Beyond the Backstage - Burning Blades in the Blackest Night

February 2067. Frida Igarashi, the owner of the spectacular Igarashi Supernatural Investigations agency, finds herself in a pinch - dealing with a cadre of neo-fascist weirdos on her way to slay a werewolf. Things can never go smoothly when the 'Igarashi' name is thrown out, but this time the circumstances might be even more bizarre than usual...

“Comraaaaaades! Who’s our beacon of shining might?!”

“THE LIGHT! THE LIGHT! THE LIGHT!”

Frida rolled her eye (singular), blinked twice. That was the most anachronistic show of military prowess she had witnessed during her (admittedly still rather short) life. Fifteen or more fanatics, dressed in black tactical gear, with gas masks covering their faces, spread over two rows. All shouting and raising their arms in a familiar salute, in front of a scrawny man, hunched forward in a posture that couldn’t be healthy for his body, and sporting an even more anachronistic monocle. Said man was now cheering with his soldiers (they were soldiers, right?), dumb pride painted over his thin, bony face and his receding slick, neck long jet-black hair.

“We want victory! We’ll! HAVE! Victoryyyyyyy!”

Frida yawned, lightly tapped her foot on the ground. Weird stuff happened every other week in Euterpe, but that was a new one. Neofascists. Dressed for the part too. She was impressed by the lengths those people went for relieving their romanticized glory days. She cracked her neck, shrugged, raised her voice to overcome the overjoyed chants of the black crowd.

“Please, are you REALLY telling me your role model is a short, bald idiot who died forty years ago with the only achievement of making a cesspool out of this country? Oh, come on, gimme a break!”

Silence fell, a blanket covering the area with its weight of unspoken words. The scrawny man was staring at her with eyes wide open (though one was somehow hidden by the lens of his monocle). His name was Onorato Caligola, apparently. Frida had heard the werewolf refer to him with that moniker. Which sounded even funnier, in hindsight. There was no way that was his real identity, it sounded so lightist that it couldn’t have been a coincidence. Now, said Caligola seemed to be going through the four stages of grief, simultaneously, just because of her pretty innocent remark.

“Y… you dare not insult our Light! The Light of Italy?! Our brightest guide?!”

He was flabbergasted. The woman in front of him didn’t show any respect, any reverential fear. That half-breed bitch, because that was the only way he could refer to her, just didn’t care. Her presence alone felt insulting to Caligola – she was the obvious sign of a decadent society.That woman sported neck-long blond hair, framing a sharp face with Asian features and a single, cerulean healthy eye – the left one. The other was shut closed by what looked like a deep scar. Both eyes were crossed by an inverted red crescent tattoo, with the hump pointing up and the valley pointing down to her nose. Disgusting. And her choice of clothing? Even more unbelievable. Elegant navy blue suit pants and shoes, a white shirt rolled around her hips, her abs showing off, her breasts just covered by grey bandages. To complete that indecent picture, an open jacket was resting on her shoulders, creating a bizarre contrast, an unholy mix between business fashion and samurai vibes. And, of course, the sword. Because she was carrying one, a bona fide katana out of who-knows-where.

Caligola bit his lips. That uncanny bitch openly mocked the Light, with such a nonchalant attitude that it made his skin crawl. It wasn’t acceptable. People like him were ready to die for the Light of Italy, for his vision, for his future cut short so soon. People like him had given everything for the cause.

“You uncultured swine, where were you when the Light needed his people? Where were you when he was unjustly executed, his body thrown away in an unmarked grave, like a vile war criminal?”

Frida sneered.

“I wasn’t even born, come on. And—what were you, twenty? Thirty years old?”

“I was twelveeeee!”

“Congratulations, you look much older.”

Caligola growled. That disrespect. Typical of a foreigner. She couldn’t understand, only mock. Many had given their very own mortal life for the dream. Which was good, because it left him with more material to work with, if anything. No insolent bitch was going to diminish that achievement. He waved at his soldiers, arms raised and unbending.

“Comrades! It’s time to shut her sewer of a mouth forever! Show her how deep our Hell is!”

Almost simultaneously, all soldiers reached for their gas mask, unfastened it, removed it. Frida jolted. Rotten flesh. Dead, empty eyes. Sharp teeth. Demonic grins. Those things weren’t humans. Those things were…

“Fascist zombies? SERIOUSLY?”

The man smirked at her, his confidence restored.

“Legio LXI, Necropolis. A scientific marvel, if I say so myself! The dead are restless, don’t need food or water, can fight FOREVER! And they are all loyal to the cause!”

He crunched his fist. Unfortunately, that process was utterly destructive for the “resurrected” individual. Those reanimated corpses were nothing more than mindless puppets, with neither the appearance nor the intelligence they had while alive. Bringing back the Light himself as one of those abhorrent revenants would have been disrespectful, a sacrilege to the sanctity of his person. Caligola’s voice rose again, thundered through the empty roads.

“As our shining Light said: That isn’t dead, which can eternal lie! And with strange aeons, even Death may diiiiiiiie!”

Frida chuckled, while still trying to process the fact that she was standing before an army of zombies wearing lightism-era uniforms, helmets and insignias, under the crazed stare of a crooked commander, who couldn’t even stand straight and talked like a cartoon villain.

“Lovecraft. That was… uh, Lovecraft. Shall we add plagiarism to the epic achievements of your Light?”

Together with one last, murderous stare, Caligola pointed his index at her, a weird reflection on his dark monocle.

“That’s enough! Enough! I won’t accept this slander, you swiiiiine! In the name of Scipio Lunarossa… KILL THAT COW!”

Fifteen zombies growled in unison, bared their claws, howled. Then, leapt forward, one after another, all in the direction of Frida. Who, at that point, was already asking herself why she had accepted that odd job. Fighting against an army of neofascist deadmen in the cramped streets of Esperia wasn’t really one of her standard experiences—for any definition of “standard”. She raised her sword, her magnificent red katana Koikiri, the “carp cutter” gifted her by uncle Miyamoto, took on a defensive stance, braced for impact. The first zombie rammed at her mindlessly, swiping his claws while compulsively screaming old lightist propaganda, in half formed words and unintelligible noises. Frida ducked, avoided the slash completely, impaled him through his chest, pulled out the sword, secured her stance, then spun on her foot. The air crackled as the katana slashed horizontally, met the neck of her target, lopped off his head with a clean cut. A second zombie leapt forward. She rolled on the side, taking extreme care of not ruining her eight hundred euro suit, still wrapped around her waist like a bargain bin sweatshirt. She avoided his assault by mere centimeters, kicked him in the guts with extreme prejudice, proceeded to skew him through his chest several times, forcing him to retreat. Still thirteen to go, though, plus one just wounded. Frida took a deep breath. Things weren’t going as planned. Fighting a horde of undead lightists wasn’t part of her contract. All she had to do, all she had signed for was slaying…

“A nazi werewolf?”

