Earth #746387
Artifice Universe Proper
April 2001.

"Satellite imagery over Australia confirms it, General. Several unidentified masses are currently in a holding pattern over the continent. Whatever they are, they've opened fire on the surface."

"Good God." Major General Derieux floated back down in his seat. As Officer of the Watch he should have had all of the answers; should have known what to do. Instead he found himself profoundly lost as news continued to come in from the multitude of work stations below his elevated overwatch position.

"NASA has near Earth observation imagery of several more in orbit. We're awaiting visual confirmation from the ISS now." The International Space Station. He imagined the Russian and American crew members, faces pressed against fake glass, staring out into the black.

"Sir? I've got BNSC on the line. London is sending us everything they have. They're estimating... Jesus Christ... the Brits count more than two dozen ships, sir! Apparently Moonbase Churchill has got a front row seat!"

"Australia? Who the hell would want to invade Australia?!" The General's face fell into his hands. It was the end of the world and he hadn't even the courage to call an alert.

"Sir?" One of the enlisted men, Staff Sergeant Parker, rose from his station and lowered the phone from his ear. Pointing to the television that hung in the corner, all eyes followed. Apparently CNN had the latest intelligence.

"Pacific City? Get me everything we've got on Pacific City," someone shouted. "Have they attacked anywhere else?"

"No, so far they seem focused on... Jesus, am I glad I don't live there! Would you look at that shit!"

The General seemed stuck, talking through a weave of fingers. "But... Australia?!"

* * *

June 2001.

"Gentlemen, it's time we asked the hard questions, the ones we know we don't have the answers to. In front of you is every speck of data we've got. Ever so-called X-File, every case of strange 'displacement' phenomena from Chuck Winter's mysterious disappearance in 1977 and the freak London beach weather it caused to the Niagara Incident last March. Whatever reasoning we find for the events that transpired over Pacific City, our conclusion has to be: Not here. Not now. Not ever. The American public will not tolerate a multiversal intrusion on our own soil. Now, let's start finding a way so they won't have to."

* * *

October 2001.

"... and with the coming of a new fiscal year, the Secretary of Defense announced the commissioning of a new Special Operations Command for the United States Army . Pending approval of the President's proposed 2002 defense budget, this new command will oversee the monitoring of unexplained electromagnetic and terran phenomena. It will also be within this new Command's charter to pursue and investigate said phenomena, as these were the indicators widely ignored preceding the fantastic and yet tragic events seen in Australia last Spring. Major General Westbrook, the man many expect to establish this new Command, said today in a press conference... "

* * *

January 2002.

"I'm sorry General Westbrook. While I understand your argument and thank you for the countless number of exhibits and demonstrations you have given, current global defense trends demand our undivided attention. Without actual proof of this... multiversal threat, I find it increasingly difficult to approve the earmarking of the funds you'd need to establish this command. Still, foregoing my misgivings, I respect the decisions made by my peers today and also acknowledge your exemplary record and service to our country. I hereby grant you 90 days to acquire the hard evidence we are asking for. After 90 days we will re-convene and decide ultimately the future of this program."

* * *

February 2002.

"And this here is the observation deck of sorts." Lieutenant Clark turned back toward the gaggle he was tasked to escort. The detail was short lived, assisting the Public Affairs office while these VIPs from the General Accounting Office were on base. So much time and, more importantly, money had gone into building the unit that reviewers and inspectors were crawling out of the woodwork to see the final product.

Of course now that approval had been given and this new Army command created, there hadn't been a single indicator that it was even needed. For Lieutenant Clark what was needed was a Friday night at the Officer's club to close out this pain in the ass week. Until then, he'd address whatever questions didn't have classified answers and show the civilians around.

"When staffed, the observation deck will be operating twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. It's main purpose will be to monitor sensory data collected from each of the arrays positioned globally. Spectro-analysis. Climate spikes, electromagnetic surges and seismic aberrations in the--"

"Pardon me, Lieutenant?"

"Yes?" Friday couldn't get here soon enough.

"I couldn't help but notice... that screen over there is flashing."

The building and observation deck was new and final approval for start up had not yet been given by Congress. That didn't stop the contractors who created the systems and installed them from testing the equipment so it would be ready when the word was given. One of them must have left a monitor on mid-diagnostic. Curious, Lieutenant Clark approached the monitor and then thumbed a key that would feed the video to one of the larger screens on the wall.

"Now I know it isn't real," the Lieutenant said, looking up at the screen. For a second, he was afraid it wasn't just a test. The map and data now displayed and scrolling proved otherwise.

"How's that?" One of the guests asked.

"Stupid thing is showing a multiversal intrusion. On the moon of all places." Lieutenant Clark laughed and waved the crowd of guests to follow him. At this rate, the Lieutenant thought, this new Army unit would never get off the ground.

Paramilitary
by Matthew Pierce

Earth #746392
April 22, 2002.

The tinkle of glass. The scraped kiss of stainless steel against ceramic. The murmured, almost incomprehensible overlapping of voices both male and female. In this restaurant, at this very moment, they were like poetry; an acceptable background soundtrack to all the things he wanted to say. All the things he should have said over and over again all those years ago but never took the time to do so.

"How's the wine?"

Sharon's eyes bolted from their settled place, a solitary droplet of water holding steady on her untouched glass. There had been so many meals with Richard, so many times in which they'd occupy the same room but never the same conversation. It was habit, even after so long, to focus on that droplet, to empty her mind and forget what was missing from her marriage to Richard.

So when he finally had something to say, and that was the purpose of this planned rendezvous anyway, it surprised her. She diligently chewed faster, wanting to clear her mouth before answering until at last, "It's good."

"Dinner is okay? The vegetables cooked through enough?"

"Sure." She shook her head. "No problems."

"That's good." His eyes floated down to his own meal. Chicken something or other, a menu choice he couldn't pronounce while ordering it from the waiter. He sawed into it with a dull butter knife and brought each squared bit to his mouth out of repetition, like it was on a checklist of things to accomplish. There was little joy in it at all.

"So." Sharon lifted the cloth napkin off her lap and stabbed the edges of her mouth with it while probing at her teeth with the tip of her tongue. "I don't want to seem pushy, Richard but..."

"No, you're right," Richard interrupted. "Might as well get to it." He winced at the choice of words. Would that sound like he thought of this as a chore or an obligation, a necessary step in an ongoing experiment? Better, he thought, to get straight to the point before he said something in the interim that made it less sincere. He set down his silverware and pushed his plate a few inches away so that he had room for his laced fingers on the table.

"I missed you, Sharon." If the admission phased her, she hid it well. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being selfish for so long. I realize what I'm saying sounds empty and how... late it is for me to finally understand all of this but I thought you should know." She hadn't interrupted him, hadn't tossed her napkin onto her plate and walked out. This was a good sign and one should always treat a good sign as reason to continue forward. "All those late nights, all the missed birthdays... not being there for our son's graduation or that time in the hospital--"

"Richard." Sharon's face was suddenly wracked with emotional pain and her voice carried her warning plainly.

Right then, time to get to on topic and off memory lane. "I treated you like you weren't there, Sharon. Like you were invisible."

"I'm really... touched, Richard, that you'd tell me all of this but I don't see the point now. We've been divorced for four years."

"Well, Sharon, the point is, it wasn't until you really weren't there that I realized how much of an idiot I was... how absorbed in my work I had become."

"You were never a fantastic husband, Richard but you were a man of genius. You had a gift and a calling and you shouldn't get down on yourself because you had your priorities." This was painful to her, she was already trying to scab over re-opened wounds with platitudes. Still she was angry and it was beginning to show in her cheeks, in her tone of voice.

"It's over, Sharon." Richard itched at the gray over his ear and smiled.

"Sorry?" She looked confused, like she wasn't prepared to hear that come from him. They were divorced already so what else could he mean?

"The project. It's over. I'm done."

Silence, the constant mediator, crept into the tiny space between them and hung out its arms, keeping them apart cautiously. Sharon's eyes retreated for the droplet of water, to empty her mind of all the emotion and memory rushing forward but suddenly she couldn't find her glass.

"So that was it, you know? Here I am, done with my work. All these years and it's finished and I look behind me and I realize, I've got no one to share it with. Our son is away at school, and my wife... well, isn't my wife anymore. How is that fisherman friend of yours anyways? What was his name? Norman? Nemo?"

Sharon let the remark about her live-in boyfriend pass and focused on a more proper retort. "Maybe that was the problem, huh Richard? That when you wanted me, you always looked behind you and never beside? I never could compete with a particle disassembler or a molecular unstabilizer, now could I?"

"I deserve that," Richard admitted. It was hard to hear him be so honest, and so damning of himself. She knew him better than that and was ready to tell him so but wouldn't that mean admitting how she still felt around him, whenever he paid attention to her? She was angry with him, true, but now she was becoming angry with herself. Angry that she felt so vulnerable around him so... trusting.

"But I also know that none of those things matter as much as... I mean, what good is accomplishing something fantastic if I can't share it with... I guess what I'm trying to say, Sharon is--"

She hung on every word. Waited for the admission, watched his lips to see them twist around the words she so wanted to hear come from him. She wasn't over him, she wanted him like some swooning girl pinging over the older, distinguished university professor and she knew firsthand what that was like.

All the other sounds in the restaurant fell silent, time itself crawled to a halt while his synapses fired, translating thought into sound. She almost completely missed the muffled sound of a cell phone in his jacket pocket. Almost.

"Excuse me, Sharon." His hand reached inside his coat and her heart sank to the floor and suddenly it was four years ago all over again.

* * *

"This way, Professor Leeds." The soldier was in full battle gear, a tradition usually reserved for full scale military exercises or when shit had hit the fan. He lifted his rifle upward so that the barrel was now comfortably pointed at the ceiling and reached outward with his opposite hand to the oncoming scientist.

