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!

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

Twenty five years ago...

Egypt. Valley of the Kings.

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

At gunpoint, of course.

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

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

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

Lesser men, always getting in the way. ..

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

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

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

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

Out of spite, the legends say. Or love.

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

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

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

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

"Very well." Harrison snapped his fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

Damn, I go by many names; pick one. 

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

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

Let's rewind...

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That...that messed me up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He got his war. I gave it to him.

Tell me, how does one kill a kingdom? 

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

I took from them next, their power.

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

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

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

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

If only...

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

All by my hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Be Continued

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

I needed himbos. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOW, PLAY THE MUSIC!

To Be Continued (but for real, this time)