The detective surveyed the chaotic scene around him with a steady eye. An apparently average greasy diner was now in complete shambles: a contained fire continued to burn, shattered glass was everywhere, bits and pieces of debris littered the floor, and a small car was embedded in the diner's counter and stove.

The diner had been a known hang out for the Grim Reapers motorcycle gang. The attack could easily have been attributed to the ongoing turf war in Quebec between the Reapers and their rivals, the Hell's Angels. Still, something didn't seem quite right with that interpretation of events. He looked at the pattern of the debris again. It was the angle of the car, its rear noticeably higher that its front, that suggested another possibility.

"Metahuman." He mumbled to himself in Quebecois French. He looked up and recognized another officer at the crime scene. Carefully avoiding the debris, he walked towards the uniformed woman.

"Well, whoever our mysterious vigilante is, at least it looks like he's not on either side," the female officer said in French as the detective closed the distance between them.

"What makes you say that Odette?" the detective asked, stopping in front of a pile of twisted metal seats and glass. "That it's a 'he'? "

"Please," Odette smiled in response. "Women have better ways at getting back at people than this. Much subtler too, maybe someday I'll tell you about them Henri."

The detective cast his eye around the scene again, trying to make some sense to it all. Finally he asked, "So what do we know?"

"Not much. Seems to follow the other attacks fairly well," Odette offered. "The attack came about 2 a.m. when the place was closing. There were four people in a back stall, now being treated for minor injuries. They weren't very coherent to get a statement from them - could be the unique blend of beer, whisky and drugs they were taking of course. A couple of the crack heads did mention something about a bright light though, like the other scenes. The owner was in back when all this happened; wall crashed on him, he's in the hospital. But take a look at this."

Odette moved behind the counter and the stove to a back room. Patches of the floor were covered with a fine, white powdery substance as other small and large packets of the material were strewn about in the general mess of the place. The detective bent down to look at the substance, not really needing to.

"Cocaine," Odette offered, confirming the detective's suspicions. "The little asshole was storing this shit for the Reapers here. There's a car out back too; it has more of the white stuff inside. Our mystery man left two unconscious men in the car for us for when we got here as well. We're waiting till they wake up to talk to them. They're at the station right now - for their own protection of course."

"This is the fourth place he's hit with a connection to biker gangs: two of them Hell's Angels, two of them Grim Reapers. You're right, at least he's playing fair," Henri replied, his mind working at the pieces of the puzzle.

"So far it's been mainly property that's been destroyed, though there have been some serious injuries," Henri continued before suddenly asking, "What about their bikes?"

"I was just going to say," Odette replied, bringing the detective around to the front of the building. Four twisted and broken slabs of wheels and metal lay on the concrete sidewalk. "Just like the last one; he certainly seems to be sending a statement."

"The question is when is he going to turn his attention to the members of the motorcycle gangs themselves and not just their buildings and their Harleys?"

"Why the fuck are we wasting our time here?" A large, leather jacketed man yelled getting to his feet. The action brought a quick response from across the room where other equally intimidating looking individuals wearing the colours of the Grim Reapers stood. Like a chain reaction the Hell's Angels also stood, both sides with their hands on weapons both concealed and obvious.

A thinner man with a moustache and wearing a suit spoke, his voice absolutely calm and steady despite the tension in the room, "Danni, shut up and sit down."

A sudden influx of light and sound entered the still room.

"You're losing control Krager. How long, a month, maybe two, before you strangely disappear and one of your lackeys replace you?" A large, muscled man, also in a suit, said as he entered the room followed by two others.

Krager smiled, a malicious tinge in the expression. "From what I hear, you don't even have a week Dominic."

The one named Dominic snorted as he took his seat directly opposite Krager. "I'll last just long enough to find your corpse, drag it out, and shit on your face."

"What a deplorable lack of imagination," Krager calmly replied, "But then again I wasn't expecting too much from a Reaper, so I'm really not all that disappointed."

"What the fuck did you drag us out here for? If we're just going to sit here and trade insults, the Reapers are gone; we got bigger things on our mind than some washed-up has-beens," Dominic snarled, quickly losing his patience with the proceedings.

"Patience Dominic, for once your problem is also our problem. Somebody seems not to like our 'gentlemen's clubs'. This isn't good for business, yours or mine," Krager stated simply.

