and count myself the king of infinite space, were it but that I had bad dreams. And, lately, his dreams had been bad indeed. Of course, being not precisely mortal, he did not precisely dream as humans tended to, but still, in the dark hours between sunset and dawn, he, at times, descended into a state of peaceful solitude, allowing the quiet, unrelenting force of his subconscious to overwhelm him, all but for the small portion of his not-quite-brain which constantly, silently, told the universe "I exist." His identity, and some small portion of his powers, was known to all the beings in that place, and none were so foolhardy as to interfere with his meditation. As such, it was no sound, no material disturbance that caused his eyes to open wide in shock, and his body to sit straight up in bed, giving an almost soundless gasp of horror, which echoed through the room with all the finality of a nail thudding into a coffin lid. He rose silently, pale feet padding across ancient carpets, intricately woven with designs that would have driven most mortals mad to simply behold. Eyes still wide, he carelessly donned his robe, the events of his pseudo-dream repeating themselves in endless, relentless variation before his eyes. The world was ending, of course. It often was in his dreams, in one way or another. That was not what disturbed him. It was the four - or was it five? - figures who stood in the midst of his private Armageddon, unperturbed by the chaos around him, their slightest movements casting ripples through the delicately woven fabric of thoughts and emotions which formed space and time in this place. He railed at them, commanded them to leave by all the power and will woven through his form, and yet the phantoms remained, silhouetted against the end of everything. They laughed, and fires thankfully yet unbirthed, cold, passionless flames unconcieved since the birthing of the universe itself, danced in their eyes. One of them pointed, with a pale white hand, so decayed and disease-ridden that the skin rotted to ash even as he watched, to a prone figure upon the ground at their feet, its dark form bound in chains and torn through by gouts of flame. He bent closer, trying to see the figure's face. For one, brief instant, the black hood fell back, and he saw- In an instant, he was out the door, pausing only to tap an intercom button on the side of the door. "Bring me my mages." He was going to see if there was something to be done about these dreams. "I don't like this." Pestilence swivelled lithely, fixing the suited "man" with a piercing, contemptuous stare. "Why not?" Uriel swallowed furtively, trying to find some way to avoid those eyes, their almost-nonexistant irises a golden-yellow color, like those of a bird of prey. Even as he watched, one of them darkened and clouded over, blood hemmoraging around the eyeball. He did not deserve this treatment. He was an Archangel! And they were the Horsemen. And so was he. "It just doesn't feel right, is all." He pointedly avoided looking at the bound figure resting upon the smooth, metal tile floor below them. A loud *THUNK* echoed through the room, as War leaned back in her seat at the large, heavy oak desk, stretching luxuriantly, and almost casually tossed a ballpoint pen she had been balancing in her hand, embedding it a good seven inches into the adimantium-alloy wall. She had been feeling rather restless since their retreat from the Shallow Guild forces, and the wall was already littered with similar impressions, made by pencils, erasers, staplers, pens, and coffee mugs. Pretty soon, she was going to run out of loose implements. Of course, then she could just start throwing paper airplanes. Uriel had no doubt that her paper airplanes would have an effect equivalent to an F-16, or a fully armed battalion of angels. Of all the Horsemen, it was she who disturbed him the most, between her silence, and her almost careless disregard for anything that dared to stand in her way. Breathing deeply, he tried to focus on the argument at hand. The First Horseman shook his head slowly, the skin of his neck flaking off to reveal a boiling sea of black corruption. "You want to fulfill our orders, don't you? Can't you feel the power of your office, seething just out of your reach? Your full power, not just those pitiful fragments you've managed to gain access to so far. The power of a true Horseman of the Apocalypse." At those words, the archangel's face shone with a fanatic light. "The power to ride forth on the wings of the storm....." "And smite the unbeliever and the traitors, and cast them screaming into the outer darkness....." The archangel's face shone with a fanatic light as he completed Pestilence's words. The end time was coming, the time when the forces of heaven would smite down those of the vile traitor, and all his minions loose in the world. He, Uriel, had been chosen to partake in that glory. The greatest honor in the universe had been bestowed upon him. "Oh, yes..........." "Yet, despite all your desire, my..." he spat the words out, a trail of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth, down his chin, to fall hissing and sizzling to the floor below, "my brother stands in the way. Without his power, you are as near the level of a full Horseman as a flea is near the moon. He must be done away with." "Of course." The look of concern in Uriel's eyes had been replaced by one of terrible, unsatable hunger. "But how do we get it? We didn't have much luck last time." Pestilence spat, two white teeth spraying out with the spittle. "That was because we were stupid. My... brother," again, that obvious layer of disdain, "was always cunning, and powerful. Playing this his way would take too long." Famine knelt over the bound woman, her face obscured by a cloud of pure darkness. His parched, pale yellow skin shrunk close over his skull was distended by a vicious, hungry smile. "So, we get him to play by our rules." The smile widened, one of his thin hands reaching out through the darkness to gently trace the outline of the woman's face. She trembled, trying to shrink away from the touch, but was tied too tightly to move. "Yes. By our rules, indeed." The DeathCore command center was decidedly NOT the place to be this afternoon. Young GUNNS sat firmly in the center seat, back straight, eyes boring into the Core's internal schematic. "Any news on those communications systems?" "No, sir! They're still down." Blonde hair twitched as she shook her head in anger. "And our... visitors?" Ensign Shane, at the internal affairs console, swallowed. Young GUNNS didn't take failure well. "They're still out there, sir. We detected some power surges earlier, but by the time we reached them, they were gone." "Which means that the... people... who violated our computer systems, who actually managed to fight off our armies, however briefly, are still on the run inside the most ingeniously designed and well-constructed battlestation of all time?" "Ahhhh... yes, sir." The one corner of the white-clad adolescent's elegant mouth twitched downwards, her eyes cold and hard. One leather-gloved hand tightened into a fist upon the armrest of the center throne. "Boost the internal sensors, and withdraw the Obviously Inept Guards[tm]." Shane's eyes widened. "Sir, you can't mean...." "Yes. Bring out our Capable Soldiers. I want these intruders found, and I want them dead. Now." The hallway was uninhabited, conveniently located in a distant, out-of-the-way maintenance corridoor of the Death Core. Unfortunately, due to vK's being