Gargoyles – Assassins – Episode I: The Fool

Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur.

[-]

Previously on Gargoyles…

"Seventeen centuries," he said grimly. "And Merlin is part mortal. How can Arthur stand in Britain's hour of need without his wizard?"

"That is the way of life," Nimue said calmly.

"Thanks to the power of the Grail," Brother Percival continued, ignoring her. "I will be there. But Merlin? We need to find a way to ensure he will live to see that day too. I'd offer him Grail Water, but he would refuse."

"For good reason, Percival," Nimue said. "That is the precious Living Water of the Almighty, not some trinket to be handed out on a whim."

"Just think about what we talked about the other day," Percival said. "As immortals, we must always be certain to look at the big picture, not just the smaller one."

"As you will, Fisher King," Nimue said, curtseying. "I shall consider your words carefully."

~~From Crystal Cave by Gryphinwyrm7

[-]

Hotel Cabal, New York City

September 27, 2000

"Sixteen."

"Two."

A woman, clad in heavy white shawls that made it difficult to tell her age, reclined across a hotel bed. Her expression and tone were surprisingly relaxed, given the circumstances.

"It seems you've caught up with me at last," she said. "Took you long enough. You're slipping, Duval."

She spoke the name with the barest hint of bemusement.

Her visitor, meanwhile, only growled, a key gripped tightly in his cybernetic fist. Without it, even he might have difficulty moving freely through this place.

"Not without considerable effort," he rumbled. "Took nearly two bloody months to track you down, after that fiasco in New Orleans. Did you honestly think we wouldn't notice? Or that we wouldn't put two and two together about what you've been hiding all these centuries?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Not particularly. That's why I ran off," she replied coolly. "Of course, you clearly didn't search very hard. I've been hiding here in plain sight for the better part of three weeks. Not my fault you ordered this hotel decommissioned after Mace's…missteps."

"Enough prattle," snapped Duval. "You know what I'm here for, Nimue. Where…is…Merlin?"

The woman lowered her hood slightly, so that he could see her deep brown eyes affixing him with a skeptical glare.

"Do you honestly think I'd be squatting in an abandoned Illuminati black site if I knew that?" she asked. "He came to my shop in search of his missing magic. But Morgana had already forced me out by the time he arrived. We never saw each other – nor have I any intention to do so."

Duval's mechanical eye twisted in its socket, its sickly green glow narrowing to a point.

"Why do I believe you're not telling me the full story?" he said. "According to the Lady le Fay…"

"Oh, as if you can trust a single word out of her mouth," Nimue interjected, waving a dismissive hand.

"I trust that if there's one thing she wouldn't speak falsely about, it's the return of her greatest foe," continued Duval in a slightly raised voice, scowling at the interruption. "In any event, my point is this. Fourteen hundred years ago, you were given your first assignment: to ensure Merlin would live to see his pupil's return. At any cost."

"A task I most certainly accomplished," the sorceress reminded him. "Perhaps not in precisely the same manner as instructed, but…"

"And you insisted to me that it was impossible to track his location, once entombed," he added, talking over her. With every passing second, he grew visibly more livid. "That his Crystal Cave was capable of disappearing and reappearing all across the Earth, so that even you weren't certain where he was at any given moment. But you've known all along, haven't you? You've had his magic."

"Yes, Duval. I lied," drawled Nimue. "I do that."

The cyborg didn't speak again for several moments, regarding her as if he was struggling very hard not to seize her by the throat.

Eventually, he drew himself up to full height and said, "Come along. You'll need to visit Carbonek for a full debrief."

To this, she offered no reply but a slightly curled lip.

Growing even more incensed by her blasé attitude, Duval opened his mouth to say something else, but before any words came out she asked, "Did you ever wonder? Why I chose this rank, I mean. Back when they started giving them out in '76."

It went unspoken that both of them knew she meant seventeen-seventy-six.

Duval didn't entirely see the relevance of the question, but he responded, "I can't say I didn't find it curious. Chronologically, you were one of the first members of the Society. When it was still just a dream in the eye of a young Fisher King…who wanted to make things right."

"I very intentionally elected for a number toward the middle of the pack," she explained, now moving for the first time since he'd stormed into her hotel room. All she did, however, was sit up a little straighter, and begin fiddling absently with a sapphire-encrusted ring on her finger. "So that I would remain at arm's length from what you were becoming. I come and go from the Society as I please, and that's not changing."

He jabbed an accusing, cybernetic finger at her.

"Listen here, you wretched little witch," said Duval sharply. "I don't ask for much from you, do I? The last time we even spoke was the Second World War. You can go back to fleecing tourists for trinkets once you tell us what we need to know. I'll even personally ensure protection from Morgana, if that's what you're worried about."

Nimue let out a short, humorless chuckle.

"A good sales pitch. And one that might work…on someone who didn't know you half as well as I do," she told him. "But you know – on second thought, I'm wondering if I should've bought into the Upper Echelons after all. I wanted to preserve the option to leave any time I wanted but…well…"

She flicked her finger into the depths of her shawl, and pulled out a single tarot card: The Fool, the first of the Major Arcana.

Then, with a mocking lilt in her voice, she finished, "Rank didn't stop your wife. Did it, Brother Percival?"

Before he could do anything to stop her, Nimue had already twirled the card around in her grip, and touched it to the ring on her other hand. Both the card and the jewel glowed a brilliant, blinding blue.

