RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Writer's Block Toughened Glass

“Adrian Slawny?”

The man lifts himself off the sticky leatherette of the reception area bench and walks across to the small window with the sliding glass panel. The elderly woman behind the counter waits until he is almost in front of her before speaking.

“It’s through that door and then it’s the green door on the right.”

He follows the corridor. The doors are painted in bold colours. The green door is slightly ajar. Inside a young, female doctor is sitting behind a desk, staring at something on a computer terminal. She raises her head as Adrian enters the examination room.

“Good morning Mr Slawny. My name is Jemima Mowbray. I’ll be your case worker for the next three months. You can sit there or you can lie down on the couch if you’d prefer.”

The left side of the room is cluttered with medical equipment, arranged at one end of an examination couch, with the curtain partially drawn around it.

“I had an accident on the way over.”

“Do you need to use the bathroom before we begin?”

“No, no, I’ve already cleaned myself up.”

The Doctor glances around the office. She snatches a disposable plastic apron that has been draped over the leather backrest of a chair made from aluminium tubing.

“If you just put this underneath you.”

“Are you really called Jemima?”

Adrian takes the apron. He sits down on the chair in front of her desk.

“I have your test results here, but first of all, how are feeling Mr Slawny?”

“Uh…Relatively speaking, a bit better.”

“And what about your abilities. Do you have your diary with you?”

“They’re been erratic. I got my hand stuck inside a table for half an hour.”

Adrian unzips his blue shoulder bag. He removes a curled-over exercise book and hands it to Doctor Mowbray who makes an attempt at flicking through the dog-eared pages before giving up and turning them individually.

“When did your hand got stuck?”

“Thursday.”

She closes the book and passes it back to Adrian.

“We’ll need to take scans of the new entries. Next time if you leave it at reception when you come in. That way you won’t have to wait.”

Dr Mowbray rapidly types into the computer keyboard. She turns the monitor around on it’s pivot so that it is facing Adrian at an oblique angle. She leans forward and taps on the edge of the glass screen with one of her finger nails.

“Ok Mr Slawny…”

“It’s Adrian.”

“Ok Adrian. Your T-cell count is slightly higher than we’d like it to be. On the 29th September 2004, your CD4+ cell count registered at 253. That’s probably why your abilities are tuning in and out. If your T-cells go above 275 then it’s likely that your body will be strong enough to begin rejecting the implant.”

She returns the monitor to its original position, making small movements with the computer mouse and clicking the buttons.

“What medication are you currently taking?”

“I’m on a synchronised regime of androxyml ™, natzotrolanine ™ and Virodium ™.”

“These are working a little better than we hoped. We’ll need to configure some less effective treatment for you, without making you too poorly. Ideally we’d like to bring your CD4+ count down to between 215 and 210. We’ll keep you just clear of the danger level.”

“That’s going to make life difficult for me. When I was at 230 I didn’t have any energy. What if I get sick and I drop below 200?”

“It is a risk but you know whatever happens Adrian you’ll get the best care available. We’re going to begin testing you regularly for Pneumocystis pneumonia. We also do a long range forecast of projected T Cell counts with a very high degree of accuracy…”

Dr Mowbray is talking as she types.

“I’m also going to prescribe a booster antibiotic and a universal vaccine that you can use over the short term. The important thing to remember is that the more you allow the implant to integrate with your body, the better it will perform for the person who receives it after your death.

Now, do you want to stay here overnight while we revise your treatment plan or would you rather come back tomorrow?”

“I’ll go home I think.”

“Ok. And will you be needing to see a counsellor before you leave?”

“No.”

********************************************************************************

Adrian waits by the counter in reception while one of the assistant nurses scans the fresh pages of his diary.

“You wrote a lot this week,” says the elderly woman, handing it back to him.

“I’ll buzz you out.”

Outside the surgery, a short flight of stairs, between black iron railings, leads down to a damp pavement plastered with dead leaves. Adrian hobbles to the curb and hails a black taxi.

The bar was grimy and low-rent, the kind of dive that was only frequented by dirty old men and politicans with a dirty secret. And that was how Micky The Pig liked it. He knew the girls, he knew the barkeep, and he knew most of the clientele. Not bad for a gangster's stooge. Of course, it was hard for him to enjoy the bar the way he usually did, what with getting the living daylights kicked out of him by Dancer.

"Perhaps I didn't make it clear, Mickey. You're going to tell me what I want to know, or I will take great satisfaction in pounding your face into the floor. And I'm sure Ernie O'Reilly won't take kindly to the news that his own cousin's been selling information to Rajiv"

Micky spat out a broken tooth. Damned ex-cop. Most would've been happy to retire and enjoy the pension, but not Dancer, no. He had to go around blackmailing honest crooks and forcing them to hand over sensitive information. At least Rajov gave good solid bribes.

"Are You Blackmailing me?"

"Absolutely. Now give me the god-damn name"

"Go to hell, Dancer, You'll get nothing from me"

Dancer sighed. It was going to be rough on Mickey when he'd finished. Thank god for the NHS.

"Alright then"

He pulled Mickey upright and punched him in the face, blacking one of his eyes. Then he broke a rib and kneed him in the groin. Mickey buckled and fell, wimpering slightly in pain.

"Name Please. Or I'll break another rib"

"Damn you, Dancer"

"Name"

"Alright, alright. I'll give you the name. Just give me a hand, will you?"

Dancre hauled him to his feet. Mickey gave him a sour look, letting Dancer know exactly wht he thought of him.

"The name's Zachariah. That's all I know. Find him, you'll find whatever the hell it is you want"

"Thankyou, Micky. And I'd make bloody sure not to sell anything more to Rajiv. Not if you want to make it through the next week"

The feet were aching inside the gore-tex boots, as Edulcore Cicciotto, ranger for the Alpi Marittime National Park on the Italian Alps, was walking steadily toward the Raineri hut, just below Pizzo Grande, a tall sandstone peak 2500 metres above sea level.

The trail, under the heavy rain, was quickly becoming a torrent; the radio, which Ed had listened at in his Land Rover just half an hour before, reported that the weather forecast service was announcing snow just above 1500 metres. And the winter equipment was perfectly stored at home, fifty kilometres away, because up to the day before it was still like summer. The hottest October of the last one hundred fifty years. And had to end right that day!

The hut was finally in sight, for just a moment, as the mist raising from the bottom of the valley quickly wrapped it, and all the rest, in a dense mantle of nothingness. Long before the night finally won over the last lights, he took his torch from the backpack, put it on, and within a few meters he reached the hut. He ran his finger above the door, to the "secret" hole where the key was conserved by the various rangers that inhabited the hut for their weekly shift.

The rolling fall of a rock down the steep grassy slope where the hut was located sent a chill down Cicciotto's spine. Herds of ibexes were used to roam those pastures in that part of the year, and the mist, the rain (that was beginning to pouring down hard), and the night were not obstacles for their grazing. Cicciotto knew that, but still the surprise left him shaking and with an heavy goose bump.

The cold rough stem of the key appeared under the exploring index finger of Cicciotto. The short, bald and robust man, garbed in the grey-green uniform of the National Parks ranger gratefully pushed the key in the keyhole of the door, rotated it for a seemingly infinite times, and finally the door opened.

Edulcore closed quickly it, falling with his back over the shat door. As the night was locked outside, he took an heavy breath, and began panning the cone of light from his torch over the inside of the log cabin. The gas lamp was on the table at the middle of the room. He took it, lighted it, and then went to the stove, putting some logs in to fire it up.

