Chapter 4: Something Wicked This Way Comes

Disclaimer: Seth ain't mine. Nope.

STORY SPOILER

He belongs, under another name, to H.P. Lovecraft, and is featured in several stories. If you want to know more, go to Wikipedia, look up "Outer God" (or get there from the Cthulhu Mythos entry) and go to the tenth name down on the table. That's him. If you contact me, I can e-mail with some other stuff (what stories to read in what order, etc..., useful info for those new to Lovecraft).

END SPOILER

Author's Note: Yeah, this is late as all hell. I know. But my schudule's calmed down a bit, so I can work on it more. Reviewer reply is on my xanga.

Oh... And I deviate from manga canon bigtime here. Without saying too much, I'll correct it in the story later on (and ironically, the plot twist I came up with to explain it was a fairly good one). But, if you're gonna chew me out for it anyway, could you do me a favor and not?

A good portion of this chapter revolves around OC's, but there's plenty of canon goodness to be had. I promise before all that is scared that I won't let any of them become Sues/Stus. I know I should show, not tell, and I think I do, but with the massive quantity of Suefic in the Trigun fandom, I had to give you guys the reassurance. That said, constructive criticism about them or anything else in this story is more than welcome. Thank you.

This chapter is dedicated to Rabid Badger, who set me on the path to true mangaverse enlightenment. Everyone must now applaud or risk ninja wrath.

"I have whirled with the earth at the dawning

When the sky was a vaporous flame

I have seen the dark universe yawning, where the black planets roll without aim

Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name." - H. P. Lovecraft, "Nemesis"

Needles sat on his porch, in a chair by a little table he'd set up, waiting.

He'd been waiting for more than an hour, and he was bored. Not bored out of his mind, or bored to tears, or anything of that caliber. Just... bored.

He had been hoping the Triballus family would stay a bit longer. Until eleven would have given him sufficient time to prepare for his other guests, and he wouldn't have had as much time to sit waiting. Nothing could be accomplished one way or the other until they arrived, and there was no time for him to do anything else. He had some books he wanted Gelton to read to him, but Gelton was in the position he'd been assigned, and couldn't leave it. He had thought briefly about getting Kayin to do it, but he wouldn't be familiar with the arrangement of the study; it would take him thirty minutes just to find the thing.

To add insult to injury, Legato was late. He'd been waiting since eleven, and it was already a quarter past midnight. He had Raymond inside, ready to bring out food on command and everything. Was this his brother's way of getting back for the insults, or did the telepath have his own plan in case things went sour? Needles didn't think Legato would insult him by not being ready for something... but this was ridiculous. Or maybe that was the intent, to unnerve him. Plausible.

Probable, actually.

Ah, there he was. As if on cue.

The vehicle pulled up next to Allegro's house, not without ceremony. First the car turned off. Then Legato got out of the driver's seat and went around to open the front passenger side. The door behind that one opened on its own, revealing what most inhabitants of Gunsmoke would have pegged as a woman in her late thirties, carrying a large suitcase. Needles was not impressed, partially because he didn't have vision to distract him, but more so because he recognized the lovely lady.

"Ah, Elendira," he remarked, "it's been a while. Got anyone to chop it off yet?" Elendira's face twitched, but s/he remained relatively calm. At least on the surface. Needles, on the other hand, could see that he'd scored a point or two (he almost felt guilt for the low blow). Legato smirked at this as he opened the door.

"Allow me," Legato said, uttermost reverence in his voice, "to introduce the rightful Lord of this planet, and soon-to-be destroyer of mankind."

Said destroyer stepped out of the car. Kayin, who'd been lying down on a porch swing, sat up and stared. Whatever he'd been expecting, Knives wasn't it. The plant was fairly regal-looking, could even be called handsome, but Lord of this World?

"Greetings, Allegro Bluesummers. Your brother has told me a great deal about you, and as such I've found myself anxious to meet you. My name is-"

"Millions Knives Seibrem. I know that much." Needles stood, and Knives saw that in his left hand he held a blind man's white cane, and in the right a large handgun, similar in style to the Broomhandle Mauser. "I'd like to introduce my own little group.

