***Yo-ho!***

Yes, I'm back, to once more tempt/torture you with another section of 
Night Sabers.  Herein is the conclusion to Part 6 of Night Sabers, Part 
6c.

And yes, I know this is late.  Very late.  But if you scan the size of this 
file, you will get your first indication of why this is so late.

And then when I tell you I was without E-mail access for nearly two 
weeks.

And then I tell you I was working on a near completed version, when an 
E-mail glitch made me lose *everything*; and I had to start over.  
Something, I have discovered, is very difficult to do, as a writer.

But enought excuses!  Here it, is a little late.  C&C, MST at will (not 
required, but appreciated).  Be aware, however, that this is a very 
ROUGH DRAFT.  It undoubtably still has many errors I missed.

First off, I would once again like to thank my pre-reader:

The Apprentice

for all the helpful criticism and commentary,

As well as Elsa Bibat, JD Farber, the Jusenkyo Guide, skywise-skychan? 
and everyone else who E-mailed me for their comments and criticisms.

And second, I will get to the cameo/references in Part 6b (Warning: 
With my bad memory, it is distinctly possible I have forgotten a number 
thereferences in Part 6b):

-In the opening of the section of Part 6b, Mackie and the Black Hand 
step over a rivulet of sewer water, defying the myth of vampires being 
unable to cross running water. (Med; fairly obscure)

-The MCD that Rene plays, the "Happy-Happy, Joy-Joy" song is from 
Ren and Stimpy.  The other song, Bohemian Rhapsody, is a reference to 
the early scene of Wayne and Garth in the car, headbanging, in the 
movie Wayne's World. (Easy/Med)

-Rene changes to Scotty from classic Star Trek.  The statement "trek 
into the celestial realms" is a play of words, hinting at Star Trek. (Easy)

-Ikari Gendou at Kamazake Imports is from Neon Genesis Evangelion. 
(Easy)

-The number 666 appears as the code to open the shipping containers.  
A note about that *LECTURE MODE: ON*:  The number 666, often 
called the "Number of the Beast" is not actually a religious implication 
of infernalism.  The origin of the number is in Hebrew, the early dialects.  
Characters in Hebrew are also used for numbers, or have numerical 
value. Thus any name could be reduced to a number.  During the time of 
Nero Caesar, it was a death sentence or worse to speak disparaging 
comments about the Emperor.  Thus, the name Nero was reduced to "6", 
and then repeated a total of three times for emphasis.  Thus, people 
could talk about Nero in front of him, without anyone realizing.  Because 
Nero was such a cruel person, the number became associated with 
Satan.  *LECTURE MODE: OFF*  Phew!  Sorry about that, pet peeve. 
(Med)

-The weapons Mackie uses as a cover for what he is shipping are Uzi 
III's, from the game Shadowrun. (Med/Hard)

-Rin's comment of "having known Mackie in a previous life" is another 
pun on the series he is from, Please Save My Earth. (Med/Hard)

-Rei and Ritsuko are from Neon Genesis Evangelion. (Easy/Med)

-The "Evil Empire" referred to in the Genom Board Room scene is 
actually _not_ a reference to Pentex, but rather to a local evil empire, 
Micro$oft. (Med/Hard)

-Schrek Inc. is from a movie, I believe.  I forgot. (Hard :)

-Lab Section 51 is, of course, a reference to the dubious grail of UFO 
seekers, Area 51 (Easy)

-The reference to the splinter faction of Genom, Chronos, is a reference 
to the series Bio-Booster Armor: Guyver.  The "crystallized tass" is 
zoacrystals, the "fomori" are Zoanoids, and the Unit-G is the Guyver 
Unit. Fukamachi and Makashima are the hosts to the Guyvers from 
Guyver.  (Med)

-The Tyrell corporation is from one of the inspirations *for* Bubblegum 
Crisis; Bladerunner.  Thus, the "replacements for boomers" discussed 
are Replicants. (Easy)

-The reference to IEB is a reference to International Electronic Brains, 
the largest producer of computers in the world, also a front for 
Tekkoryu, from Hades Project Zeorymer.  (Hard)

-Annaheim Electronics is the producer of the GUNDAM series Mobile 
Suit. The references in the description were a sarcastic commentary on 
the tendency in Gundam for a twelve year old kid to jump in the cockpit 
of an advanced war machine and take off, flying and fighting to save the 
entire world and win the war.  (Snort)  Also, Dr. Minoveski was the 
inventor of the energy emission dampening particle that bears his name, 
making conventional warfare obsolete, and Mobile Suits a 'practical' 
reality. (Easy)

-Frederick Gustovich von Ruthaven's Assistant Director of Media 
Affairs is Troy McLure from the Simpsons, voice acted by Phil Hartman, 
recently murdered. (Med)

-Billial charges are a scientific myth: a shaped nuclear charge.  Made 
famous by the RPG Mekton II. (Hard)

-Carnifex.  Several people asked about this one.  A Latin word, Carnifex 
is roughly translated as "Butcher".

-The weapons Rene and Thomas carry are made by companys from the 
Shadowrun RPG, Ares and Fichetti. (Med)

-There are a number of Highlander references as Mackie and the Black 
Hand approach Ishikawa's Jack Off; "there can be only one", "lose my 
head"  "prize", "Quickening", and "the gathering". (Easy/Med)

-The Bone Gnawer Garou (werewolf) Rene talks to in his Cornholio 
personality is, of course, Butthead from Beavis and Butthead. (Easy)

-The idea for the Bloodfeast the Sabbat enjoys is taken from an actual 
V:TM suppliment, as is the character of Christanius Lionel.  They are 
from V:TDA Libelius Sanguinus I and Montreal by Night, respectively. 
(Med)

-Rene's mention of dominating a "Hibiki kid" to "get lost" is, of course, 
a reference to Ryouga Hibiki of Ranma 1/2 (Easy)

-When Rene shifts personalities and calls Thomas "Moneypenny" and 
Mackie "M", he has shifted to the great James Bond, 007 (Easy/Med)

-When the Black Hand encounters Himiko in the hallway at Ishikawa's 
Jack Off, she is feeding from a boy whose blood "is both bitter and 
sweet" while another Sabbat holds a girl named "Miki".  These are, of 
course, Miki and Yuu of Marmalade Boy, and the reference to the taste 
of the blood is a paraphrase of what Miki says in the series. (Med)

-"Shaken, not stirred" is Rene's request at the bar.  This is James Bond's 
trademark line. (Easy/Med)

-The two Templars protecting Archibishop Demandos are Ukyo and 
Charlotte, from Samurai Spirits, or as it is known in the West, Samurai 
Shodown. (Med/Hard)

-Ryu and Ken, the members of the Akai Ryu, are from the Street Fighter 
series.  As to their implied homosexuality... have you seen Street Fighter 
V, Eps. 1-2?  Does this scream fan-dub or what? (Easy/Med)

-Before Mackie kills Ken Masters by decapitating him, he whispers "It 
hurts";  exactly what the Kurgan says before he does the same to 
Ramirez in Highlander.  (Med)

-When Rene and the Malkavians cackle out "Fatality!", this is, of 
course, a reference to that (in)famous game, Mortal Kombat. (Easy)

-When one of the Sabbat of the Akai Ryu calls out "They killed Kenny, 
those Bastards!!!", this is taken directly from SouthPark (Easy/Med)

-When Linna reflects on the the business day, especially her meeting 
with Kuno, she is referring to Kuno Tatewaki, of Ranma 1/2 (Easy/Med)

-The phrase "sankoku to the encrouching foreign heat";  I know, very, 
very bad pun ^_-

-Yes, the pictures in Linna's shrine are of Ranma and Akane.  Her mother 
is their daughter.  Who her father was... that is another story. (Med)

-The woman Mackie first dances with and adds to his Herd is Blue 
Mary, and the second Mai Shiranui, both of whom are from the Fatal 
Fury/King of Fighters series (Med)

-The earrings Priss shows to Mackie are the ones worn by the Phantom 
Woman in the first ADPolice OAV.  Though what message Leon is 
trying to convey to Priss by giving them to her... that is another 
question. (Med/Hard)


Also, there is some Japanese symbolism I am using, something a native 
speaker would easily identify, but most gaijin would never get.  Thus, in 
the next chapter, I will be covering the symbolism as well.


For those who have missed the earlier parts of Night Sabers, you can 
either E-mail me at curtiss@seattleu.edu or stop by Jusenkyo Guide's 
Fanfic page, which has been gracious enough to post the earlier parts. 
Stop by; the address is www.geocities.com/Tokyo/6549 and Night 
Sabers is in the BGC section, along with a multitude of other excellent 
'fics!


The obligatory cautionary notification of miminal age requirement into 
this purview of creative expression called fiction:  The material found 
herein is of a more mature and serious nature, thus is not suitable for 
those most blessed by the innocence and exhuberance of more tender 
years. The discourse and open allusions may be inappropriate for 
people meeting any of the above criteria.  In more simple speech, those 
under 18 years of age, or those who could not find at least two 
grammatical errors in the above text, should READ NO FURTHER!  
Thank you for your time.

Though this section of Night Sabers lacks any true sexual commentary 
or "dark" scenes, please remain aware that this fanfiction touches on 
both these themes in the story, and the storyline itself has both sexual 
and dark themes.


Alrighty, on with the 'fic:


Night Sabers, Part 6c:  "And the night comes alive"



	*BRING!!!* *BRING!!!*
	The sound penetrated and echoed throughout the mist 
covered and fog shrouded realm that was the conscious and awareness 
of the man who lay on the rumpled bed sheets that covered the sweaty 
and wet bed.  Tossing and turning, the man vaguely moaned as the 
damp sheets were brought into contact with the expanse of his skin, 
clad as he was in only his boxer shorts.  A small network of scars 
crossed his body in a number of places, adding history to a frame in 
excellent shape, the "tire" that afflicts so many males only slightly 
evident.  He hissed in annoyance, his skin moist from the heat within.
	*BRING!!!* *BRING!!!*
	Leon McNichol opened his eyes with the patience of the 
languidly amused, or more likely that of the exhausted fool.  The eyelids 
felt heavy, as they always did this time of the day, rising slowly.  The 
curtain of obscurement lifted, and his eyes tracked the individual motes 
of dust as they lazily floated before his vision.  They seemed to gleam.  
(Sometimes I remember how much I am like those motes of dust),  Leon 
thought, (small and insignificant before the all).  Allowing his lips to 
curve upward, he gave a semblance of a grin.
	*BRING!!!* *BRING!!!*
	Leon shook off his musing, so weary to the bone that even 
that action tired him.  He sat up as well as he could, looking about and 
tousling his hair to get the prickling of the nerves in the scalp to help 
him awake.  Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he dug in with his fingers 
at the sinuses, removing the deposits that inevitably formed while one 
slept.
	*BRING!!!* *BRING!!!*
	He ignored the phone for the minute, instead looking about.  
The comforter for the bed lay crumpled to one side, entangled with the 
sheets.  Though the climate control was automatically set to keep the 
room at a stable temperature, Leon burned.  He was so hot, his skin 
flushed, and he knew despite the slipping into a pseudo-dreamscape, he 
had once more not received a decent nights sleep.  Something he was 
coming to realize he never would get.  Though frequently a night person 
who worked long hours, Leon McNichol was not one ready to live the 
life of a media darling and celebrity.  The constant pressures, the 
immaculate appearance and attitude he was forced to maintain were 
driving him to distraction.
	Even looking about the richly furnished apartment, he realized 
this would not be what would make him happy.  While the hand crafted 
wood meshed nicely with the latest in ceramics and metals to present a 
stylish image, the apartment was not like him.  He missed his old 
apartment, with its simple and threadbare homeliness.  This apartment... 
his Genom agent had assured him that this apartment was one of the 
latest fashions, containing only the best features.  The real value of the 
apartment was what remained hidden in the walls.  A five point security 
system, anti-surveillance devices,  a reinforced shell for detouring 
"alternate business transactions", a voice activated Level 5 AI, a open 
air hologram projector with multiple stations... none of this meant much 
to Leon.  This wasn't home.
	*BRING!!!* *BRING!!!*
	Leon wished he hadn't set the incoming phone for that 
annoying tone, before he remembered that the voice of the AI, in all its 
"British Butler" inflection, was worse.  He also knew who was calling.  
Only three people had the number for his apartment, though he longed 
to give the number to a fourth person.  Alas, she would not even talk to 
him.
	(Probably because I come out of nowhere and beat her, hands 
down), Leon shook his head.  The deal Genom had signed with him had 
had a number of clauses he had not really cared about.  He was sure it 
would all evaporate soon enough, along with that damn anime show, 
thus returning him to a "normal" life.
	What he had not expected was the stupid album he had 
recorded, as a joke, to become one of the biggest hits ever to hit Japan!  
Indeed, his Genom agent had wryly reported as he rubbed his hands 
together, there had even been positive impact in foreign sales!  Already, 
the music producers were calling for a new album to be done. And with 
the ADP chief in on it as well!  (So much  for musical tastes.)
	*BRING!!!* *BRING!!!*
	Sighing, Leon prepared to get the bad news.  It was always bad 
when he was called on his home line at... his eyes squinted to look at 
the black of the clock lines, seeming perfectly natural in the carefully 
grown and cut wood panel.  It was 7:53, almost an hour before he was 
expected at work.
	Raising his voice, Leon called out "Jeeves!"
	A small and glowing dot of white light appeared in front of his 
face, three feet out, as the English accented voice replied differentially, 
"Yes, sir?"
	Leon sighed, "Accept incoming call."
	Jeeves-4 responded with a snappy "Yes, sir", before the dot of 
light disappeared, to be replaced by a hundred and twenty centimeter 
by eighty centimeter plate of holographic imagery.  Leon was not at all 
surprised to see the image of Daley Wong floating there.
	"Ohaiyo, Leon-chan.  Ah.. what's the matter, didn't sleep well 
again?  Nightmares, hmm?", asked Daley in his familiar voice.
	Leon snorted, turning his head side to side as he tried to 
awaken more, "Something like that.  What's up?"
	Daley's face went absolutely serious as he looked Leon 
directly in the eyes, and Leon knew it was serious.  "We have a new 
case Leon."
	Sliding off the bed, walking over to kitchen to get a glass of 
Genom PowerDrink (tm) from the dispenser, the image following his 
movements precisely, staying in front of him.  "Oh, that's a surprise.  So 
what is it this time?  Someone kidnap a minister again?  Someone hijack 
the orbital satellites again? Rogue boomers?  Parasitic plant monsters 
getting ready to assimilate Japan?  Psychic warriors fighting for the fate 
of the world at Tokyo Tower again?" he laughed sarcastically, recalling 
some of the ludicrous theories for new plots in his TV show that some 
people had suggested.  Seeing Daley was still serious, Leon asked, 
"What is it?" as he sipped his morning drink.
	"Someone detonated a nuclear device in MegaTokyo last 
night, Leon", Daley gravely informed Leon.
	Leon spewed his drink across the sanitary wooden counter top 
and microwave, barely noticing as the small service boomer buzzed by, 
cleaning up the mess.  "Are you serious?" Leon asked, half-hoping this 
was a joke.
	"No joke, Leon.  Everyone is in an uproar about it.  They just 
recently declared the site safe of radioactive contaminants", Daley 
informed Leon.  "The politicians, the press, the public, the military, and 
even Genom are screaming for answers.  The only thing they managed 
to agree on was who should head the investigation."
	Leon grimaced, "Let me guess.  Me?"  So saying, Leon headed 
over to the closet where his array of clothes were stored.  Announcing 
to the closet, "Suit 4", the carrousel retrieved the clothing, the electro-
static paddles smoothed and straightened it impeccably, before the auto 
feelers drew away any excess lint.
	"You guessed it.  Only Captain ADP to save the day" quipped 
Daley with a trace of his former humor.
	"Looks like it's back to work then.  I'll meet you at the usual 
place.  Anything else?" asked Leon, laying out the suit on the bed 
before ordering a bathrobe to go to the shower.
	"Not much.  I took care of that request of yours regarding Red.  
>From what I understand, there was no show.  She should be fine.  Also, 
you might want to be careful, as there are hordes of fans outside the 
blast site, waiting to... um.. see you."
	Noting the particular tone in Daley's voice, Leon turned back 
to the floating image to see Daley looking at him with a grin and a 
particular appraising look in his eyes.  Puzzling for a second, Leon 
raised his hand to ask what was so interesting, when he realized that 
hand was still holding his boxer shorts.
	Cursing mentally, fully awake, Leon realized the source of 
Daley's amusement, as he closed his bathrobe.  He raised his free hand.
	Daley noticed the raising of the hand, realizing Leon was going 
to hang up on him, Daley just winked and broadened his grin, "See you 
soon... again, Captain ADP!"  The laugh was cut off as Leon flicked his 
wrist in the hand gesture to disable communication.
	He stepped into the shower, still grumbling, and called up local 
reports and papers as the variable shower heads scourged his body 
with warm water, before the cycle terminated and dried him with warm 
air.
	The reports were an interesting proof of the varying levels of 
competence of the MegaTokyo media.  Some claimed the blast was 
conventional.  Other papers claimed the entire thing was a satellite 
attack.  Most seemed to recognize it was probably nuclear.  But the 
funny thing was the consistent judgment on the size of the blast.  A 
nuke could not have that small of a blast radius.  By their very nature, 
nuclear weapons were only relatively controllable.  A blast radius of 
only a few city blocks?  And a distinct lack of a superheat wave front 
from the explosion?  It didn't make sense.  And the site was already safe 
to approach?  By their very nature, the smaller the nuclear weapon, the 
more dirty it was.  Larger nuclear weapons spread their radiation out 
farther, so that the overall affect was less severe, and in some extreme 
cases, negligible.  So what could it truly have been?
	Pounding his head against the shower wall, Leon tried to 
gather his thoughts, remember more about that article that had appeared 
in the May issue of Newsweek about nuclear weapons.  All he could 
remember were the basics, about how the wide-beam dispersal pattern 
of the orbital particle beams from the weapon satellites above could 
cause similar arenas of mass destruction, and how the few remaining 
microwave beam satellites could create similar radiation affects.  But 
mostly the article had dealt with how nuclear weapons were becoming 
obsolete.  New advances in technology and all that.
	Giving up for now, giving his brain time to catch up with his 
errant thoughts, Leon stepped out of the shower, long since turned off, 
and stepped back into the main room.  The smell of eggs and bagels, 
lightly buttered, reached his nostrils, tantalizing.  He stepped forward, 
struggling into his clothes, disgusted again at the feel of them.  Silk and 
other reactive bio-fibers.  He still was not used to the sensation of the 
fabric, the way the pseudo-organic mesh contracted or expanded 
according to his needs.  It made him feel as though his clothes were 
always about to fall off.  The only reason he even agreed to wear them 
was the ballistic cloth woven in.  Not much use against a boomer, true, 
but handy versus fragments and debris flying about.  He grabbed the 
morning breakfast, scarfing down the excellent meal, before beginning 
read the mail the autocarrier had brought.  Most of it was screened in 
advance, the bulk of the fan-mail going to a different mailbox, so only 
three letters awaited him.  All were from Genom.  The first was his 
paycheck and stock report, from offices of the Director of Media Affairs, 
one Frederick Gustovich von Ruthaven.
	(Strange guy, a total space-case), thought Leon as he spent a  
brief instant of contemplation slurping down another egg (his "I am the  
mysterious master of all" attitude screams Genom though).  Every 
Genom Director he had met was unique in their own way.  He flipped the 
letter aside, not needing to see it.
	The next letter was also from Media Affairs, the Assistant 
Director this time, and Leon's face soured.  That meant Troy McLure, an 
annoyingly ingratiating man who made Leon's hackles rise.  Still, he 
needed to review his new schedule, so he tucked it in his coat.
	The last letter brought some positive feeling to his thoroughly 
wretched morning.  It was from Mitzukaze Sho, his only "friend" in 
Genom, and his personal agent.  While downing some orange juice, he 
opened the letter.  It read:

Leon,

	Sorry about this, but I am going to have to cancel on the 
meeting tomorrow night.  Something has come up, as it always does 
seem to.  Keep sharp, be careful; you're worth quite a bit of money.

P.S.:  The item you requested should be arriving in a two days.  I will 
have it forwarded to your address.

		Sho

	Leon grinned at the "Genom speak", as Sho called it, a 
language Leon had been forced to become fluent in.  He knew what the 
message _really_ said, underneath all the bullshit.  Everything was fine, 
he would just have to finish the recording session in two days, despite 
any problems he might face.
	Sighing, he got up from the table, letting the cleaner boomer 
clean up after him, as he went to the bed, reached under the pillow, and 
grabbed his gun, holstering it.  A quick last look, and he left the 
apartment.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	In the guest room of the Stingray apartment, a tired young red-
headed woman awoke, blinking luminous green eyes.  The  tousled hair 
and grumpy expression on her face made her incredibly  cute, but this 
fact went unnoticed, as she was currently alone amid the  crumpled 
covers.  She yawned slightly, stretching out over the covers  in a way 
that would immediately garner the attention of any male, had  they been 
present.  Instead, the motion shed the covers from her petite  body, 
exposing a considerable expanse of bare skin due to the alluring  and 
daring lingerie Nene was wearing.  This motion, in addition to allowing 
the chilled air of the rooms air-conditioning to caressed her  thigh and 
chest, caused her to shiver, drawing her gradual general  awakeness to 
another awareness. 
	Something a few men know, and almost all women understand, 
is that lingerie can be very unpleasant to wear.  Though doubtless to 
have that desired effect on the male psyche and certain parts of their 
anatomy, lingerie does have several distinct disadvantages.  First and 
foremost is the discomfort, something Nene was herself experiencing at 
this very moment, for the daring and lacy panties she had selected from 
Sylia's stock were currently riding up her butt and bunching  
uncomfortably.  Second, the sheer fabrics provided no armor against the  
elements or much of anything else, despite what anime and various  
fantasy shows would have males believe, other than protection of the  
distraction value.  Lastly, lingerie must be carefully maintained, as it had  
a tendency to shift and misplace itself when not attended to.
	Case in point, the condition of Nene.  One strap to the  
brassiere had slid off its precarious perch on her shoulder, exposing  
more than just cleavage, allowing a small ventura of chilled air to blow  
down across her stomach.  The sweat from the effort of crying had also 
left her undergarments a little inflexible, hardened from the slightly  
saline body byproduct.  And her nocturnal gyrations had left both the  
bra and panties in uncomfortable positions, as well as leaving one of her 
stockings curled down.  Given such compelling stimuli, it was without 
much surprise that Nene soon found herself among the world of the 
waking.
	(Morning?) thought Nene, as she pulled herself to a sitting  
position on the covers, habitually pulling her undergarments into their  
correct positions.  (Already?  What happened last night?)  Nene was  
surprised, for she felt not an erg of tiredness beyond the last grasping  
tendrils of the shroud called sleep that fled her shoulders as though a 
cloak  unneeded.  Looking around, she remembered that she was in the 
Stingray residence, and- (Mackie!) she thought, before she gave a vocal 
"Kyaa" at the state of her dress, though one might equally argue 
undress.  She flushed crimson, pulling the covers tight about her.
	She had fallen asleep!  (Of all the things I could have done!)  
thought Nene as she flushed, her entire body aglow.  (What happened 
last night?) she wondered again, thinking as to the possibilities.  Maybe 
Mackie had never come home at all?  She had heard he might be looking 
for his own place, or-
	Her hand flew up to cover her open mouth, as she thought 
(What if he came in here and saw me like this?  I was.. I-  Now I can't get 
mar-), Nene thought with dawning horror, almost ready to cry.  (What 
must he think of me?) she bemoaned, (He probably thinks I am a woman 
of loose morals, falling to baser-)  Her mind shifted to an even more 
dreadful thought (And if he had already opened her gift!)
	Abruptly, Nene's thoughts did a quick reverse as she took that  
train of thought in a new direction, a tangent rife with hope.  Her hand 
dropping, slightly shocked, her head bowed as she thought furiously.  
(Maybe that isn't so bad after all), she mused, her sorrow forgotten.  
(After all, it took me forever to pound it into his head that I was 
interested in him.  And he was always so puppy dog after me.)  She 
wondered if he was still-
	Her mind swirling, she again changed tracks. (Priss and Linna 
were just being cruel again.  Ooohhh! They make me so mad 
sometimes!) Her fists balled up as her face took on an indignant look.  
(Teasing me like that!  They always do that!  Mackie is my boyfriend!  
Even if he has changed, he is still mine!) She thought possessively, 
clutching the blanket.  (Or was he-)
	It was perhaps fortuitous that at that time, Nene's gaze fell 
upon the dresser inside the room.  There, laying atop the surface was an 
object that truly brightened her day.  It was a rose, her favorite flower, 
the bloom a near-perfect match for the color of her own crimson locks.  
She smiled, a radiant image brighter then the sun it mimicked.  Nene 
abandoned the security of the covers and the bed, sliding forward to 
reach out a hand for the flower, her rose.
	"Oww" she protested slightly, her finger going to her mouth, 
lips suckling the bright red drop that beaded on the fair skin.  After a 
few seconds, the sharpness of the pain became minor, and she again 
reached out for the prize that dangled before her, careful and mindful 
now of the deceptive thorns hidden at the stem of the rose.  Lifting it 
lightly, she inhaled deeply at the scent of the rose, full and rich.  With a 
gay little laugh and smile, she turned to go to Mackie's room, when she 
noticed again the air conditioning and realized exactly what she was 
wearing and how she must look.
	A predatory gleam entered her eye as Nene felt again that 
calculating mindset descend on her.  She knew what she wanted, and 
her conscious began to analyze and reject plans until she came up with 
the one she desired.  With a shark's grin, Nene giggled to herself as she 
headed to the shower (Oh no, Mr. Stingray.  You're not getting away 
that easily.  It is time to learn who owns you.)
	Nene left the room at a brisk pace, errantly twiddling the rose 
she held in her hands.


