The shift from drizzle to rain, and from rain to a raging storm, was abrupt—though everyone saw it coming.

  The shift from waking up after a three-day journey through quantum dimensions, discovering his bunker had been looted, and forming an alliance with the Order was, for Broga, more than just abrupt: it was an alarmingly logical and necessary step he never would have seen coming.

  The downpour beat against him, drumming on his hood and sliding down his purple trench coat, pinging off his expressionless mask and robotic hands.

  Surrounded by the darkness of night and flashes of lightning, Broga hurled the last of the Cyclopes he had just destroyed onto the others, leaving a pile of smoldering robotic bodies beside one of the many poles rising around him.

  The red light of his eye pulsed, confirming the job was done, and he looked ahead—beyond the countless masts that made up the outer antenna circuit, where the storm’s flashes occasionally revealed the massive wall at the end of the path: the entrance to Fort Bellatrix.

  He turned on his heel and walked back to the black limousine waiting beneath the sheets of water, its lights still off.

  The lavish vehicle likely belonged to one of the powerful members of the Order, so he had no qualms about sliding into the back seat, soaking the delicate upholstery with his rain-soaked body. After all, stepping out into the storm to do what he just did hadn’t been his idea.

  “Radar system, jammed,” he announced. “Cyclops units that could repair it, destroyed.”

  He pulled back his hood, and the large eye of his mask opened to reveal his face behind it.

  The Vicar, seated directly across from him in the limousine, her back to the driver's cabin, met his amber-eyed stare head-on. Her only response was another one of those enigmatic smiles.

  Lifting the hem of her long black dress, she shifted her feet to keep her sandals from getting soaked by the water dripping off Broga. Then, with a snap of her ring-covered fingers, she ordered the driver to resume the ride.

  “You’ve made it ridiculously easy for them to get in,” Broga remarked.

  “That’s only if my hunch is right and the Binary-R decides to show,” she replied. “His friend, the Troublemaker, was spotted at Tollgate 12 an hour ago. He can’t be far from here.”

  “Uh-huh. So wouldn’t it be better to go find him and bring him with us, woman?”

  “Of course it would—if I knew his exact whereabouts. His tracker stopped working after he injected that damned pink serum into his veins, and this storm’s making it nearly impossible for our drones to operate.”

  Broga snorted. “You people… you drive around in limousines but can’t afford someone to tail this Juzo guy 24/7?”

  “We had someone, but it didn’t work out,” she replied. “But he’ll come. It’s his destiny.”

  “Destiny…” Broga echoed, a note of sarcasm in his voice. “You all give that too much credit.”

  “Fine. Call it ‘the Primary Plasma in his blood’ if you prefer, but either way, he’ll come here today looking for that dose. I’m certain of it.”

  “It’d be more useful if you told me where to wait for him,” Broga said, “so we don’t waste resources or risk Brun… screwing everything up before one of us gets the Plasma.”

  With a wave of her hand, the Vicar shattered the illusion covering the right side of her face, revealing once more the scars that disfigured her pale cheek—those deep grooves in her skin that erased her eye. A second later, with the same motion, she redrew what had been lost. “If I knew ahead of time where and when I should be…” she said, “believe me, this right here would’ve never happened.”

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  The limousine came to a stop.

  Broga lowered the red visor of his mask back over his face and, using its visual amplifiers, peered through the darkness and rain ahead of the windshield.

  They had arrived at the massive gate of the equally massive wall surrounding the fort. A soldier armed to the teeth approached their vehicle as though the storm didn’t exist.

  Broga moved to step out, but the Vicar stopped him.

  “No need to draw attention,” she said, and as if obeying her will, the limousine’s automatic system rolled her window down just a few inches—enough for her to extend her hand without letting the rain in. “Come here,” she called to the soldier. Against all odds, the young man approached the window. She reached out, clasping his arm. “Good boy,” she said. “Now, go back to your post—there’s no reason to be out here in this rain. And please, deactivate the alarms and open the gate. We need to pass through and we’re in a hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the soldier replied, turning back toward his station.

