《The Cage》


 Prologue. The Lesser Aspects.

    The Beggar


    The atmosphere boiled away from the garden world as its spin was stilled and it was torn from its orbit. Shockwaves flattened mountains and uprooted ecosystems as it was rotated at odd and seemingly random angles. Finally, the unnatural motion stopped.


    It would do. The globe was compressed, and unseen blades began to cut it into molecule thin discs. The process would only take a moment.


    Unholy abominations had happened by, bored and looking for a game. They needed a few materials to construct the necessary apparatus. There were other celestial bodies nearby, but unfortunately for the inhabitants of the dead planet, their world had required the least effort to convert. It would hardly have mattered anyway, since their sun was already being stripped for additional components. The heedless gods that had fallen on their world were not cruel. Their victims were incidental, sad sapients that simply went unnoticed. So it went.


    Humans had come to play.


    The beggar yelped, dispelling the vision that invaded his mind. He stumbled into a narrow alley, fighting back the urge to vomit. Old beer cans rolled away from his wobbling feet. Hands wrapped in tattered gloves grasped at old brick walls to either side as he struggled to remain upright.


    Allen Barra stayed a short distance behind, quietly watching the struggles of his quarry as he followed. Discarded styrofoam crunched under his feet, but the sound went unnoticed. He carefully avoided small puddles of water and less wholesome fluids, nose wrinkling at the urine reek.


    His target was a short man, clothed in old flannel and worn denim. An olive drab woolen cap partially obscured greasy uncut hair. At some point someone must have given him a razor, because he beardless if unshaven. His faint musk was evidence that he had few opportunities to bathe but was not altogether unsanitary in his habits.


    The worst thing about the beggar, in Allen¡¯ eyes, was his color. There was absolutely no reason for a white man to fall so low. The world was a harsh place, to be sure, but there was plenty of help for anyone willing to tighten his belt and pick himself up. Instead this creature chose to abdicate responsibility and find refuge in alcohol or whatever substance he could beg, borrow or steal. Probably had an abandoned family somewhere too. Disgusting.


    Allen considered himself a cultured man, at the height of a North American standard that was the only standard that mattered. He preferred suits, but dressed down when he was hunting. He had donned simple blue jeans today, though fairly new and from a good designer. A bespoke navy turtleneck and his least expensive watch finished the ensemble. They were all things that could be discarded if necessary, but formed the minimum of good taste for public outings.


    He had been surveying the local homeless and other charity cases in the safer areas for a few days now, ever since the urge came on him. He was hardly some murderous thug, more of a public servant really. His occasional forays into the wild removed nuisances and purged the gene pool of failure.


    There. The old bum had finally come to rest, stumbling down into a seated position. His pants legs darkened with liquids of indeterminate provenance. Allen spared a quick survey of his surroundings. There were no windows and no one else in sight. The alley¡¯s angles obscured the daylight, though rays still shone unhindered at the tops of the walls. It was dark enough and private enough. Time to get to work.


    Allen pulled his blade from its concealed sheath under his sweater. It was a k-bar, a sharp and solid knife preferred by the armed forces. More than enough to make quick work of America¡¯s enemies, let alone some drunken bum. He hummed in satisfaction as he stood over his prey. The homeless man was gazed up at him now and there was something strange about his eyes. He had seen this one before, and he remembered that his eyes were always dim and cloudy. A result of substance abuse, no doubt. Despite that, the beggar¡¯s eyes seemed sharp and focused.


    ¡°Need some help?¡± he asked with a kindly smile. The sly turning of blade he held up belied his friendly tone.


    The beggar stared at him, seemed to stare through him for a moment. Blue. His eyes were blue. ¡°Yeah,¡± he mumbled. ¡°Yeah, I need some help man.¡±


    Give give give


    ¡°Yeah,¡± the beggar repeated. ¡°D¡¯ya think you can spare somethin¡¯?¡±


    Give give give


    The knife wavered in Allen¡¯s hand. He tightened his grip. Something was off here. Before, the old bum had seemed hunched and wary, a demeanor that screamed wretched. Allen had almost felt pity, but something had changed. The beggar looked almost¡­strong.


    Give give give


    Allen almost turned away at that moment, prepared to sate his appetite on another day. The beggar spoke quickly, eager for unearned bounty. ¡°Do you think¡­d¡¯ya think you could spare a buck?¡± A glistening gray tongue licked crooked orange teeth in anticipation.


    Give give give


    Allen¡¯s hand involuntarily shot into his pocket. He jerked out a fine leather wallet and began rifling through it, looking for a small bill. The knife fell to his feet.


    ¡°Or how about a fin? Can you spare a fin, man?¡±


    Give give give


    Allen shuffled through his bills, finally deciding to be generous. He would give the beggar anything. He would give the beggar all of it.


    Give give give


    ¡°Or even more maybe? I really need it, man. Give me more.¡± The beggar''s tone sharpened, taking on what was almost a note of command.


    Give give give


    He was very strange, this foul old man. Was he old? He had not seemed that old, but something ancient peered out from his eyes. Yellow. His eyes were yellow. There was something to be pitied there, yes, but something more too. Something deserving of both charity and homage, a hymn to the brotherhood of mankind and taking care of one¡¯s own! Allen held out his wallet. Take it! Please take it all!


    ¡°Or even more?¡± asked the beggar. He was rising now, pushing himself up from the effluvia to stand and face Allen directly. ¡°It¡¯s not just for me. I got people to look after, see? People who lose their lives and die, man.¡± His eyes narrowed as he looked over his superior. ¡°How about¡­could you please spare¡­could you please give¡­?¡± The words were pleas, but there was no supplication to be found in the beggar¡¯s voice. A breath of stale beer and sour coffee wafted through the still air. Still. It was so very still.


    GIVE


    GIVE


    GIVE


    ¡°How about¡­how about a life? Could you spare your life?¡±


    A frozen moment. There was no time for panic or resistance. Allen collapsed onto his back, shuddering as the edges of the world blackened. A detritus of torn newspaper drifted away, displaced by the weight of his body. A fluttering hand yet clutched a finely made wallet. He was still trying to hold it out to the beggar as he struggled for oxygen. His heartbeat increased in defiance before rapidly slowing.


    ¡°Take¡­please take¡­,¡± he gasped weakly, and then he breathed his last.


    The Beggar stood up and cracked his neck. ¡°Yeah, I will take that,¡± he said to the cooling corpse, as he reached down and seized the wallet. He was no thief, that was not his story, but a beggar looting the dead was perfectly acceptable. He pulled out the bills and tossed away the billfold. It was time to be on his way.


    He had been in the comforting squalor of India, what he suspected was his homeland, when he heard the Call. The Beggar was not the type to ignore it. To his consternation, it had came from America. Still, he was an Avatar, or an Aspect as they were labeled in the West. He had access to the old paths. It had only taken a couple of days to get here. On the way, he had felt something wrong and had stepped back into the world to intervene. As First of the Destitute, he believed he owed it to those who unwittingly followed him.


    Worst yet, he had suffered another of the visions that harassed the oldest and youngest of his kind. Altogether, the entire ordeal had taken too much time and now he had to hurry. ¡°Broken Gods¡­¡± he muttered crossly. Well, he was in America, so he should probably say ¡°Jesus.¡±


    Jesus, he hated America. He hated that a single country took the name of the continent. He hated its philosophies, he hated its majority religion and he hated being some kind of indeterminate mixed Caucasian. He was impatient to depart and get back into a more comfortable Facade. He greatly preferred something Hindu or at least Asian. Those were people who knew how to properly mix contempt with pity and respect.


    The backlash from this intervention would come at a cost. He was the Beggar, and most stories did not allow the Beggar to be a hero. The Gift of Charity was not meant to be used as an instrument of murder. Still, he was acting to protect his own, so he would certainly keep his immortality and avoid too much suffering. He could feel a throbbing behind his temples but he would survive and continue to function.


    The Beggar shelved his irritation and gritted his teeth against the pain. He stepped forward and turned a corner that no one else could see. He shuffled under an arch that could not be and passed through a gate that was not there. Finally, he walked into the True City and started to make his way towards the Gathering.


    __________


    The Monster


    I don¡¯t know why I took her. It happens that way sometimes. If you had my blessings, you''d know what I mean. There are times when you just look at a person and you know¡­that guy has to go.


    You''re latching onto the part where I said ¡°blessings,¡± right? Nah, it¡¯s not a religious thing. I¡¯m an atheist. Don¡¯t tell my family, I still go to church with them when I''m visiting. It keeps them happy. No, ¡°blessings¡± is just an expression I use. It makes it easier for people to understand.


    Honestly, I used to feel guilty about taking women. After all, a male¡¯s purpose in nature, after reproduction, is the care and defense of women and children. It used to tear me up inside to have to take a woman off the shelf. Then I realized that most men feel that way. That¡¯s why so many bitches get away with murder. Even when you''ve got them dead to rights, with smoking gun in hand, you feel bad for them. It¡¯s totally unequal. I had to let go of that kind of thinking. No one gets away with it. I won¡¯t have it.


    Of course, I never felt all that guilty about a taking down some ball smashing feminist. Don¡¯t get it twisted, I¡¯m not a hater. I¡¯m not saying all feminists deserve wetting up. The ¡°we just want equality¡± crowd are alright, when they really mean it. I can get right on board. Thing is, too many don¡¯t really mean it. At least the ones with all the magazines and shows. They really want superiority and control and to tear down all males. That¡¯s what I see, clear as day. Hell, a lot of them want to fuck over any women that are happier or prettier or better off in any way. The ones that hate their so-called sisters for making the ¡°wrong¡± decisions. Those ones get no sympathy.


    Sorry, I¡¯m rambling. Got to hurry, I hear someone calling and I just can¡¯t miss it. Serious business.


    So, this lady. Unexceptional in every way. You couldn''t call her ugly but you can tell she was never pretty, not even when she was young. Short brown hair, cut above the shoulders. Pink Nike blouse, years out of date. Plain jeans and not much of a figure. No matter what they tell you, every guy looks at every woman if she isn''t fat or really old, but you wouldn''t give her a second glance. She¡¯s standing outside the entrance to the Thriftway, maybe waiting for a ride or a cab to come by but she isn''t carrying anything.


    I¡¯m driving by and my blessings kick. My sight zeroes right in. You know in the movies, where the protagonist sees the love interest for the first time? Everything slows right down and there¡¯s a kind of tunnel vision effect. That¡¯s as close as I can describe my blessings.


    I park as quickly as I can and get out of the car, already thinking on my approach. It would be easiest to stay in the car and then follow her once her Uber or whatever shows up. But, as usual, I¡¯m letting my blessings guide me now, and they¡¯re telling me to get out of the car and approach her directly.


    Charm it is. I¡¯m actually kinda shy, but my blessings are in charge now and I know they¡¯ll see me through. So I just go right for the target. She looks over at me but she¡¯s not nervous or anything. Probably used to strange men approaching. Only the fattest or ugliest women never get any attention. Sad but true.


    My blessings are a slow build up, but once they really get going it¡¯s like I¡¯m not in control at all. Truth is, I don¡¯t even know what I said to her or if I even talked at all. I¡¯m totally caught up in the power is all I can say. Bottom line, by the time I¡¯m coming down, she¡¯s in the car and we¡¯re a ways down the road.


    It doesn¡¯t take long before she¡¯s got a confused look on her face, like she doesn¡¯t know why she got in the car. Too late! The game is pretty much over now. We''re way off the beaten path at this point. It¡¯s all shitty road and lots of trees, no help and nowhere to go. She tries talking to me, but I¡¯m not playing so she isn¡¯t getting much more than grunts out of me. She¡¯s getting edgy now, about to panic. Can¡¯t have too much fuss, so I keep one hand on the wheel and toss a couple punches her way. Man¡¯s got to be safe and keep his eye on the road, but she¡¯s right next to me. It¡¯s not like I can miss.


    Little missy squeals, but she isn¡¯t too loud. The shock I guess. I couldn''t do it this way with most guys, maybe not even with a knife out, but a woman? Too easy with bare knuckles alone, unless she¡¯s armed. Anyone who tells you the average woman can stand up to even a slightly less than average man is a liar or an idiot. It would take more than a little training to up those odds. This was a done deal as soon I got her far enough away from the main roads and houses. I almost feel guilty about it. It¡¯s not like I¡¯m a sexist or anything but reality is what it is. Escapism is for comics and movies. Maybe I should pull over and let her run for it, give her chance? Nah. I¡¯m not cruel or a psycho. Plus the blessings want what they want. I won''t be giving chances. She¡¯s got to go.


    She starts fumbling at her pockets, probably trying to get a phone. I hit her a couple more times, put some real pepper into it. She¡¯s moaning, bleeding a little and totally stunned. In a minute she¡¯ll start fighting or begging, and I can¡¯t be having that nonsense. So I tell her to shut the fuck up and sit tight before she can even get started. Maybe it¡¯s my blessings at work, but she clams right up. She''s still building up to begging, I can see that, so I tell her I¡¯m not trying to kill her or anything. Won¡¯t even hurt her if she cooperates. That gives her enough hope to keep her quiet. There¡¯s plenty of tears, of course, but she¡¯s keeping piped down.


    Deep down, I¡¯m pretty sure she knows what¡¯s coming, but a little hope can go a long way. She¡¯ll make herself believe it will all be okay until her fate is undeniable. I¡¯m not going to make it quick, I¡¯ll tell you that for free. If the blessings point you out, you deserve plenty of punishment. I don¡¯t know what she¡¯s done or what she was going to do, but I know it¡¯s bad. I¡¯m going to fuck her up before I put her down. That¡¯s justice.


    __________


    The Homewrecker


    Sarah Lisa Bennett looked into her vanity and smiled contentedly. This last role had gone particularly well. She could hope for better, but that would just be greedy. For a nonentity, Harold Jusman was a prize. He had a wife that was faithful but had little regard for her husband. He had a successful business that brought him wealth without inconvenient fame or prominence. He had no children. Best of all, he had an ironclad prenup that his wife had insisted upon. Once upon a time, she had been the primary breadwinner and had feared palimony, as rare as that was. Now it worked against her. What a laugh. Money was almost useless, but the sting she thought her opponents must feel at its loss was an intoxicating balm.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Sarah Lisa¡¯s Facade had unerringly led her to Harold. She had seen the lay of the land immediately, and kept things simple. It had started with a few kind words at the office, the kind of simple flirting that could be taken as goodnatured banter and basic friendliness. She had then moved on to a stronger game, ¡°accidentally¡± running into him at the coffee shop he frequented during breaks away from the office. The banter had continued. Chance meetings became planned ¡°get-togethers.¡± Banter became more serious talk spiced with unspoken yearning. Get-togethers became dates.


    The very first time she had him, she knew he was her¡¯s. He was both uninspired and uninspiring, but had an urgency that spoke volumes about his desire to be truly loved and appreciated. She had answered his unskilled endeavors with all the sublime talent of over one hundred years of practice. Even his guilt was a tool to be leveraged when invoked at just the right time to promote desire. Western men often disparaged romantic comedies and romance novels, but they watched those same movies and read some of the same books. Sarah Lisa had found that most men either dreamed of numberless women falling at their feet or were just as hungry for passionate love as any bored housewife. If breaking down Harold and taking possession of him was a game, he was easy mode. She never had to use any powers. It had only taken five months, not her best but nothing to sneeze at. Oh, how delicious her confrontation with the wife had been! The memory of her shrieks and tears would sustain Sarah Lisa for quite some time. Harold was her¡¯s now.


    Sarah Lisa no longer wanted him, of course. She hardly ever wanted any of them. When the shards of the Broken Gods first found her, she had wanted to fall in love and her target had been a married man. Her attempts to capture his heart had ruined his marriage, but he disdained marriage to her as well. Later, she found out that his rejection saved her life. She no longer remembered who she had been, but the shards had made her the Homewrecker. That was the modern name. If she ever truly fell in love and married, that would no longer be the case. She would just be another wife and the shards would leave her. She would become mortal. She could die.


    No, there would be none of that. Now that the divorce was final, Harold would be coming for her. Unfortunately for him, he would never see her again. This game was over and it was time to move on. Her things, including numerous gifts from Harold and all the others, were already packed. The money she had drawn from Harold¡¯s accounts was safely away and would find her in her next Facade. She had no idea how that worked and it hardly mattered. As long as she could keep what she earned, she was content. She hardly needed money but she worked for it and it was her¡¯s.


    What would Harold do? He might not be concerned about a missed call or two, might not even worry the first time he stopped by and she was away from home. As her absence became longer that would change. Would he realize or suspect that she had left and had no real feelings for him? Or would his mind leap to foul play, kidnapping or some kind of accident? Would he suspect his ex-wife? Her coworkers?


    The Homewrecker shrugged to herself, deciding it was irrelevant. She dismissed all thoughts of Harold from her mind and examined herself in the mirror again. Yes, Sarah Lisa was almost gone now. She was hoping for something a little more elegant this time. Sweet young suburbanite was nice sometimes, but she had developed a taste for more sophisticated lives. Maybe an heiress and a bit older. She was the Homewrecker after all, not the Golddigger. She had no desire to be too much like that bitch.


    Maybe someday she could exercise more control over her Facade. The Homewrecker had heard that some of the oldest Aspects could shape themselves and the lives of their Facades at will, even storing them away for later use. Of course, they would fade away within a normal lifetime, but how great would it be to be able to do two or more games at once? When her power was in full throttle, she felt like she had no need to sleep or eat. What a challenge it would be, to take on many targets at once and just keep going!


    Justina Harimoto stood up and yawned. The change was always a little tiring, but well worth it. Asian this time, how delightful! And a virgin too! That could be good or bad, depending on the next target. Not an heiress this time, unfortunately. Japanese as a second language and a smattering of Japanese history filled her head. It was as much as the average American of Japanese descent might know, which was very little. She felt reality bending around her, giving her new Facade a history, records, childhood friends and teachers who would vaguely remember her. Dead parents of course. Relatives were probably too hard. Maybe if she could get more powerful¡­


    Well, it was time to get moving. She had felt the Call yesterday and she tried not to miss Gatherings. It may not be important, but somebody in a Primary Aspect obviously felt that it was. If she hurried, she might get there early enough to avoid being forced to sit with the Golddigger or the Faithless Wife. Whatever anyone else thought, she had nothing in common with those bitches. Grouping her with them might not be racist, but it was some kind of ¡°ist¡± or ¡°ism.¡± Maybe sexist. The latest Chemist was a woman. If it was a gender thing, maybe she could be grouped with her.


    She was, after all, a good guy. She rescued so many men from weak, passionless or disastrous marriages. She freed the women as well. She only seriously punished the worst men. Of course, she had to hurt most of the wives but they deserved it. If they had truly strong and loving marriages they would never meet the Homewrecker. Whatever she took when she departed was what she had earned. She was meticulous about receiving no more than what was due. Someday, she would be ranked with the heroes and Primary Aspects. Someday. She was sure she could feel the stories reshaping her soul. Her true value was being recognized!


    With that thought, Justina gave the mirror another big smile. It was a pity it belonged with the apartment. It was just so her. Well, there would be another.


    She smoothed out her dress, took one last look around and walked towards the door. Departing, she left Sarah Lisa and her wreckage behind.


