The sound didn’t seem to be getting any closer so, after exchanging a curious glance with Helga, there
was an unspoken agreement to tacitly go and face their mutual destruction head on.

Since her limp was so pronounced, Scott had no choice but to break his own rule and touch her; he put an arm around her waist and tried to help her stand.  She accepted the help without a qualm, and he felt kind of bad for always thinking the worst of her.  True, she acted somewhat crazy, but considering she hung around Bob, she was probably as normal as could be expected under the circumstances.  Certainly being a demon didn’t help.

They were standing in the chalk outline of the former wall when they saw Ereshkigal as she turned towards them, her eyes now in supernova. Her iguana pal pulled something out of his coat but Scott didn’t wait to see what kind of weapon he had; he simply shot him, a tightly focused beam that sent him flying across the barren field.

The field itself had changed - the golden reeds were an austere and withered brown, as if subjected to
a year long drought in a matter of seconds, and the sky above seemed to be curling up at the edges, a photograph held over a flame. Ereshkigal herself looked to be shrinking inward, her sky body clouding up with thick smog, her cheeks sinking in and making her face look sharply angular and truly inhuman. “You cannot do this to me!” She screeched, and as Scott braced to fire, she clenched her hand, and it felt like something was crushing his throat.  He was paralyzed, as if gripped in a giant’s fist, and he guessed Helga was being held the same way, as she wasn’t moving either.  Ereshkigal was clearly shriveling up, just like the fields - the question was, would she finally just die before they ran out of oxygen?

And that’s when they had a visitor.

There was a noise, a very loud “Whoomph”, and something - someone? - appeared in the dying field several meters behind her.  She released them violently and they both hit the ground hard, Helga letting out a strangled cry of pain, as Ereshkigal turned to face the interloper.

From what Scott could see from his vantage point on the ground, it was a man wearing sleeves without a shirt. He was one of those demons with yellow crystal in place of eyes, like the kind whose head had been mailed to Logan, only this guy had scruffy, dirty blond hair and thick five o’clock shadow.  As his eyes adjusted, he realized it wasn’t sleeves he was wearing, but tattoos.

From shoulder to palm his arms were covered with tattoos of twining black vines, the leaves somewhat like ivy but not exactly.  And in lieu of a shirt he wore a black leather harness that crisscrossed his bare chest like a leather X.  But as he reached behind him, Scott saw that it wasn’t just a bit of Gothic decoration - it was anchoring a shield on his back.  As he brought it around to hold aloft before him, it reflected a flash of painfully bright light, and Scott’s initial estimation that it was silver quickly altered as he saw Ereshkigal doubled in its reflection, along with everything else.  A mirror shield?  Effective against laser beams, sure, but what the hell else could it possibly be good for?

But the crystal-eyed demon hefted it up, aiming it as Ereshkigal, and shouted, “Call off your dogs of war, or face the wraf of Medusa!” He actually said “wraf” - his Cockney accent was so thick you could stand
a spoon in it.  And did he honestly say Medusa?

“Fucking hell,” Helga gasped. “Is that Rags?”

Rags?  Oh, this just got better and better.

Ereshkigal barked out a laugh that sounded pained. “Oh please.  Like that stucco-faced heap of parrot droppings could raise a finger against me.  Leave, minion, before I lose my sense of humor.”

But the demon Helga had called Rags - who was apparently barefoot but wearing jeans with a hole in the knee, a slight bulge of a soon-to-be beer gut pooching out over his waistline - held his mirror shield steady, peering over the top of it with his odd crystalline eyes.  “Medusa will not let you harm her faithful servant. Oh Holy Sifters - “ It sounded like he said sifters, and Scott felt the crazy urge to laugh. “- turn your righteous gaze on -”

“Shut the hell up, you stupid piece of meat!” Ereshkigal demanded, and made a violent hand gesture at Rags.

“So now I’m supposed to believe Medusa exists?” Scott asked Helga, and then it dawned on him -- nothing had happened to Rags.  He didn’t go flying; he didn’t freeze.  He kept on invoking his god (?).

“-on this usurper who wishes to harm--”

“I told you to shut up!” Ereshkigal thundered, starting towards him.

