The meeting for approval of Aperture's new youth center in Rome was not going well, even before Cardinal Law exploded.
It was supposed to be an easy project. A gesture to establish Damien's authority in the European branch—young, freshly transferred from the main office, and in need of something visible to silence the skeptics. A playground, a community hub, a few anomaly safety drills. Harmless on paper.
Something to keep him occupied while he waited for the prophesied fire.
But when Damien saw that the Archbishop of Boston had joined the proceedings—without so much as a courtesy warning—he knew exactly what kind of tone had been set.
Still, that was fine. Damien liked knowing where he stood.
Cardinal Law sat in silence, disapproving even in posture, as Damien outlined what he generously called a "collaborative initiative"—offering the Vatican a chance to save face while Aperture modernized youth welfare.
Damien was already bracing for whatever sanctimonious filth the man would eventually spit out. He could almost hear it before the words came—lectures about godlessness, corruption, and the dangers of leading children away from the Church's guiding hand.
It would've been annoying enough, even if it didn't come from a man who worked so hard to conceal that guiding hand didn't occasionally wander below the belt.
But it wasn't the hypocrisy that bothered Damien.
It was the stupidity.
If Law really thought he could keep the lid on that kind of scandal for the rest of his life—well, doubtful, but even if he managed it, what about the Church after him? What about the institution he claimed to serve?
Concealment of that magnitude was never a sustainable strategy—not when it involved unstable elements, such as all those molested boys. Some things could be buried, yes—but only if they didn't fester. The rest? You planned for the reveal. Controlled the timing. Shaped the narrative.
But people like Law? They just prayed no one looked too closely.
Sooner or later, rot found daylight.
That was the difference between Aperture and relics like Law—Aperture cleaned house. Not because it was moral, but because it was smart.
That reminded him—he really needed to start working on briefing strategy for what he was, for now, calling bio-improved lifestyle alignment. Now that he knew it worked—now that Trevor was always with him—it was time to scale. Someone from PR to manage the messaging. And maybe a catchier name. Someone from HR to quietly suggest the next wave of viable candidates.
The iPhone chirped.
Then Cardinal Bernard Law detonated. What nearly deafened Damien wasn't the sound of the explosion.
It was the Ring—screaming in his mind with the hurricane-roar of a multitude of dying breaths, all at once.
And he knew it wasn't just Law.
Four more detonated with him—one in the panel beside him, and three scattered through the audience.
And more. Unless, by some fluke of cosmic timing, another disaster was unfolding right now. Damien doubted it.
Damien acted on trained instinct, catching the explosions in tight psychic shields before the fireballs could expand. The shields crackled with heat and pressure, warping visibly, but they held. The chamber's marble floor buckled; dust rained from the vaulted ceiling—but there were no secondary casualties.
Not yet.
Damien scanned the room again for threats, then met the terrified eyes of the surviving visitors.
It took him only a moment to read the room—and he almost scoffed. But that would be counterproductive.
"It wasn't me," he said, tone flat. "That would be... unprofessional."
The last part was deliberate. A full denial wouldn't work. But something that absurd, that dry, that calmly stated? It wasn't fully convincing—but it was just convincing enough to slow the panic.
He felt the mental tug—light but unmistakable—and his lips almost curled into a fond smile.
Almost.
Smiling here would've been… inappropriate, considering the four dead bodies still cooling on the floor.
Still, the warmth lingered. He always felt it when Trevor reached across their newly strengthened bond. He supposed they were still in the honeymoon phase. Not that he minded.
While Damien had focused on the meeting, Trevor had been the one coordinating their special forces deployment in Rome—providing a human interface to the hive's inhuman perspective.
Trevor's mind often translated perception into comics—sketched frames, stylized motion, metaphor over strict causality. It was something Damien was used to.
The Hive was not.
And it was immensely curious.
Adding Trevor's perspective had worked better than Damien expected. The Hive, baffled at first, now found itself… intrigued. Another viewpoint, alien even to itself, rendered in shapes and colors it had never conceived. The abstract logic of metaphor. The humor of distortion. Symbolic exaggeration instead of empirical truth.
It wanted more.
Like a teenage boy having his first threesome and immediately demanding an orgy, the Hive was hooked.
Like all visions that came from Trevor's imagination, it was a little dark. A little gritty. Even without the theme.
And the theme was familiar: explosions.
