Michael Manly stood on the corner of 11th and Carnival Street. The buildings looked pale in the early morning light, translucent and untouched. People had gathered in the street, standing perfectly still except for the occasional sigh or the shuffle of feet. The traffic had stopped to allow the quiet musings of the suddenly poignant pedestrians and it seemed as if the city itself had fallen silent in respect of this. There were no birds nor were there the distant sounds of construction work or traffic lights. Every radio, every television in the city had fallen ominously silent.

He stepped fearfully from the pavement, placing his two feet over the yellow lines and out into the road. The crowd remained solemn and still and, as he reached closer, he began to realise that each one was in some way transparent. Like the buildings there was no substance to them, just the intimation, the shape of things. He looked up at the brilliant blue sky and the burning sun overhead. For a moment he imagined clouds drifting suddenly over the sun before turning back to the silent crowd.

“Where am I?” He asked out loud.

It was not the question he had intended to ask but, upon speaking it, he felt that it was the right question.

“This is the afterlife, Michael.” A sad, familiar voice answered.

He whirled around, his eyes darting through the faces of the pale blue, motionless spectators that gathered outside shop windows until finally he detected movement. From within the mass a single form was moving, hunched and wounded, white robes trailing through the litter of the city. His head was bowed and the cloak hid his face but there was no mistaking.

“Aristotle!” Manly cried with relief and stepped forwards.

Licuan thrust his hand out and Manly stopped dead in his tracks.

“Don’t come any closer, Michael.” The Bodhisattva called, his head remaining bowed. “There are decisions to be made before we may converse freely once more.”

A deep frown crossed Michael Manly’s face and, gingerly, he brought his fists up, the lighting catching the redeemed lecteur de tarot box strapped to his wrist. “Is something wrong, Aristotle? Are we in danger?”

The cloaked figure laughed hollowly and slowly allowed his hand to drop. “The danger has passed – at least for us, Michael.” He announced. “This place is a waiting area, a collection point where the souls of the recently dead gather to wait for the next incarnation upon the wheel.”

Manly felt his heart tighten like a fist in his chest. “Then we’re…after all, we’re…?”

Licuan laughed quietly once more. “Not all of us, Michael. I assure you that you are indeed very much alive, buried beneath sand and ruin, but alive. It would take a lot more than a city falling on you to blot out the extents of your powers.”

“But that means…dear God, Aristotle…” Manly stepped forwards once more and stopped abruptly, remembering the older man’s warning.

“Listen to me, Michael.” The Bodhisattva said with renewed urgency. “I don’t have much time here and before I go I need you to understand what has happened here.”

Manly turned slowly in a circle, looking at the bland, expressionless faces of the crowd and felt a cold sense of dread creeping up his spine.

“Pacific City has been destroyed by the Imperial Magistrate. Without the city I have no ties to the physical world…no way of reincarnating myself. I will walk these plains, this pale reflection of the metropolis I serve, till God turns away and forgets my existence. At that point I will cease to exist. There is no way I can return…except with your help.”

Manly held back, his fists tight at his side and his feet itching to carry him across the threshold to embrace his friend. “How can I help?” He asked, his voice tormented with grief.

“You’ve grown stronger, Michael,” Licuan said, his voice suddenly sounding old and fragile. “Stronger than anyone could have ever expected you to become. You’re the most powerful of all recorded Millennium Men…and yet, despite all this, you will not be able to defeat the Magistrate.”

Manly tightened his fists further, the knuckles turning white as he stopped the blood from reaching them. “I have to try.” He said finally, his teeth gritted. “If the Magistrate has returned then I have to try…I have to atone…”

“You can’t.” Licuan snapped, regained some of his fierceness. “And if you could what exactly do you think you’ll be saving? A dead crater in the middle of the desert. That’s it. There is no Pacific City anymore, Michael. You <i>can’t</i> save it, you have to think bigger than just one city.” He coughed, almost doubling over and again Manly reached out towards him only to stop. “The Magistrate is expecting Mysteria.” Licuan continued. “When she discovers that Victoria Burke is dead she will be driven into a fury and possibly even to madness. When that happens then she will destroy the whole planet. It won’t be a case of Pacific City anymore, it’ll be a case of everything you’ve ever known disappearing in one single blinding flash.”

