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Shadowdancer

By Dracon

[Notice: The characters and events within are inspired by the "Gargoyles" TV Series and as such credit goes to the creators of said series. If any characters appear in the story from said series, those characters belong to their creators.

Should anyone wish to use the characters or events within in their own works, permission is hereby granted to do so. I just ask that you let me know if you are going to do so and provide credit in your work.

Underage viewers should not read this series, and all readers do so at their own risk.]

A Tale of Ice and Fire

Part III

"And Then There Was Silence..."

----Chapter I----

Givens Castle

10244 S. Longwood Dr, Chicago, Illinois

November 30th, 2027

4:21 P.M.

Branson shattered the delicate layer of stone that encased his body, a roar filling the night as he posed, his arms and wings raised to the cloudy skies. Water poured down his skin as it rained softly, a prelude to the more impressive storm expected tonight.

With a sigh, he lowered his limbs and walked over to Jamie's makeshift bed, excising the thin, stony shell from her form once more, salty tears mixing with the fresh, pure rain that washed down his face. This was getting to be far too much of a habit for his tastes.

He placed an ear to her mouth and listened to the soft rhythm of her breathing, smooth and steady. Sitting up, he began to caress her face and hair with a hand, feeling her satiny skin against her own. His breath began to become rough as he struggled to keep his sorrow under control.

Every night when he woke up and she did not, he felt as though a little portion of himself had died, remaining asleep with her. He was beginning to feel hollow inside, his mind going as grey as the clouds above.

Trent coughed softly as he knelt next to Branson, needing to talk to him, but not wanting to disturb him in his time of need. He spoke softly, almost timidly, an unusual tone to emerge from his lips, "Branson? There's a problem. I just checked my portable, we lost security about half an hour ago. We're defenseless."

Branson's head rose, his thick hair falling to shade his lightly bloodshot eyes, and he stared blankly at Trent for a moment before realization dawned on his face. "Wonderful. Just what I didn't need to hear right now, man. Well, go check it out, I guess. Hopefully it's just a glitch."

Trent fixed his powder blue eyes on Branson's, shaking his head. "Didn't look like a glitch to me. I'll get Elayne to come with me. Watch yeh back, yeah?"

Elayne knelt next to Branson as Trent stood, not saying a word, just laying an arm and a wing around his shoulders, placing her other limbs behind Jamie's head. Branson could see the tension on her face, and a bubble of sadness rose in his gut, snapping as she choked back a sob.

As the two lovers left to check on the Castle's security, Branson mused to himself that this was the vulnerability inherent in the traditional Clan structure of his people. Together, they were nearly indomitable, but when a member of the Clan was wounded, it weakened everyone's efforts.

His hand returned to her face and caressed her brows passionately, yet tentatively. His other hand roamed down the muscles of her arm and gripped her hand tightly. He hoped, though he feared he would not, feel even a slight squeeze in return. He refused to believe that there was nothing left of the woman... either of the women that he loved. His heart simply couldn't bear to consider that possibility.

---

Jamie felt her mind pull back from Scorch's, as the cryotube cooled around the girl. Doubt swirled within her as she considered what she had just seen. On one hand, she was amazed to see how the Shadowdancers, the very group that she felt she had to establish, had integrated itself by this point in time. And, that gravitational spell! The fireballs had been impressive, but that one had really driven home how much she still had to learn.

At the same time, doubt tore at her as she saw how little they had been able to do against the invaders. They had been the single most effective weapon Earth had used, and even they were not enough to stop the invasion. Would it be their contribution that forced the aliens to blast apart the Earth? Would they go easier on her homeworld if there hadn't been such a resistance?

Her heart sank as she watched the black, shadowy vessels approach the now undefended Earth, a strange echo of her dream. It was different, somehow, as there were several ships, instead of only one, and it seemed somehow... clearer, as though a fog had lifted from her.

One vessel moved over Canada and began to hover directly over a small, forested island. It seemed insignificant enough, but hundreds of jet fighters scrambled to try to shoot it down, breaking into dogfights with the needle craft.

Another vessel hovered over the Eastern seaboard of the U.S., its fighters breaking off to sites all over the U.S., precisely as her dream had shown.

Other vessels parked themselves over the other continents, destruction following them. Still, many cities were untouched by their attacks, and there were no signs of the feared planet-buster missiles.

The scene seemed to fade before her eyes as the aurora appeared in front of her vision once more, like curtains closing over a stage. She half expected to see Scorch, Alfrior, and the others walk out in front of her and take their bows.

The void formed around her again, and she mused that, other than those curtains of color, it was nearly identical to the void Scorch had found herself within a few times during her tale. It had felt so odd, 'hearing' Scorch think to herself, feeling the young firebrand's emotions as well as her own.

Her experience 'riding' Alfrior had helped prepare her for that, but young Scorch's emotions had been so much more raw, more primal, that it was entirely a different feeling. One thing was for certain: Jamie wanted one of those control rigs!

Though she could not see him clearly, Jamie got the impression that Corona had settled back on his haunches, watching her with those massive eyes - so much like Maxtla's! - as she struggled to process the imagery that had filled her mind. It wasn't as though she had become Alfrior or Scorch, no quantum leaps for her. She had felt like some sort of ethereal observer, bound to the other women by an invisible leash.

The dragon cleared his throat, which sounded approximately like a Class 2 hurricane passing by her ear, then asked, impatience betraying itself in his voice, "Well? I'd hope you've some questions to ask, little one. I would hate to have gone to all this effort for nothing."

Jamie pondered that for a moment, commenting, "Um," thoughtfully.

Corona chuckled at her, mirth flashing in his eyes, "And so intelligent, too. I see Jessica chose well for her successor."

By now, Jamie had started to become accustomed to the dragon's sardonic, wry sense of humor, and took the comment in the spirit he had intended. "You'd be struggling if you had all this on your shoulders, too. Well, I guess the most important question is: Why did you show me these visions? Wouldn't it have been easier just to tell me the salient points?"

He looked down his long snout at her, a faintly smug expression crossing his scaled face. "I? I have had but a small part to play in the greater tale. I was but the one holding the mirror. What you saw, when you gazed into it, was the mirror's doing, not my own."

Jamie narrowed her eyes, asking cautiously, "What do you mean, the mirror? Are you talking literally, metaphorically, or metaphysically?"

Corona actually seemed taken aback slightly by this question, and answered after a brief hesitation, "Let's just say it's a little of all three, shall we? You know that mirrors have power, right? You look at a mirror just right, you'll see a little glimpse of the spirit world. Surely you knew that."

Jamie shook her head; more accurately, she tried to shake her head, but couldn't tell if she had or not, because of her apparent paralysis. "No, I'm afraid that I've never even heard of that. Only thing out of the ordinary that I've ever seen in a mirror was a truck that almost rear-ended me."

Corona tsked, and she got the impression that he had stuck his tongue out at her. "And, you claim Weres among your friends. Most disappointing, mon cherie. What has that Spirit of yours been teaching you, anyway?"

Jamie attempted to hold her hands out, as if to placate the great reptile. "I think we've gotten a little off-track. Let's ignore what the mirror is, and talk about what it is, if you know what I mean."

Corona continued to stare at her, and she realized she had not seen the dragon blink during this whole trance. "You'd like the chain of events, then. You dosed yourself up a little too well on, what was it? LSD? Funk? Maybe a 50-50 of Zoner and Erotica? No matter. Basically, you got yourself so messed up that your body tried to give up the ghost. Literally. Between that, and I must compliment you on it, slick bit of sorcery you pulled, your pet Spirit's efforts, and my own, your soul, if you will, was given over to... yours truly."

Jamie's eyes went wide as she listened to his diatribe. "What do you mean, you have my soul?"

Corona waved a talon in her general direction, dismissingly, and said, "Don't you worry a bit. I'll have it back to you, good as new, soon enough. Trust me, mon cherie, you'd rather I had it than the alternative."

She had to grant him that. "So, what are you saying, exactly? That I died?"

Chuckling softly, Corona nodded. "That's about the size of it. Only a little bit, though. Your Clanmates took care of your body, and we took care of your spirit. I wouldn't worry myself about it."

Jamie muttered to herself as she thought, 'Yeah, it's not your life on the line,' but actually asked, "Okay, one thing has me curious, bub. Who was that 'Persephone' that the Shadowdancer called out to?"

Corona snorted, ash puffed from his nostrils, and he replied, "Remember that I told you to take notes? Think, little one, think! What did ol' Higgins call her?"

Jamie's memory felt saturated by the vast amount of information that had been forced into it, but she wracked her brain, trying to recall. "Wasn't it, uhh, something like "light of the order," something like that?"

