text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, superhero]
  
  Leaving Gilly alone in the small chapel, the Fallen needed to make a quick stop before paying a visit to the Speaker. Uriah's quarters, a simple place to live. Not much more than a bunk and four walls. However, the priest had a certain outfit that the others didn't possess. Shifting the bed over, the Fallen removed a sizable section of the floorboards to reveal a hidden section beneath. He pulled the chest from within and opened its contents on the bed.
  
  A bit of cloth, dark clothing, boots, and at the very bottom, a faceplate, one that haunted the criminal network of Sheol's Passage. Two slits for the eyes, two for the nose, a faceplate running the length of his jawline creating a muted voice, the Fallen's true face.
  
  "There. That's better," the Fallen commented, stretching his arms out as if waking up in the morning. "Now I better not keep my guest waiting. That would be rude."
  
  "So it's true. I had suspected, but I wouldn't believe it unless seeing with my own eyes. Lord protect us."
  
  The Fallen turned to see a set of bishop robes, Jeremiah standing in them. The old man looked half asleep, although Uria-- the Fallen knew his mind to still be active long into the night.
  
  "No need to worry yourself here, Jerry. Go back to sleep. At your age, men need not concern themselves with acts of valor. This is all but a dream." The Fallen finished his reply by twinkling his fingers out, signaling the supernatural was at work.
  
  "You are a wanted man."
  
  "Yes, I do have trouble keeping the ladies off of me."
  
  "You know what I mean, Uriah. The church cannot afford another scandal."
  
  "Then fortunately for you, that is not my name. The one they gave me, 'the Fallen,' is apparently who I am, though that's not the name I would have chosen."
  
  (Bishop, it's me!)
  
  "Then you also know I can't allow you to walk out of here freely," Jeremiah said, blocking the doorway to Uriah's quarters.
  
  (Please, Bishop. Walk away.)
  
  "Hmm. The age old question, what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable--"
  
  (No!)
  
  Norn's short sword flew in the air, spiraling three times before planting itself into Bishop Jeremiah's chest. The elderly man crumpled instantly.
  
  "--object... Hmm, nevermind. Problem solved."
  
  The Fallen removed the short sword, wiping it clean on the bishop's robes, humming, then left Uriah's quarters. He had business to attend to. Deep within, Uriah knew the fraying thread had completely snapped. All additional thoughts were suppressed even further.
  
  The city keep was surprisingly easy to infiltrate. The only cost was three lives. Or was it four? The Fallen didn't care to count. First, was the outside guard. He was taken down easily enough. Make a noise and he'll investigate. Disguised in the guard's clothes, the Fallen was able to slip inside the gates where he found an unfortunate member of the servant crew. Rinse and repeat. Then, there was the nobleman dressed in a fine overcoat. His cane wasn't too shabby either. Then...hmm. That's it. Guess it was only three.
  
  The servant that had so kindly lent his clothing to the Fallen also shared the whereabouts of the Speaker's office. Apparently, it wasn't uncommon for the man to stay there overnight. Such dedication to the job. His work ethic truly was inspiring, not to the Fallen however as he, too, worked nights.
  
  The Fallen stood outside of the Speaker's door. Now this was a door. Dark painted wood, finished with deep maple, the handle a thick steel, dyed black, that would have torn a normal door from its frame. Two beams, one on top, one on bottom ran across the front of it, dyed the same color as the handle. It's refreshing to find someone with adequate taste, not like those ruffians holed up in the cellar. The Speaker's work ethic didn't impress the Fallen, but his taste in doors was another matter. Perhaps they could have a conversation before getting to the business part. The Fallen did enjoy a good conversation, and with someone named "the Speaker?" It didn't get much better than that.
  
  Once again, the Fallen is presented with two options: swift and quiet or kick that sonofabitch in.
  
  > kick it in
  Fast and loose, baby. (Sigh), now Gilly had him saying it. He wasn't oblivious enough to ignore one of his main faults. The Fallen had a sweet tooth for the theatrical. Hell, every great performer had a cape. And the mask? The Fallen was fond of wearing it, an understatement at the least.
  
  The story needed a grand conclusion, a crescendo that it's all been building towards, a final confrontation. There wouldn't be a better way than to rush in like a bat out of hell, or in this case, a demon from the underworld.
  
  The door in front of him was upright. Finally. That cellar door nonsense was a struggle to work through. Not to say this wouldn't be entirely easy. No doubt it was reinforced by the finest smiths in Sheol's Passage. Luckily for the masked figure, kicking down doors was a certain speciality of his.
  
