The Vigilante never arrived. The Mastermind ended the recess an hour later than his initial deadline. Impatient for more essential action, he prepared to depart.

The action was simple. He directed his regard towards the Henchman and said, “Remain here and guard the others. I will arrange transportation within 24 hours. The words will be ‘check your watch.’” He handed Giuseppe his rifle and, with scarcely a pause, walked out the exit.

The Henchman turned the weapon over in his hands. He had never used a rifle, but it felt comfortable in his grip.

It had been some kind of day. He went from the top of the world to hiding in a single dirty room. The boss was captured or dead. Well, maybe not dead, but if he went down he would no longer be Don Eneide. He would have a new Facade with a limited window to resume a proper role before his shard sought a new host. Since his true age was great, he might have months or even a year, but he would still be in danger. That might still be better than capture.

Well, he had a job to do and crying was not a part of getting things done. He looked up to find the other Aspects staring at him. Useless. The girl was pretty but he was pretty sure she would only go for a married guy. He sneered. “Sit tight. I’m gonna check things out.”

A step out of the room revealed that it comprised the entire building. He was standing outside a tiny wooden building in a small clearing, surrounded by a veritable ocean of trees. He could hardly dignify the edifice as a cabin. It was a simple shack. The meanness of the structure was juxtaposed by the beauty of the landscape. After the oppressive atmosphere of the old paths, the chirping of crickets and the feel of cool evening air was a welcome relief.

The Mastermind was nowhere in sight. Giuseppe guessed he had used one of those magic paths. He shrugged and stepped out to have a look around. A walk around the shack showed that it was meager. Its interior might be four hundred square feet, maybe as little as three hundred. As hideaways went, there was little to recommend it. Why set up an empty shack without furniture or supplies? What use would it be?

The Henchman stopped his musing and walked into the forest. There had to be some kind of sense to this set up. He might figure it out after getting a better look.

He was out of his element, he knew. If he wanted to become a memorable holder of the Henchman title, he would have to become more skilled in a wider variety of tasks. When the situation was resolved, he would definitely need to seek training. As it was, his ability to navigate outside of the city was negligible. He would not be going too far.

The Henchman decided to work in a widening circle. His first two circuits kept the Vigilante’s shack in sight. After that, he became more confident and was prepared to wander further. Most of the surrounding trees were some variety of pines, and their was a faint trace of their distinct odor in the air. It was pleasant and reminded the Henchman of childhood Christmases.

The Henchman cracked a smile. Here he was, fashionably clothed in an expensive ensemble, traipsing about the woods like a wannabe ranger. He had no idea where he was, or even what state. Was this still America? What kind of wild animals were out here?

His confidence diminished a bit. Unless it was blatant, he would have no idea what an animal’s tracks would look like. For all he knew, he could be walking into the claws of a Grizzly or a wildcat. He had heard that some beasts would take bullets and keep coming. Did his newfound power make him a match for something like that? Maybe it was time to head back. The perimeter seemed safe enough and he needed to stay close to his charges anyway. If anyone came looking for trouble, they would likely do so through the old paths. The Henchman had no way of blocking or stopping that possibility.

He headed back towards the shack, moving carefully to preserve his footwear. As he did so, he considered his wards. They seemed more liability than asset. From what scraps he knew, the Beggar’s extreme age enhanced his power but that probably counted for little. If it came down to a fight, he doubted any one of them would be useful. The Mastermind probably wanted them just because their unknown enemy wanted them.

The Henchman was still a little peeved at the way the Homewrecker had lied. He should know better than to be surprised; after all, her title said all he needed to know about her character. She was pretty though. Maybe if he put a fake wedding ring on his finger, he could have a little fun. Special person or no, she was just a bitch like dozens of other bitches with whom he passed some idle time. He was embarrassed to recall his teenage heartbreaks but those experiences had taught him to use a ho like a ho. Going by her title, she might find him attractive if she thought he was married or had a serious girlfriend. He would be polite because she was special, but he would keep an eye out for a chance to put her in rotation when this was over.

