At the other end of the Grand Hall, a commotion was brewing. Costumed con-goers had all gathered there, and the general murmur of the crowd had grown into a roar as people had crowded all around the front doors of the hotel to try and get a look at what was happening outside. What the hell was going on out there?

Gadget walked toward the crowd. And there . . . Holy shit. Just outside the doors was a man — or sort of a man; his pale, greenish skin, reptilian lack of a nose, enlarged cranium, and yellow, cat-like eyes betrayed the fact that he wasn’t entirely human anymore — dressed in a mechanical Evangeliojaeger. What the fuck kind of technology is that? I know Dizzy has an Evangeliojaeger, but this . . . this goes way beyond that, even. It was made of some shiny, alien metal, and featured armor plating on the shins, thighs, abdomen, forearms, upper arms, and chest. The rest was all spinning flywheels, gears, and pumping hydraulic pistons, with tubes and wires interconnecting the various pieces, with articulated metal gauntlets, and boots that looked like they housed rocket thrusters. And on his head . . . was that some version of a Dr. Manhatten Helmet? God, hopefully not. The overall effect was that of a whirling symphony of clockwork, motion, and imminent doom. And jutting out from behind him, from the spinal assembly, there protruded a large mechanism, to which were mounted twelve segmented, mechanical tentacles; six on either side of his body, and each about three meters in length . . . with claws and grippers on the ends of each one. Because of course there were. They writhed and undulated in the air behind him, almost with a life all their own.

So. This was Ravenkroft. Alrighty, then. Hi, I’m looking for Ravenkroft Evolutior . . . and a clean pair of shorts.

Well, you’re going to get your death wish, said the Beast.

Not now, thought Gadget. Please not now.

And, Ravenkroft wasn’t alone. Also outside the doors, on either side of him, there marched a squadron — and Gadget could scarcely credit this, but there the fuck it was, so oh well; so much for his goddamn “reality onion”; there went another layer! — of what appeared to be anthropomorphic animals. Gadget did a double-take. The horror of it cut into his bones. There were twelve of the “creatures” — he didn’t know what else to call them — marching beside Ravenkroft, six on either side, and they all bore similar features and modes of dress. They were humanoid . . . mostly . . . with the heads of animals. One had the head of a rhinoceros; another had the head of a wolf; yet another had the head of a giant bat; a fourth had the head of a bull, making it a minotaur; a fifth had the head of a jackal; and a sixth had the head of a ram; another a fox. The animal heads were connected to their bodies by what looked like painful vivisectional surgeries, as well as lots of cybernetic implants, tubes, and wires. Their arms and legs likewise had been outfitted with all sorts of technological “improvements,” most of them wired right into their flesh. They wore tight-fitting body suits that looked like they were made of neoprene, augmented by kevlar on their arms, chests, and legs . . . and over the top of that, they wore ridiculous-looking Napoleonic military overcoats. And on their heads, little bicorne hats. They had weapons, too — big, ugly looking guns with huge copper coils of wire wound around the plexiglass barrels, and circuit-laden firing chambers attached to brass grips and handles. And of course, the guns were mounted right onto their forearms. And, criss-crossed on each of their backs, they each had a pair of katanas. They snarled and growled and drooled menacingly as they halted at attention beside Ravenkroft, who smiled at them almost lovingly. Ravenkroft and the twelve creatures — Gadget decided to call them the “Teenage Mutant Cybermechazoid Samurai,” hoping the humor would detract from the sickening horror of it all; it didn’t — began marching toward the hotel’s front doors in a single, ordered line from left to right, grinning maniacally at the crowd of con-goers who had gathered there on the doors’ other side.

“NO!” screamed Gadget. He ran toward the crowd at the doors. “NO, GET AWAY FROM THERE!” Dizzy, Mystikite, Zoë, and Misto were right behind him. (Damn, that wheelchair of hers moves awfully fast, he thought.)

You can’t save anyone, least of all yourself, whispered the Beast.

He skidded to a halt, reached up, and switched on the Helm. Ravenkroft and his army of monsters were almost at the doors outside, and showed no signs of stopping or slowing their advance. They were going to plow straight through that crowd of people, he just knew it. Maybe he could use the Helm to broadcast a warning . . .

Gadget closed his eyes and concentrated. Whoa Jesus, here it came: The onslaught of other peoples’ thoughts filled his head as the Helm came online, and this time, he let it wash over him, surrounding him in an ocean of sights, sounds, smells, emotions, and impressions. He girded himself against it, and felt for the glistening rope of his own stream of consciousness within the maelstrom . . . found it . . . but it slipped through his fingers. He grabbed for it again, and this time, he caught it, and held on tight.

“Astrid!” he cried. “Activate Augmented Reality Mode!”

“Right!” came her disembodied voice.

The scene around him instantly transformed, the chaos in the Grand Hall melting into a 3D-rendered, computer-generated version of itself, billions upon billions of shimmering polygons and pixels, the people replaced with custom-rendered Avatars. His bones ached as they extended, and his muscles swelled and tensed as they grew in proportion, his clothes rippling as they transformed and he became Gadgorak Prime once again. He drew his Ray Gun from his hip and dialed it to Transilience Beam, and set it to “transmit.” Then he aimed it at the crowd of people near the doors, closed his eyes, and dropped the Wall.

For a moment, he let the horrendous gale-force of the other con-goers’ minds buffet him about, as he focused all his will on a singular thought: Get away from the doors! He’s coming in, and he doesn’t care if you’re in the way! Get out of the way RIGHT NOW! EVERYBODY, GET OUT OF THE WAY!

He opened his eyes and saw double for a moment — through a hundred pairs of eyes. His vision was a mess of superimposed images all layered on top of one another. He fired the Ray Gun at the crowd. The beam flew out of the Ray Gun and blasted into the crowd of people, a shimmering ray of white light, dispersing throughout the crowd and splashing over them like a wave of water breaking over a shore.

“Whew!” he breathed. People began backing away from the doors, though they looked confused as to why they were doing so; he had sent the thought, alright, but it must’ve come in on a subconscious frequency, or something. Oh well. At least it had gotten through.

You’re going to die, said the Beast. You and all your friends. And it will be your fault.

“Astrid — ” he began, but then stopped. He had been about to tell her to deactivate Augmented Reality Mode, but — wait. No. He clutched his virtual Ray Gun tighter. No, he might need this. This, and Gadgorak Prime’s virtual strength.

And here came Ravenkroft. He raised his right arm as he approached the doors from the outside — and mounted there was some type of advanced particle-beam weapon, just like the Disruptophazers that Dizzy had shipped to Mystikite and Zoë at the apartment. And then, he fired the weapon. A pulse of purple-white light flashed, and then suddenly, all the glass in the front doors of the hotel was shattering in slow motion, the steel beams in the doors melting and warping, and there was suddenly even more chaos everywhere.

