The records room was bigger than Ichabod ever could have anticipated.

Official schematics listed it as being around twenty feet tall and twenty feet wide, a box in which five oversized computers were arrayed, side by side, like dominos.

In actuality, as they looked out from the metal outcropping, it was less like a room and more like a sea beneath them, an ocean of circuits, block boxes, wires, and beeping lights. Definitely more than five computers. More than ten. Fifteen. Dozens of computers took up the room, side by side, in rows that extended out towards the darkness in the distance. A maze of information, as Ichabod looked out for a moment. He tried very hard to stop his jaw from dropping.

“Easy, there,” Contort said, “It's just a bunch of computers.”

“Hmm,” Rorshin said, and his nose was twisted up in disgust, “I wonder how much digging they did for this. How much they disrupted with their drilling.”

“Doesn't matter, now,” Ichabod said, pulling himself together, “Let's get to it.”

He practically jogged down the stairs, the metal clanging like drums beneath his feet, The ground became concrete as he stopped onto the floor proper, weaving through the pillar-like computers. For a moment, he froze, unsure of where to start.

Then, he started walking, deeper and deeper into the catacombs.

“They're onto us,” he said, “We've only a few advantages. Rorshin, stick close. Make sure your spell is up and running.”

“It is,” the druid replied.

Ichabod banked a hard right. He looked through the cracks between two of the computers, making sure he could keep an eye on the railings high above. Any moment now, the doors would open.

His left arm broke into the Cutter once more, and he jammed it into one of the computer's ports. His eyes immediately flashed green, glaring in the relative dusk of the room.

“Cover me,” he said, “I'm deep in their systems now.”

“And you weren't before?” Contort whispered to him.

“Shut up,” Ichabod hissed, “This is busywork, now. Just have to find the right file...”

He simply stared into dead space. A few moments passed.

“Going to be a while, then,” Contort said.

“It will be,” Ichabod replied.

***

The taxi continued meandering through the streets. It got stuck in traffic at one point, caused by a crash up ahead. Becenti, Vicenorn, and G-Wiz looked through the camera at the sight of Charnak, who stopped with them. He was actively trying to keep out of sight now, weaving a spell of invisibility that obscured him in the clouds. Even Becenti's sight, specially trained to see the magical and supernatural, had no luck spotting him.

“It's no use,” he said, “We're just going to have to assume he can see us at all times.”

“Shit,” G-Wiz spat, “What's our play?”

“Our play is this,” Becenti said, “We go back to the smokeshop.”

“That'll reveal our main base to Pantheon,” Vicenorn said.

“Not much of a choice, really,” Becenti said, “Unless you had any other ideas?”

“I...” Vicenorn said, “I could drop you two off somewhere. Go my own way.”

“We split up,” G-Wiz said.

“Y-Yeah,” Vicenorn said, “He can only follow one of us, can't he?”

“We're not just up against Charnak, here,” Becenti said, “The ravens, they're still out there. Macabre's looking for us just as much as he is.”

“And if she catches wind of something?” Vicenorn asked, “I mean, a response from the Tower would be delayed. We're almost out of the business district entirely.”

“There are other agents of Pantheon in the city, remember,” Becenti said, “We would be contending with them, as well.”

“...Shit,” Vicenorn grumbled, “I... I hadn't thought of that.”

He wiped his brow again.

“They're looking hard for us,” he said.

“They are,” Becenti said, “By now, I would suspect they're starting to realize that someone's infiltrated the Tower.”

G-Wiz blanched at that. The thought of Ichabod in there, Contort too...

She remembered Ichabod's breakdown, a few days before. His tearless sobs. The fear he coughed out as he told her of what happened to him when he was caught inside...

“No,” she said, “You... You think?”

“It's only a matter of time, with a building like that,” Becenti said, “What matters is that they get out before it gets too hairy. That they recognize when they've bitten off more than they can chew, and they retreat.”

“I thought the whole point was that you were here for that!” G-Wiz snarled. Vicenorn jumped, “The entire point that Wakeling made was that you were here in case we started to fuck up!”

“I am,” Becenti said, “Hence why we're out here.”

“So you're sacrificing them, then,” G-Wiz said. Her eyes were alight with a dark fury.