“I can’t turn away from this…” Manly whispered.

Aristotle Licuan smiled beneath his cloak. “I’m not suggesting you turn away, Michael.” He whispered.

From the folds of his robes he drew out a single playing card and held it up so the younger man could see the bright yellow circle upon the plain white background that decorated its back.

“Some time ago I took the precaution of removing this card from Henry Burke’s <i>lecteur de tarot</i> deck.” He lifted his head slightly and Manly could see the faint trace of a smile upon his dark lips.

“What are you suggesting?” He asked, suddenly cautious.

“<i>Sicherung Magie</i>.” Aristotle Licuan answered simply. “Or, to put it another way, <i>fusion</i>.”

***

Winters flew forwards, the wind tearing at his shirt as he moved at such speeds that he was invisible to the human eye. His fists tightened as he stuck out, raining down blows upon the Tiger Strength Immortal and failing to connect with anything but the palms of the warrior’s hands. His aura exploded in rage, his mouth wide open and lips pulled back from his gums and teeth as he cried out in frustration.

Tiger Strength remained impassive, distant almost. His hands moved independently, deflecting blows with ease before moving on to intercept the next. His eyes were cold and empty, as unmoved as the limited actions with which he composed his parrying defence.

Winters continued to push forwards, the flame of his spirit energy burning brighter with every punch he threw. His face was red from exertion, the veins bulging in his temple as his eyes darted after each movement of his enemy’s hands, trying desperately to find a break in his defences and then with a slow and horrified shudder he realised he had lost track of Tiger Strength’s right fist.

The blow came out of nowhere, slamming into the side of his face and sending him staggering back in a shower of blood and broken teeth. His neck ached and his head rang with the shuddering tremors of the attack’s aftershock. In agony he rolled his head back to face the immortal.

He was every bit like Henry Burke, he reflected. His expression betrayed a calm reasoning that had, until the last few years, been a cornerstone of the original Millennium Man’s personality. The flames of Winters aura flickered with anger, his face reddening as his heart pumped the blood faster through his body. A year had passed and again he was back here, amongst the ruins and the angels. He spat viciously into the dirt, straightened up and flicked his nose with the tip of his thumb.

Tiger Strength remained impassive, waiting.

“I do hope you’re regretting the rashness of your actions, Professor Winters.” The Magistrate smirked from where she stood amongst the remaining two immortals. “I’d hate to think that dear Tiger Strength might send you to the grave without you at least having some kind of understanding of the power you’re up against.”

“Don’t write me off just yet,” Winters smirked. “There’s still life in the old dog yet.”

He rushed forwards once more, his movements blurring and churning through the dirt and sand. He watched as Tiger Strength braced himself from a frontal assault and leapt upwards into the air, his legs flailing at super-speed. With a clarity of movement and speed unseen in his actions for decades, Charlie Winters crashed feet first into the sand behind Tiger Strength and effortlessly kicked backwards with his right foot, connecting with the shallow dip behind the immortal’s left knee.

Even as his opponent staggered forwards, Winters was turning effortlessly in the wind, his fists aflame with spirit energy as he slammed them both into the monstrous immortal’s temples.

Tiger Strength bowed further towards the ground, his face contorting in a soundless grunt before turning with lightning reaction and smashing the back of his right hand into Winters’ face. He watched as the body of the former hero was thrown crashing backwards into the sand, rolling down into the crater where the city had once stood. With effortless disinterest he wiped a small dab of blood away from under his nose with the back of his hand and stepped forwards to the pit, looking down with cold eyes.

