For That Which Is Lost

Written by Scribe

[Warning: Language and Content]

The young man stands on the corner, close to the building so that he may not be quite so obvious in his undertaking, and surveys the row of brownstones across the way. The one catercorner to his position particularly arrests his attention. The single weathered-blue flowerpot on the upper windowsill looks odd to him. He consults the scrap of torn vellum in his fist, rechecking the firm masculine handwriting. Yes, this appeared to be the place.

Above the flower pot, he reads the stencilled inscription on the window: Joe Black Security & Investigations.

He crosses the street, noting the dearth of traffic, and mounts the few steps up to a front door which has seen much better days. Taking it for the public entrance, he tries the doorknob. It yields, and the door swings inward to show him a dark, dusty foyer hung with lights far too dim for the space they are meant to illumine. There are no signs, no directories, no helpful arrows. No one sits at a desk to answer his inquiries. So he starts up the only stairway he can see.

At the top, he finds a row of uninviting doors with no labels. Orienting himself, for he has had to negociate several landings, he points himself in the direction of the window he had seen from outside. His guess leads him to an office door, similarly labeled "Joe Black Security & Investigation". The door is unlocked, so he goes in.

"Hello?" he calls. "Is anyone about?"

The black man sitting on the curb cleaning his saxophone looks up, regarding the young man through opaque sunglasses. "Hey, man," he says. "Don't need to be yellin'. Just press the button if you wanna talk to the man."

The young man frowns at him in thought for a moment, decoding this intelligence. Then he smiles gently. "Thank you, sir," he replies, and walks back up the steps. He firmly -pushes- on the button this time. Then he waits to see what will happen.

"Joe Black Security and Investigations," intones a friendly, professional femine voice from nowhere in particular. "How may I help you?"

"I--" He looks around quickly. "--wish to see Mr. Black."

"Certainly, sir," the voice replies. "Please stand by for aural scanning."

The young man has no time to react. The moments spent trying to puzzle out the meaning of these strange words stuns him into inaction.

The panel of buzzers slides aside, revealing a recessed device that looks to be some combination of TV screen and ray gun. A second's worth of fanning lights over the young man's body, and the door to the brownstone slides aside, as does the blast door behind it.

The man starts, takes a step back, and hesitates. What strange world has he come to?

Standing there is a spectral image of a heavyset woman in a deep purple business dress with matching lipstick and dark orange hair. Behind (and through) her, the young man can see a huge office space humming with activity.

"Please follow me," the ghostly woman requests, her voice definitely not the one heard outside the door. Without waiting for a reply, she turns and leads him past the controlled chaos of the block-sized cube farm to a reception desk, at which sits her far more corporeal twin. The plaque on her desk proclaims the woman to be Leona Duttonsby.

The ghostly image vanishes, and the woman at the desk looks up from filing her nails and smiles. "Good morning, sir," she says. "May I have your name and the nature of your business with Mr. Black?"

It takes him just a moment to focus on her. He tries very hard not to gawk about him, but finds it difficult. Finally, though, he straightens himself and addresses the woman. "My name is Peter DuVrais," he states confidently. "And I have come to engage Mr. Black's help in finding my--" Slight hesitation here. "--uncle."

"Thank you, sir." She turns her attention to something behind the counter of her desk. "Mr. Black, there's a-"

"Send him in," responds a voice from the desk. Simultaneously, the oak door beyond the reception desk swings open.

"Oh!" Leona says. "*ahem* Well... Mr. Black will see you now?"

Joe stands from behind his wide oak desk as Peter enters, offering the young man his hand. "Peter DuVrais," he says, "I'm Joe Black. Let's hear your story."

Peter surveys the office and the man in charge of it before taking his hand in friendship. "It would seem, sir," he observes, "that you already know who I am, though how you knew I was here I do not understand. Nonetheless, perhaps this is a good sign." He takes a seat in the chair before the desk without being asked. "I have come because my uncle has disappeared under suspicious circumstances, and I need your help in finding him. I think you may already know him, since I found this among his effects."

He hands across the desk the scrap of paper with Joe's address on it.

"It was among his important papers, such as they were. Which leads me to believe you have had previous contact with him. His name is Chasen Burkett, and he is not the sort of man to take a fancy to move on without notice. We had an appointment to meet for dinner two days ago, but he did not keep that appointment. His landlady says he has not been seen at his lodgings. I am concerned. Will you take me on as a client, Mr. Black?"

Joe offers Peter the chair in front of his desk, returning to his own chair. He looks from the card to Peter thoughtfully. "Your last name is 'DuVrais' -- as in 'Mannon DuVrais', I assume?"

Peter doesn't flinch outwardly, but inwardly he feels a jolt to realize this total stranger knows enough about him to make that connection. "She was my mother," he nods.

"--and Chasen Burkett is your uncle? I'd be curious to know how exactly that works... but I'll leave that up to you."

Peter experiences relief. He did not wish to try to explain the convoluted relationship, since he was not certain he really understood it, himself. He maintains his card-playing demeanor, giving nothing away.

"The important thing is that Chasen and I go... way back... and he's not a man to miss an appointment."

He hands the slip of paper back to Peter. "So yeah, I'll take your case, son. Starting now, in fact. Anything that could keep your... uncle... from bein' where he wants to be isn't something to take lightly."

"Thank you, Mr. Black," he says simply. "I really have no idea where to start this investigation. My uncle said nothing to me about any other appointments which might have detained him, but I admit to knowing little of his private affairs. I..." He spreads his hands before him. "...am at a loss. How does one begin these things?"

"That all depends upon the situation," Joe responds. "In this case, the place to start'll be wherever Chasen was stayin'. I'll see if there's any clues as to him takin' any unexpected trips. After that... Well, we'll just have to see."

Peter nods thoughtfully. "You say you and my uncle 'go way back'. From that I infer you mean you've known each other a long time." He ponders. "Yet you don't know where he's been staying. I wonder..." He shifts uncomfortably. "Perhaps this was a mistake, Mr. Black. Perhaps he wouldn't wish me to disclose such information." He stands up. "I think I should beg your pardon for wasting your time. I shall have to work this out, myself." He reaches out his hand. "Thank you for your kind attention, Sir."

"Mr. DuVrais, your uncle is a friend of mine," Joe says, not rising to accept the handshake. "I'll be lookin' into this one way or the other. So you might as well have a seat."

Peter lets his hand fall slowly to his side. He doesn't sit, however. He continues to hold Black's gaze evenly. "Forgive me, Sir, but I believe I should ask you for some proof of your friendship before I disclose to you my uncle's personal affairs. I hadn't considered until just now that he might have had your name and address for other reasons."

He tucks the scrap of paper into his inside breast pocket. "If you know my uncle, as you say you do, then you also know he is a very private man." He straightens. "I may be naïve about such matters as skulking around corners and turning up clues. But it comes to my mind that I need to be a bit more circumspect in this matter than I have been thusfar. I'm certain you'll understand my concern."

"That I can," Joe agrees. "You've got a good head on your shoulders. That's good."

He leans back in his chair thoughtfully. "Well, let's see now... I could offer you proof, but the question is whether or not you'd accept it. Recordings of Chasen and I talking in my office, for example. Or I could take you to places I -know- he's been, where I'll be goin' anyway. There are even some likely folks I might talk to who know both of us, not that you'd have any reason to take their word."

Joe sighs. "You know, son, if it's clear-cut answers you've got to have, you're going to have a hard, hard time in Nexus."

Peter sinks down in the chair, unconscious of his movement as he thinks about their situation. It is true there's nothing much Black could produce that would satisfy him. So perhaps it was a matter of faith. But perhaps faith could be augmented just a bit.

"Very well, then, Mr. Black," he says. "Tell me how you and my uncle met, and why you consider him a friend." He reasons this will tell him a great deal about the man before him. "You needn't go into great detail... but I reserve the right to ask you questions along the way."

Joe nods. "Fair enough. The short version is, Chasen and I met while we were on opposite sides of a war I didn't even know I was fightin' at the time. Later on, those two sides we were on found a common enemy, so he and I found ourselves fightin' side by side. I won't lie to you: There was a time I didn't trust your uncle any further than I could throw him. But since then, I've learned enough about him to trust the man with my life.

"Now," Joe says, regarding the young man soberly from beneath his salt-and-pepper eyebrows, "if you want any more details than -that-, it'll be your turn to tell me a little about just what you know about that uncle of yours first. Otherwise, I might just be wastin' my breath."

Peter is silent for a long moment, measuring his words. Something in this man just rings true. If he had claimed Burkett was a good man, a good friend, or anything short of flawed, Peter would not have believed him. As it was...

"Very well," he decides. "First of all, he is not my uncle. I'm not certain I fully understand, but he tells me he is... an alternate version of the man who was my father. Something to do with this Nexus of yours. He tells me he knew a woman who was another version of my mother. The closest I can come to comprehending it is to consider that he and this other woman, this other 'Mannon', are the twins of my own parents. And yet... it's more than that." He shakes his head. "I can't explain it. So I call him 'uncle' to explain away the family resemblance and forestall uncomfortable questions." He gives Joe a wry smile. "It usually works."

Joe nods, seemingly satisfied. "Now, that makes a whole lot more sense. For Nexus, anyway."

He thinks a moment more. "He tells me he has been a very evil man. I gather that is in the past for him." He cants his head to one side. "I gather you think so, too."

Joe leans forward slightly. "If I didn't," he responds with a humorless smirk, "I could save us both a whole lot of trouble. Because -I'd- be the reason he's missing."

All humor drains from Peter's face, along with much of its color. "I... see," he replies. He glances about at the decor, realizing the rack of weapons on the wall is not just for show. He'd again heard the Truth in what this man had said. And he sensed the danger in Black. Latent, but powerful. "I think that you and my uncle are two of a kind," he remarks. "Or, perhaps," he amends, sensing this might offend, "two sides of the same coin."

"Like I said," Joe replies, "you've got a good head on your shoulders."

He comes to a decision. "Very well, Mr. Black. Where would you like to start?"

Joe considers this a few moments longer than necessary, not particularly liking the first thought that occurs to him.

"Well..." he says, "...a friend of Chasen's seemed pretty upset with him five days ago, at a Halloween party we were both at. Now, I don't know much about the man myself, but he did me a good turn not too long ago. All things being equal, I'd hate to even consider him bein' mixed up with Chasen's disappearance, but under the circumstances... I don't think I've got much choice."

Peter nods. "It sounds a logical starting-point, then." He pauses, trying to decide how best to broach the next subject. Then he decides the direct approach is best. This man seems to be very straight-forward in his dealings. Best to follow the tone he has set. "As to your fee..." he begins. "...I don't know what is considered legal tender here, but I'm certain some sort of arrangements can be made to our mutual satisfaction. I am not without resources.

"And I should rather like to be involved in the investigation, if it won't unduely hamper you. I know so little of Nexus, and of my uncle, that such a hunt would prove very enlightening." He smiles. "Of course, if you'd rather not be encumbered by an unknown rag-tag child such as myself, I will understand. I don't imagine my title as champion boxer in the Brigade holds any weight here..."

He ponders. "Perhaps my tour of duty with the 13th Light Dragoons at Balaklava in the Crimea..." He stops. "Is the story of Lord Cardigan and the Light Brigade any part of the lore of this place? I suppose that is too much to ask.

"673 men rode forth in a hopeless assault, less than 200 survived. And nearly all of those, myself included, were wounded." He smiles. "I received a field promotion in that battle." A shadow passes over his face. "But it was a bloody war. As are all wars." He rallies. "Still, I've learned a thing or two about fighting. I'm something of a dab-hand with a rifle." He again glances at the ordinance on the wall. "And, of course, a sabre. And explosives, medical aid, trench-warfare, hand-to-hand combat, scrounging for necessaries, diplomacy..."

He sits up. "Still, if you'd rather not have me about, I'll understand. I'll simply start my own investigation. I'll try not to trip you up..."

He smiles placidly at Joe.

Joe chuckles at the litany and the warning. "First of all," he says as he stands, "we won't worry about finances just now. Like I said, I'd be looking into this anyway."

Peter rises as he does. "As you wish."

"And as for you coming along? Yessir, I'm familiar with the Charge of the Light Brigade, and I can see in your eyes that you're not just name-droppin'. Ordinarily I'd still be a tad leery, but this -is- almost your father we're talkin' about."

Peter nods, a smile tugging at his mouth but being restrained before breaking forth. It pleases him, in a way he can't explain, that Black thinks enough of Burkett to lend -him- the benefit of the doubt. And makes him all the more keen to find out more about this conundrum who might have been his progenitor.

"So, if you're good with a rifle, let's see what we do for you here... The sabre's the easy part..." He walks over to his gun cabinet and eyes it thoughtfully. "I could set you up with the sort of gun you're familiar with, but I don't know that it'd do you much good against whatever we're up against. I can't imagine Chasen having much trouble with someone or something vulnerable to ordinary firepower..."

Peter frowns. It was becoming painfully apparent that Burkett's stories were not complete fabrication. The man seemed to be hinting at supernatural capabilities, or supernatural foes. Either way, Peter clearly had to reassess the man he called his uncle. The prospect doesn't make him entirely comfortable.

He turns back to Peter and arches an eyebrow, grinning. "Feel like broadenin' your martial horizons a bit?"

Peter mirrors his arched brow. "Indeed!" he replies, coming forward. "I confess I've rather been itching to see what you have locked away in here." He peers into the cabinet over Joe's arm. "I say...-that- looks interesting..." He nods toward a formidable-looking piece of high-tech firepower.

"Good eye," says Joe, grin broadening as he unlocks the cabinet and retrieves the indicated weapon -- a relatively short but sleek glossy black rifle with a barrel that tapers to a point. He holds it out to Peter.

Peter takes it hungrily, looking it up and down and fingering it as Joe talks.

"This is a Sartini Arms Model J36 Viper Pulse Laser Carbine. Now, it sounds to me as though you're pretty new to Nexus, so I'll keep this simple, and you'll just have to trust me on this: the gun fires a beam of concentrated light strong enough to cut through steel and boil a man's blood in half a second."

Peter whistles his amazement, and sights down the barrel.

"But it IS just light you're firin', so there's no recoil. There's no need to reload, either -- it recharges itself from your own body heat. Just keep an eye on that green crystal inset on the side, there -- if it lights up, the gun's startin' to overheat. If that happens, for God's sake, don't keep firin'. Other than that, you can shoot to your heart's content."

"Very impressive," Peter replies, fingering the indicated crystal.

"Oh, and it cycles through the ultraviolet spectrum, so it works like sunlight on some Creatures of the Night -- vampires and the like."

Peter looks up from his examination of the weapon to stare at Joe for a moment. It's on his tongue to say, "but those are only fairy tales to scare children," but something in Joe's matter-of-fact delivery stops him. He slowly lifts the barrel to his sight-line again, but keeps his eyes on Joe for just another minute before laying his cheek against the stock.

"Light weight... Compact design... and apparently no less a weapon for the want of a bayonette," he opines. He glances at Joe again. "Vampires, you say..." He brings the piece down into the "ready" position. "Likely to meet a lot of those, are we?"

"'Likely'?" Joe echoes. "That depends upon where the search takes us.

"There's something you need to understand about Nexus, son," he says gently, not unlike a concerned father schooling a curious child, "and it's best you learn it fast: The can rules change depending on where you are. One part of town could be -crawlin'- with vampires. Right down the street, they could be nothing but a myth. That gun you're holdin' could be the Ultimate Weapon in one place and a pretty piece of junk in the next. (That's why I -am- gonna get that sword for you, by the way.) The secret is learnin' to adapt to whatever Nexus throws at you as best you can."

Peter nods philosphically. "Yes...I see this is going to be a challenge." He looks grave. This lasts all of about 10 seconds. Then he pulls himself up with a huge grin. "I must say I DO enjoy a challenge!" He slings the weapon over his shoulder. "When do we start?" he asks brightly.

Joe is at the coat closet, trading his business coat for his trench coat. "Right now," he replies, donning his fedora.

A short rickshaw ride later, and the pair stand at the door to Gary's building. Joe presses the buzzer.

The vid screen to their right flicks to life, casting a blue-green glow around the dim alcove that surrounds the industrial door. However, no one is visible on the screen. It, apparently, is not in "transmit" mode on the other end. A voice speaks. It is not computer-generated. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeees?" it inquires. "Ah, Mr. Black!" The vid flickers, and the face of Gary Horstman fills the screen. "How are YOU this fine evening?" His eyes visibly shift to the screen on his end, and he frowns slightly. "And who is this tagging along with you?"

"'Evenin', Dr. Horstman," Joe responds, tipping the brim of his fedora at the camera. "This is Peter DuVrais, my client. He's hired my services to find Chasen Burkett -- seems he's been missing since right after that Halloween party. I was wonderin' if you might've heard from him."

It's hard to see any change of expression across a vid screen. But the pause before Horstman replies is eloquent. "No. I haven't." Another pause, and then a mechanical clack informs them the door has been unbolted. "You'd... better come up," the doctor suggests. "Take the freight elevator to the top floor. I'll be waiting for you."

The vid screen goes black.

Moments later, the grate opens onto Horstman's open-floor-plan apartment -- specifically, the kitchen area, from which drifts a hearty, savory smell of cooking.

"Good to see you again, Doctor," says Joe. "Quite a place you've got here."

Horstman looks a bit distracted. He's standing in a chef's apron, a knife hanging forgotten in his left hand. "Thanks," he says absently. He looks Peter up and down.

Peter nods, but says nothing. He's willing to let Black take the lead for now.

"I, uh..." Horstman says, trying to regain his self-command. "I just took a pork roast out of the oven. Why don't you join me? I've got plenty." He starts back toward the kitchen. "And I think we may have a lot to discuss."

"That's very kind of you, Doctor," says Joe. "Smells awfully good. Don't mind if I do."

He stops and looks back at Joe. "I suspect I know what you're thinking, Mr. Black. I said some pretty shitty things to Burkett at the party. I was pretty hot. It was the booze talking, I guess." He looks embarrassed. "I don't drink much normally. But I swear I didn't disappear him."

Joe sighs. "Look, Dr. Horstman, you're no idiot, so I won't treat you like one. Any investigation has to start somewhere, and you made yourself the most obvious place for this one. Thing is, I'd really rather you -weren't-. So why don't we all sit down to a nice dinner and talk this over, and maybe we can find a way to fix that little problem."

Horstman gives a humorless laugh. "'Little problem', he says," he mutters, leading them into the kitchen. "Like I want to be on his bad side!"

They find the kitchen surprisingly clean for having produced a pork roast--which rests in its rack until it reaches the right temperature--a pan of spinich au gratin fresh from under the broiler, some kind of fruit flan and a fresh pot of tea. Horstman pulls extra dishes from the cupboards and drawers for his guests and spreads them out on the light wood Skandinavian dining table in the next space. The sideboard provides linen napkins and silver.

"Sit!" he offers. "Everything's ready to be served." As the other arrange themselves, the doctor brings out the roast--freshly carved--and the plated spinich. There is wine, and crudites. No salad, but it's not needed.

Peter watches the production with interest. No servants, and yet a meal fit for royalty. A bit short on courses, but what was there was prime. He'd have liked a bit of fish, and perhaps some potato soup...

Horstman finally seats himself. "Would you like to give the blessing, Mr. Black?" he asks.

Joe raises an eyebrow at Gary, then shrugs and bows his head.

"Lord," he begins, "we thank You for the meal we're about to receive. We pray for the safety of Chasen Burkett and ask Your blessing on our search for him. We humbly ask for Your guidance in all that we do, and we ask that you forgive us for our sins. In Jesus's name we pray, amen."

Peter crosses himself. Then he lays his napkin across his lap and begins silently to partake of the meal.

"So," Gary begins, "Burkett disappeared after the party, huh? I guess that explains why he never showed up here like he said he was going to." He takes a fork-full of meat. "I thought he just chickened out," he adds, picking up his wine glass.

Peter glances up at him, and then over at Black. "I'm sorry," he offers, "but I shouldn't have thought he was the sort to show cowardice."

Gary pauses with the wine to his lips, and then lowers his glass. "No," he agrees. "Neither would I." He, too, glances at Joe. "In fact, I thought it was pretty damned strange." He sets down his glass and stares into the liquid. "I should have known something was wrong when Diana--" He halts, his face flushing. He looks guiltily at Black and takes another fork of something on his plate.

Joe stops in the middle of a sip of his own wine. "Diana...?"

"Uh..." Gary slowly puts down his fork and sits back. "Yeah." He sighs, and his shoulders sag. "Mr. Black, I think I'm in trouble. I probably should have told you this before. Diana Michaels used to be in our..." He glances at Peter. "...the group Burkett put together to... Well, our 'special ops' team." He wills Joe to understand. "She and Burkett fell out over Eduardo Cardenas. She..." He closes his eyes for a moment, and it was clear some painful memory or realization had just washed over him. "...loved Chayo, and she blamed Burkett when he chose to return to his Order and take up the priesthood again."

He takes a deep breath and lets it go. "She also blamed Burkett when Chayo decided to sacrifice himself at the trial. She believed Burkett manipulated him into doing it, at the same time he kept -her- from appearing in your defense. She thought he was punishing Chayo for leaving the team." He looks at Black, measuring his response.

"She showed up on my doorstep a while back, and we..." He moves his spinach around on his plate. "...became involved. And all the time she was telling me stories about Burkett that made me think he had been screwing around with us all that time. That's why I was so pissed off at him at the party. I came home and told Diana all about it, and we had a good laugh. And I told her he'd agreed to come over the next night to talk.

"But, you know..." He starts to talk several times, falters, edits, rearranges. Finally he leans forward, elbows on the table. "When I got home the night Burkett was supposed to come here, Diana was gone. All her stuff was gone. She didn't leave so much as a note. Not even lipstick on the bathroom mirror. After all the times she'd told me how much she--" He stops. "Well, you know," he finished lamely.

"I'm thinking now it's no coincidence that she and Burkett disappeared at the same time. Now that my brain has had a chance to clear a little, I'm beginning to wonder if I wasn't set up..." He sat back. "In which case," he continued, "I'm well and truly fucked."

