By Alan Morgan

Episode Two - 'Kind Hearts and Coronets'

Part 2 of 'Day of the Dead'

The Paracelcian Society, Westminster

"You look like shit!" Glenys giggled as Susan tottered into the servant's communal rooms. Susan's hair was spiked up, her make up smudged. Susan stuck her tongue out and tugged the ties of her bodice open, enabling her to push the top down to the flared skirt then to the floor over her legs. Kicking the six-inch heels into the nearest corner she rubbed her legs until the sprayed on latex stockings came off in balled tatters, and headed towards the showers. Glenys laughed again when she saw her friend's back. Criss-crossed across the flesh were a mass of shallow cuts; blood still flowed softly from several down over her buttocks which were red and flaming.

"Baroness Marta's in tonight then?" Glenys called out as the shower erupted into life, sensing Susan's entrance.

"What?"

"Baroness Marta! I presume that's who enjoyed your presence for the last half hour?"

Susan grunted and stepped into the next chamber where jets of warm air dried her. Picking up the spray skin nearby she handed it to Glenys who applied a few skilled strokes to repair the damage to her friend's rear half. Susan fought to get a comb through her wet hair, returning it to something approaching normality. Seating herself on the well-padded stool that stood beside the large table in the room's centre, Susan tied her hair back and helped herself to a bottle of Thatcher Pilsner. Glenys pushed two cigarettes into her red lips and lit each in turn with a rolled gold pencil lighter. Susan took the offered smoke from her friend and took a quick drag before putting it down on the side of the 13th Century Chinese marriage-bowl they used for an ashtray.

"What was it this time? Lobster?"

"No." Sighed Susan. "The hag decided to lash me with a frozen cuttlefish. I mean, a cuttlefish! How fucked up do you have to be to whip someone with tomorrow's fish course?"

"Well darling, ours not to reason why. Who does she think she is this afternoon?"

"Apparently her strap on is an exact copy of Simon de Montfort's penis - so she's having a bit of a Templar turn. When I was dismissed she was crying out about recovering Jerusalem from the heathen." Susan answered. "It's not that I mind - I'm a fucking prostitute after all."

"Maid, darling - you're a maid." Interrupted Glenys sternly.

"Glenys, Maid's serve drinks and keep the house tidy. We perform degrading tasks on demand for the country's social elite."

"And serve drinks."

"Fine - I'm a person who serves drinks and gets extremely well paid to suck off the Nobility as a side line. No, it was the quarter pint of Moorish spunk they streaked over me to get the 'smell of the heathen' right. Put it this way, where do you get something like that, gone midday, on a Friday afternoon? If I want to spike my hair up I'll just slap on some gel, thank you very much."

A bell tinkled, one amongst many on the far wall. Glenys rolled her eyes and turned about so that Susan could pull the laces of her bodice tighter. With her tits pushed up to a ridiculous height she placed one long leg after the other on the table's wooden top and sprayed each one with latex from the large can nearby.

"Shit, the library." Glenys swore looking at the bell to check her destination. "Wonder what fiend of hell I'll be given to this time?"

"Azathael's all right - quite a nice old gentleman considering." Susan said over her shoulder as she pulled clothes from the locker by the window. "Calamax is the one to watch for, three dicks and none of them work properly. Always gets pissed off when he can't get each one to rise in order. They had me abase myself to him last month - futile really, I mean what's the point of abjuring a Sumerian demon of knowledge? None of them speak the language anyway."

"Nah, Calamax only works office hours. He'll have knocked off by now - POETS day." Glenys pushed her feet into the shoes and walked with practised ease to the heavy doorway.

"Eh?"

"Piss Off Early Tomorrows Saturday."

"Oh right. Fancy a drink when you knock off later?" Susan asked before Glenys left.

"Yeah, why not. Polar Bear?"

"Okay, we can catch a film afterwards in Leicester Square."

"'Bout half nine then."

The door shut again and Susan pulled on her large Marks and Spencer's underwear. Pulling the gingham dress over her head she took her Nike's out, shut the locker door and wandered barefoot to the terminal to clock off.

Temple, Embankment. 2.34 pm.

Jocasta smiled broadly. Clanky's head had sunk several inches into his armoured torso and was now half hidden by the broad collar he wore. Jeremy waved his hand at Chandler.

"Run along little man. Your head-start's running out, don't'cher know?"

Chandler licked his lips. There were six of them so he didn't fancy his chances much in a straight fight. Besides, the big fucker in the boxer's outfit looked like he could take him alone! With very few options Chandler turned suddenly and sprinted back along the embankment. Behind him he heard the loud strains of a hunting horn being sounded. He had gained a lead of fifty yards before he felt something slap into his shoulder. Kinetic shock was something that happened to other people and without even looking behind him he carried on increasing his lead.

Nanny Wetnurse slathered as she took the cradle from the end of her VP gun and slapped in a conventional magazine. Her shot had been a good one at the range and she was pleased to have hit a moving target. She very rarely got the chance to practise against live prey. At a nod from Jocasta, Bullman and Jeremy were unleashed and the pair tore off after that day's fox. The others stepped back into their aeroflot in order to get ahead of Chandler.

With a jump Chandler made it into the near empty entrance of Embankment tube station. Ahead of him he could see the hill that would take him to the Strand and Charing Cross. Behind him he saw two of the Hunt coming towards him at speed. He needed to narrow the odds and hurdled the barrier that lead into the underground station itself.

Bullman bellowed as he reached the entrance just ahead of Jeremy. With a shock he realised that the fox had vanished! Jeremy caught up and flicked his second lid across one eye - with a mental signal a blip showed him which way to go and the pair barged past a pair of men as they tried to enter the main station also.

