Millennium Man #7:
"Home Of The Brave"
(A Nation Of Immigrants Act I)
by Jacob Milnestein

"Images of perfection, suntan and napalm
Grenada - Haiti - Poland - Nicaragua
Who shall we choose for our morality
I'm thinking right now of Hollywood tragedy.

Big Mac: smack: phoenix r: please smile y'all
Cuba, Mexico can't cauterise our discipline
Your idols speak so much of the abyss
Yet your morals only run as deep as the surface.

Cool - groovy - morning - fine
Tipper Gore was a friend of mine
I love a free country
The stars and stripes and an apple for mommy."
- Richey James and Nicky Wire,
'IfwhiteAmericatoldthetruthforonedayitsworldwouldfallapart'
 

Glass shattered and metal began to twist, fire billowing out its side like the blossom of strangely pure and deadly flora. For a moment it seemed to hang there, a twisted reinterpretation of its former self, its side bleeding with tongues of flame.

The explosion echoed through the entire city, glass scattered to the winds as the entire top floor of the Pacific City Tower exploded outwards.

Car alarms screeched in protest as the ground beneath trembled and shop windows throughout the city's heart caved in, raining down shards of glass upon their customers.

A cloud of ash and dust billowed out from the crippled building, spreading ever outwards between screeching cars and defaced shops.

Beneath the veil of ash, fires still burnt in the remaining top floors of the Pacific City Tower, offices gutted and strewn with ruined chunks of concrete from the now absent top floor. Former secretaries and city officials lay crushed beneath the remnants of their workplace, faces bland and expressionless.

Further down the building the screams became louder, from those trapped by the fire rising up the stairwell to those who had been in reception and now crawled and ran over broken glass towards the shattered remnants of the doors.

In the distance the sound of the emergency services began to call out, penetrating the thick layer of ash as people, bleeding and wounded fled the building, some carrying the ruined and mangled bodies of their former co-workers, others desperately hanging onto a loved one.

Children wailed and the car alarms continued to screech.

On the remaining higher floors, those trapped within by the rising fires screamed for help whilst onlookers staggered from department stores and fast food restaurants, scarred by glass and wordless at the sight of the crippled Tower.

Moments passed, the sirens growing louder still and then with a sickening thud a second explosion went off lower down the building's structure. Reception collapsed on itself, crushing hundreds of people desperately running for the exit. The rush of flame seared flesh from bone as those who had gathered outside were caught in the path of the explosion.

The building lurched and the screams became more frantic.

People began to run, praying desperately not to be caught in the huge building's shadow, colliding with one another and pushing past those weaker, desperate to get out.

The sound of tearing metal filled the air and the tower's support struts gave way.

Amidst a chorus of screams and sirens, the Pacific City Tower collapsed in on itself, flames and dust spreading out from its decimated corpse.

Slowly, from the heart of the burning wreckage, two figures emerged, unharmed by the devastation and destruction that surrounded them.

The first was a tall man, his face hidden beneath an ivory death mask, a long grey trenchcoat hanging from his thin frame whilst the other was a woman, a foot or so shorter than him, her eyes dancing wildly amongst the ruins. Her hair had been cut in a boyish fashion revealing her sharp, pointed ears that seemed to point sideways away from her head.

The man in death mask paused, ash and glass crunching beneath his boots.

From deep inside, a loud guttural laugh rose up and blotted out the screams of those still trapped within the great fallen structure of the building.

The woman smiled absently and wrapped her hand tight around his.

He turned and looked down at her, his eyes softening as he caught sight of her beauty.

"Long live liberty." She whispered softly and reached up and placed her lips against the white bone of the mask.

Michael Manly stood anxiously in the hospital corridor, his face bloodied, the yellow and red of his McDonald's uniform now stained with ash and drying blood. Screams and cries echoed through the corridors as he sat uselessly between the wounded and the bereaved.

Nicki, a 16-year-old trainee who had only just begun work with them a week ago, had been on the tills when the tower had exploded. Like many of the customers she had taken a face full of glass. He sat there gripping his hat tightly between his hands, knuckles slowly turning white.

Once more the nausea rose up and he had to fight back the urge to vomit.

If only there was something more he could have done.

