There was a moment's silence as Ichabod finished his search.

There it was. An encrypted file. In the searching of his mind, he could almost reach out and touch it. It resembled a scroll, though dream-like and waving in the false land that was cyberspace. There and not there. Physical yet not. Yet there it was.

He was aware, as he considered it, of distant voices. He was deep in the system now, his eyes fully engrossed in an emerald ocean's glow.

It was more protected than he realized. Whoever this client was, they were high-class. Influential. Defenses could be broken, of course. He was already seeing chinks in the file's armor. But what he needed to break through was time. A chance to breathe. To sit down – preferably with Oris – and figure it out.

For a moment, his mind flashed to a fantasy, of him sitting shoulder to shoulder with Vicenorn, the two of them chuckling under their breaths as they worked, at some dumb joke the other made. Their hands would inch closer.

Would lock together.

It was a sunset in that dream. Or a sunrise. It didn't matter, so long as it was not gray and storming.

“Ichabod,” Contort said, “We're about to be completely closed in.”

His guildmate's words brought Ichabod back to the surface. He looked at the file.

“Right,” he said.

He downloaded the file into the hard drive chip stored in his head, feeling himself grow cold, as though he were experiencing a brain freeze, as artificial memories flooded into his mind. They filled the same space as the hippocampus, though he could not recall the information now, not with the firewalls protecting them. It felt much the same as struggling to remember a face, or a name.

The transfer took a minute. Maybe two.

In that time, they became surrounded. Agrippa's soldiers stalked the dark hallways. So far, they had not detected Rorshin's spellwork.

But it was only a matter of time.

Ichabod returned to the present. To the now. He turned to Rorshin and Contort. Gave them a nod. The druid was ready, his brow beaded with sweat, his eyes having taken on a distant luster. Whatever he was about to unleash, it was big. Contort handed Ichabod his rifle, unslinging the spare and checking its safety.

It would be a controlled assault. Nothing all in. No final stands. He hoped.

The very fact that they were in this position at all was not ideal. Far from it.

“Rorshin,” he said, “We're going to move.”

Rorshin nodded. His breathing was shallow. But he stepped in time with Ichabod.

The three of them made it out of their hallway, moving towards the landing above. Soldiers hunted for them. From the floor. On the walls. The ravens wheeled above.

“The ravens first,” Ichabod said, “Set them out. Then, we move as one.”

They were almost to the flight of stairs. They clung to the wall, the sea of computers to their left. Agrippa looked out from his perch. The G'Rash Haro just above him. Ichabod took a deep breath. Resisted the urge to simply open fire on him.

“Now.”

Rorshin's eyes flashed silver. Like Macabre's. His open palms squeezed into fists.

Two of the ravens broke at once, the sheer force of the spell shattering their wings, their spines, their necks. The rest plummeted for a half-stroke of a second. Macabre started, her hands grabbing onto the rails of the landing as she lost control of her unkindness.

Rorshin gave a desperate, toothy smile. He turned his fist.

His thin thumb shot downwards.

The ravens followed, diving at the soldiers below. Pecking at them, pulling at them. It wasn't enough to do any real damage, of course.

But it was enough to distract them. For them to cry out. To bat at the birds. One of them even began opening fire, stomach-dropping pops echoing through the room. A couple of ravens cawed in answer. Screams could be heard. One of the soldiers began to waver, losing his grip on the wall. He slid for a moment, before catching himself.

The Amber Foundation rushed up the stairs to the landing.

Agrippa turned. His eyes widened as Ichabod and Contort took aim. The world seemed to slow down, their cloaks fluttering through the air, the rifles pointed directly at the CEO of OzTech. At Macabre. The two guards flanking the door.

And then they opened fire. Full-auto.

Macabre let out a gasp of pain, hitting the deck and clutching her stomach. Scarlet bloomed from her belly. The two guards roared, a stray bullet catching one in the mouth, the other ducking down and letting her armor take the bulk of the spray.

Agrippa merely stumbled back. The G'Rash Haro let out a hissing snarl, its claws flashing faster than sound, each graze cutting a bullet, knocking it away. The air around him merely seemed to ripple, the spirit a blur of orange.

But the G'Rash Haro could not hold the defensive for long. Its back claws dug into Agrippa, holding him fast as it threw itself to the side. Its master fell with it, over the railing, down into the depths.

