The night fell over Montevideo, accompanied by a storm that flooded the streets with thunder. Heart-wrenching screams echoed from all around. A mother had just seen the dismembered body of her son: eyeless, tongueless. Desza had been the perpetrator of that atrocity, and now the entire city was in a frenzy, desperately hunting for him. But only the laughter of a madman could be heard on the wind, reverberating through the storm's echoes, alarming the authorities. Police officers dashed back and forth, trying to chase down that sinister laugh, but every time they seemed to close in, the cackling drifted farther and farther away. Desza was playing with them. He hadn’t yet fully enjoyed his victim and wanted a bit more entertainment, skillfully evading both the police and the W.O.G.A.B.’s Semáforos.
However, the game had to come to a stop. He received a call from his companion, Jørgen Czacki.
“The mouse fell into the trap,” said the voice on the other end.
Desza grinned.
“I’m on my way.”
Ready to end the game, Desza allowed the agents to catch a glimpse of him, his machete in hand. Before they could react, he lunged at them and slit their throats with precision.
“How dull these cops are,” he muttered, wiping the blood off his machete on one of the fallen officers' uniforms.
Then, stowing the machete, he walked nonchalantly through the crowd. People tried to console the devastated mother, who clutched her son's remains, screaming in agony. Meanwhile, the culprit walked among them, smiling.
Desza arrived at an old, under-construction building. Without hesitation, he kicked the door open and slid down the stair railing with a childlike laugh.
“Did you hear that?” asked Azricam.
“It’s him,” replied Jørgen, washing blood off his hands.
When Desza appeared, he slid over to Jørgen with the grace of a dancer.
“Where’s my gift, Czacki?”
“In that room,” Jørgen said, gesturing with his chin while drying his hands.
Desza headed towards the partially destroyed door, opening it gently only to slam it shut, startling Rŭsseŭs and Dockly, who were inside. Before them was a young girl of about thirteen or fourteen, bloodied but still conscious, tied to a chair.
“Boss,” Dockly said, respectfully.
“Yeah, where’s the pack?”
“They’re with Eight, running an errand for the metal-face,” Rŭsseŭs replied.
“For Pullbarey,” clarified Dockly.
“Yes, him.”
“You can go.”
“As you wish, sir,” Dockly responded respectfully, leaving with Rŭsseŭs.
Once they were alone, Desza dragged a chair and sat across from the girl, with only a table separating them.
“So, what do we have here? Arce Catherine Lourdes in the flesh. One of the three capable of stripping the second soul of its magic.”
Arce glared at him with hatred and spat blood in his face without hesitation. Desza remained still, unphased.
“I’m used to blood splattering on my face, miss,” he said calmly.
“You’re trash, Desza.”
With a cold smile, Desza placed his hand on Arce’s head, as a father might with his daughter, and violently slammed it against the table.
“It’s amusing that you remain brave, even after what Jørgen did to you. He left you lovely. I don’t blame him; I congratulate him. After all, you’re Arce, the one who ruined Isabel’s normal life.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Jørgen doesn’t know,” Desza said, releasing her and flipping the table aside to get closer. “But those two have been pretty cozy lately, and I, of course, had to take advantage of the situation.”
He observed her intently, his tone more serious.
“Listen carefully, it’s not amusing that some think we’re the Witnesses from fifty years ago. We don’t rip out souls or implant others. It’s stupid.”
“I couldn’t care less,” Arce retorted with disdain.
“You should, because there will be a war between you cockroaches and the Circuits, the traitors.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Isn’t it? Esteban is busy looking for his dead gay brother’s killer, which, by the way, is me. Meanwhile, Candado was pretty comfortable living his peaceful life while W.O.G.A.B. hunts me. Their leaders are so distracted by the outer limits of their society that they don’t even imagine what’s coming from within.”
“You underestimate Candado.”
“Candado is the cherry on top; I can’t beat him now that he’s at the height of everything. Very few know of him, at least physically, but all that is about to change.”
“That’s about to end too. My team will come for your head.”
