The soldier paced out of the room briskly, making sure that his 
comrades didn't wake up. To an observer, he looked like a 
commando in his new getup. But in the empty halls of the complex, 
there was nobody to look at him. Ogden headed for the security 
office, fully aware of what he must do. An underlying current of 
dread flowed through his veins as he sneaked his way through the 
building, but with a few trained breaths those feelings were buried. 


Arquette was the only one in the security office, still and virtually 
inactive as he sat on the chair. His eyes flicked from one monitor to 
another, locking onto any sign of movement that passed through the 
camera's field of vision. Every now and again, he'd look at the news 
screen to his right to watch the developing apocalypse grow worse. 
His mind was still processing it all, and it conflicted with his 


conscious overwatch. Only the sound of the sliding door broke his 
intense concentration. 


Before Arquette could even see who it was, he felt something wrap 
around him. Suddenly he was lifted upwards fast. His head struck 
against the concrete ceiling, and the concussion sent his brain 
reeling. Recovering from the blow, his staggered eyes looked down 
to see Ogden standing in front of the door with a tentacle emerging 
from his right sleeve. 


"Sorry, pal. I've got a job to do." 


Where secrets lie in the border fires) 
din the humming wires) 
Hey man, you know you're never coming back 


Arquette couldn't even speak. His windpipe was being crushed. The 
tentacle gripped tighter and tighter, evoking a python that constricted 
its prey. He felt the air get squeezed out of his lungs, hear his ribs 
crack, and feel blood rushing towards his brain. Pain flooded his 
nerves before the numbness began to take over. Then, a loud snap. 


Ogden slowly dropped Arquette's body on the floor. He didn't even 
bother to check whether his comrade was knocked out or dead, he 
just sat on the empty chair and began to type on the panel. He 
clicked on his own earpiece, switching it to a different frequency. 


"Eli. Bailey. Cliff. Judith. It's Ogden. We're moving out." And without 
question, the other four dropped everything and complied. 


Ogden eyed the screens, watching for the other four. Bailey and Cliff 
were donning their outfits while heading to the aircraft hangar. 
Meanwhile, Judith was at the armory, stuffing dozens of weapons 
into her own jacket. The extradimensional space within the jacket 
had more than enough room to empty out the entire armory. Eli was 
in the communications room, having dealt with the other agents 
quickly. Ganymede may have left them mute to the other sites, but 
they certainly weren't deaf, nor were they entirely bereft of 
alternative means of communication. Eli didn't want them to take the 
chance, however. Several limbs emerged from his sleeves to smash 
and tear the equipment. 


Past the square, past the bridge, 
past the mills, past the stacks 


Bailey and Cliff fought their way through the hangar. Bailey climbed 
to the control room while Cliff scrambled across the airstrip to secure 
their jet. The extra arms proved advantageous in disabling the 
resistant ones among the crew. The rest just backed down. 


The onset of the apocalypse had sown thoughts of futility in the 
minds of the crew. The activation of the Ganymede protocol only 
served to cultivate them. And now, the actions of their rogue 
coworkers finally caused them to germinate into outright apathy. Cliff 
and Bailey could see it in their faces as they ran past. 


"This is Bailey. The airstrip is secured and the jet is fueled.” 


"Roger that," Ogden replied. "Judith and Eli are heading your way 
right now." 


A few extra arms emerged from Ogden's uniform and reached for 
the buttons and switches on the panel. They typed and pressed with 
surprising rapidity. Without warning, doors across the entire 
compound began to shut. The bathrooms, the barracks, the 
cafeteria, any space occupied by his comrades were all locked 
down. Several monitors switched from camera feed to computer 
interface. 


"Alright. Let me just shut down the rest of the compound." It wasn't 
meant to be a permanent shutdown. The system's security protocols 
could probably undo it in half an hour, provided no external forces 
would disrupt it. 


At the airstrip, the hangar door slid open. Cliff was already moving 
the jet onto the runway. The rest of the crew just stood nearby and 
watched. 


Ogden was about to finish the sequence, but he heard the door slide 
open and a handgun cock. 


"Hands off the console, Ogden." 


The extra hands ceased moving and slowly retracted into the man's 


jacket. He slowly stood up from the chair and turned to see his foe. It 
was his comrade Kaylin, pointing a 9mm right at his temple. She had 
a cold expression on her face, a mask that held back the broiling 
anger within her like a floodgate. 


"Kaylin, why haven't you shot me yet?" 
She growled. "Because | want to know why." 


Ogden gave out a sigh. "Why? I've got places to go, my team and I." 
He gave a long look at the 9mm. "And you're in my way." 


"And the freakshow jacket?" 
"A gift from my boss." 


For a few seconds the two stood completely still. Whatever amount 
of friendship and camaraderie the two had built and shared over 
years of blood, sweat, and tears had been thrown aside. Now, they 
eyed each other like two Western gunslingers, waiting for the other 
to make a move. An air of apprehension could still be felt, but as the 
seconds ticked by it slowly began to fade. 


