Aberrant: 2011 - Nathan Dayes Declassified: Forgotten But Not Gone

[Nathan Dayes]

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[Nathan Dayes]

Jan. 20th, 2009

1400 Hours Local Time

Omsk, Siberia - AKA The Forgotten City

Geryon stood in the middle of a field of snow, a target painted brightly on his chest. Someone had had the presence of mind to paint a much smaller one on his forehead, and it was this other, smaller target that was centered in the scope of Cadet Nathan Dayes.

It was the middle of nowhere, with nothing to hit but the painted wooden dummies, done up like infamous novas - Geryon, Leviathan, Matador, Totentanz and so forth. The Divis Mal target had disappeared three times now and no one knew where it kept going. The others remained, dehumanizing the dehumanized and taking fire from unsteady marksmen.

Nathan squinted through the rifle's heavy gunsight. The lens wasn't glass, but a unique frost-resistant polymer, and he still had to wipe it a bit to make the shot out. He was clad in a heavy woolen suit that kept out most of the cold. He was a young-looking man of about 21 with thick red hair and sharp blue eyes, in excellent shape physically. His eyes seemed older than a mere 21. They focused through the scope.

"Wind 10 kph," he said to himself, and turned a dial. "Range, 375 meters," he added, and turned another. He took a couple of calming breaths in, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger gently.

The retort of the rifle echoed across the endless frozen Siberian wastes. Geryon's left shoulder sprouted a wound, gushing sawdust for a brief moment. The nova's scowl, drawn on a tiny head slapped onto a gargantuan body, gazed at him through the scope.

Nathan cursed. "And now, one thousand pounds of muscle throws a car at my ass, and game over." He turned a dial slightly. "11 kph, not 10..."

* * *

June 10th, 2007

2023 Eastern Standard Time

Washington, DC, USA

The waitress looked at him and smiled a practiced smile. "Welcome to Fuddrucker's. Party of two?"

He ran his fingers through thinning brown hair. He nodded. "Smoking, please."

"Right this way." She led him into the slightly hazy section of the restaurant, and he felt the craving return. Normally he'd avoid the smoking section - normally he'd go outside entirely - but something told him that his acquaintance would want to light up.

He sat down and ordered a Coke, and went through the menu. He told himself that he was going to have just a salad, but somehow he knew he'd be getting a burger. He'd only lost five of the twenty pounds he'd promised himself at the start of the year. Work did that - you had only time to slip out and grab something fast and greasy, and you lost sleep. Too much sleep.

He looked up at the flat-screen television mounted in the corner. It was tuned to N! which he'd grown to loathe on principle. Not at much as CNN, but still a lot. It had been playing the same story for the past two days, and would probably get another five out of it - unless Alejandra announced a new album, or someone got caught in Ibiza doing coke off a dead hooker's stomach.

It was the same shot they were replaying. Amateur footage of a thousand pounds of muscle bearing down on a security guard, always paused just before the killing blow, freezing the look on the nova's face as well as the guard's. It was a crystal-clear image, one of the high-definition handicams they sold now. It gave him a shiver - especially since he knew in intimidate detail exactly what happened to the guard. The look on the guard's face was plain: he knew what was about to happen, too.

His drink arrived and he took a sip. He looked at the wooden coaster, and then frowned, setting his drink down. It wobbled from side to side a bit.

"Not straight. Huh." Nathan picked up his drink and turned over the coaster. On the underside was a small wad of folded paper taped to the coaster.

He peeled it off, unfolded it, and read it.

Bathroom

2nd stall from left

Quickly

He folded the note back up and finished his drink. He stood up, taking his jacket with him, and went into the bathroom.

The men's room was in good repair - cleaned well, with hardly any graphiti. There was even a TV in the corner so that people addicted to their XWF could catch it while using the head. Currently it was going over the same story the one outside was.

He picked the second stall in, and shut the door. He sat on the toilet seat and waited.

"They say that Core's off his game," came a voice from the stall next to his.

"Core's not my guy. My guy's Neal Nails."

"A good pick."

"I hear he's changing his theme song."

"To 'Here Comes the Pain' by Mefistofaleez." There was a pause. "You came alone."

