Millennium Man:
"All Dressed Up"
by Jacob Milnestein

"He's so cold, he will ruin the world tonight,
All the angels kneel into the Northern Lights.
Kneel into the frozen lights."
-Courtney Love,
‘Northern Star’
 

A thin trail of blood ran down his chin, his immaculate features now disfigured with lavender bruises. He dropped to his knees causing a second bout of blood to gush forth from his mouth.

Desperately he clutched at the wound in his side; his hands came away stained crimson.

Before him lay the corpses of his extended family, torn open like discarded slabs of meat in an abattoir.

Tears streamed from his eyes, intermingling with the blood.

The first corpse stared blankly back at him, dead black eyes unfocused and tongue hanging from the corner of its mouth. Once the corpse had been his loyal companion, Millie the Millennial Mutt.

Sprawled out next to the dead dog lay the dismembered form of Millennial Girl, her insides torn and dropped in unruly piles above her head.

"Victoria…" He gasped, reaching out a hand to her bloodied corpse.

The final blow struck, severing his head from his body. His body spasmed for a moment and then collapsed upon the ground, the head rolling aimlessly across the cold floor of his inter-dimensional Millennium fortress.

A tall man dressed in a pin-stripe suit towered above his remnants, a thin smile creasing the features beneath his moustache. Slowly he sheathed the sword back in its umbrella casing and lifted the communication device upon his right wrist to his crooked mouth.

"This is the Bowler," He spoke in a prim and aristocratic English accent. "Millennium Man #746386 has been retired. Now awaiting further orders."

Static filled the air between him and the lifeless superheroes, a twisted and dark voice birthed from the white noise.

"This is the Imperial Magistrate." It hissed. "Congratulations on the completion of your mission. Please proceed to lower-Earth #746387."

"Acknowledged." The Bowler nodded and lowered his wrist communicator.

He took one last look at the desecrated nest of superheroes and then stepped back, fading into nothingness.

Michael Manly brushed the stray strands of blonde hair from his right eye and proceeded to adjust his tie before the full-length mirror of his bathroom.

His well-manicured fingers pulled down the tired skin beneath his eyes, stretching the collecting shadow that had begun to gather.

The past week had left him drawn and exhausted, every waking moment consumed by the duality of his chosen lifestyle. His sleep had been full of horrific nightmares, vivid images of pain and suffering.

Each new nightmare was staged upon a different set, acted out by a different cast of players, all different and yet all wearing similar faces.

It was as if the various casts of his dreams were archetypes of some kind, reflections of himself and people he had met during his waking life.

If he had been a suspicious man then perhaps he would have assigned more significance to the potential wisdom such portents offered him but, despite being many things, Michael Manly was not superstitious.

He was a man who believed in seizing fate by the horns and making his own destiny. He believed in his career and he believed in the Capitalist values society had thought him – no militant or radical views for him, such things fell completely by the wayside in his personal philosophy.

But more than being a man, raised within a Western society with Western values, Michael Manly was a Science Hero, one of the few to be blessed – and in his eyes it was a blessing – with extra-normal powers.

Of course there had been superheroes before him and he had no doubt there would be those that came after him. It was with no small amount of arrogance that he hoped that perhaps some would be inspired by his own heroic visage to take up the war against what Capitalist society had taught him as ‘wrong’.

He did believe in vigilantism but he did however believe in each man, or woman for that matter, defending the greater good of society. There was a time and a place for everything and his time was undoubtedly now.

Already the media had picked up on the activities of the unknown Science Heroine named Mysteria and though he had not had the opportunity to meet with the young lady in either of his guises he was quite complacent in his opinion that what she stood for was grounded in a similar perception of right and wrong as his own views.

The idea made his chest swell with no small amount of pride.

It was always comforting to stumble upon the realisation that one was not alone, struggling in a void against an endless array of faceless villains.

To date he had not encountered any significant ‘supervillains’ during his time as Millennium Man.

Oh, there had been that business with ShadowWraith and other assorted criminal demi-deities but he still felt there was an absence. There had been a lack of swaggering, gentlemen villains – well dressed crime bosses who could quote from literature and match him in witty conversation.

In short they were no villains he could respect.

In all honesty the lack of swaggering archfiends saddened him somewhat. His interest in his life of heroism had been waning as of late, not because he no longer believed in what he was doing – he would always believe in those morals – but because of the lack of foes that he could intelligently converse with. Most would sooner swing a fist at him than open their mouths and when they did they only sound that would invariably escape was a grunt or some other primal snarl.