Richard kept out of grabbing distance, not one to be manhandled so easily. "What seems to be the trouble here? The call was too cryptic, I almost ignored it." He walked ahead of the soldier, not caring to read the last name over the pocket or to see if he was following as he should have been.

"As near as we can tell, sir, they infiltrated through a fire exit and secured sector two on the outer ring. Motion sensors picked them up on their way to the junction area. They don't seem too concerned about making a ruckus."

"Tell me you slowed them down." Richard's thoughts were solely on the project inside the compound's inner ring. It had taken him six years to complete, not to mention a wife and son. It was a stroke of luck they had completed it at all and now they stood to lose everything. He wasn't having it.

"They were able to secure a swipe card off a tech and gained access to the inner ring. We've cut power to the corridors with them inside so at the moment they're not going anywhere."

Richard didn't seem convinced and scowled as he turned a corner in the hallway. "You know Central has its own generator. If they slice through those doors, there's nothing stopping them from doing whatever they want with the Project."

Standard procedure in case of an emergency was for the US Army contingent to establish a command post in the facility's security office. With power off in the inner ring, there would be no way to monitor what the infiltrators were up to but there would still be recorded video from their initial entry. Richard opened the door to the security office and watched as the soldiers and officers inside tensed up. And so they should have. The project was his and these were the men and women responsible for protecting it. So far they were doing a bang up job.

The officer reached out to hold the door for Richard, allowing him to continue the conversation. "As I understand it, Professor, you have some sort of failsafe. Even if the intruders capture the project, couldn't you just detonate it with the remote device?"

Richard wasn't completely inside the security office yet when he turned on the unsuspecting soldier and came within a hair's distance of eating his face. "The nullifier? You forget you ever heard anything about that," he looked for rank on the uniform, "Lieutenant. I don't care if these people steal the Project and park it in downtown Communist Red Hell! I'm not blowing it up while there's so much as a military dime to spend getting it back. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir. Understood, sir." The Lieutenant shrank back out of view. Whatever he was thinking, he ignored it and let the Professor move on to chew someone else's ass.

"Good." Richard turned back towards the interior of the room. "Now with that non-option addressed, someone tell me what we're doing about getting these sons of bitches away from my work!"

An officer stepped forward to answer the question, which suited Richard because that's what he was there for. Unfortunately for him, he started by making excuses. "Our initial response to the break-in was hurried. We only meant to assess their strength but ended up making contact before our men knew what they were up against. Some civilians were caught in the exchange and we figure that's how they gained access through the junction to the inner ring. We've got casualties and I'd like to see about--"

"What are our scenarios for retaking the inner ring?" Richard interrupted. He was studying digital photos now, taken from video of the corridors leading up to the junction. There seemed to be two squads of six men each, all in uniform but without any distinguishable markings or insignia. That ruled out the green suited Nazi-wannabes from CHIMERA or the neo-apocalyptic doomsday scientists in gasmasks that Superior Intelligent Designs employed. Amateurs then. Richard could handle amateurs. But not alone.

He raised a finger to stop the Major mid-sob story and retrieved his phone from inside his navy blue suit coat. He pressed and held the number four on the keypad and waited for the autodial to respond. Two rings later and a raspy voice answered on the other end.

"Yeah."

"Len, it's me," Richard replied.

"Whadda ya want? Disney is on."

"I need you Leonard. Someone is after the Project."

"Yea? Which one? You got more projects than I got broads and let me tell you, for an ever lovin' green eyed--"

"The Project, Leonard." Richard gritted his teeth.

"But it's Beauty and the Beast."

"Never mind. I'll call Joshua."

"I'll be there in five minutes."

Richard snapped the cellular shut and looked over to the Major, who was hovering on pause during the duration of the call. Pointing above a row of camera controls to a schematic of the inner ring on an LCD monitor, the Major continued his brief. "As you know, we've cut all power to the inner ring. Now, the intruders can't access the door locks no matter what pass keys they stole. Near as we can tell, they weren't able to penetrate any further than sectors three or five, depending on which way they went after passing through the junction." Like the Lieutenant said outside, the intruders weren't going anywhere.

"They're up against a dead end," the Major continued, "which means they'll have no choice but to come out... even if we have to gas them to do it. We'll just feed power from the outer ring into each door one by one until we figure out how far they got."

Richard placed a finger over his lip and considered the scenario without really looking at the map. "You're assuming, Major, that they can't just blast their way deeper into the ring."

"That would take a hell of a lot of demolition to blow through those doors, sir You designed them yourself."

"I wasn't talking about the doors."

As if on cue, there was a loud and thunderous boom that vibrated through the floors and caused everyone in the security room to look at each other. The same question lingered on each of their faces. Quickly following the shudder was a second sound, this one of a loud slam, like something heavy falling down inside a large, empty room.

Silence filled the security office and the military personnel inside had returned to looking at each other with preposterous looks on their faces. Richard's head moved on his neck as if impossibly elastic and came close enough to share the Major's same breath. "Listen to me very carefully, Major because the time to fumble around on this half ass mission of yours is over. I want you to round up every able bodied man you have and I mean if they can hold a gun between their god damned teeth, you bring them along." He spoke calmly but there was no jest, no more of the kindness or patience he had shown each of the Army officers over the last few years. He couldn't. The Project was at stake. "You send them to the junction to meet Leonard Flynn. He'll be taking over for you now. There'll be no gas, no warning and you'll shoot everyone you find in there dead."

"I- I haven't the authorization--"

"I just gave you the authorization. If you want me to show it to you, you'll be picking it out of your ass for the next six years now GET OUT THERE!"

The Major hovered for a second, thought better of whatever he wanted to say and turned to retreat from one battle to enter another. Richard was already on to the next series of problem solving steps, looking up at the darkened monitors that should have been telling him who was invading and what they were doing at this very moment.

* * *

"So we're clear then, Leonard?" Richard was speaking into his phone again but was looking at the video camera showing the junction access to the facility's inner ring. Leonard Flynn looked up at the camera pointed toward him and gave it a thumbs up.

Flynn was a lumberjack of a man. Broad shouldered, barrel chested with trunk like legs and Popeye arms. His brown hair was shaven so close that it was little more than fuzz and did nothing to cover up his puzzle board sculpture of scars and pot marks. Neither handsome nor well mannered, Leonard was both a blunt instrument and the finest lab assistant Richard could ask for. With no apparent specialties or accolades, Flynn was little more than Dr. Frankenstein's Igor, which in this present scenario, worked out perfectly.

"You know what time it is." Flynn's raspy, dysphonia wrought voice, delivered the acknowledgment Richard was asking for and their call promptly ended. Stuffing his phone into the pocket of his chalk-stained, black lab coat, Flynn walked up to the assembled troops. "Ya listen up you clowns, and you listen good. We ain't takin' no prisoners. Whoever these pukes are, they came ready to take the goods over your dead bodies so don't be lookin' to do them any favors, ya hear? You see 'em, you start sprayin'. The rest of us will get the idea."

Flynn slapped the Major against the chest with the back of his hand and delivered what must have been a masterstroke of a battle strategy: forged on countless, blood soaked battlefields and put to task by the most honorable and historical leaders of our time. "You take these guys over here and go left. I'll take these guys over there and go right." Flynn motioned behind him, "Everyone else stays here with the Lieutenant so they can't sneak behind us. You hear shootin', Major, you come back us up, yeah?" He turned to the Lieutenant, who barely looked old enough to stop himself from wetting his pants. "Whatever you do, don't let them through the junction. You do and its your funeral and I'll be the one pissin' on your tulips. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good. Now let's clobber these mooks."

* * *

Both teams moved out according to Flynn's spur of the moment plan. It was his group that found the intruders but only after finding a six foot by three foot segment of metallic wall lying on the floor. Somewhere else in the compound, Richard would be shaking his head. In an age of chemical weapons, one need not rely on blasting power or plastique, something he apparently understood better than the United States Army.

"What in the blue blazes is going in here?" Flynn entered first, soldiers appearing on either side of him and fanning out to secure the only apparent way out of the Core. "Who are you people and how bulletproof do you take yourselves for?"

Whoever the intruders were, they didn't seem too concerned about the arrival of Flynn. He counted twelve of them, spread out in a tactical perimeter around the object in the center of the room; a vehicle of sort, chrome plated and tied into the rest of the room through miles of cable and wire. Some of them moved around the vehicle like insects with a purpose. Some were attaching panels to the vehicle and others were cutting into the cables attached to it, only to splice in something of their own.

Near the vehicle itself, one man turned slowly on a booted heal and considered Flynn for a moment. Beneath a beret, he smiled smugly. "We're the United States Army and we're here to help."

Flynn was speechless as it made little sense for the Army to break into one of its own Research and Development facilities with the intention of doing harm to a project it funded. And yet the soldiers moved as if they were well trained. Their uniforms appeared American but with a post-modern flair. Their field gear looked experimental but not to the point where it disqualified them as being who they said they were. Flynn, however, had never seen a silver beret before.

There was a commotion behind him and finally Richard appeared. "Let me in, dammit!" He stumbled out from behind Flynn as if it took him pushing and shoving past a hundred people to get there. "Why are these people still breathing, Leonard? "

"They say they're Army, Professor."

"They aren't with any Army I know."

"A true statement, Professor," the smug one replied.

"What are you doing over there? You have any idea what you're messing with?"

"Absolutely. This," the soldier slapped a gloved hand against the vehicle's side, "is a Traverse Collider." He petted it like a subdued animal.

Richard narrowed his gaze at the officer and finally spotted some rank on the soldier's sleeve. A Sergeant First Class and the rank insignia was in fact American. "Who do you work for, Sergeant."

