The Tipsy Temptress was always bright and busy in the evenings, and this Saturday night was no exception. Daevas bickered over a pool table while doting couples sipped drinks coquettishly at each other. The bartender, a Mal’Akh who had been working at the location for longer than he’d care to admit, poured orders with a swift hand, juggling several conversations across the bright varnish of the bar top tables. The elegant chandelier lights reflected off the clean wooden floors and walls, kept magically pristine with a touch of imbued green tea scent. The owner thought it would be refreshing for the customers, and cozy when paired with the plush lounge chairs and sofas ringing a stage near the back where anyone brave or drunk enough could request a karaoke number. Catchy tunes rotated on the tracklist by default when the stage wasn’t in use and people swayed to the beat on the nearby dance floor. Servers took orders for tables that often needed to be booked ahead of time and the clattering of alcohol glasses and kitchen hands working in the background made for a minor, pleasant backdrop to the music and buzz of conversation.

A magitech frame walked through the wide, double doors of the establishment sometime around midnight, just when things were becoming the liveliest. The svelte and clearly mechanical soldier drew some eyes, but it was the custom of the Tipsy Temptress to not ask unnecessary questions. Quasi-humanoid in shape and with a unique silhouette as a result of the various magitech parts equipped on his body and hovering around him in a steady rhythm, the frame was clearly higher on the AI hierarchy than the usual semi-intelligent models favored by lower rung franchises.

“Room in the back?” the bartender offered helpfully.

“No, thanks,” the mechanized voice responded, though the inflections in tone sounded too real to be a machine. The long, mechanical tail flicked to point towards the far side of the bar. “I’ll just have a glamour,” he nodded towards the shelf specialized in magically enhanced drinks. It was a one-of-a-kind service of the Tipsy Temptress that certain magical tonics could provide their effects without needing to be imbibed. Often imitated, but never properly replicated.

“Sure thing. Any preference?”

“Surprise me.”

Within seconds a crystalline orb floated towards him, glimmering white and blue with its package of magical energy. He crushed it with a hand and the pseudo-glass dissipated into pinpricks of light. The energy inside surged into his circuits, pulsing briefly when the pin lights of his eyes blinked rapidly in acclimatization. When the hum of its effects settled across his system, the frame seemed to finally relax, settling its weight fully onto the bar stool.

“Been in it long?” the bartender asked after a moment away to pour another drink.

“A few months. Still not used to the way it moves,” the machine replied, flexing the lithe, dangerous digits of his hands as if to test the flexibility once more.

“As long as you’re feeling all right.”

“Can’t feel bad about it anyway. It’s not like I can go back to my original body.”

The mood sobered for a moment, but the bartender was quick to smile the atmosphere away. His long, white hair moved aside by itself as he turned to take another order, the modern conveniences of precision magic having made life vastly more bearable for the majority of the population. The frame watched him move deftly about the counter, hands graceful despite their speed. The Mal’Akh’s iridescent white wings were as large as his torso, with longer, hanging feathers trailing down from the undersides, each distinctive feather patterned in colorful curvilinear lines.

It was likely the effect of the glamour that he felt the feathers seemed a bit mesmerizing the way they flicked and shifted like strands of silk.

The magitech frame remained where he was until closing, then left as quietly as he had come. When he was still a Daeva, the bar and restaurant had been his favorite haunt. It was only some months after the magical transplant operation into a magitech frame that he had realized how much he had missed being able to feel the sting of strong alcohol sliding down his throat, and the savory aftertaste of the highest quality drinks.