    __________


    The Henchman


    Vast iridescent shapes moved across an ocean of stars, casting great shadows on the surrounding moons and planets. They were vaguely whale-like, but dissimilar in almost every detail. Some sported masses of glowing tentacles or a profusion of fine wings, covered in hundreds of lidless eyes. Others were scaled or had arms, hands or trunks. The only thing they truly had in common was that they were human and there was a human at the heart of each one.


    Moving around these creatures like swarms of flies were humans of a more terrestrial appearance, though they too glowed with pearlescent light and eschewed any sort of clothing. These were men and women who had chosen not to adapt or create vehicles for their endless intergalactic migration. Instead, they made the universe adapt. Processing trillions of calculations per second, they exerted a small fraction of their energies to make breathing, pressure support and countless other requirements irrelevant within small localized fields around them.


    They left a host of changes behind. Their many minute alterations defied universal laws and disrupted stellar ecosystems. Some few of their number sought to stabilize, fix or even perfect what laid behind them but most simply passed by, heedless of the chaos. Entire civilizations were shattered in their wake. Gods had come and gone, destroying without cause, judgement or care.


    The galaxy receded and another spun into view. There, a small human child had been separated from his family group and was left far behind. They would discover his absence soon enough and retrieve him, no matter where he was in the universe. The child was unafraid but was lonely and beginning to feel hunger. He had not yet learned how to feed himself without resorting to the crude conversion of matter. There was a planet nearby, pristine and populated by small agrarian bipeds who were just learning how to shape metals.


    The little human did not think of the dust and particles that were all around. He was fixated on that planet. It had plenty of the matter he craved and just needed to be shaped into something that would taste good. Something sweet. He lifted a hand, reaching out towards the world below¡­


    Giuseppe Bianco woke up with a gasp. He hated dreaming of the old days, before humans were defeated and were still gods. He was usually energetic and lucid in the morning but when he had the dreams he was always groggy and out of sorts. It was like his brain got bigger and he was thinking someone else¡¯s thoughts. Then he would wake up with his regular old brain and be messed up for a few minutes to a few hours. He had been special for two weeks and another two weeks of dreams would make go nuts.


    This was a bad day for one of those crazy dreams. The Call had gone out yesterday, something Giuseppe had never experienced before. It was like a bell ringing in his head. He thought he really was nuts but the boss had explained it all. Special people could be called to go to a place that other people could never find or see. A place where those special people would meet and do business. This would be Giuseppe¡¯s first Gathering, and he could not afford to upset the boss by slowing him down and making him late.


    With a groan, Giuseppe heaved himself out of his four poster bed. His feet sank into thick wool carpet. It was really nice to have the good stuff. Things had been going particularly well since he became the Henchman. According to the Don, the last Henchman had lived almost a thousand years and finally decided to give it all up and retire. A thousand years was a long time, but Giuseppe had a hard time thinking anyone could ever really be tired of life. It could happen if you aged, but being special meant you never had to get old. The last Henchman might have decades of life but he was still basically committing suicide.


    Rarely, a special person could find someone with all the right qualities and voluntarily pass on his shard. Giuseppe was proud to have been found worthy, but he was going to have to get a lot smarter to fill his new shoes. The best Henchmen did more than just follow orders and protect their bosses. They had initiative and were more active than reactive. Giuseppe was thinking of ways to become a better Henchman as he walked into his bathroom.


    Getting ready should never take a man too long. He gave himself a rich, if quick, shave and checked himself out in a silvered mirror. He was getting a little heavy in the face, a sure sign that he needed to change his exercise regimen and reduce the ratio of meat to vegetables. He hated his eyes. The gray that some might call piercing just seemed weak to him. It was too much like a couple of blind guys he knew. Still, he thought he was looking pretty good. He rested his hands on the cold marble tabletop and inched forward, closely examining his teeth. Nice.


    Giuseppe kept his dark hair almost as short as a sailor¡¯s, so a brush was all it needed. He checked the clock above the toilet. No time for a shower and he had taken one last night anyway. He quickly finished his morning cleaning and hurried to the closet that held his newest clothing. Before becoming special, he always thought obsessing over clothing was unmanly but he had to admit that hand tailoring made a great deal of difference. A quick trip to his watch drawer for something from a top designer and he was all set.


    He glanced at the watch and muttered a curse. He might still be late, even if he hurried. There was only one thing to do. He closed his eyes and activated one of his new Henchman powers, the things the boss called ¡°Gifts.¡± The Henchman brought the Gift of Obedience to the fore. The boss said don¡¯t be late. Giuseppe was obedient and he would absolutely be on time.


    The boss had gotten him a new car, a silver Maserati Ghibli. The thing drove smoothly, like quicksilver. Cars seemed to leap and almost pour out of his way when he hit the highway. It was utterly perfect, like something out of a dream.


    The boss had a gated compound just outside Albany, a nice piece of real estate with lots of trees and nature. Giuseppe pulled up with more than five minutes to spare. Perfect timing. Armed guards in flat blue uniforms pulled open the wrought iron gates. It was a little old fashioned, but Don Eneide went for guns and muscle power as his first layer of security.


    A week or two ago, he would have had to deal with a lot of rigmarole to get in the front door, let alone get in to see the boss. Now, people were falling over themselves to get out of his way as soon as he got out of the car. They had no way of knowing that he was special, but somehow they recognized the Henchman. He saw Anthony leading two German Shepherds, walking along the fence line. Not long ago, he would have been doing the same job, sharing jokes and daydreaming about moving up. Well, Giuseppe had gotten a big leg up.


    He could even sense the other henchmen around the compound, almost feeling their thoughts. No one really used the word ¡°henchman¡± anymore, not outside of comic books, but that accurately described most of the men on the compound. Since he was the Henchman, it was like they were a part of him. Giuseppe could never be a boss or even the number two. The boss had explained that, told him those roles were for other people, but as the Henchman he would be able to lead anyone who was not a boss.


    Millions shrieked in terror and agony as the surrounding matter was transformed. The ground blackened and took on a tar-like consistency before the effect moved into the vegetation. It was too much, far too much, but the child had little understanding of refinement or restraint. The sweet blight seeped into the natives¡¯ legs first, turning flesh and bones into jelly¡­


    ¡°Damnit!¡± Giuseppe swore, shaking his head to clear it. Another week or two of this, before his shard settled. Apparently, waking dreams frequently happened to the very new and occasionally plagued the oldest of the special folks. Well, Giuseppe would not be slowed down. He was special, he was going to rock the house at his first Gathering, and he would be the best Henchman ever. He straightened his jacket, shot his cuffs and headed towards his meeting with the Don and destiny.


    __________


    The Miser


    Donald James decided to have breakfast in bed. He sat up just high enough to reach the intercom above the headboard and ordered a poached egg and grapefruit.


    He had gotten both the eggs and the grapefruit for a song. His business interests allowed him to exert control over a number of small agricultural concerns that survived on his forbearance. As a result, numerous small gifts flowed into his pantry at little to no cost. He would, of course, foreclose and sell off those assets when the price was right, but in the meantime he would happily enjoy the fruits of their production.


    The Butler arrived with Donald¡¯s light meal and a small paper. He carefully set down the tray and stood with perfect poise, awaiting the further commands of his master. Donald ignored him and tucked in. Let him wait.


    Aspects made the absolute best servants. Their unimpeachable loyalty and obedience meant that he could pay them as little as possible while expecting premium service. He had to pay them something, of course, but the less the better. Acquiring the Butler and the Chauffeur had been a real coup. It was really too bad the Slave was no longer around. There was still slavery in the world, Donald knew, but no one had seen the Slave in the last hundred years. Trying to locate him would be costly and Donald would need to either relocate or fashion an entirely new Facade. Keeping the Slave in most western countries would pose far too much risk. The bribes to officials and the cost of any potential court battles would be far too high, even if he could win. No, the Slave was an investment that could only be seriously considered at a later date.


    Many of his fellow Aspects, and people in general, considered Donald callous. To Donald¡¯s mind, they were not entirely correct in that assessment. He was simply a clever man with a long view. Two of his predecessors had fallen victim to the folly of catering to the masses and would be forgotten. Herschel Weinstein had been a bit too generous in his annual donations to Israel. Herschel¡¯s own predecessor had been an Englishman who had some kind of lucid dream on Christmas Eve and suddenly decided to start giving away a fortune. It was madness. Donald protected his life and his fortune by making sure to give absolutely nothing to any person, cause or charity of any kind. He truly did feel for others, but they were not worth his life or a single penny of his fortune. Fair payment for services rendered was the extent of his generosity. How could that be faulted?


    The Butler cleared his throat. Donald might have become irritated with any other servant, but he knew the Butler would be looking out for his interests.


    ¡°Yes, Albert?¡± he asked, turning his head to look directly upon his batman.


    ¡°Sir,¡± the Butler began in a cultured British tone. ¡°I must remind you of the upcoming Gathering. It will commence today and you indicated that you wished to attend.¡±


    ¡°Right, the Gathering,¡± Donald said, sourly. He had almost forgotten and that was no way to be a proper Miser. There was opportunity there, a chance to increase his already substantial fortune. ¡°Have the Chauffeur prepare the town car and send a note to the accountant to find the best way to offset the cost. I¡¯ll want my favorite black suit, with the red tie.¡±


    The black would respect the formality of the occasion and red made the subconscious feel a masculine presence. These would be helpful if the Gathering led to dealings with the Businessman or any other interests.


    As the Butler whisked off to carry out his orders, Donald rose from his bed and entered his master toilet. Within the hour he was refreshed, had his blond hair clipped and combed, and had donned his favored attire.


    As he hurried down the main staircase, he surveyed his surroundings. Past Misers had been rather extreme, skimping on such extravagances as cleanliness and maintenance. They had been complete fools. Acting in such a way would ultimately reduce wealth. No one would do business with a dusty crackpot. One had to look the part as well as act it. No, Donald paid to maintain a healthy and vibrant household. The secret laid in what could be clawed back through penalties, legally extended hours, favors¡­the possibilities were endless. Payments flowed out in a trickle as wealth rushed in like a river.


    The Chauffeur was already waiting at the main entrance when Donald emerged. He doffed his cap respectfully and opened the passenger door for the Miser, who accepted his due and took his seat in the plush leather interior. He chuckled, reflecting on his own superior acumen. The Chauffeur and the Butler had to be completely aware of his nature and yet he still had them.


    Donald hated paying for things. The car was a gift from a grateful business partner. The Miser¡¯s acumen had saved the firm from various competitors that had circled it like sharks. The poor man had been absolutely shocked when Donald plundered its equity and began selling off divisions. Donald had not been being cruel, of course, merely smart. The buyers would quickly discover that the business was barely worth a fraction of what they had paid. All legal of course.


    The Chauffeur left the estate and carefully maneuvered the car towards a stand of trees. Donald hummed to himself as the vehicle increased speed and leapt the curb to collide with a tall oak. Vehicle and tree merged, and the town car was suddenly traveling along a cunningly concealed road of flat white cobbles. The old paths were the best paths, and this route would have them in the True City in less than an hour with a paragon like the Chauffeur driving.


    __________


    The Gambler


    Henry groaned and stooped his shoulders as he walked away from the cash cage. He was having one of the worst days of his life. He had placed a large bet on a long shot, a horse that everyone felt was past its prime and would have been retired a season ago if the owner was less stubborn.


    Of course, his horse won.


    It had been almost a decade since Henry had lost a single bet. If he bet on them, the worst teams suddenly gelled. Lottery odds became one to one. Dealers found a way to fill his hands with flushes. The only gamble Henry was taking was with his life. He was banned from establishments across the East Coast and a number of very bad men with very bad tempers were looking for him.


    Then again, even if they found him they would never be able to kill him. They could blow his body up and he would be revived elsewhere, in a new body that was still unable to lose.


    This sucked.


    What he needed was a real chance, something high stakes that could see him lose every penny. There was only one place for that kind of action. The Gathering. He usually ignored the Call. Those meetings were too high level for him, always fate of the world nonsense that he had no business getting into. Now he was growing bored and anxious, with an Aspect that was driving him mad.


    Could he win against other Aspects? Most of them maybe, but some of them would have a chance beat him. One of the lucky heroes, or someone like the Grifter or the Cheater. Surely at least one of them would consent to a game of chance before the event was over.


    Henry looked around a saw a path that would take him where he needed to go. He straightened his hat and walked towards the maintenance closet.


    He dropped his winnings in a trash basket on the way out.

 Chapter 1 - The Gathering. Meetings, Fury and Flames

    The Vigilante stood in a shadowed corner of the convention center¡¯s main hall, examining the crowd. There was usually a Gathering at least once a decade, and they were increasingly held in America. Someone was always claiming there was some kind of crisis. It was usually something that could easily be handled by one or two lesser Aspects.


    The frequency of these pointless Gatherings was irritating, but the Vigilante could not afford to miss a single one. If something truly serious was happening, his power could make a difference. The last time something occurred that could threaten the Aspects, the Mastermind had been heavily involved. There were more powerful Aspects than the Vigilante, but no one else was equipped to stop the Mastermind in his tracks. He had to be ready.


    It was still early, but the room was filling rapidly despite its size. There was the Good Wife in a tidy gray pantsuit, already shooing away the Adulterer as he tried to take a seat at her table. She would be saving that spot for the Virtuous Maiden. Two tables down, the Architect was already engaged in a heated argument with the Builder, probably over some trivial detail of construction.


    The Sidekick had not arrived yet, which was too bad. The Vigilante hoped that the latest iteration would team up with him. He would be wasted playing second fiddle to some mortal. The last Sidekick had been attached to the Inspector, but had reportedly done little more than exclaim over her partner¡¯s genius. She gave up immortality to marry some teacher, of all things.


    Surprisingly, the new Soldier was Chinese. He knew that the last one had perished at the hands of a Middle Eastern Aspect, but not that the shard had moved to a different country. That might not bode well for the future of the United States. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. It was an old axiom, that the good soldier took his sleep where he could get it.


    At least the Sailor was still from the U.S. He was already drinking a thick lager from a heavy stein, but had yet to become belligerent. Unlike most of the attendees, he wore a uniform. His blue crackerjacks were very smart, but he sported no more than a handful of ribbons on his breast. The image of the quintessential American sailor as they were viewed by the world at large: low ranking, unrewarded and drinking. The Patriot gave the Sailor a friendly slap on the shoulder as he made his way to his own table and the Sailor responded with a smile and a quick nod.


    The Vigilante spared a glance towards his own table. On a raised platform at the north wall, two large oval tables sat on either side of an ivory podium. The most powerful heroic Aspects would be seated at one, with the major villains taking the other. Most of his party was already seated: the Polymath. The Agent. The Vanguard. The Inspector. The Trickster was absent, as usual. If she did show up, it would only be long enough to try another prank on the Mastermind or the Murderer. As the Vigilante mused on potential antics from the Trickster, the Patriot took his seat at the high table.


    The Vigilante doubted the Polymath would last much longer. His type of know-it-all intelligence was rapidly becoming too unlikely to survive as a realistic concept. No one could know it all.


    As jobs and roles became increasingly specialized, the world¡¯s stories changed with them. Shards changed, merged and dissolved as history marched on. Aspects that could not adapt or change faded away and were replaced with newer ideals. The Hero and the Villain were always unstable and had been the first to perish, shattering into a cavalcade of new Aspects. The Sybarite made way for the Hedonist, who spun off the Playboy. The Author fell by the wayside, to be replaced by the Screenwriter and the Novelist. So it went, on and on through the ages.


    To the right of the podium was the place designated for the big names in villainy. Don Eneide of Albany, the Don, was already seated. Apparently, he was breaking in a new Henchman. He might need a quick visit, for old times sake.


    Arrayed around him were most of the others. The Assassin. The Thief. The Warlord. The Murderer was there, alone in a crowd. He eschewed camaraderie and no one wanted his friendship.


    The Mastermind was absent. Perhaps he was planning a grand entrance. Whatever he was plotting at the moment, he would be here for the Gathering.


    Just below the dais that was raised for the heroes, villains and the Priest was a table of gold reserved for the elders. These were the ones who had survived the infancy of the world and were still going strong. The Beggar was not yet present, but he would almost certainly attend. He would probably sit on the floor, avoiding association with the gold. The Huntress had already taken her seat, dressed in an inexpensive cotton dress with her dark hair in a tidy bun. Beside her, the Harlot smiled and struck a provocative pose as she welcomed the advances of the Satyr. The Vigilante could almost see the pheromones. The Trapper twiddled his thumbs and looked uncomfortable in the suit he had chosen. The Farmer and the Shepherdess were engaged in animated conversation while, from the other side of the table, the dark-skinned Raider glowered at them both and stroked his curly beard. No doubt, he imagined taking their heads. He had never gotten over the fact that a bunch of dirt diggers had overcome his own nomadic people and established civilization all those millennia ago.


    Several tables back from the dais the Pimp, still clinging to a North American black stereotype, was eying the Harlot speculatively. It would do him no good. The Harlot remained as independent as she had been across ages, before pimps and procurers had existed. She would likely always remain so.


    So many had already arrived, but many more would follow. There was a vast profusion of suits and dresses of various cuts and quality. Few would indulge in the embarrassing silliness of wearing some kind of identifying or stereotypical garb.


    The Vigilante¡¯s gaze fell on a lone chair not far from the elders. It was shrouded in a striped cloth of white, green and purple. The colors of the Suffragette.


    The chair had been so placed at every Gathering for decades, at the insistence of the Vigilante. Though it violated a number of traditions and protocols, not even the Mastermind had dared to gainsay him. The Suffragette was gone, but she would not be forgotten.


    ¡°Penny for your thoughts?¡± a soft voice whispered behind him.


    The Vigilante threw back an elbow, but hit only air. He spun around, faster than a cheetah, to confront his nemesis.


    The sound of his voice had made the Mastermind seem much closer, but he actually stood several feet away. He offered the Vigilante a lazy smile. ¡°As jumpy as ever, I see,¡± he said cheerfully, with a slight wave of his hand.


    The Vigilante mentally checked himself for any minute changes to the weight of his clothing before focusing completely on the Mastermind. He would examine everything thoroughly later.


    His enemy was, as always, dressed impeccably in a cream suit with a thick burgundy tie. Thin glasses rested atop his patrician nose, partially obscuring light brown eyes. Hair so blond that is was almost white was elegantly swept back. The Mastermind idly spun an ivory cane in his left hand.


    ¡°Dreaming about the Suffragette again, Eric? Hoping for a Feminist to rise up and replace her?¡±


    A cold knot formed in the Vigilante¡¯s gut and was rapidly replaced with a rising heat that suffused his limbs. He made no outward expression of his anger and answered calmly. ¡°She can¡¯t be replaced.¡±


    ¡°Of course not!¡± the Mastermind exclaimed, with an enthusiastic nod. ¡°And it¡¯s a good thing too. I¡¯m pretty sure we won¡¯t have the Feminist for a while. The stories and reports are too varied and incoherent. Positive or negative? True or false? First wave or fiftieth?¡± He shook his head and made a moue. ¡°She¡¯ll form soon enough unless her cause collapses and that won¡¯t happen. But it will take a long time for her to rise if her stories don¡¯t gel properly with enough people.¡±


    The Vigilante bristled.


