RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Writer's Block Tabula Rasa

Bellatrix was making sure to move fast. She wanted to get back to Orion before Nwanjoku had time to re-activate, or whatever the hell it was he did to turn back. She wasn't sdure what Harpy would do against an Angel, but she really wasn't in a mood to find out.

Which was probably why she missed the modified YF-23 Black Widow II flying out of the north towards her, right until it fired a missile at her.

She swerved, narrowly avoiding being blown into innumerable small pieces and fighting the urge to go berzerk, the last thing she needed was a berserk killing machine trying to take on some form of modified fighter jet. She needed to get low, where the jet couldn't follow, and then try to outrun it. She was just lucky that her battery wasn't too run down yet. At full speed there were few things that she couldn't outrun.

Nwanjoku screamed below her as she jinked to avoid another missile.

"What's happening?!"

"Right now boy? Your guess is as good as mine. Just relax and try not to wriggle too much, this is gonna get a little rough. Hopefully I can get you through this without too much damage"

"Thank you"

"Don't thank me. My employers want you alive. This is just my job"

***

If pushed, Sawyer couldn't quite put his finger on why he attacked the strange metal creature. The meta-scan had gone quiet whilst he was still en route, and he'd ended up having to circle round to pick up any kind of signal at all, but now it was pointing dead ahead, at the...thing he was tailing. So why fire? Mimir was very definite on his mission. Locate and detain, without engagement. There was going to be trouble, he was sure of it. But right now, in this place and time, Mimir could go hang.

He eased off on the jet's engines as his target flew down towards the ground. Even with the extensive modifications he'd made, there was no way the Black Widow could fly that low. Even so, he had no intention of giving up the chase, even if he had to follow her all the way back to her base (wherever that was). Of course, there was always the chance that she had some sort of stealth capability and could give him the slip. He'd have to think this through.

***

Bellatrix breathed a silent sigh of relief as she looked back and saw the jet brake off it's flight path. it looked as if she was home free.

Which was when, with a noise that sounded distinctly like a car starting backwards, a man appeared on her back with a gun pointed directly at the back of her head.

"Land. now."

Bellatrix just had time to drop Emmanuel Nwanjoku and hope he landed safely before Harpy activated.

Thud!

Emmanuel landed on the ground below, after a fall of a few metres. Luckily, it was soft. A mattress of dead leaves, their humid, decaying smell hitting the nose of the African boy.

It was dark, all around. The flight had been long, relying over the amazing, but still body-sized powered wings of Bellatrix, and now it was night.

Emmanuel looked up. Across the tip of the trees, the star filled sky was crossed by the exchanging fire of the bird-like woman and the newcomer.

But Nwanjoku didn’t care. He did what he was best at.

He ran. In the near total darkness, he ran down the hill, across the black trunks of trees.

Like in Nigeria, when the soldiers were coming.

Run.

Run with bare feet, over the mud, the leaves, the stones.

The noise of the battle behind, the unknown further away.

Ray, Carol, and the professor packed and put a lot of Ray's stuff into the spaceship. It was carefully stored and made so that it would not come loose during a flight.

Ray took his legal papers, even though his clients were all dead. He wanted to go through them before he made a decision to keep them or not. He felt sad for all those people. Though poor, they had all had lives, friends, family, and their dreams. That was all gone now. No one knew why. Not yet.

Ray was quiet as he packed those papers. There must be something he could do make those people's deaths have meaning, and not have been in vain.

There must be something he could do, Ray thought to himself, over and over again.

He bumped into Carol, who was carrying some of his dvd collection.

" Hey, watch out there, little brother. Pay attention to what you're doing."

" Sorry, sis... my mind was elsewhere." He told her, his voice in the room, but his mind elsewhere.

" Well, come back to Earth and help."

Carol's words made Ray stop dead in his tracks.

Come back to Earth and help. This is what he had to do. Somehow.

An hour and a half later, and whatever Ray had wanted to take with him back to Carol's home in Chicago had been safely stowed away.

The Professor was a little out of breath. He was 116 earth years old, but Zi - Alorians were long lived. Their normal life span, barring injury or severe illness, was about 250 Earth years. The Professor only appeared to be about 60.

They had lunch before lift off. Nothing special, just some burgers, fries, and Coca - Cola that Ray had in the fridge. It was good. All three were hungry after being up all night. The Professor was able to consume Earth foods because food on Zi - Alor was similar, except without the amounts of cholesterol and salt. Those were eliminated by Zi - Alor's more advanced science... the very same science which was now being used to devastate Zi - Alor.

This was why the Professor had left his homeworld...he could not help them destroy themselves, and his sabotage had been discovered when more and more peaceful robots he'd created had refused to fight, and had fled the planet to other worlds.

The three walked up the ladder and into the sleek, shiny, silver ship.

After lunch, they used the Professor's communcation system to call Carol and Ray's mother, Barbra, to let her know Ray was alright.

Barbra cried as soon as she had heard Ray's voice. They spoke only briefly. Carol spoke with her a little, as did the Professor. Barbra was not surprised to hear from him.

Zum once more activated the ship's cloaking device.

He initiated the launch sequence, which was successful. Had there been a problem, he was more than capable of repairing it by himself.

Ray took one last look at his house. He had liked it a lot. He would miss it, his job, friends, and his life in LA.

Ray was amazed at the smoothness of the lift off.

The three of them could see the destruction from the air. It was horrible... It reminded Carol of 9-11, only a billion times worse.

The ship traveled slowly towards Lincoln, Illinois, at an altitude of 75,000 feet...far above commercial air space.

Carol shed a few tears. The deaths of all those people had finally sunk in, now that she wasn't occupied with moving Ray's possessions. Ray held her. He was deep in thought, staring at the compartment in the dashboard where Professor Zum had stored Darmo's memories.

Memories of Ray's, which he hadn't known existed until just a few hours ago.

Dr. Hank Little fidgeted with the casing on the robot torso until it snapped back into place. "That should make a better speaker until we can manufacture a new one."

"Thank you, Hank" the electronic voice of Dr. Faber said in a monotone.

"We'll work on software to create inflection too," Hank responded as he put away his tools.

The door swung open revealing the two soldiers on guard outside. Lt. Col. Holmes strode in with long, quick steps. "You have one hour to get this unit ready for the field."

"What?" Dr. Little was thrown off guard.

"The nation is on high alert. Los Angeles has been leveled, and unidentified flying objects have been reported moving in and out of the area. One abducted the main culprit for the LA disaster. All non-military flights are grounded for at least 72 hours, and all projects capable are to be put into the field. I need this machine ready to go in an hour."

"I'm right here," Faber spoke.

When Holmes refused to acknowledge Faber, Little spoke up. "He's not weapons capable. He would be of no use in the field."

"Wrong. There are several million dollars worth of high grade sensors and scanners integrated into it. If nothing else, it can be used as a scout or tracker." Holmes turned to walk out. He paused at the door. "Oh, as far as its weapons systems go, find a way to make them work."

Almost an hour later, Dr. Little was making some last minute adjustments to the Legionnaire robot as a large helicopter was landing. A series of hard drives was linked together and strapped around the torso in a bandolier fashion. "The fire control software seems to be working," Faber announced.

"Yes, but I don't think the aiming software will be too useful," Hank spoke with a nervous tone. "I didn't have enough time to create a suitable interface. Be careful out there. The whole world's gone crazy."

"Thank you again, Hank," Faber said before being lead off to the helicopter.

Little walked over to Lt. Col. Holmes, who was supervising the operation. "I don't see why I'm not going!" he yelled over the noise of engines and rotor blades.

"Too dangerous," Holmes yelled back. "We can't afford to lose you. Not after already losing Faber."

Bellatrix could still feel the gun's muzzle...no...that wasn't true. The muzzle was pressed against a bundle of wires encasted in lightweight metal, and she was feeling the metal press against an artificially-created crevice in the back of her neck.

"That was foolish of you. Engaging threat."

Bellatrix dove down, but at much too steep a decline for anyone on her back to stay on. Sawyer slipped off and fell towards the snowy ground below. The Harpy gave a mechanical laugh. "All too easy."

Overconfident and egotistic as always, Bellatrix didn't notice the cable Sawyer shot from his gun. It latched onto her stomach and gave an electric jolt -- enough to knock a normal human into a coma. Bellatrix rolled her eyes back and fell headfirst towards the ground.

Both man and machine hit the snow-covered rocks below them. Sawyer barreled and spun to minimize the impact, but Bellatrix was still too stunned to move. She crashed through some trees, which slowed her down just enough for her to survive the crash.

Turbines...destroyed, in need of repair. Left talon...power cords cut, in need of repair. Left talon...digits three and four destroyed. Left talon...

The list of injuries went on and on inside Bellatrix's head. She stayed on her hands and knees, waiting for her HUD display to turn back on. Nothing came up. Sawyer got up with a groan and brushed the snow off his jacket. "So, you're the crazy bitch that took out LA."

Bellatrix gritted her teeth. "Hate to burst your bubble, but you're third in line to get that particular quarry. Did you see that black kid I was hauling? He's one crazy kid. One powerful, crazy kid."

"You're shitting me. Some teenager took out LA?"

The metallic humanoid in front of him let out a groan. Sawyer could hear several gears grinding inside her body. She looked like a badly contructed child's toy -- pieces so damaged, nothing was fitting together anymore. One wing piece was hanging by wires, the other was twisted upon itself, it could no longer contract into the back. The shoulder coverings were torn off, exposing the shell of a human underneath. It was the sight of shoulders that sent Sawyer back a few steps.

