It was busy for a weekday morning. The main commercial district of Mirrorvale was very pedestrian-friendly and the two adjoining streets south of the central mall complex were filled with a flea market's worth of street stalls, each offering a bouquet of shopping possibility. Everything from food to 'authentic' Persian rugs was on offer, arrayed alongside the cleaner colours and lines of professional advertising, the chain stores and franchised labels of the American corporate.

Yet, Nero had other things on his mind than commerce.

"I could get no closer than the front gate." He made his way through the crowd as he talked, glancing at shop fronts and signage in passing, curiosity not extending beyond a second's inspection of whatever was being exhibited. There was very little that these places could offer someone like him, and his displacement within regular 'society' never felt more apparent than when he was amidst such pure materialistic consumerism. "There was a neighbour making problems that would have drawn attention. She was entirely too lucid for my liking."

"Then the Order is watching the house. It is as I suspected." His comrade was silent through the phone's receiver, musing on this development for a few seconds. "Hm. The direct approach was uncertain at best, though, now we are at least free from any further false assumptions."

"It vexes me that I could not do more." Nero stopped, for a moment drawn by the smell of cooking meat to a burrito stand, then he chastised himself, moving on to the next stall; cheap Rolex watches, fresh out of Guangzhou. "What good am I if my uses are limited?"

"Sometimes, it is the blade. Other times, it is the will. Yet others, it is fire itself." A reprimand and an affirmation all rolled into one, the words were candid wisdom of the sort he had always known from this one. "Simply because your purpose is unmatched should not imply you are without one."

"What would you ask of me, then?"

"Lie low." The instructions were given. "Keep out of sight. There is another way, and it is ... progressing. You will be called upon again when the situation needs it."

"As you wish."

He ended the call, the phone going into a pocket. There was nothing further for him to attend in the ruckus of the central district, so he began to make his way back out of the throngs toward the main street and the direction of his abode. Yet, the scents were beginning to get to him, his hunger more acute, and the food stands were becoming steadily more enticing. One smell in particular was potent and mouthwatering and close by -- the smell of frying prime beef.

A dozen paces down the street was a vendor with a cart that folded out into a small counter top. A half dozen bar stools were cluttering the pavement in front of it, while behind, the owner was turning a variety of meat on a grill, a young woman assisting him. Hoagie buns, condiment bottles, onions, cheese and other foodstuffs sat on a little side table, ready for construction. Nero was close enough that his attention caught the man's eye, and he nodded sagely, having spotted a customer-to-be.

"Want something?" The man waved his tongs at the grille. "Beef, chicken, pork. Polish sausage, spanish chorizo, more besides. Plenty of options. What'll it be?"

He took a seat. "Beef. Anything is fine."

"Got some quality ribeye. How 'bout a Philly cheesesteak?"

"That will do." Nero dropped a 20 note on the counter. "Keep the change."

"Huh." The vendor nodded. "Generous." He stashed the money into a takings box, that was bolted to the side of the cart. "Thanks for the scratch." Plucking a bun, he began to fill it with chopped steak, and then to lay cheese slices on top. "Local or visitor? Work or pleasure?"

Nero indulged the pleasantries, as trivial and harmless as they were. "You could say I'm here for work, yes."

"Ah." The vendor nodded, closing the bun, packed full of meat and cheese, and placed it in a mini toaster-oven to melt further. "What field?"

"Government job." Nero lied. "Can't say much."

"I hear ya." He adjusted the heat on the grille and handed his tongs to the woman, who took the second pair and began to use both skillfully and without hesitation. "Did hours for the man myself, once."

"Mmm," Nero murmured, trying to avoid escalating his responses into an actual conversation. It didn't matter though, because a moment later, the sandwich was removed from the toaster-oven and handed to him.

"Enjoy."

He did. Hungrier than he thought, he devoured the sandwich in short order, only slowing to make himself appear like a civilised guest. The beef was good, though it always felt like it was too well done, even when it wasn't. His preference was for it to be as red as possible, as close to raw as was permitted.

As rare as rare could get.

Still, seasoned and with the right toppings, this was acceptable too.

He was wiping his fingers clean with a couple of paper napkins, when he noticed a little display cabinet next to the menu sign on the cart's end. It had a perspex front to it, and inside were a number of bracelets, necklaces, rings and assorted pieces of jewellery. None of them were highly valuable, but they were all gold and silver settings, and the intricacy of the metal shaping and engraving was superb. Nero was surprised, not expecting to see artistry like this on a street corner.

"This craftsmanship is impressive." He glanced to the vendor. "Where did you get these?"

"I know a guy." The vendor sat on a stool of his own opposite Nero, removing his disposable food-handling gloves, and tossing them into the trash bin to the side. "Does beautiful work."

"He's got some talent."

"Got a good eye." The vendor rubbed his hands together, thoughtful. "I've a piece ya might like." He reached behind the cart, out of Nero's sight, then back again. In hand was a bracelet which he held out for examination. It was a bar and chain design, with alternating half-inch sections of each. Each bar had a tiny serpent's head at either end, and each chain section was delicately interlinked, though the links were chunky enough that it could take some abuse without breaking. It was pure gold, or very close to it, and Nero was transfixed by the simplicity and skill involved. The man unclipped the chain and held it open, encouraging him to try. Nero extended his left wrist, and the bracelet was pulled around and with a press of the fingers, it clicked shut.

He gazed at it.

Not bad.

Many things were overrated, but this sort of finery had a certain appeal.

