) bottle of champagne. "Semsem still has a part to play in this drama, I'm afraid. You want an interesting world championship, Mr. President? Then we let fate unfold as designed. Rest assured, Semyon will not be the one who gets the happy ending."

Rage's jaw clenched, but he sat back in his chair and said nothing. He had the company in his hands now, and Semyon on the run. He had his win. It was best not to push things further. 

But he still had his pride. "And who will be fighting the world champion at the tournament?"

Salim smiled. "I thought you might put your hat into the ring, Rage. Well, metaphorically speaking. I've never seen you in a hat before. Of course, you won't be the only one." He twisted the cork off the champagne in one swift motion, the pop startling everyone else in the room. He watched and allowed the frothy liquid to flow onto the carpet.

"But first, we allow Semyon to reveal his hand. We backed him into a corner. That's when snakes and scorpions are their deadliest. But...in this instance, we need Semyon desperate. Trust me, Ragey, it's alllll part of the plan. Now, are you going to sit there and let me drink this Veuve all by myself, or are you cuties going to join me in celebrating?"

He held the bottle up to Rage's stunned face "To Vahni Rage. Champion and President of Firebird. Long may he reign in Hell!"

----

One Day Earlier...

"Cheap beer."

Spike placed a can of disgusting, imported beer down at the triangle at the north point of the salt pentacle he'd created in the center of Varla's kitchen floor.

He grabbed the package of chocolate covered biscuits from the counter and placed it on the eastern corner. "TimTams," he said. He paused, removed one of the biscuits for himself and popped it into his mouth. All that time travel had made him hungry.

He used a heavy metal vinyl (Talbane and the Werewolves) for the western point. Already stressed out, Spike examined the list that Deadboy had jotted down for him some time back. "Wait, seriously? Where the hell am I gonna find..."

Spike looked over at Varla's glass armoire, wherein a series of taxidermized ravens, foxes, and a vaguely human looking skull resides. Cringing, Spike took out the skull, made a face, and placed it in the center. 

Finally (and most embarrassing of all), Spike ran to the guestroom where he'd been staying and withdrew the magazine hidden beneath the bed cushion. On the cover, a muscular, green-skinned demon man with horns (and pierced nipples) winked at the viewer as he coquettishly tugged down his speedo. HELLBOUND HUNKS.

"And finally...er..." Spike bit his lip as he placed the magazine in the center. "Weirdly specific smut." After examining the coffee-stained note one last time, Spike stepped out of the summoning circle and took a deep breath. He'd never performed dark magick before, let alone 'old' magick.

"Back in Black,

Hit the sack,

I summon thee, Deadboy,

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie,

Oy! Oy! Oy!"

A wind kicked up in Varla's kitchen. Shadows danced across the room, forming a vortex of violet, dark energy in the middle of the salt circle. A poof of black smoke later, and there stood a tall, muscular man--clad only in his skull-print boxers--midway through brushing his teeth.

Deadboy glared around the room, noticed Spike, and spit a wad of toothpaste on Varla's kitchen floor. "Really?" 

"Not on the floor, not on the floor!" Spike winced. "I gotta' clean that up. And...uh...you...do hygiene now?"

Daemian rolled his eyes. "It's Joseph. He...wait, why the hell am I tellin' you this, you dog?" He stepped out of the circle and immediately arm dragged Spike into a headlock. "What the bloody hell am I doin' here, Spikey!? You better have summoned me for a damn good reason, you little bludger!"

Spike easily removed himself from under Deadboy's (Strangely washed) armpit, pulling him into a hug instead. "Daemian! I missed you so much. And you smell...good? (Is that lavender and mint?) I'm a bit concerned..."

"Awww, Spikey. I missed you too, chook." Deadboy held him out at arms length, then looked him up and down. "Hey, since I'm just in my boxers..." He said, slowly starting to pull them off. "Wait...IS THAT MY PORN!?"

Spike pressed his hand over the towel, to Daemian's abs. "There's no friggin' time for that now! Something really scary is happening. That's why I called you here. We gotta' get to the GSA on the double!"

"Scary's my middle name, Spikey! Well, actually, it's Matthew. But what's going on?"

"Bruce...is Redback!"

"WHAT!?" Daemian's eyes turned hollow black. "That bastard. Ugh, figures. He was a right s*** PR agent." 

"Oh...er...I didn't expect you take that at face value." Spike scratched his head.

The demon summoning Aussie crossed his arms. "I'd had my suspicions. Damn it; he's at the bloody GSA ready to set up a match with me and Colt!"

"OH NO!"

"Don't worry." Deadboy nodded. It was probably the first time Spike had ever felt like the crazed punk had remotely grasped the concept of empathy. "Leave this one to your big mate, Damo."

"But Damo, my guy, he's like a deadly assassin!"

"Yeah, well I'm deadlier. And CRAZIER. So, he's the one who tried to hurt White Tiger?"

Spike's jaw dropped. "Damn it, that's right. He's been on our case for awhile, huh? Do we call the cops or what?"

"Nah, don't trust the pigs." Deadboy stuck his hand out. Clouds of darkness and swirls of purple light formed around him. "I'll open us a portal back to the GSA. Go grab your jump bag, Spike."

"I'm a pizza waiter, Deadboy," Spike called over his shoulder as he ran to the bedroom to get his suitcase. "Do you think I even have a friggin' jump bag! Besides, Colt doesn't even want me back at the GSA."

"Yeah? Well, everyone else does. I'm on the card tonight, and I can choose whichever damn person I want to do valet for me. Colt can kiss my bloody arse if he wants to have a whinge about it." 

Spike returned with a clumsily stuffed suitcase. "Damn it, I forgot to water the plants. It's fine. I'm sure Varla will understand."

Daemian summoned his darkness, and opened the portal onto a long, black corridor. "Oh, Bazza. You bloody mucked up now..."

----

One Day Later...

Colt nearly tripped over his own massive legs trying to make his way from the stage. "Lachlan!"

Bruce leaned over the trap door leading to the basement--the mechanism that was meant to take Deadboy's coffin down "into the earth" and deliver him safely to the crew and staff below. The red-faced man dabbed at his face with a kerchief. "Oh, thank Goddess! Colt, I tried to stop the damn thing, but it locked up and took him under. I...I...couldn't get him out."

For a moment, Colt said nothing. His eyes darted back and forth, and he took a step back. "Lachlan..."

