Author: Megan Derr
Date: 2016-03-07 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: M M Romance; Fantasy; Romance; Urban Fantasy; Science Fiction; Superheroes; Paranormal; Lgbt; M M Fantasy; Contemporary
Description: Dixie is a man adrift, picking away at the evildoings of the Grand Order of Defenders and the DeVine Corporation wherever he's able. But none of it is what he really wants, and what he wants is out of reach. Then a notorious thief crosses his path, a man with abilities that might make all the difference. With his help, Dixie can at long last return to face the people that destroyed his whole world and return that destruction tenfold.
Publisher: Less Than Three

Table of Contents

Title Page

Book Details

Turncoat

Anti-Heroes Will Continue...

About the Author

TURNCOAT

ANTI-HEROES | Book One

Megan Derr

Dixie is a man adrift, picking away at the evildoings of the Grand Order of Defenders and the DeVine Corporation wherever he's able. But none of it is what he really wants, and what he wants is out of reach.

Then a notorious thief crosses his path, a man with abilities that might make all the difference. With his help, Dixie can at long last return to face the people that destroyed his whole world and return that destruction tenfold.

BOOK DETAILS

Turncoat

Anti-Heroes 2

By Megan Derr

Published by Megan Derr

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

Edited by Samantha M. Derr

Cover designed by Natasha Snow

This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

First Edition March 2016

Copyright © 2016 by Megan Derr

Printed in the United States of America

TURNCOAT

Dixie scrubbed the towel over his close-shaved hair and wiped water from his face, then let the towel fall to drape over his shoulders as he left the bathroom in a billow of steam. Black boxer briefs clung to his still damp skin as he padded down the hallway following the chirping of his phone.

He read the text from Matt saying that he and Karl had reached their safehouse without incident. Good. Tell your man to keep you in bed and out of trouble. Matt replied with a smirky emote, and Dixie tossed the phone back on his sofa, smiling faintly.

The house was quiet—too quiet, even after all these years of being alone. He'd never not be used to the sounds of his mama. The way her TV always had to be on even though she barely paid it any mind while she played whist with all her online buddies, cackling maniacally every now and again. Or the radio while she cooked or cleaned, the sounds of her phone and her laptop, the damned yippie dogs she'd liked to keep underfoot.

Dixie had always been more of a cat person, but he wasn't dumb enough to try and keep a pet when one, most of his enemies wouldn't hesitate to kill the poor thing just to hurt him; and two, he was probably gonna have to torch everything and run one day. The only person the Grand Order of Defenders wanted more than Dixie was the super hero killer nobody knew anything about, past his dumbass codename: Scones.

Well, they wanted Byron pretty damned badly, too, but even the G.O.D. knew that was a lost cause.

In the kitchen, he pulled a longneck out of the fridge and twisted off the cap, took a long swallow before he set the beer on the counter-slash-bar that divided the kitchen from the living room. He stared inside the fridge, considered the options there, then closed it with a sigh and leaned against it a moment before heaving away from it to poke through the cabinets instead.

Fuck it, maybe he should call for pizza. At the rate he was going, dinner was going to be beer and microwave popcorn. He didn't have the energy for shit all else, and he wasn't much feeling the only options in the house: pasta or rice.

He crossed the kitchen to the laundry area and dropped his towel in the washer, swung back to grab his beer, then dropped onto his leather sofa and picked up the large tablet lying on the coffee table. It shimmered, chirped softly as it read his fingerprints and scanned his retina, and finally displayed a small box with a vibrating blue line running across the center. "Fox in the henhouse," Dixie said, dropping his soft drawl and reciting the phrase in a perfect, mid-East American accent.

The tablet chimed and unlocked, displaying a boring wallpaper of a dark blue lake surrounded by evergreens, with a sleepy little cabin and dock far to the left, a tiny rowboat to the right, the only signs of its occupant the feet hanging over the edge and a dangling fishing pole.

Dixie had always wanted to be that relaxed, so comfortable in his skin and the world that he dozed off fishing in the middle of a lake in fuck nowhere, USA. "Pizza, usual order." The tablet chimed again and immediately the tablet sprang to life, pulling up the pizza website, logging in, loading his usual order, and sending it off.

He set the tablet aside and finished his beer, deliberated the wisdom of a second.

Then decided he deserved something after all the damned craziness and terror of the last few months. Even for being one of the most wanted men in the world, that had been a little too adventurous. Though they'd done woken themselves a real super villain. Sure as hell wasn't anything else to call Karl, now alias Countdown. Not much scared Dixie, but he was damned glad that man was on their side.

Hauling to his feet, he fetched a second beer and finally sat at the bar to go through all the damned mail. He didn't even want to think about all the work that would hit him the moment he opened the garage again. Maintaining it was a hassle, especially as he was gone so often, but he needed it to help maintain his current cover.

He threw out all the junk, retained the bills, and returned to his couch and beer. He'd just turned on the TV to find something to watch when the pizza showed, and for an hour, Dixie was able to pretend he was really and truly ordinary: a mechanic coming back from a long business trip, who wanted to unwind and sleep hard for several hours.

But good things and dreams never lasted, and this time they were interrupted by a loud bang, followed by a muffled cry of pain. Coming from his backyard. Hopefully it was just a couple of stupid kids, but Dixie hadn't lived this long by believing in things like luck and coincidence and hopefully. Heading for the back door, he unlocked it, grabbed the slugger he kept next to it, and stepped out into the chilly night.

Maybe he should have gotten dressed first. Too late now.

Another pained cry filtered across the backyard, coming from a little pile of shadow by the back gate, which gaped open and clacked as it struck the fence over and over. What in the hell? Still holding tight to the bat, Dixie knelt and found his way through layers of… damned interesting material for a man to be wearing. But beneath it all he found a steady pulse. Drawing back, he gingerly examined the rest of the figure—a man, to judge by the flat chest, though that didn't mean much necessarily—and came across blood when he touched the side of the man's head.

More and more interesting. Didn't seem to be any other wounds, though, so he set the bat aside and dragged the man fully into the yard, then closed and locked the gate… which had been locked from the inside and wasn't easy to reach even by leaning over the top. Either the man had a really long reach, or he'd unlocked it after climbing over, which made no damn sense. To let someone else through? Dixie looked around, listened carefully, but the man on the ground seemed to be the only one about.

Dixie retrieved his bat and hefted the little man up in his arms. Poor thing didn't feel like he'd weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet.

Back inside, Dixie laid him out on the kitchen floor, closed and locked the door, then pulled out the first aid kit kept on a shelf over the washer and dryer. Some warm water and a soft cloth helped him clean the head wound, which turned out to be a small scratch that bled dramatically but didn't amount to much in the end. Dixie treated it to prevent infection, then put everything away and cleaned up, using peroxide to get rid of any sign of whose blood in particular had been in his kitchen.

Scooping up his house guest, still dead to the world, Dixie carried him down the hall to his bedroom and laid him out on the bed. He stripped the man's clothes off, frowning all over again as he examined the soft, pliant fabric lined with wires as fine as hair. It was specially made stuff that could work with the unique abilities of most supers. The material couldn't do everything—Matt's suit was unique to him, modified with nanotech to keep up with his ability to go invisible—but the list of stuff it couldn't handle was short.

Setting it aside on a chair in the corner, Dixie finally gave his guest a good look. If he had to guess, he'd wager the man was half-Latino, half-Asian, but more specific than that—hell if he knew. He had short hair, but getting on toward long like it needed a cut. A long white scar cut down the side of his throat and across the collarbone. That must have hurt like the fires of hell. More scars—burns, cuts, what looked ominously like shrapnel damage—peppered the rest of him. Whoever the man was, he wasn't very good at staying out of trouble. Or ducking.

He looked even smaller sprawled out on Dixie's massive bed. Maybe a touch over five feet, and Dixie still wouldn't bet much money on him being over a hundred pounds. If he was, it sure wasn't by much. There was a silver hoop in his left nipple. Man was pretty as hell…and looking was turning into gawking so that was enough of that.

Dimming the bedroom lights, Dixie went to throw out the remains of dinner and double check the house was locked up.

He stepped into the living room as someone knocked on the door. "Aw, hell." Scrubbing his face, rubbing his eyes so they'd look a bit more on the tired side, he trudged to the door and pulled it open, yawning as he did so. Switching his accent to Middle America, he asked, "Why in the world are a couple of dudes knocking on my door at asscrack o'clock?"

There were two of them, pale as bone and starched stiffer than their black suits. They wore sunglasses, adding to the douche factor, but Dixie knew G.O.D. snoop glasses when he saw them. Well, they could snoop all they wanted. They wouldn't learn anything about him he didn't want people to know.

The bigger one, built all brick shithouse like Dixie, said, "Apologies, sir. We're looking for a fugitive—"

"I don't see a badge," Dixie interrupted.

Their mouths pinched practically in unison as they pulled out badges that marked them as part of the G.O.D. Peace Force. "We're looking for a fugitive and we're afraid he might have snuck into one of the homes on this street. Have you heard any strange noises tonight? Noticed anything knocked over or moved that you know you didn't move yourself? Anything like that?"

Dixie shook his head. "Nope. It's just been me, pizza, and bad TV."

"Would you mind if we looked around?"

"Not if you come back with a warrant," Dixie replied flatly. "I'm sure you've noticed the garage next to my house. I'm a mechanic, and I was headed to bed. Day always starts too early around here, and I'm late going to bed as it is. I'm not letting a bunch of cops keep me up till dawn unless you've got a warrant that says I have to. With respect, agents."

The men nodded, but he knew pissed off law enforcement when he saw it. "Thank you for your time."

"Good luck with your hunt," Dixie said and waited there as they walked away.

Once they were gone, Dixie whirled around and finally went to put on some damned clothes.

'Cause he sure as hell wasn't going to get any sleep. If he knew the G.O.D., which he did better than most, they'd be back to do a little breaking and entering. In his room, he looked at his guest, still asleep but muttering now and shifting restlessly. Who the hell was he? A super, but who? Dixie snorted. Supers usually didn't come in pintsize, but he supposed all rules had exceptions.

Turning away, he pulled on jeans, a black tanktop, a long-sleeved, dark red t-shirt, and a black hoodie. Socks, boots, and then he threw a bunch of shit in a get the fuck out of there bag, including the tablet he'd left on the couch. He sent off a quick text and shoved his phone in his pocket. He retrieved his bat, killed all the lights, and waited.

He was starting to get bored when he heard the soft crackle-shatter of somebody trying to quietly break glass. Honestly. Five hundred pieces of technology that could have done the job soundlessly and they went old school. Sloppy, but that was the Peace in a nutshell.

The noise was coming from the garage. So their plan was to break into the office and from there sneak into his house. Not bad as plans went, but not great either. Made his life easier, though.

Dixie slithered up beside the door that connected his house to his business and hefted the bat.

The son of a bitch had barely taken a step inside when Dixie slammed the bat into his gut. He grabbed the man's hair, slammed his knee up into the asshole's face, then threw him unconscious to the floor. By then the second one had joined the party. Dixie swung the bat straight into his ribs, damn near heard them break.

He knocked that one out as firmly as he had the first one.

Leaving them there, he grabbed up his bag and hauled it to the bedroom to fetch—

Nothing. The bed was empty. Son of a bitch. No way the wily little runt had gotten by Dixie while he was at the front of the house. He couldn't have snuck through a window; none of them could be opened. And he hadn't broken any of them, not that Dixie saw.

A super was being hunted by the G.O.D. in the dead of night in the small city Dixie called home. Someone who hadn't needed to break a window or use a door to escape. Someone who had likely come through his back gate and then tried to open it to make it look like he'd gotten through the usual way instead of the highly unusual way he had actually done it. That sure as hell narrowed down the possibilities. Son of a bitch.

Heading back to the front of the house, Dixie dragged the goons out to the front yard. He pulled out his phone and wirelessly activated the house sprinkler system. The pungent odor of accelerant—his own design, with some input from Matt—stung his nostrils.

Digging in his escape bag, he pulled out a lighter and a weighted starter. Lighting it, he threw it into the house.

Once it was well and truly burning, he pulled up his hood and got the hell out of there.

He walked several blocks southeast, zigzagging and meandering, confusing his path, until he reached a shitty, rundown street full of mangy dogs and people who had nowhere better to be. A sleek, black Mercedes-Benz sat at the nearest corner of an empty intersection.

Dixie ducked to look in the passenger window. The man behind the wheel was beautiful enough more than a few people had believed he must have super powers related to glamour, but he'd always insisted he had no powers at all, and Dixie had never seen evidence to the contrary. His hair tumbled around his face in a loose, lazy mop of dark mahogany curls, framing his moon-pale skin and eyes as green as new spring. A dark faerie, Dixie had always called him, and Byron had always laughed. Byron was as ordinary as the day was long, but he'd be the first to say ordinary people were the most dangerous thing around. "Howdy. Thanks for coming to get me."

"You two could have coordinated," Byron grumbled. "Getting two different messages that don't seem aware of each other is seriously confusing."

Dixie's smile fell. "We two?" He turned his head, could barely see the little scrap of nothing sitting in the backseat. "Aw, hell. I shoulda guessed this is where you ran off." He climbed in the passenger seat, scowling at the passing buildings as Byron pulled into traffic. "I just got home, damn it. And now I'm out of a house, out of a business, out of everything because the most incompetent 'super' villain in history collapsed in my yard. Somebody owes me a damned drink."

"Screw you," the man in the backseat said. "I'm not the worst super villain in history."

Dixie snorted, folded his arms across his chest as they drove, ignoring the stares of the other two—hurt from the man in the back, disapproval from the driver. They could stuff it. They weren't the ones who'd wound up homeless. Again.

Sighing, he settled more comfortably in his seat. "When we get to your place, Byron, I want to know what the hell is going on with pintsize back there. I had to torch my whole damn house and garage because G.O.D. came a-knocking for him, and then they came a-breaking-and-entering."

"I'll take care of it," Byron said. "I'm sorry about your home."

"I'm sorry, too," the man in the back said. "I was trying to get somewhere I wouldn't drag anyone else into my mess. I didn't mean to get your house burned down."

"Shit happens, and the only one to really blame is those stupid Dogs," Dixie said. "But next time, maybe fall over somewhere else, pintsize."

"My name isn't pintsize."

"I don't give a rat's ass what your name is right now," Dixie replied, though he knew the man's alias well enough: Whisker, cat burglar extraordinaire. Where 'extraordinaire' meant 'clumsy, awkward, and prone to almost getting caught every single damned time'. Sometimes Dixie thought they never arrested him because they felt that damned sorry for him. "I'm getting some sleep. I'll deal with this mess when I wake up."

So saying, he closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep.

Abrupt silence woke him up a little later—just over an hour, as that was about how long it took to get to Byron's place in normal traffic. Dixie blinked, looked around. "We good?"

"Yeah, home safe and sound," Byron said. "Come on, I'd just finished making dinner when our mutual friend here called me. A little while later I got your text. I can't wait to hear this story. I'm honestly surprised this is the first time you two are meeting."

"Why would I have cause to meet a cat burglar who's got more in common with a bull in a china shop?"

"At least I'm not spaghetti western meets boys in the hood," the man muttered.

Dixie gave him a look. "Watch it, pintsize."

"I'm just saying, you look like you bench press Buicks and sound like you're headed for the rodeo."

"Shut up," Dixie said, but the curt tone he was trying for was ruined by the smile twitching at his mouth.

The man gave a small smile back, eyes dropping as he pushed back a stray lock of hair. "Thanks for saving me, by the way. I really am sorry about your house and everything. I didn't—"

"Ain't a thing, darling. I've lost much worse than houses, and houses can be replaced. Don't worry your pintsized head about it." Dixie winked and turned away to head for the elevators and up to Byron's apartment.

It was a shithole of a place on the outside, the kind of apartment building filled with people one step from living on the streets. Except a lot of those people had come upon sudden windfalls and gone elsewhere, and a whole lot of non-existent people had moved in. Byron had spent good money to interconnect the apartment into something like an oversized mouse cage, with nooks, crannies, tunnels, and more secrets than the CIA.

And there were enough people coming and going to see Byron, alias Fortune—or rather, one of his many, many covers—that the rest of the world didn't notice there was anything funny about the place.

In the elevator, Dixie leaned against the back wall. The little guy—Whisker, which just made Dixie want to call him 'kitten'—remained close to the doors. Byron punched in his access code, then pressed his hand to a panel and presented his eye to another for fingerprint and retina scans.

The elevator beeped and began to move, taking them up to the seventh floor where Byron's main rooms were located. They stepped out into a dingy hall, only two yellow-orange lights giving the cockroaches and rats something to see by. Byron unlocked his door, paused briefly as discreet scanners read all three of them, then finally let them inside.

"Make yourselves at home," Byron said, throwing his keys on the kitchen island and shrugging out of the dark purple leather jacket he'd been wearing. Some days he looked like a faerie prince; some days he looked like a faerie prostitute. Some days Dixie honestly couldn't decide. "Beer? Greg, I've got wine, too."

"Yes," Greg and Dixie said together. Greg smiled faintly, then ducked his head and slipped away through the door that led to the various bedrooms.

Dixie pulled a stool up to the island and took the beer Byron held out. "Thanks. So that's Whisker?"

"Yeah," Byron replied. He leaned against the kitchen sink and took a pull on his own beer. "Gregory Raines. He's a paralegal by day. Comes in handy. He works for one of the biggest firms in town and everybody likes kittens."

Dixie snorted a laugh over his beer bottle. At least he wasn't the only one with that impression. "Do you know what he was doing collapsing in my yard? You might want to check out his head. I patched it up, but I ain't a medic by any stretch of the imagination."

Byron nodded, then set his beer aside and went to pull something out of the oven. "Get the salad out of the fridge."

"Yes, Boss."

They'd finished getting all of dinner on the table when the door creaked open. Dixie turned, and hell if he didn't feel a touch like a drunk butterfly right about then. All cleaned up and wearing jeans and a blue polo, hair still damp and standing out a little around his head, Greg looked like the bastard child of a devil and angel, something with a sweet mouth and a wicked tongue. He had pretty brown eyes that just barely faded to gold along the edges.

A soft snort drew Dixie's attention, and he tore his eyes away and went to the fridge for another beer, bringing one for Byron too. "I swear I just ate, but hell if I ain't hungry again."

"Pizza, rice, or pasta?" Byron asked wryly, in that boarding school tone of his that drove Dixie up the fucking wall. Too reminiscent of the lily white man-children who'd kept him and his parents as little better than slaves to tend the hi-tech computer system Dixie's daddy had built all on his own.

"Shut it, white boy," Dixie replied. "I ain't putting up with nonsense from a glorified bank robber."

Byron sniffed. "I'm a bit more than that."

"You really ain't," Dixie said with a grin.

Greg huffed from where he sat dead opposite Dixie at the table. "You are a bank robber, Byron. But I want to know who the hell he is."

Byron raised his brows at Dixie, who shrugged and said, "Name's Dixon Mountebank. Most folks call me Dixie."

"And the G.O.D. prefers to call him Turncoat," Byron added.

"Holy shit!" Greg almost dropped the bottle of wine he'd picked up. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Dixie drawled, dragging out every letter. "More important question is: what the hell was you doing tonight and how did the G.O.D. find you?"

Greg's mouth pinched. "They might have found me because it was a G.O.D. house I had to break into."

Byron dropped his fork and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why would you do that, Greg? You know better!"

"It's a favor for a friend—the kind of friend who's almost died for me and somebody I would definitely die for. He never asks for anything, but he asked for this and I can do it. Just might take me a little longer than I thought. Tonight was meant to be recon, but I didn't even make it up to the front door." He took a long gulp of wine. Dixie was thirty percent certain you weren't supposed to drink wine quite like that, but he also didn't know shit about wine and wasn't one to judge anyway.

Picking up his fork, Byron jabbed it in Greg's direction. "Whose house and what were you stealing?"

"Timothy Rekker, and something called a Mason Chip."

Dixie was the one to drop a fork that time. "A Mason Chip? Why in the fucking hell are you trying to get your hands on a Mason Chip? You don't even know what that is, do you?"

"It's a special microchip that all G.O.D. computers require in order to sync with their spooky master system, according to L—my friend. There's something he needs, but he can't get to it without the chip, and if he tries to get one himself, he'll draw too much attention."

"One, not all G.O.D. computers have them. There's a set number of access points in the world, and a tightly controlled number of people who can use them. Access to the 'spooky master system' isn't something the Pantheon permits lightly. Two, taking the chip is too much attention no matter who does it," Dixie replied. "Anyway, even if you got it, wouldn't make a damned difference. Those chips only work for the people they're given to—people already on the approved list. And that list can only be accessed by three people. You can steal a thousand Mason Chips, but without the right clearance, they won't do your friend a lick of good."

Greg frowned like a cranky cat. Dixie could practically see the wasp ears. "So we need to kidnap one of those three people."

Byron choked on his beer, started laughing—laughed harder when Dixie lightly kicked him under the table.