“No,” Becenti said, “I'm here in case the job turned out to be impossible. In case Ichabod's own... passions, got in the way of the job.”

“And they haven't?” G-Wiz asked.

“They have not,” Becenti said.

“Becenti, did you fucking look at him the entire time we were here?” G-Wiz said, “He's been more alive than I've ever seen him before. He's driven. He's got skin in the game. You weren't there when he cried on my shoulder. He cried, Becenti.”

The old metahuman was quiet.

“You're telling me, that the whole reason you're here, is to make sure we don't mess up, and we pull back when things get too hairy,” G-Wiz said, “That, if we were found out, we'd pull the plug. Then you tell me that the operation is going to be found out anyways, and you still go through with it?”

“Drive, Oris,” Becenti said.

“You know what sort of message that's going to send to him? To Saul?” G-Wiz said, “That he's allowed to have his passions, that you aren't going to get in his way?”

“He'll do the job, and he'll do it well,” Becenti said.

“And you're sure he won't do something crazy in there?” G-Wiz pushed, “You don't think he's going to go and do something over-the-top?”

“I...” Becenti said, “I don't know.”

G-Wiz saw red for a moment. She counted down, to calm herself, her fingernails digging into her pants, cutting through the cloth, digging into her skin. She gritted her teeth.

“They're going to die,” she said, “They're going to die, Becenti.”

“...Not if they're smart,” Becenti said, “I trust them.”

He turned to look at G-Wiz.

“Do you?”

***

It took the technician several more minutes to get the elevator open again. A lifetime, in their lives. Whoever had done the work to lock the elevator from use had been a master hacker, presumably with a high-quality Cutter. Presumably with friends, too. A sneak. A magician, or camouflaging technology. How else could they have done this?

“Oh, Charnak,” Agrippa whispered to himself, “Where is my spellcaster?”

But Charnak was on his own, off on his one inane quest. Not likely one that would bear fruit, but Agrippa allowed him his own little adventures. Foxbound like him were a wily sort of folk, who had to poke and prod at every little thing in the multiverse to make sure it was not a trap. Occasionally he would flush out something interesting, at least.

So Agrippa allowed the magician to wander.

With a wrenching sigh, the elevator opened. Stuttered for a moment. The technician looked over at him.

“It's done, sir,” he said.

“Good,” Agrippa said, “Send the first team in.”

***

There were a few moments of silence as Ichabod worked. He tried to ignore his heart's hammer as he pored through thousands upon thousands of files. Everywhere he looked in their database, there were more of them. Records. Statements. Falsehoods, and copies of the write-ups they had overwritten. Several guilds used OzTech's services, not just Like Shadow. Even the guild's names were obscured. As were their employers. He was only looking at the surface level, of course. He would need time, once he found the right file, to crack it open.

Time that he didn't have right now.

High above, the door opened up. Four security guards – armed like the ones in the hall – poured in, guns pointed forward, heavy boots stamping on the metal bridge. The first inside sweeped around the place, eyes glowing green – not from jacking into a system, but from nightvision – and already was making his way down the stairs. His compatriots followed.

“The spell's holding,” Rorshin said, “Stay close.”

They streamed down. Starting hunting through the place, row by row.

“Ichabod,” Contort said, “How mobile are you?”

“...It's not here,” Ichabod concluded.

Contort shot a look at him.

“Not in this computer,” Ichabod said.

“In any of the others?”

“One of them, yes,” Ichabod said. His eyes returned back to their usual clear, see-through glare, “Some of them are networked. Some aren't.”

Above, men were barking orders at one another. Making reports. They were giving no indication that they were trying to be quiet about their hunt, almost as if their calls would flush out the infiltrators. Like dogs flush out geese.

“Quietly, now,” Ichabod whispered, “I need... I need another port. Another computer.”

He stepped back. Rorshin kept close to him, the two men side-by-side. Contort followed a step or two behind. He was holding his rifle.

Two more men were streaming into the records room. Then two more. They worked in pairs, never going through the dark spaces alone. The entire place was cast in a dark shadow as Ichabod made his way down the rows, searching around for a fresh port. He would stop at one of the computers, jacking in for a brief millisecond that edged on a lifetime, the footsteps of security getting closer and closer, before he would pull out with a curse.

“Not here,” he snapped, “Keep going.”

