It rarely rained at Lockhart Abbey, but when it did, it not only poured, but it flooded. Cats were swept out of the cardboard boxes that they happened to inhabit at the time; any Surface Runners were busted due to short-circuiting and the like; and anyone caught outside had better rush into the safe confines of the Abbey, or else they’d find themselves the latest addition to the small and exclusive club of sewer dwellers. That was a joke told by the pubs, anyway. It was much likelier that anyone who was, on the off chance, washed away by once-in-a-decade kind of flood hit their head at one point or another and drowned. But the people of Tertius 5 liked to joke.

On one such night, it so happened that the abbess, Tinea—she only went by her first name—was feeling slightly ill. The spattering of rain against the window of her office comforted her, so she took dinner there instead of with the nuns and finishing girls.

She sat in her chair, a roaring fire burning in the hearth, papers strewn out before her on her desk, and the window that overlooked New Ithaca situated behind her. She closed her eyes and sunk back into her chair, her black hair sticking stubbornly to her scalp, and her evening robes wrinkling, the grassy-colored thread mixing unceremoniously with the patterns of aquamarine. Her dinner was late…

Leather boots clomped softly on the marble floor, trailing water in their tracks. The sound was muffled by the cracking of the fire and the thunder booming in the city outside. Their owner made his way towards the desk, and reached into his belt.

Instantly, as if she had been expecting such a visit, Tinea whipped her right hand out from under her robe and clutched the man’s hand, pulling him towards her, and then pushing her desk with all her might; surprisingly, the desk skidded halfway across the room, sending the man sprawling on the ground. He scrambled up, his dark hair matted against his head and flicking into his eyes, his clothes drenched in rain water.

Tinea laughed as he slipped in the puddle he had made, but she made no move to stand. Pushing the desk had taken quite out of her; the overexertion made her sweat enough to wet her white ceremonial makeup; it drifted down her face, making her look very much like a crying Holy Mary statue.

The man gripped the desk and pulled himself up. His face was furious, his eyes burning with insane rage. From his belt he pulled a gun. Tinea stared at it: a nine mil Virtue, not in the best condition, but hard to find. She glanced at his face, studied it.

“Can you fire it?” she asked; an honest question.

The man laughed. “Of course I can! Why would I be here if I couldn’t?” But his hand was shaking; he stared at the gun in horror.

“I meant: do you want to? Or, rather, are you despicable enough to?”

Obviously terrified by Tinea’s calm simplicity, the man looked pleadingly at one of the corners of the room not lit by the fire. Tinea glanced there too, keeping her face still at all times.

A woman, clad in a black blouse that exploited her cleavage and a pair of black pants striped with gray, the third black-haired person in the room, emerged, rolling her eyes, and clutching a book. She popped it open to the first page and read in a loud, pretentious voice, but sarcastically so.

“The Bringer of Fire,” she said, “was worshipped, loved, even. It brought creativity, romance, ingenuity, and the ability to build. All of these things were wonderful, and the humans, as well as other creatures, were very grateful.”

“Hello, Kristina,” Tinea said, ignoring the showy reading that the woman had given. Kristina held up her hand for silence, and continued to read. The man was enjoying this; he had a stupid grin on his face that Tinea was hoping someone would wipe off.

“But Three…were not,” Kristina continued. “They believed that the Fire Bringer’s gifts were wonderful indeed, and that the Worlds would greatly benefit from them. But the Bringer, who was the wisest of all of the Powers, would not have given so freely if he had not expected to be repaid in full at some time or another.” As she read, she drew nearer to Tinea. “It sang to the Worlds, a beautiful song. The song was its gift, the gift of creation. It was beautiful, and yet…and yet the Three noticed something sinister in it. A different side, a darker side.”

She looked up at Tinea, and smiled. “Now, I think that’s just not true, Tea. Tell me you don’t believe that kind of talk.” She started reading when Tinea gave no reply.

“The Bringer noticed…” she paged through the book, page after page, and a bored look replaced her playful one. She looked up and snapped the book shut. “Blah-blah-blah, something about hiding, and the end. I think I could have made a better book than that, Tea, and you know how terribly I write.” Before Tinea had a chance to say anything, Kristina had thrown the book into the fire.

Tinea was enraged, but did not reveal her thoughts. “I suppose you know that that was the last copy of that book.”

“Of course I know. If I search for a book in your library for hours, I had better know what it is, shouldn’t I?” Kristina held her right hand out in front of her face, and glared at it. For a moment she flinched with pain; then the moment was over, and she was staring mischievously at Tinea once more.

“How did you escape?” Tinea asked with the same manner she had spoken to the man.

“I’ve always had a way with men,” Kristina replied coolly. “Especially the ancient ones.”

“You’ve signed over?”

“Of course, dear. It feels wonderful to be in his presence. All your problems melt away like vanilla ice-cream…”

“You’re a fool,” Tinea stated with finality.

Kristina snapped to attention and glared at Tinea. “Maybe you’re the fool, for resisting Him! Has that thought ever crossed your mind, you old cow?” She tossed her hair back and said, “So you’re the liaison?”

Tinea didn’t reply.

“So they’ll know if I kill you?”

Again, she didn’t reply.

Kristina walked slowly to the fireplace and clasped a grail in her right hand, walked slowly over to Tinea, and swung it at her head; the abbess fell to the ground, lifeless. She dropped the grail next to the body; it started to vibrate, and then glowed. Fingerprints that had been invisible beforehand were clearly seen now. A flash of light exploded from it, and then it died down, the fingerprints undetectable by the unaided eye once more.

Kristina moved slowly towards the door, ignoring the man’s shocked face.

“Shouldn’t you get moving?” she asked him, hesitating in front of the oak door.

He stared at her, confused.

“Those weren’t my fingerprints,” she explained. With those words the man crashed through the door, flinging himself down flights of stairs to escape. Kristina smiled, and made her way down, more slowly.

---

Nearly ten minutes later, a girl wearing her hair in the junior color, green, carried a tray into the room. She screamed out, dropping the bowl of soup and glass of water, both shattering into a thousand pieces on the marble floor. A headache intruded on her shock, and she had to sit down. She called for help, but not before a name and the image of a very unkempt man flashed before her eyes: PERRY WEBBS.