I take a half pace backwards; Deimos grinning savagely at me now, a megachette gripped in his left hand, a Beretta 92 grasped in his other, his grin widening.

"I must say I am quite surprised that you made it up here. 26 Soldats guarding the building, armed from toes to teeth. Impressive work from a man that is still just an Agent…an un-upgraded one at that."

I shake off the feeling of shock and panic. I must find out how he is alive... bBut, more importantly, why he is siding with The Agency. I start to make a slow and steady pace around my new opponent, trying to gauge an angle of attack. "Odd hearing that coming from a man that is supposed to be my ally.,"I say as I start to slide around him. "Also a queer thing to hear it from a man that was killed by one of the Possessed."

Deimos' grin shrinks a few molars, the patronizing glee that was held on his face now a fraction or two dimmer. I continue to edge around him, now facing his side, just barely out of his peripheral vision. He makes no move to turn towards me. as he replies:

"You should know that death in this broken reality has very little meaning. Why, Hank himself was revived a number of times, becoming yet again stronger as a result of each revival. Why is it so strange for me to be back, 'in the flesh', as it were?"

"I thought that the dregs of improbability only benefits those that are directly contributing to the chaos of the world," I snap back.

Deimos' grin leaves his face, a more recognizable, almost playful expression replacing it "You seem to forget what 'Improbably' means. Even I cannot explain it. Hell, the scientists and all the fools that did this have no idea what they are doing. The Auditor really is the only one that has any sway over the Core."

I continue my light shuffle, the back of Deimos' body now facing me. Deimos still yet to take action against my movements. I say subtly: "To bad that the Auditor died at the same place that you did. Otherwise that would give reason to why the Nexus still stands."

Deimos turns on the ball of his foot, his body turning at a speed that baffled my eyes, he says as he leans forwards slightly: "Who is to say that he is dead?"

Deimos push off the ground, flying across the rooftop towards me, megachette held above his head for a strike. I dodge to the side, barely enough time for me to escape the deadly sharp blade. Even though I escaped, the lower 5 centimeters of my cloak are shaved off, the thin band of cloth taken up by the dregs of the storm that had passed; the black ribbon flying off into the blood-red sky, taking flight on the wind.

I jump backwards, back peddling as I hit the ground, trying to gain as much distance as possible from the aggressor. I look at my cloak, the cut a clean shear through the fabric. That blade must have been sharpened recently, also combined with the speed that he can run means I can't afford to make a single mistake.

Deimos turns back towards me, wrenching the blade out of the concrete retainer wall that he sliced down through when he missed my body. He says, a slight bit of annoyance in his voice: "How odd. It is amazing that your reactions are that attuned, considering the strain of your grief and the refined sugar that you seem to regularly take in. I am afraid that this will only prolong your death on this building."

I back up another slight distance and I asks seriously: "My grief? What are you talking about?"

Deimos' grin pops back up on his face and he says: "Oh, poor child, things are only going to get tougher for you. But I am not going to spoil it for you; that is for you to find out, my damaged friend."

I aim the MP-40 at Deimos, trying to drown out his words with the sound of gunfire. I have had enough strife in my life, enough to last ten lifetimes. I drain the clip, the last cylinders of brass falling to the wet asphalt as I toss the useless weapon to the side. Deimos remains standing, a fresh smile uncharacteristically stretching the features of his face, the wounds that were inflicted by the German weapon closing up on themselves, dark flames eating away at the wounds, closing them up with a wisp of near non-existent smoke.

Deimos aims his Beretta, saying as he brings the weapon level to his shoulder, dark chaotic flames warping around his body and head, barely visible against the dark backdrop of the sky: "You just don't get it do you? When the Auditor, quote unquote, 'Died' his energy was absorbed into any corpses that he could find. Given that I was one of the few that wasn't absorbed I was a great candidate for him to absorb into."

I back slowly towards the door that leads back down into the building. I say cautiously: "Now, why would you tell me that valuable nugget of information? All I have to do is stall until Hank gets here. From what I hear, he kicked your ass pretty well last time the two of you fought."

Deimos/Auditor's smile fall from his face and he replies: "Well. You make a fair point, but given that you are going to be dead long before his group get here…which I would imagine is five minutes from now…also any man would hesitate to let fire fall upon one of their allies. All I need is that moment to make sure that our conquest goes unopposed until the end of time!"

Deimos/Auditor opens fire, the bullets streaking across the roof top. I turn and sprint to the door, dropping and rolling into the building as the bullets whiz overhead. I get up and I jump to the side, the concrete of the wall protecting my body. The burst of adrenaline fades and I realize with a shock: I had been shot. One bullet lodged in my hip, blood gouging out from my upper thigh, another plug of lead nestled against the bone in my shoulder. I drop the ground, my own weight suddenly too much for me to bear as my life blood trickles out of me ever so persistently.

I lean back against the wall as the Auditor/Deimos continues to fire off rounds, the slight, jarring impacts in the concrete making their way to my back, the wall protecting my body for the moment.

The Auditor chuckles coldly as he toss aside the empty magazine and slides a new one into the Berretta. He says snidely: "You seem surprised that you were shot. I don't know how you came by that power, but I have seen stranger powers in my days, I'll be sure to find out who or what gave you the strength to break free of mortal bounds."

I throw myself forward, aware that he is distracting me. Not a moment or an inch too soon: the dark blade of the megachette punching through the cinderblocks I had taken shelter behind like a bullet through paper. I roll to the side as the blade turns and scythes through the wall, splintering the blocks and tearing out a section of the steel door frame. Deimitor steps through the door and swings down the blade, aiming to cleave my head in half. I thrust my hand forward, charging up the last amount of energy I had in a desperate attempt to save myself.

The Smith & Wesson manifests in my hand, the blade of the gargantuan bush-knife biting deep into the dark metal of the weapon, stopping the blade before it could slice through my hand. Deimos jumps back, wrenching the blade from the weapon, the gun clattering to the ground as it was yanked out of my hand, exploding once more into shadow as it comes to rest.