She had no shoulders. There was nothing underneath the metal coverings. A metallic humerus jutted out of an artifical ball-and-socket joint. The flesh had been cleared off up to the ribs, and then seared to prevent bleeding. With the metal shoulder coverings, there was still an impression of flesh and depth underneath. With most of the armor now flung in the snow, Bellatrix was little more than a glorified amputee.

This thing was no meta...but it was human either. Sawyer put his gun away. "Whatever you are, you're coming with me. I have my orders. We'll find out if there's any truth to yours."

Part 1.

Ray's mother cried and hugged her son and did not want to let go when she saw him.

Fortunately, the Professor had thought to turn him caucasian again. The effect was only temporary. It would only last a few hours at a time. Ray figured being blue was not an issue right now. He was just glad to see his mother again, and be somewhere that didn't look like a hydrogen bomb had just been dropped onto it.

He looked at the house, the piano, and the family photos on the mantle. If he weren't the macho guy he was, he'd have cried, too.

" Ray.... your father is on his way home. He'll be so glad to see you." she told her son.

Barbra and the Professor talked for a while. Ray had sat down in his father's recliner. He was bushed from having been up all night, and finding out he was actually an alien from a far away planet he'd never heard of.

Carol went upstairs to take a shower.

Ray fell asleep. He had a strange dream about a planet with blue skinned people and robots. He saw Professor Zum smiling at him. He felt the love in his eyes.

Ray woke up with a start! His father had walked in. Ray stood up and hugged him.

" Ray! Son, I was very worried for you.. thank God you're okay. " The big, burly man shed a tear.

At that point, Ray cried, just a little. I guess I'm human after all....He thought to himself.

The family had dinner together. The professor had also used the device on himself, to make himself causasian.

It was a pleasant meal. There was an unspoken undertone of concern over what had transpired in LA.

Ray ate his meal. Rather, he played with his food. He couldn't get the disk out of his mind. He made a decision.

He waited until everyone had finished their pork chops, mashed potatoes, and peas.. and announced as they were finishing up their pecan pie to tell them.

" I've decided to let the Professor download my memories of my past life on Zi - Alor into my mind."

" Son... is this really what you want?" Zum asked of Ray, a smile on his aged face.

" Yes"

Ray's parents looked at him sadly. They both feared that he would forget them. They had a feeling that this day would come. They just weren't prepared for the aftermath, if any. The uncertainty was clawing at their hearts. It was a ponderous thing.

" Professor...will he remember us? Still feel for us the way he does?" Carol asked, afraid of the answer.

" Yes. But he will remember who he was. The side effect will be that he may "Inherit" some form of meta - human abilities from Darmo, the robot I created. He will always be your son, and your brother..but he will be my son, too. Does this make sense to the four of you?"

" I guess," said Ray. " When can we do it?"

"How about right now?" Zum asked.

" Okay. Let's do it." Ray hoped he would become as powerful as Darmo was. He wanted so badly to go back to LA, find whoever or whatever had destroyed the city he had loved with all it's people, and make the one responsible pay for what he did.

Yes, Ray was a lawyer.. but he would use his power to accomplish what the courts could not. He would also become a vigilante. He had seen too many people he knew to be innocent suffer, because they either were wrongly convicted of a crime they had not commited, or a murderer had been aquitted when his feelings had told him the person was guilty.

Justice would be served.

Part 2.

Ray's father drove the professor and Ray to the empty cornfield where the ship was there in the woods nearby, cloaked. The three walked up into it. It was hard for the father to believe in an invisible space ship, but once they had walked up into it, he could see everything in it as plainly as if he were in his living room.

The Professor had Ray lie on a cot, which appeared after
he'd pushed a button on the dash of the cockpit. He placed what looked like a pair of headphones on Ray's head.

" Are you certain you want to do this? You can still back out, Ray." Asked Zum, a concerned look on his face. Ray's father was in awe of the ship. He trusted Zum, though. He had met him once before when he'd brought baby Ray to his home 25 years ago.

Ray gave the thumbs up.

" What does that mean? " He asked.

" It means do it." Ray's father answered.

Zum inserted the disk into what looked like a cd player, and pushed a button on it. All the controls had an alien language on it.

Nothing appeared to happen at first. Then Ray closed his eyes. He felt images and memories going into his head at a rapid rate. He got a headache.

Just when he thought he couldn't stand it anymore, it stopped.

The Professor took the headphones off, and put the disk back into the case and into his jacket pocket.

By now, both men had turned blue again. Ray's father looked a little put off... it was pretty bizarre to see your son turn blue before your eyes.

" How do you feel?" Zum asked Ray.

Ray sat up. He looked at his hands. He looked at his father, and then at the Professor.

" Father." Was all Ray said, as he hugged the old man.

Ray's adopted father lowered his head. A wave of sadness overcame him. He did his best to hide it, but Ray and the Professor both felt it, like it was a strong wind.

" Dad... it's okay... " Ray hugged his father, too.

He stood up.

The three went outside the ship.

Ray had to see what he could do now.

Part 3.

Ray aimed his hand at a nearby pine tree. It was about 30 feet tall. He tried to fire an electro magnetic ray at it.

Nothing happened.

He took a few running steps, and jumped up into the air in an attempt to fly.

He fell over onto the ground.

He got up.

" Are you okay, son?" His dad asked.

" Yeah... just give me a minute here." Ray was getting a bit anxious. What if he had recieved NO powers from the memory transfer?

Then he closed his eyes. He listened. He could hear the faint sound of a few crickets. It seemed to get louder.

He thought he could smell a trace of pecan pie on his father's breath. It was strong.

He looked across the field. Even though it was dark on a moonless night, he could see acurately a few hundred yards away.

It was an incredible experience. He laughed.

On a hunch, he walked over to the pine tree. It was dead.
He pushed at it with one hand. It fell over easily.

He now had the strength of at least ten men.

Ray's father and Zum just stood in awe. They looked at each other, then at Ray.

Or, rather, to where he'd been standing just a moment ago.

Ray had taken off and ran as fast as he could. He was running at a speed of at least 80 mph!

He ran across the field and back. He was a bit out of breath. Apparently, he was not invulnerable. He could still grow tired like any other man, but oh, the upper limits he now possessed!

A police car pulled up at the field's edge. Zum quickly pulled out the tiny device and turned his flesh caucasian.

Ray was out there, running around like a kid .. until he heard the police car. He was out of normal visual and auditory range, but he saw the car long before the car's occupant had seen him.

He ran over at normal human speed to where his father and, er, his father were standing... he would have to sort that one out later.. the new memories were beginning to sink in.. of another world.. other thoughts...

The cop had gotten out of the car. Even from far away, Ray could read the name on his jacket lapel : Office Muldoon.

Zum was praying that Ray would stay far enough away that the cop would not see him, and thus see a blue man!


Part 4.

Ray trotted over to the officer, who had not yet shined the light on him yet.

That was when he remembered!

He was still blue!

How was his father going to turn him caucasian again before the officer could see that Ray was not of this Earth?

The officer saw Ray.

" Come here, you! Yeah, you in the grey sweatpants and white t shirt."

Ray was comfortable in the cooler weather dressed as he was.

He was, however, very worried. Maybe he could say his being blue was make up for a costume party?

" Oaky, pally, now, you three tell me what you're all doing out here this late? And let's see some id." Officer Muldoon asked very curtly of the three men.

Zum pulled out his fake id. He was glad he'd thought to make one up. He began to hand it over to Muldoon when he noticed something amazing.

Ray was caucasian again.

The officer checked out their story...and noticed it was Ray's father, the bank manager. Muldoon and his wife both had an account at his bank. The officer just smiled and told the three men to have a pleasant evening.

He walked back to his 2006 Ford patrol car and drove slowly off.

Zum and Ray's dad both laughed.

" What's so funny? That guy looked right at me and didn't give a second thought to seeing a blue man!"

" Because," Zum told him.. " You aren't blue anymore."

" Hey..." Ray looked at his hands.. " You're right!"

On a hunch, Ray concentrated....and then changed into an exact double of Professor Zum! He then changed into his father's look - alike.

" That is your power... at least ten times the strength, speed, senses and endurance of a normal man.. and the ability to look like anyone." The Professor was grinning broadly as he spoke, pleased that some of Darmo the robot was now in Ray. He wondered where Darmo was now.

Ray's father was wondering how soon they could get back home. He needed a drink.

It was Christmas Eve.

It was an especially good Christmas for Ray's family. Carol was there, too, as were their parents, Barbra and Jim.

The Professor was still there, too. He had researched Earth customs, and was familar with Christmas. He gave the entire family a super advanced camera he'd created. It took pictures without need of film or a disc; the photos could be instantly downloaded to a computer, or sent as a signal and printed up on whatever paper one wished them to be on.

He did not use the device to turn himself caucasian; he was proud of being blue, and only used it on himself either when he went out or when there was company at the house.

There was much of the latter, as friends and relatives arrived to wish the Parsons family ( Jim, Barbra, Carol and Ray. ) a Merry Christmas.

Ray gave his present to his parents - it was a brand new, family sized microwave.. as the old one was just about worn out. This one was safer, as newer microwaves emitted only a negligable amount of radiation.

Carol gave her Mother a beautiful pendant, and her father a new watch.

The parents gave Ray a new computer, and Carol, a dvd player, as she still preferred to use a vcr.

" Time to get into the 21 st century, Carol." her father, Jim told her with a smile. Jim is a large, jovial man with a mustache.