Ignoring Richard, the soldier continued and walked around the Collider as he did so. "According to our intelligence -and your electronic notes- the Collider is a manned probe, capable of projecting around itself, a field of null space. Once in null space, the pilot and up to three crew members are able to navigate into multiversal planes parallel to this one, effectively traveling from one alternate reality to the next."

The Sergeant First Class looked to one of the soldiers standing on the opposite side of the Collider. Richard noted that despite the unisex appearance of the uniform and field gear, this one was a female. She gave the Sergeant a nod and he in turn smiled back at Richard with that ever-so smug look.

"That would make this a potential Weapon of Mass Destruction."

"What-- What are you doing with it?"

"What does it look like, Professor? We're here to take it for a spin."

"Grand theft auto, bitches!" Shouted one of the soldiers nearest the Collider.

With the remark being their only warning, Richard and the others were caught off guard by an eruption of white noise. It was deafening, enough to send more than one of them to the floor in pain. Richard, intent on finding out what was happening, focused on the spreading blur in front of him. The invading soldiers seemed to vibrate in place, becoming fuzzy bipedal images. The white noise rose in pitch and the appearance of the soldiers distorted more. Richard managed to look from them to the Collider and noted with panic that it too was starting to blur out of existence.

"No..." Richard whispered and unheard plea was answered by a cacophony of small arms fire. Some of his security detail began to panic and answered the assault of white noise and blurred eyesight with a hail of rile fire. Richard shouted for them to stop but it wasn't until the other soldiers -and the Traverse Collider- were gone that his voice could be heard. "Cease fire!"

Flynn was the first to react, lifting himself up off the floor and running toward the empty platform where only loose cables and support equipment lie. Richard joined him, practically leaping for a nearby console and calling up a file directory.

"It's all gone, Professor. Alls that's left is wires and nuts and bolts and stuff."

Richard's hand fell away from the console. He looked up with defeat in his eyes. "The notes... the data, readouts, schematics... it's all..." He couldn't bear to say it, couldn't bear to admit defeat from a foe he didn't know existed. Suddenly, Richard felt very alone. His legs weakened and he allowed his body to seat itself behind the console, away from view, away from witness. "Sharon..." he called out in a hoarse whisper. But Sharon wasn't there.

"Mandalay, Mandalay...where for art thou, Mandalay?"

Twin pistols reflected the soft lighting of the overhanging bulbs, marking time as he moved from one mini spotlight to the next. Abandoned warehouses...why did they always have to hide in abandoned warehouses? The guy was somewhere inside with him, wounded by the bullet that had lodged itself oh so violently in his calf muscle. Despite how many times he'd played out a similar scenario, Henry still half-expected his quarry to jump out with a hand-canon, its own bullets etched with his name.

The low light certainly wasn't helping his vision, the boxes and crates blurring in and out with each blink of his eye. Squinting wasn't helping, so he stepped to the side, into the darkness and out from beneath the overhead light. Cradling both pistols beneath his right arm, he reached inside his leather coat, stubby fingers grabbing onto a wire frame in the interior pocket. I should always wear these things, he thought, but image is everything these days.

Placing the glasses on his face, he sighed heavily. He was blind as a bat without them, a constant reminder of his fading youth. What was next, a plastic hip and a colostomy bag? Back in the day a little lowlife like Mandalay wouldn't even cause him to breathe heavily, but now...

Now he had gray hair atop his head and too many extra pounds on his gut. The Reaper was sneaking up on him one day at a time, to the point where his mirror reflection just made him feel colder. Bah, fuck it, concentrate old man, he chided himself, you gonna let some little ant shit outmaneuver you? Gripping his pistols in hands once more, he stepped back into the light.

He felt the pressurized wind against his face, and a slice from what he first thought was a razor bloodied his face. Henry's head recoiled back and to the side, throwing him into a topspin that resulted in him laying prostrate on his stomach against the dirty warehouse floor. Slowly, he rolled over, the blood from his cheek slowly running down the side of his face. Opening his eyes, he saw a silhouette of a man standing over him...a man with a very big gun.

"I told you I didn't fuck with Mr. Cordova! Shit, am I gonna have to pop you, too?" Despite the shaking gun that was hanging just inches from his face, Henry couldn't help but lower his eyes. It was Mandalay alright; the big gaping hole in his leg and geyser of blood squirting from said hole was enough to tell him that. It looked like the little ant shit had outmaneuvered him after all.

"Chill, homes," Henry replied in the calmest tone possible. Unfortunately, that just resulted in even more unsteady shaking of the gun. The boy was scared or maybe going into shock from his wound...neither a very good situation when combined with his possession of a firearm.

"I ain't your fuckin' homes!" he shouted, a jerk of his body resulting in a squirt of leg blood flying across Henry's chest. "What, just ‘cause I'm black means you can talk all street with me? Fuck you, old man!"

No, fuck this, Henry decided, noticing the jet-streams of blood cascading across his black polyester shirt. "Mandalay, a suggestion for you," he said, eyes narrowing as he spoke, "next time you get the drop on somebody..."

Mandalay's eyes enlarged, the deer-in-headlight effect taking place as he saw the twin pieces of steel fly forward.

"...make sure you disarm their asses first."

Slugs the size of a gorilla's thumbs exploded from the barrels of the two Desert Eagles, striking Mandalay in the chest with the momentum of a moving car. The hanging light above them suddenly went red, coated with the blood bursting out the man's back. He was on the floor, breathing his last gasps of breath, before he even conceived pulling the trigger on his own gun.

"Guess you can use that advice in your next life, you little shit," Henry said, sitting up from the floor. He grunted audibly as he attempted to stand. The task was more difficult that it seemed, he discovered. Looking down at the dead body before him, Henry Savant VIII couldn't hide the unmistakable expression on his face.

The blood from his cheek had run down into his ear, and it was pissing him off like nobody's business.

LUV & H8
Chapter Zero: "How I Learned to LUV Again"
By Chris Munn

Sweat was collecting in the arm pits of his button down white shirt, causing him to thank sweet jumping Christ that he'd worn a sport coat to the meeting. Rubbing his left shoulder, he discovered a knotted muscle that was quite discomforting. Stress had been building and building since he'd scheduled the meet, but it was quickly dawning on him that perhaps appearance was the cornerstone to making a sale go through effectively. Regardless, Fenton Frost massaged his shoulder roughly and cleared his throat.

"You look uncomfortable," the dark-eyed man in the business suit stated, glancing at Frost over the top of his Rayban sunglasses.

"I've been sitting here for over an hour," Frost replied, slapping his hand on the giant wooden crate that sat beside him in the penthouse foyer, "and I'm kinda wondering if maybe I should just reschedule. Mr. Cordova's a busy man and all, apparently..."

As if on cue, the double doors to the penthouse office slowly opened, causing Frost's sentence to die in his throat. Out of the room strode a short, balding man, his black tuxedo perfectly pressed and immaculately clean. Flanked on both sides by two men the size of small aircrafts, Quentin Cordova grinned from ear to ear as he approached the nervous Fenton. "Mr. Frost," Cordova began, "I trust the trip to Atlantic City has found you well?"

"Far enough away from New Mexico for me," Fenton replied, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back off the tip of his nose. Taking Cordova's extended hand in a firm handshake, the younger man sniffled from irritated sinuses slightly before continuing. "So, you ready to see what your hard spent millions upon millions of dollars have bought?"

Cordova merely smiled and raised a hand to the three bodyguards that were standing to attention around him. Fenton watched as the large men went into motion, working to open the wooden crate that had been the cause of his fugitive status. "I just want to make sure that this won't be traced back to me," he said, "since I'm already in enough trouble over it as is."

"I understand," Cordova answered, "and you have nothing to worry about. Should the government come looking for this particular piece of hardware, my lawyers will have them tangled in so much red tape that they'll bleed from paper cuts."

"And if that doesn't work?" Frost asked tentatively.

"Then I'll just have you killed," the businessman responded as sincerely as possible. Fenton took a step back, a concerned look washing over his face. Quentin smiled yet again. "Just kidding."

A visible shiver went down Fenton's spine, though he hoped Cordova hadn't noticed. Despite the man's words, he knew he wasn't kidding, and that he wouldn't hesitate to kill him if the government got too close. To the citizen majority, Quentin Cordova was a millionaire by inheritance that dabbled in philanthropy....what was known to a smaller number, however, was the fact that said inheritance was the result of a family lineage of crime. Cordova was the top man in Atlantic City organized crime, and a natural buyer for what Frost was selling.

But when one plays with fire, one should also expect to eventually get burned.

With a loud crack, the front of the wooden case broke open, showering the Persian rug below it with shattered splinters. The three security agents promptly began to dig through the thick packets of protective shipping foam, determined to reveal the crate's contents to their boss. "What the fuck is in this?" one of the men asked, arm deep in the crate. Finally, a large enough amount of the foam had been cleared away, revealing the face and upper torso of the case's occupant.

"What do you think?" Frost asked, anticipating the answer.

Staying silent, Cordova stepped to the open crate, an inquisitive hand extended toward the occupant's face. Brushing it softly with the back of his fingers, the crime boss displayed his first genuine smile since the meeting had begun. "She's beautiful."

"That's the prototype model of the Lubricated Uninhibited Virgin," Frost rattled off, proudly, "specifically designed for complete operator subservience. The government had plans on retrofitting it for wartime capabilities, but as you can guess I decided there was better profit in the more carnal applications."

"Does she have a name?" Cordova asked, oblivious to what Frost had just said.

"It's really up to you now," Fenton answered, "but I've taken to calling her Lilly..."

* * *

"So what's the best thing about taking a shower with a 12 year old girl?"

Henry sighed, exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke into the air. "I really couldn't say."