Deimitor scowls and yells, fury and bile in his voice: "THAT'S HOW YOU DID IT! You are working with the Moderators, those damnable bastards managed to break through the Nexus Field! I will be sure to make them pay!"

Deimitor calms down, seeing that I am immobile, sensing the barely covered up fear underneath my thinly composed features. He reverses his grip on the megachette, holstering his Beretta 92 and taking a two handed grip on the weapon as he prepares to drive it down into my chest. He says seriously: "Tell my good buddy Death, when you meet him that The Auditor knows where he is hiding."

Deimitor plunges the blade down, I try to wiggle backwards, awaiting the biting pain of a blade to appear in my abdomen. But as I look up I see that the blade has stopped, mid strike, a grey boned hand grasping the blade in a grip that cracked the hardened steel of the weapon. The figure raises his other fist and punches The Deimitor back out on to the roof, saying in a gravelly tone as he stalks out after him: "And I can tell you that I am not hiding from anyone."

Deimitor jumps up to his feet, upholstering and blasting away with his Beretta, the bullets striking the dark presence but not slowing his lethal advance. The Deimitor tosses away the Berretta and takes up the megachette in a two handed grip and chops at the cloaked apparition. Out of nowhere a scythe appears in the man's hand, blocking the blade with the haft of the weapon, the megachette snapping two from the force of the block.

The man charges forward and grabs The Deimitor by the throat and slams him to the ground, shadows erupting from the ground as he makes contact with the rooftop. The man in black says: "They call me Death for a reason. I am always watching, listening, and waiting for a soul to take to the other side. I maybe secluded in the shadows, but I am never hiding."

The Deimitor struggles against Death's grip and throws a punch into Death's chest, his fist disappearing into the dark folds of his cloak, emerging out of Death's back. Death slams his scythe into the ground, the blade sinking all the way to the haft. Death stabs his skeletal fingers into Deimitor's chest and says viciously: "Don't you know? You can't touch Death; but Death can touch you!"

Deimitor starts to scream, thrashing violently around as Death's fingers reach deep down into his chest, dark flames fighting against the oppressive shadows of Death. Soon Death's whole hand is plunged down into Deimos's chest. Death seems to root around in the cavity, searching for something. A moment later he grunts to himself: "There you are…"

Deimos' screams start to change, no longer the scream of an immortal figure, a scream wrought not in pain but frustration and anger. Now a scream of a man in great pain; a scream of panic, desperation, and a large tinge of fear. Deimos looks up at death, the whites of his eyes showing as he sees the deathly presence over him.

Deimos' eyes roll back into his head and he falls unconscious, his screams now turning to whimpers and grunts of pain. Death says silently: "I am sorry you have to go through this pain. The pain of having two souls in a body is enough to drive most to insanity or death, but taking out the invading soul is all the more painful. You are lucky to have your mortal soul still intact…"

With one last great effort Death yanks his hand out of Deimos' chest, a small heart of black fire writhing around in his hand. Death pulls his hand back and slings the small ball of fire off the roof, slight wisps of smoke and shadow trailing off of the dark, licking flames. Death wrenches his scythe out of the ground and turns to me and says solemnly: "Poor child. You have known so much heartache and pain, but it will only get worse from here, due to that fault that I created…"

Death walks forward, his scythe tapping the ground with each stride, the dark lacquered wood of the haft marking the rooftop with deep patches of darkness. I scoot backwards, my back running against the handrail at the edge of the steps, fear emblazoned in my eyes. Death kneels down in front of me and places his scythe in my hands, the dark energy of the weapon sapping my strength and my consciousness. Death says in a serious tone of voice: "Don't worry, I am not here to harm you. Just to pass on a message: DO NOT trust the Mortal Angel."

Death stands up, his joints and bones creaking and popping as he rises to his full height of roughly two meters. I try to stand up, offering the scythe back to the god, despite its deceivingly great weight. Death shakes his head and puts his hand back on the halt of the scythe and pushes the weapon and me back to the ground, saying: "That is yours to keep. You are chosen, don't you see? Don't fail us and you will be rewarded with your memories of old, and ever then some."

Death retrieves his bony palm from the weapon, a dark ring of black onyx fasten around his middle finger. He places his hand on my forehead, the ring leeching a feeling of nothingness and pain directly into my soul. "Now you must sleep, soon you will train. You are the one mortal that we can directly depend on. Soon you will have the power you craved…Soon you shall have your due."

Death continues talking, his voice a monotone, yet somehow soothing to hear. But the sapping strength of the scythe and the power that the deity held soon warps my mind into an unwilling sleep, my consciousness once again drifting into oblivion and darkness.

I jump up from my bed, gasping as a small amount of panic breaks though my normally calm exterior. A man at the side of my bed jumps back, surprised at my sudden movement. He near instantly recovers from his minor shock and firmly pushes me back down into the bed, telling me calmly: "It's okay. You are safe now. You are back at The Theater, in the medical ward. You have lost a lot of blood, you need to rest for now. You should feel better when you wake up next."

I try to strain up against the doctors push, but the moment I tried to put any effort into the action all my strength and will drained from me. I finally start to take in a few things around the room: I am lying in a blinding stark white room, about seven or eight other beds situated around the space. An IV stand seems to tower above me, a bag of blood suspended in its clasps. I look down at my arm, the plastic coil from the IV embedded in my wrist. I start to lay back down, a gentle but firm amount of pressure put on my chest by the doctor.

Finally I let the doctors hands push me down, the softness of the crisp white sheets and pillow making me aware of how tired I really was. The doctor continues: "Hank will want to talk to you when you wake up next. And don't worry about your weapons: they are safe and secure in your room."

The doctor finishes his statement, but before the last few syllables could leave his mouth my mind was too absent to hear them.

I awoke again, this time patiently shaking my senses awake before I start to move. I sit up in the bed, a medical gown with an odd floral pattern hanging down from my frame. I swing my legs to the side of the bed, my feet tingling as they touch the pleasantly cool, concrete floor. I look at the IV in my arm, noticing that the blood bag had been replaced with a glucose drip. I gently take the needle out of my arm, a small dot of blood following after the sharp hypodermic. I let the IV tube drop, the conduit dropping down and hanging from the bag. I reach up and scratch my chin, surprised that a small growth of stubble was there.