-	-	-	-	-	-	-	-


	It was nearly an hour later when Nene approached the door to 
Mackie's room, freshly showered and clothed.  She paused by the mirror 
on the hallway wall, looking at herself.  The dress was perfect, just short 
enough to excite the obsession with schoolgirls that all Japanese males 
suffered from.  Yet the shoulder shown should reveal that she was a 
grown woman.  Artfully done hair should draw attention to her face, and 
a little correct posturing as she sat or moved in the short skirt should 
draw his eyes to other places, upon which she certainly hoped he would 
feast his eyes!  After all, it had taken a while before she had decided 
that the old white cotton standby would be perfect in this case.
	Nene thrust one hip out, posing seductively as she folded her 
hands demurely across her lap, all the while glaring at herself with a 
smoldering gaze over one shoulder.  (Perfect!) she thought.  Everything 
was perfect.  The perfect balance.  (He will be putty in my hands) Nene 
vowed. (At least until later), she added, a little wicked.  Walking to the 
door, she knocked twice on the door, before opening it, gliding on into 
the room. "Good morning Mackie!" she announced as cheerfully as she 
could.
	Mackie was dead asleep, she could see that right away.  He lay 
clutching a comforter, legs sprawled about as his back seemed to sink 
into the bed.  He was dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts.  The rest of 
his clothes had been piled into a hamper by the door.  What looked like 
a... contact lens case? rested on the dresser.  Even more odd, what 
looked like a sword was propped against the wall by the bed.  Of 
Mackie, he seemed to be completely oblivious to her entering the room, 
other than to turn his head slightly.
	Nene took another step forward, saying softly "Mackie?"  She 
crept up to the bed, enjoying what she saw there.  (It's only fair), she 
told herself, as she allowed her eyes to roam his length, (After all, he 
saw _me_.  And he is, after all, all mine.)  Still, she had to be impressed 
by the sight.
	Though the surgeons had obviously spent the majority of their 
efforts on rebuilding Mackie's face, they had also given much thought 
to the rest of the body.  That, combined with the rehabilitation and 
exercises Mackie must have been under, had given Mackie a beautiful 
physique.  Nene felt herself flush and grow a little hot and bothered as 
her sight traced the defined lines of the muscles that could be seen even 
at rest.  Mackie was somewhere in between the build of a gymnast and a 
weight lifter, like a dedicated martial artist, with careful attention having 
been paid to each muscle group.  She continued her probe, looking past 
the six-pack, down to the bulge in the boxers which must be-
	(Get a grip girl!) Nene berated herself, (stick to the plan).  With 
one last, longing look, she spoke out loud again, "Mackie".  Again, 
there was no response.  She tried once more, "Mackie?", softer this 
time.  Again, Mackie was oblivious.
	For the briefest of seconds, Nene was puzzled as to a recourse, 
when the little imp that was her devious sense of humor whispered a 
delectable suggestion to her.  Grinning, Nene looked at the window, the 
bright sun of the new day readily apparent through the thick curtains.  
With a smile on her face, she thought (This ought to wake him up!)  As 
a matter of fact, the thick curtain was the only barrier between the 
outside light falling squarely on the face and body of Mackie.  With a 
grin, Nene flung open the curtains, turning back to say "Good morning 
Mackie!" as the sunlight flooded the room.  Then she noticed 
something was wrong.
	There was no sunlight.  The room was about as bright it was 
previously.  Turning her head back to the window, Nene could see the 
sunlight beyond the poly-glass window.  No sunlight entered the room.  
Puzzled, she walked over to the poly-glass, and placing her hand upon 
it, she could feel the warmth from the sunlight heating the material.  Yet 
no sunlight entered the room, despite being at the perfect angle.  Nene 
tried to look for a reason why, noticing only a small red mark on the rim 
of the window, probably a mark left over from construction.  The only 
solution she could come up with was that perhaps Sylia had those 
photochromatic windows which adjusted to light?
	Whatever the case, Nene turned away from the window, her 
scheme crushed.  Just as quickly, another emerged from the recesses of 
her imagination, one involving a bucket of cold water.  Regretfully, she 
dismissed that idea as well, opting instead for a simpler approach.  She 
walked over to the bed, placing a small hand on the warm shoulder of 
Mackie.  With a slight push, she strove to awaken him.  "Mackie", Nene 
said softly, pushing again with a little more force so as to wake him.  
"Mackie."
	Mackie could in the dimmest recesses of his mind sense 
someone calling to him.  But after the strain of consuming the first 
potion to walk among the sunlight, Mackie had become a little tired.  
And after drinking the _second_ potion, to stay awake at a time when 
his body cried out to rest, had _really_ put a strain on his constitution.  
The overall effect of this tiredness was a deep slumber that chained 
Mackie.  Gehenna could happened, a fire could break out, or a thousand 
servant girls could beg for attention, and Mackie would never know.  
Wrapped in a pleasant day-dream, he simply didn't care.
	Nene was a little annoyed at her lack of success at waking 
Mackie.  She pouted slightly, then started to shake him even more 
urgently, until his entire body was shaking with her motion.  She was a 
little surprised at how easy it was for her to shake Mackie.  She was 
more surprised, however, when Mackie grabbed her, pulling her over 
him as she yelped in surprise, and then enfolded her in a tight embrace.  
After a few seconds of struggling, she ceased her efforts.
	Her heart still going doki-doki like crazy, Nene still managed to 
calm herself enough to appraise herself of the situation.  (Things were 
moving a little faster than she had anticipated, but well within 
acceptable limits), she thought to herself.  Mackie had his arms around 
her, comfortable, though not suffocatingly.  It felt good, she decided, 
giving a small sigh as she felt his lips muss her hair.  "Mackie", she 
murmured, wanting to hear his voice as her hands stroked across his 
back.  He moaned a little and shifted against her.  Nene had to stifle a 
gasp as his movements caused his stiff member to press against her, 
where her skirt had hiked up from the movement.  "Mackie", she said 
delightedly, sounding a little scandalized.  After a few moments of 
counter-play, she shifted her head and looked up at Mackie's face.  He 
was still asleep!
	(How like a man), she huffed angrily, (here I am, all ready, as he 
just lays there, asleep!)  After a few moments, her anger dissipated 
when she saw the look on Mackie's face.  In the repose of sleep, her 
looked so... so... innocent.  Like he used to be.  Like the boy she had 
fallen in love with.  She kissed him on the lips, smiling, before snuggling 
back down to rest.  She could spend a few hours like this.  She had 
night shift tonight, so it should be no problem.  As she nestled down, 
she began to think about Mackie and her.  How they had first met so 
many years ago.  How their strange romance had blossomed and finally 
been consummated.  Yet even as she lay there, her mind began to 
analyze the situation.  Here she was, laying in the arms of her boyfriend, 
and what?
	Nene Romanov knew, despite her gaijin heritage and the 
protests of the "native" Japanese, that she had become Japanese at 
heart.  Despite so much progress in the world, Japan had always been a 
very traditional nation.  Her homeland was very much a part of her, and 
thus yet despite modernization, she  still felt the social mores heavily 
impressed upon her by her culture.   Namely, the need to get married 
before she approached the "old maid"  age, around 28-30.  Despite how 
successful a woman might be, first and foremost, she was judged on her 
marriage, whether or not she was rich or of noble blood.  Nene had just 
turned 21 a few months ago.  And therein lay the problem.  While it was 
perfectly reasonable for a girl to marry an older man, quite common in 
fact, it was rare for an older woman to marry a younger man.  And 
Mackie was only 19 years of age, a fact that had not escaped her 
attention.  What would her friends say about it?  Probably not much, 
but her parents might complain a little.  Younger men, by common 
proverb, lacked the maturity to be good mates.  But Mackie, after his 
accident, seemed so... more mature.  Experienced.  Even arrogant.  And 
she did love him.  Combined with the fact Mackie had no living parents, 
so she would not have to toil under the senior "advice" of some damn 
mother-in-law, and that she and Sylia were good friends, Mackie was 
perfect.  Combined with his wealth, good future as a provider and 
husband, he was a good catch.  All she had to do was make him hers.
	Mackie knew none of this, of course, wrapped instead in his 
dream world.  He lay back, laughing, cushioned by the thick green grass 
and the blanket they had laid out.  Nene was beside him in a white 
summer frock, her hair blowing in the spring wind as the sunlight beat 
down on the both of them.  It warmed his body, even as the breeze 
cooled it, and the light glinted off the highlights of Nene's hair as it 
cascaded in the manner of a waterfall, falling as she did as she leaned 
over close to pop a fresh cherry in his mouth.  He luxuriated in the taste, 
even as he pulled her down as she giggled, placed another cherry in her 
mouth.  They just lay there, side by side, gazing into each other's eyes 
as time flowed by, continuous, and they did not care.
	Nene remained ignorant of this, even as she made her decision 
and snuggled closer to sleep for a few hours, positioning herself so to 
be able to sleep, her nostrils caught scent of something oddly familiar.  
A smell of sweat, of someone else's sweat, mixed with something.  She 
took a few more tentative sniffs trying to place it, before her previous 
suspicions flowed into her all at once.  The smell of leather, like the 
leathers Priss wore!  Yes, that was it, it was the smell of Priss, 
remembered from the workouts and testing at Sylia's facilities.  Nene 
immediately began to think dark thoughts of Mackie and Priss, before 
she stopped herself from pulling out of the embrace.  Maybe it wasn't 
what she thought it was.  Maybe it was just a chance meeting or Priss 
apologizing.  Maybe something else.  But even if it _was_ what she 
thought it was, that just made it more imperative that she make it clear to 
Mackie that he belonged to _her_.
	Satisfied, at least in her mind, Nene allowed herself to be lulled 
into sleep by the drumbeat of Mackie's heart and the caress of his 
breath, even as her own heart wringed with uncertainty.  So wrapped up 
in her concerns, she never noticed how his constant pulse never 
faltered, or how his breathing was constant and even.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	In an ancient place, unknown but to the greatest of powers, 
known only by three individuals, one of them no more, a being of equal 
antiquity to the place felt the passage of the sun beyond the horizon far 
above, and allowed it's mind to become fully aware from it's own 
musings.  The eyes were already open, staring at the vast ceiling of the 
cavern, looking beyond the paltry material surroundings.  The stone 
slab it lay on was hard and cold, but it did not notice.  It did not want to 
move.  Each moment of it's own existence was hellish agony.  Even as it 
sat up, basking in the sheer power of the place it dwelt, it knew that 
ache once more.
	The figure sat on a slab on a small island in the cavern, 
surrounded by a small lake of perfectly placid water.  The crystals 
growing from the walls, pure tass,  glowed with a soft white light to 
illuminate the room, even as the prisms the crystals also were splashed 
rainbow bands across everywhere, as it suited them.
	The figure gave an audible sigh.  It could not sleep, no matter 
how hard it tried.  Day or night, it was forever aware and awake.  Not 
even the oblivion of slumber was granted to it.  With another sigh, the 
being walked calmly over the water to the shore, allowing the pure 
energy of the sacred place to invigorate it.
	There, meeting it on the shore, was another figure, a man.  He 
was dark-skinned in the manner of the Arabic peoples or the Asian 
variety, though his features were unique.  His brown eyes were calm, his 
features bland if fairly unremarkable.  But it was that unremarkability 
that made his features unique.  Upon looking at him, one would never 
be quite able to tell exactly his heritage.  The nose seemed both Asian 
and Middle Eastern, the eyes had what _seemed_ to be folds, but alas, 
nothing was certain.  For this was exactly as it was intended.
	The suit he wore was of a nice cut, and he held another in his 
hands, as the figure approached.  "Sir, I have prepared everything for 
you", said Vincent Lee to his master, bowing slightly.
	"Thank you, old friend", replied the other, doffing it's robe 
made of one piece of fabric.  The cloth seemed to shiver before 
appearing on the left arm of Vincent Lee.  Just as swiftly, the suit 
shivered and was around the figure.  With a smile, it inspected itself, 
finding everything fine.
	With a familiarity born of centuries of service, Lee turned and 
began to lead his master to a side tunnel.  "Several new developments 
have occurred, as I am sure you are aware.  They are minor at best, but 
they do warrant your attention.  Members of the Conclave are 
demanding that Prince Janus make an appearance at the next Council."
	"Of course", laughed the figure, the sound a thousand tones 
and a hundred sounds all at once.  "I must prepare."
	Vincent watched his master head up to the outer chamber 
before he cleared his throat loudly.
	The figure turned back, noticed Lee's upturned eyebrow, and 
gave a rueful shake of the head, saying "You are right, course."  The 
figure seemed to waver like a mirage, like heat coming from the burning 
asphalt of Arizona.  The features changed, becoming more gaunt as the 
figure also grew taller, nearing well over two meters.  There was hair, 
dark and shoulder-length, with brooding eyes and a sad, yet sardonic 
face.  A cloak appeared about the shoulders, dark blue if a color could 
be chosen.  The transformation complete, the man turned to face Lee.  
"Well?" he inquired, voice a cold whisper, mimicking his servant by 
raising one eyebrow.
	Vincent made a quick circle about his master, looking for any 
flaws or mistakes.  Finding none, he returned to face him, announced, 
"Very good."
	"Good.  Prince Janus does not care much for his appearance, 
but I still like to have a pleasing appearance", announced the man, 
Prince Janus.  He continued on his way.
	"Ahh-hump", Vincent cleared his throat loudly.
	Turning back, Janus put an inquiring look upon his face, 
"Yes?"
	Vincent seemed almost embarrassed to mention this, but with 
the patience of one long suffering, reminded Janus, "Your aura sir.  I 
have had centuries to accustomate myself to your true appearance and 
power.  Those above, have not."
	"Indeed", said Janus, and with that, the light and fell of the 
roomand passageway  dimmed considerably.  Vincent Lee nodded, and 
they both continued on  their way.
	"So tell me, what should I be aware of?" asked Janus of 
Vincent.
	"The Council is currently in a fervor over the recent conquest 
of the state of Montana and the areas immediately above and below it.  
Your input is greatly desired.  First Councilor Meneleus has requested a 
full Council this time.  The highlights were that Councilor MacNeil is 
remaining true to his anarchist leanings and it suspected that he is 
rejecting the proposals made on sheer principal.  It is already 
degenerating into another extended argument. The Warrior caste of the 
Five Clans are most adamant inexpansion.  The leader of their 'Crusader' 
faction, Neis, wishes to speak with you about your proposal."
	Janus stopped, as he gave a sudden laugh.  Vincent, well used 
to his master's mercurial moods and the towering intellect it hid, waited 
patiently for his master to explain.  They were more than just master and 
servant.  Vincent, not his real name, had become the friend and 
confidant of one of the most powerful beings in all of the world.  He 
considered it a proud association.  Along with it, he had long ago 
learned patience.  Centuries of existence tended to do that, especially 
ifone intends to enjoy more centuries.  Thus he put  up with the 
occasional indignities and insults of other vampires about the Prince's 
servant, a "mere ghoul".  If only those fools who muttered such insults 
truly knew....	
	"My apologies", said Janus, turning to Vincent.  "Just 
reflecting.  Something has finally occurred.  Or will it occur?  I wonder.."   
Shaking his head, Janus turned to Vincent, puzzled.
	"Your tessa'lah'ra?" Inquired Vincent, using the ancient form.
	Janus glanced at him sharply, "I believe it is so; I sense a tired 
scion of the commoner's house stands and advises the one.  It is a sad 
irony, yes?"
	"Perhaps," answered Vincent.  Thinking for a second, he 
continued, "On a related topic, about Derek.  He has gone to 
MegaTokyo, as you requested.  He should be arriving soon."
	"I express satisfaction at this information", replied Janus, 
"though I fear for him in his naivete.  His experience at MegaTokyo will 
touch him deeply."
	"He is one of the most formidable of us.  He should be fine.  I 
am more concerned of Genom and the Camarilla.  Are you certain they 
will react as anticipated?"  Asked Vincent.
	"You overestimate Derek.  As to the others? The Camarilla 
Justicar Karl Schrekt still stings at what he perceives as the betrayal to 
the Thirteen, the Camarilla, Clan Tremere, and himself by his former 
commander and friend.  It was thus simple to arrange.  The descendants 
of Caine are like children, great in power at times, but forever 
emotionally stunted.  Schrekt has become a fanatic, devoted to the 
Camarilla, his past of blood and sin as a member of the Thirteen, the 
Black Guard, still haunts all his unlife.  He will react as I have arranged.  
As for Frederick.... von Ruthaven holds desperately to his dream, like a 
drowning man clutching a life preserver, not realizing it is slowly 
deflating in his struggles.  He has not so soon forgotten our little chat 
so long ago!!!" Janus laughed aloud. "Fear not, for they shall both chart 
unto destiny the course I have written for them."
	"The Giovanni?"
	"Dealt with.  Not even Lameth, in all his considerable power 
and knowledge, can anticipate my trap, or extract the Giovanni fully 
when he becomes aware.  And his erstwhile partner, Anis, should be 
dealt with soon."
	"And what of the Tel'mahe'Ra?  Certainly they shall interfere in 
this?"  Asked Vincent Lee.
	"The True Black Hand has numerous problems to deal with, 
but I do not doubt that they will interfere.  A cunning elder of the 
Tel'mahe'Ra dwells within MegaTokyo.  An unexpected one at that.  But 
I have that well in hand, through the hollow mask who stands at the 
head."
	Seeing the look on Vincent's face, Janus sighed, "Your hatred 
is understandable, I admit.  But like all things, it must become circular in 
eternity.  Besides, there is hope yet."
	"I understand your words.  I can accept your intentions.  I 
remain unmoved in my choice.  But what of one of the third sign of the 
twelve to bring forth?" Persisted Vincent.
	"You have sensed this as well?  Excellent.  I had thought you 
might.  You grow Vincent, and must grow still more.  The linear timetable 
has been moved up.  You must schedule a meeting with Neis.  I will 
speak to her.  It is now coming time for me... for _us_ to truly visit 
MegaTokyo.  You  should go as well." A pause. "A fragment of the 
whole yours once were is there, awaiting you."
	Long accustomed to the obscure meaning of his master's 
speech, Vincent immediately grasped what was said, "You mean another 
of my family yet lives?"  Vincent was shocked.  "Why didn't you tell 
me?" he demanded, grabbing Janus' arm.
	Janus paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully, "I 
was not sure, for as I am now, I am not omniscient.  But the possibility is 
strong.  One who is unaware of me being within and around saw, 
though lacked understanding.  I did have the insight.  It fed my 
awareness.  An answer awaits you there, in the future and past met as 
one."
	Vincent Lee looked troubled at this new information.
	Seeing Vincent trying to digest this new knowledge, Janus 
turned contemplative.  (Soon they will become aware of my absence.  
Even now, I am but a fraction of my true self.  Shall it be enough?  To 
face even that one?) thought Janus.  "And I should go as well.  An old 
acquaitance awaits me, has waited a long time."
	Looking up, still surprised, Vincent answered, "You seem to 
have plenty of those."
	Looking down at him with eyes that burned with his true power 
for a instant, Janus spoke in a voice that was not even remotely similar 
to mortal speech.  "Indeed Nass'er," spoke him, using Vincent's true 
name, "though this one is truly.  You could never imagine how long we 
have known each other."
	With a sense of dread at those words, Vincent was again very 
respectful as he was reminded of the power he truly served.  "I do not 
doubt it sir."
	Together, they left for the Seattle night.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	Priss awoke to a body so stiff, the only question on her mind 
was if it was a boomer or a particularily strenuous work out session that 
had gotten her so sore and exhausted.  Her entire body throbbed in an 
unpleasant manner, every muscle and joint calling for rest.  She felt the 
grime of sweat cover her, her long hair pasted flat against her skin, and 
the covers clinging, the insufficient air-conditioning failing to prevent 
once more the palpable heat.  Fortunately, it had been night, when the 
heat was less, but still potent.  Priss moaned at the stiffness, trying to 
move slowly so as to not acerbate the situation.  Meanwhile, her mind, 
sluggish and dulled by the heat and a sudden lethargy, tried to recall 
what had happened last night.  Her recollection was not good, hazy at 
best.  She hissed slightly, ignoring the pain and slight burning from 
tired muscles as she turned her head.
	Her old-fashion mechanical clock sat in front of her; she had 
forgotten to set the alarm apparantly.  She blinked twice as she peered 
at the numbers, the big hand and the small hand.  According to this, it 
was 10:23!  She had definitely been partying late at night to sleep in that 
late!  Not that she was an early riser.  It was just that she had practice 
today, at 15:00, and she was still supposed to stop by Sylia's to talk 
about-
	"Mackie!" the name burst from her mouth as she sat up 
straight, immediately regretting it as every part of her body shrieked in 
protest.  A scream she choked off as she felt the dull pain become a 
roar, and tears form at the corners of her eyes.  She fell back onto the 
soft bedding, muttering "Ite, ite!"  She lay there for a moment, just 
breathing, before she began to realize how sore her groin was.  Perhaps 
a lover?  No, there was no smell of a man about, nor another woman 
either.  And she wasn't drunk.  She was just exhausted.  Maybe riding 
too much?  There was a reason the bikes were called "Crotch-Rockets."  
But she had long ago become used to the rigors of motorcycle travel.
	Priss took a second to get herself oriented, refusing to allow 
any physical injury disable _her_.  Grunting, she raised herself slowly, 
trying to ignore the small protests of pain.  She also felt a little light 
headed, not like booze, but more when she got wounded, like a 
tranquilizer or the loss of blood.  She didn't feel in wounds as she 
started to get up, when Priss noticed something.
	She was stark naked.
	Priss looked down at herself, mumbling "Che!" before she 
continued onwards, each movement a tiny flare of pain.  It wasn't like 
her to go to bed naked, no matter how hot it was.  Experience on the 
streets had long ago taught her to always be ready to make a break for 
it, and that usually entailed being fully, or at least partially, clothed.  
Given the already rising heat, Priss moved towards the kitchenette, 
getting a bottle of water from the refridgerator, and on second thought, 
the bottle of wine she had grabbed from Sylia's as well.
	Pouring herself a cup of wine, one of the cleaner cups that is, 
Priss stopped and corked the bottle wondering.  Sure, she enjoyed the 
occasional drink, or even sometimes some recreational drugs.  But one 
of the first things anyone from the streets who wanted to make anything 
of themselves was that consistent substance abuse was a no-no.  Thus, 
Priss took a long look at the glass, before deciding to put it to the side 
for a while, a little dismayed at how badly she wanted it.  She felt more 
than a little wretched.  Sighing, she opened the sealed bottle of water, 
drinking down the unfortunately tepid water, while trying to think of 
what had happened.  She just needed some time to get the old noggin' 
going.  (Hmmm), thought Priss as she greedily drank the delicious water.  
Wait, that was it!  Something about a party;  ...and Mackie...-
	Priss paid no heed as the tip of the bottle of water left her 
mouth and began to pour down the skin of her body, never noticing the 
coolness of the liquid because of the brilliant flush of mortified shame 
that suddenly enflamed her entire body.  She remembered it.  What had 
happened.  What she had done with Mackie of all people.  In the club.  
With several people she knew watching and gawking.
	It took extreme willpower to avoid simply collapsing to the 
floor, but Priss had always been a fighter, and thus she walked over and 
slipped on a bathrobe, covering herself, holding herself together.  With 
trembling hands, she grabbed the cup of wine, knowing she would need 
it, before turning to sitting in a chair.  Priss reflected on what had 
happened, the pain of movement the barest of memories before the pain 
of shame.  Priss closed her eyes.
	She remembered everything that had happened that night.  
Everything.  How it had started out as just an attempt to shake a weird 
dream, yet turned into an open-end erotic adventure.  How she had only 
wanted to dance with Mackie, yet it had turned into such a horrible 
alternate ending.  Priss was a physical girl, but never in her life had she 
been so exhibitionist.  (I was... I was a slut!) Priss thought to herself, 
already starting to cry.  She couldn't go out in public, not like this, not 
after what had happened.  She began to feel her muscles again as she 
clenched up, starting to shake.
	(What is going on?) she lamented, crying.  Her body felt so 
strange, different.  Ever since Mackie had returned, she had noticed it.  
(Could it be I might love the pervert?)  After a minute of surprisingly 
thoughtful reflection, Priss realized that that was not the problem.  Sure, 
she felt a big sisterly affection for Mackie, of all things, but that was all.  
So what made her feel this way, made her emotions run so crazy?  It 
wasn't menstration, as that wasn't for several days.  What the hell could 
be going on?  Priss spent some time reviewing the possibilities, 
searching for a clue, examining past emotional states.  The only 
connection she could find was Mackie.
	Mackie had seemed embarressed, surprisingly, like someone 
thrust into sobriety.  Priss could vaguely remember, with a blush, her 
entreatees as he had laid her down to sleep.  She rememberd how he had 
told her to forget everything that happened that night.  The funny thing 
was, Priss was almost sure that for a short duration of timee, she 
actually _had_ forgotten about what had happened that night.  But now 
that she was remembering the last night after a good nights sleep, she 
could remember clearly.  Surprisingly clearly.  It was like each memory of 
that shameful night had been carved into her brain, each picture of what 
had occurred etched into the glass of her inner minds eye.  She 
remembered the impertinent man, the fight, the mention of.. Yes, that 
was it!  The man had called Mackie "Lord Mackie" and a commander of 
the "Manus Nigrum".  Come to think of it, she vaguelly recalled with 
perfect clarity someone possibly mentioning Mackie was a "Lasombra." 
And part of a religious something.  The Sabbath?  Was that it?  (It is 
just too much), thought Priss, as she took gulp of the wine.
	Like someone igniting a fire in her veins, like an arachnid 
spinning a rope of silk around her heart, like the IRS searching your tax 
returns, an indescribable feeling of _something_ engulfed Priss, 
sweeping her away in the tornado of emotion, making her feel as though 
she had just walked into an inescapable trap.  Her emotions seemed to 
surge as a thousand memories of Mackie filled her mental landscape.  
She saw him as he disassembled the Highway Star, as he worked on the 
Motorslaves with that cute little grease stain on his noise, the smell of 
sweat and oil on his body, the memory of his openly admiring face when 
he had peeped on her and the others-  The memories came flashing 
onward and onward, faster and faster, her entire emotional spectrum 
briefly flaring with a glow like the hundred stings of a hickory switch.  It 
was too much, far too much, and Priss felt herself fall into the emotion, 
collapsing as she desperately gasped for air, choking on the wine 
before-
	Priss spat the wine out in her struggle to retain respiration, and 
just as she heaved forth the Dionysian liquid, the sudden twisting of 
her emotions fled.  She fell to her knees, feeling suddenly empty and 
devoid, even as tears began to form.
	(What was that?)  Priss wondered to herself, even as she 
started to sob, the tears flowing as she curled her legs beneath herself.  
Her shaking arms curved around her chest, holding her upper arms as 
she rocked back and forth.
	This was unpresidented.  It was like nothing she had ever felt 
or known before.  The sheer power of that brief instant when her entire 
conscious and subconcious become the sole purpose that was Mackie 
Stingray.  It was... primordial, like something out of a storybook.  Or 
some nightmare.  It was as if her entire motivational imperative had been 
shifted.
	The trembling continued as Priss' rational mind desperately 
tried to find some comparison to what she had just known and felt.  She 
remembered the time when she had tried drugs, one of the very rare 
times in her life.  But not even Blue Glass had made her feel that way, 
and definitely not the numbness of Black Lace.  No, it was not like 
chemical dependency.  It was almost like she was-  no, she couldn't be!  
That was ridiculous!
	"This can't be happening", Priss reminded herself again and 
again, in a hoarse whisper.  "Can't be."  But it was true.  The closest 
thing she had felt for Mackie in that brief instant was... love.  There was 
no denying it.
	"I can not be in love with Mackie Stingray", Priss reminded 
herself.  Despite his attitude, he was still just a young kid.  Like she had 
been so many years ago.  But it wasn't truly _love_ she felt.  More like 
Mackie had become, in that brief second, her best friend and most 
important person.
	Priss stood up unsteadily.  (Best friend), thought Priss to 
herself, familiarizing herself with the idea, gradually convincing herself it 
was true.  (Best friend.  That's all.  Just a very good, best friend.  Like a 
big sister!), thought Priss, gradually starting to except the idea, her fear 
and worry suddenly muted by the roar of false hope in her breast.  
(Yeah, I'll be a big sister!  I'll teach him how to really ride a motorcycle, 
and how to be careful on the streets.  I'll be better than that ice-cold 
bitch Sylia.  *I* could have done a better job raising him.)  "I'll even 
help him with that minx Nene", she grounded out, then stopped as saw 
her reflection in the-
	Her eyes widened, then closed, her hand reaching up for her 
neck, carressing it slowly.  (What should I do?)  she ranted in her mind, 
frustrated.  She was tough, she was sensitive, she was all that and more.  
Prissicila S. Asagari was one tough woman.  She knew that.  But.  But...
	(But perhaps a necklace wouldn't be such a bad idea), she 
thought to herself, (It always makes a great gift.)  Her heart and feelings 
at war, Priss made up her mind swiftly, almost as swiftly as the rapids of 
her emotions.  She would go to the Stingray residence and talk to 
Mackie.  Explain things.
	Priss swiftly got dressed, almost frantically so.  She shrugged 
on her undergarments, stepping into the riding suit and pulled on the 
jacket, fastening it.  With harried speed, she darted aboiut for some soy 
bars, gulping down some synthetic fruit drink, and just as suddenly 
tossed the wrappers in the garbage.  Her helmet was in her hand and 
she was out the door before ten minutes had passed.
	Yet she stopped suddenly, one last pang of common sense, of 
vague regret calling to her.  So Priss stopped, looking over her shoulder, 
at the full length mirror in her trailer, one of the few appeals to her own 
vanity.
	Priss stared at her blurred reflection for the shortest period of 
time before turning to go, her raging emotions calling to her.  But none-
the-less, Priss could not help but wince when she heard the lock 'CLICK' 
shut as she closed the door, wondering if perhaps there was not an 
echo in herself.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	Leon cluthched the trenchcoat tighter around himself, knowing 
he looked the perfect fool in the heat that was already starting to swelter 
and make himself sweat.
	He was hiding in an alleyway, having walked the considerable 
distance, so as to avoid any media attention.  The media were like 
vultures, always circling, waiting for him to show.  If it wasn't the media, 
it was the fans, either of his anime show, his musical career, or just him.  
If it wasn't fan mail (which, though annoying, he didn't truly mind), it 
was all the politicians and businessmen trying to get him sponsor this 
or that!  As if he was qualified to tell people what was right or wrong!  
And why did he ever agree to that spot in the samurai drama, and that 
bit part in the soap?  Now everybody was after him!
	Inconspicuous was the name of the game now.  Thus he had 
dressed in a trenchcoat in this damn heat, waiting for his partner to pick 
him up at this deserted street corner, looking out carefully for those who 
hunted him over the paper medical mask he wore to hide his features.  
He knew he looked ridiculous, especially if anyone say the tailored suit 
beneath his fine trenchcoat.
	It also urked him how this was affecting his relationship with 
his co-workers.  It really hurt when they talked about him as "the paper 
police man", an insult that Leon would have answered with a fist at an 
earlier time.  Now he could only grit his teeth, rage impotently, and 
finally sigh.  He knew most of the ADPolice officers appreciated that 
almost all his earnings went to the police officers fund or to charity.  
Leon had never wanted to be rich.
	Yet now he was, and more popular than most established 
actors.  That had opened a new can of wyrms.  The jealous, 
backstabbing, insular, and vindicative darlings of media had taken his 
success as a personal affront to themselves.  Only their little heirarchy 
and group mattered, and they despised him because of this.
	All this had taken Leon from his true love: policework.  The 
cloak and dagger bullshit he had to put up with to just get to work was 
really starting to grate on his nerves.  Each little delay made things 
worse.  An Inspector in the MegaTokyo ADPolice was who he was, not 
some idol singer or actor!  He had a job to do, and he enjoyed doing it.
	There were not many people out at the time, actually there were 
very few.  He had walked about a mile outside his secret apartment, 
sticking to the shadows and alleys, trying to be inconspicuous.  He had 
been waiting for nearly seven minutes when he suddenly heard a 
screech of tires.
	SCCCREEEEEEECCHHH!!!!!
	The ADPolice Interceptor came screaming around the corner, 
with the sound of the other cars in pursuit.  Leon was already moving as 
Daley swung the car to a swift halt by the curb, kicking up some refuse 
on the 'crete.  The left door swung up as Daley looked up at him, leaning 
across the divide, urging "Get in, Leon!", before looking in the rear-view 
mirror.  Already, one car was peeling around, about two blocks down.
	Angry as Hell, and a little nervous, Leon found himself darting 
forward faster than a cheetah, slamming down the door even as his legs 
and butt swung down onto the seat.  "GO!" he screamed at Daley, who 
promptly put the pedal to the metal..
	"God DAMMIT!" swore Leon, as Daley gave a small chuckle, 
even though it was tight from the exersion of his frantic efforts at 
escaping their pursuers.
	"Ahhh, the price of being a hero.  Ready for another, exciting 
day of work?" grinned Daley, even as they headed down towards the 
blast site, the car pulling truly dangerous stunts in an attempt to lose 
their pursuers.  Black stains smoked as the synth-rubber in the tires left 
their mark.  The other cars attempted to follow, some spinning out of 
control, others just giving up, a few even crashing.  Daley had the 
advantage of his police training, first in local Normal Police, before his 
tenure in Interpol, and now the ADPolice.  The media people, driven by 
ambition, found themselves in the dust of Daley's superior skill.
	"I think we lost them", Daley wryly informed Leon, who was 
still swearing under his breath.  Looking over at him while keeping one 
eye on the road, Daley commented "We have to quit meeting like this."
	Looking over at his partner with a sour expression on his face, 
Leon commented, "Tell me about it!  I can't stand this shit much 
longer!"  Leon scrunched into the seat of the car.  "They follow me 
around like parasites!"
	"I've told you before Leon, it is the price of fame", Daley 
added, as he jumped two lanes into a turn lane.
	"Yeah, yeah, I don't need to here it", Leon muttered.
	"You know what your problem is?"
	"I have a pretty good idea you're gonna tell me", said Leon.
	Daley smiled, a little bitterly Leon noticed, and thus Leon paid 
a little more attention as Daley began to speak.
	"You have to learn how to deal with it Leon.  Act with it, you 
know."
	Leon snorted, "Not really."
	Daley eyed his partner, "Your problem is that you see them as 
the enemy.  They are going to be, if you let them."
	"I just like my privacy, that's all", commented Leon.
	"It's not _yours_ anymore Leon.  Deal with it."
	"How can I!  You know..."
	Daley sighed at his idiotic friend.  "That woman is never gonna 
be yours Leon.  How many times do I have to tell you Leon, women are 
going to be the death of you." Daley grinned at him.
	"They already have been."  Leon looked over at Daley, and 
couldn't help grinning as well, "How do you think I got into this 
situation in the first place?"
	They both laughed a little at that.  All too swiftly the humor 
ended.  The humor faded as they continued for some time in silence, 
alone in their thoughts as they waited for the typically slow 
MegaTokyo traffic to continue on its way.
	"So what do you mean, not make them an enemy?" Leon asked 
a little curious.
	Daley was silent for a time, before he opened his mouth and 
closed it.  He sighed, and then asked, "Have you ever felt like God?"
	This made Leon sit straight upright. "What?!" he said loudly.
	"I'm serious."  And Daley did.  "Have you ever felt like God, 
when everyone looks up at you, and cheers?"
	"No, thank God!" answered Leon.
	"Some people are such Philistines", muttered Daley.
	"What do you mean?"
	"You'll understand some day, when you stand there, and you 
_feel_ the crowd.  Feel the sheer energy and power, realizing that you 
are like a king, commanding the people, feeding off of their offerings of 
devotion." Daley spoke with conviction.
	"Now you are freaking me out.  What brought this on?  You 
were famous?" Leon asked, curious.  There was alot he did not know 
about his partner.
	Daley looked a little sad.  "Me?  Not really.  I'm just a little 
jealous, that is all!" Daley finished with a grin.
	Leon snorted, "Yeah, right.  You just keep laughing it up."
	Daley shrugged, before saying, "On towards more serious 
matters.  Here."  Daley tossed a collection of folders on Leon's lap.  
"Take a look", he ordered.
	"The prelimenary reports, eh?" Leon asked, not even bothering 
to see if Daley was nodding yes, which he was.  He was already 
opening the folder and dumping out the contents.
	"Look at that", Leon gave a low whistle.  The glossy picture 
was color-coded, a CKEDS (Calculated Kinetic Energy Diagram 
Schematic), displaying the estimated blast radius and the progression of 
the blast, all taken from satelite footage, which meant USSD.  The 
pictures were very precise, down to the pieces of metal jutting out of the 
exposed superstructure of the street and what _had_ been hidden 
below it.
	"Impressive it is, Leon-chan.  Notice the calculated explosive 
force?"  Leon did so.  "Definitely up there in nuclear range.  But then 
look at the next set of pictures." Leon did so. "Clearly no radiation 
beyond the usual background count."
	"So what does this mean?" Leon asked, rubbing the bridge of 
his nose, pushing up his habitual shades up to his forhead.
	"It means it is not nuclear.  Even worse, it is something new." 
Daley answered.
	Leon understood immediately the can of worms he had been 
dropped into.  A new technology or explosive compound that was 
completely conventional, yet had the same effect as a nuclear weapon?  
What corporation or military wouldn't want there hands on it!  Even if-
	"Oh, and don't worry so much Leon.  It gets even worse."
	"How?"
	A laugh, entirely lacking in humor.  "Take a look at the second 
USSD folder, Leon.  It was a fortunate... coincidence" Daley said in a 
sarcastic sneer, "that a new USSD sattelite was undergoing tests, and 
doing a sweep over MegaTokyo.  You will note that in the first frame, 
two individuals are approaching.  Yet on thermal, none of them shows 
any thermal signature, except for a slight puddle of heat ahead of them."
	"Bad sensor?" Leon offered hopefully, not really expecting the 
answer to be true.
	"We wish.  Look close and you will notice the spy-sat can tell 
the minor temperature variances in the _concrete on the streets_.  Thus, 
we can conclude that either these two people either have no internal 
temperature, which is impossible as even boomers give off some heat.  
That means they have stealth suits that are so advanced they can't be 
detected by thermal sensors.  And it gets even so much worse."
	"I doubt that", Leon prayed.
	"Look closely at that puddle of heat on the picture with the 
two individuals."
	Leon did, focussing on the picture that looked like an _artiste-
de-neavu-ex_ painting.  There were the two individuals, and ahead of 
them, as they looked were standing to either side of the door to the 
building, was a blub of color.  That was the puddle Daley was talking 
about.  Except that it- no, it couldn't be.  It looked like-
	"Footprints."  Leon looked up at Daley's grim announcement.  
"Which means, impossible as it may sound, that there is a third person 
in between the other to who _somehow_ manages to elude the 
advanced sensors of a brand-new, state of the art spy sattelite.  
Avoiding all sensor except for some thermal bleed-off.  Which means 
that they have the great myth- a true cloak suit."
	"Invisibility?  Come on.  It's- shit.  SHIT!" Leon spat.  Even if 
this was an informal brain-storm session, one thing Leon had always 
counted on was his partner's finely honed "feminine intuition", as he 
called it.  If Daley really thought that this was the most likely 
conclusion, then it probably was.
	"It gets even more and more worse."
	Leon just sighed.  "What?"
	"The subjects enter through the front door, and presumably 
leave in a trailer truck several minutes later.  Shortly thereafter, the bomb 
goes off."  Daley stopped speaking.
	"So?" Leon asked.
	"Leon, you really need some Starbucks.  Look at the pictures.  
They obviously didn't carry the bomb into the building.  And it is just 
as obvious that it couldn't have been too big, as the doors are fairly 
small.  Even the best plastique on the market could never hope to have 
that big a blast.  You would have to pack the entire place in C-11 and 
then blow it.  So they either assembled the device inside, piece by piece, 
which indicates a frightening level of organization, or the device was 
transported complete, which means it is small, no bigger than a car in all 
likelyhood."
	"Daley, I got no sleep last night, had nightmarish dreams for 
the second week straight, and am now running on bullshit and bad 
attitude.  So could you please just spell it out."
	"Alright then.  The bombs are probably pretty small."
	"Check."
	"The probable perpetrators didn't carry them inside by 
themselves."
	"I know that!"
	"So they were probably inside."
	"Gotcha."
	"There could be more than one device."
	"Maybe."
	"The building housed an _import/export company_."
	"Check."
	"The probable perpetrators left in a very big truck."
	"Check.  I don- Oh my.  Oh my, oh my."
	"It gets even worse.  Recon on the truck indicates the truck 
was partially or fully loaded, as evidence by dilation on the tires."
	"Any more cheerful news?"
	Daley gave a grin like the cat that ate the canary.  "But of 
course!  MegaTokyo has nothing to fear.  After all, says Genom, the 
government, the media, the public, and the police department; Captain 
ADP is on the case!" And Daley started cackling aloud.
	Leon put his pounding head in his hands.  He felt a headache 
coming on, like a stampede of rabid elephants who had been on steroids 
their entire lives.
	"A real friend wouldn't laugh."
	Daley just grinned, and said, "Don't worry Leon."
	Leon looked up.
	"Captain ADP is on the case! BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!"
	"Someone shoot me?  Please?" Leon beseached the heavens, 
quite sure a certain divinity was listening, as it laughed along with the 
rest of the universe.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*



