NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This is the only OOC post allowed in the entire RP. Any other OOC Comments or questions should be directed to this thread:

Xenos Flare OOC Thread (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=367168&page=1&pp=20)

If you wish to join, go there.

"Science may have found a cure for most evils; but it has found no remedy for the worst of them all- the apathy of human beings."

-Helen Keller


"It is appallingly obvious our technology has exceeded our humanity."

-Albert Einstein


“If you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss begins to stare back.”

-Frederick Nietzsche.



The rain was coming down harder now, the black drops hurling themselves against the puddle cobblestone in miniature explosions. The torrent descended from the black skies, still stained from the industrial plants rusting outside of the city. Lighting crashed, freeze-framing a million droplets against the sooty flashbulb, the darkened windows of the imposing square shining milky in the night.

Below, the people pulled their overcoats to their chest, tucking their hats down to redirect the onslaught of water. The hustling splash of the people was drowned out by the roar of a diesel engine as a boxy brown truck rolled past, hurling the dirty streams onto the sidewalks. Another bolt of lightning illuminated the courtyard, reflecting from the gargoyles on the cathedral and bouncing from the columns of the courthouse. The thunderclap echoed through the stone and steel, the dirty post-industrial capital of Adamaria.

Once a bustling nation-state, the small princedom had lost its independence nearly a half century before, in the aftermath of the Second World War, consumed by the iron juggernaut of the USSR. Fifty years of Communist dictatorship had not served Adamaria well, and it had grown dependant upon the Rodina, incapable of maintaining its culture under the omniscient eye of the NKVD and later KGB. It had become a tank stop, a resource for iron ore and copper mining, and the ravenous patterns of strip mining had set to the forests and lakes.

The diminutive but wealthy nation was rent barren and fallow, its fields turned to pits, its forests to grid-work, and its cities into Production Centers. In return, the nation had received the “priority” protection of the USSR, and soon became home to several divisions of the Red Army. Throughout the days of the Cold War, Adamaria was a military depot on a national scale, a resupply station for the entire Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

But in the end, the ore was stripped clean, the copper exhausted. And, when the USSR began to collapse, the Red Army had pulled out the only remaining source of capital. With the life support stripped away, Adamaria began to slowly die, collapsing into a depression of both economic and morale scale.

Thirty years had passed, and Adamaria was little more than a speck on the map. Possessing no resources to exploit, the international community had walked away, offering only lip service to the dying nation, washing their hands in patriotic waters. But other interests had found Adamaria in national stead…

With a dire need for capital and little help from the world, the government of Adamaria had allowed the immigration of corporations who needed a safe house from global eye, and to the criminal element, which found a haven in the shattered nation. Adamaria began to build an economy, dependant on illicit corporate practices and downright deviant criminal behaviors. Anything went in the corpse of Adamaria.

And so, one national concern did find use in the shattered nation…

The acid rain skipped from the rooftop, turning to steam on impact. In another flash of lightning, a form was illuminated… a gray poncho over a man with field glasses, his face as grim as the scene around him. The man lowered his binoculars, eyeballing the road below. The rain vanished into the fog at knee level, and the chill wind cut to the bone. The people below tried to close their greatcoats, but it could not keep out the soul-eroding cold. A small red sign blinked, the last letter shorting out.

As the sparks fell to the cobblestones, the man tapped his cheek. “Mark, ten-niner, heading onto Balivou.”

On another roof top, nearing the outskirts of the rusting hulks of dead industry, two men lay in the freezing puddle along the building edge. One raised glasses, the other rested his hand on a M99 .50 Sniper Rifle, his eye glowing from the infrared scope’s light. The spotter spoke, “Roger dodger, we have the mark. North on Balivou… he’s stopping at the adult bookstore. He’s looking at the door… Bear, get target.”

The sniper raised his rifle, the matte barrel poking over a bipod. In the scope, the stained building stone rushed past, emptying into a lane, drawing up on a man… then another… then the target. The crosshair settled on the target’s chest, resting with deadly calm as the sniper held his breath. “Acquired.”

The spotter scowled. “He’s moving again… heading into the old Zobidov Refinery Complex. Looks like a mark… ready contact team.” The spotter lowered his glasses, and the sniper continued to track the oblivious target.

The Zobidov Complex had once been a massive iron-ore refinery and smelter, turning out high grade steel. Now, it was a ghost town, a dense urban jungle of corroding gangways and abandoned blast furnaces. Rust ran around the jagged pieces of scrap metal, and the towers stood as silent sentinels to this industrial graveyard. Broken belts and pipes led to shattered railroads and silent depots, while shadows flitted about the recesses of the old machinery.

The target stepped onto a plate of old plating, using it to cross a stream of rainwater and some foul chemical. The land was dead here, poisoned by a million substances left in the Complex. She looked left and right, smirked slightly. This was the kind of place that men feared to tread, with talk of ghouls and ghosts. The hardest mercenaries in Adamaria, of which there were many, avoided Zobidov at every opportunity. Here, in the pouring rain and crashing light, the effect was magnified, each monstrosity magnified by the snarl of nature’s judgment. But, she did not fear. She was feared. She was the manifest horror.

Her boots struck the fallow ground, the mud giving away. Pulling out lightly, she stepped again onto the metal gangway, cautious of the corroded portions. This place was condemned, but no one had the money to finish the task. Still, it served her purposes.

She was approaching the rendezvous, her pale flesh pulling back along sharp teeth. Why the hell did Ivan want to meet here? There’s no need for this skullduggery. Ahead, she could spot the conveyor, the mass of belts and scaffolds meters thick. Something pricked at her, that sixth sense, and she slowed her pace, scanning the area.

Sure enough, there was Ivan. Not a trap, then. Don’t worry about it, Nadia. But still, something ticked at her, and her better-than-human senses scanned the wrecks. In the crashing rain and thunder, there was nothing to pick out. She approached Ivan, the big man was leaning against a matted wall, crumbling brick. “I’m here, Vanya.” Her quiet voice cut the air concisely.

Ivan jumped, “Nadia, so good to see you.” His eyes flicked back and forth, like a child in a dark unknown.

“Cut it, Vanya. Why the emergency signal? What’s going on?” Her black eyes were moving now, too, scanning at his edgy behavior.

He sucked in a breath, his eyes watering, “Nadia… I’m sorry… I’m sorry-”

“Sorry for wh-”

Ivan’s head erupted into a jet of blood and brains, hurling him back into the brick and mortar, flipping into the empty smelter beyond. The meaty smack of metal on meat smashed into Nadia’s ears as a blast of air struck her face… only then did the shot ring out, a clanging-snap of an unknown rifle. The detonation resounded like just another thunder clap echoing in the ruins.

Nadia whirled, tracking the shot. Her superhuman hearing picked out the first point of origin, and she tracked the vector of Ivan’s fall, clawing for her Jericho pistol. Another flash of light illuminated the Zobidov complex, and Nadia felt ice hit her stomach. Around the complex, in the towers and gangways, tens of people waited, pointing weapons down at her. On her chest, the flickering blue dots of exotic laser sights danced about her organs.

At this sight, most humans would have broken down, collapsing into a heap, surrendering to the vastly superior force. But Nadia was not human, not a mere homo sapiens. She was a predator by nature, and she would not go down meekly. She bolted, the Jericho flashing into her hand.

A sharp pain tore through her, a wracking crunch that she had not felt in a very long time. The resounding crack of that infernal rifle rung out again, and she was thrown down, her chest imploded, her limbs twitching, the pistol spinning off into the darkness. But Nadia did not stop. Even though her internal organs were now decorating the wall behind her, her lungs and heart liquefied by the impact, she still rose, wobbly, and began to run, leaving very little blood.

There was another pain, and her left arm vanished into a puff of bone and muscle, and she crashed through the door, falling into the factory. She scrabbled backwards, trying to get into some sort of cover. I am not prey! I am the predator! This was all wrong to Nadia. She was not the one to be hunted. Who dares? Yet, she was, for the first time, frightened. They set that ambush. They captured and turned, at least temporarily, Ivan. But their weapons were wrong.

Already, her arm was reforming, her chest filling back out. The organs were not rebuilt, but they were hardly necessary. She only breathed from habit, and her heart was long dead. Only the muscle mattered, and that was coming back already. I will win.

She began to run again, climbing up the gangway inside of the building. Below, she could hear the running and yelling of her pursuers. By their voices, and their coarse words, she could tell they were mercenaries. Very good mercenaries, perhaps, but they were still merely soldiers of fortune. She rounded the last bend, entering the old office complex.

-and stared right into the barrel of a gun. The flash was blinding, and the impact sent her staggering backwards into the door. She tried to get up, but she was pinned, her muscles locked. Her eyes were blinded, and her skin was burning. The pain wracked every nerve in her body, as though she had been staked into the open sunlight for hours on end. She screamed, an animal howl that was absorbed by the night, as she contorted and shook, jerking helplessly against the wall of the office.

In the room, three men stood, holding a paddle-headed carbine of sorts, which hummed with some inner power. From the barrels, a thick laser emerged, pulsing in the dust in the air. Where the beams struck Nadia, her skin blackened and burned, peeling back to reveal scorched innards. Pale lines covered her body, and her cries grew shallow and further between.

Emerging from the darkness behind the three suited men, another emerged, his black hair contrasted to the silver sunglasses he wore on this blackest of nights. His mouth tugged into a smile, and he raised a sleek pistol. When he spoke, his voice was measured and calm, deadly professional and courteous, “I think she’s had enough.” The beams halted, and Nadia sagged to the floor. The man’s pistol coughed, and a single neurodart stuck into her neck. She became limp and lifeless instantly.

The man walked to the fallen woman, kneeling with a scanning device hooked into a black PDA. “Hmm… necrosis in the cells, regenerative genetics, anaerobic body functions, specialized digestive system… we’ve got ourselves a prime sample. Bind her up, stow her, and fall out.”

One of the men turned to him, “Sir, the mercenaries?”

“They played their role. Pay them, and let them revel in town. We’ve got the last of this Xenos.”

“Time to move to the next sample species?”

“Precisely. Clean up, and prepare the next operation.”

And the facility fell silent once more.

He wasn’t sure what bothered him the most in this complex: the glaring white surfaces of the hallway, the sterile smell of the lab, or the ignorant Security Officer who was refusing to clear his passcard. With a second glance at the officer, reviewing the various pieces of high tech gear the overpaid cop was wearing, “Colonel” Dex Gellar decided on the last option. Gellar scowled and resisted the urge to spit onto the gleaming white floor, or, to simply plow his gloved hand through the glass and throttle the insolent NovaGen officer. “Listen, kid.” Gellar barked, “I have an appointment to see Aurelli, why don’t you call him?”

The officer, his eyes hidden behind a half-face visor that descended from the ballistic helmet, smiled pleasantly, his mouth tucking behind the helmet-mounted microphone. “Sir, President Aurelli is in a meeting right now. If you’ll simply wait in the lobby, I’ll let you know when you can come in.”

Gellar grimaced, his scarred fists clenching at being sidelined like this. He glanced back into the lobby, where three of his men waited, reading various magazines. “Fine.” He snarled. “But it better be fast.” Gellar stalked back to the couch, where Benjamin “Bear” Harrison waited, flipping through the pages of a “Soldier of Fortune” magazine. Gellar dropped his tremendous frame into the chair, ignoring the stab of the gun belt into his side.

Bear raised an eyebrow, “Lovely little buggers, aren’t they, Colonel?”

Dex Gellar pulled his Stetson hat over his harsh features, and then tugged on his large silver belt buckle. “Give the little shits some high tech toys, and all of a sudden, they think they’re the big dog.” He glared at the NovaGen guards standing at the door. “Fucking asshats.”

Bear chuckled. “Well, you got to admit; they’ve got some real snazzy uniforms.”

Gellar felt a grin creep onto his broad face. He tugged on his denims and flannel shirt, looked at his caked muddy boots. “Yeah, especially looking at us.”

The NovaGen guard ignored the appraising glances of the sitting mercenaries, standing straight and silent. Gloss black boots rose to black riding pants, with a single gold stripe down the side, topped with a simple leather belt and gold clasp. The black button up shirt was tucked into the pants, and the gold-trimmed armored vest lay on the top, while the undershirt collar rose through to a rigid ring about the neck. The flared helmet sat on the head, while the opaque visor covered all but the mouth of the guard, which was obscured in turn by a microphone. In the guard’s black gloved hands, an FN F2000 waited, its digital scope glowing ominously.

Gellar snorted at the sleek postmodern look of the officer. “Looks like something straight outta Star Wars or some shit. Fucking Imperial Stormtrooper.”

One of the men commented, “They wore white, Colonel, not gold and black.”

“Shaddup, Bannon.” Gellar scowled harder, his face drawing into well worn lines on stubble and shadow. The NovaGen “Security Force” was better equipped than most national armies, and could have very easily launched a private war on Adamaria… although why would it, when it already owned most of the government? No, its weapons were for keeping the people outside out, and to control the experiments in Omicron Sector and below.

Gellar hated this country, with its gray skies and burning rain, its cold and its dreary nihilism. But he hated this company more, with its smirking distain for its indentured populace. The NovaGen Complex sprawled through much of the capital, stretching over eight square kilometers of space, massive and imposing with its neo-fascistic architecture of glass and steel. The compound was enclosed and protected by this private army, the workers living and working inside. The gates were guarded with tank stops, and the helipads enclosed in Gamma Sector held Werewolf Assault Helicopters in their hangars, ready to wreak destruction in the event of a strike or protest… or leak.

At night, Gellar could hear the howls from outside the city, in the ghost towns around it, abandoned years ago. Those cities were mostly silent now, prowled only by the bastard creations of failed NovaGen experiments, new forms of life created from raw genetic data and custom built for various purposes, now abandoned and roaming the countryside. It was hunting these failures that got him started with NovaGen and Adamaria, the bastard lord and his whore.

Gellar remembered it well, prowling the silent streets, watching for movement over the o-ring sights of a modified M249 SAW, carefully checking his radiation tag every few moments, making sure that the leaking reactor in the distance hadn’t killed him yet. From those hunts, Gellar and his mercenary command, Basilisk, had moved to recovering new “Xenos” as the eggheads called them, metahumans and nonhumans with unique traits. It was dirty work, and dangerous, bagging violent paranormal creatures for NovaGen to work its black science upon.

Basilisk got the hard assignments, the nasty captures, closing leaks. Gellar personally led this team, and had provisional control of the various mercenary forces subcontracted out from beneath. In this manner, he worked through corrupt members of the local police, hiring out mercenary bands and local gangs to take down the less valuable targets, keeping NovaGen’s hands clean of the whole mess. Gellar sighed. As much as he hated the international conglomerate, they paid well, and they were true to their word. It just annoyed him, how he, making an honest living was a “Dog of War” and scum, while these two-faced jackals were “International Business Leaders”.

But he knew why. NovaGen made miracles with life for the highest bidder. The company produced legal and safe stimulants, capable of providing energy and ease of thought for extended periods; it made mental boosters that raised cognitive abilities to new, albeit temporary, heights. It produced regenerative treatments that could remove the most crippling of injuries, even nerve damage. NovaGen was on the bleeding edge of Genetic Engineering and Cloning technologies, and every year, it consistently cured formerly incurable diseases. NovaGen worked miracles, and if a disposable someone had to suffer to save the First World, then it must be so. When several hundred farmers in Bolivia died last year from a bizarre strain of Ebola, which the World Health Organization later found to contain trace amounts of a NovaGen RNA patch included, the news was quickly washed away by the gleaming new filovirii vaccine from the company, which promised a removal of Ebola from the bioterrorism threat list. So long as NovaGen continued to deliver the latest and greatest cures and amplifiers to the First World, the world was content to allow it to use the Third World as its private laboratory.

In the past ten years, the work in Adamaria, the usurping of governmental powers, the evacuations, sterilizations, and quarantines… all were ignored by willing world elite, hidden from the populaces. NovaGen was a miracle worker, but miracles required a price… a price paid by the people who “didn’t matter”. Now, NovaGen promised a new breakthrough, a new miracle, and the world waited. And Gellar worked, snatching any specimen NovaGen demanded, and delivering it to those secret facilities.

The guard in the booth looked up, “Colonel Gellar? President Aurelli will see you now.”

“About damn time.” Gellar stood, and his men rose to follow. At the guarded door, the two Security Guards, no, NovaGen Soldiers stepped aside, bringing their F2000s to their sides in a parade position. The mercenaries approached the door.

As they neared, the left guard lowered his rifle pointedly. “Only the Colonel beyond this point.”

Gellar growled slightly and motioned for his men to go back, and the guard returned to rest. The doors parted, and the mercenary Colonel entered the antechamber beyond. At least they didn’t take his revolvers anymore.

As he approached the oaken doors before him, worth more than most of the entire city beyond the compound, he heard the outer doors close. From a side room, a man emerged, escorted by four Adamarian soldiers, scurrying for the door. Gellar pretended not to notice, but he had seen the man’s face. I knew Aurelli owned many of the politicos. I didn’t know he had the Secretary of State under his thumb. I wonder how high this really goes.

Ahead, the oak doors parted into a board room, the wood table lain out like a massive altar, with the flat screens ringing the walls. At the far end of the expanse, Phillip Aurelli, President of NovaGen Industries, waited, his tailored suit pressed and his Rolex shining. Behind the sexagenarian president, his personal bodyguards waited, dressed in their nameless black suits and sunglasses, looking like mere duplicates of one another. To Aurelli’s right was the Chief of Security for NovaGen, Peter Kuzin, wearing another nameless suit and silver sunglasses instead of black.

Aurelli smiled meaninglessly as the doors closed, offering a pointless greeting to Gellar. “Hello, Colonel. How nice to see you.”

Gellar gave a reply, simply because he was expected to, and Aurelli paid him. “Thank you. Same to you.”

Aurelli leaned onto the table, his wrinkled but firm hands working together, kneading his knuckles with an old ring. “What can I do for you, Colonel?”

Outside the picture window to the left, Gellar watched as a transport helicopter lifted from the ground, escorted by two Werewolf assault helicopters and a Havoc. “Sir, several of the mercenary companies under my employ took losses in the last take-down, out at Site Four. I’m going to need to hire new recruits.”

The patrician nodded his head, his imperial blue eyes closing for a second. “I heard, and I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps you need to take more precautions in the future.”

Gellar felt the anger inside him boil up again. We did take precautions, asshole. How were we supposed to know that we were going to be taking down some damn shapeshifter if you didn’t tell us. “Sir, we had no idea of the threat we were facing, and it was only because of the quality of my men that we took that thing down.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Kuzin nod to Aurelli, confirming Gellar’s statement.

Gellar actually liked the silent security chief. If he hadn’t shown up with those weapons at the end, we’d have been toast. He sometimes wondered where the man had received his training, but judging from the tattoo on his neck, it was probably best not to ask. That tattoo does match with some of the Spetsnaz logos I’ve seen. He does a good job hiding his accent most of the time. It was Kuzin who coordinated most of the hardest raids, who provided the exotic weaponry needed for takedowns, like the Painbeam Carbines needed to drop the vampire in Zobidov. As always, Kuzin and his men simply waited in the background, providing everything needed for success, and then waited for it to happen. Be honest, Dex, not much scares you, but this guy does. He just knows way too much about everything. Just be glad he’s under Aurelli’s control.

The businessman nodded. “Very well, Colonel. You may hire some new squads. As always, subcontract to keep the dirty work away from this company. Get the squads ready by Wednesday, because you’ll have new specimens by then. You are dismissed.” Aurelli waved dismissively.

Gellar swallowed his bile and walked carefully from the room, only allowing himself to swear once the doors were closed. The NovaGen guards did not notice or care. Turning his face back up, holding his chin defensively high, Gellar left the antechamber, and returned to the waiting room.

As he entered, Bear stood up. “So, how’d it go, Colonel?”

“How do you think?” Gellar glowered.

“Aurelli still has a stick in his ass?”

“Of course. But, we’re allowed to rebuild Gryphon and Hydra Squads for future use.”

“That’s a relief. Same protocol as always?”

“Sure enough. Keep at least three layers between NovaGen and the troops. I’m layer one, you guys and the rest of the squad is layer two, the Squad Commanders are layer three, and the foot soldiers are the bottom of the pyramid.” They began to walk for the tram. “They capture the target, deliver it to a Basilisk soldier, and we ferret it to NovaGen labs.”

“Who’s in charge of Hydra, now?”

“What about Larson?”

Bear stared in horror. “Larson? He went nuts, man, shooting up that shopping center trying to hit the wolf. He’s still down in the Penitentiary!”

“I’ll have the local pigs let him go. We own them, remember?”

“This is weird, Colonel. I’m used to running from the law, not being the law.”

Gellar raised an eyebrow. “You object?”

“Nah, I’m starting to like it.” Bear broke a grin. “Plus, it’ll be good to have Gunner back.”

Gellar nodded as they stepped into the tram car. “He’ll have to build a new squad, but I think he’s nuts enough to do it.” He grew grim again. “Besides, he’s more than willing to shoot people who back out.”

“Yeah.”

Somewhere over Deazeman
The Pelican dropship sped over the forest of the small island of Deazeman. Its rear door open, the men looked out the back at the Warthog LAAV dangling from a magnetic hook. They wouldn't be using this particular vehicle in this attack, but it was good to have one handy none the less. Credance Clearwater Revival's "Susie Q" played over a loudspeaker in the cargo bay of the ship, with the 12 man squad sitting on fold down seats. The ship buffeted as it dropped lower into a clearing, slowing instantly.

As it began to drop straight down, the men stood, checking their MA5B assault rifles. They began moving towards the door, and as soon as the Pelican stopped its drop, the men exited the back of the craft, and spread out into a tight circle checking all their corners for hostiles. The lead, MSgt. Ryan Walker, moved out from the circle. Scrawled on the side of the rifle in chaulk was his favorite quote. In war, men are but mad dogs in the noonday sun, killed by the gods for their sport. He prefered that to some of the more PC and Awe-inspiring quotes that the rest of the squad had. He looked at a private, checking his rifle. The private looked up. "Another drink man?"
--------
The flash back to the war was interupted by the bartender. Ryan looked up at the man from an empty glass. "Ya want another drink?"

"Ya, sure," Ryan replied. "Another Irish Car Bomb," he said, placing a five IC bill on the bar.

"Christ bud, thats your fifth one. Something wrong you wanna talk about?" The best thing about bartenders was their ability to serve alcohol as well as act as a cheap psychatrist.

"Naw, I'm good man. Just a long day," he said. He took the half full glass of Guiness Staut and shot glass of Bailey's, dropped the Bailey's into the beer, and chugged it back. He placed the glass on the bar, and then, as he was about to wave for another, was interupted by a vibration in his pocket. He pulled out the cellphone, and picked it up. "Walker."

The voice on the other end was rather familiar. It was Johnathan Sharp, head of recruitment for Executive Options, the lead Private Security Organization in Imitora. Private Security Organization was a fancy word that meant army for hire. Walker had done quite a bit of work for them in Siera Leone, Nicaragua, Yemen, and Somalia. He had done plenty of work for other groups, but it was no secret that Walker was on Sharp's speed dial.

"Mr. Walker, always a pleasure to speak with you. I believe we have some work available, small place named Adamaria. Rumor mill has it that a group out there is hiring. We'll provide, if your willing to role."

"Fine," was all Walker said, hanging up before Sharp could respond. Three hours later, he was on a flight to Adamaria, hoping to pick up some decent cash.
++++++

OOC: I'll intro the vamp in a bit.

It was a small single bedroom apartment on the third floor of a run down complex. Its paint was peeled and chipped in many places, instead of the once white mint color, it was now grey. Stains from tobacco juice, booze, and cheap cologne covered the walls of the battered room. The many of the wooden floorboards had lost their shine and now were bent out of place and would groan as the slightest bit of pressure was applied. The bathroom was no better, rust, old toothpaste and shampoo covered much of the sink and shower.

The bed was a simple mattress, dirty, and there were some urine stains on the side directly on the floor. A man sat at a tiny desk, typing at a laptop, the blue glow from the screen lighting the room better than the single dusty bulb from the ceiling. He typed for several more minutes before shutting it off and standing up.

Shaun Taggert stood at five feet eleven inches tall, his short sandy brown hair a shaggy mass on his head. He was handsome and young at 29, though after coming out a divorce that left him almost nothing. Shaun headed outside into the rain toward the diner he ate at every night. He sat down, ordered his steak, steamed vegetables, baked potato, and beer. He ate in silence, refused say anything. The creature of habit stood, dropped the money on the table and left.

He went into a small pub and ordered a beer. Same routine, day after day, nothing changed. He sighed, wanting something to happen to make life interesting. Then again, he liked life the way it was. Shaun sat at a bar stool and stared into the dark amber liquid. This country was easy for him to do some work, many missing people, prime work environment for him. He considered briefly going to the police and seeing the missing person log, but decided not to.

Let the bastards find their own people.

A rush of wind blew into the Zobidov Refinery Complex, once again void of life after the extraction of the MetaHuman. A man in a machine swiftly patrolled the Complex, a sword on his back. The sound of rain poring on metal filled his ears. The man came to a stop in front of the place where Ivan had been killed. The body had been removed, but there was still a tinge of blood mixed with Iron and Rust.

A gloved, metallic hand stroked the ground, extracting particales of Ivan's blood. The man, whose name was Nexlon, sniffed it carefully. Nexlon always loved the smell of blood, and savored the scent. Then, Nexlon was gone as quickly as he had come. He decided to rest on the high rooftop of a skyscraper for the time being.

Nexlon had been contacted and told to come to this God-forsaken pit of a country by the Basilisk group, with news that there might have an opening for work here. Nexlon had not hunted any worthy prey for a long while, and had accepted. He needed to meet with the Basilisk agents as soon as possible, but decided to instead scout the area and learn the terrain. It was now time to apply for his job. Nexlon stood up, and vanished into the fog and rain yet again.

Willi Strausser gazed out the small window located at the side of his Kripo office. Outside, the ground was blanketed in snow. Winter had begun in Buechoria, and if Oberleutnant Strausser and his companion wished to leave without serious delay, it was now.

"Sir, please tell me again why were going to this," Alex Schmidt, Willi's assistant glanced at an old slip of paper "Adamaria?" he looked up from the paper for a response from Willi who's eyes were locked on the window.

"Uh... Sir?" Alex persisted. Willi turned his head and chuckled. "I'm sorry, I was looking at something. What is it, lad?" he replied, gesturing his hand towards the piece of paper Alex held. "This? Oh, it's that teleprint we recieved. About Adamaria." said Alex quietly as he handed it to Willi. After looking it over, he returned it to Alex. "I see. Keep that in your pocket boy, it will be of use to us. Now, have you packed?" Willi asked. Alex nodded and raised a small brown briefcase. The pair collected everything they required and walked through the office door into the hall.

The security guard was perplexed when he inspected the excuse. "They're having a gun show where now?" he asked as he attempted to understand what country Adamaria was. "Adamaria! Oh, it's a popular spot for gun collectors. Everyone knows that, you pretentious asshole." Willi said cheerfully as he snatched the forged piece of paper allowing him to carry his pistol and MP7 into another country. The guard grumbled and took his gun case to be put in the luggage hold of the plane. "Everything is going splended." Willi assured himself as Alex dragged his mentor's heavy bags along.

Flight 778 was an ancient turbo-prop that could be barely called an airplane. The deflated tires skidded on the pothole filled runway and was, after a giant struggle with itself and the pilot, landed successfully at the tiny private airport. Surrounding the airstrip were rusting and degrading hangers filled with unflyable aircraft. "Lovely spot, eh Alex? Now, you asked me several hours earlier why we are here..." Willi began.

"You see, I have received reports of strange activity here and I would have requested what kind of activity. But since I was not given a proper response, I have brought myself and you along with me to investigate what sort of activity this is." Willi gasped for breath after the string of words left his mouth. Soon the pair was out of the dilapidated terminal and inside a rental car - A Skoda. The tiny automobile tumbled along a dirt road towards what became the Zobidov Complex.

"There it is lad, the place they said there was some commotion." Willi explained to Alex who sat dumbfounded. "How can there be commotion at this rusting shithole?" he said to himself as both of the investigators stepped out and drew their pistols.

Willi noted something - Blood. "Alex, do you see what I see?" Willi nodded towards the stains. "And it's been tampered sir. Look," Alex bent down and placed the muzzle of his pistol on a line through the puddle of dried blood. It looks much like that of a finger. "I have a feeling we aren't alone..." Willi said softly as he stared around the complex, hoping he was alone.

The nights were always hard. Every sleeping hour since ‘that day’ had been haunted by ghastly images of sheer horror. The worst part was the knowing – the knowing that what he saw in his mind was happening somewhere else in the world at that exact moment. In many ways, ‘that day’ had been a blessing, but in this respect, it had surely been a curse, a scar upon the face of his life, a scar that got deeper and deeper every time he closed his eyes to rest. He knew that one day the scar would get so deep it would penetrate his soul, and on that day, his life would come to an end, doomed to live out the rest of eternity in a place comparable only to hell. Until that day came, he could only sample his afterlife in the twilight hours. What he saw did not endear him to death.

“Any last words, bastard?” He tore his eyes away from the ground, and looked up to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun. A single dark hole, but one that surely condemned him to death. “Well, bastard, any last words?” came the voice again. The voice, source unknown, was that of a child’s, was it not? He strove to hear it again, but only silence fell upon his ears. A flash of white light erupted from the dark hole, and with it came the screams of hundreds, thousands of children, getting louder and louder as the light engulfed him, until they reached such a bellowing crescendo that his body could no longer take the strain, and his head exploded in a shower of pink.

It was the light that woke him up. As his eyes adjusted to his surroundings, he realised that, once again, it had all been a horrible nightmare. “Although for some it’s a horrible reality,” he said to himself. As with all his ‘visions’ he knew all the details automatically: where to go, what to do, who was responsible…except this time, he did not know the third point. A dark threatening cloud enveloped his mind when he tried to focus on the person committing these atrocities. “How strange,” he thought, again to himself. He lived a solitary life – he needed no one, and no one needed him…except for those who really did need him, like these children did. He knelt down as he began to pray to God. He always thought it funny that he should pay homage to a being that had given him this unwanted power, but for some reason he did so anyway. Perhaps it had become convention; perhaps he was being forced to by some unknown presence. “Who knows,” he said as he finished his prayer.

It took him little time to prepare for the trek. He had always been a quick-packer, but this had been especially so since ‘that day’. The last item he picked up was his coveted Katana blade, which he fondled like a small child before holstering it across his back. He bade farewell to his current residence – a small cave on the lonely hills of…wherever – before setting off. Although he did not know the way, he always managed to get to where he was needed. Divine guidance? It was just another part of the life of Ferevarco Rostaijn.

Willi slowly stood up and handed Alex a bottle filled with a sample of dry blood. "Here Alex, put this in my briefcase. It's a sample of the blood." Alex calmly nodded and placed it inside the briefcase. "Now," Willi continued, "I have a contact here. His name is Evgeniy Ruslan, and his address is on the teleprint." Reaching into his bag, Alex retrieved the paper read off the address, 1228 Yegor Street. Willi quickly memorized the papr and proceeded o light a match and burn it. Then, the pair crawled into the tiny Skoda and began driving through the gritty, desolate streets of Adamaria.

"Look sir, over there." Alex pointed towards a rusted and bent street sign that could be barely understood. Behind the layers of dirt it carried the words, 'Yegor Street'. Willi pulled the car into a dark alley and stepped out, then began walking towards an old wooden door. On the wall next to it were
the numbers 1228, and Willi proceeded to knock.

"Hello? Oh! Mister Willi, it good see you, come in, come in!" said Evgeniy happily as he gestured for both of them to come in. "And who is little man?" he asked, pointing towards Alex. "That is Alex Schmidt, my junior investigator. I'm teaching him." Evgeniy nodded at Willi's response and waddled over to an ancient table cluttered with old papers and two cups of lukewarm coffee. "Coffee, my friend?" asked Evgeniy as he nodded towards the cups. Willi smiled and walked over and picked up a cup."Thank you," Willi took a sip of the weak coffee and continued, "We have heard of odd happenings around here. Do you know anything about the Zobidov Complex?"

Evgeniy quickly closed the blinds on his windows and hushed Willi. "Zobidov complex not talked about. If do, the government kill you!" He produced a picture from his pocket and handed it to Alex. "I gotted pictures of shootings," he said, "They shoot failures." Willi looked perplexed. "Failures?" he questioned Evgeniy. "Gentic... genit... genetic! Genetic failures. Experiments government try." Willi cursed under his breath. "Great, now this is a fucking science fiction movie."

The churning river waters roiled about as the current flowed downstream from the ocean. Miles upon miles were covered as the mighty Dersan River snaked its way deep into the heart of Adamaria. Clean waters gave way to the taint of humanity. Cloudy waters replaced clear waters, blue-green slowly changed from green to murky brown. Even the hardiest of river-life organisms ceased to exist long before the polluted sections of the river. Death lay in the water, hazardous to all who dared to enter its grimy recesses. Along the shoreline of the river, corpses of dead fish and other small sea life could be found, scattered randomly. Some even bore the scars of wrongful genetic mutations: double tails, gills running along the entire body length, double headed fish, a head on both ends with tails underneath the mouths.

Upon the surface of the Dersan River, the water shifted slightly, uncharacteristic of the normal current. Slowly, it moved toward the bank of the river as it slowly began to take shape under the water. It took on a transparent shape, vaguely appearing as a human as it slinked stealthily toward the shore. Transparent eyes formed in the water, carefully scanning the city that lay in ruin before him. For several long minutes, he sat, completely immobilized as he listened and watched.

A land of death. Of pain. Of many secrets...

Finally, the transparent shape began to rise out of the water, a leg extending to the muddy banks and taking hold. As he moved out of the water, his body began to take on a more organic form as it adjusted its genetic disposition to a more humanistic view.

I will hunt them down. Kill them and scatter their remains to the four corners of the world...

Barefoot, and only clad in black jeans and a black teeshirt with a grinning skull on the front, and crossbones with chains wrapped around them on the back. He bore no weapons on hand, but he wouldn't need that, he was adept at adapting to even foreign weaponry.

Travis O'Neill was a mercenary of unknown origins, a strange creature that lurked in the most obvious places and yet still remained unseen, when he wished. He stalked his prey carefully, studying them, watching their every move, waiting for the right moment to deliver death as required. His victims only saw a glimpse of his face before they died, his face being the last thing they would ever see.

The face of The Avenger...

As Ryan's flight landed in Adamaria, another person took her place in the tiny nation. However, while far different from Ryan, she was no less deadly. Her beautiful body, covered by a white tight fitting shirt and tight black leather pants, was getting her a substantial amount of attention at a local bar. One patron, in particular, had tried puting many a move on her, but every advance was seemingly shot down. However, it was the cheasier pick up line that got her.

The man leaned over, for a final try, and whispered to her over his beer. "Hey baby, you a devil?" he asked, with a near shit eating grin on his face.

This final attempt intriguied her. "More than you could ever know. Why?" she asked inocently. It was obvious from her looks, however, she was far from inocent.

"Cause you really are tempting me," he said, chuckling.

She sighed, hoping it would be something more creative. However, she feighned flatery, and took his hand. "Come with me babe," she said, leading him out of the bar, towards her car.

In a nation like Adamaria, a car like hers would stand out. A black BMW 545i, it seemed like a diamond in a pile of coal. The bright moon reflected off the paint of the car, and a lighpost in the parking lot illuminated the dark tinted windows. She pressed a button on the key, and the alarm chirped. She walked around to the drivers side, opened the door, and slid into the vehicle. She didnt wait for the man to get in before she removed her shirt. He slid into the seat, and looked over to her. "No bra, I like that," he said, eyeing her up. He moved in to kiss her.

This exposed the side of his neck perfectly. Before he could get close enough, she opened her mouth, revealing two fangs. She bit hard into his neck, and made sure to put her entire mouth over the opening, so that the blood wouldnt pray onto the black leather upholstry. She sucked him dry, every last drop of the dark blood.

When finished, she licked her lips clean, opened the passenger side door of the car, and pushed the dead body out. She turned the car on, shifted into drive, and left the parking lot.

"You wanted to see us Sir?"

Jant looked up from his desk, and smiled at the two men standing before him at rapt attention.

"Ah yes, Samuel and Jason. Please have a seat", said Jant, waving his hand at the pair of comfortable chairs in front of his desk.

Both men obediently sat down, and somehow managed the difficult task of sitting at attention whilst in a chair designed to suck you into the sheer comfort of it's design.

"Now you two, I have a special mission for you. As you know, although the OMA is seperate from the government, I do find it's handy for us to have them owe us a few favours. That's why i've let them hire a few of our people out on a mission. As you've already guessed, that would be you two.", explained Jant.

"Excellent Sir", said Samuel, "What's the mission?"

"Ah, glad to see enthusiam for the job", said Jant, smiling, "Your mission..."

Both men watched Jant for a few moments of silence before glancing at each other, then back to him again. Jant had a faraway look on his eyes, and he had that little grin people always seem to get when they imagine something they think is funny, which no one actually finds funny at all.

"Men, your mission", and at this Jant's grin widened into a fully fledged smile, "if you choose to accept it", and at this, both men chuckled dutifully, "is to go to the country of Adamaria, and ascertain the whereabouts of one Nagdul Frederick Badon. He's a citizen of the Orbital Constructs, Pioneer Two to be exact."

Both men nodded. The Orbitals took each and every citizen's well-being incredibly seriously, despite the fact that each had millions to look after, and there were literally billions in total spread out amongst the colonies.

"The reason for his disappearance is unknown, all that IS known is that he was there for 2 months for humanitarian aid work in the country. The place is a bit of a wreck really. It's went the same way as most of the East after World War Two."

Jant handed a pair of identical brown folders to the two men, before continuing with the briefing.

"Now, in those folders are all the information yer gonna need for this mission. It contains maps, contacts, weather conditions, everything. All of it has been compiled by operatives who've already been on missions there recently, so it should all be up to date."

Jant stood up and walked round the desk, both men standing up as well.

"Now men, there is one last thing I should mention. The government made a special request for this mission. Y'see boys, they are willing to give us an extra 10 Million rinus if we accept one simple request", said Jant, a grin appearing on his face again.

Both men shifted uneasily from foot to foot. They both had a good idea what was about to be said and, surprisingly, both were completely wrong.

"Men, the condition is..."

Both men waited nervously, Samuel thinking they would have to go unarmed, Jason thinking they would be escorting some government official.

"The condition is that I must join you!"

Both men stood stock still, not out of indifference, but rather out of the fact that the sheer shock had rendered them completely immobile, the rigor mortis-like grins on their faces frozen in place.

The wind blew dully through the dead city. Trash lay strewn about everywhere, the scars of battle, a destroyed product of World War II. Bones of deceased beings, some human, some not, lay in the shadows. Travis passed by one skeleton that caught his attention. He knelt down to observe it some more.

The skull hung down and propped up by the ribs. Torn, weathered clothing of a bygone era hung limply on the bones, blowing slightly in the stale breeze. An era of the greatest generation, some called them. They stood fast against the rising fascist threat in the West, only to be simlutaneously crushed by the Communist regime in the East. None were spared from the incredibly invasive procedures that the Commies had employed to ensure total population control. The Americans glorified their men that managed to return from the war, yet few of them realized the debt in its entirity that their allies shouldered and would continue to shoulder for the next several generations.

Time passed by, and war stories were told of the horrific bloodshed spilled in those dark years. Stories became fuel to the younger generations who glorified the services of their ancestors, yet they never became their own "greatest generation". The morals and standards of society plummeted, and crude barbaric behavior replaced the civilized, responsible behavior so exemplified by the men and women of World War II.

Such was the path of humanity. Over thousands of years, the civilized world watched as eras of peace and learning dominated, then was cast down by eras of upsurping intolerance and violence. Currently; Travis observed; the world was in another dark age, and the end was nowhere in sight. This age would be the greatest challenge to the versatility of human society. Their decisions would shape the future, and ultimately would participate in either the survival or the destruction of humanity.

Travis picked up an old, battered and war-worn helmet of the Soviet union and placed it upon the skull of the deceased soldier of the Motherland. He bowed his head, paying his respects to an icon of a better half of mankind. Standing, he finally tore his eyes away from the skeleton and continued away from the corner of the alley.

He surveyed the buildings around him, searching carefully. The city lay silent, yet he couldn't shake the feeling of watchful eyes from hidden places. His footfalls echoed with eerily decadence, though barefoot. He turned his head from side to side with every few steps, wary of what may transpire...

As Shaun stepped out of the pub and into the rain a blue Mercedes-Benz pulled up in front of him. Shaun stood there as the back door opened, a man who looked in his mid fifties stared at him.

“Are you Shaun Taggert?” The man asked.

“Who’s asking?” Shaun barked back angrily.

“Please, climb in and get out of the cold lad. I have to proposition.”

Shaun didn’t feel like dealing with this man, so he turned and walked down the street. The man in the car climbed out and jogged till he reached him. The rain pounded Shaun’s face as he turned to look at the man.

“Mr. Taggert, I must speak with you.”

“Why?”

“Please, can we talk in my car?”

Shaun finally nodded and climbed into the backseat with the older man. The driver of the car pulled out into the street, aimlessly driving around so the man could speak to Shaun. The man ran his fingers through his thinning pepper-gray hair.

“I’m Robert Benson, and I am willing to pay you to find my daughter.” Benson handed Shaun a large folder, filled with papers, photographs, list of numbers of friends, and a map of the surrounding area. “Her name is Debbie, 17 years old.”

“How long has she been missing?” Shaun said as he looked over the girl’s school record.

“Nine months, I’ve gone to the police, they have turned up nothing, I’ve gone to every private investigator I could find. I will pay you thirty thousand in United States dollars now, another thirty thousand when you get me a report of what you have found, and three hundred thousand if you can bring my daughter back.”

Shaun stared at the picture of the blonde haired, green eyed teenager. He doubted she was alive, probably dead if it was abduction, rape, murder case. “Alright Mr. Benson, I’ll do it. Now, tell me, is there any spot where she liked to go?”

“Yes, an old city outside twenty miles north of here. It was the sight of a battle in World War Two between several German and Russian battalions. There are still weapons and vehicles lying out there. The city was abandoned long ago, for reasons no one knows. She went up there with her friends to race cars and party, one night they went up, none came back.”

“Alright, I’ll check it out.”

Benson dropped Shaun off at an indoor garage; Shaun went into the garage, climbed into his dull red Jeep Wrangler and gunned the engine. He drove out of the building and using the map Benson had given him he found a two lane road heading north. He guessed he could get there in about a half hour to forty five minutes.

He turned on the row of lights on the top of his Jeep, showing more of the road. Shaun sighed. The girl is probably dead already. Check this city out, drive back to town, talk to some friends, and the make the report to her daddy.

The journey was taking a little longer than expected. Poor weather had slowed him down, and it was already getting dark as he reached the borders of Adamaria. Ever since ‘that day’ Rostaijn had held an abject fear of travelling at night, and so sought for shelter amongst the hills. After an hour of intense searching, he came across a small stone hut, about the size of a garden shed, which appeared to be abandoned. As he made his way towards the hut, he found himself getting wearier, until he found it difficult to walk. It was as if a huge burden was being placed on his shoulders with every step he took. Nevertheless he fought his way to the entrance of the hut, and hauled himself across the threshold. As he did so, the weight was immediately lifted. He looked around the inside of the hut, the chair the first thing that came to his attention…

He was forced into the chair by a hand on either shoulder. Too weary to resist, he sat in silence as he was bound to the back of the seat with rope. Tight and constricting around his waist, he found it difficult to breathe. The room was dark, and it was impossible to make out details, but he could hear the sound of footsteps somewhere to his left – a shuffling, and the ‘clank’ of something hard and metal being dropped onto a table. Whispered voices emanated from the shadows, and then a shape became visible as it slowly moved towards him. There was just an empty space where the face should have been – a chasm devoid of any emotion whatsoever. The first stinging blow to his face caught him by surprise, and it would surely have made him fall had he not been strapped to the chair. He was ready for the second, but it hurt nevertheless. He maintained his silence as, every ten seconds or so, the same stinging pain emerged from the darkness. After several minutes of torture, the beating subsided, and the sound of people leaving the room could be heard. A moment’s silence, followed by a pistol-whip to the back of the head. Blackness ensued.

As the electrical pulse writhed through his body, the images flitted through his mind, and as the shock subsided, he slumped to the floor, unable to control his legs. The searing pain through his body was intense, but after a few seconds, it had lessened enough for him to stand. He surveyed the room once again, and saw it all: the chair, the table, the rope – this was a torture hut.

Evgeniy explained he witnessed what happened at the Zobidov Refinery - The shooting of Ivan, the chase and the capture of the woman.

"Mister Willi, I suggest we leave now.Government might heard us. Bugs everywhere now." Evgeniy whispered to Willi and Alex who both got up from a pair of shredded armchairs. Suddenly, the door rattled with movement as the knocker pounded on its surface.

"Mr. Ruslan, this is the police. We reccomend you open your door immediately, or we will be forced to break it down!" barked the voice from behind the door. Evgeniy nodded towards a window that was shut. "Go through window, alley on other side. Now!" he bellowed as he shoved Willi and Alex. "We can't leav-" Willi was cut of by the sound of metal meeting metal as a ram deformed the door.

Alex struggled to get the window open, but finally succedded in the nick of time. As the investigators hopped out, the door gave through and burst open. "Hands up!" screamed the officer as he aimed a submachine gun at a shocked Evgeniy.

