Chapter 4: Home on the Range

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, Deadboy thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce played dumb. "Tell you what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

One Day Later...

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

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

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

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

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

Not today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, do you?" 

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

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

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

Semyon's mouth twitched. "I see."

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

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

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

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

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

Semyon blinked. "What?"

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

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

"...What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

One Day Earlier...

"Cheap beer."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Back in Black,

Hit the sack,

I summon thee, Deadboy,

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie,

Oy! Oy! Oy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bruce...is Redback!"

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

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

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

"OH NO!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

One Day Later...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I...beg your pardon?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was trapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce winced. "GAH! My hand."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Total destruction.

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

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

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

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

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

He was crying.

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

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

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

Deadboy sighed and looked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colt blinked. "Tambo?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only favorite spellbreaker would suffice," Colt sniffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He rewrote time!"

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

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

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

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

To Be Continued

Chapter 2: Let's Do the Timewarp, Again

"Why are they doing this, father? I don't understand."

"Simple, my son. Hate."

"I'm afraid I do not understand."

It felt like a conversation Spike shouldn't have been listening in on. It didn't help that he felt nauseous (and, considering he was a non-corporeal consciousness witnessing an event that took place more than 500 years ago, this was quite the feat of anxiety). Spike had always though time travel--not exactly a concept the cheerful himbo had given much weight to before--would be like plopping down on a Hollywood movie set, like a cowboy western or prehistoric fantasy. Something like going to the amusement park or Renaissance fair.

The reality was viscerally realer than any of that. It grabbed Spike, in all the old things he had never taken into consideration about the past--the different shape of doors and their height, the smell of candle wax and incense, the size and shape of people and their clothing. It was too real. Salim had kindly mentioned to Spike that he might experience some psychological effects from viewing past events, but Spike hadn't considered the raw intensity. It was like being inside someone's else dream, only more vivid than one's own reveries.

The first thing Spike realized was how damn dark everything was, even in the daylight. The wooden panelling and dark furniture in the room only added to the sombre state of of the palace. It was also nearly empty. Almost all the guards and occupants had either taken to defending the gates, or had fled into the recesses. The boy and man waiting at the arched window were the first stationary occupants Salim and Spike had come upon. Judging from their clothing and noble presence, Spike took them for a king and prince.

The man and boy looked out onto a walled city and its steeples, some already ablaze and smoking black. 

Spike had never seen Salim so severe and focused. The candlelight caught in his emerald green eyes, and the shadows playing across his face gave him the appearance of an angel (or demon) from one of the many religious paintings hanging on the wall. Spike felt alien, here, among the past, as well as with this man. 

I want to go home, Spike thought, but dared not speak it aloud. Salim was his only chance at returning to the GSA. Besides, answering the hero's call was the living destiny of any good babyface and (possible) future champ. Spike couldn't back down from a summons like that, especially from his former manager.

The boy had asked his father why the hordes of angry men, eager to spill the blood of every woman, child, and man inside the gates of the city, hated them. Spike had never considered a question like that, before, as it related to warfare. Having served in the military, Spike always assumed his country's enemies were in the wrong. Much had changed since his time in the Navy, of course, and Spike's horizons had been broadened, viewpoints and situations of other cultures considered. His reality had become more complex, and for the better. There was nothing simple about war.

But here was a small boy asking the question not Spike nor any of his fellow officers had considered: what is the essence of hatred, and why does it drive people?

The wizened King's brow furrowed. "They envy our glory," he said, sadly. "And...they resent our power."

The prince frowned. He looked sickened by the thought. Spike thought the young man reminded him of someone else. Having walked past scurrying peasants and knights on the way to the room, Spike marvelled at how much shorter everyone was in the past--which is to say, he was finally the average height of all the men around him. But not this child, who--physically no more than ten years of age--was already near his father's height. 

That long face. Intense, wide eyes. Black hair...

"But haven't we given them food?" the boy suggested, as if somehow this was the spell that might change the hearts of the angry pillagers at the gates. "Sheltered them?"

"Indeed, my son. All we asked was for their obedience. But it seems that is not enough. Now, look at them. Lashing out like mongrels, biting the hand of the master who's fed them since this castle stood tall. This is the way of the world, son. Always maintain your position, at all costs, and cull those that would rise against you. This is what it means to rule."

Suddenly, the wind--the flicker of flames--the dust motes in the from froze.

"Ew!"

Spike's eyes darted towards Salim. "Did...did you make time stop!"

"Blegh!" The giant man made a face. "Gross. Talk about toxic masculinity."

Spike twisted his mouth. "Mmm. I'm not what you'd call the wisest guy in the room, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess 13th century Russia wasn't the most in touch with their emotions. Kinda' reminds me of your story. With Egypt and the Pharaohs and whatnot."

"Oh yeah, that's the thing--it's an old story." Salim glared at the king. "One that seems to repeat throughout history. Like a bad disease."

Spike looked over at the king and child. "The strongest deciding what's best for the weak and then crushing them when they fight back? Sounds like Vahni Rage. I don't like bullies."

