Chapter 6: Don't You Know, It's the End of the World

Back when he was living in New York, whenever Spike was feeling down, he'd go to the diner, pop a coin in the juke, and order a burger and milkshake (with fries) of course. 

The eve before the big flight out to Russia, to face Firebird at the World Championships in Kitezh, Spike felt that everyone could use a diner visit now.

Of course, diners in Texas weren't the same as the ones back home. Still, anywhere with black and white linoleum, chipped, booths, coffee stains on the counter tops, chrome, and tired looks, would do. 

As the team gathered around booths, drawing attention from locals (what were so many big, handsome men doing in one place) he popped a quarter into the chrome-faced jukebox and watched as the needle hit the vinyl.

Honkey-tonk guitars, spicy snares, and Gene Vincent crooning about 'Racing the Devil'. Seemed appropriate enough to set the stage, across a black-and-white tiled floor and glow of neon signage on the wall.

To walk into the downtown diner, one could easily spot the locals from the strange, beefy fighters on the outskirts of town. The spellbreakers always received mixed company, wherever they travelled. Spike watched an elderly couple eying Akanemaru, the GSA's newest recruit, as he stared intently at his cup of coffee. 

The giant, white-haired, red-skinned, and half-horned oni looked up. "What you starin' at, huh?" That sent his gawkers scrambling for the exit. 

It also distracted the scant few patrons and diners from the crowd of spellbreakers gathered around Colt's table. Seated next to him, Lily and Slayer were the guests of honor. Spike thought Lily lacked her usual knowing smile and charm tonight. She was shaken. Tired. He'd heard only whispers of what had happened in Athens, but it didn't sound pleasant. Spike admired her guts. Of all the gang, she was the only one who had squared off against Semyon Grigorivich personally.

Spike wasn't entirely sure how Slayer of all people had made a resurgence, but if Lily trusted him, then Spike decided he was probably alright. Even so, the prettyboy 'knight' kept throwing him and Cian dirty looks.

Lily spoke, her voice horse and tired. "As it stands," she said, looking at John Henry, who nodded to her with encouragement, "Semyon currently has possession of all seven Chalices, including the one he acquired from Australia."

Her briefing was cut off by the sound of Deadboy slamming his fist on the table, knocking plates and silver wear. Tiger, sitting next to him, immediately placed his hand on his knee for comfort.

"I'm gonna rip his head off his neck," Daemian seethed. "And that's watering down what I'm really gonna' do to him."

Lily tried offering assurance. "I strongly believe he won't harm your Auntie and Uncle," she said. "Not until he's used them for this ritual of his, and intel suggests that won't be until we're all gathere."

Deadboy tensed. "Suggests? That's as helpful as tits on a bull."

"Hey," Tiger started. "I understand you're stressed. I care for your family too. Aradia's intelligence is already looking into the matter. We'll get your Auntie and Uncle back."

If that placated Deadboy or not, he didn't show it on his face.

Spike, standing (and blocked out by the taller, larger frames of his peers) interjected. "Salim said Koschei was gonna' try and use the Chalices in a failed ritual he tried to pull off a few hundred years ago."

Mr. Iron frowned. "Ko...shay?"

"Semyon's real name," Spike clarified. "He's uh...older than he looks. His glyph has kept him alive for a long time."

Mr. Iron raised his eyebrows. "How long is long?"

"Several hundred years," Spike said. "Deadass."

Colt frowned. "This crap just gets weirder and weirder."

Tiger gave him a quizzical look. "Boss, you know my magick teacher is a literal dragon that lives at the bottom of Singapore harbor, right? That our nemesis should be a few centuries old--"

"--And also Rasputin," Spike quickly added.

"And also Rasputin, should hardly come as a shock. Wait, what?"

Cian, standing with his back against the booth, shook his head and crossed his arms. "Just as how much it's feckin nuts that Salim is a...time mummy, you said?" He narrowed his eyes at Spike.

The New Yorker threw his hands up. "Look, all I know is Salim said that Koschei might be planning to unleash the equivalent of a friggin' magickal atomic bomb."

Sobering words on their own, but no more sobering than the news broadcast on the TV set above the diner counter. Concerned waitresses and harried truck drivers had their eyes trained to the chyron, mentioning 'Potential nuclear escalations between the USA and the new provisional Russian government.'

"Great," Iggy Astro snorted, tossing back their pink mane of hair, "We might get ourselves blown into little bits of himbo chunks before we even see who becomes world champion. By either a literal bomb or the weirder option."

El Amante, still cuddling his romantic partner, placed his masked head into his hands. "Not even my magick can sway the hearts of men like that. There's something....evil sweeping the world right now. A bad energy. Whatever Semyon has unleashed, all hearts on Earth can feel it."

Nobody could deny that.

"Salim kept mentioning a...timeline," Spike said, scratching his head. "How it was corrupt or 'wrong' or somethin'. I wonder if this has anything to do with it."

"It's a known thing that magick can shape reality," Joseph said. "My Master has spoken of great, sealed magick before. Forbidden powers. It's entirely possible this is something Semyon is attempting to unleash." He smiled gently at Lily. "Though I would defer to our woman on the inside, for that."

That woman, Lily, grimaced. "Right." Summoning her strength, she placed her hands on the table and did her best to sound authoritative. "I had hoped to consult with Dr. Reyes before all of this went down, but he's currently in the Congo searching for a prehistoric organism that may still exist there."

"He's searching for what?" Icewolf blinked.

Kengo answered him. "Looking for dinosaurs."

"Oh. Huh."

Lily continued. "I digress. In tandem with the U.N.'s peacekeepers, Aradia special task force have been cleared to assist in the arrest of Semyon Grigorivich, who is now an internationally wanted man."

John Henry digested this information. "On Russian soil? While they're nuke happy?"

Lily shrugged. "The new provisional government is factionalized and unstable. One half might be eager to irradiate the US, but the other half fears any vestigial powers from the royal family even more than enemies abroad. In his own time, Rasputin was greatly despised and nearly led to a revolt. Now that Firebird has thrown him to the proverbial wolves and handed over all of their information--"

Colt interrupted. "Sorry, miss, Firebird did that to their own guy?"

This time, Slayer spoke up. "Vahni Rage is their president now, it would seem." 

The diner fell silent. Eyes darted. Jaws dropped. Spike tried to hide a somewhat satisfied smile, however. Look at you go, handsome bastard.

"Hell really has frozen over," Iggy smirked.

"Anyways," Lily continued, "Aradia has now been formally tasked with apprehending the man known as Semyon Grigorivich, under S-Level Clearance." She paused. "Which means extraordinary force, if necessary."

Deadboy shrugged. "F*** it; I'll do it myself if I have to. Saves all your blokes a bullet."

Lily continued. "Operation Hermes. Aradia will have its task force members disguised as spectators, hiding among the audience. Apparently, many high profile persons will be in attendance, so security will already be high. We'll use it to our advantage. According to the program, both Semyon and Colt are scheduled to appear at the close of the night and present the world championship belt to the new or defending champion. At this point, Aradia will act."

"And I'll stand the hell back," Colt added, hands up.

"But isn't Mr. Salim the world champion?" Kengo, standing around the table, asked.

Lily sighed. "And conspicuously absent. Based on my findings, and Spike's...unusual experience with him, I'm going to go out on a limb and say...we can no longer trust Salim Netjeer."

The tables fell silent again. Only the jukebox and the clinking of china cups against saucers intruded on this sobering moment.

Lily took a deep breath. "Salim is...more powerful than I realized. He was also a friend and mentor, so this isn't exactly easy for me. Mr. Netjeer had multiple chances to stop Koschei. Why hasn't he yet? It's safe to presume he has his own agenda. Assume him to be very dangerous. Aradia hopes to apprehend him as well, as one of their former founders, and take him in for questioning."

Joseph held up his hand. "Sorry, Lily, but since when does Aradia have enforcement powers?"

The girl looked sick. "Since last week when a special emergency session by the U.N. Security Council, International Criminal Court, and INTERPOL met and granted them to us."

Spike could tell that didn't set well with White Tiger, but he himself knew little of international affairs. 

"Not even INTERPOL can make arrests," Joseph pointed out. "But Aradia now can?"

Needless to say, the atmosphere in the diner was bleak. Colt, deciding on shifting the mood, brought everyone's attention back to the championships at hand. "It's a packed card, folks, so here's where we stand. Titan..."

Gio, who looked very distracted and disheartened by everything (and nobody loved seeing him sad) looked up. "Hmm?"

"Congrats, big guy, you made it this far. You'll be going up against Bear Misha."

Gio answered by flexing his biceps and causing one of the waitresses behind him to swoon into a booth. Rosa, seated next to her (new) boyfriend, Gio, rolled her eyes. "He's always doing that."

"John," Colt continued, placing the round robin sheet over the diner menu so everyone could take a look, "you'll be up against Firebird's current champ, Ivan the Wolf. Joseph? You're going against Vahni Rage, fresh off his match with Spike."

White Tiger bowed his head in respect.

"Good luck!" Spike said, through his teeth. "Hey, I only beat him by interference..."

The other spellbreakers grumbled. Colt, in particular, gave Spike a dark look. "About that..."

Spike didn't wish to press his luck. "Right," he said, hands buried in pockets. "You all have fun in Russia. I'll be cheering from the side-lines."

"The hell you will, boy," Colt said. "After dinner, come around the hotel and I'll have you sign a new contract. Don't make a big deal of it, or I may change my mind."

Spike's eyes lit up. The other guys and gals all exchanged satisfied smiles. "Really?"

"AH!" Colt said, holding up a firm finger. "What did I say? You're on thin ice, boy. Consider this a probationary period. Then again, we're all probably gonna die anyway..." He shrugged. Nobody could tell if he was joking or not. "With that out of the way, I say we stuff our faces and forget our troubles for the night. We'll worry about the end of the world tomorrow." He sighed. "If there's a tomorrow."