Carol just blushed and graciously accepted the gift.

The family had chipped in and purchased a new ipod for the Professor, whose love for Earth classical music and knowledge of it was quite impressive.

Ray had demonstrated his new abilities to his mother a few days ago. She was impressed when Ray picked up the couch with one hand, and when he changed into an exact duplicate of Ronald Reagan, right down to his voice
and mannerisms.

She took this new development quite well. She did find it a bit unsettling that her son's natural hue was blue, but that did not bother her so much, now that she knew that Ray still remembered and loved them all. He was gaining more memories all the time from his past life, but they were integrating into his mind about the same way as if a man had gone back into time and changed his future... he would retain his memories of who he was, but new memories would appear in his mind, too.

It was a wonderful Christmas.

There on the piano were many Christmas cards. The Parsons family were liked and loved by many.

A large card in the center of the piano stood out among all the others. It simply said in huge, red letters :

" Merry Christmas, Everybody!"

"How long has the prisoner been kept waiting?" Seven asked, sipping at his hot espresso.

"It's been about two hours, sir," a young agent of the Prometheus Initiative said, standing at his heel. The boy - Gregory... Gordon... something starting with 'g' - had been two steps behind him ever since he'd walked into the office this morning.

A prisoner out of the US military base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba had recently been signed over to the Prometheus Initiative for questioning regarding the events leading up to his arrest about the Ronald Reagan some months ago. All this, of course, was meant to seem very routine and the Prometheus Initiative had sleeper agents in place in key members of many world governments for just such occasions.

"And how is he taking it?" Seven asked, glancing askance at his moray-like hanger-on.

"If I may say, Dr. Carmichael, he doesn't appear to be taking it well at all," Gabriel said, fidgeting a bit. "Apparently, he hates to be kept waiting. Keeps muttering about 'precious seconds' or something like that."

"Interesting," Seven said, downing the last of his coffee and popping an Altoid. "I think it's time we review his file, then, eh?"

Gerald's eyes about popped out of his skull. "Y-you haven't even looked at it yet?"

"What's the point?" Seven answered, snatching a manila file folder from his desk as he stood and began walking. "I want to make sure the information's up there when I talk to him. Y'know, help to keep it fresh." He snapped his fingers as he walked to emphasize his words.

"That's very unorthodox, Doctor," Graham noted as Seven reached the door of the interrogation room.

At that, Seven turned sharply on his heels, looking Gareth square in the eye for the first time since he'd walked in that morning. His grey eyes now seemed hardened and scrutinizing, sizing up the young man who now stood before him. Then, straightening up, Seven's countenance softened suddenly as he smiled extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Seven Carmichael. Have we met?"

"Not officially, sir, no," the young man said, taking Carmichael's hand with vigor and pumping heartily. "I'm Gunter Weiss, and may I just say, sir, what an h--"

Seven jerked his hand away firmly, holding it in front of his face as if suddenly plagued by several flesh-eating viruses that mankind had yet to discover. "Gunter?" he muttered to himself. "Boy, was I off." Then, turning to take the doorknob, he looked the young man in the face once more. "And, may I say, Gunter, that sarcasm is completely lost on you."

And, with that, Seven entered the room.

Gunter Weiss began to explain that Dr. Carmichael was not the first to make such an observation and that was largely due to the fact that, since he was a very young boy, Gunther himself had been training for agency in the Prometheus Initiative and, had he actually been allowed to have friends, concepts like 'humor' and 'sarcasm' might not actually be as foreign to him as they are today.

But Gunter never really got the chance...

...because Seven had slammed the door directly in his face.

The inside of the interrogation room wasn't really anything to write home about at all. It was actually pretty drab, all told. That, of course, was its function. The room had, at one point Seven supposed, been white, but with the addition of flourescent lighting and the wear of age, they had begun to take on a mauvish-puce tinge that was altogether unappealing. A stainless steel table sat in the center of the room, a chair on either side, all bolted to the floor.

On the side of the table opposite where Seven had entered, a man sat, visibly annoyed. He wore the prison-issue orange
jumpsuit, the splash of color making him the first thing noticable in the room full of drab nothingness. His hands were handcuffed to the table before him, ensuring that he wouldn't be doing much movement. His hair was matted and tangled, taking on the style of dreadlocks, some strands arrayed with colorful beadwork. A thin beard clung to his rather perturbed face.

"Took you long enough," the man yelled as Seven entered, curtly slamming the door on Gunter Weiss. "Do you have any idea how long I have been waiting?"

"Actually, I know perfectly well how long you've been waiting, Mister --" Seven quickly turned his file sideways to glance at the name, "Frasier."

"Captain," the man known as Frasier muttered.

"Excuse me?" Seven replied, slipping into the chair across from Frasier.

"Captain," the man said again, louder and seemingly more feral. "Captain Norrin Frasier. Damnation, man, if you must address me, at least do it properly!"

"I see," Seven said, jotting a note across the flap of the file, rather than opening it up. "It would seem, Captain, that we don't have much knowledge of you other than what you've told the US government... and, suffice it to say, they don't believe word one of your story."

"Those insolent jackanapes wouldn't believe the truth if it flew up their asses and laid eggs in their colon," Frasier scoffed.

"I see, so we're one for imagery, aren't we?" Seven said, opening the file before him. "And me having just eaten. Let me see," he skimmed the two pages that comprised the file quickly, getting the gist of what they obtained. "It says here that you were arrested by military personnel aboard the Ronald Reagan for... what, exactly?"

"I was trying to steal the engine," Norrin muttered.

It was all Seven could do to suppress his laughter. "Steal the engine?! My God, man, what did you expect to do, just wheel it out the front door?"

"My crew and I were not... prepared for the... enormity of the situation we were presented with."

"I should say not!" Seven said. "Now, when you say, 'crew,' do you mean...?"

"The crew," he said. "Of my ship."

"Ship?"

"Oh, are all of you neanderthals this daft?" Fraiser yelled, shaking his head in frustration. "I, Captain," he gestured to himself. "Me sail boat. Big boat. Boat with people. Them called crew. Boat called Argolas. It sail through time."

"Alright, firstly," Seven began, "I'm not entirely sure that it's me you should be calling 'daft' or 'neanderthal' after you tried to steal the engine out of a bloody aircraft carrier with nothing more than a scimitar and two pistols."

"Which I'll be wanting back presently!" Frasier interjected.

"Secondly... did you say time?"

Captain Norrin Frasier sat up quickly, his eyes suddenly filled with suspicion. "You said that the government did not believe my stories... what makes you so eager to hear them?"

"Y'see, my friend," Seven said, pulling his silver cigarette case and matching lighter from the breast pocket of his grey houndstooth jacket, "I don't belong to any branch of any government whatsoever. My name is Dr. Seven Carmichael and I represent a unique group of individuals known as the Prometheus Initiative."

Turning the case in Frasier's direction, Seven popped it open. "Care for a cigarette?"

"What's the problem?" the General barked as he walked into the communications center.

"Sir," a Sargent said as he stood up straight, "the ETA for the transport to arrive in Los Angeles was ten minutes ago."

"And?"

"We have yet to receive confirmation as you ordered."

"And just why not?!" his voice began to raise and boom throughout the room.

"It's Los Angeles, sir. They're not responding to our inquiries."

"Another attack?"

"Doubtful, sir. We had contact with them as little as fifteen minutes ago, and the Pentagon has not verified any further aggression from overhead satellites or ground units in the area."

"Then what's keeping them from answering our damn calls?"

Los Angeles

Men in uniforms and of all ranks gathered around the transport jet with stunned looks on their faces. All of their eyes were fixed on the large, humanoid robot that had just stepped off the jet all on its own. It was a very large machine, more advanced than anything they could have imagined possible. Yet it looked like an old used car with several dents, scratches, and even the occasional burn mark.

"Permission to speak freely?" a young private asked the Colonel standing next to him. The older man's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He wound up just nodding his head. Without even looking in the direction of his superior officer, or possibly even waiting for approval, the private let out, "Goddamn!"

Lt. Col. Holmes, once he had noticed that the local men and women were too enamored with the Legionnaire, took it upon himself to command his own men to unload the rest of the equipment from the transport. "Jones!" he bellowed, and a man quickly came forth. "Take two men to the motor pool and bring me back a truck and two Humvees. Armed."

"Yes, sir!" the man turned around and called out to two more soldiers. The three then shot off past the congregation of statuesque Army personnel. Holmes walked up to the nearest soldier, "Where's the commander of this base?" The man, with much difficulty, turned his eyes away from the robot and pointed over to his left. "Thank you," Holmes said as more of an obligation to manners than actual appreciation. His long, quick gait brought him swiftly several yards down the runway to the man with the highest insignias on his shoulders and collar. The Lt. Col. produced a folder and handed it over. "Lt. Col. Holmes with Special Orders from Washington. I believe you were contacted earlier to make arrangements for our arrival." The Col. just nodded with his eyes still transfixed upon the Legionnaire. "Fine, then. I've already ordered my men to retrieve the vehicles that were to be waiting on us. Is that the recent survey of the damage?" Another nod. Holmes reached over and grabbed a series of folders grasped in the Col.'s hand. "My men and I will begin a sweep of the first four grids at the base of the hill here. If you could send another team to sweep in behind us, that would assure that nothing was overlooked." Yet again, another nod.