If only he could believe in his enemies.

He sighed and splashed water over his face.

It was time to pursue his other life, his real life...

The ethereal walkways curdled at his present, transmuting from pure, virgin white to ugly shades of crimson and scarlet.

He had been raised within the empty spaces between worlds, the glaring white static of places that separated an infinite number of Earths. Jettisoned as a child into the light, his sole contact had been with the Imperial Magistrate and even then through telepathic communication.

He had required neither food nor any other form of physical sustenance but simply grown in the presence of his master, that shadowy voice at the back of his mind.

His life had been forged by that voice, guiding him from world to world.

Of his own home, he knew nothing – there were no remaining memories from the short time after his birth and the voice of the Magistrate always managed to avoid the subject somehow.

The gateway opened before him, lights dimming as if he were an actor taking the stage for some Shakespearean monologue. He stepped forwards, umbrella first and was birthed into a new world, the lights of that inbetween place fading behind him.

Rain stained his face, accumulating in beads beneath the bowler hat he wore.

Earth #746387…

Carefully he slung his brollie over his shoulder and began his long trek into the city's heart, in pursuit of his prey.

"I must confess I've not quite fully adjusted to being on this side of the desk."

Michael Manly flashed his smile at them, exposing his perfect white teeth.

Regina Darling smiled back, glancing for a moment at her auto-cue before turning back to her guest.

"Well, I for one am pleased you could join us, Michael." She replied, words dripping from her sugar sweet voice as she reached out and patted him lightly on the knee. "It makes a change to see you in a different light, dear."

He smiled back, knowing full well that she was flirting with him and being somewhat bewildered by the situation.

It wasn't that he was intimidated by the idea of flirting nor was he particularly adverse to the attention she paid him but the ever-present cameras made him feel somewhat uncomfortable as if he had suddenly made the transition from predator to prey.

"So, Michael, there's been a lot on the news about the apparent revelation that billionaire playboy Bruce Todd may actually be Millennium Man. What do you make of such allegations and the influx of vigilantes that seem to be besieging our city streets at present?"

He crossed his legs uncomfortably.

"Well, Regina, I wouldn't go so far as to call them vigilantes. As for Bruce, I've known a good number of years now and I believe that any speculation as to whether he is or is not Millennium Man is just that: speculation."

She flashed her smile again, the smile of a predator.

"You're not of the popular belief that someone such as Bruce would have ample time and money to devote to a life of vigilantism?"

He shifted uncomfortably once more.

"No, I'm not and I must reiterate once more that I really do object to the term vigilantism."

"These vigilantes – what do you think they herald for the city? Are they our allies or a sign that law and order in Pacific City is significantly impaired by their presence? Are they our saviours or a sign that our police force are no longer competent and that any individual in a suitably garish costume can place him or herself outside and above the law?"

He coughed politely.

"I really don't understand quite what you're driving at, Miss. Darling but I'm afraid I don't agree with your classification of them as vigilantes. I believe that the presence of both Millennium Man and, to a lesser degree Mysteria can be nothing but a positive sign. They are not a threat who class themselves above the law but rather honest and noble citizens who wish to assist the police in their war on crime but find the prospect of revealing their true identities to the criminal underworld something that would place both themselves and their families in danger."

She laughed politely, smiling once more.

"I'm sorry, Michael," She continued. "I seemed to have touched nerve. Anyone would think that you were one of those costumed vigilantes."

His face turned pale, staring blankly at her cold, calculated expression.

"But such an idea is slightly preposterous." She reached and touched his knee again. "Don't worry Michael, we're serious about our coverage of the vigilante situation." That smile again; as if she was somehow inferring that his own show had was below par. "It reminds me of Jack of Ripper actually."

He squirmed in his seat once more.

"I'm sorry, I don't follow."

"A hundred years from now, historians was still be guessing as to the identities of these masked vigilantes and unfortunately I don't believe anyone will be any the wiser, which is a shame, in my opinion and thus why I believe its imperative we unmask these people here and now in the present and to do this we have to go through the most likely suspects; establish just who these people are, which brings me back to your good friend, Mister Bruce Todd."

"I'm afraid, Miss Darling, that you really will have to talk to Bruce about such matters. And on that note, I really must be leaving."

He removed the microphone from his jacket lapel and stood up.

