The twins woke up at roughly noon, ate a meal of fresh grilled pork, and discovered that Paul had chosen not to delete as many as he had categorized. The categories were 'bitching about Duumvirate', 'important', 'standard Dominator stuff', and 'other'. The important stuff they read first, while snacking on chocolate energy bars and downing huge glasses of milk. Ah. Paul had categorized as important various statements of strength and unity, the senders promising to do specific things on behalf of the Dominator. Most of it generally was important in the sense that it needed answering, but Paul apparently had a higher opinion of the Levels than the twins did. That and the fact that it didn't matter if nineteen out of twenty of these promises were genuine; it was the twentieth that would kill them. Standard Dominator stuff was just that, and the twins rolled their eyes, knowing that Illuminati still had a right to petition their Dominator regardless of the circumstances, and these still had to be answered. The 'other' category contained mostly congratulations with various insights that Paul thought the Duumvirate might want to read; unfortunately, it was mostly based on guessing and assumptions of varying validity. The twins flipped through it and nuked the folder.

Then they read 'bitching about Duumvirate' and laughed. There were only about a dozen messages in this category, from various Illuminati who believed both that the existence of two Dominators was fundamentally wrong and that they'd get what they wanted by complaining about it. What did these fools think would happen? Did they really expect them to go "Yeah, okay, you're right, there should be only one of us, we'll go ahead and go back to that now"? It was tempting just to kill them all for their idiocy but the twins couldn't afford to do things like that anymore. Anything of that nature would invite someone else to become an enemy, and above all else they didn't need any more of those. If there were a dozen people dumb enough to complain, there were also probably many hundreds who also believed as they did but weren't as dumb. The solution, the twins decided, was simple: There was only one Dominator, and the twins were that Dominator, and if anyone didn't like the idea it was his problem.

Two hours into their work, Paul woke up. He'd had undefinable nightmares, the result of way too much stress. He didn't want to get out of bed at all, and only did so when he noticed something soft and white on his black covers, draped over him. He recognized it at once and sat up abruptly, grabbing it and sitting up off the bed in one motion, sending the sheets onto the floor.

The item in question was a white one-piece suit, sized to his measurements exactly, the only other difference between it and the twins' a tan back coat instead of a white one. There was no question what it signified. If he wore this, he was an Illuminatus, with everything that meant. Power, prestige, mastery, all symbolized by the color of one single garment.

He didn't have to accept it. Since Sarah was almost certainly the one who had snuck it onto his bed, he could put on one of his black outfits, hand the suit back to her, shake his head, and return to the twins as their willing servant. The chance would never be offered again. It was surprisingly tempting to do this, to say that he was too weak to handle it, to refuse the responsibility. He didn't need it, and the twins didn't need for him to have it.

He set it down on the bed and got a whiff of himself in the process- he needed a shower before he'd wear any clothes at all. He took one for ten minutes (oh, joys of hot water) before he went to his closet and pondered what to wear. He was feeling a little chilly, so black shirt and long pants would be comfortable, maybe socks as well.

'Holy shit, what the hell am I doing?!'

He leaped back from the closet, rolled over the bed, and grabbed the suit as if it were a firearm and this was war. With a minimum of motions, he quickly unzipped the vertical magnetic closure on the chest, stepped into the legs with the steel-toed feet, put his hands into the gloved arms, and zipped it back up. There were hand-length blades coming from between his knuckles when he clenched his fists, and small claws coming from his nails when he pressed the palm a certain way, just like the twins had. The somatic message was unmistakable: I am an Illuminatus very close to the Duumvirate.

The first thing he told was the computer. Since he lived in the Dominator's mansion and was once his servant, he had almost complete Dominator-level access, which meant that he could edit his own entry with impunity. Paul Smith Servant became Paul Smith 5th just like that, fifth being the lowest level of the Illuminati hierarchy. Theoretically, he could make himself a first just like Sarah surely would, but he hadn't earned it and it wouldn't be accepted by the other Levels. Sarah had power he did not; power differences were the reason they had a level system to begin with.

But levels were arbitrary and relatively inconsequential. He was still a very, very important person. And like so many other important people, the very first thing he did when he got to work was check his e-mail.

