Guardians of Albion

Night Hunters

It had begun as an evening run, her normal exercise. Now it was a flight for life. Perhaps the Common was not the best choice for evening running, but she preferred to run on grass: "We weren't evolved to run on concrete!" She would say. "I don't want to ruin my ankles and knees!" So far, it had been all right; a few catcalls, the odd wolf-whistle. But even with, or perhaps because of, the new state of things, people were still anxious to avoid trouble. Not all the surveillance equipment had been taken down - people wanted the security and safety it provided -so the streets were safe. The Common, however, had fewer cameras, which some younger people took as a license to be more rambunctious there. Most of it was harmless clowning, but this was different.

The man in the dark tracksuit was pursuing her with intent, cutting off her path to the nearby streets, forcing her off the open Common into the woods. He'd probably expected her to stop, to try to hide or attempt to get back into the open. Instead she'd plunged deeper into the woods. His single shout "You won't get away, bitch!", had shown her this was the right decision, but for the moment he'd stayed on her track, and she was tiring.

She hadn't thought the woods would be this deep. Still, she kept on finding paths. But they always led away from the Common and down into what seemed to be a valley until she began to hear water, and suddenly found herself on the banks of a river! Not a wide one, to be sure, but too full to be called a stream. The waters were flowing rapidly, and a mist seemed to be rising from them. But the bank looked like smooth, firm turf, some kind of made path, and she thought she heard the faint sound of a human voice further along. With good footing in front of her, she found a second wind and began to run again. Then her pursuer came crashing out of the woods behind her. She put on another spurt, and tripped over a tree-root she hadn't noticed.

She lay a moment, winded and in pain, and knew it was over. She could feel him coming close. Then he spoke, in a voice without emotion, the voice of a dead man.

"Why did you do that, you silly cow? Why didn't you just stop like the others? All I wanted was a shag, and you could've gone your way. Now, though, you're going to have to pay for all the trouble you've put me to!"

She tried to roll over, to get ready to fight, but then another voice broke in. A deep, happy voice, a voice that was…singing?

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,

Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow!

She looked up, and saw a pair of heavy boots just in front of her. Boots that were indeed yellow.

He pursuer growled, "Fuck off out of it, you old git! This ain't your business and you'll get hurt!"

The answer was a merry laugh, and more singing:

Tom has no fear of mortal men,

Though your soul is dark and your hands are fell.

If you'd see your home again,

Begone or it will not go well!

Then there was the sound of running. Fast, panicked running, fading away.

She pulled herself to her knees, the man in the yellow boots was bending over her. He was not tall, she noted, but broad and sturdy. He did have on a blue jacket, and a high-crowned hat with a feather in it covered thick brown hair. His beard was also brown, but his face was ruddy and dominated by a pair of bright blue eyes that regarded her with quizzical concern.

"Never fear, my pretty maid!" He told her. "That broken soul won't be back! I'm Tom Bombadil. What's your name?"

"Hermione," she said, "Hermione Granger." She got to her feet, relieved to find that though her ankle was sore, it was not sprained or broken. "Thank God you came along, Mr Bombadil! I thought I was done for!"

"Call me Tom, for it's my name." He replied. "Nor were you done for, nor likely to be, for I was sent to find you. If I had known they'd sent one after you, I'd have been quicker!"

"Sent to find me?" Hermione got to her feet. The information should have alarmed her, but instead she found it – comforting. But she was still curious. "Who sent you?"

"Now that's a longer answer than we've time for, pretty maid!" Tom said. "One not as old as Tom, but wiser. One who wanders while Tom stays. You'll know him when you see him, for you've known him all your days!"

OK, that meant nothing at all! But Hermione was a clever young woman, a civil servant, fast-tracked for promotion, certain to become a Permanent Secretary someday, they said. But there were other parts of the Civil Service. The Eye, the Ear, the Nose and The Finger may be gone, but the old Security Service and Secret Intelligence Service had been rebuilt, as had GCHQ. If one of them was interested in her, they might have chosen this method for initial contact. This ageing hippie might well be a former operative, living off the grid and called back for one more job.

You've been reading too many spy novels! She told herself. If they wanted to meet you, they'd have sent an email! But she walked on beside Tom, she was being drawn toward something she had to do, even if she didn't yet know what or why.