​​The frame had different ways of perceiving the world. For living beings, life was a cacophony of sensory data, of unceasing and chaotic processes that drove their flesh. For his new body, there was nothing left but the neatly arranged information generated in his UI and the quiet hum of efficiency; science had trimmed away his faults and weaknesses, while magic had created miraculous processes to replace evolution’s probability. Down to his very last cells, his purpose was made clear.
​​
​​But perhaps, at a price too great. Perhaps he had taken his original body for granted. Thankfully, even regret came out muted now, and he found it almost bearable.
​​
​​His UI beeped once again, informing him of the chilly night air (15 degrees Celsius) and rising dampness (25%). A gentle breeze hit him (3.5 m/s), carrying the stench of industrial taint and rotting garbage down the alley. He flicked the information away absentmindedly, frustration already a distant memory, and hurried out to the main street. The corner of 1st and Waverley might be relatively safe in the morning, but at this hour, even the police patrols gave it a wide berth. They were never far, though, as indicated by the occasional sirens in the distance.
​​
​​It was a bit too late for buses, and he did not fancy calling on the remote vehicle for a drive, so he walked. It was almost an hour’s walk from his downtown apartment, but exhaustion was also a thing of the past for him, along with impatience and irritation.
​​
​​He passed a small groups of thugs, a little bit later. Not an uncommon sight in the grimy heart of New York these days, when civilisation’s complacency was beginning to crack and mend in strange ways and people went seeking other forms of order. They eyed him, just as his UI had already pulled their rap sheets from the NYPD database. Grunts, the lot.
​​
​​“What’cha lookin’ at, tin man?” One of them shouted, voice carrying easily through the empty street.
​​
​​He stopped, wordlessly, just because he could. Trained as he was, these situations used to get his blood pumping before, his body gearing up for a fight. But now, only statistics remained: calculations and angles and measurements dancing before his eyes. Instead of a thumping heart, his chest felt empty: the silence of a loaded gun.
​​
​​Even pity had turned into a mere concept; something cerebral and cognitive and intangible.
​​
​​“Hey, don’t.” The thug in the back spat out his joint on taking a second look, suddenly fidgety and pale. His UI calculated a high probability of fear. “He’s one of them magitech ‘borgs. Fancy model, too. Ain’t gonna mess with that.”
​​
​​It didn’t take long for them to slink away into the narrow alley, shooting glances backwards all the while, and so he moved on. It seemed that the intel on his government combat frame was a poorly kept secret. Perhaps on purpose, too, but he did not dwell on it. He would leave the scheming to the schemers.
​​
​​The rest of his walk remained uneventful and soon he found the skyscraper that housed his current apartment. A stark contrast to the poorer neighborhood, this suburb was fancy and clean. Hardly surprising, New York had always been a city of contrast, and Calamities would not change that. He stared up at the stoic building with its bright light and glass skin, the shimmer of magic coating its surface with security and vanity. He felt nothing.
​​
​​Was the class consciousness in him ideology or feelings? Concepts learned or reactions to the struggles of a life lived? Or one and the same, and thus cannot exist without the other?
​​
​​He almost felt like laughing, but the actual feeling eluded him. The entrance, however, did not, so he just went inside.
​​
​​His room was on floor 21, three doors down to the right.
​​
​​The interior was sinfully spacious and opulent, quite different from any military bases that he had been stationed at before. One thing that had never changed, though, was the combat equipment and weapons scattered throughout the space. The tools of the trade never changed, even if magic and ingenuity made them look or feel different.
​​
​​At the other side of the room, near the balcony, was a massive machine. It took up far more space than even the Californian king bed, but then he supposed he would use it far more than a bed anyway. As he approached, the lights on the machine flickered, and it opened up with a robotic greeting:
​​
​​“Welcome back, Sentinel. Please enter your command.”
​​
​​“Calibration, please,” he responded, the polite addendum a habit he hadn’t yet broken. Immediately, all the lights lit up and a soft whirling filled the room.
​​
​​“Preparing. Please stand by.” One of the hatch flipped over to reveal a small screen, which displayed a progress bar. “Preparing the calibration process.”
​​
​​That should take a couple of minutes.
​​
​​He wandered over to his work desk, carelessly tossing off his jacket. Even then, his body calculated the gesture, and the jacket landed neatly onto the nearby coat rack.
​​
​​There was a stack of files on his desk, conveniently in physical form even when his permissions allowed free access to the digital copies. They were his targets for this mission, Starweavers marked for recruitment. The reason why they picked him for this, though? He couldn’t even guess, sensing more machinations running underneath that he was not privy to. At best, it was just an easy job to help him reintegrate into the government workforce, especially after several months of tests and rehabilitation in his new body. Regardless, he picked up the files and started going through them.

The message to send was simple enough:

“The CIA is recruiting for a specialized task force. The subject of investigation is the Antarctic anomaly. Public recruitment campaigns have been issued, but individualized invitations offer higher benefits packages and larger compensations for services with terms to be discussed on acceptance of the offer. Non-pecuniary compensation will only be offered through these individual invitations and will be assessed in accordance with federal and state laws, including but not restricted to, the Central Intelligence Agency Act of 1949.

To accept, sign on the dotted line with your registered magitech signature. The agent assigned will inform you of further steps should you accept. This message is confidential and will self-delete within 48 hours. Any attempt to publicize these offers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

It was reaching the CIA’s targets that was the real problem.
​​
​​Daniel Telem, a Starweaver with power to induce a deadly and viral condition. Previously involved with law enforcement, a modern-day pandemic at the tip of his fingers. The dossier had the boy’s address on file so it was a mere three thoughts away before a magitech missive was already digitally packaged, magically materialized, and instantaneously delivered to the boy’s mailbox by way of teleportation spell. It was a premium service that would have cost a pretty penny for most, but came free with his frame’s various financial perks.

Noelle Hodge, a Faye-blooded magician and sometimes, private military contractor. Power: time manipulation, utility: high, recruitment priority: essential. There were also pages detailing the many projects that she was involved in. Most of them? Highly confidential. Legality? Not so much. Eckehard Köhler, dwarf, engineer, witness of two World Wars. Previous involvement with Soviet military projects. Employed by NASA and worked extensively with space technology. Current status: retired. These two were far easier to contact, but far harder to distinguish himself from the veritable avalanche of requests and jobs they were offered on a daily basis. He pulled a few strings digitally, sending his e-mail to the top of their inboxes and magically materializing it in front of their computer screens, to be found the next day. It was a backdoor permission only the highest of government authorities had and rarely used outside of national emergencies. Given what they were being recruited for, Sentinel’s system found this an acceptable use of the privilege. His UI had already filed the paperwork for the usage clearance and his status allowed automatic approval unless overturned by a higher authority on review. The system calculated a 0.001% chance of a cancellation.

