“If the First Extraordinary War was brought about by fell light, then the Second came on the wings of a darkness from the blackest reaches of space.

We called them the Dreaded, for the very appearance of their ships invoked preternatural, animal fear, the promise of bad things happening in your future.

And they did not hesitate to deliver on that promise. Not even half an hour after the astronomers detected anomalous bodies in the planet's orbit, Earth was introduced to its first orbital bombardment. No warning, no negotiation, no ultimatum. Just hyperdense slugs, accelerated to over three kilometers per second, wiping out every political, military and religious center on the planet.

Then came the occupation.

Necromancy and rail guns, power armor and mind control. With the world's armies and governments gone, the invasion was almost effortless. Morale was broken, millions were forced into effective slavery and sent deep into the earth to mine for material we never even knew existed.

It was something that came into being when Bright's radiance impacted the cognition-heavy atmosphere of the planet, as we would later find out. The substance existed in a constant state of quantum flux, only able to be extracted when directly observed by a conscious mind, making the aliens' AIs and nanobots useless for the task. Most slaves died within weeks, poisoned by psychotropic radiation or driven to suicide. Unlucky ones survived for years, pulled further and further into delirium by the voices and the dreams, by fear and hatred and unspeakable things that had no name in any human tongue.

The Second Extraordinary War was one of the best things that had ever happened to humanity, for we came together, regardless of nation, magic, religion or race, and fought as one against the invaders.

It was also one of the worst, for all our efforts came to naught.

The occupation lasted for twenty years and ended as suddenly as it started. Having gotten what they came for, the aliens packed up and left.

One morning we simply woke up to find taskmasters gone and the planet once more in our hands.

It would take much longer before we would dare to look towards the skies with anything except Dread.”

Hope and Dread, Memoirs of a Former Freedom Fighter.

***

Aleksandr Cord was a man who counted.

He counted the number of steps taken by the waiter to reach him. He counted the patrons at the restaurant and the cars passing by outside. He counted every centimeter between the tables. He counted the commondollars spent to the third decimal point.

“Fourteen minutes, twenty-eight seconds. That's how long you made me wait.”

It made him great at his job, less great of a conversationalist.

I snorted in amusement and pulled out a chair, joining him at the table.

“Good morning to you too, Sceptic. How was your day? Mine was fine, thank you for asking.”

“I didn't,” he replied flatly.

I hid a smile. Truly, he never changed.

Aleksandr reserved a table near the window, and I delayed my response for a few moments, taking in the view. It was a thin line, between nettling Sceptic and genuinely annoying him, but it was one I enjoyed walking.

And it was a nice view.

New Venice District – Venezia Nuove for native speakers – was a picturesque place. Five different canals crisscrossed the neighborhood, sometimes right underneath the windows or beside back entrances – close enough that one could stand up in the boat and knock on the door – which made watercraft a more common method of transportation than any other. Artists and sculptors took advantage of the myriad bridges to display their work, giving New Venice its distinctly cultured look, easily recognized by most of Dreadward's residents.

It was also one of the main financial centers of the city, though that was a fact much less known. New Venice was home to a number of small, private banks focused on client confidentiality and banking secrecy, the kind that could close and reopen under a different name within a week. Just from the window I could see UBD, Rin Silverman Group and the tongue-in-cheek Smaug Bank. Though it wasn't visible from this angle, I knew that just down the street also lay New Medici Bank, reputedly founded by a Patchman who was an actual Medici.

Sceptic pointedly tapped the table three times, attracting my attention.

“The closest bridge was closed for reconstruction,” I turned back toward him. “There was an attempted bank robbery, apparently, and the heroes had to blow up the escape route to stop them.”

I almost pitied the poor fools. Banks of New Venice handled the wealth of almost 80% of the city's most affluent and established villains. That kind of people would be less than understanding about an attempt to take what's theirs.

“Take that possibility into consideration the next time we meet,” Aleksandr ordered.

“Sir, yes, sir,” I saluted him mockingly.

Sceptic was not my boss, but between the two of us there was no real question of who had the greater resources and influence. Occasionally, I had to remind him that I was not one of his subordinates, though that had less effect on our relationship than one might think. Both of us had enough dirt on each other that any attempt to take down one would result in mutually assured destruction, which gave birth to the kind of trust that was very rare to find among villains. Over time, temporary partnerships evolved into a solid alliance and even something resembling genuine friendship.

“Would you gentlemen be ready to order?”

The waiter came with a pair of small bells hanging off the side of his lapel. Their jingling was quiet and tasteful, and let the clientele know he was approaching, avoiding any accidental eavesdropping of sensitive information.

Sceptic was not the only patron of Bonucci's who valued their privacy.

“Sausage and mushroom pie, no garlic,” Aleksandr ordered without a moment's hesitation.

The waiter nodded and looked at me.

I didn't even have time to peruse the menu. Given Sceptic's irritation at my lateness, I doubted he'd give me the time to do so either. Was this a subtle revenge of some kind? Or simply a lack of consideration for anybody except himself?