The spellbreakers broke off into separate conversations. Though the harried waitstaff had initially eyed them with concern, their charm (and massive food bill) soon turned the restaurant in their favor. The mood lightened. 

"Are you okay?" John Henry said, taking a seat beside Lily and Slayer. Compared to the young woman, the man was a skyscraper.

The light magi stared into a plate of half-finished French fries. "I haven't had much time to process it all." She looked up at Slayer. "The night...of the break-in to Aradia HQ, Slayer staid with me and talked it over."

John Henry lowered his stare at the somewhat evasive Firebird member. "And you trust him?"

"I do," Lily said.

"But," Slayer himself began, "trust must be earned. I may have crossed swords with you in the past..." He looked at Spike and Cian, engaged in some verbal altercation over milkshakes. "But Semyon filled my brain with honeyed words, and I acted imprudently. The carnage that man wreaked is...unforgivable. As I told Lady Suarez here..."

"You can just call me Lily."

"As I told Lily here, she has my sword. And since she is your esteemed patron, you have my sword too, Sir Iron." The knight stood and dropped to his knees, bowing his head in front of a bewildered John Henry.

"Uh...you don't need to do that," Mr. Iron said, awkwardly. "But if Lily trusts you, I trust you." He placed a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "You're a tough cookie, Lil. But even the tough need rest. If you want to talk about what happened, you can count on us."

"Thank you," Lily said, with complete sincerity. She sighed. "I must see this through to the end, which means I'll need to partition my feelings for a little while. And then." She popped a French fry into her mouth. "Bring on the therapy."

"I'll pay for it!" Colt said, perhaps a bit too cheerily, coming up behind the others (a beer in his hand). "Err...Buck mentioned trying to get a counsellor on site. Lady knows we'll need it after this. Should have probably listened and got one in sooner, but...I was too damn proud."

"He'll come around," Lily assured him. "I know my best friend. He's a moody boy, but he comes to reason eventually."

Colt and her both hoped as much, but there was a silent understanding between father and childhood friend that this time might be different. In any case, Colt politely invited Mr. Iron to come sit with him by the counter, with the promise of a cold beer.

John Henry was happy to oblige. "I talked to Sandra," he said.

"And?"

"We came to an understanding. She knows the dangers of what I'm about to do. I do too. Goddess knows we all do."

Across the way, the same couple that had given Akanemaru a dirty look, did the same to Mr. Iron.

"Sometimes," he went on, "I don't think this world is worth fighting for at all." He acknowledged the sullen oni, still sitting by his lonesome. "I've come to appreciate many of us are in similar struggles. But, with a kid on the way...something's changed. I need to fight to make this place better for them. Even if it costs me. I've already made arrangements, should I--"

"Don't say it," Colt said. "No. Nothing will happen. Other than you kicking all kinds of ass, that is. I'll lay down my life for you, John. And...er...since we're being so candid. If I may...I really should have pushed harder for you, back when we still young studs."

"Speak for yourself, cowboy," John said, with a smirk. "I'm still a young stud!"

"Ahahah! That's my tag partner, alright! But I'm serious. If someone deserved to be the champ back then, it was you. I was too prideful, worrying about my own status, to show you the support you needed. I know words don't mean squat, but..."

Mr. Iron clinked his beer bottle with Colt's. "Our blood runs thick, cowboy. You don't need to say anything. I feel the love. And, you're right, I am gonna' kick ass. I mean, someone has to show these little boys who's really in charge, right?"

Elsewhere in the diner, other intimate conversations were held over food and drink. In a twist of fate, the 'couples' of the GSA found themselves seated at the same both. Iggy (hair done up in a ponytail and wearing a cute, gingham button up) and Victor (T-shirt and signature mask) sat across from Daemian and Joseph, watching the two in the same manner as spectators viewing wild animals at a zoo.

"I don't even want a milkshake."

"Bloody hell, Joey," Daemian pouted, staring at Joseph's untouched vanilla milkshake (Daemian, naturally, got chocolate). "A few kilojoules won't hurt you, champ!" He coughed him, gently, on the arm.

Joseph frowned. "I need to be in top condition for the match."

"Ugh, your stress is contagious." Daemian sipped his milkshake and eyed his companions across the table, as if suddenly aware of their presence. "And what the hell are you looking at, mask face?" He looked towards Iggy with considerable more patience. "Bestie?"

"You two are so damn cute," Iggy cooed. "You'll give me diabetes before either of those milkshakes do."

El Amante cushioned his hands against his cheek in rapturous admiration. "Ah, young love. It's one of my favorite kinds of love. And I love all kinds of love."

Daemian stuck out his tongue. "Blech! What are you talkin' about it, you dogs?"

But Joseph was, if anything, amused by Daemian's irritation. "I think they have a point, Lachlan. I can call you that in public now, right?"

The dark magi turned bright red, but nodded shyly.

"Where is your big, sexy buddy?" Iggy asked. Over at the counter, Akanemaru suddenly cocked his head, interested.

"It's Brax's hot yoga night down at the rec center," Daemian explained. "It's how he destresses. Mad lad knows his asanas. What...what are you looking at me like that for, you weirdo?"

Joseph, ever cool-headed and charming, smiled and sipped his milkshake. "Just reminded how cute you are."

"Grrr! I'm not cute, I'm scary!"

"Two things can be true," Iggy added with a smirk. 

Next to them, El Amante gave them a kiss on the cheek. "Ah, but it is the nature of love to attract the opposite. Dark and light. Hero and villain."

"You know I just play a bad 'they'," Iggy huffed. "I'm actually a very nice person. What? Don't give me that smug look, Daemian, I'll arm bar you!"

Thankfully, Victor was there to keep the peace. "Daemian, my dark amor...why don't you tell Joseph what you've been brainstorming with me?"

The dark magi's instinct was to grab and brandish his fork. "Don't you use your pelvic magics on ME, love witch."

"Hahaha! My handsome, I weave no sorcery. This is all you."

"Ugh, fine." Daemian stabbed his fork into his overcooked steak, making everyone at the table flinch. "I'm not very good with my emotions," he began.

Iggy smiled. "We've noticed.

"But...Joseph...I've been thinking." The punkish Australian scratched his neck and bit his lip. "Do...do you wanna go 'round with me?"

Joseph stared at him incredulously. "I...beg your pardon?"

"If I can translate Australian," Iggy said, clearing their throat, "I believe he said..."

"Boyfriennnnnndssss." Daemian elongated the word, pointing to himself and Joseph. "Youuuuu....mee....boyfriends?"

Joseph glared. "I will hit you. Actually, I won't. Because I do not hit my boyfriends."

He punctuated the statement by giving Daemian a quick, but potent, kiss on the lips. "Unless...they ask me to?"

Daemian, practically swooning, tried very hard not to turn red. "I...would let you hit me. Ugh. Fine. Okay, Cards on the table, mate, you're the coolest cat I've ever tussled with, and you make me CRAZY. Crazier than normal! Which is pretty damn crazy. Let's try this stupid thing. See how it goes."

Though everyone could tell Joseph was overjoyed, the Tiger kept his cool. If anything, it was El Amante, whose eyes had practically turned into two beating hearts (while next to him, Iggy pretended not to be happy) who was marking out. 

"It just so happens I brought a gift to commemorate this occasion," Joseph said, putting a small, black, gift box on the table.

Daemian eyed it suspiciously. "What if I hadn't asked you out?"

"Oh, I knew you would." 

"Grrr." Regardless, Daemian picked up the box, turned it over, inspected it, sniffed it, bit into it once for good measure, before yanking off the box and tossing it over his shoulder. 

Behind him, a gruff, oni voice growled. "WHAT PUNK JUST THREW THAT AT ME!?"

Inside the box, cleaned and pressed, was Daemian's old, green, black, and gold wrestling trunks--the gear he'd worn to his epic, championship belt defending fight with White Tiger (and lost). Per White Tiger's gimmick, he'd claimed the villain's gear. Daemian had always chalked it up to him having a weird underwear fetish.

But in this moment, he could not contain his happiness. "You jerk..." 

"It's no longer my trophy. After seeing you fight like hell, and be a good guy for once, I think you deserve it back."

"I am not a good guy." Deadboy sighed, and pulled his man in for a hug. "But...I appreciate this."

"Well, this is all very adorable," Iggy said, eying their overly enamoured (and overly invested) luchador, partner. "When all of this nonsense with the world championships is over, I'm going to pack the biggest bowl, lock myself in a room with this hunk here, and not come out for a whole two days. This saving the world stuff is terrible for my skin."

"Two days?" Victor, snapping out of his adoration, asked. "That'd be a new record. Are you sure you could survive it?"

"I'd rather die in the throws of passion with you," Iggy pursed, stroking their boyfriend's chin, "than to some smelly, immortal warlock."

Victor lost his composure. "Oh, mi amorrr." He went for Iggy, ready to tackle him and kiss him up in that booth.

Fortunately, being Victor's main lover, they'd built up some immunity by now, and was able to squeeze past El Amante's love takedown and make their way to the counter. "But first, coffee."

The pink haired rock star noticed Akanemaru, still sitting glumly by themselves, looking absolutely miserable. Being the new blood, and being a bit different on top of that, the red oni hadn't exactly gelled with the rest of the boys yet.

Frustratingly, it tugged on Iggy's heart strings. Maybe Spike's infectious consideration for other people's wellbeing had rubbed off on them.

Minha deusa, I'm gonna' have to start charging by the hour. "Mind if I sit here?" Iggy said, taking the stool next to the hulking oni, who had still not figured out human clothing yet, and was wearing nothing but a leather jacket and daisy duke shorts on their massive, bulking frame. "I f***ing love your hair."

"Eh?" The muscle monster looked Iggy up and down, as if they were an entirely different creature themselves. Though Aka considered punching them and walking away, the spirit of comradery took hold, and they instead shrugged. "Er...sure, knock yourself out, I guess. Warnin' you though, pinkie, I do bite."

Iggy smiled. "Same."