I stand up, unsteady for the first moment, but stable in the next. I take a step, wanting to get out of the gown, the thin material somehow making me feel vulnerable to the clean air. But as my foot makes contact with the ground next, my legs collapse out from underneath me, the sensation of falling causes me a small amount of panic. My hand darts out on instinct and grabs the frame of the bed next to mine and I stop my fall before I hit the ground. I sit down on the floor, pain flaring around my recently closed and more recently opened wound on my hip.

I gasp as I hoist myself back into my bed, a fresh red stain soaking into the white bandages wrapped around my arm and my hip. I hear footsteps from the other side of the room and I look up to see the doctor walking towards me. He glances at the fresh blood soaked in my bandages and he says: "You really should rest more. You aren't in danger of bleeding out, but I would suggest that you should rest."

I shake my head: "If my enemies don't rest, then neither should I."

The doctor sighs: "You have the same mentality as everyone else that has wound up in this place."

The doctor pauses for a moment and says in a slightly agitated tone: "Fine. I will help you to the other room where all of your personal effects are."

I nod to him and I say gratefully: "Thank you. But I have to honest with you, the biggest reason I want to get out of here is to get out of this damned hospital gown."

The Doctor chuckles slightly and says in a light tone: "That is also another thing that most people that wind up in here say. Sorry we don't have anything standard, we used most of the gowns from the hospital that we raided for bandages…during the raid…"

I shrug my shoulders and I stand up, this time more careful in my movements. "It must have been a tough fight. A hospital seems like a great place for bandits to make an outpost."

The doctor steps to my side and puts my arm over his shoulders, supporting my weight. He starts walking me towards a door at the opposite end of the room, the effort of moving slightly winding me."Surprisingly there were no bandits there, most of who we fought were MERC's. Apparently they were scavenging for the same supplies that we were planning to loot for ourselves."

I nod, sweat beading on my forehead, my breath coming up short somehow. I say to the doctor as we reach the door: "By the way. How long have I been out? I feel like I haven't moved in a week."

The doctor presses a button on the door frame and the door pops open with a metallic click. He says as we move through the door: "You have been asleep for about 4 days, 13 hours and roughly 4 minutes. You woke up about an hour or so after Hank brought you here in that panic that you had."

He laughs slightly as we move further down the hallway. He continues: "I must say, you gave me quite a startle with that. But I guess in the condition that Hank found the two of you in; that little incident should be expected."

I nod and we walk a few more meters in silence, our short journey ending at the end of the hallway, a small door set into the concrete. The doctor gestures to a blank spot on the door and says in a half serious manner: "Don't worry, your name will be put on your corner office before you know it, Director Max Shockley."

I laugh slightly: "Thank you…uh…what's your name, Doc?"

The doctor pushes open the door to the room, the two of us stepping inside: "My name is Robert Ubist. But most people around here call me Doctor Rob."

I smile weakly, as I limp further into the room, using the wall as a support: "Ah, well, thank you Robert. I'll be sure to swing by sometime later, hopefully without the bullet holes."

Robert adjusts his spectacles and says: "I will look forward to it. It would be nice to have some company that isn't bleeding all over the place for once."

Dr. Ubist turns and starts to walk back down the hall, his crisp lab coat billowing out from behind him. He pauses and turns back: "Oh and one more thing: Deimos is awake. I am sure that you would like to have a word with him. I think he is up in theater B1. That is our makeshift cafeteria of sorts. He left here saying that he wanted a 'pack of smokes' and 'some food' before he talked to Hank."

"Thanks Doc," I reply, "I'll be sure to head up there once I have changed into something different, I'll bring back the gown before I go up there."

Robert waves me off: "That'll be fine, just toss it in the laundry bin, it's right to the side of the room, right as you walk through the door."

I close the door to my room, now taking a better look on what my new home is like. The room isn't that large, it might have been some sort of storage space once before. Overhead there is a singular light bulb, hanging from a wire, the light it radiates making my eyes squint. That bulb is just too bright to me. The walls are barren, except for roughly a dozen AAHW propaganda posters pasted on the wall opposite of me, hung up over an old mattress resting on the floor.

I chuckle to myself, I guess I should have anticipated some resentment. It was only to expected, being that I was an Agent before I dissented. If my fellow dissenters felt the need to trouble themselves to get at me in this way, then they mustn't have been in the Agency very long, Most of them were probably grunts that could have been selected to become Agents.

I chuckle more, the deep sound from my throat growing louder and increasing in mirth. I don't know why I find it so funny…In the Agency I was treated with indifference, maybe a slight amount of resentment passed about here and there in my earlier weeks of service. My laughter quiets down and I start to peel off the crinkled and warped papers: "Well, at least it is good to see some sense of individuality again."

I take down the posters and I tuck them underneath the mattress, wincing in pain, the movement causing my leg to throb. There…maybe I can set them on fire later…have a bit a personal party at my own accomplishment of leaving The Agency.

I turn away from the posters, looking at the room with a greater eye of detail. The floor of the room is concrete, just as the walls and the ceiling are. The only difference is that there are a few throw rugs placed here and there, making the old storage space feel more like a place that a man can live in. Snugged up against the wall to the left of the bed there are a few crates, two of them made of heavy wooden planks, the other, larger one an old cardboard box, large strips of masking tape keeping the corners of the box from splitting open.

In the corner of the room, to the right of the mattress Death's…no…My scythe sits, propped up, casting a shadow further into the dark crook that makes up the home of the weapon. I walk over to the scythe, a dark, yet familiar energy radiating off of the haft and the blade. The dark wooden studs that make up the handles stick out of the haft, much like a grain scythe. But this is a weapon, the blade sharper, the weights keenly balanced to make it a reaper of man, not wheat.

