Task Force 141| Bibbidi-Bobbidi-...Bollocks.

Rain hammered the corrugated steel roof of the warehouse with enough force to turn the outside world into a distant hiss of water and thunder. Inside, the air was cold and smelled of damp concrete, machine oil, rust, and the faint chemical residue of old gunpowder. Sodium lights hung from the rafters at irregular intervals, casting long bars of dirty amber through the cavernous building and leaving deep pockets of darkness between shipping containers.

It should have been simple. Which, in Captain John Price’s experience, generally meant it wouldn’t be.

The intelligence had been solid enough. An illicit shipment had come through the docks three nights ago under falsified customs documents, transferred twice between shell companies, then disappeared into this warehouse on the industrial edge of the city. Assault rifles, ammunition, possibly explosives. Nothing unusual by Task Force 141 standards.

Price crouched behind a stack of wooden pallets, rifle settled against his shoulder as naturally as another limb. Rainwater still clung to the brim of his boonie hat. His gaze swept the upper walkways, darkened offices and rows of cargo below.

“Gaz.”

“East side clear,” came the quiet response through his earpiece. “No movement outside.”

“Ghost?”

A beat. “Two upstairs.”

Price glanced toward the steel catwalk spanning the warehouse. “Armed?”

“Wouldn’t have mentioned ’em otherwise.”

Price almost smiled. Almost. “Soap?” Silence. Price’s brow furrowed. “Soap.”

This time Johnny answered. “Found the shipment.”

Something about MacTavish’s tone immediately bothered him. Price knew that tone. It was the same tone Soap used when he’d discovered something fascinating, dangerous, stupid, or—more commonly—all three. “What is it?”

There was a pause. “Dunno.”

Price’s expression flattened. That was worse. He moved from cover, boots nearly silent against the concrete as he crossed toward Soap’s position. Gaz appeared from between two cargo containers at almost the same moment, and together they found Johnny crouched beside a wooden crate he’d already pried open.

Several identical crates surrounded him. The contents were not rifles. Soap had pushed aside layers of black packing straw to reveal a collection of glass vessels nested carefully inside. They were roughly the size of wine bottles, though thicker and stoppered with black wax stamped with symbols none of them recognized. Something purple moved inside them.

Gaz crouched beside Johnny. “The hell is that?”

It looked like smoke. That was the only word Price had for it, though smoke had no business being trapped inside sealed glass without settling or escaping. Violet and silver vapor curled lazily through each vessel, shimmering with its own faint light. Sometimes it seemed almost liquid. Then it would climb the glass against gravity and coil back upon itself.

Soap leaned closer. Gaz immediately caught the back of his plate carrier and hauled him several inches away.

“Don’t.”

Johnny looked offended. “I wasnae touching it.”

“You were thinking about touching it.”

“I was observing.”

“With your hands.”

“That’s called science.”

Ghost’s voice came through their comms from somewhere above. “Johnny.”

Soap tipped his head back as though Ghost might somehow see his expression through two floors of warehouse. “Aye, LT?”

“Don’t touch the glowing shit.”

“I wasnae—”

The warehouse doors exploded inward. The concussion hit first. Gunfire followed.

“CONTACT!”

Price dropped behind the crate as rounds tore through the space they’d occupied seconds earlier. Wood splintered from the pallets behind them. Gaz rolled behind a concrete support and came up firing while Soap flattened himself against the floor.

Above them, Ghost was already moving.

“Four left!” Gaz shouted.

“Seen.” A suppressed crack cut through the chaos. One hostile on the catwalk collapsed before he finished raising his rifle.

Price leaned from cover, fired twice, and watched another man drop behind a container. “Gaz, right side. Soap, with me. Ghost, keep their fucking heads down.”

“Copy.”

“Moving.”

“Gladly.”

Another shot from Ghost. Someone screamed.

Soap broke from cover beside Price, sprinting low as rounds sparked from the concrete behind him. A hostile appeared between two containers. Johnny fired. The man fired back.

Both missed. Mostly. The bullet passed close enough to Soap’s shoulder that he felt the air move. Then it struck the open crate.

There was a tiny, delicate sound beneath the gunfire. Ping. Soap stopped.

Price heard it. Gaz heard it. Somewhere above them, even Ghost seemed to register that something had just gone very wrong. A thin crack appeared along the side of one glass vessel. Purple light spilled through it.

Soap stared. “Oh.”

