Squad enters the office of Richard Fisk, deputy director of the DIA, but he's not in the mood for pleasantries.

"What happened at Guggenheim? Are we studying alien technology?"

Richard Fisk is a brown-skinned human man in his late thirties, who has worked his way to the top strata of government from the very bottom in a relatively short period of time. Little is known about his past but his physical appearance suggests he's from the country of Indira, the most easternly point of the Samarian Empire. It's clear he's also very good at his job or he wouldn't have risen to his current position, from what rumour describes as youthful poverty.

Fisk sits calmly at his desk, while Squad paces expectantly. "Calm down, Squad. We don't know why Lord Scipio went AWOL."

"AWOL? He went fucking apeshit!"

"And that is something I've discussed with the emperor himself, and the prime ministers of the constituent nations. They've decided to revoke his spectre status and put you in charge of detaining him. It's terrible what happened, but these are acceptable losses."

Squad almost hits the roof. "Acceptable losses?"

Fisk nods calmly, his quiet, mesmerising voice ebbing with sharp points. "Guggenheim is a small town of several hundred people in an empire which spans continents. A population of over three hundred million, over half a dozen races occupying ten countries and we're responsible for all of it."

Squad captures Fisk's gaze and resolutely holds it. "I know my responsibilities."

"Do you?" Fisk's delivery of the question is slow and terrific, filled with power and promise, and the suggestion of sacrifices both grand and secret. "The Defence Intelligence Agency has many projects, and only The Spider knows them all: nations within nations, secrets within secrets." The Spider is the mysterious head of Samarian intelligence and no one knows who he is, or who she is, or who they are. Some say The Spider is like a second emperor, an emperor of dark secrets and breakaway civilisations. Fisk is as high up as it's possible to put a face to in the intelligence community. Only The Spider is higher, so Fisk sees a lot. "I'll look into what we've studied and what we haven't studied with regards to alien technology, but for now—Pagoda!"

Fisk presses the magical intercom and an agent, presumably Pagoda, enters. Pagoda is a Gamuk, a race native to the far eastern country of Indira, and is between seven and eight feet tall, has dark orange skin and a distinctive stone-like natural structure on his head almost like a helmet that travels all the way down his spine. Of course, it's not possible to see that far down because he's wearing armour and has a huge broadsword strapped to his back.

Fisk smiles. "Pagoda, can you bring Anya Fitzwallis in here?"

The large Gamuk nods and steps out for a moment, re-entering with a brunette woman in her mid-twenties. Squad turns fully and takes notice. Fisk smiles at the spectre's reaction and makes the introductions as Pagoda leaves, closing the door behind him.

"This is Agent Anya Fitzwallis, one of our most promising operatives."

Smiling, Anya offers a lilywhite hand to Squad, who takes it and is impressed by her strong handshake. She's clearly a field agent. "It's good to meet you, spectre."

"Please, call me Squad."

Fisk's eyes dart between them, smiling. "You can pick your own team for this mission, or even go it alone if you want, but I'd recommend taking a small, select group of skilled operators. You never know what resources or contacts Lord Scipio will employ, so it's best to prepare for as many possibilities as you can."

*

Anya and Squad are walking along a corridor in the DIA building.

Turning to Squad, Anya smiles. "So, what's your story?"

"Well, I'm the first ever black spectre and I've just been betrayed by the only man I've ever trusted."

"Wow...that brag fell off a cliff."

Squad smiles. "Yeah, tell me about it. So, what's your story? Super-agent? Secret extra limbs?"

For a moment, Anya lingers uncomfortably on the question. Then she apparently decides to just tell it like it is. "Well, I was on the fast-track programme to success: I got the big cases, solved them and was working my way up the system, then I started noticing that things were off about some cases and certain aspects weren't being investigated. It was the weird stuff, the ancient stuff, the alien stuff, you know, things other agents don't think are real. But I've seen enough to think that they are. I like to joke that I'm still on the fast-track programme, but I'm just doing it at my own pace."

Squad smiles and replies. "We're going to be investigating exactly the sorts of things you're interested in. What makes you so interested in this area?"

Anya breathes deeply. "I've always sympathised with people whose stories aren't told or who suffer because others don't believe what happened to them." Squad can tell Anya isn't telling the whole truth, but he's glad there's a human core to her actions: that much he can tell.

