Madrid, Spain, 15th of January

Clio Cortez did not stretch as she awoke; rather, she uncoiled. Being old enough her favourite position was no longer hell on her back, she preferred it.

Then, she glanced to her right, saw that her husband was missing again, and huffed. He needed sleep as much as she did-not at all-, but unlike her, he could not fall asleep when relaxed enough, no matter how much he wanted to.

No matter how much she wanted him to have that ability. Diego's mind was always working, and this restlessness did not manifest as tinkering with stuff around the house, or pacing, or, vices.

Well. Barring the expected ones. But most human ones were out, made pointless or untenable by his vampirism.

Clio scrunched up her nose, blowing a few strands of her long russet hair aside as she stretched. No. Her husband had been denied the peace of the grave, and, it seemed, any outside it, too.

'Must be in the workshop again...' she muttered to herself, slithering out of bed. "The workshop" was less of a location, when it came to Diego, and more of a state of mind.

Well, Clio thought as she pulled on one of her longer shirts (he preferred her naked, but what if someone felt like visiting and invited themselves? Her scales stopped where the tops of her thighs merged into her tail, and most of their friends were comfortable enough not to knock), that was not entirely true. Rather, it would've been more accurate to say there wasn't a single location in their home designated as a workshop. Diego just started experimenting wherever and whenever inspiration struck him. But, no matter the location, it was always obvious what he was doing during the process, and, usually, sometimes after.

Diego was honing his powers, while simultaneously testing whatever he was doing. He hadn't told her yet. Not because he thought she was too stupid to understand, or didn't deserve to. "I'm just worried for you, honey," he'd said with those sad red eyes, almost but not quite looking down to try and avoid hers. "I can take far more of a beating than you, and recover from worse, too." He'd lifted his head, smiling joylessly. "It's the only thing I've ever been at. So, don't worry-and please, please don't try to come in? For your sake, and mine..."

Diego had the uncanny ability to put himself down while being completely self-assured. She wondered if the doublethink came with the multitasking.

Well. Maybe she'd just ask him.

He'd told her not to try to come in his workshop, but she could just ask, and leave, depending on the answer. Though she was pretty damned curious about whatever her husband had cooked up this time.

***

Diego's eyes flickered sharply from one angle of the pocket universe to another; not looking for dangers, but rather, defects.

Wait, what was he saying? Of course he was looking for danger. Every flaw was a threat, especially those in the plane of reality he had created. And, though he hadn't made anything except a slice of existence cut off from mundane spacetime and maintained by his will, it didn't mean something powerful or sneaky enough couldn't sneak its way in.

They'd find themselves in a world of plane. Only the majority of his attention was focused on the forging, but he hardly needed more to be on the lookout for dangers.

Diego's lips went from a thin line to a fond smile as he felt Clio knock on the door, as it was. She was only using a finger, and not that one, so she wasn't mad at him. Slightly annoyed, maybe, and he did feel sorry for leaving her alone like this. Definitely curious, not that he could blame her. He was pretty curious himself. In fact, this was almost shy for the lamia.

Or maybe she was just bored and didn't want to waste too much time and energy on his nonsense? His wife probably didn't expect him to fall asleep in a barrel of holy water, though she probably wouldn't be surprised if it happened, either.

Ah, hell. He'd put her off enough. He didn't like it when she edged him, so he couldn't ask Clio to stand the opposite.

'Enter, honey,' he said, voice reverberating through the skin of shaped spacetime. A hole, two metres tall and nearly as wide, opened for a nanosecond, and, in the time it took light to cross a third of a metre, Clio entered his workshop, emerald scales not glittering, but still as beautiful as any angel.

He both felt and heard her muscles relaxing as her shoulders lowered and her fists opened. 'It's just a sword?'

'Just a sword,' he said, looking over his shoulder with a smile as he shrugged. 'You know me; I lost one, but I can't let go of it.'

Clio snorted. 'Big boy.'

'Why, thank you...'

'That's not what I meant, you child.' Her eyes were wrinkled with amusement, though. And, while Diego might have been four hundred and forty to his wife's sixteen hundred, most supernaturals stopped caring about such gaps before long, unless they were into age play. If someone would stay in their prime forever, what did the numbers matter?

'Even so, your honesty is appreciated.' He turned with a twirl, bowing long enough that she only managed to snatch his broad-brimmed black hat, as opposed to his raven curls or ears (she sometimes jokingly complained about his hair being nicer than hers, though she'd been pretty surprised when they'd both agreed to it). 'Would you like me to tell you about it?'

'Even if I didn't,' she put his hat on at a rakish angle, and Diego swooned, making her roll her eyes with a smile. He always said she looked like a pirate goddess when she did that. 'You'd tell me later, when you came out. Wouldn't you?'

'Well, if you insist...' he bowed again, avoiding an attempt to tweak his nose as he stepped backwards, mouthing "Mercy! Mercy!". 'This is degenerate neutronium,' he pointed at the colourless blade, which resembled the Throat of Thirst's manifestation in shape, if not in nature. Its hilt measured a handspan, and featured a semicircular guard, and the one-edged blade was over a metre long, as wide as Diego's palm.

Though it was colourless, it seemed to catch the light that played across it, like a rainbow being contained in a lake.

That was only the second thing that caught Clio's attention, though. Might as well take them in the order she'd noticed.

'Degenerate neutronium?' she asked in a considering voice. 'A special version for people like you?'

'Us,' he floated a little to reach her lips and kiss her. 'Now, let's not be coy, dear.'

'You've never asked that of me.'

'Don't expect it,' Diego said. 'Yes. Its density is roughly a hundred trillion grams per cubic centimetre; roughly a dozen trillion times denser than steel.' Crossing the metres between him and the floating sword faster than Clio could perceive, Diego came to a halt with a hand on his hip, the other cupping his chin as he looked down at the blade in consideration. With a hum, he wrapped a pinky around the hilt, then flicked it at his wife, at two hundred-seventy thousand kilometres per second.

Clio caught the tip in her palm with a cross expression, which didn't waver as she glowered at her husband, who looked like the most ragged and fascinated owl ever. 'Hmm...' Diego peered at her. 'Flimsy, no?'

'Yes,' she said curtly, throwing it back at him even faster. As the tip crashed against the vampire's eyes, the blade came apart, dealing no damage.

'Brittle, too,' he noted, inspecting the remains before smiling up at his wife. 'I'm so glad you are gentler with the surrounding world than me, my dear.'

'Unlike the moon, I can't slap you apart.'

'True,' he agreed. 'It won't do any go for the things I'd actually need a sword against.'

Clio looked unimpressed. 'Then you wasted this...?'

'Nothing wasted, my dear,' he promised, before reaching out and opening another pocket of reality. Clio's eyes followed the warping effect expectantly, then with surprise, as a hand-sized tear in spacetime slowly spat out a shape far denser than its already immense size suggested: despite only measuring some ten kilometres in radius, it was nearly one and a half times as heavy as the sun.

Clio raised an eyebrow as the previously room-sized workshop seemed to fit the neutron star without actually expanding. She didn't focus on that for long, though, as gravity hundred of billions times stronger than Earth's enveloped her, following by temperatures far higher than that of the sun's surface; the neutron star's surface reached nearly six hundred thousand degrees Celsius, and similar heat soon filled the space around them.

The supernaturals were entirely unbothered, though Clio did feel a bit impressed at this degree of horseplay.

'You're just doing this because you've no muscles to flex,' she chided Diego, speaking through the aether. 'But you've made your point.' Her expression softened into a smile. 'You could never do things like this before, love.'

'I was never unarmed before,' he replied. 'And after I lost the Throat, I couldn't find time to breathe.' Convinced the snort had been appreciative of his wordplay, he continued. 'But, if I want a weapon worthy of being enhanced and enchanted, I need to find something that will be good in a fight, even should said modifications fail.'

'So, you found this?'