Two more armed men went inside. One of them stopped, surveying the entire place, mirroring Ichabod's freezing at the records' magnificence. For these were old computers, and perhaps he recognized that. Old, and magnificent, in their way.

When Ichabod brushed a hand against them, he did so with the same reverence as Rorshin touched stone, or trees, or felt the wind between his fingers.

They whirred. They beeped. They spoke their own language, one of clicks and snaps. Ichabod stopped at one of the terminals, Cutter opening up to jack in.

“Yes, here we are,” he said, “Fresh meat. New information.”

His eyes glowed green. For a moment, they were so bright they threatened to pierce through the camouflage spell, and Rorshin had to re-double his efforts. Then, Ichabod closed his eyes.

The security forces continued to move in.

***

The head of security was waiting on the bottom floor for Agrippa. Heavily cyberized, he was more metal than man, more machine than flesh. The only thing that was still organic was his brain, his spinal cord, and a few miscellaneous nerves here and there. His flesh was false flesh. The mohawk cresting his head never grew. He was dressed up in combat gear, a heavy club hanging off of his belt, a handcannon in his metallic grip.

He had long ago lost the ability to properly convey human emotion when his face had been replaced. The brows furrowed far too cleanly. The jaw clenched in just the right way, then froze in that grimace. The eyes dilated to precisely the exact specifications the program required.

“Sir,” he said, “I must insist again, this is potentially an active combat situation.”

“I am aware,” Agrippa said, and his cadence betrayed how elated he was. The G'Rash Haro let out a purr, “What do we have?”

“We know someone's in there,” the head of security said, “They cut through. Even got past the oral security.”

“And I thought that was supposed to be top of the line,” Agrippa said, “Any lasting damage?”

“To what?” the head of security asked.

“To the system overall,” Agrippa said, “They got in. Is the damage they did to the door... permanent?”

“They didn't damage the door at all.”

“Good.”

He looked over. The door was wide open, two security guards standing at attention. Beside them was the corpse of one of the security guards, his neck shot through, blood staining the floor. On the other side of him was...

“A frog,” he said. Agrippa leaned down.

“Suspected spellcaster, sir,” the head of security said, “I've a mind to recall Charnak, or call someone else from Pantheon in.”

“A good idea,” Agrippa said.

He felt the presence of Macabre draw up beside him. The fluttering of her cloak. The flapping of her raven's wings. He looked up at her, his face breaking into a drunken smile. She glowered down at him, her face impassive.

“Send your birds in,” he said.

***

They came in overhead. Birds. Ravens. Three, if Contort counted right. Wheeling shadows that cawed overhead. Ichabod was leaning down, still concentrating on searching through the computer's database. Rorshin was watching the birds as well.

“Nothing,” Ichabod said, at length. He returned to himself, looking up, “Ah, I see they're here.”

“I can take them over,” Rorshin said, “If need be.”

Ichabod thought on that for a moment, staring out at them. At the landing. They could hear the guards getting closer. Soon, the druid's spell would be put to the test.

“If we need a distraction, do so,” he said, “If-”

Ichabod faltered. He stopped speaking. His eyes widened.

He was here.

Agrippa.

Stepping out onto the landing, Macabre beside him. He looked much the same as when the last time Ichabod had seen him, still in a loose business suit that made him look like he was wearing his father's clothes, still with that drunken, duck-like gait. Those greedy eyes that, even from this distance, seemed filmed over. The G'Rash Haro floated over him, his own little guardian angel, lion's head looking this way and that, lion's mane swishing in the air. Agrippa leaned over the railing, looking out over the tower-like computers.

Of course he would come here, part of Ichabod told him. He was a man who lusted for that which he did not have, and that included danger.

He was far away from Ichabod.

But not far enough away that he could not be shot at. For a moment, Ichabod's hands searched his inner coat for a pistol. But that would be difficult. The shot would need to have enough stopping power to kill Agrippa at once. He might survive light arms fire.

His eyes, searching 'round, glanced over to Contort. At the rifle in his hands.

Contort took notice. Put two and two together. He took a light step back.

“Thought we were supposed to be professional, Ichabod,” he murmured, “You think we're getting out of this alive, if we take out the head honcho?”

But I don't want to get out of this alive, Ichabod wanted to say, Not while he's still around.

