"I make an offering like this?" Heinz asked, throat dry.

"In theory, yes," replied the priestess, walking out of the room. "There tends to be another condition though."

"What other condition?" he shouted after her, fear trickling down his spine.

"Your soul, silly," called the priestess, and slammed the door shut behind her.

The temple was incredibly stuffy – Heinz had heard that there were furnaces constantly at work beneath the rooms, and it certainly felt like it. The smoke coming from the lanterns on the wall did nothing to improve the stagnant atmosphere. His clothes clung to him, sweat patches impeding every move. He struggled to kneel before the altar with the single flame rising, and breathed out, a futile attempt to remove any trace of fear from his person.

He swore that he could hear the knife shine when he removed it from the sheath.

"I ask for your blessing, goddess, and I wish to bargain," he recanted; sweat dripping from his forehead onto the exposed blade. He rose achingly and stumbled closer to the altar, stretching out his arm.

He fervently hoped he had not cut too deeply the instant the blade sliced through the outstretched forearm, aged blood bubbling to the surface. Wincing, he turned his arm over and directed the blood straight into the flame. The trickle produced was unsatisfactorily slow and weak-looking, but he somehow knew it would be accepted. He shuffled back and resumed his pained bow, wrapping a pre-prepared bandage around his arm.

The flame burned through a small metal grate on the altar – the blood dripped through the holes, a hiss signalling contact with the flame. The burning symbol of the goddess' power flickered briefly, before turning read.

"Your blessing," he repeated numbly, feeling an unpleasantly warm sensation travel down his legs.

The smoke from the lanterns crept outward, like the tentacles of some ancient undersea horror long since forgotten by man. With agonising slowness, a new cloud of smoke drew up from the grate, lit blood-red by the fire. It stung his eyes, and he felt himself reach up to wipe away tears before they ran down his craggy features.

The red smoke suddenly lunged forward, completely obscuring his vision. He moved his head quickly from side to side before realising that the rest of the smoke had seeped past his notice. He instantly made to cover his mouth, but realised it was unnecessary – he could breathe perfectly well, defying all logic. He instinctively made to touch the floor, blindly feeling his surroundings. There weren't any. The floor was gone.

Something moved in the smoke.

Heinz Doofenshmirtz. This is your name. A stupid name for a stupid man.

Heinz felt himself freeze up with fear, but his pre-practice words fell out of his mouth. "Goddess, I ask for your blessing, and I wish to bargain."

The voice was not recognisably female, but certainly not male either. It was the voice of a child, aged without gender.

You have come wishing to bargain. Such fascinations your kind hold. I suppose you want to rule?

"Well, yes, I-!"

Rule What? There is nothing to rule. The desire to dominate is a curious human notion. What do you wish to control? A business? An unwilling mate?

"The kingdom," he squeaked, as something approached.

I have heard your plea. Allow me to present myself.

The smoke became thicker before him, coiling into a black column. Although he saw none, the heat of flames passed by his face. With a burst of fire, the smoke column dispersed, and a young woman stepped out of the emptiness.

She was entirely naked, pacing without self-consciousness, but the more Heinz looked, the more he doubted whether she could truly be classed as naked. Or even female. The genderless woman examined him carefully, golden eyes reflecting non-existent fires. She moved strangely, and every so often something much larger would flicker in the smoke behind her.

What do you know of the Fire Cult belief system?

"I, I know that they only worship one god, and everything else is forfeit before Her judgement."

This is what they believe. It is incorrect. I do not judge. There is no afterlife. They think that I provide one for the just, and one for the wrong. Right and wrong are human concepts and I do not care for either. The Cult are blind to this, like all religions are, and I know, for most religions worship me in one way or another.

Heinz writhed as the woman leaned in closer, and the smoke shifted to reveal corpses, intertwined and lying in a mass grave. Most of them were children, empty eye sockets gazing up with him. He desperately tried to shut his eyes, but the image was still there. He made to vomit, but all that came was the sound. The smallest child moved suddenly, a crackle of wind on dead leaves. The mound of bodies ignited, the fire spreading more swiftly than would have been possible in the real world. As the charred bodies cracked and fell apart, the woman spoke again.

I have been Kali, Agni, Vesta, Svarog, Loki and Belenus. I appeared to Moses as a burning bush. I ignited London, laid waste to Sodom and Gomorrah, burned Rome. I am the only god, little man, and I do not care whether you live or die. All that matters is my own amusement.

Heinz flinched. Was he being refused?

"I can offer my soul in return-!"

You have no soul to give! It is the notion of superstitious primates unable to grasp the concept of death!

The woman suddenly calmed and smiled, cracks in her face appearing and revealing magma bubbling beneath the surface. She raised her hand and laid it on Heinz' face.

Behold. The Mark of Cain.

Heinz screamed as the flesh of his forehead burned and melted under her touch, the magma-like substance flowing from her body into his.

Humans are repetitive. You, my wonderful professor, shall break a monotonous cycle. You amuse me, and you shall have the means to take your beloved kingdom. But if I am to become bored, I shall use you for my own purposes.

Go now, and remake the world as you see fit.

I will be watching.

You will not be judged after death, but know now that I judge you in life.

The flames burst forth from her face, engulfing her entire body. Thick wrappings of smoke descended, obscuring the goddess from view, and Heinz turned and ran.

