Inception: A Grand Ball

"And soon it stood there,
finished and ready, in full view,
the hall of halls. Heorot was the name
he had settled on it, whose utterance was law.
Nor did he renege, but doled out rings
and torques at the table. The hall towered,
its gables wide and high and awaiting
a barbarous burning. That doom abided,
but in time it would come: the killer instinct
unleashed among in-laws, the blood-lust rampant."
-Beowulf, Lines 76-85
Author Unknown
Trans. Seamus Heaney

The sleek, tau-cross profile of a sky-borne limousine cut across the Khazanian night sky, spotlights flowing over the matte surface like water over a chrome bumper. It moved with utter silence, course adjusted smoothly and carefully, when there was need for adjustment at all. The only interruption of the artistically designed shape of fuselage and cabin was the double array of landing lights on the otherwise-featureless bottom of the craft, required by law. No repulsorlift coils, no antigravitational generators, not even simple propelling rockets were visible. It seemed as if the occupant of the craft had not been concerned at all with flash, or flare, or anything of the sort: he did not want a vehicle that moved spectacularly. He just wanted a vehicle that MOVED.

Inside, shrouded by mirrored, one-way glass windows (which were, incedentially, proof against virtually any assault short of a full nuclear launch), Lester William DuLupin LaCroix XVIII regarded Khazan with carefully detatched interest. He did not gape like a tourist, nor did he necessarially file information away for future reference. He simply watched, and thought.

What he thought was, for the most part, his own business, and no one else's. No meta-human or alien in the known multiverse was capable of breaking through the intricate layers and barriers of microscopic circuitry centered around Mister LaCroix's brain. This was part and parcel to the megacorp business; after all, it would not do to have one of the most powerful figures across dimensions fall victim to the first punk mentalist to come along wanting to prove himself worthy of the title "supervillan". There had been problems in the past, when the mega-trade enterprises began, with demons, with energy-creatures, with nigh-omnipotent beings, with any kind of posessing or controlling intelligence imaginable. Corporations had been turned on one another, their had been bloody war across the outer rims of probability. Thankfully, those days were long gone.

In fact, this was in no small part what occupied Lester's mind as he watched the trillion gleaming lights of Khazan city weave and dance, interlocking like lightning bugs in mating season in the air and groundspace below. As the limousine banked towards the Ballroom, the small slice of the city displayed by the window widened, until his gaze was turned straight at the ground. Moonlight was lost amidst the creeping shadows, darkness seeping out of back alleys to drink colors and light into a dull, quiet oblivion. At the same time, here and there along the skyline, skyscrapers, bars, parties lit up like miniature suns. Fireworks erupted like burning flowers in the sky to the east.

Every time he came to Khazan, the same thoughts came to his head, a sense of immensity and distance beyond anything comprehensible by the mortal mind. Lester knew what "big" was. In fact, he knew what immense was. Programmings running through microscopic processors scattered throughout his body informed him constantly of the real-estate value of entire spheres of potentiality, of universal systems based on slightly varying probabilities. There, too, crouched the almost subconscious awareness of LaCroix Enterprises, every branch and sub-branch, every stock price on every market, every installation military, scientific, and economic, every manufacturing plant, every shipping lane, each ship and its schedule. If he so desired, he could control the entire system as easily as he controlled his own body, altering anything from the slightest change in shipping times, to the purchasing of galaxies. This was, he reflected, part of the reason he watched the FPL combats whenever other duties did not prevent him. Once in a while, it was nice to remind himself what exactly the difference was between physical abilities and real power. Across infinite potentials, how many would-be despots had struggled for the conquest of a single star system, a single galaxy? How many wars had been fought, costing quadrillions of lives, over who would rule a single spiral arm? And yet, within his demesne were resources beyond what most petty conquerors could ever dream. If he so desired, galaxies and systems would crumble for lack of trade, universes would go into recession.... (Of course, he would never do such a thing. Bad for business, and, in light of the recent unpleasantries, he might well be labelled derivative.)

And it had all begun here. Khazan. Nexus of All Realities, land of, quite literally, infinite opportunity. From a peasant family, refugees from one of the more far-flung of the war-torn dimensions, to an interstellar dynasty in a mere twenty generations. His ancestors had come to the city bankrupt, pursued, devastated emotionally and physically, and now he returned a conqueror, at least in a manner of speaking.

The universe, it seems, is not without a sense of irony. He smiled.

Below him, the city stretched, sprawling with seemingly endless life. Far down on the streets below, if he squinted, he could make out individual vehicles, stores, people stopping to buy their dinners, perhaps conversing with a friend over tea and biscuits about how interesting the most recent Arena match had been. The data network pulsed softly, purring at the back of his mind, a constant awareness. He saw (or was it only his imagination, at this distance?) a woman walking with her child, down a street in front of a Chinese restaraunt. An old man jogged after them, leaving his small streetside stand unattended, trying to convince the woman to buy something gold and gleaming - a watch, perhaps?

Khazan lived.

"Making final approach now, boss."

"Very good, Allen." Without so much as the bat of an eyelid, Lester transferred a hundred thousand standard Khazan Dollars into the driver's expense account. "I want you to enjoy yourself this evening. Lord knows I will." At that, he smiled. Some good would come of this evening, he was sure of it. If not a lasting relationship, or a new business arrangement, at least someone, some beautiful, powerful woman to warm his bed this evening.

As the limousine came around towards the Ballroom, glittering far below like a confection spun of diamonds and gold, Lester caught a glimpse of the Arena off in the distance, silhouetted against the darkness by omnipresent searchlights. He smiled, and thought secret thoughts.

To either side of him, other vehicles approached, no two the same, no style matching. There was Lady Alenia's private shield-globe flier, moving by thought alone, the Lady herself (rather beautiful if I may say so, perhaps a good candidate for the night) and her mentalist driver suspended in midair, surrounded by the soft glimmer of multiple layered force-fields. There, in the distance, he could barely spy MagusBaron Z'kovinichis' dragon-drawn chariot approaching, the halo of flames piercing his eyeballs.

The Ball was approaching, and the guests were just beginning to arrive.

*

Figures gathered together in a dank, dark room, clustered against rain, sleet, and the light of the outside world. They pressed close against one another, nervously glancing around, searching for faces they knew, faces they trusted, hoping against hope to find someone, anyone, to reaffirm the fact that they were right to be here, in this meeting, that the course of action upon which they were about to imbark was just and good. The odor of fear was palpable, snaking its way through minds and hearts alike.

A door opened at the far end of the room, and a figure strode in. These men knew him, of course. Many had grown up with him, counted themselves as his friends, allies. Now, they regarded him with a kind of hushed, staring awe, bordering on worship. Where he passed, the crowd parted, trying to force its way through the walls themselves in order to give the new arrival the time and space he needed to walk, in a slow, regal gait, up to the podium at the far end of the room. He nodded at them as he passed, one hand extended placatingly like an actor, placating some deadly paparazzi. Finally, after what was, to their eyes, an eternity, he ascended the podium.

Watson Taylor's features had changed somehow, in the last three days. Men who knew him before always thought him a boyish fellow, eager and content with his life, infatuated with Debbie, the kids, and the land around them. He always wore a smile, teeth glistening, and his eyes were wide and expressive, wondering constantly at the beauty of the earth. Now, the face was dark, chiselled, hair winged with silver and white at the temples. His brow was abrupt, low and brooding, lips perpetually compressed into a stern, thin line like scar tissue across an expressionless face. His eyes, for any man brave enough to look into them, were the abode of demons. He mounted the podium with an almost inhuman ease, turning to fix his compatriots, these followers who had once been his friends and companions through life's endless toil. He smiled, the expression strangely foreign on a face once so prone to them. "Friends. Greetings."

At those words, the assembly fell silent, every man and boy in the compact room straining to catch exactly what Watson would have to say. There was magic in his words, a careful, not-quite-sly artistry that carried the listener along like an avalanche, or a tidal wave, moving and calling upon basic forces deep within the soul. The individual had no say in the matter.

"Our time approaches, friends. Soon, we will leave this place, this shelter and planning space so graciously permitted to us these past few days, and make our move, attempt to show the world what it refuses to show itself, expose these 'super-beings' and the fat cats they obey and are sworn to protect, for what they truly are, not any of this hype and publicity, this silver-screen wool that has been pulled over the eyes of the people for generations. We have lost families to these super-powered freaks, one by one, across counties and state lines." The crowd nodded. They all had heard the gossip, seen the papers from this morning: four more families in a single night, butchered and burned, crops across the continent lying in rotten ruins. "And this is what we get for putting our faith in the 'higher powers' to protect us. All we have gotten in return for our faith in these super-freaks is destruction, plague, and death. Now, it is time to make our voices heard by all the peoples, of all the worlds. No matter what happens to any one of us, our message shall go out. People will see that the world, that the order of things, must be changed for their very safety."

More nods, the silence stretching like an over-filled baloon, sidelong glances passed between onlookers. Impatiance, eagerness. Watson's eyes twinkled in a way that just barely hinted at the arrival of a smile which never quite showed its face. "But, you already know these things. Why else would you be here? Why else would you have signed on with me, if you did not know in your hearts that the old order needs changing? If you did not, as any good man would, fear for your families, for parents and children in mortal danger should this travesty continue. You are the few, the brave, the firebrand that will clear away the darkness of the old world, and make for a shining, new day. Am I right?" A pause. No one spoke, no one moved, no one even dared to breathe. "I said, AM I RIGHT?!"

"YES!" The shout was as unanimous as it was powerful, pouring out of fifty throats in unison, echoing and re-echoing against the fragile wooden walls of their improvised meeting chamber.

This time, there could be no mistake. Watson Taylor definately smiled.

"Then, let's do this thing. Alexander?"

"Yes, sir?" Alex Yonkovich was a forty-year old man, powerfully built and dignified, commanding great respect in the community, but when he addressed Watson, there was a palpable overtone of awe and wonder in his voice.

"Did you get everything we need?"

"Yes. Repeater hunting rifles for everyone. The combat armor was a little more difficult, but Toby over here helped just fine." With one weathered hand, corded muscle jutting out against skin aging far before its time, he indicated Sherrif Tobias Morton, lounging against the far wall of the chamber, cool eyes focused on Watson and his podium.

Wat nodded carefully. "And everyone knows the plan?"

Again, nervous nods rippled across the small lake of heads.

"Then let us move quickly. The guests will be arriving soon."

*

As Stell emerged from the Gent's long, white stretch limousine, she immediately had to squint her eyes, one hand coming up to shield herself from the glare of a thousand flash bulbs igniting at once, the snapping and popping of lenses sounding as though a million cockroaches were being simultaneously crushed by a thousand-ton weight. She blinked rapidly to clear away the lights dancing in front of her eyes, tainting her vision a dull purple. All around, on either side of the shielded walkway leading from the street to the entrance of Khazan's Grand Ballroom, reporters and representatives from a million news corporations were clustered like sardines in a tin can, hands working furiously at cameras or note pads. Others simply stared vacantly, neural implants capturing the scene in perfect detail, while robe-clad representatives from the more magickal dimensions made passes in the air, conveying images and commentary back to their viewers through live, real-time scrying. Everyone who wanted to know anything about anyone was here tonight, staring at the powerful of a million universes as they strode up the aisle to the Grand Ball.

She straightened, and noticed with a smile that several of the male reporters had paused to simply stare, take in her long, slender body with its graceful curves, shimmering scarlet silk dress, low-cut and clinging to her skin, the delicate beauty of her features, the way her transluscent, scarlet silk sash enfolded her body like a lover's embrace. Her hair was tied back, heightening the slender, mysterious quality of her features to perfect effect. Green eyes glittered beneath arched eyebrows. She laughed, suddenly unable to contain herself. This was so fun! She hadn't been to a party like this since.... The smile curved down into a small, worried frown, dimly remembered pain washing over her brief excitement. Well, since Camelot.