"We'll get the bastard. We're ready for him, and then I'm going to fucking rip his heart out personally," Dominic claimed to a small ripple of approval from among the other Grim Reapers.

"No, you won't," Krager continued. "He's a metahuman - just in case you're too stupid to have figured it out. He's taken out two of our establishments and two of yours, not counting how many of both our members might be missing. He's good, he's fast, and he's strong. He has to be to even touch the Hell's Angels."

Dominic stared back at Krager unflinching, "You got a point here somewhere, make it."

The thinner man leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together in front of him, his index fingers extended. "I'm calling in the Thirteen Horsemen. Now then, as they're a little pricey and they need assurances that the colours in the region are all onside, I came to you."

Dominic had paled a little. "Don't you think that's a little extreme? I mean-"

"No," Krager cut him off. "I don't think it's extreme. I'm sure the Hell's Angels can bankroll it, but just don't get-"

"We'll do our part." It was Dominic's turn to cut in. "Reapers never have backed down when a common enemy is snarling at the gate."

"So you're in?

"We're in."

"I'll let them know."

In the cool chill of early morning thirteen motorcycles roared down a street in a largely deserted section of Montreal. Thirteen bikers, on thirteen identical Harley motorcycles, wearing the same black, leather jackets. The man in the lead wore a pair of dark sunglasses despite the lack of light, while 6 pairs of two Harleys followed behind.

Turning a corner, they stopped. Down at the bottom of the street was a brick, bunker-like building. Wisps of smoke could be seen coming from the building, as destruction littered the surrounding area. An ambulance was pulling away, as two police cars could be seen at the bottom.

The sunglassed leader revved his bike once, and led the other twelve to a small, unassuming warehouse several blocks away.

There were other bikes already there as several muscled toughs stood outside the door. The thirteen stopped close by, seven of them dismounting from their Harleys, while the other five took positions around the unattended motorcycles.

"Hey, what the hell you think you're doing here?!" one of the toughs asked. Other Hell's Angels joined him as he walked towards the thirteen.

The leader of the thirteen moved forward unconcerned. As he got close enough, he looked out over the top of his sunglasses. All he offered before continuing through the crowd was, "We were invited."

The few gathered Hell's Angels quickly made room for the seven to pass. The man who had challenged their presence paled noticeably after glimpsing whatever lay beyond the leader of the thirteen's sunglasses.

The seven, with the leader at the head, entered the warehouse and stopped once they were all inside. The sunglasses slowly came off as the man slowly took in what he saw around him. Blood, bandages, and wounded bikers; the scene was of some confusion.

A murmur went up around the room, as a wiry man broke off yelling at another man to turn his attention to the newcomers.

"Where the fuck have you been?!" Krager yelled, before catching sight of what passed as the man's eyes. There were no pupils, not an ounce of white, merely two consuming shadows peering out from where his eyes should have been.

"Riding," the shadow-eyed man said simply as he appeared to scan the room.

Krager swallowed hard, erecting a false bravado he walked towards the man and shot back "Great! So while you were 'riding', we just got our asses kicked by some flying freak. You were supposed to be here last night!"

It was a subtle gesture, but as the shadow-eyed man paused, the six bikers behind him bowed their heads slightly. A moment later a hand shot forward as another equally quick movement drew Krager against the other man's chest.

"You," the shadow-eyed man said to the man Krager had been talking to, "next in line here?"

The second in command nodded hesitantly.

With a quick motion Krager's head was turned slightly one way and then snapped back the other. A sickening crack sounded, followed by Krager's corpse slowly sinking to the floor.

"Now you're the chapter head here," the shadow-eyed man stated flatly. "His days were numbered anyway; he wasn't liked by those who know."

"Name's Cain," the shadow-eyed man offered, stepping over the corpse. "We're here to set things right. Now you're going to tell me what happened out there."

"Um, well . . . ah," the recently promoted man stuttered, trying to find his bearings.

"Start with a name, we'll work from there," Cain said, moving around the room and causally glancing at the various injured bikers.

Invariably, the normally tough and proud men sought to be elsewhere whenever Cain's gaze fell on them. There were too many stories about the Thirteen Horsemen. Too many legends of bloody violence to make even war-hardened bikers cringe in fear.

"Colt," the promoted biker finally offered. "Name's Colt."