With a pleased smile, he agreed, "Close enough. Now, I know a little more of future history than you do. Not the first time I've done this, let me assure you. I know of only one person that fits the bill, really."

Jamie tried to think of anyone who might be this mysterious Persephone, but her mind came up empty. "I'm going to have to ask for a hand on this one, Corona."

The crimson dragon grinned even more widely, the shimmering spires of his teeth glittering in the non-light of the void. "Why, the one who set them on the path in the first place. The Guiding Light, carving a path through the Shadow for them. Their founder, if you will."

Jamie looked puzzled for a moment, then opened her eyes wide in shock, realization striking her like a bullet to the skull. "You don't mean..."

Pitching his voice and accent to mock Kee's sonorous tones, he said simply, "Milady Persephone, by now, thou mayest have ascertained mine true meaning."

Jamie tried to close her mind, drive him away from her long enough for her to think, without Corona mocking her. She really didn't need that right now. She'd begun to think that these visions had been meant to show her what her power meant.

They'd done that, certainly, but when she had realized that the invasion her Dream had shown was so far in the future, she'd never guessed that she would even be remembered, much less be... honored?

She shuddered. Did she want to be worshiped as some avenging angel, to become a battle standard around which to rally troops? Then again, did she really have a choice? Heaving a heavy sigh, she released the barrier she'd instinctively placed around her mind, coming face to face with the immense dragon.

He inhaled to speak, but she cut him off, saying, "There's just one thing more I need to know, I think. Can the future be changed?"

This time, it was Corona's turn to heave a sigh, his enormous eyes closing. His voice lost most of its jovial, sarcastic tone, as he said, "You don't know what you're asking. Of course, the future can be changed. A woman could get run over by a car, or get tackled by a crazed madman just in time to knock her out of the way. These sorts of events, choices like that, they happen all the time. We hardly notice them."

Taking another deep breath, he added, "But, that's not what you're asking, is it? You want to know if this invasion can be prevented altogether, right?"

She nodded silently, a motion he somehow perceived through the armored eyelids he'd lowered. "I suppose it's... possible. But, I wouldn't want to try it, even with the powers at my disposal. The past cannot be changed, I know that for certain. You can't change the past, because whatever you have done has already happened, you follow?"

He hesitated for a beat, trying to conjure up the words to explain the thoughts that tumbled around inside his scaly skull. "The future... time is not a passive record of events, Persephone. The future that my power shows is the future that wants to be born."

---

Branson continued to kneel next to Jamie, his eyes scanning her alluringly curved form, watching for any hint of motion. Even the faintest twitch of her muscles would have registered in his mind, so focused was his attention, but his vigilance had not revealed any signs of life beyond the measured rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed.

Footsteps began to echo up from the stairwell, and he stood, turning to hear what Trent and Elayne had to report. He was surprised to see a wiry, blonde-haired woman in a perfectly tailored business suit staring back at him, the lenses of her mirrored sunglasses reflecting his face back to him. He noticed that the pouring rain didn't seem to bother her, merely serving to slick down her hair as it slid from her glasses and suit without leaving a trace.

She spoke in a neutral, clipped voice, forming each word with the precision of a robotic press. "You're the one called Branson, right? The guy who's running this outfit?"

'So this is the source of that breach, I'd guess.' He thought quickly as he tried to size up the woman. He figured she was either government issue, or maybe a legbreaker for organized crime. He'd heard about that 'de Silva' guy that supposedly ran the underworld in town. Was she one of his folks?

Nah, he didn't think so. His intuition told him she wasn't a goon, not with the way she carried herself, so his earlier judgment stood. If she was from the government, she probably knew about that Homeland spybox, so there was little sense in denying his identity. "Yeah, got it in one. If you're looking for the bathroom, it's back down the stairs, down the hallway, and around the corner. Otherwise, I'm hopin' for an explanation. This isn't a good time."

The woman threw back her sleeve, which caused Branson to tense up, expecting an attack, and then proceeded to tap out a series of keypresses on the wrist comp she wore. A series of clicks, three, a space, then one long, one short, one long, acknowledged her transmission.

A ghost of a smile showed on her gaunt, sun-worn face, as she brought her gaze back onto his face, extending her hand in a friendly gesture "Sorry for all the spy stuff, Sarge. Agent Elena Kerensky, Secret Service. Call back your warriors, you've got about fifteen minutes to prepare."

He took her hand with a puzzled look, noting that she matched the strength of his grip, her palm rough against his, as though heavily calloused. "What, exactly, are we supposed to be preparing for, Agent?"

The agent slammed a fist into the palm of her other hand and swore. "That bimbo was supposed to... oh well, no sense crying over spilt oil. Sarge, you're about to get a visit from the President. She wants to meet with your Clan, face-to-face."

Branson froze as he heard her words. With a groan, he said, "You have got to be kidding me. She's coming here? Now?"

The agent nodded and frowned as she replied, "She'll be coming via unmarked van."

Branson flapped his mouth open a few times, trying to get words out. When he finally succeeded, he told her, "Stay here and watch Jamie. I'll get the others."

As he spoke, he began to dash for the stairs, momentarily forgetting about the intercom in his panic. The agent knelt by the immense, unconscious Gargoyle, checking her pulse and respiration.

Branson dashed through the Castle, and found Elayne standing in the foyer next to Trent's legs, the male buried halfway into the wall as he tried to diagnose the ailing security system. The two were arguing rather loudly. Elayne seemed to think the problem lay in the central security node, while Trent thought it was a localized failure that had frozen the rest of the system. In a way, it seemed almost as though it were both at once.

Branson took a breath to calm himself, then said, "Drop what you're doing. We're about to have serious visitors, in about ten minutes."

Elayne narrowed her eyes as Trent pushed himself from the cubby, and she asked with a savage smile, "Friendly or not? I've got a few new tricks, if you want them to go away."

Branson held out the palm of his hand to her and spoke in a firm tone, "No, Elayne. Don't break out the artillery, or even your armor. They're friendly... I hope."

---

Persephone considered the dragon's statement. "You're saying that time's arrow is really a fraggin' cruise missile?"

Corona took a moment, as though to translate her words, but bobbed his head slightly. "Something like that. I suppose it would be possible to change the future, on the scale you're thinking of, but... I'll warn you against it. Many have tried. To my knowledge, all have failed."

Persephone chuckled, a sardonic smile spreading across her face to match the dragon's mood. "Who died and made me Hari Seldon?"

The dragon narrowed his eyes at her and snorted. "You've just done something I didn't think was possible. I have no idea what you just said."

She took a moment to savor her advantage, petty though it was, over the reptilian wise man, then said simply, "You need to brush up on your Asimov, bub."

Corona snorted again and waved a talon as if to dismiss the thought. "Please, when you've a life as interesting as mine, you've little need for fiction to fill in the gaps."

Her eyes shone in the darkness, and a mischievous smile crossed her face as she interrupted, "That, and I bet it's hard finding books that fit those with those claws of yours."

He had to concede the point, lowering his head in a mock surrender to her. "Yes, that can be a bit of a problem, too. But, that's beside the point. I don't want you to even try what you're thinking, mon cherie. You'll only be setting yourself up for disappointment."

With a shrug, she replied, "The way I see it, I've got two options. I can try to figure out how to make that future happen, right? I'll spend my whole life feeling like a traitor to my people, but I could do it. Or, I could try to figure out how to prevent it. Either I'll change something, maybe for the better, maybe for the worse, or my effort to stop that future is actually what causes it. Either way, it's the better option, I think."

Corona considered that for a moment, holding his snout in a claw in a remarkably expressive gesture. "That's twice, little one. That's some of the most twisted logic I've ever heard," he said as he curled his lips in a smile, "Even by draconic standards, that's a pretty outrageous use of logic."

She chuckled, performing a mock curtsey, as she said, "Never try to argue time travel with a sci-fi fan. This is close enough to count."

---

Branson took a look at himself in the mirror hanging in the first floor bathroom, trying to smooth down his mane of hair as he cursed and sputtered. Why did everything have to happen all at once? He knew he should feel honored that the President wanted to meet him, but he kept thinking of Jamie, lying alone on the roof, in the chill downpour.

That image made it hard to focus, but he wanted to be at his best. Had to be at his best, for something as important as this. He'd known that someone was supposed to be visiting tonight, Jamie had relayed that message clearly enough, but he'd never dreamed it would be the President.