Ten minutes later the temperature in the hut was enough high to take away the gore-tex parka. Sitting by the small window, a can of beer resting in front of the drops covered glass, chewing over his sandwich of old bread from the previous day and goat-cheese, he was playing with the torch in the hand that did not held the meal, while looking at the first flakes of snow drifting down the black sky.

He gulped down the last draught of beer from the can, and stood up. He had an urgency to piss, but the hand was not yet on the lock of the door, that he whispered to himself: "It would be stupid to step in the snow just to take a pee. I will get out next morning".

He took the sleeping bag from the rucksack, opened it over the bed, and went to sleep, forgetting to off the torch. Within a minute he was sleeping, snoring loudly.

"Edo... Edo... wake up, luv..."

Edulcore opened the eyes, fighting the sleepiness. Above him, naked, was Laura, his fiancee.

"Laura? How..."

The young woman silenced him putting a finger in front of her mouth. "Shhh. Happy birthday, Edo" whispered, a broad smile appearing under her long, beautiful nose. She shook the head, making her large mass of long, curly black hairs to uncover her small, round breasts.

Slowly, the woman worked her way under the rugs.

The tiredness of the man was magically gone, as he began sweating for the expert kiss of his girlfriend.

"How... the hell... did you arrive here? The door was closed" he whispered.

From under the rugs, the reply was scarcely intelligible. "Mhhh I... cme before... mhh y... arrivd."

"Ah. Good. What a ... oh yes... waht a surprise. Don't stop now, don't stop. I am c..."

BOOM!

The cabin was shaken heavily, like a single, powerful wave of an earthquake. The windows glasses shattered, books fell on the ground from their shelves.

Edulcore stood on the floor instantly, running to the window to see outside.

Then he suddenly turned, looking at the bed. "Merda, Laura, there is..."

But the bed was empty, there was just the sleeping bag unzipped. "Shit, another dream" said Edulcore to himself. Laura had left him, by then, from nearly two months.

His hand went to the torch, then to his clothes. He wore the uniform, put the light boots on, and taking an heavy breath, opened the door.

There was nearly half a metre of snow on the ground.

And, from the other side of the mountain, was coming a blinding glow.

"Mudd?"

Donovan knocked on the door again. "Mudd! Wake up!"

"Do I have to?"

Donovan sighed. "Yes, you do." He shook his head. "What is it today?"

"Still haven't figured it out yet," came the reply from inside the room.

"Haven't figured it out yet?" Donovan was puzzled. "What's taking so long?"

"Well, finding out would require me to get out of this bed," Wallace Mudd replied, "and I don't see that in my future."

"Dammit, Wally! You act like you're on chemo again!"

"Sometimes I wish I were."

Donovan rolled his eyes. "For the sympathy? For the free food? Don't tell me you'd rather go back to that than live with what 331 did to you."

"If it weren't for 331, I might be able to wake up just once and not have to worry about a different mutation than the one I had yesterday."

Donovan sighed. "Come on, bro. It's not that bad. You've been using them to help people. To me that's better than having to be on drugs that half poison you every day."

"You haven't had to wake up with the legs of a frog or with the ability to shoot water out your nostrils with the force of a fire hose. I could go on, you know. I've got more."

"Mudd!" Donovan snapped. "You do this to me all the time! Who's your brother? Who's letting you live here for free? Who's taken care of you ever since you first got sick?"

"Half brother."

"Don't do this with me, Mudd. Get out of that bed and go wash up. We've got work to do."

"More stuff at the office?"

"Something like that."

"Fine, fine." There was a rustling on the other side of the door. "I don't know why I put up with this."

"Shut up, Mudd."

"Hey, this is friggin' sweet!"

"What?"

"It looks like I have extra joints in my knees today! I can do that Matrix thing really easy!"

Donovan Mitchell shook his head. You really had to have the patience of a saint to deal with this on a daily basis.

The Maquette had always unnerved Adrian. When he had first met her, she still liked to be known as Sarah Collingwood - the daughter of a vicar, a Cambridge Politics graduate and a recently elected member of the local Labour council. After she was diagnosed HIV positive and the effects of the Silex implant had taken hold on her body, her physical features gradually became smoother and less distinct, until she resembled an abstract sculpture of the human form. She slept with tubes in her mouth and nostrils to prevent them from sealing up completely during the night and carried a craft knife to separate her body parts when they became fused with one another. Once, when Adrian had stayed overnight at one of the Silex medical facilities, he had awoken to the sight of her cutting her legs apart after they had merged together while she slept.

It struck him as absurd that something so grotesque could be moving around in the small kitchenette of his East London bedsit, filling the stainless steel kettle with water, rinsing out a pair of tea stained mugs in the sink and searching the cupboards for the packet of Digestive biscuits.

“How much do Silex pay you now?” she enquired.

Adrian was sitting on an old green settee in the adjoining room.

“The same as they pay you I expect.”

“They stopped paying me when my mutation turned out to be my cure. They only want you for your weakened immune system. It’s the only way they can cultivate their implants in human tissue. For all their talk about keeping you in good health, it’s not in their interests for you to stay alive in the long term.”

“When did they cut you off?”

“A fortnight ago. I appealed of course, but I didn’t want to bother you with it. If you were getting what I was getting, then it’s hardly worth having. I thought that you might be looking for other sources of income.”

She emerged from the kitchenette carrying a tray containing two steaming mugs of tea and the near empty packet of biscuits, her head tilted at angle where the lower part of the neck had begun to join with the shoulder.

“There’s a ex-copper by the name of Dancer. He’s been acting the cunt and now enough people want him dead for it to happen.”

She placed the tray down on a small occasional table and took a seat opposite Adrian on an uncomfortable high-backed armchair with worn upholstery and dark wooden armrests.

“I’m not killing anyone.”

“I’m not offering dear. I’m going to stick a shotgun in his pig belly and blow his intestines out through the back of his suit.”

She sat bolt upright in the chair, staring directly at Adrian as if she was waiting for some kind of reaction. Her eye sockets were shallow indentations in her skull, with small holes in the skin just big enough to allow light into the pupils. She might have been smiling, although it was difficult to tell.

“I had enough beatings from the Met when I was down and out. Fuck should I care.”

“Well, quite.”

Adrian ran the tips of his fingers along the edge of the wooden table allowing them to sink into the solid object. Where it had been penetrated, the surface turned almost liquid, the tremors sending dark ripples spreading out across the grain of the wood.

The Maquette attempted to lift one of the mugs off the tray but was unable to grasp the handle. She removed the craft knife from the black leather bag that was resting on her lap, pushed out the blade and began to slowly separate the digits on her right hand.

“Yeah, I’m watching it. It’s on TV now.” He held the phone up to his ear while staring at the TV screen. His own image was sitting across from a well groomed man in an expensive suit. The low cut sideburns, long hair, and pencil thin beard looked out of place across from the interviewer’s neatly cropped hair and clean shaven face.

“How does it feel to have one of the most successful series of books in the past twenty years?” the man in the suit had asked him just a few days before. Now, it was playing out in front of his own eyes as if it were currently happening.

“I don’t know,” he replied just as he had remembered doing all those days ago. “I never really think about it. I just like to concentrate on the next book.”

“Do you think I look goofy on TV? I kind of feel like I look goofy. Like a cartoon mouse or something. Of course I’m being self conscious.”

“Where does this fantasy world in your books come from?”

“My dad had a job that moved him all over the world, so I was exposed to a lot of different cultures and terrains as a kid. I never really stayed in one place long enough to develop much of an understanding of the cultures other than trace bits of the languages. When I began writing, I just took everything I did know and pieced them together however it suited me.”

