Millennium Man tome #10:
"Once Upon A Time In Australia And England..."
(Siege Engine Act I)
by Jacob Milnestein

He smelt faintly of antiseptic and green tea.

It was reassuring, it reminded her of the time when her Daddy got sick and had to go away and Alfonse looked after her, making her hot cocoa and tucking her into bed.

Sometimes she thought she had heard him crying when he thought she was asleep but she couldn't be sure. She never asked and he never told. All she knew back then was that Daddy was ill and Doctor Tage had to look after him.

The old man reached out once more, the skin of his hand looking like scrunched up paper.

"Victoria," He said softly, that same voice he had used all those years. "Its very important that you listen to me. We know that you know who Millennium Man is and under any other circumstances I would never dream of asking you this but I'm afraid that if we're going to stop more people from being hurt then you're going to have to tell me."

She had never understood why Daddy had to go away, never understood why her mother had suddenly left without saying goodbye, she had never understood why it hurt so much. All she knew was that she had to be brave; she had to be like her Daddy, she had to save lives.

"Manly." She whispered, her voice dry, tears streaming down her face. "Millennium Man is Michael Manly."

William Tage nodded slowly, his face remaining expressionless as he patted her on the hand.

"Thank you, Victoria. Your help won't be forgotten."

He turned and nodded at the firm, sober looking police commissioner standing in the doorway who in turn nodded also and turned away.

Outside of the room, Alfonse silently ground his teeth and balled his fists.

The stars were like a heavy blanket over the wounded city.

It could have been any city in the world at the moment, London, New York, Jerusalem, it didn't matter. The ache of the missing tower still reverberated within the minds and hearts of its people, the same loss universal to all cities in turmoil.

October had arrived and with it, the blistering heat of the Australian summer.

They were now well into the third week of the month, the silence that had surrounded his birthday on the 12th made all the more real by his father's funeral and the burials of his friend and co-worker Jeremy and his mother.

He shook his head and wished deeply that it had affected him more deeply than it actually had.

The blood that stained his costume seemed to be spreading with each nightly outing. People just weren't listening. It wasn't that he was forced to kill every criminal in the city but still, after a year and six months people still weren't quite understanding what his role as a superhero entailed. He stopped crime. Dead. That was it. Yet, still they insisted on testing him, firing the odd handgun, hitting him in the back of the head with lead poles.

He shrugged and smiled darkly.

Still, at least he was now helping fill St. Jude's as well as Alhazred.

He could still count the amount of people he'd killed on one hand that, at least in his mind, still qualified him as a good superhero. As Winters had said, there was only so many times you could drop people into Alhazred's front yard and expect them to come out rehabilitated. Sooner of later, you have to stop them from breathing if only to prevent the villains from outnumbering the people who just wanted to get on with their lives.

Bruce Todd, Jim Finnegan, Joseph Liebowitz and Prentice.

"You all died for no reason at all." He murmured quietly, crossing himself like the good Catholic boy his mother had raised him to be.

He smiled again, this time to mask the pain.

When he arrived at his father's funeral, his mother had broken down in hysterics, screaming at him and pounding her fists against his chest.

Aside from the emotion of faint shame at the fact that Regina's first encounter with the woman that brought him into the world was in such a manner, he felt surprisingly distant from the event.

It didn't matter.

It wasn't as if he had ever had a perfect relationship with his parents and it wasn't as if he hadn't read enough psychology books to know what was happening to him. You can't maintain such high levels of emotional stress for long periods of time, you have to put distance between you and those events, you have to adapt and Michael Manly, for all his faults, was finally learning to adapt; adapt to the idea of being a killer.

The smile faltered.

No, not a killer. A killer was a soldier and he definitely wasn't that. But he had accepted the moral implications of the fact that in order to make life better for the majority of people sometimes you had to sacrifice the minority that wished to sabotage that.

In a way it felt good to cut back from all the moralistic oppressiveness that had so symbolised Henry Burke and his stint as Millennium Man.

When first he had received his solar powers, he seemed to have accepted a small portion of what made Burke into Millennium Man also. It was like a seed that had buried itself within his own personality and helped preserve the code by which Burke had wished he lived his life.

But Burke was no saint; it didn't take a genius to work that out.