The gunfire died down as they, as three, rushed forward, Contort and Ichabod reloading. The last guard standing rose up-

Only for Rorshin to slam into him, a hand covered the soldier's mouth. The druid's skin rippled, and something shot into the soldier.

The man's flesh began to pale. Take on a sickly shade. And he collapsed to the ground. Rorshin hardly missed a step as he threw open the door. There were four other guards in the hallway, who turned as Contort opened fire.

Two of them were felled, a third slid against the wall, which slicked red as he went down. The last, nearest to the door, raised his rifle in turn.

Rorshin raised a hand. The air between them thickened, became shell-like, and the soldier's spray drummed against his shield.

At the same moment, Ichabod turned, his Cutter springing to life. He shut the door to the records room, locking it down.

Contort took advantage of the shield, rushing forward to the soldier. The hairs on his arm hardened as he slashed at them, scraping hard rents into the soldier's armor. The soldier swiped at him, only to watch him move as oil, his entire form lurid and liquid as he ducked behind the soldier.

And Ichabod opened fire again.

The soldier hit the ground.

Ichabod crossed the hallway, his breathing heavy. He all but dragged the rifle as he made his way to the elevator.

“Get ready to take out anyone inside,” he said.

Rorshin and Contort grimaced. Ichabod's Cutter stabbed deep into the elevator's console. No time for caution, or patience. He sent it down, damn the consequences.

The elevator opened. A technician and a soldier were inside.

Ichabod moved to the side. Contort took aim, opened fire.

The soldier moved to shield the technician, but at near point-blank range, it was far from enough, shuddering as gunfire made him porous. The technician’s scream was cut loose as a bullet struck her throat. The two of them slid down the wall, which painted red.

Corpses, now.

Contort grimaced. Ichabod moved the soldier's foot out of the way of the door so it would close.

“Them or us,” he muttered, “Rorshin. The spell.”

Rorshin stepped into the elevator, his nose wrinkling at the sight of the two bodies. The elevator door closed, and once more did Ichabod's Cutter peel itself out of his arm, attacking the console, peeling its front off to reveal the innards within.

With a shudder, the elevator started going up, far faster than before.

“They'll be on every floor,” Ichabod said, “We need out, fast.”

He looked at Rorshin.

“Any time now.”

“It...” Rorshin gasped, “A moment.”

The spellcaster looked absolutely haggard. There were deep rings under his eyes, and he looked as though he had aged a decade since they had gone underground. His hands shook as he whispered hoarse words to himself, his fingers crossing and uncrossing in strange motions.

“Above,” he said, “We need to be above ground.”

“We will be, in a second,” Ichabod said.

Contort knelt down, pilfering the dead guard's sidearm, his rifle. He was carrying, in blind defiance to working in an office with several important pieces of hardware, a pair of grenades.

Contort took those, too.

The lift continued upwards. Rorshin continued to take deep breaths. In. Out.

“Alright,” Ichabod said, “We're aboveground.”

“Higher,” Rorshin said.

Ichabod pulled a face.

“You want the spell to succeed, or not?” Rorshin said, “Higher, you damn fool. This is taking enough out of me as is.”

Ichabod complied. The elevator continued rising.

“As soon as we get out,” he said, “They'll activate security throughout the city. Things are going to get hot.”

“This is all I have in me,” Rorshin said, “I need to rest.”

There was a stark frankness to his voice. A suggestion in it, even. Of leaving him behind. But Ichabod shook his head.

“Right,” he said, “I carry you. Contort, blow anyone you see to hell.”

“Anyone from Pantheon?” Contort asked.

“Maybe. Perhaps. Another spellcaster, if Charnak hasn't been dealt with,” Ichabod said, “Voldoma, perhaps.”

They were quiet at that. Ichabod glanced at the console. The only sounds were the shaking of the elevator, which had begun to shudder from the speed, but Ichabod could imagine the security teams waiting on each floor, the barking orders, the dull hums of security drones as they began cutting into each door.

Almost as if on cue, they heard the sound of someone dropping down from above.

“A stupid move,” Ichabod said, “We got up to the top, and they're crushed.”

The elevator stopped. The force sent the three of them up, then down. They hit the deck with a groan.

“Now!” Ichabod roared.

