Prior to sinking, the submarine had been deployed under unusual 
circumstances which garnered the attention of Western intelligence 
agencies. The United States government attempted to recover the 
vessel in the early 1970s, an operation known as Project . This 
was moderately successful, though precisely what it recovered was 
never disclosed. In the late 1990s, agents within the US 
government, affiliated with [REDACTED], contacted the Foundation 
with news of a potential Euclid or Keter-class object within the 
wreck. Following negotiations, the Foundation took custody of the 
wreck and has had it under surveillance ever since. 


as well, he knows you hate it when he does that so it must be do or 
die time. 


The key slides smoothly into the ignition and you revel in the throaty 
hum of the Trans Am's souped-up engine. You roar out of the 
alleyway and the speedometer hits 100 km/h in barely a second. But 
that won't take you where you need to go. Not yet. 


Swerve through traffic. Pull your satchel open. Take out the baggies 
of chartreuse powder. Take out the baggie of tangerine powder. 
Spread them in a mix on the dash. Snort the mix of crushed demons 
in a single go. Your foot hits the clutch. Your hand wraps around the 
stick. You shift into gear with a satisfying click and then slam both 
feet on the accelerator. 


The engine howls as it mashes up and digests the cocktail of sex, 
drugs, and demons inside your brain. The transmission turns from 
metal to bone and cackles as it shifts into calcium-enriched gear. 
The driver's seat is a spinal column. The exhaust is screaming in 
pain. The tires are bleeding. The steering wheel is blinking. The Am 
is damned. 


There is nothing left on this world but blood and guts, and your ride 
wants more. It can sense its prey at the point where the horizons 
meet. The Trans Am's metaphorical claws cut through the mesh 
between realities and it thrusts itself into the underbelly between 
worlds. Your vision fills with the colors of the rainbow and then 
they're gone, replaced with the colors of a steel road into the sky. 


In the distance, a single silver railway cuts through the steel earth. 
On it, a chrome machine cuts a bullet-like silhouette against the 
orange sky at hundreds of kilometers per hour. It's the lovechild of a 
Rolls-Royce and a fighter jet designed by someone with a hard-on 
for Julius Caesar. There are even fins on the top. 


This is the Phitransimun Combine, unfettered by the constraints of 
time and distance in any one universe. It is an artery between the 
world of parascience and the world of Alexylva, ferrying men, 
machines, precious metals, and magic beyond one's wildest 
dreams. 


You want what it has. The Am wants what it is. And you will both 
push yourselves past the limit to seize it. 


There is no oxygen in the underbelly of the universe. But that 
doesn't matter. The real engine is in your chest, below your left lung: 
a fist-sized, blood-red sphere pumping gasoline through your veins 
and regulating the fiendishly toxic substances that you down like 
candies. It fuels both your body and your vehicle. You are running 
on hellpower now - the sky is the limit. 


Wind buffets your leathers as the Am tears across the plain, tires 
squealing for purchase on the smooth metal. You reach towards the 
passenger seat and wrap your fingers around a black carbon-fiber 
repeating crossbow. Its magazine is translucent and filled with 
purple flechettes. There is a red button on top of it. 


The Am pulls level with the train and you lean out the window, taking 
aim at the cargo car. The wind threatens to tear the crossbow from 
your hand, so you'll have to work quickly. You empty the clip into the 
side of the train car - there's surprisingly little recoil, but it's enough 
to rip the weapon out of your grip anyways. You spare a moment to 
watch it disappear far behind you. 


Luckily, you still have the magazine in your hand. 
You hit the button. 


The flechettes glow with a violent violet shine and immediately 

cease to be affected by all motion in this plane of existence. With a 
violent screech, the walls of the train buckle and tear themselves to 
shreds as they try in vain to bypass the flechettes trapped in space. 


The roar of an ordinary metal engine makes itself heard over the 
throaty growls of the Trans Am. You spot them in the rearview: a 
pack of jeeps, each bearing a Roman insignia. Alexylva has 
apparently updated its cavalry for the modern age. Despite the Am's 
best efforts, the Cavalry catches up in no time. 


There isn't time to figure out how - the jeep directly on your right has 
a mounted turret, and in the mirror you can see something climbing 
onto it. In the next moment, your brain rattles with the 


datdatdatdatdat of half-inch shells jonesing for your blood. You hit 
the brake and swerve to the right, dodging a fusillade of gunfire 
while fishing around the passenger seat for something to return the 
favor. 


Your probing fingers wrap around the barrel of a shotgun - there's 
an MPS player mounted on a dock above the iron sights. Where the 
drum magazine should be, there's a brain in a jar. There's no way in 
hell you can shoot this with one arm, but that's what the Atlach- 
Nacha pills are for. Then you remember that you're flat-out. 