'Made it.' Diego smiled at her questioning look. 'You think I went to space and stashed this somewhere? Don't be silly, Clio. You know I'm too laz-busy for that. No, it was an excuse to improve my will while doing something useful.'

'You can make things from nothing now?' she asked, before chuckling. 'Is this why you keep refusing to join my magic lessons? Because you have an alternative?'

'Ah, don't feel snubbed, my emerald. I just don't want to bore you as I dodder about. To answer your question, no, not from nothing. You know vampires can dominate those who look into their eyes, but many go above and beyond that. Some become able to control those in their line of sight. Others...well, I've heard things. There's this American who...' trailing off again, he held out a hand, accepting the hat she handed off, pouting (which he utterly ignored, the barbarian). 'Anyway...I can shape the substance of things I can see, or maybe just visualise. I need to try more.' He pointed at the star. 'What you are seeing is the result of me converting spacetime into matter.'

'You remove reality from the universe by staring at it?'

'Well, if you want so simplify it,' he grumbled at her deadpan tone. 'Yes, and follow by replacing it with something else. Or, well, not replacing, per se. It's still the same thing, just in a different form.'

'Diego, that's great!' Clio said. 'You learned this by yourself? Didn't ask another vampire?'

'I didn't, no,' he said, sounding pleased. 'Sorry for slithering into rooms to see me acting out real life Escher paintings. But, I've evolved beyond just bending reality with my will.'

Clio nodded. 'Have you thought about taking commissions?'

'I'll make you anything you want, dear,' the vampire said distractedly. 'Oh, you mean for money? I suppose I could take some, yes. Staying active is always good, and I suppose more money wouldn't hurt. Wouldn't want to become a wage slave.' That is, he didn't want to be left with no options in case ARC fell apart or ditched him; or if, for some reason or another, he decided to cut ties with the organisation.

'Of course not,' she agreed, before nodding at the neutron star once. 'So, are you going to hew some more material from this one? Make a new sword?'

Some more...? Ah. 'Oh, I just created this, Clio. Just like the sword. I haven't used it before. And, no, I'm not going to take from it.' Fingers flexing, Diego thrust out both arms, punching through the thick surface of the star. And, though its incredibly concentrated mass spun tens of times per second, the vampire's strength managed to stop it cold.

Diego pulled his broken arms back, smiling as they healed, looking at the star, placidly floating over nothing. He continued speaking to his wife as if nothing had happened. 'No...I'm going to make a sword from the star. All of it.'

'May I suggest making this one double-edged?'

'Huh?' Diego grunted, peering at her dimly. 'Whatever for?'

'So you don't go around swinging another oversized butter knife?' she replied. 'Don't you think it would be useful, being able to swing both ways?'

'Some of my friends seem pretty happy that way,' he agreed.

'Diego...'

'Yes, very useful.' He licked his fangs. 'Hmm...you may be right. My first sword got stolen, the second one was shattered before I could do anything with it. And they both had a single edge...yes, you just might be onto something.' He nodded, beaming. What would he do without her? 'But before that,' he took one of his wife's hand in both of his, lips barely brushing the knuckles as he kissed it. 'I'm so sorry for running off and leaving you alone, my sweet. Can I begin trying to make up for it?'

'Oh, come down off it,' she pulled her hand back. 'I'm not mad at you, you clown. Just worried you'll burn yourself out. Throwing yourself into work like this...'

'Vampires can't tire,' he countered. 'Or burn themselves out.' He smiled disarmingly before she could voice her annoyance at being taken literally. 'I know, love. But since the Black God's cults got dismantled, things have been quiet.' As quiet as they could get, in the world they lived in. 'This is useful, for both keeping me busy and preparing for future crises, but I won't hide behind that excuse.' Diego spread his arms. 'How about I treat you to...well. You've always said you'd like to make love somewhere exotic.'

Clio cocked a hip, smirking. 'Diego, the only thing unusual about this place is that it's completely empty, your attempt to recreate outer space aside. I suppose it is unique, in a drab way...'

'Oh, I agree.' He tilted his head at the star. 'That's why I wasn't talking about it.'

Her smirk widened. 'On it, you ragged bat?'

He shrugged, mirroring her expression. 'If you want to start there...but I was thinking more about the core. Five hundred billion degrees Celsius, sixteen decillion pascals...nice and cozy.'

'I don't know...' she rubbed her arm.

'You can take it. The core's conditions, too. I believe in you.'

'Fine.' She slithered closer, slapping his shoulder. 'But you're leading the way.'

'But of course.' He bowed again, wishing he'd put his opera cape over his shirt. 'Why should the lady of the house work when I'm here?'

Tearing open a tunnel large enough for them to move through wasn't hard. And, once they reached the centre, Diego was quick to begin apologising.

***

Jim Bat had his hands in his pockets as he walked the streets of Madrid. He'd have liked to take in the sights, more than what his senses noticed while he was distracted, or rather, utterly focused on his destination: a flower shop on the first floor of an apartment building, in the area frequented by the city's undead. The vampire quarter, specifically, given the permanent, unnatural cloud cover.

Jim let out a soft breath in amusement. It seemed that, no matter where you went in the world, his kind could never give up their (and wasn't it appropriate?) creature comforts. Bending the world's weather patterns just so they could always exercise al their powers...

Well. He supposed it wasn't that different from humans using tech. Or beavers building dams, at that.

Jim wasn't here in an official capacity; unlike the US military, FREAKSHOW didn't have an official presence outside the States: too much bad blood, to many rivals, and worse. And even the armed forces weren't welcomed everywhere, except as a token show of...international partnership.

Jim let it go. He doubted flags and national identities would still be here in a hundred, a thousand years. If the aliens were any example (probably not, but he didn't want to think about the pantheons), they'd go the way of the dodo.

Good riddance.

One could have wondered why he didn't enter ARC, with such a mindset. One could have been forgiven for such thinking, but not by Jim, save, maybe, on his most charitable day.

He was yet to have any charitable ones.

ARC was...had started out as the brainchild of an international-not global-community riven by war and scarred by old stories that had become fact. It had been fashioned as a token show of unity, something to patrol disputed areas: international waters, the Poles, islands no one could decide what to do with.

But it had grown. ARC had been founded by politicians who had wanted their own power bloc, without actually referring to it as such, or having it work by the usual rules. These early Directors had been backed by some of the most powerful beings in creation, who had vested interests in not allowing patriotism, nationalism or any similar ideas to prevent them from ordering the world as they saw fit.

They did good work. Jim would've had to be stupid or lying, or biased at best, to say otherwise, and he'd aways considered himself a clever, honest, objective man, and modest too. They didn't dabble into politics (overly much. Certainly less than FREAKSHOW, low as that bar was).

The thing was, ARC had far exceeded its original boundaries. Enough members of the Global Gathering had been (probably, Jim only had suspicions, not proof) browbeaten, or at least indirectly intimidated enough to cave in to very polite requests, for things like bases in every country, to start with. ARC liked to say their presence had a balancing effect, that they represented an impartial force, unaligned with local power, wherever they set up shop.

Jim knew that, if not for the overpowered bastards among them, they'd have been torn apart decades ago. As things were, though, no one wanted to start a war against the Heads and their strongest underlings, on the ground there wouldn't have been anything left in the exceedingly unlikely scenario they were eliminated.

And Jim wanted none of that. It reeked of realpolitik, which he tried to avoid as much as possible. He'd rather be seen as a narrow-minded flag-fondler than...whatever ARC was becoming these days.

One of their agents had saved creation, just recently. Of course, he'd almost ended it, too, which was hat Jim's pessimist side and superiors were focusing on, though even they couldn't knock the warm feeling of unity they had felt in that unique moment.

As such, Jim, on holiday and with nothing better to do, decided to walk the world a bit, clear his head; and what better way to do that than by talking with family?

Hopefully, this Cortez was the type you could talk to, rather than at.