"Oy!" Choked one. "Watch where you're bloody going!" Bullman felled him with a single jab that pushed the commuters nose across his face and sent him straight to the floor. Charged up by the blood Bullman felt a stirring in his shorts before Jeremy's shout called him back to the job at hand. The steps down went to different lines and Jeremy was forced to check Chandler's position once again.

"Northern Line." Jeremy muttered and took the steps that lead to the platform three at a time, Bullman in his wake. Waiting for their ride home the scattered workers of London shifted out of the way of the man in Hunting Pink and his enormous friend. The pair scanned about for Chandler.

Fell Lazarus huddled in a tool cupboard. Frantically he punched 999 into his cell phone and pressed the slim, hinged card against his ear. He had already tried to ring the office but there had been no answer...

"Emergency services-"

"Police - I want the police!"

"-this is a recorded message. All calls made on this line are charged at two credits per minutes-"

"Police! Get me the police you recorded fucker!" Chandler hissed.

"-so if you are not the bill-payer please ensure you have the permission of the person who does pay the bill before stating the nature of your emergency-" "Police! Fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuck!"

"-this service is provided for you by the Transcom Corporation, 'Light in the darkest day'. If you wish to report a fire, please press 1."

"Police! Police! Police! Police! Police!"

"If you require medical attention, please press 2 and have your insurance information ready. If you do not have insurance press 3, but only if you have a good job. If you are unemployed the Tanscom Corporation hopes your injury is not too severe and suggests that you might want to stop being a drain on the state. If you wish Transcom Corporation to send you an application form press 4 -"

"Oh for fucks sake!"

"-if you wish to report a crime but are not in actual immediate danger, please press 5. Have a Tasty Cola and taste the sweet liquid of success! If you are in immediate danger then please press 6-"

"Right, at last!" Billy thumbed the given digit and his phone ran again.

"Good afternoon and welcome to the Metropolitan Police immediate action hotline-"

"Fuck me, listen my names Chandler - I'm an Orbital operative and I need lots of men with really big guns-"

"This is a recorded message. If you are being shot, stabbed or otherwise injured - please press 1. If you are being raped press 2. If you are being anally raped, please press 3. If you are being savaged by a superhero, please press 4-"

"Right, fine, okay - 4." The phone began to ring again and after a full minute was finally picked up again.

"Department for Secular Affairs?" A real, genuine human being answered.

"This is Chandler - Amber 3. I just tried to ring you, why the fuck didn't you answer?"

"Chandler? This is Crass. Look old boy, we got the word half an hour ago - you're persona non-gratis I'm afraid. The old man's been told that you've got to solve this yourself."

Chandler groaned to himself. "Look Crass - just put me through to Slater, yeah?"

"'Fraid he's not in the building, old boy. Got to go, I'm afraid. Tatty bye." The phone went dead and Chandler screamed in fury and despair - an error as the door was suddenly pulled open by Jeremy.

The Paracelcian Society, Westminster. 2.46 pm.

The room was large and rectangular. A fire burned brightly in the huge grate and arrayed about the chamber were portraits of past members of the Society, each of whom had brought credit to the establishment in one way or another. Down the corridor the heir to the throne was enjoying the delights he found in the company of three large footmen and on the floor beneath them several debutantes were being treated to a special day of shooting poor people with ancient flintlock dragoon pieces. None of this was heard however, the Club had extensive sound proofing in every room.

Richard Cantrell sipped his brandy and enjoyed his cigar. A tall man he was descended from the French aristocracy who had settled in England after fleeing Madame Guillotine. His suit was conservative and his hair slicked back into a ponytail that was clasped by a dark velvet bow. Richard Cantrell had a seat on three separate boards in the City, he had married and murdered three previous wives who had been rich but middle-class. He was an expert shot, a connoisseur of the arts and was the patron of the charity 'Save the Little Puppies'. Richard Cantrell had a small estate in Buckinghamshire and was a servant of the Many Angled Ones who existed in the sixth dimension and whose names could only be expressed in abstract symbolism and the colour that lay beyond violet.

"Gentlemen and Ladies, you are no doubt aware of the failings of the Belgravia Chelsea Hunt. We are gathered here to pass judgement on the matter. As you can see we are able to observe their exploits on the projector that has been laid in the centre of this room."

Lady Cerina Astor was dressed in a stark pencil skirt and a white silk blouse. Neither had labels, her designer worked only for her. Her hair was short and blond, her shoes low heeled and sensible. She herself had been the former leader of the Belgravia cadre of the Chelsea Hunt until her acceptance into the Caligula. A rival had once cast her into Hell from which she had walked away - despite this she did not believe in magik.

"This 'Lazarus' person? Chandler is it?" She asked. Cantrell confirmed her question with a short nod of his head. "He seems... interesting. There are possibilities."

"The man's a peasant." Snapped Sebastian Wells. Sebastian was of an age to Astor but far more flamboyant. He had been a member of the rival Belsize cadre. Astor had killed three of his fellow members when their hunts had come into conflict. Wells sprouted nails of bone from his fingers as his heartbeat raced. Sebastian's mother had been something his father had summoned one winter night. "A prole! Let the Belgravians kill the little shit."

"We are." Cantrell answered. Of those gathered in the room he was the only one of them who moved in the upper circles of the Club and who was on first name terms with the Inner Cabal. "What the Masters have proposed is this. The Belgravians are to kill this Chandler and thus save face. It is possible they will fail - he is some sort of zombie after all. Further, one of the Seer's we have captive in the room-without-doors has seen that there is much more to him than even he knows. The Cabal have decreed that this Lazareen will be prevented from outside help but that if he survives till morning then he shall be left alone. If the Belgravians can't deal with him then they aren't good enough for the Caligula anyway."

