Chapter 11: Let's Dance

"HOLY SH***"

Death was a lot noisier than Spike expected. He wanted to sleep. His eyes fluttered open, senses coming back online. It was hard to keep his eyes open. Sleep. Sleep was good.

"Daemian, please do not swear. You know it makes me uncomforta--HOLY SH**"

Where Spike had just been had been nothing but calm. A tranquillity still embraced him, but now everything suddenly felt more real. His body ached. His head throbbed. His vision blurred. Who were these familiar voices? What did they want? Why had they been calling his name?

"I'll get the nurse! Spike, bicha, I swear if you don't wake up I will break both your arms."

Iggy? Iggy wants to break my arm? They always want to break my arm. So...rude...

Spike's eyes fluttered open unto halogen light. For a moment, he thought he might actually be in Heaven. Then, he saw Deadboy's face--a rare mix of concern and surprise.

Spike groaned. "I'm in Hell. I guess that tracks..."

Daemian glared. "That's what you say to the bloke who BROUGHT YOU BACK FROM THE DEAD, C***?"

This was real. Spike wondered if this was what it was like to be born--to come back into existence. Everything was so strange, even though it should be familiar. Deadboy just stared at him. So odd to see him look concerned.

"Why...the hell is your hair like that?" Spike said slowly.

Gobsmacked, Deadboy--wearing a cut-off jean jacket, ran his fingers through his dark mullet, streak with purple. "You've been asleep for a bloody week and the first thing you want to do is make fun of my haircut?" Daemian's lip quivered slightly, before he threw his arms around Spike's neck. "You little idiot."

Spike turned his weary head, ready to pass out again. He was in a hospital bed. IV drip in his arms. EKG. He just knew he looked like shit. "A...week?" he said, as his eyes scanned a bedside table stacked high with get-well-cards and flowers. He recognized some of the handwriting. He certainly recognized Buck's art (damn, great pic of me holding the title belt). Spike looked toward Kengo, dressed (rather fetchingly) in a suit and tie. The lanyard around his neck confused Spike, but he was in no position to demand elaboration.

"The spirits are good," Kengo whispered under his breath. "Roomie. We thought..." His eyes filled with tears. "We brought you back from the..." Kengo shook his head. Daemian and I."

Spike groaned. His head hurt. He felt like someone had opened him up and stuffed him with cotton. Pinned on the wall next to him was a simply designed, woven dreamcatcher.

"Robbie made that for you," Daemian said, cracking open a can of coke and sitting in the chair next to Spike. "Said he wanted you to have good dreams. Did it work?"

Spike remembered everything, though he could not place when it had happened--his meeting his dad (if that were real), and seeing Salim in the 'metaphor thing' that had taken the shape of John Henry's gym. "I think so. I...I saw my dad."

Daemian blinked. "Oath?"

Spike nodded. "Oath." 

"Oh. Then you must have really died." Daemiain shrugged, put his can down, and belched loudly. He rested his Doc Martin's on Spike's bed. "Kengo and I used our glyphs to try and bring your soul back while the docs did their thing."

"There is no medical explanation for what happened to you," Kengo said. placing a cold, wet towel on Spike's forehead. "You absorbed a lot of energy. It completely short circuited your nervous system. You were clinically dead for quite some time. It is a miracle you stabilized."

Spike tried not to pass out, hearing this information alone. "A week, you said?" He thought about it. "Does that mean...?"

"Ha!" Daemian laughed. "Yeah. Bedpan. Don't worry--wasn't Ken and me changin' it."

He wasn't even embarrassed about that. In fact, Spike wanted to laugh, but his chest hurt. His life hurt. 

"We're in New York City," Kengo told Spike. "St. Milia Hospital in Manhattan. It is a very good one. They treat a lot of injuries like yours here, so I thought..."   

"I thought it felt a lot like home," Spike said, smiling. "Still...something feels...off..."

He tried to crane his neck, but Kengo gently encouraged him to stay still. Though Spike didn't have enough energy to process what was going on, there were tell-tale signs of something being...off, that bothered him. There was black box on the wall, with bright red numbers. It took Spike several seconds to realize it was some sort of time display.

"What the hell is that thing?" Spike said, nodding to the object. 

Kengo looked over his shoulder. "Oh? It is a clock."

"THAT'S a clock?"

Daemian and Kengo's eyes met. "Oh no, he doesn't realize..."

But before Spike could utter the obvious 'realize WHAT?' the sound of oncoming footsteps, and a whole team of medical staff, drew his eyes towards the door.

Nurses and doctors flocked to Spike's bedside, muttering shocked medical phraseology that Spike couldn't even begin to understand. Besides, he was too distracted by the tall, muscular figure in the tight shirt and light-pink blazer. Their crossly cropped hair, almost a mohawk, threw Spike completely off.

"Ig...Iggy?"

Spike's malicious mentor smiled. "Bom dia, sleepy head." Iggy posed, letting free a small shower of sprakles. "What do you think of the new do?"

"You got new hair too?" Spike asked, confused. "Why does everyone have new hair? Did we all treat ourselves to the salon after savin' the world, or what?"

"Ah, yeah...about that." Iggy nodded to the doctors. "Let's...get you back on your feet first before we blow your mind."

Spike felt dizzy. "My mind's already been blown for one lifetime, friend."

Spike's fatigue soon caught up with him (as did the medications) and he found himself in a welcome, dreamless sleep before long. By morning, however, he felt full of vim and vigor. The doctors told him they'd need to monitor him throughout the day. Spike had no choice but to agree. 

"I left the boss a message on the ol' answering machine," Daemian said, coming back into the room. 

"That 'what'?" Spike shook his head. "A machine that answers you?"

The doctors had briefly asked all guests to leave while they checked Spike's vitals. They were all shocked to find him, suddenly, the picture of health. The punk (with the mullet) nodded to Spike. "You...don't know what an answering machine is?"

"Duh?"

Daemian glared. "Want me to send you back to the underworld again, s***c***? Ugh. But that's right--we didn't have widely available answering machines in the sixties, yeah?" 

Spike couldn't follow. His head still hurt. As he tried to make sense, Kengo sprung back into the room, red faced and panting.

"It's...it's Sandra Iron."

Spike forced himself up, wincing, trying to stabilize himself. He wasn't dizzy. Good. "Whaddya' mean? Did she get hurt too? She wasn't even there! Is Mr. Iron okay? Why aren't you answering me!?"

"OY! Because you're talkin' a kilometre-a-minute, mate!" Daemian spat. "One thing at a time, or do you want your pretty head to nearly explode again? Didn't think so."

"She gave birth!" Kengo said, catching his breath at last. "A healthy baby boy!"

Spike's face lit up like the sun. "Whaaaaa!? World champion and a new dad? Mr. Iron must feel on top of the world." As he should. Goddess knows coach deserved it. "When do we get to see the baby?"

Kengo walked over and gently pressed his massive hand on Spike's forehead, lowering back to the pillow. "When this baby is cleared to get on his feet." He poured Spike a glass of water. "Minoru sends his regards too. He said he knew you'd come back, that you were too much of a..." Kengo blushed. "Expletive expletive to die. In my system of belief, when someone recovers from a grave illness around the same time as a new birth in their community, it is believed the two souls become interlinked."

The sudden realization, that he'd nearly died, made Spike's head swim. "Damn. Huh. Waitaminute...does that mean...Mr. Iron appointed me the kid's Goddess Father?"

"Nah," Daemian laughed. "He said that'd be Colt. The president is back in San Antonio, dealing with..." Daemian shrugged. "Everything. Did you know we had to all get interviewed and  debriefed by the bloody CIA? Aradia's been called into the UN and everything. Weirdly enough though, what happened at the world championships has cooled the heels of both Russia and the US. They're still pointin' nukes at each other, but they took what happened in Kitezh as a warning. I'm sure Lily is chuffed to know he org is gonna get heaps of funding now..."

Spike still had a million questions. Kengo tried his best to answer. Kengo was a resident now, at this hospital. When the glyph had run amok, Deadboy used his dark magick to teleport the rest of the spellbreakers to safety. But when they'd come out the other side of the dark corridor, the New York City they'd appeared in was...well...

"Changed," Kengo explained. "Uh...you see..." 

Spike's heart skipped a beat. "How long have I really been asleep, Kuma?"

Kengo smiled, nervously. "A week."

"And you became a resident of a New York City hospital WITHIN A WEEK? I mean, I knew you were smart, but--"

"It is...complicated. We still don't understand it. But...it seems Salim did something to...well...I...can't..." Kengo was tongued tied. 

Spike, glad to be walking around, tugged on his hospital gown. "Never mind, you'll either give me or yourself a panic attack. Salim mentioned to me that he had to something to...the timeline?" Spike scratched his head.

Kengo nervously handed Spike a pile of clothing. "We couldn't find your old clothing when we escaped Kitezh. Iggy and Daemian seemed to think you'd appreciate these?"

Spike frowned as he picked up the navy blue top. "Kengo. This shirt is missing its bottom." Spike tossed off the hospital gown and looked at himself in the mirror, giving himself a flirty wink and 'finger gun'. "Still got the bod, at least. And...THE HAIR!?"

Spike's eyes bugged out of his head. His hair was no longer shortly cropped, Navy style, but long and luscious and full (just like it had been, briefly, in his showdown with Salim). He looked more like the old Iggy Astro! Spike couldn't help but run his fingers through it.

"Yesss. YES. LOOK AT ME. Kengo! Look how pretty I am." He tossed his hair back and forth, like a shampoo model. "What's my secret? Well, I'll never tell. Oh yes. YESSSS." 