It wasn't a question, but Nathan felt compelled to answer anyways. "I did."

"Good. I must apologize for the circumstances."

"Hardly be the first man whispering dirty words in my ear in a bathroom..."

The other man chuckled. Nathan tried to place his voice - it sounded vaguely English, London perhaps, if he knew his accents. "We have a few minutes. Found anything unusual lately?"

"Nothing I didn't expect."

"Indeed. But that's not what I asked, agent."

"In my cactus I found a small pebble amongst the others that didn't belong. The color was a bit off from the others. I cut it open and there was a microchip inside."

"This would be three nights ago, between 6:00 PM and 10:00 PM?"

"Around seven."

"I was wondering what causes the breakdown. Very good, agent. I can see why you work at the FBI."

"Thank you, sir."

"There's a question in your voice."

He paused, then sighed. "Four months now, sir."

"Eighteen weeks and three days to be precise."

"I'd have thought you were done with your fact-checking, whoever you guys are." He felt a little nervous. The offer had come in, as the other man had said, eighteen weeks and three days ago. That someone up high was very impressed with the speed of the fact-checking he did for Operation Frozen Lake and that they couldn't say who it was, not yet, but if he was up for a promotion then they would be doing extensive HUMINT, COMINT and SIGINT on him until they were certain he had whatever they were looking for. He hadn't noticed anything at first, but little things were starting to creep around the edges. A van that he didn't recognize. A few strange looks in the hall. A subtle change in the hum of his home phone.

"Nearly there, agent. Ah, they are replaying this story again..."

"It's all they talk about."

"What do you think about it?"

"Utopia wants the investigation, but we're fighting it. I'm not on the case, but I talk sometimes to those that are - they've got literally thousands of leads. The best best is triangulating where everone was at the time of the - "

"I should rephrase. What - as a person - do you think about what happened? Not as a professional. But as a normal man watching this on television."

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked up at the television. It was the same frozen moment again, Geryon about to pound a security guard into mush before he went on to murder the mayor of Tampa, Florida.

"I keep thinking about that guy. The one right there, that Geryon's about to kill. That guy had a whole life and it's gone. He left behind... I dunno, maybe he wasn't married, but he must have had some pals. Someone who misses him."

"He didn't deserve this."

"Damn right he didn't. So the mayor was an idiot. Oh boy, a democratically elected representative turns out to be an idiot and tries to ram through unconstitutional legislation. Knock me down with a feather. He didn't deserve to die either. Twenty-five people dead - just the dead, not counting the wounded - dead because this giant... thing..." He shook his head in frustration. "Because this thug can't solve any problem without using his fists. It turns my stomach."

"It's the look on his face that gets me."

"The look?"

"How he's looking at people in that video footage. At that security guard. Like they're ants. Less than ants - just a child's toy dolls, played with and smashed when the child throws a tantrum. I've seen that look on so many of their faces, agent - that outright contempt for us. As if we were meaningless. Less than nothing. Do you remember the day that Divis Mal broadcast his Manifesto?"

"I do."

"It stated that novas cannot be constrained by morals or ethics of baselines as they seek out their full potential. Just think about that for a moment - that the social contracts, rights, ad laws of six and a half billion people are outweighed by one person who wants a new superpower. The sheer arrogance of that, agent. That's how they think."

"Not all of them."

"No. Not yet, anyway. But none of them are very far from thinking that way. The American Thomas Jefferson had a saying, that your rights end where mine begin, and your president Roosevelt famously said that we have nothing to fear but fear itself. I look at that man about to die, and the fear on his face, and I look at those people dead, no longer free to live life and be happy, and my blood runs so very cold. You have to ask yourself, who watches monsters like this? Who makes sure that their rights end where ours begin? If fear is the mind killer, who kills the fear? Who watches out for Joe Baseline, agent?"

The bathroom was silent for a moment. Then Nathan spoke, realization dawning in his voice. "You do."

"We do. You can call me Mister Jones, agent. I'm your recruiter, and you have been working indirectly for the Directive for the past eighteen weeks. You're exactly who we're looking for. If you want it - if monsters like this make you feel as I do - then the job's yours."

* * *

Geryon's eyeball sprayed sawdust as the bullet smacked into it.