"This scrawny fellow on the swing is Kayin. He's harmless unless you piss him off. Don't do that. My housekeeper, Gelton, has pressing matters to attend to, but he'll have Raymond out with snacks and intoxicating beverages in a moment. The almost-humans in attendance (here he motioned to a couple walking down the street toward the house), are Shinita and Miranda Yanez, better known as the Nebraska Pair during their string of very violent robberies committed a decade and a half ago. I arranged for them to live without fear of the law in this little town, provided that they rehabilitated and signed a waver allowing my personal physicians to perform a series of very interesting, yet highly illegal, medical treatments on them."

"Charmed," Knives deadpanned.

"Now," Needles continued, "I will speak to my brother. Then we will discuss your business here."

"Your impudence rapidly ceases to amuse me brother," Legato said softly. "My master has come to speak to you."

"And I said I would speak to him. After we talk."

Look at the Messers. Bluesummers from the point of view of an outsider. Knives perhaps, or Elendira, or Kayin, or Gelton. Take your pick. They stand across from each other staring, though Needles can't see anymore, he knows exactly what he's looking at.

The two of them have a lot in common. The Brothers Bluesummers are both handsome men who look a hale and hearty forty-five and have for many years now. Their hair began to gray long ago, but hasn't progressed any in quite some time. Graying blue hair has a strange visual effect to say the least; if the average middle-aged head is "salt-and-pepper," than they are "choppy-ocean." They both consider good food one of life's greatest pleasures. Both of them are misanthropes with a penchant for sarcasm, and a deep-seated love of verbally tearing others down (something Needles is trying to work on, Christ wouldn't even have taken pleasure from rebuking a Pharisee). They also have a deep-seated love of physically tearing others down, but talking about that around either of them is likely to produce a demonstration.

Standing next to his master, Legato is an imposing figure. The ever-present white coat was given to him long ago, and he hasn't been able to part with it. He is well groomed, though his hair almost hangs into his eyes. He seems graceful, not encumbered at all by his artificial left arm, or the not-quite human skull sitting on it. It might take a person weeks of watching him walk to realize that he favors the left leg when walking, and most would be shocked to see that the weak right is supported by a brace. Both of the twins are handsome, but in Legato's case this is tempered by a coldness that starts on his face and radiates across every inch of his body, out into his surroundings. He is perfectly stoic; the slight smile on his face calculated entirely, no emotion behind it that can be seen. No conscience either, Legato is pure ego, without the primitive urges of id or moral concerns of superego.

Allegro isn't quite as scary, but he could be if he were to try. His outfit is a little more sensible, a long-sleeved shirt and nondescript jeans. His hair reaches to his shoulders, and is quite well done; a few of the more "manly" men call him pretty boy, but never to his face (there is something about him that unnerves them). A battered fedora, tilted forward almost to the top of his glasses, completes the picture. Emotionally, if Legato is cold, then Needles is burning hot. Not having eyes, however, restricts his emotional reaction somewhat, so he seems much more subdued than he actually is. When he is feeling happy or smug, the impression is that he has just been told a tremendously funny joke (probably at your expense), when he is mad, he looks sulky. A dangerous false impression. Angry Needles does not sulk.

The face-off continued for only about ten seconds. Legato spoke first.

"Say what you will Allegro. I'd hoped you'd be more receptive though."

"Alright," Needles began. It had been easier than he'd expected. Something was up.

"Let's start with some rules. First," he continued, "if this is about us joining you, I'll save you some time. No. Second, we will all put away our weapons. Diplomacy at gunpoint is barbaric. Third, no killing innocent bystanders while you're here. If you've already broken that one, don't do it again. Finally, you will eat some cheesecake. It's not poisoned. I'll eat the piece of your choice first if you wish."

There was a long pause.

"So," Elendira finally said, "you cut off Master Knives to force us to eat your cheesecake?"

"No. If you're going to be that way about it, I don't want you to have any." Without missing a beat: "Legato, what is this about? Honestly, did you really think I'd jump on the bandwagon as soon as I was faced with your master's divine presence?"

"Your sarcasm is unnecessary, and in fact weakens your position. We came here to negotiate; I assure you that I long ago gave up the hope that you'd ever see our point of view."

"Which is?"

"That humanity is far beyond hope. They squander their resources with no thought for the future. They take everything they can for themselves without compassion, crushing others for their own benefit while they speak of love and mercy. They destroy everything they touch. They are a plague that must be destroyed."

Needles nodded sympathetically. Then he turned toward Knives.

"That was nice. Does he get a biscuit?"