Growing rapidly excited with his new 'look' (not even questioning how his hair had grown in the span of a week) Spike tugged his new shirt over his body. His abs were completely visible.

"It's called a...crop...top?" Kengo explained. "Apparently they are quite popular with men these days."

These days? Spike put on the short shorts and admired himself in the mirror. "This is...the singular best piece of clothing that's ever been invented. Kinda' weird though. Don't ya think people will look at me funny wearing something like this?"

Iggy waltzed into the room and whistled at his mentee. "Lookin' good and slutty."

Spike frowned. "I dunno, Igs. Even I don't think is appropriate to wear to see a baby."

"Here," Daemian said, tossing him his jean jacket. "Just don't get baby vomit on it."

---

"OH HE'S THE MOST PRECIOUS THING!"

John and Sandra's kid looked like a little peanut. He slept against his mother's chest. Sandra, looking very glamorous for a woman who'd just given birth to her first kid, smiled down at him.

"He was pretty easy," Sandra said. "My momma always said that an easy labor meant rearing an easy kid."

"Bet you were a difficult birth," Mr. Iron said, winking at his wife.

"John Henry, you're lucky I'm in this bed!" She laughed. "Do you want to hold him?" She offered Spike.

"What!?" Spike balked. "No. I'm...what if I drop him?"

"He's an Iron," John said, gently taking his son (nearly lost in his father's arms) and placing him in Spike's hands. "He'd probably just bounce."

Spike swallowed. He looked down at the sleeping baby. He decided then that he'd gladly throw himself in front of a runaway glyph again for this kid. "What's his name?" Come on, you named him Spike, right.

"We named him Spike," Sandra said.

"REALLY!?"

"No!" the woman laughed. "But I just wanted to see your face. It was worth it."

"Aurelio," Mr. Iron said. "A name as good as gold."

"My father was Cornelio," Sandra explained. "And 'Au' is the periodic symbol for gold. I think he'll probably just end up being called 'Lio' though. I don't want him to get beat up on the playground."

"If he's our kid," John said, "he'll be the one doing the beating up."

"Oh, John! We don't even know if he'll have a glyph yet." Sandra took back her kid. "And it won't matter. It's a new world, now. He's going to be just fine."

Spike was inclined to agree. For the first time in awhile, he felt hopeful and calm. 

While Sandra tended to Aurelio, Mr. Iron took Spike on a walk down the hospital corridor. More and more, Spike picked up on the strange technology about the place--vending machines with glass windows and electronic buttons; windowed boxes with green, electronic text that nurses and doctors communicated with via some sort of typewriter board, signs telling people not to smoke.

"Notice anything...interesting?" Mr. Iron said, slyly.

"This hospital is state of the art," Spike marvelled. "I've never seen machines like these before."

"We've had a week to get used to it. It's odd. You look at something like a computer, are confused for a moment or two, and then it's like you suddenly remember everything about it. I reckon that snake Salim had some hand in it."

Spike bit his lip. "Yeah. He said had to do something to fix the mess he made. Also, what's a computer?"

"Fine mess indeed. I'd crack his skull again if I could...but he's seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth. International wanted man, they say."

"How's it feel to be champion?"

"Meh." Mr. Iron, dressed in a fine, charcoal suit (the cut and tie also very 'modern') smiled at his young apprentice. "Being World Champ is all well and good, but it's just a title. Sure, it's nice to be recognized but...I'm much more concerned about the state of the world."

Spike and Mr. Iron stopped at the lobby lounge. A nurse slept on the couch. A doctor handed a different nurse some coffee in a plastic cup. It was strangely quiet. The music over the loudspeakers had unusual instrumentation that Spike had never heard before--a sort of tinny, electronic sound. He liked it.

"The music is different too," Mr. Iron said, absently.

"Salim told me that you didn't make a wish," Spike said.

"No."

"Why, coach?"

Mr. Iron sighed and leaned against the corridor wall. "I really should have. It just didn't feel right. There's no shortcuts in life, blondie. Certainly not when it comes to changing the world. I just...I hope I made the right choice."

"Coach, it's you--of course you did, big guy. I'd trust you with the world. And I guess...we all kinda' did."

Mr. Iron gave him a wan, sad smile. "I keep forgetting. And funny that, nobody will know. But I guess that's being selfless, eh? I've managed to brush up on history. Since the world suddenly changed over night. History books say we've come a long way, people like you and I. I suspect though, we haven't come long enough. We still have a tough fight on our hands. That's the thing about being a face, Spike. There's always a new heel to tangle with--always another battle."

Sobering words. Spike wasn't sure he was ready to hear them so soon, after all that had happened. 

"We'll beat them," he said, confidently.

---

Manhattan's towers were as tall as ever...and even taller than Spike had remembered. New York had become an arcology of glittering spires illuminated by massive, swinging spotlights. Gone were the aesthetics of brass and chrome--the art deco skyscrapers had since been dwarfed by pyramidal apartment blocks numbering the thousands. Old Manhattan was dead.

Neon reigned supreme. 

New wave spilled forth, cold and distant, from out of the goth's boombox as the girl with the black eyeliner gave dumbfounded Spike a confused look. Across the street, a woman in a spandex leotard, with a teased-out, hair-sprayed mane, hailed a taxi cab that appeared to be hovering several inches off the ground. The women around Spike dressed in business suits with padded shoulders. Glowing signs of neon fury rose around Spike, dazzled by this strange Manhattan of the modern. 

His eyes followed the chyron wrapping around the news tower in front of him. April 12th. 1985.

Spike fell backwards, caught at the last second by Iggy Astro, chewing a piece of gun. "Welcome to the future, Spike."

"I...need to sit down," Spike said, taking a seat at the hospital bench. In front of him, the poster on the bus stop advertised a band of psychedelic, spandex-clad rock stars. Iggy recognized the one in the front. Vanity Paradise and Iggy Astro--Live!

Revelling in his bewilderment, Iggy wrapped their arm around Spike and held them close. "The future has been kind to the Cosmic Crusher! Imagine that. I step out of the nineteen-sixties into 1985 and suddenly I'm more famous for my music than my spellbreaking." He beamed. Hearts of solid light floated up from their head. "I always thought my sound was much too ahead of its time. Turns out, it's right at home here the eighties."

Spike was on the verge of puking. "But...HOW ARE WE NOT LIKE...FORTY YEARS OLD!?"

Then Spike remembered. 'Cut-and-paste job', Salim had said.

Iggy shrugged. "Well, after what we saw in Kitezh, I don't really question much any more. It is weird though. Only the GSA and the Aradia task force seem to remember that last week we were still years away from putting a man on the moon. Now..." Iggy shrugged.

Spike's jaw dropped. "WE PUT A MAN ON THE MOON?" 

Nonplussed, Iggy pointed to the road. "Hover cars, Spike. Please keep up. Oh yeah, it also looks like spellbreaking has gotten pretty popular. Look." Iggy nodded to one of the many electronic signs hanging off the side of the news tower across the way.

Spike squinted. Then, his heart dropped. "YOU GOTTA BE FRIGGIN' KIDDIN' ME!"

Full of sound and fury and light, the TV advertisement for Sunday Night Spellbreaking showcased a hole slew of spellbreakers Spike had never crossed paths before--all of them more colorful, dazzling, and RIPPED than Spike had ever seen. Mr. Iron shirtless, flexed for the camera, grinning, with his world champ belt slung over his shoulders.

Spike smiled. "He's still champ. Great."

Then, his smile faded. Spike never liked seeing himself on TV (a surprise to everyone, considering his ego). Here he was, decked out in navy and gold gear, posing on top of the turnbuckle. Spike had never seen himself look so...confident before.

Spike on TV raised the mic to his lips. "That's right--get a look at all this perfection." Spike gestured to his enviable, muscular body. 

"Wow, that's a lot of baby oil I've got on." On the street, Spike noted his double's new gear. Blue velvet, trimmed white, like the cushioning of a crown. Royal. Gone, however, was the anchor--replaced instead with the golden emblem of a lion rearing up for attack.

Spike couldn't believe it. "That's...me, right, Igs? Not Cian in disguise or anything weird, right?"

Iggy flicked Spike's nose. "Shh. Yes. Watch."

Spike on TV tossed back his mane and allowed his loyal subjects to finish their cheers. "Yes. You all see it. I'm shinin' like the sun. And that mouthy hick who claims he's gonna dethrone me is in for a shock to the system when I kick his teeth in next week!" 

The crowd popped. 

"WOAH! I sound like a heel!" Spike squeaked.

"You're welcome," Iggy answered.

"Huh. So...I'm still in a hot rivalry with Vahni?"

Iggy, grinning with mischief, turned away. "You'll see..."

Spike on TV grabbed the camera and brought it closer to his face. "You hear that, sports fans? Next Sunday...you're gonna watch a young lion take down a buck. Wild Buck, that is. You say you aren't your daddy's boy, Buck Tamberly? Damn right. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be calling ME daddy." Spike dropped the mic. The crowd went berserk.

On the bench, Spike's face nearly fell off into the concrete. "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa????"

Before Iggy could even butt in with something snarky or clever, the two spellbreakers heard a gasp from their right. A young teen, dressed in a basketball jersey, with gelled-up hair, pointed at them. "YO! Check it out! It's the Young Lion!"

Spike cocked his head to the side. "Igs, is that youth talkin' to us?"

Nearby, a girl with teased out, blonder hair squeaked and ran towards them, her beaded necklaces dangling in the wind. Others too, young and old, closed in.

Spike jumped back into the bench. "What's goin' on!?" He was already freaked out enough as is. These people, with big hair, and strange, colorful outfits, swarmed him.