Regina glanced at the director who made frantic notions as he stepped past the cameras and off the set he heard Regina's polite yet forced laugh as she made excuses for his untimely departure.

The interview had been a sham from the beginning; he should have known that before he agreed to participate.

"Stupid, Michael, really stupid." He chastised himself.

From the moment he had met her, the suspicion had settled in.

Miss. Regina Darling, new media sensation of Pacific City, ‘darling’ (if you'd excuse the pun) of the rich and famous and pretender to his throne.

The most disconcerting aspect of the events was that in his heart, Michael knew she would win. This whole media clash, Manly vs. Darling, that the press had begun to publicise, the outcome was already written. He couldn't hope to compete against her, she was too...too...feminine!

He stood outside the studio, watching the passers-by and flashing a smile at the few whom still recognised him.

If he were a lesser man he would have been smoking by now.

But Michael Manly was better than that, he reminded himself. Though he may ultimately lose this media farce due to the feminine manipulations of his opponent and the fickle attitude of his audience he would still take pride in the fact that he was Michael Manly...

And then the doubt began to cloud him.

What if he lost all enthusiasm for his work? What if he was relegated to some late night slot and simply gave up? What if he stopped taking pride in his work, what if he stopped being Michael Manly...what if he became Millennium Man constantly and for all the wrong reasons?

He shuddered.

Running away from the mundane descent of his real life and using his alter-ego as escapism wouldn't be fair...it would in fact result in irreparable damage to both himself and to the sanctity of his ideals.

There was a fine line between Michael Manly and Millennium Man; any corruption of either side would cause insurmountable damage to the other. There were rules and oaths that he was bound to.

The spire of the Pacific Tower cast its shadow down upon him and accordingly he looked up at it.

On most days the site of Pacific City's most memorable landmark would swell him with undeniable pride, today it did nothing for him but restate the fact that he was sinking deep into despair.

He was losing. For the first time in his life he was actually losing.

Michael Manly had gone through school and college and university a winner. He had been well liked, he had perfect teeth, people respected him. Sports, academia, he had excelled at both. Everything in Michael Manly's life had been perfect.

At school he had dated the prettiest girls and whilst their lips often left devoid of interest he was too much of a gentleman not to flatter them with his kisses. His teachers and his fellow students had liked him...well the ones that counted anyhow.

There had been the kids who smoked behind the bike sheds and did drugs and swore at the teachers but they hardly counted, did they? And yet still he felt a tinge of regret, of nostalgia for those boys in their thick eyeliner and girls in torn-up T-shirts. He would occasionally fantasise that for one day he could be like them and not be as perfect as he was.

But that day never came. Michael Manly went from being the perfect student to the perfect employee, landing a job at KGPC with ease and graduating to presenting his own show within record time.

And now everything was to be toppled by one woman, one stupid, insinuating woman.

If he had been on the other side of the fence perhaps he would have appreciated that the tactics his predator had used were the same as the tactics he employed with his female guests.

But he was unable to appreciate such a point of view at present.

The door opened and a cloud of cigarette smoke drifted past him.

He wrinkled his nose and glanced at the door.

Regina Darling stood, sunglasses covering her eyes and cigarette in her dainty hand.

"You're still here?" She asked, raising a perfect blonde eyebrow slightly.

"I was just going." Michael replied, turning away from her.

"You know what you just did in there was down right rude." She snapped.

He turned once more and looked at her.

"You were dictating the interview." He replied.

"Oh, grow up. Are you trying to tell me you've never pushed an interview in a direction your guest hasn't wanted, just to make the story? Of course you have, I've seen you do it. Walking out like, that was just damned impolite though."

"You kept pushing the point." He protested feebly.

She took her sunglasses off in a single angry gesture and glared at him.

"What is it with you? Are you gay or something?"

His face flushed red.

"No. No, I'm not. How dare you say that."

"Oh. I thought that was your thing. I was thinking this Bruce guy was your boyfriend or 'life-partner' or some such shit or that maybe 'Manly' was just a stage-name. You must admit it does sound a little camp, can't quite imagine a Mrs. Manly fitting into the equation." She paused and glanced upwards in a thoughtful gesture. "Christ, Mrs. Manly...I bet your poor mother had a rough time."

"Listen, I'm not gay." He shouted angrily.

She threw her arms up in a mock gesture and proclaimed:

"I'm in de Nile, I'm in de Nile."

"Now, who's acting like a child?" He smirked.