Winters gasped as he pulled himself up, his face darkened by the forming of a large bruise on his left cheek. He squinted up towards the figure at the edge of the pit and felt the blood and vomit congealing behind his cut lips.

“What’s the matter with you?” He shouted up to his enemy. “Why are you just standing there, waiting?”

Tiger Strength remained solemn, his eyes heavy with unspoken grief and his great arms crossed over his chest. Sudden realisation hit Winters and he felt his stomach turn as the intuition took root amongst his thoughts.

“You know me, don’t you?” He whispered.

The great figure nodded slowly, his dark eyes glistening with emotion.

“Oh dear God,” Winters whispered, looking away. He choked back the gathering bile in his throat, barking a sudden cough that damned his bleeding lips with saliva. “We were friends weren’t we?” He whispered, not needing to turn and face the man on the precipice to know the answer.

Tiger Strength nodded his head slowly, his face more like Henry Burke than at any other time in Winters’ recollection. The former university professor turned and looked upon the aspect of his friend and felt the first sting of remorse and regret.

“We were friends,” He continued through gritted teeth. “We were friends…and you had to kill me because…” He choked back the words. “Because I attacked you…and killed hundreds of people…”

Tiger Strength nodded once more, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of sorrow and pain. Tears streamed down Winters’ face, dampening his cheeks and falling with poetic elegance to the dry sand and charred ash beneath his feet.

“This is what I warned you about, Henry.” He gasped. “This is the end I wanted to prepare you for, the day when everything we believed in, everything we worked for would be threatened.” He shuddered with tears, falling to his knees and clawing at the sand. “This is what I tried to stop…this is what I killed you for.”

He dropped his head, feeling the burning brilliance of the sun upon the thin white hairs of his neck. His chest rose and fell in silence, his entire body shuddering with tears not born of weakness but of the inevitable sorrow of finality. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself up from the ground and began to stagger up the sharp curve of the pit. Tiger Strength met him halfway, similar trails of tears running down his cheeks.

“I wanted,” Winters announced, his voice dry and quiet. “I wanted a better world. Not just for our kind but for everyone…for all the generations born in our shadow. I wanted a world where the Victoria Burkes and Michael Manlys wouldn’t have to fight. I wanted a world without us, Henry. A world that people wouldn’t be scared to live in.” Their eyes met and the solemn horror of time and parting passed between them. “I’m sorry, Henry.” Winters said, his voice firm.

Tiger Strength unfolded his arms and staggered forwards, shaking his head.

With all of his might Winters turned away, his eyes screwed tight as he brought his right fist up through the air, his aura leaving a trail of blue fire. The fist connected beneath Tiger Strength’s chin and sent his head rolling and his teeth chattering.

“FIGHT ME!” Winters howled, slamming his fists again and again into the immortal’s chest and head. “COME ON, YOU BASTARD, <i>FIGHT ME</i>!”

There was a sudden flash of movement and in that instant he felt something hard collide with his stomach, just below the ribs on his left side with all the force of a bullet. Winters staggered back and looked down. Gore and blood leaked from a tear in his side, the flesh ripped up and leaving nothing between the stained red curve of his lower rib and his exposed pelvic bone. He turned his head awkwardly and saw a thick splatter of blood and organs stretching out behind him along the incline of the pit.

Blood gurgled up from behind his teeth and he turned and looked at Tiger Strength once more, watching the silent tears streaming down his old friend’s face. Winters opened his mouth and gurgled once before falling face down in the sand, motionless at the feet of his opponent.

***

He watched with disinterest as Winters collapsed into the sand and dirt, his eyes remaining fixed upon the lined details of the massive view-screen. There was a second flicker of lights from the helm and the two officers stationed in the pit swiftly tore their eyes away from the drama onscreen and began focusing, with all the fear of retribution for their slowness, upon the call of the monitors.

“Sir, we’re picking up a new and unauthorised energy signal heading towards this solar system!” One of the officers announced, a note of fear sticking in his voice.