She points. "My office is just ahead. I've prepared some dossiers on potential recruits for the team, but I think it's important to narrow down the type of character traits we're looking to find: willing to abandon everything at the drop of a hat, possibly suicidal, and so balls-to-the-wall crazy that no logic, reason or violent consequence could possibly deflect them from doing exactly what they want to do, no matter the cost."

Squad's eyes widen in inspiration. "I know just the guy."

*

A fug of tobacco clears just enough for Anya and Squad to spot Sig Hammerhead sitting at a poker table at the far side of the pub. "Which one is he?" Anya asks on approach.

"Dwarf with the ginger mohawk."

They stop behind Sig, who's playing cards with five others and engaging in an intellectually-stimulating conversation with his rivals.

"You're going down, Sig!"

"On your mum? I know, bitch." The bartender approaches with a small meal but Sig waves him away. "Harold, you know I'm sticking to a strict drink and drugs regime. Bring more drink and drugs."

Squad smiles and grasps the burly dwarf by the shoulder. "Hello, Sig."

Sig turns and looks the spectre up and down. "Squad! I haven't seen you since Racambad! And you've brought a lady friend!" His eyes lock with Anya's. "You're very attractive. If I was a dog, I'd piss on you – not in an aggressive way, just to mark my territory."

"Thanks," Anya replies, proffering a hand. "Anya Fitzwalllis, DIA."

"I'm sorry about Sig," Squad tells Anya.

"I've had my manners surgically removed through my anus," Sig smiles.

Squad continues. "And he prides himself on being an arsehole."

"He's got a lot to be proud of," Anya smiles.

Sig laughs and points at her. "I like you."

While he understands Sig's humour, Squad is relived that Anya seems to get it too. "So, Sig, have you been keeping out of trouble?"

"That depends – did you hear about that exploding cat?"

"No."

"Good. Then I've been keeping out of trouble." The action on the poker table is heating up. "Hold on. I've got to concentrate here."

A loudmouth player is predicting what cards the others are holding. Sig's already-tough voice drops an octave, in a guttural challenge. "Alright, clever cogs, what have I got?"

"You're holding your cards backwards. We've been looking at them all game."

"...Maybe I'm bluffing."

The gambler points at Sig's clearly visible cards. "You're not."

"So, Sig," Squad continues, "What was the last job we worked together, the Lester Hewitt case in Racambad?"

A wistful smile appears on Sig's face. "Such a nice young man. He always gave a tip before he murdered those whores. But I got him in the end. Then I got him in the alley. Then I got him in both knees and the crotch. Then I quit law enforcement before they found his body."

"Once a cop, always a cop," Squad replies.

Sig shakes his head. "Not true – you can get other jobs."

Leaning in subtly, Anya whispers in Sig's ear, so that only the dwarf and Squad can hear. "You're being watched. Three tables back, five men grouped together carrying weapons under their cloaks."

Sig takes a little sip of his drink. "I know. They mean me harm. I've got a plan. Follow my lead." Sig takes another sip. "Here they come."

Two of the men approach the poker table, laughing and seemingly in frivolous conversation, as their companions circle around, flanking from either side. The last attacker stalks forward in reserve. Sig slips off his seat and clatters to the floor in his heavy armour. "I'm pished!" he shouts at the ceiling, kicking his feet in the air like a trapped toddler. The men see Sig fall and their eyes ignite with greed, their pace increasing.

Rolling his eyes, Squad looks down at Sig and covertly readies his swords. He whispers so only Sig can hear. "Worst. Plan. Ever."

Tumbling so only Squad can see or hear, Sig winks and quietly but confidently retorts. "Worst. Plan. Never."

"That doesn't even mean anything—"

Resuming his drunk act, Sig laughs loudly. "I canny move ma legs!" He kicks frantically as if running at the ceiling. "I think I've shit myself and it's the best feeling ever!"

The attacker circling around the table on Squad's side reaches them first, draws a sword from under his cloak and rushes forward; Squad is ready for him but is surprised as Anya rushes past, ducks under the man's attack and slices the tendons in his arm, dropping him to the floor. A second attacker rushes at Anya and she deftly steps aside, cuts off his hand and uses his momentum to spin him, head-over-heels into the poker table with a crash.