Lights were dim, in that bar at the periphery of Esperia. A local band was playing some sort of synth rock on stage. Frida had listened to them a couple times already, as they were regulars there – Highway to Oblivion, they were called. She thought the singer was kind of hot and wouldn’t have minded giving him a shot, but admittedly the long-haired neko at the bass was even hotter, not to talk about the bandaged girl with twin braids at the double neck guitar. Heck, she would have had a field day with all of them at the same time (including the somewhat rough drummer), if she only had the chance and a smidge more alcohol in her body. Yet, she was there for work, not for pleasure. And work meant listening to that charming brat in a suit sitting in front of her, spreading photos on the table with her freshly manicured fingernails. The woman in question had chuckled at Frida’s remark about the subject of the first picture, as if she had expected that exact reaction.

“That’s right, Frida-chan! At least, this is what it looked like at a first glance.”

Claudia Amarene, twenty-two years old, information broker of the underworld. Short, pink-dyed hair with two bangs almost shaping a heart on her forehead, pink irises too (probably thanks to some sort of surgical replacement), a pink heart tattooed on her left cheek. She was wearing a purple shirt and (guess what) a pink suit, but in a weird, disheveled way that shamelessly showed her naked left shoulder. Frida and she had been acquaintances for a long time, almost as long as the Igarashi Supernatural Investigations agency existed. And, during that time, Claudia’s intel had never been wrong, aside from some little, negligible details. Frida was dressed formally, that day, with her long blond hair fashioned in a ponytail, dark glasses and a properly worn eight-hundred-euro Mezzalenco navy blue suit. Claudia started playing with her hair, giggling.

“This picture was taken by a CCTV camera in quartiere Marengo, outskirts of Euterpe… right after said werewolf allegedly devastated two antique shops.”

The pink-clad woman pulled out her phone, its pink case being exactly what Frida expected from her. Her background picture, though, was definitely not safe for work and more like lesbian softcore porn. Claudia tapped the screen a couple times, moving nonchalantly away from that rather embarrassing lock screen and delving into the video folders. She tapped once more, selecting a file. The screen was filled with low resolution footage. A door in the frame, a sign reading “Cazzaniga antiques - your blast from the past”. Then, the door falls down, ripped open, a shape going through it. The shape turns around. It has a snout, a tail, wears pants and boots. The shape, the werewolf, then looks towards the camera, notices it. And raises his arm in an unmistakable, old-fashioned, Roman salute. Only to bend his straight arm against his chest, bumping his fist on his heart. He stands still for a couple long seconds, as if to make sure he was recorded, before simply disappearing in the night.

Frida seized the phone, tapped on the video player again, let it run once more from the beginning. She blinked a couple times for a good measure, with her only healthy eye.

“You’re kidding, right? That was a lightist salute! In 2067? Are you freakin’ pulling a prank on me, you pink-haired snake?”

Claudia giggled, bringing her hand to her lips for good measure.

“My, my! I would never, Frida-chan! What good would bring me losing your trust?”

A deep voice interrupted the two, somehow sneaking in at the right moment after Claudia finished her retort.

“Yes, but, come on, a lightist werewolf? This sounds like something out of a left-wing propaganda comic book from the ‘20s!”

That voice belonged to a mountain of a man, almost two meters tall, with large shoulders and even larger shoulder pads, which somehow contrasted with his elegant, oversized seven-hundred-euro Canavella black suit. But, more than that, what was truly contrasting was his head. He wore a metallic helmet that left no bit of his skin for showing. His mouth was covered by a white, ceramic face plate, his eyes hidden by thick black lenses, his nape wrapped by a shiny cover, his forehead concealed by a head-wide composite ring. He looked like a robot of old, except he was registered and recognized as a human, at least on paper. That was Frida’s right hand man, Mojave Steinberger. A man who didn’t like pranks or jokes.

Claudia winked at him, shrugged.

“You are free to believe it or not, iron giant. And, frankly, it’s not important that Frida, or you, or even I believe it to be true. What’s important, is that your prospective customer, Brembo Marranzani is absolutely, positively convinced this werewolf will come for his antique shop too. And needs someone to deal with him, might the need arise.”

She put her elbows on the desk, her face resting on her palms.

“So, if the werewolf exists, you’ll have a chance to kick his flea-infested ass to your heart’s content. If he doesn’t, you’ll be paid for the most boring staking night ever, but paid nonetheless.”

At the word paid, Frida’s ears twitched a little.

“How much money are we talking about?”

Claudia chuckled, resting back on her chair, laughed softly.

“My, my! This is the Frida-chan I know! So, since in a few days there will be a huge celebration in Euterpe, Marranzani wants to be sure his shop is in the best possible state. Thus, he put ten thousand euro on the plate for the elimination of the werewolf — and two thousand if that beast doesn’t show up.”

“TEN THOUSAND?”

The voices of Frida and Steinberger mingled into a simultaneous choir of surprise, delight, and greedy, euro-shaped eyes. Not even one instant later, Frida ripped off her glasses, showing her scarred right eye, her inverse red crescent tattoo running on her face, her psychotic grin. She undid her braid at the same time, letting her hair flow free.

“Alright, count me in!”

She unwrapped her shirt and suit jacket too, tying them to her waist, as she put her foot on the table, her chest wrapped only by intertwined bandages, her sword resting on her shoulder.

“For ten thousand euro, I’d run to Antarctica carrying Steinberger on my shoulders!”

Her eye was shining, burning with determination. A werewolf. A lightist werewolf. To dispose of with extreme prejudice. No bells and whistles, just a plain, simple, old-fashioned slaughter. Frida grinned. Thinking was not her strong suit – she had hired Steinberger for that – but throwing hands and cutting them? That was her call.

Claudia chuckled again, stood up from the table, bowed courteously.

“Alright, then. I guess this is settled, Frida-chan. Concerning my commission, let’s meet tomorrow, usual place, usual time…”

She blew a kiss to her, winking at the same time.

“… and, please, don’t forget to wear black lace! You know how much I love biting it off your luscious body.”

That said, she turned around and quickly walked away from the table, right as the group on stage finished playing their song. She dove in the crowd, during a round of applause. A pink spot slowly mingling with the audience, till it disappeared, out of reach and sight.

Frida rolled her eye, sat down again. Claudia. That lecherous horny beast. The fact that she had taken a liking in Frida’s body was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because she didn’t have to pay her an unreasonable amount of money for her high-quality intel. A curse, because she had to put up with her obnoxious sugary attitude and share a bed with her in the weirdest, crappiest love hotels that city could offer. Not that she disliked it, on the contrary – after all, they got to know each other thanks to a blind date that ended in a very memorable night – but her demeanor was just so annoying. After the first six times they went through the same motions, she had seriously considered suffocating her with a cushion and hiding her body with the help of Steinberger. Yet, that would have meant a) having to find another informant that was at least half as capable as her, b) living with the constant fear of being incriminated for her murder and c) having to find a way to dump her crime on someone else, might the need arise. That someone else in question being her main competitor, Reno Gattonero – a middle-aged neko who was running a small investigation agency and was notorious for having three recognized daughters and up to six unrecognized ones (numbers pending depending on who told the story).

“A lightist. Werewolf.”

Steinberger broke the silence, his arms crossed as he shook his head with contempt.

“What’s next, a statue of the Light of Italy walking back to life from Piazzale Loreto? Together with Mussolini, maybe?”

