The Sum of Zero: Part Seven

by Dex

"Dead?" Emma Frost said carefully, and felt the contempt ripple out from the other man. Dr. Richard Hillman was exactly the kind of academic snob that detested government agencies, especially investigative ones like the FBI. The prejudice expanded to the assumption that even a trained psychiatrist working for them was obviously the product of inferior abilities and schooling. Few Yale and Harvard graduates entered the Bureau.

As the White Queen of the Hellfire Club, Emma Frost was overly familiar with his attitudes, and in the not so distant past, Doctor Hillman would have found himself being 're-educated' on the dangers of underestimating her. However, she didn't work that way anymore, unless necessary, she conceded and stifled her irritation.

"Quite dead, Agent Frost."

"How?"

Hillman sighed wearily and leaned back in his desk. "As far as the police could tell, Eckert had gotten a hold of a number of the cleaning solvents, and after dousing himself quite thoroughly, set himself on fire."

"He committed suicide by burning himself to death?"

"Yes, quite novel and yet totally within the scope of his psychosis. It was a while before one of the attendants noticed the smoke coming from the wooded area and went to–"

"He was outside alone?"

"Agent Frost," Hillman's tone was brittle and annoyed. He was not a man used to being interrupted. "Thomas Eckert signed himself into this facility for treatment. He had the ability to leave at any time he wished. He always had access to the hospital grounds, as well as free movement through the wards, save for his periods of isolation."

"Which he had also requested."

"Indeed. So, when Eckert decided to take a stroll around the grounds, no one thought anything of it. At least, until one of our attendants noticed a plume of smoke, and investigated it. That's where we found him."

"How was he found?"

"Burned into a charred stump. Identification was made from the articles of clothing around him, and his suicide note. The fire had destroyed everything else." Hillman rummaged through the file again. "It seems that the note is no longer in our possession, but I do recall it referring to 'Martin's other self' several times. The rest was mad gibberish. I believe he had a final extreme psychotic episode and killed himself in the midst of it."

"How does Martin's other self fit into it? Was Eckert referring to himself or was there someone else involved?"

"Well, it seems that John Martin had a younger brother, also named John for some ridiculous reason. John Martin the Younger was quite an arsonist, and spent most of his own life inside one asylum or another. He used to introduce himself to guests as 'John Martin, the Other'. My theory is that the self immolation was due to a final split, where the Martin persona fractured and the Eckert remains asserted a subconscious wish for closure. Hence, the suicide."

"By fire."

"Rather shocking, isn't it."

"How could someone get in or out of the hospital, Doctor Hillman, other than the front doors?"

"It would be difficult. The grounds back up on the Hudson, and there's quite a drop there. We're bracketed by buildings on both sides, and we have ten foot fences topped with barbed wire around the perimeter." Hillman drummed his fingers on the desk. "Most of our security is to prevent the patients from getting out. I suppose sneaking in is possible by someone who was very determined, but I can't imagine why."

"Did Eckert have any visitors? Fellow patients he spent a lot of time with?"

"Not that I can recall. Part of the Martin obsession was a definite loner mentality. He was very stand-offish of the other patients; detested being touched, that sort of thing." Hillman looked at his watch. "The front desk will have the visitors log if you wish to see it. Frankly, I don't recall anyone coming to see Thomas Allen Eckert during his time here. Now, I must go. I have a meeting to attend. If you need anything else, please let the front staff know."

"Doctor Hillman," Emma said, just as the Doctor was ushering her out. "Do you think Eckert could have committed acts of violence in his Martin shell?"

"Agent Frost, if Thomas Allen Eckert had focused his psychosis in a violent direction, he could have been more dangerous then I care to imagine," Hillman said quietly, and left the room.

***

"McCoy?"

"Yup. The art's in the folder." John said as he reached for another bagel. Scott flipped through the file quickly, scanning the documents and wincing slightly at the destruction of Karl's body. "And before you ask, no, no real leads. Looks like our boy got in posing as a gay prostitute and did it so the wife would find him at the same time as the bombing in Harlem. Sharpe's post- mortem report is in there as well."

"Phosphorous? That's elegant."

"Yeah, we'll dealing with a real fucking artist." John Caulder slumped back in his seat and rubbed a hand across his stubbled face. He hadn't slept in the last 36 hours, save for snatches in his chair which were haunted by laughing madmen, wreathed in fire. The coffee was burning a hole in his gut and he felt sluggish and dull.

