Chapter 0: I Bet You're Wondering How I Got Here?

Twenty five years ago...

Egypt. Valley of the Kings.

The sound of heavy stone grinding against sand sent a very satisfied chill up Captain Harrison's spine...though it was the man in the turban, panting in front of him, who did the heavy lifting. 

At gunpoint, of course.

The other three, Thatchford, Mays, and Johnstone, were all clad in full uniform (per protocol). The Empire's Albion Squadron patches, emblazoned on their shirtsleeves, shimmered in the desert sun. They were dressed honourably, yes, but Harrison thought little of his grunt. They stood around, wiping their brows in the Egyptian swelter.

Harrison frowned. They looked, for all the world, that this was some great, onerous chore for them--and here, on the edge of victory. Of course, the powers-that-be had assigned the captain such lesser men. To the Imperators at the top, Harrison's grand searches for artefacts of renown were still fanciful notions that had born little fruit. He knew what the men in London whispered about him, behind his back. 

The once-celebrated captain, gone mad, rummaging around the annals, chasing fairy tales. To them, it was as if he'd decided, on a whim, to send him and his men out into the sand swept, Valley of the King as some sort of glorified field trip, when there was a war to be one and tides to turn.

Lesser men, always getting in the way. ..

How things hadn't changed. "Quickly, now," Harrison barked at their guide. Bribery wasn't enough for these savages in the local village, apparently. Harrison, impatient, had decided to go the old fashioned way and round up the man's family instead, locking them in the village grainery. If they weren't back by sunset, the troops stationed there had orders to set the whole damn place ablaze. 

Harrison was sure to remind the good man, trembling with perspiration, of this fact.

Now, at last, the rush of old, stale air. Harrison forced the villager to go in first, lest any lingering toxic gasses, or obsidian dust (a common graverobbing deterrent), await. Harrison's assignment had been excavating this tomb for the greater month or so, though others had tried to find it before. Thankfully, the Alban conquest had granted the University at Oxford all sorts of plundered manuscripts and tomes near and far. It was no Black Library (that, frustratingly, yet eluded Harrison and the Division of Antiquity). However, the research efforts had led them as far as here, within the already looted Valley of the Kings, still offering secrets and treasures of the past.

Now, with the tomb opened, and breath held, Harrison was sure of it. The ankh over the staircase, its paint still vibrant despite the centuries, and the symbol of the inverted and upright pyramids meeting at the tips. There was no mistaking it, this was the tomb of Sarapis, the Eternal Jackal, he who had brought the Ptolemaic Dynasty to its grim collapse.

Out of spite, the legends say. Or love.

"Torch," Harrison sniffed, ordering Johnstone to light the oil-tipped stick with his own fire magick. Harrison had no magick of his own, and it didn't matter. He had risen to the ranks without it, and though jealous rumors painted his quest for enchanted artefacts as being driven purely by envy. It was all just vitriol. Those lesser men always talked.

Firelight danced along the walls of the tomb, covered in faded hieroglyphs, as Harrison ordered his men inside. When he laid eyes on the sarcophagus, studded with lapis and glass, Harrison nearly gave into weakness. He almost teared up.

Stiff upper lip, of course. Harrison pointed to their manservant, who, upon setting eyes on the sarcophagus, began to pray and back away out of fear. "Is this it?"

The trembling man, after gathering himself, nodded in the affirmative.

"Very well." Harrison snapped his fingers.

Thatchford, ever reliable, didn't hesitate to lift up the rifle and shoot the man in the back of the head. He collapsed to the ground, dead.

"Are you mad!?" Mayes piped up, balking at the dead man and the spilled blood, travelling in a river to the base of the sarcophagus (as if by design). "The Department of Antiquities will have our hides if they find out we've bloodied a tomb!" 

Harrison grabbed the young soldier by the scruff of his collar, before he could even muster his next breath. "Mad? I'll show you mad! The scrolls are abundantly clear about the means in which to awake this ancient weapon. Do not question my authority again, or you'll end up like this poor chap here. And once we have what we want, the Department of Antiquities is going to kiss my bloody arse. You UNDERSTAND!" Sick of the grunt, Harrison tossed the young man into the wall and approached the sarcophagus with a blood-lust.