    The Mastermind clicked his heels. ¡°Anyway, I just thought I¡¯d pay my respects to an old colleague. We have much to discuss, but it can wait until afters. You should relax, you looked to be¡­lurking. You do that far too often. We wouldn¡¯t want you to hit the Verge. The Sprinter fell recently, you know. Consumed.¡±


    Both Aspects fell silent at those words. The Verge was the fear of every Avatar and it could affect a person in one of two ways. In the first instance, the Verge affected those who failed to carry out their roles properly. If the Vigilante stopped hunting criminals, he would begin to lose power. If he actually became a criminal the drain would be much deeper and faster. Using Gifts in defiance of one¡¯s proper role could also bring an Aspect to the Verge. The shard within would loosen its hold. The many immunities to various diseases and injuries would weaken and finally disappear altogether. There might be migraines, cramps or other ailments. The recalcitrant Aspect would begin to age. Finally, the shard would abandon the Aspect to seek a new host. At best, the former Avatar would become mortal with no hope of attracting a new shard. At worst the process was lethal.


    The other side of the Verge was an opposite effect. Some Aspects fulfilled their roles too well, constantly using power without rest in singleminded dedication. Then, the power of the shards would swell and bring the user to the Verge. At this end of the spectrum, the Aspect would be magnified to such an extent that the Facade began to turn hollow. The shard would overwhelm the bearer, for all practical purposes making the human a puppet. The Aspect would be trapped in a Hell of his or her own making, the dummy of an unintelligent force that compelled them to endlessly play a role without volition. Time would just replace one nearly mindless Facade with another. There was no escape.


    This was the trap of the Aspects. Misuse of Gifts would result in growing discomfort but going too far in avoiding that pain would lead to a loss of self. It was a tightrope that had to be walked to avoid death or an even worse fate. A person had to have a life outside of their role.


    The Mastermind regained himself and offered his foe another smile. ¡°Well, ta! I hope to see you later.¡±


    As he turned to go, the Vigilante called, ¡°I know what you''re doing.¡±


    The Mastermind turned his head. ¡°Oh?¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯d say I¡¯m not doing anything, but I know you won¡¯t believe me. So I¡¯ll ask directly. What am I doing, Eric?¡±


    Eric, The Vigilante, folded his arms, a grim look crossing his face. ¡°The tables are arranged based on influence, power and age. And I know the seating arrangements are wrong.¡±


    The Mastermind adopted a carefully neutral expression. ¡°Is that right?¡± he asked, nonchalantly. ¡°How strange that you think so.¡±


    ¡°I know that you¡¯ve been pumping money into Hollywood. I know that you¡¯re controlling what the Producer pursues and what the Screenwriter writes. Maybe they¡¯re your partners or maybe they''re your patsies. But we both know the global influence of Hollywood makes the Screenwriter and the Producer the most powerful men in the world. Beyond all the rest of us. I know that you¡¯re using them and your other tools to elevate some stories and suppress others. I know that you¡¯re even flooding the market with contradictory stories in some cases.¡±


    The Mastermind immediately made a connection. ¡°Back to the Feminist, are we? You think I¡¯m purposely keeping the Suffragette¡¯s old shard from rebirth?¡±


    His opposite number gritted his teeth. ¡°You¡¯re underestimating me. I don¡¯t care about that. I told you, she can¡¯t be replaced. What I do care about is that you are trying to take control of the stories and you are breaking the Treaty¡­Stanley.¡±


    Irritation flashed across Stanley¡¯s face at the sound of his hated first name, the name he had borne when he was still mortal. ¡°If anyone is breaking the Treaty, it certainly isn¡¯t me, Eric,¡± he said airily. ¡°Truthfully, I¡¯d say the Treaty is unenforceable as long as storytelling Aspects exist, but I¡¯m still following the rules. However stupid they may be. Conflict is fine. Conflict is required by our shards, but I don¡¯t want to start an actual war.¡±


    ¡°Set all that aside for a moment,¡± he continued. ¡°I told you I wanted to talk later, and I meant it. You imagining some new struggle between us is counterproductive. I know something you want to hear. This prison reality, this cage that binds mankind¡­¡±


    He stepped forward and leaned into the Vigilante, so close that their cheeks just touched. Eric tensed. ¡°¡­I know a way out,¡± the Mastermind whispered.


    Before Eric could respond, before he truly understood what the Mastermind was saying, the world detonated in a fury of light and heat.


    __________


    In a distant galaxy, a hot cloud of shimmering dust creeped between the stars. This was all that remained of the greatest powers of humanity, the twenty-one Broken Gods of the defeated gods called mankind.


    Surprised, trapped, betrayed, they had shattered and crumbled into dust. Despite this setback, they remained Gods and could not be destroyed. They would reform. The dust would merge.


    But the dust of each God interpenetrated with the dust of the others. The merging was¡­imperfect.


    Bits of Alagar merged with splinters of Seshia. The chalk of Azamath mingled with the ashes of Sym. Shards were forming.


    The shards could not reform the Gods. They had no minds and could not muster more than a rough semblance of thought. It was enough. They could process information. Broadcasting. Searching.


    There. A great nullsphere, larger than a thousand suns. There were humans there. Diminished, ignorant, unaware of what they were. But human. Human like the Gods.


    Reform the Gods.


    Raw materials.


    Hosts.


    A shard detached from the cloud, and hurtled towards the sphere. Penetrated. Ignored gravity, ignored radiation, ignored every lock and barrier devised to cage the species of its birth. There, the largest room of the fragile prison. A manufactured world called Earth.


    Here. Rich information. Pictograms. Runes. Transmission of understanding through sound delivered symbols. Translating.


    History. Stories. Images. Information that resonated with the echoes of memory stored in the shard. Magnifying.


    There were names there, in that kernel. Meaningless but powerful names. Aldan. Loyalty. Gosdaita. Obedience. Eldamon. Greed. Kidd. Power¡­power¡­and subordination/unknown/desire?


    Loyalty. Obedience. Greed. Power.


    Subordination.


    Henchman.


    Restore Aldan. Chivalry. Hope. Dreams.


    Restore Gosdaita. Life. Motherhood. Faithfulness.


    Restore Eldamon. Greed. Untranslatable.


    Restore Kidd. Fire. Earth. Untranslatable.


    Searching.


    Unseen and unseeable, the shard located its first host. And merged.


    Giuseppe sighed. He was getting better at handling the weird thoughts and visions. If the Don was right, they would be over soon anyway, and he would only have to worry about them again if he got really old.


    He was pretty sure he was going the right way. The boss had made him find his own way to the Gathering. Something about learning about the old paths and exercising his power. It was a bit of a hassle, but kind of fun as well. Instinct had led him to the compound¡¯s garden shed, but when he opened the door there were no tools or fertilizer. He had stepped onto a brick road surrounded by exotic trees. The smell of loam reminded him of almost forgotten days as a scout. For some reason, he had felt no fear and simply began to walk. He looked back, but the door to the shed had disappeared.


    Freaky.


    He allowed his instincts to lead him along the path. An occasional breeze whispered through the trees but there was neither sight nor sound of a single bird or insect. It was all very strange. He was seeing things, but at the same time he knew they were false. The path was real and simultaneously was not real. Once, he was compelled to leave one road by walking into a stand of silvery bushes. Before he even touched a single broad-bladed leaf, he was suddenly walking up a narrow mountain trail. A graying sky anticipated storms, though sourceless light still shone down between the heavy clouds. As he ascended, he felt neither cold nor a thinning of the air. Steadily he rose, a gradual mist rising around his calves.


    The path ended at a rocky crag of sharp granite. Unthinking, the Henchman strode forward and stepped from the precipice. Though the he had checked neither depth nor destination, the action seemed most appropriate. He did not land and felt no impact. Instead, he stood on a silent street of brittle wooden planks. That strange road cut a haphazard path through a flat, heatless desert of orange sand. There was clear, powder-blue sky but no sun to provide the surrounding daylight. As before, there no sign of life other than his own.


    The road was nearly completely obscured by the sand of the surrounding terrain. A small green pool marked the end of the path. He dove into the murky waters and when he emerged, he was standing before a great concrete wall with a small, ivy choked door. His clothing was perfectly clean and dry, almost pristine.


    The bushes were not there. The mountain could not be. The door was not a door. All that was true, but he was still sure he was going the right way.


    Giuseppe was just testing the tarnished aluminum handle of the flimsy plywood door when he heard gentle footfalls. To his left flank there stood a petite Japanese woman in an emerald dress. Their was wariness in her posture, but she displayed neither surprise nor true fear at the chance meeting. Giuseppe could instantly tell that she was special. Was that another power?


    She was a pale-skinned woman with high cheekbones, full ruby lips and fine dark hair that flowed down her back. She clutched a small designer purse in her left hand and was cautiously waving with the other.


    Giuseppe was a big guy and knew he could be especially intimidating to small people. He mustered a smile. ¡°Hi, how are you?¡± he greeted in his friendliest tone, extending an open hand.


    Though she ignored his hand, the woman took a few cautious steps forward and replied. ¡°Hello. I think we¡¯re heading the same way? I¡¯m Justina. And you are¡­?¡± she prompted.


    Giuseppe dropped his hand and mimicked a bow. ¡°Giuseppe. Also known as¡­the Henchman!¡± He struck a pose, throwing back his shoulders and staring into the distance.


    The little woman laughed, a high-pitched sound that still managed to seem pleasant. Her relief was evident, tension falling from her shoulders. ¡°Thank God! It would be just my luck to run into the Murderer out here! If he was in mood it would suck. Treaty or no Treaty, we aren''t at the Gathering yet. I wouldn''t die, but it would still hurt.¡± She took Giuseppe¡¯s hand between her own and gave it a few pumps. He enjoyed the sensation.


    Giuseppe turned back to the door. ¡°So,¡± he said, as he tested the handle. It was a little tricky. ¡°What do you do?¡±


    Justina quirked an eyebrow. ¡°What do I do? Why Giuseppe, I¡¯m a hero to the masses, the salvation of countless men. Better watch out, bad boy,¡± she chuckled.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Giuseppe considered. She was being coy, but this could be bad. The Gathering was supposed to be neutral ground, but this was still unknown territory. Still, she was tiny and maybe not the fighting sort of hero. A companion or spy maybe. Plus, he was just minding his own business right now. She had no reason to try to bust him.


    He solved the riddle of the stuck door handle, pushing in slightly as he twisted. It opened with a fading creak and he stood aside, motioning with one arm. ¡°Ladies first.¡±


    Justina made a demure inclination of her head and walked through the door. Inside was an impenetrable darkness but Giuseppe followed without hesitation.


    They stepped out, side by side, into magnificence.


    This was the city, the True City, the true capital of mankind. The myriad of buildings and styles could have been from any city in the world but it was¡­more.


    There was the Manhattan skyline, magnified into an ideal. The gleaming towers and skyscrapers seemed more vivid and the peaks disappeared into the clouds. And there was was a great Arabian dome, gilded and peaked with diamond. In the distance, there was an Eiffel Tower or something very much like it. It had been fashioned from unimpeachable materials by the hands of giants and radiated like a beacon. Even the pavement under his feet seemed to radiate a faint pearlescent glow.


    It was differentiated from other cities not only by its greatness, but by an eerie silence. No people walked its thoroughfares. Not a single car raced down its streets. There was no sound of industry or commerce. The True City seemed all the more beautiful for the poignant absence.


    Giuseppe did not realize the he was gaping until Justina gave him a nudge with her shoulder. She glanced at him with amusement. He had no preference for Asian women, but there was a grace and gentleness to her every movement that he could not help but note. ¡°That new, huh? Come on, big bad Henchman, it¡¯s this way.¡±


    He did not resist as she took his wrist in a silken hand and pulled him vigorously forward. He almost stumbled as they headed along the sidewalk. Maybe she shared what he was feeling. She seemed stronger than her small frame should allow, but being in this place was energizing. She released him when he regained his bearing and assumed a more natural pace.


    Justina pointed with a delicate finger. ¡°There it is!¡± she exclaimed, excitedly. She began to hurry. It was obvious that she had been here before, so she was probably excited on his behalf.


    Before them, less than two blocks away, loomed a great circular building of chiseled marble, surrounded by a neat hedge of roses that wrapped around its circumference. The surrounding edifices, though splendid, suffered in comparison. Great brass doors formed its entrance and Giuseppe could see that someone had literally rolled out a broad red carpet.


    With his longer stride, it was easy for Giuseppe to keep up. ¡°Hey,¡± he addressed Justina¡¯s back. ¡°No one lives here. I mean, this whole city is empty. Who sets up all this stuff?¡±


    Justina spared him a brief glance. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she confessed. ¡°Probably an Aspect. I never met any, but I bet there¡¯s an Event Planner or a Caterer or something. They can probably snap their fingers and all kinds of food and decorations just appear and march themselves out.¡±


    Giuseppe thought about it for a second and shrugged. ¡°I guess that makes sense. Those powers sound really cool.¡±


    The Homewrecker¡¯s broke into a sunny smile. New Aspects were funny. It seemed that he was taking her exaggeration quite seriously.


    Giuseppe was about to add something when he came to an abrupt halt. Justina was several paces away before she noticed the Henchman¡¯s reticence.


    ¡°Got something in your shoe?¡± she asked sarcastically, jogging back to her companion.


    ¡°I dunno,¡± replied the Henchman in puzzlement. ¡°I just¡­¡±


    He was interrupted by the thunderous explosion that rocked the convention center.


    __________


    The Beggar had just taken his first steps onto the red carpet leading up to the convention center¡¯s entrance when the shockwave threw him off his feet. His mind barely registered the tumultuous sound of an ear-splitting explosion. The breath was painfully driven out of him as he slammed down. The carpet, while finely woven, did little to soften the impact to his back and head.


    It took a moment for him to gather himself. His ears rang steadily and he was certain he was bleeding. He was just rising into a seated position when a second explosion boomed.


    Blazing through the sepulchral dark¡­


    No! No! Not now. The Beggar clamped down on his thoughts.


    He gazed blearily at the convention center. It appeared intact, but he saw cracks spreading across the walls. It was something inside then, or at the rear of the building. A rising brown cloud confirmed his thoughts. He struggled to his feet with an agonized grunt.


    He rose slowly, legs wobbling and back bent with the ache of injury. Through the fog over his hearing, he picked out a distinct sound coming from within.


    Pops of gunfire, muffled by sound-dampening walls. Fighting.


    The Beggar was one of the oldest beings in existence. His power had waxed over long ages and he had successfully walked the narrow path between the Verges since time immemorial. He knew exactly what to do during battles between Avatars.


    Head the other way. Head the other way fast.


    Thought immediately became action. Disregarding pain and discomfort, he ran with all the speed the weak and damaged body of his Facade could manage. Had he borne any other shard, he might have managed superhuman haste, even in his condition. As it was, he seemed to running fast enough.


    A third explosion rattled the Beggar¡¯s teeth. He began to sprint. He heard something collapse behind him. That would be the building then, maybe all of it.


    It was becoming difficult to breathe. An expanding film of brown dust and white ash was descending, obscuring his vision and clogging his lungs with detritus. He wheezed but continued to run away, albeit at a slower pace.


    Nearly blind, he reduced his pace further. He settled into a jog, wondering how a single building could produce so much accursed debris. The Beggar blinked rapidly, hoping to sharpen his sight. In spite of his efforts, he collided with something. Someone grunted and he was knocked off his feet for the second time in minutes.


    Strong hands seized him and pulled him to his feet. He was shaken roughly.


    ¡°Hey man! You okay?¡± someone with a blunt New York accent was asking. An American.


    Giuseppe looked over the man he was holding up. He looked like a homeless or some kind of bum, but that was irrelevant. He might have some idea of what was happening.


    The Henchman¡¯s head was pounding and the cloud of debris was only making things worse. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to rush into that convention center, but he was resisting. It had been faint, but he was pretty sure he had heard gunfire. He was loyal but he refused to act foolishly. Running into a situation unarmed and without a plan would accomplish nothing and might prevent him from helping the boss.


    He shook the bum again. ¡°Were you in there?¡± Giuseppe did not realize that he was hollering. ¡°What happened in there? What¡¯s going on?¡±


    Justina leaned breathlessly against a wall, panting in wide-eyed shock. At the edge of her awareness, she noticed that the Henchman was manhandling someone. The world shifted into focus as she realized who Giuseppe was holding. She came instantly back to her senses.


    ¡°Um..,¡± she ventured, furtively. ¡°You really shouldn''t be treating the Beggar that way. He¡¯s super old, like one of the oldest.¡±


    Giuseppe was frantic and his fear was rapidly edging towards anger. ¡°Lady, I don''t care if he¡¯s older than Jesus,¡± he snapped, giving the Beggar another quick shake. ¡°If this bastard doesn''t start talking, I might need to get rough.¡±


    The Beggar wheezed, red-rimmed eyes rolling. He finally mustered up enough breath to respond. ¡°Hey man,¡± he gasped. ¡°I am older than Jesus.¡±


    An undefinable foulness sprang into existence, a miasma that seemed to dispel the dust and assault the senses. Giuseppe¡¯s mouth filled with bile. Eyes watering, he instinctively dropped the Beggar and sprang back. Justina scrunched her face and spat, abandoning feminine decorum.


    ¡°See,¡± she barked accusingly, backing away with her hands raised. ¡°Our Gifts don¡¯t usually work well on other Aspects, but the strongest Primaries and the really old guys¡­it¡¯s a whole other league.¡±


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Giuseppe cursed as he stumbled backwards. Whoever heard of something like stink powers? ¡°Okay, look,¡± he said, adopting a conciliatory tone. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, okay? Let¡¯s get clear of this dust and then we can talk. Just¡­turn it off. Let¡¯s just move fast, okay? We need to figure this out.¡±


    The Beggar nodded. Tears left streaks over his grit covered face. ¡°Yeah, sure man. I¡¯m not doing anything, but I¡¯ll stop if you want.¡±


    As they distanced themselves from the haze, the Beggar mumbled, ¡°Avatars.¡±


    ¡°What was that?¡± asked the Henchman, eyes fixed firmly ahead.


    ¡°Avatars, man,¡± the Beggar earnestly explained. ¡°The Homewrecker was calling them Aspects, but it¡¯s Avatars. That¡¯s the right name, man. And it¡¯s Paragons, not Primaries like she was saying.¡±


    ¡°For¡­who the fuck cares?¡± snarled the Henchman in exasperation.


    Justina laid a calming hand on Giuseppe¡¯s shoulder. ¡°The Beggar is American or maybe Canadian right now, but he¡¯s originally from the East. They call us Avatars there. Most of Europe and the U.S. say Aspects. In Russia and some of the Middle East it¡¯s Shardbearers, which is true but still seems off. I think China has their own thing, something about Quintessential Excellence and blah blah blah. They have a very literal language and they like to describe things. And¡­¡± Justina noted the rising irritation on Giuseppe¡¯s face and trailed off.


    The Beggar¡¯s glance flicked towards her. He stilled his face, suppressing an expression of pity. He hoped she would pull through. She was clearly very close to the Verge, perhaps irretrievably. He wondered if she knew. Perhaps he could find a way to bring the matter to the attention of the superior female without offering offense. He definitely would if she gave him something.


    A short time passed before the Shardbearers emerged from the worst of the debris. Giuseppe found his temper in the interval. The group noticed a small rest area, a little square with pale stone benches surrounding a brick fountain. They sat in silence for a time, weary and defeated. The Beggar shifted and hunched in discomfort, feeling all the pain of his injuries. He was not a combat oriented Avatar, nor was his role a particularly hale or healthy one. Healing could take hours.