"More then you might think. I may have a line on the next target." Scott said, mentally wondering if this was worth the gamble. His last few days with Caulder had been enough to outline the man's deductive abilities, and to come to respect them as a formidable talent. If he even caught a hint of the true nature of 'agents' Summers and Frost, he'd be almost impossible to shake off the scent without using permanent means.

"How?"

"We might have made a match up in the government archives. However, I have to warn you before we continue here, John. This is highly classified deep black stuff. Which means if any of it goes even in shouting distance of going public, several very serious and non-descript men in black suits will show up at your apartment and shoot you in the head several times." Scott's voice was cold and deadly business-like. To his credit, Caulder only blinked twice and straightened up.

"Got it. What do you have?"

"The target is working of a list of operatives he must have picked up somehow with Operation: Zero Tolerance. He's going down a list of names based on recruitment order, only transposed over the known mutant population of New York." Summers pulled out a few sheets of paper from his file and put them on the table in front of John. "His next target should be this woman, Eileen Sydney. She's a professor at Metro University, and a chess master. Teaches mathematics. Does work in bounding harmonic functions, something like that."

"Has she been contacted?"

"I just put it together a few minutes ago. Look, the undercover end of police procedures is not really my end of things. Suggestions?"

"We go on it... but–"

"But?"

"There is no way the chief is going to authorize a walk and trap based off spook files he isn't cleared to know about. What about the feds?"

"I can see, but I doubt it." Scott winced. With the team spread out, he had virtually no assets to call into play.

"So then it's us. Let's start by contacting this woman. Maybe we can arrange a meeting and get her to make our lives a little easier. Police protection or something."

"Let me know what you need, Detective."

***

"Here you are, Agent Frost." The office manager handed over a thick file of paper from the end of the photocopier. The pages held the visitors log for the last year, and came to a weighty package. Emma nodded and began to separate them into the document case she'd brought along with her.

"Man, that's funny." The other woman commented as she started to put the originals back into storage.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, in the last two years I've worked here, I've only had to bring out these files... oh, I'd say five times. But now twice in two days." She smiled. "It's funny how it goes, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Emma's eyes narrowed. "Do you remember who took the files yesterday?"

"I think he was a researcher. Black guy, about so tall–" She measured a point around her eyes. "–dressed very sharp. Kind of an accent too."

Emma ghosted over the top of the woman's mind to grab the mental image she was working off of. It was a black man, with curiously sharp features, dressed in an expensive summer weight suit and a leather briefcase. She committed the image to memory and let go her contact with the woman's mind.

"Yes, it is funny. Thank you for the files." Emma said and left the Eastpark Mental Hospital with a sigh of relief. She caught a cab back to the precinct and dumped the vast volume of paperwork on her temporary desk. Carefully closing and locking the door, Emma Frost took a deep breath and found a legal pad and pen before sitting down to go over the information. Notes rapidly began to fill the pad in her exquisite handwriting.

Fact one: the prime suspect in their case was dead, burned to death more than four months ago. He was interned in the Eastpark Mental Hospital at the time of the first killing, and dead by the third. However, he also was the source of the explosives used by the FoH in their terrorist actions.

That meant one of two things had to be the truth. Either Thomas Allen Eckert was dead and someone was using his name for their own purposes, or that Thomas Allen Eckert was alive, and somehow free of his interment and death at the hospital.

Fact two: Someone else was looking for Eckert, or at least whoever was using 'Eckert' to work with. That meant another element in the entire situation. The FoH out to remove a source of information, or someone who had also discovered that Eckert had access to files that would name the X-Men.

Fact three: The killer was increasing his speed and tempo, which meant he was nearing some goal, like a culmination. Oddly, the idea of a crescendo popped into Emma's head, and she jotted down a brief note beside the information she was parceling into smaller bits for analysis.

Frost decided to work on the first fact, and tackled the pile of paper from the hospital. It wasn't long before she had isolated the common thread: David John Webster. Webster had a cousin in the institution, but only visited when Eckert was not confined to his solitary isolation. Emma pulled the paper with the dates of the killings/bombings back to her, and rechecked them. Five days prior to each bombing, Webster had visited for at least two hours. During each murder, Webster had visited the morning of, and had revisited the next day. Why? thought Emma, and she opened her laptop.

