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WHEN THE DUST SETTLES...

A How Legends are Made Short

Owen awoke in a cold sweat. He bolted upright almost instantly to be hit by a wave of chilly mountain air. He breathed deeply to slow his pounding heart. Beside him, the covers rustled as Sasha sleepily rolled over to look up at him. She propped her head up with her hand before speaking in a silent tone.

Are you okay?" she asked, letting out a jaw-snapping yawn.

"Yeah," he lied, "Just a dream."

"Another one?"

"Same one. It always is."

"Want to talk about it?" she offered, fighting to keep her eyes from closing on her. She was losing, and Owen saw it despite the inky darkness.

"No. I'll be fine, thank you. I just need some fresh air." he said, moving to clamber out of the sweat-drenched linens.

"Are you sure?" she halfheartedly grumbled.

"Yeah. I'm fine. You get some sleep." Without awaiting her approval, he slipped on a pair of pants and a nearby pair of boots a size too small before exiting the small bedroom. The cabin was silent, even Romulus having settled down and went to sleep. He silently walked to the front door, noting that the fire in the stone hearth was dying. At least that would give him something to take his mind off of his nightmare.

He fished about in the dimly-lit entryway for his scavenged jacket. He found it on the hook where he had set it upon last and threw it about his body. He zipped up the zipper, trying to minimize the noise but it still sounded obtrusively rude.

He braced himself and opened the door. Cold air immediately met him, but it was well worth it to see the beauty that lay before him. The door creaked closed behind him, but he was busy admiring the night. It was outside as quiet as the cabin, the only sound reaching his ears was that of an owl cooing softly somewhere in the mountains. The full moon cast a lonely light upon the overgrown hill and the great Rocky Mountains cast ominous shadows out onto the valleys as they blocked out light for those lower areas. The faintest snowfall was wafting down towards the earth ever so gently, the small flakes insignificant in number compared to those already on the ground and instantly melted. The trees hissed to and fro as a slow wind worked upon them and small gusts of snow that hadn't yet melted were picked up from rest to be haphazardly blown elsewhere. Owen lost himself as he looked up.

The stars were out in full force that night, and Owen openly gawked up at them. He always felt so insignificant when he looked to the stars. He stood there for a moment and enjoyed the view. A snowflake soon made acquaintance with his eye so he stopped staring at the milky way spread out above him, blinking quickly to try and clear the now-water flake from his eyes. He instead turned his attention to the small pile of wood that he had split and stacked earlier that day.

He slowly plodded over to the pile, his boots crunching on the thick frost, and brushed the gathering flakes off of the first few pieces of pine. He hefted several of the smaller logs in his arms and re-entered the cabin. He silently set the wood next to the fire and began feeding it gingerly. The fire warmed his skin as it crackled and popped.

He finally decided that the fire was sufficiently fuelled and turned to go back to bed. He made it partway back before he deemed it hopeless; he wouldn't be able to sleep. His head; it was still buzzing with far-off memories. The echoes of a time seemingly so long ago were embedded within his soul now, gnawing at him like vengeful parasites. He needed to be alone for a while so he could pick them out, one by one.

He picked up a stool from the living room of the cabin and once again headed outside. He set it down on the small veranda and took a seat, the insignificant snow ghosting past him. He didn't even register the cold as his face started to redden. He didn't mind; he was well used to the sensation; he had grown up with it. He just sat there and stared up at the stars.

They twinkled and stared back, seemingly happy to have some company on that cold night. He took a deep lungful of frigid air, holding it in his lungs for a few moments before expelling it out in a white mist. He watched as his breath disappeared among the starlit sky that was hardly disturbed by the thin cloud layer. The moon hung low, it's scarred surface casting a dim curtain of light on him. He sat there for a while, thinking back to the day that, though years ago had occurred, still haunted him deeply and disturbed his slumber.

It wasn't until he looked at the moon, actually looked at it, silent and still, that he felt anything. Whether it was it's seeming omnipotence, or it's tangible indifference, Owen did not know. But it touched him. It went deep. Deeper than any therapist, no mental specialist, no doctor of any sort, could ever hope to achieve. It dredged up the feelings that had coursed through his veins that day.

Hate, fear, rage, loss, anger, confusion, spite, sadness, doubt. All of these emotions washed over him in a tumultuous tide that left him gasping for air. He clung desperately to a raft of hope as the angry ocean of regret threatened to drown him. He took a lungful of disgust as he came up to breathe, the taste of it bitter and cruel. Among all of this, one nagging sense plagued him; failure. His heart grew cold and his body ached, not due to any physical lack of warmth, but to an emotional one. He shrank back in the face of it, not wanting to take notice of it. But he did. And he remembered why it was there. Slowly he drifted about in this sea of emotions under the scrutiny brought about by that silent sphere of cold rock. Ever so slowly, he became lost in the all-encompassing white light as the moon mocked him gently.

**

Brunswick, North Carolina, United States of America

1749 Hours, May 26** th ***, 2045*

"Hey," asked Owen Smith, "is it true?" He questioned the Indian taxi driver as he listened to the radio, trying desperately to hear the broadcast over the sound of the thumping of the open window.

"Yah. Apparently so. It's on da radio, is it not?"

"Can you turn it up?" he asked. The driver shook his head while saying something under his breath about annoying tourists. Owen didn't care. He wasn't here to make friends. Somewhat reluctantly, the driver turned the nob on the radio to the right and the voice on the radio came through louder.

"...has been shot. The superstar was touring the Eastern Seaboard when an unknown gunman, supposedly in the fourth floor of a nearby building, slaughtered him. The Police Department is now looking into the attack and are on high alert..."

"Shit..." breathed Owen, "How far are we?"

"Only few miles. You in a hurry?"

"Kind of. There's an extra twenty in it for you if you can get me there in the next five minutes."

The driver really picked up the speed then, finally pulling up in front of Military Terminal Sunny Point, Owen's destination. He gathered his duffel bag and stepped out of the vehicle after paying the driver. The small Indian man merely nodded as he closed his window and sped off down the road. Owen turned around and took in his first view of the base.

Sunny Point was an immensely large size ocean terminal that was more of a nod to civilian safekeeping than a military stronghold located just downstream of the large, river-bisected city of Wilmingotn. It's encroaching mass of military might was the second largest in the world; only the United States military debarkation point in North Carolina that had come into service two years before surpassed it in presence. It's buildings were arranged in the usual military fashion; row upon row of identical buildings within perfectly-measured distances from each other. They were all of the usual, boring military buildings coloured grey with only small, horizontally-long windows interrupting the otherwise featureless walls. Owen was unimpressed. The walls would obviously have been impressive at one point in Owen's life, but the feeling of military amazement had long since passed and he strode past the layers of security without a second thought.

He walked quickly from the entrance, his boots thudding on the cement path. He asked a passing soldier where the HQ was and made an almost direct line for it. It was a building similar to all the others, just larger. This one had four storeys. Huh. Go figure. The military makes everything identical. Big surprise there...

He approached the front door to the building, nodding to the posted guard. He checked his beret and straightening his coat as the guard, a Cpl. Hawkins, ran a scan of his papers on a tablet. Hawkins nodded to him and let him inside.

The first thing he felt was cold air. It was an immense a relief. The weather so far had been unbearable. Hell, he thought, I'd rather be on Lake Superior in the middle of February! At least then I wouldn't be sweating like a pig at a barbeque!

The building he had been admitted to was, by all means, ridiculous. The door opened into a large room, the height that a full two storeys, with offices arranged in neat order around the circumference. It was all done in a 'white walls and no windows' manner, so any grandeur it may have had was instantly stripped away by the ludicrous bareness of it all. There was a decently sized desk right smack-dab in the centre of the room. Behind it was seated an almost comically typical female secretary.

After a brief exchange of words, he was directed upstairs to the veranda that allowed yet more offices to be built into the sides of the useless expanse of nothingness that was the main room. He stooped in front of an oh so boring wooden door with a frosted and wire-lined window taking up half the area. On the window was printed in black typeface: CAPT. R. TUNGSTEN, BASE CO. Yeah. He was in the right spot. Checking that his jacket was straight once more, he turned the doorknob.

He was greeted by the buzzing sound of tactical play-by-plays being organized and plans being laid. It all stopped abruptly when he walked in. Several men turned to face him as he stood there awkwardly at attention just inside the door frame.

"So," started a man, Tungsten himself, judging by the insignia on his well-kept uniform, "The last one of yours?"

"Yes, that's him alright." laughed Owen's direct superior, Colonel Ryan Frost. His southern accent drawled out his his words slightly, something that he had been unable to suppress despite years of training and self-regulation. He was built quite sturdily, if one could call a tank merely 'sturdy', that is. Despite his age (forty something or other, nobody on the team knew exactly), he was still in peak physical shape. His green, grey, and black digital cammo fatigues almost struggled to retain his form effectively, the suit taught in some places across the chest. He had grey hair cut close to his head, and a face with a set jaw and cliff-like cheekbones. His once-pale complexion had become weathered over time and was now had an almost 'tanned leather' colour to it. His eyes were the green of precision-cut emeralds and bored straight to the soul of whomever looked into them. The stylized silver eagle insignia on his shoulder showed that he was the squad leader.

Colonel Frost was somewhat of a legend among the ranks of the United Nations Expeditors, a group of anti-terrorist teams. He had never failed a mission. Add that to the fact that he had also been on the most missions of any Expeditor, and you have a walking god in the eyes of the enlisted man. He was also, unfortunately, a satirical critic. "Late, as always. One more time, Smith, and you automatically volunteered for bait duty. And straighten your jacket, this is not a bar."

Goddamn it all...

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Traffic was terrible. It won't happen again." Barked Owen like a scolded child.

"Good. Now come and join us. We have new information regarding the terrorist op we caught wind of a few days back. It seems like they're moving tonight."

"Tonight, sir? Wha- how?"

"No idea. But we have to be ready. Come on over."

Owen dropped his bag at the door with those of the others'. It fell to the ground with a thunk. Owen winced at the sound. Damn! Oh, I hope my tablet didn't break...

He walked over to stand at ease along with the other eleven members of the 9th Expeditor Contingent. He shared glances with some of the more friendly ones, and mere 'Yeah, I noticed you' glances at the others. I hate being the new guy. It's always so damned awkward. Oh well, at least Alex is here.

Alexander Wess was Owen's only relationship that had existed previous to his induction into the program. Alexander and Owen had been like brothers since they had met fifteen years ago in public school. Both had chosen to attend Trexton University and had decided to enter the Expeditor system. After surviving basic training and advanced placement together, Alexander had been chosen by Frost immediately out of the final training semester. When another spot had opened up, it was he who had vouched for Owen's acceptance into the squad. Without him, Owen would probably be pulling graveyard shifts at an aerospace lab in Detroit trying to scrape out a living. That said, Alex was Owen's best friend and was closer to him than most family.

Alex nodded as Owen took his place between him and another member of the multinational team. Shira, one of the only two female members in the squad, nudged him as Frost and Tungsten were distracted plotting out hostile numbers to be expected later on. "Late again? You're lucky Frost doesn't send you to a Russian gulag for your incompetence." she hissed under her breath.

"Pfft. Judging by this op, I could actually go for a few days in a Gulag. I swear I'm melting in this weather!" he uttered back while dabbing sweat that had begun to arise on his brow despite the admirably chugging air conditioner's efforts.

"You Canadians are all alike. Fine in minus forty, but anything above zero and you are useless." she snickered quietly.

"Bah. You wouldn't last ten minutes outside of your tropical weather. Besides, it makes the women all the more lively."

"Just how, exactly?" she sighed.

"Well, you know... Friction creates heat..."

"Oh, shut up."

"Pssst!" interrupted Alex, "Shut up you two! You should be paying attention!"

"Yes, mom." intoned Owen vehemently as they watched the two commanders exchange ideas. Technically, Frost did not need to coordinate his efforts with the local military forces. His Expeditor status practically gave him a 'carte blanche' when it came to running his operations. Frost had the authority, proving that he had relevant information and reason behind his actions, to commandeer, order around, or otherwise assume control of any military or government logistics unit. But it was always dependant on the contingent commander. Sometimes other squads, the 3rd and 8th especially, chose to remove themselves from the radar and operate completely undetected. Others, like the 11th and 4th, chose to completely assume command of the area they were present in to achieve their goals. Frost enjoyed making others think that they were helping, Tungsten just now providing a prime example.

"So I am thinking that a water-borne assault on the facility would be the most effective..." said Frost, dropping his train of thought almost sadly and waiting for the more than likely offer.

"You could use our watercraft. We have a few Zodiac Mach-IVs for standard water presence. Two would suffice, seeing as there are only a dozen of you..." provided Tungsten, walking into the carefully laid suggestion without pause.

"That would be the most agreeable course of action, provided you would let us..."

"Of course! We will not be needing them any time soon." The Captain looked like he had wanted nothing more than to say no. However, one does not say no to a United Nations Expeditor team leader without serious implications further on down the line. The decision was as painful as pulling teeth, but it wasn't really much of a decision on Tungsten's part.

Classic Frost...He could have just demanded them...

Owen watched as the two came to terms with a course of action. He slowly slipped out of concentration, the numerous approaches and enemy tallies beginning to bore him. He swayed from side to side, his mind only focusing on the basics of what he was to do later on that night. Only when the actual chemical was brought up did he decide to pay any form of attention, scratching the back of his neck distractedly.