  His boot almost took the door from its hinges.
  
  The door crashed into the staircase behind it. A locked door leading directly into a flight of stairs? The Speaker certainly did have a sense of style. Wooden banisters greeted the Fallen, a few chips from the door scattered on them. Motioning to blow the chips with a gust of breath, which didn't escape his mask, the Fallen took the staircase two at a time. Like switchback trails on a mountainside, the staircase was a quick two-parter, leading into the main room of the office after a single double back.
  
  The office was surprisingly simple for one of such taste in doors. A sizable desk took up most of the floor space, two chairs placed in front for guests. Each wall to the side of the desk was a bookcase, not a single gap in place. Behind the desk, double doors leading to a balcony were drawn open, their white curtain floating in the night wind like a spirit. A lone figure stood on the balcony, back turned towards the Fallen, resting his arms on the bannister overlooking the city below.
  
  Still at a rushed pace, the Fallen almost didn't notice the shadowy figures hiding within the office. They appeared from nowhere, melding into the light from the dark, their armor a familiar sight. A lifetime ago, it was the same that he wore. At least he kept the boots. They were simply too useful to toss. The same could be said for the armor, but it didn't match the persona the Fallen displayed. It's the most heinous of crimes to not dress according to one's persona, their theme, their branding.
  
  Two of them stepped in front of the open balcony, blocking the Fallen's path. Instead, the masked demon leaped in the air, landing on the desk sending papers sprawling in the air, waving his arms for balance as his feet slid a few inches on the smooth mahogany like a circus performer walking a tightrope.
  
  "Ta-da!" the Fallen exclaimed, taking a bow for the armored men and women around him. He didn't need to count. He knew there would be nine of them. There were always nine.
  
  At long last. Our brother returns.
  
  What's wrong with him?
  
  A mind shattered. Thoughts appearing as fragments.
  
  Is this how far he's fallen?
  
  "Ha!" the Fallen laughed a singular note. "Perhaps the name the city gave me is appropriate. Still not the one I would prefer though." He didn't bother addressing one of the figures directly. The way they spoke, it was like whispering of the minds. Sound didn't travel from mouth to ear. It was just...heard, not from a single direction. The shadowy figures around him wore black armor, jagged, forged from rare carapace stronger than steel, significantly lighter too. Their helms matched the armor, covering their faces completely.
  
  Two swords, one in either hand, were drawn, eighteen blades total to the Fallen's half. Do short swords count as a full blade? Longswords are one, daggers are a quarter, so short swords, dirks, and sicas count as one-half. Hmm. But then does that mean two-handers count as two? No, that wouldn't make sense... They drew close, swords raised at the ready.
  
  "Stop!"
  
  This time the voice's origin could be located: the man from the balcony. He took a drink from the goblet in his hand, and dumped the remainder of the contents over the edge. An unfortunate person below might just get rained upon. If it were a commoner on the street, that wine would be the finest they'd ever come into contact with.
  
  The shadowy figures blocking the doorway stepped aside, allowing the man to walk into the office room. The Speaker. He still wore all black, clothing perfectly in place. No creases, no wrinkles, not a single hair out of place from his head. This was a man who was deliberate with every action, no matter how seemingly large or small. He offered the Fallen a smirk. In return, the Fallen raised his mask up just over his lips to offer the same smile back. Then he placed the faceplate back into position.
  
  The Fallen, examining his fingernails, addressed the man. The armored figures stood silent. Watching. "I'm looking to score some spice. Top level stuff. More refined than the good High King at a barbarian wedding. I'm thinking you might just be the man to talk to."
  
  "And what makes you say that?" the Speaker asked.
  
  "Familiarity with a certain added ingredient. The presence of these sinister-looking fellows. Knowledge of the amount of influence the task requires. Ambitious politicians. A target on the city's nobility. Low-level criminals left out of the loop. A few toes dipped in the murky waters of socioeconomics, but not an entire foot, mind you. I like having both attached to my legs. Need I continue?"
  
  > Please, continue
  "I'm all ears," the Speaker answered. "Please continue."
  
  "No."
  
  "No?"
  
  "No," the Fallen replied with a smile underneath his mask, one that only he knew was present. Although to be perfectly fair, his voice reflected a child-like glee that could only be accompanied with smiling lips. "And I'll tell you why. You're small meat. You're the appetizer before a good roast, the wine on the list that you skip over, the shoes you try on before deciding on the pair you really want. You're nothing but a mindless puppet who thinks himself the puppeteer. No, I don't think I'll continue. I'll save my breath for the real mastermind behind it all. I do hate repeating myself, and I get the feeling you won't be around long enough to pass along the message."
  
