My issue writing in First-person

I've discovered something interesting and slightly disturbing about writing in first-person. I've got three novels on the go at the moment, two of which are first-person narratives. It came home to me the day before last like a thunderclap over my head.

When you're writing in third-person, your necessarily disconnected from everything you're doing. You have a distance, an omniscient presence that doesn't have to be so involved in things. You can be as coy or gleefully detailed about character fates as you please without much of a pang. True, you do get emotionally invested in them, but there's always that distance because you're speaking about them from an outside perspective. Almost as if you're a god.

But with first-person, there's an investment. You're necessarily looking at the world through one character's eyes. In the concept stages you may be drafting the story from an overhead view, but for other things you're confined to a single viewpoint. Whether it's a life-or-death struggle, a romantic or sexual encounter, or just describing the outside world, there is a connection. It's far deeper than anything else, because you have that need to think as they think.

At least I know it now. I can think through this. I can stop myself feeling too much of what the characters feel. And I should be able to finish these and write more in this style without too much bother.

Update... I've Got a Publisher!

You'd never be able to compare the feeling I had two days ago when, on a last email check, I saw something drop into my inbox. Something I was sure would be a "we regret to tell you". Like I've had from agents since my first tentative submission attempts all the way back in 2011. But it wasn't.

It was a pitch I had no idea would work. I'd needed to withdraw and rewrite it once because my overexcited fingers had attached the wrong documents and made some rather glaring spelling and word mistakes. It was the first time I'd put together what was basically a pitch selling myself and the many different series and standalone titles I could offer them over so many years at such and such a pace...

That was just over a month ago. And when I saw that email and read it, I couldn't believe my eyes. I read it again. My desk faces the window, and since it was dark outside it acted as a mirror. I was gawking like an idiot. Then I leapt up from the chair and started dancing about the house like a sentient pogo stick, bouncing round and round in circles as if I were an overexcited child. I wanted to shout, to tell the world, to exalt my good fortune from the rooftops. But the most startling emotion I felt wasn't excitement. It was a pure, unfiltered happiness that I hadn't felt in years. The pressure, the anxiety I'd felt with each submission....gone. Thirteen years of effort finally paid off.

I don't want to mention too much at this point, because it's still very early in the process and I'm awaiting a contract. And there's still a long road ahead filled with difficulties and the grind of any fledgling author establishing a market presence. But it's a start, and with a publisher I could only have dreamt of.

I have a publisher. Now the real work begins.

Losing Focus

Themes are incredible things in stories. They can help bind a story together. But have you ever found a theme overtaking your work? Yeah, me too.

My writing can sometimes be painfully slow and difficult to start. I can end up spending up to two weeks on one chapter for no good reason. Words normally flow from my fingers. But within the last week, something clicked. I went through all the reasons my writing productivity might be down. One was me being a little distractable due to current home conditions and upcoming events. Those issues are slowly finding solutions.

The other is that I was letting the grand theme dominate the story, at the expense of characters and narrative. In an earlier WordPress post, I outlined an Ancient Greece alternate story. That was being stopped dead because I was trying to kind some grand theme for the narrative. I know, it's terrible of me. I was also trying to open it in a style foreign to my sensibilities of character writing. On top of that, restarting a project from scratch can be a little demoralising for someone based on the amount of work put in. In my case, this was my third attempt.

Here's hoping my current works, including the above story, will push forward now I've remembered what pushed me to write ten months ago. Before my father died, and I had to reassess my world. It's a miracle I completed anything at all.

Not Inspiring

Hi, sorry for the two-week delay. I hope you enjoy another vaguely coherent but still slightly inflammatory blog post on the follies of fictionalising reality.

As an author, inspiration can come from a lot of places. But when it's a lack of inspiration, you have to wonder why. Why doesn't this particular thing cause me to make up three story scenarios on the spot?

While I have a great appreciation for the Harry Potter series and greatly enjoy it, I can't say it had much of an impact on my writing unlike the work of Stroud and Herbert. Don't get me wrong, they're great books, and some elements have provided inspiration in some things. But there's something about that series that i feel is inviolate. Perhaps it's because I'm still pushing with my craft, or perhaps it's that I haven't yet found any concept that I can sensibly take for that long without stretching it to breaking point. But when I look at a seven-book series that only in a few places looks as if it's begin stretched out, I can't help but feel humbled. Barring a few choices, it still boasts one of the most fully-realised central casts of any fantasy saga. Ever.

I shan't go here into my dislike of Avatar (I've done that before, and don't have much new to say on the subject), but it draws on a tradition that's best exemplified in many Western movies; the oppressed natives in rebellion. The theme of rebellion isn't new. Heck, it's as old as religion. But its use in stories is often one-note, taking in the glory and justification while barely looking at the consequences or aftermath. Also, there are too many real-life examples that don't end well. French Revolution? Yeah it deposed an inadequate ruler, but it led to one of the bloodiest purges in European history prior to WW2. Russian Revolution and Long Walk? While the basic ideology is sound, it caused great suffering to a lot of people and was eventually used by effective dictators to create some of the most unsettling governments in modern history outside the Near East and the Americas. Indian Uprisings? Yes they were forced into it, but their rebellion only made the government come down even harder and it only caused more harm in the long run... I could go on and on. Basically, rebellion isn't something I put in my stories unless there's an excellent way of admitting its complexities, even if it's based around fantasy.

A fascinating example for me is Dungeons & Dragons, that oh-so-famous role-playing franchise. I'd only ever heard of it through the movie, which I thought was an enjoyable romp but lacking in much rewatch value. Particularly as some of the best scenes were relegated to the cutting room floor. It's arguable that many people's perception of fantasy has been moulded by Dungeons & Dragons. But for me, it's never had a great pull. Once I skimmed below the surface, there's so much that I think "oh, they used that" or "oh, it's that again". Now, I'm not saying they're the only ones. No-one is these days. But they're so blatant about their aesthetics that the world starts to come across as derivative to the point of comedy. Doesn't help that a lot of its most memorable media reinforces from rather unhealthy gender stereotypes. This spills over into the media it's influenced, poisoning my later enjoyment when I see how much of Dungeons & Dragons was used, either consciously or just because it's become ingrained into pop culture. Now, if a piece of fiction had the characters being openly at odds with the "dungeon master", that would be something. Still, didn't know it drew so much from folklore.

There's a tone of other examples I could name, but this blog post would be way too long. Hope you enjoyed. Are there any series that didn't inspire you?

Mystery of Mysteries

Mystery stories are a pain in the proverbial. I should know, I'm writing one.

I enjoy detective stories, with tastes ranging from Christie and Sayers to Dexter and  (Caroline) Lawrence, but until recently I didn't feel I had the confidence to either plan it out or carry through on something that required so much careful preparation or forethought. But that November, I was struck by inspiration. I knew the mystery story I wanted to write, the detective I wanted to craft. When I decided to start writing that detective story. I wanted to create a fantasy-themed detective story. Non-human characters, a classic Christie-style premise with an unconventional resolution. But then my father died.