"I am disgusted with myself for leaving Evgeniy..." Willi coldy said to himself and Alex as he drove through the polluted city streets. "Sir, you had no choice. I'm sure Evgeniy is fine." Alex replied in hopes of cheering his teacher. Willi simply shook his head and fixed his eyes on the road...

The drone of the Cargo Plane's engine drowned out all but the voices shouted through the microphones, then transmitted to each man's headset.

"Listen up!", shouted Jant, "We're dropping into territory that could potentially be extremely dangerous, but remember, we have to keep a low profile at all costs. Unless your life is in danger, or the target's life is in danger, do NOT, I repeat, do NOT bring out weapons."

"Roger!" shouted both Jant's Sidekicks simultaneously.

"Now, we're dropping off just outside the capital! First off, we're gonna be posing as reporters, alright?"

"Yes Sir!" chimed both men in unison.

"We're gonna find out as much as we can about this place's policy on Meta-Humans as we can. After that, we try and find out what the government here knows about the target. After that, we just have to find him."

"Sir, Yes Sir!" said both men, no longer needing to shout since the Cargo Plane's engines had stopped.

"Now, it's time to jump! Move your asses!" shouted Jant, ushering both parachute-equipped men out of the plane, before giving the thumbs-up to the pilot and jumping out himself.



Over the night sky of Adamaria, 3 jet-black parachutes could be seen opening if you happened to be looking in their direction from the right angle. The three men using the parachutes each wore a jet-black, bulky, armored suits, protecting them not only from any bullets that happened to want to make friends with them, but also from the bitter cold of the night.

As the three men hit the ground just outside what had already been identified as an abandoned industrial complex, Samuel spotted a faint glimmer out of the corner of his eye. In the distance was the City they would be headed for, only a few faint lights visible, even though they were only a few miles from the city.

After the men had removed the parachutes from their backs, they quickly set up camp in the industrial complex, erecting a few tents in a rough circle within a small clearing in amongst the rusted pipes and machinery.

The helicopter whirrs over the ruined landscape of Adamaria, a sleek black aircraft almost invisible to the eye in the darkness of night, save for the glow of its lights as it heads toward the base of Athyrian business operations in Adamaria - a converted warehouse on the outskirts of the capital. As with all Athyrian business, domestic or abroad, the House of Thyrn controls it.

Inside the comfortably padded main compartment Tristan Rinias opens a slim folder lebelled "Adamaria, Current Affairs", pale eyes examining its contents. A quiet murmur, as if to himself:
"So...non-Sapiens vanishing, and such a number too. Interesting, but only vaguely relevant. Do you not agree?"

Sitting on Tristan's left is a young man calmly giving himself what appears to be blood test. He is unremarkable, pale brown hair, unremarkable features save for the bandage around his arm, which has been shoved up to allow him to insert the syringe he uses.
"Of course, mister Rinias. No doubt you are correct. Nonethless, I will inform your retainers to be on watch."

"Yes, you do that"
Rinias closes the file and inserts it into his briefcase as the helicopter's landing gear slides out and it begins its descent. Almost as soon as as the helicopter lands he is out of the aircraft and entering the warehouse.

"Sir, why are we stopping here?" Alex asked curiously as the Skoda pulled to the side of the road near the Zobidov Complex. Willi turned his head slowly and replied, "I swear I saw some men walk into there and set up tents of some sort. C'mon, let's go."

Willi stepped out of the vehicle with Alex in tow. He clicked the safety of his pistol off and walked into the abandoned complex. "Hello!?" he yelled, his voice echoing throughout the empty structure.

Nexlon waited. Still no word from his Basalisk contact. Oh well, he had plenty of time. He decided to go back to the Zobidov Complex again. He felt somewhat at home there, among the rusted metal pipes and swinging chains, with the smell of burnt-out industry around him. It was the only place in Adamaria that he liked so far.

Nexlon soon grew bored with the Zobidov Complex, however. Although he could simply meditate, he still felt it nessasary to explore some more. Nexlon made a wide sweep around the city, visiting broken-down industries and facilities. He explored through the night in earnest. Then, he stopped at one particular industrial complex. There was life here-Nexlon could smell it.

Nexlon's mask filtered out the darkness around him as he searched the Complex. Then-There. There they were. Three men in black suits sitting near three black tents. Prey, Perhaps? Nexlon decided to wait until he could tell for sure. He took up a position silently between a broken-down Mac Truck and a Refrigerator and watched.

http://tornpaper.kpanime.com/Images/mecha2(image).jpg

There was always one mission, it was ChumRas Orka.
There was always one goal, it will be ChumRas Orka.
There was always one way, and it had been ChumRas Orka.

It was the law. It governed everything. It was more than a concept or a prophecy of manifest destiny. It was a faith. It was something you believed in growing up. Something you were taught. Books were written about how the future would be once it arrived. It was constantly expected and eternally strived. It has presence in everyday life. It governed the governors, and debated the politicians. It always came out on top, it always beat over anything that would try to undermine it. It was the craving left after eating a full meal, and the thirst that no amount of alcohol could quench. It was the emptyness of the soul, that kept the dead rising to reclaim what they had forgotten. It simply was, and all the Orcs knew it.

Manus had promised it, as had Ignex before him, and the EnheilRas before him. It was always promised. It was never broken. However, things had changed. The world had changed. The people had changed. The alliances had changed. As such, ChumRas Orka had changed.

"Before Conquest, there would be vengence," were the words of the EnheilRas.

"Before War, there would be Ascension," so sayeth Trebelium.

"All people must be united into one strong force, under the Clans, and their might shall rewrite existence," was the call to arms.

The Orcs around the galaxy would be one single army, regardless of species, creed, religion, or political alignment. They would heed the call of their one true fate: to combine into the Grand Military and Bring about the Mighty Orcish War. There would be no stopping it this time. It was meticulously planned and drawn out, and a near limitless amount of resources lay in their disposal. They need only the proper PR.

Yet, for unity to occur, there must be a common ground. There must be the witness to the sympathy for all Orcs expressed above and beyond but the greatest Orcish civilization in existence. There must be the pathos for all Orcs that they should feel right only when under the leadership of the 13 Clans. They should feel that their only recourse is bowing under the EnheilRas and accepting not only who they are, but what they are, and feel proud because of it. Orc was not a dirty word to be thrown around lightly any longer. It was not something to laugh at. Their days of cannon fodder had ended. They were no longer anyone's army but their own. It was a time of True Orcish Leadership. It was their Great Time.

The Flaming Skull had long since been the most elite Clan under the 13 Tribes of the High Orcs. They were a mysterious, and extreme small clan of only the best. Under the guidence of one to carry the title "Soulpyre," they were taught unknown secrets and skilled in various techniques, both physical and the arcane, and made into the special operatives of the Orcs. Quite simply, no Orc was a match for them, and they could best anything on the battlefield, for they had the tactical know-how.

Oftentimes, members of the Flaming Skull were picked single-handedly for reconnaissance, surveillance, espionage, rescue, and sabotage missions. They were extremely deadly, and cared not what others thought they had seen. Trillions didn't even care to believe their kind existed. Those whom did, didn't care to believe their kind could do the things they had mastered. It was all in perception, and perception tended to screw over those that were undereducated. Yet, this was how it was planned to be. Manus had never wanted to seem to be a big threat to the world, and chose to remain isolated and hidden from it for decades while his people grew and prospered. Now, the time was right, and it was now that they sent their agents out to see what of this world they knew, and what they could muster.

Ceitha Eleryn was a notable High Orc in the Flaming Skull Clan, under the direct tutledge of the Soulpyre. Ceitha had grown to be friends with the infamous Pointblade known as Belca Bristtleback, the greatest Lesser Orc to ever live. The two had hit it off as they first met, and were quite close friends, almost brothers. Ceitha had been handpicked by the Soulpyre to enter Adamaria, for the region had been unmapped and unknown for quite a while. Air Elementals had foretold it to be a wasteland, yet life signals were rich. Something indeed was up, and there were speculations that Orcish looking humanoids had been sighted in the area. This was odd, as it was not to the knowledge of the Clans, whom attempted their best to keep track of their own, to be in that area. It begged but two conclusions, that 1). There was a new community of Orcdom that was lost in the world, which could be easily annexed into their own society and be built strong under the Orcish Doctrine, or 2). that they were captives by the humans whom controlled the land, as Prisoners of War or eve worse, Slaves. Either way, it begged their attention, and Sir Ceitha Eleryn of the Flaming Skull was picked to make sure that either there is a community of Orcs, or a graveyard of humanity.

Under the guise of night, the familiar sound of Ley Line energy crackled and sparked with a blue hued lightning as it surrounded a circle of no bigger than 5 feet in diameter. The very fabric of reality shifted and folded as the magicks in the Dark Circle twisted and contorted them. The rift, opening from the very depths of Arda, opened wide into the abandoned village, and Ceitha spilled out, kneeling down into the very earth. The Flaming Skull member lowered himself, grabbing a handful of dirt, and smelled it deeply, taking the incense of the earth into his nose. He could smell the toxins, he could smell the death, he could smell the blood. It was all too common for the High Orc's sense.

Ceitha rose up, his Splint mail form fitting his body. He looked around, his nightvision, a natural ability, offering almost perfect sight in the darkness. His Skell Gauntlets were belted tightly to his waist, as were two elixers concocted by the Dripping Fang. He carried several assorted weapons, including three daggers, a gusari-kama, and a no-dachi, which was wielded almost one-handed due to Ceitha's 6'8" height. His cloak, imbued as it was with the Shadow Meld ability, folded over his head, hiding his dyed red hair and pointed ears. His eyes seemed to glow aflame from under it, perhaps a trait from his years of worshipping the Flaming Pit. Whether he would join it on this mission was unknown to him, as he didn't come expecting anything, besides death. . .

In unison, the three men inside the circle made by the tents stood up sharply at the sound of a young man shouting somewhere inside the complex.

Quickly, Jant removed his body armor, motioning to Samuel to do the same, revealing a blue T-Shirt and Jeans in Jant's case, and a red jumper and Jogging Trousers in Samuel's case. Both men quickly stowed their armor in the tents, along with the various weapons that were attached to the armour. Jason on the other hand, understanding what to do, ducked into the shadows, pulling a small gun from one of the many holsters covering his body armor, an MP7-PDW from the looks of it, a weapon favoured by many of the OMA operatives who also worked for the SBS.

Jant and Samuel stayed at the camp, unarmed apart from a tiny, concealed, single shot pistol each, ready to greet the new arrival with a wide smile, open arms, and a bullet to the head if need be.

"Hello! Who is it?" shouted Jant to the still unknown newcomers.

Jason, on the other hand, had slipped down the one-way visor on his helmet, giving him a digital HUD, including thermal and low-light-vision. Strangely enough, for a fleeting second, he could have sworn he could see a low, angular form just behind a truck, but the shape was too...odd. It was probably just another piece of machinery.....

In the desolate fields and ruined buildings, between the skeletal battlefield and the abandoned towns, amidst the shattered old fission pile and the horrid river, there were eyes and ears. Not biological, for this area was too dangerous for that, but electrical and mechanical. Passive sensors, thermal, motion, sonic, trip lasers, cameras, seismic; all of these flared active when a single was tripped. The millions of electric eyes swiveled, some hidden, most not, and they tracked the interlopers…

“We’ve got spikes!” The technician turned from his viewscreen, glancing back to Dex Gellar. “Sir?” The mercenary scanner expert watched his commander quizzically, as the large man simply stared at the wall.

Here, in the nerve center of the Basilisk group, a warehouse complex inside of a government “protected” zone, the lines of computers gave the mercenaries the data they needed. In this high-tech hum and buzz, it was almost possible to ignore the actions these computers allowed them to fulfill. Perhaps that’s how the NovaGen’s can do their work. They immerse themselves in their science, and ignore their consequences. Gellar allowed himself only a moment of philosophy, for he was a man of action.

“Details?” he growled.

“Looks like two groups, one in Sector Five, consisting of three armored soldiers, one really armored soldier, and two normal civilians. They’ve come in from multiple vectors, and are converging on a series of tents… of all places to set up camp!” The technician shook his head.

“I don’t think they’re camping, kid.” Gellar scowled. That much convergence, all at once, in an area that locals knew to avoid… “Looks like the international community has come a door knocking, finally.” He paused for a moment. “Send out a police dispatch, real friendly like, and warn them that the area is not safe. Offer them a ride into town, to a hotel. If they refuse, offer a ride to the border. Send in Bear’s team as backup, just in case.”

“Aye, sir.” The technician flipped a switch, changing the grid display. The gold grid lines, overlaid on a topographical map, contracted around two icons. “The second group is two separate individuals, moving through Sector Seven-”

The technician was cut off by an intake of breath from a mercenary behind him. “Sector Seven? The Battlefield?”

Gellar snapped back, “Yes, the battleground. Would you rather have them in Sector Four?”

“Jesus, no. I hate that old Camp.”

“Then thank God that it’s only the Battlefield.” Gellar leaned over the display. “How long have they been in sector? Where precisely?”

The technician drew the map out a bit. “Sir, one of them is deep in, near the old Desan River, moving towards the destroyed town on the border of Sectors Seven and Six. The other is moving through the town, and his walking path is meandering. Either he’s searching for something, or he’s tripping hardcore.”

Gellar nodded. No locals went out that far, except for random groups of punk kids who didn’t have a shred of self preservation. Those tended to come to bad ends out there, too, with the hazards. The breached Obana Reactor, corroded with age, was still hot enough to stain the land, and had necessitated a massive NovaGen “humanitarian” project to install Reverse Osmosis, De-ionization, and re-oxidation filters on the Desan River, purifying the aquifer as it left the sector, centered on the Desan Dam, which also supplied the hydroelectric power to the city. The radiation hazard, plus the roving escaped specimens from the old Complex, made the area too intense for most civilians to enter. This had allowed NovaGen to utilize the Dam for more nefarious purposes, without added security. It also made it a secure sector.

“Okay, people, that’s too far out for the local police. We’ll take a couple choppers out. A Blackhawk and two Werewolves should do it. I’ll ride in the Hawk.” Gellar zipped his jacket in preparation for the coming twilight chill.

The technician frowned. “Sir, we’re getting bogus results from our thermal and sonic sensors… the far out civy is showing some damn funny responses. Less thermal return, odd sound pattern on pulse; the rest are fine. I think the sensors went out of whack again.”

“We’ll put down replacements while we’re out.” Gellar strode towards the back of the warehouse, where the converted helipads waited.

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The orange-red light of sunset filtered over the alpine forest in the distance, casting its fading glow onto the fields and wrecks surrounding the capital. The temperature was plummeting rapidly, and the noise of the night was beginning. But the noise was broken, and the mechanical thunder of jet engines and the crash of rotors replaced it. Three helicopters, the transport Blackhawk and its two gunship escorts, roared over the outlying sectors, flashing towards the Battlefield.

Inside the Blackhawk, the pilot watched the grid narrow, shrinking on the two targets. “They’re closer together now, ETA two minutes!” He called back to Gellar.

In the back, Gellar leaned onto the port minigun, scanning the fields below. This was hazardous country, with the radiation, unexpended munitions, and the unknown wildlife. He preferred not to sortie out here at night, for his men would be in undue danger. The civilians avoided this place in day, and the few that came here at night… The helicopter passed over a wrecked car, its windshield shattered by some blunt impact, a claw mark down the side. Only Kuzin’s people didn’t fear this area. They don’t fear anything.

“One minute!”

Gellar checked his radiation badge. Right now, it was green. If it turned red, he was in trouble. “Goddamn civies.” He muttered. “Can’t they just stay out of these areas?” The place was hazardous enough, he was tempted to just let them die. However, NovaGen’s orders were orders. No one could stay in the restricted zones.

He scowled, more than usual even, as dark thoughts played in his head. You know, I bet that NovaGen let those mutagenics escape out here. It’d be a great natural deterrent, like the worst guard dogs imaginable, especially those damn Ravagers. Behind him, more of his people waited, hunched inside of thermal gear. It got bitterly cold out here at night, especially as the unforgiving Russian winter approached.

“We are over the target area!” The pilot called. “Switching to search mode, Werewolves detached.”

The three helicopters broke formation, the two gunships fanning over the area, scanning for any threat, while the Blackhawk circled the city. Gellar held up a bullhorn, calling out over the area, “Attention, you are in a contaminated area! This entire area is affected by fallout from the Obana Reactor, and you are in dangerous risk of radiation poisoning! This is Dex Gellar, Provisional Adamarian Army, and we are here to help you! Please, step out into the open, and we will land the helicopter to evacuate you. You may already be contaminated.”

In the distance, there was a savage howl, and one of the gunships banked off to head towards the threat. Gellar just hoped whoever it was down below was smart enough not to chance nightfall out here.

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The four police cruisers rolled up to the tent line, their sirens off. Captain Antonov, fourteen year veteran of the Adamarian police force, stepped out of the passenger side of the lead sedan, smiling diplomatically at the small group before him. He remembered the reports on the men's equipment. Enough armor? He wanted to comment on that, but out here, this close to the Sectors, the armor made a sad sort of sense, even if it would not help against the things out here. Still, now there were only four men, mostly unarmed, standing around. Damnit, where did the others slink off to?

They were watching him, but Antonov had long ago learned to ignore the wary stares of people, and the leering eyes of professional killers. After all, they were his backup most of the time. Even now, that boosted his spirit, because he knew that a kilometer away, a man was waiting, and even now, multiple fifty-caliber rifles were pointed this way, their ghostly sights, the Reaper’s finger, were drifting from man to man. The invisible and powerful guardian angels let Antonov breathe easier.

He spoke smoothly, “Hello, and welcome to Adamaria. I am Captain Antonov, of the Special Police. Unfortunately, you are outside our protection here, but inside our jurisdiction. These woods are deadly at night, and I would like to offer you a ride back to town, where we can share our hospitality in a hotel, instead of these cursed woods.” He smiled slickly, though truthfully. “Please, come with us, and enjoy the city. And tell your friends to come out, too.”

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Another command center, another technician, another commander. Kuzin leaned over the shoulder of his man, his gold clipped tie never moving, despite his motion. “How many aircraft?”

“Two sir, one gone, one landed in the warehouse complex.”

“And Basilisk?”

“Negative, sir. The aircraft were baffled and stealth. Only the X-band picked them up, and only we have that facility.” The agent tapped the touchscreen, and a new image flung up, the image of a body, lying in a car, two holes in the neck. “Sir, police found this.”

Kuzin nodded calmly. “Very well. There’s more in city, then. It looks like people are getting edgy on the outside, and coming to look around. Alert Basilisk to raise guard.” He turned to the ceiling, his sunglasses glinting in the perfect light of the control room, deep inside the NovaGen Complex. “Xenos Flare is almost complete. I’ll let Aurelli know what we found.”

Without warning, an alarm rang out, and the screens in the room re-aligned on a zone in Sector Four. A spinning whirlpool emerged in the air, a flare on every scanner in the room. Someone gasped, “Rift!”

Kuzin simply watched, his eyes narrowed. “This is only the third time we’ve seen this phenomena. Let’s see what comes out this time.”

A figure dropped from the raging lightning storm, a large humanoid, dressed in a metal mail, carrying bladed weapons, and pulling a cloak over its head. Three of the scanners fried in an instant, their circuits blown by the surge of transdimensional energy. The figure began to move, and Kuzin smiled, his fingers working around a simple pendant on his neck. The scientists were right. They are true in nature.

For most men, the most deadly emotion they possessed was rage, pure unadulterated anger that clouded the mind and bolstered the body. But Kuzin was a different breed altogether, and now, his most deadly mood was aroused: interest. One word was ringing in his mind, one man’s word, “Savon.” Kuzin’s eyes narrowed, and he whispered slightly, “Dispatch a team to investigate that rift, collect any residual readings. Tell Basilisk to be on the lookout for this man. I’ll tell President Aurelli.”

Willi quickly turned to Antonov and smiled back. He then holsered his pistol and nudges Alex to do the same. "Captain, I am Wilhelm Strausser, and this is my associate Alexander Schmidt." he replied. Alex simply smiled and nodded.

Slowly, Willi pulled out his badge. "Buechorian Kripo. We're searching for a missing citizen. He was last sighted running around here and we are... uhm... inspecting the area, if of course, you do not object."

Ryan Walker storde down the jetway into the airport. He was dressed casually, and unarmed. He had packed a pistol, but that was it, and it wasn't in his cary ons. He picked up his bags, signaled a taxi, and asked to be driven to a near by hotel where arangements had been made. Once they arived, he paid the man, and checked in, going up to his room, and dropping off his stuff. He removed the pistol, a Sig P226, loaded it, and stuck it in a Mossad holster. He then left the room, locking it in the process, and walked out into the city. He now had to find who was offering work.
___________

Calie piloted the BMW towards another local bar. She was hungry tonight. Luckily for her, it was easy to live, or not live, in a city like this. As she piloted her way down the streets, she noticed the passing a few police cruisers. Bingo.

There was often a dead body where the police roamed, and that meant there may be some live ones around that would provide a good fight. She turned, and followed the cars from a distance towards the empty area of Adamaria, where the former nuke plant had been. She didn't worry the radiation, she could shrug it off. That was the benifit of being, well, dead. No worries. She had a perfect bill of health, save for the lack of a beating heart or blood flow. Little things.

Nexlon froze as the police crusisers pulled up and the helicopters flew overhead. He was not worried about radiation; his suit could deflect most harmful rays from his body. Nexlon watched as the officer started speaking. His head went up as the officer said for "The Others" to come out. Had he been spotted? Impossible. There must be electronic or sonic bugs somwhere. Nexlon was concerned; he couldn't slink away into the darkness like he usally could without being detected, but he certianly wasn't going to reveal himself.

*Beep*

*Beep*

That was his Basalisk Contact; now the situation was even more urgent. Nexlon put a hand oh his sword and prepared to either attack or run if the police came looking for him. Doubtless the officer had backup with him.

Shaun stared at the choppers as he drove. He droved through the streets till he was facing it. He heard something being spoken through what seemed to be a mega phone on the chopper. The pilot of Gellar's chopper spotted the Jeep in front of him and watched as Shaun flashed his headlights in Moorse Code:

What are you yelling about? I can not hear you.

Antonov replied to Strausser, ever mindful of the missing two contacts, "Of course we do not mind, but it is dangerous out here. Nightfall is coming, and the woods are not kind to people without preparations..." he nodded back to the police utility vehicle, and to the machine gun welded onto the frame. "As you can see." Antonov gave a very Russian shrug, the kind of nihilistic acceptance of fact. "We've had to toughen ourselves as well."

He smiled, brushing away the dark words, "Come now, we'll let a fellow officer use our records at the station. After all, we are part of that fraternal order, are we not?"

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The pilot watched the flickering of the headlights, and he turned to the copilot. "Trigger the flash bank."

Under the nose, a series of spotlights pulsed back a response:

Area contaminated. Radiation hazard. Unfriendly wildlife. Recommend you allow pick up or escort back to safety.

Shaun's eyes bulged. He quickly grabbed his file on the Benson girl and his Beretta 92F, shoving the automatic into an armpit holster. He quickly flashed his lights:

Ready to be picked up.

The Blackhawk banked around, its tail swinging over the deserted city, and with a blast of dust, it settled to the ground. On the side, the crew chiefs warily manned the minigun, and the pilot motioned for the civilian to hurry.

Ceitha looked around. The broken houses and emptied village surrounded him, and all was dark. From what they could tell of human physiology, humans couldn't see well in it. They were not to be feared for the fleshy, brittle creatures they were. Their true ability came with their minds, for they had technology. Technology could be respected. It showed innovation, adaption, creativity. That is what made the human animal more than it seemed. That's what gave the foe worth in battle.

Ceitha checked his equipment. 2 Skells, 3 Throwing Knives, 1 Kama, 1 No-Dachi, 1 retractable halbard, 2 broadswords, and a buckler shield. All of the weapons had been 'Named' by Ceitha. That is to say that each had been in the process of a 10 minute ritual in which Ceitha linked himself mystically with the objects. They were his, and could be claimed by no one. Most hung on his belt, save the shield which rested on his back, under his cloak. The swords were crossed on the small of his back, and locked in scabbards. Ceitha was heavily armed, but the mastership of the so many weapon Katas was the least of requirements for Flaming Skull membership. Most of the members were in their 30's, and that was in Palladium Annuals, not Earth years.

Ceitha slid the Skell gauntlets on his gloved hands. It had been a while since he could wear one with style. They were a light bronze color, and matched his splint mail that scaled down to his knees in a V-manner, where his plated battle boots fit snugly around his lower legs and feet. He extended his right arm, and the four foot long curved blade extended from the gauntlet, and began to glow, illuminating a 15 foot area for half a minute before dimming and retracting. In this instance, Ceitha was witness to several devices that he concluded were sensory in nature.

His crooked nose inhaled deepler, and he wrapped the cloak tighter around him. They would come for him soon. They would want to know what happened. Until Ceitha knew who they were, they would be but enemies to him. Opponents to be taken out. They were distractions to his goal at hand, but perhaps they could be of some use? Ceitha entered one of the houses, not 20 feet from where he had landed, and investigated it. The door had been broken off, and there were no windows, just lifeless holes, as if the very construct was a moaning face. INside was oblivion. His boots gathered dust as he entered. It had been evacuated, or exterminated, quite a long time ago. He bent down to fix a chair up, even though it only had three legs still attached and most of its back had been hacked off. Everything was in a slight red hue when in such darkness.

His alizarin tresses reached out from underneath his hood to feel the world, and he took little notice as he explored one of the three other rooms in the cottage. It was barren, safe for a crib that rocked without sound. His head scanned the room, and he bent down, reaching for a patchwork doll in his hand. He looked as the soft, humanoid plaything, with its stringed hair and filled with cotton and somewhat poseable. He tilted his head, and placed the toy in a satchel he brought with him. He stepped once more into the room, to look into the crib, noticing the skeleton that was the size of his upper arm within. Ceitha let out but a breath before leaving the room. It was a grave. Perhaps its parents had left it to move on? Perhaps they were killed and the child forgotten? It was despicable all the same. . . There was nothing more important to an Orc than an Orcish child.

Ceitha would continue to look around this house, but he would find nothing else. Nothing else that would tell him where he was, or who was looking for him. Nothing at all in the house. Nothing at all in the village. It was nothing.

Jant's right eyebrow raised slightly at the sight of both the police and these two armed newcomers arriving at the same time.

Dammit, only here for a half hour and already we've been found!

"Listen", said Jant,"We don't want any trouble. Samuel here and me will come peacefully." Jant waved a hand towards Samuel to identify him.

In the darkness, Jason slowly moved to the outside of the complex, weapon still raised, before quickly raising his silenced MP7-PDW, and firing 4 shots, each one into a tyre of a Cruiser, giving each a flat tyre, before moving back into the complex, still in shadow.

As he moved back, he could hear the police officer telling 'The others' to come out. This immediately sent his mind racing. It meant that they somehow knew him....but...he said others.....there was someone else here....

Jason's eyes slowly widened behind the visor as he turned his low-light-vision on, and looked at the mac truck, focusing on the angular shape he had ignored earlier. There, an arm, a leg! Someone was hiding there, and whoever it was, they'd been good enough to fool him! But....the shape....if it was a person, they were earlier heavily deformed, or wearing some sort of bizarre armor or clothing....

Jant could only just hear the minute report of the gun as the tyres were shot out on the edge of his hearing, but it was enough to tell him what was happening.

They weren't leaving anytime soon.

Shaun rushed over to the Black Hawk and was help in and seated by one of the crew. No sooner had that happened it had taken off. He made sure his file was secured and nothing would go flying out. He was handed a headset with a microphone. He made sure it was on before he spoke.

"Who is in charge here?"

He awoke to the sound of birds twittering outside the hut. How anything so pure could live anywhere near this place of horror was beyond him. After his usual morning prayer and meal, he packed up to set back on the trail to Adamaria. As he stepped back outside, he noticed a thin dust trail that went past the hut and swept around a hill out of sight. He could not recall seeing it the day before, but put that down to fatigue. It appeared to trail off downhill, and he came to the conclusion that it must lead to the city. He set off along the trail, although he was looking around more cautiously than yesterday, so as not to miss anything else important. After a mile or so of walking, he came across a section of the trail that had been covered in a thick mud, probably from the night before’s torrential downpour. It was impossible not to notice the tyre tracks embedded in the goo, preserved almost impeccably. That could mean only one thing – someone had paid him a visit last night. How they knew he had been coming was a question that he did not know the answer to, and one that he hoped he would never find the answer to either. A nauseating sense of fear began to crawl through his body, and although he tried his best to shake it off, it clung to him like a wet garment. This was the first time since ‘that day’ that he had ever felt fear like this, and it began to bring back painful memories of what happened on that fateful evening…

whump-whump-whump-whump-whump...

Travis looked up quickly, suddenly alarmed by the sound of a chopper. His careful stride through the dead city was suddenly broken as he ran to an adjacent building and dove through a broken window, only to get up and retreat further into the building.

Suddenly, he paused at a window on the opposite side of the building, opposite of the chopper. He looked out, his eyes captured by the grisly death scene that sprawled in every direction. He spied an old sign, battered, yet still standing. Barbed wires were slung between countless steel posts that circumnavigated the entire sector that Travis was observing. He crawled out the window, first listening for signs of the helicopter.

If they wanted him, they'd have to first find him...

Other side. Good.

He made his way to the sign, to read the fading inscription.

Sector Four. All unauthorized personnel will be dealt with the harshest of penalties. You have been warned.

Screw you... Travis thought to himself, as he liquified and passed through the fence. On the other side, he solidified once again and sprinted toward the nearest ruins he saw. In the distance, he suddenly saw a spinning
whirlpool suddenly appear out of nowhere in the sky. He froze, in the shadows of the ruins, and stared toward the flaring whirlpool.

Words of wonder and confusion were uttered, "What the hell is that?!"

Tristan put down the telephone and rose, stepping out from behind the desk. He crossed the floor of the office on the top floor of the converted warehouse and looked through the window towards the outskirts of the city. Without turning, he spoke to his retainers.
"Ysabel, Justin, find out what is happening at the complex. Alyxander will fill you in on the details"
The two retainers, one a Thyrian Thrall and the other still merely human, bowed and exited the room, leaving Tristan alone with two other servants.

Tristan sighed, he had work to do, and this missing Athyrian Thrall meant that obstructions kept popping up. Rumours relating to this, information relating to that, he did not care what had happened to the Thrall, just as he did not care what happened to Ysabel and Justin, but the Prince's orders had to be carried out. That thought brought a faint smile to Tristan's thin lips, regardless of the democracy pushed upon it by other nations, the Athyrian First Minister would always be but a puppet of the House of Thyrn.

------------------------------------------
Ysabel muttered to herself as she drove one of the Thyrian company cars towards the complex, why was she being sent out to do the dirty work? She'd been Changed. A human should be sent out, not someone who had been Turned!

A good half-mile from the complex she stopped the car, her and Justin (that good-for-nothing low-life human) climbed out and started walking toward the complex, trying to take care not to be seen. As they walked, Ysabel switched on her mobile 'phone and rang Tristan's landland, then continued walking with the mobile at her side, well aware that Rinias would be able to hear everything that went on.

Nexlon's head shot up as he heard the sound of deflating tires. There was obviously someone else in the shadows near him, although they were well hidden; Nexlon could only tell the general area were the guy was. It was probably the third soldier who slipped away from the group-the second 'Other.' If Nexlon knew where he was, could he possibly know where Nexlon was? Unlikely, but possible. The Basalisk contact was still calling; he would have to evade capture and move out soon.

In retrospect, this was a good thing for Nexlon; the police couldn't give much of a chase on foot. He deliberted on what he could use to get away; He could blind everyone in the premises with special filiments built into his fingertips, or simply use the darkness, kill the officer and dash off to meet Basalisk. Whichever he decided, he had to do it soon.

Damascus, Syria. Not exactly the most hospitable city on the planet, but if anybody had the nerve to confront the great bounty hunter Ferevarco Rostaijn, he’d wind up with a hole the size of a two-pence piece in his head. It was late in the evening, the mule was tired, and so was Rostaijn (although he wouldn’t admit it to any of his travelling companions). Arabs made good lackeys, but he wouldn’t trust them as far as he could throw them. They were probably plotting his death right now, not that he really cared – he could take them all on and still come out of it without a scratch. They were whispering something, but he couldn’t work out what it was…

At the moment the mule let out a high-pitched screech, and reared up onto its hind-legs. Rostaijn had never seen a mule do that before, and it was evident that none of the Arabs had either. Another sound came into hearing - that of a low buzzing noise. It was faint at first, but was gradually getting louder and louder. The mule gave one final screech before, with renewed energy, cantering off the way they had just come. The Arabs gave chase after it, leaving Rostaijn by himself on the road to Damascus with the harsh noise. It was filling his mind, becoming almost unbearable. He fell to his knees in agony. He felt like his head was about to explode with the noise. Just as he thought it was going to kill him, the pain subsided and the noise started to turn into a coherent voice. It was repeating his name over and over again.

“Ferevarco…Ferevarco…Ferevarco,” it said, “Ferevarco, why are you here?” It sounded like a man’s voice, but it was almost child-like at the same time. Rostaijn felt compelled to answer it.

“I am here to collect the bounty on Frejdriych Skopj. I am on my way to Damascus to collect the money.” At these words the pain came back, even more intense than before, and it was all he could do to keep himself from screaming.

“Ferevarco, you have lived a cruel life. You have caused pain to many, and now you must feel that pain for yourself.” The blood in his head was pounding like crazy, and it felt like his blood vessels were about to burst from the throbbing. “You can save yourself, Ferevarco. Give up this life of death and money, and live one of destitution and squalor. You must also perform five acts of good to counteract your lifetime of evil. Do you take up this opportunity to redeem yourself, or do you choose to live the rest of your life in hell?” It didn’t seem that Rostaijn had much choice, and the presence felt this. “Good, Ferevarco. To help you in your quest, I grant you the power of foresight. Whenever you enter a place of evil, you will feel the evil in your mind. You will witness it firsthand, to better your chances of being able to vanquish it. You will know where to go, what to do and how to do it. You will become like my own child. I will protect you Ferevarco. You must learn to protect others.” At this the voice faded, as did the pain and the buzzing noise. Rostaijn was once again alone on the road to Damascus.

The popping of the tires made several of the younger officers jump, pulling their weapons from their holsters, but Antonov barely flinched. As the hiss sounded out, and the cruiser behind him tipped down, he called out, “Put away your guns!” He waved, shoving down his Sergeant’s own shotgun. To the four men, he snapped his view back, snarling, “We weren’t trying to arrest you, but your friend just decided to be a bastard!”

He paused, drawing and aiming his Makarov, “You’re not under arrest, but after this, you will be questioned. You want to trap us out here? That’s attempted murder at night, and you’ll be lucky if they don’t decide to enact revenge right here!” As he spoke, the unknown “they” hung in the air for that brief moment, but only for a moment.

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Half a kilometer away, Antonov’s backup waited. Bear Harrison had tracked the cars approach, had followed every move of the four visible tangos. He stared through his digital scope, set to eighteen power, thermal, watching the other two shapes move about the area. One was skulking, not threatening, but the other had just shot up the vehicles. Bear scowled, his cool voice drifting out, “Check that bastard, Diego.”

His spotter watched through field glasses, night sight enabled with the settled sun, and stated back, “Range, five thirty two. Bearing oh-two. Windage notch up to six. Recheck.”

Bear knocked his scope’s numbers over, adjusting for the shot. “Check.”

“Take him, Cap’n.”

Bear loved the M99 .50 rifle. Firing dual-purpose incendiary/penetrator rounds, the rifle was designated as “Anti-material” and designed to take down vehicles; however, there was nothing quite more humorous to the sniper than to strike down infantry with the heavy shot, watching their pieces scatter into the wind. With a savoring intake, Bear held his breath. His aim was steady: braced on a bipod, disciplined by years of training, doped on tranquilizers, and without the stress of incoming fire, he leisurely silhouetted the target inside the crosshairs, and his finger gently caressed the trigger. The blast of the rifle was a perfect counterpoint to his calm.

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As Antonov’s words left his mouth, before his sound had settled to the ground, his prediction was proven, and “they” had chosen vengeance.

Nexlon's eyes widned as he jumped. He drew his Katana with lighting fast speed and flung himself in front of Jason. He swatted the bullet with his sword, changing it's direction, hoping that the bullet wouldn't hit him He was unlucky; the projectile punced through his armor on his left shoulder. Blood rushed out in a wave of red.

Nexlon landed with a crash a dozen feet away from Antonov. He did not even know why he had saved Jason; Perhaps honor, perhaps something else? Nexlon didn't know, but the man didn't deserve to die just yet. It was not important anymore.

Nexlon assumed a fighting stance as he stood back up, placing his Katana high over his head. His eyes glowed slightly.

"Not yet. No one dies yet," Nexlon said simply. "Leave this Place." His voice was cold and sharp through his masked face as he faced Antonov and his men. He did not look visably weakened from the bullet wound, but Nexlon knew even he couldn't take another hit like that.

Jason's eyes widened as a bullet fragment buried itself into the ground at his feet.

He quickly dived behind a wall, trying to put something between himself and whatever had just shot at him.

Jant and Samuel on the other hand were looking dumbofunded at the man who had just appeared. His armor wasn't like anything they were used to.

Jant's hand slowly strayed to the concealed pistol, trying his best not to attract attention.

Samuel, on the other hand, was still standing stock still, fighting against all his insticts, as every one of them shouted Get to cover!.

Jason, happy now that he at least had a wall between where the sniper seemed to be shooting from, raised his MP7 again, this time aiming at Antonov and his men.

"Ok friends", said Jason, voice wavering in fear, "We're gonna do this nice a friendly. You let us go with our stuff, I don't start shooting you all up. You start shooting, you get riddled with lead."

Jant sighed slightly. The idiot was trying to negotiate with men with a sniper backing them up. Even if they made it past these police, the sniper could still just pick them off anyway.....

Nexlon's head swivled to rest on where Jason has leapt to.

"Fool! Do you think I saved you for nothing?! No one here deserves to die, But you surely will if you persist. Obviously these men," He continued, motioning with his sword blade to Antonov and his men, "Have backup and plenty of weapons. To fight them or threaten them would be folly, and i assure you that you may die because of it."

Nexlon turned his head back towards Antonov and studied him. The Cop looked calm and controlled; Obviously a veteran. Nexlon had no intent on to kill him, but it might have to happen if he wanted to escape fast. Jason's idiocy was only secondary right now; Nexlon's main concern was the sniper. It would be interesting to see how events would unravle, but Nexlon wasn't sure if he wanted to stick around to find out. He had other matters to attend to.

Ysabel ducked instinctively as she heard the shot, while Justin with his human senses heard nothing, looked at her in confusion.

"Ysabel, what are you doing?"

The Thrall straightened, attempting to piece together her fractured dignity, and pointed to where the sound had come from.

"A gunshot. Over that way"

"Well, Lord Tristan did say we were to investigate, let's go have a look"

Ysabel looked at Justin open-mouthed, not quite believing what he had just said. A human, unable to see in the dark, was suggesting they go and investigate someone with a high-powered rifle, probably scoped, and a fair distance away. She pointed this out to him.

"Oh. Uhm. Right. Well, you go and look into whoever it is with the rifle, and I'll carry on to the complex"

So saying, he strode off down the road leaving Ysabel to head toward the gunshot, swearing under her breath.

"Dammit Jason, stand down! That's an order!", shouted Jant, angrily.

Jason looked at Jant in surprise. It was normally rare for him to ever get truly angry.

"...yes Sir", mumbled Jason, lowering the MP7-PDW, but still remaining safely behind the wall. He may have agreed not to start shooting, but he somehow doubted the sniper had heard him.

"Now officers", said Jant, all traces of anger having fled him, "Here's the deal. You tell your sniper friend to stop trying to kill us, and let us leave peacefully, and we'll repair your cars. We have a repair kit with us, so we'd be happy to help. And, of course, it's either that, or be stranded out here, and, well, you did say about how dangerous it was out here...."

Jant left the last comment hanging in the air as he smiled so warmly at the officer you expected to see a heat haze.

Of course, the only reason Jant wanted the cars repaired was that it was easier to shoot a man whilst he's in the same car as you. Less chance of missing.

Adamaria. Not exactly the most hospitable city on the planet (why did that sound familiar?). Perched on a cliff overlooking the city, to the untrained eye it could have just been a normal place full of the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Sadly, that was not the case – something bad was happening here. Something very bad, and it was his job to find out why, and to stop it. That job was made all the more hard by the fact that they knew he was here. He would have to be extra vigilant if he were to succeed and get out of here alive.

As he got up he heard the sound of shots being fired. It was not that far away, probably from the outskirts of the city. His head spun around, but he could not see anybody firing a weapon. A flash of light from down below made him unsheathe his blade, but after that there was no more. A path led down from the cliff-top to the borders of Adamaria, and it was this path that he used to climb down. It did not take him very long, perhaps a half-hour, to reach the customary ‘Welcome To Adamaria’ sign. Someone had carved a gun into the paint with a piece of glass, and had added the phrase ‘All Humans’ between the first two words. This made him smile, although he didn’t know why he would smile at something so base. With his blade he scratched off the paint on the sign, to restore it to something reminiscent of its former glory. With that he made his way into the city. Whether he would ever come out again was yet to be seen.

Ceitha stepped outside the hut. His boots made enough noise as the plates bounced along his foot, and he really wasn't concerned about anyone seeing him. His head glances from left to right to left again, and a sudden influx of wind sent his cloak billowing out for but a moment, before he grabbed the sides and held it back over him. He snorted once, dust particles expelling en masse with balls of mucus, splattering on the porch.

Eleryn dropped into the dirt, heading inward. His ears could sense a loud Bang! sound, and it was nothing like thunder. It was short, and was clearly from the ground. He wasn't startled by it at all. Seviraloth of the Red Blade has correlated reports with Zaliseth of the same Clan in their venture about firesticks and devasting projectile weaponry the humans had. He was slightly intrigued to how his combat would be effective against such a thing, but if those two Juggernauts had survived, Ceitha wasn't terribly worried.

As the High Orc turned towards the origin of the sound, he suddenly stopped, for with the wind came a scent. The breeze caught his hood and it fell behind him, and his deep red hair flared in tempestuous defiance. His eyes bent downward, and he inhaled deeply. Something was coming closer to him. He turned toward where the wind was arriving, and quickly flung his hood back onto his head. He would meet this entity, and it would know respect and fear.

Willi had the look of awe in his face. Quickly, he turned to Alex, "You have the camera with you, correct?" he question Alex, who nodded ad retrieved it from his bag. Alex proceeded to take two shots of the amazing scene.

"Captain?" asked Willi innocently, as he casually placed his hand on his holster. "I know of course that this is not the best time to be asking, but after this all... Blows over, Alex and I would love to go to the station." Willi smiled and then backed away a few paces...

Shaun looked at the men in the helicopter, all were looking at the ground like they were searching for someone. He was unsure of what to do, so he simply held on to his file on the Benson girl. Getting fustrated he keyed the small mike he had.

"Who are you guy's looking for?"

Gellar turned to the civilian, tucked into the crash couch, "I'm in charge." he stated plainly, calling it over the wind. "And we're looking for someone else, we saw you both on scanners. Average height and build... dark hair... no shoes." At the last part, Gellar smirked. "Don't want him to catch rad-sickness out here."

He paused, looking at the man, clutching the dossier. "What brings you out here, kid? It sure as hell ain't the scenery," Gellar gave a resentful shrug to the blasted city below. "I hope."

Bear narrowed his eyes as the other figure moved with lightning speed, hurtling itself in front of his shot. The flash of the sword met the bullet, and the secondary flash of the dual purpose round faded to find the man thrown, but intact. Bear’s jaw dropped slightly. Nice armor. I’m going to need a bigger gun. He settled the crosshairs back on the standing man, who was now waving about a Heckler und Koch Maschinen Pistole 7.

Bear scowled, angry that the man wasn't rightfully dead. Sonuvabitch, you’re gonna get it again. Bear lowered the sights, but another of the figures was calling his buddy off. Smart move. He kept his rifle ready, in case they tried anything else.

“Hey, keep my back secure, in case they try to come ‘sploring. Don’t know how many more fucked up cloakers they got.” He paused, giving instructions to his squad. “Bannon, go tell Kuzin about this, get his techies to ‘splain some stuff.”

Bear went back to waiting, the sight aligned on various chests in turn.

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Antonov sighed heavily. Why does that man insist on shooting that cannon? Then he noted that the hit man was not dead. The hell? Still, there was no time for wasting, as the woods would soon be deadly. “Enough bullshit. Since you want to shoot off your guns, you can put them down, and my men will take them. Once you’ve been checked out, to make sure you aren’t some mafia soldiers or drug runners, we will return.” He glanced at the still-white Jason, “I think you’ve learned your lesson, so don’t try to be hero again. You won’t go to jail, this time. You’ll be dead, next time.”

The police fanned out to confiscate and search for weapons, even as the tires were being fixed. An officer hopped onto the turreted SUV, pointing the business end down. Antonov turned to the armored man, “Nice jump, but not good for health. We can’t have you all armored up in the cars, so you’re going to have to take it off. We won’t keep it.”

He smiled icily again. “Welcome to Adamaria. My day is sucking, so stop fucking around.”