People screamed and ran in every direction — though mostly in the general direction of away from the doors. Gadget stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by the spectacle of it all. Dwarves from Middle-Earth, Minbari from the Babylon 5 universe, Vulcans, Time Lords, and Asgardians all screaming their heads off, some of them losing pieces of their cosplays as they ran. Delvian Pa’us, Doctor Manhattans, Doctor Evils, and Doc Browns all stampeding away from the doors. Jokers and Harley Quinns and Gambits and Deadpools all bumping into each other and trying to find cover — or the rear exits of the place. Three hundred frightened con-goers all rushing to get away, desperate to be anywhere but in front of those shattered glass doors, as Ravenkroft and his twelve Cybermechazoids marched through them, the Cybermechazoids’ combat boots crunching the broken glass underfoot.

Dizzy, Misto, Mystikite, and Zoë were right behind Gadget, about ten meters from the hotel’s front entrance — and from Ravenkroft and his army — but about seventy meters away from the nearest elevator or stairwell . . . In other words, they were trapped, and facing the villain head-on as he and his minions walked through the remains of the front doors, his eyes fixed on none other than Dizzy, a maniacal gleam in them.

“Well?” cried Dizzy, looking to him, Misto, Mystikite, and Zoë. “You people have got weapons! Use them! And Misto — now would be a good time for you to . . . y’know . . . lose control.”

“Got it, Diz,” said Misto. He closed his eyes and appeared to concentrate. What did she mean by that? Gadget wondered.

She’s right . . . this is all spiraling out of control, whispered the Beast. So are you. Gadget’s heartbeat had quickened; he was sweating; trembling. He tried to control it, but it did no good. Dammit, the Beast was right — he was terrified.

Mystikite and Zoë exchanged an uncertain look, then Mystikite nodded to her. They both drew the guns Dizzy had had shipped to the apartment. They looked like variations on a Star Wars blaster: A black, squarish casing with a longish barrel, and a square grip and trigger mechanism . . . only with several circuit boards mounted to the exterior, with wires going every which way; the barrel was made of glass, just like the barrels of the guns belonging to Ravenkroft’s minions; and wrapped around it, a coil of gleaming wire and several large magnets. Mystikite and Zoë switched the guns on — there was a sound like old electric vacuums being kicked on inside an air conditioning unit — then took aim at Ravenkroft and his Cybermechazoid minions, and pulled the triggers. Bright purple pulses of electric mayhem catapulted out of the glass barrels and flew at Ravenkroft’s Cybermechazoid soliders. Mystikite scored a direct hit in the raven-headed one’s chest . . . Sparks and chunks of body-armor flew, the blast burning through its costume easily. The creature stumbled backward a few steps, and a loud CAW! of agony issued from its beak and throat as it threw back its head . . . But it recovered quickly, and kept on coming. It raised its cybernetic arm, and the weapon attached to it.

Holy shit! Gadget quickly dialed his Ray Gun to Project Cap’s Shield and fired it at Mystikite. A gleaming soap-bubble-like force-field popped into existence around his friend just as the raven-headed Cybermechazoid fired its arm-mounted weapon at him. The purple-white bolt of energy hit the force-field and dissipated harmlessly.

Meanwhile, holy shit . . . was he seeing this? Was this for real? Misto closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and threw back his head. He yelped in pain as his bones made a cracking noise and he began to grow larger — first an inch, then three inches, then a full foot taller and wider at the shoulders. Holy Jesus. What. The. Fuck.

The other con-goers all screamed and gasped and backed away. They had now all gathered in a teeming mass of humanity in the back of the Grand Hall, and were watching the battle, their voices a dull roar of shouting and murmuring and panicking. But God, that was nothing compared to what they were doing in Gadget’s head. Jesus, their thoughts . . . the things they were thinking . . . Their reality onions were crumbling, all of them . . .

With one bone-crunching spurt of growth and wince of pain at a time, Misto’s arms and legs lengthened as well, his spine curving ever so slightly as his shoulders grew further apart, the cords in his neck all standing out from the strain of the transformation. Blood dribbled from his nose. More screams, and people began to run away — like they should’ve in the first place. Misto’s pot-belly disappeared . . . as though he had become the star of a time-lapse weight-loss video, and a set of lean abdominal muscles bubbled into existence there; his biceps and forearms likewise rippled and enlarged as he gritted his teeth and bit back screams of what had to be unbearable agony; sweat dripped from his brow; his skin changed color, moving from a dark chocolate brown to a bright cyan-blue. (Blue? Why blue? thought Gadget.) Likewise, his hair grew . . . and not just on his head, but all over. His Thanos costume ripped and tore, his new physique clawing through it, his flesh tasting freedom as it was suddenly covered in bright blue fur, and his face became not human . . . but wolfen. His nose became a snout; his mouth extended from his chin and sat at the base of it; somehow, it looked like he could still talk with it . . . His ears moved to the back of his head and were now pointed and much larger. His eyes, enlarged and now a bright yellow, stood further apart and his forehead, sloped and larger now as well, was furrowed in a grimace of pain. His hands were more like paws, but he he still had five fingers, though they ended in claws, now. With a grunt, and a snarl, Misto picked himself up off the floor and stood, now two-point-two meters tall and covered in bright blue fur, a Wolfman if ever there was one.

Zoë fired her Disruptophazer at the Cybermechazoids — it was hard to fire a gun, Gadget supposed, when the shots and ammunition had no weight to them — and hit the minotaur right in the eyes. Sparks and blood flew from the point of impact and its brains exploded out the back of its skull in a grotesque expulsion of wet, sloppy crimson slime and viscera. It staggered backward, roaring in pain and agony, clutching at its face with twitching limbs. It fell over backward and slammed into the floor, flopping over dead. A smell like scorched hamburger filled the air. The look on Zoë’s face told the whole story of how she felt at having — for the first time in her existence, as both a person, and as a Doctor — actually taken a life. She appeared to swallow hard, her eyes wide, her arm trembling. She clutched her gun with a death-grip, but still held it in front of her, and now gripped it with two hands, and fired again. The other Cybermechazoids immediately raised their cybernetic arms and trained their weapons on Zoë.

“Hold your fire, Minions!” Ravenkroft commanded as he laughed. He raised his hand, and another soap-bubble-like force-field melted into existence . . . This time in front of him and his troops, and all of Zoë’s and Mystikite's shots were for naught. The purple-white bolts of energy from their guns slammed into the force-field and dissipated like paintball splatters seeping into a shimmering puddle. Ravenkroft laughed again. Ravenkroft and his minions approached them and fanned out into a circle around them, their cybernetic arms — and thus weapons — raised and aimed right at them. “Well! This is entertaining! Alas, the force-field I’ve conjured from the quantum vacuum only works one way, I’m afraid. It will let us fire our weapons on you, but not the other way around. Neat, eh? I thought so. A trick the Zarcturean race discovered in their long and storied history of scientific breakthroughs.”

Mystikite and Zoë quit firing. Gadget clenched his fingers around his virtual Ray Gun.

You can’t do anything to help, said the Beast. Hell, you can’t even help yourself.

“Get out of here, Ravenkroft,” said Dizzy, wheeling herself forward. “This place — this convention — is sacrosanct. You’re not welcome here.”

“Oh?” he said, and chuckled. “And exactly what’re you going to do? Throw me out? The truth is, I have no interest in harming any of these . . . people. I only want you. And the Tesseract Reactor. I must say, though, you made a grave mistake in not bringing your Evangeliojaeger with you, Weatherspark. A grave mistake indeed.”