"You should go call the authorities," Bruce said, sullenly. "It...may be too late, however."

Colt placed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, head bowed low. "Really?" 

"I know. This must be quite a shock."

"No, it's just...funny."

"I...beg your pardon?"

Colt shrugged, putting on his best country-boy smile. "Yeah, real funny. Because, Brucey, you ol' son of a gun--the kid looks like he's just fine to me!" Colt looked over Bruce's shoulder.

The middle aged Australian man frowned. Then, he felt the air around him grow colder, more tense. A chill slithered down his back. He didn't need to turn around. Nevertheless, he felt the icy hand on his shoulder...and the fingers digging in deep.

"Long time no see....mate."

Bruce swallowed. He turned around, coming face to face with the devil.

Or, close enough. Deadboy Daemian stood there, no worse for wear, giving Bruce his most sinister of smiles, while plumes of dark energy dissipated off his intimidating, muscular form. 

Bruce took another step back. "D...Daemian! Well, a bloody miracle, that is." His path backward was suddenly blocked by Colt's hard body. 

He was trapped.

Daemian maintained his evil aura, savouring his old co-worker's fear--especially as Deadboy reached up to his chest and peeled off the thin, nearly invisible layer of plastic-like bandaging that he'd placed on his chest and exposed limbs, knowing Bruce would most likely target one of those areas. Nurse Wheeler had set him up with the material, normally reserved for banding wounds and burns.

Bruce had been so shocked by this sudden deception that he failed to notice the coffin, sitting upright, behind Daemian--just like in his eerie entrances.

"Shadow magick," Daemian explained, sticking his tongue out and licking his teeth in a maniacal, wolfish display. "Cheap and nasty teleportation." 

"Well!" Bruce stammered, trying to slowly manoeuvre himself out of the way. "That's great!"

Just as he turned on his heels, Colt caught him by the throat. "You poked the wrong armadillo today, hoss," Colt leered. "Messin' with my kids." 

Bruce had not retaliation. He went numb with Colt's quick and sharp injection of enough voltage to bring the man to his knees. 

"Redback," Daemian spat, circling around the man, on the hunt. "Of course it just had to be a fellow Aussie with a name like that." He yanked the man up by the neck, forcing his face dangerously close to Daemian's own. "You tried to kill Tiger. Not only my boyfriend, but a Goddess-damn saint in my eyes. Do you think I'd forgive you for that?"

Bruce found his tongue, momentarily looking up into Colt's eyes, pleading mercy. Then, the killer remembered his pride. His tone changed. "Well, have a sook why don't you, miserable brat! Ice Cream Man should have left you to rot in prison. Descendent of convicts and warlocks alike. Nothing but filth!"

Daemian leered, digging his nails into the man's cheek, drawing blood. "Do you know why I ended up in prison in the first place?"

Now, Colt felt the need to intervene. "Woah there, Tex. We agreed to call the sheriff."

Daemian vibrated with rage. The shadowy miasma around him only grew and intensified. "You agreed, boss." His voice dripped with syrupy venom.

Of course, Redback knew all about the later. With a cutting sneer, he shot his hand out at Deadboy, eager to put him away for good.

Lachlan caught his wrist with little difficulty. His hands covered by motorcycle gloves, he was immune to Redback's toxic magick. He twisted Bruce's hand into a wristlock, forcing him to stand up.

"YEAH, NAH! Don't try it, mate. You're f***ed." 

Bruce winced. "GAH! My hand."

Colt couldn't tell if Daemian had broken it, but if not, he was on the verge. "D. That's enough."

It wasn't. "You leave this one with me, boss!" Daemian snarled. "He's about to find out why you don't f*** with my mates. OR MY BOYFRIEND."

Bruce had no defense. He forced himself to stand taller, leveraging Deadboy's joint lock. Deadboy just laughed and revered his arm into a hammer lock, driving it up Bruce's back.

"How much taller on your tippy toes can you stand," Deadboy whispered, sadistically into his ear.

"Lachlan, we can talk this out! I can tell you everything I know about Firebird. About Semyon Grigorivich."

Colt's eyes bugged out. "Wait...Deadboy."

"I AIN'T LISTENING!" Daemian shrieked. Choosing violence, Deadboy pushed Bruce away with a kick from his Doc Martins, positioning Bruce for maximum punishment. The dark magi made a swirling motion with his leather-clad glove, channelling a vortex of shadow on the ground. "Come to me, tag partner."

On his hands and knees, all Bruce could do was look up at the growing, dark shape rising out from the hollow black. Piercing, glowing white eyes burrowed into his soul. The hulking, muscular leather-clad demon--Braxius--loomed over his prey, growling.

"You..." The demon said in his resonate, bone-chilling baritone. "You've hurt many. Without remorse. You bring pain and death to the innocent. All for what? It matters not. Nothing you say will you spare you...from the judgment of The Infernals."

Bruce sputtered, one final please. "B...Brax. Please. Beggin' ya, mate! Don't..."

The demon didn't allow the accused to state his case. The monster shoved Bruce's head into his massive thighs and hoisted him into the air, darkened with shadowy cloud. With man tucked squarely between his thighs, the demon jumped onto the stage, and turned around to face the ring.

Colt whippsed his head towards Deadboy. "You ain't..."

"Oh," Deadboy laughed, making a slit-throat motion towards Brax. "I am. You're ridin' the Highway to Hell mate!"

Brax flew through the air. Colt thought he even hung there, suspended, for a moment. Then, he brought his massive weight down, spiking Bruce into the floor. By the time he landed, Deadboy was already mid-air, bringing down his weight onto Bruce's chest with his boots.

Total destruction.

Redback, bloodied and bruised, yet still somehow conscious (but barely) found himself hoisted onto his toes by his former coworker. The demoniac looked into his eyes (now facing the opposite directions), examining him.

Deadboy acknowledge Colt. If only to get the man off his case. "I'm not gonna kill him, champ. Nah. I'm just gonna have my friends on the other side...play with him for a little while." He laughed, maliciously. "When I drag him out of Gehenna--say, an hour or so from now--he'll be a changed man. Trust me."

Then, he shoved Bruce's body forward. It landed in the silk-lined coffin. The lid shut.