Nexlon lowered his sword, but did not sheath it. There was no chance that he would come with the police, or take off his armor and give up his sword. He was slightly worried at the possible prospect of going against the turret on the SUV, however.

"Foolish Police. I do not take off this armor for anyone, nor will i give up my sword." He brought it up again as a young officer approached him cautiosly, giving him quite a scare. "Leave me be."

Nexlon had urgent matters to attend to, namely getting his arm patched up, which he could easily do by himself. He also had to contact Basalisk as soon as he could.

Antonov wanted to scream. Fucking morons! You don't want to be out here at night! "Fuck it. Dimitri, leave him. He wants to stay out here, bleeding, in this area... let him. The rest of you, in the cars." He looked at the disarmed Jason. "Especially you, hero."

"No, no it isn't." Shaun said. "I'm a private investigator, looking for a missing teenager. Her father said she liked to come out here with her friends."

Shaun thought for a few seconds before he spoke again. "I'm Shaun Taggert."

Gellar grunted, waving his hand over the blasted town, over the top of the chaingun, motioning down to shattered and burnt out old vehicles. “If she came out here, she’s dead by now.”

“-down!” Gellar screamed as the thudding of the chopper rotors roared overhead, the spray of dirt cycling around the crouched mercenaries. The sun flared dark orange in the dirt, and the screams could be heard over the gunfire-

-the figure lunged over the car hood, hunched and menacing, dripping poison from its powerful jaws, its claws slashing down onto the crouched mercenary-

-running. Gellar was running, dragging the bleeding girl behind him, and she was shaking in fear and pain, but he couldn’t stop to make her comfortable, or even to make her less agonized. The growling was behind them, and Gellar turned, firing the SAW under his massive arm, sending the hunched figures falling back into the shadows as the helicopter circled again, trying to land-

-bursting into the clearing, Gellar saw the lowered helicopter, the open bay, the welcoming sight of the chaingun. Bear was waiting, the .300 Arctic Magnum on his shoulder, the glint from the scope flaring as the bellow shook the square. Gellar hit the ground as the concussion flashed past him, throwing him back. Behind, the dark figure shattered, blood spraying-

-pulling up into the helicopter, he turned back to the girl, reaching down-

-white, milky eyes stared back, devoid of life. Teeth extended, and the girl arched her back and loosed an inhuman scream-

-he was falling back as Bear pulled him into the rising vehicle, the sniper lowering his rifle to the girl. “She’s infected, Colonel!” BANG!-

The rotor slapped another gust of air, and Gellar shook the chills from his body. “Yeah, she’s definitely dead by now.” Below, a blasted square flashed past, and a rotted corpse lay in the center, once a teenage girl, now a twisted inhuman frame, intermingled with lead. Gellar turned to the pilot. “It’s getting dark. Get us back to town.”

The helicopter banked into the last fading light, it’s gunships following. Gellar sighed heavily again, turning to Taggert. “Welcome to Adamaria, or as we call it, The Sixth Circle.”

Shaun looked outside of the chopper. Damn, I could of used the cash. He sat quietly, looking at the file.

"Damn."

He looked at Gellar.

"Why do you call Adamaria the Sixth Circle? And how do you know what the other looked like?"

Gellar grunted, "Damn Sixth Circle of Hell, for blasphemers and the violent. This place is so damn corrupt, and the things at night..."

He paused, looking the younger man dead in the eye, "That's why we knew you were there. This whole area's seeded with sensors, so we can pick off the things before they get to town. Then, NovaGen researches them, try to figure out what makes 'em tick."

He didn't bother to tell the kid that NovaGen was making most of the things, and harvesting the others here. Let the kid cling to his illusions about the "miracle" pharmaceutical company. Besides, Gellar liked his paycheck.

Shaun looked at Gellar. He didn't like the idea of whatever was down there.

"What do you mean by things"

Gellar raised an eyebrow. "You really want to see?" He turned to the pilot. "Take us back around, over the Camp." Scare the kid a good one, and he won't push much further. That’s how Gellar’s dad had kept him from drink. One day, Pops took him to a bar, at the age of seven, and made him drink Whiskey. He’d been so sick, he’d avoided alcohol until he was twenty-six. Same thing here. Give him too much now, he’ll not return and get himself shot.

The helicopter banked, rushing over the forest below. The calls of the night rang out, harsh and loud. The normal sounds, though, were overpowered by the screeches and howls of unknown creatures, dark and monstrous. The chilling wail of one made the entire flight crew shiver, and the crew chief tensed on the gun.

This is all that remains of the old specimens, the escaped proto-creatures. This is NovaGen’s darker side. Adamaria had always possessed a tilt to the supernatural, and NovaGen had been eager to get close to these Aberrations, to study them, to duplicate them, to use them. Now, though, this was no longer enough, and mere animals had given away to sentients…

Gellar turned to the white-faced Shaun. “You ever been out here, out in Eastern Europe? The legacies of the past live on, preserved in the stone and wood, the scarred memories of a thousand atrocities. Before the Communists crushed will of the people here, before the battles ravaged the land, before the Nazi’s Camp, before the trenches of the First War, before the Napoleonic wars, this was shaman’s grounds. This was an Eastern kingdom, a powerful people. They built vast monuments, all of which are long gone. All but one.”

The helicopter illuminated a distant structure with its lamp, painting the ruins of a castle in the white beam. “This castle housed the kings of Adamaria in the old days, but it is long empty. Its real history starts in 1941, in the height of the Second World War.” The helicopter passed the guardhouse, where the arrow slits were replaced with gun mounts, then passed through the towers, sliding over the first courtyard.

Gellar spoke, his face shrouded in the darkness, “Heinrich Himmler was already mad. I’m sure you’ve heard of the old Nazi plots to “commune with the dead” and other such nonsense? They tried it here, too, trying to conjure up their dark armies to vanquish the allies. But here, they did it much more realistically. Instead of arcane ceremony, they performed crude experiments on the prisoners. You’ve heard of Josef Mengele, I assume, the mad doctor himself?”

“He committed many heinous acts, human experiments and grotesque tests upon civilians. His favorite subject was twins… injecting them with various chemicals, to see if they died the same, exposing one to disease and using the other as a control for the experiment…” Gellar let the morbid thoughts continue. “But by the end of the war, they did not have time for these particular tortures. No, they simply wanted to kill as efficiently as possible- lights!”

The helicopter panned its searchlight into the main court, casting the glow onto the vast piles of bodies. The craft circled, the wind howling in the cracks of the vile fortress. “The Russians were terrified of this place, and they refused to enter. The rest of the world forgot about Castle Kugel. You want haunted? Look no further.”

He turned back to the sickened young man, “I didn’t used to believe in the supernatural, but you try standing in that place, and not swear you heard it, saw it, felt it, calling out.” Gellar took a breath, the icy wind screaming in counterpoint, “This place is an epicenter, an archive of Mengele’s vilest work, and the Nazi’s worst crimes… the first place to start when trying to research these old legends.”

The helicopter turned away from the castle, back over the dark woods. “NovaGen came here to research these old aberrations, these legends. They found them, and more, ancient creatures predating our knowledge. Now, with this information, they can create a brighter future.” He shrugged. “That’s where we come in. Security, capture, and protection… all in one package.”

The darkness was all-encompassing. NovaGen isn’t righting a wrong, they’re simply bringing the old research to its conclusion. Wrap it in legend all you want, Gellar, this is the work of man. He closed his eyes, not facing Taggert, feeling the cold, bracing wind, the Furies wrath, the judgment. “Like I said, welcome to the Sixth Circle."

Light footsteps were pounded into the dust as Travis swiftly darted from the shadows of each ruin to the next. His mind now was trying to work out the possibilities that the...thing he saw earlier.

Yet, there were millions of possiblities. Way too many to sort and count.

Suddenly, in the distance behind him, Travis faintly heard the sound of reverbrating rotors from a single helicopter.

Shit!

Travis looked about on the ground doing a quick search. Finally, he spied a small crater and stepped into it.

He immediately sank rapidly downward and forming into water as his "body" filled the crater.

And he waited...

Shaun looked down at the castle as Gellar spoke. He knew about Hitler and Occult Rituals, his attempts to gather many sacred objects. Course he had heard of Mengele and Himmler, Shaun was a bit of a World War 2 buff. He looked down at the bodies, his mind not able to register it. But something still wasn't right.

"So, these things running around this place are result's from Mengele's experiments?"

Willi nudged Alex and nodded towards the Skoda still humming a few feet away.

"Captain, I..." Willi proceeded to turn the other way and dash towards the car with Alex in tow. He almost tore off the door of the tiny autmobile as he hurled himself inside. Alex loaded his pistol along with Willi's and handed it to him.

The Skoda tumbled down the road, through hundreds of craters and ruts molded into the cold, permafrost covered dirt road. "Sir, what the hell is that!?" Alex exclaimed, as he pointed into the distance. The outline of a huge castle being illuminated by a helicopter.

"I dont know, but soon we will." Willi backed the car up and plowed forwards though the snow covered ground, ignoring the numerous signs warning him he was entering a radioactive wasteland...

Nexlon looked as the castle outline was lit up by a helicopter in the distance. The plot thinkens, he thought. Yet another place worthy of exploration. For now, he would contact Basalisk and patch up his arm.

Nexlon turned to Antonov and bowed.

"Thank you for leaving me. You have saved yourself a great deal of trouble."

Nexlon then sheathed his sword and leapt into the darkness, disappering without a trace, save the sensors all around him. The sensors would of found him inside a city alleyway a few minutes later, painfully extracting the bullet in his arms with long thin tweezers, then applying gauze and slipping a piece of steel betwen his arm and the hole in his armor.

Now it was time to meet up with Basalisk.

Gellar snorted. “All this, this long from that old war? Hardly.” He commented wryly, “No, that was just one facet. This place is steeped in the old legends. So much evil, so much myth, all compacted together. Most of it is unexplained, unexplainable. The locals will call it ghosts or monsters. That’s what you’ll get if you ask.”

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The Werewolf helicopter banked over the city, triangulating the other figure’s location, its double-stacked rotors thwapping in the air. The pilot looked to the left and right, the craft’s autocannon tracking with his gaze. Below, there was a single pulse of confirmation, and the helicopter rolled around to track, catching a glimpse of a running man. As the camera banked about with the nose, there was nothing.

The pilot narrowed his eyes, scanning the craters and rubble, the guncam following his movements, recording the field. Nothing. “This is Skywatch, there’s nothing out here. He just vanished from the scope.”

“This is control, what do you mean?” The technician sounded slightly confused and aggravated.

“He was there, now he’s gone. Run a check on the scanners for a jammer, would you?” The pilot requested, hovering the craft, battering the ground below with the rotor-wash. “He might have countermeasures.”

“We’re running the checks now.”

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Inside the NovaGen Complex, deep below the hydroelectric dam, a control panel was buzzing. Flat screen displays encircled the room, and holographic models were suspended in the dim and sterile air. The lighting was redshifted to minimize energy loss, and the sound was baffled into the room, to prevent escaping information.

Replays ran from the sensor grid, analyzing the “vanishing” figure. In the center of the room, Peter Kuzin, chief of NovaGen security, watched with placid interest. The video logs flashed from his silver glasses and slicked hair, and his mouth twitched every so often. Abruptly, his jaw tightened, and he spoke quietly, “Replay that image from zone two.”

The data streamed by the main screen, the computer analyzed, found an anomaly. The man’s foot was blurring out, seeming to sag, as if under extreme heat-blur. “There.” Kuzin stated, and the data reconfigured.

In an instant, the screens were showing hundreds of datum on the timeframe, reviewing and extrapolating events. Under three seconds later, the rendering was complete, and Kuzin watched the man melt into water. “Interesting.” He stated without emotion, even as the others inhaled sharply. “Tell Basilisk to take that for testing.”

“Sir?”

“Use a hose.” He smiled predatorily, his Russian accent leaking through. Inside the capital, two more helicopters lifted off, carrying the Basilisk teams.

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The pilot held station, listening to the radio transmission. “…aberration. A Capture Team has been dispatched from the capital, and will be on station soon. Keep the area secure.”

“So, you want me to shoot the puddle if it moves?”

“Precisely.”

“Whateva you say. Skywatch, out.” He killed his mic, shaking his head, the cannon mimicking. The Werewolf held station.

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“They’re running.” Diego stated in exasperation, watching through his field glasses as the Skoda plowed through the snow towards Castle Kugel. “Not in the right direction, though. Talk about ‘into the fire’. Sucks for them.”

Bear snorted. “Bastards don’t listen.” He watched through the scope, ranging them in as the car parked outside. “Well, that place has enough shit in it to stop them dead in their tracks. Nothing there anymore, anyhow. Just a bunch of old experiments.”

“You going to blast them, Bear? That is still a secure area.”

“Nope.” Bear moved the rifle, dropping the sights on the car. Both the doors were opening, and he waited for both men to step out. He pressed the trigger.

The explosion of the rifle echoed through the valley, but the detonation on the other end was worse. The entire hood of the Skoda exploded, the engine block reduced to a twisted hulk of steel, the gas tank detonating in the ammonium perchlorate cloud. The fireball climbed into the sky, and Bear lowered his rifle. “Just gonna leave ‘em.”

Diego glanced through his binoculars at the burning carnage, and the two shocked survivors. “That’s sick man. Those things will tear ‘em apart.”

“I know.” Bear smiled, his white teeth shining wolfishly. “Sucks to be them.” He tracked back to Antonov and the other outsiders.

“You’re sick, man.” Diego raised the glasses again.

Clank

Clank

Clank

Ceitha strolled out in the open, following the scent. It had disappeared suddenly, but it left it's trajectory. He passed through houses and dirthills, across graveyards unknown and skeletons picked apart. He was curious. He walked slow, and casually. He feared no thing. He couldn't fear from these humans. It wasn't possible. The only thing that Ceitha Eleryn feared was the Soulpyre, his own Clan Chieftain, for Ceitha had seen him fight. Ceitha remembered how he went into battle, with 24 blades strapped to his body, including his SKell gauntlets, which were custom-made and one-of-a-kind. Ceitha was a harsh witness as the Soulpyre literally rushed into the fray, and was able to animate every single blade he took, fighting off 25 foes at once! He was terrifying that a mortal creature had such power. The Soulpure was the only true Blademaster, and Master Blade Magi, and taught none his deepest secrets. Only the other Clan Chieftains knew his actual name, and all others were forced to only call him Lord Soulpyre.

Clank

Clank

Clank

After a few hundred feet, Ceitha's cloak billowed out harshly as rough wings scarred him, biting carnivorously and throwing the dirt upon him from the propellers of the Helicopters. Ceitha looked upwards at the Metal Gulls, and it ripped his hood down, the wind torturing his hair and throwing it every which way. Ceitha put his gauntleted hand over his eyes to get a good look at the construct, for he had never seen such a thing before. He squinted, and saw humans were in it. It was a machination, indeed. It would have been awe-inspiring if the Flaming Skull had taught its own to only bear a single dimension of emotion. They all had the same backgrounds. Most were dredges in Ursa, Orca, Oakfort, or Dornheart; the four cities of the Clans. They were all orphans as children, their parents dead at birth or runaways. They had all lived in deep urban areas and made it alive by themselves. They had all been sought out specifically, as if the Flaming Pit had chose them. Each had been mentored by an Older Member of the Skull, and upon that Member's Passing, they had been inducted into the Clan. As such, the Flaming Skull was the only Clan which kept a static clan number. This kept them strong, solid, and enforced.

Clank

Clank

Clank

Ceitha noticed the craft was not moving, but seemed to be hovering around a dent in the earth that had been caused from some kind of shockwave. It was focusing on something in there. That probably meant that what Ceitha has smelled was in there. As far as the High Orc was concerned, it was his first. He didn't appreciate Kill-Stealing at all. He'd have to fell the bird. He kneeled down, gripping a stone the size of a baseball, and slid out one of his daggers from his belt, and moved the stone along the edge of the dagger, and it sharpened to an unnatural and deadly edge. He tossed the knife up in the air and caught it by the blade between his index and middle finger and raised his hand up, and concentrated deeply on the blade, focusing his mystical energies on the weapon, enchanting it.

For a moment he stood there, mouthing silent incantations, and his eyes glowed a hazy yellow as he focused deeply on his powers.

The puddle did not move, except to mimic the effect of shockwaves that occured from a distance away and flowed through the puddle as naturally as possible.

They know I'm here. I've got to run. But where?

At the bottom of the crater, there was a small fissure in the earth, a tendril of water slid trough and sought carefully.

Finally, the tendril found's its goal... The sound of metal occured ever so slightly...

Bingo, the sewers...

Before the very eyes of the helicopter, suddenly the puddle they had been ordered to watch became empty.

In the shadows of the sewers, the water formed upwards and solidified once more. Travis looked up briefly before taking off down into the sewers. It was pitch black in the sewers, but he kept his hand on the wall to guide himself.

He had no idea where he was going, but nor was he afraid of what might be down here...

Shaun nodded. He leaned back and left Gellar return to his business. He would make a very brief report to the girl's dad about her death due to exposure of the contaimated area. But something still was poking the back of his mind, telling him not all was right. Just as he closed his eyes he caught a bright orange light suddenly appear. It looked to him like an explsion.

"Looks like someone blew up something."

Alex moaned as he struggled to get up from the ground. He was fine, though he was covered in blood. Not his, however. A horrible thought ran through his head as he turned slowly and saw a trail of the red liquid lead to a limp Willi Strausser.

"Sir! Oh God, wake up!" he yelled as he shook Willi's body like a chef would roll pizza dough. "God dammit Alexander, I am just fine! Stop shaking me." Willi pushed Alex's hands away and stared at a giant gash on his shin.

"Oh dear... Shrapnel. Alex, go fetch the first aid kit, will you? It's in the trunk, next to my MP7. Get that as well." Willi said as if nothing was wrong and soon Alex returned with a red box. Removing the supplies, Willi carefully removed the piece of metal which had just barely gotten itself in his skin. After a few more moments, the leg was patched up until they could reach a hospital. That would prove a challenge, because their only mode of transportation had been destroyed.

Willi limped to the charred reamins of the trunk and pulled out the final box inside. He retried five flares from inside and proceeded to light them from a box of matches in his jacket. Seeing the helicopter, he stuck three close together in the ground and waved the other two wildly, screaming profanities and requests for rescue...

Kuzin watched the screens with interest, smirking slightly. “Sir, we’re getting multi-band spikes about thirty meters southwest.” The cameras flicked, showing the crouching orc, holding the sharpened rock. “Massive influx on the K-band, we’re getting a stranglet surge.”

Another operator asked, “No cascade?”

“Negative.” He flipped the diagnostics into overdrive, removing the software constraints. “Sir, logic networks are showing a ninety-six percent chance that this will be directed at the helicopter.” The staff turned to Chief Kuzin, waiting for his command.

Kuzin inhaled deeply. “Do nothing. Do not warn the pilot.”

“Sir?”

“We need information, and a local pilot is expendable.”

“Sir, they’re our allies. This corporation is built on networking and this kind of betrayal-”

“Betrayal? We know nothing… at least that we’ll tell Adamaria. No, this information is much more important than some local chopper jock. There are more people than money around here, anyway.” The Chief shrugged. “Tough luck.”

“But, what about the other target? Who will watch-”

“The water? It’s already gone.” Kuzin stated calmly.

A technician flipped back to his screen. “Sir, the water is still there… no, it’s receding!”

Kuzin nodded. “The storm sewers. There are only two exits. Deploy the capture teams to the run-off drains; activate the security at the scrubbers. He can run into our nets… or charge into this dam, and meet the belly of the beast.”

“Aye, sir. Redeploying and activating scanners.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gellar saw the flare in the same instant, and he called to the pilots, “Sitrep!”

“Sir, unknown individuals engaged in a shootout with local police. The individuals attempted to escape in a vehicle, and Captain Harrison engaged with an Anti-Material Rifle.” The copilot was facing into the crew section, and letting Gellar read between the lines.

Gellar nodded, “Okay, they’re hostiles. Leave ‘em.”

The helicopter banked away, blasting snow over the wreck, and it headed back to the town in the distance.

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Bear Harrison closed the bipod as Antonov’s vehicles reached the town gate, entering the police station compound. The massive securidoor slammed shut behind the convoy, and Harrison sighed. “Well, I only got to blow up one car today.”

Diego shook his head. “You’re sick, man.”

“I still need a bigger gun.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Damn it, Diego, I’m getting a bigger fucking gun.”

The squad retreated into the warmth of the town.

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The Dogs of War was a tavern named for its target audience. Garish, rowdy, and without a single question asked, it was a haven for the local muscle. The only requirement the tavern possessed was that no one harm the workers, and that all killings took place outside. The patrons obeyed these commands, and mutually enforced them. On numerous occasions, criminals and ruffians had pulled a weapon in the tavern, only to be taken down by combined efforts of normally “rival” enforcers.

The lighting was diffuse and yellow, lit by mock candle-lamps and tens of fireplaces, covering the entire converted warehouse in that crackling warm glow of natural light. Smoke filled the air, both from the fires and the hundreds of various smoking patrons. A band was on the stage, blaring out raucous heavy metal that pounded through the air, a counterpoint to the bombastic cheers and curses of the mercenaries and criminals.

Near the back, Gunner Larson leaned back in his wooden chair, sucking back on a massive mug of homebrewed ale. The stuff was thick, but it didn’t give you a hangover like the cheap western beers. He often joked that man could survive on just the local alcohol, it was so rich. He was also right.

His blonde hair and blue eyes made him stand out in this local, or would have, if this tavern weren’t currently populated by hundreds of other just as foreign soldiers of fortune. Adamaria’s government didn’t have the resources to maintain a standing army, so they employed these paid forces, and the nation was soon a haven for every kind of hired gun.

Larson glanced over the table at his cards partner. Ken Nboko, straight out of the heart of sub-Saharan Africa, and darker than the night itself, eyed over the top of his hand. The Viking and the Mandingo. Larson smirked at his own little irony.

That, unfortunately, provoked a reaction from Sun, who threw up his hands. “No fooking table talk, Larson!”

“Hey, fuck off, I was just smiling!”

“It probably means, “I have the left bower.” or some shit like that.” Sun wasn’t giving up.

“No it fucking doesn’t! It means I had your mother last night, chink!”

“I ain’t Chinese, you fucking Nordic piece of shit!”

“Christ!” Nboko spoke up, “Must you two always piss on each other? Just play your damn card, Gunner!”

Gunner grinned and threw down the left bower. At this, Sun threw up his hands again, but he was smiling, too. These men took to heart the phrase, “Work hard, play hard.” Their “friendly banter” would have sent most sailors home with red ears. Larson made his hands into two guns, index fingers pointed to Sun and Cherboyev. “Boom, fuckers.”

He and Nboko reached in to sweep the pot, when Sun reminded them, “You know the rule. Winner buys next round.”

“Goddamn.” Larson raised his hand. “Waitress!”

A woman, rough as the rest, walked up, the stains of needles visible on her arm. “What’d’ya need?”

“Another round.” Larson handed her a wad of local bills, a healthy tip, too. “Keep it.”

At this, Cherboyev commented, “Don’t tip.”

“What?”

“It’s just their fucking job. They don’t need to get a tip. Do you tip the trash man for doing his job?”

“No.”

“Then why tip these people? Tip for exceptional service, da, but not for adequacy.”

Larson shook his head. “That’s just wrong, man.” He glanced back to the door, only to see Bear Harrison walk in with his spotter. Bear was carrying a massive rifle, a multi-sectioned behemoth with a bore nearly an inch in diameter, and long enough that it clipped the low hanging lights. Seeing this, all of the mercenaries at the table began to laugh, and Larson called out, “Jesus tap dancing Christ, Bear, what the hell is that thing?”

Bear grinned deviously, stroking the six foot rifle. “Steyr Infantry Weapons System Two Thousand.” His smile looked like it was going to pop off his face, like a father seeing his new baby for the first time. “It fires fifteen point two millimeter armor-piercing, fin-stabilized, discarding sabot fletchettes. This bad boy can ablate the armor on a main battle tank!”

“Compensating for something, Bear?” Larson asked. “I mean, Colonel Gellar freaked when you started playing with the fifty-cal. This is… a little nuts, man.”

Bear perked up the corner of his mouth, dropping into the wall-seat of the table, grabbing Nboko’s beer and swilling it. “I’ll hit ya back later.” He stated, quickly hiding the IWS 2000 behind a booth. “Nah, some asshat took a hit from the fifty, and lived. Powered armor of some kind. Like to see him stop this!”

“And if he does?”

Bear raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got the Slade.”

Sun sputtered in his drink. “You’re fooking crazy, Bear.”

Bear laughed boomingly. “Best part is this… the guy I pegged… he’s coming here for a contract.”

Larson slapped his hand into his face. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. Check your lists.” Bear shrugged. “Well, he didn’t do anything wrong, just jumped in front of a bullet and lived. I’d hire ‘im.”

Larson waved for the waitress, trying to get more alcohol. At this, Cherboyev stated, “Told you not to tip. They get lazy!”

Larson glared at his man. “We need all the manpower we can get right now, with how Gellar’s pushing us. I’ll hire him, if he can drink with us.” At this, everyone raised their glasses.

Bear patted the butt-plate of the rifle. “I’m just gonna scare him with this thing.”

“You scare us, pal.”

“Yeah, yeah, pass the ale.” The mercs waited for their new hires to trickle in, and the band played on.

Ceitha dropped the rock and reared his arm back. Blue, crackling energy poured through his skin along where his veins would be, bolting across his arm as he roared outwards and launched the dagger. As the electricity ran into the knife, it disappeared as soon as it left his grip, and reappeared almost instantly within a foot of the Pilots' window, bypassing the gusting wind from the propeller and with full velocity of having just being thrown.

Ceitha looked up, and closed his eyes, stretching out his palm, and feeling for the Dagger. He would soon be controlling it.

Nexlon emerged from the alley, good as new. He hid in the darkness outside the tavern for a while, assessing how dangerous it could be, but then again, everyone in there was a merc. Best not to do anything stupid.

Nexlon looked out of place in his armor. He noticed hard asses and criminals staring at him, but he knew he could take any of them down in a fight-just not all at once.

Nexlon turned around and saw a huge man with an even bigger gun. Was it the man who shot him? Nexlon had an urge to pull his sword, but resisted. Besides, he could see the man talking to what was surely his contact! It was an aryan man; that was him. Nexlon walked over to him, eyeing the large man's rifle.

"Basalisk, i presume?" He said in his cold, filtered voice. "I am Nexlon."

Larson glanced up, assessing the man in powered armor. "Nexlon, huh? Well, you're on my list-"

At this point, Bear cut him off, “Right after Xenon and Argon.”

“Shove it… sir.” Larson grinned. “My name’s Gunner Larson, I’m a lieutenant in the Basilisk Mercenary Group. This is Nboko, Sun, Cherboyev, and Harrison.” He pointed around the table, stopping at the IWS. “And that’s Betty.”

Bear Harrison stroked the huge gun, “It’s ma baby.”

Larson shook his head, the runic tattoos on his neck moving as he did so. Turning back to Nexlon, he asked friendly, “So, what brings you to us?”

Again, Bear commented, “I sure hope it ain’t the sight-see’n, ‘cause it’s shitty out there.”

“Interesting.” Kuzin stated, watching the knife appear. “Some form of controlled entanglement teleportation. Did you get readings on that?”

“Aye, sir.” The technician looked slightly pale. “It’s almost like, magic, sir.”

Kuzin’s face became dark, like a storm on the open seas. “Magic? Don’t insult me like that. There is no “magic”, only misunderstood science. If you were to take someone from the Dark Ages, and show him an airplane, or a car, he’d call it “magic”. If you were to show him someone with Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva, they’d call it a curse. We know that these are natural phenomena, because we’ve studied the empirical data behind each. Just so, there is empirical data behind this.”

The technician looked somewhat comforted, but he was still doubtful. Kuzin explained, “Listen, we can do that, too. All atoms teleport, they pop in and out of reality. The problem is, they become entangled with each other, and the odds that an entire entangled network would suddenly and simultaneously teleport to the same location is insanely minute.” He paused, “So, yes, there is the slight probability that I could simply “pop” two feet to the left, or that you might simply vanish.”

“You can control this?” Someone asked.

“Of course you can. Scientists have gotten small molecules to teleport inside of supercolliders. Obviously, this species has worked it out to a macro scale.” Kuzin turned back to the screen. “Divergent sciences, just as divergent evolution. Call it “magic” if you wish, but there is a reason for everything.”

“Aye, sir.” The tech looked greatly reassured, for Kuzin’s words made perfect sense. They would observe, and develop counters. That was how it always went.

Kuzin commented, almost as an aside, “Deploy a search team to go check those tents the men abandoned. Don’t steal anything, simply mark and image.”

Eight Years Ago
Far from the acid rain and drear of Adamaria, the sun was shining from a perfect sapphire bay. Sleek boats cut the waves, while pleasure yachts floated out to sea. A paraglider soared overhead, and the noise of children on the beach floated over the city. The amusement park was abuzz with activity, and the smells of the restaurant district wafted in the air. Golden arches spanned the bay, and lovers stood on lookouts from them. A maglev whooshed past, barely a noise in the breeze.

Above and around, the gleaming glass towers shimmered and shone, while multilevel highways flowed with computerized precision. The sky was clear, for the ionic scrubbers kept even natural pollutants from reaching the ground. Corsingard was, for all intents, a perfect postmodern metropolis.

The man sat on the edge of a columned building’s base, his feet resting several stairs down. Behind him, he could feel the cool emanating from the marble of the Capitol, and the aura of millennia of power. The man watched from his seat, high atop the Capital Mount, overlooking the commercial Halo of Corsingard, watching the business and government and pleasure of the city, observing the ebbs and flows of the people below, moving through their benevolent existence.

“Envious, isn’t it?” A voice asked, soft and sorrowful, deep and commanding. “Don’t you wish you could join them?”

The sitting man didn’t turn back to look, for he knew who spoke. That man was like a dream… you couldn’t look at him, for he would vanish before you could focus. “Sir!” the sitting man exclaimed. “I didn’t hear you approach!”

The standing man exhaled in a slightly amused manner, for he couldn’t smile. His dark eyes pulled, like a painful grin, and his gloved hands moved slightly, grasping at some unseen thread. “Of course you didn’t. I didn’t want you to.” The gloved hands moved to the black glasses, adjusting their angle, and then moving to sweep through jet-black hair.

The sitting man did laugh at that subtle humor, stretching out his suit as he moved. He simply waited for his commander to speak again, hoping to glean some bit of wisdom from this living legend.

The standing man did speak again, but not to teach. “Have you made a decision? You know the stakes we are dealing with.”

The sitting man exhaled heavily. “I’ll do it, sir. But, if I may?”

“Of course.”

“Why not Darius?” There was a twinge of something, perhaps jealousy.

“Darius may become… unreliable. We need him for other projects, and this is more in line with your work.”

“Ah. Thank you, sir.” The sitting man nodded. While he lacked Darius’s personal aura and rakish charm, he more than made up for it with sheer ambition, ruthlessness, and professionalism. All in all, he felt he had the better odds, even though he knew that it was not he who was destined to take over. “I’ll get to work.”

“Good. I’ll have you filled in on the situation, and you will take over in three weeks. Xenos Flare is your operation, now.”

“Thank you, sir.” And he truly meant it. Every chance to gain the man’s favor, every chance to improve his standing, to earn a nod of approval… each little bit to become more like this man, his mentor and idol, was a moment of revelation. “I will not fail.”

“That’s why I chose you.”

Nexlon nodded at the members of the team in turn, still keeping his eyes on the huge rifle Bear carried. Then he bowed to Larson.

"I came on request of an anonymous officer from Basalisk. He said he needed a skilled merc to do some dangerous work hunting anomolies in Adamaria. Obviously i agreed."

He paused for a moment, tilting his head and put his hand no his wounded arm.

"It seems i got unlucky, however. I was hit by a high-powered bullet in the arm while defending someone."

He grimiced from inside his mask, then changed the subject.

"So what exactley are we hunting here and how do we go about hunting it?"

Larson nodded, "Well, you seem to have already been somewhat acquainted with the situation. We're all subcontracted from Basilisk... except Bear, who's straight Basilisk, under Colonel Gellar. What we do is hunt down dangerous Aberrations, genetic freaks, and turn them over to designated "Capture Teams". It's kinda odd, but Gellar gets all the right equipment from some dude in the mucky-muck high places, and we use it to track and take down the Aberration, preferrably captive, not dead."

He paused, "These range from simple animals, like those damn Ravagers, to much more dangerous creatures, like that damn vamp a couple nights back."

To this, Cherboyev added, "She 'vanted to sock our blvood', I think."

"Right." Larson added, "The area around here is hostile as hell, so we go out in teams, at specific times, with specific equipment, to take out a singular target. If you just walk out there with a net, you'll get creamed... and probably infected with something."

"Which means," Bear added, "That we'll have to take you down. That ain't a threat. If I were infected with that shit, please put me out... with Betty..." he patted the gun.

Larson commented, "Also, as we are contracted by Adamaria, we have a duty to back up the local Police, in case some morons start wandering around in the Great Outdoors. We had some of that earlier, when a group of would be campers set up outside. The pigs tried to bring them into the town for safety, and some dumbfuck opened fire."

To this, Bear hauled out the casing from a massive bullet. "Yup, that would be the shot you jumped in front of. You should have let the moron eat it. The cops were trying to help, and he tries to get you all killed by the Aberrations. It's a miracle you even made it to town." Bear shrugged and handed Nexlon the casing, "I've got no problem with you, and wouldn't have shot you. But, since you did jump in front of it and live... you should keep it. You know what they say... if you have the bullet with your name on it, it can't hit you." He pointed to the side, where a Sharpie had marked out, To: Nexlon, From: Bessy the .50.

Larson sighed. "Forgive Bear, he's been clonked on the head too much. Now, if you want in, just sign the PDA." He handed over a PDA. "Then, we'll give you operational data on the wildlife, who you can trust, and who you can't. We'll let you know on the ops as soon as we know, but a lot of this is dark until the last second. Whoever Gellar is working for doesn't like to let us know."

To this, Bear declared, "Asshat." Then he nodded to Nexlon's sword. "I'll give ya five bucks if you can cut a beer five times in mid-air."

Larson passed a mug to Nexlon, "Pop off the hat, and let's have a round!"

Cherboyev declared, "Don't tip, they get cocky."

Bear glared at him, "That's assholish, and you know it." He patted the IWS. "Betty doesn't like assholes."

"Quit naming your rifles, you psychopath." Sun declared.

Larson glanced to Nexlon, "Drink up, partner, and welcome to the club."

"Well Alex," Willi twisted around and dropped the flares, "We're screwed. They must be connected with the god damn sniper. Well, this is - What in gods name is that!?" A blue, rusting ZIL 130 truck careened down the road, honking the horn like a maniac. It came to a sudden stop in front of a shocked Willi and Alex and the driver window rolled down, and who would be on the other side but, "Evegniy!" Willi cried as he limpd over and shook hands.

"Please get in, my friends. We have little time." he yelled over the rumble of the engine, gesturing for them to crawl into the cabin. Alex picked up his bag and the MP7 case and with Willi, got inside. The tuck made a U-turn and drove back towards the city.

Evegniy soon had the truck inside the empty city; in fact, right in front of the Dgos of War yavern. "Here, mingle with patrons of tavern. Police still after me AND you as well. Go, now, and may god be with you." Evegniy shook hands again with Willi and watched them leap out before he closed the door and honked one last time. After a few seconds, he waved and was gone in a flash.

"Well, shall we?" Alex chuckled and opened the door. The pair dodged several rowdy customers and finally found a table to seat themselves at. "Alex, do you see that?" Willi pointed towards Larson, Bear, and Nexlon. "Sounds like he enjoys sniper rifles. Possibly the same kind that blew up our automobile. Get a picture of them." Alex nodded and took a small digital camera from his bag. He proceeded to take a shot of everyone at the table and hide it quickly.

The sound of booted feet in water was obscured by the heavy thud of pumping equipment. A massive reverse osmosis and de-ionizer filter was installed in the sewer run off, pumping the water through micron filters and pulling the charges out, producing pure, decontaminated dihydrogen monoxide. Around and in front of this massive filtration system, a semi circle of Basilisk mercenaries, Asp Squad, waited.

One of the men turned, holding his air taser to his chest, addressing one of the technicians. “You sure this will work?”

“Of course, sir. Change form he may, but mass must be conserved, and he will be denser than the other water, and therefore, filter-able. Like ‘heavy water’, sir. Besides, even if he manages to spread out enough to avoid the density catch, he’ll be pulled out by the particulate filters… and de-ionizing can’t be healthy for any living being.” The technician shrugged. “And if he avoids… that’s what you’re for.”

Asp Leader grinned, clutching the Mantis. A combined heterodyning laser and ionic projector, wrapped inside of isolation faraday cage, the Mantis projected a dual beam of coherent light, capable of ablating forty millimeters of homogenous steel armor at one hundred yards. Along this cutter beam, the electromagnetic surge was arced, riding the suspended diodes, delivering a massive voltage and amperage of electricity to ranges in excess of five hundred yards. The resistance was fairly low, and the beams ohms could be manipulated by refocusing the convergence. All in all, the Mantis was thoroughly inhumane and efficient, delivering six hundred volts at one hundred and twenty amperes at three hundred yards… enough to cook a human being alive.

The twelve Asps waited, the Mantis’s ready, the tripod equipped Heavy Mantis deployed over the stream. The commander sneered slightly, imagining the carnage to come. There was nothing quite like the stink of roasting flesh, the sickly sweet stench of men cooking from the inside out, the “Mantis Dance”, the macabre disco set to arcing blue bolts and flaming corpses that didn’t know they were dead yet. There was nothing as psychologically devastating as the Mantis in modern combat, and it was a pity to waste on one target.

Still, if this was indeed a water based Xenos, then the Mantis was the most devastatingly effective weapon in the arsenal, as well. Fold into abyss if you want… the bolt will find you.

There was movement ahead. “Ready!”

The water flow changed. The Commander leered heavily. “Light the water.” A single blue flash erupted from the tripod mounted heavy gun, arcing safely between the like-polar charged armors of the Asps, striking the flowing stream, sending a paralyzing cascade into the water. Dead fish burst into flames as the steam filled the chamber, only to be pulled into the filters.

"We'll use full charge next time." The commander declared. "Why don't you co-operate?"

Jant sighed. Here he was, stuck in a tiny police cruiser, along with Samuel and Jason, sans armor, and anything but the Modified USP Compact's each man carried, and there was no telling how long he had been here. Hell, if it hadn't been for the fact that he had to consider Samuel and Jason's safety as well, he would have killed the police the second they arrived, and simply stolen a car.

But, unfortunately, Jason and Samuel were here, so now he was in the back of a police car, facing god knows what charges, in a country that may or may not have kidnapped a Rinceweedian citizen.

The car finally stopped, and Jant got ready to face whatever danger they had now arrived at....

Thomas Ivyn walked calmly into the Dogs of War bar, bought a beer and seated himself at a table. He found it hard to supress his mirth at what had happened to Justin and Ysabel.

Ysabel, as a Thrall, had simply been whipped for her incompetence, while Justin....Justin had done at least one useful thing. He provided dinner for the Thyrians.

Ivyn was himself a Thyrian ranking somewere between Tristan and a Thrall - he could never be certain where the Thyrian politics would rank him. One day he could safely be issues orders only Tristan could countermand and the next he would only just above a Thrall.

His body armour was above standard issue, and not currently upgraded to suit the Ancient's fashion ideas, for which Thomas was rather thankful - he did not fancy wandering around looking like a Teutonic Footknight. His M16 leaned against the table and his D'Eagle sat comfortably in its holster beside his combat knife.

He fiddled with his mike for a second as static burst in on him, then Tristan was there. Strangely, Tristan always made him feel more comfortable, although he knew that he should be afraid of the elder Thyrian.

Still, Tristan had told him to listen, so he did.

Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Travis looked up quickly as he heard the sound of a machine being charged up. The faint crackle of electricity was heard.

Oh shit...

Instantly, his instincts told him to leap upwards and take hold of the freshwater pipes above his head.

Bzzzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz!

The erratic, yet seemingly controlled flow of electricity shot past underneath Travis. The smell of the dead fish suddenly got worse, so bad that he wanted to hurl his breakfast of reef eel.

He continued hanging upon the pipes, thinking on his next plan. He had to get away from these guys, whoever they were.

Probably the same boys from the chopper, somehow tracked me here.

Travis's body changed and liquified to sit atop of the water pipes on the roof of the sewer ceiling. He moved as a straight line of water, stealthily and steadily moving toward the men.

Most would expect their prey to run. Travis always strived for the opposite, for he had found that it surprised them enough to give him the advantage to strike back.

Closer and closer he moved, avoiding the footpath below. The pull of the dionizer filters was strong however, and threatened to tear his aqua form apart. Still, he concentrated and focused upon his goal.

The commander...

Strike at the neurons, and the nerves shall fall apart in confusion... was the thought that slowly went through the aqua mind of the Avenger.

The watery shape slid silently around the pipe, directly overhead the commander's head, who stood behind his Basilisks and Asps.

"I will give you only one more warning to show yourself or I will command my team to give you the full charge!" came the harsh bark from the commander.

The water shape dropped quickly and swarmed the commander's head and entered his suit through the open mask (OOC: I assume he's wearing full body armor). Tendrils quickly entered all of the man's exposed cranial cavities into his body. Water surrounded the man's brain and squeezed lightly, enough to cause the commander to stand completely still.

Within his head, a voice echoed in ripple fashion:

"I advise you to remain perfectly still, lest I completely cut off your oxygen. Tell me first, with your thoughts of course, why I should allow you the gratification of my surrender...why do you hunt me when I mean you no harm?"

Nexlon paused for a moment, then signed the PDA. He was now hired by Basalik. He pressed a button on the side of his helmet and the bottem part of his mask slid away, revealing everything from his chin to the bottem of his nose; he did not like beer much, but at least he was in the company of friends now, something that he rarely had.

He took a swig of beer and grinned at Bear. The rest of the team could see black hairs sticking out his chin.

"I'll double your bet." Nexlon took an empty beer can and threw it up into the air, jumping almost a half-dozen feet. He pulled his sword from his sheath and his hand became a blur as he swung his sword. The can landed right side up, unharmed. Or was it? Nexlon tapped the can with his sword, and it collapsed to peices; Ten of them to be exact.

"Welcome indeed," Said Nexlon, taking another swig of beer.

The first instinct was to panic, to scream and run about in circles. Of course, that would have gotten him nowhere, as both he and the invader would be dead and extra crispy. Instead, reason took over, only a split second beyond insinct.

You try anything that makes my vitals leave parameters, and we're both dead. I'm a Capture Team Commander, which means I deal with all sorts of infected people... we have protocols for these types of situations. He gave a pause. Yes, you feel it, the squeeze in the suit. That's a focused incindiary. You spike vitals, and we're both cooked goose.

The others were waiting, turning to look at the silent commander. That's right... you're trapped. Take me out, and you'll die, too. Run, and you'll be taken down. Simply step out and calm down, and you'll be taken nicely.

He knew the next demanding question, and gave an answer, I don't know what they do with you. I just deliver you to the Colonel, he takes you to the client.

More people were turning their guns inward, and a technician activated a coil assembly. Yes, that's an unstable tesla coil. Don't try to go gasseous again. Now, do you want to cooperate, or do you want to die in the most painful way I can imagine?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, hey, nice chop job." Bear chucked a five on the table. "And that's USD, not the Adamarian Chicken Shit."

Larson asked, "That a boma blade? A moli-sword? I've seen some of Gellar contacts carrying stuff like that, high resonance diamond saws, I think."

Bear shrugged, "I don't know, but that was some slick swordsmanship. Real ninja shit."

Sun commented wryly, "Not that you would know a damn thing about close quarters combat."

"Hey, I've had someone run up on me plenty of times. You ever seen what Bessy or Betty do at point blank?" He shuddered, "Not pretty." With a turn to Nexlon, he raised his glass, "Nice armor, by the way. I've never seen anything stop Bessy."

With a pointed thumb, Cherboyev declared, "Bear's got this thing about bringing more firepower than could ever be practical. When we started, he was using an Arctic Magnum in .300 Winchester. After the first Wolf, he was using Bessy the .50. Colonel Gellar freaked, but with these targets, it makes sense."

Larson slid Nexlon another PDA, with the data load. "This is the local wildlife, and it ain't pretty. The local politicians and criminals are listed, too, and how much each of them costs."

Even after passing the card, Bear noticed that Nexlon's eyes were drawn to the corner. He grinned back, "That's Betty, the IWS Two Thousand. It fired APFSDS fifteen point two millimeter tungsten carbide fletchettes. It's a real beauty, and after you stopped the fifty, it was an excuse to break it out of hiding. Next Ravager I see... boom."

"Just as long as he doesn't get out Bertha. Last time we had to get out Bertha, it was Bear versus an entire Congo Tank Division. He won, and it kept us intact."

"Hey, I'll show you sometime. She's a real big girl."

There was a commotion in the corner, and a man stepped through the crowd, followed by two more. All three were dressed in Adamarian uniforms, and two carried AN-94s. Larson flashed a quick glance to the others, letting them know that he wasn't expecting company.

The Major spoke, "I bring a contract. Your Colonel is currently out of contact, so here is the datacard. Meet us at the old tank plant for equipment, rendezvous in two hours from exactly now."