The Miser was probably just a stingy rich guy. He seemed pretty normal. Men like that were a dime a dozen. It was the Gambler who would probably be a problem. Some of the serious gamblers Giuseppe knew were as degenerate as drug addicts. If they got into another scrape or needed to lay low for a while longer, he would need to worry about a guy who would flake to go to the racetrack. Though the Mastermind had not made them prisoners it was clear that he expected everyone to sit tight and stick together. The Gambler would need watching.

Giuseppe paused. It would be much easier to control the situation if he had a better grasp of his abilities. As far as he could tell, he was the newest Aspect in the group. If there was any trouble, he may not be able to rely on his natural charm to restore order. He needed a better idea of what he could do and how he could do it.

His first boss had taken an organic approach, teaching him slowly and allowing him to discover things on his own. That may have been best under normal circumstances, but now his lack of knowledge could be a serious problem. The Henchman considered what he did know.

He knew that the Gift of Obedience worked in unpredictable ways to help him accomplish an order. That was nice, but if there was a way to control its output he was not aware of it. He also knew that he could sense the presence of other henchmen, though few people would call them that nowadays. Maybe he could also influence them, like a comic book mutant? Well, it was hardly something he could test right now. He did not even know what that ability was called.

The Rally of Thugs. The words came unbidden into his mind. He froze. It took a long minute for him to regain his composure.

So that was interesting. An internal encyclopedia, no matter how abbreviated, could not be anything but useful. Was this the shard at work? It must be.

The title “Rally of Thugs” suggested that he could summon and possibly command people of his type. “Thugs” was unflattering, but it was just a name. He certainly was not a thug and most of the guys he knew were decent types.

Could he summon some troops to his side? Giuseppe closed his eyes and searched for power. He unconsciously rose a hand and thought rally with all his might.

Nothing happened.

To me!

Summon!

Come o ye faithful!

Clearly, if the power worked at all, there had to be some henchmen nearby. He would try it again later, when they were out of the woods.

What else could he try? The Don said his shard was shaped by the stories of the world. That included both facts and fiction. How did a movie henchman perform? Giuseppe imagined the minions of Bond and comic villains. They would be running around control rooms. Tapping at consoles around banks of monitors. Attacking interlopers with a variety of guns and blades.

That sparked his imagination. In the movies, guys with guns were always missing the main characters or causing shallow, easily ignored wounds if they did hit. They were a joke. The guys with names though, the real henchmen, were always at least a little threatening. Giuseppe had never held a rifle before, but his grip felt perfectly natural. He realized that he knew all the rifle’s major components, proper maintenance and basic operations.

The Illumination of Arms, an inner whisper informed him.

Oh, yes.

He imagined knives. Yes, he knew how to use them effectively. Swords? No problem. A variety of deadly tools were perfectly familiar. He was skilled, if unremarkable. High mastery might come with real practice. Nevertheless, with his physical enhancement he would be the terror of normal people.

The Henchman grinned. “I know kung fu,” he said aloud, chuckling. As he said the words he realized that he did not, in fact, know kung fu. He had always been a brawler and that remained the case. However, he visualized a punch that could easily knock out a heavyweight boxer. It might even incapacitate an Aspect who was taken by surprise.

The Crushing Blow.

The Henchman’s mood lightened considerably. This was all great stuff, if not necessarily helpful outside of a battle. The Gifts would be excellent for keeping his charges safe and out of trouble. Unfortunately, they would not inspire trust or obedience from the Aspects. Something might happen that required his direction. If they would not listen to his directions, he would have to rely on intimidation.

Fair enough.

Before he could truly resume his trek back to the shack, reality cracked around him. The forest became a smear of colors and something descended.

Humanity was unimpeded in its nomadic trek through an ever more observable universe. Sufficiently advanced lesser sentients, alarmed at the coming of cosmic horrors, sometimes attempted methods of deterrence that were so ineffective that they fell beneath the notice of all but the most conservationist individuals. Those unfortunate beings whose efforts were noticed were casually annihilated and promptly forgotten.