While the other spellbreakers feasted and and revelled, psyching themselves up for the tournament to come, Spike--still rattled and weary--slunk back over to the juke, seeking the comfort of music. He was surprised to fine Cian there, lazily flipping through the selections, but clearly just finding an excuse not to to talk to anybody else. 

Spike thought, at the very least, Robbie would take this 'we might never get a chance to say it again' turn of events to confess his feelings for Cian, but either the Canadian jock had moved on, or his competitive French fry eating contest with Kengo (that had already begun drawing a crowd) was more important to him now.

Cian looked up at Spike. "I..."

At this point, Cian could tell Spike he was his long lost cousin and the New Yorker would merely blink. "Yeah?" 

The Irish stud flinched, not used to such a deflated version of his old rival. "I'm...sorry about what happened with Buck." 

This is too nice of you, Cian. Do I really look that depressed? "Yeah, man, me too."

Cian looked somewhere between straining to find the right words to say, or throwing up. Spike was curious which would come first. "I wanted to say that I'm glad to know someone like you." He sighed. "Even if you're sometimes really annoying."

That did put a smile on Spike's face. "Yeah, same." He looked at the red head. "Is this...where we hug?"

"Yeah, sure, why not."

Though an awkward approach, Spike was glad to find his torso wrapped up in Cian's beefy arms.

"WOW, you give good hugs," Spike sputtered, genuinely surprised. "I've been missing out."

Cian blushed and let go. "Well..."

"I mean I always thought you were cute, but..." Spike coughed. "You're uh...beefy. Very hot."

If Spike meant to kill Cian by way of making all the blood rush to his face, it was working. "I...wow. Uh." He tried to clear his throat. "Well, I dunno what's going on with you and Buck but maybe...after we're done saving the world...we can uh...do something about that?"

Spike's woes were superseded by his libido. And suddenly, getting his butt kicked by Cian seemed a lot more fun than how it used to. 

"I'm still gonna break your face someday," Cian quickly added, as to not completely show Spike his hand.

"Heh. I look forward to it."

Apparently that was all Cian needed to say. He slunk back towards the others, leaving Spike to his lonesome. Spike didn't mind the solitude, for once. Flipping through the records on tap, he found one that instantly brought back a favorite memory. "I Walk the Line". A Johnny Cash croon.

"Buck liked this song..." Spike said, putting a quarter in the juke. It was a slower, thoughtful song with a country twang and a touch of the lonesome, not one of the rockabilly or big band numbers Spike preferred. Very Buck.

As Spike nodded his head along, wondering where his erstwhile crush was now, the diner bells announced the entrance of a new patron. Spike, half-sunken into a day dream, smiled and thought how perfect it would be if he looked up to see Buck, soaked from the pouring rain (it wasn't raining) smiling at him in his usual sarcastic way.

"I knew you would..." Spike, forgetting himself, said as he looked up. "Oh."

The tall man in the burgundy peacoat was, with his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, almost barely recognizable., After all, Spike had only ever seen Vahni Rage in the most revealing trunks, with all of his muscles on display. Turned out, the man knew how to dress himself.

Spike had also never seen Vahni Rage, the man with the permanent scowl, look...somewhat awkward before. "Oh."

Out of shock, Spike fell back onto the juke's control panel, sending the mechanism off kilter and making the record scratch and stop.

Everyone else in the room looked up. And held their breath. "Ohhhhhhh."

Dead silent in the diner. Rage turned his head and surveyed all the wide-eyed gawkers staring at his illustrious form. "Is...there something on my face?"

Before anybody in the room could decide whether this dramatic entrance called for blows, Slayer St. George sat up from his chair next to Lily, and gave a deep bow.

"Sire!"

The knight-themed spellbreaker approached his old comrade and got to his knee.

"N-no," Rage said, looking askance. "Not here. Not necessary. Please, for the love of gods, stand up, Sev."

"Right!" The long haired, pretty boy knight did as told.

"Slayer. I am happy to see you are not dead. I...owe you an apology. I should have usurped Semyon sooner and came to find you. I was blinded...by ambition." He glared at the others, his head suddenly ablaze. "AGAIN, WHAT ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT?"

All the other spellbreakers broke their stare and returned to their separate conversations.

By now, Spike had decided that his old-time rival was no longer a threat. He approached Rage, though cautiously. "Vahni..."

"Spike."

"Rage."

"Sailorboy."

Well, this was getting nowhere fast. Firebird's big, bad champion--outside of a ring context---struck Spike as the strong, silent type. Perhaps, even a little awkward. Maybe he was more comfortable talking with his fists. 

Spike looked at Colt, who gave him a confident nod. If things turned south, Spike was pretty sure the entire GSA could take him down, if needed. After all, he had done it (almost) single-handedly.

This wasn't a ring. And there was no reason to keep up the anomosity anymore, not when there were greater stakes at hand. "Is it true," Spike began, "that you're Firebird's president now? Also, did you...just apologise to someone?"

Spike anticipated a punch to the face, but instead, Rage gave him a sly smirk...and not a completely malevolent one either. "That smack to the head you gave me must have done funny things. I hadn't gotten a chance to speak to you after the incident in the hospital. I would like a word. Alone."

"Are...you going to kill me?"

"If I killed you here it would be boring, and honestly don't flatter yourself."

"Okay. Because if you had to kill me, I'd like some say in the matter."

"I have a feeling it involves my massive biceps around your neck, but I digress." His eyes darted to the door. "Outside. Now."

Thinking he was about to get himself into a street fighter, Spike turned and gave his crew an assuring 'thumbs up', letting them know he could handle this on his own. Colt and Mr. Iron, however, were wary.

In the back alley, Spike expected himself to get jumped by Rage and the rest of Firebird, but was so 'over it' that he welcomed a scrap, just to distract himself. There were no looming shadows, no Redbacks or King Anubises lurking behind the dumpsters or garbage bags.

Spike began. "Are..."

It was only for Rage's gentle, firm approach--a hand behind Spike's neck--that Spike allowed him to kiss him on the lips. The heat was still there, but less intense. Spike felt...congratulated. Shy, at first, he returned the gesture, letting Rage (several inches taller than himself) hold him and kiss him passionately, but with the welcome suggestion of deeper respect.

"A kiss, for my conqueror," Rage said, breaking away. "And the man I will destroy in battle someda...oh...no?" He looked at Spike and quickly (unexpectedly) stepped back, hands up, as if he was concerned (concerned!) that he'd offended him.

"No, I am VERY into it. I have a history with fire magi."

"What?"

"Never mind. It's just..." Spike's head spun. What was going on? Why was he letting Rage kiss him? And why did he...suddenly feel very safe around him? The man was the worst heel of the lot, after all.

As if admitting to a deep embarrassment, Rage slunk his shoulders back and sighed. "Right. So...if you want undeniable proof that I am here on good terms, then know this, Sailorboy--I have erased my mark of humility, my brand, from every worthless little jobber who ever dare--"

Spike lowered his stare. "No....what do we call them?"

Now it was Rage who looked like he might be ill. "Worthless....little opponent?"

"Try again."

"Ugh. Opponent who deserves dignity and respect. I have...stuck to our terms. No more branding." He thought about it. "Unless consensually. I still think my mark on your--"

"I think we should start over," Spike cut in. He was happy to ride the awkwardness; power through. "After the fight? Clean slate."

He may as well offered Rage a hundred dollar bill covered in snot. It was welcome, in a way, but undignified. "I...suppose."

I'm an adult. I beat this man before. I can have a conversation, man-to-man. "First, I wanted to thank you. The orphanage..."

"Don't make a big deal of it, lion."

"Yeah, well you sort of did the OPPOSITE thing of burning dow--"

"...What did I just say?"

"Geez, you're scary."

"Not so, when you get to know me. You saved my life, Spike. I think we're more than even. Plus, Amrita likes you, which is probably even more miraculous than besting me in combat. I have to hand it to you, my lion, you surpassed my expectations. But...from the moment we first met, I sensed you would."

What was going on here? Spike had no idea if Rage was trying to confess his love for him, make a business deal, or make peace before he slaughtered him in a back alley. Admittedly, all the prospects sounds exciting. "Is this where you burn me alive?" Spike asked.

"Perhaps I only wish to set your heart on fire." 

It was the first time Spike had ever seen Rage smile. Really smile. He was...handsome. Charming. Classical. A man with a capital M.

Spike's heart sunk for Buck, just as it rose for this new, unexpected contender in the ring of romance. Spike had promised Cian, as well as himself, that he might change his ways and not instantly fall head over heels for...well...another heel. Rage was making that quite difficult. 

"A truce," Rage said, extending his hand. "And this is me breaking kayfabe, so you can count on it." 

Spike looked down. Rage's hand was on fire. No, literally, it was burning. Spike frowned. "Okay, what--"

"It won't burn you," Rage said, sincerely. "My fire only burns when I want it to. This is how you know I'm being honest. Whether you wish to take it, is entirely up to you."

"I've seen you break twink's wrists when they take your hand at the start of a match."

"As I said, Spike. I cannot foist respect or trust upon you."

"You...cannot...'first' respect?"

"What? No, Foist. FOIST!"

"FIRST? YOU KEEP SAYING 'FIRST'!"

"Oh gods, your accent..."

Damn, if he's using words like 'foist'. Spike took his hand. True to his word, it didn't burn. It was warm. Pleasant.

  
"Kahnu."

"Hm?"

Raage blinked. "It's...my name. Vahni is a synomym for 'agni', the personification of fire. I admit, I went for the low hanging fruit. But..." He smirked again, and eyed Spike up and down. "I suppose I do love low hanging fruit."

"WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN!?"

"It means your silly attempts at anger amuse me greatly." With that said, Rage reached out and flicked Spike's nose playfully. "Perhaps you need someone who can give you lessons in intimidation."

"Bully me."

"What?"

"Nothing." Spike coughed. "My real name is Sammy. Or Samuel."

"Now that is cute. Well, it seems we find ourselves at the end of the world. How fitting. Are your prepared for what lies ahead in Kitezh."

"No." 

