Staring down at his desk with his hands massaging his temples, Jack’s vision lost focus as the lined wood blurred. He had to breathe through his mouth, since the ever-present aroma of stale coffee was enough to make his stomach lurch; he needed to open the window.

But if he stood up, it was over.

He could feel it in his inner ear: his sense of balance had decided to take a personal day. Even sitting in his chair, he could tell that letting go of his head would mean falling to the side.

He felt the familiar sensation of sandpaper in his throat. “Hannah, could you get me a glass of water, please?” His voice grated.

“Get it yourself,” said Hannah, lying back on a couch with a paperback.

“That’s so mean,” he croaked. Talking. Listening. The asthmatic panting of his laptop. Even the rustle of his shifting clothes when he moved sent jackhammers driving through his skull. “Can’t you have a bit of sympathy for the guy whose name’s on the sign?”

“You did it to yourself. Next time, just don’t drink so much.”

“But then how am I supposed to drown out the negative thoughts?”

“Actually deal with your issues?”

“Excuse me,” said the room’s other occupant, “but I was trying to tell you about Armageddon.” 

The speaker was a massive man, well over six feet with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His short blonde hair swept across his forehead, and he wore a black shirt with a priest’s collar, and pressed trousers. There was a broadsword in his belt, the scabbard white and ornate and covered in symbols and runes.

He was a Paladin, one of Christianity’s few chosen warriors, and also one of the most annoying people Jack had ever met. This had nothing to do with his religion: he was just an idiot.

Groaning, Jack said, “what’s that, Farmageddon? Are all the nation’s cows gonna rise up in revolt, or something?”

“Definitely the pigs,” said Hannah, still engrossed in her book. “Pigs are devious bastards; there’s even a book about it.”

“I don’t think that book’s meant to be taken literally,” said Jack.

“Not Farmageddon,” said Sam, “Armageddon.”

“Shwarmageddon? I think people prefer fish and chips more, round here.”

He sighed. “Not Shwarmageddon, Armageddon.”

“Arma II-geddon? Is that some kind of new prequel for Night-Z?”

“No, it is the rising of the Antichrist and the beginning of Hell on Earth.”

“Huh? That doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with zombies, though.”

“Because it will be demons plaguing the land, not zombies.”

“Oh, I met a demon the other day.” Scratching his chin, Jack shut his eyes and grimaced. “Nice bloke.”

Sam stared at him, blinked, and cleared his throat. “‘Then I looked, and I heard an eagle flying in midheaven, saying with a loud voice, ‘Woe, woe, woe to those who dwell on the earth, because of the remaining blasts of the trumpet of the three angels who are about to sound’.”

Jack groaned. “What’s that even supposed to mean? You’re starting to sound like one of those street preachers.”

“The street preachers may have a point. You see, there’s a prophecy-”

“Ooh, there’s a prophecy.”

Craning her head, Hannah said, “is it like the twenty-twelve prophecy?”

Jack chuckled. “Or the Dragon King! You know, ‘the king of sleeping beasts shall awaken and lay waste to the workings of man’.”

“Yeah,” said Hannah, kneeling on the sofa, “but everyone knows dragons aren’t real. We met demons.”

Jack shrugged. “Different kind of demon. And now that I think about it, why do all these prophecies sound the same? ‘Something rises and everything goes to shit’.”

Sam knit his brows. “How did you know?”

The other two stared at him blankly. Jack said, “really?”

“In the land hallowed by living metal, the Antichrist shall rise.”

“Spooky,” said Hannah. “What’s with the italics?”

“It is because these prophecies are absolute.”

Jack scoffed, and regretted it when something tried sliding up his throat. “Weren’t all the rest of them?”

“No, but every prophecy in this book has come true-”

“Then show us the book,” said Hannah.

“Yeah,” said Jack, wondering if a book of prophecies might hold next week’s lottery numbers.

Sam coughed. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t just take it with me; it belonged to someone else. But you have my word as a Paladin-”

“How can you even be sure it’s here?” Jack exhaled. “I get the ‘living metal’ bit, but what about it makes the ground hallowed?”

