Awareness, movement, revolution and evolution were the notes.

Power was the tune.

The Children were their instruments.

And it was all a work in progress.

On the outskirts of Universe City, a structure two-layers deep existed to house the Lords' expanded sensibilities. It had been fashioned together from a fusion of metals by Member 3038, specifically to let the Lords' new music resonate away from ears still too primitive to understand it. The structure was laced with miles of hardware, cables, input and output riggings, and fortified with security devices. The alloys were created to provide the cleanest, purest acoustics possible. But even the Child who'd created them never entered the main hull. Only one did: Ven.

He was the only human even partially capable of understanding the true depth and harmonics of their music. He was the intermediary, allowed to pass through the outer walls (six inches thick) and the inner walls (twelve inches thick) and back, carrying information directly to and from the Lords. Only his eyes had ever seen the inside of the Chamber since the Lords took up residence within. He had never described it to anyone except fscked, and even she didn't fully understand. The paradox of Ven being in the Lords' presence was that he was at once closer to them than any other human would ever be, and still millions of light years distant.

The Lords existed within the Chamber. The Chamber existed within the Hall, which adopted its name. It was a hallowed place, at once revered and feared by the Children. This was their spiritual home, rooted in cosmic music. They only came when summoned, which was rarely, but they were quick to come. And deep within themselves they all had an unconscious understanding of the purpose of the Hall, and themselves as well:

To distribute the music to those few, barren places where it did not exist.

The Lords were the progenitors and conductors, and they knew where the music died.

Within the Perdendosi.

THE OFFICIAL CURFEW was two hours away. But on weekends it was ignored for the most part in certain areas of the city. As low as the Perdendosi tolerance was for human vices, the occupants also realized they served a purpose. If the humans were buzzed or drunk or high they were usually quiet. And quiet was good. It also had a ripple effect on their economy, which translated to more revenue generated, which meant more money in the hands of the greedy. Vices were bad, but they were good.

The Red Light District extended across three areas of the city: Downtown, the Strip District and the South Side. There was policing everywhere, but it was light and mostly domestic. Smack in the middle of the point was the Perseverance Way clock which now struck seven pee-emm. Off-world visitors mingled through the streets freely with Terrans, all enjoying the contrasting effects of inebriants and sharp autumn air. You could wander into a nightclub or bar, drink to excess, walk outside and sober up just enough to start all over again in a new bar.

The Red Light District was also one of the few places not completely bled of color and energy by the occupants. Like moths to flame, humans couldn't resist the pull. During the day, it looked like every other part of the city, but at night its character stood revealed. There was nothing saintly about the strip clubs, dance clubs, nightclubs or taverns strewn around the clock, but they had no pretenses either. The angels went to church to escape the occupation; the devils came to the Red Light District.

On Liberty Avenue in Downtown, the jukebox at Sammy's blared above the din of the crowd, insistent on being heard. Its melodies were part of the cacophony of the weekend. The bar patrons stood shoulder to shoulder, jockeying for attention or looking to see who was buying the next round. There was a good mixture of types that walked through the front doors, making this place classy enough to escape the meat-market label affixed to most of the others.

Sammy's also had a new guy tending bar. It was a big reason why Agent and his friends didn't frequent the establishment anymore.

The new guy was younger than who he replaced, fairly good looking and his drinks were okay. Nothing special, but okay. What struck Agent was that he wasn't very personable. The crew gathered there every week - sometimes several times a week - and the old bartender knew them all, if not by name then by drink. The new guy looked at you every time you approached him as though you were a brand new species, created on the spot.

The old guy had seen it all. The new guy hadn't seen anything yet, and gave off the impression that he wouldn't remember who you were two minutes after you walked out the door. That laissez-faire attitude however was the only thing that would spare his life.

Shortly after 7pm, three men walked into Sammy's in arrowhead formation. The one in front was rather tall but still much smaller than the other two, who dwarfed everyone else in the room. He was obviously the leader and radiated authority. The other two weren't just large, they looked deadly-mean, like they'd rip the head off an anaconda at the slim man's bidding. As they parted the crowd there was also a notable drop in the volume of chatter. Even the music seemed to play softer, as though it didn't want to offend the trio.

The kid behind the bar didn't seem impressed. Some guys actually hired body-builders to flank them just to look important. This dude was probably no different, he thought. He made them wait their turn at the bar like all the rest and even took a moment or two longer, just to keep them humble.

Eventually he asked them, "What are you guys having?"

Rather than being offended at the wait, the man in front took his time responding. He glared around the room, and his nostrils flared at the smell of cigarette smoke. He wasn't enjoying being there. He wore a pinched expression and his face looked brittle.

"We need to find someone," said the brittle man.

The kid shrugged and smirked. "Yeah, well have a look around. There's a lot of 'someones' here tonight. Maybe even someone for you." He was amused at himself.

The brittle man was not. He folded his arms in front of his chest and sighed, lightly. "I don't think you understand. You want to be part of our solution tonight. We need to find someone, rather quickly."