"Your honesty is refreshing, if not slightly disappointing." Rage paused, and gave his words some deeper thought. "I will kill Semyon myself. I should think the gods will understand. You and your band of men need not stain their hands with blood."

Spike was nonplussed. "I just assumed you'd already..."

"Taken a life before? Hmm. Perhaps I will keep you guessing. It's...more fun that way. Spike, when this is over, I would very much like to speak to you again. Either to bash your head in during a rematch, or, perhaps...lighter conversation over over tea."

"I prefer the option with food." Spike smiled.

And, miracle of miracles, Rage smiled back. "What a tremendous power you have, my lion. Not your magick. Nor your strength. But your charm. Something so many others lack."

Spike watched as Rage turned around and walked towards the alley's entrance. "It may have even worked on me."

---

Lonely and dark sat the ruined throne room of the hollow castle, buffeted by snowy winds, trailing white across broken mosaics and stone floors. Even during its brief reign Kitezh had not been a particularly large citadel, though its bell towers and steeples were indeed grand. At the border of the steppes, situated between the bloodthirsty empires of Rus and Khanate, the sunken city had integrated the characteristics of cultures both East and West--half Arabian night, half Slavic fantasy.

When Koschei had first presided over Kitezh, he was no king. In truth, the mad monk--a shadow across the candlelit corridors (why bother with electricity?) had never sought to rule. Leadership made one an easy target. To be the person pulling the strings of king or queen, however? That was always the best position.

Which is why, seated upon the throne now--half of his body burned beyond recognition by that woman's potent magick--Semyon/Koschei found himself at odds with his new status. To rule, at last, would be a strange thing. But in the world to come, perhaps it would suit him.

Still, for all his many years, for all the centuries spent manipulating and coercing the rich and powerful, the mad monk expected more allies so close to the end. He'd been too precious with Vahni Rage. He could see that now. He had hoped to control Rage's power, but he'd proved a sword with a double edge. Nevertheless, seven Chalices of Divine might glittered beautifully in the firelight, situated at the mad magi's feet. When the time came, he would put them to use.

Castrated. Burnt. Aged, despite his magick, this body of his was wearing thin. It would all be worth it. Since there were no reasons to keep up appearances any longer, the former president of Firebird, and the former advisors to the Tsar, decided to drop all pretences. 

He was Koschei, the Deathless, the king of Kitezh from eras past. His double glyphs of death and life--supposedly an impossible combination--had kept him alive through countless wars and fallen empires. He could survive another day or two, until the ritual was complete.

Lonely were the halls of Kitezh, and so when Koschei's ears perked up at intrusion, he sat back on his cold throne and smiled, waiting

"Here. At the end. I expected a few familiar faces might show up." The magi had no eyebrows to raise--they had been burned off in the attempt to wrangle the Chalice of Vitality and the magi of Space and Radiation. Instead, the monk lowered his stare at the shadow at the edge of the audience room. "I cannot say, by an stretch of the imagination, did I expects yours."

Recida Di Sangro, in black furs, appeared the fusion of widow and winter witch. The beautiful Italian Alchemist stepped forward, into the firelight. 

"How fitting that we should both rule among ruins, Semyon Grigorivich." 

"I go by my true name, now. Koschei. The serpent has shed its skin. So too do I shed all guises."

"By rights, I should kill you."

The man laughed. "My dear, I am sure you could try." 

Both of them knew she wasn't here to attempt an assassination. 

Koschei spoke. "That referee at Rage and Spike's match," the scabbed over and burnt man began, "he had a curious tattoo on his chest. It bore an uncanny resemblance to your necklace."

The Alchemist pressed her gloved fingers to her ouroboros pendant. This was not the moment for deception. It was time for the naked truth. "The Alchemists seek power, yes. We align ourselves with the forces that most favor our agenda. To that extent, we  know what you're doing here, with the ritual. We Alchemists have attempted it ourselves, before."

Kosehi tilted his head to the side, and waited.

Good. She had his attention. "Though not without The Chalices. The fact that you managed to round them up, and under Aradia's thumb no less..."

"And what makes you think I'll share any of my glory with your kind?"

"Because your new world will need an army," Redica stated plainly. "And if we cannot be at the top, then we'll settle for the next best position. Also, because Aradia is at your front door, and we would be more than happy to help let them in. We could tell them exactly what you're doing and how to disrupt it." 

"And what will you do when they turn around and arrest you and your band of slithering snakes?"

"Spiting you will be as joyous as working with you. We see either option as a win. But...would it not be easier to work together?"

"...Go on."

"The Alchemists wish to hedge their bets with you, Koschei. While I, personally, was against it, I did quickly realize that we share a common foe." The woman carefully approached the throne. "One whom, I daresay, has played you and I against each other quite successfully up until this point. I am speaking of Sarapis, the Eternal. Otherwise known as Salim Netjeer, our jackal-headed double agent."

Semyon's hands, gripping the arm rests of his throne, tightened. "He remains my final obstacle. It's a stalemate. He cannot kill me, nor I, him. In truth, nobody knows what he's planning. I sense his desires go beyond mere revenge, however."

"Which is why the Alchemists are prepared to rise above such pettiness and extend an olive branch. To defeat a common foe." The woman snapped her fingers. In the darkness behind her, several sets of lights--eyes--burned in the darkness. The light from their orbitals illuminated large, bulky shapes. Living statues.

"And so, Koschei, we offer a gift of truce." She smirked. "Which is all to say...no hard feelings burning down my ancestral abode."

Semyon's eyes turned upwards, to the enchanted armors lurking in the dark. "Golems?" he said, deeply intrigued.

"When the alchemists of Prague and Rome were divided by schism, we managed to steal a few of their ancient secrets. As you can understand, Koschei, we are fully aware that now is the time to use every weapon in our arsenal. We lend them to you, willingly."

"Aren't they beautiful indeed. And such craftsmanship." Koscehi, clad in robes of gold and black, head balld and scabbed from the Eldress and her scalding magick, placed his hands on his lap. "Lady Di Sangro, I do think there may be a role for you in the world to come..."

To Be Continued...

Chapter 5: The Divine Chalices

Lily remembered hiding. This wasn't the first time she'd found herself tucked away, out of sight, from something or someone meaning to do her harm. Survival was second nature. The glyph researcher held her lucky pendent close to her chest and tried not breathing too loudly. 

She didn't even make a sound when the terrible thing with the slime-covered face, like a squid placed onto the head of a human, found the security guard and began to 'feed' off his magick, Lily tuned out the squelching sounds and focused on how she was going to make it out of this office.

Lily also tuned out her coworker Georgio's occasional timid, muffled cries. Of course, of all the employees Lily should find herself surviving a siege alongside, it would be the most annoying one. 

The light magi slowly moved her head towards a crack between the desk and wall, trying to get a better look at the 'things' Semyon Grigorivich had unleashed on Aradia's headquarters. 

From behind, they wore the cowls of priests or monks--and in their realm, they may have very well served in a monastic capacity. Illithids, the books sometimes called them, or Magiaphages, foul creatures of the netherworld that subsisted on magickal essence, attracted to those with glyphs, and were immune to enchantment and sorcery. Incredibly rare and nearly impossible to summon, they could only be conjured by truly forbidden tomes.

Such as the one Semyon had taken from the Dark Library and sequestered as a failsafe. An army of one or two was enough to take down an enchantment locked facility like Aradia HQ.

Semyon had four.

Lily clenched her hands. She had warned Central Command something like this might happen. Salim's tip-off had come too late, it seemed. Eyes shut, she tried to think what any of those oversized, muscle-heads she called her friends might do in this situation. She remembered, as a child, watching spellbreaking over at Buck's house. Back then, Lily's best friend, and Colt's son, would show off his dad's matches to almost anybody. Lily had always considered the form of 'entertainment' both mindless and ridiculous, if not delightfully camp. She'd never gotten into it. But there was one match in particular, Queen Mab vs Colt, that she'd always remembered.

Queen Mab bested Colt in his early years. She was a fire-haired goddess of incredible beauty and strength, and for Lily--likely one of her first 'awakenings' of being a woman. Instead of whining about being beaten by a girl, Colt had gotten on the mic and congratulated her--some say helping to open the door for more women in spellbreaking. Lily knew Colt to be an occasional womanizer, but he was hardly a misogynist, and had always looked out for her.

Queen Mab's was the strength Lily needed right now. 

"What...what are we gonna' do?" Georgio squeaked at Lily's side. 

Lily took a deep breath. "I'm trying to think like a spellbreaker," she whispered back, just as she heard the sound of wet foot steps approaching them. She sighed. "So, probably something stupid...like this."

As Lily rolled out from the desk (one of the few moves she remembered Colt teaching her during his self-defense seminars) the magi threw her hands out towards the demon's eyes. The bulbous-headed, tentacle faced being wriggled its tendrils at her, hungrily. It was, of course, immune to magick.

But it was not immune to light. 

Lily channelled her powers into a dazzling gleam, blinding the creature and turning its disgusting façade away from her. Her successful deflection took her by surprise--so much so that she quickly realized she didn't have a follow-up. 

"Oh, sh**."

Then, across from the stilled corpse of the secretary, splayed across the floor, Lily noticed the letter-opener on the desk.

Lily spun a thread of light, a long string, and threw it out at the sharp implement, wrapping it with her threads and bringing it to her just in time for the Magiaphage to turn back towards her, ready to grab her head and draw her into its sucker-lined mouth. Instead, the creature ate the tip of the opener. Screaming, half for adrenaline, half out of shock, Lily thrust her hand forward, burying the sharp tool in the soft part of the creature's upper pallet, piercing into its skull.

The Magiaphage regurgitated a noxious spray of green slime before it fell back, dead. Lily likewise collapsed against the desk and forced herself not to go into shock. Now that the danger had passed, the reality of the corpses lying around the room began to sink in.

She heard Georgio shuffling behind her. He was a liability, to her and himself. "Go and get as far away from this building as you can," she said, in a stilled monotone.