The Gent's presence at her arm, distant and comforting at the same time, was felt long before she heard his voice. "My lady? Does something trouble you?"

With a shake of her head, she tried to return to the moment, to the elation. Whatever storm was about to come, there was a calm before it, and it was her job to enjoy it as much as possible. She shook her head, features set in an expression of soft amusement. "No, Gent. Nothing's wrong." The returned smile, as if glorying in its rebirth, widened impishly. "Now, let's go, or they'll start the party without us."

*

One by one, two by two, four by four, they arrived, teleportals, limousines, chariots disgorging their contents onto the sidewalk, their every move recorded and observed by hundreds of reporters, and through their eyes, through thousands more throughout the universe. In order to prevent the media from clogging such an elite party, a low-grade forcefield hugged the elegant skin of the grand ballroom, glistening dully against the elegantly sculpted material of Khazan's grand ballroom. Its skin shifted and coruscated through all the corners of the rainbow, clouded by a deep, dusky grey that pulled deceptively at the eyes, beckoning the gaze of reporters and cosmillionaires alike. The Grand Ballroom was one of the wonders of the cosmos, carved and sculpted out of pure neutronium, every gram carefully and meticulously siphoned out of neutron stars across the cosmos and funneled through microscopic wormholes to form one of the most beautiful buildings on any planet. Carefully gravity-neutralized to prevent the neutronium building from crushing Khazan by its density, and equipped with hundreds of failsafe mechanisms ranging from teleportation to instant annihilation should those neutralizers fail, it was posessed of a single, massive, domed story, smoky transluscent windows casting light from the interior about it like a halo. Neutronium statues, held entirely in place by gravitational forces infinitely more cheap and subtle than simple adhesion emerged from the sides, beckoning and guarding, the depths of their smoky-rainbow eyes pulling at the hearts of onlookers, like a mirror to their own souls.

Ceylion Kos, Envoy Primus of the Khyrshid from the Outer Probability Spheres, strolled amiably down the lush silk of the crimson carpet, anti-gravity boots preventing his dense, metallic exoskeleton from puncturing through the flimsy fabric and into the concrete below. Behind him, the twin delegates from Aeyryysi, sprites no larger than a paperback novel, with glittering gossamer wings like butterflies and limbs as thin and fragile as dry twigs. Behind them came Alvin Maske, Chief Officer and President of Maske Incorporated, the interdimensional network currently beating the pants off of all competitors in the ratings market. Reporters eyed him warily as he strode up the aisle, looking for all the world as if it was he who had called the party, and not LaCroix, and promptly deleted their sensor recordings of his figure. No matter the public's right to know, when someone may very well own your life and tenured contract to a news agency come the next dawn, you don't dig up dirt on them. Not even the representatives from the Khazan Daily and the Nexus Examiner, Khazan's two leading tabloids, were that stupid.

Around back, caterers and waiters arrived, every one of them trying desperately to keep down a rising wave of panic. Good service provided tonight could mean a tip large enough to live off of for years, if not indefinately; a single spilled drink could well mean financial ruin. Some crossed themselves, others made quiet obesiences to the deities of their choice, while still others called upon the Allfather for support, although members of that particular cult were few and far between.

Upon passing through the large, ebony double-doors, the guests found themselves confronted firsthand with the reason why Khazan's Grand Ballroom was accounted the best in the entire multiverse. The floors, for one thing, were paved not with normal black and white tile, nor were the tiles even marble. They were, instead, simple grids of diamond and jet, expertly carved and placed across a gigantic, circular dance floor that could have housed an entire stadium. A smaller, gold-bounded circle was enclosed within the larger one, sunk three feet below floor level, where the band sat, their faces coated with nervous, excited sweat. The rim of the band pit was coated with smooth mother-of-pearl, inlaid with sapphire and ruby spacers and tracing. At the far end of the room, a podium of Heartwood, carved in one piece out of the core of a fallen Ll'lteriath of Mystraban, one of the most noble and ancient arborean lineages in all the dimensions, worth more in and of itself than a planetful of gemstones, both in cultural significance and actual value. Any tree-poachers who landed on Mystraban were never heard from again, which meant that the only wood exported was what the natives culled from the fallen forest giants. Tables lined with the delicacies from ten thousand worlds lined the walls, tablecloths spun from the finest silk. The chandelier itself was a wonder of engineering, seemingly a confection of spun crystal that would fall apart if one so much as touched it, thousands of priceless gemstones glowing with their own internal light. What very few visitors knew was that it was, in and of itself, a life form, millions of individual gem-like cells, glowing with their own bioluminescence, linked in one giant paralell-processing neural net. The individual who managed to bring back the intact specimin was rewarded with enough money to keep his great-great-great-great grandchildren in a life of luxury. The glow was like nothing else in the known universe, each minutely varying shade blending into a single, pure white light, while still somehow maintaining their individual colors. The dome above it was a single, massive, uncut diamond.

The band had yet to begin, but, second by second, the time approached. In the meanwhile, from all corners of the omniverse, they streamed in, pausing around the door and speaking pleasantries to one another, engaging in the preliminary skirimishes of the age-old game of power and position played by those who have far too much of both.

Lester William DuLupin LaCroix XVIII's smile widened slightly as he saw Stella pass through the door. The Gent was dismissed out of hand, a simple obstacle to be overcome or avoided, as opportunity presented itself. The woman, now... she had a beauty all her own, secure in herself, not reaching or lacking for anything, simply elegant and perfect. She noted the splendour of the ballroom with an open smile and an appriciative nod, accepting it for what it was, no more and no less. Her stance with regards to her escort was noncommital, more that of a friend than that of a lover of any description Lester had ever heard. The wealthy and powerful, those influential temporally and spiritually, religious leaders and politicos as well as businessmen, individuals responsible for the life or death of trillions, and did not seem the slightest bit intimidated, or impressed. She was strong in herself, unlike all the grinning, self-serving wenches he'd been bedding lately. With such a mind, and a body to boot, beautiful without being unnatural or false in any way, she was easily, instantly, the most desirable woman in the room. Whether the relationship would last longer than a night was something to be worked out later, between the two of them, in private.

Lester smiled. The Guests were arriving, and the Game was already begun. He only hoped they did not miss the opening moves.

#####

"Positraction vibroaction high consumer satisfaction
Eon-fluction noise reduction thermo-spermo-auto-suction
Seven wheels and seven tires lotsa chrome and lotsa wires
12-speed automatic, radio just playing static
Fuel-injected, heat-deflected number pi r squared inspected
Never bested cool infested, Bones-approved and Scotty-tested
Rear window roller grill for wieners, brats and roadkill
And three seven-sided fuzzy dice, it's pretty nice"


~Boris the Sprinkler


Outside the Ballroom, limousines were pulling up, one after another, in
a long line. Celebrity muckrakers and business magazine reporters crowed
the edges of velvet ropes, flashbulbs going off so fast and thick it was
almost like day. They were here to get a glimpse of the creme de la creme,
the most elite of the elite. Everything was up for inspection and
analysis. What dress, who made it, what is made of, why did she wear it?
Who is with who, what is he wearing, how much does he make, is that his ex?
Is that her ex? Everything. They wanted to know everything.

A sleek gray car pulled up to the curb, and the reporters bent forward,
drooling with their eyes. Even legitimate journalists were on the scene,
and as with each limo before they waited, wondering, who was in this
silver-gilded package.

An attractive, dark-haired woman dressed in a white chauffeur's uniform
stepped out of the passenger side door. An equally attractive blond
stepped out of the driver's door, this one in a black uniform. She joined
her companion. "Jane! We're on TV." She leaned forward and beamed, her
smile so huge and bright that some flashbulbs went off.

Jane, encouraged, waved and laughed, "Hi everyone! Me an' April jus' wanna
say how happy we are ta be accepting the award on the behalf a Mr.
Eisner..."

April batted Jane playfully across the shoulder with her black cap. "Shh!
We'll get our asses sued off!" She cleared her throat.

"Ah-h-h-hem. Presenting for all the members of the press..."

"Gathered here on this glorious occasion..."

"The one..."

"The only..."

They spoke together, though not in unison exactly, "DOC AUSTIN!"

"Er," Jane added, "And Alice." They opened the double doors, and out
stepped the aforementioned couple.

There was dead silence from the reporters. Their minds were as one: who?

Doc Austin was wearing the classic white tie and tails, the king of all
eveningwear. Somehow, even though the clothes were perfect, even though
the fit was exact, even though they were the height of good taste, he made
them look rumpled and uncomfortable. He smiled crookedly, increasing the
effect.

Luckily, Alice was by his side, so no one noticed. She was wearing a long
dress, an extremely dark shade of red, either blood or wine. It was lycra,
so tight, so low cut, that the female reporters were speculating as to why
she wore anything at all. The male reporters were lucky to remember which
end of the camera to use. She had no stockings, and shoes of the same
color as her dress, five inch heels.

Together the couple moved down the carpet, Doc Austin moving like a twelve
year old, Alice sashaying, and finally there was an explosion of flashbulbs.

April and Jane were still standing there, leaning on the open doors of the
limousine. "Ahh," sighed, April. "Ain't it romantic. A night at tha
great ball, jus' like a fairy tail."

"Hmmm," said Jane by way of agreement, and both of them smiled dreamily,
staring into space.

HOO-OO-OONK!!

"Acck!"

"Crap!"

The pair jumped, finally noticing the line of expensive cars waiting. "Oh,
hot damn, April, we better find somewhere to park this sweet honey of a
ride!"

"Yah, yah, I think I know a drive-in `round here." They began climbing in
the car.

"Drive-in? Ya don't mean... But that's like twenty minutes from here.
How're we gonna be ready ta pick up th' Prof when he pages?"

The big block V-10 growled to life, as April turned the key and put it in
drive. "Lousy auto," she muttered.

"C'mon, April, the Prof got us this sweet deal, we gotta find another spot.
Let's wait an' follow another driver."

"First of all, it's Doc. Or Doc Austin, not Professor, or Prof, or
whatever the hell. And second..." A huge grin broke over April's face,
and Jane scrambled for the safety belt. A mad gleam came into AprilÎs eye.
"Second, I bet we make that drive-in five minutes, tops."

April put her foot down, the tires screamed, and the reporters watched in
shock as a limousine blasted off faster than any vehicle they'd ever seen.
It left smoking rubber in its wake for the next one to pull up.

-----

If you had told me a year ago today that I would be standing here before the entrance to what everyone is calling the greatest party to happen this century, I would probably tell you that you've hit your drink limit for the night. Such insane ramblings are a tell-tale sign of intoxication.

Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if some depressed drunk mumbled something along those lines to me at one point or another.

Yet here I stand, wearing a dress I never even dreamed of wearing. That's probably because I'm the jeans and t-shirt kind of woman, but bartenders rarely don designer clothing tailored especially to be worn for one night out of their life.

Lucky me.

As Seryph escorts me into the ball, cameras flash in rapid sucession. I almost felt like I could die, if only because the blinding light reminded me of the cliched idea of walking into the pure light of Heaven. For that brief moment a feeling of righteousness falls upon me. The stars aligned, fortuned seemed to smile upon me, and God himself was with me, guiding me down the walkway to my destiny-- to my rightful place in the world.

Seryph and I entered hand in hand. That was when the stars seemed to fall out of place. That was when fortune turned her glistening teeth away from me. That was when God abandoned me in indignant fashion.

Part of my job is understanding the feelings and emotions of those around me. Sure, its not int he job description, but knowing the mental condition of the lonely man at the bar and doing my best to give him some kind of solice within his drink and within small talk is my true job. Such contact makes you atune to the emotions of those around you.
When Seryph grasped my hand slightly tighter than usual, I knew something was wrong with him. His face seemed ablazed with happiness as we graced the halls, walking towards the main ballroom and greeting various dignitaries, celebrities, and other important figures, but that grasp told me that Seryph was distraught. It was then that I directed my observations away from him and towards those that we were greeting.