Elendira snickered. Legato scowled. When Knives gave no sign of responding, Needles continued.

"I apologize for my temper. Please sit, eat. I'd love to hear what you have to say. Particularly if what you have to say is, 'We've decided that genocide is a bad way to go about this.' I'm not holding out much hope, but…" He shrugged, "Where there's life…"

He sat his gun down on the table.

"Now you," he said.

"A pointless gesture," Knives replied.

"A pointless talk," Kayin mocked from his swing, perfectly imitating Knives' tone, "If it wasn't for him, your brains would have been running out of your nose before you were out of the car. I'm not nearly as diplomatic as our esteemed leader."

Raymond, who had walked out with a tray of margaritas around "brains," quietly sat the tray down and waited for the earth-shattering kaboom.

Instead, Knives put his gun down on top of the car, and replied softly.

"Kayin Bostalk. Married a human, now has a child with it. I suppose that accounts for at least some of your hostility."

Kayin took out a harmonica.

Elendira pointed the suitcase at him. Legato's eyes widened, and Kayin's arms froze in a painful looking position above his head. Raymond, thinking quickly, lunged at the poor man's feet, knocking him to he ground. Elendira, who had been deprived of an excellent opportunity to say, "stop or I'll shoot!" looked put out.

It was a rare moment when one saw Millions Knives absolutely, utterly confused. This was one of those rare moments.

"Didn't I say we'd all disarm ourselves as best we were able?" Needles was saying to Kayin, who was on the ground, Raymond siting on his chest. "That includes your harmonica."

"I can still sing," Kayin wheezed.

"I don't doubt it," Allegro replied, "but you can't kill him now. If he goes after Laura and Cam, I'll hold him down while you crucify him, but he hasn't done anything so stupid yet." He looked at Knives, then added, "I hope. You wouldn't be that dumb, would you, to kill a man's wife on the way to talk to him, would you Knives?"

"Of course not. His weapon of choice is a harmonica?"

"Well, like he just said, he can sing too, and the things he can do with a pipe organ are nightmare fuel, and there are around five, maybe six dozen other assorted instruments that he can kill off a symphony hall's seating capacity with in under thirty seconds, but the harmonica has the virtue of being both portable and concealable. Also, it's a rather humiliating way to die, so it's worth it for that alone as far as he's concerned. Cheesecake? Ham or turkey cream cheese rolls? Homemade potato chips? Wine or margarita? Something with more alcohol?"

"I'll have some cheesecake," Legato volunteered.

"I've already cut you out a piece," Needles said, pointing to a plate containing nearly a quarter of said cheesecake a fork neatly off to one side.

"Thank you."

He walked, shirtless, in the desert, under the stars, savoring the feel of the bitter cold night air on a good facsimile of human nerves. It was at times like this that he was closest to contentment. In the dark, in the quiet, not speaking or thinking or plotting anything that needed plotting. To just exist was a rare pleasure, one he savored whenever given the opportunity.

He loved this planet. He wasn't sure why. Its inhabitants considered it an unforgiving hellhole. But then again, humans weren't designed to live on desert planets in binary star systems. It wasn't that much hotter here than on the average Earth, but it was desertified thoroughly. And, to be fair, it could get pretty hot during summertime (so their poor human complaints weren't entirely unjustified). He smiled.

He crossed the desert slowly, without any of the fear humans had of it. To them it was a grave threat, a monster that could overwhelm and kill them at any moment. To him it was a kindred spirit; they were, after all, in the same line of work.

And then something that wasn't a voice. Nothing so quaint. But if it had been a voice, it would have said: SHOWSHOWSEETHESHOWPUPPETSHOWTWOWEEKSCHILDRENSUFFERHURTWORSHIP

He turned to the west, toward the small town of Little Jericho. He liked the way that name sounded. He'd been there before. He could be there again in less than two weeks. This particular task was easily done.

But he took his time walking, because it was such a perfect night.

"Really, Kayin," Elendira said, as she sadistically patted him on the shoulder Legato had nearly dislocated keeping him off Knives, "what was the point? What did you think would happen?"

"Get off it Ellen," Kayin retorted, "you and Legato won't be around to save his ass forever." Then he turned to Knives. "You do know that you would have been slaughtered like the Passover lamb had your psychic friend not stepped in, right?"