Ragneka Qroarae, Fletcher Patel’s pet project. The file included extensive details of the project, along with related interviews and footages. Another testament to mankind’s hubris? Or progress, this time? Was already under observation by a different team, and he found that to be the least amount of work, with his higher authority allowing him to issue orders unimpeded to her assigned team. He passed the message and moved on.

Savyna Liu, a runaway test subject that had only been recently located following the discovery of the illegal Hong Kong laboratory’s remnants. A rare, if only partial, success in magical genetic engineering, she was of particular interest for the upper brass and several prominent governemnt researchers had already made clear to the government their interest in her abilities and had their eyes on her performance. It was the instability of her powers that worried most of them, and the cunning of a politician that offered the Antarctic investigation as a trial run. If she died, she wouldn’t be a problem anymore and they would have a corpse to study. If she lived, all the better. A similar message was sent her way, and Sentinel also notified the interested parties that the offer had been placed.

Luka Krasnoff, Daeva, Starweaver and on government welfare. Recently returned from Siberia, though was never officially part of the forces stationed at Fort Yakutsk. Father Michail Krasnoff, KIA. There was a landline number and address to a PO box, but both had been crossed out. A sticky note on the physical files read: ‘find in person’. P.O. box was flagged as having been accessed only once by him in the last year—when it was created.

Jagannath Yaunten; human? Unlikely. Remote biometric readings at a maximum of 70% accuracy, minimum at 20%—data matches 63% with archived information of draconic powers. Further investigation required. Extensive criminal records in India and South East Asia. Most recently, involvement with the Mun Ji Dong. Suspect of multiple homicides, amongst many, many other crimes. Footnote: approach with caution. Jagganath’s location was also variable and the person himself seemed unlikely to respond to a missive, no matter how important it looked. Another one onto the list of manual acquisition.

Juān Bái, immigrant from Hong Kong. Also a typical rap sheet of criminal activities. Suspected involvement with various Hong Kong gangs. Aside from that, the dossier seemed sparse. Had been laying low ever since the intelligence agency had tracked her escape from the chaos she had stirred up in Hong Kong. With current reports of a person matching her description within the lower end of New York, it seemed he would need to tack on a bit of reconaissance to the workload. The system had calculated, based on reported sightings, a small area of activity in which the Fae seemed to operate, so he hoped the matter could be settled in a day.

Morgan Berion, outcast son of the Berion family with tenuous connections to the Vulcan Company. More importantly, a teleporter without messy ties. The file went into detail on Morgan’s activities since abandoning his duties with Vulcan, but most of it was observational busywork. There was nothing of note, and thus nothing to complicate the process of sending another glaringly obvious message.

“Calibration and diagnostic check ready,” the machine behind him gently informed.

He hadn’t even remembered to sit down, even if that motion was now a useless relic of a past life.

Obediently, Sentinel stepped between the various floating plates of the loadout station, positioning himself on the slightly raised dais in the center of the machine. As the rectangular plates rotated around him in various speeds, he deactivated the motor functions of his body and settled his mental processes into a dazed, almost oneiric state. It was the closest he ever got to the memory of sleep these days.

Cities were loud.

Too many people in too little space, it seemed. Not that Luka minded them. Much like the rumblings of waterfalls and the howling of wind, the noises could be tuned out. But, at the cost of vigilance. And Father had never tolerated sloppiness.

So Luka found himself paying a little bit too much attention, sometimes. He would eavesdrop, often at the Temptress. A conversation here, a shouting match there. Not much information registered, because he was very much a stranger to this city, but at least he knew that his senses were still sharp.

Today, though, he was not at the Temptress. He’d rather be, but Uncle Vadim found him again, and the old man wanted to ‘help him make some fat stacks’. He was not really hurting for money, but he supposed Vadim was. He had some free time, so he would help.

The bar Vadim took him to was packed. Uncomfortably so, unlike the Temptress. Cheap drinks and heavy body heat assaulted his senses, and he couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. It was sweat and blood and metal here. Like a butcher shop, or the aftermath of a battlefield.

“Just win, Luka,” Vadim said with barely contained excitement, as he fiddled with the lock to the cage. It was a huge one, dented and rusty and positioned over a raised platform surrounded by wired posts. Luka didn’t recognise what it was until he stepped inside and the gate closed behind him: a fighting ring.

It was packed dirt under his feet, and everything smelled of iron. He wrinkled his nose again and looked around, watching the quickly gathering audience: hard men with harsh faces and harsher liquors. A voice boomed from a megaphone above his head, announcing...something. The sound quality was so bad that he actually did not catch the specifics.