"When you slick her hair back, she looks 8!"

Despite himself, Henry couldn't help but chuckle as the guy sitting at the bar beside him started laughing manically, cracking up at his own joke. After several moments of this, his cackling died off, allowing him to wipe away emerging tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. "Man, that's the shit right there."

Jeremy was his name, yet another of the mindless thugs employed by the imperial Quentin Cordova for his less than legal enterprises. Though younger than Henry by quite a large number of years, the man had nevertheless endeared himself to the veteran and the rest of the Cordova crew, so much so that he had earned a nick-name amongst them. "Jerminy Cricket", they called him...and for seemingly good reason. Whenever a bad idea was conceived, it was inevitably traced back to this one man, and this one man had no lack of ideas spewing forth from his brain at all hours of the day.

"So, H8," Jerminy began, jabbing his fingers playfully into Henry's side, "banged any good hookers lately? I strung this one up the other day...shoved a baseball bat in her snatch and broke it off. Took her to the hospital, got it pulled out, then took her home and did it again. It was so hot, man."

"I told you not to call me that," Henry said, deciding it best to just not comment on the tales of his friend's sexual escapades.

"Come on, now," Jeremy argued, "what's the use of being a bad ass if you don't have a bad ass name to go with it?"

It amazed Henry that someone in their line of work could be so...shit, so fucking jolly. A bodybuilder in his life prior to working for Cordova, Jeremy was the epitome of physical intimidation. One word out of his mouth, however, and you instantly felt comfortable in his presence...until he snapped your neck like a twig for no reason whatsoever, of course.

"Shot, water back!" Jerminy shouted as he pounded down another shot of whiskey, slamming his glass on the bar top a moment later. "C'mon, H8, pony up on another shot. Everything's more fun when you're drunk."

"I have a meeting with Mr. Cordova in about ten minutes," Henry answered, pushing away the small glass of alcohol that his friend had placed in front of him, "and you know how he frowns on us drinking on the job."

"Hey, do me a favor when you see the boss," Jeremy said, placing a friendly hand on Henry's shoulder. "Rumor has it that he's got this major league piece of ass walkin' around all naked and shit in his office."

"Yeah, so what?" Henry asked.

"So you gotta tell us if it's true or not!"

Standing and stepping away from the bar, Henry the VIII merely shook his head in amazement. "I'll be back later," he said, dropping a few bills of money on the bar top before leaving.

"More booze!" Jeremy shouted at the bartender, waving an upturned middle finger wildly in his direction. "Don't make me eat... your... face!"

* * *

Henry wasn't nervous as he made the long walk down the hallway, from the elevator to the doors of Quentin Cordova's office. Of all of the men in his employ, no one had made the long walk as many times as Henry. Of course, the walks had become more and more infrequent as his tenure increased and the boss focused his attentions on the up-and-comers of the industry. Regardless, Henry was the record holder for most successfully completed assignments, and it was his hope that Cordova would keep that in mind when speaking to him.

Rapping his knuckles against the office door, he was met by a man much larger than he as the entrance opened. "I've got an appointment, Steve," Henry mumbled. With a smirk on his face, the bodyguard stood to the side, allowing the older man access to the room of the most powerful man in the city.

"Henry, old friend," Quentin greeted from behind his desk, a Machiavellian smile smeared onto his leathery tanned face, "so good to see you again. Please, have a seat."

Accepting the offer, Henry sat on the edge of the seat that rested in front of the desk. "I took care of Mandalay," he stated, directly as possible, "he won't be a problem anymore."

"Good, good," Cordova replied dismissively, taking a pause afterward to light the massive cigar that was clinched between his teeth, "but that's not what I called you here to talk to you about. You've been with me since the beginning, Hank, even back when I was just a little runt trying to get some scraps from the proverbial table. You may think I've forgotten this, that I don't value you your commitment to me, but you're wrong..."

"I'd never think that, sir," Henry replied, prompting a raised hand from his boss, halting his words.

"Don't call me that," he interrupted, "not when it's just us. We've been on a first name basis since childhood, so Quentin is the only thing you should be calling me when we're in private."

"Okay, Quentin," Henry corrected, "what's going on?"

"As we get older – and I'm sure you feel the same way – people such as we start to think about where our lives have gone wrong. We think about how we envisioned our lives when we were children, and things start looking bleak and miserable when we realize just how far from the target we actually hit. And when we hit this crisis point in our history, we try to think of ways to get back on track with the ideas of our youth."

"I don't think I'm following you," Henry admitted.

"Power and money are two things I have in abundance, old friend," Quentin explained, "but I've come to realize that there's more to a fulfilling life than just those two things. Everything I've earned in life has been done through...well, less than honorable ways, as I'm sure you'll agree. What I'm missing is the satisfaction that comes with helping people instead of harming them."

Henry furrowed his brow, an obvious sign of confusion and concern. In all the years he had known him, he had never seen Quentin Cordova waver in his actions, never once seen him display remorse for the terrible and tragic things he had done to people in order to further himself. This existential crisis being described was a cause for worry. "So what do you propose?"

"Tomorrow, I'll be making an announcement to the city," Cordova answered, "a statement of intent. I'm going into politics, Henry, and in a few months I will be mayor of this city. It's time I started giving back to the community that I've taken so much away from."

Cigar smoke hung thick in the room, adding an ambience to the surprising words that came from Cordova's mouth. Taken aback slightly, Henry attempted to string an answer together, but his sentence merely came out as a stutter of words. "That's...huh, well...I mean, yeah, that's...something..."

"I'm going to need someone to take care of business while I embark on this new endeavor," Cordova spoke, finally getting around to the reason for the meeting, "and I'd like that person to be you. I trust no one to do this as much as I trust you. Will you accept?"

The world came to a crashing, screeching halt around Henry Savant VIII, his eyes glazing over as his brain processed the responsibility being offered him. He felt nauseous and his heart began to race in his chest, bringing him precariously close to the heart attack he'd avoided for many years. Standing from his seat, Henry rubbed a hand through his tousled graying hair. "I gotta use the bathroom," he muttered.

With a nod of understanding, Quentin waved a hand at the door on the left side of the office. "Please, be my guest."

Henry nearly fell through the door, stumbling over himself as he pushed himself into the tiled room. Hyperventilation had set in, and with a thud he sat his large frame on the toilet seat while attempting to catch his breath. After all the questioning he'd done concerning his lot in life, to have such an opportunity tossed in his lap! In the span of fifteen minutes, he'd went from a worthless piece of shit that had too often contemplated suicide to possibly one of the most feared and powerful individuals in his line of work.

As the thought burned through his mind, he glanced around the room, his eyes finally stopping on the stained-glass door of the room's large shower. A shape had drawn shadows down through the room, the large block of dark that seemed to encapsulate the entirety of the bath. Standing on shaky legs, Henry walked over to the textured glass, curiosity overtaking him. Sliding open the door, his vision was immediately filled by the large wooden crate that rested gingerly in the ceramic shower. The front of the crate had been broken open, revealing...revealing...

...the most beautiful female face he'd ever seen. Her eyes were closed, long lashes extending from smooth lids to the top of her cheek. Blonde hair had fallen down across her face, loosened from the removal of packing foam that covered up the rest of her body. Full red lips pouted at him, and the silk of her skin mesmerized him. He stood there, staring at beautiful perfection while the clock ticked on. How long he stood entranced, he had no idea. Was this some victim of undisclosed indiscretions, a woman that Cordova had killed while pondering his goal of bettering mankind? A swell of sadness came from his heart as he decided that yes, she was dead...

...and then her eyes snapped open, exposing a sea of blue in her irises. The surprise of her movement caused Henry to jump back in shock, his boots slipping on the slick bathroom tile. He crashed down to the floor hard on his ass, but his gaze never left the young girl in the packing crate that had so captured his attention.

The knock on the bathroom door brought him screaming back to reality, forcing his head to snap to the side. "Henry, are you okay in there?" Quentin's voice sounded from the other room, another knock of knuckles on wood echoing through the smaller chamber.

"Yeah," Henry responded, again looking at the girl, whose eyes had returned to their closed position, "everything's cool."

* * *

He was in a daze as he walked into the bar, making a bee-line for the seat he had previously occupied earlier in the evening. It came as no surprise that the seat had remained unfilled, as Jeremy was still sitting slouched over the bar top with a glass of beer in his hand. Henry took a seat, a cigarette dangling shakily between his lips as he motioned for a drink from the bartender.

"H8, m' man," Jerminy greeted, slapping Henry hard on the back with the palm of his hand, "what's the good word? You see the bitch?"

"Jeremy," Henry began, his voice tense and nervous, "tell me...do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Well that depends," Jeremy began his answer with a chuckle, "is that the love between a man and a woman, or the love between a man and – say..." he took a look around him, grasping into the neck of his beer bottle, "his beer? Because that kind of love is pure and untainted, like a good kick to the testicles. It gets your blood flowing, because you never know where a romance like thay is gonna take you."

When no reply came from his friend, Jeremy took a curious look at Henry's face. "Oh fucking Christ on a pool table," he said, his jaw hanging in slack, "you're fuckin' serious, aren't you?"

Henry slowly turned his head, nodding as he looked Jeremy in the eye. "Yeah," he answered softly, "yeah, I think I am..."

Manhattan, New York
The Chrysler Building, 43erd Floor
11:28 AM
February 2002

Angelika Peary stuck her head out of her office and bawled into the sudden quiet of the office suite; "Has anybody got the TV in the conference room turned on yet? I'm on the phone with CNN!"

