There were, at the moment, three members of Pantheon stationed in New Shan.

A far more conservative amount than Ichabod's original estimate. He had glanced at every shadow, noted every doorway, eyed every space of dead air. His calculations and observations could only do so much, and bereft of knowledge, his mind filled in the blanks with fear.

But Pantheon was a guild of symbols. Symbols of Agrippa's wealth. His influence. As such, most of them were working off-plane, patrolling museums under OzTech's patronage or fighting in wars on the company's behalf.

Others, still, were working for Agrippa in other places. Darker places. Secret meetings, and handshakes made in hidden rooms.

Truly, only Charnak and Macabre were actively under Agrippa's personal employ in the city. Macabre because her metapower allowed her to surveil multiple parts of New Shan at once. Her emphasis on using her ravens over the usual technologies seen on Neos meant that the ravens, if one did not know her power, were seen as a curiosity.

Bereft of knowledge, one sees the birds as nothing more than birds.

Charnak was a different case. He was a magician. A former Son of Darwin, and Agrippa preferred to keep him close. Not for protection, but to make sure the fox didn't go his own way.

The third member of Pantheon stationed in New Shan was not truly active at any one time.

They only were brought forth in times of danger, or when Agrippa needed more uncommon defenses against uncommon foes.

And a guild assaulting his Tower, using magic foreign to Neos, was uncommon indeed.

They were not located in the Tower itself, but rather at the top of a skyscraper just outside the business district. The building itself belonged to OzTech, home to a couple of miscellaneous shell companies that they employed for less scrupulous practices. Two security guards, stationed just outside the guildmember's room, received a call from the Tower.

One looked to the other as the CEO of the company gave them instructions. Agrippa's smooth, deadened voice made their skin crawl, made sweat bead on their necks despite the relative coolness of the rainy night.

“Wake it up,” Agrippa ordered, “Let me speak to it.”

The guard nodded. He gestured for his companion to open the door.

Inside was a square, simple room, in which floated a small sphere of glass. A single raindrop was held within,suspended in midair, mid-flight, midfall, the top tapering off to a point.

The guard brought the communicator up to the sphere.

“Themble,” Agrippa said, “It's me. How are you?”

Had the guard better vision, he would have seen the raindrop ripple.

“I have a mission for you,” Agrippa said, “The Tower's been hit. Three interlopers have made off with OzTech information. A magician is among them. Find anything suspicious in the city. Kill them for me.

“Release the elemental,” Agrippa ordered the guard, “Let it grow.”

The guard complied. Breaking Themble's cage was simple enough – it was designed to break, to be crushed from the outside with a single squeeze of the hand. The sphere broke into gel, and the guard turned and walked outside.

He made his way to the balcony overlooking New Shan, the entire city misted over with smoke and fog. Rain sheeted down in great curtains, unusually warm and tinged with forever chemicals. Unsafe to drink. Unsafe to walk in, not without something to protect bare skin.

Themble had always hated the rain here. It made their form unbearable. Uncomfortable. Painful.

The guard opened his hand, releasing the rain elemental into the air.

And Themble began to grow, raindrops stopping midair, freezing in place, absorbing into a mass with silver-light eyes. It was the size of a house when it dispersed, moving between raindrops, the entire storm taking on a strange nature. The clouds began to curl in tandem with one another. Chunks of the falling rain began to curve sideways as Themble moved through the city.

Each drop was an eye.

They would find their quarry yet.

***

None of his magic would have let Charnak survive an explosion at point-blank range. The fox's charred remains lay on the ground, pelted by rain, his chest blown to smithereens, revealing a hollowed-out ribcage. He lay on his back, his arms and legs contorted in awkward, broken directions. His tongue hung loose from his muzzle, his eyes still locked in a wide void of fear.

An ignoble end, for one with such a storied history. Becenti looked down at the form. Devoid of life, it quietly reminded him of roadkill back home, stray dogs or coyotes caught underneath wheels, crumpled beneath rubber and smeared into the ground. He looked down at Charnak’s body for a small while.

Then, his attention turned over to Vicenorn. G-Wiz was running over to the ruins of the car, the flames dying down, having lost their heat, suffocated under the rain.

She stopped at the fallen form of her guildmate.

And froze. Her jaw dropped, and she resisted the urge to vomit.

He had been halfway out when the taxi erupted. The entire bottom half of his body was gone, blown away. The other parts of him had been set aflame, a blaze that was only now extinguishing, exposing charred flesh.