The plan was, by all means, incredibly straightforward and uncompromisingly blunt in it's simplicity. The twelve expeditors would leave the base as soon as the airborne probes noted the hostiles approaching the research compound from a kilometre above. They would make their way, by Zodiac, to the port authority pier closest to where the research facility lay. From there, they would mount a stealth-oriented assault on the hostile forces and hopefully eradicate them without the need for a running firefight. NAVSAT data would be fed directly to the Expeditors by way of a utility pad that Frost will be carrying, detailing heat signatures detected in the area and noting their location. The team would then enter the building, the Sir William Darenson Research Laboratory, and secure their target.

The building itself was a large, multi-tiered facility that housed the labs of untold dozens of university-funded projects. It was designed more elaborately than it needed to be, with large swooping architectural arches and intricate bastions of brick composure holding tastefully crafted gargoyles that cast their unblinking gaze out across the surrounding district and a grand walk leading to a glass-fronted foyer. It was done in the fashion of a Gothic cathedral, the windows not a part of the foyer smaller and more recessed into the brickwork. In Owen's opinion, there couldn't have been a more foreboding location for a research program to take place.

However, it was not the building itself that the Expeditors were here to protect, to safeguard, to throw their lives away in it's defence. No, it was something far more consequential than that. What they were seeking to deny this yet-unnamed enemy was one of those multitude of research results. Amongst all the mindless tests on rats, monkeys, rabbits, frogs, and all sorts of animals remotely related to science, was a deadly compound that had been discovered completely by way of accident. Several chemical substances, alone almost harmless, had been mixed together as a possible cure for leukaemia. Preliminary results were good, so the production had been refined into a simple recipe for ease of reconstruction. That's when things went sour. It turned out that the chemicals, in certain ratios, became a deadly psychotropic drug. Some test subjects (the rats, mice, and most of the cats and dogs) began a downward spiral through painful fazes of mental degeneration. Eventually, most had starved to death or died of thirst, their mental capacity having dwindled so much that even their basic bodily functions were uncontrollable and survival instincts became lost in a sea of unfocused, undirected thought. They, as terrible as it sounds, were the lucky ones.

The others suffered a fate worse than death until they felt the reaper's skeletal embrace. For a few days, they experienced heightened awareness; an affinity for knowledge. For those first few days they remembered everything and had perfect recall. Yes, for a while, the drug helped them. But then it reached a peak and the drug began to become deadly. They slipped almost instantly into a a state of paralysis, the nerve endings at the base of the brain, those of the cerebral cortex, having been over-impulsed and fried out like the faulty fuses of an old home. They soon lost all control of their bodies, but still retained brain function at a level significantly higher than normal. In essence, they could feel themselves dying more acutely than they ever could have before. They could feel their throat dry out and their eyes glaze over. They could feel their body shutting itself down, their kidneys and livers failing and their stomachs contracting as bile started burning at the inner lining, the layer of mucus having long since stopped being produced. They could feel their bodies eating themselves. And there is no way for them to escape from the serum's deadly embrace; the only true way out was death.

Fortunately, the demonic substance was still only in a concentrated fluid that needed to be directly injected into a victim's bloodstream to take effect. That could change, however, if the terrorist cell that the team had been keeping tabs on managed to get their hands on it and alter the formula. If it were to be broken down and made into a gas form, it would easily be as effective as Anthrax Gamma but with far less immediately noticeable effects. That would make it almost impossible to detect in the early stages of inflection. If it were to be released in a city, the result would be catastrophic. The UN Expeditors could not let that happen. The 11th Expeditor Contingent had already shut down the program and brought the researchers to secure locations elsewhere in the city for extraction and had left the 9th to take care of the chemical itself.

The samples were now stored in the facility's vault behind a two ton, titanium-alloy, bank-grade door and awaiting transfer to a United States Air Force base in Texas. In the meantime, they were under guard by a dozen SWAT members armed to the teeth and a couple automated sentry units that had been hastily deployed at the news they were to be attacked. Local police forces were on standby and ready to surround the area in case of an assault, effectively sealing off any exits. In the Expeditors' opinion, that sample was not secure in the slightest.

That was why Owen had been flown in from half a continent away to join up with the rest of the squad; they were the heavies. If the shit hit the fan, which it probably would, they would be deployed at a moment's notice to deal with the threat. Despite the nagging jet lag and insufferable flight, Owen found that he was glad to be doing something other than provide surveillance on several 'possible members' of the hostile organization. Now he felt as if he was truly a part of the team. This would be his first combat mission deployed with the rest of the group. Sure, he had tasted combat before, but only with one or two others. The 9th was a secular bunch at the best of times. Hell, this was the first complete gathering since Owen's swearing in several months ago.

"And once your team has the agent?" asked Capt. Tungsten, his eyes flicking around the room somewhat hesitantly. Owen knew that the man was nervous. But it didn't take his speciality in the 9th, body language and psych assessment, to notice this. He was sweating lightly despite being acclimatized to the region. Tungsten was shifting from foot to foot almost imperceptibly, and he barely made eye contact. The captain was a man of appearances, what with military speeches, briefings, and formal attendances in the city, but he was now letting his facade slip. Owen couldn't blame him; there was a lot at stake.

"When we have the chemical samples, we will personally move them to a secure location. For reasons I am sure you will understand, we cannot tell you any information about the transportation of the agent after we retrieve it." Replied Frost coolly, matching his low voice with a gaze completely in synch with his name.

"Er- Yes, of course." stuttered the Naval officer, his eyes flicking from Frost's gaze almost the moment he met it.

"I am sorry that I am so obscure in the matter," sighed Frost, changing tactics, "but we cannot afford any risks at this point. This is officially a Stage 1 threat and the UN has authorized any means necessary in order to get the task completed with the least hang-ups. If it had suited my team and I any better, I could have refused this session and instead confiscated the chemical without an explanation. I mean no disrespect when I say this, of course. There is a lot on the line here, but I feel I can trust you and your men with this. Am I correct? "

"Yes. Of course you can." Replied the officer. The rest of the team had noticed exactly what had happened; they had seen it before. Even Owen picked up on what Frost had pulled off with his carefully positioned words and thinly veiled threat. By asking that one, final, seemingly simple question, Frost had effectively hammered the last nail in the coffin that was the officer's obedience. No more questions would be posed by Capt. Tungsten or his men and their loyalty was now assured. If Owen had to guess, the naval captain would be arranging another briefing for his own men after the 9th left the building. The cards were dealt, and Frost held the entire deck in his hands.

"Good, I thought so," said Frost, the slightest start of a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth, "That will be all. If you hear anything, or the probes pick anything up, I am expecting you to alert us immediately. Until then, we will be near either the motor pool or the firing range."

"Understood. I will personally find you if we expect anything."

"Thank you, Ronald. Have a nice day." Smiled Frost, his smile as inviting as that of a starved shark.

"Er- You too." said Tungsten, who found himself asking God why it was him who had to deal with that bunch of inquisitors...

Military Ocean Terminal Sunny Point, Brunswick, North Carolina,

1951 Hours, May 26** th ***, 2045*

Owen ran as fast as he could, leaping over low obstacles before diving to the dirt. The reddish-brown dust that he kicked up made him stifle a cough as he soldiered on and the smell of sun-baked earth filled his sinuses. Above Owen, gunshots cracked noisily on both semi- and fully-automatic fire. The bullets whizzed only a few inches above his head as he crawled through the dry dirt. Coming behind a low wall, he rose to a crouch. His relief was short lived however, as an attacker whirled around the rock to face him.

Owen surprised the man almost as much as he had surprised Owen, the man hesitating before deciding on a course of action. The man made to bring up his rifle, an ugly bullpup design that Owen was painfully familiar with, and made to snap off a few rounds. He never got the chance however, as Owen rammed forwards into the man as he let go of his own weapon. He let out an 'oomf' as Owen hit him with all the force he could muster. The man's gun flew from his hands as they fell over onto the ground, yet more dust kicking up from the ground as they scrambled around on the dirt, both fighting to gain the upper hand in the scuffle. Owen kneed the man in the stomach as they rolled around, but it was only mildly effective. As he drew back to punch him in the face, the man stopped him by grasping his forearms.

Owen struck out with his elbow, hitting the man in the ribs. When the man's grip on his forearm didn't slacken, he did it again. And again. And again. Finally, the vice grip on his arms lessened ever so slightly and Owen was free. He grabbed for the knife on his belt and flicked it across the man's neck without a bit of flourish.

Suddenly, a whistle blew from a few metres distant. "Alright people! Red team wins! Training session is over! Time to check our new toys out. Come see me at the motor pool in five!"

Owen stood up, looking over to where Vince stood looking triumphant holding the blue flag. A very disgruntled Brad walked over and slapped him on the back, possibly a little too hard to be friendly. Owen reached down and offered his right hand to his 'attacker'. Alex took it and Owen pulled him up, helping to dust off his digital-pattern fatigues. Red dust came off in clouds as they sought to clean themselves up a bit. Owen noticed he was still holding his 'knife', a mock blade equipped with a conductive surface, and sheathed it, the blade making the sound of a zipper as it slid into it's protective nylon.

Alex grabbed the 'hostile' gun up from where it lay on the ground and dusted it off as well. It was an old G40 that had been outfitted with marker rounds, basically bullets that fired plastic shells filled with either red or blue paint. For the sake of realism, they had rounded up several weapon types that were to be expected on the op and issued the the paint rounds. Owen was glad Alex hadn't managed to shoot him; those paint rounds hurt through the thin fabric of the fatigues. One time, he had one puncture the skin of his thigh straight through his cargo pants. It had bled for two hours before reaching a manageable trickle.

All around them, the squad was packing up. The members who had been shooting at the range, where Owen had crawled out in front of while inside of a shallow trench, were packing up their weapons and throwing any casings into a large metal garbage can to one side of the sandbagged pit. Owen had been hesitant about crawling in front of the live weapons, but decided that he could trust them. His faith had been well placed.

His squadmates that had been playing a round of capture the flag took the red and blue bandanas from around their right arms and slipped them into deep pockets for later use. If nothing else, they could serve as a tensor bandage later. They then gathered up their guns and trudged back to the dugout to return them.

Owen tugged at the knot holding the red band around his arm and it came loose slowly. He tucked it into his back pocket as he reached up at the coat rack that was placed on one of the posts holding the cammo netting up above the firing range dugout. He pulled his jacket from the hook, grabbing Alex's while he was at it and tossing it to him. Neither of them wore their jackets, but instead chose to carry it over their shoulders. Alex put his 'gun' onto a nearby weapons rack and Owen did likewise.

"That was a good hit; almost drove the wind right out of me." said Alex, rubbing his chest where Owen had body-checked him. His brown hair looked more red now than usual because of the dirt that had somehow merged with it. His Romanesque face bore a few fresh scrapes from their tumble, but he was otherwise intact. He grinned at Owen as he wiped the painful mark on his neck made by Owen's 'knife'. "You have to admit though; it was pretty close."

"Yeah, it was. I'm just glad you didn't get me with that painter. I'm pretty sure that I still have the bruises from the last time you shot me." Laughed Owen, who could feel the slightest bit of blood trickling down his arm from a cut above his elbow. He checked it out before deciding to let it crust over by itself. The duo made their way to the area just outside the shooting range

The squad slowly clustered into a loose group and proceeded to the motor pool that lay on the other side of the base. Passing base personnel merely stared at them as they passed, wondering what the hell it was they had been doing to appear so ragged and informal. Their stares of their observers were swept away as an officer of some sort emerged from a nearby bunkhouse and shouted them off to their duties. He merely nodded at the passing Expeditors before disappearing back to his previous task, his neatly kept boots thudding on the wood of the step as he went.

"Anyone hear about the new armour specs?" asked Kevin as they trekked down the hot concrete path in between the rows of buildings. The structures had become less densely packed now, the squad having left the main troop billets and made their way to the vehicle staging area. A couple murmurs rose as they made it to the final stretch of ground between them and their destination.

"I heard we're supposed to be getting power armour..." grumbled Kirsten, the other female in the squad, her silky Russian accent sightly eschewing her pronunciation of the words. Owen hardly registered what she said; he had a sort of crush on Kirsten. Hell, even the accent drove him mad. If he was correct, she also felt the same towards him. He imagined that it would only be a while until one of them acted.

"Power armour?" guffawed Alex, "You mean like that sci-fi game stuff? Cool. I could go for single-handedly saving the human race."

"I'm just saying what I heard, zhopa." she countered to ill effect, Alex missing the foreign barb. Several other team members took note and smiled, used to the two being at each others' throats.

The squad came to a halt in front of a mid sized building that looked like half of a corrugated culvert dug into the ground. Frost was leaning up against the front of the building watching them approach. He flicked away his cigarette onto the ground, the last bit of smoke ghosting lazily from his nose and fading quickly in the faint breeze. He slowly pushed himself up and ground the butt of the cigarette under the heel of his heavy combat boots. "Well. Are you guys ready to check out our new tuxedos?"

This drew some laughter from the gathered crowd. He arched his back, producing a sharp crack. "Alright then," he said,rolling his shoulders, "let's get inside." He opened the door and entered the building, not waiting for his squad to follow.

The men and women of the 9th Expeditor Contingent followed him into the hanger-like structure, their eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light. They cast a few wide-eyed looks about the interior of the building. The building turned out to be a single room with a greasy cement floor and metal scaffolding lining the walls. A heavy-grade military lift was situated directly in the centre of the building's floor, marked and marred by oil and lubricating agents. Toolkits and cabinets were a common enough sight in the open expanse of the garage and the odd, lone tool could be found clustered around several engine blocks and half-disassembled vehicles.