"Ogden," Bailey's voice crackled through his earpiece. "Where the 
fuck are you? Everyone else is on the jet already." 


Ogden did not answer back. He didn't even flinch from his stare- 
down with Kaylin. Time was of the essence, and sooner or later the 
stillness would be broken. 


"Ogden, do you copy?" 


Kaylin's twitching trigger finger shattered the moment. In a swift 
leap, Ogden dodged to the right to avoid the incoming shot. 
Simultaneously he opened his jacket, unleashing a flurry of armored 
hands that reached out to his former partner. Kaylin was about to 
fire another round, but the arms grabbed hold of her hands and 
pinned her to the wall. An insectoid arm, like an elongated mantis 
forelimb, stabbed into her wrist, forcing her to drop the gun. 


Several of the limbs moved away from Kaylin and back to the panel. 
With them, Ogden finished typing the shutdown sequence. With one 


final click, the entire compound went dark. He tapped into his 
earpiece. "Alright I'm coming." 


Ogden faced his pinned friend. "I'm really sorry.” 


One of the arms socked Kaylin square on the face, knocking her 
stone cold. The arms dropped her on the floor and retreated back 
into his jacket. Ogden left the surveillance room and never looked 
back. 


The jet zoomed out of Alpha-1 HQ. Cliff was in the cockpit, and after 
the initial takeoff the other four quickly got off their seats and flocked 
to the windows. They looked out see the chaos that the televisions 
could only catch a fraction of. They flew above a small town ravaged 
by lava erupting from beneath the ground. If they flew down any 
closer, the fountains of molten rock that spewed into the sky would 
damage their jet. 


"A merciful demise, compared to the suffering elsewhere." a somber 
voice spoke from behind. 


On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man) 
With a dusty black coat with a Red Right Hand 


The four turned around, and there stood the First Administrator, in 
the flesh. 


"I'm sorry that you had to go through such lengths to come to me. 
But thank you for-" 


"We get it, sir," Eli interjected. "We're here now, what's the plan?" 


The Administrator sighed heavily, then stepped forward. "We fly 
northeast, and fast. | need to consolidate our resources, because we 
have a /ot of work to do." 


« Interlude: New Toys | Canon Hub | To Be Continued » 


Handout 


Little Anthony wandered down Pine Street, separated from the three 
other trick-or-treaters he had tagged along with. According to them, 
the house at the end of the road was giving out regular-sized 
Snickers bars. Two, if they liked your costume. Anthony couldn't 
pass that up. 


He noticed that none of the lights on this block were on. He didn't 
even see decorations. Earlier, Anthony had told them he wasn't 
scared to go by himself, but that was the Power Ranger costume 
making him feel brave. Now the little breathing slots in the mask 
pinched his face. 


The house at the end of Pine didn't have their lights on, inside or 
outside, but he could hear people-noises within. If they were trying 
to be spooky, they did the best job. But Anthony was the White 
Ranger. He couldn't stop now. Up three steps, creaking, and then, 
on tiptoes, he pressed the doorbell... and silence answered. The 
boy lifted a trembling hand and knocked. 


Footsteps thumped out from inside. Anthony could stop himself 
running, but couldn't stop himself shaking. The door opened into 
shadow, and he couldn't see who it was... until she leaned forward. 


The tenant at the end of Pine was a fat old hag, wearing a thick coat 
over a sweater worn to rags. Her face was all mangled on one side. 
It looked like it was healing up from a nasty wound. Anthony had 
seen his brother wearing scary makeup like that when he left for the 
high school party. This woman must have gone as someone real cut 


up. 


"Trick... or... t-t-treat." The words made Anthony's nose sting and 
his freckles itch. He tried not to cry, but if he did start, at least he 
was wearing a mask. 


The woman grinned. She must have made up her teeth, too, to get 


them so creepy. She held up a crooked finger (just one minute) as 
he walked back into the darkness of the house. There was a stifled 
cry, and then a hiss. The hag came creeping back to the doorway 
then and, with a jerk, pulled Anthony's outstretched bag close to her. 
She reached in, holding something he couldn't see, and then her 
hand came out empty. Then her smile returned, making her scabbed 
left dimple crack, as that filthy hand reached up over the mask and 
gently patted his head. The boy was petrified; the sickly sweetness 
of it was like every cheek pinch and wrinkled kiss from every old 
relative was rolled up together into a ball and had collected a layer 
of hair and dirt during the process. She backed into the home, and 
when the door clicked shut behind her, Anthony was already halfway 
up the block. 


"Do you think we should go check on him?" Iron Man asked, as he 
sifted through his loot. 


"It was your idea to ditch him, dummy." Katniss unwrapped a fun- 
sized Butterfinger. 