But then, something else caught his attention, a twinge of power that raised the hair on his neck. Something familiar, something that he had felt before.

Starweavers.

---

Jagganath hated America. It wasn’t anything in particular that he hated, just the accumulation of small annoyances. He lingered on this thought bitterly as he chewed on the filter of his cigarette. Americans even made smoking into a nuisance; he couldn’t smoke in bars, he couldn’t smoke casinos, he even got hassled for trying to smoke while he walked down the street. Jagga felt a growl escape his throat just thinking about it, and realizing that his current cigarette was burnt down to a nub, and decided he needed another one. He sucked the butt of his cigarette into his mouth, felt the tiny hiss of the cherry being put out against the roof of his mouth, chewed it up, and spat it out on the floor.

He sat down as he prepared to light another smoke, and realized he was sitting on a pallet of frozen meats. His lip curled as he lingered on another annoyance; how bad the food was here. It was all flavorless, frozen crap like this. He kicked at one of the iced-over packages of hamburger meat, which skidded to the other end of the freezer. He didn’t mind that it was probably processed grasshopper meat, just that it was always prepared so poorly. No spice, no flavor, just bland garbage to be sucked down by the ton by lazy Americans. Living in Hong Kong had been a bizarre experience, but at least the food had been good. He held his fresh cigarette in his mouth, and pinched the end of it, channeling his body heat into his fingertips to light it.

He blew out the first drag, which came with a massive exhalation of steam as his breath condensed in the cold air of the freezer. This was his usual haunt between fights, partly because the cold of the commercial freezer helped him regulate his body temperature, but mostly because no one ever came in to bother him. It hadn’t taken him long to fall back into old habits here. First he borrowed a little money, then he lent out a little money, until before he knew it he was tied up in knots with half the loan sharks and other petty crooks in the city. In this, America was very much like everywhere else Jagganath had lived so far, but he resented it for that too. If he had to deal with all of these nuisances all of the time, there should at least be a benefit he was getting out of it. Instead, here he was, trying to suck down a cigarette in peace, standing in a restaurant freezer, waiting for his turn to brutalize the next idiot that got dragged in front of him.

That was another thing that annoyed him. These cockfights he found himself involved in again; he always knew if he was fighting an American, or a foreigner like himself. Reason being that Americans gave up the fastest. Their lives were too easy, too comfortable, and this sort of thing was what they did for kicks. Usually it was some rich asshole with bad tattoos who wanted to take his impotent aggression out on somebody. Jagga assumed they had a lot of pent-up rage over their plastic wives cheating on them, or not getting the raise they wanted at their computer job so they couldn’t afford this year’s Mercedes. While he got some satisfaction out of dismantling these people, he would rather just get a decent fight. Sometimes the Americans brought their dregs out in front of him, the truly desperate that were fighting for their lives, but they were usually weak and toothless and that made Jagga all the more frustrated.

A knock on the heavy freezer door woke him from his reminisces. Before Jagganath could answer, one of the bookies came in, shutting the door behind him. One more American that Jagga hated, between his cheap suit, his combover, and the way sweat collected under his double-chin turned to frost in the freezing air. Jagga briefly entertained a fantasy of the man roasting over a fire like a pig.

“Jags, Jaguar, baby,” the man said, clearly trying to seem composed despite standing in a small, cold room with Jagganath, “I’ve been lookin’ for ya for hours, what the hell are you doing in here?”

Jagganath took another drag of his cigarette before answering, “Avoiding nuisances.” His voice was dry and dark, his accented English making him seem all the more alien compared to this piggy little man.

The man paid no heed to Jagga’s implicit warning, “Fine, whatever, but listen for a second. This next guy we got for ya, he’s some devil outta Russia, doesn’t even speak fuckin’ English I’m pretty sure. Anyway, a mark, a total rube, he’s got no idea what he’s in for. Half the other guys downstairs are already writing obituaries for him. The spread is completely fucked.”

Jagga stared at the man, malevolence written plain in his flame-yellow eyes as he fantasized about turning the bookie into an ugly stain on the wall. “Get to the point.” He said bluntly.

“Well,” the bookie said, dropping his voice and stepping close to Jagga, “I can cover the other end if you, y’know…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

“I don’t… know.” Jagga said, his voice lowered into a growl. His sudden proximity to this man, and the stink of him that persisted in the cold air, was quickly draining his patience.

The bookie, oblivious, sighed and wiped the chilled sweat from his face, before looking back to Jagganath with exasperation. “Take a dive, throw the match, you know, give the guy the win. It’ll be well worth your while, I can assure you.”

“Take a dive,” Jagga said, imitating the man’s voice mockingly. Then, he was on his feet, lifting the bookie off of his by his shirt, and holding him up against the freezer wall, “Take a fucking dive, huh? How about you take a dive, off a fucking bridge you son of a whore!” He shouted in the man’s face, essentially blasting him in the face with condensed steam.