Desza smiled, pulling five Semáforo badges from his bag, three of them stained with blood.
“This team?”
Arce looked at them in shock and pain, especially at the blood-stained ones.
“They were... just a bunch of trash.”
“BASTARD!” Arce screamed in fury, struggling to break free from the cuffs that bound her.
“That metal is special. It stops you from using your powers of any kind.”
Arce fought with monstrous fury; they were all her friends. Meanwhile, Desza, with a mocking smile, kept a safe distance.
“I’LL KILL YOU!”
“I thought Krauser would be with you, but I was wrong... I was getting bored. Funny, each one of them shouted ‘Long live Arce!’ before they died.”
Arce, consumed by rage, tried to break her bonds, but Desza slapped her, then again, laughing all the while.
“You want to die; you want me to kill you... But I won’t. I want you to remember my face. I want you to be the one who tells them who we are. And, for the love of all I hold dear, tell them that I, Desza the Profaner, will punish this world.”
With that, Desza kicked Arce's chair, tipping it backward. Arce, both physically and emotionally battered, felt the weight of her precious friends' loss.
Desza exited the room and turned to Jørgen.
“That was quite a show.”
“You flatter me. I always wanted to be a comedian, but being a killer and a comedian is much better.”
“What should we do with her?”
“Rough her up a bit more and then release her. She’ll spread my name, Czacki.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She will; that’s why I chose her.”
“What now?”
“Let’s see... Yes... We need one more thing. We’re going to see someone very important.”
Desza ascended the stairs, whistling an eerie melody. Just as he was about to place his hand on the door handle, it opened. From the storm outside, a figure appeared: a person dressed in a black trench coat, dark gloves, pants, and matching boots. His face showed a sinister smile, briefly lit by the flash of a thunderbolt.
“Moneda,” Desza said nervously.
Moneda replied by punching him in the chest, throwing him down the stairs.
“SIR!” Jørgen shouted, rushing toward the room.
“Well, I never imagined Barreto’s dog would come all the way here,” Desza said, slowly standing.
Moneda descended the stairs, his hand sliding down the banister as if he owned the place.
“It’s freezing outside; thanks for letting me in. I’m surprised you were stupid enough to kidnap W.O.G.A.B.’s most important judge.”
“Strength… the one feat I acknowledge,” Desza responded, with a hint of mockery as he tried to regain composure.
Moneda charged toward him, grabbing his neck and slamming him against the wall.
“How disgraceful.”
Jørgen attempted to leap at Moneda, but Moneda intercepted him, grabbing his forearm and dislocating it with a swift blow. Then he seized him by the back of the neck and smashed him against the floor.
“Jørgen Czacki Urumbo Axel. Thirteen years old. Powers: speed, metal, and endurance.”
“You…”
“I studied you all before I came. I know everything about you. I also know you tried to kill Joaquín. That’s intolerable, and I won’t let it slide.”
Desza laughed as he got to his feet.
“It was just a joke. The message was for Candado. I never thought that idiot would be there.”
Moneda, furious, charged at Desza and punched him in the face, slamming him against the wall once more.
“I won’t permit any offense against the inspector.”
Rŭsseŭs lunged at Moneda to strike him, but Moneda stopped him, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him into the stairs. Azricam drew his sword and lunged as well, but every thrust was easily dodged.
“Too slow, snail.”
Moneda rolled toward him and kicked him in the helmet, making him lose balance and fall. Then, he grabbed him by the legs and flung him into the ceiling.
“Easy job, easy money.”
From the rubble of the wall, Desza emerged with a machete in hand.
“Die.”
Moneda turned and disarmed him with a knee to the wrist, then grabbed him by the neck with both hands, lifting him into the air.
“I’ve waited so long for this moment... It’s sheer delight.”
He began to tighten his grip on Desza's neck in a fury, though his face wore only a satisfied smile. However, Desza laughed again.
“You're strong and skilled, not to mention clever,” he said, straining against Moneda's hands, “but my madness is far stronger than fear and pain.”
With a desperate effort, Desza managed to break free and kneed Moneda in the forehead, forcing him to stumble back. But Moneda simply smiled.