Georgio shivered. "What...what about you?"

"I'll follow you," she lied, rising to her feet. "Go. Now."

Her coworker didn't argue. When he was gone, and Lily left on her own, she held her hand over her mouth and let out a sob. 

No. You don't have the luxury of fear. Or mourning. That comes later. Right now, you need to survive.

She also needed to, at the very least, attempt to stop Semyon from getting hold of the Divine Chalices. Running to the security office, where the head guard now lay dead over the control panel, Lily watched on several monitors as Semyon worked his way into the lower level vaults. He still had three Magiphage with him, but more than that, he had something arguably more dangerous. It was another artefact from his cursed library: the eye of a gorgon. An ancient weapon, and not uncommon during the Peloponnesian wars, blind warriors would procure them from the rare few gorgons left on the Aeonian islands, driving their species to extinction (for better, or worse).

Lily watched Semyon, flanked by his squid-faced sentry, as he held up the eye to Aradia's internal security team--all of them armed with both traditional artillery and magick. The soldiers trembled, and then petrified on the spot, their screams frozen in time. The Magiphages fed on the rest.

Fear subsided. Lily's painted nails dug themselves into the security console as she shifted to a new emotion: anger. This man had terrorized her friends, slaughtered her co-workers, and tried to kill her. He would not be forgiven.

But she would need to act quickly.

Lily grabbed the master key-card and sprinted towards the research department, one level up from the vaults. She counted on Semyon being distracted with security measures long enough to complete her objective. The card slid through the reader with a satisfying 'beep', opening on to a sterile room that Lily knew all too-well. The halogen lights clicked on, illuminating the sealed manuscript on the desk that Aradia had recovered from the abbey ruins in Glastonbury, England. Lily's notes were tacked onto the cork board behind it.

She didn't bother with the safety gloves or other measures usually taken to prevent damage to the material--there were more pressing matters at hand. Lily flipped through the page of the Dee Cyphers (allegedly written in the language of the angels) that she'd been studying for the past few weeks.

Knowing that the Magiphage might detect a sudden outpouring of energy, she told herself to act with haste...then again, she hadn't exactly opened a portal before. It wasn't standard light magick. That was something dark magic could do, and only particularly skilful ones like Deadboy Daemian.

Still, the words came to Lily, rhythmically, trance-like, like she had heard them in a dream. Lily barely noticed the soft green light starting to fill out the washed-out room. Then, the sliver of light, expanding fully into a window...

A voice echoed out of the ether, snapping Lily out of her trance. "Damned GSA curs!" it boomed in a dignified, smooth, Welsh accent. Lily looked up into the window just in time to see a muscular man, half-clad in chainmail, tumbling bloody and bruised from out of the light. Lily gasped. The magick subsided.

Slayer St. George, former Firebird spellbreaker, kneeled on the floor, coughing, sputtering, and wounded. The 'Wlesh Wyvern', slender and ripped, stood up--dwarfing Lily with his height.

He tossed back his messy, frizzy long hair, with the one red streak.

"Gahhh!" Slayer roared, looking around wildly. His eyes met Lily, frightened and unsure. They immediately softened. "You. My good lady. Where...am I? Is this not the Faewild still?" Slayer pointed an accusing finger at the magi. "CEASE YOUR TRICKERY, WILY FAE. If thou wish to come to blows, then fight me with honor!"

Lily came to her senses. "Slayer St. George."

The spellbreaker with the knight gimmick lowered his arm and brushed back his hair. "You...know of my moniker?" Warily, he looked around the room. "No, this appears to be the realm of humans, again. Did...you free me?"

Lily gulped and nodded. "Yes, with the book you used to open the portal to the Faewild back in Glastonbury. My name is Lily Suarez. This is Aradia HQ." She nodded to the door. "And your ex boss just broke in to steal the Divine Chalices."

"Ex...boss?" Slayer looked towards the door. "I was just on the tail of those loathsome fools, Cian and Spike." He spat. "They abandoned me to the whims of the Lord of the Dead! I would have their NECKS. Surely they must not be far from here..."

Lily looked back over her shoulder at the manuscript. "I'm...afraid it's been almost a year since you vanished, Slayer. Time runs quicker in the mortal realm than it does in the Faewild."

Slayer's shoulders drooped. "Ah. So then...much has happened." The knight approached Lily, who attempted not to show fear (even though Slayer was tall, and muscular, scary, and...well...handsome). 

The spellbreaker kneeled before her, gently taking her hand and kissing the back of it. "You freed me, milady. I cannot thank you enough. To repay you, I shall be your sword. Though I am known in-ring as Slayer, you may call me...Severin. Severin Arthur Blaidd."

Lily turned bright red. "OH....wow. I...don't know what to..."

Slayer looked up. His eyes were green, like emeralds, and despite his intimidating body, his face was somewhat soft, boyish, and handsome. "Aye?"

Lily swallowed again. "Wow. Crazy day." Then, reality came crashing back in, and the thought of what carnage lay outside came rushing to the forefront of her mind. "The security vault. Come with me."     

As Lily and Slayer crept the too-quiet, marble halls of Aradia, the knight took in the sight of the dead. "Grigorivich...did this?"

Lily was almost annoyed with him. "You, a virtuous knight, had no inkling that your boss might actually be evil?"

Severin looked aside. "I was blind. He told me we needed the Chalices to preserve the world. That failure to acquire them would result in war." 

Suddenly, a brief recollection of Firebird's dossier jarred Lily's memory. "You were a soldier during the war, weren't you. You fought with the Albans."

Slayer was quiet. "I was conscripted. And then...I deserted." He bowed his head, shamefully. "I would do anything to prevent another war. Anything. At all costs. That is why I sought the Chalices."

He was mislead, Lily thought, but knew better than to shame the man. "Slayer, I think you're a good man. I cannot imagine the life you must have led. But Semyon turned out to be a dangerous man. And now, he's desperate."

"He's more dangerous than you can imagine," Slayer said. He looked to the end of the corridor. "We must act with haste. Magiphage, you said?"

"They absorb magick."

Slayer processed this information with quiet respect. Then, a sly smile crossed his handsome face. "But are they immune to fire?"

---

The three demons stood in a triangle, arms raised to the vault ceiling, and tendrils glowing, pointed. A solid beam of black light passed between them, focusing on a spacial doorway leading to a frozen wilderness. A snowy wind passed through the door, blowing across Semyon's brow as he pushed through five titanium cases--each of them housing one of the Divine Chalices--through the portal. On one side, Greece. The other, Kitezh.

Semyon's eyes lit up, as he heard the footsteps behind him. He acted ahead of his demons, turning around with his gorgon's eyes--engorged and red--raised to petrify whomever foolish enough to approach.

Almost right away, he was met with a flash of light, and a brief reflection. Lily created a a luminous shield, a mirror, redirecting the eye's gaze back at the cursed relic.

The eye immediately scabbed over with the stone, the sudden weight dropping it from Semyon's hand, onto the ground, where it cracked and split in two. 

The dark magi frowned. "It matters not," he said, waiting for the light mirror to subside. 

He was more surprised, than anything, to see his former subordinate scowling at him. What a headache. "Ah, Slayer. How good to see you in one piece. Unfortunately, I do not have the time to indulge you in a blissful reunion." He nodded to the two demons on his immediate left and right.

The squid-faced creatures broke from their trance, though their portal was unaffected. They approached Slayer and Lily with a fiendish hunger.

Lily looked to her companion with concern, but the spellbreaker had already reached out with his hand. "Normally, I would perhaps tie you two knaves into knots or torture you with one of my punishing, submission techniques," the proud knight leered. "But for you, I shall offer you neither pain nor pleasure!"

Slayer's skin on his right arm began to crack and scale, almost to nauseating affect. The muscles on his forearm re-arranged themselves, forming into a shape far more familiar to Lily, who stood back to protect herself.

The neck and head of a dragon, eyes burning green, sprouted from Slayer's arm, the spittle from between its teeth stretching as it opened its mouth.

Lily threw her hands in front of her face at the last minute, just as the dragon breathed out a steady stream of green fire. The two Magiaphage let out a scream, not unlike the sound of chimes, before the fire engulfed them. When it was safe for Lily to do so, she looked and saw nothing but two piles of ash, and traces of bone, where the the creatures once stood.

Semyon grit his teeth and pointed to the third phage. "You. Open the second gate."

The creature did as instructing, making a strange, circular motion with hits long fingers, willing open another portal--this one onto a more sunnier, humid local. Lily caught just enough of a glimpse, of red dust and blue sky, before Slayer trained his draconic weapon on the third demon, blasting it with fire.

Semyon, however was quicker. He threw himself into the portal, just as the demon was incinerated. With no magick left to sustain the gates, the windows to other parts of the world blinked out existance.

And with them, Lily and Slayer's hopes of recovering the Divine Chalices...

---

Auntie Jacinda's eyes cut through the darkness of her kitchen, a familiar realm turned strange with the stranger's intrusion. "Let him go," she commanded. "I won't ask twice."

Semyon stood with his arm wrapped around Uncle Daniel's neck. He had seen his own men put so many of their opponent's into chokes that it was easy to replicate their techniques.   

Semyon sneered. "Madame," he began, "I have already had quite the taxing day. So, do us both a consideration. Fetch me the Chalice of Vitality--and yes, I know it is here--and place it on that counter." He nodded to the corner of center island in front of him. "I have no reason to kill your husband. And the last thing I'd want is to anger Deadboy Daemian."

"No," Auntie Jacinda began. "The last thing you want to do is anger me."

Uncle Daniel's eyes fell on the ceramic, orange cup perched on the dish hutch, over the sink. Plain sight. It was a good as place as any to hide a scared artefact. He looked at his wife. She nodded to him.

Then, Daniel was gone. Blinked. Semyon looked up, just in time to see the man on the other side of the room.

"YAAAAAHHHHH!"

Now, it was Auntie Jacinda who had him by the throat. Of course, she had to jump up and cling to the man. At first, Semyon's eyes registered surprise, then amusement...

