Dead Man's Tale

by Faux Ray

A Korpsman, who has spent his entire life honing the art of death, is transported to a world full of life and without an Emperor to guide him. With no foreseeable way to return, he is forced to cooperate with an odd crew of criminals and antiheroes to unravel the mysteries behind his coming to this brand-new world.

7. Chapter 4: All is His Palace

If you have nothing to live for, what will you die for? If you have nothing to die for, what is your life for?

---

Breathing hurt. He was breathing too hard. His lungs were working muscles that no longer needed to strain as much as they did to get the oxygen he required. His heart pounded in his chest, slow and calm, but hard, a light hammer against his ribs, almost uncomfortable, and he would swear he could feel his blood flowing in his veins. His eyes pulsed with every faux palpitation, the edges of his vision brightening and dimming against the frequency. It was disjointed. The adrenaline and heart rate that usually accompanied such forceful heartbeats were missing. His actual joints ached but he felt light. Light and lightheaded from a head that was too full.

Still, it was better than yesterday, where the floor constantly shifted around him and nausea threatened to beat his stomach through his mouth. He was still dizzy but it was easier to ignore now. His legs were too tense and his fingers were too sensitive. None of that was why he woke up. He woke up because he was still in a combat cycle and he got his three hours.

No. That wasn't quite right either.

He woke up because he was blinded and burned by something, boiling and blistering his soul with heat so intense it felt cold and comfortable like a victim of hypothermia losing the last indications of his sanity.

He couldn't remember what gave him that feeling.

It was not a good sleep regardless and that meant lowered efficiency. He could feel the fatigue in his bones and his eyes were stinging against his heavy eyelids.

He had slept against the back left corner of the room from the door, curled up against it, his hellgun tucked between his knees and his chest, his lasgun leaning against the wall to his right, and his meltagun sitting snug against the back wall to his left. His right leg was braced against the table he pushed close to himself, offering cover against an ambush. He rose slowly but that still sent him stumbling forward, recoil in his legs to prepare him to rise against a pressure that was no longer present. Black dug into his vision from the peripheral, blossoming petals against the muted dawn of nautical twilight. His brain felt light and his head felt heavier. His spine unfolded and he held back a groan. Fully erect, he mentally checked his body. He tensed and relaxed, stretching in place without stretching, warming up his body for sudden combat. He picked up his lasgun and slung both weapons on his back.

There was a twitch of discomfort and he adjusted his body and trousers as he waited for his blood flow in his lower body to regain some normalcy, uncaring of the sheer biological noise that presented itself in the early pre-morning.

Jeneth almost sighed. Almost.

This was Terra and yet it fought him. How utterly ironic to think about. So he decided to no longer think about it at the moment.

He looked around the room.

The carpeted floor was dirtied with tracks of dust and mud; he was surprisingly clean, he thought to himself, for a soldier who just fought daemons of disease—he had no doubt he and everyone else would have already succumbed to corruption if traces of the enemy had followed him. The desk was moved, its useless items strewn about the floor. The bed was untouched. The curtains were pulled back so he could access the external situation at any time. The wardrobe, empty, was open so he had access to the entire room. The bathroom was explored. It remained unused as of now. In short, this was not a good place to sleep. But it might have been a decent place for something else; he stored water in the tub in preparation.

It had been cold, but his coat and tunic protected him.

Jeneth looked at the company standard, bowing his head and making the Aquila, then muttered a short morning prayer of dedication and reinvigoration. He had decided it was not necessary to lug the heavy weapon around on his leg but realized he had no way of securing the weapon. Debating the scenario with himself for a considerable amount of time, almost an entire minute, he lugged the meltagun to the wardrobe and set up a Screamer. Then he shut the door. After that would be the time to replenish himself with a quick ration, rations the rest of the regiment took when they retreated. Dead men had no need for food. But he was not dead, so it was up to himself to procure more, which, in turn, meant reconnaissance.

Jeneth walked to the door. Moving was so easy. Too easy without the force on his back. He would not say he missed the pressure, but he might think that it was odd without it. Moving properly, however, was practically difficult. A slight overstep here. An over rotation there. Every movement had to be made more deliberate than usual. Jeneth successfully made it to the door, opened it, and walked out.

The first thing he noticed were the guards on both sides of the corridor who were decidedly not present when the ganger group initially escorted him up. He noted their existence, assessed their capabilities, and moved on.

The guards did not. Every one, briefed on him while he slept, made sure to keep an eye out on the stranger, viewing him with a mixture of distrust and a nonzero amount of awe, for while Jeneth was a soldier of a far-flung future, his battle dress made him look manifestly archaic, like a barbarian warrior from the past. His brass buttons, dirtied, still shined apart from the rest of his dark blue magenta overcoat, while the black olive tunic, mousy indigo trousers, and beige wrappings over black boots put him right in the middle of World War One. The keen-eyed among the hired help might note the black belt, silver buckle, brown straps, and black gloves. Some of them might even admire the black stitching and red lining of the overcoat.

The second floor seemed to be mostly bedrooms of equally extravagant yet different designs. It was an extended labyrinth. Some of them were large. Some of them were small. Some of them had panes making up external walls. Some of them had no windows at all. Some of them were marble and ivory. Some of them were wood and brick. There was no architectural consistency, relying on a sort of messy symbiosis.

To Jeneth, it was all an equal waste of space. The sleeping area of the second floor could have been condensed into a tenth of the space, converted into rows of bunks, with the rest used for storage and training. He mentally parked choke points, staircases, hasty exits, possible entries, and where temporary fortifications could be placed in case of an enemy incursion. The one thing the second floor had going for it was the confusing layout.

The third floor was where the guards stationed in the house slept and worked when they were not on rotation. There was a security center and an armory. There was a large meeting room with cogitators, databanks, and seats, things he found quite normal for the household guard, only, they were not the household guard to some lord, but the private security of some wealthy individual. But he was not aware of any social distinction, of course. There were gates and grates and crates. Jeneth felt more at home there. He thought about commandeering a bunk later. Maybe he could just take a bunk instead. If not, he might as well sleep outside.

The fourth floor was recreational. There were screens, for picts and what have you, green tables with colorful balls and sticks, no doubt used for mental acuity training—angles, positioning, long-range strategy, et cetera—some local variation of regicide, tables for card games and other tabletop entertainment, an assortment of soft seats, and, God-Emperor withhold His praise for these men for their tiniest bit of adeptness, a gym. There was also a food service area, holding more than enough recaf to drown an army. Nothing there was of any true nutritional value, but Jeneth grabbed a couple of items just in case. There were energy drinks in the refrigeration unit. Nothing like the stimms he was used to seeing. He deigned to grab a couple of those and put them in his supply pack too for later testing. None of those off duty there made a move to stop him, but he could feel their hostility, which confused him. They only got angry after he touched the food.

There was also a patio, not to act as overwatch, but instead holding a miniature pool and accompanying tools. Not even planetary governors were so kind to their personal troop, though Jeneth thought—doubtful—that it may even be for underwater preparedness. Jeneth wondered why this 'Rich Bitch' bothered with all these luxuries. As far as he knew, 'Bitch' was used by the enemy, civilians, and other regiments as an insult, but it was not uncommon, he learned, for it to be a term of endearment among comrades closer than his. Perhaps they used the term 'bitch' motherly, he thought idly, as females of canine races are referred to colloquially. He stamped the thought out. An idle mind was an undisciplined mind. Instead, he redirected his focus back to reconnaissance and took the time to study both analog and digital clocks, confirming that the measurement of time in this world was the same as he knew. He referenced that to the length of the day and night cycle, further confirming his hypothesis.

645.012.M3.

0.645.012.M3. He was on Terra.

The fifth floor was off-limits to him. The guards stationed here had some kind of rudimentary flak armor, their stubbers rifle length instead of short carbines or machine pistols the others carried.

The ground floor held nothing of interest. An enormous kitchen. A theater of sorts. The living room. The lower levels, apart from the shinier-than-all-the-stars-in-the-void dungeon, were also off limits to him, most likely where the more subversive actions of this particular assembly were done that they did not trust him with yet.