He had his civilian ID and FREAKSHOW credentials, the latter hidden in a pocket reality that followed him everywhere, and which he had only opened when talking with border patrol. Sure, everyone in the Global Gathering could go anywhere with the right papers, in theory. In reality, supernaturals, particularly strong ones, were always held at arm's length, for various reasons.

Jim's lip curled at the thought, revealing his fangs for a few nanoseconds. As he approached the flower shop, he remembered the latest discussion on the argument with Clara and the others.

***

"Look," Breakout said patiently, sitting down. "I get it. Your ego's bruised, or your patriotic sensibilities are offended, or whatever bullshit you wanna call it." Her eyes moved from Jim to Armament, who was sitting on the bed opposite to her, arms crossed in a huff, with amusement. "Kinda expected Hans to be the one bitchin' and whinin', though."

"My complaints are entirely warranted," Jim replied icily. "Do you find no issue with literally everything almost ending because a single person got dealt a shit hand?"

"DEATH's Keepers always ruffle feathers when a replacement is needed," she waved him off easily. "It was just as bad the other times, though the hesitation didn't always last as long, or for the same reasons. Calm your tits."

A question almost came up before Jim pursed his lips. No, no point. Clearly, her power had fed her this info. Jim didn't know whether it had done so recently, or if she'd always known and said nothing because she'd seen no need, but Clarisse was a woman of mystery, in some aspects. For one, they didn't know where her power came from, or how it worked, only what it did and that it was unconnected to the Idea of Freedom.

According to some of the eggheads, that Archetype was connected to a somewhat peculiar universe, infinite but filled with water. Its current activities were harmless enough, though, so they were willing to let it be.

There was already a bizarrely large number of Archetypes connected to Earth and its inhabitants, in one way or another. Nobody knew why, nor did anyone want to test their luck by trying to force bonds.

"Fine," Jim acceded. "We'll shelve that, for now." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "But...no, I need to be sure of something before I ask. I know all of us remember sharing minds with everyone, but do any of you remember...I don't know, details? Memories from lives you've never lived? Because I do, somewhat. Primus'."

"Nope," Armament said, uncrossing his arms with a thoughtful look.

"Nah," Randy, sitting next to Clara, answered, leaning backwards with his head against the bare, off-white wall. Jim still noticed his interest at the mention of the first vampire. He'd gotten used to the feigned nonchalance decades ago.

Dust Devil, leaning with his back against the far wall, his eyes on the door and his hands on his revolvers, just shook his head.

Clara sighed, taking off her balaclava. "Guys, mind going for a walk? James and I need to talk about something. It's not the mind meld," she added before they could ask.

Not that any of them were eager to bring that up again. Breakout only called him and Randy by their full names when she wanted to get their attention.

Clara's eyes never left Jim's as the other three filed out of the room, Randy managing an obvious wink despite his shades. Breakout scoffed.

"Mind if I sit next to you?" she asked after they were left alone, and he could only pat the bed next to him, bemused.

Nodding gratefully, Clara was quickly at his side, dark brown eyes boring into his red ones. Jim felt ill at ease despite himself. He knew they were colleagues, if not friends, and, occasionally, lovers. Even besides that, Breakout abhorred needless violence, to the pained disbelief of her many former enemies, few of whom agreed to her definition.

Surely she wouldn't hurt him? He didn't think she would. So, why was he so damn worried?

"I know what's eating at you," she began, for which he was grateful. "But the mission didn't even fail. The Russians got their wonder kid witch back, and the complications weren't even your fault."

Complications. What a word. Very polite. Clinical. Unlike Clara. Jim thought he'd have preferred some crude mockery. It would've felt normal, at least.

Tch. What was the world coming to when he was wishing for normalcy?

"I won't bullshit you and say I should've foreseen them." He looked aside. "I couldn't have. But..." his grabbed his knees, tightening his grip, feeling bones crack under his own strength. "I'm just worried about the future, you know?"

Breakout nodded wordlessly, encouraging him to go on.

"Everyone everywhere, everywhen, knows a single ARC agent, a grunt at that, saved all of creation when he could've ended it." He gave her a sidelong glance, laughing nervously. "They'll think, how did we, or everyone else, let things come to this? Or maybe they'll think, if ARC can handle anything, what's the damn point of other agencies? Might as well take a world map, scrub out the borders-"

"Please," Clara sneered. "Now you're just panicking. ARC has had its moments, we've had ours. You know I like to step back sometimes, make sure the world doesn't become dependent on me, but do you really think I'd have stayed aside if I felt Silva was about to give up?" She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You're worried about countries disappearing? If it happens, it'll happen. We're not politicians, James. We're here to make sure people don't get trampled by the latest crazy running to grab power."

He didn't say anything, and Clara put a hand on his shoulder. "Would that be so bad?" she asked softly. "You saw what we can achieve, when everyone's working together. Isn't that what you want?'

"That, too," Jim said gloomily. "When the Mover was asleep, we had the excuse of suffering being the result of random dreams. Now it's awake..."

"C'mon, Jim. People have been having crises of faith over God's nature since they first stared at the sky. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." She looked surprised, and not in a pleasant way. "I thought you'd like this. My power thinks the Mover wants to make everyone into something like it. Well," she chuckled. "More like guide us to reach that point. Self-determination, and all that."

"...I'm not sure I...I'm not sure what I want anymore," he admitted. "I used to look down on mundanes, past them. But..."

"Seeing things from the other side opens your eyes, huh?" she asked.

Jim nodded. Look at him, needing a literal goddamn miracle to have some perspective.

Clara's smile became smaller, but more genuine. "You're a good guy, James. If you care to look past the elitist jackass on the surface, like I do. You've never tricked me into thinking you hate them, ya know."

He turned to look at her, eyes wide. "Tricked-?"

"I know the vamp you think you are wouldn't have spent his days before the Shattering feeding on animals and dyin' folks, and the one after fighting for 'em." She punched his arm. "You can talk all you want, but, if you were even half the bastard you pretend to be, you'd be kidnappin' supernaturals to breed stronger ones, not runnin' around to save kids." She rolled her eyes. "If you really thought mundanes were only good as entertainment and raw resources, you sure as hell wouldn't be so quick to put your ass on the line for them. I know you don't give a fuck about the pay." She patted his hand, speaking in a fake condescending voice. "'S'alright. I've seen dumber tough guy acts."

If she was annoyed at his lack of reply, she didn't show it. "James Patrick Bates, I'm going to start noticing you if you keep ignoring me."

God, but she sounded just like his Ma, Hell keep the old bitch. Whenever he was addressed by his full name, he felt like he was a child again. Jim preferred not to mention it if he could, because people had a tendency to ask why he never mentioned he was Irish. As if his Pa being born there meant anything. Some humans kept closer tabs on their lineages than his kindred, he swore....

For a while, Jim just stared at the floor, licking his lips. When he spoke, his voice was flat, dry. "I did hate them. I still do."

Clara looked at him sharply. "Who?"

"You've read my file." As he'd read hers. His parents hadn't been happy their son had survived the Civil War, just terrified the bloodsucking monster who'd returned home looked like him. His Ma had told him he should've stayed dead twice, both before and after his Pa had tried to set him on fire and beat him to death with a cross.

Clara's lips became a thin line. "I'll sound like a bitch sayin' this," she raised her hands, speaking softly. "But you never talk about...it's been nearly two hundred years. I thought you didn't care anyone. Sorry for assuming."

"It's alright," he said, wondering if he was trying to reassure her or himself, then if he had been to quick to reply. "They're dead."

Breakout lowered her hands, eyes on him. "If you say so." Then, her smile returned as she elbowed him. "C'mon, do it."

"What?"

"Smile, you glum fuck. The world's more peaceful than it's been since the Shattering. Natural psychics are being born-in a few generations, they, or the mages, or fuck knows, will form the majority of the population." And when everyone was paranormal, no one would be. "God's awake, or something like it. Most people can't tell the difference, but I know it's looking out for us. It's got an interest in that. Doubt it'll leave us hang out to dry, so cheer the hell up."