“Okay, alright!” The bookie cried, cowering and shielding his face with his hands, “I get it, I’m sorry, Christ almighty!”

“Your Christ isn’t here.” Jagga said, no longer shouting but still as close to the man’s face as he could bear. “The next time you have a good idea like that, just stick it up your ass, or save it for some other idiot.” He dropped the bookie on his ass, and the man immediately scrambled to the freezer door to escape Jagganath’s wrath.

The man fled as soon as he could get the door open, and Jagga paced about the freezer, still upset that what little time he got to himself had been so rudely interrupted. He picked up his cigarette that he had dropped, and sucked down what was left of it with one powerful inhale. He exhaled the great plume of smoke out through his nostrils, like a fire-breathing beast of legend.

“Fine then,” he said to himself, quietly, as he gathered his things and exited the freezer, “Let’s meet this Russian.”

---

Among the crowd, there was an observer who experienced the exact same realization as Luka had. Accompanying it was a much more unexpected shock of recognition – the so-called Jagga was someone she’d encountered before, if only in a circumstance eerily similar to the present moment.

Now, this wasn’t one of the usual haunts for Juān, but she’d gone too long without betting, especially on something as thrilling as a cage fight. It just wasn’t such a common thing in New York – or perhaps just better hidden. Still, she fit right in, a cheap whiskey on the rocks in hand, mingling among others who were as sweaty and eager to see blood as she was.

She sipped at her drink, which wasn’t as sharp as she’d liked, though the taste was surprisingly decent, if somewhat watered down by the ice. Slipping in between the gaps of others where she could, and casually shoving a clear path in front of her where she couldn’t, Juān made her way to one of the front rows now that both opponents had finally made their way in. When the bet-collector was passing by, she snagged the guy by the arm, and tersely said, “Fiver for the redhead,” handing over a crumpled note she’d taken from a zipped jean pocket.

Juān wasn’t happy about betting on a guy who may or may not be an enemy (what if he was after her, despite how unlikely it seemed?), but she didn’t feel like losing her money on the clueless idiot newbie either. She did determine to cheer on the poor underdog, maybe he’d clue in then. Though they were both Starweavers – which really should make for an interesting fight – she knew Jagga was experienced at this. No way he’d lose. The folks she could overhear were in agreement, and Juān morosely thought she’d at most get an extra dollar out of her bet. She’d nearly be happier to lose at this point if it meant a good fight. She threw back the rest of her drink, set the glass aside onto the floor, and peered at the ring.

---

Juān eagerly leaned forward in her seat when the cage was locked and the announcer started hyping up the fight.

“Greetings and welcome, everyone, new and old! Here you have a fight of the ages; will it finally be the long awaited upset or another in a long string of wins for our favourite Demi champion?! On one side, we have the tall and powerful Jagganath, Crusher of Men and Beast a–like!! Just one look and you know he means business! And on the other side of him, we have a newcomer – but one with great potential! A Russian Bear-wrestler, this man has bulldozed though the local wildlife and nearly driven it to extinction! How will he fare against a fellow Daeva? His muscles and claws are surely not just for show! Observe and enjoy, and bet on your favourite! Nooow, BEGIN!”

Jagganath stepped into the ring, and the heavy gate was locked behind him. The announcer was yammering about something or another over his megaphone, probably coming up with some new demeaning nickname for him. Jagga tried to tune him out, otherwise he would probably be too distracted by his desire to kill the loudmouth and wouldn’t focus on his fight. Jagga’s skin felt electric, his heart was hot and pounding, and he had no idea why. There had been times when had this feeling before, usually at random in public, but he had assumed it was nothing. He did his best to ignore it now.

Pacing around his opponent like a predator, Jagga sized the other man up. He didn’t look like much, clearly not dressed for a fight, unlike Jagganath, who was shirtless and barefoot, really only wearing a pair of athletic short-pants. As the bookie had said, he was a Daeva, one of the devil-folk, and he looked completely clueless. Jagga almost felt bad about what he was about to do to this man; he had probably ended up here by accident, or on some drunken dare.

“Are you the Russian I was told about?” He called out, before remembering he was also told that the other man didn’t speak English. He had to think for a- moment if he knew any Russian; Jagga knew several languages, at least to a conversational level, but Russian wasn’t one of them. “Vodka?” He offered, giving the other man a sinister smile. “Vodochny?”

There was some hooting, whistling, and jeering among the onlookers, Juān’s voice among them. “NEWBIE! Don’t let ‘im talk you down!” She didn’t care if he understood or not, it wasn’t about that.

Just as the stranger was watching him, Luka was watching him right back. He smelled of tobacco smoke and liquor, and very much like everything else in this place. Maybe he worked here? Luka didn’t think it mattered much, at this point.

“Russian?” He gave a toothy smile when the strange attempted to speak the language, then responded in slightly accented English. “I don’t speak Russian. I’m American.”