He had read the Cook, Castonzo and Carrington published paperback that claimed to detail Henry Burke's life as a philanthropist and businessman and he was wise enough to see the holes, witness the same business-like savagery that must also have poisoned his life as the original Millennium Man.

Burke was no angel, despite whatever wings his daughter may have.

It didn't matter; he was Millennium Man now, at least for the time being.

Burke was dead and so were most of the old heroes, at least in Australia.

Silently he lifted himself into the air, his movement echoing within the structure of the old KGPC Control Tower. It was odd being so far outside the city, watching over it from the edges as he used to do and knowing that Jian was so many, many miles away now.

Of course the rumour mill that Jian had set in motion continued. There were still those odd kids that dressed in the Shadow's colours and, now again, he thought he saw that familiar costume running across the rooftops and dropping off into the alleyways that narrowly divided the downtown area from Bretonside.

He assumed that Jian had managed to persuade one of his friends into carrying on the role of the Shadow in his absence but couldn't be sure. It would be interesting if such was the case and their paths crossed. What would the new Silver Shadow be like? Would he know everything Jian had known before he left?

The idea worried him faintly.

He didn't like the possibility that there was someone out there that knew who he was whilst he remained oblivious of their real identity.

The confrontation with Liebowitz had etched in his mind how important the costume was and was saddened that it took the death of Jeremy and his own father for him to realise that. But the past couldn't be changed and he had done his grieving for them all.

Jeremy, his father, Nicki, even Jim... they were all gone now.

Last weekend he had also handed in his notice at McDonald's. It wasn't fair on Neil, Jodie, Joe and Jake. Oh, their attitudes hadn't changed exactly but he could see how nervous they were around him now. They had lost two friends because of Liebowitz's actions and every act Liebowitz had made within Pacific City had been aimed at drawing him out from hiding.

He rose up into the air, the stars growing closer and closer still.

One day he would just keep on moving, fly out into the vacuum and beyond the constraints of the city, of the Earth itself. One day he wouldn't need to divide his life between Michael Manly and Millennium Man, one day he would be one person.

His stomach flipped with excitement and he pushed himself further up into the atmosphere, rising above the clouds till he was almost outside of the planet's protection.

It would be so easy to just let it all go, so easy.

Every muscle in his body yearned to keep on moving, every instinct drove him further and further out into the emptiness beyond planets.

He stopped before he broke through the atmosphere and looked up, the moon large and full.

It would take six months to cross the distance by space shuttle. For him it would take less than six seconds.

There was nothing to stop him from leaving his own footprints on the moon, nothing to stop him from racing the probe that gathered speed towards the moon's of Saturn and dividing below Titan's cloud cover and investigating that alien world below.

He had long since discovered that breathing was optional.

He didn't need an atmosphere to exist.

But what if he did? What if he left Earth? Would he be content? If he ever decided to return would he survive re-entry into the planet's atmosphere or would he be forced to stay outside, forever in momentum due to the push of gravity and the attraction of stars?

There were too many variables, too many possibilities.

With a heavy heart he descended back down towards the planet, down to the city and all of the heavy, aching problems it held so close to its beating chest.

Sometimes he wished he could just take the world and shake it. Scream at them; explain that all their petty squabbles weren't that important anymore.

In 50 or 100 years everyone would be a superhero and everyone would be able to leave their own footprints on the moon. It didn't matter.

He looked down at the city beneath him.

"Your children and your children's children will all be superheroes." He murmured.

It didn't matter, none of it mattered.

In hundreds of years time the world would be populated by five billion Millennium Men and Mysterias.

Silently Michael Manly descended to the ground below.

Commissioner Jordan strode purposefully down the haunted corridors of Alhazred Asylum, its victims and prisoners screaming like caged animals and banging on their bars.

Fred Thomas tried desperately to keep up with the older man, showing his own age as he did so.

"Do we have a name?" He asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

Jordan smiled grimly.

"Yes, Thomas, we have a name." He came to a stop outside the glass fronted cell and its vision of Eden within. "And now we release the hounds."

His feet pressed down against the balcony and swiftly he stepped off, fumbling in the pockets of his jacket for the keys to the sliding glass door that divided Regina's top floor apartment from the outside world.