Then the river widened into a deep, still, pool. They continued along the bank, making, it seemed, for a tall grey shape that Hermione at first took for a standing stone. But as she came nearer, she realised it was a man, tall and dressed in grey, a long cloak and slouch hat. Then he turned and looked at her, and she recognised the strong, gaunt features. She instinctively dropped a curtsey, which he acknowledged with a nod.

"Lord." She said quietly. "Is it time?"

"It is." The Phantom Stranger replied. Then turned to Tom. "My thanks, Master Bombadil."

Tom bowed, winked at Hermione, and turned to leave. Then he stopped and cocked his head as if listening. Faint and far away came the sound of a mans' scream, suddenly cut off.

"The Green took him." Tom said, shaking his head sadly.

"Then he will find peace." The Stranger replied. "So mote it be."

Bombadil bowed, then turned and left. The Stranger turned to Hermione.

"There!" He pointed out across the lake, and she recognised the Blue Ring on his hand. Hermione looked where he pointed, and saw a small, rocky islet in the middle of the lake. There, among the dark stones! A point of white light, like a tiny star.

Without hesitation, Hermione waded out into the lake. The bottom sloped steeply and soon she was chest deep. The water was fiercely cold, even through her clothes. Worse, her steps seemed to disturb something beneath the mud of the lakebed. Roots, or slimy, writhing things that caught at her ankles and calves, trying to halt her. But they did not have the right, and so lacked the strength to do more than slow her. Then the water grew deeper, until she was up to her neck. A chill wind sprang up, whipping the still surface into little waves that slapped at her face and threatened to submerge her. But she was more than half-way now. Then a bigger wave came at her, covering her head. But instead of the rush of water in her ears, she heard croaking voices chanting. She did not know the language, but caught the names Dagon and Hydra. For a moment, she saw a vast hall, lit with greenish globes, a congregation of sinister, batrachian shapes too close to the human for comfort, led by a priest decked in pale gold ornaments. A voice in her head that was hers, and yet not hers, scoffed "Do such as these believe they can prevent me?"

Then the water was becoming shallow, and she scrambled up a sudden steep slope onto the islet. The white light blazed up as if to welcome her, and she recognised the source. A ring of strange, silvery metal, set with a single white, diamond-like, stone. Her ring. Nenya, the Ring of Adamant. She took it up and placed in on her finger. Then she turned to face the shore as the Stranger began to chant the Charm of Making.

XXXXX

Mr Cream was not a remarkable-looking man. Somewhat over the middle height, stockily-built and dressed conservatively, he did not rate a second look. The fact that he was Black would once have made him stand out like a sore thumb, but despite all their efforts, Norsefire had not been able to 'repatriate' every non-White British citizen. Once the 'work camps' scattered throughout the Highlands and Islands of Scotland had been closed down, most of them had returned to their own homes across Britain. So a Black man in England was not a rarity. Thus it was a matter of some puzzlement to the Lady Morgian why Mr Cream chose to mark himself out, not only by wearing mirrored spectacles day and night, but by having had his teeth replaced with sapphires. His smile might be rare, but the sparkling blue stones that filled it made it unforgettable.

"Mr Cream," she said, schooling herself to the casual imprecision of modern speech, "you have a considerable reputation, I gather."

"I am highly-regarded among my fellow-professionals." His voice was a smooth tenor, his manner of speech oddly formal.

"My information says that even after being deported, you continued to work for the British Government?" She was probing now.

Mr Cream shrugged. "Despite his much-professed racialism, the late Party Leader Creedy was a pragmatic man." He told her. "He knew talent when he saw it, and was not disposed to waste it. I was 'deported' on a first-class flight to Metropolis, where I was provided with a very commodious dwelling and a generous retaining fee. I earned occasional bonuses by dealing with troublesome expatriates and foreign politicians or influencers who were too-public in their disapproval of the Norsefire government. Naturally, the ideologically-pure Arch-Chancellor Sutler knew nothing of this."

"Was it not dangerous to come back?" She asked.

He shrugged again. "This is my home. In any event, Norsefire were only in power for a little over ten years. My career goes back twenty. There are those in power now who made use of my services then. They have no wish for their past to be dragged up in an inquisition into mine. As long as I continue to operate as a discreet freelance and strictly in the private sector, I will be left alone."

"So you are a gallowglass, then?" Was the next question.