"What's so funny?" Greg asked with a pout. Dixie wanted to pet him, settle all that ruffled fur.

"You don't need to kidnap anyone," Byron finally said, still chuckling off and on. "If you ask Dixie nicely, he'll be more than happy to get you the information and the access you need. Our problem—" he gestured between himself and Dixie, "—is that we haven't been able to get one. But once we have it, Dixie can do the rest. We can help you and your friend, though he's going to have to step up and join the party."

Greg gnawed on his bottom lip so hard Dixie worried he'd tear it. Finally looking up, he said, "I'll talk to him, but don't get your hopes up. He keeps to himself for good reason, and he's got more trust issues than the rest of us combined."

"Okay," Byron said. "Do your best. We won't hurt him, though. If he's out for G.O.D. blood then he's a brother in arms. Now eat before dinner gets cold. We'll discuss more of this tomorrow."

"Yes, Your Highness," Dixie drawled, and snickered when Byron kicked him.

He finished eating a few minutes later and cracked a yawn that made his eyes water. "I'm going to bed. Done been awake too damned long. Wake me up if it's life or death, and woe betide the fool who wakes me up for any other reason."

"Understood," Byron replied with a smile. "Sweet dreams."

"Ya'll sleep well." Dixie pushed away from the table, deposited his dirty dishes in the sink and his empty beer bottle in the trash, then wended through the maze of tunnels and stairs to his bedroom on the opposite side of the building, a little corner room Byron always kept for him.

Most of the space was taken up by his bed; the rest of it was filled with a small bathroom, a closet, and tables crammed with various electronics that Dixie wasn't comfortable keeping in his own house. Stripping down to his boxers, setting his clothes on top of a cardboard box that often doubled as a makeshift table, he turned out the light, fell into bed, and dropped almost immediately into sleep.

He woke up a few hours later, stomach growling for a snack. Rolling over onto his back, Dixie sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and reached for his clothes. He scratched the back of his neck, fingers running over the too-smooth bit of skin that wasn't really skin at all. His fingers twitched, trembled, and he dropped them in his lap before shaking himself and getting dressed. Dwelling had never done anyone a lick of good, and he wasn't gonna start now.

Hauling out of his room, he headed for the kitchen to seek out a snack.

Instead he found a cat leaning against the island drinking a mug of hot milk, wearing nothing but a slinky, clingy little pair of black boxers. "I didn't think cream was actually good for cats."

"Haha, a cat joke. I've never heard those before, every single fucking day of my life," Greg muttered.

Dixie gave a slow grin. "Does puss need a scritch behind the ears? Would that make you feel—" He jumped out of the way as Greg tried to thwack him, easily caught his slender wrist, then the other one when the second hand came swinging, and smoothly pinned them at the small of Greg's back.

Which put that lithe little body distractingly close to his own. Made him acutely aware Greg was wearing next to nothing, and he wouldn't mind at all finding out how it felt to have Greg pinned under him.

Dixie let him go and went to the jar on the counter where he knew Byron always kept cookies. Ooh, chocolate chip with walnuts. He shoved one into his mouth and grabbed three more, then got the milk from the fridge and a glass from the cabinet. Sitting at the island, he poured the milk and settled into his snack. "So what are you doing awake?"

"I'm not much for sleeping," Greg replied. "Too used to being awake when it's dark."

"That's gotta make doing your day job suck."

Greg laughed. "I'm a paralegal for a big fancy law firm. You know what they do with me? Give me tedious shit to research and ignore me. I take naps in the file room and library all the time." He grinned. "Helps I can go through stuff when I need to hide."

"You can't help getting yourself into trouble, can you?" Dixie shook his head and took another bite of cookie, chased it with a swallow of milk. "How did you get into thieving? If you mind telling, don't feel obliged."

Shrugging, Greg replied, "How does anyone usually get into breaking the law? We were flat broke. My mom begged for help from all kinds of people—people she'd helped a hundred thousand times. They all turned her away, and some were really fucking mean about it. Poor as we were, I never was tested, so my meteor genes were never identified and put in the system."

Meteor genes, also known as 'super genes', were the mutations that showed up in people without any rhyme or reason that science had yet figured out. In the first couple of decades after a meteor crashed on the planet in the late 1600s, enormous pieces landing all over the damned earth, not much had happened. Well, plenty had happened to the environment.

Weird shit hadn't happened to people at first. Plenty had died or been permanently injured, but nothing weird. But on about thirty or so years after, by the best estimates of historians, weirdness started showing up in people right around puberty, people that had been born in the last 15 years, give or take a few.

And that had triggered the Great Witch Burnings. Those had lasted longer than anyone liked to admit, and supers had gone deep into hiding. Didn't show up again until an especially powerful super had decided that 'inferior' humans should die. He'd destroyed half of Europe before he'd finally been killed. It was only after that the world governments came together to do something more effective, seeking out and registering supers, establishing tests, regulations, protections, etc., that life got considerably less dangerous for everyone.

Not long after, groups like the G.O.D. had sprung up. But there were plenty of supers off the grid, and 'villains' who ranged from petty criminals to those intent on changing the world in ways the government didn't agree with. About the only thing everyone agreed on was that the whole thing was a goddamned mess. Too many thought the G.O.D. was the solution, and anyone who disagreed wound up dead or lived in the shadows.

"So you turned to stealing?" he asked.

"The first time wasn't planned," Greg replied. "We were at her boss's house, trying to convince him to cut her a break, advance a paycheck, something, anything. I was only ten, was waiting in this opulent hall full of fancy, expensive shit polished to within an inch of its life. It was like being on a stage set, even back then I knew that. All for show, and he didn't give a damn about any of it except to prove that he had it and no one else did. So I took this stupid little clock just to be a jerk. I shoved it into my bag under all my homework and gym clothes… and days later, still nothing had happened. We needed money for groceries and I thought of my dumb trophy, took it to a pawn shop, and made five thousand dollars."

Dixie whistled.

"So I did it again, same house, slipped in there one day after school and stole something from his office. Looking back, I think I probably got some of his staff fired. But back then, I was a stupid kid tired of hearing his mother cry."

"Yeah," Dixie said quietly. "Ain't nothing worse than hearing your mama cry. If I'd been you, I'd've done the same."

Greg looked at him. "You had it rough, too, huh? I'm sorry."

"Ain't nobody in this business doesn't have a rough story," Dixie said.

"Still, I'd think someone with the name 'Turncoat' must have a story that packs some extra bang."

Dixie rubbed his fingers across the back of his neck. "Not many people defy and betray the Dogs and live to tell the tale, that's for sure. My dad used to work for them, and me alongside him. Ain't a story I'm inclined to share, but my parents are dead now and G.O.D. wants me back something fierce."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Dixie said. "Your mom still around?"

"Yeah, though she's overseas and no longer related to me, according to the paperwork. That cost me big, but she's safe and that's all I want."

Dixie nodded, then finished his cookies and milk and stood to put the glass in the dishwasher. "How'd you get mixed up with Byron and the rest of this anti-G.O.D. crusade? I assume you're part of that."

"I steal stuff for him sometimes—what else does anyone pay me to do?" Greg asked with a crooked grin. "And I've got useful connections via the firm, so pretty often what I steal is information. How about you?"

"Byron found me, actually. Me and a friend of mine who came with me when I got out of the clutches of the G.O.D. We were both banged up pretty badly. Byron helped us get back on our feet. Now we do odd jobs here and there, chip away at the G.O.D. when we're able."

Greg pursed his lips, eyes going distant as he lost himself in thought for a minute. "You were on the news recently, up around Arrow City. There's going to be a memorial parade for the dead at the end of the week. Some new super villain was mentioned, too."

"Countdown," Dixie replied. "Yeah, shit got interesting up Arrow way. We didn't mean for Countdown to happen, but God's truth, I ain't sorry. That boy is nobody to fuck with. I ain't never seen a civilian turn villain that quickly or smoothly in my life. He's gonna be handy."

"We need all the help we can get," Greg agreed. He finished his milk and put the cup in the dishwasher, then looked around the kitchen as if hoping to find something.

Dixie quirked a brow. "You're twitchier than a spooked rabbit."

"I'm awake and have no way of tiring myself out that won't provoke Byron to murder me," Greg replied with a huff. "Or get me arrested, one way or another."

"I'm impressed you ain't been arrested yet."

Greg flashed a smug little grin. "It's hard to catch someone who can go through walls. I can get three buildings away while they're still trying to find a door."

"Cocky shit like that is why you keep almost getting caught anyway. Is there a break-in of yours that ain't made the news as yet another botched attempt by Whisker to steal this or that? For someone who can go through objects, you sure knock a lot of them over."

"Byproduct of the power, okay?" Greg turned away, shoulders hunched, but not before Dixie saw the hurt look on his face.

Dixie crossed the kitchen in a few long, easy strides and caught him by the shoulder, turned him around. "Hey, I only meant to tease. I'm sorry. I ain't got much room to talk, believe me. You shoulda seen me before I got free of the G.O.D. I was skinnier than you and twice as clumsy."

Greg's face filled with disbelief as he looked Dixie slowly up and down. Meeting Dixie's eyes, he said, "Bullshit."

Mouth curving in a slow smile, Dixie pulled out his phone and punched in the long access code. He reached up to touch the back of his neck, a tiny zing shooting down his spine as he woke his systems. When he could feel the soft pulse that said they were awake and ready, he said, "Archive, family photos. Selfies, folder three."

The phone screen shimmered and flashed as it flipped rapidly through his memory banks before finally pulling up the folder he wanted. Dixie flipped through the pictures and pulled up a photo he hadn't looked at in forever. "Project image." His phone flashed and immediately projected the image he'd selected into the air.

"That's your long lost brother," Greg said. "Also, how the fuck does your phone do that?"

Dixie shot him a look. "I'm an only child, smartass. That was me a couple of years before I finally got free of the G.O.D."

"How did you go from beanpole to mechanic-themed porn?"

"I'm starting to think your mouth gets you in more trouble than your clumsiness," Dixie said with a snort. "Off projection, delete files from phone, go to sleep mode."

Greg pouted. "Seriously, how does your phone do all that?"

"We ain't done discussing that porn comment," Dixie said, catching his arm when Greg squeaked and tried to flee.

Huffing, Greg slowly looked at him and said, "You don't need me to tell you that you're hot."

Dixie grinned. "Never hurts to hear. You still need to burn energy? I think I might have an idea or two."

Greg's fidgeting abruptly stilled, and Dixie liked the hungry look that came over his face a whole hell of a lot. "I'll admit that's my favorite way to get rid of my restlessness."

"I think that's the favorite method of a lot of folk." Dixie tugged him in close and bent to get a taste of that troublemaking mouth he'd been admiring despite himself.

Greg tasted like sugar and vanilla. Must have been in his hot milk thing. Dixie grunted as Greg tried to climb him like he was a damned tree. Skating his hands down Greg's body, admiring the lithe, trim muscle he could feel, he grabbed Greg's thighs and hoisted him up.

Greg tore away from his mouth long enough to mutter, "That's stupid hot." Then Dixie's mouth was being too thoroughly tongue-fucked for him to get a reply in.

Not that he was complaining. The life he led didn't leave much room for things like getting laid, so when sex was an option, he liked it good enough to last a bit. "If we're doing this," he said when he finally managed to make himself pull away, "we'd best pick a room, 'cause Byron will kill us if we fool around in his kitchen."

Greg snickered. "Fair enough. I suppose you can't carry me the whole way, either. Let me down, and your room is probably closer because mine is all the way down."

Snorting at the idea he couldn't carry Greg the whole way, Dixie shifted his hold and hefted Greg up and over his shoulder, laughing at the yelp that elicited—and grunting at the hard pinch to his ass. "Watch it."

"I am, trust me," Greg said with a snicker that was dangerously close to becoming a giggle.

Dixie rolled his eyes and wended quickly through the building to his room. He dropped Greg on his bed, then went to scrounge up the supplies he was pretty sure he had around there somewhere. Aha, there they were. Grabbing them from the shoebox they were in with a bunch of other odds and ends, he threw the condoms and lube on the bed close to Greg's head.

"Off with the clothes," Greg ordered. "Why the hell are you completely dressed anyway?"

Dixie pulled off his t-shirt and dropped it to the floor. "Habit. Around here, if I'm up, I'm dressed. Never any telling when I'm going to have to go, and there ain't always time to grab pants for those of us that can't go through walls."

"I don't remember what we're talking about," Greg replied, rearing up to his knees and splaying his small hands across Dixie's stomach. "You're hot like fire. Literally and figuratively." The muscles of Dixie's abdomen tensed and flexed as Greg chased the words with his mouth, dragging lips and tongue across his skin.

Dixie twined his fingers in Greg's hair, kept him pressed close. "You're an eager little thing."

Greg looked up with a quick grin, eyes bright and hot, then went back to what he was doing. He shifted his balance, pulled back just enough to get his hands up to the fastenings of Dixie's jeans. The soft noise of approval he made as he pulled Dixie's cock out was the most gratifying thing Dixie had heard in forever. "I really hope you're going to fuck me."

"That's the aim," Dixie replied. "Be easier to do if you were wearing less."

Giving Dixie's cock one last teasing stroke, Greg moved away to strip off the boxers he was wearing, tossing them to join the growing heap of clothes on the floor.

Naked, Dixie crawled onto the bed. It was too small for the both of them, but they'd have to make do. He settled between Greg's thighs, idly stroking all that dark gold skin that was even softer than it looked, and smooth as smooth could be. He dragged his callous-rough fingers over Greg's cock, liking the shudder that got him, the way those brown eyes darkened, the pupils blown. His fingers explored further, finding nothing but smooth, hot skin. Dixie smirked. "You're like one of those hairless cats."

"Haha. One more cat joke and I'm starting in with 'dark choc—'" Greg toppled a bit when Dixie shut him up with a kiss, but Dixie chased him down and kissed him harder, determined to learn every secret of that troublesome mouth.

Fingers skated along his skin, lingering at his ass to grab hard. Dixie drew back, mouth curving in a smirk. "Find something you like?"

"I'm not usually much for doing the fucking, but your ass is definitely a rule breaker," Greg replied, then reared up enough to put attention on Dixie's collarbone, then up to his throat.

Dixie enjoyed that for a couple of minutes, then shook loose of Greg's hold enough to grab the lube and condoms. "Get yourself ready. I want to see that."

Greg caught the lube when Dixie tossed it, quickly coating his fingers as he spread his thighs as much as the bed allowed. He reached down and back pretty as you please, teasing and stroking at his own hole before nudging one finger inside.

"You make it real hard not to make cat jokes," Dixie said, "as much as you like to be touched and clearly know how to take care of yourself."

"Yeah, well, this business doesn't leave much time for finding somebody else to do the work." Greg worked a second finger into himself, head falling back, breath coming sharper, shorter, as he fucked himself on his own fingers. "Speaking of somebody else doing the work…"

"I gotcha," Dixie said, getting a condom on and moving in close again, stroking lightly over Greg's fingers where they were still working his hole. He gently pushed in one of his own, mouth dropping over Greg's to swallow the gasp that got him.

Breaking the kiss, pushing in a second finger as Greg's slid away, Dixie bit at the soft lobe of Greg's ear before murmuring, "You sure I can't make cat jokes?"

Greg groaned. "Only because your drawl makes everything sound sexy. But you'd better be about to fuck me, nice as your fingers are."

Chuckling, Dixie drew back and removed his fingers. Slicking himself up, he pressed his cock to Greg's wet, stretched hole and carefully pushed inside. He spread Greg's thighs up and wide, determined to drive as deep as he could into that tight heat. Sweat made Greg's skin gleam, and the hungry look on his face as Dixie began to fuck him in earnest was the finest thing Dixie's had seen in months. "Good kitty," he murmured, and then thrust hard, turning the curse Greg had started to form into a howl.

Greg's arms came up, but Dixie snagged them and pinned them to the bed, not even remotely surprised when that got him a long moan. He nipped at Greg's jaw, lapped at his lips, kissed him hard enough to bruise as he pulled out and slammed back in, over and over, pounding Greg as hard as he could, determined to take and give every ounce of pleasure he could wring out of the both of them.

Byron was gonna give him hell over the bed knocking the walls, but he didn't much damn care right then.

He pressed Greg's wrists harder into the mattress, bent close to his ear again as he pounded that fine ass. "Give it up, pussycat. Come on my cock, just because I told you to." Greg moaned and shuddered, whimpering out Dixie's name as he came apart, head thrown back to bare his throat.

Dixie put his teeth to it as he pumped a last few times before finally coming himself, the orgasm hitting so hard his vision went spotty for a moment.

When he could see and breathe properly again, he gently pulled out and discarded the condom, rustled up a hand towel from his laundry basket, and mopped up the mess on Greg's skin. He threw it in the hamper for dirty laundry, then turned back to the bed—where Greg had already climbed out and was pulling on his boxers.

Before Dixie could say anything, Greg practically crawled up him and kissed him hard. "Sweet dreams, dark chocolate."

Dixie pinched him. Hard.

All it got him was a snicker as Greg left, a mischievous grin before he was completely out of sight.

Yawning, Dixie killed the lights and crawled into bed, and was fast asleep within seconds.

*~*~*

"Shut up," Dixie said, opening the fridge and pawing through it to avoid Byron's smirking face as long as possible.

Byron chuckled. "Like I said, I'm surprised you two haven't crossed paths before. I knew you'd get along."

"It's too early to put up with you," Dixie replied as he finally grabbed the orange juice and a couple of hard boiled eggs from the bowl where Byron always kept some.

"It's three in the afternoon."

"That's early for us, and you know it, so shut up." He set everything on the island, then fixed toast and coffee before sitting down across from a still-smirking Byron. "You come up with a plan, yet? How come you've never posed using Greg to get us a Mason Chip before?"

Byron popped a grape in his mouth and chased it with coffee. "He's small time. I use him for info gathering, stealing little things here and there. I could never bring myself to put him square against the G.O.D. As rough as he's had it, he's still not like you, me, and Matt."

"Not a near-heartless bastard three steps from being as bad as the Dogs, you mean," Dixie said. "Yeah, I suppose you got a point." And he did. Greg was too open and earnest for all that he was a professional criminal. Didn't need to know the man five minutes to see that. "Has he thought to ask how a Mason Chip can be coded to a person, yet?"

Byron shook his head. "Of course not. He hears 'microchip', he thinks computers and shit like everyone else. It won't occur to him until we tell him exactly where to find it, and I'm not sure I have the heart to do that."

"May not have a choice," Dixie replied. "Someone like him stands the best, if not only, chance of being fast enough to get in and out before the G.O.D. comes down on him like the end of days." He wolfed down a piece of toast. "With us at his back he can get a hell of a lot farther than the front yard. And out again."

"Ideally," Byron said pensively. "Speaking of computers, how are you?"

Dixie shrugged. "If we've got the downtime, it wouldn't hurt to run the full gauntlet so I'm ready once we have the chip in hand, but I'm running fine for now." He reached up to rub his fingers across the back of his neck, causing a sharp tingle to run through his body.

He might not be a super, and he wasn't a genetic experiment like Matt…but he hadn't gotten out of the G.O.D. unscathed either. Bio-Computer 3.1 was what his files said, though it was a bit of an overstatement. He was wired to be able to connect to the G.O.D. computers from literally anywhere in the world. The only thing that had ever stopped him was the lack of a Mason Chip.

Once he had that, there was fuck all the G.O.D. would be able to do to stop him.

Unless they'd already developed a replacement, but Dixie doubted it. He'd done a lot of fucking damage on his way out, and it had taken them decades just to get his father right—and his father had been 2.0.

Version 1.0 was a dark, dirty secret even Dixie hadn't been able to unearth.

"We can do it today," Byron said. "Greg was gone when I woke up, left a note saying he was going to speak to his friend. I'm working out a plan to get a Mason Chip, but there are almost too many angles to consider so it won't be ready any time soon. And you obviously have nowhere to be." He grinned. "Unless you and Greg have a hot date."

Dixie rolled his eyes. "Me on a date—that'll be the day. You know I don't do that crap." He finished eating and pushed his dishes away. "Get back on topic: who do you think this friend of Greg's is, that they'd need Greg to steal a Mason Chip? Someone that close to the G.O.D., shouldn't we have at least heard of them?"

"It's entirely likely we have," Byron said. "I would be willing to wager his friend is a super, after that 'doesn't want to draw attention' comment. And there aren't a whole lot of supers based here. Whisker and Minder are the only ones who ever make the news." He gave Dixie a look.

"You can't think Whisker is friends with Minder. Nobody is friends with Minder. He's the only son of a bitch nobody knows anything about. There's more in Scone's dossier than Minder's. How would Greg and Minder wind up knowing each other?"

Byron shrugged one shoulder, got up to pour himself more coffee. "I could be wrong. Let's face it, the list of people with a vendetta against the Pantheon is probably longer than even we realize. Greg's friend could be a super, could be somehow connected to a super, could even be someone within the G.O.D. settling a different grudge entirely. But I have eyes and ears in a lot of places, and I'm pretty certain I'd know if someone had popped up this close to home who wanted to get their hands on a Mason Chip. Except for the one person even I know nothing about, though I've tried."