As you can imagine, I found myself lacking in any real wish to continue. At least my description of the corpse was real enough, but it was after that point that my writing just petered out. It took me a whole month to get back to my work, when I started writing a different Japan-themed story I've just finished within the last fortnight. And I found myself freshly confronted by the difficulties of the form.

Quite apart from the usual issues related to writing about death within a year of my own father dying (and me being the first to discover the body, on top of that), I realised I had to define a lot more than just the characters. I had to settle the layout of the location as it relates to incidental and plot-relevant details, the time frame for the incident, note details about the condition of the corpse and the mechanics of the murder method, be realistic about who my detective acts in the wake of the death.

It's all complicated by the fact that it's a story where there is no simple magic trick to show that there is only one way the crime was committed and only one person capable of it. It's very like real detection; a grind of interrogating witnesses, examining evidence over and over again, and struggling through to a solution that best fits the facts. Well, that's not such a huge problem. I don't like stories that do that. You'd think the culprit would be less silly about committing the crime if its circumstances pointed so clearly to them.

Well, here's hoping it works out. I'm still pushing to find agents and/or publishers to take my work. And my latest completed work will arrive on Amazon through my self-publishing channels. And I continue pushing forward while eyeing other things, and keeping my dream alive in the best way I can. Here's to hope.

Old Habits

I've been writing since I was 12 or 13, and something that every new writer can sympathise with and understand is the wish to create something truly epic. You know, that five-book saga with a cast number that puts A Song of Ice and Fire to shame, a compelling narrative that keeps readers hooked until the last page. Little do they think of the massive technical difficulties and sheer labour such a project entails. I mean, I know I wrote what turned out to be a duology in eight months, but it took another year and a half to polish it into a readable form. And even then I had grand ideas of turning it into a trilogy, despite the narrative being satisfactory done as it stands.

I was really struggling recently with my WIP, a story set in New York and heavily based on Japanese folklore. And by that, I really mean "Japanese". I had to be careful that the yokai I used as my characters weren't recent imports from China or Korea or other Far Eastern countries. Admittedly I had to stretch a point with my two leads (a kitsune and tanuki, who share a common origin in Chinese fox legends way way back when), then I wanted to add in a conflict with another country. I decided on China.

By this point in the story, I had three antagonists either introduced or planned, with one being a Daoist priest and the other being an inugami or malevolent dog spirit. But as I reached the final chapters, I just stalled. Completely and utterly. I could barely turn out four pages in three weeks, which for me is dismal progress. I took me the best part of those three weeks to realise what was going wrong. It was something I'd done previously and not corrected in earlier work. Too many characters.

Sounds an idiotic problem, right? But either in draft work or in published works, an overabundance of characters can be detrimental to a story. They can confuse the reader, clutter the narrative, cause gaps when some characters vanish for multiple chapters before reappearing as if nothing had happened. Kind of like Eragon? Of course that book has the opposite problem; keeping track of all the characters and constant scene switching bamboozles the reader.

The problem was solved by combining the Daoist and inugami into a single character. This both made more sense, and gave a little extra cohesion to the narrative. I had to rewrite about ten pages of text, but in the end it was worth it. It showed me I'm still prone to some old mistakes. I'm sure I'll have to watch that particular impulse all my life.


(Oh, and on a side note, due to Amazon's new book linking systems malfunctioning because of similar book titles, the book links on the pages for both volumes of The Leviathan Chronicle are redirecting to the wrong pages. Apologies for not catching it sooner, it appears to be a relatively recent problem. Hopefully this will be sorted in the near future.)

The Ovid Effect

For those who don't know, Ovid is one of the most famous poets of the early Roman period, alongside Virgil. He is best known in life for being a highly controversial anti-authoritarian writer in a pro-authoritarian autocratic state. He was eventually exiled to the Black Sea by Augustus....perhaps because of an association with the Emperor's flirtatious daughter. Ovid's most famous work is Metamorphoses, which is actually the source of the greater majority of our remembered Greek myths. He's the one who turned an ancient Grecian monster into a tragic heroine. AKA, the Medusa.

Seeing this showed me something that happened in a lot of stories, either from the same author or from later writers adding to the same universe. A common theme in fiction that can revisit earlier things is revisionism and deconstruction. Revisionism is basically the examination of a past event, either in fiction or reality. Deconstruction is literally what it says; taking something apart. Using these, the later stories take apart and potentially undermine the existing narrative.

Ursula le Guin did this in the final two parts of her Earthsea pentalogy, where she openly questions the rules of magic. There's always been a sense ever since the first book that magic is so dangerous and strange that it's a wonder anyone can use it. But in Tehanu, and certainly in The Other Wind, we learn the full truth behind how magic came to be, and how it became the sole domain of men. There's certainly a bit of subtext here that could be spun as feminist, but the main point is that these revelations completely change how we look at the original trilogy.

Rowling's Harry Potter novels are an example where this approach is used as a narrative device and an analogy of maturation for the titular lead. In the opening books, characters are very clearly for or against Harry, but as the books slowly advance there are gradual shifts and indications of something more. This begins with the third novel Prisoner of Azkaban, but comes full circle in the final book Deathly Hallows, where key plot details are revealed and throw the entire saga into a new light. Some may say that it abuses the double and triple bluff, but it reflects how Harry's view of the world changes. He sees people as black and white during his first years at Hogwards, but by the end he sees everything in shades of grey.

The two examples that sprang to mind from video games were the novel Final Fantasy XV: The Dawn of the Future, and the Obsidian Entertainment-developed KOTOR II; The Sith Lords. Games are far more susceptible to this due to changing IP ownership and teams, and the general fluidity of the market.

The Dawn of the Future is a book that retells the events of a cancelled DLC tetralogy of the same name. The intent was the create an alternate final to Final Fantasy XV, which had a lot of people either scratching their heads or complaining due to its narrative choices. In the most basic way possible, the roles of the deities in Final Fantasy XV were defined in a way that was supportive, but in the novel they were skewed into being far more ambivalent. It doesn't strictly invalidate the original narrative, but it does throw a spanner in the works.

KOTOR II is notorious for taking the previously-simple dichotomy between Jedi and Sith and throwing it on its head, adding a moral dimension to the narrative that's ignored by the rest of the canon. Since they're both extremes, is either side right? It's more realistic as it accepts the existence of shade of grey, which everyone in reality has to face, but also puts everything else in the series on an uncomfortable position as it questions the entirety of the conflict that's at the centre of the series. If you want a more detailed analysis, watch this video.

All the examples above follow a pattern previously established by Ovid. They take a previously existing narrative, and put an analytical spin on it, mostly from the perspective of anti-authoritarianism, but also questioning the concepts of free will and morality. Ovid did this in his writing, particularly in Metamorphoses, as he recasts many different characters - both human and monster- as tragic, while the gods are typically not on the moral high ground. The common ground with the above examples; they were previously simple to understand and had some aspect of black and white perspective, but later works or additions can cast shadows on the white and shine a light on the black.