He awoke in the stifling room, trembling. He sat up slowly, eyes darting around the room. Cautiously, he raised his hand to his forehead. There was no pain, but a single thin horizontal red line ran across his forehead. He had been marked by the goddess.

She always came.

He sat in the smoke filled room, inhaling deeply. His lungs had long since become accustomed to the smell of Her smoke that he burned constantly.

"Blessed be those who know Her will," he whispered, exhaling a bit of smoke as he dragged the blade over his flesh, leaving a deep mark on it.

"Blessed be those who know She blesses no one," the blade bit deep into his forearm and he dragged it up to his elbow, before holding the gash over the flame, allowing his blood to drip into it before holding it closer and cauterizing the wound. The poppies burned, releasing the smoke which he breathed in, taking in as much as he could before exhaling. It left him drowsy, and he knew that he was at his best condition to meet her when he was drowsy. He fell to the ground, his eyes twitching behind closed eyelids.

When he opened his eyes again, he lay in a dome, the center of the dome inverted to hold Her. She hadn't noticed him just yet, or she chose not to pay attention to him yet. It was most likely the latter, he decided.

At first, She didn't turn as she spoke to him. Instead, she slowly turned, and he could hear the gears and sprockets clanking as Her chassis turned, her single glowing eye contracting to see him clearly.

I HAVE BEEN KALI, AGNI, VEST- OH. IT'S YOU.

The man looked upon Her eternal glory. Today She had decided to meet him as a machine of some sort. Of which kind, he knew not.

WRONG AGAIN. I DID NOT CHOOSE THIS FORM. YOUR FOOLISH MIND MERELY COULD NOT HANDLE SUCH THAT I WOULD BE ANY OTHER FORM DURING THIS MEETING.

She paused, even for the smallest of seconds, before She continued. The man knew that she would be smiling maliciously if her form had a mouth.

IT WOULD BE SO VERY EASY TO SHATTER YOUR TINY MORTAL MIND RIGHT NOW. SPEAK BEFORE I DECIDE TO DO SO.

The man smiled at her before speaking, "My Lady, merely say the word and I shall provide for you entertainment. If my insanity is what makes you happy, let it be so."

He figured she would have raised an eyebrow, if she had them.

YOU WHO HAVE BEEN POSSIBLY MY MOST LOYAL OF SERVANTS, WHY HAVE YOU CALLED THIS MEETING BETWEEN THE TWO OF US?

The man fidgeted slightly, but showed no fear to Her- he had long since purged fear from his body, as it was only another emotion that got in the way of his duties to Her- and spoke clearly, "My Lady, I have heard that you have another servant who you have granted a wish to."

WORD TRAVELS FAST, I SEE. I ONLY JUST ORDERED HIM TO GO FORTH AND REMAKE THE WORLD. HOW DID THIS COME TO YOUR KNOWLEDGE AND WHY DO YOU ASK SUCH A QUESTION?

The man continued, "I wished to see what had become of him. May I inquire where he resides?"

YOU WISH TO ENTERTAIN ME WITH HIS DEATH.

"I will only do what you tell me to do, my Lady. If our duel would entertain you, then it shall be what I shall do for you," the man replied. He had had many a conversation where he would say that to Her. It would usually end with Her sending him to kill the servant as a test of both his own skill and of the other servant's skill. Not long ago, he had killed all the priestesses within a local fire cult due to their disillusionment with Her. It had been a lengthy and bloody fight, but She had favored him and only him when the priestesses fell to their knees and prayed for a better life after their current one.

I SEE. FOR NOW, I HAVE DECIDED FOR YOU TO MERELY WATCH OVER HIM, BE IT IN SECRET OR OPENLY. SHOULD HIS WISH BE GRANTED, THEN I SHALL FAVOR YOU WITH A FIGHT AGAINST HIM. IF NOT, THEN YOU SHALL KILL HIM AND HIS RIVALS. NO MATTER WHAT, THOUGH, I BEAR NO LOVE FOR THE FIRE CULT IN THAT AREA. ANNIHILATE THEM IF THE CHANCE PRESENTS ITSELF.

The man dropped to his knees, tears streaming from his face, "I thank you, my Lady. You are most generous to allow for me to entertain you. I shall do exactly as you say, nothing less."

REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE MAN, AND THAT SHOULD YOUR TESTAMENTS TO ME PROVE FALSE, I SHALL NOT BE SO MERCIFUL AS TO GIVE YOU THE LEISURE OF CONTACTING ME. I SHALL ENTER YOUR MIND AND WATCH AS IT BOILS AND POURS OUT OF YOUR EARS. FOR NOW, HEED MY COMMANDS. FIND HEINZ DOOFENSHMIRTZ. AID HIM, AND PERHAPS I SHALL GRANT YOU YOUR OWN WISH. AND DESTROY THE IRREVERANT FOOLS WHO BELIEVE THAT I JUDGE AFTER DEATH.

The man awakened, coughing and sputtering, before walking over to the bowl beside his altar to Her and proceeding to vomit for the next fifteen minutes. Her meetings were never without consequences, he knew well. She had told him as much once he had finally expressed his undying loyalty to her during one of their meetings. Convening with one so powerful as Her would always have repercussions with it.