"I'm sorry Nicki." He whispered uselessly, tears screaming down his contorted face.

Around him the sounds of the hospital continued.

Weeks passed...

He tried not to watch the television anymore, especially not the news. Even Regina avoided turning it on now. There was an unspoken agreement between them that whatever she heard at work would not be repeated at home.

Every new week brought a fresh funeral attend.

It had been a month since Regina had confronted him before the entire staff of McDonald's and accidentally revealed that he was - or rather had been - Millennium Man, an entire month and not one of them had told another living soul. He felt strangely proud of this, even though he felt no desire to go back to the costume itself.not after Jim Finnegan's death.

Of course Regina was adamant that he return to being Millennium Man, now more so than ever.

Manly didn't blame her, it was after all Millennium Man that she had fallen in love with.

But the idea of returning to that costume made him feel physically sick.

His stared blankly out of the window from Regina's apartment, looking over the wounded Pacific City skyline. It seemed so odd without the tower there.

Since March, his entire life had been taken apart piece by piece. From the first appearance of the Bowler to the death of Jim Finnegan.

No...

He shook his head sadly.

This wasn't about the Bowler or Finnegan or even the Magistrate herself. This had its roots deeper than that.

Before ShadowWraith's first appearance, before the first appearance of the curious creatures he had encountered on top of the Gallery of Antiquities. No this thing was much deeper than that, this was about Henry Burke.

He closed his eyes and shuddered again watching the blackened shore of that ill beach as it rose up about him once more.

"I'm your guardian angel." The abnormality whispered. "I've been watching you for a very long time. Admittedly, I never thought I'd have to contact you in such a fashion but regrettably time is short and I lack the ability to conduct this meeting in person."

Manly's fists tightened.

"But you didn't mean me, did you?" He whispered solemnly. "You meant Bruce."

He shook his head, angry for allowing himself to lapse back into that old way of thinking.

It didn't matter anymore, he wasn't Millennium Man, in any shape or form, and he had long since come to terms with the fact that he wasn't Henry Burke either.

"I know I'm not you, Bruce." He said silently. "I'm not Henry Burke either but I promise you I'll do my best. I'll make both of you, wherever you are, proud of the name Millennium Man."

Those familiar words drifted back and he felt sick inside.

The very concept of being proud of Burke's legacy at all made him feel ill. It was nothing to do with Burke, Christ knew that he had only ever met the man once - or rather once in a physical sense - it was more to do with the fact that the name had caused enough grief and sorrow to last him a lifetime and to end the those of people he loved and cared about.

Strands of fading sunlight crossed his face, illuminating the solitary tear that ran down his cheek.

The sudden sound of keys turning in the door caused him to jump slightly, hastily wiping his eyes and forcing a smile across his sullen face.

"Hiya." A voice called out.

His hastily composed smile softened into something more like genuine happiness.

"Hello."

Regina Darling appeared, still dressed in her work suit, her hair dishevelled and her eyes glowing.

"How was work?" He asked quietly, still feeling slightly awkward.

She shrugged and dropped her bags down on the nearest armchair, running a hand through her hair and trying to undo the damage the wind had caused on her short walk home.

"Same old, same old." She said in a non-committal fashion. "I see you managed to let yourself in okay."

Manly smiled awkwardly.

"Yeah." He nodded. "I managed."

They both stood there, smiling at each other but not really knowing what to say.

Finally Manly broke away, his eyes turning to the floor.

"Look, Regina, I really appreciate everything you've done for me but I think it would be better on both of us if I just left." His voice trailed away as he finally whispered the words he'd sensed were inevitable ever since they first kissed.

He had never quite been able to unravel his feelings for Regina Darling.

From their first meeting on the set of Not Tonight, Darling where she had all but accused him of being gay right up to the death of Jim Finnegan. Everything that she did, everything that she said only served to anger him further yet somehow, after he had killed Finnegan, there had existed a strange camaraderie between them, as if they were two people trapped in the same nightmare and each had only just discovered the other's presence.

His stomach twisted, as his thoughts turned to Finnegan's death, still fresh in his memory.

