LotS/The Story/Between Heaven and Hell/They Just Fade Away

They Just Fade Away

Air raid sirens wail amidst crashing rain like a chorus of drowning banshees. Drenched Londoners run through the storm and splash over puddles, propelled by the mournful sound -- dragging their children along or else carrying them huddled against their chests. A few managed to grab umbrellas before they fled their homes. Now they're wrestling with the greedy wind to keep hold of them. An old man loses that battle as you pass by, and cries out as the gale plucks the umbrella from his hands.

"By Jove!"

His exclamation is almost inaudible against the downpour, the screaming sirens, the pounding feet. So is his shout of gratitude when you catch its handle and return it to him. He continues on his way with it held low against his head, making for the nearest shelter along with the rest.

A few soaked faces stare at you as you pass by, perhaps wondering why you're sauntering instead of running, and heading in the opposite direction from everyone else. But most pay you no heed. They're too busy shielding their faces from the rain. Almost all of them are bareheaded, of course, choosing patriotism over comfort.

The ruined shell of the Sword in the Stone glares at you from the glassless windows of its sole remaining wall. A reminder of last night's bombing raid, turned into a threat when the nearest siren wails louder than before. You ignore the warning. But you take a moment to appreciate the posters someone's pasted on the pub's cracked bricks. The first one shows a beautiful blonde woman standing atop a weedy looking man, pressing his face down into the dirt beneath her green metal boot. The slogan reads: "Natasha hates conscientious objectors!" The second poster shows the same woman, but this time she's embracing a youth in a soldier's uniform. "My hero!" its text proclaims.

Even the rain can't wash the smile off your lips. By all accounts, a soldier might find the battlefield less dangerous than a night with Miss Cybersmash. But if it encourages a few more enlistments...

A young woman hurries down the street towards you, skittering along in high-heeled shoes she hasn't learned to run in yet. Her dress is plastered to her body, soaked and almost transparent. Wet auburn hair slaps against each side of her face. She's embracing herself with pale arms, shivering against the cold. Stupid. Going out like that is a good way to catch pneumonia. But her wide, wild eyes drive the admonition from your thoughts. She's terrified. Too scared to have stopped for a coat before blundering out into the night when the sirens sounded.

Her shoe catches on the pavement. She gives a soundless gasp as her body jerks forward. The girl's shivering hands go down in time to spare her face. But her knee hits the paving stone so hard it makes you wince. She stays there on all fours, rain lashing against her back, hair flopping down in a dirty red curtain.

You dash to help her. By the time you get close, two forms have detached themselves from the shielded space beneath a shop's awning. The first is a fat man in an apron, the other a dark-skinned bobby whose blue uniform and helmet are almost black in the rain. They take hold of her and help her to her feet, then retreat back under cover -- drawing her out of the downpour.

"The shelter!" she says. She's almost hopping on her uninjured leg, leaning against one of her rescuers for support and clutching a handful of his apron. "We... We have to go!"

"Don't worry about that, love," he says. He comforts her with a flabby arm. "There'll be no sodding bombers out tonight. Let's get you inside before you catch a cold."

"But... The sirens!"

"He's right," you say, as you slip alongside them.

Thwarted rain patters on the awning above, adding its percussion to the sirens' chorus. Light pours from the shop's window and its open doorway. The four of you stand bathed in a gentle glow. Dozens of pies bask within the soft illumination on the other side of the glass.

"Durlin," the policeman says. He nods his head and lifts the brim of his helmet.

"Marcus, Hugh." You return the nod with a pair of your own, the first to the inspector and the second to the fat pie man.

"The sirens!" the woman repeats. "The bomb-"

"It's a false alarm. Even the Centurians aren't crazy enough to fly in this weather."

A distant peal of thunder rumbles in agreement. The woman stares, her uncertain eyes shifting from you to Hugh, before coming to rest on the bobby and the authority of his badge.

"Durlin knows what she's talking about," Inspector Marcus says. "She's a pilot."

"The best in the bloody RAF," Hugh adds.

You try to look suitably modest.

"Oh..." the girl says at last.

"Come inside, love. A warm fire and a blooming good pie are what you need." Hugh maneuvers her towards the pie shop's door. He looks back over his shoulder before they enter. "Fancy a nice bit of steak and kidney?"

"Thanks," you reply. "But I have places to be."

Marcus meets your gaze as Hugh's bulk and the girl's thin, rain-soaked frame pass inside.

"If you need help..." he begins.

"I'll be fine. No sense in both of us being out in this weather."

He touches the brim of his police helmet once more. Then he goes inside to warm pastry and friendly company, while you head back into the storm.

The sirens stop after a few minutes, ceding the night to the rain -- which patters down harder as though to fill the void. You gaze up at the dark, cloudy heavens and let it wash over your face. Water infiltrates your mouth. It catches in your throat and wobbles there all the way to your destination.

Down a dark alley, over the old cobbles. Past a poster of a sailor sitting on a park bench, chatting with a pretty girl while ominous eyes glare down from a featureless masked face above, in the shadow cast by a fedora's brim ("Loose lips sink ships!"). The wooden door is unremarkable, just one of many that open out into the alleyway. But you stop and knock.

A little hatch slides back at eye level, revealing a brutish purple face, its rough features studded with golden crystals.

"Yeah?"

"I'm here for a good time," you say.

The oroc glares at you.

"I know you... You're Durlin. The fighter pilot. I've seen you on a poster!"

You wince, partly from being recognized and partly from the memory of that absurd illustration -- a picture of you posing with a mug of coffee in your hand and a gormless smile on your face, above the words: "Durlin needs a new plane! Buy more war bonds!"

"That's... That's right!" you say. "And I always fly on chems. So it's your patriotic duty to serve me!"

The oroc blinks. His brow furrows, making the crystals embedded there scrape against one another.

"God save the king!" you add, reaching into your coat pocket and flourishing a big wad of banknotes -- from which King Jamus' face stares in regal splendor.

"Welcome to Cythera."

He grunts the words without much enthusiasm, but he pulls the door open. After you step into the gloomy passage he closes it behind you. Bolts slide, scrape, and thud into place.

"This way."