“Pasta, please,” I replied after a moment's thought. “I'll leave the details up to you.”

The waiter paused but nodded once more.

“Drinks?”

“Red wine, ninth down on your left shelf.”

The corner of my mouth quirked up at the waiter's briefly befuddled look.

“Just water for me,” I said.

The man nodded a third time and departed with a faint chiming of bells.

“That was risky,” Aleksandr noted disapprovingly the moment the waiter was out of hearing range. “You have no knowledge of his tastes.”

I shrugged.

“What can I say? I'm a glutton for new sensations.”

The weather outside was changing rapidly. Clouds rushed in to cover the naked sun, and a drizzle sprinkled over everything, light enough that I wouldn't have even noticed if not for the circles on the water.

“How goes your newest acquisition?” Aleksandr inquired.

“Kirin's everything I hoped for and more,” I smiled. “He's currently resting after the surgery.”

At least, I presumed so. The paranoid former CST operative still refused to establish a connection.

“What about your own projects?” I asked in turn. “That R-Tech shipment we intersected must have cost your company millions.”

“It did,” Sceptic nodded in satisfaction. “And that was only the latest of Muller's blunders. It's just a matter of time now until he's laid off and I can insert one of my own people.”

Business lunch etiquette demanded that we start off light, discuss the news or talk about common acquaintances, delaying work until the waiter brings us food. Maybe even until coffee. Unfortunately, Sceptic hated small talk with a blazing fashion. Family was not a good topic either – neither of us had a significant other, and siblings were a touchy subject on both sides – and Aleksandr was married to his work, so hobbies or vacation spots were out as well. Ultimately, we settled for updating each other on our schemes, exchanging information on threats and opportunities, reaffirming our alliance and ensuring we did not get in each other's way.

You know, normal catching up stuff.

By the time Sceptic finished expounding on how to hide certain assets from taxing authorities, the drizzle outside turned into a lashing downpour and the tinkling of bells heralded the arrival of our meal.

Upon first meeting him, most people dismissed Aleksandr as a quintessential pencil-pusher. He did not cut an intimidating figure, I had to admit. Average height, if that, and an ambiguously brown skin tone that hinted at a southern heritage without revealing too many details. A round face, partially offset by thin rectangular glasses and topped with fluffy dark hair, greying at the ends. Aleksandr's suit was of quality make, but something in the way it sat on his form made him look overweight, and its ubiquitous grey color hinted at faceless bureaucracy, the very image of an office rat.

That image would take a serious hit if anybody ever saw him eat.

Aleksandr ripped into the pie like a lion into a fleeing gazelle. Forks and knives were left untouched, hooked fingers and bared teeth his only instrument. Hot sauce and chunks of meat flew everywhere, leaving crimson stains all over the table, and a low growl emitted from somewhere deep within his chest.

For this moment alone, Aleksandr revealed a glimpse of his true nature.

***

“Our best investment is in heroes, though,” Sceptic returned back to the topic, licking the juices off his fingers.

“How so?” I raised an eyebrow, putting down the fork.

Wild boar was not something I'd seen added to pasta before, but the meat was soft, tender and succulent. The filling, earthy sauce it was coated in seemed mild, but burned on its way down in a most delightful fashion, and the smells were downright heavenly. I made a note to remember the restaurant name.

That waiter had certainly earned his tip.

“The Hero Support Act of 2115,” Aleksandr explained. “Companies can gain major tax deductions by funding cape teams.”

“Ah,” I breathed out in understanding.

The city expanded too quickly. Between massive influxes of Patchmen and the human desire to rebuild the world they had lost, the police department simply wasn't able to keep up, leaving them perpetually understaffed, undertrained and underfunded.

That's where the heroes came in.

One of the many measures taken after the Nadir, HSA was supposed to give the heroes an edge against the emerging villain class. The problem, of course, was in the difference between reality and expectation.

Heroing was essentially volunteer work. It did not support itself the same way villainy did. Heroes were expected to be altruistic and diligent, but circumstances often forced them to settle for one or the other. Either they caped after work, which severely limited their heroing time, or they had to accept outside financing.

Some cape groups did support work for the police, investigation or heavy-hitting – but police budget was already so thin that calling it anorexic would be generous. Others worked as trainers and backup for independently wealthy heroes, but there was a natural dearth of those. The more common method of sponsoring capes was essentially crowdfunding, gathering money from the local neighborhoods, but even that was rarely enough to cover the bare necessities.

More often than people liked to admit, heroes had to fight armed, armored and supported villains with nothing but their fists and a mask to protect their identity.

HSA changed all of that. It left the heroes on even footing with the newly established Underworld, gave rise to multiple new capes and caused a massive surge in the development of cape weapons and costumes. There was just one problem.

When somebody's paying for your equipment and training, maybe even a little extra for your kid's college fund, it becomes increasingly... awkward to deny their requests.

“Funding heroes is cheaper than our actual security,” Aleksandr was just winding to a finish. “As they usually have something to prove, capes work hard for that money, and the law gives them a lot more leeway when it comes to engaging and pursuing criminals. And in the process, we save billions with every passing year!”