"Hey!" Regina reached out and placed her hand on his arm, her voice both maternal and annoyed. "I know damn well that you don't mean that so let's cut the crap and get to the point, shall we? You don't understand what's happening to you and it scares you." She held up her hands and open and closed them in synchronisation. "Well, newsflash, Mike, neither does anyone else. Congratulations, you're just like the rest of us."

He looked up at her, unconvinced.

"Look," She sighed. "I'm not trying to condone what happened between you and that madman Finnegan, hell, I'm not even trying to understand it but let's face facts shall we? Jim Finnegan was mentally unstable, in possession of a dangerous weapon and holding people hostage. You did what you had to do and I'm glad you were there for me when I needed you. I don't blame you for Finnegan's death, neither should you."

"It doesn't matter." He said quietly. "I saw that show Tracy's working on a few weeks back, that stupid teenage show. They had a minute's silence for him and everything then the rest of the programme was filled with teenage kids saying how dangerous I am. How am I going to be able to face that, Regina? How can I go out there and deal with that knowing that there are people just waiting to condemn me?"

"We all live with that." Regina countered, her anger becoming more apparent now. "I know for a fact that Tracy Newman and those jerks at KGPC would love to be able to condemn me and tell me how bad I am. Christ, why do you think Victoria Burke hasn't phoned me in God knows how long, and we used to be best friends at school. The difference is, Mike, that I won't let them. I'm not going to give in just because those idiots think they know more about me than I do myself." She reached out to him again. "And neither should you."

"Thank you." He whispered and silently they embraced.

Glass crunched beneath the harsh soles of his ex-US army issue boots, the glare of the fire illuminating the skeletal features of the masque he wore over his face.

It had been a long time since he had been on Australian soil.

The wind rose in tumultuous roars outside the shattered and gutted remnants of their surroundings, fire scorched walls and soot blackened structure groaning in low, mournful protest.

It had been over two years since his expulsion from Harbour City and the sudden, abrupt disappearance of his mentor; two long years in which he had been forced to come to terms once more with the fear people had of him and the darkness that had slowly unfurled within the pit of his stomach like some ancient and fearful deity, awakening from the slumber of aeons.

Since then he had been reincarnated, not in a physical sense but on a more personal level, finally coming to terms with the vast emptiness of the world around him and the serpent's place in that darkness. Finally he had found peace with the world, not through some useless and foolhardy desire to preserve the status-quo but through the unquenchable and all-consuming desire to burn it all away and start anew, just as he himself had been forced to do upon his own fall from grace.

The world was imperfect, not through any design of some mystical and absent higher force but through the ignorance of human beings. Only when struggling, only when forced to fight for their existence could humanity ever hope to justify itself. In a blinding flash of realisation he had come to know this truth deeply and personally and had brought into every corner of his life, housing it even within the belly of the serpent itself.

Pain, filth, sin; all were necessary and if it was his destiny to be their envoy in order to make people see the folly of their ways then so be it, he would not flinch from that fate.

A cold smile of disdain grew beneath the ivory masque as he watched the jitter of his own shadow in the warm firelight.

All his life he had been taught to detach himself from the situations he was placed in, from his training with the US military to the lessons of his mentor, both had insisted that he remained apart, removed from both his own actions and the actions of others. It was only now that he was being to see the beauty of losing himself within the serpent's belly, only now that he was beginning to understand that in order to fully convey his message he would have to abandon himself within the very darkness his elders had cowered from.

His eyes moved slowly across the scene before him, drifting over the small, fragile form of his sleeping lover.

The serpent within him wailed with despair and frustration and his sight traversed the various irreparable scars and wounds that lined her soft skin.

"All your magic couldn't fix you this time could it, beloved?" He whispered morosely.

She didn't reply, merely shifting slightly in her sleep and edging closer to the fire.

In the very same year that he had slowly begun to come to terms with his own inner darkness so she had become a victim to hers.

She had always been so much stronger than him, so much wiser, so much older that seeing her reduced to childhood once more was almost humbling.

He had resolved himself to remain with her for two reasons; firstly to protect her from those that could never understand her fragile beauty and secondly to remind himself of what fate awaited him should he ever show fear in the face of his own daemons.

With gloved hands he reached down and brushed her face.

She flinched visibly but did not wake.