Two messages were from Joey, both video. One directly after the attack: "Dude, when you get this, answer, all right? You're the only one there who's not engineered and I don't want to see you get hurt." This, apparently, for lack of better things to say. The second was a few hours ago. "Saw you at the party. Wanted more chance to talk. Gimme a call back."

As a sort of slap to all the overlords demanding his attention, Paul answered Joey first. It took five seconds for the other end to pick up. He was expecting to leave a message but got Joey's smiling face instead. Joey had a blanket draped over his nether regions, having gotten up in what was for him the middle of the night. He took one look at Paul and his eyes went wide. "Holy shit! Congratulations!"

Paul showed none of his worry. This was his good friend Joey, and he really should be honest, but he was an Illuminatus now and he had to pretend he knew what he was doing. "Thank you, Joey. I'm looking forward to what I can do with this."

"If you're anything like Jeremy was, you're going to be one legged ass kicking for weeks."

And that threw Paul off his perch and he broke up laughing. "Okay, truth is? I'm not looking forward to it, I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and I'm not even sure what questions to ask."

"Jeremy was the same. But fuck, he had Richard guiding him." Both Jeremy and Joey's opinion of that guy was getting lower and lower. When Richard Goldman first patronized Jeremy, introducing him to the Illuminati and showing him how everything worked, he was the font of all knowledge. Now he was just another fool among many. "You've got the Duumvirate." Jeremy had taught him the proper way to pronounce it: Doo-um-vur-it.

"Yeah, they kinda threw me into it."

"They wouldn't have done it if they didn't think you could handle it, right?" Joey was smiling at him, wider and wider. "You can handle it, right?" Great. Now even the nicest servant in the world was playing with him.

"I don't... know. Seriously, I don't know."

"Dunno what to tell you, dude. Anyway, that's not what I wanted to talk about." Paul raised his eyebrows and waited two seconds. "I've just been getting this weird idea that you might end up dying for some stupid cause or something. Like you're going to find them and fight them, but do it in a wrong way so you get yourself killed. Same for them, but that's really ridiculous isn't it?" They shared a smile. The only cause the twins or Sarah would die for would be hubris possibly involving rage, but they were fairly immune to the standard pitfalls. "I imagined that you'd sacrifice yourself for the twins, but now you're wearing white so that's kind of unlikely now."

Coming from him... "As if you wouldn't for your master."

Dead serious: "In a split second. You know it." Paul just nodded. He wouldn't want to see that scenario, though. Joey dead, and Jeremy pissed... "But I mean it, congratulations. I gotta go back to bed. Everyone's going apeshit and it's going to be a freak day tomorrow. Love ya, dude." Click. Every day's freak day.. did he really just finish with 'Love ya'?

Okay. Whatever. Joey was Joey. What else was on the plate?

Half of the remaining 58 messages were well-wishings, a few congratulations that started streaming in the moment he had updated his entry, a few more messages from servants Paul didn't really know. Ah, that's right, he did know that one- Bryan, Akira's servant, acquired when Paul had finished his spying session on James Baker, the twit who had failed to follow basic secrecy procedures when acquiring children in a boys' ranch. The message had been typed straight, not spoken, but Paul could read Bryan's anger anyway:

"fuck u bitch, i hope u die, ur nothin 2 ne1, they will c how stupid u r and kill u"

How anyone could live with an Illuminatus for over a year and still remain so blindingly moronic was a complete mystery to Paul. Was Akira making him type with his nose or what?

But his real interest was in the the messages that were coming in faster than he could read them; other Illuminati had pre-written them in anticipation, and sent them the moment he took power. Most of these contained congratulations as well, but added extremely carefully-phrased requests for arbitration, cloaked in the masks of attempting to discern Paul's sense of judgment, given as hypothetical questions. Most of them were worded so that even if Paul saw through the guise, it would still be a valid question. It didn't take a genius to understand the ostensible reason: they didn't want to call direct Dominator attention to themselves with minor matters when the Dominator was worried for his very life. Paul's status was an interesting combination of high and low; he had the ear of the Dominator but was presumably a brand-new fifth learning the ropes. The full explanation came in a flash of insight: they could figure out that the Duumvirate was trying to give him his own power, and so wouldn't want their new proteg\'e9 second-guessed. By getting Paul's favorable decision in the matter, they could go to the other party and say 'Do you want to go to the Dominator and tell him that Paul was wrong? Who do you think the twins will listen to, you or him?' And if the decision was unfavorable, Paul figured, they wouldn't tell the other party at all.