At that remark, Frida’s mind produced a weird mental motion picture, with the two dictators jumping around, upside down, in a field of flowers, their feet touching the sky at every step, their heads directed towards the ground, while picking flowers and laughing, with Happy Together as a background (more precisely, the 1994 version sang by Leningrad Cowboys with the Red Army Choir). She coughed, started wheezing uncontrollably.

“Frida?”

A deep breath, another one, as the laughter slowly subsided. Frida forced herself to turn serious again, put herself together, took her hilarity under control.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. So… a werewolf. Yeah.”

“And? What of it?”

A demonic grin had crossed her face, as she cracked her knuckles.

“I say we slay it and run with the money. And, if it doesn’t exist, we’ll just need to improvise and make it exist anyway.”

Steinberger’s eyes shone behind his visor, his huge fingers rubbing his chin.

“Wait, are you saying that we should… find a way to show we killed a werewolf, even if there’s no werewolf?”

He paused for a second, as a wide smile opened under his face mask.

“Go on.”

Frida shouted, slashed through the air with her sword. Back to the present, back to the zombie onslaught, under the effects of unyielding rage. All those countless hours spent looking for a homeless person to drug, put into a fursuit and accidentally throw into the Melpomene channel in front of a CCTV camera for nothing. That night, for some reason, there was simply no drunken bum they could scoop out of the road and send to kingdom come. They had to resort to a very expensive inflatable doll Frida had tucked in the trunk of her car “for emergency uses”. A premium “Von Zee” doll no less – limited edition with automatic hardening and integrated speakers. Still, with ten thousand euros, she could have afforded around forty of them, so it was worth the sacrifice.

Except, the werewolf was really there. But it popped out right after she had stabbed the disguised doll four times, while Steinberger was taking pictures with his phone. That made Frida absolutely livid. And now she was unloading her frustration on the undead army in front of her, hacking and slashing their limbs with feral, unquenched fury. To make matters worse, Steinberger got lost in the cramped streets of quartiere Marengo, in the futile attempt to perform a pincher maneuver on the escaping furball.

That last part was unknown to Onorato Caligola, who had just witnessed his loyal werewolf soldier being chased between buildings by an ax-crazy, katana-wielding woman uttering what he assumed to be Japanese words with a mangled German accent. He was growing increasingly worried by the situation, silently biting his nails every time an arm or leg flew his way, keeping a mental count of how many of his zombies still had access to all four appendages. Behind his back, the werewolf in question seemed almost more worried than him, scared even.

“This doesn’t look good…”

“No, it doesn’t. And do you know whose fault it is, sergeant Galata?”

Caligola turned towards the werewolf, his fingers drilled on his furry forehead.

“YOURS! It’s all your fault, you goddamn fleabag!”

His bloodshot eye met the scared pupils of the beastman, charred them with its resentful gaze.

“You JUST needed to keep a low profile and exit from the back entrance! But no, NO! Let’s kick the front door down and pose with a lightist salute in front of the camera!”

The werewolf called Galata shook his head, waved his arms in front of his snout.

“B… but the Light…”

“The Light is rolling over in his grave because of your stupidity! Once we get back to the base, I…”

A severed open hand hit him in the face, slapping his cheek and interrupting his angry rant. Caligola’s head rebound, his monocle almost fell due to the impact, his grimace literally screamed what the hell, as he turned towards the battlefield.

And saw nothing but a sea of undead corpses, slithering and quivering as the woman was still standing, growling like a caged beast.

“Damn it to hell! My eight-hundred-euro Mezzalenco suit! Com-ple-tely ruined!”

Caligola stood motionless, petrified, for a long second. Aside from her clothes being partly torn, she was unscathed – despite the massive, combined, coordinated assault of a full legion of his personal elite zombies. His jaw fell almost to the floor in surprise. That wasn’t how thing were supposed to end. When Galata sent a message through his pager, it was clear that something was up. Either I’ve found the diary or someone found me. And, in both cases, mobilizing legio Necropolis – the one Caligola was single-handedly responsible for – was the standard answer. If Galata found the book, to secure it. If Galata didn’t find the book, to dispose of whomever had dared to jeopardize the success of their operation. That would have also been the first real field test for Necropolis, the coronation of ten years of attempts at creating useful puppets out of corpses, ten years of digging bodies out of rundown graveyards at the outskirts of forgotten Italian burgs under the rain, the snow, the hail.

The culmination of his scientific and military genius.

Swept away by a katana-wielding, suit-wearing half-Japanese half-German bitch, who was currently grinning like the devil she was.

“Full score for the cosplay, people. You really do look like lightist rejects. But, now, seriously, what about telling me the full story? It’s also fine if you don’t and just leave the werewolf here to be chopped like sushi. The choice is yours, monocle.”

Caligola facepalmed, cursed under his breath, seriously evaluated leaving Galata to his fate and run away as fast as reasonably possible. However, he couldn’t trust that woman. He couldn’t trust her words. He rolled his eyes, pulled out a remote from his pocket. That was not how things were supposed to go.

“What about NEITHER, you swiiiiine?!”

As he pushed the button, the buildings began to shake, the ground too, a rumbling noise spreading through the air, making the tiles waver. Frida turned around, trying to pinpoint the origin of that noise, that noise that was mounting up every second more.

Then, the wall behind crumbled, bricks shattered, pulverized.

From the dust cloud, first emerged a cannon. Then, a set of treads. Then, a turret. Then, the symbol of the lightist regime, a sun with four beams, shaped as a cross. Frida remained motionless for a long second, as the vehicle, the brutal mass of steel, settled down on the tarmac, after having smashes its way through the hallway. She blinked once, twice.

A tank.

That thing standing there was nothing else than a miniature tank. And its main artillery piece was looking straight at her.

“COME ON, seriously?!”

Caligola smirked viciously, as Galata’s stared at it in marvel, almost incapable of containing his surprise.

“A radiotank?! Here?!”

“Not a simple radiotank, Galata. This is an original radiotank!”

Caligola raised his arm straight up, bent it towards his chest, screaming from the depth of his lungs.

“The one saved by none other than our herooooo, Ioria Patrizio Talassa!”

That was his trump card: the last operational autonomous RC tank of the glorious lightist army, the only one surviving the infamous battle of Formia, where those coward partisans destroyed all of them, thanks in huge part to the support of German and French saboteurs. That battle should have been the finishing strike against the resistance cells spread around Italy, restoring peace and making sure their country could finally aspire to become a shining beacon of light, free from genetically engineered freaks, mutants, perverts, and immigrants. That was the message of Belgio Quaresima, the Light of Italy. Building a country every Italian could be proud of, from the ashes left by the Helsinki Meltdown. Because it was as clear as day that the Phoenix Recovery Plan was rigged to help the north-European countries first and foremost. Nobody thought about Italy, Spain and Greece. Nobody, except the Light. The fact that southern Europe wasn’t hit by the waves that razed Denmark and the coast of Germany didn’t mean they had to be cut away from funding. He was right, as he was always right. And the people chose him, chose his guidance, as he kept the democracy alive, while also making sure he couldn’t be removed from the seat he so justly obtained. In his enlightened belief, he founded Euterpe and the satellite cities around it, to create a new, shining beginning to the millennial story of glory of the country, dating back to the Roman Empire. Except Rome was a decadent mess of complacent bureaucrats living in the past. The future was what was important, and the Light gave them a future, in that period of despair, overinflation and diffuse unemployment. Italy won’t just be reborn from the ashes—Italy will be the fire that never burns out. With those words, he conquered the hearts and the minds of many of his compatriots, so many of them. It was his government who promoted the Morelli laws, as Asia Morelli, the mother of flames, was his most trusted advisor and clearly knew what was good for the country and the world. No filthy subhuman would dare to ask for rights or endanger the future and genetic purity of the italic people ever again.

