“Never been in an elevator before. Kinda neat. Real cramped and boring though.”

  With that observation made, I throw on my hat and duster before checking my revolver and rifle to make sure they ain’t been tampered with. If it was me, I’d shave down the hammer and firing pins on a gun I wasn’t planning on using, just to make sure it can’t be used against me. Only takes a few seconds with a knife, but considering how they was so concerned about being tracked they left my stuff in an underground, lead-encased, bunker, I’m guessing they wasn’t planning on mounting my guns on the wall and were just gonna scrap them.

  “Not that these are worth mountin’,” I grumble, looking over Aunty Ray’s Shortsword and my reliable plinker of a Ranger Repeater. “Ain’t ever let me down before, but the world’s a changin’ and I gotta keep up. Can’t let nostalgia and habit keep me down.”

  Real disappointed with how they fared against them Order flunkies, but that’s not on the guns themselves, not really. They performed exactly to spec, only their specs ain’t enough to cut it no more. Or more specifically, 22-10 ain’t enough to cut it. Might be fine for your average townie, or even a town guard who’s mostly carrying as a deterrent, but for a fella like me who hunts Abby and outlaws for a living, that means I’ll be going up against the best of the best. And them Order flunkies was far from the best.

  They wasn’t the worst either, as they was not only protected by gear or magic, but also trained, organized, and coordinated, which might not seem like much until you done tried your hand at wrangling a crowd. Pack hunting might come natural to wulves, but you take a group of random people and throw them into a chaotic fray, and chances are they’ll kill more of each other than whoever they’re fighting. Whether that be directly or indirectly, like moving into a friendly’s lane of fire, not covering them as they’re supposed to, or just being a nuisance and distraction that keeps others from doing the work they came to do.

  Long story short, against people who ain’t expecting a fight, the 22-10 Shortsword and Ranger Repeater can do some real work, but even a Mage Armour and Aid is enough to blunt the force of their Bolts enough to keep them from killing with a chest shot. Only killed the one fella, old Crockett with an Acid Orb, while them others I shot got back up and took their pound of flesh from my hide. A headshot would’ve still put them down, but popping heads ain’t as easy as most people think, especially in the heat of battle.

  The Szass and Tam Model 10 is still good, as it makes up for the lacking power with Penetrating Metamagic tacked on, and it do be a small, compact, and hard-hitting beast of a gun. It can stay in my kit as a concealable back up, while the 44-40 Judges and the 45-60 Nagas can still do work, but I’m thinking I need a full upgrade for my every day carry. A newer, harder hitting rifle and sidearm with Silence at the very least, and no Penetrating so I can use them in an urban environment without worrying about through and throughs. And not some massed-manufactured junker either like the Mabber I tossed away, as it might well be good enough for crowd-work, but felt sorely lacking when it came to precision. Couldn’t hit them heads while shooting from the hip, as the longer, heavier barrel and frame made it difficult to hold steady, while I’m pretty sure the sights were built crooked and leaning to the left. Plus, semi-automatics in general feel less accurate to me, and while I ain’t done any extensive testing or practice, how a gun feels is pretty important when you relying on it for your day-to-day work.

  So I guess this trip here was the last hurrah for the Ranger Repeater. It’s been with me for a good few years now, my third Aetherarm after the Sturm and Kitiara Squire and the Bashere Black Eagle. Time I put it out to pasture though, as a gun is only as good as it kills, and my sweet, compact, lever-action carbine ain’t killing hard enough for my needs. A real shame that, but there are some choice 44-40 offerings out there I could pick up, and maybe I can kill that fucker Revolver Rossi and take his 44-40 Rattlesnake off of him to be my new primary pistol. Won’t handle the same as my daddy’s 22-10, as bigger caliber means bigger revolver with a heftier weight and chonkier grip, but I’m sure I could make it work.

  He's also got that 44 Special, the big brother to the Model 10 which is large and in charge, so I might take that too. And his other two guns, as even though I probably won’t use them, they’ll make for great collector’s items being Kalthoff originals and all.

  The Ranger Repeater done earned its place on my wall, but the Shortsword’s only been with me a little while, and I don’t much care for it. Probably just give it back to Aunty Ray, though she might want to keep this 1911 I took off of little Dick. It’s got the Kalthoff stamp to say it was made by one of his factories, unlike the hand-crafted originals Tina carries. Aunty Ray never bought one of these semi-automatics for herself because she said they was too pricy for a house mouse like herself, but after seeing what she can do out in the field, I’m thinking she’s been underselling her skills. Either way, the decision’s been made to put both guns out to pasture, but I’m thinking I ought to give them one big, final sendoff to put them through their paces and do some real work before I hang them up for good.

  “It’s settled then,” I declare, as the elevator comes to a shuddering halt and I step out into a fancy office with plenty of natural, honey-gold light streaming in through the big windows. “I’ll head out, shoot a bunch of Neo-Nazis, pick up the package, then head on home to give Aunty Ray her new gun.”

  Stopping in my tracks as I play back what I just said out loud, I blink for a good second or three before exclaiming, “Holy shit! Am I actually a psychopath?”

  Here I am making plans to go on bloodthirsty rampage before putting my trusty Ranger Repeater aside, like it’s some holy weapon that needs to be bathed in blood or something. That’s a dreadful mindset right there, ghastly and ghoulish to the extreme. I ain’t no stranger to bloodshed, but I ain’t one to seek it out either, or relish in the act itself. It ain’t like I’m addicted to the thrill of the kill. Just the thrill of the fight.

