Prelude

Homer,

I have to go away for a few days. Raz has some "work" he needs me to do for him. With everything that's been happening, I think I've forgotten that I am, in fact, still on his payroll. And he does, in fact, still have associates who react appropriately to having their legs dislocated. Nobody ever sees the blonde in the dress as a threat until it's much too late.

I'm writing this while you're asleep. I've finished reading my mother's diary. I've tried to talk to you about it over the last few days, but you're just not with it enough to keep your focus on what I'm saying for very long. I can see how quickly you're getting better, but I can also see how far you have to go to completely heal from the damage you absorbed in Georgia.

I think I'm mostly writing this letter as a way to have a kind of pseudo-conversation with you. This way, I can tell you what I've learned from the diary and what I'm thinking, without realizing after a couple of sentences that you've drifted back into unconsciousness.

It's a nice bonus that if you do have some coherency while I'm away, you'll be able to catch up on what I've learned. Maybe we'll be able to talk about it some more when I get back.

I guess the best way to do this is to start at the beginning. I know we've read bits and pieces of the diary out of order, and we've got some kind of a picture of my mother's life after escaping the facility. But doing it in the right order should make a lot more sense out of a lot more of this story. Reading it myself these last few days, I can see how it's starting to make more sense as we've filled in some of the blanks during our adventures.

So, it's not exactly clear how old my mother actually was. She didn't seem to know how old she was when she started writing the diary. Having consulted with Raz, I think she was probably born in the early '50s. That means she was around 10 years old when she started writing the diary. I know I've remarked on this before, but she wasn't writing like a 10-year-old. She wrote like an adult. Granted, like an adult who was still learning some of the basics of living in the world.

There's no mention of her own family or how she wound up in the Georgia facility. With what we've seen so far, I think it's evident she was either an orphan or was taken from her family. In Berlin, we saw how the Nazis took Jewish children to use in the laboratory there. And I can only assume that the facility in Georgia was run by the same people. Or person. Troy.

Any mention she makes of her time in the facility is right up to the line of the worst treatment you hear about in World Way 2 concentration camps. The children there were subjected to terrible procedures and surgeries. They were put through a strange education program. After everything we've seen since we started out, it's clear they were trying to breed or build a different kind of human. She mentions how some of her fellow captives had abilities and properties that were greater than human, like Albert (the Golem). Most of the children were either completely normal, like she was, or were deformed or debilitated in some way.

I have to wonder about the trajectory there. If you were trying to build a better human or a better soldier, how could you want more than Stryker? They clearly had the means to make him back in the 1930s and '40s. So how come they were having such a hard time producing good specimens in the '60s?

Then, as we read before, the facility was attacked by what sounds like a band of hybrids, and my mother escaped. It looks to me like this happened in 1962. That's the year that Father O'Connor met my mother in Georgia, right after the escape.

This is really interesting to me. The hybrids attacked the facility in 1962. From what I can gather from what Zeus said, Troy made him. Zeus is obviously the source of most, if not all, of the hybrids in our story so far. So that means that by 1962, Zeus had already escaped. And he had either escaped with more hybrids built by Troy, or he had made more himself at this point.

Stryker seems to have escaped around the time of the end of the war in Germany. It makes sense that whatever events contributed to him being able to break free also allowed Zeus, and maybe others, to get out.

Zeus clearly has no love for Troy. But he also has his own designs and may have had reasons other than revenge for attacking the Georgia facility. Whatever the case, the attack on the facility in Georgia allowed my mother, Albert, and probably others to get away. It probably ended the usefulness of the facility in Georgia, so I imagine it was at this time that Troy went to set up shop somewhere else.

My guess would be that he went from there to another Soviet-controlled secret locale. But we know he already happily switched teams from the Nazis to the Soviets, so who knows if he jumped to a new patron at that point as well.

There's also the matter of that symbol of the tree in the open hand that was on the sides of the vans chasing my mother after her escape.

The rest of my mother's life is easier to lay out because Raz enters the story shortly after that. I'm not about to give you the entire life history of the Great and Terrible Razmik here. Raz met my mother when she was homeless. They were friends as kids. As they grew up, Raz joined the lowlifes and lived as a petty thug. Eventually, he became more powerful and became a local boss. I think my mother had been working as a prostitute in her own right for some time, but when Raz gained a position where he could protect her, he brought her into his circle and treated her favorably. Raz grew more powerful and his attentions drifted to a more global view, so I think he may have drifted away from my mother, though he always made sure she was comfortable. I was born in 1987, and I can only assume that my father was a random client of my mother's.

As I grew up, I started to display my own abilities, and Raz began to employ me. I also drifted away from my mother a little bit then. Life went on until the day she was murdered.