He had taken to wearing trainers lately.

Unlike the uncomfortable boots of the costume's previous incarnation he had decided to opt for a more casual type of footwear to which end he had gone out and picked up the chunkiest, most stupid looking pair of 'old school' trainers he could find.

He now felt satisfied that if people were going to ridicule his retro costume they were at least going to ridicule all of it and not just highlight specific individual areas.

Slowly he twisted the keys in the lock and pulled open the glass partition, take one last chance to look over his shoulder before stepping inside.

Things had changed. This time last year he had been fighting small time supervillains with stupid names like Fast-Forward, Eagle-Eye, Chimera, Gigantor-Man and War Monger, all of which had provided little challenge, their powers being so lame that they had soon found their ways into the halls of Alhazred.

He smiled smugly.

In fact they were of exactly the same calibre as the kind of villains the new kid was currently facing.

The new kid.

Now there was a subject of amusement.

Winters had first caught sight of him on TV a couple of weeks ago. There was a report on Pacific City Nightbeat on Channel 9 about the latest crop of villains and heroes and amongst them had been the new kid, resplendent in his fake George W. Bush mask and suit.

He smiled and shook his head.

The apartment was silent aside from the soft ticking of the clock in the modestly sized kitchen.

It was long after midnight in the morning and Regina would be sound asleep; ready to waken at four for an early start and an appearance on Good Morning, Australia.

Silently he drew the curtains back and shrugged his jacket off, sitting down to remove the chunky trainers.

It felt odd wearing one of Henry Burke's costumes and only deepened his concerns about having to live up to Bruce Todd and Victoria's father. Removing the costume from the Millennium Man shrine at Burke manor hadn't served to help their relationship.

He felt a twitch of sorrow.

After the defeat of the Imperial Magistrate things had looked so bright for them. They were friends and more so, they were both proud to be part of Henry Burke's legacy. But something had happened in Victoria's head, something had changed her. She had grown increasingly cold towards those around her and now seemed on the verge of utter madness.

The memory of the scarab she now kept with her at all times glistened in his mind.

Silently he wondered if the strain of containing that other self, the divine entity that had named itself Yehovah Vehayah during the fight with the Magistrate, had driven her mind. Like Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, Victoria Burke was receiving what might be the Word of God. Only, unlike Paul, Victoria Burke was listening to God non stop night and day.

He shuddered.

Despite his Catholic upbringing, Manly prided himself on being an atheist. His lack of faith and lack of a career in the services was how he had distinguished himself from his father during those awkward years. They had asked too much of him as a child, expected him to be too perfect. At school he had learnt to resent his perfect peers as well as those that were often considered to be beneath him.

In thought, he removed the costume and padded naked to the bathroom.

After a minute or two of strained concentration he reappeared, wrapped in one of the dressing gowns Regina left hanging on the bathroom door.

Without bothering to hide the costume, he tiptoed over to his side of the large double bed and once more slipped out of the gown and into bed.

He smiled as he closed his eyes.

The last thought that travelled through his head before he fell into a deep sleep being that 'Regina' was Latin for 'Queen'.

'Why, doctor, I'm flattered.' She purred, fluttering her great eyelashes.

William Tage sighed, removing his spectacles in order to rub the bridge of his nose. He had spent all morning with Subject A0032#21248129, best known as Jeffrey Carter, or more commonly, Bush43 and frankly, the old man was quite at his wit's end.

Carter had goaded and ridiculed his way through yet another session, remaining adamantly true to his mask's persona and allowing Tage very little room to work in. In short, he feared that the boy might simply be too stupid for psychoanalysis.

"Good afternoon, Venus." He said with more than a hint of resignation. "How are you this morning?"

Venus Mantrap cocked her head slightly; her gleaming white hair falling over one shoulder as she assumed what she believed to be an expression of curiosity.

'You don't sound very well, doctor. Are the new patients giving you a hard time?' She reached over the desk and placed her smooth, soft hands over his. 'Would you like me to help you relax, William?'

Tage instinctively pulled his hands back, resisting the desire that her touch had awakened in him. He knew it was nothing but the body's automatic reaction to the toxins contained within Venus' petal-like flesh and understood what would happen to him if he allowed himself to give into that desire. The hospital, graveyard and many others like it were full of men, and in some case women, who had been unable to resist her charms.