Then she was gone.

For a little while, Duval stood perfectly still. Then, he pulled back his mechanical fist, and punched it straight through the room's old-fashioned analog television.

Still seething, he pressed two fingers to his cybernetic left ear.

"Assemble the Upper Echelons," he ordered. "It's well past time we end this farce."

[-]

Macduff Manor, New York City

September 28, 2000

"As always, your hospitality is immensely appreciated," said Arthur Pendragon, leaning across his friend's patio banister and sipping from a tall cup of Nightstone's Coffee. "As is your assistance in returning us to Britain."

Macbeth waved off the thanks, before taking a deep swig from a bottle of Dalriada's Dullahan Dark Ale.

"Bah, think nothing of it," he answered, mirroring his fellow king's pose. "I'm just sorry I wasn't able teh get yeh there sooner. Think I need ter fire my agent – daft fool added three cities onteh my book tour at the last second."

Arthur smiled. "It was for the best, I think," he remarked calmly. "It has been some time since I got to enjoy the company of Goliath's clan…well, but for brief snippets in the midst of saving the world. And my companions seem to have enjoyed their…what is the term? Vay-cay-shin?"

"Quite so, Your Majesty!" a cool, accented voice broke in. It belonged to his First Knight in this new era, Sir Griff, who descended from the manor's rooftop with all the nobility and grace of the heraldic beast he resembled. "Not like the opportunity really comes up all that much in our line of work, eh?"

He touched down between the two kings, offering each a bow of his head – though the one he offered Arthur was quite a bit lower. Rather than be offended, Macbeth let out a sharp bark of a laugh.

"Certainly a motley sort that wound up visiting from yer clan," he said. "But then…way I hear it, I suppose it wasn't exactly a planned detour?"

That was quite an understatement. About two months prior, Merlin had used the standing stones beneath Knight's Spur to cast a scrying spell for the stolen parts of his magic, and inadvertently triggered a trap that brought them to the shores of New Orleans.

One battle with the Ultra-Pack and a series of Glamour Charm-assisted nighttime train rides later, and the haggard mix of gargoyles and humans – half-human in Merlin's case – who'd been caught in the accidental teleportation spell had finally reached Manhattan, where the Eyrie Building provided optimal cover for folks in their…

Unique circumstances.

"Honestly, it's been more of a challenge tearing my mates away from Goliath's clan than anything else," continued Griff. "Liam's busy swapping recipes with Broadway, Kelpie's been tinkering nonstop with Lex and Staghart on the new LexPhones – they're waterproof now, by the way, she made sure of that – and as for Lunette and Gnash…"

"Taking after his old man?" Macbeth guessed, with another chuckle.

Griff shrugged a shoulder. "Suppose that depends," he said. "Was Brooklyn just the right mix of 'smooth' and 'absolutely hopeless'?"

Macbeth frowned, considering this question.

"Well, I dinnae actually know it was him at the time. Only figured it out in hindsight," he told the gargoyle. "But if that really was him, and his very pregnant mate, back in the roaring twenties? 'Absolutely hopeless' dinnae even begin teh cover it."

Griff's beak cracked a wry smile. "They're right cute together, in any event," he went on, his gaze now directed at the horizon, where the sun had just freshly set. Arthur didn't miss the hint of wistfulness in his knight's tone. "Last I saw, they were playing some kind of game involving little figurines and weird dice. Speaking of which…"

He strode over and rapped on the glass door separating them from the inside of the manor.

"Oi! Let's get a move on, alright?" he called out. "Hovercraft's leaving in ten!"

Even though he couldn't see the look on her face, Arthur could just about hear the pout in Lunette's voice as she put away her LexPhone and whimpered, "But Gnash was just about to tell me about Fifth Edition, Griff! Fifth! They only just came out with Third!"

Macbeth let out one more, breathy chuckle. "A couple prototype models fer yer Knights teh test out in the field…and one more fer the London Clan teh share," he said. "Somehow I doubt it's a coincidence Amp gave it teh Lunette teh take back."

"By the Dragon, now he's got you doing it too. I was hoping Lex'd be an isolated case, but it seems the malignance is spreading," moaned Griff, turning his head back. A moment later, however, he broke into a grin. "But yeah, Stag's definitely the…meddling type. Learned that right quick when I came back to Knight's Spur. Part of why I never mentioned…"

The gargoyle coughed, and didn't finish his sentence.

Arthur raised a brow, but he'd learned long ago that there were pitfalls in prying too deeply into his knights' private affairs.

Instead, he asked Macbeth, "Might I inquire about the flight arrangements? I hope we are not taking you too far out of your way."

"Oh, certainly not. I needed teh stop in Paris anyway, pick up some things from my home there," explained the former Scottish king. "Fleur's meeting up with us, and she'll escort yeh the rest of the way."

"Paris, hmm? Haven't actually gotten a chance to see Francia in this era," spoke Merlin as he joined them out on the veranda, limping slightly as he passed a suddenly sour-faced Griff. While he'd mostly recovered from the "tainted" magic he'd inadvertently absorbed in New Orleans, the side-effects still lingered on occasion. "It's always been a land steeped in magic. Remember when I took you there during your training, Wart?"

