Brett couldn’t believe they’d made him shave his goddamn beard. Not only that, but he was in his damn service uniform. Not even cammies, no, the asshats at the top had him in his service uniform. Tapped his foot, the military dress shoe on it the most uncomfortable thing Brett could possibly imagine for footwear.

You had to appease the higher-ups, though. Rolling into a briefing with multiple flag officers present dressed like Brett normally ran ops would be a disaster. The old boomers wouldn’t even hear what Brett said, they’d be fixated on his non-issued cargo pants, his Merrill boots, and most of all his beard. Brett rubbed the strange smoothness of his chin. Wasn’t right.

The door to his left opened. Brett started to turn his neck, but winced, and opted to turn his entire torso instead. A PFC with the nervous air of someone who had just started working for a general spoke. “Uh, Sergeant First Class Tiberius, they’re ready for you now.”

“Thanks, private,” said Brett, biting back probably the fortieth ‘dude’ for today. He grabbed his tiny-sized laptop and proceeded into the conference room, giving the table of officers a brief glance as he strode up to the podium and connected his laptop to the presentation hardware. The PFC stood next to him. “We have a room in the back to run slides if you want.”

Brett refrained from shaking his head to avoid setting off his injury. “I’ve got it, thanks.” He leaned over and whispered. “Unless your bosses need to see you working.”

The PFC nodded.

“Okay, do your thing.”

“Just say next slide and we’ll control it from the back.”

“Thanks.”

The PFC nodded and scurried off to the back of the conference room, disappearing through a small side door. Brett looked back up at the massive screen behind him, where the first slide of the brief was now displayed. Nerves weren’t his thing, but Brett just didn’t like generals. And about half a dozen of them were in the room, their aide-de-camps along with them. Colonels were almost as bad.

Brett took a moment to adjust the microphone, then pressed the activation button on the podium.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Sergeant First Class Tiberius, and I’m here to deliver the briefing and forum on the subject known as Nicole Bauer.”

“You can leave the slides, Tiberius,” said the ranking officer in the room. Major General Orwell, Commanding General of Hunter-33. “We’ve read them.”

“Forum is good for me, sir.”

“What actions have you taken since the last piece of actionable intelligence was acquired?”

“Divination Section is working on using the blood samples to track her through the Planes, but as you know, that’s difficult due to the nature of blood in relation to liches.”

“And the Phylactery?”

“Still missing. Our assumption is that it’s been taken to whatever Plane she’s on right now.”

“Should be the Negative Plane, then.”

“Possibly. We’ve received second-hand intelligence that she was working with demonic entities, too, so we can’t rule out the Plane of Fire.”

Orwell leaned forward at the table. “And the Brits? It’s their damn fault she exists in the first place.”

“No new intelligence from Slayer, sir.”

“Dammit,” said Orwell. “Well, that’s it for me. I’ll be quiet for the rest of this, gentlemen.”

The other generals gave slight nods. Brett braced himself.

“Sergeant First Class Tiberius,” said Brigadier General Metcalf, a mousy-faced man in his forties. Commanding General of Hunter-33 R&D.

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the technology acquisitions?”

Brett restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “We have not acquired either of the augments in possession of DS-2.”

“I seem to recall that was a secondary objective for your mission.”

Ask Ignis-Sacer for the tech yourself, sir. Instead, Brett said: “We failed to complete that objective due to unforeseen circumstances.”

“And those were?”

“DS-2 needed both legs.” Brett kept the best poker face of his life.

Anger flared on Metcalf for half a moment, but the Brigadier General composed himself. “And further efforts?”

“Operations Section is spread very thin, sir. Acquiring KSI technology can’t be a primary objective. I can brief active missions if you want?”

“Metcalf.” Said Orwell.

Metcalf glanced at Major General Orwell and sighed. “No further questions, Sergeant.”

Brett looked over the group. They remained silent for a moment, as, he supposed, was their right. Literally any one of them could decide to fire him, and stick him with some sort of bad paper discharge. And that’s not something you can fight when you can’t even rely on your service record for character, since ninety percent of it was classified and couldn’t be referenced in a courts-martial.