Frost breathed a sigh of relief that Webster had a police record, and pulled up the file. A picture of David John Webster filled the screen, and Frost held up the picture of Eckert for comparison. Both men had sharp features, with the same mousy brown hair and thin face. Webster was 5ft 7in, while Eckert was 5ft 8in. There was eight pounds difference in their weight. It was simple.

David John Webster would go to the hospital, either carrying the needed parts or having dropped them off before, to collect a finished bomb from Eckert, requiring only the explosive elements to be added. On the days of the murders, Eckert and Webster would switch identities, counting on the laxity of the security and Eckert's own loner personality to allow him to slip free and take his victim. He'd then make his way back to the hospital.

He must have gotten his information about the X-Men from files stolen from the FoH somehow, and used his initial period of isolation to refine his plan.

So, four months ago, something happens. Either he subdues Webster and burns him alive, slipping out with the same ease as before, or Webster does it to him and leaves, imprinted with the dedication of the killer. Emma considered, staring at the photos.

No, it was Eckert who was free. Webster was not the most balanced individual, but his profile revealed a man who was led. A flunky on the world stage, or a thug when directed. Their killer had a self-perceived artistry about himself. No, it had to be Eckert. Emma was sure.

Frost dug deeper, pulling up files from the CIA database easily. Emma had long ago paid heavily to ensure backdoors in much of the software and encryption used by the US government. Now she pulled up the work record of Eckert, Thomas Allen from the archives.

He graduated from Brown's, a prestigious technical college on the East Coast, with top marks. His technical aptitude was stunning, and his ability to fabricate using even the crudest materials was legendary. The CIA happily snapped him up and set him to work in their own laboratories. Their later reports on him were mixed; the man was as brilliant an engineer as rumoured, but showed little originality in his own designs. Mostly, he did the assembly on the most delicate systems and tracking devices that other CIA engineers designed. He was transferred into the proto-program of Zero Tolerance, and worked on the Sentinel Prime systems. His psyche reports all came back borderline.

The main analysis came from the lead doctor, who identified Eckert as having severe socialization issues, almost to the point of being pathologically shy. He made few associations within even his own design group, and was a definite loner. However, he also admitted that his experiences in school had made him very internal, and he really lived for his work. His love of art and history had been cited as a balance to his withdrawn habits. He was cleared yearly.

Emma dug further, pulling up his school records from before. Eckert had claimed solitary habits due to his time there. She quickly discovered that Eckert had gone to Emmett Wilson Academy, sent there after the death of his mother when he was twelve. The insurance policy of his also deceased father had covered schooling, and young Thomas Allen Eckert was placed in one of the more exclusive schools in South Carolina.

The Academy had a good part of their records on-line, and Emma scanned oldclass photos and groups. Eckert was a small teen, thin and weak looking. He stood stiffly in the pictures, part turned from the camera, as if recoiling from the flash. He was involved in the Chess and the Math clubs. He had also been a fencer, Frost noted with some surprise, and had won two championships. Otherwise, he didn't distinguish himself beyond that. He graduated quietly and moved on to Brown's.

However, there was a small note that pegged Frost's attention. In Eckert's junior year, the yearbook held a small memorial page for Paul Wilkes. Emma cross-referenced with her news database, and quickly came back with a series of articles.

Paul Wilkes, a 15 year old student at Emmett Wilson Academy was found dead under a group of bushes less than 200 yards from the highway, near the school. Forensics showed that his body had been dragged from the roadside, leading police to conclude that a drifter or lone motorist had been the cause of Wilkes' savage death. He'd been beaten to death with a wooden club of some type, and his body showed evidence of being sexually abused after death. The autopsy report also noted that Wilkes had a third lung, smaller and hidden behind the left one, leading them to believe he was a mutant. The case was reclassified as a hate crime, and remained unsolved.

Wilkes had been a popular student, and shared several clubs with his classmate, a 15 year old Thomas Allen Eckert. He had been part of the memorial organized for Wilkes, the only break from his established clubs in his entire school career. Emma's blood ran cold as she took it all in, and leaded back in her chair.

For good or ill, she know knew who Thomas Allen Eckert really was, and what he was doing.

***

"Professor Sydney, this is very important." John juggled the phone as Scott drive through the heavy traffic. "We have reason to believe that you may be in some danger, and would very much like to meet with you as soon as possible."