Dizzy smiled a half smile. “Oh? Did I really? Accio Evangeliojaeger!”

Her wheelchair began to hum and vibrate, and then began to rattle. And then suddenly, it began to change. The various pieces began to unlock, spin around, and transform. The leg-rests spun around and locked onto her legs; motors appeared and slid into place; gears emerged and clicked into each other seamlessly; hydraulic pistons popped out and rotated into position. The arm-rests folded up and wrapped around her forearms and upper arms, encasing them in armor plating and clockwork mechanisms; she slid her hands into the articulated metal gauntlets that appeared from inside the front rim of the seat. The entire back side of it snapped open and disassembled — and then reassembled — revealing the spinal cord assembly of her Evangeliojaeger. Clicking and whirring noises accompanied the concert of whirling motion that her wheelchair briefly became. Finally, the wheels disassembled themselves into motorized sections and locked into place. And then Dizzy stood up, her fists clenched, a steely glint in her eyes. Wow. Had he really just seen that? There went another layer of his reality onion.

“Feast your eyes on the Mark Fourteen, arsehole,” she said, taking a step forward. “Now. Like I said. Get. Out. Of. Here.”

“Ah, Weatherspark,” sighed Ravenkroft. “You disappoint me. I said I had no interest in harming these people. But I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” He turned to his Cybermechazoid soliders and grinned a malevolent grin. “Open fire on the cast of extras!”

“NO!” shouted Gadget, Dizzy, Misto, Mystikite, and Zoë, all at the same time.

Go ahead, try to save them. Try and fail, said the Beast.

The Cybermechazoid mutants did as they were told; they aimed their weapons right past them, and right at the crowd of screaming, scurrying con-goers behind them. Oh shit, this was bad. Gadget thought quickly. He turned, and fired his etheric Ray Gun at the crowd of con-goers . . . just as the Cybermechazoids fired their weapons. The glowing bolts of energy slammed into the iridescent, soap-bubble-like force-field surrounding the con-goers just as it popped into existence. The con-goers all screamed and cried out in terror. Some of them laughed and applauded — apparently they still thought this was some kind of show. More fool them. The Cybermechazoids kept firing their weapons, the blasts ricocheted off the forcefield, and the con-goers all kept screaming . . . and screaming, and screaming; it was horrible, how frightened and terrified they must’ve felt . . . and here! At con! Where it was supposed to be fun! — but Gadget’s force-field held its own. The blasts couldn’t get through.

“Stop! Hold your fire!” commanded Ravenkroft.

The Cybermechazoids stopped firing, and all turned to look at him with their ichor-black and animal eyes. The con-goers, all huddled together now — all hundred or so of them, together with the hotel’s staff who were trapped there — who were no doubt calling the police at this very minute — cowered and stared at Ravenkroft and his miniature army of monsters . . . and at the five of them. Hoping they would do something. Anything. But what were they supposed to do? Gadget’s heart pounded in his chest. His nerves taut and stroked with razorblades, he listened as Ravenkroft spoke.

“Ah,” said Ravenkroft. “I see I’m not the only one who can hack together a psionic amplifier and quantum vacuum modifier. So . . . These are the people Desirée Weatherspark thinks are going to help her save the world. From me. Heh. Well, you’re certainly an . . . eclectic bunch, I’ll give you that. I’ll leave you in peace when I get what I want. And I want . . . the Tesseract Reactor. Though I should call it by its proper name. The Transcendence Engine. That’s what its creators called it. You’ve never met them, though. They’re gone, now. They were called the Alethiaeon. They disappeared from this universe over thirty thousand years ago. Not that they really ever cared what happened to it, mind you. They always were a bunch of absentee landlords. Give me the Transcendence Engine, Weatherspark, and I will leave you — and your fellow ‘geeks’ — in peace. Fail to give it to me, and . . . well . . .”

The thing on his head — yep, it sure as hell was a version of some kind of Dr. Manhatten Helmet; oh fuck — lit up, the vacuum tubes attached to it beginning to glow a soft amber color, and he himself began to levitate. He stretched out his arms to either side as he floated into the air, grinning like mad, and then Gadget heard the astonished, awe-filled, and horror-struck screams behind him. He whipped around to look, and saw the other con-goers all lifting up off of their feet, over a hundred people all drifting up into the air, all seemingly weightless and in free fall, all of them floating upwards and tumbling into the air, some of them trying to “swim” back downward. Even the hotel staff were caught up in the antigravity field he was generating. The Grand Hall became a waterless aquarium filled with people-fish, all of them screaming and yelling and crying out in confusion, surprise, terror, and fear. The only people unaffected were Gadget, Dizzy, Misto, Mystikite, and Zoë, and of course the Cybermechazoids, who now aimed their guns upward and into the floating, screaming, thunderstruck mass of con-goers. Whoa shit. This was worse than that scene in The Last Jedi, where the Order had the remnants of the Rebels pinned down in that giant cave on the salt planet and were about to blast open the doors.

You see? said the Beast. You cannot save them. You cannot save yourself. You are fucking doomed, my friend. Just let it happen. Close your eyes and submit to your fate. Gadget fought against the urge to give up. He clenched his trembling fists.

“Stop this, Ravenkroft!” yelled Dizzy. She engaged her suit’s Repulsivators and levitated up into the air to face him. “Your major beef is with me, arsehole! Not these innocent people!”

“I think not,” he replied, and chuckled. “Just give me what I want, and it’s over. Give me what I want, and I’ll put them back on the ground where they belong.”

“Never,” said Dizzy. She too clenched her fists — though not in fear, but in defiance.

“Ah well,” said Ravenkroft. “It was worth a try. I suppose I’ll just have to tear up this city from one end to the other until I find where you’ve hidden it, and kill anyone or anything that gets in my way. But rest assured, I will find it, eventually. With, or without your pleasurable assistance. Now, then. Biomechanoids. Kill them all. You . . . Desirée . . . You I will deal with myself.”

“NO!” yelled Gadget as the Biomechanoids aimed their guns at Dizzy, Mystikite, Zoë, and Misto. He aimed his Ray Gun at his friends, and fired. The force-field popped into existence just as the Cybermechazoids’ Disruptophazer fire slammed straight into it. And it seemed the force-fields was, like Ravenkroft’s, one-way: His friends could fire at Ravenkroft’s Cybermechazoids — for all the good it did them, given that they had a force-field, too — but they remained protected. So, it was a stalemate. Neither side could really harm the other.

Then, several things all happened at once:

First: Ravenkroft waved his hand, and Dizzy cried out as she was suddenly whisked throug the air. She crashed into the wall of the Grand Hall and slid down it, and she and her Evangeliojaeger clattered to the floor, and rolled over onto her back.

“Ow,” she proclaimed, wincing as she propped herself up on her elbows and recovered. She clambered back up onto her feet, glaring at Ravenkroft. “That . . . was a mistake,” she said.

She levitated up into the air on her suit’s Repulsivators and flew back toward Ravenkroft. But he simply held up his hand, and she cursed as she stopped in mid-air, as though trapped in an invisible net. She struggled, her arms pinned to her sides by invisible bonds.