One of the guards stepped forwards nervously, his hand resting on the cattle prod that at present remained holstered to his side.

Tage quickly waved him back.

"Its alright, young man." He said, recovering quickly. "Venus is going to behave today, aren't you, dear?" He paused, a faint smile forming on his dry lips. "After all, we are here to discuss the terms of your release, aren't we?"

Genuine shock overpowered her usual expression of emotional distance and in that moment, Doctor William Tage knew that, for the first time in perhaps years, Venus Mantrap was finally enthralled by what someone else had to say.

The machine towered over them, shadows falling over its vast metallic bulk.

"I like the cloak." Jerrod finally announced, nodding slightly. "It works."

Thomas Lansing raised a single dark eyebrow.

"I'm glad you think so. I however--" He began.

Jerrod waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, casually strolling around the machine, looking up at the cloak of light purple material that descended from its massive square shoulders.

Somers stood with his notebook, his eyes moving nervously from the mayor and Lansing to Siefret, who stood to his right looking resentful as the mayor continued to inspect the machine.

"I trust the modifications we requested have been made?" Jerrod asked absently.

"Yes, the machine has been modified." Lansing said, somewhat displeased. "Though frankly, sir, I'm at a loss as to why you should you require such a drastic increase in weaponry. The tests have shown that the Engine is more than capable of--"

"Yours not to reason why, Lansing." Jerrod murmured, completing his inspection of the machine. "The tests only showed that your technological terror is capable of dealing with the common or garden superpowered individual. If what we're doing here becomes the bench mark by which we demonstrate to President and the rest of the country that they don't need to rely on men in tights then I want to make sure that it doesn't run out of options." He turned away from the machine and looked at them, Somers cowering with his clipboard and Siefret and Lansing looking less than pleased. "Have the database been updated as per my office's recommendations?"

Siefret, almost on the verge of yawning, nodded quickly.

"Yes, sir. What we know about ever single hero and villain in the city, active or not, has been programmed into the Engine's memory with the exception of." He glanced down at his own notes. "Mysteria and..." He paused, slightly uncertain of what he was reading. "And you."

Jerrod simply grunted and nodded, choosing not to react in a way that would explain his own past.

"If you don't mind me asking, why is Mysteria exempt from the Engine's database?" Lansing asked, feeling more than a little insulted by the new demands imposed on him since they had got the official go ahead for the Siege Engine project.

Cliff Jerrod turned a way, a dark look falling over his face.

"Because she did us a favour.and because her father was a good man." He said silently.

Siefret glanced meaningfully at Lansing as warning bells exploded within his head.

"With all due respect," He began.

"The matter is not up for discussion, Mister Siefret." Jerrod announced curtly. "Now, if that's all gentlemen, I'm happy to let you get on with your work, after all we have a schedule to keep. I'll leave Somers in your care to finalise the details."

Somers gulped and looked at the displeasure written across both Lansing and Siefret's faces as the man started towards the door.

"Excuse me, sir," Siefret called out. "But just when are you expecting Siege Engine to go live?"

Mayor Cliff Jerrod turned to them and smiled wryly.

"Tonight is as good as any." He said softly, nodding to each of them in turn. "Goodnight, gentlemen. I expect to see a fine catch in the morning."

The door closed behind him leaving Somers feeling lost and very, very scared as he stood between the Engine's developers.

Without a word, Siefret turned and walked away, barely suppressing his rage.

"I'm beginning to have doubts about this project." Lansing murmured softly and returned to the terminal that stood alongside his machine, quietly channeling his anger into his work.

Somers remained frozen to the spot, beads of sweat standing still upon his forehead.

Silently, the Siege Engine's unseeing eyes watched over all of them.

Julia Squire stared blankly up into the dark sky through the window, her lips parting, immaculate black lipstick revealing the slightly faded white of her teeth and soft pink of her tongue, as she blew smoke out and up to towards the yellowed ceiling of the designated smoking room.

She hated the night shift.

It was uncomfortable enough working in the asylum during the day but at night all the really crazy patients woke up and started howling at the moon and screaming about their Transylvanian masters or whatever.