Not while the man who killed his Elijah stood tall and proud, lording over the room, the computers, the soldiers.

Not while his company drove Neos, his home, further into the ground.

Not while Julius Agrippa still drew breath.

He was salivating, he realized. His breathing was quick and hot.

“Calm down, man,” Contort said, and there was a hint of concern in his voice, “Just... sit tight, Ichabod.”

He felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Rorshin's.

“When the time comes, every wolf has his day,” the druid said, “But time for that is coming. This is just a step.”

He shot a look of pure venom, venom to match Ichabod's, at the man high above.

“But just a step,” he said.

Just a step.

Elijah flashed in Ichabod's mind. Of the way he smiled, crooked and jubilant. His warm hands, warm no matter the weather. The way he leaned forward when he was excited, almost to your face. The way he danced when old music from his childhood would play, up and down and too energetic, the floor of their flat shaking.

Of the fear in his eyes, as they were brought to Agrippa's office.

The way he whispered in Saul's ear at night, when the times were hard.

A hole in his head, his eyes devoid of meaning and light and life and love.

Of the promises he would make, of the speeches he would roar.

Of the better days they would bring.

Just a step.

The guards passed them by, looking down, with raised rifles, at their row. Contort prepared his own rifle, taking aim.

But they passed them by.

They were hemmed in, now.

But the camouflage spell had held.

“...Very well,” Ichabod said, “Let's find another damn computer.”

***

The car moved slowly up to the smokeshop. It dropped them off nearly on the street. Had Charnak not been there, floating in the sky, they would have parked the taxi a few blocks away, to ease suspicion. Vicenorn was still at work on the computer, keeping the cameras up and ready, but the signal was weakening here, his connection to the Spiders becoming more and more tenuous.

It was only a matter of time before it broke.

But for now, their mission was one of showmanship. To finish the story they had concocted for Charnak. The two of them glanced at each other for a moment, before getting out of the car, stepping out with umbrellas unfurled. The smoke shop greeted them with vague neon light and a lonely atmosphere. They went towards the door, Becenti opening it for G-Wiz, letting her go inside first.

He glanced around outside for a moment, watching for danger. A natural movement, considering the neighborhood. The taxi idled outside, Vicenorn still within. Typing frantically to keep the connection between himself and the Spiders up and running.

Without another word, Becenti closed the door.

G-Wiz was already running upstairs, the entire building shaking with each of her stomps. Becenti followed her, walking slowly through the shop, his footsteps measured. When he arrived on the second floor, he could see her fumbling with her zumbelaphone, wrestling the strap over her shoulder. She began tuning it, the music changing with a press of a button from electronic, to synthesized trumpets, to an artificial singing hum.

She made for the door.

“Stop, Galatea,” Becenti said.

She turned glaring at him. Resisted the urge to flip him off.

Becenti, however, drew towards her, put a hand on her shoulder – but she immediately shrugged it off – and turned on his communicator, tapping the button in his ear.

“B team to C team, over,” he said.

“C team to B team,” Vicenorn said, “I'm here.”

“...Is he outside?”

A moment, as Vicenorn checked the cameras. Becenti could hear his heavy breathing through the communicator.

“He is,” the cybernetic man said.

“Hell,” Becenti took a deep breath, “Alright. He's probably waiting for us to make another move. Go drive out, it'll look too unnatural if you idle there for long.”

“And... if he starts to follow me?” Vicenorn asked.

G-Wiz was looking at him. Becenti, in a rare moment, grimaced. Vicenorn was no fighter, not truly. If Charnak attacked him...

“...Go,” he said, “You're not alone.”

They had to be subtle. There was the chance that their lines had been tapped by now. That other members of Pantheon were listening in, or keeping an eye on Charnak. Becenti drew close to one of the windows, peering out from a corner. Vicenorn's taxi drew out, taking a right and cruising down a weathered sideroad.

“You're just going to let him go?” G-Wiz accused.

Becenti walked over to the stove, and flicked it on. Turned the knob all the way around, to the highest setting. He hovered a hand over its bare surface, feeling tinges of warmth caress his palm.

“He's out there, Becenti!” G-Wiz yelled, “You're going to get him killed!”

The metahuman slammed a fist down onto the countertop. G-Wiz jumped.

When he turned, Becenti's eyes blazed.

