"You requested to see me, sir?" Ilma asked, offering her commander a salute. While a strange way to address someone technically both a civilian and her father, she considered it appropriate. As usual, her father's office was tidy and spotless, without a single paper out of place. Each book on the multiple bookshelves as alphabetized by author, each on a wide variety of subjects, from astrophysics to flower arranging, anything that caught her father's attention. Except for a single photograph of her, his office contained nothing else extraneous, limited to what was essential for his work.
Halvorsen nodded. "We have a serious matter to discuss. I need the Valkyries to eliminate someone. President Wilson can't learn of this."
"Understood, the target?"
While the Valkyries were part of Ymir's special forces, their loyalty always extended to her father first. Each girl owed their existence to him. Halvorsen produced a photo. It displayed blurry security camera footage of a woman wearing a biker suit with a wolf painted on the helmet. Hints of colors were dotted across its surface like scattered raindrops. Paint stains?
"Who is she?"
"A person of interest who's been interfering with Ymir's operations. Calls herself Fenrir. She stole the prototype Ragnadriver. I want the prototype recovered and Fenrir removed without a trace. It would be inconvenient if Ymir's other operatives captured her first."
"Consider it done." The fact they didn't have Fenrir's face was troublesome, but they'd manage.
"One last thing." Her father held out a second photograph.
"Huh?" Ilma blinked in surprise at the image. Words spilled out of her mouth, so startled by the impossible sight in the picture. It showed another shot of the same biking suit clad girl, except her helmet was off. "Her head is a skull?" She stared at the black sockets where Yareli's eyes should be.
"Fenrir is an anomaly." Halvorsen stood up and paced, a common habit when he was agitated. "Likely not even human. I don't want Ymir studying her. Do you understand?"
It took several seconds to drag her eyes away from the photo, but Ilma nodded. While the entire situation was bizarre and raised many questions, she'd perform her duty. The questions were inconsequential compared to that.
"Yes, sir. Consider this Fenrir eliminated."
---
Johan blinked his eyes awake and started, unsure where he was. It took him a second to recognize the unfamiliar place, and the previous day's events flooded his mind. He'd almost died again, hadn't he? Twice in two days. It seemed the universe was keen to remind him how powerless he was.
Beside him, Samuel was stretched out on his cot, fast asleep. A blanket covered Rebecca as she slept on the floor, her computer still flashing with light beside her. The clock read almost four in the morning. From the snoring in a nearby room, it seemed clear everyone was asleep.
Perfect. I can complete my mission. At least here, he wasn't useless. Guilt burned a horrible pit in Johan's stomach. Gramps and Yareli had shown total, open kindness, and he was backstabbing them for the Jotnar's personal gain.
No, it's only a tiny white lie. We're still friends. Or at least, that's what Johan told himself.
After adjusting to the dim light, he crept over to Gramps' old computer, hitting the power button. He used his jacket to block the light as its screen flashed to life. Johan had noticed earlier the older man hadn't password-protected his computer.
The desktop displayed a photo of a younger Gramps standing alongside a pair Johan presumed was his family. Was that his daughter and grandson? The trio was playing in a park, passing a ball to one another. Johan quickly opened a tab to block the view, sickened by his voyeurism of someone's personal life. He opened various folders, giving each a cursory glance before continuing on. Most were family photos, which Johan avoided like the plague, but others were about various tidbits he'd gathered about Ymir. It seemed he was serious about helping Yareli uncover her past.
"Found it." Johan opened the files on the Ragnadriver. The text files contained complicated technical knowledge beyond his understanding. He withdrew a USB stick from his pocket and copied the files onto it. After taking the appropriate files, he returned Gramps' desktop to the previous state he'd found it. The ease of his theft dismayed him. The older man hadn't even locked his computer with strangers about.
And the next objective would prove more challenging. Their employer also wanted data from the Ragnadriver. It used a special operating system, capable of reprogramming itself to better suit its user. Simensen had insisted the other files would be useless without retrieving this data.
After a cursory glance, he concluded the Ragnadriver wasn't in Gramps' lab. Yareli must keep it close. He crept through the shop, searching for the girl's room. Much to Johan's surprise, light illuminated Yareli's room, and he heard movement behind it. Was she still awake? He placed a gentle knock against the door.
"Come in."
Garish paintings caught Johan's eye as he entered, their variety of vibrant colors hurting his eyes after leaving the almost pitch-black corridor. While Yareli still wore her biker outfit, a pink paint-stained apron covered it. It seemed incongruous with the tough biker girl he knew.