“Let me out of this! Whatever . . . this is!” she grunted.

Ravenkroft smiled. “I think not, dearest Desirée. I think not. You’re coming with me.”

Second: Just as Dizzy levitated upward to face Ravenkroft, Misto backed up several paces, then several more, then several more after that, and then he ran . . . toward the force-field. Toward the Cybermechazoids, who were still firing their weapons at the force-field and his friends, who — despite the Cybermechazoids’ force-field — were still firing their weapons at them. And then with a bestial roar, he took a mighty leap into the air, jumping up over the line of fire, catapulting himself up through the air and onto two of the Cybermechazoid soldiers — the one with the gorilla’s head, and the one with the jackal’s head — tackling them from above. They went down still firing their arm-mounted weapons, their shots going wild and blasting into the ceiling of the Grand Hall, the fluorescent lights high above exploded in showers of glass and sparks. And so began their brawl. The Cybermechazoids scrambled around beneath his weight and got out and around from under him, and Misto fell onto the floor. He quickly recovered, but Gorilla-Head punched him in the face as it scrambled to its feet, and Jackal-Head kicked him. As he managed to clamber to regain his footing, Misto lashed out with his claws and tore open a gash on Jackal-Head’s chest. It howled in pain, and punched him in the chest with its mechanical fist; Misto returned fire with a mighty roundhouse punch, and his fist crashed into its jaw with the force of a jackhammer. It went stumbling to one side. But Gorilla-Head got him from behind: It punched him in his ribs with its flesh-fist, and Misto staggered forward, wincing in pain. He wheeled around, and kicked it in the stomach; it went stumbling backward a few paces. Jackal-Head took advantage of his turned back and leapt onto his back, and got Misto in a headlock. Misto struggled against it, and whirled around, then threw his own feet out from under himself and threw himself down onto the floor and onto his back, crushing Jackal-Head beneath him. Gorilla-Head descended upon him, hammering him with blows; it punched him in the face repeatedly, but Misto threw a sucker-punch at its ugly snout from below and cold-cocked it. It staggered backward, and Misto regained his footing. Jackal-Head — wounded, but not out of the fight yet — clawed its way back to its feet behind him as he faced-off against Gorilla-Head, and kicked it in its misshapen skull. The creature went stumbling to one side, as Jackal-Head went for Misto’s ribs, the same move that Gorilla-Head had tried earlier. But Misto surprised it by turning around just in time, and caught it by the throat with his clawed hand. Gorilla-Head punched him in the head, and Misto staggered forward, releasing Jackal-Head. He spun around and delivered a roundhouse kick to Jackal-Head; there was the satisfying sound of bone snapping, and it went down for good. Then, he snarled and growled, crouched down, and threw himself at Gorilla-Head with a ferocious roar . . . and went for the neck, mauling the creature, tearing out its throat, his wolfen incisors ripping out its esophagus and its arteries, blood and viscera spraying everywhere as the creature gurgled its last hideous scream and death-rattle, its cybernetic limbs twitching. But no sooner did he fell these two Cybermechazoids than two others — the bear-headed one and the raven-headed one Mystikite had hit earlier — broke off their pointless attack on the force-field and attacked him.

Third: Just Misto leapt through both the force-fields and began fighting the Cybermechazoids, the two force-fields each flickered for a brief moment, destabilized by such a large mass passing through their electromagnetic structures. Zoë and Mystikite had held their ground so far; they had kept firing their Disruptophazers at the enemy force-field, despite none of their shots getting through. But as the two force-fields flickered, one of Zoë’s shots suddenly hit home: She managed to tag the goat-headed Cybermechazoid right in the chest. Sparks flew from the point of impact, and a dark black scorch mark appeared on its chest. The stink of burning hot-dogs filled the air. The creature tottered back a few paces, bah-ah-ah!-ing in pain, breaking off its attack, then recovered, and advanced again. Then it fired its weapon at her and Mystikite, the force-field flickering just as it did so, and the purple-white bolt of energy zapped through the air and hit Mystikite right in the chest. He yelped in pain, and staggered backward, the wound in his chest smoldering, and then collapsed. An odor like that of barbecued beef sizzled and cooked upward in noodling streamers of smoke from the wound.

“HIDEO!” screamed Zoë. She yelled a furious yell of anger and rage and pain, and her next shot finished off Goat-Head. She knelt beside Mystikite. The force-field meanwhile restored itself.

Oh holy hell. No. Gadget shook his head. No. He refused to believe it. No — that — that couldn’t have just happened! No — his best friend — one of his only friends — had not just gotten the shit shot out of him. And was not lying there bleeding. Possibly bleeding to death.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“You!” shouted Ravenkroft, suddenly glaring down in his direction. “Enough of you and your force-field!”

Oh shit, thought Gadget. He means me.”

Ravenkroft waved his hand through the air and Gadget gasped as his feet left the ground and he suddenly flew backward through the air. Electrical sparks flew from the circuits on his Helm and a bright sickle of pain stabbed through his head. Yow, fuck! Then he hit an Elf from Middle-Earth — both he and the Elf cried out — and then he hit the floor hard. Shit! Ouch! Oof! The wind went out of him as his ass hit the ground! — OW! Fuck! — and pain splintered up through his tailbone and into his spine. He cursed loudly and spilled over onto his side, the agony spreading through his ribs. His skin smacked the tile floor and stung as his palms helped him skid to a stop.

Jesus H. Christ, he hurt all over. His head swam.

Oh shit. The force-fields protecting his friends and the con-goers!

But no sooner did he think this than did the remaining Cybermechazoids — all five of them (the bear- and raven-headed Cybermechazoids were too busy brawling with Misto) — stop firing their Disruptophazers. And started advancing toward his friends. Each one drew one of their katanas from their backs, gleaming swords of death marching forward.

Dammit, he had to do something! Dizzy was Ravenkroft’s telekinetic prisoner; his best friend had just been shot; and the Cybermechazoids were advancing on Zoë. What the fuck was he going to do?

They’re all dead already, whispered the Beast. There’s nothing you can do.

“Watch me,” said Gadget. He got to his feet, grit his teeth, and rolled up his sleeves. The Helm was still working — he could hear the burble of the con-goers confused, terrified voices in his head as they all floated there in space in the Grand Hall behind him, all their eyes on him now; gee, no pressure, right? — so he had a chance. He just had to try not to blow it.

Now, then. Back to that question. What the fuck was he going to do?

Dizzy struggled against Ravenkroft’s telekinetic hold on her. Gods-damn it, it was no use! So long as he had that contraption on his head, she was as good as dead meat! She had to figure out something. Even now, she could feel him rifling through her head . . . could feel sickening, skeletal mental fingers rifling through her thoughts as though they were the papers in a filing cabinet . . . No! She had to fight him! Presently she gasped as he curled a fist closed and she whisked through the air as he drew her closer to him, Misto continued brawling with two of the Biomechanoid soliders below, and the other five remaining Biomechanoids ceased firing their weapons, drew their swords, and began marching toward her newest friends and employees. All told, this was not going well. Man, con so far sucked this year.