"I remember nearly getting killed by the Merovingians in the form of an oddly hued sea otter," replied Arthur. "Not, all in all, one of my favorite lessons. Still, I am fond of the country. After all, it sired some of my greatest Knights. Sir Bhors, and Sir Claudin, and…"

Now it was his turn to fall silent. Even all these centuries later, it was difficult for him to speak properly of Lancelot.

"Ahem. We should probably get going, Your Majesty. We'll want to reach Paris before our internal clocks decide to tick off," said Griff, a bit awkwardly. "I'll, err…go make sure the others are ready."

He pushed his way around the wizard, not apologizing when their forearms bumped against one another.

Merlin frowned deeply at the wordless brush-off. Looking off to the side, he murmured, "Yes, well…if we're leaving imminently, I'm going to attempt to scry for Nimue one last time. She's blocking my Sight – I'm sure of it. I taught her that. But that also means she can't be too far away."

He left the patio as abruptly as he'd entered it, leaving the two kings alone once more.

"Guess yer little 'vay-cay-shin' hasn't worked any wonders fer their relationship," Macbeth observed coolly.

"Fleur believes I need to be more decisive with them. But that has always been my greatest weakness," whispered Arthur. "In the heat of battle, or in a room crafting strategy? I am in my element. I do not hesitate. Yet, when I am alone with the people I love most…"

"Believe me," Macbeth interjected, his voice growing solemn. "I understand more than yeh can imagine."

King Arthur finished the last of his cappuccino, then offered a hand.

"Let it never be claimed I do not appreciate our friendship, Macbeth," he said. "It is one of the first things that Merlin taught me: that understanding, true understanding, is the rarest magic of all. 'Tis the reason his training involved so much transformation into the shape of animals."

Macbeth polished off his beer, and accepted the handshake with a smile. "Likewise, Yer Majesty," he responded. "And now…let's make a date with the City of Lights."

What none of them – neither of the timeless kings, nor the gargoyle knight, nor the half-mortal mage – ever noticed was a tiny automaton flitting a short distance away, indistinguishable in nearly every respect from an ordinary housefly.

Apart from the logo, branded in the smallest possible font, across its chassis.

That of a golden cup.

[-]

Castle Carbonek

September 28, 2000

Seven television monitors descended around Duval, and the pitch-dark room was cast in the shimmering glow of white static.

One by one, a variety of faces appeared across five of the monitors.

"Two," he said, and the rest of the faces counted off in turn.

"Two."

"Three."

"Three."

"Four."

"Four."

Two representatives from each of the Upper Echelon ranks – he hadn't planned it that way, but there was some poetry in it.

Many of the single-digit members functioned as, for lack of a better term, "department heads," and the Fours were those with the broadest "departments" of all. It was a miracle just to have two of them on the same call, given their schedules.

And as for the one missing Three…

Duval made a sound halfway between a hiss and a growl, before shaking his head once to clear it and addressing the monitors.

"I'm sure you all know why I've convened this conference," he began, using his mechanical knuckles to crack his organic ones. "When last we spoke, Arthur had just awakened into the modern world. Since then, however, the path he's chosen has proved…concerning."

"Sorry, but if I can ask a question," interrupted an African-American gentleman, with short gray hair and a crisp white uniform. "Will One not be joining us this evening?"

"Peredur is…resting, at the moment," said Duval. "I'll be sure to brief him later, Quincy."

Quincy Hemings. His fellow in rank – a position always reserved for the member nearest the head of the most powerful nation on Earth. At present, that was the United States of America, making Quincy's position as the White House Chief Steward an invaluable asset.

No matter which president was in power, or which party they belonged to, the same man had been a part of their household and kitchen staff for over ninety years.

A corpulent man, whose features were half-obscured by a heavy cloud of cigar smoke, exhaled another deep puff.

"There's no doubt that our dear king has made…remarkable progress," he declared. "Fourteen centuries with no leads on locating Excalibur – and by the time we become aware of his return, he's already claimed it. Just as long a period, spent with Merlin lost to us…and here, he simply turns up at Pendragon's side."

He paused a moment to let the smoke clear, then tilted his head to the side and added, "Although…I suppose we have 'Madame Serena' to thank for that little intelligence deficit."

Mycroft Holmes. The Illuminati's left hand, in charge of information. Quite possibly the most astute deductive mind in human history – next to his late, celebrated brother – it was thanks to him that the "All Seeing Eye" was more than just the Society's symbol.

Duval was pretty sure he'd covered his tracks well, but if there was anyone in the Illuminati poised to know that he'd met with Nimue the previous night…it was Mycroft.

The other Three on the call, a short-statured and battle-scarred man with Asian features, let out a thoughtful sigh.

"And, regretfully…Arthur is the worst kind of enemy. One who is quite acutely needed," he said, tracing two calloused fingers down the slash marks that marred his eye. "Somehow or another, he must persist another two centuries. Direct confrontation simply isn't an option, even if it was the wisest course."

Tenzin Chung. It was the name he went by these days, in order to conduct business all across the Eurasian continent – lands he'd once conquered by very different means, and under a very different banner.

Born Temüjin, but better known by his imperial title: Genghis Khan.

If Mycroft was the Illuminati's left, "hidden" hand, then Tenzin was the right, "open" hand. He managed their considerable martial resources, with the expertise of a man who'd led hundreds of armies…mostly because he had.