Jim tried, but his face was hardly made for smiling...no, scratch that. It wasn't made for anything but scowling. He'd grown the beard in the hopes it'd make him look friendlier.

Brad Stacker, Director of FREAKSHOW, had told him much the same thing, but mostly because he wanted him out of his buzzcut hair. Stacker had ordered him to keep an eye on trouble, and the other on his morale. The Director was usually disdainful of "globalism" or anything like it, believing the world had forgotten how America had bailed so many people out of trouble after the Shattering had realigned the balance of power, but even he had been moved by recent events.

Jim took a deep breath, dead lungs flexing, then let it whistle out through his fangs. "I'll try. Got any ideas?"

***

'Thank you for having me,' Jim said, gingerly cradling his mug. Diego had offered him both human and vampire blood-his own-and Jim had decided to mix them. The mud-like taste of the undead vitae managed to dull the strong burn human blood made him feel, but only barely. Jim suspected vampires had been created to dislike feeding on each other, though he was damned if he could tell what purpose that served.

Diego nodded. 'Always interesting to see family,' he said guardedly, and Jim was pretty sure he meant interesting in the Chinese proverb sense. The way the older vampire-Jim might've technically been his great uncle by virtue of who'd turned him, but Diego was over twice his age-showed his fangs in a humourless grin settled it. 'But, and forgive me for being rude...' he bit his lip. 'Mmm, actually don't bother. I'm not sorry.' His eyes, as crimson as Jim's, transfixed him. 'Since we can't talk about work, I don't know you and I don't like you yet-which I doubt will change-I'd like to ask while you're here, and remind you I can put something blessed and very sharp through your skull faster than you can think.' Diego took a deep gulp of his own blood, looking like the awful stuff didn't even faze him. Maybe it didn't. Maybe he drank it all the time, for all Jim knew.

'I saw Primus recently,' Jim said bluntly. 'Didn't get to speak to him, but he's not on Earth anymore. I'd have felt his return.' Diego raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, so Jim continued. 'But, when everyone joined minds...I don't know. Maybe mine is close to his, since he turned me, but...' Jim smiled, despite himself. 'He felt so happy, you know. I don't think he's ever felt happy before. And he liked it, the closeness. He...'

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

As Jim described his sire's vision of the world, something he realised he no longer supported completely, he also let slip some details of his own goals. Diego listened, saying nothing, but grunting in what sounded like surprise in certain moments.

'Whatever shape the world takes, I'll defend it.' He hefted a sword Jim knew was heavier than the solar system, for all that it barely displaced the air in the room. It looked like a piece of glass, or maybe clear steel, with a rainbow inside it, though that was just the light moving. 'You still haven't gotten to the point.'

'Right.' Jim eyed the sword. He'd ask after. It might just be...'Primus might finally be willing to stop hiding as a thuggish hermit, if he returns. We might be able to turn him to our side, or at least make sure he's not against it.'

'We?' Diego asked, amused.

'Vampires like us.' Jim gestured at the two of them, then the walls of the kitchen. 'FREAKSHOW. ARC. The world. Just have to make sure he doesn't become an enemy, and I think I might have the right idea.'

'That being?'

'Bribery.' Jim matched Diego's unimpressed smirk. 'I'm willing to liaise between Primus and people looking to be turned, because, let's face it, he'd turn even the most eager volunteer into a vampire-hater.' Primus had always been able to understand force was not a substitute for charm, but he refused to accept it, especially when he could just rape minds with a look. 'The vampiric society he dreams of can be built, though it'll be smaller than he hoped.' And tamer. Oh, well. No one could have everything. Primus was already stronger than most gods, complaining about not having his way would just be childish.

Which might be enough to make him calm down if pointed out, unless it made him fly into a rage. Jim gave it a one to ten chance. 'He hopes to have his descendants act as warriors and builders, rulers in their own right, so...' Jim glanced at the sword. 'You did that yourself, didn't you? I can't sense any trace of foreign power.'

'So what if I did?' Diego ran a finger across the blade's edge after setting it on his lap.

'You did it through domination, didn't you?' Jim pointed at his eyes. 'I can imbue things with my will, make them move or fly, but I can't shape them.' Different branches of the same tree, probably. Who knew all the forms domination could take, or make, as it were? Probably not even Primus. He told Diego as much, who seemed unsurprised by the idea. 'And the mass-you're keeping it from generating its own gravity field because you don't want it to have one, aren't you?'

'It's selective,' Diego said. 'It still is as heavy as its original form to me, and to what I strike, should I deem it necessary.' You never knew how much oomph you needed, and he liked to keep testing his strength. Scientifically speaking, wielding the sword like he did was impossible: he struggled to bench press it, never mind swing it slower than light, but faster than that? No problem. It just felt like an extremely heavy sword. And, being supernatural, he didn't need infinite energy to surpass lightspeed.

'Impressive,' Jim admitted. Other vampires might be able to impose laws on what they saw, or even apply domination in different ways. Continuing to learn was all they could do.

'Thank you.' Jim got the impression Diego wasn't feeling flattered, which was fairly bizarre. He was being entirely honest, and all intel about Spain's senior Crypt agent painted him as gregarious and welcoming. 'I'll need some more time to think about that.'

Jim got the message. Before he stood up, he almost slapped his knees and went "Welp!", but decided that would be too much.

Diego led him out of the kitchen, then the shop, the building. His lamia wife had been polite but cold when greeting Jim and bringing her husband the blood bottles, then she'd gone back up front, saying she wanted to be there in case a customer appeared. Jim rather doubted that'd happen on a sleepy winter Sunday, but he didn't say anything. Really, being let in was enough. He was a stranger, even if Cortez knew about him from ARC's intel on significant national agents.

After Jim walked down the steps, he felt an impulse to just speed away to the border and try to forget the awkwardness, but pushed it down. Instead, he turned, adjusting his blue shirt's collar, to see Diego leaning against the doorframe, looking at him with curiosity.

Not that the distance made any difference. Despite being a head taller than Diego, Jim had felt like the shorter vampire had towered, loomed over him all through their discussion.

But he wouldn't leave now. It would have been too much like leaving things unfinished.

'Did I offend you somehow?' he asked Diego. 'I would've scheduled a visit, but I didn't exactly have the means to contact you.'

Diego looked aside briefly. 'It's not you...I mean, you just came here. But my wife and I were busy.'

'The shop was as empty as it is now.' Jim made a show of looking through the front door's window.

Diego sniggered quietly. 'Don't play dumb.' He pushed himself away from the door, flexing his hands. 'A while ago, Clio nearly lost me. She's still getting over it, so I'm trying to be with her as much as possible. And failing, if you ask me, but I'll try to do better.'

Ah. 'I-'

'It's all right. You couldn't have known.' Diego didn't look at him. 'Good talk. I hope you've achieved whatever you came here to do.'

Was he that obvious? Dammit. And Cortez's heart clearly wasn't in it. He'd hoped the possibility of fending Primus off, making sure he was no longer lurking in the shadows, always at risk of erupting into a disaster, would be enough. But it seemed not. Maybe the older vamp was confident in ARC's ability to handle him, or maybe he just didn't care.

So, Jim aimed at his selfishness, and hoped he hadn't misread Cortez. 'Promises are good,' he said. 'But I'll feel safer knowing you are on board with the idea.' Or at least not opposed to it. 'Would you like to talk things over again? Whenever you have time. Say, at your sire's.'

***

Primus glared steadily at the Sleeper from across the table. Once, it had been an universe, dwarfing his own like it dwarfed a quark, populated by beings of cosmic proportions.

They'd been strong and fast, but dull. The two monsters had destroyed them all by clashing at the centre of their humongous reality, and they would've continued their fight, if not for...

Strigoi hadn't been a thing during Primus' youth, but then, not all supernaturals had. They were undead, like his childlings, and fed on the warms, also like his spawn. But while vampires drank blood, these undead seemed to consume lifeforce.