“And now,” said Ravenkroft, as she floated closer to him, helpless and hating it, “you will give me what I want!”

“Not bloody likely!” she said through gritted teeth.

“You know,” he said, “that I could overwrite your free will if I wanted to? With a little more work than it would probably take to retrieve the information itself, I very well could.”

“Why, is that how you get all your dates with younger women?” she asked. Just below her, the Biomechanoids that weren’t fighting Misto — the fox-, wolf-, ram-headed ones — had closed in around Zoë and Mystikite, their swords drawn. Zoë stood up from where she knelt at Mystikite's side — Mystikite clutched weakly at his chest and writhed in pain on the ground — and tried to point her Disruptophazer in three different directions at once. She picked one direction and fired at one of the Biomechanoids — the one with the wolf’s head — and sparks and blood exploded from its chest. The second hit was enough to take it down. It uttered a gurgling howl and crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from its wounds, fur flying. The others pointed their swords at her throat. She dropped the Disruptophazer and put up her hands in surrender, and with a pained expression glanced back down at Mystikite, who lay on the floor, still bleeding and groaning, his eyes shut.

Gods-damn it, she had gotten them into this . . . she had to get them out! Simply had to! Where was Gadget? Oh — there he was — just getting back on his feet. Ravenkroft had telekinetically tossed him across the Grand Hall and into the levitating crowd of con-goers and down, onto the floor — the absolute bastard! — and now, as he got to his feet, he rolled up his sleeves, a determined look on his face, and made a motion like he was drawing an imaginary gun from an imaginary holster . . . and aimed it at the ceiling . . .

Then, thunder. Or a sliver of thunder. Then a louder, crisper clap. She quickly looked up — as did Ravenkroft, tracking her gaze — and there, on the ceiling, clouds were forming. Ravenkroft frowned.

“Now, what manner of new trickery of yours is this, Weatherspark?” he said.

“New, for sure,” she said with a smile. “But not mine, arsehole.”

And then came the blinding flash. With another crack of thunder, a bright electric arc leapt from the clouds to Ravenkroft’s version of Gadget’s Dr. Manhatten Helmet, and it exploded in a shower of yellow sparks. Ravenkroft screamed, and flailed in the air. Dizzy felt herself drop, but within seconds caught herself on Repulsivator power and floated back up into the air.

She whipped her head around quickly, and to her horror, saw a pulsing shockwave ripple through the crowd of over two hundred levitating con-goers. Then they all dropped out of the air.

Gadget’s had known what would happen the second his custom-made lightning bolt made contact with Ravenkroft’s Helm. He hadn’t even been sure that would work; now he was torn between being (a) fucking overjoyed that it had, and (b) fucking terrified that his next trick would fail. He whirled around heel-toe and pointed the Ray Gun at the falling, screaming , hollering crowd of Dwarves, Supermen, Doctor Stranges, Captain Americas, Sandmen, Akiras, Jems and their Holograms, Anita Blakes, Changelings, and Captain Mal Reynoldses and fired the instant before they all crashed into the floor. With the gun set to Mordy’s Faithful Hand and the widest-possible dispersal pattern, and a bright flash of scintillating blue-white light, the beam spread out around the crowd and enveloped them in an enormous, flickering spherical field the size of the Grand Hall itself, stopping their descent. They hovered mere inches from the ground. Gadget grunted and strained to hold onto the Ray Gun and keep it steady, the kinetic force of their descent feeding back through the beam and making it difficult. Blood ran from his left nostril, the capillaries in his prefrontal cortex overloading from the mental effort. The vacuum tubes on his Helm glowed brighter and hotter; he could feel them, heating up. But, he managed to gently lower the crowd safely to the ground, settling the feet and backsides of Arwens and Starbucks alike onto the pristine tile floor gingerly and with a touch of grace — if he did say so himself — to their combined, bemused astonishment and, apparently, downright slack-jawed wonderment.

Gadget grinned. Damn! That had been incredible! For the first time in his life, he had actually done something heroic! Fuckin’-A! He kept on smiling for a moment, despite the horrible grimdarkiness of the entire situation.

He reached up and touched his face. Blood. From both his nostrils. Oh no. That wasn’t good. He suddenly felt very dizzy. And tired. And . . .

Then, the SWAT team arrived, and things really went to shit. Probably. Because he wasn’t around to see it, per se; no, he was very soon Gadgorak Prime again, and back in Fantazmagoria, on a Quest to retrieve the ancient Crystal Sword, Dràchynthýr.

Zoë held the “Disruptophazer” — what a weird name for a weapon; it was as if Dizzy had been torn between “Disruptor” and “Phaser” and had just said “screw it, I like ‘em both” — steadily aimed at the Creatures outside the flickering force-field, and marveled at how disturbingly easy it had been to take one of their lives. These poor, hapless creatures . . . if they hadn’t been trying to kill her, Gadget, Mystikite, and Misto, she would’ve felt pity for them. She thought of Viktor Frankenstein in the movie Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein:“You fool, Viktor Frankenstein, of Geneva . . . Do you really think this ‘thing’ will thank you for its monstrous birth?” Indeed — how horrific their births must’ve been . . . and what terrifying lives they must’ve lived. Most likely in cages. How confusing must the world be to them? Well, that didn’t really matter now, did it? Because these fucking things were trying to fucking kill her, and her boyfriend, and her best friend, and her new friends! So fuck their quality of life! Zoë kept on firing her Disruptophazer — despite it not doing any good; she did it more out of fear and reflex than anything — at the creepy animal-hybrids, her eyes darting from one of them to another, and then —

Her eyes darted to the side to look as Misto leapt through the force-field and tackled the two Biomechs. The force-field flickered, and Zoë blinked in surprise as one of her shots hit home in the chest of the goat-headed Biomechanoid creature. Sparks and burnt blood flew from the wound and it bah-ah-ah!ed in agony, and stumbled backward, but quickly recovered and then kept on coming. Jesus! How hard was it to take one of these things down? The head! You had to hit them in the head. She aimed, ready to fire again, and waited for the force-field to flicker again —

As it did, the goat-headed Biomechanical creature returned fire. She swerved to avoid the blast . . . and it hit Mystikite.

She screamed “HIDEO!” just as the purple-white bolt of energy slammed into his chest, sparks flying, and Mystikite went sprawling to the ground, smoking and the odor of burnt meat rising from the wound. Oh Jesus, no. No, no, no. This was not happening! Mystikite groaned and clutched at the blackened, bloodied wound and charred hole in his costume. Oh fuck, this was happening.

Zoë knelt beside him. She fought the tears in her eyes. Tried to calm herself. It didn’t work. Goddammit, she had to stop her hands from shaking! C’mon, stop! She gingerly lifted Mystikite's clutching hand away from the wound. He was weak; he didn’t even fight her. God, it looked bad. Real bad. There was a large circular burn in his chest, blackened and charred and red — you could see the bone beneath, and there were holes right through it — with blood seeping out of them and around the edges and leaking down either side of his body in rivulets.

“Jesus,” she breathed, her eyes wide with terror. He was going to die from this.