    Giuseppe was demoralized and enervated but his mind was racing. He had no equipment and no weapons. The boss was almost certainly inside the center when it was attacked. What could he do?


    He was distracted by another thought, as he belatedly registered something the Beggar had said. Homewrecker, he thought. I guess whores are heroes now! Hero my ass!


    Finally, the Henchman sought answers. ¡°Okay,¡± he said slowly, hands curling into fists. ¡°What can you tell me about what happened back there?¡±


    The Beggar¡¯s tattered cap was dislodged as he shook his scrofulous head. It fell loosely to his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m real sorry. I can¡¯t tell you nothing, man. I was just getting there, close to opening the door, right? And then I was on my ass and there was all kinds of explosions and shooting, man. I didn''t really see it, just heard stuff. And then I hauled ass out of there,¡± he babbled.


    Giuseppe sighed. It figured the dirty bum knew nothing. If this was what a powerhouse looked like, maybe he should have stayed normal. At least he had confirmed an attack. There was an enemy out there. If someone was not after the Don, he was still collateral damage. The Henchman had to take that personally. Images of retribution flashed through his mind.


    ¡°Maybe¡­maybe we should just go home,¡± the Homewrecker suggested with a note of pleading. ¡°Only Aspects can come here. That means at least one Aspect broke the Treaty. Maybe a whole conspiracy of Aspects! I¡¯m not a fighter. What if the heroes and villains are trying to take each other out again?


    ¡°What if the Vigilante and the Mastermind are trying something again?¡± she added, in a small voice tinged with misery.


    Giuseppe regarded Justina, curious despite his preoccupation with his master¡¯s fate. ¡°I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about,¡± he said to the Homewrecker. ¡°Pretend I was born yesterday and spell it out for me.¡±


    Justina twisted sharply towards Giuseppe, tensing with frustration. ¡°How did your boss not teach you these things?¡± she asked, incredulous.


    The Henchman shrugged.


    ¡°Fine! This will be short and sweet so pay attention!¡± she shrilled, hands gesturing in animation. ¡°The Treaty was made to keep us from killing each other on a broad scale. The biggest problem is, we¡¯re hard to permanently kill. It was almost a game to some of us. Die and try again. Keep score. Wars between us ruined entire countries. There are exceptions, since some Aspects are naturally opposed. But the Treaty pretty much works. At Gatherings, everyone is supposed to be safe even from enemy Aspects. There''s more to it and it¡¯s had stuff added a few times, but that¡¯s basically it.¡±


    Giuseppe nodded and waved for her to continue. ¡°And the other stuff?¡± he prompted.


    The Homewrecker growled. ¡°One of the changes to the Treaty. The Vigilante and the Mastermind actually teamed up once. They were trying to control the stories people tell and the things they believe. They thought it would change the shards and make us more powerful. Like in comic books. Bottom line, it didn''t work out but it did a lot of damage. The shards designed those guys to be bad news. If they team up again, it will be ugly.


    ¡°Is there anything else you don¡¯t know that every Aspect knows?¡± she asked, sarcastically.


    With a wave of his hand, Giuseppe dismissed Justina¡¯s rudeness. ¡°That¡¯s enough for now,¡± he stated.


    ¡°Great! Can we get out of here, please?¡± Justina¡¯s demeanor instantly shifted to importuning.


    ¡°You go,¡± answered the Henchman, making a shooing motion. ¡°I have to go back, see if I can get to the boss. He might be in real trouble. If there are enemies around, I might be able to sneak past them or take them out. I have to try.¡±


    Justina visibly deflated. She barely knew this Henchman and found it hard to like him, but he was the only fighting Aspect on hand. If someone was violating the Treaty they might all be targets and she would feel far safer with some extra muscle power. As powerful as the Beggar could be, most of his strength laid in subtleties that she would not trust in combat. She had to find a way to convince the Henchman to act as her escort.


    ¡°One of you guys got a smoke? Maybe a couple bucks for a bus, man?¡± asked the Beggar, interrupting her train of thought. He scratched his rear and let out a very loud fart.


    _________


    The Miser was in a battle. That was very clear. At the moment he was almost grateful for the assault.


    The Chauffeur had reached Main Street when the Miser¡¯s tablet buzzed with an incoming message. Few mortal-made devices could receive a signal in the True City, but the Miser¡¯s had engaged the best engineering Aspects to ensure that he could always monitor and supervise his wealth. A message could mean only one thing.


    Donald rarely paid full value for anything, but he had willingly paid a premium for the security provided by the Programmer. One of the Programmer¡¯s bots was clearly alerting Donald to a threat to his money.


    He pulled out his tablet and quickly scanned the message. He was under economic attack! It should be nearly impossible with the safeguards he had paid for, but there it was. A swift review of his holdings showed that someone or something had already siphoned away millions. Millions. Of the Miser¡¯s money!


    Donald sprang into immediate action. He had reached out with all his will and exerted his most powerful Gift. It was a singular power that ensured against disasters of any kind. The Miser¡¯s Grip.


    Once active, the Miser¡¯s Grip would prevent the loss of even a fraction of a penny. If invoked on a vault, for example, it would act to make sure that anything stolen would somehow return to its cache, usually before a day passed.


    There was one problem with the Gift. It only worked reliably on physical objects. In the modern world, most wealth was not found in coins and bills, but in ones and zeroes stored on digital media. To keep that wealth protected, the Miser would have to maintain the Gift indefinitely. It was infeasible under normal circumstances, but the invigorating air of the True City gave him a fighting chance.


    In desperation he had logged onto every account he held, one after the other, focusing the Gift over each screen. It was an extreme long shot that could not possibly work but he had to try. The Programmer¡¯s bots would already be alerting the authorities and trying to trace the flow of his stolen money.


    Having done all that could, the Miser had ordered the Chauffeur to pull over. He had then exited the car, calmly walked down the spacious avenue and stepped into a nearby alley. There, he had howled and ranted, screaming his hatred and rage to the uncaring universe.


    When he recovered, he had walked briskly out of the alley and began his return to the car. What he saw there froze him in his tracks.


    The driver¡¯s side door was wide open, and the Chauffeur¡¯s upper body was collapsed outside. Three beetle black figures stood around the town car. Two stood over the Chauffeur while the third was at the front, one hand leaning against the hood.


    The three men were clothed head to toe in black tactical body armor. They wore enclosing mirror-visored helmets and the vests of each person featured a visibly stiff collar that covered the entire neck. Dark plates gleamed dully over elbows, knees and shins and pistols were tucked into quick fastening holsters. Not an inch of flesh was exposed. To a man, they carried the kinds of automatic rifles that the Miser had only seen in films.


    As the Miser came to an abrupt halt, three mirrored faces turn as one to face him. Rifles were swiftly raised. Pointed at him. He began to raise his hands slowly.


    Confident as he was in his immortality, the Miser was well aware that bullets would be immensely painful. He had to cooperate with these men, whoever they were. That was a mystery in itself. It was impossible for a normal human being to enter the True City. The Traveler had tried on four separate occasions and each time the mortals were lost. They simply vanished and could not be found in the old paths, in the True City, or anywhere in the world. They were just gone.


    How had these men gotten here?


    They were approaching now, two maintaining their aim while the third slung his rifle and held out a hand, either to calm or to seize. Donald kept his hands raised over his head in a show of submission. Given time to think, he would find a way to leverage his Gifts against these mortals.


    A shadow passed overhead.


    The Vigilante hurtled down, planting kicks on two helmeted heads as he descended. Men staggered and dropped to either side of the hero as he landed in a crouch.


    Then he was on the third assailant. Before the man could turn, the Vigilante seized his upper arm, pulling his head into a thrown elbow. Two more blows cracked a helmet and the last man was down, moaning. A final steel-toed kick silenced the trooper.


    The Vigilante rounded on a Miser who stared in shocked surprise, hands still raised. ¡°Two blocks down and take a left. Enter the path there. The Mastermind should be waiting. Go, and don¡¯t turn back. I¡¯ll get the Chauffeur.¡±


    ¡°How¡­what¡­?¡± the Miser stammered.


    ¡°Go!¡± the Vigilante growled, giving Donald a hard shove. Relatively hard, Donald thought. The Vigilante could probably break him like a pi?ata with little effort. He rushed to comply with his orders.


    Another three-man team in beetle black was rounding the corner.


    ¡°Go!¡± the Vigilante roared again. There was a blur and he was suddenly among the enemy, kicking and striking. As men fell around him, a third team was emerging from the left. And then a fourth. Donald fled frantically, coat-tails flapping.


    He was not so frantic, however, that he failed to maintain the Miser¡¯s Grip.


    __________


    The Gambler cowered under the imperious gaze of the Mastermind. His luck, it seemed, was finally turning. He could lose after all. Unfortunately, it was not turning out quite as he had envisioned.


    The barrel of a wood-finished automatic rifle was pointed directly at Henry the Gambler, held rigid in the unwavering grip of the Mastermind. He had clearly been in a fight, but the villain remained dapper. Covered in ash and grime, he maintained an impressive air. Even the spot of blood on his wounded shoulder seemed more art than injury. The Mastermind looked more like an actor made-up to play a role than like someone who had actually been in battle.


    Please, prayed the Gambler. Please tell me the villains aren''t on a rampage again.


    Many centuries had passed since a major Treaty violation. Most of them were caused by the Murderer or particularly stubborn heroes. Those were bad enough, but a breach made by the Mastermind would almost certainly involve every major Aspect in his camp. That could set the world aflame.


    ¡°I¡¯ll repeat the question, just this once,¡± the Mastermind was saying. ¡°What. Are. You. Doing out here?¡± Each pause was punctuated with a poke of the rifle in Henry¡¯s chest.


    Henry stammered in his haste to answer. ¡°There was¡­the Gathering¡­late¡­I wanted to bet¡­,¡± he stammered in wide-eyed terror.


    ¡°Shut up,¡± the Mastermind commanded, flatly. His hard brown eyes searched the Gambler¡¯s face. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw, because he abruptly stepped back and lowered the rifle.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said, sunnily. ¡°I must apologize. I''m usually a firm follower of basic gun safety, believe it or not. Come with me and I¡¯ll explain things on the way. It¡¯s hard times for us, I¡¯m afraid. The Gathering is quite finished. Cancelled, more¡¯s the pity.¡±


    Henry stared in astonishment. ¡°But you¡­the gun¡­bleeding!¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± the Mastermind said, dismissively. ¡°Questions later, talking on the go. Please listen. Come, come.¡± He began to walk briskly away.


    The Gambler hesitated and then silently followed. The Mastermind began his explanation.


    ¡°We appear to be under attack. Perhaps all of us,¡± he began in his customarily unflappable manner. ¡°I can¡¯t be sure right now. The Gathering was struck by explosives and a company of armed men. Impossible armed men, actually. They were not Aspects.¡±


    He held up a hand to forestall interruption. ¡°Whoever or whatever has done this destroyed the American convention center and incapacitated or killed several Facades. Only two of us escaped. The Vigilante and I, of course.¡±


    He paused. ¡°You may ask questions now,¡± he allowed, when the Gambler failed to respond.


    ¡°How¡­what are you¡­but how¡­¡±


    ¡°Ugh.¡± The Mastermind shook his head. ¡°I see you need a bit of time. Well, time is short. The Vigilante and I split to increase the odds that one of us would successfully evade pursuit. We are to rendezvous at one of the Broadstreet paths in less than five minutes. Taking the correct route through that path should bring us to one of the Vigilante¡¯s hideaways. We¡¯ll assess the situation and make our plans once we arrive.¡±


    Henry found it impossible to react so he simply continued to follow. The two Aspects passed empty shop windows and traversed a vacant playground before rounding onto an immense blacktop road bordered by sidewalks of polished ivory. The Gambler immediately sensed the presence of a pathway.


    Standing before the storefront of an unmanned convenience store was a bent blonde gentleman with hands on knees. He was breathing heavily and his skin shone faintly with perspiration. His tailored black suit, while slightly marred by exertion, had obviously come at a high price. The Mastermind greeted him immediately.


    ¡°Miser. I know you can¡¯t be a traitor. Far too much risk and much to be lost. I assume the Vigilante sent you this way?¡±


    The Gambler simply could not help himself. He knew it was a poor time to be thinking about sport, but this was the Miser! It was said that prying a single nickel from his grasp was almost impossible. They could set up a game, any game. It would be an absolute joy!


    __________


    Giuseppe chafed at the delay.


    A few dollars had finally shut the old bum up. Then, he had to deal with the Homewrecker. She had been nearly hysterical, insisting that he accompany her in her flight. He had finally agreed to take her as far as the nearest old path, before attempting to make his way to the Don.


    They maintained a circuitous route, staying as far from the wreckage of the convention center as possible while working their way towards the old path. The Beggar took the lead. The Henchman remained vigilantly alert as they traveled, wary of ambush or discovery.


    Giuseppe tensed and hugged the nearest wall as they emerged onto Broad Street. Thirty yards away, a group of men were just about to enter one of the numerous hollow shops that lined the boulevards of the True City. He hissed at his companions. He was sure they had not yet been spotted.


    The Beggar ruined the Henchman''s strategy before it was fully formed. ¡°Hey!¡± he called out to the distant figures, waving his hands and jumping up and down. ¡°Hey!¡±


    The lead figure, a bespectacled man in a begrimed white suit, reacted speedily. An automatic rifle was swiftly brought to bear.


    Then the weapon was lowered as the Beggar continued to call. ¡°Hey, Mastermind!¡±


    The Beggar began to jog towards the strangers, grunting with the effort. Giuseppe followed after a brief hesitation. He knew who the Mastermind was. Justina trailed reluctantly behind.


    She was suspicious of the Mastermind. He was a villain, after all. He was arguably the most powerful and certainly the most infamous. If someone had violated the Treaty and was hunting Aspects, the Mastermind was a prime suspect as far as she was concerned. She would be on her guard, though she doubted that would save her if he was behind their travails.


    The Mastermind was impatient of their approach. ¡°Beggar! Third of the Eldest and First of the Destitute. Please hurry! We are in danger and I begin to suspect my partner won¡¯t be joining us. Someone may already be on the way to capture or kill us all!¡±


    He was already pushing his companions through the door as the Beggar drew up, the Henchman and the Homewrecker not far behind. Eschewing greetings or discussion, he herded them into the doorway, practically shoving Giuseppe inside. Giuseppe began to protest, prepared to resist, before he was swallowed by darkness. The Mastermind finally entered himself.


    The door closed behind them and they were on the path, distancing themselves from the True City and its dangers.

 Interlude - The Monster

    I¡¯m not alone. It¡¯s true. The blessings don¡¯t let me lie to anybody but targets. I always tell the truth to normal decent people.


    I¡¯m just finishing with this big bastard I ran into in Florida. He came on all hard, but he turned bitch quick when I got serious. I wrapped him up tight, shoved him in my trunk and took him to this little abandoned farmhouse I found with some help from my blessings. Nice spot in Georgia, real quiet. It¡¯s the perfect place for final judgement.


    He struggles some, but it¡¯s far past helping. I prop him up against the fence and get down to business. I finish nailing him down with some good iron spikes. You can get pretty good stuff at some hardware stores. He gets super quiet. Still alive though, so I know I¡¯m doing excellent work. I pull out a nice retractable cutting blade and show it to him. It has a pretty sweet little curve to it and everything. It will make good clean slices, keep things neat. Asshole doesn¡¯t show any appreciation. Rude. Well, before I can start on his face, I hear a car coming.


    Nobody ever comes up this little dirt road and I feel like something¡¯s up. I think about maybe hiding when the blessings give me a jangle. So I sit still. Up rolls this black SUV with heavy tinted windows. I can tell right off that there are some bad folks in the back. Three of them.


    The SUV stops and three guys get out. Not the ones the blessings sniffed out. The guys aren¡¯t bad guys. These are different guys. I¡¯m just standing there, watching. The blessings are saying calm so I stay calm. The men are wearing all black that looks like some kind of armor. Modern armor, not the real stuff. I can¡¯t tell if these people are white or black or brown. Not that it matters. They all have guns, rifles on their backs and pistols at the side, but I¡¯m not scared.


    So one of these guys walks right up on me and starts shouting. I can¡¯t figure out what he¡¯s trying to say and it isn¡¯t important anyway. The other guys are trying to hold him back, but he¡¯s going wild, like I did something to piss him off. It¡¯s all ¡°what did you do to me? What did you do to me?¡± He sounds funny. Might be because of the helmet he was wearing, but I think there¡¯s more to it. I¡¯m just listening to this dude, trying to take it in, when he goes for pistol. So, what do you think? I take him out, bim bang boom.


    I¡¯m not a big guy, not really. I figure I¡¯m mostly average. Like just about anybody, sometimes I feel like I¡¯m better and sometimes I feel like I¡¯m weaker. But with the blessings¡­well. I can be strong as a dream. Fast too.


    So I punch him good and hard. Hard enough to break his funny visor. My fist comes back bloody and I¡¯m already giving him a nice little kick to the guts for good measure. Guy vomits a little, starts choking. I almost feel bad, but it¡¯s kind of ha-ha funny.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    The other two are motioning with their hands, like to calm me or down or maybe calm us both down. I¡¯m game to call it quits and hug it out, but this angry guy just won¡¯t quit. He goes for his gun again and that¡¯s all she wrote. There¡¯s a roaring in my ears and I can¡¯t hear shit anymore. I¡¯m fucking outraged.


    I hit him again, and while he¡¯s trying to shake it off I twist his head around for him. It¡¯s some serious movie shit. I told you, I get strong.


    When he drops, I guess the other dudes get scared because they go for the weapons too. I might have been able to defuse things but I lost my head. I¡¯m bit proud of it. I straight put it on them. Bam! Head butt! Crack! In the crotch. What! Sternum cracked. Long story short, it¡¯s all twitching meat by the time I stop seeing red.


    They seemed like decent dudes, so I make it clean and quick. Slice slice slice. Three throats cut and sleepy time. Then I to back to my previous project. I¡¯m into him for a solid ten minutes before I remember the other three people who the blessings pointed out to me. In the back of the SUV.


    The big guy I have nailed to the fence sure is having a lucky day. I finish him up and walk over to the SUV. Open the back. Like the blessings told me, there¡¯s three people there.


    All tied up, one of them has a nice gash on his forehead and none of them are awake. The blessings are screaming at me. Bad bad bad. They have to go.


    Kind of weird, the gash on the guy¡¯s head looks like it¡¯s healing. I mean, all wounds heal for most healthy people but I can see the flesh growing back together. What do they call it in the fantasy books, with the healing magic? Knitting.


    Maybe I¡¯m seeing things, but I can¡¯t have that. That guy gets lucky too. I make sure he never wakes up and he goes scott free. No punishment, just death. I hate that.


    The other two, they get what¡¯s coming. But I¡¯m tired of all the noise and shouting from earlier, so I wake them up by taking out the old tongues and breaking their jaws. Keeps things quiet.


    You won¡¯t believe it, but there¡¯s something trying to leave the bodies. I can¡¯t see it, but I know it¡¯s there. It¡¯s like they died but they¡¯re trying to get away. I can''t understand it, but it¡¯s pissing me off all over again. I¡¯m not having that. The blessings go wild, and it feels like something inside me is opening up. And just like that, the blessings swallow up whatever¡¯s trying to get away.