And then she froze.

Light was shifting in the mirror shield, and Scott realized two things simultaneously:  Ereshkigal was no longer being reflected in it - nothing was being reflected in it.  And yet, at the same time, a shape was starting to emerge from within its bright depths.

Scott wracked his brain, trying to dredge up what he knew about Medusa.  Sadly, it mostly came from some horrible movie he caught one night on cable.  But wasn’t she supposedly killed by seeing her own reflection in a mirrored shield, making her “powers” reflect back on her and turning her to stone?  So maybe there was some accuracy to the oft-trotted out legend, just in the absolute wrong way.  Of course,  Bob would have you believe that was typical.

What Scott could see beginning to form in the mirrored shield was a large, dark shape that didn’t look remotely humanoid.  And Rags kept murmuring. “Oh holy sifters, pass judgment on those who would sin
in your sight -”

The image resolved into three women, standing in a tri-point stance (one in front, the others behind). They were very Human in appearance, and so stunningly beautiful he could feel his breath ripped from his lungs even though they were only half-visible.  They were not identical triplets, although they were lovely in the same classic way, with high cheekbones and delicately pointed chins, something that the thick black strip of kohl painted(?) across their closed eyes didn't detract from.  They all had long hair, also the same yet different; the front sister had hair the color of a starless night sky, the second had hair as green as fresh limes, and the thirds tresses were as red as garnets.  And the strands … moved.  Not as if in a breeze, but as if independently alive - curling around their faces, caressing their long, slender necks, and entwining with each other, living tendrils of color.

(So not snakes. Mythology apparently had gotten that wrong too.  But weren’t the Gorgons supposed to be so hideously ugly they turned men to stone?  How absolutely wrong could a myth be?)

Ereshkigal made an odd noise, like she was trying to clear her throat and sneeze at the same time, and Scott got the impression she was trying to break free of whatever was holding her in place.

Then the Gorgons opened their eyes.

All Scott saw was a flash of glowing red so bright he instinctively snapped his own eyelids shut, and still had an afterimage of the frozen Ereshkigal burned into his retinas.  He waited for it to fade, then opened
his eyes slowly, peeking out through slits just to be certain he wouldn’t be blinded.

Ereshkigal was still standing where he last saw her, only now she was a statue carved of pure granite, hand raised as if warding off an unseen attacker, mouth frozen open in a silent, forever scream.  “Holy shit,” Scott gasped, unable to stop himself.  The Gorgons did turn people to stone with a look.

Rags collapsed to the ground, forehead pressed against the dirt, ass in the air, as if worshipping at the feet of an unseen deity.  But the guy was laughing.  He paused to let out a victory whoop, and said, “Ah Sifters, your ‘umble servant thanks you. You kicked her miserable, bony arse.  I hail your magnificence.” The way he said it, it sounded like “magnififence”.  He then continued laughing in what he realized now was utter relief.

“Way to kick some godly ass, Rags,” Helga said approvingly, sitting up.  On the ground beside her, Scott had the right vantage point to see there was a fragment of bone sticking out of her leg, just below her knee. Compound fracture.  How the hell was she not screaming in agony?

Rags sat back on his haunches and grinned at her, taking the air in in great gulps. “I did nofing; it was the Holy Sifters, the Gorgons, Medusa and her merfiful sifters. They would never abandon one of their priests to harm by another … deity.  Uh, she was a deity, right?”

This guy’s accent was unreal. Was he putting them on?  Maybe he had a cold?

“She was.  Mesopotamian I think, but don’t quote me.”

“Cool. Well, sumftimes it does pay to worship the right gods, ya know.”

Scott had finally mentally processed everything Rags had said. “Wait - you’re a priest?”

Rags nodded, and placed his mirrored shield - now just a plain old mirror again - onto his back. “A High Priest of the Stone Temple.  I serve the holy trinity of Medusa, Euryale, and Sthenno.”

Scott was relatively certain the guy was putting them on, and yet every shred of proof that existed said he was on the level.  But he didn‘t look like the high priest of anything but a hangover.  “Holy Trinity?  No one’s told the Catholics about this, have they?” He said, making a lame joke.