"Well, thank ya-" Bear started, but the man was already leaving, and the sniper simply gave him the classic one finger salute. "Asshole... Betty doesn't like you."

Larson glanced at the PDA. "Shit, looks like we got another Vamp takedown. They have neurodarts and pain beamers for us, plus the Iron Guard unit. Shit." He glanced up, "For those of you that don't know, they're Adamrian Special Forces, and they'll be making the bag. We're the flush." His face showed what he thought of that. "Party's over, let's get to that factory."

Inside the police station, Antonov watched as the three men were photo-ID'd, tongue swabbed, tested for disease. After this, the one named "Jason" was given a citation for weapons fire, and a fine for damages. Following the logging of paperwork, and an official governmental complaint lodged with their home state on their behavior, they were brought out to the lobby.

There, Antonov was waiting, shaking his head. "Okay, now that we've logged you into our systems, you're free to go. If you hadn't given a problem, we wouldn't have even done this." He shrugged. "Your tents were searched, and the comms unit was confiscated for analysis, as was the armor systems. The weapons, as well as the conventional equipment, is waiting in a rental car outside. Consider the confiscated equipment to be your fines, and all charges are waived." He handed over a guide to the local restaurants and hotels. "Enjoy your stay."

In response to the blank stares, he gave another Russian shrug. "You didn't kill anyone. We have other mercenaries who do worse daily. You were fined, we have chosen payments as is our rights. The outside is dangerous, so don't go out again, because we won't help next time. Enjoy your stay."

More stares. "You're free to go."

Antonov went back to his desk. Damn this government. I bet now, some eggheads are fiddling with that gear in the Capitol building. Why can't I do my real job, instead of babysitting for all these hired guns. He began to file reports on this dreary work.

"This is a monomolecular blade," Said Nexlon, answering Larson's question. "This sword can break through most anything you want it to, as long as I can hit it." He then groaned as Bear continued boasting about the power of his guns. They did indeed have great firepower, but just get me close enough, Though Nexlon, and nothing could stop him.

His head snapped up and mask slid back dows as the three Adamrian Special Forces officers walked in and gave them their information.

"I guess it's time to go to work," Said Nexlon. He wasn't sure if he would take the provided equiptment, seeing as he was perfectly adept with his blade, but he would at least take a look at what was offered.

As they walked through the darkened streets of the capital, the team fanned out, making sure no one was following, or if they were, they would be out of hearing and sight. In the center of the group, Bear explained to Nexlon, "... so this contact, who usually only goes through Gellar, although he has something to do with that NovaGen company... you know, the guys who make that super-combat booster stuff?" He began to ramble, "Combat boosters, healing stimulants, suppressants, antigens, miracle cures... you name it. Anywho, I think that our contractor is inside NovaGen, because we've gone there before, and they have some nuts private army... anywho..." He took a breath. "They give us the designer firepower and equipment for each target, as well as detailed intel on whereabouts and movements."

Lars stated, "If this is vamp again, which doesn't make sense, it'll probably be antigen to blood toxin, a coagulant to make you food poison to suck on, Pain Beam Carbines, combat boosters, Neurodart launchers, netting devices, chemical sprays, sensor gear, the works."

Bear shrugged, "I want a fucking stake launcher, but they won't give me it."

Larson sighed, "Like I said, just ignore Bear when he goes off the deep end. Don't expect crosses and garlic, we're dealing with a real, scientific takedown."

They approached the warehouse, waiting to meet their contacts.

Shaun looked at Gellar. He couldn't believe this, there could be people down there, and he was flying away?

"What the hell are you doing? There might be people down there!"

Willi and Alex watched the group leave and stared at eachother. "C'mon, Alex, let's go." he walked towards the door with Alex follwing and soon led him to a dark alley. "Okay, did you bring the suits?" Alex nodded and drew out of the bottom of his overstuffed duffelbag two Buechorian KSK suits. Body armor, jumpsuits, and much more. Willi opened his metal case and retrieved two MP7 sub machine guns and handed one to Alex who was putting on his suit.

After only a minute or so, both of them were fully uniformed. Loading their weapons and locking their helmets in place, they followed the groups path. "Look, over there sir." Alex whispered into a headset integrated to the helmet. "I see some tracks in there." he pointed to a cake of mud with a shoe print in it heading towards the warehouse. Both nodded at eachother and continued on following the tiny clues as hunters would track a wild animal. Willi held his hand up and peered around the corner of an old brick building and saw the group approaching a warehouse.

"Bingo. We found 'em."

As Jant, Samuel and Jason walked out of the police department, Jant had only one thought on his mind which, surprisingly, was shared by Samuel and Jason at the exact same moment. Well, two thoughts actually.

The first went along the lines of "Got to get the gear back. That stuff is top-secret. If they manage to get figure out how that all works, and start mass-producing it, we can say goodbye to Rinceweed's only ground warfare advantage...."

Strangely enough, each man's second thought was slightly different, because each was imagining a different way of carrying the thought out.

Got to kill Antonov....that son of a bitch....

Jant walked over to the rental, opened the door, and peered inside. There, on the back seat, was the crate. As he opened it, he could see that what the Antonov had said was true. The armoured suits were missing, and so was the radio.

Dammit, thought Jant angrily, Without that radio we can't signal back to Rinceweed to get our hands on proper transport out of here. It would take god knows how long to get our target back to safety without aerial transport back to the Orbitals!

The three men pondered for a few minutes, before finally deciding on their course of action. They would use the guide Antonov had given to check the local pubs, and try and find a few mercenaries. Since mercenaries were apparently so common around here, they could probably find a few in the pubs, and try and squeeze some information from them. Hell, if one knew exactly where the equipment would be, they could probably do some hiring, and have some extra backup to take the equipment back.

Jant grinned at that last thought.

Heh, it'll probably cause a nice little International Incident if we start breaking into places to get our stuff back. But hell, the government wont mind. I've still got a few favours Old Calgar owes me, and he's got influence with Horoshimana. We'll be fine....

The men clambered into the car, Jason feeling curiously light and cold without his armor.

____________________________________

The car drove through the streets of the city, passing bums, drunks, hookers, invoking a few thoughts in Jason and Samuel's minds that most parents wouldn't approve of their children thinking, whereas Jant had more bitter thoughts on his mind.

Like the dregs of the Earth. The ones with no shame. The scum floats to the top, and rules over us all, whilst the dregs sit at the bottom, always something for us to stay above, with normal people in the middle just trying to make a living for themselves and their family. Just like me I guess....just like so many others in the OMA.....

Jant sighed as the street-lamps reflected on the battered-up old car.

I haven't seen my daughter or my wife for a long time....so long....how do I even know they exist anymore? Maybe i'm just imagining them....maybe they really don't exist.....

Jant's self-pitying chain of thought was broken by Jason tapping him excitedly on the shoulder.

"Sir, a tavern. Should we pull over there?" asked Jason eagerly.

"Sure. Good a place as any to start."

The car pulled up, and Jant walked out, along with Jason, leaving Samuel to guard the car.

No point leaving our hardware unguarded, not in a place like this....

Jant looked up, smiling at the sign above the tavern's entrance. It depicted a pair of dog's head's, with a rifle underneath.

Well, this should be interesting, thought Jant, shouldering through the doorway, and into the tavern....

Ivyn flicked open his comms channel and told Tristan the conversation he had semi-heard. With a short "Thanks" Rinias logged off, presumably to prepare his defence. They might be after another vamp, but that was not likely.

------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, in the Warehouse district...

Tristan leaned back in his chair, smartly dressed as always and thought for a moment, his gaze lingering on the pile of three human corpses, all drained of the blood necessary to sustain him and the other Thyrians present. Then an idea ocurred, and he rose, speaking his commands softly.

A few minutes later and his retainers were positioned. Tristan sat behind the desk, and waited.

On the rooftop opposite, two members of the mostly-incompetent Athyrian Regular Army stood ready with sniper rifles, with others positioned in not-quite-good hiding places, all watching the House of Thyrn Company Ltd. warehouse.

Andrew Dubyn waited at the door, dressed smartly and unarmed. Ysabel sat nervously in Tristan's office with the pale, blond Vampire behind the large desk, both cradling their pistols.

"I will not die. I will not allow you to kill me. Even if I were to spike your vitals, I am in my aqua state. The resulting explosion would simply go through me, although it would hurt, for that is the rules of physics. Had I been in my solid state, I would have suffered worse. But that is not the case right now..."

As the two conversed, there was a slight change in the waters that sat at the bottom of the sewer line. All of the men turned to watch the waters with a perplexed look. They noticed the water receeding rapidly from their feet, drawing away from them quickly back into the depths of the darkness.

"Now, I will warn you one more time. Your life is in my hands right now. I want more answers. Who is this client you speak of? What do you know about them?"

The sound of water massing together was heard around the bend in the sewer.

"Tell your men to stand down, or they will die. Only then will I consider going with you peacefully..."

Suddenly, the roar of rushing water, similar to that of a tidal wave rocked the walls of the sewers, causing the walls to groan slightly under the passing force of water. The wall of water turned the bend, rushing forward. In the center of the water, a humanistic face formed and opened its mouth, as if it were going to devour them whole...

"Choose quickly, if you wish to keep your men alive..."

The pilot watched his display carefully, reporting in again, “That water is gone, I should RTB.”

“Negative, Skywatch, we need further data.”

“Data on what, Base?” He exhaled heavily, his voice grating. There was no response, as if someone had left the mic open. “What do you want, Base?”

There was a flurry of motion, and his infrared scanner spiked. He glanced over, into the woods, and the chaingun followed his eyes, but he could see nothing. “Base, I’ve got something on scanners-”

There was a sudden thump, and a sharp object struck the cockpit on the side, sticking into the plexiglass. “Jesus Christ!” the pilot called out, “I’ve got a fucking knife sticking in the window, here.” The knife began to move, back and forth, and lines began to appear in the window. “Holy God, it’s moving! It’s moving, back and forth, like a saw!” He reached for the rotor control, sending the craft into a swirling spin, the back dipping drunkenly.

The knife vanished into the wind shear, and he throttled the craft forward, cutting the spin. The helicopter began to accelerate, and there was another sharp crack, as the knife struck the front of the viewscreen. “It’s back! Oh, God, it’s back!” He reached down again, cutting back the thrust to the port engine, sending the Ka-50 into a sharper flat spiral. The sudden spin hurled the knife back, into the lowered engine, jamming against the intake, sticking in the turbofan.

The old Soviet engine gave out, flamed out, and the helicopter went into a whirling death spin, the tail flying above the cockpit, the pilot smashed against the side of the craft, trying desperately to grab the stick. The jammed fan detonated, puncturing the fuel tank, and the entire craft incinerated twenty meters over the forest, shrapnel and fuel scattering for miles across the land.

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“Interesting.” Kuzin took his hand from his chin. “Log that, study it, and develop countermeasures.” He paused, “I’m going to report to Aurelli, but for now, have that specimen tagged for elimination and vivisection.”

”Aye, sir! And the water Xenos?”

“Make sure Asp brings him in. If they don’t… you know what to do.” Kuzin turned and departed the control center.

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Gellar glanced back to Taggert, the cold wind tearing at his coat, “Listen, kid, they shot at the cops and ran out here. If they really want to die, I ain’t gonna stop ‘em.”

The pilot turned back again, “Sir, we have a pickup truck on scopes. They’re picking up the people at the castle.”

Gellar knew what he should do, but glancing at the kid, he felt a pang of guilt, a flash of being young and idealistic himself, so long ago. He decided to spare the kid, “Alright, we’ll pick them up in town. Bring it in, so our passenger doesn’t get too cold.”

“You have a place to stay in town, or do you want us to scrounge you a room?”

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The Asp Commander grimaced. You know this won’t work. If you try this, you will die, and we have a chance. If we let you go, we’ll die, and you’ll die later, when the next unit comes. You can’t escape, so you might as well quit on these better terms. The next team won’t be so kind.

He was being honest, just as he honestly didn’t know his employer. The next team truly would be more devastating. But below all of this bravado, this hard edge, there was a steel cold fear, the knowledge that intentional failure, any willful failure, would be a “Breach of Contract”, leaving the entire team dead men, on the lam from every other mercenary in the world. A flash passed through his mind, the searing of burning flesh, the screams of a man, while lines of ordered soldiers watched in horror. There was nothing more than this, no faces, no names, no dates or locations… simply an emotional memory that surprised even the Asp commander.

Why don’t you quit now, while you have a chance.

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Antonov was just starting to file his papers when the bulletin came from the fax machine. It was simple, just a picture of Evegniy and a single word printed below, “Eliminate”. The stamp on the order was official the Adamarian National Seal, and the small print was the terms of a death warrant. Antonov closed his eyes for a moment, wishing that his choice to give law and order was more law and less order for once. Then he hit the dispatch button, and the order was given. The man would be dead within the hour.

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The Dogs of War, when Jant and Jason entered, was the same as always. That is to say, it was raucous and rowdy, with bellowing drunks and grinding guitars set to the rhythm of thudding beer mugs. Inside, business was carried out, and pleasure was had, while a simple sign hung in the door, declaring the simple terms:

No Attacking Other Patrons – You Will Be Shot
You Break It; You Buy It – Or You Will Be Shot
What Happens Here, Stays Here – Or You Will Be Shot
Respect the Workers – Or You Will Be Shot

Inside, there were several empty tables, and several men in suits, obviously local government, were arguing with various mercenary heads of terms of service. Out back, a small army was being gathered, mostly of low-end groups and cheap hired guns.

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“All right, we’ve got these jokers.” One of the Contact team members subvocalized, gripping his neurodart rifles. “Passive sensors got their emissions as they approached the building.”

His partner clicked the scope over, aligning the cryogenic rifle on the target. “Awaiting orders.”

“They’ve done nothing wrong, but they’re in the wrong place. Non-lethal sting, let ‘em sleep it off.” The cold voice commanded.

“Aye, sir.”

The woman eyed the target in the scope, drawing the German post onto the first man’s chest. The rifle hummed slightly, and a bead of liquid knock-out agent, laced with magnetic particles, was drawn into the chamber from the canister below. The blast of liquid nitrogen froze the spun bead into a needle of frozen nerve agent, and the capacitor discharged, overloading the barrel assembly. As each repulsing ring failed, the needle was yanked forward along the magnetic coils, flinging free in a rapid spin.

The immaculately sharp needle of toxin lanced through body armor, seeking the warmth of the human body, turning to liquid. There was not enough to kill, merely to render the victim unconscious for a short duration, a very deep sleep for several hours. The series of rifles in the buildings hummed, and the first man subvocalized again, “Send in the cleanup teams. Drop the sleepers off at the police station, and tell the cops they were drunks from the tavern.”

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As the Basilisks entered the warehouse, a single man in a suit was sitting atop a stack of crates. The man smiled, like oil on water, and he patted the crate. “Good to see you. My name is James Bond.” He grinned again, his voice a barely disguised Russian accent, just obvious enough to pick out his ancestry. Still, his speech pattern was slightly off, a sway and staccato rhythm of long vowels and short consonants, more of a pattern of speech than an accent.

Bear groaned. “Man, all these government types are like this, all jokes and cheesy fake names. Still, they provide.”

As if to prove Bear’s words, “James Bond” flipped open the first crate, declaring his intent, “The target is a vampire, again. Once again, this is a dangerous capture to make, as he is predatory by nature. In accordance, we’ve provided a complete setup of gear.

“First off, we have the weapons. Pain Beam Carbines are the weapon of choice on the bag team, but you can use them as well.” He held up a paddle-headed rifle with two pistol grips. “You’ll find this type of weapon in riot-control, as it uses UV rays and microwaves to deal Less-Than-Lethal damage to civilians, like horrid sunburn and intense, crippling pain. For the vamps, we’ve boosted the output, and it’s like a little stick of sunlight… great for immobilizing and neutralizing.

“We’ve brought a large supply of heavy-caliber firearms, so take your pick. Remember, these usually don’t kill, but they can drastically encumber and mission-kill, enough to safely close with a PBC and neutralize.” The man hoisted a rotary grenade launcher, “We’ve loaded this with phosphor and flash rounds, designed to maximize shock and stun factors in combat.

“As these creatures run on completely anaerobic biochemistry, airborne toxins would be of little use. Accordingly, we’ve cooked up some real chemical cocktails that will work wonders on the oxygen-deprived systems of the vamps, rendering them combat-incapable with a loss of depth perception, time sense, and mental relapses. You’ll all be fine, so long as you keep breathing.

“Next up, we’ve rolled out the defensive weapons. Past experience has led us to find the two toxins they deliver with each bite. One is the conversion toxin, that strips the cells of aerobic ability and renders the necrosis and blood dependency into effect, as well as a myriad other changes- the thing that makes them vampires. The other toxin is the anti-coagulant which lets them suck you dry with ease. We’re going to inoculate against the first toxin, and we’re got a pretty little counter for the second.

“We’ve designed a pretty little designer drug we call “Bite Be Gone”. This will react with the toxin in the vampire’s system to start a massive clotting reaction, as well as emergently reacting with the necrosis toxin to start a lysosome breakdown… the affected cells will begin to “pop” in cascade, turning the offending bloodsucker into a gooey puddle of cellular goop. Obviously, this has a good chance of killing you, but it’s better than the nothing you’d otherwise get, and they’ll think twice about pulling another snack-time.

“Finally, the boosters, your favorite part. We have the full platter available today… regenerative stimulants, speed, strength, and endurance boosters, mental boosters, and for our sniper, the slow-twitch control injection. All of these are available for free, so feel perfectly welcome to dope up and survive this.”

Larson grunted, “And the plan?”

“Ah, yes. Well, we’re in contact with numerous groups throughout the city, various hired guns and such. These groups will feint to the front, then blast in the back door to the warehouse where the target is staying. Once the target is engaged, and the focus has shifted to the rear, Basilisk will move in and knock down the front in a double-feint and push. The roof will be locked down by Bear and a SAM team, and no liftoff will be allowed. As you are all aware, the sewers are simply too dangerous around here, but we’ve deployed a HAZMAT combat unit as a backup, with orders to blow the network if they drop. Better dead than escaped.

“Now, here’s the real kicker. The backdoor will be a charnel house, with heavy engagement. The front, where you will infiltrate, will be nearly as bad. Therefore, the enemy should suspect a double on the back as well, and exfiltrate heavy front. We’ve deployed our capture teams on both ends, with a heavy weapon emplaced, facing out. At the signal, when the target exfiltrates, clear the center warehouse, because we’re bringing down the house. This has all been corroborated and analyzed, and numerous backups are emplaced for fight or flight responses.”

Bear shook his head, “This is going to be bloody, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The man shrugged. “Make sure to take your antigens, and the boosters. We deploy soon.”

Ceitha tilted his head, observing the crash, as if curious by the phenomena. It certainly was a rather beautiful thing, all the fire and metal and the sound and the smell. Everything together in a cacophony of what war must be like to these humans. He trudged over to the wreckage, forgetting about his water-soluable hunt, to investigate it. He wasn't that far from what was left of the hub.

Upon reaching it, Ceitha Eleryn raised his palm out, and the knife, unscarred and unbent by the explosion and subsequent crash, flew into his hand. The High Orc slid it back into its holster on his belt, and overlooked the charred remains. If such monstrous machinations could be destroyed with but a knife, then perhaps Ceitha was very wrong about technology. As far as duels went with his brothers, a Knife-stab would do nothing to an Orc but make it angry at you.

The Orc extended his left hand, and his Skell Blade extended longer than a meter's length. He poked at the blackened remains of the people inside a few times before stabbing them through and playfully cutting off limbs and heads. The humans were so fleshy and weak, it couldn't be less than fun to enjoy it. He retracted his Skell and bent down into the wreckage to pick up his skull trophies by their hair. He'd have to clean them off and remove the shrapnel first and foremost, but he couldn't know when they wouldn't come in handy.

With the skulls gripped collectively by their hair, Ceitha moved on. Once again towards the sound of the gunshot.

Dogs Of War – an interesting name for a tavern. Rostaijn had never had a liking for ale of any sort, even in his bounty hunting days, but something was drawing him to this tavern, and he had learnt to always do what that something said. As he approached the entrance to the tavern, he could smell the acrid mix of cigar smoke and beer. Just just going in could probably intoxicate you, and it was a wonder to Rostaijn that the owner hadn’t thought of charging people for breathing in his pub. He held his breath before going in. The smell was, surprisingly, worse on the inside than out, but it didn’t seem to affect the seasoned drinkers. Rostaijn was repulsed by the sad excuses for men, searching for the answers to life’s problems at the bottom of a jug of ale. He looked around the tavern, and saw the same thing everywhere – puffy-eyed heaps of nothing with that expression of melancholy all over their faces. One thing did seem slightly out of place though, that segmented jug…

The jug was suddenly in the air, but a split-second later it was made invisible by a flash of light seemingly emanating from it. Moments later the jug landed on the table, where it split into ten pieces upon a touch from a strangely clad figure.

“So what exactly are we hunting for…anomalies…dangerous work…Basilisk.” The short, sharp phrases were being spoken in a whispered voice, possibly that of a child’s.

“I am Nexlon…” The man (was it a man?) was suddenly gone, and Rostaijn could see four men sat in the corner where the jug was…or had been, as it was no longer there.

“A contract…the one I pegged…a hit from the fifty and lived.” This came from the man with the serious weaponry. Rostaijn couldn’t get a good look before he too disappeared, leaving the remaining three men, who were now playing cards.

“Tip…don’t tip…the left bower.” One of the men – blonde hair, blue eyes, Aryan-looking – looked up…and stared right at Rostaijn. A frown appeared on his face. He lowered his cards and put them face down on the table. He slowly stood up whilst the other men continued to play, oblivious to what their colleague was doing. The Aryan reached inside his jacket and slowly drew out a pistol, which he pointed straight at Rostaijn.

“Hey, man, are you okay?” He opened his eyes to find himself staring up into the face of one of the drunkards. He was lying on the floor. Everybody else was carrying on as if all was normal – people yelling in pain and falling to the floor were probably common practice in here. He got to his feet and gave his eyes time to readjust. Those visions always came at the worst of times. The drunkard was staring at him oddly.

“I’m fine, thank you.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a few bills, which he gave to the drunkard as a token of his appreciation, or as he liked to call it, a token of ‘don’t tell anybody about this.’

“Hey, thanks man!” There was no doubt what the drunkard planned to do with the money, and sure enough, he made his way straight to the bar where he handed the lot over to the owner. At least if he drank himself into a coma he wouldn’t be able to remember himself what had happened, let alone tell anybody else. Rostaijn tried to recall the facts of his latest vision, but his mind was unusually clouded. It must be this smoke, he thought to himself, and stepped outside into the fresh air. Despite the distinct change in surroundings, he still couldn’t focus his mind. All he could see was the Aryan man, in vivid detail – the rest was a blur. Why did he seem so familiar? Had they met before? Rostaijn couldn’t remember, but felt a sudden chill to the bone, and the fear that had overcome him by the mud track reinstilled itself in him. He had a feeling that he would find out before this was over.

Nexlon frowned. He did not like what he was offered, not that he would usally take any of it anyways. The Boosters would simply not do; Nexlon always needed his senses to be at their best in battle. He could just not see what the total use of the stimulants were; why fight if you need chemicals to fight for you? Nexlon had taken stimulants only once before, and found that they hindered him.

Nexlon would, however, take the "Bite Be Gone” Anti-Toxin. Althouh he doubted that that fangs of a vampire would pierce his neck, it was always better to be safe then sorry. He also picked his weapons carefully; normally Nexlon rejected all types of guns, but he reminded himself of the danger of the mission, even for him.

He looked through the collection of heavy-caliber weapons and picked up a 454. Casull pistol, a huge firearm. Just as a precaution, Nexlon thought as he strapped the holster to his waist. He decided not to take any Pain Beam weapons.

"I will not take any Boosters," He declared. "But I have everything I need. When do we leave?"

So what now? He couldn't remember any of the vision, except for the image of the Aryan. Those shockingly blue eyes were uppermost in his mind, and they filled his heart with contempt. Who was this man who he was destined to hate so lividly? Until he could remember more of the vision, he would never know.

It was getting dark now - amazing how time just flies when you're having a vision - and cold, very cold in fact. Rostaijn pulled his cloak tighter in a vain attempt to shield himself from the icy grip of the wind. Suddenly he heard a scraping noise behind him, like wood against stone. In a deft move he spun round whilst simultaneously unsheathing his blade, to be confronted with a monstrous old hag.

"Calm down, dearie, I don't bite." She was wearing a black frock - very...fetching - and had a peg leg, no doubt the source of the scraping. Her hair was black (going slightly grey) and grizzly, and covered most of her face. All Rostaijn could see of her face was a brilliant white eye, amazingly bright for someone so old. What was curious was the colour of the iris - red, or was it purple? No, now it was blue. Strange, very strange.

"What do you want, woman? Speak your business or leave me in peace." He had little time for annoying witches such as this, and had a good mind to use his blade on her. However, something told him God wouldn't look kindly on him for it.

"Touchy, touchy, aren't we, dearie?" The hag cackled, folowed by a splutter and bout of coughing, something which made Rostaijn move back a few paces. "I have something for you, dearie. Something which could be of great use to you." She held out her hand, and slowly unclasped it, revealing a golden amulet on a chain.

"I have no time for trinkets." Rostaijn began to walk away, but the hag began to follow him, her peg leg scraping along the ground.

"This is no mere trinket, dearie. This is the Amulet Of Kaspamirov." At this Rostaijn stopped and turned. He had heard of the amulet, and of its powers.

"Do not lie to me, woman. The amulet is legend, it does not exist in this life."

"On the contrary, dearie. It does exist, and this is it." She thrust the amulet into his hand, before recoiling, as if afraid of something. Rostaijn turned the amulet over in his hand. It was solid gold, with a red jewel in the centre, just like the books said. The inscription around the circumference read 'MIND TO BODY, SOUL TO BODY, MIND TO SOUL'.

"Why do you give this to me? Of what use is it to me?"

"You know exactly of what use it is to you. I sense your mind is clouded. Use the amulet to clear the fog. Wear it - put it on now." Reluctantly, Rostaijn lifted the amulet over his head and draped it around his neck. As soon as the jewel made contact with his chest, it started to glow, a warming red. Immediately the chilling wind faded, and the cloud that was covering his mind began to shrink. Slowly, the cloud grew smaller and smaller, until it had disappeared. It all came back to him at that point...

"I am Nexlon...I am Nexlon...I am Nexlon...a hit from the fifty and lived...a contract...tip...the warehouse...go to the warehouse...I am Nexlon...I am Nexlon...I am Nexlon..."

As the glow faded, and directions to 'the warehouse' came into his mind, Rostaijn was back in the alley with the old hag staring excitedly at him.

"It worked, dearie, didn't it?" The hag nodded in answer to her own question. As Rostaijn went to give the amulet back to her, she recoiled again. "Keep it. I don't want it. Use it again later, dearie, later. You never know what lies ahead. Go save yourself, Ferevarco." As Rostaijn turned to leave, he realised what the hag's last words were. He turned to question her, but she had vanished.

Who was that? How did she know about 'that day'? His thoughts turned to the latest vision. What exactly was this warehouse? What lived from a hit from the fifty? And who was Nexlon?

Very well then. You are wise in our dealings. However, I still retain one request, that you order your men to only do their jobs. I will not fight, so long as they are not aggressive. Understood?

The Asp commander replied, Understood.

Now warn them not to attack, or I will still unleash the water on them.

The Asp commander complied, immediately causing all the men to turn about and face him with a slight confusion on their faces. The shock that came moments later caused all to raise their weapons toward the extracting water blob that filtered out of their commander's face mask. It took hold on the ground and quickly took the shape of a man. Moments later, the form solidified and flesh began to show once more. The black teeshirt and jeans of Travis O'neill formed afterwards.

Travis raised his hands to his head, placing them on the back of the head.

"Remember what I said Commander..." Travis warned.

The wall of water halted just before the men, but still remained as a translucent body of water, shimmering slightly from its movements.

Jant looked around the tavern, upturned faces staring at he and his companion, each mans face showing, due to the fact that most were so scarred you were left at a loss when looking for undamaged face, what could have been either hatred, disgust, confusion, interest, or constipation.

Jant grimaced in his mind, as he outwardly showed no emotion.

Just great....the tavern really is a mercenary tavern. This is what I came here for, but I still hate bloody mercenaries, unless they work for me that is. thought Jant hypocritically.

He and Jason walked towards the bar, the memory of the sign stating the 'You will be Shot' rules still clear in their heads.

Unfortunately, Jason took the 'Respect the workers' rule a bit too literally, and thanks to his previous brush with death, he was extremely eager to stay on everyone's good side.

Also unfortunately, this meant he started talking his best Adamarian, except in something resembling what could only be described as 'Ye Olde Englishe', Adamarian style.

"Barkeep, I require a mug of your finest Adamarian Ale, so that I may quaff from it." was what Jason tried to say.

Unfortunately, in his attempts at a 'Ye Olde Englishe' version of Adamarian, it translated into an extremely rude insult involving various biological acts that would cause the cheeks of even the most experienced hooker to turn a brighter red than a Red Giant seen at 1 meter from the surface.

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*1 minute later*
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Samuel stood at the car, a single cigarette between his lips, the end glowing brightly, ash slowly drifting off, as if without a care in the world, which was apparently the same state as Samuel was in, as he leaned back, relaxedly against the car, taking no notice of the ocassional passing drunk.

He didn't even take notice when Jason came running out, various gunshots blasting the ground at his feet. Even over the gunshots though, Samuel could hear Jason stop around the corner near the Tavern, and so quickly shouted to him in the lilting, almost songlike language of Rinceweed.

"Jason, it's safe now. The doors are closed again. And hey, I think we have a problem by the way."

Jason creeped silently around the corner, back to Samuel.

"Eh? What do you mean?" asked Jason, quietly.

Samuel's expression changed from one of relaxation and laid-backness, to one of concern.

"Listen, Jason. Someone walked in just before your little scuffle, and left just after. And I recognise him too. And I really wish I hadn't."

Samuel's eyes glazed over in what Jason could easily recognise as 'A trip down memory lane'. Or, as Jason called it, 'Pointless fucking nostalgia'.

"His name is Ferevarco Rostaijn. A bounty hunter. A pretty fucking brutal one too. He's well known for a few little atrocities in his time, but he just disappeared one day. I once gave him a contract, which he seemed to have filled pretty damn well, but I never gave him another contract after that, since I later found out that the nun he was supposed to kill was still alive. Bastard...."

Jason laughed at this.

"A nun? Why the fuck did he have to kill a nun?"

"Simple. The old bitch owed me money, and she wouldn't pay up. Technically I coulda done it, but I preferred to let Mr. Brutal rip her apart."

Jason grinned.

"You call him Mr. Brutal?"

"Yeah, fits the actions of the prick, ya must admit."

-------------------------------------
Inside the Tavern
-------------------------------------

"Yeah, I must admit, yer right."

Jant grinned, knowingly, at the praise. The grizzled old drunk had just admitted to Jant's knowledge of hardware, when the man had tried to trick him in a quiz of weaponry.

He'd given Jant a large, ornate handgun to hold, that looked capable of firing a bullet that made tank shells feel inadequate. The man had asked him to guess the caliber of the gun, and Jant had guessed at 9mm.

"But uh, how the hell did you know?"

"Simple. Whatever the gun may look like, it's still exceptionally fucking light. It must only be a few millimetres of aluminium making up the mock outer shell."

The drunk smiled, showing off half a mouth-full of yellowing teeth, and treating Jant to breath that could knock down a wall at 20 paces.

Jant simply smiled, and walked away, doing his best not to show that his stomach was trying to claw it's way up his throat to freedom.

The entire bar was filled with a mix of idiots like these, and show-off Mercenaries, all think they were the best, even though Jant could probably wipe the floor with all of them at once if he had to.

Well, thought Jant. At least one of these idiots must know about where our stuff might have went. And if they don't we, we might still find the mutant we came here for.....

Willi noticed something was odd. Possibly it was the feeling of a dart piercing his armor. Yanking it out, he noticedmost of had either drizzled out off the dart when he pulled it or was already in his system. Willi and Alex nodded at eachother and ran for the nearest cover. Now why would Willi just shrug a dart full of sleeping agent off? Provigil.

"Remember: Always before a mission, take half a pill of this." Willi remembered his commanding officers always reminding him. Before a raid, a long anti-terrorist mission, or anything else that required high alertness and the ability to stay awake for two to three days. Thankfully, Willi had remembered to take his bottle full that he used to work on long night at the Kripo along with him.

"Shit." Willi muttered. In the position he and Alex were in, nothing had gone right. While they could avoid the sniper from their position behind several huge crates, they could no longer hear from the warehouse. All they could make out were the words James Bond, HAZMAT, gun, and vampire. "Alright Alex, no matter what we're following them. I don't care if their mission is going to lead us to a pack of rabid vampires or possibly James Bond himself is involved, but we are follwoing. Understand?" Willi whispered to Alex, who simply nodded in return.

Shaun shook his head.

"I have a room, we might as well go back to the city."

Shaun leaned back and looked out the side of the Black Hawk, and gave a long sigh. He had missed out on a big pay-off but at least he was alive, and that is all that mattered. There was still something that bothered him, as the chopper turned back to the city Shaun looked at Gellar.

"What is NovaGen doing out here?"

“The sleepers are not down.” The man stated calmly. “They’re falling back. I’m going to up the dosage.” He turned the dial on the side of the extractor, drawing up enough agent to send a horse into a coma.

“Negative. They’re falling back, and that’s enough. As long as they are mission-kill, they’re no threat. If they emerge into your scopes, neutralize them.” The radio hissed in his inner ear.

He glanced to the woman. “We copy.”

The two waited.

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The Asp Commander nodded. “Okay, boys, he’s coming along nicely, so there’s no need to shock him out.” He shook his head, still more than a little mortified by having something else inside him. He held out a pair of flexicuffs, then tossed them aside in disgust. “That’s just pathetic.” He stated, glancing at the human shaped water before him.

“Button up, people.” He stated, closing is mask. The others followed suite, not wanting to get taken by the waterborne life form. The Asp Commander turned to Travis. “Now, you’re going to want to wear this.” He held out a polar vest. “This will keep you from being jolted by the vehicle’s internal coil. However, if you go liquid, the vest will fail, as it runs from bioelectrical power, and you will be shocked.” He shrugged. “This is for our protection, and after that last move, you can’t claim to not see why.” He thought to himself, This is fucking nuts. They said he was dangerous. They didn’t say he could go inside of us.

“We’re going to the delivery point, and we’ll hand you over to the next team. They’ll have your answers.”

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“A mutie, you say?” The gang member shrugged, his voice almost fading into the tavern noise. “Shit, man, there’s lotsa fucked up semi-humans around here.”

His companions laughed and agreed, one tossing in, “Man, they don’t last long ‘round these parts.”

“Heh, sure enough, man.” The gang member took a slug of his ale, then leered back at Jant, showcasing his gold teeth and bad breath. “You want more info, you buy more beer for me.”

From behind Jant, there was a snort. “You, Digger? You’ve got more information for the man?” The man who spoke was average in all regards, with a leather coat and mud caked boots, and an old unit patch from some foreign military on his sleeve. His hair was slicked back, and he wore a pair of sunglasses indoors, but he was clean and sober as day. “Don’t bother with these morons, my friend. If you want information, you speak to me.” He smiled his perfect smile again, “Deiter Richter at your service, money and information broker for these parts of hell. Name your question, and I’ll name the price.”

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Gellar shrugged as the chopper landed at the police helipad. “Don’t know exactly, but probably trying to dodge taxes like everyone else these days.” He threw a cheesy grin, and he passed Taggert his Stetson hat. “Keep that hat on, kid, it’ll keep you warm.” As the helicopter began to rise, he offered one last piece of advice. “And don’t look into the abyss for too long, or you’ll find yourself.”

Gellar glanced to the night sky, and the Blackhawk lifted away, vanishing into the murky night.

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In the warehouse, Larson reached for the speed boosters, but Bear slapped his hand. Larson glowered, “What, man? You’re way back in the boonies, playing “Whack-A-Vamp” from safety. I’m up there, in their faces. They’re fast, and I gotta keep up!”

Bear shook his head. “Remember last time, buddy? The mall?”

Larson shivered a little. “Man, that wasn’t the boosters, that was the antigen.” He could still remember the hallucinations and shifting forms, seeing the colors flash and waver as the Wolf ran through the crowd, feeling the MP5K bounding in his grip, the sprays of blood as his lagging shots raked the crowd. “I got that Wolf, damn it!”

“You got everything on the damn floor, including the statues in the fountain.” Bear commented, popping a tranquilizer. “Just say “No”, okay, man?” He slapped Larson on the arm and grinned, hoisting the rifle and heading out to set up camp. As he passed Nexlon, he offered, “Hey, man, I know you got the bullet with your name on it nice and safe, but stay cool out there. These vamps are fast and vicious mutha fuckas.” He patted the IWS. “I’m going to be way back in God’s country, so you take care. I don’t like learning knew names.” With that, the sniper and his spotter vanished into the night.

Larson rolled his eyes. “Like hell I’m being the slow one.” He pocketed a handful of the boosters. “If I need poppers, I’m taking poppers.” He commented to the others, “Once you see these things move, you’ll know why.”

Cherboyev was pocketing vast amounts of all the drugs. “Fuck taking them, I’m gonna sell them.”

“We don’t peddle.” Larson stated, and the other mercenary began to place them back.

The man known only as “James Bond” smiled politely and checked over the men. “I trust you’re all ready to follow the plan? Remember, when the target exfiltrates, you have exactly thirty seconds to be on either flank of the warehouse, not in front or in back. We will not wait before we bring down The Hammer.”

Larson heard the capital letters slam into place, but he ignored it. After a couple of captures, you got used to the Capture Team’s desire for last second fast-hits and double-backs, and nothing was too outlandish anymore. If they were to exit the warehouse, he’d damn well be out of the house, and he wouldn’t be shocked by any amount of high explosive involved.

“Yeah, we’re ready.”

“Good. Remember, you’re the anvil, we’re the hammer. Punch, combo, double, Hammer.” The man grinned. “Move out, and we launch in twenty. The cannon fodder army is readying now, and this will be a precise machination when it happens.”

Larson nodded, and as the team slipped out, armed to the teeth, he commented. “Yeah, a fucking grinder machine.”

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In the warehouse, with all the mercenaries gone, the suited man turned to a new figure, stepping from the shadows. The woman was dressed in urban combat fatigues, with the insignia of the Adamarian Homeguard on her shoulder, and Captain’s bars on her tabs. “The Hammer is in place, sir.”

“Good work, Captain.” He glanced at the map before him. The street from the Forge to the Anvil was a straight line, and behind the Anvil, only the ruins of the Zobidov Complex. “This “Tristan” must be here to investigate our movements. Obviously, he must be stopped from finding what he seeks. I do not care if we capture, only that this trail be cleaned.”

“Sir, this will sterilize any trail, and should allow a clean capture.” She stated, full of pride and honor.

”I know. It is a good night for this… few civilians out, and the Complex is abandoned. Do your duty, Captain.”

“I will, sir.” She saluted again, holding until he returned it with a smile. She snapped her boots together one last time, then shouldered her ACR, offering one last comment to the man, “Morituri te salutamus.”

He smirked, and returned, “Aut vincere aut mori, Sarah. Remember that.”

Willi winced at hearing 'Zobidov Complex'.

"Sir, I'm not sure if this is a good idea. I mean-" Alex was cut off by Willi shushing him. "Remember what I said. We follow no matter what. This may be bigger than some Transylvanian folk tale. Let's go." Willi and Alex dashed hundreds of meters before slowing down in front of a large building. "I find it odd sir," Alex began as he caught his breath, "that no civilians have been watching two grown men running around in KSK uniforms." Willi chuckled and gestured to continue

Finally, the pair arrived at the abandoned complex and crept behind a large tree, devoid of life. The place was silent but soon would be the epicenter of chaos. Willi and Alex simply waited for their friends from the warehouse to arrive...

Travis glanced around at the men, some whom dared a peek behind them at the wall of water that was under Travis's control. Taking any aggressive actions, or knocking Travis out with some paralyzing weapon would most certainly subject them to severe consequences of drowning in a torrent of water. Water that would not be under Travis's control anymore.

Yet, they all breathed a sigh of relief as they watched the water receed and return back to whence it had come.

The Asp commander originally brought out a pair of handcuffs, to which Travis merely grinned as the commander realized his own folly. Travis however accepted the polar vest offered (OOC: wow, the Asp commander pulled that one outta his ass lol!)

Travis glanced at the faces of the men around him, noting the fear that lay mostly hidden within their faces. Their eyes betrayed them.

Travis put on the vest and secured it to his body while addressing the Asp commander, "Now that we're in understanding, you have my word that none of you shall be harmed, so long as I am not. I will not appreciate being treated as a 'prisoner', but rather as a now-neutral acquaintance."

He looked into the eyes of the men once more, smiling internally. How he loved to see the fear...

"Let's go."

Rostaijn took the long route to ‘the warehouse’, through the back streets of Adamaria. All around him he saw poverty and destitution, people with less than two sticks to rub together. These people will be rewarded in heaven, he thought to himself, as he passed a particularly haggard old man, wearing nothing but a pair of thin, ragged shorts tied with string.

“Save yourself, Mr. Rostaijn,” the old man managed to splutter as he went past. It was that phrase again, ‘save yourself’. Rostaijn would have turned back and questioned the beggar had he not been so close to ‘the warehouse’ (at least, his brain was telling him he was close). He would let it go for now – no doubt there would be several similar occurrences before this journey was over.

As he rounded a corner, he stopped in his tracks. A crashing sound, like something falling onto a metal bin, resonated through the area. Maybe it was just a cat, but Rostaijn had not lived so long by relying on ‘maybes’. He listened to his instincts, and what his brain was telling him at all times. A large dumpster was just in front of him, with a narrow gap between it and a nearby wall, a gap just large enough for someone to hide in. He crept into the space and was engulfed in shadow, completely hidden to anybody who did not already know he was there. From his vantage point, he could see the warehouse (a lot bigger than any storage facility he had seen before) and the people currently occupying the warehouse.

There were five of them (at least, that’s how many he could see), all armed. It appeared they didn’t rely on ‘maybes’ either. He couldn’t make out much facial detail – he was too far away, and it was dark. They were moving around, picking up items – no doubt items of destruction…

There! Two more figures had just moved over at the far end of the warehouse. They were crouched behind a crate, no doubt hiding from the five men. That made seven armed men in a not-so-big warehouse – a recipe for disaster if ever he had seen one. Rostaijn had never liked to miss a good show, and this was surely going to be one. His masochistic side was rather disappointed when the five men left the warehouse, and exited pretty sharply down a road to the left of the building. The two other men were in hot pursuit, but once again Rostaijn couldn’t get a visual. He cursed his luck, and was ready to emerge from his hiding place when he saw a glint of metal underneath the dumpster. He got down on the ground and peered underneath, to be greeted by the sight of a hammer…

"Aut vincere aut mori…abandoned…few civilians out…this will sterilize any trail…the Hammer is in place.”

There was one word that summed up just how Rostaijn felt after that vision.

“Crap.” His eyes were drawn to the warehouse, then back to the hammer underneath the dumpster. Some thing bad was going to happen here pretty damn soon. Now might just be a good time to leave, he thought to himself, and this he did with great earnest. He was several blocks away in sixty seconds.

Deiter Richter, eh? Well, worth a shot....

Jant smiled at the drably clothen man.

"Well good Sir, I do need to pieces of information, if you know them."

Jant pulled a small photo out of his Jeans' pocket, and showed it to Deiter.

"This man's name is Nagdul Frederick Badon. He's a citizen of the Rinceweedian Orbitals. I and my associates outside are currently here to find out why he has went missing whilst here on humanitarian aid work, and to bring him home, if he's alive. What we need is information on his possible whereabouts."

Jant's smile widened.

"And, we need to know where the nearest Research complex is. Preferably one near the Zobidov complex. We have a few....items, we need to appropriate from where the nearest one is."

Jant put away the photo, and brought out an extremely thick wad of folded, United States Dollars. He'd managed to get his hands on a some when he found out just how worthless Adamarian currency was, even in Adamaria.

"And, of course, your reward can be more than worth it. Now, start talking."

Shaun watched the Black Hawk depart. Putting the hat on his head he slowly made his way onto the street and walked towards a small dinner. It was one where one of Debbie Benson's friends worked. Sitting down at one of the booths he ordered a bacon cheeseburger and a beer.

"Mr. Taggert?"

Shaun looked up to see a young dark haired teenager looking at him. She put his meal in front of him. "Yes and you're Erin Mason?"

"Yes, what is this I've heard about you looking for Debbie?" Erin asked as she sat down across from him.

Shaun ate a few fries before answering. "I'm a private investigator; why else would I be looking for her? Think I'm some kind of a psycho?"

Erin looked shocked at this but kept silent. Shaun looked at her.

"I haven't found anything solid yet, though it looks like she is already dead. Now, what can you tell me about her?"

"Well....she told me many times she felt like she was being followed. There was this one time we were walking down the street and she said the car moving up the street was following her. She was getting a bit paranoid in the last few weeks before she disappeared."

"Thanks."

Erin went back to working as Shaun kept eating his burger. This case wasn't over, it was still open. He had a gut feeling that the Benson girl's disapperance, the sensors out in the plains and the old city, and Gellar were somehow related.