"Because you know what it's like to be bullied," Salim shrugged. He noticed a stack of tomes on the table. Whoever these people were, they were well read. "I mean sure, you're a blonde, blue eyed, 'All-American' twink. But you're also a queer man who grew up poor and abandoned."

"You don't have to remind me..."

"Spike, I'm saying you're not a dick because you managed to harbor some ounce of humanity, empathy, and compassion." Salim pointed to the king. "This? This is, as you so wisely put it, how you create Vahni Rages. Or the Imperators of Alban. Or anybody else who thinks they can kick a dog for long enough and the pretend to be shocked when it bites back. Whatever force brought us here, it wants us to know that this place is bad news." Salim sniffed, crossing his arms. "Still trying to figure out why though. Why this place?"

"I don't friggin know, S! This is my first time...in...time." Spike scratched his head and pointed to the prince. "That kid, though. He gives me the creeps."

"Yeah, well, look at dear old dad. You think the people out there wanted to burn his castle down because they were bored? I'm hiding a lot of horror from you, Spike. I bet if you went down to that city down there, you'd see the full extent of this tyrant's rule. Men like that are all the same. I mean, trust me, I come from Ptolemaic Egypt, they're all ass****."

As Spike meditated on that thought, a wind kicked up. He turned to face the window, but a sudden bloom of light turned his face away from the bright glare. "Agh, what the hell is goin' on?"

"Time is shifting. Easy way to move about in the past. Don't even have to do any walking!"

Spike went to say something, but found himself standing amid a strange pile of clothes laying across a stone floor. Confused, he looked closer.

No, not clothes, bodies, wet with the flow of blood. 

Spike leaned back and wretched. Thankfully, Salm 'caught' him. "It's ok," Salim said. "Remember, this isn't real."

"Pretty friggin' real to me," Spike blanched. "I don't...I don't want to see this."

"Small friend, weren't you in the Navy? You had to have seen some nasty things, even when not in active wartime."

Spike looked away from the corpse pile, trying not to freak out. "Yeah, but it doesn't make it easy," he said, trying to step over the bodies of knights and fallen servants. Instead, he made matters worse. His line of sight connected with an arguably more horrific display.

In the corner of the audience chamber, the tall child bent over his father's body, splayed grotesquely across his throne, stained with still-dripping blood. The boy protected his father--still, barely alive--from the faceless man with the long, bloody sword.

"We did nothing to you!" the boy shrieked, his voice cracking. "Why do this to us!? Why do you hate us?"

From the throne, the dying king held up a trembling hand. "Koschei...my son."

At hearing his father's name, the boy turned--as he did, his assailant ran him through with the sword.

Spike doubled over. "No. No. NO. Salim, I don't want to see this. Take me home."

"Spike...maybe you do. The kid is...okay?"

Spike took a risk and opened his eyes. The child stood, just as shocked as his invisible audience, as he looked at the sword in his chest. He pulled it out, wincing, as his attacker muttered a prayer (or curse) and ran whence he came. The wound in the young prince's chest sealed itself over. Spike could see the pristine flesh through the hole in the boy's embroidered tunic torn open by the sword.

The king on the throne reached up towards the boy, weakly. "So...the augers were right. You are touched by Life, and by Death. My son, take what's left of my strength. I pass my gifts on to you."

Bewildered, the boy--Koschei--tried to tear himself away from his father's grasp. A crystalline, white energy flowed from the king into the child, for a second or two--and then the man fell still.

Spike covered his mouth. "I don't want to see what happens next," he said. He didn't want to see the boy's grief, that is.

Salim was gentle. "Then, we won't." He waved his hand. The scene froze. The giant allowed his young traveller a few moments to collect himself. "I told you the past wasn't pleasant."

"No s***," Spike said, holding back a sob. He shook his head. "That name, though. It's weird. There was this old story Sister Patience used to read me that had that name."

"What? What did you say? Spike, I know you're in shock, but try to remember."

Now, Spike felt put on the spot. "Well, yeah, it's from a fairy tale. Back in the orphanage, Sister Patience would read us fairy tales from all over the world. She made a point to tell us where each one was from, every time. I remember a lot of the Russian ones because the drawings were really pretty. Vasilisa the Wise. Sir Ivan. Baba Yaga. And then Koschei, the Deathless. He was a big, scary kind of boogieman guy that couldn't die. I think he was even based off an old king who really lived, long ago."

Spike and Salim slowly turned their heads towards the gaunt, tall, boy, illuminated by the glow of frozen torch fire. 

"Ok, but it's not like that's the same guy, right?" Spike laughed, nervously. 

Salim, however, was stone-cold. "I wouldn't be so sure, Spike. And...not to invalidate your emotions, but maybe let's not feel so much pity for Edgar Allen Poe over here."

"Harsh," Spike said, though he had little room to argue with the giant man who controlled time. "Come on, S. Have a heart."

"I'm merely stating, young one--tyrants beget tyrants. I have...an unusual feeling about this boy. Oh, by the way, if you hadn't already notice...we're now standing somewhere else."