    I feel jazzed. My skin is buzzing and I feel stronger and cleaner than I ever felt before. I definitely want more. It has no taste but I can¡¯t stop thinking about chicken.


    Anyway, that¡¯s the time I met some guys that might be like me. But they were defective, so they expired. I still don¡¯t feel good about it. We could have been a team, like the b-guys or the a-guys are whatever.


    I don¡¯t let depression or guilt get to me. I have a job to do, for the children and good people everywhere. So I shake it off and start looking for more work. It doesn¡¯t take me long, I can tell you that. That¡¯s justice.

 Interlude - The Fall of the Trickster

    One of the most difficult goals a person can have is to trick the Trickster.


    Difficult does not mean impossible, the Trickster reflected as she took stock of her surroundings. Her unknown adversaries had come very close. She had been saved by her preternatural awareness.


    The Trickster was a small woman of European extraction, though she began life as a Nepalese orphan. Her most recent Facade was still young and marked by mismatched brown and green eyes. Her hair was a flat, dull brown that was cut short above the shoulders. She wore a black long coat that covered her spindly figure. With the exception of her unusual eyes, she appeared throughly unremarkable. It was her habit to build her Facades in such a way.


    She did not look forward to fighting unless she could choose and prepare the field. That is not to say that she might not survive, or even triumph in a direct confrontation. An unarmed woman against multiple male foes would have a poor chance of victory or escape. An outlier of exceptional physicality would have a better chance. With arms, the odds would increase. Add training and the odds of a favorable outcome increase exponentially. The Trickster had all these things in addition to the mighty trump of a shard of the Broken Gods. There were Aspects who could best her even when she fully utilized her talents of misdirection. Few groups of mortals would stand the slightest chance.


    She had been walking out of her favorite donut shop when an insistent pulse at the edge of her senses alerted her that she was a target. A seemingly casual sweep of her head immediately revealed multiple tails. There, a man in an inexpensive blue suit, casually thumbing the screen of a smartphone. There, a bored Asian student consulting a bus schedule. There, a another man in a suit arguing with a young black woman in a pale green sun dress.


    At least four adversaries¡­make that six. They were extremely professional. Without her boosted physiology, she would never have known they were watching. She cataloged the faces and demeanor of each person, quickly assessing. All were armed, except the woman in the sun dress. She likely kept a weapon in her oversized purse, but there was no way to be sure. She began to walk, admiring the skill of her trackers. They did not move as one, but followed organically. As long as one kept her in sight, they others could continue to follow. Often, one person or another would stop, stare into a window or look around as if to orient on a particular destination. It was all very natural.


    Who were they? Her initial suspicion fell on Agency Nothing, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Their purpose was the suppression of a single Aspect and targeting anyone else was not only outside their purview, but could jeopardize the containment of the Politician. No one in the know, mortal or Aspect, wanted the Politician to get loose.


    No, Agency Nothing might monitor her, but they would never be foolish enough to use a tail that she might spot. They would not want to give unwarranted offense. That eliminated the Mastermind as a suspect as well. He was well aware of her capabilities and would resort to immediate overwhelming force if he wanted her out of the picture. If he wanted to talk, he would be more likely to approach her directly and in the open. He was surely monitoring her as well, but he would be using electronic surveillance and predictive programs. She could be wrong, but she was highly skeptical of the notion that he would ever trust mortal agents against the Trickster. At the very least, he would not be using them in an attempt to follow her.


    She mentally shelved the matter of who and considered possible goals. Did they want to contain or capture? Eliminate or simply watch? As she considered, she suddenly turned into the recessed doorway of a corner pharmacy and invoked one of her Gifts. Her nature ensured that every human eye looked elsewhere in that moment.


    Invisible, the Trickster emerged from the doorway. She moved with care, avoiding physical contact with the surrounding people. She smiled to herself. Good as they were, they were up against an Aspect. That alone ensured their failure. The fact that the Aspect was the Trickster made their success impossible. She spared a backwards glance.


    They were still following.


    Now she was truly concerned. With the Gift of Unseen Passage active, detection should have been impossible without a device made by someone with the powers of the Engineer or the Programmer. Besides Agency Nothing, she knew of no mortal organization that could have obtained such an object. Could this really be them?


    The Trickster activated a second Gift, the Endless Pocket. Of all the Aspects, she alone carried extra-dimensional spaces that drifted around her. The Polymath suspected that they were discarded bits and pieces of whatever the Traveler had used when he forged the old paths. Her shard had simply commandeered them for the Trickster¡¯s use. Whatever their provenance, they had proven invaluable. She reached into one and pulled out a basket-hilted rapier, a sap and a long length of several handkerchiefs, all knotted together. She attached the rapier to her waist and settled the sap in her left hand. The retrieval of one of her beloved pistols was briefly considered and rejected. She doubted she would need any weapons but her selection should be enough for a confrontation with mortals. She activated a third Gift, the Fog of Confusion.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    That should stop the mortals in their tracks. The Fog was hardly a precision tool, so others were certain to be caught in its wake. She was unhappy that innocents may be affected, but ultimately they would come to no real harm. She looked back again.


    Still, they followed, pushing there way through baffled bystanders.


    Well, that was surprising. Concern began to become worry. She was old enough to be able to identify Aspects, sometimes even by name. Her every sense told her that these were mortals. How could they resist her Gifts? Such a thing was unprecedented.


    Finally, she used the last option she could to both avoid confrontation and escape. Only the Traveler was her superior in detecting and using the old paths. Unlike most of her kind, she could enter even the discarded paths, dead ends and infinite loops. So great was her ability that she could even use them in combat, teleporting about the battlefield in a lethal ballet. The Trickster stepped sideways and entered a corridor that stood outside spacetime. It was a simple place cast into eternal dusk, with a rough concrete floor surrounded by brick walls that moved endlessly up into the sky.


    They were waiting for her there. A dozen men in black armor, faces obscured by mirror visored helmets stood ready, nine millimeter pistols leveled in her direction. It was infuriating.


    Throwing caution to the wind, the Trickster dove into battle. She leapt up onto the head of the leading trooper with the speed of the wind, and began to hop. Her feet found purchase on the shoulders and heads of her foes as she went. With a graceful leap, she flipped to the ground at the other end of the corridor and engaged the backs of her enemies. Three swift blows sent three armored men plummeting into unconsciousness. She disarmed and hamstrung a fourth before the rest could begin to turn.


    The staggering combination of her unnatural speed and grace would have shocked the average person into practical immobility. Her rapid dispatch of numerous men in a matter seconds should have served as further deterrent. A debilitating fear and a crumbling of morale should have followed. None of those expectations were met.


    Four shots rang out, but the Trickster was already moving. She slipped between two men, tripping them as she made her way into their midst, and then she was among them with the sap whirling around her head. Two more swift blows stunned yet another adversary and a kick catapulted him out of the fight. She abandoned the sap and drew her rapier with a ring of steel.


    The Trickster disliked killing on general principles, and against mortal men and women it would practically be murder. Nevertheless, she could think of no better way to escape. She doubted the sap could carry the day and this was no tournament, where she could pink the men a few times and be declared the victor. In the old paths, she was robbed of her ability to teleport and that would make things harder. She decided to do her best not to kill everyone out of hand, but she would not fall.


    Her careful positioning had deterred further gunfire, but her adversaries were becoming frustrated. Three more shots were fired, but she was no longer in the bullets¡¯ path. Spinning, she swept an opponent¡¯s legs out from under him and pierced his elbows at the joints. Six down, she thought. With a whoop, she flourished her bloodstained blade and faced the remainder.


    Six more men appeared behind them.


    She had no time to consider how mere humans were entering. Waving her blade in a widening circle, she used her other hand to reach into a pocket. Twirling, she flung a handful of marbles before her.


    If the armored combatants found her actions amusing, they were soon disabused. A portion of the marbles exploded into smoke, obscuring vision. The closest of her foes fired blindly, but the Trickster was already in the air, repeating her first maneuver of the encounter.


    She landed in a crouch, once again behind her opponents, and flung another object. Turning her head, she risked closing her eyes. A dazzling flash of light burst from her device, blinding and dazing.


    The Trickster stood up and surveyed her work. In that instant, she could have slain them all. She discarded the idea. She had done enough, and it was time to escape. She would leave the path and use the Rope Trick. No one could follow her into her personal space.


    In her contemplation, she overlooked the new vulnerability of the old paths. Freshly arriving troops seized her from behind. She yelped in startlement and struggled to throw off the offending hands. The fight devolved into a scrum of thrashing elbows, clumsy blows and tackles. There was no elegance here. Calculations based on swiftness and skill at arms could no longer apply. Weight of numbers was all that would tell. The Trickster was one. All around her, closing in with crushing force, were many. Gifts were activated and, impossibly, resisted in turn. A profusion of guns were aimed.


    The Trickster was a Primary Aspect of an inconceivably ancient lineage. She was powerful among her kind, faster and stronger than the champions of the world. In another place, she might have defeated an army. Here, hobbled by the sacrifice of her mobility, she could not. Here, where she should have been safest she was at her weakest.


    Overwhelmed by ever increasing numbers, trapped and exposed, the Trickster fell. The Trickster had been tricked.

 Chapter 2 - Retreat and Safety

    The retreating Aspects emerged on a grassy riverbank, feet sinking into moist soil. A small copse of beechwood stood nearby, overlooking a vast green plain under a bright, sunless sky. As was common within the dimensions of the old paths, the light was sourceless.


    As his feet touched soft earth, Giuseppe pivoted in outrage. Ignoring his fellow travelers, his eyes wandered to and fro, desperately seeking the entrance to a path leading back into the True City. Finding what he sought, a shimmering curtain of air that could only be discerned by an Aspect, he immediately strode towards it.


    His progress was arrest by the hindering arm of the Mastermind. Giuseppe smacked the offending appendage away with a contemptuous palm and continued on his course. The villain grimaced in annoyance and interposed himself in the Henchman¡¯s path. Giuseppe silently raised his hands, balling them into fists. The Mastermind leveled his rifle in reply.


    The Henchman froze with fists still raised. The Mastermind spoke rapidly, forestalling rash action. ¡°Henchman. I¡¯ve had my eye on you. Listen to me, before you do anything foolish.¡±


    Giuseppe gave a sullen nod in compliance or resignation. ¡°I understand your need to act,¡± the Mastermind continued. ¡°Your nature must be driving you mad. But you need to understand. Your duty lies in true service, not in thoughtless action. To help the Don, you need a chance to win. I can give you that chance.¡±


    The villain lowered his weapon and adopted a persuasive tone. ¡°Listen. I was there when the Don went down. He¡¯s a powerful Aspect who can function with injuries that would kill a normal man twice over, but he¡¯s not a primary fighter. Our enemies seemed quite thorough. Your loyalty is admirable, but rescuing the Don alone is not an option.¡±


    The Henchman stared at the Mastermind in sullen silence, as the remaining Aspects huddled together and watched.


    ¡°I have an offer for you. The Henchman is strongest when serving another. Transfer your allegiance to me until Don Eneide is saved or avenged. With a team, you stand a much better chance of succeeding where you might fail alone.¡± He shouldered the rifle and held out his hand, brow quirked expectantly.


    The Henchman did not take long to consider the offer. He strongly desired, but he was no fool. New as he was to the world of special people, he was aware that the Don considered the Mastermind a powerful ally and a highly dangerous person. Together, they had stood against all comers in numerous conflicts. The Mastermind was the type who always gained something, even in defeat.


    Giuseppe took the outstretched hand in a firm grip and shook. The Mastermind¡¯s gaze fell on the others. ¡°I will have offers for each of you, but now we must focus on completing our escape. The old paths were a strength we took for granted. Now mortals, or something very like mortals, have found a way in. We cannot be certain that we won¡¯t be found here. Let¡¯s move.¡±


    They obeyed without comment, falling in behind as he began to walk along the riverbank. Silence was the normal on the old paths and the faint sound of running water was strange. Giuseppe strode behind the Mastermind with the Homewrecker, the Miser and the Gambler clustered further back. The Beggar shuffled to their rear. Their course took them through shadowed valleys and mist-shrouded bogs, down mountain trails and through seas of grass. The Gambler was the first to speak, his attention focused on the Miser. He sidled to to the tycoon¡¯s side.


    ¡°Hello, sir,¡± he spoke nervously. ¡°I¡¯m Henry. The Gambler. It¡¯s a real honor to meet you.¡±


    The Miser spared a supercilious glance. ¡°Yes. Very nice to make your acquaintance.¡± He turned his head dismissively.


    ¡°Hey, I got a proposal for you,¡± the Gambler persisted. ¡°A nice opportunity to make some extra cash.¡±


    The Miser¡¯s curiosity was immediately piqued. ¡°Oh? And what is your proposal, Gambler?¡±


    The Gambler licked his lips. ¡°Here¡¯s the thing,¡± he began. ¡°Me losing seems like it¡¯s impossible. That ain¡¯t gambling, it¡¯s just collecting money. Killing me, is what it is!¡±


    He shook his head and gestured with supplicating hands. ¡°But you! You have Gifts to protect your money, right? Our powers might cancel each other out. I might still win, but I can lose! Play a game with me! I¡¯ll put up ten dollars for one, any game you want.¡±


    The Miser was astonished at the Gambler¡¯s effrontery. He was struck momentarily speechless. The idea that the Miser would risk the slightest part of his worth in games¡­! Then a more practical notion insinuated itself into his mind. It was imminently wise to take a chance in one effort in exchange for a guaranteed financial gain in another. A counterproposal began to take shape.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what,¡± began the Miser, with a comradely grin. ¡°I will consent to game with you for a small consideration. For every game we play, you will play two more with someone else. I will receive half your winnings or whatever amount we wagered, whichever is more.¡±


    His smile widened as he adopted his friendliest tone. ¡°What do you say?¡± he asked, spreading his arms.


    ¡°Deal!¡± the Gambler said without the least hesitation. They shook hands. The Homewrecker groaned, rolling her eyes.


    ¡°We might all be being hunted and you can¡¯t stop thinking about betting and money!¡± she exclaimed, incredulous. She heard the Henchman give a contemptuous grunt, though he did not turn to regard them. The Miser ignored her while the Gambler just shrugged.


    The Beggar had walked silently, eyes downcast. Now, he hazarded a glance at the group and gave a slight shake of his head. The lion must hunt and the prey must flee, he thought. She must know this. Fear stood behind her anger. If there were a married man of her type in this place, she would find manipulating and flirting difficult to resist.


    The Beggar did not doubt that the Mastermind was considering and calculating, even now. Plots, stratagems and contingencies would be wheeling through his consciousness in near endless procession. This was simply in the nature of Avatars. The Beggar himself was continuously suppressing the desire to to wheedle, to cringe and piteously mewl for alms. So it was.


    Eventually, they were led to a mossy stone arch on a plain of chalk, under a starless sky. A soft light emanated from its center. It led to nowhere, having neither walls nor a surrounding building. The Mastermind stepped through it and was followed. One by one, the Aspects left the path.


    They emerged neat the exit in a small, low-walled room, not more than fifteen square feet in dimensions. It¡¯s floors and windowless walls were worn wood slats. At the center of the far wall hung an old empty tool board, with a rickety table beneath it. There were no other furnishings.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    A thick black laptop set on one corner of the table. It had no power cord, nor did the little room appear to have any outlets. The Mastermind crossed the room and opened the device, pushing a power button. It hummed into stuttering life.


    He turned and faced the Aspects he had rescued. The Homewrecker and the Beggar had already sat on the floor, there backs resting against the wall.


    ¡°We will give the Vigilante an hour or two to catch up,¡± said the Mastermind. He had resumed his normal cheerfulness. ¡°I think he may not make it, but I¡¯ve suffered for underestimating the man. In the meantime, let''s make our introductions.¡±


    He gave a short bow. ¡°I, of course, am known as the Mastermind. My humble talents include research, planning and management. I learn quickly and am able to master the skills required to achieve goals more swiftly than most mortals.¡±


    He waved towards Giuseppe. ¡°Please continue, sir. Let them know who you are.¡±


    Giuseppe waved an awkward hand. ¡°Giuseppe Bianco. The Henchman.¡±


    The Mastermind grimaced when the Henchman failed to continue. He pointed a slender finger at Donald. ¡°Please, go ahead,¡± he directed.


    The Miser nodded and looked around the room. ¡°I am Donald Truechild, known by some as the Miser. It is a title that has some unfortunate negative associations, but anyone who conducts business with me will find me quite fair. I simply give proper value for service. Very pleased to meet you all.¡± He nodded and took a visible step back.


    Justina rose smoothly to her feet and spoke without prompting. ¡°I¡¯m Justina. The Homewrecker,¡± she introduced herself, folding her hands primly behind her back. ¡°I know some people think the wrong things about me. I¡¯m a good guy, really.¡±


    The Gambler could not suppress a giggle. The Homewrecker directed a glare in his direction and he exploded into hearty laughter. The Henchman¡¯s lip briefly quirked.


    ¡°I¡¯m a good guy,¡± the Homewrecker repeated, crossly.


    The Gambler raised a palm, still chuckling. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, placatingly. ¡°I know shards can change over time. I¡¯m sure the name ¡®Homewrecker¡¯ is evolving now.¡±


    Noticing the attention of the room remained on his person, he straightened. ¡°Is it my turn?¡± he asked. He continued without waiting for a reply. ¡°I¡¯m Henry. The Gambler. Chance and fortune are what I live for. Right now, I can¡¯t lose, which is actually kind of a problem.¡±


    ¡°A problem?¡± the Mastermind raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s a problem,¡± the Gambler explained. ¡°See, I live for the game. For the chance. It¡¯s no good if I can¡¯t lose. Like picking leaves off a tree. That¡¯s no good.¡± He dipped his head sadly.


    The Mastermind pursed his lips before motioning to the Beggar. ¡°I know you are, elder, but if you could¡­?¡±


    The Beggar looked up but remained seated. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m the Beggar, man. I do, like, odd jobs. I kinda need to go home, but I don¡¯t want to bother anybody.¡±


    The Mastermind grinned, placing his hands on his hips. ¡°The Beggar is being modest, as is his nature. Come on, ancient,¡± he said, mimicking a child. ¡°Tell us who you are.¡±


    The Beggar¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You want that,¡± he said tonelessly.


    ¡°I want that,¡± the Mastermind replied.


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    The Beggar struggled to his feet. ¡°I am the Beggar,¡± he began. His posture became straight and rigid and a sharp focus bloomed in his eyes. ¡°Third of the Eldest, Avatar of Greater Powers and First of the Destitute. Wretchedness is my shield and my sword is called pity. The wealth of nations passes into my hands and flows away on the tides of despair and broken dreams.


    ¡°I am the Beggar,¡± he completed the ancient words. As he spoke the final syllable, his shoulders hunch and he took on a slight stoop. His eyes clouded and he resumed his seat on the floor.


    __________


    The laptop was fully charged, though its outdated hardware meant that was likely to change rapidly. Despite shortcomings, it sufficed to allow the Mastermind access to his least secure network. His remaining networks steadily increased in security and complexity, the highest only accessible through specific terminals. The lowest used predictive modeling and media surveillance to aid in various schemes of low to moderate importance. There was also surveillance footage of a handful of minor Aspects with abilities that could be useful or become a hindrance. Many of those Aspects even underestimated themselves.