Disregarding protocol, Captain Harrison slid his hands across the luxuriant sarcophagus lid. "I would kill a whole lot more if I had to for this, men." He looked at the pool of blood gathering around the tomb's base. The gemstones embedded in the lid emitted a soft glow. "Yes. Now, rise champion."

The men stood back as the light from the gap between lid and sarcophagus intensified. It was like a horror movie. But any of them leaving would invite far worse, especially from Harrison. They trained their guns at the tomb, ready. 

The lid dropped, but the small room stifled the echo. Harrison waited.

A bandaged hand gripped the side of the case. Guns cocked, ready to shoot whatever ancient fiend crawled from that tomb...but Harrison barely blinked. He waited. 

"Unnnggggghhhh..." Came a low, hollow moan from within the coffin. A shape rose, wrapped in ceremonial cloth. Slowly, it turned towards the waiting man.

Harrison stepped back, distinguishing the faded pigment across the burial shroud--the head of a jackal and the symbol of the long-dead magi who bent time to suit the whims of their kings. "Oh mighty Jackal, last of the Time Magi. We beseech you."

The bandaged, wrapped mummy--massive, larger than most men--turned slowly towards the cowering soldiers in the back of the tomb. 

It spoke to them, in perfect English. "Tell...me..." it began, slowly, its voice weary and horse with the sleep of ages. 

Harrison swallowed. He glanced at his men, nodding to them to remain calm. "Yes, O Lord."

"Tell me...in my slumber, my mind has travelled all timelines. I have seen cities of glass, glittering with light. I have seen these towers of the gods, rise and fall, consumed by flame. I have seen chariots shoot across the sky, carrying lords and ladies with knowledge in a glass in the palms of their hands. I have seen monuments and paintings and songs and tragedies. Pictures, moving on screens. Music, from out of boxes. And therefore, I must know one thing...."

Harrison, barely able to contain himself, leaned forward. "Yes, old one. Whatever you seek. Whatever knowledge or wisdom you wish to attain, my Empire can bestow it. I swear it."

The massive figure in the cloth waited. Then, ripping it off in one swift motion, the giant, dark skinned man balanced his elbows on the lid of the coffin and placed his chin in his hands. "Okay, so did they ever release a third part to Paparazzi and Telephone...or nah?"

Harrison and the other soldiers stared blankly at the handsome giant, dripping in gold jewels and bangles.

The man in the sarcophagus frowned. "Come on...You know? Lady GaGa? Beyonce? Oh, don't tell me I woke up in the wrong timeline? AGAIN..."

The Alban Captain stood back, confused and aghast. "I...I know not of which you speak."

The giant in the box sighed. "Riiiight. You're like Nazis, or something, aren't you?"

"I...beg pardon?" Harrison cleared his throat. "We are the vanguard for the most holy Alban Empire, who seek to rid the world of impurities and spread our virtuous--"

"Yep, Nazis. Different timeline, same smell. I mean, pleeeease," the giant flicked his hand towards Harrison and the lot. "The Indiana Jones schtick? You thought you'd find some magical artefact that could turn the tide of war and blah blah blah. You know what happens when you try to do that right? You get a lava facial. Your faces? Tomato soup, habibis." The giant blinked. "Oooh, Arabic. Does Egypt speak Arabic now? The Pharaohs would get a mighty kick out of that!"

The massive, muscular man suddenly pointed to the man on the floor. "Woah, look at that dead guy! Probably some schmuck from the local village you bullied into gunpoint. What, did you threaten his family or something? Hahahaha. Oh, typical." He smiled. "Yeahhhhhh, I'm gonna have to kill all your asses now."

Before Harrison could find the words to speak, he found his throat in the giant man's hands. Gasping, choking, he forced out the words. "Sh...shoot him! What are you fools waiting for!"