She lowered her hands once more and took a drag on her cigarette, leaving lipstick traces upon the white filter.

"Okay, so I was wrong. I thought you were gay and you weren't. Big deal, get over it and let's move on. Why were you so hung up on Bruce?"

"I'm not your ‘guest’ anymore, I don't have to put up with this." He replied, arrogantly dismissing her question.

"So you're just going to walk away from all this?" She asked, placing her hand upon her hip.

"Yes." He replied. "I've got more important stuff to deal with."

He turned and walked away, the stench of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes.

Behind him Regina Darling shouted something obscene.

He drew a line in the gravel with the end of his umbrella.

He had never been particularly found of Australia. In the world of the Imperial Magistrate it was a colony and whilst he had never witnessed it as such, he was assured by that voice that haunted his eternal walk that it held nothing but savages and convicts.

In this world it seemed to have progressed somewhat. The house before him almost looked civilised.

Briefly he wondered if the Imperial Magistrate existed in any other worlds aside from his own. Was it possible that the majesty of his home dimension was reflected to some degree in these lesser Earths? Could #746387 house an empire as mighty and majestic as the one that had given birth to him?

He shook his head decidedly.

It was folly to think in such a manner. If these lesser-Earths had contained brother and sister empires of the Imperial Magistrate then surely he would have encountered other Bowlers in the walkway between worlds. Any empire even vaguely related to the Imperial Magistrate must have been killed off in its infancy in these inferior planes of existence.

The only real world that existed was one he had left behind long ago.

Carefully he placed his feet over the line he had drawn before him, the old mansion frowning down upon him. He took another step and disappeared, leaving nothing but the gathering winds behind him.

A single well-aimed fist connected with his nose, shattering the bone in a flurry of blood.

The face stared back at him in surprise; a few teeth rolled out of the mouth as it opened to speak.

"You're not supposed to hit me." The voice protested and collapsed to the ground, knife rolling out from his hand in much the same way that the teeth had escaped his mouth.

Michael Manly relaxed his fighting stance, watching the crumpled heap of the young punk sink into unconsciousness before him.

He flexed the fingers of his right hand, covering in the bright red and white spandex that constituted his costume.

Punching that kid out had felt surprisingly good.

He had never characterised himself as someone who used violence as anything more than a last ditch effort to prevent the harm of innocents but he had to concede that tonight he had gone out looking for a fight.

Several delinquent youths later had led him to this realisation.

It wasn't as if they were any particular threat to society but they looked as if they might start trouble and, after all, it was always better to prevent the problem than search for a solution once it had already manifested itself.

Wasn't it?

He shook his head sadly, taking to the air once more. This wasn't like him. He wasn't one of those other superheroes, the dark shadows he had seen cast upon the walls of another country – a secret society focused solely on their own good and not that of the wider society.

He wasn't one of them; he was Millennium Man, the defender of Pacific City, a shining light in the darkness...

At least he thought he was. After his earlier confrontation with Regina he was no longer sure. In all honesty he was terrified that somehow he had become infected by the corruption rife in those others.

Hadn't they started out as shining lights in the darkness also? Hadn't they once been heroes with ideals and morals before that time when they were cast down, like Milton's Lucifer, falling into the depths of their own self-worship.

Had he already taken the first steps down the path those older Science Heroes had walked?

No, it wasn't possible.

Those bastards had received their powers via freak accidents or concession with otherworldly realms – unholy realms. He had received his powers from the light itself! Of all the people in all the world, he had been chosen as the new guardian, the recipient of the great powers that made him Millennium Man.

Anyone could have been Millennium Man, Bruce Todd could have been Millennium Man but the higher powers had chosen him. He was Millennium Man!

The fire began to burn within him once more, his chest swelling with pride.

He had been chosen! There were none like him, no other Millennium Men; he was Michael Manly, the only Millennium Man!

From out of nowhere Regina's words returned to him.

"What is it with you? Are you gay or something?"

They hit him harder than any physical object, patches of colour erupting before his eyes. He faltered; reaching out for the distant light of his mentor as the world slowly turned upside down.

For a moment he hung there, contorted and struggling against the pain and then the shadow engulfed him and his body, a dead weight now, fell down towards the shattered pavement of Pacific City.

Bruce Todd stretched out in his chair, a half-drunk glass of whiskey sitting upon the polished wooden surface of the table besides him.

He had been drinking since the early hours of the morning, a dark foreboding clouding his vision. Desperately he had attempted to cloud such feeling of dread with the warmth of alcohol but to no avail.

