Chapter The Fifth

In Which Mireille Remembers Death, and Alfred Revisits It

As they walked, Alfred paused every few minutes to glance over his shoulder at the sky. "It seems to be getting dark at last," he commented uneasily. Mireille – or was she Julia now? – stepped closer to their charge and checked the clip in her Walther. No matter how she looked at it, the creeping darkness could not be a good sign after the endless twilight of before. She wished she'd had more time to research this world's structure before the mission. Could the visible end of the day be a metaphorical reflection of the breakdown of the support matrix?

Alfred seemed to be having similar thoughts. "It could be peripheral disruption, now that the host is Aware," he mused out loud, glancing at the horizon again. "Or possibly the influence of the interphase vacuum, since this world's shell is so fragile. If the latter is the case, we should make all haste to the portal before the fluctuation reaches an intolerable level."

Spike gave Alfred a long, suspicious glance, and Mireille suppressed a chuckle. It did seem rather incongruous for someone dressed in eighteenth-century riding garb to be using such complicated technical language. Not that Spike would be able to understand the jargon anyway.

Alfred turned to check the sky again, but this time uttered a cry of alarm. Mireille and Spike whirled to scan the dead cityscape behind them. The horizon was nearly dark, but beyond the place where they'd found the bar the sky was a roiling inferno. Flames towered over the empty buildings in the distance, and a dull roar reached their ears as the fire began to consume the city.

Spike tensed, apparently sensing something she could not. "He's coming," he whispered, more to himself than for their ears. Then, with a look of dawning realization, he turned to look at Mireille. He seemed to consider something, his face taut with intense concentration. Apparently he reached a decision, because the wry, lopsided grin he'd worn in the photograph suddenly appeared on his face.

"If I'm dead, I can always find out," he said, inexplicably, "but if I'm alive, I'd better stay that way until I know for sure whether I am or not. Now that you're here, I can figure it out for certain."

Mireille stared at him blankly, vaguely aware that he had just reached some important turning point. Apparently whatever he'd said was supposed to be meaningful to her. Would it mean something if she had the rest of Julia's memories, perhaps? But he was still smiling at her, waiting for agreement, approval, affirmation, something… She smiled back and took his hand encouragingly, which seemed to be the appropriate response. Mireille wondered what on earth she was supposed to help him figure out, and whether it had to be done before they reached the portal.

A gunshot shattered the quiet of the street, just a few feet from her ear, and she instinctively threw herself to the ground and rolled before realizing that the sound came from Alfred's pistol. She spotted the band of street brawlers coming toward them again. Alfred's shot had taken down one of the leaders, but there were nearly a dozen more approaching. She shouted a warning to Spike, hoping he hadn't been temporarily deafened by the shot as she had, and swung halfheartedly at the first thug.

To her surprise, her left hook didn't floor her opponent – and more, it didn't even turn his head. The man chuckled at the weak punch and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her just enough to break her leverage. He hadn't seen her gun, though, and she put a bullet through his shoulder before she could break his grip and drop to the ground. It took three more bullets to remove the next two toughs, and she took advantage of the few extra seconds to look for her comrades.

"What's going on?" she shouted to Alfred over the sounds of the scuffle. Her hearing was starting to return, but she didn't know if his was recovered. "They're putting up a real fight this time!"

Alfred used his other pistol charge to finish the heavy he was fighting, and reached for his dagger to ward off the next attack. "Take Spike and run for the portal," he called back, dodging a wicked-looking right cross. "Our time is running short!"

Mireille kicked the legs out from under her next attacker and charged forward. Spike was a little distance up the highway, holding his own against the main group of thugs. She shot two of the fighters, but by the time she had taken aim on a third he had kayoed the last of his opponents. Belatedly she remembered that the mission file had mentioned his proficiency in martial arts.

Alfred caught up to them and they began to run, but they had gone hardly a block more when another gang attacked them. This time Mireille emptied her clip into the crowd, and while she reloaded Spike took out the rest with a few swift kicks and punches.

They dashed forward again. A block later, the same street thugs reappeared. Alfred cursed as they fought through the gang. "We haven't time for this," he shouted over the din. "The portal won't last much longer!"

They finished the fight and sprinted until their lungs burned, and at last they could see the portal wavering ahead on the highway. The moment it appeared, a wave of power washed over them from behind, knocking them to the ground. Mireille choked on the dust of the road and rolled to her knees, coughing, searching for Spike in the half-darkness. She saw him a few feet to the side, his eyes riveted to the road behind them. She followed his gaze and saw three silhouettes outlined against the glow of the burning city. One advanced toward Spike and slowly drew a sword, the blade gleaming red. As he neared them she could make out his face, and the ghost of memory supplied her with a name.

"Vicious," she whispered, making a connection, and her mind reeled under the tangle of emotions that came with the word.

The man with the sword stared down at her for a moment. He seemed vaguely disturbed by her presence, but his face was impassive. "Then I shall have to kill you as well, I suppose," he said finally, and his lips thawed enough to curl into a sneer. "But at least you'll die together. Sweet sorrow, and sweeter revenge."

- - -

Amon stepped out on the dark highway and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim twilight. Far ahead the sky was orange with flame; it seemed the entire city was burning. Looking up, he could see uneven patches in the red sky where the edges of the world's matrix were beginning to fray. Beyond the side of the road the scenery was blurred, and behind him the visible edge of the portal rippled and warped in the air. He hoped he hadn't come too late.

He heard voices nearby, and he squinted along the road until he could see the moving shadows. Three figures appeared to be standing in the road, with three more lying on the pavement before them. There were at least two swords visible, both in the hands of the standing group. He knew his agents weren't carrying swords.