Of course, none of the others in the particular group he was supposed to be working with was awake. He did not expect them to be, given their nature as lowly criminal scum, so he was not disappointed, merely realistic acceptance of subpar performance. With what he could realistically see inside of the main estate surveyed, he walked outside to do a perimeter check. The sky was of a shade not too dissimilar to pale tau skin. The sun would be rising and, catching the last moments of the stars, he thought to himself that his comrades would be partaking in voluntary shipborne training exercises right about now. It would soon be morning twilight, and he would then witness his first sunrise on Terra. To that end, that being the start of a proper planetary rotation, he needed to know the extent of the estate and where the other buildings were so that he could prepare defenses and fortifications. His demands for blueprints and a geological map were denied. It was better for him to do it by eye anyway.

When he took a step further his paths crossed with someone else coming in. The man had a cane in one hand and a lit lho-stick in the other. Jeneth assumed the cripple was some clerk or other administrative adept, otherwise out of place in the estate. The man paused, looking Jeneth up and down, crinkling his nose at the smell of chemicals. "You're up early," the man said, voice gruff.

Jeneth, noting his own muted surprise, realized this was the man in the primitive power armor from last night, evidentially necessary due to his lame leg. He approved of the man's initiative but refused to commend him in any way for being a cut above the rest of his ilk by doing the bare minimum and waking up on time.

He had not expected somebody so old. No, upon further review, he only looked older, though he was only about twice Jeneth's own age. Still, that alone, to Jeneth, was already ancient.

What he failed to notice was that Fredric had not slept at all. After Charles had avoided him when the group disbanded for the night, Fredric had no one but the stars to voice his concerns to. Waves of frustration continued to plague him throughout the night and Charles would find himself hounded with silent curses the next time he needed a spot of luck. He looked at Jeneth walk by him wordlessly, apparently not taking note of his greeting at all. A little curious and a little peeved, Fredric fell in line with him with some effort. "You smoke," Fredric asked, a most mundane attempt at trying to break the ice.

"Negative."

Jeneth had seen members of other regiments smoke them often enough, forming a mild spirit of inquiry as to why these other regiments, from the backwater to the hardiest, would allow their members to take an addictive narcotic that might have even been detrimental to combat readiness. Were the lho-sticks some type of combat drug, Jeneth would not mind at all. Some of the Death Korps might even use them if that were the case, though it would not be popular, as was any stimulant to the rest of Krieg's regiments. Otherwise, subcutaneous injectors of such nature were customarily reserved for the Death Riders. If the practice of smoking lho-sticks were not so widespread and the regulations regarding it were not so varied, and if, in the end, the narcotic were not harmless enough, the Death Korps might have taken up summarily executing those that engaged in such recreation on-duty for dereliction.

Still, he was witness to Commissar Bane partaking from time to time, so perhaps it could be reluctantly acceptable.

Birds sang their choir, carried by the temperate breeze of the midsummer morning of the north, cut through by the rhythmic crunch of leather on stone, polyrhythmic to the singular tapping of a cane. Fredric glanced at Jeneth, so out of place, like a beacon wherever he went, which would be ironic, given the fact that the Death Korps would not consider their bearings to be standout. The muffled breathing through a mask only served to further unnerve Fredric. Maybe Jeneth did not exist at all and Fredric was hallucinating after a particularly bad night with the suit, and his brain dropped him into a slasher film with an obvious villain. Fredric looked up into the sky and then back at Jeneth. "You know. If Poker-Face wasn't shielding this place from eyes in the sky with his al… techno voodery, you might attract the wrong kind of attention, being out in the open and dressed the way you are."

Jeneth rounded on Fredric. "Witch?"

Techsorcery and heresy were not his ration of choice. What he would not do for backup.

"What? No. No, that's… figure of speech. I, it's not actual machine magic."

Shame. A techpriest would be useful right about now. Jeneth moved on. Fredric sighed. They continued to walk.

"Were you fighting? Before you got here."

"Yes."

Fredric grunted.

He was hungry.

He wanted to go to sleep.

The two of them continued along the path, with Fredric increasingly asking himself why he thought it was wise to follow the strange demented fanatic, until Jeneth started to turn onto the grass. With that, Fredric looked down at his legs and decided it was finally time to make use of this opportunity. "Hey!" Fredric called.

Jeneth paused, making a heel-face turn. Fredric saw that it was shaky. Barely, but enough to know that Jeneth was not up to par. There was silence. Jeneth waited and Fredric hesitated in the face of a death mask boring into his soul. "Why are you fighting?" Fredric settled for as he limped himself over to Jeneth's side, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

It was the only thing he could think of at the moment. He was in pain and impatient and he thought some intellectual exchange could help deaden his mind, supplementary to the heavy dose of nicotine he poured down his lungs. He thought it might also help wave away some of that fog around the dimensional traveller that clouded his perception of him. That and the actual brain fog, Fredric thought. Jeneth, on the other hand, thought Fredric was a little slow. He had already explained last night. "To atone," Jeneth said finally, "in servi-"

"No," Fredric interrupted. "Why here? Why for this world?"

"To combat the Archenemy."

"Sure, everyone fights to fight the enemy. But neither of those are what's making you do this so eagerly. So. Why?"

Jeneth went silent again. He had not expected this moment to arrive so soon. He was unprepared to be called upon to defend his thesis which he formed without the guidance of a superior. That cold feeling came back again, trickling down his spine, one he could not identify nor properly quash. He found himself attempting to swallow to clear his throat. "For the Emperor," Jeneth said slowly as if tasting the words. "For Terra."

Fredric nodded cautiously, glancing at the eastern horizon. A gradient of orange and yellow started to wash the darkness into a brighter gradient of blues. "So, a sentimental thing? Your Terra, our Earth, same name, so you gotta do it for… honor?"

"Negative."

Honor. So many people fought for honor. Jeneth wondered how many of the Skiparians fought for the honor of their homeworld instead of the Light of the Emperor.

Fredric waited. He looked back over, seeing Jeneth unmoving, staring straight ahead. "Hello?" A rotation of the head in his direction, as slight as a twitch, that could have been a trick of the eye, was all he got in response. He stared into the blood-red lenses, blushing pink against the rising light, to find no trace of anything but a broken sliver of himself. Fredric looked away. "Why are you fighting," Fredric repeated.

Jeneth continued to stay silent. Fredric wondered if he had touched on a particular point of tension.

Behind his mask, Jeneth examined Fredric again, spinning the ghost of words he thought he knew through the trench lines in his head. Another thought quietly crept up the lines taking advantage of the confusion, deceptively unrelated.

There was no difference between the Vatborn and the Trueborn on Krieg. In the violent ferocity of war, everyone fought and died the same. But he suddenly could not help but wonder if there was a difference between him and the man next to him, a Trueborn Terran, even if this was a different Terra.

"This trooper is His soldier. And the Ruinous Powers are His archenemy."

Fredric let a trail of smoke seep from his mouth as he exhaled for a couple of seconds straight. He brought the cigarette to his lips, not knowing if he felt disappointment or understanding. The butt of the smoke stick hung in the air as he thought about his next question. Inhale, exhale. He took a drag, grit his teeth, and then took the plunge.

"Your God-Emperor. He's real then?" Jeneth bristled, his left hand instinctively clasping the underbarrel of his rifle. "Hey," Fredric cautioned, pointing his cigarette at him. "Just… Wait." Fredric took a deep breath of fresh air in. "Listen to me. Because, God. We have… God here on Earth. And you have to have faith in Him, believe that He sits up in Heaven because, definitively, there's no way to know He actually exists."

Of course. It was not unusual for any world to develop religion independently of the Ecclesiarchy. It was almost a given that this planet would have its own order of properly worshipful heretics. But, as this was technically an undiscovered world in his books, he only filed them for reeducation, not extermination, making a mental note to research their god later, so as to better facilitate integration.

"It is said He created the world," Fredric continued, mildly aware of the danger he was putting himself in by espousing the teachings of one religion in front of a militant zealot dogmatic to another. "Him and His angels." Jeneth perked up. "He created the Garden of Eden, paradise for the first humans to live in, Adam and Eve. But Eve was corrupted, tricked by the Devil into gaining forbidden knowledge, and got them both kicked out. Well, after that, humans had to struggle, until He sent his son, Jesus Christ, to gather true believers to help guide humanity out of the pit they dug themselves into, before he was betrayed by a traitor disciple, crucified to bear the burden of all the sins of mankind, and ascended to heaven… three? days later."