Charred circuitry. Much of Vicenorn's skin had melted away. But what was odd was the fact that he possessed no true skeleton. Only a metal framework, wide and spherical. His left arm had been mechanical – they already knew that. What they had not realized was that his right was, as well. His legs. His head. His organs, too. All of him had been mechanical, as robotic as Lazuli.

The only pieces of him that were organic were his brain and his lungs, held in place by a metal rod, an iron heart beating between them, now exposed to the rain, a thin layer of plastic-like material housing his most precious parts.

Vicenorn, despite everything, was still awake. His skull-like visage turned to G-Wiz. Something in his clockwork head whirred, and she saw part of it turn to consider her.

Her heart fell when she realized they were his eyes, the jelly-like coating melted away, revealing cracked, burned spheres. One of them fell out and clattered on the ground as it turned to her.

His voice, now distorted and distant, wraith-like, sounded from somewhere in the corpse that was his chest.

“G-Galatea,” he said, “D-Don't look at me.”

Becenti caught up to her. He pointed upwards, his remaining heat swaddling over them in a great umbrella. The rain poured down around them as though they were inside a waterfall.

“Galatea,” Vicenorn said again, “Don't look at me, please.”

There was a desperate, sobbing edge to his voice. G-Wiz looked away.

Becenti, however, kneeled down.

“Oris, it's bad,” he said, “Your entire chassis is spent.”

“You don't have to tell me,” Vicenorn said.

“Can you survive?” Becenti asked.

“...Is there a point?” Vicenorn said, “Look at me, Myron. I'm an... an abomination.”

Becenti was quiet. Parts of Vicenorn whirled, then stopped.

“If Ichabod... if he saw me, I would-”

“Enough of that,” Becenti said, “Can you survive this, Oris?”

“I don't want to.”

“Answer the damn question.”

“Everything hurts, Myron.”

“Oris,” Becenti said, “I need you. Ichabod needs you. You think this would stop him from loving you?”

“I am a brain in a jar, Myron,” Vicenorn said, “Nothing more. Who can love a brain?”

Becenti began pulling the metal ribcage around the lungs apart, tossing them aside.

“Do you think Ichabod just sees your body, Oris?” he asked, “Or does he see your soul?”

Vicenorn choked back a sob.

“...I must be put into a container,” he said, “The lungs. My brain. They're connected to the metal rod in the center. Within is a special type of liquid that keeps them alive. It functions much like blood, in that it needs oxygen to keep regulating itself.”

“And how long can you survive without that circuit?” Becenti asked.

“Preferably a day,” Vicenorn said, “But longer, if we can get a makeshift breathing apparatus. And opening in the Cryzofilm that surrounds my organic parts will expose them to open air. I would die. No, a breathing apparatus. I can give you the instructions for how to make it. It should not be hard.”

“Got it,” Becenti said, “G-Wiz, we need a carrier.”

He pulled down some of the heat from his umbrella, forming it into a knife. Like a surgeon, he began to cut away the Cryzofilm's organs from the chassis's corpse.

“You won't be able to speak,” Becenti said, “Or hear. We have to leave that behind.”

“Trust me, Myron,” Vicenorn said, “Better that I see nothing, hear nothing, and am nothing.”

“Very well,” Becenti said, “But remember: Ichabod looks at you, and he sees love. Keep that in mind. You are more than just the sum of your parts.”

“...Always, Myron,” Vicenorn said, “Now cut me free.”

He did so, gingerly lifting the organs and metal rod up. The Cryzofilm held. Was surprisingly flexible, yet strong. It coated over Vicenorn's brain and lungs like a suit, a miracle material that kept him in an eternal stasis.

G-Wiz, meanwhile, had created a jar of light. She held it open for Becenti to place Vicenorn into, organs and all. She closed it up, and they floated within.

“The rest of the chassis is finished,” Becenti said, “We'll need to repair him when we get back home.”

G-Wiz nodded. Looked down at the remains of what she thought had been her friend.

“You knew,” she said.

“That he was like this?” Becenti said, “Of course. I've known Oris for years. But Braindolls like him, they're... not well-regarded, especially not in the High Federation.”

“So you lied about him,” G-Wiz said, “Dressed him up, gave us all a facade.”

“I did,” Becenti said.

“You could have warned us. Let us know.”

“I never said anything,” Becenti said, “That's it.”

“A lie of omission's-”

“Still a lie, I know,” Becenti said, “But he insisted on this arrangement. I chose his privacy over your curiosity. Always have. Always will. Understand?”