Figuring that he was about as put together as he was going to get, he strode back to the foyer, his wings caped tightly around his body to conceal his tension. Elayne and Trent were already waiting there. He had to chuckle at the two of them, as Trent had a hand over his shoulder, gripping the blade of his sword, and Elayne had managed to get her shotgun and her new toy, the Quarryhammer, in the brief time that Branson had been preening.

He didn't tell them to put the weapons away, though. After all, they had been spied on for who knows how long, and that Agent Kerensky had snuck in, rather than asking to be invited. He hoped that the weapons would be unneeded, but best to have them around.

His sensitive ears heard a vehicle pull into the driveway, followed by the sounds of doors opening and closing.

Judging by the way Trent and Elayne tensed, he figured he wasn't the only one to have heard, either.

The double doors burst open as a tall, youthful man walked in, his lean body held tense with purpose and confidence. Shoulder length, black hair fell in a fountain around his head, contrasting with the pale tone of his skin. He seemed to be of Chinese, or possibly Indian, descent. Branson's eyes were drawn to the small, perfectly circular black dot tattooed between his brows, wondering at the significance.

He spoke in a similar manner to Agent Kerensky, a style that matched the confidence of his gait. "Special Agent Lu Tseng. Allow me the honor introducing... the President of the United States of America!"

----Chapter II----

Givens Castle

5:00 P.M.

The room seemed to brighten as she walked into the room, the air of supreme self-assurance spreading behind her like a cloak. President Elisa Maza seemed to be trying to travel in disguise, yet there was no mistaking her for anyone else. She wore a red leather jacket over a black t-shirt and blue jeans, but the mantle of power was unmistakable around her.

It was her eyes, Branson thought, her power was in her eyes. As worried as he had been mere moments ago, he felt as though he would trust her to lead him to the ends of the earth.

She moved with a feline grace. It was obvious that she had not allowed herself to become a desk jockey, despite the crushing responsibilities she faced. Branson didn't really follow politics any more than he had to, but he knew that her job was the hardest in the country, especially with the sweeping changes of policy she was famous for.

Despite that, she still retained a remarkably youthful appearance for someone in their late fifties. Her face had a few of the lines of age, but they seemed to merely accent the striking beauty of the visage they were a part of, and the streaks of grey that had infiltrated her raven-wing hair only served to provide her with an air of dignity.

Agent Tseng cleared his throat softly, to break the silence that had stretched between them, and Branson realized that he had be staring at the President. He only wished that he had that degree of self-assurance, as he knew that his own doubts showed far too often for him to be a truly excellent leader.

He'd been working on a little bit of a speech while he'd been in the bathroom, but he couldn't seem to bring it to mind, and neither Trent nor Elayne seemed to be inclined to help him out. Steeling himself, he held out a hand to the President, and said simply, "Madam President, it's an honor to finally meet you. Please, consider yourself a welcome guest in our home."

Horror dawned in his mind as he realized that his words implied that his status of lord of the Castle was greater than hers as President, but there was little to be done about it now.

She didn't seem to offended by his words, and, rather than shaking his hand, she clasped his forearm, in the old style, and said, "Believe me, it's as much an honor for me to finally get to see you. I want you to know that I'm grateful for what you've been doing here."

She released his arm, and said to the other two, "You're both very lucky to have someone like Branson for a friend."

She turned to the Agent and asked him, not in the tone of a command, but in the tone of one friend speaking to another as equals, "Lu, could you ask Dr. Sato to come in?"

Before he could ask, she told Branson, "I know you don't like that we've been, well, spying on you. If there was another way, I'd be happier with it, too. I've brought along my own physician to check Jamie over. We're all very worried about her, you know."

Branson's composure shattered like glass as he heard those words. Tears ran down his face, and he didn't even try to hold back his sobs as he realized that his... his angel of the night was so exceptional that she could evoke emotion even in people who had never met her.

The President's face softened, concern showing in her eyes, as she laid a hand on his shoulder in sympathy. "Don't worry, Branson. There's no one in the country that knows more about Gargoyle medicine. He saved my life once, and he's done wonders for some of your kin. He'll find out what the problem is."

All Branson could manage to choke out, past his weeping, were the words, "Thank you."

The President insisted on following Dr. Sato, and Agent Tseng insisted on following her, of course. As the Clan followed them, Branson tried to bring his emotions back under control. Strangely, he felt no shame in weeping in front of the President, not with the way she had given him such sympathy, and he had the strange feeling that, in another time and place, she would cried along with him.

Sato was a rather stern, foreboding man, who was obviously displeased with the fact that his patient was left exposed in the rain and the elements like this. He spoke no more that he had to, but Branson could read it in his body language.

The President seemed to take little notice of the rain, merely turning up the collar of her jacket, and Branson noticed that she quietly thanked Agent Kerensky for watching the Gargoyle woman so intently.

Trent followed Sato closely, in case the doctor would need an assistant, or in case he could pick up any pointers from the surgeon's obvious skill and experience. Elayne, meanwhile, stayed close to Branson and the President, her presence a reassuring beacon to him.

Sato spoke to the unconscious woman, his voice tense, but the words were beckoning, asking her if she could hear him, if she could respond. As Branson expected, there was no response. Sato frowned, then quickly donned a pair of exam gloves, then began to press on the underside of her brows, against the base of her eyelids. His frown deepened when her eyes did not open, even under a degree of pressure he would not have dared to use on a Human patient.

Finally, he shot a look at Trent, warning him, then struck hard at her sternum, a forceful palm strike. Her breath hesitated for a moment, then continued evenly, as though nothing had happened. Sato exhaled deeply, hanging his head, then stood and turned to the President. He began to say, "Madam President..."

She held up a hand, telling him firmly, "Come on, Takeshi. You've been at my side for how long, now? Drop the formality. We're all friends here."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but that was the only change in his expression as he repeated, "Madam President, the patient appears to be at GCS stage 3. This agrees with the initial assessment that the surveillance team provided. In most patients, this would mean effective brain death."

He hesitated for a moment, as though he didn't care for what he was about to say, though Branson wondered what could be more disturbing that 'effective brain death'. "Given the... unusual nature of the case, however, there may be more hope than would be usual for a coma of this degree. Branson, is it? I need to know what it was that she took, and exactly how much she took."

Branson pulled the leather pouch from under his belt, he told the doctor, "She told me that this was pure, powdered mescaline. She took a tablespoon of it, on the 27th."

Sato frowned as he took the pouch, tucking it into his field kit, then turned back to the President. "I can try giving her a cocktail. I would think 2 mg of dextroamphetamine, with thiamin and glucose. If you think it's worth the risk, I could also give a 5 mg dose of epinephrine, but it could drive her back into cardiac arrest."

President Maza gestured towards Branson and Elayne. "It's not my decision. You need to ask them."

Rather than give a single answer to the doctor, Branson asked his companions, "Well, what do you think? It sounds like quite a risk, though."

Trent was the first to reply. "I don't know about yeh, but I think this has gone on long enough, yeah? We need to get our lass home already."

Elayne, however, disagreed with her lover's opinion. "We just can't, Branson. Jamie asked us to trust us, to believe in her. I don't think we should betray her like this."

Branson felt tension begin to build behind his eyes. In an effort to stop it before it could spread, he began to rub at the base of his beak, knowing that it sometimes helped. He muttered to himself, thinking that this was just what he needed right now, but tried to push it aside, needing to focus on what was important.

He mused aloud, in case the others had something to add, "She's right, I don't want to betray her trust like that... Dr. Sato, what do you think her chances are of pulling out of it naturally?"

Sato shook his head, his eyes closed, and answered sadly, "Normally, I'd say very slim. I would think we were looking at a Schiavo-type case. But, if this... spell of hers worked as she intended, then... I can't really say. I am certain that there is little or none of this toxin in her system. Her lithoregenerative processes should have cleaned it out during that first day. The damage to her heart muscles also should have been repaired by now."

He sighed, a slight hint of warmth creeping into his voice as he confided, "You know, it'd be worth the trouble of moving her, just to see the look on the techs' faces when I brought her in for an MRI. I'd love to see what's going on inside her body right now."

His control clamped down again, and his voice regained it usual, frosty tones. "I can't tell for certain with just a brief external exam, but it is my belief that there is no physiological reason for her coma. Either there is brain damage, which... I sincerely hope not, or there is something else keeping her under."

Branson thought for a moment as he rubbed at his beak, then said with an air of finality, "Skip the epinephrine, but give her the rest. We have to try. Dr. Sato, please... do what you can for her."

Sato nodded in silence as he began to pull supplies from his kit, a determined scowl on his face.

---

Persephone fought down the reflexive urge to double over as she felt an intense pain radiate from her sternum. She gasped for breath, and her eyes seemed to fill with tears, though it was hard to tell in the strange, otherworldly void.

