The Vigilante stood in a shadowed corner of the convention center’s main hall, examining the crowd. There was usually a Gathering at least once a decade, and they were increasingly held in America. Someone was always claiming there was some kind of crisis. It was usually something that could easily be handled by one or two lesser Aspects.

The frequency of these pointless Gatherings was irritating, but the Vigilante could not afford to miss a single one. If something truly serious was happening, his power could make a difference. The last time something occurred that could threaten the Aspects, the Mastermind had been heavily involved. There were more powerful Aspects than the Vigilante, but no one else was equipped to stop the Mastermind in his tracks. He had to be ready.

It was still early, but the room was filling rapidly despite its size. There was the Good Wife in a tidy gray pantsuit, already shooing away the Adulterer as he tried to take a seat at her table. She would be saving that spot for the Virtuous Maiden. Two tables down, the Architect was already engaged in a heated argument with the Builder, probably over some trivial detail of construction.

The Sidekick had not arrived yet, which was too bad. The Vigilante hoped that the latest iteration would team up with him. He would be wasted playing second fiddle to some mortal. The last Sidekick had been attached to the Inspector, but had reportedly done little more than exclaim over her partner’s genius. She gave up immortality to marry some teacher, of all things.

Surprisingly, the new Soldier was Chinese. He knew that the last one had perished at the hands of a Middle Eastern Aspect, but not that the shard had moved to a different country. That might not bode well for the future of the United States. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. It was an old axiom, that the good soldier took his sleep where he could get it.

At least the Sailor was still from the U.S. He was already drinking a thick lager from a heavy stein, but had yet to become belligerent. Unlike most of the attendees, he wore a uniform. His blue crackerjacks were very smart, but he sported no more than a handful of ribbons on his breast. The image of the quintessential American sailor as they were viewed by the world at large: low ranking, unrewarded and drinking. The Patriot gave the Sailor a friendly slap on the shoulder as he made his way to his own table and the Sailor responded with a smile and a quick nod.

The Vigilante spared a glance towards his own table. On a raised platform at the north wall, two large oval tables sat on either side of an ivory podium. The most powerful heroic Aspects would be seated at one, with the major villains taking the other. Most of his party was already seated: the Polymath. The Agent. The Vanguard. The Inspector. The Trickster was absent, as usual. If she did show up, it would only be long enough to try another prank on the Mastermind or the Murderer. As the Vigilante mused on potential antics from the Trickster, the Patriot took his seat at the high table.

The Vigilante doubted the Polymath would last much longer. His type of know-it-all intelligence was rapidly becoming too unlikely to survive as a realistic concept. No one could know it all.

As jobs and roles became increasingly specialized, the world’s stories changed with them. Shards changed, merged and dissolved as history marched on. Aspects that could not adapt or change faded away and were replaced with newer ideals. The Hero and the Villain were always unstable and had been the first to perish, shattering into a cavalcade of new Aspects. The Sybarite made way for the Hedonist, who spun off the Playboy. The Author fell by the wayside, to be replaced by the Screenwriter and the Novelist. So it went, on and on through the ages.

To the right of the podium was the place designated for the big names in villainy. Don Eneide of Albany, the Don, was already seated. Apparently, he was breaking in a new Henchman. He might need a quick visit, for old times sake.

Arrayed around him were most of the others. The Assassin. The Thief. The Warlord. The Murderer was there, alone in a crowd. He eschewed camaraderie and no one wanted his friendship.

The Mastermind was absent. Perhaps he was planning a grand entrance. Whatever he was plotting at the moment, he would be here for the Gathering.

Just below the dais that was raised for the heroes, villains and the Priest was a table of gold reserved for the elders. These were the ones who had survived the infancy of the world and were still going strong. The Beggar was not yet present, but he would almost certainly attend. He would probably sit on the floor, avoiding association with the gold. The Huntress had already taken her seat, dressed in an inexpensive cotton dress with her dark hair in a tidy bun. Beside her, the Harlot smiled and struck a provocative pose as she welcomed the advances of the Satyr. The Vigilante could almost see the pheromones. The Trapper twiddled his thumbs and looked uncomfortable in the suit he had chosen. The Farmer and the Shepherdess were engaged in animated conversation while, from the other side of the table, the dark-skinned Raider glowered at them both and stroked his curly beard. No doubt, he imagined taking their heads. He had never gotten over the fact that a bunch of dirt diggers had overcome his own nomadic people and established civilization all those millennia ago.

Several tables back from the dais the Pimp, still clinging to a North American black stereotype, was eying the Harlot speculatively. It would do him no good. The Harlot remained as independent as she had been across ages, before pimps and procurers had existed. She would likely always remain so.

So many had already arrived, but many more would follow. There was a vast profusion of suits and dresses of various cuts and quality. Few would indulge in the embarrassing silliness of wearing some kind of identifying or stereotypical garb.