Her face twisted in disgust, bracelets rattling as she moved the cigarette up towards her mouth for a second drag.

If she had interacted more with the patients then she would not have been allowed to wear the necklaces and beaded jewellery that formed such a subtle yet important part of her non-work uniform but as she was simply a trainee and not permitted to step foot within the cells of any patients but those with the lowest power ratings, ones like that old guy, Lord Omega or something, who had tried robbing the bank last Christmas only to wind up spending the holidays and the new year in a dingy little cell courtesy of everyone's favourite neighbourhood Millennium Man. Even then she was little more than an onlooker, watching as two of the male charge nurses led the former supervillain about, made sure he took his medication and got his required amount of meals a day.

The only reason she felt she'd got away with the excessive jewellery and make up was simply because the head shrink, Tage, seemed to have something of a small crush on her, despite their massive age difference.

She smiled.

Not that it mattered, not in the long run anyway. If she wanted a promotion and Tage was asking 'favours' then she'd be more than happy to give it up in order to further her goals. It wasn't as if it was anything important, after all. It was only sex, and sex, as Julia had long ago established, was as good a weapon as any other.

She straightened her white nurse's uniform and adjusted her awkward little hat and took another drag on the cigarette.

She liked Lord Omega, freak that he was, she thought casually. In all honesty, the old guy seemed like a harmless sort. Apparently his bank job last December was supposed to be his last gig as a supervillain, a final farewell to his costumed crime committing days. After that job he was going to retire to a small island somewhere and drink cocktails and enjoy being stinking rich. Instead he had been directed towards Alhazred.

It was almost comical really. Having spoken to the villain a few times as she passed by on her rounds, Lord Omega seemed to have had the worst run of luck in the entire history of costumed villains. From the moment he first appeared, an Australian supervillain thinking he could make his fortune in crime, Lord Omega had been at a disadvantage. Foolishly choosing to debut whilst visiting elderly relatives in 1961, Lord Omega first appeared in London. Having gathered a small gang of thugs and villains, he had attempted to kill the city's ravens and thus cripple it, leaving it open to attack from himself and his collective. Unfortunately he hadn't counted on the combined efforts of the Fightin' Fist Four and Fast-Forward.

He had served 33 years in Screwtape Downs at the leisure of Her Majesty for that and he'd only been up for review when he managed to escape from Alhazred's more corporal minded British twin and flee back to Australia where he went to ground, until the bank job.

Julia smiled as she remembered the former Lord's look of anguish as he explained his tale of woe. Of course, what she hadn't told him was that sometime during his time languishing in Screwtape Downs, Fast-Forward, just like Charlie Winters, had turned from superhero to supervillain and, in fact, was now serving time in Alhazred after a confrontation with Millennium Man last year.

With a sigh, she stubbed out her cigarette and pushed off from the wall she was leaning against. Her smile soon souring, Julia Squire pulled open the door to the small smoking room and back to her duties.

Around her the howls and cries of those nocturnal patients with 'special' problems continued.

The television set flickered, blue light dousing the room and illuminating the shadows beneath his eyes.

Sweat ran down his worn face and into the rough hair of the grey beard that had grown over the lower half of his face during the weeks of neglect.

The curtains fluttered slightly in the breeze from the open window.

It had been uncharacteristically damp over the last month. From the heavy rain that had descended from open clouds at the end of September to the minor storms opening above the mismatched city and its bastions of culture. The rain had ended as abruptly as it had begun, giving way to the kind of humidity that so punctuated British summer time.

The light faded and was abruptly replaced by a new set of colourful images indicating the commencement of an advert break.

Charlie Winters opened his eyes slowly, yawning and rubbing his face with his hands.

He shifted his foot and nearly knocked over the all but empty bottle of whiskey that sat quietly awaiting his attention.

Moonlight filtered in through the open window, the sound of machinery grinding in the distance. Night industry. For a moment he mistook it for helicopter blades, the sound of squat machines and rotary blades moving sluggishly across the warm night sky.

He frowned, glancing at the window and feeling that it was strangely out of place before slow recollection dawned and he remembered that Manly had called out some builders and got them to patch up the mess Mysteria had made of it, no questions asked.