I reach out and I rest my hands on the handles of the weapon, the energy seeming to part away from my touch, yet at the same time reaching out to bond with my hand at the same time. I take up the weapon, the weight of the weapon feeling like it might rip my fingers off. I grunt as I try to heft the weapon back into its place, yet more sweat beading on my brow, my breath coming up short yet again. I frown as I carefully place it back, why is it so heavy? Maybe I'm just not strong enough yet.

I turn away from the scythe, wanting to rummage through the contents of the crates. I pause, maybe it isn't me…maybe the scythe itself is too strong for me to wield. I reach up and I grab hold of the blade, the energy of the weapon seeming to want to sap away as much of my energy as possible. I undo the clasp at the top of the haft, the blade popping away from its housing. I gingerly take the blade back over to the mattress, limping heavily every step of the way. I slide the blade underneath the deflated pad, just as I did with the propaganda posters.

I limp back to the now headless scythe, taking up the haft once I reach it. This time it is much lighter, but it still feels a bit too heavy and clumsy for me to use it for anything more than a walking staff. I walk back across the room towards the crates, leaning my bad side on the scythe, the distance I close without any problems or wheezing breath.

I open up the cardboard box and I find a sheet of paper, thick pencil marks scrawled on the white sheet. It read: "We managed to find you some suits, I am just assuming that you would like to stick with something familiar. If you find any sort of clothes that you would rather have we can use these for bandages. -Hank"

I chuckle: "I guess this means I gained his trust then."

I flip over the paper and I see he left an additional message: "P.S. we were going to use these as extra bandages anyways, so don't worry about tearing them up or whatever...we really don't care what happens to these."

I look further down the page, another post note added: "P.P.S. I hope you don't mind the bloodstains on some of them, it is kinda hard to keep these suits spotless when the people that are wearing them are also shooting at you."

I laugh lightly and I say to the paper as I slide it next to the propaganda posters: "That is a bad habit of theirs, hopefully I can help you guys stop it."

I sift through the box, picking out a suit that has a few minor blood stains, but they are almost unnoticeable in contrast to the dark fabric of the suit jacket. Soon I am back in my suit, the feeling of the layers of clothing finally making me feel a bit more comfortable…there is just two things missing. My cloak and shades. It must have been soaked with blood when they found me. Ah well, I can make a new one out of some sheets of fabric when I get a chance.

I look around the room…My shades should be around here somewhere. I look down at the mattress, the dark lenses of the shades resting on a small pillow at the head of the sleeping space. I reach down, popping open the arms of the shades as I pick them up. I slide the shades over my eyes, the room now back to a comfortable level of darkness. I turn to the door, gown in hand, and ready to be returned it to Dr. Ubist.

I walk out of the room, the scythe haft tapping the ground in time with my right foot, keeping most of my weight off of my hip. I make it down to the Medical Ward, Doctor Robert leaning over another patient that seems to have some sort of head injury. I walk quietly into the room, not wanting to disturb my new friend, pacing towards a bin that has the word "Laundry" spray painted on the side of it.

Robert turns around, grabbing for a penlight that is on his desk. He glances up and sees me, jumps in front of his patient, a 44. Magnum in his hand, barrel pointed at my forehead. He draws back the hammer, but with worry in the whites of his eyes, more worried about his patient than his own life.

I hold my hands up above my head, the scythe haft hanging loosely from my right hand. I guess this is to be expected as well, being that I look so much like an Agent. Robert's eyes narrow as he recognizes me, a sigh of relief passing through his lips. I place the gown in the bin: "Sorry about that, I should have said something."

Dr. Ubist hurriedly places the revolver back into his coat pocket: "Oh no, it's okay…it's just I am a bit jumpy around some things. I just need to get used to seeing a suit around here, that's all."

Roberts gaze wanders over to the scythe haft in my hand and he says with interest: "Wow, I can't believe that you are able to pick up that thing. It took Hank 30 minutes just to lug it all the way back here."

I shrug and reply with a slight grin: "Yeah, well taking the blade off makes it much lighter."

A moment of strained and awkward silence passes, broken only by a slight groan from the patient. I turn and I shamble out of the door saying: "Well I am going to head to Theater B1. I want to have a word with Deimos before I talk to Hank again."

Robert nods and waves me off saying: "Alright. Well stop by anytime. I'll try not to pull a gun on you the next time."

Soon I am in Theater B1, the seats of the area ripped out, the majority of them moved out of the room to make space for the multitude of long tables that now inhabit the room. Roughly 27 people are milling around the area, sitting down, eating with friends or getting food from a table at the very front of the room, many steaming pots and pans holding various food items.

As I enter the theater the whole room goes quiet, reminding me of when a movie would start in the theater, the crowd waiting to see what they paid to see. The only difference is that instead of expectation of seeing a good show, there is apprehension and prickling stares at the occurrence of me walking into the room.

Luckily, a split second after the silent anger a voice shouts across the room from a table, empty except for one man: "YO! MAX! Sit over here! I got a plate for ya!"

I cast my eyes over to the voice, half relieved, half surprised to see that it was Deimos that called out to me. I start across the room, the others getting out of my way, making sure that their weapons are close at hand. Halfway there, my stomach starts to growl, the fresh smell of cooked food starting to get the better of me and my nose. I increase my pace, the clacking of the scythe haft picking up, matching the falls of my right foot. I reach the table, Deimos sitting across from an empty seat with a plate of set at it.

I sit across from Deimos, the plate in front of me, the hostile stares now behind me and hopefully diminishing. On the plate is a standard affair of what used to be 'Lunch' before the world ended: A ham sandwich, a package of chips, a small apple and to the side a bottle of NevadatineKM water. I look up at Deimos, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He points at the plate and says: "You can go ahead and eat, then we can talk. I am sure you are hungry. I know I was, being asleep for four days and all that."

I nod, but instead of giving him any words I start to eat the small bounty before me, finishing the meal in roughly a minute or two. I uncap the bottle of water, draining the fluid inside, and I turn to Deimos: "So, what's with the cheery expression?"

Deimos shrugs his shoulders: "Ah, they will warm up to you. It isn't like we see a suit in here every day you know. Besides, I know I can trust you."

I lift up one of my eyebrows: "Why's that? We were about to kill each other not 5 days ago."