In her meetings with him, she always spoke of no afterlife, but she also always spoke of granting his only wish: to serve her for all eternity. Walking over to the wall in the room, he carved yet another tally into the brick, marking his tenth year in devout service to Her. He stepped out of the room before gathering up his guns and knives. They were not his, but weapons She had shown him in a vision that he must use. The revolvers were especially important, for he had used them recently in the execution of the Chief Priestess of the local Fire Cult, one who had asked for mercy after death.

As Frank Monogram- Major of the order She had formed for him and him alone- left the building, he stopped, turned, and fired a single shot, killing the final priestess of the Fire Cult in the Cult's building. He then turned and left. Whoever he was, Heinz Doofenshmirtz would find himself in the company of Her personal entertainer very soon.

The roughly hewn wooden door was ajar—indication enough that it would be permissible to enter the room. Nevertheless, the young acolyte was hesitant to set foot across the threshold. She drew upon every ounce of boldness within herself and, holding her head high, pushed open the door.

The foyer to the private quarters of the High Priestess was dim, lit only by the enormous fire blazing in the stone fireplace that could have easily fit every occupant of the temple. Though she had been inside the sitting room on select few previous occasions, the beauty of the room—a far cry from the rest of the temple—never failed to take her breath away. Elaborate motifs were carved into the stone surrounding the fireplace: licks of fire and tendrils of smoke that would have looked real save for their granite facade. Heavy tapestries draped the walls, each depicting a vivid but morbid scene of townships aflame. And in the middle of the room, parallel to the fireplace, sat a red velvet chaise longue, upon which reclined the High Priestess herself.

The young woman—and she was young, given her position of high standing with their deity—was stretched back languidly, the thin tube of an opium pipe held between her full lips. She looked so supremely unperturbed by her surroundings that the acolyte began to doubt whether her entrance had even been noticed. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, though, than the heavily-lidded eyes of the prone woman fluttered open and immediately locked upon the new arrival.

"Katie," High Priestess Isabella stated, her voice startlingly clear given that she had seemed near-comatose not moments before. It was neither a greeting nor a reprimand; a mere statement of fact. Nevertheless, the young acolyte felt the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen in fright.

Resisting an urge to wring her hands, Katie met the eyes of the priestess with what she hoped to be calm. The temperature of the room was making her sweat, but she knew that to wipe the moisture from her face would be an admission of weakness. They were a Fire Cult. Heat was supposed to be of no consequence to any of them. Startlingly, the priestess appeared unaffected by the sweltering heat. Perhaps her connection with the great Solara was to be credited for it.

"Your flagrancy," Katie began, certain that she would have to choose her words carefully, "there has been a delay in the delivery of," Katie peered at the opium pipe, knowing full well how empty it must be, "of our amenities." She decided to wait for a reaction before proceeding with any details of the "delay."

Isabella's eyes closed once more, this time with a small cringe. When they finally reopened, she slipped from the chaise lounge and stood tall, peering at Katie. The even gaze being sent her way was almost enough to wither the acolyte on the spot. Nevertheless, Katie maintained visual contact, attempting to subtly blink the sweat from her eyes. Even in midriff top and cropped pants, every inch of her body felt like it was smouldering.

"Delayed," Isabella repeated. Katie noticed the velvety eyes of the priestess dart back to the pipe, and she could swear she saw a trace of alarm. In a moment, though, it was gone, and she questioned whether it had been there in the first place.

"Yes, your flagrancy." Katie gave a brief, respectful dip of her head. "Master Flynn has yet to procure our goods, and we have been unable to establish any sort of contact with him—"

"Flynn?" The name came out sour as it rolled off of Isabella's tongue. "If I know anything about that conniving little weasel, then I highly doubt that he has had any difficulty procuring the goods. What I would believe is that he had taken our generous payment and made off with it." Her face twisted into a scowl. It was astounding that someone could bear such fierce beauty with such hate in their expression. Despite her fear of the High Priestess—or, at the very least, of the divine power at her disposal—Katie's body could not help but flush with an entirely different sort of heat.

"That is... also likely," Katie amended, praying that her current state of weakness would slip by the attention of the priestess. She chewed her bottom lip as she watched Isabella slink around to the other side of the couch, the elegantly woven layers of the priestess' skirt swirling about her pale, slender thighs. When she stopped, she was barely a foot from Katie. The acolyte felt her breath catch in her throat as the priestess placed a finger under her chin and lifted it to face her.

"No more waiting around for him to come to us," Isabella hissed. Her breath carried the sweetly pungent aroma of the opium. "Send someone out. Gretchen, perhaps. She should be able to take care of the thief with little to no difficulty." Her fingers cupped Katie's chin, her grip tighter than was comfortable. "As for you..."

It felt as if a cold stone of fear had dropped into her stomach. Realizing that she was in a very precarious position as the messenger of bad news, Katie suddenly tasted the bitter terror of a threat to her very existence. Unwilling though she was to gaze into the molten eyes of the one who could reduce her to cinders with only a simple request to Solara, Katie could not tear her vision away. She was only reassured by the fact that she would die looking at the achingly lovely young woman before her. It would be pleasure enough before the release of death.

To Katie's surprise, the hand holding her chin turned to gently stroke her cheek. Her heart now nearly tripping over itself in mixed dread and unbidden hope for forgiveness, Katie closed her eyes, prepared to meet whatever fate was about to befall her.