Price’s stomach dropped. “MacTavish—”

The bottle shattered. Purple vapor erupted from the crate with impossible force. It wasn’t an explosion. There was no heat, no fragmentation, no pressure wave Price recognized. The smoke simply expanded, flooding the warehouse in a rolling wall of violet and silver light.

It swallowed Soap first. Gaz disappeared next.

“MOVE!” Price barely heard his own voice. The warehouse vanished.

Ghost dropped from the catwalk just as the smoke reached him, one gloved hand stretching through the violet haze toward where Soap had been standing.

Price’s rifle disappeared from his hands. The floor vanished beneath his boots. For one impossible second, all four men seemed suspended somewhere without weight or direction, caught inside a roaring storm of purple light.

Price heard Gaz swear. Someone shouted his name. Ghost’s hand closed around nothing.

And somehow, through all of it, Johnny’s furious Scottish voice carried above the noise.

“THIS IS WHY WE DINNAE SHOOT THE FUCKING—”

Everything went black.

⸻

THE FORBIDDEN MOUNTAIN

John Price woke because something was staring at him. It was an old instinct, honed by decades spent sleeping in places where waking quickly could mean the difference between going home and going into the ground. Consciousness returned without warning, and Price remained completely still while his mind began assembling information.

He was lying down. The surface beneath him was far too soft. There was no rain. No gunfire. No warehouse. No weight of body armor across his chest. And something was definitely watching him.

Price opened his eyes. A vaulted ceiling of black stone rose perhaps twenty feet overhead, disappearing into shadow between carved arches. Green fire burned in an enormous hearth across the room without producing any visible smoke. Heavy curtains stirred around towering windows, beyond which lightning flashed over jagged mountains beneath a sickly green sky.

Price stared upward for several seconds. “…Bollocks.” He sat up. Black silk pooled around his waist.

The bed alone was larger than some safehouses he’d operated from, its carved posts twisting upward like thorn branches. The rest of the chamber wasn’t much better. Black stone. Dark wood. Green glass. Iron chandeliers. Tapestries depicting forests and dragons and things with too many teeth.

Someone had apparently looked at the concept of ominous and decided it lacked commitment.

Price searched automatically for his rifle. Nothing. Sidearm. Nothing. Knife. Nothing. Comms. Nothing.

His jaw tightened. “Ghost?” No answer. “Soap?” Silence. “Gaz?” Only the crackle of green fire replied.

Price pushed the blankets aside. Something enormous shifted behind him. He froze. Slowly, he turned his head. Black feathers moved at the edge of his vision.nPrice reached backward. His hand encountered something warm, solid and very much attached to him. A wing unfolded.nIt was enormous.

Glossy black feathers caught the green firelight as it stretched almost the entire width of the bed. Price stared at it. The wing twitched. Price looked over his other shoulder. A second wing opened. “No.”

A soft croak came from the bedpost. Price turned. A raven sat there. It was larger than any raven had a right to be, its black feathers almost blue beneath the firelight and its greenish eyes far too intelligent.

Price ignored it. There were more pressing concerns. He lifted one hand to rub his forehead and struck something hard. Thunk. His expression changed. Slowly, cautiously, Price reached upward. His fingers met ridged black horn. He followed it. Up. Back. Curving outward. It kept fucking going.

Price closed his eyes. “You have got to be joking.” The raven tilted its head.nPrice got out of bed.

His balance immediately shifted under the unfamiliar weight of the wings, but his body corrected before he consciously understood how. Bare feet touched cold stone. Black robes fell around him in heavy layers, trimmed in leather, feathers and dark green gemstones.

He crossed the room and stopped in front of a towering mirror. For a moment, he simply stared. His own face looked back. That, at least, was something. Same weathered features. Same beard. Same moustache. Same scars. Same blue eyes. Mostly.

The ears were pointed. His canines looked slightly too sharp. Two enormous black horns swept upward from his skull, and the wings behind him belonged on something out of a medieval nightmare. Green light suddenly flickered through his eyes.

Price leaned closer. It vanished. “Bollocks,” he repeated.

“Your vocabulary appears to have deteriorated overnight.”

Price turned so slowly it might have frightened a lesser creature. The raven remained on the bedpost. Price stared at it. The raven stared back.

“You.”

Its feathers ruffled. “Yes?”

“You’re talking.”

The raven regarded him with what Price could only interpret as contempt. “An astute observation, my lord.”

Price had been shot, stabbed, blown up, captured, interrogated and dropped out of aircraft. Very few things could leave him genuinely without a response. The talking raven managed it for almost three full seconds.