"Very well, detective." The woman sounded extremely annoyed, as if a possible death threat was nothing more than a minor irritation. There was a shuffling of paper over the line and some muffled thumps. "I assume you can find my office?"

"Sure."

"Good. Shall we meet in an hour? I have a class waiting."

"Yeah, great. Thank you very--" the line went dead. "–much." Caulder finished lamely and clicked off his celphone. He gave Scott an exasperated look, and hunkered down in his seat. Summers chuckled as he eased the car past a Buick and finally caught a clear lane.

"Hard to help those who don't want it, isn't it?"

"That's the trouble with this job. If you're the heat, it's the stupidity." Caulder said wryly and Scott laughed.

"That's good. So, how do you want to play this?"

"Low key. We're not official, and if I can't turn over the list to the Chief, we need this woman to work with us. If she says no, there's not a damn thing we can do."

"She won't say no."

"So sure?"

"She might have a problem with the police, but having a problem with the FBI is a whole other matter." Scott said. As an X-Man, he knew very well the power that a uniform had, be it spandex, military or Hollywood. The monotone suit and glasses of the FBI agent had seeped into enough people's consciousness to guarantee a certain response. Cyclops was ready to use that to his advantage.

He pulled the car into the visitors parking, and the two men trotted up the steps of the building. A scattering of students where perched on the steps and the benches at the bottom, in various stages of transit to and from classes. It took them a second to locate Dr. Sydney's office in the barely comprehensible floor plan, and longer to navigate through the students to it. John rapped on the door and opened it to the brisk call to enter from inside.

Professor Eileen Sydney was standing behind her desk, looking at a blackboard and frowning. Caulder and Summers snuck a look at the board, only to turn away in confusion. The work on the board seemed closer to ancient runes then any math they recognized. Sydney turned with a look bordering on distaste to speak to them.

"Detective Caulder, I assume."

"Yes Professor. I'd like to thank you for meeting with us. It is very important that-"

"Detective. I am not meeting with you to consent to whatever ridiculousness you have in mind. I wanted to tell you in person to desist in contacting me." Eileen Sydney was a formidable looking woman. She had graying blonde hair pulled back tight in a bun, over a square face and deep-set blue eyes. She was the same height as Caulder, and almost the same breadth across the shoulders.

"Professor." Scott spoke for the first time, in what he called his 'Commander' voice. It was one that allowed no opposition. "I'm Agent Summers, FBI."

Eileen's eyes widened at the identification in his hand. "FBI? But-"

"Professor Sydney. We have reason to believe that a serial killer who is fixated on mutants may have gotten your name from the registry in Washington. You could be in very grave danger." Eileen went bone white and her eyes were very wide.

"I've never told anyone that I work with."

"But you did register with the government. I apologize, Professor. The registry should never have gotten out of government hands. However, it has, and you are in danger. Now, the NYPD has offered their assistance with this. We'd like to keep you under surveillance for the next few days." Scott said.

"My god."

"Professor, this would have to be done at your approval. If you decide not to let us, we can't protect you."

"But my classes-"

"We won't try to interrupt any of your schedules."

Eileen Sydney sat down and ran her hands over her face. She plucked at her day book for a moment, and then nodded. "Very well, Agent Summers. Detective."

"Excellent. Now, do you have other classes today?"

"No. I have a match at five, and then I was planning to go home." She laughed bitterly. "Before I knew I was being hunted by a madman, that is."

"A match?"

"Chess."

"Right. Um, is that here at the University?"

"No, only the official games are played here. Mine is at Umbaldo's."

"This is unofficial then?"

"Absolutely. I'm barred from the International organization."

"Why?"

"My power. When I registered, the records went to the organization."

"Your power got you barred?" Caulder said incredulously.

"Tunneled empathy. I pick up emotions from people in little bursts when they change. Like when they pick up a card or move a piece. I paid my way through school at poker. It was deemed to give me an unfair advantage in a match." Sydney sighed. "So, I play through an internet league mostly. No way to be tipped off over the net. However, those of us in New York like to meet regularly for games. Umbaldo's has had chess tables for reservation for sixty years now in the restaurant. I think it's becoming trendy again."

"That was at five?"

"Yes."

"Scott, why don't you stay with the Professor, and I'll scout out the bar."