He'd been living inside Manly's flat since the end of last month. After what Mysteria had done to their room there was no hotel in Pacific City that would take him in. Manly, who had been spending increasingly more time at Regina's, agreed to let him stay at the old downtown apartment for a while.

It was a sorry state of affairs but there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Sighing loudly, he reached down towards the bottle of whiskey, stifling a yawn as he did.

"Wake up, Charles." A quiet voice called to him from across the room.

He froze, sudden fear filling every inch of his body.

His heart stopped beating as his eyes turned towards the other end of the room, a single bead of sweat falling from his forehead and staining the carpet.

Standing within the shadowy fold of the far corner of the room stood a tall, thin man, his face like some predatory bird deity carved in stone and painted in pale colours in an attempt to make it more human.

Fear clawed its way up his throat.

"Oh Jesus." Winters whispered, tears beginning to stream down his face. "Its you."

"One of me." The other replied, calmly.

With a thin hand that exposed the delicate bones, each one running towards knuckles like knots of broken glass before the length of his spidery fingers started, the other reached up and removed the bowler hat from his head, stepping forwards into the moonlight.

Fear and loss pushed down hard upon the former superhero's shoulders.

"I thought you were gone." He whispered dryly, accepting his fate.

The other smiled and reached within the immaculate folds of his crisp pin stripe suit, drawing out a silver cigarette case and matching lighter, crossing the distance between them as he did so. With ease he lit two cigarettes, one for himself and the second he held out for Winters.

Winters regarded it as if it were poison and then, reminding himself of the futility of his situation, reached out and graciously accepted the other's offered gift.

The immaculate man smiled.

"I don't believe we've been formerly introduced, you know." He began. "How do you do? Sir Edwin Calohan-Smythe, at your service."

He held out a hand with Winters shook with his own shaking hand.

"Yeah, I know you." He murmured. "I've seen you destroy worlds, mate."

Calohan-Smythe smiled warmly.

"Not me, old chap, remember."

Winters inhaled deeply and nodded slowly.

"Yeah. Not you, but like you." He looked up and sighed. "I never imagined they'd be more than one of you."

Calohan-Smythe adjusted his trousers and sat piously on the edge of the sofa facing the former English superhero.

"Neither did anyone else, which suited us just fine."

Winters cursed loudly and slumped back in his chair.

"So when we turned up and told your mates in Whitehall what was going on, you lot already knew? And yet rather than fill us in on it you let me and the others try and stop the Magistrate by ourselves and get us branded as supervillains?" He stared harshly at the other. "You heartless bastard. Shirley, Johnny and Fred all died because we were trying to do 'the right thing'? How bloody difficult would it have been for you just to tell us?"

Calohan-Smythe smiled thinly.

"Sorry, old man but government procedure and all that. Don't get me wrong there were quite of few members of the cabinet who thought we'd be better off telling you, thought that you were important enough to be in on the plan but at the end of the day it was the PM's decision and we don't argue with the Prime Minister."

Winters shook his head in disbelief.

"Wankers." He murmured, taking a drag on his cigarette before looking up again. "And now I'm going down for what I've done, aren't I?"

Calohan-Smythe nodded with perhaps the faintest hint of remorse.

"I'm afraid so, Professor Winters."

"Bollocks." Winters cursed. "I can't believe this. Where were you when the Magistrate did turn up then? Where were you when their bloody spaceship started carving big lines through Pacific City?"

"Oh, we were about, Professor, have no worries about that. We watched everything from Moonbase Churchill."

An exasperated expression crossed Winters' face.

"You were on the moon?" He shouted. "You're trying to tell me that you were sitting up there on the bleeding moon whilst the Imperial sodding Magistrate dropped down for a visit and started trying to redecorate? What bleeding good was it being on the moon, eh? Our plan failed, mate. If it hadn't been for that idiot Albert giving up his scarab we'd all be dead. You could never have made it from the moon to Pacific City if things had gone tits up."

"We didn't plan on rescuing Pacific City, Professor. Unfortunately either way we needed to know just how strong the Magistrate was and it was decided that losing a small Australian city was not too much of a sacrifice if things went wrong, which we quickly established it had - and we already knew it had gone wrong thanks to our man Romanov."

"Jesus!" Winters exclaimed. "Romanov was here? When they hell did you let that monster out of Screwtape?"