Nephews and nieces, Primus supposed. Also created as godly punishment, though far less efficient than his breed. They were unable to reproduce by themselves, for example, and inherently violent and solitary, even more so than vampires. Primus was sure they could be outcompeted.

But a particular strigoi-this, at least, Primus remembered, as clearly as he screams of his daughter as he'd killed her-had managed the impossible, and made everyone work together, briefly. Showed them the source of everything and preserved them, and when said source awakened, creation went on.

Incredible, truly. Primus couldn't remember the last time he'd been this impressed, or at all.

The Sleeper had voiced similar thoughts. Actually, it had been that very event that had caused a lull in their fighting, then prompted the eldritch creature to propose a truce, which Primus had agreed to.

The Sleeper had grabbed the immense universe and moulded it into a round, hyperdense table, scarcely a couple metres long and half as wide. Then, it had set it down in the aether, and started talking.

It was surprisingly articulate. Primus preferred to analyse his enemies, but it wasn't his fault the Sleeper had just shrieked like an angry, idiotic child for the entirely of the battle.

It had even assumed its original shape, though it was only human-sized at the moment, and, as a show of courtesy, if not trust, Primus had returned the favour.

'Could you get to the point?' he asked it. 'If I cannot kill you, or trap you, and you no longer wish to battle, I would return to Earth.'

Interesting order. Do you so despise my conversation?

Primus wanted to say yes, but it was probably smart enough to read him. 'All you've been doing is thank your god for the miracle it provided.' Which had been quite strange to watch. Weaker gods did not pray to stronger members of their pantheons, at least as far as Primus knew, and the Sleeper had worshippers of its own, not least of all its own spawn. Maybe the thing didn't see itself as a god? Was it...modest? Or just stupid?

No, what was he thinking? As if they were opposites...

Because it is indeed worthy of praise. The Sleeper spread its arms and wings, as if to encompass the blue-green expanse of the aether. The cycle, the endless, meaningless, unremembered destruction? It is over. The Lord Of All has achieved a new realm of mastery, of understanding.

More like the bare minimum of maturity, if Primus was one to judge. Being part of an almighty infant's dream would've daunted most, but Primus knew it was pointless to worry about things you couldn't change. 'Has it? You make it sound like it was all its own doing.' Primus crossed his short, muscular legs. 'But I seem to remember an undead doing it. With help, to be sure, but your god definitely didn't start anything.' Wait...'Although, didn't you say you worship the All In One? You just mentioned a different-'

Nothing is different from the Almighty. The Sleeper puts its slime-coated, clawed hands together. Nor separate. The All In One is Its waking aspect, its mind, but not a different being. Not that there has ever been such a thing.

Primus wasn't about to get into a cosmological debate with an insane alien. It'd just beat him with experience. 'As you say.'

Indeed. The artistry of the Lord's plan can clearly be observed in the fact one of Its worshippers was the one to awaken It.

Primus laughed. 'You can say they're one and the same, that everything is, but the thing that strigoi worships is definitely different from the one you do.'

Is it? All-powerful. All-knowing. Present everywhere, and everywhen. Ordering creation according to its own purposes.

Primus sniffed, remembering all the times a priest had come close to truly, permanently injuring him. 'Many things appear so. But it preaches a set of values, even if it so often goes against them, or does nothing to those who do. Does yours?'

The Sleeper said nothing, just stared at him with those unblinking, yellow-on-orange eyes. Maybe it hadn't understood the question? 'The strigoi's god claims there is god and evil, which spring from it.'

Ah. The most subjective things in creation besides its very nature.

'How about this, then: the beings who pray to it can wound those like me, while you can't. What do you make of that?'

More study is necessary. The Sleeper seemed thoughtful, if not curious. I know nearly everything, but some mysteries are harder to unravel the more they are observed.

That, Primus had to concede. Let the Sleeper go to its god like a beggar, grovelling in order to learn more about existence. He would not stop it. With a little luck, it'd die, or whatever its kind did when their existence ended, and he'd lose a rival for his dominance of everything.

Except, as Primus thought about that, he found his desire had been...not erased, but...shaken. Changed? He had certainly experience something momentous, but he still felt like himself.

The All In One values knowledge, and those who can brave the trials needed to reach it are rewarded freely. Journey aside, the Sleeper said, unprompted, maybe thinking out loud. Yes. I must begin the voyage at once.

'Wait.' Primus raised a hand, sitting up. 'What are you going to do?'

I will undertake-

'Yes, I understood that. But why?'

The Sleeper returned to its original size, looking as quizzical as it could. Why do you care, or think you are entitled to know?

By now convinced it was too stubborn for him to beat answers out of it, Primus appeared to its newfound verbosity. 'I care because, once I return to Earth, I do not want to deal with you or any of your lackeys. You are distracting.'

You can have it. The beardlike tentacles on the Sleeper's face swayed serenely, so it probably wasn't offended. Never, in a centillion millennia, have I known such a troublesome world. I know I cannot achieve anything worthy of note there. The earthlings' lack of vision is surpassed only by their power. It looked into the distance, into the aether's infinite depths, pondering. If you are interested in my short term plans, I will rebuild my city. Spawn again. Gather followers, or make them.

The fact it was revealing such details meant it didn't expect Primus to attempt or succeed in stopping its plans, not that he wanted to. Competition was helpful, when it was far from home and pointed away from him. Of course, he had already guessed the broad outline of its aims: rebuilding its power base, even if most of it would be inconsequential in comparison to itself. Still, he had to ask. 'You are not going to spread madness again?'

The Sleeper's very existence could warp planets the size of Earth into nonsensical nightmares, and shatter billions of minds, reforging them into gibbering servitude.

I do not "spread" "madness". The Sleeper's voice was too placid to be waspish, but Primus could still tell it was obsessive when it came to certain details. I return creation to its true state. You should all be thanking me.

Right after he asked for a cross through the brain. 'Be that as it may. You are not going to change your surroundings, then? R'lyeh's dust is gone,' he pointed out.

I will not rebuild R'lyeh, nor raise something like it. It was an outpost before it became a prison, not a true city. To answer you, not any more than necessary.

Reassuring...hmm. 'Your starspawn, they are connected to you, yes?'

As your children are to you.

That was not an answer. 'But you know their thoughts?'

I know the thoughts of all creation. You are meaning to ask if I direct them, control them? No more than any parent. I do not dictate their every action and thought, if that is what you are wondering. They spent their imprisonment by themselves.

Primus grinned, glad to finally have something over it. 'Then are you not forgetting something?'

It lowered its head, and Primus was reminded of sailors listening to the faraway ocean. Was it communicating with its deity? The worshipper of the Lord Of All's Earthly incarnation. I shall thank him, of course. And his adjutants. They have opened the door to apotheosis. We just have to walk through. Its tentacles briefly parted, revealing something closer to a singularity than a mouth, sucker or similar orifice. Funny. He'd always expected it to have a beak. It seemed the squid imagery was only skin-deep. As for his mate...without her to inspire him, creation would've ended. We would've never achieved unity. She, too, must be thanked. Its wings folded across its back. That is why you asked. Because one of my spawn attempted to force itself on her. Had it succeeded, it would've broken her body, and mated with her until her mind followed. Then, her resistance gone, it would've moulded her into something like it, and taken her as her mate.

Primus was not unsettled by the Sleeper's indifferent manner. He'd seen worse. 'And we would've all lost,' he said smugly.

Correct.

'Well,' Primus traced the edge of the table. 'You can start with that.'

That starspawn has already been obliterated, slowly. Its recreation, while trivial, would earn ire, due to the reminder, rather than favour. And there were only so many ways you could torture a Cthulhi..sadly. Nevertheless, they will want an apology on my part. Being unable to provide a sincere one-if one cannot defend themselves, they can complain all they want about their circumstances; they will not change-and knowing an insincere one will similarly anger them, I will instead offer an explanation.

'That your spawn shared your mindset? DEATH's Keeper is as likely to end you with a thought as not.

Your opinion has been noted. If there is nothing else, I will depart.