The room remained silent apart from a few voices raised in agreement. There were five others present, all of whom had experience either with the Hunt itself or with the undead. Cantrell walked over to the projector. It was more than three feet across and was formed mostly of polished brass and blue glass. It had been invented in 1843 by the Mechanician Angus Dee and suppressed by the Paracelsus almost immediately. Despite it's age it worked better than the modern versions by a factor of 13%. With a pull of a small lever it spewed forth a sharp picture of the Northern Line platform of the Embankment Underground station. Before them they saw a short man with a flat top, a phone was held in his hand, a broom and a bucket lay behind him.

Embankment Underground Station. Northern Line.

Jeremy's implants hummed as he grasped Chandler by one lapel and heaved him out of his hiding place. Bullman stood back and grinned - it was polite to take turns.

"That wasn't very good was it? You might have made it harder for us!" Jeremy took Chandler's other lapel in his free hand and pulled his face to his own. "I'm going to give you the thrashing of your life! Any last words?"

Chandler butted Jeremy in the face with his forehead and the pair went down together as Jeremy failed to release his coat. Chandler nutted him again as they hit the platform and managed to get to his feet turn and almost ran before Bullman barred his way.

"Not so fast chappy!" Jeered the mountain of drug filled muscle. "Jeremy want's to carve his name into your heart." With a push he sent Chandler backwards. Behind Lazarus Jeremy stood up and wiped the blood that was trickling from one nostril. With a sub vocal command the sides of his hands hardened and he jabbed Chandler's arm, which broke cleanly. The fingers of his left hand morphed together and took on a metallic sheen. As Chandler turned quickly towards the source of the attack the bioblade speared him in the chest.

"Oh really, that was far too easy!" Jeremy drawled as Billy sank to his knees. With a little woop Jeremy began to dance about around his fallen enemy. The public were running back up the stairs now, ignoring the fact that their train was almost here. Chandler stood up slowly and as Jeremy turned with a little shock punched him with his one good hand in the throat, kicked his legs out from under him and followed up with a nasty one to the head. Jeremy though managed to return a nasty kick to Chandler's broken arm that sent a shock of pain through his system that left Billy on top of Jeremy who proceeded to spear him in the stomach and chest. Chandler managed to get a hold on him and hissed in his ear.

"Lesson one - take the fucking pain!"

Jeremy's blows became more frantic then as Chandler heaved both of them off the platform and directly in front of the approaching train...

Bullman looked in horror as the tube slowed. The driver saw the eight-foot tall man and decided to ignore the manual and pulled out again immediately. Bullman jumped to the track and cried out loud when he saw Jeremy's torn and very dead body. Chandler was some distance away with his other arm now broken and an awkward twist to his body. He couldn't do much as Bullman fell upon him, picked him up and drove four hard punches into his torso before throwing him brutally at his feet. Pumped up by the drugs in his system and excited by the blood and carnage Bullman roared and raised his arms above him, preparing to give the fox a good drubbing. Billy opened a puffy eye and got to one knee, only to be greeted by Bullman's giant erection that pushed against the silk shorts.

"I'm going to tear your head off and shit down your neck!" Bullman jeered and flexed his pecs playfully. Chandler lunged forward and with a hard bite grasped the juddering penis in his teeth, his mouth forced wide. Bullman looked down and shook his head swiftly from side to side. Billy bit hard, and shook his head savagely before he was able to toss the severed member away to one side.

The gout of blood shot out over four yards and Bullman's immediate scream sounded like a girl's. He stuffed his gloves to his groin but in less than eight seconds fell to his knees, a further three saw him collapse face down with a whimper. Blood everywhere, Lazarus grunted and snapped both arms back in place - the bones took less than a minute to knit though it would be half an hour before they were back to normal. His stomach was a mess though and with a groan he managed to pull his knife out of his sticky, red stained coat. Kneeling by Bullman he turned him over and carved off a great swathe of flesh from the washboard stomach. Sticking the knife upright in the giant's thigh he stuffed the meat into the cavity in his belly and clipped it in place with his surgical stapler. Jeremy had almost a full case of made to order ciggies in one pocket and Chandler helped himself before climbing to the platform.

"Fuck the pair of you." He said and sat on a nearby bench for a few minutes to heal and rest up.

Westgate Sewer, Covent Garden. 3.06 pm.

"Bold they be and strong of word, yet know they not of Uncle Mole? King of tunnel, rat and floating turd?"

The Westgate had been built in 1897, enlarging the original sewer built by Bascombe some years before. It had since long been abandoned in favour of more modern systems though time and ruin had left it open to many parts of Under London. Those who lived below used it as a convenient way to move between refuse tunnels, cableways and the tube network. The Mole was using it for part of his journey to the secret Mole Hole far beneath distant Clapham Common. He had managed to use the Mole Pincers to extract the bullet in his shoulder and a quick squirt of the Wound Repellent Mole Spray had gone a long way to healing the damage caused from the 10mm round he had taken from the Yardies. Now though, the way ahead was barred.

The Guttersnipes lived in Under London. Some had fled from prosecution, most from the authorities. A few, a very few, had fled from the Tabula Rassa lest their minor psychic powers be discovered. A small pack of them now stood before The Mole, unsure of what to do. The pack's leader, Scratcher, was pushed forward by the others.

The Mole looked at the young man curiously. Scratcher was dressed in cast off clothes, his hair was very short. In one hand he had a length of lead pipe and the torch clipped to his harness shone full in The Mole's face. The superheroes goggles adjusted to the light though - it was what they were designed for.

"Wha' t'fuck a'you, man?" Scratcher demanded. Behind him the others had loaded their crossbows but none of them were too confident. The Mole didn't look too dangerous, but he was a superhero. And superheroes meant the Tabula. And the Tabula Rassa was the Man. And the Man was the enemy.

"Surely young pikeroon in deep dark hole, you've heard of bold and clever Uncle Mole?"