Sam’s eyes met his, his gaze carrying the weight of an avalanche. “You see, the man who enchanted the Tower - he was a Christian.”

Slamming his face into the desk, Jack said, “there’s no way you can possibly know that; no-one even knows who the guy was!”

Sam nodded. “I can feel it in my gut.”

“Are you sure you don’t just need a shit?”

“I went before coming. Now, I must find the Antichrist and put a stop to the end times; Jack, since we made such a good team last time, I would like you to accompany me on my quest.”

He suppressed a scoff. The sum of their teamwork had been Jack using the Paladin as a meat shield against a horde of zombies while he tried to wrangle a cat.

It worked, though.

“Sorry,” said Jack, “I’m afraid my schedule’s full up for the day.”

Hannah snorted. “With what? No-one ever hires us.”

“I have an appointment with the toilet. We have a lot of things to work out, so I could be in there a while.”

As he stood to go to the bathroom, a knocking penetrated the room, and he froze in place.

Cocking an eyebrow, Hannah said, “do you want me to get that?”

“No!” said Jack, his expression tight. “It’s probably one of those salesmen again.”

“What if it’s Lydia?”

“Since when does Lydia knock? I’m surprised we even still have a front door, with her around.”

“Good point. But what if it’s a client?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Look, if the author can take a day off because his internet went down, then I can take one too! Four days isn’t enough of a break, dammit; from this moment, I’m on holiday!”

She clicked her tongue, returning to the book. “You’re always on holiday.”

The knock came again; a clear rapping, three times then two. It came again.

“I really think you should answer it,” said Sam.

A click and a clunk and the knocking stopped, replaced by the sound of footsteps ascending his staircase.

He paled.

“Oh, Mr. Trades,” said a sultry voice as the door swung open, “that’s so cruel of you, to leave me outside like that.” In the doorway stood a woman a little shorter than he was, skinny but deliciously curvy. She wore a black dress down to her ankles, a slit up the side revealing the impossible length of her legs; she had furs draped over her shoulders and a shining necklace around her neck.

Tresses of dark hair swayed across her soft features as she strode into the room. Following her was Lydia, clad in black pants and a hilariously puffy red coat. 

With an alluring smile painted on her ruby lips, the woman approached him and leaned in, shoving her cleavage in his face.

He bit his bottom lip.

She placed a finger under his chin. “I might just have to punish you.”

His eye twitched uncontrollably. “No-one here is hard boiled enough to deal with you, now go home.”

“But Mr. Trades,” she said, fluttering her ample eyelashes, “you’re the only one who can help me.”

Gaping, his eyes shot wide as he gulped. “Please don’t tell me…”

Tracing across his arm with delicate fingers, she nodded.

He screamed, gritting his teeth. “How the bloody hell could you let it escape?!”

The woman’s lip trembled. In a flash, she fell to her knees, hand covering her face as she bawled. “I’m sorry! It’s just that he’s been so raucous lately, he even broke my grandma’s precious vase. I couldn’t help but shout at him, and he ran away.”

“Wait,” said Hannah, perking up, “did you lose your child?”

“No,” she said, sobbing, “my cat.”

“More importantly,” said Lydia, “should we believe her? An author only goes to that much trouble describing a woman’s beauty when she’s bad news.”

Jack bristled. “This isn’t a noir story, and you let her in!”

“Yes, well. She was standing outside when I arrived.” She turned to Sam. “And what’s the priest doing here?”

“I’m not a priest, I’m a Paladin.”

Jack growled. “Shut up, Zura!”

“I’m not Zura, I’m a Paladin.”

“Augh, whatever! Can we just focus on the cat, please?”

Tilting her head, Hannah said, “why is a cat such a big deal?”

The femme fatale wannabe cried harder, sinking to foetal position. Jack squatted and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Not just any cat,” he said, casting his gaze to Lydia. “You speak Japanese, right? Ever hear of a Bakeneko?”