"Yeah, but | wanted him to leave us alone for a little while, not get—" 


The skeleton grabbed Iron Man's arm. "Quiet! There he is." They 
heard wheezing as he bounded, arms flailing, over the curb and 
nearly into the bushes. 


"So, chomp, were they down there?" Katniss elbowed the skeleton 
so he wouldn't laugh. 


lron Man lifted his mask and stood up to inspect the baby of the 
group. "Shit, what happened to your head?" 


Anthony rubbed his hair, and it was a little matted where the woman 
had touched it. His mask felt wet, too. 


"Shut up, Peter." The skeleton turned to face the Power Ranger. 
"Seriously... did you get anything down there?" 


"Y... yeah." Anthony caught his breath and swallowed. His trembling 
hands held up the candy bag, and he peered into it. "Just some 
money." 


Katniss sat up. "Let me see." 


"Alright... it's getting my candy all wet anyway." He held up the piece 
of currency, dripping and freckled. 


"Give you all my Sweettarts for it." 

lron Man held up two Twix. "Or these." 

Anthony scratched his chin. "I'll let you share it for both." 
"Deal." 

"Deal." 


Carefully, lron Man and Katniss pulled the currency apart. They 
cupped their hands to make sure none of it stained the sidewalk. 


"What are you going to get?" Katniss asked. 
Iron Man shrugged. "Maybe a tattoo." 
"Shut up. You're way too young for that." 


"Pffh. So I'll lie on the form. | can do whatever | want, you know. It's 
my money, and it's my skin." 


Hands Under the Water 


It was calm, it was cold, it was reflective — and it was perfect. 


Kit took a deep breath and then dived into the semi-clear water of 
the river, breaking through the surface. Dead reeds and grass 
strands stuck to him as he swam through the water, going as deep 
as he could in one breath. 


He could only half remember the argument that had driven him out 
here, into a quiet area of the nature reserve near where Gabriel 
lived. Something about defacing his walls, something about throwing 
a knife, something about a deep gash on his thigh that burned in the 
calm waters around him. 


It was always something about something, he concluded glumly as 
he popped back up again, breathing free for a moment, doggy- 
paddling in place. And to boot, it was frigging cold out here, with his 
clothes folded neatly on the bank and the sun sinking on the 
horizon. But if felt like the refreshing cold was helping him think 
clearly, pushing the anti-psychotics and z-drugs through his system, 
out of his system, detoxing him. 


He absently pulled his long hair over one shoulder, where it grazed, 
chilled, just below his collarbone. He squeezed some of the water 
out, then stretched his legs so he could find pebbles under his feet, 
their edges softened by time pushed by the gentle stream. 


It was then that he felt something colder than the water, like icicles, 
dragging themselves around his ankles. The grip was sharp, and 
strong — he could feel every individual bone that would be present in 
a human hand, traced in freezing relief against his skin. 'You’re on 
her turf,'his thoughts supplied grimly. 'The Spirit of Dark and Lonely 
Water.’ 


The Spirit was pulling him down — she was strong and meaningful 
and determined — well, he could be all those things too. He wasn't 


going down without a fight. He pulled back as the hands yanked at 
him greedily, working their way up his shins to get more purchase. 
But he quickly found himself in the water to his chin, the hands 
pulling him in the direction the stream ran. 


His own hands clasped at the surface, grasping blindly for help — he 
didn’t want to go with her. ‘Live now. Tomorrow, we die," his 
thoughts reminded him mockingly. The reason for the argument. 
The dark thought the reason there was blood in the water as he felt 
the hands grab at his thigh, dig into the self-inflicted wound. He was 
sinking, and fast. He could feel weeds enveloping him and suddenly 
realised the hands hid here, grew here, grabbed here — neither good 
nor evil, just waiting for an unsuspected swimmer. An unsuspecting 
him. 


With one swift pull, all of him was under water, and hands were 
snaking up his body — some anchoring him at the ankles, but others 
pushing themselves over his mouth. His lungs burnt as he tried to 
take a breath and to fight against the alien concept, but the world 
was quickly growing dim at the edges. 


Next thing Kit knew, hands that weren't as cold, hands that were 
human, were pulling at him, rolling him out of the water and onto the 
bank, where he spluttered and drew shaky breath. Kit’s eyes darted 
to the water and, amongst the clouds of dirt that had been kicked up, 
he saw the hands disappear back into the weeds, disappointed they 
hadn’t sunk their target. 


Gabriel was next to him, his clothes soaked; evidence of what had 
happened. 


“Kit! Jesus wept, Kit!” 


Kit blinked slowly, trying to get his bearings, turned his head towards 
his boyfriend friend boyfriend(?). 


“You were laying face-down in the water! | thought you were dead!” 


Tears were streaming down Gabriel’s face. Kit couldn’t breathe, 
turned, coughed pond water. 


+ DOCUMENT- 
TRANSEPT-861 (CLEARANCE 4/861 REQUIRED)