"A'yeah, right. Y'League of t'English g'elmen, heh? Scratcher answered. The Guttersnipe's had been told of a superhero who prowled Under London, who knew the under city as well as they. Some of them had been in Upper London when the League had been operative. He was some sort of toolboy, like the Crinson Roach - but fatter.

"Snee snee. Ha ho! The penny drops at last - be wise young Mouse, stand aside, let The Mole come passed!"

"Why y'called t'Mole?" Asked one of the girls, Ratchet. They didn't want to face a superhero but fuck it, they could eat for a week off this wanker. The Mole rose up from his crouch.

"I was once like you - ordinary, plain, in fear! I saw the vermin of the city come to rape and tear. Snee snee. But clever and skilful was I you see - with tools and talent a crime fighter I sought to be. I needed a name to strike terror - a name that would remove the criminals in error. I chose the Mole! Snee snee. "

"A'why, man?"

"An animal quick, and lethal - whose enemies would be struck still! The Mole is not a kindly creature, it lives to feast and kill."

The Guttersnipes thought about this. Finally Ratchett spoke. "Is'nt tha' a weasel, man?" The Mole spread his arms wide and showed them all his large bloated form.

"Do I look like a bloody weasel?"

"Wha' yer costume made fro' seal-skin, man?" Scratcher asked curiously, playing his torch over The Mole. The Mole dropped back in his crouch and hissed.

"The seal's a curse upon creation - a verminous beast that defies our animal nation! Snee snee!"

There was a long pause. Scratcher coughed slightly. "Y'fucked up in t'head, man."

The Mole jumped back with surprising agility and pulled out the Villain-Defeating Mole-Squeal Projector and clipped the bulbous horn shaped device to the back of his left Battlemole Gauntlet but the Guttersnipes had buggered off. They were hungry but they weren't going to eat this loony...

In the darkness all was still, only a single sound could be heard.

"Snee snee."

Main Post Office, Trafalgar Square. 5.07pm

The Main Post Office building contained one of the four entrances to the old Government shelter, maintained in part by the now defunct GPO. Jocasta had been forced to find a way into the undercity when it had become clear that Chandler had bolted below to escape them. It had been well over an hour since the three remaining members of the Belgravia Chelsea Hunt had stood on the platform of Embankment station and watched as the Police sealed off the area and Doc Morrissay summoned to confirm the deaths of Bullman and Jeremy d'Arcy.

Now she, Amelia and Nanny Wetnurse had climbed down the rusted ladder and stood with their backs to the simple looking door that would lead into Citadel, the old London Fortress. Ahead of them lay the rest of the wormfarm of Under London. Somewhere out there Lazarus was waiting for them. Amelia held up the hand unit and tapped the liquid screen until it showed where Chandler currently hid. The homer that Nanny Wetnurse had shot into the fox was giving them a trail to lead. Nanny's diminutive figure lead the way, mud clinging to her flowery dress as it dragged behind her. Jocasta was having a harder time of it in her heels but Amelia's high riding boots were ideal for the task. Her brother's death had seemingly not sunken in - certainly she had not shown any of the normal signs of grief from within her tight leather mask.

They needed to get within a mile of Chandler and then Nanny should be able to lock onto him. The tiny woman had several middling psychic powers - she could find and locate people in crowds for a start. Her mind though had been twisted since birth and if her mother hadn't been so rich she would have been in an asylum long since. When her mother had died, Nanny had inherited the money and paid out for expensive re-constructive surgery. Her mouth stretched to each ear and was filled with heavy, crocodilian fangs, her nose had been removed, her hand remodelled and her eyes were those of a reptile. She was without what she was within.

"Time for bed!" She drooled. "Time for bed! Naughty children must be punished! Lights out! Under covers! Dirty boys and filthy girls! Time for bed! Time for bed!"

Following the tracker the three descended through the passageways that connected the Fortress with one of its emergency entrances, a blocky structure under Waterloo Bridge. Following the blip they ducked through a broken wall and into the Westgate Sewer.

The Guttersnipes coming the other way stopped dead when the three women appeared before them.

"Wha' tha' fucks this?" Garbled Scratcher. "Fancy fuckin' dress night?" He took a pistol crossbow from Ratchett and slid a bolt into place. Raising it he pointed it at Jocasta's head and pulled the trigger. It was a good shot and should have driven through the riding hat cleanly if the helmet hadn't been reinforced armourplas. It was a shock though for the Hampstead girl who clicked the button on the halogen wand in her hand and threw a burst of light down the old sewer.

The Guttersnipes recoiled from the explosion of light around them, two screamed as their eyes, unused even to daylight now stood in several hundred candlepower. Amelia skipped forward like a dancer, triggered her whip and burnt out the nervous system of the 'snipe called Tag. His crossbow fell and the impact against the sodden brick sent a bolt into Scratcher's thigh. Ratchett ran in the other direction, though blind she hit a wall and recoiled backwards, sprawling on her arse.

Nanny Wetnurse dashed forward, her skirt and pinny held up to her fat knees in both hands until she passed the remaining Guttersnipes, reached Ratchett and jumped on her back. Ratchett squealed and tried to pull the fat little woman from her back but Nanny had her pointed fingers locked about her. The fight was short and ended when Nanny's head split wide, folded over the crown of Ratchett's skull and chomped down with a sound of crushed and splintered bone. The other 'snipes were easily dealt with by Amelia's fury and Jocasta's mastery of the martial art known only as 'Vogue'.

"Who the fuck were they!" Spat Jocasta. Amelia just shrugged, bent down and smeared Scratcher's blood over the tops of her breasts. Pushing the whip back into the top of her boot she removed her jacket and cast it away. Killing was hot work.

Nanny pulled a silver serving spoon from her pinny and tucked into Ratchett's brains. Killing was hungry work...