"Well now Colt, what the hell happened out there?" Cain asked, his face mere inches away from Colt's. Cain strange eyes mesmerized and terrified, forcing Colt to finally look away.

"Don't rightly fucking know! One minute everything's nice an' peaceful like, then all this shit broke loose," Colt finally offered. He shook his head, still in disbelief over what had happened.

Cain moved away, appearing to survey the building. "I'm getting bored; just tell me what you know. And try not to swear, it's unprofessional. After all, you're management now of a mighty fine organization."

Colt just stared at the back of Cain's head for a moment before quickly continuing on. "Like I said: one minute everything's fine, the next all hell breaks loose. Lights flickering on and off, guns blazing, flashes of light. Hell! We got our asses handed to us down there! Different people seeing different things, I can't even remember what I saw."

"But your most reliable people, what do they say they saw?" Cain had stopped walking and had cocked his head to one side, as if listening to a noise far off in the distance.

"Big guy, wings, faintly glowing. Tyson and Hobble said it looked like an angel, but I figured -" Colt started but was cut off.

"An angel you said, with wings? Were they white? Feathery?" Cain asked.

"Uh," Colt stuttered for a moment, trying to remember. "I think so, but-"

"Wasn't there a meta, got some press in News Orleans? Big guy, feathery white wings?" Cain's question was greeted by a nod from one of the six Horsemen that had entered the warehouse with Cain.

"What was his name? . . . Jacob. What was his angle? His angle? His angle?" Cain intoned, searching for something. Suddenly he was on the move, walking out the door followed by the rest of his companions. "Thanks. We'll be in touch."

"Wa-, wa-, wait. What are you going to do?" Colt quickly followed after them.

"Get rid of your problem. That's what we do," Cain answered, already astride his Harley, his sunglasses in place. Thirteen engines erupted into life.

"But how, what the fu-" Colt stammered, the promotion, last night's attack, and everything else taking a tool on his speech.

"By using this." Cain tapped his head twice. "You might want to use it now and then, unless you want us to be back. And you don't want us back."

Making a U-turn in the middle of the street the thirteen motorcycles, in perfect formation, turned and drove off the way they had came. On the back of each black, leather jacket was embossed the figure of a black-cloaked skeleton riding a skeletal horse, a scythe clutched in its bony hands.

"So, why are we going to Montreal again?" Sylph asked, seriousness flitting across her face.

Blaze let out a slight sigh as he checked the readings from some of the instruments lining the cockpit of a Canadian Shield interceptor. He knew the dragonfly-winged young woman well enough to know that she wasn't stupid, just easily distracted from time to time. However, this being the third time she had asked since they left, he thought he was more than entitled to a little irritation.

"Let's see if this strikes a bell: biker gangs in Montreal being targeted by a suspected metahuman vigilante - 'bout time." Blaze added before continuing. "The local police force calls upon us for assistance. Being the national metahuman team that we are, we responded to their call for help. This all leads to us flying to Montreal - hence the abundance of clouds surrounding us."

Sylph scowled for a moment, "No, I mean, why us - you and me? Why did Cavalier send both of us?"

Blaze paused for a moment, hiding it beneath the facade of checking the altimeter. He decided an incomplete version of the truth was best to answer her question.

"Since the police believe that they're dealing with a metahuman, it seemed wise to send two of us until we can discern the strength of the metahuman in question. Besides, with the increase in fear concerning metahumans among normal humans, Cavalier thought it best to deal with this as discreetly and quickly as possible. Hence only sending two of us," Blaze explained.

He failed to mention that he had spoken to Cavalier directly, telling Cavalier who he thought was behind the attacks and why. He had insisted upon going, eager to discover if his suspicions were true. Cavalier had finally relented only when Blaze agreed to take another member of the Shield with him. The question was who?

After the events of Ireland the Canadian Shield was trying to maintain a high profile across Canada. This meant that the team was stretched thin. Cavalier, Blockade and Blaze remained in central Canada, Catamount was keeping a presence on the west coast, Trickster was making her way around the prairie provinces, and Nereid and Sylph were watching the Maritimes. Either Sylph or Nereid seemed to both men to be the best bet to accompany Blaze, the most natural of these two being Nereid. While Sylph was able, Nereid provided more of a counter-point to Blaze's own excessive inclinations. But considering Blaze's suspicions over who was behind the attacks, Sylph was chosen instead. All of which made sense, unless you weren't aware it.