  “Risin’ up to the challenge of our rival,” I sing, because I can’t help it.

  While the killing do be a part of it, I’m happy to live and let live if that’s how things play out. Bloodshed is just part of the business, and there ain’t no profit in wholesale slaughter. Learned that one firsthand, didn’t I? Took down Vanguard National and the Puglianos all by my lonesome and all I got was a whole heaping host of troubles for it. Ain’t nothing to be gained from taking on Aultman and Sons and their Order of the Cleansing Light, because unlike them other two groups, these fellas ain’t even technically criminals. I’d get blamed for it, and no matter how much I scream and shout about being kidnapped and having to fight my way out, I’ll still be lambasted in the court of public opinion.

  And real court too, seeing how Papa Aultman got a fair bit of sway with the Federal Government.

  Meaning I ought to quaff a potion of Gaseous Form and get outta dodge. Ain’t nothing they can do about it, now can they? Got them doubting I have anything to do with the whole stolen package business, and while if they ain’t wholly convinced, there ain’t nothing to tie me to it. Even then, they’ll only make life difficult for me using their business and political connections, though Papa Aultman might do more when he learns I’ve killed his eldest on my way out.

  “Their fault, not mine,” I declare, because that’s how it be. “If they didn’t drag me back here, I wouldn’t have killed little Dick, so I take no responsibility for any of this.” I tilt my head left, then right, and add, “Well, maybe a little responsibility, but not all of it.”

  So yeah, maybe I deserve a bit of the heat that’ll fall on my head. I’ve weathered worse though, so ain’t nothing to be gained from sticking around. In fact, I stand to lose far more seeing how I am technically still legally in the right, as I done been accused without proof and held against my will in strict violation of due process. By an Independent principality no less, meaning I could bring this to the Feds, and in a just world, I’d be in the right and Aultman and Sons would get dinged for it.

  Especially if I talk about their giant, underground bunker filled with captured Abby. Even if what they doing is 100% legal, don’t no one like folks messing about with Abby. Just at look how Papa Aultman built a whole secret bunker to keep his work out of the public eye, here in his bastion of white power and racism. He’s open and unabashed about his beliefs regarding white power and the superiority of the Aryan race, but he don’t dare tell the world he experimenting on live Abby.

  …Abby I done left alive down there without so much as even considering torching the whole place. Which goes against everything in my nature it does, seeing how the only good Abby is a dead Abby. Plus burning the lab would’ve been the perfect send off on my way out. I didn’t dismiss the idea to give little Dick a sporting chance either, as it don’t sit right how I left him alive and breathing downstairs. Death would’ve been a mercy, as I wasn’t exaggerating about how slim his chances be. The humane thing would’ve been to put a Bolt through his temple and walk away, but a part of me wanted him to suffer. Wanted him to die a slow and agonizing death down in that lead-lined bunker with all them crystals and files that I really should’ve taken a look at now that I think about it, or at least brung away with if only to satisfy my burning curiosity regarding what Papa Aultman be doing down in his lab.

  So why didn’t I? I didn’t even give those crystals a second glance, never thought about them even the once until I was free and clear of it all, but now I’m second guessing my choices. Didn’t even look around for anything valuable to take with me, nothing besides what I took while checking little Dick for weapons. Which ain’t looting; it’s reparations for my time and suffering. Medical bills ain’t cheap after all, and the 1911, a wristwatch, some cufflinks, and a crucifix are hardly enough to make me whole again.

  “Well, they probably are,” I say, unable to stand lying even to myself. “I ain’t hurting all that bad. I mean, it hurts, but nothing’s broken, so just gotta rub some dirt on these bruises and I’ll be set in a few days.”

  Ain’t just about my bills though. It’s about making them regret their actions, and stealing some of Papa Aultman’s research and expensive materials would’ve hurt him real bad.

  And the fact that I didn’t? Well that ain’t like me, not like me at all, and I think I know why.

  “Mind magics,” I growl, ready to march on down there and kill little Dick, that Wight, and every other fucking Soulless Abby down there in an effort to kill the Mimic too, but my window of opportunity done slams shut as I hear someone walking into the room just outside this office. Closing the bookcase that makes for a door to the elevator, I scurry over to the big desk and hide underneath it. Ain’t my proudest moment, but there ain’t nowhere else to hide in the office, which’ll make things real awkward if Papa Aultman stopped in to do some paperwork or something.

  Or if I were under the effects of a potion that often compels me to speak my mind without any regard as to who might be listening.

  “Don’t say nothin’,” I whisper, before clamping my mouth shut just as the door swings open and a pair of footsteps make their way in. Got my Shortsword in one hand, a potion of Gaseous Form in the other, and my Mage Hands tucked away in my duster so as to not give me away with the glow. Luckily, the bottom of the desk has got a back to hide me, but it ain’t all that deep. If someone comes around the side, they’re gonna see my booties, while my pained, laboured breaths sound like thundering hooves in this confined space. Bruised ribs, maybe cracked, but not broken so there’s that, and it takes all my self control and more than a little exhaustion to keep me from coming out blastin’ when I hear the most junior of Aultman’s say, “But Father, I don’t understand why we both have to go. I am more than capable of overseeing the reconstruction efforts myself. I don’t need Richard looking over my shoulder and second guessing everything I do.”