So you improvise. 


The Trans Am squeals as bullets riddle its flesh, but it keeps 
moving. You shift gears, slam on the brakes, and drift 
perpendicularly towards the jeep with the turret. The gunner isn't 
expecting this, and his aim lags. Seconds away from colliding with 
the jeep, you complete the turn, shift into reverse, and hit the gas. 


With the turret now on your left, you release the wheel and lean out 
the window, both hands on your shotgun. You spare a brief moment 
to pick a song and then fire twice. The gunner - a bronze-colored 
legionnaire in bizarrely anachronistic Roman armor - looks surprised 
for a moment before the psychic slugs embedded in his 
subconscious tell him that he is supposed to be a salmon. He lets go 
of the gun and starts wiggling around in the mounted turret like a fish 
out of water. 


The driver, wearing the same antiquated armor, looks surprised 
when the gunner stops firing. 


So he improvises. 


The Jeep veers to the left and slams into the Trans Am, knocking 
you for a loop and throwing the shotgun into the backseat. You feel 
a tire blow as the Am spins out of control, its pained screech 
echoing through your brain. The tire would be a problem even if the 
Am weren't alive; as it is now, your 305 demon horses are running 
with shattered legs. You're able to wrest back control from the spin, 
but the Am is crippled now. It's your only ticket off the steel earth - if 
the Am dies, so will you. 


Nobody lives forever. Certainly not your alternate selves. You reach 
down and the satchel for the good stuff. At the bottom, buried 
beneath the baggies and pills, is a modified autoinjector filled with 
tiny buzzing neon locusts that flap against the plastic. There's no 
time for anything fancy - pop the autoinjector open and jab it into 
your neck. 


Your vision goes quadruple; your limbs become a blur. Hopefully 
that means it's working, but there's really no point in worrying about 
it now. Either it worked or you're all dead. As the Express races 
farther and farther away, you reach into the glove compartment and 
retrieve a utility knife. 


You slit your own throat. 


At the moment the blade touches flesh, your body splits itself into 
four Rookies simultaneously occupying the same space, violating 
basic quantum mechanics through the wills of hell. One of you 
gargles and spasms with blood pouring from her carotid - the rest of 
you desperately force the body out of the driver's seat and into the 
shotgun seat. Then you get to work forcing her arm into the gaping 
maw in the center console. The Am perks up as fresh blood and 
gore seeps into its engine - not enough to heal the tire, but enough 
to keep it going. 


You work the clutch and fight with the brakes and wheel, all the 
while keeping one hand on the door and one feeling for the closest 
gun - an M1911 - that your hands can find. The Am pulls up level 
with the lead jeep and the three of you lock eyes with the passenger. 
Then you kick the Trans Am's door open and leap towards him. The 
wind hits you like a hammer — but you're able to grab the doorframe 
and brace your feet against it. 


You look through the passenger window and shoot the cyborg in the 
face. Nothing happens. 


The driver spares a glance at you and returns his focus to the steel 
road. The passenger stares at you, raises a rifle, and then starts 
twitching. The bronze falls away from him in flakes and chunks. 
Within seconds, a pale, naked man sits dumbfounded in the 
passenger's seat. The rifle is at his feet. 


You don't waste the opportunity. One of you punches him in the 
face. One of you pulls his door open. One of you grabs him by the 
collar and yanks him out of his seat, throwing him under the wheels 
of the Trans Am. Then you swing into the vehicle. The driver takes 
six engineering boots to the face, knocking him clean through the 
door and out of the jeep. 


You slide into the driver's seat and floor the gas, pulling ahead of 
your trusty Trans Am and accelerating towards your target. Half-inch 
shells rattle against the jeep, but it's built to last. Within seconds you 
are neck and neck with the train. In your wake, the Trans Am follows 
- dragged along by your body as it tries to reunite with you. 


The hole in the train looks just big enough to jump through. So you 
kick the door open and throw yourselves towards it. The wind throws 
you back and you scrabble for purchase on the jagged metal edges 
of the hole, shredding your fingers to bloody ribbons. You manage to 
yank yourselves up and take a moment to suck the blood off of your 
fingers - it burns like hell but some booze will clear that right up. As 
One, you unclip the flasks on your hips and take a swig. Then you 
look around. 


The carriage is empty, with bare metal walls. You scan the room 
once more and then dash ahead through the sliding door. 


As soon as you enter the next car, a pair of knives embed 
themselves in your brain and drop you to your knees. Through 
squinted eyes, you can make out an auto-psyker at the front of the 
train car. They gaze at you patiently through lidless blue eyes, 
embedded in the wall from the torso down. Their brain hangs 
suspended in a jar of green liquid mounted above their pale, 
emaciated face. 