The Vigilante’s gaze fell on a lone chair not far from the elders. It was shrouded in a striped cloth of white, green and purple. The colors of the Suffragette.

The chair had been so placed at every Gathering for decades, at the insistence of the Vigilante. Though it violated a number of traditions and protocols, not even the Mastermind had dared to gainsay him. The Suffragette was gone, but she would not be forgotten.

“Penny for your thoughts?” a soft voice whispered behind him.

The Vigilante threw back an elbow, but hit only air. He spun around, faster than a cheetah, to confront his nemesis.

The sound of his voice had made the Mastermind seem much closer, but he actually stood several feet away. He offered the Vigilante a lazy smile. “As jumpy as ever, I see,” he said cheerfully, with a slight wave of his hand.

The Vigilante mentally checked himself for any minute changes to the weight of his clothing before focusing completely on the Mastermind. He would examine everything thoroughly later.

His enemy was, as always, dressed impeccably in a cream suit with a thick burgundy tie. Thin glasses rested atop his patrician nose, partially obscuring light brown eyes. Hair so blond that is was almost white was elegantly swept back. The Mastermind idly spun an ivory cane in his left hand.

“Dreaming about the Suffragette again, Eric? Hoping for a Feminist to rise up and replace her?”

A cold knot formed in the Vigilante’s gut and was rapidly replaced with a rising heat that suffused his limbs. He made no outward expression of his anger and answered calmly. “She can’t be replaced.”

“Of course not!” the Mastermind exclaimed, with an enthusiastic nod. “And it’s a good thing too. I’m pretty sure we won’t have the Feminist for a while. The stories and reports are too varied and incoherent. Positive or negative? True or false? First wave or fiftieth?” He shook his head and made a moue. “She’ll form soon enough unless her cause collapses and that won’t happen. But it will take a long time for her to rise if her stories don’t gel properly with enough people.”

The Vigilante bristled.

The Mastermind clicked his heels. “Anyway, I just thought I’d pay my respects to an old colleague. We have much to discuss, but it can wait until afters. You should relax, you looked to be…lurking. You do that far too often. We wouldn’t want you to hit the Verge. The Sprinter fell recently, you know. Consumed.”

Both Aspects fell silent at those words. The Verge was the fear of every Avatar and it could affect a person in one of two ways. In the first instance, the Verge affected those who failed to carry out their roles properly. If the Vigilante stopped hunting criminals, he would begin to lose power. If he actually became a criminal the drain would be much deeper and faster. Using Gifts in defiance of one’s proper role could also bring an Aspect to the Verge. The shard within would loosen its hold. The many immunities to various diseases and injuries would weaken and finally disappear altogether. There might be migraines, cramps or other ailments. The recalcitrant Aspect would begin to age. Finally, the shard would abandon the Aspect to seek a new host. At best, the former Avatar would become mortal with no hope of attracting a new shard. At worst the process was lethal.

The other side of the Verge was an opposite effect. Some Aspects fulfilled their roles too well, constantly using power without rest in singleminded dedication. Then, the power of the shards would swell and bring the user to the Verge. At this end of the spectrum, the Aspect would be magnified to such an extent that the Facade began to turn hollow. The shard would overwhelm the bearer, for all practical purposes making the human a puppet. The Aspect would be trapped in a Hell of his or her own making, the dummy of an unintelligent force that compelled them to endlessly play a role without volition. Time would just replace one nearly mindless Facade with another. There was no escape.

This was the trap of the Aspects. Misuse of Gifts would result in growing discomfort but going too far in avoiding that pain would lead to a loss of self. It was a tightrope that had to be walked to avoid death or an even worse fate. A person had to have a life outside of their role.

The Mastermind regained himself and offered his foe another smile. “Well, ta! I hope to see you later.”

As he turned to go, the Vigilante called, “I know what you're doing.”

The Mastermind turned his head. “Oh?” he replied. “I’d say I’m not doing anything, but I know you won’t believe me. So I’ll ask directly. What am I doing, Eric?”

Eric, The Vigilante, folded his arms, a grim look crossing his face. “The tables are arranged based on influence, power and age. And I know the seating arrangements are wrong.”

The Mastermind adopted a carefully neutral expression. “Is that right?” he asked, nonchalantly. “How strange that you think so.”

“I know that you’ve been pumping money into Hollywood. I know that you’re controlling what the Producer pursues and what the Screenwriter writes. Maybe they’re your partners or maybe they're your patsies. But we both know the global influence of Hollywood makes the Screenwriter and the Producer the most powerful men in the world. Beyond all the rest of us. I know that you’re using them and your other tools to elevate some stories and suppress others. I know that you’re even flooding the market with contradictory stories in some cases.”

The Mastermind immediately made a connection. “Back to the Feminist, are we? You think I’m purposely keeping the Suffragette’s old shard from rebirth?”

His opposite number gritted his teeth. “You’re underestimating me. I don’t care about that. I told you, she can’t be replaced. What I do care about is that you are trying to take control of the stories and you are breaking the Treaty…Stanley.”