Shaun drained his beer and ordered another.

The team walked along, Cherboyev, Sun, Nboko, Larson, and Nexlon. Deigo and Bear were already vanished, and the other Basilisks were waiting closer to the combat zone. Larson twiddled with the wires to a Cordex charge, twisting the primer into position. As he worked, preparing his explosives, he hummed a slight song, an almost forgotten melody. This lyrical line bounced through his head, taking him back to kinder days, and he smiled slightly, turning his eyes up to ask a question. And he froze, his gaze catching the outline of a man turning away, fleeing into the night.

A nova went off inside Larson’s head, and he dropped to the ground, clutching his temple. Someone was yelling at him, but the world was going dark and quiet, tunneling in… there was a flash of white light-

“Where am I?” Larson asked, his voice reverberating from the silent streets. The entire world was filled with a diffuse white glow, and there was no motion or sound. He moved, and the world blurred, as if time was running slowly. “Hello?”

The silent streets and empty white sky mocked him in silence. Reaching back, he found his MP5K was still tucked behind his back, but his explosives were gone. He drew the gun-

-and was standing in a bloody shopping mall, devoid of living beings, but filled with corpses, flopped into the fountain or spilled onto tables. Bullet casings lay around, and holes were punched in walls, windows shattered. There had been a massacre here, his massacre. In the corner, there was a heaving form, animalistic and human at once. There was a crunch behind him, and he turned to see Bear Harrison picking his way through the rubble, gripping Betty the .50. Bear was speaking, but his words were shattered and distorted, “…Christ…nuts…gun…put…down…”

Larson tried to speak, to tell Bear that he’d been attacked, and it was desperation, combined with the poppers, but his mouth wouldn’t move. There was a cold breath on his back, a freezing gust of wind. He turned, and saw a man standing in the doorway to the mall, framed in shades of light and dark, his robes blowing past him. The man raised a sword and charged, coming upon Larson in a moment-

Larson tried to draw the MP, but the man was coming down on him-

“Get up, man.” Sun stated, pulling Larson from the slick pavement. “I think you fell on the cobblestone.”

Larson rose, rubbing his head and double checking his charges and launcher. “I’m fine, just got distracted.” Still, that man’s image was burned into his mind, and though he did not know why, he knew what he must do. That man must die. “I thought I saw someone I knew. If you see some dude in robes, blast him, would you?”

“Uh, sure, Gunner.” Cherboyev stated, as the group continued walking.

They entered the staging point, meeting up with the other Basilisk Mercenaries. There were twenty-four in all, Hydra and Cobra units combined, plus Bear and Diego camped out high above and far away. This, plus the small army of fodder, and the Capture teams, meant that someone wasn’t going to have a nice evening at all.

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Dieter grinned, slipping the wad of cash into his pocket. “Ah, I see you ran afoul of the local pigs, then… they love to take stuff and turn it over to the national gov to reverse engineer. Adamaria’s a real shit-hole, as you can tell, but over the last year or so, they’ve been trying to modernize. Any mercs come into town with high-end gear, they tend to end up being “fined” and confiscated. The gear gets turned over to the military, and they try to reverse it.”

“All but Basilisk.” He paused. “But then again, the military contracts Basilisk, and they do the heavy hitting. These people-” he swept an arm to the tavern, “are pawns compared to Basilisk.”

“You want a research facility? Your gear is probably being dissected up at the Armory, near the Capitol Building. You want to get in there, you’d have to fight through the army and the hired soldiers. The biggest research in the area is over at NovaGen, the pharmaceuticals conglomerate, but they specialize in humanitarian works. You know that, though.” The knowledge of NovaGen’s miracles was all over the world, and Dieter knew better than to waste time talking of it.

He took a drink of tonic water, breathing deep. “As for your missing citizen… I’ll check around. Meet me in the Archives in two days, at this hour. I’ll have your information then.”

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The man who was called “James Bond” watched his satellite display. The lines were in place, the target was encircled. The airspace was locked, the sewers ready to blow, the roads blockaded. The snare was tightening, and the noose was set.

His finger hovered on the GO button, and destiny sang sadly. "Wait for them to trip the snare... then launch."

Tristan straightened his suit after finishing the last connection. With two other Thyrians of his personal retinue they slipped out the back door, heading towards the left side of the building where Tristan's car was located. On his left was the sabre-wielding Danarin, and to his right, Jenus with his m16.

Meanwhile, inside the building various members of the Athyrian Army and House of Thyrn took up positions, ready to kill for their leader...all unaware of the remote control in Tristan's pocket, and all unaware that he had left them to their fate.

Similarly those Athyrians outside watching the building shivered in the cold night, praying that Lord Rinias knew what he was doing.

"Well Mr. Richter, good luck, and, uh...remember this."

Jant whispered into Deiter's ear.

"The OMA owes you a favour."

Jant stood up, and walked out the tavern again, into the bitter cold of the night, doubled up, coughing, and finally gave his stomach a chance to bring up it's meagre contents into the air. The smell of the tavern hadn't exactly appealed to him.

He looked up to see Samuel and Jason standing over him, grinning.

"So Boss", said Samuel jovially, "Had a good time in there?"

Jant simply groaned and fell, thankfully avoiding the pool of his own vomit. His last conscious thought was that he needed to find the capitol building, and then he finally fell into unconsciousness, and was dragged to the car by his men, who subsequently continued driving around town in an attempt to find a proper hotel to rest in.

The sedan slammed to a sudden stop, spinning the debris out from under its tires, sliding another few inches with locked wheels. The doors to the car flew open, and three men jumped out. The driver stepped out, holding a radio mic that ran into the dash. The three runners clutched AK-74s, the tactical lights shining brightly. The first man reached the apartment door, kicked it open, and the second charged in, sweeping the entrance to the apartment complex.

A woman cried out, ducking into the corner, and the trio pounded up the stairs. An older man was in the way, and the lead man through the civilian to the side, slamming him into the stairwell wall. They rounded the upper corner, charging down the hallway, counting the doors.

“Here!” The first man declared, swinging his hand to signal a forced entry. The third man rose to the front, and the others pressed to the walls. “Breach!” The third man kicked the door, and the first two swung into the room, their rifles sweeping across the whole apartment. The third man followed in, and they shoved through to the next room.

A man was watching TV when the crash happened, and he rose, turning to run or fight, but the team was already in the room. “Evgeniy Ruslan, you have committed grievous crimes against the people of Adamaria…”

“No!”

The shot could be heard ringing through the slum, and the driver keyed his microphone. “This is Lieutenant Branivich, and the Warrant has been served.”

Captain Antonov responded, his voice heavy. “Bury him, and come home.”

“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant turned, seeing his men hauling the tarp-covered body from the room. “Wrapping up and returning.”

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The secure van rolled through the dead lands outside the capital, and the guards eyed their captive nervously, even with the interior security measures. The back had no windows, and the driver took an erratic course, weaving and looping towards his destination in order to foil any attempt to guesstimate the destination.

In the front of the vehicle, ahead of the soundproofed wall, the driver nervously glanced to the Asp Commander, who was radioing ahead, reporting everything that had happened. “…yes, he turned into water and went into my head. I had to bargain him out, but he can definitely invade other organisms.”

“So, he can not only become water, but manipulate it, and use it to parasitically control other creatures.” There was a pause, “This is definitely interesting. I would summarize a distributed consciousness, but how would a neural network function like that, and at what critical mass… we’ll prepare a high security reception for you. I trust you’ll be stopping into Medical for a checkup?”

The Commander snorted, “Of course I will!”

“Good work, Commander, and we’ll see you back at base. Back into Bay Four, drop him off, and gun it for the exit. Don’t get caught in the door.”

“Roger.” He nodded to the driver, who gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white.

The van traversed under an armored gate, and hidden emplacements watched carefully. The vehicle rolled through a courtyard, and a massive armored door lowered, the external guns lowering to signal safety, and the vehicle rolled into a bay. The driver turned the vehicle around, pointing to the safety outside. He glanced to the commander, who triggered his subvocal comms, “Okay, push him out, stay in, and brace for a sudden acceleration.”

In the back, one of the Asps turned to Travis, “Okay, time to go out and meet the other team.” Another team member opened the back door, and the Asps hurled Travis, with his safety vest still on, into the room, and the vehicle roared away, screaming into the light. With a tremendous slam, the blast door dropped to the floor, and with a hum, the wall electrified.

A discharge coil hung from the ceiling, and there were recessed turrets sitting every few feet. The floor was a grill work, and looking down, a massive set of pumps could be seen, designed to collect hazardous runoff from the Aberrations. Now, it was reconfigured to blast into a secure tank for holding, should it come to that. The silver and black room hummed and crackled with dangerous systems, and a comms unit activated, “Welcome, my friend. You can appreciate the need for security, after your last actions to our team. Of course, you realize, once again, that your polar vest is the only thing keeping you safe from the coils, so don’t try to do anything funny.”

There was a continuous hiss. “Don’t try to leave either, because you’re under a massive negative pressure ratio. You try to leave, you get crushed and scattered.” There was a pause. “We’re going to let you in, now. Please go liquid and flow into the receptors on the floor. From there, our pump system will take you to the lab. Please comply.” There was no need to threaten, or else, as that was already present enough in the buzzing room.

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The gray-haired man watched the display with fascination, stroking his beard. He asked the man who called himself “James Bond”, speaking in Adamarian, not English or even another Slavic language, “So, you have the Hammer in position?”

The other man replied fluidly, in the same tongue, “Yes, sir. My team is merely awaiting your command.”

The old man grunted, satisfied, “Good work. We shall launch as soon as they notice, or at two this morning.” He pointed to a clock, which hung at fifteen minutes to the hour.

On the display, a series of dots began to move towards the armored car. “Leaving so soon?” The bearded man asked softly. “I think not. Destroy that vehicle, and begin the operation.”

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The first drop of the storm came rapidly and unexpectedly, a bolt from the dark. The streak of light from the LAW impacted on the limousine, sending a plume of fire skyward, and shaking the area with the concussion. The missile team ran from the window, and more streaks erupted, a virtual rainstorm of fiery streaks that slammed into the vehicles in the lot.

As the concussions rang out, the machine guns in the buildings and alleys cut loose, sending arcs of fire over the courtyard, trying to gun down everyone in the area. The salvo was intense but ragged, fired from a poorly trained force of scattered mercenary elements. What they lacked in quality, they made up for in quantity, and the parking lot and courtyard became a wall of fire, forcing the opposition to seek cover or suffer the price. Still, when the return strike hit, which it did, the mercenaries began to suffer losses.

Poorly placed teams died, and warehouses were burning, the air was filled with smoke. The battle raged on one side of the target warehouse, a firing arc that shook with exchanged volleyed fire.

On the other side of the complex, in an opposing arc of fire, completing the circle, the second hit waited. Over machine gun sites and quadrants on rocket launchers, the rest of the mercenaries watched as the inferno consumed the back of the warehouse. In a building, the Basilisks waited, watching through field glasses and scopes and sights. Larson declared, “Wait until someone steps out, then slam them back into the building!”

The other, non-Basilisk mercenaries that made up the vast bulk of the force nodded, taking strength from the veteran’s instruction. On the roof, several blocks away, Bear watched through the scope of the IWS 2000, Betty. The shaking and shuddering and screaming didn’t bother him, and the sedatives kept his grip controlled and shake-free. He watched the building, already ranged in. Diego commented, watching through his binoculars, “We’ve got movement. People running out the front door.”

Bear was already ranged in, and he lowered his scope onto the first figure to attempt to flee the fight, running for a sedan. Not the first… that’ll be a guard. The next will be an officer or a VIP. The next figure emerged, and Bear lowered the crosshair, pulling the trigger. The IWS bucked back a good foot or more, and the sabot burned off as the round cleared, leaving a massive, forearm-sized dart on a lethal course, with enough speed and mass to immolate a tank. The cylinder cycled, and Bear drew his aim again.

Even as the recoil smacked into Bear, the firing arc lit the warehouse up, forcing back the first escape attempt. The converging fires mirrored each other, streaks of light and puffs of smoke, set to the staccato march of combat. It was beautiful from far away, and horrific in close.

The exchanged fire set for a moment, a broad exchange of fire, that slowly stabilized as the opposition began to rebalance to fight both sides. The streets were soon filled with bodies and rubble, and the screams of the wounded filled the gaps in the firing. This was urban combat, in all its slaughter.

In the back, a charge began, a horde of under qualified mercenaries running at the building, forty men grabbing their guns and dashing from burning car to burning car, racing for the doorways. They found slaughter, as the defenders fired from windows and doors, bringing converging MG fire onto the charge. The suicidal attack ended almost as soon as it began, leaving a massive wake of bodies and shrapnel.

The streets were shining with rainwater, blood, and oil, and the area was in ruin. Still, the firing did not stop, returning onto the firing positions of the defenders who stopped the charge, sending volleys of LAW fire into windows, and snipers that exchanged shots on the rooftops, between the explosions of grenades. Still, the attack had served its purpose, drawing out the defenders, and forcing a concentration in the rear.

The attacks had been a simple, if devastating, pattern: back, front, back. That meant, with all the forces concentrated in back, that the next would come from-

In the front of the building, in the warehouses, Basilisk was readying, and the rumble of engines was overwhelmed in the cacophony around them. Larson turned to his companions, especially the new Nexlon, “You guys ready for this?” he patted his seat. “This has got to be the most ass-brained idea ever, but the shock should work.”

There were some nervous laughs, and another explosion outside sent pieces of a body into the room, making the MG team duck, the ringing echoing in their ears. Larson ducked, almost from reflex, as shrapnel scattered into the room. “Remember!” he yelled, bracing himself, “Don’t stop, don’t slow… and give them hell!” He slammed the bike into gear, skidding out onto the street.

The racing motorcycle slid into alignment, the back tire slipping through the blood and muck, and the bike kicked forward, roaring through the carnage. Larson dodged and wove, bending left and right, shooting between fallen chunks and distorted bodies, the flashes of explosions leaving him deaf. In slow silent motion, he could almost see the bullets ripping past him; hear the impacts on stone and flesh. The defenders were trying to level fire, but they couldn’t move fast enough, and Larson was nearing the last block.

A quick glance back and most were following him. In a spray of sparks, a bike went down, slamming into the wall and crumpling. Another dodged when it should have swerved, and it flipped into the air, the driver thrown like a rag doll from the seat, smashing flat onto the pavement, the passenger riding behind crushed under the sliding steel, streaked across the grimy ground.

But Larson gritted his teeth, and charged into the eye of the storm. The speed boosters were helping now, letting him move with inhuman reactions, his head tucked down. He wore no helmet, for no amount of protection would help him in a crash here. Another cycle exploded behind him, and he heard the pop of a gasoline rupture and ignition. Almost there!

Above, a defender managed to get a rocket into position, rising up to fire, aligning on the pack of motorcycles. Without warning, the rocketeer exploded, the entire room he was in consumed in fire, the walls before and behind him reduced to powder. A streak of fire hung in the air, connecting the inferno to a spot so distant, and the thunderclap rung out. Thanks, Bear.

The bullets were like rain now, the tracers forming starlines in his view, the crumps and cracks of explosives barely a muted war drum in his ears. The flash of steel and stone, the thrum of the engine, the scream of the bullets, the shaking of the detonations, formed a symphony of destruction that Larson flowed through, his vision blurring as he focused on the door. Now!

He slammed the brakes, sending the bike bucking and twisting as it attempted to escape his control, the doorway ahead so tempting. The tires locked, and he began to skid. With a bare prayer to a God he hadn’t spoken to in years, Larson passed the threshold. The motorcycle screamed through the doorway, running down the defenders inside, sliding to a stop near the far wall of the warehouse, turned perpendicular to the entrance. Larson gassed again, lunging before, up a ramp. Here, he jumped from the bike, sending it screaming into a gun position.

Larson ducked behind some crates, drawing his pistol, and fired blindly around the corner. Behind him, the other Basilisks were sliding into the room, through doors and windows, many wrecking on entrance. But some did not, staying upright, delivering death and chaos into the center of the formation. There was slaughter, and behind the warehouse, another strike force began to form up, even as the encircling forces maintained fire.

Back, front, back, front, and now the back was readying again. There would be a massive strike from behind, but there was already carnage, and the casualties were piling, all escape forsaken, Valhalla committed and Valkyr chosen. The Hammer waited.

Nexlon hopped on the back of a Merc's cycle as the group charged into bullets and flames. The driver was good, swerving when he needed to and maintaining a very quick speed given the extreme circumstances of the battle. Still, he wasn't good enough. A bullet struck him in the head seconds before the pair had reached the warehouse. The bike slid out from underneath him as Nexlon leaped, breaking through an enemy-filled room through a second-floor window.

The gaurds were not expecting to be attacked in close quarters like this; the vast majority of his foes, numbering over a dozen, were armed with sniper rifles and ahd been taking potshots from the window. A few were armed with Sub-Machineguns; Nexlon drew his sword and relived them of thier weapons. A few snipers were able to pull out pistols before thier arms or heads were sliced off. Blood splattered all around the room, covering Nexlon. Small-Caliber bullets richoched off his armor as men died.

Soon there was only one man left in the room, a middle-aged mustached fellow. He emptied his pistol clip into Nexlon-which had no effect-and pulled a long, six-inch knife from his belt and swung. Nexlon doged easily and cut off his right hand, grabbing the knife as it fell. The soldier screamed in pain as he fell to the ground. He backed up against the wall and pulled his last defence out, a small, single-shot pistol hidden in his boot, Aiming it unsteadily at Nexlon.

"F-F-Freak!" He shouted, clearly in Anguish.

Nexlon paused. "Freak?" He asked in his sharp, masked voice. "What does that make you, then? A Man? A Dog? A Freak?"

The man screamed at the sound of Nexlon's voice and turned the gun on himself, sending the bullet into his head. Nexlon sighed and opened the door. A multitude of men, more than two dozen, were ready for him. It was time to show off what he could really do.
----------------------------------------------
The soldiers stood at the ready, many of them trembling at the Armored figure standing before them. Nexlon snickered; This was going to get bloody. He leapt and hurled the knife he had taken off the last man; It swept through the lead man's head and buried itself in the heart of the man behind him. Nexlon dove into the group, sword swinging. They never stood a chance. Soon thier streanth had been reduced by more than half; 13 men were still alive.

One man picked up his fallen comrade's uzis and aimed them at Nexlon's head; There was no chance he would miss.

*BOOM!*

The soldier looked down at a Four-Inch Hole in his belly. Nexlon had drawn his Casull and was fighting with both gun and sword. Ten men left, then Nine, then, Eight, Now seven.

"Retreat!" Yelled one of the soldiers, an officer by the looks at him. "Get to the Minigun down the hall!" The group rushed down the hall, and tried to open the door, only to find that it was locked.

"Rodrigo! You have the keys! Open the door!" Rodrigo stumbled, and dropped the keys, scrambling to pick them back up again. He looked back at the devastation that had once been his comrades, brothers even. He stopped. Nexlon was no where in sight.

"Rodrigo!"

His eyes snapped back the the door, and he turned the key. The bodies of a pair of Soldiers tumbled out, and Nexlon stepped over the corpses, the Minigun over his shoulder. Even more blood was splattered on his armor.

"You have done your duty well, Soldiers. Farewell." Nexlon's finger pulled the trigger. Hundreds of bullets spat out of the multiple barrels of the gun.

"Noooooo!"

Nexlon let the Minigun fall to the floor with a clatter and checked his weapons. He would now have to fight his way down and meet up with Larson and the rest of Basalisk.

Throughout the building Athyrian Army fought mercenary, gunfire exchanged in short volleys as each side darted out, fired and hid again. As those firing from windows died others replaced them or vanished to move to another area of the building. Considering the surprise attack, the House of Thyrn was doing surprisingly well.

------------------------------

Ysabel swore as the trooper behind her was torn apart by sniper fire. She realised who the sniper had been aiming for and was, for the first time, grateful at being ordered to “lead from the front” by Tristan. However, as her mp5 pumped out rounds at the few mercenaries she could see, her exposed position at the front of the warehouse did not inspire much hope.

This point was brought home to her only seconds later, as round followed round through her pale skin into cold muscle. Round after round slammed into her and, eventually, she fell.

---------------------------

Tristan flinched back as his car was blown apart by enemy fire, and immediately drew his pistols. As soon as a foe showed themselves a high-velocity shell fired from those artificer-made pistols slammed into their foreheads, punching through skin, bone and brain. Human after human fell, too fast for even Tristan to count, until suddenly someone he had not noticed fired a missile at Jenus. Such overkill had not even been considered by the vampire, as he and Danarin were hurled like dolls. Vision clouded over, Tristan slumped against the pile of debris he had been thrown into, lying motionless as he frantically tried to think of a way out of his situation.

--------------------------

Sergeant Tomayan Vasun jerked awake as explosions burst upon the warehouse. He looks around, bleary eyed, from the corner of a rooftop where he had fallen asleep with his sniper rifle.
“Vanin…Vanin…look at this…Oh”
Private Vanin was lying in a sprawled heap, body riddled with rounds from some over-enthusiastic mercenary. It took a moment for this to sink into Tomayan’s head. Vanin had been a friend, they’d both applied for sniper division together, both served the Athyrian army together, and both been recruited by Lord Rinias together. It was hard to believe that he was gone. Then, the Thyrians knew where from, he felt a rage take hold in himself.

He stood up, saw a sniper looking down the barrel of a massive weapon toward the warehouse, put his rifle to his shoulder and sighted. As his bullet screamed through the air one of the helicopters noticed him, and machinegun fire slammed into the soldier, sending him tumbling from the roof.

-------------------

Renyn gasped from pain as cold blood seeped across his arm. Of course, the wound would start healing in a few moments, but it still hurt like Hell! Some lunatic had hurled a motorbike into his gun position, slamming into the Thrall and snapping his arm, ripping bone through flesh, soon more would follow to finish him off…his comrades were trying to fire at their attackers, but most shots missed, and some came dangerously close to Renyn.
“Bugger….that….for…a…prayer…”
One armed, he pulled a grenade from his belt, gripped the pin between his teeth and jerked it out. With his one good arm, he threw it toward the motorcyclist’s hiding position.

------------------

On one of the upper floors, Athyrian after Athyrian died to Nexlon’s weapons, having an enemy behind your lines of defence is not a good thing – something that was being conclusively proven here, as the soldiers did not even realise the armoured for was behind them until they died upon a monomolecular sword blade.

"So Boss, explain this to me again, will ya?"

Jason was still puzzled over Jant's latest plan after he had turned down every hotel they had been to.

Jant sighed. This wasn't what he expected from subordinates, but he would have to put up with it.

"Listen Jason, no where around here is safe enough for us. The police could find us near enough anywhere. So, the Zobidov Complex is all there is."

"But, uh, they knew where we were when we went there. Doesn't that mean they have some sorta surveillance there Sir?"

"Yes, but think about this. If they have surveillance, they must be hiding something. And if they're hiding something, I want to know what it is. And anyway, if the place is really as dangerous as the police told us, then they probably wont come out here again. The first time was apparently just so they could take our stuff if what my contact told me was true."

"But-"

Jant's brow creased slightly in irritation at the constant questioning.

"Godammit Jason, just follow orders! We're going back there for the night, and that's that dammit!"

Jason cowered, silenced by the outburst. Jant had certainly changed lately. Before this mission, he had always been the sort of cool, composed character that Jason looked up to. But now, after so much going wrong thanks to him and Samuel, he just seemed...well, grumpy....

___________________________________


Jant's body felt the vibration a split second before the sound reached him, although it didn't particularly matter, since the light was more than enough to illuminate the countryside for miles around.

He could see the Zobidov complex ahead of them light up as the first of the rain of death lanced from the heavens, immolating the warehouse. The light managed to do the impressive feat of going from Jant's eyeballs to his arms, rather than to his brain. He quickly spun the wheel of the car and hit the brake, screeching it to a halt in a ditch at the side of the road, as all three men watched in awe as the flames continued, and the firing started.

Larson shoved his FN Five-SeveN around the corner, snapping off another twenty round clip. The great part about line penetration is confusing them. The bad part is being a fire magnet. Another volley of SMG fire raked his covering metal crates, and the sparks forced him to duck back as his slammed his next clip into the gun, wracking back the slide and shoving a twenty-first round through the top, into the chamber, over-stacking the gun.

He glanced back, over the floor of the warehouse complex. This entire section was carnage, with the Basilisk shock attack scattering the defenders, but leaving the attackers scattered as well. Below, a Basilisk went down in a spray of P90 fire, and Larson dropped the Athyrian soldier who committed the offense, sending a double volley of AP rounds through the man’s vest. “Cherboyev!” he called, waving to his friend, who was firing a UMP 10mm over a flipped desk.

“What the fuck do you need, Gunner?”

“Covering fire!” Larson ducked as another streak of gunfire ripped past, a piece of shrapnel clipping his ear. “Fuck!” he grabbed himself, feeling the superficial wound. I’m fine… Jesus, that hurt!

Cherboyev rose, spraying fire from his UMP, charging through the open floor, ducking behind every piece of cover. Larson rose from his own cover, firing away with the Five-SeveN, dashing for a railroad style cargo crate. He wasn’t sure if he hit, but it kept the enemy down long enough for him to arrive at the crate.

Larson leapt behind it, rolling up to meet Cherboyev. He gave a weak smile, “Man, I haven’t been in a shootout like this in forever!”

Cherboyev spat, “This is fucked up, man! We’re being thrown into a meat grinder!”

Larson nodded gravely, “This ain’t like the other ops. Those were boom, in and out. This is a fucking slug fest.”

Fire was raking off the crate, and Cherboyev slammed a new clip into his SMG, yanking the charging handle. “I fucking hate this shit. Gellar wouldn’t put us into this!” He and Larson spun out around opposite sides, dumping fire in converging line, cutting down more soldiers.

Larson called back, “Pops ain’t here, buddy! That’s why we’re getting fucked!” He cleared out the last shot, sending an enemy toppling from a balcony. Larson spun back behind the crate, reloading and turning to Cherboyev, “Man, I wish he was here- shit.” Cherboyev lay behind the crate, a nasty hole blown through his head, his eyes frozen open. “Fucking A!” Larson cried, seeing his dead friend.

Adding insult to injury, a grenade popped over the top of the container, landing beside him. Larson glanced at it for a moment, its bumpy, pin-less form. Almost without thinking, he threw his dead friend on top of the bomb, diving to the floor as well.

The muffled pop sent Cherboyev’s ragged body spinning into the air, blood spraying. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Larson felt a bit of a tear in his eye, but he grimaced it away. He didn’t deserve an end like that. I’m gonna fucking kill that SOB who threw that. Larson grabbed the SMG and stepped from cover, not caring if he was cut down, leveling both his pistol and his old friend’s UMP at the wounded Athyrian, sending walls of lead into the cursed man.

He almost didn’t feel it when the round found his right leg, and he fell sideways, almost in slow motion, fire spraying from both barrels, his leg twisting out. Another round punched through his side, and into his arm. Larson fell back, tumbling into a loading ramp like a rag doll, slamming back into the far wall, near the docking compartment.

It was quite and cool down here, and combat hadn’t found this little corner. His vision was tunneling, his ears were ringing. He touched his stomach with his working hand, and he felt a hot, wet stain. He looked down; saw his leg twisted under him, his arm limp, and the blood pouring from his gut. Damn. Larson leaned against the wall, his eyes closing. No! Not like this! He reached down, fumbling at the NovaGen serum inhaler, fumbling the cap free with a bloody thumb.

He numbly placed it in his mouth, sucking it back, trying to inhale. But his arm gave out, and the inhaler fell away, giving him only a partial dose. Work miracles, fucker… His vision went black, and he slumped over, falling flat onto the cement floor.

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Bear aligned the crosshairs on the glowing thermal image, and gently pulled the trigger, like a lover’s caress. The IWS boomed, recoiling back. Far away, an entire chunk of wall on the warehouse exploded, hurling brick and steel about, and the brilliant burning line that was the projectile struck a soldier, reducing him to whirling, burning fragments of bone.

Bear tracked the next ghostly image, and again the rifle spoke. He tracked it left and right, crisscrossing the building, floor by floor, wielding the Reaper’s scythe with callous precision. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,, and soldiers died. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, and another floor was clear.

“Reload.” He spoke softly, and Diego handed him another drum. Bear slammed it into place, dropping back into his scope. Again, the rifle traversed a floor, wreaking havoc, punching car-sized holes in the walls and reducing combatants to trails of giblets. A soldier tried to point a LAW at Nexlon. BOOM! The soldier, and a ten foot area of wall, vanished into a fiery puff. Sun was backed under cover by a machinegun team. BOOM! The team became a memory. Nboko was pinned under a car by a team on a balcony. BOOM! The balcony collapsed, its struts immolated by an anti-tank penetrator. Bear was the Basilisks guardian angel, their waiting savior, bringing unseen and swift death to their opponents with a careful squeeze of a trigger.

But Bear was drawn to a fading, slumping figure. The IFF in his scope listed the man as Larson, but Bear could hardly believe it. Larson, dead? He drifted his scope onto his compatriot. No. I will not let it. For over a decade, he’d served with the Norseman, and he would not let them desecrate his friend’s body. You shall not touch him.

A figure ran to follow up on the kill, charging to shoot Larson’s fading figure. BOOM! The man died on a ramp. BOOM! The rifle spoke again, and Bear growled. If a man has a guardian angel, then Larson had Azrael, the Angel of Death, watching over him, bringing a short end to any that dared tamper with him. BOOM!

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“We’ve done it. We’ve broken through.” The scientist declared, shaking President Aurelli’s hand fervently.

To his side, Chief Kuzin turned to a safety glass cage, watching a man inside. The man was shaking, salivating, and bleeding from myriad cuts. The man’s face was shattered, his nose compressed, his teeth shattered, his forehead split. Still, he lived, charging the glass wall again and again, screaming blabbering incoherent fever dreams, as he smashed into the glass, drawing fresh blood and broken bones with each impact. Yet still he charged, slamming again and again, immune to his slow death from compression damage. Kuzin turned away, back to Aurelli and the Doctor.

Aurelli was asking, “…breakthrough? You’ve gotten a temporary state, with survivors?”

“Yes, sir!” The doctor declared eagerly, “It already performed a complete re-wiring of the brain, a dream-state psychosis that lent itself to such murderous behaviors as we’ve seen in the past.” A series of displays showed images of people, inhuman fires in their eyes, setting upon each other with ravenous rage, tearing, clawing, and smashing. “But their resistance to damage, their regeneration, their stamina… it truly is mind over matter.”

“But what mind?” Aurelli asked, still unsure. “The reptilian subconscious is definitely running this show.” He motioned to the man, who was ramming the wall again.

“That’s part of the strength… the complete loss of most higher brain function leaves one with only sheer physical prowess… enhanced strength, speed, rapid healing capabilities… this blows Adrenelcrone off the map.”

At this, Kuzin spoke up, raising the cylinder filled with golden liquid to the light, watching the light bend to the prism. “If I remember from the news reports, this stuff tended to kill its user. I wouldn’t call that very useful.” He raised an eyebrow, sloshing the serum around like brandy.

“Put that down!” The Doctor cried out. “You know how dangerous that is? That’s unrefined, pure agent!”

“I know what it is.” Kuzin stated calmly, holding the vial before him. “A weapon, a narcotic, now a medical miracle… you know how many people, how many nations, would kill for this?” He left the sentence open for interpretation, for many would kill for different reasons regarding this serum.

“Mr. Kuzin, place that down.” Aurelli commanded, and his security chief obeyed. The white-haired patrician turned to his scientist. “You say it’s survivable now?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve made many changes to its workings, cutting back the re-wiring that is does, fixing the overload problems… here are the test results.” He handed over a PDA.

Aurelli nodded. “Interesting. You may proceed.” He turned to Kuzin, then pointed to the man in the cage, “Clean this up.”

“Yes, sir.” Kuzin snapped his fingers, and three guards descended upon the raving man, cutting him down with gunfire.

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The explosion went off in Larson’s skull, a mental fireworks display that dwarfed even Bear’s rhythmic assaults of gunfire. The blinding colors and sounds, like all his nerves had been flipped on at once, shook his mind, his body. He shook, screamed a high-pitched wail, jerking ramrod straight, flinging to his feet, only to fall again, landing flat out.

He stretched forward, clawing the ground, whimpering as the fires burned in his brain. The world was echoing, leaving trails, and he couldn’t process anything. Images flashed in his face, the combat mixed with memories and unknown fears, every dream replaying in horrifying detail. His body burned, his skull pounded. There was nothing but pain, pain and terror-

“Daddy? Daddy, where are you?” The boy was crawling through the burning apartment, the rumble of armored units outside. It was dark, and the pops of gunfire had awoken the small blonde child, the roar of tanks making him scream and wail and urinate in his pajamas, hiding in the corner, clutching his teddy.

But Mommy and Daddy weren’t coming. The smoke was thick, and he remembered his preschool classes, remembered Miss Larsdotter telling him to crawl and feel the doors. He was wailing and crawling, trying to remember his friends. Why weren’t Mommy and Daddy coming?

He was crawling down the stairs, into the kitchen, where light and snow drifted in. Outside, the bellow of war shook and flashed, making the child recoil, crying out again. But he had to find Mommy and Daddy. The child began to crawl again, falling once, twice, a third time, reaching the kitchen. There, Mommy was sitting in her chair. “Mommy, why are you ignoring me?”

He tugged on her pants leg, and she looked down at him. Rather, her head rolled to the side, staring down at him, the gaping third eye of a bullet hole staring at him. The child screamed in sheer terror, running from the gore. He was crying and running, dragging his Teddy. Ahead, he saw Daddy lying in the hallway. “Daddy, Daddy, wake up! Mommy’s hurt!”

But Daddy wasn’t waking up, and the child saw the blood. All childhood reason failed, and the child fell out, into the snow outside, screaming and crying, crawling through the snow, covered in ash and soot and blood and tears and urine, clinging to his Teddy and rocking.

But the Man came, reaching down to him, picking him up, speaking soothing foreign words to him, carrying him from the fight, to the flying metal car. More men were waiting, and one asked, “What the hell, Lieutenant? You can’t bring the kid!”

The Man responded, his gruff voice comforting the soiled, sobbing child, “You want me to leave him, Captain?”

“Your ass, Gellar. Get on the Osprey.” The child was taken into the giant bird, and the Man tried to soothe his tears-

Larson’s eyes flashed open, his pupils dilated to fill his entire iris, just black wells, with a terrifying flame beneath them. “Mommy, Daddy?” he asked, singsong. “Where are you?” He pushed himself up on all fours, his wounds lessened, his body ignoring the mortal damage done to it. “Don’t leave me.” He pulled the M-79 from his auxiliary holster, raising his MP5K in his other hand.

He stood, shakily at first, then with growing strength, his arm already healing, exposed muscles under broken flesh and bloody shirt. “These bad men are going to die.” He stated softly. “Are you proud, Daddy? Are you happy, Mommy?” He took a step, another, the loaded weapons in his hands, his eyes wild with a battle fever.

He rose above the lip, the Leviathan arising from the Abyss, raised his weapons with a maddening smile, a peaceful grin. “I’m back.” He stated, and laughed, and let loose. The M-79 fired, the 40mm grenade slamming into Athyrians at the door, the MP5K working back and forth, cutting people down in showers of blood.

Larson dropped the expended SMG, reloading the bloop-tube and fired, reducing an entire area to fire and death. He picked up Cherboyev’s UMP, firing offhand as he thumbed another grenade in, letting loose again, singing all the while, “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb…”

A round struck his chest, another in his leg. He twitched, his body ignoring the damage, and he swept the fire across the room, firing, firing, reloading, firing, dropping weapons and picking up others. A shotgun blast sent him back, into the wall, but he simply rose, firing a Desert Eagle into the gunman’s face, still singing as his chest hung open.

His leg was blown out, and he still sang, firing away with his weapons, inhuman precision as he sang and absorbed damage. The area was clear, the soldiers scattering from the horror before them, this walking, singing dead man. Larson turned to his surviving allies, smiling and giving a thumbs up. “Mommy, I did it.” He fell then, collapsing into a bloody heap, accepting the wounds that should have killed him an eternity ago.

The others could only stare, blank faces, shocked minds, too numb to fire. That’s when the comms alarm went off.

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The man called “James Bond” watched his helmet-cam display, his face taut. He turned to the bearded old man. “Well, I think we can agree that the Serum works.”

The old man glanced at him, grunting in reply. “All too well.” He stroked his beard, reviewing the conflagration before him. “It is time for you to deliver, my friend.”

”Yes, sir.” The man snapped, eager and proud. He picked up his radio. “Sarah?”

“Sir?”

“Fire.” He turned back to the old man. “We will deliver, General.”

The General turned to his officer. “You had better, my technologically gifted friend.”

The Hammer began to charge, and the Basilisks received their “thirty-second warning” to get to the East and West wings of the complex.

Travis stepped forward slowly, his hands in clear view and relaxed at his sides. He took a slightly deep breath and nearly coughed as he felt the rancid air burn his throat.

For such a technologically advanced civilization, they sure suck on air quality... Travis thought critically to himself.

The static-filled voice came from the comms, to which Travis listened to with rapt attention. Once the voice stopped speaking and had given the instructions, he turned his eyes to the walls around the dimly lit room. Eyes fell upon the dozen or so cameras that lay strategically about the entire room, covering every inch of space at all times. He definitely would not be able to slip away if he had wished. However, he entertained none of those thoughts, knowing that playing by the undeclared rules of these--whatever they were--was his best option for survival.

"Please get moving." the voice urged, a slight impatience detectable. Travis raised an eyebrow toward one of the cameras, as if he were staring into the eyes of the Voice.

Travis kept his eyes upon the camera, as he simultaneously became liquid and transparent. Momentarily, he remained in human form, keeping the vest aloft by some strange phenomenon. He waited until the click of the coils signified a temporary sanctuary from immediate destruction. He released the vest, feeling the foreign material slip harmlessly through his body and onto the grated floor. Slowly, and with a seeming visual defiance by his mere actions alone, he sank below the grates and into the pump distributor. He settled into the water already present and waited. A second click, followed by a double ring of klaxons signified the coils being activated once again. Moments later, the sound of a machine activating resounded in the pipe and immediately shot him forward with incredible speed toward his destination...

The second floor had fallen to Nexlon. He was now on the stairs fighting his way down, to where he thought the others must be. He left a bloddy wake in his path. Suddenly, a man with a Rocket Launcher came up behind him; it was an impossible shot to miss and even Nexlon could not dodge it.

*BOOM!*

Half of the wall caved in as a huge shell pierced the man's body and took out part of the floor. Bear, obviously. Nexlon was thankful the sniper was not armed with the IWS when he was hit.

Nexlon was down the stairs now. He rushed into the main battle and cut a large hole through the enemy lines with his sword. Slice after slice, men fell. Nexlon's eyes narrowed as he spotted half of Cherboyev's face on the ground. This only made him fight harder. Still, despite the many enemies that were slain by is blade, more came. A bullet struck a weak point in his armor's elbow joint, drawing blood. He hoped the battle would not last much longer, otherwise he might not even be able to survive.

Nexlon was relived to see Larson coming up the stairs, then did a double take as he saw the mortal wounds Larson had suffered. How was he still walking? Shock crept through his body as he saw what happened next. The thing moving in front of him was not Larson; It was a spiritless shell, running only on NovaGen Boosters. The Zombie started destroying everything around him, killing even more than Nexlon could. Finally the abomanation was taken down.

A beep sounded in Nexlon's helmet. The Hammer was going to fire! He dispatched another enemy and hauled the Remains of Larson over his back.

"Let's get out of here!" He Rasped. He drew his Casull, emptied the clip, and flew out of a window, staying far enough east so that he was sure he could not be harmed from the Hammer's blast.

The Basilisks were fleeing from the building, or at least to the wings, but they were only fifteen in number now, and scores more mercenaries were waging battle among them, and they were not falling back. Even more, the force in back, so long building up, launched a massive assault. Over a hundred paid soldiers charged into the streets, converging on the back of the building, running as fast as their feet would carry them, scrambling over rubble and through windows and doorways, charging the building.

The human sea struck from behind, the ring tightened, and the attack looked like it was set to continue…

Six hundred meters away, down a long and straight street, there was another warehouse, empty and abandoned for years. In a window, a soldier lay, drawing a crosshairs onto the battle far away, aligning the glass on the building. He lowered from his perch, flashing a thumbs-up to the crew standing over a large capacitor. On the wall, a projector duplicated his crosshairs, and the team aligned a massive conical projector and a bundle of rods onto that position.

The entire assemble was probably three meters long and two meters wide, a massive cylinder with inset cone, and the glass and metal rods, all pointed in one direction. Behind this, the capacitor hummed and whined, megavolts roaring through the superconducting coil loops. A simple computer was set up; a laptop showing a power graph and coolant levels, and a rolling chair was set to a desk. Around the warehouse, Adamarian Homeguard waited, the 43rd Unit, to be precise.

They were cold, professional, armed with high end weapons, weapons that Adamaria should not have been able to afford. The Captain called Sarah was waiting, watching the graph, protecting this device, dubbed the Hammer. When the call came, she was ready.

“Sarah?” The voice asked.

“Sir?” She asked, glowing with the anticipation of performing her role in this grand movement, this shadow-play.

The man’s voice was full, too, willing and able and crisp. “Fire.” The channel closed.

The Captain turned to her soldiers, motioning in a hard pointed chop. “Fire the laser!” There was a building hum as the technician triggered the overload sequence. A port was opened, a small cylinder was inserted, the port was closed. A final reading was taken, and the hum grew.

A soldier turned, “Overload in one minute, forty-five seconds!”

“Right!” she snapped. “Time to fall out, scatter and regroup at the base with the General! Good work, people, and I’ll see you on the other side!”

The soldiers and technicians began to run, not even orderly, simply a pell-mell dash for the exits, abandoning equipment and computers, leaving every piece of evidence behind. The first left, the next, like ants from a hill. The Captain stopped, making sure her soldiers were clear, throwing one last glance to the Hammer, letting that proud smile cross her face, and she pulled her Homeguard cap tight onto her blonde hair. With that, she fled the building as well, and the laptop alone kept time, ticking for zero.

As that inexorable clock struck five seconds, a mechanical arm pulled the loaded prism cylinder into the focusing chamber of the Hammer, a few milligrams of Deuterium and Tritium loaded inside. This small amount was enough only to cause minimal damage on the scale normally spoken of in reference to them, a mere equivalent to a five thousand pound bomb, enough to flatten a city block, but not a strategic strike.

That was a waste, then, for to create the release of energy needed in fusion, one needed a powerful fission device, a multi-kiloton warhead. Adding a few milligrams of fusible material to that reaction would be like whispering into a scream or painting blue on black. To get the clean power of fusion, one needed the bulky, massive, radioactive waste of fission, for nothing else could deliver enough heat and pressure to start the fusing.

Perhaps.

The capacitor discharged, the coils breaking, the current flowing to new locations, the half-powered emitter flushing to full power, the Hammer energizing. The heavy ion beam lanced from the back of the chamber, slamming into the Deuterium/Tritium mixture. Magnetic fields hummed active compressing the expanding plasmas. The converging lasers scored into the ion blast.

Hydrogen became helium.

It was called a Pure Fusion, Clean Fusion, or Pure Hydrogen Warhead. Five times the yield of a similar amount of normal reactant, devoid of fallout or waste. There was only clean, pure fire, a blast of heat and shock and particle streams that laid waste to an entire city block… but no more. There was no fallout, no background radiation. The blast was small, different only in intensity from a conventional bomb, not in footprint or longevity. The ball of light consumed the warehouse and its surroundings, and the roiling ball of fire scorched the sky, the concussive wave shattering glass for a kilometer.

But the target was untouched, for this was not the Hammer. This was but the Forge, and the Hammer was still to be crafted. Some would call the Hammer a Teller Stovepipe, an X-ray Laser, or a Bomb-Pumped Laser, but the names were inconsequential compared to its power, for this was not a weapon intended for sub-orbital usage.

For as the Pure Fusion device vaporized itself, the energies expended, and their corresponding particles, found the path of least resistance… the rods and cones, chosen for their respective conductivities. The massive surge of energy, the force of a nuclear weapon, diverted into a Y-shaped beam, then lased into a singular force, a particle hammer of the entire band, stabbing out, punching through the wall, the streets, and into the target, and the mercenary Anvil.

Of course, the pure fire consumed the Bomb-Pumped Laser as well, but not before the lasing was complete, the beam fired. It was as if the Biblical Pillar of Fire had been laid out on its side, from warehouse to warehouse. From the sphere of power and light, the stream lanced, a visible column of light and heat, and brilliant corridor that cleaved through the empty streets and impaled the target.

The entire warehouse went up like matchsticks, the fire blasting matter away with sheer contempt, metal and wood and stone turning to coalescing particles and pure energy. The skeletal remains hung for a second, then vanished into the light. The beam didn’t halt or pause, and it stabbed into the abandoned Zobidov complex, reducing a swatch of land into a smooth, perfect canal.

Then the light faded, the horizontal starfire receded. The Forge was a crate, a smooth bowl of glass. The target was cinders. The east and west wings stood, somewhat, their skeletal, warped frames burning, the metal dripping liquid, the wood ash in the wind. The ground was a canal, and the building center was but a wisp of memory, preserved only in the perfect eternal shadows cast in the instant before immolation.