The oroc lumbers towards a door at the far end of the hall. It opens to reveal a descending stairway. Halfway down those steps, the raging storm's clamor does battle with the melody of hedonism. When the door at the bottom is opened, revealing the pleasure den's main room, it's entirely drowned out.

Beautiful women and handsome Adonises glide around a chamber adorned with eastern silks and western flesh, colored lanterns and whispers of intoxicating incense. Some bear trays of liquor, cigars, and assorted chems, which they flourish before less wondrous individuals -- who accept refreshments as they grope and leer. Others offer themselves instead. On your left an incubus slides into a large woman's lap and tickles her nose with the tip of an absurdly long tongue. Across the room, a gorgeous gorgon giggles as she draws a blushing bespectacled man through a shimmering curtain.

Crimes of lust and indulgence tantalize the senses on all sides. But you're not a peeler, and that's none of your business.

You sit at a vacant table in the corner. A muscular elf clad in only a loincloth struts over almost before your buttocks have sunk into the plush cushion.

"What would you like, madam?" His oiled pectorals flex. "A drink? Chems? Or some fun in the back rooms?"

"Scotch," you reply. "Make it an Islay."

He pouts, winks, and struts to the bar. Cythera's service is on par with its sin. A moment later peaty whisky burns its way down your neck, filling your gullet with its salty aftermath. The elf hovers before you for a moment, preening and flexing. But you simply raise your glass. He pouts once more before seeking his night's fortunes elsewhere.

The brine lingers in your windpipe while your gaze roams across the chamber. Agent Sezrachus was right. Only a few indiscreet privates have been foolish enough to come here in their uniforms, but there are plenty of others whose polished boots and military moustaches proclaim their service. Nor do the handful of civil servants and politicians escape your notice. The ones who stay in the main room, glugging their booze or snorting their chems, don't concern you. If they want a little pleasure before facing enemy guns, or making decisions that might condemn thousands of men to their deaths, so be it. The scotch you're drinking isn't just for show. Nor are the bottles that fill your cabinet at home.

It's the ones who go through the shimmering curtain that perturb you.

You need to get back there...

A whistle catches the elf's attention next time he passes by.

"Another drink?" he asks.

"Two. And you."

His smile is heavenly, the gleam in his blue eyes sinful. You follow him through the curtain, into a long corridor lined with doors -- brandishing a glass of whisky in each hand. He takes you inside a room decorated with so much pinkness that it reminds you of an iced cake. Moisture tingles in your mouth. How long's it been since you ate?

"Here..."

You pass him one of the drinks. The other travels down your throat in a single gulp, and you set the glass down on the bedside table.

"Don't try that," you say. "It's strong stuff."

He raises a slender eyebrow, the pointed ear next to it twitching. The elf rises to the challenge. A second later his empty glass clunks down next to yours.

"What'll it be?" He stares at you from triumphant eyes threaded with redness. "I know the Writhing Wyv-"

His pretty eyes roll back in his head. You catch him as he collapses.

"Sweet dreams," you whisper, when you lay him on the bed.

A peek into the corridor outside reveals that the coast is clear. The cries of pleasure and occasional screech of pain from the other rooms tell you the same. So after a quick glance at the curtain you make your way to the opposite end of the passage, drawn by instinct that hardens into certainty when you open the door to a storage room. On the far wall, beside a rack of wine bottles, there's a thin sliver of light. You know a hidden entrance when you see one...

The secret door's well oiled. Its hinges don't make a sound when you push it inwards. Hence the occupant of the small, dimly lit room beyond doesn't turn around at first. She remains sat at the table, her back to you, and keeps talking into the radio in front of her. The skin revealed by her backless dress is scarlet.

"The British fleet will-"

"Will not be betrayed by a strawberry slut."

She whirls round and stands in the same motion, quick as a cat, knocking the chair aside. The barrel of your revolver is waiting to greet her.

"Who are you?" Her voice is a serpentine hiss. Malice and surprise dance a waltz in her eyes.

"Just a servant of the empire." You gesture at her radio with a jerk of your pistol. "I'll have to have a word with some of our servicemen. Loose lips sink-"

There's a scarlet flash. You pull the trigger, but the bullet crashes into the radio. Her left hand's on your wrist, pushing the weapon aside. Stars burst inside your skull when she punches you with her right.

"Heil Hatler!" she shrieks. Her fist pulls back for a second blow. "Heil-"

The knee to the groin is instinctive, a technique you've used before against dozens of male enemies -- a blow you've trained and practiced until it's one of the most powerful in your repertoire. It apparently works pretty well on girls too. She moans and doubles over. The grasp on your wrist weakens.

Your revolver roars again. This time the bullet hits her skull, and her brains decorate the wall.

"What the hell!"

"What's going on out there?"

"That was a gunshot!"

"Blimey!"

Doors are opening in the long corridor behind you. But there's no other way out. So you snatch up a bottle of wine with your free hand, holding it by the neck like a bludgeon, and go to face the startled patrons.

"Out of the way!"

Your yell and a wave of the gun send most of them scurrying away. Doors bang behind some as they retreat into their rooms. Others burst through the curtain, tearing it aside, and scramble through the main room -- spreading chaos with their screams.

"Heil Hatler!"

A door flies open on the left, and a Rylattu lunges at you before you can bring your pistol to bear. But instinct launches a blow from your bottle. Glass shatters, wine splashes in a dark arc, and he collapses.

"Heil Hatler!"

You spin round and shove the broken remains into an orc's throat. He gurgles blood as he falls to his knees. His right arm twitches up, as though trying to perform the Centurian salute. He flops onto his side and dies with it uncompleted.

The big room is pandemonium. Most of Cythera's denizens, both patrons and staff, are in an immense scrum by the exit, trying to shove their way through and escape up the stairs. But the rest...

"Heil Hatler!"

This time the cry comes from several throats at once. Handsome men and beautiful women are reaching under the furniture, their faces twisted in fanatical fury.

"Heil Hatler!"

A felpuur springs up behind the bar, shoving a hat onto his head with one hand and leveling an automatic pistol with the other. You squeeze your trigger first. The round catches him in his furry chest and throws him against the wall. Bottles smash beneath his hurled bulk. Their shards rain down to join him in death.

Bullets whizz past you, one so close you feel its sharp breeze on your ear. The oroc doorman's blazing away, a gun in each hand.