In the next moment, she could feel the light tickle of hot breath on her neck and the ghosting sensation of lips near her ear. "Katie, darling," Isabella breathed, every soft syllable flowing like liquid fire, "the next time you barge into my quarters, ensure that you are bearing information that will make me smile. You know how much I dislike being upset. But if I am kept happy—well..." Her tongue flicked out and ran up the edge of Katie's ear, sending a cascade of mind-numbing shivers up and down the latter's spine. "...everyone will benefit." Her fingers rapped against Katie's cheek affectionately as she withdrew. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, your flagrancy," Katie managed to whisper, still reeling.

Isabella smiled toothily. "Excellent." She spun on her heel and drifted away, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. Her staff was leaning on the chaise lounge, and she took it, lighting the sun-shaped talisman at the end in the flames still swirling in the fireplace. Not removing her gaze from the torch, she flicked a hand in Katie's direction. "Go find Gretchen. Inform her that she has been ordered to find the thief Flynn and acquire what is rightfully ours by any means necessary." Her countenance grew dark, and the flames at the tip of the staff grew brighter, fire caressing the priestess' raven hair in a way that would have been dangerous to anyone not protected by Solara's divine grace. "And have her return Flynn to the temple. Alive would be preferable."

Katie swallowed back the return of the knot of fear in her throat, and she gave a quick nod. "Yes, your flagrancy," she repeated. "Right away." With no desire to give the priestess any reason to repeal her lenience, she turned to leave.

"In nomine spiritus flamma," murmured Isabella, and Katie, unbidden, turned so that she may echo their simple prayer. She nearly gave a cry at seeing the staff ignite into an explosion of flames, which soon engulfed the young woman in the middle of the room. The acolyte was a half-step forward before she noticed that Isabella appeared untouched by the fire. Though Katie could hardly withstand the staggering temperature from feet away, the priestess did not seem to be in any sort of agony. Her eyes merely glared unseeingly at the talisman on her staff, her mortal spirit lost in the conflagration of a fury fuelled by the combustible temper of their omnipresent goddess.

"In nomine spiritus flamma," Katie choked before stumbling back toward the door, ensuring to close it fully behind her as she left the room. The corridor, though perpetually warm from the furnaces constantly roaring in the temple's underbelly, was cooler relative to the priestess' sitting room. The flickering light of the torches lining the stone walls was a welcome relief from the glare of the inferno surrounding the priestess.

Both hands still pressed to the rough wooden surface of the entrance, Katie was a moment in regaining the strength in her trembling frame. It was unlike her to be weak—members of the Fire Cult were inducted for multiple reasons; unwavering faith in Solara, dexterity, and cunning being amongst them—but if there was anyone who could bring Katie, supplicating, to her knees, it was the High Priestess. There was no one else who could instil such a vortex of intimidation and desire into her very soul.

If her fellow acolyte, Gretchen, did manage to find Flynn and have him returned to the temple... Katie didn't allow herself to think of him in the vengeful clutches of the High Priestess. And despite his crimes against them, Katie found herself praying to Solara for mercy against the young man's soul. However, with what little knowledge she possessed of Solara's true nature or power, let alone how it would be channelled by their leader, Katie knew in her still-racing heart that it was unlikely that mercy would be granted.

"Ready?"

"Mmhm."

"Good, break a leg and all that."

It was the desperation that always struck Phineas. After all, people were stupid in every rung of society, but rich people tended to be more cautious with their money. In the slums, they were just as suspicious, but they were so desperate to escape that they would try anything. They were willing to believe, if only for five minutes. Phineas loved them for it.

He slackened his stance, lowering his shoulders and setting his jaw in the gawking expression of a middle-aged worker. His usual waistcoat and trousers had been replaced by overalls. He had given himself a comical little paunch, and a purposefully grimy stubble. He looked like one of them, and that was important. They would never trust a man in a suit.

Ferb, his often silent partner, had elected to something similar, reluctantly replacing his bowler hat with a flat cap and wore loose clothing that could have been pulled from a charity shops, if there happened to be any charity shops.

"Name?" asked Phineas suddenly, even though they had rehearsed already.

"Cardones," said Ferb, flashing a fake identification card.

"Capital," murmured Phineas, peering around the corner into the alleyway. "And I'm one Cyrus

"Ironside, steel worker."

He drummed his fingers on the handle of the cart reassuringly. The stench of the place, the desperation was directly in his face. He wondered if he was getting a little too excited with his work these days.

Then again, he thought, it was their fault for being poor. The system was laissez-faire, could they not understand? They certainly did not help themselves by breeding like rabbits. No self-control, he concluded. But then again, Ferb was like that too.

Phineas moved on the spot, ready to burst out into the alleyway and attract customers. Something gave him a little pause.

"Did you hear about the Luddites over at the mines?" he asked.

Ferb shook his head and tapped his watch.

"I know, I know, we have to get going. Still, it would seem Albert has a rather heavy-handed way of dealing with protestors. With more peelers on the street, things will be getting harder."

Instead of waiting for a reply, Phineas pushed the cart around from behind the pub and into the alleyway. With the pull of one ornate switch, the cart twitched and groaned, opening to the sounds of gears and cogs, and their produce stood for all to see.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" shouted Phineas, jumping onto the side of the cart. "Boys and girls! Are you tired of working incessantly, never once given the real reward for the sweat of your brow?"