Over three hundred mercenaries died in that instant, with their opponents, a human Anvil that served only to hold them in place while this deity’s Hammer descended. The vapor and shadow were all that was left, and the combat seemed to freeze for an instant, the survivors blinded and deafened and burnt and paralyzed, the intact dead flash-fried or blasted with neutrons or smashed like dolls against the stones and walls, thrown from the blow of the shockwave that had leveled the next three warehouses in any direction from the Hammer’s path.

But this was only for a moment, for this was planned for the Mercenary units. The fodder expended, the better units filled from the flanks, tightening the noose on the building. Overhead, there was a roar, and four helicopters came from the sky, tens of soldiers, Adamarian soldiers, falling from ropes, into the ash and slag, seizing the center.

This was preposterous, a forbidden tactic, outlawed by nature. Nuclear shock warfare should not, could not happen, for fallout would kill the shock troops. But this was Pure Fusion, and the area was already clean.

Yet still, these were soldiers from a shattered nation, which had to subcontract its army! How could they have these skills? But they did, and they fast-roped into the combat zone, holding AN-94 rifles and UMP submachine guns, the cutting edge of East and West. These impossible professional soldiers moved through the wastes, sweeping their blasted foes with precision, grabbing the survivors and barking orders in the unspoken Mother Tongue of Adamaria.

The battle was clearly decided, and the Adamarian soldiers picked over the remains, gathering prisoners and binding them with Carboflex cord, stronger than catch-cable from aircraft carriers’ decks. These soldiers knew their business. Dawn was now breaking, and the morning revealed a changed landscape. It was a stunning victory for Adamaria, or whoever commanded this legion.

But for Basilisk, it was a sorry victory.

Bear scrambled through the smoking rubble as dawn rose in the East, his IWS slung onto his back, shoving through the checkpoints of governmental and police forces that had crawled up from the ground in the wake of the Hammer. He ignored the screams of the wounded mercenaries, and the protests of the guards, silencing them with glares and his pointed .500 S&W.

He crowned the last ridge, looking down onto the gathered squad, sitting about a campfire crafted from still smoldering steel and scavenged wood. In the center, Larson’s body lay, bloody and crumpled. Bear felt his stomach drop out, even though he’d known it was coming. Twelve years in this damn company, and it ends in this shithole country. He could feel a shaking in his body, perhaps sadness, perhaps rage.

He turned away, trying not to look, trying not to show the pain. Jesus Christ, you’re a professional. Friends die. But that was only partway true. Not like this, not like sheep, led to a slaughter to divert some attention, not as sacrifices. “We are not this cheap.” He whispered, and his hand flashed down to his side, to the hilt sticking from his belt.

He turned, spotting the Athyrian soldier being hauled away to the left, and he walked down the slope, his eyes cold. He turned to the Adamarian guards, shoving them aside, ignoring their calls to stop, and he bore down on the fallen man, still tied to the stretcher with Carboflex.

“You son of a bitch.” He stated, kicking the bound soldier. “You fucking bastards!” he snarled, hauling the stretcher up with one massive hand, looking the frightened man dead in the eyes. “You don’t kill my friends. You know what happens?” His other hand flashed to his side, hauling his hooked bush knife from his belt, the wicked foot-long blade and hooked end, the steel flashing in front of the man’s face, the clean weapon reflecting his fears. “I don’t know who shot him, so you’re gonna pay the price, mutha fucka.”

His arm reared back, the blade flashing, then rushed in, streaking for the man’s ear, but stopped, hovering, twitching, millimeters from the terrified soldier’s head. A hand gripped Bear’s forearm, stopping the disfiguring blow. Bear snarled and whirled, swinging the blade back to intercept the other man. But again, the hand stopped him, bracing his knife blade over his forearm. Bear was fast, but the other man was faster, spinning the sniper onto his back, leaving him glaring into the morning sun.

Colonel Gellar stared down at Bear, hands on his gunbelts, scowling down. “No, Bear.”

“Sir!” Bear exclaimed. “Larson’s… he’s…”

“I know.” Gellar stated softly, hauling the other mercenary to his feet. “But this man didn’t do anything.” He nodded to the bound soldier. “Don’t do anything stupid, because it won’t help.”

“Yes, sir… I know… it’s just… he was with us a long time. He was part of the core! After this time, it felt like we were invincible, like we couldn’t die. To go down like this…”

Gellar patted the other man on the back. “The others need you, Bear, you’re number two, now, no questions. There will be time for questions later.”

“I have plenty, sir.” Bear sheathed the blade, walking back to the watching mercenaries. “Show’s over… let’s take care of the dead.”

Gellar nodded approvingly, and he headed off to ask his questions.

It had been pure luck that Rostaijn had run straight to the Dogs Of War from the warehouse. He hadn’t had any idea where he was running to, and it had been with relief that he saw the familiar swinging sign above the doorway. As he stepped inside, a few people turned their heads and stared at him with vague recognition in their eyes. The alcohol had, however, clouded their memories, and so they turned back to their beverages unable to recall where they had seen this strange man with robes before.

Rostaijn stepped up to the bar, and it was a mere few seconds before the bartender ambled up to him.

“What’ll it be?” He was looking Rostaijn up and down, as if trying to figure out whether he was some kind of religious nut, or something along those lines at least.

“Do you have any rooms available?” He would never have normally asked a complete stranger to spend the night in his house, but on this occasion, he decided to make an exception.

“Rooms? This ain’t some sort of hotel, ya know. The only thing we got is the wine cellar really.”

“That’s fine. That’s all I need.” The bartender looked about to protest, but for some reason he seemed to find trust in this strange man. He knew his bottles were safe.

“Hmm…alright – but don’t you go looking for a night cap or nothing, ‘cause you won’t be getting one. Got that?” Rostaijn nodded his agreement (he wasn’t a big wine-drinker anyway), and the bartender beckoned him behind the bar. He led him down a flight of wooden steps into the cellar. It was dark, cold and a little damp – generally the right conditions for wine, but not so for a good night’s sleep. “Are you sure you want to stay down here?”

“Yes, I’m sure this will do for me, thank you.” The bartender gave him one more strange look before turning and going back up the stairs. A few seconds later he reappeared with a lit candle.

“Thought you might need it, that’s all.” Rostaijn expressed his gratitude again, and was once more left in peace, with only the candle for company. The first order of business was a short prayer of blessing to the God who had, once again, ensured he lived another day by telling him to get out of the warehouse area. He estimated it would be a few more minutes before it was totally destroyed. Sure enough, there was a loud explosion a few kilometers away about ninety seconds later. He could hear screams and shouts, and the sound of footsteps rushing outside to see what had happened. The bartender appeared once again.

“There’s been an explosion, down by the Zobidov Complex. A warehouse’s been totally destroyed!”

“Really? How very odd.” Rostaijn found it difficult to hide his unenthusiasm, but the bartender just took it to be another one of this man’s strange quirks. He went back upstairs, shaking his head, and Rostaijn could listen once more to the sounds of exclamation and fear above him. He almost found it soothing, and he drifted off to sleep with the sounds still echoing in his ears…

“Wake up, Ferevarco. Wake up!” He opened his eyes, and found himself no longer in the wine cellar of the Dogs Of War, but in a forest, white with snow apart from the occasional sight of brown or green from the trees and the ground. He tried to stand up, but found that he was already on his feet.

“Ah, you’re finally awake then. I thought I’d be standing here for hours.” Rostaijn looked towards the source of the voice, and found himself staring at the Aryan man he had seen in his vision earlier that day. He was about ten yards away from him, separated by a clear expanse of snow.

“Do you know who I am, Ferevarco?” The Aryan seemed to taunt him with his words, as if he knew more than he was letting on. Rostaijn was about to answer ‘no’ when a seemingly more plausible answer popped into his head.

“You are Gunnar Larson.” Larson looked a little surprised at his response, but soon regained his calm composure.

“So, you do know who I am. Then again, I would expect it from somebody like you.” He held out his arms and spun around, as if showing off the forest to Rostaijn. “Welcome to the forest of the netherworld. It’s a little chilly for my liking, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they, Ferevarco?” He turned and looked Rostaijn straight in the eyes, making the distance between them seem minimal. “Perhaps a more difficult question. Do you know why you are here?” Rostaijn had no answer to this question, and his silence said it all.

“Come now, Ferevarco. If I know why we are both here, surely you do too.” Another bout of silence made Larson chuckle to himself. “Oh dear, you really don’t know, do you? Perhaps I should enlighten you. We’re both very similar, you and I.” He sat on a tree stump – this was going to be a long story.

“You remember when you first went into the Dogs Of War? You saw that jug, and everything suddenly became clear to you, didn’t it, Ferevarco? You saw it all – the cards, the weapons, Nexlon. Now, that’s a name you’re familiar with, isn’t it? I bet you’re dying to know who he is. Or maybe you’re just dying.” This made Larson laugh so much that he almost fell of his stump. “Well, don’t expect to get it out of me. You’ll find out when the time is right, that I can assure you. Right now, you have more pressing matters at hand, such as how on earth you are going to get out of here. That’s something else you shouldn’t expect to get out of me, not just yet anyway. We have so much to catch up on first. Let’s get back to the story, shall we?”

“So, you had your little vision, only it didn’t go quite according to plan, did it? You were found out…by me. I had a vision too, you know. I saw you, you saw me, we saw each other. I didn’t know who you were then, but now I know. Now I know exactly who you are. Do you know how I know? I’ll tell you, shall I? It seems I’m not the only one with a very big friend around here. And my friend doesn’t like your friend. No, not even in the slightest. Do you have any idea who I’m talking about?” There was suddenly a huge pain in Rostaijn’s head. He fell to the ground, screaming in pain. It felt just like ‘that day’, only much worse. This was somebody who really didn’t like him. It was torture. Larson walked the ten yards to Rostaijn’s writhing figure, and started to circle him whilst he talked.

“You see, Ferevarco. Everybody has enemies – even the big guy upstairs. It’s just a shame for you that you chose to side yourself with the weaker of those two enemies. You picked wrong, and I got the better one. You remember ‘that day’, don’t you Ferevarco? You remember how you felt the pain, the pain that you had caused to others, and the feeling that you had to put it all right? Well, guess what? I had ‘that day’ too. Only my day was spent with someone else. We talked a bit, and I decided to change my life for him. I spent the rest of my days bending to his will, just like you have done up until now. And you know what? We were used, both of us. You were told that you were doing this to save yourself? I was told the same thing. But now, I have realised that we were both lied to. They weren’t doing this for us. They were doing it for themselves. They both knew this day was coming, and they needed to pick people to represent them. We were those people, or should I say pawns. Ever since ‘that day’ we have been preparing ourselves, mentally and physically, for this meeting. We just didn’t know it. We blindly followed orders like lambs to the slaughter, and now we’ve ended up here – together. This is it for us, Ferevarco. This is what we have lived for – this final meeting. Once this is over, it’s all over. There’s no going back. You realise what I am saying, don’t you?” The pain in his head finally subsided, and he was able to nod. As he got to his feet, Larson drew out a pistol from his belt.

“A fight to the death, Ferevarco. That is what I am saying. This is the fight to end all fights. This is good against evil. God against Satan. One will triumph and the other will die. It is as simple as that. Do not look so worried, Ferevarco. The result has already been written. Would you like me to tell you, or would you rather keep it a surprise?” Rostaijn unsheathed his blade – he wished he would never have to use it in battle, but knew that on this occasion, he would have to.

“Why not keep it secret. I’ve always liked a good challenge.” Rostaijn was surprised at the words coming out of his mouth, for they were not his. His hands moved as if with a life of their own, and his blade slashed the air with a satisfying sound. He knew that God was in charge of his body now.

“So have I Ferevarco, so have I. Are you ready? We’ll begin in three, two, one…DRAW!

As the light of the dawn shone through the windows of the tavern, it joined the artificial lighting in illuminating a sorry sight.

Jant was sitting at the bar, nearly asleep, dozens of empty cans around him, each with a different label.

Samuel was sitting in a corner, Jason next to him, although there was one vital difference between the two. Samuel was staring at his arm, the flesh bright red and and flaking, like some sort of sunburn.
Jason, on the other hand, wasn't staring at anything, except space. The bright flash had blinded him for a while, and his vision was still fuzzy, so everything was just a blur.

The three men had driven back here to rest, since it was the only place they really knew, even though Samuel hadn't actually been in yet.

All three had spent the night awake, drinking, and consuming the occasional energy pill to keep alert. They had tried to find if there were any rooms, but the closest they had was the cellar, and that was already taken, so now they were sitting out here at the bar, resting, completely unaware of the man of god they would soon meet.

Nexlon sighed as he sat around the small campfire with the rest of Basalisk, save Bear, looking at Larson's nearly decapitated body. He recalled the flash of light, the power that came out of the hammer. Against a weapon like that, what good were swords? Nexlon felt slightly like the team and himself were mis-used pieces in a derranged game of chess. Instead of the players using Basalisk like the Knight it was, it was used as a pawn. What was happening here?

Nexlon stood up and walked around, examining the wounded and dead. Where was the Vampire they were looking for? He didn't really care that much about the prey; He no longer felt the Predator. Larson had been a good man, even if Nexlon had known him for that long. He saw Bear try to slay a soldier, but he was stopped by another man who flipped him like a rag doll. Bear and the other man had a short chat, then the sniper headed in Nexlon's direction.

"Thanks for your help during the fight," He said to Bear as he drew level with the large man. He pointed at the man who had flipped Bear.

"Who was that man?" He asked.

Shaun looked at the map of the city again. The Archives were suppose to be up near the Captiol, in the center of town. He was driving a rented VW Beetle, trying to find his way around town. He passed a checkpoint that looked remarkably new compared to the rest of the city.

He looked through the windshield and spotted a large building, which looked neglected, in bad need of repair, and a fresh coat of paint. He parked and walked up the long flight of stairs, up to the landing. He paused slightly and looked up at one of the columns. Chirst it's huge, maybe taller than a redwood.

Shaun walked to doors and was stopped by two soldiers AK-102s. Shaun put his hands against the wall and let one pad him down while the other searched his briefcase. Shaun had left his pistol in the car, not finding anything on him the guards let him pass.

Shaun walked through the massive doors and marveled at the vastness of the lobby, he walked to the marble desk where a young woman of thirty sat.

"ID please." She said, Shaun gave it to her, she looked it over, entered it into her computer. "Okay Mr. Taggert, you can do whatever research you like in the main archives, but stay out the Secure or Forbidden areas."

"Okay."

Shuan walked through another set of doors into a massive libary two stories tall. Putting his stuff down on a table Shaun looked at the rows of books. He was hoping to find a clue here about the Castle, and the strange nosies and things seen out on the plains.

Lets see what they got.

Had he the time to think, Rostaijn would have noted that there was a major advantage to Larson in that he had a gun whilst he had a blade. Unfortunately, time was one thing he had none of. As Larson fired his first shot, Rostaijn had to dive behind the nearest tree to avoid being hit.

“It’s no use hiding, Ferevarco. I’ve got an almost unlimited amount of ammo here – certainly enough to kill you at any rate.” As if to prove his point, Larson started to shoot wildly at the tree. None of the shots were intended to hit Rostaijn; they were just to show him that he had ammo to burn. After several shots had been fired, he could hear the distinct clicking noise that goes with reloading a gun.

“Don’t even think about coming for me whilst I’m unarmed – it wasn’t meant to be that way, so shall it not be.” Something in Rostaijn was resisting the temptation to go out and kill him now – God wanted this to be a fair battle. Besides, another idea had popped into his mind. Slowly he began to climb the tree in a manner that Larson could not possibly see him doing so. As he reached the highest point possible, he looked down to see Larson talking to the tree, as if he was still behind it.

“Okay, I’m ready. Shall we go again?” He stood with his legs apart, gun clasped in both hands, and aimed at the tree, waiting for even the slightest movement. Slowly, so as not to prompt Larson to look up, Rostaijn moved out onto a sturdy branch. As he began to walk across it, a gust of wind almost blew him off. Failure now would mean certain death. He regained his balance, and continued his tightrope act. He slowly edged his way along the branch, inch by inch, until he had almost reached the end. By now the branch was bending – it was not going to be long before the whole thing snapped off, sending him plummeting to the ground fifty feet below. He needed to act fast. He noticed a similar branch running almost parallel to his from a tree directly in front of him. Very carefully, he lifted his right foot off the branch and placed it on the other. The bending got worse, and Rostaijn estimated he had five seconds left before the branch snapped. He eased his left foot slowly off the branch relieving the pressure and making the branch spring back into its normal position.

As it did so, a solitary leaf that had managed to stay on the branch despite the cold weather finally gave up the ghost and started to flutter towards the ground. Another strong gust of wind blew it in the direction of the waiting Larson, and it drifted to the ground just in front of his eyes. Immediately Larson drew his gun up and let off a few shots. Life had taught him to trust his instincts, and to never disregard a solitary leaf. On this occasion however, it did seem to just be the wind, as there was no sign of anybody above him. He returned his gaze to the tree, still a little suspicious of the leaf. Slowly he crept towards the tree, keeping his gun up at all times. As he reached the tree he put his back against it, trying to detect a heartbeat from the other side. He felt nothing, and as he jumped out and round to the other side he saw nothing either.

“Very good, Ferevarco,” he shouted out loud. “It seems I may have underestimated you a little. You are a skilled man indeed. Unfortunately for you, fate appears to be on my side. I will find you and you will not live to see the sunrise.” He moved back out into the clearing. He aimed randomly, for in truth he had no idea where Rostaijn was. He had dealt his hand, and was now being found lacking. He did not see the dark shape rise behind him, or the blade raised above his head, ready to end his life.

Behind you, you fool!

As Larson spun around and shot blindly, Rostaijn ducked and swung his blade at his legs. In one move the blade sliced through him, and with a scream of pain, Larson fell backward, his body now separated from his legs below the knee.

The gun fell a few feet away, and Rostaijn kicked it out of Larson’s reach. As he stood over Larson, he felt pity and remorse for the man he had surely just killed. He had a matter of minutes left, and Rostaijn wanted him to die in peace. As he turned to walk away, Larson called out to him.

“I never stood a chance! The result had already been written. You were destined to kill me.” At this, Rostaijn turned back and crouched at Larson’s side.

“I make my own destiny, Gunnar.” Larson laughed croakily at this.

“Yes, I see that now. Ferevarco, there is something I must tell you before I go.” Rostaijn tried to stop him talking, but Larson waved him silent. “No, this is important, listen to me. Ever since ‘that day’ I’ve been a slave – a pawn in battle, a cog in a big machine. I’ve lived for the life of others, never for myself. What kind of a life is that? You didn’t kill me – I was already dead!”

“What happened to you, Gunnar? How could you have lost your way so badly?”

“That’s a question I’ve often perused myself. It must have started when I was in the military. I was on the battlefield – which one? I can’t remember…I had been on so many, they all sort of blurred into one. I was on the battlefield, and a bomb exploded just behind me. I got a piece of shrapnel in the back…almost killed me…would have done had it not been for Gellar.”

“Gellar?” Rostaijn hadn’t heard the name before.

“My superior. He saved my life out there. We met again a few years later…he took me into his unit. He was like a father to me. I climbed the military ladder quickly thanks to him…I was soon in charge of a squadron…Basilisk. It’s was ten…long…years, but I was still there. My men were good you see, all of them. Bear…Slick…Finne…Tchuveski. Even Nexlon, although I hadn’t known him for too long” The name set off alarm bells in Rostaijn’s head.

“Nexlon…who is this Nexlon?”

“What? Ah yes…you’ve heard the name before I believe. He’s really a lot like you…even down to your choice of weapon. He joined the team just before the last mission…in the pub, surely you know of it…you were there after all. Anyway, that’s off the point. The Basilisks became revered. We were feared throughout the land. With the right equipment, and the right money, of course, we could do anything…nothing was impossible for us. We did a lot of jobs. Mostly taking people out, but sometimes the odd kidnapping or two. We never failed, that was what made us so respected. That’s why they chose us for this job…my final task.”

“Adamaria,” Rostaijn finished the sentence for him.

“Yes…Adamaria. We weren’t the only ones you know. They hired scores of mercenary groups just like ours…but none were as powerful or as respected as us. They gave us the best paid assignments every time. They never told us why, or how to do it…they just told us to and gave us the equipment. We’d take them out or kidnap them, whichever they wanted, handed them over and got the money.”

“Who’s the contact?”

“I…don’t know. Gellar acted as the middle man. He took the target and gave us the money…and we were satisfied with that. We never questioned what we were doing…we just did it.”

“Did what, exactly?”

“Exactly…usually…our target would be Xenos…meta-humans…freaks! Whatever you want to call it. The rarer the species, the more we got paid. It was like the game…got to catch them all…do you know of it?” Rostaijn didn’t, and reassured himself that he didn’t particularly want to either. “We would let the Xenos lose on some weak mercenaries…observe their strengths…identify their weaknesses. Then we’d go in for the kill. They’d want some dead ones, but then they’d want some taken alive…that was always harder to do. Other times they’d want us to keep civilians out of certain areas of Adamaria…they call them containment areas. They told us to tell them…it was unsafe…nuclear fallout and all that…they just didn’t want to run the risk of people seeing the Xenos, or the takedown. That was something they were adamant about. It wasn’t often we got this type of job. Most of the time it was just private investigators, too curious for their own good. They’d end up infected and we’d have to kill them…simple as that. The last task was…a little different…strange.”

“How so?”

“A number of things…we were told to get a vampire, even though we had been previously told there was no need to worry about them anymore. The whole thing was on a large-scale. Usually things are kept between a few, but this was a massacre. The Adamarian units that showed up…they’ve never done that before. And…and…the Hammer…”

“The Hammer?”

“A weapon…a weapon of sheer destruction. They shouldn’t have a weapon like that…it’s not possible. They can’t even form a police force…how could they afford a weapon as powerful as that?”

“Do you think someone could be funding them?”

“Who knows? There was a lot of expensive equipment this evening…lot of NovaGen…could they be involved? A deal…between the government and NovaGen perhaps. Protection for new technology…”

“Protection? Protection from what?”

“I don’t know. NovaGen makes a lot of illegal products. Maybe the government is hiding them from international security in return for first hand at some of the products…You must find out what is going on here, Ferevarco. I can still help you. One of the reasons we were told to keep civilians out of the containment zones is so that they don’t wonder too close to Castle Kugel. Something big is going on there. That’s where you need to go.”

“I trust I’m not going to be allowed in through the front door.”

“Yes…I’m afraid the ground is heavily guarded. There is…another way…a secret passage into the dungeons. Come closer…I will whisper its location to you.” Rostaijn bent down and listened carefully to the passage’s location. As he straightened up, Larson screamed in anguish and clutched at his chest.

“I haven’t much longer left. There is one last thing I must tell you. On ‘that day’, you spoke to God. I spoke to Satan. We spoke of choices, and how we've both made them. Some people, like yourself, have that explosive reaction, that lightning bolt of knowledge. I wasn't given that chance, Ferevarco, I wasn't given a moment to choose..." Larson glanced at the frozen earth, "My choices were slow and almost casual, apathy over care and loyalty over compassion. My damnation was accumulated day to day, as I slowly weighed the balance with my deeds, all the while lying and saying my care to friends was enough."

He grew pained, his voice breaking, "I never wanted to hurt them... anyone! This was my life, my runaway train, and I dared not pull the brakes... that was my choice, my choice to not get off before the wreck, my choice to ignore the signs..." he stopped, his face clearing, his eyes sorrowful. "Perhaps I shall earn my repentance, for mine were crimes of weakness and arrogance, not of intent. Perhaps, I can hope." A pitiful smile crossed his face.

"Ferevarco, I don't tell you these things out of sheer generosity. It is from regret and remorse, and from a request."

“A request? I’ll do all I can, Gunnar.”

"You want to save these people and save yourself? I would add a burden, Ferevarco, a burden I could not carry. Save my family, my friends. I gave you names! Bear and Gellar, Finne, Tchuveski, Slick... Noboko and Sun... and yes, my new pal Nex. Save them, Ferevarco, and stop them from this suffering. Save them, and you'll retain my knowledge."

“Once I’ve stopped the government, that’s the end of it all – my conscious will have been cleared. This burden is too much for me to carry.”

“Do it, Ferevarco. Why stop at neutral…go on and make your life good again. Save my friends…and you can join your God in heaven. Who’s to say you won’t revert back to your old ways?” He knew that Larson was right. He didn’t know if he could restrain himself unless he had something positive to do. Was he that mentally strong?

“My time is near, Ferevarco. I have one last thing to say. I’ve been a pawn all my life, but I’ve never been a bad man at heart. I was following orders…always following orders. I didn’t enjoy it…it paid the bills, but that was where the good ended. I want to be remembered as a good man, Ferevarco…a good man…” Larson gave his final breath, and was dead.

“God give you rest, Gunnar.” Rostaijn gave up a prayer and was about to walk away when he remembered the amulet. He took it from and around his neck and placed it on Larson’s chest. “You need it more than me.” As he walked away, a mist descended on the forest until nothing could be seen through it…

He woke up to find himself back in the cellar of the Dogs Of War. Had it been a dream? No – the amulet was gone. So Larson really was dead, and that meant an additional mission – save the Basilisk. Rostaijn offered a final prayer before climbing the steps to the bar area, where he was greeted with another blast from the past.

"-A giraffe if you've got a stool, but a hedgehog can't be buggered at all!"

Samuel was currently busy dancing on a table, singing about the good fortune of hedgehogs the world around, with Jason, his vision finally restored, busy signing backup and clapping a vague attempt at the beat.

Jant continued slumping over the bar, now awake enough to continue drinking. At the moment, his drinking budget was going to make the tavern owner a very, very rich man.

Samuel's singing slowly ground to a halt though as Rostaijn appeared before him, apparently as surprised as he was.

Jason continued clapping the beat and singing, apparently completely unaware of Samuel's lack of support in the song, his momentum still going thanks to the insane amount of alchol he had managed to consume, even if it didn't rival Jant's excessive expenditure in intoxicants.

"Y...You! You bashtard! I'm having a good night out with me friends, and ye just bloody come in, and fucking ruin it all! I mean, ye didn't even kill that fuckin' nun! How fucking hard is it to kill a bloody nun! All they fucking dae' is pray to fucking god every fucking day! How hard can they be to kill, eh ya pussy!?"

Jason, although still singing, interspered his chorus with bursts of laughter at the apparent insulting of this newcomer, although he did wish he could just join in the song....

"-And an elephant if you watch out for the legs, but a hedgehog can't be buggered at all!"

This wasn't exactly the sort of thing Rostaijn needed after killing somebody in a mist-covered forest. He vaguely remembered this drunken man from his distant past, and the mention of a nun helped to jog his memory. Of course, he wasn't feeling especially tolerant at the moment, and felt like ramming his blade down Samuel's oesophagus, turning it several times and then retracting it with something reminiscent of an organ kebab. He decided, however, that this probably wasn't the best course of action to take.

"I don't have time for this." He made his way around the counter and headed for the door to the street. "How the hell am I going to save the Basilisk without them killing me first?"

Samuel jumped off the table and lurched over to Rostaijn, knocking a few chairs aside, and twirled him around by the shoulders to face him, breathing directly in Rostaijn's face with the breath being capable of being used as a biological weapon.

"Naw! Lishen here ya bashtard! You fucshing didnae' kill that nun! I want a fucshing refund ya cowardly git!"

Samuel attempted to pull his concealed pistol out, but only succeeded in sending his own elbow into his face, knocking him unconscious, leaving him lying in a heap on the floor, snoring gently.

Jant looked over at him, little dots most likely filling his vision.

"Oi mate, ye might as well give him 'is monay! No point no holding yer end o' the agreement if he's even paid ye! A refund is the least ye could...could...."

Jant stopped for a second, eyes crossed slightly, before finishing off his sentence.

"Could do fur 'im! Aye!"

Jant, apparently pleased to have finished his speech, celebrated by immediately slumping over the bar.

Rostaijn stared at the pitiful sight in front of him. A refund was probably the least he could do, but he didn't want to just leave the money here, where anybody could just take it. He would have to wait for them to wake up, which meant spending more time in the bar and less time finding that secret passage. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have to be so good."

“Amazing…” Dr. Zemph stated, pushing back on his nose, almost as if to adjust glasses he no longer wore. “Truly amazing!”

Chief Kuzin grimaced, leaning back against the wall. His security forces were stationed throughout the control room, as well as the chambers near the laboratory where Travis was being held. The scientists had learned not to be bothered by the gun-wielding guards, but they still looked down on them. In return, the guards tended to view the scientists as “eggheads” and distrusted many of the experiments. As if on cue, one of the Sergeants replied to Zemph with a grunt, “This better not be anything dangerous.”

But Zemph ignored the guard and walked up behind another of the scientists. “These results are incredible, the adaptive structure, the breakdowns… when he went liquid, he maintained integrity, so the cells must retain some degree of function and placement, so with the dual purposes-” Zemph cut himself off as a hard hand landed on his shoulder. Turning slowly, the scientist faced Kuzin, who was simply looking at him impassively, an eyebrow raised.

“Doctor, please.” Kuzin stepped back, stating coolly, “I have a duty to protect this facility, so please, explain to me what is going on.”

“Ah, yes, my apologies, Chief.” The scientist again adjusted those glasses he didn’t wear. “Well, you saw the way he turned to water, and the way he reconstructed his human form. We scanned the whole thing, and I can give you several valuable pieces of information. Number one, in human form, his body functions as a normal person’s. Number two, in water form, he retains integrity, albeit in a changed form. As such, he is still a connected, intact entity composed of the same cells. Three, when he returns to human form, the cells re-assume their old roles. As such, a cell in a leg muscle will be dispersed from its companions in the water form, but will return to its old location when he regains human form. If a cell is at point A when he transforms, when he comes back, it will return to point A.”

Kuzin nodded, “So, he has to maintain his body, he can’t just regenerate on a whim. Likewise, we can still damage him in water form by disrupting or dislocating the dispersed but intact cells.”

“Precisely.” Zemph turned back to his display. “His cells seem to hold two sets of coding, one for human functions, and the other for a loose “cloud” in a water-form. The question is which is the default programming, which one he will revert to if taken by shock.”

Kuzin put forth a question, “Doctor, you say he retains function in water form. Is this a swarm-type organism? Does he think in distributed logic?”

Zemph smiled, appreciating the security chief’s intellect. At least their commander isn’t an incompetent. Why, if he’d gone to a university, he might even be a good assistant. “No, Mr. Kuzin, he still has a centralized thinking pattern, one that functions just like ours. His brain still functions normally in human form, and in the water form, it would be a much more simplistic, animalistic move-defend-react structure as opposed to some sort of massively parallel thinking process.” He sighed, “So, no distributed brain, unfortunately.”

Some other guard in the room added, “Thank God.” Zemph glared at the soldier.

Kuzin nodded curtly. “Have we gotten enough info to defend ourselves?”

“Presumably, yes. Those horrid MANTIS weapons do seem to be the most effective, although traditional ballistics will work, especially in human form, as damage would transfer across forms. Also, some sort of polar armor, like the suits in the Secure Zones, might be reconfigured to keep him from invading a body.”

“And the ability to effect water remotely? How did he do that?”

“We’re still formulating theories. We’ll continue to process our data, and inform you as soon as we can.”

“That’s good. I’ll tell President Aurelli how you’re doing.” Kuzin departed the room.

Zemph turned to his console and pressed the intercom key, letting his voice ring into the high-security chamber holding Travis. “Hello, my water-borne friend. My name is Doctor Zemph, and I wish to know a little about you. Who are you, and what is your story?”

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Bear turned back to Nexlon, his breath puffing in the frigid air of dawn. “No problem.” He turned to the down slope, “That was the Colonel, Basilisk Commander, Pops… his name is Dex Gellar.” The big rifleman pulled out a set of field glasses and pointed them down at the tents where Gellar had gone. He watched Adamarian soldiers mill about, and the high security. “He’s going to get us some answers, and I almost pity the poor bastards who try to stop him.”

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Gellar stormed past the first guard, the second, the third, and finally the checkpoint, walking right into the tent compound that had been erected in the clearing between the capital and Zobidov. Three more guards, these armed, stepped in front of him, pointing their weapons at his chest. Their eyes were clear and cold, and they did not shake or shiver like most of the soldiers in this nation.

The first spoke, looking up at the mercenary commander, “Mr. Gellar, I’m afraid you can’t go any further.”

“Oh?” Gellar asked, his voice quiet and smooth. “And why not?”

“General Tempkov is holding a conference right now, and no one may interfere.” The soldier spoke tersely, but he was pulling back slightly from Gellar’s presence.

Tempkov? I though he was dead. “I don’t care who he is talking to. My men just got used as fodder for the cannons, and now I want to know why. And I will find out!” Gellar snarled, and the guards recoiled slightly before regaining composure, jabbing their rifles into his chest.

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave this premise, or we will kill you.” The guard commanded.

But from behind the guards, standing in the flapping tent doors, stood a bearded older man, his Slavic features cut by cold and harsh living. “Don’t be so rude to this man. His valiant efforts have made our return so much easier.” The bearded man waved, and the guards lowered their weapons. “Come, Colonel, and we will discuss.” He motioned to follow, and entered the tent.

The soldiers lowered their weapons and parted to let Gellar follow the General. Gellar did so, glaring at the soldiers as he passed, but his mind was running through the new scenario he was facing. Tempkov was an old Adamarian warhorse, an officer in the old Soviet Army who defected when the CCCP collapsed. He returned to Adamaria, taking with him a massive military force and top of the line equipment. He used his firepower and clout to negotiate Adamaria’s freedom from the Union, but he was trying to carve out a military junta in its place. Members of the civilian government cut deals with the falling Soviets and had Tempkov eliminated… or so it had seemed.

Gellar didn’t like this new direction. Tempkov was a firebrand, a nationalist, and a barbarian in war. At least it made sense, that last mission… the units devastated by the Hammer had shared one trait: they were the backup units that had held Basilisk’s torch for the Capture missions. They were foreigners, mercenaries, and witnesses to whatever scheme Tempkov had hatched with NovaGen and the government. This was a cleanup.

Gellar tensed, ready to go down in a blaze of glory as he entered the tent. However, there was no firefight, only the bearded old general sitting at a temporary desk, pouring vodka. Tempkov laughed out loud then, throwing back his head and barking out a chortle, “Relax, Colonel, I have no ill will. Your efforts have made my return easier!” He proffered a glass. “Drink?”

Gellar didn’t want one, but he wasn’t going to insult Tempkov, not here, “Thank you, General.”

Tempkov passed the glass and raised his own, declaring, “To victory.” Then he tossed the drink back and slammed the empty glass onto the table. He faced Gellar again, “You’re probably wondering why I brought you here, since I don’t want to destroy you.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Gellar declared.

“I am grateful to you. If not for your help, I could not have gotten the money needed to return to Adamaria and rebuild my units. For that, and for your caution to spare my brothers and sisters in this nation, I am willing to reward you.” He poured a new glass. “Most of these units were but criminals, no better than the subhuman scum that they hunted. To cleanse them from this land was a great deed, and to take them out with the last vestige of the subhuman influence was a poetic justice, turning two wrongs into a right.”

“And my men?”

“Not intended casualties, my friend. You are a soldier, you know that death happens, and we can but face it and press onward.” Tempkov slammed back his next drink. “And we will press onward. I would offer you one last symbolic contract, Colonel. Your men will join with mine in providing security to a meeting I have arranged. In a day, I will meet with the leaders of this nation, and we shall discuss plans to rebuild. All who aided this will be present, from your unit to my own guards and the police of this city.”

“I’ll need to think about this.” Gellar stated coolly, downing his own vodka.

“Of course, just show up in dress uniforms if you wish to attend. If not, simply leave this nation, and we’ll never speak a word of it.”

Gellar stood, nodding to the General. “Thank you for the drink.” He left the room.

Travis spun his liquid body about, which still held the form of a human body, mostly so that his examiners could study him as they wished with easier accuracy. He had been listening to every word spoken by anyone and everyone. They were fools, the lot of them. They thought that by being in a separate room, merely set apart by a three inch thick glass wall, would allow them total privacy for conversations.

He spun upside down, then brought himself to bear in front of the glass window that was the same that the doctor was peering through. His face leveled with the doctor's own, a slight scowl seen on his face. He spoke, telepathically of course; First of all, Doctor Zemph; I do not appreciate being treated by yourself as a mere child. I will not tolerate that. You want my cooperation? Show me the same respect you demand from others.

Doctor Zemph, taken aback slightly, merely nodded in understanding. The soldiers behind him, especially the one known as Sargeant Kuzin, shifted their weapons, tightening their grips on the stocks and trigger guards.

Travis glared at all of them, noting the uncertanity in their faces, and merely smiled inwardly. Even with all they've figured out, they still know little of what I can do...

First of all, Doctor, I wish to express a little flaw in your experiments. You said that projectiles can hurt me while in my water state. I disgress, for the effect is the same as a rock sinking in a lake. It merely displaces the water; myself; before the water returns to its former position. Thus, as such, this allows myself an incredible armor ability, with low cost of anything. The only thing that retains my form to keep together and not disperse by equilibrium is the properties of heavy water, as I believe I've heard you mention while talking to another of your associates.

The doctor's face nodded ferverently as he scribbled down notes in nearly illegible font on his clipboard, listening intently to every word of Travis's lecture in his mind. He would have to share this as soon as he could with his fellow doctors.

And now to answer your questions you originally asked. My name is Travis O'neill. I am twenty-one years of age, and have lived alone since the age of ten. My parents and sister, murdered. Their deaths were avenged, by myself. It took me several years to hunt down the murderers, but as they say, "what goes around, comes around".

The doctor broke in, much to Travis's annoyance, "So...you're a murderer?"

Yes.

"How many men did you kill?" he pursued, immediately getting an alarmed look from the guards nearby.

Fifteen. I killed the murderers, the gang to which they claimed to be part of, and their families. Never would I let such a distastefully ruinous stain of humanity live ever again.

The doctor whistled with raised eyebrows, "Fifteen...well, I hope those were the last kills you have committed."

Not at all. Since then, I have made it my mission to be the Avenger, the one to be feared in the shadows, in the light, anywhere and everywhere. I kill only as I see fit, and that is only when justice is called. Sometimes, justice must come before the courts' decisions... To date, I have eliminated exactly three hundred and twenty-six individuals, including the original fifteen.

Travis looked over at the sargeant standing closest to the doctor, reading over his shoulder at the notes, trying to decipher them. He turned his translucent eyes back to the doctor.

I have no home. I have no family. I am one, and I am none. I do as I please, yet I also can work with others, if the situation presents itself.

I am who I am. Take it or leave it. I care not. Any other questions?

Jant, apparently unconscious on the bar, immediately rose up, facing Rostaijn the entire time, all traces of drunkeness gone.

"Listen, you look a bit uneasy about having to stay here, so i'll just quickly ask two things. First, where are you needing to be going, and can our motley little crew tag along?"

Jant smiled at the surprised look on Rostaijn's face. Most people never expected Jant's little Drunkeness Act, but a bottle of RU-21 and Anti-Ethanol 07 worked wonders every time.

Rostaijn was, unusually, caught off-guard by the sudden awakening of Jant. What sort of alcohol do they put in drinks nowadays?

"Well, I...er...wasn't exactly planning on a public expedition...I just wanted to give Samuel the money I owe him. But come to think of it, I could use some company...life does get a little lonely sometimes. I'm going to the castle up by the forest - apparently they're doing some sort of experiments up there...you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

If this was a cartoon, a little lightbulb would have appeared above Jant's head and lit up, but all that happened was that he smiled.

Experiments, eh? This might be interesting....

"Sure, I know a bit. But I haven't been up there to check my information. I'll go up with ya, and i'll take Samuel and Jason with me."

Jant stood up, stretching, and walked over to the inert and snoring Samuel, before kneeling beside him, turning him over, and inserting a handful of pills into his mouth, before tilting his chin up.

Jant stood up again and walked over to Jason, forcing him to swallow another handful of pills, and his singing quickly stopped as the fast-acting pills took effect.

Dammit, these things are my own brand. I better not have to use too many of 'em up....

Jant turned round to face Rostaijn as Jason blearily stood beside him, the effects of the alchol already gone, and saw Samuel, sitting upright, complaining of queasyness, before vomiting all over the floor. Behind him, Jason was beginning to do the same.

Yup. Get's rid of the alchol still in the system, and clears the mind in a second. Gotta love it, even if the vomiting 'aint too hygenic.

"Well, they'll be puking for a little minute, but apart from that they'll be fine. So, wanna use our car? It's out the front of the tavern, and it's better than walking to the castle."

Tristan kneeled along with the other prisoners, his suit damaged beyond any recognition and nothing showing on his falsely tanned face. The overcast day he could ignore, and as there was no sign of cloud breaking he should be fine here, pretending to be just another minor Athyrian. They had bound his hands with the usual devices - something to hold a human or a newly-turned, but nothing to the older being. He was content to wait it out, and get revenge on those who had fought him.

But of most interest to Tristan was whether or not anyone would go to investigate the ruined offices...looking for valuable documents or secret exchanges.

Whatever they looked for suited him - but would be an unpleasant surprise for those who looked inside. It had taken only moments to ensure that the connections were still functional in all the surviving rooms - something he could do without even being near them.

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave your car here for now. We're not going to the castle, we're going back downstairs, into the cellar." Rostaijn let the news sink in before continuing.

"The route overground is heavily guarded - there's no way we can get to the castle by just walking up to the front door. I found out about a secret passage to the castle that starts in the cellar. We'll be using that to get there. It may not be comfortable, but it's safe. I'm leaving now - if you want to come just follow me." And with that, Rostaijn rose from the bar-stool, went around the counter and climbed down the stairs, where he was engulfed in darkness. I do love the ultimatum.

Jant watched calmly as Rostaijn walked down the stairs, then turned to his two men as they blearily watched Rostaijn walk into the darkness.

"Right you two, get some water. It'll clear out the taste. I'll go down with Rostaijn there at the moment, and you two follow once yer feeling alright."

Jason smiled as he heard this, and pulled a small, pen-like object out of his right trouser pocket.

"Here Boss. Yer gonna need it down there."

With that, Jason tossed the mini-maglite to Jant, before walking up to the bar for his glass of water.

Jant quickly ran out into the outside of the bar for a minute, before coming back in, various weapons strapped across him, and finally went down the steps after Rostaijn, a maniac grin on his face.

Both Jason and Samuel recognised the grin. Jant always seemed to get it when he was about to have fun.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out the wall of bottles at the far end of the cellar. He stepped up to the shelves and began to examine several bottles. He turned one of the bottles - the one in the top-right hand corner - clockwise roughly ninety degrees, and as he did so, a faint whining noise could be heard behind the wall. Next he picked one two down from the top and three from the left. He turned this 180 degrees, and again, the faint whining noise could be heard. Finally he turned the middle bottle anticlockwise ninety degrees. As he stepped back, the wall started to vibrate, slightly at first, but then more forcedly. It moved forwards and to the right, revealing a dark passage behind it.

As the wall clicked into place, he could hear someone coming down the stairs. As he turned, he saw Jant carefully making his way down the final step with a pen and what looked like a military arsenal.

"You shouldn't need all that in my company," he said, but Jant ignored him - he seemed far away mentally.

Kuzin froze, his hand clenching on his sidearm, his other moving to the knife beneath his jacket, but he did not turn and open fire onto the compromised doctor, nor did he reach for the red button to kill the subject. “Talk to me, Doctor…” he stated coolly.

“Sir, the subject just started demonstrating psychic phenomena!” A technician stated. “I think it’s based along the standard electromagnetic spectrum, like remote imprinting-”

“I can see that.” Kuzin asked Zemph, watching the doctor and the test subject, his guards doing likewise. “Cut it.”

“Sir, that will kill-”

But Kuzin was facing Travis’ tank. “Break your connection, or I will cut it for you, and you won’t like the feedback.” He almost wished the Xenos would attempt to get into his head, just to run into the scramblers. NovaGen took no chances with its security forces, especially with many of the Xenos encountered. The scientists, however, were loathe to accept the implants, as they viewed it as crude.

Zemph breathed a sigh, and rapidly began to expound on his conversation. Kuzin listened slightly, and then commented to Travis, “That’s not a way to make friends. Either you stop being so offensive, or my boys will be forced to make the good doctors deal with a mere autopsy.”

One of the scientists called back from Zemph, “He’s okay, no damage or residual effects.”

Kuzin nodded curtly, “Good.”

Zemph spoke up then, addressing both Kuzin and Travis, “Please, take my barbaric colleague with a grain of salt. We are not here to hurt you, we are trying to help. We are scientists, doctors, trying to develop cures and aides for the world. Our work is humanitarian, and we are merely attempting to study rare and unique organisms for special insights.”

He paused, “You are one such, Travis. You can help us make the world better. What do you say?”

Kuzin merely watched, professionally alert, but bearing no malice.

The explosion billowed from the nearly vaporized warehouse, and the sirens went off a second later, as bomb-squads and medics ran for the remaining rooms. On the ground, away from the secondary blasts and old traps, the Captain called Sarah walked the line of prisoners, escorted by more than twenty Homeguard soldiers, all of them wary. She held a piece of paper with faces on it, and she checked at each stop, inspecting each carboflex-restrained man and woman. There weren’t many, the Hammer had seen to that, but there were some.

She stopped at a man, kneeling with the others. She looked at him, then at the paper, and back at him. Her eyes met his, and she smiled. He offered back a cultured, wispy non-smile, as if letting her move first.