He rose slowly from the commanding officer’s seat, calmly straightening the front of his tunic and taking several seats down till he was in the pit alongside his officers.

“Show me.” He said, his voice stern and full of seriousness.

The image instantly switched from the fallen body of Charles Winters to the black depths of space. Tearing through the distance like a falling star was a distant white smudge wrapped in a torn and ragged red cloak.

His expression darkened considerably.

“What is it?” The officer responsible for its magnification whispered in awe.

“A problem.” The <i>English Rose</i>’s commanding officer remarked. “A very serious problem.”

***

Edwin Calohan-Smythe closed his eyes, turning away from the sight of the troubled Millennium Man standing perilously close to the edge of the wound in the ground. He felt the flesh beneath his suit ripple, the material tightening in accordance with its expansion. The buttons popped open and the veins in his neck and face bulging, pulsating with dark blood.

The wind gathered, whipping the sand up about his feet as the expensive leather of the shoes tore open to give room to the powerful claws that his toes had become. Bones cracked; shifting their way about his body as his form gave prominence to the daemonic other his simple human disguise had so readily lived behind. His knees snapped, bending backwards to accommodate the swelling muscles and sinew that expanding in his legs. His chest widened, tearing through the suit and revealing his darkening flesh as it turned from pale, sunless white to turgid grey and lavender bruise.

Hair retreated from his broad forehead, rising up in a vast slope like a decorative fin as his jaw widened, filling out with several additional rows of fierce animal teeth. His eyes widened and grew further apart, travelling into the pits of his temples as his nose widened, becoming a fierce beast snout from which snorts of breath poured. He turned towards the shape of Tiger Strength and raised a single hand, watching as it transformed into a powerful claw before him and the gathered troops of the Magistrate’s army.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He snarled, his voice deep and guttural, as if the words had first generated within the very pit of his body and had forced to travel upwards through the distorting and animal organs that crowded together within him before being forced out between the lines of sharp teeth.

Millennium Man Tiger Strength Immortal turned away, casting sorrowful eyes down towards the soil.

Calohan-Smythe scoffed with contempt.

“I thought these were your strongest warriors, Magistrate.” He spat. “I thought these were the most hardened fighters in all your empire.”

“Tiger Strength was certainly strong enough to finish your friend, Professor Winters, in a suitable amount of time.” The Imperial Magistrate said softly, a faint smile alighting upon her narrow lips. “I do so hate these things when they drag on.”

The transformed ambassador snapped his head round to face her. The muscles of his legs tightened and his claws dug into the sand. There was a moment of silence before the Magistrate suddenly seemed to realise what was happening and staggered back a step. It was too late; already Calohan-Smythe’s powerful legs had propelled him into the air. Flames of blood red spirit energy fanned out from the flesh of his body, billowing back as his elongated body straightened and descended through the air like a missile.

His mouth widened in a scream as he tore through the air down towards the staggering shape of the Imperial Magistrate. With lightning reactions, Millennium Man Deer Strength Immortal threw himself into the air, lowering his head and thrusting the horns of his decorative mantle forwards.

The two figures collided, the horns piercing Calohan-Smythe’s shoulders and chest as they exchanged blows across the distance before the ambassador managed to tear himself away and they both landed back on the hard, burning sand, several feet apart.

Black blood trickled down his chest but he ignored it, canine eyes fixed upon the shape of the deer robed Millennium Man before him. He didn’t wait for an explanation but instead launched himself from the dusty ground, screeching through the air before his opponent. Deer Strength smirked, his face decorated by the blood that had sprayed from his enemy’s chest. He darted sideways and struck out at the exact moment of Calohan-Smythe’s passing, his fingers elongating into lengthy blades of solar energy that tore into the other’s side.

Calohan-Smythe howled in pain and twisted in mid-flight, twisting upwards and reaching down for Deer Strength’s shoulders before slamming downwards with all his weight as Deer Strength instinctively leapt upwards, again tearing at the other’s chest and shoulders with his vast antlers.