"Agreed." Cyclops nodded. "Call me when you're set up."

"Got it."

***

Umbaldo's was fairly large restaurant/bar In the Cheslea Park area, just north of the university. It was the sort of neighborhood that cycles between trendy and social obscurity every few years, with the supporting businesses and apartments constantly moving their prices with the trends. By the looks of the cars on the street, it was back on an up swing. Caulder opened the heavy door of the restaurant with the overly large brass handle and went in. The air-conditioning rolled over him and he sighed.

The bar was dim with the blinds closed over the windows and only the muted track lighting for illumination, but not so much as to make the place a cave. There were a few patrons scattered around the tables and bar; remnants of the lunch crowd. Off to the right, by the door, were a series of tables with inlayed chess sets in them.

Caulder ordered a coffee, and prowled the bar while it was being poured. There was a hallway in the far left, leading to the washrooms and the kitchen. At the very end, a door opened into a rear parking lot and garbage area. John poked his head up and down the alleys, checking for escape routes. He walked back in and sat down, sipping his coffee and thinking.

Two exits made the place fairly easy to protect. After this, it would be Sydney's apartment. If she was the average New Yorker, then they'd have three locks on the door. If this killer was as obsessed with time as he thought, then he'd have to risk Summers and Caulder to get to Eileen in time for the next bombing. Which meant all they had to do was keep a close eye on Sydney until then. His celphone shrilled, and Caulder clicked it on with his thumb.

"Yeah?"

"Hell of a way to answer the phone."

"I never get nice calls on this phone, Scott. What's up?"

"We're moving to the bar. You there?"

"Yeah. It's clear. Two exits, good lighting. It's safe enough."

"Got it. There a parking lot?"

"Yup. Come in through the back. I'd hurry. The traffic is starting to pick up."

"Thanks."

John sipped his coffee and settled back in his chair. People began to filter in, and Umbaldo's rapidly began to fill with the after work crowd. Caulder was sandwiched between a pair of lawyers when Professor Sydney came in. Summers followed a step behind but deviated towards the bar as she took a set at on of the reserved tables. A waitress brought her over a glass of white wine as she began to set up the pieces.

"Busy in here."

"Yup. What time you got?"

"Couple of minutes to five. I'm going to check out the alleys. See where they go and who's there. She's not going anywhere for a while." Scott said, and John nodded.

"Got it. Call me if you find anything."

"Sure." The taller man stalked back out, and John resumed to scanning the crowd. The normal blend of suits and power skirts you saw everywhere in this city. He drank another cup of coffee waiting for something to happen. The door opened and a small, thin man came in. Eileen waved, and the man nodded at her. Obviously the opponent, John mused, motioning to the bartender for a refill.

The man was short, with light brown hair and thin sharp features. He shook Professor Sydney's hand and was about to sit when something clicked in Caulder's mind. He had seen that face the day before, outside of the FoH building. The Con-Ed worker. But this man looked nothing like a utilities worker. Suspicions formed in his mind and he was beginning to stand when a voice called loudly from a table behind him.

"Detective Caulder!" His head whipped around to see Erin off-duty, sitting at a table with a few friends and waving at him. He snapped back to the man at Sydney's table, and saw the suddenly change in his face as he went for his pocket.

For a single, nightmarish instant, it seemed to the detective that time had been suspended. The man's hand came out from his pocket, and Eileen Sydney grabbed her own throat, eyes bulging unnaturally. John ripped his gun from the holster and shoved out of his seat. Erin was looking bewildered at him as he tried to shove through the crowd. The little man was already dashing out the doors as Caulder found his voice.

"Stop! Police!" John broke through the crowd and made it to the Professor's side. Blood bubbled up through her fingers and soaked the front of her suit. Screams echoed behind him as the fountain of red became obvious. The older woman's mouth moved soundlessly, trying to forced words out through her ruined throat.

"Erin!" He yelled as the woman was at his side. "Get an ambulance here, now!" And he left, smashing over two people coming int he doors and racing into the street. He thumbed his phone and Scott's voice came on the line.

"Summers."

"He got her, Scott! The bastard took off down Ninth!" John gasped, pelting down the street. He couldn't even see the man any more, hoping that he'd catch up with him some how.

"I'm on it." Caulder slowed up, trying to catch his breath. A uniformed beat cop caught sight of him, and had his gun out in a flash.