And before you ask; Yes, I want to do it to. Why? It's so much fun!

Short story - The Nimrod's Contract

The door slammed behind me with a bang, the same bang I’d heard dozens of times before. This time, a freak wind rather than any human agent was the cause. It was going to be a rotten day tomorrow. I listened to my handler’s instructions through the noise.

‘So,’ he finished, ‘you know what to do?’

I looked from the man’s sullen face to the coin he dumped on the counter in front of me. The walls of that dingy basement were plastered with ‘Wanted’ posters, showing our artists’ renditions of London’s nocturnal grotesqueries, I felt at home. It was the one place I felt safe. I didn’t stay with friends or in hostels, I didn’t even have a house in the slums or in the old industrial areas. This was my all. I picked up the coin and smirked – it was from my last job, a ghoul who had taken to strangling society boys in dubious music halls. But already another commission had rolled into my lap. I picked up the single sheet of paper bearing instructions and a map the coin had been sat on.

‘Have I ever failed to deliver? Or collect?’

‘Never. That’s what’s killing me.’

‘The client pays in the end, doesn’t he? And we share the profit.’

‘Yeah. She does. And we do.’

‘Oh?’ my interest was piqued, ‘A noble lady’s otherworldly tryst gone awry?’

‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’

‘What’s the fee?’

‘£400, split 50/50 as usual.’

I whistled. ‘They must be desperate to pay a mere Nimrod and her handler £400.’

‘Just get it done. Want Bessie tonight?’

‘No. Wilhelm.’

‘Expecting trouble?’

‘For £400, a ton of it.’

The man reached into the gun rack behind the counter and brought down the heftier and longer-barrelled of my two pistols. I tested it, loading a magazine and firing one bullet into the nearest beam – still good, the action like silk. It was a fine piece, crafted by a great Birmingham gunsmith, its bullets stamped with divine and infernal runic symbols. I could destroy Lucifer’s wings and shatter the weapons of Uriel with one shot.

I left my handler without another word, emerging from the basement onto the cobbled streets of London. A heavy fog clung to the capital, the gas lamps doing little to dispel the gloom. I heard distant footsteps, all human and nearly all guilty. I could even hear the late evening labour of servants in a nearby stately garret. Holstering Wilhelm under my coat, I walked to where my client would be waiting. The note’s contents pulsed in my brain, signalling danger and reward in equal measure.

“Midnight, at this location. Come alone, and bring a weapon.”

But who am I to take such joy in this? My name’s Leila Sybil. Just that.No title, no honour, nothing to denote me as more than a common slut of London’s streets. I’m what’s called a Nimrod. I go around London mopping up the monsters that don’t make the news. I don’t just take monster contracts for money. I do it to kill the bastards, to watch their faces melt into terrified expressions before I blast them into oblivion. I have one rule; no human casualties.

And tonight, I’d put that into practise. According to my instructions and my handler’s comments, it was for a fine lady in Mayfair. She would take me to my target in her carriage. I wasn’t enthused. Nobility are the meanest of the mean when it comes to payment. An earl once hired me to kill a demon set free from Solomon’s seal by his archaeological dabbling. I killed the demon, and it took Wilhelm near-crushing the earl’s temple to make him pay the £70 he owed.

I reached the junction where I was to meet my client. As I stood there, partially lit by a grime-coated street lamp, I heard the shuffling of someone in skirts and heels nearby. One of the locals plying their wares. I didn’t fir the role – brown leather boots and trousers, knee-length frock coat, and wide-brimmed hat. It wouldn’t stop a drunk from making a pass. But if they tried, I’d fling them into the road.

I checked my watch. It was just on midnight. Dozens of churches chimed the hour. On the sixth chime, I heard horses’ hooves on the cobbles down one of the streets. A large four-wheeler came out of the gloom towards me. I readied myself for whatever might come, gripping Wilhelm’s handle where it rested just out of sight within my coat. The four-wheeler with its two town-worn carriage horses drew up, and the hooded driver made a motion with his whip towards the door.

I approached slowly, smelling something wrong. It was evil, pure and unfiltered, yet not so recent as to make me wary. I opened the carriage door and saw a regal woman in one corner, her eyes staring implacably through a thin veil, her plump form clothed in black. If I didn’t have an excellent memory for faces, I’d swear I was being employed by Her Majesty. But I quickly dismissed the idea – Her Majesty would never stoop to using a Nimrod. And this woman was too tall.

I got into the carriage, and the woman lifted her veil. I didn’t react to the pale acid burns she had across her face, or the single blind eye caused by that same injury. She tapped on the ceiling with her cane and the carriage moved off. We sat in silence for a few minutes, then she spoke.

‘I’ve hired you to kill my son.’

I nodded. ‘Is he dangerous?’

‘He is the spawn of Satan.’

‘That’s a fairly vague description, Mrs....’

‘Viscountess Winterton, if you must know.’

I raised an eyebrow. The Winterton family had been landed gentry in England since Charles II, and claimed a lineage going back to a knight who fought with William the Conqueror at Hastings. In short, one of the snootiest families in existence, if reduced since the Reform Act.

‘Well well.’ I said, ‘It must be important for a Viscountess to consult a Nimrod. So you consider your son to be a “monster”... Please tell me more.’

‘Surely you Nimrods will hunt down such monsters as him?’

‘Have you considered an asylum, or private care? We don’t kill lunatics. If we can, we try employ them. They make good Nimrods.’

‘This is no mental aberration. He is sane, and he is utterly ruthless towards anyone who does not follow his whims. He...’ she gestured at the scars on her face, ‘...did this to me. I am only thankful his sister is out of his clutches with my brother’s family in Yorkshire.’

‘I see. You’re sure your son... Who is he, by the way?’

‘The Honourable Sidney Winterton.’

‘Thank you. You’re sure the Honourable Sidney isn’t human?’

‘What human would do this to his own mother?’

‘You should try reading history books. Or Shakespeare. Plenty of children have done considerably worse things to their parents.’

‘I tell you he is a monster.’

‘Why do you believe he’s a monster? Please, speak as calmly as you can, Viscountess Winterton. I must understand in order to help you.’

Viscountess Winterton lowered her veil, perhaps to help compose herself. It took a further minute before she was able to continue.

‘I had just married the then-Honourable Charles Winterton. I had yet to lie with my husband. I was accosted in a dream by a radiant beauty, a man who put my husband to shame. That night, I felt his rapture, and in the morning I was hollow. I became pregnant, but assumed it was due to my husband as I had lain with him on the night following this dream. When I gave birth, all seemed normal. But our young son.... he is not like other boys.’

‘Any distinguishing trait?’

‘His eyes. Ever since he was a mere babe, they bored into you. By day they are soft brown in shade, but at night they appear black as pitch.’

‘Any happenings in his life aside from... his attack on you?’