Calohan-Smythe smiled again.

"My, my, Professor, you really are behind with the times. Romanov's no longer on the villain list, hasn't been for some time, two years in fact. He, or it rather is working for us."

"You idiots." Winters whispered. "You don't know what its capable of. You forget, I've fought Romanov, I've gone head to head with it and I was the bloke who got it sent down to begin with. I know what it can do and trust me, mate, as soon as it gets its chance it will turn on you and stab you in the back."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. Romanov's a lot better behaved now than when you knew it, Professor. In fact, I'd say we have it just where we want it."

Winters shook his head sadly.

"You're crazy." He whispered. "You can't keep something like Romanov on a lead and teach it manners."

Calohan-Smythe raised his head slightly, his nostrils flaring.

"That, Professor Winters, is a matter for us to decide, I should believe." He stood, dropping his cigarette to the smooth carpet and replacing his bowler hat. "Now, if you're quite finished I think its time we were off."

Winters glanced once at the door at the other end of the room and then allowed his cigarette to slip into the ashtray.

Calohan-Smythe's eyes followed his gaze.

"Come, come, Professor, let's not be silly now."

A wry smile crossed Winters' face.

"I know you and I know how hard you are but I'm betting that no matter how tough you are, you ain't going to be able to catch me if I make a break for it."

"No games, Winters." Calohan-Smythe snarled, his expression hardening. "I really don't have the patience for such trivial matters."

Before he had finished his speech, Charlie Winters had leapt from his the soft surface of the armchair, back flipping in mid air and landing, already in motion on the other side. He didn't stop to open the door, simply throwing his arms up over his face and charging through, skidding into the corridor and sprinting down the stairs before Calohan-Smythe had realised he was gone.

His heart pounding, Winters threw himself down several flights of stairs, falling down some and running down others, never once stopping to slow down.

As the other Englishman finally reached the end of his sentence, Winters was sprinting through the downtown streets of Pacific City, through Bretonside and the south facing factories and was halfway through the Paper District.

He ran and ran, a thousand memories filling his grief stricken mind.

Everything he had fought for was a lie, everything that Shirley, Johnny and Fred had lived for had been washed away.

The pain in his head screamed at him but he ignored it. He had to put distance between himself and Calohan-Smythe, major distance. There was no way he could win in a fight with someone like that, not without some massive advantages.

He turned left and sprinted down Coral Avenue, leaping over split open bin bags and discarded rubbish.

He had to keep moving, had to keep running.

Brick exploded from his right, showering him in debris and powder as something big and heavy slammed into his side, ploughing him through the alley's left wall and throwing down against the floor of a storage room in a cramped and overpopulated apartment building.

Swiftly he picked himself up, ignoring the shattered boxes he had taken down with him and the dust that covered his clothes.

Nothing was broken, he was alright, it'd take more than being hit by a building to finish him off.

He glanced about, trying to catch a glimpse of his attacker and saw nothing.

The hair on the back of his neck bristled and before he could turn he felt the weight of something large and very heavy slam into his bag and knock him down towards the floor.

Without thinking, Winters dropped into a forward roll and started moving again, diving towards the torn wound in the building side and hitting the warm, rough ground of Coral Avenue.

He staggered up, already running.

Whatever it was, it was big and felt more like a tank than another human being.

Before his train of thought had ended he was out of Coral and on Haight Street, moving towards Carpenter Square. If he had to keep running all the way to Harbour City, he would.

There was no time for people in the streets to notice him. He was invisible, travelling at such speeds that all they knew of him was the harsh bruises they received as he shoved them out of this way..

He was going to make it, he was going to make it.

It was then that he saw it.

Standing before him, its cloak fluttering in the wind he generated with his movement. It was over seven feet tall, eyes of discoloured red glass watching him from piggy sockets in a machine face.

A futurist nightmare, hued from industry and walking as if in mimicry of a man.

It held up its hand, palm facing him and Winters flinched, unable to stop.

In a single, blurred movement, the machine took hold of his head in its huge hand and swung him up and downwards into the ground.

With incredible momentum, Winters shattered the ground, sending cracks running up the pavement for miles and shattering his left shoulder blade.