Deadboy snapped his fingers, opening up a new portal. Colt reeled back at the sudden rush of cold wind and the reeking stench of sulphur. A hundred or more squirming, tendrils and shadowy arms thrust through the gateway, entwining themselves around the coffin, dragging it into the dark corridor. Cold barely registered Bruce's screams, from inside his confines, as the box vanished into the portal, which shut close with a flash of light.

All was quiet. Colt, wordlessly, looked at The Infernals. Daemian's head was lowered. Brax, sniffing the air, wrapped his meaty arm around his partner's neck, and nuzzled him affectionately.

He was crying.

Patient, and concerned, Colt moved closer to his employee. He understood the man needed to enact the justice he through Bruce deserved, and he knew he'd be a damned hypocrite if he chastised him for it.

"Never really could trust anyone..." Deadboy sniffed. "Not even my own fed, apparently."

Colt nodded. "I think the scary Ice Cream guy would disagree, cowboy. Hell, he'll probably be just as shocked when he finds out. And I sure as hell promise you, kiddo, that you can trust us mavericks here in the GSA. We're family, boy." 

Deadboy sighed and looked away.

"Hell, Daemian, I'd have dug up the earth with my own hands and dug you out myself, if I had to."

"Even after everything I did to you guys?" Daemian said.

Colt laughed. "Kid, you're one psycho heel. But you're a good little dogie too. You just saved our hides from that creep, for starters."

At Brax's silent encouragement, Deadboy nodded, forcing a smile. "Well, wasn't just me and Brax, boss. We...er...had help, yeah?" He looked askance.

"O'course," Colt went on, tapping his chin, "y'all will need to yank that yellow-belly'd so-and-so outta' hell eventually. As a bonafide babyface, I can't well let a bunch of demons torture him in perpetuity....even if the sum'bitch did deserve it. And what do you mean you had help?"  

"Deadboy!" A somewhat grizzled, feminine voice--like the gayest mobster or old timey paperboy--called from the other side of the room. 

Colt blinked, registering who'd just spike. "What in tarnation?" 

From the top rope, Spike--dressed in one of Colt's old promo T-shirts--flipped off the top rope and landed easily on his feet. He gave his 'audience' a winning smile. But he refused to meet Colt's eyes.

Deadboy immediately jumped to his friend's defense, as Brax bounded forward to give Spike a tight (too tight) hug and nuzzle. "Now, don't go an spit the dummy, Tambo--"

Colt blinked. "Tambo?"

"Short for Tamberly," Spike demured. "It's...an Aussie thing."

Brax held Spike close to him, protectively, like a mama bear guarding a cub, while Daemian did the talking. "Listen, yous. Spike warned me about Bruce. He even used my own spell to summon me!"

"You're...crushing my lungs," Spike squeeked, struggling in the affectionate demon's bear hug. The monster let him go. Finally, Spike acknowledge Colt. "Oh. Er...hi." 

Colt growled. Outside, a roll of thunder matched his displeasure.

Smiling awkwardly, Spike did his best to state his case. "I came through Daemian's shadow corridor. Nearly lost my lunch too. Look, Colt, I'm sorry for everything! I didn't mean to get Buck in trouble. I got...I got too cocky. But I was just lookin' out for his pride, I swear!"

Colt crossed his arms and gave Spike a stare-down. "Go on...give me a Goddess-damn reason why I don't shock you silly and have you throw out into the desert, boy."

Spike took a deep breath. The one time he didn't find Colt calling him 'boy's sexy. "I got a crush on your son, boss. And sometimes that means sticking up for him. But...I also have a lot of respect for his dad. You were and will always be my hero, and original favorite spellbreaker."

"Only favorite spellbreaker would suffice," Colt sniffed.

"And I know you were just lookin' out for me too," Spike continued. "Sometimes, even though you do your best, I think you can still be a bit old school. But I know by now that it comes from a place of love. You're worried. You try to protect us. But...Colt, we gotta' f*** up and let the universe knock us up the head sometimes."

"Knock you silly, boy," Colt said. He sighed. "Nah, Yankee, I should...." He swallowed, as if he had just been presented with a spoonful of particular foul tasting medicine. "Apologise." He looked to Daemian. 

Deadboy made a rolling otion with his hands. "Come on, champ, you can say it."

"To..." Colt winced. "...Yoooou? I was..." He looked as if he might puke. "Wrrrr. Wrrrr. WrrrroOHnnn....OH I can't say it!"

"It's...okay, boss," Spike said, trying not to sound so defeated. "I'm not here as an employee. I'm here as a friend."

Colt blew a stray hair out his eyes, and slicked back his frizzy, electrified hair. "Look, son. I know you hold a candle for my kid. You want to court him? Start by talking some damn sense into him and easing him into his magick. He listens to you."

Spike couldn't believe it. Even Deadboy gave him a sly thumbs up. "Really? I have your blessing? I mean...Buck and I haven't really sealed the deal yet, y'know. And with his recent...er...developments, I'd want to go slow."

Colt crossed his arms. "If you do decide to make my boy an honest man, then you have my blessing. BUT...you better treat him right." Colt winked. "After all, you know who his daddy is." Thank goodness Buck or Spike can't get pregnant, he thought.

Spike was so relieved, and ecstatic, that he nearly forgot the real reason he'd come with Deadboy. "What's gonna' happen to that schmuck, Redback?"

"We'll have the sheriff hold him in the county jail," Colt explained. "Then again, he's one dangerous hombre. I wouldn't even trust him after Deadboy's demon buddies learn him good. I'll contact Aradia and see if they can get the feds on this."

That was good news. But it didn't offer Spike much relief. The situation was much more dire than Colt probably realized. "That's...not the only thing I came here to tell you about. You see, Salim isn't who he says he is."

Colt scratched his head. "He's not the world champion? Would you reckon, I damn near forgot that!"

"Because he made you forget," Spike said. He looked to Deadboy and Brax. "He made us all forget. He's an extremely powerful magi."

Colt winced. "I'll be damned. I can clearly remember conversations where he told me he didn't have magick. But...I knew he was King Anubis...didn't I?"

"He rewrote time!"

Colt blinked and tossed Deadboy a concerned look. "Did you...er...power bomb Spike one too many times?"

"I'm friggin' serious, Colt! He's like, a demi god, or an immortal, or some kind of time traveller--I'm still trying to figure it out. I don't think he's bad though. Hell, he kicked Semyon's butt--oh, and by the way...Semyon Grigorivich is friggin' RASPUTIN!"