"Look pal, I just started working here a few weeks ago. I don't know anyone here, and I'd kinda like to keep it that way. You know what I mean?" He wasn't liking the thin guy's vibe. Was he a cop? Or a jealous boyfriend? Maybe he was mafia. Whatever. He wasn't getting sucked into any part of this drama. "You guys want a drink tonight or you wanna cause a problem?"

Like the afore-mentioned anaconda, the brittle man's hand whisked out to grab the bartender's wrist. His grip was like an iron clamp, impossibly strong, and he yanked the younger man across the bar top and held him there. The bartender sensed it wasn't taking much effort on the brittle man's part to keep him in place, so he didn't even try to fight. He instantly regretted being so flippant.

The room fell silent. No one budged to help. The larger men insured that.

Brittlesmith casually reached inside of his leather trenchcoat and produced a digital rendering of a clean-headed white male, in his late twenties or early thirties. Blustersharks, as it turned out, had excellent memories and Phiffman had given them a near-perfect description of his inquisitor. Unfortunately, he and Agent were on a casual basis, so he didn't have a full name.

No matter. Brittlesmith asked the bartender, "Does this man look familiar?"

He shook his head. His aura pulsated in bright yellow waves of fear. Brittlesmith's peripheral vision revealed that most of the patrons' auras were also now burning yellow. He decided to check if anyone else present knew what he was talking about. He repeated his question, louder.

"Does this man look familiar?" he asked, now holding the photo up for them to see.

The bartender's aura was now glowing so brightly it was almost distracting. This was an expected reaction though; fear often clouded the humans' minds to the point that rational responses weren't forthcoming. He had to help clear it.

He handed one of his associates the photo, reached up and broke two of the bartender's fingers. Then he squeezed them and watched his aura turn orange. Some in the crowd got sick to their stomachs. A couple patrons tried to leave, but found their way blocked by more silent large men at the doorway.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Brittlesmith, surveying the landscape, "I'm in a rush, but I'm prepared to make some time tonight." He motioned for one of his guards to walk the rendering through the crowd. "If anyone here knows who that man is, they want to tell me. For this man's sake, you want to tell me quickly."

He locked eyes with the bartender. The pain had indeed cleared his head, but he still didn't have any information. He couldn't recall for the life of him having waited on the bald guy - even though he'd served him several drinks in the weeks prior. He wriggled in agony he didn't think could get worse; he was wrong

Brittlesmith decided to work his way toward an answer and broke the bartender's forearm. The scream was harmonious to his ears.

They were yet another gift from the same Child who'd come across the eyedrops and Photogirl's belt buckle. This was someone who got around almost as much as Agent.

ElBandito straddled his barstool, smiling at the girl to his left. He blew smoke in her face, which under normal circumstances would have been unpardonable. Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment and swayed, more of her hormones coming unhinged. "Where did you get these things again? They're great!" he said, knowing a large thank-you was in order for the Child who'd found the aphrodisiac.

"Yeah, I know. They were a gift," responded Agent. "I've been hiding these things for weeks, waiting so I could try 'em out!" The smile on his face was competing for girth with his friend's. None of these girls stood a chance.

In Agent's pocket was a disc with the information he'd gathered from Phiffman as well as his other contacts. He was able to discover from his acquaintance in L.E.T.H.A.L. that the other overguard was named Farewayth and she was a special tactician in charge of their elite corp. From the people he knew who worked as clericals in various Perdendosi installations across the globe there now was general information on the occupants' military history, which went back thousands of years; the race was immeasurably old. He was not able to find much directly pertaining to Sinclair, but was able to confirm he was Brittlesmith's and Farewayth's predecessor in their positions.

In a metal case he kept constantly at his side, ElBandito had the notecomm ready to deliver to Ven. It still functioned perfectly, powered by whatever internal fuel source it had, but was no longer receiving new data. This suggested it was out of range, which wasn't entirely bad; that hopefully meant it was also out of range to be pinpointed. The other problem was everything on the notecomm was encrypted in the Perdendosi's language. It would be difficult finding someone who could translate for them.

Agent and ElBandito had both been instructed to go to Metropol for the drop-off, which was highly unusual. Ven preferred the Children keep low-profiles when meeting in public, although they flaunted this suggestion constantly, sometimes outright defying it. This break in his pattern was all the more surprising considering the importance of their task and cargo. They'd even suggested bringing their acquisitions to him, but Ven insisted there was a reason the drop-off had to be done so publicly.

The boys didn't argue. They didn't need to have their arms twisted to enjoy a night on the town. Matter of fact, they already planned to run over to Club Elite after the drop-off. Their smokes presented entirely too great an opportunity to pass up.

Agent exhaled a mint-scented billow of smoke at the girl to his right and she stroked his dome. From the corner of his eye he kept watching for fscked to show up. He hadn't asked, but assumed she was who Ven was dispatching to relieve them of their burdens. If things got heated, she'd be able to handle it. And the girl liked to dance, so the location would suit her fine. He was relaxed now though, and didn't even look at his watch.

The music was playing so loudly everything was communicated via the extremes of shouts or glances. The blacklights on the dancefloor throbbed to the bassline of the DJ's mix, washing the crowd in an incandescent glow. The beat was heavy, as though it was coming from inside everyone's chests all at once. It didn't matter whether the patrons were sitting or standing, they were for the moment unified by sound, harmonically synchronized. Libidos were allowed to roam on loose leashes and appetites were whetted. This was a world unto itself, a microcosm of decadence.