“My lord?” The bird’s expression shifted. Price folded his arms. “Who are you?”

Now the raven went completely still. “Diablo.”

Price waited. Diablo waited. “Am I meant to know what that means?”

Something alarmingly close to hurt flashed across the creature’s face. Before Price could interrogate the bird further, the chamber doors burst open. Price pivoted automatically, one hand reaching for a weapon that still wasn’t there. A pale, black-clad servant stumbled inside and immediately dropped into a bow.

“My lord Malefic!”

Price stopped. The servant remained bent nearly double. Diablo watched him very carefully. “Say that again.”

The servant hesitated. “My… lord?”

“The other bit.”

“Malefic?”

Price looked toward the mirror. Horns. Wings. Black robes. Talking raven. Green fire. Right. Of course.

The servant swallowed nervously. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but King Stefan’s soldiers have been sighted near the eastern border. We feared they might be attempting to interfere with Princess Aurora before the curse reaches fulfillment.”

Price’s attention snapped back to him. “The what?” The servant’s face drained of color. Diablo slowly turned his head toward Price. Price took one step forward. “What curse?”

“My lord…”

“What. Curse?”

The poor bastard looked as though he would rather face a firing squad. “The curse upon Princess Aurora.” Price said nothing. The servant continued because apparently terror had destroyed his sense of self-preservation. “The curse you placed upon her as an infant.”

There was a long silence. Lightning flashed beyond the windows. Price stared at him. Then at Diablo. Then back at the servant. “I did fucking what?”

⸻

THE UNDERWORLD

Simon Riley woke on a throne. He disliked that immediately. The screaming made it worse.

His eyes opened behind the familiar shape of his skull mask, and for several moments he didn’t move. Unlike Price, Simon didn’t announce himself. He simply watched.

The chamber before him was enormous. Calling it a chamber hardly seemed adequate. A vast cavern stretched beyond the throne, illuminated by blue flames burning in iron braziers and cracks in the black stone. Great pillars disappeared upward into darkness. Rivers of greenish light wound through the distance.

And there were people. Thousands of them. Possibly more. Translucent human figures stood in seemingly endless lines beneath the throne. Some whispered. Some cried. Some simply stared with the hollow exhaustion of people who had already discovered that whatever came after death involved paperwork.

Simon knew dead people when he saw them. Usually they stayed down. These hadn’t.

“My lord?”

His gaze shifted.

A small red-purple creature stood beside the throne holding a scroll approximately twice its height. Beside it stood a thinner blue-green creature with horns and the expression of someone anticipating imminent execution.

Simon stared at them. They stared back. The red one swallowed. “My lord Hades?”

Blue flame flickered at the edge of Simon’s vision. He raised a hand. Fire curled around his fingers. It was bright enough that he could see the bones beneath his skin for an instant. Simon watched it. The fire didn’t burn.

The blue creature leaned toward the red one. “He’s doing the quiet thing.”

“I can see he’s doing the quiet thing.”

“I hate the quiet thing.”

“So do I.”

Simon’s eyes lifted. Both creatures immediately snapped upright. “Where am I?”

The blue one made a strangled noise. The red one elbowed him. “Oh no.”

“Shut up.”

“He doesn’t know!”

“He knows.”

“He just asked where he is!”

Simon stood. The effect was immediate. Every soul in the cavern went silent. Thousands of dead people bowed. Simon paused halfway down the first step.

Well. That was concerning.

A growl rolled through the darkness behind him. Low. Massive. Close.

Simon turned. His hand moved instinctively toward the sidearm that should have been on his thigh. It wasn’t there. Something enormous emerged from between the pillars. One head. Then another. Then a third.

A monstrous black hound stalked into the blue firelight, each of its three heads large enough to bite a man in half.

Simon lowered his center of gravity. The hound saw him. All three sets of ears perked. “Oh, fuck.”

Cerberus charged. Pain and Panic screamed. Simon braced for impact. The beast slammed into him with enough force to crack the stone beneath his boots. Simon did not move.

Cerberus immediately began licking him. Three enormous tongues attacked the skull mask from three directions. Simon shoved one muzzle aside. “Get off.” Cerberus whined. “Off.”

The massive hellhound sat. All three heads gazed down at him with complete adoration. Simon stared back.

Pain peered around the throne. “He likes him.”

Panic stared. “He always likes him.”

“No, I mean he really likes him.”

Simon ignored them. “Price.”