Spike had only blinked, but already the room had changed (thank Goddess). Where the stood now was a much grander, wider space, but no less eerie. A high vaulted ceiling, like a church, loomed over head. The floor was tiled in marble black and white. A statue of a woman, most likely the Goddess, stood at the focal point of the room. The statue was more of a colossus; a massive carving both impressive and imposing. 

At the foot of the statue sat a large pool of water, or dark liquid, in a stone basin. A man, dressed all in black, with a trailing robe, leaned over its edge and stared intently at the dark mirror.

Spike sighed. This was beginning to feel like a dark ride at an amusement park. "Where the hell are we now, big guy? Somewhere with a little less trauma, I hope."

"Don't count on it." Salim shook his head, eyes adjusting to an even dimmer space. "Hmm." Carefully, he approached a pane-less window carved into the side of the circular room. "Still Russia, but..." He looked out, into a gray world dappled with snowfall. Spike joined his side.

"Wow," Spike exclaimed, taking in the grandeur of the steepled towers and cobblestone streets. "Looks like something out of a fairy tale." He narrowed his eyes. "Wait, I've seen this place before!"

"Yes, you have."

"But, y'know...ruined."

Salim stepped back from the window. His expression was a mix of shock and intrigue. "Gods," he muttered under his breath. "Yes, you have indeed, habibi. This is the city of Kitezh. The very place where the World Championships are meant to be held."

The floor trembled beneath their feet. What started as a mere vibration, erupted into a tremor, like walking over subway grating as a train passed beneath--or so Spike thought. From outside came the peel of bells, not just from one resonate belfry, but several belltowers in unison. It was a cacophony. Painful.

Salim looked towards the man in back, and at the strange pool, which had begun glowing with an iridescent vibrance. "And, I daresay, this might be the day Kitezh took a dip for a very long time." He waved his hand, and the room quieted. "Let me turn the volume down on those bells. Not exactly a pleasant sound."

Spike was grateful for it.

A wooden door, abruptly thrown open, drew all eyes towards a curtain of light cutting across the grand floor. The winter sun flooded through the opening, and a dark skinned woman in monastic robes, with long black hair, rushed intro the room. She was slight, with narrow features, and covered in sweat. Spike was concerned for her health, then remembered this woman had likely died 400 years or more before his birth.

"Mongolian," Salim whispered to Spike. "She's from the Khannite. But her robes..."

"Magi?" Spike asked, quietly, before he remembered nobody else could hear them.

"Most definitely. And old magick, too." He narrowed his eyes at the great statue and pool. "Whatever's going on here, I don't like it."

The young woman nearly collapsed at the man's side. Though the man didn't move his head (still singularly focused on the dark water, as he was) his hand moved to place itself on the woman's head. It wasn't a suggestive gesture, but tender, assuring. 

"The ritual is nearly complete," the man said. "The power of the Goddess, at hand..." His head turned towards one of the rooms many windows. "And yet, once again, the wolves are at the door. They always come, in the end."

Salim's eyes snapped open. "Batu Khan. Of course. This is the day Kitezh was invaded."

"And then sunk beneath the lake," Spike remembered, from the story. He gasped. "LIKE ATLANTA!?"

"...You mean Atlantis, probably, but yes."

The woman rose from the floor. Whoever she was, the man in black considered her either an equal, or a highly trusted subordinate. "My lord, I beg you. I pray. This magick will not work without the blessings of the Chalices. We must delay."

"Delay!? Tell that to Batu Khan," the dark man sneered. "These Mongels. Always, the same story. Always, the same. This ends, today."

Spike whipped his head towards Salim. "Wait, is that like, the same guy? The creepy kid we just saw?"

Salim smiled. "Can't call yourself a himbo anymore, Spike. You're quick on the uptake. I knew I could count on you, small friend."

"I...didn't do anything, but thanks, I guess."

"Lord Koschei," the woman said, her voice cracking. She was exhausted. "They haven't come to invade."

The sinister man waved a hand across the surface of the pool. Spike noticed, with each peel of a bell, that an image shifted at the bottom of the pool. He tried to get a closer look, and upon inspection, identified the glowing pictograms in the water as the symbols of the glyphs.

"Don't be foolish, child. What else do these hoards do but pillage and burn? We knew the Khan would come for Kitezh, eventually" 

The man turned his head, in profile. Sunken, eerie eyes. Long, black hair. Unkempt beard. 

Spike's heart (metaphorically speaking) dropped. "Wait. Salim...that's..."

But he was cut off short by the magi in the gray robe. "I can tell you this is the truth, my Lord, because the Khan sent a messenger ahead telling everyone to lay down arms and evacuate. The Mongels seldom offer such mercy. They came because they know what you are doing here, attempting to take the Goddess's own glyph as your own. My Lord, they intend to stop it--for the sake of the world. For sanity." She sounded on the verge of tears.

The monk in black retracted his hand. He looked at the woman, first, in horror, then in rage. Spike thought he might raise a fist against her. "AND WHO TOLD THEM?" Thankfully, instead of harming her, the man turned away out of disgust. "Then I must hasten the enchantment. If you value your life, you'll flee. NOW."