"Looking for the bathroom?" Yareli asked, not turning her attention away from her painting.
"No, I had trouble sleeping and noticed the light. Have you been painting all night?"
"It's my favorite thing to do when I'm not riding."
Johan found the courage to ask a question he'd been dreading. "Don't you sleep?"
Yareli's paintbrush paused mid-stroke, pain evident in her voice. "I don't."
"Oh." Dear God, he couldn't even imagine that existence. Gramps was an old man and couldn't stay awake forever, which meant that Yareli usually spent most of her time alone.
"I'm used to it," Yareli said with forced cheerfulness, resuming her painting. "It provides me plenty of opportunities to paint!"
"What are you working on, anyway?" Johan asked, eager to change the subject. He scrunched up his brow when he saw the canvas Yareli was working on. What the hell was he looking at?
"Art is more than painted bowls of fruit," she replied a bit defensively when she caught his expression. "Taste is subjective." With a sniff, Yareli resumed her painting. She picked a red color and added blotches to something that might have been a tree if you squinted really hard.
Someone's touchy. Confident Yareli wasn't paying attention to him, Johan searched for his objective. He brightened when he spotted the Ragnadriver poking from a duffle bag.
"Why did you start painting, if you don't mind me asking?" Johan asked, slipping the USB stick under his sleeve.
"Dunno, a feeling," Yareli replied, too distracted by her painting to catch Johan's suspicious movements. "Gramps was watching an old public access painting show, and it caught my interest. He suggested I try it. It's been a passion ever since."
As Yareli explained her story, he placed his back toward the bag. He slipped the USB stick into a tiny slot on the Ragnadriver's head. A light on the stick flashed as it copied data.
"You've painted so many. It must've cost Gramps a fortune."
"He doesn't mind. I help around the shop. It isn't like I need money — I don't eat."
"I suppose so." The light on the USB stick stopped flashing. Johan returned the device to his pocket.
"Besides, Gramps always says a person should pursue their passions, talented or not." Yareli's brush stopped mid-stroke, and she placed it down. "I should show you my first painting. Gramps displays it in the shop's lobby. It's embarrassing, but the old man's proud of it."
"Sure." Johan's stomach flipped several times, tasting bile. Yareli was sharing her heart, and he was stealing from her.
"Are you okay?" Yareli asked in concern.
"I'm okay. Maybe later. I need to lie down."
"Sure. See you in the morning."
Somehow, Johan left Yareli without losing his lunch. His hand shook as he dialed Simensen's number.
"It's me. I have it. Okay, see you soon." Johan rested against a wall. He wanted to get rid of this USB stick as soon as possible. At least the worst was over. He swore he'd make up for his transgressions.
What present might I give a skeleton person who doesn't sleep?
---
"Thank you. Your assistance has been most helpful." Despite the early hour, Simensen looked refreshed, without a single hair out of place.
"Whatever, just give me the money," Johan replied, in no mood for pleasantries. A blurry-eyed Samuel stood behind them. Neither Jotnar trusted their so-called benefactor, so they'd come prepared, just in case.
Simensen's bodyguard retrieved the USB stick and handed Johan an envelope of cash. His eyes bulged. He'd never seen such an enormous amount of money in one place.
The Ophion president chuckled when he caught Johan's expression. "I always treat the people under my employ well. Consider it a bonus for a job excellently performed."
"Thank you." Johan slipped the envelope into his coat pocket.
"I'll need your assistance in the days ahead."
"What do you mean?" Samuel asked, eyes brimming with suspicion.
Simensen's usual jovial manner vanished. "I've heard rumors that Ymir is pushing ahead with some huge project named 'Surtur.' See what you can uncover."
"Thanks for the info." He's being too helpful.
"I don't believe I'm exaggerating, young man, when I say the fate of the world might count on your actions."
"Fate of the world? Right, sure," Johan thought, rolling his eyes. Still, it gave Rebecca a good lead in their trip to Skoll tonight. He only hoped the place wasn't crawling with Ymir's monsters.
"Good luck."
---
A bell tinkled as Anderson entered the shop, passing a sign bragging that Davidson could fix anything for affordable prices. Various complex machinery stood on display, their guts visible. The owner even had spare parts for sale, many almost older than him. While everything seemed ordinary, rumor said that Davidson had someone in his employ who always wore a helmet. She performed odd jobs and deliveries, using the same type of bike seen fleeing the crime scene downtown. What a coincidence.
