They called the catacombs Rue Mort, for no one outside the resistance would understand. Deep underground, among the bones of those long dead, no traitors were tolerated. Some whispered that the master of the catacombs had no love for the human race, that he was a nihilist, that he sought nothing but the destruction of their oppressors, and only for the sake of destruction itself. None of that mattered.
"The dead walk these halls."
She eyed the sentry, a boy of fifteen or so. What had he lost?
"The world is already dead."
Nodding, the youth stepped aside. She proceeded into a corridor lined with bones. Three times she turned, twice more sentries greeted her, and finally she emerged into a space that resembled a chapel. The tomb had been desecrated a bit, she realized. At the head of a small and ragtag queue, a man sat behind a desk made entirely of bones.
"Thank you, Mr. Phillips," he was saying pleasantly. "Your supplies are always the very finest in black market goods. Be on your way, now." He waved the man away, as though he had not a care in the world. Catching sight of the woman at the back of the crowd, he beckoned.
"Miss Adler," he said, smiling a serpent's smile. "I've been waiting to see you."
A restless mutter swept through the queue as Irene Adler proceeded to the bone desk. The man behind it rose to his feet, his hands planted on a pair of femurs.
"I have BUSINESS," he said, a command. The rebels quieted. Beaming beatifically, he sank back into his seat.
"Do you?" Irene eyed him cautiously. No man who ended a sentence in an unexpected bellow could be taken as quite sane. The world had gone mad, however, and perhaps one best fought fire with fire. "Enlighten me."
Reaching into his pocket, the master of Rue Mort produced a mobile phone. "I have found use for your particular set of skills. Instructions and other useful tidbits are here. Oh, also my contact information." His grin convinced Irene that he was not being entirely truthful with her.
"Why should I trust you?"
Leaning back in his chair, Moriarty spread his hands wide in a gesture to the bones around them. "I'm not asking for your trust. I mean, really, WHAT KIND OF SPY trusts anybody?" He laughed. "Doubt me. It's good for you."
Irene's eyes narrowed. "Why are you doing this?"
For one fleeting second, the man called Moriarty looked old and tired. He looked down at his hands, and when he spoke, his voice was hollow. "Because the game is over. Because someone who WASN'T EVEN PLAYING came in and RUINED IT ALL." He lifted his gaze, and a wrathful fire smoldered therein. "So I will pulverize him. I will grind him to dust and then I will make glass out of him. And I will take that glass and smash it all over again." His lips pursed in thought. "Maybe three or four times. They say recycling is good for the planet."
She didn't know what game he meant, but Irene accepted vengeance as a valid motivation. So she would spy for Moriarty until Saxon was defeated. Stepping away from the desk, she pressed the power button on the phone. It prompted her to set a password, and once she had, it informed her that she had one notification.
It was a picture, a screenshot of three faces, taken from a news broadcast. Irene remembered: public enemies, all three of them. According to Saxon, she surmised. Across the bottom of the image was superimposed text reading "MY ENEMY'S ENEMY."
Irene understood. As she made her way out of the catacombs, she memorized the three faces. Two men and a woman.
My enemy's enemy is my friend.