I made all the appreciative noises, but something must have given away my wandering attention, and Sceptic cut himself off, taking a look at his Rig's clock.

He frowned unhappily.

“I did not realize I wasted so much time.”

“Don't worry, Sceptic,” I nodded understandingly. “Monologues are a time-honored villain tradition.”

Somehow he didn't seem very reassured.

“I'm not a villain, I'm a businessman,” he snapped back predictably. “And stop calling me that.”

“If you play the Great Game, you need a Great name,” I only half-teased. It was not something I was willing to budge on. “And since you were being slow about it, I took the initiative to name you myself. Feel free to thank me.”

The look of sheer aggravation on his face was something to be treasured. It was a relic from the earliest days of our relationship, when I got caught in his blackmail scheme and fought back the only way I could.

Still, I wasn't a teenager anymore to let gloating drive away a friend.

“You have a job for me,” I said more seriously.

It was time to get down to business.

Aleksandr tapped the table, once, twice, three times, but accepted the gesture for what it was.

“Renfaire, two days from now,” Sceptic leaned down and pulled up a folder from underneath the table. Paper copies, no less. If our Rigs were compromised, now or at any point in the future, there would be no digital traces leading to him. “Certain people will be meeting to discuss a potential business deal. Details are in the folder. I want that deal disrupted, by any means possible. Per our usual agreement, this information doubles as your payment. Anything you manage to take is yours. I'll even drop my finder's fee down to five percent.”

I pulled open the folder and felt my eyebrows climb up.

“That's a lot of zeroes,” I murmured. “But a strange assortment of goods. I'm not seeing a pattern. Old machinery, furniture, toys, lots of twentieth-century antiques... Oh.”

It all clicked together.

“A Patch went active.”

Aleksandr nodded, confirming my guess.

“And another company managed to secure the auctioning rights,” I didn't need the nod to know I was right.

Patches were not really something suitable for living in. Even if the residents somehow managed to provide for themselves and ward off the wildlife, such space-time anomalies acted as gateways for things that did not belong in this world. By the end of first week, the Patchmen population was usually halved. By the end of the second, reduced by ninety percent. If not evacuated by the end of the third... there would be no one left to evacuate, just empty buildings and hungry silence.

Evacuated Patchmen were settled into newly build districts at the edges of the city, provided with immediate medical care, supplied with all necessities until they had the time to adjust. Everything else in the Patch was packed up and auctioned off to gather the funds for construction and supplies. These contracts were highly sought after, as the profits from selling luxury goods far exceeded the cost of a few vats of construction nanites and a couple of trucks of mass-produced food and clothing. Given how little oversight there was, most of the difference was usually pocketed by the company in question.

For a moment I wondered if I should feel bad about taking away what little the refugees had left. There wasn't a pit in the bottom of my stomach, no tightness in my throat or sweaty palms.

“I'll take the job.”

“Good,” Sceptic nodded. “I've marked the relevant -”

The door flew open with a thump, sending fine droplets of rain into the restaurant. The buffers prevented it from crashing or slamming, but I respected the effort put into it nonetheless.

The man, tall, well-dressed and soaked to the bone, took in the room and made a beeline straight for our table.

“Sir, we have a situation,” he started mid-stride, then shot a wary look at me and bent down, whispering in Sceptic's ear.

Aleksandr nodded, then again. I caught snippets of the whispered conversation.

“Are you certain... when... that little idiot...”

Finally, he sighed and turned toward me.

“I'm sorry, but I must cut out meeting short.”

“Of course, of course,” I waved him off. “The job of Crisis Management is never done. Let the world tremble under the weight of your squeaky oxford shoes!”

The newcomer looked nonplussed, but Aleksandr was much more familiar with my particular brand of madness. Without a backward glance, he briskly strode toward the exit, already planning a solution for the latest catastrophe to befall Samsara Corp.

In moments, I was alone.

My eyes fell toward the folder.

New Patchmen, huh? Right about now they would be taken away from their homes. Taken by people they did not know and dumped into a city, a time, a culture they did not understand. Everything they ever knew, everything they took for granted would be gone, the ground itself stolen from underneath their feet. Their jobs? Gone. Their families? Gone. Their hopes and dreams, their very future? Gone.

Human character was not something set in stone. It was a malleable thing, shaped by one's surroundings, by their parents and teachers, by the beliefs of their peer group and the political propaganda spewed from TV. In the process of forming an identity, people created landmarks – bad habits, established routines, the goals they set for themselves, the morals and norms they believed to be right.

And now all those landmarks were gone.

They were no longer Sarah from the bakery or Tim from the bank. They no longer lived on Park Street or Third Avenue. They no longer went out for drinks on Fridays or visited the church on Sundays. They weren't even British or Romans or Americans. They were just Patchmen.

They would be confused now, I thought. Terrified. They had no money, no home and no prospects. With everything they used to define themselves no longer there, their very nature would be in flux. They had nowhere to go and nobody to turn to. They would be alone. Desperate. Vulnerable.

Perfect minion material.