Your head feels like it's about to burst so you yank your helmet off to 
relieve the pressure. In the back of your mind you can feel the 
psyker working their will on your body. They want you to submit. To 
give in. Surrender is easy. Surrender is bliss. Surrender is ecstasy. 
As if by itself, your arm moves towards the gun in your back pocket. 


The psyker continues to whisper into your mind, filling your head 
with pain and pleasure in alternating bursts. The pain is squeezing 


your brain until it feels like gray matter is dripping out of your ears. 
The acrid iron taste of blood fills your mouth. The psyker whispers to 
you once more, filling your thoughts with a single word: surrender. 


But you're not the surrendering type. You're a pissed off powder keg 
packing heat - and psychic links are two-way. Your hand comes up 
with a black plastic Derringer, and you put it to your head. Then you 
fire. 


The bullet that comes out of the Derringer melts into the side of your 
head, becoming a hyperactive surge of electricity zipping through 
your neurons until it finds the electromagnetic rail between you and 
the psyker and returns to sender. The psyker's eyes widen as a .41 
caliber bullet bursts out of their brain and bounces around the inside 
of their shatterproof jar, pulping what's left. 


Truth be told, you were saving that one for the Inside Man. 


You look down and realize that what your symptoms weren't just 
psychosomatic. One of you is lying sprawled on the floor of the train 
car. There's something grey leaking out of your nose and blood is 
oozing from your glassed-over eyes. 


You avert your gazes and take two swigs from your flask. Then you 
put your helmet back on and push into the vault car. 


The vault car is laden with riches. Priceless paintings hang in the 
spaces not plastered over with lockboxes. The boxes themselves 
are transparent crystal, filled with gold and jewels. Massive metal 
shelves dot the room, lined with invaluable grimoires. The sheer 
wealth on display coats the car in a faint golden sheen. You feel 
unclean just standing in the middle of these riches. 


You and your duplicate smash a few lockboxes and relieve them of 
their treasures, but they aren't really what you came all this way for. 
You're after something much more valuable - information. The 
shelves are swept clean of their contents, and in the far back of the 
train car, you find a row of computer servers. It's much easier to 
simply shove them all into a hammerspace for the Inside Man to sort 
out later than try to download anything yourself. 


It's only after you've cleaned the vault car of its goodies that the 
adrenaline wears off and you remember something important: the 
Trans Am has lost a tire. There's no way it can move two of you - 
especially not two of you - out of the Phitransimun's underbelly. 


The utility knife enters your gut before your brain catches up with 
your reflexes. You stagger and realize that you've disassociated fully 
- your clone just tried to kill you. While she tries to get to the Trans 
Am, the real you has to deal with the blade in her belly. Assuming, of 
course, that you are the real you. Of course, if you kill yourself then 
you won't have to worry about being the real you. But you already 
knew that - that's why there's a knife in your gut. 


You drain your hip flask and give ita moment to drown your sensory 
nervous system. Then you snap the utility blade off at the point 
where it's buried in your stomach and start running. 


The Rookie has only just made it out of the vault car when you 
tackle her from behind and try to pry off her helmet. She rolls, throws 
you off, and knocks the wind out of you with a kick to the gut. While 
you wheeze for breath, she books it to the end of the psyker car and 
yanks the door open. 


On the other side of the door, standing on the car connector, is a 
small army of cyborg legionnaires. The two parties stare at each 
other for a moment before the Rookie scrambles up a nearby ladder 
onto the top of the train car. The legionnaires are about to follow 
when you appear in the doorway. They stop in surprise; you see the 
ladder and take advantage of it. 


The roof is a polished pearl material wnose edges curve downwards 
like a bullet. Fat metal fins dot the roof, their wedge-shaped bodies 
cutting into the brutally cold wind hitting you like a hammer. The 
Rookie is already up there, crouched low behind the flat sides of the 
fins and dashing between them to avoid getting swept off the roof. 
She turns and spots you; the reflection of your helmet is visible on 
hers. 


A lot of people can attest to hating themselves, but they probably 
didn't mean it this literally. You bum-rush the bitch and dive at her 
waist. The two of you slam into a fin and you see stars. The Rookie 


has it worse, though - she took the full brunt. While she lies back in 
a daze, you straddle her chest and work your fingers around her 
neck. 


She punches you in the gut, right where the blade is still lodged, and 
the world goes white. When your vision comes back, the tables have 
been turned - the Rookie is now straddling your chest and trying to 
wring your neck. Your breath catches in your throat and your vision 
narrows.