	Sylia opened her eyes, yawned, and blinked at her reflection in
the water-clear glass floor she found herself laying on.  It was sligthly 
chilled to the touch, leaving one side of her body a little numb, as she 
currently found herself nude.  Sylia blinked again, looking at her 
relfection and how it appeared.  She knew this was a dream, as she had 
had several of these before.  Whether it was her father's alterations to 
her cortex, her surpressed emotions, IT and the dreams IT sent, 
someone trying to contact her as Largo had, or just a normal dream, she 
had experienced plenty.  Too many.  So she lay there for a few minutes, 
trying to catagorize everything.  She was lying on a glass floor with 
nothing beneath it.  Hmmm... Silicon could indicate computers, thus 
possibly a twisted dream about computers.  Or maybe not.  Giving one 
last quasi-Narcissistic look at her reflection, Sylia turned her about.
	It was utter darkness, except for the square plate of glass she 
lay upon.  The darkness was a comforting, almost organic blackness, 
like a velvet robe that breathed deeply, twisting and bellowing all about.  
The darkness seemed to move and shift, like a mad painter with the ink 
of creation could not make up her mind.  This was certainly odd.  There 
seemed to be no light, no illumination, yet the glass was clearly visible, 
and her skin seemed to shine with a pale luminesence.  She lifted her 
hand, coldly examining the glow.  Her skin showed no blemish or mark, 
like marble, unlike real life.  Why?
	Sylia also wondered why she was naked..  Why was she 
always naked in many of her dreams?  What was this, some damn virtual 
reality simulation from Gainax?  Sometimes she could swear that the 
only reason she was ever nude was for some damn voyeuristic bastards 
were watching her.  But she was born and raised Japanese, and her self-
control was enough that she could endure this without much durress.  
She stood up with the uncertatinty of all those who have ever stood 
upon glass.  Flass is truly a very slowly moving liquid, a viscosous 
mass that shifts ever so slightly when weight is put upon it.  The finely 
tuned instinct of the human balance, via the inner ear, can detect such 
minute shifts, prompting a sense of unease.  Sylia ignored this, curling 
her legs beneath her to rise to her full height, arm folded beneath her 
breasts as she looked about.
	Nothing happened for several minutes, at least as far as she 
could judge time, and Sylia was starting to get a little annoyed with this 
dream.  A lifetime of patience won out thought, and she was rewarded 
as a patch of the blackness before her seemed to shiver and coagulate 
into a vaguelly man-shaped form, wrapped in a shroud of shadows.  
Sylia stared for a few moments at it before she could only think to 
herself (Oh, isn't this just _so_ clique!)
	As soon as she had thought that, a wave of amusement 
emminating from all around her penetrated her, and she felt amused as 
well.  Grasping control of herself, Sylia righted her body, furious at such 
an invasion of her privacy.  (I hate the dreams where they can read my 
mind).  She glared at the motionless figure, who she could was staring at 
her with an unusual detachment, almost like a scientist looking at an 
unknown specimen she wished to examine.  No, she couldn't say _she_.  
Nor could she say _he_. This one had no cues to what sex it was.
	She stopped her musing as the figure raised a thin arm to point 
at the space to her left, and after a second, her gaze obediantly travelled 
to her left, where another shape was forming.  This one seemed to be 
struggling, the motions jerky, almost as if it was fighting this summons 
to this reality.  Finally, with one last fury of movement, the new arrival 
was still, and floated like the other, mid-air.
	(This one was different), Sylia realized suddenly, wondering at 
this influx of knowledge.  It was not logic, but rather intuition and 
feeling that made her realize that this figure, same in appearance as the 
other, was actually male.  Why, she did not know.  Turning to the other, 
she tried to ask a question of the first apparation, "What is this?"
	(Knowledge; Awareness; Future), she thought to herself, 
before she realized those were not _her_ thoughts!  She felt anger rise 
in her as she realized what this one had done to her.  Used her own 
thoughts.  Made her _think_ what it wanted her to.  This was not IT, or 
even any other dream. This was something different.  And even though 
she knew it sounded crazy, Sylia felt that this was somehow actually 
_real_.
	Turning to the first, she asked another question of the being, 
"What does this all mean", her voice sounding like a violation of the 
rules in a library, a sneeze in a sacred religious ceremony, a fart in the 
middle of passionate intercourse.  She felt a ripple of embarassment, but 
also realized that this being was not offended, and the other seemed 
almost catatonic, oblivious to this dream-realm.
	(So you can see how you are seen and will be seen, gain 
insight and Wisdom, knowledge of Future), she thought to herself in 
thoughts that were hers and yet not-hers.  She looked at the first, but its 
arm remained raised, pointing at the second figure, somewhat 
insistently.
	She stared at the second figure, who just hung there, 
suspended mid-air, without moving.  The darkness seemed to pulsate 
around the figure in rolling waves, like whispering fire lazily coasting 
across an ocean of alcohol.  It breathed, like a living being, a membrane 
of filth that obscurred vision and other senses.  Sylia stared at the 
second figure for the briefest of instants, before asking the first figure, 
"Yes; now what?"  After receiving no answer, Sylia nearly turned her 
head to look questioningly at the first figure, when she noticed 
something.
	If the darkness was the shimmering color fulgrim, then there 
was a minor deviation, about in the center of the chest.  The blackness 
had turned a black-brown.  And as Sylia leaned in for a closer look, 
curious almost in spite of herself, she saw the color at the same point 
turn entirely brown.  "What is this?" she asked herself.
	Below the brown, there was visible a soft glow that began to 
get brighter as the brown turned yellow.  Immediately, Sylia understood 
that the brown; no, the blackness, was being eaten away by a light 
under the ink skin.  Eventually, after a few breathless seconds, the light 
penetrated.  A single point of light broke through, a pure and clean 
white light.  (How beautiful), thought Sylia, staring a the ray of light in 
the dark realm she was in.  Occasionally, a brief burst of particles the 
colors of the rainbow would emerge, traveling along the beam.  
(Beautiful), thought Sylia again.
	Turning from the light, she addressed the first figure, "What 
does this mean?"  With no answer forthcoming after a few moments, 
she tried a different tactic.  "Why are you showing me this?" she asked.  
The darkness seemed to ripple a little more fiercely as she heard 
thoughts that were hers yet not-hers form once more.
	(To show you, so that you may see, and come to know.  To see 
how, in turn, _you_ are seen.)
	"What, what are talking about?" Sylia asked, raising an arm as 
if in supplication or in defiance, when she noticed it.
	The light had gotten brighter, the hole in the darkness wider, 
irising open more and more, ever so slightly.  There was something 
within that bright light, something she could not quite see yet.  But that 
did startle her as much as what she saw when the light graced her arm.
	Looking at her arm, she saw something above her skin.  It was 
like a VR projection sim.  Above and around her hand was metal, a kind 
of armor.  Her hand lay within a gauntlet of shiny metal, a pure silver 
that enveloped all of her body that lay in the light.  The armor was like 
no style she had ever seen, though it was clearly Western-based.  The 
gauntlet and the forearm guard were perfect, free of blemish or flaw, like 
a work crafted by Vulcan.  It was like... an ideal of armor, rather than 
actual armor.
	Hesitantly, Sylia moved more of her body into the light.  Where 
it touched, in contrast to the cold floor and surrounding air, there was a 
warmth like nothing Sylia had ever felt.  It curled her toes up and made 
her shiver.  It felt good.  And where light touched her, she was covered 
in armor.  Closing her eyes and stepping fully into the light, Sylia 
gasped at the warmth of the illumination.  It permeated her entire being 
in a warm embrace.  For a brief second, she just enjoyed the sensation, 
then opened her eyes.
	The light emitted from the shrouded figure was too bright to 
see what lay beyond the darkness that surrounded the figure.  Ignoring 
that, Sylia looked about then, and gasped.  She could feel her eyes 
widen in amazement as she looked down at her reflection in the glass 
floor.
	A goddess lay in that reflection, a woman wearing armor 
crafted of the purest quicksilver.  Yet it was also an image in that one 
could see through the armor, the nude woman beneath, who had no 
blemish on her perfect skin.  Power seemed to cloak this woman more 
than any clothes would, and her eyes were calm with wisdom.  (Who 
was this woman?) Sylia wondered.
	(Light frequently makes truths clearer to the seeker), she 
thought immediately after, beforing realizing they were the thoughts 
thought were hers yet not hers.
	"That is supposed to be... me?  That is your truth?"  she asked 
the first increduously, a half-smirk on her face as she chuckled.
	The temperature seemed to decrease even more as she could 
sense what was... disapproval? approval?  Who knew.  The first figure 
hung there, unchanged, though the arm seemed to point insistantly at 
the second figure.  Obediantly, Sylia turned to look.
	The second figure now had a fair sized hole in its garment of 
tenubrous matter, from which the light poured out.  The opening was 
big enough the light was no longer so blinding.  Indeed, Sylia swore 
that beneath the darkness, beyond the light, there was... something.  
Curiousity getting the better of her, she stepped closer and closer, her 
feet making soft sounds as they rose and fell on the glass floor.  Yes, 
she definitely see something!  Just a little closer and she could-
	Suddenly, Sylia felt like she was falling into the light, into what 
dwelt beyond the darkness, the light so blinding it obscured all around 
her.  Like facets of a prism casting light, the light from the hole became a 
curtain of white across her vision, leaving only what lay beyond the 
light.  It was beautiful... and horrible.  Sylia opened her mouth, drawing 
in breath to scream-


-	-	-	-	-	-	-	-


	-and coughed, choking on the smoke that rushed into her 
lungs, turning her scream into a twisted hacking.  The smoke flowed 
into her eyes, and they watered in her world of gray, the clouds of 
smoke everywhere she could see with her blurry eyes.  Waves of heat 
assaulted her form every direction, as the roars of fires and the snap, 
crackle, and pop of wood burning jarred her senses.  She tried to move, 
to get away, when something caught her and she fell to her knees.
	Into the mud, which smelled vaguely of animal feces, which 
she could smell dispite the residue of the smoke clogging her nostrils.  It 
was wet, like the mud of earth.  Her hands plunged into the oozing mess, 
as did her knees.
	Sylia stopped, keeping her head low, beneath the smoke as she 
coughed, her voice harsh in the crackle of the flames.  (What is going?) 
she thought, looking around.  Only smoke, everywhere.  (Why did I 
trip?)  Her vision clearing, Sylia decided to investigate that.  And 
received a new shock.
	The reason was the dress she was wearing, a coarse wool 
dress, a dull brown color of far too many washes without detergent.  
She had stepped on the hemline, tripping herself.  It was long, a 
extremely conservative cut, with little movement above the knees.  
Looking down at herself, Sylia could see it was a crude dress, like a 
farmgirl in old times might where.  It was definitely of the Western style.
	Moving slightly so as to better feel, Sylia could feel a shift 
beneath the dress.  Softer than the dress, it was perhaps cotton?  Who 
knew.  She could not tell.  Keeping her head low, she stood up, carefully 
raising the dress with both hands.  She wobbled immediately, as she 
was wearing some kind of shoe with a hard bottom, probably wood.  It 
was hard to balance with the clumsy wooden sole, but after heels, Sylia 
was well used to balancing in shoes.  She kept her head down, under 
the smoke, still coughing as her lungs attempted to expel the carbon 
residue that had found its way into her lungs, like a thick oil over the 
membranes within.  It caught in her throat as her hacking managed to 
dislodge some of the putrid phlegm.  The grit grinding against her teeth, 
Sylia managed to spit out the thick, grainy substance.
	Where in the hell was she?  Why was she dressed like this?  
What was going on?  These thoughts rushed through her mind as Sylia 
tried to get her bearings.
	First off- wood fires.  She was nowhere near MegaTokyo.  
There were only a few buildings in- No, this was not MegaTokyo.  
Actually, she wondered where she was.  There was not, over the stench 
and taste of the smoke, the palpable presence of pollution.  That was 
impossible.  No matter how thick the smoke, it was always there.
	Then she wasn't in a city.  She must be out in the true outback, 
a place civilization and its byproducts had never touched.  Which was 
very difficult to believe, as Sylia could recall no real part of the world 
that had not known such influence.  She needed more information.
	Carefully rising to a crouch, keeping her head under the smoke, 
Sylia tenatively began to walk forward.  All around her, the fires burned 
bright orange and yellow, casting a red glow all about.  The buildings 
about seemed to be ridiculously simple one-story wooden structures.  
There didn't seem to be any chemical smoke, so the old adage of "Wood 
stay low; office buildings, run and go" and avoiding the poisonous 
heavier smoke didn't seem to apply.  And there was no fire department, 
no cries for help.  Had everybody already left?
	As if in response to her question, Sylia once more found 
herself falling, her legs having caught on something.  Something that 
was somewhat pliant, and soft, a little warm as well.  Sylia landed with 
her elbows in the sticky mud.  (It was wet), Sylia realized.  And what she 
lay across was a person by the feel of it.  Either they had run out of 
oxygen, or had stopped to put out some personal flames.  Her dress wet, 
Sylia pulled back to shake the man.  It must be a man, from the lack of 
breasts on the chest.  "Sir?"  Sylia nudged him harder, when her fingers 
pushing along slipped on the sweat on his chest and plunged forward- 
and into his chest.
	Focussing her eyes, Sylia felt another heat, that of the inner 
body, and the firm slickness of exposed human muscle.  She held up the 
trembling hand, saw the redness even in the dim light and looked down, 
pulling back.
	The man beneath her was dead, and she could rule out natural 
causes or the fire.  Across his scrawny chest was a deep gash, as 
though something had torn through it, perhaps a boomer or falling 
object.  The slickness around her, and the wetness of the mud was the 
spilled blood and viscera of the man she lay across.  Sylia darted one 
hand back, looking at the dark mud stained red that covered her flesh.  
Focussing her eyes as she looked about, Sylia came to another horrible 
discovery.
	The man wasn't alone.  Even in the whisps that slithered out of 
the curtain of smoke, there could be seen the still forms of two other 
adults.  Their bodies bore similar wounds to the man near her, obvious 
even through the vagueness of the suspended soot particles.  Around 
her, though the crackle of the fire, and the dull roar of burning wood, 
there was the cloy smell of burnt human flesh and hair, that made her 
gasp and choke, and suddenly it was too much.
	It came up, and Sylia dry-heaved the gastric juices of her 
miscreant organ onto the ground, mixing the thick liquid with the coiled 
and limp mass of serpents that were the man's digestive track, 
completing the perverse cycle.  Wiping her mouth with a relatively clean 
sleeve from her dress, Sylia use the other arm to touch her belly, willing 
the aerobatic antics of her stomach to cease.  When the smell of her 
own vomit reached her, the effort was lost, and Sylia could only stagger 
away from the corpse so as to best avoid another incident.  Not that she 
had anything against vomitting, outside the usual concerns, but it was 
fairly apparant that the people had been murdered, and fairly recently 
given the pliancy of their bodies.  Aimlessly staggering, Sylia tried to 
keep her head down, the irratating smoke in her throat once more 
bringing on spasms of coughing fits.  It was among such a hard hacking 
that the sound of weeping first reached ears.
	It was odd, given the loudness of the fire, and the sound of her 
own movement, but the sound of the child crying cut through the 
background noise like a signal pure note from a crystal cuts through the 
static of idol singer music.  It had to be a child, given the tenor.  It was 
soft, and lonely, mourning, somewhere ahead of her.  Somewhere out 
there was a child, and Sylia knew she had to do something.  Call it 
humanitarian or maternal feeling, Sylia knew she had to help the owner 
of those sobs.
	It was hard to judge, among the echoing frontier that the 
burning town provided, but Sylia felt that she could indirectly guess the 
origin of the cries.  It seem to be a little to her left, beyond the collapsing 
remains of a two-story building to her right, and the fierce blaze 
centered on the huge warehouse-type structure.  Those were only 
guesses, as the fires appeared only as two blobs of red through the 
gray veil.  There was great heat coming from that area, but Sylia didn't 
see much point in not going.  There was nothing she could do for those 
around her, but she could help the living.  (And), the little analytical 
voice in her mind said, (then maybe there would be some answers to the 
many questions I have.)
	Making up her mind, Sylia raised one arm to cover her face 
while the other hand hitched up her skirts to run.  Leaning down, Sylia 
felt the wooden soles of the crude shoes did into the earth, as she fell 
into a runner's start, keeping her head low.  Heart racing, adrenaline 
pounding, Sylia wasn't even aware as she pounded through the thick 
smoke.
	The heat assailed her like the media, ruthless in intensity and 
uncaring of the consequences.  The slight sweat she had built up from 
her exersions immediately vaporized, every pore prickling as though 
pinched, before sweat began to form and roll out, only to be converted 
to the most energy-active of the three common states of matter.  Sylia 
kept her eyes shut but for slits, gratefull for the long lashes that kept 
ashes out of her eyes along with other, large particles.  Stumbling 
slightly, lungs on fire from holding her breath, Sylia continued on, the 
fire about her sweltering to an inferno.  The fire almost became living 
creatures, lashing out to grab her.  Her legs pumped despite the 
dullness of exhaustion and oxygen deprivation.  It was too much, too 
far, and Sylia knew she needed breath.  Despite clenched teeth and lips, 
the tremendous intake of air finally happened, as Sylia drew in the 
element of the sylphs.  Waiting along with it was the smoke.
	Sylia fell despite her best efforts, the shaking of her body 
causing her collapse as she rolled along in her general direction.  The 
heat, the smoke, it soon all disappeared into the constant sound of her 
cough.  Soon, even that subsided.
	The reason was that Sylia had in fact made it through the wall 
of smoke.  The fires were still nearby, as the audiable collapse of the left 
building reminded Sylia.  She hurried on her hands and knees, towards 
the relatively untainted air ahead.  It still carried smoke, but nowhere 
near the level of where she had been.  As a matter of fact, Sylia could 
fell a... breeze?  Yes, it was such a thing!  Breathing in the chill air, Sylia 
once again heard the sobs, but this time they were coming from before 
her.
	She was in a grass clearing of sorts, a slightly raised hill.  A 
little more than halfway over the hill, a wall of fire blocked any egress.  
Around her was the cherry-red fires of buildings burning.  The fire 
provided illumination, even as the slight wind blew enough of the 
smoke away to reveal the barest hints of the stars in a night sky.  And 
ahead of her, sitting amid a pile of clothes, was the child.
	Whether male or female, it was about eight years old at the 
oldest, where such differences matter less than after puberty.  Even 
then, the voluminous folds of the oversized clothes the child wore 
would obscure that.  The tiny shoulders shook as once more Sylia heard 
the sobs.  She tenatively approached the child, asking, "Hello?"
	The child did not seem to hear her, just continuing to cry.
	Sylia approached closer, reaching out one hand to tug the 
shoulder, asking softer through her coughs, "Hey, are you alright?"
	At this the child turned, and Sylia had to gasp.  Whether male 
or female, the child was definitely beautiful, and so adorable as a small 
rubbed ineffectively at the tears that cut tracks down the filth on the 
face of the child.  The child had large and luminous brown eyes, almost 
like an anime, which were currently welling up with tears.  The hair was a 
little curly, a very light brown almost blond in the coloration.
	The condition of the child was an odd one.  Around the child 
were pools of fabric from the oversized cloths it wore, like an oversized 
nightshirt.  Nearby, in the grass, lay a hand and a half sword, finely 
made with an intriacte coat of arms at the crosspiece.  Sylia put two and 
two together and immediately realized the child was someone important.
	"Are you alright?"  Sylia asked again.
	Again, just the cute sniffling on the child's face.
	"What happened here?" Sylia inquired.
	At this, the child began to cry in earnest, chest heaving from 
the force of the sobs.  Sylia opened her arms as she knelt, and the child 
jumped into them, stumbling on the oversized clothes.   Her arms went 
around the child as one might hold a small bird.  Sylia could feel the 
frantic motion and heartbeat of the child, the jerkiness of the breath in 
the midst of sobbings, and for a time all she did was hold the youth, 
whispering reassurances in the child's ear while stroking the hair and 
back, trying to calm the obviously traumatized kid.
	"Where are your parents?  What is your name?"  Sylia asked, 
to which she received no response.
	The child was still crying, but seemed to subsided somewhat.  
Raising her head from the child's head, Sylia once again looked about.  
Bodies lay strewn about, most still in nighttime clothes, or clothes 
hurriedly put on.  Several had weapons such as pitchforks and knives 
lying near them.  There were men, women, both old and young, brutally 
cut down, with slash across their bodies, or in some cases _through_ 
their bodies.
	"It's burning" came the soft and sorrowful voice of the child.
	"What?" Sylia asked the child whose face was still buried in 
her breasts.
	"My home.  It's burning.  Ruthaven is burning."  Again that 
voice.
	"This is Ruthaven then?" Sylia inquired, eager for information.
	The child looked up at her with puffy eyes and sniffled, 
nodding.
	"What happened here?  In Ruthaven?  Where are your 
parents?" Sylia asked.
	The child just looked down before saying, "It doesn't matter.  
He is going to kill them all."
	A sudden chill running through her that had nothing to do 
with the evening breeze, Sylia knelt and grabbed the child by the 
shoulders, holding them tight.  "What do you mean?  Who is going to 
kill them all?"
	The child just shook his head, looking up at her with those 
large brown eyes that seemed to shimmer in the firelight illumination.  
Those eyes suddenly seemed to belong to someone ten thousand years 
old.  "He doesn't understand."  The tears started again.  "He is going to 
kill them all."
	A little put off, Sylia urgently asked the child, "Who is going 
to kill them?  Who is he going to kill?"
	The child started to sob, clutching her desperately, "My 
family."
	"What?"
	"He is going to kill them all."
	"Who?"
	"He is going to kill my family."
	"THEY ARE HIS FAMILY, IN THE NAME OF THE LORD!"
	Sylia jerked her head up in the direction of the second voice, a 
full man's voice.  In her arms, the child turned about as well.
	Where once a wall of fire had cut off the rest of the grassy 
knoll from their side, there was now only a swath of glowing embers and 
blackened earth.  Beyond the wall was revealed the bizarre procession 
that had been hidden.
	Men dressed entirely in black stood in two lines like the 
columns of a Greek temple, motionless.  They varied in appearance, 
some wearing armor made of chain mesh and metal plates, others opting 
for boiled leather body armor.  All wore black, and carried a huge variety 
of medieval weapons, from swords both large and small, metal clubs 
with spikes, huge double-headed axes, and large polearms.  None of 
those were directed in any particular direction, as the owners of the 
weapon had their attention directed in one direction.
	Among there number was a monster, huge at well over two 
meters in height, perched on the balls of it's clawed feet, like the 
digigrade legs of a hound.  It was demonic, like a gargoyle of some 
twisted imagination, wearing only a leather harness and loincloth, with 
huge leathery wings swept around it's shoulders like a cloak.  It held a 
huge polearm easily in its massive hand.  Yet even it's horrid form did 
not keep her attention long.
	At the farthest from herself and the boy, two men argued.  
Both were tall, both armored in chain mail armor stained black.  Both 
wore cloaks.  But there the similarities ended.
	One man held a two meter long two-handed sword easily in 
one hand.  He was the taller of the two men who argued, with the darker 
features of the Mediteranean peoples.  He held one hand up, as though 
to hold back the other.
	The other man had his chain hood down, and was obviously 
the senior of the two, his blond hair streaked with grey, tied back into a 
ponytail.  He held his sword with the point firmly in the ground.  It was 
this man who had spoken out loud.
	"Alexander, you have to stop him!  You can't let this happen!" 
pleaded the older man.
	"He has to do this, Karl Schreck" said the taller man in a deep 
voice.
	"But there is no need!  We have won.  The Thirteen shall take 
this village before the night ends!" shouted back the elder.
	"You are wrong.  He must do this", pronounced the Alexander, 
placing his form in front of Karl.
	The object of their heated debate stood before them.  It was 
like a nightmarish court, the twelve men in black standing attendant to 
the man ahead.
	The man stood only of medium height, his features 
unremarkable but for the utterly placid expression on his face.  Like the 
others, this one dressed entirely in black, from the chain mail armor to 
the black tabard and cloak he wore.  A long sword with a long handle 
was held easily in one hand, the blade slick with wetness and 
unidentifiable pieces of flesh.  With one flick of the wrist, like a dog 
urinating, there was a stream of red as the blood followed the funnel 
down the sword and off the steel.  The sword was finely made, with a 
gold handle and crest in the crosspiece.  After that action, like an 
implaccable statue, the man turned.  As he did, Sylia could see the scar 
that tracked down the right side of his cheek, very small, but a marked 
contrast to the hooded eyes that dwelt beneath the mop of slightly 
curly hair.  The man gazed impassively down before him.  At a tableau 
of impending tragedy and horror.
	A man in a jerkin stood against the man in black, a sword held 
unsteadily in one hand.  The white cloth was stained red from a cut in 
one side, as the smaller man defiantly stood against the dark knight 
standing before him.  He constantly shifted his position.  The reason for 
this was obvious.
	Behind him was a woman in a hastily donned dress, laying on 
the ground even as she hurriedly tried to get away from the men in 
black.  Her efforts were hampered by an injured leg that was bent at an 
obviously unnatural angle, and a bundle of clothes she clutched tightly 
to her.  A baby, Sylia realized.  The injured man with the sword was 
trying to protect the woman.
	"Why are you doing this, brother-in-law?!" screamed the 
injured man at the imposing avatar of the grim reaper who stood before 
him.  "We are family!  We have done nothing wrong!"  To which the 
man in black merely held up his sword in an _en garde_ position.
	"What do you want?" cried the man again.
	"Your death" was the response this time, and Sylia was 
horrified at the sensual power of that voice.
	"Vecu, no!" Cried the woman clutching the baby. "Brother, 
don't do this!"
	The man in black shifted his gaze to the woman, and in that 
instant the injured man lunged forward with his sword and surprise.  
The lunge was a little clumsy, but the man in black side-shifted with 
ease, the blade passing harmlessly by within centimeter of his torso.  
The injured man tried to recover, but the uncertain ground and his hasty 
attack had caused him to overextend.
	In that instant, Sylia could see the injured mans face, and she 
knew along with him that he was doomed.  With a sound like cloth 
ripping, the man in black raised his sword with inhuman swiftness.
	"Brother, no, not my husband! Not my Vecu!" cried the 
woman.
	It seemed as though the man in black would listen, but then 
just as suddenly as he had raised his sword, the blade fell like a 
guillotine, severing the arm that held the sword with a sound like fresh 
vegetables being cut.  The child in Sylia's arm gave a small cry.
	For the briefest of seconds, one could see the inner workings 
of the arm, from the purple of the inner muscles, to the red of the other 
tissue and the shocking glimpse of white bone before it was obscured 
by the fountain of blood that erupted from the stump like the scream of 
absolute agony that burst from the throats of both the man and the 
woman.
	"ARRRGGGG!!!!!"
	"VECU!!!!"
	Losing his sense of balance from the sudden removal of 
several kilos of mass on one side of the body, the disarmed man fell 
heavily, clutched his stump, trying to stem the flow of the life fluid.  He 
frantically struggled to get his feet under him, as the woman abandoned 
her flight in an effort to reach her lover.
	"Stop this!" screamed both Karl and the woman.  In her arms, 
her infant started to cry out loud.
	Staggering to keep upright, the armless man, Vecu, pushed 
himself up to face the man in black who approached.  He glanced 
tenderly back at the frantic face of the woman who tried to approach 
him, holding out his blood-drenched remaining hand as though to ward 
her off.  Turning away from her, grimacing in pain, he turned to his 
attacker.  His face pale from blood loss and shock, Vecu none-the-less 
faced his attacker squarely as the man in black raised his sword.  Vecnu 
asked simply, "Why?"
	That paused the man in black for an instant, the red stained 
sword motionless, as though it too contemplated the question.
	For a second, it seemed to Sylia as though her breath was 
caught, the lungs frozen, the only companion she had was the sound of 
her heart beating in a pulsating rhythm in her ears.  She saw the other 
men in black looking expectantly.
	"Because it is necessary", came the silbiant whisper that was 
the slayer's voice, answer, and judgement.
	Suddenly, time seemed to start again, as Karl struggled to 
reach the two combatants, only to be blocked by Alexander.  Vecu 
turned back to his wife, even as the man in black's hand reached up to 
grab the hilt with both hands.  The hobbled woman's hand nearly 
reached her lover's body when the blade descended.  The child in 
Sylia's arms gave a soft cry.
	Like an axeman cutting into a piece of timber, the sword clove 
Vecu in twain, starting with the crown of the skull and carving an 
osseus path down the spinal column before running out of kinetic 
energy.  The blade, which to Sylia's eyes seemed a hungry creature, 
chewed it's way down the body, the viscera and blood spraying out in a 
shower, drenching the prone woman.  With a final jerk, the sword 
continued it's lethal journey, exiting the body with a parallel recovery, a 
flick of the wrist removing the blood and human material.  From the 
body came the ocean of blood that had been stored within the tissues, 
falling like an obscene parody of the natural beauty of waterfalls that 
existed in the wilds.  The two halves of the body fell to two seperate 
sides.
	"NNNNNOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!" came the heart-rending scream 
of the woman.  A few of the watching men in black turned their heads 
away from the scene before them, whether soft-hearted, pitying, or 
disgusted.
	"Oh, Vecu, God Vecu, no, no, NO!!!!" sobbed the woman, as 
the baby continued to cry out with a healthy bawling.
	"ENOUGH! THAT IS ENOUGH!"  cried out Karl Schrek.
	(Yes, enough.  That is enough), thought Sylia in counterpart to 
the vocal expression.  She watched murderer stalk towards the woman, 
who raised a tear-stricken face in his direction.
	"YOU! BROTHER!" she fairly spat the word out, like the vilest 
curse.  Face contorted with rage, she hissed at the imposing man with 
the perfect voice.  "You left us, and this is how you return!  We merely 
did as God has commanded, serving our Lord in the great order!  You 
used to be so religious, and look now!  You always hated the 
NightLords, a yet now you are one of them!  You murdered your own-"
	Her voice broke off as the sword once more rose with shocking 
speed and cut the air.  Sylia felt something form in the pit of her 
stomach, a freezing ball of tension and fear.  She knew what to expect 
from that man and his sword.  She glared in hatred at him, clutching the 
child tighter, knowing she could do nothing if she wanted to preserve 
the child's life.
	Suddenly, she noticed the sword the man in black carried.  It 
held, at the crosspiece, a coat of arms done in gold scrollwork and black 
and red enamel.  She had seen that snake insignia... no it was a dragon.  
With a sudden sense of shock, Sylia looked down at the sword that had 
been found by the child.
	It held the same coat-of-arms as the sword the man in black 
held.  (And the one the man, Vecu had held), thought Sylia.  (This was a 
family of nobles), she realized.  And with a sudden sense of shock and 
intuition, Sylia realized that the man in black was brother to the child.
	"My sister", whispered the child, as he looked at the woman 
facing his brother.
	"Why are you doing this?" cried out the woman.
	The man in black became serious, and for the first time showed 
true emotion as it ground out in a voice thick with emotion, "I do what I 
do, because what I do is what must be if there is to be."
	The woman then looked up at that mask of death called a face, 
the woman seemed to lose her courage and instead began to plead 
when she saw no mercy in those eyes.  "Please, brother.  If you will not 
spare me, at least spare my daughter.  She is your niece.  Your niece!  
Please brother, if you have even one bit of the love you once held for 
me, please, spare her!"
	It seemed for an instant that the plea may have penetrated the 
resolve of the man in black, before once more the second hand rose to 
join the first around the hilt of the sword.  The woman started to cry as, 
drained of life and energy, she simply mouth the word "please".
	"DAMMIT, STOP THIS!" screamed Karl Schreck.
	Several of the attending men in black looked away.  Even the 
monsterous demon turned his head, the stony features etched in shame 
and pain.  Yet no one could do nothing.  Sylia felt sickness beyond 
nausea.  She was starting to rise when the sword fell.
	"no" cried the child.
	The woman turned, shielding the baby with her body even as 
the wounded leg failed her, twisting even further as brilliant white bone 
emerged, the pink membrane covering the calcium structure torn by the 
savage emergence.  Blood fountained, and she stumbled.  For the 
briefest second, Sylia hoped feverently that the woman had bought 
herself some time.  But it was not to be so.
	"God, no" said the child.
	The blade twisted in mid-air, the man in black's elbows shifting 
and locking, the unpolished steel wavering like a serpent as it changed 
course.  The blade suddenly darted sideways, and up, cutting into the 
woman.  It caught her under the ribcage, and the sheer kinetic force 
behind the blow lifted her off her knees.  The blade became a worm in 
Sylia's mind, burrowing through the flesh of the woman like some 
horrible parasite with an unholy appetite for human flesh.  The woman 
screamed, her cry like ripped from her body like a piece of wet cardboard 
torn in half.  At last the blade finished it's oddessy, the hunt complete, 
finding the open space on the other side and twirling about before 
coming to an en garde position.
	"_please_, NO" cried the child.
	"Please, no" whispered Sylia, as she clutched the child closer, 
needing his support as much as he needed hers.
	Though it happened only in a matter of moments, the scene 
before her seemed like some deranged homicidal movie in slow motion 
as Sylia watched the event unfold.  The sword had cleaved the woman 
in half.  First was the blood, steaming in the night air, pouring from the 
wound like water poured from the chalice of a baptismal font, cascading 
down onto the dark earth.  Next came the organs, the intestines looking 
like wet vines or dead snakes, coming out like slashed spaghetti from 
the lower body as it felt, slithering about.  The kidney and liver just 
popped out from the upper body, parts still connected.  The upper body 
of what once had been a mother spun, spraying blood and a round ball 
out, before both pieces fell, still twitching.  The sword flashed out once 
more, the flat cracking the neck, ending it.
	"NO!" cried Karl, as he fell to his knees, sobbing openly.  The 
firelight turned his tears crimson.
	The ball started to roll down the green, coming to a rest only a 
few feet from Sylia.  She looked at it, and resisted the urge to cry out at 
she saw the red object with stringy hair.  The baby's head.
	Sylia felt the urge to cry, but it vanished as her blood sweltered 
in hatred, her heart became ice, and the urge to see justice done roared 
in her mind and emotions.  She almost stood before she remembered the 
child she held in her arms.  She tightened the embrace, trying to comfort 
him.
	"Hel, my sister", was the child's acknowledgement.
	"Why, damn you, why?" asked the man, Karl, from his knees, 
as though supplicanting the divine for an answer to a question that 
could never be answered in mortal terms.  Like most questions.
	Even Alexander, the man who had held Karl back, looked up in 
askance at the man in black who must be their leader.
	(Yes, why you fucking bastard, why?) raged Sylia at the man in 
black.
	For an instant, the man in black stayed the same. Then it 
happened.  The change was almost physical.  The shoulders seemed to 
fall, the sword drooped, and the man in black knelt, gloved hands 
reaching out to close the eyes of his sister, who would no longer see 
anything ever again, because of him.
	"Answer me.  We deserve at least that much!" cried Schrek, 
and several of the other men in black nodded as well.
	The man in black stood again, his face still cloaked in shadows.  
"It had to be done" wafted out that oh-so-expressive voice, which was 
tinged with sorrow.
	"You murder these innocents and your family, and you say it 
had to be done?" spat back Schrek.
	The man raised his head, and all could see the crimson rivults 
of tears flowing down his face.  He looked at the others and then 
pointed his sword around himself.
	"Thus do I prove my loyalty to the Tremere.  Where once I had 
another clan, now my only clan is the Tremere.  Where once I had 
freedom, now I have only servitude to Lord Tremere from the Blood 
Oath."  He looked around.  "Where once I had mortal family, now only I 
remain.  Now all of my blood are loyal to the Tremere, for I am the last.  
My way is set, my fate decided.  I have, by my will and action, 
destroyed all I love.  I am above question.  Thus do I prove my loyalty 
to Lord Tremere."
	The man in black turned and looked up.  Sylia's gaze followed 
to where his went and she had to gasp at what was visible as the curtain 
of clouds parted.
	Like a spider crouched over the bloated corpse of its prey, like 
the twisted oak in the swamp, like an obsessed Otaku mere inches from 
the TV screen, there was a mighty castle atop the moutain ridge 
revealed.  It was sprawling, with a single winding road leading up the 
sheer cliff faces of the mountain.  It was like something out of a movie, 
yet it was real.
	The sword was raised to point at the castle.  "Now only one 
thing remains.  For I shall do the Forbidden Crime, commit the ancient 
sin.  For tonight, I forever cleanse myself of all mortal fetters.  For 
tonight I shall commit Amranth on my former lord, Resu, draining of him 
his life and soul."
	Thus eyes now swept over the assembled men in black.  "This 
is what we are!  And this is only the beginning!  For we stand now on 
what will be the dark times!  They shall rise, these mortals you wish to 
spare, and half of us shall fall.  This is the future.  For it must be."
	"Why?" spoke one of the other men in black.
	(Why?) asked Sylia, still full of hatred, but none-the-less made 
curious by the brilliant oratory of the leader.
	"BECAUSE!" shouted the leader, new tears tracking down his 
face.  "THIS IS OUR LEGACY, OUR HERITAGE!"  The sword swung 
about.  "This is WHAT WE CREATE.  THIS IS _ALL_ THAT WE 
CREATE."
	Everyone looked about, and a horrid realization seemed to 
touch their faces.
	"This is what we are", repeated the leader.  "Is there truly any 
doubt that we, the childer of Caine, are now and forever truly Damned?"
	"He was wrong, you know", said the child in Sylia's arms, his 
voice sounding different.
	Sylia immediately relaxed her grip.  The child didn't seem to 
notice, staying standing.
	"What do you mean?" asked Sylia.
	The child looked down at the ground, "He didn't understand, 
not yet.  Neither do you, yet."
	Sylia pulled away.  The child's voice had a maturity absent 
from his earlier speech.  The voice played across different tones and lilts 
with the skill and the grace of a master singer.  It was then, in the 
silence, that Sylia realized it.
	All about her, everything was frozen.  No sound, no noise, no 
smells, no temperature, nothing touched her.  Like in the freeze-frame of 
a VCD, everything had stopped.  The fires about her had stopped in 
mid-energy, the hungry tongues eager to devour now motionless.  
There, a falling timber was suspended in mid-motion.  The men in black 
were statues.  The clouds did not move.  It was if she was in a painting 
or a VR sim on pause.  Only she and the child moved.
	Certain now, Sylia addressed the child, "What is not 
understood?"
	The child stepped away from her, gliding like a whisper. The 
child, whether he or she, seemed to sigh, before turning to look up at 
her.
	Sylia gasped at the face presented to her.  This was not the 
face of the child she had first found!
	It was smooth, the same as before, with tear stains trickling 
down the grime.  The hair was the same tousled appearance.  The face 
was normal, but-
	The eyes!  They were like windows into a soul of sorrow.  
They were large, open, liquid brown that glinted with highlights no 
human should ever have.  In them, Sylia saw an eternity of pain, of joy, 
of a thousand emotions and more.
	"Who are you?" she demanded, a little frightened.
	"I wanted you to understand." The sigh again.
	"Understand what?"
	The child ignored her, looking about, crying a little more, 
before smiling sadly.  "To know the future is a terrible thing.  To know 
it, and be unable to effect it, no matter how horrible, is a burden no one 
should have to bear.  No one."
	"You can see the future, is that it?" Sylia pressed.
	"You don't understand."
	"Then help me!" Sylia was getting frustrated.
	"He didn't understand either", nodded an unconcerned child 
towards the leader of the men in black.
	Who was moving.
	Sylia took a step back in the unfamiliar shoes, as the leader of 
the men in black started to advance on her and the child, while all else 
was frozen.  It was the man in black, yet it was not.  Shadows and 
darkness infused this figure, obscuring all features and details, covering 
even the sword in inky black.  An threatening aura eminated from this 
one, which frightened Sylia, as the shadow man advanced at a measured 
pace.
	"Leave.  Go.  Now."
	Sylia turned to the child, "What?"
	"This is not for you.  Not yet.  Leave now."
	"Why?"
	The child turned to her, and Sylia's heart jumped as she saw 
the figure behind the child suddenly closer, though she could have 
sworn it was meters and meters away.
	"You aren't ready.  I wanted to show you.  But you don't 
understand.  And neither does he."
	"Understand what?"  Sylia asked, urging the child forward, 
away from the shadow man.
	The child just shook the brown-haired head, and gave her a 
sad smile.  "The important thing.  The secret to endure it.  He will 
understand.  In time.  We do, now."
	"Stand over here.  We have to get away from that thing", Sylia 
pointed at the shadow man.
	The child just shook the head again.
	"It is a part of me.  It will be a part of you as well.  You need to 
understand, how to endure it."
	"Come on, we have to go" shouted Sylia, gesturing.  (Jesus, 
the thing was only meters away!)
	"To know the future is a terrible thing."  Again that sigh.
	"We have to leave, NOW!"
	A nod.  "Yes, you have to leave, now.  This is not for you."
	The shadow man was right behind the child.
	"That thing is going to get you.  Run away with me" pleaded 
Sylia, getting ready to run.  It was just pragmatism.  She had no 
weapons, and that thing knew how to use that sword.
	"There is no fleeing from what will be.  But there is a _way_."
	"No more philosophy, leave now!" (It was right behind the 
child.
	"You don't understand."
	"WHAT?" she shrieked.
	"It can't beat me.  _I_ understand."
	"What?"
	The child smiled at her then, a beautific smile like that of an 
angel, even as the shadow man raised the sword above the child to give 
the killing blow.  The smile and those warm eyes made Sylia stop as the 
child whispered to her.
	"I _know_.  I _understand_.  The obvious secret that must be 
known by you, what enables me to continue.  How I am able to be."
	"What?" Sylia whispered in response.
	The smile became even more beautiful as the sword reached an 
apex up high.  "Because" whispered the child.  The sword began to fall.
	Though the lips did not move, that smile of perfect harmony 
never twitched, Sylia heard the whisper in her ear that caused her to 
shiver in the ecstacy of understanding.
	"I have *faith*."
	Looking incredulously at the child for such a simple response, 
Sylia saw the blade falling a rushed forward, only to trip once more on 
the dress.  She fell, to late, as the blade continued, seeing only the 
child's face, knowing she had failed to protect him, when she saw the 
tear on one cheek, that caught the light, twisting the colors, giving it its 
own-