'You're awfully calm for someone who didn't say a word as we tore up the multiverse,' Primus mused.

And you are speaking full sentences.

Why use ten words when one worked? 'You know that, if you attempt what you did on Earth on other worlds, you will be crushed, driven back. Other aliens and powers prowl the starts.

The Lord Of All desires to see all of Its creations elevated to its level. That is the ultimate freedom my kind and I crave. Opposing Its plans would be nonsensical.

Primus rather doubted it was just going to sit by and watch, but it had just brought up the other Great Old Ones. Selfish as they appeared to humans, that was likely a good sign to drop the subject.

'Then, I will not attempt to hinder you, either,' he promised, thumping a fist against his chest, over his heart. Now, all they missed was something to seal the deal, such as it were. The words of beings like them carried enough power and weight, but Primus sought something that would bear his personal touch. 'You can travel whenever. I will hunt now. Will you join me?'

I need no sustenance.

'I hardly need any, either,' Primus replied. 'But sport does the mind good.'

Yes...I can go whenever.

'It is settled, then.' Primus brought his fist down on the condensed universe, obliterating the volume of spacetime and its contents with the ease of a tank shell going through a soap bubble.

Then, the two set off into the aether.

Many great beasts populated the realm of raw mana. Aether swimmers, with eyes so large universes were invisible next to them, and far larger bodies that unmade timelines with a touch. Oceanycs, who dwarfed the swimmers like humans dwarfed the creatures that grew inside raindrops. There were even immense masses, like thinking seas, the size of the multiverse's fourth layer, with its infinite realities and the aethereal barriers between them combined. There were many, many of them. The aether was joined with the multiverse on every level, after all.

The first two categories of beings were easy to dispatch: both the First Vampire and the Sleeper were powerful enough the merest graze or glancing blow was enough to destroy them. For the third, however, it took quite a bit of blood drinking and enhancement before the immense living oceans could be reduced to endless steam.

***

Hastur barely appeared to move: the empty hood inclined only by a fraction of a yoctometre, not that there was anything around to observe it. The only things that were present wanted to know no more, as could be deduced from the shadow that lengthened over the false earth as they thought.

'My king,' one of its humans said in a diffident voice, on all fours, forehead scraping against the ground. All traces of appearance and individuality had been scraped clean from its body and immaterial extensions; the fate it had tried to avoid, alongside the Unspeakable.

Ironic. They never seemed to realise running from fate made it so much more likely to end up facing it. Not guaranteed, what with the impossible happening recently, as linears recounted events, but still.

Then, this one had also thought meeting it and being disfigured would be intricately linked. Its surprise had been as palpable as it had been amusing.

No one eluded the King In Yellow. For reanimation was not to be taken lightly, and all necromancers worshipped at its altar, no matter their methods, tools or creed. One could not ask for its aid, then run away when it was time to repay the debt.

'Your half-brother...it-' Green, spiked tendrils rose from where Hastur's yellow robe met the soil that wasn't, swaying in the nonexistent wind. Before the once-human could finish, it had already directed its sight at...hmm.

Cthulhu was strangely withdrawn for a preacher, but Hastur supposed it only came with the occupation. Certainly ancestor worship had never appealed to it, which was just one of the reasons they had never been close, inasmuch as the likes of them could be. But now, Cthulhu was not hiding its light under a bushel anymore. If anything, it was, in modern human terms, flashing and blaring as it went, as if not caring whose attention it drew. Or maybe hoping for it. Its converts tended to be impressed by shows of strength.

Yes, Hastur decided as it watched the twin suns descend over the sickly yellow horizon into Lake Hali, making Carcosa's light all the harsher as its surroundings were swallowed by gloom. Things have changed.

For example, one of its greatest children had come home. Not destroyed, no longer sleeping, but returned to its cradle, and that of an adept dearly departed, for all he had never known of the King, much less recognised it.

***

Vhoorl, Twenty-Third Nebula

The two monsters' hunt eventually wound down, and they found themselves at the supposed birthplace of the Sleeper. Hidden from prying eyes by a crimson haze and a string of green light that swallowed sight, they sat down to speak once more.

'I believe we will rise soon,' Primus said, referring to himself and his childlings. 'The Earth's keepers of orders are assigned their duties in accordance to the nature of a crime, but the mundane and paranormal are becoming ever closer.' The thought almost made him giddy. Maybe the sheep would finally see the worth of his kind. 'Leading by example could help immensely.'

With a different example.

Primus refrained from scowling hideously, only partly because the Sleeper was right. It knew how people worked, even if it understood them about as well as Primus. He wasn't sure whether that should have concerned him, or flattered it. 'Quite,' he agreed grudgingly, swearing to open their eyes one day. 'But I will not be alone. I have like-minded kindred, and one does not need to agree with another to work alongside them.' His chest swelled with something between pride and satisfaction. 'My first son is coming home.'

You killed your first generation of spawn; those you didn't lead to their deaths.

'I meant the first among my sons,' Primus snapped. Jericho had always been too soft for his own good, else how could he have ended up trapped by people weaker but more ruthless than him? At least that nun of his had freed him. Provided he brought her and the hellhound along when they got tired of righting wrongs across creation, maybe she could make him listen to Primus enough to see reason. Maybe even lend some weight to his words during negotiations with his more paranoid children.

Provided they didn't see Jericho as cowardly or uncaring for not staying home. Primus had his own thoughts on the matter, but he wouldn't share them, unless necessary.

The Sleeper conceded the point, and the two parted ways, for now. And everyone-adorers and enemies, the Shoggoths crawling in the dark places under land and sea, the scattered remnants of the Elder Things, the Mi-Go with their minds drifting across the streams of time-sat up and noticed, as Dread Cthulhu no longer hid, nor slept.

It lived, in fact. Despite the stars were no more, much less right or wrong. They shuddered at the thought, in terror and ecstasy. The Great Old Ones were supposed to be unable to live when the stars were wrong. Many hoped Cthulhu was the only one who could still sleep and live, despite their destruction. Others prayed he was only the first, and that the Great Old Ones, walking creation serene and undimensioned, would return to lead those born of matter into revelry and murder, and teach them new ways to do both.

***

Adam held up the travelling guide, then looked from it to the trackless expanse of snow. Of course, nothing that could be showed on a map was there. The North Pole's population lived in underground habitats, out of habit rather than necessity, and the paranormal ruins and artifacts scattered across the Pole could not exactly be depicted as landmarks.

Not that he needed a map. His senses could accurately spot every unnatural thing around him, no matter how far in time or space, along with their proximity to him, and even a glimpse of their nature. He hadn't bought the guide for the maps. Just for the pictures. He...had wanted an idea, before seeing the places with his own eyes.

His return to Earth had been surprisingly calm, all things considered. He'd expected a mob, or maybe constables or soldiers, entire armies, hunting him down for his murders, for who and what he was.

But, no. His early unlife was a thing of centuries past. Something for the history books. Oh, Adam had no doubt someone would, sooner or later, try to drag him to an extensive psychological examination, if not a prison cell or an execution site, but he'd meet them as they came.

So far, though, he'd only had to prove he could function in society and offer some details about himself, for the record: physical characteristics, his version of past events, opinions, goals. And so on. To prove he wasn't malicious because even he couldn't trick people into thinking he wasn't dangerous.

And so, he'd travelled. Across the Rhine, to Castle Frankenstein (no relation, though he had hoped to find some, between the old, long gone alchemist and his own creator) in the Odenwald, overlooking Darmstadt. To Ingolstadt, and the University. To Geneva, darkly thinking about how criminals always returned to the scene of the crime. To Perth. To Orkney, what should have been the birthplace of his mate. Or maybe it was better he was alone.

Then, to Ireland, and from there, to the North Pole.

He fancied he could see the spot where Walton's ship had been trapped in pack ice, even without looking into the past. He remembered mourning over his father's body, twisted by cold and grief.