Fredric wondered how much of his abridged version of Christian theology made any sense to the masked man from Krieg when, suddenly, Jeneth fell to his knees, his hands an Aquila against his chest, his head bowed as he prayed in a tongue Fredric could not understand. It was something consonant-heavy, firm, and assertive, but not quite taking on the expected harsh or guttural aspects one might expect. Instead, it was exaggerated and lofty. It was deliberate and measured, sneaking in bits but overall lacking in fluidity and musicality, like an oratory march. For someone who was emotionless, Jeneth was overcome with some type of emotion. Fredric blew out some smoke. "What, I taint your head with too much unacceptable blasphemy or some shit?"

Jeneth finished his prayer and stood up, not bothering to answer. Fredric shrugged, annoyed. His opinion of Jeneth had not worsened but it did not get any better. "Well, anyway, I don't know what you're going to do. I don't know what you hope to do, or what we might do because I think I know what they will. Felecia might leave. Charles too. Celeste… ehagh. Now… DeMarr.

Good boy. For what you said, he probably will with that damn big hero heart of his. But everyone else? This isn't why the team came together… and they're selfish people. Your stakes are too big. And they're too small. You're probably better off going to the Avengers or some."

"Irrelevant. You must fight."

"Why? Because it's the end of the world? Hate to break it to you, that's been the way for years with everything going on on this planet, and with those people, I doubt they care."

"Negative. You will fight because you are Man," Jeneth rasped. "You are His subjects."

"What?"

There. It was all out in the open. The thesis that he could not defend earlier now left his lips in certainty. Excitement was coursing through Jeneth's blood, unfamiliar but welcome. He knew his purpose was correct now. All the worry seemed to wash away from him.

"Sorry to break it to you," Fredric said, "but your Empire doesn't exist in this universe."

"Negative. You are misinformed. Your religious recitation is not simple blasphemy borne of ignorance. It is a distorted retelling of our history."

Fredric ran what he said in his head, wondering where he messed up enough to come to this misunderstanding. He gave up. "How?"

"The Dark Age of Technology was a period of great achievement and power; this is the Garden of Eden. Chaos corruption destroyed our galactic harmony. Humanity fell prey to the temptations of arcane weapons and Abominable Intelligence." Fredric blinked. "This is the Eve and the forbidden knowledge. Xenos preyed on the divided human worlds and Psykers, vulnerable to the Warp, opened the gateway for Daemons; this is the struggle. The Emperor sent His Sons on the Great Crusade with all of His Angels to reunite humanity. This is the finding of the flock. Lord Sanguinius, blessed be his name, is the Jesus Christ.

He is the martyr. Later betrayed and murdered by the Archtraitor, Horus." Jeneth thumbed his palm to ward off evil. "The Emperor, the God of Man, was forced to fight and was injured. Bearing our sins, He ascended to the Golden Throne. In His ascension, He became eternal, bound to watch over us, to guide us forever. This world… is His creation, lost to the Warp. The protection this planet has received is evidence. It is… the same faith."

It was Fredric's turn to be silent as Jeneth went through the reverberations of faith embraced, absolutely flabbergasted and stupefied. He was tempted to outright deny Jeneth's claims, but on a matter of religious truth, especially considering his apatheism, he had no ground to stand on. But then he thought about his visits to the church when he was young, then when he was hurt. He thought about the silence within the hallowed grounds, feeling the weight of every brick and dressed stone. He thought about God. "The God-Emperor exists, then."

"He watches over us all from Holy Terra."

"Say you're right. Then what is our world? A backup?"

Jeneth did not respond. He had conversed more in the past couple of hours than he did in an entire year back on Skipario.

"Uh-huh." Fredric flicked his cigarette onto the grass and stomped on it unsteadily. He reached into his pocket to grab another one. "If the God-Emperor sits on an actual throne on Earth… what part of that is faith?" That succeeded in getting Jeneth to turn his entire head, without reaching for his weapons this time. "You know he exists." Fredric brought out a lighter and ignited the tip of his smoke, replacing the zippo and taking a drag. "You see him. Physically. That's not faith or belief. That's just knowledge."

Jeneth broke his silence uncharacteristically quickly. "Knowledge that He exists… Faith… that His Light finds us."

Fredric grunted. He parted his lips and blew out smoke through closed teeth. "You know. Atrion exists outside of Earth too. It's a big fucking universe out there. And you're one man. What do you plan on doing?"

The duty that was apparent to every God-Emperor-loving faithful. "This trooper requires candles."

Fredric looked ahead at the horizon. The first rays of the sun peeked from beyond.

Sunrise, six nineteen, ante meridian.

"God loves us because He made us. Why does the Emperor care?"

"Because you are human."

Fredric looked at him. "Right… Let's get someone to get you some candles." Fredric walked off. He looked behind him, seeing Jeneth not moving. "Come along then."

Jeneth followed him.

Neither of them noticed the shadow behind them disappear.

---

It was a bright summer's day in Hell's Kitchen. A man and a woman sat in the booth of a diner, against the window, to the right of the door, enjoying a simple, if only a bit cliche, spot of breakfast. The people around them smiled and laughed and generally enjoyed the early Friday morning with the people they were dining with. Despite the general state of cheer of the diner, it was only a brief respite from the day-to-day. Most of the city had yet to recover from the battle a couple of months ago, scars of which were still visible. A majority of the major cleaning up was already done, with Damage Control clearing away much of the rubble—and alien technology—and business for the most part resumed as usual. But some people still flinched when they looked up into the sky and saw a spot just a bit too dark for their liking. Janice rested her face on her propped-up hand, a faint smile on her face as she looked across the table to Matthew, who had a much more pensive expression, his eyes focused on the city before him. She simpered, tilting her head further into her hands.

"I'm not pretty enough for you to look at?"

With a start, Matthew returned his attention back inside the diner. His hands reflexively continued their lackluster assault on the food on his plate. Blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and a healthy serving of bacon. "Sorry," Matthew said, smiling sheepishly.

Janice's smile faded into something lighter, something more understanding. She reached her other hand out to lay on top of his. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah," Matthew pulled a piece of pancake apart from the whole and slowly brought it to his lips. He inhaled. "He's worried," he said, putting the fork in his mouth.

"Are you?"

Matthew put the fork down, stalling with his chewing. "No," he said finally. "I don't think what happened was too big of a setback. Our fundamentals are solid."

"Matt," Janice chided knowingly, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.

"I'm worried about him," Matthew confessed. "The people last night, going straight for the AP? It shook him. It's the first time anyone outside our group had any real interest in the thing, and he thinks that means they know what it does."

Janice nodded in understanding. "But that shouldn't stop him from what he's doing, right? They only made off with so much. Less than a pound?"

"A bit more." Matthew hesitated, leaning in closer. "We're not using them."

"What?" Janice sat up a little straighter, taking her head off her hand. "Why not?"

"You know it shattered, right?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"The problem is we don't know," Matthew sighed.

He pulled away and leaned back into his seat. Janice cocked her head, waiting, before she heard the footsteps he saw before her. "Something's got you bothered," the newcomer said.

She was short, a little older, a little heavier, the vestiges of her youth preserved within the faint black roots of her white hair, a mess of curls, with a stern face offset by the kindest eyes. She was Naomi, the third-generation owner of the diner.

Matthew smiled. "A little."

"Busy saving the city?"

"Never not a busy time," Matthew responded.

"Let me pack those up for you then," Naomi said, calling someone else to do it for her. "You wanna talk about it?"

Matthew shook his head. "Nothing I can discuss here, sorry."

"Ah, attorney-client privilege."

Matthew nodded mysteriously. "Something like that."

A waitress came by to take Matthew's plate and clear away Janice's. "Well, they'll be glad to have you as their lawyer. How's our boy treating you?" Naomi asked.

"He's always on his best behavior." It was Janice's turn to smile. "I make sure of it."

Janice and Matthew began to stand up.

"Don't I know it," Naomi said. "Don't you try that thing again, Matthew."

Matthew froze. "What thing?"

"That thing when you try to pay the bill, that I don't tell you, when I'm not looking. How many times I gotta say that you don't pay here? What am I gonna say to your father? When he actually comes around again?"

Matthew looked at her face. She did not flinch, but there was always an initial sense of jitters that a blind man found her eyes so readily. "I'm sure he'll say that it's only right and proper, ma'am."

"Not here it ain't. You and your father made sure this place stayed open and that it belonged to me. And you did all that for free. Don't make me get mad at you."

Matthew nodded, defeated, but smiling regardless. "I'll pass on your greetings and make sure he knows his company's wanted."

"If he's not busy. He's always welcome."

The waitress came back. Naomi grabbed the to-go bag and a cup of coffee. She handed it to Matthew and walked them to the door. "When's that Nelson boy coming around again?" She leaned in conspiratorially. "River's dying to see him, you know."