"I think I'm a bit afraid of a man who managed to keep hidden from you," Dixie replied.

"Then you should be afraid of Greg, because I didn't know he was connected to Minder until he practically admitted it. And I could still be wrong."

Dixie made a face. "Doubt it. You got an uncanny accuracy rate for these things. One of your dark faerie tricks, no doubt."

Byron's mouth curved in one his all the mysteries of the world smiles. "Speaking of being on the news…"

Dixie groaned, bracing his elbows on the island and resting his forehead in his palms. "I don't want to know."

"Our humble mechanic has definitely been outed as the notorious Turncoat. They're broadcasting some charming interviews, let me tell you. Mostly of the 'he seemed so sweet, I never would have thought he was a crazed murderer' type, but with a few 'I knew there was something funny about him' sprinkled in for good measure. They try so hard to make you look like evil incarnate, but your pictures are all so wholesome."

Getting up, Dixie dumped all his dishes in the sink. "Guess you're putting up with me indefinitely. It was getting risky trying to play normal, anyway. Now that we've compromised Sunrise, fixed Matt, and have added Countdown to our numbers, they're gonna be gunning for the whole lot of us more than ever."

"Mm," Byron agreed. "I'm working on that, too. Anything you need to do, or shall we go ahead and get you running?"

Dixie snorted. "What would I have to do? I'm grounded, ain't nothing on my hands but time."

"How much do you want Greg and his friend to know? You'll probably still be wired up when they get back."

"They're gonna have to know eventually," Dixie said. "Don't rush to show them, but if it comes up, well, it is what it is. He saw a hint of my tricks last night. No secret lasts forever. Let me get a shower and I'll meet you upstairs."

Forty-ish minutes later, wearing only a pair of yoga pants because hell if they weren't the most comfortable thing in existence, he climbed the stairs all the way to the top of the apartment building. The very top floor had been split into three parts. One half was a makeshift hospital, and Byron had filled it with a lot of bells and whistles.

The other half was divided between storage and a room that looked like something out of a sci-fi novel. Or a G.O.D. laboratory. There was a bank of monitors to the left, arrayed all along the wall. Beneath them was a smooth black table that looked like glass until Byron rolled over on his stool and it shimmered to life to display a large, intricate keyboard and additional buttons, boxes, and rapidly moving lists. "Have a seat, beautiful."

Dixie sat down in the long, leather-covered, medical looking seat that had been designed specifically for him. Several months after Byron had taken him and Matt in, Byron had coaxed info out of him, and over the course of several more months, had built the room. The chair had actually been the easy part, in the end, since damn near everything else had needed to be stolen straight from G.O.D. headquarters throughout the country.

He settled in, tried not to twitch when the padded bands came up to hold his arms and legs in place for when he invariably fell asleep. The headrest had a special gap at the neck, and after a few more minutes' work at his monitors, Byron rolled over and with deft, gentle touches, removed the artificial skin that covered Dixie's access and control points—a series of tiny slots to connect wires and insert the Mason Chip, and the points where only Dixie's touch could wake or shut down his systems. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Dixie said and grunted as Byron attached two wires. Behind him, the monitors flared to life as they began to pull and list his data. Byron wheeled around to his other side and set to work on the rest: one drip of special fluids and medicines, another that would replenish and restore the special nanowiring attached to Dixie's system, and a shot with a special numbing agent that would keep Dixie from screaming his fool head off at the pain that'd tear him apart otherwise.

Because humans weren't meant to be part machine, not the way he was, anyway, but nobody at the G.O.D. gave much of a damn.

He turned his head ever so slightly to read the monitors, taking in where all was well and where the nanowiring was going to need repairing. The damned stuff ran through his body, using him as battery-processor-autorepair. What his body couldn't fix, periodic maintenance took care of, though it could take anywhere from eight to twenty-four hours to do it.

Byron quickly finished the rest of his work, ensuring Dixie wouldn't need to move for any reason for a whole lot of hours. Rolling back to the monitors, he punched several keys to the get the process going. "Best guess right now, I don't think this will take you more than the usual twelve-ish. Want anything?"

"Just an audiobook," Dixie said. "What have you got?"

"Couple of new fantasies, you'd like them both. I've also got some new thrillers and a history book."

"Give me one of the fantasies."

Byron nodded and pressed a few more buttons. "Call if you need me."

Dixie grunted out a reply and closed his eyes as the audiobook began to play, let himself fall into a trance while his body worked on repairing and cleaning all his computer bits.

He was pulled out of it a few hours later by a sudden weight draped across his lap. Hands splayed across his chest, and Dixie dragged his eyes open to see Greg watching him like, well, a fucking cat. "Can I help you?"

"I totally thought Byron was fucking with me," Greg said, eyes roving over Dixie, wide with fascination. "Although I gotta admit the stupid pants you're wearing are almost more distracting than the fact you've got stuff plugged into you."

Dixie narrowed his eyes. "You're something else again, kitten."

"Call me that one more time," Greg replied, nails digging into Dixie's chest as his eyes snapped to Dixie's, "and I'll hook you up to something that will fry you from the inside out."

Dixie grinned. "Stop clawing me. And my system is pretty well wired against that."

"Maybe your sci-fi bits, but I know firsthand that most of you is human standard." Greg waggled his eyebrows.

"The nanomachines play private security," Dixie said, bucking enough in his seat to jostle Greg without messing up everything plugged or stuck into him. "What in the hell are you doing up here, anyway? Did you give Byron the slip?"

Greg shrugged. "He wandered off muttering to himself the way he does when he's in plotting space. He said to leave you alone, but I had to come see for myself because, like I said, I thought he was fucking with me and you'd just be up here working on some fancy computers. I really didn't believe that you are the fancy computer." He leaned forward again, shifting slightly to straddle Dixie's lap more comfortably, hands once more resting on Dixie's chest. Like a damned cat making himself nice and comfy. "Are you okay? Does it hurt or anything? Can I do something to help?"

"I'm fine. It would hurt if I wasn't numbed up," Dixie replied. "You really are like a damned stray cat. Showed up on my doorstep all scraggly, I was nice to you once, and now there's no getting rid of ya."

To his astonishment, Greg recoiled as though struck, the happy look on his face turning to one of hurt before he muttered an apology and fled like his ass was on fire.

"Damn it! Get back here!" Dixie called after him. "Don't—I didn't mean—" He broke off and huffed, then said, "Summon Byron."

The computer system chimed an affirmative. A few minutes later, Byron came striding in, atrocious and beautiful all at once in a teal t-shirt and purple pants, his hair tied back with a pink ribbon, and gold and green spectacles perched on his nose. "What's wrong?"

"Greg. Get him the hell back here. I hurt his feelings when I was only meaning to tease him."

"He came up here?" Byron asked, pulling off his spectacles and tucking them into his shirt. "What in the world?"

"You gave him something to poke at. What did you think he was going to do?" Dixie asked.

Byron gave him an odd look. "Greg doesn't poke around unless he's working."

"Aw, hell. Would you drag his ass up here? I don't want to sit around for another—" He glanced at the screens. "Seven and a half damned hours before I apologize."

Frowning, Byron pulled his phone from a back pocket of his jeans. "Scan for Greg."  After a few minutes, there was a soft series of chimes. Byron shook his head. "He's already gone."

"Damn it!" Dixie bellowed.

"Calm down," Byron said, going over to the bank of monitors and typing idly as the keyboard flared to life. "You know better than to get wound up while your system is rehauling. Greg will be back. He never sulks for very long. What did you say?"

"I was teasing him about acting like cat, said I was nice once so now he's going to cling."

Byron winced. "Yeah, I did something similar once. I have no idea why he reacts so badly, but he doesn't like being accused of being clingy and such."

"Thanks for the damned warning," Dixie groused.

"I didn't think of it, sorry." Byron gave him a look as he turned away from the monitors. "What do you care? You're not exactly a cold-hearted bastard, Dixie, but you do prefer to keep to yourself. Especially after you've fucked somebody."

"I was zoned out," Dixie snapped. "He was the one who came up here and sprawled across my lap casual as you fucking please. Wasn't like I could put distance between us. Thanks for making sure he left me the fuck alone instead of wandering up here like he had an invitation."

Wincing again, Byron replied, "Greg isn't normally the type to pry into someone else's business. He's curious, yeah, but not if it's going to intrude on someone else's privacy. At least in my experience. He must be really curious about you."

Dixie heaved a sigh. "I guess I'll deal with it when I'm done here."

Byron nodded. "Anything else you need?"

"Naw, but thanks. I'll see you later."

When he'd gone, Dixie said, "Dim lights," and settled back into his trance, though it was harder to do than he liked admitting with guilt over Greg gnawing at the edges of his mind.

Nine hours later, cleaned up inside and out, a good hour of exercise to work out the kinks from laying still for half a day, he headed for the kitchen. Byron was there, but his only company was a bunch of maps and other papers scattered across the table, the island, and half the counter space. Dixie sighed. "Pizza for dinner, then?"

"Mm-hmm," Byron replied absently around the pen in his mouth. "Do you know anything about Timothy Rekker that's not on file?"

"One of the meanest bastards I ever saw, the kind that hangs back and coaxes everyone else into getting their hands dirty, like it was their idea all along and they're happy to do it for him. They're the worst ones. Wouldn't be surprised if he was the one that signed off on the order to kill my dad."

Byron took the pen out of his mouth and said softly, "I see. Well, that is definitely not on file. Not sure why Greg went for such a dangerous fish when there are less dangerous options out there. Honestly, it would be better to hit someone outside the city. We don't want them crawling through here tooth and comb for us, and that's what they'll do the minute they realize a Mason Chip was taken."

Dixie got a beer out of the fridge then went over to the table, pulled a chair and spun it, then straddled it and rested his arms on the back. "You got someone in mind already."

"I haven't gotten quite that far," Byron replied. "I've compiled a list of options, but I wanted to make sure there wasn't some reason we should be sticking with the charming Timothy."

"He's high-ranking. They probably thought the higher the rank, the better the access on the chip," Dixie replied, taking a pull on his beer before he read over the list. To be fair, that made perfect sense and was probably how it would work most places. But Mason Chips were all the same—access and other such things were determined by the person into whom the chip was placed. A chip could be taken out of one person, put in another, and all the information would immediately change and update, and access denied person A would be granted to person B.

The bitch of it all was changing the master files where all that information was stored. With his father dead, Dixie and two top-ranking G.O.D. members were the only ones capable of accessing the master lists. They were desperate to get him back because as long as he had access to the Mason System, the G.O.D. could do nothing but wait and hope he never got his hands on a Mason Chip.

So far, he'd had no luck. The only people who had them were all far too difficult to reach and smart enough not to make themselves vulnerable.

But somebody who could go through walls… Well, that was a game changer if ever there was one.

"You think Greg can do it? Where is he?" The need to apologize still itched at the back of Dixie's mind, rested uneasy at the bottom of his stomach.

"He called earlier to say he'd picked up an unexpected job and wouldn't be back until tonight at best, more likely tomorrow," Byron replied, looking up from his notes. "I'm sorry."

"Ain't nothing to do with you. Did he say anything about the job?"

"No, but he rarely does when it's a freelance thing like this. Don't worry, he'll come back eventually. If nothing else, I'm the only place he can find the kind of wine he likes." Byron winked and went back to his notes.

Mouth pinched, Dixie rose and set his beer on the island before going to the drawer where Byron kept a notebook with numbers and preferences for the various delivery places in the city. "Should I order something for pintsize?"

"Yeah, get him a burger."

"Sure." Dixie pulled out his phone and called up the delivery diner and put in the order.

Byron finished scribbling something on his notebook then looked up. "How you feeling?"

"Fine. Thanks for helping. Without you I'd be lying glitchy and nonsensical in an alley somewhere."

"I doubt it," Byron said. "You're one of those, the harder you get knocked down the faster you get back up." He smirked. "At least now that you weigh more than ten pounds."

"You weigh twelve, shut up."

Byron snickered as he drifted back into his work.

Dixie left him to it, knowing better than to get in his way too much without Byron first prompting.

Wandering into the living room, he tapped the coffee table, made of the same black glass as the table in his maintenance room. It flared to life as he sat down, chimed softly once it had read his retina and fingerprints. "Scan newsfeeds for Michael Jones, Turncoat, and Dixie Mountebank."

The screen flared into bright, sharp life as the computer pulled reports, video feeds, and high priority alerts pertaining to him. Dixie tapped one of the news videos, winced as the news caster breathlessly recounted that Michael Jones was really the notorious Turncoat. He half-thought the damned man was going to come, he seemed to have so much fun reciting Dixie's long list of crimes.

The latest of which was conspiring with known thief Whisker. "Son of a bitch." Not that it really mattered. After a point the number of crimes they pinned on him became meaningless. One or one hundred, he was getting executed all the same. "Pull up bank accounts: Alias – Michael Jones. Master account – Dixon Mountebank. Transfer all funds from Jones to Mountebank."

He settled back more comfortably on the couch as the computer breezed through the lockdowns put in place by the government like they were wet tissue and erased all traces. When it chimed everything was done, Dixie said, "Run delete program on Alias – Michael Jones."

When that was up and running, he finished his beer and stood—right as the screen across the wall burst into life, flashing red and yellow around the edges. He frowned as a G.O.D. bulletin filled the screen, a high alert for Whisker and an unknown companion, suspected to be the zero-level hero known as Minder. "Byron!"

"Saw it!" Byron called, even as he came running into the living room. "I've pinged out where they are, roughly. But Greg hasn't called, which concerns me."

"Let's get a damn move on, then. Did you cancel the delivery on dinner?"

"Doing it now."

Dixie spun away into the small room off the living room, where he kept clothes and equipment ready to go at all times. Stripping off what he was wearing, he pulled on the special pants, shirt, and snug jacket, then tugged a ski-cap on his head before picking out weapons and tools to stow in various pockets on the pants.

He rubbed the back of his neck, waking his system. "Lockdown mode, high alert for G.O.D. sweeps and interference." His left eye blurred briefly as the scanners woke up, a faint stinging spreading through his face.

Returning to the living room, he followed Byron out of the apartment and down to the garage. They strode past Byron's Benz to a more innocuous white Honda Civic. Dixie climbed into the backseat and rolled the windows down.

They'd reached the opposite end of the city, right at the edge of a private housing complex for rich folk, when Byron's phone started ringing. He snatched it up off the seat. "Where are—?" he broke off, and Dixie didn't need to see his scowl to know it was there. "Who is this? Fine." He hung up and dropped the phone back on the passenger seat, looked at Dixie in the rearview mirror. "They're holed up in a shed a couple blocks down from wherever Whisker was working. He's beat to hell and needs medical attention. The man on the phone, Minder I'm assuming, said he could keep people away, but only by giving away his presence, so we need to hurry the hell up. But I don't know how the fuck I'm supposed to get past a shit ton of cops and G.O.D. in this locked down, overblown complex. I'm really fucking smart, but I can't do everything."

"Ain't nothing a distraction won't take care of," Dixie said. "I assume you're making like you live here?"

"Yeah, but that will only get me so far since they're letting people in but not out."

"Well, you drop me off after we're past them, I'll rustle up a distraction and ya'll can get the hell out of here. I'll find my own way out; you can meet me at the usual spot later. I'll call if that ain't possible." Dixie pulled off his ski-cap and reached into one of the pockets of his pants, pulled out a small bag which housed his nanomask. Carefully pulling it on, he connected it to his system and silently ordered it to mirror his face, then alter it in subtle ways that were more than enough to make him look like someone else.

Byron nodded. "Copy that. Dare I ask what kind of distraction you're going to cause?"

"There's enough cops around here, I think I can borrow something useful from one of them." Dixie winked.

"Have fun," Byron replied with a chuckle. Then they were at the entry gate. Byron pulled a card from what Dixie often called his 'wallet of wonders' because it seemed to have damn near every access card they could ever hope to need.

The police let him pass, barely paying any attention to Dixie in the back seat once they'd given him a onceover.

"And they wonder why they're always struggling to catch us," Dixie drawled softly as Byron drove off, wending through the postcard perfect streets of the expensive-looking complex. The car slowed as they drove past the cluster of cops and G.O.D.

Dixie looked over the crowd, discarding most of them, but picking out one or two at the fringes that looked promising. "Drop me here," he said when they'd turned the corner.

"I'm headed for that blue house one down from the corner on the left," Byron said as he stopped the car. "I'll ping you when I'm ready for that distraction."

"Copy that." Dixie nodded at him, then darted across the lawn of the house, grateful for the dark.

He made his way quickly back to the hub of cops and G.O.D., checked them over carefully, left eye humming ever so faintly as it worked. Ah, that one would do. A young, whey-faced cop hanging out nervously by the edge of the house trying to look busy but mostly looking lost.

About twenty minutes later, Dixie's left eye lit up as he received a text. Ready.

Quietly stepping out of the towering shrubs he'd been hiding behind, Dixie strode up soundlessly behind the nervous cop, grabbed him around the throat with one arm and clapped his other hand over the man's mouth. Dragging him back to the shrubs, Dixie knocked him out.

He pulled a special injector from one pocket of his pants and put the man to sleep. Next he pushed the man's sleeve up, saw the telltale scar, and quickly slit his wrist open. Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out tweezers and scissors and gingerly fished out the special chip surgically implanted in the man's wrist.

Dousing it in a cleaning solution pulled from another pocket, he pulled back the flap of artificial skin on the back of his neck and inserted the chip. Lantern City Police Department. Unknown User. Access Denied.

Dixie snorted and silently ordered his programs to get to work. The chip wasn't mean to do more than give the cop quick and easy access to the files he'd need to write tickets and the like. Saved him the time of logging in, retinal scans, and so forth. They were still being tested, so only about a third of cops in the city currently had them. Stupid of them to give one to a newbie, but their stupidity was Dixie's advantage.

It took him twenty-seven seconds to use the chip to gain all the access he wanted to the LCPD.

Two minutes later, all hell broke loose as emergency alerts came from the far side of the city.

Followed a second later by even more from a different part of the city. And still another a few beats after that.

Once they were all focused on that mess, he switched to using police overrides to kill all the streetlights. Go he messaged Byron. You have about three minutes.

No reply came, but he didn't expect one right then.

Slipping away, he took a winding, back and forth route to the wall surrounding the community, east of the entrance and hopefully well away from where all eyes would be pointed.

He hunched down by the wall, tucked behind more shrubs that framed a fancy little goldfish pond. A few minutes later, he got a text from Byron that they were safe. Reaching up to the back of his neck, he extracted the LCPD chip, snapped it in half, and threw the pieces into the fish pond. Turning, he quickly scaled the wall, dropped to the other side, and ran for the park beyond.

Half an hour of slowly working through the dark park, he finally reached city streets. Hanging back in the dark, he deactivated his mask and stowed it, then pulled the ski-cap back on. Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out a pair of chunky glasses and shoved them on his face. "Scan for law enforcement, media personnel, blacklist."

The outer corner of his left eye flashed blue as it set to scanning. Going to another pocket, Dixie pulled out a packet and selected an ID at random. "Activate Alias – Chris VanDyke." His body thrummed as the identity was unpacked and released, syncing it with city systems to establish a false history and everything else he would need to pass muster should he be stopped.

A hell of a lot of the money Byron gained robbing banks was spent on the numerous forged identities he built for all of them. Without Byron and his ridiculous connections and resources, staying one step ahead of the G.O.D. would be a lot more difficult, if not flat out impossible, no matter how much fancy tech was shoved into Dixie's body.

He walked a couple of blocks to a major intersection and hailed a cab across town to the pub where he and Byron often met up after one bit of drama or another.

Byron's Mercedes-Benz was parked at the curb. Dixie yanked open the passenger door and slid inside. "How'd it go?"

"He's hurt pretty goddamn bad," Byron said as he pulled sharply into traffic and drove off, keeping to the speed limit but only barely. "I don't know what happened yet, but someone—probably a couple of someones at least—beat the ever living shit out of him. I've got him roughly treated and medicated. I'll do a better job once we're safe."

"You should have told me to get back on my own, instead of leaving him, damn it," Dixie snapped. "What if something goes wrong while you're out here in traffic?"

Byron glanced sideways at him. "He's stabilized and too heavily drugged to do himself harm. I wouldn't have come if I didn't absolutely believe he'd be fine. Chill. I wish I had a better medic to hand, but he will be okay."

"You couldn't call in Oberon?"

"No, Oberon's busy in England right now, and by this point, quite possibly France. Supposed to be back soon, and I can interfere if it really comes down to it…"

"Leave it," Dixie said. "You've got enough knowledge on your own to take care of Whisker. We can always strengthen one of his IDs and take him to a hospital. Why the hell didn't he phase out of there?"

Byron shook his head. "They probably jumped him, hurt him badly fast, and once he's too severely injured, he can't do his little phase trick."

"I hadn't realized he had that much kick to him." It wasn't unusual for some powers to sort of shut down when the body was in bad shape. Many posed that was how Scones was able to take down all the powerful supers he had: he wore them down to the point they were more or less normal, then killed them.