Brigadier General Norman spoke up, probably the one general here that Brett liked. He held the commander billet for the intelligence section of Hunter-33. He interfaced with Divination a lot, and was the only one here who could use magic. There was a rumor he was extremely high-class, but Brett had never seen any evidence of it. “Tib.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have we identified DS-3, and 4?”

Brett nodded gently. “Yes, sir.”

“And are we certain that there is not a fifth?”

“Theory Two holds, sir.”

“Interesting. Thank you, Tib. No further questions.”

Brett leaned slightly on the podium. It seemed like the generals were done for now, as they looked through their personal notebooks. Probably one more question, though.

“Sergeant Tiberius.” There it was. Lieutenant General Darcy, Executive Officer of Hunter-33, spoke up. He looked like he belonged alongside his namesake in a Jane Austen novel. A very uptight and proper-looking individual, with a nose slightly stronger than the rest of his face. “Have we figured out the power potential of those individuals categorized as DS?”

Brett saw Norman glance over with a look of concealed disgust. Brett had to resist shaking his head. “I don’t. That’s going to be a question better fielded by a SME from R&D or intelligence, sir. I can get back to you-”

“What was your experience with DS-2?”

“I don’t think I’m qualified-”

“You were a MAGINT tech when you originally joined this organization, weren’t you?”

“I was, sir.”

“Did you read DS-2?”

Brett gave another careful nod.

“And?”

“He’s off the standard scale.”

“Right. How far off?”

“Field equipment can’t tell that, sir. We’d need him in a lab. We just know he’s above Class Ten. Could be simply Archmage-tier. Could be more.”

“What’s your take. You. Brett Tiberius. I’ve read your file. You’ve been in the presence of an entity from the Adjoining Spheres.”

The room tensed as he said that.

“Sir, I don’t believe you have the access for that information.”

“I do now.”

“I would need to see it.”

The Executive Officer looked to Major General Orwell, who let out a long sigh. “Everyone out except Norman and Tiberius.” He turned towards the back wall. “I’m sorry, privates, you, too.”

It took a moment for the room to clear out, and Darcy rested his head against his hand, staring at Brett the whole time. When the door shut after the last general, Darcy spoke again. “September 2017. You were in the presence of the entity known as Freyja.”

Brett broke bearing for a moment, looking down, gathering himself to talk about simply the facts. He looked back up to the generals. “That is correct, sir.”

“Is DS-2 on that scale?”

Brett looked to Orwell. “Sir, permission to be candid?”

Orwell nodded.

Brett looked back to Darcy. “Go fuck yourself, sir.”

“Excuse me, Sergeant?” Darcy stood up out of his chair.

“I said go fuck yourself. Those records are sealed for a reason, under Title 777, Religious-Magical.”

“Oh, so because you blot every once in a while, you want to deny your country intelligence?”

“It’s not intelligence,” growled Brett. “Asgard and Valhalla, and Hel for that matter, have nothing nothing to do with DS-2. He’s not god-tier.”

Darcy spread his hands. “That’s all I was asking.”

“Yet.”

Darcy raised his eyebrows.

Brett sighed. “I know what the plan is, because how could it not be. Don’t do it. This entire country brought to bear would be unable to stop any of those entities if the Orders decided to fuck us over and not help. Don’t give an eighteen-year-old kid that kind of power. Don’t fucking do it.” Brett narrowed his eyes. “That goes for you, too, Orwell.”

The Commanding General and the Executive Officer glanced at each other. Norman spoke before their egos turned this an issue of Brett addressing them improperly. “He’s right, gentlemen.”

The two looked at Norman. “I know the plan because I’m read into the plan. We need to cancel it and leave this to the Orders.”

“Those Orders-” Started Darcy.

“Kept the Intersection safe a lot longer than literally our country has been around, Darcy. Get over yourself. This isn’t an United States of America issue. This is a global issue. More than that. Let the Orders handle DS-2.”

“I can’t believe you’d side with the Russians.”