Nathan pulled the rifle back, and rolled over into a sitting position. He pulled the clip free, checking for frost, and then began reloading it with the shells in his pocket.

Normally he'd have multiple clips that he'd pre-loaded, but he was only able to get the one from the quartermaster - for this rifle anyways, and it was his favorite. It was a modern sniper rifle used in police actions and situations where rapidly resighting a target was critical. The Heckler & Koch PSG-1 - expensive, but the Directive could afford to outfit its agents with the very best, especially considering who they were sent to police. He could have gone with a more conventional model, but something told him that clips would be in just as short a supply as spotters.

Not far away, he saw a sniper team setting up shop. There were two of them, both women, a spotter who kept her mind on the game , who measured the terrain, picked a spot, figured distance, wind, other factors, allowing the shooter to concentrate on the shot. It was the ideal sniper scenario, and nearly everyone currently going through sniper training was buddied up. But there was, after all, a 50% chance of an odd number of trainees, and someone had to get picked last - or not get picked at all.

It rankled in his stomach. He shoved bullets into the clip and thought back to the orientation ceremony, and the call for 'special treatment.' As if that did anything but paint a target on his chest and earn him scorn.

He loaded in the last bullet, and rolled over, getting back into position. The wind was starting to gust, which made shots difficult, and twice as difficult without a spotter. But that would make it that much sweeter when they compared scores and saw how much ass Nathan Dayes was kicking all over the place.

He imagined the looks on their faces, and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

The doctor looked over his patient, and clicked his tounge. "Stomach pains?"

The man on the bed nodded. He seemed slightly lethargic, almost drugged. Two men stood beside him, short knives in hand, the knifes lacking the mirror sheen of steel and instead sporting a dull black finish.

The room had no electricity. It was lit by glowing rods set into the ceiling. The table itself was made out of wood with soft cushions on the top. No one carried a radio, a pager, or a phone. No one had a ring on, and the only keys present were made of the same dull black material that the knives were fashioned from. The doctor himself had his name stitched onto his jacket, denoting him as Doctor Abrams. He held a clipboard (plastic clip) and a pencil (no metal holder for an eraser) and was staring at a sheet of Vella paper that had the paraphysiology report of one Stephen Klein on it.

"Just hurts when I eat." Stephen was slurring his words slightly. His gaze was fixed at the middle distance.

"No changes in diet. Hmm. No changes in food supply." Abrams tapped his pencil nervously on the top of the clipboard. It led to broken pencil lead, but he couldn't bring a pen in here and he tapped his writing utensil when nervous. Klein made him very nervous.

The doctor flipped up the sheet and read the arrest report, and the length of stay. "Okay, Stephen, I believe this might be a case of your stomach contracting."

"Why's it doin' that?"

"You normally eat, according to this report, five and a half times as much as a normal person of your age and body weight. Since your arrest, you've been doused constantly with moxinoquantamine. This has made your metabolism more sluggish, your powers far less acute, and generally you need to eat less - and your stomach, stretched to accommodate all the food it was taking in, is now contracting and that's where the pain comes in. It'll pass in a few days."

"That's all it is?"

"Yes. I'll adjust your diet accordingly to make things easier. Gentlemen - "

"I can walk, I can walk." Klein staggered to his feet, wavered, and grabbed a counter top for support. He lost his grip and crashed to the ground, spilling a small wastebasket. "I can't walk."

The men nodded at each other, and one of them hoisted Klein up, and slung an arm over his shoulder. The other one held his knife at the ready. "Let's go, Klein."

Abrams let out a long sigh as Klein was escorted out of the room. He opened the medicine cabinet and withdrew a small bottle of headache pills. He shook out one, thought for a moment, then shook out another one.

Abrams was good at his job, and he checked everything thoroughly, as did everyone in the Forgotten City's holding facilities. There was no metal in the room, no metal on the way back to the cell, no metal near the cell. They measured Klein's moxinoquantamine dosage carefully and locked the medicine cabinet to make sure that the counter-agent - adrenocilin - was used only by people who needed it, such as the training facility's new nova recruit.

On his last trip to the paraphysician, however, this nova agent noticed his headaches getting less potent, and he only took half a pill.