a student of other people's failures (specifically evil overlords, fictional and real, past, present, and future) it lacked some of the ambiance that deserted hallways in evil overlords' battle stations generally posess. There were no conveniently located pipes sticking out of the wall, for transmission of morse code, no large banks of computers or other machinery to be used as cover, no gaping pits or spurts of flame at predictable intervals. Not a single flourescent light buzzed as if it were about to burn out. In fact, there was nothing about the hall which at all suggested in the slightest that it was located inside one of the most potent engines of mass destruction ever to be manufactured. Something changed in the air. At first, it was nearly undetectable, a faint smell of ozone wafting through the carefully recycled and reconditioned atmosphere, as if it in nervous preparation for things to come. The smell grew stronger, potent enough to knock out most normal humans, building to a crescendo- SLAM. Pink light erupted from the floor, shooting upwards to splash against the spotless cieling, collecting in pools that spread all the way to either ends of the hall. There were figures inside that light, somewhere, not much more than shadows, outlines almost impossible to see even with the sharpest of eyes. SLAM. A core of alabaster brilliance spiraled outwards from the center of the light, banishing shadows altogether, incorporating the pink radience into itself, bright enough to fry any eye that would chance to behold it. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, leaving in its wake nine shadowy forms, their colors appearing pale and washed out in the aftermath of the light. They held their positions for a moment, dark silhouettes against the flourescent lighting, as if the shadows clung about them of their own accord. The dramatic tone of the moment had to be broken by someone, and, indeed, it was. One of the medium-height figures staggered over to the wall and leaned against it heavily, groaning in pain and confusion. Chakos clutched at his stomach, very glad for the support of the wall. It took every bit of his willpower to avoid throwing up on the spot. Speedy as they might be, his body always wanted to remind him exactly what teleporting meant: that the universe had formed itself into a vortex around him, twisting and convoluting reality itself to move him into a new position. Outside of the fact that he had personally met many supernatural beings during his brief tenure in Khazan, the one reason he maintained for the existance of some type of deity that actually took an interest in human affairs was that someone wanted to make sure that he didn't teleport. "Remind me again why I agreed to come on this trip?" Mishima smiled humorlessly. "While the Brothers take care of vK, we need to make sure that this place," she indicated the surroundings with a careless wave of her hand, "is destroyed as soon as possible. No matter what happens to KOMBG troops on the surface, the armies in the DeathCore are still in control of one of the greatest death machines of all time." She nodded firmly, patting a small leather satchel slung across her back. "It needs to be destroyed once and for all." Gate shrugged, straightening out of his crouch. With one hand, he cradeled his striking arm. Mass teleports were tricky businesses; driving trillions upon quintillions of subatomic particles through the intricacies of a time-space vortex was not easy, no matter what the movies made you think. "So, where do we go from here?" Crow Road, still dressed in her hospital gown, had yet to move from the spot where she had arrived. Her voice was low and even, floating through sentences and punctuation as if she were merely dreaming. "were-hunting-the-wolf" Chakos winced. Even if she was alive, it still hurt him to see Crow like this. Mostly recovered from the effects of the teleport, he turned back to face the party. Only then did he notice that by far the tallest and slimmest member of their little group had his head cocked back, the sparks in his eyesockets glimmering contemplatively. "Sam?" THEY'RE HERE. The former Horseman of the Apocalypse's grinning skull was set in an expression of evident determination. "Who?" The heretofore-silent man in the dark cloak drew himself erect, peering into the darkness as if in a hope to catch sight of the party to which Sam referred. MY BRETHREN. "Oh." GreyMalkin blinked in astonishment, still cradeling his ribs from where they had been injured in his fight with the Sons of Sin. "Already? Damn, I thought we had them beat." Sam's laugh was dry and humorless as the Abyss of the Ninth Circle of Hell. THE HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE ARE NEVER DEFEATED. THERE ARE SETBACKS, BUT... he shrugged. THEY ARE HERE. AND THEY ARE CALLING FOR ME. "You can hear them?" Mishima's eyes flashed with interest. He shook his head. IT IS NOT A THING OF SOUND. MORE LIKE INSTINCT, FLOATING JUST BENEATH MY THOUGHTS. "Well, you're not going to go to them, are you?" He paused, considering. I AM NOT SURE. PERHAPS IT IS TIME FOR A RECKONING. "That's crazy!" IF I DO NOT FACE THEM, THEY WILL REMAIN IN THIS REALM. "We can handle them! We did a few minutes ago." I DO NOT THINK SO. THERE WERE A VARIETY OF SPECIAL CONDITIONS WHICH MADE IT POSSIBLE TO FORCE THEM INTO TEMPORARY RETREAT. THIS IS NOT THE SAME THING AS 'HANDLING' THEM. "Khazan has withstood supervillans before." THESE ARE NOT VILLANS. MY BRETHREN ARE BASIC CONSTANTS. THEY CANNOT BE ELIMINATED. Roke sidled forwards, clearing his throat in the silence which ensued. "So, how does this effect our plans?" Straightening up, Mishima shook her head, her raptor's gaze sweeping the assembled team. "It doesn't. We plant the bomb, and we get out, the quicker the better." Chakos nodded. "So, let's move." Mishima smiled, a patronizing look in her eye. "Come, now, you don't expect a frontal attack to work, do you? Even if the Brothers do manage to take care of the situation on the surface, the Sons of Sin are still down here. We know that they have combat experience, and power, perhaps even enough to defeat us in a head to head fight, although I find this highly unlikely. They do, however, have control of the DeathCore, and hundreds of soldiers under their command. The incompetants we have run into so far were probably placed their solely to make us relax our guard." EXACTLY. She cocked one eyebrow at the skeleton. "You have something to add?" IF WE SPLIT OUR FORCES, WE HAVE A BETTER CHANCE OF SUCCESS. ONE PARTY MAKES AS MUCH NOISE AS THEY CAN, TO DRAW FIRE, WHILE THE OTHER MOVES IN AND PLANTS THE BOMB. Mishima nodded curtly. "My thoughts exactly. Then, however, we come to putting the teams together. The first group, the red herring, should be lead by Sam. Since he can't exactly be killed anyway, he's ideal for this purpose." And, she thought to herself, if he managed to get the other Horsemen away from the invasive group, so much the better. She glanced up, and, for an instant, her eyes locked with the glittering, blue-white sparks that resided in the skull's eyesockets. A brief flash of knowledge passed between them, more subtle and pure than any telepathy, and she knew that he understood. "Good, then. Chakos, you come with me. We'll need your luck and experience if we should get into a tight spot." She noted his half-step in the direction of the oblivious Crow Road with not so much as an eyeblink. "And I suppose your insensate... friend can come along as well." Gate nodded. "And the rest