"They're Centi spies!" someone exclaims.

You wish you could reply with cutting sarcasm about how quick he is on the uptake, but you're too busy vaulting over the bar for cover. And his stating of the obvious seems to do the trick.

"Centies! Get the bastards!"

When you pop back up, aiming your revolver across booze-splashed wood, the oroc's being wrestled to the floor by a band of young men in combat boots. He puts up a good fight, until one of them shoves a knife through his eye. The crunch when it enters his crystal-crusted brain makes you grimace.

A bookish looking gentleman in horn-rimmed spectacles has his hands wrapped around a girl's throat. He's shaking her so hard that the fedora falls off her head and the gun drops from her grasp.

"I'll kill you, mother!"

That doesn't seem like a healthy war cry, but he's getting the job done. So you help him out by putting your next bullet through the head of a hatted Piscarian before she can shoot him in the back.

"Heil Hatler!"

A machinegun rattles and roars, spitting its fire across the room in a sweeping, scything arc. Men and women shriek. Blood sprays across the walls. Bullet-riddled bodies fall and twitch on the floor. You have a glimpse of a woman in red leathers, with an eyepatch over her left eye. Then you drop down behind the bar before her Tommy gun can rip your skull open, shielding your face against the rain of alcohol and hail of glass cascading from the bottles that perish on the shelves above.

"Heil Hatler! Heil Hatler! Heil Hatler!"

Her screech plays counterpoint to the roaring, death-spitting weapon. Splinters fly above your head. You lie flat against the floor as her bullets tear through the bar, chewing up the wood.

"Heil Hatler! Heil Hatler!"

Your face is pressed into the carpet. But the sound of splintering destruction is so clear and close it could be inside your brain. It's getting nearer, the barrage of gunfire eating its way towards you, a split-second from ripping you apart.

And as you wait for death, the only thing you can think of is how stupid you looked in that poster.

"Heil Hatler! Heil-"

It becomes a wordless scream. The gunfire stops.

You get up into a crouch and raise your eyes over the ravaged bar. The woman's standing there, her fallen Tommy gun on the floor by her feet. Her eye is staring downwards. But not at the Thompson submachine gun. She's gazing at the long blade protruding from her chest.

A dusky face looms over her shoulder, beneath the dark blue dome of a policeman's helmet.

"Marcus?"

"I followed you," he says. The woman slides off his sword and slumps in a crimson pool, leaving the two of you alone amidst the carnage. "I thought you might need help."

"You-"

"I know you're with military intelligence."

You exhale and begin to come out from behind the bar. But you pause, slip your weapon into your coat pocket, and grab one of the few unbroken whisky bottles instead. Its stopper departs with a soft pop. You reach for a second bottle and do the same. Only then do you emerge from the wrecked wooden barrier, which now seems impossibly flimsy for something to which you entrusted your life.

Marcus has already wiped the blood off his sword. He sheathes the weapon and takes hold of the bottle you offer him.

"Not anymore," you say. "After this, I'm out."

You clink your bottle against his.

"I'm a pilot, damn it. I belong up there taking down Centurian bombers, not..."

You gesture at the bloody corpses. Then you take a drink. Sweet, smooth scotch nourishes your tongue and floods your mouth.

For King, Country, and Her

Water encases you in its warmth, soothing your muscles. A contented sigh deflates your lungs. You draw in a fresh breath and close your mouth, capturing it. Then you let your body slide along the bottom of the bathtub until your head slips under the surface. Your senses shift, hearing, vision, and touch muffled or altered by your new aquatic existence. Wellbeing flows through your wet flesh, accompanying the blood along veins and arteries, spreading to every extremity.

It's one of your favorite rituals after a flight. A little relaxation to wash the weariness from your thews. Infantrymen sometimes scoff at a pilot's work, and ask how you could get tired when you just sit in a chair. It's only with great fortitude that you resist the urge to punch them in the face.

As the exhaustion of your last aerial exploits leaves your limbs and chest, its reminiscences fill your submerged brain. Your resting mind conjures up sights and sounds to remind you of every little triumph and failure the skies bore witness to. The ratting of the Spitfire's cockpit is so real it makes the water shudder like a sea rocked by tides. And the contrails might almost be painted on the murky depths of the ceiling instead of the blue heavens.

A grey phalanx of unpainted aircraft looms before you. Bombers, their vile wombs filled with the infernal destruction they intend to rain down on British cities, to roast the flesh and break the spirits of King Jamus' subjects. Smaller planes, fighters, swarming around them like eager suitors at a dance.

Your hands twitch in the water, remembering every pull of the controls. Your thumbs move as though pressing down on the buttons. Chattering machinegun fire makes the bathtub tremble. And it brings a smile to your pursed lips. It was a good night for the Royal Air Force. For you in particular. Two fighters spiraled from the sky under your guns, and one of the bombers exploded beneath the eviscerating bullets -- decorating the heavens with its fiery demise.

Every twist and turn of the battle replays itself in your swimming thoughts. There are places where your skill, your reflexes, your pilot's instincts, served you well. But there are other times when you made mistakes, tactical errors. Things you should correct before your next flight. And with that realization, that understanding, comes mental tranquility to join the physical restfulness.

Trouble drifts out from your pores, diluted and obliterated in the warm water. All is well. All is-

The bathtub shudders. Ripples distort the surface and ceiling above your eyes. A bubble of air escapes your lips. That was a footstep... A heavy footstep, right here in the bathroom.

You sit up. Water lodges in your startled throat, making you choke and splutter. It cascades from your body and falls in rivulets from your hair. You're on the verge of leaping out of the bath, ready to inflict a burst of sudden, naked violence on the intruder, when you pause and groan instead. For the interloper, the towering, muscular purple form with dark horns sprouting from his head, is no stranger.

"Agent Sezrachus..." You glare at him.

"Durlin."

"I'm in the bath!"

"Yes. Get out and get dressed. I have a mission for you."

The purple demon's voice is perfectly level, his expression neutral. If he's making a joke, there's no sign. And it sure as hell isn't funny...

"Maybe I wasn't clear last time... I'm done with spy work. If you want a new covert operative, pick someone who isn't staring from posters like an imbecile."