"Sweat of your brow?" Ferb sniggered.

"Shush. Well we have the answer! I am Cyrus, fellow dock worker and once in a very similar position to you! As you see my associate indicate, with our products, brought down in price just for you, the luxuries of the upper classes can be yours!"

A small group of workers, grimy from a long shift, began to filter into the alleyway, followed by several housewives who nervously glanced around, not wishing to be seen buying. Phineas smirked inwardly. They disgusted themselves.

"I there any man among you who has looked at an opium den and thought, 'I deserve that!'? Wages are poor, I know. You have families to feed. Well, what if a certain gentleman had procured some opium for a low price."

"Wos at fancy word mean then?" said one of the workers.

Phineas briefly allowed a flicker of annoyance to cross his face. If he was using more educated words, they might begin to lose interest. Dim understanding. Quick tempers, slow minds, he repeated in his head.

"Ah, my apologies, I often think myself very smart good sir, when in reality, I heard the word from a magistrate."

The men grinned and chuckled, picturing Phineas in the dock and pleading his case with the flair of showmanship.

"But perhaps, if you wish for a stimulant, rather than the slow bliss of opium, I can interest you in this." He held up a small vial. "Straight from the coca leaves of South America, this small but powerful little beauty is called cocaine. You'll be a faster talker than me, I'll wager, and you'll be charming girls left and right. You could make a Fire Cult priestess fall for you with this!"

Phineas had learned the word 'cocaine' in the newspaper. The substance in the vial was, like all of his produce, cheap watered-down mimicry of the sort that would make the shadiest black market ashamed.

"Or some cheaper relief, for when the stress is too much, how about laudanum?"

He heard some approving murmurs from the growing crowd. Laudanum was prescribed by doctors, so it had to be good. If Phineas' concoction could be described as laudanum at all.

Phineas heard a familiar children's skipping rhyme start up near the front of the pub. Two girls were playing, oblivious to the dealings behind them. The rhyme gave Phineas warm happy feelings every time he heard it.

"Up the close and down the stair, a deal with the devil for a dare, Ferb's the muscle, Flynn's the thief, Isabella's the girl who buys the beef… Up the close…"

The names 'Phineas and Ferb' had become a popular slogan to describe unsolved crimes. Phineas was quite pleased with his own infamy – the people believed them to be lovable outlaw characters. In reality, only the cons and tricks were their handiwork, but Phineas was happy to take other people's credit.

"I'll take some of that loud stuff!" A voice cried, and Phineas snapped back to reality.

"Of course, good sir! Mr Cardones, the laudanum for this fine gentleman!"

The grubby men exchanged goods – as the coins jingled in Ferb's grasp, and the other man pocketed the vial, the crowd seemed to accept the salesmen as legitimate. Within seconds, several were shouting orders, waving pouches of silver at the man on the makeshift stage. Phineas stepped back a little and allowed Ferb to conduct the actual business. He took in the desperation like they would take in their knock-off opium. They were utterly dependent on him for this moment.

He realised why the girls had been skipping and singing that particular song.

The sound of a silver coin being flicked to the girls was almost inaudible over the crowd, but the squeaking of leather and uniformed marching soon quietened the people. Dressed in the black uniforms of Albert's police, the three men made their way through a swiftly parting sea of people. The skipping girls ran off, giggling.

The officer took off his hat and smiled. His pointed, harsh face was marked by a duelling scar on his right cheekbone. Phineas heard Ferb breathe in sharply, and knew why – the officer looked remarkably like Phineas, down the sharp blue eyes and face ready to curve into a smile.

"Do I have the honour of addressing our two roguish legends themselves?" He had a slight Prussian accent.

Phineas took a step down from the cart.

"Is there a reason for this? My associate and I have a permit to sell."

"Albert does not take kindly to drugs," yawned the officer, waving away the glaringly forged permit. "Besides, I highly doubt you are who you claim to be. You are really Phineas Flynn, are you not?"

"Right, I'll be Frederick the Great next. I have the right to ask for identification, I believe."

"How very amusing," the officer flashed a golden badge. "Thyssen. Thaddeus Thyssen and your new General Director of Police. In advance, you must forgive my actions if you are not in fact Phineas and Ferb. I believe in a hands-on approach to crime, however, and I need to get Phineas and Ferb off the street. Take them."

Phineas swore as the policemen advanced. There was little point in resisting – they had swords, and Phineas knew for certain that the young Prussian knew how to use one. Thyssen really was very similar to him. Perhaps they were related in some way. Ferb shot his business partner a glare.

"I am Ironside, this is my partner Cardones. There are no criminals called Phineas and Ferb, it's an urban legend!"

"That may be true," said Director Thyssen. "If you are innocent, believe me, the paperwork will be filled out."

The brief flourish of the hand from Thyssen was an over-dramatic gesture to any other observer, but Phineas was fascinated. Thyssen had the exact same dramatic flair, the pointed features, everything.

Phineas felt the inkling of an idea. The long con.

Most of the crowd had begun to disperse – several shuffled out of the alley and hung back, watching curiously. A cloaked figure moved between them, and the people reared back as if burned. Thyssen turned, curiously watching the figure approach. A grimace marred his features as he recognised the dress of a Fire Cult acolyte.