There was a graven finality to his voice. G-Wiz bit her tongue. Nodded.

“Good,” Becenti said, “That is what guild leadership does, Galatea. We hide the truth sometimes, when it's pertinent to hide it. For the sake of privacy. For the sake of other's safety. For the sake of your safety.”

He made to turn.

“That is the way of InterGuild.”

***

They stopped running, moving out into a small pathway that had been set up between two of the skyscrapers. They stayed in the middle of the path, the bridges of New Shan on one side, the open city on the other.

Police cars trawled the skies, accompanied by drones, both OzTech and not. Security guards, fully armored up and holding heavy assault rifles, patrolled the streets. The crowds parted as they went, their eyes searching through each and every face they saw for any identifying features.

Almost all of the ads had been replaced, too. With footage from the Tower, now that Vicenorn had lost control of the security network. Something had happened, there. It depicted the three of them in the elevator, each of them wearing their longcoats, their faces concealed by their masks, drawing close to the gnarled form of Rorshin as he cast his spell to teleport them out of the Tower.

Below the videos, it read, in great blocky letters, 'IF FOUND, CONTACT YOUR CLOSEST OFFICER.'

In fine print, on the bottom, 'Sponsored by Chummy's Fruit-Like Juice.'

Contort was breathing heavily, setting Rorshin down. As he did so, he clutched his leg, wincing as he did so, pulling up a pant leg to reveal an ugly gunshot wound, though the skin around it was rippling, evidence that he was willing his muscles to move despite the pain, his muscles moving around the bullet. Ichabod, meanwhile, grimaced as he felt at his side, noting the shot that had scraped him by. Somehow it had been a near miss, tearing through cloth and past the ribcage, though it had still cut deep. Blood spooled out unbidden, and when he removed his good hand, it was caked in red.

Rorshin had gone to sleep. He mumbled to himself, shifted uncomfortably. Whatever dreams he had, they were not pleasant.

But what pursuers had been after them had been lost. The heat was still on, but they were no longer actively being chased. Merely hunted.

Ichabod let out a cough, pulling out his pistol.

“Arne,” he said, “Help me reload it.”

Contort complied, taking it from the cybernetic man, taking out the half-spent clip and replacing it with one produced from inside his guildmate's coat. Ichabod took the old one and put it away as though it were merely a pack of cigarettes. He chanced a glance over to the street, then shimmied back.

“No one on this block,” he said, still catching his breath, “No one hostile, that is. A few groups we can hide ourselves in.”

“What's the plan?” Contort asked.

“First off, we drop the guns here,” Ichabod said, “The rifles. They're no good to us now.”

“And then?”

“Wake up Rorshin,” Ichabod said, “We need to lay low, and you carrying him like that would just attract attention.”

“He's in no shape to go, Ichabod,” Contort said.

“Support him. He'll look like a drunk. Take off your mask, too. That's what they're looking for.”

Saying this, Ichabod peeled off his own. He stepped over and tossed it off the side and into the city below.

Contort took off Rorshin's ski mask, as well as his own, and followed Ichabod's example.

“Right,” Ichabod said, “Now, we're wearing heavy raincoats, though we might still get questioned. We had a night out, is all.”

“Ichabod, you're bleeding!” Contort said.

“It was a rather intense night,” Ichabod said, “If all goes well, though, we won't be stopped. Get out your umbrella.”

Contort was quiet. Ichabod frowned.

“Your umbrella, Arne. It's pouring out here, and we've already been out here enough.”

“...I lost it,” Contort said.

“You what?”

“Lost it, during the big fight,” Contort said, “You know, the one for our lives? I don't have it.”

Ichabod rolled his eyes, reaching down to Rorshin and rustling through his pockets, pulling out the collapsible umbrella and throwing it to, nearly at, his guildmate.

“Wake him up, while you're at it, we need to move,” Ichabod said, “To the rendezvous.”

“Right,” Contort said. He knelt down to Rorshin, slapping his face. The druid stirred, his eyes glazed over and weary.

“Time to get up, guy,” he said, “Come on.”

He draped one of Rorshin's bony arms over his shoulder, lifting him up. They began stuttering out of the alley, looking the part of a man supporting his drunken friend. Ichabod followed.

***

The rendezvous point was an old building that had been bombed out during the war, abandoned to time. It, thankfully, had a roof, as G-Wiz and Becenti stepped inside, the rain thundering outside. There was a malevolent energy to it now, as though the storm itself had become hostile. But perhaps G-Wiz was just paranoid, especially after the fight with Charnak.

