An anonymous poet once likened the Underworld to the ocean.

Like the ocean, on surface level the Underworld looked like some vast entity, uniform and placid – an impression as prevalent as it was deceptive.

Those on the shore saw only the ebb and flow of the tides, for that's what the Great Game was – a line in the sand, one crossed by both sides, repeatedly, and capable of ensnaring the unwary to draw them into its sunless depths.

Only those who truly dived in were able to see the currents beneath, violent, forceful, yet somehow soothing in their predictability. In the Underworld, where possession was ten tenths of the law, the value of your money was determined by your ability to hold on to it. Some relied on raw power, others cultivated a fearsome reputation, but for the vast majority of Underworld's denizens their safety was dependent on those they chose to serve. The patronage system was the main reason villains – a notoriously freedom-loving lot – accepted the presence of nobility. It was what allowed the shops and restaurants, casinos and hotels and everything else to exist in a crime-dominated society without the fear of being robbed or ruined. It may have been the very definition of a protection racket, but, at the end of the day, it was what made the villains think twice over starting anything in a Duke's territory.

After all, just like in the ocean, there was always a bigger fish.

***

For all that build up, the fight was over almost before it started.

Marchioness walked toward the old man, slow and confident, clearly intent on repeating her performance.

He gently tapped his cane on the ground, releasing a strange, vibrating cling.

The forcefields around the Marchioness shattered, raining down around her in a shower of fractured petals and glimmering dust, and the villainess fell to the ground with a scream that was more shock than pain.

That was her power, forcefields. Unlike Beachhead, whom I faced on Monday, her forcefields were invisible, mobile and small, scant centimeters in diameter. Unlike him though, she could swiftly manifest a large amount of them – and their edges were very, very sharp. Within five meters around herself, Marchioness had both a blender full of invisible blades and layers of impenetrable armor.

At least, that's what I thought this morning.

“How?” the woman breathed out, looking more vulnerable than I'd ever seen her. It must be hard for someone who thought themselves invulnerable to be stripped of their defenses with such ease.

A part of me felt a tinge of schadenfreude. It was a fitting payback, I thought, for the fright she gave me back at the restaurant. Another was keenly aware that Marchioness would not appreciate witnesses to her humiliation and may actually take steps to remove them.

A third reminded me that I was swiftly running out of time.

“Are you expecting a monologue on the nature of my power?” the old man asked, openly amused. “I'll have to disappoint you, then. I'm not that kind of villain.”

“Sound,” Blythe suddenly spoke up from behind my back. I had almost forgotten he was there. “When you tapped your walking stick... Some kind of resonance? Vibrating the shields at their own natural frequency?”

The old man blinked in surprise and clapped, twice.

“Well done, young man. Well done. Yes, lady Isfet suspected that my abilities may be well-suited for this particular altercation.”

“I'm over a century old, chronologically speaking...” Blythe protested half-heartedly.

Resonance, Resonant... I knew that name. Not from the news or even due to any famous fight, but rather from campfire whispers, shared after too many a glass of wine. A living parable of human perseverance turned into a horror story.

Born and raised during the Second Extraordinary War, spend his youth fighting in the Third. After the Quantum Boop, found himself hundreds of miles away from civilization and spent eight years surviving in the wild, where space and time did not always follow the same rules from day to day and wildlife would have made Darwin cry tears of joy. By the time he finally reached Dreadward, the man who would later be known as Resonant was well over fifty. He was also really, really bad with his timing, having arrived right at the height of the Tyranny. Not even a year after settling in, he got caught in one of Steele's purges of the powered and beaten by the soldiers within an inch of his life. Instead of dying like so many others did, the old man, homeless and now blind, became one of resistance's top informants, helping others evade the military that paid no heed to another crippled bum – an accomplishment that was never officially acknowledged or celebrated. Years later, still homeless, still blind, half-forgotten by the world, the old man once again found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mistaken for a villain and hunted by the heroes he once hoped to join, Resonant was forced to flee into the Underworld. That's where they found his body, the rumor went, alone and claimed by the dark.

Apparently 'they' had to get their vision checked, I thought in a mixture of amusement and genuine irritation. Either that or the Underworld started spontaneously re-animating random corpses.

I knew better than to assume.

“Would you be willing to let me and my companion pass?” I asked politely, not keen on pissing off a possibly-zombie urban legend. “We wouldn't want to get in the way of a family reunion.”

“So ready to betray your mistress?” Resonant raised a single white eyebrow.

“We're business partners,” I shrugged. “Maybe not even that.”

“Well, be my guest,” the old man gestured with his cane.

I nodded and waved my hand toward Blythe. It was a pity about the failed negotiations – especially since I was certain I could have haggled my way up to at least two million – but that was just the way of the Underworld. Nobility came and nobility went.

I could always find another client.

“You detestable wretch,” Marchioness gritted out as her attendant helped her to her feet. “Is that what this is about? You'll get your five million.”

I hesitated for a moment, but shook my head.

“Much as I appreciate your generosity, fighting an agent of the Baroness would attract too much attention to myself. Bad kinds of attention. No money is worth that.”

I held my breath, doing my best to look regretful, but resolute, and hoped that I did not overplay my hand.