The passage of humans did not always result in destruction. A variety of species praised the coming of the gods and prayed for their return. Had they known that the creatures that saved, or uplifted, or improved them had likely done so incidentally, they would still hold them in reverence.

This was the case for uncounted ages following mankind’s ultimate ascension. An endless round of relentless chaos that rarely registered obstacles. Until things changed.

The ever whimsical humans involved in the initial encounter would be hard pressed to recall first contact. Practically limitless power apparently rendered a lackadaisical mindset, no matter how altered or evolved the original primate brains.

They descended on an unexplored galaxy of misty stars, strangely shrouded in wet purple haloes light that enfolded entire clusters. As always, they commenced an unceasing dance of activities that were incomprehensible to even the most advanced species of the region. This time, they were opposed. That opposition fell beneath the notice of the adults, as usual, but some juveniles were annoyed. An infant even suffered a bruise. Rising from celestial surfaces, emerging from the ashes of dead worlds, came swarming fleshless impediments in a multiplicity of forms, launching projectiles, firing beams and emitting exotic energies.

Quantum fire eliminated the nuisance in seconds, but in an unprecedented event more interlopers appeared. Megaseconds passed. Eventually, several humans deigned to examine the pests. They sifted through wreckage, scoured void objects and analyzed transmissions. Information was consumed. The pests, trivial as they were, became known.

Collectively, they were labeled as the Machine Intelligences. Three entire galaxies were infested with them.

Giuseppe groaned and shook off the vision and its accompanying flood of worthless information. Soon. Soon it would be over. Stress increased the frequency of the visions for new Aspects, but his shard should be settling down in a short time.

Lord, if he were a normal person he would be a candidate for the loony bin. He would probably be rushing to the nearest hospital in a panic. It made him think. What if he was a nutcase, locked up in a rubber room somewhere and dreaming that he had superpowers?

He dismissed the idea. It was as worthless as the stupid visions and was counterproductive. Time to get back.

Arriving at the shack, Giuseppe opened the door and stepped back inside. The Miser and the Gambler were sitting on the floor, engaged in some type of card game. Of course the Gambler would have a deck of cards. He probably carried dice as well.

Surprisingly, the Homewrecker and the Beggar were in an intimate huddle at the opposite end of the room.

Huh. Maybe the Beggar was married.

__________

Justina watched as the Henchman left to room. He would “patrol the perimeter” or some such martial duty, she supposed. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to remain calm. This was a poor beginning to a fresh Facade. A blend of terror and frustration was pulsing through her head, urging her towards conflicting actions but producing only a numb paralysis. She wanted to scream. It was maddening.

She felt the furtive gaze of the Beggar and frustration began to drift towards anger. His status as an ancient elder commanded a certain respect, but ultimately he was a dirty homeless bum. Deference was exhausting and his attention was annoying.

“What!” she snapped, turning sharply towards the old Avatar. He recoiled.

“You’re frustrated, man,” the Beggar replied, still shying back. “I understand, but it’s probably for the best, right? I mean especially considering…you know, your condition and all. This could help.”

“My…what condition?” the Homewrecker growled a query.

“Oh…um, never mind man.”

“What condition? Answer me,” the Homewrecker demanded in vexation.

The Beggar tilted his eye towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. He opened them a moment later and motioned her closer. The Homewrecker shrank back in revulsion, all thoughts of even the most insincere respect forgotten. Elder or not, she had no desire to get too close.

Her reluctance was made moot when the Beggar leaned forward and whispered into her ear, his fetid breath warming her face. “You…you do know you’re on the Verge, right? I’ll keep it secret if you want, but old Avatars can tell.”