She and Becenti stepped inside. Becenti put Vicenorn's jar on the table.

“Now what?” G-Wiz asked.

“Now, we wait,” Becenti said.

***

They stumbled along, heading towards the nearest elevator tower, making sure to keep themselves going as drunkenly as possible. Rain poured around them as they went, and they found that, at certain parts, the crowd would start pressing, practically crushing them.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

But as the ads glared scarlet and the police rang overhead, many began to get the smart idea to keep quiet. To go indoors. To go home. Better to not be caught up in the mess of corporate espionage. Bereft of any actual suspects, the police might start turning on anyone who looked at them funny.

The going was slow, nonetheless. Rorshin would stir, occasionally, and he would start to drift to sleep. Contort would have to shake to wake him up.

But, by and large, they were unaccosted. Those who would usually disturb a trio of drunken revelers had better things to do, better places to hide.

The rain above roiled and twisted.

And then changed, almost imperceptibly. Rorshin's eyes shot open. He brought out a hand, letting the rain lap at his open palm, before drawing it in.

He licked it.

“Not healthy,” Contort said.

“The rain,” he whispered, and then spat, “It's alive.”

Contort froze. As did Ichabod.

They were close to the tower. So damn close. It loomed close to them, just at the edge of the bridge.

“A magician?” Contort whispered.

“No,” Rorshin said, “Something... something else.”

A police siren blared overhead. The vehicle itself was awash in rain-smeared blue and red light as it landed on the bridge,

“Keep cool,” Contort said.

The door opened. An officer stepped out, a heavy pistol holstered at his hip. He was wearing body armor, but certainly not at the level of OzTech's security, a bulletproof vest hidden beneath a blue dress shirt. His eyes glared artificial green as he stepped to them.

“Evening, fellas,” he said.

“Good evening, officer,” Ichabod said.

The cop's partner was stepping up as well, keeping behind the vehicle. Ready to use it as cover, if it came to it.

“What're you up to so late at night?” the officer said.

“I didn't realize it was so late,” Ichabod said.

“Where you headed?”

“Nowhere important,” Ichabod said.

“Hmm,” the officer looked Ichabod over, gauged him. Ichabod kept his good side turned to him, tried his best to hide his gunshot wound.

Then the officer looked over at Contort and Rorshin.

“Looks like you've been through the ringer, guy,” he said, “As a matter o' fact, you three are matching similar descriptions to some people we're looking for.”

“Oh, really?” Ichabod said, feigning ignorance, “Interesting.”

“Indeed,” the officer said, “Now, where are you all headed from?”

“Just out at the bar, officer,” Ichabod said. Then internally winced. It would have been better to let the cop draw that conclusion, as opposed to outright saying it.

The officer's eyebrows raised at Rorshin.

“You good, guy?” he said, “Looks like you've been on quite the slosh.”

“Hmm,” Rorshin said, “Very much.”

And the officer walked towards him, reaching out and pulling a flashlight. He pointed it at Rorshin's eye, and the druid naturally looked away.

“Better get a breathalyzer test for you, guy,” the officer said, “See how much you're drinking.”

Every hair on Contort's hands stood on edge. His heart began to hammer. They hadn't been drinking. Rorshin hadn't a drop of alcohol in his system. But him being sober, looking like that, would be grounds to be searched. They'd be looked over. They'd find the gunshot wounds. Put two and two together, or delay them long enough to be found by OzTech.

“Sir,” Contort said, “We're walking home. Not driving.”

“All the same, better safe than sorry,” the officer said. He pulled out a thin, metal rod from a pocket, “If you could breathe, guy.”

There was no choice.

Rorshin breathed into the rod, his eyes lolling as he did so.

A few moments passed.

The rain continued to thunder hard.

The breathalyzer flashed blue. Negative. The officer frowned dramatically.

And then his partner waved him over.

“Getting a call, Chuck,” she said.

The cop nodded.

“Stay right there,” he said.

And he sauntered back to the vehicle. His partner handed him the phone. He took it, leaning casually over, keeping an eye on Ichabod and the others as he did so.

His hand was firmly on his pistol.

“Right,” he said, “Alright.”

He hung up.

Smiled.

“You’re all free to go,” he said, “Sorry to hold you up. Get home safe, guy.”

He and his partner stepped into the car. The vehicle took off.

Leaving them alone.

Ichabod's heart fell.