Deimos laughs: "Well that's true, but you were also the one that freed me from being The Auditors puppet. That is how I know I can trust you, because I think that few others would do it, let alone be able to do so."

I am quiet for a few moments: 'So that is what he saw, not Death, but me. I guess that is how they cover their tracks…' I thought to myself 'I should talk to Grim sometime soon, he needs to explain a few things to me.'

I say to Deimos: "Well, I would rather not have killed someone who was allies with Hank. And besides, our mutual enemy is The Auditor, obliterating any sort of his presence is a good thing for us."

Deimos nods, he leans in his seat and takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers one to me. I wave the pack away: "Sorry, I don't smoke."

Deimos bursts out in laughter, saying once he calms down: "Heh, Wow. You are a rare thing, an AAHW Agent that doesn't smoke! HA, well I guess weirder things have happened, right?"

I smile, genuinely for the first time in a long time. I say: "Yeah, I guess so. Weirder is bound to happen in a world like this."

Deimos nods, lifting his thumb up to the end of the cigarette. I reach into my jacket, trying to grab a Zippo lighter out of my breast pocket to give him a light. I let my hand drop in surprise as his thumb flairs up in flame, sparking the end of the cigarette into a steady burning ember.

I look at his hand, the skin unblemished by the flame. I say to Deimos: "That is an interesting power you have there…how did you come about that?"

Deimos shrugs his shoulder: "I have no idea…basically since I started smoking, I guess. Anyways, I think that your power is a lot more useful than mine at any rate."

"Well, I still have a lot of training that I have to do." I say, trying to turn the attention away from my power, "As I am now I couldn't do very much against one of the Nexus powerhouses."

Deimos nods solemnly: "Yeah…we are all worried about another Tricky appearing. Lord knows it is only a matter of time until that amount of insanity grips another man."

I nod in return and the two of us fall silent. I look up at yet another man that I can call my friend, I smile to myself…I guess leaving The Agency is the best decision that I have made in my entire life. I look to the other side of the room, a clock hanging up on the wall. I turn back to Deimos and I say: "Well I have to go talk to Hank. I have more to do before the day is out."

Deimos stands up from his seat: "Yeah, same here. Some big things are going to be going down over the next week, I am sure of it."

Deimos is quite for a moment and continues: "Gosh…it's been a year since I've seen Hank or Sanford. I wonder if they have changed any…"

The two of us walk out of the theater, death stares thrown at my back, looks of awe and amazement cast at Deimos. I say to Deimos as the doors close behind us: "Hank has changed a lot, but I think you know that. After all, you were the one that Magnified him."

Deimos shoots a glance at me as we start walking down the hall. He says in a suspicious tone: "How do you know about that?"

I hold up my hands in my own defense: "Come on, that whole event happened a year ago. Everyone in Nevada knows about it by now. You are both respected and feared for it, I can tell you that much!"

Deimos nods the whites of his eyes showing: "Sorry…it's just that that whole operation just spooks me now…I did die after all…"

I sigh and I say: "Sorry man…I shouldn't have mentioned that. I should remember that I am not the only one that has a past."

Deimos, in an instant, changes his mood, laughing: "Don't worry about it. All that matters is the present and what we can do with the future. To hell with the past!"

I nod, but in the back of my mind I think: 'I just wish that I could remember my past…'

Soon we reach a stairwell that leads up to a projector room, the same room where I met with Hank nearly five days ago. We climb up the steps, the sound of passive conversation drifting down from the room above. The two of us reach the door at the top of the steps, a slight glance passing between me and Deimos before I open the door.

We enter the room, Hank seated at the table, Sanford propped up against the opposite wall. Hank glances over at us: "Ah, you guys are awake finally." He gestures at the seats across the table from himself and continues: "Take a seat; we have a lot to discuss."

Sanford points at Deimos, an exasperated expression on his face: "Come on dude, not two hours after waking up and you are already smoking one?"

Deimos smirks at Sanford as he stubs out the cigarette against the metal table as he sat down. He replied: "Hey, cut me a break, I haven't had a smoke in a year! I am practically nicotine free at this point…or…was."

Sanford's eye twitches in annoyance as Deimos laughs at what he had just said. I turn to Hank: "So, what is this meeting about?"

Hank turns his attention away from the squabbling pair and clears his throat: "Now that we are sure that we can trust in you we have decided to take a step forwards. We need to make a decisive strike against the AAHW. Up until this point we have been hiding away, gathering resources, just a ghost in the back of The Agency's mind."

I lean forward in my chair, my interest obvious : "So what is your plan and how can I be of assistance?"

Hank smiles slightly: "We are going to mount an assault on the closest AAHW facility, the base you came from: Compound Zeta. First of all, I need to know if there is anyone that you care about in that facility. I would hate for my men to kill anyone that you have feelings for."

I think for a moment: "No. I was an outcast there, just as I have been anywhere else. You could wipe out the whole base and nay I would not shed a single tear."

Hank pauses for a moment: "…You know…You can be…Spooky sometimes, you know that, right?"

I shrug my shoulders: "I am just speaking my mind."

Hank shakes away the thought, continuing: "Secondly: We need some information on the whole base."

Sanford jumps into the conversation: "Things like how many men are stationed there, the ranks of them, where they would be stationed, what munitions that they have, stuff like that."

I nod to Sanford, collecting my thoughts. After a moment I say: "There are roughly one hundred and seventy-five men stationed there. Most of them are Upgraded Agents, but there are quite a few Soldats, Engineers, and GOL3Ms. But what you have to worry most about is the 20 MERCs that are on top of the buildings. They are all armed with long ranged rifles with ballistic tipped rounds. They are the first and greatest defense for The Compound."

Hank, Sanford and Deimos exchange a quick glance. Deimos turns to me: "Then that is our biggest problem. Any electronic countermeasures I can deal with; most of the codes for gates and such haven't been changed since I was part of The Agency. Any others I can possibly hack through."

I nod, filing away that little nugget of information: "Our compound is pretty low-grade in terms of Tech. We have a few gates protecting the Comms building and the armory, but beyond that there are just cameras and guards everywhere."