Yet, at Formia, his proud mechanized battalion “Natale” was annihilated, with general Ioria Patrizio Talassa being able to miraculously save just one radiotank from the carnage and repurpose it as his personal, AI-guided companion Indomito. That companion was now there, fighting with them in Euterpe, the cradle of the regime they all wanted back – with some additional tricks Caligola himself had installed on its frame. It was no coincidence that the planned escape route for Galata in case of contact with hostile parties ended in that cramped courtyard among old, ruined buildings: Indomito was hidden there, ready to come out at Caligola’s command. Sure, it was probably an overkill – sending a tank with an anti-armor howitzer right against what looked like a civilian, but – as the Light loved to say – there is no excess in violence.

Frida didn’t really know what to think, as her muscles had become as stiff as stockfish. She had never met face to face with a tank – and an automatic one to make things worse.

“Huh. Soooo… nice cannon you have here. Is there a—uh—chance we can solve this peacefully? Like, you don’t really want to shoot me…”

The cannon aimed down, a robotic voice coming from the speakers.

“> Light, my might!”

“… eeeeeeeeh.”

Frida jumped on her left immediately, as an animalistic reflex took hold of her. A deafening roar pierced the air, the radiotank main artillery went off, shooting a bullet the size of a human head at supersonic speed. Fragments of bricks, broken concrete, white and red powder in a cloud, emerging from the point of impact. Car alarms going off, the sound of sirens and far voices filling the night with dread. Frida coughed, stood back up, her hair covered in dust, scratches all over her skin. She cursed under her breath. A tank. She wasn’t supposed to fight a tank. That was completely outside of her contract. She brushed off the blood from her lips, smirked. That was a chance for earning a hefty extra on her already stellar bounty. Provided she survived, that is.

Behind the tank, Galata was looking with shaken eyes. The legend. L’Indomito. There. In a cramped alley in Euterpe. That felt insane. He stared back at Caligola, unable to make sense of what he had just seen.

“Sir? L’Indomito? Here? How…”

Caligola shook his head.

“We can’t leave anything to chance, fleabag. The retrieval of the diary is a matter of the highest importance.”

He pointed his finger at his snout, pushing it with little regard for his werewolf pal.

“We’ve caused a commotion, soon this place will be filled to the brim with police. Stay behind and finish that bitch off, if l’Indomito fails! I’ll get back to Base Diamante with the book. Is it clear?”

He raised his arm, bent it against his chest.

“For the Light!”

Galata repeated the gesture, shouted from the bottom of his lungs.

“For the Light!”

Then, Caligola started to run, leaving him and the rests of his most cherished zombies behind.

**

It is said that, when one is cornered and approaching their death, pictures of their life flow before their eyes, like a movie of sorts. There, in Euterpe, with her back against a brick wall, Frida was experiencing something similar. Happy family memories, the monster attack, her lost eye, the restaurant of uncle Miyamoto, his pizza with sushi, her first sword, her moon tattoo, uncle Miyamoto’s horrified face when she came back with said tattoo, her first meeting with Claudia, the founding of Igarashi Supernatural Investigations, the serendipitous encounter with Steinberger.

All of them, on repeat, with ad-breaks too, as she was staring helplessly at the mouth of the cannon, pointing at her with extreme prejudice. Her mind wouldn’t even go to complain about her torn suit, for once, or her expensive shirt. This time, it was a pure, unadulterated feeling of impotence.

She cursed, breathed heavily, as she tried to recollect her thoughts. Nowhere to run. A dead end. Her sword couldn’t cut metal. The treads were too well protected. And that cannon was aimed at her, at her chest. Maybe, confusing the AI might have worked? Radiotanks weren’t known for their superb intelligence and – as long as that man named Caligola didn’t mess with it, that automatic weapon was most likely still mounting an old, outdated model from the early 2020s.

She opened her mouth, almost shouted.

“If… if you shoot me now, everyone will look for you! You’ll be thrashed! Destroyed! And your pals will be found! Do you really want this?”

“> The more the enemies, the greater the honor!”

She blinked. Twice.

Not only that AI wasn’t great—it had been indoctrinated with lightist propaganda. She gritted her teeth, desperately trying to put together a retort that could help her get out of that tight spot. Then, she let herself fall on her knees, joining her hands in prayer, sobbing too.

“Please! I’m not even twenty-five! My parents were killed by a monster! I’ve lost an eye! I’ve never experienced true happiness! Didn’t the Light want true happiness for all people of Italy?”

“> All creatures, great and small, make mistakes, die and fall!”

That roughly translated to no forgiveness for those who err. She cursed. That was not how it was supposed to end. She was going to become a martyr. A martyr who died an unjust death at the hand – or, rather, the cannon – of an automatic war machine. Footage of her demise would have become a historical document, played over and over in documentaries and school classes. She couldn’t end up being remembered as a wimp. She had to make the best out of it.

She roared, cursed against her self pity, stood up, gave the machine the finger, stuck her tongue out.

“Then, record this: Go fix yourself, rotting piece of junk, instead of dickriding the words of an idiot who never learned from the past! Shoot me! Finish me off! But know you’ve lost! You’ve lost against the magnificent, unique, and downright stunningly good-looking Frida Igarashi, whose incredible investigative agency sits in Euterpe, via del Crepuscolo 49/3, open 9-18! Also, if these have to be my last words: Fuck you, Reno Gattonero! You’ll always be number two… thousand!”

There, she could finally go out in peace, perfectly satisfied by her message. That – she thought – was one hell of a way to be remembered.

In that moment, she heard it. A deafening roar. Her whole world shaking. She lost her balance, fell on the ground, as her sight was blinded by a violent flas. A cloud of smoke, the metal shaken, the turret vibrating from the impact. The radiotank jerked, the cannon fell down too, unresponsive, the circuits panicked. Up a nearby building, a shadow was looming over them. Large, humanoid, with immense shoulders, colossal biceps, a portable rocket launcher installed on both wrists. Frida’s mouth fell agape, as the burly figure started to speak.

“My, my. Looks like I can’t leave you alone even for a second, without you getting in danger of being killed, boss.”

Mojave Steinberger, in his metallic prowess, was towering over them from the roof of a nearby building – and striking a pose, no less. Frida rolled her eye. Her glorious speech for posterity made redundant by a rocket shot by her associate. What a waste of words and energies. Still, she was less than displeased of being saved from certain death, so that was at least something.

“Goddammit, Steinberger! Why did it take you so long?”