He'd thrown the other half in the waste basket.

* * *

November 5th, 2008

0419 Hours, Pacific Standard Time

Los Angeles, California, U.S.A.

IntCell NA-665

Sometimes, when he was bored, he went out and tried to find a trace of himself.

The zeroing teams had done their jobs well, but you never knew. It was amazing how many footprints you left in the modern world without thinking about it, and even more amazing that they seemed to have gotten them all. Even his buyer's history on online music sites had gone, which made him a little sad, because that meant there was one less person out there keeping the comedy album alive.

He was the ideal candidate - no father, mother in a stage of permanent psychosis from drug overdose, no known relatives. But they'd still taken their time with the unpersoning because it could be traumatic, and what was worse was that there was no way to tell what would prove difficult for him to take. His birth certificate, when it was erased, didn't mean a thing. When he lost his college diploma, he'd needed a few drinks.

He didn't miss his old name that much, though. He'd been teased about it at school, and "Nathan Dayes" was a better name. It rolled off the tounge - it sounded tough but smart, without being cliché about it. If he could get a better name, maybe a better life would follow.

He didn't see his apartment much. Most of his time was spent in the Pit, as it was affectionately known - a not-well-conditioned office floor in one of Los Angeles' midrange skyscrapers. It was wired through with computers that could eat ViaSoft's latest offering alive and top of the line eufiber network cables connected to the Underground Railroad - their affectionate nickname for the below-ground secure communications system installed in all Directive member nations. Currently there were two other agents on shift out of the nine total in the cell, both at their desks, sorting through HUMINT and COMINT and PHOTINT and the occasional delve into the IPOLAR archives. They all had a selection of novas to observe, all of whom hung their hats in the City of Angels.

Right now, there were two novas on Nathan's plate. The first was the Clipper, who was an old favorite in the Directive's scene for when they needed - sometimes badly needed - a laugh. The Clipper, AKA David Sears, had been around for years, and took his name from one of LA's professional basketball teams, back when LA saw reason to have two. The story went that the frustration that is the life of every Clippers fan finally caused the Mazarin-Rashoud node to open up, and the Clipper became the best basketball player in history, finally able to back up his claims that he could dribble a ball better than the players on the court. With no one to really play basketball against, since there was little point, David Sears had parlayed his fame as a nova into endorsements and exhibitions. He had a drug habit that could be described as 'monstrous' and a tendency to sleep with any woman with a pulse. This could normally provide some entertainment for the sex-starved IntCell agents who had him under Alpha level surveillance, provided one didn't think about the pictures that showed what the Clipper's sexual equipment had turned into.

Usually the Clipper was harmless - almost comic relief. Lately he'd been talking quite a lot about what he thought was going on inside Project Utopia. It turned out, according to the Clipper, that Slider was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ, and was killed by a Satan-worshiping sect of politicians and businessmen who ran the world in secret. That in itself was harmless - the Clipper was hardly the first celebrity to act like an idiot - but David Sears seemed to honestly believe what he was saying, which was a cause for alarm in any nova. Any super-human who was strong enough to do a dunk on a basketball hoop hung on the observation deck of the Empire State Building was bad news if he went crackers. That, however, didn't worry Nathan as much as the other nova.

The other nova's name was unknown to the public, but they knew it as Aaron Blisney. His nome de novus was Longbow, and he was an Elite contracted under the DeVries agency. Longbow's powers included long, long range sight, the ability to survive in space, the power to fly, and a blast of pure 'force' energy with a very long range. Longbow was a living satellite weapon, which had served him well in Kashmir - but he also spent a lot of time in low Earth orbit, alone, looking down. And it was recently announced that he'd be taking a vacation to "focus on personal matters," which raised every red flag in Nathan's brain.

Longbow was on Gamma surveillance. There was a reaction team which got daily updates. Currently, Aaron Blisney spent a lot of time driving around town in his Ferrari, eating at restaurants, and muttering to himself What he muttered - picked up by very tiny microphones - seemed to be incoherent poetry about the frailty of women.

Aaron was currently at home, with a burst transmission from the bugs due in any minute. Nathan scanned a freshly obtained report from inside DeVries.