What drew their attention, however, were the large utility boxes that were roughly lined up near the large retractable doors on the far side of the garage. One of the overhead fluorescent lights flickered as they approached the boxes, the silence paramount. Someone had already removed the contents of the closest case, the lid left open and the utility foam hinting at something important with it's sharp rifts and valleys, and had laid it out on a hijacked trolley. Owen had a feeling that it was the man, who had a morph in tow, who was now watching them come through the door.

The trolley was laden down with what appeared to be plates of armour, their matte black finish subtly dissipating the light and reducing the sheen on the individual segments. Frost casually sauntered over to the trolley and picked up the helmet that rested on the cart. He held it under the crook of his right arm while he gestured to the other pieces with his left. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Centurions, let me introduce you to our new armour. This is Aegis Mark III 'Curiass' power armour." Several of the group laughed, Kirsten merely smiling to herself as she was proved right. "I have tested this suit earlier, but I am still at a loss as to how exactly it works. That is why I am going to hand you over to Dr. Silus Hawthorn here, who will explain, well, try to explain, what it is and how it works."

Dr. Silus took a look at the gathered Expeditors and nodded to himself knowingly. He was a rake of a man, insanely thin with a good few inches on the tallest member of the Centurions. His old-style glasses almost blended into his unkempt black hair, his blue eyes magnified by the thin layer of glass. He eschewed any form of lab coat or jacket, instead opting for a more comfortable t-shirt and a pair of loose jeans.

His morph was a jet-black feline with digitigrade legs and long hair carrying down her back. Her ears were large and attentive while her green eyes rivalled even Frost's. She stood to one side dressed in a blouse and pair of dress pants that made her look important even though she was here only as an assistant.

The scientist clapped his hands together before he started. "Good evening, I am Dr. Hawthorn. You may call me Silus. And before you ask; yes, that's right, this is POWER armour. That means that it lugs it's own weight around. Kinda neat, really. But, it is mainly designed for protection. This suit's arm plating alone can stop a 5.56 dead. Constructed of layered ceramic and KEVLAR, this suit is fully enclosed and the undersuit, which, yes, must be worn at all times, is a poly weave fibre equivalent to KEVLAR on a heavier scale. It is apparently capable of deflecting most sharp objects, but I didn't test it on a live wearer because nobody wanted the 'experiment' to go wrong. That said, knives are of little problem as are most shrapnel applications. Little testing has been done on the undersuit for bullet resistance, so try not to get shot."

"The 'powered' part comes in the form of the fibre muscle bundles placed between the under layer and the plates. They are attached by way of plugs into the under layer and act as your own muscles do, by retracting and expanding. The battery pack, which will be located in the shoulder rigging, will send electrical pulses to the muscles when the sensors worked into the undersuit detect the impulses being sent by the brain to the limbs. As a result, when you move, it moves. A standard 'ping' of a few milliseconds is to be expected, but is easy to get used to."

"You will find that you can run faster and hit harder than you could before. During testing, one of my aides suffered four broken ribs from a punch directed at his ribcage. He's recovered, but still has some stiffness from the hit. In other words; punching in one of these can kill an unarmoured opponent."

"Though the ping exists, it is completely compensated by the fact that your body will move faster once it starts. This is achieved through the fact that the suit acts as if it is your own body. It's muscle is yours. To do so, it is designed to overlap your own musculature to achieve peek performance. Average 100m track times have improved by as much as 12%."

"The suit can easily support what you can, with a bit more of a balanced load. The suit can effectively take some of the pressure off of equipment that is carried, whether in a pack or by hand, by tensing the fibre bundles in the localized region. This decreases the need for a load to be centred on the body and allows for more to be carried. Recent tests show that the armour can up an infantryman's carrying capacity by a solid 120 pounds. However, be forewarned that it does have weaknesses."

"You will note that there is a closed helm with this armour to decrease the likeliness of a head injury. That also means a smaller field of view when on the field. In an attempt to make up for this, external motion detectors have been added to the helmet to detect motion up to ten metres away and project them on an independent HUD on your left eye lens. But, judging from experience, the motion detector is a pile of shit right now: it is prone to glitching out and receiving false signals. I had to turn my demo off after twenty minutes because it was giving me a headache. And I invented it! I assume that you will have to get used to swivel-necking in order to maintain a decent view of the battlefield. Secondary systems are going to be looked into, but the armour is still in a prototype stage. On a lighter note, the helmet can withstand most concussive forces due to solid steel struts that are laced into the polymer. It's not entirely bulletproof, but it's close."

"And you will also note that the muscles are experimental even though they help do a lot of tasks. The nature of the muscles and the bulkiness of the plates means that your flexibility will be hindered a bit. Luckily for you, motions like reloading and changing stance are easily done. As is going for a piss; I got that right, at least."

He waited for the polite laughter to subside before continuing.

"It comes with an outer layer of webbing for ammunition and can be modded easily enough to include holsters, knife sheathes, ammo pouches, flashlight clips, and the list goes on. There is an inbuilt climate control system that actually works quite well, at least for cooling, that is; I haven't tried heating. The boys in R&D here in the States say that they are working on other modular hardware that can be added to the suits later, but I say do with it what you will. Since it is in the prototype stage, however, I will be wanting accounts of problems, errors, or malfunctions to go along with suggested improvements. I will take them all into concern to develop the final product."

"Now come on; it's time to get suited up ladies and gentlemen. Each of you will find a box with your serial number on it. The suit inside has been tailored specifically for you, so make sure you get the correct crate."

At that, the group dispersed and set to finding their armour. Owen checked a few utility crates before finding one with his number on it: 1564-7241-0098.11. He popped the locking mechanisms and lifted the thick lid. Inside lay his new armour, still in pristine, untouched condition. He picked up the helmet that was in the centre of the case and set it on the floor to one side. Underneath it was the undersuit that was folded neatly into a square. Supposing he had to start somewhere, he pulled it out and shook it in front of him.

It was a matte black affair that was about a centimetre thick and looked a bit like a wetsuit with the addition of sensor webs and several large clips for the carbon fibres to latch onto. He squeezed and pulled at it in his hands, finding that there was little stretch to the fabric. Sighing, he looked around to see what the others were doing.

Apparently, he was lagging behind. Most of the others had already pulled the undersuit on, doing up the locking zippers. The preference looked to be that their tighter clothing, namely underwear and undershirts, remained on under the suit fro comfort. Owen was relieved to see this. He'd rather be a little warm than having a steel plate chafe against him. He undid the zippers that ran down either side of the under suit's front and removed his pants. Quickly he stepped into the thick suit and pulled it up, slipping his arms into the sleeves and zipping it up.

It wasn't actually that bad. A little snug, perhaps, but definitely bearable. He did a little jig before looking to the rest of the armour. Now how to put it on? He pulled a few pieces of the muscle structure out before looking at them quizzically. He decided to start with the chest piece; it looked the easiest to figure out.

The chest component actually turned out to be for the entire torso, a rear portion coming out as he pulled the front upwards. The muscle fibre looked like coiled black snakes wrapped around a segmented power conversion rig. Special plugs emerged from the inside of the 'musculature' that were obviously for the clips on the under layer. The rig came apart on the left side so it could be pulled over the head. He slipped it on, snapping the plugs into place with an audible click. Lifting his left arm, he did up ratchets that looked like they were made more for a snowboard than a high-tech garment for protection in a warzone.

He turned back to the case but was instantly puzzled. All the rest was in smaller pieces about the length of his forearm. Are there instructions in there, he thought, Because this is ridiculous! He lifted a chunk to his face for a better look, but it didn't reveal anything; it almost mocked him in it's apparent simplicity. Finally, Frost noticed his problem, he himself completely adorned in the armour. He looks like a bloody tank!

As it turned out, it was pretty common. About half of the Expeditors were encountering the same problem, randomly putting plates on and hoping they fit properly. At least Owen had the chest rig on correctly!

"Alright, eyes up here everyone!" said Frost, clapping his hands in replacement for his usual finger snapping. "I forgot about this... Just stop what you're doing. Take off everything except the chest piece. I'll take off mine so Dr. Hawthorn can walk you through it."

Frost quickly disassembled his armour and was standing in front of them with only the undersuit on. Dr. Hawthorn and the morph made to help demonstrate the assembly, but Frost stopped them in their tracks, leaning in close to Hawthorn to speak a few hissed words. Hawthorn looked aghast for a second before he turned to the fur. The squad tried to listen in but it came to no avail, a slight frown on the doctor's face the only hint to be gained from the exchange. The fur cast her gaze downward before retreating behind the green crates. Owen hadn't heard what was said, but he could definitely take an educated guess. So, the commander hates furs... that's good to know...

Some time after they started, Owen was once again clueless. Owen looked hopelessly in the case while Alex did the same with his own. The demonstration was moving too fast. Owen thanked God when the fur took notice. "Ma'am," he asked as he caught her eye, "can I get some help here?"

She looked up to where the doctor and Frost was busy showing the others how to put on their suits. She took a step towards them before stopping, hesitant about what she should do. Huffing a breath as she overcame the awkwardness, she shook her head and walked over to them.

"Uh... We're kind of lost. Did you know how to put this together?" asked Alex, glancing nervously over his shoulder to where Frost was. Nobody else was paying attention.

She grumbled something and picked a bundle of muscle fibre from Alex's case and motioned for him to turn around. He did so without further prompt and she latched the piece onto his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" asked Owen. She flinched, her ears going down and cast her eyes back to the box, avoiding eye contact. "No, I- you misunderstood. I'm-we're- not like Frost. I just wanted to know what you said."

She puffed out her chest and took another piece from it's grooved resting place. "I said," she started as she attached the other shoulder piece, "that I should know how to put it together. I DID help design it, after all."

"Oh! Sorry! He meant no offence when he-" apologized Alex as Owen tried to gather his wits.

"I know," she hissed. "But it's not uncommon to have others disregard me."

A few awkward seconds ticked by as she showed them how to properly put the pieces of armour together. Finally Alex broke the silence. "My name's Alex by the way. And he's Owen. What's your name?"

Owen turned around after she was finished connecting a series of circuits. She regarded Alex with a cool stare before relenting. Her ears perked up a little bit and her whiskers jittered in surprise. "Mara. My name is Mara."

The rest of the assembly was over in a matter of minutes. The two of them were suited up faster than any of the others, despite the fact that they had been behind before. They thanked her amiably as Mara handed them their helmets. She said it wasn't any problem before she worked her way back to her original position towards the rear of the hanger.

Apparently, Frost had noticed their little 'helping hand' and frowned. He didn't let it linger long though as the final piece of his armour was once again clicked into place and the power was booted up.

By the end of it, each squad member was completely encased inside his/her own amour. It really hadn't been all that hard; Owen could do it again now that he knew how all the pieces fit together. The actual plate pieces had been far easier. Each plate had it's own sliding hinge so as to allow maximum flexibility when moving. Well, as much flexibility as a person could achieve in eighty pounds of armour. That said, Owen couldn't lift his arms above his head. Swimming was out of the question.

The last piece of the smoothly curved yet somehow bulky design was the helmet. Owen held it in has hands, staring at the visage on the front. The helmet matched the rest of the armour as it had a black colour and rounded features. It had an almost muzzle-esque appearance, the part in front of the nose and mouth a slightly protruding mouth grille. There were supposedly air filters and a fan built into it, so that explained it's bulk. The rest of the helmet looked like a normal military issue helmet, but with slightly puffed out ear protection that contained comm receivers and senders. The hearing was supposed to be made up for by the presence of microphones and sound amplifiers. However, the eye lenses troubled Owen. They were small. Very Small. Peephole small. Perhaps it was because they were separate for each eye...

Shaking his head to get rid of the thoughts entering his mind, he turned the helmet in his hand and held it by the rim. Without so much as a sigh, he slipped it over his head. He was instantly senseless. His hearing was terrible, everything outside of his armour being reduced to silence and the occasional indecipherable murmur. His eyesight was only a tad better due to the red-tinted lenses clouding his vision. There was a slight rustling as he reached back and connected the power input. Suddenly, he came back to reality.

The lenses went completely clear, the self-darkening glass now setting itself to the current lighting conditions. It still wasn't that great, but it was definitely an improvement over what it had been. Any time he wanted to see something, he had to turn his head and point it at what he wanted to look at. Otherwise, the eyesight was not too bad. The hearing, on the other hand, was another story. Sure it was better with power, but it still left much to be desired. Anything that reached his ears had to be above a certain decibel level and sounded metallic and inhuman.

He shifted about a bit, shaking his limbs out and stretching his neck. His movements were almost completely effortless, the suit replying almost exactly right to his movements. There was a very slight pause, what with electricity travel times and all, but otherwise Owen enjoyed it. It was about time they upgraded from the old Mk 7 SPA suits. Those things were only good for glancing hits at best.

"Everyone good?" asked Frost as he stood in front of them, distinguishable only by the silver eagle insignia on his thick shoulder pads and curiass, "Alright then: back to the gun range. I want standard practice procedure, 3 team rotations on the range and CTF zones. Only use IR paint; we don't want to mark up our armour. Dismissed!"