She tried to calm her breathing again, willing herself to relax, though the pain lingered in her chest, "Corona... what was that? I feel like I just got shot. Something you should be telling me, bub?"

Concern dawned in the dragon's eyes, and he replied solemnly, "I think your time with me may be coming to an end. That was probably your body calling. Should I put it on hold?"

A confused expression showed on her face, and she asked, "What do you mean by that?"

Corona sighed and answered, "Basically, I think someone may be trying to revive you. If that's the case, our connection will be cut shortly, so I'm going to have to be brief, little one. Listen closely."

He began to speak a bit more quickly, though she had no trouble understanding him. "I know that you have no idea on where to start looking for future Shadowdancers. I can offer you but two pieces of advice. One, recall that you will find them. It's not quite written in stone, but it is a high probability. Two: Contact the proprietor of St. George's Rare Books, in New Orleans. I've asked him to help you. Knight's a good man, with resources you'll need. Treat him well."

Persephone made a note to contact this 'Knight' when she could, but an odd haze seemed to be clouding her thinking. The dragon's voice seemed to be fading from her, but she bent her will to the task of maintaining contact. She asked, "I think I'm about to be forced to leave.... But, there's one thing I still need to know. What are you getting out of this? Why are you trying to help me?"

Corona affected a hurt tone in his voice, and held a claw to his chest as he replied, "You think I wouldn't want to help you out of the goodness of my heart?"

Abruptly, he broke into a truly wicked leer and answered himself, "And, well you shouldn't. I'm not even remotely that nice. No, I'll admit that I was doing this as much for my own gain as yours. Quite simply, there comes a time past which my foresight cannot pass. I have reason to believe that this date coincides with my death. I wish to know all I can of future history past that point."

Sympathy and sadness choked Persephone's throat again as she heard the dragon speak so calmly of his impending death. "Do you... have any idea when this will happen? I... I'll do anything I can."

The dragon closed his shimmering, amber eyes and shook his great head. "No, do not concern yourself. It will not come for some years. I wouldn't want you to interfere, anyway. Your own work is far too important."

The dragon began to appear ethereal, ghost-like, and she reached out a claw towards him, as though to catch a handful of the smoke that seemed to comprise the dragon's body. As the curtains of color began to waver under the force of an unheard breeze, she vowed, "We'll meet again, Corona. Maybe you'll let me help you, then."

---

Branson watched, spellbound, as Jamie began to twitch slightly. It was a subtle movement, hardly noticeable, but was more than she had managed in nearly seventy-two hours. Sato seemed nearly as shocked as he did, and Elayne cried out wordlessly in triumph at the sight. Trent watched her closely, worry hanging raw and heavy on his grey-furred face, as her powerful musculature began to tremble in a random, uncontrolled fashion.

Branson looked at the Doctor and asked, "You think this was because of that potion you shot her up with?"

Sato held his hands up in the air, helplessly. "I really can't say. It shouldn't have had an effect this potent, this quickly. For all I know, she's having an allergic reaction to the dexedrine."

Jamie moaned, a truly heart-wrenching sound, but Branson clung to it as a sign of improvement, praying that he was right.

Sato's mouth hung open as he pointed toward the crenels comprising the roof's walls, as Kee's ghostly figure appeared, his flute already drawn. He began to play in a hypnotic, haunting melody, his eyes closed in concentration. Branson whispered to the doctor, "Don't worry. If he's here, that's a good sign. I think."

President Maza saw that the two Agents had drawn their P229s, the weapons pointed in the medicine bear's direction. "Stand down! You don't have to worry about him. If Branson trusts this... ghost, that's good enough for me."

Indeed, Kee seemed not to even notice that he had an audience, his furred face taut with focus as he played. It seemed as though all he was aware of were her flute, his song, and, hopefully, the soul of his mistress.

Jamie's trembling seemed to pass, and she began to breathe smoothly once more. Branson watched, not daring to take a breath, and tried to call out to her, silently beckoning her back to him.

Her eyes, the shade of polished wood, fluttered open abruptly, and Branson ran to her, heedless of the others sharing the roof with him. Both Trent and Elayne cheered, their hearts lifted at this simple sign of life.

Branson braced an arm behind her shoulders, helping her to rise from the sodden pallet. She coughed as she tried to rise, strain showing on her face, but she leaned on his arm as support, and drew herself into a sitting position.

He noticed that her gaze seemed unfocused, and he felt a pang of concern, fearing some kind of mental trauma.

Softly, he asked her, "How are you feelin', hun? Did you do what you had to do?"

She answered, haltingly at first, as she examined the visitors, "I've seen things you wouldn't believe, Branson. Attack ships ablaze in Luna's shadow. I watched energy beams glitter in the dark, grasping for the embrace of the Earth. I witnessed the birth of legend itself, and the death of the world I love."

Staring into Branson's face, she said, "I need to write this down... I will not let all those moments be lost to time," then patted at his cheek, seeing the tears streaming down his face, "like tears in the rain."

Hearing, feeling the intensity in her voice, he helped her to her feet and allowed her to rest her arm on his shoulder as he helped her to the stairwell.

By the time she arrived at her room, she walked steadily by herself. Branson still wanted to come into the room, to be near her in case she were to need help, but she refused to let him in, told him that he needed to tend to his guests.

With a sigh, he looked at the closed door, rested his palm against it for a moment, then turned to the hallway. He'd trusted her this far, and if she thought the contents of her vision were so vital, then they must be. To believe otherwise was to doubt her word, her judgment, and he would not bring himself to do that.

As he headed for the stairwell, he caught sight of Agent Kerensky entering the family room, and padded along behind her, softly. Elayne, it seemed, had suggested that they adjourn to the den to get out of the rain, now that there was no need to remain.

Branson was the last to enter, and waited to seat himself until everyone else had sat down. Injecting a sense of calm into his voice, he said, "Jamie seems to be as well as can be expected. She should be here in a little while, once she's made her notes. I wish that she would take a moment to catch her breath before leaping from one project to another, but there's little I could do to convince her."

Sato quickly added, "If she's doing this well, she should be fine. One thing I do know about your people, it takes quite a lot to bring one down. Try not to worry, Branson."

Branson smiled at the doctor, then turned to the President. "I've got to apologize for being a little blunt here, Madam President, but... why are you here? Don't get me wrong, I'm pleased to have you here, but I know how busy you are. You didn't stop by just to let Sato perform a house call, right?"

With just a hint of irritation, she said, "Please, call me Elisa. The groveling gets on my nerves after awhile. And, you're right. I wanted to offer you, all of you, a job."

She leaned forward, her eyes glittering as she elaborated, "I'm trying to put together a... you might call it a specialized special ops team. There's some really spooky stuff going on in this country, and around the world. I need to get a handle on it, and I'd like your help."

Branson leaned forward to meet her gaze, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, and said simply, "I'm listening."

She nodded, then launched into her pitch. "You know all the UFO sightings, way back when? Well, now it's supernatural stuff that's getting all the press. We've gotten reports of literal demons running around the Lake Placid area. Normally, we'd pay no attention, but when the reports come from the FBI, you pay attention. Hearsay has it that L.A.'s organized crime is under the control of a honest-to-goodness vampire. A good friend of mine, N.Y.C.'s Police Chief, is in a panic because there's some idiot hurling fireballs around, and they can't collar him. Bluestone's generally steadier than that, but he thinks the guy has some connection with the Illuminati. Don't ask."

She reached into a pocket and pulled a palm-sized replica of the Presidential Seal from her jacket, tossing it onto the table with a clink. "You see this? I gave up my NYPD shield to take up this one. I won't let problems like this terrorize my people. It's just not going to happen."

Branson exhaled softly, as he felt his headache begin to return. "So, let me get this straight. You want us to be part of your personal army, answerable only to you? I'd assume this would be a deep Black group, right?"

Elisa nodded and answered, "I know. I'd hoped you were going to ask a question like that. That's pretty much it. Look, I'm not any happier with the idea than you are, but it would be suicide, for you guys as much as for me, if I were to open up recruiting to Gargoyles. That's one of those sad facts of life that I just can't avoid."

Trent abruptly stood, turning his back to the delegation. "Branson, I just can't be a part of this. I've already done my time, yeah?"

He turned his head to look the President in the eye and said, "I was in the War. 22rd SAS Regiment, D Squadron. My unit HALO'd into Iran to clear a path for the final assault on Tehran. Remember that? It's not anything against you, President, but I just... I just..."

He began to tremble, flexing his hands as he swallowed, hard, and tried to control himself. Nodding his head in an apology, he stepped out the door. Branson heard a sharp thump against the wall after a moment.

