NS1FLN1X-0.1.4B/3.9.4856

It wasn't fine, obviously. You'd have to think I'm fucking retarded or something, even without this suit twisting my balls at every turn I'm not going to just roll over and leave the door wide open for international assassins, kill squads and black helicopters to waltz in and smother us with our pillows. I may be bullet proof but he's got all the durability of a fucking balloon. Overreacting my ass, like a snotty kid would know how to stay out of danger.

Okay, I'm going too hard on him, but what can I do? The best course of action in ensuring his safety shot down all because he thinks I'm seeing Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones around every corner? It's not like it's the only way to protect him, but it's not going to be easy without it.

What indeed. First, I realised we have no way of contacting each other if we got separated, so I managed to hook up my radiotelephone to be findable on cell networks and figured out to force through to answer in case it ever turned into an emergency. I didn't tell him about that, so he looked like he thought his phone had been possessed when my voice suddenly came out of it and not my faceplate. Second, we established rendezvous points in the immediate area, from the shrine South of his school to the dental university right by the apartment, to name a few, and made him as difficult to intercept as possible by stacking his schedule, from escorting him to school every day as any loving father should, to having him socialise as much as possible through play dates and study sessions. Really, it was all to get him out of the house as much as possible, since the bad guys would have to be seriously mentally challenged if they think their target having a predictable routine isn't easy. I mean, it'd be swell if they did but this is the Illuminati I'm thinking of, I'm half expecting his friends to be in on the conspiracy as it is.

It is a good strategy, if I do say so myself, but there's only so much I could do in three days. Sure, things were looking up by Friday morning to a point I wondered if I really was overreacting and it didn't help it was the same bullshit day in day out; walk Kousuke to school and "see him off" at the gates, go round the back of the building and cloak my way inside, waste time in a computer lab until the day clocks out, "pick up" "my son" or let him hang with his friends and shadow them until they've had enough fun and head home. Overreacting or not, it's been unusually quiet compared to what I've already been through.

But, seeing them goofing around made me... jealous, a little, and I started missing Remnant, weirdly enough; as bad as that hellhole got, I could at least see the sights and sounds without worrying about causing an international scene or being hunted by secret societies. Well, until Beacon happened, anyway. If only I could get this suit off without becoming as weak as a human.

And then it hit me: wait a minute, I could shapeshift out of this suit, Prophet unlocked the nanites, what the Hell happened to that?

A good question and concerning that the idea of peeling back the Nanosuit hadn't come to mind until now. Things only got weirder when I asked the voice in my head about it and realised, I'd switched from calling the malware False Prophet to SECOND without noticing, I don't hear its redundant answer of Unknown or Data Incomplete. Normally I'd pin such fuckery on SECOND's attempts to wrangle my brain into obedience but considering all the other fuckery I've been put through who knows what it is. The only other question is, what else am I missing?

I needed a distraction, so I decided to finally open up Gunny one Wednesday evening to see what's up with him and, well, it's a gun. Twelve-inch bore positioned low to mitigate recoil, tungsten block jacket to mitigate recoil and six-round gas-seal cylinder with a reversed hammer positioned directly above the hand to maximise barrel length without making it even more ungodly long and mitigate recoil; there's a successive trigger to prime the main one into match and what I originally took to be a rail is actually some kind of claw and plug doohickie, but it's so exotic there's nothing that'll fit into it as far as I know.

And then there's the reason for all the recoil mitigation, six whole .700 Nitro Express cartridges, modified with armour piercing tips, depleted uranium jackets around gold cores of all things and a steroid-based propellant. Probably, I couldn't actually check since I need each one in working order and can't risk it spoiling if it's exotic - especially since storing it in hammerspace didn't reload it and the gun grabbers are more rampant here than in commiefornia - but the residue in the barrel was anything but conventional smokeless and seeing how everything else about it is geared for killing something bigger than a tank I don't see why not.

The only problem is, what is that something bigger?

At this point, who knows, I'm not paid to come up with pulp horror monsters, I'm paid to blast them directly to the Ninth Circle to tell the Devil I'm coming for him next, whatever it is I can worry about it when I see, especially since I have a bigger problem right now: how do I deal with Yakuza and kill squads etc. if I can't shoot back?

Damn, you're perceptive. I didn't even say anything about that.

Yeah, I picked up one of the nine-mils, none of the Yakuza were using them anymore so why not?

The Glock. Mostly because it was nearly identical to my service sidearm, the Nova, in every respect, barring the embarrassing history of having once been solely designated as the Pistol, and it was easily concealable.