Military Ocean Terminal Sunny Point, Brunswick

2221 Hours, May 26** th ***, 2045*

"So you are certain this is real. No false alarm? We cannot give away our hand before all the chips are laid..." said Frost, poring over satellite images of the facility taken a few minutes before. The pictures showed several men disembarking from vehicles in front of the building. All of them had guns.

"Yes. These are the targets. Our surveillance team just confirmed facial identity matches on four suspects. Others are wearing masks." replied Capt. Tungsten, his face brooding now that it was time to get to the core of weeks of careful planning. He was already developing salt rings on the shirt collar about his neck and he was fidgety to say the least. His earlier side-to-side shuffling had become an almost manic jigging.

"Good. You did well, Captain. We'll handle it from here. This may well be the last time we ever see each other, so I bid you farewell. And thank you, for you have been most helpful." grinned Frost, his eyes kind but his face thoughtful. His helmet was tucked under his arm to show the other man his face, but in his new plate he was almost two inches taller than Tungsten and it made the naval officer uncomfortable. Frost offered his armoured hand to the man, who took it after a moment's pause. "It was good working with you."

"ER- Yeah. Likewise..." Stammered Tungsten, quietly writhing in the man's presence. His cap came off as he tipped it to Frost. "Hope to see you again."

"Hah! I hope we don't," laughed Frost, catching the man off guard, "because the would mean that something else is wrong." The Captain smiled before giving a polite laugh.

"Yes, I suppose so. But If you are ever in the area, feel free to say hello."

"Of course, sir." said Frost, who still retained complete control over the conversation. He turned his attention to where the rest of the 12-man squad waited at the edge of the briefing room. "Off to the Zodiacs then: we don't have any time to waste! Move it, move it, move it!"

Creek Broham, Wilmington

2229 Hours, May 26** th ***, 2045*

The Zodiac lurched with the small waves that drifted across the river, water splashing up every time it crested a wave. The second boat fared no better. Together, the two craft had left the base and proceeded silently upstream towards the chunk of land in the middle of the wide river where the facility lay.

The moderate expanse of land surrounded by water had been purchased by the city of Wilmington and been developed as a booming commercial district. Private companies and well-funded organizations tended to capitalize on the lots at the water's edge while the larger stores and window shops were placed in the more accessible centre of the landmass. Their target was one of the former.

Up ahead, the small pier, more of a dock really, could hardly be seen protruding from the flat cement block that lead to an access road. It was from there that they could follow the road for several hundred metres before arriving at their destination while remaining undetected.

Owen did yet another re-checking of his chosen weapon as a mind exercise. The CQB-pattern Remington RAW-27 was already primed and ready to go, but he did it more to occupy his mind than to see that it was ready. He removed the 32-round magazine, setting it between his legs before working the bolt. The round in the chamber was ejected and he caught it as it fell. He paused as they rocked a bit from a small wave before resuming his work.

He wiped down the bullet to make sure it was dry before dropping it back into the chamber. The bolt let out a small click as he let it slide forward again. He checked the magazine quickly before slapping it back into it's slot. Sighing, Owen gripped the primed weapon more tightly and looked out at the city lights on the shore.

The lights were hauntingly beautiful. It was beautiful much like how the starry sky was; it gave that freeing sense of loneliness while seemingly showing that unending other entities did exist. The headlights of cars marched steadily by on the highways and streets while the stationary glow coming from houses and buildings peered back at him. Shuddering, he looked away.

The night air was cold, but didn't revitalize him as much as the frigid weather from his own home town did. Still, it was nice to not be sweating. He shook out his shoulders as he sat in the seat of the Zodiac. Leif was driving while he and four others were nestled into the seats arranged behind. The small roof and dark clouds blocked his view of the stars. That disturbed him. He liked stargazing, the moon itself having taken much of his attention over the course of his life. It was one of those certainties that he liked; everywhere he went, the stars would always be there. Though they may not always be the same stars and they could sometimes be hidden, they were still stars nonetheless.

The boat began to slow as it approached the dock, the electric motor hardly making any noise. A slight bump later, the team had leaped from the watercraft and set out tying the craft to the small rungs on the dock, half taking up defensive positions. The other Zodiac pulled up mere seconds later and was likewise disembarked. The twelve members of the squad, the boats now secured, started double-timing it up the road. Frost did a quick check of his tablet's map and called them to a halt.

They were a single block from their destination and quickly split into two groups. Owen, Frost, Alex, Lief, Kirsten, and Brad were to head down through the sublevels directly to the vault by way of the maintenance corridors accessed by a dug-in doorway they were hoping had went unnoticed. The other six; Vince, Kevin, Shira, Marco, Emile, and Graham, were to assault the building directly and create a diversion. To help them do so, they had managed to secure a Mk 4 'Spider' weapon platform for their use. It rolled along after them on four widely-spaced armatures, the gun on top swivelling about on it's ball joint and scanning for potential threats.

The unit was armed with a .30 calibre, caseless round DSW, commonly and lovingly referred to as a 'Robot Rifle' in the military, that was more than enough firepower to ensure that whatever it hit was put down. Hard. It was being controlled by way of a tablet that Vince, as their tech specialist, carried around. When Vince needed to fight, the weapons platform became semi-autonomous, shooting at designated targets until it was once again able to be controlled directly. It's primary sensor suite was snugged up close to the weapon and was nestled in a shell of armour. It's ammunition was incredibly light, but the large 1000-round drums that were nestled on either side of the weapon still weighed a significant amount. Though it had been a hassle to load and unload from the boat, Frost had deemed it necessary to have some heavy firepower on this mission and they put up with it.

The machine whirred as it turned off from the current route and followed the attack squad around the final block towards the facility's street front. The remaining six members of the squad, callsign 'Excalibur', hung back behind a building as they waited for 'Rapture' to engage the enemy. They didn't need to wait long.

The first shot quickly lead to the building of a cacophony of snaps and cracks as the battle was joined. The firing continued for what seemed like a long while before the squad radio popped to life.

"Hostiles engaged. Estimates put the opposition at about two-dozen infantry armed with assault weapons. No heavy weapons yet. You are good to go, Excalibur." came Vince's report.

"Roger that Rapture. Commencing phase two. Keep their heads down." Replied Frost from Owen's right. The squad all made ready to move, the firefight ahead providing a rising sense of anticipation. A particularly loud boom echoed around to them, making Owen jump. Nobody seemed to notice. Frost waited a few more seconds to ensure the enemy's attention was focused out front before giving the go-ahead. "Excalibur; we have mission go."

The squad broke into a flat-out run, quickly eating ground between them and the research facility. They rounded the corner at the last intersection and came upon the target building. The building was dark and the only light came from the fighting in the front. The staccato gunshots lit the night, making a red-tinted back-light to the building. The rear face was completely still as the six members of Excalibur sprinted across the small lawn towards a set of stairs dug into the earth a few feet from the rear wall.

The team skidded to a halt just before proceeding down the steps. Five of them took a defensive position at the top, weapons pointed up at the windows that overlooked the grounds and hunched in small stances as Brad ran down the steps and almost tripped due to the bulky armour. He caught himself on the cement wall, taking a moment before making the final few stairs. He pulled a sizable wad of MEP from a side pouch and set his rifle down. Taking off his gloves, his hands noticeably shuddering, he kneaded the putty to ensure consistency before ripping it into three palm-sized chunks that he stuck to the wall around the hinges and to where the bolt should be. He placed several remote detonators into the putty and ran back up the stairs, grabbing his rifle from where it leaned. He reached the top and replaced his gloves.

Without a word, he sent the signal and the putty ignited. The putty flared red hot for a moment and burned clear through the metal door. Frost and Kirsten were first into the maintenance corridors afteer Frost changed his grip on the RDS 107 shotgun and kicked the door inwards. It fell with a clang and he swept his gun left and right, Kirsten falling in behind him and watching his six. They moved down in pairs, with Alex and Owen taking the final spot. Owen's RAW-27 was pressed firmly to his shoulder and Alex carried a normally heavy Milarms G21 squad support weapon. Once they were sure they were not yet detected, Frost flashed his fingers twice. Double time.

As they ran, Owen found he hated the helmet; it was far too nullifying. His hearing was impaired and his vision was limited as they jogged forwards. It didn't help that the overhead lights were off and the only source of light came from the inbuilt torches mounted on their helmets that bobbed up and down with their steps. It felt almost as if he had a set of horse blinds on and cotton lodged deep within his ears. He didn't just hate it; he loathed it entirely. He had turned the sensors off a few hours ago during the CTF training because of their inconsistency, so the benefit they may have had was gone. They had kept receiving false pings and shadow movements while sometimes missing approaching objects entirely as they had trained. He would be sure to mention this shortfall in his debriefing...

They ran until they reached a metal stairwell, the flashlights illuminating the steel mesh steps. They rested only for a second while gazing up at the next landing. They then took off once more, taking the steps two at a time,their suits helping to keep their stamina reserves high. They clanged and clunked their way to their destination; SL-3. The vault was on that level. They opened the heavy door into a lit up hallway running North-South under the facility. They slowed down.

They hugged the walls of the corridor, passing several branch offs and intersections. The lead four turned off their flashlights and kept their weapons trained on the hallway in front of them. Alex and Owen decided to keep theirs on; it could momentarily blind an enemy coming up from behind. They rotated out and took small shifts walking backwards to keep up their guard. Suddenly they stopped at an intersection. Voices drifted out of the empty haze that permeated the structure.

They all froze as they were as three men in dark clothing and ski masks rounded a corner farther up. They stopped as they spotted Excalibur, their weapons coming up almost in unison. They never managed a single shot, instead falling in bloody heaps as they were riddled with silenced 6.5 and 7.62 rounds. Some shots went straight through them and hit the cinder block wall behind them, making a audible crash. Cement chips settled to the ground as Brad and Lief reloaded their weapons. Frost waved them forward again almost immediately, taking the path that the men had approached from in an attempt to take whoever may have heard the struggle off-guard by moving quickly and without pause.

They stopped before turning around the corner and Frost glanced around quickly. Gunfire raked the wall as he pulled his head back quickly sharply. He flashed four fingers twice and then a fist. Eight hostiles. Prepare to engage. Brad and Kirsten sidled up to where Frost was pressed against the wall. Owen could hear some kind of machinery coming from where the vault was supposed to be. Brad tapped Frost on the shoulder and nodded to Kirsten. Frost waited three seconds after rolling a flashbang grenade down the hallway before proceeding. Confused voices wafted back before the grenade went off. Owen was almost glad that he had that damned helmet on; those grenades were havoc on the senses.

Frost sprung from behind the wall with his weapon coughing slightly, the recoil almost completely absorbed by the suit's internal compensators. The other two followed him out and joined in the fire being levelled at the unsuspecting enemies, dropping to crouches along the sides of the corridor.

The others took up a similar stance at the corner to that of the original three, waiting another few seconds before they themselves followed suite. They didn't even need to fire. The last man went down, his knee taken out by Frost's shotgun blast. The man pulled the trigger on his Norinco as he fell, and one of the errant bullets impacted with Kirsten on her left arm. Owen's heart skipped a beat. Literally skipped a beat. She staggered back at the force of the shot, swearing colourfully in Russian as she held her arm close to her body, her weapon coming around almost like a protective wing. She gasped in agony for a few seconds while the others tried to offer help from their current positions. They were still unsure whether it was clear to provide ay kind of assistance. Lief, Brad, and Frost proceeded up the hall, checking to see if it was clear of any more surprises as Alex and Owen hung back to make sure that she was okay.

It turned out that she didn't need any anyways as her cursing turned into a mild laugh. "Holy fuck! That hurt like a bitch!" Beetch...

"You're okay though?" asked Owen with more care in his voice than he thought would eke out, his weapon still tight to his shoulder as he watched for any sign of hidden hostiles.

"I'm fine, thank you. Just a bruise."

"The armour worked though; look at that." said Alex, gesturing to the hole in her right forearm plate. She looked down at it and held her gun in her thighs while she drew her knife. She worked it into the hole, the activity awkward with her left hand, and grunted in concentration. She wiggled the knife a few times before her prize came out; the bullet that had hit her. It was flattened and still warm as it fell to the floor with a clatter.

"Damn..." she said quietly to nobody in particular before once again grabbing her weapon. The team barely registered her, instead focusing on what had been going on at the door. Lief, Brad and Frost had made sure that there were no more hidden surprises, but the open ones were quite intriguing.

The room where the vault was located was well lit. The light was not entirely welcoming; it revealed a grisly scene. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls and bullet casings tinkled under their feet as they moved forward towards the door. Bodies still lay where they had fell.

Most of the bodies were of those that the Centurions had killed; men in dark clothing wearing ski masks. Others were more up-armoured and intimidating. They wore SWAT uniforms and bullet-resistant tactical armour, helmets and visors blocking their faces from view. The men that had been tasked with it's defence. Not all the bodies were biological; the ruins of two Class-VII sentry turrets smoked and popped in the shadow of the door. Well, the Expeditors had been correct; it hadn't been safe.

The door itself was a large rectangular steel plate that wouldn't look out of place in a Hollywood bank heist movie. Set up in front of it was what appeared to be a thermic lance; a half-metre long rod attached to a large chainsaw-esque hilt. The lance was made of a high-melting point metal alloy rods with small orifices ringing them at regular intervals that blasted pressurized cyanogen out from a cylinder. The 'core rod', made up of iron, was surrounded on two sides by slightly thinner, thermite laced, magnesium rods for tackling the cement that was to be expected in the door. The gas was ignited by a pilot flame, creating an intense pocket of heat that could be set anywhere from 2000 to 4500 degrees Celsius. The user could then use the rod to cut through even the one foot wide door with contemptuous ease.