Joe listens to the tale with a stoicism belied by more than one sympathetic nod. "Maybe not," he observes. "Yeah, sure sounds like this Diana pulled a fast one on you, but I don't think you're quite the first man to fall prey to that little trick."

Gary laughs mirthlessly. "No shit. I wish I could say she's the first one to pull it on me, but I can't."

"Besides, if you're right, you've just put us on the right track.

"The question now is how to find her. Not that she'll still be there, but any idea where she was stayin' before you two... Before she moved in here?"

Again the doctor sighs. "I...don't know. She never told me. From the shape she was in when she arrived, I gathered she'd been knocking about the nastier sections of Angel City for a while." He shakes his head. "She had a kind of punk-Goth thing going on." He gives another rueful laugh. "That's what hooked me, I guess. She came in out of the rain looking like a draggled rat." He looks up at Joe with a pleading expression. "How could I turn her away?" He looks down at the table. "Even if I wanted to..."

More out of habit than need, he gets up and refills the teapot. When he comes back, he fills Joe's cup. "I'm sorry, Mr. Black, but I don't have a clue where to start looking for her. But..." He sits down across from Joe again. "...I'd like to help you, if you think I can. I'd like to be part of your investigation. Maybe I can pull some strings with my friends at Maximum Cop."

"I'd be glad to have the help," Joe says, "although I'd rather keep Maximum Cop out of it unless absolutely necessary." He ponders silently for a moment. "There might be another way," he continues cautiously. "Someone who probably doesn't know where he is, but -might- be able to track him down. Although whether that someone would -want- Burkett found may be an issue."

Both Horstman and Peter look at Joe with puzzled expressions. "O-kay," replies Horstman uncertainly. "Whatever works."

Then, for the first time, he really looks at Peter. "You never told me how -you- fit into all this," he remarks.

Peter looks up, as if he hadn't been paying attention to the conversation. "Me?" He looks at Joe. "Perhaps you should explain," he suggests. "I shouldn't wish to confuse the issues."

"Well, basically," Joe tells Gary, "Peter here is the son of an alternate Chasen Burkett."

Gary stares first at Joe, and then at Peter. "Damn. THAT's gotta be weird..." He gets up from the table and starts clearing dishes. "How the hell did you end up here with THIS Burkett?" He takes Peter's plate. "And is he any worse than your father?" As he takes Joe's plate, he realizes this may not have been the most flattering thing to say. "I mean..." he adds hastily. "...how do they compare?"

Peter watches him round the table before he speaks. "I never knew my father," he says coolly. "So I cannot tell you how they compare."

Gary nods. "He died, did he?" he asks sympathetically.

"No," Peter counters. "I simply never knew him." He decides to leave it at that, as Gary's sudden knowing glance tells him the doctor has worked out the truth. "As to how I come to be here... that is more difficult. I was brought into Nexus to meet 'this Burkett' by another alternate Chasen Burkett, who goes by the name of 'Ash'."

Now it's Joe's turn to for surprise. "Ash??" he belts out, sitting up. "Okay, son, this is gettin' more complicated by the minute. I was hopin' not to get into this if I could avoid it, but... do you -know- what Ash -is-?"

Peter turns to Joe with a mild expression. "Yes," he replies. And since obviously so does Joe, he decides it's time to lay his cards on the table. Burkett had told him the truth about Ash during their discussion. He knew that, whereas Burkett had repented, Ash had not. Burkett had said little, but that much Peter had observed for himself. It was time Black knew that Peter was not ignorant of the worst. But, as he is not certain what Horstman knows, he chooses his words carefully.

"He is what Chasen Burkett was...before."

Joe nods. "Okay, you -do- know. So, Ash brought you to Burkett, why? Just to raise Hell?"

Peter shakes his head. "I do not know what his motivation was. His stated reason was that I might meet the father who raped my mother and abandoned me." He glances at Gary before he continues. "He represented Burkett as that father, but I soon learned this was not true. In fact, I soon learned most of what Ash told me was not true." He shrugs. "I can only infer that Ash wanted to place enmity between myself and Chasen Burkett for some reason." He considers for a moment. "It occurs to me at this moment..." He trails off, thinking.

"You know, my uncle--that is, Chasen Burkett--told me that he wondered if Ash were not trying to recruit me to his service. I thought at the time that he meant Ash wanted to make me into a--" Again, a glance at Gary. "--to be what he is, but--"

Gary interrupts. "You can stop dancing around the truth, DuVrais," he says baldly. "I know what Burkett was, so I know what Ash is. A demon from Hell."

Peter, cocks his head to one side, thinking it very strange that these people accepted what, to him, had seemed like a fantasy only weeks before. To them it seemed almost common-place. Mundane. "I see. Well. As I was saying, perhaps Ash didn't wish to recruit me as another demon, to follow in the family way, as it were. Perhaps, instead, he was trying to recruit me to...kill Chasen Burkett."

Gary exchanges a glance with Joe. "Why would he bother to do that?" he demands. "Why not just do it, himself? He's a demon. Surely he could take Burkett, now that Burkett doesn't have Samael behind him anymore."

Peter nods. "But... what if he can't?"

"What do you mean?" asks Gary.

"What if Someone won't let him? What if he's protected?" Peter warms to his subject. "What if Samael wants him for something, and has ordered hands-off? Or, if not that, what if God is protecting him from Samael?"

"Then why not from you, too? Or me? Or anyone?"

"Ahhhhh..." says Peter. "...but humans have Free Will. Neither God nor Satan can prevent them committing a sin. Nor force them to. So if God has chosen to protect Chasen from Evil, or if Satan has chosen to protect Chasen from interference, Ash would need a free human to do the dirty deed." He looks over at Joe. "Yes?" He spreads his hands. "Of course, I'm only surmising, here. It's the only thing I can come up with that makes sense. If, in fact, Ash can't harm Burkett for some reason."

Joe nods. "Makes sense, maybe..." He favors Peter with a small smile. "Looks like you may do fine in Nexus after all, son. Might even have the makings of a detective."

Peter nods an acknowlegement of the compliment.

"Well," he continues, "that's as good a theory as any to work with for now. And Diana and Ash're both good leads... except we don't know how to find'em. So, I guess we'll have to go see if that tracker I mentioned will help us.

"Just don't wear anything you wouldn't want gettin' dirty."

Gary looks dubious. "Well, then I guess I'd better change into working clothes." He looks over at Peter. "You look a little too spiffy for this kind of work. I've got some clothes you can borrow. You're a bit broader in the chest, but I'm taller, so it evens out." He smirks as he goes off to his bedroom.

Peter watches him go, and then turns to Joe. "A bit of a contradiction, that one. What is his story?"

"You know just about as much of his story as I do, now," says Joe. "He's a medical examiner for a police department hereabouts who hooked up with Chasen somewhere along the way, along with some other folks. Like you heard, that didn't turn out very well for some of'em."

Peter nods again. Then he flinches as wearing apparel bombards him from over a free-standing partition.

"Put those on and see if they fit," comes a disembodied voice.

He examines the clothing, and finds a black wool jumper of the sort worn by fishermen and a pair of pantaloons. He moves to dodge two more in-coming items; a pair of heavy shoes of some soft black fabric and leather. These are followed by stockings.

"Don't know what size you wear, but try those."

Peter glances at Joe, and then begins stripping down to his smalls. He shrugs into the jumper, and finds it a bit tight across the shoulders but not binding. It has enough give to stretch out to be more comfortable. The trousers are more problematic, being too long for him. The waist seems to fit fairly well when he cinches up the webbed-fabric belt. He rolls up the trouser legs a couple turns and they're fine. The shoes and stockings seem to fit fairly well once he stuffs some paper into the toe of each. He laces them up.

"Very interesting character," he murmurs as he rises from the chair. "Is this acceptable, Mr. Black?" he asks, arms spread wide to accomodate examination.

"You look slam-dandy in that get-up," Gary declares from the opening into the kitchen. He is similarly attired.

Peter arches a questioning eyebrow at Joe.

"He says you look fine, son," Joe translates, chuckling. "Good enough, anyway. Now let's get on with the hunt."

The search isn't -quite- as down-and-dirty as advertised, although it certainly takes them through parts of town not conducive to formal attire. But Joe catches wind of his quarry fairly quickly through a combination of sound hunches and helpful locals.

They first see Matteo standing near the window of his room in the shelter. His back is to them, shoulders flexing occassionally as if he's molding unseen clay.

"«Hello, Matteo!»" Joe calls to the boy. "«Seen Maria around?»"

Matteo looks over his shoulder out the window at Joe and his two companions. "Sí," he responds quietly, moving aside to reveal the chair he was standing behind, in which sits Maria, whose neck he'd been massaging.

The coyote girl turns her head to look at the three men outside the window. Her hair is matted, her face smudged with dirt. It's not exactly unusual for her .... but she hasn't been quite so disheveled or dirty for quite awhile.

Peter regards her thoughtfully, but impersonally. He takes her for another contact Joe wishes to use. Such houseless persons line the streets of London and Baltimore, and every other city he has visited. They are sad, but it is not a problem he can remedy, so he tends not to get emotionally involved with them.

The multiple layers of clothing she wears through the winter hide and muffle to shape of her body, but even through them, the slump of her shoulders can be read, the curve to her arms as they lay limply in her lap.

Gary recognizes her as someone he saw at the Halloween party, and vaguely connects her with Burkett. He is shocked to see the change in her, from the pretty sylph she had been to the tattered--perhaps even mentally broken--person he sees now. What had happened to her? His suspicions reawaken as he wonders if Burkett is responsible for this alteration.

She glances up at Matteo, then takes his hand and licks the palm lightly ... in the past week or so, she's given up many of the more human traits she had cultivated before, in her attempts to fit in to Burkett's world. It's easier to be around someone who simply accepts ...

She rises, and leans on the windowsill, looking out at them. "«Hello, Joe. I do not...»" She stops, suddenly, lifting her nose to scent the air more thoroughly, and then stares at Peter. The dark brown eyes, so sad a moment ago, are replaced by flashing amber, intent.

"You? Who?" She points to him, brow furrowed.

Peter makes a quick in-take of breath, startled to be so addressed. He hadn't actually been paying much attention, letting his mind wander as Joe conducted his business with these people. Now he took a moment to do a quick assessment of the speaker. "I am Peter DuVrais," he replies with a polite nod. He leans his head closer to Joe, but without taking his eyes off the girl. "I speak English, French, German, Italian, Greek and Latin," he informs Joe in a confidential tone. It is not a boast, just information he considers useful to Black. "But I never had call to learn Spanish. Will you please interpret, if needs must?"

Gary eyes the young man with increased respect. "It's been a long time since Spanish 101 for me, too, Boss... The most I can remember is 'Como estan Pablo y Luisa?'" He says this with a horrifically bad accent. "So, can you do the offices for me, too?"

"Be glad to," says Joe. "She understands English and Lingua well enough, but it might make things easier that way. This is Maria, the one I'm hopin' can help us."

Peter regards her with a more studied look.

She returns the look intently, though with little emotion, other than the wariness of animal that has not decided yet whether this new creature is friend or foe.

"She's a coyote," he adds, with a pointed 'This Is Nexus' look at Peter. "So she has a real good sense of smell."

Peter frowns, but accepts what he's told. He can ask questions later.

"«Maria,»" he says, turning back to the girl, "«this is Gary Horstman. Do you remember him from my trial?»

Maria nods, eyes flicking over Horstman briefly, though she remembers his peculiar smell well from her time in the courtroom.

«And Peter here,»" he continues, more cautiously now, "«is the son of an alternate Chasen Brukett.»"

The coyote girl's eyes widen, her nostrils flaring heavily, and her hand drops to the windowframe, clutching briefly. "Orange ... flower? Orange flower woman." Of course, of course he must be the offspring of that one. She keeps her eyes on the young man as she clambers over the windowsill. Even in her melancholy, she has the fluid grace of one not quite human. Though, once outside, she seems uncertain, and stops, hands folded and clutching at her layers of skirts.

He waits a moment for that to sink in before going on, translating for Gary and Peter. "A -real- good sense of smell," he says again quietly to Peter, after translating his exposure of Peter's relationship to Burkett.

"«Maria,»" he says gently, "«Chasen's gone. Taken, looks like. We're trying to find him. I was hoping you might be able to help us.»"

In the shadows, Matteo frowns.

"«Gone? Taken?»" Her entire demeanor changes in an instant, her spine straightening dramtically, mouth thinning a bit. "«Who would do this? He has very many enemies ...»" She glances again at Horstman, though only briefly, and nods sharply at Joe. "«Where was he taken from? Take me there, please ...»"

Peter observes the exchange, and Maria's reactions. He also notes that Black refers to his "uncle" as "Chasen", without surname. It would appear she knows who "Chasen" is. "Excuse me," he interrupts, "but why did she look at me so strangely just now? I infer from her reaction--and yours--that she perceived the family association through her sense of smell. That tells me she knows Chasen Burkett rather well." He looks at her gravely, and not without a little suspicion. She is not the sort of woman he'd have expected his uncle to know. He addresses his question to Joe, but watches the girl carefully. "Just what is she to him?" he asks bluntly.

Maria flares her nostrils, and answers for herself before Joe can, looking at Peter distantly. "Nothing. I am nothing. An animal he takes in. A dog know a master's scent, it does."

Peter nods. "I see." That, at least, made sense. If she were some sort of coyote, she must have been his uncle's pet. Odd, then, that she had not been with him. But perhaps the landlady had not approved of animals in her rooming house. He looks at the girl again. -Especially one like this.- He would ask questions later.

She turns to Joe again. "«Take me there.»"

Joe's lips tighten at Maria's response. He closes his eyes briefly before responding.

"We don't know where he was taken from for certain yet, Maria," he says, "But I'm guessing Gary's place is a good place to start." He turns to Gary. "Don't take this the wrong way, mind you. But if this Diana really was involved, it'd only have made sense for her to set a trap for him where she knew he'd be."

Gary spreads his hands in dismissal. "Hey, no offense taken, Boss! Makes sense to me, too." He shakes his head. "Yeah...I really fell into that one," he mutters to himself. "Prize chump, ol' Gare."

Peter glances at him. Too many emotions flying around. From Horstman, from the girl, from the young man at the window. Even Black seems to be reining in something. He wishes they could all set emoting aside until the job was done. But he understood it. Obviously, these people all had some stake in his uncle's disappearance. And they were shocked to learn what had befallen him. They'd accustom themselves to the idea and settle down, of this he is confident. So he says nothing about it for the moment.

Maria seems to be paying little attention to the conversation, instead drifting over to the window to look in at Matteo. Her mind follows their scents better than the language, anyway, Horstman's ruefulness, Joe's sorrow, and the slight impatience from DuVrais. She places her palms on the sill of the window again, and leans her chin on them, closing her eyes.

Seeing her look in, Matteo gives her a brave smile from his place in the corner. But when she closes her eyes, the smile fades, replaced by uncomfortable fidgets.

"I concur with your analysis," Peter tells Black. "But will there be any trace of him after all this time? We are, after all, talking about a lapse of 4 days." He looks at the girl and, speaking slowly, asks, "can you find smells that were left 4 days ago?"

Her answer is simple, matter-of-fact, with no note of bragging, "I find smell from years gone. Is easy, four days." Normally, she might be amused... humans so rarely seemed to realize how nose-blind they were. But her head swirls with alien worries, distracting her from the other men.

She opens her eyes again, and addresses Matteo. "«I have to help them find him. You understand? Then I will come back. Maybe he won't even see me.»" A trace of a smile ghosts over her lips, and is gone.

Matteo first wills his smile to return for her. But as her words sink in, that smile requires much less effort. He nods. "«I will wait for you.»"

"«Here we are»," Joe says, indicating the entrance to Gary's building to Maria. Then, to Gary and Peter: "Let's stand back and give the lady some room to do her thing."

Maria glances around, somewhat disinterestedly, then closes her eyes. Her coyote form comes to the fore partially, lengthening her ears and giving her jaw an off cast. When her eyes open, they are canine amber, and she tilts her head back to scent the air...

Peter watches her with fascination, but detachment. Rather as one might watch a dog act in a gypsy caravan.

And falls forward swiftly, catching herself on the palms of her hands, resting her cheek on the cold pavement, lowering the rest of her body. She takes a heavy whiff, and then pulls herself into a crouch, glancing up at the building with a frown. And then she's up and off down the street, trotting rapidly, scarcely waiting for the rest to catch up with her.

A block down... not far at all, and she stops at a wall, placing her hands on it, sniffing between her spread hands, then down a foot or two. "Yes..." she mutters to herself, followed by a low whine, and then steps back. Her fingers flash out, rapidly, touch a place here, there, seemingly in a random sequence... and nothing happens.

However, she nods to the three men sharply, and walks through the wall, leaving a faintly rippling surface in the stone behind her.

"You go girl!" cries Gary. "The game's afoot!" He dashes after her, stopping only when he comes to the once-more-solid wall.

Peter follows at a distance, looking to Joe for a cue how to respond. "I say," he murmurs to Black. "Does this sort of thing happen often here?" He looks at the wall. "If so, I think I must seriously readjust my thinking about physics..."

"Only when you want to get anywhere," Joe replies with a smirk. "Now, let's see if she left the door open for us. Kindly step this way..."

He steps through the wall and vanishes.

Peter watches with suspended disbelief and first Joe and then Gary step through the wall without apparent apprehension. Still, he doesn't move. Something in his rational mind refuses to accept what his eyes have told him.

Suddenly Gary's head and shoulders appear through the wall. "You comin'?" he asks. "Cuz we're not waitin' around all day, ya know..."

Peter takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and plunges through.

Kulag has had a very bad day. The voshat they had tracked since the god of the sun had risen in his boat and paddled nearly across the entire heaven had eluded them at last, disappearing in a valley of the Great Stone Wash. And now Lurash was talking to the warriors, filling them with words of rebellion.

"He is getting old," Lurash told them. "He can no longer see the tracks! We need a new leader."

Kulag looks at his First Wife, Shira, and shakes his head. Lurash wishes to be chieftain. Kulag had tried to tell her this. It was for this reason, alone, that Lurash had chosen Kulag's daughter for his First Wife. In so doing, he had hoped to put himself in the line of succession above Kulag's own son, Morl. And when Morl had then died in the hunt, Kulag was certain Lurash had a hand in the death. But he had no proof, and Lurash was popular among the younger warriors. He said nothing to any but Shira.

Now some of the warriors were muttering agreement with Lurash, while others loyal to Kulag tried to turn their attention to Kulag's years of faithful service. Kulag knew that he must deal with Lurash soon, while he is still able. But an open confrontation was not the way. No, he would have to be more clever than Lurash.

Kulag nods to one of the warriors, who nods back and nudges the warrior beside him. They exchange a glance which continues through the assemblage of young men. Kulag then turns back to his First Wife. "It will be tonight," he says softly to her. "It is arranged."

Shira nods, and glances at her daughter, Tan, with a sad smile.

Tan, not understanding the purport of the look, smiles and directs her mother's glance to the baby at her breast. A strong, healthy son to take Lurash's place when the day comes. A chieftain born, if ever child was favored by the gods. She looks lovingly at her strong husband, now showing such superiority over his fellow warriors. He will succeed her father in time. They have often spoken of it. And she will be a chieftain's wife, and then a chieftain's mother. It is in the bones. She has seen it.

Shira picks up the bundle of clothing she has dried and folded and balances it on her head. It is time to supervise the evening meal. She hopes Fifth Wife has remembered to stir the pot this time and hasn't left the meat to burn on the bottom while she combed her hair. Fifth Wife was sister to Lurash, and only one summer older than Tan. Young, beautiful and two moons gone with child. Kulag did not know this. Also he did not know that while he had been off at Council with the Elders of Farouth, Fifth Wife had lain with Orgath for half a moon. That was two moons past. Shira had made some plans of her own. When Lurash was gone, Fifth Wife would follow his boat to the heavens.

She bows to the Holy Mouth as she passes the cave. Soon it will be time for the Gathering. She will speak to Second Wife about preparing the sacrifice for this year. Second Wife's brother has a fine white goat. She will offer him the honor of giving it to the gods.

She hesitates at a sound from inside the cave. She stops for a moment. Are the gods present? Surely none of the children would be foolish enough to wander into the Holy Mouth... She looks about, mentally taking the roll of all the village children. Everyone seems to be there.

But there definately is a sound. She hears it again. A scuffing. Then... voices? Not speaking anything she can understand.

Shira drops her bundle of laundry and runs back to where Kulag is stowing his hunting gear. "Husband! Husband!" she cries. "There are voices in the Holy Mouth! The gods have come!"

Maria cocks her head to the side as she hears the voices outside the strange cave she emerged into. But, really, they're not her business, now. Her business is the definite tang of maleness and force that she associates with Burkett, and this other female ... yes, they had come through here, the scent is strong in here, with no rain to muddy it. She trots to the mouth of the cave, peering out of it alertly, then turns her head back as the other men pass through the interface.

"They were here."

Joe takes in the primitive surroundings with one efficient glance. "Looks like they took the scenic route. Can't say I'm surprised. Let's get moving before we have to deal with the locals. Still got their trail, Maria?"

Several humanoid males appear at the mouth of the cave, some with drawn swords and some with spears. For the moment, none of them looks particularly threatening. Rather, they seem awed. There are women behind them, peeking around shoulders to see what's happening.

"Uh-oh..." Gary grunts.

Peter looks at him. "What's wrong?" he asks quietly. "They don't look very dangerous."

Gary shakes his head. "A couple rules about Nexus: If you go through a portal and find yourself in a cave, it's not a good sign. It means this isn't a well- traveled area. And if the locals are surprised to see you, it's a good idea to hurry along as fast as you can. Especially if they're carrying pointy things."

Peter frowns. "Why?"

Gary starts moving obliquely toward the wall of the cave. "Let's just say," he says over his shoulder to Peter, "that if you happen not to live up to their expectations, it can get ugly."