The serpent screamed once more from inside of and slowly he turned away, busying himself with unwrapping his collection of firearms from the mouldy cloths in which he had stored them and laying them out on the sharp, jagged ground before him.

Solemnly he set about taking each and every one of them apart and cleaning them.

They were his coven, his dedicated followers and he had to make sure each and every one of them could be depended upon during the coming conflict.

After all it wasn't every day you crucified a saviour in full view of his followers - and Joseph Liebowitz wanted to make sure that when he was hammering the nails through the flesh of this particular self-styled messiah that the nails would not only remain where they would do the most damage but would keep him there for a lot longer than three days.

The smile beneath the masque widened a fraction and he set about restoring his tools with all the love and attention of a professional.

His sleeping lover murmured once in her sleep and then drifted back into dreams, a slow, confident smile tracing her features in sympathy with his own.

Outside the crippled and lifeless structure of the ruined tower, the wind continued to howl its warning.

"Dude! Free burgers!"

Michael Manly shuffled his feet uncomfortably upon the faded and torn carpet of the small apartment, still dressed in the glaring red of his McDonald's uniform.

Julia sat in the corner, glaring coldly at him and Manly tried not to think about the Bad Thing or how much she reminded him of Lilith Cadduceus.

Merrily, Jonathan Manly tore open the grease stained brown bag and began to fill his face with processed cow in a sesame seed bun.

The room lapsed into silence aside from the merrily oblivious sounds of the younger Manly brother consuming his older brother's peace offering.

Manly squirmed beneath the unbending gaze of his younger brother's girlfriend.

"Listen, Jon," He said in a tone that betrayed how awkward he was feeling.

Jon looked up, cheeks full of animal and sesame seeds.

"I kind of feel responsible for you getting hurt, what with it being my stuff you were picking up and all."

"Does that mean you'll be paying the hospital bills then?" Julia asked coldly.

Manly winced.

"Well, no, not exactly, but.well, I was thinking.if there's some way I could repay you guys."

"Try explaining to Jonathan's employers why he can't be in work and then explaining to our landlord why there's no rent money for the past two months. Try that one." Julia announced, her voice level and sharp as razor blades.

Jon swallowed his mouthful of food and turned to look at her.

"Its not Mikey's fault." He smiled broadly. "Its not as though he hired some psycho to dress up as

Millennium Man and go running around his building is it?"

"It was 'Mikey' that Finnegan was looking for." Julia pointed out.

"Yeah, but." Jon paused, realised he didn't really have much of an argument, especially not against Julia's fierce anger, and returned to his Big Mac.

Michael Manly cast his eyes own down, suddenly fascinated by the various coffee stains and burn marks that decorated the carpet beneath him.

"Look, what I'm trying to say is if there's anyway I can help you guys out."

Julia's expression never wavered.

"I think you've done enough, Michael." She said in a dark voice.

He nodded dumbly.

"Right." He murmured, his face flushing red. "Well, I, ah, guess I'll see you some other time then."

Jon nodded apologetically and watched as his older brother fled swiftly from the discomfort of the small, downtown apartment.

Julia shook her head with distaste.

Tracy Newman tucked a stray strand of dark brown hair behind her ear and bit her lip sharply, adjusting her glasses and resisting the urge to chew on the end of her pen.

With a look of dedicated concentration she flipped the various sheets over until eventually she arrived at the much maligned and dented back of her clipboard.

Still reeling from the punches recent events had dealt her, Tracy Newman was just about managing to keep her head above water the only way she knew how: work.

She stared blankly at the indentations on the black plastic for a few seconds before flipping back to her schedule, sighing and look around at the all too familiar scene of chaos and disarray that so graced the studio, 5 days a week, every week.

Delinquent teenagers loitered in the corner, all acne and mint smelling to disguise the stench of cigarettes and alcohol, sniffing absently and wiping noses on sleeves. It was a caste from which Tracy Newman had long ago graduated with only minor wounds.

Surrounding the inner circle of 15 and 17 year olds were her crew, each in their late 30s or older. The cultural gap had never seemed so well defined as it did now.

Her eyes strayed to the unmanned camera and her heart sunk.