The president of the GSA cocked his head to the side. "The trumpet player guy?"

"No, you're thinking Louis Armstrong." Spike shook his head. He was being out-himbo'd. "Look. I'm tired. All I can tell you is that we need to contact Lily at Aradia. I think...really bad things are about to happen!"

To Be Continued

Epilogue: Bonds and Betrayals

A golden hour glass, inverted. 

Jackal placed it on the marble table, next to the beautiful, bottle-shaped Chalice of Spirit. For now, he watched the sands of time fall soft and precise. He could see each individual grain collect itself. Time moved differently for him. 

He took out the green gem, inlaid within a golden case shaped like an eye, and put it next to these treasures. He stared into the polished, reflective surface...or, more accurately, it stared into him.

"It's always so boring when the first dominoes start to fall," he said to nobody. Or maybe, to you. "You know those videos they have with those giant, artistic constructions? Like that scene in V for Vendetta. Oh no, I didn't make something like that. Looks like a pain in the ass. I'm just going for the easy metaphor here. Kind of cliche, but you know what, this isn't the greatest American novel. You're hear to watch hunky, male models in their underwear kick the crap out of each other." 

"So, let us observe..."

---

One hour later...

Two hospital beds in a private room, somewhere near the temple. They'd moved Buck to a different hospital. Before Spike passed out, he'd heard something about him needing to be put under observation; that his glyph was unstable. 

The medical magi had attended to Spike with balms and salves and bandages. Conscious now, but barely, he felt like a very sexy mummy.

He looked over at Vahni, sleeping in his cot, an IV drip connected to his hand. It was strange, how peaceful he looked in slumber. Spike could admire his beauty from close up without fear of having his spine broken. He was sure Rage had fractured it. The X-rays hadn't come back yet though. Spike hurt all over, and it was only for the medical magi's gifts (and some morphine) that he didn't pass out from the pain.

Stranger still, that they had put him and Vahni in the same room. That didn't seem right. It took Spike too long to realize there were no guards around, no security. Colt had ran off with Buck. That made sense. 

But everyone else...

Spike heard footsteps. Probably one of the nurses. He closed his eyes, not wanting to talk to anybody right now. He felt numb inside. Shellshocked. Poor Buck. Hell, poor Rage. He hadn't wanted any of this.

His eyes were half-shut when his opiate-addled brain noticed that the person standing in the room, close to Rage's bed, was none other than the referee from the match. Spike thought he must be seeing things.

Don't open your eyes. Wait. You'll know what to do. Just don't let him notice you. Not yet.

That voice again. The voice Spike had been hearing since the start of last year. Now, he realized, it wasn't coming from inside. And he wasn't crazy either. This was magick. Someone had been doing this to him.

He tried to 'think back' at it. To no avail.

He kept his eyes slightly open. Spike was an expert at this. He remembered plenty of times, back in the orphanage, when he fake-slept during Sister Patience's nightly checks. He waited. He watched.

The smirk across the referee's face told Spike all he needed to know about his intentions. The serpent-shaped dagger, ceremonial and sharp, held over Rage's chest, even more so.

Spike remained calm. The ref didn't even see the extension of his hand. He made a flick motion.

The blade came down across Rage's chest. Two inches above his skin, it bounced off, as if striking an invisible wall of glass. Or rather, a barrier of pure energy in the shape of an anchor.

"Gah!" The 'referee' shouted, taken aback. His knife flew out of his hands, landing on the floor.

Rage's eyes snapped awake--his right arm going for the referee's arm. Spike forced himself not to cry out. He was, of course, asleep. He assumed Rage would burn him alive and hear the man's screams any second now.

Which was why he was surprise when Rage, still weary, said quietly, "Who sent you? The alchemists? Or Semyon?" He gripped tighter. "That ouroboros tattoo...it's the alchemists, isn't it? That shrew, Recida Di Sangro..."

The Alchemist didn't answer. With his free hand, he pulled out a small vial of sickly, green liquid, popped the cork off with his teeth, and swallowed it.

"No!" Rage hissed. "Wait."

"You should have DIED for what you did to the Castle Di Sangro," the mad Alchemist lauighed, as as his eyes began to twitch, and his mouth begin to froth. "Burn me. BURN ME! SEE IF I CARE! HAHAHAH! WE ARE EVERYWHERE. WE ARE LEGION! THE GREAT WORK WILL BE--"

Whatever this 'Great Work' was, Spike and Rage would never find out. The man fell silent. Rage let go, and his body slunk to the ground, hard as a stone.

Spike, who had just had a brush with death himself, couldn't mentally take it. The raw terror, and the horror of seeing someone die in front of him, knocked him out. In sleep, he was vaguely aware of the rush of footsteps, doctors screaming in rapid Hindi.

And then, a voice, bright and sure as a lit fire. Rage's. "Spike...my lion. Thank you."

---

One day later...

By the time Spike awokee in the hospital room again, Rage had been moved. The doctors and nurses were incredibly kind to him, and he was sure by the end of his brief stay, that he had charmed all the female doctors, who kept referring to him as 'the pretty American'.

His wounds healed. It was no surprise. Sanjay had once told him of India's advanced healing magi, and their cutting edge magickal capabilities. On that note, Spike wondered how his Bronze Star coworkers were doing. Sanjay. Blue Dragon. He'd even heard rumors about some new blood scouted out in Japan, a fighter said to be a 'real ogre'. Spike looked forward to meeting him, whoever that was (especially if he was a baddie).

Fortunately, and perhaps miraculous, Spike had only sustained a minor fracture that was easily patched up with magick, rather than needing a cast or splint. He was cleared for discharge. 

Spike downed the rest of his lassi, a beverage that the nurses had assured him would bring back his strength As he sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He made a note to try and find a restaurant that served these when he got back to the states.

As he finished his drink, placing it daintily on the bedside tray, Spike's ears picked up on the click of stilettos on the floor. Expecting another doctor, he looked up to see a tall, intense-looking woman with pretty eyes, a tight bun, and a rich, beautiful voice.

"You're awake," she said, sounding annoyed.

"Uhh...can I help you?"

The woman looked him and up and down. Spike thought she could be the female counterpart to Vahni Rage. Similar cheekbones. Good looking. And that intensity. The woman steeled herself and shook Spike's hand.

"Amrita Ray." She nodded to the now empty cot. "I believe...you are intimately acquainted with my brother."