The woman fell back, shielding her eyes from the pool of light as its glow intensified. "Lord Koschei...please...come with me."

Whether or not he answered her, Spike could not hear. All other sound was drowned out by a sickening crack. An obvious fissure split the statue of the goddess down the middle. Its head snapped off, landing in the pool and sending its luminous water splashing over the floor.

Spike jumped back out of shock. "Damn it!"

"Remember," Salim said, "these are ghosts and nothing more. These visions are troubling, but they cannot hurt you."

The dark man grit his teeth, and made a sign in the air at the last moment, the water travelling around him as if he was a rock in a river. His accomplice was not so lucky. The water splashed over her, soaking her robes wet--and though there was no change at first, she looked down in horror at her hands.

The sound of bells intensifying drowned out the woman's screams as her hand was suddenly transformed into a blossom of wildflowers. The rest of her body followed, her skin becoming like bark, conjoining with her robes. Her body twisted itself into the shape of a moss covered tree, dripping with beautiful blooms. Spike, aghast, looked away.

"The bells," he heard the dark monk scream. "The bells! Not yet! It's not ready...oh no. Goddess forgive me, what have--"

And then, through the open windows, came a rush of oncoming water. Spike held his hand in front of his eyes as the tide overtook the room.

When next he looked, he was standing in a room filled with scent of tobacco. Velvet carpet. Mahogany table. Candelabrum. And an electric chandelier. Wherever they'd travelled, it was much closer to Spike and Salim's current time than not.

Spike's mind still reeled from what he'd just witnessed, but he was relieved to be away from the dreadful chamber. That woman. That city. This was like a sequence of nightmares, wherein at the moment of horror, Spike was jolted into the next. 

"OKAY," the young fighter started on Salim, who looked entirely too composed for Spike's comfort. "WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED, SALIM?"

"Disgusting," Salim said, his nose upturned. He looked down at the plate on the table in front of him. "Olivier Salad? Ew. Who serves this stuff? It's nasty."

Spike was crestfallen. How could this man act so nonchalant after what they'd just seen? Was this what it was always like for Salim--the real Salim, the man called Sarapis? Did one just become immune to human pain and catastrophe after living so long? That aside, Spike needed confirmation. He needed to make sure he hadn't mistook the dark monk in Kitezh for...

"A toast," said the somewhat foppish, well-dressed gentleman at the head of the table, rising a glass of Madeira wine. "To the health of our Tsar's loyal advisor."

Spike was still so focused on the chaos he'd witnessed, that he barely registered all the gentleman sitting around the table. There was the well-groomed man, yes, and some rather intense-looking associates. But it was who sat at the opposite end of the table that caught his eye.

Sitting with his hands folded, the monk's manner of dress was not different than therobes in the chapel of Kitezh. Indeed, the beard and hair was much the same. His wide eyes scanned the room.

"Advisor to the Tsar," Salim sneered, folding his arms. He took the scene as if it were nothing but a movie (which, in a sense, it was). "Get a loud of this clown. Do you know who this is?"

Prince Yusupov nodded to his esteemed guest. "To Father Rasputin! Long may he live."

Spike's (again, metaphorical) jaw dropped. "Wait, you're telling me that Semyon, the President of Firebird, is--"

Salim responded by clapping his hands rhythmically. "Russia's greatest Love Machine? OH LIKE IT WASN'T OBVIOUS, SPIKE."

Now, Spike really did feel like passing out. "I...want to go home."

At the head of the table, Semyon, Koschei, Rasputin, whatever his name was, took a drink. He made a face. 

"This wine...tastes....peculiar." He then shrugged and placed the empty glass at the table. "I will have another."

The men in the room looked at each other, concerned. 

"They're trying to poison him," Salim said out of the corner of his mouth. "Actually, they already poisoned him. If I recall, he's gotten two or three tea-cakes worth of cyanide in him already."

"DEADASS?!" Spike blurted out.

Salim pointed to their long-time nemesis. "His ass is gonna need a lot more poison tonight before it's dead, actually. We just watched the man survive a magical apocalypse, Spike. Do try to keep up, habibi." Salim waved his hand and the scene shifted again. "Hope you aren't squeamish."

"YOU LITERALLY KNOW I AM!"

In a darker room, a basement, Semyon pressed his back against the wall--looking not too concerned about his present set of circumstances--as a slightly dishevelled, drunken Felix Yusupov pointed a revolver at him. "I send you to the Goddess now, mad monk," he snarled. "Or better, The Adversary!"

Salim turned to Spike. "In other dimensions they call it 'the devil'. Comes off more intimidating."

BANG!

"LADY LEITHE AND MOTHER AETHRIN!" Spike screamed, as the puff of smoke discharged from the gun. Against the wall, Semyon doubled over, glancing down at the river of blood leaking from his stomach. He fell.

"I hate when that happens," Salim sniffed. "Seriously, getting shot sucks. But Semyon's kind of a wuss, to be honest. Try getting pumped full of fire from several AK47s like I did the other week."

"No thanks. AND YOU WHAT?"