One of the humanoids, a tall man with black hair well-laced with white, steps forward. He's dressed in green homespun with leather armor and arm-bands. His boots are strapped close to his leggings. A short green cloak hangs to his knees, but is thrown back to free his arms. A bow and quiver hang from his shoulder, and the sword in his right hand is ornate but very serviceable. He lowers himself to one knee, bows his head curtly, and speaks.

Gary leans over toward Peter and asks confidentially, "I don't suppose you speak the local dialect..."

Peter shakes his head. "Sorry."

"Uh-oh," Gary says again, and glances at Joe. "Whaddaya want we should do now, Boss?"

Joe ceremoniously raises his arms to the heavens. "Juuuuuust fo-llow my leeeeeeeead," he intones in something resembling a Gregorian chant, "and be reeeeEEEEeeeady to get the HeeeEEEEeeell outt-a heeeeEEEEEEEeeeeeEEEEEeeeere...."

Then, with a look of Divine serenity towards the locals... he slowly pulls out his harmonica... and begins to blow a spirited rendition of "Yellow Rose of Texas".

Obediently, Peter prepares himself to flee. This instinct is further augmented by his response to Joe's musical accomplishment. So-called.

Gary winces as Joe begins to play. "It had to be a harmonica," he mutters. "Still, I suppose it coulda been bagpipes..."

Peter was on the point of asking him what objection he had to bagpipes when the apparent leader of the locals leaps to his feet and pulls back from the mouth of the cave. He puts his hands to his ears and shouts something to the others. They subsequently scatter in every direction, the women screaming and herding children before them.

"Well," says Gary, after the crowd has disbursed. "That was pretty clever, scarin' 'em off like that, Boss! But, uh...maybe we should make our get-away while we can." He peers out the cave mouth. "They might come back to try and kill that horrible monster they heard." He looks over his shoulder at Joe and grins.

"Very funny," Joe responds as he stashes his instrument. "But I'm not much in the mood for an encore, anyway. As I was sayin'... Maria?"

Maria, who had only partially been paying attention to the locals and the conversation between the men, tips her head towards Joe at the sound of her name.

"Yes, go," she agrees, rubbing her fingers in the dirt at the mouth of the cave, then standing. His scent is so, so strong, a beacon, a sort of glowing fog to her nose that she can follow so easily, it's automatic. She trots out of the cave, and swerves immediately to the right. The path she follows does not seem to correspond with any of the worn ruts through the grass here, but rather keeps close to the trees, skirting the village. Obviously, the pursued were attempting to keep a low profile, which allows the pursuers to avoid natives, as well.

Maria begins to dart in and out of the smaller undergrowth and younger trees at the edge of the woods, finally diving full into their depths some distance from the village, and heading into its heart. The three men who follow might be hard pressed to keep up with her, if they are unused to this type of terrain, but she lets out small exclamations and yips from the green ahead of them, and so is not so difficult to follow, even if they lag behind.

Finally, after a good fifteen minutes of hard going, Maria comes to a little rock promontory. The sound of water has been building through most of the walk, and the rocky ledge looks out over a small pool, formed by several good size boulders altering the course of a stream. The coyote waits there, crouched, for the men to catch up.

The water here is far too shallow to dive into ... one would surely brain themselves on any of the rocks that line and littler the small pool. Nevertheless, Maria rises to her feet, turns to face Joe, Peter, and Gary, her back to the pool, then steps backwards, off the ledge.

Her skirts flutter about her as she falls, and the splash she makes is loud, dramatic ... and she disappears below the surface of the water that is barely three feet deep, not emerging again.

Joe eyes the drop critically, then takes Maria's place on the ledge facing Peter and Gary. "The waterproofing I had put on this thing had better work in this reality, and the -next- one, too," Joe grumbles, taking off his precious fedora, "or SOMEbody's in for a -double- helping of whoop-ass.

"Make sure you take a good, deep breath before you jump," he advises Peter. "There's no guarantee that we'll be near the surface on the other side. Assuming we land in water at all, that is. Could be that we'll drop onto solid ground. Either way, the ones who took Chasen knew where they were goin', so I doubt we'll be in for much of a hurt either way."

Gary takes a breath, stepping forward. "'They?' Boss, I meant to ask you--"

With that, he steps back off the ledge and disappears into the pool, trench coat flapping behind him as he falls.

Gary stops in mid-step. Then he looks at Peter. "I guess this is what they call 'a leap of faith', huh?" He shrugs. He takes Joe's place, facing Peter. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that crap." He holds his arms out in front of him. "I always go for style points," he says confidentially to Peter with a wink. So saying, he leaps up and does a back-flip off the ledge before plunging, feet-first, into the water.

Peter watches him fall. He shakes his head. Then he turns around and steps backward off the ledge.

The icy splash is immediate, chilling .... and the subsequent fall of a few feet into a somewhat disgusting bathroom almost anticlimatic. Everyone comes out the other end wet .... but not soaked, as though they'd passed through a brief, but heavy rainfall.

Pounding, buzzing noise throbs outside the room, and the floor in here is some sort of matte black substance that vibrates with the noise, and that hides the vision, if not the odor, of the filth that crawls most surfaces. And not just the normal smells of a bathroom; sour sweat, sharp urine, and the rich, organic odor of feces and gas mix unpleasantly with something like motoroil, smoke, and amonia.

"Oh, gross," opines Gary, shaking the damp off his clothes and looking around. "You always take me to the nicest places," he tells Joe with a smirk.

For the first time, Maria seems disoriented. Her eyes flash right and left, as the cacophany of human scents threatens to overwhelm her. She shakes her head, closing her eyes to force herself to stop, and concentrate, ignoring the three men, the noise, all of it. She crouches to the floor, running her fingers over its surface lightly, searching for that so-strong Burkett smell, and that of the woman. She leans over, her hair brushing the floor...

The man who walks in sports a tall mohawk in a blazing, shimmering fire color that flickers with its own light source. The metal that bedecks his face and head seems more than ornamental; several sockets and plugs look fully functional, if the disconnected cables running from them are any indication. Still, the expression on his face as he spots the three men - and as his eyes track down to the woman sniffing the floor intently - is familiar and homey: surprise and disorientation.

His expression matches the one on Peter's face. He had taken the condition of the bathroom fairly well. He's visited many a cesspit in his time. But as he stares at the man's...hair?...he is nearly open-mouthed in incredulity.

"Is this the ..." he trails, the accent pure Cornwall. "The ladies room?"

"What this is," Joe tells the man with his finest 'you had BEST pay heed to the following...' glare, "is a crime scene investigation. This agent here's utilizin' advanced olfactory augmentations, and the last thing she needs is one more scent to sort out just now. So if you wouldn't mind tyin' a knot in it for just a few minutes, we'll be out of your hair before you know it."

The initial pause seems to have more to do with authority figures than it does with any doubts to Joe's statement. Through the rippling flame of his tall mohawk, a black question mark appears, matching the dubious, slightly nervous expression on the man's face.

But Gary muscles his way forward, pushing Peter aside but side-stepping Joe. "Do we LOOK LIKE LADIES TO YOU, PUNK?" he demands, getting up in the face of the man with the mohawk. "DO WE? HUH? DO WE, PUNK??" He begins to dance about like a boxer looking for an opening. Then he throws a look back over his shoulder at Joe and says, soto voce, "God, I've always wanted to say that!" He wipes the huge grin off his face as he turns back to face the punker. "Or maybe YOU'RE the lady here. Is that it? Huh?? Are you a lady, punk??"

Peter moves forward to intervene. "Dr. Horstman..."

Joe puts a restraining hand on Peter's shoulder.

Peter, unused to being reined-in, nonetheless obeys the subtle unspoken command and relaxes.

"That'll do, agent," he tells Gary.

Gary also responds instantly. Like a well-trained attack dog, he takes a few steps back and positions himself out of Joe's way. But he gives the punk a "you just better be glad he called me off!" look before shoving his hands into his pockets and looking over at Joe for the next order.

At Gary's approach , the man with the mohawk straightens dramatically, pulling himself up to his full height of well over six feet .... well, well over with the hair, anyway. The hair that now flashes an angry looking exclamation point.

As the barking medical examiner is brought back to heel, he responds. "Hey! You think you can come in here and thrash on a person's birth gender, slam it on with me? Just because you're some piss-eyed blue boy! Make me bone out? You're just a fucking two-bit Adam Henry! Yeah, I was a bint! What about it?"

Gary blinks, casting a glance at Peter as if he might have an explanation. "Did he just say what I think she said?" he asks anyone who'll listen.

"Yeah, sh-... he did," Joe confirms.

Maria's eyes avoid this semi-confrontation, as she tries to regain her concentration ... but it's hopeless. Tired of this, she stands, stalks over to the angry punk, rolling forward to walk on her tip toes, making herself look taller. Her amber eyes narrow as she meets his rabbit pink ones, and she flashes her teeth menacingly.

"You! Shut mouth! Now!" The order is barked, in a lower voice than a woman her size should be capable of, really, and she pushes herself right up into his personal space as she does so. Question marks and exclamation points flicker at the rest of the group, and the punk opens his mouth to reply, when she taps her forefinger sharply on his lower lip, the way one might scold a child.

"No, quiet!"

Then she spins, fixing Gary with the same glare. "You want me find him? Shut mouth too! No fighting!" She marches up to him in the same manner, scowling. "No puppy, stop acting one!"

Gary has the grace to look chagrinned. "Sorry," he murmurs, sounding like a chastened child. "And sorry to you, too," he adds to the punk. "I got caught in the moment. Won't happen again."

The punk twists one corner of his lip up, the other down, as though he can't decide to remain angry or to accept the apology. He settles for a brief nod.

Her next entreaty is to the ceiling, and it's a little sad, and a lot frustrated. "No time!"

"Look," Joe says to the cyberpunk, "you'll have to excuse us if we're a little thin-skinned just now, but man's life's on the line here. But like I said, you give us a minute or two, and it'll be like we were never here."

The punk considers, but decides this isn't trouble he wants right now. "Yeah. Right. Well, on with it then." He heads out of the bathroom with a glance over his shoulder and a shake of the head.

He walks over to Maria and gently strokes her back. "«You're doing fine, Maria. We'll find him.»"

She sighs, leaning back into the touch gratefully, tilting her head back in a natural gesture of submission, accepting his encouragement. "«I can find him, anywhere, I know. But I don't know how much time we have .... I smell something bad. Something not-right, here.»" She touches the back of her neck, her gesture for something that makes her nervous. "«I have to work fast.»"

Now that the room is as clear as it's going to get, she returns to her previous crouch, sniffing the ground once more. She scours the floor with her nose until she gets a good bead, and moves for the door, not rising from her crouch. Her movement should be awkward, like a child playing horse, but she makes it graceful with purpose.

Out the door, and into a darkened hallway, with the prerequisite pay phone surrounded by graffiti. The music here is overwhelming, every bass thump rattling through bones, and making dark melody near nausea in the pits of stomachs. Maria stops, her pained yelp lost in the music, and squeezes her eyes tightly shut, her hands clamped to her ears. She takes a few long breaths, trying to center herself again, and then follows the trail once more.

It leads around the crowd, hugging the walls ... perhaps there was a crowd here when the quarry passed through? The punk from the bathroom - now joined by a group of friends with equally blinding hair and technical accoutrements - eyes them warily, whispering something to the girl next to him with day-glo green pants and electrical tape over her nipples.

Maria crawls around many pairs of booted feet, drawing heys! and stares, threading here and there, ever onward towards the bar. No, not the bar, but the door to the left of it, with the clear "Employees Only" sign, and underneath it, scrawled in black Sharpie, "that means you fuckwad!!!!!"

She rubs her hand over the door, letting out a low whine, and stands to try the doorknob.

Locked.

"Dammit," Joe mutters. He scans the room, his gaze settling on the bar.

"Bartender!" he calls, wedging himself between the patrons. "Who has a key to that door over there? This is an emergency."

The bartender is a woman who looms at well over six feet, her mostly exposed arms swirling and dancing with neon scrawls that flash brand names in archaic languages before flickering into her sleeves. She eyes Joe with a dubious expression.

"Who wants ta know?"

"The name's Black," the Lawman replies. "Joe Black." He hands her his card. "I'm a detective, I'm on the trail of a man whose life may be in danger, and he's not getting any safer while we're standing here talkin'. So I'll make this simple: You let me through there, I owe you a favor. A big one. Don't, and we gotta problem."

Peter taps Gary on the shoulder. When he turns, Peter says, "Before you jumped off that ledge, you were saying something to Mr. Black. Something you wanted to ask him. What was it?"

Gary thinks a moment. "Oh, yeah. Well, it wasn't important."

Peter waits just a moment. "But...what was it?"

Gary looks at him again, as if he has momentarily forgotten what they were talking about. "Oh, well... He and Maria keep talking about 'them' and 'they'. I just wondered if he was sure Burkett wasn't alone. And if he was, if he knew how many people he was with. And even who. But I suppose Maria would be able to tell."

Peter watches him for just a moment. "You're thinking it's this... Diana." He watches another moment as Gary doesn't respond. "And, perhaps... someone else?"

At this, Gary looks a little concerned. "Well... I don't know why, but I have this eerie feeling there's someone else involved in this. I don't know. Maybe I just think Diana couldn't pull this off by herself. I mean, Burkett's pretty slick. I just can't imagine her getting the jump on him."

Peter considers. "Perhaps he wasn't taken by force," he suggests.

Gary turns his head sharply toward Peter. "Whaddaya mean?" he demands. "You think he and Diana... have a thing going?"

Peter shrugs. "If by that you mean they may have gone off on a sexual liaison, is it beyond the realm of possibilities? By your account, this Diana is a rather seductive woman..." He holds up a calming hand as this thought obviously begins to set Gary off. "Or perhaps she lured him away some other way. Perhaps she told him you were in need of his assistance."

Gary thinks about this. "Huh. Hadn't thought of that..."

Maria appears to have been ignoring this conversation, her eyes focused on Joe and his exchange with the bartender, but she addresses the other men casually.

"Two Chasen. There is two of him."

Gary and Peter look at her in unison. Peter speaks first. "Two of him?" He repeats. He considers a moment. "This is bad," he says quietly. "This is very bad."

"What" demands Gary.

"I think I know what she means, and it's--"

"Bad. Yeah. I heard. WHY is it bad?"

The bartender cocks an elaborately pierced eyebrow. "You're offering me a favor from an unknown dick on the one hand, an' threatening me on the other. Nice, guy, real nice. I'l help your pureflesh self out. We keep the notables back there, Heinie to Bud to Electroboar. No one's been in or out in the last few hours, and before that, it was people I know. You investigating one of mine, then we DO got one big blue fuck of a problem."

Gary stares at Peter. "And I should be concerned about this why?"

"Okay, look," says Joe. "You wanna look out for your people. I respect that. I'm tryin' to look out for my people, too. All I'm askin' is for you to let me and my crew to take a quick look in there, 'cause our tracker's pretty damn certain the people we're after went that way. If we're wrong, we're wrong. If we're right, then someone got in there without you knowin' it. I doubt the people we're after would be one of yours, and I -know- you wouldn't want them sneakin' around your place."

The bartender gives Joe a considering look ... a good, long one, then nods abruptly. "I got the feeling you're going ta be a big pain in the receptacles if I say no. Alright, shift, Dickie, I ain't got all day." The key ring on her belt is just shy of massive, and it jangles cheerfully when she frees it, walking towards the door.

The key slides easily into the lock, and Maria perks as she watches the door swing open .... onto a small room filled with boxes, aluminum kegs, and a couple of busted neon signs.

"Because," Peter continues, "Ash is...another version of Chasen Burkett."

"Satisfied? No one in here," the bartender says.

The coyote girl lets out a whine of disappointment, pushing in close, and sniffing at the room.

"And that's a problem because...?" persists Gary, his tone becoming irritable.

"Not here ... " She dips her head to the door knob, sniffing deeply, ignoring the odd look the bartender is giving her. "Wrong key?"

"Because Ashforth Burkett is a demon from Hell," Peter explains, in a rather louder voice than he intended as the noise level around them suddenly and unexpected drops. He quickly looks at the others to see who has overheard him. He's relieved to see no "outsiders" are reacting to his disclosure.

"So..." Gary concludes, "you're saying this... Ashforth Burkett is a real bastard." He shrugs and turns away, looking at the door. "I've dealt with sons of bitches before. Ain't no big ting, bruddah."

"No," replies Peter, moving a little closer. "You don't understand." He waits till he has Gary's attention again. "I mean he's actually a demon. From Hell. My un--" He catches himself. "Burkett told me that Ash is what HE was, before he..." He glances at Joe. "Before he reformed." He looks back at Gary. "He is what Chasen Burkett would have been, had he never met Mannon DuVrais."

Gary looks at him, and then glances at Joe. "This is bad," he decides. "This is very bad."

Maria looks from Joe to the bartender, then nods to herself, as though maing a decision. She slips back to Gary and Peter, an odd look on her face.

"Not so bad. You think Chasen is bad in here?" Touching her fingertips to her own chest. "He's good. Good man. Ash maybe is, too. Same man. Same heart. Just young and stupid now, maybe."

Gary shrugs. "Never met the man," he replies. "But I suppose if he's an alternate of MY Burkett, he can't be all bad..."

Peter shakes his head slightly. "Perhaps," he allows. "But I'm not entirely convinced that OUR Burkett is all that good..." Even as he says this, he realizes he hadn't known that about himself until this moment. "Anyone who could be a servant of Satan for all those years and kill all those people... I just don't know." He looks at the strange young woman. "Of course, I haven't known him very long," he offers.

She offers an almost tired smile back. "Taking life. Humans do, and do, but only if it is the same as they are, it is bad. Don't know gods, good or bad. Don't know." She walks back over to Joe with that, settling at his feet and closing her eyes.

Joe rubs a hand across his face. "Okay," he tells the bartender, "now this is gonna get harder to swallow.

"These people we're after, they can do some funny things with a lock. Explaining the details'd take longer than we both have, but here's the bottom line: There's a REAL good chance that one of the other keys on your key ring will -also- open this door, no matter -what- door it's -supposed- to open. If so, that'll tell me for sure that they've been here. Now, I know you've got a shitload of keys there, so if you want to let me try'em while you go about your business, with the biggest, meanest, most wired-up sons of bitches you've got in this place on my ass to make sure I don't walk -off- with'em -- that'd be just fine by me."

The bartender shakes her head firmly. "I'm apogee chaol here." She considers him, then quirks one corner of her lips up, hands him the keys. "Go on, Dickie. You've got me curious." She heads back to the bar, but keeps close to the group, eyeing them every now and then.

Nodding his appreciation, Joe accepts the key ring and sets to work, trying each one in turn.

Narrative tradition says it should be the last key on the chain, but this is a cyberpunk reality. Key number four, a small wrought iron number that shouldn't fit at all does the trick. The lock clicks open softly, and a sudden cool breeze leaks from under the door, redolent with an odd mix of loaded dumpster and rain washed pavement. Maria gets to her feet immediately, nodding eagerly.

"Here! Here!"

Joe tosses the hefty key ring back to the bartender, as promised. "Much obliged, ma'am," he says, tipping the brim of his fedora. "I still owe you that favor. Maybe coming back and explaining all this'll even the score?"

"If you're buying, Dickie." She grabs the keys neatly out of the air, and nods to them.

Then, to Gary and Peter: "C'mon, boys! The game's afoot!"

Gary grins. "Right behind ya, Boss," he declares. Then he turns to Peter. "C'mon, Watson."

Peter frowns. "It's DuVrais," he protests, after Gary's quickly retreating figure.

"Whatever," comes the echo from Gary.

Maria, for once, takes up the rear, pulling the door shut behind them as she walks through the portal.

The alley they walk out on isn't as exotic as some of the previous locales. Cobbles ... but the lights here are electric, and an ugly orange shade. The wet cigarettes on the ground have filters, and the set of heavy duty garbage cans up against the brick wall of close-in building opposite are plastic.

Peter takes it all in, seemingly unfazed by the incongruity.

The small group of people crouched and huddled around something on the ground, however, could have stepped from the streets of Victorian London.

Well, perhaps not the streets. Back alleys, and tenements would be more accurate. Slums and bawdy houses. Three men, and two women are stooped and leaned over something on the ground, the women's skirts and the men's coats swathing the wet street. Several pale faces turn to the group that walks, effectively, out of a wall. Hair is ragged, tangled, and the skin looks too pale, greyish, even the one woman of African descent.

Gary reaches out a cautioning hand and grabs Peter by the arm, pulling him back. "Shit," he hisses. "It had to be one of these places..."

"Pardon?" says Peter, coming to a stand-still beside and a little behind Gary.

One of the men lets out a cat-like hiss, and a pair of eyes gleam in the amber lights, like cat's eyes, luminous and deep. One of the women rises, her dark hair matted and wild, and her face smudged with filth, something dark at her lips. Her hands rest on the shoulders of a boy, the only clean one of the group.

"Shut up," advises Gary in a whisper, pushing Peter back ever further as he starts to back away.

His pale hair is lit orange by the street lamps, and he wears an expression of serene calm, along with more modern clothes: jeans and a grey hoody. He could be anywhere from ten to early teens; a small, slender frame, but there's something older about the eyes.

The something on the ground twitches, a foot coming into view under the hem of a skirt.

"Oh, Christ!" hisses Gary in an under-tone.

Joe makes no bold pronouncements, no witty taunts. A Peacemaker simply appears in his left hand, his right fanning it fast enough to make multiple shots sound like one.

Gary visibly winces, almost cowers, as the gunfire begins.

Peter, however, looks over at him with a bemused expression. He leans in toward Gary. "I gather these are known enemies?" he offers.

Gary stares at him. "Man, what are you?" he asks, aggitated. "A cyborg or something? Don't you have any nerves??"

Peter shrugs. "I've been in war," he explains, and turns to watch Joe with obvious appreciating. "He's a remarkably good shot, isn't he?"