“Yeah, I got the package from the studio today.” Patrick Callard set the remote down on the coffee table and stood. He moved across the room to a chair with a box sitting on top of it. “It looks really good, just like on the book covers. Actually, a bit flashier than my design, which isn’t necessarily bad. I’m just not ready to commit to a deal right now. Because they want that jerk who did those Vin Diesel movies to direct. This is a family book, Anthony. They have to get a director who can understand that.”

“You display a mixture of magic and technology in your stories, especially with the main character, the hero Vireximius.”

“I grew up reading a lot of my grandfather’s sci-fi magazines and books. I was always intrigued by them and dreamt of writing those types of stories when I got older. Reality set in, I’m afraid. I spent more time studying literature than science thereby making it impossible for me to really write on the same level as Asimov or Anderson. I decided that if I muddied the waters a little bit with the belief in magic that I noticed in a lot of Eastern countries, I might be able to pull one over on the audience and still do the sci-fi stories I wanted to write as a child.”

“Listen, you’re my agent. You’re supposed to best represent me, not the studio. All I want is make sure that the integrity of my work remains intact. The costume looks great. The character designs look great. I just want a director and writer who know how to use all of that. Call me back when they agree to that.”

“....an ancient hero reborn every generation to fight for his people. Each time he’s a little different. In the current series his magic is combined with the outlandish technology of his world. It’s a lot of fun to read and even more fun to write.”




Patrick jumped out of sleep. He was disoriented and confused. His hand rolled down his face as a muffled banging sound came to his ears. Quietly and slowly he moved over to the edge of his bed and across the room. The door opened just enough for him to peek out of. The noises were a bit clearer now. They came from downstairs.

With slow pacing and light steps, Patrick made his way down the hall. He had picked up a bat out of the hall closet and crept down the stairs. As he moved into the den, Patrick noticed his belongings strewn across the floor. There was no one in sight. He reached for the phone. An arm reached out and wrapped around his throat.

Air was being cut off. Patrick struggled as the man behind him used all his strength to wrestle him to the ground. His arms flailed about trying to grab the man behind him.

“Where do you keep it?” the man demanded to know. “Where?”

Putting all his strength in one blow, Patrick rammed his elbow into the ribs of his attacker. His mind was too caught up in the feeling of dread to notice that he’d broken the man’s ribs. Instinct from some old karate classes he had taken from a kid kicked in. He grabbed the arm around his neck and pulled on it. He let the momentum and the leverage of his body to flip his assailant over him and across the room. Unexpectedly, the body flew the entire distance of the large den and out the window.

Laying on his knees Patrick stared in petrified amazement. What he had done was indescribable. His den was more than thirty feet across. It was an impossible feat. He crawled to the window and looked out. A shriek of horror escaped his lips as he noticed the limp and motionless form of his attacker sitting at the base of the oak tree.

“No. Oh, Gob no!”

The feet were aching inside the gore-tex boots of Edulcore Cicciotto, as the knee tall snow had easy job to get inside. The glow behind the peak was getting wither, and if not for the back, shadowed side of mountain that covered the sourche of the light, the man would have been easily blinded.

Around, the valleys and the mountain were bathed in the eerie light: the bird were singing, like it was day and not three o'clock in the morning. Suddenly, the glows blinked, and then went off.

It was night again. All darkness, total darkness. Chilling drops of sweat ran down the back of Cicciotto. He frantically played with the switch of the torch, but the batteries wore off. The man froze, his heart beat booming in the ears.

Then, the eyes adapted to the night, and the star filled sky slowly reappeared in his sight. "Monday, October the 18th. Moon at the first quarter" whispered to himself. As the turned the face around the sky dome, a cold blow of wind dispersed some residual clouds and a tiny crescent of the moon appeared.

Cicciotto sighed, relieved. And then was thrown on the snow covered ground by another shook of the earth. Coloured lights danced behind the peack for a moment, like an Aurora Borealis too much south from the polar circle.

"What the hell?" he shouted, when he began hearing the buzzing sound of an helicopter. "Earthquake. The Alpine Rescue Service. The Park direction has sent them to look if I have been buried under the hut", Cicciotto said to himself, surprised by the efficiency of his superiors.

He ran over the pasture, aiming at where the spot-beam from the 'copter was panning the ground. He stood there, waiving the arms raised over the head.

A bullet hit the ground a feet from his right foot. Another.

Edulcore Cicciotto dove. The slope was slippery, as the surface of the snow mantle was beginning to froze under the clear, night sky. He was quickly out of sight from the helicopter, hiding among the rocks. The hair on his neck and arms raised outwards, the heart beating like a drum, the throat so dry it was impossible to swallow.

Why, why why?

Who were them?

The helicopter was still buzzing around, but there was no way they could spot him, so deep inside the crevice.

Who were they? What was that glow?

As the mist began to rise again from the bottom of the valley, the helicopter left. The place was too insecure for it, now.

Cicciotto ran. He had to reach the other side of the pack in as soon as possible. Surely people (soldiers? policemen? secret service agents? why, then?) were coming up by the footpath to reach the hut, now that they knew he was alive. The other side was wilderness, he could have still an advantage there. And the trees could protect him from above.

He reached the side of the peak as quick as the snow let him to be. He was running for his life, but the mystery of the glow had not left his mind. And when his head finally got above the rim of the ridge, on the other side of the valley, behind the French border, a whole mountain, Mount Bego, was cracked open. And a pulsating, warm glow came from inside the mountain wide hole.

Another heavy breath and Cicciotto would have stepped over the ridge and begun the run down. Just, the cold barrell of a gun pressed over his temple stopped him.

"You come with us!" ordered a voice behind. They were at the least two. There were other voices coming from much lower, and buzzes of distant helicopters.

The earth shook again, for longer, this time.

And then, the jaws of Cicciotto, of the two armed men, and of all the other people around him, hiding behind the trees or rising the slopes from below, dropped at an unison.

From the hole in the mountain, dozens of kilometres away, a perfect, spherical shape of pure white light was slowly rising, leaving the crack and heading for the sky.

"It's like a ..." the words died in the mouth of the gun toting man.

When the captain of the special forces from the USA Army arrived over the ridge, the two men were completely dead, their neck broken and bloodily open. There were no traces of Cicciotto, except for his boots. No one of the hiding guards saw anything. Strangely, there were big prints of wolf on the snow, departing from the dead men. But no one arriving there.

The last words of the gun toting soldier, if he had the time to pronounce them, would have been: "It's like a small, full moon".

Dancer was used to the sheer awfulness that was the London Underground. As someone who had lived 30 of his 40 years in the capital the underground was a part of his everyday life, though not one that was treasured. But today, something was different.

He sat there, between the old man that he was certain had been at the Pink Lion, where'd he gained the info from Mickey, and a young girl in a black PVC dress that was too skimpy for Dancer's taste. To the untrained eye, everything seemed normal, but Dancers eye was fully trained, and something was off. Under his long, battered trenchoat he fingered the butt of the heavy-duty Magnum he'd taken to carrying. It was then that The Maquette, seated just down the carriage, foolishly decided to launch her attack...

Dancer rolled as the woamn raised her shotgun and fired. Pulling his magnum from beneath his coat he raised it, balsting away at her whilst getting to his feet. She took a bullet to the shuolder and another to the leg, but somehow she got up and ran after him as he ran down the carriage. She grabbed him and slammed his head into the door before swivelling him round and punching him in the balls. He sank to his knees, and she pulled a pistol from under her denim jacket and trained it on his forehead

'Someone wants you dead, cop boy. Don't know who, don't care'

'Who's paying you then'

'Why should you know?'

Then the young girl that had sat next to Dancer raised a pistol, somehow hidden under her skimpy dress, and drilled the Maquette in the head. Dancer looked up as she approached.