“I'm not about to let Oris die,” he said, “Charnak is a suspicious individual. He will attack Vicenorn when he thinks he is alone.”

“So you're-”

Her eyes slid to the stove. Watched as the heat, formless and invisible, began to ripple around Becenti's hand.

“...If we're doing this,” Becenti said, “We're going to need to be fast. Take out the ravens. Then Charnak.”

Her heart fell at his frankness. Some of her bluster fell away.

“So we're doing this,” she said.

Becenti was quiet for a moment. The stovetop lit up red, to signify it was hot enough to burn. Yet he kept his hand there all the same.

“I should have pulled us out,” he said, “I was... too reluctant. Too naive, again. That if we were going to succeed, we were either going to lose people, or put ourselves into a compromised situation.”

G-Wiz gritted her teeth.

“There are two options here,” Becenti said, “Either one, we let Vicenorn go. Make up some sort of story, cut him loose.”

“Not an option,” G-Wiz said.

“Indeed,” Becenti said, “Any story we make would be weak. OzTech would look at us suspiciously. But assuming that Ichabod's team gets out successfully, they have nothing they're able to truly prove. Just pieces, but nothing to link them together.”

“And if Ichabod's team is caught?” G-Wiz asked.

“Then it goes to hell, but I'm relying on Ichabod to get that part sorted,” Becenti said, “Now, if we let Vicenorn go, we have a shot – a shot,” he said, interrupting G-Wiz as she opened her mouth again, “At getting out of this. You and I, at least.”

“Bull-fucking-shit,” G-Wiz said.

“I know,” Becenti said.

He had pulled enough heat that he was satisfied. He switched the oven off.

“I'm not about to let that fox kill another one of my friends,” Becenti said, “But we'll need to be quick. We need to kill Charnak, so he doesn't say a word. If we're caught by anyone in Pantheon doing this, it won't just be a small legal spat. OzTech will come after us with everything we have. It could mean the end of the Amber Foundation.”

G-Wiz lifted up her keytar.

“Like hell,” she said.

“Indeed, Ms. Wiz,” Becenti said, “Let's go.”

***

They, just barely, managed to hold the spellwork together as they weaved down a row. By now, another pair of OzTech's security had gone inside, sweeping through the place. A pair of them started climbing along the walls, their mechanical feet bending sideways at the ankle, magnetizing to the wall, a line fired to the ceiling to keep them aloft. They crested upwards in an arc, looking down at the records room below for any signs of trouble.

“Be careful where you shoot!” the head of security roared high above. His voice had an electronic edge to it, and Ichabod could guess that the man was most likely heavily cyberized, “If any of these consoles are damaged, it's on you!”

So they were going to be careful. There was an advantage he did not have before.

Before, all those years ago, they had been caught in the hall before the door, and they had not cared about damaging that place. Aesthetics could be replaced. Plants could be regrown, water diverted. The decoration here, that was the lifeblood of elsewhere, was an afterthought compared to the raw data in these computers.

Ichabod jacked in. Found a new network.

“Alright,” he said, “third time’s the charm.”

“Make it a quick one,” Rorshin hissed. His voice was like a taut line. He was struggling to make sure the camouflage covered them, make sure they were cloaked, sinking into the darkness like shadows. Such constant scrutiny, such endless searching, was difficult for him.

By now, he would have lashed out.

Well, perhaps he would have to, in the end. They were in a bad situation.

“Ichabod,” Contort said, “What are the options?”

Ichabod was quiet as he continued working. He was getting closer, he felt.

“Ichabod?”

He felt the Cutter, connected to his organic systems, slip. He stopped himself at the last moment, before a claw scraped at the computer's surface. When had his breathing gotten so haggard? When had sweat begun to soak into him like rain?

“Ichabod.”

Contort was more set now, as though he were accepting that, whatever plan Ichabod had, it wasn't going to be pretty. Ichabod cleared his throat.

“We need a distraction,” he said, “Our goal is to get to the elevator on the other side.”

“That's dealing with... a lot of security,” Contort said. He quieted down as he noticed a few guards pass by their row, one of them peering in.

For a heartbeat, the guard froze. Looked in.

Continued on.

Rorshin let out a deep, agonized breath. He was sweating just as hard as Ichabod, now. His fingers shook as he clutched his staff.