But that usually only applied to high level powers, six-levels and up. He hadn't thought Greg was more than a four, which was the high end of the average for most abilities. Only G.O.D. types were at the unusually high end of the power spectrum.

"He's never gotten formal testing, but my informal testing? Puts him at a 6-level. Barely, mind you, but enough to count. It never matters because his thieving hardly taxes the ability. But I'm pretty sure he could phase a protection field if he really wanted. I already know he can go through lasers, electric fields, all that fun stuff. I've been curious to see if he can go through, say, ten feet of concrete, but we've never gotten around to testing it."

Dixie grimaced. "You couldn't pay me to find out if I could phase through ten inches of concrete. Just thinking about how wrong that could go makes my skin crawl." He shuddered. "So who was the other guy, the one that called you? You didn't leave him alone with Whisker, did you?"

"He wasn't there," Byron said quietly, but didn't say anything more as he pulled into the parking garage. Once the car was parked, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, face pulled into a pensive frown. "Greg was alone when I got there, but I think the guy was hovering nearby somewhere. Pretty sure the news got it right about it being Minder. That would fit his MO and everything else I was theorizing about him being Whisker's mysterious friend…"

"What's got you so troubled?"

Byron shrugged, gave him a crooked smile. "I don't like mysteries, or people jumpier than me."

Dixie grunted and climbed out of the car.

"Cops are fucking pissed with you," Byron said idly as he trailed after Dixie to the elevators.

"They don't want me fucking with their systems, they should step up their security," Dixie said as he leaned against the back of the elevator, pulling off his hat and glasses, smirking. "Ain't my problem their baby systems are no match for me."

Byron shared his smirk, but it faded as they stepped into his apartment and he immediately headed upstairs to tend Greg.

Dixie wanted to follow, but he had other matters to attend first. Going into the living room, he activated the main screen with a thought. He could do everything mentally, but sometimes even the sound of his own voice was better than none, and he liked using verbal commands where he could. "Activate security level three. Sweep police scanners for: Dixie Mountebank, Byron Valentine, Gregory Raines, aliases Turncoat, Fortune, and Whisker."

The screen chimed and flashed, and a few seconds later pulled up reports on Whisker and the name Henry Porter. "Who is Henry Porter?" But even as he asked, Greg's picture came up on a newsfeed, along with a crummy but still usable picture taken of him by a security camera hidden in the house he'd tried to break into.

"Alias for Gregory Raines," the computer replied.

"Track Alias – Henry Porter. Notify when alias is safe for deletion." The computer chimed verification of the order, and Dixie went to the storeroom to change back into his civvies.

Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, he hauled upstairs, where Byron was still looking after Whisker in the far back corner of the room. Dixie winced as he drew close and got a good look. "Poor bastard." Byron didn't reply, but the tight set of his mouth was answer enough. "What's the damage?"

"Other than the obvious?" Byron asked. "Couple of broken ribs, sprained wrist, enough bruising to cover an entire football team, fractured ankle, and several cuts, four of which needed stitches. He's not going anywhere for at least a few weeks, though we'll probably have to tie him down to ensure it. He stays still about as well as you."

Dixie didn't reply, too distracted by Greg's battered face, the swollen eyes, two cuts on one cheek, another on his forehead. His nose had definitely been broken, and both lips had split pretty badly. It looked like someone had kicked him in the face after throwing a rather nasty punch. "Any clue as to what the hell happened?"

"Not yet," Byron replied, "but now he's as good as he's going to get, I can start piecing it all together. Stay here and watch him, though? He should be fine, but I worry anyway. I'll ping you when I have an idea of what went down."

"Sure." Dixie looked around, pulled over a stool from a nearby table, and sat down. "Got your ass kicked good, pintsize." No reply came, of course. Dixie sighed. "Music, relaxation mix." He looked around the room for something to do since he had no idea how to play nurse.

His gaze landed on Greg's phone. It was a newer model smart phone, but had taken quite the beating already. Why wasn't he surprised that Greg was hard on his electronics? Picking it up, Dixie rubbed the back of his neck and said, "Connect to smart phone, crack securities." The phone flared to life as his systems accessed it, which went rather quickly since Byron had clearly done the security and they recognized Dixie. Going silent, Dixie went through the phone to see what it had and could do, remembering how enamored Greg had seemed of Dixie's.

Modifying it wouldn't be hard. As tricked out as it already was, he wouldn't even have to add hardware, just software. Silently pulling what he needed from his archives, Dixie set to work.

A soft groan some time later nearly made him drop the phone. He set it on the table again, shunted all his downloading and tweaking to the background, and focused on Greg. Pale brown, gold-rimmed eyes stared fuzzily at him, a slight frown overtaking Greg's mouth. "What…"

"You're back at Byron's, pintsize," Dixie said. "Trouble likes to shadow you, no mistake. How ya feeling?"

"Like three guys beat the shit out of me." Greg winced, cautiously shifted his head around. "Whatever Byron gave me is wearing off, can I have more?"

Dixie silently texted the question to Byron, who promptly sent back an affirmative and what exactly to give him. "Good news: you get more drugs."

"Oh, thank god," Greg said with a whimper.

Chuckling, Dixie stood and went to the little table on the other side of the bed to pick up the bottle Byron had mentioned, measured out the dosage, and held out the cup. Greg lifted a hand to take it, but it was trembling so bad that Dixie shook his head. Setting the medicine aside, he gingerly helped Greg sit up, then retrieved the medicine and held it to his lips. "Careful now. Wouldn't this be easier via injection?"

"No needles!" Greg gasped out, then licked away blood as the split in his bottom lip reopened.

"Okay, okay, simmer down." Dixie got the medicine in him then gently set him down again and pulled the blanket back up. "No fan of needles, huh?"

Greg shuddered, closed his eyes. "No. I got sick once, meteor lung. They didn't stop stabbing me for what felt like days."

"I've heard about that, was fortunate enough to ever see or suffer it." Thanks to life as a slave to G.O.D., there wasn't much in the way of disease that could touch him, not even meteor lung, which was one more nasty legacy of the damned crash. "Don't worry. If we have to use needles, we'll make sure you're asleep first. Go back to sleep, pintsize."

"I'm not pin…" Greg slumped as sleep got the better of him, lips still parted on the unfinished protest. Dixie got out a tissue and dabbed away the blood on his lips, lingered a moment staring, feeling the slightly too warm skin.

Shaking himself, he pulled away and discarded the bloodied tissue, then scooped up Greg's phone to finish mucking with it.

Byron pinged him a short time later, and Dixie set the phone aside again. He looked at Greg, checked him over, weirdly reluctant to leave. Guilt, likely: he still hadn't managed to apologize. He reached out—then snatched his hand back, realizing he was going to do something as fucking stupid as brush away a stray lock of hair. Honestly.

He needed a damned vacation before he lost his fool mind. Not that people like him ever really got vacations. Skimming over the monitors watching Greg, Dixie spun away and headed downstairs.

Byron was at the kitchen table, along with platters loaded with burgers and fries. Dixie's stomach rumbled. He grabbed a plate from the cabinet, sat down and filled it with food. He picked up one of the burgers and took a bite, not quite moaning at the taste of beef, cheese, and bacon. "I always forget how damned well you can cook when you can be bothered to do it."

"Cooking isn't hard. You build cars; you could throw together a burger if you really wanted."

"Why do it when you will eventually?" Dixie asked with a grin.

Byron rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I think I've pieced together what happened to Greg, though it took some rooting around." He took a bite of burger, then some fries, and Dixie was about ready to kill him when Byron finally said, "Going through deleted messages, he was hired by a local piece of shit known as Rat."

"Charming."

"Rat hired him to steal a painting, but when Whisker showed up, three guys were waiting to jump him. Near as I can tell, they were waiting for Rat."

"I see," Dixie said. "That's a shitty fucking thing to do to a person. We going rat hunting? 'Cause I wouldn't object."

Byron's mouth curved in his dark faerie prince smile that seemed to say humans are my favorite toy. "No need for hunting. I pointed the cops straight to him. That was part of the reason I took so long putting the story together. Distracted by a side quest, as it were. Anyway, he's in custody right now. If you insist on more than that, shining knight, do it on your own time."

"If this ain't my own time, you better start paying me," Dixie said and wolfed down a few fries, chased them with the beer at his elbow. "So I guess our plans to steal a Mason Chip got set back a few weeks."

Byron shrugged. "The way my plans are going, it wasn't going to happen for a few months anyway. I have a short list of options, and I'm liking number three the best. Tell me what you think." He turned to the monitor on the far wall. "Bring up List – Mason Chips."

Dixie stole another burger from the platter in the middle of the table as he glanced at the list. There were actually eleven names on the list, but eight of them had been grayed out, only the top three still bright and clear. Amy Rutherford, Jenkins Small, and Robert House. "You wanna go after Robert House?"

Robert House was a G.O.D. scientist, one of those who specialized in a long, complicated-sounding string of words that amounted to 'super gene studies'. Not a department Dixie had interacted with much, though he'd collided with the general head of biological research. That had been where he'd crossed paths with Matt, stuck in a cell or strapped to creepy looking machines while they forced his body to be capable of turning invisible.

House was also head of his department, which meant high up the food chain and likely to draw a lot of notice. "The other two are much easier hits, why him?"

"Because they live in the middle of cities that are known to be unmarked G.O.D. hubs. Our new friend House lives in a fancy little mansion in the middle of fuck nowhere. Can only be reached by helicopter, and during the winter months, it's snow, snow, and more snow."

"That ain't convincing me you ain't insane," Dixie replied. "You do realize that is going to be way more dangerous and complicated than a simple city heist. You forgetting I just helped a fresh from the box and still shiny 'villain' shut down Sunrise? We bring Countdown to the party, we might could do this easy as pie. Actually, scratch that. I don't want to know what the two of you could do together."

Byron smirked. "I would like to meet Countdown. Anyway, I think House is the most viable option because, if we do it right, those same complications mean it will be hours upon hours before anyone even notices his chip is gone. We take the chip, we put him down for several hours, and then destroy all his communications… Dixie, it could be days before he's able to tell anyone his chip is gone. Do you know what kind of window that would give us for raising hell?"

Dixie nodded, and if the matter wasn't so grim he might have smiled. "Darling, if we pull this off, it'll be the best Christmas ever." Minus a very important, depressing detail, but Dixie wasn't going to think about it. Not much point. He'd made his choice the day he'd decided to escape.

"I thought you'd say something like that," Byron replied with a laugh. "I'm still working it out, but in a few weeks, I should have it all done. Hell, I thought whittling down the names would take longer, but House did me a favor by living on an empty mountain miles away from everyone. It's like Christmas and my birthday all in one."

Dixie grunted in agreement around his second burger. When that too was demolished, he finished off the fries and beer, then carried all the dishes to the kitchen. "Been quiet around here. You mentioned Oberon was overseas, but where's the rest of your usual posse?"

"Hellion and Dual Scream are on the west coast, snooping around for me. I don't think they'll be back anytime soon; it's long game kind of snooping. Moonglow is still playing at retirement, but I don't think they'll keep it up much longer."

"We'll see I guess," Dixie said. "I'm going to bed, unless you need anything."

"Nope. I'm going to clean up around here, shower, and hit the sack myself."

Dixie lifted a hand to say goodnight and headed off.

How the hell he wound up back in the medical ward, he didn't know.

Greg still looked small and bedraggled. Dixie gently rested his hand to Greg's forehead, which still felt a little too warm. But the monitors said everything was within acceptable limits, basically nothing that time wouldn't fix.

He startled slightly when Greg's eyes popped open, expression fuzzy but more alert than Dixie would have anticipated. "Food?"

"How do you expect to eat when you can't even move, pintsize?"

"That's not my name," Greg said, clearly going for mad but only coming out pouting. "And I'm hungry, don't I get something? Even in the crappiest hospitals you still get funky-smelling jello."

"I ain't sure why you think that's a good thing, unless you ate the funky smelling jello. That would explain a lot actually."

Greg gave him an unimpressed look. "Come oooon, I got my ass kicked, I deserve chocolate pudding."

"Stop trying to get Dixie to smuggle contraband up here," Byron said, making Greg startle slightly. Byron stepped up to the other side of the beds. "Help me get him sitting up." Dixie obeyed, and after Greg was settled, Byron retrieved the tray he'd set aside and placed it on Greg's lap. Piled on a plate was the blandest damn food Dixie had seen since he'd been stuck in Byron's medical ward.

Casting Byron a look, he said, "We ain't in a hospital; you can do better than hospital food."

"Shut up," Byron said. "Everything on there is carefully selected for optimal healing. I've studied it extensively and unlike bank robbing, I do have traditional, perfectly legal and sanctioned training in nutrition. I know you're defiant by nature, but don't encourage the other patients."

"I ain't a patient," Dixie said.

Byron smiled sweetly. "Really? Because you're a constant headache."

Dixie lifted his eyes to the ceiling while Greg giggled, the sound as sweet and earnest as he normally only heard from kids. The sudden urge to kiss him, split lips and all, was so strong that Dixie damn near backed away from the bed to avoid doing it. "Go the hell away, dark faerie. You've caused enough mischief today."

"I'm pretty sure I'm not the one who caused all the trouble today, or committed several felonies by way of distraction," Byron said. "I just drove the car."

"Typical dark faerie prince, right in the thick of it but not a speck of mud on you. Go away."

Byron sniffed. "Fine. I know when I'm not appreciated." He spun on his heel and strode off.

Dixie brushed his nose, glanced down at Greg. "I'll smuggle you up some real food when he gets lost in his papers again."

"Thanks," Greg said, then looked down at his food, poking at it.

Dixie couldn't sort if it was 'please go away' poking or 'I don't know what to say next' poking. He rubbed the back of his head, then sucked it up and said, "Look, I'm sorry about before. I didn't mean to hurt ya. I really was just teasing. You weren't bothering me none."

Greg looked up warily, meeting his eyes, intense as anything. Dixie was used to folks finding him lacking for one reason or another, but he'd never been afraid of that before. He didn't realize till Greg gave him the sweetest little smile that he'd been holding his breath. "Still, I shouldn't have climbed into your lap like that. You're weirdly easy to relax around, dunno why."

"That ain't usually how folks regard me," Dixie said, and after a moment of hesitation, pulled the stool from earlier close again.

"Your eye keeps doing funny stuff," Greg said, peering at him like a kid at a Christmas tree. "Is it part of your, um, modifications?"

Dixie lightly touched the edge of his left eye. "Yeah, though I normally keep the whole thing in sleep mode. Exhausting to keep it running, and I'm more likely to draw attention. But I'm keeping an eye on stuff right now, so it's got to keep going." He'd probably have to eat a whole 'nother meal before he went to bed at this rate, to tide him over while he slept. "Speaking of modifications, I've been mucking with your phone. It'll need your voice prints once you're on your feet again, or at least less drugged, but I've added a bunch of little things it seemed you'd like."

Greg's face lit up like nothing Dixie had ever seen, taking the phone as Dixie held it out like it was made of gold and diamonds. "You modified my phone? So it's all cool like yours?"

"I don't know cool is the word, but I'm glad you like it. I'll lay it all out for you tomorrow. For now, you need to eat and get more sleep. How are you even still awake?"

Greg scoffed. "What, you mean because of Byron's drugs? Takes more than his knockout juice to keep me down."

"Why do I suspect that's a developed tolerance not a natural ability?"

Cheeks flushing, Greg ducked his head and resumed poking at his food. "Whatever. I'm not a loser, however much it seems otherwise."

"Didn't say you were," Dixie replied. "I know what a loser looks like. Ain't a single one anywhere in this house. Eat. Rest. I'm going before Byron comes in here to thump me but good. I'll see you tomorrow, pintsize." He hesitated, then nodded and strode off before he said or did something stupid.

He grabbed a quick bite to eat in the kitchen, then retreated to his room, ran a check on his delete programs and the news reports. Finding nothing troubling, he shucked his clothes and climbed into bed, chased into dreams by soft brown eyes and a sweet smile.

*~*~*

"You ain't supposed to be outta bed. Byron sees you down here, he's gonna drag you up there and tie you down." Dixie didn't even have to look up from the schematics he was going over. He could hear Greg's slow, halting tread as he came down the stairs and across the living room.

When he did look up, it was to see Greg giving him a look Dixie usually only saw on the faces of cranky children and wet cats. "I'm not staying up in that dreary fucking room for one more minute. The world ain't gonna end if I sit down here on the couch and watch TV and play video games."

Dixie snorted at the terrible imitation of his accent. "You mocking me, boy?"

"I would never," Greg retorted, a bare slip of a grin stealing onto his face as he settled gingerly onto the couch and retrieved the remote from the side table. "So what's going on down here in the real world? Am I officially out of a day job?"

"You're out a lot more than a job, darling," Dixie replied, turning back to his schematics. He thumbed to the next printout, then looked up again. His brow furrowed slightly at the pink flush to Greg's face. "You sure you're feeling well enough to be down here?"

"I'm fine," Greg grumbled and jabbed the on button for the TV. "Unless I'm bugging you."

"Nope. Just looking over paperwork—specifically, the security systems for the house we're gonna hit to get a Mason Chip."

Greg perked up at that, completely abandoning his interest in some weird-ass looking house hunting show. "Really? Who are we hitting?"

"I'm not sure sick kittens are allowed in on the plan," Dixie said and laughed at the withering look that got him. Setting down the papers, he picked up the new tablet he'd finished setting up that morning and carried it over to the couch.

Greg's hair was still damp from a shower, the scent of Byron's rosemary-mint soap clinging to his skin. Low-level lust curled through Dixie's body, but he shoved it away. Even if Greg wasn't still recovering and in need of rest, Dixie didn't do repeats.

"This is the target," he said, tapping his tablet and bringing up the rough overview Byron had typed up. "Robert House."

"I know him—well, of him. He's a mad scientist, right? I mean, officially he's as perfect and nigh-divine as the rest of the Pantheon. But I've heard Byron mutter about him before, read some of the reports he's lifted from emails and stuff when they slip. Bad dude."

"Yeah, but he likes living alone on a mountain," Dixie said and laid out some of the more solidified details of the plan as Greg read over the rough.

Greg frowned. "Why are we breaking into his bedroom? Does he keep the G.O.D. computer in there?"

"No," Dixie replied. "Mason Chips are put inside people, not computers. They're slowly rolling the same kind of thing out to law enforcement and all now, too, though it's still in a testing phase and not loudly broadcast to the public."

"In… you mean they're like you?" Greg asked, eyes going cartoon-huge. "Is everybody cyborged up except for me?"

Dixie cast him a look. "Are you sulking because you ain't part computer? 'Cause I'll trade you, pintsize. I'd give anything not to be loaded up with G.O.D. parts. I have a serial number, you know. I'm Bio-computer 3.1, serial number GD175-000313. I'm barcoded for life as G.O.D. property."

"That's not—" Greg flinched. "I'm sorry. That was definitely not what I meant. I didn't realize it was like that. I just think you're amazing." The last word was spoken so low, Dixie barely heard it.

Couldn't scarcely believe it when he did hear it. "Amaz… I really ain't," Dixie said quietly. "And I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, just warning you it ain't all it's cracked up to be." He hesitated, lifted a hand, wavered again, but hell if Greg didn't look like a kitten someone had left in a cardboard box on the side of the road. He gently ran his hand over Greg's head, cupped the back of it, and stroked the side of his neck with his thumb. "Don't look so sad, kitten. You'd break even the G.O.D.'s frozen heart with the power of that frown."

Greg had leaned into the touch, eyes dropping, and Dixie could tell from the way he froze and the abrupt way he pulled free that he hadn't meant to give in to being petted. "I'm not a goddamned cat."

"If someone ever figures out how to turn a cat into a human, honey, it's gonna come out an awful lot like you. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

"Shut up," Greg grumbled. "Give a man a compliment and he mocks you, so typical."

Aw, hell. Dixie had never been great at talking to people, but he wasn't usually completely fucking horrible at it. Maybe he should quit talking. Greg was the tactile sort anyway. Gently turning his head, Dixie slowly bent and pressed a kiss to Greg's slightly parted lips.

There was damned good reasons he didn't do repeats, and the heat that shot through him like a live wire was a stark reminder. Not enough of one to make him pull away, though. Instead, he went full on stupid and pressed the kiss deeper, curled his fingers into Greg's hair, determined to see if he could coax a purr.

He'd just about gotten it when a door slammed, making him jerk back. Dixie moved out of Greg's space barely in time as Byron came barreling in. "It's a goddamned madhouse—what in the hell are you doing out of bed?" He started to say more, then snapped his mouth shut and peered at them, eyes flicking back and forth. His scowl deepened. "Seriously? Bad enough you're out of bed, how about you wait until those ribs are healed before you try getting laid."

Greg flushed. "I'm fine."

"You're not that fine."

"Ain't your business," Dixie drawled. "What were you shouting about before you started going stern father on us?"