“Shit,” he said, “They found us.”

***

Ichabod, Contort, and Rorshin drew into the safehouse almost an hour later.

All three of them were exhausted. Almost immediately after getting in, Contort collapsed, groaning and clutching his legs. Becenti, at once, rushed over to him, kneeling down with a medkit.

“I'm fine,” Contort wheezed, “G-Get to Ichabod first.”

Ichabod, indeed, was already taking off his coat, gasping as he did so, revealing a thin, red cut across his ribcage. A stray bullet had cut deep, though G-Wiz was already playing her zumbelaphone, light echoing out of the keytar's handle, suturing the wound closed. She applied a gauze to it, wrapping it quickly around Ichabod, as Elenry had taught her.

“Should be good,” she said, “I think.”

“It will have to do,” Ichabod rasped. He looked around the room, “Oris, where is he...?”

G-Wiz bit the inside of her mouth, then nodded her head at the table. Ichabod followed her gaze, looking over to see the floating brain and lungs of Vicenorn, still in the Cryzofilm, bereft of a body. His frown, sharp and bitter, became somber and sad.

“You're a Braindoll,” he whispered.

Becenti, meanwhile, pulled out a pair of pliers from the medkit.

“This is going to be a bit painful,” the metahuman said, “Get ready, Arne.”

“Just get on with it,” Contort said.

Becenti dove in, reaching down. Contort's leg opened up to him, the grisly wound widening, the muscles moving in unnatural ways to push out a flash of metal. He grunted all the while, and sweat beaded his brow as Becenti plucked the bullet free, tossing it away.

“God,” Contort said. He winced as Becenti wrapped the wound in gauze, then made to stand, putting a bit of weight on it.

“I know that you can work around the pain,” Becenti said, “But don't put much pressure on it, Arne. We need to get you to a dedicated healer.”

“Not an option,” Rorshin, in the corner, wheezed. G-Wiz was just now getting to him, looking him over for any major wounds. She grimaced at purple bruises blooming beneath his beard, on his jaw.

“What do you mean, not an option?” Becenti said.

“Rain's alive,” Rorshin coughed. He slapped G-Wiz away, “I'm fine. Just tired. Need food. More spellwork needed.”

Ichabod was stepping quietly over to the table, looking at the jar that held Vicenorn. His good hand was trembling as it rose up to press against the jar of light.

“Rain's alive,” Becenti muttered. He looked up at the ceiling for a second, before walking over and cracking open the door.

The rain poured outside.

“Alive in what way?” he asked Rorshin.

“The rain has eyes,” the druid replied.

Becenti swore. He could see it now, the spiritual, soul-like presence in the air. He closed the door. Turned around.

“Rain elemental,” he said, “They've got a damn rain elemental.”

“A... what?” G-Wiz asked as she pulled out a soybar for Rorshin.

“Living rain. It travels, spirit-like, through storms. Can manipulate them, too. Each and every drop is an eye. I've only seen them once, one was a familiar to a Weatherfolk...”

He turned to the door.

“Ichabod, what happened out there?” Becenti asked, “How hot did it get?”

But Ichabod was in another world now, staring at Vicenorn.

“It makes sense, I suppose,” he said, “Braindolls are outlawed. Your knowledge on cybernetics is second to none. All I have is tech from Neos, but you're from all over, aren't you?”

A relieved smile flickered on his face.

“Good God, I'm glad you're alive,” he whispered.

“Ichabod.”

He turned. All eyes were on him.

“Ichabod,” Becenti said, “What happened?”

“You said they found us,” Contort said, “Right?”

Ichabod blinked.

“They... They did,” Ichabod said, “Rain elemental. Right. It's been following us for the past hour or so.”

“Shit, since the cops,” Contort said.

“Correct,” Ichabod said, “Whatever call they got to let us go, it must have come from the elemental. It's been tracking us, seeing where we're going.”

“...Which means that they're trying to see if there are more of us in the city,” Becenti said.

“They have an idea of what we might look like,” Ichabod said, “But beyond that, I'm not sure.”

“Did they recognize you as being part of a guild?” Becenti asked.

“No,” Ichabod said, “They didn't.”

“Hmm,” Becenti murmured.

“So it's right outside, then?” Contort said, “Just... waiting?”

“Waiting, and presumably calling for backup,” Ichabod said, “We shouldn't be here long.”

“Agreed,” Becenti said.

“...We're also going to need to separate again,” Ichabod said.

“Wait, now,” Becenti said, “What do you mean?”