Raz is calling me. It's time to go. I hope you wake up long enough to read this before I get back.

I hope you're awake when I get back.

Ardia

Chapter 1

An entry from the diary of Damien Slayer

My life has been turned completely upside down for the second time. The second time has not been like the first. The first time, I was cast adrift. The woman, or rather, the girl that I loved most in the world, to whom I had attached my entire notion of the future to, was murdered in the most graphically horrible way imaginable. And who do the authorities turn to first? That’s right, the devoted lover. I can’t entirely blame them. Circumstances not only put me at the scene of poor Penny’s murder but repeatedly at the scenes of other victims. That was not just a coincidence - I had been hunting the killer. It stood to reason that I could be there.

And in the decades since, I have been entirely occupied with two things: running from the multitude of agencies that want me locked away and running after the thing that took my beloved Penny away. That feels like a lie sometimes. Calling her my beloved. In truth, that was more than half my life ago. The girl I think of now, that can’t be Penny. The girl that lives in my head, that I dream of, that I think of almost without pause, is not the real Penny. This girl is an idol I have built. I remember loving Penny with all of my heart, but after all those years have rolled by, can I really still love her? The girl I love now is most likely just an idea.

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It’s like swimming to an island and finding that you’ve reached the point of no return. You don’t believe that you can possibly reach your goal, but the shore that you left behind is now a greater journey than the shore that peaks above the waves from time to time. So you press on. That’s why Penny is so important to me. I’m not old, not exactly. I must be somewhere close to my fortieth birthday. That means that I’ve spent more of my life chasing and being chased than I ever did living as a normal human being. It means that the investment that I’ve made into this thing is just so vast that I have to see it through. There is no possibility of restarting somewhere, becoming someone else, learning to live and love and exist just for myself again. There is no possibility of companionship.

At least, that is what I believed.

In the last year, as I mentioned, my life has been turned upside down again. I have, dare I say it, friends. Not just people who don’t think I’m crazy, but people who share my almost pointlesss quest. People who shelter me, who help me. People I can help in return.

As I write this, I am sitting in the garden of Razmik. If you could see me, then you would probably think I was sitting on the rolling lawns of a mansion in the Hamptons. Everything is so regal, refined, and manicured. The pillars of the huge house cast a shade that does not quite reach me where I sit on wicker garden furniture. The lawn stretches, green and gleaming, away to carefully managed undergrowth that is backed by tall plastered walls. The sun shines on me, and everything is bright, warm, and comfortable.

This paradise is in Armenia.

We have privacy here. Without that privacy, the sight on the veranda would not be possible. Homer and Ardia are sitting on the edge of the decking, staring out at the lawn, deep in conversation. Ardia, a gorgeous, long-limbed blonde, is leaning into the almost unfathomable mass of Homer. It would require a creature as alien as he is to make Ardia seem so tiny and dainty. That might even be a source of some of the attraction between them.

Homer is the ape-man. To the best of our knowledge, he is part man and part ape. To me, at least, he must be more than just that because his physical abilities don’t just venture but plunge headlong into the realm of the unnatural. When I first met him, he looked the part: a huge, monstrous, hair-covered beast. To blend into the public areas of the Berlin underground rail system, he allowed Ardia to shave him, to make him appear more human. He has kept up that grooming habit ever since. It must be an arduous task. I can’t say it makes him look entirely human, but it gets him pretty close to it. And the beautiful angel that is pressing herself against him, as I watch, must be motivation enough to complete any task.

They’ve been training. Homer has spent much of the last year recovering from a beating that left him looking like a piece of roadkill, literally. He heals fast, like Stryker and Ardia. Unnaturally fast. But even his body needed months to recover from what was done to him. The rest of the last year has been spent with Ardia. He has been almost inseparable from her.

They spend a lot of their time in training. She is refining his physical abilities. Until now, I think a bet on which of them would win a fight would have split the odds. Homer had the greater strength and power, Ardia was quicker and more skilled while still being terrifyingly powerful.

As these last months have passed, though, she has built him into a machine that might have no equal. I think that was the idea.

When they are not training, they can be seen talking, as they are now. Or else, they cannot be found at all. I won’t speculate on what occurs when they disappear like that, for hours at a time.

Much of this I have gleaned from Father O’Connor and Raz. I have not spent the entirety of the last year here, not even close to it. I have been away, hunting my monster, casting my webs, listening to whispers.

It’s a lot easier now. Razmik’s criminal empire can move me around rapidly and without great stress. He gladly funds me and equips me. I have learned more in the last year than I did in the previous ten. On my next trip, I feel I might score the touchdown that wins the game.

I see someone else as I sit here. He’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the garden, beneath the branches of a huge oak tree. He’s lost in thought and has no awareness of me. He’s staring at Homer and Ardia as well. But the posture, the expression, of our friend Abraham is nothing short of worrying.