"I know, but wouldn't Nereid have been a better choice?" Sylph asked, her head suddenly tilting to one side.

"What?" Blaze countered, hoping to aim the conversation elsewhere. "You can't handle it or something?"

"That's not what I said! It's just-" Sylph was cut-off before she could finish.

"Control, this is Maple Leaf 3 requesting immediate clearance," Blaze said, quickly donning a headset.

Sylph stared quizzically at Blaze for a moment before shrugging her shoulders, any immediate questions dying in her mind.

"Roger that Maple Leaf 3. Runway 5 is clear and ready, hangar 22 waiting for your arrival," the unseen air control answered. "Glad to have you here Canadian Shield."

Detective Henri Proust waited outside a conference room in the main headquarters of the Montreal police. He glanced around the hallways, aware that many of the people walking or talking frequently looked towards where he stood. They weren't looking at him, but were part of the almost hive mind-like state that often occurs when someone famous or powerful is in the vicinity. While two members of the Canadian Shield had been brought in the back and had quickly gone into the conference room, it seemed as if everybody had instantly sensed something was different.

It wasn't long before Detective Proust had been sent for. As the senior detective working on the biker gang attacks he had recommended to his superiors that the Canadian government, or the Canadian Shield itself, be asked for help in the investigation. Of course, it wasn't the investigation that was the worry, but rather the attempt to capture the criminal party that was of concern. Besides, Proust had thought, why risk human lives capturing a metahuman, when you could use their own kind?

The door opened and the Chief of Staff's head popped out. "They're ready for you now."

With a file folder in tow, Detective Proust went into the room. He quickly counted five people clustered at one end of the table. He knew most of them directly: the Chief-of-Police, the head of the Metahuman department of the police, a liaison from the mayor's office, but the two others he knew merely by sight. The young woman had large, gossamer-like wings sticking out of her back and a grace that defied her quick movements. The other would have looked like any lawyer if it wasn't for the disquieting eyes, and the fact that his face was very familiar to the Canadian media. Sylph and Blaze, the Detective's mind registered.

"Ah, Detective Proust. Please come in," the Chief said as the door closed. "I believe you already know Captain Moore as well as Mr. Bleur."

Both men nodded at the detective as Proust moved to stand at the other end of the table.

"And of course, this is Blaze and Sylph of the Canadian Shield," the Chief officially indicated the two.

"Good afternoon detective," Blaze said in a measured tone.

"Hello!" Sylph said, waving her hand in greeting from across the table.

"If you would please detective, fill our guests in on the investigation so far," the Chief continued before settling into his chair, indicating for Detective Proust to begin.

"Thank you sir." Detective Proust nodded to the Chief and opened the folder he had carried, passing out photos of the crime scenes. "As you might be aware, about a week and a half ago, shortly after the resolution of the Ireland affair, there was an arson at a nightspot frequented by members of the Grim Reapers motorcycle gang. Luckily the attack came at a time when the establishment was largely unoccupied, around 5:30 in the morning."

"The arson occurred in the back of the bar and was started when several, large kegs of beer where set on fire. However, our reports suggest that the burn marks on the kegs are not consistent with those that would be expected if traditional methods of setting the fire had been employed."

Sylph interrupted the Detective at this point, "Huh?"

Blaze cracked a sly smile. He had forgotten one of the greatest advantages to having Sylph around for investigations: she didn't speak either policese or legalese, so things had to be explained more simply - and usually a great deal more clearly.

"From what we can tell," the detective replied, trying to explain what he had meant, "the sides of the kegs had a hole burned through them in some way, the liquid igniting from the inside. Compare this with breaking the keg open and then setting its contents on fire with a match."

The detective continued with his report: "In the downstairs of the bar we found significant metamphetamine being produced. There appear to be no witnesses for this attack. Considering the Grim Reapers and the Hell's Angels have been waging a turf war for the past few years in Quebec, this incident was considered as related to the ongoing conflict."

"The next night, at a local shop with purported ties to the Hell's Angel, the windows were smashed by 'flying bikes' according to one witness. Several flashes of light were seen erupting from the back of the building. Police were summoned, and found in an adjacent building a trick pad."

"How?" Sylph piped up again.