And he is. The preternaturally fast bullets wreak havoc in the ranks of these street people, as messy holes appear in foreheads and chests, marked by sprays of blood. One of the men falls forward silently over the body, but the other lists sideways with a horrible choking scream, blood erupting from his lips in great, tainted gouts, steaming and rank, clotted thick, like obscene cream. The dark skinned woman goes over onto her back, kicking like a trapped cockroach, twitching violently and letting out long, piercing wails. She throws her head back and forth, the blood from the hole in her head matting her already filthy hair and marking the ground below her in dark crisscross patterns.

The last woman hit lurches forward, falling nearly at Joe's feet, but looks towards Gary and Peter, reaching her hand for them piteously. "P-please ..." she burbles, coughing up a handful of blood. "W-wha'... ha'... we.... do'..."

Joe watches the woman impassively.

Gary cautions Peter, "don't let her touch you."

Peter obediently steps back, but looks over at Gary with a frown.

Her words are no more, as a beast steps between them, and neatly twists her head from her body with clawed, grey-red furred hands. Maria has flown into her half beast form, and leaps out among the survivors, finishing the work that Joe's bullets started so quickly - easy, automatic backup.

At this, Peter pulls his gun to the ready. Having missed the transformation, he does not make the connection between Maria and the beast he now sees.

But Gary once more grabs his arm, pointing out that the half-creature is not threatening them, but the vampires. He glances about, notes that Maria is not among them, and it clicks. "Easy," he says. "I think it's with us..."

Peter glares at Gary, but as Joe has not turned on the beast, he partially lowers the barrel of the gun.

But the standing woman, and the boy are nowhere to be seen. Until a woman's voice sounds behind Gary and Peter, almost in their ears. "You interfere with the work of the Angel of the Lord, and you bring a devil beast with you! Blasphemers!"

Peter turns about, swinging the gun barrel at... nothing.

Maria whirls from her crouch among the dead and dying, but there is no one to be seen, or smelt, even over the sharp copper tang of blood.

"Does it not say in the Great Book, 'And when they shall have finished their testimony, the _beast_ that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them' ?"

Laughter floats through them, and the woman finally appears again, behind Maria, and faster than the eye can follow her movements, she has her hands on either side of the were-coyote's head, gripping her tightly. Smoke rises from them, as though she's been badly burnt, and is still burning.

"'So that thou shalt be MAD for the sight of thine eyes which thou shalt see...'"

The bullets she had caught somehow fall with small, metallic clashes to the pavement, and Maria is suddenly freed, bent over, clutching her own head, now, and the woman gone, too fast, far too fast.

Maria howls in pain.

Joe appears at Maria's side almost as quickly as the woman departs, one arm around her shoulder, the other holding what only the most observant might note is his -unfired- pistol. "Easy, girl," he says as soothingly as he's able. "How bad is it? Can you go on?"

Maria winces at the sound of his voice, still hunched over, shuddering.

His eyes scan their surroundings for more targets, taking in the bullets at Maria's feet in the process. "Dammit..." he mutters. Then, to Peter: "Okay, son, there are your vampires. I don't know if they're the kind that gun I gave you'll hurt, but odds are we'll have a chance to find out before we get outta here."

Peter lowers the gun, and then cradles it in his arms at the ready. He moves to pick up the bullets, examining them in the orange light. They appear undamaged, as though they had hit nothing, but merely been expelled from the barrel. He looks at Joe. "What are these?" he asks, tossing one to Joe.

Joe catches it without really looking. "The bullets I fired at her," he says simply. "The bitch caught'em and used'em on Maria."

Peter examines a bullet in his hand again, a puzzled frown on his face. He looks at the animal before Joe. "On...Maria," he repeats softly, trying to put the pieces together. "I...see."

"N-no ..." Maria gasps out, removing her hands from her head. Indeed, there's no blood but that of the vampires in her fur, no sign of injury that is her own. Her muzzle gapes to form other words, as she looks up at Joe, but nothing comes out but a low, pained growl.

The expression on her canine face changes suddenly, from one of pained surprise to sudden anger and fear. A mad light jumps into those amber-bbrown eyes, and she suddenly slashes out towards Joe with a clawed hand, clumsily, and with none of her usual speed, but with harmful intent, that rumbling, low growl leaking from between clenched, bared teeth.

Peter flips the rifle into his hands and, butt downward, raises it above Maria. He arcs it downward toward the back of her skull.

Peter feels only a slight tug, yet suddenly his hands are empty. Joe stands beside him holding the missing weapon.

Peter reacts with a small gasp and a failed attempt to reclaim his grip on the already absent weapon.

"Thanks," he says, handing back the rifle, "but this ain't her fault. And I was wrong about the bullets, too. Her body's not hurt. This is... something else."

Peter takes the rifle, but watches Joe with a sudden suspicion. There is no way the detective could have moved as fast as he had to move do get the rifle from Peter.

Maria falls to the ground, snarling, shaking her head back and forth violently. She snaps at Joe's legs, like a wild dog.

After a moment's hesitation, he pulls back the lapel of his coat, revealing his badge.

Peter stares at the badge.

The badge here has an extra shine to it somehow, that is not normally present... as though its surface were reflecting a bright ray of sunlight. Maria's confused eyes track up to it, and she sits back abruptly on her haunches, letting out a low whine.

She shakes her head again, as though tyring to rid herself of a bug, still whining. The whines turn into a piercing yelp as she hunches over, eyes still turned to the badge. Abruptly, with no warning, she flips into her human form, and the yelps turn to a sort of mewling noise, no longer canine.

With purpose now, she crawls over to Joe, hands on his legs to support herself, and ducks her head, bowing her shoulders, and turning her head to the side to expose her throat to him.

Immediately, Joe covers the badge. One hand goes to her throat, taking a firm (but not choking) grip. The other gently strokes her hair back from her forehead. "That's my good girl," he says soothingly. "That's my good girl."

Peter blinks, and shakes his head, like shaking off a dream. He watches the interplay, slowly shaking his head.

Gary moves up and quietly pulls Peter back out of the way. "He's got it under control," he says, nodding toward Joe. "Trust the man."

Maria clings to his legs for a moment in relief, making soft, high pitched noises that are neither canine nor human, but some slightly sad hybrid. "Sorry... sorry, sorry... thinking was wrong ..."

She slowly allows herself to be soothed, until she finally climbs to her feet on her own. She no longer looks at Peter or Gary, face red with shame, and hangs her head forward, letting her hair curtain her face.

"I find," she declares softly.

"It's okay, Maria," he assures her with a final stroke of her hair. "I know you will."

This time, there's very little distance to go. Apparently this was just a jump point for the kidnappers and their prey. Maria pads down to the end of the alley, up to the chainlink fence that blocks it off from another, mostly deserted street. She sniffs up and down it, concentrating on a small ripped flap in the link near the bottom, maybe big enough for a cat to get through.

"Here," she declares, and sticks her hand through the hole. Indeed, it doesn't show up on the other side of the fence. She flattens herself to the ground, and gets her head in .... her body following through the hole that shouldn't be big enough for her shoulders or hips, like a cartoon.

Joe shakes his head wearily and removes his fedora. But before he kneels at the gap, he turns and glares at the alley -- and this world -- through narrowed eyes.

"I'll be comin' back here, I think."

Then he's through the incongruously comical interface, and is gone.

Gary looks at Peter, and shrugs. He's about to move forward when Peter stops him.

"No. I'll go first this time," Peter decides. Without waiting for objection, he stoops, bends forward... and disappears.

Gary chuckles to himself. "Kids," he says dismissively, but without rancor. Then he follows.

They exit through some manner of open exhaust vent with a busted grill at street level to find Joe standing with his back to them, arms crossed.

The street itself is roughly a four-lane thoroughfare -- roughly four-lane, due to its lack of visible markings, and roughly a thoroughfare, due to its lack of any vehicle traffic at the moment. (Unless, that is, you count one giggling three-armed figure performing a staggering dance further up the street, or the hunched, shaggy female pushing a baby carriage in the opposite direction with many a paranoid glance to and fro.)

Graffiti-soaked cinderblock store fronts long abandoned and empty -- at least, to outward appearances -- crouch along either side of the street like the filthy shoe soles to the cyclopean labyrinth of megascrapers, arcologies, lattices, pipeworks, skylanes, spires, and generators stretching up and out of sight above them.

The cityscape could account on its own for the general darkness here in the bottom of this impossibly deep artificial canyon. But it doesn't have to. The nearby wall of pure darkness cutting through both the city and the reality like the blade of a Stygian god contributes more than its fair share of gloom to the neighborhood.

"Babel," Joe announces. "And Nightside. It figures."

Maria immediately sweeps the area, closing her eyes against the glaring incongruity of the wall of night, and sniffing, long experience having taught her it's best to be aware here, alert and ready.

Her eyes come open again after preliminary reconnaissance, and she starts her deeper scan of the immediate area for traces of their pursued, dropping to the ground.

Peter stands and looks quickly around before his attention is riveted to the Wall of Night. Its swirling, impossibly deep purple shifts under the eye but cannot be caught.

Gary glances at the wall, and as quickly looks away. "It had to be Nightside," he moans. "Couldn't be somewhere nice, like Spinville..."

Peter takes a step or two toward the Wall. He looks up, left right, finding no discernable edge. It cuts through buildings. And yet he cannot determine how close--or far away--it is. It seems to fluctuate, and yet is always stationary. The swirls and eddies form into shapes that nearly make sense to him.

"What," he says flatly, "is that?" He continues to watch the wall.

"Hey, man," says Gary, taking his arm. "You shouldn't be looking at that."

Peter shifts his gaze to Gary. "Why not?"

"Because that way lies madness," says Joe, never turning.

Peter frowns, flicking another glance at the wall before asking, "What do you mean, Mr. Black? What possible danger could there be?"

Joe glances at Peter over his shoulder. "Just listen to the man, son. Don't stare at the Wall."

He turns away again.

"The Wall stares back."

Maria, for her part, lets out a frustrated whine, thumping her fist on the ground with a snarling frown. "Where, where, where?" She leaps to her feet and starts sniffing along all the walls, fences, anything in reach, but to no avail.

"«I can smell them, Joe, I _know_ they were here, but not where!»" Her hands clench into useless fists, and she shakes her head, trying to scent the air again.

Peter starts to ask more questions, but Gary taps his arm. He turns.

"Check it out," Gary says, pointing to a heap of something leaning against the side of a building on one side of the street. He tugs at Peter's sleeve and fairly drags him there. "THIS is what happens when you stare at the wall, Newbie."

It must have been a human being once. Now it is a dessicated corpse. It flashes a Cheshire cat grin. The eyes have been gouged out. Above it, graffitti proclaims, "MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE".

Peter shudders and turns away. "Point taken," he replies grimly.

Gary cuffs him. "Next time, listen to your big brother, idjit. I'm tryin' ta keep you alive, here." He walks away, muttering to himself. "Ain't no good to us if his brain cracks open like a garden snail under your bare feet on a hot summer's morning..."

"«It's okay, Maria. We couldn't have gotten _this_ far without you. We'll find them.»" He turns to Gary and Peter. "Looks like we're going to have to do this the hard way from here on out."

Motioning the others to follow cautiously, he picks out one sagging door, puts his ear to it for a moment... and kicks it in abruptly, gun drawn!

Empty, stripped so clean as to leave the building's past function a mystery. (Albeit with stains and bits of detritus hinting at more current functions best not considered.)

Another door follows, and another. And another. Variations on a theme, mostly. They do startle a gaggle of wirehead burnouts at one point, however. And at another, a bloated porcine something suckling her little somethings squeals her outrage at their intrusion.

"All right," Joe growls in frustration, the well of doors running dry. "This is officially pissing me off."

Gary follows suit as best he can. He's not very adept at kicking in doors, so he contents himself with looking behind and under trash cans, over walls, around corners... He, too, comes up empty. His muttered profanities mount up, and increase both in decibel and explicitness.

Peter, on the other hand, seems to take on a quizzical frown. Rather than starting on a hunt, he slowly drifts down the street, looking to left and right as though trying to divine the right place. At one point, he puts his hand to his forehead and stops in the dead center of the street. If a vehicle comes around the corner, it's sure to flatten him, but the possibility apparently doesn't occur to him.

Suddenly, he says very softly, "Here." He walks purposefully up to a particular door which has no doorknob. No visible means of entry. A boarded-up used-to-be entrance. "This is it," he says again, louder. Then he whistles high and clear. "I've found it!"

Gary is the first to reach him. "What do you mean, you found it?" he demands. He looks at the blank door. "This? This is what you found?"

Peter nods as he looks the building up and down. "This is where they are."

Gary clicks his tongue. "Now how do you know that? If they were there, Maria would have smelled them."

Peter seems unfazed by this scorn. "They are here. I feel it."

Gary checks at this. He looks over his shoulder to see where Joe has gotten to. "You feel it?" he repeats, superstitiously. "What, exactly, do you feel?"

Peter considers. "I'm not certain. I've never felt anything like this before." He says this, not with wonder, but clinically. He holds his hands, palms outward, in front of the boarded-up door, moving them up and down, left and right, defining the edges without actually touching them. "It is as if it... called me." He looks over at Gary with the expression of one faced with an anomoly after years of successfully repeating the same experiment. "It is as if it knows me."

Gary looks at the once-door and frowns. He reaches out to touch the wood.

This time it is Peter who grasps Gary's wrist. "No," he says sharply. "Don't touch it."

Gary pulls his hand back immediately. "Why not?" he asks, rubbing his hand unnecessarily.

Peter shakes his head. "I don't know. But... please don't."

"Okay, okay. I can take a hint," Gary says grumpily. "So, we just gonna stand here like flamingos?" He looks around. "I'd rather not stick in one place too long around here. It's... creepy."

If Peter thinks this is an odd assessment, coming as it was from a man who spends his days up to his elbows in other people's guts, he doesn't say so. "Wait for the others," he advises. "Then we'll see." He looks up the wall of the building to where it disappears for no apparent reason. "Better we should have all the support we can muster."

Gary shudders. "I don't think I like the sound of that..."

"The sound of what?" Joe asks, walking up to join them. He eyes the sealed doorway skeptically. "Found something?"

Gary turns to him. "Science Boy, here, thinks he's found the entrance to the place they disappeared to."

Peter, never diverting his attention from the doorway, merely states, "I have found it. They are somewhere beyond this door."

Gary shrugs at Joe. "He... 'feels it'," he explains. "Says the door called to him."

At this, Peter turns away and faces them. "I should think that you, of all people, Dr. Horstman, would accept that stranger things than this have already happened to us. This Nexus of yours defies logic, and even physics. Why, then, should it be so difficult to believe that I have somehow perceived a summons to this particular place?" It is the first time Peter has evinced anything like annoyance or, indeed, emotion of any sort.

"You accept that Maria can smell what we cannot. Why cannot you accept that I can perceive, in some mannor, signs that you cannot?" Peter glances at Joe. "I suspect that, had Mr. Black, here, told you -he- 'felt' this was the correct door, you would believe -him- without question. Why, then, do you doubt -me-?"

"I didn't say I doubted you," Gary objects.

"You didn't have to," Peter replies, turning back to the door. "Your scorn is self-evident."

Joe looks from Gary to Peter to the door. "I don't see any reason for doubt, here. Don't see any particular reason for -belief-, either... But what I -do- see is a door we haven't tried yet, whatever else anyone's got to say about it."

Gun in hand, he kicks the door.

"Don't--" cries Peter, but too late.

Which is not to say that he kicks -in- the door. Quite the contrary: The door meets the blow like a block of pure diamond, the plywood neither buckling nor splintering.

Which is more than can be said for Joe's foot.

"Ow," Joe observes, hopping on his uninjured foot a couple of times. "Okay, I'll chalk that up as a clue."

Peter shakes his head. "I should have warned you." He looks at the door again. "It's not going to open by force." He brings his hands closer. "It needs..."

"What?" asks Gary, after a moment of suspense. "What does it need?"

Peter cants his head to one side, as if listening. "I don't..." He trails off in distraction. Then he reaches out his hand and lays it flat against the door.

"Peter, no!" hisses Gary, moving to stop him, but he, too, is too late.

There is a soft clicking sound. The sound of cylinders moving in sequence. The sound of bolts sliding into place. Then silence.

Peter draws his hand away. "Try it now," he directs.

Eyeing Peter curiously, Joe moves to comply. This time, he elects to shoulder rather than kick... and, with an impotent *thud*, earns himself a sore shoulder to match his sore foot.

"Okay, son," he grumbles, rubbing his shoulder, "got any more thoughts on the subject?"

Peter frowns. "I was certain it would..." He moves forward and puts both hands on the door, over Gary's continued objections. The same sound. He pushes on the door. Nothing happens. He steps back and un-shoulders his rifle, pulling off a shot in the same graceful movement.

Gary flinches, covering his head as the light blue beam bounces silently off the door.

Contrary to normal physics, the angle of incidence is not equal to the angle of reflection. The bolt deflects harmlessly above their heads. Or, harmlessly to them, at least. There is no trace of burn, no evidence of assault.

Peter looks at the rifle. "You are certain this weapon is powerful?" He turns to look at Joe. "Does it normally have effect against solid, non-living substances?"

"I guess you know by now that 'normally' is a funny word in Nexus," Joe replies, "but yeah, that shouldn't have happened."

Peter nods, and slings the rifle over his shoulder once more. He turns back to the door. "I felt it... respond... to my touch. I felt tumblers, and heard the inner bars moving." He continues to run his hands over the surface. "It knows me. I thought it would respond for me..."

He steps back again. He stares at the door for a moment, then shakes his head in frustration. "It says it needs more," he tells them. "It is not satisfied." He puts his hand to his chin, pondering. "It needs--"

"It needs a key," says a female voice behind them. Peter and Gary turn in unison, to find a rather tall, dark-haired woman who might be 25 or 40. She is dressed in paramilitary black sweater and trousers, her hair neatly pulled back and anchored behind her head.

Beside her stands an older man. His hair is turning grey. Not silver. Dull grey. His blue eyes are slightly rheumy with age and too much squinting in bad light. He looks about him in confusion. His clothing, while dark, seems somehow of another age. The trousers come only to his knees, above dark stockings. But there is something very familiar about his face.

Joe spins about, aims, assesses the threat, and holsters his pistol in one fluid motion. Establishing just -why- his instincts so moved him takes a bit longer.

The woman turns and gestures at the man. "Fortunately," she says, "I have brought it with me."

The woman's face isn't immediately familiar. But there's something about the distinct fragrance of orange blossoms surrounding her... and about her eyes. Eyes peering out at the world with quiet warmth and wisdom. Eyes Joe has seen before... The last time, surrounded by countless wrinkles... and with a fresh bullet hole centered expertly between them...

He shakes his head to clear away the memory.

The man with her takes less time to place. Age has softened the features but have yet to obscure them altogether. And there, too, the eyes tell the tale.

Joe turns to Peter. "Well, son, by Nexus standards, this counts as a family reunion."

Peter looks at Joe sharply. "What do you mean?" he demands, stepping away from the doorway but guarding it with his body. "Who are these people?"

Gary stares at the old man. "Well, I'll be damned..." he breathes.

The woman glances at him. "You still might be, Dr. Horstman. Watch yourself." The French accent softens the words, and she is smiling slightly. She nods at Joe. "So, Capitan Black. You do remember me, then. Very good. That makes things more easy, n'est-ce pas?"

"Somehow, I doubt it..." Joe mutters.

The old man just stares about him, at these people and, particularly, at Peter. He leans toward the woman. "Who is this young man?" he asks. "Where have you brought me?"

"Tshhh!" she admonishes. "You are in no position to ask questions. All in good time." Then she turns back to Joe. "I think, Capitan, that you had better introduce us."

Joe sighs. "All right, then. Peter DuVrais, may I introduce Mannon DuVrais. And unless I'm mistaken, Chasen Ashforth Burkett the Third, so to speak."

All eyes turn to Joe. Gary and Peter speak at once.

"Mannon DuVrais?" repeats Peter.

"Another one?" replies Gary. "How many Burketts are there??"

Mannon smiles at Peter. "Yes, child," she replies fondly. She takes a few steps toward him. "I am not your mother," she explains quickly. "But..." Here she glances at Fr. Angelus. "...I am identical to her. Another version, if you will."

The priest's eyes grow large. First he stares at Mannon, and then at Peter. "This is..." He lapses into silence. Then he puts his hands over his eyes. "He... lived." He sinks to his knees. "Father in Heaven, what have I done?"

Mannon looks at him with a hard line to her jaw. "Enough, Father. You have done more than enough." She strides to him and yanks at his elbow. "Get up off your knees," she commands sharply. "Leave off your false pennitence. If never did you any good before. -God- will forgive you. But I do not. And this young man may not, once he realizes who you are. Get up, and take your punishment like a man, for once in your life."

Peter, who had taken a step toward Mannon, now stops and watches the drama playing out before him. It is clear from his cold expression that he understands who this is, and why Mannon is angry with him.

Gary puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Wow, man... your mom, huh?"

Peter ignores him, but he doesn't move out from under the comfort. "This man is my father," he says firmly. "My true father."

Mannon looks kindly upon him. "Yes, child," she says. The words seem ironic, since at the moment she is in the form she held in life when she was about the same age that Peter is now. "This is your father. For good or ill." She turns to Angelus. "Priest, own your son," she adds, harshly. "Own the consequence of your uncontrolled lust." She pushes him a pace or two toward Peter. "See that you have received far better than you deserve for your cowardess and sin."

The two stand face-to-face, barely five feet separating them. Peter stares at his father, his face unreadable.

Gary looks over at Joe with a trouble expression. "Hey, boss," he whispers. "Can you clue me in, here?"

"Well, like the lady said: this is Peter's father, but she's an alternate version of his mother," Joe offers. "And as near as I can tell from -this- Mannon's tone, the attentions that produced Peter weren't exactly welcome."

Gary frowns just a moment, and then the light dawns. "Ooooooooooh. I get it." He really looks at the older man for the first time. "And she says he's a priest?" he asks. "Bummer." He shakes his head. "You know, the more I learn about Chasen Burkett--OUR Chasen Burkett--the more interesting he becomes. The more I learn about what he COULD have been..." He shakes his head again. "...what he IS doesn't seem so bad to me."