The blood from his chest curved in great arcs, splattering the face of the Deer Strength Immortal and leaving thick, black streaks across it. His face contorting in spite, Edwin Calohan-Smythe reached out with his vast claws and dug his hands into the enemy’s heads, scooping upwards and tearing away the animal headdress along with the scalp and hair.

Deer Strength screamed and recoiled, thrashing his head about as his own dark crimson blood spurted from the open wounds and ran down his face. With glee Calohan-Smythe pressed his advantage, hacking and tearing at the other’s flesh, his eyes all but white with rage and joy so much so that he failed to notice the build up of burning radiance seeping from the Immortal’s open wounds, forming like a halo about his head.

There was a sudden crack of thunder and the air filled with static. From the wounds light erupted, splaying out in shards of burning brilliance that skewered every inch of the former ambassador’s transformed body.

He staggered backwards, black blood running from his burning and scarred body before falling to his knees, the blood gathering and congealing about him.

Millennium Man Deer Strength Immortal stood panting, watching his foe with intent. Slowly the Imperial Magistrate advanced, stepping past her bodyguard and looking down at Calohan-Smythe’s paralysed form.

“Pathetic child.” She snarled with contempt and slowly raised her glowing palm.

***

“Order the <i>Plantagenet</i> to aim every last one of its weapon batteries at the approaching object and fire at will.” He announced, the first traces of a cold sweat breaking out upon the smooth, blue skin of his forehead. “Instruct <i>Henry Tudor</i> to also advance and all ships at the fleet’s flank to prepare to engage if <i>Plantagenet</i> should be destroyed.”

A raised rectangle at the centre of the navigation array began to flash red, pouring sickly light over both the helmsman and navigator.

“Sir, don’t you think such measures are slightly excessive?” The science officer said quietly, his hands folded neatly behind his back. “Readings have confirmed that the target is just one entity, a biological one at that.”

He turned and regarded the science officer with cold distaste. If he had raised the possibility of an error in judgement whilst the Magistrate had been in control of the bridge he would have been executed on the spot. The officer’s expression demonstrated more than adequately that the crew knew full well the difference between her authority and his own, a fact that caused his very blood to boil.

“Not if you know that creature as well as I do, Lieutenant Chrysostom.” He answered coldly, careful to bury any anger he felt deep beneath the surface of a neutral tone.

He was no stranger to suppressing how he felt. For the past 34 years he had been burying those emotions, smothering them with spoken platitudes and practiced humility. He had hidden himself behind a veil of subjugation and obedience.

“Sir, <i>Plantagenet</i> signals that it has engaged the target.” The helmsman called out across the pit.

He nodded and gestured with his hand. “Show me.”

The officer swiftly turned back to his terminal, his fingers rushing across the keys. The image on the screen failed to change from the distant sight of the system’s outer planets.

“What’s taking so long?” He snapped aggressively.

The helmsman turned to him, his face pale with fear as the screen shifted behind him, displaying nothing but wreckage.

“S-Sir…” He stammered. “Sensors indicated the <i>Plantagenet</i> has been…destroyed.”

“Sir, <i>Henry Tudor</i> reports it is under attack!” A voice called across the bridge.

He whirled round to face the woman and reflected that, at another time he might have appreciated her pale skin and neat, bob cut black hair, even if she did speak with the accent of a Frenchwoman. He glared at her for a moment and the insignia that marked her rank and identity.

“Report, Ensign d’Arc.” He snapped firmly.

“<i>Henry Tudor</i> has engaged the target and has met strong resistance. Captain Chance is requesting support.” She answered, undaunted by his tone.

“And by God he shall have it.” He snapped, whirling back around and leaning close to the helmsman and navigator. “Order the <i>Peaceable</i> and the <i>House of Wessex</i> to engage now!”