The attackers had managed to cut several holes on the left hand side of the door, nearly severing the first set of locking pistons from the door. The area in between the primary and smaller day gate was littered with gas tubing and cylinders, the corpse of the nightwatchman pulled to one side with a red blotch slowly darkening on his back. Obviously, the cell had their information correct and were well organized, their planning almost flawless. They missed one key factor though, the possibility of an Expeditor squad tracking their movement, and had paid the price. As a result, the lance was still sputtering on the floor where it was dropped, slowly burning a hole in the floor. Brad closed the gas line and the sputtering stopped.

Lief crouched next to one of the bodies. He rolled the dead man onto his back and searched him for any clues. The man had a wallet, plain leather and devoid of anything other than cash, a pistol strapped to his thigh, and a knife in a sheathe around his waist. Unable to find anything from his belongings, Lief instead pulled the ski mask from the man's head.

The man was young. Really young. He couldn't have been any older than eighteen. That was troubling. He checked several others and confirmed it; they were all in their late teenage years or early twenties. There was one exception: a middle-aged man with a bald head and worn face. He was probably the leader. He groaned as Lief turned his body and caused Lief to start reflexively. "Sir!" he called, "There's a live one here! Orders?"

Frost looked up from the console beside the door where he was trying to input the code that appeared on his tablet. He glanced quickly at the man, who had now regained some semblance of awareness, and shook his head. "No survivors. Disobedience is like a cancer. You cannot afford to leave one cell alive lest it grow back."

"But sir-"

"No buts. We were sent here to retrieve a sample, not to make friends. No survivors, Lief."

Lief's helmet covered his face, but Owen guessed that he was working his mouth like a fish. Finally, he slumped his shoulders and stood up.

The man's eyes widened. He had heard the exchange. "No, wait! I can tell you what you want! I know who ordered this attack! Oh, God! Please don't!" The man broke down into ragged sobbing and quickly started shuddering in pain from the bullet wound in his gut. He may have been in charge, but he was far from acting like it.

Lief cast one last look at Frost. Frost shook his head. They knew who had ordered it. Lief reached an arm back behind his head and made to rub his neck but the armour stopped him short. He sighed and brought his gun to his shoulder in a much-practised move. He hesitated for a second, his finger twitching over the trigger. The man's sobbing was cut short as the space echoed with the shot. The man went slack, his final breath expelled from his lungs.

"And that's that..." said Kirsten, turning to what Frost was doing. Frost had punched in the final string of code necessary for the door to open. An amber light on the panel went out and a quick spurt of text crossed the display. Frost hit something else and they were in.

The heavy door groaned as the hydraulic hinges were set in motion. The cylinders retracted, nine in total, and the door was opened outwards, pushing bodies and shell casings aside with equal ease. The great slab of steel and concrete came to a rest when it was fully open, exposing the hidden wealth of knowledge behind it.

The room wasn't that large; only about six metres by ten. But it was packed with items and cases of all shapes and sizes. There were untold years of research and millions of dollars of funding stored away in the vault. But only one thing was truly life-threatening. All the rest was irrelevant.

"Lief, Alex, Owen; you're up. You know what the case looks like." ordered Frost. "we will stay back and watch the corridor. Go, go, go!"

Owen slung his gun up over his shoulder and hung it on the magnetic clamp. The rifle stuck fast to his back and he grinned. He then quickly picked his way past the blood smeared opening and started searching for the target case. He pulled several cases from the nearest shelf, comparing them to the one he was shown before embarking in the boat. No matches on this rack. Time for the next one.

They were searching for several dozen seconds before the case was located, a cry of exultation sounding it's discovery. Lief was the first to find it, but his exclamation had hardly left his body before a shot replaced his voice. The piercing singular staccato beat reverberated through the steel chamber as Lief toppled forward. He fell and landed on his front, hard, without as much as a single movement showing any sign of life still in his body. No flinch. No twitch. He was dead. The shot had taken the entirety of his existence away in a single heartbeat. And it had come from behind.

Owen and Alex started to grab for their guns but were quickly stopped by a voice at the entrance. "No, do not move. Hands in the air." Owen slowly raised his hands and dropped the container he had forgotten that he was holding until just then. Frost stood framed in the doorway, his service pistol in hand.

"I want you to remove your weapons and kick them to me." he said. Owen's mind reeled. What is going on here?

Alex and Owen both unlatched their weapons from their backs, careful to keep their hands visible. Owen kicked his across the floor. It came to a rest near Frost's foot. He did the same with his pistol, unsnapping the holster and sending the weapon skidding. "Now you, Alex." Frost said levelly. Owen didn't need to see outside to know that the other two were on his side. He had probably had this planned for some time. Almost on cue, Kirsten and Brad chose that time to show their support of mad Colonel.

Alex grabbed his support weapon, slowly bringing it over his shoulder. He stopped halfway through. "Why?"

"What?" asked Frost, probably not having heard him.

"I asked why. Why are you doing this? What could you possibly gain?"

Frost outright laughed, not noticing Alex flick the safety in the heavy weapon off. "Let's just say that I have EVERYTHING to gain from this. Now. The gun. Please."

Alex seemed to contemplate this for a second. "No. I can't let you do this. This is wrong."

"I assure you, it is wrong. I am not disillusioned as to what I am doing. Believe me, I have put a lot of thought into this and am entirely resolved to do this. Whether you live or die is inconsequential."

"You will not get away with this."

"Hah! On the contrary, I believe I will. Now drop the gun."

"I'd rather die first."

"You just might. You just might..." Frost said to him before gesturing to the other two even as Alex whipped the gun around. What he said was almost lost in the retort of gunfire, but the Centurions caught it just before Alex could fire."Kill him, he's of no use to us."

Brad and Kirsten raised their rifles as Alex did, the heavier support weapon being marginally harder to raise. The weapon belched forth it's deadly load out, it's massive rate of fire having the force to rip the armoured troops to shreds. The shots sprayed the opening, sparks kicking up where they hit the steel of the door frame. It was largely ineffective; his shots had been forced wide. The others had fired first. The first round hit Alex in the centre of the chest, staggering him backwards and was the one responsible for his own shots missing their intended targets. The second hit him in the knee and knocked him off of his feet. The third connected with a his neck as he fell.

The crimson blood sprayed out in a harsh arc and spattered onto the floor. Alex landed on his face, writhing and gurgling as his hands clutched at his throat. The machine gun slid a short distance away. It was within his reach, but he was growing too weak, too fast. He couldn't grasp it with any strength as his life ebbed away.

The smell of cordite filled the vault as Frost walked over to him. One of Alex's shots had connected with his shoulder and he rubbed it as he approached. His pistol hung loosely in his grip as his left arm patted the hole. Frost stood over Owen's friend, staring down at him. "Close. Very close. It was a good try, I'll give you that. And I'll give you a piece of advice before you die."

Frost kneeled down beside him and removed his helmet, the seal wet with blood. Alex's hair was matted with arterial blood and he struggled to breathe: he had only a few seconds left at best. "When somebody has a gun pointed at you, listen to him. Otherwise, this," hissed Frost as he gestured at Lief''s body behind them, Alex's eyes narrowing in on him, "might happen. Food for thought." He lightly slapped Alex in the face and nodded slightly before standing up again.

"And as for you, newcomer." sighed Frost, slowly making his way over to the fallen briefcase "what is your stance on the current situation? Are you with us, or against us?"

Owen was in a state of horrid paralysis. He tried to say something. He tried to be brave. He tried to have a final act of desperate defiance. Truly, he did. But no matter how hard he tried, he just stood there, his palms open in front of him and shock controlling his body. "W-w.. what the.. I.. you killed him!" It sounded strong and intimidating in his head. Something was lost in translation and it came out as barely a whisper.

Surprisingly, Frost had heard it. "Yes. I guess I did, didn't I? It may have not been my shot, but I gave the order. So yes, I am responsible for his death." He leaned over and plucked the reinforced briefcase from Lief's dead hands, the pool of blood ever so lightly touching his boot tip. "And I killed him too. So. Do I have to kill you?"

Owen's heart raced. He tried to stall. "What are you trying to do? Why do you want the chemical?"

Frost shook his head slowly. "Nice try. At the moment, I'd say you are not in the position to ask questions. But, I'll play along. Life is a drug; it's hard to stop wanting it. Truth is, I don't want the chemical; I couldn't use it. But I know people who do and who could. Those people will change this world, mark my words."

"What people? What do you mean change the world?" asked Owen, becoming more and more confused.

"I'm afraid that's all you get. But are you with us? Or is your body also going to litter the floor? Smith, this is the final time I will ask."

"No. You're going to have to kill me. Both you and I know that. You can't let me go with you; I'd be a security risk. Judging by the way you cornered us in here like animals to the slaughter, I think you intended on killing all of us. We were the loose ends." His response surprised him far more than it could have surprised Frost. But Owen knew he had struck a chord. It was true.

"Well. It didn't take you long. Don't struggle and I promise to make it quick." said Frost. Owen's shoulders slumped. He was resigned to his fate. Frost didn't even try getting any closer. He menacingly aimed the black .45 Taurus 645B-15 at Owen, and pulled the trigger.

**

Sir William Darenson Research Laboratory, Wilmington

2243 Hours, May 26** th ***, 2045*

Frost watched with a sense of mild regret as Owen's body fell to the floor with a clatter. Oh well, he thought, those who stand in the way must either step aside or be put down. He slowly holstered his pistol and snapped the catch into place. He turned to the other two and took off his helmet, placing it under one arm.

The vault smelled terrible. Blood, gun smoke, and resentment wafted through the air, pushed by the small fans recessed into the ceiling. He grimaced and reached into his chest rig, drawing out a pack of cigarettes. Sliding the lid open, he plucked one of the smokes from the foil and set it in his mouth. The tobacco took the edge off of the scents assaulting his nose, if only slightly.

He fumbled for his lighter, a silver Zippo flip top, and hit the striker. The small flame wavered as he drew in a breath and lit the cigarette. He flicked his wrist to close the lighter before sliding both it and the rest of the smokes into his chest rig once more. He inhaled a long drag, holding it in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling it through his nose.

He grabbed the cigarette from his mouth and tapped it. The smoke curled and twisted about the end and he watched it for a moment before it slowly dissipated. He blinked before glancing at his wrist. 2249. Time waited for no man.

"Okay. You know what to do. Scorched earth."

"Sir!" replied Kirsten and Brad as they snapped to attention. He waved them off.

"Whatever. Just get it done. We have a schedule to keep."

**

Darkness was everywhere, as was a nagging ringing in his ears. As he slowly came to, the ringing turned to voices.

"...worry, I'm almost ready he..."

"Come on... up! Frost won't wait. The plane is....runway!"

"Okay. Do.. You start... I'll be there in four; just need to... the connections."

The voices drifted in and out of his hearing. They made their way into his skull and roused him ever so slightly. He could taste his own blood in his mouth. It felt as if he had been hit by a car, but he hadn't. It had been a bullet. Owen slowly came around, blood coursing out of his head. He dare not open his eyes.

He thought about moaning. He was going to roll over, or curl up into a ball. But then he stopped. A hand touched Owen's arm. It was through the sheer luck that he was still too pained to move that he wasn't discovered. A hand had touched his arm with a gentle tap. His heart caught in his throat as he hoped he was still sufficiently 'dead' enough to pass as a corpse. As it turned out, he was.

"I'm so sorry, Owen..."

What was that? WHO was that? He struggled to listen to the voice, his head wracked by pain.

"You have to understand; this world is going to go to hell..."

Was that Kirsten? He slowly opened his right eye, thankful that his helmet was still in place and his eyes were effectively hidden from view. It was! He was crouched over him and slowly stroking his arm. Was she crying? Impossible to tell. Wait, why was she still here?

"... I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen..."

Wait... She felt sorry for him?

"...I'm so sorry... But it's over now. I hope you can forgive me..."

Forgive her?!?! Oh sure, he'd just leap up and act as if nothing ever happened. They would waltz out and the world would return to normal. Sunshine would fall, rainbows would spring to life, and all the world's problems would fly out the proverbial window. Sure. Simple enough, right?

"...bye."

Was that a cough? A hiccup? Possibly a sob?

He closed his eye again as she leaned close to his face. He felt something touch his visor before the rustling of armour was heard. Owen waited a good two minutes, his ears hunting for sound through his thick helmet. There was none to be heard, but that wasn't saying much.

He went to get up. He almost blacked out again. He let out a hiss as he attempted it again. He made it to his knees before he doubled over, his eyes squeezing shut and stomach rising. He retched for a moment before vomiting violently. The foul acid and partially-digested food was spat into his helmet. He panicked! The helmet was sealed around his neck! Without anywhere to go, puke started filling up his helmet. He was going to drown!

He frantically tugged at the neck seal, his fingers making desperate grabs at the emergency pull cord. His lungs were out of air! He needed to breathe! Finally, his hand found what it had sought and he pulled the small tab on the underside of the helm.

The seal released and the vomit ran out under his neck. It was disgustingly warm and smelled terrible, but at least he was free. He tugged the helmet off and let it drop below him. It rolled on the floor before landing so that the visor plate was looking up at him. It was almost shattered.