For her part, Elisa looked mortified, her dusky skin turned pale, and she shook her head in disbelief. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea that this would be such a touchy subject. I had hoped that I could count on your support, but I can't ask you to break apart your Clan. I know how much it means to you. Believe me, I know. I would really like to have you onboard, but if you need to say no, I won't hold it against you."

Branson hesitated, weighing his options, and said, "I don't think that we'll be able to help you, Elisa. I won't push Trent to do this, not if it bothers him this much. As for your Intelligence, I must confess that I didn't know, either. What he must have seen, what he must have had to do... You have to understand, I could not ask him to do this again. Besides, we already have obligations, here."

Elisa nodded, still pale, and told him, "Yeah, I know. I appreciate what you do here, and even if I can't change your mind, I hope you'll still let me send people your way? I hold out hope that the Dawn Patrol might run into other Gargoyles, in hiding across the country."

She pulled an optical disc from her pocket, its reflective surface glittering inside its durable plastic case, and said, "If we run across any new Mutates, I think I'd send them to the Labyrinth. I know that," her voice cracked for a moment, the first time Branson had noticed a flaw in her self-assurance, "Talon, the Mutate that runs the place, would be happy to have them. I think he'd like to meet you, so I took the liberty of having this made up."

Branson took the disc with a nod and tucked it into a pocket as he said, "My doors are always open. Speakin' of which, Agent Kerensky, I'm sorry about being snappy with you earlier. It's just been a long couple of nights."

Kerensky waved a hand dismissively, and replied, "Don't sweat it, Sarge."

Branson rose, more slowly than his Clanmate had, and said, "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to check on Trent. Um. Elayne, could you put out some refreshments? I've been a terrible host, I'm afraid."

He opened the door and felt a portion of the tension pounding behind his eyes melt away, as he heard Jamie's deep, soulful voice. " - 'll understand, Trent, I'm sure. I certainly can't blame you for taking a stand, and I'll stand with you, if push comes to shove."

Trent was leaning against the wall, his back bent in a slouch, unusual for him, and his expression indicated that he felt as though the weight of the world rested solely on his shoulders. "Thanks, Persephone. I want to help, don't think otherwise, but it's just more than I can do. You don't know, can't know, what it was like... to see your Clan falling around yeh, enemies on all sides, and nothing to do about it but keep your head down and pray."

Jamie... what was this 'Persephone' business, Branson thought, wrapped her arms around the canid Gargoyle, and Branson could see an expression of raw agony on her face as she spoke, quietly, "You're right, I can't know imagine how you found the strength to survive that. But, I understand a little more, now, that I would have a few days ago. You're courageous, Trent, but you've deserved a rest."

Branson walked up and laid his hand on the canid's shoulder, his hand pressed against Jamie's bicep, and said softly, "It's okay, Trent. I've told Elisa that we won't do it, that we have obligations already. And, it's not just because of you, Trent. I don't like the idea of being her personal hit squad. I... have reason to trust her, but that was years ago. I don't know if she's the same woman I heard so much about."

Trent sighed, but his voice took on a hint of its usual strength and poise as he said, "Thank yeh, Branson. If my hissy fit back there helped to keep the rest of yeh from endin' up as troubled as me, then that's a blessing, make no mistake."

After the towering titaness released Trent, Branson asked in a curious tone, "Now, I heard part of what you two were talkin' about. I've got to ask... "Persephone"?"

She smiled tightly at him, then explained, "It seems that's the name I go by, in the future. It's a bit of a long story, and I'll explain later, but suffice to say, I figured I might as well start using it. It's got a nice ring to it, and you've got to admit, Jamie was really more of a nickname than anything else."

Branson grumbled quietly, "But I liked Jamie. Well, if you feel that you should, then... it does sound good."

He was about to say more, but footsteps rang out down the hallway. Another Agent, a dusky skinned man, taller than Branson, and as heavily built as Trent, skidded to a halt. Sweat shone on his bald scalp, but he didn't seem to be winded. He pointed at the door with a gloved hand, his goatee shifting as he growled, "POTUS in there?"

Branson nodded, and the reticent man said, "Good. Come on, you'll want to hear."

The three Gargoyles followed him into the room. Tseng looked up as the man entered, a frown forming on his face, and inquired, "Rude, what's the problem? Weren't you supposed to stay with the van?"

The larger man crossed his beefy arms and replied, "Reno's watching it. The radar's showing movement. Lots of it. Nobody said anything about an army coming to visit tonight."

Tseng shot out of his chair, his pistol seeming to leap into his hand, and said, "It's time to leave, President. I did suggest that this could happen, and we don't have the strength to stand against a proper raid."

Elisa, however, remained seated, and said, "No. There aren't that many better places I could be right now. You'll help Branson hold out against them. Do I make myself clear?"

With a sigh, Tseng conceded, "Yes, President. I hope you're making the right choice. Branson, is there a more secure area we could move to?"

----Chapter III----

Woods

West of Givens Castle

6:22 PM

The black-robed man examined the infested edifice through a pair of high powered binoculars. He was well aware of the reputation and history of the Castle, It would be a shame if he ended up having to destroy this historic structure. That would be cause for sadness, certainly. It wouldn't stop him, though. Sometimes, any price was worth paying.

His lieutenants had done well. A Gargoyle was worth easily five or six men, and the bitch queen would be an even greater opponent. Still, he planned to handle her personally, and the others should be dispatched easily enough by the numbers they'd gathered. Many of the men would probably die before the night was out, but they should consider themselves honored to give themselves for so righteous a cause.

He quickly checked himself over. His hammer was fully charged, his toolkit filled with the aids he thought he might need, and his armor was at full operational status. He intended to take no chances tonight.

"Cameron, are ye certain ye want to be doin' this?" asked his companion, Riggs. He'd been with Cameron for several years, always serving to balance the more hot-headed Hunter with his pragmatic outlook.

Cameron nodded, gripping his hammer tightly, and said, "Aye, Riggs. It won't be as satisfying as when the Demon's time comes, but this is a thing that's got t' be done, and I mean t' be doing it."

The compactly built Scotsman nodded, then asked, "I'm concerned 'bout those men that ye're friend sent. Ye think we can be trustin' these... rent-a-cops?"

Cameron dismissed the argument with a shake of his head. "It matters little. The plan doesn't rely on them. If they're willin' t' fight and die with the rest of the men, good on them. If not, they'll be hunted down next. Don't concern yourself with them."

Cameron raised the radio to his mask-obscured face, "First element... time t' strike. Show those bastards what it's like t' be the victims for once!"

---

Trent and Elayne had put together a makeshift barricade in front of the foyer's door, while Branson and Persephone had raided the armory for supplies. The fit was off, but they'd managed to get Elisa into a suit of gel-plate, and Branson was pleased to see her take one of the particle pistols. By the fire in her eyes, he judged she'd know just what to do with it.

The Secret Service Agents were already armored, standard procedure for the Presidential Projection detail. Tseng and Rudy had refused further armament, but Kerensky had taken one of the confiscated Gen-U-Tech rifles with an almost gleeful smile.

There was another entrance, through the kitchen, which the Agents had volunteered to guard, and Elisa had holed herself up in the short hallway leading to Persephone's room. Tseng had protested quite emphatically, insisting that she take a more sheltered position, but she stood firm, declaring that since there was as much of a chance that the attackers were here because of her as because of the Clan, it was her duty to aid in the defense.

Besides, as she'd argued, she could slip out the window in Persephone's room and meet up with the other agent, Hank Reno, over in Graver Park if things got that desperate.

Dr. Sato had gone with the agents, trusting their ability to protect him over the... irregular tactics the Gargoyles tended to favor, and figuring that he would be able to conceal himself better in a crowded kitchen. His Oath prevented him from firing in his own defense, after all.

Persephone felt that it was too quiet. In the movies, the attacking force would be chanting slogans against them, or throwing rocks against the walls, or something. The only sound she could hear was the soft, steady pattering of rain against the roof. The storm was finally coming into its full force.

It was a small consolation, but with any luck, it would make the pavement leading to the house slippery. Maybe it would slow down their advance a little. She idly wondered, as she checked over her carbine, who it was that was actually attacking.

Thinking back a few weeks, she recalled that previous battle for the foyer. Maybe Gen-U-Tech was trying again? Or perhaps, as she remembered the duel with the Quarrywoman, a pang of guilt rising in her heart, they were coming to take their revenge.

Maybe it was someone else altogether. Reno claimed that he couldn't make out more than a large number of human radar signatures on the millimeter band.