Somebody hollered back in the affirmative that she should come join them as yes, the program was on. Angelika nodded to herself and continued her conversation. "Yes, Mr. Kierzewski, I assure you that Mr. Henderson will be available for Larry King next week…. yes, I know he's broken the last two interview dates but you surely must be aware that Mr. Henderson is an extraordinarily busy man. His recent acceptance of the position of Executive Security Consultant for Alternative Technologies covers an incredibly broad latitude of duties and responsibilities which can demand his attention at any time of the day or night…. yes, yes…well, we'll just have to pray for the best and hope nothing comes up that will force us to postpone the interview yet again. Please convey my most sincere apologies to Mr. King…thank you again, Mr. Kierzewski…. yes, I'll be in touch…. have a good one." Angelika folded up her cell phone and let it dangle from the silver chain hanging around her neck as she closed her office door and strode rapidly down the long corridor on her brand new $800 Else Pauza high heels to the main conference room where her 18 person staff were sitting around the long rectangular mahogany table which was polished every day to a gleam so bright it was almost artificial, as if the table were lit from within somehow. Cardboard cups of piping hot coffee, bottles of water and fruit juices were being passed around by a staffer as she entered. The large square picture windows made of smartglass had been darkened so as to cut down on the glare from the bright late morning sun but even darkened the view of the Manhattan skyline was awesomely breathtaking.

Angelika took her seat at the head of the table, straightening the jacket of her metallic peach business suit with a firm two-handed tug. "How's it going so far?" she asked, gesturing with her chin at the far wall, which was actually one huge plasma screen TV monitor.

Nikki Haar, her lanky, brunette secretary gave her boss thumbs up. "So far, so good. I only hope that Mr. Henderson gets there before the fireworks start. You sure we shouldn't alert the complex security?"

Angelika shook her head. "Mr. Henderson was very explicit about that. He said he'd catch up to them before they hit South Carolina. And if he doesn't-" Angelika didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. This day could turn out to be a disaster in much more than public relations terms. It could also end in death. Angelika took in a deep breath and sat back in her leather chair, folding her arms under her breasts. Nothing to do at this end but wait and see what happened. She turned her attention to the screen. The TV was tuned into AT1, which was Alternative Technologies own 24/7/365 news and information channel available through cable and satellite providers. Designed to keep the public abreast of the activities and accomplishments of Alternative Technologies, today it was broadcasting the Opening Day Ceremonies of Alternative Technologies. Angelika only hoped it didn't end in blood…

* * *

South Carolina, United States Of America
The Henderson Institute Of Alternative Technologies
11:48 AM

"-and now we continue with our exclusive coverage of the Opening Day Ceremonies of Alternative Technologies hosted by our own Dr. Zita Laranjo. Zita?"

An extraordinarily beautiful woman appeared on the screen, dressed smartly in a conservative sky blue business outfit. Although it was obvious that the woman was trying to downplay the remarkable physical beauty of her body, even Stevie Wonder could not fail to see that she was well endowed in all the places a woman should be. She looked more like a Victoria Secret's model than the holder of advanced degrees in mathematics, physics and ethical artificial intelligence applications. One had the impression that the octagonal frame glasses she wore were more of a prop to help her look more scholarly but they only drew attention to her lovely, almond shaped light gray eyes. Even on a television screen her remarkably exotic looks were quite apparent and among her male co-workers there was a secret pool as to what mix of ethnic backgrounds could have produced such a strikingly beautiful woman. It was highly doubtful that they would ever accurately pinpoint her Danish/Hawaiian heritage.

"Thank you, Warren. It's a beautiful day here in South Carolina where it's a comfortable 60 degrees under sunny skies without a cloud in sight and we're only a few minutes away from Dr. Sylvester Henderson's dedication speech which will climax with him throwing a switch that will symbolically turn on the power here at the new site of Alternative Technologies."

"Now what do you mean by ‘symbolically', Zita?"

"Warren, the place has been actively working for close to eight months now so of course it has power but today is a special day here as the complex for the first time will be 100% up and running so it's a very big day for not only Dr. Henderson but his wife, his mother and his father, all of who are respected scientists in their fields. Alternative Technologies was previously scattered in separate facilities all over the country but over the past eight years this central complex facility was constructed and will now serve as the American headquarters for the company, directing their international offices from right here as well as maintaining most of their research and theoretical departments, the developmental and administrative divisions of AT as well."

Dr. Zita Laranjo paused a minute to smile and step slightly to one side, extending her right arm to indicate the sprawl of buildings behind her. It looked like a small city behind her with tall, slim buildings that glittered and sparkled in the midday sun surrounded by smaller but no less impressive structures. "I'll be taking you on a virtual tour of the complex after Dr. Henderson's speech but for right now let me give you facts about the complex. Built on 16,000 acres of land, The Henderson Institute of Alternative Technologies is a residential community in it's own right as well as being a scientific one. It has it's own zoning restrictions and building codes, it's own roads, lakes, hotels, airport, golf courses, night clubs, theatres as well as providing it's own energy, water, police and fire department."

"It's a incredible achievement, Zita."

"It certainly is, Warren and one that I'm proud to say I've had a hand in. I've been working with Dr. Henderson and his family for close to eleven years now and-" Dr. Zita Laranjo stopped talking, her hand going up to the small earpiece plugged firmly into her right ear. "-we're going to go to the podium now where Dr. Henderson is just beginning his speech."

The picture on the screen changed to a podium that had been erected in front of an imposing black slab of a building that thrust upwards some hundred stories. The unseen Zita's voice spoke quietly: "The podium you're seeing is in front of the Main Building of the complex. It houses not only the administrative and executive departments of Alternative Technologies but the Network of Internet Security and Acquisitions, the Data Administrative Committee Headquarters and The Multimedia Development and Networking Division."

"Sounds impressive, Zita," the unseen Warren chimed in, right on cue.

"It is, I assure you. And yes, I can see Dr. Henderson approaching the microphone. On the podium behind him you can see various AT executives and key staffers as well as Dr. Henderson's family. His mother, Dr. Rebecca Henderson. His father, Dr. Nayland Henderson. His wife, Dr. Mirella Henderson and his three children, daughters Tamara and Toyelle and his son, Tyrell."

"They're not doctors yet, eh, Zita?"

"Not yet, but give it time, Warren. The Henderson children are extraordinarily bright for their ages. Tyrell is only fifteen and already his experiments with Aberrant Polonium Configurations have scientists three times his age scratching their heads trying to figure out just how he's doing it."

"Doesn't Dr. Henderson also have a brother-"

"I'm afraid that's all the time we have, Warren! Dr. Henderson's going to speak now!"

There was a thunderous swell of applause from the crowd of hundreds assembled in the circular plaza in front of the main building. Dr. Sylvester Henderson looked extremely trim and athletic in his black business suit, crisp white shirt and red silk tie. His high forehead and wide bright eyes bespoke of intelligence far above the average. And he was an above average man, having spent years knocking around the world getting into one fantastic adventure after another while amassing a tremendous fortune due to his incredible scientific achievements. He was still a relatively young man with decades of productive research to look forward to. He cleared his throat and stepped closer to the microphone and spoke:

"There are no words adequate enough to express the joy and pride I feel today at having all of you here to share this day with myself, my family and my friends. Alternative Technologies is more than just a scientific research facility. It's a way of life dedicated to finding new and innovative ways to use the ever expanding technological wonders of our age to helping us live better and more fulfilling lives, to live longer with no disease and no pain, to feeding the millions that are still going hungry, to wipe out birth defects and-"

Sylvester Henderson stopped, frowning slightly. He had heard something and soon the crowd heard it as well. It was the muted roaring of powerful jets coming from the north.

The unseen Warren asked; "Zita, can you see what's going on? Dr. Henderson has just stopped his speech and we can't see any reason why. Is everything-"

"There's some sort of aircraft coming in from the north, Warren! Very fast and very low! It could be some sort of attack but I'm not getting anything on the security channel! I-"

Indeed, the one-man aircraft was moving very fast indeed. The unusual thing about it was that it was so stubby and bulbous it hardly seemed capable of getting up off the ground, much less traveling at the speed it was going, heading right for the podium. The wings on the sides were elongated triangles and at the rear of the craft were a number of smaller fins flanking six powerful jets that were glowing white-hot. And in the middle of all this was a globe that was half-transparent in which a man could be dimly seen. The crowd screamed and broke for cover as the stubby aircraft's jets sparked and dense black smoke poured from the rear of the aircraft.

The canopy popped open and a man leaped from the aircraft, which twisted and zoomed upwards, following the pre-programmed course that the pilot had punched in before bailing out. He landed on the podium as lightly as a lynx, his narrowed eyes sweeping the plaza that was rapidly emptying of people. The stubby aircraft corkscrewed up and away from the complex, trailing a ribbon of smoke as it yowled up into the sky.

He was an easy six feet even, dressed in gleaming calf high black boots that appeared to made of some kind of flexible, segmented metallic fabric with pads covering his knees and dark blue pants of some denim like material. Over his Olympian musculature he wore a skintight collarless black shirt and over that a high collared double-breasted brown leather vest. A wide belt with snap shut pouches encircled his waist. A pair of handguns were holstered on each hip and on his hands were thick gauntlets the same color and material as his vest that went almost all the way up to his elbows, leaving his fingers exposed. Despite his obvious relative youth, his hair was completely silver-gray. He turned his rust colored eyes to scanning the skies as he barked orders: "Get inside now. They're coming. I barely beat them here."

Sylvester did not argue just asked a question: "You see them?"

The big man pointed at three dots in the sky that were rapidly coming closer. "Delegene Mark II Vibroflyers, probably modified for combat, just as my informants told me."

"You sure you can take them?"

"No doubt. Get outta here."

Sylvester began herding the people on the podium toward the main building. His son, Tyrell paused long enough to shout over his shoulder, "Kick their ass, Uncle Mongrel!"