An orange spot appeared on the ceiling. Grew larger. Gained a blue pupil as the cutting tool grew hot as a star.

Rorshin let out a final exhale, and once more the scent of nature overtook them. Like a forest. They were there, then were not. Like a predator melting into the bush. The world inside the lift was silent for a split moment.

And then the security team broke through.

They found no one alive. Just two bodies.

***

Agrippa stood facing the metal door, watching as one of the soldiers worked to cut through its thick frame. But the door was designed to resist any and all physical damage, and the guard was having a hard time using the devices on hand to get through, the thermal lance barely starting to heat through the door's surface.

Macabre was curled up beside him, being tended to by one of the guards. The body of one of her ravens was draped in her arms, a bullet having shorn through its chest. She was sobbing quietly to herself.

By the end of it, they had needed to kill all of the ravens in the room. Whatever spell had been set off, it had been enough for her to lose control of the birds completely. Part of him wondered if she had lost the rest of the unkindness. Part of him did not care.

“Confirmed, they're gone, sir,” a voice cracked through the communicator, “Confirmed mage.”

“Recall Charnak,” Agrippa said, “He's the only mage we've got online right now.”

There were a few moments as he heard the security team work in the background. He heard the man on the line swear under his breath.

“...He's not answering, sir.”

Agrippa took a deep breath. Exhaled slowly.

His eyes remained filmed over.

The G'Rash Haro let out a roar that echoed through the records room. It began to thrash about wildly over him as Agrippa scratched his chin.

“Very well,” he said, “We do things the usual way, then. Send out every team online. Wake up any agent of Pantheon in the city. Tear New Shan apart. Bring me heads. Bring me bodies. Bring them to me.”

His heart was racing, and not in a good way. He gripped the landing's rails, steadying himself. The G'Rash Haro's roars slowly died out.

This was not happening.

***

Charnak floated over the remains of the taxi, tilting his head a bit to observe its corpse.

Vicenorn, somehow, still lived. That fact made G-Wiz sick to her stomach, as she saw some shambling, skeletal mass pull itself out of the twisted wreckage.

Above, on the roof, Becenti was raising up his ethereal bow, his face still set in its usual, stone-like glint.

His eyes alight with fury.

The first two arrows let loose without a sound. G-Wiz wasn't sure how he could aim in these conditions, the rain pouring around outside and obscuring everything in a light fog. He was hitting shadows, too, the ravens popping from place to place.

And yet the first arrow struck head-on, tearing the raven in half.

The second arrow followed a split-second later, clipping the raven's wing. It spiraled to the ground.

Becenti cursed to himself, pulling out a third arrow, taking aim.

By now, however, Charnak had taken notice that something was off. The fox's head shot towards the bird as it hit the ground, hobbling on the street. It was as though G-Wiz could see the gears turning in the magician's head, as Charnak began trying to piece where the shot had come from. He landed on the ground, stepping towards the raven, ignoring the flaming wreck of the taxi.

Ignoring the somehow still-breathing form of Vicenorn, which G-Wiz thanked the Muses for.

“G-Wiz, to the side,” Becenti’s voice crackled in her communicator, “Cause a distraction. Careful.”

G-Wiz nodded, unsaddling the zumbelaphone, fingers hovering over the keys. She could hear, just barely, as Becenti shifted, moving along the top of the roof, re-positioning himself. Charnak had almost finished his search, sniffing the air, beady, primal eyes looking to and fro.

His eyes landed on the most likely place an attacker would be. The abandoned shop that G-Wiz and Becenti were in.

He pointed his multi-starred staff.

“Shit,” G-Wiz said. She ran to the left. She heard Becenti stomp on the roof, going to the right. He was making more of a ruckus than her, and was far faster, too. He would be the first to leave the building’s vicinity.

Charnak would see him first.

G-Wiz couldn't let that hap-

There was the sound of the air popping.

A millisecond later, the world behind her exploded, throwing her forward from the sheer force. G-Wiz was just outside the building as it happened, and she flew through the air. Keying her zumbelaphone, her fingers in a mad rush, she played out a song, a light, cloudy tune. Almost like a music box, from the deepest parts of her childhood memories.

What projected out of the zumbelaphone's end was a cloud-like caress, a sheer white cloak of light that she sunk into, absorbing the energy of the fall. She slid down.