"No," Joe agrees. "Not so bad. Makes me glad I haven't run across any alternates of me, though. Wonder if I'd be the 'good' one..."

Peter lifts his chin slightly. "You're the man who raped my mother," he states calmly. He looks the priest up and down. "When I was a child, I used to dream about killing you. How I would do it. How you would die." He sighs. "Now that I see you, I can see that your crime is its own punishment." He turns away.

As he does, Mannon reaches out and touches his cheek. "Your mother would have been very proud of you, Pierre," she says, and smiles. "I... am very proud of you." She puts her hand on his shoulder. "Do not forget that the man we seek is not this man. The man we seek is the best of Chasen Ashforth Burkett. Always remember that." She smiles again. "He has done horrible things. But he has paid the price and been absolved. And..." She cups his chin in her hand. "He cares for you, very much."

Peter looks into her dark eyes. "Yes," he says. "I know." He nods. "I wish that HE had been my father."

Mannon chuckles softly. "That is an impossibility, mon petit. Or I would be your mother." She reaches out impulsively and hugs him. "I wish that I had been," she whispers into his ear.

Peters arms tighten about her.

Maria had perked, startled, when Mannon and Burkett came in, but it took her only a half second or so to realize this was yet another of the Burketts. Not hers. Not that the first one she knew was hers in any really way, but she thoughtof him that way, in the back of her mind. He really belonged to this other woman here.

And when she recognized Mannon, the orange-blossom woman, she slunk away. Not far, just crouched a block or so down the wide street. She might be needed, Nightside is a dangerous place. But she can't be around that woman and not hurt horribly, knowing there's no way to live up to a creature like that. Not for an animal girl, a not-even-human girl, just out of childhood, and ignorant as she is. A beautiful, intelligent human woman could hardly rise to Mannon's level.

"Uh..." says Gary, looking around. "You know, this might not be the best time or place for this..."

A small cluster of on-lookers have gathered at the opening of this canyon-like street. Their interest is becoming worrying.

But this is something that deserves her attention. Something, maybe, she can do. She stands as the cluster gathers, a dangerous growl trickling from the back of her throat past her teeth.

Joe turns his attention to the crowd, eyeing them coldly.

It's as motley a crew as one might expect from Nightside, sharing nothing more in common than impoverished attire and eyes with an unwholesome gleam echoing the swirling currents of the Wall. The "Nightside Look", or "Nighteyes", some call it, although even most Nightside locals know better than to pay the mysterious barrier overshadowing their neighborhood undue attention.

"Folks," Joe says, "you oughta know that street gatherings aren't a good idea around here. For some reason, they make the Mallrachen Security Force edgy. Something about a 'high urban instability zone' and 'pacification with extreme prejudice'.

"Then again," he adds, eyes narrowing, "sometimes that kinda problem deals with itself before the MSF even get off their asses. So if you'd just be so kind as to move along, our day's bound to be a whole lot happier."

Peter reluctantly released Mannon, and visibly pulls himself together. He clears his throat. "We need to get through that door," he says. That is where they are."

Joe turns to Mannon, keeping more than half an eye on the crowd. "You said the padre here's the key. If you meant that literally, now'd be a good time to turn him."

Mannon nods. "Fr. Angelus, come with me." She takes him by the arm, as he seems still to be in some sort of daze.

He drags his gaze away from the swirling darkness at the end of the street and goes quietly with her.

"It's a DNA lock," Mannon explains to Joe. "Put your hand there," she instructs Angelus, pointing at the door. "Anywhere will do."

"Of course!" chimes in Gary. "Ash must have keyed it to his own DNA. That explains why it gave a little for Peter. He shares some of that DNA."

Fr. Angelus puts his hand flat on the door. There is a clacking and whirring sound, and a soft scraping. Finally, a solid *thunk!* and the door clicks open. It swings slightly outward.

Mannon gets her fingers round the edge of it. Then she turns back to the others. "We don't know what we'll find in here," she warns. "I think we should split up into pairs. I'll take the priest. Capitan, I suggest you take your tracker, though I'm not sure what good it will do. Ash has chosen this place deliberately to confound our efforts. Peter, you go with the doctor."

So saying, she pulls the door open.

Joe bites off a sharp reminder that he doesn't TAKE his marching orders from the Higher Ups these days. There's no time for grandstanding. And besides, she hadn't exactly made it an -order-.

But still...

He checks the loads in his revolvers out of habit, as though he doesn't know the exact position of every bullet he owns. "Okay, Maria," he says. "we're almost there. You just lead the way as best you can."

The coyote girl nods her assent, and steps through the door.

As if to accommodate Mannon's recommended course of action -- or, perhaps, to take best advantage of it -- the door opens on an entry hall that immediately splits off into three corridors. Joe follows Maria down the middle way.

Maria holds her head high, eyes closed to almost slits. She can smell him... everywhere here, as if he's walked through this entire area. Burkett's scent is maddeningly unspecific however, and her choice for the middle corridor is more random choice than she'd like.

The walls are a musty gray SimStone(TM) of the sort sometimes favored by architects of Babel's distant past, before vertical miles of less quaint constructs dogpiled their handiwork. Joe's eyes strain in a gloom that's shy of total darkness for no apparent reason -- the sort of dim, ambient lighting vid directors use to tell the audience "It's dark!" without presenting a dull black screen.

The breeze likewise springs from no particular source, drifting first one way, then the next, and out of any number of the branching hallways they discover. Occasionally, it carries its dankness straight out of the walls beside them.

And then, after enough twists and turns to make Joe consider the possibility that they've entered the Endless Building, the walls suddenly give way to a vast, empty room, its boundaries lost to the dark in every direction save behind them.

Maria precedes Joe into the room, frowning, and looking around. She trots out ahead of him, and tghen turns to make sure he's following, only to see that she's moved farther into the room than she thought, and Joe's lost back somewhere in the darkness.

"Joe?" she calls out.

The spotlight from the unguessable ceiling only deepens that darkness, casting its bright circle on the floor ahead of them. (Whether this is the center of the room is impossible to know.) And in that circle of light, a slip of a blonde girl in a frilly archaic white dress smiles shyly at them with guileless blue eyes, hands clasped primly before her. The diamonds at her throat scatter the light like a hundred shattered windows.

Joe freezes immediately, his own blue eyes wide and twitching, the guns in his hands forgotten.

"Hello again, Joe," she says, her voice purest honey. "What do you know?"

"No..." Joe stammers. "No, you're gone... Gone for good..."

Her lips form a pretty little sympathetic pout. "Poor Joe," she coos. "Things are never as they should be."

Then the chainsaw suddenly in her hands roars to life.

*****

"Joe ...?" Maria frowns when there's no answer, and head back towards where she smelled him last, but the air currents in this room are confusing everything, and she can smell Burkett so clearly here, it's hard to focus on anything else.

In fact, his scent is getting stronger, almost as though the man himself were here. She speeds her pace towards it, breaking out into a run, her heart racing. He's here, she know he is, and she can smell the blood, she has to get to him before it's too late! She pulls up short only when she comes to a figure hanging in chains in what may be the middle of the room. A familiar figure. A beloved figure.

A dead figure.

Maria shakes her head in denial. "No . no, no," she repeats softly as she approaches the body. Her hands ball in her skirt, and her nose is filled with the scent of blood, old and new, as well as other body fluids. Urine, feces, and semen? Had they stripped away every bit of his dignity?

The familiar planes of his face are warped by swellings and crusts of liquid. His mouth hangs half open, his tongue protruding slightly, a length of chain wrapped around his throat and digging into his flesh. Crying openly now, Maria reaches up automatically to loosen the chain, wincing at the sickly unsticking noise it makes as it pulls free of wrent, still warm flesh. But no sudden gasp for air rewards her. The head merely falls limply forward.

Sobbing, she presses her face into his chest, heedless of the blood smearing her face and hands, listening desperately for a heartbeat that isn't there. If only she'd come just a little quicker, if she'd found the scent faster, he might still be alive .

"He was a good ride. It's a shame he gave out so quickly. Still, got a few good fucks out of him anyway!" The obscenely cheerful woman's voice rings out from the darkness surrounding them.

Maria snaps away from Burkett, growling low in her throat and looking around. She can't see the woman, but she can smell her, stalking around her victim. And she can smell Burkett all over her, in her. A bitch in human heat.

"But you wouldn't know, would you? That's right, our Burkett doesn't play with animals, does he? Not much of a _pet_ lover." Her laughter comes from everywhere at once. "I might have let you take one last spin before the Burkett Express came to a full stop, but he just now croaked. Too late, I'm afraid."

That mocking voice, telling her what she already knows. Too late. Too late to do anything, too late to be of any help, she can't even give him this much.

"Unlucky break, huh? You can't love him right, you can't fuck him right, you can't even get here in time to save that day. What a waste."

Maria snarls her fury, and lunges at where she last heard the voice, but stumbles into darkness, her claws meeting nothing. High, mocking laughter echoes around her, not the movie kind at all, but a sort of giggling-snigger that's simply ugly in its palatable spite.

The pain across her flank is immediate, and sharpens her senses down to that one point on her body. She can _feel_ the muscles there seperate neatlyu, as though severed with a huge scalpel, and she falls backwards, hitting the ground with an ungraceful thump. She feels the flush of heat that signals her accelerated healing process, and the tickle of blood running down her thigh. She snarls her pain and frustration, and pulls herself to her feet again.

This time the pain is through her shoulders, and she spins around, slashing at... nothing. Another sharp, bright cut at her heel, and she manages to not to fall this time, but she's forced to pull the leg up. That awful laughter reoccurs, this time directly in her left ear. She can _feel_ the woman's hot breath, take in the stink of her, spit and blood mixed with _him_.

Her teeth snap on nothing, and as the new wounds heal, another forms across her chest. And another at her belly. One across her face. Another. Another.

Maria feels as though she's jerked in all directions at once, unable to keep up with the invisible knives lacerating her flesh. Her growl is laced with little whimpers of pain, but though she lunges this way and that, she can never connect, never quite catch the hands that are ripping her apart.

She howls in rage and frustration, and the pain is so great she cannot manage the little bit of concentration needed for the change. She staggers drunkenly, listing heavily to the left, and then to the right, her eyes blinded with blood and tears, until she stumbles heavily into something soild that makes an odd metallic noise upon her impact.

Burkett's body.

She pushes away, for a moment ignoring the slashes that lay open her back, and stares at him, his broken, tortured body, so violated. No life left in his half open eyes, no breath at his swollen, almost purple lips. Color slowly draining from his face. Gone.

And she finally knows what she must do.

Shaking her head to clear it, flinging blood-soaked hair back from her face, she stumbles towards her beloved once more. She's neatly ham-strung by the next blow, and she falls into him, clutching at the rags of his clothing for balance, setting the body swaying a little. Two neat slices to her heels sever her Achilles tendons, and she's forced to support her entire weight on him and the chains.

She drags her legs forward, and with a supreme effort, links her arms around his neck. The next two slashes come hard and fast, as though the woman is nagry at her, and they lay open the skin of her upper arms viciously. She ignores the pain, and closes her eyes, resting her cheek against the body's chest, curling herself up against him as best she can.

The arms and shoulders become the target of the invisible woman's rage, and her voice rises, high and angry. "What good is that going to do you? He's dead, you've come too late, you can't change that now .... he's all used up, you silly bitch!"

But Maria simply clings to the body. Her arms are flayed near to the bone, now, her entire body soaked in blood, tattered as her clothing, and she feels as though she's being eaten from the inside out by a steady flame; her accelerated healing is burning itself out trying to keep up with the damage. Her lungs burn as she draws in breath to speak.

The woman's shrieks become howls of rage, incoherent now, and the flesh is torn from Maria's body, turning her into an almost unrecognizable piece of meat, but she still finds the strength to hold on to Burkett, closing her eyes in acceptance. She shields his body from further insult with her own.

"I love you. I'm sorry," she whispers to the precious corpse.

As she closes her eyes for what feels like the final time, she feels the body beneath her suddenly melt away, dropping her with a painful thud to the floor. He's gone ... the thought spurs her to re-open her eyes, though they're heavy, so heavy.

Nothing.

No body, not laughing, snarling woman, just a room. Not even a very big room.

The laughter that comes this time is faint, soft and cracked and wheezy. Not the harsh triumph of earlier at all. Maria realizes that it's because it's coming from her.

//He's alive!// She knows she must move on, find him, help him, but surely it can't hurt to rest a little bit? Just a minute or two, to allow herself to heal.

*****

The shock doesn't quite freeze out Joe's reflexes. His guns come up with superhuman speed... but the girl with the chainsaw is faster still. Joe can't even shoot from the hip before the chain shreds the flesh of his right arm in a red explosion.

Agony burns away the fear, or at least brings it into sharper focus. Even as one gun drops to the floor from a suddenly nerveless hand, the arm hanging by a ruined mess of skin and bone, the other fires at the girl point blank in the face.

She doesn't even have the common decency to flinch, nor to show signs of impact. Joe spins away as she brings the saw around in a sideways slash that catches him in the side, cutting lose three ribs and teasing at the vital meats they guard.

Joe forces himself out of the well of blackness trying to swallow him, however comforting its promise of oblivion may be just now. But this little victory can't keep him from crumpling to the floor.

Nor can it make the four bullets fired as he drops any more effective than the first two. And now, reduced to one hand, he can't re-load in time. Not that he figures he'd have had the chance anyway.

He looks up to see the girl standing over his head like a cruel toddler who's cornered a bug, the light of Heaven gone horribly wrong spilling from her eyes and diamond necklace. She lets the chainsaw idle inches above his chest.

"Silly little cherub," she sighs sadly. "Did you truly think any other end would be yours?"

She raises and revs the saw... and as she does so, Joe shoves himself along the floor between her legs, the saw sparking as it bites only stone! Behind her now, Joe lurches into a sitting position and drives the Bowie knife that pops into his hand deep into the base of her spine!

The girl's death-cry is no more than an anticlimactic little squeak. She falls forward onto her own saw, the spread of her white dress hiding the worst of the resulting carnage.

"Th-that was too-" Joe begins, before a boody cough drowns his thought.

The hollow click of boots on stone.

"You done good, son. Why don't you get up now?"

Despite his condition, Joe can no more resist the request than he can will himself ruler of all Nexus. And, indeed, his condition improves remarkably as he complies. By the time he turns to face his bushy-bearded benefactor, only the tattered remains of his trenchcoat and shirt sleeves suggest that anything was ever amiss.

"Mikey-Tom...?" Joe says, head spinning in search of answers.

The old man nods, hooking his thumbs through his overalls. "Carnael was no pushover, son. You've proven your worth. And now...?"

A circle of bright white appears in the air behind Mikey-Tom, dispelling the darkness as though it never was. And in that circle, in turn, appears a golden gate, indescribably beautiful, that swings wide even as Joe watches in wonder.

"...Now," he continues, "it's time for you to come Home." He presents Joe the gate with a sweep of his arm.

Joe's feet move toward the gate of their own accord, stopping not even when yet another familiar figure steps from the darkness, preceded by the red ash of her cigarette.

"'Bird?" he gasps out helplessly.

"Go on, then," she says, eyeing him with a cold, loveless resignation. "We both knew it'd come to this sooner or later." She takes a final drag from the cigarrette, drops it to the ground, crushes it out. "Hijo de perra..." she mutters as she turns away.

"No! 'Bird! This ain't right!" He turns desperately to Mikey-Tom. "It's not! We had an understadin'!"

Mikey-Tom shakes his head. "Sorry, son. Time to get back to Work."

The Gate looms wide.

The terrible, beautiful music of Heaven swells in Joe's ears as step after involuntary step brings him closer to that ultimate Gate.

And yet, from the dim recesses of his mind where bright, cold fear has yet to seep, a different song drifts to the fore -- different, yet somehow no less Divine. It is the sweet, powerful voice of Vinanti he remembers, the Bodhisattva, swelling him with her undeniable emotion, gently but firmly nudging aside panic and regret.

// "Even now the world is bleedin'
but feelin' just fine
all numb in our castle
where we're always free to choose
never free enough to find
I wish somethin' would break
'cause we're runnin' out of time" //

// "the day that I was so sweetly sung
by the wind and the thunder moved by "someone"
the feelin' of being lived was so strong
the giver became the gift, all one
the day that I was so sweetly sung
the wind seemed to whisper softly, "oh son,
don't wait for the seas to part or messiahs to come
don't sit around and waste this chance, to see it!" //

// "love will overcome
if this love will make us men
love will draw us in
to wipe our tears away" //

// "Whatcha doin' in this darkness baby?
When you know that love will set you free" //

The voice fades into a hundred pale echoes of itself.

// "We're always free to choose... Don't waste this chance... Love will overcome... Love will set you free..." //

Still walking, Joe once more to looks back after the Blackbird. She's lost to the darkness now... but it doesn't matter. She's there. She's -always- there.

Joe's boots clack to a halt before the Gate. He turns to face Mikey-Tom, face resolute.

"No."

"No?" says Mikey-Tom, arching an eyebrow. "You forget who you're talkin' to, son?"

The old man's form swells in an instant. He is a painfully perfect figure now, taller than the room is high yet impossibly still within it, white, winged, shining, terrible. He looms over Joe, the Voice made flesh, Finality incarnate. The very air trembles with gathered Power.

Joe flinches but holds his ground. "No," he responds, keeping the quaiver from his voice. "I know who I'm talkin' to. But for you to do -this-... maybe -you've- forgotten Who you're talkin' -for-."

The archangel's eyes blaze with righteous fury!

"And -that- means," Joe continues, "I'm done listenin'."

He turns his back on the Gate. He turns his back on the Voice. He waits for the swift retribution that must now surely come.

Yet there is none.

The moments pass in silence before Joe finally turns.

And sees an empty room. No Gate, no Voice of God, not even a deep darkness shrouding unseen walls and ceiling. Just a plain, empty room, with four plain, SimStone(TM) walls.

Indescribable relief washes over his heart in a giddy wave...

...and is promptly bleached dry by a fresh fear.

"Maria...!"

*****

"Oh, _Christ_, Maria!"

Joe kneels down beside her, not daring to touch her for fear of causing her fresh agony. Not that anything he can imagine could make... _this_... any worse. As he'd searched for her, part of his mind had wondered whether his wounds at the hands of "Carnael" had been real or illusory prior to their healing by "Mikey-Tom". Now he suspects he has his answer.

It's not the time for questions, though. Whatever the source of her injuries, it's not there at the moment, and Maria can regenerate incredible amounts of damage... but he can feel the sickening waves of heat from her ruined body. If this keeps up, the very act of healing itself may kill her.

He hesitates a few agonizing heartbeats. How close are they to Burkett right now? Are they even any closer than they were when they entered?

"Maria," Joe says at last, "this is going to hurt like Hell, I know, but I'm going to have to carry you. I have to get you out of here."

She stirs at his word, prying her eyes open with a sticky, sick sound, and blinks at him. "Joe?" It takes her awhile to process his words, but when she does, she manages a smile, baring her red-stained teeth.

"Okay, Joe. We find him. No carry." With great effort, she pushes herself up from the ground, and then a coughing fit takes her. She spits out a wad of something too thick to be just blood, leaning on him heavily for support, but gets to her feet, finally.

"Hot. Where is he? Can't smell. We find him?"

Joe looks into those deep brown eyes. So eager and determined -- and so strangely innocent -- despite the bloody shreds of flesh surrounding them, despite the insistent fire of her pain. Eyes filled with undeniable loyalty, and with even more undeniable love.

He curses mentally.

"«Yes,»" Joe assures her, remembering to switch to Spanish as he braces her. "«We'll find him.»"

// Not sure exactly _how_, // he thinks as he helps her with the first agonizing steps, // but we'll find him. //

Ash cocks an ear to some sound Burkett can't hear. "Hm," he grunts. "I think I'd best check on my guests." He hands to Diana the bottle of alcohol he had been dribbling into Burkett's wounds. "You watch over our boy, here," directs, "until I get back." He pins her with a glare. "And don't play with him while I'm gone!" He slaps the side of Burkett's face. "I wouldn't want to miss anything..."

Diana watches him saunter out, and then pulls up a chair with a sigh. "He never lets me have any fun these days," she complains.

Burkett takes a deep breath and lets it go. Then another. Finally, he feels he can speak. "Diana," he says softly, "why are you doing this?"

Diana looks at him with what could be boredom. "You know why," she states coldly. "Because of what you and your fucking god did to Eduardo."

"We didn't do anything to him," Burkett protests gently. "He chose his course of action."

Diana laughs mirthlessly. "Oh, sure he did. After you brainwashed him." She gets up and starts to pace.

Burkett tries another tactic, not wanting to goad her into negative action. "But why this? Why, with Ash calling the shots?"

She looks at him.

"Why are you letting him tell you what to do? He's hurt you, I can see that. Why do you allow it?"

She exhales what could be a laugh but isn't. "I'm just payin' my dues, Burkett." She starts to pace again. "If you wanna be a first-class demon, you have to impress the Boss. You have to work your way up."

Burkett feels cold sear through him. "You're... a demon?" he says, his throat dry as the dust on the floor.

Diana shrugs. "Not yet," she replies, "but I'm working on it." She turns to him. "Just like Ash did. Just like YOU did."

Burkett winces as if she had dealt him a body-blow.

"I figure if I can show Samael what I'm made of, he'll take me on. Then when I die, I'll be a shoo-in to move up the ladder." She laughs to herself. "Or should I say, 'down'?"

"Why do you want to be a demon?" he pursues.

"Why did YOU?" she shoots back.

Burkett doesn't reply right away. When he does, it's quietly and deliberately. "I had just come out of a war in which they had trained me to fight the enemy with all manner of deadly tricks. They made me an assassin, and made me believe it was a good thing; an honorable thing. But when the war was over and they no longer needed my services--worse, were embarrassed by my existance--they cast me out. They denied me. I was no longer... politically correct."

Diana was listening with seeming interest. "They screwed you over, huh?" she infers.

"They did what they had to do," Burkett replies softly. "But I didn't understand that then. I was angry. My mother died while I was away. They wouldn't let me go home for her final illness. And then they just threw me away. I felt betrayed."