Naomi smirked and Matthew chuckled. "I'll see what I can do."

"You do that," Naomi said, patting Matthew on the shoulder and waving them goodbye.

"You know, Matthew," Janice said once they exited the diner, "you could just enjoy the free food for once. It could actually be rude to ignore their hospitality. And it's not like it's a bribe. You already did the work."

"Yeah, I just feel reserved about that kind of stuff."

Janice leaned forward, dragging her nails lightly along the rim of the coffee cup. She didn't speak right away, watching him instead. "You know," she murmured, "sometimes I wonder if you let people talk just to see what they do with the space you give them."

Matthew tilted his head. "Do you?"

She gave a half-smile, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her gaze stayed on him. "I said sometimes." Janice took a cursory glance around. Slowly, her arms snaked toward Matthew's. He did not react, so she took it in hers. "You were saying?"

Matthew listened and took a breath. Under the cover of the New York streetlife, he continued his story. "What happened to the Atrion makes the lab coats reserved. Its physical properties changed. It got denser, or, uh, heavier, and new phenomena we can't trace started happening. Plus, the shard that was stolen exploded, you know. So we don't know how separating a whole piece and then putting it under power would affect it."

"What does that have to do with him?"

Matthew sighed. "I'm afraid he's going to ignore their advice and go ahead with throwing it into the usable pile anyway."

Janice pursed her lips. "Is it really that bad?"

"I said it wasn't a big setback, but it's relative. It's the biggest one we've had and he's sc-... He's… Worried. He's worried that it's our last chance before he loses her altogether again. Not to mention the troupe. We took the Atrion from them quite… unfriendly."

"He's scared of retaliation? That clown brigade doesn't have the power to do any real damage to us."

"You forget they have records."

"And risk losing business?"

"I don't know, Janice. I mean, I could be worried about nothing."

The pair of them arrived at Janice's car. Matthew could not see it, but he always felt its presence in the jealous tension of passersby and, most of all, in the way Janice described every detail to him with lover's pride the moment she first received it. He certainly got used to it, the distinct voice of the 4.7L V8 engine—delivered through a 6-speed ZF automatic transmission—heralding her arrival before she rounded the corner. It was the 2012 Maserati GranTurismo S Automatic, or, as Janice liked to call it, her War Chariot, leaving everyone in the dust with the plate 'LEXQUEEN'; New York traffic often had other intentions. The Rosso Mondiale paint job caught every shard of light like it had something to prove, and the Nero leather interior was finished with custom red piping and stitching, resonating dangerously to anyone she did not invite inside. Carried on twenty-inch Neptune wheels with custom red brake calipers, Matthew got used to Wagner playing on the Bang & Olufsen sound system before every litigation. He says he can smell her leather seats and cologne mix when she parks. She jokes that he just smells victory. The fingerprint-locked gun compartment built into the central compartment was hardly a surprise; standard fare, really, for a woman in her position.

The Pirelli P-Zero Corsa System tires—track-inspired, high-speed rated—was decidedly overkill for city traffic, as was pretty much everything else in the car. She claims it's for cornering. Matthew thought different.

There was one thing she never mentioned. A small, discreet HammerTech logo, embossed on the dash. She was proud of it, and she knew she had earned her prize, but in front of Matthew, it always felt wrong. She could not place exactly why.

The two of them got into the car. Janice opened the door for Matthew—much to his open chagrin, and his secret enjoyment that she knew of, of course—and slipped into the driver's seat. She sparked the engine with her smartwatch and the car roared to life, eliciting more than a couple of stares. This too was no less on purpose than the paint job. The exhaust was aggressively tuned, enhanced just to make a point. It was not like the cops had too much to say. The interior LED lights faded in, a pleasant dull blue for the daytime. A diffuser in the vents expended a blend of vetiver, sandalwood, and a trace of smoke, leaving Matthew smelling like Janice's cologne more often than not. Both windows, tinted and subtly thicker than usual, were rolled down an inch. Janice pulled out.

"When are you ever going to let me drive?"

Janice smirked. "When you get your license." She craned her neck to look behind her. "If they're not sure we can use the shards safely, what were they going to do with two whole pieces of Atrion?"

"I don't really know. Physics isn't my specialty. I think the majority vote was exchanging the two, but that's mostly been deadlocked by Father. He thinks disrupting the system like that will cause us to lose her, so maybe they'll just throw both of them in there and hope for the best."

Matthew sighed and Janice reached over to squeeze his shoulder. "Both hands on the wheel."

Arm frozen in midair, she instead exchanged her gesture for a light slap instead. "It'll work out," Janice said.

She lingered for just a second longer than necessary, her fingers ghosting his shoulder, waiting. Matthew stayed still. Janice, affirmed, withdrew her hand, and returned it to the wheel.

"You know they're making me your boss when this merger goes down, right," Matthew interjected suddenly.

"What? Bullshit, our company is acquiring yours. If anything, you're going to be my underling from now on."

Matthew laughed. Then his phone started vibrating. Matthew pulled out his phone from his breast pocket, an iPhone 4S, case trimmed with leather, and tactile buttons aligned with muscle memory. He unraveled the earbuds coiling around his phone and put one in his ear. "Hello? Oh… Yeah, yes. Tell him we'll be right there."

"I guess I'm not dropping you off at headquarters."

"Yeah. And you're not going to work either. Siri, call Foggy."

Janice sighed. I just had to jinx it. "I'll tell Justine." She poked around the seven-inch screen on the console.

"Hey, Foggy! Bad news…"

Four people sat around the open-concept penthouse, spread between the dining room table and the sofa, encircling a simple glass coffee table. The fifth stood against the window, overlooking the rest of the city he planned to own one day.

The kitchen table was made from two separate pieces of fine granite. The slabs sat upon a wooden support structure. The distant morning light shimmered off the polish. Six Ming Dynasty-inspired chairs, two on each side and one at the head and foot, though unfortunately made from polished rosewood instead of the huanghuali. This subtle betrayal of authenticity did not sit well with William and is something he vowed to rectify. A plain grey carpet beneath the set defined the dining room. Across from the dining room table was a grey sofa, soft, muted, made from plush and upholstered fabrics for the utmost comfort. The cushions let the sitter sink in but the padding of the seat has enough constitution to support their backs and hips comfortably.

Janice sat back on the corner seat of the sofa, arms crossed over her chest, legs overlapping, her head tipped back to look at the ceiling. Matthew was sitting forward, legs parted, hands clasped between his knees. His meal and coffee were untouched on the coffee table. James was going through the documents for the fifth time, jaws tight. A pile of reports in file folders lay open before him. Justin's eyes flickered from Matthew to William and Matthew understood. He glanced at his father's back. He sighed. "Are we sure it wasn't Shield?"

"We're sure," James replied without looking up.

"Really sure?" Matthew pressed. "We all know they have the capabilities. And the cold heart to pull something like this off."

"No, this is too overt for Shield. And if it is," James looked at William, "then we have to assume they also know what Atrion does… And that speeds up our timetable."

"But they're an international ring of spies who've been doing this for seventy, sixty, seventy years," Justin chimed in. "We probably shouldn't dismiss them out of hand, right?"

James sighed. "I'll look into it."

"What, what about that group last night," Justin added. "Fredric, Black Cat, those dudes. We don't know who's backing them. Could be someone big."

"The Falling Spire Troupe had other enemies," William said suddenly. Justin flinched. William turned around, his body framed in the steel skyline. "Their demise is not our problem. We need to focus on project completion."

Justin glanced at the open files, showing a mess of data, from statistics to connections to ballistics. Last night, their agents had successfully retrieved the Atrion the troupe refused to sell to them after the fiasco, one which was completely outside of his control, but he still felt that William blamed him for it anyway. It was later after William had shown Justin the ghost in the early morning, that the two of them received notice that apart from their move against the troupe, someone else had destroyed their entire network. Every major troupe operating center, that they knew of at least, had been wiped out, and their online servers were obliterated. Justin sucked on his tongue, pulling his gaze away. "What's the next step anyway?"

James directed a hard stare at Justin.

"Power," William said. "Atrion produces power, but what it needs is to operate under power. More power than it can generate itself. And for that, we look to Stark Industries."

Justin stood up. "Stark! Why him?"

William slowly turned his entire body to face Justin and the entrepreneur wilted. "Can you build us something better than the Arc Reactor, Justin," William asked, his voice low.