-	-	-	-	-	-	-	-


	-fire.  The fire burned healthily in the torch holder, providing 
light, which glowed on the wet cobblestones of the street.  The stones 
still held the moistness of some earlier rain.  The scones holding the 
fires were farther spaced in this part of the city, but still gave enough 
light to produce shadows.  But she was getting a pain in the back of the 
neck looking up at the slow-burning oil lamps, so Sylia looked about.
	(What?) thought Sylia, suddenly disoriented.  (Wasn't I just in 
Ruthaven?  The child?  The woman? The man in black?  Was it real?)  
Bringing one hand up, Sylia rubbed her temples to easy the sudden 
torrent of confusing images, then stopped when she felt the ruffles at 
her wrists rub her cheeks.  Pulling her hand away from her face, Sylia 
looked at her arm.
	She had a ruffle of some white and lacy material on her wrist, 
which contrasted with the embroidered satin-like material of her sleeve.  
Which brought up to her shoulder, and her...
	Sylia bent at the waist, looking at the placid water of the 
puddle in the street.  She could see nothing at first, as she was wearing 
some long and full skirts, which had what felt like some inner skirts.  Her 
hands pushed the full material between her legs, and Sylia got a look at 
herself.
	She had changed from some farmgirl into what looked like a 
noble lady.  Her short hair had apparantly picked up some length, as her 
black hair was now artfully done in an intricate style that combined 
knots into a flowing ponytail that slid down one shoulder.  The 
improbable hair style was held in place by an intricate network of gold 
and silver filigre that twinkled with small gemstones and tiny spheres of 
gold.  Most of all, attention was given to her hair.  And how it 
supported her makeup.  For Sylia had an utterly white countenance, 
artficially so, with a slight pink of blush at her cheeks.  Eyeshadow made 
her eyebrows appear stronger than they wore.
	She wore a dress, an elaborate assembly that would have taken 
hours to get into, undoubtably several pieces applied one after the 
other.  It was a court dress, like in the books on styles popular during 
the height of French power, such as those worn at the palace of 
Versailles.  It was a combination of green and blue with gold stiching 
and fanciful embroidery.  It was a work of art in and of itself.  Not 
conservative, with the amount of cleavage it revealed, but there was a 
comfortable safety margin.
	Then there was the jewelry.  A necklace of emeralds and 
sapphires, set off by two dangling earrings which held two black 
diamonds secured in twining silver and gold wire.  There were bracelets 
on her wrists.  Though the style was different, Sylia felt like she was in a 
fantasy, or a dream.
	She looked like a princess, or a queen, or a fairy tale lady.  She 
was beautiful.  No, she was a goddess.  Everything about her looked 
perfect, and for some reason that felt both good and correct.  Raising 
her skirts, Sylia stepped back onto the sidewalk, avoiding the gutters 
and the sewers.
	(Wait a minute, hold it, what is going?!  Where am I?) Sylia 
thought, looking about.  It looked like a large city, judging by the 
background sounds and the putrid smells.  Yet there was no one else 
around.  The city streets were abandoned, not even a dog about.  It was 
clearly a city of the past, with both wooden and stone buildings with 
chimneys that looked like they were for burning- coal?  Where was she 
anyway?
	"Ah, there you are!  I have been looking for you!  Enjoying 
Paris, my dear?" came a new voice, female, one full of barely surpressed 
amusement.
	Sylia spun around, cursing mentally as the heavy weight of the 
dress she wore nearly caused her to fall flat on her butt.  She staggered 
under the weigth, pulling herself from a near kneel, and looked at the 
intruder.
	The woman before her gave a wild laugh, before curtsying in 
return to what she assumed Sylia done.  With a wide and inviting smile, 
the woman smiled, "Well?"
	Sylia said nothing, as she was speechless.  Not because of 
what had happened, but because of the woman herself.
	She was black.  Not the black of an African or similar person of 
color, but *black*.  Skin the purest ebony, like black stone carved into 
each form the woman's motions took her.  She was tall, nearly two 
meters, most of the height to be found in her long legs.
	Which were easy to see.  While Sylia's current dress might be a 
little less than conservative, this woman wore an outfit that was risque.
	It was red, and seemed more like a piece of cloth draped over 
the body than an actual dress.  It molded her body perfectly, revealing 
both cleavage and the shapely legs of the woman.  She wore only a pair 
of gold earrings.  In contrast to her skin tone, her facial structure was 
that of a Middle Eastern person, while the hair was long and straight, 
hanging down her back, tied with what looked like a leather strap.
	"Who are you?" was the first thing that Sylia blurted out, a 
little shocked and uneasy.  Had she just been in a burning village a few 
minutes ago?
	The lips curled into a sensual smile, the white teeth revealed 
shocking, as she answered, "My name is Sombra.  A pleasure to meet 
you."
	"Ah, likewise Sombra", said Sylia.  (Wait a minute.  Sombra?  
"Shadow" in Spanish?)  "Shadow?" she asked.
	"Of course", laughed the woman, and she swayed as she slid 
forward towards Sylia in her slippers.
	Sylia nearly felt her eyes pop out.  This woman _radiated_ 
sensuality, every move charged with sexual tension.  It made her heart 
twist, almost as if this woman were a sexaroid.  If there had been men 
present, Sylia didn't doubt they would both be propositioned, but the 
lions share of the attention would go to Sombra.
	"Ahh, ahh, are you a 33-S?" Sylia asked.
	Sombra, if that was her real name, shrugged, doing interesting 
things to her outfit.  Even that motion was sensual.  "No, not really."
	Sombra walked closer, smiling like a cat, raising one long finger 
up to tap Sylia on the nose.  In spite of her best efforts to stand her 
ground, Sylia flinched and took a step back.  This woman exuded 
energy, and it was a little intimidating, like no one could ever stop or 
tame her.  Sombra smiled, a little mockingly, "No, I am not a 33-S.  I am 
something all natural."  Again, she laughed.
	Sylia looked at the woman, before closing her eyes and taking 
several deep breaths.  "Alright, who are you, where am I, and what is 
going on?"
	Sombra grinned, and began to tick off her answers on one 
hand, "One: I am me.  Two: You are here, at least for now.  And the last, 
three: that is a surprise.  You wouldn't want me to spoil your surprise, 
now would you?"  Again that laugh.
	Sylia eased away from Sombra, seriously wondering at her 
mental stability.  "Listen, I want to know what is going on-"
	"We all do, do we not?" giggled the woman.
	Sylia frowned, "I was talking to a child, in a village-"
	Again, the woman cut her off.  "Forget it.  It's my turn now."
	"Your turn?  Your turn for what?  What do you mean?"
	"And spoil your surprise?  Never!" said the woman, as she 
danced about a little, unable to stay still.  "Actually, I think it is about 
time."
	"What do you-" Sylia started to ask, when the woman moved.  
She flowed more than moved, like a river in motion, like water finding a 
new volume, like the goodwill of most people after living in a city 
downtown.  It was not sudden, but rather deliberate, every move 
sensual, every part of Sombra passionate in the attention and effort put 
into each movement.  A finger, was laid across her lips.
	"Shhh..." was the whisper, "the show is starting."
	"What..." Sylia started to ask, when she saw the finger now 
pointing.  Something about the urgency and eagerness of how Sombra 
pointed her finger made Sylia turn and look.
	There, from down the street, came the echo of footsteps, 
approaching quickly.
	It was a man, dressed in a fine jerkin and pants, running with 
unnatural speed.  He was tall, wide of shoulder, with a cruel, expressive 
mouth that was currently curled in a snarl as he repeatedly looked over 
his shoulder, presumably at something or someone.
	"What is going on?  Who is that?" Sylia asked.  The man was 
approaching both her and Sombra.
	Sombra gave a gay laugh.  "What is going on?  The show, of 
course!  And as to who that is, that is-"
	"GORATRIX!" roared a voice from down the street, apparantly 
screaming out at the man before Sylia.
	The man, Goratrix, spun to face the voice, just as two brilliant 
green balls of flame came screaming out of the shadows, flying at him 
with speed impressive.  The large man was nimble, however, and 
dodged to one side as the bolts of fire raised clouds of steam from 
where they struck, the energy of the green fire superheating the water 
on the stones.  Goratrix snarled, then stood there, waiting with hands 
held before him as a new intruder approached.  Sylia gasped as she 
recognized the newcomer.
	It was the man in black from the village.  But he had changed!  
His hair, once a light brown, now had more golden blond highlights.  
That was the first thing she noticed.
	He was also dressed different, first off.  Of the all black he had 
worn, now only a pair of tight black pants were evidence of that other 
life.  They tucked into black leather boots, and the white shirt was 
tucked into the pants in turn.  He wore jewerly, now, an occasional 
bauble, and a crucifex that bounced about as he ran.  But it was not the 
clothes, or the familiar sword was held in scabbard in one hand.
	It was the face and those eyes.  How they had changed.  
Where earlier he had been pale, now that skin was alabaster.  There was 
still a flush of life beneath that utterly pale face.  There was still the scar, 
but it added to that beauty, it didn't take away.
	But it was the eyes.  Those eyes that now looked so old,  
ancient in that young face.  Eyes that shifted colors, like splashes of oil 
on water, rainbow colors briefly appearing.  They were entrancing.  But 
now they burned with hatred.
	(They were both like that), Sylia realized.  Both of them wore 
power, lived in power.  They had pale features, and the way they acted, 
like they _owned_ everything.  The way they moved, seeming to 
_flow_, like the rippling of muscles beneath the skin of a hunting cat.  
(That was it), Sylia solved the question that had been running through 
her mind.  (They both look like predators).
	The man dressed as a sort of dandy raising the hand not 
holding the sword and barked several words, three times in repitition.  
The air before his hand shimmered and then launched away, like a visual 
distortion in the desert.  After each sequence of words, a new sphere of 
force launched.  All three screamed forward, the very air vocally 
protesting.  The first Goratrix dodged and it went on to destroy a 
building front, the second hit the ground in an explosion, and the third 
went high.  Incredibly, Goratrix jump up and over it, snarling in rage 
and... annoyance?
	And he stayed there, raising both hands above his head as he 
_hovered_ in the air, quickly falling up towards the top of a building.  
Goratrix hissed indecipherable words, even as his hands glowed.  With 
a roar, he thrust both of them forward, a ball of compressed flame 
darting forward. "Gunsenro!"
	The man from Ruthaven dodged to the side with a very high 
flip.  The sword dug into the ground as he tried to find purchase over 
the rough ground.  Finally, he stopped, his claws (claws?!) slowing him 
as they scratched the stone.
	The fireball exploded, engulfing one building in fire as the man 
looked up, and Sylia gasped.  His eyes blazed bright red, the color of 
cherry fire, but that was not so shocking as his mouth.  As the two 
canines which had elongated and grown into fangs.  His face had 
become feral, as he snarled at his foe.  A quick glance up saw a similar 
expression on the face of Goratrix.
	Sylia had seen enough movies and read enough books to 
realize what the two were supposed to be.  Vampires.  Which meant this 
dream, no matter how real it seemed, no matter how hot the fires or how 
uncomfortable the elaborate dress was, it was still just a dream.  She 
grinned at the ridiculousness of this situation.
	"Enjoying the show?" whispered a voice in her ear as a hand 
and arm snaked around her waist.
	Sylia, startled by the contact, shook of Sombra's arm with a 
furious motion.
	"Well, are you?" smiled Sombra.
	"What?"
	"Shhh... watch", commanded Sombra.
	Sylia turned her attention back to the two combatants.  Each 
man was now hovering mid-air.
	"LEAVE.  NOW!" ordered Goratrix at the other man, looking 
into his eyes.
	The man just laughed as he threw forward both hands, snarling 
arcane words.  (They were casting spells), Sylia realized, as a globe of 
blue light formed in his hands, before tiny little lightballs began to shoot 
out of the hands, at Goratrix.
	Who promptly waved his hand, summoning what looked like a 
crackling forcefield around himself, the energy balls dissapating 
harmless on contact.  He started to glow, lightning bolts crackling 
across his body until he began to glow arc white.  The lightning 
condensed into a sphere with a tiny force field around it.  This he 
lauched at his opponent with the cry of "Val-Volt!"
	Who promptly uttered the words he had earlier, a sphere of 
kinetic energy howling through the air until it hit the other sphere, 
knocking it into a building with a scream of its own as it exploded, 
engulfing the building in lightening bolts, shattering stone and catching 
the wood on fire.
	Thus it continued, as each of the two manuevered for 
advantage.  Bolts of energy lashed out, fireballs raced, almost 
everything imaginable.  Goratrix called a creature made from the water of 
the street when the man landed; the man called shadows to do his 
bidding.  The two promptly destroyed each other.
	The man would hold one hand up as small spheres danced 
around his body in a ring.  When they passed his outstretched hand, 
they ignited, making an autofire effect of tiny fireballs.
	Goratrix would respond, a tiny sheet of glass in his hands, 
which he would break, and the other man dodge.  Nothing would seem 
to happen at first, until a stone building would have a clean cut through 
it.  Or Goratrix would cause the ground to explode in a sudden burst.
	Thus it continued, with no clear advantage discovered by 
either side.  Both were screaming and snarling at each other, their 
bodies moving incredibly fast, and their thoughts undoubtably much 
faster.  Even though she knew it was only a fantastic dream, Sylia was 
fascinated and entranced by the fight.  Both men, though monsters 
destroying the surrounding city, were immensely attractive.  Not in a 
physical way.  Though the man was beautiful, and the other man 
radiated power, it was something else about both.  Like they were 
important.
	"Don't worry, it changes", muttered Sombra, still smiling, and 
indeed it did.
	It happened so suddenly, it was almost unnoticeable until it 
was happening.  After the usual flurry of magical blows, Goratrix 
alighted on a building, preparing another spell, when the man, a little 
worse for wear, raised one hand.  A small glow floated up to become a 
miniature tornado that shifted into becoming a sphere of golden light 
which formed into a thin line that curled up and around, like the peel of 
apple just cored.
	As this happened, an exact replica of the phenomena in the 
hand of the man began to form around the building.  The lines appeared 
and tracked around the building.  Sylia gasped as she craned her neck 
to look at the five story building, as the lines formed a gigantic sphere.  
The lines pulsated with energy.
	Goratrix noticed this as well, and his spell went off with bad 
aim, the blades of silver light slashing out in a wild spray, two injuring 
his foe.  The man did not utter a murmur of pain as one blade slashed 
his left shoulder, the other passing clear through the right thigh.  Both 
blades vanished after a few seconds.
	Beads of blood sweat began to appear on the pale 
countenance of the man, his eyes closed as he concentrated.  The lines 
in his hand flared brilliantly to light, and his eyes blazed as they opened 
with a triumphant shout of "MEGADEATH!"
	Goratrix apparantly realized the danger, as he suddenly cursed 
and started to fly away.  By then, it was too late.
	The lines around the building flared into light as well, then 
exploded with energy, becoming thousands of screaming blades, like a 
chainsaw blade out of control.  That awesome energy was suddenly 
directed into the building and along the lines.
	The building literally exploded in showers of stone bricks, 
mortar, and wood splinters.  The noise was tremendous.  It was an 
awesome display of incredible force as the building simply seemed 
ceased to be a building.
	Goratrix was caught mid-flight, as one of the lines lashed out 
and touched his foot.  It, and the shoe on it, disintegrated into a bloody 
mass.  Another bolt lashed across his chest, and it exploded with blood 
and bone fragments.  He howled in pain and rage, and he started to fall.
	Witnessing Goratrix's fall, the man shouted in triumph, and 
immediately jumped, flying up to meet the falling vampire.  Goratrix 
recovered, staring in hatred at his foe, snarling as his hands elongated 
into claws as well, rushing to meet him.
	The man in his shredded white shirt flexed and then gave a 
ruthless swing with his sword from behind his back.  Goratrix raised one 
arm, running on instinct, trying to block the sword strike, misjudging the 
distance between them.  The sword, still in its scabbard, swung out, and 
the scabbard flew at the face of Goratrix, who snarled and thrust a ball of 
fire.
	Which missed.  The man ducked under, then swiftly flew up, 
sword forward.  The blade sank into the undead flesh with a hiss, and 
Goratrix screamed, vomiting blood.  The man gave a roar of triumph, 
spinning mid-air, slashing across the stomach and down through the 
leg.  One last slash on the spin caught the arm, wounding him.
	Desperate, spitting blood, Goratrix cut his flight, allowing 
gravity to take his down to the ruins.  The next sword cut cut air, as the 
man found himself staring about for the missing Goratrix.  He looked 
about stupidly, before he saw Goratrix laying on the ground, already 
chanting a spell.  Desperately, he flew down, eager to finish off his 
enemy.
	That proved to be his undoing.  Through blood-stained lips, 
Goratrix shrieked the last words of his spell.  The flying man seemed to 
jerk in mid-air, then fell as gravity increased ten times normal.
	He impacted heavily, bones snapping and he screamed out in 
agony, struggling to stand and his blood flowed through his frame, 
healing his wounds and giving him strength to rise.  Sylia could see the 
rough circle of were the street had collapsed falling a meter from the 
heightened gravity.  The man had only to reach the edge.  But it was too 
late.
	With a roar, Goratrix floated above, staring down victoriously.  
His hands were already glowing with fire and his body illuminated with 
a green glow.  At last, he cast his spell, "Venom!"
	Fire wafted and burned the prone man, and he writhed in pain, 
screaming in rage and pain.  Sylia grinned, remembering what this man 
had done, and felt savage exhaultation and a sense of justice.
	Goratrix laughed, and cast another spell of a lightening ball.  It 
struck the man and he blackened in as the current coursed through him.  
He was burning, his clothes ashes, but he had no other recourse but to 
attempt to escape.  He was too badly injured.
	The nude man tried to move, the enhanced gravity no longer in 
effect, but his entire efforts had been dedicated to healing and escape.  
He crawled, started to stand, when a barrage of magical attacks hit him.
	"There, you peasant peon!  It was I who discovered the 
formula of immortality, who made the elixir."  His only reply was a 
scream, as another ball of fire fell on the man.  "It was *I* who was 
favored of Tremere, 'Hand of Tremere'!"  And again with the attacks.
	Sylia, who at first had been all for the death of the man, felt a 
little sick to her stomach as the man was beaten.  She was a little sorry 
for the man, but was more disgusted with Goratrix.
	He was obviously enjoying this, and taking every step to make 
it more painful and agonizing for his helpless prey.  He cast spells lazily, 
all the while grinning with glee as the assorted spells fell.  At long last, 
he descended.
	The man in black was dead.  He had to be, with the blackened 
body, only one arm and one complete leg remaining.  His entire for was 
burnt skin, black and red.
	Incredibly, the blackened hand moved, fingers reaching 
outward as he still strived to stand, parts of his arm disintigrating.
	"Not dead yet, eh?" commented Goratrix.  He knelt down, 
picking up the fallen sword, and hefted it.  "Well, there is one sure way 
to handle that."
	He walked forward with an even, measured pace, his captured 
sword at ready, savoring each step, knowing they were the death bell 
that tolled for his enemy.  The blade was raised.
	And thrown out of his hand as one of those spheres of 
screaming kinetic force lashed out, striking Goratrix in the chest, who 
hissed and spun around, grinding out, "Alexander!"
	Two more spheres appeared, flying towards Goratrix, and once 
more, Goratrix dodged and jumped up to one of the few surviving 
buildings.  He began casting a spell.
	Out of the shadows next to the building came a figure, and 
Sylia was shocked to see it was indeed Alexander, the man from the 
village.  He now wore and elegant nobles attire, but it was him.
	Goratrix was not expecting this, and one of his fireballs went 
wide, harmless burning the stones of the street.  But the second, huge 
in size, did not miss as Alexander flew up.
	And flew through it.  Like the fire was nothing, Alexander rose 
as a phoenix, his clothes aflame.  He sharply veered away, towards the 
building, short of Goratrix, which clearly surprised him, as well as Sylia.  
Alexander knew what he was doing, and reached out one hand to touch 
the wood building.
	Which vanished, to the surprise of Sylia and Goratrix, and 
Goratrix fell into the brown mist of what was once the building.  Goratrix 
started to fly away, when the building reformed.
	With the bottom half of Goratrix _in_ the building!
	With a scream, Goratrix slammed his fists down onto the 
building, raising himself from the ruins.  Sylia stared with a kind of 
fascination as she realized the building was actually *merged* with the 
vampire.
	With a howl and grimace, Goratrix touched the remains inside 
himself, and they turned into mist, which he launched himself up and 
away from.
	Straight into a waiting Alexander.
	Goratrix barely had time to draw back when Alexander drew 
back his fist and swung it forward.  And another impossibility 
happened.
	(Though Alexander looked like a Olympic bodybuilder, not 
even he could have been _that_ strong!) thought Sylia as she watched 
the fist penetrated the chest of Goratrix like a childs finger through 
modeling clay.
	Goratrix fell again, crippled, and this time Alexander did not 
pursue, for an energy field had sprung up around Goratrix.  Instead he 
dropped to the ground.
	(Positioning himself in front of his fallen comrade), Sylia 
discovered.
	Goratrix righted himself, his chest crackling as every rib 
reformed and righted themselves.
	"You!" Goratrix snarled, before looking about and hissing out 
some words under his breath.  Realizing the unlikely chances of 
success, Goratrix finished his spell and in a flash of light, was gone.
	Alexander looked around, searching for any signs of his 
enemy.  Apparantly content there were none, he immediately dropped to 
one knee by his friend.
	"Ah, my friend, what has your rashness brought about now?" 
he said as he reached out with a bare hand, examining the crusty 
remains of his friend.
	"What is this?" asked Alexander, placing his hand on the 
man's chest.  "You are still alive.  Good.  You are just in torpor, my frie-"
	Alexander immediately raised his head, looking over at the 
horizon, and Sylia did as well.
	The sky was turning red from the sun beginning to crest the 
skyline.
	"DAMN! By Saint Michael's teeth!" cursed Alexander, and 
Sylia briefly wondered why, before she remembered they were vampires 
in this dream.
	Alexander slung off his fur-lined cloak, and wrapped the other 
vampire in it.  With an easy shrug, he lifted his fallen friend, and looked 
about.
	"The haven is not too far away.  If I step the shadows, we 
should make it.  Hold on, old friend."  And with that, he stepped past a 
shadow, with both disappearing.
	Sylia blinked, wondering what the Hell she had just witnessed.  
These dreams were so vivid, even if they were only dreams.  But why 
did her head race-
	"You don't understand, do you?" said Sombra, and for the first 
time, her smile looked sad.
	"What?"
	"What we are.  What this is.  What you need to understand, 
above all else."
	"Maybe I don't.  Why don't you just tell me?"
	"Are you not learning *anything*?  That is why we do this!"
	"What, so I can learn?"
	A nod.  "Of course.  We all wanted to meet you."
	"We?"
	"Those that are part of Our selves, the Whole."
	"What?"
	Sombra paced, her arms folded under her breasts.  She looked 
over at the rising sun.
	"Beautiful, is it not?  Sometimes, We forget it.  Sometimes."
	"I need answers."
	A raised eyebrow.  "Yes, you do.  Think on the sun, and on 
what happened here."
	"What, that the sun burns those 'vampires'?" Sylia snorted.  
Then she added, "Why am I even bothering with a stupid dream."
	Sombra glared at her. "Dreams are not stupid.  They are one of 
the few chances one gets to be closer to God, despite my feeling about 
the Supreme.  Pay attention now.  The sun and what happened here."
	Sylia shrugged.  "All I saw today was a several so-called 
'vampires' fight it out, one got beaten-"
	"And what of that one?"
	"What of it?  He just kept fighting and fighting-"
	"Exactly.  You _are_ learning."
	(This was crazy.)  "What do you mean?"
	"Why did he keep fighting?"
	"I don't know.  Stupidity?  Futile aggression? Hope that-"
	"Precisely."
	"What is?"
	Sombra walked up to her, right within breathing distance.  
"That is my gift to you.  Billy was always too obtuse.  Uriel is a pain in 
the ass, he won't even talk to you.  The others are probably too 
cowardly.  I am more direct.  But this is my gift.  When despair grips 
you, even after the details have faded from your mind, you will 
remember this in your heart, and _know_."
	"What, hope?"
	A nod.  "Yes."  Sombra dipped forward to give her a kiss.  Sylia 
pulled back.
	"You are losing yours.  Never give up that precious power and 
gift.  Never", Sombra's eyes flared with passion and conviction.  Smiling 
widely again, she turned to the sun, now on the horizon.
	"See? Look at the sun", Sombra commanded.
	Sylia turned to look.
	"It always rises to the challenge of a new day.  And so too 
must you."
	Sylia looked at the sun, just starting to rise and realized how 
beautiful it actually was.  It hung on the horizon, like a jewel, and as she 
looked-