"The unconscious form of the owner of the building lying in the back alley was one clue. Upon entering the building, it became clear that many of the johns were injured in varying degrees and in one room was found nine young women ranging in age from 13-24. I won't go into detail, but further investigation confirmed our suspicions as to the nature of the building."

"Witness said that a 'darkness' suddenly exploded into rooms and the faint outline of a large figure could be seen. It appeared from the reports of the witnesses, even in rooms that would have been pitch black, the figure attacked quickly and efficiently without harming the women."

"While it was still considered within the realm of a turf war between biker gangs, this was the first real indication that some form of metahuman might have been involved, though we had not ruled out the possibility of technology having been used. Also, as it turned out, all of the men injured are members of the Hell's Angels or have connections to them."

"Two more attacks followed, very closely related. One was a Hell's Angels bar, the other a Reaper's diner. In both cases a car appears to have been thrown through the front window and any motorcycles parked in the near vicinity horribly mutilated. There were several injuries reported in both incidents. Also, witnesses report having seen strange, bright lights and a figure apparently highlighted by light in some way. There were also pinpoint scorch marks found at the scenes, as well as a few wider slashes. Preliminary lab reports indicate that these marks are not consistent with normal burn marks."

"It was at this point that I recommended we contact you and seek assistance in this case. As well, in both cases just referred to, further criminal activity was found on the premises which are currently under investigation."

Blaze couldn't hold himself back any longer. "You shouldn't be hunting this man. You should be giving him a job - or at least paying him under the table."

The Chief turned to Blaze, "Last night the pattern changed. A Hell's Angels bunker was attacked and largely gutted. Two people are in critical condition, three more in serious condition, and who knows how many others with injuries; if any of those men die, we have a homicide investigation on our hands. But more than that, some of the gang members got away. They gave us a good description of their assailant: tall, apparently has some kind of large, feathery wings, incredibly quick, with powers described variously as being some sort of 'light bulb' to hurling lightning bolts. The word 'angel' was mentioned a few times, but not usually in coherent sentences."

Sylph face turned perplexed. Looking from the Chief to Blaze and then back at the Chief she finally said, "But why would -?"

Blaze was quick to interrupt. "Thank you gentlemen, detective. This has been most helpful and we appreciate your bringing it to our attention. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to have a few moments alone with my colleague."

After all the others had left the room and the door was closed, Sylph bubbled up over her words.

"Why would Jacob be doing this?!"

Outside in the Hallway Proust turned to the Police Chief, "Why didn't you tell them about the others, the new motorcycle gang?"

"One thing at a time detective," the Chief intoned. "No need to concern them unduly."

Blaze left a guarded room at the hospital and looked around the hallway. He and Sylph had wanted to be sure about the reports that had come in, insisting upon questioning the victims themselves.

Victims! Blaze nearly spat as the word washed around his mouth. These weren't victims; they were living denizens of hell passing through the realm of earth before meeting one violent end or another. Victims didn't do what these men did on a daily basis, at least not with so clear a conscience. If he wasn't so bound by the rules of the Earth, and in the presence of so many witnesses, he would have let Death's scythe finish the job Jacob had started.

And it did appear to be Jacob that was at the heart of everything; or else someone bearing an uncanny resemblance. Even with his intuition suggesting who it might have been, the descriptions of the powers and the figure itself seemed to point clearly to Jacob. While he applauded his angelic counterpart's new-found initiative, a question nagged him: what was causing him to do all this?

But there was something else at play here, something he had felt vaguely since arriving at Montreal, and felt more powerfully here at the hospital. That was the reason why he had left Sylph to finish up with the questioning. That, and the fear that if he spent any more time with the so-called 'victims' he'd end up victimizing them even more.

Almost sniffing the air, but not for any earthy scents, he turned left and started down the hallway. Pausing and stopping at various intersections along the corridors, Blaze slowly made his way to the Intensive Care Ward of the hospital.

Looking down one of the corridors, he suddenly straightened. Halfway down the hall was an unrecognized human figure: black, middle-aged, typically average. But it wasn't the physical appearance of the man that caused a line of tension to wash over Blaze's back. Rather, it was the presence of the man, as if Blaze knew the soul and spirit of the figure from a long time ago.

Blaze cocked his head and stared for a moment. The man appeared to be talking to, almost scolding . . . nothing. Taking two steps Blaze checked to make certain the sign read "Intensive Care Unit" before making his way to the lone man in the corridor. As Blaze approached, he could hear the man talking.