And then, fear.

Fear as the smell of burning flesh filled the room. The man, struggling against the woman's (surprisingly tight) grip, looked down to see his skin peeling away, revealing blood and flesh and bone. Burning scabs appeared across his arms and face. 

Auntie Jacinda looked up, her eyes a uranium green glow.

Atomos. The Glyph of Radiation. 

Semyon fell backwards. Auntie Jacinda landed, wobbly, onto the floor. Her husband assisted her to her feet. The couple watched, with grim dismay, as Semyon Grigorivich fell back and collapsed, eyes upturned. 

Burned. Scarred. Irradiated. Dead.

Supressing a frightened sob, Auntie Jacinda turned and buried her head in the neck of Uncle Daniel's head, holding her close. 

"Brilliant woman. You were like an angry koala, you was!"

Auntie Jacinda didn't risk the moment. She pointed to the Chalice. "We best take it and go. You can teleport us to Lachlan and his friends."

Uncle Daniel stared at the orange vessel, nearly indistinguishable from the rest of their dishware. "The Elders have safekept it for centuries. If this creepy bloke here has the others, then it's safer farther away from the rest."

Auntie stared at the charred husk on the ground. "What are we gonna' do about old mate over there? How am I gonna' explain to the constables that we have a dead Russian on our property? You remember the last time we had a muck-up like this."

Uncle Daniel scratched his head. "Nah, yeah, the dingo incident..." 

"Let me go rouse one of the boys and see--"

The lady of the house didn't manage to finish that sentence, however, before she felt something grab her ankle. Auntie Jacinda yelped and pulled her foot back, watching in shock and horror as Semyon Grigorivich--still burned and scarred, lifted himself off the floor like a demon.

"Aradia's records were indeed useful," he said, his teeth showing through his burned away lips. "Which means the corresponding Divine Wellspring must surely lay at the foot of that sacred rock of yours."

Uncle Daniel held out his hand to the monster. "If you tread on these lands with ill intent, your death will surely be a gruesome one. This an old country, mate. And our ancestors, our great spirits, don't take kindly to evil magick."

But Semyon was undeterred. "Then, perhaps, I require an escort to the wellspring. You two will come with me. How rare your glyphs are, and I believe your magick is needed."

To Be Continued...

Chalice of Power
Location: Russia
Wellspring: Crater Lake, North America

Chalice of Vitality
Location: Australia
Wellspring: Uluru, Australia

Chalice of Will
Location: Chichen Itza, Mexico
Wellspring: Isle of the Sun, Bolivia

Chalice of Compassion
Location: Faewilds
Wellsping: Glastonbury Tor, England

Chalice of Voice
Location: Catacombs of Paris, France
Wellspring: Well of Souls, Egypt*

Chalice of Wisdom
Location: Kowloon Walled City, Hong Kong
Wellspring: Sea of Trees / Mt. Fuji, Japan

Chalice of Spirit
Location: Bhubaneswar, India
Wellspring: Mt. Kailash, India*

*These Wellsprings are not depicted or mentioned in Spellbreaker's Main Event, but it can be assumed these Chalices were activated by either Aradia or Firebird

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

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

Spike walked around...himself, asleep on the hospital bed. For starters, he hated how awful he looked. Eyes swollen, skin pale, bruised and burned all over. His hair was a mess. He remembered how he'd felt then, after the great battle with Rage.

"You'll be fine," Salim said, from behind Spike. He materialized without any fanfare or effect. Spike knew he'd find him, hiding out in the snapshots of his recent past. Spike wasn't sure how he'd found his way here, but Salim didn't look annoyed or concerned. He was patient with him. Spike, though scared and frustrated with the current state of things, appreciated that.

Spike looked over at Rage. It really was the same memory...only in living color. Spike remembered, even, fluttering his eyes awake around this same time. Sure enough, his double on the cot did just that.

Spike, the one with Salim, jumped back. "Oh, that's freaky. I knew I was going to do that. This is so eerie, watching myself."

"You mean...you aren't remotely turned on?"

Spike's ephemeral form frowned. "I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"Oh, come on."

Resisting the urge, Spike laughed. "Okay, fine. Might surprise you though, big guy, but none of this is exactly sexy to me."

"Remember, all of these events happened. You cannot change them. They cannot change you. It may seem real, but it's a memory."

Spike looked up at the clock. So did his past self, in the bed. He felt a pang of anxiety strike his heart. "Damn, that means that creepy alchemist dude is gonna come in here and second now and try and shank Rage."

Salim stepped forward, in the gap between the beds, between the rivals Spike and Rage. He looked at both, Spike in particular, and frowned. He appeared to be in deep thought.

"I said the past can't be changed." Salim smirked. "And it can't. But I'm riding your timeline, Spike. I'm part of events. And even thought the past cannot be effected, per se, you can sometimes send echoes if you intersect your own timeline."

Spike frowned. "Oh yeah, back in Varla's, you mentioned that."

"Observe." 

Salim leaned forward, to the Spike laying in the bed. He spoke softly, just as the door opened and the shifty alchemist-masquerading-as-ref waltzed in.  

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

Spike, in the present, winced. "What the hell. I remember that. I heard that voice inside my head."

"This is the echo I was talking about.

"I thought you said we couldn't change the past!"

The alchemist went to stab Rage. Past-self Spike extended his hand and conjured up his energy barrier, preventing him. Present Spike remembered the rest and turned away, not wanting to see the alchemist poison himself again.

"I'm completing a loop," Salim explained. "We're intersecting with your own timeline. It's self-determined. You ever heard of the bootstrap paradox?"

Spike shook his head. "What!? What do you--"

And then, just like that, they were in a chilly alleyway, at night. The sky above Spike and Salim was polluted with light. Angry shouts from up ahead turned their attention towards an attractive woman in a fur coat confronting a drunkard in a business suit. Spike, from a year ago, stood by and watched, waiting to intervene.

Present Spike remembered it clearly. "Hey, this is Vegas. The night before I fought Iggy!" Spike watched himself, from the back. "Wow."

"I know," Salim. "Kind of freaky, isn't it?"

"No, I was just thinking, my ass really does look amazing! You said I can't interact with my past self, right--"

"Looks like your amazing ass is about to be kicked by this loser in the ill-fitting suit." Salim nodded to the altercation. The business man summoned several icicles, hanging mid air, aimed at Spike and Marcy Diamond, the dancer informant for Lily and Aradia.

“Get out of the way, candy ass,” the rude drunk slurred. The dagger of ice above him trembled.

Salim walked around to 'Past' Spike, and it was then that 'Present' Spike noticed how subtly undercooked his old self was. He looked at his old self, unsure. Slackened shoulders. Timid eyes. Had he really changed that much the last year?

"No, you’re right on the money," Salim said to Spike's past self. "Keep talking. Run out the clock."

Spike remembered this moment, so clearly. That voice inside his head...back then, he thought he was crazy. He wrote it off as his own conscious trying to get his ass into gear; send encouragement. 

"Wait, that really was you!" Spike blurted out, as El Amante interrupted the action and helped save the day. 

The giant man, Spike's psychopomp in this temporal underworld, stood back. "Damn, was it?" 

"Like you don't remember?"

"I'm just closing a paradox loop," Salim said. "I probably don't even realize it. Like I said, time has its way of doing what it needs to do to keep reality intact. Sometimes, I am merely its agent."

Spike frowned. "Y'know, this really sounds like you're making this up as you go along."

"I already told you, Spike, time travel is a lame plot device. Let's just power through it. Still, if we're travelling along your recent, personal timeline, it means...we're getting closer to where we need to be."

"What do you mean?"

Salim pointed to him. "You're steering this ship, sailor, whether you realize it or not. You are taking us where we need to go."

"I don't know--"

Now, they stood inside an even darker space--though one much more quiet than a Vegas back-alley. Spike looked around the old, dusty apartment above the tailor shop. It was his first apartment, post-discharge from the Navy. Even the way the light from the city outside travelled through the gaps in the blinds brought back memories.

"My old apartment!?" Spike ventured into the den, examining his past self fumble with an old cassette tape and television set. "This was the night before my first match. With Ryan Hartley. That was also the night I met Cian and..." Spike smiled at Salim. "When I got signed to the GSA."

"Heh. No wonder you took us here." Salim leaned forward 'Past' Spike, sitting with his strong legs tucked to his chest, listening to the player whirr to life. "Huh. That's a VHS tape? In the sixties? Hmm. Didn't think they'd be inventing those til a few years from now..."

Spike remembered this moment very clearly. It was the reason he thought his apartment was haunted. "Wait, that was you too?" But it was the second part of Salim's statement that confused him. "What do you mean? We've had video tapes for, like, ever."

"Oh? What year do you remember first seeing them?"

"Psh. That's easy. I've been recording old spellbreaking matches since..." Spike paused. His head was fuzzy. "Uh...since...?"

His memory fizzled out. Suddenly, he couldn't recall anything about television or cassette tapes. Stranger still, Spike watched as the fight footage on TV--a moment he had witnessed with his own eyes, and could recall with crystal clarity--shifted both quality and grain, turning briefly from color to monochrome. 

Spike shook his head, trying to rid himself of this bizarre hallucination, only it brought on further change--the television 'blinking' into an old projector reel, with circular film canister attachment and all, and then an extremely flat television monitor with vibrant color and sound. Thankfully, the hallucination passed, and Spike's old, shoddy TV resumed its normal shape.

"What the hell!? Did you give me drugs, Salim? Is it DRUGS?"

"Calm thyself," Salim said, though he was almost as surprised as his unwitting companion at the jumping back and forth of technology. "This timeline is out of whack. You know most other universes don't even have magick, right?"

"Whaddy'a mean 'other universes'?" Spike's mind couldn't keep up with the implications. He suddenly grew very afraid--mostly for his perception of the world around him. If Salim could rewrite himself outside of history, then what other quirks of temporal magick had influenced the world Spike thought he knew? 

Salim gave him a knowing grin. "One thing at a time, sparky."