Irritation flashed across Stanley’s face at the sound of his hated first name, the name he had borne when he was still mortal. “If anyone is breaking the Treaty, it certainly isn’t me, Eric,” he said airily. “Truthfully, I’d say the Treaty is unenforceable as long as storytelling Aspects exist, but I’m still following the rules. However stupid they may be. Conflict is fine. Conflict is required by our shards, but I don’t want to start an actual war.”

“Set all that aside for a moment,” he continued. “I told you I wanted to talk later, and I meant it. You imagining some new struggle between us is counterproductive. I know something you want to hear. This prison reality, this cage that binds mankind…”

He stepped forward and leaned into the Vigilante, so close that their cheeks just touched. Eric tensed. “…I know a way out,” the Mastermind whispered.

Before Eric could respond, before he truly understood what the Mastermind was saying, the world detonated in a fury of light and heat.

__________

In a distant galaxy, a hot cloud of shimmering dust creeped between the stars. This was all that remained of the greatest powers of humanity, the twenty-one Broken Gods of the defeated gods called mankind.

Surprised, trapped, betrayed, they had shattered and crumbled into dust. Despite this setback, they remained Gods and could not be destroyed. They would reform. The dust would merge.

But the dust of each God interpenetrated with the dust of the others. The merging was…imperfect.

Bits of Alagar merged with splinters of Seshia. The chalk of Azamath mingled with the ashes of Sym. Shards were forming.

The shards could not reform the Gods. They had no minds and could not muster more than a rough semblance of thought. It was enough. They could process information. Broadcasting. Searching.

There. A great nullsphere, larger than a thousand suns. There were humans there. Diminished, ignorant, unaware of what they were. But human. Human like the Gods.

Reform the Gods.

Raw materials.

Hosts.

A shard detached from the cloud, and hurtled towards the sphere. Penetrated. Ignored gravity, ignored radiation, ignored every lock and barrier devised to cage the species of its birth. There, the largest room of the fragile prison. A manufactured world called Earth.

Here. Rich information. Pictograms. Runes. Transmission of understanding through sound delivered symbols. Translating.

History. Stories. Images. Information that resonated with the echoes of memory stored in the shard. Magnifying.

There were names there, in that kernel. Meaningless but powerful names. Aldan. Loyalty. Gosdaita. Obedience. Eldamon. Greed. Kidd. Power…power…and subordination/unknown/desire?

Loyalty. Obedience. Greed. Power.

Subordination.

Henchman.

Restore Aldan. Chivalry. Hope. Dreams.

Restore Gosdaita. Life. Motherhood. Faithfulness.

Restore Eldamon. Greed. Untranslatable.

Restore Kidd. Fire. Earth. Untranslatable.

Searching.

Unseen and unseeable, the shard located its first host. And merged.

Giuseppe sighed. He was getting better at handling the weird thoughts and visions. If the Don was right, they would be over soon anyway, and he would only have to worry about them again if he got really old.

He was pretty sure he was going the right way. The boss had made him find his own way to the Gathering. Something about learning about the old paths and exercising his power. It was a bit of a hassle, but kind of fun as well. Instinct had led him to the compound’s garden shed, but when he opened the door there were no tools or fertilizer. He had stepped onto a brick road surrounded by exotic trees. The smell of loam reminded him of almost forgotten days as a scout. For some reason, he had felt no fear and simply began to walk. He looked back, but the door to the shed had disappeared.

Freaky.

He allowed his instincts to lead him along the path. An occasional breeze whispered through the trees but there was neither sight nor sound of a single bird or insect. It was all very strange. He was seeing things, but at the same time he knew they were false. The path was real and simultaneously was not real. Once, he was compelled to leave one road by walking into a stand of silvery bushes. Before he even touched a single broad-bladed leaf, he was suddenly walking up a narrow mountain trail. A graying sky anticipated storms, though sourceless light still shone down between the heavy clouds. As he ascended, he felt neither cold nor a thinning of the air. Steadily he rose, a gradual mist rising around his calves.

The path ended at a rocky crag of sharp granite. Unthinking, the Henchman strode forward and stepped from the precipice. Though the he had checked neither depth nor destination, the action seemed most appropriate. He did not land and felt no impact. Instead, he stood on a silent street of brittle wooden planks. That strange road cut a haphazard path through a flat, heatless desert of orange sand. There was clear, powder-blue sky but no sun to provide the surrounding daylight. As before, there no sign of life other than his own.

The road was nearly completely obscured by the sand of the surrounding terrain. A small green pool marked the end of the path. He dove into the murky waters and when he emerged, he was standing before a great concrete wall with a small, ivy choked door. His clothing was perfectly clean and dry, almost pristine.

The bushes were not there. The mountain could not be. The door was not a door. All that was true, but he was still sure he was going the right way.