‘He appeared a very sickly child early on, and at one point we feared he had died of the flu, for he was stone cold and not breathing. The doctor said he was dead, but then he returned to life – we thought it a miracle at the time. When he was three, Charles’s father scolded him for some quite trivial jest he played on him. A week later, the previous Viscount was taken deathly ill, and passed away. With that, my husband succeeded to the title. I would consider it mere coincidence, but other terrible happenings have occurred.’

‘Such as?’

‘When he was attending school. The butler had spoken to me privately about the boy’s roguish temperament and disrespect for the class differences between himself and the between maid. I fear my son may have heard, though I tried keeping it from him. The following day, the butler was found hanged in the kitchen maids’ room. The kitchen maids who found him were hysterical, saying that some dark shadow had killed the butler and then led them to him. One became so distracted that she had to be committed to an asylum. I later heard it was the kitchen maids who told the butler about the talks my son had with the between maid.’

‘Anything else?’

‘At age fifteen, he was beyond the means of any normal school in England. He had knowledge and a mental aptitude far exceeding his years. At university, he was involved in a scandalous incident involving several other students that resulted in all but he being expelled. The following week, the professor of history shot himself in his rooms. In the years since then, he has been seen haunting houses of ill repute and leaving a trail of suffering wherever he goes.’

I grimaced. ‘Sounds like something from Oscar Wilde.’

‘I...understand the comparison. But it grew worse than any of Wilde’s musings. I confronted him with all this, and that is when he....’ she forced back tears, ‘He said I was to further his agenda, and attacked me. My husband the Viscount threatened to have him committed as insane, but the next day the Viscount was run down by a carriage and killed. I have since been installed in comfortable lodgings by my son, but I have not spoken to him since that day.’

The description fitted. The death-like states when young, the deaths of those who presented a threat, freakish intelligence beyond his physical years, and wanton cruelty even to those closest to him. I was dealing with a Cambion, and here a Cambion of a particularly potent and vicious nature.

‘How long since he attacked you?’

‘Two years.’

‘But you don’t call him the Viscount?’

‘The whole family has done their best to delay proceedings, and he seems in no hurry to accept the title.’

‘Why wait so long before calling us?’

‘He is my son. Be he devil spawn or not, that is still true.’

‘I understand. And you’re taking me to him?’

‘Yes. You should introduce yourself as a woman of the streets who has heard of his reputation and seeks to “test” him. He lives at No. 40, Baker Street. When his footman answers, tell him you are ‘here to consult the Honourable Sidney Winterton on a donation to a hostel for young girls’. It is a code he has circulated for his use. Oh...’ the Viscountess seemed on the point of fainting, ‘this is truly dark. I trust I will never have to undergo such a trial again.’

‘Now you’ve called me, you needn’t fear, Viscountess Winterton.’

Viscountess Winterton sighed and sobbed, relieved that she could leave the matter in my hands. The four-wheeler continued its progress through London until we reached Baker Street. The driver pulled up sharply, and I existed quickly. I gave a final nod to Viscountess Winterton before slamming the door and watching the four-wheeler drive into the fog. I found No. 40 with little difficulty. Ascending the few steps, I rang the visitors’ bell. The man who answered the door – my prey’s footman – was a blank-faced ghost of a man.

‘Yes?’

I did my best to disguise my classless accent, putting on the lower-class twang so often and so wrongly associated with ladies of pleasure. ‘The ‘onourable Win’er’on told me to cm’ere about a fund f’r a ‘ostle f’r girls like I.’

It wasn’t exactly what Viscountess Winterton had said to say, but close enough for the footman to understand the code and accept my cover. It worked. I was shown into and asked to wait in the hall. I certainly didn’t look like a lady of pleasure, but then my prey might consider the novelty a part of the thrill. The footman returned presently and said that the Honourable Sidney Winterton would see me in the library.

I was shown into that same library and told to wait. The place stank of expensive tobacco and wine, of old books, of wood smoke escaped from the fireplace, of a paraffin-based cleaner, and of the trace arsenic vapour from the wallpaper. During the few minutes I waited, I had a chance to sniff the decanters and their contents – all laced with a narcotic. I also checked the flowers, but only detected a fading natural scent.

The door opened as I waited next to the fire. I saw my target in the reflection of a picture on the mantelpiece. He had the slim figure of a 17^th century rake; dark hair plastered across a spherical head, accentuating cherubic features pinpointed by dark eyes and marred by an ill-fitting moustache. He approached, and I felt his long hand rest on my shoulders. I tried not to cringe at his sickening aura, and turned as he directed me with the slight pressure on my torso. He gently took off my hat and looked at me. His smile was all sweetness.

‘A most comely wench.’ his voice was a flute in my ears, ‘I hear you have come about the hostel fund. But I must ask; do hostel envoys normally travel with guns under their coats?’

He moved over to the drinks, and I dropped my pretence. ‘You’re very perceptive, as I expected. But I only needed to fool the footman.’

‘A poor sap indeed.’ he said he said as he got a glass of port, ‘He would believe a common harlot was “Her Majesty” if she put on a good-enough accent. Tell me, did my so-called mother send you?’

‘She wants to end your rampage. Having seen her, I’m not surprised.’

‘I suppose you know she tried to poison me. Else I would have confined my anger to words.’

‘I guessed she wasn’t telling me everything. But what about your grandfather, the butler and kitchen maids, those students and the professor at the university, and your father. You’re going to say it’s all coincidence?’

My prey turned nonchalantly, sipping from the glass. He gestured to the chairs, and we sat. He wasn’t running any time soon, but I still drew my gun in case he made a surprise attack.

‘They all got in my way, so I removed them.’ he replied nonchalantly, ‘That old duffer who offended me in my tender years. The butler trying to rein me in when I needed to expand my horizons. The kitchen maids snitching on me to get crumbs of gratitude from their “master”. Those sycophantic poltroons who were my fellow students. The musty-headed professor who knew what I was the instant he saw my eyes in the dark. Those poor wretches who sell their bodies for coin to buy themselves drink. A father who attempted to shackle me in this world’s perverted institutions. A mother who will not let her son walk his own path. Had she not tried to cripple my health, I would have shown the womb that bore me some scant respect.’

‘Exactly the attitude I’d expect from a Cambion.’

‘You have done your homework.’

‘No. It’s obvious really. And now I’m here, I can smell it on you.’

‘So perceptive. You Nimrods are all that I’ve been told, I see.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t been detected before now.’

‘You know the limitations of Nimrods, my dear. Their eyes and ears have limits, even yours.’ his nose wrinkled momentarily, ‘Nimrods, so distastefully straight-laced in their duties, regardless of any one Nimrod’s personal perversions. I wonder how Jolly Jack’s been getting on in Whitechapel tonight... But in this great city, can you – even with all your training and dedication – imagine trying to find one among millions?’

‘True. And we had more pressing matters. One Cambion can’t weigh up against a rogue angel possessing a simple-minded evangelist, a demon crime boss, and a homicidal ghoul. In the same week.’

