Until very recently, Kauri Turei stayed with three other housemates. They shared a crumbling Commonwealth-era bungalow in Te Papa, a coastal suburb of Cookville.

Smith and Wesson Laird had a sense of foreboding as they approached the building. As traveling exorcists (after a fashion), the brothers were not usually frightened easily. But this particular scenario had too many red flags. For one thing, the gate and front door appeared to have been left unlocked, which is usually a certain sign of a trap. There were no visible defenses, mundane or magickal; neither salt across the threshold nor motion sensors.

Whoever had been living there had left in a rush. As they searched the seemingly abandoned rooms, it quickly became obvious that at least two of the house's occupants were likely to be vampires. However, aside from from the packs of well-preserved blood in the refrigerators —illegally obtained from the To Tatou Hauora Community Medical Center— there wasn't much to suggest the occupants did anything particularly sinister.

The Lairds' fortunes quickly shifted after the clock struck midnight. Just as they were ready to declare the mission an uneventful failure, they set off a magickal snare near the living room. It worked almost like a conventional trap, dangling them upside down by the ankle. Unlike a regular trap, the ethereal 'rope' responded to their movements, tightening or tensing up when they'd squirm to escape.

When Risu and Jairuzu arrived nearly an hour later, the brothers were more bored than anything else. The late arrivals could hear Smith and Wesson warbling "Freebird" from outside the main entrance.

"Hey, you! Zatoichi and Sailor Moon!" called out Smith in his Louisiana drawl. "Would you be so kind as to get us down from here?"

Risu eyed the brothers warily, checking for a go-signal from her sensei.

"If you came for Turei, it's too late. The guy up and left before we even got here," said Smith. "If you don't believe me, check out the dining room. But don't be like us. Watch for invisible traps!"

Sure enough, floating in mid-air above the dining table was the spectral image of Kauri Turei's head, with its eyes closed in virtual slumber. As soon as Risu and Jairuzu got close enough, the head looked up and began to speak. With an urbanized Kiwi accent, it said:

"This is Kauri's away message. If you're listening, then you must be here to recruit me for one of the sides in your smug little cosmic rivalry. Well, you know what? You can just bugger off, because I'm not playing along."

"See, I'm just lucky I have very understanding house-mates. The kind of people who are used to being chased out of town by mobs with pitchforks at short notice. My mates and I, we've gone on a last minute holiday, you could say. We've gone somewhere that would be nearly impossible for any of you to reach, for a number of different reasons. And I very well plan to stay there until after this whole mess blows over."

"That is, if there's still a world left once you're all done with it. But hey, even if there isn't, at least I'll know I had no part in it."

"So go on then... give yourselves the night off. There's some quality leftovers in the refrigerator. None of it poisoned, I assure you."

The spectral head grinned at that.

"Look, we're all at least partly human, right? So why don't you just start acting like it, for once?"

"Anyway, I've said my piece. The rest is up to you. Turei out!"

With that, the head went back to 'sleep'. It was quite impressive, really. At first, Risu mistook it for some kind of astral projection but it was clearly a device of mundane origin: a "Pepper's ghost". It was the exact same kind of man-made practical illusion that had been used for over a century in ordinary society, from late 19th century faux 'spiritualists' engaged in fraud seances to holographic versions of dead rappers at music festivals. If anything, it seemed to be a fitting metaphor for Turei's position.

"So what did I tell you?" asked Smith, with a smug tone. "Now will you get us down from here?"

"Can we trust them?" Risu asked Jairuzu in Nihonggo.

"I can understand you, you know," said Smith in Japanese, with almost native-sounding diction.

Wesson let out an unsettling cackle. "Wee-a-boo! WEEABOO!"

"Forgive my brother. He isn't quite right in the head at the moment," said Wesson. "See, he and I recently got back from somewhere even further south from here, if you catch my drift. We had a snowball's chance of making it out alive. But hey, what can I say? We Lairds are tough sons of bitches. Now it seems like this one left a bit of himself down there. Ain't that right, Wes?"

Wesson gave his brother the finger. There wasn't much spark left in those dull eyes, and it seemed like the most emotion he'd displayed since the latecomers arrived.

"So, now that you know a bit more about us, how about you finally help us, for once?"