"Autograph! Please!"

"Spike, my son loves you!"

"Young Lion, put me in a lion clutch, please!"

Spike blinked, trying his best to recompose himself. He cleared his throat, glanced briefly at his smug mug on the TV, and tried his best to emulate this spellbreaker he apparently was in this timeline. "Well...of course. Only my most loyal subjects could recognize me in the wild. Obviously you aren't peasants."

Spike had missed this. Whatever Salim had done to the time line, he'd thrown them a bone. But what had happened to Spike's 'Sailorboy' moniker? Everything on the TV set showed a world where spellbreaking was bigger, bolder, brighter. Was this perhaps the 'Golden Age' of spellbreaking that Colt had long-hope was somewhere on the horizon?

And what of Buck? Wild Buck? Where was he now?

Spike did his best to keep up his kayfabe (he enjoyed being ab it of a cocky dick) signing autographs and kissing cheeks. Iggy took the role of makeshift manager, shooing away the riff raff (and clearly indulging in the role). Soon, though, the crowd became overwhelming. Spike stood on the bench and called for order.

Just as he did, a bright flash threw the sidewalk meet-and-greet into a tizzy. Spike's 'loyal subjects' drew back from the blazing circle of fire that had sprouted at Spike and Iggy's feet. Spike looked to Iggy. "Rage?"

The ring of fire widened, pushing away the manic audience. It divided in front of Spike, forming a corridor for him to follow. With no other choice, Spike walked forward, craning his head over his shoulder and watching Iggy, lounging on the bench, wave him on.

A white limousine, trimmed in gold, zoomed down the road towards Spike. As it did, the so-called 'Young Lion' looked up across the street, noticing two familiar faces.

Seemed time hadn't caught up with Cian yet. He wore a tight ringer tee (green, of course), looking every bit like the high school jock. Next to him, face barely concealed by a black cowboy hat...

"Buck!?"

The handsome Buck tipped up his hat, looking at Spike with an intense expression. He looked tougher, now (maybe it was his lack of glasses ). Like a more cleaned up, yet intimidating, version of his father.

He smiled.

Spike smiled back.

The white limo pulled up alongside Spike, just as the flames (and crowd) died down. The door opened upward, on its hinges. Spike looked inside the lit interior.

Arms stretched across upholstered seats, a martini sitting on a table in front of him, the man in the suit adjusted his collar. Spike's first thought was that he was looking at Salim. 

But he'd know Vahni Rage's glamorous hair and handsome face anywhere. The well-suited heel's smirk could still cut deeply into Spike's heart. He reached down towards the table, picked something up, and threw it outside the limo.

A gold collar landed at Spike's feet. He looked down at it, and then at the handsome rogue waiting for him in the limo. 

Rage shrugged. Your choice. 

Mischief on his mind (and a whole host of more lascivious ides) Spike bent down and picked up the collar. He placed it across his neck and latched it, flicking the little name-tag that read "SPIKE".  

He stepped into the car, finding the door automatically shut behind him. Without fear, Spike took a seat next to Vahni Rage, who looked down at him with a hunger--and a softness--in his eyes.

This time, Spike grabbed Rage's neck first, pulling him and kissing him passionately. Thank goodness the limo's partition was up. Spike and Rage would need their privacy.

As the limo pulled away, Cian and Spike, left on a sidewalk strewn with litter and discarded newspaper, watched their friend vanish into the skyways of modern Manhattan.

Buck's fists tightened. Cian looked at him with empathy. "Don't worry, boyo. He always does that."

Buck's shoulders raised, and then fell. He tipped his head. "I know," he said. "That's Spike. Just makes things more interesting now."

Cian turned his head towards his friend, now a spellbreaker--and a deadly one--in his own right. "What do you mean?"

Buck's smile flashed just as brightly as his eyes lit up, wicked green. "You think you're king of the jungle, Spike? The hunt is on. And you will be mine..."

Just One More Thing...

Chapter 6: Monsters and Men

Even though he'd mastered his gifts Cian always hated 'shapeshifting'. For one, it wasn't as exciting or sexy as other arts of transformation known to magi kind. There were no smoke or mirrors or contortions of the body and face--just tricking the minds of others into thinking who they were looking at was someone else. Cian had never been able to escape from himself. That was the problem. Now? He wished he was simple Cian, fighting with his friends and not someone grossly unqualified to be assisting Sydney's dark mage 'Shadow Unit' in hunting down a terroristic summoner.

Cian looked to the other cops, and pantomimed holding a pistol that wasn't there. Having assumed the identity of Officer Kenneth (thanks to Daemian's devilish interference), Cian followed the small squadron of riot police stalking their way through the twilit hallway of the Customs House lobby. With Daemian and Spike dealing with that...thing in the harbour directly, Cian had been tasked with hunting down Redback, wresting whatever summoning implement Firebird's assassin-for-hire had used to conjure and bind that otherwordly horror in the harbour.

He was starting to sweat. Keeping up the façade was a constant process of feeding energy. Cian knew little of the science behind the magick, only that his cellular reserves and mitochondria were all burning up energy to fuel his glyph. A few strange, second glances from the moustached officer on the right told him he was starting to lose his grasp. On his left, the woman with the tired eyes kept looking at him and blinking, her mind on the edge of realizing something was 'off' with Officer Kenny (the real chap somewhere in a back alley, drooling on himself).

Cian couldn't keep this up for much longer. Besides all that, his gut told him something was seriously amiss here too. He chalked it up to stress. It was, after all, a tense situation in a somewhat eerie locale. The architecture in Sydney's CBD was something out of a beautiful, twisted fairy tale--a fusion of gothic and Victorian sensibilities, with a sprinkling of 'vampire'. 

Redback was no doubt aware of their presence--hiding and waiting, as spiders were wont to do. And once he noticed that they didn't come to hand over the Chalice (Goddess knows where it really was), he would retaliate, either by assaulting them or sicking that creature on the innocents of Sydney. 

The officers, with this in mind, softened their footsteps as they walked onto the House's transparent, glass floor. Cian could see into the basement below. 

"Something's wrong," Cian said without thinking.

The four other officers, guns at the ready, turned their heads to him, glaring. 

The moustached man took him aside, pushing at his chest with considerable force. He leaned in close. "Don't get soft on us now, Kenny," he whispered aggressively. "And don't blow our cover either."

Cian didn't exactly like being shoved around by authority, but seeing the anti-magick cartridges strapped to their guns, it was probably best not to bite back. Besides, Cian was distracted by the metallic cuff around the officer's wrist. He too (in this form, anyway), had one fastened to his hand, as did the others. It took him a few moments to work out what the bracers were. 

Dampeners. Most police wore them, naturally. Plenty of criminally predisposed magi out there who wouldn't spare a second thought at chucking a lightning bolt at anybody who got in their way. Cian was no fan of police, but he understood why they wore heavy duty anti-magick gear like these.

And as Cian realized just what was bothering him, gnawing at his better judgment, he noticed movement in the reflection of the glass floor. 

Then, it hit him--just as Redback descended from the ceiling. If these cops were wearing dampening bracers, then how come his magick was still working on them?

Simple: because the bracers weren't working.

"UP TOP!" an office said, withdrawing their gun.

A little too late.

Redback's boot collided with the officer's face, breaking their nose instantly. The dark spellbreaker used their face as a springboard, jumping up into the air and avoiding a hail of bullets.

Cian, who didn't actually have a working gun, hit the deck and covered their ears from the hail of fire. He army-crawled off the floor, out of the fray. As he did, Cian heard the bodies fall--Redback's toxic touch working in the immediate.

"Tag!" Redback laughed as he flipped behind the moustache officer and touched him on the neck with his bare hands. "You're it. And you're it! HAHAHAHA!" The man convulsed, spittle falling from his mouth, as he collapsed to the glass floor, cold and dead.

Fear shot its way through Cian's heart, but even so, he had known fear like this before. His illusion broken, he looked over at the nearest pillar and pressed his back to it, re-casting his spell to make it seem as if he was part of the wall. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold it.

The officers lay in a circle around Redback, who surveyed his work, tipping up a fallen cop's chin with his boot and examining their face to make sure they were dead.

"You know, Cian," Redback started, "You really did show a lot of aptitude. I was one of the few who complained that Rage went too hard on you." He walked around the perimeter of the floor, head on a swivel, looking towards where Cian may have run off to. Cian held his breath.

"Quite frankly, I think old Ragey was jealous. Your star rose far too quickly, is all. You were humble. Kept your head up and your eyes down." Redback punched the pillar in front of him, then moved on to the next. "Oh please, you couldn't have gone that far. I know your little parlour tricks, boyo."

Cian tried to still his breathing. He knew he couldn't hold his magick before breaking, and he couldn't run either. 

"Bet you're wondering how I disabled those dampeners too," Redback said, drawing closer and closer. "I don't think you realize Firebird's reach. We're always...a lot closer than you think."

At last, Redback stood in front of Cian. Cian froze, still as stone. He was sure he couldn't see him. But it didn't matter. If Cian ran, the illusion would break, and Redback was far too quick.

Suddenly, a groan from the floor drew Redback's attention to the cop. He was still alive. "Tch. I hate when that happens," Redback said.

Cian slowly exhaled, quiet enough.

Suddenly, Redback whipped around and lunged for him. "FOOLED YA! HAHAHA!"

His fingers were inches away from Cian's face when they...stopped. 

Cian, craning his neck out of their toxic reach, blinked. Redback wasn't moving. Was he teasing with him; playing with his food?

But no. He had quite literally...stopped.

A cough alert Cian to the presence of someone else in the room. Standing, half illuminated by shadow, was a simply enormous figure obscured by a strange, canine-mask.