"Drop the gun, sir." He said, and only then did Caulder realize that he was running down a New York street with a gun in his hand and blood all over his suit. With a sigh he set down his gun and motioned to his pocket.

"I'm Detective Caulder, officer. My badge is in my pocket."

"Two fingers. Bring it out nice and slow." John did so, and the beat holstered his weapon. "I'm sorry, sir. Is there anything I can do to help?" John looked rueful up the street and then at the blood on his shirt and jacket, before shaking his head.

"No Officer, I don't think anyone can help now."

***

Aaron laid the piece of oil cloth down on his work bench and again reflected on the stupidity of man. He was neither a psychopath or a sociopath; he killed because it was a better living then his other skills could provide for him. Demolitions, firearms, hand to hand combat; all of them still were worth a pittance on the open market. Mercenaries were a dime a dozen, but good assassins were invaluable.

First, Aaron depressed the stud and the action spring on the .45. Next, he swivelled the brushing. That allowed the spring to go free. Aaron dismounted the slide assembly, removed the barrel, and now the pistol was field stripped. Most of his 'colleagues' used small bore .22 or equally anonymous 9mm weapons in their favourite configurations. But Aaron kept his.45. He liked the balance; the heavy dead weight of it. He also liked the large holes it created in his targets. Even suppressed, the guttural cough of the weapon was distinctive.

Aaron held the barrel up to the light, and as he expected, it was dirty from firing. He'd used up a box of ammunition in his personal quick fire drills; the gun from the holster to target, over and over like a Western gunfighter. Aaron cleaned every surface, using rags, Hoppe's cleaning solvent, and a toothbrush until there was no trace of dirt on any metal surface. Next, he lightly oiled the weapon. Not too much oil, which would attract dirt and grit and possibly foul or jam the pistol at an inconvenient moment. Finished cleaning, he reassembled the pistol quickly and expertly -- with his eyes closed. It had a nice feel in his hand as he jacked the slide back a few times to make sure it was properly assembled.

Aaron looked at the slip of paper at his elbow. People were so stupid, and so obvious. Because of that, he'd be killing one in the next few hours. Other men would have smiled, but Aaron simply did a visual check of the weapon. This was his job. And the object of his job only had a few more hours to breathe. There was a final clack as he loaded the weapon, and laid it down on the oil cloth, in the dull light.

***

Naked, filthy, hot, the Number lay curled on the small landing, the locked door only inches from the pink-white soles of his bare feet. The hallway was an oven; sticky with heat and dust. He soiled himself more than once since coming up to the landing and the door, but made no attempt to clean up after himself. The smell of shit and old sweat was part of the penalty he would have to pay for his failures.

From time to time he would look up, see the door, and cower down again, small sounds escaping from his dry, cracked lips. He'd had no food or water for the day previous to his newest sum, and between the heat and stench, he was beginning to hallucinate. The sounds had come first — the telltale creaking from behind the door, the whispered voices of his sums, some old and faint like the first, buried in the moist earth of South Carolina. Others were louder, dying gasps from a waitress, and a banker. Or the single raising gasp of the last sum, as the razor vanes sliced through her delicate carotid artery and buried in her spine. His own trouble failure, his weakness, perhaps even the forfeiture of his power.

He prayed for that power's return, his cracked lips whispering on the landing, down the stairwell, into the empty rooms. But even as he prayed, he knew he had yet to pay the price that lay waiting for him behind the door. He must pay it, he knew, and would, but not yet. Not yet.

After the sounds came the desperate memories from his childhood, and in some ways, that was even worse. The giant birch in the garden of the quad, sickly yellow in the moonlight as he crept so quietly across the rooftop of the west wing and down to it. The fleeting glint of the moon on blade as he sliced away the perfect length, sneaking back to his bed beneath the window, slipping the heavy, exquisitely balanced limb between the spring and mattress, leaving it there to cure. The guilt of transgression, the fear of capture and revelation. The long waiting silence of the room and all the sleeping boys. The will of God, the crack of doom, the handwriting on the wall.

Finally, the landing and its bolted, fourfold door; waiting. The door of Sighs. The Door of Despair. The Door of Penitence. The Door of Paradise regained. The Door, and what lay behind it.

[next part]

back to Dex's stories | Cyke and Logan archive | comicfic.net