Men and women. Old and young. Walking. Talking to their iPhones. Tourists pausing to take pictures of ancient stones. Each was framed in panels—brief, quiet moments strung into tiny stories. Mundane. Tender. Stupid. Beautiful.
And always ending the same way.
In fire.
Trevor wasn't witnessing this in person.
He was perceiving it through Hive creatures—ones he and Damien had smuggled into Rome weeks ago. And in the process, Damien had learned a useful truth: hiding an army of monsters was easier than keeping them fed while they waited.
As the saying went: amateurs talk tactics; professionals plan logistics.
Trevor wasn't seeing through their eyes—they had none. He was using them as nodes, anchors for his psychometry. It wasn't sight, not really. It was symbolic. Indirect.
But it worked.
It conveyed the information with disturbing clarity.
All that death, all that pain—lesser men would have been paralyzed.
But Damien was made of sterner stuff.
Empathy was all well and good, but actually finding solutions required action. A clear head. And, in moments like this, the willingness to take control.
Besides, he knew the number of deaths here wasn't enough. He had heard more dying breaths than this—by orders of magnitude. But that wasn't his task. He would leave the rest of the world to Rin, and focus on Rome.
For now.
"You must excuse me," he said, voice calm and level as he began pushing calming pulses into the room.
He didn't bother with subtlety. If anyone accused him of manipulating their minds or emotions, his defense was already prepared: It was an emergency. Panic served no one.
"This is not an isolated incident," he continued. "It will require coordinated response."
He let the words hang, just for a beat. Then added, with calculated weight:
"Others weren't as lucky as you to have someone like me on-site. Aperture is ready to act—for the good of all."
He sent a calming pulse across the link to Trevor—along with clear instructions: keep watching. But do not act. Not yet. This wasn't the moment to unleash a monster army.
Instead, Damien reached over his shoulder and gently tapped one leg of the Aperture Mobile hanging dormant on his back. It would've been impolite to activate it during the meeting.
"Contact everyone on the list. Priority-response," Damien said calmly, as the mobile flickered to life. "Short message: emergency. Then start convening a call with all team leads."
He had expected this. Planned for worse. Rehearsed response protocols, layered security, worst-case scenarios.
And this wasn't that.
Not yet.
Damien continued issuing orders as he exited the building and approached his company-issued car—an Aperture electric, top-of-the-line, running on the latest salt-based batteries. He knew the specs, even if he didn't care. It wasn't luxury. It was responsibility. A privilege—but also part of the job. Public figures had to be seen using the products.
Trevor was already in the driver's seat. Unlike Damien, he actually liked driving. When he had time, he volunteered for it. Damien nodded a greeting, still on the call, coordinating with team leaders.
Trevor smiled and sent him a warm telepathic hug.
Damien's plan was barely in motion. The first response teams had only just reached a few of the impacted zones—mostly those nearest the main Aperture complex in Rome.
And then St. Peter's Basilica erupted in flame.
But that was only the beginning.
Damien's lips parted in a predatory smile as he began to unbutton his suit. He was tired of waiting.
"Trevor, love," he said aloud, stripping off his shirt with deliberate ease, "someone went to the trouble of sending us such a dramatic invitation. Could you get us there while I change? I see you're already dressed for the occasion."
He nodded toward Trevor's outfit—Aperture's version of a superhero suit. Sleek red and blue, discreetly armored in all the right places, with ports that linked his personal Aperture Mobile to the suit's integrated systems.
"I put it on when the explosions started," Trevor replied, already in the driver's seat. "So… do we go deal with the fire?"
"No," Damien said calmly, slipping into his own gear—red and black, too aggressively styled for the PR department's taste, but Damien had made it work. "Rome has firefighters and emergency crews. There are only two tactical reasons to set off coordinated explosions like these. First, to overwhelm local response capacity. In that case, it's a perfect demo for our firefighting drones."
He locked the final piece of armor into place and clicked the collar seal.
"The second reason is more interesting: to ambush the first responders."
He stepped into the back of the vehicle, his voice low but clear.
"In that case, the trap will be near the most recognizable monument. We're going to spring it."
Trevor's eyes narrowed. "And the other sites?"
Damien smiled faintly. "That's what our hidden little friends are for."
He meant the Hive soldiers.
More fires started during the drive.
Trevor drove fast and reckless, but panic had clogged the streets of the Eternal City. Damien had to intervene several times, using telekinesis to shove obstacles aside.