  There’s a stifling pause that’s even got me sweating as Papa Aultman wields silence and inaction against his son, and I gotta say, the man’s a master of the craft. Me, I use my silence like a club and bash it over your head, but Papa Aultman’s taciturn stillness feels like you’re caught in a web that’s crushing you from every which way. Oppressive is what it is, and I can’t even see him, though I suppose that works to his advantage. He ain’t much to look at, a slim, slender, house-mouse of a man, but he got a stare and a poise that’ll knock you flat on your ass if you ain’t prepared.

  Then he heaves a sigh, shattering the stifling silence and restoring the atmosphere to the room that done had all the air sucked away. “Stanley,” he begins, and I can almost see him place his hands on his son’s shoulders in a loving, fatherly gesture. “You are old enough to know better, but when last we spoke, Richard said something that made me think. He told me that had he known of my expectations, he would have endured the shame and suffering he experienced over on the Eastern Front and done everything in his power to see my plans to fruition. That is my mistake, believing that the both of you would learn as I did, by watching my father and reasoning out why he did the things he did. I see now that I could spare you both some growing pains if I simply shared my thoughts with you instead, so listen closely while I explain.”

  “Yes Father.”

  “Your mother is weak and insecure.” Papa Aultman don’t pull no punches, and even I wince to hear it. Can only imagine how little Stanley takes the news as he draws in a sharp breath. “Since long before we married,” Papa Aultman continues, pushing right past the shock to hammer the point home, “She has always compared herself to my first wife, Richard’s mother, and in her own eyes, she has always come up short. I thought this would change once we married, but even after all these years, she still contends with the memory of a dead woman, one who she can never truly compete against and is thus never able to attain certain victory. As such, she has passed the torch on to you, in hopes that you will defeat Richard, the son of her rival, and thus prove to her that she is the superior woman, wife, and mother.”

  There’s another pause now, but not a weighty, oppressive one, just a small one to let his words sink in. “This is a fool’s errand. This competition she’s created between you and Richard is meaningless. We of the Order are a brotherhood, a fraternity of Aryan Society who have joined hands to resist our oppressors. Only by working together can we bring about the future the Fuhrer envisioned for us all, so it is all the more imperative that you and Richard, blood of my blood, work together alongside one another. There is no competition, for what is mine, is yours. Both of yours, as no man is an island. Even the Führer did not work alone. He had President Franz von Papen above him to keep him in check, a much-needed balance against his impassioned but oftentimes tactically unsound impromptu decisions. Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS. Joseph Goebbels, Minister of Propaganda. Rudolf Hess, Deputy Führer, Reinhard Heydrich, head of Gestapo, the Magier der ersten Stunde, Head of the Thule Society, without any one of those men, then the Third Reich would never have accomplished as much as they did, and as history showed, the loss of even one proved to be a devasting blow to the cause.”

  Yanno, content of the lesson aside, the underlying foundation is solid. I get the feeling Papa Aultman comes off as cold, but loves his boys dearly. Makes sense though, because he named his company after them, and not his silly racist Order, showing just how high a place they hold in his heart. Almost touching really, if they weren’t all such terrible people. Course, junior there never stood a chance, seeing how he was raised to see monsters like that as heroes and icons, and I guess you could say the same for Richard. Makes me feel a little bad about gutting him like I did, but in my defense, I was aiming for his neck when I felt a twinge in my shoulder and missed by a mile.

  “Look here son,” Papa Aultman says, and my heart skips a beat as I make ready to shoot as soon as I hear footsteps come around the desk, but Lady Luck is back with me it seems. Papa Aultman don’t come around to take a seat, and instead grabs a book off the shelf and sets it down on the side of the desk before opening it up for Stanley to read. “This is the work you will be overseeing at our secondary farming compound that was recently razed by the Soulless. Rebuilding the Geomantic Lattice that makes it possible to grow the vital ingredients needed for Phoenix Ashes. This is the lifeblood of the Order, the source of our wealth which we then turn into power. Money turned into political and military power, and perhaps in time, social and spiritual power too as the Order expands our teachings across the Frontier and take root in every remaining bastion of White America.”

  I almost snicker to hear it, because he really sells the idea that white folks be oppressed, and little Stanley drinks it all up. “This is the vital work that I entrust to you, Stanley,” Papa Aultman says, “While your brother will oversee the rest. Housing, defenses, infrastructure, the details that you need not concern yourself with so that you can focus on this and this alone. No one else can know how this is done, only what needs to be done, because this is our secret that only you and I now share.”

  “I won’t let you down, Father,” Stanley says, and I catch a hitch in his tone that tells me he wants to say more, but thought better of it. Maybe to put down Richard, maybe to butter up his father some more, but whatever the case, their father-son talk concludes with a pat on the shoulder.

  “Come now. Let me show you my lab before we question the Qink again,” Papa Aultman says, as he opens up the bookcase to reveal the elevator behind it, only to pause in his delivery and movements both. “…How thoughtful,” he says. “Richard sent the elevator back up for us. You might not understand the significance of this just yet, but you will once you see what awaits us down there.”

  Ah. Papa Aultman is proud of his boy, proud of the courage Richard displayed in sending the elevator back up and leaving him with no means to escape should something go wrong. Well, hate to disappoint, but Richard ain’t nowhere near as brave or thoughtful, and it’s more like I didn’t think to send the elevator back down so as to avoid suspicion. No matter though, because they step into the tiny elevator and ride it down into the depths of the earth, a four-minute round trip that buys me just enough time to have me a look-see at what they was reading.