“Oh, come on! You’re the one who left me behind! You’re lucky I’ve caught up just as that freaky tank…”

Suddenly, said freaky tank jerked again, the turret spun around, pointed at the rooftop. Then, the cannon shot out of the blue, almost as soon as the aim was set.

“> Those who give up have no right to stand up!”

The projectile struck the rooftop, exploded, taking out a massive antenna complex and a couple satellite dishes, grazing the walls of a nearby condo. Car alarms blared, lights went on. Cries, shouts, lights switched on, people peeping out of the windows in the distance. Through the cloud of dust at the point of impact, Frida could only barely see a human silhouette.

“Steinberger!”

A noise of jet turbines revving up. Steinberger flew out of the debris, his shoulder boosters propelling him forward at insane speed.

“Bad aim, artificial dummy!”

He charged his fist, in the infinitesimal time it took him to reach his target, pulled his weight back. Then, delivered a tremendous punch against the turret.

The metal vibrated, the tank lifted from the ground, rolled over its side, bumped on the asphalt, twice, three times, until a wall of bricks and concrete arrested its run. Steinberger landed on the pavement, quenched his momentum with care, trying not to ruin his shoes, right under the amazed gaze of Frida – a Frida that was giggling like a teenager going to a concert of her favorite pop band.

“That! Was! Awesome! Like in those super sentai TV shows! A by-the-book, perfectly-performed RIDER PUNCH! Steinberger, you beautiful bastard!”

“It’s not over, Frida…”

The treads of the tank started whirring, the turret turned right and left. Then, the main chassis split up.

“… not yet.”

The beams reconfigured themselves, the treads divided, the turret opened, the whole body of the tank began contorting and twisting. Steinberger reloaded his rocket launcher, aimed it at the mess of metal tendrils in front of him, his visor calculating the trajectory. Before he could fire, two sub machine guns emerged from the morphing vehicle, shooting a salvo of bullets. Steinberger ducked, taking down Frida with him. The bullets missed their marks, making Swiss cheese out of the wall behind them, but it wasn’t important. What was important was winning enough time. As soon as Steinberger turned up again and could aim his weapon, there was no tank anymore.

A quadrupedal nest of machine guns was standing there instead, with its main cannon divided into four separate turrets, much like a huge, ever-twitching robotic spider. A white featureless mask appeared out of its central body, with red, shining, neon eyes behind. And a sun with four beams imprinted on its forehead.

“> Better to die as a lion than to live as sheep!”

Frida stared in disbelief, as the former radiotank had reconfigured itself, turning into an abominable mix between a living weapon platform and a faceless silicon cyborg.

“That… that’s not just a tank! It’s a frickin’ Transformer?!”

Before she could even terminate her sentence, the mechanical abomination fired its guns, rotating them around its frame in circles. Steinberger grabbed Frida, shoved her behind a parked car. The projectiles pierced the sheet metal, broke the glass, thrashed the beams. Steinberger ducked, kept a low profile, cursed. Frida did the same, whistled nervously, tapped her fingers on the metal.

“That thing is waaaaay above our pay grade.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, for once.”

The rain of lead stopped. They could hear the machine repositioning, the joints of the machine twitching, twisting around to find a more favorable spot. Frida gazed at the battlefield, trying to think of a way out. A rather large courtyard, surrounded by old-ish buildings, some of which still inhabited. A handful of cars parked around and garbage bins that could be used as impromptu cover, might the need arise. Then, she noticed it. The shadow looming from a nearby rooftop. A shadow most known for its furry make up. Steinberger noticed it too, pointed his finger up.

“Frida! The werewolf!”

A large, mischievous smile opened on Frida’s face, a grin from cheek to cheek.

“Our walkin’ piggybank’s still there! Nice for him waiting for us!”

“Get him, knock him out cold! I’ll deal with Mega Maid over there.”

“But…”

Steinberger straightened his arm, almost like a ramp, so that Frida could climb it.

“Think about the money!”

Frida smirked.

“I always do.”

Then, he activated his shoulder boosters, throwing Frida at maximum speed towards the silhouette. A silhouette who was wondering why it did take that long for a fully armed radiotank to take care of two low-lives like those, and was patiently watching from above to ascertain the situation. A silhouette that saw a blurry figure pop up at high speed in front of him, blazing from below unreasonably fast.

“PEEK-A-BOO!”

A silhouette who fell on its back as soon as said figure landed on the rooftop.

The worried, fear-stricken silhouette of Lauro Galata, werwolf sergeant of a neofascist legion, now howling in terror in front of the imposing figure of a woman with long, blond hair wearing what had been a suit not long before. A woman pointing her crimson sword at him.

“End of the line, fleabag! Be a good boy and let me skin you. It won’t take long if you cooperate!”

Galata growled, stood up, jumped back to put as much distance as possible between him and her, almost reaching the other end of the rooftop.

“As if, you bitch! The honor of the lightist army is unquestionable!”

He bared his fangs, showed his claws.

“If you haven’t noticed it, I’m A WEREWOLF! I have transcended human… YIKES!”

Frida slashed at him before he could finish his sentence, leaving him surprised, flabbergasted, tufts of hair floating in the air, severed from his body. Frida was gazing at him, her mouth contracted in a devilish grin, her tongue clicking in anticipation, her greed, her unyielding sadism in full display. She jumped at him with her blade drawn, performing a half pirouette in the air. Galata retreated again, blinked twice.

That malice.

That mischief.

That couldn’t be a human.

She HAD to be a demon, and an insane one, to boot.

He quickly browsed the pocket of his combat trousers. The syringe was still there. He didn’t want to use it, but in case of need…

“Come to mommy, doggo!”

He dashed again, avoiding her blade at the last instant. He growled. He was the monster, not the prey. No way he could lose to someone like that. As devilish she could look, she had to be human. Inferior. Weak. He licked his lips, took a defensive stance.

“You wish!”

Then, he ran forward, his arms crossed in front of his snout, ready to slash in a cross pattern. Frida grinned, started to run too, her weapon raised.

“I was waiting for this moment!”

The blade and the claws made contact, then again, and again. Each time the blade bounced back, Galata’s claws found their mark, slashing and cutting Frida’s skin with countless superficial wounds. Only for his own skin to be cut and slashed in turn, with feral brutality.

“Yes! Yes! Don’t stop fleabag! It’s now or nothing!”

Galata growled, spotted an opening, arced his arm for a direct hit. The claw came down, struck Frida on her chest, ripped through the bandages, from her sternum almost down to her hips, in one fast, deadly motion, causing her to scream, back down.

Yet, it was Galata who felt the pain.

His eyes went to his own belly. To the deep, open wound standing there, to the blood pouring out of it. He blinked once, twice in disbelief. The bitch. The bitch stabbed him while he struck her. It was a calculated move. And now… now she was laughing. Laughing at him, with her open chest wound for show, no less, shamelessly gloating.

“H… how…”

The pain radiated from his belly to his chest, as he felt his strength waning. He was losing blood. Too much blood. He couldn’t keep up. Even with his regeneration factor, that was a lost cause.

He was dying.

“That hurt, little furball. A lot.”