As Anya is taking out the second attacker, the reserve fighter sneaks up behind her but Squad, relieved to finally be doing something, smashes a hilt into the man's face, knocking him unconscious. He turns to check on Sig, who has used more violence than his companions (one attacker is already holding what remains of a leg onto his torso) as the dwarf is tackled by the last assailant. Abiding by the old chivalric code of honourable warfare, Sig headbutts the man, gouges out his eyes and squeezes his head with his full dwarven might. The man's head explodes in a volley of blood and bone.

Covered in the gore, Sig turns and smiles casually, trying to lighten the mood. He holds up his blood-smeared hands, which have just shaken a man's head until it exploded. "...And that's why I don't play the maracas." He looks up and sees the shocked bystanders, their poker table destroyed, faces splashed and battered by a bloody gruel of blood and bone. "...Tough crowd. Remind me not to tell that joke again when I'm sober." He wipes his hands on his armour. "But I've had a lovely day out and nothing can take that away from me."

"You have impressive combat skills," Squad tells Anya.

"Thanks," Anya replies, then turns to Sig. "You need therapy."

"I don't need therapy – I'm just naturally crazy. So, I presume you need my help with something?"

Squad takes a sip of breath, knowing it will take all his powers of persuasion. "Well—"

"I'll do it!"

"Good."

"But only because I need the attention."

Looking from Sig to Squad and then back again as if they're crazy, Anya wisely says nothing.

Sig has already cleared the floor of poker money, not bothering to discriminate about what belongs to him and what doesn't. "Come on, let's go. You can fill me in on the way to wherever we're going. That's my superpower."

"What is?" Squad asks.

"I can listen at the speed of sound."

"We're hunting a rogue spectre," Anya retorts, as Sig reaches the door.

Sig turns and gives Squad a meaningful look, then nods slightly. "Alright," he says, his voice softer and lower than before as if he knows what the hunt means to Squad. Then he smiles. "I've been hand-picked to help the government in crisis. I wish my mum was alive to see this...so I didn't have that murder warrant out on me."

Sig flashes a toothy grin at his companions and disappears out the front door.

As Anya shoots him a warning glance, Squad smiles gently and tries to reassure her. "He was only joking..." adding under his breath, "...I hope."

*

It's night-time on the streets of Blitz, capital of Samaria, only a few hours after Anya and Squad recruited Sig. Anya and Squad discuss their next steps by the entrance to an alley.

"I have a few ideas about where we go next," suggests Squad. "Do you have any suggestions?"

Anya nods. "The dig site was registered to a company called Paradigm."

"The largest private company in the world?"

"Yes. They work in so many areas that it's almost impossible to recount all their projects, but I hear they started off as a research group working on experimental magic, alien technology and other black areas – hence the original name, Paradigm Research, which hardly anyone remembers these days."

A voice emerges from the depths of the alley. It's Sig, who's making out with a young woman in a short dress. "Could you two please shut the fuck up?"

"Do you have a condom?" the young woman asks.

Sig sounds sheepish. "Erm, Squad, are you listening?"

"I'm trying very hard not to hear things right now."

Sig asks Squad. "Do you have a condom?"

"No!"

"What about you, Anya?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"I don't trust condoms, anyway," Sig tells the young woman. "The last one I used burst. It had two kilos of cocaine in it and my stomach was bad for days."

"Sorry, Sig," the young woman tells him. "You're a cool guy, but—"

"I'm glad I'm a cool guy."

"—But I don't think we should have sex without a condom, because of things like syphilis."

"Don't worry, I've already got that," Sig cheerfully declares.

"...Right, well, I just don't think we should."

Gloomy but accepting, Sig sighs. "Alright, but if you ever want to piss off your parents, you come see me."

A change in the young woman's voice indicates excitement. "...You think it would piss off my parents?"

"Oh, absolutely," Sig promises.

"Well...alright, then."

The sound of some intimate gestures in the alley causes Squad to become very interested in Paradigm Research. "So, what can you tell me about Paradigm?" he asks Anya.

"Well, it's run by the entrepreneur Gelson Musk, a genius in theoretical magic."

The sound of buttocks being loudly slapped echoes from the alleyway, as Sig purrs loudly. "Ooooh! Big Bear's looking for his honey! Big Bear's looking for his honey!"

Determined to look anywhere but at Anya, Squad finds some very fascinating features on the ground and studies them. "This probably isn't the ideal way for us to get to know each other."