Would she bite?

“A favor, then,” Marchioness grimaced after a moment of hesitation. “A single favor from the future Duchess of Duat.”

And she did.

While shopkeepers and hotel owners had a patronage system to rely on, cloaks had developed an informal, debt-based system of their own. Even outside the usual network of contacts and associates – ones they could use to find jobs, fence stolen loot, hire minions and buy equipment from – it was what provided protection for solitary cowled from larger, hostile organizations. After all, it's one thing to rough up a single guy. It's another to rough up a single guy with an 'I'll owe you one' from Cuchilla.

As a result, favors were the one true currency of the Underworld. While newbie, fake or failed villains chased after money, more experienced cloaks sought out connections. And few connections were more valuable than a Duke.

I turned toward Resonant.

“My apologies, but it seems I must take my words back. I hope you don't think less of me for such an act.”

“Of course not. I understand completely,” he nodded. “I, too, have difficulty saying 'no' to beautiful women.”

“Thank you for the understanding,” I smiled gratefully. “It's rare to find an opponent with such a gentlemanly d-”

I lunged midword. I've been inching forward over the course of the conversation until there was less than ten meters left between us. I needed but a single moment of physical contact to establish a connection, and with the advantage of surprise -

The wall of sound smashed into me with enough force that I actually blacked out. I came to what felt like moments later, slumped against the opposite wall and all too aware that for several seconds I was left entirely unguarded.

“You're right,” Resonant lamented. “It is hard to find a gentleman these days.”

It was a chilling reminder that the rules of the Great Game only outlined the rules for fights between heroes and villains or cowled and civilians. Fight between villains, especially down here, were bloody, brutal affairs, and murder was dealt out like candy.

It was only by Resonant's good graces that I had the chance to wake up.

Something poked me in the side.

“Hey, are you dead? I really hope you're not dead. I have no idea how to get back to the surface.”

I grunted and opened my eyes.

“Your concern is touching, truly.”

Blythe shrugged unapologetically.

“I did mention that I hate you, didn't I?”

I pulled myself up with the wall's help. My entire body felt like a giant bruise, one covered with a thousand other bruises, and that was reassuring in its own way. If anything was broken or seriously injured, the Cluster would have numbed the area.

Marchioness was trading cloaked barbs with Resonant. She looked and sounded as scornful and haughty as ever, but there was something in her countenance that betrayed an increasing sense of desperation. She really didn't want to wait for her sister, huh?

Time to earn my pay, I guess.

I turned my eyes toward Resonant. What did I know about his power? I knew that it manipulated sound, capable of creating both pinpoint resonance effects and large-scale waves of repelling force. Could he use both at the same time? Could I attempt to coordinate with Marchioness?

A single look at her disabused me of the notion. That dress prevented her from moving swiftly, and I couldn't count on Resonant simply letting us hash out the details of a more solid plan.

He tapped a cane the first time he used his power. Did he do so the second time? Was it a necessary tool for his power? Didn't matter, I couldn't get close enough to snatch it.

Resonant was blind. Did he rely on his power to map out the surroundings? That should make his reaction time a tinge longer – sound did not travel as fast as light did. Again, I had no chance of getting anywhere near enough to test that theory.

There were too many variables. I was relying on guesswork right after being reminded that my life was on the line.

I sighed out loud, attracting the attention of both Resonant and Marchioness.

“Are you quite done with your nap?” the lady asked, her tone sweet and venomous.

“Going to compare me to a dog again?”

Apparently getting thrown into a wall made me cranky. Lesson learned.

“I've never had a dog as lazy and disobedient as you are,” she told me flatly.

I closed my mouth.

“Ok, I was going to make a pun about letting sleeping dogs lie, but that's just hurtful.”

“I thought that was the wall,” I wasn't sure whether Blythe found a new well of courage or simply burned out from all the fear he'd experienced over the last hour. Not sure if I liked it, either.

I decided to be the bigger man and ignore him, turning toward the cowled in the front.

“You are an formidable opponent, Resonant,” I praised. “I planned to save this particular trump card for a rainy day, but I'm willing to spend it on a... dry night?”

If this was a movie, we'd hear the crickets chirping.

“Do you want to rephrase that? I'll wait,” Resonant offered.

“Oh, shut up.”

I dramatically pulled up my Rig and tapped a few random buttons to disguise my actions.

As expected, when the explosions started going off, the mechanic I'd established a connection with was drafted into Structural Integrity Oversight, directing the nanites in Grand Pyramid's walls, floor and ceiling to prevent a collapse. It was almost child's play to make him perceive a fracture where there was none, alter the readings he saw on display and switch around a few buttons. The engineer pressed the switch. Something rumbled.

Resonant didn't look up – with his blindness there was no reason to do so – but there was a momentary flinch of surprise, of getting caught of guard.

Then the ceiling fell down on him.

A thundering crash echoed throughout the tunnel. Dozens of heavy stone blocks, no longer held together by nanites, collapsed upon Resonant, completely burying him under the cave-in and filling the air with dust. Somebody screamed from above, a delayed reaction to having the floor crumble right beside their feet.

“I call it 'closing the curtain',” I stated into the ensuing silence.