Moments passed as he waited behind the front counter. The cash register looked ancient. Anderson hadn't seen one of these things since childhood. Wouldn't it be simpler to use an automated register with an advanced AI? Still, he respected the old man's dedication to the past. A tiny bell sat on the counter. He rang it, trying to get the proprietor's attention.
"Davidson is in his eighties. There's no need to rush him," Anderson thought.
Ymir continued to be unhelpful, giving vague answers to the police's inquiries. Their president claimed Ymir had no clue why Visscher had visited an abandoned parking lot in the middle of the night, or why a street gang attacked him and his entourage. Thankfully, his partner had uncovered a solid lead on the Niflhel hideout. With his assembled SWAT team, they should apprehend the hooligans within the hour.
A splash of color caught his attention, and Anderson blinked. The bizarre painting didn't fit the rest of the shop's interior. Anderson tilted his head, trying to understand its meaning. Did the artist have a seizure during its creation?
"May I help you, young man?" Anderson turned to discover Paul Davidson standing behind the counter.
Anderson pulled out his badge. "Detective Anderson. I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions."
Davidson's brow scrunched up in confusion. "Sure, but I doubt I'll be any help."
"I'm told you have an assistant who helps you around the shop. Is this true?" Anderson studied the older man closely, searching for any sign of deceit. Not that it would help Davidson. Anderson had seen Racer Wolf's motorcycle out back.
"Yes." The old man sounded cautious. "Is there a problem?"
"I was hoping to meet her. Is she around? Not out making deliveries, I hope."
After a hesitant nod, Davidson gave a shout through the back door. "Yareli!"
"Yes?" a young lady replied.
"Um, someone's here to see you."
Anderson raised an eyebrow as a woman dressed in a biker outfit walked into the store proper. A helmet hid her face, a black visor where her eyes should be.
"Yareli?" Anderson had already checked the records. There wasn't any sign that anyone besides Davidson worked at this repair shop. That meant this young woman was an illegal worker. Truthfully, it wasn't an uncommon practice, and the punishment for such a transgression was minor. Not that Anderson cared. He was here for a murder investigation.
"She's a distant cousin," Davidson said. "Come to work at her dear uncle's repair shop."
An awkward silence passed as Anderson waited for the young woman to identify herself. From her body language, she was nervous. Perfect. The detective frowned. He couldn't place what it was, but he detected a subtle wrongness about Racer Wolf.
"That's me." Yareli's voice was quiet.
"So, are you going to remove that helmet?" Anderson asked.
"I'd rather not. I'm not very attractive. I have terrible scars."
"It doesn't bother me. I can't talk to you if you don't show your face," Anderson replied, annoyed. According to the rumors, no one had ever seen Racer Wolf's face.
Yet, the young woman refused to comply, shaking her head no. "Is it illegal to wear a helmet indoors?"
"She's very self-conscious about her appearance," Davidson said, rushing to his ward's defense.
Anderson's frown deepened, detecting that the older man wasn't lying. Yareli genuinely feared showing her face. After some consideration, he dropped the issue. The scar explanation might actually be true. Besides, he didn't want any hassle from the higher-ups about mistreating suspects.
"That's fine." The biker girl visibly relaxed when he dropped the issue. Anderson pulled out his notebook, addressing his notes. "May I ask where you were last night at 17:00?"
"Out riding, as usual," Yareli replied.
Anderson raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A young lady like yourself out at night alone? That's more than reckless."
"I can take care of myself."
"Right. Riding where, specifically?"
"Not sure. Somewhere downtown."
"Last evening, a shooting happened in a parking lot on Rugdeveien. I was curious if you saw anything."
Yareli paused for several moments before replying. "I heard gunshots. It sounded like a gang fight. I kept my distance for obvious reasons."
At least it confirmed she was around the crime scene. Anderson didn't suspect Yareli of any wrongdoing. It was almost undeniable that the Niflhel were behind Visscher and his men's deaths. Yet, Anderson sensed the biker girl was hiding something. The problem was determining whether it had any connection to the case.
"Did you see anything unusual?"
"Unusual?"
"Oddities. Did you witness anything strange?"
Yareli stayed silent for several long moments, mulling the question over. "Well…"
In his pocket, Anderson's phone buzzed, and he cursed. He'd almost pressed Yareli into saying something. Whatever she intended to say died on her lips, her mouth clamping shut.
"What is it?" Anderson snapped, annoyed. He'd told his partner not to disturb him unless it was an emergency.
"Thank God you're there!" Johnson's voice sounded panicked, bordering on hysteria.
His irritation vanished. "What is it? What's happened?"