The bullet had impacted a little bit left of the centre of his forehead. Apparently, the shot had somehow been slowed down enough to be deflected by one of the metal struts that lined the helmet. Owen found that he suddenly liked the helmet a lot more than he had a few minutes before. Slowly shaking his head and almost feeling his brain rattle about, he tried to get up again.

This time, he succeeded. He almost fell, but he grabbed a nearby shelf to steady himself. That's when he saw Alex again. He stumbled and collapsed next to him. "Alex! Oh, God! Alex!" Alex didn't answer, somewhat obviously.

He felt tears welling, but he somehow restrained himself. His thoughts did a complete turn around as he thought about his death. The eyes stopped stinging. His face grew solemn and stone-like. "He will pay. If I have to hunt him down until the end of time itself, Frost will die. I promise you this. All of them will pay..."

Once again, he stood up. This time, his contempt held him up. He did not waver. He did not falter. A new air filled his lungs. He looked around as if for the the first time. They caught on the dog tags resting on Alex's neck seal. He reached down steadily and tugged. The thin chain broke and he looked down at the pieces of metal in his hand.

They were the Canadian version of dog tags; a single piece of metal that was made to be popped in two for record keeping. They weren't really official; no military still used this old way of soldier identifier any more, since it had all shifted digital. Alex and Owen had each had a custom set made before leaving the training base as a small show of comradeship. Owen reached up and found his own tags around his neck. They were slick with bile, but they were still there.

He tucked the metal away in a pocket before leaving the vault. Just before he was to enter the room beyond, his eyes noticed something else. There was a small tan package stuck on the wall, completely at odds with the surrounding surface. Two different twig-like rods poked out from the top of the device, perched upon a matchbox-sized packet. One was a toggle, the other an antennae. He looked at it for only a second. He took off, ignoring the pain that had returned with a vengeance. He ran. Fast. Behind him, the bomb sat menacingly as it awaited the signal that would cast the vault into oblivion.

Owen ran as quickly as his aching body and its mobile coffin allowed him to. He felt something press on the inside of his ears. To stop now meant death. It meant the emptiness of a promise. Unacceptable. Owen flew down the hallway, heading for the stairwell, as the crack of a supersonic blast overtook him. Heat, flame, and shrapnel hurled itself at him in a fiery blizzard of destruction. He was almost at the corner when the concussive blast spun him around and he fell to the floor, sliding on his chestplate. Shrapnel hit the wall opposite the corner as he scrambled as quickly as possible around the corner, covering his head with one forearm as he scooted forward. Shards of metal and chunks of cement bounced and fell like icy hail upon him, his armour miraculously holding against the onslaught. He had made it. Almost. A sharp pain sprouted in Owen's thigh.

He sat up and looked down. A jagged piece of something stuck from the side of his right thigh in between the front and rear leg plates. The under layer was thinner there to increase movement range, but apparently the tradeoff was the loss of safety. Owen reached down, feeling the intruding splinter tentatively. He attempted to pull it out but failed. The crimson blood that was quickly covering it made it slip through his gloved fingers and black spots mobbed his vision. He took a few deep breathes before grabbing it again and tugging quickly away from the wound. A splash of Owen's life force slapped onto the floor but the shard came free.

He let out a low gasp as his vision blurred around the edges. It was a few seconds before he managed to look down and observe the wound. It was hard to see it under the under layer, but he could certainly feel it. It must have been the size of a nickel and the edges felt ragged and puckered. He shouldn't have removed it, but he needed to move. He needed to find Frost.

He patched himself up using the red band that he fished from his pocket after rubbing on a layer of bio foam that hissed as it expanded to fill the cavity. It still hurt like a bastard, but at least it was bandaged for now. He pulled himself up and leaned on the wall for a moment. No time to stop. He must keep moving.

He walked forwards and something skittered away from his boot. It was the object that had hit him and pierced his flesh. Looking at it, it was smoothly rounded but one end was sharply pointed. It was an odd, off-whitish colour with charred parts-... Oh god. Oh God! It was a bone! A human bone! He froze, pressure building in his throat. He retched and wheezed again, but his stomach was empty from a a few moments before.

**

Frost sat back with a sigh in the Zodiac as a loud thump reverberated through the air. Above him, the first beginnings of rain had started falling and disturbing the relatively pristine surface of the water. The wind had also started picking up and it wailed against his helmet. Beside him, the other Zodiac sped forwards and took the lead as they proceeded upriver.

He smiled slightly to himself, eminently pleased. Countless hours of careful planning and years of accumulating favours had finally payed off. He felt a slight pang of regret for what he did; he was human, after all. Yes, he felt it. He just didn't care.

He noticed that the others in the craft were staring back at the shore from where the explosion had echoed. He flicked on the radio and keyed up the code for Sunny Point. "Captain, this is Frost. We have the samples. We have suffered several casualties, all KIA, but we are currentlyexiting the area. You may want to send in a clean-up squad; there was an... accident in the vault as we received the sample."

He listened to the confirmation that he had been heard to come through before he switched off the mic. He nudged Brad in the ribs. The driver jumped a bit and looked at him. "Come on," said Frost, "The plane is waiting. Eyes forward. We can't screw up now."

**

Owen finally reached the ground floor, his head dizzy and his thoughts scattered. What now? Where were they going? How far up did this all go? Why? When did it start? As he entered the foyer, one question stood out amongst the others: How would he stop them?

He thought about that for a moment before managing to tuck it away in a more blurry recess of his brain. He'd worry about that later. He made his way over to a cracked waterfall, the water still trickling down the faux rock, along the left side of the room. He cupped his hands on the cool water and splashed it on his face. He managed to remove most of the vomit from his body and the splash of liquid brought fourth an important thought. He needed a weapon. He gazed about him, almost shocked at where he was. He blinked as it registered in his brain.

The glass-fronted foyer was in ruins. Shattered glass and bodies lay strewn all over the large room like a giant toddler's toys. Only about half of the lights were working, some of the functioning ones flickering in their sockets. Yet more bullet casings were scattered to and fro on the marble floor and the reception desk was riddled with gaping holes the size of Owen's fist. Rapture hadn't been fooling around as the loyal squad members were being executed.

He had quite the variety of weapons to choose from, but he decided on something simple. He grabbed a rifle from the nearest corpse, the person having died due to a round from the drone blowing out the left side of it's chest. The corpse's heart, ruptured though it was, was visible from the outside. It didn't even occur to him that the body was female. He pried the gun from the hands already being affected by rigor mortis. He then ditched any ammo that he had in his webbing and threw them aside, stuffing the two SIG magazines that he found on the corpse into the now-vacant pockets.

He checked the SIG and made sure it was functioning by firing a shot at a distant wall. The retort pained him, the sound breaching his ears and shrieking around his skull. It hammered countless nerve endings, but he would have to put up with it if he wanted a gun.

Wiping off some of the blood that had sprayed on it when she had been shot, Owen identified the rifle as he looked about for the solution. It was an old SIG 556. It was a commercial variant of the once-popular SIG SG 550 carbine. Though it lacked the fully automatic capabilities of it's military-grade cousin, it was still a great rifle when everything was considered. The short weapon weighed only about seven pounds but was fairly accurate considering it had a shorter barrel attached than usual. More importantly, the rifle had a very manageable recoil which was perfect for Owen's current state of thought. That was solved. Next problem. Transport.

If he remembered correctly, a plane had come up. That meant that they would need to get to the airport. Thinking quickly, he tried to remember the map he had seen in briefing. The island was surrounded on all sides by the river, only two or three bridges coming off of each side. They were on the Eastern side of the island and the airport was.... at least eight miles away by car. The team had probably taken the boats; there was a riverbank running close by the airport that they could run up onto the tarmac from. The river would be slower, the current and the winding nature of how water made it's path over the ages making for delay. But he still needed to get there before they left.

Fuck. He needed a car; it was the only way. If he found one that was fast enough, he might just make it. It would be a close call. But where the hell was he going to find one? It was almost as if the heavens themselves split and a ray of angelic light pierced the concrete ceiling, illuminating the sign half-hanging from the pockmarked wall behind the reception. Parking garage. Left hallway. For the first time that night, he felt relieved.

He emerged into the inky darkness of the parking garage to find another scene of grisly mayhem. The bodies of several people were lying face down on the cement, labcoats starting to dry a garish red. Each had a precise hole in the back of their heads. They had been executed from behind. By whom, Owen did not want to ponder.

Feeling every part a grave robber, he defiled the corpses by searching their pockets for keys. He came away with six sets of keys, the metal jingling in his gloved hands as he tried to find a decent car. Enraged by the lack of deftness in his fingers, he tore off the gloves and threw them to the floor. Three sets of keys followed quickly as they were less than satisfactory. They had no auto unlock. He'd never find those in the garage.

He held the remaining three sets in his hand as he took off through the garage, the dim lighting overhead not helping one bit. The first set he tried was useless. It was either busted or the car was too far away to be activated. He hurled it and it hit a nearby pillar before falling to the ground in the dark.

The second set was better, but not by much. The familiar chirp of a vehicle and a beam of light illuminating the darkness told him that he had something. Sadly, that something was a little blue scooter. "OH, COME ON! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?!?!"

His fists bunched as anger overtook him. He sauntered over to the vehicle and was about to kick it before he realized what he was doing. He was wasting time. He threw the keys at the scooter. They bounced off of the front of the chassis as he turned to the final set. He pushed the button. Owen had never been one to care much for religion, being more the sort who was 'officially' a Christian but had never performed any true acts of devotion. In that split second, he was more faithful than he had or would ever be over the course of his life. Apparently, it pulled off.

A vehicle engine sprang into life from down the row of parked cars. Headlamps clicked on as a dark vehicle emerged from a darker corner of the structure, it's smooth lines almost blending into the shadows. On-board systems made the car pull out into the isle and locate the location of the key ring. It glided slowly until it was only three feet away before it came to a stop and the lights flickered in supplication. The driver door opened without a human prompt.

Owen closed his gaping mouth and shook his head. Now that's more like it. He started walking around to the door but stopped. He reached out with his right hand, his gun and keys in the left, and pushed the scooter over. Who the hell rides a scooter...

The bike fell over with a crunch as he settled into the driver position. He placed the electronic key in the slot beside the wheel and turned it. This deactivated the on-board AI, switching it into manual input. Owen revved the engine. The thrumming rose in pitch substantially, letting the power hidden in the car be known. The seat shifted to better suit him, the seat sliding all the way back and sinking towards the floor to compensate for his armoured bulk. A computerized female voice came on over the intercom and almost scared the shit out of him as he clacked the seat belt in place.

"Unknown user detected. Welcome, sir. What is your current destination? Would you like some music for your commute?"

"Uh.. Wilmington International Airport. And, er, no. No music."

"As you wish. Please proceed to the highlighted route."

Yes. Oh, yes. This would work nicely.

He shifted into drive and applied pressure to the pedal. The vehicle jerked forward before stopping again. Okay. This car had 'oomph'. Trying again, he managed to get the car moving at a decent rate up the ramp and onto the street above. The pitter-patter of rain slowly built up as the roof overhead receded, ending in a steady beat hammering on the hull of the car. The inbuilt sensors towards the bottom of the windshield turned the wipers on and they flickered in front of his vision as he consulted the GPS.

The engine purred as the CTS-V's navigation equipment highlighted the quickest route to the airport. He took a right as he exited the dark of the building, cranking the wheel hard and making the rear tires squeal as they fought for purchase on the rain-drenched surface. The car's rear end fishtailed a bit, but Owen got it on track. He went effortlessly from 0 to 100 mph in just under six seconds flat. The night enveloped the car whole. The wide lances of light only wounded the impending darkness temporarily as he took off down the street, the shadows closing as quickly behind him as they had parted.

The engine grumbled as Owen stared at the HUD being displayed on the dash. 6.7 miles by road. Normally. As it happened, the nearest bridge was closed down for repair and maintenance, resulting in an additional mile and a half being added to the total. An estimated time of arrival flickered into being as the rain pattered off of the finely curved lines and contours of the Cadillac's body before sliding back across the chassis. It displayed exactly what he had feared. Accounting for driving rules and standard practices, there was no way he was going to close the distance in time to stop the plane. Sixteen and a half minutes. He would get there far too late. That was IF he followed the road regulations, that is.

He threw his reservations out the window as he instead became intensely focused on his goal, the twin exhausts grumbling in the damp air at the rear of the automatic coupe. Anything would be better than having an insanely lethal chemical unleashed on the world. Damned be the consequences; he needed to move. If it meant he had to rot in a cell for the lest of his life, so be it. He pushed the pedal even closer to the floor and he felt the car accelerate sharply, the speedometer reaching a hundred and forty kilometres per hour - more than twice the speed limit on the street in front of the lab.

The lampposts overhead flashed by in a blur and the buildings of the commercial district flickered by in a fashion reminiscent to an old, sepia film; jagged and not quite flowing together seamlessly. The posts made a whooshing sound as they rocketed by, but Owen barely took notice. He found himself wondering once more about what had happened. Why? What was really going on? What had Frost been talking about?

He snapped out of it as he came to an intersection and the GPS chimed, indicating a turn. He cursed as he turned the traction control off with a flick of his finger. The brakes squealed as Owen fought to turn the coupe in the direction he needed to go, almost overshooting it. He almost pressed too hard on the brakes and the car almost came to a standstill. Owen floored the pedal again as he came about and the car once again began to cover ground. He was thankful that there was little traffic around during this time of night: that light had been red.

