The Gorgon was 1.9 meters of muscled attitude in archaic Greek armor; her deep golden hair thick as snakes, the flash of her eyes as fierce and free as an eagle. She wore a crimson cloak that was battered and stained with mud but the bronze labrys, the double-headed axe, strapped to her back was exquisitely maintained, honed to a sharpness that could slice between atoms of air.

Together they made a nice contrast, Crow thought, ever the aesthete. Sun and shadow. Action and subtlety. Warrior and trickster. He inclined his head.

“Madame.”

Crow gestured and the tea-table was back, another cup filled and waiting.

“So glad you could join me.” He smiled. “Tea?”

The Gorgon snorted. The plates of her bronze armor jingled like bells at the movement. “You know I hate that stuff,” she said.

Crow made another gesture. The cup was now a black-figure kylix, filled to the brim.

“Wine then,” he said. “From the slopes of your beloved sun-drenched Aegean.”

Gorgon crossed her arms over her armored chest and frowned. “What did you have to show me, Crow?”

“Ever the practical one,” Crow sighed. “Very well. What I have to show you is proof, madame. Behold!” He swept out an arm at the living painting behind him.

The Gorgon took a long, sour look. “So?”

“So? So?? Look closer. There. Do you see him?”

The Gorgon rolled her eyes. “I see a distressing swarm of mortals milling about uselessly which is what mortals generally do. Why am I here?”

Crow banked his frustration. The Gorgon possessed a fine sense of drama but she lacked the patience for the long reveal. She was also excellent at spoiling other people’s grand moments, too, damn her.

“You are here to bear witness, madame! You are here as attestor to an historic moment. A moment that will change everything! A moment foretold!”

Crow whirled and pointed to a man within the painting. “There!”

Frozen on the painted street, a man was holding a takeaway cup of coffee and frowning at a data-comm on his wrist. He wore a suit, plain but neatly tailored, and clutched a briefcase with his other hand, something of an anachronism as paperless offices had been the norm for years. His face was unremarkable, with a stubborn jaw, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes caused by laughter had been overtaken by newer lines on the rest of his face etched by suffering. His hair was short and neat and a nondescript brown. In fact, the only remarkable thing about him at all were his eyes, which were the blue-grey of the ocean in a storm, sharp and intelligent.

“Behold, our herald,” Crow said.

The Gorgon leaned in and peered at the man within the painting.

Crow waited.

The Gorgon straightened. “He is damaged. Not strong enough.” She cast a glance at Crow. “What happened to the other one?”

“Er...” Crow made a show of studying his fingernails. “There was an incident. Regrettable. Small change of plans. No matter.”

The Gorgon’s look was dubious. “I told you this wouldn’t work.”

“It will work,” Crow said with some heat. “It has to work and it will! Maybe this one wasn’t the first choice, maybe he isn’t strong enough—alone. But he will have allies if he can keep them. Look…”

Crow pointed at a different area of the city within the painting. A woman stood at the curb of a busy downtown street, hand raised to hail a cab, perfectly poised on three inch heels. Her corporate attire was modern and elegant and she wore an array of personal tech that indicated she was highly successful in her field. Her makeup was flawless, the deep crimson of her lips striking against skin the color of porcelain, and her hair was cut fashionably, perfectly styled, and the deep copper-red color of blood.

“…the Warrior.”

The Gorgon considered. “Possibly of some use,” she said at last.

“And this one! The Lost Soul…” Crow said, pointing again.

The painting blurred and showed some other part of the city where the streets were less well maintained, the shadows deeper. A young man in a battered leather jacket stood just off the busy main street, leaning against an old brick wall, stuffing his face with a slice of pizza. His hair was close-cropped, a sloppy military cut, though the war had been over for years. He wore faded jeans that were rumpled against the tops of well-worn combat boots. His posture was outwardly relaxed but the quick movements of his eyes betrayed that just underneath the facade hummed the wary tension of a hunted animal.

Auto-cabs, pedestrians and cyclists streamed past the mouth of the alley, a busy, impersonal blur, as the man took another huge bite and chewed slowly, glancing up at the sparkling, fizzing energy of the city dome overhead.

“Are you serious? That is a common cur.”

“A mongrel, yes,” Crow said patiently, “but not common."

The man in the painting finished his pizza, sighed, and wiped his hands on his jeans. His glance around the alley was casual but it told you that in a heartbeat he had mapped all the exits, assessed any possible threat. The man thrust both hands in his pockets and stepped out into the street, blending effortlessly with the stream of people flowing by.

“He is something new. Canem Civitatem, a ‘dog of the city.’”

The painting blurred, became smoke, ethereal and weird. The bustling traffic faded into a smear of grey, leaving only the indistinct shapes of skyscrapers and streets and the back of the scruffy man in the leather jacket, walking away.

The painting froze again. Where the man had been a wolf walked slowly into the canyons of the city.

Crow turned to the Gorgon, met her eyes. “This is what I would show you, madame. My proof. For the first time in countless eons, as fragile as it may be…”

“Hope.”