"Destroyed . . . I am the destroyer. I've destroyed all I love. Destroyer. I am the destroyer. I destroy all I love . . ." Edgar Jomfru kept up the litany of chanting over and over again.

"He's been like this since you found him?" Charles asked.

They stood in a safe house in Philadelphia, observing the wayward genius through a mirror.

"Yes, sir. We've given him a bath, treated his wounds, given him food. He seems to function well enough, he just keeps repeating that over and over."

"Does he know we're with Dethklok?"

"I don't know, sir. He obeys commands, but doesn't give any sign that he's listening to people around him."

"I see."

Charles left the small room behind the two-way mirror and walked in to join Jomfru. The previous months had not been kind to the man; he was much thinner, loose skin hanging off of him in folds. Scabs and fresh scars told of a hard life on the streets where there were no electric wheelchairs – or wheelchairs at all. The disguised manager knelt before the man's chair (only a slight twinge from his bad knee) and listened to his repeating chant for a few minutes.

"So, you . . . ah . . . destroyed everything you love," Charles surmised. "So what are you going to do about it?"

For the first time, Jomfru stopped his mumbling and raised his head.

"I hear your voice in my nightmares," he announced.

"Well . . . ah . . . I'm sure a lot of people do," Charles said pragmatically. "But the question remains: what are you going to do about it?"

"You're dead."

"I'm not, actually. As . . . ah . . . proved by the fact that I'm here, talking to you."

Jomfru considered this.

"My brother is dead."

"That . . . ah . . . is something that can't be rectified, unfortunately."

"Mordhaus has fallen."

"We raised it up again."

"Dethklok's empire is collapsing."

"Not ah . . . entirely. It may shrink a little, but I won't let it fall."

For the first time, Jomfru really seemed to focus on Charles.

"If you help me keep Dethklok going, we can change the world," the manager announced. "I can . . . I can teach you how to create instead of destroy, Edgar. Would you like that?"

Edgar went still. As Charles waited for the answer, he didn't get the impression that Jomfru was still trying to absorb what had happened. He got the impression that the wayward genius was considering the situation from every angle.

"Yes," Edgar said eventually. "I – I want to . . . . . help."

The way he breathed the last word made Charles think Jomfru had never actually helped anyone before. Instead of pointing this out, the manager patted him on the shoulder in what he imagined was an encouraging way.

"Good. Do you . . . . ah . . . like whales, Edgar?"

"What's the band's current status?" Charles asked, looking over the bank of computer screens in front of him.

He was in the converted attic in the safe house. No windows would let people peep through, so the room was filled with computer and communications equipment. A group of Gears clustered around him, ready to fill the boss in on various situations.

"Generally behaving like white trash with money, sire," Klokateer 175 announced.

"How much of a dent have they made in the dummy fund?"

"It's been depleted by 85%, sire."

"Damn! Already? All right, keep the backup dummy fund ready. Pay the utilities and the grocery bill and they can just suffer for anything else," Charles said.

"My Lord, our spies at Crystal Mountain say the label is going to try to renegotiate Dethklok's contract now that you are out of the picture," a second Gear said.

"Roy wouldn't do that!" Charles protested.

"He's been ill, sire. The driving force behind the move is –"

"It's his idiot fucking son, isn't it?"

"Just as you say, My Lord."

"Keep an eye on the situation."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Sir Offdensen?"

Charles sighed under his breath. The only time anyone called him by that title or thought he was a knight of anything . . .

"What is it, Father?"

Father Bludforge of the Black Church stood in the doorway.

"It has reached our ears that you have started a 'relationship'."

The dark priest said the last word like it was sticky and slightly gross. Charles could hear the quotation marks slamming into place.

"Actually, I've ah . . . started three. That reminds me; Gear, get me a landline I need to check in with my . . . ah . . . ladies."

Bludforge pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"I am relieved to hear that you've taken a harem rather than allowed yourself to be entrenched in a traditional relationship," the priest said slowly. "But saying that you need to 'check in' leads me to believe it isn't so simple."

"You don't know anything," Charles stated.

Hot, awkward silence filled the room, spreading around the Gears who were suddenly doing their jobs as quietly as possible.

"If, ah . . . if you are interested in breeding purposes, Sir Offdensen, there are several daughters of the Church who have been deemed worthy to carry your seed –" Bludforge began.

"I don't want to fucking breed," Charles snarled. "I want a goddamn family."

"That's – that is—"

"Not metal. I'm aware. Where's my landline?"

A Gear came forward with a regular phone, offering it to the CFO. Charles picked it up and immediately began dialing.

"Now is a very bad time to be distracted, Offdensen," Bludforge announced.

Charles turned and fixed the priest with a glare.

"I don't have to be here," he announced.