“Only way,” Ichabod said, “Our bug-out plan is the teleport spell. We need to be above ground. We need the wind. Once we get in the elevator, I can get us to wherever we need to go.”

“And how are we getting out?”

Ichabod bit his lip.

“We need Rorshin to keep the spell up. How long can you last, druid?”

“All day,” Rorshin said.

“Be truthful,” Ichabod snapped, eyes flashing clear for a moment. He fixed Rorshin with a level glare, “I need to know.”

The druid shot Ichabod a mutinous look. Then rolled his shoulders.

“Another twenty minutes.”

“Right, that should let us last,” Ichabod said, “I've almost got it, I swear to God.”

“Then what?” Contort asked.

Above, one of Macabre's ravens soared overhead. More and more of them were streaming out of the door.

“We cause a distraction,” Ichabod said, “Contort, start firing at him. Rorshin, override Macabre's control on the birds. Make them fall on security.”

“That's your plan?” Contort asked.

“I never said it was a good one,” Ichabod said, “Now...”

His eyes flashed green.

“...I found it. Get ready in three.”

***

The taxi drew out. Charnak, high above, followed.

A moment later, G-Wiz and Becenti stepped out, and started following. It was difficult, as the fox began to move between the skyscrapers high above. Vicenorn stuck to side streets, intentionally going as slow as he could, his breathing labored as he relayed to Becenti where he was heading.

But, despite this, they started to lose sight of him. Figures on the street began to take notice of them. The homeless. The broken. The desperate. They regarded the two outlanders who stalked their city with eyes both weary and wary, and not a few of them started going inside.

Some came back out with bats. Or clubs. One even had a pistol in hand. Becenti and G-Wiz kept their distance from her.

“I'm going towards Seventeenth,” Vicenorn said.

“On it,” Becenti said, “We'll meet you there. Take the long way, let us get there first.”

“Understood.”

And they were running now. When they glanced up, peering through their clear umbrellas, they could see the barest shadow of Charnak high above, oiling around the buildings like an eel through the upper parts of a reef.

The ravens followed him. Two. Attracted to him, perhaps, or they had been trained to keep up with him.

“Hurry, G-Wiz,” Becenti said, and he started running faster. G-Wiz followed.

Seventh Street and Old Boulevard was a crossroads in the middle of the city. Two skyscrapers loomed high above, one on each side of the crosswalk. On the northern edge was a small gas station. Across from there was what appeared to have, once upon a time, been the gas station's rival, though the building itself was now abandoned, a concrete shell, the interior having long ago been looted and carved out.

All was quiet, here. The neon signs, the overtly loud music that accompanied them, the holoads that danced and dazzled, were farther away. The only light came from the gas station, though there was no one inside. Becenti found that odd.

The rain continued to pour as he and G-Wiz positioned themselves in the abandoned building. G-Wiz was thumbing her keytar. Heat roiled around Becenti.

He glanced up.

“Get me on the roof,” he said.

“On it,” G-Wiz replied. She played a few keys on the zumbelaphone, nothing concrete, just to burn light to life, forming a staircase that punched through the ceiling's fragile roof. It went out as soon as Becenti climbed it, the harsh pink dissolving and leaving him in darkness.

Rain poured over him. He let a small bit of heat out, let it form into a makeshift umbrella. But he could not afford to look out of place here.

Slowly, he formed the rest of his heat into a bow with six arrows.

The ravens cawed. One of them landed nearby.

The taxi began to pull in. Charnak followed above. A spectre.

Becenti clicked on his communicator.

“He's above you,” he said, simply.

There was quiet. Charnak began descending down, followed by the other raven. They were looking this way and that, one of them hopping into the light of the gas station, picking at a piece of trash. Becenti wondered if Macabre was looking through them now.

Charnak stopped. He stared down at the taxi for a long time, tilting his head a bit. Something flashed. Magic. Perhaps. Becenti couldn't be sure. But the air had another scent to it.

The fox floated back up. Up towards the night.

And pointed down with his staff.

Every hair on Becenti's neck rose.

“Vicenorn, get out!” he said, “Now!”

The door opened. Vicenorn was pulling himself free, his robotic arm gripping the edge of the taxi as he wrenched his mass out of the taxi.

He was halfway out when the taxi exploded.