The anger welled inside her. Unable to control it, a primal yell of rage boiled up in her throat, and she stood up, clutching the Disruptophazer pistol in her hand. She knew she probably couldn’t hurt Ravenkroft without getting seriously fucked up herself — and she couldn’t risk that, because goddamn it, Mystikite needed her — but she could hurt his goddamn minions; that was for sure! She waited until the force-field flickered again, holding her arm steady despite the fact that it trembled — and despite the fact that the other Biomechanoids were now advancing on and still firing — and when the field flickered, she held down the trigger and fired at the goat-headed Biomech repeatedly. One, two, three purple-white bolts slammed into its head, and its skull exploded. Viscera, brains, bone, and blood scattered and splattered everywhere, and its smoldering body flailed and tripped and plopped down onto the floor, a lifeless husk.

“You,” she heard Ravenkroft say, his gaze directed at Gadget. Her eyes went to him. He, the bastard who had brought all this on. She had never hated anyone so much in her life. “Enough of you and your force-field!”

Then she gasped as she saw Gadget go flying backward through the air, and into the floating crowd of captive con-goers. No time to see if he was alright. None at all. He was getting to his feet — that was all she needed to see. Mystikite. She had to see to Mystikite. Zoë whirled back around, and knelt beside him.

“Honey?” she said. “Can you hear me?”

“I . . .” he began weakly. “What happened?”

“You . . .’ she gulped, “you got shot.”

“I . . . did? Did . . . did we win?”

“Um,” she said, “not . . . so you’d notice.”

“Ugh,” he whispered. “Guess we’re really . . . racking up . . . experience points . . . though.”

She smiled through the tears. “Yeah. Yeah we really are. Don’t try to talk though. We’re gonna get you through this.”

She looked up, and saw Dizzy fly toward Ravenkroft. But something was wrong. Dizzy’s limbs weren’t moving, and she looked like she was struggling. Oh no. That meant she wasn’t moving of her own accord. That meant Ravenkroft was pulling her toward him. Telekinetically.

“And now,” said Ravenkroft, as Dizzy floated closer to him, “you will give me what I want!”

“Not bloody likely!” said Dizzy. That’s it girl, thought Zoë. You fight him. You fight him fang and coffin-nail!

“You know,” he said, “that I could overwrite your free will if I wanted to? With a little more work than it would probably take to retrieve the information itself, I very well could.”

“Why, is that how you get all your dates with younger women?” retorted Dizzy. Damn straight, girl! Good for her!

All around her, the chaos of the mêlée continued, suffused in the marrow of her grief over Mystikite. She was going to lose him. Lose him. Here, now. Impossible. She pulled his head into her lap and stroked his hair and cried. It was all she could do for him.

Misto now fought three of the most ferocious-looking of the Biomechs — the rhinoceros-headed one, the tiger-headed one, and the bear-headed one; each of which seemed to pose him a different challenge. The rhino-headed one looked like it liked to use bludgeoning attacks with its horn, while the tiger-headed one fought with its claws and both it and the bear-headed one always tried to go for the maul. Misto hauled back a fist and punched the bear-headed one in the furry face . . . It staggered backward on its feet and regained its posture quickly, and came at him again. Meanwhile, the rhino-headed one got him in a headlock from behind. Misto grappled with its muscular arms, struggling to get free, and meanwhile kicked with all his might at the tiger-headed one, nailing it in the stomach. It stumbled back, and crashed into the wall, but recovered quickly enough and leapt at him with a snarling roar, slashing at his snout with its claws. They opened a series of bloody gashes in his blue fur and Misto winced and snarled. He managed to break free of Rhino-Head’s headlock, whirled around, and grabbed Rhino-Head by its singular horn and its forehead, let loose a mighty roar, leapt into the air, and then dropped all his weight to the ground and broke off Rhino-Head’s horn. The creature bellowed in pain and agony, and went to its knees. Misto dropped an elbow onto its skull — it went down for the count, blood pouring from its wounds — just as Bear-Head grappled him around the waist and hoisted him into the air and threw him — all several hundred pounds of him — into the tiled wall of the Grand Hall. The tiles there shattered and broke and left a Misto-sized hole in the wall. Misto crumpled to the floor with a growl of pain, and then slowly began to get to his feet, but Tiger-Head and Bear-Head had other plans. They both grabbed him by the arms and hoisted him up, and flipped him over. Bear-Head put its foot on his chest, and aimed its Disruptophazer at his head. Misto — grudgingly — raised his hands in surrender. Bear-Head grinned a toothy, ugly grin at him, its gleaming eyes beaming a menacing stare of gleeful triumph at him.

Then, Zoë heard the sounds around her change. Uh oh. Whoa holy shit. She had been so focused on Mystikite that she hadn’t noticed a big change. The fox-, wolf-, and ram-headed Biomechanoids had stopped firing their weapons and were now advancing toward them in a circle with their katanas drawn. Great. Just great. They hadn’t finished them off with their Disruptophazers so they could take them prisoner and freaking torture them for information they didn’t have. Wonderful. Thanks, Dizzy, for embroiling us in your little world of mad scientist supervillains and their shenanigans. It mad con so much more fun this year.

Zoë — reluctantly — placed Mystikite's head back on the floor from out of her lap, gently, and then stood up, and pointed the Disruptophazer at the nearest Biomechanoid. Then the next one. Then the next one. There were three of them, goddamn it! If she shot one of them, the others might rush her with their swords.

But then again . . . she had no guarantee they weren’t going to do that anyway. Hell, she had no guarantee of anything.

Besides, she was still itching for some more goddamn payback.

She quickly turned and randomly chose the wolf-headed Biomechanoid, and fired at its furry head. The purple-white flash almost blinded her at such close range, but one truncated howl — and the smell of roasted meat and electrical ozone — later, and the beast’s head exploded. A brief shower of warm, wet crimson blood and viscera, brains, and flecks of bone-shard — and of course cooked fur — pelted her face and cosplay as they splattered, and the thing’s body crumpled to the floor, dead. Served the things right. They had shot Mystikite. Motherfuckers.

The other Biomechanoids didn’t react. They simply remained where they were, with their swords pointed right at her neck. Not taking her eyes off them, she very slowly knelt back down next to Mystikite. Their swords followed her motion, as did their beady, piercing gazes.

Then, thunder. She looked up. Yep, storm clouds were gathering in the Grand Hall, just up in the ceiling. Her eyes searched, and found Gadget . . . recovered from his being tossed by Ravenkroft, he stood about twenty feet away from where she knelt, a fist clenched at his side, his other hand pantomiming holding an imaginary gun he had “aimed” at the ceiling of the Grand Hall where currently, a thundercloud had somehow materialized.

Zoë jumped in surprise as thunder crashed all around her and a flash of lightning arced down from the clouds and destroyed Ravenkroft’s version of Gadget’s Dr. Manhatten Helmet, and about fifty feet behind her, all of the con-goers — who had been suspended in some kind of antigravity field — began to fall. Gadget whirled around on his feet and pantomimed aiming the same “gun” at them, and lo and behold, they stopped falling suddenly. Well, whatever he was doing, it was working. And Zoë was sure as shit glad for that. But none of it was going to help Mystikite. Goddamn it, nothing could help this. She inspected the wound again. Jesus . . . this was bad. The rage was building within her again. She felt the heat of it in her veins. The cold of it in her heart. The meanness of it coursing through her nerves like poisoned electricity. She wanted to hurt them for this. The bastards. The bastard, singular. They had to pay. She had to take this out of their asses!