Legato chuckled. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

"You'll never grow up," he said, still grinning, "no matter how old you get. Hypothetical situations don't matter. I was here, and Master Knives will expect you next time. A wasted opportunity if his death was what you wanted to accomplish."

"Shut up and eat your cheesecake."

Knives stared at them for a moment before looking at Needles.

"Are you all like that?"

"What, you mean petty, vicious, and intensely competitive about stupid little things?"

"You are," the plant continued, "making it rather difficult for me to rationalize sparing you."

"Sparing us?" Needles actually began to laugh here, "You flatter yourself. You are not as great as you think you are, little god."

"Interesting," Knives pretended to be deep in thought for a moment. "So you acknowledge me as a deity?"

"Do you think you are a deity?" Needles asked.

"No," Knives replied, "I do not. Superior to the human garbage that is trying to establish itself here, yes. Deity, no. But I'm curious as to why you refer to me as a god, unless you're mocking me. I wouldn't put that beneath you."

"So suspicious," said Kayin, who had recovered enough to be cocky, "careful not to hurt his little feeeeliiiings."

"I'm not mocking you," Needles said. "But do you know that 'god' spelled backwards is 'dog'?"

"A trick of the English language," Knives dismissed.

"True. But one worth pointing out. There are plenty of gods, enough to fill a thousand worlds without using a single mortal organism. Only a few of them are worth worshipping. Catch my drift?"

"So I'm a god, but not worth the trouble of worshipping?"

"That is correct, but not just that. Your attempts to slaughter humanity, for example. Beings greater than you have been destroyed for hubris. Your actions have already begun to draw... unfortunate attention."

"Ooo ean eh est?" Legato tried to reply through a mouthful of cheesecake. Then he remembered himself.

You mean the Beast? he projected.

"Kayin," Elendira said, sighing, "have I told you how much I've missed you? I'm sorry for pointing a gun at you." Kayin laughed.

"Sorry Ellen, I'm a married man now. Got a kid and everything. Besides, he isn't eating all the time is he?"

He looked at Legato, who was cutting out another quarter of the cheesecake.

"Okay, stupid question."

The Beast is a half-dead weakling, Legato continued, nothing more than a relic of an era long gone when we were young. It's interesting to look at if you enjoy history, but you can't convince me that that the Beast is a threat to anything anymore.

The Beast, who was now standing on the roof of Legato's vehicle, looked offended.

"You know," it said, raspy voice filled with enough sweetness to kill many diabetics with a word, "we might just blow up this car, you mouthy bastard. I'm not too dead to do that."

Legato and Knives turned around slowly.

The Beast looked like a poorly groomed child. Messy, straw-colored hair hung over its forehead, nearly into its eyes. It looked male, but the voice defied gender, it could have been either male or female run through a distorter to hide its identity. The eyes were the defining thing though. Bright blue-violet and slited vertically, like a cat's. It held a snubnose revolver in each hand, twirling them lazily.

"Ah," Legato said, swallowing the bit of cheesecake in his mouth, "Zazie. How I've missed your inability to decide how many of you there are. Why are you here?"

"I heard you were coming to talk, and I thought it would be something to see. Only one of me, I think."

Legato stared at his brother for a moment.

"He said he wouldn't interfere," Needles responded to the unasked question, "What do you want to negotiate?"

"I want your promise that you won't interfere. We are considering allowing you to keep a small population of your favorites alive in a preserve, but you will not even be given that if you go against us."

Needles looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Really? Is that all you want? You look like you came to beg for money. Come on, you can be honest..."

"Your contribution would be noted when the time came for the creation of Eden," Knives said, "but we didn't come to beg."

"Yes you did," Allegro replied. "My third eye isn't the greatest, but I'm not stupid. There's only so much you can rip from the cold, dead hands of the innocent before people start getting suspicious. And if the nasty humans come knocking before you're ready, than you might have a problem. So you need money to make legitimate purchases. Am I right?"

Knives looked affronted. Needles grinned.

"Don't take it personally. After all, while you and my dear brother have spent the years since the Fall smashing the pesky insects, I've been busy making myself into the most powerful businessman on the planet. It's only natural that I'd have more funds. Alas, I cannot, in good conscience, give you money for weapons of mass destruction."

"Then will you at least agree not to interfere?" the plant asked.

"No."

"Why do you care what happens to them?" questioned Knives.