"We need-"

"You need to get out of my house. My war's in the air, not the shadows."

"We... The empire needs you to go to Centurian occupied France."

"Why don't you get out from behind your desk for a change and do it yourself?"

Sezrachus actually cracks a smile at this. He glances down at his broad magenta chest.

"Seven foot tall demons find it... challenging... to blend in. Even in France. Besides, I'm needed elsewhere."

It's on the tip of your tongue to call him a coward. But you know better than that. During the last war the Centurians called him the terror of the trenches.

"You have whole dossiers of agents. Any of them-"

"They aren't your equal, my friend. We both know this. And you have a... personal stake in the matter."

All of a sudden, the water chills your bones.

"You mean-"

"We sent her to investigate a Centurian stronghold. But-"

In the next instant you're out of the bath, water streaming from your naked body. Agent Sezrachus doesn't resist when you shove his huge frame against the wall.

"What happened? Is... Is she..."

Dark presentiment gnaws at your brain and soul. Your throat bubbles, filled with terrible blackness that threatens to choke you.

"She's alive. We believe they're holding her prisoner there."

Relief trembles through your muscles as you exhale.

"Then..."

"Yes. Your task is to rescue her."

"I'll do it."

"I expected no less."

Pilferers and Patriots

She moves like a shadow. You're watching for her, yet her arrival still takes you by surprise. The diminutive woman doesn't enter the cobbled alleyway from either of its mouths. Instead she drops from a roof and lands beside the waiting motorcar. She turns her masked, hooded face to cast an appropriately furtive glance behind her. But the dark depths of the night reveal nothing. The wicked flee when no man pursueth... So she opens the rear door of the car with a four-fingered hand and darts inside the gloomy interior, bringing a hefty sack with her.

"Drive, Jeeves," she says.

The engine rumbles into life. The vehicle trundles down the alleyway, its wheels bumping on the cobbles, until it turns into a broader thoroughfare where it picks up speed. In minutes it's out of the city. Trees flit by on either side.

"Jeeves, you're going the wrong blooming way!" she says.

"Sorry, Miss D'Tang. I'm afraid I'm new at this job..."

The masked gnome gasps.

"Who the bloody hell are you? Where's Jeeves?"

"My name is Durlin..."

"The lass from those sodding posters?"

"Yes. And your manservant's in the boot."

"If you've hurt him..." A dagger's blade glints in the starlight.

"He's fine, but I had to restrain him. He's a loyal one. I offered him money, and he tried to break my arm."

"What do you want? If it's about these bleeding things..."

She raises the sack.

"It's not. Though I am curious about why a wealthy noblewoman would resort to thievery..."

Rissa D'Tang laughs.

"For the sodding thrill, of course. It's a bloody boring life, being a rich girl. I mean, shooting pheasants, riding horses, and rolling around with the stablehands can be a bit of fun... But the rest of the time you're just swanning about in dresses while dirty old coves stare at your baps."

"Which finishing school taught you to speak like that? You sound like a Cockney chimneysweep."

"The same one that showed me how to pick a bleeding lock and make a bloke sing soprano. Anyway, what's it to you, as the fishwife said when her neighbor saw her chucking her husband's body off the bridge?"

"Just curious."

"Well now that I've satisfied your blooming curiosity, you can take me home quick smart."

"I thought you liked excitement? That's what I'm offering."

The gnome leans forward.

"Keep talking, mate."

"Even been to France?"

"Course I have. When I was a lass, I had myself a bloody good time in their casinos. Had to scarper though, after... But that's another story, as the forgetful bard said. Why?"

"I'm going on a trip."

"Hate to be the one to break this to you, mate, but the Centies are in France now. The Frenchies shouldn't have got goblins to build their sodding Maginot Line... Lazy buggers, goblins. Now gnomes... We'd have finished the bleeding thing instead of leaving a bloody big gap for the Centurians to come through."

"One of our agents... a friend... is being held at a Centurian base. I'm going to get inside, rescue her, and kill every damn Centi who stands in the way. Does that sound more exciting than robbing museums?"

"Suppose I'd better brush up on how to parlez-vous the bloody old Francais..."

The cacophony of cooing tells you that you've either found the right place or strayed upon some form of avian symposium. You push the door open, and almost stagger back from the concentrated stench of dozens of caged pigeons and more bird crap than you ever expected to have the misfortune of experiencing at any one time.

Only a few pairs of black eyes stare. Most of the birds are busy eating, cooing, staring off into space, nibbling at their wings, or adding to the waste at bottom of their cages. But that's fine... You didn't have anything to say to them anyway. The person you're here to speak with is at the far end of the long shed, past the rows of coops, outlined against the square of daylight that fills an open window.

Her back is to you, presenting a view of a young woman's figure clad in a short pink dress and matching boots. Her jet-black hair's been pulled back into a girlish bob on either side of her head. They wobble up and down as she fiddles with the bird on the table in front of her, reminding you of the movements of her pigeons' heads.

"My name's Durlin-"

"Be quiet! I've got a new tweet!" She removes the message from the bird's leg and unrolls it. "Huh... It's about you. Come here."

She turns around, revealing a pretty face, a pair of garish yellow glasses, and the characters 'Z' and '#' which adorn a triangular area of whiteness on her outfit. The girl holds out the ribbon of paper, allowing you to read the typed message written across it in neat little characters:

---
Durlin is a friend. Help her. #purpledemon
---

"It's from Agent Sezrachus," she says. "So what do you want?"

"You're Zoemg?" You butcher the word into something that vaguely rhymes with 'among'.

She snorts.

"It's #Z03MG, noob! Zoh-em-gee."

"Oh... Anyway, I-"

"Wait... Another tweet's coming in."

A new pigeon flaps its way through the window and lands on the table -- forcing its predecessor to scurry aside amid much cooing. Once again she extracts the rolled up message from its leg.

"Those losers!" she exclaims, before shoving the message in your face.

---
Z03MG sucks! When we conquer England, she can tweet from a prison cell! #HeilHatler
---

"Well," you begin, "if you want to-"

"STFU! I need to tweet back!"

She grabs a pen and a slip of paper, then commences writing. You look over her shoulder as she inscribes the message.