A Humvee roared up and stopped a few feet away. "Well, thank you, Col., for your assistance. It has made for a very accelerated transition." He gave a quick salute and walked away. He rounded the vehicle and made for the passenger door. "You'd think being stationed in LA would make them accustomed to seeing crazy shit," he mumbled to himself. He pulled himself into the vehicle and made a motion with his hand for it to continue on.

Dr. Faber was loaded into the back of a transport truck with several of the men and equipment. He had turned himself off during the flight when they had transferred to a cargo jet in Alaska as a means to conserve what little memory space he had available to him. As they began to roll down the road to the devastated Los Angeles downtown area, he did a system analysis to ensure everything was in proper working order. The specific purpose of this mission was to find survivor as well as any information as to the strange occurrences that have led to and followed the disaster that befell the metropolis. As uncertain as things had been in the last few days, Faber and everyone involved had no idea if they could expect another violent attack; but they had come prepared for one.

CPC Headquarters
Beijing, China

CPC General Secretary Jiang Limao had come to power in the heady days of the Second Cultural Revolution, when the party's old guard had been swept out in a dramatic-- and in some cases bloody --uprising by dissident factions who felt the establishment had gone too far down the road toward capitalism. He had stayed in power by knowing when and how to take advantage of opportunities, and the chaos engulfing America in the wake of the alien attack on Los Angeles presented his greatest opportunity yet.

"Comrades", he said to the uniformed men seated around the conference table, "the hour has come for China to assume her rightful place as the dominant power in Asia. Therefore, I hereby order that the plan we discussed at our last meeting be implemented starting twelve hours from the time this meeting is adjourned." He didn't get into further specifics-- but then again, he didn't need to. The generals present in the room knew full well what he meant; some of them, in fact, had helped draft the plan in question.

In short, the already horrendous situation out in California was about to get ten times worse...

If there would have been someone other in the forest, it would have been puzzled at the scene.

The tall man going by the name of Tom Sawyer was stepping toward the wracked armored figure of bellatrix, half lying on the snow covered ground, when both of them freezed, looking at the same time, with the same slow motion toward the sky.

"I have lost satellite connection" both said, at the same moment. One second later, the modified YF-23 Black Widow crashed one miles east on the ground, with a very noisy explosion.

A few hundred metres away, Emmanuel Nwanjoku stopped his run, a big chill going down his spine.

Many miles south, on the rim of Los Angeles, Lt. Holmes was swearing over his mute cellular phone. Mute like any else means of communication.

In an undisclosed place, a tall red headed girl brought a small paper to Dr. Seven Carmichel. The eyes of the man narrowed, and a single drop of sweat appeared over his right temple.

At the Parson home, the family’s happynes and joy was interrupted by a huge rumble. Ray ran outside, and looked up.

A huge formation of enormous flying fortress was obscuring the star filled sky. On the sides of the aircrafts were the red flag of China...

An unprecedented event was happening right before everyone's eyes. The United States of America was under a full-scale invasion. The Chinese government had to have been planning it for decades. An armada that blanketed the sky must have taken most, if not all, of their limited resources to put together. Today, on what is unquestionably the US's weakest moment, the fruits of Communist China's labors were ready to be picked.

The aircraft looked close to enlarged versions of America's own B-2 Stealth Bomber. Unlike the B-2, these flying machines weren't defenseless, as the attacking US fighter jets found out. As American fighter pilots flew in for the kill, they were greeted with gunfire from 50mm turrets on the wings and small payload anti-aircraft missiles. The bomb bay doors opened. Instead of tons of munitions falling onto the American landscape, Chinese paratroopers equipped for high altitude drops leapt out. Many died before they could deploy their parachutes. But that was expected. With China's overflowing population, there were plenty to sacrifice.

"Their decent angle is too great for a simple trans-Pacific flight," Dr. Faber said as his new electronic eyes zoomed in on the aircraft overhead. "They came from a sub-orbital flight path. They leapt over our radar and defense network in stealth aircraft."

"I'll care about how they got here later," Holmes said rounding his men together. "Right now, we've got suppress them as best we can with minimal ammunition and weaponry. We weren't really planning on a war today."

The paratroopers began to hit the ground. Immediately, they would release their parachutes and draw their weapons. They ran for cover and began firing at the National Guard and Army soldiers who had been out trying to quell the chaos after the devastation. "They're not bombing us. Why aren't they bombing us?" Faber asked Holmes as he assembled his men.

"Because that would destroy what they want."

"Which is?"

"Our land. Our resources. We're ready to move into right now. Bombing would destroy the housing and infrastructure already in place." Holmes stopped for a second. "Goddamnit! You're supposed to be weapon built for this kind of shit! Get out there and neutralize the opposition! Take point! NOW!"

The night sky lit up with explosions as tracer fire. A terrible aerial battle hung over the ground conflict with a torrent of dreaded color and a din of death and destruction. Faber was attempting his best effort to act like a battle robot. He fired at the falling paratroopers with his guns, but missed. He was unsure if it was the faulty connection to the fire control software or maybe that part inside of his conscious that found killing a difficult and unsavory action. A Chinese soldier aimed his gun from the shadows of an alley and opened fire on Faber. At the sound of the gunshots, Faber instinctively jumped behind an overturned car, using it for cover. The vehicle was riddled with deep thunking sounds as the bullets pierced it. The Chinese soldier rounded the other side of the car and yelled what Faber could only imagine equaled to "Die Yankee bastard" in Chinese. He let loose a burst of gunfire from his machine gun. The bullets crashed against the metal body and either were crushed into flat slugs by the force of collision or bounced away, depending upon its angle of impact. The soldier fell to the ground as a few ricochets struck him. It was at that moment that Faber truly began to realize the obvious. He was no longer a man. His flesh and blood was now composite metals and hydraulic fluid. Despite breaking himself open earlier to create a means for communication or even hammering the dents out of his reinforced frame, the thought never occurred to him that he was no longer a man. Seeing the mortality of another human being in direct contrast to his own mechanical resilience shook him past the disconnection from himself and his actions that he'd lived in since the crash. The logic of the situation had been processed in his new digital brain millions upon millions of times since it came online; but Faber had maintained a stronger connection, maybe stronger now than when he was a flesh and blood man, to his humanity and all its emotional trappings. Especially denial.

Faber stood up and began to scan the area. Further down the road, several of the paratroopers had created a barricade. Behind it they were assembling what seemed to be a large gun mount. He pulled the car he had taken refuge behind back down onto its wheels and put the transmission into neutral. Faber lined the car up with the barricade and began to push. The powerful mechanical legs built up speed as the metal arms pulled back to gain momentum for the big push off. With a forward thrust the car rolled quickly down the road and crashed into the soldiers. Holmes could be heard slightly over the clamor of battle surrounding them. He and his men rounded a corner closer to the barricade and immediately ran over the wreckage with guns firing.

Faber joined the group after it was clear that the bloodshed, for now, was over. Holmes once again began to round up his men and plan the next move as Faber seized the gun that the Chinese soldiers were attempting to assemble. Detaching his own guns from his body, Faber began to rework the two separate mechanisms.

"Legionnaire, return to combat!" Holmes barked. "That's an order."

Faber turned around and presented the re-engineered guns to Holmes and his men. He had used the material from the Chinese paratroopers' weapons and parachute harnesses to make shoulder straps to distribute the weight of the weapons. "I can't use these, but you might."

"Great," Holmes sighed. "A toaster with a conscious."

'Seven' Carmichael had been sitting silently in the Control Room at Prometheus Initiative headquarters for several minutes looking at the giant map of the globe which took up the gigantic wall across from him. He ignored the buzz of the agents swarming around, barking out orders and intercepting transmissions. There was a lot of work to be done...

Within the past three hours, hundreds of lights had ignited on that map. One light meant one incident in one city of the world. The Initiative used it to track happenings across the globe. When he'd arrived at the office awhile back, there had been 77 lights, which was something of a record.

Today, there were 490. Most of them in America.

In what had been the greatest display of aerial military might since Hitler's Luftwaffe, the Chinese government had invaded the United States. This was beyond World War III - this was a Clash of the Titans that would have made Chronos and Atlas run for cover. If America was able to retaliate, they'd use nuclear force and the world as he knew it would cease to exist, save for the cockroaches and the Twinkies. If China succeeded, the overnight balance of power would shatter global stability - economically, socially, politically. Either way, this was a disaster in the making.

But that's not what worried Seven most.

What worried Seven most was that there had been no build-up. There were no clues, at least none that he could have seen. No unusual activity within China over the last several months - other than the odd Elemental sighting... but that could hardly be considered 'unusual' for China. There was no evidence of weapons stockpiling or fleet amassing. No evidence of military insurrgence or technological breakthrough. No nothing.

Seven had never seen this coming... and, for a precognitive, that might be the scariest thing of all.

Precognition wasn't the only gift that Seven Carmichael had been gifted with, but it was the one from which he got the most use. He'd been able to catch glimpses into the future since he was seven years old. To the casual observer, it might look like a seizure or a small stroke. His eyes would roll back into his head, he would convulse a bit, maybe foam at the mouth and then snap right out of it. The whole thing lasted maybe a minute, tops.

The 'visions,' as he called them, started out as minor things - scraped knees, bumped elbows, and minor surgeries - and eventually evolved into bigger things, like deaths, wars, and global catastrophes. He'd never been able to control them and they certainly didn't pick up everything (he was still upset over the horse race he'd lost back in '87), but something this... epic should have come under his radar.

The fact that it didn't had rendered him speechless more or less since he found out about the incident.

"Dr. Carmichael," came a voice from over his shoulder. Seven didn't even need to turn around to know that Lucius Griffin was standing behind him.