  The massive gate began to open.

  “I don’t understand why, with all your power, you still haven’t achieved your goals,” Broga said.

  “Neither do I,” she sighed. “I suppose it’s because there are processes we can’t rush. The mutation of certain proteins in our blood so offspring like you can be born, for instance.”

  The gate finished opening, but before the limousine could move forward, floodlights blazed ahead of them.

  The pale woman glanced over her shoulder, calm as ever. “They’ll want to inspect the vehicle,” she said. “They must have realized their alarm system is down.”

  Broga raised his hands as if to say, ‘Fine, I won’t do anything. You handle it.’

  When she lowered her window to greet the first soldier who approached, a gasp escaped her lips. The diamond choker fastening her short lavender cape came undone.

  “What’s wrong?” Broga asked, suddenly alert.

  The Vicar raised a hand to signal for a moment as she caught her breath.

  “The time has come to prove why I brought you here,” she said, and a deafening boom shattered the air—far louder than anything the storm could have mustered. A lightning strike so fierce it rang in their ears left a lingering buzz.

  Broga knew then. His brother, Brun, was on his way.

  Between the limousine and the floodlights, a swirling mass of colorful gases and tiny stellar sparks appeared, like a fragment of outer space had broken free from the cosmos, piercing the black storm clouds to land there. Brun had arrived in the night, right in the thick of the downpour.

  From inside the vehicle, Broga saw his twin in the same state he’d last seen him in, back in the bunker’s operating room—wearing a green gown, his head shaved, barefoot, floating in midair with his eyes half-closed as if caught in a sleepwalking trance.

  Clemente, Broga thought, and a pang of pain struck something deep within him. He couldn’t let things spiral out of control like they had that day.

  The Vicar, however, sat in stunned silence, her back still turned to the driver’s cabin. Her hairless brow furrowed, her wide violet eyes glowing faintly. She didn’t need to look behind her; she knew exactly who was there.

  “The Plasma…” she murmured, almost whispering. “The scent of the Plasma has drawn him here…” She looked up at Broga. “Or maybe it was your scent.”

  Broga wasted no time getting out of the limousine. The indicators on the internal display of his helmet were going haywire, flashing impossible numbers and static-filled bars. His trench coat lifted as if invisible hands were tugging at it. The air was so charged with static electricity that even the wind-whipped raindrops crackled as they hit.

  Brun stood there, motionless, standing on space clouds, inches from the ground. His gaze was unfocused, caught somewhere between the open rear door of the limousine and the rain blurring the background, as if he hadn’t yet realized Broga was outside, walking toward him.

  Behind Brun, the floodlights blazed, and the guards remained frozen—just like the Vicar in the limo’s seat—perhaps startled by his sudden appearance, or paralyzed by the sheer terror and energy radiating from him.

  Broga opened the front panels of his helmet, exposing his face so Brun could see him.

  “Brun! Go back!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the storm. “You hear me, Brun? Go back! I’ll call for you when everything’s ready! Got it, Brun?”

  Got it, brother, Brun replied directly into his mind. In the blink of an eye, he vanished from reality as if he had never been there, as if none of it had ever happened.

  And maybe, for everyone else, it truly hadn’t happened. But for Broga—who now returned to the limousine, covering his face once more—and for the Vicar waiting inside, it not only had happened, but it had just unleashed a consequence neither of them had wanted.

  “My charm has faded,” she said, almost apologetically. “You’ll have to withstand the assault and force your way in while I recover my focus. It’ll take a few minutes.”

  “What assault?” he asked, and at that moment, Fort Bellatrix’s alarm blared to life.

  The soldiers raised their weapons. The cannons mounted atop the wall’s towers swiveled to aim at them, and a tank—hidden until now behind the blinding floodlights—rolled into view, positioning itself in front of the limousine.

  Things had just gotten a lot harder.