“Well, I think that’s enough.”
He tapped the W.O.G.A.B. insignia on his chest.
“Time’s up.”
Desza glanced, alarmed, at the door of the room where he had Arce captive.
“Dockly.”
Dropping his guard, Desza rushed to the room. Inside, he found only a hole in the wall and Dockly lying unconscious. Desza smiled in disbelief.
“Clever foxes.”
Moneda reappeared, landing a punch on Desza’s stomach.
“I’m still your opponent.”
Desza responded with a headbutt, then grabbed his machete, and the fight resumed. As his subordinates prepared to intervene, Desza raised a hand.
“Stop! Stay out of this. Go help Dockly and get out.”
Jørgen, adjusting his arm, nodded and gave the order.
“It had to be Glinka, right? She's the only one who could pull that off without a sound.”
“Russian body, Argentine heart, the favorite of the W.O.G.A.B.,” Desza muttered with a hint of fascination.
“She’d probably be flattered by that compliment.”
“Truce?”
Moneda replied with a headbutt, followed by a punch to the chest and a kick to the neck that knocked Desza to the ground. Wasting no time, Moneda stepped on Desza’s neck with force.
“I guess not,” Desza gasped in pain.
“The game’s over, Desza. The guilds win; you lose.”
Just then, the ceiling collapsed, and a figure dropped from the shadows.
“Sorry, nickel-and-dime, but I need the gringo.”
Desza looked up, his expression changing as he recognized the figure.
“CANDADO?!”
“No, don’t confuse me with that jerk.”
“See that? I’m so famous even the upgraded version of Candado knows me,” Desza said, laughing mockingly.
Moneda pressed his foot harder against Desza’s neck.
“Die, you bastard.”
The figure, who turned out to be Sheldon, sprang into action and struck Moneda in the chest.
“I hate repeating myself.”
Moneda stood, looking at both of them.
“This isn’t over. I’ll be back for you.”
Without another word, Moneda escaped through the hole in the wall where Arce had fled. Sheldon glanced at Desza, who was still lying on the floor, laughing weakly.
“What a mad destiny,” he gasped between wheezing laughs.
“You’re too big to lose your head, aren’t you?”
Desza got to his feet, brushing off the dust.
“What brings such a familiar face to my den?”
“I came because I couldn’t wrap up that last meeting. Many ran, but I want an alliance. My family wants a life where Candado doesn’t breathe our air.”
Desza clapped slowly.
“Bravo, bravo. Glad to see there’s more motivation around these days.”
“I want to kill Candado.”
“Oh, I adore you; I love you. If only more people had such a beautiful, exciting, magnificent desire.”
“They told me you were crazy, and I see they were right, but what will you do now that two W.O.G.A.B. infiltrated the meeting? They’ve probably already leaked the information.”
“That doesn’t matter. There’s nothing to hide; I want the world to know we exist.”
Sheldon eyed him, appraising.
“You’re insane.”
Desza laughed, ecstatic.
“I can’t wait to see the world drowned in terror… in Tánatos’ and my terror.”
“I’d like to know how far you want to go.”
“Let’s find my team and discuss it.”
“Hope this alliance won’t fail.”
“It won’t.”
Suddenly, police sirens blared from the street below. There seemed to be far more of them than last time.
“Ha, ha, ha, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Sheldon looked at Desza with mild distrust.
“Seems impossible to get bored here.”
Desza grabbed his machete.
“Follow me, rookie.”
They raced up the stairs, and upon reaching the top, Desza kicked open the door. The abandoned building faced a busy street, and, just as he expected, the police were already there, blocking their exit.
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND RAISE YOUR HANDS!”
“As you say, officer.”
Sheldon raised his hands, and as he did, the patrol cars began to lift violently, only to crash down onto the asphalt with a loud clatter. Desza wasted no time, rushing toward the officers and slashing through them one by one with quick, precise cuts, his face splattered with blood.
“I love the sight of blood.”
Sheldon watched, coolly, as the man finished off his opponents without remorse.