"IT'S SPIKE!" 

The two men followed the pre-GSA Spike down the staircase to the dusty showroom below the apartment. Spike eyed the skittering cockroaches on the wall and was very glad he'd managed to 'move on up' to better accommodations since then. 

“Place is a fire trap,” 'Past' Spike mumbled in the dark, trying not to think about ghosts. He had never run into one before (thankfully) but he’d heard all sorts of spooky stories about them while travelling at sea.

Salim, standing behind him, rolled his eyes. "For a spellbreaker, you really need to grow some backbone..."

At his side, Spike flinched. "Yeah, I definitely remember hearing that too." This was insane. Spike was glad, for once in his life, to be such an air head. If he fully comprehended all that was happening around him, he thought me might go insane! "So, these voices I was hearing...it was because I was doing this," he pointed to both himself and Slaim, "with you?"

Spike stopped, just as his 'Past' self rummaged around a box of fabric at the back of the shop, destined to craft his first pair of branded trunks.

"Then that means..."

Salim completed the thought for him. "Looks like you and I go wayyy back, kid. You remember the night we met?"

"What?"

Suddenly, Spike was standing in a warmly lit, grander space--the antithesis of his old apartment. The fundraising gala, back in San Antonio. Spike fondly remembered the palatial ballroom. That was the night he'd met White Tiger, gotten to know Buck, and even met...

"Travel by flashback!" Salim laughed. Suddenly, he was wearing a fine, tailored suit--the same one he'd worn to the gala, in fact. "The most convenient way to travel."

"How the friggin' hell did you do that?" Spike balked.

The giant spellbreaker shrugged. "Temporal privileges."

"Why didn't I get a nice suit..." Spike grumbled.

But Salim was already preoccupied with the party room around them. They weren't far from the entrance staircase. Spike could even pinpoint recognizable faces: Liuliu in her beautiful dress, Colt in his best bolo tie, and Reina Rosa, smashing down champagne in the corner with Buck.

"The gala," Salim said, his eyes distant and knowing. "Ah, so this is it. I can feel it."

"Feel what?"

"The reason why we came here. Spike, let's split up."

Dumber words had never been spoken, Spike thought. "You sure that's safe!?

"We'll be fine." Salim pointed to 'Past' Spike, dressed in the uncomfortable rented tux he'd been forced to wear to the shindig. "Nobody can see us, but we can see events that happened in our vicinity. Listen to conversations where we weren't even present."

Spike had tuned out. He was now watching his younger self interacting with Buck--his old flame deftly moving his fingers to the nape of Spike's collar, presenting him with the little anchor lapel pin that Spike so fondly remembered.

I miss him. It was a privilege just be able to look upon him again. He was handsome, with his hair slicked back. Now, Spike could understand how dangerous a gift of magick like this could be. How tempting it would be to shelter oneself in the past, surround themselves in a comforting blanket of better days, and stay there.

Instead of chastising Spike, Salim softly smiled at the younger man admiring his crush. "He really likes you, small friend."

"Yeah..." Spike said, sadly. "Took me too long to realize it."

Salim was quiet a moment. Spike didn't bother to look up at his face. He'd come to realize that Salim was good at hiding his feelings behind other feelings. A mask behind a mask behind a mask.

"Spike...let me ask you something. And you don't need to answer me now. But, if you could rewrite your life so that you were with Buck..." He trailed off. "No. If you could rewrite everything so your parents were still alive, and supportive, and you had Buck and the title belt, would you choose that?"

Spike frowned. It was an odd question, for one, but these were odd circumstances. "You said time can't be rewritten."

"I did. And I was telling you the truth, small friend. I am merely asking you...what if it could?"

Of course, the thought had crossed Spike's mind--in a way. It had surely crossed the mind of anybody who had ever lost a parent as a child. Other times, other 'universes', when they may be alive. Back in the orphanage, on the really bad days, Spike would even fantasize about his mom and dad coming around the day room entrance and giving him a big hug.

"Yes. I've thought about it before. But...it's like..." He shook his head. It was hard to put into words.

"Go on. I'm listening."

"My life is my life, Salim. I would have loved ma and dad to have been a part of it. But...who knows what would have happened if I'd been raised with them? I might not have ended up in the Navy. Or become a spellbreaker. Or met my friends, or Buck, of hell, you. What if my dad didn't approve of me liking guys? What if my mom had me enrolled me in like some glyph academy? I would probably be a different person with a different life. I wouldn't be me...the Spike I am now."

Salim was quiet for a moment. Spike, suddenly feeling quite cold, knew better than to look behind him and meet his eyes. He felt...an intensity from Salim. He'd felt it before, in fact, at several points. He liked the man. Trusted him. But the truth was, Salim sort of scared him too...

And not just because he was the size of a truck.

"I could show you the..." Salim started. Then, he laughed. "No. No. I won't do that to you. I apologise habibi. I got ahead of myself. I like to see people happy, you understand. I want to...see everyone happy. But, let's focus at the task at hand, shall we? Now, if I recall, this was the night Mrs. Zorn got got by the chandelier, Phantom of the Opera style."

Spike was thankful to change the subject--even if said subject revolved around a traumatic accident. "Damn, you're right! Gee, poor Mrs. Z. Hey, maybe we can find out who did to her!"

Salim's eyes widened with pride. "My thoughts exactly, small friend!" He craned his head towards the entrance, flanked by massive pots filled with flower arrangements. "Do you remember anything strange from that night?"

Spike did his best to recall. Thankfully, and much to his surprise, he hadn't drank heavily  that night. "Oh, geez. Well, I had met you. And then I kind of did some nervous wandering around and drinking champagne...I was sort of all over the place."

Salim was patient. "Yes, yes. Anybody else you remember?"

"Hm...oh yeah, I met Recida. Bleck. And oh yeah, that was the night I met Joseph!" Spike gestured to the latticed window some paces away. "We were on the balcony over there." He remembered how giddy and shy Joseph, the smoothest of the smooth had made him. "Yeah. I remember freaking out because I saw Vahni and tried to hide. I got out there and..."

!!!

"Wait a minute." Spike moved towards the window, but stopped short. Buck passed by. Spike thought of reaching out to touch him, but remembered the task at hand. "Yeah! I remember seeing Semyon down below, in the little courtyard. He was talking to someone outside, by the river."

"The garden," Salim said. His entire persona, and body language, shifted. Spike flinched. "You need to go there. Now. Remember, he can't see you."

Spike suddenly felt as if he'd gladly walk to world's end for this massive man. He could understand why soldiers, in Salim's ancient days (Spike still couldn't quite believe his story) had listened to him. He really was a leader. 

"Right! Um...but is it okay to be so far away from you? I won't blink out or get like, stranded during the Black Plague or something, right?"

"Should be fine." Salim dismissed his concern with a wave. "I mean, there's..." He shook his head, cutting himself off.

"What! WHAT? THERE'S WHAT!?"

"Nah, if I tell you it'll just make you anxious." He gave Spike a rather unconvincing grin. "You'll be fine. If you get separated from me, you'll just wake up back in Varla's apartment."

Or...be stranded somewhere in time and space, Spike thought, nervously. "Er...right. What will you do?" 

"I'm going to see if I can track down Rage. Maybe I can eavesdrop and find out if he knew anything about Zorn, though judging from how Semyon deliberately kept him in the dark about the Chalice, I doubt it. You have your mission, small friend. Go forth!" 

Salim left Spike to his task, and then turned on his heels towards the entrance, straightening his lapel as he did. Damn, he's a handful, the time magi thought. Still, I always pick the right one for the job. His innocence is his shield. I will ensure everything works out for him, in the end.

Salim, standing at the landing of the marble staircase, considered his agenda. Provided he does not go against me, that is.

As the GSA's 'Million Dollar Manager' mounted the steps, he found time slowly blur around him. Party goers reversed their steps in double tine, phantoms trailing after-images of themselves.

Salim's eyes narrowed. Something was amiss. Time had just rewound by ten or so minutes. But, as with all challenges and threats, Salm didn't frown. He smiled. How curious.

He noted Spike bounding up the staircase towards him. 

He blinked. "Habibi, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to go down to the garden?”

Spike stopped. It was then that Salim noticed he was wearing his formal suit.

“Hello…giant man. Have we me before?”

Salim cocked his head to the side, tapping finger to his chin. He eyed Spike up and down. This was the wrong 'Spike'. That much was certain. 

He noticed the absence of Buck's anchor pin and snapped his fingers in realization. “Ah, your lapel...not yet, it seems.” He gave this Spike a graceful bow, turning away. “A thousand pardons.”

He moved quickly back the way he came, not wanting Spike to see his face. Somewhere, back in Varla's apartment, Salim's Eye of Osiris was likely burning bright. Someone was interfering with this dip into the past, whether intentional or not. Which also meant Spike was in every bit of danger that Salim had told him to ignore.

---

Spike stood behind a tree. Even though he was deadass sure Semyon couldn't see or hear him, the creepy man's presence was so great that Spike didn't even want to risk it. He watched, waiting to catch a glimpse of Semyon's guest's face. It was hard to see, from this angle. Carefully, Spike ran from one bush to the other, changing perspective. He briefly eyed the balcony up above. He could see 'himself' speaking to Joseph. This was the right moment.

"...considerable difficulty convincing them otherwise," Semyon said, his voice low. "These vultures are well managed, fortunately. But Zorn is smart. She must be dealt with. You can...handle her, I trust?"

"I've infiltrated parties with tighter security than this," came a familiar voice, answering Semyon with a venomous, lilting accent. 

"Yes. Your abilities are very becoming of your moniker, Redback."  

The man, all in black, moved to the side. Just as Spike registered the name, he saw the face.

 

"I bloody hate these mixers," Bruce Halsetti, promoter for Deadboy Daemian's old fed, spat. "Full of people with their heads up their own arses."

Spike was glad he was non corporeal. He might throw up. His first thought was that Daemian was completely aware of Redback's identity. Which didn't bode well at all. But no. Spike wanted to believe his old friend was better than that. 