According to protocol—one Damien had personally helped design—in the event of mass fire, a low-level liaison would first attempt to contact city authorities and offer Aperture's assistance. If contact failed, the drones would activate automatically.
In truth, that contact was meant to fail.
It gave Aperture a perfect pretext: they had offered help, but chaos and confusion had prevented a timely response. And so they had to act, to save lives. The plan let them demonstrate independence, superiority, and benevolence—all at once. No need to wait for permission. And no blame for acting without it.
His own interference would only complicate things unnecessarily.
Unless he focused on the Hive soldiers.
He nudged the nearest one mentally—guiding it to emerge from its concealed position near one of the fires, slithering into a better vantage point.
Let the trap spring.
Then ambush the ambushers.
Together, they abandoned the car and traveled the last portion on foot.
By the time they reached the piazza, flames had licked halfway up the dome. Vatican guards, priests, even tourists had been reduced to heaps of charred flesh.
Only one figure remained—alive, unburned, and waiting.
He stood calmly at the base of the burning basilica, dressed in immaculate white vestments trimmed with gold. A papal staff rested at his side. He looked kind. Gentle. The image of a benevolent grandfather.
But Damien had seen pictures of the current pope.
This wasn't him.
"Trevor," Damien said in a dry, slightly mocking tone, "remind me—what do we call it when we have an extra pope?"
Nothing provoked pompous bastards quite like being mocked. Or ignored. This was both.
"Historically? Antipope," Trevor replied, equally flat.
"My sons," the old man corrected, his tone soft and instructional—like a teacher scolding children, "you misunderstand. I am currently the only living pontiff. And I was legally elected. Several times, in fact. Under this face, I have served as Urban II. That one was always my favorite."
If any further confirmation of Vril-ya involvement was needed, this was it. Damien wasn't a scholar of history. His interests lay elsewhere. But he didn't need to know the details to understand what kind of name the Vril-ya would favor.
"Urban II?" he said, turning to Trevor—not just because Trevor adored those quaint historical footnotes, always good for flavoring his comics, but because the Vril-ya hated being ignored.
Trevor didn't miss a beat. "He launched the First Crusade. Promised heaven to anyone who killed in God's name."
A beat.
"Started with Jews in Europe. Moved on to Muslims in Jerusalem."
"As God wills it," the old man said kindly. "And what stands before me? Sodomites and witches. Shall I burn you twice?"
Damien could sense it.
The first ambush had been crushed. Vril-ya, wearing human faces, had descended on the busy firefighters—and the Hive soldiers struck from behind. They fell like guardian angels, monstrous and silent, to protect brave men fighting fire. But anyone who'd actually read the Bible should already be used to angels that looked like monsters.
His lips curled into a smile. He continued to provoke the snake. "As if you ever cared about that, you deceitful reptile."
"I find your mimed mating rituals truly revolting," the old man said, with cold disgust. "Especially when they serve no purpose. And witches…" He shuddered theatrically. "They're just monkeys, reaching beyond their means. Wielding powers no human deserves."
"And what do you think humans deserve?" Trevor asked.
"It's not what I think," the Antipope replied, in the same maddeningly patient tone. "It's what I know. Humans deserve one thing, and one thing only. Extinction."
A pillar of flame descended on Damien and Trevor like the judgment of God.
Damien didn't need to see it—his eyes were fixed on the Antipope. But flame was motion, heat, vibration—obvious to his telekinetic senses.
The column slammed into his force shield and shattered harmlessly against it, fire washing outward in a swirling arc.
The Antipope didn't twitch. Didn't blink.
That was the difference between old monsters and young ones. The young raised a staff and hurled flame like throwing a tantrum. The old didn't need to gesture. They bent the world with a thought—and made it look like nothing at all.
"You'll need more than that if you want to burn me," Damien said calmly.
Then he struck.
With a wave, he tore up the paving stones, sending leather-sharp slabs slicing forward like teeth—an improvised wall meant to blind the Antipope's line of sight.
It failed.
A shimmering blue shield rippled to life, smooth and absolute. Just as Damien had expected.
"As you wish, my wayward son," the Antipope said kindly. Then, with a nostalgic sight, "I do miss the auto-da-fé."
Flames descended again—this time not as a pillar, but a twisting tornado, curling like a judgmental serpent around Damien's telekinetic shield. The fire didn't touch him—yet—but it didn't have to.