Adam sighed, dead lungs pumping out a misty breath. He needed closure, even if he couldn't make amends, or he'd never have peace. And if he never accepted himself, he'd destroy himself, or the world. Never mind achieving anything worthwhile in it.

'Victor,' he began softly, voice thundering in the chilly air despite the roaring blizzard. 'Come to me, father. We must talk.'

The ghost manifested slowly, tentatively. It wasn't just the hesitation to see him, Adam knew: it was Victor's first time manifesting after death.

He didn't look like when he had died, stooped and deathly thin, ribs visible, skin wrinkled and thinned by stress and guilt at what he had brought into the world. Rather, he looked like when Adam had first seen him in the old laboratory, like he had throughout most of his adult life. A plain-faced man, save for the aquiline nose, tall but sparse, with shoulder-length hair parted across the middle and shrewd, darting eyes. He still wore the lab coat and thick, rugged boots and gloves, though he had pushed the thick googles-his own creation-past his forehead. Adam appreciated the gesture, though he could've seen Victor's eyes anyway. The scientist had the white-blue, semi-transparent appearance typical to ghosts.

To his credit, Victor didn't appear overwhelmed by fear, or anything else. At the sight of Adam, his face began a resigned mask, giving away nothing except a bone-deep weariness. The undead understood: even death hadn't brought him peace. Or maybe it had, and he'd interrupted it. He had a history of failing while trying to help, when it came to people.

But he'd be damned if he failed this time.

But then, whispered a gleeful voice in the back of his head, I've always been damned, haven't I?

Adam briefly wondered if it had been his imagination (dangerous, for a reality warper), or if some spark of intelligence had remained in the brain that had been used for his creation, dormant all these centuries.

It probably wasn't his conscience. It wasn't usually this loud.

'Adam,' Victor replied. 'Hello, son.' And there were so many more words, buried under the inflections of the last one. Monster. Creature. Creation. Masterpiece. Disaster. Tool.

Nightmare.

'Thank you for coming,' Adam said, patting down his clothes: a grey dress suit, the shirt, tie and shoes also grey. Tall and pale as he was, he looked like a parody of something else, like a scarecrow. He'd pulled his long, oily dark hair into a ponytail, leaving the bangs to cover the stitching across his forehead. The dress suit covered the rest. Victor didn't miss this, thought he didn't comment, either.

At least, not about Adam obscuring himself.

'Wait,' the ghost's brow furrowed as he tried to gather his thoughts. His arcane sense had glimpsed something through the fabric. 'You...did I stitch you together? I don't remember...'

'You can't,' Adam said, as kindly as he could. 'History has become legend, and it has been muddled enough the facts change to fit the story, rather than the other way around.' He shrugged, great shoulders moving imperceptibly. 'People think you sewed or wired or chained me together, so you did.' An ironic smile touched the corner of his mouth. 'They also believe I'm a blundering idiot with bolts in his neck, but I've taken steps against that.'

'But the stitches...?'

'Leave them. A fine enough reminder of the beginning.'

Victor nodded. 'What did you want to talk about?'

'I am sorry, Victor.' Adam did his best to stand still as he faced his creator, fighting the impulse to turn away, or rip him to ectoplasmic shreds. 'For Henry Clerval. For William. For Elizabeth.' He felt a low growl build up in his throat-anger? Regret?-, but sighed instead. 'For Justine and Alphonse, too.'

'You...y-you didn't kill my father,' Victor said, seeming baffled by the apology's sincerity more than the act itself. Before his death, he had known the Creature to possess a low cunning, and a merciless mind. A lie, he'd have expected. A trick. To bring him back and torment him beyond the grave, maybe. But this...

'I might as well have. He couldn't bear the consequences of my deeds, and neither could you-or I.' Adam fashioned two chairs from the ice and snow, sitting down. Victor opted to stand. 'I fled at the end, you know. Drifted away. Tried to escape, and hide, maybe.' He stared into his maker's eyes. 'I cried for you. When you died, I nearly tore myself apart, but, in the end, I was too cowardly even for that.'

Victor stared at his boots, gulping. 'I didn't know,' he confessed. 'I didn't see...after I died,' he took off his googles, cleaning them with a spectral sleeve. Nervousness, and nothing more. 'After I died, I went to this place...well, it was closer to a void, I suppose. Though not empty. Full of...substance. What gave you life, maybe.'

'No.' Adam almost chuckled at the thought of being animated by mana. 'Trust me.'

'And there...well, I truly do not think time flowed. It felt like it didn't pass at all, except when I expected it to...I don't know what year it is, truly. Have we entered the nineteenth century yet?'

'Yes,' Adam answered. 'Two hundred years ago. Do not worry. You haven't lost much.'

Victor staggered, trying to laugh at the weak joke, and failing. Adam felt a vindictive joy at once again throwing the man off, then silently berated himself. He was supposed to be better.

'Twenty-first, then...' Victor bit his lip. 'Of course...with how absorbed I was...it matters not. The world has clearly gone on without me.' He laughed sardonically. 'It seems I wasn't that important, in the end.'

'Robert followed your advice,' Adam tried to cheer him up. 'He wrote about it-you, us-to his sister. I've seen the letters.' He reached out, to take his father's hand, but the scientist flinched back, to his unsurprised dismay. 'You have a museum, Victor...they're still trying to figure out what you did.' Beyond chemistry, beyond galvanism, Frankenstein had breathed unlife into dead flesh. Adam was, in a way, glad that pettier, crueller people hadn't managed to imitate his father.

And that he left no notes.

But Victor wasn't listening to the praise. 'Robert...? Oh, y-yes. Captain Walton...goodness, I hoped his writings were appreciated while he lived. Or that he at least pushed the boundaries of knowledge in this...' he glared around him with disdain. 'Wasteland. He seemed like a kind man. Very open-minded.'

'He found peace in tranquility,' Adam promised. 'And disdained ambition. Like you taught me. He didn't pursue me, when he could have. Just recorded our sordid tale for posterity.' And cautionary advice. Adam knew playing God was a phrase most often associated with Victor, but he didn't think infamy would improve the scientist's mood. Instead, he tried to bridge the gap. 'So, how was the afterlife? Where did you end up?'

'Oh, not that b-bad.' Victor scratched his head, looking distracted rather than disappointed. 'It was peaceful, quiet. I learned to shape that strange substance into...constructs. Not thinking ones.' He looked aside, face darkening. 'I knew better. Though, there was a fairly dreadful occurrence a while ago. Something too vast or awful to glimpse rampaged through the lands of the dead, tearing down their halls and gardens, destroying them. I only felt an aimless, confused rage, and a yearning for something I couldn't perceive, hidden as I was in my sanctuary.'

'And then, there was the moment of communion,' Adam prodded.

Victor's eyes widened, and for an instant, he seemed almost alive. 'God, yes...a miracle. Far greater than anything I could achieve. And to think one man...we saw God, Adam. We could all become G-Gods...'

Adam stood up and moved to support his father as he stumbled across the snow.

'I want to leave my mark on history, too,' Adam told the ghost as he leaned against him. He was taller than his father by nearly a metre, and broad to match, and Victor's body seemed to flicker at his touch. 'Constructs created nowadays are usually unthinking, and the ones who aren't are treated as people...most of the time.' The rage was coming back. It was like an old friend, who had never really left. 'And the ones who aren't...'

Adam revealed his plan, though it was closer to a goal and list of things he believed would be useful in achieving it, rather than an actual strategy. Still, making up things as he went had never been hard for him.

'I believe you don't yet know what form you want this organisation to take,' Victor said after the explanation, though he was nowhere near as reproachful or chiding as Adam had expected.

'And I know that I can't form it into anything if it doesn't exist,' the undead retorted. 'I am going on a...recruitment spree, I suppose. As soon as I leave.'

Victor nodded in understanding. 'Yes, of course...we've all moved on...well, not all of us.' He reached into his coat, but Adam raised a hand to stop him.