Mongrel smiled slightly and said; "Help your dad get the family to safety, Tyrell. And watch your language." He turned back to watch the tri-engine Vibroflyers come in closer and closer. "Time to go to work," he said, running to the edge of the podium and with a powerful thrust of his legs launched himself into the air right at the flyers.

A Man Called Mongrel
"Just Another Day At The Office"
By Derrick Ferguson

Mongrel's amazing leap took the three men in the flyer totally by surprise. Despite the fact that was 6 feet and had to weigh 200 pounds that looked to be solid muscle, he moved as quickly and as smoothly as a Russian gymnast. He went up and over the canopy of the lead flyer, landing right in the center of the large open flight deck. Without a word, without a sound, Mongrel went on the defensive. A devastating backhand fist slammed the pilot's head into the control panel. Metal and bone crunched as fat yellow sparks jumped from the ruined control panel and danced over the instruments. The second man caught a booted foot in his midsection that kicked him out of the Vibroflyer to land on the ground with enough bone-jangling force to knock him out immediately. The last man waded in, desperately throwing a punch that Mongrel easily slipped and he simply picked up the man bodily and heaved him out of the Vibroflyer.

Mongrel grabbed up the pilot, tucked him under his arm and jumped from the Vibroflyer, which titled crazily on it's side due the sudden and abrupt shift in weight loss and it landed on edge and rolled along like a child's hoop, the engines crunching under it's own weight. The Vibroflyer continued rolling for maybe eight feet before finally crashing into a fountain. It tipped over, smashed to the ground and finally lay at rest, smoking and crackling from the fire in the engine pods.

The second Vibroflyer came in low, seeking to ram Mongrel who dived to the ground and as the Vibroflyer zoomed overhead, he rolled over and drew from his right hip holster something that looked a lot like a oversized .357 Magnum revolver but was much more. Developed by Mongrel's longtime acquaintance, Josef Bianchin, who was probably the best ballistic expert in the world, the Bianchin Omnipurpose Pistol, or BOP Gun as Mongrel affectionately liked to call it had eight chambers instead of six and didn't fire conventional bullets. Each and every shell had a separate and specialized purpose. And right now he fired the high explosive shell right up through the bottom of the Vibroflyer.

Mongrel himself had flew the Vibroflyer a lot some nine years ago when he had been fighting in a small war on the Ricia Peninsula in Greece and a crucial flaw had been revealed to him the hard way in regard to a design flaw in the Delegene Mark II Vibroflyer. One that he now was more than happy to share with the three gentlemen in this craft: the fuel tanks were on the bottom, which was the most vulnerable part of the craft.

The Vibroflyer exploded, cascading ribbons of blazing fuel all over the plaza as the craft crashed to the ground in a smoking heap of black, twisted metal. The three men ran around, their flight suits on fire, beating at themselves in a futile effort to put out the rapidly spreading flames.

Mongrel stood up, twirled his BOP Gun back into the holster. "Dummies," he muttered to himself. "Didn't they learn how to stop, drop and roll in elementary school?" He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. The pilot of the first Vibroflyer was feebly trying to crawl away. "C'mere, you." Mongrel picked him up as if the man weighed no more than a piece of paper and held him effortlessly up in the air with one hand. "And where do you think you're sneaking off to?"

"Release me! Or the others will attack and slay you!"

"I don't think so." Mongrel twisted him around so that the pilot could watch the third Vibroflyer's south end as it headed quickly north. "They saw you go down so they saw it was time to cut out. You're on your own, cuddles. Just me and you. And while I know some of what you planned, I don't know it all and you're gonna tell me."

"I will tell you nothing! Do you hear me? NOTHING!"

"That'll change," Mongrel promised him. Security officers were rapidly encircling Mongrel and the attackers, using fire extinguishers to put out the fires. The shrill wail of sirens could be heard approaching. Dressed in trim, tight fitting uniforms of black and trimmed with gold and green, all colors of Alternative Technologies, they approached Mongrel warily, handguns drawn. "Okay, mister. Just put him down and take a step back. Put your hands on your head."

Mongrel sighed. "I don't suppose any of you recognize me from my lectures and seminars I've given here on security procedures over the last seven months? Look close, the gray hair is a dead giveaway."

"Mr. Henderson?!"

"Bingo. Didn't think I'd be so hard to recognize. Here, take charge of this lump." Mongrel tossed the pilot into the waiting arms of a pair of security officers. The others crowded around Mongrel.

"Well, sir, we've only seen you in suits before. That getup you're wearing…can't blame us for not looking at your face."

"I hear you but I can't exactly pull off the stuff I just did wearing a three piece Armani and Michello loafers, now can I?" Mongrel joined in the good-natured laughing of the security officers and he gently pushed past them and headed for the main building, tossing orders over his shoulders. "Get maintenance on cleaning up the plaza and get those men who need medical attention over to the hospital. I'm going to check on my family and then I'll want to interrogate those men personally."

* * *

Manhattan, New York
The Chrysler Building, 43erd Floor
12:30 PM

Angelika Peary clapped her hands sharply, catching everybody's attention. "Okay, people, man your desks. That was just seen worldwide and in a few minutes we're going to be working like government mules, so hop on it."

The staffers filed out of the conference room and into the main office area where everyone had their own desks, no cubicles. Neat gleaming bronze nameplates were given a last polish and pens, papers, computer flat screens were adjusted. The staffers took their seats and waited expectantly.

And as if on cue, every phone in the place began ringing. The staffers snatched them up, answering in easy, confident voices; "Henderson Executive Security Consultations. How may we help you?"

A grinning Angelika watched the sudden wave of activity in the office as her secretary came over to stand next to her. Nikki Haar just shook her head in amazement. "I still can't believe that you pulled it off. How'd you ever get Mr. Henderson to lend his name out to the company?"

Angelika motioned for Nikki to follow her back to her office as she answered. "It wasn't all that hard. Mongrel and I have known each other for a long time, back when I was a Secret Service agent. We've worked together a couple of times and when I heard about him going to work for his brother I knew it could be a gold mine if I play it right. We get his name and the use of his services on the high profile assignments and for publicity and I handle the rest. I predict it's going to be a very lucrative and rewarding working relationship all the way around."

Angelika's cell phone ran for attention. She flipped it open and put it to her ear. "Angelika Peary…well, hello, Mr. Trump! Good to hear from you again…"

* * *

South Carolina, United States Of America
Henderson Institute Of Alternative Technologies
1:30 PM

"I'm not interested in what reasons you had, Sylvester! It was damned irresponsible of you to take such chances with not only your lives but ours as well!"

Despite being only five feet five inches tall, when Rebecca Henderson was filled with anger she could appear to dwarf everybody else in the room and that included her son who towered over her. He spoke softly, quietly, "Mother-"

"And don't you dare ‘Mother' me! If you knew there was a threat on your life, why in God's name didn't you take the appropriate measures?"

"But I did, Mother. I informed Mongrel and he investigated-"

"Somebody mention my name?" The door of the library opened and Mongrel stepped in. The top five floors of the Main Building were for the exclusive use of The Henderson family and their personal staff. Comprised of offices, laboratories, libraries, studies, conference rooms as well as playrooms and bedrooms, Sylvester had brought everybody up there to wait for word from his brother. Mongrel crossed the spacious room in several long strides to embrace Sylvester warmly.

"You okay, Mongrel?" Sylvester stepped back, looked his brother up and down. "Not even a scratch."

Mongrel snorted in derision. "Those guys couldn't have taken the kids. Where are they, by the way?"

"They're with their mother. She thought it was best if we talk without them around since we don't know how bad the situation is." Sylvester gestured toward their mother and father. "Mother and Father are understandably upset about our course of action."

"Upset is not the word!" Rebecca snapped, her small bright eyes flashing wrathful fire. "Charalambides, come over here by me, boy!"

"Ma-"

"Don't ‘Ma' me! Mind what I say!"

Mongrel reluctantly slouched over to where his mother stood. His father, Nayland Henderson was sitting cross-legged on a low leather couch, unlit pipe firmly in his teeth, which showed in a wide grin. It never failed to tickle him how his rough and tumble son, famous for adventuring in all the wild corners of the world, respected and feared as a outstandingly dangerous man could suddenly be turned into a little boy at the merest word from his mother. As he drew closer, Rebecca drove a small hard fist into his stomach. Although his stomach was as hard as stone, out of respect for his mother, Mongrel doubled up, pretending that it hurt. "Ma, don't do that, okay?"

"I ought to take a switch to you, Charalambides!"

"Ma, how many times I gotta ask you to call me Mongrel?"

"I will not! Charalambides is a fine, distinguished name! It was a name your grandfather was proud of and I loved and honored him. I thought it was a name you would be proud of as well."

"I am proud of it. But Mongrel doesn't take half the day to say."

"Don't change the subject! Why did you let your brother go out there exposed when you knew there were men coming to kill him?"

Mongrel jerked a thumb over a brawny shoulder. "Ask him. I recommended we call off the ceremony but he insisted on going through with it."

Rebecca turned her basilisk gaze on Sylvester. "Is this true, son?"

"It is, Mother." Sylvester held up a hand to indicate he be allowed to finish before Rebecca went into yet another tirade. "You all know how important this day is. I was not about to let anyone or anything ruin it. Mongrel assured me that he could intercept the assassins before they got here." Sylvester smiled at Mongrel. "And if I can't trust my brother's word then who can I trust?"

"You were a tad late, weren't you son?" Nayland asked quietly.

Mongrel nodded, spreading his hands apologetically as he explained; "I followed them from Virginia and was going to take them in North Carolina. I developed engine trouble and by the time the self-repair programs kicked in and corrected the problem, they had gained a lot of ground on me. I damn near burned out the engines catching up to them."

"I still say you should have told us!" Rebecca insisted.