"Because I must earn my salvation. God's forgiveness is not as free for sins of our caliber, Knives. I don't love them... but I can't let you kill them all."

Knives' face grew cold. "If that is your decision..."

"But," Allegro continued, "I can help you save your sisters."

"I'm listening."

He reached into his pocket. Elendira trained her deadly luggage on him.

"You should relax," the Beast said, "it's not a gun." Elendira kept him in her sights nonetheless.

It was not a gun. It was a checkbook. He beckoned to Knives.

"I can supply you with very convincing identification as well," he said. "You'll inevitably need it; I don't think they allow unknown drifters to run for office. I can have you on the ballots for December City's election next year, and while I normally don't approve of such doings, I think I can pretty much assure an outcome in your favor. You just tell me how much money you'll need."

"Are you talking about getting me elected mayor of December?" Knives asked. His face didn't change, but disbelief passed over him like a cloud. Needles felt it. Maybe there was hope. Maybe the little brat just hadn't had any hope for a peaceful solution, and he'd take one that was offered. But then the plant continued.

"No, that won't work. I want to destroy the vermin, not pander to them. If you believe that I even want to rule such creatures, you are sorely mistaken."

Needles gnashed his teeth in rage. He was close to losing his temper.

"Listen here, you little brat! I'm offering you the best deal of your life! All you have to do is take power, and within a few months, we can free some of the plants for "experimental" purposes. A few more years and our scientists can make miraculous "discoveries" about the capabilities of plants. All your sisters can be free in a decade, and no one else has to die. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Knives looked at Allegro as if he'd gone mad. Legato's normally impassive face twisted with rage. It really was a wonder Elendira hadn't started shooting yet.

"You are every bit as insolent as your brother claimed. However, out of the goodness of my heart and to demonstrate that I am superior to humans, who would have shot you dead by now, I will give you a chance to apologize. I'm waiting."

The plant's hands seemed to shift, and Knives' fingernails became noticeably sharper.

"Alright, that's fair," Needles said. "I'll apologize for two things. Please refrain from ripping me in half until you hear both.

"One, I thought you might be less than receptive of a compromise, so I prepared for a fight. As a result," he tapped his hat, "I've been rather less than open with you. By all the gods of all the worlds, this thing has come in handy. Much easier to wear a hat than to have to bother with manual telepathic jamming. Gelton isn't here because he's set up somewhere, looking at this meeting through the scope of a sniper rifle. Just making sure things don't get out of hand. He's got a hat too, so don't bother with a mental search, Legato.

"Two, I would very much regret having caused you to get exactly what you want. Should I be slain here, and Gelton somehow fail to kill you, my final orders will be carried out immediately, and I don't think the three of you can move fast enough to stop them."

"And they are?" Knives asked, looking around for a sign of the gunman.

"The complete and utter destruction of this planet's human population. I told you, exactly what you want. It's the method that you'll dislike. If I die, my minions will begin the organized slaughter of every plant angel on Gunsmoke. Can you imagine it? If Stantal hasn't lived up to its unofficial nickname yet, it will..."

"You can't do that..." Knives hissed, struggling to control his hatred.

"Yes he can," Kayin cut in, grinning from ear to ear, "there are 2,758 of us here, spread out fairly evenly across the human settlements. That's enough to storm the plants in each of the seven major cites and put you on the endangered species list inside of twelve hours. As for our electricity... we were just fine before you got here with your siblings, and we'll be fine after they're gone."

"And what if I leave, only to begin killing you off one by one?" the plant asked.

"My lieutenants and I have already had that discussion," Needles replied. "If we have evidence that something of that nature is occurring, every one of us in that settlement will rise up and hunt you down. In addition to that, the strings I can pull will make you the most wanted man alive if you somehow manage to survive that. Everyone on this world who can fire a gun will hunt you for what I'll offer. Try it and see."

Knives' face contorted. He looked like he was trying very hard not to have a stroke.

"You know," Shinita opined, "I think he's got ya by the balls. I mean, I'm fairly new to all this, but he's got you outnumbered by a fair bit."

The plant's hands clenched. Twice, he opened his mouth to speak, but there were no coherent words.

"Regardless of the precautions I took, my previous offer was legitimate," said Needles. "Think about it."

Knives turned away. Elendira and Legato both flinched when they saw the look on his face.