Jairuzu scowled then crouched down on the wooden floor. "Please get ready. Hard fall."

He trace the outline of an invisible pentacle above the ground. When he was done, the magickal restraints that were holding up the Laird brothers seemed to dissipate into nothing. Both Americans landed with an ugly thud!

"Much obliged, old man!" said Smith. "Now how about we pour ourselves a quick drink and share notes before going our separate ways, shall we?"

Risu and Jairuzu paused to consider the option.

"Oh come on!" said Smith. "What's a little civil parley between rivals, right? There are couches right there."

Until that point, Risu had never really thought of herself as being on anyone's side in this conflict, let alone somebody's rival. She wasn't even completely sure which team she was meant to be on, other than it being the opposite one from the Lairds'.

"So are you both just Bonders by default?" asked Smith. "Or have you got some philosophical claptrap to back up that position?"

There was a glint of menace in Smith's guyliner-ringed eyes, now that he wasn't so helpless. Even though he was no longer upside down, his dated-looking fauxhawk haircut remained upright. His choice of outfit suggested that Smith stopped updating his wardrobe not long after The Black Parade was released.

Jairuzu gingerly pulled up a one-seater armchair across from him. "We act only in the best interests of the cosmos," he offered.

"Well, is that so?" said Smith. "Coulda sworn I've heard that line a few times before. Of course..."

"Mephisting! Baal sack! Beteljizz! Lucifurries!" blurted Wesson. He was more gaunt than Smith but he was conventionally more handsome—that is, if one could look past him being possibly enthralled by lesser demons. He had that young Johnny Depp thing going, all greasy, center-parted hair and scruffy goatee. He had ECCE tattooed on his right knuckles and HOMO on the left ones.

Smith scowled at his brother. "As I was saying... What really matters is: who gets to determine what the universe's best interests are?"

He went on to narrate one sob story after the next, recounting the Laird family's parade of miseries. During a camping trip, Smith and Wesson witnessed their mother being sacrificed to the Obsidian Sheep in the Forest with its Infinite Spawn, by no less than their step-dad. Then they were shipped off to an insane magickal boot camp in the Himalayas with almost no supervision. After that, they were kidnapped by agents of Cutlass Industries, corporate rivals of their biological father, arms magnate R.Z. Baron-Stross. While escaping capture, they somehow managed to steal a vintage Pontiac Firebird, which they drove around America as freelance exorcists for hire.

With such a harrowing backstory, it was possible to understand why they were Releasers. Perhaps letting Yg-Turazoth show up to obliterate everything might not be such a terrible alternative.

Enemy or not, Smith had made himself vulnerable. Jairuzu felt he owed it to the young man to demonstrate the same kind of openness. He admitted to feeling like a cliche: an ageing tail-end Baby Boomer, refusing to let his post-Millennial student realize just how overwhelmed he is. Though he had years of experience dealing with the paranormal, the vast scope of the Longest Gloom scenario left him near despair. Nevertheless, he would continue to oppose any efforts to let Yg-Turazoth into this world.

"That felt good, man," said Smith. "It was great to finally sit down and talk to someone from the other side, you know? You both seem like you're on the right path, except for one tiny mistake."

"And that is...?" asked Jairuzu.

"Giving us a chance," said Wesson.

All of a sudden, a bullet ripped through the back-rest of the armchair Jairuzu was sitting in. It pierced through his upper back and exited from his torso. While Risu and Jairuzu had been distracted by Smith's rambling, Wesson had used telekinesis to move the gun —a vintage Remington Model 51, cursed by notorious mobster "Uncle Sal" Bianchi — right into position.

Risu rushed to stabilize Jairuzu but she knew it was probably too late. She desperately tried to stay calm enough to revive her sensei. As she did that, Smith and Wesson got up and hastily opened a dimensional portal, right above the coffee table.

Wesson hurried into the portal, shouting "Fiat dendo, bitches!"

"Well, it was nice meeting you!" said Smith, just before he fled. "We should really do this again some time."

The portal stayed open even after the Laird brothers had disappeared into it. Risu knew they were probably baiting her. But with Jairuzu quickly bleeding out, she knew this was her only chance. She dashed into the portal just before it faded.