False smiles adorned almost every person we met on our long passage to the ballroom. Sickening, fabricated politeness.

The disgust was twofold. The men gazed at Seryph with contempt. These men knew who Seryph was, and they knew who he used to be. Perhaps the man was the ruler of a small planetary system that could have used the aid of a powerful hero the likes of which Seryph used to be. But what did Seryph do? He hid within his mortal desire, and did nothing to exploit his powers and help the universe he used to serve. They resented him for not acting in the manner they expected from such a being.

They know nothing of the true Seryph. They know nothing of the trauma he's gone through, and of the services he gave the universe in the past. All that mattered to them was immediate gratification-- gratification they did not receive-- a perceived snub they will never forgive.

The wives and "dates" of the men in question leered at me with disgust. They could see right through my dress which most likely cost as much, if not more, than their tighter-fitting, scantily-cut, "dresses." Such modesty in dress, since I prefer not to show myself on in such a whoreish manner, can only be the markings of someone of lesser station in life. They could see right through my "disguise" of wealth that Seryph bequeathed me for this evening. They could see the real me, and they resented who I was. They knew I was most likely living a life free of the social regiment they were forced to live. I was living my life as I pleased.

Such freedom offended their pampered and regulated lifestyles. All they know is the formulaic life of the rich and famous. You can only dress in this manner, speak in this tone, eat of this food, etc, etc, etc. To break the cycle of social graces is akin to sacrilidge for their sort, and I shattered the cycle without a care.

Serpyh and I endured the bombardment of quiet insults as we managed our way to the ballroom. When we arrived, the tension in Seryph's hand lessened. It didn't leave altogether, but I knew that perhaps there was something left to salvage amist this excess and debautchery...

-----

I almost regret inviting her to the Ball tonight. I may not be one with the universe any more, but my senses still home in on the ills of others. I knew she didn't want to be here, and I could tell she knew I felt the same way. I still don't know why I decided to come to this party. I had the reputation for being Khazan's Anti-Social Socialite, remaining in the public eye while avoiding any sort of public function, especially one of this calibur. But I felt a driving force within me telling me to be here tonight. Perhaps the universe still dwells within me somewhat, and its using that last residue to guide me to my new destiny.

Now that we have arrived at where most of the party-goers are gathered, my tension has subsided. It turns out that most of the resident organizations have sent represntatives to the ball. I was rather surprised to see who the Sentinels decided upon to represent their numbers. While I knew The Gent rather well, good fellow, I was astonished to see the new "recruit," Stella Aurorae, dancing in his arms. Oh, the two made a rather interesting couple on the dance floor, but to see her at such a function instead of someone with a more established reputation within Khazan struck me as a bold move by the Sentinels. Then again I remembered that the Sentinels lack true female lineage. Elwin was married and taking care of two children. Pockets was 12 years old and was probably already in bed dreaming her persona into existence. Other recent recuits such as Nurse Helia were too controversial, especially with her methods for curing the mentally ill. So perhaps the move wasn't quite as bold as I thought, but still shocking to see the inexperienced wade through the sea of the omniverse's top percentile.

Other familiar faces scattered the sea of faceless glamour, but each face was so busy in its thrill of the moment that I wouldn't dare shatter that esctacy with our discomfort.

So we took each other in hand and did our best to emmulate the joy of those few in the crowd we considered our peer to some avail. But we both knew this was not the night we had wished it would be and shared that thought within thedance.

*

Watson's team filed into their waiting cars at exactly five past six, making nervous, last-minute checks on their equipment as they seated themselves. Quietly, they repeated words, over and over. I'm doing the right thing. Constantly, they spoke it, beneath their breath so that no one could hear, and yet somehow they all picked it up. The right thing. The right thing. They were farmers, for God's sake! What business did they have messing with the affairs of the big world? Why make unnecessary enemies? Why make enemies at all? The very concept was foreign to men who lived their entire lives within five miles over each other.

But, there could be no denying that the big folk were in the wrong. Ronnie Hoakes, watching the final preparations from his position in the rear, shook his head, clicking his tongue reprovingly. "If they hadn't brought this on themselves, none of this would be necessary. We're just protecting ourselves." He shook his head again, barking out a sharp, punctuated laugh. "Never thought I'd be into saving the world." At that, he spat his chewing tobacco, expertly striking a nearby rock dead-center.

He heard the onlooker long before the proximity alerts from his armor went off, and slid his arm into the plasma rifle slot. He hoped they hadn't changed much in the twenty years since he was part of the Mercantile Defense Fleet. "Who goes there?"

More silence. He was starting to think that he was just decieving himself, that he had heard a deer that had triggered the proximities. That was it.

Then, the bushes off to his left rustled.

For all his age, Ronnie was neither slow, nor dumb. One gauntleted hand shot out into the bushes, seeking swiftly, and came up holding an adolescent boy firmly by his slightly overlong hair. "What's this, now? Jacob Godric?"

The boy swallowed furtively. "Yes, sir. That's me, sir."

With a nod and a sharp, upward tug, Ronnie forced the boy to his feet, sticking the plasma rifle into the other's gut. "What're you doing here, Jay-boy? This isn't a place for you."

"I want to help." The boy's eyes were cold, and hard, boring into Ronnie's own even through the armor's concealing distortion field.

"You can't Jay. This isn't a job for children. I'm sorry."

"I'm not a child!" Those eyes narrowed, and deep inside them, beneath the sudden surge of crimson rage, Ronnie could see the boy's wound, a deep, sucking sore upon the soul more profound than any mere physical hurt. "I want to help."

Although the very movement pained him, Ronnie shook his head once more. "I'm sorry, Jay, really I am. I know you want to get back at these bastards as much as the rest of us. More, maybe." The boy nodded, and Ronnie clapped him firmly on the shoulder, restraining the power armor's servomechanisms to keep from splintering the comparatively fragile human bone into a thousand splinters. "You don't know what we're getting into, lad." He shook his head, lips compressing into a thin, worried line. "None of us do. Watson'll get us out, maybe, he sounds like he's got the gift. But outside of that..." He shrugged, squeezing Jacob's shoulder. For a moment, he wasn't sure whom he was supporting, the boy or himself. "A war's no place for someone like you, lad. Ye've got your whole life ahead of you, yet. The rest of us...." He shrugged eloquently. "We can go, if that's what need be done to get the word out."

"I'm ready, too." The eyes hardened in fierce determination.

"I don't doubt you are, lad. But, think of it this way. If we all go, if you come with us, and we do fail..."

"You won't. I was listening. Wat's plan is too god too fail."

Ronnie shook his head, one corner of his thin lip crinkling up into a wry smile. "If only the world were that simple, lad. If only." He shook his head, tightening his grip on the child's shoulder. So young, so angry. "But if we don't, we need to know there are people willing to carry on the fight. It'd be a shame to put all our eggs in one basket like that, and loose the battle before it's even begun."

Jay swallowed, secret tears brimming in his eyes. "I- I see."

"Good lad. Now, run along." Ronnie felt his heart quicken with the long-remembered excitement, the calm before the war. Out in front of the small caravan of station wagons, cars, and minivans, Ronnie could just make out Wat's razor-edged profile, long, ragged coat flapping about his limbs in an unfelt breeze. He swallowed, wondering for the hundredth time if he knew exactly what he was getting himself into, and more positive than ever that he didn't. "There's work to do here, yet."

*

The dance was... incredible. Stell, for all her knowledge, could find no other word fit to describe it. When the band had begun to play, the chandelier had burst into a brilliant, cascading rainbow of colors, flowing down onto the amazed onlookers in a rain of pure light, pulsating and flowing with the delicate, many-layered permutations of the music. The band, culled from the greatest musicians throught a hundred universes, were preforming, she felt certain, better than they had in their lives. The food was delectable, morsels and delicacies melting in the mouth into a wave of pure, soul-shattering flavor. Illusions magickal and technological weaved through the onlookers, figures so beautiful they blinded those so foolish as to look at them directly, patterns of light and sound that drew one into the True Dance, abandoning mind and spirit to the pulsing of the Universe's deep beat. That particular enchantment was having some trouble this night, she noted: three times in the last hour, it had flickered, changing imperceptably as maintenance mages funneled more power through the distortion of ley lines required to maintain the effect. Soon enough, it would break altogether, a grim reminder of why she had come to Khazan in the first place.

There was nothing to be accomplished by worrying, however, tonight of all nights. She turned her eyes back to the Gent, a delicate, gentle smile fixed upon that mystifying, gleaming crystalline face. She stared into his sapphire eyes, red lips quirking up in a bemused smile. "You see something funny?"

"Just wondering at your marvelous dancing skills, m'Lady."

She laughed, feeling the latent enchantments twist the crystalline sounds into the delicate melody woven by the band. "You are quite the gentleman. I haven't waltzed in years."

"It is the simple truth, madame, but I thank you for your words all the same."

Of course, she thought with a slim smile, I was in Vienna when the waltz first came into fashion, but that's hardly relevant to the situation.

"And now it is you who are amused," the Gent remarked with a smile nearly lost in the waves of color that washed over his skin.

Step, two, three, Step, two, three, Step....

"Oh, nothing." At his inquisitve gaze, she laughed again. "Just remembering something that happened a long time ago."

"I see."

He was a dear, if not entirely her type. She must have fallen into reminescence ten times in the last day, and he had yet to press her for anything beyond what she revealed herself. A true gentlemen, she thought with a smile. They didn't make them like this very often any more.

Step, two, three, Step, two, three, Step.... They lost themselves in the music, bodies flowing together in a dance without time or moment, a single organism stepping through the dance with the elegant grace of a being created entirely for that purpose.

The blissful reverie was broken by a tap on the Gent's shoulder. "May I cut in?"

Stell's eyebrows rose in amusment as the Gent stepped aside, to reveal the dapper, well-maintained, chiselled form of one Lester William DuLupin LaCroix XVIII, LaCroix of LaCroix. He wore a simple, immaculately tailored black suit, gleaming beneath the light in a way that, while definately not synthetic, did not seem anything like the way ordinary fabric would shine, almost as if the fibers themselves were luminescent. The buttons and cufflinks were elegant, crystal-clear diamonds, the only visible concession to the LaCroix fortunes. Here was a man, Stell remarked quietly, who did not need any gaudy proclamations or banners. Everything about him exuded an aura of money and power, in all its various forms and connotations. He seemed almost more a force of nature than a man at all.

She sketched a curtsy, just low enough to be respectful but not submissive, a greeting between amiable, but not exactly friendly, equals. He raised one eyebrow questioningly, then returned the favor, his bow the exact, male counterpart to hers. She extended her hand, since they were apparently going by court custom, and he bowed lower, just brushing her scarlet glove with his lips before straightening. "I must apologize. I had heard of the beauty of this new member of the Sentinels, but needed to see her for myself before passing any judgements. I am pleased to say, your beauty exceeds even what rumors reached my ears."

Lies, of course. Polite, but a lie all the same. LaCroix would not approach anyone he had not investigated fully. Not, of course, that investigation would do much good on her part, but he would have at least seen telecasts, photos from the SLJ membership archives, even the black-market holovids she knew were circulating through the underworld. Still, his pretense was a charming one. "Why, thank you. I think you exaggerate a bit, though."

The momentary lull in the music gave way to gentle the gentle, mystical tones of an old minor melody, and Lester smiled. "I never exaggerate, especially where women like you are concerned. There is seldom any need." She smiled in spite of herself. He was quite the charmer. "May I have the pleasure of this dance, madame?"

Her eyes darted swiftly to the Gent's passive form, just long enough to note his nod. She widened her smile just a bit. "I'd love to."