And she was staring at him, with bloodied eyes, as her hand ripped off what was left of the bandages, leaving her chest bare. But that was no cause of embarrassment or shrieks. She was towering over him, showing nothing but a sheer air of superiority. Galata gritted his teeth. It was over. It was really over. Unless…

His hand reached for his pocket. The syringe. The syringe was still there. Using it meant losing what little was left of his humanity. Yet…

A fit of cough, blood spewing through his teeth. His body had reached its limit. It was now or never. Humanity or glory. His honor or the Light. He smirked. The choice was simple. It wasn’t even a choice in the first place. He drew the syringe from his pocket, armed it, pierced his own skin with its needle, right under his biceps.

“FOR THE LIGHT!”

Frida raised her arm, something ticking inside her brain, instant before the inevitable. She grabbed her sword, walked forward, prepared to strike for one last time.

Only for a gigantic paw to stop her in her tracks.

And a loud roar eclipsing the alarm sirens in the night.

Down on the streets, Steinberger couldn’t hear any of that commotion – in fact, he couldn’t care less, as he was evading bullets directed at him at an unenviable pace. The sirens blaring in the distance, though, were more than real. The police were coming, soon the Carabinieri would have taken care of the mess. Which meant no money for them. He cursed under his breath. Either they cleared the stage before the sbirri arrived or it would have been all for nothing.

At that thought, the idea of trading shots with a transforming tank wasn’t even the worst scenario. He quickly glanced at the place he managed to lead the dumb mechanical beast too. A somewhat large plaza, filled to the brim with parked cars – very good for cover, even if the ensuing property damage would have caused a little heart failure to their insurance providers. There were several buildings around, some even on the luxury side – including Marranzani Antiques, the store they were supposed to protect. Well, nothing had happened to it yet, so they had been largely successful – unless the fascist byte-brain there decided to direct its suppression fire on it instead of him.

“> Light, be my might!”

As the robotic voice blared, another salvo of projectiles grazed Steinberger, chipping at his shoulder pad, almost ripping it off. He used that instant to retaliate, shoot his second to last rocket at the four-legged spider. The rocket sprinted through the air, smashed into the right side of the weapon platform, ripping off two machine guns in one go. The robot roared, reconfigured to move one of the healthy guns to the broken side, as the white mask retreated into the chassis, showing a concealed cannon.

A loud explosion.

Steinberger leapt towards a nearby car, as the one he was hiding behind suddenly turned into a shower of shrapnel, rust, glass and melted rubber. He landed badly on his back, bounced on the asphalt, as the machine guns roared once more, riddling the car’s sheet metal doors with holes the diameter of one massive Bavarian wurst. Steinberger cursed under his breath, counted his supplies. Only two magazines left for his handgun, plus one rocket. Booster fuel down to twenty percent. He sighed. No amount of full frontal assaults would have been enough to best the machine. A sudden ignition noise broke his train of thoughts. He leapt to the side, taking cover behind yet another car. Only to witness the one that sheltered him until that point explode in a cloud of glass and aluminum.

Retreat wasn’t an option. Defense wasn’t an option. So, that left just one solution.

He grinned. That plan was something Frida could have come up with. Her absolute deranged madness was starting to seep into his rational mind. Maybe, that was for the best.

What was not the best, was Frida’s situation.

She narrowly avoided being sliced like tuna fillets, a second, a third time, rolled on the roof while trying to keep the pace. She raised her sword, deflected the fourth attack at the last instant. The weight of the paw made her flinch, fall on her knees, causing her pants to rip at the knee level once again. What was left of her suit was hanging together due to hopes and dreams of what little quality tread was keeping it from falling apart. After all, Mezzalenco suits were made for classy events, not for fighting mutant werewolves on the roof of decrepit, dilapidated buildings. She took a deep breath, inhaled, exhaled, looked up again.

Red eyes. Black mane. Sharp teeth. A gargantuan silhouette shadowing the moon.

That was what Galata had become. Frida clenched her fingers around her weapon’s hilt, trying to calm down. The beast was staring at her, roaring, without a hint of sentience left, driven exclusively by its instincts. Yes, its. Frida couldn’t recognize that thing as human anymore. It was just an animal, a rabid monster that needed to be put out of its misery. Gone was his intellect, his strategy, his cunning. The man once called Lauro Galata was now just a mindless, hypertrophic, three meters tall wolf with one single directive: kill.

Frida growled.

“… you know, fleabag. I had nothing but respect for you. Not running away, facing me like a champ. But this…”

She leapt on her left side, narrowly avoiding the claw, retaliating with a precise cut. Its flesh slashed, blood spurting under the fur, the beast growling in pain.

“This ain’t it! You are nothing like before! You are just a monster! Which means…”

Her grimace turning into a homicidal grin, her eye contracting, dilating in unnatural ways.

“WHICH MEANS I CAN SLAUGHTER YOU WITHOUT REMORSE!”

She raised her blade up, as her face beamed in the shadows, as the moon reflected on its surface. The beast stared at her, still tending to its wounds, somehow puzzled by her change of demeanor. Its instincts were screaming something to it, repeatedly, but it didn’t listen, it didn’t care about what they told it. It just wanted to kill, to rip her flesh apart, no matter the means. So, it didn’t realize the danger, it didn’t retreat, it didn’t brace for impact.

Then, she jumped, twisting in the air, as her blade shone under the moonlight, its beautiful red steel reflecting arabesque suggestions in the still atmosphere of the night, the dried blood sullying it as a dark halo, making the bright patches even brighter by contrast.

It was then that the creature understood, that its instincts became impossible to ignore. It was then that it raised its claws, to rend its assailant asunder, in a last, desperate attempt. It was then that it heard her cry, her voice, screaming from the bottom of her lungs.

Screaming something that had no meaning, and yet sounded Japanese enough.

“HYASSHOKEN!”

Steinberger didn’t hear Frida’s utterance, didn’t look for her. But she was at the center of his mind, as his boosters ignited once more, as he readied his last cartridge inside his rocket launcher. That was all or nothing. Death or glory. Swim or sink. He saw the minicannon, he saw the tank loading it, aiming at the car he was hiding behind. That was it. The right moment. The last moment.

“> Light, my might!”

The blast, the explosion, the car blown to smithereens, in a cloud of rust and glass, with the smell of burning rubber all around. Then, another blast, but not a shot. The ignition of a jet turbine. And Steinberger emerged from the mist, charging full speed ahead. Before the minicannon could reload, his hands grabbed the silicon face, his boosters pushed him forward, the whole body of the machine trembling, opposing a fierce resistance. Until they lost.

The legs not offering enough grip, the friction insufficient, the chassis pushed back. Steinberger’s arms revved up, hit the white mask with all their strength, causing the mech to lose its balance, to scramble, to vainly attempt to straighten its position.

It was then that it heard it.

The click.

The roar of the rocket launcher.

And white fragments exploded in the air, one second later, where once stood a face.