"I have intelligence that may be of assistance," offered the lone female voice amongst the conference. It also happened to be the only one not belonging to a human – but instead a serious-faced gargoyle, with slate-gray skin and long, black hair. "Courtesy of our colleague Vincent Leonardo. One of his drones recorded a conversation that included the good king's next destination. They've just departed for Paris, en-route to the London Clan's protectorate."

Tamora the Goth. Once of a now-lost offshoot of the Mayan gargoyle clan, she was now in charge of all affairs relating to the planet's First Race. She was hardly the only gargoyle in the Illuminati, but was by far the highest-ranked – a position she held by dint of her keen mind, cold calculation, and acute understanding of the true meaning of her species' calling.

It was the innate nature of gargoyles to protect, which often made them difficult to recruit; focused as they often were on protectorates that were small and tangible.

But Tamora understood that it was the balance of the entire world that required protection…and that gave her the strength to act decisively, where others might not.

Duval raised his lone eyebrow. "I wasn't aware of this development. But it certainly hastens our timetable," he said. "In both New York and London, Arthur already possesses a wealth of allies. And that renders him far more difficult to attend to. Additionally, while the London Clan's existence has finally been revealed to us…their location remains elusive. Or has that changed, Mycroft?"

The spymaster leaned back in his well-cushioned armchair, taking in another lengthy drag.

"Obviously, their continued survival represented an…embarrassing hole in my intelligence network," lamented Mycroft, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly – like there was a joke only he fully understood. "My best and brightest are working to rectify that now. But I agree with what I assume is your point: Paris would be the ideal location to 'deal' with Pendragon, howsoever we might choose to do so."

"And yet, as stated, we cannot harm him directly. It would defeat the entire purpose of our very existence as a Society," added Tenzin coolly. "Nor Merlin. We have placed far too many resources into the preservation of both men – early awakening or not."

"That's the question, ain't it, boy?" Quincy asked. Despite the fact that he was younger than Duval by well over a millennium, he regarded the cyborg like a stern grandfather. "How do you put a stop to someone…without stopping them too much?"

Duval folded his hands together, lacing metal and flesh, and took a deep breath.

"All of this is a matter of timescale and degree, more than absolutes," he told his fellows. "We wanted Arthur to find Excalibur. To reunite with Merlin. To bring together a new Round Table."

"But on our terms," said Tamora. "And following our schedule."

"Quite. Nevertheless, the point shouldn't be to stop Arthur Pendragon," replied Duval. "But rather to…slow him up, if you will. His progress must be restricted to a pace we can manage. Guide, nurture. To ensure he is still capable of leading the world when it needs him most."

"Yet, that still leaves the most critical of questions," Mycroft remarked pointedly. "How? Where is the point, the Achilles heel, where he can be made to bend…without being forced to break?"

Duval's mechanical eye whirred in place, taking in the faces of all five of his "colleagues."

Then in calm, crisp tones, he answered, "It is simple. We target the one factor now, which was not present in his first rise."

He pressed a button on the console controlling their conference. On every one of their screens appeared a high-resolution photograph.

That of a green-hued gargoyle, his beak no doubt calling out a witty quip as he blasted an Iron Clan robot with his lightning gun.

[-]

Redemption HQ, Paris

September 29, 2000

"This is everything we know about aer target," said Hunter, gesturing to the projector screen. "He's gone by numerous aliases, but the one he seems tae prefer is 'Fantômas.'"

There was a heavy beat of silence. Then, Fang raised a furry arm, though he didn't wait to be called on before speaking.

"Okay…I'm gonna be the bad guy here and say what everyone else is thinking, even if they won't spit it out loud," drawled the mutate. "Is that a bio or a piece of Swiss cheese?"

Indeed, the information on the screen included no pictures, and as for the text…

Real Name: Unknown

Age: Unknown

DOB: Unknown

Sex: M (?)

Height: Unknown

Weight: Unknown

Blood Type: Unknown

Skin Tone: Unknown

Nationality: French (?)

"So in conclusion, he's a bloke from France. Maybe," added Dingo, crossing his arms as he slouched in his conference room chair. "Hate to agree with Fang, but that really ain't a lot to go on, sheila."

"There's a reason faer that," she said, flipping to the next slide in the briefing. This one contained a wide range of photographs, each of them featuring a different, nondescript individual. "Fantômas is a master of disguise, capable of impersonating just about any man, woman, aer child near-flawlessly. No one's ever seen him without at least one mask, and despite being wanted by at least twenty nations and Interpol, he innae ever once been taken intae custody."

"Logical, then, that the task falls to us," declared Yama, without judgment. "It is not the first 'impossible' task we've been handed, and I doubt it will be the last."

"QUERY, HUNTER?" asked Matrix, its "neck" stretching out and twisting around its partner. "DATABASE SEARCHES FOR THE TERM 'FANTÔMAS' RETURN LITERARY RECORDS FROM THE EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY. AUTHORED BY FRENCH WRITERS MARCEL ALLAIN AND PIERRE SOUVESTRE: FANTÔMAS, 1911. JUVE CONTRE FANTÔMAS, 1911. LE MORT QUI TUE, 1911. L'AGENT SECRET, 1911. UN ROI PRIS…"

"Okay, pal, think we get it," Dingo cut it off, patting the construct awkwardly upon its glimmering surface.

He wasn't sure what he marveled at more – Matrix effecting a technically perfect but distinctly unromantic French accent, or simply how many books those blokes had managed to produce in 1911 alone.