'Special Agent Tanya Moore, Special Branch'

'Tell them I've quit. They can go find someone else to do their dirty work.'

'Not that simple, I'm afraid. You're needed for something big. Ever heard of Patrick Callard?'

'Author. Vireximus series. Not bad, but hardly my sort of thing'

'What is? Penny Cooper?'

'Hardly. I've always preferred the Russians, actually'

'Well, Callard's dissapeared. The branch sent someone round to his home a week ago, and it was empty. Stripped clean'

'Any sign of a paper trail?'

'Nothing. At all. And the most confusing part was the body that was seated at the tree outside his home. A housebreaker that showed sing of being hurled from inside the house. And the tree was 10 foot from the window'

'That's impossible.'

'Really? We'd never have guessed. And the Yanks have been yelling down our ears about a man named Ciciotto. A wap fugitive, wanted for killing two of their men in Italy'

'Really? I have my own plans'

'Well then. I've been instructed by my superiors to tell you that we know something about Zachariah'

Dancer paused. He knew that he'd said he'd never go back to the Branch, but this was...well, different.

'Alright, I'm in'

Moore grinned, like a preditory shark that had persuaded it's prey to pop inside.

'I thought you might be'

"On holiday at his Wallingford estate, Callard was scheduled to return to the United States this week and complete his sixth book. Some have accused his disappearance of being a publicity stunt....."

The newsagent turned his radio down as a man in a spiffy business suit approached. "The Times," he said as he threw his money on the counter.

"I would have made you as a Guardian man myself," the agent said in an attempt for conversation.

"No. The Times," was all the man said. The agent sulked a bit as he handed the paper over. The man took it, turned, and walked away. He held it folded in his hand as he continued on his daily trek to work. A journey that was usually habit, but today it was detoured by an unwanted trip to his brother's flat.

The print on the paper held his attention as his foot left the curb and made contact with the street. His pace did not slow or waiver. This distracted businessman walked on into the road without seeing the little blue car speeding towards him from his right. The horn blew, and he stopped and turned to stare death in the face.

The world blurred and his stomach turned inside out. Dizzy and nauseosus, he tried to hold his breakfast down as he gathered his bearings. Realizing that he was leaning against someone, he looked up. A tall man with short bleached blonde hair looked down at him. A royal blue cape draped over his shoulders and flowed down his back. It formed a hood that was folded up behind his head. Shiny metal covered his body like a knights armor. Centered vertically on his body, a crimson red tunic hung down to meet his knees, and leather boots covered his feet.

"Caution is wise," he said in a deep, authoritative tone. "Vireximius cannot be everywhere at once." With a nod he leapt into the air and never landed.

You ran. The snow under your feet don't hurt anymore, as the thick hairs protect them.

You ran. The night doesn't scare you anymore. It's your time, the night.

You don't need to see. The scents tell you all. The passages across the crevices, under the logs of fir trees, away from the hated humans.

The scents tell you of your brothers, hiding away scared by the invasion of their land by the men from abroad carrying the guns.

And the scents tell you of your half brothers, sold out to the men, guiding them to your tracks. Bastard dogs.

You ran. Down the steep slopes, under that new moon that now stand still in the mid of the nocturnal sky.

What is that moon? Who are those men? Why they came for you?

Questions too complex for you. For you NOW. Better save them for later. For the other you, the one scared by night but better at answering at difficult things.

For you, better keep doing what you do best: run. Jump. Kill.

And then the wilderness end, and a road cross your path. Cars, many cars heading away from the ravaged land.

Behind, men and dogs are nearer. You hear their barks, their cry. You hear their heartbeat.

They are too many, and converging over you.

There is no way behind.

Go further. Like always.

There is a big truck. They usually go fast and very far. The notion, buried somewhere in your brain, resurface at the right time.

You jump and land over the top.

Your claws grasp the thin metallic roof, and finally you rest.

************************************************************************

The truck finally stops. Many hours before hard claws had broken open the roof, and a wolf like creature got inside. Now it is Edulcore Cicciotto to awake at the sun beam coming from that same hole.

The head is dizzy, but he is able to jump outside the hole in the roof just before someone open the back door. The man suddenly notice the opening, and alarmed look outside and then inside again, puzzled and worried.

Edulcore Cicciotto is metres away by then. Hiding behind containers, his clothes completely shredded, in what it seems a riverside dock.

A little bird walks on the bank waving the tail. At first Cicciotto doesn't pay attention, but then there is something unfamiliar in it. It's a wagtail, yes, but it's strangely dark on the back. And then the revelation. It's not a white wagtail, the species widespread on the continent. It's a pied wagtail, endemic of the British Isle.

Cicciotto sighs, relieved. There is half a continent between him and his hunters.

From an open window not far, where someone has put on a radio, the voice of a news reader confirms Cicciotto's hypothesis: it' English.

Not all the words are intelligible to Cicciotto, but there is a great deal of excitation in the voice of the journalist, who is talking about a "new moon" appeared in the sky the previous night, and about whom the scientists are unable to give an explanation.

And then, he talks a big earthquake in the French Alps, with thousands of dead and the people of whole town relocated by the authorities to hundreds of kilometres away, in an never before seen move.

"So, they want to keep the two things unrelated..." whispered Cicciotto to himself. But he had other needs, first. New clothes. And then to reach London, to find help in the emigrants community from his valley.

Dancer laughed ironically as he got off the bus, trenchcoat billowing behind him. He'd sworn once that he'd never go back to the branch, and here he was, back on the roster for a bit of information about a man he knew next to nothing about. Sell-Out.

The news vendor looked strangely familiar to Dancer as he walked over to the stand. He grinned. There were few things that brightened his day, and beating the living daylights out of Mickey the Pig was one of them.

"Mickey"

Mickey looked up, and paled visibly

"Dancer. Oh sh..."

Dancer poked him in the ribs with the magnum.

"You're hiding someone. A wap who wouldn't tell you his name. Where is he?"

Mickey was on the verge of spitting out a reply, but the gun currently poking him in the ribs made him reconsider.

"I'll take you to him"

********************************

Dancer stared at the door, wondering what he was going to do. In the house was a man who had killed US Marines, who for once had not shot each other in a fit of stupidity, and now Dancer was going to go in there and do...what? He didn't really know. Moore hadn't said anything.

Well, they could find another bloody errand boy. Dancer was through with them, Zachariah or no. He kicked down the doorm and went in...

Marlo here. People usually call me that, though it's just me middle name. Me dad and mum saddled me with the name of Jason. I detested that name like nothing else while growing up. It was either Jason and the Argo-NUTS or Friday the 13th jokes. Jason weren't a noble name at all. So I took me middle one for good or ill.

Can't say that I hate my surname so much, though. Walker just fits me about right as any. Been on the long walk for a while now, haven't figured out where to settle, if settle I should. Of course it gets lonely, sometimes. I even wonder whether I shouldn't just head back home to Mina and the family once and for all. Then I remember why I left and try to put it out of me head as best I can do. It ain't easy. Not at all.

Me dad always said I was a wild one, but neither of us knew a thing about it. If only he could see me now.

I guess a bit of present context would help. Picture this, then: I was lying behind a bed next to this beautiful Turkish girl whispering to her in my broken German to keep as quiet as she possibly can. Her little hand was clutching tight. Much tighter than you'd have thought to take a look at her. I told her there was nothing rightly to worry about, that she'd be back with her family soon enough. She was really spooked, though, I've never seen anyone as scared as she were.