By all rights Jim Finnegan should have been behind it.but not the Jim Finnegan that had ended up as discoloured stains on Millennium Man's costume but rather the Jim Finnegan she had known for the past 6 years. They had both started at KGPC at the same time and since then had worked together on nearly everything they had been assigned to - it was an unwritten rule that if Newman was producing then she'd call for Finnegan on camera.

When she got the job as producer of The Manly Side they had gone out on an all night drinking session and hadn't returned till the early hours of the morning, much to this disdain of Tracy's husband.

She smiled remembering how drunk they had been that night and the good times that had followed.

Whilst Manly had never fitted in one hundred percent with their little clique he had at least attempted to make the effort and had been respected for that.

The good times faded again and she was once more confronted with a studio full of snotty teenagers and her agitated crew.

"Jesus, what the hell is keeping this show together?" She murmured silently to herself.

"Hey, Tracy." A soft voice called out to her.

The sudden greeting caught her off guard. For a moment she started looking round, expecting to see Jim arriving, late as usual.

But it wasn't Jim, instead she found herself staring into the tired and shadowed face of Neil Ashwood.

She smiled warmly at the welcome break from her usual routine.

"Hi, Neil, how have things been? How's Angela? God, I haven't spoke to you for ages!"

Ashwood smiled in that familiar, tired fashion of his and shrugged.

"Things are good." He murmured. "The baby's still a few months off, Angela's getting impatient now." He paused and looked around nervously. "Listen I was wondering if you had time to step outside for a cigarette or something."

Tracy Newman crossed her arms in mock disapproval.

"You're don't smoke anymore, Neil, remember?"

Ashwood shrugged and reached inside his jacket pocket for a crumpled packet of Marlboro Reds.

"If you'd been through some of the stuff I've been through over the past few weeks then you'd smoke as well." He murmured, eyes looking around in a paranoid fashion.

Tracy's heart skipped a beat. Something was not right here. She had known Neil Ashwood for almost as long as she had known Jim and whilst he was what some might have called a workaholic she had never seen him look as exhausted and petrified as he did right now.

She turned and signalled to the co-producer and director who both nodded reluctantly and then turned their attention back to their own copies of the schedule.

"Come on," Tracy said, leading towards the door. "I've got five minutes."

Neil Ashwood smiled weakly.

"Thanks Tracy. I can't begin to tell you how much this means to me."

Michael Manly stared absently at the empty floor and the highly polished counter.

It had been weeks since the destruction of the Tower and the death of one of their staff and yet still he couldn't quite shake the idea that it was somehow his fault.

Despite knowing his secret identity as the former Millennium Man, none of his fellow workers had ever questioned if there was more he could have done for Nicki - none of them had ever suggested that he should have been able to stop what had happened despite the fact that Nicki had been covered in glass before he could even get to her.

He felt sick to his stomach.

"Hey." A voice called from behind him.

He turned, still frowning and troubled by his own thoughts.

Jeremy, his shift manager, stood there looking awkward, his hands deep in his pockets.

"You okay, Mike?" He questioned sincerely.

Manly smiled at the absurdity of the situation. He was 20 years older and then Jeremy, old enough to qualify as one of his teachers, if not a parent.

"I'm just thinking, that's all." He replied, trying to force the deep sorrow he felt at Nicki's death from his voice. "I keep asking myself if there's anything I could have done. I've fought supervillains and I've faced invasions from alternative dimensions but I still couldn't save the life of a 16 year old kid."

Jeremy flinched at the term '16 year old kid' but, to his credit, didn't protest.

"There was nothing you could have done, Mike, nothing any of us could have done."

Manly turned away.

"That's not the point. I'm supposed to be a superhero, it's my job to save people no matter the cost."

His own sudden admission turned his mind back to the costume again, the once proud colours now scarred by Finnegan's dried and flaking blood. He wasn't a hero, he was a menace to all those around him.

The sickness in the pit of his stomach returned and he sighed deeply.

"Look," Jeremy said awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of a counselling a man 20 years older than himself.

"You can't keep on blaming yourself for this. None of us really knew Nicki that well, she only started a week before the Tower exploded - you can't carry her memory around with you as some excuse to beat yourself up. Its not right."

Manly smiled wryly.

"You sound like Charlie Winters." He observed. "Only more polite."

Jeremy seemed to take umbrage at this.