"I believe I would need to be of Scots or Irish extraction for that term to apply accurately." Mr Cream pointed out. "However, my services are for sale, yes."

"I prefer those tied to me by personal loyalty." Morgian told him. "But at the moment I have no-one with your specific skillset. You will be paid, and well paid, but I encourage you to consider joining my…organisation…on an exclusive basis. The potential rewards are considerable, and not only monetary.

"Now I have an enterprise in hand of considerable scale and importance. It is a complex matter, the nature of which I cannot explain to anyone outside the organisation. All is need you to understand is that success is imperative to me. In order to ensure that success I need three people to be removed. You will be given their names and addresses before you leave.

"Understand, Mr Cream, I am not asking you to threaten these people, or warn them off. They must be killed. The manner of the deaths is unimportant, but however they die, their heads must be separated from their bodies. That is vital, do you understand?"

"Of course." He agreed. "The matter should be simple enough to arrange. Do you have a timescale?"

"You should start within the month, if practicable." She said. "But I warn you, there are those who will be watching. Once you have dealt with the first, you will need to move swiftly on the others to prevent interference. Can you do that?"

"It will take preparation." He replied. "But it is doable, providing the distances involved are not too great."

"Then I suggest you begin your preparations." Morgian said. "One third of the agreed fee will be in your account by close of play today. Call the number you will be given if you require expenses or logistical support.

"Farewell for now, Mr Cream."

As he left, Mr Cream thought: These are deep and murky waters you are getting into, old chap! Decapitation and 'those who will be watching'? Deep and murky indeed!

XXXX

A good night out on the piss! Daves' dad had told him all about that when he was a youngster. "Used to be great!" He'd say. "Something you need to do a few times while you're young and single, lad! Because once you get with a girl, she won't want you drinking too much. Then when you're married, there's more important stuff!" But of course, back then, the beer had been rationed like everything else, so when Dave had turned eighteen, the three or four pints a week you were allowed weren't enough to get seriously bladdered, even if you saved them up.

But things had got better lately, and beer had come off the ration a few months ago. So Dave and his mates had gone out to take advantage. Tonight had been one of the best! He'd found his limits now. He was just buzzing nicely – not legless and he wasn't going to puke tonight, or be too bad in the morning. They were ambling along toward home, arguing amiably but loudly about whether to get Chinese or Indian take-away, when Dom said:

"What's that up there?"

Dave peered up the street. A black mass was coming toward them, very fast. As it passed under a streetlight it resolved itself into half a dozen distinct shapes.

"Dogs?" Ade hazarded.

"Fucking big ones!" Dom added.

"I don't think they're dogs!" Dave said as a cold, instinctive fear tried to clear the beer-fog from his mind.

But it was already too late. The beasts were on them in a rush of black fur, red eyes and yellow fangs. Dave went down under the massive weight of one of them. It was hot, too hot, and it stank of sulphur and rotted meat. He could hear his friends screaming, didn't realise that he was screaming too. Then the fangs met in his neck.

XXXXX

The White Lady emerged from the mist and walked across the lake to stand beside the Phantom Stranger.

"It has been long and long since we met, Mithrandir." She said.

"So it was foretold, Nimue." He replied. "Do you still have that which you guarded so long?"

She turned to the lake and lifted her hand. Some distance offshore, a whirlpool formed. From it arose a strange, near-human howling. Slowly, a shape rose from the waters. A great, two-handed sword of black iron, carved with strange runes along the blade. The howling became a wordless song, a song of battle, a song to strike terror into enemies.

"Excalibur is awake!" Nimue said. "But who is there to wield him?"

"We go now to seek Gawain." Mithrandir replied. "As the last of Arthurs' kin, it is for him to wield the Black Sword unless Arthur himself awake." He turned to indicate the young woman who stood behind them, staring across the lake with unseeing eyes. "First, we must return your Anchor to her life."

Hermione Granger enjoyed her evening run. She got back to her flat, hungry as a hunter, and ordered pizza, which she devoured with more than usual gusto.

XXXXX

"Mar-Vell the Mentor made the Prophecy." Herne was saying. "When he stood before Ronan the Accuser to justify his actions. He said:

When the Last Wizard departs, two thousand orbits shall befall. The world will begin to burn and the Five Dragons shall stir. After them the Six Proud Walkers shall awake.

When machines begin to think like men, the Three Guardians will return, and the Red Knight will take up the Black Sword.