And Ichabod was already pressing a few buttons on his arm, his fingers pressing against his palm and calling up a taxi line.

“The rain elemental saw three of us go in,” he said, “And it's expecting the three of us to go out.”

“Does it have any reason to attack?” G-Wiz asked.

“...No,” Ichabod said carefully, “Right now it's only got suspicions. Presumably it's all over the city, looking around. But we're targeted by it. Marked.”

“Did anyone stop you on the way out?” Becenti asked.

“A cop,” Contort said, “And he got a good look at us.”

“Shit,” Becenti said, “Alright. Okay.”

His heart was hammering as he put his hands on the table to steady himself.

“Agrippa,” he said, “Can put two and two together. But if we're quick, if we can get back to Castle Belenus, we can do some fabrication. They already know the Amber Foundation's here, just that a few other of our number were in the city.”

“Don't panic on that,” Ichabod said, “Right now, they're looking for an excuse to stop us. They don't have any legal grounds, just suspicions.”

“They could quickly get legal grounds,” Becenti said, “If they stop you, they can get it.”

“They have to stop us first,” Ichabod said, “Hence why I say we separate. Easier to get three people out sneakily than six.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Becenti asked.

“I called a taxi,” Ichabod said, “Rorshin, Contort, and I will get in, and leave the city that way. We can hack any security checkpoints we come across – the Cutter will be able to do that relatively easily – and we make for the Traveling Point at Farbank.”

“The one we came in on,” G-Wiz said.

“Precisely. You three,” Ichabod pointed to Becenti, Vicenorn's jar, and G-Wiz, “You three go through the usual channels. Get home safe. If OzTech comes knocking, feign ignorance. We'll take the long way to get there.”

“You'll be followed,” Becenti said.

“I am aware,” Ichabod said.

“You might be caught.”

“We have the cover story to burn us away,” Ichabod said, “We're just a trio of revolutionaries who went about things the wrong way. Cut ties with our guild. Burned our bridges. Cut us loose, Myron.”

Becenti looked over at Contort and Rorshin.

“And you two are fine in that?”

“I am,” Rorshin stated.

Contort shook his head, and grimaced.

“No choice,” he said, “Either you cut us out, or they go after all of us.”

“We'll regroup at Castle Belenus when we can,” Ichabod said, “When the heat dies down.”

“...I've got a few contacts,” Becenti said, “I'll get in touch with them, let them know to expect you. Make for Owl's Landing, if you can. Or Prime.”

“We'll try,” Ichabod said. He looked down at his arm, “Our ride's here. Time to go.”

“Good luck,” Becenti said.

“And with you,” Ichabod replied.

He turned to G-Wiz. The Electron was putting up a strong front, but her eyes swam.

“Be careful, alright?” she said.

“Same with you,” Ichabod said, “We're not out of the woods yet.”

“If you die, dipshit, I'll kill you.”

“Same to you,” Ichabod said. He glanced at Ichabod's jar, his frown becoming more worried, “Tell Vicenorn I said goodbye.”

“I will,” G-Wiz said.

“Tell him I love him.”

There was a quiet sort of desperation in his voice. A scared, almost final quality. G-Wiz shook her head.

“Tell him yourself,” she said, “Get home.”

Contort, meanwhile, was talking to Becenti.

“Don't tell Vyde about the gunshot wound, alright?” he said to the metahuman, “It'll just worry her.”

“I won't,” Becenti said.

“Good,” Contort stretched, then winced a bit, “Don't worry about us. Once Rorshin gets up and running again, we'll be able to heal up the worst of it. It's just a bad night, is all.”

“All the same, be careful. Watch everything, from the oddest blips on the horizon to the strange scents in the wind. The multiverse is myriad, its dangers even more so.”

Contort smirked.

“Talking like I'm a newbie at this, Myron,” he said, “You're giving warnings you'd give to someone like Joe.”

“They're warnings I give to everyone,” Becenti said. He presented a hand, “I will see you when we dream again.”

Contort quirked an eyebrow at the phrase. Some metahuman lingo. But he took Becenti's hand all the same, and shook.

Rorshin watched the two scenes play out, huddled in a corner, rubbing his jaw. No one offered him a goodbye. Part of him did not care.

But part of him did.

Ichabod and Contort both drew out their umbrellas, opening them up. Contort stooped down to lift the druid to his feet. With a final series of nods, they opened the door, and walked outside to the taxi idling at the end of the street. They clambered in, Ichabod sliding into the driver's seat, his Cutter immediately springing to life and jamming into the console, wiring into its network. Contort sat beside him. Rorshin hung out in the back, and slumped against the window.