---
WTF? Don't make me blast you Centi peeps! #rulebritannia #whodoyouthinkyouarekiddingmrhatler?
---

1. Z03MG nods, apparently satisfied with her missive, rolls it up, and attaches it to the bird. She makes a tweeting noise. The bird nods its head, before flying back out into the world -- presumably to bear her message to the appropriate recipient.

"So what is it?" She turns around. "If you want me send some tweets for you..."

"Can you send messages from anywhere?"

"Anywhere with pigeons."

"Good... I'm going to France, and I need a communications expert. Plus I hear you have certain other skills..."

"Blasting peeps? Duh!"

She spins back to the window, extending her hand as she rotates. A blast of yellow electrical energy flies from her fingers and crackles away into the distance. A few moments later there's a terrified lowing, followed by a man's voice.

"Damn it, you little blighter! I told you to stop doing that!"

"Sorry, Farmer Giles!" She's wearing a smirk when she faces you again. "But why'd I want to go to France?"

"For king and country?"

Her lip twitches.

"And so you'll have something to tweet about?"

"One sec..."

1. Z03MG picks up a new piece of paper and scribbles on it.

---
Can't talk for a bit, peeps. Going somewhere special. #secretmission
---

"Rautha! Rautha! Rautha!"

The crowd of men and women are pressed up against the top of the fighting pit's wall, leaning so far over in their eagerness to get close to the action that it's a wonder none of them fall in. Their champion's name bellows from their throats.

"Rautha! Rautha! Rautha!"

The well-built warrior in the middle of the pit waves his arms to either side, urging them on. Perhaps he's drawing strength and a surge of adrenaline from the chant. You hope so, because he'll need all the help he can get. His adversary, a hulking ogre with pale blue flesh and glaring red eyes, looks like he's in the mood for homicide.

"Come on, you fat sack of crap!" Rautha jabs his finger towards the massive creature. "Rautha's ready!"

The ogre roars and beats his ham-like fists against his chest. His flabby gut undulates with each mighty blow. Then he springs into action, faster than you'd have expected. And apparently faster than Rautha expected too. The ogre's punch sends him flying through the air. He crashes against the wall of the pit, and the cheers turn to groans and gasps.

"Rautha... Rautha... Rautha..." The pit-fighter staggers away from the wall, each leg falling forward in a kind of zigzag pattern, and chants his own name from a bloody mouth. "Rautha..."

He topples over. There's a second barrage of groans when his head thuds against the pit's concrete floor.

The ogre laughs, and his merriment jiggles his flab even more than the thumping fists did. He plods over to where his opponent sprawls prone. His foot rises into the air, ready to stomp Rautha's skull and splatter its contents like a cowpat. Some of the women in the crowd scream. A few of the children cheer. You wince. He's no good to you with splattered brains...

The ogre's heel thunders down. It hits with a horrendous crash. But it only hits concrete. Rautha rises from his roll, into a crouch, and launches himself forward before his adversary can turn. He strikes the back of the ogre's knee shoulder-first, throwing his whole weight against the joint. It proves too much even for that mighty creature. The ogre roars as he falls forward, but it becomes a moan when his skull bashes the pit wall.

A snaking fissure opens in the stone. Two men and a woman fall forward, dislodged by the impact, and land on the ogre as he collapses. They scramble up, screaming, and run across the pit -- where one of the arena's workers has opened the door to the changing rooms.

Rautha's on the ogre before he can rise. A barrage of fists, knees, and elbows rains down on the blue skull -- until a hefty hand slaps the ground thrice in surrender.

"Rautha! Rautha! Rautha!"

The victorious fighter walks to the middle of the pit, basking in the cheers.

"Heil Hat..." He coughs. "I mean, God save the king, bitches!"

With that pronouncement he heads to the dressing room. And that's where you find him a few minutes later, standing in front of a mirror and rubbing embrocation into a big purple bruise on his chest.

"Good fight, Rautha."

"Thanks." He looks at your reflection in the mirror. "I'd rather pound Centurians, but till that happens..."

"They still won't let you enlist?"

"No. Sure, they loved it when I defected. Great stuff for the newspapers. Then when I tried to fight, they fobbed me off with some stupid story. They don't trust me!"

"Today's your lucky day then. Because I do trust you..."

Flashy Flying

"Agent Sezrachus said our pilot would meet us here," you tell the others.

Rissa, #Z03MG, and Rautha are lined up beside you, bathed in the early morning light that falls between wispy clouds. A transport plane waits on the runway nearby. It's a fat, bulky, inelegant contraption compared to the fighters you're used to flying. But you could hardly take your team over in your Spitfire.

"You're a blooming pilot, mate," Rissa says. "Those posters make out that you're some kind of bleeding hotshot. Why don't you fly the sodding thing?"

"I am. But even the best pilot in the world couldn't fly us over there, parachute out, and get the plane back to England in one piece."

"I don't know about that," a voice says from behind. "I think I could give it a bloody good try."

You sigh. You'd know that voice anywhere... And when you turn around, there he is in all his bluff, handsome, moustached glory. Captain Harry 'Ace' Flashheart.

"So you're the lot I'm flying into the clouds? What a coincidence! Last night I took two lovely ladies to heaven, and now I get to do it again!"

Rautha snorts. You roll your eyes. But Rissa and #Z03MG swoon. How does he do that?

"Durlin!" He comes forward, and the girls attach themselves to each of his arms en route. "How are the skies treating you?"

"Not bad. I-"

"Me, I always treat her like I treat my women. First I-"

"We should get going. Now."

"Of course! Jolly eager to be at those Centi bastards aren't you? Well, let's get to it!"

1. Z03MG is writing on a ribbon of paper. You can't resist a glance.

---
OMG! Flashheart is so hot! #flashysgirl
---

She makes a chirping noise, and a plump pigeon descends from the sky. After a little dexterous fiddling from her pink-gloved hands, it flies away with her message attached to its leg.

"So I told Queen Lena we were keeping the Elgin Marbles, but I said she could get her hands on another national treasure..."

You enter the cockpit to find Flashheart sat at the controls, and your female companions gazing at him with rapt expressions on their faces.

"Me! She's a saucy mare, that one! Pretty as a sunrise and strong as a drunken Niflung!"