"Enough, woman." Nayland said. He had let her blow off more than enough steam and it was time to rein her in or she'd be going off for the rest of the day. "I can't say I'm entirely pleased with the way the boys handled it and I'd have liked to be told myself. But this isn't the first time we've been in a dangerous spot." Indeed it was not. In their youth, Nayland and Rebecca had done their share of dangerous duty in the service of their country. Nayland pointed the stem of his pipe at his sons. "Don't do that again, boys. Your mother and I stand firmly behind whatever it is you do but we want to be told. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Father."

"Yes, Dad."

"Then we'll speak no more of it." Nayland replaced his pipe and recrossed his legs. "Charalambides, did you find out who those men are and why they're after Sylvester?"

"They're common mercenaries, hired over The DarkNet. Nothing special about them except the Vibroflyers they were using. Those don't come cheap. But I had a little ‘talk' with one of the pilots. He'll walk funny for a few days but he'll be okay. And he told me who hired them." Mongrel fixed Sylvester with a curious look. "He said something really strange, Sly. He claims that they were hired by the Lossiu family."

"The Lossiu family?" Nayland asked. "Name's familiar somehow."

"It should be," Mongrel ticked off his fingers as he explained. "Shipping. Munitions. Plasma Energy Plants. Communications. Tellurium Transmutation Technology."

"Ah." Nayland nodded. "THAT Lossiu family."

"If I say so myself, they're easily as influential and wealthy as we are. But I can't think of a reason why they would hire somebody to kill Sly." Mongrel turned back to Sylvester, who looked around for a chair as if in a daze. He slowly sat down on a leather couch, his movements that of a much older, wearier man. Mongrel was at his brother's side in a heartbeat, kneeling down and placing a hand on his knee. "Sylvester? You do know why they want to kill you, don't you?"

Sylvester looked up at Mongrel with eyes that were the color of cold dead ashes. "Dear God, I do know. And they've got a good reason."

"What possible reason could they have for wanting to kill you, man?"

"Because I've killed them, Mongrel. Because of me, the Lossiu family is dead."

The Cold Academy
Prologue
By Jericho Vilar

1.

Jack Street, age 18, stomped angrily up the embankment. Almost an hour late and still questioning his decision to drop the business end of an old bass guitar on the snooze button of his alarm clock, he purposely made sure to crush any unsuspecting blade of grass under his boots that got in his way. Behind him, a sea of luxury sports cars and new model SUV's sat quietly under a developing blanket of frost. A trail of angry boot prints was still visible on the snow covered ground marking his journey from the bus stop at the far end of the parking lot, through the aisles of what could have been a poorly scheduled car show, up the slightly daunting embankment, and finally to the main cobblestone path that led directly to the back entrance of the school. All in all, the shortcut would have shaved off ten minutes from his tardy penalty if he only hadn't stopped by a marble bench dedicated to the generous contributions of some rich Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So to light a cigarette. Fighting both the elements and his numb, clumsy fingers, his small disposable lighter refused to comply. Stab after stab with his frozen thumb yielded only the faintest of sparks. Blasts of hot breath exploded from his pale lips, the cigarette it held so dearly trembled and quaked but nevertheless remained on its perch. After a lengthy bout of shaking the petulant lighter like an unwanted baby, he finally got a whisper of a flame and capitalized. He drew in a long, warm drag of smoke down his throat and into his lungs, tasting the remains from last night's dinner along the way. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes in the pure ecstasy of having been filled with the nicotine's holy ghost. He lost himself in the moment. The day's first smoke had been a feeling that he always cherished. Although already a smoker of five years, to him it was still an event and not just a formality. He exhaled slowly, the smoke weaving out from nostrils and his mouth, and returned his attention to the task at hand that he so nonchalantly shoved aside earlier.

He saw it over the expanse of the walk he still had to make. It stood tall and majestic. It dwarfed the beauty of the snow encrusted wonderland that surrounded it. It was a castle or it could have easily passed for one, but was in fact built to be a long dead English Lord's estate. All spires and stone, it was the dark heart in the center of the most breath taking snow globe ever created. It was Manderly set on a little suburb outside of Chicago. It was a sight that he just never got used to, especially first thing in the morning. The thought of it suddenly subsided as the bell tower boomed in the distance. A string of unbroken obscenities marched out of his mouth as he sprinted towards the school. First period had just officially ended and he had just officially been fucked. He could feel the ground rumbling from the movement in the halls and stairways encased in modern architecture's nightmare still a hundred yards ahead of him. The movement of the students was a pulse quickened because it was the last day before the start of winter break. Breathless and burning, he ran as fast as his struggling legs could take him. With the cigarette still hanging on his lips and puffing away, he didn't regret taking the time it took to light it. His only regret was that he didn't bash his alarm clock harder.

Jack Street ran through the snow with his lost time and flimsy excuses at the behest of the school's ancient bell tower. All around him, the eyes of Winterville Academy watched and waited.

* * *

2.

With an overly dramatic flourish, Jack Street threw the back doors open. Nearly doubled over, he hacked, coughed, and wheezed just loud enough to regain his breath and make an entrance. He was greeted by pristine marble floors, arched ceilings, and bustling hallways stacked side to side with the children, illegitimate or otherwise, of the rich and the powerful. Trust fund kids, movie star offspring, and even a couple of pop icons in training milled around the crowded halls of Winterville Academy decked out in the standard burgundy blazered and grey slacked or grey skirted school uniform. Each one disheveled or revised just enough to be deemed stylish depending on who you ask. Still pressed for time, he bravely maneuvered through the passing throngs of students. He pulled back the hood of his parka and angled his way into a flow that took him to the staircase he needed to take up to the next class that he needed to make. A fog of idle chatter and locker room gossip gathered him up and whisked him through who wore what when where and how the two lacrosse stars finally consummated in the parking lot of a Starbucks after years of unconscious foreplay. After having learned to effectively block certain waves of sound they emanated from reaching his ears, he became increasingly amused by the fact that during passing periods he floated elbow to elbow on a rising tide of banalities with the future rulers of the country. He heard the next leaders of business talking about the swift results of dropping pills into ladies' drinks. He saw the movie starlets of tomorrow pantomime how many fingers a congressman to be had to use to finally get her to come. To the parents who sent their children there for direction and discipline such tales would be nothing short of earth shattering, but to the parents whose kids were shipped there in the first place it wouldn't be much of a surprise. There he was, in the middle of it, being told everything every time he walked to class. There was very little that got past him but before he was indirectly trusted with the knowledge of how big the top ranked shooting guard's cock really was, Jack Street made a mean right turn into second period physics just as the thunder of the bell reverberated through the walls.

* * *

3.

Jack Street slept through third period and lunch. With the majority of the school's professors already sunning themselves on a beach in Tahiti or dangling precariously from a ski lift in Aspen, there wasn't much argument into basically giving the students the run of the school. So much so that the so-called substitute teachers were nothing more than dressed up scabs from a disreputable employment agency bussed in from the city. Blank faced and uninterested in anything outside of their newspapers, cups of coffee, or the occasional supermarket paperback, they were handsomely paid drones given the task of making sure that no one was killed and that nothing too expensive was burned down.

Preparing to sleep through his third period in a row overall, a feat not even remotely special anymore, he leaned into his chair and slipped the parka's hood back over his weary head.

"Psst. Jack."

Then came three quick index finger jabs on his left shoulder. Underneath the thick material of the parka and the heavy weight of his school blazer, the nerves on his shoulder rested, not bothering to register the sensation.

"Hey, Jack!"

His eyes flickered open. He cursed the fact that his parka didn't zip up all the way to completely engulf him in its protective cocoon. Instead, the sound of the voice so insistent upon his not getting a hat trick bounced noisily inside the hood creating a little amphitheater of annoyance for its owner.

"What?" he grumbled hoping that the other person heard his teeth grinding along with it.

"Check it out."

He peeked out from inside the hood and saw Trevor Carrington grinning like a madman. Trevor, a frail, whisp of a boy who usually sported an expensive salon mohawk and manicured black fingernails, pointed a digit to underneath a table on the far side of the room.

"Love's in the air," sung Trevor with his hand, eyes, and lower torso shaking like an epileptic.

He thought to himself that it had better be good for him to be exerting such effort, as he escaped from his slouch and tilted over the side of his chair to investigate what all of the commotion was about. With Trevor's queer, mad scientist giggling in the background, he saw a tangle of legs, two pairs, one in uniform grey slacks and dress shoes, the other in uniform grey skirt with plaid knee high socks and pink Chuck Taylors. The skirt sat on the slack's lap. Her legs rubbed up and down the slack's calf revealing the black socks with red trim hidden inside. The slacks stood rigid and only shuffled his legs to get the circulation going back in them. The skirt, clearly taking offense to his lack of reaction, began another plan of attack. Beside him, he heard Trevor's eyes widen in anticipation.

"Try not to pop a blood vessel there, Romeo."

With almost graceful fluidity, the skirt turned her hips to face her partner and started to knead the point of her knee on the slack's crotch. The skirt's skirt would have had to be well above the administration's regulation length because as she continued with her oh so subtle advances each stroke displayed to anyone who just happened to be looking her favorite pair of pink, thong underwear. The slacks didn't flinch and, to his credit as a gentleman, actually pulled her skirt back down to where only the rounded bottom of her ass was showing.

"Classy," Jack whispered and was granted a nod from Trevor.

The skirt, having realized her efforts were getting her nowhere, stopped her knee and returned to her original position. The rumbling from the class and the sheer distance of the couple from the audience they didn't know they had was too much to overcome by hearing broken by years of loud music set to maximum volume. They didn't know what they were talking about or if they were talking to each other at all. Resigned to the fact that the show was over, the two boys leaned back into their chairs.