With a flourish, he extended his hand, slim, with long fingers and flawless nails. With a nod, Stell accepted it, and found herself drawn in close to his body, his other hand seeking out hers immediately, fingers intertwining with it. As if in response to this movement (although, knowing LaCroix's reputation and the odd nature of the enchantments upon the ballroom), the music quickened, moving at almost a fever pace. He guided her through the next couple steps, until she recognized the dance for herself: old, and Spanish, rythym fast and lusty, a dance made for close friends or lovers, not two people who hardly knew each other. Of course, this mattered to neither of them. Stell met Lester's apparently dauntless desire with a bemused smile, skirt flaring out around her as she twirled away, then back in, two bodies pressed close together.

"Stella." The word was whispered, sliding beneath the music. She twirled once more, then rolled back in towards him.

"Yes?"

"I have no partner for the night."

Her eyebrows shot up in evident surprise, although whether the surprise was the fact that he didn't have a girl to share his bed, or that he was about ten seconds from asking Stell herself, was uncertain.

"There are many... advantages. You are beautiful, intelligent. You would make a perfect mate, so much better than all these eager wenches bent on increasing their own reputation. Come with me, and we'll make a spleandor in the bedchamber unmatched in the cosmos."

At this, her amusement was simply too powerful, and she burst into peals of laughter, melding with the music. LaCroix appeared shocked, as she was sure he must be. Most likely, women very rarely turned down a chance to sleep with one of the most powerful men in the multiverse. "You don't know the first thing about me, LaCroix."

"Call me Lester. And, the funny thing is, I don't need to know. It's enough that you're here, now. The past has no bearing on it. Come to bed with me."

"I'm sorry, but I just can't do it."

If she had thought Lester William DuLupin LaCroix XVIII, LaCroix of LaCroix, was startled after a first rejection, she had no words to describe his second. After the initial shock, his face became calm, placid like an underground pool. He drew her in, so close that their bodies seemed ready to meld into one. "If you want to play hard to get, that's fine. Just think about what you're missing." With those words, he leaned forward, towards her face, mouth pursed as if preparing for a kiss.

A bluish-pink crystalline hand fell softly but firmly upon his shoulder. "Excuse me. May I cut in?"

Stell had to fight to keep her relief from overwhelming the carefully courtly smile. She knew from the ever-so-subtle change in LaCroix's expression that she wasn't doing too good a job of it.

He backed up, of course, bowing respectfully to the Gent as he permitted the pair to continue on their way. In the genteel environment he had been striving to create, there was nothing else to do but cede the dance. Stell knew by the burning light deep in his eyes that he would be back again, later. For now, whough... For now, she was on her own.

"Thanks for the save."

"It is no trouble, m'lady."

And they danced on into the night.

-----

The Fairchild sisters strode into the ballroom almost an hour after the party officially started. If one were to view them from a distance without previously knowing the sisters, one might suspect them to be a couple rather than siblings of the same sex.

Emma remained in her militaristic garb, showing off with pride the numerous medals of commendation she has earned from many planetary governments during her days of mercenary work with the Academy and after her leaving. Her hair was as usual pulled up in a conservative style, without a single hair coming close to touching her proud shoulders.

Emily, on the other hand, had shed the garb of her military order and donned a new skin of femininity. She wore a ballgown of purple modest silk, cut to where her shoulders were bare, but not so low as to expose the rune marking she was given when she entered The Academy's Occult Department. A single white rose adorned her breast, picked from her garden just outside of one of the Fallen's many portalways into Khazan.

"What you call fashionably late, sister, is what I would call being late." Emma snorted with an obvious air of distain.

"Tsk, tsk, Emily. I knew your manners were out of practice, but to utter such bitter words. I'm ashamed to have you as my sister." Emily was in rare form that night, for she was away from the trappings of her sister: quiet rooms, plotting, backstabbing, and back in her natural habitat of the social world.

Her natural talents with the human mind and the Songs they sing allowed her to grace through the crowds of universal elite as if she were one of them. She all but dragged her reluctant sister by the arm as they jumped from foreign dignitary to megacorporation representative. The opportunity to revel in the multitude of Songs as they played in some sort of regal harmony was a rare opportunity after she graduated from The Academy. Years spent lurking in dank halls of ancient castles, chateauxs, and catacombs rummaging for hints of ancient texts does not help a socialable spirit such as Emily truly relish life, no matter what passion it is being sought.

"Well, Senator Ryline..." Emily said with a smile as Emma looked on with obvious boredom. "I understand your irritation over the attack on your homeworld, but this is hardly the time and place to strike a deal. We are here to celebrate this glorious series of battles at the FPL."

With that comment she leaned in and whispered in the Senator's ear. "The western balcony, five minutes." Emily glanced at her sister, who perked up in her solemn manner at the hint of escaping the monotonous party.

"I thought you only wished to enjoy yourself this evening, sister." Emma said with a bit of a smirk.

"Perhaps I misjudged you, Emma. I hoped the escape from you usual station in life would appeal to you. I forget the lure of such traditions sometimes. So... I arranged a little fun for you this evening."

"Always thinking of others. You're too kind."

"You overestimate your sister, Emma. I have my own plans. I hide them in sincerity, while you slap others with your plans. Hence why I love the social life, and you prefer the shady deals such as the one I just arranged for you."

Emma left her sister with a smile and headed for the afore mentioned balcony. Emily gave a polite wave to her sister as Emma turned her back to her, but felt a warm hand touch her bare shoulders. Oh how she hadn't danced in years. But when she turned around, all she saw was a cold set of eyes... and then darkness.

#####

This is the theme song from the tombstone for the ice show of the pop-up
book based on the original catch-phrase coined by the makers of theme songs
everywhere

Promise you'll keep in now, promise you'll sleep on it nevermind the fact
that you're all

Moneyf***s and hand-me-downs and nothing is original now"

~Foibles

Alice was getting bored. Whatever it was Doc Austin was up to, whatever
plans he had, the fact was that in the meantime she was stuck here with a
bunch of rich assholes. All the women wanted to do was talk gossip and
take cheap shots at each other, the eternal struggle for social survival.
All the men wanted to do was stare down the front of her dress, or paw at
her clumsily and call it dancing.

So now she'd found a corner with a small table where no one wanted to be,
at the risk of missing out on something in the social circles. It was a
good place to nurse a cold vodka, and that was what she did. She was
contemplating how nothing in the world was like a good cold vodka, colder
than cold, the very essence of a chill. She found it refreshingly honest
when she was in these situations. That they were still coming up, though,
was bringing her down.

"Excuse me." The voice came from behind her. She'd faced her back to the
party. "May I sit down with you?"

She wasn't sure what she had been planning on saying when she turned
around. She forgot it when she saw him. He was tall, thin, with short
blond hair that was well cut, enough not to draw more attention to itself
than it ought to. That and everything about him marked him out from the
ostentatious wealthy, the upper class with no class.

She laughed a bit, surprising herself with her own flush. "Sure, it's a
free world."

He also laughed a little at her remark as he took a chair. She noticed his
eyes. Not a sparkling clear color, but smoldering and dark. She liked him
a little bit more; she hadn't known that eyes could really even smolder.
He was wearing a vest with no coat, dark blue with very faint pinstripes
and matching pants. His tie was black with a light pattern, and his white
shirt had another pattern which was perfectly complimentary. She spotted
the way it was matched, yoke to sleeve. Expensive. Hand tailored
expensive. He leaned forward, a natural grace filled him out. "I'm really
sorry to break in on you, but you looked familiar."

So did he, but she wasn't sure where from. She felt a little let down
anyway. "Was that all?"

"Well, that, and I had to wonder what a beautiful, graceful, intelligent
woman was doing sitting all alone..."

"Intelligent?" She broke in.

"I took a guess." He continued. "Sitting all alone when by all rights
there should be rich, graceful men lining up to dance and flirt."

Alice laughed again. "Oh? Men like you?" She was flattered still.

He smiled and stood up. "Well, if you insist." He bowed and extended a hand.

A few thoughts went through her head. She considered draining her drink
with a gulp, but decided not to. She regretted it, because it would get
warm, but was thinking maybe she wouldn't mind so much by that time. As
she took the hand, she lastly noted that this stranger was the only man
there who hadn't looked down her dress.

He led her to the dance floor as the band struck up a waltz. He took her
hand and placed an arm around her waist as she held his shoulders. They
moved across the floor, a solitary dance of grace lost amid the greater
crush. A tiny miracle, unnoticed, more precious for all that.

"Now I recognize you," he said, not breaking stride, holding her close but
never more than was gentlemanly. "You're that girl in the Maniacal Heroes.
With the guns. Alice."

"Yes, that's the one." She looked down at their feet. "Going to go look
for a new dance partner? Maybe someone with a little bluer blood, or at
least someone who's never killed anyone?"

"Please. What would you take me for? I'm more like you than them. Truth
be told, I'm actually a fan of yours."

She looked back up at him. His eyes were depthless, and he wasn't lying.
"Really?" She stepped in closer to him. "Well. That's great."

They danced for some time.

*

The space between instants is a thankless one, an eternity in the soft place between heartbeats, the crevices in conscious thought. He walked that road now, face calm, wings stretched out to their fullest extent as they beat against an unseen breeze. There was no wind in this static now, in the endless moment, nothing for the wings to catch. Nothing save time.

Upon his forehead, the third eye glistened darkly, like a negative lantern that sucked in the surrounding light instead of pouring forth its own brilliance. The other eyes, twin blue, were closed now, their view of light, life, all the things of the physical world, blocked. What mattered was not the minor vagaries of matter and energy that cluttered his path. All he needed was the careful, trusting guidance of the flowing river of Time. His sneakers tred lightly over darkness, stretching eternally on all sides. Occasionally, a light would burst into full brilliance, then die again so swiftly that he was left unsure as to whether or not he had seen it at all, or simply imagined it.

Bryn Shima walked the Planck Time, the division of instants beyond which any further division is meaningless, the temporal boundary of the multiverse. There was nothing here, nothing but Time. And himself, of course. The elaborite branchings of history and future whispered softly in his ear. None other walked these roads, not even those mortals who felt that it was given to them to control time, to control the warp of reality itself. Bryn found himself smiling at that statement. Controlling Time, indeed. One might as well attempt to control the very fabric of existance itself, go against the will of the Omniverse in creating something that was, perhaps, not meant to be. Even then, though, there was some reason for it. All beings were part of the universe. All motives, all actions, and all results were the province of Time and Space, and that which was Beyond. Foolish, then, for anyone, however powerful, to think he could truly force Time in any way. Alterations, changes, all were built in to the Fabric in a pattern that, even after fifteen years, he was still nowhere near to fully understanding.

Or, at least, that was the way things had been. Looming ahead on the vast, ever-branching, yet constant, paths of Time and Destiny, he could feel the holes in the weave, the gaps and starts as strands of lives and years seperated out from one another, spindling off into a great, ragged tear that spanned... everything. During his long walk, he had examined it over and over again, searching from the highest to lowest probability factors, all across the multiverse. Everywhere, it was the same. To one so used to the effortless, flowing continuity of the moment, that jagged, pathetic end, strands of life and light fading out into the endless darkness, was worse than abhorrent. It twisted his stomach and spirit. Several days ago, by his own reckoning, he had vomited up the little food that remained in his body upon the side of the path.

Finally, his journey was drawing near an end. He could feel weakness slowly seeping through his limbs, fighting against his drive. It would be so nice, so easy, to lie down and sleep here, sleep forever in the mists that seperated the smallest instant from reality. That was the danger of walking outside time, outside space: here, too, where existance gave out, the Void continued on, forever. He walked an edge as fine as that of the concealed sword he now carried, weapon, protection, and badge of office all at once. A chill passed over him, and he knew that he was not alone out here, in the border of No-time, even if there was nothing which could percieve or interact with him in any way. Terminus, he who walks the boundaries, kept guard. For a brief instant, Bryn knew what it felt like to be an ant beneath a magnifying glass, to feel the briefly overwhelming heat of ultimate perception. He walked on.