Paul's insight continued: The other party, faced with his decision, would go to him as well. 'You didn't get all the facts, they left this out,' they would say, and both parties, convinced that they could manipulate him better, would pull him in their respective directions, pulling shit that they'd never dare try with the Dominator.

'I'm going to have to deal with this constantly. I'm an Illuminatus now.' Paul was expecting a heady rush of power from that realization- an Illuminatus, one of the most powerful people in the world!- but instead he felt a growing sense of fear. Of all the things he could be doing, being pulled apart by other Illuminati was not high on his list. But at least he had a guaranteed place in it, and likely some real holdings as well, as he was not bound by the traditional Dominator restrictions on personally holding power. If the Illuminati who asked his decisions complained when he wanted something in return (likely some of the between-parts that both parties had a stake in), then that was their problem- he could instantly throw it back in their faces with 'Why didn't you go to the Dominator, then?' And then they would have to either pony up, or end up sheepishly explaining to the twins that they were trying to use Paul as a cudgel against their competitor.

And, he figured, if the shit really hit the fan with this plan, he'd go straight to the twins and they'd laugh with him, give him a pat on the back, encourage his intellectual judo, and settle everything the way they always did.

Paul took a deep breath, hit Reply with Text, and... sat there.

'Okay, let's back up a bit. I'm just nervous.' So he chuckled, slacked off for fifteen minutes, opened up an emulator of some cheap handheld and played for another half hour before he realized what he was doing, closed it without saving, looked at the message again...

It suddenly dawned on Paul that being an Illuminatus was a lot harder than being a servant.

Maybe he really should have.. no. There was no way. He could do this, and he would.

And it was, after all, just a recorded message. He had time to think about his reply and overcome the mental hurdle of manning up and treating Illuminati as equals, or even subordinates. Paul had the ear of the Dominator. If Paul were to tell the twins "I don't quite trust this guy", that guy would be not quite trusted- or at least trusted a bit less than the average manipulative Illuminatus.

Okay, down to business. First, he considered the actual content of the message. Okay. The regional overlord of a part of South America, Wilfred Garcia ('How the fuck do you end up with a name like that?'), wanted an American media corporation to make some positive news stories about the Venezuelan government, to increase stability in the country and the feelings of security of those living there, an island of real stability in the metastable region. (The ongoing chaos there was cyclical, hence perversely stable.) The letter was full of the usual assortment of insinuations, pleas, manipulative language, ad nauseum. Paul recognized this sort of thing instantly and ignored it.

Had he been more normal-world informed, Paul would have known that the request was ridiculous, that the government of Venezuela was too "left", and the US media too "right", for it to happen; and said regional overlord was trying to use Paul's newfound status to completely alter the shape of politics there. Paul was almost thirteen years old, and a servant for two of that. Although he could pretend from time to time, and knew details that no normal could, he really didn't have much knowledge of the details of pan-American dichotomic politics.

So, instead he decided to go with a blanket, all-encompassing statement, Dominator style. "Don't expect cooperation to fulfill your goals".. no. The twins said on a regular basis that cooperation was to be encouraged. How about.. "Cooperation cannot be forced. You cannot expect a fellow Illuminatus to use his resources solely to benefit your plans. If you wish my aid we may be able to come to an arrangement." There we go! Important-sounding, just high and mighty enough to be an Illuminatus, in line with the Dominator's opinions, yet not unduly dismissive. Heh. He could get used to this. (What he didn't know was that the regional overlord was chuckling about 'come to an arrangement'.)

Why was there a regional overlord, anyway? What the hell was he doing that the normals didn't? If South America was pretty much a self-sustaining cesspool, what need to maintain it? But that was a bad question, Paul surmised. For when you found a lack of a 'need' for a regional overlord, you started to find the lack of need for local overlords, or corporate overlords, or political-party overlords, or any other kind of overlord, in which case you started to lose control over large chunks of the planet.

Basically, Paul figured, there was a regional overlord for every hectare of land and sea because somebody had to do it.

Once Paul came to the realization that a lot of the secret masters were just there to fill space, his confidence ballooned and he began to go through requests with a grin on his face.