The Homewrecker was instantly stunned into speechlessness. Her repugnance was nearly forgotten as the words grasped at her like a vice. Of course, the Beggar had to be wrong. Of course. The Verge was not a part of her story. She might not have the right role to become a Primary Aspect, but she was becoming a hero. She had felt it, felt the upwelling of power that heralded an apotheosis. She had felt the burgeoning changes. The changes…

What if that insistent swelling, that pristine intensity to the pleasures of her role, heralded disaster instead of heroic rebirth? She vaguely recalled someone cautioning her about balance she was still clad in original flesh. Had she become unbalanced? That seemed wrong. But when had she started taking such joy in the humiliation of wives? When had she begun to stifle affection in favor of control? When had her designs become mere games, to be completed as quickly as possible? She had once operated differently and perceived things differently. How many changes were due to the insensate march of time? How many were due to changes in the themes the shard absorbed? It was all so complicated!

Harold, Jameson, Sabhou, Mercutio, Vince, Moussa…she was having a hard time remembering. It had been quite a few years since she began to move through her men at speed. She had abandoned propriety. She saw that now. It was even possible that she had been a bit cruel.

The Homewrecker clutched pathetically at the air. This could not happen, not to her. It would not happen. Even if it was true, even if she was truly on the Verge, there were stories of Aspects who dragged themselves from the brink. That would be her story. One of the Broken Gods that formed her shard was an embodiment of victory. She would triumph and she would be a hero.

There was a lifeline before her. It was a foul and dirty thing, but a lifeline nonetheless. The Beggar was almost primeval, a prehistoric figure. After the leveling of the Gathering, perhaps he was the very oldest. If she could not rescue herself, he could be her salvation. She cast aside reluctance and desperately hugged his arm, wearing a piteous expression of careful design.

“Help me,” she whispered, and buried her head in his chest. She remained in that pose until the Beggar awkwardly extricated himself.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll help,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “I know what to do, man. And hey, maybe you could help me out once in a while? I mean, just a few bucks every now and then?” He smiled hopefully.

As the Homewrecker nodded her agreement, she felt someone watching. She looked up to see the the Henchman staring. She saw the slight curl at the edge of his lips, perhaps signifying amusement. She had not heard him return. Realizing what her position suggested, she felt her face redden and looked away.

Well, who cared what he thought anyway? His insincere chivalry and designer suits masked a villainous thug. Any level of respect or regard he gave would be tainted. She vowed to minimize her association with the hoodlum.

Returning her attention to the Beggar, she nodded again. “I can help you,” she said. “I’ll make sure you can have something to eat, hot showers…whatever you need. You just tell me how to keep going. It’s no good to be immortal if I’m not actually me.”

The Beggar’s mouth turned down. “That’s the thing,” he said sadly. “It’s not a secret, man, but Avatars don't realize. The thing is there are no immortals. Think about it.”

__________

Henry ignored the approach of the Henchman and focused on his cards. The Miser looked uncomfortable, but Henry had played in all sorts of places. A hardwood floor in a tiny room was no Atlantic City but it was reasonably clean and out of the weather. It would do nicely.

“Raise you a grand,” he said passionlessly to the Miser. He schooled his face into neutrality.

The Miser looked up from his cards and stared into Henry eyes. The Gambler was no slouch. He held the Miser’s gaze without the slightest change in expression.

“Very well,” the Miser sniffed. “Call.”

The Gambler’s mouth widened into a triumphant smile. He laid his cards on the floor, face up. “Full house! Aces and eights!”

The Miser swore, slapping his worthless hand to the deck.

“That’s twelve grand you owe me!” the Gambler crowed. He scooped up the cards and returned them to the deck. Immediately, he began a rapid shuffle.

The Henchman cleared his throat. Normally, the Gambler absolutely hated interruptions but despite his smiles he was inwardly disappointed. The Miser had failed to win a single game. There was no competition at all. That was probably due to the nature of their agreement. He had to find a way to force the Miser to take an actual risk. In the face of that difficulty, he was willing to overlook the Henchman’s rudeness. There was nothing he could he do anything about it anyway.

“Yes?” he asked, attention still focused on his cards.

“You guys are pretty old right?” asked the Henchman. “I mean, as far as being special Aspects and all.”

“Sure,” replied the Gambler. “Not as old as all that, but I’ve got a decade or two under my belt.”

The Henchman nodded. “Cool,” he said. “How about you tell me all about the visions?”