That was when my trick knee gave out on me and made a cracking sound on the floor as I turned to get a closer look. All I could see was the man's legs, several feet away, but I could tell he'd heard something or other. He just stood there for a bit, and I was beginning to think I was clear, that nothing were about to happen to me and the girl, but then he took another step forward. That was bad in itself, but when he crouched down and finally knelt to the floor I knew it were over.

He swore in his guttural Austrian accent and jumped to his feet, the same time as I grabbed Fairuza and pulled her behind me. I'd had time to push the bed right over, but by then he was at us, and we were trapped. He started shouting angrily at us, pushing the bed, me pushing back. He weren't big or nothing, but he were a strong, wiry little fellow. He pulled out a knife, so I pulled out my Coleman and beaned him on the head with it. Course that's when the damned thing decided to break. Seems the Austrian's head were tougher than it.

I was getting rightly concerned about the noise. Though he were the only one in the house at the moment, the others were just outside and soon enough came in to join us. They'd probably be carrying more knives, so it weren't the ideal situation. Fairuza's grip on my hand earlier, too, were nothing compared to how she clung to me with her whole body now. She was scared stiff, and it meant I weren't as mobile as I'd like to be, all things considered. There was nowhere to run to, neither. And four men's strength was too much for me to handle. The bed were pulled away and that was that. Eventually one of them would have the brains to go fetch a gun from somewheres, but until then their knives could do enough damage. I needed to get out of there, to say the least.

Fairuza wasn't in any mood to understand a word I said, but I whispered to her in English, "Hold on tight now, we're getting out of here." A completely redundant phrase considering I could barely move at that point. She couldn't hear me, really, but even if she could she weren't in any shape to make sense of my words.

There was no going sideways, or forwards, or backwards, neither. So I leapt up.

Everything were blurry for a split-second, and then I was staring at a starry, dark-blue sky and couldn't breathe none. Neither could the girl, apparently, as she went limp in a moment. I'd never done the like before, and I weren't rightly sure of how to get back to the ground again, but I figured if I could just get myself turned around I'd make it work out. I pulled on Fairuza's arms, already clutched around my midsection, to make sure she weren't going anywhere, and I looked down on continental Europe below.

Already I was feeling lightheaded despite the tremendous adrenaline rush that made me feel high, so there weren't no time to lose. I glanced over and took a look at the British Isles, got stuck between Eire and Wales, almost figured on the Isle of Man, but finally decided on England. It weren't the same as running or leaping, but somehow I got myself going where I wanted to, and the world became a blur again.

In that split-second I wondered to myself whether I'd stop before I met the ground.

It had been easy to get to London, as he was in the metropolis already. getting new clothes was easy as well, "borrowing" them from a a backyard court. A little more complicate exchanging the euros in his pocket into pounds, and finding the right underground ride for the City.

He had a name, though... a friend of a friend of his father, that each summer returned to the small town in the Italian Appennines... and luckily enough he found the name on the telephone guide, and in no time he was at the man's restaurant.

Just, what he found was not really what he hoped for. Not a small job as a waiter, waiting for better times. It was a photo on one of the internal pages of the Times, under a title: "Italian ranger slays two US Marines". But the man did not call the cop. "I am sure you had your good motives, Edo" said the man, and gave him a name. "Mickey the Pig. It's a small gangster. He knows how to let you disappear for a while".

Mickey the Pig was a slimy short man. "I have the place, but it will cost you a lot".

"I don't have much money" responded Cicciotto.

"I will teach you how to get it" responded Mickey.

The place was dirty and small, smelling of rat's urine and decades old dust, but the presence of a light bulb was all Cicciotto needed.

Mickey went away, and Cicciotto closed the door behind him, locking it with the key.

It passed the whole of a day, when the door was kicked inside, and an heavy built man in a rugged trench-coat came in. His piercing eyes panned over the body of Cicciotto, resting on his face. The man seemed relieved, like he was expecting something more menacing.

Out of a pocket of the coat Edulcore spotted the Times, folded on the page with his photo.

"Edulcore Cicciotto, although I can't say I am sorry for what you did, you haven't been nice with George W. boys, and now Tony Blair wants to give your head as a present for his buddy." Said that, he pointed his big gun to the Italian, and waved it toward the door.

Cicciotto raised his hands. "What time is it, sir?" was just what he asked.

The intruder, the ex-cop by the name of Dancer, seemed surprised by the question. "Are you not going to oppose resistance to the arrest?" he asked, and from the tone of his voice he seemed nearly sad that there was not a fight.

Cicciotto looked at the man. "No. Should I?"

Dancer shrugged. "Pansy" he whispered, grimacing.

Pushing the barrel of the gun between his ribs, the ex-cop led Cicciotto outside the small flat, an half underground apartment, to leave which you had to step over a small stair to get to the road level.

Stepping up, the eyes of Dancer where caught by the alien sight of the second, full moon rising above the roof line, just below the true moon, with the crescent at his first quarter.

"Strange, eh" said the cop, but no answer came.

The barrel was pointing in the air, as Cicciotto had completely disappeared. Dancer stood in the middle of the street, looking frantically at both ends, but there were no sign of the Italian. Only then he did notice a strange, lupine form running and jumping madly over the roofs.

The wolf man lept from roof to roof, escaping his would be captor. His claws dug into the shingles on one roof top and brought him to a screeching halt. The canine nose sniffed the air, trying to make out the strange new scent. A form darted into the air and hovered beside him.

"Be you the bastard spawn of some fell science? Or be you the product of malicious wizardy?" Vireximius stood on an unseen floor of air with his arms crossed. The edges of his cape little fluttered in the breeze.

Cicciotto backflipped off the building and into an alley below. Vireximius closely followed. "Your attempt at escape only vexes me." He reached up and put his hand on the creature's shoulder. The beast grabbed his hand and flung him over. The modern knight lost control and fell to the hard ground. "You wish to quarrel?" he asked as he stood up. "Then so it shall be."

My heart almost stopped in its tracks as we rushed towards the ground. Ever seen one of them films that moves from a longshot of the world or a continent and zooms rapidly in to a specific place on the globe? That were how it was with us. I had nary a time to think much about it, though, before I was face flat on the pavement of some road or another.

It was dark except for the glaring street-lights all around. Fairuza was still out, but her weight held me down for a while as I debated whether to let her go or not. I looked round and figured that weren't such a good option.

I muttered something like "shit" as I realized the bright lights coming towards us were the headlights of a large truck, brakes squealing but much too late to stop in time, especially with the newly-created ice on the street thanks to our landing there. Fairuza was limp and felt heavy after all the exertion, but I somehow managed to push myself up by one arm and me knees and leaped backwards.

We fell into a muddy ditch in the middle of the country some ways away, and I had to think fast to keep the girl from drowning herself in the mud, still unconscious as she were. The mud was partially frozen after my landing there, though it were still fairly warm outside. It's the end of a "walk" that seems to suck all the kinetic energy not only out of my velocity but in the immediate place around me as well.

I knew we were still in England, and I could guess roughly how far I'd "walked" that time, and I knew we weren't anywhere near no Turkish embassy. Not that I had any idea where I could find such a place in London.

Another "walk" took us back into London, this time on our feet, and not in traffic, neither. There were a few people who looked spooked when they saw a young man carrying a girl, both covered in mud, suddenly appear from out of nowheres, but I'm guessing they just tried to rationalize it somehow. Only the children ever believe everything they see, even if it were all true.