"You were!" Diana replies. "That happens in every war. Special Forces always get the short end of the stick. Like the dogs I heard of in one war: They trained them to be so ferocious that when the war was over, they couldn't be allowed to go back home where normal people were. So they killed 'em. Just took them out and mowed them down. What message do you think that sent to their handlers?" She scoffed. "And when you talk about Special Ops teams, 'wet teams', 'Black-Baggers' and snipers, well..." She shook her head. "At least Special Forces guys have each other. They can get together and talk. But if you're a solo number, who can YOU talk to?"

Burkett is surprised by the passion she put into this speech. But the explanation comes quickly.

"They screwed my brother over royally," she goes on. She continues her pacing in silence for a minute. Then she adds, "they made him blow his own brains out." She looks over at Burkett. "I found him. Brains everywhere. THAT'S a fun thing to find on a sunny Sunday morning, I'll tell you..."

"No..." Burkett fell silent for a long moment.

"So, what set you off?" Diana asks, rounding on him. "What made you decide to work for the Big S?"

Burkett answers wearily. "Samael welcomed me in," he replies simply. "Mind you," he adds, "at the time I didn't believe he truly was... Satan. He appeared to me as a very powerful mortal man. By the time I realized my error, it was too late. I had already begun working for him." He shakes his head. "And nobody quits Samael."

Diana cants her head to one side. "You did," she reminds him.

Burkett blinks his eyes in an approximation of a nod. "I did."

There follows a prolonged silence between them. Then Diana says, "Why?"

Burkett looks up, focusing on her. "Because it was wrong."

She scoffs at this. "It was wrong when you started. But you did this gig for, what, 200 years? Why did you suddenly quit? What gave you the balls to walk out on the Dark Lord?"

At this, Burkett actually smiles. "Someone loved me." Before she can scorn him for his cupidity, he goes on: "Not sexual love. Not even romantic love. But simple, unconditional, undemanding, spiritual love." He smiles. "A good woman took pity on a poor sinner. And I saw that I had a way out. That God would take me back, even after all I had done." He smiles again. "And He did. He--"

"Aw, shut the fuck up!" hissed Diana. "I don't believe in all that god crap. I could see what it did to Eduardo. You can have it!"

"It gave him purpose," countered Burkett. "And, in the end, it gave him peace."

"SHUT UP!!" she screams, throwing the alcohol in his face. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Here, here!" says a hard voice from the shadows. "What's all this?" Ash clicks his tongue. "Have you been talking to my little girl?" he asks. He knees Burkett in the groin again. Then he looks at Diana. "I told you not to play with him," he says patiently. "Now see what it got you?"

Diana hangs her head. "Sorry, Ash," she murmurs.

Ash ignores her. "It seems we have more company than I expected," he says to no one in particular. "Fortunately, not more than I provided for." He lays his hand flat on Burketts hip. "I think, just for the sake of expediency, that it's time I make a few rearrangements to the decor."

He begins to push on Burkett, whose chains are suspended from a pulley, which is suspended from an industrial-strength metal track that runs the length of the room. The equipment is well-maintained, and the pulley moves smoothly toward the end of the room where the curtain sways slightly in front of the Wall of Night.

"I may need to cut short my amusement," he says, disappointment evident in his tone. "But needs must." He smiles at Diana. "And, as it happens, I may be able to derive a great deal more amusement, in the end."

Diana, for once, looks slightly uncertain. Clearly, he has changed his game plan without consulting her. She glances at the curtain, and then back at Burkett. "You're not going to... push him in... Not yet... Are you?"

Ash cocks his head. "And what if I do?" he asks. "Will you be sorry?" He reaches out and cups her chin, his strong grip holding her as she tries to move away. "I thought you wanted to see Burkett suffer."

"I... did," she says. "I do!" she adds hastily. Too hastily. "I just thought we'd have a little more time to watch him suffer."

Ash releases her and shrugs. "There's a rescue party in the building," Ash replies. "They won't stop us, of course, but I like to maximize my options."

"He means," says Burkett, through strained breaths, "that he wants me close enough to shove through the wall when it all goes sour."

Ash punches him in the gut. "I don't recall asking for your opinion."

"He's going to do it, Diana," Burkett persists, hoarsely.

Ash grabs his testicles and wrenches them. "Enough!"

Gasping, Burkett adds, "And he'll shove you, too, Diana! He can't take the competi--" The word ends in a wail of pain as Ash sears his testicles.

"Open the curtain, Diana," Ash says curtly. "I want him close enough to feel the madness on the other side."

Diana glances at Burkett, then at Ash, and obediently draws the curtain. Swirling purple, interspersed with flashes of black and darker black. Stars and comets, but all dark. Diana looks away, and moves back as fast and as far as she can.

Burkett, hanging by his bloody wrists facing the wall, closes his eyes. And waits.

Gary and Peter choose the left-hand way, for no particular reason. It is actually Gary's choice. Still playing the big brother, he taps Peter's shoulder and, with a "this way", bounds forward into the dark passage.

"Doctor, wait!" calls Peter after him. But there's no stopping Horstman once he settles on a course of action. With a sigh, Peter follows him.

Cracks of light rend the darkness here and there, giving just enough illumination to keep Gary from running into furniture--or whatever those weird shapes in his path really are. He darts down the corridor. Something pulls him. Something draws him onward. He has felt this before. As a child. A child in the darkness. Down in the deserted mines about half a mile from his house. He knew what this was!

"C'mon, Peter!" he calls. "We've got help. Down here!"

He races on, his lanky frame picking up speed as he twists and turns around corners and through open archways. He has to get to his old friend. His childhood mentor. The Being who had found him when he got hopelessly lost in the dark. The friend who had made the Light. The powerful, kindly friend who had given him the Sight when he was too young to understand it. And who had shown him the way out of the darkness. Surely he can help them now, when the darkness is so thick!

"Rikan!" he calls. "It's Gary! I'm here! Where are you?"

He comes through one last arch, and then stops. There, across an open space of unknown dimension, sits a single figure.

"Peter!" Gary calls, looking over his shoulder. "He's here!"

Looking like some carving of Buddha, it sits in a pool of darkness in the middle of several bright shafts of light. Gary hesitates. Something is wrong. Gary looks over his shoulder again. "Peter?"

"I have been waiting for you," says the figure in the darkness. It rises slowly, awkwardly. Limbs and tentacles uncoil.

"No..." whispers Garyn. "No, I couldn't have been so wrong..."

But there is no denying it. This is not his old friend.

"You're..." Gary says in a strangled voice. "...a Shadowmage!"

Another piece from the past. Only this one is one he had wanted to forget. It was the reason he had become lost in the tunnels in the first place. A Shadowmage.

Part of a cabal known as The Order of the Shadow, shadowmagi derived their magical powers from a force they refered to as "Shadow", an elemental force of destructive chaos. That force was widely believed to be linked to whatever was behind the Wall. They used the force to transform; themselves, others, even reality, itself. Shadow gave them supernatural powers. But it exacted a price; communing with Shadow caused the magi gradually to lose their grip on whatever sanity they possessed. It also transformed their bodies, making them first sickly and finally hideously deformed. This mage obviously had been at it for a very long time.

"Not 'a' Shadowmage, Gary," hisses the creature before him. "THE Shadowmage. The very one you thought your friend killed so very long ago..." He begins to laugh, a sickly cackling that resounds off the unseen walls about them. "Thought I was dead, did you?" His laughing reaches a maniacal level.

Gary starts to back away. "You are dead. I saw it. I..." He shudders. "...I touched your dead body!" It was, in fact, one of the reasons he had become first a pathologist and then a coroner. Making certain things that should be dead WERE dead.

"Did you?" asks the mage. "Did you really?" He whips his arm out to the side, and a light appears on the floor from no visible source. In the resulting circle lies a body. It looks very much like the body Gary had examined. It was, in fact, identical. "Are you suuuuuuuuure, Gary?"

Gary takes a few more backward steps. "You're not real," he says firmly.

The mage chackles again. "Isn't that what you said last time?" it demands. "Then this isn't real, either!" Another spot of light, far behind the mage in a long hallway which ended in an alcove.

"Rikan!" Gary cries.

Indeed, it is his old friend. Bound, hanging from chains, dripping with something dark, black blades piercing him from many angles.

"Thought he was more powerful, did you?" asks the shadowmage. "Darkness always swallows the light, Gary. Always!"

"No!" Gary takes another few steps, then turns, and begins to run wildly.

"ALWAYS!! ALWAYS!!!"

"NO!" he cries. And he continues with "no! No! No!" with each pounding exhale.

The sound of the Shadowmage fades behind him. Gary finally slows to a stop. He stands, bent over, sucking in breath for a long moment. Then, still breathing hard, he looks around. Darkness surrounds him. Darkness and shadow. The mage could simply appear out of shadow any time he wished.

"Light," Gary says. "Must find some light..." He takes a few steps forward, and then stops again. "Rikan. I can't just leave him like that..."

He turns and looks back the way he had come. "You're not a little kid anymore, asshole!" he tells himself. "This isn't the Boogie Man. He's probably a Twisting." He squares his shoulders. "And you've faced worse." He starts back down the corridor. "Yeah, but then you had Chayo and Krzchk and Diana to take your back," he reminds himself. "Shut up!" he tells himself sternly. He starts to jog. "Rikan's depending on you! He saved your butt when you were a kid. It's time to return the favor!" He breaks into a run.

It seems to take much less time to return than it did to flee. Gary finds himself once more in the shadow-filled room. But the mage is nowhere to be seen. Only Rikan is visible, hanging from chains. He is very still. It might be too late. Gary trots across the room, glancing left to right, until he stands in front of his old mentor. "Rikan?" he says, tentatively.

The old being opens his eyes. Pale blue eyes, nearly white. His long, shining hair is white, as are his clothes. Almost too which. Gary has to squint at him in the shaft of light that illuminates him. "Gary..." he says weakly. "You've returned!"

"Rikan!" Gary says, lifting his old friend gently into his arms. "How did this happen? How did he--"

"Your fear," says the old being. "He lives in your fear."

Gary unfastens his chains. "I'm sorry, Rikan," he says, ashamed to look into his mentor's face. "I was never brave."

"Yes, Gary," says the old being. "You confuse bravery with great deeds." He sighs as Gary sets him on the floor. "For some, tolerating the boredom of each day is an act of great bravery."

Gary looks at him, frowning.

"He is coming," says the old being. "Face him. Force him into the Light." And with those words, the old being fades into a flash of light, and is gone.

"Rikan!" Gary cries, but it's no use. He is alone in the room.

Except that he is not.

"So," says an oily voice behind him. "You came back, did you boy?"

Gary takes a deep breath. "Yes," he says firmly. "I came back."

"You're more of a fool than I thought," chortles the Shadowmage.

For the space of two heartbeats, images flash through Gary's mind. Memories. Starting with the memory of his imprisonment in the abandoned mines when the shaft caved in behind him, to thoughts of his mother and how she had insisted there were demons in the house, watching him. Had she been right? Had this demon, this Shadowmage, watched him all his life? He thinka of Burkett, and how he had "felt" when they first met. How Gary had known Burkett was a demon. He sees Rikan send his bolt of light at the mage, and had seen the mage fall. Dead. He knew the mage was dead. He could see the body before him. And a thought strikes him.

"You're the fool," Gary says, "if you think I'm still a child, to be scared of the dark."

The mage laughs darkly. "That would be why you ran from me just now," he reasons.

"I'm not running now," Gary replies resolutely. He closes his eyes for a moment, and pictures another blade, like those which had been sticking in Rikan. He opens his eyes, and the Shadowmage is smiling down at him, blade in hand. -Just as I thought,- Gary realizes.

Gary closes his eyes again. -The most terrifying thing I can think of is a visit from the Commissioner!- he thinks. -Oh, please, oh please don't let him find me! He's HORRIBLE!!!!-

He opens his eyes at the sound of a strident voice calling, "Dr. Horstman? Where are you?"

"Oh, PLEASE!!" Gary cries. "Don't hurt him! Please don't hurt the commissioner!"

The Shadowmage turns as the newcomer emerges from the shadows. "I want a word with you about your account, Doctor!" says the acerbic looking man striding toward them. "Why would you need 400 cases of gloves?"

"I'm TERRIFIED that you'll attack him!" Gary can barely keep the glee from his tone. "Please don't!!!"

Then Gary turns to the commissioner. "Please don't hurt my friend!! HE'S the one who ordered the gloves. Please don't hurt him!!! That would terrify me!"

A moment later, the two foes were facing off against each other. In the next moment, Gary was trotting happily down the corridor in search of Peter.

*****

Peter trots along the corridor after Gary for some time before concluding he has lost the doctor somewhere in one of the twists and turns in the darkness. He stops. He looks around, trying to get a bead on his position. Pools and stripes of light offer not help, but only confuse things. Odd, that light should actually make things worse. If he could have total darkness, he might be able to see better. His night-vision had always been quite excellent.

He refrains from calling out for Gary. Instinctively, he knows that Gary would have called for him. And since he cannot hear Gary, Gary would not be able to hear him. So why give away his position unnecessarily? Who knew who--or what--was listening?

He makes a few testing forays into the surrounding area, measuring walls with his fingertips, counting strides. Then he retraces his steps. It does not surprise him to find that he has not returned whence he came. The walls seem to move and morph behind him. Doors appear where none had been before. Cold breezes hit his face in a warm alcove. Shafts of light dazzle his vision.

Then the noises begin. Scraping sounds. Soft scuffs. Tapping. The occasional groan of settling floors.

He moves cautiously. If he cannot find Gary, perhaps he can find Chasen Burkett. Burkett is in here somewhere. He knows it. He feels it. But he feels it from every side. Above. Below. He feels the pull. He can find Burkett. He is certain of it. It was why he had started this journey. He had to find Burkett. If ever he was to have a father--

He banishes the thought from his mind. This was not the time for sentiment. Emotion only clouded the mind. He needed to remain rational. There would be time for emotion later. When he had returned Burkett to the arms of the woman who loved him. He thought of Mannon, calling up the curves and planes of her face. He knew she was identical to his own mother. He had seen the painting on his grandfather's wall often enough. It seemed odd to see that same face and body clothed, not in frills and furbelows, but a man's trousers and jersey tunic.

-Forget about her!- he admonishes himself. -Focus on the problem!-

But the problem was worse than he had anticipated. If there were no reference points, how could he find his way? Or his way back? He could wander in this maze for eternity and never pass the same point twice. -How can I find Burkett this way?-

He stops again. And listens. And closes his eyes to focus on his other senses. Subtle vibrations in the floor. Scents. Changes in the feel of the air. Pressures against his ears. And he opens his mind, reaching out. -Father?- he thinks, before he realizes what thought had formulated in his mind. -Mr. Burett? Where are you, please...-

Nothing.

-I have to find him,- he thinks, moving again. -I can't fail in this.- He moves more quickly now, postulating that if he keeps moving, the corridor may finally twist itself into the right place, but if he stands still it never will. -I can't fail in this!-

"Yo! Peter Rabbit!"

Peter turns quickly at the hail from his left.

Gary comes into view from the shadows. "Where the hell you been, kid?" Gary chides. "Had to fight all the bad guys all by my lonesome!"

Peter takes a step toward him, all concern now. "Are you all right? Have you been injured?"

"Pff!" replies Gary scornfully. "Piece o' cake! Nine, ten of 'em, at least. But good ol' Gare saved the day." He pats Peter on the shoulder. "Never you mind, son. You're out of danger now."

Peter takes a long breath. "Well, then I'm very grateful to you. I've seen nothing and no one." He hangs his head, ashamed but trying not to show it. -What good am I here?- he asks himself. -When even someone like Dr. Horstman can best nine or ten adversaries? I've done nothing but run through these blasted passages...-

"C'mon," Gary says, taking his arm and tugging. "I thought I heard something down this way." He starts off to their right.

Peter follows, but this time makes a better effort to keep up. He is determined not to lose Gary again, and so be shut out of the next battle! He unslings the weapon from his shoulder and cradles it in his arms.

Rounding a curve, they find themselves in a dark open space. They head straight across and into another corridor. There, even Peter can hear a scuffing sound. He prepares for battle. Gary, slightly ahead, stops suddenly.

"Jesus CHRIST!" he whispers, holding out an arm to stop Peter's progress. Then he takes a couple more steps. "What the fuck happened to YOU?" he demands.

Peter moves forward, and sees that Gary is talking to Mr. Black and his tracker. The latter is bloody and not moving well. In fact, she apparently cannot move at all under her own power.

Gary moves forward. "It's been a while since med school, but I think I remember where all the parts are..." He reaches out to touch Maria's bloody hair. "Hey, sweetness..." He looks into her dark eyes. "...como estas?"

Maria looks up at him shakily. There's a glazedness about her eyes, but she's still focusing, and a little light comes back into them. "Soy bien ... soy bien." She pulls herself up a little straighter.

Peter looks to Black for answers. "Who did this?" he demands, soto voce. And then his mind flicks. "And...have you seen any sign of my uncle?"

"If it was anything like what happened to me in here," Joe answers, "I'm guessin' her worst fear manifested and did this to her."

-Her worst fears...- Peter considers. -Is that what I've been experiencing?-

"And no, no sign of Chasen," he continues wearily, rubbing his forehead. "Maria could smell him everywhere and nowhere when we got in here. And now?" He glances at the werecoyote and shakes his head. "I just don't know. I don't know if he's ten paces up ahead, or on the other side of the world. All we can do is just keep looking."

Peter nods agreement and keeps the disappointment from his face. No point making these people feel worse than they obviously do already. But he... He knows he has failed. -I have done nothing for him. He may be dead, and it will, in part, be my fault for not trying harder to find him. I should have found another way...- His thoughts continue to run along these lines as Gary examines the woman. -Useless, duVrais. You are useless. And these people have been jeopardized and hurt because of your cowardess...-

The coyote girl suddenly lets out a high yelping sort of noise, twisting her head painfully as she raises her head, leaning heavily on Joe's shoulder.

"He's near!"

Peter looks up, and looks at Joe questioningly.

She coughs with the force of her words, then clears her throat again, spitting. "Here! We go, quick!"

"Hey-HEY!" objects Gary. "You can't go running off like--"

Joe has a gun in his hand before she clears the first syllable. "«Easy, Maria,»" he says, helping her along in the indicated direction as quickly as he thinks prudent, given her condition -- which probably isn't as quickly as she'd like.

"Wait a minute!" Gary cries, moving in on the other side of the girl. "Are you NUTS? You're not well enough to--"

"«If he's near, the ones who took him are, too. We won't do him any good by just charging in, and _you_ won't do him any good by killing yourself before we get there.»"

"«NO time!»" she shakes her head, she can smell that he's hurt, even above the taint of her own blood.

Down the third corridor, Mannon turns back to grab the priest's arm. "Come on, you old reprobate," she chides.

Fr. Angelus seems to be in some sort of daze. He does not resist her efforts, but neither does he speed up perceptibly. His rheumy blue eyes seem to see images Mannon cannot. Images that have nothing to do with the walls and furnishings before them. "Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini..." he mumbles softly. "...beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae..."

Mannon glances at him over her shoulder. "Not really the time for true confessions, Father," she says tightly. "We have work to do."

Fr. Angelus looks at her blankly, his lips still moving. "...sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo..."

"I promised you," Mannon continues, pulling him along, "that you would have an opportunity to right the wrong you have done. We're nearly there."

"...omnibus Sanctis, et vobis fratres: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere..." Angelus goes on. "...mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa..."

"Yes," says Mannon acerbically. "You have sinned through your grievous fault."

"...Domine, exaudi orationem meam..."

"God hears you, Father," she assures him. "But, as they say, 'actions speak louder than words.' And so it shall be." She stops. "This is the place," she says softly.

"...indulgere digneris omnia peccata mea..."

"Be still," Mannon commands.

Angelus falls silent.

She presses her ear against a metal door. Her hand feels along the crack until she locates the latch. It moves smoothly. Silently. The door swings inward slightly before she stops it. Voices are audible within the room beyond.

"Soon," says a hard, male voice. "Soon, Brother, it will be over. Your suffering will end."

"Shouldn't we go out to meet them?" asks a female voice, clear but tentative. "We could cut them off before they find this place."

Mannon hears a cold, demonic laugh. It tingles up her spine.

"Let them come," he says. "I am ready for them." A sound, a groan, a creaking of metal on metal. "And when they do, they shall witness my handiwork." Another cold laugh. "And you, Brother, will witness what a real man can do."

A wheeze. A cough. Then a voice, so faint, so weak. "You... never were..." Another cough. "...anything but...a coward."

The other male grunts derisively. "A coward, is it?" he says. "I've killed more souls than you've ever dreamt of, you mewling pile of excrement! -I- was Samael's favorite. Not you. -I- was his true servant! NOT YOU. -I--"

"You..." wheezes Burkett, "...were a coward... without the courage... to think... for yourself." He coughs. "Without the courage... to leave... and face... your sins."

"Sins?" repeats the other male. "I was doing Samael's will."

"You... were hiding... behind a greater... power than... your own." Burkett coughs deeply and swallows. "COWARD!" he shouts. "WEAK, SNIVELING COW--"

A tortured cry follows, a broken and tremulous wail.

Mannon steels herself, pushes on the door, and bolts into the room. "Leave him alone, you heinous demon!" she cries. "In the name of God, I command you to release him!"

Three sets of eyes turn her way. A silence takes the room, broken only by Burkett's gasping breaths.

Then Ash begins to laugh. Slowly, quietly at first, then rising to a bellow of mirth. He lifts a hand, and the metal door clangs shut behind them, the latch snapping back into place with the sound of finality.

"Mannon..." gasps Burkett. "No..."

Diana looks at Burkett for an instant, and then her eyes flick back to Mannon. "So, this is the famous Mannon, is it?" she says with surly glee. "The love of your miserable life?"

"Be still, woman," Ash snarls. "Do not be disrespectful of our guest." He begins to walk toward Mannon. "In the name of God, eh?" he repeats. "My, my. Whatever am I to do?"

Mannon stands her ground, even as he approaches. "Release him," she replies, her chin lifted everso slightly.