A yawn came from two cubicles over. "Half an hour. Half an hour of this shit and then I can get my ass home."

Nathan smiled. The voice belonged to his coworker, Agent Paul Tipton, who did the world's greatest impersonation of Lance Stryker. Paul had his eyes on 'Electric' Will Greene, an electro-kinetic man running a private security firm whose cocaine habits made excellent blackmail, and Cortex, a hyper-intelligent young woman who was a bio-engineering prodigy working for Project Utopia's S&T division. Neither was raising much of a stink, so Paul was bored. 99% of your time in an IntCell was spent being bored, which made up for the excitement of the other 1%.

"Just be glad you're pulling the graveyard shift in a city on a mandated timetable." The voice was Kate - "Kathy" to absolutely no one - another co-worker, who Nathan had feelings for but that he knew were just the results of his sexual frustration from his teen years and his lack of experience with women. At least that's what the counselor had said.

"Mandated timetable. I still don't know how they pulled that."

"Well, like I said. Be glad we have it. You could try working the graveyard in a city that shuts down at nine in the evening and see how much fun that is..."

Nathan turned back to his terminal. The report was from one of DeVries' counselors, one of those experts in telling superhumans they were crazy in the most diplomatic way possible. It lined up with what they knew - Longbow had loads of issues and needed some time away from killing people from several dozen miles up. The counselor's assessment matched Nathan's own.

It was fresh intel, and he was the first to parse it. He frowned at a mention of "the incident on August the 5th, 2008" as a tipping point in Aaron Blisney's psyche.

He popped open an OpNet connection and set up a search. Nothing public leapt out at him - he'd already digested all of Longbow's media appearances for the last five years. He widened search criteria, looking for anything unusual, and something caught his eye.

One of the aid facilities set up in the region, a joint venture between Project Utopia and Doctors Without Borders, had admitted a young woman, aged 15, for sexual assault. That, sadly, wasn't unusual. What was, was that the woman had signs of hypothermia in the middle of the summertime. She didn't say anything to anyone, not even the counselor.

He searched again, and the woman turned up dead - killed in an outbreak of insurgent violence. And that trail ran cold.

Hypothermia, in the summertime, in a fifteen year old who was sexually assaulted.

He tried to stop the theory from forming in his head, but it did anyway. Floating up there, all alone, miles between you and everyone. And those super-strong eyes saw some young pretty thing that turned your crank, and you just swooped down and grabbed her, bringing her up with you into the cold and endless night, and you told her that if she made it difficult you'd just let go...

He made a note to follow up, to get the counselor's reports and pass the information along to the cells in Kashmir, and then he resumed reading the report, trying not to grind his teeth out of sheer rage.

The report went on to add that Aaron Blisney had been acting unusual ever since the miniature 'Comm Crash' that a nova had engineered in the region, that had knocked out all wired and wireless signals. That raised Nathan's eyebrow. Of course, it would make sense - whatever Longbow wore as a headset would be taken out too, laving him more alone than ever. Still...

The burst transmission arrived. Nathan popped open the video feed and began taking notes. Subject went into the shower. Subject is watching TV. Subject -

The window exploded in a shower of glass. He heard a scream, and turned, and then a grip like a vice closed around his neck. He stared at the grip's owner, a man who only existed on video feeds until now.

"Saw it," growled Aaron. "Pictures in the air. Saw the pictures in the air. Don't know how I missed it."

He can see transmissions Jesus Christ why the hell didn't anyone know

Nathan's vision was turning red. His head pounded. His glance rolled to one side as Paul lay on the floor, unmoving, a shard of glass in his chest, and Kate struggling to her feet, bleeding from half a dozen shallow cuts.

"Start with you. See on your computer. Pictures in the air went to you."