    The Mastermind considered those lesser projects and settled on the Dancer. One of the few Aspects to ever change genders, he had not attended a Gathering in decades. A quick search located the appropriate footage. As he had suspected, the attack on the Aspects was general. Someone was after them all of most of them. He watched the Dancer¡¯s defeat and capture.


    There was valuable data there, in that scuffle. The Dancer¡¯s grace had all the lethal potential the Mastermind had long suspected, but his mind-targeting Gifts did not appear to be effective. He could not be sure, but there was a greater than 99 percent chance that the Dancer had attempted to use his Gifts of beguilement. If so, it was particularly ineffective. The assailants were at least as resistant as the average immortal. The Dancer succumbed with embarrassing ease. The Mastermind considered class and racial elitism the height of folly. Nevertheless, he was insulted on behalf of his kind.


    More intelligence was an essential requirement. There was still nothing to definitively identify the enemy. There were a handful of suspects, both likely and unlikely. There were two mortal organizations that were aware of the reality of the Aspects. Agency Nothing was an independent entity, though it was largely staffed by personnel from the United States, the United Kingdom and nations that had risen after the dissolution of the British Empire. Their involvement was a low probability, especially considering his extensive infiltration of the organization with agents under his sway. The containment of the Politician was too important to be managed by mortals alone.


    Russia¡¯s Commission for the Education of Shardbearers was also unlikely to be an adversarial element. That group was full of skeptics and deniers, with the few believers castrated into near total ineffectiveness. Unless something dramatic had happened, they had neither the means nor the motivation to target Aspects around the globe, let alone in the old paths.


    The Engineer? The Biologist? The Traveler? An alliance between two or more of them? That was unlikely, as the Mastermind had seen all but the Traveler laid low at the Gathering. He needed to get into one of his most hidden and secure bases to sift through better data. If that was insufficient, he would use the assets he had on hand as leverage to gain as much information as possible. He mentally catalogued those assets.


    The Henchman had already agreed to become his subordinate in a limited fashion. That would inevitably become a stronger and more permanent relationship. The Henchman was at his strongest when under orders and acting in the fulfillment of a cause or a superiors¡¯ goals. Under those conditions, he could make all the difference between defeat and victory. He could sustain multiple lethal injuries and work to exhaustion and beyond if properly used. Unfortunately, he was new and his powers would take years to mature to their fullest expression.


    The Miser would balk at sharing his resources, but that was hardly an item of consideration. The Mastermind¡¯s own resources were exponentially greater. If the Miser believed he had a percentage of ownership or another type of interest, he could be extremely efficient at protecting useful assets.


    The Gambler was a magnificent trump card if could be used creatively. Of course, the most creative uses of his abilities were likely to result in his death or consumption in the Verge.


    The Homewrecker? Nearly useless in any physical conflict, but she might be remarkable as a honeypot or infiltrator. Groundwork would have to be laid on her behalf. She would be most useful in causing discord between couples or wringing information from married men. Her abilities were likely worthless against bachelors and most women. Currently, she was low utility.


    The greatest strength rested with the Beggar. As an elder, he could twist his Gifts in ways that were never intended by the shard. Better yet, he could do so while surviving the backlash of misused power. The problem, of course, would be keeping under proper control. Most elders would hardly ever deviate from their assigned roles. It would take careful manipulation to make the Beggar perform to the Mastermind¡¯s specifications. Worse yet, the Beggar would be at least partially aware of any attempts at imposing control. Resistance would be subtle and reflexive.


    Of course, there were other potential assets in the world at large: Aspects that may still be active and his own multi-layered handfuls of mortal spies, dupes, agents and mercenaries. Once he confirmed who was still active, he would gather them all. The Mastermind had many talents, but he took the greatest pride in his ability to get the best out of other people.


    He would wait just a bit longer for the Vigilante. Just a bit longer.

 Interlude - Catalogue of Lesser Aspects and Their Known Abilities

    From a letter sent to the Mastermind by the Polymath


    Dear Stanley,


    Greetings, my old adversary. In the spirit of our longstanding truce when dealing with these matters, I thank you for your correspondence regarding the capabilities of the Sculptor, the Addict and the Linguist. I must also compliment you on your exceptional skills at misdirection and obfuscation. You artfully followed our agreement to the letter, while simultaneously framing things in such a way that I almost disastrously misinterpreted two very important points that will be useful to my side. It was most impressive. You play a long and subtle game!


    I choose to send you the following data without any obfuscation, to show that there are no hard feelings. You will find detailed files in your secure secondary network, just below your most recent surveillance footage of the Trickster. What follows is a brief synopsis of the most relevant findings.


    Subject: The Beggar


    Gifts: The Gift of Charity. The Gift of Mercy. The Vapors of Disgust. The Enduring Digestion. The Pestilent Crawl.


    Demeanors: The Pose of Wretchedness. The Fading Presence. The Pose of Horror.


    Physical Enhancements: Increased Endurance, Increased Recovery, Increased Healing (common version)


    Notes: Like the majority of Aspects, the Beggar has five Gifts and three Demeanors in addition to certain physical enhancements. Due to his advanced age as one of the oldest surviving primal Aspects, the Beggar¡¯s powers are significantly greater than their descriptions entail. His powers could potentially overcome the natural resistance of other Aspects. Though he usually presents himself as both vulgar and stupid, he is neither. The Beggar is every bit as intelligent as the Harlot and the Priest.


    Subject: The Henchman


    Gifts: The Gift of Obedience. The Rally of Thugs. The Call of Duty. The Illumination of Arms. The Crushing Blow.


    Demeanors: The Pose of Strength. The Faceless Shroud. The Pose of Intimidation.


    Physical Enhancements: Increased Strength, Increased Endurance, Increased Recovery, Increased Healing, Sensitivity to Danger


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.Notes: The Henchman has been around for nearly one thousand years and has honed his craft in that time. His greatest weakness is his reliance on orders from a superior to fully unlock his power. More on this in the forwarded files. Intelligence indicates that the Henchman may soon pass on his shard and retire to marry a granddaughter of the Don. If that is the case, the new Henchman will be significantly less capable. It may be some time before a new Henchman learns his new Gifts and realizes their potential.


    Subject: The Homewrecker


    Gifts: The Gentle Insinuation. The Oath Breaking Kiss. The Touch of Ecstasy. The Third Eye. The Focus of Devotion.


    Demeanors: The Pose of Innocence. The Pose of Desire. The Pose of Friendship.


    Physical Enhancements: Common


    Notes: The Homewrecker¡¯s Gifts are largely useless when not used against married targets. They have limited effectiveness against unmarried targets with significant relationships. It is rumored that she is unable to affect homosexual targets, but that has not been tested. Her Demeanors have better general effectiveness and allow her to make or break friendships more easily than any mortal.


    Subject: The Miser


    Gifts: The Miser¡¯s Grip. The Eye for Quality. The Lash of Contempt. The Convincing Tone. The Gift of Acquisition.


    Demeanors: The Unnerving Pose. The Supercilious Pose. The Pose of Competence.


    Physical Enhancements: Common


    Notes: The Miser has few rivals in the business of acquisitions. More important is his ability to keep and protect whatever falls into his lap. The implications should be fairly obvious. More in the forwarded files.


    Subject: The Gambler


    Gifts: The Uneven Break. The Lucky Stumble. The Gift of Fortune. The Convincing Bluff. The Fair Chance.


    Demeanors: The Pose of Harmlessness. The Pose of Hilarity. The Poker Face.


    Notes: This shard is out of control and ridiculously powerful, even in a young host. I note that the Gamblers, past and present, exhibited little control over their power. The Gifts can be activated, but for the most part seem to operate automatically. I have proposed containment on two occasions. While not as disruptive as the Politician in natural settings, the increasing interconnectedness of the global economy makes the existence of the Gambler an incredible threat to stability. Characters like the Miser and the Businessman pale in comparison. The situation is made slightly better by the fact that significant misuse of these ridiculous powers should result in death. Should any Gambler survive to advanced age¡­


    Subject: The¡­¡­

 Interlude - The Gloaming of the Glutton

    Abel shivered in pleasure as a handful of buttered shrimp slid down his throat. It had been too long since he had been able to truly indulge himself. Some idiot tourist secousse had paid him enough to purchase sumptuous feasts for a week, all for a few stupid pictures! It was almost unbelievable, but the Glutton did not question his fortune.


    He had lived through three lifetimes, starting with inherited wealth and then living well with lucrative investments. The bottom had fallen out in his fourth Facade. A series of economic disasters and poor investments thrust Abel into the ranks of the poor. He did not have the slightest notion of how to provide value or perform at even the most menial tasks. Even a poor man could be gluttonous, but his meals had suffered in both quality and quantity.


    And now, this! Perhaps his luck was changing for the better. It had taken a prodigious effort, but the Glutton had resisted the impulse to spend everything on sweets and expensive catering. With time and proper investment, he might have the beginnings of a new fortune. He drooled at the thought of being truly rich again, and diving into a bottomless well of sugary cakes.


    Before him were so many of the things he had been missing. Of course, he had also discovered a taste for many cheap snacks and they were included at his table. A bowl of Beluga caviar sat next to a bucket of cheese puffs. Fine sizzling filets shared space with factory produced American candy bars. Dishes of all shapes and sizes, laden with soups, meats and candies surrounded the ecstatic Glutton. He swore to eat it all.Stolen story; please report.


    He swiftly abandoned manners and cast aside utensils in favor of seizing great handfuls of sustenance and shoving it into his widening maw. He began to sweat, grunting in exertion. To enhance his enjoyment, he activated one of his favorite Gifts. It would give him the full benefit of the many nuances of flavors.


    Even with his Gift, he almost missed it. Something in the hams¡­no. It was in everything, a wisp of flavor that was easily overlooked.


    ¡°Poison?¡± he gasped in horror. ¡°Poison!¡±


    The poison was a minor concern for the Glutton. Habits such as his slew increasingly large numbers of mortals each year. He was hardened against ingested toxins and could shrug off even the most lethal venom. Nevertheless, cold fear gripped his heart and cooled his rising temperature. Someone was trying to kill him!


    The Glutton cast away the temptation to continue feeding. He rose tottering to his feet. ¡°Poison!¡± he howled in outrage, chins quivering.


    ¡°Poison,¡± said a toneless voice behind him. The voice of his benefactor.


    Aspect or not, the stories of the Glutton allowed him no great speed or strength. Something hard and heavy smashed him above his left ear. He slammed facedown into the table, sending dishes flying and spilling tureens.


    Several hands seized him. There were no roaring gunshots, but he heard triggers being pulled. Click click click. Something was filling him up.


    The Glutton bellowed and gave a mental shout. Purge!


    He regurgitated a sickening flow of bile and undigested foodstuffs. It was not enough. Whatever had been used against him remained within. He struggled feebly as more hands pushed him down.


    His endurance availed him naught. His great bulk gave him no advantage. He was weak, weakening, caught. His assailants handled him effortlessly.


    The Glutton gave in with a final feeble gasp. He was the easiest so far.

 Chapter 3 - The Shack

    The Vigilante never arrived. The Mastermind ended the recess an hour later than his initial deadline. Impatient for more essential action, he prepared to depart.


    The action was simple. He directed his regard towards the Henchman and said, ¡°Remain here and guard the others. I will arrange transportation within 24 hours. The words will be ¡®check your watch.¡¯¡± He handed Giuseppe his rifle and, with scarcely a pause, walked out the exit.


    The Henchman turned the weapon over in his hands. He had never used a rifle, but it felt comfortable in his grip.


    It had been some kind of day. He went from the top of the world to hiding in a single dirty room. The boss was captured or dead. Well, maybe not dead, but if he went down he would no longer be Don Eneide. He would have a new Facade with a limited window to resume a proper role before his shard sought a new host. Since his true age was great, he might have months or even a year, but he would still be in danger. That might still be better than capture.


    Well, he had a job to do and crying was not a part of getting things done. He looked up to find the other Aspects staring at him. Useless. The girl was pretty but he was pretty sure she would only go for a married guy. He sneered. ¡°Sit tight. I¡¯m gonna check things out.¡±


    A step out of the room revealed that it comprised the entire building. He was standing outside a tiny wooden building in a small clearing, surrounded by a veritable ocean of trees. He could hardly dignify the edifice as a cabin. It was a simple shack. The meanness of the structure was juxtaposed by the beauty of the landscape. After the oppressive atmosphere of the old paths, the chirping of crickets and the feel of cool evening air was a welcome relief.


    The Mastermind was nowhere in sight. Giuseppe guessed he had used one of those magic paths. He shrugged and stepped out to have a look around. A walk around the shack showed that it was meager. Its interior might be four hundred square feet, maybe as little as three hundred. As hideaways went, there was little to recommend it. Why set up an empty shack without furniture or supplies? What use would it be?


    The Henchman stopped his musing and walked into the forest. There had to be some kind of sense to this set up. He might figure it out after getting a better look.


    He was out of his element, he knew. If he wanted to become a memorable holder of the Henchman title, he would have to become more skilled in a wider variety of tasks. When the situation was resolved, he would definitely need to seek training. As it was, his ability to navigate outside of the city was negligible. He would not be going too far.


    The Henchman decided to work in a widening circle. His first two circuits kept the Vigilante¡¯s shack in sight. After that, he became more confident and was prepared to wander further. Most of the surrounding trees were some variety of pines, and their was a faint trace of their distinct odor in the air. It was pleasant and reminded the Henchman of childhood Christmases.


    The Henchman cracked a smile. Here he was, fashionably clothed in an expensive ensemble, traipsing about the woods like a wannabe ranger. He had no idea where he was, or even what state. Was this still America? What kind of wild animals were out here?


    His confidence diminished a bit. Unless it was blatant, he would have no idea what an animal¡¯s tracks would look like. For all he knew, he could be walking into the claws of a Grizzly or a wildcat. He had heard that some beasts would take bullets and keep coming. Did his newfound power make him a match for something like that? Maybe it was time to head back. The perimeter seemed safe enough and he needed to stay close to his charges anyway. If anyone came looking for trouble, they would likely do so through the old paths. The Henchman had no way of blocking or stopping that possibility.


    He headed back towards the shack, moving carefully to preserve his footwear. As he did so, he considered his wards. They seemed more liability than asset. From what scraps he knew, the Beggar¡¯s extreme age enhanced his power but that probably counted for little. If it came down to a fight, he doubted any one of them would be useful. The Mastermind probably wanted them just because their unknown enemy wanted them.


    The Henchman was still a little peeved at the way the Homewrecker had lied. He should know better than to be surprised; after all, her title said all he needed to know about her character. She was pretty though. Maybe if he put a fake wedding ring on his finger, he could have a little fun. Special person or no, she was just a bitch like dozens of other bitches with whom he passed some idle time. He was embarrassed to recall his teenage heartbreaks but those experiences had taught him to use a ho like a ho. Going by her title, she might find him attractive if she thought he was married or had a serious girlfriend. He would be polite because she was special, but he would keep an eye out for a chance to put her in rotation when this was over.


    The Miser was probably just a stingy rich guy. He seemed pretty normal. Men like that were a dime a dozen. It was the Gambler who would probably be a problem. Some of the serious gamblers Giuseppe knew were as degenerate as drug addicts. If they got into another scrape or needed to lay low for a while longer, he would need to worry about a guy who would flake to go to the racetrack. Though the Mastermind had not made them prisoners it was clear that he expected everyone to sit tight and stick together. The Gambler would need watching.


    Giuseppe paused. It would be much easier to control the situation if he had a better grasp of his abilities. As far as he could tell, he was the newest Aspect in the group. If there was any trouble, he may not be able to rely on his natural charm to restore order. He needed a better idea of what he could do and how he could do it.


    His first boss had taken an organic approach, teaching him slowly and allowing him to discover things on his own. That may have been best under normal circumstances, but now his lack of knowledge could be a serious problem. The Henchman considered what he did know.


    He knew that the Gift of Obedience worked in unpredictable ways to help him accomplish an order. That was nice, but if there was a way to control its output he was not aware of it. He also knew that he could sense the presence of other henchmen, though few people would call them that nowadays. Maybe he could also influence them, like a comic book mutant? Well, it was hardly something he could test right now. He did not even know what that ability was called.


    The Rally of Thugs. The words came unbidden into his mind. He froze. It took a long minute for him to regain his composure.


    So that was interesting. An internal encyclopedia, no matter how abbreviated, could not be anything but useful. Was this the shard at work? It must be.


    The title ¡°Rally of Thugs¡± suggested that he could summon and possibly command people of his type. ¡°Thugs¡± was unflattering, but it was just a name. He certainly was not a thug and most of the guys he knew were decent types.


    Could he summon some troops to his side? Giuseppe closed his eyes and searched for power. He unconsciously rose a hand and thought rally with all his might.


    Nothing happened.


    To me!


    Summon!


    Come o ye faithful!


    Clearly, if the power worked at all, there had to be some henchmen nearby. He would try it again later, when they were out of the woods.


    What else could he try? The Don said his shard was shaped by the stories of the world. That included both facts and fiction. How did a movie henchman perform? Giuseppe imagined the minions of Bond and comic villains. They would be running around control rooms. Tapping at consoles around banks of monitors. Attacking interlopers with a variety of guns and blades.


    That sparked his imagination. In the movies, guys with guns were always missing the main characters or causing shallow, easily ignored wounds if they did hit. They were a joke. The guys with names though, the real henchmen, were always at least a little threatening. Giuseppe had never held a rifle before, but his grip felt perfectly natural. He realized that he knew all the rifle¡¯s major components, proper maintenance and basic operations.


    The Illumination of Arms, an inner whisper informed him.


    Oh, yes.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    He imagined knives. Yes, he knew how to use them effectively. Swords? No problem. A variety of deadly tools were perfectly familiar. He was skilled, if unremarkable. High mastery might come with real practice. Nevertheless, with his physical enhancement he would be the terror of normal people.


    The Henchman grinned. ¡°I know kung fu,¡± he said aloud, chuckling. As he said the words he realized that he did not, in fact, know kung fu. He had always been a brawler and that remained the case. However, he visualized a punch that could easily knock out a heavyweight boxer. It might even incapacitate an Aspect who was taken by surprise.


    The Crushing Blow.


    The Henchman¡¯s mood lightened considerably. This was all great stuff, if not necessarily helpful outside of a battle. The Gifts would be excellent for keeping his charges safe and out of trouble. Unfortunately, they would not inspire trust or obedience from the Aspects. Something might happen that required his direction. If they would not listen to his directions, he would have to rely on intimidation.


    Fair enough.


    Before he could truly resume his trek back to the shack, reality cracked around him. The forest became a smear of colors and something descended.


    Humanity was unimpeded in its nomadic trek through an ever more observable universe. Sufficiently advanced lesser sentients, alarmed at the coming of cosmic horrors, sometimes attempted methods of deterrence that were so ineffective that they fell beneath the notice of all but the most conservationist individuals. Those unfortunate beings whose efforts were noticed were casually annihilated and promptly forgotten.


    The passage of humans did not always result in destruction. A variety of species praised the coming of the gods and prayed for their return. Had they known that the creatures that saved, or uplifted, or improved them had likely done so incidentally, they would still hold them in reverence.