"All true. But what the public dinnae know is that the 'Fantômas' novels were based on a real-life criminal. Maybe a bit embellished, but he existed," explained Hunter. "Now, the connection between the modern Fantômas and the original is less clear. He might just be a copycat, aer deranged fan. Aer…hell, who knows. Maybe he's a son aer grandson. It innae like the first one was ever caught, either."

"I am curious, Hunter," said Yama. "Is there a reason we have been tasked with this assignment at this particular point in time? Obviously, it would be preferable that this villain's escape from justice be brought to a swift end. Nevertheless…"

"Yeh'd like tae know the urgency. Fair enough," she guessed, offering the Japanese gargoyle a nod. "Fantômas' MO includes theft, murder, corporate espionage – he innae picky. But he famously eschews payment faer his 'services.' The crimes themselves are his compensation, so he only accepts contracts he finds interesting."

"Define 'interesting,' blondie," Fang replied dryly.

Hunter changed to the next slide, and Dingo had to force back the urge to vomit.

"Fantômas is a surrealist. He specializes in elaborate schemes and death-traps, which defy any sense of reason or explanation," she answered. "Once, he was hired to steal the Star of Arabia from a British museum. By the time he was done, every exhibit in the building had been repurposed into an enormous, incomprehensible delivery system faer the jewel. And when it was triggered, it simultaneously did…well, this, tae every one of the guards."

She gestured at a photo that was too gruesome for words. Even Fang didn't have a joke to offer.

"Crime, up tae and including murder, is an art form tae him. But that also means he follows a set of rules – even if they might seem incomprehensible tae us," continued the masked woman. "Last night, an associate of our employer received this in the mail."

Hunter pulled a small card out of her pocket and placed it on the table. It was decorated with nothing but a small, blue domino mask.

"This is the same 'employer,' mind, we still know absolutely zip about, right?" said Dingo with a scowl. "Just wanna double check."

"Fantômas doesn't always leave calling cards. If he does, I believe it means he considers his current target a…challenge," she went on, as if she hadn't been interrupted. "We don't know when aer where he intends tae strike, but yeh can bet it'll be soon."

"Can you at least tell us who this target is?" asked the Australian mercenary, gripping his temples and groaning in exasperation.

Hunter stared right into his eyes, her mouth a thin line. For several seconds, no one in the briefing room moved.

Finally, she declared, "Her name is Dolores. That's all yeh really need tae know. Now, suit up. I want us in the air in five."

[-]

Castle Carbonek

September 28, 2000

"I see now why you were so insistent I join this call, old friend," said Tamora. "As you know, any action against gargoyles, whether an individual or an entire clan, requires my express approval."

"It's certainly not my first choice in dealing with the situation. Valorous, clever, possessed of firsthand knowledge of Arthur's activities – he'd make an ideal recruit, if I thought there was the slightest chance he'd say yes," Duval responded, with a lamenting shake of the head. "As it is…I can think of no more efficient way to cut Arthur off at the legs."

Her lip curled upward. "Oh, you misunderstand. I'm not disagreeing," she told him lightly. "Honestly, I had the same thought. Balancing cost and benefit, his death is the obvious choice."

Tenzin chuckled, a rough and gravelly sound.

"Then it seems we have a motion, and a second," he remarked, tipping a scratched-up palm to his screen. "Any objections to be heard?"

The rest of the Upper Echelons were silent.

"In that case…" added Mycroft, the cigar smoke now so thick it completely blocked his face from view. "We turn to the question of method."

"Yes, about that," said Duval, before turning to the one member whose input hadn't yet been heard. "Mustapha, I'd like to clarify one thing. Is the 'nuclear option' still on the table?"

If one wasn't familiar, they could be forgiven for assuming the last monitor was displaying a large bundle of cloth. But upon Duval's summon, the robes began to shift and unfurl, revealing the man within.

He was, quite possibly, the oldest-looking man in the entire world. His skin was dry, desiccated, corpselike; clinging to the bone with nary the barest trace of fat or muscle. Nevertheless, his robes were immaculate, as was the burnt-crimson turban that ordained his head.

Two hands emerged from his billowy sleeves, the skeletal fingers lacing together. Upon each finger rested an ornate ring – nine with differently colored jewels, and a signet ring displaying the Society's emblem.

"Unfortunately, it is not," he answered, in a voice as dry and withered as a crypt. "In observance of the Gathering, I was forced to…relinquish, all of my djinn. Though not without preconditions, of course. In a century or so, they'll return with reports of Avalon herself – more than a worthwhile trade, for a brief taste of freedom."

Mustapha Badroulbadour. As Tamora managed the affairs of the planet's First Race, Mustapha was charged with keeping tabs on the Third.

Thanks to Oberon's Law, it was all but impossible for one of the Children to take a place among the Upper Echelons personally, but Mustapha was the next-best thing. An accomplished sorcerer, his specialty was in the containment and binding of Children to appropriate Vessels. Indeed, it was probably accurate to say that he knew more about such spells than any mage alive – save John Dee, who didn't play well with the Illuminati.

It was a lifelong fascination, stemming from the time when, as a lad in China, he'd used two bound djinn to claim his fortune, marry a princess, and secure a throne of his own. Little surprise that, in his twilight years, he'd decided to learn how to do it himself.