'You can give me whatever you think I need,' the undead promised. 'But first...well, I did say we haven't spent enough time together.' Not like they should have, at any rate. Not giving that thought voice, Adam opened his hand, brought what he wanted into existence, and carefully tried not to think of it as piracy.

'Lord...' Victor said, taking one of the boxes as a television appeared behind him. 'We inspired so many...?'

'Films,' Adam said, seeing his father floundering for words. 'I am given to understand most are bad, even allowing for historical inaccuracy, but I think it will be good to see how we are remembered.'

Vicotr raised his eyes. 'You haven't...seen them?'

'Not yet.'

***

Caleb Peretz, known to the smallest (yet most important to him) part of the world as Tamar Thousandhands-not that many knew they were one and the same-passed many golems as he returned home.

Not the German town where he had been born. He knew for a fact it had been razed to the ground. But to Jerusalem. He passed the giants of old stone, magic and faithcraft at the borders and strongholds, the newer creations built of metamaterials that roamed the wilderness and city roofs, and the smaller, subtler creations used in households.

Most golems were still built for defence. But other uses had been found. Spying, for example. Being Head of an ARC division, and Goetia at at that, Caleb was deeply familiar with intelligence gathering and removal. His wife also made a point of sending some of her golems (she made so many, she could hardly wait for buyers, sometimes) to him, wherever he might be found, to pass on what she considered valuable information.

Between this, and how deeply Caleb despised surprises, he was unaccustomed to being shocked.

As such, when he entered his house and saw Sarah having tea with something he'd last seen in a Hammer movie, his mood, which had been swinging since Silva's near-omnicide, firmly settled on foul. If the thing had even thought about harming a hair on her-

'Cal, come the hell here,' Sarah said, and he quickly shapeshifted the uniform away, alongside his mutilated appearance. Although, knowing his wife...oh God, he hoped it hadn't made Sarah threaten anything, she didn't believe in backing down, and they had too many thinking weapons in the house for his comfort.

Sarah Peretz was a short, squat woman who'd recently passed her first century, on a basis of faithcraft, mana and sheer spite. Her shoulder-length white hair and wrinkled face were the only signs of age, however. There were no liver spots, and her hands, far from shaky, were as sure and strong as her grey eyes.

She glanced at him once, took in the gold-rimmed, round glasses he often insisted on wearing in his civilian life (he believed an unflattering comparison with Gerald Reyes was forthcoming, thought he wasn't sure who'd be the target this time), scoffed, then looked back at their uninvited, unexpected guest.

'He,' Sarah nodded at Frankenstein's Monster, not looking at Caleb as he pulled his own chair. 'Says something about...' she put a calloused hand on her husband's shoulder as he sat down next to her, between the golem-maker and the Creature. 'Y'know those creeps who are always asking me to build them golems with intelligence, but not free will?' She frowned angrily. 'I keep sending the cops after 'em and saying I make stuff and people, not abominations, but it don't work. Still, there are folks who see nothing wrong with making things like that, and...'

'I believe they could be rehabilitated after being removed from the ownership of their abusers,' the Creature continued smoothly. 'Reforged, as it were.'

Why do you care? How'd you learn about her, and why'd you come here? 'Would you mind telling me what's going on?' Caleb asked Sarah instead. She grinned, a glint in her eye, and he felt his demons laugh in anticipation, the bastards.

'Adam here read about me online, and believes I could be helpful in spotting such cases-for a fee, of course.' She elbowed her husband. 'You can check his history. I think it'll look better on a reread.'

'You are Tamar Thousandhands, right?' it asked him, and he whirled to look at it sharply, but it sounded merely curious, as opposed to gloating or terrified, like most who found out. 'You are aware Tamar is a female name, yes?'

'You are aware male agents often use female names, yes?' he asked mockingly. 'I thought the meaning suited me. What I am not aware of is why you feel entitled to enter my home when my wife is alone, given your predilection for murder when things don't go your way.'

Its amusement disappeared like dust on the wind. 'Mrs Peretz allowed me to en-'

'Should I repeat myself?'

***

Adam smiled tiredly as he returned to the North Pole. All in all, it hadn't been a failed endeavour. Peretz had gruffly promised to think about his offer, and her unsettlingly powerful husband hadn't done anything rash.

And, of course, he had reconciled with his creator.

Now, all that remained was to lay the foundations, and the physical one would be trivial. So, as he raised his future headquarters, he allowed himself to drift into his recent memories.

***

'Would you act differently, knowing what you know now?' Victor asked, stepping out of the pocket reality. Adam had created a bubble of frozen time where the movies could nevertheless be watched, and his father had been amused, to varying degrees, by the different depictions of himself, wishing he'd had that much insane confidence as much as he dreaded it.

An Igor would've been nice, too.

'Yes,' Adam answered. 'I wouldn't have revealed myself to them,' the family of that blind man he'd gathered firewood for, who'd been frightened by his appearance and had proceeded to chase him away. 'And I would've remained to try and explain.' To the father of the child he had saved from drowning, who'd shot him in the belief he had endangered his daughter. 'And, even if things had played out the same, I wouldn't have gotten mad at humanity.' At times, he had hated the species almost as much as the notion. Other times, when he had sought to purge himself of perceived weakness, it had been the other way around.

Victor seemed pleased by this answer, if surprised. Adam didn't ask what he had expected. He didn't want to get angry, or be disappointed, at this point, however briefly.

'Then, I shall entrust to you,' Victor reached into his coat again. 'My knowledge. Hnng...' The scientist shook and swayed on his feet, as if he was digging into his ghostly flesh. Adam made a move to stop him, then froze in his tracks at the pleading look in his father's eyes. 'Do you know...ahh...why you were named Adam?'

He frowned, in mixed concern and mild irritation at such a question. 'A reference, obviously...'

'And a prophecy, too. Or...an expectation, if you want to be less...dramatic,' Victor gasped, falling to his knees, then onto his side, before curling up. He didn't stop shaking. He raised his head, looking at the lights in the sky even as those in his eyes faded. Perhaps he could see a light Adam couldn't.

Must've been the tears...

'I wanted...to make a species of beings like you! No longer would the dead stay underground, rotting away quietly. People needn't be lost! Death needn't be the end...and you...you, my son, my Adam...you were supposed to be the first...'

Adam knelt next to his father, laying a hand on his head. Despite everything, the ghost's skin felt feverish. 'We...w-we could've lived together, living and dead, learning from each other, but...I...I was too s-scared, when I saw you move...' Bloody tears began streaming from unseeing eyes. 'I couldn't do it again, if God told me...dear Lord, I couldn't...' he seized Adam's wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, squeezing as if afraid to let go. Adam ran his other hand through Victor's hair.

'You...you've grown so much,' the ghost smiled, and it reached his empty eyes, too. 'You've seen and done things I can't even imagine...you don't even l-look the same! I remember when you were smaller, and y-yellow...'

A raking cough seized the ghost. 'I know...it'll be safer in your hands. Your mind. Use it, or forget it, but don't let others take it! Don't let it be seized by...the unworthy...'

And then, Victor Frankenstein was gone, and Adam's hands held a book, old and battered for all it had never existed. He took one look at the cover, and let out a sobbing laugh, tears running down his face.

And, for once, they were not colder than death.

"The modern Prometheus: taking death from God, to be moulded by Man." And, under the title, a picture of him and his father holding hands as they pushed open immense doors leading into endless light. Behind them, every being that had ever lived on Earth, animal and human.

That Victor had known of. Adam had seen enough things, strange even for him, that he would gladly fill in the gaps.

Adam opened the book, one hand raised to catch his tears.

"My son, if you are reading this, it means I am no longer with you, and indeed, cannot be. I am sorry I never made you an Eve. Everyone craves love, and I never had any to give you. Nor, it seems, did the world.

But the path is here, Adam. The doors are here. You must only seek the keys, and the courage to open them. I have glimpsed the secrets hidden in the blood of Man, the Gods we were meant to become, in the beginning, before we tainted ourselves.

You must..."