of us?" "Gate, Roke, both of you are with me. Unless Sam has been teaching the rest of you how to teleport...?" Several heads shook around the small circle, and she continued. "Then we'll need you with us. Once we plant the bomb, we've got less than sixty seconds to get out. Anything that's here at the end of that time..." She shrugged. "The rest of you, go with Sam. The more damage you do- Yes, Gate?" The cyborg had one hand cupped to his ear, his head cocked to one side as if listening for approaching footsteps. His eyes went wide. "We've got company. Three squads, at least." "How close?" "About 500 meters, closing fast." His eyes turned silver, snapping out of focus as he jacked into the DeathCore's surveillance net. "They're on some sort of hovercraft." The news rustled through the small crowd like wind through dry autumn leaves. Hands darted to belts, or tightened around the hilts, hafts, or grips of weapons. Only four figures remained untouched whatsoever by the news: Crow Road, who either didn't understand or didn't care, Mishima, who had been expecting this all along (Overlord's Rule Number 1: never stop to have a war council in enemy territory), Sam, who wasn't disturbed by much, and another figure, large, cloaked, and hunched over, holding something that looked like a slender wand made of beech-wood. "Expected." Mishima's lips narrowed into a thin line. "Gate, get a fix on the command center. It's probably shielded, but find the closest safe place to it." He nodded, and she turned to Sam. "Good luck. We'll send you a signal when the bomb is activated." I UNDERSTAND. GOOD LUCK. "200 meters, and I've got a lock." Mishima's glare travelled smoothly from Chakos, to Crow Road, to Roke in a matter of milliseconds. "Now!" Chakos had to carefully guide Crow over towards the loose circle that had formed around Gate, a pinkish energy emanating from his skin as he crouched down, getting his hand close enough to reach the ground.... Down the cooridoor, the lumbering sound of an approaching hovercraft rattled the metal panels of wall, cieling, and floor. Sam turned back to the circle. GO. NOW. *SLAM* When the light cleared, they had vanished. "My lord, are you sure you wish to do this thing?" The former dreamer cocked one eyebrow at his mage. "Would I tell you I wished it, if it were not so?" The small, elvin-looking man shivered slightly at the cool tone in the dreamer's voice. "No, my lord. But, you must understand, you go into great danger." He gestured furtively to the semicircle of humanoids in mage's robes arrayed behind him. "We are unable to protect you once you cross the portal. The wards against meddling are far too strong." There was a long silence, during which the lead mage wished it were possible for him to curl up into a ball of nothingness, and never be seen again. He wished he was back in his bed, where any sensible creature should be at this time of night, even in his Master's abode. He wished many things, but most of them included being outside of that room. Then, the silence was broken by a soft, scratching sound, which erupted into full-throated laughter. "Protect me?" The laughter grew to a crescendo, then died off. "What could you possibly protect me against that has not already been levelled against me?" The wizard thought for some time, but he knew his Master, knew what had been done to him, and, most of all, knew the fire that burned inside him. "Nothing, sir." "Then bring your gate, mage. I will pass through it." Gate had been right about the hovercraft. However, he had been wrong about one small, significant detail. There were not three squadrons of troops. There were six, all of them levelling quite impressive weapons at the small party Mishima had left. Unfortunately, Sam thought, grinning, they hadn't been expecting to deal with a Horseman of the Apocalypse, or the other two beings who stood with him: GrayMalkin, and the hooded figure. As soon as the Hovercraft rumbled to a stop, a voice rang out over it's speakers, sultry and feminine, but with an overtone that would brook no nonsense. "Attention intruders. This is Young GUNNS. You are trespeassing on private property. You have five seconds to lay down your weapons. If you do this, your death will be quick. If you don't, you will not be so lucky." GrayMalkin grinned. "Doesn't sound like much of a choice." NO. The hooded figure gripped the wand-like object tighter, but said nothing. "Four Seconds." Gray shook his head. "Got any last words?" "Three Seconds..." NONE PARTICULARLY COME TO MIND.... "Two Seconds...." EXCEPT.... "One Second...." Sam grinned. "Zero." The hallway dissolved in a flash of light, as six squads worth of elite trooper rifles discharged simultaneously. Explosive bullets, Armor Peircing rounds, hyper-velocity flechettes, plasma bursts, almost every kind of weapon known to man (including one shot from the very big and difficult to reload Kitchen Sink Death Blaster) detonated within one square meter of the three forms. For a long moment, there was nothing heard but coughing and hacking, as the KOMBG guards tried ferverantly to clear their lungs and eyes of the all-encompassing smoke. Finally, someone thought to turn on the hallway fans, and the smoke started to slowly disappate, regretfully relenquishing the cooridoor to the lights. The first thing to emerge from the cloud was a purplish field of crackling energy, brightly sparking where debris and dust fell onto its otherwise placid surface. It curved backwards, like a bubble, until the three figures were revealed in their entirety, dark silhouettes in the clinging mist. The furthest figure on the left raised his head, bright blue-white eyesparks boring into the souls of the troops. He grinned. LET'S PARTY! The Scythe flashed under flourescent lights, and half of the hovercraft, and the soldiers upon it, simply... ceased to exist, leaving the other half to crash to the floor in an explosion of sparks and squealing repulsorlifts. Before even the most combat-hyped soldier could move a muscle, GreyMalkin was among them, scattering bodies like reeds. On the higher deck, someone raised a gaussrifle and swivelled it towards Sam, trying to draw a bead. The Horseman prepared the Scythe for a second swing, but before he could complete it, the cloaked figure loomed behind the offending trooper. Against the clear light, Sam could see now that it was not a wand that the other held, but rather a pale, skeletal arm, clutched by a skeleton's hand. The hand attatched to the severed arm clutched sharply at the soldier's neck, and he screamed, shrivelling to nothing in a split instant, the dried-out husk of his body collapsing to the hovercraft deck while the figure's bones took on a decidedly pinkish glint. Across the hallway, two pairs of eyesockets met. Sam inclined his head slightly. BARON. "SAM." Near the Core..... *SLAM* Pinkish-white light momentarially lit up the hallway, bright enough to scorch the shadows of the five figures who had just materialized into the omnipresent metallic panelling. Before any of the tranportees' eyes cleared enough to register their new surroundings, even before Chakos had time to empty his stomach all over the clean DeathCore floor, Mishima was on the move. "Let's go. We don't have much time..." "Before what?" This time, it had only taken the investigator less than a minute to recover from his teleportation sickness. Maybe there was hope for him yet. As if in answer to Chakos' question, the cooridoor lights immediately switched to red. A high-pitched klaxxon wail, almost loud enough