When he was almost finished, he realized his errors, and smacked himself in the forehead. He had been brushing them off mostly, occasionally pointing out that he knew what they were trying to do, more than once outright asking them why they had come to him, continually saying that he would be glad to help for a price. Foolish! He wanted to take it all back and start again- wait, I fucked up, do-over! (There was no 'unsend' button. Once the message was out, that was it.) What he should have been doing wasn't offering assistance in exchange for resources- he should have been using their requests to directly help himself. He shouldn't ask, he should just take. But how would he get away with that? The Dominator's power couldn't be used for that, that was one of the big ones. But everything was owned by somebody. And yet.. people moved around in levels regularly, lost and gained things, and there was no way all of it could be just from trades, deals, and expansion. Was that how it really worked? That ownership came from saying "It's mine" and making people believe that?

Which was exactly what Sarah had been trying to tell him, leaving the suit on his bed without explanation, simply there for the taking.

It was then that Paul understood that his initial assessment was wrong. Illuminati didn't take control of things because it was their organization's duty. Illuminati- and everyone else- took control of things because they could. This didn't change the fact that many of them were effectively just filling space.

He then looked at the last message. Wilfred had replied! Another chance to do this right. He really should call him.. no. If Wilfred wanted text, then text it shall be. Gave him more time to think, anyway.

Patronage was also one of the ways new Illuminati gained holdings. Another Illuminatus wanted dependents, and didn't want to deal with the hassles of direct ownership even with servants. Wilfred was trying to turn Paul into his vassal. 'You infinite dumbass,' Paul thought to himself, laughing harder and harder. As Bugs Bunny would say, what a maroon! It was a bold plan, to be sure. Say this and this and give him this and make him think you're his friend and get heavy Protection from Dominator. Did this work for him in normal land? Just suck up to the boss's kid? 'Man, I might not be the wisest one here, but this guy must think I'm a real tard.'

Wait, could he have read that right? Could Wilfred actually have been dumb enough to use bad phrasing on a former implanted servant, who had personally killed an Illuminatus through that exact thing?

I think that you or another Illuminatus should control the politics of Venezuela directly.

No, it had to have been intentional, but okay- he would! It was done before, and the past exploits of Illuminati showed the way, with technology and oh-so-useful implants it wasn't even anything but a large project...

...which he had no tools for. His mwa-ha-ha high fell with a crash. The Dominator could not grant him resources because the Dominator had no resources to grant. A handful of Enforcers wouldn't cut it. To insinuate himself into an existing power structure, which three different Illuminati already had hands in, was beyond his resources and his ken. He needed help and lots of it. What Illuminati did he know who had that kind of thing? Jeremy? Just not enough power there. Operator and other science-types, hell no, he didn't have anyone else remotely as a friend... except maybe someone he knew who had more than enough power indeed.

The moment he stepped out the door, he was cheered, in echo, by a very pleased Duumvirate at the bottom of the stairs.

"I guess I really don't have personal servants anymore. That'll take some getting used to," Howard said with a grin.

"I actually thought that you might walk out that door wearing black," William told him, and read the reply off his face. "You almost did, didn't you!" Paul would never admit that out loud, not even to them.

"I.. ah.. I appreciate your congratulations..," Paul said awkwardly to more clapping, "but right now, I have.. business to transact with one of my.. peers." Even more clapping and cheering before the twins returned to their own business.

The fact that she could kill him in a split second notwithstanding, it was a girl's room, so he knocked first. Sarah opened it for him with a smirk and closed it behind him. Apparently she'd been expecting this.

"A regional overlord said that 'I or another Illuminatus' should control Venezuela." Sarah started laughing and offered Paul ideas he'd already figured out.

"Yes, I know he wants to mentor me. Yes, I'm sure he'll infiltrate his own guys into my operation if I let him. Not going to happen. I just want to take it with my own guys, and I have some idea how, but I need help and I need, well, guys."

"Taking the whole country by surprise against him is a waste of time and force," Sarah said. "He's expecting you to ask him for help. Do so. Play along with everything he says and let him insinuate as he pleases; then we reset the implants of his, or implant them period, which involves a decently sized effort on my part- but you get your guys from him." Paul nodded and said nothing. "Getting involved in fights between Illuminati is something we seldom do these days, and usually the exchange for this sort of thing involves a non-interference clause and an offering of resources. Existing resources, not what you get from him." She plopped down in her comfortable swivel-chair, looking at Paul with her nose slightly up-turned, projecting an air of Now, we do business.