He straightened and looked around his concerned bridge crew. They were young to the last; recruits and favoured children of wealthy families, far from the trained and battle-ready he had hoped would have manned the Magistrate’s flagship. Softly he cursed her name beneath his breath.

“Instruct the <i>Aquitaine</i> and the <i>Coeur-de-Leon</i> to harden their defences and order the fleet to engage the target.” He took a deep breath and announced finally: “Raise our plasma shields and prime the weapons batteries. We’re going to war.”

***

Light flashed from her palm and his head recoiled, his shoulder shattering and spraying shards of bone and blood over the sand. With a crack the illumination flashed from her hand again and again, each glare of light tearing through his body with the force of a bullet.

He swayed and collapsed face down at her feet, his pale, twisted flesh fading and giving way to patches of the humanity within. Brutally she kicked him with the sharp heel of her white suede boots, rolling him over onto his back. He blinked furiously, the sun burning into his eyes.

“Idiot!” She snarled, slamming her foot down on his chest. “Did you honestly think you could meet me? You’re weak, every last one of you! None of you is a match for me! None of you!”

She stamped over and over again and he felt his ribs shatter one by one, his body breaking with every crushing blow. His eyes flickered.

High above in the blue skies beyond the burning radiance of the sun and the bellies of the three Magistrate spacecraft that were visible from the ground, he thought he could see a tiny, miniscule speck hurtling closer to the planet’s surface.

***

The spacecraft shudder, rocked by the violence of the explosions that, against all odds, tore across the black emptiness above the small blue planet.

“The Peaceable has been destroyed.” d’Arc shouted urgently, hunched over her console. “Captain Concord of the Canterbury is reporting severe losses and we’ve lost contact with both the Henry Tudor and the House of Wessex!”

“Five seconds until target is in range!” The helmsman called out desperately. “Four, three, two…”

He clenched his fists together and shouted: “FIRE!”

Brilliant illumination lanced out from the belly of the English Rose, burning across the screen towards them.

“The enemy is evading our fire, sir.” Chrysostom called in a smooth, indifferent all but emotionless voice.

“Keep firing!” He snarled.

“Sir, the target is too close to the Coeur-de-Leon, if we keep firing we’ll hit it.” Chrysostom announced.

“KEEP FIRING!” He screamed.

The gun turrets twisted, tracking the enemy as it passed them and spraying the side of the Coeur-de-Leon, and its already weakened plasma shields, with blasts.

“Commander Cale of the Coeur-de-Leon is hailing us, sir. He says the matter is urgent.” d’Arc called out.

“Ignore him.” He roared. “Get me a target on that thing now!”

“The enemy has now entering Earth’s atmosphere.” The navigator hesitantly announced.

“Fire.”

“Belay that order!” Lieutenant Chrysostom called firmly out. “If we try firing at the planet we may well hit her majesty.”

He whirled round, his eyes meeting with those of the younger officer’s. For a moment the two men remained fixed there and then finally he rose up the palm of his hand and firing a simple blast of solar energy. The light burst through Chrysostom’s body before he could react, ripping a hole in his chest that sent him dancing forwards before falling face down by his console.

d’Arc screamed and the bridge fell silent. His chi erupted from within, washing back over him like crashing waves as he stood burning with power. Swiftly he turned his head to the helm once more.

“Target and fire.” He commanded quietly.

The helmsman nodded and swiftly his fingers glided over the console once more.

***

Light burnt across the ground, tearing holes in the sand and in the distant streets of both Lorrington and Harbour City. She ignored her eyes wide with rage and her foot slamming again and again upon the chest of the creature that looked so much like her fallen servant, the Bowler.

Behind her the sand erupted, spraying shards of hot almost-glass into the pit. It didn’t matter, all that mattered was the punishment of the guilty – those who had dared to defy her will, those who had preferred their own debased culture to the hope and glory of her wondrous empire. She was the Queen of Albion, of all her Earth and, just as she had subjugated the proud Earth #1 and many other parallel worlds like it, so she would crush this pathetic backwater dimension.