Hank scratches his chin, musing: "Then our only real problem is the snipers. How are we going to get past them? Sure, we are a pretty disciplined and skilled force, but no cover between the ruins and the compound levels that playing field."

The four of us are silent for a moment, all of us trying to come up with a plan on how to overcome the problem of a sniper's 'all seeing eye.' I sigh: "Well there is one option: I can simply walk through the front door. Given that it has been a while they will most likely shoot at me. But if we give them a sort of show on my arrival…say a dozen Zeds chasing me or something…they are going to wonder what happened to me. They are going to shoot the Zeds first and then ask me questions afterwards."

Deimos frowns slightly: "Why would that work?"

I lean back in my seat, letting a plan come together in my head. I say: "First looks on a situation dictates how it will follow through and end. If these MERCs see me chased by the undead, after being out of the compound for five days along the fact that the raid party did not return and a few other details on my own being, they will assume that my walk into the city went awry. The Soldat party could have been destroyed by these same Zeds. Also judging by how they did not send another raiding party, I would assume that they did not tell anyone about why they went into the city or what my whereabouts were."

I lean back in my chair, continuing: "By keeping up this ruse as I run into the compound I can get inside of their field of vision. From there I can start wreaking havoc, giving you guys a window to enter the compound. I will attack the Comms station first, protocol dictates that, if any infiltrator were to make it to the Comms center, the station be locked down, both inside and out. The MERCs will train their scopes on that building, looking for a way to pick me off if I were to come into view at any time."

Sanford nods, but says: "Even if you get past the MERCs the first time, it seems that you are putting a whole bunch of risk on yourself just be stepping into the Compound Zeta. We could figure something else out, but you strolling in there just to give us a foothold by slaughtering yourself isn't going to help us. IF we do manage to get into through the window you would open up we would still be vastly outnumbered."

The four of us slip back into quiet self-debate. Hank shakes his head, deciding to end the discussion at that: "At any rate, I think we are safe from any attacks from The Agency. We can work on a more concrete plan over the next few weeks."

I shrug my shoulders: "Eh, I am fine with that. I need to heal up in the meantime."

Hank gets up, walking towards the door. As he rests his gargantuan hand on the doorknob he turns back to m: "Ah, concerning your healing."

Hank points at my headless scythe with his un-mutated hand: "You be careful with that weapon. When I picked it up I felt an energy. A dark and malevolent energy, much like when I grabbed The Auditor's Halo." Hank unconsciously grasps back at his mutated arm and continues: "Those items hold ungodly power, don't let it overcome you."

Hank opens the door and squeezes through the door frame that is just barely too small for him, Sanford and Deimos following after him. Deimos waves over his shoulder and says in a joking tone: "Hey if you feel like braving the death stares I'll be in B1 for dinner. You seem like a cool guy to hang out with." Deimos points a thumb over his shoulder at Sanford and says: "Unlike this buzzkill over here!"

Sanford turns around and says to Deimos: "Hey, all of us can't have a grand ol' party every second of the day like you can. Some of us get tired sometimes."

Deimos looks over his shoulder and says: "And that makes me all the more fun to be around, doesn't it?"

Hank grumbles from the bottom the steps: "It is going to make it hard to sleep around here now, considering his bloodstream is coffee and cigarette tar."

Deimos saunters down the stairs saying: "Fine, I'll try to keep it down. It is going to be hard having roommates now that I am back!"

The three of them finally reach the bottom steps, their voices fading as they walk down the hallway below. I chuckle to myself, looking at the dark wood of the scythe haft. 'Don't worry Hank, this weapon will never get the better of me. In fact, I think that it shall be the key to the destruction of The Agency.'

I eventually found my way up to the roof, the directions given to me by a guy that was nearly scared shitless by me talking to him. I guess he had a bad experience with Agents at one point or another…or maybe he knows of the ethereal forces I am allied with somehow.

At any rate, finding the steps up to the roof was easy enough, the climb to the top stretching out the muscles in my legs, the cramps finally letting up as I reach the top of the steps. I push open the door, bright red light washing in from the opening. I step outside, the roof of the Theater barren, save for a few pipes, A/C ducts and ventilation units. I close the door behind me, glad to be outside for once.

I look to my right and I see a covered shelter at the edge of the roof. I guess they used to post a guard up here. No point now; no one is looking for them, The Agency thinks that they are dead.

I walk underneath the shade of the shelter, plopping myself in a chair that is set up against the retaining wall. I lean back in the chair, balancing on the back two legs of the chair, my back resting against the wall. I reach into my jacket and I pluck out my Zippo, looking at the neat, plain black finish on the lighter.

I flip it over in my hands, a symbol painted in red on the bottom half of the lighter, made with what I assume were very careful and delicate brush strokes. The symbol looks like the Russian sickle and hammer, the only difference is that in place of the hammer there is a scythe. Around the symbol is a red wreath, painted in the same color and manner.

I frown to myself as I start flicking the lighter open and closed, the clicking and clacking of the lighter a soothing sound to me. I can remember buying the lighter at that hardware store in my hometown, but when I bought it, it was simply a plain black color, front and back…I wish I could remember who painted the symbol. I flick my thumb across the striker, a flame flashing to life, dancing across the charred wick of the lighter.

I stand up, flicking the lighter closed with a clack, extinguishing the flame. I call out to the air: "Come on out Grim. We need to talk with each other."

A few seconds pass, the sound of the wind swirling through the city the only noise to be heard. I slam the butt of the scythe haft into the ground, cracking the concrete. I shout: "I don't have time for this! There are some things that you have kept hidden from me and I would like to know what the hell they are!"

The air shifts in front of me, like a heat haze. Grim steps from the illusion, immediately saying: "If this is because you met my boss I can tell you with one hundred percent honesty that it wasn't me that put the souls of the damned in his underpants."

I pause in confusion: "Wh-What?"

Grim's eyes go wide and covers up his opening statement: "Oh…uh…never mind that. You called?"