Here. The voice spoke to him in a medium that was neither precisely sound or thought, but something deeper. It was not even a voice, really, just an impression of absolute certainty. He looked down, beneath his feet, and the mists rolled back. There, far beneath him, Khazan glistened like a miniscule, perfectly formed marble, set amidst a black velvet basket lined with diamond stars.

It was time. There were things he needed to do.

The wings folded back in upon themselves, and he twisted his body like an olympic diver, leaping forward into the breach in the nothingness-mist.

The Avatar of Time fell towards the world.

*

Just on the edge of Khazan City proper, Watson Taylor's caravan paused, pulling into the lot of Annelyn Munni's Caterers, Inc. #44579, local outpost of Khazan's finest catering service. He emerged from the lead car, dark form seeming like a black cardboard cutout against the night, the only relief from that shifting, matte form being the deep, sapphirine flames of his eyes, pupils darting from point to point without ever resting for long in a single place. The lower half of his face was shrouded by a scarf, the upper shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat.

The lot's automatic doors gave way meekly before him, his step soundless as carefully cushioned shoes bore him across tile and carpet to the front desk. There was a woman seated behind it, pretty, with a nice body, but not what anyone would automatically proclaim "beautiful" by any stretch of the term. A white nametag on her trim, maroon vest announced in cheerful crimson lettering, 'Hello! My name is Jenny.' She looked up as he approached, boredom replaced instantly by a false, cheerful smile. "Hello! Welcome to Caterers Incorporated. How can I help you?" She was obviously a new employee, her voice yet to acquire the bored slurring which blurred the sentence into a single quick, neatly expressed word.

"I am a representative from the party at the Grand Ball. I was told to check why our order had yet to arrive."

The woman blinked, eyelids clearly defined by excessively-applied mascara. "Our orders weren't due for another half-hour, at least." Suspicion arrived like a flood of molasses, slow, inescapable, and impossible to get out of your hair. "Do you have any identification?" Her hand fell to a concealed switch behind the desk, most likely an alert for the workers in the kitchen.

"I am sorry to inform you that half an hour from now will be too late. I have been sent to deliver the goods... personally."

For a second, their eyes locked. She immediately turned away from the fires deep inside those bottomless pools. "Okay, mister, just stay right there. I need to check this out with the manager." Watson knew she was lying. She knew Watson knew she was lying. For a briefly exhilerating moment, Whatson could almost smell her fear through the heavily-applied perfume, drugstore-bought, the same Mary Johnson had worn on their fifth date in eleventh grade, the night he had convinced her to come behind the barn with him... He could see this Jenny's finger fall upon the alert button. Intercom static crackled through the room. Other than that, nothing happened. Her eyebrows rose in unvoiced alarm.

Before she could move, Watson's hand fell to a small signal box clipped onto his belt, black-gloved finger pressing the key three times in quick succession. "I would like to start by apologizing for the inconvenience." Just as he came to the end of the sentence, the two rear doors, one marked "Kitchen" and the other marked "Manager", slammed open. Four cooks, their white coats and aprons sodden with sweat and spilled food, were herded into the foyer by Watson's men, their faces safely obscured by their armor's distortion masks. The Manager's office door veritably exploded outwards, lock crushed by a force far greater than any a mere man would be capable of exerting. Ronnie Hoakes stood there, enveloped from head to foot in the sickening, pseudobiological sheen of his old combat armor, kept all these years since he fought in the Corps wars. It was skin tight, almost unbreakable, the biosynthetic fibers and plasmoid exterior working far more efficiently than any cumbersome Mech servos and bulletproof shields. Ronnie shook his head, the front of his skull a blank plane of matte darkness. His voice came out through a synthesizer, altered to the point where even a man who had heard him speak his entire life would not recognize its tones.

"Sorry, boss. Doesn't look like there's anybody here."

The corners of Watson's thin lips turned distinctly downwards beneath his scarf. The eyes blazed, and before anyone could move, a large, menacing-looking maser pistol appeared in his hand, as if by magic. In a fraction of a second, it was out and pointed at the woman, shrunk in her fear to a mere slip of a girl, just trying to earn a buck by working late nights. "Where is the manager?" His voice was steady, smooth enough to bely that anything out of the ordinary had just occured. Ronnie shivered beneath the armor's smooth covering.

Jenny swallowed hard, trembling visibly as the cold metal barrel rested itself against her skin, not a threat but a cold promise of things to come. She opened her mouth, but could not speak.

"Where is he, girl?" Watson's thumb fell upon the "charge" switch, and the high-pitched whine of the weapon increasing its power level to full wove its way through the tense silence.

"I- He's out for the rest of the evening." She swallowed hard, sweat beading on her forehead. "I-I-I-"

"Say it."

"I'm in charge."

Watson's eyes glimmered like the blade of a knife in a dark alley. "There, now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" She said nothing. He pressed the barrel against her temple, the chilled metal looking as if it were about to burrow its way beneath her skin. "Was it, now, girl?"

"No." The word was quick, terse. She was frightened. Ronnie could see that Watson knew, that he liked it. For not the first time, Ronnie wondered exactly what he had gotten himself into.

Wat's voice was coldly welcoming, offering the girl a way out, an opening she could spring through if she was just brave enough to take the step. "Well, then, you can help us."

Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the small sea of black-swathed shapes, and she swallowed again. The gun against her head burned like a hot coal. "How?"

"So glad you asked. You see, we're concerned citizens. We need your vans and uniforms for about an hour, and then you'll have them back. No trouble."

"I can't-"

Wat slid around the corner of the desk like a gleaming, black pit viper, eyes shining. He grabbed the girl's shoulder with one leather-gloved hand, moved the gun from her temple to the back of her head, and shoved her forward until she was face-down on the desk. His hand trembled, so tightly was he gripping the pistol butt. "Jenny, you need to think very carefully in the next few seconds about what you can and can't do."

"I-"

Wat's finger slid onto the trigger, the leather of the glove creaking ominously. His grip on her shoulder shifted, so as to minimize the risk of skull chips striking the back of his hand.

She gave a little yip as the sound reached her ears, running all up and down the spinal cord. A single tear of fright rippled down her cheek to pool upon the surface of the formica desk. "I'll help! I'll help!"

"I'm glad of that, Jenny, I really am. Aren't you glad?" She nodded. "Now, when do the drivers get back?"

"Five minutes from now. They're due to pick up the food, then head straight to the party. We've got traffic passes lined up and everything."

"Do they talk to anyone before going out again?"

She swallowed hard. "They have to come in here to clock in before and after every delivery. Company policy."

"And they wear uniforms?"

"Yes."

Watson nodded slowly, a thin smile growing beneath his black scarf. "Good." With a single, swift move, he drew back the maser and swung it, hard. The barrel caught Jenny on the rear, right corner of the skull, tearing away hair, skin, and flesh. She collapsed, unconscious, blood streaming out of the wound to pool onto the desk. He spoke without turning around. "Stun them." The high-pitched whine of laser rifles set on low power punctuated the gravelike silence. Four bodies collapsed to the tiled floor.

Somehow, a spray of blood had stained the back of his glove. Roughly, he wiped it off on Jenny's jacket, the dark crimson fluid blending in seamlessly with the uniform. Watson Taylor and his friend both smiled to themselves. A secretary and four kitchen boys. Hardly a fitting beginning to a war, but stranger things had happened.

Watson Taylor and his friend turned, both looking out of the same set of eyes. Their smile was cold as the tundra. "We don't have much time. Let's move."

#####

The lights are going down
It's late at night in an early town
Save yourself don't hang around
Put your dreams in lost and found

I know that you want to stay
I know that you'll run away
Your eyes are on the ground
It's closing time in an early town"

~J Church

There was a break in the music. The band was resting, the dance floor
became a crowd of milling, buzzing couples, slowly filtering back out into
the rest of the room.

As Alice stepped away from the stranger he smiled and said, "I'll be right
back. I'm going to get my coat. Maybe we can go out on a balcony and
watch the light show. I hear it's something spectacular."

"Great. That sounds really great." She watched him make his way through
the crowd, out of the room. Then she went back to her table.

Doc Austin was sitting there. He was still in his white tie and tails, the
suit was still immaculate, and he still looked uncomfortable as hell. He
raised his glass to her, a martini. "You're looking pleased as punch. The
cat who shot the canary, ya might say. Y'know I can't get one of these
bands to play my requests."

She sat down. "Oh? You mean for some reason they aren't interested in
playing ÎBlitzkrieg Bop?' Or something by the Dead Kennedys?"

"Yeah. I bet they just don't know Îem. Man, when did ballroom dance
musicians forget how to party?" He took a sip. "Ahh, ÎIt's Martini Time,'
not even the Rev' Horton Heat. Blah." He replaced his glass and leaned
forward. "So. You get anything?"

"What?"

"When you were talking to him. What did he tell you that made you so
pleased. It's got to be good."

She gave him an odd look. "He didn't say anything. He's just a fan, or
something. We're going to watch the light show."

"Ho, boy." Doc Austin sank down with his chin in his hands. He had his
bad-news smile on his face. "Ah hell Alice. You don't... Your dance
partner there, he wasn't some fanboy. That was Barrabus."

She sprang to her feet, no small accomplishment in those heels. "What?"
She looked around. Her dance partner wasn't anywhere to be seen. "What?"
She balled her hands into fists. "That- That BASTARD!" She drained her
vodka, even though it was warm. "If I find him again, I'll kill 'im!"

Alice stalked off, still shouting, ignoring the looks she got. "I'll kill
the bastard!"

Doc Austin trailed after her. "What did he do? What?"

"The hell with this f***ing lame-ass party. I am f***ing out of here. I'm
going to go find Rommel, see what's going on." Alice stormed away as Doc
Austin slowed and stopped, watching.

There was a brief silence in her wake. He looked around and ran a hand
through his hair. "Well, I guess the party's over for us." He began
heading for the exit, as well, pulling off his bow-tie, tossing off his
jacket, and leaving them behind. "It was pretty weird wandering around
with no gun, anyway."

He went out of the Grand Ballroom, picked up his overcoat, and began
walking towards the hotel door. He paused there, turned to face the inside
of the motel. For the benefit of the few people wandering through the
foyer, he threw a fist in the air and pumped it, shouting, "Gabba Gabba
We-Accept-You We-Accept-You One-of-Us!" Then he left.

*

Considering the clientelle the Grand Ballroom was to host that evening, security had been tightened considerably. Caterer's vans were given a certain time for arrival and departure, food was run through seventeen different types of scans before being presented in the Ballroom itself. Of course, anyone who was anyone wore their own mollecular analyzer, just in case, but the fewer incedents, the better.

For such a high-profile evening, there had been surprisingly few problems thus far. Of course, the normal assortment of cranks had called in with threats of bombs, of gas, of super-powered attack. The very nature of the Ballroom made it invulnerable to most conventional forms of attack, so the crank calls ranged from rediculous to highly ingenious and amusing, but were ultimately harmless across the board. Two loads of X'trextx fish were caught containing slight traces of IC-973, a nameless, incredibly toxic poison previously thought to only be found in the SLJ laboratories, and that had proved enough excitement for everyone concerned. By now, deliveries were beginning to come in full force, and the security men weren't quite able to give each shipment the attention it deserved.

The maintenance queue at the back entrance was about thirty vans long, including the four-van shipment which had just arrived from Caterers, Inc. They were sandwhiched between the ungainly, armored truck containing ultra-rare A'terr Sweatmeats and a shipment of rosemary wine. Due to some commotion about rotten meat up at the front of the line, nobody noticed the door of the lead Caterers' van slide open just long enough to emit a night-cloaked figure, carrying a suitcase so heavy he staggered under its weight, despite his obvious size and bulk. Quickly, he crossed the intervening space between the Caterers vans and the A'terr Sweatmeats truck in front of them. Half a second later, the loading bay of the A'terr truck was opened, the suitcase inserted, and the doors closed once more.

The figure nodded once, regarding his handiwork for a brief instant, then turned, walking slowly and deliberately for a side street. He glanced back once, regretfully. He wouldhave liked to stay, but Watson said it was for the best. He shook his head, saluted the lead van, and broke into a run. The night swallowed him.