The missile struck the mech’s core, blasting it back before it could avoid it, tearing through the sheet metal, through the armor, burning its circuitry, gnashing at its engine. The pierced chassis rolled on the tarmac, bounced once, twice, before crashing through a glass window, breaking down the front wall of a building, its momentum unquenched. It thrashed the fine objects inside the store, the furniture, eradicated the lamps, broke down the counter, the electric system. Then, its runs stopped, against the last wall standing, rolling back on its charred side. Its lights still blinking, the legs twitching, the weaponry shattered. But not the speakers, no. Its voice was still to be heard. Whimpering. Stuttering.

“> Captain… oh… m… my captain…”

Images flashed in its damaged database. Battles. Explosions. Deaths. A face, the face of a human being. Ioria Patrizio Talassa. The man who saved it, the man who gave it a reason to live on. A man that was no more.

“> Captain… I’m… I’m coming to you, captain.”

The tank contemplated that memory, the one he wanted to spare, the one he wanted to keep. The only creature he could call a friend. Then, the speakers flared up, the volume to the max, a high-pitched anti-air siren, its voice reaching its apex.

“> LIGHT! BE! MY MIGHT!”

Before its final gesture.

Its final act for the cause.

The explosion shook the ground, shook the building, shook everything. Sirens blaring, glasses shattered, the entire ground floor engulfed by fire. Charred were the chairs, burned were the books, thrashed where the crystals, melted was the glass. In an instant, what was once a thriving store burst into flames, pulverizing everything in their wake, turning the carcass of the radiotank into ashes. Turning the world around into hell.

Hell that had already broke loose on the top of a nearby building.

That slash.

That single slash had cut through the body.

From up to down.

Finding no resistance.

Skin.

Muscles.

Bones.

Organs.

Nothing.

Nothing was spared.

Before the brain was itself severed, the creature once known as Lauro Galata, had just a moment to elaborate. Just a moment to retrieve a spark of clarity. One moment to gaze at the battered, bruised shape of a devil, a devil holding a crimson sword, bathed in moonlight.

A devil cutting him down in half, with just one strike.

A devil standing victorious, licking the edge of her blade.

As the pieces of its monstrous body started to fall off.

As blood sprayed out of its open chest cavity.

As an ancestral fear was the last feeling that crossed its mind.

As whatever Lauro Galata had become ceased to exist.

While the demoness that slayed it grinned with malice, covered only by sparse, mud-caked scraps of what once was an elegant, eight-hundred-hero suit.

**

Caligola gasped for air, as he slowly reached for the handle. The helicopter was ready to take off, out where nobody could find him. Of almost twenty people it carried to Euterpe, only one remained – he – as all of his zombies met an untimely end and even Galata’s life readings went silent. Who or what was that bitch? That picture of the one-eyed samurai standing victorious, surrounded by the poor remains of his army, made him feel uneasy, scared even. One woman. With one crimson sword. Grinning like a demon, gloating with a crazy slasher smile, towering over a gruesome grand guignol of severed arms and other body parts. Caligola shivered. Until that night, monsters were just useful tools. Until that night, he knew he was the one to be feared. Now, he wasn’t sure anymore.

He kept the diary firm in his hands, his forehead punctured by sweat drops. Not all was lost. The main goal, the ultimate goal of that campaign was a success. The diary. Ioria Patrizio Talassa’s diary. A diary written on old fashioned paper, in his after-war years, after having been pardoned by the new traitorous Italian government, after trying to build up a coup and failing at it. Talassa knew something that he shouldn’t have known. Something that made him stop his coup before it even started, causing Scipio Lunarossa to found La Legione as a response to that act of cowardice. Everyone wanted Talassa to explain himself, to explain the reason why he didn’t go through with his last endeavor. But Ioria Patrizio Talassa was dead, unable to answer any questions. Hailed as a hero, he died as a political prisoner, without ever trying to deny the allegations of having left the Light. Nobody could believe it, not even Scipio himself. All of them were convinced that Talassa had something to hide, for the wellbeing of the Legione, but nobody knew what. What was left was his diary, a single copy of which existed, changing hands dozens of times until it landed in the storeroom of a forgettable antique shop in Euterpe. The diary that was now in Caligola’s possession, ready to embark on the helicopter to Base Diamante.

The handle went down, the door slid open. Caligola crawled inside the chopper, let himself fall on the seat, keeping his breath at bay, albeit just slightly. With Talassa’s diary, everything would have made sense. With Talassa’s diary, his sacrifices, the imprisonment of Scipio Lunarossa… everything would have been worth it.

“My, my, Caligola-chan… what a mess.”

A voice. A female voice, one he didn’t recognize at first. He raised his chin, adjusted his monocle, gazed at the general direction where those words came from. Only to see it.

A body.

What was left of it.

Splattered on the window.

Its limbs torn and twisted.

Caligola’s voice died in his throat.

The pilot. That was the pilot. But…

“Oh, but you did it! You got the diary! That’s wondrous, isn’t it? You’re a very good doggo, Caligola-chan!”

She was sitting there, in front of the corpse, smiling at him. Pink hair, with strands marking a heart on her forehead. Pink irises. A heart-shaped tattoo. A purple suit. A pink shirt. Both worn in a disheveled way, one that showed her naked shoulder. Caligola’s heart sunk.

“Y… you here…? B… but why…?”

She tapped on her lips, giggling, playing with a bloodied pilot helmet, caressing its dark surface.

“It’s simple, Caligola-chan! Dead simple! President-chan asked me to retrieve the diary. You see, Talassa was a bad doggo. He thought he could write about Lilith and sneak that knowledge to his comrades to resurrect his dream. And he almost did, if it weren’t for your dumb attempts at retrieving it! How, how wonderful!”

The woman reached for him, kissed him on his monocle, all of a sudden, leaving traces of pink lipstick. Caligola jolted back, fell on the floor right outside the helicopter, shrieked, curled around the diary.

“Y… you biiiiiitch! Don’t you dare… don’t you dare… this diary! This is our heritage! Our property! The property of the LIGHT! OUR! MIGHT! I will never…”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Caligola-chan. President-chan can’t afford a scandal. He asked me to deal with it quietly.”

She giggled again, bringing her hand to her mouth.

“My, my. To think that using you neofascists would be so easy! You spared us a wild goose chase, Caligola-chan! When you asked me to confirm your intel about Talassa’s diary, that was wonderfully timely! I just had to wait and throw a samurai-shaped spanner in your works…”

She winked at him, chuckled.

“… a very hot samurai, one that I’d love to taste right now. Aaaah, Frida-chan! I’m looking forward to our next bout together!”

Caligola’s heart skipped a beat. He was set up. It was a trap, a trap they fell into head first, manipulated like greenhorns. His zombies, sergeant Galata, even l’Indomito… sacrificed like pawns for someone else’s cause? He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t let that insult unpunished. His forehead was drenched in sweat, his eyes bloodshot. His gun drawn, the safety disabled, the barrel aimed at the weird woman, his breath heavy.

“L… LIGHT! BE! MY M…”

“Bang.”

The monocle lighted up, the glass cracked. Blood splattered on Claudia’s finger, on the tip of her index, of her finely polished nails, as the lipstick marks exploded, turning the lens into a cluster bomb, scattering shards through Caligola’s eye, through his skull, through his brain. His body twitched for a second, before falling to the ground, like a rag doll, his mouth wide open in a grimace of pain. Caligola’s body slumped out of the helicopter, his limbs losing all coordination, his gun falling too, bouncing on the rooftop before even being fired. His fingers lost their grasp on the diary, let the small book fall, sprayed open. Rows of Italian words, schematics, diagrams. And a picture. A picture of something resembling a woman, with webbed hands and feet, grey skin, weird vine-like appendages wrapping her body like a network of external capillaries. A caption underneath.