Rags shrugged as he stood up. “I don’t bother wif the fringe religions.”

Okay, now that had to have been a joke.

“Hey, can one of you boys help me up?” Helga asked. “I seem to have lost the ability to stand on my one good leg without passing out.”

“Oh, yeah,” Scott said, getting up into a crouch beside her, so he could slip his arm around her shoulders. The arm the pseudo-Logan had stabbed still hurt like hell, but couldn’t possibly be as bad as a compound fracture and a broken limb.  He thought about trying to carry her, but he didn’t know how to do that without hurting her more.  Also, he was relatively sure she wouldn’t let him even try.

“Fuck - was I too late?” Rags asked.

“Too late?” Helga repeated, as Scott helped her up to her feet.  She hissed a sharp breath through her teeth, but went on with the conversation as if nothing was wrong. “Hell man, you’re our deus ex machina; whenever you bothered to show up, you were right on time. You’re gonna have free drinks for a year.”

That brightened Rags up appreciably. “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah, I’ll cover your tab.  And since I’m bangin’ the boss, I never have to pay it either.”

Did crudity come with insanity?  Maybe she was just that way naturally.  Or maybe it was a demon thing.

Rags gestured towards the ruins of the castle, specifically the red smoke trailing into the sky. “What’s that about?”

“Oh, that.  Mr. Magoo and his friends broke open Ereshkigal’s well of souls”

“Why do you insist on calling me-” Scott began, but then stopped. “Well of souls? Wait...you’re saying those are souls?”

Helga shrugged as best she could. “Well, they’re called souls.  I’ve never seen one up close and personal, so I can’t tell you if they’re the real thing or not.”

Scott shook his head. J ust when he didn’t think things could get weirder, they always did, and it never failed.  There was no upper limit on weirdness, it seemed.

“Can you give us a lift outta here, hero?” She asked.

Rags nodded. “Yeah, why not?  ‘S not like the Sifters would allow me to stay here anyways.”

“Why not?” Scott asked, thinking there must have been a sinister side to Gorgon worship.  How could there not be?

“Well, this place is gonna collapse, inn’t?  When the god dies, the world they created collapses.  Ever‘body knows that.”

Scott considered that, aware that this still could be complete bullshit.  He wouldn't put it past any of them to have a bit of fun with the only Human in evidence. “So the god that created Earth isn’t dead?”

Rags scoffed derisively. “No god created Earth - it’s just a natural gateway convergence point.  Blimey, what do they teach you in those Human schools a' yours?”

Obviously not enough. “Before we go … we have some people back there, and I don’t want to leave them.”

The shirtless demon shrugged a shoulder. “Whatever.  Pound or penny, doesn’t matter shite.”

So this was it?  They were going home?

Why didn’t it feel like victory?

22

Maybe the whole point of this was to prove that one person’s heaven was another person’s hell.

No, scratch that: not heaven, but someone’s idea of opulence could be hell … and didn’t he know that already?  Still, Logan figured it was just seeing it this way that made it seem like a new observation. Maybe it was this guy’s idea of a good time - a glass mansion - but Christ on a crutch, did it have to be eighty fucking miles long?  It seemed like they had been walking down the exact same see-through - and yet infuriatingly opaque - hall for what seemed like hours, but Logan honestly knew was minutes.  And had they seen anything different, or even the lord of the manner himself?

On top of all of that, Bob had started to sing. “… bombs dropping down, please forgive our hometown, in our insignificance…”

“If you have to do that at all, could you at least sing something more cheery?” Logan griped.

Bob had the decency to pause, but only for a moment. “Well I could be condemned to hell for every sin but littering - ”

Logan was about to give him a nasty shove when suddenly there was a thud; a huge thud.  Followed by an equally huge shadow … Oh shit.

The guy - Nebby whatever the hell - was about eight feet tall, and made of ... well, of course, glass.  Or some glass-like substance, only translucent at the limbs.  Most of the rest of his body was an opaque white, shot through with rainbow hues of blue, red, and green, like he had been made by an expert glass artisan.  Bob must have been thinking along the same lines, because he muttered, "Fenton, eat your heart out."