"This isn't over by a long shot," he said, almost calmly. "You'll die with the rest of them."

"It certainly isn't over," Needles replied, "but I don't think I'll lose much sleep over it. You're only a little god, despite your opinions to the contrary. Oh, by the way... Zazie?"

"Yes?"

A shot rang out. Everyone jerked except for Needles, who was holding his gun as if it had never left his hand. Knives whirled, ready to retaliate if he was being attacked, but the gunfire did not sound again. Everyone who had been facing the Beast when the shot was staring at him. The creature was missing his right leg.

"You..." it snarled, "that hurt. Do you know how hard it is to regenerate a limb?"

"Let that be a lesson," Needles said, "about the dangers of playing double agent. My brother is right, you really aren't worth getting upset over, but pick a side already. Knives, if you change your mind before the slaughter starts, my offer still stands." Then he turned and walked into the house.

Matthew Luraude was usually a happy person. He had good parents, good friends, and as comfortable a living situation as was possible for Gunsmoke's middle class. In addition to this, he was a bit of an optimist, a searcher for silver linings.

So, as he spent his afternoon cleaning his terminally messy room, he reflected that this was for the good of his allowance. Also, if he got it clean enough, he might be allowed to invite Emilio over. They could work on the puppet show. Matthew wasn't a particular fan of Shakespeare, but witches plotting around a brewing caldron, nobles killing each other for the throne, ghosts, a mysterious prophecy... it all appealed to his sense of danger and conspiracy.

If he had been told that three nights ago, while he slept, a meeting had taken place concerning the fate of the entire human race, his reaction would have been one of disappointment (that he wasn't invited) instead of fear. He was still at the stage of life where curiosity is overwhelming, but common sense and self-preservation are not quite fully formed. He'd never really get past it. It would eventually kill him, but that was far in the future. Right now, he was just a kid, one to whom the harsh world had been kind.

He froze.

In the next room, Olivia was whining about how it was his turn to do the dishes. And how he hadn't swept the kitchen floor last night, even though it had been his turn to do that then. So much for his plans. He shrugged.

There was always tomorrow.

Isabel ate with her father in silence. It was a comfortable silence though; both Pfeiffer and his daughter were the kind of dedicated eaters that devoted their entire energy to enjoying a meal. Isabel's mother, a natural chatterer, would have tried to carry on conversations at the table, but she had died in childbirth, due to complications that would have been easily preventable before the Great Fall. Pfeiffer realized that he probably spoiled his daughter because of this, but he had a hard time caring too much about it.

For her part, Isabel was not the most obnoxious or spoiled child in the world by a long shot. Yes, she could be bratty, she sulked when she didn't get her way, and she could throw a temper tantrum with the best of them, but she certainly wasn't all that bad. And she had plenty of good points: she was intelligent, she was very generous to those she considered friends, and however much cajoling he had to do, she always eventually did what her father said. Pfeiffer thought she had plenty of potential, and not just in the way that all parents thought that about their children. He could see her tenacity being put to good use as a member of the Stantal Investigation Bureau.

He approved of her friendship with Emilio and Matthew. They were nice kids. In the back of his mind, he hoped she could at least find a good husband if she couldn't get out and make her own destiny. And while eleven was far too young to worry about things like that, it was comforting that her taste in men was good.

Melissa was a nearly perfect introvert. Indeed, had it not been for her friendship with Isabel, she probably would not have been noticeable enough to warrant mention in this story. In all probability, she wouldn't have lived past the age of twelve. But that one friendship was enough.

She was a nice person. She didn't have a lot of friends, just Isabel (and the other girl's close friends, who were her friends by default), but most people liked her well enough. She was quiet, polite, not much trouble. Adults praised her maturity. She was perfectly happy with this arrangement.

Still, it was nice to be lauded for her work, as opposed to her keeping to herself all the time. So, when Emilio had approached her, saying that Isabel had told him that her best friend could paint great landscapes, Melissa had only needed to ask what he wanted before saying yes to the implied request.

So here she was, painting a "blasted heath" to order a week from showtime. It was coming along nicely. Very blasted. Her mother thought that painting was a good hobby to encourage, so Melissa had access to as many materials as the family's spare change and her own productivity allowed (usually only a painting a month, although she could certainly work faster). She had done three other backgrounds for the play this month. This was the last, and it was nearly finished.