Jagga merely shrugged, still also smiling slightly, and said, “Well, fuck it then.”

Without another word, Jagga attacked, to the delight of the crowd. He launched himself with all of his unnatural strength toward the newcomer, ready to pull him down to the ground as soon as he was in arm’s reach. He wasn’t sure how his opponent would react to such a sudden and direct attack, and this was more of an exploratory strike to find out. More skilled or reserved fighters might have circled and tested their opponent for a while to learn about their foe, but Jagganath was not interested in having a long and drawn-out battle.

Luka side stepped, then circled around the stranger. He was no longer smiling.

“I think there has been a misunderstanding.” He said quickly, his tail flicking behind him, “I’m not here to fight.”

There was a shout from an interfering, impatient fae. “Stop talking, for fuck’s sake!”

Fighting rings were not a rare occurrence in Siberia, especially when those at the fort needed to let off steam. But, Father disapproved.

As the stranger avoided Jagga’s charge, he halted his advance and did his best to redirect his momentum into a spinning kick at the man behind him. Under normal circumstances, he would be disappointed but indifferent toward someone backing out of a fight. An unwilling opponent was worse in most cases than having none at all. However, something compelled him to keep attacking, the same tingling in his skin and thudding in his chest egged his attacks on.

“Then quit!” Jagga shouted between strikes. “Go on, you’re an American,” he said, laughing, “Take a dive!”

At this, there was a sudden clamor among all the patriotic spectators, who riotously booed Jagga, and a definite spike in support for Luka. Juān was one of the rare ones who laughed at the joke, the chuckle surprised out of her.

Luka dodged another flurry of strikes, his eyes narrowing. For a human, the stranger was very fast. Or was he?

“The gate’s locked.” Luka put some more distance between them, before gesturing to the gate that he came in with.

Jagga was beginning to become frustrated with how easily this stranger was dodging his attacks. He bore down on him, doing his best to anticipate how the man would dodge, trying to get one of his burning-hot strikes to connect. Finally, a challenge. He wasn’t about to let it slip away. He could feel his heart heating up, and he felt his flesh beginning to shift into its more metallic state. It had been so long since a fight had challenged him like this, that he had almost forgotten the feeling.

“Guess you’re just out of luck.” He said, grunting from the exertion of his attacks.

“Hey, YOU EEL, don’t just run!” came a shout of encouragement for Luka. Contrary to her words, Juān was amused that the famous ‘gladiator’ was having so much trouble just getting a hit in.

It seemed his opponent truly wanted this fight. Maybe he needed it to get paid, like Vadim. Still, while Luka wanted to help if he could, he would not just lie down and take a few punches for it. The stranger did not look like he was playing around, and his punches looked painful.

He could even feel the searing heat near his face, when one of the punches nearly caught up. Was this what Starweavers really fought like?

Distance, then. At least he could still stay ahead with his speed.

Ducking another blow, Luka went low, then scrambled out of reach again. This time, he latched onto the cage and climbed up with the agility of a startled house cat. It wasn’t that high above, but it would do. For the entirety of it, he never took his eyes off the stranger, ready for his next move.

“Jump! Down the hunk!!” Juān was understandably also getting tired of the antlered guy doing nothing besides trying to escape. He obviously had skills, but wasn’t properly employing them to duke it out yet. What’d he even come for, one couldn’t help but wonder.

Jagga watched as his opponent scrambled up the side of the pit like a bug, earning the jeers of the crowd, as well as a considerable amount of thrown garbage and drinks. Meanwhile, Jagganath bounced from foot to foot, thinking over his next move. Clearly the man was just trying to avoid him, and succeeding with his superior speed. Jagganath had no choice but to close the ability gap between them.

Focusing on his breathing, Jagganath tensed his body, locking his yellow eyes with his opponent’s. His heart beat faster and harder in his chest, as Jagganath focused on building up heat. He took another deep breath, but this time his exhalation contained tiny flecks of glowing embers, like a jet engine’s afterburners spooling up. The center of his chest began to glow with the power he was building up, and a heat-shimmer manifested around his searing-hot flesh.

Finally, with a savage cry Jagganath released the power he was building and took off toward his opponent like a rocket. The built-up energy exploded under him, propelling him like a supersonic missile toward where his opponent hung. The ground under him immediately liquified into molten glass, the building shook from the force of his propulsion, and the weaker onlookers in the closest seats developed a sudden sunburn on their exposed skin. The stronger ones merely cheered louder, eager for some real damage.

“FUCK YEA! DON’T STOP YET!!” even against a background of hollering, Juān’s was one of those few voices that could be heard clearly.

The blow almost caught Luka by surprise. He swung himself off the cage, just in time to dodge the brunt of the attack, but the searing heat still burned where it touched him. He landed with a thud, before rolling to a stop with his momentum.

When he lifted his head, the cage around them had almost completely disintegrated. The heat lingered, smothering.