Lilith.

Claudia grabbed the booklet, browsed it lazily, stared at the pages with a marked lack of interest. The creature depicted wasn’t sexy enough to pique her interest, despite having been a woman at some point. Yet, her President-chan would have been happy about the results. Maybe, he would have let her have her way with her protégée too. She licked her lips, giggled once more. That two-pages spread of Lust made her wish she could get more intimate with the gal in question, but that had to wait at least a little longer. She walked out of the helicopter, slowly, without a hurry, taking her sweet time to climb down the emergency stairs from the rooftop. The carabinieri would have had a very good time inspecting a chopper filled with dismembered bodies. Twice the fun, once they’d find they were all neofascists, part of the subversive Legione. Of course, the army was going to storm Base Diamante as she was walking down the steps. Sharing the coordinates anonymously was a child’s play, after all, especially after getting confirmation that the diary was retrieved. Claudia let out an amused chuckle. It felt like a joyous coincidence that the daughter of Scipio Lunarossa was one of Stratosphere’s own Angels now and probably knew each and every single one of those involved. Maybe she even used to call Caligola “uncle” and to treat sergeant Galata like a older cousin. Maybe she still clung to the dream of being able to get back to that previous life of hers, at some point.

Now, that was absolutely impossible.

She would have loved to see her face, after hearing the news.

**

Frida lay down on the tarmac, staring at the raging flames that enveloped the street, burning every vehicle still parked around, including the remains of what once was a prideful neofascist radiotank. The blue lights of the police cars were closing in, the sirens louder and louder. A couple ambulances, firefighters too, the disaster unit – the whole package, except for the army. Out in the open, several passersby, people in their pajamas, children with stuffed animals. Loud voices, unintelligible chatter, curses, words better left unspoken. She didn’t care in the slightest, though. Her body was covered in tatters of a rather expensive suit, her skin lacerated by several long gashes, dried blood caking her bare chest. The only part of her outfit that survived almost unscathed were her premium Rivera business shoes, thanks to nothing short of a miracle. Yet, she felt rather peaceful. The pain had subsided, her sword was in perfect shape and she had quite a lot of camera feeds that could help her self-defense case. Being ambushed by a group of zombies, a werewolf and a transforming tank in what was effectively a public space didn’t leave her much of a choice. Steinberger, instead, was growling, muttering something in a weird Tyrolean dialect that he alone could understand. Frida sighed, rolled her eye. She knew what the point of his disappointment was – it wasn’t hard to imagine.

“Say, Steinberger, of all the stores you could throw that thing into…”

“Shut up, Frida.”

“Well, there goes our bounty, ain’t it?”

Marranzani Antiques was no more. The shop they were tasked to keep safe was nothing but a charred wasteland of burning sixteenth century furniture and broken fifteenth century mirrors. Well, at least the flames looked pretty. Cold comfort, yeah, but it was indeed reassuring that – whatever the chaos – they couldn’t get sued. Their contract only mentioned the werewolf, there was nothing about the structural integrity of the store, not even in the fine prints. Good things she read it all, before signing it. The self-destruction of a fascist derelict was what obliterated the antique shop, not the rocket fired by Steinberger. Whatever Brembo Marranzani wanted, it was technically not their fault and no sane judge would have ruled in his favor (or so she prayed). Yet, her business partner didn’t seem as calm as her.

“This was a complete loss. Marranzani will never pay us.”

“We’re lucky we don’t have to pay him back for the damage you caused.”

Steinberger crossed his arms, shook his head.

“Ten thousand euro… gone. Together with six rockets. A custom Canavella suit. A Mezzalenco suit.”

“Don’t forget my premium Von Zee inflatable doll. Plus, of course a wolf fursuit.”

“Those too.”

Frida sat on the ground, leaned forward, her whole body still aching.

“Do you think we can frame Gattonero for this mess?”

“Afraid that ain’t possible.”

“‘Cause you ain’t get enough imagination. Gimme your phone, I’ll take care of it.”

“Where’s yours?”

“Somewhere under them burning trash bags… maybe.”

Frida let herself fall down again, let her blond hair spread on the asphalt. Her wounds needed treatment. The one on her chest would have left a nasty scar anyway. A scar to remind her of her failure. She lazily grabbed Steinberger’s own reinforced mobile phone, able to withstand the pressure of his mechanical fingers, dialed in a phone number she knew by heart.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three…

“Who the fuck are you and why are you calling me at this time of the night?!”

A somewhat sleepy voice, rough too, the voice of a middle-aged catman roaring at the receiver. Frida grinned, almost bursting into laughter.

“Yo, cat DILF! It’s-a-me, Frida! Ya remember me, loser, yes?”

“Good grief, Igarashi, what the hell? Are you by chance the reason why I’m seeing smoke everywhere from my window? In that case, color me not surprised.”

“Nah, that was the fault of a self-destructing fascist tank aaaand a fascist werewolf that I cut in half.”

“… you ain’t serious, are you?”

“Wanna meet at my place in two hours to talk about it? I have some intel I can share and that might be interesting for you too, pussycat!”

“… oh, God, you are serious.”

“Yes, YES, I’M DEAD SERIOUS! And you know what? I’m the best! I’ve just saved our country while you were sleeping like a brick! This is why I’m number one, Gattonero! Suck it hard, cat DILF!”

She interrupted the call before he could reply, locked the phone, gave it back to Steinberger with a devilish smile, met his puzzled gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that! What’s a little success, if I can’t gloat about it in my enemy’s face?!”

“The gloating thing-y, I get it, totally… but why did you invite him at your place?!”

“Huh…”

Because gloating in person about my glorious victory made it even more exciting, she thought. Well, of course she knew that Gattonero wouldn’t come. It was obvious that she just wanted to rub salt on his wounds and mock him dearly. The morning news would have – of course – been filled with reports about her struggle against the evil fascist army that tried to uproot democracy. Her rates would skyrocket like crazy and that might have offset Steinberger’s blunder with Marranzani’s destroyed shop. However, if Gattonero did show up at her house, that impromptu late night meeting could turn into a nice workout session – one she desperately needed, in order to release her leftover adrenaline and frustration for her missed pay. As dumb as it sounded, in spite of their mutual dislike and frequent death threats, that grumpy neko made her feel week in her knees, when he walked around shirtless showing his six-pack and nipple piercings. Yes, Reno was, without a doubt, the apex cat-dad-she’d-like-to-fuck, if it weren’t for his terrible temper and their bitter rivalry. In a corner of her brain, she was confident he felt the same, with an oversized confidence in her (self-proclaimed) stunningly beautiful appearance.

As the first responders started to tend to her and Steinberger’s wounds, Frida grinned once more. Despite all the odds, for once, she achieved a win-win scenario.

A one of a kind eventuality that couldn’t end up wasted.