"What is it, Lucius?" Seven said, staring intently at the lighted map. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"We're deploying you to the States, Doctor," the head of the Initiative stated bluntly, ignoring Seven's pass at humor (which was likely lost on him at the moment). "We need you to assemble your field team, brief them, and have wheels up within the hour."

Seven sighed, taking his eyes off the board for the first time in hours. "There are so many things wrong with that, I don't even know where to begin, Lucius. One, I'm already in the middle of a case. Two, the United States has been declared a no-fly zone. Not officially, I know, but the Chinese fleet overhead pretty much makes that one a given, I'd think. Three, you haven't the slightest clue what it takes to prep a field op, do you? You expect me to assemble, debrief, equip, and be ready to fly out in an hour? You're insane. And, finally... what makes you think there's even anything we can do about this anyway?"

Lucius narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow. "This is no time for second guessing, Carmichael. It's the end of the world out there."

A sardonic laugh escaped Seven's lips. "No," he said darkly. "You don't get to tell me about the end of the world."

The two stood, glaring at one another in silence for several minutes, each daring the other to make the first move. Lucius, deciding to be the bigger man - which he was, by one inch and at least one hundred pounds - cleared his throat.

"Any theories, then, as to how you would handle a situation like this?"

"Puzzling thing, this," Seven said, gesturing toward the board. "Whoever would have thought China would be capable of such an offensive?"

"What are you driving at, Doctor?"

"Simply this: silence. Over the past several months, no records or blips or anything of something like this happening in China. And if we couldn't see this coming, the rest of the world must be even more clueless."

"Go on."

"If this is China, they're getting help from somewhere... and I'd like to know who," Seven said.

"Any theories?" Griffin asked, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

"A few, but you probably wouldn't like them. They all involve..."

"Yes, yes, yes," Lucius waved his hand in front of Seven's face, interrupting him. "What would it take to get this matter resolved?"

"Well, I'd need my command team and every unassigned agent put at my disposal."

"Done," Lucius said. "Who's your command team?"

"Well, Scooter, naturally," Seven said. He paused slightly, narrowing his eyes as he focused on Griffin. "If I'm going to do this, I'll want to do it my way."

"How do you mean?" Griffin countered.

"I have two demands for my command crew. If they're not met, I don't go out."

Griffin fidgeted. He didn't like being put in this position, but, given his options, what choice did he have? "The first demand?"

"I want Bai on my command team."

"Carmichael!" Lucius bellowed. "Be reasonable! She's only just gotten out of the hospital after all that she endured in Los Angeles! No sense putting her in greater danger when she's not up to 100%!"

"She's the closest thing the Initiative has to a Chinese liason and she goes," Seven smiled defiantly, gazing Lucius right in the eye as his hand went to his pocket for a cigarette.

"...and the second demand?"

"Norrin Frasier rides point," Seven said, raising his lighter to his lips.

If Lucius had been surprised by the first demand, this second one would have been the equivalent of finding photographs of him being whipped by Viatnamese schoolboys in thongs.

"You can't be serious! He's a criminal in our custody!"

"He's an asset," Seven said, exhaling a pillar of smoke from his nostrils. "You can't deny it."

"What makes you say that, I wonder?"

"Buzzwords," Seven said. "He knows things. About the future. He's been there. He's seen it. He probably even owns the T-shirt. That kind of knowledge and experience is going to prove invaluable in this sort of situation, wouldn't you say?"

Lucius was visibly fuming. His usual ruddy face was not completely scarlet and that vein in his forehead would not stop throbbing. He very deliberately and stiffly checked his watch, then looked back at Seven.

"You have forty-nine minutes until wheel's up, Dr. Carmichael," he said curtly. "I suggest you get your assets together."

Laughter suddenly roared from the granite and steel holding cell, echoing far down the hallway. The fierce, boisterous chuckles spilled carelessly on for over a minute, finally dying to a faint breathless titter. Norrin was clutching his sides, the red in his face slowly bleeding away. He eventually composed himself enough to look up at the silent figure standing in the doorway.

“…….you’re serious?” he asked, the severity of Carmichael’s stare dawning upon him.

“Your options.” Seven replied with a dry, even tone. His hand jerked up, showing three fingers. “One, you sit here. Forever. The end.”

He dropped a digit.

“Two, I pull out my Jericho-9 right now, put you up against the wall, and put one in your temple.”

A second finger dropped.

“Three…you come work for me.”

Frasier found himself staring at the final finger, the logical reality of his situation spelled out clearly for all to see.

“So. What’s it going to be?”

The prisoner was silent for a moment, letting the words sink in.

“Well…when you put it that way…” Frasier grumbled.

He stood fully up, his broad physique stretching the orange jumpsuit tight. He then held up three fingers himself, the chains of his wrist and ankle cuffs clattering with the gesture.

“One.”, his rough, feral voice said. “Clothes.”

Seven cocked an eyebrow, scanning the drab conformity of fashion before him. “Agreed.”

“Two. Weapons.” he continued, his expression undaunted. “Pistols. Dagger-belt. Blade.”

“Naturally.”

“And, three.”, he emphasized. “I am The Captain.”

Seven grimaced with amusement, noticing Frasier’s remaining upheld finger was his middle one.

“Of the field team, yes.” he nodded. “You are The Captain. But, I am your Admiral.”

Norrin paused, cocking his head with consideration.

“I call your shots. You work for me. Clear?” Seven stated flatly.

Frasier was still staring at him, eyes narrowed. Without warning, the Captain suddenly took a swing at Carmichael. The agent fluidly halted the fist with a single palm, leaving the two men a brief few seconds of mutually silent intimidation.

A nod slowly crept from Norrin’s head, Seven releasing the fist.

“…yeah…” Frasier finally said, his voice more refined and reverent now. “…I’ll follow you.”

He turned his wrists over, the guard pulling out the keys…

Darmo had defeated the enemy robot, but in so doing, had sustained fatal damage. His reactor core was going to blow. Not even his famed self repair system would be able to restore him.

His long distance sensors had detected the enemy airships. He messaged the Professor, and then proceded to position himself near a group of the aircraft.

He blew himself up, taking several of them with him. Many of the paratroopers who were caught in the explosion burst into flames. Their screams were ignored. A commander on a nearby craft just shrugged; they had many millions of troops. They were all expendable as far as he was concerned.

Darmo had more heart than that man, and now he was gone. It hardly seemed fair.

Meanwhile, the Professor had recieved Darmo's final transmission, and had played it for Ray.

"This is bad." Ray understated.

"Truly. Ray, I hate to ask you this, but.."

" Yes. I'll go and help. It's the best way to honor Darmo's memory.. his courage, and his loyalty to friends and.. family. "

"Your intuitive abilities are getting stronger. That's a good thing. You'll need them to survive.. this is an extremely dangerous mission that you're about to undertake, Ray. "

Carol and her parents walked into the room.

"What's this talk about danger?" Ray's father demanded to know.

The Professor explained the situation. Ray's mother at once looked frightened, and his father looked angry.

"We almost lost you in LA, we're not about to go through that again. " Ray's father said, not at all happy about this new turn of events.

"Dad, I've got to help... this is a really dire situation. The country's being taken over. Now that I have ten times the normal strength and speed of a man, and the ability to disguise myself as anyone I choose, right down to their memory ingrams, thus giving me their memories and abilities, I have an obligation to help!" Ray told his father.

" He's right. I think he can pull it off. Maybe even stop the invasion.... what if he impersonated whoever is in charge of it,and could order them all to break off the attack?" Carol asked of her parents.

They thought it over and realized that she was right.

Ray said his goodbyes. No one was sure when or even if he would survive. He was a man who liked to help others. To Ray, this was no different from any of those other times he'd helped people... except that there was a LOT more at stake here.

The Professor took Ray into the invisible ship,still parked in the back yard.

They strapped themselves in and took off in the direction of the invading aircraft.

The Professor said a silent prayer. He had finally found his son. He did not want to lose him again.

Orion had several 'haunts' throughout the world, and it was bad luck that he was currently on an Aleutian island, sandwiched between Alaska and Russia. What good is being the first to know the Chinese have started a war when your first hint is a shoddy missile crashing onto your beach? Orion wasn't too upset about the three techs that were killed -- but the wreakage had also wounded a prized Percheron stallion he had bought in France. Everyone said he was crazy to bring the horse to the island, but no one wanted to say to his face. Orion loved powerful animals, and loved them more when they were taken in the prime of their life.

"What sort of damage are we talking about?" asked Orion to the vet -- a nervous, figity man who was purchased at the same time as the horse.

The horse was on the ground, screaming in pain. Pieces of the missile were embedded in the muscular haunch. Splinters of the thin bones in the legs were sticking out of the delicare skin between the knee and the fetlock. It tried to get up once, but fell onto one of the dead technicians. Orion wiped the splattered blood with a hankerchief.

"Both front legs are broken. Three ribs on the left side are crushed, possibly more." He gulped, fearful to give any more bad news. "I have pentobarbital in my kit. I can make it quite painless."

Orion didn't say anything for several minutes. The horse grew quiet, but its breathing was loud and flies were beginning to gather around its mouth. A tide was coming in, and the salt water soaked the horse's back legs. It burned. The horse began screaming again.

"We could repair it," said Orion absent-mindedly. "We have a new collapsable lung that mimics the real thing--"

"Are you listening to me?" hissed the vet. "Listen to him-- he's suffering. Just let me end the poor thing's life!"