"Before you ask," the giant ask, in a voice deeply elegant and playful, "time freeze."

Cian's jawed dropped. He looked between Redback and the man in gold. "...What?

The giant shrugged. "Yeah, exactly like in science fiction." He stepped forward. "Deus ex machina...I know. So lame, Cian, right? But seeing as you're still alive, you can forgive the cliché. Er...again. Geez, Mr. Iron, now you. You boys really need to stop putting yourselves in these situations. Gets terribly old for the audience."

Cian swallowed. "Who the feck are you?"

"Just a token mysterious character with ambiguous goals and intentions. You know. The usual." The masked man looked to Redback. "Now, my powers are pretty good, but even my magick has its limits. He may have summoned that Lovecraft, but when he did, the book he used from the Black Library burned itself--as designed. He has NO control over it now." 

"Shit," Cian said, forgetting where he was.

"Yeah, 'shit' is right. Faeblood, you need to go help your friends and get a handle on the situation." The caped man held up a finger. "In most timelines, you succeed. But Daemian isn't going to be able to complete the ritual alone. That thing out there has regenerative abilities. It cannot be damaged...except for one place. You need to get its middle eye to open. Then..." The massive man poked himself in the face. "Ow. But you get the drift."

Cian was confused as hell, but had no room to argue. He looked up at Redback. "Okay. Then, what...about this arsehole?"

The man in the mask grunted. "Unfortunately, he can't die or be dispatched here--it'll mess with the outcome I'm trying to wrangle. Leave him with me and go to your friends, Faeblood."

Suddenly, Cian connected the dots. "Lord and Lady almighty...you're that Gold Mask guy! You saved White Tiger from this arsefeck back in Vegas too!"

"Well, technically that was that nice security guard, but I pointed him in the right direction." The figure bowed, with a dramatic sweep of the arm. "Gold Mask. Jackal. At your service. I go by many names. Now, get moving. And...tell Spike I'll see him very soon."

Feeling like his heart might burst out of his chest, Cian nodded to the figure and dashed off.

The giant figure in the regal cape looked at Redback, frozen in time but already slowly moving forward, coming unstuck. Jackal grunted. "Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag now. If it isn't Russia's greatest love machine. How long have you been watching me?"

In the open floor above, overlooking the lobby, two pallid hands braced themselves against the glass barricade. Semyon Grigorivich, a smiling ghoul, looked down at their betrayer. "Long enough, my dear Jackal. I think we might need to have a serious talk about our partnership."

---

A tidal wave carried boats, and their doomed, screaming occupants, rolling towards the shores of Circular Quay, already flooded by the beast's first assault. Thankfully, the city's Shadow Unit of mages, and the affiliated police, had managed to evacuate the onlookers. Emergency vehicles clogged the streets of The Rocks and Barangaroo. 

A swarm of winged demons fluttered and shrieked in the abomination's face, clawing at its eyes with infernal fury. The monster swatted at some, but more flung themselves on top of it, lashing at its rubbery skin and tearing open wounds that leaked green, glowing ichor. It was all the summoners could do to give the boats fanning out around it, in the shape of a pointed star, cover to get closer to their quarry.

Illuminated by the creature's ghostly glow, Daemian's eyes stared straight ahead at the beast from another world. Damn it, Joseph. If I die, you better date someone just as cool as me. He bit his lip, deciding whether or not he should summon Brax. He'd told him he would conjure him up if the going got tough. They were a tag team after all. 

But...no. Daemian flirted with death all the time. Dying was easy (probably) Watching others die, however...

The dark magi nodded to his companions, dressed in their dark cloaks and sinister masks. "Alright, mates, listen the fuck up. I'm not really good at this leadership thing. I tend to boss people around or force them to do what I want. I'm also not very good at words. But we got this big ugly fuck who's messing with our beautiful city, and we're not going to take that laying down, are we!?"

The masked figures responded with hisses and clicks, in fiery agreement. 

Daemian grimaced. Shit, they're A-level demon summoners. Traded in most of their humanity by now, no doubt. These people knew about sacrifice, clearly. 

Did he? 

Looking down at the dodecahedron glowing in his hand, Daemian turned towards the Harbour bridge, where Spike was waiting on the empty bridge. 

And panicking. To the left and right of him, abandoned vehicles--old model cars that looked like something a wealthy Dr. Frankenstein would drive around town. Spike considered jumping in and hotwiring one (yes, he knew how) and driving off.

"I'm just one guy!" he said to nobody. "I just wanted to be a spellbreaking champ, not some...super hero!" He sighed, already defeated. "I can't do the shit Deadboy and White Tiger can do, or even Colt. And where the hell is Iggy Astro?"

Meanwhile, in a lavish spa several miles away from the epicentre of destruction, Iggy Astro splayed out across a masseuse table, getting a deep tissue massage from a hunky, dark-haired man. Yawning, Iggy threw a glance at the TV, where a news helicopter was doing a panoramic sweep of the ongoing giant monster disaster in Sydney Harbour. 

Iggy regarded the scene on TV for a few moments, before he turned his head away and mumbled, "A little lower, please."

In the Harbour, the giant monster let out another unearthly bellow, and threw its tentacle out at the crow demon assault. Its hit swept several out of the sky, down into the sea. On the boat below, several summoners around Deadboy clutched their hearts in agony, crying out, as the soul bond to their demonic kindred severed. 

Daemian cringed, but forced himself to ignore the pain around him (for once, a pain he did not wish to see). The Configuration of Martense floated above his palms, and he pushed himself into a trance, eyes glowing violet. He began reciting the dark tongues, while off in the distance, his fellow summoners did the same. Particles of blue light began floating up from the bottom of the sea. It was working. Slowly. Too slow for Daemian's liking.

The aberration writhed, sensing an attack on its being. The monstrosity, having tossed aside his airborne assailants, turned its two eyes towards the fleet of demoniacs below. The creature let out a low hum, and a slit in the center of its forehead opened up--revealing a huge, orange, shining eye. Its luminosity intensified. A crackle in the air proceeded a flash, and then...

The beam of light, louder than anything Spike had ever heard before, cut through the water--turning the seawater into vapor in its path--and completely incinerating the boat of summoners in its way. Only steam remained.

On the boat a few feet away, Daemian, still focusing on his ritual, began to tear up. 

However, on the shore, a dogpile of the self-same dark summoners suddenly found themselves squirming on top of each other, unsure of why they weren't dead, and why they had suddenly ended up on the promenade. Grunting, their leader adjusted her plague doctor mask and looked up.

Sitting at a table outside a closed cafe, a middle-aged dark skinned man in koala pyjamas raised his mug of tea to her. "Cheers, love," Uncle Daniel said. "Don't tell Lachlan I gave him a mulligan."

Of course, from his perspective on the bridge, Spike only saw the boat vaporized, and not Uncle Daniel's teleportation intervention. 

"FUCK!" Spike screamed, taking his hands off his ears. "Shit, shit. How can this get any worse?"

"Hey, Spike!"

"Now I'm hallucinating Buck being here," Spike whined, until he realized that the handsome, tall man in the leather jacket bounding towards him was, in fact, his friend, boss, and current crush. 

"You gotta' be freakin' kiddin' me!"

All smiles and determination, Buck jumped into Spike's arms, giving him a tight hug. "I just got into town and suddenly Sydney is being attacked by a giant monster. Spellbreaking is nuts, y'all!" His mood did not fit the scene at hand. In fact, he regarded the giant as if it was a particular challenging opponent, one Buck was eager to attack. "Er...don't tell my daddy I'm here, got it?"

"Last thing on my mind right now," Spike said with shaking timbre. Oh Goddess, now I have to protect Buck too. "Buck, what are gonna do? You don't even have powers."

The dark-haired son of spellbreaking's greatest hero gave Spike a quick glare. "We gotta distract it right?" he said, reaching into his leather jacket. He withdrew a--

"IS THAT A FRICKIN' GUN!?" Spike screamed.

Buck cocked the handsome revolver. "I'm from Texas, Spike. You don't think I know how to shoot a gun?"

"AGAINST THAT THING?"

"Calm down, Yankee! This has got anti-magick bullets in it. And boy, do they make this thing kick like a mule." He winked, twirling the gun in his hand. "Just don't ask how I snuck this through customs. Also, cover your ears. Now."

Before Spike could protest, Buck took aim and fired. With the distance between the bridge and the beast, Spike didn't think a bullet could possible travel that far, or that Buck's aim was that proficient.

Thankfully, he was wrong on both counts. A spray of crystalline light, and a geyser of green blood, shot out from the beast's head--only for the wound to quickly reseal itself. Still, it did the job. The creature's roar shook the bridge with violent reverberation, as the monster turned its sights on the two men standing at a distance.

"Distraction complete," Buck said, smiling. He threw up a middle finger at the monster. "Come suck on this, you slimy fuck!? Buck's got more bullet for ya!"

Great. This guy who isn't even a spellbreaker is braver than I am. "Now you've pissed it off! And it's coming this way!"

Buck frowned at Spike. "I'm giving Deadboy more time. If you want to run, be my guest, dude."

As if Spike would make himself cowardly in front of his crush. "I hate that you're making me be brave right now."

"You think I would be here if you hadn't inspired  me?" Buck said. He reached into a (different) pocket and withdrew a familiar baseball card. "Looks like you could use this. Served me well."

A hundred emotions rushed inside Spike's head, and for a moment he forgot all about the giant, three-eyed creature currently slithering towards them. Wordlessly, Spike took the card back, staring down at in wonder.

My...heart. "So...you saw your mother?"