"Suits ya," the man said. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level, a half-whisper. "Figures, though. Yer a snake, ain't ya Nero?" Very gentle, his hand closed over the gold-clad wrist, a subtle warning motion. "Bloody big snake, but still ... a snake."

His hands clenched into fists, ready for reaction in an instant.

"Who are you?"

"Ya'll have that same disgusted face when ya get caught. Never gets old." The man chuckled. "Been stakin' out this strip for a good few days. The Order? They got their methods, and I've got mine. Legwork pays off if ya keep at it, and well, I know what you are. Certain sights, certain sounds; they make you tick." With his free hand, he tapped his temple, adroit. "Didn't even realise it was all bait, did ya?"

"You say you know me," Nero leaned in, fearless, their faces just a couple inches apart, "but perhaps you don't. A trap needs a cage. I don't see it, and I'm not one to suffer detention. Nothing is stopping me from killing you where you sit, right now, and walking away."

"Oh, there is a cage. Yer wearin' it."

The bracelet.

"Called in a few favours, had it custom made. That little trinket?" The man squeezed his wrist. "Can't do much while it's on yer arm. No mind games. No magic. No mass destruction and scores of dead. It's what yer thinkin', ain't it?" He grinned. "Oh, yeah. I definitely know yer sort. Being one-upped makes ya so very mad. The fun is snatched away and it's tantrum time. Ya wanna let loose and burn it down. That's yer answer for being captured. Hell, it's yer answer for everythin'. Fire."

He was right. Nero was angry.

Very angry.

"It is the answer," he murmured, his eyes tracing the bracelet's gilded links. He was holding back, knowing the futility of premature rage, but he wanted to do as the man said. He wanted to torch everything. "The only answer that matters. This world and all you know will be consumed. The final season is waning. A new future is imminent. Killing me won't change any of this," his eyes flicked from his study of the golden manacle at his wrist back to the man's face, a leer growing, "though, you probably should, because I'm not a foe to cross and leave alive. So," Nero leaned in even closer, the two just about bumping noses, "what's your name?"

"Crawley." The man was not intimidated, his voice soft. "Don't worry yerself, you'll see plenty more of me." His riposte was a trademark grimace. "The Order will be here shortly, and I'll be handing them their prize. Boy, do they have a lot of questions."

"Maybe," Nero sneered, eye to eye, "but not today."

In the fraction of a moment after the last word was spoken, his arm jerked out of Crawley's grasp and then Nero was already moving, dodging into and through the stream of casual pedestrians. Crawley saw him vanish into the crowd, and was swearing loudly as he scrambled around the cart end and took off in pursuit. His quarry was only a couple of dozen feet away, tearing at the bracelet while he ran at breakneck speed. The Colt was drawn and secure in hand, loaded with the special rounds Crawley kept for such an occasion.

The problem was that Nero was very fast.

Even as the crowd, an undulating congregation of people, hurriedly got out of the way, Crawley was having trouble keeping up with his target. Nero was as quick and agile as expected, those famous reflexes sharp as always; even more so with the complication of mob navigation thrown in. Dodge, swerve, duck; one person after another, on and on and on. Their feet were clattering on the pavement, the gap beginning to open up, and then with a swift juking burst, Nero took a sudden right turn into a gap between the buildings.

Gone.

Crawley reached the point of deviation less than ten seconds after his target took it. The trail led into a side alley between two department stores; at the other end was an exit through onto the next street over, parallel to the current one, more people and vehicles flashing by. Most of the way along it was Nero. He had stopped, his back against the wall, figure painted in profile. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were straining, his left hand held out, the right gripping the bracelet and pulling with all his might.

Exactly the moment Crawley laid eyes on him, a section of the chain broke.

Golden links sailed into the air, the magical bonds failing.

The enemy was free.

Nero ripped the bracelet away and tossed it to the paving. If he was angry before, now it was multiplied; returned a hundred times over. He stood straight, unhindered by the physical exertion, and turned to stare death upon his would-be captor. The eyes were wild, baleful, filled with a potent murderous hate.

"Crawley."

The way he spoke it made clear his ultimate intentions.

Not today, nor tomorrow, but one day: Nero would find him.

It was a verbal death mark.

Then, Nero simply turned and with the same unnatural speed, he left Crawley's sight in two seconds; out of the alley and away, vanishing.

Well, fuck.

Crawley lowered the Colt, the likelihood to miss and accidentally strike a bystander having stopped any realistic chance at a shot. That, and he wasn't totally sure anything other than a headshot would have mattered at that point. Crawley sighed as he trudged down the now-deserted alley, breath coming wheezily. Bastard was definitely stronger and fitter than he'd anticipated. It wasn't like he hadn't seen this sort of thing before, but ... they were always surprising in some very strange ways.

Least Nero won't forget who I am any time soon. Always great at makin' friends, that's good ol' Crawley.

Still, he was intending to have a captive at the end of the sting. It was disappointing to come away empty handed with so much time invested. Fishing the packet out of a pants pocket, his breathing coming under control, Crawley withdrew and lit a cigarette. Crouching, he scooped up the bracelet and its broken pieces. As he touched it, he immediately noticed something else.

It was wet.

Smears and dabs, very light, but ... it was Nero's blood. He had cut himself removing it.

Blood.

Crawley blinked.

"You unlucky bastard." He gazed down at the crimson-daubed bracelet, a smile beginning to form. "You're really gonna want me dead after I'm done with this."

Perhaps the day was not lost after all.