"Huh? Oh." Byron shook his head. "It's a fucking madhouse out there. Everyone is still pissed about the stunt we pulled last week, and apparently Minder took down someone today who is a pretty heavy hitter in the city. Caught him harassing a couple of young women in an alleyway—what Minder does best, except this time he took down a big fish, which is not what he does in any way, shape, or form."

Greg stirred. "I gotta go."

Byron and Dixie both looked at him. "You're not very good at keeping secrets."

"You'd be surprised," Greg said, "but it doesn't take a genius to figure out what kind of friend I'd have in this city that would know my abilities, my identity, and be seriously protective of his own. Not for smart people who pay attention, anyway. I've got to go. I'll be back when I can."

Dixie pushed him back down on the couch when he started to stand. "Simmer down. You gotta go, fine, but you ain't going alone. It won't take much, in your state, for someone to knock you down again, and as hot as we all are right now, ain't a chance we'll be able to get you out again. Let me go with you."

"Minder won't like that," Greg said.

"We helped get you out of trouble," Byron replied. "He has to know we can be trusted at least that far."

"We'll work out the details on the way because I'm going, that's that," Dixie said. "Don't make me use the 'you made me burn down my house' bit, 'cause I will."

Greg flipped him off with both hands. "Fine. I'm going to get dressed, and nobody is helping with that."

Dixie almost joked that it wasn't like he hadn't seen it all before, then decided he didn't want to find out what Greg could do when he was properly riled. "Guess I'd better get ready, too." He stood, waited until Greg had vanished. "You gonna watch us the whole time, I'm guessing."

"Yeah, but only to track movement. I'll keep an ear to the police and G.O.D. too. I'm really super fucking twitchy at the idea of you two being on the streets."

"Ain't nobody gonna notice that slip of a thing, and we all know people don't like to stare at me too long," Dixie said with a sigh. "My newest ID is still clean, and most everyone who looks close will see the glasses and mark me off. It's stupid how often that dumb trick works."

Byron snorted. "You're telling me. Get a move on. I'll go fire up the systems. But you both owe me a fucking drink when you get back."

"I'll pick you up a six pack of something." Dixie darted into the storeroom and picked a few handy little tricks that could easily fit into the leather jacket he shrugged on. Though he preferred his own hat, it would draw too much attention at present. He settled for a dark blue ski-cap, then shoved on thick, black-rimmed glasses that had a few bells and whistles of their own.

Returning to the couch, he laced on sturdy work boots, and last, pulled on dark blue fingerless gloves.

When Greg returned, Dixie had to admit he looked like some ridiculously pretty, dangerously competent Hollywood style cat burglar. He wore dark-washed jeans and a deep green sweater, a peacoat in steel gray, and fine-rimmed glasses that shimmered faintly for a moment.

Dixie grinned. "Looks like we're both trying to look smart."

"One of us is succeeding," Greg retorted with a matching grin. He popped the pills cupped in one hand, swallowing them dry. Next he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out gloves that were about a hundred times finer than the ones Dixie wore. They were the custom-made, butter soft lambskin type that fit like a second skin and had to be peeled off finger by finger.

Thoughts of what it would feel like to have those gloved fingers running over his skin were firmly shunted aside. He'd gotten stupid on the couch earlier, and had Byron to thank for restoring his sanity. He wasn't gonna slip up again. No matter how much he wanted to every time those pale, pretty eyes fell on him.

"So where we headed, smartass?"

Greg snickered and pulled out his phone, read something, then tucked it away again. "Corner of Belle and Piedmont, know it?"

"Yeah, there's a dive there I've gone to a couple of times to pay for information," Dixie said. "I think Byron goes on a semi-regular basis."

Byron shrugged. "People don't ask questions unless they're paying for the answers. Everyone else makes a point not to see anything. Speaking of information, take this." He thrust a small, thick manila envelope at Greg. "Your new alias. How long should I expect this to take?"

"At least a couple of hours," Greg replied. "Not more than say five, and I'll let you know if that changes. Minder can be difficult to track down even when he wants me to."

Dixie stifled a sigh. "We need to stop for caffeine if this is going to be a game of hide and seek." He lifted a hand in farewell to Byron, paused in the kitchen to nab the keys for the Camaro, and led the way down to the parking garage.

The Camaro was one of his favorites, only three years old and still as pretty as the day Byron had obtained it, dark, dark red and gleaming. He settled behind the wheel, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Traffic and law enforcement surveillance, city limits. Register car to Alias – Chris VanDyke."

"Let's see what my new alias is," Greg said as they pulled out of the garage and into traffic. "Marco Hannigan. Byron sucks at coming up with names."

"Now that's not nice," Dixie said, shooting him a quick grin before putting his attention right back on traffic. "Somewhere in the world is a very nice person named Marco Hannigan and you just hurt their feelings."

Greg rolled his eyes. "At least the ID has glasses, so that won't look weird. Marco, Marco, Marco. I don't think I look like a Marco."

"I'm sure it could be worse."

"True. It could be John Smith, which I definitely don't fit." Greg smiled crookedly, then sorted through the papers, stuffing a few things in his wallet and stowing the rest in the glove compartment. "We won't be in the bar more than a few minutes. You can wait for me on—"

"Not a chance," Dixie said. "The minute I let you out of my sight, you're gonna get in trouble."

Greg slumped in his seat, wincing slightly, so he must still be in pain despite the meds he'd taken. "I'm not the hopelessly incompetent idiot you all take me for, you know. I've managed quite well by myself for years and years. I didn't start getting my ass kicked on a regular basis until I fell in with Byron. Even Minder doesn't get me in a tenth of the trouble Byron brings down on my head."

"Fair enough, but I still ain't letting you out of my sight," Dixie replied.

When they reached the bar, he circled around the block until he found an empty space to park in that left plenty of room for getting out quick. "Lead the way."

In the end, the whole thing went so quickly that Dixie barely had a chance to scope the place. Walking slowly and stiffly up to the bar, Greg spoke in low tones to a bartender with a shaved head, one eye, and three fingers on his left hand missing. The man laughed at whatever Greg said, then slapped a slip of paper into his hand. Greg handed over a fold of cash and slipped away back toward Dixie. "Let's go."

"Yes, boss," Dixie replied as he followed Greg back to the car. "So what's that?"

"Minder never stays long in the same place, and he's never direct about where to find him. Prefers to have me bounce around a few times. Anyone else trying to do it might be able to puzzle out one or two clues, but they'd never get all three."

"We gotta do this two more times?" Dixie thumped his head against the headrest, then jabbed the key into the ignition. "This boy better be the bag of tricks everyone says, all I got to say."

"He's… Minder is special, and I don't mean that in some snide, condescending way. You've no idea what he can really do—no one knows, because if they did, he'd probably have a serial number like you."

Dixie made a face. "Then we'll be damned certain that dealing with us never comes back to haunt him. I wouldn't wish my fate on anyone." He drummed his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel. "So where we going next?"

"City square, west side, there's a candy store."

"You got it." He took a left at the next light to swing back in the opposite direction and head downtown. "Am I allowed to know all the interesting stories that allow you two to play this irritating game?"

Greg laughed. "It really says something depressing about our world that I'm so quick to trust a man called Turncoat when I've never trusted anyone except Byron and Minder, but not enough to let them cross paths even if Minder had been okay with it. I can't tell you all of them, since some aren't my story to tell, but the candy store one is just me. Minder wasn't there. I told him the story one night. Some kids were harassing the clerk there, and I mean harassing. I called them out, wound up getting harassed myself, and they went fucking nuts. Started throwing candy, shoving me around. Thankfully the shop clerk called the cops the second their attention shifted so it didn't last long. But trust me, you haven't lived until a bunch of fifteen-year-old assholes beat the shit out of you with jawbreakers and lollipops. I had toffee in my hair for like a damned month."

Dixie frowned, turned to look at him when they came to a red light. "I thought you said you didn't get beat up much when it wasn't related to Byron and Minder."

"There's a couple of exceptions," Greg mumbled. "I can't say it was a surprise, given what I called them and the tone I used. Better me than that poor clerk. He looked like he was about to cry and I would have too in his position. Seriously, they were using candy as their weapons, and I think they were affected by something, though I never found out for sure. The worst I got was a bloody nose and some bruises."

"I can't tell if I want to shake you till your damned teeth fall out or kiss you senseless. Either way, you're a damned idiot, and it's luck alone you're still breathing."

"Pretty sure you've settled on shaking, not kissing," Greg muttered, scowling out the passenger window. When they reached the candy store, he barely waited for the car to come to a stop before climbing out of it.

Dixie heaved a long sigh and beat his forehead against the steering wheel. Damn it all to hell, why was Greg so confounding and why did he give a damn? They had nothing to do with each other outside of getting the Mason Chip. He needed to shut his mouth, focus on the job, and then work on setting up a new life.

But when Greg returned a few minutes later, Dixie leaned over and dropped a quick, hard kiss on that vexing little mouth. When he drew back, Greg's skin was flushed pink. He licked his lips, which did nothing to help put Dixie's mind back on work. "What was that for?"

"I do actually prefer kissing to shaking," Dixie said as he pulled back into traffic. "I don't keep meaning to say the wrong thing. You're good at causing me to make a damned fool of myself."

"Well, you think I'm the biggest idiot on this side of the country, at least, so I'm not even sorry," Greg replied with a grin. His fingers fluttered briefly over Dixie's thigh, and yeah, Dixie was definitely going to need to feel those damned gloves against his skin at some point.

Shit, shit, shit. He didn't do repeats, but something about Greg had him ready to schedule repeats clear into next year. "Stop distracting me, pussycat. Where we headed next?"

"Stop calling me that," Greg said, but Dixie didn't miss the renewed flush to his cheeks. "Whitefield township, know it?"

Dixie snorted. "Whitebread? Yeah, I know it. Smalltime G.O.D. live there."

"Well, we're only going to the park across from it, and we won't have to get out of the car," Greg replied.

Still too close to the Dogs for Dixie's piece of mind, but it wasn't like he hadn't beat the shit out of two of them recently. "Let's just make sure we're quick." He turned right at the end of the street, drove across downtown until he reached the highway, and took it until he reached the fancy little suburb full of rich folk with old money and lots of skeletons in the closet.

At Greg's direction, he pulled up to the curb alongside a fancy little birdbath. Rolling down the window, Greg reached beneath the birdbath and retrieved something, motioned for Dixie to drive on. After a few more seconds he said, "Back downtown, the Robin building. All the way to the roof."

"Subtle, I appreciate the presence of a clean and easy escape route," Dixie replied sourly.

"It'll be fine," Greg said, and he smiled so sweetly, Dixie almost believed him. "Park in the private garage, use this."

He held out a card, and Dixie took it as he pulled off the highway and stopped at a red light. "What is this and do I want to know how you came by it?"

Greg shrugged. "Minder's never said, but I'm pretty sure he works in the Robin building. No clue what his day job is, but it's enough to get me a parking pass and a few other bells and whistles. Did you bring a nanomask?"

Dixie heaved a sigh. "Yeah." Several minutes later they pulled into a massive parking garage, and he was at least grateful to find a spot on the lowest level and close to the exit. Pulling out his mask, he pulled it on and hooked it to his systems, once more using his own face as a base and altering from there.

He followed Greg away from the car and up a couple flights of stairs to the skywalk. Inside the main building, Greg cut down a small side hallway to a door marked MAINTENANCE. Pulling out another keycard, he swiped it and punched in a five-digit code. The door chimed and turned green, and with a mischievous little grin, Greg led the way up musty smelling stairs all the way to the roof, where a tall, still man was standing close to the edge, looking at the streets below.

Dixie wasn't sure what he'd expected of the biggest mystery in the super world. One of the biggest mysteries in the world, period. Nobody knew anything about Minder, save he had telekinetic abilities and kept to fighting smalltime criminals. A lot of people sneeringly called him The Babysitter, thinking he wasn't capable of doing more than petty little crimes. Dixie couldn't stand folk like that. They were the safe, secure, spoiled ones who could make the cops do what they wanted, were friends with the mayor, had never known what fear tasted like at the backs of their throats as they watched a bunch of cold men come for their father. Didn't know what it was like to see their father shot point blank in the face. Had never heard their mother scream.

Didn't know what it was like to be barcoded and owned. Fuck people like that. Dixie agreed with everybody who wasn't a fucking asshole: so far as real heroes went, Minder was the very definition.

He stared as Minder turned. He was handsome in an easy, relaxed way, the kind of person everyone felt comfortable around. Minder had yellow-toned light brown skin, hair cut close to his scalp, long lashes framing gray eyes. Well-toned biceps peeking out of a dark teal polo with a logo Dixie didn't recognize. He also wore dark gray slacks and black work boots, a little odd when the rest of his outfit was Average Office Worker.

Greg immediately removed his mask and drew close enough to hug Minder tightly. "Hey."

"You didn't come alone," Minder said, mouth pinched as he stared at Dixie.

"They wouldn't let me, and come on, you had to know that was a possibility given everything that's happened."

Minder's frown didn't ease. "I suppose. Who are you?"

After a bit, Dixie grimaced and ditched his own mask, carefully tucking it away in his pocket. "Dixie."

"You're Turncoat," Minder said quietly. "Is it true you can use the chip and get into G.O.D. systems?"

Dixie nodded. "Yeah, but this ain't the place to talk about it. We're all a little too hot to be on these streets for long. Why the fuck are we on top of a building in the middle of the damned city?"

"Because I'm hoping they won't think to look for me here right away," Minder said. "I still can't believe the man I accidentally took down is my damned boss." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I couldn't see him clearly in the dark, and his accent was heavier than usual. He was messing with those women, I took him down—then saw his face and freaked out. I thought he was one more drunk asshole, albeit one with an Irish accent where you don't normally hear those around here. I thought I'd gotten away, especially since they didn't plaster my face all over the news, but when I got to work the security guard was acting funny. I said I forgot something in my car and came up here, called in favors to leave breadcrumbs for Greg. I don't know why they suspect I'm Minder after all this time, but clearly I said or did something that tipped my boss." He scrubbed a hand over his head, his face. Dropping it, he heaved a sigh then held his hand out to Dixie. "Anyway, my name is Leland Deveraux."

"Pleasure," Dixie said, shaking his hand. "Let's get out of here."

"Brought you a mask," Greg said, sounding so cheerful it was like they were going to the park, not sneaking out of a building.

Leland frowned but went along with it as Greg pulled the mask over his face and activated it. When all three masks were back in place, Dixie led the way back to the parking garage. Though he knew damned good and well how little attention people actually paid, that nobody had noticed them, he didn't breathe easy until they were well on their way out of the city.

He relaxed only after they were in the elevator headed up to Byron's place. "You're gonna have to wait in the hall until Byron codes you into the system," Dixie said as they reached the main door. "Hang on, I'll rustle up a special pass and he can do the rest later."

Though he didn't look terribly happy, probably about the idea of being coded into anything, Leland nodded. Leaving Greg to wait with him, Dixie slipped into the apartment and found Byron bent over his plans in the dining room. "I need guest access for Minder."

Byron looked up, surprise on his face. "Seriously? I thought it would take more time and work than that."

Dixie shrugged. "I think he's spooked bad and we're the lesser of two evils."

"Hang on," Byron said and slipped out of the kitchen. Dixie could hear it as he opened a special, hidden and heavily locked door, then pounded down a set of stairs to the master computer that ran the whole building. A few minutes later, he returned with a slender, silver bracelet with a small square of green light. "Guest pass. Do you  think he'll let me code him into the system?"

"I'm sure between Greg's sad kitten eyes and your dark faerie wiles you'll have no trouble convincing him to officially join our merry band of anti-heroes," Dixie replied. "Wait here, I don't want you running him off before he gets inside."

"Who owns this place?" Byron groused.

Dixie laughed on his way out.

In the hallway, he handed the bracelet to Leland. "Put this on, and whatever you do, don't take it off. Byron has this place rigged to deal with uninvited guests, and it'll deal with you hard and fast and mean."

The barest little smirk danced across Leland's mouth as he accepted the bracelet and slid it on his wrist. It shimmered, chimed, and the green light turned blue.

Opening the door, he motioned for Leland to enter. "After you."

He motioned Greg ahead of him too, then followed them in and closed the door, removing his hat and hanging it up before turning to Byron.

Who was currently staring at Leland like he was a bank with zero security and free cupcakes. Byron's face was cherry red, mouth slightly agape. Before Dixie could figure out what to say, Byron turned and fled. "What in the hell was that all about? Byron ain't usually that weird."

"I think Byron's got a crush," Greg said, shooting Leland a mischievous little grin. "I've never seen him do that. Never seen him interested in anyone, as a matter of fact."

Dixie snorted. "I seriously doubt that's how Byron acts when he's attracted to someone. He don't strike me as someone so new to the game he acts like a twelve-year-old with their first crush."

"It's Byron, there is literally no telling," Greg countered.

Dixie opened his mouth, then gave a huff of laughter. "Fair enough."

"What's going on?" Leland asked, mouth pinching. "You brought me here—now what?"

"Now you can sit down and tell us why you need a Mason Chip," Dixie said. "I'm keen to hurt the G.O.D. but not so eager I'd hand those chips over to just anyone—even if I do trust your cat."

Greg shot him a look.

Leland's mouth went from pinched to flat, but he sat down. "I'm not out to hurt anyone—quite the opposite."

Dixie sat down across from him, folded his arms on the table. "Then why the hell did you rope Greg into a half-cocked scheme to get something you don't know shit about? You damn near got him killed, and me alongside him in the fallout."

"I'm sorry," Leland said, shoulders slumping as his anger bled away. "I thought I did know all I needed to; I was so careful to learn everything I could." He rubbed his fingers across the table, thumbing over a groove where Byron had once dropped a heavy metal box. "It's easy to miss that part of your knowledge includes stupid assumptions you didn't know you were making—like microchips are in computers. Truly, I'm sorry." He looked at Greg, then Dixie.

"I'm an adult, I agreed to help," Greg said. "And I'm still alive."

"Yeah, but how many of your nine lives you got left?" Dixie asked, grinning when Greg glared and swatted at him.

"Your stupid cat jokes still aren't funny."

Dixie's grin widened. "I'm laughing."

"Whatever, spaghetti western. Whatever."

Leland cast Greg a faintly amused look. "I've never seen you flirt before. Why am I not surprised you're the flirt-by-bickering type?"

"I am not, shut up," Greg muttered, sitting down at the table as far away from both of them as he could get. "Seriously, where is Byron?"

Dixie shrugged. "He'll come back when he comes back." He glanced at the monitor on the wall. "News. Search for mentions of: Minder and Leland Devereux." There was a soft chime as the orders were acknowledged. Dixie watched the news, which rambled on about Kevin Barlow being attacked in an alleyway by the notorious Minder, believed now to be Leland Devereux, who was being sought for questioning. Barlow was currently under arrest on charges of assault. It moved into stocks then, and how Barlow Industries was currently tanking, and there were already murmurings of the board moving to fire Barlow. "When you start a mess, you start a mess."

"I didn't mean to," Leland said with a sigh. "I still would have stopped him, of course, but I wish I'd done it differently. I liked what I did, and now I can't be Minder or Leland. This really, really sucks."

"You were already having trouble," Greg said. "Come on, you know supers don't stay out of the limelight forever. You've always drawn notice for going after the 'little guys' instead of being flashy like the rest of those assholes."

Leland's mouth pinched, and he scowled at the groove he was still stroking with his thumb. "I wanted to stay quieter than this until I got that chip. The more the G.O.D. notices me, the more likely they are to do stuff to work against me—or worse, capture me."

Making a face, Dixie said, "I hate to agree, but you ain't wrong. G.O.D. would love to get their hands on a telekinetic. I ain't never heard of one, not in this century anyway. Nothing past the localized sort that lets some of them fly and shit. A true, full spectrum telekinetic? Even one of low-level abilities would be worth a large country to them. It'd be the definition of suicide for you to go anywhere near them."

"I know, but I don't care," Leland said. He stared hard at the table, hand curling into a fist. "They have my friend and I'm going to get her back no matter what the cost. I'm already terrified about what they've probably done to her, what they'll do with their new knowledge." He closed his eyes, withdrew his hand, but Dixie would bet every penny he had that both of Leland's hands were curled into fists in his lap.

"What new knowledge?"

Leland shook his head. "It's not my business to discuss."

"It damn well—" Dixie broke off as Byron strode back in. "Where the hell did you run off to?"

"Nowhere," Byron said. "Sorry." He didn't look at any of them, though, just strode into the kitchen and started fussing with things, slowly pulling out ingredients and tools to make god knew what.

Dixie frowned, shared a look with Greg, who shrugged and spread his hands in a got me gesture. Standing, Dixie went over to the kitchen island. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Byron said, but his eyes skittered to Leland, facing away and oblivious. His cheeks turned pink and he turned sharply away.

"Byron—" Dixie cut around the island and reached out to grab his arm, but Byron jerked away and scurried over to the far counter where he started to chop onions in a way that was asking for trouble. "Darling, you might want to—"

"Leave me—damn it!" Byron snarled, dropping the knife and holding his hand against his chest.