Buck nodded, solemnly. "Yes. You were the only person I told ahead of time."

"What? Why?"

"I dunno," Buck said, shrugging and turning away before Spike could see the red on his cheeks. "Because I just trust you for some reason? Hey, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Yankee--there's a lot of stuff you do that really makes me think differently."

There was too much going on right now for Spike to properly absorb this information, or what this meant, and it wasn't as if he was normally quick on the uptake by default. Spike opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "Buck...I think I'm hearing music." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Reminds me of...ice cream."

Buck stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown a second head. "Uh...what?"

The tinny, circus music drew closer. Spike looked over his shoulder, at the gap between the abandoned cars. "No, I'm serious, what the hell is that sound?"

The vehicle was midway between a colorful, child-like ice cream van and something out a dystopian science fiction film. Mad Max meets Mr. Softie. Two, geared up, muscular spellbreakers--wearing outfits not unlike the ones Spike had seen first-hand at certain fetish nights--stood up from the sun-roof. They were already a sight, ignoring the fact that both men had a different bird's head, relative to the size and approximation of where a human head might be.

The discordant ice-cream jingle cut off as the van did a wide arc, burning rubber, and landing just inches away from a stunned Spike. Two other spellbreakers jumped out from either side door--one, a short, punkish girl with Asian features and a mohawk (and hundreds of jagged metal objects sticking out of her skin) and a giant man in ghoulish clown makeup with pink overalls strapped over his bare muscular chest.

"HELLO KIDDIES," the creepy, muscle-clown boomed at Spike, who was several seconds off from pissing himself. "sXS all-star champs here to save your seppo arses! You didn't think we'd let our old mate Deadboy get blasted by a cyclopean horror, did you? Er...I mean, it wouldn't be the first time."

Stunned, Spike's jaw hit the ground. Buck, however, acted as if he'd just been blindsided by celebrities. "OH MY GODDESS!" Buck exclaimed. "Ice Cream Man! And...and Reza Blaydes! And is that Swoop and Bin Chicken up on top?"

The hook-billed spellbreaker cocked its head to the side and 'CAWWED' the affirmative.

Spike shook his head. "Deadboy's old crew! Yes!" He pointed to the monster bearing down on them, "HELP. US."

The short girl sprouted blades from her fingertips. "Right-o, you giant, green c***t. Let's get 'em, boys. Swoop. Bin Chicken. Fly us up to that ugly fuck and we'll buy Daemian some time."

Spike couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're gonna, like, kamikaze them?" He looked at the height of the (moving, angry) monster, and the drop to the harbour below. "Are you nuts?"

The punk girl smiled. "100%! chock-full, chook!" 

Buck, however, was impressed. "Shit, can you come work for us?"

"Don't you dare pouch my best gal, Buck Tamberly!" Ice Cream Man said, as Swoop hopped off the truck--wings sprouting from his back--and grabbed onto his shoulders. "But if we live through this, we gotta' talk collaboration! I'll put Bruce in touch with your team!"

"After this?" Spike shouted, gesturing broadly to the chaos.

"Hell yeah!" Ice Cream man said, as Swoop lifted him up. "You GSA legends came into town and now things are more exciting than ever! Been too long since I wrestled a kaiju."

Bin Chicken grabbed onto Reza, lifting her up into the Sydney sky. "WOOOOOooooo!"

Spike and Buck watched them with a mix of horror and amusement. "Aussies are a different breed," Buck said, admirably.

Swoop and Bin Chicken made a forked arc in the sky, diverging course around the beast as it swept at them with a tentacle. The birds circled behind it and dropped their respective payload, Reza and Ice Cream Man now in free fall towards the monster's 'shoulders'.

"CHOCOLATE, OR VANILLA!?" Ice Cream Man shrieked, as he conjured up two glowing, radioactive ice cream cone projectiles, sending them careening towards the beast. They exploded with frozen, poisonous light, blinding the creature. Somehow, the seasoned spellbreaker landed perfectly on top of the beast without injuring himself.

The creature groaned. Unable to use its eyes, its middle ocular--the one that had taken out the boat of summoners--opened up wide. Energy sizzled inside its orange, electric iris.

"Not so fast, FUCKER," Reza shrieked, as she turned her body into a living missile. "EAT SHRAPNEL!"

Hundreds of Reza's jagged, metal bullets sailed towards the monster's gooey eye, embedding themselves into the vitreous and forcing the creature to shut it tight. Steam radiated from the slit.

Reza landed on its other shoulder, acknowledging her clownish comrade across the chasm. She looked up, assessing the situation. "It's melting them with its heat. I reckon it's gonna open its peeper again and try and shoot Deadboy and his summoner chums. It's evolved to assess the nearest threat and dispatch it."

The evil clown man shook his head. "How the hell you know that?"

Reza shrugged. "Certificate IV Eldritch Horror Zoology at TAFE." She waived towards Buck and Spike, on the bridge. "You're up!"

"I'm up?" Spike squealed. He sighed and looked at Buck. "Okay so...I need you to punch me."

"Sounds fun," Buck said, without questioning it. "But why?"

"It's how my glyph activates," Spike blurted out, hands akimbo. "The harder the hit, the stronger I get. It's like, the energy of it that converts into my power."

Buck stared at him incredulously. "Really? So all those times I saw you fight and get knocked around, it was helping you?"

"Buck--I'm not a scientist! The only other time it's worked different is when Iggy kissed me. Something about emotions."

"Oh." Buck tucked the revolver back inside his coat. "So like, do you think a kiss from someone you like--or...who likes you--would make you even stronger?"

"I DUNNO, BUCK, WHY ARE YOU ASKING THIS? JUST HIT ME!"

"Hmm. Okay. It's gonna knock you silly though."

"Fine, just--"

Buck grabbed Spike behind the neck and pulled him in closer. His kiss was soft at first, then strong, deep. There was power behind it. And yearning. It was a hunger, animalistic, with passionate intent.

And, true to what Buck had said, it was like a smack to the face. Or a hit of some divine drug. Spike melted. There was no monster. There was no chaos or destruction. There was no GSA, Firebird, or thoughts of failure or success. There was only him and Buck, and this moment.

Well, not just him and Buck. As Buck embraced Spike, Cian--panting and out-of-breath--darted from behind one of the cars. "Guys," he said, stammering. "You gotta' distract the creature while Daemian....Oh." He stopped.

Unaware of Cian's presence, Buck pulled back, just as shocked as Spike--as if it had been the blonde hunk who had kissed him instead of the other way around. He cleared his throat. "Been wanting to do that for awhile. Maybe I got caught up in the moment? Not surprised I had to make the first move, but..." he scratched his neck, backing off. "How do you feel?"

When Spike looked up again, he was on fire. 

No, literally. Orange and blue tongues of flame lapped off his body, and his glowed with cool, turquoise light. Burning golden, images of his glyph replaced Spike's pupils, inside the halo of his irises. 

"Like...a fuckin' champion," Spike said, crystal clear. Without another word, he walked over to the largest car he could fine--a streamlined, torpedo of a sportscar--and picked it up as if it were a throw pillow. "Someone order up a half-pint hero?"

"Okay, Spike, don't get too---OH GODDESS, IS THAT A CAR?" Buck blinked, in disbelief. Hadn't Lily mentioned something like this before? She called it...

"Overdrive!"

"Hellll yeah." Spike said, holding up the bottom of the car--with one hand--and flexing his bicep with the other. "Strongest man in the world, right here. But...I can't do it alone. Oh hey, Cian, when did you get here?"

The muscular spellbreakers, saturated in his own sweat and ruddy faced, crossed his arms. "Been here long enough..." He nodded to Buck. 

Spike, car still in hand, grimaced. "Hehehe. Well...you know..."

"Mmhmm."

Swoop and Bin Chicken zoomed down and plucked Reza and Ice Cream Man off the monster's shoulders before they could be thrown into the abyss. As Reza sailed through the sky, she pointed down at Spike, dazzled but what she saw. "Look at the Yank go!" 

Sauntering over to the edge of the bridge (with a car hanging over his head) Spike looked up at this new allies. "It's all the Vegemite on toast I had for breakfast!"  he said sweetly.

The Magpie-headed Swoop warbled with excitement. "Shit, and he likes Vegemite--he can stay with us. COME ON, SPIKEY, DO THE THING!"

It was then that Spike remembered...he was notoriously terrible at his aim. "Uhhh...."

Vision cleared, the beast opened its middle eye, staring straight down at the little human in his path. The monster roared, and tendrils of electricity danced across the luminous surface of its burning eye, as it gathered up energy.

It was going to incinerate Spike, Buck, Cian, and the Harbour Bridge with them.

Spike took his moment and aimed for the giant eye. "GAAAAHHH!"

Sure enough, the car sailed through the air.

...And completely missed the monster by several feet. Nobody said a word. The only sound came from the PLUNK made by the car as it landed in the waters below.

"...Crap."

But, on a boat several meters away, Deadboy's eyes changed color--from purple to neon green. He smiled. "Good enough, Spikey."

Pillars of light cut through the air at five equidistant points around the creature. Distracted from his target, the creature instead turned its eyes towards Deadboy's boat.

The demoniac, wrapped in hellish green fire, threw double middle fingers at the monster. "SUCK MY TAINT, LOVECRAFT--YOU RACIST FUCK!"

The sound of air rushing in overtook the harbour, deafening its roar. The pillars of light converged over the monster, and then...a flash. Blinding.

Gone. 

To Be Continued

Chapter 5: Light and Shadow

"I WILL DEVOUR YOU WHOLE!" the buff werewolf in the black fighting trunks roared, as Spike flipped over his head and landed (with gymnastic expertise) in front of him.