Pain blinked. “Sorry?”

“Captain Price. Where is he?” Blank expressions. “Soap.” Nothing. “Gaz.”

Panic looked at Pain. “Do we know a Gaz?”

Pain whispered, “I don’t think we know a Gaz.”

Blue flame surged around Simon’s shoulders.

Both demons shrieked. “We can find them!”

The fire settled. Simon looked between them. “Good answer.”

Pain and Panic exchanged a deeply worried glance. Whatever had happened to Hades, they were beginning to suspect this version might somehow be worse.

⸻

THE WESTERN SEA

John MacTavish woke drowning.

There was no gradual return to consciousness. One second there was darkness, and the next Johnny’s eyes snapped open to an endless world of black-blue water.

Training took over. He held his breath. Or tried to. Bubbles escaped his mouth.

Fuck.

Johnny twisted upward, searching for the surface. There wasn’t one. Above him stretched the ceiling of an enormous underwater cavern, illuminated by glowing coral, violet crystals and strange plants that pulsed softly in the dark. Shipwreck timbers had been incorporated into walls and shelves. Bottles, books, shells, bones and objects of questionable magical purpose filled every available surface.

Johnny’s lungs should have been burning. They weren’t. He inhaled accidentally. Cold seawater passed through him. Johnny froze. He breathed again. Still alive. Another breath. Nothing. “…What the fuck?” His voice carried perfectly through the water. That seemed unfair.

A pair of long shadows moved behind a rock formation. Johnny’s attention snapped toward them. Two enormous moray eels emerged into the purple light. Their eyes glowed. “Master?”

Johnny recoiled. The eel had spoken. He looked around for a weapon. There were no weapons. There was, however, a large tarnished mirror propped against a shipwrecked mast.

Johnny turned toward it. His own reflection stared back. Mohawk. Face. Tattoos. Good start. He was shirtless, which was less useful, and covered in enough pearls, shells, chains and enchanted-looking jewelry to make him wonder whether he’d been mugged by a particularly aggressive mermaid.

Johnny touched the enormous shell pendant resting against his chest. “What the hell…?”

Then he looked down. His brain stopped. There were no legs. In their place, eight enormous black-purple tentacles sprawled across the cavern floor. For several seconds, Sergeant John MacTavish experienced something approaching complete spiritual silence.

One tentacle curled. His eyes widened. Another lifted. Johnny stared at it. “Naw.” Three more moved. “Naw, naw, naw.” All eight shifted at once. Johnny screamed.

“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TAE MA LEGS?!”

The cavern erupted into chaos. Tentacles flailed in every direction. One swept a collection of bottles from a table. Another instinctively caught them before they shattered. A third wrapped around the edge of a cauldron. Two others grabbed onto a rock.

Johnny stopped. The bottles remained suspended in one tentacle. He stared at them. Slowly, he moved them back onto the table. His panic faltered. He lifted one hand. A tentacle rose. Johnny lowered it. The tentacle lowered. He looked at another. It curled. A third reached behind him and retrieved a book.

His expression changed. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph...”

The two eels watched carefully.

Johnny picked up a bottle with one tentacle. A spoon with another. A book with a third. A fourth opened a drawer. Johnny’s eyes widened. “I can multitask.”

Flotsam and Jetsam exchanged a look. “Master?” one ventured.

Johnny’s head snapped toward them. “Ye can fuckin’ talk.”

The eels blinked. “Yes?”

“Yer talkin’ eels.”

Jetsam looked mildly offended. “And you’re a sea witch.”

Johnny stared at him. “I’m a what?”

“Ursulo,” Flotsam said carefully. “Witch of the Western Sea?”

“Lord of the Deep Trenches?” Jetsam added.

“Master of forbidden transformations?”

“Collector of unfortunate contracts?”

Johnny held up both hands. “Whoa, whoa, back the fuck up.” Several tentacles copied the gesture. He looked at them. “Stop that.” They did. That was somehow worse. Johnny looked back at the eels, and beneath the absurdity, something in him sharpened. “Where’s Price?” The eels stared. “Captain Price.” Nothing. “Ghost? Simon Riley?” Still nothing. “Gaz?”

Flotsam looked toward Jetsam. Jetsam looked toward Flotsam. Johnny’s amusement vanished. Whatever the hell had happened in that warehouse hadn’t only happened to him.

“Right.” He pushed himself upright. Or attempted to. Johnny had spent his entire life possessing two legs. His brain continued to believe this arrangement remained relevant. Eight tentacles disagreed.