He shook himself as he launched the car off down the correct street, this eliciting more pain from his head and a dull ache to start echoing through his thigh. He breathed deeply to try and stop his thoughts but it didn't really help; he was still confused. Owen thought it likely that he had a concussion. A bad one. Just fucking great.

Owen cast a nervous glance at the clock that cycled into view on the blue-lit dash in between engine temperature readings and the half-empty fuel gauge. Time was wasting. He flung the car through a sharp turn, the tires slipping a bit on the rain-slick asphalt. The car managed the turn though, only fishtailing slightly at the final leg of the corner. He was starting to get a feel for the powerful 5.8 L V8 beast that was, at the best of times, hardly restrained underneath the void-dark hood. The car shuddered in what could have been considered ecstasy as he ran a gauntlet of several of these corners that followed the water of the river north to the closed bridge.

It was several such turns later, each marginally improved over the last by way of ease, that he gained an unwanted follower. The red and blue lights lit up the darkness behind him and the sound of a siren pierced easily through the cacophony of rain, which was now just letting up. Damn! He didn't have time for this. He gunned it as he came onto a straight stretch, the final run before the closed bridge. Then, an idea that Owen would have thought insane any other time crossed him, and his jaw set in determination. He only hoped that it worked. If not...

The path highlighted on the small map said that he was supposed to continue straight through the intersection that lay just in front of the four-lane bridge that was currently under reconstruction The he would continue onto a smaller road to the next open bridge. He decided to make his own route. The police cruiser was fast approaching as they came up into the shadow of the bridge going close to seventy miles per hour, deciding it was best he slowed down.

Up ahead he could see cars that had been stacked up at a red light begin to crawl forward in the rain as the lights changed to a neon green above them. The storm above him had darkened but rain had ceased falling, making the colours put off by the headlights of the vehicles ahead waiting to turn all the more vivid. Though the rain had stopped, a puddle remained over a large portion of the intersection. In his mind a plan hatched as the car downshifted autonomously in synchrony to his slight tap on the brakes. He swerved into oncoming traffic as he saw the people panic.

He shot for the gap made between the cars in the opposing lane and his lane quickly closing as he darted through. The cars in his lane were completely oblivious until he passed them, the horns sounding in his wake. They slammed on their brakes as well, almost in synchronicity. He made it, but just hardly. The gap was too small for the police cruiser he noted as he looked in his rearview mirror in time to catch the cruiser bump into the front of the cargo truck.

"Please make a legal U-turn..." piqued the navigation system, trying to iron out the wrinkle that was Owen's swift decision.

Horns sounded as the other vehicles still facing him, including a mid-sized cargo truck, an SUV, and a minivan with a scared-shitless soccer mom behind the wheel, slammed on the breaks. Owen's car slid, not gracefully, as he pushed the breaks to the floor and spun the wheel forcibly, hoping he wouldn't wreck the transmission in the process. He wished fervently that the pavement was wet enough to allow the vehicle to skid a bit.

"You are heading the wrong way. Please make your way to the highlighted route..."

His gambit worked. The bumper of a transport was less than a foot away, the driver swearing profusely, as Owen managed to turn ninety degrees and face the currently out-of-commission bridge. Apparently, hydroplaning wasn't always bad; it had turned him effectively enough. Owen placed his foot back on the gas. The engine roared but the All Wheel Drive coupe found traction easily enough now that it's speed had been reduced and the wheels had sunk deep enough to hit asphalt. The police cruiser that had been following him was seemingly down for the count as it floundered fruitlessly in the midst of the stalled traffic progression. Owen couldn't see the driver's face, but he could guess what it looked like as made for the bridge.

He crashed through the screening wall made out of plywood sheets, wood and dust flying in all directions as he hoped against hope that they had finished most of the bridge. If they had removed a section, his race against time would end rather abruptly.

He sighed in relief as the tires struck smooth and unblemished decking that must have been laid before it had rained, the plywood settling behind him and allowing him to see the bridge. Piles of stacked rebar and parked construction vehicles littered the span of road to the far bank, and Owen was reacting off of pure adrenaline and instinct as he attempted to dodge around the obstacles. He made it about halfway on this before hitting a snag.

It was when he was about halfway across that he noticed that there had been a reason that the ENTIRETY of the bridge was closed instead of just one lane at a time for the repairs. He didn't notice the alarming gap in time to stop; it came out of the haze much like how a clown will pop from a musical cube at the most unexpected moment. He barely had time to shout out in shock as half the vehicle plunged downwards before stopping on the thick utility grating that had been layered into the bridge's construction. The grating made a shiver pass through the car as the entire right side clunked onto it.

Owen held his breath as the car scraped across the gap partially tilted, the middle of the chassis dragging on the cut cement as he fought for control. The front banged loudly as it met the proper deck again and the entire vehicle popped up suddenly and came back on course. That little ramp at the end hadn't been made for street vehicles and the bumper had snagged for a second before warping and sliding free. He had made it.

"Caution... Damage registered. Please pull over." chimed the AI.

He had no time to celebrate, though, as a concrete barricade placed to block a gap in the decking made to stop the vehicle outright. He managed to jink to the left just enough to avoid a head-on collision with the barricade, but hadn't reacted in time to completely miss it. The angle that the concrete was on guided him forcibly onto the other side of the bridge, sparks and the shrill grating of metal on rock accompanying the heavy slam that rocked the Cadillac. He went through the orange warning pylons lined up along one the other side of bridge, one catching for a moment under the rear right wheel before finally falling out, and proceeded down the opposite side. His heart was truly throbbing now and all the blood running to his head was doing nothing to dull the pain that crouched there like a vile monkey on his bruised back.

"Holy shit... Did I just do that?" said Owen aloud as the pounding in his head subsided, reaching tolerable levels once more. The new scars on the front bumper and the right-hand side of the vehicle were testament to the fact that he had. They glistened a cold silver as the streetlamps illuminated the flanks. Even the mirror was gone, torn off as he had scraped up alongside the barricade. Only a small bundle of wires remained.

"Do what, sir?" came the automated voice from the car's AI. Owen almost jumped out of the car in shock before he realized who had spoken.

"Shut the fuck up, AI. I wasn't talking to you." said Owen icily.

"As you wish, sir."

**

Martin Luther King Jr. Parkway, Wilmington

2314 Hours, May 26** th ***, 2045*

Owen was eating up the ground now, the Cadillac speeding up the highway towards the airport in a streak of black mercury making a good 110 mph. There wasn't anybody around spare the few odd civilian vehicles that he had flown by. He was insanely focused, every crack and bump lighting up as if with a small LED. A black box caught his eye as a flash of light leaped into being. Another ticket. That was something like four now.

Ahead of him was an off-ramp that curved lazily off to the right and down towards the ground. Above it was the pictographic sign for 'airport'. He'd never been so happy to see that sign before in his life, and he never would again. Owen bled his speed off significantly as he turned off of the highway. He was tugged slightly to the left of the vehicle: the centripetal force from taking the route too quickly.

Out of the very corner of his eye, he noticed the lights of the airport across a small creek. The car seemingly began to accelerate at his eagerness, but Owen retained a somewhat stable speed as he made his way back down to ground level.

The final bridge going across the little creek that lay between him and the airport was built over a muddy serpent of water, something that would never catch his attention normally. This time, it did. However, it wasn't the water that caught his attention: it was what was ON the water. Below him and off to the right, and closer to the airport than he was, was the pair of Zodiacs with the v's of their wake disturbing the otherwise calm water. He swore he saw one of the centurions turn to look at him, but a second later he was across and a small copse of trees hid them from view.

The ETA flickered across the dash once again as Owen turned back to driving. Four minutes. And that was just to get to the main terminal. Too slow. Frost and the rest would be on the tarmac by then. That's when his eye caught another route on the map, one that ran directly onto the runway.

Owen didn't even stop to think of it. He slammed the breaks again and the vehicle screeched to a stop in front of a high chain link fence. Behind it was an old industrial lot of sorts filled with older dilapidated buildings. Piles of dirt and gravel were piled almost haphazardly and the ground ran with rivulets of fallen rain. Shadows pooled in the absence of a sufficient lighting grid and it looked incredibly quiet. It wasn't very inviting, but Owen was far from caring.

Owen slipped the vehicle into reverse in the space of a heartbeat and backed across the thankfully empty street so that he was facing the flimsy push-open gate. There was a padlock and chain latched in between the two opening sections and barbed wire was strung across the top in between pegs spaced at two metre intervals. It was fairly secure, but Owen had something that could best it. He had in his possession an almost four thousand pound car with an overly powerful engine; a skeleton key, if you will.

He flipped the vehicle back into drive with a nudge from the heel of his palm and stomped his foot down, eliciting a shrill hum from the engine. The accelerating vehicle struck the fence akin to how a rhino would strike a comedy-sized pane of glass. The chain snapped under the sudden surge and the gate flew open as the car barrelled through indifferent to the mayhem it had just caused. Owen felt a smile sneak up on him, but he allowed it.

The wet dirt beneath the vehicle sprayed out behind him in a wide fantail as he swept past the gate. The sound of the engine roared about the lot as he followed the GPS to the small access road. Long-unused buildings watched as he whipped across to the rear of the lot.

It took only a few seconds of driving in the general direction of the airport to find the path. It was mildly grown in, branches and long grass interrupting the straight run onto the long taxiway, but it would be manageable in the CTS-V. He didn't stop, the vehicle splashing up murky water and mud that had pooled in the ruts of the service entrance. He was close. He could feel it.

Another chain link gate stood in his way. No problem, he simply drove through it. The entire section of fence fell over this time and Owen sped over it in a rush of heavy metal and thundering horsepower. He could feel the rage building as he neared his destination, and allowed himself to be swept up in it.

He emerged to a large flat area dominated on one side by a looming tower and a cluster of large buildings. The runways were straight ahead, the running lights and spot markers providing a dim light to the entire airport. Support vehicles flitted to and fro between buildings and parked craft, scurrying like ants between the toes of giants. Several massive Boeing 787s and Skyhaul-158s dominated the main terminal berths while smaller private planes stuck to their own buildings and separate runway. The secondary runway looked busy, a mid-sized Boeing 757 jet lifting off on the far end, banking off to the right towards some foreign destination. Several other aircraft were queueing up at the departure end.

The car bumped a little as Owen reached the taxiway that lead out to the primary runway. It ran from the southeast corner of the airport up past the terminal and finally terminating in the northeast section. The primary runway was almost deserted. Almost. Ahead of him a few hundred metres, a single cargo plane was slowly inching it's way up to the primary holding position but it didn't look like it was anywhere near ready to depart yet; it's rear access ramp was down.

The plane was a hulking C-142 that seemed impatient to say the least. The plane was the current cargo aircraft for the United States Military, and was suitably shaped. It's huge, thick wings that held three whirring turboprop engines each and wide body were not a usual sighting at any civilian airport. It wasn't even one that had been retired and refitted; the white American serial number and emblem where a stark contrast to the dark grey paint job. Somebody had pulled some strings to get it here and close down an entire runway. Owen had a pretty good idea of who had managed to pull it off.

He was proved correct as he vaguely sighted several dark figures emerge from the mist-shrouded expanse behind the military plane. Judging by the way the fact that they were running, he suspected that they were going to be in the air in a matter of moments. Damn! Owen was still too far away to hit them with the gun that he had laid in the passenger seat. They would be on board by then and starting up the runway, leaving him choking on dust and self-loathing.

His mind raced as he tried to think of a way to stop them. He couldn't think of anything. All he had been focused on was getting here and taking revenge on Frost and his traitorous followers. He hadn't actually paused to think of how he would go about doing it. Compared to that plane, the cut-down SIG-557 looked like a child's toy.

How the hell am I supposed to do this?!? thought Owen, mentally kicking himself for not grabbing a more potent weapon as he had left the lab. As he closed the distance, he assessed what he could do. He tried to focus as sharp pain decided it was time for another metal concert behind his eyes.

He could try and shoot the engines as they passed and hope that somehow managed to hit and disable at least four of them, which would force the plane to remain grounded. But how would he get the engines on the far side as it went to take off? He could ram the plane in an attempt to push it off course and crash, but then he would more than likely be killed in the process. Add that to the fact that it wouldn't ensure that Frost was dead, it wasn't looking too good for that plan.

His head hurt and his leg was beginning to pine for aid as he took stock of his situation. As he sped towards the plane, the first figures reaching it and taking up holding positions, his knuckles wrung painfully tight about the steering wheel. On him currently, he had one fragmentation grenade, a standard combat knife, a locator tag, and the SIG. He was in a Cadillac coupe with a decent acceleration and top speed, though it's body could use some work and the paint job had seen better days. He had all that, yes. But he had one trump card: his enemies thought he was dead.

On the other hand, he had some serious problems working against him. He was more than likely suffering from a massive concussion and was unable to focus on some things properly. Owen's leg was damaged and the foam was starting to dissipate, making the angry wound begin to ache and bleed once more. His opponents were incredibly up-armoured and heavily armed. They had a military-grade transport, probably with military pilots, that would prove almost impossible to stop and they more than likely still held sway over anyone that could have even come close to helping him.

The distance was closing very quickly now as he followed the air service roads as he considered a suicide run, even turning the wheel a bit in anticipation, when he saw something glimmer in the moonlight that was just now showing through the clouds. Whatever it was, it came from the crest of the small embankment that lead down to the creek bank.

Of course! The Expeditors wouldn't have moved across an open stretch of ground in one group! Especially not with cargo as fragile as what Frost was carrying. They had split up!

