It's dark in Angel Cave. It feels surprisingly moist, too - cave fungi line the walls, and every few paces are a group of tribals huddled around a fire, talking amongst themselves and sharpening weapons. Fawkes gets more than a few looks from them, but that can't be helped.

The dude their eyes are all drawn to is sitting at a table in one of the larger caverns, field-stripping and cleaning what looks like, if not a M1911A1, then a very good clone of one. Guarding the entrance is the biggest tribal in the cave - he's got six inches and sixty pounds on Voodoo, easy, and he looks down his nose at him, glaring as he crosses his arms over his massive chest.

"You show respect, owslandr," he says. "Or he show you thunder and fire."

Voodoo's response is a lazy thumbs-up. "Got it, dude."

The tribal's eyes narrow. After a moment, he steps aside, allowing Voodoo through.

"You must be Joshua."