"Oh, those guys?" The giant man twisted Harrison's head, painfully, forcing him to look over his shoulder at all but two of his men, laying on the ground, necks broken, now resembling aged mummies themselves. "As you blinked just now, I took the liberty of draining them of their ages. Except that jobber."

Mayes, white as a ghost, sat with his knees tucked against his chest, rocking back and forth. His gun, in front of him, was bent at an odd angle. Useless. 

"Mostly because, well, for one...he's kinda cute. Second, I need a witness. But I should thank you, Harrison. That is your name, right? Harrison? Not my favorite Beetle. More of Lennon guy myself, really, cliche as it is. Well, more of a Yoko fan. She gets a bad rap. ANYWAY. As for the gratitude, yeah...thanks for waking me up. I can see the world is still shit. Soldiers. No matter the era. Soldiers. War. I hate it. But you woke me up! You won the special prize." The giant, frightening man with the long braid grinned. "Can you guess what that is?"

For Harrison, this was a somewhat novel encounter. At last, he experienced a new emotion. Fear. "P...please, sir."

Salim poked him on the nose with his other hand, punctuating each word with a nudge. "I. Get. To. Drain. Your. Time. BYE, BITCH!"

Mayes watched, jaw on the floor, as Harrison aged in rapid time, all the moisture and youth sucked out of him. When he was done, the giant man discarded Harrison's shrivelled corpse as if it was used peanut shell, and slowly walked to Mayes.

Mayes, in shock, placed his hands over his eyes. "Please...don't...I was just..."

"Listening to orders," Sarapis frowned. "Yeah, heard that old line before. You can lower your hands now. I'm not gonna kill ya'."

Shivering with adrenaline, Mayes did as told. His mouth gaped as he sized up the enormity of the man who stood in front of him. The tip of his head even touched the ceiling.

The naked giant shrugged. "Yeah, grower not a shower. You can tuck that pretty jaw back inside your head now. Already said, I'm not going to kill ya. And I don't lie. Well, I'm not lying right now anyway. Promise. And hey, you're probably wondering why I can speak your language. Well, aside from the fact that it's narratively convenient, I don't just sap the time out of people..." The giant made a rude, exaggerated slurping sound. "I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! I can also travel the timelines, in my head. For all that dreaming, I was experiencing other worlds, other realities. English is frustratingly prevalent in a lot of them. So, I picked it up. Along with Japanese, Esperanto, and High Fodongo. Don't worry about that last one, you don't have it here."  

The giant man sat down next to Mayes, like he was a classmate chum at recess. Mayes swallowed as the man wrapped his giant arm around him. He could easily crush his windpipe if he flexed.

"But that idea kinda turns on you on, doesn't it, Maysy boy? Oh yeah--I can smell the stink of repression on you. Well, keep it in your pants. Already said I'm not gonna kill ya. I'm sure as hell not gonna' sleep with ya either. I just want to have a little exchange, is that okay? I'll tell you about me, if you can tell me the..." He gestured broadly to the dim room, full of the dead. "Current state of affairs. Do that, I'll spare your life." He held out his pinky to him and smiled. "Pinky promise! And that's even more powerful than old Egyptian magick."

Nauseous, and on the verge of collapse, Mayes completed the gest

...

Okay, enough of that third person nonsense. I'm telling this story now. Yea, me. Salim. Sarapis. Jackal. Gold Mask. The Millionaire Manager. Daddy.

Damn, I go by many names; pick one. 

Freeze frame on the big-ass mumy. Yep, that's me. I bet you're wondering how I got here, and what my whole 'deal' is. It's pretty standard stuff, actually. I got sick of life and took a nap for a very long time, and then woke up to all you a**holes. Well before I met Spike (seriously, who picks the little white twink as a protagonist these days--what is this, Roland Emmerich's Stonewall?) I was working for Aradia. 

That's all true. I helped found the damn organization after all. And me playing manager for the GSA isn't just to keep up appearances either, you know. I love spellbreaking! I was once a spellbreaker, myself. But of course, I wasn't just any spellbreaker. I was THE spellbreaker. The first, and original, you might say.

Let's rewind...