Nathan's head felt like it was going to pop off of his neck. His glance rolled to the computer, and the report there, and of course, it was obvious now, but he hadn't seen it before, he'd failed to think, and no one had noted the developments because how did you figure out if someone could see transmissions, anyways, you couldn't just look, and he could see it on Aaron's face, what he did to that girl, and he felt Aaron's fist vibrate and hum, and knew what was coming and he wanted - he wanted -

he wanted to be smart enough to never make a mistake and fast enough to see him coming and tough enough to fight him off and to see what powers he had cooking inside him with just a glance and more than anything anything else in the whole wide world he wanted to take that force bolt he'd seen turn people into spaghetti sauce and throw it

right

back

in

his

face

Nathan's hand clasped onto Aaron's wrist. There was a tingle that ran deeper than a mere electric current. And then -

The bolt of force blew Aaron's hand off at the wrist. He staggered back, screaming, and Nathan gasped for air, his vision filled with red, full of frustration and contempt and the cold, cold rage of the righteous. He pointed and his fist shook, and Aaron Blisney's head exploded.

Aaron's body crumpled to the floor. Nathan followed him.

* * *

"Did you lose the bullets?"

Nathan stared, momentarily stunned, at the quartermaster. A disassembled PSG-1 sat on the counter between them, along with the empty clip. Bullet proof glass muffled the quartermaster's voice. He was grinning.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"The bullets. I gave you fifty. Do you still have them? If you don't, well, we'll have to charge you for them..."

Nathan twigged to the joke. Of course no one sane would ask for the bullets back, and the quartermaster wasn't, not really. He just wanted to give the cadet a hard time, in the grand tradition. Just for the look on their faces.

Normally, Nathan would trade barbs - all right there in the clip, sir, if you can't see them maybe we need to get you a hooker instead of your left hand - but he wasn't in the mood. "The bullets are out on the sniper range, sir, with a big sign up saying that people aren't to enter the range during training hours. They wound up out there on account of being loaded into this clip - this one clip, singular - and then shot very fast out of, essentially, a well-designed metal tube. If I go get them I break the rules. I'd have to report it to Commander Sujar and get permission."

"And that wouldn't help either of us. Okay, cadet. It's all in good condition. Thanks. How was the shooting today?"

"Lonely. Bye for now, sir." Nathan exited.

He walked through the streets of the Forgotten City. He spotted a practice run of Me & My Shadow, with the goal being to tail someone - or to spot who was tailing you. Nathan was good at being both the dog and the tail, so when it was his turn he wound up with half a dozen tails as the dog, and trying to track three separate dogs as the tail. It frustrated him, but he tried to channel that frustration into determination. It worked, mostly.

He could hear, in the distance, the sounds of the Munroe Massacre. The official term for it was Sergeant Munroe's Unarmed Combat Class, but it picked up its nickname because no one stood long against Munroe's fists. Nathan was faster and more agile, but didn't quite have the training, and certainly not the strength. He'd once punched Munroe in the neck and Munroe had laughed and punched him right back. Of particular note in the unarmed combat classes was nova combat, which consisted mostly of holds, flips, and leverage taken from a dozen martial arts disciplines, to keep the non-super-strong novas on the ropes and render any heightened damage resistance immaterial. For super-strong novas, Munroe's advice had been "be somewhere else."

Nathan hated the anti-nova demonstrations, because Munroe inevitably picked out a nova cadet to use them on, and he was the only one in the class - as far as he knew, in the whole City.

He walked into the men's dorm, relaxing slightly as the heat pumped back into his body. Someone walked past, bumping his shoulder.

"S'cuse me, firecrotch."

Nathan bit his tounge, and let him on his way. He stepped into the dorm, which was full of the trappings of grunt life - semi-private bunk racks all in a row, footlockers at each one. Five cadets were playing poker in the corner. One waved.

Nathan waved back, then plodded towards his bed. He had an hour's worth of free time before he had his class on the Rules of Engagement, and he hadn't slept in days due to his schedule. He needed just a twenty minute power nap and then -

He stared down at his footlocker, and read the words painted on it in red.

ABERRANT

He heard very slight sniggering from the card table.

Fighting to keep his voice calm, he spoke. "The brush strokes indicate a right handed man, so we can eliminate Chris." He ran a finger along the edge of one of the letters. "Not quite dry, so it's within the last hour, which leaves out Edward, Tom and the other Tom because they've been on the field trip to the holding facility all day. I saw Pete on the range and James doing shadowing exercises. Rough angle would indicate someone about 5 foot 8, to 5 foot 10..."