Felix lowered the gun and sighed. "Thank the Mother," he said, wiping his brow with a kerchief. He re-holstered the gun and approached the corpse. "Rot in hell, you perverted monk."

Suddenly, Semyon popped up with a roar and grabbed at the Prince's ankles. "GAAAAAH!!!!"

The Prince squealed (as did Spike). But before Semyon could do anything, the Prince's men--waiting in the shadows, jumped at the monk. Spike caught a flash of metal, a knife, before Salim covered his eyes with his large hands and shifted the scene yet again, to a stone bridge overlooking any ice river.

"I can't watch." Spike said, thankful he was not in his physical body. He looked out over the river, at the lights of Moscow. Was it always winter in this damn country? "Oh...thanks."

Salim rolled his eyes. "You've broken men in half, and yet this makes you squeamish?" He stepped forward, pointing at the assembly of dark-clad men as they hoisted a tall object, shrouded in rages, over the side of the bridge. It landed in the icy water with a tremendous PLUNK. 

"I ain't broken anybody," Spike huffed. "Beat up? Yes. But everyone who fights me walks away not getting stabbed, or shot, or poisoned!"

"Gee, expand your spellbreaking horizons then, habibi."

Did he think this was funny?

"I spared you the gruesome details," Salim explained for Spike's benefit. "After being poisoned, shot, and then stabbed, the Prince and his goons had Rasputin castrated and threw his body into the river below."

Castrated!? "YOU MEAN, THEY CUT OFF HIS JUNK? How does this sorry KEEP getting worse?"

Salim ignored his young ward's outburst. "Regardless, I think you and I can both guess the rest. He obviously survived--no doubt due to his glyphs--and went on to become Semyon Grigorivich, a businessman and philanthropist. Sound familiar? Ugh, bitch even stole my angle."

Spike felt like screaming. He turned away from the bridge railing, into the cold, Moscow air. "This is friggin' nuts. You mean, the heads of both the GSA and Firebird are both old guys? Like really old?"

Salim frowned. "I think the word you're looking for is 'immortal', and it's more complicated than that. Nobody lives forever, Spike. Not even our kind. But magick has blessed us with both longevity, healing, and a means to prolong our life." He bit his lip. "Now, I will grant you it's...a little weird that two immortals, working from the shadows to achieve their goals, happened to get involved with what is, essentially, magickal pro wrestling, but for the sake of narrative convenience, let's just roll with it. You didn't come here for Shakespeare; you came here to watch hunks in their underwear beat each other and make out--"

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING TO, SALIM; I WANT TO GO HOME!"

Spike's (very stern) command cut a deep silence across the Russian bridge. Salim's expression was inscrutable, but Spike was too agitated to be intimidated. He breathed heavily. "I'm so sick of all of this! I'm tired. I'm stressed. I haven't gotten laid in like, two weeks! Which is a lot, for me, you know! And after all this crap, I'm never gonna' want to see the Russian ballet again."

Salim gave Spike a bemused look.

Spike continued. "The life I wanted to lead, the happiness that I had, or whatever, was taken from me because I tried to romance the boss' kid. I just want to go back home, work in my stupid pizza restaurant, get drunk, sleep around, and forget about saving the world and the life, love, and friends I'll never see again."

Spike felt the tears threaten to break through, but the last thing he'd give to Salim, his old manager, was his pride. He turned away instead.

"That doesn't sound very heroic."

"No, but it's true, Salim. I'm too tired to play hero any more." 

Finally, Salim put his hand on where Spike's shoulder might have sat. "I understand. I think I have any idea of where we need to go n--"

"No!" Spike pushed himself away, channelling magick that would not materialize. "I'm going home." He turned and ran the opposite direction. Surely, Salim, or King Anubis, or whoever he was, had a limit to his abilities. Though truthfully, Spike didn't much care where he ended up. Maybe he'd be stranded in another time or place. At least it wouldn't be the present he dreaded so much.

Maybe I'll get lucky and wind up in ancient Greece. I'll sleep with a bunch of sexy gladiators and then become Emperor by the time Saturday rolls around.

"You're running from your own fate, Spike. Come herRRRrRRrRRRR...."

The world blurred and Spike's vision tunnelled. He wobbled, uncertain of footing or space, before he found his stomach drop and he fell into nothing.

When he forced himself to stop screaming, Spike opened his eyes and found himself in a very familiar setting. Sterile room. Sound of an EKG. He was back in the hospital room in India, where the doctors had treated him and Vahni Rage post match. 

Maybe it had all been a long, strange, vivid dream. Spike seized on the optimistic tinge of relief. Then, eyes falling across the two beds in-room, his hope crumbled. He was staring at himself, laying in bed. Next to the other 'him', Rage.

He was still in the past, though one far more recent.

"NOW--PLAY THE MUSIC!"

"WHAAAT?"

Next Chapter

Chapter 1: Let's Do the Timewarp

"I know what you're probably thinking. Time travel? Really? Not only does it sound crazy, but it reeks of narrative bankruptcy as well. Lazy storytelling, am I right? Shark f***ing jumped. And speaking of lazy," Salim said as he wiped his finger across the top of Varla's hearth, frowning, "You really need to get a housekeeper in here, Spike."