  “Well, well, well,” I drawl, flipping through the book they so conveniently left on the table for me. Rather than try and read or steal it, I turn on my bull’s head medallion and get to recording as I flip through the pages one by one. Even though I’m going as fast as I dare, I still see a fair few things of interest, as this Geomantic Lattice don’t look like much, but there’s a whole lot of detail that goes into the planning. Earthworks, stonework, geometric land shapes, and more. Think Stonehenge, the Cahokia mounds, and Nazca lines, just nonsensical structures integrated with natural land formations with Glyphs, Runes, or Sigils Etched into the soil itself. It ain’t a textbook on the subject, only instructions on how to build a Lattice in one specific location, so it’ll take some doing to reverse engineer the process, but not too too much I hope.

  Interesting stuff, but I got no time to properly appreciate what’s in here, just record it so I can bring the information away with me to hand over to Gunnar, Harald, and Astrid. If I take the book and they realize it’s missing, the Order will likely stop at nothing to hunt me down or shut down any efforts to make use of the knowledge. Better to leave it here so they don’t know what they’ve lost until it’s already too late to stop us.

  “Who says I don’t plan ahead?” I ask, grinning from ear to ear at this momentous find. This is a discovery that don’t stop at Phoenix Ashes either. Could use this to create all sorts of Magical Plants and materials, or maybe even put the knowledge to use empowering Magical Beasts and people too, though I wouldn’t want to be the guinea pig in that experiment. In the future though? The sky’s the limit, assuming I can get this information to someone who can make use of it.

  Glancing around the room to see if there’s anything else worth taking or recording, I decide its best to leave everything untouched, if only to better cover my tracks. Let them think I was long gone by the time they came into the office, meaning not only will they not know I done copied their Geomantic Lattice, they’ll overestimate how far I’ve gotten while still underestimating where I’ll actually be. With that thought, I quaff the five-hundred-dollar potion of Gaseous Form and feel my body and all the gear I’m carrying all melt away into an invisible mist, one that flows out an open window and into the sunlight proper as I slowly waft my way over to where I’m supposed to pick up the Manfredi’s package.

  Shame about leaving here with so little bloodshed, but ain’t no two ways about it. This is the smart move, and its high time I started playing it smart, especially when I’m injured as bad as I am. Hopefully, Richard’s injuries keeps them busy long enough for me to get the package, get it out of the Deadlands, and get everyone out alongside me too, else I might be looking at open war with the Order with no idea if the Feds, Brits, French, or Métis will back me up.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  No matter though. Just means I gotta be extra careful not to be caught with the packages, and everything else will work itself out.

  Probably.

  …Hopefully?

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Pain and agony were no match for determination and power of will.

  Richard would not die here today. He was a son or pure Aryan blood, one meant for greater things, so how could he fall here in this underground lab with nothing to show for his life? He was one of a dying breed, a superior race assailed on all sides as their beliefs were scorned and their bloodlines polluted with inferior genes and breeding. His generation would be the one to change this, here on the Frontier away from all the old world politics, and Richard would be the one to lead them.

  For in his veins ran not just the blood of an Aryan, but an Aryan hero who did so much to advance the cause.

  Richard only needed to survive past today, and he would be enlightened and elevated in turn. There was so much he did not know, so much his father kept from him, so much potential he still had yet to unlock. The Seraphim he yearned for, the procedures his father still struggled to perfect, they were crude, undeveloped, and still years away from being palatable for one such as him. There were other ways though, other paths to power, ones that have been tried and almost perfected. Soul Refinement, Aberrant Marks, Aetheric Spires, and more, there were other avenues to explore that Geoffry was too stubborn to even consider, all because his pride would not allow it.

  For what Aryan man would willingly admit inferiority to his wife?

  Richard had already crawled his way into the cell when he realized what he was doing, had his hand reaching for the strap that would free the monster that was once his mother who had been manipulating his thoughts all this time. “Free me, Richardddddd,” she rasped, leaning over to look down upon him with her shockingly human eyes, the only things human about her wizened, mummified frame. “My darlinggg s-s-son. S-save me, and a-allow me to s-save y-you.”

  A trick. A ruse. It had to be, and yet Richard did not withdraw his hand. Though she was little more than a wizened corpse, her recently reformed eyes were so real, so piercing, so full of love and longing in a way that could not be faked. Human emotion, the love of a mother who saw her child in pain and could do nothing about it. “P-please,” she pleaded, “He lied to you Richard. I am here, alive and in control. Free me, and only then can I save you.”

  There was no magical compulsion to her request, no dizzying charm overwhelming his senses, for she had already spent everything she had getting him to this point. She was drained and enervated, listless and lethargic, so much so that she seemed as if she would soon wither away if left here. More to the point, he was the only one down here, and he would die soon enough without help, so why not risk it all on his mother and see if she was truly what she said she was?

  No. This was a trick. A ploy. A means to get him to free it and set it loose upon all those he loved, his Father and friends and the town they’d all built together. He couldn’t do that to them, set loose a plague upon them all in his dying moment of weakness. “No,” he said, gaining strength from just uttering the word. “I rebuke thee, Satan.”

  “Oh Richard,” the creature said, its wizened features twisting in a horrific parody of hurt and rejection as her features reformed into the woman he recognized from the pictures Father kept. “I’m so sorry, sweet pea,” she continued, her voice flowing like milk and honey and she gazed upon him with faint regret. “This would have been so much easier if you just believed me. Please know I didn’t want to do things this way, but you’ve left me no choice. You’ll die unless you undergo the transmogrification process, so try your very best to resist and cling to sanity okay? Mother is rooting for you.”