Giuseppe was just testing the tarnished aluminum handle of the flimsy plywood door when he heard gentle footfalls. To his left flank there stood a petite Japanese woman in an emerald dress. Their was wariness in her posture, but she displayed neither surprise nor true fear at the chance meeting. Giuseppe could instantly tell that she was special. Was that another power?

She was a pale-skinned woman with high cheekbones, full ruby lips and fine dark hair that flowed down her back. She clutched a small designer purse in her left hand and was cautiously waving with the other.

Giuseppe was a big guy and knew he could be especially intimidating to small people. He mustered a smile. “Hi, how are you?” he greeted in his friendliest tone, extending an open hand.

Though she ignored his hand, the woman took a few cautious steps forward and replied. “Hello. I think we’re heading the same way? I’m Justina. And you are…?” she prompted.

Giuseppe dropped his hand and mimicked a bow. “Giuseppe. Also known as…the Henchman!” He struck a pose, throwing back his shoulders and staring into the distance.

The little woman laughed, a high-pitched sound that still managed to seem pleasant. Her relief was evident, tension falling from her shoulders. “Thank God! It would be just my luck to run into the Murderer out here! If he was in mood it would suck. Treaty or no Treaty, we aren't at the Gathering yet. I wouldn't die, but it would still hurt.” She took Giuseppe’s hand between her own and gave it a few pumps. He enjoyed the sensation.

Giuseppe turned back to the door. “So,” he said, as he tested the handle. It was a little tricky. “What do you do?”

Justina quirked an eyebrow. “What do I do? Why Giuseppe, I’m a hero to the masses, the salvation of countless men. Better watch out, bad boy,” she chuckled.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Giuseppe considered. She was being coy, but this could be bad. The Gathering was supposed to be neutral ground, but this was still unknown territory. Still, she was tiny and maybe not the fighting sort of hero. A companion or spy maybe. Plus, he was just minding his own business right now. She had no reason to try to bust him.

He solved the riddle of the stuck door handle, pushing in slightly as he twisted. It opened with a fading creak and he stood aside, motioning with one arm. “Ladies first.”

Justina made a demure inclination of her head and walked through the door. Inside was an impenetrable darkness but Giuseppe followed without hesitation.

They stepped out, side by side, into magnificence.

This was the city, the True City, the true capital of mankind. The myriad of buildings and styles could have been from any city in the world but it was…more.

There was the Manhattan skyline, magnified into an ideal. The gleaming towers and skyscrapers seemed more vivid and the peaks disappeared into the clouds. And there was was a great Arabian dome, gilded and peaked with diamond. In the distance, there was an Eiffel Tower or something very much like it. It had been fashioned from unimpeachable materials by the hands of giants and radiated like a beacon. Even the pavement under his feet seemed to radiate a faint pearlescent glow.

It was differentiated from other cities not only by its greatness, but by an eerie silence. No people walked its thoroughfares. Not a single car raced down its streets. There was no sound of industry or commerce. The True City seemed all the more beautiful for the poignant absence.

Giuseppe did not realize the he was gaping until Justina gave him a nudge with her shoulder. She glanced at him with amusement. He had no preference for Asian women, but there was a grace and gentleness to her every movement that he could not help but note. “That new, huh? Come on, big bad Henchman, it’s this way.”

He did not resist as she took his wrist in a silken hand and pulled him vigorously forward. He almost stumbled as they headed along the sidewalk. Maybe she shared what he was feeling. She seemed stronger than her small frame should allow, but being in this place was energizing. She released him when he regained his bearing and assumed a more natural pace.

Justina pointed with a delicate finger. “There it is!” she exclaimed, excitedly. She began to hurry. It was obvious that she had been here before, so she was probably excited on his behalf.

Before them, less than two blocks away, loomed a great circular building of chiseled marble, surrounded by a neat hedge of roses that wrapped around its circumference. The surrounding edifices, though splendid, suffered in comparison. Great brass doors formed its entrance and Giuseppe could see that someone had literally rolled out a broad red carpet.

With his longer stride, it was easy for Giuseppe to keep up. “Hey,” he addressed Justina’s back. “No one lives here. I mean, this whole city is empty. Who sets up all this stuff?”

Justina spared him a brief glance. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Probably an Aspect. I never met any, but I bet there’s an Event Planner or a Caterer or something. They can probably snap their fingers and all kinds of food and decorations just appear and march themselves out.”

Giuseppe thought about it for a second and shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. Those powers sound really cool.”

The Homewrecker’s broke into a sunny smile. New Aspects were funny. It seemed that he was taking her exaggeration quite seriously.

Giuseppe was about to add something when he came to an abrupt halt. Justina was several paces away before she noticed the Henchman’s reticence.

“Got something in your shoe?” she asked sarcastically, jogging back to her companion.

“I dunno,” replied the Henchman in puzzlement. “I just…”

He was interrupted by the thunderous explosion that rocked the convention center.