to burst the ears of anyone who should hear it, issued forth from hidden speakers. "Intruder Alert. Intruder Alert." Hokuto Mishima sighed. "Come, now. You didn't think that Vadakhan would put teleport sensors all around the bridge of one of the most advanced battlestations ever built?" She smiled wryly at the answering shrug. "You've been watching too many science fiction movies, child. In reality, the hero never gets a break." A quick scan of the group revealed that they had all, more or less, recovered from Gate's rather rough manipulation of space and time. In the distance, she could feel the presences of guards, closing rapidly. "Let's move." "Status report." "Yes, sir. We lost contact with the members of task force 1-11A ab out ten seconds ago. Heart monitors, EEG, everything's dead." "That was to be expected. And the rest?" "One group, small size, probably five or six at most, teleported into sector 3, ring 2, at around the same time." The tech blinked, swallowed, and checked his console again. "Is there somethin wrong, ensign?" "Yes, wir. We're reading another space-time distortion. It looks like someone else is coming in." Young GUNNS smiled thinly. "They're welcome to try. Send a detatchment down." "What orders should I give them, ma'am?" "Shoot on sight." An isolated corner of the DeathCore... When the Dreamer emerged from the portal, he found himself surrounded by armed guards, every one of them decked out in armor emblazoned with the silver KOMBG logo. At least thirty pulse rifles were levelled at him, red "Charge" diodes blinking. He breathed out a long, tired sigh, and waited calmly for the inevitable speech. "Don't move. You are surrounded." The Dreamer sighed again. It never failed. Why on earth did they think that he, of all people, would not move? Of course, there was the slight possibility that they didn't know who he was.... He shrugged. Their loss. "I said, don't-" He moved. An instant later, the cooridoor was empty of blood, of weapons, of corpses, of, indeed, everything save for the dreamer himself, and the agonizing scream which lingered in the air long after the men who made it had been torn from the fabric of existance, clattering around the outskirts of the mortal psyche, trying desperately to be heard. The dreamer smiled, and walked on, knowing, always and forever, where he was going. "We just lost contact with Squad 17-1B." "Damn." Young GUNNS leaned back in her chair. Things were progressing far too quickly. It looked as if she were going to have to get involved... personally. "Shane?" "Yes, sir?" "Do we still have a reading on the group that just teleported into the Core?" "We do, sir." She grinned, a shark's grin, all teeth and a cold heart. When set against her beautiful, young features, it was more than enough to make a battle-hardened soldier wish he was on the other side of the planet. The air around her hand shimmered blue-white for an instant, then solidified. Where before she was gripping only the armrest, now she held a plasma rifle which looked as if it was capable of doing as much damage as the entire DeathCore in a single shot. "I want a team to meet me here in three minutes. This has gone far enough." A cold brilliance glimmered in her eyes. "It's time we went hunting." "SAM?" YES, BARON? "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHERE WE'RE GOING?" UM. He turned around, and glanced behind them. All that remained of a substantial portion of the DeathCore was a mass of molten rubble , clearly defined in a tunnel-shape which led up to their current position. Bodies and broken weapons were scattered everywhere. NOT REALLY. "I DIDN'T THINK SO." They grinned at each other. GOOD, THEN. "QUITE RIGHT." A long pause echoed through the lifeless halls. In the distance, a klaxxon sounded, then cut off abruptly as Sam gestured with his Scythe. THAT THING YOU DID BACK THERE WITH THE THREE SQUADS OF ARMUR UNITS... VERY IMPRESSIVE. "WHAT, YOU MEAN KILLING THE PILOTS OF THE MECHS AND ANIMATING THEIR CORPSES?" WELL... "OR DRAINING OFF THEIR POWER, AND USING IT TO MAKE THE CORPSES EXPLODE AS THEY REACHED THEIR FRIENDS?" THAT, TOO, OF COURSE... Sam shrugged. "WELL, WHAT'S THE PROBLEM, THEN?" COULDN'T YOU HAVE MADE THEM WALK A LITTLE FASTER? "THEY'RE THE DEAD, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT THEM TO DO, RUN A MARATHON?" YOU HAVE A POINT. In the distance, a small, moving mass of darkness could be seen, gradually and inexorably catching up with the pair. Both Sam and the Braon could hear the screams of the KOMBG regulars as they were, bit by bit, encompassed by the wall of fresh-borne zombies. "YOU DO HAVE TO ADMIT, THOUGH, THEY'RE GREAT AT KEEPING THE LOCALS OFF OUR BACKS." TRUE. From the far corner of the hallway in which they, for the moment, resided, which was generally unharmed outside of the fact that there was a gigantic chunk disintigrated out of the wall, GrayMalkin called to them. "Hey! You two lovebirds planning on chatting all day, or what? We've got two more ARMUR squads coming, and maybe three behind them!" "WE MIGHT AS WELL KEEP MOVING, THEN." LETS. The Dreamer grinned wryly as he came to the beginnings of the tunnel of destruction which caterpillared through the halls of the DeathCore like half a worm inside an apple. Sam had been this way, certainly. Taking a deep breath of air which he knew would never quite taste the way it had in his youth, he stepped out into the hall. Chakos glared at Mishima. "Any more bright ideas?" "Not unless your luck can magic us some cover," she shot back angrily. None of the group was feeling particularly well at the moment, between running from the very large and well-armed posse. The investigator groaned. The combined effort of running and forcing Crow to run at the same time was getting to him. "Remind me again why we can't just turn and fight these bozos?" "Because we need to plant this bomb, and to do that we need cover that'll last for sixty seconds." "Why sixty?" Roke looked as if he were having trouble keeping the pace, between his obvious age and holding up his long cloak, to prevent tripping himself up on it. "That's how long the timer is set for." "Oh." Gate's cybernetic body was actually holding up quite well amidst the ruckus. His eyes were slightly out of focus, as if staring at something in the distance. Suddenly, they snapped back into reality. "Everybody duck... now!" They all fell to the floor as, at exactly the same instant, KOMBG troops came in view at the far end of the hallway behind them, led by the brilliant, seamless white form of Young GUNNS, and let out a volley of plasma bursts that seared right over their heads. From his position on the ground, Gate turned and glared at a silver-gray door just ahead and to the right of the party. "Door, please?" The door clicked open without protest, sliding back with a pleased, pneumatic hiss. "Move!" Young GUNNS reached the door half a minute later, not one strand of her hair disturbed by the excitement of the chase. Her nostrils flared expectantly, eyes focused on the door. "Open." The keypad display to the door's right blinked blue. No. You don't love me. "Damnit. Not these guys again....." "SAM?" YES? Sam stood over a small mound of still-steaming KOMBG Robo-Ninjas, his Scythe gleaming healthily in the light. Gray and the Baron had gone ahead, trusting him to get rid of some of the straggling ninjas. Abruptly, Gray was by his side. "We've found something the Baron says you might want to see." ALL RIGHT. HOLD ON, I JUST NEED TO CLEAN UP HERE. The Scythe flashed, and the pile of