“Going to be a bit nasty,” Ichabod said, “Get ready for a bumpy ride.”

Contort nodded. He pulled his injured leg to his chest, pulling up his pant leg to look at the wrapped-up wound. He grimaced as he felt his muscles re-adjust.

He needed that healing magic. And fast.

The taxi took off. Whatever presence in the storm followed it. Becenti peeked through the window, his trained eyes watching as the bulk of the rain elemental chugged after his guildmates. Part of it was still here, however. He and G-Wiz would need to swaddle up well to avoid being recognized.

“Right, well,” he said, “Let's give it another few minutes. Ms. Wiz, get Vicenorn's jar ready.”

He turned around to see G-Wiz lying against the wall, her bottom lip quivering. She looked over at him.

“Tell me they'll be alright, Becenti,” she said, “Just... tell me.”

“I can't-”

“I don't care about the 'ifs' and the 'buts',” she spat, “Just tell me.”

“...They'll be okay, G-Wiz,” Becenti lied.

“I can't lose another friend,” she said, “Not so soon.”

Becenti was quiet at that. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

Sometimes there wasn't anything to say. Sometimes you could only watch. And wait. And dream.

He walked over to the table and drew on his coat, pulling the hood over his head.

“We should get moving,” he said.

***

There was a blockade set up against the street they were taking to leave New Shan. Even though they had taken sideroads, avoided the major highways, there it sat, a toll booth with a security guard, two others flanking either side of the road. A fourth, Contort noted, positioned on one of the rooftops with a sniper rifle.

A latticework fence had been set up to block the city off from the wasteland. An automatic system that, upon the entire city going into a lockdown, had moved the fence so it blocked off the street. Ichabod could only smile at that. His Cutter, connected to the taxi's network, interfaced with the security system, wresting control of it.

He began to speed up the taxi. Contort gripped the grab handle over the door. Rorshin let out a snort.

The soldiers called out after them, roaring out warnings. Ichabod pressed a button.

The gate began to open. Far too slowly for the speed that they were going at. But Ichabod didn't care.

Rorshin pointed a finger, whispering a word. The air in front of the taxi hardened like a battering ram, and it slammed into the gate, tearing through it as though it were naught but paper. The guards opened fire, bullets ricocheting off the vehicle, Rorshin’s spell holding the taxi together, magic absorbing the worst of the spray. The taxi sped off, out of New Shan.

Not much pursued them. Ichabod wasn't sure why. Perhaps the rain elemental knew where they were going, and was calling for other members of Pantheon. Whatever the case, they were alone as they rushed off towards the Traveling Point.

***

Becenti and G-Wiz, meanwhile, stole away into the night, the rain elemental looking them over for a few moments. But it was far too broken up and spread across the city to pay them much heed, and they were unaccosted as they went up to the middle class district and the Traveling Point there. They presented their guild IDs. Spoke with the officers there, but the security detail already had them on file as being on Neos legitimately. They had come here under the banner of the Amber Foundation. Broken bread with Agrippa. And now, they were going home.

The guard didn't even ask about the weariness in their eyes. The scuffed up raincoats they wore, after their fight with Charnak. Even Vicenorn, a brain in a jar, was only afforded a simple glare, before they wrote up the report and let them through.

They were quiet on the journey back. Exchanging a few conversations. Making a stop at Great Rana to buy supplies to construct a breathing apparatus for Vicenorn, as well as a voice modulator and artificial ears, a new container to house him.

Even with this done, even with his voice restored, the Braindoll said little. Both Becenti and G-Wiz knew who was on his mind.

***

The other team's arrival to the Traveling Point was a quick one. Damn any Federation records. Damn the soldiers and their warning shouts.

They drove right through. A car through the multiverse, rainbows shuddering around them, as they wound up on Clusteredion. They drove down crystallized roads, dodged past amethyst soldiers. Ditched the car.

...Themble followed them. At once a storm arrived on Clusteredion, and tracked the three of them as they ran.

It would be a long chase, indeed.

***

Macabre waited outside Agrippa's office, grimacing as she rolled her shoulder. It had been a rush job, getting her up and back on her feet, and would require therapy. Surgeries. Part of her wished that she could leave Neos entirely, to seek out a magician to get the arm healed up nice and easy. Magic always trumped technology, in her eyes. There was no waiting time. No surgeons hmm-ing and haw-ing over a simple wound. Just a spell, a few whispered words, perhaps, and she would be right as rain.