The Brooklyn boy could barely comprehend what this giant stranger, eclipsing the fireplace with his sheer size and bulk, was telling him. It didn't help that Spike was three-sheets to the wind after drinking too damn much to calm his nerves. He suddenly hoped Varla's upholstered couch would eat him alive. 

Spike groaned, still coming to terms with the fact that his manager was not only one of the shadowy figures working against (or for) Firebird, but that he was a damn time magi as well, and maybe even a 2,000 year old mummy...if he'd understood his wild story correctly (which he could barley believe, even now).

"But Varla's book told me that the Temporis glyph doesn't exist any more!" Spike said, holding on to the couch's arm like a ship in a torrid sea.

Spike blinked. Suddenly, Salim was sitting next to him, arms crossed. "Hmm, that so!"

"Gah!" Spike yelped. "Don't...don't do that!"

"I was proving a point. From your perspective, it looks like I have super speed. But really it's that I can slow down the movement of time around me." He made a graceful motion with his giant hands, the rings on his fingers reflecting in the firelight. "Time isn't really what most people think it is, nor does it work or move in a linear fashion. And don't cut me off and tell me it's a ball of wibbly-wobbly-timey-whimey stuff."

"I wasn't."

"Good. It's really just a vibration and flow of quantum particles and matter, all dancing in the right order. My glyph allows me to vibrate a little bit faster than those. Those little...er...timey-bits leave traces, like memories imprinted on film."

"Is...timey bits the scientific term?"

"Do you have a better one, boy who once got stuck in a bathroom stall because he couldn't figure out how locks work."

"THAT WAS ONE TIME!"

"I can travel into the past via mental projection. However, I cannot actually change anything. What's done is done."

Spike took a deep breath. "So, that's time travel. Like...watching a movie?"

Salim shrugged, and helped himself to one of the expensive brandies Varla had told Spike not to touch if he valued his fingers. He poured himself a glass. "I can take people along with me. In fact, if I am trying to suss out a specific timeline, it helps to have a passenger along who experienced it themselves." He took a sip. "I'll give you ten bucks if you can guess what passenger I need."

Spike turned green. "Me?"

He looked down and found a crisp, ten dollar bill in his hand. "Gah! Salim!"

"Man of my words, habibi," the giant said. He'd since ditched his ring gear, his lavish, golden robes and neck adornments, for his usual tailored suit. Thank the Goddess for it--he would have been even more distracting, with all his muscles on display.

"Why are you doing all this?" Spike asked, slowly sobering up. "You say you aren't working with firebird. But why not tell Aradia what you're doing?"

"Well, having broken the enchantment I'd woven with the Eye of Osiris, I effectively have just come out and told the world who I am. I needed to operate in the shadows, Spike. And with all these double agents out there, I couldn't exactly trust Aradia with this knowledge. In fact, I'm worried about the safety of the Chalices being held there--but that's a problem for a little later. Truth is, small friend, I've looked into all the timelines. Whatever Semyon wants with those Chalices...it doesn't lead to anything good."

Spike swallowed. "What happens?"

"Do you really want me to tell you?"

Spike sighed. "I mean, will it stress me out any more than this conversation?"

"I can't see everything--Semyon's Eye of Set blinds me to his personal futures. But I see all the possibilities around him. In some outcomes, war. Worse than the Great War. Magick unleashed the likes the world has never seen, with him as some kind of God Emperor figure. In other outcomes, natural disasters, magick run amok. People often talk about the end of the world like it's some massive catastrophe that will wipe everything clean. Here's the thing I've learned in my life, Spike, and I've done a lot of living. We humans are tenacious, little dirt babies. Sure, a global cataclysm might do most of us in. But not all of us. We know how to survive. And let's talk about all the other extinctions that have occurred in Earth's history." 

He nodded to the wall. A small cockroach skittered into the corner. "You think creatures like that are gross and useless. Jokes on you. That thing has been around since before our common ancestors crawled out of the primordial goop. And it will be here after we're gone too.

"Of course, it's not like humanity hasn't experienced apocalypses before. Take the first peoples of this continent. After the Albans rocked up, their world pretty much ended. But they're still here. Ask that hunk, Robbie, on his perspective. Him and his folk have been living in the post-apocalypse for more than two centuries now. Let alone all the other people who've been taken over and subjugated and cololinzed. I know everything about that, Spike. It's why I'm trying to stop it from happening again. I want a good future. For us all."

Spike wasn't sure he could process all of this information. "Why pick me? Hell, I'm not even a spellbreaker anymore."

"Sure you are, and do you really think you're gone for good?" Salim laughed, finishing his drink in one gulp. "Colt's a fickle man. But you're the kid who doesn't stay down. Don't need the Eye of Osiristo see all the realities where you find your footing again. And as for why 'you'? Well..." He scratched his head. "It was gonna be you or Cian."

"Ugh." Spike rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"There's certain people out there--quite a few, in fact--who pull people, situations, events towards them. It's nothing as woo woo as 'fate'. Some people just find themselves involved in a lot of other's people's lives. You're one of those guys, Spike. People are drawn to you. Which means, you're kind of like an intersection on the temporal highway. Path of least resistance to getting what I want."