---

I'd have made this part a musical number, but you know, save that for the audio book.

Okay, so, some 2000+ years ago, Egypt was kind of the coolest place on Earth. It was already old. By the time the Greeks rocked up and colonized my people, the pyramids were already ANCIENT. Still, we kept our gods. The Greeks were actually pretty chill about that whole thing, having tons of gods themselves.

But to tell my story in whole would take another damn blog, and I'm sure you just want to get to the world tournament part and see if Spike becomes the big world champ (spoilers: he doesn't. HA!). So let me take you on the slideshow version of my past. The very distant past, that is.

Sand. Nile. Palm trees. Muted, delicious, deserty pallets. Real Prince of Egypt setting. You can picture it, right?

I remember the day my powers activated. I was a Time Magi, a tribe already rare and few in numbers at that point. I didn't know my mother, but I heard she was pretty and very kind. I was already considered unusually large as a kid, and so most people avoided me. Good riddance. I knew I didn't like or trust most people when I caught my old mate, Zahir, by the riverside one day. He was sitting there, being a dick, taking a big rock and smashing all these beautiful golden scarabs.

Now, I'm not exactly what you'd call a softie. But I saw Zahir doing this to these beautiful, innocent creatures--that literally exist just to be pretty--and I sort snapped. I smacked Zahir, wrestled him to the ground, and took that selfsame stone and brought it down on his head, thinking he deserved the same punishment. Fit the crime, right? This was justice.

But, at the last second...I got weak. I thought, 'No, I take it back'. I knew it would crush his skull, cave it in. How was I to explain that to the pharaoh's magistrate? I was his own vizier's kid, after all. But, at that last second, I got my second chance. My time magick kicked in. Reality froze. Inched away from Zahir's skull, the rock stopped. I realized what I was doing and stopped. I threw the rock aside. I cried myself to sleep later that night. 

The next day, Zahir was imprisoned for pushing a slave's kid into the river, drowning him.

I promised myself then and there, that would be the last time I ever showed weakness.

So yeah, a dash of toxic masculinity. What can I say? I grew up big, bad, and strong (you've seen the character art, I'm sure). I learned how to wrestle from the Greeks, thanks-be-to-Plato. Fun fact:Plato's real name is lost to time--all we have his wrestler name, which quite literally means 'Huge Pecs'. Look it up if you don't believe me. Made a name for myself on the battlefield too. Believe me, back then, everyone had it out for the Egyptians and the Greeks. 

But, since yours truly can freeze time, I'd just stand by, probably on some overlooking hilltop--cape blowing dramatically behind me in the winds of war--before strolling down and snapping necks left and right. The opposing side never even comprehended what was happening to them. Sounds pretty gnarly, right?

Truth be told, after awhile, you start getting numb to it.

Now, try living like that for two thousand years...

WHOOPS! Didn't mean to get all Silvia Plath on you, fine folks. So, here's the thing about wars. Eventually, they stop (thank the gods). It was a time of peace, I had met my first wife (bisexual and proud here) and things were going real swell. The Pharaoh, Ptolemy II (or was it III?) was a decent enough guy, and seeing as Egypt and Greece had conquered almost all the lands around, they came to me to try and figure out a way to keep all these beefed up, angry soldiers tame, and the population happy.

So, here's where it turns into a bit of a bummer. While my wife was pregnant with my first kid, she got sick. All the magick in the world couldn't save her, and believe me, I tried. She died before she gave birth. I lost them both. It was then, that I myself realized I wasn't even getting any older. All those warriors I'd killed in battle...I had absorbed their excess years. I was keeping myself alive, quite literally, on borrowed time.

That...that messed me up.

Thankfully, the gods are good (sometimes). That's when I met Callius. To paint a picture of him, imagine Spike, but taller, and with darker hair. Greek features. Gods, Callius was a BABE. You realize then why men go to war for love. Callius knew plenty about war himself. He was Greek soldier and a gladiator. He also, quickly, became my best friend. Man, you should have seen his pretty smile (and his biceps). We got to know each other (intimately, I should add) and formulated a solution to the Pharaoh's mercenary problem. 