Spike gasped, covered his mouth, and blushed--an eye on the audience full of ghoulish figures, and the macabre theme park scenery around them. "Sir, there are CHILDREN here." The stalwart sailor bit his lip and looked the wolf up and down. "Save that talk for the hotel, big boy."

At ringside, Deadboy Damien rolled his eyes. "Yeah nah, he said he wants to devour you WHOLE."

"Oh!" Spike squeaked, just as the buff werewolf snatched him by the waist and lifted him high, aglow against the full moon and the Sydney Harbor Bridge's spidery silhouette. "Eeep. Not good."

"SO PRETTY! SO TASTY!"

"GROSS," Spike cringed. "You need a mint." And I need a miracle! Spike was strong, but the werewolf's power absorbing moonlight, and Sailorboy had no defense against that kind of magick.

"Come on, Spikey!" Daemain shouted from the post, his mouth practically frothing over. "You ain't here to fuck spiders, mate!"

In the audience, two human-sized spiders in attendance looked at each other with great concern between their many eyes, before turning back to watch the battle, fangs clicking with excitement. 

Next to Daemian, Brax growled under his breath, claws tensing on the rope. "I must get in there, my kindred. I do not wish to see another monster consume the pretty human before I do. I have...as you humans say...'dibs' on that."

"Nah," Daemian whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "We gotta' let Spike take the blows. He can handle it. Kid's tough."

"True. He did beat you."

Daemian threw his demon friend a glare. "Are you...smirking?"

Brax turned away and giggled, demonically. "No. Of course not. Demons do not smirk."

Just as Spike's opponent, the werewolf, opened his jaws, a dart of light cut across his face. 

"RAAAARRGGH!" the wolf dropped Spike, who bumped onto his back, absorbing the shock and righting himself for the go. He looked over at the object, made of pure, crystalline light, that had embedded itself into the mat.

"What? Is that...a rose?"

The ringside announcer, a skeletal figure in a top hat known to the local as Big Bones Jones, shook his skull in disbelief. "Would ya look at that! Interference!?"

Spike looked up a the figure perched on the low hanging roof of a car on the spider-web shaped Ferris wheel. Their pink cape billowed in the wind around their shoulders. "Hah!" they called out, arrogantly, flipping back their pink hair and adjusting their blue-neon domino mask.

"Who is that!?" Spike gasped.

Deadboy rolled his eyes. "It's obviously Iggy Astro, mate." He whispered under his breath. "So much for you doing this on your own..." 

The figure in pink blew the audience a kiss. "Me? Just a They/Them causing mayHEM!" The tall fighter threw off their cape and mask, revealing their star-studded, muscular body. Their gear lit up with glow-in-the-dark UV paint, just for the occasion.

"It's Iggy Astro!" Spike squealed.

"I BLOODY JUST SAID THAT!" Deadboy sighed. "Whatever. Nice interference, Ig!"

The werewolf snarled at the interloper. "WHO DARES INTERRUPT MY FEAST."

"Trust me, I've already eaten that twunk enough times," Iggy laughed, flipping in the air and delivering a stardust dive kick to the werewolf's face. Midair, Iggy did a somersault and landed--woth rainbow- colored flair--in front of Spike. "You'll get diabetes!"

Spike groaned. "Iggy, I can handle this! Besides, I thought you were still on medical leave?"

"Consider this coming out of my retirement," the pink-haired spellbreaker said, with a spectacular flex. 

In the audience, a goat-horned demon swooned into their summoner friend's arms. "I love a baaaadie!"

Spike drooled in agreement. "Mmm. Same, here, lambchop."

The werewolf recovered just as the ref dove in to try and kick Iggy out of the ring. But the pink-haired heel wouldn't have it. "You have something in your eyes!" they said to the handsome, bearded Aussie bloke.

"What?" the ref rubbed their eyes. "No, I don't."

"Oh, yes you do, kitten. You have...stars!" With that, Iggy held their hand out and blew a cloud of sparkling, luminous dust right into the ref's face, blinding them.

"GAHHH! IT'S SO BRIGHT!"

At the ring post, Deadboy snickered and high-fived his demonic tag partner, Brax. "I take back what I said about light magi. Damn it, Ig, you're looking evil and tasty tonight, mate."

"But of course, my demonic delight," Iggy said, winking at their villainous counterpart. "Okay, sailor slut, let's put this bad doggy down!"

"You got it!" Spike said, charging off the ropes, while Iggy did the same at the opposite end. "Hey, what's the big idea callin' me a slut!? Ugh, you're so MEAN!"

"You know it, bicha." Iggy sprung up and kicked the werewolf in the head, just as Spike did the same on the other side--a vicious double attach.

"Awrrf!"

The werewolf fell backwards, flat on to its back, crescent moons circling above its dazed head.

"We got this!" Spike said, high fiving Iggy and trading places with them on the opposite end of the ring. He climbed up the ropes and gave the cheering audience his flex. "Australia, this is for you!"

"Quit showing off!" Iggy spat, from the other post. With a smirk, he conjured up a neon light construct of a star crossing over an anchor, combining Spike and their logos together. "Ready?"

"DOUBLE MOONSAULT!"

The two lithe and athletic spellbreakers flipped back into the air, coordinating their timing with mathemetic precision. They slammed their buff bodies down across the werewolf's head and torso, sending off fireworks of magical light.

The big, bad wolf let out a final howl, before the darkness took them. 

Iggy and Spike planted a boot each on their defeated opponent. "Okay, ref, you're up!"

Miraculously, the ref could suddenly see again. "Oh, weird." He shook his head, and immediately dropped to his knee for the count out.

Then, the bell!

"I don't believe it!" Bones Jones said, their teeth chattering in their skull. He joined the crowd in celebration. "Only half a year ago, Iggy bested Spike in Vegas...now it seems the cosmic crusher has come in clutch to help out his former opponent! Could this be...a face turn?"

Jones' question was answered by a thrown steel chair that knocked their skull off their body, rolling to the ground. "Gah!" the skull shouted. "What's the big idea, mate?"

Iggy whistled innocently, while Spike rolled his eyes in disappointment. "What?" Iggy sang. "Can't let the audience think I've grown soft. I'm just here to pay you back for saving my life, Spike. And now? We're even." They blew Spike a kiss of light: a heart-shaped skull. "Next time, I'll be the big, bad wolf you have to worry about."

Groaning, the werewolf reverted back to human shape. A scrawny, tall boy with dark hair twitched on the mat. "Last time I play with my food..." he moaned.

Outside the ring, Deadboy jumped with glee. "This is fuckin' awesome! Gah! I love spellbreaking. What a show!!"

"You can say that again, old mate."

"Huh?" Daemian and Brax tilted their heads towards the rather average looking man (compared to the rest of the monstrous crowd, anyway) in the suit and gloves, standing near them. He had a warm face and a nice smile, with skin turned ruddy red from the intense Australian sun.

Deadboy grinned. "Oi! If ain't Bruce Hasselti. Get over here, you shitc*** and give us a hug."

With some reservation, the publicist for sXs spellbreaking league gave their old ward an embrace. "Didn't think you'd ever be back, D! Thought you'd left us for bigger and better things. Ice Cream Man is around here if you want to say hi."

"Ah, that evil clown?" Deadboy scratched his head, looking over his shoulder and Spike and Iggy showing off some more for the crowd. He frowned. "Those idiots."

"Looks like your friends were pretty over tonight," Bruce said, satisfied. Deadboy could practically see his eyes turn into dollar signs. "You GSA boys really are a big draw. But we know you still bleed sXs blood, don't ya, Lachie?"

"You know it!" Deadboy said, giving him the devil horns. He looked around his old haunt, and at all the old haunters he used to perform alongside. A crowd of demons, humans, and monsters all rubbing shoulders together, setting aside differences (and species) to enjoy some good ol' fashioned bloodshead together.

"I really missed Sydney," Daemian said, genuinely. "Bright days. Dark nights. Can't beat it."

"Heh. You almost sounded sweet there," Bruce said. "Come on, yous. I'll buy you two bad boys a pint...and your popular friends up in the ring, too."

Deadboy thought it best to give Spike and Iggy their moment. They knew how to manage crowds anyway. Daemian was just happy to reminisce. Even though he staid at the theme park regularly while at the GSA (it was the location of his apartment, and only a dark corridor teleportation away) tonight had gotten him all nostalgic. sXs wasn't as popular as the GSA--and indeed, spellbreaking was slow to catch on in the antipodes--but his old fed knew how to put on a good show. A mix of monsters and men was always recipe for camp and carnage, two of Daemian's favorite delights. 

"By the way," Bruce said, lowering his voice as the men (and demons) ducked behind a candy apple stand, "I looked into that Chalice situation for you."

Daemian's mouth twitched. Behind him, Brax growled, softly. "Yeah, so did we."

"Word on the street is it's at the Museum of Enchanted Art," Bruce said, thumbing towards one of the more modern buildings across the harbour, not far from the Opera House. "I've had some of the sXs crew looking into it."

Daemian stared ahead in the direction of Circular Quay, eying the modern-looking MoEA building. Modern art was a bit too fancy for his tastes (though he suspected Joseph would love a date there). Was this where Uncle Daniel had hidden the Chalice, under the security of a museum? It would make sense.

He felt lousy about mentioning anything Uncle Daniel had said to him about the Chalice, but he'd known Bruce for years. He was a publicist, which meant he got around in the muck, but he had a good heart. "From what I know from my sources," Daemian said, "You're probably right. But...if it's safe there, then I say we don't fuck with it, yeah? If we can't get to it, Firebird can't get to neither."