Diana looks over at Burkett again, and sees his eyes are closed. And she sees something else. Something she hadn't expected. She sees tears.

Ash chuckles. "And if I do not? What then?" he says. "What will you do? Pull out your flaming brand and vanquish me?"

Mannon lifts her chin a bit higher. "Release him."

Ash shakes his head slowly. "Ah, woman... you are so naive. You have been a Kerub for such a short time. And I have been a demon for such a long time..." He glances at Burkett. "Longer than he, in fact." He looks back at Mannon. "Did you know that? I was the original Favorite. Until HE came along..."

Mannon glances at Burkett, as well, and fights to keep the horror from her eyes. "Is that what this is about?" she asks calmly. "Sibling rivalry? A petty grudge that Samael prefered him to you?"

"Don't try to use psychology on me, woman," Ash growls. "It won't work. I've been about this far too long."

"You have had your fun," Mannon continues, her tone sounding rather like a weary mother at the end of the day. "Now let him go. Release him to me, and nothing more will be said."

"Just like that?" Ash says, wonder in his voice. "You won't try to punish me?"

"Just like that," Mannon assures him.

"I just let him go, and you walk away? No reprisals?"

"No reprisals."

Ash looks from her, to Burkett, to Diana, to Mannon.

Diana is startled when Burkett speaks to her, in a very low voice that carries only to her. "Diana..."

She moves closer. "Shut up," she whispers. "You're already in enough trouble."

"Please..." he wheezes. "...if you have... any pity... any mercy left... kill me now."

Diana stares up at him for a long moment. He is barely breathing. The tears under his lashes have escaped, painting tracks down his filthy face. His deep blue eyes bore into her own, pleading. Urgent. Tragic.

"Please...."

She glances at Ash, and then at the series of implements of torture within reach of her left hand.

"I...beg...you..."

Diana's eyes narrow. "You called HIM a coward," she snears. "And now you beg me to kill you so you don't have to see what he's going to do to her?"

"No," Burkett gasps out. "So... she... can go."

Diana stares at him. "What?"

"If I... am dead..." he wheezes, "she... has no one... to save." He swallows hard. "She... can try... to escape."

Diana continues to stare. "You'd die... for her?"

Burkett nods. "As... Eduardo... would have done... for you." He swallows again. "As... he DID... for... you..." He coughs. "For us all..."

Pain comes into Diana's eyes, but her mouth hardens, setting in a stubborn line.

"Diana..." Burkett wheezes a moment, catching his breath. "Try to... under... stand..." He closes his eyes as the dizziness overwhelms his senses. He forges on, eyes still closed, conserving all strength to get this out. "Eduardo served... the God of... Love and Light." He pays for this with a cough. "God did not... demand... his sacrifice. He... chose it." He opens his eyes. "Out of... love. And... understanding."

Diana stares at him. "Love?" she snears. "Eduardo couldn't love anything but that damned god of his."

"You're wrong," Burkett replies, with more force than she expected. "He... loved... YOU." Again he coughs.

She looks at him with painful longing in her eyes. "Did he?"

Burkett nods.

She looks over at Mannon. "As much as you love her?" she murmurs.

"Yes." He nods. "The same."

Two ideas war in Diana's mind. First, that Eduardo's love had been so pure, so holy, that she should respect it for what it was, and be grateful that she had been loved so beautifully. And respect Burkett's love of Mannon. The second thought, however, was darker. That if Mannon were destroyed, it would hurt Burkett as much as she had been hurt.

"Diana..." Burkett searches her face. "Please... quickly..."

Diana looks up at him, noting the blue tinge to his lips now. He wasn't far from death, even without her help. She looks at Ash, still playing his cat-and-mouse game with Mannon. "No," she says firmly. "I won't kill you, Burkett."

Burkett's eyes close. His head sinks forward onto his chest with a pained sigh. "Diana..."

And then he speaks no more.

Mannon glances at Burkett. Again, she has to struggle against panic. "Is he still alive?" she asks, more calmly than she feels. She nods in his direction.

Ash turns to look. "Hmm..." he says, sounding unconcerned. "Diana. Is the sacrificial lamb still with us?"

Diana puts her ear to his chest. "Yup..." She pulls away. "But, uh... you'd better wrap this up soon." She thumps on his chest. "The ol' ticker's winding down."

"Release him," Mannon says, yet again. "Now."

Ash chuckles, yet again. "Well..." He rubs his chin. "I would entertain a trade..." he suggests.

"A trade?" Mannon repeats, clearly skeptical.

Ash nods. "Yes. The animal for... you."

Mannon looks from Ash to Burkett. -So frail...humans are so frail...- she thinks. She shrugs, trying to look blasé. "He's no good to me dead. Take him down, or you'll have nothing to trade."

Ash arches one eyebrow. "I'll still have you..." he drawls. "Or had you forgot I locked the door behind you?"

"You're not the only one here with power, Ashforth," she reminds him.

He considers, looking from Mannon to Burkett, to Diana, and back. "But, if I let him go, you would come to me willingly?" he asks. "You would submit to my... desires?"

Mannon grits her teeth, looking at Burkett's lifeless figure, swinging slightly in an unseen breeze. "Father Angelus," she calls.

Ash tenses as the old man suddenly appears from the shadows. He had been so still that Ash had been unaware of his presence. This annoyed him. "Who is..." He falls silent, and then relaxes. "Ah... the old man." He chuckles. "I see he has the Nighteyes already! Pity." He turns back to Mannon. "So we have a family reunion, here, have we? Yes, Father. Come forth! I command you, like Lazarus!"

"Father," Mannon says curtly, noting the priest's rather odd expression. She points at Burkett. "Take him down."

"Wait," Ash growls. "You haven't agreed to my terms yet."

"Let him go," she replies, "and I will stay with you. Willingly."

Ash arches both eyebrows. "An Angel and a demon?" he says. He looks at Diana, and back and Mannon. "You... do understand what it means? What it will mean to your Master? I mean... it's one thing for a human animal to spread her legs for the devil..." He jerks a thumb at Diana. "...but you're a Kerub now." He takes a few steps closer. "You no longer have free will! If you do this, you can't go back."

"No..." whispers Diana. "Don't, Mannon. Don't do it!" She looks at Burkett, thinking how he would be suffering now if he were conscious.

"I understand," Mannon replies. "Let him go."

"Here, priest!" Diana snaps. "Help me with this!"

Ash turns again and looks at Diana speculatively. "What are you doing?" he asks quietly, his voice deceptively gentle.

Diana pulls Fr. Angelus closer. "Hoist him up a little," she says softly, wrapping his arms around Burkett's legs. "I'm getting him down for you," she says to Ash, never looking at him. Her fingers work as fast as she can make them, loosening the cuffs about Burkett's wrists.

"I didn't tell you to--"

"We have a deal," says Mannon, pulling his attention back to herself. "Burkett for me. I agreed."

"But I did not," Ash reminds her quietly. He looks back at Diana, in time to see Burkett slump to the floor in her arms. "Diana--"

"You said you would trade," Mannon presses, her voice more forceful. "Is you word worth nothing?"

Ash, doubly annoyed, turns back to Mannon. "The word of a demon?" he scoffs.

"Even you have a form of honor," she counters. "And I am not some weak human you think to trick with your smooth words. I have to power to hold you to your word."

Diana chafes Burkett's face. He is breathing easier now, but she can't rouse him. She looks at the priest. "Can you carry him out of here?" she whispers.

Angelus just looks at her, his eyes vacant.

"Shit," Diana hisses. She looks toward the door. -Too damned far,- she thinks. -He'll stop me before I'm half-way...-

"Think of it, Ashforth," Mannon was saying. "If you brought Chasen back into the fold, you only reclaim a demon, who was just a man when you broke his will. But if you bring ME..."

Diana grabs Burkett by one arm and snakes her shoulder between his legs. He is heavy, but not too heavy. She has stayed in shape, and part of her police training included the Fireman's Carry. -Keep talking, Mannon,- she thinks. -For the love of-- Diana hesitates. -If you love this man, keep talking.- She starts toward the door.

Mannon is walking toward Ash now. "Think, Ashforth. An angel, willingly walking with you before Samael. Or, if you prefer, put me in chains." Her tone is almost smug now. "Bind me, and cast me down before your dark lord. Throw me at his feet and obliterate me as he watches!"

Ash smirks. "I could do that now," he counters. "You have some power, I admit. But you are very green to be challenging a seasoned demon such as I."

Mannon shrugs. "Perhaps. And perhaps not."

Ash makes a sound of impatience. "Do not trifle with me, bitch," he says. "Your god does not even know you're here. You never got his permission to come. He would never grant it!"

Mannon arches her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"You know the rules!" he growls. "Or..." He pauses. "...perhaps you do not!" He looks at her speculatively. "Has no one told you? You're not allowed to interfere with us. The humans must fight us on their own!"

Mannon feels her air of confidence slip.

"You're here because you love this one. You stink of it! You'd do anything to save him from a fate worse than death!" He turns to where Burkett was. "You'd even--" He stops, glancing around the room. He finds Diana just on the point of opening the door. "DIANA!!" he thunders. "I did not give you permission to--"

Mannon grabs his arm as he starts toward the door.

They both recoil from the touch. Ash rubs his arm reflexively, Mannon rubs her hand, both smarting from the burn.

"So," Ash snarls, "you dare to attack me, do you?" He starts toward her again. "You stupid cunt!"

Diana fumbles with the lock.

"We'll see which of us is the stronger!!" Ash growls. He catches Mannon by the shoulders, and she screams in sudden pain.

"Oh, God, Mannon," Diana whispers in a choked voice. "Oh, God..." She pulls back the bolt and hauls on the iron door.

"I'll teach you to threaten ME!"

Tears streaming from her eyes now, Diana squeezes through the opening with her precious burden and stumbles into the darkness beyond.

A movement in the darkness, a scuff on the floorboards. A large, indiscernible shape moving toward them. And then a stray beam of dim light hits it, to reveal a woman carrying a large burden.

"Mr. Black!" she cries. "Oh, thank GOD it's you!" She halts and lays her burden down while she catches her breath. "It's Burkett," she calls. "And he's hurt. BAD. He needs help! We've got to get him out of here before Ash comes after us."

She pulls off her leather jacket and tosses it across Burkett's abdomen, glancing at the girl in Black's arms. Then she spots Gary.

Gary has already spotted her.

Quick as a flash, Gary interposes his body between Black and Diana. "Get out of here, Boss," he says in a surprisingly commanding tone. "It's a trap." He reaches for Peter's weapon. "Don't believe a words she says. If that's really Burkett, then he's already dead. Get out of here. Now."

Maria lets out a soft whine as Burkett is laid on the floor, suddenly trembling. She draws in a deep breath through her nose, staring at Diana intently.

Peter surrenders his weapon reluctantly. But Gary seems so certain...

"It might be a trap," Joe agrees, "but I'm tired of runnin' through these halls gettin' nowhere. At least now we can make some progress, one way or the other.

"Now," he continues, cocking and aiming his pistol at Diana's forehead with deliberate slowness, "Maria, is that _our_ Burkett?"

The coyote girl pushes off from him, to warily approach Burkett, still staring at the other woman, giving her a wide berth. Even the fear that rises to close her throat can't stop her from going to the body, however, as she falls to a crouching position to move a bit faster.

Peter looks at the body on the floor. From this distance, it's difficult to tell. He glances at Gary. Was he right? Was this all just another hoax? Was it his worst fear materializing, as Mr. Black had suggested? He wants to run to find out. To scoup up the body and get out of the building as quickly as possible. But what if it IS a trap? Would he just make matters worse? He hasn't done very well so far. So he stands still, waiting for orders. -I cannot fail in this,- he tells himself. -I must not take unconsidered action.- He watches Joe closely for any sign.

Diana looks distraught. "Of COURSE it's your Burkett!" she cries, backing away from the body, hands raised. She glances at Peter but dismisses him. "Listen, Black, I know you have NO REASON to trust me--"

"You got THAT right," Gary interjects, raising Gary's rifle.

"Oh, don't be an idiot!" Diana snaps. "Go ahead. KILL me if you want to. I don't care anymore. But get HIM OUT of here!!" She points at Burkett. Then she remembers. "Oh, SHIT!! Mannon!!!" She looks back down the hallway, and then at Black. "Listen, Black, you gotta help Mannon!"

At this, Peter takes a few steps forward, but he says nothing.

"She's still in there, with Ash. And he's going to..." She waves a hand in front of her. "...you can imagine what he's going to do! She sacrificed herself to save him. Distracted Ash long enough for me to get him out of there. But she's not going to last long, I can tell you! And that priest she brought with her is worthless!

"I can take you there, and Gary and his friend can get Burkett and the girl out. Okay? Come on!"

"I'm going with you," Peter says firmly.

Diana looks at the young man with surprise. "Gary will need your help," she counters.

"I'm not leaving her in there alone."

Diana looks at Black, desperation in her face.

Maria, meanwhile has reached Burkett. She touches his face softly, bedning her head over him, and closing her eyes. Burkett lies on the cold floor, his arms and legs at unnatural angles, like a marionette who'd been thrown away by a spoilt child. Every inch of his body is covered in cuts or scratches or welts or superating sores or bruises in purple and yellow. His lips are black with blood, cracked and peeling.

His skin, normally a healthy dark tone, is pallid, with a blue tinge to it. One step away from the waxy yellow of death. His dark hair sticks out in all directions, matted with more blood. Dark circles under his eyes suggest head trauma. His wrists seep blood and serum, his shapely hands dark and nearly bloodless. Three suppurating burns mark him, upside down crosses, two on his chest, and one on his forehead.

But he is breathing. His pulse is weak. Rapid and thready. His breaths shallow and quick, he is still alive. For the moment.

The sound from Maria is painfully human. She sobs her relief, resting her cheek against his chest for one too brief moment, then looks up, speaking only to Joe. Her voice at first is quiet, relieved... "«He is alive. Very sick, and sleeping wrong... unconscious?»" But then it becomes matter of fact, as she stares at Diana. Flat, practical. "«Joe, that woman. She is the one who attacked me. She took him. I smell her on him. She has done things. Beat him and hurt him and she has done things with sex. She stinks of it. She tortured him with it.»

Joe never turns his eyes away from Diana. "That's our Chasen Burkett, Dr. Horstman. Would you mind seein' to him as best you can?"

Gary hesitates, thinks of arguing, but then takes his orders gracefully. He scurries to Burkett's side, muttering. "Christ Almighty," he murmurs as he begins his examination. "I've seen 6-month-old corpses in better shape..."

Maria looks at him briefly, moving back a little to let the doctor work. She is somewhat leery of human medicine, but if he can help ...

"And as for _you_... Yep, you're gonna take me to Ash. And Peter back there's comin' with me. But first, maybe you'd best tell me why you'd be torturing and raping Burkett and doing THIS to Maria here one minute, then trying to help us out the next. Just so all the cards are on the table before the big payoff, you understand. Oh, and you might want to make this real good."

Diana stares at him. She stares at the woman he's called "Maria". Then at Burkett, lying at her feet. "What the hell are you talking about?" she counters. "I didn't TOUCH her! I've never even SEEN her before. And as for HIM," she nods at Burkett, "I'll admit I added some licks to what Ash was doing. But... rape??" Her face contorts. She looks over at Gary. "I suppose that was YOUR idea!"

Gary ignores her, running his hands over Burkett. He lifts the jacket covering Burkett's mid-section and whistles softly. "Boss, I don't think anybody was doing any raping, here..." He lifts the coat far enough for Joe to see the dried blood and welts. "At least, not recently."

Diana looks back at Joe. "Look, I told you I don't care what you do to me. I threw in my chips with Ash, and I'll pay the price. I fucked up, okay? But even I have my limits. And...well... Burkett got me thinkin' through some things..." She looks down at him. "I was wrong about him, too." She purses her lips. "But if you don't get back there and stop him, Ash is going to turn Mannon into some kind of sex slave, and she'll never be able to go back to..." She pleads with him. "She did all this out of love for Burkett. You gotta get her outa there!! Please!"

"Okay, so no rape," Joe agrees. "Maria here gets confused by the scents of all these Burketts sometimes. Guess that means ours wasn't the _only_ one you were addin' some licks to, huh?"

He lowers the hammer on his Colt. "But you're right: We don't have time for this. So let's move." Then, to Maria: "«We'll sort all this out later, I promise. But right now, this woman's the only one who can lead me straight to Ash, and he's about to hurt someone else. Dr. Horstman's going to stay with Burkett and try to get him out of here. You should do the same. You've done more than enough here.»"

Even on her contorted face, behind the bruises and blood, the look of betrayal is clear. He does not believe her, and he is treating her like a child, like an animal. And taking the word of a torturer over her. She pulls herself up for the ground to a standing position, an enormous effort, and then staggers. The breath from her mouth as she speaks makes the air dance briefly, a heat mirage.

"You kill him? Ash?" she asks coldly, deliberately choosing the language she is least familiar with. No more of the pretended intimacy and understanding of Spanish. //Because he's demon, because he's male,// is what she thinks. It is her last responsibility. She would not have him dead, even after all he has done, but she knows she cannot stop Joe. And if he won't even take her word on this woman, there is no chance he will stay his hand for her sake.

Joe freezes in mid-step, arching an eyebrow. He'd figured on putting Maria off regarding Diana's comeuppance being a calculated risk, but...

"«That was the plan,»" he replies in Spanish. There's no time for misunderstandings here, whatever her motivation for the language switch might be. No time for conversation at all, come to that. "«After all this, that's a problem? Dammit, Maria, he could be doing the same or worse to Mannon as we speak!»"

He curses under his breath. "Peter!" he says. "Help Maria come along if she wants to. I've gotta go. _Now_." He waves Diana on with his gun.

Then, over his shoulder: "«I'm sorry, Maria. Come if you insist. I don't have time to argue about it. But this has to end.»"

Peter also curses. He needs to be where Mannon is, and he needs to stay with Burkett, his loyalties equally divided. He had just decided that he needed to stay and help Burkett out of harm's way, leaving Joe to handle Ash. He knew Joe could. But now this girl needs his nurse-maiding.

Diana, eager to get back before Ash can complete his plans, starts on ahead. "They're down this way!" She motions for Joe to follow her. "Hurry!"

Peter moves over to Burkett, squatting down beside him. He takes one of Burkett's cold, bloodless hands. "I have to go, sir," he says softly. "But I shall return as soon as humanly possible." Without worrying what anyone will think, he lifts the hand and kisses it. "Hold on...father."

He rises. "Take good care of him," he says sternly to Gary. "I'll expect a full accounting." Then he goes to Maria. "Come. I will help you. I will carry you if you wish it. But we must hurry."

She looks at him a moment, then after Joe. There is nothing she can do to save Ash. And her loyalties are torn, desperately torn. Between the man she can never have, and the man who no one will will stop for. No one will care about, once having seen his true nature. She's not a fool; she does not believe Ash is a good man. She's terribly angry at him for what he's done to Burkett. But she also knows that humans are strange and fragile things, so changeable, like the wind. He _could_ be good.

"You go," she tells Peter. "I stay here. Go, quick. Help orange blossom woman, mother."

Peter looks at her, then after Joe, then back at her. He hesitates only a moment longer. "I... I'm sorry. I really must go!" He looks at Burkett again. Then, picking up the rifle Gary has laid aside, speeds off after Joe.

Gary stares at Peter for a long moment after he moves away. "Father??" he repeats to himself. "Burkett has a son?"

"Mannon... is his mother??"

"Smell same," Maria informs him briefly.

He shrugs. Then he kicks off his shoe and, grasping one of Burkett's wrists tightly but gently with both hands, thrusts his foot into Burkett's armpit. With a firm, steady pull, a slight twist, and release, the dislocated arm returns to its proper socket. He repeats the process on the other side. "There, old man," he croons, folding the arms carefully against Burkett's body. "That should feel a little better." He sighs. "If you could feel anything... which you can't."

He gnaws his lower lip with worry. "This is not good. Not good at all." He smooths back Burkett's hair, brushing it off the obscene burn on his forehead. "You may have done some questionable things in your time, Burkett, but you didn't deserve this."

Maria touches Gary's shoulder lightly.

Gary looks up at her, and covers her hand with his own.

"You can ... you help, if you get out. You be okay? I get you out, get him out, fast?"

"Well, it would help if I could get him to a hospital. But how are we gonna--"

"I do this." Carefully, she lifts te burden from him, pulling Burkett up to cradle against her chest. It should be impossible, given her condition, but it's as though she's found new reserves of will. She ignores any protests, telling Gary only, "You follow now. Close, fast."

"But-- You-- I-- Yabbut--" Gary tries unsuccessfully to get out a protest. How can he deny her strength when she has already hoisted the man?? He sighs in exasperation.

She takes off at a run, holding Burkett as carefully as she can, following her own scent back to the door, leading Gary, if he chooses to run after.

Groaning in frustration, Gary follows her at a dead run. "Maria!! Hold up! I can't see where we're..."

She slows for him, but not much, bringing it down to a brisk jog. "Follow, hurry," she reiterates, and while she can't light up the dark passageways for him, the sound of her raspy breathing leads him on.

Mannon struggles to break free of Ash, but he is stronger. Whether it is the musculature of his human shell, or a superior understanding of the power available to him, she doesn't know. She only knows he is dragging her down to the filthy floor.

"I told you, bitch," he growls, pinning her shoulders, "that you were a fool to come here." He places one hand squarely in the center of her chest and holds her down. "A naive, foolish cunt!" His eyes glow with the fire of lust now. He bends his head to capture her mouth.

She turns her head away, but he wrenches her chin back to face him. He clamps his teeth onto her lower lip, and she cries out in pain.

His hand begins to explore her, grasping at clothing, tugging, ripping. He lets go of her lip and spits out her blood. "You stupid, stupid whore," he laughs. "You thought you could trick me, didn't you? Trick ME!!" He rips open her shirt. "You thought you could get the better of ME?" He rips her slacks. "I, Samael's Favorite??" He begins to deal with his own clothing. "Stupid bitch!"