It was good. Not perfect by any means, she was only ten, but the skill level reflected here was nothing to be ashamed of. Only one last touch, and she would be happy with it. She wanted a person in the background. Not a big person, because that would just look stupid and mess up what Emilio had wanted. Just a little man in the shadows, overlooking the proceedings. She'd decided that he was a warlock, watching the coven from afar.

She painted him in less than thirty seconds. He was only an inch high, and he looked sort of like an evil monk.

Melissa thought he was great.

Shinita Yanez was his real name. Nebraska had been a pseudonym.

He'd never enjoyed killing people, but he'd never been particularly squeamish about it either. So he was probably damned. Miranda may have had regrets, but she didn't voice them, and he didn't bring it up. That part of their lives was past them, and there was no point dwelling on them.

If he had subconsciously entertained hopes of earning redemption by killing the Antichrist, they were gone now. The dog-god had been a joke, thwarted by a hostage situation. Not forever, hate like that couldn't be indefinitely contained by logic, but when the time to do battle finally came, it wouldn't be the Nebraska Pair that ended Knives' genocidal ambition. Needles, mayhap, or Gelton would strike the monster down. So much for the Rider on the White Horse. What a disappointment.

Heh, maybe he did enjoy violence.

Joseph Triballus would have been surprised to know that his friend's temper had improved quite a bit over the years. He had once broken a man's wrist for daring to spill a drink on him. The poor man screamed, annoying Shinita further. The outlaw had finally rectified the situation by kneeing the man in the balls and tossing him out of the bar.

Yelling at people who made him mad? He'd gone soft since the days of his youth. Fifteen years ago, he wasn't mean, he was the living essence of meanness. But he hadn't hurt anyone in a long time. He wouldn't let himself. He even delegated the task of their children's occasional spankings to Miranda. She'd always been the voice of reason.

He occasionally wondered if one day he'd feel guilty. It would be reassuring. After all, he'd been born human. He theoretically had a soul. He'd personally killed eleven innocents, not as many as some, but surely he should feel something.

Maybe watching a group of children put on Macbeth would jolt some sort of life back into his soul. It probably couldn't hurt.

If someone had asked Emilio who his best friends were, his first answer probably would have been Matthew. Isabel and Galpez would have gotten honorable mentions. The man they were hanging out with now might or might not have been added as an afterthought.

He wouldn't have minded this at all. It was his nature to hang out in the background. He didn't want recognition. But he was good with kids, and they liked him, and they were far better off with him around than with most of the other adults on the planet.

Most of the time, he allowed himself to think that it was over. Surely it was, right? His brother hadn't shown up to ruin his life in years. There was good reason to think that the would-be genocide was dead. Gone. Deceased. An ex-plant (he couldn't remember exactly how he and Knives had gotten access the the ship's cache of old Earth television, but the look on Rem's face when she'd found her four-month old adopted sons watching "Monty Python" was priceless).

Maybe he could settle down for good at last. Or at least, until his friends started getting old without him (now there was a cheery thought). But there was no point in brooding on that.

"Why aren't you in the puppet show?" Galpez asked.

"Because I'm not as good as you guys are," he replied.

"But you could do something..."

"Oh, let him be useless if he wants to be," Matthew said. Everyone laughed except for the joke's target.

"You guys are mean. I've gotta work to live here you know..."

"Awww, he was just kidding," Emilio said.

"Yeah, I know he was. I hope. Otherwise, I might have to avenge my... SAMURAI HONOR!" He charged, flailing his arms wildly.

Isabel stood off to the side while the boys took him to the ground.

"My dad says it's not ladylike for a girl to wrestle," she explained, "come on Emilio, put him in a headlock, you can do better than that..."

"Thought... it wasn't... ladylike..." the poor man gasped.

"My dad says girls get other people to do the wrestling for them. But they can shoot people themselves."

"Your dad doesn't sound like a nice man..."

Showtime at last.

Even though he knew he was talented, Emilio was nervous. But there was no stopping now.

A little more than thirty people had shown up for the show. Mostly friends and family of those involved in it. All the adults had bought $$5 tickets, which awed Emilio. They were paying to see the show. The show that he was putting on. It hadn't occured to him that money could be made doing this until Kayin brought up ticket sales.