“Ooah, fuck that cage!” the fae clapped happily. The newcomer got injured, but there was this glint in his eye that Juān rather liked. “READY TO START, NEWBIE?!” she urged him on.

The burn on his forearm wept red. Luka lifted it to his mouth and licked, tasting his own blood. He had never fought Starweavers before; he did not know their power could be this potent. It stirred him, and he wondered if it was time he stopped running.

Then there were gunshots. Sharp and loud, they rang through the packed building, cutting even the ding of the crowd. Those were hardly rare in this part of the city, which meant most locals already knew well enough how to deal with them. They dispersed. It could be the cops, it could be the corps. Either way, no one really wanted to stick around to find out.

During the avalanche of people heading out towards the main entrance, Juān lifted herself into the air, and swiftly flew to the nearest cover, which was behind the bar. The employees glared at her, but she shrugged and mimed a shushing motion. She warily eyed the machine that walked in, intending to escape now that the crowd had left and she wouldn’t be in its eyesight.

Soon enough, the bar was almost empty, save for the owner and a couple of workers who were wisely crouching behind the counter.

A man, or rather an approximation of one, strolled in. The metallic glint of his skin and his machine-milled features declared what he was: a magitech frame. Even in these darkest reaches of the city, people had heard of things like him. Consequently, one of the staff members spat out his cigarette, swore quietly, then left.

Fortunately for them, the magitech frame’s interest seemed to lie with the Starweavers. He walked right up to them, though each step was slow and calibrated and measured, much like someone reaching out for wild animals.

“Hello.” The frame greeted simply, with a smile that his facial plates were incapable of showing. “How unfortunate that I have found all of you here.”

“All of you?” Juān muttered from where she’d vaulted herself over the bar, and was hovering silently towards the exit. Her eyes were on the machine, fingers itching to unleash not only all of her elemental fury, but also to activate her Starweaver ability. And that kind of thinking was too dangerous (which was precisely also the draw of it), which was why she was inching towards the exit.

Jagga was sat smoldering in a small, glowing crater that his landing had created. He was literally incandescent with rage, heat boiling off of his metal skin. Shots rang out, but he didn’t care; Jagganath had a fight to finish. As the strange metal creature marched up to him, Jagga did his best to shove it aside as he continued to march toward his opponent with single-minded determination. Yet, the frame did not budge.

Luka caught the movement quickly, even when his attention was still on the metal man. He backed away fast, leaping atop the bar in one smooth motion and staying there.

“Damit, why’d you come this way,” Juān swore under her breath when the antlered Daeva landed where she’d been but moments before. She landed onto the floor with a soft clunk where her hooves met the floor, and glowered at everyone, but especially the suspicious newcomer. She was ready to stand her ground, and was eyeing the ring fighters calculatingly. If the three of them jumped this pompous military guy...

“Mr. Yaunten.” The magitech frame insisted, unwavering even when in the presence of three Starweavers. “A word, if I may.”

“You may.” Jagganath’s voice seemed inhuman, a metallic groan like a building about to collapse. “After I finish here.” His eyes were like twin suns in his skull, staring directly at the white-haired Daeva as he marched steadily toward where he stood on the bar. Meanwhile, Luka looked very much like he was going to bolt at any moment.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. Whatever happened between you and Mr. Krasnoff will have to continue at another time.” The magitech frame got in the way once again. If anything at all, he sounded a touch exasperated. “Sentinel, recruitment specialist for the CIA. I come with an offer for all three of you.”

“CI-” The name of the federal agency stopped Jagganath in his tracks, as his criminal experience took control of him from his bloodlust. “Shit,” he said, exasperated, before stamping a massive, molten fissure into the floor. He then pointed his chin up and released a billowing gout of heat from his mouth, scorching the ceiling and turning the support beams overhead a glowing red. He looked back at the agent, his skin and eyes somewhat cooler and merely asked, “Alright, am I under arrest? I want a lawyer.”

Juān also froze, tension growing. Yeah, ‘shit’ was about right. She didn’t know what the special agent knew about her, but also didn’t want to reveal her own cluelessness. “What. Offer,” she bit out, tone surly.

“I’ll cut to the chase.” Sentinel seemed unconcerned with the reckless display of power. After all, he expected nothing less. “We’re putting together a task force of Starweavers to investigate a delicate situation in Antarctica. So, I’d like to invite each of you here,” he was sure to turn his face to all of them, his way of making eye contact, “to join us.”

Then he continued, without missing a beat, “I can assure you, the terms of employment are very attractive for this particular contract. We can discuss these in detail tomorrow at the Tipsy Temptress. Come at 10 in the evening, ask for my name.”

The course had been chosen, the way set, now he only needed the will to follow through. He expected the same of his soon-to-be collegues.