Sarah stopped, gave one curt nod, and two of the soldiers whipped their neurodart launchers to their shoulders, flinging the paralyzing darts into the target. The man seemed to sag slightly, but remained kneeling, his clear eyes cutting through the fog of the toxins. Sarah raised her hand, and the firing stopped. She spoke quietly, “This is Tristan. Take him to the tank.”

The soldiers grabbed the weakened, but not broken, man and began to take him towards the interrogation chamber, the entire squad still covering the half-paralyzed, tightly bound man, nervous as they should be, even with their Pain Beamers. Sarah watched them enter the armored prefab building, into the secure area. She smiled slightly, and went back to work.

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Gellar saw the soldiers as he left General Tempkov’s tent, and he eyes narrowed. Okay, pal, it’s time to chat. He strode down the hill, his powerful stride and intense look made others step aside, as if he belonged there. If I want to know why Tempkov’s back, I need to know who we were after. My guess is, that man being hauled into the intero-tank knows.

Gellar reached the door to the prefab compound, and the two guards stopped him. He nodded to both, then waited for a second before scowling. The two guards glanced to one another, and then back to him. His face grew darker, and he spat out in Adamarian, “Why the hell haven’t you saluted yet, you ungrateful pukes? We’re back in operation now, and you still think this is a candy-cane mission?”

“Uh, sorry… sir…” the first stammered, but the second looked hesitant. They still saluted though, so Gellar pushed his bluff, walking forward.

The second guard tried to impede his progress, and Gellar stopped dead, leveling an earth-shattering glare into the guard. “Do you have a problem, soldier?”

“Sir, this… is… it’s a restricted area.”

“Did you not see who sent me?” He motioned violently back to Tempkov’s tent. “You want to anger the General? He wants this prisoner worked over, and he wants my report! You’d better have a damn death wish if you impede me any longer!”

“Uh, yes, sir.” They let him pass.

Inside, Gellar rolled his eyes. The army was still fresh, and that trick would only buy him some time, for the guards would be wanting to check on him if he took very long. Fixing his officer’s glare again, he stalked through two more guard posts with the same gusto, arriving at the chamber.

Inside, a man in a ragged suit was bolted down to metal gurney with pure steel cuffs and rings every few inches, and an IV system was running into his arms. Two doctors turned to Gellar, and the guards began to turn. However, the radio beeped, and the guards nodded, stepping back into place, receiving external clearance.

Gellar stated, “Leave me.”

“Sir-”

Gellar glared. “Leave, soldier!” The guards folded out, followed by the doctors. Gellar glanced at the bound man, pacing towards the room’s microphone. He reached it and pressed his back to it, blocking the lasermic. With a heavy sigh, he turned to the prisoner and removed his hat, “Hey, pal, looks like people don’t like you too much. Don’t worry, the sound’s off… why don’t you tell me why you’re such a hot potato around here?”

He shrugged, “Oh, I’m Colonel Gellar, and I’m not here to interrogate you. I'm not even your enemy, I'm the poor sap used as bait to get you, and I want to know why my men were slaughtered."

Shaun was pouring over old newspaper clippings, notebooks, and photos. As he read, he found Gellar's story fit; but Shaun still wanted to look on his own. He picked up a photograph taken from a Russian Il2 Sturmovik, it showed dozens of Russian and German tanks and armored vehicles locked in a tight battle, black smoke obscured most of the picture, but he made out something behind the German tanks, just barely visible.

Shaun picked up a magnifying glass and looked closer, it was Castle Kugel. He counted five German trucks, apparently being loaded with something. Looks like the Nazis were just leaving. He put it down, wondering what could be loaded onto the trucks? He then sifted through the files on the Castle since the end of the war, the Russians had avoided it like the plague for a while. Before it was briefly used to house ammunition for Soviet tanks during the Cold War. The ammo was removed three months later, and the Castle was left to the ravages of time.

He picked up another book and skimmed through the pages till he reached a list of names of a team who looked at the Castle in 1994. Shaun picked up his cell and called them, as soon as 'Kugel' left his mouth, they hung up. Most strange.

Shaun stood and walked over to a large book case and scratched his head. The records from 1994-2006 were gone, just gone. Shaun sat back down and began to sift again, this time he found that the Castle had been deemed "off limits due to reactor leak". Shaun's mouth dropped open when he saw the next line:

Anyone caught near or in the Castle, will be shot on sight by the military.

He sat there for several minutes, trying to think of what to do. There must be someone who knows....the guys who looked at the Castle! Shaun went into the Civil Records section and looked up their names in several thick books. They all worked for a company operated by a guy named Illianovich. Shaun was about to write it down when he heard someone enter.

"Mr. Taggert, what are you doing?" Shaun turned to see the librarian.

"Uhh...looking up a man named Illianovich, he had some men survey Castle Kugel a while back...but the records are missing from 1994-2006."

"They were removed in about 2008."

"Why?"

"Repair I guess, I have some copies of the originals, if that would help."

"Yes thank you."

The woman left, Shaun quickly packed his suitcase and moved to the desk. He found his ID card and took it, it was then he heard her talking, and her voice and footsteps were getting closer. Shaun darted back into the Archive room, and peered out the door.

She was standing there with two guards, she pointed to the room and Shaun knew it was time to get the hell out of Dodge. Just as he was about to move he heard something. Click-Click, Click-Click.

Shaun looked out the small door crack to see the guards flicking the safeties on their AKs off. The pair walked into the room....no Shaun. One moved up the tight spiral staircase to check the upper floor, while the other would check the bottom. The man wasn't there.

The guard on the upper floor scratched his head, he looked down at his partner and shrugged. They both left the room and went to the librarian.

Shaun climbed off the top of one of the bookcases, it had been rush, a few books had been moved out of place, but he had escaped detection. He went to the back of the room and tested a door, it was unlocked. He went into the room and shut the door, turning on the lights he found it to be a long hall, filled with more books.

Shaun ignored them and ran till he found the back entrance. He slipped out and moved carefully around the front of the building. The door guards didn’t know what was going on, nor did they see Shaun climb into his car. He carefully started it and only got attention when he was driving away. The Guards were puzzled and one went inside to see what was going on.

As Shaun drove, he knew something was wrong…there was a cover-up. Someone had hidden the files he needed, but for what? Whatever was happening out there, had seemed to of claimed the life of the girl he was looking for. He had three things on his list, first was to get back to his apartment and grab his AK, second was to contact the girl’s father and tell him was happening, and third was to check out the Castle and surrounding area for himself.

Travis spun some more in the tank, but this time looking at the sargeant. His eyes seemed to bore into the sargeant's own. He spoke, this time with his voice traveling somewhat strangely through the water in the tank.

"Sounds interesting. I assume you are finished with the experiments for now?"

He recieved no response.

"I will cooperate on one more condition. You will release me from this tank and treat me as an equal, a correspondant, if you will. In exchange, I will offer my word that none of you shall be harmed by myself. Are we in agreement?"

Silence filled the void between the xeno and the other men on the other side of the glass.

The explosion provided a small amount of amusement to the Thyrian - a few more deaths was always amusement, and even more so when people thought that they would be safe.

As the woman approached him he gave a faint, hard, superior smile as if to say "I am better than you in every way". His expression hardly changed as neuro-darts shot into his unliving flesh, their numbing effect greatly reduced by his vampire physiology - with almost no blood flow there was no way for the toxins to travel throughout his body.

He was bundled into a prefab and locked into a steel chair while still partially numbed. A casual glance around revealed paranoid guards still aimed their peculiar weapons at him as a pair of labcoated humans poked needles ito him. A thin smile appeared on his lips as he patiently waited for the questioning. He already knew what he was to say - some of it was even the truth.

He started paying slightly more attention once the mercenary entered and dismissed the guards. Head tilted slightly as if to pay better attention to Gellar's words he lsitened carefully, but with no change of expression. Features cold and dispassionate, he spoke quietly with an over-civilised accent.

"Delighted to meet you, Colonel. In case you haven't heard from your commoner friends, I am Tristan. Interrogation? You must be mistaken dear boy, I'm just relaxing in this kindly provided seat while I wait for your delightful friends to turn up and have a chat"

That last said with a wink and faint smile. Despite the apparent civility his tone is condescending and it would be hard for Gellar to shake off the feeling of a mouse discussing cheesemaking with a cat. A cat tied down, but none the less dangerous for that. The vampire paused to look Gellar up and down.

"Interesting idea of bait your superiors have. Fish get worms and bread, mice get cheese and I get...you. As to the question of slaughter, well...I could ask you the same question. Would you object terribly to releasing me, or shall I have to go to all the bother of getting myself free?"

As Jant and Rostaijn reached the end of the tunnel, the Maglite revealed an obstacle. In front of them, the apparent end of the passage had been reached. A single door, welded shut. The welding equipment that Jant had to assume had been used to weld the door shut was still lying on the ground.

Jant walked over to the door, ready to see if there was anything nearby apart from the door and welding equipment, he nearly fell backwards as his feet slid on the floor, and when he regained his balance he examined the floor, and got an odd find.

"Hey, Rostaijn, this is weird....bullet casings. I can't tell what they're from, but there's sure as hell a lot of them, and....uh, Rostaijn? You might wanna see this....."

Jant had shone the Maglite to his right, and spotted a small hole in the wall. Inside it were a pair of decomposing corpses, one with it's skull crushed in, the other looking like it had gone through a mangle.

"Jesus christ....Rostaijn, sorry to state the obvious, but I don't think this is a good thing....."

"On this occasion, I would have to agree. However, we've come too far to go back now. We must continue. Have you ever used welding tools before?" Jant shook his head, still transfixed by the occupants of the nearby hole. Rostaijn had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, realising that some didn't have as much experience of death as he, or at least when it came to death by medieval methods. He picked up the tools and got closer to the wall. It was then that he noticed a series of scratches on the wood. He ran his fingers down them before beckoning to Jant to look too.

"It looks like they were made by some sort of animal. Did you see anything on the way down?"

Jant shook his head as Rostaijn asked about welding. He knew how to weld, but he preferred to see what in the hell had happened to the corpses. Rostaijn's next question, however, caught his attention, causing him to examine the door.

"Weird...I didn't see anything on the way here, but I wouldn't worry. It was probably just a big rat or something. Now, I guess we might as well make our way through here."

Jant's explination sounded hollow, even to him. He knew that even a massive rat couldn't have created such large scratches, but he preferred not to think about it.

"Ok, let's see what we can do with this door."

Jant picked up one of the welding tools, and went to work on the door, praying he wouldn't have to find out just what had made the scratches.

Rostaijn stood and examined Jant as he worked on opening the door. The lines on his faces suggested an 'experienced' life, and the expression in his eyes suggested hidden turmoil, although it wasn't clear what its source was.

The work was taking a little longer than expected, and his gaze drifted over to the corpses...

The gunfire was deafening. As he turned he saw several soldiers (were they soldiers?) firing blindly in his direction, a look of immense fear on their faces. One soldier threw his weapon down, turned and fled through the door, followed closely by all of the others, but for two, who were obviously injured. The large door slammed shut and the sound of panicked shouts and bursts of flame could be heard from behind it.

From down the tunnel came a wild howl, closely succeeded by several answering it. A shadow filled the void that was created by the light, blocking off all hope of escape. The panting got louder and louder, until it became a snarl. Then everything went black.

"Get a move on Jant, I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to - I have a feeling we're not alone..."

"Almost there......"

Finally, the door's edges had been melted away enough, and Jant was able to simply kick the door down, opening the Guardhouse to them.

"What the hell? Surveillance equipment?"

Jant stepped through the newly created opening, and stared in amazement at the room before him.

The entire room seemed to be covered in Computer screens showing lines of code, Monitors showing views from low quality cameras, although many screens were blank, and a few chairs were lying on the ground, one with a broken leg.

"What the hell is all this doing in a castle Rostaijn? This doesn't make any sense!"

Past Jant though, further in the room, was a single plain, wooden door, apparently leading to the rest of the Guardhouse.

What the hell happened in here?

The bullet cases littering the floor, the charred remains of grenades scattered throughout the room and the broken pieces of wood (the remnants of which were once tables) served to answer the question – it looked as if there had been an uninvited guest at the party.

The room was obviously medieval in terms of the material the walls were made from, but it was clear that a more modern influence had been at work here, possibly more than one. The computers lining the walls were definitely of a Soviet make, as if nobody had bothered to change them after the fall of the USSR. That was strange in itself – the Russians weren’t known for their technical superiority when it came to computers. Either money had been a little too tight, or this room had been abandoned for a long time.

Upstairs was an even bigger surprise. Compared to the ground floor, the second and third floors were luxury. Modern conveniences were in abundance up here. Must have been the living quarters. The only similarity between these floors and the ground floor was the presence of blood, bullet cases and the stench of death. Desks and drawers had been smashed to bits, apart from one in the far left corner on the second floor. Rostaijn opened the drawer and found two books: one a copy of Stephen King’s “The Stand”, the other some sort of notebook. As he flicked through it, he realised it was a diary. Closer inspection told him it belonged to a Karl Opperheim. He turned to the last entry (the date had been smudged out) and began to read:

Two weeks – that’s how long I’ve been in this hellhole, and already I have seen enough death, enough horrors, to last me an entire lifetime. We all fear for our lives. Not a minute goes by without every one of us looking behind us, watching our backs – you can never rest with those monsters on the loose. Just look at Frejd Fahrenhorst – one minute he was there, the next minute, with a scream that chilled me to the core, he was gone. Even now the sounds of him being ripped to shreds by those creatures rings in my ears. Our numbers are dwindling. I would never have thought that so many men could die in so short a time. Were it not for the substantial pay packet, I would no longer be here, and even that is starting to seem worthless as long as I am still here. The stench is almost unbearable – we can’t even move the bodies of our fallen comrades, in case someone sees them. Secrecy is our top priority, as Sergeant Yerukov says. No – my top priority is to stay alive, and if that means risking death to get out of this place, then so be it. I just hope that I can survive to the end of the week, when I can hand in my transfer request to Sergeant Yerukov. Please God, let me survive to the end of the week!

It was the last thing Opperheim ever wrote – it appeared his pleas went unanswered. Sure enough, tucked in the book was a written transfer request, addressed to a Sergeant Yerukov. Calls from downstairs dragged Rostaijn back to the present. When he reached the ground floor, he found Jant staring at a small screen to his left.

“Hey, Rostaijn, come look at this.” He made his way over to the screen, and Jant moved aside to give him a better view. It was an old security tape, dated several years ago. There were several soldiers sitting at computers – the ones over to his right by the looks of it. They sat there for a few seconds, before they all looked behind them almost as one. They rose from their chairs and pulled out their guns, firing at something off screen. Some shadows fell across the soldiers, as if something was coming towards them, and then the screen went black.

“That’s all I could find. It looks like somebody ripped the rest of the tape out of the cassette. Weird, huh?”

“Weird? That has got to be the understatement of the century. This tape dates seven years ago…has this place been abandoned for that long?” When no answer came, he turned back to see Jant looking suspiciously about the room. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing…it’s just…there’s all this blood here…where are all the bodies?” Rostaijn hadn’t noticed before, but Jant was right – there were no bodies lying around. He couldn’t remember seeing any on the upper floors either. “Cleanup job, maybe?”

“No. If they wanted to hide the fact that something happened here, why didn’t they take the bullet cases, or clean up the blood? Something’s going on here.” A white piece of paper attached to the wall fluttered in the wind and caught his eye. It was a poster, displaying the security measures employed in the castle. Between the keep and the courtyard was a security grid, rigged to automated guns. One trip of a laser and that was the end of you. There were also several cameras dotted around, but judging by the state of things, it was unlikely they were functioning. According to the poster, the grid was controlled by a security console somewhere in the room and a geothermal turbine in the dungeons, and shutting down one would deactivate it.

“Jant, how would you prefer to shut down a security grid: going into the dungeons and manually shutting down a geothermal turbine or destroying a little security console?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“The console it is then! Now we just have to find it…”

Why can’t anything ever be simple?

Jant's inner child started to prick it's ears up as the solution to finding to the console came to his mind.

"Uh, Rostaijn, just a little question. The console is somewhere in this room, right? Now, technically if we stop EVERYTHING in here working, then we HAVE to have stopped the security console, right?"

Jant's grinned at this. Despite all the blood, the stench of death, the constant fear, he was still going to have some fun.

He quickly stood up, and pulled the P90 from it's holster across his chest, attaching one of the 50 round clips to the top of the compact weapon.

"Now, if you have any objections to this, speak 'em now, 'cause when I start having fun, I don't like being interrupted."

"Well, alright, but let me get upstairs first - I don't want to be in the line of fire." He made his way to the second floor and awaited the sound of gunfire. After several minutes of maniacal laughter blended with blasts of P90, silence ensued for a matter of seconds before a mechanical voice eminated from a speaker:

Security grid deactivat -

A few more blasts of the P90 suggested the end of the speaker. Rostaijn descended to witness the havoc that Jant had caused with his gun. In the middle of the room, surrounded by burning equipment and smouldering parts stood Jant, with a grin from ear to ear.

"Right, that's this room done. Shall we move onto the keep?" The trigger-happy Jant made his way to the door to the courtyard before Rostaijn could answer. A roll of the eyes and a shake of the head was directed at Jant as he opened the wooden door and exited what used to be the guardhouse.

The cool night air freshened Jant's mind perfectly, allowing years of training to take over againg, calming him from his previous mayhem.

Interestingly enough, an old incident came to his mind. He had been on an island to secure samples of a genetically created race of monsters, and unfortunately the monsters had been pretty much bullet-proof, from the tiny dog-sized ones, to the ones capable of destroying a room in an instant.

It was that memory that sparked off his hearing as he heard what sounded like a dog running somewhere, except with a little clink accompanying each footstep.

Jant's eyes open wide with horror as he brought his weapon to bear, trying to find the source of the noise.

"Rostaijn, get ready, we have a REALLY big problem!"

Nexlon looked around as the rest of the team started to clean up the area. He had a compulsion to meet Gellar, but that would have to wait for later, seeing as he had just gone into a guarded restricted area. Nexlon stumbled around, eventually over the glassed earth that the hammer had made. He looked down the path of destruction. Even Zobidov had been partly hit. Nexlon inspected the terrible damage done by the hammer, and then looked up to spot the looming castle above Zobidov. What was in there.....Nexlon was unusually curious.

Nexlon wondered how he would be able to get into the seemingly ancient castle. He quietly slipped away from the rest of the Basilisk group and headed to the front gate. In a few minutes Nexlon had crept up silently to the outskirts of the castle, which loomed eerily in the darkness. He could hear loud sounds, almost as if a large animal was prowling around him. Still, he could not see a thing, even with his night vision. He narrowed his eyes and drew his sword as he reached the outer gate of the castle, which was quite rusty-no problem to cut through. He could see the large front door up ahead, and could still hear twigs being snapped by some kind of creature looming in the darkness.

Nexlon was halfway to the front entrance-a mere twenty-five or thirty feet away. He could feel pairs of eye following him. Suddenly, he broke into a run. Twenty feet to the door, then fifteen, then ten...
Five huge dogs leapt out in front of Nexlon from the darkness, gnashing their teeth and biting viciously at him. He drew his sword and swung it down, expecting it to cut the huge mutant dogs in half like butter, as his sword did with most things. It didn’t. He cut off one canine's huge leg, blood spraying everywhere. The things were obviously armored more so then Nexlon thought. This was a time for precision strikes.

Nexlon turned just in time to block another dog that had snuck up behind him and tried to lunge at his neck. He swung his sword in an upwards motion that serrated the canine's jaws into two pieces, then turned the blade inwards and drove it through the dog's skull, into its brain. It howled with pain-Obviously it was not used to a predator-but still it did not die! He pulled the sword out and started to hit its legs while still avoiding the other four dogs. One leg gone in a slash, then another a moment later. Still, the thing came crawling towards him. He finally managed to cut off its head. The body, confused, flopped around for a few minutes before life drained out of it.

Nexlon realized that there was real danger here. The dogs were obviously pack animals, and enormously difficult to kill, even for him. They were also using standard pack maneuvers-lunging for his weak points, like his elbows, knees, and jugular. This was all well and good, except that these areas were the least armored ones on is whole body. By the looks of the teeth and claws on those things, they could pierce him.

Still, Nexlon grinned. Though their power was impressive, they were but dogs, and dogs could not kill him. It is always a man that kills the monster, he thought. Nexlon Impaled one dog through the face, turned to ward off another attack, then chopped a third dog in half with a well-placed strike. The two halves kept on twitching, its face showing no signs of giving up. Another close call convinced Nexlon that these pups be best left alone as razor claws scratched his breastplate.

Three dogs were still moving, their wounds not seeming to affect them at all. Nexlon turned and finally reached the large steel doors. He pulled on them…only to find that they were welted shut! He turned, but too late. One of the dogs tackled him, trying to bite his throat out. With all his strength, Nexlon hurled the dog off and got back on his feet. What he saw did not please him.

A hoard of mutant canines had been attracted to the battle, and had formed a large semi-circle around him. He couldn’t even count how many there were anymore. Ten, twelve, fifteen, the number got larger and larger. Now was definitely the time to run like hell.

Nexlon closed his eyes and plunged directly in the mass of monstrous dog, sword swinging to deflect any large claws or teeth. Nexlon’s true combat art came out at that time-Incredible speed and agility combined with the mastery of a sword, fueled by the choice of either fight or die. Left, right, over, block, slice, down, flip, kick, jump, cut. He was almost through! Nexlon was almost knocked over by a massive paw to his midsection. He launched himself skywards with all his might, and could see the front gate ahead. If he could get to it, Nexlon was sure he could outrun the dogs and reach the Zobidov complex. Suddenly, he heard a snarl and felt something latch onto his foot. He looked back to see a dog clamping his teeth onto his ankle. Impossible! No animal could jump that high! Nexlon gave the dog a harsh kick, freeing his foot. He used the canine’s head as a platform, pushing off it to get some extra air.

Finally, he had escaped! He landed and bounded to the Zobidov complex, staying as high off the ground as he could. He reached the twisted metal labyrinth and climbed to its highest point. Not even these fiends could reach him now. As suddenly as the swarm of mutant dogs had come, it started to disperse, the creatures fleeing into the woods. Nexlon sighed. Obviously he couldn’t just stroll up to the front gates and knock on the door. He would have to find another entrance…but then again, he was trying to get into an abandon castle. Perhaps there was a concealed entrance on the fringes of the fortress, or even a passageway connecting the castle to the city? Nexlon didn’t know.

At last, a solution came to Nexlon. Quite as a cougar, he slipped back into the Basilisk encampment and swiped a bit of C-4 off a moving truck, then ran back to Zobidov. This was the only course of action that could work at the moment. Nexlon bounded off towards the castle again, wary of any more unexpected attacks from large creatures. He could not execute his plan at the front gate, that was for sure. The steel doors were too strong, anyways. Instead, he curved to the left, stopping when he reached what seemed like a room that branched off from the rest of the castle-at least that’s what it looked like from the outside. Nexlon came up close to the wall, and then stopped. His helmet was picking up a large amount of metal implanted into the ground. Nexlon switched to an X-Ray view, and almost jumped out of his skin. There were land mines all around him; it had been a marvel that he hadn’t stepped on one yet.

He carefully maneuvered around the deadly mines, almost touching a few in his haste. Finally, he made it close to the wall. Nexlon unsheathed and ran his sword across it. ThunkThunkThunkThunkPlink…Plink Plink. There. A weak spot in the wall. Not weak enough for the small amount of C-4 he brought to blow through, but weak enough that the C-4 and his sword combined could destroy it.

He only spent a small amount of time planting the explosive, then moved backwards, still wary of any loud noises. Nexlon pressed the detonator.

*Bloom!*

A loud explosion echoed through the darkness, reverberating through the forest and surrounding areas, but the force of the blast only cracked the wall. No matter. Nexlon raised his sword and drove it through the wall; it cracked and a decent chunk of stone rolled out of the fortification, revealing a dim light inside. Nexlon continued stabbing the small hole, creating an opening just large enough to wiggle through-but hopefully not large enough for any dogs to wiggle through.

Nexlon emerged into some kind of small watchpost of sorts. To his far left was some kind of opening; It seemed like a tunnel. There was welding equipment scattered around the area. To his right were modern-looking computer screens-many were powered up. Nexlon was obviously not alone. He went right, noticing numerous bullet casings all over the floor. He came to a spot where all the security consoles and monitors had been blown to pieces-and quite recently by the looks of the modern shells on the ground. Nexlon exited the room, moving through an already-open wooden door.

Just as he stepped over the threshold, he stopped. He was in what looked like the Castle Keep, and he knew he was not alone. Nexlon could hear both animal and human noises. He groaned; Not more mutant dogs! He searched around for the humans. Sweet Jesus! They were right in front of him, a pair of men, no less than twenty or twenty-five feet away! He cursed himself for putting himself in a situation where he could be so easily seen. The duo only needed to turn around to spot him; They had probably heard the explosion from his C-4 as well. He waited for the pair in front of him to make their move; hopefully Nexlon would have enough time to fade into the darkness and hide behind something.

Bump...waiting on K-stan...

Kuzin grinned at that, a predator’s closed-mouth smirk that nonetheless sent a comradely twinkle in his slate eyes. He tilted his head for a moment, pulling his silver mirrored sunglasses from his khaki vest pocket, the fabric moving to show some hidden object. With a flick, the glasses extended, and Kuzin set them on his nose, tapping them up with slick motion. “Okay, Travis, you just cut yourself a deal. I like straight shooters, and you seem more than competent.” His tone made it clear that this was indeed a sincere compliment, from a man who gave few.

Zemph spun, aghast, “Chief! There is valuable research-”

But Kuzin only waved dismissively, “Relax, Doctor. His talents are better used elsewhere. Besides, it’s almost closing time, anyway. Pack up, Zemph. I want these labs cleared by tomorrow morning.”

“But President Aurelli ordered me to complete the Antigenome Treatment! It will need thirty-six more hours before it’s completely sequenced! I’ll need-”

Kuzin stopped for a moment, weighing his orders against his instinct. He scowled briefly, and then returned to professional calm. “Leave the sequencer, the injectors, and a skeleton team, volunteers only, and I’ll leave a security detail. Now, let Travis go.”

The chamber drained with a hiss, and a port opened, allowing the man to enter the lab. Kuzin shrugged. “Come on in, don’t worry about antistatic, this is just a hub ops center.” As the man materialized, Kuzin motioned. “Follow me.”

As they walked, the security man commented, “Sorry for the hassle, we’ve been under a lot of strain lately. We’re working miracles here, but some people don’t see the light. They view it as a crime of ego, not as the lifesaver it is…” Kuzin paused, as they walked past a window. “Some of these forces are stressing into us now, and we are going to have to depart this land, move our campus elsewhere. The agents of these aggressors are closing as we speak, peering into the shadows and chasing ghosts in their own delusional minds.”

They passed under an arching power-door, and two NovaGen guards parted, revealing a snowed-over heliport, where a tilt-rotor VTOL, sleek and shining, with melded wings and almost organic design waited. The cold air puffed with their breath, and Kuzin drew a pack and lighter from his pocket. He offered a cigarette. “Need one?” He took one for himself, lighting it, holding it before him, and sneering, “Picked up the habit because of the stench… only thing that kept away the smell of the dead, back in the wars.” He shrugged again, glancing at the lit cigarette, never putting it in his mouth. “But it is pointless, to drive away the stench, to ignore the truths… the harsh light of reality burns away pretension, and there is strength. I don’t need this smoke, this chemical. I am stronger than habit, I am more than a chemical string in need of dependence…” he dropped the stick and ground it under his boot, then handed the pack to Travis. “There is triumph in refusing the easy way out.”

He turned to head back inside. “We’re always in need of intelligent, free-thinking individuals. Take all the time in the pack you need. Come back in if you think you can swim against the current of stagnant thought, if you think you can contribute to this brave new world. Or, you can walk away, into the night and snow, and we’ll never meet again. It’s up to you, so enjoy that pack.”

Kuzin stepped back inside, leaving Travis along with his thoughts, amid the falling snow and shimmering heliport.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gellar, meanwhile, faced Tristan. “Let you go? We wouldn’t make ten paces, pal. These weapons are not run of the mill, and they would make short work of even you, especially in broad daylight. Listen, I don’t like the way this is going, so I’m going to change the path. This is my question to you… what might you know that would make me want to haul your undead ass out this sling? I’m asking you to give me a reason to save you, so, please, don’t make me wait. Oh, and I am a man of honor, so telling me information will get a reciprocal favor, such as freedom.”

There was a knock outside, and Gellar grimaced. “They’re back. Quickly! Give me a reason, any reason at all, and I’ll see you tonight, when you have a chance.”

Travis took the pack of cigarettes and looked at them. He studied the landscape, admiring the rather mysterious beauty of the destroyed land, the raised ruined sculptures of humanity that bowed before the power of the elements.

Ever since becoming a Rose, my life has changed and taken many new twists...the elements are a part of me, and I likewise...

He looked back up at the sargeant, but Kuzin had turned and walked back inside already.

((Reference to Roses Amongst Weeds (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=390811&page=1&pp=15), which is still in the works.))

He held up the cigarettes once more, pulling one out to study it. He peeled the paper away and sniffed closely the tobacco inside. It had a sort of sweet smell to it, one that was just strong enough to cover the odors of the land. Lowering the cigarette in his hand, he looked out unto the terrain and breathed deeply, breathing in the sickly atmosphere.

Though it may be harsh, the realities of the world are the only truths left.

In his hand, the pack of cigarettes remained along with the drawn one. Together he clenched the two until they broke and folded under the strength of his hands. He turned to the door, tossing the drugs over his shoulder. His eyes fell upon the door's lettering, giving a hint as to the building's purpose.

Another deep breath was taken, I made a compromise, and I will stick to it... His hand opened the door and beckoned him inside to the darkness illuminated by harsh florescent lights. The door closed behind him with a resounding boom, as if sealing him to his fate.

"Kuzin!"

As Kuzin closed the door behind him, letting Travis ponder in the snow, he reached into his vest, pulling a sleek phone from a hidden pocket. With one bolting motion, he flipped the face open and pressed it to his ear, barely nudging his sunglasses. “Aurelli.”

There was a pause, and the aristocratic voice of NovaGen President Aurelli filled his ear. “What is it, Chief Kuzin?”

“Sir, I have acquired a free operator for our security purposes.” Kuzin leaned to the corner, speaking only loud enough for Aurelli to hear.

“Disposable?”

“Negative, sir. He looks promising. I’m letting him think.” Kuzin glanced at his watch. “It’ll take him forty more seconds to come around to our side.”

“Don’t take risks, Kuzin. We’re cleaning up here and moving out.” Aurelli sighed, his voice weighted with concern.

“I believe he will be an aid to our cause.” Kuzin replied, trying to disarm Aurelli. “You told me to head security, and he will be a boon to that security.”

“Do not forget your place, Mr. Kuzin. If not for me, you’d be another wandering soldier in the Rodina, looking for a place to ply your wares. The Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravlenie has no more use for your kind of work.” Aurelli switched easily into clean, unaccented Russian, flaunting his civil knowledge. “But, you may do as you wish… this time. In the future, clear all such things with me beforehand. ”

“Yes, sir.” Kuzin stated calmly, unfazed and unfettered.

“Now, I should like to meet your new hire. I meet all my employees.” Aurelli paused. “Now, you know, on this matter, you will be charged with all manner of employment and benefits for this new contractor. My hands are clean.”

“Yes, sir. He should be coming back now. Goodbye.”

Kuzin closed the phone, stood calmly, facing the door, and flipped a coin. Catching the coin, the doors opened, and Kuzin smiled at the hiss of pneumatics.

“Kuzin!” Travis called out, and the Chief turned slowly. He smiled to the other man.

“Welcome to NovaGen, Travis. Would you like to meet the boss before your first assignment? Tour’s free this time.” Kuzin held out a comm badge and briefcase. “Benefits package is rather mundane, though.”

The man turned to Travis with a slight smile upon his face. It was obvious that he had known Travis would agree to the plans. Travis kept his face straight as he studied the man's eyes.

No lies there... he thought to himself, while shifting his eyes downward to the items in Kuzin's hands. He took them in his own hands, and studied the badge. It was one from Novagen, and he attached it to the ragged shirt that hung on his lean, somewhat muscular frame. He looked down at it and then back up to Kuzin, "Spiffy. I'm a wannabe cop now."

Not waiting for a response he turned the briefcase sideways in one hand and opened the locks.

The steel briefcase contained a variety of items. The largest item caught his attention immediately. He pulled the pistol out of the foam cavern it was fitted snugly into, studying the features and mechanics carefully. He looked up to Kuzin questioningly. Kuzin filled him in on the stats of the pistol.

"Silenced, ten millimeter pistol from Armatech, eighteen rounds, each bullet with more power than a forty five millimeter, higher penetration than a nine millimeter, decent control on recoil, but the bullets are a bitch in their price tag."

Travis raised an eyebrow humorously, "Well...that might be my problem then...I don't carry money..."

Kuzin nodded, "Look further."

Travis replaced the pistol and slide aside a smaller panel beside it. It revealed a silver money clip with the Novagen emblem imprinted on it. The money it held had a bank wrap around the stack of hundred dollar bills, detailing five thousand dollars in U.S. currency. Travis grinned, "Problem solved."

He shifted the money aside and pulled out another stack wrapped in shrink wrap. He looked at the cover of the first item inside. Passports. A dozen of them at least. Travis shook his head appreciatively and buried his hand into the small compartment once more. He pulled out a "Get out of jail free" card and held it up. Turning it over, he glanced at the label, muttering its name, "Monopoly. Cute. Real cute Kuzin. And I thought you were a humorless prick."

He returned the card back to the compartment and slid it shut once more. Kuzin motioned toward another compartment with a quick gesture. Travis complied, and pulled out a chrome PDA. He turned it on, and watched as the uplink to the Novagen network connected. It flashed a brief message, Novagen Secured Network. Input password. First time user?

Travis clicked the yes button and watched as it led him through the registration sequences. Hardly a minute later, it was finished. He was registered. He turned it off and replaced it back into the briefcase compartment. Gotta check that out later...

Under this compartment was another compartment, but with a red label in the top corner stating Caution: Universal Atropine; PROTO. Right underneath that label was another, Medical Syringe, EMERGENCY USE ONLY

Nodding slightly, he closed all the compartments and finally the lid of the briefcase shut, locking and securing it. He looked back at Kuzin as he lowered it to his side. He breathed in slightly, taking in a bit of the purified air into his lungs.

"Let's go see the dogs' master." he spoke at long last, "But tell me...what's the proto in the case for?"

Metal shone from the floors and walls, buffed and scrubbed to perfection, the arches glimmering mirrors that cast back the glowing orbs that projected into the chamber. The air crackled and hissed, the electricity arcing through the upper reaches of the vaulted ceiling, drawing all imperfections away. The sounds of the sparks echoed and resounded, and the air was tinged a flavor or crisp ozone that one could taste.

A door rolled closed, and faint footsteps echoed through the chamber, mingling with the sound of fresh dust being whisked away on the electrical bolts. A man stood in the center of the room, his feet shoulder width apart, his arms to his sides in a parody of relaxation. His dusty brown hair was slicked into a spiky buzz cut, and silver glasses rested on his nose, while gray eyes flicked behind those mirrored lenses. Short sideburns, neatly trimmed, blended into a clean-shaven face, angular and slender, mouth turned into a permanent smirk. A leather jacket hung open, revealing a simple button-up shirt with high collar. His black belt held utility khakis at his waist, and a gunbelt ran at his hip. The pants were tucked into black combat boots, with a padded sole, some sort of cushioning device that made his hardest footfalls quiet as a stalking cat. He wore protective knee and arm pads, and he adjusted leather shooting gloves, cracking his knuckles and turning to stare into the crackling lights.

The mirrored room reflected his image from all sides, a funhouse maze. He smiled to his own clean, perfect images, adjusting his collar slightly in a bit of dry wit. For the maze was deeper than a funhouse, and the mirror was itself reflected by those silver sunglasses, bouncing the observing images back into themselves, cloaking the man behind the lenses from even himself.

-a cab driver stood from his door, picking up a fare in a busy city, but the passenger would never arrive-

-a priest sat in a confessional, but the hard steel in his hands would be the final judgment-

-a stockbroker moved through the crowd, but he left his briefcase behind, and the market would soon crash-

-an aide de camp left his master’s office, and the master would never call again-

-a fisherman reeled in a catch that was more than flesh-

-a professor lectured his class, and the lab data was already gone-

-a doctor recorded another fatality from this new disease-

-a soldier lowered his binoculars as the fires spread-

The man smiled to the mirrors and quoted an ancient master of war, his voice smooth and slippery, yet powerful, like a burning stream of fuel, “The inner condition of the formless is inscrutable. Whereas that of the those who have adopted a specific form is obvious. The inscrutable win. The obvious lose.” He turned, his arms outstretched, watching the mirrors through his glasses, and he spoke softly, powerfully, like reciting a Zen mantra. “I am anyone.” A hundred faces, all him, smirked behind those impenetrable glasses.

Another voice entered the chamber, resounding through the chamber from speakers, “We are beginning the test sequence, Commander Riven.”

Riven narrowed his eyes. “Safeties off, Agent.”

“Sir, with the neural interface online, you’ll receive mental trauma from any phantom injuries!”

“Nothing is real without consequence. Turn them off.”

“Yes, sir.” The voice paused, and the room shimmered, taking on the look of a burning complex, bodies littering the floor and computers sparking in death knells. “Sir, this is the old NovaGen facility in Adamaria, near the capital, approximately six years ago. I assume you know of the disaster?”

Riven only smiled. “Of course.” His hand never moved closer to his pistol on his hip or knife on his chest.

“Sir, the previous speed record for this training course was set by Field Commander Darius Jensen, at forty-four point six two seconds.” The voice paused again. “Initiating.”

Riven pointed to the ceiling, “That’s a lot like a challenge, Agent.” His voice dripped with contempt for the other name, but he kept his composure. “Ready and willing. Begin.” The air hummed, and the fires lagged for the briefest of moments. Riven did not twitch.

There was a snarl, and Ravager erupted from the fires, lunging at Riven’s throat. The commander stood still for a moment, letting the attack creature hover in the air for a second, as if he was frozen in fear; but as the Ravager closed in, descending, the Commander whirled to the side, like a matador, his hand flashing to his hip, the pistol erupting into his hand.

The creature flew past his turned body, and the pistol barked, sending a single bullet into the flying Ravager’s ear, down to the brain. Riven whirled through the shot, snapping the pistol around as another sound clanged from down the pipes. Without looking, he fired again, and the round ricocheting between the leaking tubes, bouncing with ting after ting, then stopping with a meaty thump. Again, the weapon barked, and there was a simple thump and thud.

Riven dashed into the conflagration, vaulting over the fires, dashing into the control room. He hand-planted on a control panel, hurtling himself over the top, crashing down, bringing a boot down onto a “body” that attempted to rise in protest, the lifeless eyes bulging with the impact. Riven slapped a keycard through a slot, hearing a chirp and the sounds of doors grinding open. There was a series of crashes behind him, and he spun, firing into the flames, listening to the yelps and screams of the Ravagers. The slide slammed back, empty, and he dropped the clip, slapping a new stack home and thumbing an extra round in the top, and finally releasing the de-cocking lever, the slide popping back into ready. But he was already running as he loaded, charging through the next corridor, skidding along the hot deck. Ahead, a junction box was sparking, a fire control system jammed by an interfering rod. Riven ran towards it, charging into the blaze, but something snarled from the flames.

Something dark moved, a beast nearly four meters long, a long tail flashing from the inferno. Riven dove to the side, rolling under the lethal swipe, the spikes slamming into the wall over his head. He popped back to his feet as the monster swung on him, his pistol snapping again and again, sending sprays of blood from its eyes, diving forward as the tail slashed back in reflex. As he rolled, the knife leapt into his hand, and he drove it down, into the base of the creature’s skull, shattering the brainstem. The behemoth fell to the deck, and the Commander leapt over the carcass, grabbing the override and spinning the wheel.

The suppression systems activated, and the fires subsided. With them, the room faded back into the mirrored chamber, and the voice returned, with clapping. “Thirty-six point ought seven seconds, Commander. That’s a new record.”

But Riven only slipped the weapons back into their holsters, scowling. “Not fast enough. The disaster area was overrun in fifty-six point eight four. I would have been cut off below.”

“Sir?”

“Re-run the simulation, then prepare the capture scenarios, no safeties.” Riven checked his gear. “I need to get into their heads if I am to carry this illusion. I need to know their fears and plans…”

Kuzin shrugged nonchalantly, “Those are emergency medical supplies. The Universal Atropine is really a version of a nanites auto-immune system. It moves into the body, identifies the current status, and locks your system into “standby”… think of it as stopping the growth of any disease or spread of any chemical agent. Bad part is, it kills cell regeneration, and you’ll die of old age within days of taking it. But, it can give you time for a mission complete, or a vengeance kill.” He grimaced slightly as they walked through the complex, guards, scientists, workers, and technicians scurrying past. “The Medical Syringe is a lovely little booster that stimulates the reptilian brain, spawns rapid cell regeneration, and converts the body into a near-perfect survival mode. A stab from that stuff, and wounds will close, bones will mend, and pain will fade away… only problem is that the lower brain, the subconscious, takes over, and you’ll go raving mad, and probably burn out and go catatonic after your killing spree ends.”

“Lovely stuff.” Travis stated, looking at the briefcase.

“Emergency use only. Like I said, it lets you get the job done.” Kuzin stated, punching a keycode into a door, then speaking his name aloud. “The docs are trying to get the stuff working, but all we can get it to do reliably is motivate corpses.” He raised an eyebrow. “Real Frankenstein-type stuff, but it may someday let us conquer all sorts of degenerative diseases.”

The computer spoke, a calm female voice, “Identity confirmed.” The door slid open.

They entered a large exhibit hall, the vaulted glass ceiling shining down over glinting white monuments and counters, a perfect museum and tribute to modern science, with the shopping areas spawning out. This was a commons area, a mall within the complex, but most was shut down. Kuzin explained, “We’re packing up, shutting down, now that Adamaria is changing governments.”

“Changing?”

“Some old warlord is taking over from the bureaucrats. He’s a real fire-eater, and there’s going to be a devil to pay. He’ll do good for his country, but it won’t be pretty, and we don’t want to be around for the fallout.”

They rode an escalator up into the promenade, and then stepped into a moving sidewalk, riding through administrative areas. This section of the base was marked with stone floors, wooden walls, and modern artwork and swirling patterns, very sheik, very stylish. No corners met at right angles, and there were no angles, only curves. Ahead, two NovaGen guards waited at a set of wooden doors, grasping their F2000 rifles carefully. Seeing Kuzin, they saluted and stepped aside, and Kuzin’s security badge unlocked a hidden powerlock, and the heavy doors swung open, autoguns remaining hidden.

Inside the inner sanctum, a man waited, saluting Kuzin, then eyeballing Travis concernedly. Kuzin returned the salute and waved the man’s gaze away. “Don’t worry, Dyson, he’s on our side… freelancer.” He motioned between the two. “Travis… Dyson Harker. Dyson… Travis. Now that we’re introduced-”

But Harker broke in, “Most people just call me James Bond.” He adjusted his suit, and Kuzin sighed.

“Harker has been doing some work with the returning General Tempkov, making sure we stay on his good side while he returns. He’s let that go to his head.” Kuzin glared at the other man. “Report.”

“Sir, all security operations are complete. Tempkov’s men have assumed control of the situation, the Adamarian Homeguard is now running the operations, and our people are bowing out. Sarah took the last flight out, hauling the database, she’ll meet up at the reconvention.” Dyson glanced to Travis, “I assume he’s here to assist with the breakdown?”

“Yes.” Kuzin explained, “In short, we’re helping this country out. They let us carry out our work here, and in return, we’ve given them back their chosen leader. Tempkov, however, wants to get revenge on those who wronged him, and that’s not our business. We got our rent, they got their reward, Tempkov got his freedom, and now we bow out.”

Dyson concluded for his commander, “We wrapped up security ops last night, with that big fireball. This city is now ready to transfer under the General’s control, and it’s a bright new day in Adamaria. Everyone wins, in the end.”

Kuzin nodded, “Except the few who stood against progress. Be it the bureaucrats who double-crossed Kuzin, or the lowlifes who impinged on Adamarians before we removed them, or the various agents of stagnation that now sweep through the city… only they shall lose.”

Dyson saluted Kuzin again, and then nodded to Travis. “I’m going to get back to closing shop. I’ll be running security for the transfer of power tonight, so I’ll see you later.” He began to walk away, stopping only to add, “Good to have you with us, Travis. I’ll see you when it gets nasty.”

Kuzin began to walk again, and Travis asked, “When it gets nasty?”

The security chief nodded somberly. “We fully expect that these operatives will attempt to sabotage the clean movement out of the city. In fact, I am counting on it.” He smiled wickedly, but spoke no more on that topic.

They passed one last set of doors, stepping into Aurelli’s office. The CEO turned his chair to face them, placing him index fingers together, as if a church steeple. His aristocratic features flexed for a second, his bright eyes flashing. “Greetings, Travis. My name is Aurelli, and I am the founder of this company.” He held out a thin, long hand, his trimmed nails shining in the light. His shake was firm, and he looked right into the other man’s eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get a chance to give you a better tour, but things are rather stressful right now. Mr. Kuzin assures me that you will make an asset to this company, and I’ve learned to trust his judgment on these matters.” He sat back down, motioning them to sit opposite his desk, “Now, would you like something to drink? Perhaps you might have some questions for me on what we’re doing here, or why we need you?”