Her hand basked in illumination, the glow of her divine energy welling up within the pit of her belly and rising through her body, channelled towards and through her flat palm.

There was a sudden movement of air at her side and she felt her stomach lurch with sickness as something sharp clamped down upon her outstretched arm. Slowly she turned her head from the prone and broken body of the belligerent Edwin Calohan-Smythe and her eyes widened in shock and surprise.

Hanging in the air, its eyes dark with contempt but for the crescents of white seen at the very edges was an average sized dog, its fur immaculately white aside from a circle of yellow that surrounded its right eye like a tattoo of dyed fur. From its lithe body a torn and burning cloak fluttered in the wind, red with a similar yellow circle at its centre.

Behind her Tiger Strength Immortal staggered forwards and opened his mouth, gasping in silent recognition.

***

Michael Manly looked up at the pale blue skies and the distant sun, symbol of the once proud tradition of Science Heroes that he represented. He had long since learnt he was not special, not even amongst other, alternate Millennium Men was there another who possessed either the shape of his face or the depth of his doubt.

And yet he felt he had a unique understanding of his role. Through misunderstanding, self-hatred and ultimately failure he felt he had become Millennium Man, more so than anyone else…more so than even Henry Burke.

He closed his eyes and felt the sun upon his face.

“What will this fusion entail?” He asked in a quiet, tired voice.

“Complete emersion.” Licuan whispered in reply, his head remained bowed and his trembling hand holding out the tarot card.

“Will I become you?” Manly asked.

Licuan laughed dryly beneath his hood.

“I very much doubt it, Michael. The strength and force of both your personality and your powers far exceed mine now. Without Pacific City, I am humbled.”

“But you will have a say in how I live my life from this point on?” Manly said.

“Stop thinking of it as a committee.” Licuan snapped, his voice becoming sharper and more agitated. “There will be no dividing line between, I will not have a say in your life because…” His voice faltered, breaking almost. “Because I will most likely cease to exist. Excluding the powers you will inherit from me, if anything continues of me within your personality it will be trivial at best. As I have said, your personality is so powerful that it is likely you would drown me in it, adding my talents to your own rather than having to vie with me for control of a shared body.”

“Why do you want to do this if it means effective death for you?” Manly questioned.

Slowly Aristotle Licuan lifted his head and pulled back the cowl of his cloak to reveal a face scarred and damaged beyond repair. His eyes were pure white and his lips were swollen with bloody sores.

“Michael,” He whispered. “I am dead. I wasn’t lying when I told you that. There is no place for me in the world anymore. As surely as Pacific City is dust and ruin so too am I, its once guardian.”

“And your need for revenge is so strong that you can’t rest?” Manly asked, his voice saddened by the sudden comprehension of emotion in his mentor’s soul.

Licuan nodded slowly, painfully.

“Before Fireczar took my life they had already begun to plan my final demise.” Tears sharpened in the corner of those pale white eyes. “Michael, they have taken my city, my home. Not only that but I have failed in my responsibility. Every single life, every man, woman and child, who lived within that city was my responsibility. I let them die. The only manner in which I can hope to atone for my sin is to offer my gifts to you. Perhaps, after your life ends, my soul may find a favourable turn upon the great wheel if I do this…if not, I shall be condemned to become an abomination, a hollow insect.”

Michael nodded and opened his eyes to the skies.

“Do it.” He whispered softly.

Aristotle Licuan stammered for words, tears streaming down his scarred face.

“Do it!” Manly hissed with determination.

The old Bodhisattva trembled hands suddenly thrust forwards and, with the card gripped between them, pierced Manly’s chest, digging into his heart. He felt the ghost hands within, rummaging within the depth of his soul and then slowly he closed his eyes.

In the perfect skies above he thought he sensed the first approach of distant storm clouds.

New Mages: Final Mix tome #2:
“Wake up the Hero”
(Regina Angelium Act II)
by Jacob Milnestein

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