Also, it was pink.

Hell, if I knew, I didn't stop to ask Shades questions. For all I knew, maybe he wanted to get more in touch with his feminine side through his work or rep the love of his life, Barbie, notwithstanding the yellow and blue blocks hanging from the guard. Whatever the case it certainly makes it easier to bluff my way out of an arrest.

It certainly came in handy when shit hit the fan.

Friday morning was uneventful. I had to bounce from the computer lab for the two o'clock lesson so I was kicking back on the Southern roof, doing checks on Gunny, the Barbie Glock and a combat knife I got online with the kid's card. It's all I can do to stop myself from hitting the off switch because it's so fucking boring. I mean, it is a roof but I expected to find at least a naughty magazine stashed away somewhere but it's so sterile up here I could swear I was in Catholic School. Hell, even Catholic School would be better because at least I'd have something other than my own thoughts to keep me occupied.

But before I can even consider going down to the nearby shrine and wishing for something to happen, what do I see walking into the courtyard but two strangers. Naturally I ducked and covered, thankful my hood somewhat matches the brick, and watched.

Technically, there wasn't anything suspicious about them, just a man and a woman visiting a prestigious school. Problem is, they were way too well dressed even for a function, the short girl's dressed all in black, almost bland except for subtle cuts, layers and frills you'd miss on your third look, and skin so pale Commander Keen looks healthy by comparison. The guy, on the other hand, was tall, bone thin and looked so at home in a Nightmare Before Christmas you'd think there's a skull under that hat.

Then there's the fact Goth Girl clearly isn't Japanese and Jack may as well be dead with how many negatives bounced back: heartbeat, skin galvanisation, thermal signature, hormones, pheromones, brain waves, fucking anything to prove he's actually there. It's not that he doesn't have a presence, matter of fact he's about as present as his own shadow, it's just that what is there is closer to a helium balloon than a human.

Whatever they are, they're definitely not Yakuza.

They looked to be talking, so I turned up the parabolic mic as they passed the tennis courts and tuned in to whatever was left of the conversation.

"-se. We head in, ask for Tanegashima and walk out without anyone suspecting a thing. A simple plan that can't possibly go wrong."

English, smooth and velvety through a British accent, maybe Irish or Scottish though it's old fashioned, like a 50s news broadcaster. It's such a perfect fit for the textbook villain dialogue I actually get excited despite the very obvious danger to Kousuke's life. Finally, some action.

But I can't act yet unless I want to lose my advantage, so I listen in and wait to hear what Goth Girl has to offer.

Only for Jack to speak after five seconds of silence. "I can't imagine he would be. Sir assured us whoever he's attached to would be too overt to bring to school, so we won't have to worry about an incident."

And now I'm grinning like an idiot. Or would be, if the suit hadn't cannibalised my face muscles. Don't worry, the gravity of the situation wasn't lost on me, it's unsettling these freaks have any kind of intelligence on me but at the same time it's so unfathomably wrong I can't wait to prove him wrong.

Still, there's something off about all this given Jack's not even there and Goth Girl still hasn't said a single word, despite her gesticulations.

"Why shouldn't we say we're detectives," he said, "I went to all the trouble of making those IDs, the least we could do is use them."

She brought her eyebrows together and wobbled a hand his way.

"I don't think you have anyone to blame but yourself. If you'd had the foresight to one day pass as a detective, perhaps you would've learned the art of deduction long ago. For as is said by men wider than me, the most convincing lies are the most true."

That doesn't even make sense, and don't you mean wiser?

"What do you mean that doesn't make sense, it makes perfect sense. And I do, in fact, mean wider, because you see Plato-"

I cut the mic. They're a couple dozen steps from setting foot into the building and I need to be down there five seconds ago. I look to the stairs and drop the idea. Too long but that gives me an idea, so I lean over the edge and gauge the distance. The drop's about five stories and delivers enough force to put your knees into your lungs. Any tissue pushing against it is done worse than if it went through a shredder.

So, it's a good thing I'm not you.

I plummet, clearing fifth, fourth, third faster than you can blink. By the time I hit two I trip armour mode, a thousand rocks rolling over me and pushing me faster to terminal, rolling as I meet the soil and keeping at it until I come to a stop, lying prone behind the bushes for a moment to ensure I'm not immediately sighted after that hard landing. Infrared shows them continuing, ten steps from the threshold. Good.

Swap Armour with Cloak, go clearer than glass, push up to my feet and power walk. I catch up in no time at all.