You see, back then, there were Twelve Guilds of martial combat. I think each one corresponded to a different zodiac sign (or maybe I'm getting that mixed up with Final Fantasy XII's job class system). Regardless, one such guild was called the Spellbreakers. These were magi who used both magick and physical combat to incapacitate other magi on the battlefield. Callius and I thought we could apply their principles to gladiatorial combat and old school wrestling, offering up a highly entertaining spectacle. To address the problem of, well, our best fighters being completely obliterated in combat, we suggested the fighters imbibe the same soma elixirs that our warriors drank before going to war. It would keep them alive to keep on fighting and raking in the cash--I mean, keeping the peace!

This absolutely brilliant idea, as you can imagine, proved highly successful. Spellbreaking took the ancient world by storm. Every colosseum. Every amphitheatre. Every arena. And I, surprising exactly nobody, was one of the best. I was the champion, in fact. I mean, it makes sense. I practically invented the sport! Callius, who was sadly bereft of magick, never participated. 

I think that may have been the first dark mark on our relationship. There was always a quiet resentment with that one. Boiling just under the surface. As powerful as I was, I was still young. I didn't see the ambition in his eyes. His lust for power...

Unfortunately, as we were drowning ourselves in gold, wine, and ancient world a**, we failed to realize the pharaohs and senators and emperors at the top were using spellbreaking as a distraction. Bread and circuses, as they say. It did the job, as intended--kept warriors placated, and the masses sedate. Slowly, all around those gilded colosseums, the hungry begged in crumbling streets, senators filled their coffers with the people's purse, the foreign were enslaved, the women beaten, and the infirm tossed into mass graves of the dead. Oh yes, many of them while still alive, in fact.

And you came here just to read stories about hunks in underwear beating each other up... ;)

At this point, the Pharaoh was and old man and I was still (visibly, anyway) young. My father had passed away some years before. Now, Ptolemy wasn't the nicest man in history, but there were much bigger a**holes. He genuinely cared about me. And he worried for me too. Yes, me, the giant man who can bend time to his will! He knew his successor well enough, and he feared what he might try to do to a powerful stud like me who didn't seem to age. He warned me to flee while I still could, and take my tribe with me. I didn't listen. I was too proud. 

Around that time, the Time Magi were dwindling--and, to this day, I can offer no explanation as to why. Maybe we incurred the wrath of the Goddess Herself, who knows? I was protective of my tiny tribe, especially my younger sister, who had become visibly older than myself by then. We used to joke about it. She was without judgment. A pure soul.

My life is like the tides. Tragedy washes in, then recedes, leaving pearls and pretty shells behind. Egypt was thriving, expanding its borders, but the one group we still maintained good terms with was the kingdom of Kus to the North. Now the Kus? Brilliant, them. Artisans, scholars, healers, warriors--and damn easy on the eyes.

And the easiest on the eyes was Taharqa, their King. Muscles carved from volcanic glass, and with a smile brighter than the moon. I was smitten with him the moment we crossed paths. He loved to watch spellbreaking, and thought of battling himself--though his advisors had decided against it. Surprising nobody, we fell in love. A forbidden romance! Who doesn't love that in anti-hero?

I admit, I wasn't the best lover. Back then, relations between men were tolerated, but never codified in anything resembling a marriage (as you moderns would recognize it, anyway). Not even Alexander the Great could work that out, and if there was one twink who could, it would have been him. Callius, you see, had gotten older. I staid the same. He was like winter. Taharqa, spring. I fumbled those two hearts, fragile things. Callius and I had a falling out. I left Egypt, bound for Kus, with my new king. I was ready to serve him for eternity.

The Pharaoh that followed his predecessor was not a kind man. When he set his sights on Kus, my beloved's kingdom, I refused to return and aid him. Not only that, but when he tried to call my bluff, I turned my blade and my magick open the men I once found alongside. Love makes you do funny things...

The Pharaoh responded by rounding up my kindred time magi, my sister included, and put them to the sword. He feared rebellion. He was paranoid. He was also foolish. 