"Lucky girl, as the fishwife said when her sister's husband pegged it."

1. Z03MG writes out another tweet.

---
I'm way hotter than Queen Lena! Stay away from my man, bitch! #flashysgirl
---

You can only hope she won't try opening a window to send it...

"Hang on," Flashheart says, distracting them from their scribbling and wistful musing. "We've got company! A bloody Centurian squadron!"

His eyes are sharp. And so are yours. You can make them out as well, distant grey shapes amongst the streaks of cloud.

"Time for a good old dogfight!" the pilot exclaims.

"We're in a transport plane! We can't-"

"I could fly rings around the Centies with a box kite! Get to the gunner stations if you lot want to join the fun!"

There isn't time to argue with the mad fool, so you run for the ladder and clamber up into a small enclosed bubble -- where the controls of a heavy machinegun are waiting.

Streams of gunfire rip through the sky, spewed out by the fighters' weapons as they make their first attack run. By all rights it should be impossible for them to miss so large a target. Their bullets should be chewing up your wings, gutting your bulging body. Instead, your plane weaves through the air and evades every last round.

The first thing which occurs to you is that Flashheart might just be a better pilot than you after all. The second is that it's time to return fire.

Your thumbs press down on the buttons. The machinegun roars to life. Its bellicose breath tears into a Centurian plane, punching right through the cockpit. Blood spatters against broken glass.

More streams of fire lance from your aircraft. The big guns on the wings are blazing away, chasing a fighter that's trying to evade the onslaught. The fighter's tail breaks off, cleaved away. The rest of the plane plummets after it.

A bright yellow beam flashes on your right. It's coming from another gunner station... You crane your neck to look. #Z03MG is sat at the gun. Electrical energy surges from the Emergent's hands, coating the weapon with its crackling might as she fires it -- and lending that same power to the rounds it's spitting across the heavens. She only grazes the fighter she's aiming for. The bullet barely scratches the unpainted metal. But the aircraft's entire wing sparks and burns.

The English Channel eats well, gobbling the entire Centi squadron one by one.

When you descend from the gunner station, you find #Z03MG leaning against the ladder opposite. She's writing another of those little notes she loves so much. And again you feel the urge to take a look.

---
Shot down Centurian planes. Learn2fly, noobs! I hope Flashheart saw! #flashysgirl
---

But perhaps she'll be disappointed. Because when you return to the cockpit, you find Rissa in the ace pilot's lap -- all but devouring his lips with her own. You give a slight cough and back away, leaving them to it.

Behind Enemy Lines

"He totally liked me more!"

"No, he blooming well liked me more!"

The argument rages on either side of you as you parachute towards the misty French fields below. It's been going on ever since you jumped out of the plane. And you're almost tempted to undo your harness, so you'll plunge to your doom and thus pass beyond the range of the women's voices.

You blame their distraction for the fact that you land in a pond, and emerge dripping wet -- your mouth filled with foul, disgusting water. At least the look on your face puts paid to their argument. Instead all three of your companions burst out laughing. You don't share their amusement.

Your anger evaporates too, however -- displaced by far more important things. You're in France now. Where she's being held prisoner...

"Rissa..." You point to a lofty oak. "Climb up there and get our bearings."

"On my way, mate, as the drunk said when the beer truck crashed."

The gnome sprints towards its trunk and leaps perhaps twice her height. Her small hands catch at a branch and pull her up into the foliage.

"#Z03MG..." you begin. The cooing of a pigeon interrupts you.

She holds out her arm and lets the bird land there. After she's detached the message from its leg, the pigeon flutters down to the ground and starts prospecting for worms.

"It's from Guillaume De Chauntallion," she says.

That's the name Agent Sezrachus told you about. The local leader of the Resistance. You take the note from her.

---
Welcome to France. Meet me in the basement of the tavern at Lissane-les-Fontaines. You can trust the barman. He'll keep all others away. #vivelafrance
---

"I marched through here once," Rautha says, hefting his machinegun. "That town's right next to the castle."

Chateau Lissane, the medieval edifice the Centurians snatched and turned into their base of operations. Your destination. All your instincts cry out for you to make straight for it. But De Chauntallion might have valuable intelligence...

A sharp whistle sounds from overhead. Rissa D'Tang's hooded head pops up from the top of the oak's uppermost branches, along with her arm. She's pointing to the west.

The loud buzz of the motorbikes' engines reaches you a moment before they appear through the mist.

"Scout patrol!" Rautha says. "They must have seen us drop!"

"OMG!"

There are two grey bikes, each attached to a sidecar emblazoned with the Centurian emblem. Their wheels churn up the wet grass, spraying mud on either side. And Rautha's right. As soon as they see you, the uniformed riders execute a shallow turn until they're heading right for you.

"Try to save those bikes," you say. "We can-"

The machineguns mounted on the sidecars open up, and the rest of your sentence dies amidst the gunfire.

"Behind the tree!" you shout.

It's an unnecessary command. The oak's the only cover nearby, and #Z03MG's already running for it. You and Rautha sprint after her. His weapon sprays unaimed bursts as he goes, throwing a wild swarm of bullets in the direction of the bikes. And luck or fate guides one of those stray rounds into a soldier sitting in a sidecar. The Centurian's skull explodes, throwing his helmet and his brains backwards. The machinegun he was operating falls silent.

The driver stares at the gruesome corpse beside him. So he doesn't see the bolt of yellow energy, sharp and precise, that sears its way towards his head. In a split-second driver and passenger are a matching pair. Their vehicle comes to a halt.

The other bike swerves, panicked. Its bullets trace a wide, impotent arc -- perhaps trying to keep you back. It makes no difference. When death comes for them, it comes from above, in the form of a pugnacious gnome.

Rissa lands on the back of the sidecar, a dagger in each hand. The passenger yanks his pistol from its holster as he turns towards her. But he isn't fast enough to stop a sharp blade burying itself behind his ear. Her other weapon severs his partner's brainstem. The agile, surefooted gnome knocks the driver's corpse aside. It tumbles in the churned up mud, lifeless limbs flailing.

Even over the din of the bike, you're almost certain you hear Rule Britannia whistle from Rissa's lips as she slips her bloody daggers back into their sheaths and grabs the motorcycle's handles.