  Richard didn’t understand what was happening, wanted to ask what she was going on about, but then the world was engulfed in darkness and he saw and knew nothing. A shadow over his existence, a cold, crawling emanation that slowly but surely invaded and engulfed every facet of his very being. One by one, inch by inch, sensation returned to him, but it was like experiencing them second hand for the very first time. A fleeting tremor of muscle. An errant twitch of an eye. A whisper in his throat and a tickle in his ear. His mind shuddered and convulsed as it took all this in and more, but it was not his mind at work here, but rather the work of a Mimic.

  It was there in his head, in his consciousness, inside of his mind, body and soul. Probing, testing, searching for weaknesses and vulnerabilities to leverage and exploit. A crack in his psyche, a flaw in his personality, a defect in his mindset, something it could use to not just embed itself into the very fibre of his being, but to take him over entirely. To kill that which was the very essence of Richard Aultman and leave only an empty shell behind, a shell puppetted by an inhuman intelligence that saw him as nothing but prey.

  For as the Mimic gazed into Richard, Richard gazed back, and therein lay the battle between them.

  The struggle was fierce and all-consuming. There were no subtle whispers of promised power or temptations of desires yet to be fulfilled. There was only fang and fury or the equivalent of thus as it clawed and rent its way in. Thoughts doubled over themselves as it sought to hammer his mind senseless, a cacophony of jumbled memories flitting about like a flock of startled birds trapped within a glass cage. Chaos reigned from within, and havoc rained down from above, a two-pronged attack from the Mimic which fought like a starved, feral beast with Richard’s soul being the ultimate prize.

  A scream rose from a throat. Richard’s throat, though he did not realize it until after the fact. It did not feel like his throat, his voice, his lungs pushing air. It felt strange and alien, like it was no longer his body, but already half theirs. The beating of his heart, the writhing of his body, the strangled, inhuman screams and guttural noises, all this and more was being taken from him, taken by an intruder most foul.

  “Fight it, my darling son.” Mother’s gentle yet insistent tone cut through the chaos and noise. “Match its ferocity and overcome it with determination. You are strong. You are proud. You are my son, with the blood of heroes running through you. Do not succumb to its desires. Bind it to yours and become the master of your own existence. Be reborn anew and empowered with knowledge and ambition both, just as your great, great, great grandfather was reborn, and just as I was reborn before your Father imprisoned me here for fear of what I could do. Watch.”

  The memories flashed through Richard’s mind, but they were not his memories. The memories belonged to his mother, Celeste Damerheim, or more accurately, Celeste Von D?mmerheim, a woman who never forgot her Prussian roots after her family defected to America after the fall of the Third Reich. Not to work for the enemy as the CIA proposed, but to consume them from within, to carry on the legacy of the Aryan Race and ensure there would be a time when they rose again. The Frontier was their chance to start anew, and Mother signed on for it willingly, where she found herself a good, Aryan man who shared her dreams and her views before bearing him a son.

  A son she loved and cherished even more than her husband, because she had a secret she kept from everyone, even the man she married. He knew of her roots, that her great grandfather was one of 1,600 highly educated Prussians taken in by the Federation through Operation Paperclip in the wake of the war, but he didn’t know what that really meant. This was where their conflict arose, as Celeste was privy to secrets Geoffry could only imagine, and laid out a plan for Richard’s development that he refused to approve. It was experimental and unverified, unfounded and unsubstantiated, or so he claimed, but he only believed this to be the case because he did not know what she knew, did not know that this was the fruit of all their labours, a viable process that came about from decades of research conducted in private following the fall of the Third Reich.

  She could not share those secrets though, for she was bound by a Geas never to reveal it. Instead, she set out to prove to her husband that the transmogrification was perfectly safe, and when she had done so, he imprisoned her within her lab. Yes. Her lab. This underground facility had been built for her, so that she could conduct her research in privacy and oversee the development of their precious son who would follow in the footsteps of the greatest Prussian Magus to ever live.

  The memory was so vivid and lifelike, it was as if Richard was there, standing in his mother’s skin as she and her eight cousins were greeted by a man. A plain, unremarkable man who looked to be in his early forties, yet there was something about him that lent him a gravity far beyond his years. His salt and pepper hair was neat and slicked to the side, and a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses sat atop his nose to give him an academic look, one that ran counter to his military posture. Straight back and shoulders squared, with a neck lined with tension as if he bore the weight of the world upon his back. Impeccably dressed in a well-tailored wool jacket and a subtly patterned vest underneath, he was a blend of darker, muted tones that contrasted sharply with his pale, white skin. Restraint rather than ostentation, finery without frivolity, as evidenced by his polished leather shoes, well-crafted yet understated watch, and a signet ring that bore the hourglass that was their secret family crest. They were never to show it to others, never to even speak of it, but they all knew of its existence and recognized it there on his hand, one he displayed prominently as he smoked an expensive cigar that Celeste’s father had insisted she bring him, with hopes that this man would look fondly upon their branch of the family.

  There were hints of approval in his eyes, but mostly, there was boredom and indifference as he gazed upon the nine youths before him. “Acceptable,” he said with a nod, which was faint praise considering the nine of them were the best of bunch out of almost a hundred such candidates who’d been training for the Frontier for almost five years now. “You nine are the future of the Von D?mmerheim family on the Frontier,” he said, his accent so faint it was almost not there, yet still bled over into his clear and dramatic enunciation. “As such, you have been deemed worthy of entry into the inner circle. None of you know who I am. None of your parents know who I am, nor your parent’s parents, and yet each and every one of them knows that I hold the keys to our family’s success, the foundation upon which our future will be built.”