‘Busy?’

‘Very.’

‘You have my sympathies. And I’m flattered that I now come under “pressing matters”. Your schedule must have cleared considerably.’

‘Not really. I’ve just been paid to kill you now. It might’ve been someone else in Whitechapel, or a policeman-come-monster in Pall Mall, or even Her Majesty herself. It makes no difference – I kill monsters, and get my share of the reward.’

‘A mercenary mantra worthy of any Nimrod. You do your kind proud.’ he downed the last of his glass of port, ‘But before my “execution”, may I have a final cigarette? A terrible habit, I know. Picked it up from the late Viscount. But I believe the condemned “man” is allowed a final request.’

I nodded cautiously. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t assumed the title yes.’

‘The titles of humans bear no interest for me.’ the Cambion drawled as he produced a cigarette case from his breast pocket, ‘Soon I will vanish from this paltry life and pursue my true goal.’

‘Your true goal?’

‘Bringing my parents into the world.’

I knew what he meant. His kind were the spawn of a Succubus who captured the essence of a man, and an Incubus who used that essence to impregnate a human woman. If either or both were brought into the human world, the number of Cambions would expand exponentially. And all bound by familial loyalty.

‘I see. So that’s your plan.’ I cocked Wilhelm, ‘I can’t help but praise your drive and goals, but I can’t let you succeed. As a Nimrod, I’ve a contractual obligation to kill you. Besides, we can’t let Cambions or their sires run riot in London. We have enough trouble keeping the peace as it is.’

‘You are going to stop me?’

‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘A brash prediction.’

‘No prediction. It’s an absolute certainty. I’ve never failed a mission before, and I’m not going to let you ruin my reputation.’

The Cambion had tapped the chosen cigarette on his case, put it into his mouth and lit it with a novelty lighter embossed with a dragon. He drew and exhaled a great cloud of its noxious pale smoke, causing my nose to wrinkle. He then looked directly into my eyes and smiled.

‘Then I shall have to doubly disappoint.’

In the split second that followed, I realised what an imbecile I’d been. You didn’t clean carpets – or chair upholstery – with paraffin. I had fallen into a trap. And the Cambion knew it.

In the moment our eyes made contact, he flicked the still-burning lighter and cigarette onto the carpet. Flames spread in a second across its surface and onto the chair. I catapulted myself back and off the chair, avoiding being caught in the burning fabric by a hair’s breadth. I must have struck my head as everything went black for a moment. When I recovered, the room was filling with smoke, and I heard cries in the street. My prey was gone. I swore and rushed through the open library door into the hall. The body of the footman was sprawled in the doorway, his head almost complete severed. The Cambion had made a run for it, and in batting the footman aside had not held back his supernatural strength.

I rushed from the house, barging past a policeman who was coming to investigate the blaze and the calls of “fire”, and even as I heard his whistle, I ran up Baker Street towards Regent’s Park, following the Cambion’s malicious scent. I guessed where he would be heading – holy ground, where Cambions could hide amidst the stink of the unclean dead. The nearest place was Hampstead Cemetery, several miles beyond Regent’s Park. But that trick wouldn’t work on my nose.

I ran along the streets, and could sense rather than see the underworld urchins of the night getting out of my way as I pursued my quarry. My tireless legs scythed through the fog, and I imagined my quarry desperately trying to reach the sanctuary of holy ground before I caught up with him. It was an endurance race at this point, and it was between myself and a man who had indulged in the vices of the Victorian upper class. But he still got there before me.

The main gates of Hampstead Cemeteryhad been forced open. I stepped over the threshold, gently pushing aside the gate’s creaking remains. One sniff told me the place’s consecration had been violated. Reaching into my coat, I brought out a small phial of sacred water. I threw it in the air, and it smashed with a small blaze of light, illuminating the rolling banks of fog surrounding me. The entire cemetery was now cut off from the outside world, barring any supernatural being – including the Cambion and myself – from leaving. I cocked Wilhelm and walked along the gravelled path into the gloom.

It’s an unnerving experience traversing a cemetery at night. The gravestones leer at you from the shadows, and you fear that their owners might decide to throw you out. There are sounds of animals such as rodents or stray cats, and the movement of the fog attempts to deceive the eye. Over all these is the stench of death that clings to everything, masking much of the Cambion’s distinctive smell.

I couldn’t afford to lose him. But I couldn’t easily smoke him out either. The fog pressed in and my senses tried to paint a thousand hell hounds into each shadow. I really felt like I was walking into the valley of the shadow of death. And I did fear.

I was just approaching a large angel statue atop of a grave when I felt the unmistakable cold of a wraith nearby. I froze, readied myself. It was a few minutes before the wraith appeared to me – a humanoid figure stretched and rendered gaunt by its horrific passing, reaching out towards me from the writhing fog. I stepped to one side and its hand went astray, striking the angel statue. It recoiled with a hiss, its pallid features flaring, then it turned away and returned languidly to its home beyond the fog. This Cambion must’ve been desperate to stir a wraith from its self-indulgent mourning. All the more reason to kill him quickly.

For close on a quarter of an hour, I explored that place. I paused at every corner, listened to any rustle, turned my head at every heavy sound. It was a waiting game. I knew the Cambion would thirst for me, would come to take me if only to exact revenge upon my body for daring to make an attempt on his life. Born to aristocrats or not, Cambions have a superior attitude. But that selfsame pride could prove his undoing. If I acted cautiously, he would grow impatient and attack, and that would be my time to strike. But I needed to keep my own nerves in check. As the minutes threatened to turn to hours, this became progressively more difficult.

‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ I muttered under my breath.

No response, but then I highly doubted a Cambion would be able to hear as well as I could, or would even answer. I could hear the very distant sound of fire bells echoing under the quarter chime of the nearby church clocks. I smiled, and decided to push him a little in a more traditional way.

‘Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home. Your house is on fire, your children will burn.’

There was a slight flurry nearby, something heavy shifting, but I checked myself. It could be a false alarm. Or a trick. I continued walking slowly along the path, and finally came to a small crossroads near a large stone cross atop an elaborate sepulchre. I stood there for another five minutes, waiting. I heard a sudden shuffling, and at the last second ducked as the Cambion flew over me with a movement that would have taken my head off. I spun and fired into the air where I calculated his head would be. The Cambion hissed with pain and landed hard a few feet from me. He had a burn on his cheek from the bullet, and as he touched it, he smiled as if amused or excited.

‘That is the first time any being has marked me.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘But you shall be the last.’

For the first time, I saw the pure-black eyes Viscountess Winterton had described. So this was what others had seen before misfortune and death struck them. The Cambion rushed at me, swiping with his cane. I saw the glint of steel, the blade of his swordstick. It severed a lock of my hair as I dodged its first slice, then blocked several thrusts and slashes with Wilhelm’s barrel and jumped back. The Cambion dodged my retaliatory shot and made to skewer me. I managed to get myself in front of the sepulchre, so when I dived to one side, the tip of the blade struck the marble wall. There was a slight ping as the tip snapped off, and the Cambion hissed. He sheathed the broken blade and turned to see Wilhelm levelled at his chest.