__________

The Beggar had just taken his first steps onto the red carpet leading up to the convention center’s entrance when the shockwave threw him off his feet. His mind barely registered the tumultuous sound of an ear-splitting explosion. The breath was painfully driven out of him as he slammed down. The carpet, while finely woven, did little to soften the impact to his back and head.

It took a moment for him to gather himself. His ears rang steadily and he was certain he was bleeding. He was just rising into a seated position when a second explosion boomed.

Blazing through the sepulchral dark…

No! No! Not now. The Beggar clamped down on his thoughts.

He gazed blearily at the convention center. It appeared intact, but he saw cracks spreading across the walls. It was something inside then, or at the rear of the building. A rising brown cloud confirmed his thoughts. He struggled to his feet with an agonized grunt.

He rose slowly, legs wobbling and back bent with the ache of injury. Through the fog over his hearing, he picked out a distinct sound coming from within.

Pops of gunfire, muffled by sound-dampening walls. Fighting.

The Beggar was one of the oldest beings in existence. His power had waxed over long ages and he had successfully walked the narrow path between the Verges since time immemorial. He knew exactly what to do during battles between Avatars.

Head the other way. Head the other way fast.

Thought immediately became action. Disregarding pain and discomfort, he ran with all the speed the weak and damaged body of his Facade could manage. Had he borne any other shard, he might have managed superhuman haste, even in his condition. As it was, he seemed to running fast enough.

A third explosion rattled the Beggar’s teeth. He began to sprint. He heard something collapse behind him. That would be the building then, maybe all of it.

It was becoming difficult to breathe. An expanding film of brown dust and white ash was descending, obscuring his vision and clogging his lungs with detritus. He wheezed but continued to run away, albeit at a slower pace.

Nearly blind, he reduced his pace further. He settled into a jog, wondering how a single building could produce so much accursed debris. The Beggar blinked rapidly, hoping to sharpen his sight. In spite of his efforts, he collided with something. Someone grunted and he was knocked off his feet for the second time in minutes.

Strong hands seized him and pulled him to his feet. He was shaken roughly.

“Hey man! You okay?” someone with a blunt New York accent was asking. An American.

Giuseppe looked over the man he was holding up. He looked like a homeless or some kind of bum, but that was irrelevant. He might have some idea of what was happening.

The Henchman’s head was pounding and the cloud of debris was only making things worse. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to rush into that convention center, but he was resisting. It had been faint, but he was pretty sure he had heard gunfire. He was loyal but he refused to act foolishly. Running into a situation unarmed and without a plan would accomplish nothing and might prevent him from helping the boss.

He shook the bum again. “Were you in there?” Giuseppe did not realize that he was hollering. “What happened in there? What’s going on?”

Justina leaned breathlessly against a wall, panting in wide-eyed shock. At the edge of her awareness, she noticed that the Henchman was manhandling someone. The world shifted into focus as she realized who Giuseppe was holding. She came instantly back to her senses.

“Um..,” she ventured, furtively. “You really shouldn't be treating the Beggar that way. He’s super old, like one of the oldest.”

Giuseppe was frantic and his fear was rapidly edging towards anger. “Lady, I don't care if he’s older than Jesus,” he snapped, giving the Beggar another quick shake. “If this bastard doesn't start talking, I might need to get rough.”

The Beggar wheezed, red-rimmed eyes rolling. He finally mustered up enough breath to respond. “Hey man,” he gasped. “I am older than Jesus.”

An undefinable foulness sprang into existence, a miasma that seemed to dispel the dust and assault the senses. Giuseppe’s mouth filled with bile. Eyes watering, he instinctively dropped the Beggar and sprang back. Justina scrunched her face and spat, abandoning feminine decorum.

“See,” she barked accusingly, backing away with her hands raised. “Our Gifts don’t usually work well on other Aspects, but the strongest Primaries and the really old guys…it’s a whole other league.”

“Fuck!” Giuseppe cursed as he stumbled backwards. Whoever heard of something like stink powers? “Okay, look,” he said, adopting a conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry, okay? Let’s get clear of this dust and then we can talk. Just…turn it off. Let’s just move fast, okay? We need to figure this out.”

The Beggar nodded. Tears left streaks over his grit covered face. “Yeah, sure man. I’m not doing anything, but I’ll stop if you want.”

As they distanced themselves from the haze, the Beggar mumbled, “Avatars.”

“What was that?” asked the Henchman, eyes fixed firmly ahead.

“Avatars, man,” the Beggar earnestly explained. “The Homewrecker was calling them Aspects, but it’s Avatars. That’s the right name, man. And it’s Paragons, not Primaries like she was saying.”

“For…who the fuck cares?” snarled the Henchman in exasperation.

Justina laid a calming hand on Giuseppe’s shoulder. “The Beggar is American or maybe Canadian right now, but he’s originally from the East. They call us Avatars there. Most of Europe and the U.S. say Aspects. In Russia and some of the Middle East it’s Shardbearers, which is true but still seems off. I think China has their own thing, something about Quintessential Excellence and blah blah blah. They have a very literal language and they like to describe things. And…” Justina noted the rising irritation on Giuseppe’s face and trailed off.