-	-	-	-	-	-	-	-


	-at the sun, she was suddenly jostled aside.
	"Move!" snarled the Japanese old woman, her face smudged 
with ash and dirty.  She had a crude pack almost as big as herself, a 
family shrine and several other items strung together with rope.  She 
wore a ratty kimono, with traveling shoes nearly worn down to nothing.
	Sylia stepped to the side as a long line of what looked like... 
refugees? walked by.  They extended in a row, heading towards...
	Sylia turned her head, looking at the massive collection of 
people, dressed in a mismatch of modern cloths and traditional Japanese 
wear.  And beyond them, the sprawling expanse of a city within a valley, 
with what looked like refugee camps all around.
	(What is this?) wondered Sylia, stepping back.  All around her, 
looking like it was the early 1900s, with occasional evidence of Western 
technology.  Several of the buildings were modern, but most were of 
_Classical_ Japanese architecture, with paper doors, the wooden 
construction, and the overhanging roofs.
	And the environment.  The birds, the flora, it all looked and 
_felt_ like Japan, but not much else was similar.
	(Of course not, you idiot!) Sylia berated herself.  This was a 
dream, like the others.  Who knew where, or more appropriately, _when_ 
she was!  (Well, if the pattern holds true, then...) thought Sylia, as she 
looked down at herself.
	She was wearing a light kimono, with the familiar tighteness 
around the upper chest, hips, and knees.  The pattern was a pale blue 
and white.  A very nice kimono, with fine fabric.  Kimonos were 
evaluated on the material, more than the cut.  This was the kimono of a 
rich woman.  A look in her purse confirmed that guess.
	Quickly, Sylia's hands darted to her front, and then her back, 
before breathing a sigh of relief.  Yes, the obi was tied in the small of her 
back, not the front.  Her pride wouldn't have allowed anything less.
	So here she was, in the middle of a Japanese town, sometime in 
the twentieth century, wearing a kimono, in this ungodly heat.  What 
now?
	The decision was taken out of her hands when someone else 
bumped into her, uncaring.
	She was interacting with these people!  Unlike the other 
dreams, where she could only interact with a few people, everyone was 
talking to her, seeing her.
	"Move along, in an orderly fashion.  Show no fear!" cried a 
man in a military uniform that vaguely resembled something German.  
(Wait, German-style uniforms?) wondered Sylia.  There was something 
about that, but she couldn't quite remember.
	The man, apparantly an officer, was having a sword around, 
directing the flow of people.  He was short, no more than about twenty 
five years of age, and sweating furiously under that stiff collar.
	Sylia approached the officer, taking the tiny steps necessary in 
a kimono, raising one hand, "Excuse me, sir?  Could you please tell me 
what day and year it is, and where I am?"
	The officer looked over at her, and his face suffused with red.  
Sylia saw his arm raise, saw the blow coming, but the tight confines of 
the kimono defeated her efforts.  The blow struck  her across the cheek, 
jarring several teeth and pulling one loose.  Blood filled her mouth as 
she cried out, falling.
	Fanatical eyes stared down at her as she clutched her cheek.  
"Fool woman, the soldiers of our glorious Emperor have no time for silly 
questions that do not help the war!  I should kill you right here as a 
traitor!" he screamed at her, before kicking her and walking along.
	She looked in utter amazement up at him before standing up, 
her mouth awash with blood as she discretely spit out her tooth.
	No one offered to help her.  No one seemed to care.
	(Of course, Sylia!) she berated herself.  This was the twentieth 
century Japan, with narrow minded views on sex and the extreme social 
heirarchy of traditional values.
	Still, it hurt, and Sylia felt ashamed, aware of watching eyes.  
She looked about as she tenderly touched her cheek.
	(You weren't supposed to feel pain in a dream!) thought Sylia, 
moving towards the city outside the track of people, then thought better 
of it and followed the crowd, not wanting to get hit again or worse.  
Better to play it cool, and blend.
	"Are you all right, ma'am?" asked a young boy, about twelve 
years old, giving her a deep bow, with exaggerated politeness.
	Sylia gave a very slight bow and looked down at the boy, in a 
school uniform.  "I'm fine."
	The boy raised his eyes hesitantly, looking up at her before 
darting his eyes below her vision.  In that brief second, his eyes had 
flashed concern, avarice, and... hunger?  Yes, he did look hungry.
	Sylia looked over the boy, a little scrawny, with bone visible.  
"Looking for some food out of this?"
	The boy bowed low again. "Yes, ma'am.  Not for me, ma'am, for 
my mother and sister."  He bowed again.
	(How could people live like this?) wondered Sylia.  In Japan?  It 
was unthinkable!  Even Genom food missions and relief funds from the 
government kept everyone fed, even if the "food" was like wet 
cardboard.
	"I have money, but not much else.  How can I help?" Sylia 
asked, feeling pity.  After all, this was a dream, not reality.  She could 
give away the money.
	"There is this healer in the slums.  It is not a trick, I swear!" he 
swore as he looked up at her, before bowing repeatedly.  "The healer 
hides there, because the military wants to interogate the healer.  But the 
healer is good, and really helps anyone.  Doesn't ask for anything either, 
accept for some weird things."
	Sylia almost turned down the offer, but then decided, for a 
reason she could not quite grasp, to follow the boy.  Actually, she did 
know, as there was a group of soldiers moving towards her.
	"Let us go, then", Sylia ordered the boy.
	"This way", the boy led her into the crowds of the city.
	Sylia followed, taking small steps, frustrated at how slow she 
was moving.  Sylia followed the boy for several blocks, turning through 
the crowds.  In several parks, people were laid out on blankets.  Several 
were horribly burned or scarred.  There were children all about, thin and 
emanciated.
	Sylia cut into the slums after the boy, where people were 
hanging around.  The boy darted into an alley.  There was a corner of 
the alley, where there was a small group huddled around a figure 
dressed in rags.
	"That is the healer.  The man over there", the boy pointed out 
to Sylia the man in rags.
	The man in rags seemed to change appearance, his body and 
limbs getting thicker and then thinner.  His appearance was indistinct, 
his face huddled in shadows.  The only thing Sylia could see was the 
wet gleam on his forehead.
	The healer raised one hand to a woman who knelt in front of 
the man.  Her eyes were milky, with a mismatched face, a burn scar 
across her face.  He raised one rag covered arm, like that of a mummy, 
before passing his hand in front of her eyes.
	For a few minutes, this continued, and then he removed his 
hands and the crowd "ooohhed" and "aahhhed" at the sight.  Sylia 
herself was about to do some "ooohhing" and "aahhhing" at the sight!
	Where once burns marred her face, the face was now utterly 
smooth and perfect.  The eyes blinked twice, then the woman raised her 
hands and cried out "I can see!  I can see!"  She turned her eyes to the 
mummy man.  "Thank you, oh thank you!"
	The mummy man nodded, and gestured to the woman.  "Go 
now.  Enjoy life."
	"Thank you Healer-sama", cried the woman.  The woman 
turned to two children standing nearby, hugging them to her.  The 
mummy man just nodded.
	"Can you help me Healer-san" begged one man, missing an 
arm.
	"I am sorry, I can only do small things."
	"Healer-san, do you need more of your potion?"
	The mummy man shook his head at this.  "No, not any more.  It 
is time, for what I have awaited for.  I can only hope that I have helped 
alleviate some of your suffering."
	"Are you alright, Healer-san?  Are you sick?" asked a little girl 
who darted forward.
	"Ryoko, stop that!" admonished a woman in the crowd, who 
pulled back the girl.
	"Yes child, I am very ill.  I don't have much longer.  You should 
go now, and join your families."
	"But Healer-san..." said the thin man standing by him.
	"Go, Hiro.  Your loved ones await.  Please leave, all of you", 
directed the mummy man.
	The crowd seemed to linger until the man orderd, "GO".
	The people started to disperse, some going up to touch the 
cowled healer and wish him well.
	"Hey lady, we can go talk to him now" urged the boy.
	"I think I should like to see this 'healer'", Sylia agreed.  It had to 
be some sort of trick.
	The healer looked up at her and the boy as they approached.
	"Tatewaki; what can I do for you today?" asked the healer.
	"Healer-san, this nice lady got roughed up by some soldiers", 
said Tatewaki, bowing.
	"Indeed?" the mummy man asked, and suddenly Sylia 
understood the overtones of what he was asking.
	Was the bruise the only damage?  Had she been raped? Was 
she with child?
	"No Healer-san, she just has a bruise."
	"Ah, that I can deal with."  He looked at Sylia.  "You will have 
to forgive young Tatewaki-kun.  He is eager to help others, and also to 
make money."
	The boy bowed and flushed bright red, "I am sorry, Healer-san.  
I just-"
	The healer held up one hand.  "I jest with you.  I am sure the 
lady will be happy to compensate you."
	"Of course", Sylia said, handing the purse to the child.  It 
didn't matter.  This is where she was supposed to be.
	"I can't take all this, ma'am", protested the boy.
	"GO Tatewaki-kun", said the healer.
	The boy ran away, looked back, then ran away farther.
	The man stood smoothly, walking over to her.  Sylia took a 
step back as the healer raised one hand to her face.
	"Don't worry.  It will not hurt."
	Waiting until she nodded, the man touched the bruise.  His 
finger, wrapped in dirty cloth, brushed her cheek.  It was then she felt 
the touch, the invasive sliminess as something became one with her 
cheek.  She had to stiffle a cry as she felt and heard a cracking in her 
jaw.  After a few seconds, the hand was removed, and Sylia took a step 
back, touching her cheek.
	The bruise was gone.  And with a twist of her tongue, she 
could feel the missing tooth had been replaced.  The healer sat once 
more.
	"How did you do that?" she breathed out.
	"I will tell you, if you tell me who you are.  You are not Lady 
Tomoko, despite the fact you wear her body."
	Sylia stood back, blurting, "You know?"
	"I could sense it.  But I also sense another thing.  This is not 
real, only a memory.  And that means you must be the other _that_ one 
has been waiting for.  You must forgive me; I am barely whole."
	"What are you talking about?"  asked Sylia.
	The healer stood again, looking at her.  "I see.  The others 
have sent you to me.  For the final.  I might as well.  I have little strength 
in this.  The blood this one" he gestured to himself, "took in Amaranth 
of myself is nearly gone, weak.  I was never as powerful as Resu."
	(Resu?)  she knew that name.  It was the name of man in black's 
lord and the name of the person she was to meet.  Could they be the 
same?
	"I am not helpless, though.  This is evidence enough, when I 
roused Us from torpor, to take Us here.  I never really had a choice, you 
know.  My clan were all dying.  If not this one, then another of the 
Tremere would have taken us.  A place in His soul and mind was more 
than the others would have offered."
	"I am afraid I do not understand."
	"Of course you do not.  The others probably thought you 
would understand immediately.  Then again, they have His mental 
abilities, and are merely parts of Him, and thus think very highly of 
you."
	The healer took a step forward.
	"You're a vampire, like the others in the dreams."
	"Of course.  I am one of the last of a clan who died and hid 
within its murderers and enemy.  But that is nothing compared to what 
you soon will face and know.  Both of you."  His hand touched her 
cheek.  And he turned away.
	"Listen, I-" Sylia darted forward to grab his hand, but stopping 
and releasing it.
	That had been no mortal hand!  It had twisted and moved, like 
some sea creature alive, pulsating.  Like the tentacle of an octupus, with 
no bones.  No human could have that.
	"This", the man said, holding up his arm.  "Yes, it has nearly 
won.  The Souleater.  It is consuming Us.  My effort to come here for a 
cure have failed.  These Cathayans of the East are like the childer of 
Caine.  Arrogant and foolish.  They blindly obey their view of the cycle, 
not understanding it is incomplete.  Like their understanding of things.  
And thus Destiny turns, and We find Ourselves where we knew we 
would die.  Unfortunately, We could not see that far into the future, into 
what would happen."
	"What?"
	"Do you not understand where you are?  This is the Japanese 
version of the 'Day that shall forever live as a day of infamy'."
	Sylia recognized that quote, from what the Americans had said 
about the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  But the Japanese day... No, it 
couldn't be!
	"Yes, it is.  The day is August 6, 1945 A.D.  The time is 8:13.  
We have two minutes."
	"This can't be real.  How- wait a minute, how did you know?"
	"As Billy always says, 'to know the future is a terrible thing'.  
We knew.  We always knew, even from the day we died and came 
back."
	"But-"
	"Enough!  We do not have much time.  Listen to me carefully.  
You will not experience this.  Listen to me!  My gift is two part.  The first 
is the secret my clan forever knew.  Not even this one knows it, though I 
hint at it.  Only the ancient fae and the Children of Gaia remember this: 
the world belongs to mortals.  Not us!  It is they who decide the fate of 
all!  Not angels, not demons, not vampires, not even God.  It is mortals.  
They are the ones who ultimately choose Good or Evil.  Order or Chaos.  
They who decide the fate of the world.  Mortals!  Never, ever, forget 
that!"
	"I don't understand."
	"You will.  In Time, that veil Our foresight has always 
penetrated with ease.  Now for the last."
	The healer stopped, to sigh.
	"You must come to understand him, if you are to know 
yourselves.  Your meeting has been ordained.  It will have love and 
hate, tears and joy.  So my final gift to you is my name, which none of 
the others know.  I am Abdiel, of the childer of Saulot.  And I give you a 
true glimpse of him."
	"Who are you going to give me a glimpse of?  The man in 
black?  The boy? Sombra?  WHO?!"
	The healer shook his head.
	"Sorry; time's up."
	Sylia started to reply, when the world was swallowed in fire 
and white light.
	And what Sylia would emotionally scar her forever.
	She saw the explosion, how the light burnt the eyes and flesh.  
How the shockwave claimed the buildings and people.  How they blew 
apart.
	But most of all, a neutral observer, floating in the suit of armor 
she had seen on the piece of glass in darkness, was the unseen.  The 
souls of the dying, their last essence, as the awful radiance damaged 
their forms, tainting them, pitting the bright colors with spots of darker 
color.  She turned.
	The shockwave hit the man, the healer, and he too blew back, 
form burning.  And then something strange happened.
	For the briefest of instants that lasted an eternity, she saw two 
images.  One was of the healer, burning, flesh cooking off, being blown 
back.  But that was not as interesting as the other.
	As though superimposed over the flesh of the healer was a 
horrible, twisting and pulsating mass of flesh that spontaneously grew 
mouths, and limbs, and faces that shrieked in agony as it burned in the 
atomic fire.  It howled in inhuman hunger, rage and pain.
	Both figures hung their until the tail of the shockwave hit them, 
and healer was blown backward, through the shattered building, into 
the basement, into safety.  And in that brief instant, the horrid fleshy 
creature was seperate from the healer, and vaporized in a last scream.  
	The scream echoed on and on, as the fires burned, and Sylia 
still heard the scream-


-	-	-	-	-	-	-	-


	-of men, of metal on metal, or the thunks of metal on the flesh 
of beings.
	Sylia blinked, looking around, and then at herself.  She was 
naked, with no clothes or other unusual feature.
	She was also in what appeared to be some sort of catacombs, 
long affairs with loud echoes.  It was dry and dark, dark and bright at 
the same time.  The long corridors were quiet, and then loud, the air 
stale and then breathing.  It was, in short, every claustrophobes worse 
nightmare.
	Sylia looked around, and then realized she was an apparation 
of sorts, as part of her shoulder and arm were sticking in the stone wall.  
Placing a curious hand to the wall, she found it sank in with ease.
	Even more curious, Sylia hesitantly placed her head in the wall 
and opened her eyes, wondering what she would see.
	Nothing.  Looking into the stone was utter darkness.  
Shrugging her bare shoulders, Sylia retracted her head and wondered 
how she was supposed to move, given that she was floating several 
centimeters over the ground.
	It wasn't that heart of a problem, as merely thinking about it 
moved her forward.
	As her senses became more accustomed to the dim light, she 
noticed something odd.  The wall ahead of her didn't seem to be stone, 
but rather it _moved_, pulsating.  After a minute of horrid 
contemplation, Sylia realized it was alive.  She reached to touch it.  And 
recoiled.
	Two eyes and a mouth in a face that was barely reconizable as 
human, stretched out as a flat wall, opened and howled an odd cry that 
just as sudden ceased as it vomiting blood, spraying her.
	Sylia immediately threw up arms to shield herself, before she 
realized the futility as the stream of liquid went right through her, 
splashing on the other side of the wall.
	A sword and a set of claws tore through the living membrane 
and the human face, cutting the wall down, and two beings emerged 
from the bloody viscera.
	One was a woman, if he could be called that, with an inhuman 
face that was proportioned just... wrong.  It was she who held the sword 
and was dressed in a light armor of chain and several plates, with a very 
dim torch in the other.
	The other was not human at all.  Two meters and then some, 
this monstrousity was tall and gangly, with ropy arms and forward 
shoulders that gave it a stoop as it bent its head in the catacombs.  It's 
skin glistened with oil in the light of the torch it's partner held.  It had a 
mishappened head, olive green skin, and hands with seven fingers.
	"This way then?!" screamed the woman at the monster, her 
voice pitched like that of a little girl.
	The monster shook its head and coughed out something.
	"You are right.  We are close though", the woman paused, and 
Sylia resisted urge to giggle at a woman who looked so fierce and 
sounded like she was helium.
	"Just think of it Devin!  Lugoj was right, victory is within our 
grasp!  These pathetic _szlachta_ will not be enough to stop us.  
Tonight, we shall drink the blood of an Ancient!  With Kupala's aid and 
wisdom, we shall be free of the Blood Oaths that held us forever, and 
after this Amaranth, we shall be free of a founder like our brothers and 
sisters in the Lasombra!"
	The monster beside her howled in agreement.
	"You go that way" she pointed further down the corridor.  "I 
will go this way" she pointed down the way Sylia had come from.
	The monster nodded with a disjointed motion that made it look 
like its neck was broken.  Its eyes began to glow red as it loped down 
the corridor.
	The woman grinned, showing teeth like a shark with every one 
pointed.  Then she stopped, dropped into a guard and stared intently 
down the hall.
	Sylia heard the sounds of battle and dying screams.  There 
were thuds, like bodies striking the wall.  Down the way, one of the wall 
shivered and the living tissue opened like the valve of a heart.  A 
monster stepped through.
	It was tall, armored with bony plates, had spikes on it's arms, 
and jaws like a dinosaur.  It took one look into the darkness and howled, 
mindlessly charging as another monster, identical in appearance walked 
out of the living wall after its fellow.
	There was a gurgling scream as the other monster turned to 
look down the hall.  Then Sylia once more heard a familiar whine as 
something flashed down the corridor, distorting vision as it passed 
down the hall.  It struck the chest of the second monster.
	And continued on, going through the flesh as it expended its 
energy.  Blood and pieces of bone and flesh erupted out the front and 
back of the monster as it was literally lifted off its feet and tossed a 
meter back.
	There was silence as the weird woman looked down at the 
body and licked her lips.  Then the sound of the footsteps reached 
them, slow and measured.
	"Who is there!" screamed the high-ptiched voice of the 
woman, her gaze darting about, searching.
	For a moment, there was no response.  Then, suddenly, two 
glowing crimson eyes snapped open and stared straight at the woman.  
The began to move closer, swaying with the motion of someone 
walking.
	"Who is there!" she repeated, a little more confidant now that 
she could see the eyes of the intruder.  She thrust her torch out.
	Gradually, the outline of a man could be seen, the shadows 
slowly retreating from sight.  As each feature became revealed, Sylia 
recognized the man who had become so familiar to her over these dream 
sequences.
	It was the man in black, now wearing a brown traveling cloak 
with hood.  He wore old armor, dulled gray, with an old yet well-made 
sword in his hand, one with a cross set into the crosspiece.
	It seemed the woman recognized the man with the scar on his 
right cheek.  "Is that really you, Tremere?  The one who aided our 
efforts in freedom?  The great slayer of Resu?  It is you!"
	The man merely nodded.
	The woman lowered her sword and torch, grinning.  "You're 
late!  We have already killed most of the battle ghouls.  We now only 
have to find the Antediluvian.  Come on, Lugoj and-"
	The woman broke off her speech and her eyes widened as the 
man simply walked up and shoved his sword through her chest, the 
blade burning the flesh and smoking in thin whisps.
	With a trickle of blood down her chin, sword having fallen from 
her limp fingers from the pain, the woman whispered, "Why?"
	In response, the man spun and in one blow removed her head.  
It flew off, bouncing off the wall.
	The body of the woman underwent a startling metamorphisis.  
It began to rapidly age, flesh wrinkling, turning gray and hair falling out 
as the blood spray began to change mid-air, becoming thick, and then 
drying, and then becoming a fine powder as it struck the walls and floor.
	"I have no need to explain myself to the likes of you", said the 
man in his expressive voice as he rushed down the corridor.
	Lacking anything better to do, Sylia floated after, easily 
keeping up.
	Something was different about him.  His face was the same, the 
scar the same, but he seemed almost eager.  Desperate even.  Moving 
with inhuman speed, he ran forward, toward what looked like a large 
room.  This area was lit by some phosphorescent fungus.
	And pulled up short as two more figure entered the hallway at 
a run, from a horde of people maybe two hundred meters away that were 
gathering around something in the center of the room, and digging into 
the soil beneath the stone.
	"There is one.  We can not allow any to interupt the 
Amaranth" screamed one, starting to shift into a monster, twin to the 
one that ran beside itself.
	With a roar of "Get out of my way you fools!" the man darted 
into battle.  The two roared back at him, and the battle was joined.
	It was two against one, sword against claws, but the battle was 
in close combat.  The sword seemed to burn the flesh of the monsters, 
but the claws on the monsters cut through the armor on the man.
	The blows began to rain down on each other, but it was the 
man who found himself at a disadvantage in this fight.  The sword 
required manuevering room, but the monsters lacked such a problem, 
and outnumbered the man.
	With a roar of rage, wounded from numerous small cuts, the 
man took a daring risk.  Throwing his sword to left hand, he punched 
the monster on the right with his right hand, startling it enough for his 
sword to swing at the neck of the left monster.
	The sword entered the and stopped, as the monster gurgled 
and clawed frantically.  Grunting, the man reached up with his right 
hand and grabbed the blade, pressing with all his might at the monster.
	The other monster was no slouch and immediately began to lay 
blow after blow on the unmoving and unprotected back of the man.  The 
claws cut bloody ribbons from the back.
	The man grunted and pressed harder, red eyes flashed brighter 
as the sword severed the head.
	But the dead monster had one last revenge.  Its claws dug into 
the left arm of the man, and severed it.
	Disarmed in two ways, the man turned to his remaining 
opponent.  The monster howled at the loss of its brethern and lunged at 
the man.
	Who let it come, raising his one remain arm, which grew claws, 
to grab the head of his opponent, the elongated nails digging into the 
elongated head.  The monster raked the chest, head squirming against 
the grasp of the man.
	The man grunted as, to Sylia's astonishment, a pale white aura 
glowed about him, as a similar aura appeared appearing around his 
sword.  The eyes became utter white, as he growled, "I have no time for 
you!"  With a roar, his hand tightened.
	Within the creature, a change began as every molecule of 
blood and other liquid began to vibrate and increase in temperature, in 
an instant superheating to steam and beyond.  The churning mass of 
much greater volume sought release.
	To Sylia, who knew nothing of this, the monster simple 
exploded, the body becoming particles of matter that flew around.
	The man grunted in pain, and closed his eyes.  Before Sylia's 
eyes, the wounds began to close, or in the case of the arm, sealed over.
	Breathing easier, the man turned to his severed arm, picking it 
up with his remaining arm.  He held it up to his stump at the shoulder.
	At first, nothing happened.  Then the stump began to bleed, 
slow at first, then more.  The blood flowed slowly, then faster, before 
hovering suspended like gelatin under the stump.  The severed arm 
touched the bottom of the liquid mass, which acted as a bridge.  Then it 
happened.
	The blood began to become cloudy, and much to the shock of 
Sylia, _things_ began to form.  White, long; they were bones.  The long 
calcium stalks borrowed into the severed limb, connecting them.
	Then the muscles began to form, red vines that twisted and 
flowed, then hardened, becoming thick musculature.  Finally, the skin 
reformed.
	Sylia did not realize was floating away, until she found herself 
in the wall.  That was something incredible.  Sure, there were repair 
nanites.  Fusion nanites.  But there was *nothing* that moved that fast.  
Or could make such complex structures so easily.
	The man retrieved his sword then jerked his head up, towards 
the room at the end of the hallway.  There was something happening, 
but the distance was such it was indistinct and inaudible to Sylia.
	Not to the man apparantly, as he threw up his head and roared 
"NO!!!"  And then he was off.
	His previous speed became that of the turtle as he darted 
forward like the wind.  Sylia rushed after him.
	"No, God, no!" muttered the man, and then his eyes opened 
wide and he stumbled.
	A tremor shook the entire catacombs as there was a roar of 
triumph that became a palpable force.
	"NNNOOOO!!!!" she saw the lips of the man move, the sound 
swallowed by the sound of the roar.  The man sank to his knees.
	Up ahead, there was some movement.  The people were 
moving.
	The man stayed like that for a few moments, before again his 
head cocked up, and he stood, sword at ready.
	One of the living wall-doors opened down and to the right.  
Two figures stepped out, one supporting the other.  The first was fairly 
bulky, the wounded one slim.  (A man and a woman), Sylia guessed.
	Indeed they were.  The man was dressed in mismatched armor 
with a broken sword in hand, his hair either blond or brown, matted into 
dreadlocks from lack of combing.  His injured companion was a woman 
of pale skin and black hair, dressed in leather armor.  Both were arguing.
	"Dammit, we were so close!" said the woman
	"Calm down.  We did our best.  Besides, I hear the voice of 
god, who is a comforting whisper in the dark.  He says that we should 
not worry, for all is according to his divine plan", responded the man.
	They did not seem to notice the man who stood with a sword 
pointed at them until the man talking to the woman looked up and 
grabbed his companion.
	"We are not alone, Lucita", he muttered pointing at the man.
	"I can't seem him, Anatole", the woman said, eyes darting as 
she strained to see the man.
	(He is right there!) thought Sylia, before she realized that the 
man must somehow be invisible to the woman.
	"Obfuscate, huh?  Drop it now!" the woman ordered.
	"I suggest thou does as the lady suggests", said Anatole.
	The man sighed and there was a visible reaction as the 
woman's eyes narrowed right at the man.
	"I know you.  You are the Tremere Warlord, the one they call 
the Carnifex.  Come to gloat?" said the woman, in a scornful tone.
	The man said nothing.
	"I do not think he means us harm.  Verily, I suspect; nay, I 
know he did seek to aid the fallen Tzimisce.  For God speaks to me", 
Anatole proclaimed.
	The man said nothing.
	"What are you talking about?  He is from that nest of vipers, 
the Tremere!" hissed the woman.
	Anatole lowered his sword.  "No, he is not as you think.  There 
is-"  Anatole's eyes widened as he looked into the man's eyes.  His 
voice became thick with emotion.  "No.  You do not understand him at 
all.  We are companions in this venture.  He will do us know harm."
	"Are you even crazier, Malkavian?" urged the woman.
	"No.  I am completely sane.  He and I, we are kin, of a sort."
	They stood at a tableau, until the man broke it.
	"There is a way out, that way" he gestured with his sword, as 
the woman tensed.  "You may go as you came, in peace."  He nodded to 
Anatole, who returned the nod.
	The two walked by, though the woman had her back to the wall 
the entire time.  She walked backwards, staring at the motionless man all 
the while, as though he would jump her at any moment.
	Then it happened.
	A voice spoke, as though breathed from the walls.  It said, in a 
dry tone:
	"Fools, these childer.  I have seen your actions in this, and you 
will receive your just reward in the proper time."
	The retreated pair stopped dead and the man just stood there.  
The other man, Anatole, smiled, as though he had just had a fact 
confirmed.
	"Did you here that?  Anatole?" asked the woman.
	"You!" called Anatole to the man, who looked up.  "May you 
succeed in your quest, my brother!"
	There was a pause, before the man answered, "And you as 
well."
	"What was that all about?" asked the woman of Anatole.
	"Nothing you would understand", said Anatole.  Then then 
were gone, vanished into the shadows.
	The man just stood there, for a second, before that voice spoke 
again, softly to the man:
	"I would have been honored to have you among my clan."
	The man looked up, then shook his head softly.
	And then he did something Sylia had never thought he would.
	He started to cry.
	Crimson tears began to flow from the red eyes, as the pent-up 
emotions of years also came out in a torrent.  He began to shake, his 
entire body trembling, and he collapsed onto the floor, weeping like a 
child lost in the world.
	The sobs continued, and he gulped air, limbs trembling faster 
than tuning forks.  The head was thrown back, and the bloody tears fell 
and fell.  And still he cried.
	There was a look of incredible pain, self-loathing, sorrow, and 
despair in those large brown eyes.  It was like the whirlpool of Scylla, 
drawing Sylia in, and she saw the agony, the seething cauldron of pain 
that spawn the dead of his memory to come back to torture him.  She did 
not even know the name of this man.  But she felt his pain.
	"Why?" He gave a plaintiff moan.  "Why, God, why is this so?  
No matter how hard I try, I cannot change what I see, what will be!  I 
tried so hard.  So hard.  All my unlife, I have tried to make the wrong 
right.  Why is this denied me?"
	He sobbed some more, and Sylia floated a little closer.
	"I have seen it all.  The metal bird drop the fire egg.  This night.  
The future.  Am I to go through this through all eternity, one cursed to 
know what is to be, yet helpless to do anything?  To spend eternity 
alone, to betray all I love?  I have done all this and more!  So answer me, 
someone!"
	His fist lashed out at the stone.
	"Answer me!"
	Thud.
	"Answer me, damn you!"
	Thud.
	"Please, please, answer me!"
	Thud, thud.
	"ANSWER ME!  WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER ME? PLEASE, 
I BEG YOU, _ANYONE_, *ANSWER ME*!  AM I TO BE FOREVER 
ALONE!?!"
	And the man collapsed, sobbing bitterly.
	"No family. No love. No peace. No one.  I have nothing, 
beyond my crusade."
	Suddenly, his head snapped up, and looked straight at her.  
His face slackened as his eyes became adoring.
	"It is you, isn't it?  The Other.  My eternity twin," he 
whispered.
	(He can't seem me, can he?) thought Sylia, pulling back.  She 
thought no one could see her.
	"No, don't be afraid!  I won't hurt you, I swear.  I don't like 
hurting people.  I sometimes have to though" said the man desperately, 
raising one hand to her.
	(Where have I heard that one?) Sylia wondered, then 
remembered that incident in Tinsel City, when she had gunned down a 
child's service boomer.  The child had stared up at her with horrified 
eyes.  And then she had said what he had said, substituting "boomers" 
for "people".
	The man sat down.  "I don't even know if you are real.  Maybe 
you are a delusion spawned from that side of my heritage.  I just don't 
know."
	Then he smiled. "But it doesn't matter to me.  Just thinking 
about you, even the possibility, makes me feel less alone.  Sure, I didn't 
save Tzimisce and prevent the war that will come.  The slaughter."
	He looked at her again, and Sylia blushed as she remembered 
she was naked.  Her hands moved to cover herself as he smiled.  
(Pervert!) she thought.
	"I don't even know what you look like.  Who you are.  What 
you are.  If you exist in the past, present or future.  But that is alright."
	"I have faith.  I have hope.  One day, my visions won't come 
true.  I trust humanity."
	Sylia looked at that bittersweet smile on the face of the man, 
and her hands dropped to her sides as she stared back at this man.  She 
felt something, the way her chest seemed to sieze up.
	That smile, so unlike the cruel one, or the sorrowful one.  A 
simple, honest smile, full of hope and faith.  A human smile.
	A tear began to track down Sylia's cheek.
	"Don't worry.  I am patient. I will wait all of time for you.  I 
promise."
	Sylia felt the hot tears cloud her sight, and reached up to brush 
them away, blinked-