Mannon grits her teeth and closes her eyes. -Dearest Heavenly Father,- she prays, -I beg you to forgive me! I acted to save an innocent! Please forgive me, Lord!-

There is a stir in the corner. Mannon sees something dark in the corner of her eye, and then hears a thud and a cry. Ash is no longer on top of her.

"Praecipio tibi, quicumque es, spiritus immunde, ut mihi Dei ministro licet indigno, prorsus in omnibus obedias: neque hanc creaturam Dei!"

Mannon turns to see Fr. Angelus standing tall, a pectoral cross in one hand and a length of pipe in the other. -YES!!- she cries inwardly. -Finally you remember!!-

She translates his words in her mind. "I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness; nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God!"

Ash is on his feet, and seething. "Old man!" he cries, "do not think to command ME!!"

"EXORCIZO te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursio adversarii, omne phantasma, omnis legio, in nomine Domini nostri Jesu Christi eradicare, et effugare ab hoc plasmate Dei!"

I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every Satanic power of the enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Begone and stay far from this creature of God!

Ash turns to Mannon, who has gotten up off the floor. "YOU did this!" he charges. "YOU brought this blasphemer here!!"

Mannon lifts her chin. "Yes," she says simply. "I did."

"An EXORCIST??" he rages.

"Ipse tibi imperat, qui te de supernis cæaelorum in inferiora terræ demergi præcepit."

For it is He who commands you, He who flung you headlong from the heights of heaven into the depths of hell.

Ash begins to howl. "You have no power over ME!!"

"Ipse tibi imperat, qui mari, ventis et tempestatibus imperavit!"

It is He who commands you, He who once stilled the sea and the wind and the storm.

"Get OUT OF HERE!!" Ash screams. He rushes at the priest, who swings at him with the pipe. Ash knocks it from his grasp, sending Angelus to the floor.

"Audi ergo, et time, satana, inimice fidei, hostis generis humani, mortis adductor, vitæ raptor!"

Hearken, therefore, and tremble in fear, Satan, you enemy of the faith, you foe of the human race, you begetter of death, you robber of life!

Angelus thrusts the crucifix into Ash's face, and he howls again. Angelus struggles to his feet, pushing Ash away with the crucifix.

"...justitiæ declinator, malorum radix, fomes vitiorum, seductor hominum, proditur gentium..."

...you corrupter of justice, you root of all evil and vice; seducer of men, betrayer of the nations...

Mannon joins in the struggle now, pulling Ash back from the priest.

Ash swings wildly. His face is no longer that of a young Burkett. It has changed. Twisted into a hideous demon form, as he diverts energy from concealment to attack. "You both shall DIE!" he roars. "And I shall bring you BOTH to the seat of Samael!!"

"Quid stas, et resistis, cum scias, Christum Dominum vias tuas perdere?"

Why, then, do you stand and resist, knowing as you must that Christ the Lord brings your plans to nothing?

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Ash bellows.

Diana leads Joe by the most direct route. As they approach the door, Peter comes up from behind.

"Maria chose to stay behind, after all," Peter explains.

"Good," Joe mutters.

Peter looks over at Diana. "I don't know you," he says in a tight, low voice. He levels his rifle at her. "I gather Maria doesn't like you much. I've found her instincts are very true. So now you tell me, who is in that room, where were they placed when you left them, how are they armed, and what's our best line of attack?"

Diana glances at Joe, surprised at this young man's air of command. "When I left, there was Mannon, Ash and...someone else. Some guy she brought with her. I think she called him 'father'." She shrugs. "I suppose he's her dad."

"Her _father_?" says Joe. "Why the Hell would she..." He shakes his head. "Nevermind. Fine. There's another friendly in the room."

"What were they doing?" Peter pursues, much more calmly than he feels. "Where were they placed and what weapons?"

"Ash was..." She glances at Joe again. "Ash had Mannon pinned and was getting ready to rape her." She answers quickly, keeping her tone professional. "And the other guy was sitting in the corner staring at the Wall." She shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine where they are now. And none of them have weapons, as such. I mean, you're dealing with a demon, here! What weapons does he NEED?"

Joe is just about to make an observation about Celestial and Infernal weaponry, when they hear a long and angry cry.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Fr. Angelus rips Ash from Mannon's grasp with more strength than she'd ever suspected he possessed. "You and I, we shall burn in hell TOGETHER!" Angelus cries.

"Father! Be careful!" she admonishes. "He--"

Colts in hand -- which, at the moment, he's quite sure that he _does_ need -- Joe kicks in the door.

But it is too late. As Joe comes through the door, Diana and Peter close behind, he is just in time to see Angelus kick Ash's legs out from under him. The two tumble together through the Wall of Night. Before the door slams against the wall on its inward flight, only a swirl of color remains to mark their passing.

Joe stands there looking after them for a moment. But only for a moment. He holsters his pistols.

"FATHER!!" Mannon cries.

Peter lopes up beside her, removing his coat to wrap around her. "Hst!" he whispers, taking her in his arms. "He's gone."

Mannon shrugs him off angrily. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this!" she protests. "He wasn't supposed to be harmed! NEITHER was to be harmed!" She puts her hand to her forehead, running it through her touseled hair. "I was only meant to stop him killing Chasen!" Tears flow down her face. An Angel's Tears. "Angelus was only meant to distract him..."

Diana comes up quietly. She puts her hand on Mannon's arm. "The old man... he had Nighteyes, Mannon. He was mad."

Mannon reaches for her blindly. "It wasn't meant to be this way..." In a moment Mannon is in Diana's arms, weeping.

Diana looks helplessly at Joe.

Joe turns their way sharply, eyes frosting the room.

"Oh?" he says. "How the Hell _was_ it meant to be? What's _supposed_ to happen when you send a Voice to do the work of a Sword?"

Mannon lifts her head, her tears frozen on her face.

"What's _supposed_ to happen when you put yourself at the mercy of an animal like _that_?" He jabs a finger at the Wall.

Mannon begins to shrink from him.

"I'll TELL you what happens: You get raped, and murdered, and God knows what else, and I end up responsible for your death. AGAIN."

Mannon winces visibly at this. "Capitan Black..." she murmurs, so weakly only Diana can hear.

"So you better damn well count your blessings!

"Oooh, but don't you worry!" he rages on, waving a hand at the Wall again, a humorless smile on his face. "If ANYone's going to come back through the Wall of Night, it's Chasen Goddamn Ashforth Burkett. 'Cept when he does, he'll be something even WORSE."

Mannon seems to wither under this onslaught. Head down, arms limply at her side, she says nothing.

"Geez, Black, that's a little harsh, don't you think?" Diana observes.

Joe shoots her a chilling glare. "Don't YOU even START to tell me about what's 'harsh', darlin'. And you haven't SEEN me get harsh. Yet."

Diana is suitably quelled.

"Be still," says Mannon softly. "He is right. I was not authorized to come here. I broke the rules, and I shall pay for it." She hangs her head further. "As will Fr. Angelus."

The Lawman gazes at this broken angel before him, his mind filling with thoughts of broken rules and the tragedies that follow. His gaze softens, but only insofar as granite is softer than diamond.

"Listen-,"

Peter, not understanding the words, but understanding Mannon's pain, rushes at Black with the butt-end of his rifle out-stretched. "Leave her alone, you--"

Several things seem to happen to Peter simultaneously.

First, the laser carbine disappears from his grasp.

Second, before that loss can even register, a hand grasps his collar, jerking him to a stop inches from the wall in front of which Joe no longer stands.

And third, that hand spins him roughly about and pins him to the wall by the neck.

Peter gasps for breath, splayed out against the wall. His eyes wide, he nonetheless awaits his fate with stoic calm. He has miscalculated his opponent. Now he will pay.

"You're a good man and a brave soldier," Joe growls, "and under the circumstances, you're owed a pass.

"But don't do that again."

So saying, he releases Peter, dusting off his shoulders and returning his rifle.

Peter draws a deep breath, accepting the rifle with hands that tremble ever so slightly. "Then," he says, squaring his shoulders, "do not hurt her again."

Joe eyes Peter for a moment... then chuckles dryly. "You're a good son, Peter." He pats him on the shoulder. "There's more goin' on here than you understand, but it's not my place to straighten it out for you. I'll leave that to your... to your parents.

"Okay," he sighs, turning back to the women, "Enough. Let's get outta--Where the Hell's Mannon??" He turns a suspicious gaze Diana's way. And the barrel of a suspicious gun.

Diana jumps, startled by this sudden shift. She looks around, realizing that Mannon, indeed, is nowhere to be seen. "I-- I have no idea!" she replies.

Peter, too, looks around the room, his whole body tight with alarm. "Mannon?" he calls, looking for some sort of corner or cubby into which she could have wandered, but finding none. "Mannon!"

"She is not here," says a voice from the doorway.

They turn to see a silver-blonde-haired woman dressed in white, a blue gemstone on her forehead. She smiles in a manner which could only be called "beatific".

"She has gone back."

Joe lowers his guns. He eyes this newcomer not with surprise so much as weary resignation.

"Lucea."

Lucea smiles at him. "Yes, Joe. I have been given leave to show myself again." She walks into the room.

Peter cannot believe the casualness with which this comes about. "'Gone back'?" he repeats. "Gone back WHERE?" He looks at Joe. "Who is this woman? How does she know my-- How does she know Mme. DuVrais?"

Lucea turns her smile upon Peter, and some of his distress quiets. There is something in her face that invites confidence and calm. Like a mother coming into a nursery in chaos, she brings with her the gentle serenity of unconditional love and amused tolerance. "Now, now, child. Mannon is perfectly well, I assure you. And she left of her own accord. Do not be concerned about her."

Lucea looks at Joe, and it is clear she assumes he will understand her better than anyone else in the room. "Mannon returned to face her inquiry. The Metatron will be asking rather pointed questions, I fear, but Mannon is strong." She shakes her head. "I think I will never understand you Kerubim. What is your fascination with this material world? I simply cannot see what you see in it." She shrugs.

"However, apparently Mannon has requested a reassignment; she has asked to be returned to the material plane, reincarnated as an infant." Again Lucea shakes her head. "Of course, her memory will have to be taken from her while she abides here. But she hopes thereby to learn the lessons that would prevent today's events from occuring again in the future."

Joe's shoulders sag at the news. Did his words drive Mannon to this choice? Is it his fault that Peter may never again in this lifetime see the woman so close to being his mother, and without so much as a chance to say goodbye? Has he driven away Burkett's true love in a final perverse act of unintentional revenge?

He rubs his forehead. "I understand," he sighs.

"The Metatron will rule shortly." Then, as if remembering something, she holds up a finger. "Oh, and I am to tell you, Joe, that I have been relieved as your Watcher." She looks around the room. "Now... where is Mr. Burkett?"

Joe straightens immediately. Business.

"By now, he ought to be outside. But he's just barely... What do you mean, 'relieved'??"

Lucea raises her delicate eyebrows. "Just as I say. 'Relieved.' Dismissed. I am no longer assigned to you." She starts back to the doorway. "Outside, you say? Very well. I'll finish up with him and then be on my way."

"But-" Joe starts, then sighs as she continues on.

He turns to Peter. "Come on, son. Let's go get this as straight as it's going to get."

Peter, wholly unsatisfied with the situation, gives the room one last visual search and then falls in. He makes a note of the many questions he has for Joe when they get somewhere that they can talk in private.

Then he turns to Diana, scowling. "You too. We aren't done yet. Move. And while you're moving, pray that Burkett lives, if you've still got it in you."

Diana swallows hard. Oddly, she is much more afraid of Joe than she ever was of Ash, even at his most violent. Something about Joe's righteous anger reaches something deep inside her. He... shames her. She falls dutifully into step in front of him--where he can watch her every move--and bows her head. It may not be a prayer, exactly, but with all her fervent might, she hopes Burkett is alive when they find him.

Once they clear the building, Gary calls to her again. "Hey!! Let's stop here for a couple. We should wait for the others, at least a little while." He checks Burkett. "I think he can tolerate it... but you'd better put him down." He checks Maria more closely. Burkett might need a hospital, and badly, but he figures Maria needs the rest more. She looks about ready to drop dead any moment. "I'd like to give him a closer examination, if you don't mind. Now that we have some light."

He looks up, and realizes how little more light there is here. He hopes she doesn't see through the ruse. "Just lay him down here." Gary spreads out his jacket, and squats down beside it to receive Burkett's limp body.

Maria looks at the ground and the thin jacket there, but there's really no better place, and if this is what the doctor wants... Tenderly she sets Burkett down, settling his hands at his sides, looking up for approval at Gary. Then she moves a few feet away, and lays down on the ground, pressing her cheek against the cool, dirty pavement. It's not quite to the point where steam is rising off her, but there's a very definite furnace feel to her body, when she's in range, and the blood is crusting at a disturbing rate. Her hair gives off a baked sort of smell, slightly sickening.

Gary smiles at Maria, and takes Burkett's wrist in hand, timing the pulse. Not that there's anything he can do at this point, but at least it will look like he's doing something. To his surprise, the pulse is a little stronger than it had been. He looks down at Burkett's ravaged face, searching for any sign that he might be coming back from oblivion.

Gary finds it ironic that Maria should be so excessively hot when Burkett's body had the disturbing coolness of one slipping into shock. He wishes there were a way to wrap him up against the cold of the night air. He looks around.

Suddenly, Burkett takes a deep breath and sighs. A slight moan follows, and the wrist still in Gary's hand twitches.

"He's waking!" Gary says, surprised. He smiles at Maria reassuringly. "Man, this guy is stronger than I thought!" He leans over. "Mr. Burkett? Can you hear me?"

Maria shoves herself up in sudden panic as Burkett stirs, her eyes wide. She shakes her head briefly, and backs up into the wall of the building with a soft thump. "Please... I go. Don't say to him I am here. I was here. Please."

Using the wall for support, she pulls herself to her feet, trying to head for the nearest alley to escape, if she can.

"HEY!" cries Gary, torn between two patients now. "Where do you think you're... Maria! Come back here!" He leaves Burkett to his own recuperative powers for a moment. "Please! Stay!" he says, trying to keep his English simple. "Look, if you really want to leave here, then let me go with you." He shows annoyance with himself for forgetting her limited English again. "You go? I go. I help. Comprende?"

Her panic becomes more visible, if anything, and she violently shakes her head again. "No, no, no! You stay! He needs doctor! Not me, doctor! You have to fix! Please!. «I cannot be here when he wakes, he hates me, he'll tell me to go, better I leave now, and he'll never know, please, just let me go, I cannot be a burden to him any more!»"

Gary blinks at her, not understanding the last spate of what obviously was very important information to her. "I...uh..." He looks around, confused, wishing Joe would show up and tell him what the hell she's babbling about. "Look, you stay, I fix, then I fix YOU." He tries to gesture to her.

As he talks, the door of the building starts to open, and a voice behind it-- Diana's voice--says, "this is the door out. We might be able to catch them."

Gary looks up, instantly alert and tense. Instinctively, he gets between the door and his patients. "Hide, Maria!" he hisses, preparing for the worst. He motions for her to get down, or at least out of sight. "Go!" He gestures again, not looking away from the door to see if she's obeying.

She sighs her relief at this distraction... but what if it's an enemy? She follows his directive to get out of sight, but lurks, to assess the situation.

The door swings wider as Diana steps out into the open. "Oh! Here they are."

Joe nods. "Here we are. And we've brought some help." He looks Lucea's way. "You _can_ help him, right?"

Lucea smiles. "That is why I am here," she replies. She moves to Burkett's side, kneeling down to examine him. "*tsk!* Mr. Burkett..." She shakes her lovely head. "...it seems you're always getting yourself into trouble with demons."

Then he turns back to Gary, and his scowl deepens. "Okay, now where's _Maria_?"

Halfway down the alley that she had slipped further in, on realizing Joe had arrived on the scene, she pauses, at the sound of her name. Torn... the woman is there. The one Joe trusted, who had hurt Burkett, and might well do it again. But though the sting of Joe's betrayal is fresh and sore, still, she knows that he wouldn't allow the woman to hurt Burkett right in front of him. He may consider her only an animal, but he is competent, effective as a protector. And ultimately, dominant to her.

She continues to creep her way into the dark, away from them, panting softly.

Gary looks around. "She was here a second ago. I told her to hide, because I didn't know who was comin' out." He scans the area. "Maria?? It's just Joe and the others."

Lucea, ignoring this, bends over Burkett. "First things first," she murmurs. "Let us take care of this abomination." So saying, she places her hand over Burkett's forehead, over the burned-in inverted cross.

He moans softly, trying to turn away from the discomfort.

"Easy, child," she coos. "His Grace wishes these marks off your body, for you are His." She lifts her hand, and Burkett's forehead is smooth and unblemished. She lays her two hands on his chest, and the other two burns are soon gone. "There," she murmurs. "Now..." She looks up at Gary. "Help me with him, will you?" she asks quietly.

Gary switches his attention to the lovely woman. "I-- Of course," he replies. "What are we doing?"

"Help me lift him into my arms," she tells him. "He is quite far gone. I must hurry."

Gary kneels down and, not certain why he's doing this, gets his arms under Burkett's shoulders and back and lifts him to a sitting position while Lucea slips herself behind him. When Gary leans Burkett back again, he is lying against Lucea, his head on her shoulder.

Lucea wraps her arms protectively about Burkett, closes her eyes, and begins to hum softly. The sound is ethereal, restful and yet invigorating.

Diana, watching this process, takes a step or two closer. The music is strangely compelling, soothing. It makes her feel... as though someone cares for her. Soon she is kneeling beside Lucea with eyes closed.

Burkett's breathing deepens. Gary monitors his pulse, and finds it has slowed but is stronger. An odd warmth radiates from his skin, and the cuts and bruises begin to fade.

Lucea continues to hum softly, bowing her head over Burkett so that her cheek lies beside his. She rocks slightly, as a mother might rock a child, and her hands stroke his skin gently.

The dark circles below Burkett's eyes start to fade, and the bluish tinge leaves his cracked lips. He breathes like a sleeping child, deeply and softly.

Gary notices what the other cannot see. There are tears flowing freely down Lucea's cheeks onto Burkett's shoulder.

While this transpires, Joe hovers nearby -- ostensibly searching for Maria, yet never quite out of earshot. And certainly close enough for him to wince now and again at certain notes in Lucea's tune.

Lucea wipes the tears from her eyes with her fingertips. Then she dabs the tears across Burkett's lips, his eyelids, and then marks over the places Ash had left his profane crosses. The lips become smooth again, the cracks and blood obliterated by an angel's tears.

Burkett sighs softly. Then his eyelids flutter open. He looks up, unfocused. "Mannon?" he croaks.

"She is not here, child," Lucea tells him. She looks up at Gary. "Have you any water? He has not had clean water since he was taken."

Gary looks alarmed. "I... no. I don't have any." He looks to Joe for help. "Any idea where we can get some water?"

But Burkett has begun to stir. "Mannon!" he persists. "Where...? Is she...?"

"She is not here, dear heart," Lucea tells him again, gently stroking his forehead. "But she is unharmed. Fear not."

He settles a little at this. The tension drains out of him, and he sags back against Lucea with another sigh. His eyes close, and for a time he just breathes.

Peter, who has watched all of this without comprehending, is suddenly struck by how this scene reminds him of a sculpture he saw on his Grand Tour. It was in Rome. A sculpture by the Renaissance artist Michelangelo Buonarotti. The Pietà. It depicted the dead Christ in the arms of his mother. As Lucea looks down at Burkett, it startles him. Mary's face held just that same look of resignation and restrained grief as she gazed down at the broken body of her son.

Joe has drifted back over at the sound of Burkett's voice. He turns to Lucea as Burkett fades once again. "I... want to thank you for helping him," he says. "Now, I supposed we'd best get him to a hospital. Or do we even need to bother, after the work you've done?"

Peter begins to stir, roused from shock and grief of his own.

Lucea looks up at Joe and smiles. "You are welcome. But I did not do it for you, nor at your behest." She smiles down at Burkett. "I did it for him, and at the request of Him, who is my Master." She smoothes Burkett's hair. "He has suffered much. And we were not allowed to prevent or end it." She looks up. "As you know, we are not allowed to interfere. For which reason, Mannon will be given remedial instruction.

"But as for Mr. Burkett, what becomes of him now is largely up to you. His body will need continuing care for a bit. I was not given the power to heal utterly. Only to preserve life until he could heal himself. I do not know human physiology well enough to know if he needs a... hospital." She looks around at them. "However, if you wish to minister to his soul, you should be aware he has just been granted a great honor:

"The choice to leave this physical plane to dwell with us hereafter."

"No..." whispers Peter, unbelieving.

Joe stares at her for a moment... then clears his throat. "Yeah, okay, well... let's get him to a hospital, and he can decide whether he wants to pull an Elijah once he's patched up. I can call in a few favors and get him in a good place here in Babel. In a better part of town, that is."

Lucea nods. She lifts Burkett from her shoulder, and Gary quickly moves to take the burden from her. She rises. "I shall leave him to you, then." She lowers her startlingly blue eyes. "I must go now and account for why I told you of his choice." She looks up at Joe. "You were not meant to know about it. But it seemed to me that, as you all had come so far to save him, you had a right to know." She looks around at the group once more. "And I believe he has the right to know what he would be leaving behind."

With that, she turns and disappears down the alley.

Peter looks at Joe, once more stricken. "Have I understood rightly what has happened here?" he asks. "That he has been given the choice to revive himself and live on here, with us, or let slip his mortal body with the guarantee he would be taken into Heaven for eternity?" Peter shakes his head. "How could anyone chose life over such an eternal rest? Especially one who has experienced all the horror that he has done?" Peter turns away. "I have lost them both," he murmurs. He sighs, and finds a place to sit down.

"You've got it right," Joe replies, not unkindly. He takes a seat beside Peter. "But as for that choice? You might be surprised..."

Peter's face carries a look of desolation for a long moment before he willfully replaces the mask to cover his feelings. "Well," he says philosophically, "at least now I know why my worst fear didn't materialize inside that building." He nods at the door through which they had just come.

"It was waiting for me out here."

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