It took Spike a few seconds before he realized what she meant. His eyes bugged out. "NO FRIGGIN' WAY."

"Kindly keep your voice down," the cold, beautiful woman said. "I came here only to ask you a question. As you know, the Ray family--in additions to being custodians of the Temple, are also overseers of one of the largest soma springs in the world..."

Spike squinted. "The...Ray family?" 

Amrita shook her head. "Khanu didn't mention..." Then, she winced. "I mean, Vahni. Ugh, you silly spellbreakers and your...what is it that you call it again? 'Kayfabe'. Anyways, I wanted to ask your about the soma you imbibed before the match."

Spike was blunt. "It didn't friggin' work, Ms. Rage."

"...Ray."

"I think it was bunk."

She pursed her lips. "You would most likely be correct. Our tests showed it was diluted to almost zero effect." She shook her head. "You're lucky to be alive. My brother...always had a bad habit of breaking his toys." Satisfied, she turned and walked towards the door. "He told me you saved him from being stabbed. Unfortunately, the police have not been able to identify the man, nor the International Spellbreaking Commission, who is terribly--and rightfully--embarrassed they didn't catch his forged credentials."

"He was an Alchemist," Spike said. "Probably from Italy."

"Hmm. Unfortunately, their breed appears to be spreading across the continents. They're part secret society, part criminal enterprise. I presume they attacked my brother out of revenge." Amrita shrugged. "Ah well, I will merely hunt them down to the ends of the Earth."

Spike didn't doubt it. It seemed Rage's family was full of intense people. He'd hate to meet Rage's mother...

"That is all," Amrita said. "Thank you, Spike, for your honesty and your bravery. Leave the rest to me."

"Wait, you're not going to tell me what's going on?"

"I am by no means obligated to tell you. You are alive. Be thankful for that." She scanned him, again. "I can see why my brother thinks you're cute. There's something of...the little dog about you. It's endearing. And a bit annoying. Oh, and your handsome friend is in a different clinic. I have taken the liberty of hiring you a taxi to take you to him and his father."

"What? Really? Buck..." Spike looked at the ground. He was still in shock. Still, as a New Yorker, he was loathe not to express his gruff brand of gratitude. "Hey, thanks."

The pretty woman in the business suit and skirt shrugged. "We are hospitable here in India."

----

Whereas Vahni Rage's sleep was that of a warrior resting after a vicious battle, there was no tranquillity in Buck's slumber. As Spike looked through the partition glass at his friend, boss, and budding lover, he watched as the man in the hospital gound writhed in slumber, face contorted. Above him, a phantom light, that vague stag shape, blinked in and out. Occasionally, the image shifted into that of a wolf, a bear, a mountain lion, even the approximation of the Taamberly's cat, Zeus.

Behind the glass, Colt, dressed in a plain, white t-shirt, wrapped his arm around Varla, in a deep, violet sari, as they looked on. 

It was only Colt who realized the patterns in the ephemeral quality of the images. "Sketches."

Varla turned to Colt. "What?"

"It's Buck's sketches. I know I've seen them before. His best work is always animals." Colt sighed. "I always told him to focus on human anatomy so he could do up our posters." 

No staff were allowed in the room. Buck was too much a risk. The soft-spoken doctor in the handsome spectacles, Dr. Suresh, approached Colt and Varla.

He spoke candidly. "Tests are done. Buck's vitals are stable...though, as you can tell, the glyph is causing him severe mental distress. I'm afraid there isn't much we can do for that, other than sedatives."

Colt sighed, with relief. His heart hurt. "How can I repay you, doc?"

The good doctor shook his head. "There is no need for payment, Mr. Tamberly. It has been taken care of."

Varla looked at Colt with confusion. "Forgive us, doc, but we aren't from here. Surely you can just bill us?"

The doctor smiled, patiently. "It has already been taken care of by the temple, at the direction of the Ray family."

The name was initially unfamiliar to Colt. His eyes went back and forth. Then, it hit him. "Vahni."

"It seems they owe you tremendous gratitude," the doctor explained. He looked over at Buck, but wasn't concerned with the readouts on the screens hooked up to him. "If the Ray family has given their blessing, then you are honored guests indeed, and we will do everything to take care of your son." 

The halogen lighting in Buck's room reflected back in the kindly doctor's eyes. "It will hard for the boy, these next few hours, but eventually he will adjust. Glyph activation late in life always causes these problems. Some, even, lose their life." The doctor quickly added, "But I strongly believe we are beyond that outcome now. We will treat Buck with pain killers, magick dampeners, and anti-psychotics." 

The doctor nodded. "Your son will be alright. However, we would suggest finding him a tutor who specializes in the Physis Glyph, that is, the Glyph of Nature."

"Just like Laura," Varla said, soberly.

"Of course." Colt held his head, ashamed. "Lily had said something about siblings sharing that glyph. Goddess...what have I done..."

"Nothing," Varla said, quickly. She glanced at the doctor. "Thank you, Dr. Suresh."

"I'll be back when I make my rounds again," the doctor said, with a slight bow. He left Varla and Colt in peace.

With nobody around to watch, Colt fell against the farthermost wall from Buck's room, and sighed. "I should be ecstatic, Varl." He ran a hand down his face. He was tired. "I know Buck always felt like he was lesser because he didn't have a glyph. I always told him that wasn't the case!"

The pretty woman stared at Colt. There were parts of him that she had hoped might have changed over the years. All in all, he had grown. But she knew Colt, perhaps better than anybody else.

"But did your actions show it, Colt?"

The handsome Texan looked away. "..."

Varla, pursing her lips together, turned back to Buck's window. A flurry of motion, and the appearance of a familiar face at the end of the hallway, caught her attention. "Spike."

The boy's arms and, indeed, part of his face, were bandaged. Someone, a fan perhaps, had gifted him an elegant, navy blue kurta. He looked rather fetching, Varla thought.

The blonde boy looked at the adults, and then over at Buck. He pressed his hands to the glass, his eyes shining wet. He'd been crying.

Colt looked over at Spike, as the color drained from his face. He scratched his head. His mouth twitched. He had so many things he wanted to say to Spike, but he knew he'd just trip over the words and make them both look foolish if he didn't just cut to the chase...

"You did well, Spike, Quite the show." He spoke in a horse monotone, completely uncharacteristic of the bombastic showman from the Lone Star Nation. He sighed. "But...I suppose I don't need to tell you that what you did was beyond reckless and could have gotten yourself killed."