The Globe was a shed-like building, with a platform that allowed several people to stand above the stage with marionettes at once. There was plenty of storage room for the various puppets. Several fans and good ventilation kept the inside from being unbearably hot. Extra marionettes and scenery that wasn't part of the painted background (such as a little bottomless caudron that would be used with hand puppets for the "three spirits" scene) were stacked in one corner. The Triballus cat slept on top of the pile, in the incredibly inconvenient way that cats do. A cooler with canned drinks was in the other. All the puppets for the opening scene were in place. All the people to work the puppets were in place. All was good.

The play itself went without incident. Or at least, without any incident that the players had directly caused. A two year old brought to the puppet show by one of Joseph's friends (against the baker's advice) began crying in the middle of the witch-filled prologue, and the child had to be calmed. Showing remarkable determination, or perhaps just thinking that anything with puppets had to be child friendly, the child's mother hadn't taken the child away. The kid had started wailing again as soon as the doomed antihero had met the weird sisters. That had been enough to disuade her from forcing the terrified child to watch more. Emilio, voicing two of the three witches (Isabel had wanted to say "Fillet of a fenny snake") had bravely soldiered on through it, getting Isabel to continue as well.

It had not occured to him to make the voices less scary.

After about two hours of witches, ghosts, treason, bloodshed, and deceptively worded prophecy, the players behind the puppets emerged to applause. Many in the audience had only been present because they knew one of the kids putting it on. They'd been shocked when it had turned out to be really, really good.

Emilio managed to dodge most of his now enthusiastic fans politely as he headed back to his parents to celebrate. One of them however, stepped in front of him and grinned. Emilio said the first thing that came to mind.

"Where's your shirt?"

This question was a good one. The man was wearing a weird red robe thing from the waist down, but no shirt. He was muscled, so Emilio could maybe see him wanting to show off, but where was the sunburn? White hair fell to the middle of his back and around his eyes, which sparkled strangely (later on, the boy would not be able to recall what color they'd been, only that it had been a weird one). He was smiling.

"I must have forgotten it, young one," the man replied. "That was an admirable performance."

"Thank you," Emilio said, smiling politely as he tried to go around the couple. The man pushed him back and continued.

"I despise false modesty. Your show was magnificent, especially coming from one so young. A superior work of fine art."

"Who are you?" the boy asked. Alarm bells were ringing, but he was not yet scared.

"Well... Do you believe in fairy godparents?"

"No," Emilio replied, backing away a little.

"Then I am as close to being a not-fairy-godfather as you could possibly be."

What did that mean?

"What's your name?" Emilio asked.

"Which one would you like?"

"You've got more than one?" the boy wondered aloud.

"Many. I feel that one should have at least as many names as changes of clothing, and preferably more." The smile became a grin, probably to show that this was a joke, but it made him look sharklike. "Call me Seth."

"Seth. I'll remember that. My dad is calling me."

"Of course. But first I have a gift for you." He reached behind Emilio's ear. The boy, who had seen this trick before, and was expecting a quarter, was surprised to see a small rectangular package, wrapped in bright paper.

"Take good care of it, young Emilio. Your talent will carry you far. Eventually you will be the greatest showman on this planet." Here he leaned close to Emilio, who was finally just a little bit scared. "I have great faith in you."

And with that, Seth turned and walked away.

Emilio walked over to his father.

"Sorry, I was ambushed by a weirdo."

"Which one?" Joseph asked.

What do you mean, 'Which one?' he thought, I only talked to one guy!

What he said was, perhaps fortunately; "Huh?"

"You were talking to a few people," Joseph replied, "I thought you knew them..."

"Well, I..." He paused, trying to figure it out.

"Come on, let's go get your stuff. I doubt you'll want to leave Leonof here.

Emilio just nodded.

Later that night, Emilio sat on his bed and stared at Seth's unopened present.

He's a weirdo. It could be a bomb or something.

Never the soul of caution, he tore it open.

It wasn't a bomb. It was a strange knife, made from the tooth of some massive predator. It was about ten inches in length when the hilt was included. Emilio stared.

No way Dad will let me keep this.

He put it back in the box and hid it under his mattress anyway.

PREVIEW:

Joseph: And so life goes on. More shows are performed, babies are born to scraggly musicians, young love begins to take shape, and everyone is happy. But we're not really safe. The sword of Damocles is hanging over us, and we don't even look up. We think we live in peace and safety, but this is only the...

NEXT CHAPTER: Calm Before the Storm