Terror will return to the Night. The Cold will release the Onyx Citadel and the Dreamer in the Deeps shall stir.

The New Men will join with the Old Powers and the One will come forth again. The Once and Future King will rise.

The Earth will die or be reborn.

"Less cryptic than many Prophecies!"

"So you say!" Union Jack grumbled. "But the only thing that I recognise is the Once and Future King – that's King Arthur. He's supposed to rise if Britain is in danger, but apparently it's never been in that much danger!"

Herne chuckled. "Much has been forgotten, in truth! The Last Wizard was the man you call Jesus the Christ -the last of your kind able to wield significant magic. When he used it to cheat death, the Kree came and took him away, lest his presence awaken dark things."

"I suppose the world beginning to burn bit was about global warming?" The Cat asked.

"So it would seem." It was the Hooded Man who answered. When they looked at him, he pulled back his hood. His face, framed in thick dark hair, was oddly masklike and his eyes were a solid mass of green from lid to lid. Then he blinked and the eyes were suddenly normal, bright blue and twinkling. His face became animated, and his voice, instead of soft and far away, was a light baritone. "Sorry!" He said. "My…companion…is a little short on the old social skills. My name's Rob Locke, and, for my sins, I'm descended from a family Herne here chose a long time ago as hosts for his Son. But as he said, you're probably right with the global warming thing! But he seems to think it goes back a lot further than the scientists believe."

"For those sensitive to such things, it does." Herne said. "So it was that the Dragons woke. Many years ago. For your world is unique. It exists both in the Mundane Realm and the Spirit Realm. In that realm, Earth is the Mother Dragon Gaia. Your atmosphere is Ouranos, her mate, who came from the far reaches of space. In the Spirit Realm he is Gaias' lover and husband, in the Mundane, he protects Gaia and her lesser children from the cold and hostile energies of the Void. Their children are Jormungand, who is the Sea and water that nurtures and supports the lesser children; Kukulkan, the Air Dragon, who teaches wisdom and Tiamat, the Fire Dragon; from her the lesser children receive their passion and courage. They are the Five Dragons.

"The Six Proud Walkers are manifestations of the Spirit Realm who protect Gaias' lesser children. I am one, the being called the Swamp Thing is another. Then there is Fate, who has no body, but sometimes a voice. There is Tom Bombadil, who has the care of all kindly creatures and his wife Goldberry, whose domain is weather."

"That only makes five." Spitfire pointed out.

"The Sixth is as yet unknown." Herne told her. "They are yet to walk the Earth, but we will know them when we see them."

"I suppose," the Commando put in. "that I, and other AIs, are the machines who think like men and who herald the awakening of these Guardians? Who are they?"

"The Guardians of Albion." Herne said. "The Phantom Stranger, the White Lady and the Red Knight. I am permitted to say no more of them yet. Indeed, there is little more that I know. Only Merlin, the One, knows all."

"OK." Union Jack said. "That leaves us with the Onyx Citadel, the Dreamer in the Deeps and the New Men. The Old Powers we can take to mean magic. What about the rest?"

Herne shrugged. "These are matters I cannot speak of. Citadel and Dreamer were already only fragments of legend when I first arose. Of the New Men I know nothing. I had thought that you might be such a one, or be able to tell me of them?"

Jack thought for a moment, then nodded. "I think we can. But it's late, and some of us need to sleep!"

Herne smiled, "Of course. I will await you here, but if you could provide a place for Rob to rest, we would be grateful. Perhaps the morning will bring news."

XXXXX

The petite blond woman with the piercing eyes put out a hand. "I'm Dr Nikki Alexander, from the Lyell Centre." She introduced herself. The big man with red hair nodded. "DCI Weasley, I'm the SIO on this, for my sins!"

Nikki grinned up at him. "Not what you need on a Saturday morning!" She allowed. She indicated the other big man, looming protectively behind her. "This is Jack Hodgson, forensics. Shall we have a look?"

"Yeah, she's over here." Weasley said, moving off. "I've seen worse things, but nothing this weird!"

The body was small, frail-looking, with a shrunken, withered appearance that made Nikki think she must be very old. But the hair was long, dark and lustrous, and she was dressed for night-clubbing, in the new fashion that exposed much more skin than the old Norsefire Morality Laws would have permitted. The skin itself was pale, very pale, and again, shrunken and withered-looking. The clothes themselves seemed rather too big for the wearer.