Spike felt like he was back in the headmaster's office again. He gave Colt the dignity of making eye contact. "No, sir," he said, with a small voice.

Colt nodded. "And...I suppose I don't have to tell you that talking Buck into coming to India was well against my wishes." He sighed, quite exhausted. "I...am angry with you. Hell, this is me minding my temper." He looked over at Varla, who nodded with understanding. 

"This is a rare thing, Spike. And you would be wise to be grateful, young man. However, despite your victory the other day, I am afraid you put my son's life at risk, as well as your own, going against GSA safety guidelines." 

Spike swallowed. He sensed where this was going. This was almost worse than his match with Rage...

"Per contract, Buck is currently unable to perform his duties, which means ownership of the GSA automatically transfers back to me as its primary stakeholder. So, with that said--and wishing you the best in the world--I release you from your contract, Samuel Waterford." He paused. He was trembling. "You are no longer an employee of the GSA."

Spike held back the tears, even as the invisible dagger pierced his heart. "...Yes, sir."

Colt looked him over, like it was the first time they'd met. "Do...do you have anything to say?"

Spike shook his head. He forced a smile. "No, sir." He extended his hand, graciously.

Colt took it, and shook it. He held it longer than Spike expected, before he broke away.

Varla, on the verge of crying herself, looked between the two men. "Colt..."

"It is what is is," Colt said.

Spike understood. He turned away, not wanting his childhood hero to see his tear-streaked face. "I'll...be going now. Um...can you maybe just let me know how Buck is. Somehow?"

Colt nodded, gravely. "I can certainly do that. Oh, and you'll be paid out, of course. Unfortunately, you will have to leave the compound. I've already arranged a flight back to New York, and Varla here has graciously allowed you to stay at her old apartment in Manhattan. We'll send your stuff."

Spike nodded. This was it. "Thank you, sir. For the opportunity."

---

The others were waiting for him outside the hospital. It was interesting, Spike thought, how he was so on the verge of crying his eyes out and then...

...nothing. 

All of them stood there, dressed in their civilian clothing. They all looked so...normal, Spike thought. Stripped of stage makeup and done up hair and flashy gear. Still, there hints are their true nature. Daemian, all in black. Iggy, with a flash of neon. White Tiger, in black and white.

Spike sighed, head hung low. Well, now I can't cry, can I? "Guys. Oh geez. Not like this."

"We know what happened," Iggy said. Somehow, he always looked like he was smiling. "I'm...really sorry, kitten."

El Amante looked askance. Of all of them, he was the only one still in some form of fighting gear (his mask). "We...have some thoughts about how Colt handled things. I know I shouldn't say that as head of HR, but--"

"But he's being a bloody p****," Daemian spat.

Tiger glared at him. "He's our boss. That being said...I concur with Daemian, in far cruder terms."

"Where will you go!" Gio blurted out. "Oh, Rosa says hi." he scratched his neck.

Icewolf, already crying, threw himself at Spike, clutching him in a tight embrace. "B-b-broooo! Not like this, bro!"

"Oh no," Spike said, to Robbie, "Don't you start! I'll start too." He had already started tearing up, of course. No use hiding it. These were the strongest men in the whole damn world, as far as Spike could tell. There was nothing for him to hide from them. 

John Henry, arms folded in front, looked absolutely angry. But not at him. "Blondie, I'm coming back to New York with you. Personal escort. While...I agree with Colt somewhat, I ain't letting you go back alone. You return to NYC a damn hero, got it? And that's what you are. You kicked Rage's butt!"

Spike gently pushed Robbie off of him. "Well, I definitely had some help." He looked down at the ground. "This is so friggin' weird. I hope Buck is okay. I...I don't know what to say. To any of you."

White Tiger personally placed his hand on Spike's shoulder. "This isn't the end, cub."

Cian, who at this point hadn't said anything, approached Spike himself. He extended his hand. "Boyo. I refuse to believe this is the end. We need our rematch. I gotta' take down the man who took down Vahni Rage."

Spike gladly shook Cian's hand. It was so odd, now. He wished things had gone differently between them. He wished he had swallowed his pride a hell of a lot sooner. He wished he could have been there for Cian when he was most vulnerable, and gave him in the kindness he needed.

But...Spike wished for a lot of things. Especially in that moment.

Kengo approached Spike next. The gentle sumo looked him in the eye, and gave him a deep bow. "My precious roommate, Spike. Let me tell you something. In Japan, we do not judge people by the status of their job, or source of income, but the pride in which they demonstrate their expertise. Garbage men and women, for instance are considered highly respectable members of society. So, whatever you do, you will be wonderful."

Spike bit his lip, mostly to force back a sob. "Kengo..."

The giant man nodded to him. "Now. Go be a good garbage man, Spike."

Spike cocked his head to the side. Leave it to Kengo to stop the tears...though probably not the way he intended. A bit puzzled, Spike nodded. "I'm not sure...I. Er. Yes! I will. I will be the best garbage man. And the cutest."

He looked out over all those faces. His brothers. His lovers. His mentors. His friends.  "Thank you, so much guys. You were all my best buds during the most important years of my life. I'll see you in New York, I guess..."

----

One week later...

"Are all the women as pretty you, where you come from?"

Mediterranean light from the blue sky outside the arched, latticed windows illuminated Lily Suarez's face as she looked up from her desk in Aradia's Greek branch.

The young woman with the strawberry blonde hair looked up at Georgio, handsome and weedy. "I'm sorry?" She blinked. "Texas?" Her eyes fell upon the framed phot of her and the boys back home. Buck. I hope you're alright.

Georgio, from the records department, held the files Lily had asked for, and nodded to her cup holder. "That flag."

Lily looked down at the little trans pride flag she had picked up at one of the pride rallies she'd attended when she was in Texas. "Oh." She blushed. "Yes. We...uh...are all known for our extraordinary beauty."

Georgio practically salivated. "Well then. Got those files you were looking for."

Lily swallowed. This was awkward. She took the files, snatched them out of his hands really, and placed them on her desk. "Thank you, Georgio." 

"Coffee sometime?"

She looked at him blankly. "It's the trans flag, you dolt."

Georgio, deeply perplexed, looked at Lily, the flag, and then back at her. "Oh. Huh. Just like my cousin, Alyssa. So...coffee, when?"