"You can't be a real Power," the glassine Nebby said, his voice as deep as a brass gong.  "The Powers don't sing.  Nor do they keep company with demonic half-breeds."

"Kisses to you too, snowflake," Yasha replied.

Nebby scowled.  His eyes were a deep gold in the center, the only place where there was any color at all, and the thin fluff of hair he had crowning his head looked like frost you'd find on a windowpane.  Logan thought the guy might actually be considered beautiful, if it wasn't for the fact that he was so oversized, and probably - as Bob had suggested - a complete dick. "Why should I not kill you interlopers?"

Only after he said it did Logan realize it wasn't an actual question - Nebby was talking aloud to himself.

"You do realize things have changed a bit since you looked out your rabbit hole, yeah?" Bob asked him casually. Everything about Bob was casual; even his posture remained loose. But if there was one thing that Logan had learned about Bob, it was that he never, ever looked like he was getting ready to fight, even when he was in the midst of one.  He figured it was just a god thing, but Helga insisted that it was actually an Australian thing. "They're always ready to have a go," she told him. "And most of the time they don't even know it."

Nebby's golden white eyes narrowed.  His face was like an intricate cavern of glass, reflecting prisms. Logan was sure that if he appeared on Earth, most people would think he was a god or an angel; he was, honestly, magnificent.

(And surely a dick.  He probably knew just how pretty he was.)

"I know the Powers trapped me in a time bubble.  The awareness came once it burst.  Do you think I'm stupid, messenger?"

"I'm not a messenger," Bob told him breezily. "Believe me, they'd never want me as their spokesman."

Nebby studied him with a studied intensity that would have made Logan scream, but as always, Bob seemed unfazed. "You're too powerful to be a lackey.  But you can't be one of them.  Are you a failed experiment too?  Did they send you here as some redemption ploy?"  His bright eyes scudded over them in a manner that could be honestly described as dismissive. "With a charged-up parasite and your avatar Human?" He chuckled, and it sounded like a crystal bell chiming. "Oh dear, this is so sad. Suicide missions always are though, aren't they?"

"I'm not an experiment, I'm a mistake, much like you are," Bob said, at once matter of fact and caustic. "If you want to hurt the Powers - and believe me, mate, I sympathize - attacking the Earth plane isn't the way to do it."

"Yes it is," he countered coldly. "They like to pretend they care about it, when all they really care about is control of the gateways. When they no longer have them to control, what are they then?  Just a bunch of jumped-up, know-nothing pricks."

Gateways?  Maybe that's what they called all those alternate dimensional openings, like the chaos wave was throwing open all at once.

"You're hurting the Being of that plane," Bob continued, but Logan had already guessed it was a lost cause. A mountain of a man made of glass probably didn't give in easily - or ever.  "They never asked to get in the middle of our war."

Whoa - this was a war?  He thought it was a minor skirmish, all things considered.

Nebby probably snorted, but it was an odd sound, like someone blowing into a jug. "They are but insects, one breed of a million-billion. If you're so concerned about them, just jump start the evolution of higher primates somewhere else. You'll get the same thing."

"This is your last warning.  Take your fight against the Powers somewhere else."

"Or what, little Power?" The glass god asked, chuckling / chiming again.

"Or I shut you down."

Now Nebby laughed hard, and it sounded just like a crystal gong. "Oh my gods, that's funny!  And I actually think you mean it, too!" He paused to wipe a glass tear from his eye. "You come to my realm with two natural born rejects, and think you can beat me?  In my own home, you miserable flop?"

"Umm ... yeah, pretty much." Bob agreed amicably.  And then, moving so swiftly he was a blur, punched Nebby in the kneecap, his fist glowing blue.

The kneecap shattered like … well, glass, spiderwebbing cracks up his leg, as a startled Nebby stumbled back. "You miserable sheep shagger," he roared - well, as much as glass could roar.  They watched with morbid fascination as his shattered knee healed up, a break in reverse, and Nebby said, his voice dripping with contempt, “You wanna fight, little Power?  Fine; let’s take it outside.”

He gestured violently upward, and their surroundings changed in the blink of an eye.