“I can’t believe you want to construct a demi-plane nuke, but I know what R&D is working towards under the direction of you two. And besides, you and I both know Putin doesn’t have an ounce of control over the OMF, as much as that pisses him off.”

Darcy sat back down. “It’s ill-advised.”

“Like hell,” said Norman. “Am I really the only one here who understands the Orders could take over the world in about two days flat if they decided to? And they haven’t because they’re bound to personal codes of honor that mean way more to them than any of our oaths of commission mean to us. The Orders, most of them, are good, in the grand scheme of things. So put your ego aside, gentlemen. If the Orders ask us for support, we give it. But this is their ballgame now. It’s above our paygrades.”

“That’s the President’s call.”

“It’s above his paygrade, too,” said Norman. “Get over yourselves. Tib. You’re dismissed. I’ll talk sense into these two.”

Orwell spoke. “I am the ranking-”

“Sir, you’re an outsider to this community. You were intel before all of this. So I’m the ranking person here in terms of who’s had a vampire’s teeth to their neck before. Tib, go.”

Brett took his laptop and exited as the argument between the generals started to get more heated. He hoped, for Seth’s sake, that Norman made them see reason. Otherwise, not only would it be bad for Seth, but it would be bad for the entire damn world.

***

Brett sat in the VIP section of some club in Washington DC that Bridgette had picked out. He didn’t care about the venue. The gogo dancers were hot, the drinks were good, everyone was having a good time as their team toasted again and again to the dead. This type of place was Victoria’s scene. This was her wake. Just them. Just glasses raised to her memory and her spirit.

Brett could hold his liquor, but they were many hours in, and dozens of drinks deep. The world swayed, he slurred every word.

“To Victoria!” They all chorused again.

And then she caught his eye. Brett sobered up, staring across the club at a woman standing against the wall. She was beautiful, but her eyes, golden and shining in the flashing lights, were the hard eyes of someone familiar with death. She wasn’t even twenty feet from them as she caught Brett’s gaze and started walking off. Where did he know her from?

Brett excused himself, barely managed to set his drink down without spilling it, and stumbled through the dance floor after the woman. The throng of people moved all around him, and his intoxication made keeping his path difficult, but he made it to the far side of the dance floor and spotted the woman going into the bathroom, her brown hair trailing behind her.

Brett rubbed his face. Go into the bathroom after the random woman. Good idea. He sighed and turned to head back to the group.

She stood in front of him, golden eyes gleaming. Brett’s sobriety came almost entirely back. He remembered her. She had stood over him, wings beating the air as the veil between this life and the next parted, when Brett’s own bullet had been reflected back at him and nearly severed his cervical spine. He’d watched hovering there for what seemed hours as Jessica and Seth had fought the witches.

“She sends me to you,” said the Valkyrie.

“I’ve drank a lot,” slurred Brett, “but I’m not near alcohol poisoning.”

The Valkyrie shook her head and brushed past Brett, who followed close behind. She stopped at the bathroom door and looked to him. “Brace yourself, warrior.”

She pushed open the door. Brett nodded. “Right.” They stepped through.

Winds of ice blasted him, cutting through the dress shirt and jeans he wore like a chainsaw through flesh. Brett ground his teeth together, clinging to the drunken warmness. He looked to the Valkyrie. She was, of course, unbothered by it, though the club dress she had been wearing was no replaced with armor. Her wings were out, hawk-feathered and folded high behind her. A spear was in her hand.

Brett shoved his hands into his armpits to ward off the immediate threat of frostbite from the dark, nighttime tundra he found himself on. “This.” He hissed out, to keep from chattering. “Is not Asgard.”

“No,” she said. “It is Hel.”

He wings beat once. Snow and ice flew in every direction. An absurdly strong hand gripped Brett’s arm and hoisted him aloft… And then they flew.

Brett kept his free hand in front of his eyes as they tore through clouds of snowflakes and hail, soaring across the frozen hellscape, far above the jagged teeth of misshapen foul mountains. They flew long enough Brett began to lose feeling in his fingers, and then descended down, down, down, between two peaks into a deep valley.