RoboNinja carcasses vanished into subatomic night. VERY WELL, WHAT IS IT? "You'll want to see for yourself." At that, the vampire took off down the tunnel, the Horseman following at his own dignified pace. Death rarely had to rush to get anywhere on time. A moment later, he caught up with his two partners. They were both standing very still, staring at a large, ornate wooden door that, without having any particular distinguishing characteristics, managed to portray very well, alongside a sense of woodenness and doorness, the air that it was not supposed to be in this place. It was not a thing of distinct appearance (although, granted, a stout oaken door did look a little odd set amidst the miles and miles of metal tunnels), but of subtletly, on a level that very few aside from a Horseman could understand. It spoke to him, in a language old as time. Before there was ever a Word spoken in the higher heavens, its exact nature had been endlessly discussed in the langauge of instinct and symbol. That was what spoke to him now, crying out to his very soul. "WHAT IS IT, SAM?" He could feel them, behind the door, waiting. This was not an ordinary challenge, not something he could turn away from or refuse. This was life. He sighed, a long, low sigh, and took one last look around the wreckage. SOMETHING, he said in a tone of voice just short of silence, soft yet resounding through the lifeless cooridoor. SOMETHING I MUST DO. One hand reached out and closed about the knob. The door opened soundlessly, without the slightest protest, and he stepped through. Chakos felt around in the room's all-enveloping darkness, turning in what he hoped was Mishima's direction. "We couldn't have picked a nice, simple, normal, lighted room to run into, could we?" "Perhaps you would prefer to be back out in the cooridoor?" A muted explosion outside, marking the release of Young GUNNS' ire upon the helpless door, put an end to that argument. From somewhere on the ground, Roke groaned. "Gate, could you possibly interface with the system, maybe get the lights up and running?" "I'm trying, but there seems to be some kind of interference. The station might be detecting my hack. I'll try-" *click* The investigator blinked repeatedly, trying to clear away the blizzard of spots which assailed his retinas as the lights buzzed on. He swivelled on his heels, coming face to face with Mishima, who stood, a very self-satisfied smile on her face, next to a simple, hardware-store lightswitch. "You were saying?" Silence answered her bemused inquiry. She nodded. "Good." A slightly longer pause ensued, in which the pounding on the door intensified dramatically. "Speaking of which, I've just had a thought." One gloved hand inscribed a half-circle through the air, and a glimmering floor plan formed, the DeathCore's inner habitation ring in miniature. "Can you create a glitch in the teleportation shielding long enough to get us here?" Gate blinked, eyes taking a moment to regitser where her finger was pointing on the map. "Ahhh... I think so..." The next blast was powerful enough to create a small, deep dent in the door. "Then do it. Now." The Dreamer cocked his head back and sniffed the air. He was close, now. The feeling was all about him. Amidst dead piles of smoking bodies and twisted technology, he walked on. The door closed behind Sam with a dull thud, leaving him briefly and totally alone in the darkness, or, at least, alone to all senses that humans, or even angels and demons, could make use of. There remained, however, one sense that no being outside of a select four could make use of on quite this level: the sense of kinship. Shrouded by artificial night, he could still feel them, close, almost breathing down his neck. His fingers tightened involuntarially upon the haft of the Scythe. It was no surprise, then, when light exploded around the room, twelve flames in a perfect circle upon a hardwood floor. His kindred had obviously exerted some effort to remake this out of the way KOMBG store-room into a fitting site for a meeting. Or an execution. A silvery circle traced through each of the flames, marked all around with ancient symbols, of the type many called Occult, simply because their minds were incapable of understanding their full meaning. In the exact center of the circle, another had been scribed, smaller, marked with other, darker letters. Nine lines extended inwards from the perimeter, each line growing close to, but not quite touching, the center point. Sam knew the purpose of that inner circle. It was difficult to form on the Earth planes, so far removed from either the Aether or the Pit, but his kin had managed. At least they had yet to invoke it. Even so, he edged a touch further away from the mark. There were some things that were dangerous to any being, no matter their nature. And, there, at the other end of the flame-circle, were the Three. Plus, of course, two. War, the reflection of the flames licking her shiny, red leather-clad body luxuriantly, shining in her mirrored visor, and Famine, his dark biker jacket devouring the light, both flanked Pestilence, fully recovered now, gleaming so brightly that it propogated out into the blackness, giving the night an unnatural luster. Uriel stood aloof at the outer edge of the outer circle, still wearing his black, pin-striped suit, feet not quite touching the ground, expression fixed. Despite his nature, no aura adhered to him, nothing beyond that of an ordinary archangel. He was not a Horseman yet, and would not be until he gained Sam's power. Which was, after all, the focus of the issue. About two feet in front of Pestilence was another form, seated in a chair, covered with a gray cloth. A quick, closer glance revealed feet sticking out beneath the sheet, bound to the sturdy wood of the chair by thick, woven cords. A prisoner, then, but of what kind, he could not determine. There was a shield about the chair, static from a level higher than any human psychic could percieve, static on the level that the Game was played. "Brother. We meet for the third time." PESTILENCE. He cocked his head to the side, suspiciously. The other Horseman was not making a move to begin the Game. None of them were. This was a change. I SEE YOU FOUND YOUR WAY BACK TO ILL-HEALTH. The other's eyes flashed angrily, but just for a moment, before the deadly calm settled in again. "You should know better than any of us, Death. You can keep a good man down. But no one can keep a Horseman down." HOW QUAINT. HAVE YOU BEGUN WRITING FOR READER'S DIGEST, OR SOMETHING? His eyes fell upon Uriel, and his voice took on a cold, dead tone. URIEL. I SAW THE SCRATCH. He glided forward across the wooden floor. YOU REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOU? The Scythe flashed hungrily. "Brother." The word dripped with poison, skin peeling off Pestilence's lips as they emerged. In the moment-long glimpse beneath the flesh, Sam could see the broiling plague beneath the shell, eager as ever. He stepped forward, moving closer to the bound, cloaked figure upon the chair, leaving behind two swiftly rotting footprints. "How often I have thought of that word over the past few days." The fingers on his left hand tightened into a fist, knuckles cracking like gunshots. Rotted, decaying skin leaked out from beneath his white glove. "At every step, you present a block in my path. I am the herald of the Apocalypse, and yet," again, that tone of poisinous distaste, "you present an... unfortunate block. You are in a unique position, for the moment, to oppose the