It was light. It shone like a star.

Charnak could not help but notice. Good.

G-Wiz pointed the keytar at him, then down. She played a quick tune, writing out words in the cracked street between them.

RISE.

The earth splintered. In command of G-Wiz's word, hunks of the street rose in the air as a natural barrier.

Flames appeared around Charnak. He threw them out, globules of fire whirling towards the barrier. He was already flying high above it, however, arcing his spellwork down. G-Wiz played a few keys, erecting a shield of light.

Fire and light met in midair.

They made a cacophonous boom that echoed across the street. Sirens began to scream in the distance.

Had to make this quick.

Becenti was somewhere. She hoped. Part of her worried that he'd been caught in the explosion-

Charnak sent more spells down, magic that looked as though he had torn open the starry skies and sent them down, the night in all of its glory collapsing on G-Wiz. The first slash shattered her shield. The second went right for her.

G-Wiz dove, rolling back to her feet, skipping to the side. She played another tune, switching from electronica to drumbeats, painting a word on the floating street she had erected.

STRIKE.

The broken street shot upwards at the fox. Charnak let out a snarl, and he disappeared into his cloak, the cloak itself fading into the night.

He reappeared a moment later next to her.

A claw lashed out, studded with stars and flame.

It caught her in the side, scraping flesh clean. G-Wiz howled, jumping back. Her mind was flooding with pain, her muscle memory forcing her to pick a song, any song.

It ended up being Rick Astley.

“Shit,” she said, and she fired off the beam of light, Charnak grimacing as it hit him head on. It forced him back, feet scraping against the ground. Teeth gritting, G-Wiz etched the words quickly on the fox's chest.

HURT YOU.

Charnak began to scream, a loud, primal screech that pierced her ears. He fell to the knees, clutching his head.

The zumbelaphone was starting to smoke. Almost out of juice. Ever since Mordenaro, it had been weaker. G-Wiz's heart fell.

Any time now, Becenti.

And then Charnak twisted, as though struck by something. The air shimmered at his side. One of the metahuman's heat arrows.

Becenti was rushing forward, dragging heat from the smoking wreckage of the taxi. He formed three more arrows, taking aim, firing off another. But by now Charnak was powering through the pain. He raised his staff, the air hardening in front of him, the metahuman's shot ricocheting.

G-Wiz pointed the zumbelaphone, playing out a sample of Holst's 'Mars: the Bringer of War,' painting out words onto Charnak's chest.

BOOM.

Charnak's eyes widened. He took a deep breath, and he began to cough out a spell-

And then he blew the fuck up.

***

The three of them appeared on a rooftop nearby. The building itself went down a few floors, a bridge near its middle connecting it to the rest of the middle class districts of New Shan.

Almost immediately, Rorshin collapsed. His breathing was heavy, haggard. His forehead, when Contort felt it, was as ice.

“Can you walk?” Contort asked.

The druid, with a monumental effort, rose. Took a few steps. For a moment, he swayed.

Then, he nodded.

“Good,” Ichabod said, “Almost out. Into the city we go, into the-”

He gasped as a bullet struck his shoulder. The shot spun him 'round. Contort looked up, pointing his rifle. Two drones hummed in the air. They began opening fire, pinprick shots winking in the false neon dawn. The three of them rushed forward, the spray of gunfire dancing at their feet, whizzing over their heads, rushing by their ears.

One struck Contort in the leg just as they made it to the door. He let out a coughing wheeze, twisting his torso around, taking aim. He pulled the trigger, firing off answers of his own. One drone was hit, spiraling down. The other began flying back, out of the rifle's effective range, the shots going wild and awry. But they stopped firing, now threatened, as Ichabod’s Cutter ate through the door’s defenses and he swung it open. They ran inside.

The cybernetic man rolled his shoulder. The injury could be easily repaired. But his right arm was dummied, now. Loose. He could feel the bullet still in there, the artificial nerve networks connecting to his brain letting him know it was lodged somewhere near the rotator cuff. A bad place for it to be.

The arm hung at his side. His left arm, containing the Cutter, was safe.

Contort was testing his leg, applying weight to it. He nodded as he shifted the muscles and bones around to accommodate the bullet.

Yet he still winced as he stood tall.

“No time to waste,” Ichabod said, “We go down. Now.”