‘Impressive indeed.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But I don’t appreciate my property being damaged. Let me show you my parents’ gifts to me. Come, slaves of Lucifer, denizens of Purgatory!’

The Cambion snapped his fingers with a flamboyant twist, and I felt the ground heave around me. That was another thing a Cambion could do in a tight spot; summon the unquiet dead as their thralls. I didn’t have enough bullets to deal with every assailant if the Cambion had summoned the entire cemetery. Time for my own trump card. The revenants began shambling towards me, their rotted mouths stretched wide. The Cambion smirked as they neared me; aside from the burn on his cheek, he looked like any other pristine Victorian gentleman.

‘Now this will be interesting. I have never seen the dead dissect the living.’

I smirked back. ‘Nor shall you.’ I raised my hand, as there was still ample time to perform the ritual without getting to safer ground, ‘Prince of the Heavenly Armies, I summon thee to dispel these enslaved. In the name of the Archangel Uriel, Requiescat in Pace!’

There was a flash of light in my clenched fist, and all the corpses faded into nothing, returning to their graves. The Cambion stared at me.

‘No! No human can command the archangels unless–’ he then seemed to understand what had happened, ‘Oh.... Oh this is good. Nay, wonderful. My nose did not mistake. A hybrid in my midst, summoning my enemies to overwhelm me.’

‘No. Just to even the odds. If I wanted to overwhelm you, I would summon some of your former allies.’

‘You what?!’

I took the opportunity and fired. The bullet struck him in the shoulder, and the entire arm rotted and fell away instantly. The Cambion roared, and leapt at me. It was then that I felt the first tinge of true fear. It isn’t easy fighting off a Cambion in such a confined area at night with low visibility, whatever their condition. This Cambion was strong, infused with the dual prides of malice and aristocracy. I had to resort to dodging as his arm swiped at me with enough force to take my own arm off.

I finally managed to get the Cambion’s back to the sepulchre, and I seized my chance. The Cambion swiped at me, I ducked, then kicked. My prey struck the marble with bone-breaking force, and before he could recover I pressed my weapon against his chest and fired. The bullet passed through his heart. It didn’t kill him – that wound would never kill a Cambion – but it made him go limp and slide to the ground. As he stared at me, he raised his remaining hand and shook an accusing fist at me.

‘I curse you, Nimrod. You shall suffer the torments of the damned. You shall be taken into the deepest pits of Hell, there to burn for a month longer than all the world when Doomsday– What are you sniggering about?!’

I couldn’t help it. I was reaching into my coat and bringing out what I needed to finish this. A small phial that gleamed pale orange, taken from the edges of the Circle of Heresy in the depths of Hell. The Cambion recognised its aura and tried to move, but the wound and the bullet’s crippling properties kept him immobilised. I opened the phial and spoke to the air. My words made the fog churn.

‘Lucifer, Almighty Lord of Hellfire, I summon thee to imprison this wanderer from your dominion. By the First Sin, from coldest Cocytus, come and reap thy harvest!’

I tossed the phial towards the Cambion, and its contents splashed around him. He squirmed, tried to crawl away. I pressed Wilhelm against his forehead and fired once more. The bullet spread his brains across the sepulchre wall, and he slumped in a state of shock as the portal formed beneath him. Flaming tendrils wrapped around every part of him, even the severed arm and the gore from his wounds, and began haphazardly dragging him down. It took effort and broken bones to bring him through that tiny portal. I saw his eyes glaring at me through the pain as his limbs were tied in knots and the demonic tendrils relished his suffering.

Once all of the Cambion was through, the portal and the brimstone forming it vanished. I sighed, then turned and began my long walk back towards the city centre. It was 1 AM when I reached that place, and the clocks were striking the hour as I entered the basement where I had started the mission. I sat in the single wooden chair and dropped to sleep, waiting for the morning to come. It was accompanied by the door’s unceremonious bang as my handler entered. I reported my mission a success, and he said he would collected the fee as soon as possible.

‘Want another job?’ he asked mechanically.

‘Not yet. I’m taking leave.’

‘Got it. Your reward’ll be waiting for you. Good hunting, Nimrod Leila Sybil.’

I nodded and left. I would spend some time in the country, find a field to rest in well away from the city and its monsters. My work as a Nimrod wasn’t done, but it didn’t dominate my life. That was another rule I followed – an unwritten one the others didn’t appreciate.

The sun was rising, but thick clouds and unseasonal rain kept its light in check. I looked down at my shadow, cast by the nearby light of a still-active street lamp. I saw my human figure, and the four tattered wings growing from my back that only those in Heaven or Hell could see. It was a sign of my ancestry. My gift and my shame. Oh well, who better to be an all-powerful monster-hunting Nimrod than the most powerful monster of all. A bastard child of Angel and Demon. A Nephilym.

Updates and thoughts on the future

So many things have happened in the past several months.

The death of a close relative... Yes, I think I can reveal it now. The death of my father last year, which has taken a long time to push past and we're just now really getting back to normal. At least I know now what death's like close to. In one way, great. In another, why did I have to learn it that way?

Helping look after my sister's new dog, a border collie with a gigantic amount of personality. Between four and five months old now. From teething straight to teenage angst, dog version.

Doing the third editing/proofing run of the sci-fi story that I finished last year. I've been getting heartily tired of it. It's only the lead that's carrying me through, as I've had to do adjustments so many times to keep things consistent that any feelings for the other characters have worn thin. I know I'll have to double-check some sections on a fourth run, and by then I predict I'll be completely and utterly sick of the whole thing. Fingers crossed it gets published. Authors do get sick of their own stories, don't they.

A new story started. An interesting story based around Japanese folklore. It's only three or four "chapters" away from completion. Several false starts alongside that.

Remember that story I mentioned in the last update based on "We Purchased People"? Well, I did show it off and it got lots of laughter and a round of applause at the reading event I took it to. I hope to get it published somewhere. If I can't manage that, you'll be able to read it here.

Generally, I think I've done remarkably well in regards to my writing given what I've had to cope with. This is also why some elements of my blogging have been flagging in places. I hope my readers will understand.

Short story – Tripartite Conflict

From the bridge of the Dreadnought-class airship Seraph Ascended, Commander Kyle watched as a pocket of dissidents was wiped from existence by the efficient hand of his Black Pike unit, led by his greatest general. In black combat armour, his face hidden by a helmet carved to resemble both angel and demon, Archangel’s combat blade cut down any who escaped the rifle fire of his commandos. The cleansing soon ended, and Commander Kyle waited for Archangel to return to the bridge. When he did, the Commander’s orders were sharp and clear.

‘Another dissident group has been discovered. We have failed to eliminate them with conventional tactics. They have the support of Lucifer. You will track Lucifer down and bring him and the Apostate in alive.’