"I… given the time and the resources, I most certainly- How, how are you getting it from him anyway?"

William's stare spoke volumes.

"Right," Justin said. He paused, crossing his arms. "If the Arc Reactor generates more power than what your Atrion can, how does that put us ahead?"

"It doesn't," James said. "It needs power to generate power. We haven't even touched its full potential. The Arc Reactor was designed to replicate Tesseract energy regardless, and given what we know, we need to see where that leads."

"The first step of competition is to make sure your opponent doesn't have a monopoly," Matthew said. "You have to introduce an alternative post-nuclear clean energy source in the first place if you want headway into the market."

"Matthew. Assemble the team. The Stark underwater reactor."

"I-," Justin tried to protest.

"Yes, sir," Matthew said, already rising.

Justine Hammer was an up-and-coming business prodigy, a new-age business woman with nothing to prove. She was the new Chief Executive Officer of Hammer Industries, raising stock prices from the red line to soaring new heights, and putting Hammer Industries at the top of the list of weapons manufacturing. Under her leadership, they regained their reputation and reforged contracts and subcontracts with governments and such prestigious companies as Lockheed Martin. She reprivatized the company after capturing the attention of numerous investors and made sure the company still got external money via private-equity exchanges and trust funds. She did all of this at the age of twenty-three, taking over only two years ago when her father, the previous CEO and founder of Hammer Industries, was arrested and sentenced to jail.

"Here you go, Dad."

Justine handed a glass of Antinori Tignanello, aged fifteen years—with notes of cherry, dried herbs, and leather—to Justin. Her father always had a fondness for the Italians and their flashy, self-assured, old-world charm. He had opened a similar bottle the day Hammer Industries got its first government contract after Stark Industries had shut down its weapons development department.

Justin grabbed it from her hand, frustration etched into the lines on his forehead. "Every one of them," he continued, pausing to take a sip of the wine, "their armor. Their tech. Their enhancements. Their wealth. It all comes from me. They belong to me." His free hand came up to clench his mouth, his eyes weighted with frustration.

They were sitting in Justine's new penthouse in Tribeca, occupying the top floor of a building that doesn't advertise itself. No signage. No concierge. Just a black marble lobby, silent elevators, and a view that costs more than most weapons programs.

Built-in speakers played ambient compositions by Ryuichi Sakamoto at a low murmur, all day, everyday. Her father had different tastes, however, so it was silent at the moment.

The penthouse itself was composed of low tones. One wall faced lower Manhattan with one-way glass, stained and darkened, framing the city like a flowing still shot of the future. Two Barcelona-style black leather chairs with brass rivets were positioned with their backs to the window, facing the Bellini couch, cast in a dark, arterial red in direct contrast to the ash-grey interior. Near the side of the couch, neatly placed on a slab of raw stone: a stack of six hardbound books. Beneath the sofa was a charcoal, hex-patterned, ultra-fiber rug. A secret Hammer Industries logo was embossed into the fabric, visible only under ultraviolet light. Between the chairs sat a low, steel tray table holding an unused crystal ashtray. Opposite the skyline stood a built-in matte black recess, subtly lit from within, displaying a beautiful replica of the first Hammer Industries smart munition. Accompanying it is a folded American flag in a glass case, symbolizing a project her father once led.

In the center of both is a revolving holo-frame of Justine with her father over the years.

There was a rather gaudy sculpture in the corner, a deconstructed spinal column made from weapon parts, commissioned the month she took over the company to inject an outlook of zeal into the company. A single suspended pendant made of gunmetal hangs low over the coffee table, casting a narrow, downward cone of amber light.

"They know that," Justine said.

She enters the kitchen to grab a glass for herself, barely feeling the chill of the marble on her soles.

The space had all the appearance of a surgical bay. It was packed full of brand names and custom orders that would make any professional chef burn with jealousy. A full suite of wall-mounted appliances gleamed in soft matte steel, and the volcanic stone countertops, jet black with a soft texture of ash, formed clean, continuous lines. The food in the glass-door fridge, each bit surgically arranged, had the best place to call home. Even the wine bottles in the side pantry, drawn from her father's extensive collection, stood in neat ranks like ceremonial guards. As she passed the central island, her fingers skimmed the handle of a sealed drawer: supplements, anti-fatigue serums, and a single box of unopened loose-leaf tea, still wrapped in its original plastic.

The kitchen was clean. Justine mostly ordered in or heated up leftovers, contrary to her father's steakhouse and executive lounge habits. After all, fine dining was usually reserved for meetings, and those banquets were war rooms.

That is not to say she does not cook. In fact, she had been cooking since she was a child. But to her, cooking was meditative, a time for reflection at the end of the day as the sunset bathed her back in dim red, looking at the revolving light pictures in the living room display case.

"Fisk doesn't." He takes another sip and sets the glass down, leaning back and crossing his legs. "He's playing with my team like they're his toys. And he needs to know he can't do that. Lincoln. She needs to get her priorities straight and know which side she's playing for."

Justine looked over with slightly furrowed brows. "She's causing problems?"

Janice's loyalty to Justin was second only to hers. If he was worried, it did not bode well. "No, not yet. She's fine." Justin kicked off his shoes and raised his feet onto the coffee table, made from resin-preserved shattered impact glass, and huffed a sigh. "But she could be doing a hell of a lot more on my behalf. She's basically playing second fiddle to that damn Fisk boy."

Justine nodded. "I can speak with her."

She was dressed for work, layered in intent, though she would have dressed the same regardless of agenda, especially given her present company.

The centerpiece of her outfit was a Jil Sander sleeveless sheath, its high-end blended crepe guaranteeing a firm shape, in deep charcoal grey that was almost graphite, but just shy of black. It had a high neck cut, saturated by a black choker, and a mid-thigh slit. A leather belt, matte black and thin, with a subtle gunmetal clasp, sat high-waist, sculpting her waistline silhouette. Draped over her dress was a Row silk-cashmere blend coat in soft dove grey, unbuttoned, unwound, resting softly on her shoulders, hanging on her almost like a robe or a poncho. Her legs, pale, were covered by ultra-sheer anthracite thigh-high stockings from Wolford. With a faint sheen, it looked and felt like whispering smoke. Her above-average stateliness would be further lengthened by black patent leather Manolo Blahnik pointed pumps, currently sitting by the door, leveraging her three and a half extra inches. Tiny platinum studs, square cut, set with black diamonds, hang off her ears, while her right index finger is adorned with a single black stone ring, cut low.

Justin waved a hand dismissively. "No. Don't speak to her. Not yet." His eyes narrowed as they tracked the reflection of the skyline in the darkened glass behind her. "She's doing fine. No need to throw a wrench into something that hasn't happened yet."

Justine folded her arms, the drape of her coat shifting like mist. She pursed her lips, not liking the next words that came out of her mouth. "And if she does forget which side she's playing for?"

Justin gave a dry laugh, low in his throat. "Then remind her. Gently. You know how." He leaned forward again, draining what was left in the glass, and set it down with more force than necessary. "You've done well, Justine. I don't say it enough."

Justine didn't respond, a flicker of a smile tingling the corner of her lips. She reached forward, plucked the glass from the table, and refilled it without spilling a drop, setting the bottle down with a gentle clink. For a moment, she simply sat there, the room quiet but for the hum of the city pressing against the penthouse windows like a tide of light. Justin leaned back again, rubbing his temples. Justine looked at her watch—a half hour before she had to leave—and got up, stepping behind the couch. She slipped the soft weight of the coat from her shoulders and laid it neatly across the armrest, then positioned herself behind him. Her fingers found where the shoulders met the neck, thumbs pressing into muscle made tight by years of ambition and bitterness. He exhaled. "You still hold your stress high," she murmured, the pads of her thumbs circling slow, firm.

Justin grunted. "Where the hell else would I hold it? My feet?"

She moved lower, tracing the line of his shoulder blades with steady pressure, working the knots.

"You know," Justin exhaled. "I pulled her from the gutter of her father's reputation. I practically raised her. She's the closest thing to a sister you'll get. So why do I have to worry about her when I don't have to worry about you?"

"She's not your blood," Justine replied after a moment of pause, under her breath.

Justin didn't say anything to that. He hummed, almost thoughtful.

A long silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, he let his head tip backward, resting into the pull of her hands, Justine's glass sitting empty on the coffee table.