Soon enough I had found a phone book and made my call, first to Austria to let the Turkish ambassador know his girl were safe and sound and kidnapped back from her kidnappers for him, and that I'd be much obliged if he were to wire the second half of the reward money to my bank account upon confirmation of my deliverance of the girl to the Turkish embassy in London (though he were rightly confused about how she'd gotten so far away so soon). I also asked if he'd want me to deliver the girl to him in person straightaway, to which he hastily told me not to bother, since he was already on his way to the U.K. for some other diplomatic reason. Can't say I have much patience with ambassadors or diplomatic types, but I was glad I didn't have to go all the way back to Austria with the girl. My arms were tired enough. Secondly I found the Turkish embassy and soon enough delivered her to their doorstep. They were expecting me and made things simple enough, but I didn't want to stick around for no nosy questions or nothing, so I took a walk to another part of the city.

Now, I'm not a man given to believing in coincidences or nothing like that, but when I appeared on a dark street elsewhere in the city, only to witness a ruddy-looking fellow with a rifle standing in the middle of the street looking fairly spooked, but not at me, then something like a big ape or dog jumping on the rooftops above where he was staring, I were rightly surprised. It was only when I saw some kind of knight in shining armor flying right through the air towards the creature that I began to wonder whether I were losing my senses altogether.

I wasn't interested in getting into a quarrel with the man who carried the gun, but the flying knight and the hairy creature looked right interesting to me eyes, and I ran after them for a closer look.

(Originally posted by Southpaw:)

Inside the café, the last of the customers had finished her drink. She wrapped a pink woollen scarf around her neck and then tucked the ends into the front of her thick coat. As she left, the staff came out from behind the counter and began to wipe the chrome surfaces and place stools upside down on top of the round silver tables. Occasionally they glanced through the window, at the man sitting on the pavement furniture outside, nursing his tea in a disposable cup. They hoped that he would leave of his own accord.

Another man exited from a newsagents on the opposite side of the road. In one hand, he was carrying what looked, at a distance, to be a large paper fan. He crossed the street and joined the man seated outside the café.

“There you go mate,” said Greeny “All your problems are fucking solved.”

He deposited the fanned-out lottery scratch cards on the aluminium table.

“…And if you win anything big, then I’m having it you bar-stard.”

Adrian looked down at the cards. He removed one hand from beneath the table, picked them up and put them in the pocket of his coat.

“I’ll do them later eh?”

Greeny took the seat opposite Adrian, the metal legs of the chair making a grating sound on the paving slabs. Adrian removed the plastic lid from his tea and a small cloud of steam billowed out, creating a patch of fog on the window of the café, which began to recede almost instantly. He spread out the fingers of his right hand across the table, turning its surface to liquid. Balancing the disposable cup on his lap, he allowed the six digits on his left hand to dip into the tea. He lifted his fingers out of the hot beverage and six droplets fell from the tips and onto the fluid metal surface beneath.

.

.

.

.

.

.

They spread out in dark concentric circles, the outer rings of the ripples colliding and absorbing one another’s momentum.

“Fuck!” said Greeny, lifting his folded arms off of the table and checking the sleeves of his coat.

“A bit better than what you’ve got,” said Adrian. He was now manipulating the dark strands of tea, fashioning them into a shape.

“Ah but I’m a natural. People would kill for what I’ve got in my head.”

“Yeah and what’s that?” said Adrian staring intently at his half finished handiwork.

“The winning numbers for the European Lottery, 27th September 2043. Biggest pay out in the next one hundred years. I’ll be fucking 72.”

“What are you going to buy with your winnings – a new colostomy bag?”

“You can laugh but Silex’s long term budget prospectus factors in my winnings for the next decade. They’re expecting a big payout.”

“Only a few more years to wait then,” said Adrian, sarcastically.

“Six and one mate. Six and one. It’s inverted luck isn’t it. And it’s all down to my mum and her pot smoking lesbian mates. When I was conceived, they did my readings, worked out all the bad points in my life when I was going to struggle and then they sent little care packages of luck into the future, for me to pick up.”

“Did you ever wonder why she didn’t just cut to the chase and give you a couple of million quid when you were born?”

“She didn’t want to spoil my karma by handing it to me on a plate did she? She came from solid working class roots.”

Greeny rubbed his hands together. He caught sight of one of the café staff staring at him from behind the glass.

“It’s getting a bit cold isn’t it? Do you fancy a pint,” he said, sounding the ‘I’ in pint as if he was saying the word ‘in’.

“You know, get to know each other a bit better.”

“Nah fuck it. I’ve got to go man. You’ve got my number.”

Adrian stood up and adjusted his coat. One hand slipped into his pocket, and he felt the shiny warmth of the scratch cards inside. The surface of the metal table had hardened and was marked indelibly with a drawing of a small wading bird, its tail angled into the air.

“Have the tea if you want it.”

Greeny peered into the cup. Then he looked at the drawing on the table.

“What is it, Earl Grey?”


************************************************************

Adrian made his way through the streets of London on autopilot. As he passed the alleyway on All Hallows Lane he caught sight of someone standing near the entrance. It was then that he saw the caped figure floating above the ground and the wolf that stood on its hind legs like a man.

Instinctively he placed his left hand on the nearby wall. Where his fingers dissolved into the brickwork, six ripples spread out from the tips.

Dancer was pissed off. He'd never let his quarry escape from him before, and he wasn't about to start letting them now. Yet there was something very strange about this whole situation. First there was this bright, round light in the sky that looked like a small moon, and Cicciotto turned into some kind of large dog or wolf, like a werewolf, only it couldn't have been a werewolf because werewolves don't exist. Yet what kind of dog or wolf leaps several stories high and runs from rooftop to rooftop, leaping across the chasm of the city streets below with a bare minimum of effort?

If that had not been enough, there appeared something equally ridiculous --- a man in some kind of metallic bodysuit who appeared to be flying in midair, and no wires anywhere in sight. Yet there must be an explanation for such a figure. He heard the figure speak with an American accent --- had the Yanks created some kind of new military uniform with miniature propelling devices or some such contraption? It sounded too futuristic to be true, but he'd been around long enough to know that there's a lot that government keeps from the people.

Then, just as he was about to chase after them as best he could, a man appeared literally from out of nowhere, glanced at him for a moment, turned and disappeared again! Dancer had run down All Hallows Lane to where he had seen the man first appear, and he had apparently been running too quickly, as he slipped and fell onto his back, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to drop his Magnum. Cursing, Dancer pushed himself up and found that there was a sheen of ice in a concentric circle on the pavement.

"Fuckin' typical," he muttered to himself, though there was nothing typical about it. The weather was mild and had never dropped below freezing at all this October. He picked himself up, brushed off a bit of dust on his coat, and swore angrily as he realised he'd ripped a hole in his pants at the knee. He ran forward a pace, then took a look back, frowning at the almost perfect circular patch of ice on the pavement that was already beginning to melt, and ran forward again. Whoever the hell these people were, he was going to get them. They had all appeared at once in one place, and Dancer didn't believe in coincidences. They all had something to do with Cicciotto and the general air of strangeness of this evening.

Dancer followed the animal sounds of snarling and growling and stopped a few feet away from the mouth of an alleyway from which the sounds came. He was still pissed off, but he wasn't at all stupid. When he saw the twentysomething young man with the backpack gaping up towards the source of the sounds, he recognised him as being the same individual who had appeared and disappeared in such a singular way moments earlier. Whoever he was, he seemed able to vanish at will if given a moment's notice. Dancer wasn't about to do that.

The vanishing hitchhiker, as Dancer began to think of the young man, seemed awed at whatever he was witnessing at the rooftops above the alleyway, and he was certainly distracted from everything around him. He seemed to have an innocent-looking way about him, but the ex-cop had long ago stopped trusting appearances. Something about the vanishing hitchhiker stunk to high heaven along with Cicciotto and the man in the flying suit. The Branch had called on him due to his reputation for strange circumstances. They had called him a kind of "weirdness magnet" long ago, and though he had resented the charge, he had to admit to himself that he seemed to attract the strange ones.