The Beggar’s glance flicked towards her. He stilled his face, suppressing an expression of pity. He hoped she would pull through. She was clearly very close to the Verge, perhaps irretrievably. He wondered if she knew. Perhaps he could find a way to bring the matter to the attention of the superior female without offering offense. He definitely would if she gave him something.

A short time passed before the Shardbearers emerged from the worst of the debris. Giuseppe found his temper in the interval. The group noticed a small rest area, a little square with pale stone benches surrounding a brick fountain. They sat in silence for a time, weary and defeated. The Beggar shifted and hunched in discomfort, feeling all the pain of his injuries. He was not a combat oriented Avatar, nor was his role a particularly hale or healthy one. Healing could take hours.

Giuseppe was demoralized and enervated but his mind was racing. He had no equipment and no weapons. The boss was almost certainly inside the center when it was attacked. What could he do?

He was distracted by another thought, as he belatedly registered something the Beggar had said. Homewrecker, he thought. I guess whores are heroes now! Hero my ass!

Finally, the Henchman sought answers. “Okay,” he said slowly, hands curling into fists. “What can you tell me about what happened back there?”

The Beggar’s tattered cap was dislodged as he shook his scrofulous head. It fell loosely to his shoulder. “I’m real sorry. I can’t tell you nothing, man. I was just getting there, close to opening the door, right? And then I was on my ass and there was all kinds of explosions and shooting, man. I didn't really see it, just heard stuff. And then I hauled ass out of there,” he babbled.

Giuseppe sighed. It figured the dirty bum knew nothing. If this was what a powerhouse looked like, maybe he should have stayed normal. At least he had confirmed an attack. There was an enemy out there. If someone was not after the Don, he was still collateral damage. The Henchman had to take that personally. Images of retribution flashed through his mind.

“Maybe…maybe we should just go home,” the Homewrecker suggested with a note of pleading. “Only Aspects can come here. That means at least one Aspect broke the Treaty. Maybe a whole conspiracy of Aspects! I’m not a fighter. What if the heroes and villains are trying to take each other out again?

“What if the Vigilante and the Mastermind are trying something again?” she added, in a small voice tinged with misery.

Giuseppe regarded Justina, curious despite his preoccupation with his master’s fate. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said to the Homewrecker. “Pretend I was born yesterday and spell it out for me.”

Justina twisted sharply towards Giuseppe, tensing with frustration. “How did your boss not teach you these things?” she asked, incredulous.

The Henchman shrugged.

“Fine! This will be short and sweet so pay attention!” she shrilled, hands gesturing in animation. “The Treaty was made to keep us from killing each other on a broad scale. The biggest problem is, we’re hard to permanently kill. It was almost a game to some of us. Die and try again. Keep score. Wars between us ruined entire countries. There are exceptions, since some Aspects are naturally opposed. But the Treaty pretty much works. At Gatherings, everyone is supposed to be safe even from enemy Aspects. There's more to it and it’s had stuff added a few times, but that’s basically it.”

Giuseppe nodded and waved for her to continue. “And the other stuff?” he prompted.

The Homewrecker growled. “One of the changes to the Treaty. The Vigilante and the Mastermind actually teamed up once. They were trying to control the stories people tell and the things they believe. They thought it would change the shards and make us more powerful. Like in comic books. Bottom line, it didn't work out but it did a lot of damage. The shards designed those guys to be bad news. If they team up again, it will be ugly.

“Is there anything else you don’t know that every Aspect knows?” she asked, sarcastically.

With a wave of his hand, Giuseppe dismissed Justina’s rudeness. “That’s enough for now,” he stated.

“Great! Can we get out of here, please?” Justina’s demeanor instantly shifted to importuning.

“You go,” answered the Henchman, making a shooing motion. “I have to go back, see if I can get to the boss. He might be in real trouble. If there are enemies around, I might be able to sneak past them or take them out. I have to try.”

Justina visibly deflated. She barely knew this Henchman and found it hard to like him, but he was the only fighting Aspect on hand. If someone was violating the Treaty they might all be targets and she would feel far safer with some extra muscle power. As powerful as the Beggar could be, most of his strength laid in subtleties that she would not trust in combat. She had to find a way to convince the Henchman to act as her escort.

“One of you guys got a smoke? Maybe a couple bucks for a bus, man?” asked the Beggar, interrupting her train of thought. He scratched his rear and let out a very loud fart.

_________

The Miser was in a battle. That was very clear. At the moment he was almost grateful for the assault.

The Chauffeur had reached Main Street when the Miser’s tablet buzzed with an incoming message. Few mortal-made devices could receive a signal in the True City, but the Miser’s had engaged the best engineering Aspects to ensure that he could always monitor and supervise his wealth. A message could mean only one thing.