Lily wanted to place her head on her desk and cry. Still, Georgio was at least sweet about it. "Um, I'm quite busy at the moment, but I'll let you know." 

Smiling wolfishly, Georgio slunk away down the rows of cubicles and office plants, leaving Lily to her own devices.

The glyphologist, and top-tier Aradia researcher, slunk back into her desk chair and breathed deeply. "Thank Goddess." But not was not the time to relax. She stared down at the files. Even reading them here felt dangerous.

She grabbed the folder, muttered an excuse to the secretary, and vanished into the interior of the Aradia building, with all of its marble, Grecian influence, and testaments to magi of yore. She reached the library, made a point not to write her name in the visitor log, and found the furthermost, private study cubicle.

The smell of old tomes comforted her, as always. It was all she could do to put her mind at ease. She'd heard what had happened in India, to Buck, Spike, and the others. Her heart had broken for them. But feeling bad wasn't going to change things. It never did. She knew exactly how to manage her support.

Brushing her lucky sunflower pendant with her fingers, Lily made sure nobody else was around, as she opened the files in front of her. To most, they seemed a jumble of boring financial records, pay stubs, and reimbursements all related to one specific employee of Aradia.

But to Lily, who always trusted her instincts, these files told a story.

"Sorry, Salim," she said to herself, as she thumbed through the records. "I really don't mean to pry into your life, but...to be honest, something about you has been bugging me for the longest time...."

----

Later that night...

About a mile away from Aradia HQ, in the penthouse of a swanky athans apartment, Salim stood on his balcony, nursing a glass of (very expensibe) wine that Gio had sourced for him, and stared down at the string of lights over the bustling cafe. A singer--and a very good one at that--strummed her guitar, singing a song about love and fate. Salim had heard many songs like these before. They never got old. He smiled, raised a glass to the full moon, his oldest and most trusted companion, and retreated back inside, latching the balcony door behind him.

The phone rang. Right on time. Salim waited, deliberately, for two chimes, savouring the mouthful of wine--the last time he would probably enjoy a tranquillity like this for quite some time--before he picked up the receiver.

"Miss Suarez," Salim said, cheerfully. "To what do I owe the honor?

"Hey, Salim. How did you know it was me?"

"Oh, call it a talent. It's a bit late. Is everything okay? Hope you aren't still working a this hour. Ah, and I heard about Buck."

"Yeah. I'm..." She trailed off.

"I understand, habibi. I always sensed a power there. I just hope he's okay."

Salim and Lily spoke for some time. Salim indulged her. She was a good woman. Smart as hell. But, like most people her age (early twenties) it took her a considerable amount of time to muster the courage to get to the damn point.

"I feel like so much is happening, so quickly," Lily sighed. She was confiding in him. But...Salim sensed something else behind her words. A hidden motive. "Aradia has beefed up security. With all that happened in India, it makes sense. I just feel like...everyone has their heads up their asses that they can't see the danger in front of them. Pardon my French."

"Ce n'est pas un problème," Salim said, with a perfect accent. "Well, we are in Greece, habibi. It's called a Greek tragedy for a reason. And, you know, Lil," Salim started, "There's an old saying I'm fond of. I believe it comes from Russia, actually. There's decades where nothing happens. And then there's weeks where decades happen. Or...something like that."

Salim sighed, swirling his wine. "To be blunt, I have had one long decade this week." He stared down at his Rolex. It was about time...

"I'm right there with you," Lily said, over the phone. "I'm actually heading to India to see Buck, Colt, and Spike. But...I'm afraid of leaving Aradia."

Salim paused a moment and closed his eyes. "I can safely say that you and everyone else will be find if you decide to go to India. Trust me."

"Well, I usually do..."

Salim smiled, at the curious hesitation in the woman's voice. Though he said nothing of it.

He moved on to more vital matters. "Intel suggests Jackal got the seventh Chalice. Which means two of them are still in play, three if you count the one still somewhere in Australia."

He anticipate the awkward pause to follow. He felt bad for her. She was good. Very good. But she was sill out of her league.

"Just be careful, Salim," Lily said. "I feel like things are starting to close in. Oh, by the way, I hope you don't take offense to this, but I was just wondering...."

And here. We. Go. "Yes?"

"Exactly how long have you been with Aradia?"

Salim's mouth twitched. "Oh, since way back. End of the war, I think? 1945."

"Huh. I thought the war ended in 1947?"

"Well, maybe in this timeline..."

"What?"

"Oh, it's nothing. But to answer your question, I was on the board of directors during the foundation."

"Hmmm."

Salim smiled. Tried to suppress a laugh even. She was right on queue. 3...2...1...

"You...told me once that you came from an old Egyptian family."

"Very old," Salim said. This was as far as he was willing to go, however. "Hey, I would be more than happy to tell you all about it sometime, but I actually have some business to attend to." His eyes darted to the balcony door. It was no longer latched. He smiled. "Let's do lunch soon, okay? Ciao."

He put down the phone, tossed back the wine (what a waste) and placed his chin on his ring-laden hands.

"Be very, very careful Lilly, my sweet. You're smart. Perhaps too smart for your own safety."

With that, Salim--giant that he was--stood and stretched. He looked over in the direction of the curtains. As with everything else in his luxuriant apartment, they were very fine and very pretty to look at.

"Hellllooooooooo?" Salim addressed the silent room. "Are you going to come out, or are you going to make this difficult for the both of--"

The soldiers, all clad head-to-toe in tactical gear, sprung out from behind the curtains and the back of the couch and took aim at Salim. They didn't hesitate. Ears plugged, their silencers shot round after round into Salim's chest, riddling him red with bullets.

The man's body smoked. In fact, Salim was still standing when he, the elegant giant, fell back onto the table, snapping it off the legs and spilling the wine glass on the floor. It shattered, mixing with his blood.

Salim Netjeer, head skewed to the side, smiled...as the blood trickled from his mouth and poured out onto the polished wood.

The assassins were efficient. Rifles still pointed at the massive businessman, they circled his corpse. Their leader put the butt of his rifle against Salim's jaw, pushing against it.

When he was satisfied, the tactical commander pressed his finger to his earpiece. In Russian, he said, "Tell Cypher he's dead. We got...?"

He stopped. He should have been used to the death spasm of a body. Back in Crimea, he'd seen many a freshly dead soldier twitch. Something about the nerves...