    This was the case for uncounted ages following mankind¡¯s ultimate ascension. An endless round of relentless chaos that rarely registered obstacles. Until things changed.


    The ever whimsical humans involved in the initial encounter would be hard pressed to recall first contact. Practically limitless power apparently rendered a lackadaisical mindset, no matter how altered or evolved the original primate brains.


    They descended on an unexplored galaxy of misty stars, strangely shrouded in wet purple haloes light that enfolded entire clusters. As always, they commenced an unceasing dance of activities that were incomprehensible to even the most advanced species of the region. This time, they were opposed. That opposition fell beneath the notice of the adults, as usual, but some juveniles were annoyed. An infant even suffered a bruise. Rising from celestial surfaces, emerging from the ashes of dead worlds, came swarming fleshless impediments in a multiplicity of forms, launching projectiles, firing beams and emitting exotic energies.


    Quantum fire eliminated the nuisance in seconds, but in an unprecedented event more interlopers appeared. Megaseconds passed. Eventually, several humans deigned to examine the pests. They sifted through wreckage, scoured void objects and analyzed transmissions. Information was consumed. The pests, trivial as they were, became known.


    Collectively, they were labeled as the Machine Intelligences. Three entire galaxies were infested with them.


    Giuseppe groaned and shook off the vision and its accompanying flood of worthless information. Soon. Soon it would be over. Stress increased the frequency of the visions for new Aspects, but his shard should be settling down in a short time.


    Lord, if he were a normal person he would be a candidate for the loony bin. He would probably be rushing to the nearest hospital in a panic. It made him think. What if he was a nutcase, locked up in a rubber room somewhere and dreaming that he had superpowers?


    He dismissed the idea. It was as worthless as the stupid visions and was counterproductive. Time to get back.


    Arriving at the shack, Giuseppe opened the door and stepped back inside. The Miser and the Gambler were sitting on the floor, engaged in some type of card game. Of course the Gambler would have a deck of cards. He probably carried dice as well.


    Surprisingly, the Homewrecker and the Beggar were in an intimate huddle at the opposite end of the room.


    Huh. Maybe the Beggar was married.


    __________


    Justina watched as the Henchman left to room. He would ¡°patrol the perimeter¡± or some such martial duty, she supposed. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to remain calm. This was a poor beginning to a fresh Facade. A blend of terror and frustration was pulsing through her head, urging her towards conflicting actions but producing only a numb paralysis. She wanted to scream. It was maddening.


    She felt the furtive gaze of the Beggar and frustration began to drift towards anger. His status as an ancient elder commanded a certain respect, but ultimately he was a dirty homeless bum. Deference was exhausting and his attention was annoying.


    ¡°What!¡± she snapped, turning sharply towards the old Avatar. He recoiled.


    ¡°You¡¯re frustrated, man,¡± the Beggar replied, still shying back. ¡°I understand, but it¡¯s probably for the best, right? I mean especially considering¡­you know, your condition and all. This could help.¡±


    ¡°My¡­what condition?¡± the Homewrecker growled a query.


    ¡°Oh¡­um, never mind man.¡±


    ¡°What condition? Answer me,¡± the Homewrecker demanded in vexation.


    The Beggar tilted his eye towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. He opened them a moment later and motioned her closer. The Homewrecker shrank back in revulsion, all thoughts of even the most insincere respect forgotten. Elder or not, she had no desire to get too close.


    Her reluctance was made moot when the Beggar leaned forward and whispered into her ear, his fetid breath warming her face. ¡°You¡­you do know you¡¯re on the Verge, right? I¡¯ll keep it secret if you want, but old Avatars can tell.¡±


    The Homewrecker was instantly stunned into speechlessness. Her repugnance was nearly forgotten as the words grasped at her like a vice. Of course, the Beggar had to be wrong. Of course. The Verge was not a part of her story. She might not have the right role to become a Primary Aspect, but she was becoming a hero. She had felt it, felt the upwelling of power that heralded an apotheosis. She had felt the burgeoning changes. The changes¡­


    What if that insistent swelling, that pristine intensity to the pleasures of her role, heralded disaster instead of heroic rebirth? She vaguely recalled someone cautioning her about balance she was still clad in original flesh. Had she become unbalanced? That seemed wrong. But when had she started taking such joy in the humiliation of wives? When had she begun to stifle affection in favor of control? When had her designs become mere games, to be completed as quickly as possible? She had once operated differently and perceived things differently. How many changes were due to the insensate march of time? How many were due to changes in the themes the shard absorbed? It was all so complicated!


    Harold, Jameson, Sabhou, Mercutio, Vince, Moussa¡­she was having a hard time remembering. It had been quite a few years since she began to move through her men at speed. She had abandoned propriety. She saw that now. It was even possible that she had been a bit cruel.


    The Homewrecker clutched pathetically at the air. This could not happen, not to her. It would not happen. Even if it was true, even if she was truly on the Verge, there were stories of Aspects who dragged themselves from the brink. That would be her story. One of the Broken Gods that formed her shard was an embodiment of victory. She would triumph and she would be a hero.


    There was a lifeline before her. It was a foul and dirty thing, but a lifeline nonetheless. The Beggar was almost primeval, a prehistoric figure. After the leveling of the Gathering, perhaps he was the very oldest. If she could not rescue herself, he could be her salvation. She cast aside reluctance and desperately hugged his arm, wearing a piteous expression of careful design.


    ¡°Help me,¡± she whispered, and buried her head in his chest. She remained in that pose until the Beggar awkwardly extricated himself.


    ¡°Yeah, sure, I¡¯ll help,¡± he said, holding her at arm¡¯s length. ¡°I know what to do, man. And hey, maybe you could help me out once in a while? I mean, just a few bucks every now and then?¡± He smiled hopefully.


    As the Homewrecker nodded her agreement, she felt someone watching. She looked up to see the the Henchman staring. She saw the slight curl at the edge of his lips, perhaps signifying amusement. She had not heard him return. Realizing what her position suggested, she felt her face redden and looked away.


    Well, who cared what he thought anyway? His insincere chivalry and designer suits masked a villainous thug. Any level of respect or regard he gave would be tainted. She vowed to minimize her association with the hoodlum.


    Returning her attention to the Beggar, she nodded again. ¡°I can help you,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure you can have something to eat, hot showers¡­whatever you need. You just tell me how to keep going. It¡¯s no good to be immortal if I¡¯m not actually me.¡±


    The Beggar¡¯s mouth turned down. ¡°That¡¯s the thing,¡± he said sadly. ¡°It¡¯s not a secret, man, but Avatars don''t realize. The thing is there are no immortals. Think about it.¡±


    __________


    Henry ignored the approach of the Henchman and focused on his cards. The Miser looked uncomfortable, but Henry had played in all sorts of places. A hardwood floor in a tiny room was no Atlantic City but it was reasonably clean and out of the weather. It would do nicely.


    ¡°Raise you a grand,¡± he said passionlessly to the Miser. He schooled his face into neutrality.


    The Miser looked up from his cards and stared into Henry eyes. The Gambler was no slouch. He held the Miser¡¯s gaze without the slightest change in expression.


    ¡°Very well,¡± the Miser sniffed. ¡°Call.¡±


    The Gambler¡¯s mouth widened into a triumphant smile. He laid his cards on the floor, face up. ¡°Full house! Aces and eights!¡±


    The Miser swore, slapping his worthless hand to the deck.


    ¡°That¡¯s twelve grand you owe me!¡± the Gambler crowed. He scooped up the cards and returned them to the deck. Immediately, he began a rapid shuffle.


    The Henchman cleared his throat. Normally, the Gambler absolutely hated interruptions but despite his smiles he was inwardly disappointed. The Miser had failed to win a single game. There was no competition at all. That was probably due to the nature of their agreement. He had to find a way to force the Miser to take an actual risk. In the face of that difficulty, he was willing to overlook the Henchman¡¯s rudeness. There was nothing he could he do anything about it anyway.


    ¡°Yes?¡± he asked, attention still focused on his cards.


    ¡°You guys are pretty old right?¡± asked the Henchman. ¡°I mean, as far as being special Aspects and all.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± replied the Gambler. ¡°Not as old as all that, but I¡¯ve got a decade or two under my belt.¡±


    The Henchman nodded. ¡°Cool,¡± he said. ¡°How about you tell me all about the visions?¡±

 Interlude - Classification of Gifts

    Dear Samantha,


    I hope the day finds you well. Our correspondences have grown to such an extent that I begin to pity my poor postman. The information contained therein has a reached a length suitable for publication in a book. Of course, any such publication would have to be limited to others of our kind. Most mortals would view the contents to be fiction (and poorly written at that). However, I have heard whispers of nascent government agencies that seek to unmask or control us. A fresh war would be disastrous.


    Before coming to the heart of our subject, I pray you will forgive my use of the word "immortal." Like you, I am well aware that our common usage is inaccurate. All humans are immortal, of course. If that were not true, this prison universe would never have been built. We are simply the immortals that have some continuity of conciousness and memory between our incarnations. Eventually, our shards will pass and we will become as ignorant of our circumstances as the majority. Despite this, describing ourselves as immortals is the best option and has the added utility of avoiding the confusing profusion of terms that are spread by our fellows. It may be an unworthy foible, but I dislike the useless arguments over the superiority of "Shardbearer," "Aspect," etc.


    In the interest of continuing our ongoing conversation, I present to you a missive that I hope will help to define types of Gifts. It is my desire that this simple codification might bridge the gap between the terms used by East and West.


    It have both observed and been informed of various different uses of divine power. Based on this data, I can confidently categorize as follows: Declarative, Immediate, Constant, and Escalating Gifts.


    Declarative Gifts are those that absolutely require a specific pose, statement of intent, or similar prerequisite before use. An example from our legends would be the activation of the Undying Light by the Hero, one of the first immortals. Prior to unleashing this force on the Villain, legend states that he would always assume a firm stance and exclaim "Undying Light!" As this seems to have been a requirement and not a mere preference, we can state that Undying Light was a Declarative Gift. That the activation sequence must be seen or heard may be an additional restriction. These Gifts are rare and are usually powerful.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Immediate Gifts are those that work immediately upon activation. Activation is an act of will. My own Aura of Godly Protection is in this category. I believe this is quite self-explanatory, but will expound further in any future publication.


    Constant Gifts require neither declaration or activation. Even intent is not needed. Simply put, these Gifts are inherent to the immortal''s shard and are always in operation. However, I think that they should be deemed separate from the physical enhancements that most immortals share. Most such Gifts are unique or limited to a very small number of persons. The Ancient Fighter''s Gift of Martial Repose is an excellent example. Even when taken by surprise, he is able to avoid or deflect attacks and retaliate in seemingly innocuous ways, all while maintaining an air of serenity.


    Escalating Gifts mark our final category. It took some time to prove the existence of the category to my own satisfaction, but I am now thoroughly convinced. Escalating Gifts require activation, but begin at a stage of minimal effectiveness. Power and effectiveness grow progressively as time passes and the Gift is maintained. For example, the Vanguard''s Gift of Invincibilty reduces the seriousness of wounds when first activated, but eventually offers total immunity from physical harm.


    Based on old stories and hearsay, I note that there may be a category of Gifts that are both Declarative and Escalating. However, I do not possess enough firm evidence to assume that this is true. It is my hope that our continuing association may reveal any additional categories and insert these terms into the vernacular of immortals the world over.


    (Missive continues on next page)

 Interlude - Monster 2

    My flesh buzzing, like fire trying to burst out of my skin. My eyes flashing like mirrored silver. My chest expanding, like every time I breathe I''m sucking in whole clouds.


    It feels good man. It feels real good.


    It feels so good, I actually let a couple targets slip. I''m not proud of it, but I can get around to them later. I''ll carry the guilt of whatever bad things they do forever, but I just can''t concentrate. It feels really good. I need it.


    My blessings are refined. I''m sharper, stronger, better. My mind is in the air. I know it sounds crazy but I can''t say it any other way. There are lots of people who need a good fucking up, but I need more than that now. We need more than that.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    I come into my own. Something is trying to make me remember...something. We did something and it changed me. Blessed me. I have a mission. It''s real important.  Yeah, it''s not entirely there, but I have the shape of things. I already had a big purpose, but it''s bigger than I thought. All the bad people who got what they had coming. They needed seeing to, but they were always just a sideshow. Incidental to the main job, if you know what I mean.


    The main job is the guys with those things inside. The stuff that I ate. They are the big bad, the masters of all the evil in this world. And I''m going to stop them. I''m going to kill them. And I''m going to eat what''s inside.


    I walk outside my latest motel room. Take a look around. The blessings take hold and I start to walk. I won''t need the car. I''ll never need a car again.


    A minute later, I feel a half dozen of my troops falling in behind me. I remember them. I don''t remember them. Whatever. The task is ahead.


    I need it.

 Chapter 4 - Like a Boss

    The Mastermind strode purposefully through his darkened command center. There was a bustle of activity as his mortal employees busied themselves around clusters of sophisticated consoles and hurried about carrying sheaves of paper. A few dared to notice his less than immaculate appearance before looking away. Most disregarded his arrival and carried on, per his standing orders.


    It was all nonsense, of course. The attempts to "look busy" for the boss were both transparent and laughable. The duties he had assigned were trivial, though he could understand his men overestimating their importance. The Mastermind made no indication of amusement or displeasure. After all, these men and women were acting exactly as he required. They served sufficiently as a smokescreen.


    The days when he truly needed some secret base full of brainwashed thugs had passed long ago. Frankly, they were of limited use against heroes and were unnecessary against mortals. He remembered those times with something like fond embarrassment. Thinking of the old volcano lair and Skull Island still made him blush, though he did occasionally miss the jump-suited minions. No, a modern mastermind had just enough men for basic safety. Any additional temporary manpower requirements would be met by carefully managed allies, ignorant mercenaries or remote agents.


    True power beyond the strictly personal was best gained and exercised through acquiring, distorting or disseminating information. The Mastermind''s true power lay in programs, bots, drones and reports. A leavening of favors, both granted and owed, laid the world at his feet. Information truly was power. The Mastermind did not like to share, even with employees and "friends."


    He unlocked the utility door to a server room and stepped inside. He shrugged of the chill of refrigerated air and paid no mind to the black clusters of thick cabled high end server trays in the dimly lit chamber. His only purpose was the Path.


    It was one of his most prized possessions, procured from the Traveler at great cost. It has taken a sizable fortune to forge a collaboration between the Metallurgist, the Smith and the Armorer but in the end he had delivered a precisely crafted weapon to the Traveler. The Traveler got to proceed on his ludicrous quest for "discarded concept monsters" and the Mastermind got a personal path that only he could access.


    This was the mark of a true Mastermind. By leveraging the synergies of multiple Shardbearers, he could fabricate a semblance of Gifts not his own. The Trickster had hammerspace and an extra-dimensional refuge? The Mastermind could emulate the same. An unarmed Vigilante could charge into melee against dozens of foes? A HUD with combat analysis in his glasses could allow the Mastermind a semblance of the same prowess. He had mothballed more than a few tools over the years, but they were still available. For example, the green and purple mechanized suit of armor had been overkill and a bit garish, but it might prove useful in the future.


    Like most truly valuable tools, his path was made to order. There was nothing of the offensive mysticism that characterized most of the world''s paths. This was a narrow tunnel, not more than fifty feet in length, that opened into a small grotto. The far end was dominated by a console with three 100 inch monitors. A plush black swivel chair was bolted to the floor in front of the central screen.


    The Mastermind sat and activated the defenses, a grid of coherent beams that would annihilate matter on contact. The Traveler was generally an honest man, but blind trust was not conducive to survival. Having completed that vital task, he composed three messages while sending none. Further action would depend on his review of the situation. He tapped a few keys and concentrated on the monitors.


    The situation was extremely poor. He had thousands of eyes on hundreds of Aspects around the world. Predictive software and drone footage suggested that the Trickster has been accosted. Spy cam showed a humiliating defeat for the Glutton and the carrying off of his corpse. Police reports indicated the kidnappings of the Neglected Wife and the Party Girl. The Bastard went down as well, but he went down hard and fighting all the while. His threat assessment was definitely due for an upgrade.


    At least the Politician was still properly contained. Everywhere else the Mastermind looked, he saw disaster. It made no sense. He could not puzzle out a motive or a method. The black clad soldiers were evident in several visual records, but were only mentioned in two police reports and one obscure news blog. Their resistance to Gifts and ability to strike on a global scale strongly suggested international organization or Aspect involvement. Probably both. The person who made the Call was likely to be a conspirator.


    He took a breath and reviewed the material again. Something began to take shape in his mind. Clearing the board was a temporary measure at best. Several immortals would be barely be inconvenienced by the loss of a Facade. Therefore, the defeated Aspects had not all been slain. Though explosives and powerful ordnance has been used in the first attack, a notable majority could survive wounds that would kill a mortal twice over. Any deaths were probably incidental.


    Containment was the goal then. The conspiracy''s goal required the temporary or even permanent containment of Aspects. That might be difficult to achieve. It would be easiest if the fallen were kept unconscious, but there was some speculation that a shard would abandon or even kill the Facade of anyone who was incapacitated for a prolonged period. The plotters must have contingencies in case that proved true. How far could their defiance of the shards go? They had already demonstrated the capability to resist Gifts.


    So, a contrived Call, an alpha strike in the True City, and then a mop up operation to capture anyone who slipped the ambush. Most of those would be lesser Aspects who were simpler prey. For the plan to work, the adversary must have some way to quickly locate those Aspects.


    This new information might lead to something useful, but it did nothing to illuminate the identities or goals of the enemy.


    It was a stroke a luck that the other escapees included the Beggar and the Gambler. Many would count the Henchman more valuable, but the Mastermind had a firm grasp of power potentials. The Miser and the Homewrecker were non-essential but might be helpful if they could be kept out of trouble. That would be one of the Henchman''s many duties.


    The Mastermind modified his messages and sent a new one. "Take path to nearest city. Bring laptop. Keep moving. Henchman obey reasonable orders that do not contradict mine to achieve full power. Beggar will understand. If must rest, Henchman and Beggar rotate guard. Pay him for best results. Await further." Then he began to plot.


    His foes must be drawn into the open. That would require bait. The Beggar would be best for that. Place him in an open location with plenty of escape routes. The Henchman nearby. They had no need to win a battle. They just needed to capture one or two enemy soldiers and use them to unearth the leadership. It would be risky. Perhaps too risky, considering the uncanny resistance to Gifts. The plan needed refinement, but planning was the Mastermind''s greatest strength.


    He was still working on his mental construct when a flashing red light began blinking on his console. His eyes widened in astonishment.


    Somehow, impossibly, someone was in the tunnel. In his personal, inviolable path space!


    Well, the enemy had already revealed the ability to violate the paths with mortals. He quickly reached under his seat and extracted a FNS compact pistol from its concealed holster. The ministrations of the Armorer ensured greatly increased accuracy and lethality. While his intellect was his greatest weapon, he had both training and experience fighting heroes who specialized in combat. In the unlikely event that the laser grid was bypassed, he could slaughter over a dozen troops. With an Armorer-built gun, he might even be able to kill the Vanguard before his defense reached the absolute.