-	-	-	-	-	-	-	-


	-and found herself shivering in the sudden cold, once more on 
the chill glass in the place of darkness where the dream had started.
	Things had changed in the place.  Though the shadows still 
swirled about the second figure she was backing away from, it was 
exposed now, a figure of white light with some pits and stains on it, but 
still bright.
	The first figure had gotten bigger, and was now an immense 
shade.  With the increase of size, some features of the first figure were 
now indistinct, instead of non-existant.
	And it was not alone.  Sylia turned her head, searching, as she 
saw a massive ring of similar sized shades as the first one.  They were 
equally space, positioned above her, as though judges at an arena or 
court, staring down at her, the prey.  There were twelve of the shadows, 
and with the one right in front of her as she concluded her sweep, 
thirteen.  All were Power.
	There was light now, besides the light of the second shade, 
who bathed her in the suit of silver armor.  Below the glass plane, 
stretched an ocean of red liquid, which seperated her from the second 
shade.  Chilling that premonition, Sylia tracked the liquid.  It flowed from 
the thirteen giant shades, gushing like a never ending ocean.  Within 
that red floated bodies, black outlines of people.
	Sylia knew what the liquid was.  Her dreams in the past had 
taught her that much.  It was blood.  And the bloodshed came from 
these thirteen.
	And she noticed something else.  This place was not total 
darkness!  No, it was only that there were black lines, like the silk of a 
spider, stretched all around her, all meeting at the thirteen shades.  But 
Sylia could see the slight bluish tint of what must be beyond the 
blackness.
	And suddenly, Sylia wasn't afraid.  She realized what this was.  
This was intimidation.  They wanted her to do something.  At least, 
some of them did, the big shades.
	"So what was that supposed to do?  Show me how I was seen, 
correct?  So why?" she addressed the first shade, which was the one 
closest to her, outside the second and smaller shade.
	There was no response, no thoughts that were not her 
thoughts.  Nothing, until the shade moved.
	Something vaguely arm shaped moved and raised.  Sylia 
turned her head to follow and saw nothing.
	"Now what?" she asked.
	The blackness turned to point at her.
	Sylia pointed to herself.  "Me?  What do you...." Sylia's voice 
trailed off when she saw what the shade was pointing at.  She raised her 
hand slowly, then raised her pinky finger up.
	There it was, red as blood.  A string of red light, tied around 
her finger, with a small bow knot.  The string danced away, heading 
down to the glass floor, falling through and into the river of blood.
	And came back up, like the serpent crawling the tree, seeking 
the fruit.  Up it went, until the string reached its destination of the 
second shade, tied around the pinky.
	"Please", said Sylia, "you have to be kidding.  That old 
superstition?"  Inside, her pulse was racing.  This was _not_ what she 
had expected.
	"Is that why you arranged all that than?  To show me this?"  
She raised the red string.
	<NO> came a voice, not the thoughts that were hers, yet not 
hers.  No, this was a mental voice that spoke to the core her being, 
making her shake.  The darkness swell and grew more prevalent as the 
shadows once again enveloped the second figure.  At the voice of the 
first shade, the floor beneath her feet began to shatter, breaking into a 
mimicry of the product of nature's weaver, a spiderweb.
	<YOU WILL BE THE FIRST OF THOSE WHO ARE THE 
MERGING OF THE TWO>
	The floor beneath her feet splintered, parts exploding upwards 
into a flash of light.  One piece, long and thin, like a dagger, broke from 
the glass, shooting straight up and into her hand.
	Through her hand.
	"AARRGGGGHHHH!!!" Sylia screamed, the sudden force and 
pain catching her unawares.
	Immediately, fires of pain began burning as the unfamiliar 
coldness of the foreign object began to barrage her brain.  The glass 
was shoved deep, half of the way through, and blood was flowing 
outwards freely.
	"This can't be real", Sylia panted.  "You don't feel pain in a 
dream!" she screamed in protest, starting to cry from the pain.
	The glass continued you to break and shake.  Sylia put one 
bare foot down, and a thousand tiny drills of pain went to work on the 
sole as the tiny glass shards worked their way in.
	"What are you doing?!" Sylia screamed at the first shade.
	<YOU WILL BE THE FIRST!>
	The glass continued to break, and under this barrage of mental 
speech, the glass shatter, falling away from her and around her.  Several 
of the shards were held mid-air, floating, while others began to undergo 
a curious metamorphisis.
	They became tiny sakura petals, starting to swirl around her.  
They were white, stained with a pink blush from the blood she had 
shed.  The petals swirled about in a tornado of flora, brushing across 
her body.
	Sylia only hoped that the sakura petals did not mean what they 
typically symbolized.  She intended to have a full and good life.  And 
then petals flew together, swirling about, forming into a new shape as 
the blood in the glass turned the new product blood red.  They were 
roses, all of them, floating around her.  Sylia knew roses symbolized 
nobility, but what else.  Nothing in this dream was casual, and Sylia 
knew with Freudian certanty that these meant something beyond that.
	It was then that Sylia realized that she was no longer standing 
on the glass sheet, clutching her injured to herself.  And then she began 
to fall, down into the river of blood, a sudden sense of vertigo catching 
her.  She looked up as she fell, and saw the big, first shade looking 
down at her.  The second shade was twisting and turning, trying to 
fight the shadows that were beginning to cover the body's light.
	A still Sylia fell, down the thousands of meters.
	Suddenly, the clear pieces of glass that remained started to 
shiver into the form of crystal doves, which sat poised, ready, like a 
peregrine falcon ready to stoop.
	<*YOU* *WILL* *BE*!!!> screamed the voice at her.
	The crystal doves flashed around by the hundreds, before 
diving straight for her.
	Clutching her wounded hand, Sylia knew she was helpless.  So 
she tried a different tactic.
	"You going to kill me, let me die?"
	No response.  The doves dived closer.
	"This isn't necessary.  I can become the One if you want me 
too.
	No response.  The doves were close.  Too close.  She was 
going to die, slashed to ribbons, and Sylia did her last gambit.
	She closed her eyes and cried, "Someone help me!"
	Nothing happened at first, until a brilliant light appeared 
through her eyelids.  Opening her eyes, she saw the source.
	An angel with wings of flowing white feathers fell, grabbing for 
her.  Like a falling start, it swooped down ahead of the doves, throwing 
two arms around as the doves flashed swiftly towards her.  The angel 
flared darkness around itself.
	Even though it was only a dream, Sylia found her face pushed 
into a muscular chest.  Thus, she could feel the impact of every blow as 
the struck, every grunt and scream as the improvised blades found their 
mark.
	"Go" whispered the angel, as the remains of the doves fell 
down.
	Which they were doing, the angel's wings tattered and ruined.  
They were falling down, into the pool of blood and sorrows. And then, 
before she realized it, Sylia struck the blood.
	There was no shock of impact, just the sudden tingling 
singling the transition to the new medium.  She was free of the angel's 
embrace and protection.
	Sylia held her breath before she realized that she could breath 
the liquid.  She darted about, trying to find a way out, the blood in fact 
some thin red dye in water, as she could see through it.
	Bodies floated about, and one passed her, going through her.  
Looking about, Sylia saw the body of Mackie floating by.
	"Mackie", she tried to cry out, but no sound carried in the 
river.
	Suddenly, the angel was back, his wings arround her.
	"You have to flee", he said, "This place is not for you. Leave. 
Now."
	"Wait!" Sylia cried, suddenly concerned.  "What about you!"
	"Don't worry.  You have to escape.  Go now, before it is too 
late!"  The angel leaned forward to kiss her forehead, then her mouth.
	"Have hope" Sombra's voice playfully told.
	"Have faith" said the child.
	"Remember" whispered the dying Healer.
	"I'll be waiting for you, for all of time.  Go, the Other half of 
myself!"
	Sylia, beneath the river of blood, looked over the shoulder of 
the body shielding herself, up at the black shade that had commanded 
her, that was- no wait, it was losing the concealing cloak of shadows.
	Sylia tracked her eyes up the body, further up to the face-
	And when she saw that face, that face, that face, that face, oh 
God, that face, she tooked a breath and screamed and screamed and-


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	-screamed, her back thrust out and then back, propelling her 
frame upward into a sitting position, as Sylia awoke from the dark 
recesses of her sub-concious.
	Sylia leaned forward, chest heaving as she panted, terror still 
coursing though her veins along with adrenalynn.  Each breath was a 
reminder of the fact that she was alive, each tear that flowed from her 
eyes a release from the tension.  Her entire body shook, each tremor 
another reminder she lived, that it was just a dream.
	But was it?  It had seemed so *real*.  Truly real, like some 
simsense trip gone horribly wrong.  She had felt the fear, sensed those 
things?  The village burning, the fight in the Parisian streets, the 
bombing of Hiroshima, or even that adventure in the catacombs that 
was straight out of a horror movie?  And it had been horrible.  Had she 
really been in that town, Ruth-; wait, the name of the town was Ruve?  
'R' something.
	(Damn!)  Like all dreams, she was starting to forget what had 
happened.  She would have to write it down.  As soon as she calmed 
down.  (Yes), thought Sylia, as she rested her chin on her upraised 
knees.  Her heartbeat began to slow down, her breathing became easy.  
She was a little surprised that she wasn't sweating.  She expected to 
awake in a cold sweat.  Or at least something to that affect.  Yet she was 
cool and dry, the sheets around her cool as well, the dilphaneous 
material breathing fluidly.  Her body was tingling, a little numb, but not 
surprising considering she had just been hyperventilating.
	(The dream was just crazy), Sylia decided.  (Red strings, falling 
in love are all nonsense), she thought, somewhat wistfully.  Ah well, no 
more lazing about, scary dream or not.  She had lots of work to do.  
Levering herself up with her hands, she-
	"AAAAHHHHGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, OH 
KAMI-SAMA!!!!" Sylia howled out clutching the wrist of the hand that 
sent pulses of sheer agony to her brain.  Blinking away the tears as the 
pain retreated to a dull roar in the background of her mind, Sylia held the 
hand up before her, feeling the warm liquid dribble down her arm.  Even 
before her blurry vision cleared, Sylia could see the red and knew that 
this warmth was blood.  Finally, her vision was free, though she was not 
free of pain.  And what she saw made the pain a faint echo, as her blood 
turned to ice, and fingers of dread began to play up her back.
	There, lodged directly in the palm of her hand, as blood seeped 
up around it, was a glass shard.  *The* glass shard.  The one from her 
dream.
	"But that's impossible",  Sylia whispered, staring with horrid 
fascination at the foreign object.  Heedless of the drops of blood that 
were spraying across her blankets, or the pain that even now made her 
clench her teeth, Sylia moved her violated hand closer to her face.
	No doubt about it.  It was the same.  The glass shard in her 
dream.
	(But that IS IMPOSSIBLE!) Sylia shouted within herself, as 
though to convince herself.
	*I told you so* whispered the silibant voice of IT.
	Sitting up, the blood already starting to coagulate, Sylia looked 
at the glass like it was a cockroach that had crawled into her bed.  Her 
brows knitted in hatred as she hissed at that damn piece of glass.  
Heedless of the consequences, Sylia pulled it out and tossed it aside.
	PAIN, PAIN, AND YET MORE PAIN!  The sun blossomed yet 
again in her hand as the needles of fire tracked up her arm, straight to 
her brain.  Grabbing a piece of bedsheet, Sylia tore it into strips and 
careful dabbed at the wound.  She pointedly ignored the piece of glass.
	Focussing on the task at hand, Sylia put aside all other 
considerations. (Something that she had become quite skilled at over 
the years), she noted, with a touch of bitterness, which was soon gone.  
Carefully, she prodded the wound, using the best of her self-taught 
paramedic training.  The shard had gone all the way through, but 
impossible as it may sound, other than a little flesh tearing and 
laceration on the muscle, there was no clear penetration.  The carpals 
and meta-carpals were both unharmed, and all the major bloodvessels 
and muscles had been missed, except for a few capillaries and a vein 
nicked, which oozed with blood repeatedly.  Using the strips to soak, 
and then waiting for the blood to coagulate, Sylia used the remainder of 
the strips to tie a crude bandage around her hand.  It was already 
getting stiff, as her body began to repair the damage.  It was done.
	(But how could this have happened?) she wondered, lamenting   
and crying out in her head, desperate for answers.  There was no way 
the dream was actually _real_.  So what?  Could she have accidently 
stabbed herself last night and- no, too incredible.  Maybe she had- No.  
Perhaps she had been sleepwalking, and stabbed herself in the midst of 
a particularly vivid dream, living it out.  That was most likely.  (After all), 
she thought as she looked over at the shard, (the glass is real, and not a 
figment of the imagination like the... like the... dream?)   Sylia's thoughts 
trailed off as she looked at the glass shard, still stained with streaks of 
her own blood, laying on the remains of the bedsheets.
	Like a mirage in the desert, like the puffs of breath on a cold 
day, like the campaign promises of any politician after they have been 
elected, the glass shard shimmered before her startled eyes and 
vanished, leaving no trace it had ever been there.
	(Or maybe not), the pain in her hand and the blood that 
covered her nightgown and sheets reminded her.  But if this was real, 
then-
	As swift as possible, Sylia dashed to the desk in her bedroom, 
grabbed a piece of paper and started writing all she could remember of 
the dream.  After a few minutes of fumbling attempts made difficult by 
her wounded hand, she desperately tried to remember names.  Faces.  
Places.  Things she could look up.
	After nearly five minutes of frantic attempts to remember, Sylia 
only had a small list of half-remembered and probably incorrect names 
on a single page of a notepad.  Staring at the paper, willing more to 
come out of her memory, Sylia gave up.
	Most people would be deeply shocked by such an event.  
Sylia was such a person.  Most people would be incapacitated by such 
an event.  Sylia was not such a person.  She had built up a financial 
empire up at a young age, received several graduate degrees in 
numerous fields, managed to always be in control, saved MegaTokyo 
several times, and raise her overly horny younger brother all by herself!  
With a firm mind, Sylia got down to business.  (No use worrying over 
something I can't help now), she thought.
	Bedsheets down the disposal shute.  After a minute of 
thought, Sylia put the robe down the laundry shute.  As to the blood, 
the now-nude Sylia stepped into her bathroom and over to the shower.  
Holding her damaged hand above the nozzle, she let the water wash 
over as she used her free hand to get out all the blood, from where it 
had crusted on the skin or in her hair.  Shutting off the shower, she 
grabbed the medical kit from the medicine cabinet.  Carefully cutting 
away the bandages, Sylia washed the wound with disinfectant, aided 
the repair of the damaged vein with a protein salve, and then sprayed 
some Genom SealFlesh on the wound before rebandaging.  After that, 
she carefully brushed her hair, applied the cosmetics, and slipped on a 
comfortable bathrobe.
	Her daily ritual complete, Sylia felt much better.  Or at least 
more stable.  Taking a deep breath, she inspected the remains of her 
bed, before turning to go to eat some breakfast, piece of notepad paper 
in hand.
	Breakfast was fine, a nice simple bowl of miso soup for a hectic 
day, with some tea to help wake up.  She was about to get to a more 
hardy meal, when she heard the visitor chime sing out.
	Puzzled, as she was not expecting any visitors, Sylia went over 
to a terminal and punched up the external penthouse security camera.  It 
was Priss.  "Come on in", she announced, letting her in.  A little curious 
at why Priss was here, and still a little angry at her for what she had 
done to her brother, Sylia went to meet her hallway.
	"Morning, Sylia", Priss announced herself, somewhat 
subdued.  She was dressed in her usual red riding suit, the top a light 
riding jacket instead of the heavy one she usually favored.  Beneath the 
jacket, a yellow shirt could be seen.  The socks on her feet made a soft 
patter on the carpet as she stepped forward.  "Hope I didn't catch you at 
a bad time."
	"Good morning to you as well, Priss", Sylia replied in kind her 
voice a little stiff with residual anger.  She looked at the retro-thrash 
singer, as was surprised to see her red eyes drop below her vision.  This 
was most unusual behavior for Priss.  The last time she had seen Priss 
like this was... well, right after Sylvie had died, when she had declared 
she was leaving the Knight Sabers.  Why would she be doing this now?  
(Maybe she is going to apologize?)  It seemed the most likely answer.  
Best to be civil.  "Not a bad time at all.  I was just getting up."
	Priss' puzzled eyes flashed up to meet hers, probing, before 
dropping down again.  "Yeah.  It's just, I've never seen you getting up 
this late."  The white sock on her toe dug a hole in the carpet.
	(So late?) thought Sylia.  What did Priss mean?  It had to still 
be early.  Her alarm, one designed to awaken the dead, had not been set 
off yet.  "What do you mean."
	Priss looked even more puzzled, "Sylia, it's almost 12:00."
	(What?) thought Sylia, looking over at the clock, and lo and 
behold, it was indeed 11:33.  Her alarm must not have gone off, and that 
meant- the meeting!  She was supposed to meet 'Resu' at 12:00 today!
	"My alarm must not have gone off", Sylia admitted.  "So, what 
can I do for you today?"
	Priss looked up again at Sylia, "Listen, I just wanted to say I 
was sorry, OK?" she admitted.
	"Thank you, Priss, but I am not the one you owe an apology."  
Good, looked like things were taking a turn for the better.
	Grinning a ruefully, Priss blushed a little and said, "I know, I 
know.  I was hoping to have a chance to talk to him, just after he got up, 
but I overslept as well."
	Sylia chuckled, "He just got back at 6:00 or so.  Went straight 
to bed with a sword he picked up.  He must have been out partying last 
night."  (Wait a minue, what was that!)  It look as though Priss was 
almost... ashamed.  Had something happened between them?
	"Yeah, whatever.  I just want to talk to him, OK?"  Priss fought 
a severe blush.
	"No problem.  He should be in his room."  Sylia gestured.
	A few seconds trickled by, and neither of the two women 
moved.  Finally, Priss sighed and said, "Listen, Sylia, I will apologize for 
what I said.  It was wrong.  But I still have some serious questions 
about what happened to Mackie, and he isn't giving me good enough 
answers.  Do you understand?"
	Sylia tried briefly to get angry with Priss, but failed as she 
sighed in turn, "I understand your concerns, Priss.  I have my own 
concerns.  But I am sure Mackie will tell us on his own time."  (What a 
hypocrite I am!) commented Sylia to herself, thinking to the meeting she 
had at 12:00.
	Priss snorted gently, "Yeah, whatever."  She walked past Sylia, 
deeper into the penthouse.  "Ne, Sylia?"
	"Yes?"
	"Do the words 'Lasombra' or 'Magnus Nigrum' mean anything 
to you?"  Maybe Sylia would know.
	(Why those words?) Sylia wondered.  Maybe they had 
something to do with Mackie.  "Well, the first is Spanish and means 
"the shadow".  The second is latin, and means "black hand".   Why do 
you ask?  Studying up on foreign languages?"  Seeing Priss nod and 
start to walk off, Sylia switched tactics, adding into her voice a little bit 
of a plea, "Or does this have something to do with Mackie?"
	Priss didn't look at her, just asked, "Is that all they mean? No 
other, secret meaning?"
	"Not that I know of, no."  This was getting interesting.  
"Please, Priss, if it has anything to do with Mackie."
	Priss turned to Sylia and grinning, teased "I thought it was on 
Mackie's _own_ time, ne?"  She was rewarded with a soft blush on 
Sylia's cheeks, though she tried to present an impassive face.
	"Priss?"  It was not _quite_ a plea.
	Priss chuckled, before her face became serious.  "I've been 
doing a little of my own research.  And I know that the word 'Lasombra' 
are something Mackie's a part of.  He also is a leader of the 'Magnus 
Nigrum', whatever that is.  A part of a 'Sabbath' or 'Sabbat' or something.  
And he seems to be pretty high in certain people's esteem."  She looked 
closely at Sylia.  "Are you sure they don't mean anything to you?"
	Shaking her head, Sylia thought (Do these have to do with the 
'antitribu' Mackie is so passionate about?  Maybe the 'Lasombra', 
'Sabbath', or 'Magnus Nigrum' are what he is anti-clan of!)  "They 
honestly don't mean anything beyond what I have told you."
	Priss shrugged.  "It was worth a try.  Anyway, I'm sure I'll be 
seeing you later, when we talk about the nuke."
	(The what?) thought Sylia as Priss continued on,  (A nuke?).  
"Priss?"
	"Yeah?"
	"Thanks."
	"No problem."  And she was gone.
	Looking down at the piece of paper on the table as she 
wandered back to the site of the remains of her breakfast, Sylia 
wondered.  (Do those word have anything to do with the words in my 
dream?  Do they really have anything to do with Mackie?  Or am I finally 
going completely insane?)  With a shrug at the possibilities, Sylia 
deposited her dishes in the washer and hurried to the computer room 
with a drink in hand.  (And what is this about a nuke?  Must be some 
kind of joke by Priss.)
	Keying in a complex combination and allowing the GRF 
(Genetic-Retinal-Fingerprint) scanner to read her, Sylia turned and 
locked herself within the massive computer core.  Getting comfortable in 
the chair, Sylia flipped several switches, pushed some buttons, and 
leaned back to wait as the computer began its warm-up cycle.
	She had a great many questions to ask of "Resu"!


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	Priss hesitated before the door to Mackie's room.  Even now, 
having come up all this way, she was scared.  Terrified even.  For right 
at that very moment, Priss was facing the greatest enemy she had 
always known.
	Her emotions.
	Ever since being orphaned, locked into that horrid place with 
uncaring and unsmiling faces.  Oh sure, there had been smiles, but only 
when state inspectors or guests came in.  Priss had never been one to 
smile.  Only her mother and father had been able to coax smiles out of 
the terminally shy Priscilla.  Priss could still remembered her mother, 
holding her on her lap as she tried to help the frequently embarassed 
Priss in clumsily stroke the hand-crafted guitar.  Or when her father, 
tired from working too hard at his job, would twirl her around, a smile 
always ready for her no matter how he felt or his day had been.  In those 
rare times, when Priss truly knew that she was loved, would she smile 
her hesitant yet honest smile back in return.
	She had stayed in their little house most of her life, either 
playing in the yard or helping her mother with housework when she was 
too busy with paperwork.  Though the older building was a little 
decrepit, it had been home, a place of love.  Whenever young Priss went 
to school and was teased or insulted by the bullies there, home was a 
place she could run to.  Even when she knew her parents weren't there, 
there was always Mr. Koala to talk, or cry into, and he never complained 
much, stoically enduring the young girl.
	And then it had happened. The tremors and the fire.
	Even now, she could still remember the vague images.  Her 
mother, racing into the home, scooping her up and carrying her away, to 
waiting arms of her neighbors.  Her last look of her mother, running into 
the nearby fire, to save the Watashi family.  She never came out.
	An older Priss remembered her younger self, staring at the wall 
of the temporary shelter, and one of her father's co-workers holding her 
as he sobbed out that her father had died.  And remembered that one 
day in that all that she knew had crumbled to ash in the fires of her 
worst nightmare.
	Nobody had wanted the quiet child who had erupted into 
anger and rebellion as she went through puberty.  While all the other 
girls tried to get adopted or find a boyfriend, Priss joined the crowd that 
fended for themselves.  That learned how to fight.  Become self-reliant.  
To take care of themselves.  So they would never be hurt again when 
someone they loved so desperately died.
	Only three times after that had Priss ever truly cared for 
someone.  The first was the man who had taken her in, taught her to ride 
and fight.  The man who thought of her as a little sister, though Priss 
thought much more than that of him. The man gunned down by an 
"unknown assailant" as they had been riding.  The second and third 
had been Sylvie, and Anri, and that had cemented her hatred of Genom.
	Now she had sworn no one would ever touch her heart again.  
Ever.  Not that she was alone.  Into that void of herself, she had found 
companions.  She had a family of sorts now.  Nene, Sylia, and Linna 
were more than just friends to her.  They were more than one of her few 
social contacts.  Her real social contacts, not just managers or club 
owners or band members.  They were the few that she reached out to, 
beyond her lone wolf lifestyle.  There was only one other who even 
came close, but blind anger and distrust kept her from that one.  And 
now this.
	Everything had changed when Mackie had come back.  
Emotions she had not felt in years, passions stronger than ever; Priss 
knew that something was seriously wrong.  Yet the cold logic could not 
quench the fires of emotions.  She felt... 'called', more than anything 
else.  For answers to her questions, a discussion to lay down the law on 
their relationship, and yet, some other, nameless urge Priss refused to 
contemplate.
	Enough was enough.  (Time to quit staring at the door),  
thought Priss (and do something!)  Steeling herself, she opened the 
door.
	"Hey Mackie.  Look, we have to talk... about... some.......... thi.. 
ngs...."
	Priss' voice trailed off as her eyes feasted like two hungry 
weasels on the sight before her.  Color lit her cheeks, then just as 
quickly faded before all color was lost.
	On the bed before her was Mackie, obviously still asleep.  His 
torso was bare and she could see his lungs pump are from the slight rise 
of his back.  His front could not be seen, being turned away from her.  
Even if she could face him frontal, she would not be able to see him, for 
in his arms was someone with a familiar head of red hair: Nene!
	(Why?) was her first thought.  Why was Nene there?  Why 
couldn't she talk to Mackie and sort things out?  Why did she feel this 
way?  Why did she even care?  Why this tightness in her chest?  Why 
Nene and not her?  Why wouldn't someone ANSWER her!
	It was too much.  The emotions, the sudden heat that inflamed 
her, the sight before her- all became a maelstrom of confusion for Priss 
as, unbidden, tears began to form at the corners of her eyes.  The sight 
of Nene's face, looking so peaceful and content!  When merely hours 
ago, Mackie had- with her!  A low cry escaped her lips.  Unable to think, 
only to feel, Priss turned and fled the room, running from what lay 
within.