"Disgusting as he is, young Ironside here speaks the truth. The High Priestess would have words with him. I suggest you three scuttle home."

Phineas tried not to outwardly laugh as Thyssen's mouth opened and shut, resembling the world's most militaristic fish. The other two men had wisely moved to the side.

"Albert shall hear of this!" The officer spluttered eventually, seeing his newfound power subverted just days into his job.

"Give him my blessings," said the acolyte, a voice of sugar laced with cyanide.

Thyssen moved a hand towards his sword, but seemed to think better of it and stepped aside, gesturing contemptuously towards Phineas and Ferb. The priestess took the keys, more aggressively than was really necessary, and removed the cuffs from the briefly incarcerated conmen. Phineas smiled his thanks, but cursed inwardly. Out of the frying pan… he thought.

The acolyte stood defiantly until the officers had slunk off into the pub, and the crowd nervously took the hint and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The Fire Cult member swivelled on the spot.

"There were some Maharajah scouts in that crowd. Baljeet does not entertain competition."

"Competition, sister? Why, my associate Cardones and I are but poor businessmen…"

"And poor actors," she snapped, her superior smile visible beneath the hood. Lenses flashed.

"Ah. Gretchen."

"Hurm, you show fear now. You were hoping for someone lenient perhaps? Katie? Oh, wave to Adyson for me."

Beginning to sweat heavily, Phineas let his eyes travel up to the roof of the dilapidated pub. A second robed figure stopped aiming down the sights of her crossbow to give a short wave. Phineas heard Ferb swallow cautiously, as if any movement would set off the trigger. Which to be fair, probably would.

"You are very popular these days gentlemen," said Gretchen, leaning casually on the cart. "Those Prussian officers… If the Fire Cult had greater influence, things would be vastly improved, I assure you. So the police and the Maharajah, interesting. And Ferb, I do believe one man is calling for your head."

Despite the circumstances, Phineas could not help but sigh. "What did you do now Ferb?"

The other man shrugged, but his expression was sheepish, with a hint of pride.

"I may have had… knowledge of his wife. And daughter. And son. And by chance, his mother, but that was an interesting coincide…"

"Yes, yes, wonderful," said Gretchen. "And now, Phineas Flynn, also known as Ironside, also known as Django Brown, also known as Doctor Phileas Fogg, we come to our disagreement, miniscule in comparison."

"Look," sighed Phineas, "you have to understand my position as a…"

"Hurm, you misunderstand. I am only here to escort you."

On the roof, Adyson whistled, and a horse trotted onto the street before the pub, the heavy wheels of its carriage rattling across the cobbles. Phineas and Ferb went very pale very quickly. He could talk his way out of this perhaps… Bargain? Phineas needed to vomit.

Suddenly, an idea was engendered. It was not much to go on, but if he was going to meet the High Priestess, it would be better than nothing. He messed his red hair, shaking the intentional dampness from his person. Smiling with fake confidence, he applied his trademark goggles, and unhooked his waistcoat from the cart, intending to change in the carriage. Ferb followed his lead obediently, reaching for his bowler hat.

"Hoping to dress to impress?" Gretchen sneered.

Phineas waited until he was ready to step into the fire-red carriage before replying.

"Not at all, my compassionate friend. If I must have words with Isabella, I would rather face my end as myself."

He really hoped Isabella was reasonable. And that her goddess was not a vengeful one.

The problem with power, mused Baljeet, is that there's always someone trying to take it from you.

He watched his odalisques playing in the fountain of the inner court without really seeing them. Six lovely young women splashed and laughed, their wet clothing clinging to their skins and leaving very little to the imagination, but his mind was lost in memories.

The Rai family had moved to the city from their rural hometown in the colonies seeking a better life. What they had found was not much better and in some ways worse. Baljeet's parents had worked themselves to death in the textile factories – literally in his mother's case; she had been impaled by the drive shaft of the steam engine that had powered the looms when it exploded.

Baljeet had been forced to take care of himself and failed miserably until the age of nine, when he had saved one of the neighborhood bullies from choking to death on a hunk of sausage. The hulking boy had shown his gratitude by protecting the weakling from others, and over time they had become inseparable.

As he grew older, Baljeet discovered he had a natural aptitude for numbers and began running a clandestine game hall under the back steps of the local Fire Temple. With his large friend as enforcer, few tried to weasel out of their debts. Those that did would come to regret it.

By their late teens the two youths had left the numbers racket behind and moved into the much more profitable business of opium smuggling. Once they had "convinced" some lesser merchants to allow them to join in and manage the operation, profits grew and their organization expanded accordingly. Their lifestyle had improved drastically, and the slums of their childhood were all but forgotten. They lived almost like kings, now, and Baljeet was known far and wide as "The Maharajah".

Baljeet's native paranoia had expanded along with his empire, not without reason. There had been three assassination attempts against him over the years, all foiled by his associate, bodyguard, and – when he allowed himself the rare luxury of sentimentality – friend. Although there was no tangible proof, the last one had had all the earmarks of a Fire Cult plot.

He cursed the day he had first thought of brokering a deal with the local Temple whore, a slip of a girl named Isabella. She too had risen in power over the years, and was now one of the youngest High Priestesses on record. It was the Fire Cult who got people hooked on the opium the Maharajah's organization sold, grain opium for the wealthy and laudanum for the merchant classes.