*

Alfred J. Pittmann, security man with the interplanetary firm of Bartlett and Daughter, yawned as he glanced over the x-ray scans of the latest supplicant for entry into the Grand Ballroom of Khazan. The truck was clean as a whistle: no illegal substances, no explosives, no apparent viral or biological contaminants. The driver was even a Cenidarian, a race whose biochemistry was completely incompatable with most human intoxicants and hallucinogens. Apparently, Calpus Caterers had done their homework. Out of sheer boredom, he gave the scan printout another once-over, then hit the red "APPROVE" button. "You're clear, Calphus. Drive safely."

"Have a nice night, S-1." The van drove on, and Alfred yawned again. He was going to have to impound a coffee truck pretty soon. Betty had kept him up all last night, with one thing and another. He was grateful, of course, but that didn't make this job any easier. He sighed, and pushed the intercomm button. "This is clearance outpost S-1. Please pull through to the white lines. Keep all hands and/or other appendages inside the vehicle at all times." Outside his little explosion-proof booth, he dimly heard the computer repeating the phrases in six or seven of the more common cross-probabilistic dialects. The waiting vehicle had some trouble negotiating the opening in the large, adamantium wire mesh gates, but finally got clear, pulling all the way up until his vehicle was all the way between the two white lines.

The 'SCAN' button on the console blinked green. Alfred depressed it, a slow annoyance building inside him. Push buttons, next please, push buttons, next... This had not been what he had in mind when he signed up for what was likely to be Barlett and Daughter's most high-profile contract for the next ten years. He had expected at least a little excitement. Of course, he couldn't complain, the overtime pay was more than enough to....

Night silence was shattered by the wailing of alert klaxxons as the lights in the observation booth briefly cut off, then turned a bright, glaring red. Alfred's pulse quickened, hands trembling slightly upon the keys, suddenly wide awake. In his sudden, unexplainable rush of nervousness, he had to try three times before successfully thumbing the intercom switch. "Hold, please. Contraband materials have been detected aboard your vessel." His gazes swung back to an internal schematic of the vehicle, formed in a split instant by millimeter-wave radar and x-ray pings. In the back of the cargo storage space, a single, large rectangle blinked an angry red. With the eager smile of a schoolboy opening a christams present, he amplified the scan's resolution, peering through the thin leather of the briefcase and at what was inside. He thumbed the intercomm switch again, more irate this time. "Exit your fehicle presently. Highly dangerous contraband hads been detected inside the vehicle itself. STand aside and wait further instructions."

Alfred did not even watch to see if the drive obeyed his instructions. The man was not stupid, whatever he was elseways. He tightened the beam further, zooming in until the contents of the red box were deadly clear: three dissassembled heavy pulse rifles, with seven power packs for each, weapons with enough power to punch a millimeter-wide hole through a meter of solid adimantium. This was bad. His hand moved from the intercomm switch to the emergency alert. "This is S-1, we've got a Code 93. Get someone out here now."

The commlink crackled in response. "On our way." Alfred nodded in satisfaction. Nothing was getting by on his watch, no sir.

A van pulled up along the side of the security booth. One of its tinted windows rolled down, and the driver, a human wearing a gleaming, slightly off-white uniform, leaned out the window. "Hey, buddy!"

Alfred turned, triggering the intercomm again. "Yes?"

"Look, man, I'm sorry to hurry you up here, but is this going to take very long? We're in a bit of a hurry here.... This food was due ten minutes ago, and I've got to get my bets in for the Contest finalists before the bookies close. Got a tip yesterday."

Alfred smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry. Strict policy."

"Can't you let it slide just this once? I'll submit to a full search, anything you want, just so long as we can keep moving. If I'm gone too long, the home office'll dock my efficiency report." He waved in the general direction of the truck in the holding bay, currently swarming with Security agents. "It looks like you're going to be here for a while."

Glancing back at the holding bay, Alfred nodded once, tersely, then switched over to the security tightband channel. "S-1 to base, S-1 to base."

[Base here, go ahead.]

"I've got a driver here that says he's ten minutes overdo, and we're in the middle of a bust. If he just drives through, can we give him a hand-scan?"

[Not recommended.]

"Have a heart, Base. The guy's going on an efficiency rating here." Alfred detested the Efficiency Rating System. It amounted to little more than an excuse to keep the working man in constant slavery, threatening constantly to dock his efficiency, and thus his wage-earning potential for the near future. It had fallen out of use in central Khazan, but a few multidimensionals still subscribed to it.

Base was silent for a long, tense moment, before the reply came. [Cleared, S-1. Send him through Gate Seven, we'll scan him before he offloads.]

"Understood." Changing back to the intercomm, Alfred spoke again. "You're cleared through Gate Seven, sir. A security team will escort you to the Ballroom entrance, then scan you before you offload."

"Thanks, man. I really appriciate this."

"It's no trouble. Just make sure the bet's a good one." The "GATE OPEN" key clicked angrily.

"Gotchya." The man smiled as the opening to the complex swung wide before him, and gunned the accelerator. Streetlamps glimmered upon the yellow and black Caterers, Inc. logo as they drove into the night.

*

*

At seven distinct points, all carefully measured so as to be precisely one block outside the security cordon on the Grand Ballroom, seven figures strode calmly out of the darkness. Consulting municipal planning schematics, they raised carefully calibrated laser drills to their shoulders and fired, aiming at the ground, directly above where the cables were supposed to be. The beams of reddish-green energy sliced through stone and steel as easily as an Avatar's sword through a steel bar. Almost simultaneously, they widened the beam, causing a wide cone of material to liberate itself into the surrounding air, releasing simultaneously enough heat to singe their eyebrows, melt the synthetic fiber of their jumpsuits. Nodding in approval, they tossed the drills into the small pool of molten rock and metal, turned around, and walked away. Their job for the day, whether they liked it or not, was done.

*

The spotlights died, plunging the world into the inky darkness of Hell's ditch. The officer turned around swiftly, staring up at the dead lights. The lights were off, and there were no alarms. This was not, to say the least, expected. "What the hell?"

He never saw the driver's open, smiling face change in a fraction of an instant to one made entirely of hard planes and angles, still human, but at the same time something horribly Other. He never saw the maser barrel gleaming in the moonlight. He never felt the bolt of searing heat that struck the back of his skull, boring through helmet, hair, skin, and skull to enter his fragile brain. Neural pathways burned, melted, and reached flash point in a fraction of a second. The officer's head exploded like a ripe melon, the maser beam passing through the rapidly-expanding mist of blood and skull fragments to strike the metal loading dock, where its heat disappated instantly into the massive edifice of steel.

Watson Taylor smiled. His friend smiled with him.

Behind him, a sudden burst of terrible noise broke the silence, then died instantly. Fifteen bodies thudded to the concrete in quick succession.

With a nod, Watson emerged from the driver's seat, shutting the door behind him to stare at the Rorsach pattern scribed in blood upon the glossy white paint, just obscuring the Caterers, Inc. logo. Reaching up with his left hand, he inserted one finger into the collar of his uniform and pulled sharply downwards, ripping away the tough fabric with a single, sharp tug.

A movement in the corner of his eye attracted his attention, and he turned. The officer still stood, uniform soaked with blood that still gouted from an unclosed jugular vein. Fragments of his lower jaw clung desperately to what little remained of the skull. He staggered around aimlessly, hands jittering, an empty space where his head used to be.

Watson laughed. He stepped up to the staggering body and shoved it sharply. It collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. He turned on his heel and walked towards the rear of the van.

The others were already assembled there, standing over the fallen bodies of the security men, casting worried glances at the barrels of their pulse rifles. They looked as if they were about to fall apart, but, Watson's friend whispered silently, anyone with eyes could see the new, fire-forged steel inside them. They were his now, perhaps more than ever. They sketched ragged bows in greeting. Jonathan Katsuo was the only one who spoke.

"It is done."

Watson nodded, and moved. Before anyone could react, the maser pistol was in his hand, finger squeezing the trigger like a man who had used the weapon all his life. A single bolt whined off into the night.

They stared at him in astonishment. "Watson? What the hell'd you do that for?" In their confusion, they almost missed the low-pitched groan of anguish that emanated from an apparently empty night. They turned, staring.

Blood leaked from a hole in the air. Under the astonished eyes of Wat's commandos, the hole widened, revealing the sleek, gyrating fabric of a chameleon fiber jumpsuit. The discontinuity spread outwards, revealing the astonished face of a security trooper, halfway through the action of raising a menacing-looking plasma cannon. Wat fired off another shot, and the man's head vanished in a mist of gore.

The men looked at him with a new respect, quiet and wondering. Watson glanced behind him. The doors were not closing. The alarms had not gone off. Team B had done its job well.

The lower half of his face was revealed, now, and the men, his men, could not resist a shiver of abject horror at the knifelike determination of his smile. "Let's go."

*

Three blocks south of the Grand Ballroom, Ronnie Hoakes stood, staring curiously at the barely-visible structure. Even from this short distance, it looked like toy from a child's playset, a magical castle filled with wonders and light. Colors danced just beneath the surface of the smoky-gray nutronium superstructure, reminding Ronnie of the oil that slicked out from his tractor when it lay idle in the summertime, sickeningly corrupted rainbows upon a transparent surface. One of his hands clenched into a fist, and unclenched, clenched, unclenched. It was a habit of his, when he was nervous, something picked up in the Wars, something he had never had the time or the willpower to get rid of. Seeking treatment would mean reliving those days, if only for a few moments. And yet here he was, now.

The Armor whispered softly in the depths of his mind, a constant, low hum that assured him, in words no one else could hear or understand, that everything was completely functional. It was his last relic from the Wars, the only thing they had let him keep, the only thing he had wanted to: a SemTek 9970 Terrain-compatable Armor Unit, one of the finest war machines ever created in the history of combat. While ordinary mechanized armor was technological in nature, based on hydraulics, camshafts, repulsorlifts, and, above all, electricity, the TAU was biological, a true symbiont, neurogenically bonded to its host. The suit's muscles were formed of organic carbon compounds, based on spider-silk, ten thousand times stronger than anything a normal human could ever hope to aspire to. It covered his body, perfectly skin-tight, glistening darkly, like dried blood beneath the streetlamps, reinforced organic-adimantium exoskeleton strong enough to stop a railgun round dead in its tracks. With a small smile, Ronnie directed a thought to the Armor, and felt the fluidlike suit around his fingers lengthen, narrowing and hardening into diamond-sharp claws. KOMBG had bought out SemTek years ago, now, but one of the biological researchers from the old company had trashed all the data and schematics. Very few units survived intact. His was one of them.

Ronnie had been infected with the TAU virus twenty years ago, late in the fall, and hadn't recovered until the early spring. He remembered the pain, terrible, excruciating, as if every nerve in his body had been transformed into a white-hot wire and dragged through muscle, sinew, and flesh. He had screamed so loudly, for so long, that even the most advanced medical technology available had been unable to fully repair his vocal chords. Whenever he spoke too loudly, now, his words were overlaid with a rasping, deep whine that cut through his voice like a knife through mist. When he recovered, finally, they had taken him to the Armor, placed him inside. The first time the oily liquid rolled over his bare, shaved skin, it felt like a rain of lava, melting epidermis and dermis into small puddles of orangish ooze, flowing off his bones.... He had fainted. When he recovered, there was a new voice in his head. The Armor was there for him.

Later, he learned what had happened: SemTek had needed a guinea pig, someone to test the TAU-model's neural parasite on. His torture enabled them to correct bugs, problems in the retrovirus' DNA structure, without going through the Human Experimentation Bureau. Due exclusively to sales of the 9970 TAU's, SemTek stock quintupled over the next quarter, setting the stage for the buyout by KOMBG. The boys at the top became billionaires. Ronnie got a parasite in his head that, in all liklihood, would cut his lifespan by twenty years, even with the most advanced medical treatment.