Amon bit back an obscenity and palmed his communicator. "Stand by, Doujima," he muttered into the radio. "It looks like they've already made contact." The only answer was a burst of static, and too late he remembered his own failed attempts to contact Alfred. He drew his weapon and started toward the group on the road, hoping his agents were unharmed.

Ahead he saw one of the figures, katana in hand, advance toward the shadows on the ground. Amon squeezed off two shots, creasing the pavement in front of the man's feet to slow him down. The man with the sword recoiled, and the shadows – definitely his agents, he was close enough to see now – scrambled away, but they gained only a few strides before Mireille fell again. Alfred hesitated, halfway between the group and the portal, and looked back to his comrades. The man with the katana started toward Spike and Mireille.

Amon's instincts urged him to take down the pursuers, but reason warned that he couldn't aim to kill when he didn't even know at whom – or at what – he was shooting. He fired again, deliberately wide of the target, hoping at least to buy his agents enough time to reach the portal.

The man with the katana paused to look for the source of the shots, but Mireille remained huddled on the ground, Spike beside her. Alfred glanced between them and the portal, indecisive. His gaze met Amon's, an instant that seemed to last for hours. Then Alfred dipped his head in the ghost of a bow, and smiled.

With a mad, haunting cry Alfred turned and charged their attackers, his rapier brandished high.

For a brief moment Amon was frozen, unseeing, unmoving. Then Mireille screamed and the sound split the air, breaking him out of his shock. He dashed forward, gun in hand, but he knew he was already too late.

- - -

Vicious started toward them, his katana raised. She could not remember when she had seen him so ruthless, so bloodthirsty. He was so different now than he had been at first. Was it possible that she had ever loved this man?

Love him? But she didn't even know him. Did she?

Gunshots sounded from somewhere behind her and carved grooves at Vicious' feet. Shards of pavement sprayed her face, and she rolled away.

In something like a dream Spike pulled her to her feet and together they ran, fleeing the death that followed them. The portal was ahead, but it flickered in and out like static on a video screen. Another wave of power buffeted them from behind, and she stumbled and struck the pavement. Spike turned back to her, his eyes haunted by something out of the past, and as she met his gaze the memories took her again…

…but he knew, and he came back for her, and together they ran, though the Dragons were chasing them forever, and there were so many bullets, and she ran and ran with him until she fell, and birds, so many birds, frightened by the gunshots and flying away like her last breath, and he was bending over her and…

…It was all just a dream, wasn't it?

A scream wrenched her body as she watched herself die, and the nightmare dragged her deeper and deeper until something massive and dark seized her body. She struggled, fought against the strong grip until Amon's voice tore through the terror. She came back to herself – her face was buried in Amon's black overcoat, she realized, and the arms lifting her from the ground were his. The Director's dark hair whipped around his face as he ran, carrying her, shouting orders that she didn't hear. She squirmed against his hold, trying to reach the ground. Why was he taking her away? She wanted to turn back, to find Spike, to find Alfred, to fight with them—

Amon all but threw her through the portal, and before she could turn to charge back into Spike's world, she found herself in a familiar white hallway with Yurika's arms around her shoulders.

- - -

Alfred charged, and the man with the katana dodged to the side, expecting an attack. Instead, Alfred plunged past him, driving straight for the two men who stood impassively on the sidelines. One of them, a boy who couldn't have been more than a teenager, shrieked and danced to the side, clutching his face and screeching inarticulately.

Amon pushed Spike through the portal and turned back, his heart and mind racing. He watched, too far away to interfere, as Alfred raised his arm and plunged toward his target. The man with the long silver hair did not move as Alfred approached, and as the rapier drove toward his bare chest he lifted his own arm almost leisurely. In his hand, Amon saw with growing horror, he held a very long sword.

Alfred's rapier snapped as the cutting blade slashed upward, and the tip of the long sword swept his chest. Alfred reached for his dagger to attack under the arc of the blade, but before he could draw the weapon the silver-haired man's fingers closed on his throat. Alfred's body dangled limp from the gloved hand.

Amon tried to raise his gun, tried to scream, to stop the nightmare in any way, but that peculiar stillness again held his body in check. He watched, infuriatingly helpless, as the silver-haired man put his palm flat against Alfred's chest.

The man with the katana stepped back.

The boy danced and cackled.

The silver-haired man turned deliberately toward the portal. His eyes met Amon's.

And he laughed.

A bolt of white-hot light seared the night, blinding Amon and scorching the street. Alfred's body was hurled away from the man who had summoned the blast, and even the interminable giggles of the boy turned into long shrieks while the light rumbled through the air. The explosion rocked the fabric of the world, and the empty patches in the sky ripped into gaping holes. The city began to disappear, building by building. Amon felt the force of the vacuum buffet him through the weak places in the matrix.

"I believe," the silver-haired man said smoothly, "that it is time for our exit. Come." The three turned as one and dissipated, vanishing like mist without so much as an open portal.

Amon tore his eyes away from the fading figures and cast about for Alfred, knowing what he'd find but not willing to believe it. He was easy to spot; his wine-red coat stood out even in the gloom of the deepening twilight. He lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat still incongruously spotless against the dark fabric. A ragged tear extended from one shoulder across his chest, and the fabric was singed black from the infernal blast. His eyes were open, but empty.

Amon broke out of shocked immobility and lunged forward, but behind him voices screamed his name. He whirled and saw the portal warping and fading, knew the calibration was failing as the matrix disintegrated. He dashed toward it and lunged through the door just as the ground faded beneath his feet.