THE DISORIENTATION ENDS a few seconds before my frustrated cursing as I, or should I say we drink in the crepuscular surrounds, some kind of ornamental Japanese garden so beautiful and picturesque I feel I might’ve stepped into a silk painting. Tiny birds flit lovingly between the bare branches of blossom trees, their petals adorning a wide, figure eight-shaped pond limned with smooth stones, a meditative garden beyond in three tastefully designed tiers, a grassy path unfolding like a green tongue between the contemplative stillness of the pond and the traditional Zen garden off to the side, darkening early evening sky back-lit by far-off thunder in heavy storm clouds, their occasional oscillation throwing the pagoda-style building atop the slope into bas relief.

I’m disconcerted and not quite sure how such a beautiful place convinces me we’ve plunged into the nightmare realm except to say my hairs remain prickling as I take in the peace and quiet, koi in spiralled lovemaking, movements rippling on the still water like someone has dropped in a stone, the air fragrant with nearby spruce trees as well as the blossom, a scent like from a distant orchard coming in with a hint of ocean breeze.

“No one deserves a hideaway this nice,” I say not exactly to myself.

Standing by pond’s edge, I go inwards, feeling around inside my head much in the manner of a tongue probing broken teeth after a fist fight. Impossible to describe where, but in a familiar corner I sense Belle’s hunched psyche. I prod gently, oozing warmth, comfort, safety, hell, even love. A tiny pinprick of energy flares in the underground cavern of my mind.

“Don’t go digging through my Id,” I say soothingly. “You never know what you’ll find.”

Pained tinkling laughter fools me into thinking I’ve struck a chord, but the noise comes from without, not within. Bellwether’s licking her wounds the only way the psyche knows how: in total shutdown. The laughter comes from the ridge above.

Cast as a ninja in my dark outfit, I move swiftly beneath the immediate underhang to avoid prying eyes, once more softly cursing to myself that Arsenal escaped my grasp right at the moment I was about to put my fist through his head.

The spoken Japanese comes as no surprise. A woman’s voice, low and sonorous. Moments later a pair of white-clad women descend the grassed network to the same level as me, lurking practically invisible in my hiding place as they shuffle past in their geisha outfits, face make-up almost as white as the kimonos they wear.

I am in Japan – yes, your boy’s no slow learner there – and I suspect we might have skipped back a few years in time while we were at it. About four hundred years, if intuition serves me right.

Examining the chrome-plated wristwatch that brought me here, I am no wiser for the experience, so I slip it onto my arm and tighten the strap and probe once more for Bellwether, reassured however dour the moment may be that at least she has sanctuary and isn’t biting at the grave.

ONCE THE GEISHAS have gone, I can’t resist creeping up the twisting pathway and closer to the pagoda. It is a beautiful building and the smell of incense wafts from it. It is full night now, so any intelligence I might glean about our surroundings from beyond the building is close to nil. However, the pagoda itself is well-lit with urns and braziers and the glow reflecting off soft wood furnishings emanates from beyond the big round wood pillars addressing either side of the path, an open chamber beyond, no sign of movement or life except again that distant trilling laugh that sounds much closer than before.

“How did you find your way here?”

The Demoness steps from the shadows beneath a nearby ornamental plum tree, literally coalescing from the darkness as she relaxes her masking powers. Deceptive hair falls like a black shawl to her knees, though it quickly retracts the closer she moves to me, which isn’t close enough for me to strangle her outright. For a moment I think she is wearing a short black kimono, but the light is playing tricks on me again. The skin on her compact naked body is pebbled like a serpent’s and as I watch, her face hardens, eyes yellowing as her nails extend in preparation for attack.

I extend my wrist so she can see Seagal’s chronometer. Her hard look falters.

“Is he . . . dead?”

“Eventually,” I answer. “I’ll send him your regards.”

This is it. My moment. Any uncertainty I might’ve had is gone. I am ready to kill this woman, burn her as a witch like she and Seagal have killed others before.

Yet so many questions remain unsolved.

Anything stupid I might be able to do is undone by the sinister look that blooms on Ono’s face. A shy, tiny, evil-hearted smile as she backs away from me.

“You’re just in time,” she calls over my shoulder.

I don’t have to turn to look. I can sense the displacing air and would guess a half-dozen figures arrayed on the shelf of lawn behind me.

Lennon’s kids. The Progeny. My erstwhile siblings.

I summon all my reserves as I swing about to meet the first attack and Ono slithers like the creature of darkness she is, away and out of my immediate reach.

FIVE OF THEM have come at their “mother’s” summons. I couldn’t tell you the name of a model I banged last week – if I had actually done anything of the kind instead of traipsing through another equally yet distinctly different nightmare experience – but I can name each of these nasty-featured, smug little bums: Carbon, Hardass, Carnage, Ruse and Blaze.

The three boys are the vanguard. Carnage morphing into his lizard man form and Hardass simply rushing in, a cliché about the invulnerability of youth writ large, while Carbon turns as treacly black as Ono herself, features hardening, becoming more jagged. The girl Blaze does as her name suggests, hands bursting into fire, while the Eurasian girl Ruse doubles, then doubles again before my confounded eyes, each slim, chainmail-mini-skirted figure sliding a gleaming bright katana from an inverted scabbard across her slim back.

“Guys, you don’t want to do this,” I say pretty much pointlessly, but it’s important I show the younger generation how we heroes roll.

I catch Carnage by one heavily muscled paw. Hardass swings a rock-hard punch at my head and I duck, sweep-kicking his legs from beneath him, then angle my hold on his brother to topple Carnage on top of him. Then I jump free as one of Ruse’s mirror images come in swinging and I needlessly put my fist through the shadow form as the real Ruse attempts a ninja run at me, sword hacking at the back of my neck. The girl doesn’t count on my cat-like reflexes allowing me to turn, pull the blade from her grasp and throw it five yards at Carbon. The sword juts out of the join between his shoulder and chest and the surprised look on his black face is as close to priceless as I’ll ever see.

I very nearly back-hand the girl. God knows, she deserves it, trying to cut my head off with a samurai sword and everything, but as I glimpse the movement of Ono still circling our location, a more fevered if irrational option leaps into my mind.

I let go Ruse’s hand and shove her away, Carnage and Hardass getting up from their impromptu game of Twister.

I put my hands up.

“Don’t hurt me. I give up.”

But these guys have no intention or interest in capturing me.

I kneel as Hardass kicks me hard. I push away his legs without retaliation, twisting aside as Carnage growls, hisses and tries to shred me with one of his big clawed mitts. I block and catch. Push him away. Eyes probing the darkness.

“You can’t let them do this, Spectra. You can’t.”

And for a moment I really wonder what the fuck I’ve done.

Zephyr 15.10 “Into The Nightmare Realm” is a post from: Zephyr - a webcomic in prose