Dixie's frown cut deeper into his face. He strode across the kitchen and tried once more to get hold of Byron, who turned and gave him a hard shove. "Leave me alone!" He grabbed the knife and threw it in the sink, where it splashed in soapy water. Then he grabbed up the cutting board and the onion he'd been chopping, all with one hand, and threw it in the trash before storming from the room again.

"What in the ever living goddamn hell was that all about?" Dixie asked. "Byron ain't usually the crazy one around here." He ran a hand over his head, stared at the bits of onion that had been left on the counter and fallen on the floor.

And the weird smears of something purple. It looked like blood, except, well, it was purple. "What the hell was he chopping that comes out purple?"

"Huh?" Greg asked.

Leland rose and turned sharply, a look on his face that was sharp as a laser and twice as intense as a pissed off G.O.D. with a victim in their sights. "Purple? Let me see." He joined Dixie at the kitchen counter, dabbed his fingers in the small purple smear. "This is blood."

"Maybe I missed something somewhere, but I'm pretty sure blood is red."

"Human blood, yeah," Leland said, "but this isn't from a human. Byron's like Beatrice."

Dixie closed his eyes, counted to ten, and replayed Leland's words. Nope. Wasn't working. He still could not make any sense of the words being said to him. "What in the hell do you mean isn't from a human?"

"Beatrice isn't human, and she bleeds purple, like this. She said she crash-landed here centuries ago, when the meteor damaged her ship. Said she was the only one left, that the only other one to survive the crash died years ago. She never said his name…" He rubbed his fingers together, staring at the blood. "She was captured by the G.O.D. seven and a half months ago, along with some supers she'd been hiding so the G.O.D. wouldn't get them. A group of five seven-level kids, the oldest not more than twelve. She did that a lot—kept registered supers from winding up in the clutches of the Dogs. I was supposed to be with them that night, but the police scanner went off, an ugly robbery…"

"I remember it," Greg said quietly. "I was out scouting a building, and there was such a clusterfuck about that robbery that the cops weren't around anywhere else. I hit the building right then because I was never going to get another chance like that. Walked away with ten million dollars in diamonds." He frowned, rubbed a thumbnail across his lower lip. "I didn't know you did all that rescue stuff. I didn't even know there was a rescue cluster here."

"It's not here anymore, and I'm not part of it," Leland said. "The fucking G.O.D. almost got me that night. They had Night Terror at that damn 'robbery' and the whole thing was a sting. I managed to escape, barely, but by the time I got home, it was too late for Beatrice and the others. Now they're all with the G.O.D., and I could have stopped it if I hadn't been so stupid."

Dixie shook his head. "Darling, it ain't stupid to try and do the right thing, and it sure as hell ain't stupid to get your ass whooped by the G.O.D. I know better than most how ruthless and mean they can be. I wasn't but a kid when they shot my daddy point blank right in front of me. You're damned lucky they didn't get you, too, because none of us would have ever known. I sure as hell ain't heard about the G.O.D. having an alien. Hang on, I'm gonna go talk to Byron. Outer space, what the hell is next?"

After several long minutes of hunting, he finally found Byron hiding out in his workshop, fussing with bits and pieces that had probably come from the deaths of several high-end electronics obtained from the back of a truck. "So basically you are a dark faerie, just from Planet Faeries instead of Land of Faeries."

Byron looked up, and Dixie drew up short to see Byron was crying. "How—?"

"You left blood on the counter. I told you to be careful with that knife, you dumbass," Dixie replied. He slowly crossed the room. When Byron didn't flee or push him away, Dixie rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, why are you hiding in here? I'm half-computer and have to be defragged periodically. You think I wouldn't jump at the chance to add alien jokes to the things I can harass you about?"

Byron let out a cracked, broken laugh, then buried his face in his hands and started sobbing.

"Ah, hell, why does anyone let me talk?" Dixie muttered. "Ain't it obvious I grew up with just computer parts for friends?" But what he lacked in words, he tried to make up in deeds. It wasn't hard to get Byron on his feet and into a hug. "It's okay, Byron. I'm sorry we done scared you."

Several minutes later, Byron finally drew away. "Sorry."

"Shut the hell up. You ain't the one should be apologizing. Are you okay? Is there something we can do?" For the first time he noticed Byron's hand: the two bandaged fingers stained with purple blood. "You didn't cut yourself too bad, did you?"

"Bad enough," Byron said, sadness threading his voice. He slowly dragged his eyes up, peered at Dixie, looking more like a scared child than the easy, stoic man he knew. "You're not going to freak out or something? Try to kill me? Report me?"

Dixie shook his head. "Nah. More fun to rib you, and who would keep this place in shape for all of us to use if we went panicked villager on you? Anyway, idiot, you keep on forgetting that I'm half-computer. We'd make a fine crime-fighting pair if we weren't already the criminals."

Byron gave a tentative smile, a sliver of his usual self. "Greg and Leland won't freak out on me, will they?"

"Greg is gonna pester you to death with questions and you know it," Dixie replied. "As to Leland… he was the one who already knew about you. Well, about aliens, I mean. It's why he needs the Mason Chip, apparently. Wants to rescue another one of you."

"What! Ariadne? But she's dead—" Byron looked ready to cry again.

Dixie grabbed his shoulders, squeezed gently. "Ain't the name he used, but calm down and we'll go talk to him, get this sorted. But you're still among friends, darling. I'm sorry for what's happened in the past. I promise there ain't gonna be no witch burnings while I'm around."

Byron nodded. "Let me wash my face." He slipped from the room and headed down the hall to the bathroom at the end. Dixie waited for him outside the workshop. When Byron emerged a few minutes later, he looked more his usual self, albeit a tenuous, anxious version.

"So why are you so terrified of Leland?" Dixie asked as he pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against.

"I'm not terrified of anyone," Byron said, then made a face. "Rather, I am terrified of everyone finding out about me and trying to kill me, or worse, experiment on me. That's happened a lot." Shadows fell over his face, but he shook his head. "I'm not scared of Leland."

Dixie cast him a look as they headed down the stairs. "So what was all that running away and avoiding looking at him about?"

"Nothing," Byron said, face going pink. "Can we drop it?"

"Not if you're gonna get all flustered and skittish whenever you're around him," Dixie said. "We're about to pick a fight with the G.O.D. that we won't be able to walk away from unless we win it. This little group of four is about all we got for now, so what's got you acting funny?"

"Nothing," Byron repeated, but his face only got redder.

Dixie stopped on the stairs, and he was big enough there was no way Byron could go around him. "Well, I'll be damned, I think Greg might have been right: you got a crush."

"That is the stupidest and yet most accurate word for it, yes," Byron bit out. "I've never really felt lust for humans. All this—" he gestured to himself, "—It's not how I should look. It's like extremely hardcore, no going back camouflage. I've grown used to it, but in my head, I'm still the original me. And the original me, even after hundreds of years…" He shrugged, looked down. "I was not prepared for…Leland."

"Well, take it slow, darling. Ain't like you got to act on it if'n you don't want."

Byron nodded. "Can we get this over with?"

"Surely." Dixie gripped his shoulder in reassurance, then turned and continued on down the stairs and through the apartment back to the kitchen. Greg and Leland were sitting next to each other at the table, talking quietly. They looked up as they heard Dixie and Byron. "Howdy. I found our runaway alien. He's a bit jumpy, so give'em some space."

"I'm fine," Byron said, though Dixie didn't miss the faint tremor in his hand as he reached up to brush a few stray curls from his face. "But I think someone else is going to have to make dinner."

Greg flapped a hand. "It seemed like an order pizza kinda evening. So you're really a hardcore tourist?"

"Yes," Byron said quietly and moved to take his usual seat at the table. "My ship crashed here with the meteor, when it damaged and interfered with our ship."

"That was centuries ago."

Byron's mouth tightened. "I've been genetically modified for interstellar travel. The modifications were extensively tested and approved by the World Board, but they seem to have side effects that no one caught."

Greg stared at him, eyes wide. "What—"

"That's enough," Dixie cut in. "Give the poor man some space, kitten. You can pester him later when he's up to it."

"Sorry," Greg said. He started fidgeting and fussing with the papers on the table. "So I guess we should work on the plan?"

Byron looked at Leland, cheeks faintly pink but chin jutted out. "Dixie said you know someone else like me?"

"Yeah," Leland said quietly, meeting Byron's gaze briefly before lowering his eyes. "I'm sorry. It's my fault she was captured by the G.O.D."

"It wasn't!" Greg said. "It was the G.O.D.'s fault!"

Byron smiled ever so faintly. "That is very true. Nobody is to blame for the G.O.D. except the G.O.D. I thought Ariadne was dead. I can't believe we've been living in the same fucking city." He rested his elbows on the table and covered his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I cannot believe she's been alive this whole time. What was she doing?"

"Protecting kids from being scooped up by the G.O.D.," Leland said.

Sitting back, wiping away the tears that had fallen down his cheeks, Byron softly said, "Of course she was." His eyes were on the table, but a million miles away. "How long have they had her?"

"Almost eight months."

Byron swore softly. "That is more than enough time for the G.O.D. to get themselves in trouble. At least there is only so much they can get from me and her. I hate to say it, but sometimes I am glad the rest of the crew died. Some of them were modified and augmented in ways that would have the G.O.D. weeping tears of joy." He shook his head, eyes closing briefly again.

"So what were you?" Greg asked, then clapped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry, no questions." He folded his hands on the table, but almost immediately started messing with papers and a pencil again.

Dixie smiled, watching him. Did Greg ever hold still? Probably not even when he was asleep.

"It's okay," Byron said. He stood and went to the fridge, came back with beers that he handed around. "You will probably laugh, but I was chief caretaker in the children's hall."

"You…" Dixie stared, then cracked a grin. "You were chief nanny?"

Byron nodded. "I oversaw the care of twenty-seven children, ranging from a newborn, delivered two days before we crashed, all the way up to a pair of mischievous ten year olds." His smile turned so heartbreaking, Dixie damn near cried. "I can't watch sci-fi movies—not because the science is bad or the aliens are always evil or anything. Because it's always the soldiers and such that conveniently survive and so things turn out okay. In reality, it's not the ones trained to survive who actually do and it doesn't turn out okay. Five of us walked out of that wreckage, two of them children. Ariadne was a scientist, I no longer remember what kind exactly, but she was able to cobble together enough parts to get the medical and modification equipment functioning. She and I converted well enough to this environment, but the others were not so fortunate. Eventually, when we realized we were going to be stuck here forever…" He shrugged. "We kidnapped a couple of humans and used them as models and blueprints to modify our appearance. It's not perfect, obviously, but most of the time, I pass muster."

"I'm sorry," Dixie said quietly. "That feels inadequate, but I'm real damned sorry, Byron."

Greg reached across the table and squeezed Byron's hand. "We're all sorry. I wish we had enough here to get you home again."

"Too much time has passed, to be honest," Byron said. "Home would not be home anymore. Earth is my home now. And right now, we need to save it from the G.O.D. If they have Ariadne, then we need to get her back and destroy whatever they've gotten from her."

"That I can do," Dixie said. "If it's in their systems, I can destroy everything electronic and the others can destroy whatever's in the labs and stored on archives. Can't promise we'll get it all. I'm sure after the last time I shredded their systems they've gotten smarter, but we'll do our damnedest. Matt and Karl won't mind coming in to help if you want."

"We'll probably need them, but that's the next stage," Byron said. "Getting the chip is a three-person job." He stopped, looked at Leland. "Four-person job." When Leland nodded, Byron smiled in a way that was shy and adorable and completely unlike the Byron Dixie had always known. Honestly, if he kept acting like that, Leland was gonna melt in his palm. Unless Leland didn't swing that way, but if those lingering eyes were anything to judge by…

Well, time would tell. They all had more important things to deal with right then.

A bell chimed before anyone else could speak. "Pizza!" Greg crowed. "I'll go get it." He vanished through a door that would actually lead to an empty building next door, something else Byron had bought up to help keep the apartment complex contained and completely under his control.

Looking at the monitor, Byron said, "Display Operation: White Out."

"Guest not approved," the computer said.

"Modify bracelet to omnipass, full registration pending. Register name Leland Deveraux. Connect to Alias – Minder. Permission granted by Byron Valentine, code 02141587." The computer chimed, followed by a softer chime from Leland's bracelet. "Display Operation: White Out."

The computer opened the requested files right as Greg returned with stacks of boxes, plastic bags dangling from his arms. "Let's eat!"

"Let's get to work," Byron said, and they all settled down to do both.

*~*~*

"Fuck snow," Greg said between chattering teeth. "This fucking sucks. I fucking hate snow."

Dixie chuckled, lowered his binoculars, and turned to look at the shivering bundle next to him in the glorified hole they were stuck in while they watched Robert House's cabin. "Ain't got too much longer left, kitten."

"M'not a fucking cat."

Dixie leaned down and dropped a quick kiss on those pouty lips, then lifted the binoculars and went back to staring at a whole lot of nothing. Beside him, Greg had gone still and quiet. It wouldn't last long, but it was always funny when Dixie got him that way at all.

Even if he shouldn't be taking any excuse he could find to keep stealing kisses. Once this whole mess with the Mason Chip was done, their group was going to have to split up. Wasn't safe for all of them to huddle in the same place for too long, anyway, and once they destroyed the Mason System the G.O.D. was gonna be on the warpath. Scattered to the wind was the smartest way to stay free.

And if his stomach clenched and his chest ached every time he thought of no longer being able to tease and kiss Greg at every opportunity, well fool fucking him for doing something he damn well knew not to do. From the moment he'd gotten free, he'd known his days were numbered. It'd be the height of stupidity to drag someone down into hell with him, or worse, leave them behind to suffer the way Mama had in the wake of Daddy's death.

Bad enough he counted Byron and Matt friends. He hadn't meant to acquire any of those either.

But no matter how many times he told himself no, he kept touching and teasing and tasting.

His hands tightened on the binoculars as he panned across House's property, the ridiculous multi-million dollar "cabin" that looked like it had room enough for three football teams. He'd known it was ridiculous from the intel, but pictures and blueprints weren't enough to appreciate how fucking stupid the damned thing was.

Who the hell needed that much house in the middle of nowhere? And how much taxpayer and donation money had paid for it? He almost wanted to torch the damned thing, but that would bring a lot of attention fast.

"I can't believe he helicoptered in hookers," Greg muttered. "Hopefully he doesn't do that again tonight."

Dixie snorted. "I can't believe we didn't think to account for something like that." He grinned as Greg muttered and grumbled, not a lick of it fit for polite company. Not that they were ever in polite company. "Ready for tonight?"

"I have been ready for tonight since we got to this stupid mountain of unending white death," Greg replied. "God, I hope we get this done quickly and without hassle and can go home. I'm going to bury myself under twenty blankets and never move again."

"You're something else," Dixie said.

Greg lowered his binoculars enough to shoot Dixie a quick grin. "How much longer until we get started?"

"Sundown is in…" Dixie drew back enough to pull out his phone. "Three hours. We go four hours after that. Seven hours, give or take. Hopefully House wore himself out last night with Janet, Cookie, and Lacey."

Greg snickered. "If they didn't wear him out, I'd be asking for a refund. Then again, that dude is a fucking creep; I hope they charged him quadruple."

Dixie reached out, not bothering to look, and gave him a gentle shove. "Do something useful if you ain't gonna keep an eye out with me."

"Yeah, yeah," Greg said. "Aren't they supposed to be coming to relieve us soon? Do you think they're too busy pretending they don't stare at each other when the other isn't looking?"

"I think that's some of it, yeah," Dixie said, rolling his eyes. "Leave'em alone, pussycat." Greg made a strangled sort of noise, and Dixie turned to look at him. "What in the hell has gotten into you?"

Greg glared, or tried, but mostly he just looked sad and frustrated. "Don't call me that. You only call me that when you're fucking me or thinking about fucking me, but it never seems to go further than fucking. No matter how much I wish otherwise. We both know when this job is over so are we, and I hate constantly getting my hopes up you might change your mind." His cheeks flushed and he dropped his gaze, staring at the floor, mouth twisted in a frown. "So just—stop."

It was exactly what Dixie deserved, and he shouldn't have needed to be told. Didn't stop the words from cutting like a knife and leaving him struggling to breathe. "Fair—fair enough. I'm sorry." He turned back to the cabin, lifted the binoculars once more, and tried to focus on the damned job.

At some point the little door at the back of their hole opened. They'd visited the mountains a few months ago, when the weather was nice, to set up everything they would need to get the Mason Chip, including the hole from which they watched the cabin, and a tunnel that led to the larger hole in the ground where they hid.

Dixie could hear Byron's voice, but couldn't focus on the words. Could barely focus on anything, unable to hear anything except Greg's words, the hurt in his voice. Part of him wanted to soothe. No, that wasn't true. All of him wanted to soothe Greg, but what was the damned point?

"You okay?" Byron asked a few minutes later.

"I'll live," Dixie said. "Did you need something?"

"A place to hide," Byron replied.

Dixie grimaced. "Well you came to the right place."

"Greg seemed sad."

"He'll be okay. Had every right to tell me off, and someone like that doesn't stay down for long." Dixie lowered the binoculars long enough to dredge up a sorry-assed smile. "He can do far better than me, especially since…" but he couldn't stomach saying the words and went back to the binoculars.

"I'm not going to let them kill or capture you, Dixie."

"You ain't gonna have a whole hell of a lot of choice, darling," Dixie said. "They've had plenty of time to muck with Daddy's system and rig it up to bring me down. I sure as fuck ain't going back to them, and once I'm back in the system, they ain't gonna let me out." He set the binoculars down, faced Byron dead on. "You and I have always known my story ends where it began: in the clutches of the G.O.D. and the damn system me and Daddy was built to run. We ain't getting what we need without me going in, and for me it's gonna be a one-way street."

"Doesn't mean you have to do it all alone or leave practically nothing behind," Byron replied.

Dixie made a soft, rough-edged noise. "What the hell good did it do Daddy, leaving something behind?"

Byron gave no reply, just stared at him sadly with eyes that had always seemed too pretty to be real. Eyes that were, apparently, too pretty to be human. "Dixie…"

"Drop it. What did you come out here for?"

"To tell you to take a break. I'm pretty sure House isn't flying in more hookers tonight, and Leland has earned a fucking badge or medal or something in making shitty camp food palatable, which even I can't do and I worked a long time to get the hang of food around here."

Dixie laughed. "Around here? You mean Earth, spaceman?"

Byron heaved a long sigh and turned away, kicking his shin. "Yes. Shut up. Come eat before you sulk yourself to death. And I strongly advise making up with Greg."

"Drop it." Packing up what little was around the place, Dixie slung the bag over his shoulder and followed Byron through the short, dark tunnel to their hole in the ground campsite. "I can't fucking wait to be somewhere warm again." He dropped the bag with a sigh and sat down in the folding chair he'd claimed as his own. "So you think it's a good bet we'll get to do this tonight?"

"Yep, and we'll even get a nice bonus snowstorm."

Greg groaned. "I always thought it would be bullets or torture that killed me, not fucking snow." He rolled his eyes, face turning red, as they all gave him looks. "I'm just saying, life is full of unpleasant surprises."

Dixie started to tease him, then shut his mouth and turned away, suddenly feeling like he had rocks in his throat, chest, and stomach. He bent to fuss with the small dufflebag he'd be carrying with him that night, full of everything he could possibly need to get to the Mason Chip. Greg would be handling the initial infiltration, but once he got Dixie inside the show was his, from disabling the whole damn house to extracting the Mason Chip.

He fussed with everything, then did it all over again, and was about to go for round three when a plate of food was shoved under his nose. Dixie set the bag aside and took the plate, looked up to thank Leland, who smiled briefly and moved away to sit in his own corner. Dixie looked around, frowning. Normally they all sat in a cluster, joking and laughing to defray or hide nerves. Tonight, it was every man to his corner and they all seemed as downcast as he felt.

Hopefully the illegal proceedings portion of the evening went better than dinner.

Wolfing down his food before his lack of appetite got the better of him, Dixie cleaned up his dishes and then laid out his sleeping bag and stretched out.  He set a timer on his phone and escaped into a nap.

The sharp jarring of his alarm woke him a few hours later. He turned it off with a groan and hauled stiffly to his feet, stretching to work out the worst of it. Around him, the room was fairly dark, only one little solar lamp to cut the shadows. Byron was sitting in his chair lacing up his boots. In their respective corners, Greg and Leland were still asleep. "Going to be a fun night," Dixie muttered as he pulled out his clothes for the evening and began to pull them on. All black, the pants and jacket riddled with pockets full of all sorts of little goodies. He rubbed the back of his neck, shivered as his systems stirred to life and started to thrum. Yawning, he pulled a ski-cap down on his head, then wrapped a scarf around his neck.

"Here," Byron said quietly and held out a handgun. What kind, Dixie didn't know, only that Byron seemed to have a preference for the model—and the nasty little hollow points that filled it. The gun gave a muted beep as he gripped it, a small blue light activating. "Coded to you."