Archangel nodded slowly. It was his duty to obey, and obey he did. As he left, another figure stepped from a shadowed corner.

‘Are you prepared for the next step? There is no turning back.’

‘Yes, Charmiene. You may alert our agents. Prepare Armageddon.’

‘And should it fail?’

‘We have other means of securing our victory. As you should known very well by now. Soon the Twelve Wings will be clipped, and peace restored before war ever came to deface our world.’

***

‘You’ve got it?’

‘Yeah. I’ve got it. Good luck, Lovely.’

Carlos ‘Lucifer’ Jones kissed his fellow Twelve Wings member Mabel ‘Apostate’ Samson passionately as he primed his gun. The refugees were ready to run for the transport while their saviour created a distraction. After a few minutes, Carlos leapt out into the sunlight and fired his twin machine pistols. The bolts of energy flashed and nine out of the fifteen nearby patrolling units were killed.

As the refugees ran for the disguised transport in a nearby shipping container, Mabel glanced back to see Carlos dodging fire from the surviving soldiers and shooting them down one by one. Soon they would be free. She picked up a child who stumbled and fell, heaving them over the few trip hazards into the arms of another fleeing dissident to reach the transport. The sound of gunfire behind her ended abruptly, and she turned to see Carlos holstering his guns.

‘It’s over.’ he said simply.

Mabel felt her pulse quicken. He always managed to arouse her with the simplest phrases. Soon they would all escape from this accursed City. Even the Seraph Ascended wouldn’t be able to keep up with them. They could reach the Southern Continent, far away from the City, start anew, and eventually...

‘Eventually,’ she muttered. ‘I shall cease to be Apostate, and become Messiah.’

The transport hummed and backed out of the container, and Mabel and Carlos watched as it quickly swung round and rushed up into the air. Then a familiar sonic boom shook the air, and a A-type RPG rushed over them and struck the transport’s engine coils. There was a shuddering sound, then the engine died and the transport plummeted. They were at the edge of the City, so Mabel could only watch in horror as the refugees were plunged into the sea a mile below. She turned, and saw an Armageddon mech standing atop one of the container piles.

‘Get to the Ziplane!’ Carlos drew his weapons. ‘I’ll deal with this!’

Mabel didn’t argue as her lover began his run towards the mech. Her head was tearing itself apart with grief, but Carlos’s commanding tone overrode even despair. She ran, her heart pounding.

Carlos quickly dodged side to side as a volley of rapid fire came from the mech’s shoulder-mounted guns. He aimed his grappling line and felt the sharp recoil on his arm as the line was launched across and up. It struck the container metal beneath where the mech stood, and yanked Carlos up at blurring speed. The mech strafed backwards and aimed its weapons again, but Carlos fired at it in mid-flight, forcing it to readjust its aiming sensors. It was the delay he needed. He grabbed the edge of the container, vaulted up, then took a sticky grenade from where it rested against his belt and flung it.

The grenade hit and stuck to the front of the Armageddon mech, and as Carlos leapt down the stack of containers he felt the powerful EMP explosion. There was a groaning noise as control motors inside the mech’s legs malfunctioned, then an almighty crash as it pitched backwards over the edge. Carlos landed hard on the concrete floor of the dock, but recovered quickly and joined Mabel on the square Ziplane platform. Mabel punched in their desired area code and the platform began its smooth journey alone the metal transport line connecting each sector of the City’s border areas.

They were soon passing over the edges of the industrial sector, and came within view of the vast sea. Mabel gripped the speed controls tight enough to make her knuckles blanch.

‘Why?’ Mabel’s voice was shaking, ‘Why did they have to shoot it down?’

‘Bastards.’ Carlos recharged his weapons with extra vigour, ‘We’ll show them when we reach the Southern Sanctuary.’

‘What’s the point? How many transports have we sent there? And how many got shot down? You’d think there was a mole. But we’re the only two members of Angelus left. I’d never betray my own cause, and you–’

‘I’ll never forgive them for what they did.’ Carlos’s voice was impassioned, ‘And we haven’t lost everything. Not all the transports were lost. Some made it to Sanctuary. And the City can’t reach this entire planet. We’ll get out, and rebuild. Please, Mabel, don’t give up hope.’

Carlos kissed her, melting her anxiety. ‘Yes.’ she was once more enthralled to his vigour, ‘Yes, yes, yes. We’ll survive, and conquer.’

It was then that a fighter jet appeared. The small type for transporting single infantry units. As the two watched it approach, the black armoured figure on its underside detached and fell towards them.

***

Archangel landed on the Ziplane platform with an impact which bent the metal beneath his booted feet. Slowly rising from his crouched landing position, he took in Mabel and Carlos. The last two survivors of the dissident group known as the Twelve Wings. As he spoke, his voice was warped into a genderless noise by the vocal distortion unit in his helmet.

‘Lucifer and Apostate, you are to surrender and submit to arrest by Archangel of the City Defence Force. Resist, and I shall have to use physical force.’

Carlos stepped forward, brandishing his weapons. ‘I’m not submitting to a dog of the government. Try your worse.’

‘Very well. I am now authorised to use physical force.’

Carlos and Archangel clashed. As Mabel controlled the the Ziplane platform, she saw their duel unfold. Even with Archangel’s advantage of armour, it was an equal match between the Twelve Wing member and the City agent. There was a final crushing blow from either side, and each stumbled back. Carlos landed hard against the control panel, while Archangel teetered on the edge above an induction trench for one of the water treatment plants. Carlos drew his gun and shot once at Archangel’s chest. The armoured soldier was thrown off balance and fell from the platform, vanishing into the dark below.

At least, he seemed to. In a last second manoeuvre, Archangel reached up and grabbed the edge of the platform, pulling himself up and clinging on like a fly to a ceiling. He listened and prayed they wouldn’t look. They didn’t. They were more focused on escaping than checking to see if the so-called “Immortal soldier” was truly dead.

The Ziplane platform was rounding one of the sector’s large waste recycling plants when its runner wheels seized. The platform swung up to a sharp angle, nearly throwing off both passengers and stowaway. The air shuddered with the sound of a loud speaker.

‘Dissident agents, you will remain where you are and wait for a patrol craft to pick you up and bring you to the Seraph Ascended!’

Carlos primed his weapons once more. ‘Like hell you will!’

The small patrol crafts that arrived were no match to the determination and skill of the cornered Lucifer. His guns fired in a volley which brought all down, and their engines screamed in despair as they fell towards the buildings below. The platform began moving once Mabel had hacked the controls, and soon they were cruising towards their destination.

‘Nearly there.’ Carlos gripped his lover’s hand, ‘Nearly there.’

Then the platform detached from its runner, and began its fall. Mabel let out a scream, but Carlos grabbed her and shot his grappling line at a nearby scaffolding tower supporting the Ziplane. They whistled through the air and landed lightly on a crossbeam. Their unseen passenger likewise escaped, launching himself like a black shadow and clinging to one of the diagonal beams.