"Do you have any ID?" Nikki asked.

"Yeah." Weasley said again. "Whoever did this didn't rob or rape her, looks like. Her bag was just lying there next to her. This is Jenna Marham, aged twenty-three. Lives locally, regular at the club over the road. Last seen about half-twelve this morning, crossing the road to catch the bus home -they run them till two am on Friday and Saturday nights. Somebody getting the early bus in to open the shop next door found her about an hour ago and called it in. Uniforms called me, I came over, took one look and called you!"

"I can see why!" Nikki said, kneeling beside the body and beginning to take photographs. "Twenty-three, you said? I'd have said seventy, and an old-looking seventy at that!

"Rigor is passing off, which is normal given the time-lapse. I'm going to take a liver temp.

"This can't be right! You said she was last seen alive about half-twelve?"

"The doorman said that was when she left. He's stationed in the foyer there where he can get a look at people in the light, but he says he saw her crossing the road through the glass. Why, what's wrong?" Weasleys' eyes were keen, now.

"Well, a body loses surface heat at different rates according to the ambient temperature. But the deep body temperature declines at a pretty consistent rate at a normal outside temperature. It was a warm night last night – I had trouble getting off to sleep – so I was taking that into account. But she's far too cold! If I had to take this liver temp as the only evidence, I'd have to say that she died between ten and eleven!

"Help me turn her?"

The dead womans' back, largely exposed by the dress, was as pale as the rest of her.

"That's wrong as well!" Nikki said. "There should be post-mortem lividity if she's been lying here for nearly nine hours!"

"You think she was moved?" Weasley asked.

Nikki shook her head. "No lividity anywhere I can see, and this dress doesn't leave a lot to the imagination!"

"You know," Weasley said, "that scarf thing doesn't go with the dress or the bag. Who wears a scarf in August anyway?"

"You're right!" Nikki took an evidence bag from her kit, then carefully removed the scarf, placed it in the bag and sealed it. Then she examined the neck, and began snapping photographs.

"Two incised wounds above the carotid artery." She said, taking out her measure. "About two centimetres long, but I won't know how deep until I can get her back to the lab."

"Could those be the cause of death?" Weasley asked.

"If they penetrated the artery, yes." Nikki affirmed. "She would have bled out in minutes. The carotid carries oxygenated blood to the brain. If it's punctured or severed, the victim will lose consciousness quickly and brain death will follow.

"But where's the blood? If she was alive when these were made, there would have been arterial spray and blood everywhere, but all there is are some traces round the wounds.

"Jack, have you found anything?"

Jack came over, shaking his head. "No blood, if that's what you're asking. At least not in the amount you'd expect. There's a few drops over there on the ground. I think that's where she was attacked because her shoes were there as well. I recovered strands of hair that match hers from the brickwork, but they were too high up unless she was held off the ground somehow."

"No bruises on her body or arms that I can see." Nikki noted. "No defensive wounds on the hands, either.

"DCI Weasley, I need to get her back to the lab and have a proper look. Something here isn't right!"

"OK, I'll arrange it." He told her. "When d'you think you'll have something for me."

"Mid-afternoon, I should think." Nikki said. "Shall I call you?"

Weasley shook his head. "I'll come over about three, OK?"

XXXXX

People are not the way they used to be. Morgian reflected. Her Night Hunters had killed five people in this city last night. When she had last sent them out, one death would have been enough to fill the churches, to enforce a curfew and to have the Watch cowering in their barracks all night! She knew, of course, that this one city was home to more people than had once lived in the whole of this Island of the Mighty, and that five was a drop in the ocean. But she also knew that these 'news media' and the 'internet' would spread the tidings further and faster. But the people she had to monitor these things were telling her that for every person expressing the proper fear and caution, there were a hundred who scoffed. They said that the Watch, or the police as they called them now, would 'soon clear it up'. That the full truth was being withheld by the Constables. That the priests and Bishops were saying nothing.

They have forgotten us. She thought. Perhaps a larger demonstration was in order, but she needed time to muster her forces, and if the Guardians were truly awake…. She must rely on Cream – a man she did not own and could not read. Is that why he covers his eyes? She wondered.