Then, like the clarion call of angels arriving on a mountaintop, came the whoop and wail of sirens outside the hotel.

The firetruck showed up first, across the street, its red lights winking and flashing. Then the two police cars, one on either side of the hotel entrance, their red, white, and blue lights rotating and coruscating across the Grand Hall’s glass front and walls. Then came the all-black SWAT team truck, which pulled up right in front of the hotel. Then, off to one side, an ambulance. The cacophony of all the sirens blared and wailed and screamed, like a cavalcade of banshees set loose from an Irish mass grave.

The Biomechanoids looked away from her and toward the catastrophic symphony of shrieking sirens. Good. A distraction. That was all she needed. She turned and shot the fox-headed Biomechanoid in the face. The purple-white blast of energy nearly blinded her, and it yipped a curt bark as its head exploded and brains, skull-pieces, and blood went everywhere. The ram-headed Biomech whirled around with its sword, but she was quicker. She threw her leg out in a snap kick and knocked the sword out of its hand, and said: “Wanna know what I used the NeuroScape for? Just the other day?”

The ram-headed cocked its head and blinked.

She smiled. Her confidence grew, and she swallowed hard. The Biomechanoid aimed its arm-cannon at her and clenched its fist. Was that anger that she sensed in it? Was it mad that she had knocked its sword away? Was that why it was hesitating just a bit before firing? Because it wanted to enjoy the kill? Well, no matter. What mattered was that it gave her time to quip at it and maybe get in the first shot. This was it; there was no going back now. “Well, I used the experimental Knowledge Download protocol. And I have a surprise for you, asshole. See . . . I’m kinda like Neo, in The Matrix . . . because . . .”

She let the spring of her rage uncoil, and flow through her like fire and battery acid as she whirled around and threw out her leg, firm and locked at the knee, and kicked the ram-headed Biomech right in the stomach. It BAH-AH-AH!-ed in surprise and pain and went staggering backward.

“I know Kung Fu, a-hole,” she said, and regained her footing. She put up her fists, and went at the thing. The three that had just been fighting Misto were now concerned with the SWAT team piling through what had once been the front doors of the hotel. But as for this one — this Ram-Headed one — oh . . . oh he was hers.

While the SWAT truck unloaded its payload of armored police goons armed with semiautomatic weapons and riot shields — who piled through the would-be front doors of the hotel “hut!-hut!-hut!-ing” like something out of The Blues Brothers movie — Dizzy mentally poured on the thrust, and launched herself at Ravenkroft and tackled him, her Evangeliojaeger making contact with his shiny new alien-metal one. They hurtled downward through the air, but his twelve metal tentacles caught them as they hit the floor, acting like a cushion of springy spider’s-legs beneath them and breaking their fall. He rebounded off of them and pushed her off; she went clattering to the floor onto her back. The sharpness of the impact rattled her bones and knocked the wind out of her. Frak!

This battle was gonna be a lot harder than their last one, she could tell. She scrambled to her feet, and whisked a robotic gauntlet up in front of her face and caught his fist mid-swing, and they struggled, arm-wrestling for control of the fight.

“I’d encourage you,” she said, “to give yourself up . . . turn yourself over to the police when they get here . . . or else I’m gonna have to get angry. Don’t make me angry, Ravenkroft. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

“Ha!” he said. “More pop-culture references! I should have known. That’s all you ever do, Weatherspark. Crack wise in the face of defeat.”

“Hey, it’s better than cracking stupid,” she said with a shrug, as her strength wavered, and his Evangeliojaeger just barely overpowered hers. He punched her in the face and knocked her down.The shock of the impact traveled through the Evangeliojaeger and into her bones — and she had to engage her Repulsivators again to help her scramble back up and onto her feet. He drove a mechanical fist right into her faceplate just as she recovered, and she went stumbling backward collided with the wall. Ravenkroft came forward, sneered at her, and tried to punch her again, but she dodged out of the way and his fist hit the wall instead.

“Ooh, too slow,” she remarked. She whirled out of the way as he launched a snap-kick at her head, but became ensnared in his tentacles. Frak. Two of the segmented metal things wrapped around her arm and her neck, slithering their way around her like metallic snakes. He lifted her up off the ground with them, and held her there.

“Again, Weatherspark,” he said, “you do not learn your lesson! Give me the Transcendence Engine, and all of this will be over. You should have taken my offer, and joined me. We could rule this world together, as two ‘mad scientists!’ I have recently made an alliance that will propel my vision of perfect evolution toward its ultimate, logical conclusion! Join me, Weatherspark! Give me the Transcendence Engine willingly, and let us not fight like two barbarians! No, let us rule! As is our right, as the world’s intellectual superiors!”

“ALRIGHT! EVERYBODY, DOWN ON THE GROUND, NOW!” came a shout through a bullhorn.

Dizzy wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure Ravenkroft wasn’t going to listen.

The Biomechanoids that had their guns trained on Misto — still down on the ground; one of them had its combat-boot on his blue-furred chest, its gun aimed at his face — all looked up. Dizzy tracked their gaze. The Biomech fighting Zoë stopped fighting her, and she and it whirled around to face the new threat: Sixteen heavily-armed SWAT officers had taken up positions at the front doors of the Grand Hall, some kneeling like snipers, others filing in behind them. Two police detectives shouted into walkie-talkies just beyond the perimeter; beyond them, EMS workers were unloading stretchers from two ambulances; a firetruck was unloading its payload of firefighters one by one, but someone had obviously told them to hold back until the “situation” had been contained . . .

“THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER,” came the next order.

“Uh . . . oh,” Dizzy managed to eek out, as Ravenkroft continued to choke her with his tentacles. She could feel herself turning blue.

The Biomechanoids all whirled around and fired their arm-mounted cannons at the SWAT team and police officers, rapid-fire. Zoë covered her ears and screamed at the sound of other screams and at the sound of semiautomatic weapons-fire clattering and blasting in the Grand Hall as the SWAT team returned fire . . . for all the good it did them. Their bullets struck the Biomechanoids and made one or two of them stumble backwards . . . But the creatures were impervious to pain and blood loss. Impervious to metal shrapnel sticking into their musculature. And unafraid to die. One of them keeled over and did die — the bear-headed one that had been fighting Misto (who stayed on the ground and curled into a fetal position so he’d make less of a target for stray bullets; it didn’t work — one struck him in the left leg and he yelped in pain). But within twenty seconds it was all over but for the keening of widows and orphans. The SWAT team — all sixteen of them — lay dead, their kevlar armor useless against Disruptophazer blasts, their bodies shot through with smoldering, gaping holes; the SWAT truck outside had similar plasma burns cut through its engine block (it had been in the path of some of the blasts), and the two police detectives — and the eight regular police officers who had accompanied them at the perimeter — were also dead.