She pursed her lips. “The yōkai?”

“The menace could potentially be endless,” said Sam, folding his arms. “Perhaps this a sign of Arma-”

“No, it’s just a lost cat, mate,” said Jack.

“An endless menace?” said Hannah. “How could one cat be that bad?”

“Freshly dead bodies walking around. The shapeshifting. Oh, and the bloody fireballs!”

She tittered. “Sounds like fun.” Standing, she walked over to Jack and the woman, grabbing her attention with a gentle brush of the arm. “Excuse me, Ms…”

She hiccupped. “Laura.”

“Okay, Laura, can I just get you to fill out a form, please?”

Jack’s jaw unhinged itself. “What the hell are you doing?”

Hannah picked Laura up, pretending not to notice the streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. She brought her to the sofa, and produced a sheet of paper and a pen from beneath a stack of paperbacks. “Keeping records. It’s professional.”

He sucked his teeth. “Never needed records before.”

“Just trust your assistant.”

“Trust you to what? Paper ain’t free, you know!”

“Hmph.”

“And stop harrumphing at me!”

“Okay,” said Lydia, smirking, “I may have an idea. Come.” She pivoted, strutting out of the still-open door.

Sighing, Jack took his jacket from the back of his chair and slid it on.

“What… should I do with this?” said Laura, sniffing as she held up Hannah’s ridiculous form.

He picked up the wastebasket next to his desk, offering it to her. “Just leave it in here.”

Simmering, Hannah snatched it and placed it on the table. “There is fine.”

They followed Lydia, Jack grunting and grumbling as they descended the stairs. When they came to the forecourt, Choo-chooin was staring up at the sky; following his gaze, they could see a speck that looked like Lydia.

A mighty groan weaved through his body. “What are you playing at?!” he hollered. “It’s one tiny cat, you won’t see anything from up there!”

Suddenly, an invisible force grabbed him. It hoisted him up by his waist, shooting him towards Lydia at speed enough to ripple his face. He could hear only roaring, see only blurred lines through his tears.

He screamed.

It was a long scream, so hard he thought he might have burst a blood vessel. Or several. As he flew, he wondered if these were his last moments.

He hoped he didn’t soil himself.

The roaring stopped, and all he could hear was the distant call of winter birds. Cool breeze penetrated the hole in his jacket. As he felt the moisture drip from his eyes and his vision begin to return, a slender hand gripped his chin and turned his head.

He blinked repeatedly, noting Lydia floating above him; despite the lack of irritation, the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. “Why am I up here?”

She turned his chin so he was looking at the sprawling urban mess laid out before them. “Bakeneko leave signs, you said so yourself. So why not get a birds-eye view?”

“Okay,” he said, his voice high and weak, “then you do that. Please put me down.” 

She smirked. “Oh, you want me to put you down?”

There was nothing supporting him.

He tumbled into free-fall, going ass over tit as his throat flexed to find a scream. He saw flashes of tragedy and the comedy that had infiltrated his life.

The ground was so close.

His lungs giving up, his heart decided it was a great time for gymnastics practice and bounced around his ribcage.

He gasped.

Suspended a few feet above the tarmac, Jack moaned in relief as he sagged. It was as though the back of his shirt was on a coat hook.

“Since the fearless leader is so terrified of heights,” said Lydia, descending next to him, “who wants to come flying?”

Grinning, Hannah jumped forward, parasol bobbing as her hand shot into the air. “Ooh, me!”

Lydia waved a hand, and Hannah took flight. Giggling, she did a few flips.

“This is amazing!”

“Come along, then.” Lydia careened off like a bullet, Hannah swiftly following.

Jack plonked onto the ground, his tailbone jarring and sending a shock through him.

“Shall I pray for guidance?” Sam was standing next to Choo-chooin, deftly weaving away from every bite.

“Nope,” said Jack, climbing on the turtle’s disc. “Laura.”

The woman, who was sitting on the doorstep with her head between her knees, looked up. “Hm?”

“Weird question, but do you have anything that smells like your cat?”