Nathan turned and ran out the door, eyes on the ground - there were footprints there even in the middle of all the slush, and they led around the building towards someone having a smoke. Marty - the man who'd bumped past him - looked up. There was a small lick of red paint on his thumbnail.

"Hey, what's up, firecro - "

Nathan dropped low and plowed into his midsection, slamming him against the wall. He heard the wind sail out of Marty and Nathan pressed his forearm up against the man's throat.

"You're real funny, Marty. You are a fucking hoot."

"Didn't do a ghhhrkkkk damn thing you little freak - "

"Paint on your thumbnail. Now that I think about it, even the handwriting matches. You are nailed, you piece of shit - "

He heard footsteps behind him and shouted over his shoulder. "Fuck off, guys, he deserves it - "

Twisting to shout was the opening Marty needed, and he drove a knee up into Nathan's crotch. Nathan grunted, relaxing pressure, and Marty shoved him away into the alley's opposite wall.

He saw Chris - a big black man who lasted the longest at the Monroe Massacres - run up, shoving one hand on each of their chests. "Break it up, break it up, Jesus - "

"Fuck off, Chris! I am gonna kick his ass - "

"Try it, you little mutant - "

"Seriously guys. Stop it. Nate, it's just a word. It'll wash right off. Chris, it was way outta line. Save it for the enemy, you two - "

"He's the enemy! Everyone dances around it and ignores it but he is the fucking enemy, Chris! He's one of them! What the fuck is he doing here?"

Nathan twisted effortlessly out from Christopher's hand. He stepped back from the group of them. "Well, it finally comes out. About time."

"Come on, Nate, you know I don't feel that way - "

"So how come you didn't tell me when I came in?"

"I - it slipped my - "

"Sure it did. This is bullshit. This is absolute goddamn horseshit. I just came back from the sniper range and I was shorted on clips by that pencil-dick of a QM - "

"He does that to everyone - "

"And I was out there alone, no spotter. In this fucking weather, and no, he doesn't do that to everyone! Just to the nova. To the one they're teaching shit like him to hate - "

"Say that to my face, abby - "

"Marty, fuck off." Chris released his grip. "Don't go into the dorm, don't go anywhere near here for a while. I'm serious, man."

Marty sneered, set his shoulders, and walked off. Chris sighed. "He's gonna be impossible to live with - "

"He's an idiot."

"What, compared to you? Not up to your superior master race intellect, are we?"

Nathan blinked. "I - you know that I - "

"Yeah, I know you don't think that way. Does he? Just let it go, man."

"If he'd painted NIGGER on your ruck I'd be pulling you off of him."

Chris smiled. "You mean you'd try."

Nathan sighed, leaning up against the wall. Chris leaned up against the opposite.

"How long were you in the Army for, Chris?"

"Three years. Got stationed out in the middle of nowhere every single tour. Watched the dudes in the masks fight my fights live on TV. Got bored out of my skull. They gave me a job where I can do something real. You know that the Directive's just about the only military-intel organization left where they're increasing baseline recruitment?"

"I hate words like that." He shook his head. "Baseline. Nova. Aberrant, zip, flatline, freak. All they do is remind me that there's a wall, and I woke up one day on the wrong side of it. I've been with the Big D over a year now. I was recruited just like you - for my skills, my talents, my dedication to my craft. I was with the FBI six years before the Directive showed up. Then one day it all goes to hell and here I am - barfing up my big ol' rookie shit sandwich so I can eat it all over again. It's not fair."

"No, it's not. It's not fair that only one person out of a million gets super-powers, either. Or that some folks are born with silver spoons in their mouths and others are lucky if they get to eat once a week. Life's not fair to anyone, Nate. I know just as well as you."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you would."

Nathan stared at his shoes for a bit. Chris looked down the alleyway.

"Said you were working for the Big D for a year already?"

"Yeah. I guess I never mentioned that."

"I guess I didn't ask. So what're you doing back here?"

Nathan opened his mouth, but was interrupted. A blaring klaxon alarm rang out, echoing up and down the alleyway. Both Christopher and Nathan looked towards the city's PA system, mounted on the street corner, just visible from the alley.