    Poor as it was, the chair was the only available cover. He remained behind it and took aim at the tunnel mouth. There was sudden sizzling hiss, like the sound of live wires touching, followed by a snap-pop. The Mastermind realized immediately that the grid was down. His first and second lines of defense eliminated, in seconds. Without turning or lowering his aim, he reached behind and tapped a swift combination of keys.


    Hidden blast doors did not slam down at the entrance to the tunnel. A cleverly hidden turret failed to pop up from the floor. The third and fourth lines of defense were neutralized. All the Mastermind had left was himself and a pistol.


    It would be enough. He felt an almost euphoric rise in confidence, laying to rest all fear. This was when his truest self was unveiled, the Mastermind in his den, at bay, poised to fight off all comers be they hero or villain. The master of himself, he summoned a steady calm and prepared to fire.


    A white handkerchief, clumsily attached to the end of a pencil, stuck out of the tunnel. "Parley!" called a familiar voice.


    The Polymath. Unbelievable. The Polymath!


    It almost made sense. Who else could devise such a plot, besides the Mastermind himself? Who else could discover a way to empower normal men, bring them into the paths, shield them from the fury of the Aspects? Who else could breach a sanctum that should be unimpeachable? Only the quintessential representative of multidisciplinary achievement in scientific, philosophical and physical expertise. A true polymath in an age when such people were largely theoretical.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "How did you beat my defenses?" the Mastermind called. If the Polymath answered, he might eliminate vulnerabilities. It could hardly hurt to ask the question.


    The walls hardy muted the Polymath''s chuckle. "I have a ball of twine, some duct tape, a mirror compact and a package of gum. Oh, and a rubber super bouncy ball and a marble. Also, I brought a pencil and a hanky. Need I say more? I did the math."


    Of course. The Polymath''s shard was less martial that if had been, but was no less dangerous. He had a talent for solving problems and overcoming obstacles with seemingly useless objects. That was probably an outgrowth of "fanon" regarding a series of ridiculous American television shows from the end of the last century. The man could probably stop a nuclear meltdown with a paperclip. Oh well. The drawing board was vast and one could always return to it.


    "Look, can we get this over with?" the Polymath asked. "I would appreciate it if you would just surrender. I couldn''t bring any troops in with me. Your little secret lair is surprisingly robust. The Traveler''s work, I''m guessing. But you should realize that it''s hopeless. What I''m carrying is overkill.


    "Surrender and I''ll put you under," the Polymath continued. "I''m sure you know by now that I''m not trying to kill anyone."


    The Mastermind ignored the offer. "The Vigilante, the Patriot, the Agent...your allies. You betrayed them all. You''re supposed to be a hero. Help me understand," he demanded.


    His opponent let out another hearty chuckle. "I am a hero," he replied. "I''m the only hero in this prison. The rest are just villains with good publicity, even the neutrals. And do you know what heroes don''t do? We don''t monologue. Last chance."


    So, talk was out. Talk was out and the Polymath had made his first mistake. If surrender or losing a fight had the same consequences then the choice was obvious. The Mastermind would fight.


    "Fuck you," he said drily, as he fired. The action was smooth, the recoil negligible and the sound suppressed. The Armorer did excellent work.


    The angle was so poor that he could not see into the tunnel, but he might hit something. With the special magazine in his FNS, he had nineteen shots remaining. With a slight crouch, he chanced abandoning his scanty cover to seek a clearer line on his target.


    The Polymath wasted no time. He emerged from the tunnel, coattails flapping and hand outstretched. As he fired a second shot, the Mastermind marveled at his lack of preparation. He was still dressed for an office, neglecting even body armor in his confrontation with a major villain.


    The Polymath continued forward, untouched. A miss? Something smacked into the Mastermind''s face, knocking his glasses askew. They fell clattering to the ground, combat analysis aborted before it could truly begin. The super ball bounced twice before rolling into a corner.


    A burst of pain as something poked him in the eye and his vision blurred instantly. The Mastermind cried out and fired blindly, blinking away tears as a tiny white marble flew away from his face.


    He roared with incandescent rage, furious at the insult. Then the Polymath was on him, a lazy smile adorning his face as he seized the Mastermind''s weapon-wielding hand and twisted. A sharp pain shot up Stanley¡¯s wrist and his hand spasmed. He was disarmed.


    Trying for the gun was a fool''s play. He summoned all the strength of training, conditioning and Aspect into a hammer blow to the Polymath''s sternum. His opponent''s grip loosened just enough for him to wrench his arm free, but he gained no other reaction. The faint smile never left the Polymath''s face as he pressed his attack.


    Eyes burning, wrist throbbing and knuckles aching, the Mastermind retreated before the onslaught. His mind was racing as he achieved a few feet of separation.


    This was impossible. The sire of his foe''s predecessor might have boasted this kind of might, but the more recent incarnation was characterized by intellect over muscle. He blocked a straight kick with the sole of foot and continued to dance away without reply.


    Clearly, the conspirator had enhanced his own power in addition to his obscene alteration of mortals. This close, he could practically feel the power pouring out. Some kind of surgery or treatment? A brilliantly conceived device? He ducked a jab and spun around in an attempt to get behind his opponent. The Polymath turned with him and threw out a punch that barely clipped his chin, rattling his teeth.


    The Mastermind thrived on the advantages of utilizing fellow Aspects, enhancing his own Gifts or adopting a facsimile of the Gifts of others. For over a decade, he relied mainly on his enhanced intelligence and meticulous planning. Despite rare use, his native Gifts were powerful and effective. He risked a straight kick (blocked) and claw strike at the Polymath''s eyes (blocked) before activating his most effective Gift.


    Meticulous Assessment


    The program in his smart glasses was much faster and more directly useful in battle, but his natural Gift was far more thorough. He strained to gather information as rapidly as he could. His eyes opened.


    There was the Polymath, shrouded by an almost imperceptible halo. Same smug smile on thick lips, unblemished cafe au lait skin and curled brown mop of hair. Blue coattails and too tight slacks. But the power! In that aura, he was magnified, magnificent, unstoppable. There was an echo of the first Hero, an internal strength that the Mastermind could not hope to defeat.


    No. That was the communication of fear, not the information of the assessment.


    External. It was external power.


    There. Incalculable might flowing from the small of his back and through his body. A thin cylinder with an unknown power source. Highly reminiscent of the images of shards revealed in dreams.


    There were three important datum. One, the Polymath was prolonging this conflict. Perhaps he was enjoying a final encounter with the last major Aspect standing. Two, the Mastermind had to get his hands on that cylinder.


    Three, the attempt would likely end in defeat.


    Suck up the blow. Take the damage. WIN.


    A beat. The Mastermind let loose another roar and leapt into a tackle. His tactic failed to drive his enemy to the ground, and he suffered a rib-cracking knee for his trouble. He choked out a gasp but managed to managed to maintain a grip around the Polymath''s torso.


    A beat. A blistering head-butt broke his nose and filled his mouth with a vile mixture of blood and bile. Tenaciously holding on, his hands slid down, seeking his hope. Blinding agony as the Polymath crushed his foot with a vicious stomp.


    Another beat. A shift in the Polymath''s expression as realization struck. His face twisted into a snarling rictus as his elbow tore the muscle of the Mastermind''s right arm and snapped the humerus. The fingers of the Mastermind''s left hand made contact and he pulled with all the desperation he could muster.


    A vigor so potent it was almost painful flowed into and through the final villain. The Polymath unleashed a wordless shout as the Mastermind pulled away, cylinder held above his head. It was a transparent tube, sealed at both ends with black stoppers. Within was a cascade of visible radiation, in which were suspended a number of small multicolored stones.


    They were little shards, somehow made visible in a way that was only previously possible in the dreams of initiates and elders. More, they were pure. Each was made of the essence of a single God. The Mastermind could feel the presence of power that resonated with his own. There were pieces of Iriolin the Plotter and Raffread the Deceiver in his hand. There were other forces that were alien or inimical to his soul. He held and was empowered by them all.


    Such a bounty must have taken lifetimes to discover and collect. The Polymath was too young to have come into the treasure alone. The Mastermind imagined a long line of Polymaths, passing down an inheritance over the long generations of the Aspects.


    No matter. It was his now. He was as close as a man could get to a God. He felt his wounded flesh rippling and knitting.


    A lazy kick sent the Polymath bouncing across the deck. The Mastermind was nearly overcome with a wild elation. With this power, he would recover the fallen Shardbearers. An act of will would cancel the abominable empowerment of the corrupted soldiers. He could set all things aright. And then...the villainy he could achieve...!


    No! He shook his head to clear it. It was obvious that the device was affecting his mind. It was as insidious as a drug, and likely as addictive. Why else would someone as levelheaded as the Polymath stoop so low as to make a game of a deadly struggle? In the Polymath''s shoes, the Mastermind would have won instantly.


    There was danger to complement the opportunity in the shards. He refused to take any chances. There would be no further struggle here. The Mastermind had a better idea.


    It was not impossible to get most Aspects to talk. However, it was impossible when it came to the heroic versions. No amount of coercion or torture was ever successful. The stupid jackasses simply would not break.


    "Self destruct, authorization delta-delta-four-four-four-four-ampersand." The console chimed in compliance. Sometimes the classics were best.


    The Polymath would almost certainly deactive the destruct sequence and survive. He would probably succeed dramaticaly at the last minute. His shard seemed to be drawing heavily on fiction over facts. When he escaped, the Mastermind would be ready to follow him to his victims or possible co-conspirators.


    He activated a rarely used Gift. Reality rearranged itself around him. Escape Hatch.


    "No!" The Polymath dove into the Mastermind and locked his hands around the cylinder. Distracted by the power of the shards, Stanley had failed to notice the Polymath sneaking ever closer. The Mastermind tightened his grip, but the Polymath was tapping the energies of the cylinder as well. They struggled.


    A hatch opened beneath their feet as reality completed its realignment. They were suddenly careening down a slick chute, bouncing roughly as they shared a space meant for one. The Mastermind knew that they would end near a pod or vehicle that was unlikely to have room for two.


    The Polymath was savvy enough to understand the same. Renewing his grip on the shard device, he flailed ineffectively at Stanley and desperately cast out his will.


    The two Aspects were ripped out of the path cast hurtling through the darkness of nullspace. There was a flash and they reemerged in the world proper.


    They were still falling.


    The Mastermind chuckled even as he continued to struggle for possession of the cylinder. The universe was filled with poetry after all. He had been here before, in a similar situation, though he had been fighting the Inspector instead of the Polymath. Here he was again, streaking to his doom over a waterfall in Switzerland.


    Not this time.


    He leaned in, opened his mouth, and bit down. His empowered teeth punched through flesh and he yanked back, tearing off the Polymath''s nose in a welter of blood and nasal fluids. The former hero screamed in agony, instinctively jerking back his hands to cover his face. The Mastermind triumphantly cradled the cylinder to his chest.


    Time stretched, though bare seconds had passed. The bottom was rapidly approaching, but there was time to activate a final Gift, an ability that could allow a villain to rise from burning magma. Shards or no, there was no need to take chances.


    Improbable Survival


    There were two impacts. Less than a minute later, a shaky hand rose up out of the water.

 Interlude - Love of the Cuckold

    It was almost time to go. Marcus took a deep breath to calm himself. The time for nerves had passed. He slid the package under his arm and, with careful motions, opened the door.


    The vestibule was dark and silent. The only light was a flickering that emanated from upstairs. Sarah might be still be awake then, watching television with the sound turned down. The evening was waxing, so the children would be curled in their beds by now, sleeping peacefully. It would not do to wake them because of his inconsiderate lateness.


    He slipped off his square toed loafers and shuffled inside, turning to close the door as quietly as possible. It shut with a faint click. He moved in a sort of slide until his feet reached the thin cream carpet and made his way to the sofa. He lowered himself slowly and breathed in.


    It would be best to depart from the basement or the yard, but he wanted to take the chance to relax. The delusions were really getting to him lately, and even with the therapy things were worsening. He was seeing and hearing things all the time now (they were getting bold). He had come close to accusing the dearest people in his life (Rob''s hand on Sarah''s ass), but he forgave himself that sin. No, what was intolerable were the baseless suspicions he was beginning to have about his own beautiful babies (straight blonds, Sarah and I are dark and curly, Rob is blond blond blond).


    Even now, in the still and tranquil moment, the madness was taking hold. Marcus closed his eyes and desperately ordered his thoughts. He did not hear a tell-tale creaking. There was no smack, no giggling. (They are bold and carefree. Because you are pathetic). No love.


    His senses would have to be ridiculously sharp for him to hear anything but shouting from that distant chamber. The Halperins were winners and the house was far too large. Marcus was no superhuman. Auditory hallucinations were blooming in his disturbed senses.


    The insanity also came with false memories, as if he had lived other lives in darker times. Marcus (Jeremy) on his deathbed, ancient and decrepit as a bejeweled and richly dressed hag screeched calumnies against his manhood while a sneering young man (false son, blond blond blond) stood behind her. Marcus (Angelo) singing to a lovely golden-haired girl (false daughter, blond blond blond) as she clapped in glee. Marcus (Deepit) uncomfortably hemmed in by a wide-eyed beggar who babbled about avatars and urged him to "pass on the shard" before it was too late.


    There! Was that a cry (satisfied moan)? No, it was quiet and everyone was asleep. Well, perhaps his best friend Rob was here after all, maybe waiting for Marcus to come home so they could have a beer and make plans for the weekend. If he was upstairs in the bedroom, he would be helping Sarah with some manly household chore. That was all (you are pathetic). There was no reason to doubt a great friend and a wonderful wife (when was the last time she touched you?).Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Marcus buried his face in his hands. The guilt was overwhelming. He was blessed with so much and surrounded by the finest folks anyone could ever know. Still, he suspected. Still, he hated in his secret heart. The world deserved better than Marcus Halperin (chump).


    He was suddenly struck with an urgent need to depart immediately. Even taking the time to go into the basement or step back outside seemed an unbearable delay. Now now now, his madness demanded.


    He cradled the package in his lap. A delighted squeal muffled the sound of his tearing the plain brown wrapping. He took the polished model 629 revolver in his hand. It was heavy and its touch felt like a cold weight in his stomach.


    Marcus despised guns, like any proper person of his class (grass-eating pussy). Nevertheless, procuring a firearm had become an imperative. The weapon was already loaded and he had test fired it before leaving the seller''s lot. Revolvers were best, or so he had heard. Weapons with magazines were more prone to jams and misfires. He only needed a single shot, two if he was unlucky.


    He pressed cold metal to his temple as false (real!) cries of climax bamboozled his ears. For a brief moment, he reconsidered. He had thought to cause as little disturbance as possible and departing from the living room might be considered unkind (be a man for once, pissant!).


    Marcus pulled the trigger and remembered all his lives. They had been imperfect.


    Once upon a time, Isabella stared at her daintily slippered feet as Carlo strode into the courtyard and felled Marcus Antonio with a contemptuous blow before triumphantly proclaiming the children as his own. A skip later, a shaking Marcus Shigeru wept silent tears, staring numbly through the curtain as his cousin pleasured an energetic Makiko. A jump after that, and Marcus Nwowe collapsed in helpless horror as succulent Mfumwi held a startlingly pale newborn to her dark breast.


    There was a thread of joy and happiness in those clouds of (true) memory. The children. Fat and sickly, red and brunette and blond blond blond. They were innocent. They were worth it. Marcus finally accepted. He embraced his role and loved his shard.


    There was a bullet and a crashing. There was a smashing through bone and an eruption of red and white matter.


    He was eternal, blessed to be a caregiver and loving provider of the offspring of worthy men and women. He left Marcus behind and felt ecstasy as he was remade. The universe bent to provide him with great friends, lovely wives and children to raise.


    He was finally ready. As Norman emerged from the distant wreckage of Marcus, something inside him embraced his essence. It comforted. It squeezed and pierced his soul. His new formed mouth opened in a silent scream as the shard tore into the spiritual core of his being. He was tasted, bitten, chewed and consumed.


    Norman and Jimmy became good friends. Norman met a truly wonderful woman named Roberta and they soon wed. Jimmy and Roberta got on well and she delivered an attractive child within a year. A daughter followed shortly thereafter. Norman loved his children and took great pleasure in spoiling them. He took pride in creating distractions when Jimmy and Roberta hung out together. They were such good friends, they deserved some occasional private time away from Norman and the children.


    The Cuckold settled in and embraced his children. Somewhere inside, the tatters of a soul wailed in endless anguish.


    (Bliss)

 Interlude - Monster 3

    Clarity. There is seriously nothing like it.


    When you don''t have it, you might not know it isn''t there. You can walk through the world with confidence, never realizing that you''re wasting everyone''s time.  That''s me. I''m guilty.


    The blessings never steer me wrong. That is always true. But I can be compared to a an artillery piece that is used to kill a butterfly. It is a useless misuse of force.


    When the trustee proposed connecting me to the force that turns docile prisoners into deviants, I was skeptical. It worked out in the long run, but it did a number on my mind at first. That trustee was on the ball. Still, calling himself "the Polymath?" Pfft.


    The first few deviants got me started on the road to recovery. The last guy, blubbering while his old lady was hooking up with another man? He took me over the top. Out of gratitude, I also took care of his crappy wife, the boyfriend and their brats.


    Of course, that seems like a mistake. It got loud and messy, and it lead to you guys picking me up. But the memories make it all worth it. I remember everything now!


    I am sorry that my boys took out some of your boys. I mean it. It''s still worth it though. See, I remember that this is a prison. No, I''m not talking about your holding cells back there. I''m talking about this world. The moon and the stars. Everything here is a prison. It''s a special design, only possible by combining the technology of both the Machine Intelligences and the Proriruct.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    We put you here to keep you from mucking up the real universe. You''re unkillable vermin, but we can contain you. A few of us had to get locked in with you to keep things running. Sad, but any normal Proriruct is dedicated to the commands of his queens. I used to be normal.


    Hey, don''t interrupt! We''ll get the last part in a second and then you can ask questions. Not that you''ll want to.


    See, the thing is, some of you monsters started doing things. Showing abilities that should be suppressed in this space. Did you know we had to reset everything? Twice! The last reset finished off the autonomous, high-level Machine Intelligences. Do you know how expensive that is? Entire stellar systems were bankrupted or converted into parts to make this place!


    Some of this was anticipated. It''s why this prison has three levels. The first level is a fractal flowering of galaxies, designed to make you idiot gods think you''re still outside. We knew that probably wouldn''t hold everyone, so this second layer is designed to be as close a model as we make of your birth planet and solar system. The real one, not this one. Most of you end up making your way here. As for the final level...


    Nevermind. It''s been long enough, and I''m pretty much done. Even with the extra power from the human deviant that decided to work as our trustee, it takes a little time to worm into your hideous minds and take command.


    I said shut up! You think I''m some monster? A crazy ass human? I AM THE FUCKING WARDEN! That means you do what I say.


    There. There. That''s right.


    I am hereby deputizing you as trustees. We''ve rounded up most of the deviants that threaten the integrity of this space. A handful remain, in three locations. The last Machine Intelligence troopers will take the ones in the United States. The one that''s already contained can sit tight. As for us? We''re off to Switzerland, where the last of really dangerous deviants is plotting. He just took out the deviant trustee, so he may be much more powerful now.


    Well, I''m much more powerful too. This will be cake. Let''s get going, boys.