Orion looked the vet up and down as if he had never seen the man before. "This horse is mine. It isn't mine anymore if it's dead."

The vet made a sudden move. He grabbed Orion's gun from his hip and fired at the horse's head. He had never used a gun before, so he emptied the entire cartridge. Partially so that he drown out the stallion's screamings. Partially because he wasn't stupid enough to hand Orion a loaded weapon after he had just blown up a million dollar horse's head.

Orion just stood there, looking at the headless remains of his prized stallion. He looked back at the vet, and then shrugged. "Well, we'll just have to charge the Chinese compensation for the horse."

The vet cocked an eyebrow. "What? The Chinese?"

Orion pulled out a cigarette. "Yes -- didn't you hear? They've hired our services." He flicked his lighter a few times, until a puff of smoke appeared. "Clean up out here. I need to find out where the hell my little star is."

Holmes and his men were beginning to run low on ammo. They took shelter inside of a shopping mall, only to be followed by several Chinese soldiers. Holmes and his men could only do what they were trained to do. Adapt to their environment. They had set up barricades along all the entrances to their wing. Only the security lights were on, run by a small backup generator, giving them only minimal visibility.

"Sir!" a young man called out as he approached Holmes.

"Yes?"

"It's the Chinks. They're about to take the Bed, Bath, & Beyond."

"Damnit! They're closing in! If we lose the food court, they'll be no stopping them." He steps over and examine the mall directory. "Here. I want men in the Footlocker, the Disney Store, and two here in the center at the Sunglass Hut. Short, controlled bursts. I don't want you to shoot unless you know it's going to hit an enemy target. We have no reinforcements or resupplies. Make what we have count." The soldier nodded and took off running, yelling for men to follow him. "Now, where's that damn tin man."

Faber sat in the middle of the Radio Shack. He was using a sodering iron on several of the remote control toys he'd found in the store, as well as on his own. The large plasma screen televisions had been moved into a semi-circle in front of him. Video cameras lay strewn about and disassembled around him. Extension cords ran out from his torso and snaked across the floor. After a few moments, he closed up the panel on his arm as well as that on the modified toys.


"What the hell is going on here?!" Holmes barked as he entered the store. "You are supposed to be out there saving lives. Instead I have to send men to risk theirs to do what you're supposed to do."

"I can't kill," Faber responded. "I don't care what you think of me. I know it's something I cannot do. I would never be able to do that. But I can think, and I've come up with an idea." He turned on the televisions. Each one displayed a different part of the store. A remote control truck rolled closer to Holmes, changing the view on one of the TV's. "I control the toys, and the televisions are drawing power from my own batter cell. We can monitor several areas of the mall at once, possibly even lure the Chinese into one area. Confine them."

"Kill them," Holmes finished. "And you can control them all at once? From here?" Faber nodded. "Fine. Send them out."

The Pentagon

"Gentlemen," the Secretary of Defense said as he hung up the phone. The Joint Chiefs of Staff sat around the table with their briefing folders opened before them. The generals and admirals who made up the Unified Combatant Command were all listening in on speaker phones from their command posts around the world. "The President has just signed the Executive Order approving a nuclear response to the Chinese invasion. Initiate tactical nuclear protocols. By twenty-two hundred hours, China will be a giant, glowing crater."

In A Jet Somewhere Over the Atlantic

The metallic blue jet cut across the sky, roaring across the ocean to the eastern coastline of the United States. Seven picked up his cell phone. It had begun beeping and vibrating on the table in front of him. "Dear god," he let out as he looked at the text message on the screen. "Those crazy bastards have gone and done it. Bai! I need a hack into NORAD! NOW!"

Norrin Frasier sat in his seat, quite drunk from the once well stocked mini-bar. An ear bud was fit snuggly into his right ear as the other dangled below his chin. "Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?" Seven and Bai both ignored him, so he turned his attention back to the TV screen where he was watching a DVD someone had left the last time they had used the jet for 'official use' to the resort in the Bahama's. Wallace Beery was portraying the legendary Long John Silver in the classic adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island. Norrin closed an eye. "Arrrrrrrrr! Hehehehehehehehehehehehe!" he began giggling uncontrollably.

"There are fifteen ICBMs in the air," Bai called out.

"Take them down," Seven responded. His finger were tapping madly over his own laptop keyboard.

"I could use some help here." Her voice was stressed and drawn out.

"I can't," he answered her. "I'm working on a contingency plan."

"Shiver me timbers!" Norrin yelled out before breaking out into laughter again.

"I can't concentrate with him going on like that!" Bai's voice began to break.

"Norrin," Seven politely spoke to their passenger, "could you please refrain from laughing whilst the world in on the cusp of destruction?"

"Ahhh," Norrin moaned. "He's too much of a cunt to be taken seriously." Not sure how to turn the TV off, Frasier simply planted his boot into the screen.

"Three are now on splash down courses twenty miles off the Western seaboard. Warheads are deactivated."

"Not good enough, Bai. There are still twelve more en route." The tension built as Seven kept working on his computer. He was taking over one of the Initiative's satellites.

"And just what are you doing over there?"

"Hoping that my latest intel update is correct."

Los Angeles

The mall had been secured. Citizens, refugees in their own city, had made their way there in attempts to escape the foreign invaders swarming their neighborhoods. Once inside, they were conscripted by Holmes and his men in an effort to secure the building from further incursion by the Chinese forces. With Faber's cannibalizing all the electronics in the building and using his own power source, they were able to turn it into a makeshift command center.

"Scour the food court," Holmes was ordering one of his men. "Salvage whatever you can. We've got plenty of mouths to feed now. We'll also need anything that can be used as bedding as well. We have some infirmed that we need to take care of."

Faber was busy creating yet another machine in the middle of the store floor. "It's happened," he said in his electronic voice as Holmes approached. "We responded with nuclear warheads. Fifteen..... no, twelve missiles are headed to mainland China."

"What?"

"I'm receiving a data stream from a satellite. It's sending me up-to-the-minute information on the missiles and their courses. Someone is deactivating them, but there isn't enough time to get rid of them all. I have to do something from here."

Holmes's voice became even more authoritative. "Stop." Faber didn't understand. "I told you to stop. The decision has come from the President himself. There's no other way. You have no right to interfere with that."

"People are going to die. Millions of innocent Chinese are going to be burnt to a cinder."

"And if we don't do anything, Americans are going to die. They came after us first. They won't stop until we make them."

"Blowing up China will accomplish nothing. If anything, it'll make a Chinese occupation worse. If you let me finish this, I can save lives on both continents. I can stop the missiles and end the siege."

"Are you sure? How?"

"This is a Radio Shack. I can build anything here."

Back in the Jet

"Two more down," Bai said.

"What's the count now?"

"Five more left. Damn!"

"NORAD finally kick you out?" Bai nodded. Seven lit a cigarette. "Took longer than I expected. The invasion must have had them too scattered to pay attention; but once they noticed something odd in their systems, they most likely put everything they had to getting rid of it."

"You're pretty calm for someone about to witness Armageddon."

"When Plan B fails, then I'll start to worry. For now, I'll just sit back and enjoy a cig."

"Dr. Carmichael, we've eliminated most of the US's nuclear strike. Without a total decimation of China, there will be another nuclear retaliation. One we most likely won't be able to curtail. Then, other countries will come out with their nuclear arsenals as well. The Earth will be blanketed in radioactivity and nuclear debris."

"Bai, baby, you're totally counteracting the relaxing effect of this cig."

LA

"Done," Faber announced. "In order to be able to reach the missiles, I'll have to devout all power to the signal I'll be sending out. We'll have to take everything else offline." Holmes nodded and signaled for his men to take care of it. "Powering up the device in 5.... 4.... 3.... 2.... 1...." A powerful whining sound emanated from the device. "I've established contact."

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

"Four more just dropped," Bai said with excitement. "They'll splash down in the Sea of Japan." Her face turned sour. "The final ICBM has been redirected."

"Wouldn't that be good news, Baby?" Seven smirked.

"No. It's still directed at China. So much for Plan B."

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

"The warhead is armed," Faber informed Holmes.

"Are you so sure about this?"

"Yes. Detonating it high in the atmosphere will generate an electro-magnetic pulse that will knock out at least 90% of China's electronics. The invading force will have no choice but to return home to protect their country from all their enemies willing to take advantage of their inability to protect themselves. Japan, Taiwan. Even their old allies North Korea and Russia couldn't pass up the chance. And the radioactivity will be spread out by the jetstreams to the point that their levels would be only slightly above normal. Nothing deadly."

The missile came crashing back down to earth. Hundreds of miles in the air, it suddenly detonated. China instantly went silent. Vehicles, computers, cell phones. They all simultaneously stopped functioning over most of the large nation.

"We've lost satellite contact over part of Asia," Bai said looking at her screen.

"Move one into the area," Seven commanded. "I need to know the situation."

"It'll be twenty minutes before another one can be moved into orbit." Twenty minutes went by, though it seemed like days. Seven Carmichael found himself without anymore cigarettes and began to fidget in his seat a bit. "Got it," Bai finally said to his relief. "My god. Most of mainland China is blank."

"Blown up?"

"No. It's there. There just aren't any electronic signals. No mobile phone activity, no traffic, and no pollution production. Everything but a few isolated spots are completely shut down. Wait..... Someone's trying to hack our satellite."

"From where?"

"Somewhere in northern China. I'm going to shut it out."