---

The newspict was playing a record of what appeared to be a servant of the Omnissiah in some type of flight-capable primitive power armor, almost mistakable for some inanely colored Necron, firing a sort of taser weaponry from the palms of his hands.

That was a superhero, according to others, and it confused the hell out of Jeneth. It was not as if he was unfamiliar with the concept of a hero. Krieg was not prone to heroes, but it had historical men of great caliber and character. It was only thanks to those men that Krieg had the chance to survive and repent, men that all Kriegsmen strived to be like, such as Colonel Jurten. There were also soldiers of exceptional quality who came after the old great ones, men of honor who deserved to be named after such heroes, such as Colonel Tyborc. There were heroes of the wider Imperium that he had knowledge of, not counting the Emperor's blessed Saints and Angels, who were a step beyond mere mortal heroics. Ciaphus Cain, for example, of whom he mostly learned through the exploits of the Death Riders on the Forge World of Fecundia.

But this 'Iron Man' was somehow extra extraordinary in his exploits. Otherwise, why was he 'super'? Or perhaps Jeneth was misunderstanding the world entirely. Whatever warp born curse that afflicted him with his supernatural knowledge of this language of English failed to beam a direct translation for the word 'superhero'. Instead, to compensate, it separated the compounds.

Supposedly, according to a couple of the others, a superhero was someone who was benevolent and powerful, but even that was disagreed upon as household guards bickered about comic books and their interpretations of vigilantism versus heroics. Someone cited another superhero called Batman, while another chose someone named Superman. Tentatively, they all agreed on a motif of sacrifice.

Jeneth could scoff.

Sacrifice.

He saw men sacrifice themselves in droves. His comrades, charging into enemy fire and steel. He saw his company grind themselves against the Daemons during what was supposed to be his last battle. Was that heroism? Or was that just duty? He saw heretics sacrifice others for their cause. He saw heretics sacrifice themselves for the pleasure of their patrons or for power, or usually for a mixture of both. Surely that was the furthest thing from a hero one could get. A superhero just seemed to be a word to describe anyone someone else looked up to. Or, as many civilians often did, they were mistaking simple willpower for a testament of character.

The one thing he was able to catch about Iron Man all by himself was the superhero's role in defeating the alien invasion. Begrudgingly, Jeneth admitted that Iron Man had the makings of someone respectable and filed him away as somebody who he should seek out once he had a better idea of the world he found himself in. Surely, anyone who fought against the Xenos as he did, and utterly decimated them as he did, would have a greater acceptance of his true place in the natural order of things, beneath the banner of the Imperium and the Light cast from the Golden Throne on true Terra. And yet, as the others explained, this Iron Man was also a mortal business owner, a normal person, manufacturing technologies without the guidance or sanctioning from the holy men from Mars. Still, iron power armor bore the colors. Perhaps he was acutely touched by the Omnissiah. Maybe that was why he was super. Normal people could not be super, industry tycoons especially. They're the first to high tail it to the nearest evacuation shuttle when push comes to shove, throwing as much PDF as they can before them and trouble.

The sun rose higher and the air took on a breezy, sunny twenty-one degrees Celsius. Jeneth failed to notice the difference through his heavy greatcoat. The air-conditioned rooms felt exactly the same as the outside, apart from the subtle lack of fragrance in his rebreather.

The first to go downstairs was Lance. He woke up at six thirty and crossed the living room at five before seven. He was dressed in a light blue short-sleeved polo and beige khakis. In the dining room, he ordered an easy breakfast omelette. The omelette took five minutes to make, Lance took five minutes to eat, and he had been sitting and reading in the living room for fifteen when DeMarr finally came downstairs, yawning each and every step. DeMarr went to the dining room after waving to Lance and ordered some grits and waffles. DeMarr was still eating when Felecia walked into the house. She laid herself down on one of the couches, arms dangling off one side, legs over the armrest. Breakfast was not an important ritual for her.

By the time Jeneth and Fredric had made it back, an hour had passed, and two people were still missing from the group. Jeneth and Fredric successfully managed to walk the entire perimeter of the estate and Fredric was looking worse for wear, panting, ashen, his knuckles on his cane stark white from exertion. But even as Lance and DeMarr helped him up the stairs to his room, through the pain and spots in his vision, he felt nicer than he had in a while. He had sharp pains shooting down his spine and through his legs with every moment of pressure and his head pounded with each heartbeat and in between each heartbeat, but at least his mind was clear. Taking a chance in the lull before the briefing, Jeneth, with his candles, headed back up to his room. Felecia's gaze followed him up the stairs. When he disappeared from view, she slinked off the couch and followed him.

When Jeneth returned downstairs, Celeste had finally joined the group. There were heavy bags under her eyes and her bloodshot gaze made it obvious to everyone other than Jeneth what she was up all night doing, and, judging from where her very open sharp ogling was directed at, why. Felecia laid back down, similarly taking glances at Jeneth every now and again. Somebody in the interim had turned on the television, which was idly playing the news in the background. The screen was showing a discussion panel of a discussion panel of a discussion panel about the new broadcast of a first-hand account of the Incident. It was about the only thing playing these days and it was through this that Jeneth had his first glimpse of the Avengers, taking up his attention long enough that he did not get restless at the lack of activity.

Finally, Halloran came down, his face thunderous and shadowed. Fredric gave the man a caustic grimace but Halloran ignored him, not glancing his way at all, dropping down hesitantly on one of the couches, arms crossed. Lance looked around at the odd bunch he had been working with for some time now, each caught up in their own little worlds. "Ok," he said finally, trying to disperse the stagnating tension in the air, threatening to choke the sunlight out. "We're all here." Nobody answered him. "I suppose now's a good time to discuss what we're doing next. Whether or not we're staying together." With this, everyone took tentative glances around the room. "Last night put a pretty big snag on our plans. And at this point, those plans are basically moot."

Jeneth let the talks continue without impeding proceedings. These were technically civilians, after all. He was not going to mandate them to fight if they were not required. He had made his arguments about the ruinous powers. By all standards, they should run. They would be cowards and the like, but they were not enemies. Cowards were only heretics when they retreated in service to the Emperor without just cause. These rabble had yet to see the truth. While that was to change later, it was to pass as reality for now. And so, if they were to leave, they could leave without quarrel. At least, if they did not try to stand in his way. That did beg the question of how he was going to solve this crisis if they did all chose to leave.

This world is a Civilized World, if only primitive. For now, their technology and weaponry and government structure should be enough to support combative endeavors.

He continued to think, letting the others debate their roles.

Lance opened his mouth slowly, sucking in a breath. "I think I'm staying." He turned to look at Jeneth. "I'm choosing to believe you. I don't know how much your word is worth back where you're from, but here, we give chaps the benefit of the doubt."

He did not mention the bags that were packed in his room from last night. That he believed Jeneth's tale from the moment he spoke them, deciding to run away and enjoy the time he had left on Earth before it was swallowed by the powers that be.

But before he could go to sleep, as he sat on the edge of his bed staring at his luggage, he realized he could not look away. His breath caught uncomfortably in his throat and he rubbed his hands together. Maybe given a couple of years. Maybe then he would have been confident enough to strike out on his own with the end of the world looming behind him and a terror organization hounding his back. Maybe then he would have become cynical enough to not care. He only joined the team for money and to use their financier's wealth and connections to hide. He was not here to bear the responsibilities of maintaining global, or galactic, or even universal order. No, that was not him. But his heartstrings made him look back anyway, peering into a future where he left this shabby group of rogues to fend for themselves.

"I think I can make the world-saving hero type thing work," Lance finished, looking around. "So, what about you?"

Halloran inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "Can't spell this team without me, right? Leaving this half-assed doesn't get me anywhere. I have a feeling trying to break off and continue my way isn't going to end well."

Fredric peeled his eyes away from Halloran and nodded. "I'll stay," he said automatically.

DeMarr rubbed his hands together. "Saving the world, huh? Man, count me in."

Felecia looked away from Jeneth and stretched her arms, staring at the ceiling between her open fingers. She thought about what Jeneth did upstairs. "Well. I can't exactly make a name for myself if there's nobody around to fear me, right?"

Everyone nodded and looked at the person who had yet to give an answer.

"Celeste?"

Celeste exhaled through her nose, gaze flickering down from Felecia to the floor, a twinge of regret in her heart for what she was about to do, leaving the poor lass behind on her own with the rest of the brutes. Her surprise at Felecia's actions, simultaneously, had not faded. She had no choice. She had to voice her dissatisfaction and her intent to part with the team. No doubt they all expected such. No doubt they could care less. She could not trust Jeneth and another of her plans lay shattered. Another goal threw another obstacle at her face, one she could not wheel over, laughing as she ruminated in frustration. She could not throw anything else aside for the sake of someone else.