Not that it was any kind of easy feat, of course. Binding spells were tricky business, and often required a pinch of the user's own life force. Hence why, despite being frozen in his mid-seventies thanks to the Grail…Mustapha looked as if he was pushing one hundred.

"Of course, even if I did have a few in reserve, I think they would be an ill fit for this particular mission," continued the sorcerer, now rubbing absently at one of his jeweled rings. Its stone was a brilliant, blood-red ruby. "Magic is a potent force, capable of untold wonders. But its ways are seldom…subtle."

"Agreed. It is best this matter be resolved as quietly as possible," said Tenzin. "Which means there is only one Illuminatus I trust to carry it out."

"The Old Man of the Mountain," whispered Mustapha, through a strained, rattling breath. "This is an assignment for Hassan-i Sabbah."

Simply speaking the name brought quiet across the Upper Echelons. They all seemed to be considering this proposition carefully.

Tamora was the first to speak up. "It's been some years since we've asked dear Hassan to solve a problem of this magnitude," she stated coolly. "When was the last time you gave him an assignment directly, Duval? Kennedy?"

"No, Oswald wasn't one of ours. Funnily enough, that's the one where every single 'shadowy conspiracy' theory is dead wrong," Quincy told her. "Not that we didn't take full advantage of the opportunity, of course."

He gestured humbly to the pin on his lapel, designating him the Chief Steward. A position he'd gained on the very first day of the Lyndon B. Johnson Administration.

"The most recent instance I'm aware of was Benigno Aquino Jr. of the Philippines in 1983," explained Mycroft, his tone dry and informational. "As I recall, you were off-the-grid most of that year, Lady Tamora."

"Enough of this," Duval said shortly. He let out a deep breath. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, it seems we are in agreement. I'll reach out to Hassan personally."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Quincy, clapping his gloved hands together. "Don't know about the rest of you, but I've had tons of work pile up while we've been chit-chatting. Dinner menu for October needs final approval, and Socks just knocked over a twenty grand vase, and then there's this matter in Florida I apparently need to take a look at…"

"A moment, if you please," Mustapha interjected, his spindly fingers rapping upon the desk in front of him, one after the other. "One question more."

Duval frowned, but murmured, "Speak."

"Let it never be said I doubt my colleague's abilities. Or those of whomever he'll choose to employ," the sorcerer went on. "Nevertheless, Duval…do we have any sort of Plan B?"

The cyborg leaned forward, the tips of his unmatched fingers touching, as he considered this question.

"Yes, I do," he eventually said, without looking any of his compatriots in the eyes. "But if it comes to that…a few genies tearing Paris apart will seem far more merciful by comparison."

[-]

Above the Atlantic Ocean

September 29, 2000

Macbeth's hovercraft was a hive of activity as it made its speedy journey across the Atlantic.

Leomaris, naturally, had gravitated to its vastly understocked kitchen. Despite Macbeth's warnings that his usual in-flight meals consisted of "whatever-innae-spoiled-yet-sandwiches," the half-aquatic gargoyle had insisted upon doing his best to throw something together.

Not that Kelpie was helping very much, as the high-tech hovercraft had very quickly turned her into the proverbial hatchling in a candy store, and she kept trying to drag her "rookery cousin" away from the mess to check out this-and-that doodad.

It was a desperate struggle in which there were no winners and no losers, save Lunette's giggle reflex.

Outside of observing their dance of mutual exasperation, though, the equine gargoyle found she had little else to do. Now that they were separated, Lunette was beginning to realize just how much she'd gotten used to having Nashville around the last two months.

Sure, she had dozens of rookery siblings back home – Nix, Bouc, Cornelia, Falcor – but she didn't "click" with any of them the way she did with Gnash.

The two had spent the past few weeks simply hanging around and having fun. They'd swapped stories, watched through all the old Doctor Who tapes Staghart had brought over from London (Gnash kept sighing whenever the picture got choppy and making incomprehensible asides like, "By the Dragon, I can't wait for Net Flicks"), and played more rounds of Mario Kart on Lexington's N64 than she could count.

Then, one night, he'd introduced her to Dungeons & Dragons – an ideal game, he said, for when you had no idea when you'd next be in an era with electricity. Time had sort of gotten away from them after that. They were still taking their turns via LexPhone, whenever a spare moment popped up.

Not that Lunette felt any shame in that. On the contrary, she was extraordinarily proud of her Level 47 half-elf ranger.

Unfortunately, he'd gone off to patrol with his rookery parents a few hours ago, and she had enough sense not to bother him while he was fighting crime. She'd even joined him a couple times back in Manhattan, though they'd never encountered anything more dangerous than a purse-snatcher.

Which meant she had nothing to do now except wander the hovercraft, looking for a way to make herself useful. She turned away from Liam and Kelpie, now embroiled in a far-too-spirited debate over whether horseradish counted as a condiment (and why in the world that actually mattered) and left to explore further.

Merlin was still holed up in a locked room, as he had been the entire trip, and presumably Macbeth was busy piloting. But she soon found Griff and Arthur toward the rear of the vehicle, cloistered around a corkboard.

A corkboard covered with at least fifty colored-coded notecards.

"Based upon the Lady Maza's testimony, I cannot be certain one way or another whether this 'Doctor' they once faced is among the Illuminati," said Arthur, his voice somewhat distant as he tapped at a yellow notecard. "But it is a strong possibility. Water from the Grail would account for his survival, absent a physical body."