He took point, pulling free his pistol as they ran towards a spiral staircase. By now the entire city seemed on edge, the sounds of sirens roaring outside.

They rounded a corner to see a security guard on the landing. The guard raised a rifle.

Two shots rang out. Ichabod grimaced and hit the deck, feeling the bullets whiz by his forehead as he pointed his pistol. His first shot missed. His second struck the man in his false eye, shattering it, glass mixed with blood splattering the wall as his last few shots went wild.

Contort was over Ichabod now, stepping over him and taking point, rifle pointed directly downwards. But this guard had been an exception, presumably stationed here for precisely these situations.

OzTech's agents, situated around the city.

“Only a matter of time before we hit someone from Pantheon,” Contort said.

“They will break,” Rorshin said, “I will break them.”

He was wheezing, taking the steps carefully. Ichabod shook his head.

“Stay back,” he said, “Another spell could kill you.”

“Like I care,” Rorshin said, “Anything, to break men and their ways.”

There was a desperate edge in his voice. Contort grimaced.

Rorshin wasn't expecting to make it.

“No,” Contort said, “If any of us go out, they know we're here.”

“I... will be dead,” Rorshin said, “I will not care.”

“Save it,” Ichabod said, “Cast your damn spells. But we're dragging your corpse with us, if it comes to it.”

Rorshin was quiet. Ichabod looked at him.

“This is just a step, you damn fool. You do more damage alive than as a martyr.”

The druid let out a low hum.

They made their way down the staircase. The building they were in was another office building, evidently not as large as the Tower, but with the same dizzying numbness.

They could hear, on all sides, the sounds of sirens. Rorshin grimaced as he perked an ear up, listening.

“Glass breaking, two floors down,” he said.

“Another security team,” Ichabod said.

“Above, too,” Rorshin said.

“We sneak by,” Ichabod said, “We go further down. To the bottom, if we have to.”

“Not the bridge?” Contort asked.

“They'll have locked that down by now,” Ichabod said, “No. Down. To the very bottom.”

“We'll be sitting ducks there,” Contort said.

The cybernetic man's mind raced. He grit his teeth as he considered their options. They were, truly, pinned.

“Rorshin,” he said, “Your spellwork, is it better above or below?”

“On the bridge, or the the ground?” Rorshin said, “Above. The higher we are in the air, the more I'm connected to what little life is left here.”

“Right,” Ichabod said, “How much more can you do?”

“...One spell,” Rorshin said, “Maybe two. If you are serious about carrying me, best be ready.”

“Contort,” Ichabod said, “Drop the rifle.”

Contort did so.

“Rorshin unleashes a spell at the team holding the bridge. Make it nasty. You carry him. We go across the bridge, disappear into the middle class district. Hide in clubs.”

“Should we separate?” Contort asked.

“No,” Ichabod said, “We're better together than apart. At least then we've got a chance at getting out of this alive.”

The elevator door on the other side of the room dinged. They ducked beneath a line of cubicles.

Two security guards were in the elevator. Both of them were OzTech standard, in full combat gear.

Contort pulled out the grenade. Gave Ichabod a look.

He nodded.

Contort ripped the pin free, tossing it at the elevator.

A split-second of silence.

An explosion.

The wet sounds of flesh hitting the ground independent of the body. The other guard screaming in agony.

They stood back up and continued running. The elevator was a bust, obliterated by the grenade's blast. The smell of death hung in the air, iron-tinged. The screams of the still-living guard slowly disappeared as they ran towards the door to the stairwell. Contort pulled out his other grenade, opening the door up.

Only to be greeted by another OzTech soldier. They were face to face. Two more were behind him.

Contort ducked. Ichabod pulled up his pistol right as the guard opened fire.

Ichabod's shot hit true, plugging a hole into the soldier's head. The soldier's own rifle tore at Ichabod's side, cutting through his cloak and biting into skin. Ichabod sneered, taking an unsteady step.

Contort himself pushed the now-dead soldier to the side, rushing into the stairwell. He tackled the second soldier, his body twisting around so he was behind him, his arms wrapped around his waist. With a heft, and a surprising strength, Contort lifted him into the air, tumbling backwards, throwing the guard over him and off the side of the staircase.