Jocasta walked up to Nanny and prodded her until she paid attention. "We're well within range - can't you feel him?" Nanny paused, looked up then shook her wide head. She could lock onto a mind it was true but Lazarus didn't have one. He was dead.

Earl's Court, West London. 6.32 pm.

The DVD was playing the adventures of Wisty Wabbit as he once again saved the Happy Elves from The Glum. Since Disney had managed to copyright children's television after one of their Trauma Teams had won a bloody gunfight against the rival Warner Bros. Black Ops assault group in Metropolis, there was an awful lot of Wisty Wabbit on. Harry gave young Andy a quick hug as he came through the front door and sat down on the old sofa near to where his son deposited himself on the floor once again. Scattered about the room were an Icegirl colouring book, various ManBat toys and a few comics - mostly Sgt. Buck and the Test Tube Commandoes. Harry picked one up and flicked through it. The stories all seemed to be the same to him, every issue the genetically bred super soldiers from the Urban-Pacification Patrol defeated the Black Flag terrorists or prevent the release of a super-virus by the evil General Mao-Tse Stalin. Flicking it back onto the floor he decided that he wasn't really in the mood for Wisty Wabbit and pulling his shoes off went into the kitchen where his wife, Mary, was brewing the coffee.

"Shit day?" She asked. Harry pulled a face to indicate the truth of the statement, kissed his wife briefly and went upstairs to change. He hated wearing the smart suit that was required at Orbital and let it lie in a crumpled heap on the floor. It wasn't like the cloth was going to crease. Slater missed clothes that creased. With a deep sigh he idly opened one of the closets and took out the sealed plastic case from within. The snaps opened to his touch and immediately the smell of worn in urine and vomit reached his nostrils, it was perfume to his nose.

The filthy old leather jacket came out first. It still bore his angel's rockers and the irons he had earned. The jeans beneath were more patches than trouser and the thick linen shirt was stiff to the touch. At the bottom was a pair of round sunglasses, the SS dagger and the sawn-barrelled Holland & Holland.

Ahh, memories.

He had been an angel once. Then he had been banged up in Parkhurst, life for a crime that he had - admittedly - committed. It wasn't like they'd been super-villains or anything but the Tabula Rassa had still beaten shit out of them. He still remembered Animal going down to the energy blast as he gave the finger to Wotan the Norse Olympian. Only he and Creeping Jesus had survived the fight - and it hadn't been a very long one at that.

Then came Orbital. They were going through a phase of hiring people as field agents that could work on the streets. It had been a good idea on paper - get hold of a load of thieves, terrorists and criminals and offer them freedom in return to putting their skills in the hands of the government. Of course, most of them had fucked off as soon they had the chance, but Slater had stayed. He'd been good at the job, he'd met Mary and then one thing had lead to another...

Now he wore a suit, had been promoted to a desk when Price had taken over, had a mortgage, a nice house and a fucking pension. He'd even signed up to the Government Employee Education Scheme and gotten a language BA at Lewisham Poly. He was a department head - albeit a shitty one who got most of the arsey (ie. actual) jobs. Price seemed to think he was good with superheroes and so Amber 3 had been the dumping ground for the Orbital Super-operatives. Harry sat on the bed in his boxers. There had been a few...

First there had been The Ray. Rayman had been able to project a beam of green light from his eyes. It didn't burn anything but it was certainly impressive. The Ray had been killed on a dark night crossing a road junction. The truck driver had sworn the traffic light had been on 'go'.

The Ghurka of course.

Then there had been Inferno! and the Human Bomb. Inferno! had been an artificially engineered meta-human who on one fateful occasion forgot to put on his asbestos costume and the Bomb, well, the Human Bomb had possessed more of a one shot power. At least Chandler was down to earth. Chandler's original talents lay in opening locks, thieving stuff out of warehouses and climbing up to open windows. Obviously he was dead and could even perceive death around him, but he didn't really stand for anything apart from 'looking after number one' and 'having it away on his toes'.

"Fucking Superheroes." Swore Slater. At least his position in Amber 3 had allowed him to stuff most of his budget into research and development. He had a good collection of toys growing in the office now.

"Harry?" Mary Slater called up the stairs. "Did you see the messages for you by the phone?"

He pulled out a pair of jogging pants from the drawer and pulled an old t-shirt over his head before heading downstairs. By the phone there were about twenty, no twenty six once he had counted them, messages for him.

"Call Chandler." He read out loud. "Chandler says to call him straight away. Chandler called for you - Clanky's broken. Chandler says he's had to kill someone again. Something, something, Paracelcian Society, something. Chandler rang again says they're trying to kill him now." The phone rang. "Y'ello. Oh hello, Chandler. Yeah, I've just got in."

Pause.

"Slow down I can't understand a word you're trying to say!"

Pause.

"Oh fuck. Look, yeah, some twat dropped my mobile."

Pause.

"At the office, yeah."

Pause.

"You 'aving a laugh, Billy? No, all right - fucking calm down will yer! Look, I'm on me way, right? I'll takes the missus' mobile. The number's 0201 555 887 904." Tanner was losing his 'office' accent with every word.

Pause.

"Right - look. I'll be there. I'll ring you then!" Harry slammed the phone down and poked his head into the living room where Mary was now playing with Andy. "I've gotta go out. Work." Mary looked up with a quizzical face but Slater had already gone. His gun was at the office but there, still on the bed was the shotgun. He picked it up but didn't have any way of concealing it and walking around with a shooter was a really good way to get topped by some over nervous plod. There wasn't any other choice and Slater pulled on his old jacket, stuffing the shotgun in the sheath sewn inside. The pocket still had shells and working quickly he pulled out his old boots and buckled up the sides.