"I see you graduated from understatement school," Anya agrees.

Smiling softly, Squad meets Anya's eyes. "Sig is hard to understand, but he's a necessary evil."

Anya raises an eyebrow, but she's clearly joking. "If he's necessary, what qualifies as unnecessary?"

Anya and Squad laugh, but they're interrupted by the sound of a particularly energetic thrust from Sig, who gasps out some helpful commentary. "Yeah, girl, you've got a thing for damaged goods, haven't you?"

"Well," Squad muses philosophically, "Mercifully, we're not dead."

"...Is that a mercy?" Anya enquires.

"Are you two still there?" Sig, still fucking, calls out to them.

"Yes!" Squad calls.

"Good," replies Sig, then quickly corrects himself. "I mean, okay."

Against his own better judgement, Squad asks. "Are you getting turned on by us being here?"

There's a massive pause. "...No."

Anya turns to Squad. "That pause left a lot of room for doubt. Let's just go and wait for him over there."

Squad looks tempted but regretful. "I can't leave him. He says there might still be assassins after him. Sig, are you going to be much longer?"

"Don't worry, I'm about to cum" Sig yells ecstatically. "Or at least I'm in the ballpark."

"You've been in the ballpark for a long time."

The young woman moans ecstatically and Sig gives a cry like a spasming walrus. There's the sound of clothes being rearranged.

Sig leaps out of the alley, arms thrown wide in celebration, impersonating a magician revealing his trick. "Ta-da! I've just been re-elected to sexual congress!"

*

The Paradigm headquarters, one of the tallest buildings in Blitz, exudes power and majesty, clawing at the sky in continual, unworried resolve. A varied clockwork of schemes and projects are at play in its offices, all leading to Gelson Musk sitting at the centre of its web checking on every thread.

As Squad and his companions enter Musk's large office, in which the only piece of furniture is an unoccupied chair, Musk stands with his hands behind his back looking out of the window; only the window isn't showing the city skyscape, it's a projection of some distant land being explored by a group of Paradigm agents. With a flick of his hand, Musk closes that window and Squad catches a glimpse of hundreds of other potential windows, each of them showing moving pictures – an incredible feat in a world without cameras or other advanced devices. Musk gestures again and the screen becomes a series of charts and continually shifting figures, measuring the progress of an almost limitless series of investments.

It strikes Squad as odd that one of the most powerful men in the world, a person more influential than most national leaders, could be so relaxed about letting three armed strangers into his presence without guards when Musk isn't even wearing armour. Instead, he's wearing an expensive suit and has no weapon, unless you count a simple metal cane, but there's still an aura of power around Gelson Musk. His eyes are cold, conspiring planes of a remarkably striking blue below a head of neatly combed blonde hair, and he looks to be in his mid-forties. It strikes Squad that Musk must look handsome and distant and foreign-looking, no matter whose eyes are taking him in.

Anya approaches first and shakes Musk's hand. "Anya Fitzwallis, DIA."

"Yes, I've heard of your work," Musk replies, turning to Squad. "And this must be Squad Fearless, our newest spectre."

Squad holds Musk at glare's length, but nods in greeting. "This is my colleague, Sig Hammerhead."

One powerful handshake later, Sig steps back and beams at Gelson Musk. "Mr Musk, you're meeting a fellow businessman and potential future rival/nemesis. You're looking at the greatest business mind in world history. And I'm not exaggerating."

"You are exaggerating," Squad adds.

Sig continues unabashed. "You might have heard of my business – The Sig Hammerhead Centre for Penis Enlargement and Anger Management."

Musk laughs in a flash of sound, there and then gone again. "I've heard of you, Sig Hammerhead."

"As you probably know, I responded to an incident at one of your dig sites on the outskirts of Guggenheim," Squad tells Musk. "Lord Scipio, another spectre, destroyed the town and killed everyone in the area."

"A terrible shame," replies Musk.

"What were your team looking for?" Squad presses on.

"We had word that some interesting technology had been lost there in the distant past and our team was investigating the veracity of these claims."

Squad's gaze is filled with demand, his investigative eye seeking out small clues in Musk's body language: strangely, the entrepreneur doesn't seem to have tell-tale signs or even the smallest hint at his intentions. "Who gave you word about the interesting technology?"