He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. Charles watched the color drain from Father Bludforge's face. There was no way they could replace him at this point in time. Even if they found another protector, he couldn't simply step in and take over in mid-swing. The Church needed Charles as badly as Dethklok did and Bludforge knew it.

"Noh residence."

Charles' face relaxed into a smile.

"Faith," he breathed.

"Charles! I didn't recognize the number!"

"I'm on a landline," the manager said, feeling the tension melting out of his shoulders. He sat down on a nearby wingchair. "I really needed to hear your voice."

Bludforge and the Gears stood nearby, watching.

"Do you mind? This is a private call," Charles said, covering the receiver with his hand. Reluctantly, the priest and most of the Gears withdrew from the room.

"My Lord, the box is hot," one said, pointing to his computer.

"Mine as well, sire," a second Gear said, mimicking the action.

Charles knew there was no way to get them to leave just so he could talk to his girlfriend on the phone. Even if the house caught fire, those two wouldn't move without being formally relieved by another Klokateer.

"You two are fine," he said.

Both Gears put their headphones back on. They wouldn't be listening in.

"Everything all right?" Faith asked.

"Oh, just a lot of bullshit," Charles said. "I can't wait to get back home."

"We miss you," the eldest triplet said.

"I miss you, too."

"Was this what you meant by 'going away for business'?"

"Ah . . . . no. I didn't expect this. And I'll be back in a few days. When I go back to work for real, it might be a couple of months."

There was silence from the other end of the line.

"You . . . you'd wait on me for a couple months, wouldn't you?" Charles asked.

"Of course we will. It's just . . . . . where are you?"

"Um . . . . Philadelphia."

"What are you doing there?"

"Uh . . ."

"Can you tell me?"

"I – I can't tell you now," Charles finally admitted. "It's not safe. But I will tell you everything. Just not right now."

"Okay," Faith said genially. "How's your knee? Are you taking your medicine on time?"

"'Okay'? That's it, just 'okay'?"

"Charles, we are a house full of military brats and veterans. Mercy served in Afghanistan, I saw combat in Iraq and Hope is still not allowed to tell us where she served. If you say you can't tell us for security reasons, then we believe you. We don't think less of you for it."

"I know what elegant ladies you three are and sometimes I forget how fierce you can be. My warrior queens . . ."

"Geez, not hardly. Just ground-pounding jarheads, I'm afraid," Faith sighed, but Charles could hear the smile in her voice. "I didn't even make it through my enlistment without a dishonorable discharge."

"You were dishonorably discharged from the Marines?" Charles asked. He really couldn't picture Faith doing anything to warrant such a drastic dismissal. He couldn't picture any of them getting kicked out of the service. The Marine Corps might have gotten disgusted with Mercy's non-stop crying, but even that wouldn't have warranted a dishonorable charge. "What did you do?"

"I crashed a tank," Faith said.

"That's a bit harsh for a simple accident," Charles said.

"I crashed it rather well," Faith admitted. "One might almost use the word 'totaled'."

For a moment Charles wondered exactly what kind of maniac driving skills it took to total a tank. No wonder she kept getting done for drag racing. The girl had a need for speed. Then something else occurred to him.

"I didn't even know the Marines let women drive tanks."

"Yeah, they don't," Faith said.

One of the Gears put his hand on his headphones, tilting his head to the side. Then he lifted one cup and looked around in surprise. He slapped his companion on the shoulder and they both goggled at the spectacle of Charles F. Offdensen laughing.

"Oh, Faith . . . you're lucky you didn't end up in Leavenworth."

"They wanted to put me there, but I'd saved a few officers' lives with my crazy driving and I was really, really drunk at the time. In the end they were just amazed I could operate it well enough to move it at all."

"How drunk to you have to be—"

"Trying to forget you saw your friends die," Faith said quietly. "That's how drunk."

Charles sobered.

"Oh, that's . . . Faith . . ."

"Well, at least I didn't end up with PTSD like Mercy did. I may be a little emotionally stunted, but at least I don't cry all the time now."

Charles went quiet. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; that actually made a lot of sense. He knew in the back of his mind that Mercy had been in the Marine Corps – the toughest branch of the Armed Forces – but made no effort to reconcile that with the woman he knew now, who cried over dead baby birds, sad books, and those fucking Humane Society commercials. At some point something had changed her from a fighting machine into a soppy mess.

"What about Hope?" Charles asked.

"Hope's actually half-way normal still. She was in Intelligence; she didn't see any combat."

"I should have known this . . ."

"You call to de-stress and I stress you out more. I'm really helping," Faith sighed.

"No, I want to know everything I can about my family," Charles told her. He was rewarded with a quiet little squeal from the other end of the phone. For a moment he was tempted to tell her of Father Bludforge's disapproval and how the priest wanted to replace the triplets with subservient broodmares, but there was simply no way to sanitize that enough.