"No. This is exactly what we need. Their satellites were most likely taken out in the same blast. They need ours to bounce a signal off of to their invasion ships. They're calling their forces back home." Seven had stopped fidgeting and leaned back into his seat with a smile on his face. "Plan B."

"Can I laugh now?" Norrin finally asked. "Tight arses."

THREE MONTHS LATER

"The reconstruction effort in Los Angeles received an additional thirty-four million dollars in the recent budget bill passed by Congress and signed today by the President. This brings the grand total up to nearly one and a half billion dollars for the post-invasion clean-up." The anchor man looked down at his paper with headlines as the ticker at the bottom of the screen informed the world of the latest young starlet to find herself in trouble with the law.

"In related news, the Pentagon today announced that the process of reestablishing a Chinese government may get under way sooner than previously thought. UN representatives have been dispatched to Beijing to provide legal consultation to the Chinese delegates chosen by the interim US led government. The delegates are charged with creating a process to set the groundwork for electing officials for drafting a new Chinese constitution. Speculation is that elections could be held as early as the middle of next year. General Patterson, in charge of military operations in China, held a press conference today to address the road map to a new China. When asked about the sightings of the robotic man during the Los Angeles invasion, now dubbed 'Robot X' by the internet and media, the general den...."

Back at Alaskan Command, the General shut off the TV in his office. "Robot X?" he huffed. "Who the hell comes up with these silly goddamn names?" He spread out the photocopied covers of periodicals from all over the world. Many had fuzzy pictures of the Legionnaire standing or lifting something. There were no discernible details as there was too much smoke and debris for the amateur photographers to get a clean picture. All the headlines read pretty much the same. "US Government's Secret Weapon". Everyone knew that it would be impossible to keep a lid on the project once they sent the machine to LA, but he wish that the circumstances of the project were better than they were.

Dr. Little and the machine, now demanding to be address as Dr. Faber and not as the Legionnaire, were working on the next phase and version of the project. LA had proven the success of the hardware and software, though not in the way originally designed. To continue the project to the next phase only made sense. A sleeker machine with more mobility and functionality. And 'Dr. Faber' was proving itself valuable in both introducing fantastic new concepts for the construction as well as speeding up the actual manufacturing. In three months, they had completed nearly half of phase two, which was scheduled to take at least two years before that much progression could be reached.

Col. Myers knocked before entering the general's office. "Sir, the most recent report from Holmes at the lab." He passed a folder over the desk.

The general opened it and examined the contents. "Nothing new from our little 'guest', huh?"

"Not yet, but I do trust Lt. Col. Holmes. He will get the information we need from the intruder."

MILES AWAY AT THE MOUNTAIN LAB

Inside a small room set far away from the regular activity of the base, Lt. Col. Holmes sat across a table with a very unfriendly look on his face. "I'll ask you again. Who are you, and who do you work for?" The man sitting across from him didn't answer.

"You will tell me why you're here and who sent you." Still no answer. Holmes stood up and began pacing around the room. "I don't think you fully understand the situation you're currently in. You were found on an Off-limits, United States Military instillation shortly after a high scale invasion onto US soil by a foreign power, rifling through classified data. You carry no identification. You wear no uniform. You claim no allegiance to any country or army. You may think yourself smart right now with your grin, but what all that really means is that you have no classification under either US or international law. You don't have the protection of the Geneva Convention, the US Supreme Court, or even God almighty himself. You're all mine. So I'll ask you nicely one last time to tell me everything."

There was still no answer. With a nod of his head and slight wave of his hand, soldiers picked up and moved the table out of the room. "I've served two tours in Afghanistan, three in Iraq, not to mention Kosovo and the Sudan. I've even spent time in captivity by enemy troops. I've experienced pain like no other man I've met. Until today." Four more men walked in carrying a large tub full of water, setting it in front of the prisoner. Holmes grabbed him and forced 'Seven' Carmichael's head down into the water.

The heavy metal door slammed shut as the Army private pulled it to. Dr. Hank Little reentered the lab, his face looking better rested since he last left a little over six hours ago. Faber was still toiling away at the Legionnaire Mark II. The body was a lot more slender, closer to that of a real human male. The head contained more human aesthetics as well, thought the eyes were still very large and slid to the sides of the head to increase peripheral vision. There were still no ears; but the audio, motion, and varied visual sensors had been drastically upgraded. The majority of weapons systems were not to be fully integrated as originally planned, as it was felt that, since Faber was able to create more human like hands, that it would be more cost effective and quicker to use separately developed weaponry.

"Still working?" Hank said in an uneasy attempt to start a conversation. A simple 'yes' reply ran across the screen of a PDA that Faber had hacked into. "I told the General just what you wanted me to. I still don't understand why you wanted to tell him that we're still over four months away from a working system."

The screen glowed to life with Faber's reply. "They want a machine for military use. I cannot perform that function."

"That's why we're building a new one," Hank picked up his tools and prepared to continue his work. "This version will perform those functions. Afterwards, we can concentrate on your situation."

"No, Hank. You don't understand. There won't be a 'me' anymore. The Army has ordered a new body. They have not permitted the construction of a new brain."

Dr. Little froze reading this. "You... you don't think..... No.... No, they wouldn't."

"I'm an inconvenience. I notice how the brass responds to me. I can't and won't use lethal force. I'm no good to them after this unit is functional. The brain costs as much as the body itself. It's only cost effective to overwrite the current information, reinstall my old software, and imprint a new brain pattern over it."

"You're too useful...."

"Hank.... they're going to kill me. Again."

"I'm glad you could join us on such short notice," the Army Chief of Staff greeted the General, motioning for him to take a seat.

"Well, sir," the General dutifully quipped back, "we both know that when the Pentagon calls, attendance isn't voluntary."

"Indeed. I hope the flight was alright."

"Long and boring. Sir, I hope you don't mind if we...."

"Of course. I'd like to introduce you to Dr. Oliver Ketchum. He's currently the head MIT's AI research."

"We've met," the General informed the Chief.

"Yes," Ketchum agreed as he continued to look over the file on the table in front of him. "Faber and Little beat out my team for funding based on, I believe, the General's recommendation." The balding man snickered a bit as he removed his reading glasses and set them on the file in front of him. "But I see that, despite his earlier opinions, that the Army is indeed in need of my services."

"If we can keep on topic, gentlemen," the Chief headed off the inevitable verbal sparing that was getting ready to take place. "As you know, the Joint Chiefs of Staff have no authoritative role as far as creating or enforcing military policy and procedures; but we are the advisers of the President himself. I have it on good authority that he is more than ready to act on my recommendation. What I need from the two of you are your professional opinions on how to proceed with this situation."

"Deactivation and reformatting of the brain is the safest course of action," the General answered.

Ketchum huffed. "Insanity! What Faber has created, quite accidentally, is a massive step towards true AI. From the reports that I've read, the Legionaire/Faber machine is acting very human. Just as it was supposed to. But it has the added edge of an awareness of it's own existence."

"Which is exactly what we didn't want to begin with," the General interjected. "We need a machine that can do the job that we need done without the cost of human lives. If this machine acts 100% like a human instead of the 10-20% actually needed for the mission, then we'd have to put up with the same problems that plague us with manned missions that lead to poor judgement: fear, anger, confusion, and the need for self preservation. The Army needs mechanical soldiers who can take out battalions quickly and effeciently. Not ones that question the morality of killing on the battlefield as this unit did."

"This unit holds the memories and skills of one of the world's leading scientists. It's accelerating the thought process a hundred fold. Look at the advancements that have already been developed by it in just a few short months. Erasing it all right now would be a travesty. Imagine if Einstein had the capability to think a hundred times quicker than before. Da Vinci. Edison. Our understanding of the universe and ability to harness its great power would be outrageous. It would be..."

".. a terrible threat to national security." Ketchum stopped as the General's booming voice cut in. "A machine that believes itself to be alive and capable of that kind of thinking and creation is a grave threat to this nation and possibly the world. Something that can harness such great power that Dr. Ketchum is speaking of can also wield it against anyone it chooses. Our safest bet is to reprogram the brain and reverse engineer the new model for future production."

"You are getting ready to destroy a giant step forward in human history and possibly even evolution."

"Humanity is not ready for that big of a step. It hasn't even been forty years since we landed on the moon. Are we really ready to face the reality of a machine that acts exactly like a human? One that claims equality with us?"

The Chief nodded. "I'll give this more consideration. The President will be in touch regarding his decision. Until then, Dr. Ketchum is to accompany you back to Alaska. There, he will carry out whatever decision is made."

Being cooped up inside a building of thick concrete and steel buried under tons of earth with no windows at all to the outside makes it hard to keep time straight. Add to that the fact that Dr. Hank Little had been running on less and less sleep as the days had progressed. He was now sustaining himself on hour long cat-naps throughout the day and numerous giant-sized travel mugs full of the most caffeinated, strongest, and disgusting coffee the military could afford to make. Hygiene had become secondary as his teeth were stained with coffee, a slight beard was creeping across his face, and his unkempt hair was standing on end.

As he was returning to the lab from another run to the cafeteria, with a slight stop over to the men's room, Hank noticed a familiar face. He quick darted to the side of the wall and deftly hid behind a sixteen inch long fire extinguisher. He peeked around a corner to notice the man and a soldier turning down a hallway. Once they were out of sight, he began to nervously shuffle down the hallway, back to the lab.

"He's here," Dr. Little blurted out before the guard in the hall could shut the door behind him. "Ketchum. They've brought Ketchum in. I just saw him in the hall. They were taking him to the barracks. Which means we have.... Oh, what time is it? Two thirty. Wait, is that oh-two thrity or fourteen thirty?"