Branson slid in next to her, behind the heavy oak desk she'd commandeered for a bunker, and asked, "You sure that you're up to this, hun? You were so sick, I don't like the idea of you having to leap into a fight like this."

She fingered the hilt of the Keris sword at her hip. She didn't feel as though she'd been near death. She felt a little stiff, but since she'd been lying in place for something like 68 hours, that wasn't too surprising. "I don't think they'll leave me alone, even if I ask them really nicely, Branson. Since I don't have much of a choice, I'm going to do everything that I can."

Branson began to answer, but a loud slam sounded against the front doors, followed by several more. As the barricade shuddered under the force of the blows, Branson ducked over to the other side of the room, to the makeshift cover he'd assembled,

Abruptly, the sound ceased, leaving an eerie silence behind in its wake. The Gargoyles had considered trying to flee the Castle, but realized that they would be easily shot down if any of the mob had guns, which was assumed, and it would be hard to maneuver with the President and her Agents in tow.

Trent's ears went flat, and he shouted back to the others, "Get down!" as he ducked behind cover. A moment later, the entrance blew inward in a cloud of flame and wooden shrapnel, evidently the victim of a sapper's charge.

Chaos erupted instantly as the fireball died down. Trent ducked out of his hiding spot, his broadsword glittering in the faint firelight that danced amongst the wreckage of the barricade.

As he drew his pistols, Branson shouted out, "Get out of my home, or I'll have to throw you out!"

Another explosion rocked the house as a grenade exploded at the feet of the foremost members of the mob, showering them with hard chunks of rubber at high speed. Some of the members of the mob merely clutched their sides or limbs, others dropped from the forceful impacts, but more poured through the blasted door.

Persephone's eyes went wide as she saw the silhouettes of hoods on the heads of the invaders, saw some of them clutching hammers, the others clutching cheap rifles or SMGs, confirming her earlier suspicions.

Gripping the carbine with both hands and bracing it against the desk, Persephone began to fire into the enemy ranks, flashes of crimson fire leaping from the weapon's stubby barrel.

As she fired, she shouted and hoped that some of the Quarrymen that had attended at the rally were present, "We defeated you on your turf! You think we wouldn't be ready for you on ours?"

Though she didn't want to admit it, she had to admit that maybe Branson was right. Her reflexes felt sluggish, and her body felt heavy on her frame. Despite the number of enemies that were coming in, several of her shots missed, or just grazed their targets. It didn't feel to her as though anything were truly wrong, but she thought she could have made do with a good day's sleep before getting this dumped onto her shoulders.

Trent, for his part, was trying to keep the casualties down, something that he wasn't all that good at, striking with the flat of his blade or the flared pommel whenever he could, slashing shallowly with the edge when he couldn't.

He knew that he had to hold the entranceway, since as long as there were warm bodies between his Clan and the rest of the soldiers, they wouldn't be able to use their guns too effectively.

Besides, they would be able to surround him if he let them past, and that just wouldn't do.

Elayne wished that Trent would get out of her way. She admired the way he flowed smoothly from one attack into a defense into another attack. It was like watching a performance of modern dance, if you ignored the blood spraying the walls, and, in calmer circumstances, she'd be willing to watch his backside all night long.

But, with him blocking up the entranceway like that, she couldn't toss her grenades out there without frying her lover along with the bad guys, and that just wouldn't do.

The assault facing Tseng's team was less intense, but far bloodier. In a cruel twist of irony, the Agents were much less concerned with the personal safety of their targets. After all, someone who was dead would be unable to get back up and try to attack again, so every target they eliminated was one less that might sneak past and attempt to threaten the President.

Tseng was pleased to see that Kerensky, the newest recruit to the detail, was handling herself well, unflinching despite the piteous cries of her victims, her face set in grim determination.

He admired her uncanny accuracy. She had been fitted with a prototype implant that allowed her nerves to seemingly merge with a properly built weapon. Xanatos Industries was working on it, as he recalled, and properly equipped weapons were rare. She'd been quite pleased to find one in the Gargoyles' armory, and it was making itself quite useful against the mob.

He knew he could count on Rude. The man was as solid as the mountain he appeared to be. Not that he was a cold, remorseless killer by any stretch, he had a quiet, understated, but uproariously amusing sense of humor, and Tseng had seen him praying for the souls of his targets, but when push came to shave, as it was now, there was little that would break him.

Tseng wished he could say the same about himself. He had to continue projecting a sense of calm for the good of his team, but he felt as though a little bit of his soul burned away every time he pulled the trigger.

He had already had to replace his mag once.

Elisa wasn't as much of a cowgirl as Tseng had feared she would be. She stayed behind cover, snapping off shots over Trent's head as she could, as long as it didn't expose her too greatly. But, she'd always been a good shot, ever since the Academy, and she'd faced far worse than these chumps, back in the day.

She wouldn't have minded having Goliath around to watch her back, though. It bothered her that she couldn't see him as often as she used to, and she knew that it also pained the gentle giant. Still, it'd be political suicide to be seen with him, sadly enough, and she couldn't accomplish her goals if she wasn't in the Oval Office any longer.

She felt blessed to have the love of one as understanding as him. If their situations had been reversed, she wasn't sure that she would have been so patient.

A bullet whizzed into the wall above her head, and she scolded herself. She could hear his voice, quietly telling her to focus, to regain her composure. It would be... disappointing to him if she allowed one of these Quarrymen to hurt her.

Trent's weaving, flowing swordsmanship became even more frenetically paced as he heard the distinctive sound of a Quarryhammer being cocked. A bulky, muscular man, his features concealed by that blasted hood that he wore, stepped forward, the front line parting around him, in fear of either the man or his weapon, Trent couldn't tell which.

Watching the wary, confident way that the man held his weapon, Trent began shift his footwork, focusing on the soldier intently, one warrior to another. Then, surprisingly, the man said, "Hit it!"

Trent heard a whoosh from the front yard, a bright flare lighting up the swatch of grass that was perceptible through the doorframe. A loud explosion, then another, and another, rocked the house, deafening thunderclaps assaulting his sensitive ears. Despite his exceptional sense of balance, Trent was knocked off guard by the missile attacks.

Before he could regain his guard, the muscular man swung his hammer in a wide arc, lightning sizzling through the air, and struck Trent with his full force. Trent was blown across the room, smoke trailing from the hole torn into his side, and he slammed into the side wall with a sickening crack.

Elayne hurled a pair of hornet's nests into the fray, then vaulted the stack of cabinets she had been using for cover, shouted, "TRENT!" and slid the hammer into her hand, charging the soldier.

Another rocket struck the Castle, from the west side, as she closed on the warrior, and she leapt into the air, flaring her wings, as the floor shook from the force of the explosion. As she hung in the air for a moment, she cocked her own hammer, fighting lightning with lightning. She drove it down against the warrior's weapon with all the force she could muster, sundering it with a loud pop. The man's eyes glazed over as the electrical overcharge flowed through the insulation of his gloves, overcoming them in an instant.

Carrying through in a wide arc, she brought the hammer into his sternum with crushing force, and literally bounced him off the low ceiling of the entranceway, her eyes shining brightly red. Her voice lowered with rage, she whispered in a low growl, "That was for Trent. The rest'll be on general principles!"

A loud whistle sounded, and the men in front crouched down, their hammers or guns held overhead to ward off an attack. Elayne saw movement through the doorway, tried to dodge out of the way, but wasn't fast enough to escape the short, heavily built man's shot. A steel mesh net wrapped around her body, binding her tightly, then discharged a massive jolt of electricity into her body. She fell to the ground, screaming in agony, and the smell of scorched flesh and carpeting filled the air.

Branson shouted to Persephone, "Get Trent! Take the balcony," then began to dash towards Elayne's writhing body, firing his Carnivores over the heads of the Quarrymen to force them to hold their position. And, if a few shots happened to stray awfully close to their heads and cause a little bit of trauma from the shockwaves, well, their fault for getting in the way.

Persephone, on the other hand, fired low, hoping to knock the legs out from some of the Quarrymen, and shifted the carbine to her right bicep as she grabbed the collar of Trent's coat. Wincing as she saw the weeping wound in his side, she tossed him over his shoulder and hoped that he was fully unconscious, to spare him the pain.

She began to retreat slowly and continued to snap off shots, unheeding of where they would strike. With the setting she was using, she knew she wouldn't be doing too much real damage, so she aimed for necks, groins, any soft spot she could get a shot off at.