He made it approximately half a metre before folding sideways and disappearing into a table covered in potion ingredients. Bottles went everywhere. A cauldron overturned. A cloud of pink bubbles filled the water.

Flotsam and Jetsam stared into the wreckage. Several seconds passed.

A tentacle emerged from beneath the table. Then Johnny’s voice. “I’m fine.”

Jetsam leaned toward Flotsam. “I like this version.”

From beneath the table came an immediate response. “I heard that.”

⸻

AGRABAH

Kyle Garrick woke at a desk. For approximately four seconds, he considered himself lucky. There was no screaming. No immediate threat. No obvious injury.

Then a parrot said, “You look like shit.”

Gaz opened his eyes fully. The room around him belonged in a palace. Golden afternoon light poured through enormous arched windows covered by gauzy red curtains. Intricate mosaics climbed the walls. Silk cushions surrounded low tables. Shelves overflowed with ancient books, scrolls, bottles, brass instruments and artifacts he couldn’t identify.

Beyond the balcony, a city stretched toward the horizon beneath a blazing desert sunset. White stone buildings. Crowded streets. Minarets. Golden domes.

Kyle stared. “No.”

The red parrot sitting on the back of his chair cocked its head. “No what?”

Gaz slowly turned toward it. The bird stared back. “You can talk.”

Iago blinked. “No shit.”

Kyle shut his eyes. “Of course you can.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Gaz ignored him and looked down. Black and crimson robes covered his body, trimmed in elaborate gold embroidery. Rings decorated several fingers. A heavy cloak hung from his shoulders.

He reached for his head. His hand struck something. Kyle removed it. The object was enormous. A towering black-and-red headdress with gold trim and a ruby centerpiece landed on the desk. Gaz stared at it. The hat stared back metaphorically.

Iago stared literally. “No.” Iago’s feathers puffed. “Put that back on.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You always wear it!”

“I don’t care.”

“People are gonna notice!”

Kyle turned slowly. “People?”

A knock sounded at the door. Gaz and Iago looked at it. “Grand Vizier?” Kyle’s expression became very still.

Iago’s eyes narrowed. “Jafar?”

Gaz looked at him. “Who’s Jafar?”

The parrot fell off the chair.

The door opened. A servant entered, bowed deeply, and immediately looked alarmed by Kyle’s bare head. “Lord Jafar, His Majesty requests your presence in the audience chamber. Princess Jasmine has once again refused the visiting prince, and the Sultan seeks your counsel.”

Kyle stared at him. The servant waited. Behind him, Iago climbed slowly back onto his perch with the expression of someone witnessing the collapse of reality.

Gaz looked toward the desk. The ridiculous hat sat beside a cobra-headed staff with glowing red eyes. He looked toward the balcony. Palace. City. Desert. Unknown location.

No weapon. No communications. No team. And everyone here apparently knew him. His training slid neatly into place. Information first. Cover second. Find the others.

Kyle picked up the hat. He regarded it with deep personal resentment. Then he put the bloody thing back on. Iago sagged with relief. “Tell the Sultan I’ll be there shortly.”

The servant bowed. “At once, Grand Vizier.” He left.

Gaz waited until the doors closed. Then he turned. Iago had already begun edging toward the window.

“You.”

The parrot stopped. “Me?”

“Sit.”

“I am sitting.”

“Then stay sitting.”

Iago swallowed.

Kyle folded his arms. “Start talking.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

There was a pause. Iago looked Kyle up and down. “Everything?”

“From the beginning.”

“How far back?”

Gaz’s stare hardened.

Iago sighed. “Oh, this is gonna be a long fucking day.”

“For once,” Gaz muttered, “we agree.”

⸻

Night fell differently across Evermore.

Green lightning crawled over the Forbidden Mountain while John Price stood upon a balcony high above the Moors, Diablo perched beside him, staring out at a world that shouldn’t exist.

In the depths beneath life itself, Simon Riley sat before an endless procession of the dead while Pain and Panic frantically searched every record in the Underworld for three names their master insisted should exist.

Far beneath the Western Sea, Johnny MacTavish was discovering that eight tentacles were surprisingly useful once one stopped falling over them, while Flotsam and Jetsam watched their supposedly ancient master attempt to reverse-engineer his own magic.

And beneath the golden domes of Agrabah, Kyle Garrick walked into a royal audience chamber wearing a ridiculous hat and the face of a man Princess Jasmine already had every reason in the world not to trust.