And Jack stops and turns, replacing my view of short black hair with a pair of petrifying grey eyes.

Stop. I double check to make sure Cloak's still engaged, which it is, and then Stealth Enhance, which it is, leaving me to wonder what in the name of the Soviet Union is going on. No way he can see me, the lensing field is beyond perfect and won't register on the rest of the electromagnetic spectrum, and the added module completely eradicates my shadow, so why the fuck is he looking at me like he can see me? Can't tell for sure since the scan still bounces back negative on everything but I swear he can see me, like the Cloak's nothing more than a cloak. Maybe it's because of his look, those grey eyes were set over a hawkish nose, high cheekbones, narrow chin and pallid skin stretched over it all like saran wrap, but before I worry about the energy bar ticking down to half he blinks, "Hmm?" and looks down at Goth Girl.

"No, I just thought I heard someone."

I let out whatever was left in my lungs and follow once they're inside, carefully this time as they sidle up to the reception desk. The nice receptionist gives a greeting, asks for the purpose of the visit. Jack bullshits that they're detectives from Interpol and investigating a series of disturbances and would like to ask Kousuke Tanegashima a few questions, presenting small plastic cards when asked and directed South. I look at my energy.

Just ticked down to thirty-nine percent.

Not a problem, these two walk slower than a grandma hit by a car, it stretches easily enough to the kid's classroom. Problem is I'm left with not even twenty percent of juice, barely enough to get half a second's worth of deadlifting a car, I have to deal with them quickly and quietly.

They stop right outside the door. Goth Girl's probably talking, so I take the opportunity to get behind Jack.

"A bit late to tell me my dialect's outdated, Wibke."

I pull the Barbie Glock from my groin, switch the safety off.

"Then we have to hope no one notices or asks about it, just like every other time."

He reaches for the door handle and the muzzle meets his rib under the scapula, Goth Girl jumps back as she catches me fading back into reality.

"Don't move," I growl, "I'm only going to say this once: who are you and what are you doing here?"

A second goes by, two seconds, three, Goth Girl looks over her shoulder and I grind the muzzle against his rib, but it feels like chalk. "Answer me or I blow your lung out."

"I'm terribly sorry, but you told me not to move." Level, cool, not even worried, Hell even the lie detector bounces back negative and not because of a lack of readings this time.

Worse, it completely throws me off my game to a point I can't say anything but, "what?"

"Well, your two requests are mutually exclusive, I can't not move and tell you who I am without moving my jaw. It's logically impossible."

"Just answer the fucking questions."

"In that case, the Sparrow flies South for Winter," is all he says, before I find my ass stuck in the opposite wall and slipping to the floor. Barbie's a few feet away, Jack's standing in some martial arts pose, palm towards me and I'm on him, throwing right hook, left jab, kick to the knee but he steps out of each and every one of them, slipping away like water, I can't even get a bead on his tie.

I don't get it, I should be faster than him, I should see his counters before the thought gets to his shoulders and I do, it's like his entire moveset is superimposed over him like cheap slo-mo effects but every time I adjust to compensate, he magically slips into a different movement, something that completely bypasses my guard, throws me off my game and hits like a motherfucker. Nothing damaging but it eventually lifts me enough that it sounds like a barbell when I land.

We stop. The classrooms on both sides are picking up in volume and I hear the teachers trying to control the kids, it's nothing and I'll go see what the trouble is.

Not good. I haven't been in a situation this sticky since when my mom walked in on-

Never mind, point is, I can't be involved in an incident for obvious reasons and to make it worse Jack just jabbed my faceplate and ran off. Fucker won't get away with scapegoating me that easily, I'm on his ass and juicing my legs to catch up. He's fast but I'm faster and when he hits the corner I'll tackle and-

Or he'll just run on the wall and maintain his speed.

Just dandy.

And now I'm the one slowing to take the corner, losing vital seconds as he heads off, making the receptionist jump and she jumps again when I rocket past a second later, gaining again until the corner when he fucks gravity again, losing him again. It isn't until he ignores the secondary entrance that I start to wonder what this guy's game is but it's a dead heat to the gym and he's got nowhere else to go, I'm out of juice but I've still got my legs and when I'm close enough I pounce, arms locked around his waist, anchored to the ground as we're swamped by the scent of softballs. He struggles, tries to claw away, turns around and pushes against my mask but I'm stronger and when I'm straddled on his stomach I stab and stab and stab and-

Stab? With what? The thought persists like a bad haircut when the blade plunges into the flooring instead of his head again and I draw the oddity in my right, eyeing up not a tiny survival knife but an arm's length of silver sprouting from a red cross, kinda like an inverted rose. Again, like Gunny it's familiar, always a part of me despite never having seen it before, all the creepier because this is the second time it's happened. It doesn't help it looks like it's the same make and style as Dino killer.