Griff gestured toward another card, this one red.

"We know that 'Shi Yang' dame has to be one. No way she could've found us so quick otherwise," he mused, one talon scratching thoughtfully at the underside of his beak. "Think she's a Seven? Fleur says O'Malley's one, and Brooklyn confirmed Sinbad. All sailors or pirates. Are they really going for some groan-worthy 'seven seas' joke?"

Their conversation continued in this vein for some time, becoming less and less comprehensible by the moment. Eventually, Lunette found herself clearing her throat.

"Umm…sorry if I'm interrupting," she mumbled nervously. "I was just wondering what you guys were doing. But, erm…you don't have to tell me if you don't to…"

Neither of the warriors looked annoyed, however. Griff offered her a smile and explained, "No worries. Just trying to put together everything we know at this point about the Happy Numbers Club."

"The Lady Blanchefleur has shared a great deal about her former compatriots. But even more, she keeps close to her chest. I cannot entirely blame her for that," added Arthur. "So we have been combining her intelligence with information from various allies. Your clan. Goliath's. Macbeth. Lord Dugan of Ireland. We still only possess a few pieces of the puzzle…but it is a start."

Lunette nodded, before noticing something a little odd about the board. While most of the notecards were bunched up close to each other, strings or tape used to convey their connections, there was a set of green cards that were clumped off to the side.

Pointing, she asked, "What're those for?"

"Names Fleur's mentioned in passing, but that we haven't had time to dig deep into," said Griff, peering at the names on the cards. "Yeah…none of these are ringing a bell. Hildegard Hellstrom. Elizabeth Mantle. Hassan-i Sa…"

"Wait, hold on! That one!" Lunette suddenly exclaimed, cutting him off. But she was too excited to care about rudeness. "I know it!"

Griff's eyebrow ridges tilted up in surprise. "Wait…you do?" he replied, clearly caught off-guard.

"Goliath was reading a book about him. I remember because he told off Gnash once for being too loud, after I hit him with a Blue Shell," Lunette told the pair. "The title was…oh gosh, what was it? Something like…wait, I remember now. Alamut."

Arthur and his knight shared a long look. "Perhaps we should have asked more questions of Goliath while we had the chance," murmured the king. "Or else procure our own copy of this book."

"I didn't read it myself, so I can't help much. But I did see the blurb on the back cover," she declared, happy for the chance to be at least a little useful. "The author was…erm…Slovenian, I think. But it's set in the Middle East. About an old human, who tries to take down a corrupt government…"

Lunette took a deep breath.

"Using an army of assassins."

[-]

Alamut, Iran

September 29, 2000

The novel Alamut, by French-Slovenian author Vladimir Bartol, was indeed based in true history. True…if not entirely accurate.

It told of a brilliant and charismatic scholar of the Nizari Ismā'īli – a branch of Shi'a Islam – who'd led his people in revolt against the oppressive Great Seljuq Empire, which held in its grip vast swathes of Central Asia. Though the men he led were outnumbered and outmatched, the scholar knew that if they could simply secure a strong enough base, they'd be free to spread their teachings – and their revolution – far and wide.

He set his sights on Alamut Castle, a remote fortress high in the mountains along the Caspian Sea. Alamut was believed to be impregnable, its position all but impervious to conventional military attack.

So instead, the scholar moved in secret, spending months moving his men into the villages near Alamut a few at a time. He himself infiltrated the castle in various disguises: a schoolteacher, a soldier, a cook. He made allies and collaborators out of the castle staff, one by one, until even the deputy to Alamut's lord secretly pledged his loyalty.

When the time came to strike, it was swift and nearly bloodless. Alamut's lord was ejected from the castle, his life spared and an armful of gold to placate him. The castle was captured, and the era of the Alamut State began.

The scholar's followers went on to replicate this miracle across the Fertile Crescent, claiming around two hundred fortresses all throughout Syria and Persia. Though seemingly isolated, these castles were united by a secret intelligence network so vast, the nation-within-nations could even mint its own currency.

For over one and a half centuries, the Alamut State stood firm, offering places of refuge for the Nizari to take shelter from their enemies – both foreign and domestic. To a distant observer, this may have seemed the result of their defensive military strategy, holding firm in their fortresses and taking few risks.

But the truth, as both the Seljuqs and the invading Christian Crusaders would come to learn, was far bloodier.

Amidst the scholar's followers was select individuals, trained to operate in secret and strike without warning. Skilled in disguise, espionage, and psychological warfare, these "hidden" warriors selected their targets carefully, using one death to decapitate entire armies. Often, they would attack brazenly, in full view of witnesses, to maximize the impact to their enemies.

Generals, Viziers, Caliphs...even occupying Counts and Kings. None were safe from these killers' blades. If they were spared, it was because their humiliation was a far deadlier blow to morale than their lives.

Inevitably, rumors began to spread. That to rear such potent and unstoppable murderers, the scholar must've used trickery, even sorcery. They claimed he drugged his young recruits with hashish, a potent form of cannabis, to remove their fear and bind them to his will.

It was unclear whether those rumors were the superstitions of panicked Crusaders, or if they contained a grain of truth. But the retreating Crusaders, terrified by an enemy that could seemingly appear from anywhere, strike in the blink of an eye, and be gone just as quickly, carried stories home for all to hear.