There was one small bonus, however. As a result of SemTek's untested retrovirus, he had a closer mental bond with the TAU than any other operator in the omniverse. He was, simply put, the best of the best.

Ronnie smiled grimly. It really was ironic. The instrument they had used to torture him for so long, would now be their downfall.

He wondered what time it was.

The Armor whispered the answer to him, voice soft, almost subliminal, breaking through his defenses like a lover's caress. Ronnie shivered in pure pleasure as he ordered it to come online, feeling an almost coital rush as energy left his body, flowing into the suit, and back through his mind in a fraction of an instant, building towards a devastating climax.

It was time. He hunkered down in a runner's crouch, feeling the miles of tense, arachnofiber muscle contract with him.... and leapt.

*

"Look, Lester, didn't we go through this already?" Stell sighed, grabbing a champaign glass of Rylethan tequila and downing it in one gulp.

He laid one arm on her shoulder, hand kneading into the soft skin. Even in her currently flustered state of mind, she had to admit it felt rather good. She almost felt sorry when she shrugged him off. Almost. "But, my dear, think of what could happen. You are a star now, yes, for a few days in the arena, but what then? With me, you would be the glory of ten thousand systems, of hundreds of universes!"

"I'll make do, thanks." She held the glass out to the bartender for a refill, which she promptly recieved.

Lester shook his head again, doggedly persistant, and leaned in close, body pressed against hers, mouth almost touching her ear. "I could make you a goddess. Would you like a religion fashioned around you? Just say the word. Say yes."

He never saw Stell's muscles suddenly tense, never noticed the gleam of the chandelier upon the glass of tequila before the liquid splashed him flush in the eyes. Staggering back, he cried out, daubing rapidly at his face with a handkerchief, eyes blinking quickly to scatter the infuriating liquid. He straightened himself, eyes watering, to stare in astonishment at Stell. "What-" He broke off as he saw the fire in her eyes.

Where seconds before there had been a beautiful woman, there was now.... a beautiful woman, still, but changed. She advanced slowly towards him, flames raging in the depths of her green eyes. Rage and power rose in her, a twin spiral of destruction, reaching towards the breaking point. She smiled, and he drew back, stricken by the fixed determination in that gaze. "Take care, Mortal." She struggled to control herself, to keep the wrath from breaking through into her voice, into her Voice. Memories flashed past her, of a place far away, a time long past... a Fall. Two points on he shoulder blades itched slightly, the pain growing in twin with her anger. "You know not what you speak."

She took another step forward, and he staggered back, still half-blinded by the drink in the face. In his hazy vision, Stell stood out as if her figure had been carved of blazing adamant, skin catching the chandelier light and reflecting it into a shimmering, blinding flame. He gaped in astonishment, feeling something quite akin to fear quickin in the depths of his stomach...

And the danger was gone. Stell sagged against the table, clutching her head in both hands, groaning in sudden pain. A vision knifed through her skull, splitting thoughts wide open like a rotten melon.

flying air coming black darkness flight shape threat...

*CLUNK*

Her eyes shot open, gaze rising swiftly to the cieling, ignoring the amazed stares of the partygoers around her. There, above, on the roof... Was that a black shape atop the dome, silhouetted against the night? She couldn't quite make out...

An creaking instant was all they had to react, as stress fractures appeared, spiderwebbing the solid diamond lens. "Get down!" The figure - if it was a figure - made a sharp, downward motion, as if hacking with some unseen tool, and the diamond dome, pride of the Khazan Ballroom, shattered into a million thin, crystalline shards, raining down upon the ballroom floor. The rich and powerful of ten thousand cultures scattered for their lives, running for cover beneath tables, closets, overhanging platforms, anything that looked as though it would provide the slightest bit of cover. Smoke erupted from somewhere, covering the room in a blinding, noxious fog. Stell heard sharp, staccatto coughs punctuate the dead silence that followed the initial screams. Stell herself had managed to vault over the impromptu and hide beneath it just before the cieling broke. Somehow, Lester had found a place next to her. His shocked, almost frightened breathing hissed loudly in her ears. She shook her head sharply. Damnit. What made me loose it like that? I was doing so well, even with these last few days taken into account... so well.... Damn.

So caught up was she in her own thoughts that she nearly missed Lester opening his mouth to speak. "What the-"

She shook her head sharply, grabbing his shoulder with a viselike grip in order to keep him from standing up. There was something about this that just plain didn't feel right. Breathing hard, she remained in her low crouch, waiting.

As it turned out, she didn't have to wait long. When the smoke cleared, a voice called out to them, coldly inviting. "You, behind the bar. Get out here. Now." There was something about that voice, so contemptuously commanding, that sent a shiver down her spine. Pursing her lips tightly, she stood, silently preparing herself for the worst.

The damage to the hall itself, apparently, had not been that extensive. The shards had been too small to cause any really comprehensive damage, beyond pits and scores that marred pillars and statues, and long, jagged scrapes along the floor, where contact had worn off some of the jem-polish. Most of the guests appeared unhurt, beyond a few minor gashes. The most seriously injured person looked to have a broken arm, blood from the deep laceration soaking his shirt. This kind of thing, she had been prepared for.

What she hadn't been expecting, however, was to stand up to find a black-garbed squadron of armed soldiers standing near the kitchen entrance, holding pulse rifles carefully trained at the cowering groups of multiquadrillionaires. A large, suspiciously organic-looking monstrosity of claw, tooth, and blade rose out of the band pit, face a blank pit of nothingness. It regarded the other occupants of the room coldly, as one might a child, an inferior. Its right hand clenched and unclenched in an even, measured rythym. The unconscious bodies of the band lay sprawled out around it.

The kitchen doors swung open, and a black-clad man stood there, ragged clothes drifting about him in an unfelt breeze, the stern face an amalgam of planes and hard angles. Inside those ice-blue eyes, Stell recognized another version of the fire that had dominated her own a mere moment before: colder, perhaps, but more cruel, more lasting, like a poisoned barb in the skin.

The dark man smiled a single, chilling smile, and spoke. "Greetings, leeches."

That caused a stir amongst the partygoers, some reaching for hidden pagers and thinking better of it, others shouting in helpless anger. The man smiled, and his icy gaze silenced them all. Stell's eyes flashed across the room, just in time to see the Gent lower his hands, as if he had been about to do something, and then thought better of it.

"I am Watson Taylor. I am sorry to interrupt your... gathering." He sneered as the word emerged from his lips, twisting it into something hideous and evil. "But there are things which must be said." His glare bored into the crowd, as if daring someone to challenge him. No one did. The pulse rifles glistened with the joy of a newly-blooded knife beneath the chandelier, still shining despite the recent commotion.

Stell opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. The weapons were pointed at strategic points around the room, towards Lester, towards a media mogul who owned three galaxies, to the lead shareholder in MediCorp Industries, largest medical multidimensional conglomerate in the known multiverse. The armored being was glaring menacingly at a group of individuals consisting of the owners and presiding officers of three multidimensional banks. If she, or anyone else, failed to stop any one bullet....

"If you have any security pages going out now, rest assured that they are useless. The local security has been taken care of. If any of you decide to become a hero by calling in your own, personal troops, I shall be forced to order my men to shoot. If they do, do not doubt that they will hit something. The person they hit will, in one way or another, be related to you- he could own a majority share in your company, or be in charge of the bank that handles your primary accounts. She could be the wife of your business partner. The ambassador who dies tonight could be the one who would have signed a tax benifit to your business sometime tomorrow." Watson's smile widened. "If I give the order to shoot, these people will die. The multiversal economy, which you all take such pride in, and derive so much wealth from, will collapse. All the universes will fall apart in anarchy, every planet for itself."

She was startled when Lester finally worked up the nerve to speak. "What do you want?"

Watson nodded slowly, stepping out in front of his men. Darkness clung to him as he moved, despite the gleaming chandelier, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring the upper portion of his face, all save for those gleaming eyes. "What do I want?" He laughed, a short, sharp sound, like the tearing of paper. "I want to expose you rich bastards for the piles of shit you all are. You wander around this... this small, pathetic world you have created for yourself, without a care in the world for those who come after you, or for those who get trampled beneath your heel." He shook his head. "You'll hear it soon enough. What I want from you, right now, is air time."

Murmuring broke out again, neighbors whispering to one another. Lester called out over the din, "What do you mean, airtime?"

"I want to talk to the people."

"Which people? Do you have a channel in mind? A planet?"

Watson's mouth was a thin line, a knife-slash of light in a face of shadow. "All of them. Everywhere. Magic and Technological. All dimensions. I want to speak tothem all."

Astonishment rippled throughout the crowd. Alvin Maske broke out in laughter. "You can't be serious! That's impossible. We can't get you that much airtime!"

Stell blinked, and suddenly a long, deadly-looking maser pistol manifested itself in Watson's hand. "How many news networks do you think will report your death, Mister Maske? How many television programs do you think would be interrupted with the words, 'Alvin Maske was shot dead tonight during the Khazan Grand Ball'? Most of them?" His voice kept the same deadly calm as he swung his aim to focus on Lester. "And what about throwing Mister LaCroix into the bargain? Just about all of them, I should think." His aim returned to Maske, face, if anything, harder than the moment before. "I suggest, Mister Maske, that you redefine the word 'impossible'. Or else I'll have to see just how accurate I am."

*

Khazan existed around Bryn Shima, just as if it always had. He stood in a side alley, the weaves and threads of Time flowing about him. They whispered in his ear, speaking words that shot across his soul like a firebrand. Three blocks away, there was the Grand Ballroom. Things were drawing to a point, a nexus more terrible than he had ever imagined. An Avatar of Time he might be, but even then, there were things one did not expect.

Things moved swiftly, even in the space between heartbeats. He would have to walk faster.

*

The arrangements took all of fifteen minutes to complete. Under the watchful eye of Watson's men, first Maske, then LaCroix, then about a hundred others, closed their eyes, running the necessary programs through the network of miniature processors that laced their nervous system. Commands raced out over encrypted channels on the multidimensional holonet, overriding every television, every radio station, every scanner, every tri-dimensional manifester, every holoscreen and scrying bowl, telling them to hold for further instructions. Maske had a simulcast reporter's Net still seeded through his sensory system, and was volunteered to be the camera. Stell watched, feeling the helpless rage grow inside her, hands clenching into tight fists. All she had to do was speak... but could she stop them all at once? Could she take the risk that a single bullet might get through, might hit Lester or someone else, and plunge the cosmos into absolute chaos? Her eyes burned, though whether with tears or rage she could not tell.

Finally, everything was in place. Alvin Maske, owner of the second-largest information network across the universes, swallowed nervously, sketching out a quick nod.

Watson Taylor smiled, turned, and removed his hat. His hair beneath it was a light golden-brown, lighter at the roots than the tip. It looked so healthy and normal that one could almost forget the burning eyes. Almost.

Watson and his friend prepared for the most difficult acting job of their lives. They were about to pretend they were human.

When he spoke again, his words were shockingly normal, personal words, modulated and spoken the way a normal man would speak them. "Go."

*

Aleister Michaels leaned back in his chair, taking quick puff on his Cuban cigar. The football game was in full swing. "Now, I'll lay thirty on the Packers."

"Ah, old son, you never learn. I'll see that, raise you ten more."

Before Aleister had the chance to respond, the screen buzzed once and went black. "What the hell?"

Then, as quickly as it had come, the blackness was gone, replaced with an image: Stella Aurorae, in a red dress, wearing a petulant, angry expression.

Alex's jaw dropped. "Where the hell did this come from?"

"Beats me." Michaels picked up the remote and entered a four-digit channel code, only to be greeted by the exact same image. "But whatever it is, it's on every channel." Out of curiosity, he keyed the SLJ's private videocomm line. The same picture. "And I do mean EVERY channel." He shrugged. "Nothing for it but to see if there's anything here to bet on."