He remained alone, facing the warm; his stomach turning as the future bore down upon him.

The light step of feet from behind his chair was the first warning he received, shoes against the soft carpet of his private rooms.

The stranger stopped, standing behind him and casting a thin shadow in the light.

"Bruce Todd," The voice addressed him in perfect English. "Its time."

"I know." Todd whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks and forming puddles on the warm spandex he wore.

He rose slowly from his chair, revealing his true height and trim figure, clad in reds and white, a simple yellow symbol emblazoned on his chest.

"You are Millennium Man #746387 and, as such, an enemy to the sanctity of the Imperial Magistrate." The voice continued.

Bruce turned around, looking at the other, tears streaming down his face now in past his neatly trimmed black moustache.

"How did you find me?" He whispered.

"The same way I found all the other Bruce Todds, all the other Millennium Men." The Bowler responded, tapping the temple of his own head. "The voice of the Magistrate guided me."

"I want you to know something about me." Todd confessed. "I never meant to hurt anyone, it was just a bit of fun. God knows, I tried to be seen actively flirting with women when I was in public but I was terrified that if the press ever found out I was...was gay that they'd be a scandal."

A frown crossed the Bowler's face.

"What are you saying?"

Bruce dropped his head in shame.

"I used to pick up young boys at night...sometimes as young as 15. They knew what they were doing, it wasn't like I pressured them or anything and...and I always used to pay them well. I'd bring them back here and get them to dress up as Mysteria for me and I...I would dress up as Millennium Man. It was just a game though. Just a game..."

He wept freely into his hands.

"What are you talking about?" The Bowler demanded.

"I'm gay!" Bruce shouted suddenly, his face turning red. "I just don't fancy women. I tried, Christ knows, I tried. I even made those young boys dress up as Mysteria in the hope that if I had sex with enough of them perhaps the image of Mysteria would begin to arouse me, perhaps I could stop being gay."

"You're making no sense." The Bowler replied shortly, raising his umbrella and pointing it towards Todd. "This conversation is over."

"I'm sorry." Bruce whispered, looking up at the Bowler once more. "I'm not really Millen..."

A beam of electricity burst forth from the end of the umbrella, blowing a hole through Bruce Todd's chest and sending him reeling backwards. By the time he hit the floor, he was dead.

The Bowler raised his wrist communicator once more, just as he had done on some many other occasions.

"This is the Bowler. Millennium Man #746387 has been retired. Now awaiting further orders." He reported.

Silence.

Beads of sweat began to form upon his forehead.

"No." Came the rumbling voice of the Magistrate. "You have not."

"What?" The Bowler exclaimed. "But how can it be? I killed Bruce Todd."

"Bruce Todd was not Millennium Man #746387." The voice answered.

"But that's impossible. He was wearing Millennium Man's costume! We've never come across a Millennium Man who wasn't Bruce Todd."

"Millennium Man #746387 is not Bruce Todd. Repeat: Millennium Man #746387 is not Bruce Todd!" The voice snarled back.

"But..." The Bowler protested feebly, his eyes falling upon the bloodied corpse of the man he had just killed.

"Find Millennium Man #746387! It is no imperative that you eradicate #746387, your window of opportunity is already closing."

"But...but if he's not Bruce Todd, then who is he?" The Bowler stuttered.

"Initiate emergency procedures. Terminate the entire city and then proceed to shatter the entire dimension. There isn't enough time to find him by himself. Destroy Pacific City!"

Michael Manly wrapped his arms about his head, curled up in a foetal position upon his bed of shattered concrete.

The light reached out to him, brushing his bruised face.

Desperately he clawed out towards it, hoping against hope that it was his mentor, returned to this dimension and come to lead him by the hand to a new and better place.

His eyes cracked open, the world blurring into focus once more. It was night yet the sky was full of light.

He rose up, leaving the crater that he had caused upon his impact with the ground.

A single pillar of light filled the sky, burning the shadows of night away with its terrifying illumination. Its point of origin looked to be the Todd mansion on the outskirts of the city.

He shook his head, trying to shrug off the last of the grogginess.

Whatever had happened to him could be dealt with later, for now he had to find out what was happening to the sky...and to Bruce.

The seams of his suit came apart, tearing as his body transformed.

The bowler hat fell from his hand, rolling aimlessly about the floor as energy coursed through his body, burning the suit to cinders and setting light to his surroundings.