Bruce nodded, solemnly. "Right you are. Well, Lachie, let's get you to the pub. It's good to have you back, mate."

---

Spike lazily brushed his teeth and tried to ignore the aches and pains all over his body. I'm too young to feel this old, he said, spitting into the sink. In the background of the hotel, the TV blared news footage. Cian lounged in the chair, in his boxer briefs sipping from a mug of warm tea, and doing his best to seem informed.

"Get a load of this crazy lady on TV," he sniffed.

Spike, bare chested and in his pajama pants, poked his head around the corner and narrowed his eyes at the talking head on TV. Some woman with noxiously, red-dyed hair and entirely too much blue eyeshadow was screaming at a room full of officials in formal attire.

The eloquent, female news anchor set the scene. "Today, MP for New Insmouth, Ilene Lansdowne, reignited support for the Demonic Registration Act--leading to this fiery confrontation in parliament."

"Mr. Speaker, we have a disease in this country--a literal illness from the depths of Hell. And the disease in question is the wave of demons coming into our nation, summoned by Goddess-knows-what kind of deranged magi, and taking jobs from battling Australians like you and me."

The shrewish woman was drowned out by objections and jeers from the ministers around her. Cian, frowning, turned the TV volume down. "Crazy hag," he sighed.

Spike felt a pang in his heart for Brax. When he'd first met him, he thought he was a big, scary monster. And while that hadn't changed, exactly, Spike also knew he had a big heart. It hurt him to see these terrible politicians demonizing...well...demons.

It also scared Spike. He had seen what the alchemists were doing in Italy, aligning themselves with political parties seeking to harm people like him, and whatever other minorities they deemed 'threatening'. He had thought the Australians, at least, would be more sensible. 

"I can only freakin' imagine what someone like Deadboy would say about that harpy on TV," Spike said, jumping into the bed. 

Cian shrugged. "I mean, how many times can you use the 'c' word in a single sentence, boyo?" He stretched and yawned. "By the way, your grappling techniques need work."

Sitting up, he tugged his basketball shorts around his giant thighs, before stretching and climbing into the hotel bed.

Spike climbed in next to him, giving him a hard look. "I'll show you my grappling skills, you putz."

He grabbed Cian by the arms before he could say anything and pulled him tightly for a kiss.

Cian indulged him, between smile and laugh, before pulling away. "Someone's handsy tonight."

Spike was feeling more than that. Riding high off his victory, and having managed to get on Cian's good side, he'd agreed to take the Irish stud back to his hotel with him. "Well, I'm just in a good mood. And so are you. For once."

"I'm content to put our bad blood aside," Cian said. He flicked Spike in the nose. "Doesn't mean I'll go easy on you when we square off again though, lad."

Spike took a deep breath, but maintained his confident, coy look. "Speaking of going hard..." He kissed Cian again, harder this time, and let his hands travel down the front of his shirt. "Damn, Cian, I hate to admit it but your body...it's incredible."

"You're very attractive, Spike," Cian said. He blushed, and held Spike's hands at his waist, preventing them from going forward. "So...look. This is embarrassing but...I'm not used to this yet."

Spike blinked. "Huh?"

"You know. Uh...with guys." Cian coughed. "Or girls...or...y'know...anyone..."

Oh, he's a virgin, Spike thought, in a panic. But not for himself. He knew Cian's background and his struggles. He wasn't exactly surprised. But he didn't want to fuck this up. 

"I mean, I've done some stuff," Cian said, blushing. "But like...not full on stuff. Intimate stuff. Does that make sense?"

Spike narrowed his eyes. That little hike with Gio--yeah, we know. But he didn't want to go poking that bear (the only type of bear Spike wouldn't want to poke). What a mismatch. The sweet faced, virgin jock, and the literal porn star prize fighter. 

"That's okay..." Spike said, slowly. "We could...er...cuddle?"

Cian's face lit up. "Yeah, I'd love that." He turned over onto his side. "Er...you don't mind being big spoon, do ya?"

Damn his ass his THICK and JUICY. Spike gulped. "Nope!" True to his word, he vowed not to so much graze Cian below the beltline until he was ready. "How about this?"

"Oh, that's nice. It's I...I dunno, weird, still. Thinking about doing this with guys. But it's nice."

"Yeah. You're warm. And very cuddly."

"I'm a bulky boyo," Cian said, laughing.

"I like this side of you, Cian. Sweet Cian is nice."

"Well, it's authentic Cian. Maybe authentic Cian is sweet." He narrowed his eyes, looking out at the window over the harbor. "But he can still kick your ass, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah." Spike sighed. This was weird. He didn't think he'd ever arrive at this point with Cian. And not in Australia, either. "So...like...how do you feel about me?"

The pause that followed did not exactly instil Spike with confidence. 

"Uh...what's that supposed to mean?" Cian laughed, nervously.

It cut Spike like a knife. Crap. By now, Spike had gotten a sense for how these conversation would go. He really shouldn't have expected anything different. "Like, do you...know what you want?"

"No," Cian said, confidently. He turned over. "Do you?"

"Well, I've never really had a boyfriend."

"El Amante said guys who say that are red flags and I should stay away from them," Cian said.

Fuckin' masked prettyboy, Spike thought, annoyed. "I mean, I was kinda' seeing this guy when I was stationed in Hawaii for a hot second, but..." Spike cringed.

Cian searched his face. "What happened?"

"I had to move on. And like...I...dunno. I was really excited about being with him, right? But then once everything set in and I realized..." Spike trailed off. "I guess I got...ahead of myself?"

"Mmm." Cian turned over.

Spike hadn't see the night going like this. At all. "Well...I'd like to maybe get to know you better."

Cian sighed. "Something tells me you say that to a lot of guys."

That a hit a nerve. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You're hot, Spike."

"Thank you. I know. So are you."

"Which means you can have any guy you want. Your personality isn't shit either...though it took me awhile to realize it. I don't think you know what you want either, lad. But you seem to like men fawning over you. And I think you have the potential to mess with a lot of hearts that way if you aren't careful about it."

Shit, Cian, are we spellbreaking right now? Spike felt called out. "I dunno. Things just don't ever seem to work out for me. So like, hey...we're both hot, right? Why don't we take the plunge, Cian?"

Cian sighed. "Because I don't want to get hurt. Spike. You barely know me."

"We've known each other for almost a year!"

"Okay, but how many conversations have we had? We only just stopped hating each other, lad."

"Okay. Fine. I guess I do have trouble sometimes going steady with guys. But..."

"I really don't want to get hurt," Cian said, curtly. Spike noted the pain in his voice. "I didn't have a good childhood. You know this. And it's hard for me to trust people. I'm just not ready to date. And I don't want to hurt you either." Cian thought about his words. "Emotionally, anyway. Physically is another story."

Spike turned towards the wall, on the off chance Cian looked over and saw the frustrated tears forming in his eyes. "And what about Robbie?"

"What about Robbie?"

"Wolfie is mad about you, duh." Spike had tried to make a pass at Icewolf himself, but they had fallen into the fuckbuddy pattern, and there was no chance of any relationship growth there. He rolled back around, facing Cian's back. He more annoyed than saddened now.

"Well, good for him." Cian grunted, and fastened Spike's hands around his stomach tighter, like a seatbelt. "I get worried about 'forward' guys like Robbie. Hot men like that. They go through men like candy bars."

Spike sighed again, deeper. "Are you calling Robbie and I sluts?"

"Geez, you're whiny tonight. Spike, there's nothin' wrong with being a slut. Not that I would know, meself. But that's a different league than I'm in right now." He sighed. "I just want...security."

Spike frowned. "My logo is literally a freakin' anchor, Cian."

Laughing, Cian turned around and looked into Spike's eyes. "You're a good guy, Spike," he said, giving him a quick kiss. "And...I like this. Whatever 'this' is. But right now? The cuddling and hanging out is what I'm comfortable with. That's my limit. If you want to see how things go--and I'm not saying they may go anywhere--then let's take it slow. Ok?"

But Spike didn't want to take it slow, and to him, it sounded like Cian was already setting him up for disappointment. His mind immediately turned on the other man he had his eyes on: Buck. He had said he was coming to Sydney. Maybe he'd reach out tomorrow...

"Anyways," Cian said, turning around towards the window, "I'm just excited to be here in Sydney. I mean, look at the beautiful harbor, boyo. The Opera House. The Harbor Bridge. The giant, eldritch abomination rising up from the bay...."

Cian and Spike both bolted up and looked at each other, and then out the window.

"GIANT ELDRITCH ABOMINATION RISING UP FROM THE BAYYYY!!!???"

A blare of static turned Spike and Cian's eyes from the eerie sight in the distance, back to the TV set. In a grainy, dimly lit room, a man in a black mask addressed the camera.

"Good evening, people of Sydney. You may have noticed my friend out in the middle of the Harbor. Now, he's pretty upset at being wrenched from his dimension. Lucky for yous that I got him on short leash. And if you want him to remain on that leash, you good folks at the Museum of Enchanted Art might want to hang up on me again. I'm a patient man. But my patience goes so far. Bring the Chalice to the Customs House within an hour or..."

A flash from outside, accompanied by an otherworldly, low cry--midway between a blue whale and the howl of a pack of wolves. The giant in the bay thrashed, sending a giant wave towards The Rocks. Spike thought he could hear people screaming outside. Emergency sirens followed. 

The TV cut back to an unsettling children's show of a creepy-eyed cat puppet singing an unsettling song about the 'dirty hand monster' coming to eat you if you don't wash your hands before dinner.

Before Cian and Spike--both of them with mouths open wide--could speak, a crackle of electricity and a sudden black shape in the room stunned them into further silence.