Semyon continued, placing his hands together in contemplation. "Then allow me to bestow upon you the opportunity to channel your frustration. I want Marianne Zorn gone. Or at the very least, rendered useless."

"That's the spellbreaking commission treasurer, eh? Yeah, I got me a bone to pick with her too after she snubbed sXs. Ah well. Guess she'll learn the hard way..." Bruce laughed, just as he tugged his red-branded balaclava over his face. "Don't poke a spider's nest."

Spike pressed his back against the tree and covered his mouth. Oh no, he's Redback. Crap. Crap. Crap.

"Then you know what to do," Semyon said, punctuating the statement by digging the base of his skull-tipped cane into the soft earth. "I cannot allow her to stop us from hosting the championships at Kitezh. I will not be thwarted again. With the chalices in hand, the ritual will be complete. The hand of the Goddess will be ours."

Bruce nodded, and then--most sickening of all--clung to the wall of the gala building, skittering up the wall like the spider of his namesake. 

"Just like in Kitezh..." Spike repeated to himself. He remembered the strange, ghostly, medieval looking city--like something from a dark fairy tale. He remembered Semyon, or Koschei, or whatever he'd called himself across all those centuries, trying to enact some dark magick over that strange basin at the foot of the Goddess statue. 

Spike looked over his shoulder, jut as Semyon turned away and began to walk towards him. His movements, and the mad intensity in his eyes, made Spike shiver. He was much too close to where he was standing.

"Oh, this is so weird. It's almost like he can..."

Semyon's hand caught Spike's throat before the young fighter could react. At first, Spike thought he was hallucinating again. There was no way...

But then, he felt the fingers squeeze tighter. Though Spike had no real neck, or breath, he felt the restrictive sensation all the same. How was this possible? 

Semyon leered at him. "Caught myself a little shadow."

Spike tried to move, but whatever magick was in effect, it was more potent than his own. Still, he forced the words out: "How..."

Semyon suddenly flinched. Could he see Spike? The direction his eyes move suggested something was off about his approach. Though there was, most definitely, nothing off about his tight grip.

"The Eye of Set," Semyon muttered, holding up his cane with his free hand. The eyes of the pewter skull glowed an eerie red. Spike, trying not to panic, could just barely make out a crystalline object hidden inside the skull, emitting the light. 

Semyon glared, just off to the side of where Spike's 'face' would be. It was then that Spike decided he definitely couldn't see him. Not completely, anyway.

"I can barely make out what you are. A wraith. A spirit? WHO SENT YOU?"

Spike was now more curious than afraid. What did he look like, to him? And had this happened in the past? Or had Semyon somehow travelled back with them? 

"Who summoned you," Semyon hissed. "And from where? Your silhouette...it looks so...familiar."

"Hands off the twink."

Spike's eyes darted towards Salim, who had materialized behind Semyon in a burst of blue light--the same aura Spike vaguely recalled before they'd fallen into the trance leading them into the past. The giant man, with an expression far more serious than Spike had seen on him before, waved his hand.

Semyon's cane reacted--the light, suddenly dimming. As it did, Spike felt his 'body' pass right through Semyon, outside his grip. He turned around and saw the gaunt man looking around wildly for where his phantom self had wandered.

The man sneered, recomposing himself. "An interloper," he said, looking down at his cane. "Is this your demon or familiar, then?"

Spike suspected that Semyon couldn't quite make out Salim either. 

"I was wise to dig this out of the Library, then." Semyon moved closer to his target, or where he expected his target to be, anyway. "But...a time magi? Impossible." He smiled, then; the same way Spike had seen Salim grin earlier when presented with a mystery.  "Unless..."

Salim waved his hand again. Whatever he did, it threw Semyon off even more. He looked pissed.

"Incessant magi, working against me," Semyon hissed. "No doubt those Aradia stooges. No matter..."

The creep wandered off, presumably back inside the gala. Spike was glad to see him go.

"Are you okay?" Salim asked him friend, earnestly.

Spike glared at him. "I'm more of a twunk, just so it's clear. Also, WHAT THE HELL, SALIM!"

The giant man ignored the outburst. He had no time for Spike's emotions. "You're still alive, aren't you? What did you find out?"

"Koschei..." Spike shook his head. "I mean Rasputin, I mean Semyon, is gonna use the Chalices to do whatever he tried to do in that weird city in Russia. That's why he tried to bump off Madame Zorn! She was gonna put the whole kibash on it. And whatever he's doing there, he needs the Chalices."

Salim stared intently at the lights dancing across the surface of the river. "But why hold the World Championships there? Unless...he needs people with glyphs. Strong magick." He considered the possibility. 

Anxiety swelled inside Spike's heart again. "My guy, I don't like any of this s***. What's Semyon gonna do with all this weird magick stuff?"

"Current theory? He's trying to harness the magickal equivalent of an atomic bomb."

Spike twisted his head to the side, confused. "Er...why?"

"Power?" Salim shrugged. "You saw the life lessons his dear-old daddy taught him." Salim straightened his back. He walked to the edge of the river. It showed him no reflection. 

Salim laughed to himself. Not a happy laugh. "It's...so boring."

"What?" Spike approached his friend, even though his body language suggested another odd mood shift.

 

"Yes, boring. Dull. Powerful men are stupid and boring. All throughout history, the same Goddess-damned story, Spike. Men doing everything to maintain power and control, and then freaking out when it's out of their grasp. It's the same with fighting. Spellbreaking. One dog on top. The next day? Overthrown. Again, and again. We do this to ourselves because we're scared, because we think being strong and tough will bring us adoration, or hell, fear. It's because we're scared little boys, Spike. It starts with getting beaten up on the playground and then BAM the next day you've invaded the country next door just because it'll make you feel loved; because it'll make you a legend!" 

Salim slammed his fist into the wall. It made no sound, of course, because it was a memory--but Spike flinched all the same. He froze. Salim seemed ten times larger to him now, if that were at all possible.

He didn't even girt his teeth, or glare. It was the...emptiness in the eyes, a toxic tiredness, that scared Spike most of all, as the man spoke.

"Scared little boys trying to make their daddies happy. Or trying to replace their daddy. It's fathers, Spike. Poisoning their sons. Making them afraid of every damn person who doesn't think like them, or look like them, or bow down to them. But hell, at least the real bastards, the tyrants, and the dictators, and the pharaohs and...and the TSARINAS! At least THEY DIE!" 

Salim laughed, manically. "Except the real, big bastards like Semyon Grigorivich, or Koschei, or whatever he decides to go by in whatever decade he decides to piss all over and ruin with his stench. No, THAT bastard is playing for keeps. That's why I want him gone. That's why I want him dead. For good. And then..." Salim breathed.

Spike backed away.

"And then everything will be alright. I will bring about a good future. I will fix this tangled time period. Or..."

The giant's steely expression softened, just as he gently moved his lavish braid back over his shoulder. "Well, gee, small friend. Looks like I kind of went off the rocker there! Don't worry about it. I just have some...unresolved issues, okay? Don't we all. Now, what else did you learn while you were out here?"

Spike had been so utterly afraid of Salim's mad speech that he'd nearly forgotten the most shocking takeaway from Semyon's exchange with his servant. At last, Spike found his voice. "Bruce Halsetti is REDBACK."

Salim's lips twitched. "I knew it."

"YOU DID?"

"Well, I had a hunch! We gotta' get back to Texas. Nowwwwwssrsfsffsf."

Spike had been still juggling his anxieties, between the knowledge of Bruce, and the...whatever Salim's freak-out was about...that he'd barely noticed that they'd shifted time periods again.

This one, however, was unfamiliar to Spike. The air was full of fire and burning metal, but the cityscape around him was startlingly familiar. Moscow. 

Spike groaned. "Again? Russia, Russia, Russia!"

Before Spike could raise his voice and seek Salim's input, he was caught off-guard by a throng of moving, angry people--citizens--marching in a solid wave towards the gilded gates of an enormous palace.

Spike froze. He'd seen this on the news. Or, at the very least, similar footage. Soldiers, armed with assault rifles, guarded the gate and shot into the crowd indiscriminately. 

"Take me home, now," Spike choked. "I've seen enough of the s***, S."

Yet, just as he made the request, he noticed a blur of motion between the perimeter of rioters and the soldiers. One young, armed man suddenly doubled over, spitting blood. His compatriot fell at his side. One by one, the soldiers fell, just like the little toys Spike used to play with in the orphanage day room.

And at the front of the carnage, looming over their bodies with a cunning sneer, was Salim--dressed in a dark, gray overcoat. He picked one soldier, still alive, off the ground, and held him up in the air.

Spike recalled what Salim had told him, about the Alban soldiers in the Egyptian tomb where Salim had awoken after centuries of sleep. What he'd done to the those jerks had made Spike uncomfortable, but it was justified. They were bad guys, right? Unredeemable. Hell, they were part of the reason why Spike's parents were no longer around.

But seeing Salim now...like this?

The soldier kicked his legs, desperately, eyes resigning to his fate, as Salim looked into his eyes and smiled. The man aged rapidly, until his body resembled one of the old, withered carrots Spike had cleaned out of the pizzeria's walk-in fridge the other day. Salim, rejuvenated, turned his back and walked through the gates.

Spike's Salim, the 'Present' Salim, had turned his back to Spike, who was afraid of even speaking up.

Still, he found his voice. "Salim..." He swallowed. "You did this to these people?"

For a moment, Spike feared he hadn't spoken loudly enough. Salim didn't move. Then, he turned to Spike.

"Hmmm." He smiled. "Well, good luck, small friend. I'll be seeing you around." 

His smiled faded. His eyes burned green. "In Kitezh. At the end. Perhaps it will be you, Spike, who decides what form the future will take."  

One blink later, Spike found himself laying down on Varla's carpet, not a second past when he and Salim had dipped into their astral tour. And, like many occasions all throughout his own timeline, Spike was once again alone.

To Be Continued...