Carlos and Mabel stood there for some time, then another two-person maintenance craft approached to inspect the anomalous jettisoning of a Ziplane platform. Carlos grappled across, killed them both, and then guided the craft down to pick Mabel up. They jetted off directly towards their destination, and Archangel watched them. He then summoned his own private craft, jumped on it and sailed after them like a black bird stalking its prey. He also sent off an update signal to Commander Kyle.

“Flies approaching. Time for spider’s web.”

The transmission was acknowledged, and Archangel nodded. Yes, the flies were approaching. But they would be caught in a different web.

***

When they landed at C Shuttle Port, Carlos and Mabel were met with a few ill-prepared soldiers who fell to Carlos’s superior skill. They ran at full speed for one of the small military fighter planes which would carry them to the Southern Continent and freedom. Then the sniper shot rang out, and Mabel felt her arm being struck by a frag bullet. She faltered, screaming despite herself. Carlos spotted each of the snipers and fired off his weapons, taking them all down.

They still ran, leaving a line of blood drops from Mabel’s shattered arm. A prosthetic could replace it, but for the moment the flow needed staunching. Carlos, with a grimace, used a blast from his weapon to cauterise the wound, leaving Mabel with a blackened stump where her proud and beautiful arm had been. She gritted her teeth and took it, then looked at her lover with a smile. They would endure, even through this greatest onslaught.

They burst into the hanger, and a small battalion stood waiting for them. Mabel ducked into cover while watching Carlos avoid and return fire, dancing like a ghost between and under shots to deliver swift death to any who stood before him. The air grew hot and stank of plasma discharge. Finally all the soldiers were dead, and the two headed for the small hanger where their freedom waited. The door opened, and they froze.

‘Welcome.’ Commander Kyle stood there between six heavy armoured commandos, with his advisor Charmiene behind him to his left and Archangel behind and to the right. ‘I’m pleased you made it. We were beginning to think you wouldn’t come.’

‘Tyrant!’ Carlos aimed his weapons at Kyle, ‘You think you’ll get away from here alive?’

‘Isn’t that what you said the last five times?’ Charmiene’s soft voice cut like a blade, ‘Strange. All those times our Commander was cornered, and you failed to land the final blow. But undaunted, the Twelve Wings fought on as their numbers dwindled and their ringleader became more desperate. Poisoning an entire sector’s water supply to kill one man? Even I would not stoop that low.’

Mabel grimaced. ‘We’re fighting for the freedom of all. Sacrifices are necessary. Carlos, my love, kill him!’

‘Oh that’s how you control him.’ Archangel spoke now, ‘Pathetic. Such emotional ties are too easily broken. Unless you’ve got something so strong that you’re in bondage to the cost of your soul and mind.’

‘I believe in freedom! Mabel, this is for you!’

The commandos stepped forward, but Carlos ducked and weaved, shooting each in the head. He aimed at Commander Kyle, then froze. Commander Kyle stepped forward and placed a hand on Carlos’s gun, pulling it gently from his grasp.

‘You’ve done well, Carlos. Command; Everyman. Stand down. Now, Mabel Samson, alias the Apostate, it’s time for the Twelve Wings to step down permanently.’

Mabel looked at the frozen figure of Carlos, then to Kyle. ‘Wh.... what’s happening? What’ve you done to him?’

‘It’s time to end the charade, my dear.’ said Charmiene, ‘The only reason the Twelve Wings existed was because we encouraged it. What better way to flush out dissidents than create somewhere for them to gather. And what better means of generating such a group than creating a hero struggling against the system. All those atrocities you witnessed were quite expertly staged. All of our “victims” are alive and well, and free of your poisonous influence.’ she turned to Carlos and her tone became sharp and commanding, ‘Hear me. Command; Armageddon.’

Carlos took the gun from Kyle, turned and aimed at Mabel. She staggered back, unable to understand what she saw or heard. A shot rang out, and Carlos collapsed on his front, a scorched hole in the back of his head. Both the Commander and Charmiene spun round in surprise. Archangel was standing with a gun similar in design to Carlos’s, its barrel still glowing from the single shot it had fired.

‘Archangel, explain yourself!’ Kyle’s voice was angry.

Archangel’s reply was to reach up and loose his helmet seals, then pull the object away from his face. Mabel let out an involuntary scream. Carlos’s face stared out from Archangel’s suited form.

‘I’ve done with your farce. Time for payback.’

There was a blast of laser fire, and the Commander was thrown back, his head almost entirely blown apart. Charmiene smiled.

‘So your true colours show at last. Excellent! But look at her.’ she gestured to where Mabel stared, ‘She still doesn’t know what’s happening. My dear, this whole scheme was to bring people like you to the surface and break them. There’s no sanctuary on the Southern Continent. It was all a hoax, meant to lure the credulous and rebellious out into the open where they could do no harm. Your precious “Carlos” was a clone of Archangel, with all essential elements intact aside from his memory.’

Mabel could barely speak. ‘All....fake?’

‘Yes, indeed. We even shifted his sexuality so he could fall under your sway. That’s how you really kept the Twelve Wings together, isn’t it?’

‘But....why....Commander–’

‘Kyle’s death was entirely unscripted.’ Charmiene looked at Archangel, ‘I had hoped to wrest power from him gradually, not see him killed without warning. I’m waiting for your explanation.’

Archangel pointed his own weapon at Charmiene. ‘Didn’t you ever question what happened to the civilian members of our little charades? Why they never made any complaints, wanted further clarification? It’s because they got out. When the City’s eye was elsewhere, I set them free. There is a Southern sanctuary, Charmiene. Your myth’s become reality, and it lies where you’ll never find it. I’ve been playing you this whole time.’

‘NO!’ Mabel suddenly screamed and picked up one of Carlos’s guns with her free hand, ‘You’re all lying! You’re trying to drive me insane. I’ll kill you both, and this world’ll be free of you.’

‘I think I had best eliminate both of you.’ Charmiene drew a weapon of her own from inside her sleeve, ‘This has gone on long enough. I’ll have a convincing narrative for the City Government when they learn of this.’

The three surviving figures aimed their guns at each other. All fired at once, and all dodged, although Archangel’s bolt sliced into Mabel’s chin. The fire fight seemed endless, with several patches on the wall glowing from laser impacts. The fire drew nearby soldiers to investigate the disturbance, not knowing of the true meaning behind the firefight. When they arrived, it was all over. A figure emerged from the heat haze to greet them. The guards were shocked at the figure’s identity, and at the words they spoke which heralded the end of their struggles.

‘It’s over. We can rebuild now.’

Author's Note: This story was written based on a silly premise, from a wish to be silly. It's a light bit of fluff that should not be taken as anything other than light reading for a Sunday. It's basically a chaotic short narrative, stripped of wider context by its length and nature as a codicil to a longer series of events. I didn't even bother to make the dialogue that convincing. It's over-the-top and stylised in so many ways. And I don't mind in the least...