Appropriately, the DJ began playing Pain and Pleasure Concerto.

"You want another drink?" asked Agent, to which his friend bobbed his head. In days gone by, they'd have already been smashed, but now they could go all night and barely get a buzz. That is, if they didn't get the good offworld stuff - but right now they had to keep a clear head. "Tell me again why we don't do this every night?" asked Agent.

"Because our wives would kill us," answered ElBandito.

"Oh yeah. That's right." He gestured for the bartender, who already had drinks in hand for them, refills of what had just been polished off. Agent was about to ask how she'd read his mind - and was ready to chalk it up to the wafting fumes of their cigarettes, which had more than proven their worth - when she pointed across the club to a booth against the far wall.

"Compliments of the two ladies in the back," she said.

Agent's and ElBandito's eyes met for an instant, then they swiveled in the direction of the barkeep's outstretched index finger. Hidden in the shadows of several male admirers were two stunning specimens of the fairer gender. They didn't need alien stimulants or anything of the sort to fetch comparable attention from the men in their periphery; they were their own aphrodisiac.

They could barely be seen but the lack of detail actually deepened the mystery, and both men found themselves hypnotically drawn to the women. There was some kind of mutual connection present, which was certain. Four pairs of eyes locked across the club and held for what felt like hours. Then Agent and ElBandito raised their glasses to offer a toast to their benefactors.

The ladies' eyes gleamed for the barest of instants, a familiar Acidic green. Their identities became clear in the flash; they were Children. Ven had sent them for the drop-off. The boys laughed and clinked glasses.

"Remind me again why we're not going to pick them up?" said ElBandito.

"Because our wives would kill us," said Agent with a sigh and a smile.

"Oh yeah, that's right," said the big man, stroking his goatee.

At the front door, three men were stopped by security guards who asked for ID. The thin, brittle man in front produced an unexpected form of identification that immediately gained them all access. The music continued to resound through the club, much denser than at the previous establishments the trio had been to. They had checked every place it was suggested their quarry might be. Brittlesmith was determined to see for himself exactly who wanted to know who he was.

Meanwhile, the four children continued to stare at each other from opposite sides of the club, suddenly disenchanted with the common people who clung to them. They were also oblivious to the foreign body that had invaded the sanctity of the night's revelry. The music was nullified upon contact with Brittlesmith, and he moved within a pocket of silence. He and his foot-soldiers advanced purposely toward the dance floor, scanning the patrons as they did.

The cloakers they wore disguised them as perfectly as possible. Everyone looking at them saw a hard, lanky man buffered by two ferocious looking bodyguards with tremendous biceps. No one messed with them, no one questioned them. This was a field test for the units, which had yet to reveal any weaknesses, and their usage made perfect sense to Brittlesmith. If his quarry saw him coming, he'd have the advantage. The Overguard wanted this done as quickly as possible.

He now stepped onto the dance floor. The sea of dancers parted at the trio's approach. The pocket of silence continued to kill the sound. The blacklights strobed - and then the unexpected happened.

The BIE merchant who sold the eyedrops had a hard time moving another specialized product. These were sunglasses primarily made to help discern the patterns generated by light-communicating species like the Lybullps. One of the other features of this eyewear however, was its ability to perceive into other light spectrums. This included infrared and ultraviolet.

The latter commonly referred to as blacklight.

If anyone in the club happened to be wearing a pair, it would have simulated the effect of the fluorescent glow on the exhibitionists on the dancefloor. They would have seen UV rays cleave through the shellac of protoplasm covering Brittlesmith and his foot-soldiers. They would have seen the three revealed for what they were, in the middle of the overcrowded nightspot.

But they didn't need to, because the spotlights now had the same effect to the patrons' naked eyes. And then the screaming started.

Agent and ElBandito looked and saw the Overguard at the center of the ensuing melee and each assumed they had been somehow traced. They both knew who the occupant was from Photogirl's pictures and Agent cursed Phiffman, knowing full well the fishy bastard had given him up. ElBandito snatched up his briefcase and was the image of grace under pressure. They needed a way out of this mess.

By the time the boys thought to look back across the club at their female counterparts, the ladies had already bolted from the table at lightning speed and headed towards the back. They both silently gestured for Agent and ElBandito to follow them, which they did.

But as they did, they caught the attention of Brittlesmith, who in turn recognized Agent from Phiffman's description. He shouted at his guards to follow him and they all pushed through the crowd, flinging drunken civilians to and fro. The Overguard could practically feel the insurgent's throat in his hands.

While most of the crowd streamed for the back exit, the two women led Agent and ElBandito through the club's back offices - shoving personnel aside as they went. The ladies were impossibly strong, more than the boys and maybe rivaling fscked. None of them stopped to look back even once; they could feel their hunters closing in fast. The boys were tense, trying to figure out their next move, assuming there was even going to be a next move.

The ladies had no such worries. This was exactly what they were expecting - and they were prepared.