Donald rarely paid full value for anything, but he had willingly paid a premium for the security provided by the Programmer. One of the Programmer’s bots was clearly alerting Donald to a threat to his money.

He pulled out his tablet and quickly scanned the message. He was under economic attack! It should be nearly impossible with the safeguards he had paid for, but there it was. A swift review of his holdings showed that someone or something had already siphoned away millions. Millions. Of the Miser’s money!

Donald sprang into immediate action. He had reached out with all his will and exerted his most powerful Gift. It was a singular power that ensured against disasters of any kind. The Miser’s Grip.

Once active, the Miser’s Grip would prevent the loss of even a fraction of a penny. If invoked on a vault, for example, it would act to make sure that anything stolen would somehow return to its cache, usually before a day passed.

There was one problem with the Gift. It only worked reliably on physical objects. In the modern world, most wealth was not found in coins and bills, but in ones and zeroes stored on digital media. To keep that wealth protected, the Miser would have to maintain the Gift indefinitely. It was infeasible under normal circumstances, but the invigorating air of the True City gave him a fighting chance.

In desperation he had logged onto every account he held, one after the other, focusing the Gift over each screen. It was an extreme long shot that could not possibly work but he had to try. The Programmer’s bots would already be alerting the authorities and trying to trace the flow of his stolen money.

Having done all that could, the Miser had ordered the Chauffeur to pull over. He had then exited the car, calmly walked down the spacious avenue and stepped into a nearby alley. There, he had howled and ranted, screaming his hatred and rage to the uncaring universe.

When he recovered, he had walked briskly out of the alley and began his return to the car. What he saw there froze him in his tracks.

The driver’s side door was wide open, and the Chauffeur’s upper body was collapsed outside. Three beetle black figures stood around the town car. Two stood over the Chauffeur while the third was at the front, one hand leaning against the hood.

The three men were clothed head to toe in black tactical body armor. They wore enclosing mirror-visored helmets and the vests of each person featured a visibly stiff collar that covered the entire neck. Dark plates gleamed dully over elbows, knees and shins and pistols were tucked into quick fastening holsters. Not an inch of flesh was exposed. To a man, they carried the kinds of automatic rifles that the Miser had only seen in films.

As the Miser came to an abrupt halt, three mirrored faces turn as one to face him. Rifles were swiftly raised. Pointed at him. He began to raise his hands slowly.

Confident as he was in his immortality, the Miser was well aware that bullets would be immensely painful. He had to cooperate with these men, whoever they were. That was a mystery in itself. It was impossible for a normal human being to enter the True City. The Traveler had tried on four separate occasions and each time the mortals were lost. They simply vanished and could not be found in the old paths, in the True City, or anywhere in the world. They were just gone.

How had these men gotten here?

They were approaching now, two maintaining their aim while the third slung his rifle and held out a hand, either to calm or to seize. Donald kept his hands raised over his head in a show of submission. Given time to think, he would find a way to leverage his Gifts against these mortals.

A shadow passed overhead.

The Vigilante hurtled down, planting kicks on two helmeted heads as he descended. Men staggered and dropped to either side of the hero as he landed in a crouch.

Then he was on the third assailant. Before the man could turn, the Vigilante seized his upper arm, pulling his head into a thrown elbow. Two more blows cracked a helmet and the last man was down, moaning. A final steel-toed kick silenced the trooper.

The Vigilante rounded on a Miser who stared in shocked surprise, hands still raised. “Two blocks down and take a left. Enter the path there. The Mastermind should be waiting. Go, and don’t turn back. I’ll get the Chauffeur.”

“How…what…?” the Miser stammered.

“Go!” the Vigilante growled, giving Donald a hard shove. Relatively hard, Donald thought. The Vigilante could probably break him like a piñata with little effort. He rushed to comply with his orders.

Another three-man team in beetle black was rounding the corner.

“Go!” the Vigilante roared again. There was a blur and he was suddenly among the enemy, kicking and striking. As men fell around him, a third team was emerging from the left. And then a fourth. Donald fled frantically, coat-tails flapping.

He was not so frantic, however, that he failed to maintain the Miser’s Grip.

__________

The Gambler cowered under the imperious gaze of the Mastermind. His luck, it seemed, was finally turning. He could lose after all. Unfortunately, it was not turning out quite as he had envisioned.

The barrel of a wood-finished automatic rifle was pointed directly at Henry the Gambler, held rigid in the unwavering grip of the Mastermind. He had clearly been in a fight, but the villain remained dapper. Covered in ash and grime, he maintained an impressive air. Even the spot of blood on his wounded shoulder seemed more art than injury. The Mastermind looked more like an actor made-up to play a role than like someone who had actually been in battle.

Please, prayed the Gambler. Please tell me the villains aren't on a rampage again.

Many centuries had passed since a major Treaty violation. Most of them were caused by the Murderer or particularly stubborn heroes. Those were bad enough, but a breach made by the Mastermind would almost certainly involve every major Aspect in his camp. That could set the world aflame.