  The man smiled as Celeste’s heart sped up, as she’d come into this with some suspicions, having gone back through their family history a thousand times before in hopes of understanding the need for all this secrecy. As soon as he spoke those words, hinted at how he was the linchpin of the family, she knew her suspicions were true, so she seized upon this opportunity and gave the man a courtly curtsey as was his due. “Celeste Von D?mmerheim is honoured to greet great-great-grandfather Dieter, the fabled Magier der ersten Stunde.”

  Most of her cousins gasped to hear it, while some sneered to show their disdain, but the man gave nothing away. Instead, his gaze compelled Celeste to speak, as she outlined how she’d arrived at this conclusion. According to the records, her great grandfather, Albrecht Von D?mmerheim was a socialite and arcanist who worked on a great many research projects for the Thule Society, but was otherwise rather unremarkable. He claimed he’d been an assistant, a laboratory technician who laboured for the real researchers and arcanists, so his actual expertise was limited, but Celeste always thought that strange. Why would an assistant jump from project to project, most of which were top secret and known only to the researchers and a handful of higher ups? What’s more, Operation Paperclip had been a massive endeavour, but one in contention with all of Europe and the Nazi deserters who fled before the war’s end. Even then, there were enough minds to go around, more than enough to overlook a mere research assistant, and yet Albrecht had been chosen all the same, then never called upon to do any work whatsoever.

  Meaning someone higher up on the food chain had made a deal to ensure Albrecht’s safety, and once Celeste knew this much, the list of suspects narrowed drastically to only one. Albrect’s shadowy father who rose to power in his youth then all but disappeared from the public eye.

  “Clever child,” Dieter replied, Richard’s great, great, great grandfather and undoubtedly an Immortal Monarch in hiding after ascending to greatness after the war. “Even the Führer and the President had not known my true identity, and now there are nine more.”

  And in the following months, the nine were tutored by an Immortal Monarch and one of the finest minds in all of history, one honed by decades of research and study on the cutting edge of Arcana and technology. To them, he revealed the transmogrification process through which he harnessed the Soulless to empower his soul and rise to become an Archmagus, so he bade that they do the same for their children, for the Frontier would be a land where Magic reigned supreme and a single Spellcaster was a significant powerhouse unto themselves. A process that was denied to Richard because his father lacked the courage to even try, the same way he refused to allow Richard access to Seraphim.

  “Greatness flows through your veins, my son,” Mother whispered, and Richard felt his strength surge with the knowledge of what would come and conviction of where he had come from. “Overcome this trial and find fortune in adversity to become stronger than you ever dreamed possible.”

  And so Richard fought back in this battle of shadow and reflection. The Mimic hammered away at the walls of his consciousness, shattering reason and unleashing anxiety, dread, and gut-wrenching terror. Clinging to courage and valor, Richard weathered the storm of emotion and dug deep into instinct and inclination, drawing upon the strength of his bloodline and breeding to exceed the limits of what he thought possible. He was more than a mere son of the Aryan race, more than one of a dying breed, but the one destined to lead them all, a noble descendent the Archmagus – nay, Immortal Monarch Stunde, for he had to have achieved that lofty status considering he would have been close to a hundred years old when he revealed himself to Mother.

  Meaning he might well be the only Immortal Monarch alive, one who even now was working in the shadows to take over the Federation, with goals to conquer the worlds, both old and new.

  The Third Reich had not fallen. They had been defeated, but still stood unbroken, and there would come a day when they would rise again, so how could Richard die before seeing their glory with his own two eyes? No, he would not be a mere witness to their return; he would stand at the forefront of it, and perhaps even become the next president or chancellor to work under his great, great, grandfather, the Magier der ersten Stunde himself.

  This was his heritage, his legacy to inherit, so how could Richard fall here to a mere Aberration of Spirit and lies?

  The conflict within his mind had reached a breaking point, and though Richard was still on the back foot, he would not yield. Every moment of doubt and pulse of terror was met with sharpened clarity and focus, a will that refused to fracture. He held fast to himself, not Richard Aultman, but Richard Von D?mmerheim, with the blood of an Immortal Monarch flowing through his veins. He was not just an Aryan, but a superior specimen amongst the Aryan race, and with this knowledge in hand, he struck back at his foe with weapons of self-knowledge and self-identity from which it could not defend.

  The barbs and hooks of awareness and intent dug deep into the Mimic’s existence, and the alien will recoiled to feel it. A wave of wild emotion surged out to assert its dominance once more, but it was merely a snapping mongrel of a hunting beast that was no match for the ingenuity of an Aryan Noble. With a thought, he twisted its tendrils back onto itself and bound it to his very being, using it as a filter to the Immaterium from which he drew upon Magics most powerful to mend his flesh and body without succumbing to Contagion. The Mimic struggled and shrieked, but its strength soon faltered as he gave it one final mental blow, for it knew his strength now and knew it could not defeat him. It was still whole and intact, still conscious and antagonistic, but Richard would use it the same as any other tool and discard it out of hand should it ever break.

  And when he opened his eyes once more, the world seemed so much brighter and more vivid than ever before, full of colours he’d never even imagined much less envisioned. There above him sat his mother, both her wizened flesh and Spiritual self overlaid atop one another, and his breath caught in his chest as he marvelled at the beauty and radiance of her soul. “My son,” she crooned, and his heart melted to hear her melodious voice. “I knew you could do it. I knew you would emerge victorious, for the blood is strong.”