But not here. Not on Neos. Everything had a bit of frustration built into it. Everything, and everyone.

Finally, she heard a voice.

“Come in,” Agrippa said, through the speaker. Macabre complied.

The door opened, and the smell of death hung in the air. The head of security had been the first to report to Agrippa, after the assailants had escaped the Tower. A mistake. His mistake, for even letting them get in and out on his watch. His corpse lay in the center of the room, the G'Rash Haro pecking it over, serpent-like neck twisting, lion's head licking at any organic material that was left. Blood caked the floor, along with the fluids from the head of security's cybernetics. Dull red and neon blue.

The office itself was thrashed. The four statues had been tipped over. Claw marks, both human and spirit, scraped into the walls. The desk had been cracked. The only thing that seemed unharmed in the room was a small sapling on the desk's surface, standing atop a mound of dirt, green and almost glowing.

Agrippa himself was sitting in front of his desk, watching his spirit feed. As Macabre walked in, his eyes slid over to her, starting at her feet, lingering on her chest, then up to her face.

“Macabre,” he said, and his voice was hollow, “What news?”

“Themble is pursuing a trio that we believe to be the invaders,” Macabre stated.

“Hmm,” Agrippa said, “So they were outlanders. Multiversal. A guild?”

“We believe so.”

Agrippa let out a low grumble.

“What Traveling Point?”

“The one leading to Clusteredion,” Macabre said.

Agrippa nodded. He tilted his head over to look at the G'Rash Haro, who had scraped open the corpse's head and was licking at whatever was inside.

“Where is Charnak?” Agrippa asked, “Where is my spellcaster?”

“...Dead, sir,” Macabre ventured, “Down in the slums.”

The CEO of OzTech didn't respond to that. He merely continued to stare.

“Mobilize our agents,” Agrippa said, “All of them, in the planes surrounding Clusteredion. Turn that place inside out. Hunt them down. Bring me their heads.”

“Sir, some advice,” Macabre said, “Without proper legal recourse-”

“THEIR HEADS!”

The G'Rash Haro was looking up at her. Agrippa's eyes were wide, dangerous, and she noted that his voice was raw from screaming. He was looking for someone else to take his anger out on. A reason. An excuse.

“...Their heads, sir,” Macabre said, carefully.

“Their heads, you bitch,” Agrippa said, “Or perhaps you'll be losing more of your flock.”

An empty threat, but the reminder of what she had lost stabbed Macabre. Reminded her, too, of their assailants.

“Very well,” she said.

“Good. Now leave me alone,” Agrippa said, “I need... I need to think. I need to plan. I need you to get the fuck out.”

Macabre did so, stepping back outside, making sure she didn't turn her back on the G'Rash Haro.

The door closed. She took a deep breath. Steeled herself. Then went to make the order.

***

Agrippa sat in the darkness, the only sounds being the scraping crunches as his spirit fed.

After a while, he stood up. Walked over, turned on the cameras, let New Shan spill out around him, though the feed was scratched and snarled from his tantrum earlier, the walls still holding fresh wounds.

He went over to the coffee maker, before noting that he had thrown it across the room. How had that happened? But then, the last few hours had been a blur of red… excitement.

He pressed a button on his desk. Thank God, that still worked.

“Poppy?” he said, “Be a dear, and get me a coffee.”

And he waited. An intern knocked on his door a few minutes later.

“Come in,” he said.

He gave the intern – a nice, young lady – a smile as she walked in. She pretended not to notice the corpse on the ground, gave the G'Rash Haro a wide berth. But by now Agrippa had calmed down, and the spirit let out a yowling yawn and slinked back over to his side.

“Thank you,” Agrippa said, and he took the coffee. Stared at the intern's back as she left. Took a sip.

Realizations came to him as he sat down, and reviewed security footage. Of the last few days. The last couple of hours. For their assailants had been from the multiverse. Their blood caked the elevator.

He pressed a button, and wrote to the security team to request a blood sample, to compare it to various records in the High Federation database. That would take time – not every guild sent blood and DNA samples to the Silver Eye.

But really, it was just to give a legal excuse for the repercussions to come. His answer would be slow. Torturous. As formal as one could get, save for the biting, personal ways he would break them. Agrippa already had an inkling of who had done this.

If the attackers had been from the multiverse, then they must have been from a guild.

And only one guild had visited him today.