"Fuck it." He whispered and stuffed the dagger down the side of his left boot. Thundering downstairs he snatched Mary's phone from the nearby table - his ID and wallet he stuffed in one of his jacket pockets. He was halfway out of the door before he remembered to turn, dash back in and kiss his wife and son goodbye. Mary stared at his attire with wide eyes.

"It's serious then?"

"Oh yeah."

"Well go and put your bloody jeans on then, you look a right nobber in those jogging bottoms."

Post Office Feedline, Chancery Lane. 6.50pm.

Chandler snapped the cover back on his mobile, the battery was getting very low as the boost needed to get a line to Slater's home had taken it's toll. He had taken random tunnels and intersections for several hours now intending to stay low until Slater could pull him out. Now, he just needed to find a way to the surface. The big rubber covered torch he had thieved from Embankment Station was getting low on power too and he used all his technical knowledge to shake it until the beam became a little stronger.

The tunnel was smaller than that used for tube trains - but it had rails nonetheless. It hadn't taken long to see that it hadn't been used for an age and the blockage ahead showed him why - a collapsed roof. Also, he was convinced that there was someone behind him...

Not wanting to remain in such a dead end, Chandler turned back. There had been a split in the line no more than a hundred yards or so before and scratching some dried blood from his face Lazarus began to trudge back, seeing his own footprints clearly in the gathered grime. He only stopped when something struck from within the darkness ahead, knocked him down and prevented him moving. From the light of the torch now pinned against his side he saw that a silvery net encased him.

"Snee snee." Came from the darkness.

""Whoob thab?" Chandler asked, the net cutting into his face.

A sturdy figure came closer to the light and he saw stitched grey hides covering a fat little figure. The leather was torn on one shoulder and metal razorclaws covered the hands. He recognised the man almost immediately...

"Your da Molb!"

"At last a foe that sees me true! A hero torn, black and blue! Snee snee."

"Yeb, geb me out ob here. I'm frob Orbibal!"

The Mole bent closer until he loomed large in Chandler's limited vision. A puzzled expression came over the superhero who first snipped off the net from around his captive's face, then from around one of Chandler's fingers. Taking the Foe-Knowing-Mole-A-Scope from a pouch on his utility belt he pressed the small pad against the revealed digit and tapped a few pressure points on the screen.

"Chandler, William. Deceased. Snee snee."

"Look inside my trouser pocket. You'll find my ID. I'm an operative for Amber 3, Orbital like what I said."

The Mole twitched his whiskers and clipped the netting around the indicated region and retrieved the plastic wallet. This he ran over the pick up on the Mole-A-Scope where information was downloaded from the bar code. Patting Chandler on the head he then clipped away the rest of the netting and helped him to his feet. Chandler was covered in blood, Bullman's and his own but The Mole didn't find this unusual - he had, after all, worked with Bulldog Drummond in the past.

"Look - you've got to help me. The Chelsea Hunt wants to kill me!"

"What knows The Mole of London Above? Your lives, your lusts, your anger, your love?"

"The Chelsea Hunt - they're, ah, supervillains..."

The Mole straightened up at this and pulled out his Wound Repellent Mole Spray but couldn't find anything wrong with Chandler. His injuries had long since regenerated aided by the fresh meat taken from Bullman several hours before hand.

"Wherever evil makes it's lair, then shall bold Mole be ever there!"

"Yeah, cheers, Look, I was tryin' to make it to the surface. I'm meeting with my, ah, team leader. You won't have heard of him, we're very secret..."

The Mole interrupted by placing a hand upon Chandler's arm and touching a blade to his wide teeth. His nose twitched as the sonic pick-ups in the Mole-A-Phones over his ears heard footsteps further down the tunnel. With a slight wave he lead Chandler a further twenty yards down the tunnel until they stood before a rusted metal doorway. A few squirts of the Rust-Dissolvent-Mole-Spray cleared it and he turned to the lock itself. A few more squirts made it shine like new, allowing The Mole to pat himself down to find his Universal-Mole-Picks. Billy could see the approaching light now and looked in dismay as The Mole began to pull out a great many and varied devices from his belt rig. Making a decision, Chandler grasped one of The Mole's wire whiskers and yanked it from its seating, bent it four times and poked around the lock until it gave with an audible 'click'.

The Mole shook his head at such a primitive solution but followed Chandler inside anyway.

Lap Happy! Bermondsey, South London. 7.12pm.

"You want to see Mr. Albert?" Five Bob asked the man who stood before him. Lap Happy wasn't strictly open yet, but it never shut its doors to business. The girl's wouldn't take to the long, narrow stage for a couple of hours yet and the normal customers who came to oggle the dancers would be in the boozers where the beer was a more reasonable price.

"I do."

"Why?" Five Bob asked. The man had walked right up to him upon entering, disturbing him from boxing up the latest shipment of Argent DVD's for Soho. The visitor was a Cityboy by the clothing, haircut and manner.

"I have a business proposition he might be interested in."

"D'you know who the fack Albert the Horse is, pal?" Five Bob pressed sternly. The last time he had let a casual visitor in, Five Bob's arse had been used for a dartboard.

"Albert the Horse is the most feared gangland figure south of the river. He controls, without question, all the turf from here to Lewisham and as far across as the edges of New Uchari in Brixton. Chief Constable Peel lives in fear of him and he is on first name terms with Bulldog Drummond."

"Yeah, all right pal..."

"His legitimate business front is that of a porn distributor, though he obviously runs all the prostitution and protection rackets on his manor."

"Sit over there and I'll tell him you wanna speak. What's yer fackin' moniker?"

"I'm sorry, you've lost me now."

"Yer name, pal, what's yer fackin' name?"

"Philip Chesterton."

Five Bob pointed to a table nearby and disappeared through a narrow doorway.

Kingsway Exchange. 7.15pm.