Spike searched Varla's ornate rug for meaning. "Like what Joseph always say about the red threads tangling up in other people's lives?"

"Bingo. I mean, it makes sense, right? Look how many people love you, Spike! You're a star. All those connections you've made. Friendships." Salim wiggled his eyebrows. "Hookups."

"Yeah there were lot of those," Spike said, proudly. Everything Salim told him made sense, technically speaking, and his power was undeniable. Still, it threw Spike for a loop. He sat back against the arm rest, intentionally putting more space between himself and the magi. "First spellbreaker too? Damn. It's crazy. I...I remember all your matches now." He blushed. "I thought you were so hot. Maybe that's why I like muscle guys."

Salim smiled, genuinely at that. "I'd flex for you, but I'd rip the suit."

And I'd rip my pants. "Still, I was really angry when you beat Colt."

"Hey! Don't be a mark. It was fair and square. Well, unless you want to be a little bitch over how my powers work. But it was all in good fun, and I do love the guy. Why do you think I helped fund the GSA and watched your backs this whole time? The world might be a bleak place, Spike, but I know the value of loyalty. And on that note..." He stood, heading towards the fireplace. "This is where I need your help."

Spike flinched. Salim could really turn from silly to serious at break-neck speeds. "To...go back in time. Does it hurt? Is it scary?"

"Nah. Well, maybe I'm just used to it. It's like a living dream. Or I guess, like a drug trip, but you're way more aware of your surroundings." He pat his chest. "And you'll have me there too. You can't change the past, Spike. And I say that not as an assurance, but a warning, too. Seeing or experiencing an old event...it can sometimes be a bit 'triggering' as you kids say."

Suddenly, Spike thought of his parents. Was it possible to visit them? See their faces? Hear their voices? He immediately pushed the thought out of his head. None of this felt 'right' to him, anyway. "And...why are we doing this again?" I miss when I used to beat up guys and sat on their heads. Not doing all this sci-fi crap.

Salim picked up the stoker and pushed another log onto the fire, sparks crackling. "Semyon has the Eye of Set, another artefact crafted by my people. It effectively blinds others to seeing what you're doing in the past, present, or future. I may be the only time magi, but you'd be foolish for thinking there aren't other folks out there who can see the future, in a sense."

"Like...who?

"Oracles. Ascetics. The rare dime-store psychic who isn't a total charlatan. The spectres that that US and Russians likely have in their black ops departments--I know as sure as hell that Aradia has one or two prognosticators on staff." Salim stepped forward, knowingly. "Even a passing vagrant on the street might have the power."

A chill crept across Spike's neck. "And someone who could see what Semyon is doing..."

"The man does a great job of keeping just enough under the radar and allowing others to do his dirty work. He hides in the open. Aradia has kept tabs on him for a few years now, but he's as slimy as they come." Salim smiled, thoughtfully to himself. "But I'm good, Spike. Even though I honestly have no idea what he's really planning, I know he's tipped his hand once, and you and I were both present for it. You know how, in scary movies, the terrorized housewife goes down to the library and dips into the microfiche archives to find the old news article explaining why her house is haunted?"

Spike shook his head.

"Ok, well that's basically what we're doing here." He held his hand out to Spike, as if grabbing for something. "I can sense it, Spike. Somewhere along your timeline, there's a point where our future selves have crossed paths. And that's likely where we want to go."

Spike nearly fell off the couch. "WAIT. Hold up. No friggin' way. Our future selves have already gone into the past? Deadass?"

"You can't change what's already happened, Spike. BUT. If one crosses their own timeline they may experience something like...a sort of temporal 'echo'. Surely there must have been a moment where you heard a voice you knew wasn't your own."

"YES!" Spike blurted out. He broke into a cold sweat. "The last year or so. Wait. Does that mean...I've already decided to go with you and do this crazy s***?"

That knowing smile across Salim's attractive lips creeped Spike out to no end. "Not necessarily. Time is fluid. But...I have a feeling you've already agreed. Because you know the danger Firebird presents. And you'll do anything to protect those you love. That's your strength, Spike Waterford. And, perhaps, your weakness..."

Something about the way Salim spoke reminded Spike a little of Vahni Rage, or any number of sinister heels he'd fought before. It turned his blood to ice. And yet, Spike felt he could trust Salim. Innately. Plus, it wasn't like he was doing anything else interesting with his life right now. 

Why not experience time travel?

Just like riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, Spike told himself, mustering up the courage. "I'm doing this for the other fellas'," Spike said. "They believed in me, even when I didn't believe in me. I know Firebird ain't s***, but I want them gone. Enough messin' with my friends."

"That's the Sailor I was looking for," Salim said. He looked at the fire. "We'll want to wait for this to die down. Wouldn't want a fire to break out while our consciousness is wandering the corridors of time."

Spike would rather rip the band aid off now, than sit and perseverate over all the things that could go wrong with magick like that. He was beyond his depth. Somehow, though, he knew that going along with this would lead him back to the GSA, and back to Buck. 