"Are Mercy and Hope home?"

"Yes, Hope's been hovering at my elbow for the last five – don't sit on that! She's here. Getting grease all over her jeans."

A small cry of dismay reached Charles. He smiled at the antics of his ladies two thousand miles away.

"May I speak with the little greasy butt?"

"Yeah, here she –"

"Faith?"

"Yes, Charles?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I miss you and I'll be home soon."

"I miss you, too. Here's Hope." Faith passed the phone to her youngest sister.

Hope received the same statement of non-disclosure Faith had and took it just as well. She regaled Charles with the news of every little thing that had happened in his absence. The music store had a new piano that she wanted, but it was $8,000 and way too expensive and where would she put it anyway.

"When I go back to work, I'm going to buy you a grand piano. White, set with green diamonds," Charles announced.

"Where would we even put a grand piano?" she laughed.

"Good point; I guess I'll have to buy you a mansion to go with it."

Hope laughed again, then made that little 'tsk'/clicking noise that meant she was chewing her lower lip. And that meant there was something on her mind.

"What is it?"

"Well . . ."

Charles heard Hope mounting the stairs out of the basement. Evidently she didn't want Faith overhearing their conversation. Dethklok's CFO cast a look at the two Gears present, but they were wrapped up in their work.

"We've got this new guitar teacher at work and he's been bugging me pretty hard for a date," Hope said.

For a long moment Charles said nothing. His first instinct was to get the man's description so that a few Gears could pay him a visit. He quickly tamped down the jealousy. The triplets had to share him without getting jealous. Maybe he would have to share them with someone else. He didn't really like that idea, if only because no one was good enough for them, not even Charles though they didn't seem to have realized this.

"Oh."

"So what should I tell him?"

"Uh . . . um . . . do you want to date him?" The disguised manager asked, his stomach starting to churn.

"No! He's kind of dumb and arrogant. And I would really like to never have to explain MA to another man for the rest of my life."

Charles' shoulders sagged with relief.

"What's MA?"

"Oh, that's um . . . the technical term for . . . . it's called müllerian aplasia when you're born without a vagina. You just get the outside bits."

"You have some inside bits," Charles protested. "Or else you really need to explain what I've been sticking my tongue in."

Hope's familiar giggle reached his ears.

"I'm a partial case; I have about two inches of 'channel' and that's it. And it doesn't connect to anything or go anywhere."

"Oh. So you can't have children?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, I suggest when this guitar teacher bothers you next, kick him in the shin, break a mandolin over his head and tell him to leave you alone!" Charles said, humor thick in his voice.

There was a long, long pause on the other end of the line.

"That's it?" Hope asked.

"Well, I suppose you could substitute a banjo for a mandolin . . ."

"No, I mean . . . Charles, when I told you that you couldn't penetrate me, you were just like: 'Oh, okay, there's other things we can do.' And now I tell you I'm technically deformed and can't ever have kids and you're like: 'Oh, whatevs!' I know you've been talking to Faith and Mercy about having children and . . . . stop being so perfect; you're freaking me out!"

"I'm far from perfect . . ."

"Close enough for me! Charles, I used to have to lie to my boyfriends about the MA until right before we were ready to have sex because if I told them beforehand, they'd just leave and wouldn't touch me at all! I used to have to steal foreplay! When we first got together with you . . . . I was glad my sisters were in on it, too, because as long as you got to have real sex with them, you'd probably throw me a bone every now and then out of pity." There was a bit of a whimper on the end of the last sentence, as though the youngest triplet were tearing up.

"Hope . . ."

"And now I know you want kids and I'm glad they're here to give them to you since I can't. I just want you to know –"

"Even if we didn't have your sisters, there's adoption, surrogates, and egg donation. We would find a way," Charles said quietly. "Don't ever think that your sisters are taking up slack for some perceived inadequacy. I didn't decide to be with all three of you because there were three of you; you were all so wonderful I literally couldn't make up my mind. It scared me to say something because I thought you'd think I was a pig. Then you all wanted to share me. So don't tell me about being so perfect you're getting freaked out. You three broke my brain for about a week straight."

Hope giggled again, with only a hint of wetness in it.

"Hope, I love you."

"I love you, too, Charles," she all but cooed.

"I miss you and I'll be home soon."

"I can't wait. So, a banjo, huh?"

"Or a mandolin."

"How about a ukulele?"

"As long as you aren't ruining a perfectly good guitar—"

"Oh shit!"

"What?"

"I just sat on the couch," Hope announced.

" . . . in your greasy jeans?"

"Mercy's going to kill me."

"Why? What'd you do?" Mercy called from the kitchen.

Hope yelped as her sister stuck her head into the living room.

"I thought you were upstairs grading papers!"