The truly poor were of no consequence. That had been his first lesson in life.

Lately, though, there had been a spate of counterfeit drugs being sold on the streets, and he found it irksome. However dubious the morality and legality of his business, Baljeet never cheated his customers. That had been the secret of his success in gambling as much as it was now in the opium trade. That someone would besmirch his reputation was almost as infuriating as being beholden to the Fire Cult for his current good fortune. He was certain they wanted him out of the way in order to have complete control of the trade, and therefore complete control of their worshipers.

The odalisques splashed and played, and Baljeet made up his mind. One of them could, possibly, maybe, conceivably, be an Acolyte – so none of them could be trusted. They would have to be disposed of, permanently, and there was only one person that could be trusted implicitly to do the job right.

Baljeet clapped his hands twice and a large man came running. One did not keep the Maharajah waiting. He had learned that the hard way.

His voice was high and sweet, made for a choir of angels brought to earth. "Yes, O Mighty One?"

Baljeet's voice was scarcely lower in tone than the eunuch's. "Bring me Buford.

Suzy stared at the Koi fish with barely masked contempt. They just floated around aimlessly, and Buford would spend hours just looking at them. If it was a clear day, Buford sat at the edge of the small pond, Suzy next to him. If it rained, he brought out an umbrella and a tarp to sit on. She stayed inside those days. The fish weren't worth getting soaked and sick over.

Hours wasted on fish, wasted on philosophy and meditation. She much preferred it when Buford was following Baljeet around. She could get information then, and information was power. Her boyfriend easily told her of most of the happenings within the organization and she was able to piece together a more complex picture.

But those stupid fish were a distraction. She needed Buford to be more proactive. She needed him to tell her more, the information he withheld was usually the more important. She needed him so she and her brother did not have to live under the thumb of their parents.

Suzy would have preferred The Maharajah, but he was far too smart to trust her.

"What's wrong with you?" Even if Buford liked to philosophize, his voice was still gruff and coarse.

Suzy smiled in a manner plastic and wide, "Nothing, sweetheart. What makes you think something's wrong?" Her pitch was perfectly practiced to convey innocence.

"You're glaring at my fish again."

"Was I?" The petite blond tilted her head and tapped her chin with a well manicured finger, "I didn't mean to. I was just thinking."

"About what? You seemed pretty spaced out." He wasn't paying attention to her now, his eyes firmly locked on his fish.

Suzy dug her fingers into the ground. She was not second place to a bunch of fish, her pride stated so. She had to remind him of that. Perhaps later that night...

"Nothing in particular," She stood up and dusted her skirt, "Is there anything you want for dinner?"

"Meat," He answered without removing his gaze from the small pond

Suzy rolled her eyes, "Can you be a bit more specific?"

Buford paused for a second, "Lots of meat."

Suzy gnashed her teeth. Philosopher though he was, Buford could still be dim as a cave. As she walked away, all she thought about was how much she hated those stupid fish.

Thaddeus entered the king's throne room in a very bad mood. Perhaps he'd been know for such bad moods before, but this time it was even worse. He had nearly had the two most infamous criminals in the kingdom, only for them to snatched out from right under his nose. It was like offering a bloody steak to a ravenous tiger and then pulling it away right before the tiger began to eat. Needless to say, Thaddeus was sure that His Majesty would feel the same way about his predicament. He was more than surprised when he realized this was not the case.

"What do you mean, 'forget about them', My Lord?" Thaddeus was barely able to retain his self control, "The largest criminals in your kingdom are nearly apprehended and you disregard them as someone petty like... like... like someone who hasn't committed a crime at all!"

Albert looked up from message he was reading, "Really, my young Thaddeus? That was the best you could come up with?"

Thaddeus steeled himself, but tried not to look at his king with contempt. "The law is absolute for all. No one commits a crime too petty to be called innocent," he replied stiffly.

Albert chuckled a bit. "Rather Draconian of you, hm? And I wouldn't even consider you my Dragon..." he trailed off. He shook his head, "But other news for now. How goes it with the protests? As I remember, I left you in charge of affairs there."

Thaddeus smiled maliciously, "We have tightened security by a tenfold. Shoot to kill has been authorized as well."

Albert frowned. "I do not remember asking you to kill my subjects, Thyssen," he replied, dangerously quiet.

Thaddeus was quite confused, "But My Lord, if you do not show the subjects discipline they are liable to rise up against you!"

Albert eyed Thaddeus, and the General Director of Police got the feeling he was in trouble. "You know not what you do, Thyssen," he pulled out a typewriter that looked like it was over a thousand years old. However that was not possible, as Thyssen had seen very few typewriters in the kingdom, all of them being new ones. "I shall call you back later. When you leave, tell Irving he may enter," Albert waved a hand dismissively to Thaddeus, and the Prussian left as swiftly as possible without staining his reputation.

Less than a minute later, a man no more than twenty came into the throne room, kneeling before Albert. "My Lord," he spoke with a slight lisp, his brow sweating and forcing him to push his crudely manufactured glasses up his nose to keep them from falling off. He was dressed in the garb of a servant- a simple blood red robe signified his importance to his master.

Albert clapped to get the servant's attention. "Rise, Irving," Albert replied. Irving complied, pushing his long orange hair out of the way so that he could see his master better.