Sentinel arrived to the meeting room exactly on time. In fact, he made his way through the staff door at exactly 9:58 PM, taking into account the average walking time between the door and the back room, and his system immediately started the analytic parameters of the interior. Ragneka Qroarae was there already, accompanied by a slightly inebriated agent Leia Weber who was downing drinks as if she wasn’t on the clock. Which explained the car outside badly in need of an axle repair. Weber’s work had always been sloppy, even to his then organic standards. He remembered his dislike, once upon a time. Now, he barely turned his head for a greeting. Around that time, the Mal’Akh at the bar was replaced by a Fae bartender who rushed in from another back entrance looking like he had just woken less than an hour ago. From what Sentinel could hear of the sheepish conversation, that seemed to be the case. The large, white fox tails and ears of the graveyard shift bartender smoothed themselves down neatly as he adjusted his vest and cuffs and took his place behind the bar, politely notifying current guests along the length of the table that he would be taking over now. The Fae glanced towards the magitech frame already weaving its way through the throngs of people who immediately gave it a wide berth on notice, but his expression remained professional. He continued polishing the glasses the Mal’Akh hadn’t finished as he watched the frame approach the bar, the slightest shift of its head nodding towards a large woman sitting near the end of the counter.

Sentinel didn’t gesture for the agent and Ragneka to follow as he passed by the bar counter, but he left the door to the meeting room in the far corner open as he entered.

His current loadout looked markedly different from the civilian set, with ready, rectangular components hovering quasi-magnetically around his left arm, the magic prepped to instantly form a weapon at the speed of his circuits’ processing power. What looked like a long mane of hair swept back from the crown of his mechanical head was actually the result of decades of research into replicating the energy storage capability of Mal’Akh wings, with the completed product copied into magically forged fibers light enough to nearly float. It was purely the frame development team’s aesthetic choice to leave the excess strands attached and protruding like hair while the bulk of it was folded, pressed, and woven deep into Sentinel’s entire body. The newly fitted form had been enhanced with armor plating that looked far weaker than it was, the lightweight but powerful material a result of many unethical tests on Daevas’ hardened durability and the rare dwarven fortifications. In a way, he was also one of many achievements of humanity, and it was only a matter of time before they figured out some way to mass-produce his level of magitech frame. For now, though, it was both a blessing and a curse that only wealthy countries were able to research and develop the higher end of magitech soldiers, ones capable of hosting an entire consciousness.

Customarily, his system lit up to scan the meeting room for tapping devices and any other abnormalities. This time, his combat regalia offered additional information: traces of explosive substances, signs of ambushes or tampering, magical signature and residue detection. So far, nothing yet. The Tipsy Temptress was generally considered a safe haven even in the often violent nights of NYC, but recent developments had changed that.

A string of grisly murders had been linked to the long-simmering anti-Starweaver terrorist group by the name of ‘Foci’. Their activities had been recorded internationally for a few years now; the spread and inconsistency of incidents might have suggested a general, decentralised anti-Starweavers sentiment that spread through viral chat boards and obscure forums. But these recent murders were targeted and serial, with a seemingly uniform M.O. and message. The victims were almost always law enforcement and the group’s calling card, a lily of the valley, was always found at the scene. It could have been a copy cat killer, using the group’s name for their own ends, perhaps even a minor branch of the organization. Or, Foci was finally getting serious after all these centuries.

Rumors had spread that the enigmatic owner of the Tipsy Temptress was actively investigating some of the incidents that had occurred near the smaller venues of New York, but the breadcrumb trail of information ended there. As always, the Temptress’s owner kept a frustratingly low profile. Sentinel doubted the name and face attached to the license registration of the bar and restaurant chain had anything to do with the Starweaver in charge of it all. They couldn’t stay off the grid perfectly, with the world as connected as it was now both technologically and magically, but at best all anyone had managed to find of the franchise owner was a blurry, poorly angled snapshot of a distant lanky male in a black turtleneck, turned away from the camera, speaking to someone completely obscured behind an open door. It was interesting to note that the location in the image did not seem to match anywhere in New York, and thus far internet sleuths had been unable to find any place at all that looked similar to what was photographed. The account that had uploaded the image onto an image hosting site had also mysteriously deactivated several days later. It was the strangeness of it all that prevented many from declaring the photo an elaborate attempt to farm some internet clout. Who the photographer was and how they knew this was the Temptress’s owner was another unsolved mystery that the obsessives of the net had been orbiting around for years now. It was easier to dismiss the image as a random person, so many others gave up and did just that.

Either way, it was beneath his jurisdiction and thus, his notice. NYPD had also seemed to prefer keeping information confidential right now, which often meant they did not welcome meddlers unless they were forced to.

Sentinel only adhered to the heightened alert level and recommended procedures as suggested by his system.

Once the location was deemed safe enough to host the meeting, Sentinel fired off a notification to his supervisors and took his seat at the head of the table. The staff had helpfully arranged food and drinks for them, and he contemplated taking one of the hovering orbs of glamour for himself. But the thought faded quickly, with no urge nor desire to tether it.

He settled for leaving the space in front of him empty, then waited.