He got his war. I gave it to him.

Tell me, how does one kill a kingdom? 

I took from them, first, their knowledge. By then, the Library of Alexandria had already amassed many scrolls and tomes among its shelves. It was their policy to take all books and scrolls from incoming ships, make copies of them, and send the originals back with their hosts. The Library had also accumulated one too many objects of power, for my liking. While the Grecian scholars who guarded it were prudent men indeed, I knew the Pharaoh would kill their families as well if they refused his requests.

I took from them next, their power.

I went about whispering in the right ears, flattering the right senators, and slowly turned the Greeks against the Egyptians. I didn't need to do much. Hardly any magick at all. Manipulating powerful men has always been my forte. In time, the Greeks marched into Alexandria, and burnt what little was left of the underfunded Library to the ground. 

You know, of course, what happened to those forbidden tomes that ended up in the Black Library of Ivan the Terrible. I may be good, but even I'm not always thorough.

I took from the next, their soldiers. Those have always been easy to kill. Kus had a strong army (I'd trained them, after all). The sands of Egypt turned red, by my power.

In the end, it didn't matter, Taharqa, my true king, was slain on the battlefield before I could arrive. I may be able to control time, but the past is something I've never been able to change. Frustrating, isn't it? If only...

If only...

Last of all, I took the Egyptians hope. In time, the new empire of Rome had risen--throwing Egypt into a civil war, with brother against brother. Who do you think helped fan the flames of that war? Egypt fell--the last of the Hellenic dynasties. 

All by my hand.

Which is to say, I'd pretty much had enough. I'd considered wandering into Rome and taking them over, maybe raising an Empire of my own. Why not? 

I'd caught wind of grand designs from the land of the Rus at that point. Heard plenty about the Divine Chalices. But do you want to know the truth of it? I was tired. Dog tired. I had taken on more lovers, over time, than those few mentioned above. Do you know the problem about being nigh-immortal? It's not living through all the pain and despair, but seeing everyone around you grow and old and die. Time moves faster when you don't age. In a day, the young become old. 

I couldn't live like that anymore. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to...well...you know. Just not my style. I am, if anything, ever the optimist. So, as the last of the time magi, I used what powers I had, took the only artefact that hadn't been plundered over the years (the Eye of Osiris) and used it to seal myself within a tomb in the Valley of the Kings.

Which brings us to...now. Well, not know. 1945 or whatever year the Albans woke me.

"And that's where I slept, travelling the timelines, learning about other worlds, other 'whens' and 'if's', until you woke me up, Maysey boy." I yawn, tugging the scared, little man closer to me. Just so he knows how quickly I could end him, if I wanted to.

"Now, I said I wouldn't kill you, habibi. I am an honest man. When I want to be, of course. So, as part of the deal...tell me about this Alban Empire of yours. What's your angle?"

I'll spare you the lad's response. You already know it. World War and World II in your timeline weren't so different. Imagine both, combined into one, and with magick on top of that. You get the gist.

I listened to the scared man, just shy of wetting his pants. Reader, I did let him live. Mostly because I had use of him. After a moment's pause, I looked into his baby-blue eyes. I smiled. 

I saw my reflection, staring back at me. I hadn't aged.

"Well, Maysey, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship." I held my hands out the soldier, as if asking to be cuffed. "Take me to your leader! I think I'd like to have a word with the Emperor.."

You already know what I can do to Empires and Emperors, dear reader. Do I have to explain the rest? :)

To Be Continued

...

OH WAIT! Silly goose that I am, I forgot to mention... 

Shortly after founding Aradia, I did in fact return to the world of spellbreaking. In fact, it was one of the few reasons I decided not to just end the damn planet then and there, seeing what the Alban Empire had done to most of Europe. Granted, there was more theatricality involved in today's version of the sport (and camp!) but I dabbled. As you can expect, I was damn good. I rose to the ranks. I challenged Colt 'The Bolt' to the title, and won...not that you smart marks would remember.