"There." Amelia said softly. The tracker showed that Chandler was close, but well beyond the doorway that stood closed before them.

"What the fuck is this place?" Jocasta whined. She was a mess - her stockings torn, her legs streaked with something she didn't even want to begin to think about and her Gibani boots were ruined for any future use. Amelia on the other hand seemed to revel in the filthy and she resembled nothing less than a mud wrestler after an especially harsh bout. "More importantly, how do we get in?"

Normally Bullman would have just torn the door free, or Jeremy would have fed a Spider Mine into the lock. But they were both dead and neither of the two girls carried explosives, or would have had any idea how to use them even if they had. Jocasta kicked the door but her Vogue fighting style was designed to inflict the maximum damage to a victim through the use of high heels and long nails. It relied on the target being soft and squishy. The door was neither. Behind her she heard a loud click-clack and she turned to see Nanny fit a small grenade over the end of her VP Gun.

"Nanny!" She screeched, only just managing to leap sideways into Amelia before Nanny Wetnurse brought up her bulky gun. The two fell flat as the grenade impacted with the door and exploded with an immense bang that was vastly exaggerated by the close confines they were in. None of them could see a thing for several minutes. When the dust finally cleared Jocasta found herself unhurt apart from a scratch down one hand. Nanny was smouldering, her pinny and dress front somewhat charred - several long knives of metal stuck into her at odd angles. She was hissing but was grinning widely.

"Time for bed! Time for bed! TIME FOR BED!"

Jocasta heaved Amelia off of her. Her friend had not fared so well. Although her high boots and mask had protected her a little her legs, arms and chest were bleeding from several hundred deep splinter marks. Shaking her head, Amelia pulled off her boots (which were ruined) and looked down at her near naked body. Slowly she pulled the remaining strips of cloth away from her, then curiously smeared the blood she perceived upon herself in wide circles with her fingers. The door though was badly battered, hanging away from one side. Wrenching a rusted length of pipe from the nearby wall Jocasta began to jemmy it open.

Further inside Chandler and The Mole heard the detonation and looked at one another.

"Where are we?"

"In old Government shelter, lost from sight. Built to protect from nuclear blight. Snee snee."

The shelter hadn't been inhabited for a long, long time. Yellow lines seemed to lead towards exits and these they followed. Several times Chandler had found racks of guns - old Brownings and Sterlings for the most part but they were all unusable now. They passed communication centres, bunkrooms, a laboratory and even an artesian well before they finally found what looked to be an exit. The Mole lead the way up a short flight of stairs that ended with yet another solid door. From within though it opened without recourse to force or skill. The Mole waved a slim wand over it to check for any electronic security measures that might harm them. Not a sound was emitted until it passed near Chandler's shoulder. With one long claw The Mole prodded the area lightly.

"What are you doing?" Demanded Billy shrugging the nails away.

"You have an implant in your arm, you use devices for aid or harm?"

"No..."

The Mole showed Chandler the effect the scanner rod had upon him and Chandler tore what was left of his shirt away from the area. "Cut the fucker out."

The Mole sliced the flesh with his razor claw then took out the Mole Probe and extracted the small homer Nanny had shot into Chandler way back on the Embankment. He dropped it to the floor to crush it but Chandler instead scooped it up and stuffed into one of his few remaining pockets.

"Could be useful."

Westgate Sewer. 7.18pm.

Jahman propped his staff against the curving wall and stooped to inspect the remains of the slaughtered Guttersnipes. With the edge of his machete he picked amongst the ruins of his followers until he found Ratchett. Jahman's frown deepened, Ratchett had been one of his more regular lovers and here she lay, her brains scooped from her head which was now nothing more than a discarded eggshell.

With a grunt he sloped back to his staff, the torn end of which proclaimed the message 'ST, child, crossing'. Someone had been killing his people. He would need to find Black Aliss and bring her here, she would be able to find out who had done this.

Kingsway Exchange. 7.32pm.

The blip was much fainter now, it had taken Jocasta far too long to get the door open, and Nanny and Amelia had been no help at all. Nanny staggered behind her as she followed the line of the blip through the dull grey of the Exchange. Amelia however was dropping further and further behind. Streaked in blood and shit she was scuttling about on all fours and mewing like a cornered animal.

"Fucking bastard!" Jocasta repeated again and again.

The outer door was reached and the evening daylight was painful to their eyes. Jocasta checked the tracker, the fox was moving away at speed, he was escaping them...

Threadneedle Street. City of London. 7.40pm.

"Oh great, The Mole lives." Slater said in a thick voice. The groundcar was moving through traffic at increasing speed now that Chandler and his ally had been picked up. In a blank voice he let his boss know what had happened.

"It's gotta be sorted one way or the other, Billy." Harry said as they took a sharp bend into Cheapside, heading towards Holborn. "I made a few calls - Crass warned me off helping you out - said that they had to stuff yer by daybreak or die tryin'. Meant to be a fair pag though. But fuck 'em, yeah?"

"Then choose our ground and fight the foe! To the feasting grounds of hell our enemies will go!"

"And that's another thing," Slater continued, pointing over his shoulder to the back seat, "why's that sad bastard still here?"

"He's all right."

"He's a prick. Do you know about his early life?"

"Snee snee."

"No-ooo." Chandler answered warily.

"His name's Mark Jacobs. Lived with his mum in Bognor Regis until she died of a heart attack. It was the shock you see, our Mark here was nicked for seat sniffing. When the rozzers turned over the house they found a shrine to that yank heroine Catqueen in the basement.

" "Snee snee."