"I don't even have- wait. This is where I'm supposed to negotiate, right? But you don't actually want anything. You're just going through the motions," Paul said. "You know I'm starting broke, and you know I couldn't possibly be dumb enough to get in your way." Sarah nodded. "Neither one of us likes bullshit, so what's the real reason you're so eager to help me?"

Sarah raised her eyebrows. "More powerful allies wasn't your first guess?" Internally, she was applauding like crazy. She had been meaning to teach him how to negotiate the right way, but this was better.

"If that's what you wanted you would simply have shown me everything yourself and I wouldn't have been sitting in there figuring out what the hell I'm trying to do." Or standing in here, desperately making educated guesses at how to deal with the freshly ennobled Sarah.

She nodded. ('Oh, he's already so good at this, even stressed half out of his mind.') "Paul, you're still their little friend. The fact that you're not engineered is only some of it." Her look darkened. "They need to grow up. Now." And it was fortunate, Sarah thought, that they acted in audacity instead of fear. Good thing too- they had no one to run scared to. They just needed to grasp it better, which meant using all their minds seriously instead of what she took as just playing. "And having little pet-friends around who will always be psychologically dependent on them is not going to help them. It might work for Jeremy but it is not working for them. This might offend you, but this obviously means that you need to grow up."

"You just called me a little pet-friend and then you think 'grow up' might be offensive?" She shrugged. "Fuck you. I just got done getting shot at and shrapneled at, and this is my fucking first time doing any of this. And I don't have your fucking reflexes, or your mental state, or what you grew up with, or any of that shit! So just.. fuck off with that. It doesn't matter what the hell I look up, I'm going in blind."

"Oh, it's always like that. I have a power symbol to get, then I'm off to go take control in person before I can send somebody to go grab your guys."

Paul almost asked what the power symbol was but decided against it. "So it's a done deal then?"

"Yes. Now get out of here." She gestured towards the door. "What if they walked in and saw us conspiring?" The question was something of a test.

"So what if they did? I'd just tell them 'Isn't that what we should be doing?'"

Sarah smiled. That wasn't the expected answer but worked very well. "For you, using your own naivete for Illuminated purposes is probably the best way to start."

"No shit. That's how I got offered a whole country in the first place," Paul said, smiling back, and shut the door.

Sarah cackled as an old witch in a teenage body, followed shortly by deep thought. Well, of course she was better than him, she was engineered and grew up here. And she'd have her power base just by walking in and taking over. But he knew what he wanted and she didn't have a clue. The only want she had as a servant- after she was lied to and implanted- was a way out, including suicide. Unimplantation was supposed to be impossible. Now that she could want again, should she just say screw loyalty and get the hell out of here or maybe...

She took a breath. That kind of emotional reaction was even more useless than usual. 'Consider the whole situation.' Of all the positions she could be in, this was by far the best one- fully trusted by the Dominator, and with an organization at her beck and call to do damn near anything in the world she wanted done. By that logic her real power was enormous, provided she could get the twins to do what she wanted, a thing they generally did anyway. And then there was the psychology- who in the Illuminati was, realistically, going to deny her anything? If she had a power base and a relationship with the Dominator, she by definition was Empress of the fucking planet!

'If the rogues don't usurp it.' Okay. Situation considered. At least she had an enemy. If all she had was love and power she'd never know what to do with it. She envied Paul; he at least was a basically conventional Illuminatus getting a conventional power base and developing a conventional will to power.

Paul, who considered himself a very unconventional Illuminatus indeed, was saying a few meaningless uncertain things to Wilfred, who went into full patronization mode almost immediately. 'You fucking twat,' Paul thought as he played along. 'Do you think I even want a father figure? Do you seriously think this shit is going to work on me?' Why, yes, he'd be more than happy to help, and even bothered telling Paul about some of his own men he was leaving in key positions. 'And I know about the rest, too, you stupid fuck.' There was actually no good reason for Wilfred to leave anyone under Paul's actual control.

Paul compared timetables; by the time Wilfred was done 'giving' it to him, Sarah's squads could easily be in place to actually take it. And she never failed. "Now I own Venezuela," Paul said aloud once Wilfred was off his screen, as if he were playing a game of Risk or Monopoly.