Because, as soon as I got a whiff of ambitions from Russia, I knew the peace I'd engineered couldn't last. The Eye of Osiris didn't work on Semyon, which was the first sign he wasn't just some schmuck, but had access to very bad things...likely, the Eye's twin, the Eye of Set (look, us time magi weren't too creative with naming conventions back then). My Eye allowed me to see all possible outcomes and intentions. The Eye of Set? Obscured them. If someone was using it, it meant they'd done their research. Furthermore, they likely knew I was out there, somewhere, awake and waiting..

Two can play at that game of course, ol' Spike. I used my Eye, and my magick, to rewrite 'King Anubis' out of existence. You better believe that took a lot of effort. Fortunately, I had lives to spare... 

Having already played the role of Salim Netjeer, pretty-boy playboy and Millionaire Manager (we love an abundance of alliteration don't we?) I knew I had the perfect cover story. I decided to go undercover. As always, I do my best work from the shadows. 

I knew, right away, that I would need soldiers. More importantly? 

I needed himbos. 

The GSA were the antidote to Firebird's poison. All I had to do was team up with the most brilliant woman in the world (Lily, bless her socks) and grease my old (friendly) rival Colt's hands with silver. Cowboy didn't even remember who I was! I took the Jackal moniker--mostly for the drama of it all--and went around thwarting Firebird's designs when my little, muscle headed henchman couldn't. 

"But of all the pretty little idiots who could stand up to Firebird, I needed a champion." 

I set my drink down on the bar, looking directly at Spike. Oh, Spike. Your eyes could melt even my cold heart. "To be real with you, habibi, it was either you or Cian. That's why I tested you both. There's just something about you, kiddo. Though, I admit, the Eye seems to show flashes of Mr. Iron for some reason. That's why I saved him in Italy. Well, that and he's just a sweet guy. I couldn't let him die!"

Spike, you cutie. Breathing rapidly, Spike downs his third scotch of the night and gasps. "Holy...s***".

I shrug. "Yeah, that's how you react to this in most timelines." I stand, looking over my little hero. "So, whaddya say, champ. I need you. You need me. Whaddya' say, habibi...let's work together!"

For a sailor, Spike looks sea-sick. "Uh...what do I have to do?"

I smile. "Simple. Just take a little trip with me."

"A trip? To where?" He blinks. "Egypt? You wanna' go back to Egypt?"

"No. To the strangest country of all," I say, wrapping my arm around his little, blonde head. "The past!"

NOW, PLAY THE MUSIC!

To Be Continued (but for real, this time)

King Anubis

                                                                                                                                Art by Phantom Tommy

Given Name: Sarapis Net-jer / Salim Netjeer

Age: 2271

Birthday: January 1st

Height: 7'11"

Weight: 342 Lbs

Country of Representation: Egpyt

Fighting Style: Power / Pankration

Glyph: Temporis (Time Magic)

Power Finisher: Lifeshaver

Submission Finisher: Eternal Ruin

Favorite Food: Pastries

Likes: Being right, fighting, domination, scheming, luxuries, humor, generosity, outwitting others, justice, history, mythology, justice, bodybuilding, muscle, justifying the means.

Dislikes: War, evil, weak opponents, those who do not give it their all, lazy people, politicians, petty laws, those who get in his way, rest days.

'The Final Boss', 'The First Spellbreaker', the World Champion, Eternal Lord of Judgment--Bender of Time...and Bodies!

Taking on the mantel of charming philanthropist and 'Millionaire Manager' to spellbreakers, Salim Netjeer is actually the 'first spellbreaker', King Anubis. At last, he reveals himself as the World Champion and true king of the ring!

During Ptolemaic Egypt, the last clan of Time Magi served as the behest of the Pharaoh. Among them was the 'giant', Sarapis, a skilled warrior, spellbreaker (in the original sense) and right-hand of the Pharaoh. By Sarapis' command, the enemies of Egypt all fell. Concerned that the kingdom's warriors might turn against the dynasty and plan a coup, the Pharaoh asked Sarapis to eliminate the army. However, the prudent and powerful Sarapis joined forces with a fellow warrior and Grecian spellbreaker, Callius, to create what would become known as the original, gladiatorial form of spellbreaking. This would allow fighters to test their mettle for money and fame, provide entertainment to the masses, and forge ties with Greece.