"Hasn't he been arrested yet? For killing all those cops last month, I mean."

Manly's expression changed.

"They haven't proved that. He wouldn't have just gone in there and killed them all. He's not like that anymore, he's a superhero."

"Ch-yeah." Jeremy smirked sarcastically. "On the news they said that the Silver Shadow had caught him red handed."

Manly's eyes narrowed and his fists tightened as he recalled his meeting with the Shadow the night the Winters were alleged to have killed the entire staff of the police compound where the remains of their helicar was stored.

It was an uncomfortable topic and one that the two of them had rarely talked about.

"The Silver Shadow doesn't know everything." He said very slowly and quietly.

Jeremy shrugged.

"Whatever."

He turned away and Manly was left with the same uncomfortable sickness in his stomach as before.

Despite what the Shadow had said he still couldn't believe Shirley and Charlie Winters had killed all those people - he knew them better than that, and he knew that they weren't like that anymore.

He slammed his fist down hard against the counter and cursed beneath his breath.

They were superheroes for God's sake, why couldn't people just accept that?

Through gritted teeth he reigned in his anger and finally calmed down.

Sighing, he turned his attention to the new range of Sailor Moon toys they had recently received to be included with the children's happy meals.

The small plastic figure of Sailor Moon smiled up at him and he returned the smile weakly.

"How come you don't have this kind of trouble?" He asked wistfully and then returned his attention to the shop floor and the sound of the opening door.

Neil Ashwood exhaled gratefully and slumped back against the wall, pale clouds of smoke rising from his nostrils and mouth and ascending above the troubled, Tower-less skyline of Pacific City.

Tracy Newman shook her head with disdain, a half-amused smile upon her face.

"Angela's going to kill you." She reminded him for the umpteenth time.

He nodded as if this was already a forgone conclusion but didn't reply, instead he remained staring out across the moving traffic and fast stepping people with his watery blue eyes.

"What's the matter?" Tracy asked.

It was all she could do from calling him Jim. Standing there, looking so worn out and exhausted he looked just like Finnegan had the day she had gone to visit him.the last time she had seen him.

"Its Victoria." Neil began.

Tracy rolled her eyes.

"The ice maiden cometh." She remarked nastily.

Ashwood pretended not to hear.

"I think something's wrong with her, Tracy, something big this time. I mean, we all know she's been on something of a downward spiral since her father died and we all know that since she took over at KGPC things have been a nightmare but its not just that. She's ignoring important parts of her professional and personal life, parts that she wouldn't have dared neglect a year or so ago. Did you know that this month Burke Fashions is going to file for bankruptcy?"

Tracy shook her head, genuinely astounded by the news, her own cigarette burning uselessly between her fingers.
Ashwood shrugged.

"A lot of us saw it coming. I mean its not as if Burke Fashions ever broke even or anything, it's just that before hand Victoria was there to throw money at it. Now she doesn't seem to care." He sighed and took another drag on his cigarette. "I think she's become dangerous, Tracy. Not to others, but to herself. She's starting to toe the line with some awfully big issues. I'm worried that she might.you know." He faltered, uncertain of how to phrase his final comment.

"Do herself in?" Tracy offered helpfully.

Ashwood nodded seriously.

"Yeah." He agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know last month, just before the Tower exploded she phoned me up in the middle of the night demanding to know which hotel Charlie and Shirley Winters were staying at."

A frown crossed Tracy Newman's face and suddenly her curiosity was aroused.

"Why would the richest and most powerful woman in Pacific City want to visit Charlie and Shirley Winters?" She asked, thoughtfully.

Ashwood shrugged.

"Your guess is as good as mine. The fact is that we've been running on autopilot ever since. We haven't heard a word from her. She's vanished. I've tried calling her apartment, I've even tried calling the old Burke mansion on the outskirts of town but all I ever get there is the butler, Alfonse or something. For all we know, Victoria Burke could be dead right now."

With a sudden jolt she remembered her cigarette and quickly took a drag from it before tossing it out into the gutter.

"Look, stay calm, Neil. Victoria Burke's personal problems are not your concern; she's just your employer. As for where she is, she's probably out on a marathon drinking binge with Denise Delgado or out at another party complaining about the insolence of us poor peasants. It's not your problem, relish the fact that you don't have to put with her barking orders for the time being, okay?" She gently punched him on the arm and smiled, hauling the large doors open again and put her foot back inside the studio.