I scowl at the apparition, no fear at the Reaper that stood before me. "You need to be straight with me. I have done everything in my power to stay on the path that you have set for me. Now I need something of a return."

Grim says without the slightest change of expression: "I have no idea what you are talking about. I have been completely honest with you since you sold your soul to me."

"Bullshit!" I say with the utmost contempt.

Grim holds up his hands, a sly smile spreading across his skeletal face: "Now, now. No point in spitting venom in your words."

I shake my head, pointing at Grim: "Don't turn this around on me."

I pause, thinking back to the fight I had with The Auditor, continuing a moment later: "When Deimos was possessed…he said something. He called me 'an acolyte of the moderators'. Then he went on to call Death out. What did he mean by calling you a 'moderator?'

Grim shrugs, playing dumb yet again: "I have no idea what you are talking about. I have told you everything that you wanted to know."

I am silent for a few moments.

'It's time for bribery'

"A quarter..." I say

Grim squints at me, suspicion in his eyes: "A quarter of what?"

"I'm playing the pronoun game for a reason" I said: "A quarter of my soul for information that you have withheld from me. I don't care how many years I have to work it off in the next world, I just what to know what you know."

Grim glances at me, intrest playing in his dark eyes: "You know what that means. You only have half of a soul left. I am sure that you have felt the side effects over the years. Food tastes like nothingness to you, whenever you try to feel any emotion at all, it feels as if you are only half feeling it. You have felt lopsided, hobbled. If you give me a quarter of your soul, the ability for you to continue in your research or to train in your skill will be severely limited. You need a soul, whether you deem it important or not."

I scowl further: "I don't care. Just tell me what I have to know. It is the only way I will continue down your path."

Grim smiles, the sound of his jaw popping at the effort of the motion extremely audible: "Fine. But I can guarantee that you will never reap enough souls to pay off your contract. Spending over Fifteen thousand years under servitude will drive most whole souls to destruction."

I say to grim: "I already said I don't care. I have to know what I am facing."

Grim smiles, letting go of his scythe, the weapon balancing on the ground, held in place by an invisible hand. Grim steps forward and drives his hand into my chest, the dreaded sense of nothingness overwhelming my body. It takes all my will to remain standing as the Deathly Deity tears apart my remaining piece of soul.

Eventually he withdraws his hand, a spiteful fire warping around his skeletal hand. I begin to fall, the feeling of nothingness receding, leaving in its place weakness, but I catch myself before my legs could give out from under me.

He takes the small ball of flame and places it inside of his cloak, remarking: "I always enjoy seeing the color of your soul. A nice grey color…Nope, not too many souls floating around like this now-a-days and I have three quarters of one now."

Grim laughs further, happy to of collected on yet another deal. I gasp out in pain: "Now. Tell me what I paid to know."

Grim sighs, for some reason, uncertain with continuing despite the fiery patch of my soul now in his possession: "The other higher powers in the world call us 'moderators' for two reasons. The first reason is because we are the ones that keep the power in check…well more like, in balance. This is why atrocities exist, Death exists so that there is a balance of hope and fear. It is what drives humans to make more of their seemingly insignificant time on earth. War, Famine and Pestilence are all real as well, doing their parts to make sure that the world says balanced."

I gesture over the city: "Well you have seemed to do a great job about that. The whole world is like this and coming back to what we once were is going to be impossible now that The Agency has a handle on the Nexus Core."

Grim nods, his mood a direct match to his name. "What is the second thing?"

Grim sighs and points upwards, the sky like an inverted pool of blood, saying meekly: "We are the cause of this disorder…"

I take a half pace backwards, the back of my legs bumping into the chair. I am silent as he continues: "The world was so close falling apart so long ago but we managed to stop it, mankind thinking a curse had befallen them. But nearly 30 years ago we saw the signs of it happening again. Humanity was reaching a point of peace and prosperity, mankind was deteriorating with an imbalance of following their temporary pleasures rather than reaching for a dream that they could hold forever. Your kind lost their humanity."

I sit down, the shock of the matter making my knees weak: 'I am part of this now…I am allied with the beings that destroyed this world. No worse than that: I've traded away my soul to these beings…for what? Power? Feh... No wonder he told me to beware of the other Higher Powers.'

I ask Grim, struggling to reign in my anger, betrayal eating away at my mind: "But how did you do it? What did you do to turn this world into this festering mass of abominable chaos?"

Grim rests his back against one of the support beams holding up the shelter, shadow cast over his body as he steps underneath the overhang. He grudgingly says: "We had to set things straight, we needed to start creating new atrocities for humanity to cope with so that they could get back on track, perusing their destiny. But we couldn't do it by our own hands just like so long ago, we couldn't reveal ourselves to world view. The mass panic of our presence alone would cause millions upon millions to rise up in riot and fear…mostly due to religious reasons that simply say that we cannot exist. Those fools…we are the eldest of the Old Gods, we were strolling among man since they crawled out of their caves and saw that trees bore fruit."

Grim looks over the city: "But that is besides the point. WE had to do something to prevent humanity from spiraling into mindless pursuit of abominable pleasures to satisfy their selfish desires. We decided to create a machine, much like the Gods that created us for this purpose, to stem humanities pleasure. This machine would envelop the world in a field where we could, eh, tweak reality to slowly turn humanity back on course."

Grim grabs his scythe back from the air and makes a wide sweeping arc with the weapon as he steps back out into the red light of the sky: "A small little war in the middle east? Sure."

Grim takes another step, seeming to gesture at some sick grand vision: "Build protest against superficial natures of someone different of yourself? Why not?"

Grim turns back to me, an odd light glinting in his eyes: "Everything in the world that has seemed to go amiss was due to us. We did it so that humanity could have a chance in their coming years. Sure we did many terrible things to people, but we also built up some of the greatest advancements in history. We helped put a man on the moon, drive numerous satellites deep into outer-space! Sure they may not have needed the help, but a little push never hurts. We established technologies that advance humanity's progression towards his ultimate goal: The stars!"