"It's a fine line you're walking here." The man paused, almost seeming to be listening to an invisible figure. Blaze saw or sensed nothing. The man continued, "But what if he doesn't? You're bending the rules an awful lot on the chance of a possible future. If that future doesn't follow, then all this is a waste; you'll have lost by default. The Eternal Judge'll be mighty pissed at you. Are you willing to risk it?"

"Risk what?" Blaze interjected, the creeping sense of familiarity trying to break out of his skull into recognition of the talking figure . "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your conversation with the floor."

"Ah, Blaze, interesting to see you again." the man offered, a slightly bemused smile on his lips.

Recognition suddenly hit Blaze. "Gabrielle."

"Please, when I'm dressed like this it's Delroy."

"Delroy," Blaze repeated, nodding his head slightly, "Interesting. So have you gone crazy after all this time; you know, all the singing and harp practice finally getting to you? "

"Still as charming as always I see." Delroy looked down to the figure of a cat, languidly cleaning its paw and face. "No, I'm talking to that cat."

Blaze looked down to the area Delroy had indicated and saw nothing staring back. "What cat?"

Delroy's eyebrows shot up slightly as he looked at Blaze, then down at the cat. The cat seemed to be looking back at him with a smug, self-satisfied expression in her black-furred body. Delroy sighed and rolled his eyes, "Advocates!"

"So what brings you here 'Delroy'?" Blaze asked, deciding to ignore any supernatural visitors that might be eavesdropping. "You haven't been around for a while have you?"

"Been around more than you might know," Delroy answered cryptically, "This time I'm here by request. There's a certain game going on-"

"I've heard rumours," Blaze said, his curiosity piqued. He had heard rumours, but nothing more than that. Rumours that the soul of an angel had been sent down and that, for the first time in millennia, its soul was open for temptation and corruption.

"Rumours are basically true." Delroy stated simply. "Which reminds me, I need to ask a favour."

Blaze's left eyebrow shot up. His curiosity was certainly getting its fill. He waited for Delroy to continue.

Delroy obliged, "Certain things are happening to Jacob at the moment, certain things that need to take their own course. Do what you have to, but just keep that in mind."

"And why should I? What possible benefit would I get?" Blaze asked with an edge of a smile.

"You know what's at stake, and what could be your stake, or at least the Blaze I used to know did," Delroy coolly countered. "I'll be going: places to be, things to announce, I'm sure you understand."

Delroy turned smoothly and walked down the hall away from Blaze. The black cat followed quickly behind.

"Why did you do that?" the black cat asked angrily. "They were just rumours until now. Do you have any idea what might happen if they think those rumours were true?"

"You bent the rules, you knew what consequences might follow," Delroy replied to the cat as Blaze looked on, seeing the sole figure of Delroy talking to an empty spot beside him.

As another day died, the sun disappearing towards the far west of Montreal, a lone figure stirred as if from slumber. It waited, watching the shadows grow and lengthen; watched as the night sharpened it shadowy talons. Below, on the concrete and garbage-strewn streets, a breath away from hell, people scurried about. Anxious people, living anxious lives, in an anxious world.

As twilight finally gave way to the darkened night, the lone figure atop the non-remarkable building stood. It unfurled its great wings wide, stretching them out to their full size. From wingtip to wingtip was stretched 14' of angelic strength and power. The angel gave himself a moment to glory in the God-given body he had inherited. Then, humbling himself before God, he departed from the rooftop into the night sky, eager for the nightly hunt to begin again.

I stand in what could only be the nexus of my soul. All around me images flash, images of what once was. I watch in silence as the images are born, die, reborn, assimilated, remembered, forgotten, transposed, imposed, and a host of other activities. I see them. I see myself in them. I see what I once called my life. I see.

I, Thomas, the once-called Thomas, I sense the many names that I have been known by and wonder which one is me? What am I? Who am I?

At the heart of my existence, in silence, I begin to understand. I wait, simply, as the images teach me the truth. Devouring the voices, inhaling the images - I see. I open my mouth, and exhale my mind and heart into the ether of the images.

And where is Thomas's body left behind? Where is Thomas?

I release the long-necked swan from the bottle, discarding the intact shell of glass. And I journey.
 

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