At the same moment, the third soldier dropped the rifle and pulled out an electric baton. He swung it down at Ichabod, who was advancing. Ichabod grimaced as he leaped back. Rorshin poured into the room, swinging his staff weakly at the soldier.

Who simply pushed it out of the way and cracked the baton across the druid's jaw. Rorshin spun.

Contort was back on his feet, arms wrapping around the soldier's neck like twin serpents. The soldier began slamming his elbow into his side, and Contort grimaced, his muscles bulging as the soldier struggled.

Ichabod rammed his fist into the man's stomach. The guard let out a gasp of pain, doubling over, his concentration lost.

Contort twisted. There was an ugly crack, like wood splintering.

The guard went limp. Contort pitched him over the side.

They ran. Ichabod clutched his new gunshot wound. It had hit the flesh, and he was bleeding out an ugly, raw stream. Rorshin was unsteady on his feet, rubbing his chin and beard. He spat out a tooth into his hand, considering it for a second, then swallowed it.

And they went down the staircase, down to the floor that led out to the bridge. The stairwell door led out into a lobby, with a fountain at its center, a statue atop it depicting a businessman holding the hand of a cartoon rabbit. Three doors led out to the open world, and by the way they shimmered, Ichabod could tell they were one-paned. They could see out, but no one could see in.

Security was not inside this room, but outside. Soldiers, all of them armed, all of them with rifles pointed at the door. A few police cars were hovering overhead, and the sky above swam with ravens and drones.

“Good,” Rorshin rasped, “This is good.”

He staggered over to the fountain, peeling off his ski mask and throwing his head down into the pool. His hair floated on the water's surface as he drank deep. When he pulled out, he was breathing heavily, but there was a renewed energy in his eyes. His face broke out into his vile grin.

“A lot of ravens, " he said, “Macabre will despise me.”

Contort drew towards the door, looking at the druid.

“What's the spell?” he asked.

“A destructive one,” Rorshin said, “One that better demonstrates my will. No camouflage. No voice mimicry.”

His hands, shaking, were clasping together. He brought them up to his lips.

“Open the door.”

Contort, grimacing, complied. Security outside opened fire, a symphony of bullets tearing through the doorways, annihilating the front half of the office's entrance. Contort and Ichabod hit the deck.

Rorshin, however, slowly brought his hands to his lips. Bullets roared around him, the world alight with light and flame and death, but nothing touched him, as though fate itself allowed him to cast his spell.

He blew into his hands, and his breath became a mournful whistle. Quiet at first, deeper than one would have expected. But it soon became louder, weeping out of the building, out into the night. It hung for a single long, smooth note. For an eternity. For a second.

For the time that was needed for the ravens to hear the call, and become transfixed.

Transformed.

The first part of the unkindness took to the drones, slamming into them midair, exploding as they did so with roars. Their blood became fire, their feathers like napalm. The drones burned, winking out and falling to the world below.

The rest of the unkindness flew, like missiles, into the security team on the bridge. They burst into flames as they did so, becoming as phoenixes. Some of them fell alone, miniature bombs that crashed into an individual soldier. Others flew as one, a wave of flame that cut through entire squads.

Rorshin was laughing. High and reedy, a pitch higher than usual. Ichabod and Contort could only watch, mouths agape, as they saw the world outside burn.

And then, the druid collapsed. Contort ran over, and picked him up.

Noted how light he was.

“Let's go,” he said.

The OzTech security team was still screaming as Ichabod and Contort ran outside. Some of them were on fire, rolling on the ground. Others, dressed in flames, were throwing themselves off the bridge's sides, falling stars to the pit below. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air.

They ran through. Ichabod was grimacing. Contort was biting back a vomiting fit.

The end of the bridge was blocked off by police tape, though the officers patrolling the line had been burned away. A crowd of civilians were watching as Ichabod and Contort charged at them.

A few more ravens were still around, drunkenly wheeling through the air.

They flew into the crowd, igniting.

And the night became filled with their screams. As one, the mob broke, surging away from the office building. Ichabod and Contort followed them, jostled to and fro, as they tried their damned hardest to disappear into the stampede.

The sea of people rushed away from the scene. Those unfortunate tripped, fell, were trampled underneath. Rorshin's spell claimed more than OzTech's security team.

And, Contort noted bitterly, he wouldn't like it any other way.