Surprising nobody, Sarapis became one of the best spellbreakers in the arena, attracting attention from even the handsome king of distant Kus. Sarapis and the King began a forbidden romance, much to jealous Callius' displeasure. When the new Pharaoh rose to throne, Callius convinced him to invade and destroy Kus, and the King was killed in the invasion. Angered beyond measure, Sarapis refused to assist the Pharoah any further. Thus, began the genocide of the Time Magi, with only the powerful, nigh-immortal Sarapis left. He considered overthrowing the Pharoah himself, however every 'timeline' he foresaw only destruction and overthrow in his future, and so he began a life of doing his best to 'intervene' just enough to keep history from spiraling out of control.

After helping the Greeks burn part of the Library of Alexandria's "Black Archive", Sarapis realized humanity would only continue to repeat its mistakes. He sealed himself within a tomb, only to be accidentally awakened by the Albans some near 1,000 years later. Sarapis, horrified to see humanity engaging in a global conflict, turned against the Albans and helped destroy them. He took on the name 'Salim Netjeer', and used the Alban treasury to create the identity of a powerful businessman. He helped found Aradia, in order to prevent humankind from destroying itself.

Salim's faith in humanity was briefly restored when he discovered what became of the sport of spellbreaking, and so he decided to enter the tournament and quickly found himself champion again. It was during this time that he discovered Firebird's plans, and began a camping from within Aradia to uncover them. Firebird's President, Semyon Grigorivich, quickly discovered from Alban records that King Anubis had been awakened, and initiated a counteract when King Anubis broke into the Black Library (the remnants of the Library of Alexandria's Black Vault). Salim stole the Immortal Wadjet, a device used by Time Magi to manipulate the perception of time, and had himself (and his champion legacy) 'removed' from the current timeline. He has since come out of the shadows to enact his revenge against Firebird and acquire the power to 'correct the timeline'...at any cost.

Salim has a dualistic personality. Though he is a jovial and brilliant man, happy to wise-crack and not take anybody or anything too seriously, he conceals a darker personality. He is always smarter than he lets on. His knowledge of all timelines allows him to frequently 'break the fourth wall' and make references that most always go over his bewildered companion's heads. Make no mistake, however, King Anubis is the most powerful of spellbreakers, and will destroy anybody or anything that gets in his way. Still, he will always make an effort to bring others around to his way of thinking first.

As a spellbreaker, King Anubis is unparalleled. In addition to being a mountain of muscle, who can crush most foes shortly after the bell has even rung, he is is skilled at almost all forms of ancient combat, including Pankration. His ability to stop time, albeit briefly, allows him to dominant would-be-challengers who oppose him. His finisher, the Lifeshaver, is a Muscle Buster that quite literally takes a year off the life of his victim, adding to his own longevity. Eternal Torment is a modified camel clutch that bends limbs and spines, with the sadistic twist of slowing down the victim's perception of time, drawing out the pain and punishment. There is a good reason why King Anubis (breaking the fourth wall as always) refers to himself as The Final Boss. Can Spike and friends take him down if he decides to enact his plot to rewrite time itself!?

Sarapis has lived and disguised himself as Salim Netjeer, the 'Million Dollar Manager' of Spellbreaking, for years. Little did anybody know, he was actually the World Champion!

King Anubis' finisher, Lifeshaver, is quite possibly the most dangerous move in spellbreaking--as it quite literally takes a year off the life of its victim!

Battle Quotes

I am the beginning and the end. Come, mortal...judgment awaits...

LOL...how was that? I sounded real scary, right?

What, were you expecting M. Bison or somethin'?

Your time's run out...Now...FACE ETERNITY!!!!

Victory: A pity. Such wasted potential. Now, bear witness as I shape the future...

Defeat: Ugh...this is where I do my 'How can this be?!' speech, I guess. Fine, fine. You win.

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