  It was only then that Richard realized she wasn’t speaking, not with her words at least. No, her Spirit was speaking, and he could ‘hear’ her words and know that what she felt was straight from the heart. This was no monster clad in human flesh, but his mother in truth, one who’d been captured and confined for so many years by the monster that was her husband. The man who swore to love and protect her had instead become everything she feared, so Richard would free her and make up for all the years that she had lost down in this deep, dark pit of despair.

  “What have you done?” Father’s voice sounded out from behind Richard, and he turned to greet the man standing outside the cell, the man who’d denied him his legacy. His question was not for Richard though, but for Mother, the woman Geoffry had mistreated and maligned so greatly. “You’ve killed our son.”

  Mother was too weak to reply out loud, too drained from helping Richard ascend, so he answered for her. “Of course not,” he said, but still, Father did not meet his eyes. “She saved me. That hateful Qink broke free of his restraints and gutted me with an axe, but she showed me the truth of my past and the power hidden within to help me heal from my wounds and become more than what I was.”

  Richard gestured at his bloodied midsection which was a horrific mess over healed, albeit scarred flesh. He took a step forward into the light so that Father could see better, but he retreated a step back and raised his hand while readying a Spell to strike and incapacitate. Though Richard didn’t know the name of the Spell, had never seen it cast before, he saw how the Aether came together within the Spell Structure and parsed together what would come from it. A wide-spread dizzying strike of Mental Energy meant to incapacitate. With that knowledge in hand, he narrowed down the Spell to a single one, a Third Order Psionic Blast that would be most effective against a Mimic.

  “Stay back,” Father said, and to Richard’s surprise, he heard a note of despair in the man’s tone, one that infuriated him to the extreme.

  “So you think me weak and gullible,” Richard sneered, anger rising in his chest like a foreign sensation he was experiencing for the first time. “A single mistake, and I return home in disgrace, never to be trusted again?” No, this was the Mimic experiencing it for the first time, relishing in the novelty of it all and taking great delight in doing so. It would be there forevermore now, bound to his Spirit firmly through chains of his own devising, and should he ever slip and allow it to move past his safeguards, then he would have to struggle for control against it once more. This was the battle Mother fought for who knows how many years down in the darkness of this cell, darkness that seemed so very soothing and relaxing compared to the brightness of Father’s Dancing Light Cantrip. “It is so hard to believe that I overcame the Mimic, that I stand here firmly in control of my own destiny?”

  “Yes,” Father replied, and to his credit, he even sounded broken up about it. “I believe that my son Richard is dead, and a monster stands here in his place. One deluded into thinking he overcame the Mimic, for that is how they operate. In the shadows of pride and emotion, chipping away at your sanity one day at a time until you become a raving monster in body and mind.”

  “So what now then?” Richard asked, unable to hold still but unwilling to test his father, so he paced to the side and back into the cell allowing himself a few steps to move about. “Will you fit me for my own chains then?” Holding up his manacled wrists, he said, “No need, Father. The Qink who almost killed me has already done so. I suppose it’s off to my own cell then, perhaps even the same one the Qink shared, or will you allow me the courtesy of staying with my mother so that I might finally get to know her after all these years apart?”

  “No,” Father replied, and though his voice wavered, there was a hint of steel in the tone that Richard recognized as stubborn determination. “I told my son it was my weakness which killed your mother, and my weakness which kept that thing here. Now, my weakness has cost me my son, and I will harbour this weakness no longer.”

  Richard’s fear spiked, and the Mimic took it in with great delight, but he would feed it no more. Nor would he argue with his Father, who he still loved and respected, even if he meant to kill him. “Do it then,” Richard said, his shoulder’s slumping even as he held his head up high. “And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.”

  “And the angel of the Lord called unto him out of heaven and said Abraham,” Father replied, his arm trembling and eyes soft and so full of love, “and he said, ‘here I am’.” Those eyes hardened, and Richard knew Father was committed to this path. “But alas, no angel will call out to me to speak on your behalf, for my son is dead, and you are merely the Devil clad in his skin.”

  With that, Father unleashed his Psionic Blast to incapacitate Richard, and no doubt intended to finish the job with something more final. Unfortunately for him though, Richard had long since freed his mother, who up until now was gathering her strength which she unleashed as soon as his Spell was cast. The Psionic Blast struck Richard and washed over him a burst of Mental Agony, one the Mimic shared in and was diminished for it, but it missed Mother entirely who moved with inhuman speed as she shot out of her chair to lift Father up by the neck and off of his feet.

  Her mouth opened wide and whole rows of fangs protruded out, ivory white and sharp as can be as they punched through the soft flesh of his neck. Father screamed and fought, but he could no more move Mother than he could move a full-grown tree. Richard’s heart broke to see it, because even though his Father had just tried to strike him down, he was simply misinformed, but he could not look away as the vitality drained from Father’s body and transferred over to Mother’s. His flesh withered away while hers bloomed with vitality, though it was merely a thin veneer of humanity growing over her frame. Pale, supple flesh formed overtop a scaffolding of skeletal and shrivelled bone, with no healthy muscle to speak of save for a layer of Ectoplasmic padding that was no more real than the Makeup Sally applied each and every morning.