She would not say she was self-serving, but she would be damned if she would give something for something that gave nothing in return.

"Rumours have it that Howard Stark had actually funded and provided technological services for much of the early days of Shield and that his son is now continuing that tradition. What do you think about that, Mark?"

Celeste glanced at the television, which cut to a recording of Tony Stark next to a static image of the Shield logo, and her face twisted. Her hands tightened into fists.

The reason why she was in this situation. The reason why she was suffering. The reason why she cast aside her badge to join a group of misfit criminals, a group that had use of her technology and her wisdom. One that would, in turn, provide her wealth, to spread the name of the 'Human Computer' throughout the underworld the way her name could never be in the shadows of bureaucracy. All of that was over now. She wanted to get up and walk out, but her goddamned cripled legs made sure she was the odd one out. They were no longer selling the Atrion. Because Atrion had the ridiculous potential to end the world. Oh, but not to worry, because Tony Stark can save the world, right? Right, then…

Then.

Why can't I?

She physically jerked back in shock and she frowned, neurons firing at the equation. She always thought saving the world was out of the option. Because it was too much work. Because it was too far-fetched. Because she was not good enough.

But who said she was not good enough? If Tony Stark could save the world, that narcissistic alcoholic with a sob story hero origin, then so could she. She would eclipse Stark with her actions. Whereas the Chitauri only threatened New York, Atrion threatened existence. She would go down in history, not only as the 'Human Computer', but as Celeste Turing.

"Celeste?"

And if the team did it all using her technology and her data scavenging skills? It would be her equations etched into the skies.

Celeste looked up. She leaned back in her chair. "I am willing to see where this goes."

Felecia smiled. "All ri-"

"What the fuck!" someone shouted from the second floor. There was a barrage of footsteps and the owner of the house came barreling down the stairs. "Who the fuck! thought it would be a good idea to turn one of my rooms into a… a… what even is that? Who told this man," she stabbed a finger in Jeneth's direction, "that it was ok to fill the room with candles!"

Fredric shrugged. "Freedom of religion."

"What?"

Fredric shrugged again.

"Are you pulling the Constitution on me right now?" Jeneth looked at Fredric wondering what the hell freedom of religion meant. "Listen. Just because you guys have free run of the place doesn't mean you actually live here. I'll leave the little haunted house room up, but you have to start remembering who's paying for all your shit…" Artoria narrowed her eyes at Jeneth. "But I guess you don't actually know, huh? Whatever, I came down here because I have bad news. Shield's involved."

Lance blinked. "They are?"

"That explosion that took out your getaway car last night? It got their attention. So, congratulations on that."

A murmur of individual curses spread around the room.

Better them than Hydra, Lance thought.

"Man, is Shield hunting us?" DeMarr urged. "I don't want to be arrested, man, I just wanted to-"

"Shield doesn't know who did what," Artoria interrupted. "We're in the green, but… Listen. Why don't we go to Shield with this," Artoria asked. "This is way bigger than what I signed up for, which was easy fucking money, and you too, but I guess none of you seem to care."

"You can't trust them," Halloran said. "Spies, remember?"

"He's right," Celeste said, a color of emotion in her voice. "Most of the agents might want to do the right thing by it and destroy all traces of Atrion, but that's assuming this information even gets disseminated across the levels instead of just being kept at the top, where they're just going to lock it away and try to make use of it."

"That is unacceptable," Jeneth rasped. "Containment must be absolute. Information about Atrion cannot be spread. Everything must be compartmentalized and eliminated. Compliance is mandated."

They all agreed to stay. They all agreed to fight. For better or worse, they pledged themselves in service to the Emperor. Now, cowardice, negligence, and incompetence was heresy.

"Talk about grim, huh, man…" DeMarr tried to add in before trailing off.

"Hey, buddy, calm down. Right, cause, there's that whole bit too," Lance said to Jeneth. "What we can and can't know about this great enemy and what will or won't corrupt us. You're not making this very easy, J."

Jeneth made no acknowledgment. Artoria frowned, forgoing a counter-argument. "Where's Poker-Face?" she asked instead. "What's his two cents?"

"Poker-Face is a cripple," Halloran said. "Remember? Locked in a box, doing computer shit all day."

"Ah… Right, yes. He had… good days, recently. Which is why I asked…"

"He's going to continue working with us," Halloran said.

"Just like that?" Artoria asked, nonplussed. "All of this, well, most of this was his idea in the first place, and he's just dropping it at the behest of some… what even is he? Are you really going ahead with this, then? This whole 'saving the world' business? Just the eight of us?"

"And your small private army," Lance said.

"What makes you think I'll do this?"

"You said 'eight of us'."

"Right…" Artoria sighed. "Yeah. Guess I'll keep financing this bullshit operation." She sat down, closing her eyes and kneading her temples. "So. What's the plan?"

"Target all known locations of Atrion and source the rest," Jeneth finally spoke.

Atoria looked at Jeneth. "Anyone tell you you look creepy as fuck?"

Lance nodded. "We can assume our immediate target is Fisk then. Which, all things considered, is not a fun place to be. Now, 343… 393-1024-0830-Jeneth." Lance stood up and looked at him, trying not to look away from the soulless red lenses. "We have agreed to stay together. You, an outsider, are the one coming in late to join us. I was in charge of this team. I see no reason to relinquish that authority.

I have the local knowledge you do not. I know this team better than you do and coherence is important. So. For the duration of your stay, if you want to work with us, I am your commanding officer. Is that understood?"

It could have gone one of two ways, but Lance was hedging his bets and throwing a coin. For anyone too embroiled within the confines of a system, it was all too easy to use that system against them. Lance was operating on that philosophy to the fullest extent.

Jeneth considered Lance's words. He could go outside and demand to be put into contact with the government, but he was not naive enough to believe they would listen to him. Lance had not yet proven himself, but Jeneth recognized the structure. He would have to make do for now. It was all coming together, one piece at a time. Jeneth stood up and snapped a crisp salute. "Commander."

Lance looked him over with a grimace, awe threatening to break through the corner of his lips. He nodded.

Jeneth lowered his hand. Emperor willing, Lance would do fine. If not, Jeneth had prior directives. Imperator custodit.

"Ok…" Artoria said. "Fisk, huh?"

There was nothing. He figured out how to access the computer in his room, guessing Charles's password in two tries, a brief spark of triumph washed away by the tides of frustration. The foundations were the same as the old technology and it took some reading and intuition to figure out how to access files, only there were no files. Not digital files, not paper files, not even a journal, as if the only thing Charles did in this room was sleep and watch porn. There was nothing pertaining to what Charles had been doing on the team, or even his life before the team, within the room, and Halloran had no idea where to even begin looking elsewhere. He slammed a fist on the table. He could follow a trail no problem, but he would have to get used to the surroundings first to pick out things that were out of place. Right now, the only thing that was out of place was him. But he knew that already.

Halloran tried to sigh his anger away as he leaned his head back on the chair, sinking into its padding, unbuttoning the button at his collar. There was nothing good in Charles's wardrobe, so he just put on a button shirt and trousers. He sighed again, looking at the computer screen from the corner of his eye.

Unbelievable, he thought. His battle fatigue paranoia is an issue for me even when he's not around.

He knew, or he could assume he knew, why Charles was on the team. But he needed to know more, and Charles was not cooperating.

There was a knock on his door and Halloran frowned. His hand reached for a gun that was not there, with muscle memory that was not his. His fingers twitched and Halloran pulled back with conscious effort, rising to his feet. "Who is it?"

There was no response and Halloran's finger twitched again. He walked to the door and slowly cracked it open. There was nobody there. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled the door back wider and poked his head out. A shimmer moved past his peripheral and Halloran whirled around. "Gah!"

It was Poker-Face.

Halloran always believed in aliens but he was never a conspiracy theorist. Roswell, for example, was a crash-landed US military experiment and the rumours about the aliens only gave the government cover about their real objectives, hence why they fanned the flames. No, Halloran was simply optimistic and trusted statistics. With how big the universe was, life must have been teeming. He had dozens of sketches of what he thought they looked like, inspired by novels and motion pictures alike. But something like Poker-Face, something as if a duck were an insect was a skeleton, was beyond even his imagination. The alien did not glow, but there was an unusual shine to him. Other than that, there were no alien noises or alien smells. Swallowing, he looked behind him, and closed the door, adopting a rear tilted, arms crossed posture.