Fingers of the mountains ran off on either side of them, two runners hemming them in. Below, Brett could see a light. The dim flicker of a fire. He swallowed. He was entirely sober now, regardless of how much alcohol was in his system.

The Valkyrie dropped Brett to the ground from a low enough distance he could land on his feet. Brett steeled himself and walked towards the bonfire in front of him. Only one of the five figures around it arose. They were wrapped in furs and leathers, features almost entirely obscured by scarves… But Brett knew. He knew who it was as they stepped outside the light of the fire and approached him.

He sighed and the wind snatched the plume of his breath away in an instant. “Vic.”

She strode forward and hugged him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and Brett returned the hug both from emotion and a now primal desire growing within him to seek some form of warmth. “Vic, I’m sorry,” he choked out, tears freezing at the corners of his eyes.

“You have already been forgiven,” she said. “Come by the fire before you freeze.”

Brett joined her, glancing back over his shoulder. He could see the Valkyrie as a dark shape above, her wings beating to keep her aloft in the gale. Brett crouched as close to the fire as could bear, extending his hands towards the life-giving heat.

“Why are you here?” He asked. “You belong in Valhalla.” He already knew the answer.

“I won’t go, not without him.”

“I should have never told you my faith. You would be in Axis right now, or Elysium.”

“I chose the path of these gods, just like my brother did.”

“You don’t know that, you don’t know if he’s here. You two were raised Catholic.”

“I know, Brett.”

He looked her in the eyes, searching. She did. She knew. “I will make the journey to Asgard myself and get you yanked out of here so fucking fast-”

“This is my fate, Brett. I chose it.”

“Damn it,” he said. “I’ll meet you in Valhalla. I will.”

“You will.” He saw the corners of her eyes crinkle.

And then, he heard a wingbeat, and was snatched backwards from the firelight by the Valkyrie.

Wind rushed for half a moment, and then the world exploded in colors all around him. A kaleidoscope of every color of magic, every element, every school… The Bifrost.

It lasted all of a single second, and Brett fell from the Valkyrie’s grasp, rolling through warm grass, coming to a halt, and standing to his feet.

And there she was.

Brett couldn’t begin to describe her any time that he had tried, and he had thought several times that she probably appeared differently to everyone. He didn’t know for sure, though, the number of living humans who had met Freyja was small.

“Leave us. Return to Odin.”

The beating of wings, and the Valkyrie was gone, but Brett could not watch her go. He stood transfixed by the goddess before him. The first time he had tried to look away, but now he knew. There was no sorcerer who could counterspell her charm. And yet, it was not a violent charm. In the aftermath of his encounters with Freyja, Brett always came to understand that he still had the choice to look away… But who in any right mind would?

“You come to me twice as worn as before, my son.”

Brett only nodded.

“Twice as scarred.”

He nodded again as Freyja touched his neck where the bullet had ripped through. It should have been months of physical therapy before he was cleared for the field again, but with that touch he knew tomorrow he would wake up as if the bullet had never been there. Freyja smiled at him.

“Why is Vic in Hel?”

“She seeks her fallen brother.”

“Is he there?”

“No.”

Brett swallowed. “She belongs in Valhalla.”

Freyja held Brett’s face in her hands. “It is so.”

A single tear trickled down Brett’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“There are others you must guide, my son.”

“Name them.”

“Seth Blackwell.”

Brett nodded. “I don’t know if I can. He’s in the hands of the Orders now.”

“He is. And you will stand behind him on the day of his Ragnarok.”

“I am not strong enough to be of any help to him once that day comes.”

“Then you must accept this gift.”

Brett clenched his jaw. He could feel it, another soul-presence pressing up against his. And he knew. The deep, pulsating strength of it. The darkness of it. The weapon of the gods. The Berserker Spirit. “I don’t want it.”

“Only the strong can carry it. You are one of them.”

Brett let out a shaky breath. “It can turn the weak into a monster.”

“And the strong into the indestructible. Your fate, Brett Heimdall Tiberius, is to stand with Seth in his darkest hour. You will need this Spirit to do that.”

Brett looked into the eyes of his goddess. “Then I accept this gift.”

The next thing Brett felt… was pain.