Chapter 2

She stood on the balcony, walls of polished glass and steel stretching below her for what seemed like eternity until they appeared to disappear into the ocean of streets below.

Her long black hair reached her shoulders in curling tendrils, like the exploring vines of an exotic plant. The dress that hugged her figure was conservative, as befitted her status, but did not fail to be exquisitely feminine at the same time. Her olive skin and dark eyes hinted at Mediterranean origin generations past. She was an older woman, but still breathtaking.

She was Isabella Darkley. The Time Magazine on the coffee table beside her bore her face. In the office behind her, the walls were lined with framed photographs of the same, stretching back for decades.

On the top of the massive skyscraper, in huge red letters, were the words “DARKLEY CORP.”

She heard the door to her office make a tiny squeak as it slid open. She turned her head, her hair gently springing across her shoulder, and nodded.

The newcomer was a tall man with strong shoulders, dressed casually yet luxuriously. His skin was a shade of pale brown that was hard to place, his features an amalgamation, seeming to represent every race of man. His head was completely bald, his face utterly hairless. Not even eyebrows broke the smooth surface of his golden skin.

“Caesar,” Isabella said, returning her gaze to the forest of buildings that spread out below her.

“Isabella,” he said, his thick Latin accent unmistakable.

He moved to stand alongside her, sharing her view of the city. However, he did not quite stand evenly but positioned himself a fraction behind her right shoulder.

“What did he want?” Isabella asked.

“He wants to send something to The Nursery.”

Isabella frowned, “And why is he bothering us with that?”

“I think it’s something very special. He wants the transport to be laundered.”

“Laundered?”

Caesar nodded. “Moved from transport to transport, so that it cannot be traced.”

“That’s the arrangement for everything we send to The Nursery.”

“He wants very special care for this. Only trusted people are to handle it. People who know.”

Isabella only needed to consider this for a moment. “Do you think he’s bringing the other one in? It sounds like he’s trying to avoid double-agent trickery.”

Caesar nodded with certainty. “I’m sure of it.”

Isabella shrugged. “Well, do it then. Whatever little intrigue he’s conducting, it’s nothing to us. Without him, we have none of this.” She spread her arms as she said this, as if she were encapsulating the entire world.

Chapter 3

"You're ready to go back out there," Ardia said, her head resting against Homer's side. His massive arm lay across her back and shoulders as they sat side by side, looking out onto the lawn.

Homer hesitated. After a brief moment, he said, "If we had somewhere to go."

Ardia cast a glance towards Slayer, who sat scribbling away in his journal. "I don’t think it will be long before Slayer or one of the others brings us something we can use."

Homer said, "They don’t want to be found."

"Yes," Ardia replied, "but they’re too big to hide forever. Whatever they are, Homer, they need too many resources to support them. Troy sent a small army after us in Africa. Not just a random crew of mercenaries, but modified men. Think about the resources he would need to build and maintain them, the resources needed to move them around. And Zeus, Zeus spoke like he was going to conquer the world. Plans like that mean he’s got means. It means they’ve both got money. And where there’s money, there’s always a trail to follow."

"That sounds like something Razmik would say."

"It is one of his sayings. And it’s a good one. A lot, and I mean a lot, of his competitors have been taken down over the years because of the money trails. They kept themselves separate from the violence, killings, and drugs, but the money led to them. Believe me, Raz is very aware of how hard it is to really get rid of those breadcrumbs."

"He manages it," Homer said.

"Yes, he does. But he always says his own time has an expiration date." Her face saddened upon stating this.

They sat for a while, not talking, not needing to.

The breeze shifted, and a wave of cool air ran across the lawn to wash over them. Homer inhaled deeply and said, "Rain soon."

"That’s alright," Ardia said, stretching her back and pressing herself harder into his side in the process. "I think we’re done for the day. I’m running out of things to show you anyway. Hercules isn’t going to know what hit him."

Homer clenched one huge fist with enough force to make the knuckles pop loudly. "No, he won’t."

Ardia paused and turned to face him, placing a hand on his massive forearm. "There’s no hurry, though."

Homer said nothing. His silence seemed to disagree with her.

Ardia said, "I think Razmik has something for you."

"Oh no," Homer replied.

"No, not more guns. I swear, Homer, I don’t understand how you can have such great coordination but be so completely incapable of pointing a gun at something."

Homer shrugged his mountainous shoulders.

"No," Ardia said. "I think this new thing might suit you a lot better."

"You know what it is?"

Ardia said nothing.

"And you’re trying to warm me up to it."

Again, she remained silent.

"That means you and he both know that I’m not going to like it."

Ardia still said nothing, but she did smile.