"I didn't think it was possible," Johnson muttered to himself. "So much blood."
"Victor, what's going on?" Anderson put authority in his voice, trying to calm his partner down.
"The SWAT team assaulted the Niflhel hideout as you instructed, but… Oh my God." Johnson released a breath, regaining his composure. "Their leader, Selim Vagh, pulled out some strange armband. He transformed into a monster. Bill and his team didn't stand a chance. Nothing seems to hurt him."
"He transformed into a monster?" The spider monster was real? What the hell was going on?
Anderson caught Davidson and Yareli exchanging glances. The biker girl leaned in, trying to hear their conversation. They knew something — but that wasn't his immediate concern.
"He's rampaging right now, fighting with the local officers. At least four have been killed already."
"Oh God." Anderson rubbed the bridge of his nose. Had the world gone insane? Much to his shock, Yareli grabbed the phone from his hand.
"Where are you?" the girl asked.
"Huh? Who are you?"
"It doesn't matter. Where are you? It's important."
"Granstubben. By the old mill factory."
Without another word, Yareli returned Anderson's phone and charged into a back room. While he couldn't see her expression, he detected determination in her step.
"Wait a moment. Where are you going, young lady?" Anderson said, alarmed.
Yareli ignored him, grabbing a duffle bag and slinging it over her shoulder. Before Anderson could stop her, she exited through a back door and mounted her motorcycle, revving its engine.
"Good luck," a worried Davidson said. Yareli nodded in response and rode off.
"That stupid!" Anderson rushed toward his car, determined to stop Yareli before she did something she'd regret.
---
"That Selim," she thought. What was he thinking, rampaging like that? Now the cops knew about the armbands. Worse, they suspected her. Whatever. She'd deal with the authorities later. Stopping the Niflhel leader's bloodbath came first.
Thankfully, Yareli knew downtown Bifrost like the back of her skeletal hand, taking several shortcuts. The sound of gunfire intensified as she approached her destination. It sounded like a heated battle — one the cops couldn't win. She attached her Ragnadriver to her waist as she rode through an alley.
"Henshin!" As she exited the alley, Yareli's armor formed around her. She increased her speed, zipping through another alleyway. Cops yelped in surprise, hollering in protest as a masked figure rode past their cordon and entered the factory's parking lot.
A flash of white caught her attention — Selim was battling some frightened cops through a window. Before she could rush to their rescue, Yareli's bike skidded to a halt as a figure blocked her path, stopping centimeters from being struck.
"Are you crazy? You could get hurt!" Yareli froze, recognizing the man with a familiar armband attached to his right arm.
Mark Wilson, president of Ymir, studied her for several moments before speaking. "Incredible. The Ragnadriver has adapted to your strange physiognomy perfectly. Whatever you are, you've become the perfect killing machine."
"Why did you create the Ragnadriver? What are you after?" If Wilson was kind enough to present himself, she'd get answers.
"It was my hand which built this." Wilson gestured toward the bustling city. The skylight gave them an excellent view. "I brought prosperity to this once-empty piece of sea. But it isn't enough. Despite Bifrost's technological marvels, many people still live in squalor and poverty. I will reforge this world, rebuilding it to create a better, brighter future. And you can help me. We need not be enemies. You can help me fulfill my dream."
"Fat chance." Was that his plan — creating peace with force? Yareli wanted no part of it. People deserved to be free.
"I feared as much." Wilson withdrew an Uhyre Key from his suit pocket. It bore the symbol of a rooster. "Terrorize."
The president's face extended, growing a beak with intense, beady eyes. They shone with predatory intelligence. Bloody red feathers and wings formed around his arms, the feathers tipped with razor-sharp edges. The skin around his hands hardened, becoming a sickly yellow as his fingers sharpened into talons.
"I can't allow you to interfere with my plans, Fenrir. I'm taking back what's mine." Sparks flew from Yareli's armor as a sudden slash tossed her clear off her bike.
She recovered midair, switching her weapon to gun mode. Gravel scattered as she landed. Before she could even raise it, her opponent vanished before her eyes. Sparks flew as he struck her blind spot, ducking as she fired back.
"This form suits me better than I ever expected." Wilson flexed his talons experimentally. "Shame we can't fight longer, but time is against us." Several cops ran into the parking lot, their mouths agape in shock.
In a flash, Wilson appeared before her. Instead of swiping, the rooster monster opened his mouth wide. Yareli flew through a nearby abandoned storage unit as the sonic wave struck her, her body denting a support beam. The entire building lost structural integrity, collapsing upon her.