Owen may not have known Frost for a very long time, but he knew of him and his achievements. Countless times had people under his command died while he somehow remained unscathed. Tactical prowess? Probably not; shrapnel is indiscriminate. No. It was because he was careful. He was a planner. He never jumped before looking first, always probing, feeling, searching for any chink in the suit of proverbial armour. He was cautious, possibly overly so. He would be in the second group, waiting to see if it was safe before moving up and leaving. In sudden clarity totally new to him, Owen made a rash decision. It would more than likely end with his death, but it was a decision nonetheless.

Time seemed to slow as Owen's mind was overtaken by anger, a new surge of adrenaline coursing through his weary body. He stopped turning the wheel towards the plane, instead focusing on the embankment beyond. He didn't think about what he was doing as he rotated the wheel in the other direction. Instead, he was thinking about revenge. Sweet, homicidal revenge.

It was just before he made it past the transport plane that the Expeditors took note of the fact that there was a beat-up coupe bearing down on them. They didn't wait to see who was driving; they simply opened fire. Tracers leaped up to greet him from the bank and lit up the night in harsh reddish orange lines. The shots sounded like rain as they struck home, many striking the engine block and windshield. One passed by Owen's left ear, making him grimace as the air was displaced so close to his skull. That DID NOT help his head pains. Several more shots shattered the windshield completely, the laminated glass hissing as it crumpled.

Owen did not turn or stop, keeping his foot on the pedal as he raced over the rough ground at his betrayers. His speed barely dropped at the pace he was setting across the ground, but it would suffice. Ahead of him, several figures tried to avoid his mad rush in a panic. They all looked the same in this light, but Owen took an educated guess as to where Frost would be and made for the middle of the group.

He heard a muffled bang as his rear-right tire was blown out and the vehicle veered wildly away from his target on the grass still wet from the earlier rain. Owen fought desperately to correct his path while he cursed vehemently, but he could feel his much-wanted revenge slipping through his fingers. The car began to spin wildly as he passed through the congregation of hostiles sideways, dirt and grass being ripped up and tossed upwards. Owen watched as a figure whipped by his field of vision unscathed. A glimpse of silver on the chestplate, and he instantly knew he had missed his mark. He cried out in mental anguish as he slipped by.

It was not a total loss though; a single squad member lay ahead, well, to his immediate right but in the direction he was moving, of him despite the mishap. He didn't try and stop; they had all betrayed humanity. They had all betrayed Alex and Lief. They had all betrayed HIM. They all needed to die.

The armour that the expeditors had been given earlier that day could easily shrug off glancing shots and stop a direct hit. It could provide shelter from shrapnel and turn a man into a walking tank. But it couldn't stop a Cadillac CTS-V from breaking almost every bone in your body at breakneck speeds. He hit the team member with a loud bang, the body flinging up in a ragdoll fashion up over the hood from the right and landing in a wet THUD on the ground a few metres behind him. Owen smiled as more shots impacted around the wheel wells. He cleared the crossfire.

He felt vindicated, if only for a second. That's when he noticed he couldn't stop; the brakes were disabled from the gunfire and the car was still spinning. Ahead of him the creek loomed menacingly, awaiting to welcome him into it's wet grasp. Dirt and mud spat up around the car as it fishtailed madly Something must have hit the core CPU of the vehicle as warning lights lit up on the dash in a red glow. The brakes merely flapped as he slammed them down, nothing engaging to halt his progress. Owen could smell smoke as he tried to open the door and bail out. The door opened! He made to jump clear but was stopped dead by a tug around his chest.

Fuck! His seat belt; it was stuck! He thrashed and tried to pry the thick fabric belt from about his shoulder but his arms were restrained too much by the armour to reach it effectively! There was no way he was going to make it out of the vehicle before it hit the river. He covered his head with his arms moments before the vehicle hit the surface at just shy of one hundred and forty miles per hour.

The car flipped as the front end dug into the soft mud at the bottom of the river, sending Owen crashing about the interior as water began to slowly trickle in through the multitude of bullet holes in the vehicle and the area where the driver's side door had been ripped free. The car sank like a stone as it landed one final time. Waves spread out from the impact and lapped at the shoreline as several members of the Centurions came to ensure that Owen was dead.

**

Owen attempted a groan as he found himself lying face first on the ceiling, the belt not having been designed with the weight of his armoured body in mind and snapped on impact. His mouth didn't make a sound seeing as he was underwater. He writhed as he gagged on the water, his body aching all over and head pounding. He kicked out randomly in an oxygen-starved craze, feeling something give beneath his armoured boot. Owen's vision blurred and his lungs ached as he clawed about in the water, seeking purchase so he could pull himself free. He could feel his limbs failing as his sight was lost to darkness and his lungs inhaled water as he failed to stop himself from inhaling.

Finally he managed to wrench himself out of the front windshield mainly by touch alone. His eyes barely registered the direction that the bubbles about him were rushing and followed them, kicking off of the car frame. Owen's mind grew even dimmer as he made for the sparkling layer that represented life above him. He breached the water and hacked up water that had lodged itself in his lungs. The air tasted sweet, much like how Owen imagined life would. The water was neck deep, his heavy boots squelching in the riverbed. He managed a small breath before he heard pinging. They were shooting at the car! All he managed was a single gulp of air before he dove again to avoid detection, life being very important to him after that close brush with doom.

A shock of pressure from the car exploding above him pushed the air out of his lungs in a burst of silver bubbles, the faithful Cadillac the victim of a 40mm underslung grenade launcher and countless bullets to the underside. Owen was tossed backwards through the water a ways before righting himself and looking around. The explosion could have killed him had he been inside or even a little bit closer.

He collapsed on the small beach and coughed for a full minute after he waded to shore. Then he remembered that Frost was getting away. The only thing that allowed him to get back up was his thirst for blood. He fell after taking two steps, slowly managing to stagger back up on his feet and clamber up the small bank to the field. He reached the top and collapsed, this time in anguish. He struggled to stand, but found that he lacked the energy.

The plane could be heard accelerating up the runway. As he watched, the C-142 could be seen as it gained altitude at the far end of the airport, it's massive engines carrying it, against gravity's will, into the nearly-clear sky. He had failed. Despite everything, he had failed. The albatross hung around his neck like a weighted noose and he lost it. He had a mental breakdown, all emotion and feeling surging from his body and pooling on the ground, much like the blood that ran from his thigh and a new slash across his brow. Then he heard a small plea for help coming from somewhere ahead of him. His hands balled in fury and his face set into a scowl as he went to investigate.

He staggered drunkenly around the field before finding the swathe of earth tilled up by the car. He followed that for a good two dozen metres before he found the victim of his vehicular rampage. He sauntered over and stared at it.

The squad member had been abandoned, obviously, in Frost's hurry to be free of he city. It was lying on his back in the middle of the field. Both its legs were bent at odd angles completely at odds with what they should be at. Blood pooled about the warped figure as a hand waved weakly for aid. The helmet was still in place, but a spark jumped from the neck seal and the figure moaned. Never before had Owen felt more angry, at himself, at Frost, at the world.

The first thing he did was kick it in the ribs. Hard. The pathetic body yelped in pain, but he didn't care. From there it escalated. Soon, his knuckles and boots were slick with dark mud and the plates over his fingers were chipped and battered, his mind conjuring images from the night and placing the armoured form at the centre of it all. It quickly ceased living, but he still took out his wrath on the corpse, buckling heavy armour and breaking bones in his tormented torrent of hatred. He was still going at it when the authorities arrived, busy pummelling the body with his armoured fists as he sat astride the ragged corpse. It was when he was pulled thrashing from atop the form by four aggravated police officers that he looked upwards at the sky.

He shook them off, and kicked the body in the head. His blow knocked the helmet off, revealing the bloodied face of who he had murdered. A tazer jolt did nothing, the barbs not piercing his armour deep enough to shock him, but a shock ran through his spine as he saw the face, the golden hair plastered to her head by half-congealed blood and bile. Her head. Her face was bloody, the nose broken and several gashes and cuts marring her usually pristine features, but it was her. Kirsten had been the one he hit. He threw his gaze upwards in grief, even a cry of madness beyond him.

The moon stared back at him, half of it obscured behind a cloud, even as he was tackled and wrestled into secure bindings. Someone managed to find the power switch on the back of his neck and his armour went limp along with his arms. It was okay; he would not fight them. He had realized what he had done and what he had failed to do. That was enough to stop him in his tracks. Tears ran down his bloodied face as someone hit him in the back of the head and knocked him unconscious.

**

A rough intake of air grated through Owen's lungs. He woke with a jolt, eyes instantly alert. He looked around for the airport but found it was nowhere to be seen, the memory-induced visions dissipating in the rising morning sun. The feelings of loss and despair almost cleared away with the darkness, slowly receding into shadow of flitting thoughts. They weren't gone; just reduced, as if it was now put behind a fine mesh and screened before it reached him.

The mountainside was peaceful, not a single thing moving as the world arose to a new day. A thin layer of snow and rime shrouded everything, taking the harsh edge off of the distant buildings and trees, making them pleasing and almost gentle before it melted away. The world had been born anew. Despite spending several hours in a blank state of mind, Owen felt incredibly refreshed as he took in the view of the sunrise, the clean air of the mountains a welcome freshness as the fog slowly dissipated in the early light.

The thin clouds of the previous night were gone, the only trace they had been there at all lying on the ground at his feet. Even that small bit of evidence was even now starting to disappear. He let out a muffled cough that shook several flecks of snow from his form and he observed their random patterns as they settled once more with a patient eye that was, for the first time in a long time, not waiting for something else to happen that could screw it up. His body was hardly stiff; the air barely below zero and only a bit cold. His jacket had kept him sufficiently heated and he was glad he had remembered it the night before.

He lifted a hand to his face to feel the rough beard that had started to develop over the past few days and the faint scratching only barely interrupted the silence. As he lowered it he noticed there was a small spot of dried blood and he realized that his nose had bled. He had barely rubbed away what remained as Sasha emerged from the cabin in a creaking of hinges, letting out a yawn as her legs shivered in a stretch that made her arms go behind her head before extending backwards and upwards.

Her white fur was still slightly ruffled from bed and it glimmered in the sun's rays as most of it settled into place. He admired her for a moment, her rested form somehow still agile despite being just roused from slumber. It wasn't just the body he was watching; it was her very soul as she went through the motions of a mid-morning action.

Her ears slid back a bit and her tail sunk as she saw him. "There you are! I thought maybe you were out looking around already. Have you been out here all night? You must be cold."

Owen merely shook his head and managed a small smile, her concern touching him in a way that no bullet ever could. "I'm alright. I just needed to be alone for a while." She looked slightly hurt and he winced. "No no, it's not like that. It wasn't you; I'd never tire of your presence and you know that."

"Oh do I now?" she sighed as she leaned up against the wall and looked at him with her soul-searching violet eyes. Her arms crossed in front of her, her windbreaker rustling as she moved.

He didn't break his smile as he reached out and took one of her hands in his, her arm dropping lazily at his insistence. He squeezed lightly. "You should. I want you to know that you are the single best thing to happen to me in... well, forever." She looked at him as if he had something on top of his head before he continued. "I'm serious. If something were to happen to you... I-I'd... I don't know what I would do. I truly don't...When the dust settles, and the chips are down, I just don-" He broke eye contact and let her hand go. He looked out at the hill again, his mouth closing as he stopped talking, watching the last bit of fog wilt away to nothing in the face of the wonderful sunrise. It paled in comparison and he felt like an idiot as silence once more descended.

He was startled as something wet slipped across his cheek, warmth slowly spreading through him. "You'd live. You're a hard man to get rid of." He didn't know what to make of that, but finally decided that it comforted him, as it had been intended to do. She too looked east, moving to the railing. "It sure is beautiful, isn't it?"

He made to say something about her own beauty, but caught himself as he saw the halo of light forming around her furred head and jutting canine ears. Words would do her no justice then and Owen acknowledged the fact happily. He stared for a while before standing up and poking her in the stomach. "I think I'm going to make something to eat; I'm starting to get hungry."

Her ears perked up and she threw him a look that said she knew that he was purposefully changing tact. "Are you now? I wonder why." she sighed as a nail clicked distractedly on the wooden deck.

He shrugged and clapped his hands, his memories hardly forgotten. "Yeah... I suppose it'll be one of those mysteries that will never be solved..." She grinned up at him, her smaller frame giving her an innocent look and a snort issued from her wet nose. She had no idea of how much that thought had been weighted, but Owen was glad for it.

As Owen reached for the door she casually blocked his path and placed her own palm on the door handle just above where his was. "Owen, I'm just curious, but if it wasn't us that made you feel like you wanted to be left alone, what was it?" She dropped her grip a bit so that it was lying on the back of his outstretched hand.

He twitched a little in response to her question but covered it with a halfhearted smile as she cocked her head in anticipation. She was so unlike the person he had rescued months ago...

He couldn't lie to her, so decided to be obscure instead. "Nothing important, just thinking about the past. It isn't anything you need to worry about."

She remained silent for a while as if waiting for an explanation. Owen could never give it to her, and he hoped she'd take the hint. She finally sighed in resignation and opened the door, entering the warm structure without pressing the matter further. He watched her go and the door made to close itself. He caught it in a partially numb hand before it could clatter shut and he sighed.

Owen turned and cast one last look behind him before walking forward through the doorway to join her, his past forgotten as he looked to the future.

---

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