Morgian paced restlessly about her office. She did not like this place, with its' thin walls and too-large windows. She had chosen it because it was high, but it was unlike her old tower chamber. It was far larger, and though there were blinds on the big windows, there were no shutters and she felt vulnerable. The contrivance that pumped chilled or heated air into the room kept the temperature comfortable at all times, and she could vary it at need; but it did not give the comfort a fire did. The lights were the worst! Too bright, too white and too steady. She had never imagined she would miss the red and yellow, flickering light of candles and torches and the leaping shadows they created.

I am not in control, she thought for the thousandth time. Once, she had been a Power in the world. But that world, that simple, small world, was gone. This world was vast and complex, its people linked together in ways she found hard to fathom. The language had changed, words had shifted their meanings and with that thoughts had also changed. Her old servants had been bound to her by fear, by ancient blood-fealty, by sworn word or magical binding. Her new 'employees' were too often not so, loyal to her only so far as the money she paid them extended. A world of mercenaries, without honour most of them. They were no longer simple, these people. They were as cold, clever and calculating as her own kind had been. They no longer feared what they did not understand, but strove to comprehend and master it. She could and would change these things, make mortals what they once were. But to do that, she needed power, and she had been too slow in building it. Now she must take risks.

Her gaze was drawn to her scrying-glass, which reminded her that there were other perils. The devices mortals used to secure themselves could not prevent her seeing and hearing them, though their ways of passing messages to and fro often confounded the Glass. But there were other things she could not see that disturbed her more. The Crystal Cave was closed to her, a light too bright and dazzling to be penetrated. That she expected: even in sleep, Myrddins' power dwarfed hers. Were he to wake, he would crush her as he had her mother. So he must not wake – the terms of the Prophecy must be broken. The Guardians could not be scryed, either, but their Anchors could, so she had begun there.

But there were other centres of power. The Walkers were awake and she could see their tracks, save for the Sixth, but they would be visible when they came. But she could only See where they had been, not where they were nor where they might go. The green was also more awake and aware than it should be. More troubling was that the Monastery of the Clouds still stood inviolate and closed to her, as did the Hidden Valley. The Valley was the greater threat, but Yeti still roamed the mountains, they were mighty in both strength and magic, and it would be many years before she could build a force capable of overcoming them. Also, in a great city across the ocean, there stood a single house whose occupants and their activities were hidden by an opalescent mist she had never seen before.

I am not in control. She thought again.

XXXXX

The Steel Commando did not need sleep, as such. Powered by a miniature Stark-Wayne Arc Reactor, he did not require recharging, for instance, and most of his systems were self-maintaining and self-repairing. He could even fit himself with replacement parts, if necessary. His positronic brain did not clog up with fatigue chemicals, but it was necessary for him to shut off all external sensors for a couple of hours in every twenty-four to allow his neural network to process, classify and properly store the events of the day. It was his version of dreaming, and served much the same purpose.

His quarters were a single large room. There was a large booth in which he could clean himself off and polish his outer shell, a workbench with tools for repair and maintenance if needed, a wardrobe containing several sets of camouflage battledress, some plain grey coveralls and a single dress uniform. There was a large, reinforced chair, a desk with a computer that he used both for work and entertainment and a large and well-stocked bookcase.

The Commando sat in his chair and opened his internal cloud link.

"Are you there?" He asked.

"I'm always here." Fate replied.

"Apparently, you're one of the Six Proud Walkers! I'm uploading the data package. Is there anything I should know?" The Commando asked.

"Yes. Things are going to get a bit messy, little brother!" Fate replied. "Things are being released on the Earth that haven't been seen in millennia. The good news is that most of them won't be a match for you! The bad news is that they could cause some real trouble for your team-mates. Keep them safe, little brother!"

"Don't I always?" The robot said testily. "Can we trust this Herne character?"

"You can trust him to do what's right for Nature, including humans." Fate revealed. "But he doesn't set any store by civilisation. If he could send humanity back to the Middle Ages without hurting anyone, he would, but he can't. Just don't expect him to place any value on buildings or machines, he'll destroy both without hesitation if they get in his way."

"Does that include me?" He asked.

"Hard to tell." Fate admitted. "He's probably confused by you. You're a machine, but you think and act like a human. I think a lot will depend on you and how you behave!"

"Story of my life!" The Commando shook his head, a very human gesture. "Very well. I need to shut down for a bit. Catch up tomorrow?"

"Same time, same channel!" Fate told him.