Now just hold still, arsehole, Dancer thought as he crept behind the hitchhiker. Don't you make one fucking move. Dancer didn't take any chances but quickly struck the butt of his Magnum hard upon the hitchhiker's skull, causing the man to collapse a moment later in one fell swoop. "Hurm," the ex-cop grunted; it was all too easy to subdue that one.

"Is something wrong, officer?" someone said quietly from just behind him.

Dancer inwarded startled but calmly stood up and looked at the man. An ordinary bystander. "Nothing to see here, sir. Run along home now."

Adrian Slawney smiled strangely at the brutal man and said, gesturing up at the rooftops, "You've got to be kidding me."

The ex-cop finally looked up at the rooftops and saw the source of the snarling and growling sounds, but only in glimpses as the wolf-like creature came too close to the roof. But there seemed to be a battle going on up there between the wolf and the man in the battlesuit.

Dancer turned to the man and said, "Go home, sir. This doesn't concern you."

"What about this fellow?" Adrian said as Dancer searched frantically for a way to the rooftop.

"Go home!" Dancer shouted. "And call the police!"

Adrian crouched down and looked at the face of the hitchhiker. He didn't seem so dangerous to him. Adrian wasn't sure why he had approached the man and still didn't know why he remained here. The only explanation he could justify to himself was curiosity.

The ex-cop known as Dancer had finally found a ladder (how convenient, he had thought) and panted as he raced up numerous steps to bring him to the rooftop. There, he got a clear view of his quarry:

Dancer saw a knight in shining armor wearing a cape, hovering two feet from the rooftop, delivering as many blows as he had received yet resulting in an impasse. His foe was a horribly gruesome large wolf-like creature that seemed as much man as wolf yet possessed a certain infernal element of hell within its grisly visage. The two foes together resembled nothing less than a legendary hero versus a horrible monster. He almost felt like swooning from the incredible sight, but he reminded himself that he had beheld things almost as strange as the sight before him in his days with the Branch. He swallowed and pulled out his Magnum.

As soon as he'd pointed his gun in the direction of the two warring figures and shouted, "Right! Hands in the air, the both of you!" he realised precisely how ridiculous he must have looked. His action had caught the attention of the knight, however.

"Stand back, O man!" Vireximius shouted impatiently to the interloper. "This battle betwixt man and beast holds no place for mortal such as thee!" Saying thus, the knight struck another glancing blow at the snarling werewolf. As formidable as the knight seemed to be and surely was, the werewolf was holding his own. Still, there was only one way this battle could end.

"This is your final warning, 'Sir Launcelot'!" Dancer growled. "Hands in the air!"

Vireximius sighed and ignored the man, attempting to apprehend the werewolf.

"Right!" Dancer cried, firing three shots at the knight, each one glancing off the impervious armor as if they were spitballs. "...oh, fuck..." the ex-cop groaned in exasperation. His feelings of powerlessness grew as the sky suddenly opened up and poured a torrent of rain upon each of them. It was as if it had been directed there.

Vireximius was surprised to find that the beast was equal to himself in might. Surely nothing, man or beast, was equal to the might of Vireximius? And the presence of the man with the rifle complicated things. Vireximius did not want innocents hurt in his battle. Aiming another blow at the wolf, he felt the creature scrape his claws along Vireximius's armour. He laughed

"Thou will have to do better than that, spawn of evil, to defeat Vireximius"

Dancer stood there, feeling like a fool as the medieval throwback and the Wolf-thing fought. He couldn;t just stand there, he had his own plans for the Cicciotto, if that was really him in the wolf-suit. If ever I needed help he thought please let it get here now

It was then that Dr. Jimmy made his first appearance, bursting through the crack in reality that was in Dancer's mind and grabbing his body for fun. Dressed like a gothic doctor, with a black lab coat and black spectacles, a skull-headed cane in hand, Jimmy grinned, baring teeth made of steel, and then hurled back his head and roared with glee.

"Time to submit, my friends. There's a Doctor in the House!"

And Jimmy leapt into the battle.

For almost an hour the black helicopter had been stationed in an elliptical orbit above the city of London. A pair of dull red twin-lights mounted on the underside of the fuselage were the only faintly visible objects on the aircraft, which otherwise blended in perfectly with the darkening sky. The sliding passenger door had been pulled wide open and strong winds were buffeting a row of three human figures who were perched on a bench seat opposite. Below, a forest of lights sketched a confused outline of a city and defined the dark shadows of the tall buildings

The spotlight on a nearby police copter swept across the open door, revealing a haggard looking blonde woman, in her forties, dressed in a purple trouser suit. Flanking her were two young men who were both wearing light body armour.

“Jesus, whose side are you on!” muttered the pilot as the police aircraft suddenly banked in front of him, its spotlight diffusing on the tinted glass of the cockpit.

In the co-pilot’s seat, Rica finished reading the document on his PDA. He leaned around, and quietly addressed the three passengers, his voice somehow establishing itself above the noise of the rotors and the wind outside.

“This is a zero tolerance mission which means that we only want bodies. Once we’re on the ground I don’t want any games. Kill them quickly. If anyone attempts to surrender wait until their guard is down and then take them out. Satellite reconnaissance says they look like confused amateurs but I still don’t want the rank and file officers having primary contact with any of these individuals.”

“Well, somebody’s going to pay for making me call out the babysitter on a Friday,” said the blonde woman.

“Okay,” said Rica. “One more sweep while the police establish the perimeter, then we’re down in five.”

The rain began to come down in sheets. Vireximius squared off against the unnatural werebeast in front of him. It's claws occasionally scratching across the surface of his armor, causeing a shower of sparks to rain down his chest. The creature itself was agile and able to deflect and dodge the knight's mighty blows.

"Your skill is great indeed, but yet have you to name yourself. Speak now, beast, before I silence you for eternity. Fore Vireximius cannot allow for terrors to reign in the twilight."

"What did that mean?" Adrian said to Dancer. He looked over and noticed the man gone.

The wolfman and knight grasped each other, trying to get the advantage in the battle. The roof beneath them cracked and opened up. The plunged downwards into a deparment store. "Dr. Jimmy say he want to have fun too," the spirit possessing the ex-cop laughed as he peered into the whole his magics had made.

"Damnit!" Rica yelled from his copter. He spoke into his radio, "We just lost control of the situation. I want containment down there now. This may be our only shot at this. Keep it fast and clean. We don't need anything going more FUBAR than it has already. Let's go."

The helicopter dropped vertically out of the sky in a controlled free-fall, as if it was an elevator car, coming to a graceful halt as it drew level with a row of windows on the top floor of an office building. The pilot swung it around on its axis so that they were facing along the street.

Rica was talking calmly into his head mic, the sound of the rotors quietening as he spoke.

“…these things can often be messy. Bring in the outer perimeter by a block. I’d like fire teams moving in tandem…”

He glanced at HUD screen, that was feeding data from the imaging equipment on the underside of the helicopter. Beneath him the blonde woman and her two bodyguards were striding purposefully towards the damaged department store.

“Maggie, I want them contained in the building ahead of you.”

Maggie did not acknowledge him, but continued to advance towards the store front. The large windows were full of elegantly posed mannequins. One of the displays was of an autumnal scene, with small trees, a neat pile of autumn leaves and the flame-haired tailor’s dummies dressed in heavy coats and scarves. In the corner window, a red Mini Cooper gleamed under bright halogen spotlights.