A light smile brushes Musk's lips. "Sources."

"I need the name of that source."

"Impossible."

Underneath, Squad is frustrated but visually he remains calm. "You're obstructing an investigation."

Musk shakes his head gently. "No, I'm maintaining corporate secrecy. I work with dozens of governments across the globe including, as you may know, the Samarian Empire and much of my business and information comes from these crucial projects. Secrecy is not just a defensive measure, it's an absolute necessity."

At the mention of his own Samarian government, a look of interest flashes across Squad's face and he senses Anya's attention at his side.

"Are you saying government sources told you where to dig?" Anya enquires of Musk.

"I'm saying, Agent Fitzwallis, that it's a very sensitive area and anything I say, or more importantly anything that you do, could result in an international incident." Musk's eyes return to Squad. "As a spectre, your ability to access privileged information is extensive but not limitless."

A face-off between Squad and Musk is unbroken as Squad replies. "Is there anything you feel is appropriate to...divulge to me?"

Slipping his hands into his suit jacket, Musk meets Squad's challenge with a carefree smile. "Just that I wish you well in all your endeavours."

*

"He knows way more than he's letting on," Squad fumes as he, Anya and Sig make their way through the streets outside.

Enthused, Anya offers solace. "It doesn't matter. We've got a case here."

"A case with no leads," Sig grumbles.

"It doesn't matter," Anya tells him. "The original information is good. Something did happen and we're the ones who are onto it."

*

The screen in Gelson Musk's window displays a black world surrounded by blue energy and, as the businessman observes this, a concert of shadows moves in the room around him. He turns to the shadows, which are moving independently but are yet to take any particular shape, then faces the screen again as it changes into a strange writing that could be letters or some kind of hyper-advanced mathematics.

"Yes," Musk answers.

The configuration on the screen changes to a new set of writing and Musk smiles.

"That won't be necessary."

*

Fort Worth is one of sixteen forts dotted around the city-state of Dunpool, a metropolis with over eight million inhabitants on the eastern side of Midgard and a geographically-separate part of the Samarian Empire. Each fort controls an entrance to the Warrens, a vast subterranean world containing the dreaded Skree, a fast-breeding insectoid race that are held in check by magical barriers which long predate the city or humanity.

Soldiers with torches patrol the walls under a pale blossom of moon, while the mute, dark, hungry city looms below like a great sea creature. Eight hundred soldiers call Fort Worth home and two hundred thousand Samarian military personnel in total are based in Dunpool, an unusually large number for a city of eight million people, but their presence is justified by the Skree and the city's position in the oft-unstable Midgard region of The Continent.

Lord Scipio stands outside the fort and raises a palm to the battlements thirty feet above, where he suddenly appears. A long package, like a case for holding large scrolls of paper, is strapped to his back. It's the same artifact he took from the Guggenheim dig site, and it is interfering with the magical defences of Fort Worth.

Fast and agile as a far eastern cat, Scipio dispatches two guards standing not far from where he appeared. A soldier appears in a doorway ahead and, by simply raising his hand, Scipio's target sails silently through the air into the spectre's grasp, which quietly snaps his neck. Proceeding to the tower where the soldier had emerged, Scipio heads down a flight of stairs but steps into the shadows as voices approach from below.

Two guards carrying torches approach and Scipio steps forward, performing a lightning fast strike on the closest soldier's forehead with his thumb and two closest fingers. It looks innocuous but the man falls abruptly like a coat flung from the shoulders, every bone in his head broken. Before the second soldier can act, Scipio places his hands on each side of her forehead and snaps her neck with little effort.

Opening the gate to allow his waiting fighters in, Scipio turns back to the courtyard, where soldiers are pouring out of their barracks. Half a dozen rush down some stairs attached to one of the barracks and Scipio runs along the barrack walls, killing five of them in a whirlwind of steel before launching off the wall. The sixth becomes a streak of gore across the wall as Scipio sweeps his longsword through his head.

Several dozen soldiers charge at Scipio and the spectre calmly removes the long package from his back. He opens it, holding it out as if offering it to the charging enemy and they stop, the emotion and battle lust dripping off their faces to be replaced by: nothing.

A short time later, one of Scipio's men approaches him in the courtyard. "We've secured the fort."

Scipio's eyes scan the city. "Excellent. Close the gates."

***

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