He screamed out as he literally bounced up from the devastated concrete before hitting it once more, leaving a crater that threatened the very supporting blocks of every building in the whole of Carpenter Square.

The machine towered over him motionless as he pulled himself from the ground, his left arm hanging limply at his side.

In menacing silence it stepped forwards and, before he could register, it thrust its fist towards his face.

The moment hung in the air forever as he saw Mysteria's enraged face superimposed over the machine and, just like before, the blow was stopped before it could connect with him.

He blinked.

Aristotle Licuan stood, holding the struggling machine back, blocking its punch with the palm of his hand.

"Jesus." Winters murmured.

"Get out of the way, Winters." Aristotle snarled.

The machine pulled back before launching itself once more at its new opponent.

Aristotle stepped around with ease, placing two fingers gently at the machine's 'throat'.

It faltered but didn't turn.

Winters remained wide-eyed, watching the Aikido master as he faced off against the machine.

Without warning, the machine was moving again, charging once more towards it's opponent.

Aristotle jumped up and landed behind it.

The machine turned, its expression remaining blank and struck out.

He seized the machine's arm before his punch connected and took one step forwards, slamming the palm of his other hand into the machine's side and released it.

It staggered briefly, recovering in a split second and vaulting up into the air over its enemy, landing behind in mimicry of Aristotle's own movement.

With another movement it took hold of the man's wrists, its giant metal fingers wrapping around flesh.

Without thinking, Aristotle leant to his left and stepped forwards with his right foot. The machine lost hold of his right hand whilst Aristotle struck out, instantly taking the advantage. Throwing the machine's left hand off of him, the Aikido master twisted the machine's left hand, covering its metal thumb and threw it forwards and down towards the ground.

Concrete shattered further as the machine ploughed into the broken shards of pavement and dirt.

A brief smile crossed Aristotle's face as he took hold of the machine's right arm, below the elbow and moved away, forcing it to roll forwards onto its front.

Quickly he dropped to his knees, keeping hold of its arm and placing his other hand palm up beneath the elbow.

"Tell me who sent you, machine." He said, his voice calm and soft.

The machine stuttered, wordless and suddenly struck with an unexpected blow from its other arm, striking Aristotle in the chest and freeing its pinned appendage.

Within moments it was pressing its advantage, moving towards him again, its right arm transforming into a colossal cannon.

Winters watched as Aristotle staggered backwards, wiping blood from his mouth. Something was wrong, either the master had underestimated his enemy or something was wrong with the man himself.

In the weeks after Shirley's death, he had seen the other man practice and watch as he taught Manly the fundamental basics of Aikido. The man was a good martial artist, Winters could see that and he'd never really understood anything about Eastern fighting techniques and styles.

The machine raised its gun arm and aimed at Aristotle.

"Oi!" Winters shouted out suddenly.

It stopped, its metal feet grinding against the torn concrete, slowly turning towards him.

"Its me you're after, you big metal shite. Leave him alone."

"Winters, I told you to get out of here, man!" Aristotle called out, a fierce look of anger flaring up upon his face.

Winters eyed the advancing machine carefully.

"Yeah, well, you don't look in the best of shape to me, Arty old boy, in fact, I were going to hazard a guess I'd say you were ill." Winters called, glancing from the machine to the martial artist.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Aristotle snapped.

The harsh sound of unsympathetic handclaps filled the air.

Winters didn't need to turn round to see who it was.

"I take it this bastard is one of your pets, eh?"

Edwin Calohan-Smythe emerged from the rubble of Coral Avenue, a smug look on his face.

"Actually, its city property, nothing to do with me at all. Still, I must admit I'm quite keen to see how it fares against the fearless Professor Winters and his new, American friend."

The machine continued to advance forwards, feet leaving deep footprints in the exposed soil.

Winters glanced from the machine to Aristotle, a grim expression on his face.

"Alright then, bitch, let's see how good you really are." He murmured, his left arm still hanging loosely at his side.

Clenching his right fist, Winters tensed his muscles, an outline of ethereal blue ghost-flame exploding about him.

His muscles swelled as rocks and chunks of pavement rose up into the air about him.

A smile crossed his face.

"My style, you can call the art of fighting without fighting." He beamed.

Without a word in reply, the machine leapt forwards and attacked...