Through the shadow doorway in the wall, Deadboy--wearing black, torn jeans and a leather jacket--wobbled out of the portal, clutching a tall, brown battled wrapped up in a paper bag. "Oi! Issss me. Debbohy Demmneinnan."

Spike bolted out of bed, embaressed. "D-DDAEMIAN! You can't just--"

"Bahhhhh!" The wobbly punk pointed his nailpolished fingers at Spike and Cian. "Were you two pashing?" 

Spike blinked. "Are you drunk?"

"No."

Brax walked casually out of the dark portal, closing it behind him. "Yes."

"Okay, whatever." Deadboy rolled his eyes, and nearly tripped over Spike's jeans, on the hotel carpet. He pointed, roughly, at the direction of the window. "Did you...did you you two sexy fucks see that big green willy in the harbor?"

"YES." Cian and Spike said in unison. Spike took the lead. "Dude! Some scary guy appeared on TV and--" 

"Yeah, that's Redback." Daemian belched, loudly. "He's a c**t. He also summoned that damn thing out in the harbour, likely with some spooky shit from the Black Library." Daemian winced, holding his head. "Uhm too blitzed for this. Look. LOOK. I know..I know Icanbeabit ofa mess. I did try to take over the GSA. This is my...this is my bloody redempshon arc, y'know?"

Cian laid down back on the bed, resigning himself to getting eaten. "So...in other words...we're fecked."

After another burp, Deadboy chucked the empty bottle at the wall, shattering it into a million pieces, and waking Spike and Cian right the hell up. 

Deadboy pointed at Spike, accusingly. "You can lift things ten times your weight, and you can..." He blanked. "Cause illusions. I dunno, mates, but we gotta' do somethin' so stop your whinging and get in the fuckin' portal. We got eldritch arse to kick!" 

---

Searchlights from boats illuminated the grotesque colossus from underneath, adding to its horror. The green fog over the harbour only added to the macabre, horror scene. Two, enormous oculars pierced the mist, zeroing in on the modern building on the harbor promenade, set among more gothic and Victorian facades. The creature's head resembled the bell of a squid, and two giant tentacles hanging off its side only added to this. Beneath, however, it was a ball of squirming, worm-like appendages. It floated above the waves with an eerie power. 

Yet, it didn't move. True to his word, Redback--lurking in the shadows--had kept the beast sedate. 

The police had already barricaded curious and frightened onlookers who had ignored evacuation orders. The state sanctioned dark magi took to protecting their city. Black figures in robes, wearing long-beaked masks, positioned themselves on rooftops around the harbour, drawing strange hand symbols in the sky. Portals of purple light, dark corridors, appeared in front of them--from which armoured, wing demons, crow-like in appearance, emerged to answer the call of their summoner kindred. Joining them on shores across the harbour, in the cemetery sanctioned for necromancers--were the virtuous dead had consented in life to have their bones used for the greater good--scarlet clad necromancers woke their discarnate sentry from their slumber. The dead shambled to the shore, whilst the demonic took to the skies. 

"I can't believe we're doing this," Spike said, tugging on his navy hoody and following Deadboy down the dark alley side-passage leading to the front of the Museum of Enchanted Art. In the distance, Spike noted the opera house and used it as a size comparison for the abomination. The monster was several stories larger.

"I can," Deadboy sniffed, sobering up. He tapped the handsome police man guarding the alleyway exit. 

"Huh?" the short haired officer turned around. "Hey, you can't be here!"

Daemian smiled at him, wickedly, his eyes going pure black. "Give us a kiss, handsome."

Confused, the office could barely react--or reach for his side-arm--before Daemian had him in a front choke, forcing his mouth on his. The officer blushed, enjoying the taste of the handsome punk tonguing his mouth. Then, his eyes widened with fear. A trickle of purple travelled down the corner of his lips, and he moaned, struggling to pull away as Daemian infused him with his evil venom. The cop's eyes rolled back into his head, and then shifted into a purple glow. 

"Unnngggg...." the zombified office said.

"Blech!" Daemian spat onto the ground. "Can't believe I kissed a cop. The things I do for my city..."

Cian covered his mouth in horror, checking to make sure the officer was okay. "Is he...dead?"

"Huh?" Deadboy barely noticed. "Yeah nah, he's just going to be a zombie for awhile. Sadly, they don't make very convincing puppets when they're under my spell like this. Whaddya say, corn beef--can you take his form?"

Cian was already on top of it, transforming into the officer's double. "And don't call me corn beef," he said, taking a deep breath. "Er...g'day moites, it's me, offissuh Kenneh--yer favrit bloke!"

"STOP!" Cian and Spike said in unison. Deadboy took the reigns. "Just talk normally, man!"

Cian (as officer Kenny) nodded, leading Spike and Deadboy past the police barricades and questioning officers, towards the front of the museum. As they made their way towards the courtyard, the group found themselves suddenly look into the moonlit desert. Or, rather, a 'door' looking onto the outback landscape, had appeared in front of them.

Clad in koala pajamas, Uncle Daniel stepped out, a cup of tea in hand. "Good Goodess, Lachie, what did you do now!?" He snapped his fingers, and the door to the outback blinked out of existence behind him.

"He's family," Daemain quickly said to a very confused Cian. "Uncle Daniel, what the bloody hell are you doing here!?"

The bearded man with the white hair glared at Deadboy and pointed to the giant monstrosity in the harbour behind them. "You do that, boy?"

"NO!" Daemian growled. But before he could say anything, a group of very official (and very serious) looking men and women appeared behind the interlopers. 

A middle-aged woman with great hair and an expensive pantsuit stared them down. "You're obviously not police or shadow-unit. Are you with the terrorist?"

"For once, no," Deadboy said. "Who the hell are you?"

The woman crossed her arms. "Margaret Moore. Director of the Museum of Enchanted Art. And I'm wondering why a man in a balaclava has hijacked our news station asking us to hand over an artefact that we've been looking to acquire for some time now, but absolutely do not have."

Uncle Daniel stared blankly Deadboy. "Ah. Yep. Knew this was gonna happen. Of course you don't have the Chalice, Mrs. Moore." He sighed. "Because I do."

Uncle Daniel had it all along! Spike thought, gasping.

The woman with the sharp bob looked at the man up an down. "Are those...koalas?"

Uncle Daniel stared at the ground, demurely. "My wife bought them for my birthday and she...gets mad when I don't wear her gifts. But that's not the issue at hand here, loves." He pointed to the creature in the harbour. "Old mate is looking for a Chalice you don't bloody well have, and that thing is gonna eat Sydney. My boy here--and his friend--are here to help you, and they're probably the last defence yous got besides your magi."

Deadboy looked at Uncle Daniel. "I...thank you."

The museum director sighed. After a moment's consideration, and a few furtive glances at her entourage--which appeared to include staff from the mayor's office, judging by their lanyards--the woman reached into her breast pocket. "MoEA is a subsidiary of Aradia. Ten minutes ago I received a call from Mr. Salim Netjeer telling me I needed to give you lot something that the public does not know we have in our collection."

Spike's face lit up. "Salim!"

Margarete withdrew a small object--a peculiar, metallic, dodecahedron with a pyramid structure embedded into the top and bottom. The structure was inscribed with strange runes.

Deadboy carefully took it into his hands. "This is...a Configuration of Martense." He continued, before anybody could ask further. "It opens portals to other dimensions, but way, way worse-off places than the Faewild. Deeper places. More importantly, it brings things over, or sends them back."

"I assume that if an established patron like Mr. Netjeer is leasing this out, it means you know what to do with it?" Mrs. Moore asked. She then winced. "Also, you reek of cheap alcohol."

Deadboy bit his lip, and ignored the second remark. "Er...more or less I know how to work it? It's going to need to take heavy summoning power. I mean, I'm a pretty damn great demon summoner, but not that great."

Cian and Spike looked at Deadboy. Spike mouthed the words, 'redemption arc.'

Deadboy nodded. "Right." He pointed to the harbour. "You mob work for the city, yeah? Tell the port agents that I need five of your best summoners on boats at least ten meters apart in the shape of a pentacle, with that big, smelly c**t in the middle."

The weedy mayoral staff blanched at the crudeness, but otherwise nodded their heads. 

While Uncle Daniel looked on, with a ghost of a smile across his lips, Daemian turned to Spike and Cian. "I sent Brax up ahead onto the bridge. Spike, I need you to join him there and act as a distraction, as this ritual is going to take a few minutes"

Spike bit his lip. "And do...what?"

"Think of something! Cian, I need you to search Customs House with the cops and see if you can find Redback. I promise you they can't deal with him on their own, but you might stand a chance. 

"Understood." Cian wasn't so sure, but he wasn't going to argue now.

Uncle Daniel smiled at Daemian, but it was Spike who drew his focus. "Okay, Yank, I can teleport you onto the bridge." He looked quickly at Daemian. "Safely and accurately. You ready?"

Spike had fought some sizable opponents before...but this one was a bit bigger than his usual. Hell, this thing couldn't even fit into a ring. He looked at the monster, still entranced and bond to his summoner's magicks, and then up at the bridge a few meters away from its bulbous head.

"You know," Spike started, "Last year, I thought becoming a spellbreaker would be sort of routine and cushy after awhile." He sighed. "I miss when I was naive."

"You still are, mate," Daemian said, slapping Spike on the back. Suddenly, he went pale. "Oh Goddess, I think all that swill just hit me...BLEGH!"

He turned around and threw up, all over Margaret's very expensive shoes.

Cian nodded in resignation. "Yep. We're fecked."

To Be Continued