End. The... politicians... amongst the Tribunal say that we must have a Fourth, to ride behind, to fulfill the Plan. Your commitment to the Apocalypse has been questioned by many, including myself." Sam felt anger rise, felt something inside him give way, beneath even the level of faith and conviction. Why had he not seen it before? He had been blind. HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT, AMIDST ALL YOUR LOFTY CONSIDERATION, THAT THE END IS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN? THAT MAYBE, HERE, THERE IS SOMETHING THAT IS BEYOND OUR RIGHT TO DESTROY? HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT ABOUT THE HUMANS AS ANYTHING MORE THAN PAWNS, THAN COUNTERS TO BE TRADED IN THIS LITTLE GAME OF ARMAGEDDON? His eyesockets swept the group. HAVE ANY OF YOU THOUGHT? For a long moment, there was no answer. He locked eyes with the white form. YOU DISGUST ME. Skin stretched and peeled away from Pestilence's neck as he shook his head, a sneer forming on his face. "And you disgust me, Brother." He circled the chair, gloved hand trailing delicately over the fabric, which darkened at his touch. "You have become weak, snivelling. 'Protect them, protect them'." Strips of raw flesh fell from his neck upon the ground, spreading a patina of age and decay through the wood. "You have lost sight of the greater purpose." THEN FIGHT ME. The Scythe flashed in time with Sam's eyes. The only response from the other was disturbingly soft, hissing laughter. "You would like that, wouldn't you?" Silence stretched out for all of eternity, bending and twisting time to its own needs. "You are vain enough to think you stand a chance against us all, joined together for a common purpose. Perhaps, you are strong enough to think you can do us some great damage, go down in a blaze of glory." The hissing was punctuated by a sharp bark of laughter. "I think not." Before Sam could move a muscle (in the purely metaphorical sense, of course, since giant skeletons do not, per se, have muscles which can be moved), his glove tightened around the cloth and ripped it away. Even as the fabric left the body, the static vanished, and for the first time, Sam clearly saw the person in the chair. JAMIE. The girl's sea-green eyes were wide in shock and fear, her mouth covered by a strip of electrician's tape, preventing any sound but muffled, plaintive moans from reaching the shocked Horseman. She wore a loose, dark purple smock and tight, midnight-blue pants, criscrossed constantly by thick hempen rope, making red lines across her flesh. If it were possible, her eyes widened even more as they settled on him, the fear becoming touched with sadness. He swallowed hard, and concentrated, forming the human shape about him once again for the first time in weeks. He had passed as mortal to get into the KOMBG WAR center, but the last time he had truly appeared as a full human was for this woman, outside Club Lux, Lower Khazan, Barclay St. 11937, just before he had been forced to reveal himself in order to stop some particularly rapacious street toughs, costing himself in the same moment his mortal cover, and, most likely, any chance of her love. He was a tall human, with ice blue eyes and dark hair, handsome in a peculiar way that looked shockingly nothing like Brad Pitt. "Jamie." "And the lovers meet once more. How charming." Blood leaked out of Pestilence's gums as he smiled. "I feel I may vomit." In an instant, the human mask was gone, flame burning in the eyesockets. LET HER GO. SHE IS NO PART OF THIS. "She is a part of whatever I say she is a part of." The other Horseman's right hand shot up in the air, and began to decay before Sam's eyes, leather gloves and jacket rotting, skin peeling and disintigrating until the entire arm was nothing more than a seething maisma of decay and filth. In an instant, it was no more than a centimeter from her throat, glistening feverishly. "So, you see, we are down to an impasse." He gestured with his still-humanoid hand. "I have something you want. You have something I need. Namely, your essence. Your power, your identiy, your station, your soul, all to go to Uriel, here. What's left of you...." The gloved hand pointed, and the inner circle flared to unlife. The area inside twisted subtly, and disappeared, leaving nothing but a gaping hole of infinite darkness, crouched inside the silver boundary as if waiting to leap out. Sam had seen that hole before. If you listened closely, you could hear the wailing, final screams of imprisoned souls. If you gazed down into its utter depths, you could see the waiting Fire. "...Goes into the Pit. Forever." This time, the smile was so wide that the corners of his mouth split, widening the grin to nightmarish proportions. AND THE GIRL? "She rises from this chair, and goes away freely." DO YOU SO VOW? "I give my pledge." For a long moment, no one spoke. "Perhaps I should give you two a moment to converse." One sickly glistening finger touched, ever so gently, the electrician's tape, which disappeared in an instant, faded into airborne soot and filth. Jamie wasted no time. "Sam, don't do it! Save yourself!" The words, her cry of desperation, cut him to the soul, far deeper than any wound Pestilence had ever inflicted in the course of the Game. "Ahhh... Wasn't that enlightening. How sodding typical." Red eyes flashed over pale skin. "We don't have all day. Decide. Now." There was nothing else he could do. YES. He lowered his head in aquiescence. I'LL DO IT. Pestilence's smile only widened. "Good." Seconds before.... As the Dreamer drew near, both GrayMalkin and the Baron drew back from the door and stared at him. For once, Gray was the first to find words. "What the hell are you doing here?" The Dreamer's smile was cold as a knife. "I've come to help a friend." "THE DOOR IS BARRED." He shook his head. "That should not present a problem." "I AM UNABLE TO UNDO IT." "To the one with sufficient will, all obstacles are merely screens against the wind." Present Time... "Now, I suppose you know what to do?" Sam nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. I DO. With a satisfied nod, the First Horseman gestured to Uriel, who straightened, a beatific smile on his face, and walked across the room, not caring for the opening into the Pit, or for Jamie, or even for the other Horsemen. He had eyes only for Sam, not blinking as he assumed a position directly opposite the skeleton's, across the opening. He stretched out his hands like a savior about to offer food and drink to the whole universe. "Now." Pestilence's decayed hand rested upon the ropes, ever so gently, and they began to rot through and fade away. With one long, last look into Jamie's eyes, he reared back and threw the Scythe into the empty air, across the dark opening into the deepest pits of Hell. It spun through the air, blade glittering- Time stretched thin, like a violin player bowing a single, clear, high C, finger trembling just enough that there could be said to be difference from one instant to the next, as- -Uriel cheated forward, looking as if he would leap into Hell itself to get his hands around the ebon haft of the Scythe. -the last of the ropes fell away, and Jamie leapt up, propelled by the awesome power of fear. -the Scythe blade flashed as it spun around in the blank lanes of space. -Sam's body sagged in relief, even as the power faded from him, Uriel growing larger and stronger every instant, a pale glow lighting about his head like a silvery crown. -Pestilence's maismaic arm shot out, swift as a striking serpent, grasping, reaching, stretching