The Antipope didn't press. He simply whispered, "Burn for your sin."
Damien gritted his teeth. He could feel the strain building. His power was innate, yes—but finite. Even with the Ring's augmentation, every act still came at a cost. The demon preserved life. It didn't spare him from exhaustion.
The Antipope, by contrast, showed no signs of fatigue. Vril-ya power was external—channeled through the staff, drawn from their hoarded stores. As long as the Vril supply held, the fire would burn. The shield would hold. And Damien would bleed energy.
"Which sin?" he asked, as sweat rolled down his brow. "You'll have to be more specific. I have so many."
From the Hive link, another report arrived—another ambush neutralized. This time, it wasn't Vril-ya soldiers. It was human collaborators. They died the same way. Damien felt nothing for them.
Perhaps they'd been deceived. But they'd chosen to act against the interests of mankind.
"The most grievous one, my son," the Antipope said, voice dripping with gentle malice. "Being human."
Damien's chest hitched.
He realized, too late, that this fire wasn't meant to burn him.
It was meant to suffocate him.
As if that could work.
Even before joining the Hive, Damien had mastered biofeedback well enough to survive drowning trials—he could've passed as a witch, easily. Now, of course, he had other options.
His lungs weren't entirely human anymore. A shadow swarm nested there—tiny black particles that, on command, filtered carbon dioxide and transmuted it into oxygen through telekinetic extraction.
But Damien didn't scoff. Instead, he drained the color from his face, let his posture sag, shaped his expression into a pale, exhausted cast. Subtle tweaks made him look on the verge of collapse.
The Antipope wanted to believe he was winning. Let him.
If he doubled down, the fire would grow—but that meant more energy spent on offense, and less on defense. The Vril reserves weren't infinite. Neither was their output per second.
Damien rasped, just breathless enough to sell it. "You'll fail. We knew you were coming. Even now... firefighting drones are being launched."
The Antipope stayed perfectly gentle. "A little light exercise, once I've dealt with you."
The flames flared hotter. The stones beyond Damien's shield hissed, bubbling from the heat.
"But I noticed something," the old man added, softer now. "You arrived too fast. Seers."
His smile never changed, but the warmth drained from his voice.
"We culled that bloodline from our kind. You should have done the same. Seers always betray—once the darkness falls."
It was time.
Damien dropped to his knees—deliberately, dramatically. His pupils widened, as if with fear. His hand lifted weakly, trembling in mock surrender.
A gesture of submission.
The kind that lures a predator closer.
The fire intensified again.
And then—Damien clenched his fist.
His telekinesis grabbed hold of the molten stones littering the scorched square, compressing them mid-air into a crude, glowing mass—then firing them like a railgun.
Not at the Antipope.
That would've triggered the Ring, tried to divert or weaken the strike.
But at the shield?
The Ring didn't care about that.
The molten blast hit like a cannonball. The shimmering field cracked with a sharp, crystalline scream.
For the first time, the Antipope flinched.
Just a fraction—but enough.
The barrier re-formed, but no longer as a full sphere. It collapsed inward, thickening only on the side facing Damien.
A half-dome.
Not a prison. Not a throne.
A wall.
"You missed!" the old man snarled, his voice no longer patient or kind. The mask was gone, replaced by raw, righteous fury. "Your last desperate strike, and it was nothing!"
"You think I missed?" Damien said calmly, almost smiling. "That's adorable."
Because Trevor was standing behind him.
Not appearing. Not emerging.
Standing.
He'd always been there.
It was a trick he'd learned from watching Sen—not becoming a character in the story, but something stranger.
Not the actor.
The author.
Trevor didn't vanish. He became unremembered. Overlooked.
Which was better than invisible.
He exhaled.
From his mouth poured black smoke—a swarm of microscopic Hive-creatures, like a cloud of bees made of ink and ash.
The swarm screamed as it surged forward.
It wrapped around the Antipope like a cloak of shadow, covering him entirely, layer upon layer. His body convulsed. He tried to scream, but the swarm was already inside him—dissolving molecule by molecule, replicating as it consumed.
His voice failed.
And then Trevor inhaled.
The swarm returned to him—silent and satisfied.
The Antipope was gone.
Damien marched forward, pausing only to snatch up the fallen staff. After all, when visiting the Vatican, one should take a souvenir. Rin would appreciate it. Even if he already had quite the collection.
Then he grabbed Trevor for a victory kiss.