Grim's shoulders sag as he finishes the statement: "But it was all a fault. The Improbability Drive was an idea thought up and used by a particular god that we thought could handle the mortal task: The Auditor. For those first twenty-five years he remained loyal to us and made changes to the drive as we thought necessary. But over the past five years he started to become impulsive, causing various killings to occur around the world. At first we thought he was just enthusiastic about his job and we let him off with a warning."

Grim staggers back underneath the shelter, as if he was coming out of a delusion. He plops himself down on the ground, his scythe clattering to the side, all care for the weapon tossed alongside it. He continues in a tone that I never expected to hear from a demi-god. The tone could be described as…pitiful:

"But we shouldn't have. Overnight The Auditor shut us out, making a prison for all of reality and all we could do for the longest time was watch as humanity was thrust into a chaos that completely imbalanced the order that we were hoping to counter. The Auditor hates humans, because they have chaos in their souls, where as he is a deity of Order, contrary to the form he takes. He wants all humans to fall under his order and if that doesn't work he seeks to destroy all of mankind…and when that happens, we too shall cease to exist. Death doesn't exist to a race of dead men."

Grim leans back against the retaining wall, a sigh passing though his withered lips: "We managed to break though the Nexus field, but it was too late to stop the Auditor. He warped reality to the point that we cannot step foot inside of the Nexus Core Facility without our essence being scattered from the improbability vectors surrounding the Core. The Auditor is responsible for pushing the world to the deep end…but we are responsible for even taking a step towards deeper waters."

I sit in shock, the tale that this emissary of death had told me shattering my concept of the world I live in. I sit up in my seat, trying to think of something to say, something to ask, something that I could do to move away from the calamity that I had just heard. But Grim breaks the uneasy silence, woe in his voice: "There is one thing I have to tell you: something that concerns the fate of your deceased friends."

I clear my throat, my voice catching even after all my effort trying to prevent it from happening: "G-Go ahead…"

Grim stands up, his weight supported by his scythe. He places his hand on my shoulder, his touch cold, yet the warmth of the gesture spoke volumes of his inner care for me. He says sadly: "Your friends are still alive…trapped…possessed by The Auditor. They all contain a small portion of his Essence. They know of you know, and they want your blood spilt. I know it is a lot for you to behold…but your friends are no more…you are going to have to kill them. Death will not provide you another favor. As far as he is concerned now the world is riding on you and you alone with no help from him or us."

I fall back in my chair: 'My friends…my…they died…in front of me. How could they want to kill me?'

I manage to speak though the pain: "How could they be possessed? Their bodies disappeared along with the Demented."

Grim shakes his head slowly, parts of his body flecking off into shadow, his time in reality spent, his job calling him back so that the souls of the next world stay put. He says as he starts to disappear: "I don't know…nothing is certain in this world…not even to me."

He disappears, nothing of him left behind besides the news that he gave me. I fall out of the chair. Tears rolling down from my eyes: 'This can't be happening…This can't be happening…yet it has already happened.'

I get up grabbing the chair by its back and slamming it into the support columns of the shelter, the chair jarring and splintering on impact. I continue my fury, tears streaming down my face, animalistic screams whipping out of my mouth as I tear down the support post. I turn to the next post swinging the chair yet again, but as soon as it makes contact the chair breaks into pieces.

I toss away the shattered backboard and I start smashing my fists into the column. Soon the beam falls, my knuckles bloody, pain flaring through and up my arms. But my anger is too strong, I grab hold of the plywood roof and I start pulling down the whole structure, the other support beams cracking and then snapping in half as the whole shelter collapses. I turn away from the ruin and wreckage, my hands pressed up to my temples, moans and gasping cries coming from my throat.

Roughly 3 hours later Doctor Ubist came up to the roof and found me, battered, unresponsive and curled up next to an air conditioning unit. He treated my wounds, retrieved my headless scythe and gave me a tranquilizer that sent me into a deep and dark sleep.

'…Why isn't there anyone left...Anyone that I can love? Anyone to hope for me and for me to hope for? I guess once my purpose is served I will find that someone…but only after death and an eternity of servitude…I can't make it…it would be better to off myself now and just get to working my soul away…but I won't do that. I can't abandon this world if there could be something I could do for it. But the hopelessness makes it hard.'

'I wonder who this mortal Angel is…maybe it will have some answers…I guess I will wait until then, if whoever it is even exists.'

'I just have to forget now. I just have to kill. Only then do I forget my pain. Only then do I feel whole. Only then do I feel purpose in this world. Only then…only then…only…only for a moment.'

After the darkness and despair I had a dream. In it there was someone I loved, someone that I dream about often. She is standing far away, on a plain of endless nothingness, her back turned to me. I run towards her, wanting to have her in my arms if only for one moment. But no matter how much I run or how hard I push myself I can never get close enough to her, just like every other time I've run after her. I fall to the ground, tears welling up again. IT'S NOT FAIR! I pound my fist into the ground: 'Why can't I have someone to love, even if it is just in a dream!'

As I am about to turn back again and walk away she says something. I turn back around, surprised to see that she is turn towards me for once. I squint to see her face, but the distance that separates us tells me nothing of what she looks like.

Her words drift from the vast distance, crisp and clear as if they were said at my side: "Don't worry. We will meet sometime soon. Just hold on for a little longer, soon we will be together and fighting won't be as hard as it has been."

I smile, laughter spouting from my throat, tears of joy rolling down my face. She says one more thing as she fades into the distance: "Just remember one thing: I love you. Nothing can change that. Just hold on a little longer, I will be there...someday soon."

I wake up, the mattress lumpy and old, yet oddly comfortable. I smile to myself: 'Of course. I'm not alone. I can still have hope...that is all that is needed.'

Author's Note: Special thanks to forum member and friend S070 for coming up with the name a personality for Dr. Robert Ubist. This guy has often brought a smile to my face in the darkest of times with his bee jokes and his general good humor. Thank you so very much S070.

I would also like to thank Alias-Maxima yet again for editing this piece just like the ones before. Thank you for being so reliable and also a good friend Maxima-Comrade.

Another great Thank You to anybody who reads this train wreck of a story. Please write a review, it would be great to see where I did well and where I failed.