  Father looked to have lost forty pounds in about as many seconds before Mother drew away with a gasp. Her physical form now matched her Spiritual self, the two images blending together to form but the one, and though Richard could see that much of it was a false mimicry of life, he also saw that the core of her was still alive. The pantomime was because she still lacked the energy to restore her body to full health, energy she could have drawn from Father by draining him dry, but she did not want him dead just yet. “Oh husband,” Mother said, her voice finally matching the sound of her Spirit as she cradled Father’s wizened frame close to her bare body. “You kept me prisoner for so many years, denied me sustenance and affection both while keeping me from our son whom we love so dearly. I know you only did it for fear of what might be though, so I do not hate you.”

  Father’s head lolled back, his gaunt cheeks and limp body making him look almost half dead, but his eyes were still there, still blinking and looking on in horror at his wife and son. Mother smiled, and kissed him hard, her fanged teeth nowhere to be seen and yet her hunger wholly evident, so much so Richard felt uncomfortable watching this, for it stoked the flames of desire in a manner he knew was wrong. It was the Mimic within him taking great delight in emotion, and Richard fought to master his desires even as Mother struggled with her own.

  “Oh my,” she said, breaking off from the kiss and cradling Father’s limp body close. “I’m sorry. It’s so very difficult to control my urges, as I’ve been starved for so very long.” She licked her lips and breathed heavily while looking Father in the eyes, with all the love a woman should show her husband. “You’ll see soon enough though,” she said, fixing his hair with a sweet smile as she brought him about in a circle, like they were dancing here in this cell together to a song only she could hear. “You made a mistake, judged me far too harshly, and I will prove it to you. I am no monster. I am the next step for the Aryan Race, the spark of hope our forefathers worked so hard to shelter, and one you almost smothered in its infancy.”

  Turning to Richard, she flashed her beautiful smile and made his heart skip a beat. “Richard, be a dear and find us the keys to these shackles, will you? Oh, and capture the little whelp hiding outside. Your father and I have so much catching up to do, and I would hate for some stranger to interrupt us.”

  Richard moved faster than he thought possible, his newfangled strength surging through him as he shot out into the hallway where he grabbed hold of Stanley by the neck. “B-b-brother,” the boy whispered, and Richard’s stomach felt as if he had not eaten for days. “P-please… save father.”

  “D-d-don’t hurt him,” Father said, sounding so weak and listless as he hung limply in Mother’s naked embrace. “Please. Richard, if you’re truly in there, don’t hurt your brother.”

  Part of him wanted to do it just because he could, but that was the Mimic speaking through him. No, Richard and Stanley had their differences, but they were still brothers, so Richard held firmly to Stanley’s collar and asked, “The transmogrification. Can we do the same for the both of them?”

  “No!” Father cried, but only because he did not understand the truth.

  “You know not what you ask,” Mother replied with a shake of her head. “There is great risk involved, and great cost as well, for to give strength to the Mimic and allow it to grow is to dance upon the knife’s edge. All this time, I’ve been slowly gathering my strength in order to escape, and now I’ve spent the lion’s share of it in a single day. Granting you the seed you required to ascend and heal yourself of your grievous wounds was but a pittance compared to what I spent manipulating that horrid Qink. Did you know he was ready to kill us all out of sheer spite? Would have killed you outright had I not affected his aim as I did. If not for his concussion and exposure to another Mimic making him easier to manipulate, he might well have burned down the whole laboratory with you still in it just to spit in your father’s eye. Hateful little creature, so full of rage and loathing, and I shudder to think what he might do left to his own devices. Even with a sliver of my will lodged in his psyche and another from a Mimic, I worry it will not be enough to drive him away from the Deadlands and still his tongue regarding what happened here, so there is much we must do to prepare for the worst.”

  Richard sensed the truth in Mother’s words, knew that she was drained from grappling with his strong will and sharp mind, but she had emerged victorious and sent him away. Richard yearned for this strength, desired it for his own, and he could not wait to start learning. “Teach me, and I will do it in your stead,” Richard said. “Though he betrayed you, he is still my father, and while Stanley is not your son, he is my brother.”

  Mother smiled to hear it, and it was the most beautiful smile Richard had ever seen, with no sign of her jagged fangs to be seen. “At least Geoffry taught you well. Yes, brotherhood and camaraderie are indispensable to our cause, but it will take time for you to master the necessary skills. What’s more, you need not worry that I will kill them. We’re family, and you and I will have to remain down here in hiding for some time while we nurse our strength and mental fortitude. The Mimic we’ve tamed is merely a drone, one in command of thousands of lesser Aberrations, but a drone nonetheless. Should we step outside these lead-lined walls, the Progenitor will take notice of our existence and stop at nothing to destroy us, for we have strayed from the course it set for its spawn, and such outliers cannot be allowed to grow.” Gesturing at Father and Stanley both, Mother added, “Leave them with me, and find us those keys. Once I am able to access the Immaterium once more, I will ensure that neither one will ever betray us, and they can act in our stead before we give them the gift of transmogrification when we are ready once again.”

  “Yes Mother,” Richard replied, feeling a twinge of jealousy over the way Mother looked at Father, but again, this was the Mimic goading him into depravity, as it would to a mere Ghoul in order to better control it. He was not so weak however, nor would he give in to temptation, for he was meant for far greater things.

  Fame. Vengeance. Adoration. He would have it all, all the money, women, and power his heart desired, all in due time. For now, he would be patient and learn at his Mother’s side, but the day would come when he had it all, starting with his vengeance against the foul Firstborn and all those who stood against the rise of the Aryan Nation.