And then I'm one with the clouds before coming down hard before I can even think what the fuck? The impact would've shattered my spine if I still had one but it's nothing now as I flip to my knees, reengaging him at Gunny point, hammer cocked, finger on trigger.

Weirdly, after whatever he did, he's not even fazed, just brushing and smoothing out his suit. He finishes with fixing his tie and, without even a guess of exertion, says, "well that was exciting." He cocks his head, "I thought you were a very muscular man?"

It takes me a moment to realise my hood fell off and he's getting a full view of my dome. "So, what if I'm not, I'm still going to snap you like a toothpick."

"Really?"

You're probably expecting a witty one-liner here, but I just shot him, centre-mass.

I wasn't taking any chances.

Like everyone else in the history of getting shot he looks surprised, looks down, feels his chest. Unlike everyone else, he immediately assumes a martial arts pose and sweeps his arms, throwing Gunny across the gym.

Now I'm dealing with a fucking Airbender or Jedi. Fan-fucking-static.

Against all common sense I rush him, engage armour for the added density when he tries using the force again, switch to Power throwing punches and cuts when in range and yet even with the suit enhancing every twitch into a lethal riposte he still slips under and around every single cut and punch I throw to throw back hard but ineffectual strikes.

Almost every cut, anyway. The added length and lethality of the blade means he has less wiggle room, meaning I'm not hitting often but when I do I cut deep. Or I should be, from the looks of things I'm getting right to the bone – I even saw a rib – but there's no resistance, like slicing paper, and he has no reaction at all. But he's slowing down, for whatever reason, soon enough I land a hard punch to his sternum, feel something crack, and follow up backhanding his jaw.

I then wished I hadn't.

Because his head went round like spin top and flopped on one shoulder like a sock of coins. He stumbles and wobbles like a drunk, making noises that would be uncomfortable even in the bedroom. All while he's still standing. "Oh, this isn't good."

Frankly, it was so horrifying all I could do was ask, "are you alright?"

"Yes," when he sounds more like no, holding up a finger, "just give me a moment, I'll have this fixed soon." His hands grope where his head should be, groans oh no and pats his shoulders, pulls his head up from behind his shoulder and rests it in his right while his left spreads under his collar, taps and the skin just melts off like he looked into the Ark of the Covenant. All that was left was his skull and the cervical vertebrae and when they meet again, he keeled over like steel-toed spiked boots just went mach 2 into his pelvis. He stopped moaning after an uncomfortably long two seconds, smoothed down his suit, fixed his tie and stands like he's ready for an interview, staring me down with two dark pits and the meanest grin I've seen.

"You good now?"

"Almost." He reached out to his hat and it flew to his hand like a Jedi's lightsabre, flicked off some imaginary lint and fixed it to his crown, slightly askew. "Okay, now we may continue."

"Sure." I bring the blade to my shoulder, sliding my left foot forward and he slips into another martial arts pose. But then, "actually, I'm just not feeling it anymore."

I can't tell if he's genuine or sarcastic when he says, "oh?"

"It's just... what the fuck, dude?"

He slips his hands into his pockets. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."

"You're a skeleton."

"Indeed I am."

"How?"

"Magic."

"How?"

"Does magic need to be explained?"

"The last magic I saw was people turned into birds and by all metrics you shouldn't even be standing, so fucking yes."

"I'm afraid a wizard never reveals his secrets," he shrugs, "and this wizard draws a hard line with murderers."

"Oh sure, like you weren't going to do the same to one of the kids in that classroom."

His head tilts. "I was not, you were."

This is starting to feel like a game of Werewolf. "Listen Bones, it's been five days since I was zapped to this strange real world and the amount of bullshit I've seen is tipping me over the edge, I am not playing games."

He rocks back on his heels, nodding. I get the impression he's about to mess with me some more before he speaks again. "Then I think we started off on the wrong foot, let's try again." He puts his hand over his chest. "I am Skulduggery Pleasant, detective, and this is," he cuts off right as he gestures to his left, mumbles, "I keep forgetting that," and clears his non-existent throat. "I wish to speak with Kousuke Tanegashima and his Servant, would you happen to know where I can find them?"

"What?"