Stories of the fearsome Order of the Hashashin – a word which would mutate in the Western vernacular, until "assassin" became synonymous with slayers of leaders and tyrants.

And stories of their master…a devoted scholar and missionary of Islam, who ruled a nation of secrets and shadows, despite never once stepping foot outside of Alamut in thirty-five years.

They called him the Elder One. The Old Man of the Mountain. The First Assassin.

Hassan-i Sabbah.

But what the novel didn't deign to tell…

Was what happened to Alamut afterward.

By the year 1256, tensions between the Alamut State and the Mongol Empire had reached a boiling point. Under the Great Khan Möngke – grandson of Genghis – the Mongols swept through and conquered vast swathes of Muslim lands. The Nizari were an obstacle he would not countenance.

In the face of such overwhelming odds, one Nizari fortress after the next fell to the armies of Möngke and his brother, Hülegü Khan. Eventually, to spare his people from total slaughter, the last Imam to sit upon Alamut's throne, Rukn al-Dīn Khurshāh, surrendered the castle to the invading hordes.

The Mongols made short work dismantling Alamut, tearing away its grand stone walls and burning its famed library to cinders. These days, its charred ruins were in development by the Iranian government as a tourist attraction.

That's where the "official" history ended.

No source mentioned that Genghis Khan and Hassan-i Sabbah, both thought long-dead at the time the Alamut State fell, were both very much alive. Or that the conflict between their empires had been orchestrated between them from the very start – and manipulated by their hands at nearly every step.

And of course, there was no mention of the regular "drinking nights" the two men had engaged in across the centuries since…nor of the crystal-clear water that was both warlords' preferred poison.

The Mongol armies had, indeed, reduced "Alamut Castle" to rubble that fateful day. But the true Alamut, hidden beneath its founding stones…

Remained in operation to this day.

It was in this underground fortress that an elderly man could be found, humming lightly as he tended to a vast, hydroponic garden. He'd always been extraordinarily fond of horticulture, and while such a clinical method lacked the elegance and grace of a more "traditional" garden, the tradeoff was a necessary one.

After all, like him, these plants were never destined to again see the sun's rays.

The man was dark-skinned, with a chalk-white mustache and beard, both neatly trimmed. He dressed humbly, in simple, white robes, and topped with a heavy head-scarf.

If one didn't know any better, it would've been easy to miss the sixteen different weapons he kept hidden on his person.

Just as the old man was about to prune a withered leaf from a beautiful poppy flower, however, a telephone on the opposite wall began to ring. Pausing in his humming and putting down the pruning shears, he ambled his way toward the receiver.

It was specialized device, designed to work even hundreds of miles underground. Only one person on Earth knew the number.

"Five. Hello, Duval," he said, upon picking up. His accent in English was a bit stilted, but he preferred it to hearing Duval's Farsi. "I trust you have a new assignment for me?"

He listened for a while to the words spoken by his old friend. There were a great deal of them, but that didn't especially bother the old man. Before anything else, after all, he was a teacher.

Eventually, once Duval had explained the entire situation, he responded, "My, that certainly is a conundrum. This won't be a simple operation. I'll need to send my absolute best. And…several of them, I think. A task of this import warrants redundancy."

He paused, as Duval added a few more things. The old man half-listened, his mind already whirring with possibilities.

Eventually, he told the cyborg, "Yes…I think I've figured out who I need to assign. One is already in Paris. If he cannot finish the job – and it would be the first failure in his illustrious career – then he can delay long enough for the others to arrive."

Duval said something that made the old man chuckle gallantly.

"On the contrary, my friend. I know very well the folly of overconfidence," he spoke coolly. "Nevertheless, I hold all my Hashashin to certain…standards. One way or another, before he sees the next dusk…this gargoyle will be dead. After all Duval, you know what I say. Mine is the world of smoke and shadows, and in it…"

The lips of Hassan-i Sabbah, the First Assassin, curled beneath his mustache.

Then he offered what were, according to Bartol's account, his very last words: "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

With that, the Old Man of the Mountain hung up the receiver, and then…

Began making some calls of his own.

[-]

Apartment #24601, Paris

September 29, 2000

"Trente-cinq."

[-]

Diogenes Club, London

September 29, 2000

"Eighteen."

[-]

Atsuta Shrine, Nagoya

September 29, 2000

"Ten."

[-]

Hotel Marseillaise, Casablanca

September 29, 2000

It was almost a joke that she should find refuge here. The city practically synonymous with intense but doomed romance.

But for the moment, Nimue needed to hide from both the Society and Merlin's Sight, and she could afford to do so in luxury. Telling fortunes for New Orleans tourists was a remarkably lucrative business.

Now ensconced in a suite that could've fit her room at the Hotel Cabal five times over, she spread a brand-new tarot deck across the sheets of her king-sized bed. It was the one thing she'd asked for at the front desk, and while it was certainly an…atypical request, she'd tipped well enough for the concierge not to ask questions.

This deck wasn't nearly as potent as the one she'd bound together with her mentor's magic, but it would serve her well enough. She'd been divining the future for fourteen hundred years, after all.

Allowing the "hum" of magic in her ring to guide her hand, she selected three cards and flipped them over in turn…

And very nearly fell off the bed.

The Hanged Man

Strength

The High Priestess

"Oh God…no…" she said, hands folding over her mouth.