Bruce Todd's absent eyes stared back at him, unseeing as the flames lapped about his corpse, setting fire to the fake Millennium Man costume and the flesh beneath.

The house exploded, transformed into a funeral pyre for Todd's lifeless body, the burning form of what had once been the Bowler at its very centre.

It reared up, pulling itself from the fire, the unholy symmetry of its true form shredding the grass and gravel that surrounded the mansion.

A small dot appeared on the horizon, a single light amongst a sea of energy summoned by the Bowler to aid in his transformation.

Slowly Millennium Man came into view.

The Bowler's eyes narrowed slightly.

#746387 wasn't what it had been expecting. His hair was blonde and his face was bruised from some recent fall or battle. The progress he made across the sky was something like what limping is to running, a slow crawl across the sea of light toward Todd's former mansion.

The creature leapt forwards, covering the distance between them.

With a single blow it knocked the Science Hero from the sky, slamming him once more into the ground.

He looked up from the place he had fallen, blood streaming from his mouth.

"W-What are you?" He gasped.

The Bowler howled in triumph, raising its claws above its head.

Desperately the felled hero tried to focus upon his adversary and found himself unable to see straight. His vision had deteriorated once more, images blurred and obscured and yet strangely familiar.

The Bowler administered a second beating, shredding his costume and tearing his skin. Blood spilt forth, spilling across the latex but failing to stick to it. He felt a rib shatter beneath the Bowler's assault, huge talons mutilating his body.

He threw his head back, desperately trying to focus on something, anything and bracing himself for the next assault.

It never came...

Panting, the Bowler reverted to its human form, naked and dishevelled.

"You came running just like a dog." He laughed. "What an arse you are. Running right into me like that. You fool."

"W-Who are you?" The fallen hero gasped.

"You all ask in your final moments. All of them." A frown crossed the Bowler's face. "You're not looking at me. Look at me when I speak to you."

The Science Hero turned his head, tears running from his eyes, just like the ‘other’ Millennium Man before him.

"I can't see you." He whispered, exhausted, feeling his consciousness slipping once more away.

"You too, then?" The Bowler smirked. "I've seen a few of you impaired in such a fashion. Pathetic really. If you were going to live behind today I'd tell you it gets worse but fortunately I'm here to end this swiftly."

He raised his hands above his head, preparing to deliver the final blow.

Michael Manly desperately tried to hold onto reality, struggling against the exhaustion and failing, falling once more into the shadow, the naked form of the Bowler standing before him, hands raised and poised to destroy him...

The pale man in the long black coat struck a match against the wall and lit his cigarette.

"Pacific City. Bloody lovely place, this looks." He scowled, squinting at the pillar of light that encompassed the sky. "I've got to say this place looks like it could benefit from folks of our obviously irrefutable credentials. Ain't that right, love?"

He glanced over his shoulder but there was no reply.

"Well, looks like we picked a nice day to move in to say the least."

He smirked as if his absent companion had said something amusing and then took in a lungful of smoke from his cigarette.

"Pacific bloody City. Christ, what a joke."

Blowing a stream of smoke out through his nose, he turned away, his absent companion following behind.

They gathered together in their places of shadow, their places of praise.

Long red capes and spandex uniforms exchanged for dark coats and black ties.

Illumination filtered through the stained glass window that depicted one of their saints. Each and every member of the assembly stepped past, remained instead in the warm and comfortable darkness.

"The Imperial Magistrate's emissary failed." The first replied, a strand of silver hair falling over his grey eyes. "Stupid twat froze up. Used too much power during his transformation."

Another of the assembly rolled her eyes and cursed beneath her breath.

"Christ, that means they'll be sending more of their forces to retrieve the Bowler's body, doesn't it?" She asked.

The man with the silver hair nodded solemnly.

"Yes, it does." He replied.

"If only that idiot Manly had let himself die. We could have bloody avoided all this." A third interjected.

"Too late now." The first replied. "We're going to have to prepare ourselves."

"Prepare ourselves how?" The woman questioned.

"For a worse case scenario." The man with the silver hair answered. "We're going to have to prepare ourselves for an invasion."

They exchanged glances.

"We better get onto this Manly bloke then. Hope he's ready for the challenge." The third said sullenly.

"If he's not," The woman answered. "Then we're all buggered."

The light continued to play about their feet.

None of them took a step towards it.

Outside the grey light of a rising dawn awaited them.