Dixie nodded and slid the gun into the holster he was already wearing. He hated firearms on a good day, but there was a time and a place for everything. "That storm gonna keep us from getting the hell out of here?"

"We'll be gone before the storm hits," Byron said. "Unless something goes wrong, but according to Minder, he can keep a blizzard from being a problem, at least for a little while." Dixie's brows rose at that. Byron shrugged. "He hasn't lied about his abilities yet."

"Except what level they really are," Dixie replied with a soft snort. "But I guess I'd prefer to be taken for a low-level if I were him, too." He pulled out his phone. "Run final checks." The phone chimed at him and set to work, running through a series of tests to make certain it would be able to sync with everyone else and handle all the little things Dixie might need to do.

Shoving it in his pocket, he sat down to pull on his boots. By the time they were both laced up, Greg and Leland had stirred and were well into their own prep work. A silent, gloomy bunch if ever he saw one, but he didn't exactly feel like cheering things up himself.

Still, this job could get them all killed if anything went wrong—or much, much worse. Wasn't the time to be avoiding each other and acting like strangers. "I don't know about the rest of you, but whenever I get to open a can of whoop ass on one of the Dogs, I'm usually pretty damn chipper about it. We ain't going to our own execution, lord almighty."

Opposite him, Greg looked up and smiled hesitantly. Dixie fucking hated it, would rather have the familiar grin he was half-gone on, but it was better than nothing. "Who the hell still says 'can of whoop ass'?"

"Me," Dixie retorted.

"Lame."

"Pretty sure you're all lame according to modern culture standards," Byron said. "It's a sad day when the alien is savvier than the natives."

Greg laughed as he went back to work on his boots. They laced all the way to his knee, seemed to fit him so well they must have been custom work. Standing, he packed up his own bag of goodies and slung the duffle over one shoulder, a ski-mask held loosely in his other hand. "Party time?"

"Just about," Byron said and pulled a dark blue ski-mask over his own head. "Leland and I will be on the north edge. Once Dixie has the systems down, we'll work on securing the landing pad and ordering in our chopper. The rest is up to the two of you."

Dixie glanced at Greg, who gave another hesitant smile that almost immediately collapsed. "We got it," Dixie said. "This is the easy part. The hard part comes later."

Byron frowned. "Dixie—"

"Let's get moving," Dixie cut in, hefting his own bag over his shoulder. "Sooner done, sooner finished. I don't know about ya'll, but I am really damned tired of this cold."

"A-fucking-men to that," Greg muttered.

Byron heaved a sigh, but didn't say anything, only signaled for them to follow him as he led the way out of their hole and down the tunnel to the lookout. Byron threw his bag in the snow, then hauled himself up and out. Dixie fell into step right behind him, followed by Leland and finally Greg.

The night air was sharp, cold enough to sting with every breath. Dixie rolled his cap down so the mask covered his face. He silently ordered his systems to scan, and his left eye flicked through several filters as it made absolutely certain nothing was out there that shouldn't be.

Nearby, Byron had pulled out a fancy set of binoculars to do the same. They looked at each other and nodded. "Clear," Bryon said. "Let's move out."

They hauled across forest and field, a monotony of crunching steps, panting breaths, and the occasional string of cusswords. By the time they reached their destination, Dixie was ready for a hot toddy. Preferably one that was all whiskey and to hell with the rest of the ingredients.

Byron's hands moved briskly as he signaled that he and Leland were headed off. Dixie signed an acknowledgement, one hand resting lightly on his gun as he covered them. When they were out of sight, he turned to Greg, who was kneeling in the snow and pulling equipment out of his bag.

A few minutes later, Dixie's eye flashed as he got the go signal from Byron. He motioned to Greg, didn't even need to see his face to know he was grinning ear to ear behind that mask. Hefting his bag, Greg darted out of the tree line and headed for the house, and Dixie followed close behind.

Roger House's fancy cabin was a pain in the ass in several ways, but the first hurdle was that there was no access at all on the first floor. According to the blueprints it went down one story below ground, the ground level was completely enclosed, and there was limited access on the second floor. Most of the natural light was provided by way of special-made skylights that were covered by heavy duty steel panels at night. As were the windows and doors, sealing House up at night.

Too bad all the panels in the world couldn't keep out clever little kittens.

Greg vanished through the nearest wall as they reached the house and Dixie circled around to the back. The door there was one story up, and the staircase and landing up to it had been retracted. Dixie could scale the wall easily enough, but he'd just be clinging to it waiting to fall. There wasn't even a door, yet, that was covered by a metal panel the same as every other access point, and the only way to through was a control panel inside the house.

Just as he was starting to get twitchy, Dixie got a text. Okay, I'm here. I've got the cover off the panel. What's next?

Should be a slot along the bottom, off to the right. See it?

Yep.

That's where you put my bug. Just slide it and let it work.

Here goes nothing.

A couple of minutes later, Dixie's left eye flared as his software went to work, hiccupping the system in a way that would make it think the blip was harmless, giving them enough wiggle room that Dixie was able to open the back door.

It was smart of House not to have any access panels on the outside of the house, but not smart enough. Dixie grinned as the protective metal panel slid up and the door swung open. A rope came tumbling down and Dixie quickly climbed up. Greg offered a hand at the top and hauled Dixie inside. Rolling to his feet, Dixie closed and locked the door, then ordered the panel back down, and all was back as it should be right as the window provided by the hiccup closed.

Dixie lightly touched Greg's shoulder, the closest they could get to a victory crow at present. Now for the next part. Full scan, alert at once if Robert House stirs. He rolled his mask up to see better; nearby, Greg had done the same. Dixie signaled him to wait, then headed off following memorized blueprints. Thankfully, there were no motion sensors or cameras to deal with. House had apparently tried, once, but the mountain itself made it all too difficult to maintain—especially the motion detectors. House was going to regret not working a little harder at the problem, but it was probably going to be way, way down on his list of regrets by the end of the night.

The panel guarding the control room took ten minutes to get past, but only because Dixie was being super cautious. Once inside the control room, things got trickier. The hiccup he'd caused to get inside was one thing—the system was accustomed to that kind of blip, given the way the location would fuck with the power even on a good day. If the power was down too long, however, alerts were sent out.

So he was gonna have to kill the power while making the rest of the world think everything was running fine. And ensure that House wouldn't be able to bring the systems properly back online any time soon. Easiest way to do that was to get up close and personal.

Reaching into one of his pockets, Dixie pulled out a special cord. He found the correct port on the computer and plugged it in, then connected the other end to the back of his neck.

Unregistered user.

Dixie snorted and took care of that with barely a thought. When his software had made him and the system old friends, he settled in to the rewriting.

Twenty minutes later, he disconnected and sent out a group text. System is ours. Let's party.

Returning to Greg, he said, "Got the smoke?"

Greg nodded, lifted the innocuous looking metallic blue canister he'd pulled out of his bag. "Let's go."

Hefting his bag, Dixie followed Greg up the stairs and down the hall to House's bedroom. "Here goes nothing," Greg muttered, then phased through the door. Dixie strained to hear anything, but between Greg's ability to be silent when he really wanted and all the expensive soundproofing, all Dixie heard was his own pounding heart.

A couple of minutes passed and then Greg pulled the door open and held an arm out. "All yours."

"Let's get this over with, then," Dixie said, swallowing the nerves that ratcheted up as it finally sank into every crevice of his mind that this was it. Soon they'd have the chip, and not long after that, he'd be back inside the Mason System. An idea started by his granddaddy and made to flourish by his daddy. An idea that had gotten them both killed in the end, and Dixie's mama alongside them.

And soon Dixie would join them, and that would be the end of the Mason family.

He stepped into the room, head buzzing faintly from the lingering traces of the gas used to make sure House stayed unconscious until they were long gone. Greg had cleared away most of it, but there was still residue.

Moving over to a wide stretch of clear floor, Dixie laid out a tarp. He then went to the bed, yanked the blankets off, scooped House up and carried him over to the tarp. Unzipping his bag, he swiftly set up lights, not wanting to waste time or risk anything messing with the house system.

He turned back to House and quickly got his shirt off and out of the way. Flipping him over, Dixie then dug out another tool kit and set to work.

Anyone given a Mason Chip first underwent the same surgery Dixie had endured, though where they all got one port and very limited system wiring, he had three (better grade) ports and full system wiring. Picking up a scalpel, Dixie swiftly slit House's neck open right along the scar left behind. Greg came up then, face twisted in a grimace but stubbornly set, and he took care of the blood while Dixie swapped scalpel for tweezers.

He carefully extracted the chip, set it aside, and drew out a dummy chip that would convince the Mason System that all was well for a little while. Any momentary blip would be attributed to an error, and it would hopefully be hours yet before anyone realized House's chip was not where it should be.

Dixie exhaled raggedly, then set to work patching House up and doing his best to delay how long it would take him to notice something was wrong. He'd probably notice immediately no matter what they did, but any edge they could give themselves, the better.

When he was patched up, Dixie got him back in his clothes and dragged him over to his bed. Greg threw the blankets back over him while Dixie broke down and cleaned up their work station, stowing the bloody instruments and rags in a special bag.

The Mason Chip was gently stowed in a special case that went in the pocket right over his heart. Mason Chip in hand, on our way to you.

Well done, Byron replied.

Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Dixie led the way back downstairs and out of the house, eye flashing as he locked everything up tight again and triple-checked all his delay tactics were in place and ready-steady.

Byron and Leland waited for them on the landing pad, and Byron looked a little too evil mastermind pleased with himself. Dixie lightly cuffed his shoulder. "Stop looking so smug. The helicopter was the easy part."

"Let's see you summon a helicopter with a trustworthy pilot to the middle of blizzard, fucknowhere when we're conducting acts of a dubious nature."

"Shut up," Greg groaned. "I'm cold and you're using too many words."

Byron bowed and motioned to the helicopter. "Into the chariot, kitty cat."

Greg gave Byron a kick as he passed.

Byron's levity faded as he met Dixie's gaze. "So we finally have it."

"Yep."

"Dixie—"

"Let's get moving, the clock is ticking." Dixie hustled into the helicopter and took the seat opposite Greg. Byron slid in next to him, and Leland next to Greg. A couple of minutes later, they were in the air. "Glad we beat the storm."

No one replied, but he didn't particularly care. Months and months of planning and it was over in a flash. All the things that could have gone wrong, hadn't. Ordinarily, he'd be ecstatic at a job so goddamn well done.

But ordinarily he wasn't successfully stealing the chip that was probably going to kill him.

And he didn't know what to think about the fact he was more upset about hurting Greg than his own pending demise. Well, no, he didn't want to die. He wanted to live more than anything. But he'd long ago grown as resigned to his own death as anyone could. He'd known this was how it would end from the moment he'd made the choice to escape the G.O.D.

Leaving someone hurting though… That he couldn't stand. He remembered how it felt to be the one left behind. Not that he thought he and Greg were anything like his parents…

But he liked too much thinking that maybe they could have tried to be. Stupid as that was. Pointless as that was. They were fighting against the G.O.D.—they were all going to wind up dead eventually.

Maybe Matt and Karl had had the right of it after all, enjoying what they could while they could and ignoring the consequences.

And maybe his dumb ass should have admitted that sooner. What was done, was done, though, as his mama used to say. You got the sense of a drunk butterfly, boy. Now let's get this mess cleaned up before your father comes home.

He reached up reflexively to touch his cheek, where he could feel the ghost of a thousand motherly kisses before she ran her fingers over his hair and then swatted his butt playfully to send him on his way to the cleaning closet.

Letting his hand fall, he settled back in his seat and dozed off because he was going to need all the brain power he could possibly muster.

The lack of noise woke him a short time later, along with a gentle shake of his shoulder. Dixie dragged his eyes open and stared into Greg's eyes, a soft, warm brown he never grew tired of. "Arrived already?"

"It's been almost an hour," Greg said with a faint smile that faded when Dixie didn't say anything. "Are you okay?"

Dixie forced a smile. "Just discombobulated. It's been a long few months, and now everything is going a hundred miles an hour. And I ain't been in the Mason System for a long time. But I've dawdled enough, huh? I'm sure Byron is about ready to drag me inside himself."

"Leland is distracting him." The familiar grin Dixie liked too much appeared. "He's actually pretty good at that."

"Everybody's got a weakness," Dixie replied and finally rolled up and out of his seat, half-stumbling out of the chopper. When he'd gotten his legs under him properly, he headed for the cabin Byron had bought three months ago and outfitted with enough bells and whistles to put Dixie's old digs back at G.O.D. headquarters to shame.

The centerpiece was the fancy chair and support systems that would keep him comfortable and healthy (ish) while he lost himself in the Mason System and went head-to-head with one of the nastiest pieces of the G.O.D.

The remaining space on the first floor was given over to a couple of foldout sofas and a small kitchen. Up a ladder to the loft was another pair of beds. The whole place smelled like dusty furniture and the evergreen trees outside.

Grabbing up his duffle that someone had dropped by the door, he hauled up to the loft where he already had a bag filled with clothes and other miscellany waiting for him. He'd just stripped down and pulled on a pair of soft fleece pajama pants when Greg appeared, throwing a bag on the floor before hauling himself up and over the edge. He looked at Dixie, then looked away and walked slowly over to the other bed.

Dixie pulled on a t-shirt, then a lightweight hoodie. The systems and equipment would worry about his body temp, so he didn't want to wear too much and risk overheating. But he didn't much want to come out of the system and start freezing his balls off either. Stuffing his clothes into the duffle, he pulled out the small, dark-stained jewelry case he'd put at the bottom of the bag, carefully wrapped in his mama's favorite scarf to keep the box from getting dinged and scratched.

Wasn't much in it. His folks had never had money or inclination for jewelry, but what was there was precious.

He ran his hands over the dark green cashmere scarf. It was worn from years of use, but still soft and vibrant. Mama had worn it on all special occasions, along with the broach Daddy had bought her back when they first started dating.

Opening the jewelry case, he pulled out the broach: a little enamel piece of a bright blue butterfly perched on the paw of a brown and gold cat.

"What's that?" Greg asked.

Dixie smiled, chuckled softly. "Daddy always said the butterfly must be drunk or crazy to mess with a cat this way. Said it was something that needed to belong to Mama. She kept it through three years of dating and fifteen years of marriage."

"Oh," Greg said, voice barely audible but the sadness in it loud and clear. "I don't—" He broke off, turned away.

"Don't what?" Dixie pressed, though he could guess.

Greg sighed, then his shoulders squared and he turned around. "I don't understand you. I was sure we… we could have had something. I'm not crazy, right? So why do you always pull away? You're best friends with Byron, you two are thick as thieves, but every time I try to be more than a joke or a good lay—" He broke off, glared down at the t-shirt tightly clenched in his hands. "Am I not good enough?"

"Ah, hell, I never meant for you to think such a damned fool thing." Closing the space between them, Dixie tugged the t-shirt loose and got Greg into it, smoothing the fabric down over that lithe little chest. "You're good enough for a prince and definitely too good for me. Don't you ever think otherwise, understand me?" He tweaked Greg's nose, smile briefly at the nose-wrinkling scowl that got him. "Mama always said I had the sense of a drunk butterfly, and I've yet to be able to prove her wrong."

"Butterflies can't get drunk," Greg replied, looking about ready to throw his hands up. "So if it's not that you don't think I'm worthwhile, what the hell is it? I thought—" He bit his lip, looked down. "It was a shitty fucking thing to do and I know it, but I was kind of hoping when I told you to back off that you wouldn't, that you'd say something, do something, to change my mind. But you didn't, and then I didn't know how to take it back."

Dixie laughed, and laughed harder when Greg glared at him. "How like a kitten to pounce when you want cuddles." Greg's glare darkened, but Dixie cut off the pending death threats by bending to kiss him, fingers sliding along Greg's right cheek to cradle it gently.

Drawing back after a couple of minutes, he pressed the scarf and broach into Greg's hands. "These are for you. I kept pulling away 'cause I didn't want to leave folk hurting the way the G.O.D. left me and Mama hurting after they killed Daddy. But I'm already attached—to Matt, Byron, and especially you. I shoulda come right out and admitted it a long time ago. I'm sorry."

Greg stared at him, a frown cutting deep lines into his face, eyes pinched with confusion and worry. "Why do you keep talking like you're dying?"

"Dying? Naw, I'm alive and kicking."

"Stop being a smartass!" Greg snarled, thumping Dixie's chest, a surprising amount of strength behind his bony little fist. "What aren't you telling—?" He broke off, tears slipping down his cheeks as realization filled his face. "You son of a bitch! I did not do all of this so you could get yourself killed! Fuck you!" He dropped the scarf and broach and threw every stone of his bodyweight behind the fist that connected with Dixie's jaw.

It was enough to send Dixie stumbling back a couple of steps, and damned if it wouldn't leave a good bruise. "You hit good, kitten."

"Don't call me that, you motherfucking son of a goddamn fucking bitch!" Greg snarled and punched him again, driving Dixie back until he collided with the railing and damn near toppled over it. He grabbed hold of Greg, trying to steady both of them, but all it got him was a chest pummeling.

He was damned lucky Greg didn't have claws.

Letting go of Greg's arms, he cupped his head and bent to kiss him hard. He got bitten for his troubles, but the hitting stopped.

Greg was crying harder when Dixie drew back. "How could you not say something? How could you let me do all this? I thought you were going to break into a stupid database or something and steal some information."

"Mason System is a bit more than a 'database', honey, and I ain't necessarily going to die. Just probably."

"You're a fucking asshole," Greg replied, drawing back and returning to his bed, pulling on a zip-up hoodie. He rifled through his bag and pulled out a small pack of tissues. "Why is this going to kill you?" he asked eventually.

"Because I got away from them once and there's no way they're going to let that happen a second. Not only did I fuck the place up on my way out, I'm the only one with the master keys and I took one of their best weapons with me. Me and the G.O.D. been waiting a long time for this reckoning. We always knew I'd crawl back into the system eventually—it's only been a matter of when. That day has finally come, and they'll do their damnedest to make certain I never leave it again. So my chances aren't good, but don't think I'm not gonna fight like hell to keep kicking."

Greg sniffled. "We shouldn't be doing this at all. Suicide missions are stupid."

Dixie sighed softly, pushed away from the railing to draw close to Greg again, snagging his wrist and dragging him in when Greg tried to dodge away. "We're going up against the most powerful organization in the world because somebody's got to do something before it's too fucking late for all of us. This sort of fight always has, and always will, incur tragedy. But I'm going down fighting, darling. I was so busy avoiding attachments that might get left behind…" He touched Greg's cheek, traced that fine cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. "I forget they give you damned good reason to come back."

"You'd damn well better, so I can kick your ass for real, you stupid, stubborn spaghetti western." He jerked Dixie down and kissed him hard, nails biting into Dixie's scalp through his short-cropped hair. Dixie wanted to throw him down on the bed and fuck him till neither of them could move.

But there was work to be done, and he didn't much care for an audience. He drew back slowly, enjoying that sweet, eager mouth for as long as possible. Rubbed his thumb over Greg's wet, kiss-swollen lips before finally withdrawing. "Come on, pussycat. Work before play."

"Don't get dead," Greg snapped and gave him a shove before fleeing the loft.

Dixie swallowed and went to his bed to retrieve the Mason Chip. He slid down the ladder and walked over to the work station, letting out a deep breath as he handed the chip, still in its case, over to Byron. "Let's get this party started, shall we?"

"Dixie…" Byron reached out to lightly grasp his arm, then said something Dixie didn't understand and rushed in close to hug him tightly. "Don't be stupider than absolutely necessary." He stepped back, clutching the chip close. "I've done a couple of things that should hopefully help. We'll be here the whole time."

"Never doubted it," Dixie said. He looked around, but wasn't really surprised that Greg wasn't around. "Where did pintsize go?"

Byron's smile was sad and fleeting. "To be sad and pissed off on the back porch. Sit down. Let's get this over with so you can get to work on your apology."

Dixie settled down in the long, leather seat that was even nicer than the one in Byron's apartment. All the nervousness and fear he'd been pushing away since the moment they'd realized they had a chance at a Mason Chip finally broke free and flooded through him. He tried to ignore it, focused on his breathing as Byron and Leland strapped him down, hooked up all the medical equipment, and went through a final run of tests.

Leland frowned as he looked over Dixie and the setup. "This is a VR sort of thing, isn't it? Don't you need a mask or something?"

"Nope," Dixie said. "All my hardware is internal. Same with anyone given a Mason Chip. So long as I have equipment to maintain my body, I could stay here damn near indefinitely. When I left, they was just beginning to mutter about making it so people could live in the Mason System, their brains stored there, essentially, until it could all be downloaded to a new body."

"That sounds terrifying," Leland said. "The G.O.D. has done some horrifying, heartbreaking things, but that scares me more than all of them combined."

Dixie nodded in agreement. "S'why I decided it was high time to risk everything and get the hell out of there."

"We are ready steady," Byron said, drawing up to Dixie's side. "Any last smartass comments, digital cowboy? Let me guess: all their base are going to belong to you."