They were suddenly standing on a windswept cliff, several feet away from a long wooden suspension bridge that led to a fragment of land that seemed to be floating; supported by nothing but pale green sky.
It was covered by verdant blue growth too fine and lacy to be grass, but Logan could see no endless glass mansion.  Nor was it on this side, where they were in the shade of a dense copse of exotic trees, their paper white bark as scaled as reptile’s skin, their leaves as large and gray as elephant’s ears, protecting them from the light of a blue-white sun.

Logan edged closer to have a look below, see if the “mansion” was down there, but it seemed they were somewhere else entirely. One hundred feet below them was a craggy red canyon full of jagged rocks that rose up from the ground like spires. If the fall didn’t kill you, those things certainly would.

“What kind of weird-ass place is this?” Yasha asked, coming up beside him to have a look.

They both heard the unmistakable sound of sizzling, smelled baking flesh, right before they realized that it was her that was beginning to smolder.

She let out a cry more startled than pained, jumping back quickly into the dark shadows of the copse, the pain making her vamp face emerge automatically. “What the hell...?” She wondered, staring at Bob as she slapped out the nascent flames on her arms.

“No, what the heaven,” Bob said, shooting the smugly pleased Nebby an acrid look that should have, by all rights, caused him to burst into flames. “What do you think bringing this battle to a heaven dimension will accomplish, Neb?”

Heaven dimension?  Well, there were hell dimensions, so why the fuck not?  It was symmetry.

“I’ve already eliminated one of your pathetic little foot soldiers, haven’t I?”

“What does this mean?” Logan demanded, jerking his head towards Yasha’s still smoking arm.

Bob wore a sour grimace, as if the words he had to say tasted bad. “It means no demon not born of this dimension can survive here.  If it wasn't for Ammit’s aegis, you’d be a pile of ash right now, Yash.  All I can advise is that you stay in the shade.”

“Sit out the fight?” She exclaimed, lips twisting in disgust. “Fuck you, drai’shajan!”

Nebby tilted his head to the side as he obviously translated the name (epithet?) often used to describe Bob. “The Fallen?  How ironic, ‘cause now you are.”

Moving just as fast as Bob had moved previously, Nebby grabbed him by the front of his shirt and tossed him over his shoulder as easily as a sack of laundry, sending him plunging straight down into the ravine.

Straightening up, Nebby cracked his massive knuckles, making a strangely musical sound (like a glass wind chime), and asked simply, “Next?”

23

Wesley tried not to glance at his watch - assuming it was still even functioning - but it was getting increasingly hard not to.  Also, it was almost impossible to meditate while standing up.

And, amphetamine boost or not, he still hurt.  His ribs ached with every breath, and the sick pounding in his head seemed to ebb and flow, like a secret tide.  Considering how blurry his vision was, he figured he either had a concussion, or the Berserker had literally slapped both his contacts out at once.  The latter seemed possible, but unlikely.

He hadn’t heard any thuds from above since he'd come down here, and the kids hadn’t shown up, so he presumed - he hoped - that the Sisters had stopped playing with their food and just killed the damned things already.

He briefly wondered if Marcus was still alive.

The metal doors of Cerebro gasped open behind him, and he turned carefully so as not to aggravate his head, half expecting to see Xavier there.  But, then, he'd been told the doors would open when he was through using the machine, not necessarily when he was leaving.

Wesley stepped inside the cool, unique room (truly a feat of engineering), and saw Xavier still parked
in his wheelchair before the console, his diadem-like direct interface hanging down loose at the side. “Professor?” he asked warily, heading down the metal catwalk.

The fact that there was no response was not unexpected, but still troublesome.  As soon as he reached him, Wesley pulled the chair away from the console and turned it towards him for a better look at Xavier.

The Professor was slumped over, chin down on his chest, blood streaming from his nose and ears, soaking into his shirt and jacket in great dark patches. Wesley quickly checked his pulse, feeling his neck near the carotid artery, and he discovered his pulse was thready, weak and erratic.  At least he was still alive.

But in what state?  He could be merely unconscious; he could also be completely brain dead.  There was no immediate way to tell.

Wesley wondered if it had all been the worth the price Xavier had just paid.