Then, his ears picked up on a strange noise. His men, ever reliable, cocked their guns.

The tinkle of bullets hitting the ground was, to the commander, a familiar sound. However, he had never seen bullets come out of wounds before, ejected like so. He saw metal pass back out from the holes in Salim's shirt, completely torn asunder (yet strangely, no blood). The bullets fell to the ground, out of Salim's wounds, as his body resealed itself.

The corpse spasmed. "Ouch," Salim said, eyes fluttering back to life.

"FIRE!"

More bullet hail. This time, in a panic. The room filled with smoke. It was a rookie mistake, the commander thought. Now, they were blind!

Even worse. They were out of bullets. The commander heard the tell-tale click of spent cartridges. He looked to his men, silhouettes in the bullet fog.

Then, he heard the first neck snap, the ensuing grunt, and the body fall. He turned to his left. Another man down. Panicking, he went for a cartridge. It was gone. How?

From out of the fog, a shirtless Salim Netjeer, riddled with muscle, looked down at the commander. He held up the cartridge, smiling.

"Lose this?"

Panicked, the man went to butt the giant brute with his gun. It was no longer in his hands, even though it had only been there

"A second ago," Salim said, looking down and admiring the rifle in his arms. "Oh man, this one's a beauty, isn't she?"

The commander panicked. Who was this man? He turned, looking towards the balcony door. Salim was already behind him.

"GAH!"

The giant, still smiling, grabbed the commander by the throat and held him. "Okay, so first things first..." Saim leaned forward.

He was no longer smiling.

"That...really....F***ING HURT! But not as much as this is going to hurt you."

The commander swallowed. His handler hadn't mentioned anything about Salim Netjeer having a glyph. What was this?

But that was the last thing that travelled through the man's head. Forever. Salim removed the man's tactical mask. He wanted to look into his eyes. Old eyes in a young face. Man had to be in his 

"Thirties," Salim said, cocking his head to the side. "Or...is it forties? Huh? What? Fifties? Wow, you look like you're aging in rapid time!"

Salim smiled, watching as wrinkles and lines appeared on the man's face, deepening. His eyes sunk, as did his flesh. 

"Eighties, actually? Geez, you're old for a commander. You look like my grandpa Djeb. Hey, sir, you don't look so good! You're practically skin and bones!"

The skeleton that Salim now held in his hands, still dressed in military garb, crumbled at his touch. Nothing but a pile of dust remained.

"Eesh," Salim grimaced. "All over my new carpet?" He sighed, pressing his fingers against his face. "Now, that's much better. So spry! I was going to go for botox next week and now..." he turned to the two corners, hands grabbing their legs in a fetal position, guns abandoned, in the corner of the room. "Now I don't have to! Isn't that great for me?"

Before either of them could respond, they blinked--and found their throats each in Salim's hands. He raised them both into the air, with eyes.

"I always love it how their feet kick out in a panic like that," Salim said. He smiled. "Russia, eh? Come on, it's gotta' be Russia. I can practically smell the vodka on your breath. And why is Russia always the villain, anyway?"

He zeroed in on the soldier on his left. He was a young man with a shaved head. Not exactly good looking, but not ugly either. Kind of plain, actually. Salim looked deeper, into his timeline, tugging on threads and connections...

It really was like a messy sort of tapestry, time. An ugly thing. Beautiful too, in a way. So many threads. Countless. Salim traced the soldier's. All soldiers threads were sort of the same, in the beginning. Kind of boring. War was boring.

Ah, but there...

When not on tactical assignment, the soldier held his desk job in central Moscow. Every day, at 8 AM, he went to the same cafe and ordered the some coffee, from the same barista. He would smile at her. He never asked her out (the soldier was married and too boring and busy to have an affair), but he always showed her courtesy.

Two years from now, that barista finds herself at the edge of a roof. Gray sky. But Moscow is always beautiful in the gray. She looks out, wondering how much it will hurt when she jumps. If she should close her eyes. If the note she left behind was sufficient.

Then, she thinks of the soldier who always comes in. Still always comes in. Something about his smile. She can't explain it. Nobody can, really. But she thinks of herself as part of his life. Just a small part. A smile can mean so much, really.

For some reason (and not even Salim can explain such things) she backs away from the roof. 'What am I doing?' she asks nobody. But it's okay. Sometimes, even the best of us falter and give in to despair.

But not today.

Further, Salim tugs the threads. 

Six years from now. The former barista looks into a microscope. She nearly faints at what she sees...but for all the right reasons. Careful always careful, the scientist calls over her assistant. She can't believe that, only a few years ago, she was in a coffee shop paying off a degree she never thought she'd be smart enough to use.

Now, she's sure of it. The cure. She's found the cure...

And Salim knows she has, of course. He's seen where those threads lead...this barista's threads, that is. All over the world. A tangle. A messy, ugly, beautiful tangle. Her delayed death, delaying millions of others by proxy.

In the present, Salim lowered the soldier with a sigh. "No. Not you. You're needed." He looked to the other soldier, the one struggling in the grip of his right hand. "You, however...I can see nothing but an endless sea of empty bottles and bad decisions. Consider this a mercy..."

As with the commander, the soldier aged in rapid time. It wasn't a painful process, or at least it never seemed that way the thousands of times Salim has done it before. They just look...tired, in the end. Resigned. 

Until? Only dust.

The soldier, the one that's still alive that is, looked up at Salim, trembling.

Salim stared down down at him. Still, smiling. Always, smiling, like a certain canine hunting across the desert dunes of Egypt. "Run." 

The soldiers stammered. He tripped over his feet. "Goddess..."

"Your Goddess isn't here now," Salim said, as he watched the soldier run out the door. "Only...me." 

Quiet now. Salim glanced over at the wine stain, the ashes of men, and the pile of bullets that had been inside him, only a few minutes previous.

"Ah, Semyon. You dirty rat. Doing exactly what I hoped you would." He looked down at the soldier, with his neck stepped, and pressed the front of his shoe against his cheek. 

Salim walked over to the desk, watching as the last sand in the hour glass fell from the top. Satisfied, he placed his finger on the Chalice of Wisdom, pondering Semyon's intent, even now. He grabbed the eye-shaped pendant and held it close to his chest.

"Hmmm. I think I may just need to pay the Tsarina a little visit..."

To Be Continued