"Shut the hell up," Dixie said with a grin. "I wouldn't mind a kiss for luck, but not from your ugly ass."

Byron grinned back. "Yeah, you apparently prefer your boy toys to have claws and look vaguely jailbaity."

"I don't look like jailbait!" Greg said and gave Byron a shove as he joined them. He looked Dixie over, scowl fading into a long frown. "I'm fucking serious about not dying, asshole."

Dixie jerked his chin to urge him close, unable to move himself because of all the buckles and straps. Greg's mouth was warm and soft, and by far the best memory he could have taken with him. "Don't get beat up while I'm gone, pintsize. And don't burn the place down while I'm gone, neither."

Greg lightly thumped his chest. "Shut up." He pressed another quick kiss to Dixie's mouth, then drew back, sniffling as he huddled by the nearby bank of monitors.

Byron took his place and held up two cases. The silvery Mason Chip gleamed in one, a shimmery blue-black chip in the other. "It's not battle-tested, but this should have plenty of defenses and a few nasty little toys to help you once they come down on you. It'll go in first, and then the Mason. After that, it's all on you, Turncoat. Make them hate that name with every fiber of their being."

"I will," Dixie said.

He grunted as the first chip went in, tingling and zinging through him as the contents were uploaded to his system, adding all sorts of bells and whistles. He gave a soft huff of approval.

"Here we go," Byron said and held Dixie's hand tightly as the Mason Chip slid home.

*~*~*

Everybody saw the Mason System a bit different on solo trips into it. His daddy has been fond of using a recreation of the old library he spent countless hours in as a boy. Like any young boy, Dixie had changed the interface damn near every week, each new creation louder and flashier and more ridiculous than the one before.

Toward the end, he'd settled into an historic post office where his mother had liked to go and had taken him along as a boy. Hundreds of PO Boxes became infinite under the Mason System, containing all the information he could ever need, though the more interesting the information the harder it was to open. There were tables in the middle where he could work to shuffle through the mess, and the service counters provided access to high level security that manifested as mail clerks.

The generic interface was a recreation of the G.O.D. central headquarters in New York City, and whenever two or more people were using the system together, that interface snapped into place.

But Dixie still held the master keys despite the G.O.D.'s best efforts, which meant everything would look the way he wanted no matter what they did.

Security guards were positioned at either end of the long building, still and disinterested. The system had not yet pinged that he wasn't supposed to be there. He ran through his software quickly, including the new bells and whistles from Byron, and pulled up a masking program that would make people think he was House for a little while.

It wouldn't last; the system was too smart for that, but it would buy him a little time.

Going to one of the windows in the middle of the hall, he struck the bell three times, waited a beat and rang it twice more, and after one last pause, rang it two more times. A clerk phased into place, dressed in an old-fashioned postal uniform, gold and green butterflies pinned to his lapels. "Good afternoon, sir," the security system greeted.

"I'm picking up a package," Dixie said. "Under the name Tabby Monarch."

"Do you have a package slip?"

Dixie reached into the inner pocket of the leather jacket he was wearing, slid a shimmery blue slip of paper across the counter. The clerk touched it and the butterfly pins turned blue and silver. "One moment please, sir." He faded out as smoothly as he'd faded in, and after a moment a small, glowing yellow box painted with silver butterflies appeared on the counter. It was about the size of Dixie's palm, thin enough to slip into the inner pocket.

Tucking it away, he went to one of the tables in the middle of the room. Pulling out several pieces of paper that resembled mailing slips but were in fact search requests, he filled them out and dropped them into a slot in the middle of the table.

A couple of minutes later, several mailboxes lit up bright blue. One lit up bright red. Damn.

He went to the nearest of the blue ones and quickly cracked it open. Removing the packet of papers stuffed inside, he pulled out the yellow box and opened it. Inside were fifty little glowing yellow balls—like day-glo marbles. He pulled one out and set it in the mailbox, closed it, and moved on to the next.

By the time he was done, he'd set wipe programs for his friends and everyone else he knew that the G.O.D. had a file on. Even if he failed to destroy the whole damn system like he wanted, that information would be gone in a matter of hours. And no one would notice until too late.

A lot of the information could be replaced, but much of it was unique to the G.O.D. and the lack of it would slow down manhunts in the future. Ideally, anyway.

That little task accomplished, he glanced at the box glowing red. Ariadne, and the lockdown on her information was, of course, the highest security the Dogs could provide. Security his daddy had helped design. Which meant Dixie could crack it, but not without finally bringing the Dogs down on him.

First thing was first. Going up to another service window, he rang the bell in a five-one-three pattern. When the clerk appeared, he said, "I'm here to pick up two packages."

"Do you have a package slip?"

Reaching into his jacket, Dixie slid a glowing yellow slip across the counter. The clerk touched it, flashed yellow, orange, yellow and then returned to normal. The butterflies on his lapels turned blue. "I'm sorry, I'll have to get a supervisor."

Dixie relaxed slightly and nodded. So far so good. The clerk vanished, one level of security gone. Another one appeared, dressed in a slightly different uniform, no lapel pins but a green nametag with Supervisor in gold print. "Howdy."

"I'm sorry, sir, but your packing slip is invalid."

"Apologies, must have given you the wrong one." Dixie pulled out a second slip, this one a shimmery purple with red writing. He slid it across the counter. The supervisor touched it, and the purple and red raced up his arm to cover him. He flashed several times, then vanished completely.

Two small black boxes appeared on the counter. One was about five-by-five-by-five, the other a little smaller. Dixie slipped the smaller one into his pocket and carried the larger one to the table he'd been at earlier. Reaching into the right-hand pocket of his jeans, he pulled out a key ring. Selecting a tiny silver key, he ran his fingers over the top of the box. A small keyhole appeared and Dixie quickly unlocked the box. Tucking the keys away again, he pulled down the sides of the box to reveal the contents: Four tiny horses, white, red, black, and a sickly, pale gray-green. "Release Four Horsemen. Permission granted by: Dixon Mountebank. Passcode: Drunk butterflies can't resist playful kittens."

A soft, tinkling chime filled the air and the four little horses vanished.

Dixie closed his eyes, fighting back the relief that the Mason System would soon be no more, and the agony that he was destroying the last bit of his father that remained. But needs must when the devil drives, as Daddy had always said.

That task complete, he finally headed for the red mailbox. Instead of a P.O. Box number, there was Specimen 12A-X001. They'd had to create a whole new designation for Ariadne, though not a new department—12 had always been Biological Research – Nonhuman Species. But X001 meant she was the first in a whole new category. At least they didn't have more aliens. One was bad enough.

Taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, Dixie called up defense systems to have ready and then got to work. It took him two minutes and four different tries to finally crack the box, and the moment the door swung open, alarms went off and the statue-like security guards sprang into vivid, violent life.

Bullets came at him, but were deflected in sprays of rainbow light. He opened the box and pulled out a thick roll of papers, dropped in a marble and slammed the box shut, and did a duck and roll toward one of the tables as more bullets came flying at him, and the number of pounding feet increased.

He pulled out a small, blue-glowing square, rose to his feet, and slammed it on the table. The table flickered, flashed, went out entirely for a few heart-stopping seconds as the guards drew close enough to engage directly, then finally reappeared in glimmering blue. Dixie shoved the papers through the slot in the middle, then turned and touched his right thigh.

A gun appeared at his touch and he drew it, started firing at the guards, taking out three of them before the rest fell upon him. He screamed as they tasered him, beat him, and one of them even managed to stab him. Dixie reached for his arsenal, got a hand into one of the pockets of his jacket, and pulled out three small orbs.

He managed to twist free enough to kick one of the guards in the face, then slammed the orbs on the floor as he rolled forward to get out of their immediate path. The pepper bombs still stung, but all he got was the dregs, not the full throttle assault that put out the rest of the guards. Pulling out a small yellow tab, he slapped it on his wrist. Yellow light covered him, burst bright, then settled into a soft shimmer, negating the effects of the pepper bombs and restoring the shields the guards had destroyed.

The alarms were still blaring and he could hear more guards coming, so there was no time to waste. He pulled out another patch, this one green, to heal some of the damage the guards had done. Thankfully the guards were too low-level and therefore not remotely powerful enough to take down the most powerful user in the system. But they could slow him down, and that was enough to get him dead.

He bolted for the back exit, digging in another pocket for the special key to open it—and reeled back at the last minute as it swung open, touching his left thigh to draw one of the guns hidden there. His blood went ice cold and boiling hot by turns as he took in the figure who slunk through the door like a snake from its hole.

He'd been wearing a mask the day he'd shot Dixie's father, but Dixie had known all the same. He'd always been terrified of the bastard. Pale as a ghost, damn near as skinny as a skeleton, and he always had a ghoulish smile on his face. He was the kind of person the G.O.D. should be fighting against, and instead, he was part of the inner circle, one of the most powerful men in the organization: Harold Mark, alias Hades, Chief Information Officer of the G.O.D.

His super ability was one of the rarest, most terrifying, and least understood: he could bring the dead 'back to life' though only for a brief time, and in what basically amounted to a zombie state. It didn't come to much, in the end, but it could be some damned scary stuff. Dixie had expected him to do it to Daddy, to be that much more malicious, but for once Hades had been content with the killing.

He was often considered a hero because his ability meant he could bring dying mothers back long enough to deliver a baby, or coax out a crucial bit of information from a victim. The window to do it was limited to within four hours of death, but that was usually enough to make a difference.

And nobody knew how twisted and cruel and plain old fucking evil the bastard could be.

By day, Harold Mark looked like a skeleton in Generic Businessman getup. Within the Mason System, he was a skeleton, dressed in a fancy black suit, his eye sockets glowing with purple flames, and a hood draped over his skull. All in all, it should have looked stupid, but the man was terrifying enough even his dumb getup was scary.

Hades chuckled, the sound rippling through the post office like rattling bones. "At last the prodigal son returns. Are you here to avenge daddy's death, sweetheart?"

Dixie's lip curled as he replied by way of six bullets. Hades laughed as each one was absorbed by his shimmering silver shields—until the last one shattered it and knocked him back with a nasty blow to the shoulder.

Dixie didn't linger, just turned and ran like hell was on his heels. Which it was, in fact.

He didn't get very far before he was grabbed up, swung around, and slammed into a wall so hard his nose broke. Hades spun him around and slapped Dixie's wrists to the wall, where manacles appeared to hold him there. "Did you think you would actually be able to accomplish anything here?"

"Guess we'll see," Dixie said, the words coming out garbled, but Hades seemed to get the gist.

Dixie just had to stay alive a little longer. Hopefully Hades would prove true to form and prefer to play with him.

The backhand that cost Dixie a tooth seemed to prove his hope was not in vain.

"You're not doing a very good job at avenging angel," Hades said and backhanded him again.

Dixie spit out another tooth. "Revenge is for fools. Ain't no way to build a life, always aiming to kill one person. You ain't got that much power over me. Ain't nobody got that much power over me."

Hades laughed again, that wind through rattling bones sound that made Dixie shiver. He drew a stiletto from within his jacket, lazily pulled it from its ornate silver sheath, which he dropped to the floor. He trailed the tip of the blade down Dixie's cheek. "You're going to give me supreme access, or you're going to wish you were dead for a very long time."

"I ain't giving you shit."

He didn't scream when Hades stabbed the blade through his right arm, right below the manacles, but he whimpered when Hades twisted the blade.

"Give me supreme access; you have no business possessing it."

"It's my goddamned system. Go to hell and meet a real devil." Dixie spat blood in his face.

Hades stabbed him again, this time in the stomach. Combined with the knife wound already in his arm, Dixie wasn't going to last nearly as long as he'd been hoping. He could switch off the pain transmission, but that was a good way to die faster. "You're pathetic. All the power of a god is yours here in the Mason, and you're just a bug pinned to a wall."

"Yeah, funny, isn't it?" Dixie replied.

Narrowing his eyes, Hades yanked the stiletto out and sliced open Dixie's left cheek.

He'd started to do the same to the right when all the lights exploded, Dixie's manacles vanished, and the building trembled like there was a severe earthquake.

"What the fuck—" Hades broke off as Dixie, lying on the floor from where he'd slid down the wall, kicked his legs out from under him. His skull slammed against the marble floor, hard enough Dixie heard the bone shatter. He didn't wait around to see how pissed that was gonna make Hades, just scrambled to his feet and took off at a run. His arm and stomach burned, and blood was pouring from his damaged cheek, more from his arm, but he didn't give a fuck. He only needed to live a few minutes more.

He'd made it to the far end of the building by the time Hades caught up to him a second time. Those long, bony fingers grabbed him, squeezed tightly enough Dixie couldn't breathe. "What the fuck did you do?" Hades demanded as the building continued to shake and break and catch on fire around them.

"Conquest," Dixie whispered, staring at the purple eyes flickering from within the depths of the black hood, none of the skull having survived the fall. Hades should have been in too much pain to function, but like most stupid Dogs, he'd disabled the pain transmission and the failsafe that would have yanked him out the moment his health was in danger.

Hades hissed, squeezed tighter. "What does that—?"

Everything stopped, and the hand abruptly let Dixie go. The fresh guards that had appeared abruptly stopped, shimmered, then their eyes and uniforms turned bright red. Hades screamed in frustration, like a howling wind, when they wouldn't react to him.

"War," Dixie said and gave Hades a shove toward the guards, gasping for breath as his vision started going fuzzy at the edges, but mustering a laugh as the guards seized Hades and held him tightly.

"What did you do—!" Hades screamed again. "You fucking cunt, I'll slit you in two—" He screamed yet again, but this time it was in unbelievable agony. Something must have reset the disabled pain receptors. Good. Around them the guards started to dissolve, like melting wax or metal corroded by acid. The dripping bits fell on Hades, dissolving whatever they touched, destroying both his arms and one of his legs. He collapsed to the ground like a sad prop skeleton with most of its pieces lost. He had to be in at least as much pain as Dixie, but the bastard kept coming. "What have you done, you goddamn bastard?"

"That's Famine," Dixie said with a sickly smile as he collapsed to the ground, rapidly dissolving beneath their feet.

Hades flickered in and out, in and out, came back as looking like his real self, dark eyes narrowed and full of hate. "You're destroying the system."

"Yep," Dixie said, falling forward, bracing himself on his good arm. He mustered the energy to cast Hades a triumphant smile. "I lied a touch about revenge. The last horseman won't work unless you're here. Death is accompanied by Hades—you were the last permission key to run the program. Without you here in the system, it wouldn't have worked. So thanks."

He blacked out to the sound of Hades screaming in fury.

*~*~*

The sound of machinery beeping crazily, people shouting, filtered into his consciousness.

"Do something! Do something, goddammit!"

"I am—Leland, get him out, I can't work—"

Dixie passed out again.

*~*~*

When he woke again, it was to the soft beeping of medical equipment, the smell of Byron's hospital area, antiseptic and old wood. He drew a breath, winced faintly as that woke all sorts of aches and pains, though thankfully, they seemed mostly muffled by a wall of medicine.

He stared up at the ceiling, spotless and more like it belonged in a pub than a medical ward.

So he'd lived. Barely, probably.

He looked around as best he could from his prone position, saw the monitors that displayed his readouts, the way one had spiked when he woke up. So somebody was probably on their way up.

Fumbling gingerly around the blankets, he finally found the little remote that let him raise the top part of the bed so he was somewhat sitting up.

The door slammed open a couple of minutes later and Greg filled the space. Well, what was left of Greg. The boy looked smaller and thinner than usual. He looked damn near hollowed out, and there were bruises under his red-rimmed eyes. "What in the world—"

"You're finally awake!" Greg said, cutting him off as he rushed over to the bed, tears streaming. His hands fluttered about like birds, from Dixie's chest to the blankets to the stuff stuck in him and then back to the blankets.

Dixie finally captured one of them, though his arm was a bit stiff. "Calm down, kitten."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Greg said, tears running anew. "You've been asleep for almost two months! And you're still hurt, but Byron says he can't fix you until you heal a certain amount on your own, but you're still hurt and it's stupid and doesn't make sense and you almost—" He glared murder over the fingers covering his mouth.

Dixie smiled faintly, sliding his fingers away to thread through Greg's hair and draw him down to drop a soft kiss on his mouth. "I'm fine. The damage that won't heal is because I'm a living computer, honey. We gotta replace all the nanowork, which yeah, I have to be healthy to undergo. It ain't quite as easy as defragging me every few months. And the damage is slow to heal because of the whole living computer thing, too. Suffice to say, Byron is frustrating, but not an asshole. You look worse than me. Ain't you been sleeping and eating?"

"Only when Byron makes me," Greg replied, hand curling around the one still in his hair. "Are you sure you're okay? Because you were going to die, and then suddenly it seemed like you'd live, and then everything went nuts and Byron almost lost you anyway…"

Dixie gave him another soft kiss, tempted to take a deeper one but not succumbing when he knew he must smell something awful and who knew the state of his mouth. "I'm fine, and if I'm awake, then I'm near mended. So you'd better get some damned rest and put more meat on those bones. Hear?"

"Hear," Greg echoed and hugged him as tightly as he could manage with wounds and medical equipment in the way.

"So tell me what I've missed," Dixie said, but before Greg could reply, the sound of someone coming made them both turn. Byron and Leland filled the doorway, Byron smiling more brightly than Dixie had ever seen.

"It's about time you woke up, you lazy, outdated computer," Byron said as he stood next to Greg, Leland going to the other side of the bed. His eyes skimmed over the equipment, though there must have been feeds downstairs. "How are you feeling?"

"Been better, but been worse, too," Dixie said. "Tell me it wasn't for nothing."

Byron and Greg both broke into nigh-maniacal grins. "It wasn't for nothing," Byron said. "Turncoat hasn't been out of the news once since he brought down the Mason System and severely crippled the G.O.D., endangering the lives of everyone in the world while the G.O.D. struggles to recover and their ability to protect the world in the meantime is severely reduced. You are wanted just dead now, and they've tripled the bounty."

"Damn."

"What in the hell did you do?" Greg asked. "Byron says from what he's gathered, the system is fucking gone."

Dixie nodded. "Yep. Daddy and I designed a virus years ago that would destroy the whole system, in basically four stages. The only problem is that it requires three people with master access to carry out. That was something we had to put in place, didn't have much choice about. But there were loopholes to exploit. Daddy was the first requirement, and the first key was turned upon his death. The second key was me letting the virus out. The third key I changed from the original to be Hades, and I made damned sure he never knew it."

"He's dead," Greg said quietly, fingers playing restlessly with the blanket, picking, twisting, smoothing, right back to picking. "The news hasn't said much, but from we've gleaned, they found him lying dead in his office, blood coming out everywhere."

"He'd have felt every moment of the system dying, would have died with it." Dixie gestured to himself. "The same alterations that give us such fluid access to the system also means we feel the system, and suffer in real life when we suffer in there. So he died pretty horribly and I ain't a mite sorry."

"Nor should you be," Byron said.

Dixie nodded. "What about Ariadne? Did the information reach you?"

"Yep, and we're working on that plan now, so stop asking questions and focus on healing." He squeezed Dixie's hand, playfully patted his cheek. "I'll go fix you some food, and no fucking complaining while you eat."

"Make it taste good and I won't complain."

Byron rolled his eyes and left. Leland smiled tentatively. "I'm glad you're okay. I've not been here long, but it's not the same without you. God knows these two are bigger babies with you missing. Welcome back."

"Thanks," Dixie said, and with a parting smile, Leland followed Byron from the room, closing the door behind him.

Greg took his hand, held it tightly. "No more doing stupid shit."

"Says the world's worst thief," Dixie retorted.

"At least I'm not a shitty computer that needs a two month nap after getting my ass kicked."

Dixie laughed and didn't give a damn at all when it pulled painfully at the wound in his stomach. "A lousy thief and a shitty computer, sounds like an invincible pair."

"About time you figured that," Greg said haughtily.

"Butterflies gotta sober up eventually."

Greg snickered. "I wouldn't go that far." He yelped when Dixie pinched him but didn't resist when he was reeled in for another kiss.

Fin

Anti-Heroes will continue in Close Enough to Touch

Leland has always lived a life apart, never willing to get too close to anyone for fear of what might happen should the wrong people learn just how powerful he really is. Then his own reputation led to a friend paying the price, and he'll do anything to get her back.

Even if it means breaking all his rules to align himself with exactly the kind of troublemakers he'd always avoided as strenuously as he's avoided the G.O.D. Even if it means sharing space with Byron Valentine, the beautiful, mysterious leader of the group fighting to destroy the G.O.D., a man who makes Leland wish he could have the normal life his own abilities have always denied him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Megan is a long time resident of LGBTQ romance, and keeps herself busy reading, writing, and publishing it. She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she's not involved in writing, she likes to cook, harass her cats, or watch movies. She loves to hear from readers, and can be found all over the internet.

maderr.com
maderr.tumblr.com
meganaderr.blogspot.com
facebook.com/meganaprilderr
meganaderr@gmail.com

@amasour