She'd considered trying to use some sort of spell to drive them back, but none came to mind, and with as unsteady as she still felt, she didn't feel that it was wise to risk it. The image of that alien battleship being warped into the maw of the gravitational spellstrike leapt unbidden into her mind, overlaid by the image of Mendoza frying under the force of her uncontrolled lightning attack. No, she couldn't risk it.

She noticed that most of the Quarrymen that had worked up the courage to fight back were trying to attack Branson, rather than her, and hoped that it was because of fear. She really didn't want to inspire fear, but in this particular case, she would take it and make use of it, if it was truly present.

A fifth rocket struck the house, which caused chunks of plaster to fall from the ceiling. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a few of the Victorian-style figurines fall from their perches along the wall, shattering with glassy tinkling noises against the floor.

Branson turned pale, slowed slightly by Elayne's weight, and said to Jamie. "Get upstairs, get our guest out of here. I'll... try to follow you."

Persephone gasped and shook her head, as gunshots whizzed past the two of them, but Branson said, "No! Do it!" and began to run for the kitchen.

Relying on her memory of the layout, Persephone began to run up the stairs, taking them three at a time as she closed her eyes and tried to shut out her sadness. She saw a vision of herself kneeling over Branson's body, a pool of his lifeblood spreading along the tile floor of the kitchen, and she couldn't tell whether this was a Dreaming or merely a fear.

A loud crash sounded behind her as a charged Quarryhammer struck the railing, inches away from her body, spraying wooden slivers in all directions. Tapping into the reserves that her body possessed, she picked up her pace. Crimson energy beams shot past her shoulders as Elisa tried desperately to cover the Gargoyle's retreat, and explosions sounded from the halls of the first floor as Branson began to use Elayne's grenades to shake his pursuers.

Persephone spoke quietly, but urgently to the President. "We need to get out of here. I can carry you and Trent, but we need to get to the roof. C'mon!"

Elisa nodded and began to run for the stairwell, and Persephone slowed slightly to keep her body between the President and the Quarrymen making their way up to the balcony.

She felt lines of fire crisscross her arms and legs as bullets creased her skin, since she had so little room to maneuver. She guessed that none of the wounds were life threatening, but she felt as though some of her strength were leaving her body along with the trickles of blood, a loss she could ill afford right now.

She heard Elisa shout as the President reached the rooftop, followed by the high whines of several particle pistol shots, and put her wounds out of her mind, raising the carbine to her shoulder as she ascended.

Elisa had ducked behind the tower that enclosed the stairway to protect herself, firing at an impressive figure. At first glance, it seemed to be a Gargoyle like herself, but as Persephone looked closer, she saw the glint of metal on the figure's bare skin, illuminated by the fires burning on the second floor, and heard the whirr of motors as he shifted his stance.

It seemed as though it were some sort of robot or battle armor, constructed to appear like a Gargoyle wrought of metal. Its chest was even wider than Persephone's own, and the figure stood a few inches taller than her, a massive warhammer clutched in its hands. She couldn't make out the face of the figure, as it was obscured by a Quarryman hood, slashed with three ragged stripes of red across the front, like... claw marks?

Elisa swore softly as the power gauge on her weapon reached empty and fumbled to swap energy cells, as Persephone quietly set Trent down onto the wet, slick roof. The canid groaned softly as his weight pressed against the wound in his chest, but Persephone tried not to notice, figuring that she would need all of her mobility in case the figure proved hostile. Judging by the hood he wore, that seemed likely.

Some of the Quarrymen had followed the three of them up to the roof, but as the armored figure saw them approach, he began to speak, his voice overlaid with a soft Scottish burr. " I told ye, the bitch queen's mine! Back off, lads, take care of the chieftain."

Inhaling deeply, Jamie drew herself up to her full, imposing height, her left hand squeezing the hilt of her sword tightly, her right aiming her carbine at the man's broad, metal-plated chest, and she tried to shunt away the feelings of pain and weakness that wracked her body.

Elisa held her fire, noting that her previous shots had done little to the armored figure, and decided to cover Persephone's back, in case the Quarrymen chose not to heed his orders. She examined the man's armor out of the corner of her eye, reminded uncomfortably of the battle armor that David Xanatos had constructed, all those years ago.

At least this Hunter didn't have the balls to use the helmet that went with it, modeled after Goliath's own head. She shouted to Persephone, "Watch out, 'Seph. This one's a Hunter, he'll kill you as soon as look at you!"

The Hunter took a step forward, the roof creaking under the weight of his armor, and said, "That's right, traitor. Give the lass a little forewarning 'afore I take her down. I don't mind that one bit."

Persephone drew her sword, the steel whispering softly against the leather wrappings as the snaps popped loose, looking over its blade at the Hunter. "If this is about Mendoza, then I want you to know that was an accident. I never meant to kill her, I only tried to knock her down."

The man snorted and cocked his hammer, causing the rain to begin spattering like oil on a frying pan as it touched the electrified surface, ozone filling the air, and spat out, "Excuses. That's like yer kin, isn't it? Never takin' responsibility. Here's the deal, ye tart, Mendoza was aught but a pawn. She served her purpose well enough, and now it comes time for ye to serve yers. Show me yer strength!"

He leapt towards her, with startling speed, as an afterburner fired from his back, increasing his velocity even further, and brought the hammer up to strike. Seeing that he actually flew above the ground a foot or so, 'Seph threw herself backwards, then grabbed the startled Hunter as he shot above her, planting a foot against his chest, and hurled with all her might.

He spun into air, curses tumbling from his lips as he fought to regain control, and 'Seph took the chance to snap a few shots into his armor, hoping that the more powerful bolts of her carbine would affect it where Elisa's pistol had not.

They ricocheted off with an electronic squeal, causing no ill effect except for a few small scorch marks on the Hunter's armor plating. As he dove towards her, 'Seph tore the carbine's strap from her neck, tossing the weapon toward Elisa,

At the last moment she hurled herself from the roof, spreading her wings to their full span, and dared the Hunter to follow her into her battlefield. His hammer discharged as it slammed into the rooftop, before he could pull it back, blasting a hole through the stone tiles into the level below. With a snarl fully as inhuman as her own, he fired his thruster and followed her into the air, cocking the hammer again.

She figured that he could easily exceed her speed, but assumed that he wouldn't be able to match her agility in the air, as his wings were merely thin sheets of metal, not the flexible membranes of muscle and sinew that she possessed.

She noted, as she took to the air, that the Quarrymen seemed to be fighting against another army, shadowy figured grappling and skirmishing in the darkness beneath her wings.

She never got to test her hypothesis, as he jetted forward, black smoke billowing from the armor's thruster, his hammer thrust in front of his body to lead the charge. Folding one wing under her body, she spun in the air, dropping slightly, and brought her sword up to gut his armor as he passed by her.

Tungsten carbide ground against carbon-fiber steel as they collided in midair, her other hand braced against the hammer's haft to keep it from her head, and sparks sprayed in all directions as her blade bit through the outer layer of plating.

With an alacrity that should have been impossible through the massive weight of the battle suit, he drove his elbow into her gut, robbing her of her strength for a moment, and shoved her away.

As she spread her wings to regain control, a module sprang from the forearm of his armor, and the whump of a compressed air cannon sounded, as a steel net flew through the air towards her. It tangled around her wings and body and dumped a massive charge of electricity into her body. She screamed aloud as fell from the sky, spiraling towards the rooftop in an uncontrolled stall.

---

Keller raised his other radio to his lips as the half-crazed gangers assaulted the real Quarrymen and ordered his mercs to form on him, then adjusted it to reach Yutani. "Doctor, some sort of reinforcement seems to have arrived, on the subjects' side. What are our orders?"

Yutani contemplated that for a moment, then decided that he had banked too heavily on this Cameron. "Pull out, Keller. No sense pursuing a bad investment like this. And, Keller... if you see any of the Quarrymen trying to shoot at my subjects, terminate them."

Keller smiled beneath his hood and said, "Yes, sir. Scrubbing the mission."

---

Persephone lay sprawled on the roof, twitching and crying out in agony as the net continued to pour electricity into her tissues. Unlike the net that had cocooned Elayne, which had discharged but once, this one was designed to continue shocking its captive for an extended period of time.

The Hunter landed softly, almost reverently next to her, his hammer lowered for the moment, as he whispered, "Feel what my family has suffered for nigh on a thousand years, monster. Suffer as my father, and my father's father, and his father's father suffered at the hands of yer foul kin. Nothin' could match the wickedness in yer heart, but if ye confess to me, I'll do ye the favor of killing ye quickly. Ye fought well, and it's what ye deserve as a warrior."

She tried to speak, an objection, a confession, anything to end the pain that wracked her body, but her lungs could not spare the breath, her lips could not form the words.