-	-	-	-	-	-	-	-


	Yet had Priss stayed or looked back into the room, she would 
have noticed that Nene's eyes were not closed, merely slits that now 
enlarged to a calculating look.  They tracked the fleeing Priss with a 
pitiless eye.  (Good), thought Nene with a self-satisfied smirk, before 
she closed her eyes again, and clutched Mackie tighter to her, 
possessively.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	Deep within then north face of Genom Tower,  within the most 
exclusive of the private areas, the inner door opened to one of the most 
tastefully decorated expanses of a huge apartment.  Into the apartment 
stepped someone, crossing the plush Persian rugs and carpet that 
decorated the floor in crimson swirls and sworls, passing the Louis XIV 
armchairs that sat arrayed around the handcarved and massive oak table 
that dominated the dining, briefly stopping to touch the section of wall 
that lit up the crystal chandilier which hung suspended from the vaulted 
ceiling.  Continuing on itsway past this, the intruder stepped into a large 
hallway, heading directly for the double doorway at the end of the hall, 
ignoring the other doors, three to each side, on either side of the hall 
except to knock on the middle door on the right side of the hallway, 
before continuing to the double doors at the end of the plush corridor.
	With a slight and quiet whisper, the door handle turned and 
the double doors swung inward, revealing a canopied master bed that 
dominated the otherwise barren room.  There was no light in the room 
but for light that poured in from the hallway, the barest sliver of 
illumination.  Behind the intruder, a young woman exitted the door that 
had been knocked on, slipping on a robe before continuing down to the 
dining room.  The tall person paused as the woman went about her 
evening chores, the whisper of the cloth as apparant as the drumbeat of 
her heart, and the smell of sweat and perfume that clung to her, for  the 
new sense of Auspex the intruder had learned was still new and 
unfamiliar to it.  Shrugging massive shoulders, the intruder advanced 
towards the bed, reaching out with a massive hand.
	A slight growl floated from within the folds of the bed 
coverings, before turning into a purr as the rough hand extended 
proceeded to carress the soft skin of the large cat that lay admists the 
silk sheets, enjoying the feeling of the cat's tongue on the calloused 
palm, the cold sandpaper feeling of the tongue hot to the skin.  
Accepting a final pat on the head, the cat jumped off the bed with a soft 
*whump!*, soft considering the size of the cat, who now waited 
patiently, sitting still but for an occasional cleaning, nudging two 
objects at its feet. The intruder knelt beside the bed and looked under, 
clearing it's throat, "Ahhh-humphh!"
	Frederick Gustovich von Ruthaven opened his eyes to gaze 
upon a hideous contenance, akin to something an infernal artist had 
crafted into granite, barely resembling anything human, suspended 
merely inches from his face. (Centimeters), he reminded himself.  With a 
slight smile, he said, "Good day, Ubz-Talk."
	The stony grey features transformed into the appearance of a 
small smile themselves, as the Gargoyle replied in a rumble that sounded 
like razors being drawn bladewise over thin glass, "A good day to you 
as well sir!  As you requested, I have awakened you at 1130 hours."
	With a sigh, Frederick slipped out from under the bed, 
grabbing the old sword he still slept with (both the sleeping under the 
bed and the sword were old habits, the hardest sort for a vampire to be 
rid of), and stretched his old undead frame.  He could sense, with the 
sense of all vampires, the presence of Ra far above him, no matter how 
much matter intervened.  And as such, he felt the shift of his self, of the 
call to sleep.  Oh, the call to sleep!  Even now it called to him, a dull 
rumble that had slowly grown louder over the last few decades, calling 
to him for the rest of the long sleep.  But he could not listen, he knew, 
and with an exercise of will, knowing what he must do before the end, he 
forced away slumber, straining his spirit until he could feel the urge to 
slumber vanish.  Content for now, Frederick allowed his senses to return 
to their surroundings, leaving off from their musing and the travels they 
engaged in while he slept.  Accustomed to the heightened senses, he 
left the simple sweater and baggy pants he had worn to bed on, 
grabbing and slinging on the silk robe left beside him from the day 
before.  His pet rockcat bent to grab with its teeth the objects before it 
as he moved forward, and padded over to bring him his slippers.  For 
this, he rewarded it with a rub behind the ears, his fingers digging into 
the rocky crust of skin below the hair and outer skin on the rockcat as it 
gave a long and throaty purr. "Good, Antelicus", he praised the animal, 
before turning to the hallway.  The former mountain lion turned and 
followed its master, it's wings swaying against it's flanks as it came to 
heel, stopping when it's master stopped.
	(Hmm...), thought Frederick, once more noting with his 
incredibly powerful senses the tiny survelliance "bugs" spread 
throughout the room and his apartment.  Like real bugs, they always 
seemed to multiply every day, more and more joining their fellows in his 
rooms.  Beyond, throughtout the rest of his apartment, concealed in 
nook and crany, there must be hundreds.  (Time to deal with them.)  
With a slight focus of his awesome will, every device quietly broke.
	In over twenty different rooms in Genom, people either 
grabbed their ears in pain, or computers registered transmition failure.
	Turning, Frederick smiled slightly and headed down the hall. 
"So, what do you have to report?" asked Frederick as he walked slowly 
to the dining room.
	Ubz-Talk paused to gather his thoughts, speaking in his 
rumbling voice,  "As you requested, we have quietly begun 
investigating the incident that occurred yesterday, in the afternoon at 
around 1514, the UDB.  There is no real evidence as to what caused the 
UDB in the boomer; we suspect Sabbat tampering.  Our people have 
confirmed that there was only White, Blue, and Red of the Knight 
Sabers were present, and Red injured.  There was no evidence of the 
Green Saber.  The third part of Jenny iniative, number 8675-309 passed 
today, as was ordered.  Our life engineers have once more been 
accussed of capturing and experimenting on a Giovanni.  A member of 
our Black Spiral Tribe allies was terminated at the Board's request for 
consistent indiscression."
	Hmm... it was another Unexplained Deviant Behaviour.  Was it 
genuine?  Or someone's private engineered "accident"?  Or had one... 
no, he would deal with that later.  The others could not know.  As to the 
others?  The old abduction accusation?  He knew it to be true, but didn't 
particularily care much.  The Giovanni had engaged in more than a few 
morally questionable experiments.  But then again, so had the Tremere.  
Frederick himself had sat at the meeting that had decided to execute the 
stupid Garou.  And the last bit of information, he was well aware of.  But 
the UDB...?
	"Also sir, about the Knight Sabers that were involved in the 
UDB?  Three civilians were killed, and one of the Knight Sabers, Red, 
was reportedly injured.  As per your request, we cleaned up and 
sanitized the area.  We also acquired some of the blood of Red, as you 
asked, beyond the knowledge of others within Genom.  Fortunately, 
'Captain ADP'  and our own people arrived to prevent any.. outside 
influences from interfering.  There is no complication to our own 
operations."
	"Captain ADP" had been one of his triumphs, but the Night 
Sabers injured?  It was not the one he was concerned the most about, 
but the others were important to the total of his plans.  That- no, 
probably; but?  Frederick's eyes narrowed at this, and he immediately 
sent his mind flashing to... yes.. there!
	A part of his conscious mind drank on the power of his blood, 
on the filth of Caine's cursed vitae that pulsed through his dead frame.  
It detached into an awareness of somewhere he checked frequently.   
Frederick quickly scanned over the entire compound with a simple 
familiarity, before finding her.. oh, yes her...; the redhead girl was fine, 
though she looked as though she had been injured.  Yet... given how 
she was not alone, perhaps not so injured after all!  With an exercise of 
self control, he abandoned his clairvoyant sight, returning the majority 
of his senses to the hallway.
	The old gargoyle had stopped, waiting for his master patiently, 
as always, to return from one of his mental trips.  As they once again 
began to walk onwards, he probed a little hesitantly, still not used to 
taking initiative, despite the freedom granted to him by his master, "Sir, 
on that subject, don't you think what you are doing is dangerous?  If 
word of this gets out..."
	Frederick patted the rough stone of the Gargoyle's arm.  
"Patience my friend.  In time, she will seek me out, and when she does, 
she will be brought before me. Worry not; everything is proceeding 
exactly as I have forseen."  With a self confidant chuckle, he entered the 
dining room.
	Before he could even sit down, the door to the kitchen opened 
up as a beautiful young woman entered the dining room, bearing a 
finely crafted silver and jeweled pitcher containing something that 
steamed.  Her skin was the tan of a true blooded Sicilian, as were her 
dark eyes and hair.  She bowed to him with familiar formallity, "As you 
like it, sire", placing the pitcher on the table.
	Frederick graciously took the pitcher, sipping the warmed 
human blood that was once again tasting so... bland to him.  He looked 
over at his faithful ghoul.
	Over seven hundred years of service had not dulled her mind 
or beauty.  How different she was from when he had first found her and 
freed her from the clutches of her abusive and perverted step-father.  He 
touched her hand slightly, and with an honest smile she turned to do 
his bidding and finish getting dressed.  They now spoke without words.  
Alas, the Blood Oath held beyond strength for her, and obsession 
gleamed where his only showed friendship and affection.
	"Thirsty?" he asked Ubz-Talk.
	"No, I have already fed, thank you", was the answer from the 
Gargoyle.  "As you ordered, I examined the site.  It was as you foresaw.  
The explosion was not nuclear in origin.  The rite you taught me 
confirmed they were Sabbat.  I had to misdirect one of Genom's FRT 
fast-response teams.  Other than that, the operation was a success.  I 
have already contacted those you trust me to know and informed them 
of what to expect tonight."
	"Hmmm...", answered Frederick, as he continued to sip the 
blood, "there will be twelve attempted assassinations.  Only two are 
possibilities for major damage.  The use of one device cannot be 
avoided.  But the Black Hand Power will not attempt to use two.  
Hmmm... Yes, I shall contact the appropriate individuals.  You have 
insured that 'Captain ADP' has been assigned to this case?"
	"Of course sir.  Everyone seems to find him an acceptable 
alternative.  And as you foresaw, support for Genom has risen 9.3% in 
regard to our handling of the situation. The Chairman of the Board is 
most pleased with the Department of Media Affairs."
	"Good."
	Ubz-Talk hesitated, "If I may comment, sir, this is more than a 
little dangerous.  How can we be sure of the targets?  How are you sure 
that the perpatrators will not use more of the devices?  And should we 
not alert the Chairman?"
	Frederick looked up at Ubz-Talk with his luminous brown eyes, 
blinked them once, and returned to his chalice, answering, "In answer to 
your questions and comments; yes, this is dangerous.  I am sure that 
there will be twelve hits by the Black Hand for three reasons: one, I have 
bugged the office of the Archbishop Demandos; two, I know who and 
where all the Black Hand are; and the last reason is for myself alone 
know." He sipped the blood.  "As to the other two questions, *I* do 
not want the Chairman to be informed.  When this, *ahem*, 'blows up', I 
will be free of the blood.  Even if they _should_ use another device, 
there will be only maybe several hundred, perhaps a thousand dead; 
nothing of consequence."
	The Gargoyle drew back, and Frederick gave a slight grin at the 
squeamishness of his massive minion.  Looking into the depths of the 
steamed blood, Frederick grinned a little wider.  (The third reason, my 
good Gargoyle, is that it was *I* who allowed the Black Hand Power to 
know the location of the FAEs.  It was *I* who allowed them to acquire 
the devices.  And when they are finally taken, the sacrafice of these 
pawns will allow my pieces to advance even further down the board), 
thought von Ruthaven, smile growing even wider.
	The Gargoyle seemed to think for a second, digesting the 
information, before commenting, "Perhaps you would like to spar, sir."
	Frederick followed Ubz-Talk's gaze down and realized he still 
held his sword in his hand, another habit hard to break.  The old 
broadsword was sturdy as ever, and he knew his skill had not 
diminished greatly.  Still, perhaps some practice would do him good.  He 
opened his mouth to speak when-
	BEEP.  BEEP.  BEEP.
	The vid-phone rang.  Sighing, he dismissed his servants with a 
flick of his head, the rockcat beginning to chew on a leather and metal 
chewtoy.
	Frederick headed through his dwelling, in no particular hurry.  
Around him, on the walls, was set his collection of artwork that would 
make a Toreador swoon with avarice and desire.  He also passed 
innumerable antiques, some of them sculptures or books, even an 
original copy of 'The Crimson Way' among them.  He knew that 
Madeline ('Madigan now,' he reminded himself) suspected and sought 
the secret of his great Thaumaturgical power in the relics in the 
apartment.  She was correct, at least slightly, Frederick knew.  (But she 
would never understand), he thought to himself as he gazed upon the 
shifting colors in the painting "Volundo's Throne".  As the phone rang 
yet again, Frederick sighed and ended his contemplation of the relic, 
heading to the den, his "office".  Sitting in the plush chair, he turned on 
the vid-phone, after schooling his features into a face smoothly 
unreadable.
	The computer screeen that served as his vid-phone opened a 
window, and immediately Frederick saw the blindingly white teeth on 
the wide smile of his Assistant Director of Media Affairs, Troy McLure.
	"Heya, Frederick baby!  Listen, Fred; I can call you Fred right? 
I hoped this isn't a terrible inconvenience for you, calling at this hour, 
right?" came the smooth, ingratiating, yet absolute grating voice of 
Troy.
	Frederick swallowed his annoyance and anger.  He knew full 
well that Troy McLure was one incredibly intelligent and smart man, not 
the fool he sometimes presented.  However, Troy had ambitions, and 
saw this as the easiest way.  Sad thing was, it tended to work. "No 
problem Troy.  I had to get up at this incovenient hour to finish some 
work."
	Troy smiled even wider, if that were at all possible.  "Perfect 
baby, just perfect.  That was just what I wanted to talk about.  We never 
real get a chance to talk, you know.  So I just wanted to run some things 
by you, OK?"
	Frederick merely nodded, "Speak your mind."
	Troy seemed to falter a little before smiling yet again, a 
measure of his nervousness at presenting his own ideas before his 
superior.  The mage, formerly of the New World Order gathered himself, 
before beginning his best sales pitch, "Okay, here is the idea.  We have 
two absolutely fabulous opportunities in front of us.  We have to sieze 
the moment in this case, you know?  Else we may be in the jeopardy of 
allowing the wheel of fortune to take such a spin in ruin!  I'm telling you, 
these deals are better than easy, they are simp, son."
	Frederick merely said, "Your proposals?"
	Troy took a deep breath, "OK, first off.  I know you have 
always had a thing against subliminal messages, but I was checking 
with Department C and-"
	Frederick's voice cut sharply in, "No."
	"But-"
	"No", he repeated firmly, "And stay out of Department C.  That 
area is restricted to anyone less than Series 3 access, or Platinum 
access."  A pause. "Continue with your proposals."
	Troy seemed a little deflated, but continued on just as 
cheerfully, "Well then, my second idea, and boy is it a deal!  You might 
remember the discovery of that unique insect in the rainforests of Brazil 
when we bought out that clear cutting venture from AgriCorp, the 
Pentex holding?  I just thought of something.  Instead of using 
subliminal control, which we are one of the only corporations in the 
world who do not, why not put compound 32348952-X in our ClearMind 
headache pills?  I talked to our researchers, and the twin chemical 
interaction in the acids of the stomach cause a minor Stephenson Effect 
in the brain.  That way, we could deny our enemies the advantage of SC, 
while maintaining our positive image!"  Troy looked expectantly at 
Frederick.
	Frederick thought about it for a short time before announcing, 
"An excellent suggestion.  I fully authorize your endeavor.  The 
resources of the Department of Media Affairs are at your disposal.  You 
may call me at any time or communicate to Rosa any requests.  I am 
most pleased."
	Troy grinned an honest smile at these words, "No problem 
boss.  Listen, I'll just telecom the details over to you, for your approval."
	"No need Troy.  I trust your judgement in this matter."  It was a 
little risky, Frederick knew, but he had some faith in McLure.
	"Thank you sir.  I will do my best.  We'll do lunch... -er, how 
about we talk later? Ciao, baby!" With that, Troy McLure signed off.
	Frederick leaned back and sighed.  He missed his old assistant 
and protege.  That boy had had _potential_.  Not that he did not like 
Troy McLure, but the man was just too... unpredictable.  Frederick much 
preferred it when people could be comfortably controlled.  He missed 
Mason.  True, Brian had possessed far too much greed and too little 
discretion, but the Ducheski revenant had treated everything with a 
certain... style.  Even during the Largo incident-
	BEEP.  BEEP.  BEEP.
	Frederick looked the screen, which was again flashing the 
<Incoming Call> signal.  (Strange), he thought, (who would be calling 
me at this hour?)  Preparing himself mentally, Frederick pressed the 
screen, and was certainly surprised.
	The purple haired vision on his screen was more than familiar 
to him.  Though beautiful, smart, and nominally an ally, the woman was 
a person who sent many mixed signals,  "Good evening Madeline; 
excuse me, Ms. Madigan."
	Madigan's eyebrows flared briefly before returning their 
resting position.  "Touche.  I apoligize for the earlyness of this call; I 
realize how sleep must call to you."
	A point to her, a nice jab at his age.  True, he did feel the urge 
for the long sleep, but it was well within his control.  Letting none of his 
amusement show, he stared placidly at her, "Thank you, though your 
concerns are unnecessary.  Why have you called me?"
	Though an ordinary person would probably never notice, and 
even someone who was looking for would probably miss it in the 
relatively poor imagery of telecom line communication, the heightened 
senses of Frederick allowed him to note the slight tightening of the 
eyes.  (So, she is nervous), thought Frederick, beginning to feel his 
curiousity awaken.  (I wonder why?)
	"To keep in communication.  As you know, Genom is currently 
experiencing some upheaval.  Several new positions are opening.  It was 
merely my concern that we might discuss who is most suitable for such 
tasks."
	(What?) he wondered.  There was no way she was calling for 
such a simple request.  He seldom cared- of course, this was small talk!  
She was just working up to the proposal.
	Her demeanor shifted slightly as her businesswoman attitude 
changed into one the bearing of one who felt destined to argue for a 
hopeless cause.  Small cues, like the way she shifted shoulders, or how 
she set her head, told him entire volumes. "We have had our differences 
in the past, as you well know.  But despite this, at heart, we are the 
same.  Both of us are Tremere.  Our clan is our calling, despite what 
differences we may have with the Council of Seven.  I am calling now to 
formally extend an invitation to you.  Perhaps you would come to our 
clan meeting at 0200, tonight?  We Tremere need to discuss many 
things."
	(Ah, so that was it.)  "Perhaps.  I am very busy", was 
Frederick's response.
	(Probably not), was Madigan's accurate translation.  "Keep it 
in mind.  The Tremere must retain our clan loyalty.  I hope to see you 
there."
	(Wait, something else?)  Madigan had not cut the connection 
as he expected.  Instead, she had left it open for a few brief seconds.
	Those brief seconds were a world of information.  Though they 
might be rivals, or even enemies, one thing that Madeline was was an 
associate.  She was driven, motivated, skilled, manipulative, and even a 
little evil.  Thus, she might even be desirable.  One thing among many 
that Frederick had learned over the centuries was that the professional 
qualities present in Madeline (Madigan!) were, relatively speaking, a 
rarity.  Yet a tell-tale pause like this!  Madigan clearly was no longer 
running on professional grounds, no longer on sure footing.  She was 
stepping into something unknown, something frightening for a vampire, 
a being used to the repetitive eternity of assured and familiar patterns.  
Knowing this, Frederick inadvertantly leaned forward.  He was no 
longer just interested.  He was genuinely curious.
	Madeline was looking even more unsure before she visibly 
made up her mind and resolved an inner conflict.  With a light blush of 
the red of blood not her own at her cheeks, Madigan spoke in a vague 
rush, "Well then, if you are too busy for a meeting tonight, perhaps an 
alternative?" The blush grew a little. "Both of us have studied 
Thaumaturgical paths beyond what other Tremere typically engage in.  
Both of us are Tremere.  Perhaps, then, could the two of us get together, 
today, for a private study session.  To exchange information and other 
thoughts?"  The last came out breathlessly, her cheeks now flaming red, 
her eyes open with sincerity, fear, and caution.
	Frederick knew well his own face was blushing very red as 
well, his eyes just as shocked as her own at the relative frankness and 
openess of what she was saying.  He immediately recognized the true 
meaning of that proposal, hidden within the double meaning.  And it 
_was_ truly shocking.
	Gazing into those violet eyes through the silicon medium of 
computer, he was shocked to realize that it was actually possible.  She 
was being honest with him, her offer sincere.  For the eternity of a few 
moments, he knew it was, and the offer was more tempting than she 
would ever know.  For he knew what she felt.  For he had known it, for 
so long.
	Eight and a half centuries of existence.  
	Eight and a half centuries of pain.  
	So long.  Forever trapped, forever alone in a world where ones 
peers were literally cannibals of the first order.  The ache of fear and 
apprehension whenever you met another.  The horror and numbness of 
watching countless die, both worthy and unworthy.  And despite his 
few friends that remained true among the betrayals he had committed, 
never had there ever been a true partner or soulmate.  Never.  Yet the 
desire had forever remained, eager, always begging for love, to find 
even a single being to truly share, and if not that, then at least a childe!  
But beyond even that lay an even greater emotion: fear.
	He could see that fear and the desire in Madeline's eyes, knew 
it in her expression, just as he was aware that they were twin to what 
was revealed in his own.  His mind became a furnace as his potent 
intellect and faint imagination soared through the clouds of 
possibilities, of himself and Madeline together.  The pain and pleasure.  
He was never so naive to believe that it was simple personal desire that 
prompted her to suggest this partnership.  He knew that both of them 
were already contemplating the possibilities.  Together, semi-united, 
they would make the Tremere a force to be reckoned with in Genom.  
Given enough time, perhaps they alone would control the corporate 
behemoth.  But nor did he think that she was discounting the possibility 
of something deeper evolving.  Yes, he-
	Could love Madeline!  The knowledge came into his awareness 
in a flush of insight.  He could!  He could find happiness.  It would be 
the odd passion of the vampire, but he could.  And so could she.  Yes, 
more than even he, she wanted this.  Thus she was the one so forward-
	And just as suddenly, his accursed and perfect memory called 
his mind back to what must be.  What he must do.  For what will be.  
And in that instant, his heart protesting, he lied.
	Her face was expectant, hopeful even, until his face twisted 
slightly into a contemptuous look.  The light began to die in her eyes as 
he thrust the knife of cruelty into her bosum of blossoming dreams.  "I 
have work to do, and cannot afford to misuse my time."  Her mouth 
started to open, gasping.  The pain in those eyes, like the pain he felt, 
compelled him to add, "I'm sorry."  He was unsure as to whether she 
heard him, as Madeline immediately cut communications just as he was 
finishing speaking.
	Frederick calmly leaned back in his comfortable executive chair, 
arms resting on the armrests.  His head leaned back until it touched the 
supple leather there.  For a second he held it in, before the intensity of 
the emotion made him grab at the armrests, the wood splintering under 
the casual strength, his head thrown back, every muscle tensing as the 
epiphany of humors within surged, his mouth open wide in a savage 
grin with sparkling eyes, even as crimson tears flowed freely down his 
cheeks in a red river.  For at that instant, two emotions and trains of 
thought ruled Frederick harshly.
	Accustomed to reading people over the years, Frederick could 
see what happened within Madeline in stages, all courtesy of his perfect 
memory.  He could see the hope in her eyes, the fragile dream of true 
happiness she had nutured for decades, against her normal instincts.  
Madeline had hoped so much for success.  For at least something.  And 
he had crushed her.  Ruined her.  Taken her chances for the happiness 
he knew she would have found in their union, and denied.  For in those 
last few seconds, she had looked at him, thinking on what might have 
been, before allowing hate and hurt to take her away.  He had inflicted 
greater suffering on one already battered and scarred.  And from this 
hate she would hurt others, the magnitude of her hurt inflicted on others 
in self-release.  And he had caused this thing.  And thus Frederick wept 
bitterly.
	But there was, as always, the darker side.  Like the monsters 
children claim live under the bed or in the closet, like a phantom memory 
you want to forget, it lurks, never truly gone.  Yes, he knew Madigan 
felt pain.  He KNEW her suffering, knew the agony, and that bitter and 
vindictive side of him cried out with joy.  Frederick luxuriated in the 
sadistic desire.  For vampires were creatures of passion, passions that 
would never be truly denied.  Thus, there were the savage releases of 
the evil that Caine's blood, changed by Lilith, did seep out to taint all a 
vampire knew and touched.  The silent jealousy one felt for all things 
purer or better, or just simply not one's own.  The part within the 
shadows of the soul, the joker, the evil in all that all beings knew within, 
lurking and obvious, as though painted with a giant X.  The part within 
the desperate angel of all creatures tried to deny.  It was like a worker, 
enjoying the weekend, in darkness, in celebration, dancing in the 
endless rain.  And that is why Frederick grinned in dark joy.
	For a long period, as his eyes burned with the frenzy of his 
passions, two sides warring in the battle he had known for eight and a 
half centuries.  After a time, like all things except the taste and feel of 
blood, the memory and war subsided.  For a time Frederick just lay back 
in the chair as the droplets of blood from his tears stained the brown 
sweater, turning the color into patches of mahogany.  It was silent for a 
time, until-
	BA-BEEP. BA-BEEP. BA-BEEP.
	The sound called out in a range humans could not hear, 
designed to be silent except for those who were meant to hear it.  Thus 
Frederick heard, and gave himself time to recover.  He pressed the dull 
roar of emotions off to the side in some corner of his being.  He stripped 
of the stained sweater and used it to wipe his face and neck, before 
turning his attention to the alarm.
	It was indeed his "special" alarm, one intended only to be 
heard by himself.  One of his duties as Director of Media was a careful 
maintainance of the pseudo-Masquerade Genom ruthlessly enforced 
over MegaTokyo, though the mages among them called it their "reality 
paradigm".  To accomplish this task, he had a small legion of loyal and 
fairly bright subordinates to deal with this situation.  But his special 
alarm had been tripped, and with a few keystrokes, he ordered the 
computer to open a channel to the Genom Overnet Computer System, 
and plunged into the deluge of information to find what he was looking 
for.  There it was!  But what was this?
	Fredrick's eyes widened as he gazed at the screen and thought 
to himself,
	(Interesting. Indeed, most interesting....)


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	At last, the prodigious computer finished the security checks 
and internal scans, the warm-up and doublechecks that were Moebius-
like in their unceasing nature.  It had always been the greatest problem 
the JLT-CLA systems suffered from, but once the got running, it could 
continue for nights and nights, years on end, even as it suffered from 
numerous system degenerations.  It used a series of 26 three-
dimensional processors in equidistant parallels from the "mother" 
processor at the core.  Given the nature of computers, the relative 
distance mattered little in the world of quantum mechanics.  None-the-
less, the distance a chip links did allow Tenkawa dimensional floating 
logic to exist, in the eternal instantaneousness of a quantum 
superposition, thus allowing the true power of the Rank 9 Artificial 
Intelligence to tenatively come into being.  For the surrounding 
processors, suspended as they were in the flawless diamond matrix that 
encompassed the core of the computer, were then allowed to use their 
_own_ computing power to access a near infinite availability of 
computer power from the sub-processors.  This created a "cauldron 
effect" in the computer, a massive amount of random possibilities 
pumped through the logic framework provided by the central processor.  
This had two major drawbacks.  The computing power, though 
unbelievably complex and multipart, was also unbelievably complex and 
multipart.  No computer or central processor could deal with the near 
infinite range of possibilities produced by the localized quantum 
superposition of the 26 sub-processors.  Thus, over a long period of 
time, say years, the actual computing co-effecient would _decrease_ at 
a geometric rate proportional to the time in use and system demand.  
Thus the JLT-CLA computers had to be shut down periodically.  That 
was seldom a problem, as the universal language all BDY connections 
used enabled the sorted data to be transfered to another system with 
ease, or stored until the JLT-CLA had time to "rest".
	The other big disadvantage was the fact that when restarting 
the computer, there was a considerable system delay.  Not too long, but 
given that instead of a single CPU with peripherials, the JLT-CLA had a 
central processor with 26 sub-processors that _were_ the CPU.  Thus, 
when the 26 sub-processors through security and virus checks, the rest 
of the warm-up as well, each sub-processor having to be handled by the 
central node, which was only _slightly_ more powerful than the other 
sub-nodes, made for a very long warm-up time.  But after ten minutes or 
so, that warm-up was done, with a number of the 26 sub-processor now 
nodes assigned to various tasks, several running virtual "ghost" 
programs as independent computers to confuse tracker signatures, 
while the rest either ran security, were on of the two running 
connections, or were "open", held in reserve.
	Sylia examined readout on her screen, satisfied with leaving 10 
nodes open for optional tasks.  Perhaps she was too tight on security, 
had too many ghosts running, but... something told her this was one of 
the more prudent moves on her part.  Dedicating several nodes to 
security and stealth, with all their computer power, would almost 
certainly make her untraceable, even if they used echo-bounce tracing.  
And she did have 10 nodes in reserve, as well as two available for 
instant multi-task.  Sylia had to admit this was not quite her cup of tea; 
this sort of work was more of Nene's forte.  Not that Sylia was unskilled 
in computer manipulation.  It was just that she seldom had the time to 
keep up with the latest programs, and the newest viruses.  Nene did 
have the time and desire.
	Sylia keyed in the last few commands to set the program in 
motion.


(GENSS-INTRO)	>Welcome to Genom Enterprises Network Service 	
		>Systems, a subdivision of Genom Entertainment and 
		>Genom Computer Systems.  Please select an option 	
		>from the list presented below

(Segawa, M.)	>Skip


	Sylia had usurped a phony identity, one belonging to a 
teenage girl named Segawa Mizuky.  She seemed like an ordinary 
teenager, the sort who would be like the majority of the population, and 
enjoy an Net chat.  A person no one would be particularily interested in.  
A few minutes had given her a phantom line to her computer, and Ms.  
Segawa's identity.  Ms.  Segawa used her father's computer, and he had 
been on-line handling business when Sylia had slipped in and lifted 
Segawa Mizuky's key data and SIN.  A few keystrokes later, a profile of 
her father's computer was being emulated by a node, with the 2 nodes 
dedicated to communication emulating the rest smoothly.
	Sylia set a portion of _her_ mind into emulating how a teenage 
girl would act.  The rest was occupied with how she intented to handle 
this.  Moving the mouse over, Sylia clicked on the appropriate icon.


(GENSS-INTRO)	>You have selected *INTERNET 			
		>COMMUNICATIONS*.

(GENSS-INTRO)	>Please enter you log-on name and security 		
		>protocols.  If you are a first time user of our service, 	
		>please select either the *NEW ACCOUNT* option 	
		>or the *GUEST* option.


	Sylia selected the guest option, clicking the flashing icon with 
the mouse.  Genom Enterprises Network Service Systems was originally 
established as a service industry that helped set up networks in 
businesses, but a little department in the Public Relations and Media 
Affairs had taken the flagging business and made it into the provider it 
was today.  Sylia had chosen it because it was one of the few and rare 
systems that allowed usage of the system by guests; and didn't limit 
them to text or crude graphics, allowing usage of simple 3-D icon 
interface.  Access time was limited, but the extreme popularity of GENSS 
among the teenagers of MegaTokyo who tied up the communication 
lines with depressing frequency to many parents trying to use their own 
lines.  Thus, it was perfect for her purposes, the ideal camoflauge.  
Literally millions used the international service, affectionately referred to 
its numerous proponents as "gens", or the slang "jeans".


(GENSS-INTRO)	>Please select an option from one of the follo

(Segawa, M.)	>Skip


	Sylia selected the *GUEST INTERNET* icon, and the brilliant 
logo expanded into a multi-colored sheet of squares, each a new option.  
Sylia was well aware that this flashy display of animation was a test.  
The operators of the service used the guest table of contents to gauge 
the speed of the guest computer and the effectiveness of the 
communication line.  Given that it was against the law to judge a person 
on basis of wealth when granting access, one could not simply shunt 
aside undesirables.  Not that GENSS ever would do such a thing.  They 
depended on volume, not quality.  So they did not give preferential 
treatment to rich guest on their service.  Rather, they used the testing 
program other companies had designed for judging customers to 
instead decide which promotions and marketing ads they should send 
to prospective customers, as well as simply how well the guest system 
could handle information.  Sylia had set her system to emulate Ms. 
Segawa's father's system.  So judged, the computer AI at GENSS 
allowed Sylia to access the advanced menu for icons, the animated 
selection.


(G23-GUEST)	>Welcome to Genom Enterprises Network Service 	
		>System's Guest Icon Option Menu, Ms. Segawa.

(G23-GUEST)	>You have selected the *CHAT* option, and we have 
		>judged your system to be of sufficient processing 	
		>speed to allow an animated icon and Class 2 	
		>Interface Communication.  Is this acceptable (Y/N)?


	Sylia answered 'Y', grimacing slightly at the pain in her hand as 
she extended a finger to tap the key.  There was a brief wetness beneath 
the bandage, and she knew that the wound had broken open.  Gritting 
her teeth, Sylia ignored the tempting option of a a pain-killer;  she 
needed fully aware for what may occur in the course of the discussion 
she hoped to have with "Resu".


(G23-GUEST)	>You have selected 'YES'.  In order to utiliz

(Segawa, M.)	>Skip


	Sylia skipped past all the usual legal garbage, selecting yes to 
agree to all the legal details in using the service.


(G23-GUEST)	>Please enter your guest logon name:


	Sylia carefully typed in "Manta".


(G23-GUEST)	>Please wait while the system checks and processes 	
		>your request.


	A few seconds passed.


(G23-GUEST)	>You are now registered for this session as Guest-	
		>Manta83

(G23-GUEST)	>Please select an icon from the menu at this time:


	Sylia looked over the selection of icons and persona models.  
Most were fairly unimpressive, but that was to be expected.  Only 
members had the more high-end icons, or the option of custom models 
logged into the system memory.  Still, the _selection_ of icons was 
_very_ impressive, even if they were simple.  Browsing through sub-
headings attached to the menus, Sylia was stuck by a humorous twist of 
whimsy.  One click of the mouse opened the section labeled 
"Anthropomorphics".  The screen obediantly opened up to the new 
section.


(G23-GUEST)	>You have selected 'Anthropomorphics as an icon 	
		>choice.  The 'Anthropomorphic' style of artwork, 	
		>which orig

(Guest-Manta83)	>Skip

(G23-GUEST)	>You have selected the *SEA CREATURE* menu.  	
		>Ple

(Guest-Manta83)	>Skip

(G23-GUEST)	>You have selected the *L-M* menu of the *SEA 	
		>CRE


	There it was!  With a grin, Sylia moved her mouse pointer over 
to the image of a manta ray, looking vaguely cartoonish.


(G23-GUEST)	>You have selected the *SEA CREATURE* called 	
		>*MANTA R

(Guest-Manta83)	>Skip

(G23-GUEST)	>Do you wish your icon to be (M)ale, (F)emale, or 	
		>(A)ndrogynous?


	Thinking about it for a moment, Sylia decided to confirm Resu's 
suspisions, and selected 'F' for female.  When the color template came 
up, Sylia just flicked a random color.  She was running out of time.

(G23-GUEST)	>Icon compiling.  Icon complete.

(G23-GUEST)	>You have selected an icon, please enter a 		
		>destination.  If you need assistance in selecting a loc

(Guest-Manta83)	>Skip.

(Guest-Manta83)	>Destination: Gestalt@MegaTokyo

(I04-SYSOP)	>Establishing connection.  Standby.


	After a few seconds, Sylia was treated to a sight of her icon 
floating in space as it got onto a symbolic representative of the 
communication lines.  Her icon began to speed away, giving her a nice 
view of the GENSS mainframe, which appeared as a shimmering mass 
that always reminded Sylia of an fat octupus with it's tentacles lazily 
draped about.  Around the image on the screen were the other various 
icons for numerous corporations and their mainframes.
	Sylia hated this.  Computers were not like this, no matter what 
the mass public wanted to believe about them.  Graphical representation 
could facilitate comfort and awareness of the computer world, yes, but it 
was not worth the massive systems delay to keep up with the visual 
displays.  Real computers used binary code sequences.  After the 
disaster with icon-based operating systems, most computers had 
returned to the "Windows" format of the 20th century, or the simple text 
interface.  (Damn William Gibson loving computer geeks!) Sylia vented, 
realizing this was costing her precious time.  Almost immediately, 
though, she offered a small apology.  Though not as religious as Nene, 
Sylia wasn't one to try bad luck by offending the Patron Saint of 
Cyberspace.
	Inevitably, Sylia found her female Manta Ray icon entering 
into the Gestalt.  Gestalt was one of the more popular "clubs" on the 
WorldNet.  It catered mostly to an audience of the computer literate, 
whether genuine hackers, corp drones wanted to dabble in the 
forbidden, groupies, criminals, or just the curious.  The style of the 
representative interface was one of an immense Roman temple, the 
reflecting pool turned into a bath of green fluid, where icons mingled.  
The marble columns were painted a dull red, the floor a darker red.  
There was a starless sky above the head.  The level of the imagery was 
barely moderate, yet adequate.  At the gates to the temple,. the waiting 
room, the icon of a black man in a yellow toga with a number on it came 
forward to greet her.  An autobot.


(AUTOBOT-72)	>Welcome to the Gestalt, the si

(Guest-Manta84)	>Skip


	Sylia skipped through the introduction, saving the mandatory 
rules and FAQ to her computer, and taking the assigned priority 
number, which was assigned on basis of arrival and membership at the 
Gestalt.  The priority number determined which requests were processed 
first when the system cycled through the requests were updated.
	Lacking anything better to do, Sylia headed to one of the 
tables at the pool-side, the newbee chat room.  As her icon advanced, 
the background and icons within updating jerkily, the building seemed 
to get bigger as she advanced.  The Gestalt was very large, with nearly 
sixty chat-rooms.

(CHAT-20)	>Welcome to the Introductory Chatroom.  Would you 
		>like to join in this discussion (Y/N)?

(Guest-Manta84)	>No.


	It was only one minute from 12:00.  Sylia resolved to wait.
	Time passed slowly, as Sylia looked down at the sheet by her 
computer keyboard.  She would have to bring up these words.  Yet she 
couldn't reveal too much.  Especially not what she knew.  Sylia knew, in 
a relation like this, she was the expectant one, the seeker, but as Foucalt 
had written on torture, the subject had power over the torturer as well.  
Or was it him?  No, stay focussed.  She must-

(Genom-6222183)	>Hi there!


	Sylia looked over at the icon of a Genom construction boomer 
approaching her.  That is, it could be called that if Genom created 
boomers in bright neon green colors.  Which they didn't.
	Sylia intuitively realized that this was too garish and blunt.  
Not his style.  This wasn't Resu.


(Guest-Manta84)	>NI


	Sylia entered NI:  "Not Interested" in Net parlance.  She barely 
noticed the rejoiner of the construction boomer as it moved on.  
Hmmm... 12:02 already.


(Guest-Manta84)	>Request: Search:  (Resu); Discrete


	Sylia entered the search with parameters, waiting for a reply.  
Maybe this was a waste of time.  But she didn't think so.


(AUTOBOT-112)	>Search results for Guest-Manta84: No such persona 	
		>present.


	Damn, looked like he wasn't here-


(Guest-Resu3)	>Certes, I do verily apologize for keeping the lady 	
		>waiting.


	Sylia looked up as an icon of what looked like a... knight? 
approached her icon.  The knight was dressed all in black but for a white 
cross on his shield.  It halted before her.  For some reason, Sylia 
suddenly felt a sense of Deja-vu.


(Guest-Manta84)	>So good to see you, Sir Knight.  You are?


	She had to test him.


(Guest-Resu3)	>An old friend.  I believe we met in a dusty old library 
		>somewhere?


	It was him.  Or least a good impersonator.


(Guest-Manta84)	>I understand that you are ready to continue our 	
		>conversation?

(Guest-Resu3)	>Of course.  I will be delighted to draw the blade of 	
		>my verbal wit and spar words with you, Lady fair O' 	
		>the Sea.  But not here.  Perhaps one of the private 	
		>side rooms?


	Sylia thought about it for a second before agreeing.


(Guest-Manta84)	>Agreed.  Where?

(Guest-Resu3)	>I have reserved Room 0204.  Is that alright?

(Guest-Manta84)	>Fine.

(SYSOP-CHATS)	>Guest-Resu3 has exitted this chat.

(Guest-Manta84)	>Go: Room 0204.

(SYSOP-GEOF)	>Guest-Manta84, Go: Room 0204, OK.


	Sylia watched her brown and pink icon move with staggering 
motions to one of the gaps between the columns, a sheet of sheer 
blackness between the red stone.  The dark disappeared once she 
passed beyond, her icon moving into the hallway of infinite doors that 
stretch before her.  She moved two doors forward before turning into 
Room 0204.


(SYSOP-SECR)	>You have entered Room 0204.  This room has been 	
		>marked as *SECURE*.  This room is now 		
		>*PRIVATE*.


	Room 0204 was a simple cube of gray, perfectly symetrical to 
the door she had stepped through.  Straight ahead of her waited Resu.


(SYSOP-SECR)	>Room 0204 contains:
		>1)  Guest-Resu3
		>2)  Guest-Manta84


	Sylia had entered a common phenomena in on-line chat rooms.  
While most people went to chat rooms to socialize, occasionally they 
desired some privacy.  These virtual rooms had become known as 
"Love Boxes."  "Boxes" was a reference to their small size in the VR 
environment.  "Love" was a reference to their original usage as private 
meeting places between lovers, who usually wished to avoid the 
intrusions by other chatters.
	Of course, the "Love Boxes" had quickly become used for 
other things.  The socially unacceptable, such as perverts, criminals, 
revolutionaries, and free thinkers also used these "Love Boxes" for their 
less than honorable purposes.  The criminal element used them as 
meeting places to engage in things like discussing deals.  This had 
caused the term "Love Boxes" to develop two distinct meanings in 
slang.  When "talking in" or "going to" a "Love Box", it meant sexual 
relations.  "Living in" or "staying at" a "Love Box" meant murder or 
some other unsavory fate for the subject.  Sylia hoped neither would 
apply to her.  She wanted information.


(Guest-Resu3)	>I am sure you have questions.  'Struth, I myself have 
		>looked forward to this meeting.  So ask, and as I 	
		>have promised, I shall grant answers.  But remember 	
		>my warning..  The more I answer, the more you dig 	
		>yourself in.

(Guest-Manta84)	>I have a number of questions.  To start with, what do 
		>you mean by 'clan'?

(Guest-Resu3)	>Hmmm....  Let me ask you a question.  What is your 	
		>interest in knowing such information?


	Damn.  Was her contact getting flat feet?  And why the 
interest?  Hmm.  Time to be daring.


(Guest-Manta84)	>I asked you first.  I will answer your question if you 	
		>answer mine.

(Guest-Resu3)	>Ah-ha! Touche.  I agree.  What would you like to 	
		>know first?

(Guest-Manta84)	>What do you mean by clan?  Is that too hard?

(Guest-Resu3)	>Not at all.  Clans are, for lack of a better word, a 	
		>family of people who share certain... similarities.  	
		>Both in abilities and weaknesses.

(Guest-Manta84)	>A little generic a description there!

(Guest-Resu3)	>I agreed to answer your questions.  I did not agree 	
		>to kill you.  Learn too much, too quickly, when you 	
		>are not mentally prepared, and you will be dead.

(Guest-Manta84)	>I am able to take care of myself!

(Guest-Resu3)	>Such fire!  I would disagree, but for the fact that I 	
		>might die as well.


	Then why had Resu come out all this way!  Resu had already 
said that it was dangerous.  So why? It- Of, course!  This was a test!


(Guest-Manta84)	>I am well prepared for the consequences.

(Guest-Resu3)	>So I see.  So I see.  Very well, in return, I shall not 	
		>hold back as much as I intended.

(Guest-Resu3)	>There are 13 clans, created back in antiquity.  Of 	
		>these, 11 of the original survive, two newcomer clans 
		>having destroyed two of the originals.  Several 	
		>survivors of the 2 destroyed clans remain.

(Guest-Manta84)	>Antiquity?  Care to put a date on that?  Or how 	
		>about the names of these clans?

(Guest-Resu3)	>OK.  Here is where you have to suspend your 	
		>disbelief.  Ready?  We have been around for, quite 	
		>literally, millenia.