"I came down for a cup of tea. What did you do?"

"Uh . . . . Charles is on the phone!" Hope held the telephone out as a peace offering.

Mercy leapt for the cellphone and clapped it to her ear. As soon as the middle triplet took the phone, Hope fled upstairs.

"Charles! How are you doing, honey? I've been missing you so – what the hell happened to the couch?"

"I understand there may have been an accident involving grease and jeans and a certain cute little butt," Charles said, chuckling.

"I swear that girl is such an airhead," Mercy said.

Charles could hear rustling sounds, followed by the quiet buzz of a zipper. He surmised Mercy was taking the cushion cover off for washing.

"Well, don't be too hard on Hope; we were having a deep, heartfelt discussion about bashing strange men on the heads with guitar-like instruments."

Mercy chuckled deep in her throat. Water started to run in the background.

"Deep, heartfelt discussions, huh? Sounds nice."

"Well, we could have one, if you like," Charles offered. "When would you like to do that thing you've always wanted?"

"What particular thing would that be?"

"Have children."

Charles jerked the phone away from his ear as a loud, metallic clang assaulted his hearing. He cautiously brought the headset back to his ear, only to hear more metallic noises and what sounded like splashing.

"Hello?"

More muffled thumps and cloth rubbing across the phone before Mercy's voice came back.

"Charles? Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yes?"

"I dropped the phone in the washer. I hope it still works. Oh, it's Faith's, good. Did – did you say what I thought you said?"

"Now, I've told Faith, that when I go back to work, I'll be away for a couple of months," Charles stated calmly. "I'm hoping it won't be a problem for you three to move to where I'll be."

"Where will you be?" Mercy asked.

"I can't tell you just yet. But once we get settled in . . . uh . . . I think we should start a family."

"Really?"

"Mercy Noh, I want my children to have your eyes and your smile and I can't think of another woman on earth who would make a better mother."

Charles was prepared for Mercy to burst into tears, but thanks to his earlier discussion with Faith, the disguised manager had a little more patience.

"Oh, Mercy, please don't cry," he murmured.

"I'm – I'm happy!" she sobbed. "No one – no one ever – no one ever wanted me to – to have their children before!"

"Well, every man you've ever met before me was an idiot," Charles said simply. "That's the only explanation."

A sound that was half laughter, half sobs filled his ear.

"Charles, I love you so much!"

"Mercy, I love you, too. And I would like to make a formal request for at least one boy. Sorry, I guess that makes me a chauvinist pig, but . . ."

"Charles, if they'd turn out like you, I would make all boys, because this world needs a lot more Charles Stonebreakers!"

"Off-," the CFO began.

"Off what?" Mercy asked.

Charles snapped his mouth shut. He had almost corrected her on his last name. He almost revealed himself. Of course, he would tell her eventually; he would tell all the triplets eventually. He'd tell them who he really was, let Faith in on all of the machinations of the Black Church, start making the next generation of Offdensens with Mercy and buy Hope that mansion with the white grand piano set with green diamonds. And they were willing to wait for the truth, because they were just that lovely.

But he couldn't do it just yet.

"Ah . . . a . . . a stray cat jumped up on the windowsill. Get off, you mangy thing!" Charles told the imaginary feline.

"Is it gone now?"

"Yes, yes it is."

" . . . really happily ever after with babies?" Mercy pressed.

"I'll try on the happily ever after part, but definitely babies."

The middle triplet squealed with delight.

"You do know multiples are hereditary, right?"

"That's fine," Charles chuckled. "I think the four of us can handle a set of our own triplets."

Mercy's answer was chopped and garbled.

"Hello? Is the water seeping into the phone?"

More cut-off noises, but Charles caught a 'ove you'.

"I love you, too!" he practically yelled into the receiver. The two Gears peered over their shoulders at him. "Bad connection."

Dethklok's CFO hung up the phone. He stood and stretched as though he had just gotten a full-body massage. He felt brighter and more alert, almost buzzed after a talk with the three most perfect women in the world. He had . . . purpose. Oh, he always planned on preserving the band and ushering in a new world, but understood that success would be its own reward.

He did love his boys, the daffy little dipshits that they were, and he was in their inner circle, but he took a decent amount of good-natured abuse from them. He didn't get toasts or palling around, no one remembered his birthday, and no one wanted to hang out with him individually. He handled the Chosen Ones in this world and he would handle the Chosen Ones in the new world to come.

But now . . .

Now he had to remain on top because he had to keep his three ladies happy. If he took care of them, they would love him for the rest of their lives and give him children and help him and remember his birthday.

And the first order of business in the world to come was polygamy would be legal!

Charles exited the attic to find Father Bludforge and most of the resident Gears waiting for him.

"So! What do we have on Project Falconback?"