They were forced to stop at a set of lights and Harry splashed the ash. He didn't hand a cigarette to The Mole Chandler noticed. "Tinkerbell here was some sort of engineer - even worked on stuff for the fucking 'Rassa. Loonier than a bag full of ferret's of course but they let that slide, he made good kit y'see. Anyway, he spent six months inside - it was that which finally sent him over the edge. So he made his costume following a design he copied from Catqueen Monthly, made all those bloody toys of his and hit the streets. He lived underground and emerged at night to 'right-wrongs'. Of course, when the 'Rassa found out who he was they pulled strings to have him recognised as a good guy. He used to work for them after all - they didn't need the scandal. They personally put plenty of spin on his exploits and then he joined the League of English Gentlemen."

Billy looked at The Mole who was happily looking out the window. Slater slipped the groundcar into gear and pulled off when the lights changed.

"You're a fucking fruitloop, aren't you Marky-boy?" Harry called over his shoulder.

"Snee snee." The Mole ignored him but sniffed loudly as they passed a pair of prostitutes visibly at work down a nearby alleyway.

"So, we've gotta get this sorted. Got any ideas, Billy?"

Lazarus thought for the length of time it took him to finish his fag then grinned. "Yeah, y'know - I think I do."

Waste ground, Heathrow Airport. Midnight.

The executive aeroflot came to a rest on the edge of the waste ground that fringed the far eastern edges of Heathrow Airport. Jocasta and Nanny Wetnurse had called for the chauffeur once they were clear of Kingsway since it obvious they weren't going to catch up with Chandler on foot. For the last four hours they had been lead a chase all over Greater London. Always just behind the blip which dodged down narrow streets and criss-crossed the river at great speed.

Finally it had stopped.

Fell Lazarus had seemingly gone to ground in this vermin rank shithole. Amelia had been left in Chelsea, howling and scratching the servants in an animalistic frenzy. Jocasta though had raided daddy's cabinet and now strode across the ground, tracker in one hand, large bore Splinter Rifle in the other. Nanny hurried after her, her short legs tripping on the uneven ground.

The blip got stronger until it almost centred before a battered old portacabin.

"Fuck you Mr. Lazarus!" Jocasta screamed and with a laugh pulled the trigger, hosing down the thin structure. The Splinter Rifle had almost no recoil but threw out several thousand hardened plas rounds every three seconds. Each round was smaller than a grain of rice and the solid plas drum before the trigger guard melted away as it was converted into sub-munitions.

Laughing, Jocasta reclassified her target from structure to aluminium confetti. In less than a minute the drum had vanished and Nanny hurried into the ruin to scoop up the scraps of Chandler which they would take to the site of the new M4 flyover. Fell Lazarus was going to become a bridge support.

As the last of the strewn metal rain fell about the area Jocasta checked the tracker and grinned when she saw the lack of a target. Even the ballistic implant hadn't survived the destruction! Nanny though was poking through the shards, seemingly unable to find any scraps of flesh or daubs of fluid. She shrugged at Jocasta, the large sponge she held in one hand raised to shoulder height in her confusion.

"Nice night, sweetheart."

Jocasta turned to see Chandler less than ten paces behind her. Nanny Wetnurse screamed and shot towards him, fingers swiftly hooked and head splitting to show the crocodilian implants. She was past Jocasta and just yards from Chandler when a flash came from the left, followed by a heavy crack. Nanny was thrown sidewise, her shoulder shattering in a flower of blood and bone. Hitting the ground she twitched and then was still.

"Stop!" Yelled Slater from the darkness. "Orbital! I am an armed officer of the Government. Stop where you are or I will be forced to shoot!"

"I'm not moving." Said Jocasta with a steady voice, her empty rifle falling to the ground.

"I wasn't talking to you." Harry snapped. He advanced upon Nanny Wetnurse and reloaded his shotgun. "You! You with the teeth! If you continue to advance I will be forced to open fire! This is your second warning!"

"What the fuck are you doing!" Jocasta said, confused for Nanny simply twitched on the hard ground. "Bein' legal." Slater explained. "Where was I? Oh yeah - watch out Billy, she isn't listenin' to my warnings! Oh god! Bang!" He said slowly.

"Legal! You just killed her in cold blood you fuck!" Jocasta answered, her voice breaking.

"Don't think so. Chandler, you hear me give two warnings?"

"Oh yeah."

"Clean shoot then."

Billy advanced upon Jocasta, stepping over Nanny's still body. "You owe me eighty notes you toffee-nosed slapper."

"What, why?"

"That's how much it cost me to get the motorcycle courier to deliver your homer to us here, at this time. He's been zippin' all over London like we asked till now." Chandler was smartly dressed again, he didn't have a wound upon him, not a mark, not so much as a scratch. Reaching inside his coat he pulled out a thin strip and tossed the memoryplas cuffs to the hunting girl.

"You can't arrest me - I'll be out in hours. My lawyer's going to eat you alive you little fuck!"

Billy leant closer. "I'm not nicking you, darling. We're gonna cuff you to a lump of scrap iron and let you stay there till morning. No one comes all the way up 'ere till then. Some old knacker'll be walking his dog, he'll let you go."

"But by then," added Harry, "it'll be too late. We'll let the Paracelsus deal with you."

Jocasta screamed and lunged for Lazarus but gasped as she was seized in mid air and yanked backwards. Lying on hard rubble, caught in tungsten mesh she became aware of a sewer stink looming over her.

"Snee snee. Sniff sniff."

Harry knelt down and turned Jocasta over so that she was facing both he and Chandler. Far away, in the bowels of the Paracelcian Society, Cantrell and the others leaned closer to the projected image as if to hear Harry's projected words more clearly. "We're the good guys. We wear the white hats, we get the girl, kill the baddy and save the entire planet. We've got cards to prove it."

"Wha-whab?" Jocasta fumbled. Chandler and Slater flipped open their Orbital ID and held them in front of her face.

"We're Amber 3, sweetheart." Fell Lazarus smirked. "Don't fuck with us."