"You asked who I am and what I'm doing here, there is your answer. As for my question, I won't be needing that answer anymore."

After all that commotion it answers fuck all. Nothing about this guy makes sense to a point I'm on the verge of tearing all of myself out of this suit and it takes me everything I have to groan instead. The fuck does he even mean by Servant? I'm not some plaything to the kid's every whim.

"Also, this is my Master, Wibke Gauss." I follow the line from his hand, look over my shoulder and see Goth Girl standing by the door. From this distance she looks like a mean little doll and her lazy wave doesn't do much to lighten her mood. Still, I return her greeting with a nod only to get an eye roll in return.

"She says she'd appreciate it if you stopped coming onto her."

I snap back to him. "The Hell did I do?"

"I don't know, but I've found it best not to argue." The Threat Level goes up by one whole point. Christ, who are these weirdos?

"And you are?"

"Not saying."

"Hmm, that's quite an unusual name."

"Bones, I still don't trust you enough to check up on my paraplegic goldfish, I'm not-

"What!?"

Threat Level goes up three, six, fourteen until it maxes out at half-way. I stand side on, ready to throw girly but all I see is her acting crazy and panicked making invisible conversation. I'm about to ask what's going on when Skulduggery says, "How? Then how long?" She replies with the world's most obscure game of charades before being told, "then go."

The last thing she does is reach under her skirt and throw something pink at me before pushing through the doors. It's the Barbie Glock, untampered with all the bullets in the mag. It wouldn't do much but it's weird she didn't do anything to it, let alone pick it up and hand it back to me. Where was she keeping it, though, I try not to think as Barbie goes into appendix.

"What's wrong, Bones?"

I catch him looking at the cylinder of a silver revolver. "Something bad."

"How bad?"

"Very bad." The cylinder flicks shut and he keeps the revolver at hip level. "We're about to be intercepted."

"By who? The Spanish Inquisition?"

"Actually-

Something close to a car crash happens at the other end of the gym, complete with a cloud of dust and three heat signatures rolling over the stage, looking like they were right out of Comic Con. Two I don't recognise, one's a DnD ranger, green breastplate with red boots, a fuck-off huge bow and all, the other looks like if the Grim Reaper fell victim to the ruinous power of methamphetamine but the third, oh I recognise her all too well, that maid outfit, bunny ears and pink hair are burned onto my retina like a nuclear shadow after our last scuffle.

And she's smiling like it's nobody's business.

Reaper hops off the stage towards us and he's fast, Skulduggery only gets off one shot before dark and creepy warps behind him. He starts skirting around me, I move to tackle but when the moment's just right my BUD flares, warnings from everywhere, a thousand rocks roll over me and before False Prophet even says a word I'm anchored to the ground.

Right then there's nothing on my mind but white noise, white light, white everything because holy fucking shit, since putting this suit on I haven't felt pain anywhere close to that since Little Dragon punched a hole through me, and while it subsides after a second later, I feel like a smoothie after a ten-hour workout, it takes all I have to wobble instead of falling flat. Something hit me, and turning to knock-off Robin Hood I see him in the iconic pose of someone who just made a French Noble eat shit back in 1415. Son of a bitch just shot me with an arrow. I look to the entrance, see the doors flapping and kick myself, dial the kid, force through to answer and shout out the other end, "Kousuke get out of there, right now!"

Then realising he'd be worse off alone, shout, "no, don't, stay right there." It's a wild guess, but if Bones here had to ask where the kid was then Reaper Man probably doesn't either.

Hopefully.

I turn to Skulduggery and the others. They're sidling into ass-whooping range at Skulduggery's gunpoint, looking none the worse for wear. I feel around my left flank, feel the shaft and pull to no success, feel for the head on my right and push at the same time. No use, it's hooked in deep and won't be coming out unless I can juice to Maximum Power but that hit completely drained Armour and the way I'm covered up I won't be getting it back to one hundred until a minute, at best. I grit my teeth, not because of the pain but because Ranger here punched through the ultra-dense reactive nano-fibre skin of the most advanced piece of military hardware on the fucking planet with a stick and string. That's not fair even in Folsom's oriental cartoons.

Nothing I can do about it now. I stumble to Skulduggery's right, keeping his sights on the fuckers, hammer pulled back. I trust him about as far as I can throw him but the way shit radically hit the fan I don't have much choice other than to double up with him. I just hope he's better at kicking their asses than he is with mine.

Next Time: Chapter 4 – Shadows & Sorrow, Gold & Lunacy

Author's Note: Yeah, I've got nothing.