  "That's enough. I'll not be disrespected by a madman," the Speaker said, fists starting to clench at his sides.
  
  "Oh dear. That's all it took? I expected the Speaker of the Council to have thicker skin. Perhaps the other members aren't as direct as me. Shame. People should speak their minds, despite the outcome."
  
  "Well," the Speaker started to the armored figures, opening his palms to the ceiling in a shrugging manner. "Are you just going to stand there?"
  
  As the nine figures began to step forward, the Fallen continued. "And they call me 'fallen.' Look at you now, following the beckons of a weak man. True power lies in the ability to determine one's actions. Look at me. Do you think I give two shits what anyone tells me to do? The Speaker here is nothing but a puppet, but you're worse: you've become brainless stools for the short of stature to elevate themselves upon."
  
  He does make a point.
  
  Don't listen to him. He's a madman.
  
  He was one of us. He knows.
  
  No. He doesn't.
  
  They stopped for a moment. Then continued forward.
  
  "Nothing is ever as simple as it should be," the Fallen lamented. Then, drawing on one of his favorite plays, he channeled his energy into Criss of Hemfate.
  
  "'O' by the divine! This burden is too much to bear. I recompense, I offer resolution to the wronged. And yet there is no salvation for such a crime to behold. Is it my destiny to carry this weight alone? By the divine! I shall take three steps and crumble. For the weight is heavy and my back is weakened. There is no one to pick me up. Must I do everything myself? The others point and laugh, yet they do not understand. It's fate, you see. It's justice for a past life of evil. Fated justice: one cannot escape such a predator of the night.'"
  
  The Fallen finished with a dramatic gesture of his arms, playing the part of the tragic Criss of Hemfate. The sudden shift in character paused the approaching threat for a brief second. That's all the Fallen needed. He lunged forward, driving the weight of his shoulder into the Speaker's gut. He moved quickly. Too quickly for the armored figures to stop him. Momentum carried the two of them to the balcony, over the edge of the bannister.
  
  Falling in the air, falling, falling, falling.... fallen.
  
  > Epilogue: Fallen
  His boots shattered in the impact, a sickening crunch from one leg closely following. Whatever magic that infused the boots was destroyed from the fall, the distance too great for it to absorb. The Fallen landed directly on the Speaker, whose body now was lying several inches deep into the stony road, laid out like a broken snow angel. The Speaker took the brunt of the fall, which is the only reason the Fallen was alive. Only one working leg, but alive at least.
  
  Humming, the Fallen reached inside the Speaker's coat, searching for anything useful. He pulled a pocketwatch, tossing it to the side of the road. The same action was repeated for a pair of reading lenses. Ah. Here we are. A slip of paper, folded once longways, then again shortways.
  
  A woman passing by screamed at the sight of the dead man.
  
  "Oh hush. He was like that when I found him. Ridiculous, isn't it? That thin moustache isn't doing him any favors," the Fallen answered as the woman ran away.
  
  Unfolding the note, the Fallen discovered its contents were brief. In fact, there weren't any words. Just a symbol. An animal skull with two sharpened tusks, human femurs behind in a crossbones arrangement. Strange. Not the symbol of the Fallen's former family, the ones wearing black carapace armor. Were they working for someone else entirely?
  
  Limping, the Fallen rose to standing, taking a deep breath of night air into his lungs.
  
  "What a fine evening it is," he commented. "Nice evening for a stroll." Looking down at his leg, the Fallen noticed the white of his bone peeking through a rip in his pants. "Or should I say, 'nice evening for a hobble.' Ha! Shame. I did enjoy these pants. It's hard to find a good tailor nowadays."
  
  After a few more steps, he almost tripped on a piece of wood lying in the road, a bit of tree branch no one bothered to sweep from the street. Groaning, the Fallen bent down to pick it up. As he bent down, his reflection shone back from a small puddle sitting next to the branch. The Fallen stopped a moment, examining his faceplate.
  
  "Crude. Not in the best shape. But it'll have to do. There's nothing else in vicinity."
  
  The Fallen, using the branch as a cane, limped off into the night, his mind focussed on the strange symbol discovered. A calling card? Whatever the meaning, the Fallen knew one thing to be sure of: there's a new player in town, and the Fallen enjoyed a good game. Almost as much as gossip and a well-cooked roast.