His head suddenly pounded as he considered what it meant for a conspiracy to control a country. Men in key places, in all walks of life. Organizations, owned wholly. All top political parties, behaving in top-down hierarchies, doing whatever their masters commanded. Less top-down organizations more subtly controlled. For a small country the number of servants would be at the very least a dozen, with hundreds of nescient sub-servants of their own, and this was just in direct control positions and not media or other social structures. The complexity was insane, but how much of it did he actually have to know to get things done and not get owned in the process? And, more importantly...

"Now what the fuck do I do with it?"

"That's an excellent question," Sarah asked, stepping around the corner. Paul'd left his door open. "Unfortunately, no one can answer that but you."

Paul sighed and rolled his head back in his seat. "Can we assume that he knows what he's doing, generally?"

"I think that's a safe assumption, inasmuch as those things exist."

"Okay, well, then, I won't tell them to change anything. The whole day to day operation, all of that, remains the same. It just belongs to me. If there's any contradictions they should do whatever benefits me, if there's something of his they relied on that they can't now, they should let me know about it."

She nodded. Good, he was conservative. A significant fraction of Illuminati would have changed everything just because they could. "Will he be informed of this operation after it's completed?"

"Let him know that we took his guys?"

"Yes. With implants there's very few ways of him finding out."

Paul thought for a moment. Pure stealth or abrupt surprise? Fuck, he felt overwhelmed just doing one country, trying to control a country while in the middle of a double-cross.. fuck that, not worth it. That was a tricky business that he really didn't understand, and odds were he'd fuck it up. "Yeah, let him know. I'll just have them stop talking to him. Make him call me." Easier that way.

"Okay. Time to give the orders."

"Huh?"

"Did you expect me to do the talking parts for you?" she asked. "You just said what needs to be done. They'll be implanted for you right off the bat. Controlling them is your business, Paul. Remember that. Now just look into the screen, greet them with your name and inform them that you control them, suspend their standing orders, not to tell Wilfred or break secrecy, and this will go into the recording." A quick, cheap goggles/earphones headpiece had become the standard for implant raids, as new or freshly-reset implants forced their subject to forever obey the next person they saw.

Paul remembered the key rules of control implants. The first and most important was that his new servants would do what he told them, not necessarily what he wanted. The second was that the implants controlled actions, not thoughts. The third was that they were reliant on the subject's brain; if the brain didn't work right, neither would the attachments. But he knew all this intuitively. He'd been on the wrong side of them, after all.

She clicked a few buttons and turned on his screen's recording function. "Hi, I'm Paul, and I'm your new master, all standing orders on you are suspended, and you may not tell Wilfred what I have done to you nor break Illuminati secrecy," he said in a crisp, clear voice. She translated that into Spanish for him, which he recited before clicking it off. "Shouldn't that 'suspend' be 'revoke'"?

"No, we don't know how he governs or what kind of orders he gave." It could be anywhere from nothing but basic laissez-faire general orders, to pages and pages' worth of secrecy concerns, if-then commands, and a slew of reporting shit. The record was rumored to be something like a 2000-page document for one unlucky servant. "There are boilerplates, but realistically, you're going to want to discover their orders and alter them yourself."

He thought it through in his head. "So I'll be waiting here the whole time, and when your guys take them, they'll have screens right there, right?" She nodded. She'd bring spare communicators for those who didn't have them. "And I'll have to be here waiting, and each one could be different, and each one of them has to be done personally, and there's like two dozen of them and maybe even more. Is that right, do I have it?" He wasn't relishing this, and it showed in his voice. Especially if he got three calls at the same time.

Sarah rolled her eyes, he had been doing so well and then he whips out this childish bullshit... "Were you under the impression that this would be somehow easy or-"

"Would you shut up about that already? I know it's not going to be fucking easy. Don't ever talk down to me, isn't that the whole point of what you just fucking said?" he snapped, sitting up. He fell back down, shaking his head, almost apologizing for that outburst. "Just.. go back into that assassin mode of yours and go do it. I'll deal with it." What else could he say?

Sarah obliged him, silently exiting the room and smiling inwardly. He was learning how to alter his own reactions to stress.

She would soon see if another Illuminatus would do the same.