The bikes make short work of the trip to Lissane-les-Fontaines. You ditch the stolen vehicles in a copse of trees, near the town's outskirts -- where the tavern stands surrounded by picturesque gardens. A sign over its door proclaims that it's the Chevalier's Casque. And when you enter its rustic main room, empty save for the portly barman, a beaming face and effusion of Gallic friendship confirm that you are indeed expected.

"My name is René," he says, after he's inflicted kisses on every available cheek. "Come, Guillaume is waiting."

He leads you down a flight of stone steps, into a candlelit cellar lined with huge wooden casks and racks of wine bottles. There's a long table in the middle of the floor. A handsome man of aristocratic bearing sits at its head. Plates of bread, cheese, and sausages cover its surface, along with jugs of wine.

"Eat, eat," René says. He's already halfway up the stairs again, speaking over his shoulder. "You must be hungry, n'est-ce pas?"

Guillaume De Chauntallion stands up and bows.

"So you have encountered trouble already, my friends?"

He gestures at the strip of paper on the table, the tweet #Z03MG sent to precede you.

---
Found Centurians. Killed them and took their bikes. LOL! #vivelafrance #rulebritannia
---

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Rautha says.

Guillaume waits till you're all seated before he resumes his chair. And though you intended to question him right away, an unexpected pang of hunger floods your mouth with saliva and compels you to join the others in shoveling food between your jaws.

"Sodding good wine this!" Rissa drains her glass and refills it.

"Sodding?" Guillaume says. "Forgive me, I do not know this word."

"No worries, mate. It just means this blooming wine hits the bloody spot."

The Frenchman blinks.

You pour yourself a glass and take a long drink. It's... curious. Sweet and fruity, but with a briny aftertaste that sticks in your throat. The sensation lingers there when the meal comes to its end, and Guillaume turns the conversation to the matter at hand.

"There are dark things happening in Chateau Lissane. We have received word that Reichsmarschall Dule himself has arrived there, to oversee them."

The news makes #Z03MG reach for a slip of paper (you grab her hand to forestall the tweet), Rissa drain a fresh glass of wine, and Rautha grin.

"Hatler's dog?" The former Centurian barks laugher. "I'll enjoy killing him."

"Do you know what the Centies are doing there?" you ask.

Guillaume shrugs his shoulders.

"I cannot say. It is well guarded. Your friend was the first spy to make it inside, and she never returned to speak of what she saw."

Those ominous words hang in the air as you make your plans.

The signal is impossible to miss. But just in case the horrendous explosion on the other side of the castle escaped your notice, a fat pigeon touches down on the grass in front of you, carrying one of #Z03MG's messages.

---
Did it! Rissa took out sentries. I overloaded electricity supply with my powers. #rulebritannia #goodluck!
---

In the distance Centurians are barking orders or screaming in confusion as they converge on the sabotage. You hope your companions can withstand the assault, and that you're capable of playing your own part in the mission. But it's too late to go back now. She needs you...

Reichsmarschall Dule

You sprint over dark grass, beneath the eyes of blinded spotlights. Reaching the castle wall sends a burst of triumph through your core. But you shove it aside. This is only the beginning, and the true dangers are still waiting for you.

Running footsteps approach through the night. Just one pair, from the sound of it. You hug the shadows. The wall juts out beside you, forming a corner that shrouds you in its darkness -- rendering you invisible and deadly. The soldier pauses when he passes you. Perhaps animal instinct lets him feel your gaze. Maybe some almost unnoticed sound or even scent triggers a primordial survival mechanism lodged deep in his brain. If so, evolution ultimately fails him.

Your knife is buried in his neck before he can cry out.

You pull his body into the corner, your accomplice and co-conspirator in this act of murder. There's a hard metal cylinder on his back... Some kind of panzerfaust. You remove it from his corpse and sling it over your shoulder, opposite your submachine gun. Waste not, want not.

The wall does you one final service, that for which Guillaume directed you to this part of the castle. Its old, dense ivy supports your weight. With the spotlights out and the guards rushing to the other side of the fortress -- hopefully to meet their deaths at your companions' hands -- climbing the wall is simplicity itself. Now you just need to find your entry point...

A few dozen feet above the ground, the impenetrable stonework gives way to a window. You reach up towards the protruding stone ledge. And find yourself staring into the barrel of a Luger.

The Centurian gasps. And because there's nothing like the specter of imminent death to quicken a woman's wits, you can almost see his thought processes playing out before your eyes. He's panicked by the explosion. Maybe he's hiding in the room instead of going towards the scene of the fighting. He hears rustling outside the window. It can't be anything... Just his nerves. But he'll pull his gun out and check. Just in case. And when he leans over the ledge, gun-first, to find someone staring up at him, he's startled.

All this passes through your brain in an instant. And you act before a bullet can follow it.

You grab at the gun with your right hand. The muzzle flashes, imprinting its flame on your vision. But the shot skims past your head. The Luger comes free when you yank it, chases the bullet down into the darkness.

If the Centurian were smart, he'd lay into you while he has the advantage -- batter you until you lose your grip and fall. Instead he turns and flees. Idiot... You hoist yourself over the ledge. He's still trying to remove the bar from the door when his neck snaps and crunches in your grasp.

You're wearing the Centurian's helmet and coat as you leave the chamber -- a decision that's validated mere minutes later, when a soldier rounds the corner of the candlelit passage in front of you, stares, and freezes. There's an instant's hesitation between seeing your uniform and realizing that he doesn't recognize your face. More than enough time for your revolver to widen his left eye into a bloody, gaping hole. You're long gone before anyone comes to investigate the weapon's booming, echoing report.

Guillaume told you everything he'd been able to gather about Chateau Lissane. Some of the townspeople earned a living here as maids or manservants before the Centurian occupation. With that knowledge revolving in your mind you navigate its old stone corridors, and reach a heavy wooden door ribbed with ancient iron. If the Resistance leader's information is accurate, the stairway to the dungeons is in the room beyond.

You push the door open.

"Heil Hatler!"

Two guns fire. Pain explodes in your chest.

You and the Centurian soldier both fall, you against the doorframe and she onto her knees. She stares into your eyes from across the room, while a crimson rose blooms on her jacket around a deep black stigma. Its twin is opening up beneath your thick coat, warm and sticky. The woman's mouth twitches in a smile or the beginning of an unfulfilled scream. When she topples forward, it's almost like a bow.