Misto didn’t waste any time. He flipped himself right-side up onto his feet — he screamed in agony as his struck leg hit the floor, blood pouring from the bullet-wound — and attacked the rhino-headed Biomechanoid afresh. (It was extremely difficult to take down a werewolf with simply a bullet wound to a non-vital area; the serum gave Misto, among other things, practically-preternatural healing powers.) Zoë also took advantage of the distraction and lunged at the Biomech she had been previously fighting, leaping onto its back with a yell and grappling it around the neck, trying to get it into a headlock. They spun around and around, and it reached up to grab her with its cybernetic arms.

“Now then,” said Ravenkroft, returning his attention to Dizzy. “Now that that little distraction is over . . . Any last words? Perhaps the secret location of the Tesseract Reactor, ni Transcendence Engine?”

“You’ve got some . . . killer nose-hair . . . going on there . . . you know that?” she said, struggling to get the words out as he choked her. “I mean, really . . . you do. Also, no dice . . . I don’t clan-up . . . with arseholes. So I guess . . . you’re just gonna have . . . to kill me. Oh, and . . . by the way . . . Buckle your seat-belt, Buttercup!”

She hit him with the polarized magnetic repulsion beam from the ring around her reactor, like she had in their earlier fight in the city. His tentacles turned loose of her and he went whizzing through the air away from her, as though punched in the stomach by a giant Kung Fu fist and sent flying. He went right into the three-way brawl between the rhino-headed, the tiger-headed Biomechanoid, and Misto — crashing straight into the rhino-headed Minion and sending all three of them clattering to the floor and as they went hurtling right into the remains of the hotel registration desk, the three of them crashing into it with the force of wrecking-balls, splintering it to pieces. The remains of the hotel staff — those who hadn’t already vacated the premises — scattered in every direction. One of them — Neville, was it? — bumped into the Biomechanoid Zoë was currently riding the way a redneck cheerleader might’ve ridden a mechanical bull while three sheets to the wind; he fell on his ass and clambered around on all fours, backing away from the fight like a frightened crab trying to use the floor tiles to scratch an itching hemorrhoid. (What was it with her metaphors today? Oxygen deprivation? That must’ve been it . . .) As Zoë careened around the Grand Hall on the back of the ram-headed Biomech, Misto, the tiger- and rhino-headed Biomech, and Ravenkroft all got to their feet and immediately rounded on each other, with Ravenkroft turning his attention toward Dizzy. He engaged his Repulsivators and flew right at her, and she him; they collided in a wrestling embrace mid-air, with her punching him in the faceplate and him punching her in the flexible abdominal segments of her Evangeliojaeger, and then him wrapping his tentacles around her once more. This time they slithered around her waist, and her arms, and her neck, and began choking her again.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said. “The information you possess is too valuable. You are too valuable. But you will tell me what I wish to know. Now that your young friend has destroyed my psionic amplifier, I cannot simply read your mind. So tell me, and I will spare their lives. All their lives. I should tell you, also . . . that the being that makes up half of . . . ‘the new me’ . . . Can in fact do what it calls ‘hardwire telepathy’ with a freshly dead Human. If the corpse is not too cold. So tell me, and I will spare your life as well, Weatherspark. Tell me, and all of this goes away.”

“You . . . seriously . . . have an asphyxiation fetish . . .” she managed. “You need . . . therapy.”

She exerted as much force as she could, the motors in her Evangeliojaeger grinding and whirring in protest, and grabbed the tentacles that had writhed around her neck — those around her arms giving the greatest resistance — and pulled. And pulled. And pulled. Screaming a hoarse scream of effort, she finally got them to part, and then hit him with the polarized magnetic beam again. The magnetic repulsion caused an explosion of force between them, and she turned her head to the side to avoid the caustic blast of power that erupted as he was forced backward through the air, his tentacles letting go again as he was shot four meters away from her . . . but then — oh crap — she saw the problem: She’d burned out the magnetic repulsion ring. She couldn’t do it a third time if she needed to. So if he attacked her like that again —

With a yell of frustration, he came at her afresh. His fist hit like a speeding locomotive when it impacted her distracted face, and she went hurtling to the ground, hard. The shock went traveling through the Evangeliojaeger and into her body and she cried out as one of her ribs fractured. She forced herself up, the motors in her Evangeliojaeger zapping and spinning to aid her, as he landed next to her and grabbed her by the shoulder-mechanisms of her suit and hauled her to her feet. He pinned her to the wall, and drew back a fist, but she was quick: She threw up a robotically-augmented hand and caught his fist in her gauntlet and crushed his metallic fingers. And then — hang on a second, she thought, that’s weird — for the first time she noticed: His arms were now twice as thick as they had been beneath his Evangeliojaeger’s whirling mechanisms and armor . . . as were his legs. And his torso was all out of proportion . . . way thicker in the back . . . It was as though his mutations had suddenly accelerated big-time, and he had grown . . . a second, vestigial conjoined twin . . . and housed it in the Evangeliojaeger . . . Don’t be crazy, she told herself. That’s nuts . . . But it sure as hell looks that way . . .

She didn’t have time to think about it much further as he grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up, his tentacles writhing and snaking through the air, and grabbing onto her again. They slithered around her waist and held her up, and then he used them to whisk her around through the air and slam her down onto the ground, head and back first. Dizzy’s head hit the ground.

Stars. Splotches of color. A zinging, hard-hitting, sharp pain in her skull. Her back hit too, and a fierce agony shrieked up her spine. Then he lifted her up again, and she was whooshing through the air suddenly. Dizzily, groggily, she thought:

. . . Repulsivators . . .

And in so thinking, she activated them. Her suit buoyed her up, lifting her into the air, and she shook her head to clear it. Goddamn, that had hurt. She screwed up the anger inside her — dammit, he was not going to win this one! — and flew straight back at him, her fists in front of her, gaining speed. She collided with him and knocked him to the ground. He hit the floor on his newly-thickened backside, all twelve of his tentacles squirming and twisting in the air around him, and his momentum and weight tearing up the tiled floor as the two of them skidded to a halt. She straddled him, and drew back a fist to punch him — but she’d underestimated the tentacles. They extended, all twelve of them, and wrapped around her, lifting her off of him. Meanwhile, as they held her, he rose from his prone position via the Repulsivators in his suit, like a classic Hollywood Vampire rising from his coffin, and grinned at her maliciously. Three of the tentacles wrapped around the flexible metal segments surrounding her neck and began to squeeze the air out of her. The others held her arms, and her legs, immobilizing her.

Where was Gadget, in all of this? She looked for him . . .

There he was. On the sidelines. Behind Zoë. Pale and sallow, and passed out cold on the ground, with blood running from his nostrils. Oh Gods, he looked awful . . .

Mystikite still lay on the floor. He hadn’t moved. Poor guy. He . . . he . . .

Gods . . . damn . . . Ravenkroft. Dizzy felt herself on the verge of passing out from a lack of air. Had to . . . had to . . . do something . . .

And with that, Dizzy lost consciousness. When next she awoke, it would be on the Visitor’s spaceship, in the med-bay.