	Yeah, right.  She had heard this more than once.


(Guest-Manta84)	>Please excuse my inability to suspend my disbelief.

(Guest-Resu3)	>Perfectly understandable.  The Truth is always hard.  
		>I felt the same when I learned.  You see, the clans 	
		>control it.  Everything.  At least to some degree.  	
		>There are other groups out there, and the 13 clans 	
		>and the various sects are just as contentious, but it 	
		>is all about control.  From ancient Rome and Egypt, 	
		>to the Great Nations of Europe, and on and on, we 	
		>have controlled.


	Sylia felt fingers of dread crawl up her spine.  Try as she might, 
she didn't believe that Resu was joking.  Not in the slightest.  And even 
more scary, she had a sneaking suspicion-


(Guest-Resu3)	>I know.  It is hard to believe.  Yet we are hardly alone 
		>in this.  There are dozens of other groups out there.  	
		>Each one wants desperately to keep the 'normal' 	
		>population ignorant of our existence.  Of the 13 	
		>clans, there are four primary sects.  The first is one 	
		>that merely wants to survive and control.  The 	
		>second espouses freedom for itself, and 		
		>enslavement or worse for those not of themselves.  	
		>The third claims to seek enlightenment, but no one 	
		>knows the truth of the matter.  And the last is very 	
		>new, one that seeks to establish a new Carthage, 	
		>where the normal populace and the clans can live in 	
		>peace together, an objective they try to accomplish 	
		>through war.

(Guest-Manta84)	>What do you mean?  I need details!

(Guest-Resu3)	>No.  At least, not at this time.  I have already given 	
		>you a lifetime of knowledge.  You seem very 	
		>intelligent.  I am confidant that you will fill in the 	
		>blanks yourself.

(Guest-Resu3)	>And now, the answer to my question?  Why were 	
		>you so curious about all this?  I believe it started 	
		>with the antitribu, yes?

(Guest-Manta84)	>Just something I read somewhere.

(Guest-Resu3)	>You are lying.  I do not care to be trifled with.  I have 
		>treated you with honesty at considerable risk to 	
		>myself.  If you have not guessed, I am a being of 	
		>considerable power.  Your programs will not find me 	
		>unless I allow them to.  Now, the truth please?


	(So, he saw through that?) Sylia thought.  About what she had 
expected.  It had been a give away.  But the irratability... that had been 
telling.  This person was either a politician or someone else used to real 
power, or else a faker.  She was wagering on the former.  He knew what 
she was doing.  And she was sure that Resu was a man.


(Guest-Manta84)	>Very well.  Someone I know mentioned the word, as 	
		>though it was important.


	Silence reigned for a great many seconds.


(Guest-Manta84)	>Resu?

(Guest-Manta84)	>Resu, you still there?


	Nothing.  Not a peep.


(Guest-Manta84)	>Request: Searc

(Guest-Resu3)	>My apologies for not answering so soon.  Verily, 	
		>thou did catch mineself most unawares.

(Guest-Manta84)	>Really?  How so?

(Guest-Resu3)	>This has moved far beyond what I have expected.  I 	
		>now owe _you_ a prestation debt I mean to repay.

(Guest-Manta84)	>How do you figure that?

(Guest-Resu3)	>Because of you, I now *OWN* a little subsect 	
		>within the second sect I told you.


	Oh, no.  He couldn't mean Mackie.  Could he?


(Guest-Manta84)	>I don't see how.

(Guest-Resu3)	>I think you do.  Listen, there is now no choice.  We 	
		>have to meet somewhere.


	(Yeah, right), Sylia thought to herself.

(Guest-Manta84)	>I don't think so!

(Guest-Resu3)	>There isn't much choice left.  Look closely.

(Guest-Manta84)	>I can not arr


	And then Sylia saw it, her fingers freezing over the keys, the 
wound on her hand still aching, now numb.  There, in one corner of her 
computer screen was a little, flashing icon.
	*Incoming message*
	Softly, Sylia moved the cursor over and opened the simple E-
mail after sending it through the usual security steps.  It was impossible.  
The JLT-CLA system never received E-mail.  Her various sub-computers 
handled that.  Which meant...


To: Sylia Stingray@
From:
Subject: A meeting.

How about this evening, at a neutral location?  The Ginawa Soy Bar 
near ADPolice headquarters?  The area insures both of us will come in 
good faith.  Please do so.  I will come alone.

Resu


	It was.  Somehow, this Resu knew exactly who she was.  
Which should have been impossible.  Her security was very good.  
Sending the message covertly would have been easy, but how did Resu 
know the address?  How did he-  Enough.


(Guest-Manta84)	>An interesting proposal.

(Guest-Resu3)	>A regrettably necessary one.

(Guest-Manta84)	>As if I have a choice?

(Guest-Resu3)	>Of course you have one.  I was entirely honest when 
		>I said I only wanted the exchange of information.  	
		>Walk away, and our business ends.  But as the Devil 
		>said to Eve: 'But my dear, you cannot just quit after a 
		>nibble.  You must devour it all, no matter which parts 
		>are sour, rancid, or bitter."  You will not walk away, 	
		>will you?


	Damn him!  As if she had a choice.


(Guest-Manta84)	>As if I have a choice.  When do you want to meet?

(Guest-Resu3)	>There is always a choice.  Always.  And the time is 	
		>left up to you.  A double blind if you will.

(Guest-Manta84)	>Very well.  But two questions before I go.  First, why 
		>the sudden urgency?

(Guest-Resu3)	>You deserve the answer to this.  I have made a 	
		>connection that is staggeringly in my favor.  Even 	
		>though I have used the Black Hand, never did I 	
		>imagine such a secret!  To think the young 		
		>Lasombra is an antitribu!  And members of my clan 	
		>call themselves the masters of deception at times!


	(Black Hand!  Magnus Nigrum! That is what Priss said.  About 
Mackie!  Mackie must be a Lasombra antitribu!  One against his own 
clan!)  thought Sylia, (And I just handed a stranger that information.  He 
knew!  Somehow, he knew!)


(Guest-Manta84)	>Then am I not to trust you?  Your clan who are the 	
		>masters of deception by your own admission.

(Guest-Resu3)	>I would never lie to you.  I lie every day.  It is very 	
		>refreshing not to lie now, to be entirely honest.

(Guest-Manta84)	>Am I some amusement for you then?

(Guest-Resu3)	>Do not think that.  Ever.  I may enjoy our 		
		>conversation, I may be amused by certain things, 	
		>but I hold all life of value, even if my associates do 	
		>not.

(Guest-Manta84)	>Nice words.  But how will they hold up?

(Guest-Resu3)	>So jaded?  Very well.  Look closer.


	And once more, her computer beeped at her.  With an 
incredulous look, Sylia acknowledged the report from her computer.  
After nearly ten minutes of futile effort, her tracer programs had 
suddenly broken through Resu's countermeasures.  The programs had 
stopped their inquiry at a certain point.  After all, not even Nene was 
foolish enough to mess around in the highest levels of Genom's 
computer system, the OverNet.  That was restricted to executives and 
Genom Directors.  Which meant-


(Guest-Resu3)	>Yes, I am.  Now do you realize what I risk?

(Guest-Manta84)	>Why?  Why do you care?


	A noticeable pause.


(Guest-Resu3)	>Because, believe what you will, I respect you very 	
		>much.  I see much of myself in you.  One who has 	
		>overcome obstacles despite a hard life.

(Guest-Manta84)	>You don't even know me.

(Guest-Resu3)	>Do I not?  Each word we share, each dialogue and 	
		>riposte gives me further insight.  I think I know you.  
		>But enough.  Your other question?

(Guest-Manta84)	>The Lasombra.  I know that means "the shadow" in 	
		>Spanish.  Why is a Spanish word the term for one of 
		>your "clans"?  What are the Lasombra clan?

(Guest-Resu3)	>The existence of the Lasombra far outdates that lazy 
		>tongue.  Just as Brujah and Toreador are clans that 	
		>are Spanish words, so too are the Lasombra.  The 	
		>Lasombra are named after their founder, the 	
		>Lasombra, or "the shadow".  The Spanish word 	
		>originated from the legends of Lasombra himself.  	
		>Lasombra are the shadowy clan of power and 	
		>manipulation.  The Machiavelli's of our world.  Much 
		>like the Tremere.


	Manipulators?  Machiavelli?  This is what Mackie had gotten 
into?


(Guest-Manta84)	>They don't sound very pleasant.

(Guest-Resu3)	>They are not.  Tread very carefully.  Around any of 	
		>our kind.

(Guest-Manta84)	>Your kind?  What exactly does that mean?

(Guest-Resu3)	>You would not believe me if I told you.  You will find 
		>out in time.

(Guest-Resu3)	>But that is neither here nor now.  Do you agree to 	
		>the meeting?

(Guest-Manta48)	>Of course.  How about 16:00?

(Guest-Resu3)	>A little too early for me.  20:00?

(Guest-Manta48)	>Fine.

(Guest-Manta48)	>How will I know you?

(Guest-Resu3)	>You will.  I will be wearing a scarf over my neck and 	
		>a trenchcoat.  My unique charm should help 	
		>distinguish myself.

(Guest-Manta48)	>Anything I should wear?

(Guest-Resu3)	>I only trust you will wear something appropriate, 	
		>perhaps conservative.  Though quite good on you, I 
		>would strongly advise against white and blue.  Or 	
		>involving others in this.  Associates always make me 
		>nervous.  I shall bring none.  I swear it.


	(White and blue).  There was no doubt about it now.  Those 
two colors were the color of her hardsuit.  This person knew who she 
was.  This was trouble.  She would have to finish this.


(Guest-Manta84)	>Fine.  I will be there.  No 'associates' either.

(Guest-Resu3)	>As shall I.  My word of honor on this pledge.  A 	
		>good day to you, my lady.

(SYSOP-GEOF)	>Guest-Resu3 has left.


	That was just fine with Sylia.  She looked with a small smile of 
satisfaction at the computer screen.  Just before Resu had signed off, 
she had conducted a last ditch effort to probe him.  Thanks to Resu's 
lowering the blockers, she had managed to get at least a little scan into 
the levels of Genom's OverNet, at least passively.  That little bit had 
been enough.  Enough to confirm that the person she had been 
speaking to had the fabled and legendary Platinum Access in Genom.  
The last person she had met who had had that kind of access was Brian 
J. Mason.  And a person like that had many enemies.  And that meant 
advantage to Sylia.
	Resu had claimed that he would not bring "associates".  Sylia 
had said she would not either.  But even if Resu did not bring in people, 
she fully intended to.  She was not stupid.  A few phone calls, 
discretely, would take care of that.  This Resu was arrogant, he seemed 
full of pride.  And, like Satan, that was a flaw she could use against 
Resu to make him fall far.  Coupled with the fact that he was breaking 
one of the big taboos of his people of the "clans", by his own 
admission, Sylia had several advantages she could change into the 
sword of Damocles.
	This Resu may know all about her, may even have the 
proverbial gun to her head with one hand tied behind her back, but she 
had that one hands on his nuts, ready to tear them off and feed them to 
him if he didn't answer her questions to her satisfaction.
	And then she would get her answers.  To find out what had 
happened to Mackie.  And how this Resu knew about her and the 
Knight Sabers.
	(Then I will make everything right again), Sylia thought with a 
fierce determination to herself.
	So she would.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	It was fairly obvious when they reached the crime scene, as 
suddenly traffic became nearly standstill.  This was mostly the fault of 
the various news agencies, who had parked their vehicles escew and 
every which way, blocking traffic so as to set up their uplink arrays.  
Added to that was the curious pedestrians and the curious drivers who 
slowed down to ask the curious pedestrians what was going on.  With 
the further addition of the rabid fanboys and fangirls, the end result was 
a potpourri of mass confusion.  The Normal Police and the ADPolice 
had a difficult time just keeping order, let alone conducting an 
investigation.  News choppers had to be scared off as big lifters 
brought in equipment.
	The ADP cruiser slowly inched forward, Daley driving as Leon 
would have undoubtably lost it and simply driven through the mass of 
people.  But by advancing very slowly, and a quick call ahead, the mass 
of people was slowly being cleared out of the way.  Thankfully, due in 
part to the tinted windows set to maximum, no one had yet realized that 
Leon was in the car.  If they knew, it would be a quick mugging.  (Like 
last time), thought Leon.
	"Seems to be quite a crowd, eh Leon?" quipped Daley, 
"Maybe we should just sneak off somewhere..."
	"Not now, I have a headache", muttered Leon, rubbing his 
temples.  Sleep had eluded him for too long.
	Daley looked over at Leon, noticing with the familiar concern, 
"Still not getting any sleep?  Nightmares again?"
	"Yeah", Leon snorted, "You wouldn't believe the weirdness my 
subconscious has been dragging up!"
	"Try me", Daley winked.
	"I have got to get out of the seiyuu business.  I had this truly 
strange dream last night.  In it, I was a green alien named Pickle, fighting 
with a bunch of orange Vegetables that turned into giant monkeys so 
they could fight being packaged by someone named Freezer."
	"Definitely Freudian.  Your inner child talking!" Daley laughed 
out loud.
	"That isn't Freud!  Anyway, _then_ I had this other weird 
dream, where I was a crazy kid chasing after women who turned into a 
tiger demoness and God smote me with bolts of lightening."
	Daley looked at Leon.  "You're right, Leon.  You do need help."
	"Thanks.  Your comforting words are like wine to my parched 
ears and tattered ego."
	Daley grinned, then frowned, "Uh-oh Leon-chan.  Time to get 
ready.  We have been spotted."
	It was true.  One of the spotters, a person whose sole purpose 
was to identify celebraties and report them, had noticed the ADPolice 
cruiser, and more importantly, the VIP passanger.  Almost immediately, 
the otaku of the crowd and the news people began their cries just as the 
ADPolice escort helped guide them in.
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"Inspector McNichol!"
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"A moment of your time!"
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"How do you answer allegations of an inappropriate 
relationship with your co-seiyuu?!"
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"Any comments on the explosion here?"
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	The sound beat like waves of the ocean at the storm breakers 
that the windows were.  Soon, a procession had developed as the 
people swelled around the slow moving car.  Like lemmings following a 
leader, like robots on an automation line, like the inevitable IRS income 
tax deadline, the people crowded in and followed to where investigators 
and police had the area secured.  And as they approached, Leon got his 
first glimpse of the explosion site.
	The sattelite photos had not done the sheer immensity of the 
explosion justice.  A titanic crater greeted Leon and Daley as their car 
came to the edge of the site.
	It was a circle perhaps one hundred meters across, not very 
deep except in the center.  The devastation outside the direct crater was 
just as impressive.  The explosive force hurled from the epicenter had 
carved chunks of pavement from the surrounding buildings, leaving 
only bare metal skeleton frameworks, if that.  The explosion had also 
shattered glass and plastic windows for nearly twenty blocks.  The 
fragments lay glittering in the hot sun despite the cleanup efforts.  
There were secondary explosions, where the vibrations had excited 
hydro-cells in short-range vehicles to the point where they had popped 
off like tops.  The explosion had also shifted several pipelines, severing 
them, and the resultant gas buildup, cut fiber-op communications, and 
the sparking wires from the electrical system had touched off secondary 
explosions all around.  Only recently had things calmed down enough 
to approach and begin the investigation.
	Several helicopters, belonging to Genom, ADP, and USSD 
began to descend on the crude helipad constructed on a side street.  
One look at the helicopters told the story of the relative positions of the 
various groups.  The ADP helicopter was the familiar workhorse heavy 
'copter, an older I-23 model military unit with the weapons removed, the 
engines toned down for better long term endurance and less 
maintainance, and the other incidentals removed.  The white and blue 
Genom helicopter was different.  New, with the Genom 'G' logo proudly 
displayed, it looked cutting edge and stylish.  Leon was willing to bet 
there were some 'other' cutting edge enhancements within the 'copter 
besides stylistic ones.  And the black USSD helicopter was _very_ 
different.  Black and sleek, it looked deadly and vicious.  It was medium 
sized, made more bulky by the chain-gun at the chin and the outboard 
extensions that were currently empty.  It was definitely a piece of 
military hardware, evident in how though it descended in standard 
mode, not whisper mode, the helicopter's blades made almost no noise 
as it descended compared to its two compatriots.
	The two smaller 'copters and the larger ADP one passed 
beyond his vision, and suddenly they were past two cars that had been 
set up as part of a barricade to keep back civilians.  Their car drifted 
over to where a hab-tent had been established near two ADP command 
vehicles, which were nothing more than converted ADP APCs.
	The hab-tent was a Genom trademark, and like most of their 
products, a versatile item with a broad range of applications.  It was, in 
the most simple sense, a semi-portable pre-fab building, made to be 
carried in a standard transport.  The strutctures had found use in 
military mobile bases, independent survey company headquarters, or 
even emergency housing.
	And now it seemed they were used as ADP mobile 
headquarters, given how many people were going in and out of them.  
As Leon and Daley stepped out of the car, into the sound and light, a 
man approached them.
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"Excuse me, Inspector?" shouted the man.
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"My name is Chief Goto.  I am supposed to direct you to the 
other representatives", he shouted as he shook their hands. 
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"I am the one in command of the excavation units", he 
gestured to the giant robot-like machines moving about in the crater.
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"Both the government and Genom have sent their people to 
help us out.  We should meet them at the helipad!"  he shouted louder, 
as a news chopper pulled overhead, trying to get a bead.
	"CLEAR THE AREA.  THIS AIRSPACE IS RESTRICTED!" 
came the ADP patrol chopper over the loudspeakers.
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"Sure, lets get going!" shouted Daley back, as they strode left, 
over to where the helicopters had landed.
	Or tried to land.  Apparantly, several observers had broken out 
of the lines and come in for a closer look.  This had resulted in the newer 
helicopters being unable to land.  As Leon, Daley, and Goto approached 
the pad, a converted parking lot, the Genom 'copter had just landed, and 
the USSD helicopter was started to descend to the other slot.
	Three men and two women exitted the Genom aircraft, all 
dressed in fashionable suits and dresses, and such attire.  Two moved 
oddly; the man too roughly and disjointed, which screamed boomer, 
and the woman in the long skirt, who also moved oddly, but too 
smoothly in this case, which also said boomer.
	The three human approached while the two boomers stood in 
the background.  The leader, a man with blond hair and cold blue eyes 
introduced himself as he raised his voice over the howl of spinning 
blades to shake hands with them all.
	"My name is Reinhart, and this is my assistant Kircheis", he 
introduced himself, then gesture to his red-haired association.  "And 
this is Ms. Pan." He gestured to a short, black-haired woman.
	"Welcome aboard", Leon invited, not entirely comfortable.
	The man, Reinhart, smiled briefly, "I think we are going to need 
all the help we can get.  This situation looks grim.  But here come our 
experts."
	The USSD 'copter had finally landed, and from the landing 
ramp came two figures.  One was obviously female from the way the 
tight USSD officers uniform defined her form.  The other was a tall man, 
a partial conversion cyborg, with a large optic core.
	"Greetings.  I am Captain Deunan, with Special Forces and 
Counter-Terrorism, and this is Captain Briarerous, from Military 
Inteligence, on loan to Counter-Terrorism" she gesture to the hulking 
cyborg, who nodded.  She turned to the Leon, ignoring the hands 
outstretched in greeting.
	"My orders from my commanding officer, Major Kusangi 
Makoto, were to place myself under your command while maintaining 
USSD observances" she said, starting to salute, before reversing it and 
shaking his hand instead.
	"My instructions were the same, Inspector McNichol", said 
Mr. Reinhart.  "Apparantly, the government thinks you are the man to 
solve this mess, and so does Genom.  Genom's resources are at your 
disposal.  You will need them to sort out this mess."
	"My crews are already working on clearing the major ruins" 
Chief Goto spoke up, "Our Labors can clear the big stuff while the E-41 
boomers clear and shift the small stuff with the crews."  They were all 
heading to the headquarters for the investigation.
	That did surprise Leon.  Someone must have really pulled the 
strings to get Labors in there to finish the work so fast.  And someone 
in Genom really must want the problem resolved, for G-41 construction 
boomers were not common.
	The common boomer brain was the Model 9 cyberdroid neural 
network.  A far more advanced model, the Model 11, was available, but 
restricted to only the most sophistocated boomers, such as the A-04 
Central boomers, or the banned 33-S sexaroid boomers.  But there had 
been a more expense and advanced Model 9, the Model 9d, which was 
just finishing testing.  The G-41 construction boomer had such a 
prototype series brain, and the body itself was a next generation multi-
tool model using Series 1 fusion abilities.  They were cutting edge, and 
very smart.
	Someone in Genom must want this solved.  Bad.  And they 
wanted it solved, not swept under the rug.
	Which made Leon even more uncomfortable, as they swept 
into the operations room.  A cover-up would at least point him in the 
right direction.  This situation suggested that neither Genom nor USSD 
was likely to be responsible.  About what he had suspected, but most of 
the problems were either directly related to the two, or appropriated by 
the two.  This was unprecendented.
	(But then again, this was something new), thought Leon.  
Within the hab-tent, there were several displays and radio operators.  
(Christ!) thought Leon, (this looks like a military operation!)
	"Any information?" called out Captain Deunan, before 
stopping herself, and looking at Leon.
	"Yes, any information?" repeated Leon, looking towards one of 
the operators.
	"Plenty", his face soured as he said it, "but we don't know 
what to do with it."
	"Do we know anything about the perpetrators of the crime?" 
asked Reinhart.
	"Well, we tracked them to their vehicle, a semi trailer registered 
to a company called Kamizake, which we estimate the epicenter of the 
blast.  There was evidence of a number of crates having been stored in 
the truck, and apparantly a car as well, judging from the exhaust and tire 
impressions.  It was discovered by OverSight tracking and a foot patrol, 
having been scavenged by gutter people.  No one saw nothing."
	"That's MegaTokyo for you.  A city of millions, and nobody 
sees anything", muttered a technician.
	"Muzzle that", Leon ordered.  He looked at the displays.  
"Anything else?"
	"Yes, sir.  There have been no credible claims for the blast.  No 
one wants to admit responsibility", the first officer concluded.
	"We are running an AI to sort terrorist groups, or corporate 
teams", Deunan shot a glance at Reinhart, "but so far, we have nothing.  
We are even now rekeying."
	"Sir!" said a woman in a construction jumpsuit, as she rushed 
over to Chief Goto, who nodded and left with her.
	"Well, does USSD or Genom have anything to say?" asked 
Leon.
	"USSD is intending to fully cooperate with the investigation of 
this horrific crime, and willing to assist the appointed MegaTokyo 
representative-" recited Deunan.
	"Thank you, Captain", broke in Leon, receiving a fierce glare 
from the woman. "Now, does Genom have anything worthwhile to say?" 
Leon asked with a raised eyebrow.
	"Officially, Genom is neutral in this affair.  Unofficially, Genom 
is ready to help tear this city apart looking for the culprit.  I was serious 
when I said you have my full cooperation.  Director Jamison, my 
employer, as well as Directors Madigan and von Ruthaven have been 
most insistant on this matter.  The Chairman himself, Mr. Quincy, has 
also called me and made it understood I am to assist your efforts."  The 
blond man bowed, "Inspector."
	That was the bow of one subordinate, deep.  Leon felt like 
Atlas, the world descending on him as he realized that Genom and Mr. 
Quincy _himself_ was handing him an unlimited credit card to Genom.
	"Unofficially, USSD has its own interests in resolving this 
matter.  Your track record made you an acceptable choice.  We are to 
assist you.  I have a squad of ten elite FLASH commandos standing by 
in the heli for your orders" admitted the blond woman.
	"And Genom has authorized usage of some... ah... 'personal 
security boomers' to be deployed at your discresion", countered 
Reinhart.
	"Inspector Wong?  Telephone, sir", announced a 
communications operator.  Daley walked over.
	"Me?  Why me?" asked Leon, in a state of shock.  He had 
expected jurastiction, not complete cooperation.
	Both gave him a puzzled look.
	Reinhart spoke up, "Come now, Inspector.  You have one of 
the highest records in the ADP."
	"Dealing with the Largo incident" added Deunan.
	"The D.D. problem", spoke up Kircheis.
	"The ADP hostage takeover", said Briarerous.
	Leon couldn't believe it.  The _Knight Sabers_ had done those 
things, not him!
	"Wait a minute, I-", Leon started.
	"Leon!" interupted Daley, cupping the phone as he looked at 
Leon.  In that instant, at the seriousness on the usually cheerful 
countenance of his partner, Leon knew it was bad.
	"What is it Daley?"  Leon asked.
	Daley sighed and hung up the phone, "It would be better just 
to see."  Not waiting, Daley headed out of the hab-tent and down the 
ramp to the crater.  Leon and his entourage followed.
	Stepping into the bright sun, Leon donned his customary 
shades.
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	And was deafened by the crowds and cheers.  For crying out 
loud, it was a possible terrorist investigation, maybe involving murder, 
and here he had a cheering crowd supporting him!
	"CAPTAIN ADP!!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!! CAPTAIN ADP!!!"
	Leon tried to ignore it, looking towards Daley, who was talking 
with Chief Goto a little ways down the crater.  There, in the center, was a 
group of the G-41 boomers and workers and two giant labors, looking 
down.  Two news choppers were angling for a view.
	"GET THEM OUT OF HERE!" Leon screamed to someone at 
the rim, who gave him a thumbs up.  Soon, ADP choppers drove them 
off.
	Reaching the group, Daley looked up at Leon.
	"It's bad, Leon."
	"How bad?"
	"We found these", Chief Goto spoke up, handing him what 
looked like a handcuff or manacle.
	"Looks like a manacle", Leon said.
	"It is, sir" said Goto, "but the problem is what we found it 
attached to.  We are bringing one of them up."
	Something was being carried up by two boomers, and 
immediately one of the Labors started to sway.
	"Noa!  You puke, and you clean out Alphonse!"  screamed a 
man with a bullhorn.
	"Sorry, Shi..." the voice of the female pilot trailed off as she 
coughed heavily.
	The object, on a litter, was brought up to the small group.  As 
it approached, the humans either averted their eyes, or stared in horrid 
fascination.
	It was a body, as Leon knew it must be.  With a familiar sigh, 
both he and Daley grabbed the disposable rubber gloves, snapping 
them on.
	It was a child, or maybe a teenager, female from what wasn't 
crushed or burnt from the heat or impact.  She lay, torn, the skin flaking 
off having been burnt to a crisp in certain places.  A hint of her black 
hair still clung to the partially crushed skull.  Around one relatively 
intact arm was a bracelet.  A manacle, Leon realized.
	"Shit" muttered Daley, and Leon nodded as they both gently 
prodded the body.
	Both the USSD and the Genom people looked a little green 
around the gills as they looked at the body.  After a few seconds, they 
both completed their examine and sent the body on the way.
	"How many?" Leon asked.
	The chief, with a bland look on his face turning sorrowful, "We 
can't really tell.  Too many body parts.  Though we are estimating the 
high thirties."
	Leon nodded, feeling old.
	"Wait a minute!" blurted out Reinhart, a little unnerved.  "How 
did these people survive the blast even a little intact?"
	"I believe, Mr. Reinhart", said Leon, snapping off the gloves, 
"that the boomers and the experts will discover there was a soundproof 
basement many meters underground."
	"So what does this mean? Revenge?" Daley spoke up, his tone 
clearly not believing his own suggestion.
	Leon snorted, "Why use a sledgehammer when you can use a 
gun?  No, this was too cool and professional to just knock over 
whoever the bastard in charge of this must have been."
	"Inspector?" asked Deunan.
	Daley answered, "It was a slaver operation.  Either that, or a 
pedophile with a kiddie-porn studio down there.  Maybe both."
	"Who is the owner of Kamizake?" asked Kircheis.
	"Someone named Ikari Gendo", answered Chief Goto.
	"We'll send our people searching for info on him", said 
Kircheis, already going for the omnipresent Genom tool, the cell-phone.
	Leon ignored the byplay as he watched body after body being 
removed.  His eyes narrowed, his fists clenched, crushing his keys into 
the palm of his hand as he stared at the bodies.  Deep within, some 
primal hatred roared to life, calling for blood.  Whoever was responsible 
for this, he was going to take down.  Those perverted, creeping, tainted 
despoilers of purity.  He snarled as he turned on one heel, heading back 
up to their HQ.
	"Leon?" Daley asked, concerned.
	"Get me any witnesses.  I am going to interview them 
personally.  Time to make my popularity work for me, eh?"
	"Sure, Leon", Daley answered, still concerned at the angry set 
in Leon's jaw.
	"And get the people in PR to ready a statement for the news.  
While at that, get me some of those pictures from 'Captain ADP and the 
Police Rangers' and a pen."
	"But you said you would never do autographs!" spoke up 
both Reinhart and Deunan, both flushing as they realized they had 
spoken out loud.
	"I did.  Now I have the perfect bribe to make those street 
weasels cough up everything they know!" Leon roared, and strode, 
almost marching, as he stormed up the ramp.
	(Ah, Leon-chan.  That is what I love about you.  Your fire!) 
grinned Daley, as he followed his friend up the ramp.  It was good to see 
him in the proper spirits.


-	-	-	-	-	-	-	-


	Several hours later, a heavily sweating Leon strode out of the 
tent, sans jacket.  Looking over at his assembled "team", Kircheis asked 
the question they all wanted to know, "What did you find out?"
	"A moment", Leon said, turning to Captain Deunan and Mr.  
Reinhart.
	"Yes, Inspector?" asked Reinhart, his hair sweaty and his tie 
now missing.
	"You said both USSD and Genom was fully endorsing my 
investigation, correct?" Leon stated more than asked.
	"Yes, that is correct", answered Deunan, still immaculate in her 
uniform.
	Reinhart nodded.
	"And you both have your teams standing by?  Your 
commandoes, Captain?  And your 'security boomers', Mr. Reinhart?"
	Both immediately straightened, fully attentive.  More than that, 
they were excited.
	"Yes", they both answered.
	Leon grinned a Devil's grin.  "It seems I have special 
dispensation from the MegaTokyo council and the Japanese 
government.  It pays to read the fine print."
	Leon turned to Daley, "Ever want to hit a 'Dream Target'?"
	Daley looked shocked, "Come on Leon, you know the... Heh, 
you're right! We could... heh, ha.  Hahahahahahhaha!" Daley began to 
grin and laugh.
	"What are you talking about, Inspector McNichol?" Deunan 
asked.
	"This goes nowhere outside this room.  Captain, prep your 
troops for an op tonight.  Mr. Reinhart, whistle up your boomers.  You 
see, I am giving this Special Investigation Group a warrant to raid one 
particular pit of slime."
	Leon grinned as he put on his shades, "You see, tonight we 
are going to 'talk' to some of Mr. Ikari's associates at a wretched hive of 
scum and villany called Ishikawa's Jack Off."
	"But, sir, that place is off limits!" protested one of the ADP 
officers.  "The Yakuza finds we hit that place, and the government will 
make it hell to pay!"
	"Let them clean up the mess!" Leon shouted back.  Turning to 
meet everyone's eyes in the now dead-quiet room, Leon spoke quietly,  
"Ladies and Gentleman, tonight we are going to make a raid on 
MegaTokyo's own small slice of Hell."
	"Thus be sure to keep a very heavy finger on the trigger, shall 
we?"


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


	In a double file line, the centurions of Charon's Order stepped 
down the streets of the city within the Deadlands, the other wraiths 
stepping aside as they sought to restore order.
	(Which was a futile effort), knew Centurion Michael Redwood.  
Just staring at the faces of those wraiths who met their gaze, and they 
knew.  Knew what was coming.
	The last tremor had been "minor", but the destabilizing effects 
on the plasm had been less than the effects on the well-being and 
comfortable mindset of the people.  Even now, the doomseers and 
naysayers were out in full force.  Even riots had begun, people fighting 
amongst themselves, raging futilely.
	It was not the case in the Dark Kingdom of Jade.  Those 
lunatics were rioting as well, but their rioting was from joy, not fear.  
Their sages and rulers had only been too happy to comfort their 
relations, which was a first, claiming the calamity threatening them all 
was merely part of the turning of ages.  They should be happy.
	Which confirmed, in Michael's mind, that the Jade wraiths were 
absolutely nuts.  He was scared.  Hell, everyone in the Deadlands 
except them were scared.  And even some of them were scared as well.
	Looking up and around, Michael could almost imagine it.  A 
titanic wall of... nothingness, descending on them.  All around them.
	But that was not the most terrifying part.  For if their scholars 
were correct, and the number of the learned who agreed with the 
conclusion made that likely, the darkness wouldn't stop here.  It would 
penetrate further, through the Shroud.
	Into the Skinlands.
	And when that happened, the dead would walk among the 
living, Risen from the grave.
	And try as he might, Michael could not forget that chapter in 
Revelations, as he watched it come, just beyond his sight.
	The Darkness Descent.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


End Part 6 of Night Sabers.


Well, thanks for reading!  C+C is always appreciated.


Next up:

Part 7 (hopefully not in sections this time!):

Mackie and the Black Hand attempt to execute their orders and 
assassinate the twelve targets.  Can they do it?  In one night? And what 
is so special about these twelve 'targets'?  Meanwhile, Sylia meets with 
Resu, and makes some interesting discoveries.  At the same time, Priss, 
Linna, and Nene must deal with issues in their lives while in the slums of 
MegaTokyo, Derek arrives in fury and blood.  Who is Derek, and his 
mysterious masters?  What are they?  Find out, in the next part of Night 
Sabers:


Part 7: "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down"


Jeez, did that preview sound cheezy!

But seriously, the next part, due to my record to date, has no release 
date.  Real life, other 'fics, and miscellaneous efforts will be taking 
considerable time.  Thus, no definite date.

And sorry, no character sheets, or other game info.  This section is big 
enough.  Maybe in the next post.

Again, thanks for reading!