London, crass&magnificent.

From the Clean to the end of the Central Line, where Epping used to be forest. Nook&crannies, every little bit of space used, then built on top, russiandolling upwards until only armchair on tiny roof is left. Railway lines like scolopendra, e-cabs like dung beetles, the Thames like disease, dust particles like dandruff entering any available human interstices, from airways to zippers. Everpresent noise from unseen machinery, traffic and Louders. Poverty hiding gems, luxury hiding craven, conventions hiding mayhem: London is smoke&mirror.

And amid all this, Mods&Plains living off, with, against, despite, for, up, eachother: in thirteen years, nothing much has changed.

It’s late. The sky’s the colour of rusty tungsten. Office windows on tall buildings on&off like giant oldskool Tetris. Downtown Walthamstow is gridmaze of relentlessly cloned Victorian houses in neat rows. Vegetation is glimpsed in sparse rebellious cracks in concrete: life will out. Daedalus-warren of uneven paths coursing between back kitchen windows, leading to trashyards of disconnected appliances and fleshless armchairs.

It is in one such unmapped side alleyways that Eve and Montagne are crouching, behind builder’s skip, grim&cold. An XTuned hatless team of two should be approaching from the opposite side soon, in pincer movement. Pincer, like Claw.

     Eve is older but: still lithe. She’s dressed in Veiled Guild black, with voodoo markings and runes stitched in gold at the hem. Her hair is bunned, her temples dyed blue, the skin underneath her eyes bearing horizontal camouflage marks drawn with wallmould. She wears Sacred AInarchist bandana across her brow, with night-vision binocular cinched up, like vertical eye-pods. She has on a pair of thin leather mittens, to leave data fingerpads free. The right one fitted with four lasers tubes sewn ontop of phalanx. At her belt is ceremonial Algonquian tomahawk blessed by Bondyé. In her backpack is sacrificial chainsaw with teeth of sanctified diamond steel.

At Montagne’s belt is shuriken he built with a few remnants from Vincent’s smashed Claw, before he handed it over to AIsuperior Carmina. Claw is now on display in consecrated Aldwych Station, along Sophie’s Octopus badge that Montagne unhooked before her cremation, and his very own Zoltar card. Subterraneans come&pilgrimage, sometimes: their promised Machine is not back yet, so they pray before relics.

Montagne, too, has wallmoss bands on cheeks, his skin still paler here&there from anti-surgery after all these years. His steps are cautious, slow. They’re out here on intel from Needle, cloaked to catch Scissorhand.