"Whaddaya want," he asked snarkily.

The creature did not blink. It did not even seem to breathe, at least in a way Halloran could recognize. Standing this close to true extraterrestrial intelligence made his hand shake, but even then, he did not miss how the light subtly bent around Poker-Face, a hair's thickness away. Poker-Face did not seem to have hair either, which might have explained the shine. The alien opened his mouth.

"You are not Charles Chandler."

"Urgh," Halloran flinched. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Poker-Face's voice filled the room, but its omnidirectional omnipresence aside, it sounded too normal. Too human. Like Poker-Face was trying too hard.

"Your neural baseline activity is different. An increase in theta waves, heightened beta waves, and unstable gamma waves. You also exhibit different cognitive responses to stimuli. I suspect, if I were to conduct a full scan, I would detect neuroplasticity in action."

"You're in my head?" Halloran roared taciturnly.

"I monitor everyone's health."

"What do you want," Halloran spit out through gritted teeth.

"Charles Chandler was my main cooperator within this team, due to his unique experiences as a United States Air Force experimental test craft pilot. This you are familiar with, Halloran Chandler." Halloran was silent. "We exchanged research and information. This is how I know who you are. With his help, I formed this team. I studied his-"

"Are you going to tell them?"

"... It is not necessary."

Halloran blew out a breath and walked over to the bed, dropping hard onto his rear. "Why did he join this team?"

"To achieve a better understanding of the state of his body and his unnatural abilities. To acquire substantial monetary premiums." Halloran scoffed. "And to save you, Halloran Chandler."Halloran blinked and raised his head at Poker-Face. "I hope that my contract and cooperation with Charles Chandler will not be reneged with you, Halloran Chandler."

"And what was that contract?"

"To gather as much Atrion as I can from the planet Earth."

"To?"

"To do as I must."

"So, you're going to work with that Jeneth man?"

"I see no reason not to work with 393-1024-0830-Jeneth."

"He seems to hate aliens."

"Then he will have to remain ignorant of my identity."

"What do I get out of… what are you asking me to do?"

"To continue helping me as Charles Chandler was." Poker-Face went silent for a moment. "To get your life back."

Halloran exhaled and fell back. Neither of them spoke for an entire minute. "Fine. I'll stay and play along."

"I am glad to be working with you, Halloran Chandler. I will give you Charles Chandler's information at a later date."

"You do that."

Poker-Face disappeared.

---

"Hammer? The nut job that tried to blow up New York a couple years ago?" Grant asked.

Apart from the two physical beasts on the team, everyone else had their shoulders sagged and their eyes dim as they crowded around a table, energy drinks and coffee in hand. Most of them were used to long nights that turned into longer days, but that did not mean any of them liked it. They had not gotten any sleep since last night, making a surprising amount of headway—one after the other—that kept them from going to bed while waiting on results.

While Grant stayed in his uniform, still pressed, Melinda switched out of her shirt and suit and into a black blouse beneath a casual muted plum velvet jacket.

"It would be more surprising at this point if someone didn't try to blow up New York," Coulson said.

The Airborne Mobile Command Unit, referred to by the team as the Bus, was parked in a large open plain, with nobody around for a long time. The sun had risen. There was food on a nearby table.

"I thought he was in prison."

"He is. It's his daughter."

"So, her and Fisk?"

"Apparently. And they're dangerous enough to have eliminated an organized crime group so completely off the map."

The Falling Spire Troupe's complete elimination had been brought to their attention last night.

"Is Hammer's, or Fisk's, reach really that wide?" Grant asked.

"We have to assume so," Coulson said.

Skye bit her lower lip.

"Why isn't this something we call the Avengers for," Grant asked.

"Because we still don't know what this is. Besides, I think they got bigger things to worry about."

"Like what?

"Like figuring out how to be a team. Anyone got some better news?"

Grant shook his head. "There was no usable camera footage and any satellites in the area at the time caught nothing on the roads, only that flare of energy. It doesn't give us anything, but it does tell us whoever is behind the theft has the balls to go against someone who can wipe out the Troupe in hours and someone who's extremely technologically advanced. Their escape was shielded from surveillance."

"Fitz?"

"Uh," Fitz also shook his head, looking at Jemma. "Nothing. The energy signature remaining in the frost held no unusual biological components and turned back into water normally. What was left of the lingering field also dissipated before we could get anything substantial out of it. But it's amazing. Nothing like what we've seen before, exotic beyond our imaginations." His voice rose in pitch. "It has closer resemblance to Dark Energy than anything else I can think of. Imagine… Dark Matter with personality. It's reactive, not just passive."

"Dangerous?"

"Oh, very."

"Its implications on how the universe formed and the forces acting on it are intense," Jemma added. "If we do get another look at this thing, I think it will transform our understanding of particle physics, but, you know, not my specialty. It is exciting though, so it's unfortunate we lost what we could work with, which shows an immense speed of degradation. On the bright side, that weird feeling is gone. I really think that's an angle we could work at."

"Weird feeling, ooh," Fitz muttered, getting a punch in the shoulder from Jemma.

"It's not like magic doesn't exist," Jemma said.

Skye blinked. "Wait, what?"

Coulson sighed, lowering his head and peering at their newest consultant. "Skye?"

"Something."

Skye stepped into the spotlight and nodded meekly at everyone, holding her laptop in her arms. "I dug around and it seems like Shield really wasn't lying. There are no internal records of anything related to this Atrion thingy." At this, Melinda and Grant gave Skye a pointed glare while Coulson gave her a disappointed smile wreathed in amusement. "I tried to see if it was hidden between files on the Tesseract, but I got nothing there either. So I branched out to other branches of the military."

"Shield isn't a branch of the US military," Grant interrupted.

"Yeah," Skye nodded half-heartedly and exaggeratedly. "I know… I got a hit with the Air Force, trying to search for exotic space material-related keywords. Two hits, actually. You know anything about a Project Pegasus?"

Coulson blinked. "No."

"Well, the Air Force was a part of it. They were experimenting with Tesseract energy to achieve faster-than-light travel, which is dope, by the way, but for something that claims it isn't part of the US military infrastructure, a lot of its projects seem limited to that regard." Grant grumbled something under his breath and Skye knew her next training exercise was about to get a heck of a lot harder. She quickly moved on. "And I tried to see what that was about, but apparently it blew up and anything after that was locked by Shield clearance, ahem, but apart from that, there was something that the Air Force kept from Shield. They tried something similar without outside help almost a decade before, using a different energy source."

"Atrion."

"Exactly."

Skye pulled up digital copies of old file records. "Got to love the digital age," Coulson said.

"It was supposed to give them an edge in the Vietnam War. They only had a tiny piece of it, found somewhere underwater in the North Atlantic. But its energy production is off the charts."

"Energy production?" Coulson asked.

"Yeah, it was mostly used as a power source because it was more efficient than uranium or something, and energy could be directly harvested off the Atrion instead of through a medium like steam." Fitz stepped closer, left arm crossed, right arm holding his mouth in concentration, leaning in to look at the documents. "But where it really shined was when it was put under power itself. It generated an energy field that they have no data on, nothing else to really compare to."

"Those charts look like what we found, yeah," Fitz chimed in.

"What happened to it," Coulson asked.

"It blew up. Wow, two for two. We really should stop messing with weird rocks. Uh. There was an in-flight accident and record-keeping seems to dwindle after that. What I could find was that something happened to the pilot. It changed him, I think, made him an enhanced, and he disappeared. Or he was made to disappear. The test pilot's name was blacked out, uh, physically, so nothing I can do about that."

Skye dipped her neck forward in a nod, clasped her hands, and stood back.

Coulson took the lead again. "Right. We have a general area. We know both parties are capable. We know they're all after Atrion, and that Atrion is powerful and dangerous. I'll work on getting us unredacted paper copies of those files. Everyone else, keep working on any angle you can and-"

There was an alert. Someone was at the ramp.

Tension filled the bay and everyone slowly made their way to the rear, hearing footsteps coming closer. "Wait," Coulson said and went ahead, pausing. "Director Fury," Coulson exclaimed in surprise. He stepped aside to let the man come in.

"Gentlemen. I hear you're facing some trouble."

---

I love mankind, he said, "but I find to my amazement that the more I love mankind as a whole, the less I love man in particular.