---

Spike lifted his head off Salim's chest. Both men were clothed. Still, it was nice to have human contact again. The man was like a giant, living body pillow. Warm. And he smelled great, too. Spike even caught him, through moments of sleep, brushing his hair from his face, tenderly. The man had always looked sad, Spike thought, when nobody was watching him.

Then, Spike remembered his story. It could take one great loss in someone's lifetime to break their heart for good. Imagine countless losses.

How could someone like that go on living, and stay sane?

"Ready?" Salim said, sitting up from the bed. He motioned to the carpet, cleared of furniture.

Spike looked over at the funky, modern clock on Varla's living room wall. It was almost dawn. A blue, dull glow over the buildings in the distance outside the living room window corroborated this. 

Heart beating fast, Spike laid down on his back next to Salim. Salim held his hand, and took a deep breath.

"It's remarkable how little flash-bang there is when you do this," Salim said, casually. Too casually, for Spike's liking. "It's like falling asleep, or crossing over into a dream. One minute you're here..."

Spike's eyes fell on the clock in the kitchen. Something about it nagged at his brain. The minute hand. It was moving slow. No, not just slow, backwards.

"And the next..."

Backwards, very fast.

"Salim..." Spike said. "I feel...drunnnnNNNnnGGGnggGGGGGGGGGGGG......."

"And then I had to tell Kengo why I was keeping a whole plantain under my pillow," Spike said, doubled over and laughing as he walked along the snowy, pine-needle covered path. "I had to lie through my Goddess-damn teeth. I think he knew, but he didn't want to..."

Salim, a few paces ahead, looked over his shoulder at Spike. "Yep? Is this the point when you realize..."

Spike blinked. He looked around the forest clearing. It was quiet. Cold. No, not cold. The idea of cold. This was a dream. A remarkably lucid dream. Wherever he and Salim were standing, it was beautiful, forested, and old. 

Spike looked down at his hands. There was nothing there.

"I'm...FRIGGIN' INVISIBLE?"

"You can't see yourself. It's just how it works."

"But I can see you."

"Yeah, because I'm good at these things. Now, come on."

Without room to argue, Spike followed the suited Salim (a weird contrast with the old growth forest around them) down the snowy path.

"Uh...second question."

Salim sighed. "Yes."

"If I'm not like...a physical being anymore, then how come my mind, or soul, or whatever is walking along solid ground. Like, wouldn't I just fall through the earth or get stuck in a tree or some sh**?"

"Because your mind knows to abide by the physical limitations of the reality it's been confined in for most of your existence."

"...What?"

"Don't worry about it. Hmmm."

"Hm!? I don't like 'Hmm.'" Spike looked around the woods. "Where are we, anyway? I've never been here. This isn't 'my' past. Is this...yours?"

"Does this look like Egypt to you, habibi?"

"My guy, I don't know, it's not like I've friggin' TIME TRAVELLED BEFORE!"

Salim didn't look concerned at all, which pissed Spike off even more. He nodded up ahead, at a break in the trees. "There."

Spike followed his eyes. "Uh...okay. That's...a castle."

Or, what Spike took for a castle anyway. The fortress was high walled, and covered in bronze minarets, looking more like something from the Middle East, by Spike's reckoning. It was so far removed from any architecture that Spike had ever known, that he felt a pit in his stomach (or spirit, rather) from the growing unfamiliarity. 

Salim sensed his unease, and his smile only widened. "Looks like we're not in Brooklyn anymore, Toto." He stuck his finger in his mouth, wetting it, and then held it skyward. "Hmmm. 14th century...no, wait...12th century. And judging from the foliage, cold, and Steppe influenced architecture, I'm going to say....middle-of-nowhere, Russia."

Spike didn't have it in him to argue. "Of course."

"I may have made a small miscalculation. But that said, I don't think we're in the wrong place. Er...time." He moved forward, towards the fortress city. "Come on, skippy. Let's play tourist."

Spike groaned. "My name ain't skippy! It's Spike." He sighed. Still couldn't see his body. "This sucks. I don't even speak Russian!"

"There's a good chance they speak a completely different dialect anyway," Salim said. "But you're in luck. I speak several Indo-European languages. While we can't interact directly with the ghosts of the past--which is probably for the best, as I imagine we'd quickly find our heads on pikes outside the city gates--we can listen in. Temporal eavesdropping! Isn't that just juicy?"

But Spike had tuned out. He was much more interested in what lay just over the horizon, a black wave that was moving rapidly closer to their location. What Spike had mistaken for the sound of distant wind, was the was the sound of hundreds of horses galloping towards the city. Now, Spike could even make out the glint of cold sun on metal. Armor. Soldiers on horseback.

"Beginner's luck!" Salim declared. Once again, he was way too excited for Spike's comfort. "You landed us in a good, old fashioned pillaging, Spike!"

Without form, Spike felt his shoulders slacken and his head hang low. Suddenly, the prospect of indefinitely working at a pizzeria in Brooklyn, instead of the current alternative, seemed much more appealing...

Next Chapter!