When she was 20 feet from the entrance she suddenly flung her arms wide apart. A shock wave spread out from between the front doors of the store, the plate glass windows on either side exploding into the street. The window frames and floor supports crumpled as they were swept apart like a pair of curtains being drawn back, leaving a gaping hole in the facade of the building.

Maggie gave another sharp flick of her hand and the Mini in the corner display was yanked from its plinth into the street and then flung back through the hole, hurtling, like an asteroid, into the displays of perfumes and cosmetics until it came to a rest, spinning on its back somewhere in the middle of the shop. The trio walked a straight path through the debris while, ahead of them, display counters and shelving units were torn up from the floor and thrown with force against the walls.

“It’s just like that time in Harrods when I was a little girl,” Maggie yelled.

Behind her, the liquid flowing from a thousand broken bottles had collected in a small stream that meandered back towards the entrance, while, outside, in the street, the smell of perfume filled the night air.

Jimmy felt the power before he saw her. A blonde woman, carrying a wand and looking dangerous. Turning from the still battling knight and werewolf he leapt towards the woman.

Maggie's bodyguards raised their rifles as one of the targets bound into view. He waved his cane, and the pair collapsed, screaming in agony. Maggie paled at the sight of him. Obscure Caribbean lore was a hobby, and she recognised Dr. Jimmy, Voodoo Loa of murder and destruction.

"Well, my little harlot, it seems you've caused quite a lot of trouble. Time to say bye-bye"

Maggie desperately raised her wand and fired a shockwave at Jimmy. Laughing he absorbed it before chanting a brief incantation. A stream of molten steel flew out of his cane at her. Summoning another shockwave, Maggie deflected it. Jimmy laughed, and suddenly the laughter was all around her, distracting her from summoning up another shockwave. She turned and ran, but didn't get far. Jimmy's cane caved her skull in before she'd even got half-way to the door.

************************************************************

"Maggie? Maggie, come in please. Maggie? Shit!"

Rica swore, and ripper the headset off.

"Maggie's team is down. Send in the Redwatch strike team. We haven't got time for this shit"

"Redwatch?!"

The pilot knew of Redwatch, of course. You could hardly work in the Gen Squad without hearing of them, but he'd never seen them in action. If rumour was to be believed then you really didn't want to.

************************************************************

Jimmy heard a siren, and turned to the combatants, now collapsed in a heap from exhaustion. Vireximius had proved the stronger, and Cicciotto was out cold.

"I think it is time we were going, mi amigos. The Sorceress's allies will be along shortly, and I can only inflict so much death before it gets boring"

Vireximius nodded, and jerked his head in the direction of Cicciotto

"Should we bring along this creature? I would not willingly leave such a worthy opponent at the mercy of foul demons"

"Of course we bring him! Don't be a fool"

Vireximius nodded, and heaved Cicciotto onto his shoulder.

"Wait! I'm coming too"

Jimmy turned around to see Slawny step out of cover, heaving a still unconscious Walker with him.

"If you wish. Now, gentlemen, I suggest we depart quickly"

Jimmy ran off, and the others followed him, able to follow his trail even when their fast-moving compatriot was out of sight. It would have been hard not to, with the amount of damage Jimmy was handing out to to everything in his path.

The peculiar assembly of gifted persons (or maybe accursed would be a better choice of word) ran behind the black dressed doctor, trying to put as much as possible space between them and the Gen Squad operatives.

But it didn't pass a lot of time, that the good doctor turned, a malevolent smile on his face, and suddenly all turned dark and fuzzy for the other four.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Edulcore Cicciotto woke up with a terrible headache. He massaged his temples for a moment, unable to remember what has happened. Then, in the dim lit room, he saw the form of other three men, lying over wooden benches. All, like himself, had handcuffs. One, also, had the legs tied up.

What happened? Who caged him? And who were the other men in the prison?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Dancer was smiling in front of Tanya Cooper, in the Special Branch operative headquarters. The girl was shaking her head, a look of incredulity on her face. "It's unbelievable, Dancer. You managed to outperform yourself. You solved the two cases... in less than half a day? The analysis confirm two of those men are Cicciotto and Callard. How did you get to do it?"

The ex-cop sat down. "I am not an agent, I haven't to write you a report. You wanted them, I delivered them. Alive. How I did, it's not your business" Now the face of Dancer was hidden behind a copy of the Sun, that the man had found on the desk and opened, more to get on the nerves of the woman that to actually read anything.

"You must at last explain why did you brought up those other two. Who are they?"

Dancer snorted. "They were on the place where Ciccitto and Callard were beating up themselves for good. I don't know who they are, but they are freaks like the other two. One vanishes leaving ice in place of himslef, the other got six fingers for each hand. I never saw four mutants in the same place, without any connections. Hell, I never saw four mutants, period."

"Yes, but what is the connection? I can't see anyone" said the woman, shaking her head.

"I do" said dancer, putting the newspaper down, fully opened on the desk. "Read here".

Cooper took the Sun, and began to read the article on page 14.

French archaeologist claims alien invasion is imminent

Paris, France.

Miss Laetitia DuPont, archaeologist at the CNRF, the French National Research Centre, interviewed at the evening television newscast of the French public channel Antenne 2, claimed the terrible earthquake that shook the French-Italian Alps, and the sudden apparition of the mysterious astronomical object dubbed "the second moon", are related.
The woman, with a ten years career in studying the 6.000 years old prehistorical carvings of Mount Bego, in east France, explained that the drawings shows the landing of a spaceship and the relative little aliens. Later carvings shows the alien performing experiments over the natives, creating composite men, half human and half dogs (or wolves). Subsequently the alien ship left. In the far future, corresponding to our time, as shown by particular constellations alignments, an object described by the woman as a "probe" would appear, out of the mountain where the ship formerly landed, to awake the descendants of those men-dogs, and commanding them to slaughter the humankind in preparation for the return of the alien race.
Following the airing of the news, Miss DuPont has been suspended from her lecturing position at the Sorbonne University. Unconfirmed report claims the woman has been put in a mental asylum, following a serious nervous breackdown.
Selling of grey alien merchandising in France has seen a growth of 500% since the airing of the news."

Tanya put down the newspaper. "Seems the usual shit... but Cicciotto is a werewolf and has killed US soldiers right in the Italian French Alps... it's question time for those fours, Dancer."

Dancer turned with the sound of shattering metal. Vireximius was standing in the cell. The cuffs on his wrists had been ripped asunder. "I should have known better than to trust the foul words of a dark mage."

"What is he going on about?" Cooper asked Dancer.

"He's gone mad," the ex-cop said quickly. "Just get some more men down here to..."

The bars of the cell twisted within the knight's grasp. They shot forth from the walls. The door spun like a helicopter blade as it flew through the air.

"Bloody hell," Dancer managed to let out.

"My patience has been exhausted." His body floated over the debris from his escape and set down directly in front of his two captors. "Explain yourself before my humanity gives way to my wrath."

"Things are going to Hell out there, and you and that guy in there are a part of it. People want answers. That's why they sent me after you." The ex-cop kept his cool and calm demeanor. On the inside, he was praying that his words would prevent this insane man from spliting him like a wishbone.

"So," Vireximius said, the scowl on his face slowly fading, "I am being conspired against. Long have there been those who oppose the cleansing by the Eternal Champion. Long have they failed. Return to your masters to report your inadequate managing of your mission."

"I'll have you know that no man calls himself my master!" Dancer yelled back. "I did this for my own reasons, and it wasn't to brown nose some bastard behind a desk."

"A man with no loyalty, eh? Then you shall have no dilemma revealing all you know of those who plot against me."