"That doesn't really help, Tracy." Ashwood protested weakly.

"Trust me." Tracy smiled back. "Look, I've gotta jet but you've got my number so give me a call. God knows it'd be nice to have an alternative to Fred's ongoing sports commentary."

"I-I'll try." Ashwood nodded hesitantly.

"Good." Tracy beamed. "Take care Neil and I'll catch up with you soon - and don't worry!" She called as she disappeared from view, back under the watchful eye of her director and co-producer.

Neil Ashwood stood alone in the parking lot, watching the traffic outside.

He looked down at his burnt out cigarette with disgust before finally giving in and, with a shrug, lighting a second.

Already he could hear Angela's complaints.

Around him the traffic continued to move and the sun began to sink slowly from the sky.

Carefully she arranged the bones of the recently murdered rook upon the filth and debris of the ground, examining her reflection in the oil streaked rainwater.

Liebowitz stood silently behind her, his arms crossed and his trenchcoat now stained with the filth and dirt of the rubbish amongst which they had been sleeping. The ivory death masque he wore remained immaculately expressionless, betraying none of the emotion that discoloured the features beneath.

The young woman frowned; her child like face streaked with dirt and soot and rearranged the bones once more, aligning them into a perfect six-pointed star. It was a powerful symbol and one with more than a few religious and mystical connotations.

"What do the dead say?" Liebowitz finally asked, his voice like broken glass.

His lover's voice, by comparison, was distant and clouded.

"They say he's weak." She whispered. "But that he has a powerful patriarch watching over him."

Liebowitz grunted with displeasure.

"Professor Winters won't be able to interfere with our business. In fact, unless I'm mistaken, the dear Professor won't be interfering with anyone's business after Burke's daughter has finished with him."

The woman shook her head sorrowfully, the fringe of her short hair falling down over her troubled eyes.

"Not Winters." She moaned. "Someone else. Someone more powerful, someone new and at once very ancient."

Liebowitz frowned.

"How can this new patriarch be both new and ancient?" He asked, his patience quickly evaporating.

"He has travelled the wheel many times." The woman continued in her monotone voice. "And many times has he been turned away in order that he may fulfil his destiny in leading others to the path."

"Does he have a name, this patriarch?" Liebowitz snapped, his voice ugly with anger.

The young woman was silent for a moment and then a slight gasp escaped her dry and bruised lips.

"The dead won't give his name up." Her voice cracked and her expression flickered. "Oh, Joseph, they're hungry! So many souls soiled by humanity and born once more in fiery scales of reptile flesh! So many teeth, Joseph, they all have so many teeth!"

Crouching down he placed a gloved hand upon her bare shoulder and cooed gently in her ear.

"Shhh, beloved," He whispered. "Its alright now. They have no claim on you."

She nodded meekly and Joseph Liebowitz felt his heart break anew.

If only he had stayed with her, if only he had been able to prevent the crystal from damaging her so.

But regrets were useless; he knew that now.

Whilst she was not the honey voiced angel that had first visited him on that hot summer's day in 1970, she was still useful and for that alone he was thankful.

But if only...

He crushed the thought before it started.

"Be careful, Joseph," The woman whispered once more. "His patriarch is stronger than you."

Joseph Liebowitz straightened and removed one of his many handguns from behind his back, spinning the chamber and opening it before slowly loading the bullets within.

"I don't care how powerful he is, no man, despite what costume he wears, can survive being shot point blank in the face by a .44 Magnum." A cruel smile crossed the scar tissue beneath the masque. "If this patriarch shows up then I'll take him down too, just like I did all the others."

The woman remained unconvinced.

"Guns may not be enough this time."

The smile did not falter.

"And that's why I've got you, beloved." He announced darkly before cracking into a harsh and bitter laugh.

The young woman remained cross-legged upon the floor, staring at the six-pointed star of rook bones.

"Guns may not be enough." She repeated silently.

Above the sound of her lover's bitter laughter, the sound of a solemn and lonely rook filled the skies as it searched for its lost beloved.