for the fleeing body, finally making contact just before she passed out of reach entirely. -the power almost gone, nearly slumped to the floor, Sam raised his head at the sudden movement. -Jamie lurched, entire body spasming as blood leaked out from every pore and orifice of her body, pink trails of tears running down from her eyebrows as she staggered, reaching desperately for Sam, her fingers rotting away even as she stumbled, slipping in a pool of her own vomit. -Sam screamed in rage, frustration, and sorrow, fighting to stand, fighting to do anything at all as Uriel loomed larger, the Scythe almost in his grip. Rage coursed through his veins, and he lanced out with the little of his soul left to him, pulling his power back, arcing it across the void between the two souls, angel and Horseman, his weakened body sucking it up like a gigantic sponge. His eye-sparks flared brightly, and inside their embers was marked the death of worlds. The Scythe, inches from Uriel's hands, vanished, even as Sam's own, skeletal fingers clamped down around its haft, cold like newly forged steel, warm like a mushroom cloud rising over the burning remnants of a once-prosperous city. He saw Jamie fall, hemphoragging all over her body, not caring at all about the rest of the world. For all he wished, it could die this moment. She was dead. She had introduced him to this new land, and she was dead. Pale light flickered around him like a halo. As the last of her flesh and muscles rotted away, he raised his eyes to Pestilence, their cold flame searing into him. His voice was soft, calm, and final, like the lid closing over a tomb. DAMN YOU. The First Horseman of the Apocalypse, Harebringer of the End Times, flinched. Even as Sam started forwards, he could feel the combined power of the other four moving against him, striking on thousands of levels simultaneously. Like an enraged bear, he swatted them off, taking step after step towards the haughtily distant Pestilence, reaching out with the hungry Scythe, but there were many of them, and they were powerful. Ripping his soul back from Uriel's grip had taken almost everything he had, and every instant they pressed the attack, he was loosing more ground. Before long, they would have him powerless again, and then it would cease to be a matter of free will, whether he passed on his office or not. Jamie would go unavenged. Four pairs of eyes bored into him, red, black, misty hazel, and those two of unknown color, beneath the visor of that helmet. He pressed on, shoving against their barriers with all his might, but he could feel the darkness approaching, the moment when he would be utterly defenseless. Checkmate. At exactly the instant when he was about to be overwhelmed, the door burst open. Light filtered in from the DeathCore outside, battling against the eldritch flames. There were three figures silhouetted against the outside world. The center one stepped forward, and smiled, his voice so self-assured he might have challenged the Creator himself, if he had not already done so, and nearly won. "Excuse me." For a moment, the assault paused. Four pairs of eyes turned to face the new arrival, and Sam felt his strength returning, growing exponentially before the other Horsemen had the time to notice exactly what was happening beneath their noses. The new arrival spoke again. "I have found the tedium of this existance somewhat relieved by that... man, and would be most put out to loose the... pleasure of his company." Three voices (for one, obviously, did not speak) spoke in unison. "You!" Sam grinned. ZALRAFEL. The former angel nodded, and mock-saluted the fallen Horsemen. "In one, old friend." Ensign Soehi at the Communications console in the DeathCore main control room did not even notice when the doors hissed open, so engrossed was he in the reports coming over his headphones from all decks, about the rampage of destruction on the Outer Ring. Fortunately, none of the systems integral to operating the station's main weapon were housed there. Nor did he notice the sudden commotion or several thuds that occurred moments later, while he was in the process of ordering another ARMUR squad to go in and locate the invaders. He did, however, notice the sharp and sudden tap on his shoulder, which caused him to stand up and angrily turn around. He expected to come face to face with Lieutenant Or'kcek, the Communications Shift supervisor, a humanoid with a chip on his shoulder about the size of a battlecruiser. What he did not expect, obviously, was to come face to face with a very composed, thinly smiling Hokuto Mishima. "Ma'am, this region is off-limits to anyone without Grade C or higher security clearance...." She raised her finger to her lips, and he fell silent. Softly turning, she allowed him a wider view of the Command Deck. Approxomately fifteen elite, Highly Competent-class guards and technicians lay sprawled, unmoving, over the various consoles and delicate equipment that were housed on the Bridge. Amidst the chaos, a cyborg, a young woman in a hospital gown, an old man in a cloak, and a decidedly dangerous-looking young man in a trenchcoat stood, apparently without a care in the world. He was vaguely aware of a sudden movement in the corner of his eye, and then the world went black. Chakos grinned ruefully. "If I didn't know you any better, Mishima, I would actually think you got some pleasure out of that." She smirked. "Don't push your luck." Then, setting her backpack down on the deckplates, she pulled it open to reveal a large, shiny, device that, on some level of the human psyche that is completely at home with terrorist activities, positively screamed "bomb". "We've got some work to do." Ten seconds later, a bright, pink flash lit the room, and they were gone. The two groups did not so much square off as rush together in a chaotic mass. This was how battles were supposed to go. First, before anyone else could make a move, Sam leapt forward, body-slamming Pestilence to the ground. A murderous red flashed in his eyes. All pretense of higher art was gone. He was about to kill someone. Before he could close again, though, the other Horseman was on his feet, smiling a broken smile as teeth worked their way out of his gums. He feinted on a level higher than mere existance. Sam parried. The air between them twanged like a taught piano string plucked by an ice pick. Meanwhile, the Baron and Famine were facing off again, more carefully, this time. Neither was at their full strength, and neither desired a repeat fo their last match, so they were at an impasse, making and breaking contact for mere moments, tearing at each other's power in little starts and stops, rather than all at once. GrayMalkin was not having much luck against War. Well, actually, saying "not having much luck" is much the same as comparing an afternoon rainshower to the Great Red Spot of Jupiter, or a Zippo flame to the deep fires of Phlethegeron in the pit of Hell, but it serves to generally describe the situation. He had started off hoping that his shield would hold against the "woman"'s mostly physical attacks, but that hadn't lasted long, as one punch had sent him flying back out of the room, by the wall rather than the door, this time, leaving a small GrayMalkin-shaped hole for light to filter through. She was by him in an instant, drop-kicking his limp form down the cooridoor, through a set of titanium doors. He groaned, focusing his mind entirely on healing his wounds. It was a good thing, he reflected, that he was already dead. Which