Seeing that she was trying to speak, he knelt next to her and asked quietly, "Quickly, lass, while ye still have the strength. Tell me what ye treasure most, so's I can have the pleasure of takin' it from ye."

Driving the sensations from her mind with a focus of borne of desperation, she gestured with a hand, beckoning him closer. As he leaned in, heeding her final request, she pointed a finger towards him and whispered the words, "Fulmenos... venite!"

Electricity arced and writhed along the mesh of the net, then ran down her arm from the tip of her finger, blackening the flesh. She cried out as her arm seemed to burst into flame, feeling as though it had been dipped into molten lava, but willed the energy away from her. It coalesced into a ramrod straight bar of energy, grounding into the Hunter's armor and body. She fought to control it, not wanting another death on her conscience, but the pain overcame her, and she blacked out for a moment.

When she came to, seconds later, Elisa was pulling the de-energized net from her body, and the Hunter was struggling to rise. His breath rattled as he said, "Ye fight like the Demon herself, lass. I'll concede this night to ye, but remember this."

He stood proudly, despite the enormous scorch mark carved into his cuirass. As he fired his thruster, rising into the air, Elisa began to fire on him, but he ignored the bolts and said, in a chilling voice, "There will always be a Hunter, ye monster. Can ye say the same of yer kin?"

Trent raised his head, his eyes opened just a hair as he watched the Hunter, and said in quiet, yet theatrical tone, "He who fights monsters might take care, lest he thereby become a monster. Consider that, Hunter."

Persephone rose, slowly, agonizingly, and spread her wings to pursue the fleeing Hunter, but even the impact of the wind and the rain against their tortured surfaces shot raw fire into her nerves, and she knew that there was no way that she would be able to fly any further tonight.

Elisa laid a hand on the battered Gargoyle's arm and pointed to the ground. "Look, 'Seph. They're running! You did it, you drove them back!"

Persephone turned to see the dazed form of Trent, lying where she had left him, against the crenels of the wall, and said quietly, "Perhaps... but at what cost?"

----Epilogue----

Persephone and Trent staggered along the halls of the Castle, leaning against each other for support, their eyes taking in the scars of the battle. Elisa stayed within arm's reach, as though to steady the wounded Gargoyles if either of them were to fall.

Between the rockets and the grenades that both sides had used, much of the first and second floors were rendered uninhabitable, while the third floor had been hollowed out by the rising flames. Most of the fire had died down, between the fire-retardant materials that had been worked into the walls of the Castle and the pouring rain, when it had broken through the roof.

She saw the bodies lying in the foyer, some twitching or groaning, others lying unnaturally still in the night. Sirens began to sound in the night, forming a certain macabre harmony to the cries of the dying.

Persephone wanted to help them, but wouldn't have known where to start, and she felt a much greater need to check on Branson, Elayne, and the Secret Service Agents. She felt for these poor warriors, manipulated by a callous madman into attacking her Castle, but her sympathy only went so far.

The hallway was nearly impassable, as the floor was thick with rubber pellets and discharged hornet's nest grenades, expended shells, and fallen soldiers. Persephone could feel the raw pain present here as a real, tactile sensation, and Trent had gone pale beneath his grey fur, lost in memories of the War.

She pressed ahead, hearing gunshots from the kitchen, strained her body to pick up speed, and threw an arm beneath Trent's legs, scooping the dazed canid against her chest rather than risk leaving him behind.

Her heart sank as she slammed through the double doors and saw Branson lying on the floor. Blood welled from a gunshot in his chest, staining the tiles around his body. She knelt by his body as the Agents fended off the last few Quarrymen that refused to retreat, and cried out, her heart aching as she examined the wound.

Trent whispered to her, his breathing shallow, "Set me down, lass. We can save him, if we act now, yeah?"

As he slid from her arms, reaching into his coat for a roll of bandages, Branson's eyes snapped open. He looked into Persephone's face and coughed, a trickle of blood coming to his lips, and said, "You came back for me... The President, is she out of danger?"

'Seph nodded, laying a finger against his lips, and said, "Yeah, they're retreating. We've got problems, though. SWAT is on their way, and the house is pretty much a write-off. What do you want us to do?"

Branson gritted his beak as Trent propped him up and began to wind the wrappings around both sides of the wound, but said, "Elisa, I think we're going to need a new place to hole up for awhile. Is your offer still open? If you're okay with it, Trent."

Trent nodded as he pinned the bandage tight, and looked at the President. "I may have misjudged you, President. I can't say I'm too happy about it, but yeh risked your life for us. We can hardly do less for you, yeah?"

Elayne pushed herself up from the floor, wincing as her burnt flesh shifted with the movement, and said, "I'm with loverboy, here. We'd probably be dead now, if you four hadn't been here. Count me in."

Persephone laid a hand on her sword's hilt and drew it again, then laid it across her hands, as she knelt in front of Elisa. "If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will. You have my sword, Madam President. We owe you a very great deal, after all."

Branson's flexible beak quirked up in a smile as he looked sidelong at Persephone. "Layin' it on a little thick, aren't you? Anyway, looks like we're of one mind on this. Now, I think we should get outta Dodge before the cops get here. Any ideas, Elisa?"

Elisa was left speechless for a moment, but regained her composure and said, "You won't regret this. We'll make sure you get to the Dawn Patrol base, and I vow that we'll get your home rebuilt. Better than ever, I hope. Now, Tseng, you think you can fast-talk the cops into accepting that this was a DHS op? Best I can think of to do right now."

Tseng nodded as he holstered his pistol, saluting the President as he left for the foyer. "I'll do what I can, Madam President. Kerensky, Rude, get the packages out to Reno's position."

Trent followed Tseng for a moment, claiming that there was something he had to do. When he returned, he clasped his sword, bent from the blow that had nearly killed him, to his chest protectively. With his other hand, he took Elayne's hand, heading for the rear entrance.

Branson took Persephone's proffered arm, leaning against it to conserve his strength, as the two of them walked out into the beating rain, Elisa standing behind them, pistol drawn, eyes peeled for anyone hiding in the shadows.

A lanky, pale-skinned man melted out of the shadows, a keen-edged knife in his hand, spattered in blood. Elisa brought up the pistol, but Branson held out a hand to stop her. "It's okay. King, what on earth possessed you to bring the Boys into the battle? Not that I'm objecting to the help, but why?"

The dark-haired man grinned at the wounded Gargoyles, his eyes wide as only a drug addict's or a fanatic's can be, and he replied in a sibilant, staccato voice, "Gargoyles protect, right? I figured we owed y'all one. Who protects the Gargoyles, eh? Got no sympathy for those Hoodie fuckers. Sorry 'bout the Castle though, we could only stop a few of the missiles."

Branson shook his head, mirth coloring his voice, as he said, "I'd never have asked this of you, King, you know that. All the same, I'm sure glad you came. We've got to run for awhile. Keep an eye on the place while we're out, alright?"

King saluted the Gargoyle as he melted silently back into the shadows.

As they reached the armored vans, nestled in a clearing within Graver Park, the rain began to abate, having spent its fury. The two agents hustled Elisa and Sato into the rear van, allowing the Gargoyles to take the front one.

Trent and Elayne stepped into the van, greeting the mysterious Reno, but Persephone blocked Branson from entering. "We need to talk for a minute. C'mon."

He looked quizzically at her, but followed as she stepped out of the clearing, his eyes half-lidded with the dull pain throbbing in his gut. He could tell that she wasn't feeling much better, and was quite curious as to what she wanted to say, that she couldn't say with the others, that she had to tell him right now.

As soon as they were out of sight of the vans, she turned to him, her eyes filled with sorrow and worry. She laid her hands on his shoulders, wrapping her wings around his body, and began to weep. "Branson, you should be dead. I saw you, when we split up, lying in your own blood in the kitchen. I came so close to losing you tonight. It's... unbearable."

He wrapped his arms around her waist, nestling his wings around her body carefully, and pressed his head to her soft, full bosom. "I felt much the same, when you laid in your trance. I feared that I would never be able to hear your voice again, that the fire of passion that burns within your heart would be forever extinguished."

They simply stood there for a minute, embracing each other under the night sky, the last spatters of rain running down their wings like the tears of a mournful god. They shared in each other's closeness, senses of loss, of pain, of concern, of love melting into a single feeling, sheer relief that they were both able to comfort the other.

Persephone crouched slightly, shifting her arms to Branson's trim, bandaged waist, and closed her eyes as she brought her full lips against his in a kiss, surprising him, but he locked his lips to hers gratefully. For a moment, all of their pain and worry slid away, and all felt right in the world.

----The End----