Agony bubbles from your mouth in a groan that reminds you of the air raid sirens.

The Centi had a gunfighter's reflexes. Or else her nerves were wound so tight that she would have blasted anyone who opened the door, friend or foe. She's taken the truth to the underworld with her -- leaving behind the knowledge that only luck put your bullet in her vitals. And that you might not be far behind her.

Dark, rich redness leaks from your wound. You press your hand over it, staunching the flow. But it's flooding inside as well. Cloying, choking warmth rushes into your lungs, your throat. You cough and splutter, spraying crimson droplets across the stone floor.

No... You have to find her. After that it doesn't matter. But you have to find her!

You stumble from the doorway, yanking your submachine gun from your shoulder. The weapon is heavy and cumbersome in your bloody grasp.

The stairs are behind the Centurian's body, a grey stone spiral that twists through deep shadow. Each step into the darkness hammers anguish in your chest. Your gullet feels flooded, a wine glass filled to the brim with sweet, sticky death. But it must be your mind playing tricks. Otherwise you'd be in hell with the soldier. Among fire instead of shadow.

A beautiful face shimmers before your eyes. And you chase it, down the stairs, into the subterranean depths. Electric light greets you at the bottom. There must be another generator down here... One that escaped the destruction #Z03MG wrought. Light, and voices...

"We should investigate!"

"No, we were ordered to stand guard!"

"But-"

Four Centurians are clustered a few yards beyond the stone archway, at the near end of a long, broad stone chamber. You brace your submachine gun, forcing the weapon steady through will alone, and mow them down in a hail of thundering bullets. Their corpses twitch against your boots as you walk through the carnage.

"Ah, we have company!"

The man's voice booms from a side passage. It's buzzing and distorted, coming not straight from a mouth but through the intermediary of imperfect electronics. The hissing of hydraulics and pounding thud of heavy machinery follow it.

"No! Run! Whoever you are, run!"

The second voice is almost inaudible over the mechanical din. Yet you know it all the same. A cry tries to burst from your lips, but there's only a fresh gargle of blood. Sezrachus and Guillaume were right! She's here! She's-

Your elation dies when the metal monstrosity emerges from a stone archway, its steel body bristling with weapons.

---

"What do you think of our newest weapon, Englander? Can your Tommies or the Americans stand against our technology?"

His laughter mingles with the screeching of his guns and the hellish cacophony of bullets ricocheting from thick stone. You're out of range and out of sight, up the staircase's twisting spiral. But your absence doesn't diminish his manic joy or the barrages of bullets.

"That's a nice toy, Dule!" you shout.

He stops shooting.

"What?" he bellows.

"I said that's a nice toy. Think you can get it out of here before we bomb the castle and bring it down on top of you?"

"You're bluffing, Englander! You've come here to save her, haven't you?"

"Her? I don't-"

"I have an ultimatum of my own. And this is no bluff... If you don't show yourself, I'll execute her."

He's lying... She's still alive because they need her, because they believe she has information they can get out of her. He wouldn't-

But the moment his machine's hydraulic limbs move, you know you can't take that risk.

"Okay! Okay! I'm coming out!"

You half-run, half-stagger down the steps. Crimson libations spurt from your chest. Your breaths bubble their way through an ocean of briny blood.

"Very good, Englander. Let us duel, yes? Flesh against steel! But it won't be sporting... Your weapons are no match for our technology!"

"Then it's a good thing I'm using yours..."

You step into the doorway and fire the panzerfaust.

The Reichsmarschall's right. Their technology is impressive. The rocket's explosion is cataclysmic in the underground chamber, a devastating sound that crashes from wall to wall and wakes all the castle's echoes. Its fury sends the war machine reeling like a drunkard. And the armored glass on Dule's cockpit shatters -- revealing the man himself.

You toss the spent panzerfaust aside and open up with your submachine gun.

Bullets rip across the Reichsmarschall's gaunt body. Bright red bursts paint the blackness of his uniform.

You laugh, but it becomes a choked gasp. Death is in your lungs. It's come to claim you.

No! Not yet... Have to... Have to...

Your gun clatters on the stone floor.

"Durlin?"

The edges of the world are growing dark. But her voice draws you, guiding your limbs even as the strength drains away from them. Through the archway Dule came from, down the short, broad passage. There's blood all over you, covering you from head to toe, encasing you and filling you.

"Durlin!"

You blunder into the room, and there she is. Her white dress and radiant, troubled face -- behind the black iron bars of a cell.

The darkness is deepening, battling to devour your vision and swallow you. Your voice is a splash of blood when you try to answer her. But your hand snatches the heavy key from the hook on the stone wall. And when you collapse against the bars of her cell, just inches away from her fearful eyes, you drive it into the lock and turn it.

Her arms are on you when the cell door opens, holding your sagging weight.

And knowledge ruptures its way into the world, piercing even the encroaching darkness and the fluid that bulges in your lungs and throat. This isn't real...

You gaze into Princess Illaria's eyes.

"I... I didn't save you."

"No..." Her mouth drifts into a sad smile. "But I can save you."

Her lips meet yours.

The universe ends, but the kiss lingers. It encompasses your mouth and your being. Far on the edges of perception, black waves roll across an ebon sea. A briny breeze drifts in from the darkness, infiltrates the bright chamber and hovers overhead. But those things are faint and faded. The kiss is strong and pure, bright and warm and blazing.

A green face rises from yours.

There's an instant of clarity, when the universe settles into impossible sharpness. Screaming Barracuda's kneeling over you, naked save for her soaked underwear. Water glistens across her skin. Relief and delight illuminate her face.

Your head jerks forward. A burst of salt water spurts from your mouth, bringing with it the remembered tastes of rain, Islay whisky, a warm bath, a French pond, cloying wine, and blood.

Yes... An instant of clarity. Then things begin to dissolve.

The last thing you see before unconsciousness draws you into its soothing embrace, an island of solidity amidst amorphous incandescence, is Illaria's smiling face floating on radiant tides.

"I can save you... And I always will."

Your lips form a smile as the world grows soft and dark.