"Hank!" the staticie voice yelled out from the speaker. "Calm down."

"It's just that if Ketchum's here, that means that you were probably right about them... you know."

"We're almost done," Faber said. "The rest is minor work that can be done at any time. If Ketchum's here, then we need to go ahead and transplant."

Hank looked at his hands. They shook uncontrollably. "I need rest. I... I can't do this right now. I'm too jumpy and unfocused."

"There's no time. We have to go now."

"But if I don't connect all the nodes, or connect the wrong ones....."

"You'll do fine." Faber reached up and lifted the top plate off his head to expose the inner workings of the Legionnaire robot. "Time for surgery, Doctor."

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

Dr. Oliver Ketchum examined the mass of scrap metal and loose parts strewn about the loading bay. He walked over and looked inside the cabin of a Hummer. The interior had been dismantled and left with exposed wires sticking out of holes in the frame.

"Dr. Little's been acquiring parts from anywhere they can," Pvt. Barrows explained. "After LA, the project received top priority from Washington. He's even requisitioned supplies from other projects, both active and discontinued."

Ketchum walked over to a giant metallic ball laying on the ground. "That," Barrows continued, "came from a NASA project."

"What did they need it for?" Ketchum asked.

"Gyroscopes, I believe. More advanced, or something. Though Dr. Little said they were too large, but I believe he copied the design and miniaturized it."

"I was under the impression that it was Dr. Faber who was doing all the innovating."

Barrows became very serious and sullen. "Dr. Faber has passed, sir."

"I see."

The room fell into a mausoleum-like silence. Dr. Ketchum said nothing, but by the look on his face it was clear he was thinking the same thing Pvt. Barrows was....that Dr. Faber had met with foul play. How else to explain Faber's sudden demise? It certainly couldn't have been by natural causes--Faber was as healthy as the proverbial horse. Nor was accident a possibility; Faber had always been a very careful man, especially in recent weeks. No, there were only two logical explanations for his death: either there was a traitor somewhere in his staff or a hostile outside force had sent a hit squad to take him out.

Dr. Ketchum picked up the phone...

Dan leaned back in his chair and propped his sketchbook up on his lap. Peering over the top of it, he did a brief mental inventory of his desktop's contents.

-Computer. Unused for some time, and so gone to screen saver (dancing Spider-Man).
-Mostly eaten sandwich (lettuce, tomato, cheese and eggplant).
-Green Lantern action figure (John Stewart, not one of the good ones).
-Several pens.
-Clock (showing the time as 12:47. Meaning Dan had thirteen minutes left in his lunch break).

A tap on the back of his chair (the spinny-around kind!) suddenly drew Dan's attention away from the sketchbook and back to the real world. He span around in his chair (whoooo!) to be face to face with his boss.

"Mr Connors..."

"Fortune."

(Fun fact! Fortune is Dan's last name.)

"Can I help you?" Dan asked.

Mr Connors took Dan's sketchbook out of his hand and surveyed it quickly, before shaking his head and putting it down on Dan's desk.

"This doesn't look like work, Fortune."

"Well, no, sir. I'm on break."

"Really?"

"Yes."

There was a long (and uncomfortable!) silence.

"But you're still at your cubicle," Connors said.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't most people go...elsewhere on their breaks? Outside?"

Dan shrugged. Connors' eyes moved slowly across the cubicle walls surrounding Dan's desk, taking in the pages upon pages of fictional superheroes who had been hastily sketched on Dan's breaks and subsequently taped up (Dan was in a retro mood, so his current favourite was a pulp-style hero named Professor Action who had- Get this!- a talking ape for a partner. An ape! That talks! Can you imagine...?).

Connors just sighed, saying nothing until a call on his mobile phone drew him away.

"What? No, it's nobody, I'm not with anybody..." Connors said as he left Dan's desk without saying goodbye. Dan picked up his sketchbook again before being interruped by a head popping up, meerkat-like, from the next cubicle.

"Will NOBODY let me finish?!" Dan yelled in exasperation.

"Dude. You have to come quick," The head said.

"I have to do no such thing, Rodney..." Dan said.

"You have no choice. There are big, dramatic things happening. With drama."

Rodney stepped around the cubicle wall, grabbed Dan's forearm, and dragged him towards the window of the office. Dan noticed with some interest that everyone else in the office was headed in the same direction.

"Look," Rodney said.

Dan looked out of the window and down, at the seventeen storey drop below.

"You're looking the wrong way," Rodney said as he grabbed Dan's head and tilted it upwards.

With a startled gasp, Dan realised what had caught the attention of the thirty-two people in his office. On the top of the building across the road from theirs, a building which reached a full twenty-four storeys high, a lone woman stood dangerously close to the ledge.

"What... what is she doing? Is she going to jump?" Dan asked.

"That's what it looks like..." Rodney answered.

"But... but she can't! Somebody has to call the police or the fire department or whoever deals with situations like-"

Dan's grammatically unsound sentence was brought to a merciful halt when the woman jumped. The silence that followed, as she fell sickeningly quickly towards the ground, seemed to last forever.

Dan winced and turned his head away, not able to bring himself to keep watching.

"HOLY SHIT!" Rodney yelled, an exclamation that brought Dan back to reality. He once again looked out the window, dreading what he would see.

The last thing he was expecting was a flying superhero holding the falling woman comfortably against his chest as he flew slowly towards the ground, before depositing her softly in the arms of a waiting police officer.

"Who the shit is that?!" Dan yelled.

"I don't know! He just came out of nowhere!" Rodney replied. "And he was flying! That dude flies! How awesome is that?! Have you ever seen that before?!"

"No, I haven't" Dan said, before he fell silent. He peered down at the mysterious hero, trying to get a good look at him. The hero was wearing a red full-piece jumpsuit, with a huge blue cape billowing majestically behind him (the amount of wind that day was barely enough to blow a tissue down the street, so the billowing remains an enigma).

A lightning bolt was drawn down the centre of the flying man's chest, and a bold 'A' was stamped directly above his heart.

After waving to the onlookers and patting the woman he had rescued on the shoulder, the flying man disappeared the way he had arrived: Suddenly, unexpectedly, and flyingly.

"What do you think? Some sort of movie publicity stunt? How does that even work? There's not enough special effects in the world for that..." Rodney said.

Dan didn't answer, instead turning and running back to his desk.

"Aren't you wondering about what we just saw?!" Rodney asked, following. When he caught up, he found Dan silently staring at the top page of his sketchbook.

There in front of them, in an almost-finished sketch that Dan had been working on his whole lunch break and under the heading "AIRMAN!", was a man. A man with a full body jumpsuit and a huge, billowing cape. A man with a lightning bolt and a huge 'A' stamped on his chest.

"Dude," Rodney said. "You said you'd never seen him before."

"I hadn't," Dan replied. "He doesn't exist. I made him up."

Dr. Ketchum awoke the next morning and had a very boring breakfast in the compound mess hall. Cold cereal and half a grapefruit. Even a thousand miles away from his wife, he couldn't diverge from her strict dietary mandates, despite how much he'd of loved to. His eyelids hung heavy from sleepless night before. He'd spent the last couple of days perusing the file on the newest innovations in design from Dr. Faber for the latest model. Yes, Dr. Faber. Not a machine aping the behavior of the deceased scientist. No. But the real article itself. After all, what was a man other than his thoughts? One might argue that the soul is the essence of man, but who has ever monitored the soul of a person? There is no test to prove how a soul operates the body; but chemically induced electric impulses, those can be measured and studied.

"I can take you to the lab when you're ready," Pvt. Barrows said as he stepped up to Ketchum's table. The doctor nodded and pushed away his tray. He stood and began to walk away. Pvt. Barrows remained standing next to the table. "Sir, no offense, but this isn't an IHOP."

Ketchum stopped. "Hmmm?" He looked and noticed the rest of the men and women around them who had just finished their meals. "Oh. Yes, I see. Sorry." The doctor, feeling a little like a scolded child, returned to the table and picked up his tray.

As Barrows led him down the corridors, Dr. Ketchum kept flipping through his file. He'd wanted to be fully caught up on the project before being introduced to Faber and Little, but so much had been done so quickly that he felt more like one of his students who'd waited until the very last moment to study for a test. They approached the door to the lab and presented their identification and clearances. "Is Dr. Little in yet?" Ketchum asked, still scanning over the pages in his hands.

"Yes, Sir. Dr. Little was already in the lab when I came on duty," the guard answered as he grabbed the handle on the door and gave it a push. With a grunt his shoulder met the thick steel without it budging. "It must be locked." He pressed the button to the intercom. "Dr. Little, please open the door." A few moments passed, and nothing happened. "Dr. Little, this is important. We need you to open the doors." Still nothing.

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

The crackle from the speakers made Dr. Hank Little jump a bit. He tried his best to settle his nerves. He was in the process of connecting the very intricate wiring of Faber's digital brain into the new robotic body. The process was very unnerving. Some of the strands were almost invisble to the human eye. It required him to use a surgical microscope and very fine dripping tools to guide the threads into the right ports. He'd already spent hours cradling the brain onto it's dock inside the unit and placing the larger, easier wires into their ports. As the night wore on, the work became slower and took longer as the lack of sleep crept up on his body and mind.

A deep, banging sound rang through the lab. Were they really trying to bust down a steel door a foot thick? As useless an act it was in breaking through to the lab, it was doing enough of a job to distract Little from the task at hand. And there was still much he had to do.