Irving was in a miserable state, his eyes sunken in from malnutrition. They both knew that it was not due to the fact that Irving was given insufficient amounts of food, but rather that Irving took so many poison neutralizers that he had little room in his stomach left for much else. In the fifteen years he had served in Albert's court, he had never been mistreated by his master whatsoever. At least, not in Irving's opinion. If anyone outside of the throne room had seen the way he was treated, he thought that perhaps even Thyssen would flinch. But it didn't matter. Irving knew that Albert was the only man who could rule such a kingdom filled with corruption and not be in a constant state of rage about it. Perhaps it was the typewriter Albert always had with him. Irving finally decided to speak, "My Lord, I heard about how the Fire Cult betrayed you."

Albert laughed at the idea, "Betrayed me? No Irving, those whores at the temple were never my allies. Therefore I was never betrayed."

Irving was at the very least extremely surprised, "But My Lord, what of the tribute you pay each other? Surely that signifies an alliance of sorts?"

"Such tributes are pointless and the High Priestess knows it. They pay the rent for the Cult's building, I pay them for getting the privilege to have them in my city. We both end up breaking even in the end," Albert replied, fiddling with the typewriter. "Could you get me some more paper? I'd like to speak to them," he asked.

Irving nodded quickly, procuring a roll of paper from his robe and handing it to Albert. "I had anticipated such an event, My Lord," he replied, handing the roll to Albert and watching as he fed the roll into the slot. "If I may ask, My Lord?" Albert looked up, "How did you come to acquire such a device?"

Albert waved his hand dismissively at Irving. "This was given to me by one of the merchants from the Orient. He proved to me that the gods spoke through this meager device, and I bought it off him for a small fortune. It's been worth it, though," Albert replied, typing the keys of the typewriter reverently.

Irving furrowed his brow. "And the Ragnarok device? Was that too inspired by the gods from the machine?" he asked, his interest piqued.

Albert nodded and shushed him, "You cannot speak so openly about that, Irving. What if someone who didn't understand its true nature were to hear about it? They'd crush us both in jaws of steel!"

Irving nodded, tacitly stepping over to his king's side, watching him type.

Everything goes as planned, Albert wrote, Is the Council pleased with my work so far?

They both watched in amazement as the keys depressed by themselves, writing out their own message. I cannot say at the moment, as the Council has yet to see your end result. And you need not type this. I can hear you quite clearly.

Albert straightened his back and spoke instead, "You can? Could you have told me earlier?"

No.

Albert raised an eyebrow, "But why not? I wouldn't have had to-"

Enough. The text itself radiated authority, and Albert silenced himself. Good. As for your work so far, the Council shall review it and make any necessary changes. You will not remember what has happened should the changes be made. Or perhaps you will forget my existence entirely. No matter. Your emotions state that you are bewildered by such certain information.

Albert nodded, "Yes. The Fire Cult: what should I do with them?"

The Major should clean them up, unless the Lady of Dyes has a problem with it. The text was somehow emanating emotions, causing the two present to feel them. You. Servant. Leave your king and myself alone for the moment.

Irving, still in awe of the construct itself, left without a single word. This left Albert alone with whatever spirit inhabited the typewriter. Irving would have feared for his king, but Albert did not fear this supreme being, so why should he? Irving turned and left the antechamber, resolving that he would check up on the Ragnarok project as soon as he could. Albert would want a status report on that immediately.

Albert held the device in his lap as it began to type again. What did you wish to speak about, little man? I do not have all day to tend to your needs. I am quite busy with outside affairs as it is.

Albert nodded in understanding, "I'd like to make a request, my lord."

A request, hm? The text gave off a slight air of authority. What would you have from me? You have a kingdom, do you not?

"I do, my lord. But I wish to ask of these criminals that Thaddeus spoke of. What is to happen to them?" Albert asked.

I believe not anyone in the Council truly knows. We are more or less making up your fates as they go along.

Albert blanched, "You have no concrete plan, my lord? But why not? Why rule this world without an exact outcome of how it will play out for us all?"

You shall not question the Council. The text gave off a simmering anger. Your world is dictated by our minds. We all have better things to do than listen to your complaints. Was it not I who revealed to you the existence of the Council? Was it not I who let you know that Solara is a construct we use to communicate with others besides you? Albert nodded silently. Good. And you will stop that Ragnarok business immediately. It won't be completed within your lifetime anyway.

Albert nodded, "So you have told me. I suppose I am such a minor character within your story that it is not harmful to tell me such things?"

These things are true. For the moment however, we shall convene. Your section is one of the ones awaited by the Council to be presented before we truly begin our project. I shall speak to you at a later time, perhaps. The typewriter stopped and Albert set it aside, sighing. He supposed that someone would come seize power from him eventually- that member of the Council had close to explicitly stated it.

He frowned. No one would stop Ragnarok except if the Council deemed it unnecessary. Even then, they might toy with the thought of it after he had left. Albert wondered what he would do with is remaining moments as king, thinking of all the different possibilities he could use to his advantage. For now, he would wait. Apathy, he reasoned, was a peaceful way to watch everything fall apart. And so he lounged back, and sent for Irving. Perhaps he'd bring the Fire Cult to their knees, he thought. They wouldn't realize he had struck until he had the High Priestess in his bed. And by then, they'd all be either dead or enslaved. Albert grinned. This would be fun indeed.