Dieter Richter ducked into the back of the diner, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I think I lost them. He had promised the man Jant information, and in Richter’s business, one had to keep promises if one wanted to live. He’d probed around, asked some questions. That explosion last night had been a watershed, and the answers had been relatively easy to find.

However, he’d nearly met his end then. Right as he uncovered the data he was looking for, something had broken into his safe house. The images were burned into his mind, the numbing terror of the attack.

There was nothing but a blur, a shudder in the air like heat over an oven. The sound was gone, like someone had pulled the cord from the speakers of life. A bookcase fell in complete silence, and blood was spraying from Petrov’s chest from numerous gunshots, but there was no noise, no flash, just the blurring motion of the shadows.

Richter pulled himself into the office, locking the door and hiding in the corner. No matter how he ran, they were always waiting, Adamarian soldiers and those creepy NovaGen overseers in the suits. They know… I’m on borrowed time.

He’d tried to talk to Evigny, but the old man was dead, gunned down by Antonov’s goon-police. He’d tried to catch Antonov, to appeal to the man’s better nature, but the police commissioner was too busy overseeing the security at the Archive, preparing for tonight’s power transfer. Transfer? It’s going to be a slaughter!

He flipped his cell phone open. Okay, you bastards. You’ve cornered me, but this information is getting out. I’m going to blow you wide open, even if you get to me. He punched Jant’s number, listening to the rings.

There was a click, but the phone merely stated, “Hello, I’m not available right now, because I’m in a bad service area, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”

“Damn it!” Richter cried. “Listen, this is Richter… I’ve stumbled into something big here. Someone’s been hauling in various species, doing nasty shit, experiments. Looks like it’s tied to a event at the Archive tonight. Some big shot named Tempkov is back in town, he ordered the cleanup last night, and he’s going to meet the government tonight at the Archive. It’s all locked down, but if you can get in there, there’s some sort of coup in motion. Antonov’s police are running the show, but you might be able to slip in through the old catacombs-” he broke off as there was a crash in the lobby. “I think they’re on to me, I’ll get you more if I can… got to run!” He slammed the cover shut, pocketing the cell phone.

The door swung in just then, two soldiers stepping into the room, both of them wearing those suits and sunglasses, barely missing his call. It was only then that something occurred to him. That was mighty convenient… that timing. A light broke in his mind as the weapons raised. They were so incompetent with hiding the information, why are they so good at chasing it? They got Petrov immediately, why not me? Why now, so perfectly inept and yet competent?

There was a flash and crack, and Richter slammed back into the wall, sliding to the floor. The guns snapped again and again, and Richter’s last thought echoed in his darkening mind, I’ve been used…

Shaun kept the pedal to the floor, his Jeep went airborn as he flew over a small hill. He kept his hands tight on the wheel as sweat poured down his face, the headlights showed the terrain to be a flatland, not good. Behind his Jeep, were nearly a dozen Ravengers.

The wheels tore into the dirt, tossing up large ball of earth back at his pursuers. Shaun kept begging the engine to go faster, he wanted to escape the hell behind him.

He had been driving peacefully, when the creatures had swarmed his vehicle. He had downed one with a full mag from his AK47, but had been able to flee the others.

Something made his Jeep bounce. Shaun looked up to see a Ravenger tearing through the roof. He fired his Berretta at the animal as his car swerved, nearing the castle with each passing second.

The drooling mouth got closer, then it all of a sudden disappered. His Jeep rocked as an explosion occured nearby. I'm in a fucking minefield. Shaun swerved, trying to avoid flags that he hoped marked the mine's postitions.

His Jeep barreled through the main gate of the castle, he thought he made it, until an explosion tossed the jeep on it's side. It skidded, tripping another mine, sending it several feet into the air before crashing back to earth, upside down.

Inside Shaun was buckled to his seat, a trickle of blood coming from a wound in his head.

His fingers twitched.

Ferevarco, your time has come. Do as I bid, and I promise you shall not fall.

Rostaijn had been about to unsheath his blade as the dogs (were they dogs - he wasn't sure) drew nearer, but as he listened to the voice in his head, he withdrew his hand.

"Rostaijn, what're you doing? They're coming!" Jant was firing randomly at the oncoming dogs. He heard none of the words, just the distant sound of a voice. Slowly he fell to his knees and, clasping his hands together, fell into deep prayer. As Jant looked on in horror, the 'dogs' leapt onto Rostaijn, tearing at him with their claws. Yet...nothing was happening to him. The claws seemed to pass straight through him, and not a drop of his blood was spilt.

The beasts drew back, in obvious puzzlement. Rostain got to his feet, and the dogs were drawn to the unworldly glow surrounding him. It was blue in colour; dull, but definitely there. He unsheathed his blade, and it glowed bright yellow, like fire. He swung the blade around his head, and brought it down onto the ground with the full force of God behind it. Thence streamed trails of flame, each on a intercept course with one of the dogs.

Between the explosions and the wild howls, Jant could see the dogs shrivelling before his eyes, perishing in the holy fire, and as they disappeared, the keep fell silent. The blue glow faded, and Rostaijn slumped to the floor. Jant's weapon clattered to the floor as he ran towards the fallen man. He tried to take his pulse, but couldn't find one. He stood up, realising that he was dead.

[[Since Athyrn appears to have been deleted due to my not having logged on Athyrn for a while, I'll post using Isam.]]

Tristan smiled his mirthless smile back at Gellar.

"You would be amazed at how quickly I can run, but let us assume that you are correct, I could still dispose of the few scientists or guards who came in to guard me."

He pauses for a moment to wet his lips and run the tip of his tongue over sharply pointed incisors.

"What might I know? I think that the question would be better phrased as what you want me to know, because chances are that I would know it. Even if I did not, there is little doubt that I could find out. Before you vanish, though, I will tell you one thing. You were used from the word 'go', my...expendable...mercenary friend. You were used as a tool, fodder. Those who sent you were well aware that you would most likely die - why else would they have prepared whatever the device was that destroyed my office?"

Even strapped down to the metal chair he appears supremely confident, despite the damage to his suit, the scrapes and injuries that he himself had taken have already vanished and his tone and posture are those of a nobleman speaking to someone who could possibly do him a favour, rather than the position of someone strapped to a chair being offered his freedom.

Gellar scowled and lowered his hat, covering his eyes. “I’ll think on it.” With that, he spun and left the room, even as the Adamarian guards came barreling in. Finding nothing amiss, they began to glance about curiously at Gellar. “What are you piss-ants looking at?”

A soldier started, “N-n-nothing, sir. We were just—”

“—Just checking up on the prisoner!” Another finished.

Gellar harrumphed and saddled past the squad now crowding the room, exiting past the autoguns and extra guards. I don’t care how fast you can run, pal, no one runs this gauntlet from the interior. Vehicles waited, laser trips waited, there was even a modified CIWS attached to some sort of scanning apparatus and moving to track anyone passing near. Sweet Jesus, that thing’s meant to kill aircraft and missiles. What sick bastard reconfigured it?

He squinted against the sun, noting Harrison’s silhouette against the yellow-white ball. The other man spoke, “Damn, Colonel, looks like you just swallowed something bitter.”

“Distaste that obvious, Bear?” Gellar walked next to his second.

“I’ll say. Anything good?”

“Well, he’s an arrogant prick, but most suits are.”

“Aye.”

“Other than that? Well, he shares certain… opinions… that you voiced earlier. Thing that bothers me, they told us to get out of the way at the last second…” Gellar scowled more, his ruddy face drawn into harsh, old lines. “Is it possible that there are more wheels spinning than we thought? Like we were meant to know we were fodder?”

Harrison spat on the ground, “Well, that would fit with that General Tempkov, but it’s awfully stupid. Perhaps there are more people playing this poker game than we thought.”

“Either way, we’re up to our necks in it. Tempkov is holding out a white flag, but I think he has a dagger in his other hand. He wants us to provide security tonight, at some sort of power transfer.”

“NovaGen op?”

“No…” Gellar scratched his stubble. “NovaGen hasn’t asked anything of us in a while. They stopped collecting, and started letting the General eliminate. They’re pulling out now, like some contract has been fulfilled, and they can leave.”

“Sir, this whole damn op reeks of bullshit.”

“I know, we just can’t step in it.”

“And what’s-his-face in the tent?”

“He’s just another pawn, another goddamn pawn in a game of chess with nothing but pawns.” Gellar shook his head, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag, letting the smooth burning ease his mind. “Who’s playing, who’s on whose side? Tristan might have some clue.”

“So, we’re staging a revolt of the pieces?” Bear grinned.

“No… a new contract. We’ll close our business with NovaGen, leave on good terms. Our gripe is with Adamaria.” Gellar sucked in the smoke, held it for a moment, releasing it in a momentous sigh. “Type up a circular, send it out to the teams, tell them to pack it up and head home. Anyone that wants to stay, they can stay for a special “recovery mission”. Offer extra pay, but be sure to include that this will probably be nasty.”

“Sir, after all this shit, most of the kids just want to know why they got the short stick… but not all of it.” Harrison was already typing on a PDA, using fingerwands for a keyboard.

Gellar queued up his comms unit, toggling onto a secure frequency. “Command Frequency, Gellar Two-Niner-Alpha, Nest.”

There was a whistle and a pop, and a calm, computerized female voice intoned, “Commands acknowledged, Colonel Gellar. Unfortunately, the Chief is not available at the moment. You are being routed to a secondary officer.”

There was a pause, “James Bond, here.” A smooth voice intoned.

Gellar groaned inwardly. Not this slick dealer. Not now. “Cut the crap, Harker.”

“Sorry, Colonel. Just kinda busy right now, no time to look up the caller ID. It could have been some yokel merc calling in. Can’t go giving out me personal ads, now can I?”

“Most of those “yokels” are dead, and you know it. Hell, I’d bet cash you were in on it.”

“I can feel the love, Dex.” Harker used the man’s first name in a patronizing manner, as if talking to a slightly retarded child.

“I told you to cut it. I need to speak to Chief Kuzin.”

“The Chief’s busy, he had a meetin’ with the Big Man himself.”

“Put me through.”

“Aurelli will be pissed, and you know it.”

“I’m already pissed, so if you don’t want me storming up there and cleaning out your brainpan with a toothbrush, you’ll put me through this goddamn instant!”

“Eh… right-o, Jack-o.” There was a click, and another buzz.

“Kuzin.” The Chief’s voice was to the point and blunt. In the background, Gellar heard a chair roll, and a door close. He could almost picture Aurelli distastefully waving the Chief away, not to be soiled with the dirt of his own wetwork.

“This is Colonel Gellar, Chief. I was just calling you up to close accounts.”

There was a sigh. “You sure about that, Colonel? I liked having you on the team.”

“Well, that last care package came in the form of radiation, and I don’t much care fer tannin’ salons.”

“Colonel, that was not my intent. That was an Adamarian operation, and I assure you, my did everything we could to get your boys and girls clear of the impact.”

“I know, and I ‘preciate it, Mr. Kuzin, but these parts are changing. I do believe that I will be taking my leave now, and leaving these final affairs to you.”

There was a heavy silence, and Kuzin regretfully intoned, “Well, Colonel, it’s been good having you with us. I’m sorry for your losses, and I wish you luck in the future. The monetary units for the retaining time have been allocated to the various trusts, and your men should all find themselves suddenly wealthy in stocks they did not own. Their PDAs will show these locations and accounts as of… now.”

“Thank you very much, Chief Kuzin. It’s been a pleasure.”

But the air still hung thick, and Gellar could hear a meaningful silence over the hiss of the scrambled transmission. Finally, Kuzin spoke, quietly and quickly, as though he was walking through some deserted room, watching every door for a listener. “Colonel, my forces will not fire in anger upon you, in respect for your work, so long as you do not fire upon them. In another note, all security forces outside of the NovaGen Complex are now completely Adamarian domestics. There might be a computer problem in the ten o’clock guard rotation. Kuzin, out.”

Gellar closed the transmission and stared at the device. What the hell? How could he know? He spun to Harrison, “Bear, how much did you send in that note?”

“Not much, sir, just that we were calling it a job complete and those interested in a possibly messy assignment in information retrieval should meet up tonight at the Dogs of War.” Harrison raised an eyebrow. “I just sent it, too. Why?”

“Nothing… just a creepy sensation.” Gellar threw down his cigarette, stomped on it to put it out on the dirt. He ground it under his heel with vigor, taking out his aggression on that piece of burnt waste. “Come on, let’s get cracking on a plan. I’ll talk about it.”

The two men headed off.

Nexlon was about to draw his sword as he heard the sounds of dogs approaching, but stopped as he heard the Shink of metal and saw that one of the men had a blade as well; he watched, amazed, as the sword blazed glouriously, seeming to dissolve the charging mutants into dust. Nexlon looked on as the man fall to the ground.

Nexlon decided to reveal himself; The other man had dropped his weapons, so he was no danger. He stepped forward, making a sharp clank of the ground with his metal foot. Nexlon raised both of his hands to show that he came in peace as Jant spun around and spotted him.

"Do not be afraid," Nexlon spoke. "I am called Nexlon; I'm a mercenary who followed your trail from back there." He motioned back through the open wooden door.

Nexlon stepped next to Rostaijn and picked up his sword, examining it. He gave it a few practice swings, testing it's weight and speed. It was an exellant sword, with great quality. He knelt down and placed the weapon in Rostaijn's outstreached hand, then moved the dead man's arm over his chest. He swiveled back to Jant.

"Do you know what we just saw here?" He paused, then looked up. A massive explosion sounded outside the castle. Nexlon jumped up and looked at Jant again.

"That sounded like it came from in front of the front gate. Come on, we have to find a way to open it!"

Travis shook his head negatively for the drink. He didn't want, nor need it. He however did take the seat offered and paused as Kuzin took a call from some agent out in the field. He waited until Kuzin had left to address Aurelli.

"Tell me why you're all here. What's the purpose of moving out of Adamaria tonight? And what do you need me for? Or are you simply hirin' me to keep an eye on possible threats?"

Kuzin returned hardly a minute later. O'neill watched him reenter the room then looked back to Aurelli, his eyes although a soft blue, still quite disarming to the psych. He sat back in his chair, propping a foot upon the opposite knee and tapping his raised knee with one hand.

Nexlon and Jant ran towards the front gate, leaving Rostaijn alone in the keep.

As he awoke he saw that he was in a field of white. Snow? No, the ground was light, as if it wasn't really there. He looked down at his feet, and noticed that he was no longer in his usual attire. His black cloak had been replaced with a white and gold tunic, and his blade was nowhere to be seen. He looked up again and saw a crowded pavillion; hundreds of people dressed like himself, walking around but seemingly not noticing each other. There were no friendly smiles, no conversations - everybody was walking in complete silence. It looked random, but somehow Rostain saw a hidden beauty in it all. He couldn't quite put his finger on why. A small child made his way through the crowd towards him and, as he got there, sat down on a bench Rostaijn had not noticed before. He followed suit, and then continued to watch the crowd. It was a full five minutes before the child spoke.

"It is lovely, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Does this scene look familiar to you?" Rostaijn thought it did, but could not quite figure out why. He sat in silence as he tried to remember.

"It is a scene from your past. It's relevance is irrelevant. What it shows is that you are now ready."

"Ready? For what?"

"With His help, you have now completed your mission. You have done three good deeds to counter your many evils, and are now a free man. Your path now is your choice. You may stay here and reap your reward, or you may go back."

"Go back?"

"You have left friends in peril. Do you wish to help them, or do you wish to stay here?" Rostaijn looked back into the crowd. It was beautiful, a sight to behold. But it wasn't for him.

"I wish to return."

"Then return you shall. God is with you, Ferevarco. As a token of his praise, He presents you with this gift." The child produced a long white box, seemingly from nowhere, and opened it. Inside was a blade, but one like he had never seen before. It was made of pure gold, and had an odd bluish glow to it. He picked it up, and it became a part of him, and he was filled with the Holy Spirit.

"So long as you hold this blade, you shall never perish in battle. He will make sure of it."

"Thank you." But the child was gone, and so was the crowded pavillion, and so was the light.

He awoke in the keep. He sat up slowly and noticed his old blade in his left hand. he picked up the gold one in his right, and held the two together. The gold blade tore the inferior one in half, and he knew that it was good. He got to his feet, and had a sudden compulsion to get to the front gate, where explosions could be heard. He went.

Shaun moaned, his whole body hurt. His movements were slow as he unbuckled himself and landed on the roof of the overturned vehicle. He lay there for several minutes before seeing feet of a Ravenger land in front of his windshield.

Shaun looked around him, his AK lay several feet away, outside of the Jeep. He ejected his old Barretta mag and slide a fresh one in. The Ravenger began to pace around the Jeep, looking for the juicy meal inside.

Jant pulled the long clip from his weapon, and threw it away as it landed with a wet plop on the ground as it landed in a puddle of blood.

"Hey, wait up! I've got some men coming as back up soon!"

Jant glanced back inside the Guardhouse, hoping for a sign of his men, but there was still no sign of Jason or Samuel.

I fucking swear, those stupid bastards better have a good reason for not catching up yet.

"Shit, wait up!", shouted Jant as he gave up, and ran after Nexlon, towards the gate, as he fumbled for another clip for his weapon.

Jant glanced back momentarily towards Rostaijn's corpse, and felt a pang of sadness, knowing that he had lost an ally he had only just gained.

But even now, Jant knew the mission came first, and continued after Nexlon, kicking up dirt as he ran.

Aurelli leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers together as a steeple, his cool patrician features settling further, his voice silk as he spoke. “Well, Adamaria was a haven for us. They needed business, and they offered some of the lowest overhead in the world, giving us any resources we needed to do our work. In return, we helped rebuild their economy.” He paused, motioning out to the massive picture window behind his chair. “We’re leaving because this is a closed deal. We used the land for fifteen years, and we’ve paid them back. Now, we need to leave, because the owners of Adamaria might be about to change.”

At this, Kuzin spoke up, “General Tempkov is a hero to his people, and a criminal to most others. Brutal, ambitious, and ruthless, he’s an excellent charismatic leader and patriot but a beast to deal with. We might just end up getting cracked upon if we stick around past our welcome.”

Aurelli flicked a dismissive glance, “Mr. Kuzin is right. With Tempkov’s return, as part of the deal, we are to leave as soon as possible. Most of the crew is already gone, leaving only a few skeleton staff to prepare the test batch of serum. Once that is complete, we will depart… which should be sometime tomorrow.”

Kuzin added, “Sir, I would recommend that we abort and leave now, for purposes of safety.”

To this, Aurelli visibly darkened, and his movements became agitated. He glanced from Kuzin to Travis and back, throwing an insulted glance at his security chief, “We will not abandon science on the whims of some barbarian. The world is waiting for this miracle, and you will not talk me out of it. Do not question it again, Chief.”

“Yes, sir.” Kuzin nodded. “I just think-”

“Enough.” Aurelli sighed, rubbing his temple, massaging on a taut muscle, the strain showing for just a moment. “Now, Travis, the Chief brought you in because of his paranoia on this takeover. He is afraid of outside operators, and he feels you have talents of value to him. That is his domain, and so, he has the right to bring you in.” He sighed again, waving them dismissively, “Now, I must get back to business whilst. You should get on with yours.”

Kuzin nodded to Travis, cocking his head to the door. As they left, the NovaGen guards pulled the heavy wood closed, and a bolt locked inside. Kuzin rolled his eyes, “Don’t worry; he’d not always so patronizing… just most of the time. It comes with being in the world’s top ten richest club, you start to view mundane professions as drudgery, and their professors as drudges.”

They re-entered the science complex, and Kuzin leaned over a rail, looking over a mostly empty lab below, the massive computers, bubbling man-sized tubes, whirling centrifuges, sequencing banks, and fume hoods, as well as a large countdown. “We’re making a miracle here, Travis. The anti-genome serum can stop cell decay, it can rebuild failing systems. It could extend the lifespan beyond two hundred years, easily. This will shake the world, but I fear Aurelli is too focused to see the threats gathering. I need you to keep an eye out, let me know what’s brewing in the city. There are agents, out there, that will attempt to stop this miracle, and we can’t let that happen.”

He turned to face Travis, handing over a datacard for the PDA. “That will give your uplink badge access to the old facility. Just walk up to a door, and it will open for you. Most of the computers are dead out there, and the old specimens are loose and bred wild for nearly a decade. The security systems are failing, and can’t be trusted to identify friend or foe-”

Travis cut him off, “What are you talking about? Where is this?”

“I am talking of the old laboratory, below Castle Kugel. That is where the company originally set up shop, using the stigma of the place to scare off visitors. The Nazis, then the Soviets, used it, and the locals avoided it as haunted. We played from that, and used holograms to maintain the illusion of decay, but we built a lab beneath, and did some of the pioneering work in genetics.

“Your old pal, Doctor Zemph, did most of the work, but back then the idea was to create better organisms, while work on the anti-genome serum wasn’t even conceived. The results were crude, grotesque creations, most failed on embryonic stage, but they did get a few working. It was almost Frankenstein-ian, some of the experiments, but some of them worked. Be warned, you could encounter Ravagers, Gelforms, and perhaps even some of the poor bastards cut off below when things went bad.”

“Bad? How bad?”

“Complete security failure, an emergent problem from the interactions of a rampant AI. The entire system disintegrated, and the creatures got loose. It was a bloody mess, and one of my first assignments was to clean up and try to get the workers out.” His voice got thin, his lip pulled slightly, and he seemed to grow distant. “A real mess down there.”

He blinked once, twice, and he was clear, professional, again. “Now, most of the situation was cleared out a few years ago by a sweeper team, led by Master Harker, but the lower levels were cut off. We don’t know how much got loose down there, or how much has survived to breed wild. The datacard has information on what you might encounter below, on each type of creature, but be especially wary of the Waking. Those poor saps managed to get themselves overdosed on Blade, but they stayed alive, and they’re completely insane.”

“Why me?”

“Because, the agents don’t know you, and you can get into their confidence. Our networks picked these outsiders moving into the old Castle Kugel, and I need to know what they’re after. They cannot be allowed to interrupt the research, so I need to know who sent them, and why. Get in with them, lead them into the lower levels, and thin their ranks. If you can’t eliminate them all there, guide them out, ever so helpfully, and let me know what they know. If you can do this, you’ll be rewarded greatly. I trust you on this, Travis.”

Kuzin stopped for a second, “I almost forgot. That universal atropine will stop the Ravager’s toxin, but the serum is a cut form of Blade. If you use it, you may end up as a Waking. You don’t want that. You can get in through the Castle, or through the old Hydroelectric Dam.” He grinned and pulled up a large metal case, opened it to Travis, exposing a slick polymer rifle, streamlined and organic, with a glowing digital display and a stack of six massive clips. “Sag ACR, more firepower than you might need to take out any threat below, even Ravagers, or a troublesome Armored Vehicle.” He closed the case and handed it over. “It’s NovaGen palm coded, so only people in our databank can fire it, so don’t worry about it being turned on you.”

“This is nice and all, but what about a cover story?”

”Ah yes… now, remember, the lie is best that is closest to the truth. You were a test subject that escaped and fled into the old tunnels. There’re even bodies to prove it, courtesy of the morgue. They won’t even notice the missing John Doe’s.” Kuzin turned back to the twenty-five hour timer. “We’re so close to this miracle, Travis, and after all the years, the costs, the sacrifice, the stigma, we can’t lose it now. I’m counting on you.”

Travis took everything in that Kuzin said. He mulled over the assignment given, and calculated possible dangers he might encounter. He nodded at long last and accepted the weapon provided.

"I'm counting on you, Travis." Kuzin repeated once more.

Travis slung the SAR rifle onto his shoulder and looked Kuzin in the eye, speaking with an air of seriousness, "You've got nothing to worry about,boss. I'll have this job done asap."

With that, Travis stepped aside and walked away, heading to the large doors. He didn't look back as he began his mission...

In the tunnel leading up to the Guardhouse, Jason and Samuel appeared to be paralyzed, the only movement the sweat trickling across their skin, dragging dust and dirt with it, and their eyes, darting nervously back and forth.

Interestingly, the 2 creatures in front of them had no such lack of movement and sound, as both of the Dog-Like creatures advanced on the two Mercenaries, growling menacingly, drool dripping from their jaws.

"Y'know", whispered Samuel, as the Ravagers continued advancing, "I'm gonna take a random guess, and say that this is a bad thing."

"No fucking shit. Look, let's just shoot 'em. We just reach for our guns, and fill 'em with lead. Simple as that."

"Ok. You first, I 'aint drawing their attention."

"Fine ya pansy, but you'd better help dammit. Now, on 3."

Both men tensed.

"One."

Their hands slowly reached towards the P90's on their chests.

"Two."

They undid the clasps on the weapons, and the Ravagers started growling even louder.

"Three!"

Both men pulled out their weapons, and opened fire, whilst at the same time, the two Ravagers leapt at them.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jant could hear, as he ran, the gunshots and shouting as he ran with Nexlon, but ignored them, hoping to hell that maybe, just maybe, they weren't in trouble.

At the doors, Travis halted and let out a hmph. He turned and jogged quickly back to Kuzin, who was walking away.

"Kuzin...wait...that cover story...there's only one thing wrong."

Kuzin halted and turned to him, "There is?"

Travis let out a slight grin, "You'll probably like this, had we not become allies..."

Travis set his things upon the ground nearby and stepped closer.

"You want that story to work? I've got to look the part...I need you to rough me up a bit. You know, couple of bruises, maybe a few cuts, the works."

To this, Kuzin seemed to pause for a moment, his shoulders rolling, almost relaxed. He turned back to Travis and his eyebrows rose from behind the lenses. “Are you sure? If I do it, I’m doing it right. No long term damage, but it will have to hurt to be real.”

“Sure, hit me.”

“Heh.” He drew his pistol, dropped the clip, cleared the chamber, and handed the empty gun to Travis; he then his back, unbuttoning his suit-coat. “You snuck up behind me on this balcony…”

“What?”

“Walk up behind me, sneaky-like, with that pistol, trying to force me to cooperate to get a retinal access. Go ahead and try to get up on me. This is what happened, okay?” Kuzin pulled out his PDA and began pressing buttons. “I’m filing a report, you’ve gotten loose behind me and are closing to get out.”

Travis glanced at him oddly, but raised the empty weapon and began to advance, graceful as could be. Five feet… Kuzin was oblivious… four… he was typing… three… nothing… two… the pistol was almost to his back… one… The world exploded.

Kuzin spun to the right, rolling the weapon to the left side with his movement. Travis’ finger flipped the trigger, and the gun clicked, pointed to the ground helplessly. The Chief spun through, his right hand grabbing Travis’, his left punching into the younger man’s elbow. With a distinct pop, the joint dislocated, and the arm bent oddly. Kuzin flipped the gun free, catching it with his follow through, then dropped with the rotation, bringing his left leg up as he fell, smashing into his opponent’s side.

Travis bounced from the wall, and Kuzin was already on him, the empty gun pointed. Click. Kuzin shrugged and thought for a second. “No, that didn’t work out. You died.”

“My arm!”

“It’s fine, just pop it back in.” Kuzin grabbed the other man’s arm and jerked it back into place. He thought for a second as Travis recovered. “Alright. Same thing happens, you hit the wall, I draw the weapon… but it’s out of ammunition, and you react first.”

He leaned back over Travis with the weapon pointed, he clicked the trigger, then turned to it in mock shock. Travis threw his knee into Kuzin’s plexus, and the Chief recoiled in reflex. Travis moved forward, but the older man was moving again, letting his recoil carry him into his next strike as he fell back, kicking O’Neil back into the metal. Kuzin charged back in, a flurry of punches and kicks, nothing designed to break any bones, but plenty of “almost” hits. Travis didn’t block or fight back, but soaked damage to build the illusion.

Kuzin stopped abruptly. “Fight back.”

“Uh… that’s really not the point.”

“How are you going to explain how your shins and elbows and fists are fine. Remember, you get a lot of bruises from attacking and blocking, too. Come on, use your abilities, you would in real life!”

Travis grimaced and became blurry, slipping out from Kuzin’s hold, snaking along the walls and reforming behind the officer, attacking from behind. He landed one hit, two, and then was bouncing back as the Chief donkey-kicked from the wall. O’Neil struck the balcony railing, flared aqueous for a second, and flashed back into the fight, connecting with the whirling Kuzin.

The choreographed fight moved back and forth and back again. Travis was flowing from one state to another, and the Chief was simply grinning, offering up statements of congratulation and criticism. It moved into almost a dance, the faster and fluid O’Neil forming and flowing around the restrained Chief, the tango only stopping for a brief rare comment on, “No, you died, let’s try that again.”

Then, without warning, the fight changed. Travis was hurled back, careening towards an open panel construction area, tumbling into an exposed glass pane. He spread thin as he moved, turning fluid and spreading his impact over the surface to save himself from crashing through the shards. Reforming on the surface, his bit a bloody lip and grabbed a pipe from the panel, charging the Chief, intending to check his swing and “win”.

He moved lightning fast, leaving a few small droplets in his wake, the galvanized tube flashing in the lighting. Kuzin stepped into the swing, the pipe swishing over his head, grabbing the moving arm and sweeping his foot under the other man, sending Travis smashing into the balcony rail again, several feet away. Kuzin never closed with the stunned man, but simply pulled out a device from his coat, and nonchalantly stabbed it into that same railing.

The Tazer snarled, and the current rode down the length of the metal and sent arcs of electricity flipping over O’Neil. Travis flashed liquid for a second, starting to fall over, but the current halted. Kuzin placed the Tazer back into his coat and ran to Travis, pulling the younger man to his feet. He glanced over the now battered and bruised man, noting the various injuries and abrasions. “Well, I’d say you’re suitably convincing.”

Travis only exhaled harshly and held his knees before rising. “I’d hope so.”

“Hey, I warned you.” Kuzin straightened his tie clip and reloaded his pistol. “Oh, and you got me with that pipe. I Tazered you, but it was too little, too late, and you dragged me over there and used my retinal codes to open the exterior locks.” He brushed a red bruise on his cheek. “Nice job by the way, I haven’t had a good spar in months. These pukes couldn’t find their ass with both hands. If you ever want to log some CQB Training time, let me know.” He nodded slightly, adjusting his suit to hide the combat knife exposed in the fight. “Good luck out there.”

Travis nodded and began to head out, pausing only to ask, “Where the hell did you learn to fight like that?”

Kuzin shrugged. “Well, when training consists of being tied to a chair, blindfolded, gagged, muffled, and handcuffed while four convicted murderers are given weapons and told that if they kill you, they can go free… you learn to get real good at it.” He paused, raising an eyebrow again. “Or you get hacked to ribbons.”

“Pleasant.”

“Hey, beats golf.” The Chief turned and left the room, pulling his collar back into order and getting to work on his PDA once more, shifting cleanly out of combat and into work mode.

Travis was walking about in the cold wastelands that surrounded him. He was bruised, cut, battered and overall looking like shit. Before him, in the distance stood the great Castle Kugel. He touched a hand to his face, feeling the bruised cheekbone and the lump of flesh that protruded slightly.

"Damn Kuzin...you sure know how to do your job..." he muttered as he continued toward the castle. He had his weapons with him, his "stolen" weapons. And he also possessed his secret weapon within the damaged body of his.

His footsteps pressed into the weathered earth, each step leading him closer and closer to his goal.

Suddenly a snarling was heard to his left. He turned and widened his eyes as he beheld the Ravager pack that stood just over a hundred paces away. "Shit..." he muttered as he brought his SAR to bear, backing up as he moved somewhat quickly.

Sure enough, they charged.

The SAR barked and fired lethal blow after lethal blow toward the Ravagers. Still, they did not fall, yet their blood was beginning to stain the earth in its crimson paint. The first leapt toward Travis, high in the air, jaws outstretched and large clawed feet pawing outward. Instantly, instinct broke in, and Travis dropped the SAR and morphed. The Ravager fell through, jaws clenching nothing but water. It made an attempt to swallow, but suddenly felt the water particles wrap around its body, and flooding the throat completely. It thrashed about, clawing its mouth with its feet, slicing its own flesh. The other Ravagers watched in confusement, trying to figure out what had happened to the first.

First the knees went down. Then the torso and at long last, the head. The water seeped back out quickly and formed into a pulsating blob. Without hesitating, it launched itself toward another Ravager, which had begun to growl. It too fell under O'neill's suppressive attacks and died. It was this way that the remainder of the pack fell, all except for one.

Travis formed back to human shape, his flesh becoming solidified once more. He glared at the Ravager, his gun back in his hand.

"Come on, you ugly son of a bitch..." he growled, before turning and hauling ass toward the castle. The creature's feet could be heard pounding behind him, its footsteps pounding like the drums of war. Occassionally, the weapon was fired behind him, keeping the Ravager at bay, yet still allowing it to give chase...

Nexlon hurled himself against the front gate, but knew that his efforts were useless. The door was welded shut-as he had already found out-and far too thick to cut through in a short time. He pounded on the door, but still to no avail. Nexlon veered left and started to search for other exits out of the castle, motioning to Jant to do the same.

Finally, Nexlon came to what seemed to be a small security door to the far left. He banged on the control panel, then decided on a more direct approach; he swept his sword through the door's metal center, peirceing it. He then forced it open with a powerful kick and viewed the spectacle before him.

A jeep was just less than a dozen feet away from the front gate, on it's side and destroyed. Must have hit a Mine, Thought Nexlon. A ravager proweled around the vehicle, and Nexlon could hear the shots of a pistol from inside it. Someone was still alive! He turned to Jant.

"Cover me."

With that, Nexlon sped out the security door and attacked. The Ravager knew he was coming, and took a swipe at his assaliant's head; Nexlon dodged and flipped onto the animal's back, plunging his sword into it's spine. The ravager took off like a bull with a rider, taking Nexlon along for the ride-Actually, make that a huge, deadly, crazed bull straddled by a man in a big hunk of metal. The animal ran around in a blind stupor for a little bit until Nexlon yanked his sword out and gave it a deep cut across the throat. The Ravager, in reflexe, slapped a huge paw against Nexlon's face, sending him spinning.

Dazed, he kicked forward as the animal attacked again, striking it's throat wound. The animal lurched on top of Nexlon, who continued the battle with a huge cut up his enemy's belly. Guts and blood sprayed everywhere, covering Nexlon. The Ravager finally wheezed, then died.

Disoriented, Nexlon stumbled towards the Jeep, where he could see a human figure emerging, as bloody as he was. He took the man's hand and threw him towards the door where he hoped Jant was still standing.

"Go!" He rasped. He noticed an AK-Presumebly belonging to the man he just helped. Nexlon picked it up and tossed it to him. He turned; something else had just caught his attention. He could see the distant figure of yet another man-running from yet another Ravager. Nexlon groaned. He was getting tired.

Nexlon jumped up on the side of the Jeep, waving his arms at the man and pointing towards the open security door. He hoped that the man would make it; Nexlon did not think he had enough energy to put up with any more mutant dogs today.

O'Neil saw the smoking debris of a jeep just outside of the castle. On top of it, stood a man waving frantically to him. He glanced back once more, and aimed his SAR once more, just as the Ravager lunged forward once more. The report of a few shots was heard as they penetrated the armor-skin of the Ravager, burying into its leg.

"Eat this, shitface!" he cried, as the gun fired.

The creature's roar sounded deep and loud. Travis kept running. He knew the Ravager wasn't down, it wouldn't be down unless one set a well place shot to its head.

Suddenly, clawed feet buried into Travis's calves, claws tearing at his flesh. Instantly, he fell, and instantly the beast leapt atop him. With movements too quick for the Ravager to realize, Travis shifted his properties once more and wrapped himself around the Ravager's torso. He spun about and solidified upon the beast's throat, a hand gripping the fur tightly. The Ravager reared in surprise, trying to throw this bastardly prey off. Travis stretched a water-tentacle toward the SAR on the ground and managed to snatch it, just as the Ravager took off running, bucking and reaching back every once in a while to snap at him. Each time, he avoided the jaws, and managed to keep the beast running at full speed toward the Castle.

He rode like this, holding on for dear life as the Ravager bucked and ran like a wild ornery bull, Travis just clinging onto the underside of the torso.

Closer and closer they came to the jeep...

Travis brought the SAR to bear, and finally managed to plant the muzzle against the beast's temple. He pulled the trigger.

The Ravager's head disappeared in a mist of blood and gore. In response, the legs stopped running, the body of the beast slamming with terrific force into the ground, the momentum still great. Travis managed to get free of the falling corpse.

Travis was thrown with speed, forward to the wreckage just above. He skidded, bounced, and tumbled to a halt. He groaned and opened his eyes to find himself face to face with the head of the other Ravager in an open snarl.

"Shit!" he cried, backing away in pain. He looked up as he realized that Ravager was also dead. He spied Nexlon standing atop the Jeep, and got up, just as Nexlon led the way to the security door. He followed at a limp, his calves had been decently ravaged by the claws of the beast.

(I'm going to France for 2 weeks. I'll try to respond from there.)

Shaun had no idea who helped him, but he would have to thank him later as he got to the security door. He stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as he saw another man running towards the jeep chased by a Ravenger. He watched as the man dealt with the creature, and Shaun covered them as they walked through the door. Shaun closed and locked it.

He removed the magizine from his AK and to his satisfaction there was ammunition inside. He placed it back in and pulled back the charger handle and smiled as it fell back into place, chambering a round. Shaun looked at the man nursing a wound in the leg. He looked at the man.

"How badly are you hurt?"

"Hurts like a bitch..." Travis muttered as he found a spot to sit and inspect his wounds.

He looked up to the others, "Thanks for helping me out man...just do me a favor...don't take me back there...I hate labs..."

He visibly twitched at the thought...

Nexlon gave a hard stare at the newcomer as he jumped through the security door, hiding his suspicions from the others. This man was obviously some kind of mutant. Nexlon had watched, startled, as the newcomer had shifted his form into water to escape certian death from the jaws of the Ravager. Nexlon's hand tensed on his sword, but he decided to put it back in his sheath. So far, the man was not a threat.

He turned to both Shaun and Travis.

"What are you two doing here?" He asked carefully. Some combanation of gears in his head had warned him that not all was well here. He examined Travis and his wound.

"Will you need any serious medical attention, or will a bandage do just fine?"

Travis looked back up at Nexlon, "I managed to escape the fuckin' labs. They wanted to do all these damn adjustments to my genetics. I was just a normal guy man, normal before they pumped me full of their damn formulas."

He stood and gingerly touched some of the wounds inflicted from Kuzin, "Got in a bit of a scrap with some security guy or something. He gave me a hell of a whuppin' but I managed to best him. Knocked him out cold, killed him after I finished using him to get through the security checkpoints."

He glanced down at Shaun and muttered, "I hate fuckin' labs..."

He looked up at the others and spoke, "The labs really fucked me up man...I've got this weird ability that they gave me. Let me show you."

He stood before them and abruptly liquified as a human version of water. He spoke telepathically to them, As you can see, I can change to a water-based shape. He soon changed back, making sure to slide back into the clothes that had fallen on the ground.

"A little strange I admit, but those labs kept trying to create all kinds of people like me, but with different abilities."

He adjusted his clothing then asked, "I'm Travis. Who are y'all?"

Shaun listened quietly to Travis, he didn't look at the man, he was busy trying to light a Camel cigarette.

Shaun looked up at Travis, the Camel fell from his mouth and his eyes nearly burst from thier sockets. He took a step back and tripped over a chair, his AK47 dropping to the ground next to him. He lay there for several seconds, unsure if his eyes and mind were playing tricks on him.

"A little strange? Man...your fucking messed up. I'm..Shaun, private dectective."

Travis extended a hand to help Shaun to his feet. He replied, "Yeah, tell me about it. The things they did makes me want to find some way to destroy their work and kill off everyone involved in this damn place."

He asked to no one in particular, "What are you guys doing here? Did you escape the labs too?"

As he waited for their answer, he slung the Sag ACR rifle off his shoulder in a non threatening manner. He walked around the room they were in, inspecting the walls and rubble that was scattered about the place. Once finished he returned to the others. His eyes rested upon Nexlon's armor, momentarily wondering if he too had been subjected to the inhumane treatments.

Nexlon have Travis a hard look after observing his special power. He tensed and gripped his sword for a moment, then sheathed it. Nexlon was mighty suspicious of this newcomer. NovaGen was much too rigid and precise to let a subject of this calibur escape thier labs.

Nexlon put the ideas that he had in the back of his head and nodded to Travis.

"The name is Nexlon. I'm an out-of-country assassian sub-contracted by NovaGen." He hesitaed slightly. "I hunt down Meta-Humans such as yourself, but Don't worry. I'm not in a hurry to give NovaGen back any of thier property after a slight blunder on thier part just a short time ago."

He gave Travis another look. "That's a nice abilitiy you have there, Travis."

Nexlon's mind raged with the thought that Travis could easily be a hitman, and he wondered what side the man was really on. Still, even if Travis was an enemy, Nexlon was still content. He thought that he and Travis might make an interesting fight, anyways.

Shaun sat on a table and finally was able to get a Camel to lite. He drew deeply and exhaled a long plume of smoke. He shrugged.

"I am a private detective. A guy came to me because his daughter had gone missing with some friends in some abandoned town around these parts. I know little about the labs, but I figure this girl is probably dead. I came out here to hopefully find something...and got attacked by those things out there."

NovaGen Main Facility
Laboratory Level Three
Sequencing Chamber

“Ah, Chief Kuzin, how good to see you.” Dr. Zemph turned from his work on an upright tube, lowering his PDA obviously, showing how exactly pleased he wasn’t. The Doctor and his staff were gathered around the various upright batching cylinders, watching the engineered vireii perform the genetic re-sequencing need to prepare the Antigenome Serum.

Kuzin nodded professionally, glancing around the room. The operating tables in the nearby labs showed through glass windows, and the hum of supercomputers was vibrating the air. Conditioned air circulated through ionizing filters, wafting up and away, lifting every hint of dust. The clack and pump of processing agents interrupted the beeping of monitors, and there was a quiet rumble below the surface, as if the Earth knew of the potent genesis happening in the NovaGen labs.

Zemph motioned for his colleagues to continue, and faced Kuzin again, his hand brushing his face, as if to remove glasses that were no longer needed. “Chief, might I inquire why you insist on coming down here during this sensitive operation?”

Kuzin shrugged mildly, his eyes moving behind those silver glasses, the lenses glimmering in the caught light. “Security concerns, as is my profession, Doctor.” He began to walk around several of the computer terminals, throwing a glance to the windows beyond, into the horizontal tubes, occupied tubes. “After all, in all of this strange science, one never knows what might go bump in the night.”

“Please, Mr. Kuzin.” Zemph turned away, touching his clipboard. “You’re beginning to sound like that beast, Tempkov.”

“And how is that, good Doctor?”

“He insists that our work is debased, corrupt.” He smashed the keypad on his laptop fiercely, stabbing each keystroke in agitation. “This is science, it cannot be held to metaphysical concerns!”

“But is it not strange…” Kuzin glanced again that other room, a deliberate, accusing motion that made Zemph recoil from his own recollections. “Is it not strange that to give, one must take?”

“A perfectly rational operation, Kuzin! Harvesting of fresh, long-programmed sequences is needed to recombine the host sequences-”

“It is rational, yes, but somehow poetic as well.” Kuzin tapped the glass softly.

Zemph took a slight, unconscious step backwards. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

Kuzin turned back, facing away from the glass, walking into the room further, turning Zemph’s gaze as he walked back towards the computers, the regulated technology. “It is nothing, simply musings of a drawn out officer. Aurelli expects results from you, Doctor, something you’ve been loathe to deliver.”

Zemph exhaled audibly, resting his freshly picked up PDA back on the desk. “Tell the President I will deliver the Serum when it is finished. Science cannot be rushed.”

“Then I will tell him as such.” Kuzin began to turn. “But Tempkov is not science, and he may hurry us.”

“Do you think he would-”

“Attempt to seize what we have created? To seize power long denied him? Of course, Doctor, of course he will move on us once he has acquired the ability.” Kuzin smirked. “He is a force of nature, but a predictable one. He will acquire the reins of governance from the civilians of Adamaria, and then he will seek to double cross us to take our science. Then, he will turn on the world.”

“And we cut a deal with a man such as this?”

“Aurelli is a businessman, and Tempkov offered his local support. Property is more valuable than blood. Now, rent is due, and we would be wise to move out before we are called to pay.” The Chief was almost out of the lab now. “I will do my best to buy us time, Doctor. For now, I will inform Aurelli of your status. You would do well to consider hurrying your science.”

Zemph closed his mouth and turned back to the tanks, ashen. He swallowed a bit of bile that threatened to rise, and he tapped his PDA, hoping the timer would skip a beat or two.

"The Tides shift, and the World falls apart Piece by Piece."

Nexlon paced around, wondering silently. This was an Enigma within an Enigma. Who was telling the truth? Who was lying?

"Very well. The first order of business should be Us finding our way out of here without getting eaten. Or perhaps some of you would like to explore this castle more?"

OCC:By the way, That first quote at the top will be the name of an RP that will be created very soon, starring an earlier Nexlon. If anyone wants to join, your welcome to.

Here's a preview:
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