"Wait, wait, wait," chirped Trevor, the frustration melting from his voice.

As if she knew that people would be left disappointed, the skirt bravely set on her final charge. With desperate times calling for desperate measures, her arm swooped down from what might as well have been the heavens straight for the slack's zipper which it expertly opened then entered.

"Bravo," the two boys stated in stereo.

Trevor raised his head and watched as the scene shifted to reveal the true identities of the impromptu play's performers; the captain of the math league and the silver medalist in last year's academic decathlon. Trevor, all knowing, winked back at Jack's direction.

"Its always the quiet ones."

Moving back into his slouch, Jack Street glanced at Trevor who began writing on the trunks of his cigarettes. With the exception of the math whiz and the academic olympian, it was the most productive he saw anyone be all day.

"They're usually the ones with the most to prove."

* * *

4.

Jack Street spent fifth period in the gymnasium sitting cross legged on the edge of the heated swimming pool smoking cigarettes with a former art program chum, Danyell Wilbur. With the steam rising from the sparkling blue green of the pool, they both threw their heavy parkas on the skeleton of the empty bleachers and found a warm spot along the deep end.

Danyell, wrapped in her smooth porcelain skin and purple streaked hair done in pig tails, dipped her big toe into the clear chlorine soup before deciding on its damn near perfect temperature and slid both of her shivering legs into the bath to thaw.

"I still don't know how you manage wearing that shit on a day like this."

She followed his eyes as it traced the contour of her calf up to the continent of her thighs, stopping right where the pleats of her grey skirt rippled and hung over the jewel center of her legs. She judged the expression on his face and saw nothing but genuine concern for the welfare of her lower extremities during such harsh conditions. She playfully smoothed down the wrinkles of her skirt with a hand coal black at the fingernails and dotted with spheres of ink splattered on her from doing her early morning sumi ink sketches. Studded leather bracelet clasped tightly to her wrist, her hand led his eyes into places he'd never thought to look.

"I'm just a slave to fashion, I guess," she replied in her supple, smoky voice which was made for trip-hop in another life. The Beth Gibbons of the next generation.

"I've never known you to be slave to anything," he said back, mapping the perfect beat for her in his head.

"Oh, how you flatter me so."

Danyell had a smile that betrayed her face. Hidden under dark lipstick, heavy eye shadows, and other face concealers, it shone so brightly, whenever it was inclined to do so, that it almost looked foreign. He felt that it was wrong for him to be only one of the few people lucky enough to see it.

"So, where are we going for winter break this year, Mr. Street?"

He fidgeted with his tie and flicked the smoldering butt of his cigarette into the pool. He waited for the hiss of the embers being put out before he turned back to consider her question. To accompany the dramatic pause, he scratched his beard and fixed his collar. Having known him to be the way he was, Danyell countered his act by sticking out her tongue and making a face.

"Nowhere really," he replied ending their little comedy routine. "And yourself?"

She turned back to the pool and sent a wave of water crashing towards their cluster of dead cigarette islands with a kick of her feet. She was loathed to be reminded of her impending departure and he knew it. He bit his tongue the second the words left his mouth.

"Anywhere but here."

He heard the blood sucked out of her voice. Year after year, the lavish trips to exotic locales were just a fancy way Danyell's parents told her that they couldn't be bothered. Strong as she was, she learned long ago that not giving a fuck if her mother was balling their accountant was the small price she had to pay to see the Eiffel Tower.

"Besides," she continued, "I wouldn't want to be here anyway."

"Why's that?" he managed to eek out as he lit two cigarettes in his mouth.

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

From outside, they heard the bell to sixth period roll through the halls and vibrate inside the cavernous gymnasium. He helped her up before handing her one of the cigarettes.

"Everyone's been talking about it since fourth."

Together, they made their way back to the bleachers and to the rumpled carcasses of their coats. Him in measured steps and her with cold, careful feet that tracked little puddles along the way.

"The day before break and you really expect me to be listening to all of the inane bullshit going on here?"

She sat down first and began to dry off her legs with the back of her school blazer.

"I'm just surprised you haven't heard is all," she stated so matter of factly with ribbons of smoke dancing in front of her eyes.

He tapped the ash off his cigarette with an impatient fingertip.

"Spill it."

Her legs dried, Danyell stood up to him, adjusted the collar of her friend's blazer, and softly kissed him on the cheek.

"Rafferty's back."

Then it stopped. The blood in his view slowed to a crawl. He felt the path of the smoke snaking from his lungs to his mouth. He heard everything, each step that fell outside the gymnasium's doors, the sound of Danyell's cigarette spit and crack every time she took a drag. He could taste it on the lipstick she left on his cheek. Sudden out of body experiences made him omniscient and all encompassing. The echo of the bell stopped. It was replaced by the solitary sound of Danyell's boots like gunshots that reached to the high ceiling as she walked away.

Jack Street stood alone a few steps from the deep end, but he could've sworn that he was already in it. The unchecked cigarette bit into his fingertips having burned down to the filter. From behind him, he heard Danyell's voice through the thin slice of a slightly opened door.

"I thought you knew."

* * *

5.

The legend of Charles Daniel Rafferty began the day he was born. The second child of Peter and Drea Rafferty, Charles Daniel Rafferty held the record for fastest delivery in Chicago's Mercy Hospital during the year of 1986. From admittance to the cutting of the umbilical cord, the total running time was a brisk one hour and twenty one minutes. Drea Rafferty wasn't even given the chance to change out of her Versace before all six pounds of her son's impatient baby flesh took in its first breath of stale hospital air. Born running, Charles Daniel Rafferty still hasn't stopped in all of his eighteen years.

Early enrollment into the Winterville Academy at the age of fourteen soon followed, buffered in between that night in Chicago's Mercy Hospital and the day he first stepped foot on the school's front step by years of parental torment, misguided adventures, and the occasional property damage. He was sent to Winterville by his father to temper his wild ways, but little did he know that all that did was focus it. Being the son of one of the world's wealthiest businessmen and the younger sibling of his equally legendary brother, Charles Daniel Rafferty was handed the school on a silver platter, the only kind of service he was accustomed to. From the students up to the board of trustees, which his father was a high ranking member of, Charles Daniel Rafferty was untouchable. He was bulletproof. young, handsome, intelligent, athletic, and filthy rich, he was the prototype that the Winterville Academy hoped all of their students would eventually become upon leaving their hallowed halls. That was during his first two years. On the beginning of his third term, it all began to fall apart.

Charles Daniel Rafferty was introduced and indoctrinated into a group of upper class men of privilege and so-called superior breeding. Aside from sharing the common bonds of rank and questionable parenting, they all held a trait that quite often could be the most dangerous trait for men and women like themselves to have. They were bored. Although not many are sure of the details or circumstances, a reign of terror was ordered and, at that moment, Charles Daniel Rafferty got his first taste of blood.

Being the perennial overachiever, Charles Daniel Rafferty rose through his group's ranks. Taking his older brother's advice of inventing your own hierarchy, he single handedly destroyed their status quo just to see what would happen. He had become a prototype of a whole different kind.

After having transferred in last term, Jack Street heard all of the stories. With his parka's hood on tight and under the viewfinder of its fur lined rim, he heard them all, all of the half truths and exaggerations, all of the smear and propaganda. He haunted the halls as silent as a ghost then one day, Jack Street finally met the man behind the noise. One meeting, one confrontation on the day before his self imposed exile. He met Charles Daniel Rafferty in the center of his new group's orbit, a four pronged axis that had since been cut down to three and eventually to two. Jack Street was the last person they saw before being escorted out of the premises. He was the last person Charles Daniel Rafferty spoke to before he walked away from the Winterville Academy.

"You can't hide it from me, Jack."

On the way to his last period, Jack Street played the memory back. He felt a cold draft wash over his spine.

That was when Jack Street's quiet day became quieter still.

* * *

6.

Jack Street sat with a mercurial look on his face. When locked in, his young kid features cast themselves into that stare and could be held in that fashion for days on end. His lips became a thin pencil line just slightly curved downward at the ends enough to constitute a frown. His eyelids were half drawn blinds barely able to conceal the red veins trapped in the milky whites in the sunken ocular cavity of his skull framed on the top by the smear of last night's black eye liner and below by the dark bags accumulated from both lack of sleep and late night binge drinking. His jaw was frosted over with a two week old beard struggling mightily to develop due to its owner's age and physical ability to sustain such endeavors. His nose, being the most inconspicuous of the bunch, was normal, neither a detriment nor an advantage to the outside public's perception of beauty. Although the nostrils did flare a little when made to exhale cigarette smoke from his lungs. Silently, they held their positions under a crown of straight, inky black hair. Occasionally dyed when its starkness began to fade, the uncombed mess fell just a little shy of his eyelids when parted in his usual way, either with his hand or with the aid of a strong gust of wind. The backs and sides were chopped viciously and without concern with a pair of garden shears a month ago by an incredibly attractive young sophomore softball star under the condition that if he let her have some salon practice on his hair she would let him practice some fictitious oriental massage techniques on her. Needless to say, the deal ended up being beneficial for both parties with the added bonus being that he actually liked the way she did his hair. Add on top of that was her after session comment on the advanced dexterity of his fingers when set to the task of administering third base. The memory flickered in his brain but could not coax a response or even a grin from its avatar, especially not after the monumental news he just heard not even one hour old. Nothing would have made him budge. It was during a certain time of day that his powers of indifference were truly at their apex. The monks of Tibet would take notice of the speed and ease of his ability to slip from a state of lucidity into one of deep, trance like meditation from the second he dropped his backpack to the second it hit the floor.

Everyday during sixth period study hall when Jack Street checked out, the clarion call of the last bell was the only thing in this world able to bring him back.