“I’ll repeat the question, just this once,” the Mastermind was saying. “What. Are. You. Doing out here?” Each pause was punctuated with a poke of the rifle in Henry’s chest.

Henry stammered in his haste to answer. “There was…the Gathering…late…I wanted to bet…,” he stammered in wide-eyed terror.

“Shut up,” the Mastermind commanded, flatly. His hard brown eyes searched the Gambler’s face. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw, because he abruptly stepped back and lowered the rifle.

“Fine,” he said, sunnily. “I must apologize. I'm usually a firm follower of basic gun safety, believe it or not. Come with me and I’ll explain things on the way. It’s hard times for us, I’m afraid. The Gathering is quite finished. Cancelled, more’s the pity.”

Henry stared in astonishment. “But you…the gun…bleeding!”

“Yes, yes,” the Mastermind said, dismissively. “Questions later, talking on the go. Please listen. Come, come.” He began to walk briskly away.

The Gambler hesitated and then silently followed. The Mastermind began his explanation.

“We appear to be under attack. Perhaps all of us,” he began in his customarily unflappable manner. “I can’t be sure right now. The Gathering was struck by explosives and a company of armed men. Impossible armed men, actually. They were not Aspects.”

He held up a hand to forestall interruption. “Whoever or whatever has done this destroyed the American convention center and incapacitated or killed several Facades. Only two of us escaped. The Vigilante and I, of course.”

He paused. “You may ask questions now,” he allowed, when the Gambler failed to respond.

“How…what are you…but how…”

“Ugh.” The Mastermind shook his head. “I see you need a bit of time. Well, time is short. The Vigilante and I split to increase the odds that one of us would successfully evade pursuit. We are to rendezvous at one of the Broadstreet paths in less than five minutes. Taking the correct route through that path should bring us to one of the Vigilante’s hideaways. We’ll assess the situation and make our plans once we arrive.”

Henry found it impossible to react so he simply continued to follow. The two Aspects passed empty shop windows and traversed a vacant playground before rounding onto an immense blacktop road bordered by sidewalks of polished ivory. The Gambler immediately sensed the presence of a pathway.

Standing before the storefront of an unmanned convenience store was a bent blonde gentleman with hands on knees. He was breathing heavily and his skin shone faintly with perspiration. His tailored black suit, while slightly marred by exertion, had obviously come at a high price. The Mastermind greeted him immediately.

“Miser. I know you can’t be a traitor. Far too much risk and much to be lost. I assume the Vigilante sent you this way?”

The Gambler simply could not help himself. He knew it was a poor time to be thinking about sport, but this was the Miser! It was said that prying a single nickel from his grasp was almost impossible. They could set up a game, any game. It would be an absolute joy!

__________

Giuseppe chafed at the delay.

A few dollars had finally shut the old bum up. Then, he had to deal with the Homewrecker. She had been nearly hysterical, insisting that he accompany her in her flight. He had finally agreed to take her as far as the nearest old path, before attempting to make his way to the Don.

They maintained a circuitous route, staying as far from the wreckage of the convention center as possible while working their way towards the old path. The Beggar took the lead. The Henchman remained vigilantly alert as they traveled, wary of ambush or discovery.

Giuseppe tensed and hugged the nearest wall as they emerged onto Broad Street. Thirty yards away, a group of men were just about to enter one of the numerous hollow shops that lined the boulevards of the True City. He hissed at his companions. He was sure they had not yet been spotted.

The Beggar ruined the Henchman's strategy before it was fully formed. “Hey!” he called out to the distant figures, waving his hands and jumping up and down. “Hey!”

The lead figure, a bespectacled man in a begrimed white suit, reacted speedily. An automatic rifle was swiftly brought to bear.

Then the weapon was lowered as the Beggar continued to call. “Hey, Mastermind!”

The Beggar began to jog towards the strangers, grunting with the effort. Giuseppe followed after a brief hesitation. He knew who the Mastermind was. Justina trailed reluctantly behind.

She was suspicious of the Mastermind. He was a villain, after all. He was arguably the most powerful and certainly the most infamous. If someone had violated the Treaty and was hunting Aspects, the Mastermind was a prime suspect as far as she was concerned. She would be on her guard, though she doubted that would save her if he was behind their travails.

The Mastermind was impatient of their approach. “Beggar! Third of the Eldest and First of the Destitute. Please hurry! We are in danger and I begin to suspect my partner won’t be joining us. Someone may already be on the way to capture or kill us all!”

He was already pushing his companions through the door as the Beggar drew up, the Henchman and the Homewrecker not far behind. Eschewing greetings or discussion, he herded them into the doorway, practically shoving Giuseppe inside. Giuseppe began to protest, prepared to resist, before he was swallowed by darkness. The Mastermind finally entered himself.

The door closed behind them and they were on the path, distancing themselves from the True City and its dangers.