left Zalrafel and Uriel. Zal smiled thinly. "Together again." There was something about him, in his eyes or in the twist of his voice, that made Uriel take an involuntary step back. "You know, Uriel, I still remember that day. I remember the rain of fire and blood upon the people of my city." He took another step forward. Uriel took another step back. Sweat beaded on both their faces. This was not the Game the Horsemen played, but close enough for their purposes. "I remember the battle cries of your glorious host, the screams of the slain." Step. Uriel raised his hands, as if to gather the strengthe to ward off the other, but stll he fell back. "You were resplendant in your battle armor, next to Michael himself. The splendid host of Heaven, stained with the blood of millions." Step. Step. Zal's smile took on all the humor of a shark's. "And you know what happened to Michael, don't you?" Uriel's voice shook, even as did his hands. "Zalrafel, you don't want to do this. There will be righteous retribution if you cross the path of Heaven a second time." The grand words sounded hollow, even in his own head. The other laughed. "And what can they do to me that has not already been done?" Step. And Uriel backed into the wall. Zal's hands shot out to both sides, trapping him. "You know, Uriel, of all the chief archangels, you were the one I had the least regard for and least understanding as to why you merited a place among us. Lucifer was the best of us," the arms drew closer to Uriel's head, "I was the caregiver," closer still, the being's hair wet with perspiration, "Pendragon was our warrior and Michael our general." Now they were almost touching his flesh. "You?" One hand curled into a claw, prapring to slice the archangel from existance. "You were our joke." The claw descended, nothingness crackling about it. But before it could connect, space twisted about Uriel, and he faded into the Aether. Zalrafel swore. "Damn." Sam and Pestilence struggled upon the edge of the Pit, tendrils of the mind probing, testing for weaknesses, even as the physical battle raged. The Scythe sweeped to intercept a blow from Pestilence's black hand, following up with a counter that the other barely avoided. The exchange was quick, succinct, apparently requiring no more effort from either than breathing for an ordinary human. The Fourth Horseman's eyesockets bored into the eyes of the First. A simple question. WHY? "I broke no vow. She rose from that chair completely free." BUT WHY, DAMN YOU! SHE HAD NO PART OF THIS! Sweep. Counter. Riposte. "Does it hurt you, Brother? Does it worm inside that nonexistant gut of yours, that I took her? That for all your supposed power, you were not able to save this... child?" I LOVED HER. "All the more reason for her to suffer, then. She drew you away from that which was important. From that which is vital to all our lives." Sam's eyes burned with anger and sorrow. WHAT LIVES? WHAT LIVES? LIVES BOUND WITH THE ULTIMATE NULLIFACTION OF EVERYTHING THAT ANYONE ELSE STANDS FOR? HAVE YOU EVER STOPPED TO TRY AND FIND THE SENSE IN THAT? Another attack, coaxing, tempting.... He urged Pestilence to take the bait, to go for the obvious, the too-obvious opening... I LOVED HER. Closer... "At least I still have purpose. I am not a traitor to my cause." And he went for it, sweeping in low for Sam's legs. The Fourth Horseman was a blur, twisting to the left and sweeping with the butt-end of the Scythe. Pestilence tumbled to the ground, but before he could move to rise, Sam's arms were around him, lifting him, pulling him forward. Sam ground his teeth against the pain as plagues and filth struck out from the other's body, boring into his soul, trying to tear away his very identity. On the lip of the Pit, he staggered, tripping over his own feet, and for a moment, it appeared that he was about to fall in, but at the last moment, he steadied himself, and lifted the other's body high, the flames from the underworld shining against his skull. I LOVED HER, YOU BASTARD!!! And his arms dropped. And Pestilence fell into the Abyss. As soon as his body crossed the dividing line between the realms, the inner circle burst with light, then vanished without a trace. Of the Pit, the markings, and Pestilence, there was no sign. Time slowed, and, finally, stopped. In the far corner of the room, Famine stared in shock at the specter of Death risen up before him, pale flame licking his robes and shining from his eyesockets, the Scythe gleaming a soft blue-white. His eyes darted from Sam, to the approaching silhouette of Zalrafel, to the Baron, standing passively in the corner, and, finally, to GrayMalkin, in the process of being pounded through another wall by War across the hall, then back to Sam once more. He bowed his head, and a moment of sorrow passed between them. They were brothers. There are some things that are the same for the most basic human family, as for the most powerful family in the universe. They felt sorrow. And, deep down, they felt Pestilence's pain. Famine turned on his heels, and spoke in a low voice to War, who was just standing there. "We need to go." She nodded, and they faded away. Sam glanced around the motley crew of warriors as well. In the distance, he could feel Mishima's bomb ticking steadily towards zero. Slowly, painfully, he formed the words without a trace of emotion. GENTLEMEN, IT'S TIME WE WERE GOING. And, without any further protest, they slipped out of time. Young GUNNS and Ensign Shane reached the control center a fifteen seconds ahead of the others, having left them behind to continue on in their search of the room. This meant that they were the first to see the bodies, and, most of all, the first to see the glittering steel box, with its timer counting down from 17. Shane blinked, and twisted around to face his commander. "Sir, we've barely got enough time. I can disarm it!" One exquisite eybrow arched curiously. Her lips formed the question. "I didn't know they taught that in the acadamy." He nodded, then glanced nervously back at the box. 14. "Yes, sir. It's a simple model, I've dealt with them before." A thin smile traced itself across her face. "Well, I don't think your services will be necessary at this time." 12. "Sir?" "You see, son, I want the bomb to go off." 10. "I-sir, I don't understand...." "Well, then." A simple, .45 caliber pistol appeared in her white-gloved hand. "I suppose you'll just have to die curious." She levelled the pistol at his forehead, but he was to frozen to even notice it. Her smile widened, and at that exact moment, her face twisted and warped, changing shape into one that Ensign Shane found completely unfamiliar. "Ta-ta," said Forte. "Bang," said the gun. And that was that. Forte smiled ruefully, withdrawing his glasses from his jacket pocket and wiping them on its hem. A good role. One of his best, actually. But, in the end, all curtains must fall. He smiled, and walked away. 5 4 3 2. The expedition team arrived just in time to see, and panic, running in abject terror. 1. 0 There was a burst of light and noise. Then, at the core of Khazan, there was silence. Time: One Day Later Place: DeathCore Command Center The woman appeared swiftly in the lifeless room. She smiled, eyes travelling over the flawless consoles, perfect viewscreens. Neutron weapons were wonderful things: 100 percent organic casualties, no systems damage. Everything was, except for the little Sam and his friends had damaged it, still completely operational. Hokuto Mishima smiled. It was going to be a good day. THE END... FOR NOW |