"Old son, there's always something to bet on. You just have to find it." Alex held his glass of Rylethan Tequila in the air, and drained it in one gulp. "Cheers."

*

Brother Soliss sighed. Sam still hadn't come back, even now, when his... expertise would be most needed. Tchuu had detected the upcoming event lace earlier in the day, thousands of strands of destiny uniting at a single point, but even now, a hundred castings later, he was no closer to discovering the focal point. "Well, Restfell, any other suggestions?"

Brother Restfell shook his head slowly, eyes half-closed, as was his habit when in the midst of deep thought. "We could go through the thirty-seventh level..."

"Tried already. Blocked." Skual was getting rather annoyed at the direction things were taking.

"Or moving through the Xzsab counterplane..."

"Querrulous sheep wind about spiny green-purple dragon's teddy bear. Where have the orange evergreens gone?" Tchuu smiled, eyes wide open in fascination.

Silence.

"Riiiiiiiiiight...."

Suddenly, a door at the far end of the Casting Hall was thrown open, crashing against the wall with a loud crunch of wood against wood. Novice Akril, a trainee whom Skual had once remarked upon jokingly as the "eternal novice", stood in the door, breathless with shock. "Brothers, there's something you should see."

*

Butch Higgins stared up at the television behind the bar, which only a second ago had been displaying outtakes from the latest Khazan Arena deathmatch. "What the fuck's this?"

Bob Smitty, the bartender, shrugged. "Beats me. 's on all the channels, though. I tried, Butch." He grinned lecherously. "I know how ya like to see those dames fight."

Butch shrugged. The man on the television screen.... there was something about him.... " 's okay, Bobby. Get me another beer, would ya?" As the man turned away, Butch called after him, "and turn up the TV! I wanna hear what this bastard's saying."

*

The body known as Watson Taylor stared at the multiverse, smiling softly. Quickly and quietly, he formed his words, speaking them in a low, carrying voice, just enough to slide from a television speaker to the watcher's ear, slipping through mental defenses to strike at the brain itself.

"Greetings, friends. Greetings, fellow sufferers."

He nodded, as if listening to something someone in the audience was saying. "For we do suffer, all of us. Crops fail, computers crash, tools break. Our children, our own families, get sick, grow old, die, or are murdered in their own beds." At this last, the voice achieved a sudden, shattering height, like a jackhammer chipping away at the listener, bit by bit, bit by bit...

"Look about you, now." He paused. "Do you see anything you own, anything you have, that you have not labored for, that you have not sweated all the days of your life for? And can you not think that, despite all your work, despite all the work of your spouses and children, you're still not getting enough? That your son needed to go to special education because you couldn't afford a session of psych treatment, let alone a month? That your wife lost two children because of a lack of medical technology that was readily available, simply because you could not afford the price? That you weren't able to get your daughter the new clothes she wanted for her birthday? Or even that your father's hand got cut off, and your entire family couldn't afford the cloned parts for a new one? Not if you saved for your entire lives, spent every penny your grandchildren would ever earn?"

"If you do, you're thinking the truth. The chance for a better life does exist, but not for you. You can't afford it." His eyes hardened. "Let me show you something."He bent down and picked a shard of crystal off the ground, approaching the camera in Maske's eyes like an avenging angel. "Do you see this?" He shook the fragment mere centimeters from the man's pupil, so that it's sharp, delicate precision was easily visible to the watchers. "This is pure diamond. This one stone probably is worth enough to send your children through the college of their choice, to buy a new car, to buy Dad that hand transplant. Or, if he didn't like that hand anyway, make him a better one: stronger, faster, more efficient. Why not increase his lifespan while you're at it? You could make dear old Dad live ten times as long. Or you could make it so your son will live to see another millenium. Or change your family genes so no one ever gets sick again."

Watson held up the fragment again. "And right now I stand in a place where, up till a few minutes ago, the skylight was made of this stuff. The floor here is paved with it. All courtesy of the hard-earned dollars you shelled out for your pants, for your kid's education, for the viewer you're watching me on at this moment. Where does all that money go? To other hardworking individuals like yourself?"

"No." He cast the diamond angrily down upon the floor. "And you want to know where it goes? Where every bit of your hard-earned money ends up?" He stepped out of the picture at this point, bodily grabbing Alvin Maske and swinging him around, so that he faced the still-defiant ranks of the interdimensional elite, resplendant in their K'zorran silk, in dresses woven of solid gold cloth, ringed with multicolored spells of radiant light. "It goes to them. To these fat cats right here, sitting and eating, sitting and eating while you dish out bowl after bowl of your hard-earned money. Look at them." He stepped out in front of the camera again, walking over to the assembled mass of people and grabbing one woman, clad in a fabric that glowed and shifted with its own internal light, hanging off her like a dress of multicolored cloud, shifting so as to now reveal, now conceal her evident physical charms. "Do you know how much this dress cost?" A pause. "It's made from the sloughed-off skin of an Almarnek Cloudbeast. Running price on the market is seventeen million Khazan Dollars to the square inch. To the square inch." Violently, he shoved the woman back into the crowd, face twisted in disgust, eyes fixed on Maske's pupils.

*

"The parsiminous water lillies dance germaine patterns through the snow-fall of lava."

"You know, Tchuu, compared to this guy... that really makes sense."

Broakenho snorted. "Where did this guy get his speeches? Calvin and Hobbes?"

*

Watson glared into Maske's eyes. "They can afford this... this den of luxury while all across the cosmos, people starve their lives just to stay where they are at the moment, where you can work all you like and still not have enough money to get your children the education they need. Quadrillions of people don't have half what they need to survive, and these bastards just sit here stuffing themselves."

"And you know what happens if we try and do something about it?" He took a swift, forceful step forwards, the humanity starting to drain from his face, replaced by the cold precision of hours before. "Do you know what happens?"

"They send the supermen, the superfreaks, out to get us."

"Whenever good, decent men band together to try and take some power back for themselves, to put their children on the ladder to success by levelling the playing field, one of these super-freaks steps in. They say they're protecting the law. But do you know who makes the law?" He stabbed his thumb over his shoulder, towards the quadrillionaires. "They do. And, in return for alleigance, these super-freaks run rampant over the universe. I know one of you knows somebody who was killed in the bastardized affaire the historians are now calling the KOMBG Crisis? I do. Or did. He died during the defense of Mekkopolis, my brother Jimmy's son. And wha t happens afterwards? Does this KOMBG monster get punished? Do they get accused in any way?!"

"No."

"Does the bastard who organized the whole thing, this 'Vadakhan', get even reprimanded?"

"No."

"Do you want to know what happened to him?"

"The man responsible for the death of your friend, for the destruction of Crimson City and the conquest of Mekkopolis, is now de facto ruler of the Nexus of All Realities!"

"And what of this Crinos fellow? Responsible for the corruption of Citypolis, the deaths of millions, adding on to billions more in the untold infamy of an undocumented, undead life? Have the Powers That Be made the slightest move, the slightest real move, to break him? Have they come anywhere close to treating him like the slug he is?"

"No."

"And there is more, and more after that. Millions dead, billions wounded, entire species reduced to nothingness, your friends killed, your jobs stolen, your very livlihood put in jepordy.... all compliments of the money you're paying to watch this program."

Watson leaned in close, eyes blazing fiercely. "Are we going to sit still for this, sit still while fat cats and superfreaks run our lives, crushing us underfoot like bugs? Am I going to stand still when my family has been destroyed, my crops ruined, by some pissant superhero back in town for the Contest of Champions? Would you?"

"We idolize these people, and what to we get for it?"

"We die."

"So, are we going to stand for it any more?"

"No."

*

Aleister Michaels nodded slowly. "You know, I hate us. I really hate us." A slow smile cracked his face.

Alexander grinned. "So, then. Twenty bucks says he dies in the next ten minutes."

Aleister shook his head. "Got ya there, buddy. No chance in hell they'll kill him while he's still on the air."

Alex nodded. "Let's wait and see."

*

Bryn Shima almost hadn't gotten the warning in time. It had taken him months, subjective, to reach Khazan his way, less about four hours for meals and other sundry. For anyone, even a thirty-year-old Avatar in a fifteen-year-old body, that was a long journey. He was tired.

The entryway to the Khazan Ballroom gaped before him, a small obstacle to one of his talents. At some point in the future, the door would decay to dust, and be nothingness. With a smile, he walked straight through the wood, feeling as little as if he were passing through simple air.

The Ballroom was, as its name indicated, Grand, sloping and laiden with statuary, impressive even when littered with diamond shards. It was not upon the statues, or the expensive tapestries, or even upon the slightly dim chandelier that his gaze fell, however. It rested upon Watson Taylor, standing before Alvin Maske, frozen in a split instant of time.

Time.

Time whispered in his ear, a comforting presence, confidant and companion, occasionally advisor. In an instant, he remembered the vision, traced the lines of history and future to the Convergence, the one knot after which strands were cut, first one, then another.... and then all of them. Time ended in a gaping void of empty holes, eternity reaching out with clutching, entropic fingers to grasp at the living universe.

And this man, Watson Taylor, lay at the heart of it. Time spoke in Bryn's ear, and Bryn knew. If he lived, if he completed his speech, Watson would become a firebrand, scorching across the minds of the multiverse. People would fall into step behind him, longing for equality, for truth, for justice, for all the sticky points that no two people defined in quite the same way. The old social order would be cast down amidst hails of fire and rebellion, warfare splitting brother against brother, small internal conflicts widening to span galaxies. And into that madness, the Horsemen would come.

After that, Time itself, limitless and infinite in its knowledge, was no longer sure of the course of events.

There was only one thing Bryn could do. The grim knowledge made his stomach twist and lurch in pain, but there it was. If there was no firebrand, if there was no sigil to unite around, there could be no war.

No matter how he looked at the situation, no matter how much he prayed for a way out, there was only one thing to do. And, taking into account Watson's men, his insurance policy, only he could do it.

Face set, Bryn extended his hands. A sword shimmered, milky-white and unstable, between them, then hardened into reality. It shone with an unearthly hunger as he advanced.

*

"And so I say to you, men, women, and others of the boundless mulitverse, cast off this slavery! Become yourselves again, not slaves in the thrall of some uncaring, hideous master." Watson's voice rose to a fever pitch. "Fight! Fight for-"

The blade emerged from his chest as smoothly as if it had been passing through empty space, its passage so swift that the tip was not even tainted with the blood that even now leaked down from the wound, staining his ragged, black clothes. A rivulet of red leaked from his mouth.

Watson Taylor stared at the sword for what seemed to be a long minute, as if shocked into silence. His limbs trembled, life and strenght leaving them with the blood as it spread across the floor, staining the diamonds into lustrious rubies. Watson felt his legs starting to give out, forcing him to the floor, and rallied his efforts, legs locking to force him upright. He stared into Alvin Maske's eyes for one long moment, before uttering a single word, rasping and low, in a tone that knifed through the soul of all who heard it, like a whisper from beyond the grave: "Freedom......."

The sword withdrew, and Watson Taylor fell to the floor in a heap, like a puppet with his strings cut. Behind him stood a fifteen-year old boy, sword held in a classic kendo ready stance.

Immediately, Watson's men shifted their aim, pulse bolts screaming through the air towards the child. He held out his hand as if to stop them by sheer force of will, like a Dutch boy with his finger in a dike. The bolts struck his skin dead on... and vanished. The hand rippled a transparent off-blue for a second, his entire body growing momentarially, before the bolts radiated themself off, light flashing from his dark eyes.

This was too much for Alvin Maske. He fainted, falling to the floor unconscious. The last thing he saw before leaving the waking world behind was Watson Taylor's dead face, staring up at him with a strange look of peace scribed upon the features.

*

"They killed him! They effin' killed him!" Nobody argued with Butch. They had seen it clear enough, with their own eyes no less. "Bastard was right. Everything they do... Bastard was right." He drained another beer.

*