"Attention all personnel. Attention all personnel. Possible breakout in progress. We are at Situation One throughout the City. This is not a drill. Stand to Situation One readiness. Further updates as we receive them. Repeat: Attention all personnel. Attention all - "

Nathan and Chris exchanged looks. They'd never experienced it outside of a drill, but they both knew their procedure.

They both knew what Situation One meant.

* * *

Date: ??? ??, 2008

Time: ???? Hours

Location: ????

He'd first woken up in this room with guns in his face. You remembered something like that.

Even now, he could still remember it - a few days ago, he guessed, although there were no clocks in his hospital room and he didn't have access to TV, radio or the OpNet, so marking time was difficult. He'd woken up, still feeling ill, but his vision focused instantly on the doctor, and the dozen men with high powered rifles standing around him. He'd tugged at the restraints, and they'd refused to budge.

The doctor and he had conversed. Kate was fine - she had PTSD, but physically, fine. Paul was in serious, but not critical, condition. The IntCell was being dissolved and they were all waiting reassignment. By the way, his hair had grown back, it was red now, he'd lost thirty pounds and he was a nova.

That last one was the big one. He turned it over and over in his mind.

Nova.

He'd seen so many, but they were all on the other side of the screen. Aaron Blisney was the first time he'd seen one face to face. Some were harmless - too often, they let the power get to their heads. That was humanity for you.

And here he was. One of them.

He'd heard only rumors about the novas - no, he corrected himself, the other novas - in the Directive. The Directive's cell structure kept everyone isolated, so that a leak could only damage them so far. There were a few 'semi-public' nova operatives, like that Emma Peel-styled gun bunny, but none he'd ever met.

He wondered if that would change. He wondered if he wanted it to.

When not puking out a lifetime's worth of poisons, he was tested. Balancing on beams, running up steps, games of mental acuity, testing reaction time, reasoning, observation skills. He couldn't fly, which disappointed him. He wasn't bulletproof either, though he could be called "bullet resistant." Super-strength, or the lack thereof, was the real disappointment - while he was in the best shape of his life, he still didn't have much to his muscles.

Eventually his full report had arrived. He knew, because he'd heard them discussing it behind the observation mirror of his room while he busied himself with some books.

There were four voices in the next room. He could tell the difference between them, but he didn't recognize any of them.

"I've reviewed the chips a dozen times. I see it quite plainly. Aaron Blisney bursts through the window, grabs Agent Dayes, and Dayes responds by blowing his hand off at the wrist. Dayes then points at Blisney's head and Blisney is killed instantly. Yet Dayes claims that he can't remember what he did clearly and he's shown no sign of that ability since."

"Could it be a one-time occurrence?"

"It's possible, though no nova on record's ever manifested a power only once. Once they manifest a power they are consistently able to manifest it."

"So he's holding back."

"He's new to all of this. He may not have figured out how to do it again."

"Or we could be dealing with another situation like the one with Agent Morris."

There was silent for a long moment. Then another voice spoke. "Let's concentrate on what we do have. His psych profile?"

"Hasn't changed much. He's uncertain. Scared. Minor signs of PTSD. When given leisure time he mostly reads. He asks to see his coworkers when the subject comes up."

"Empathy for others shows no reduction?"

"No, sir. If anything, it's increased."

"Good sign. Potentially, a good sign. How about when the subject of his eruption is broached?"

"Guarded. That's not unusual. Please understand, gentlemen, that an eruption takes things that are very private and puts them on public display. He's somewhat ashamed of the fact that he always wanted red hair, for example - and that he was insecure about his thinning hairline. And now everyone knows how insecure. He feels naked. Like everyone can see right through him."

"That's understandable, but if we're to determine what to do, we need to determine what he can do."

"What have we determined so far?"

"So far... let's see. Heightened reaction time and coordination. He seems to be able to move quite silently when h wishes to. He is in excellent shape, his endurance is above the average nova's, and he seems to be somewhat bullet-resistant, though enough bullets, or one high caliber one, will still ruin his day. He's picked up a keen eye for spotting anomalies, flaws, and problem areas. He can coordinate physical and mental activities simultaneously and easily. His eyesight and sense are ultra-fine and he says that sometimes he can 'see' beyond sight - to see a world full of crackling colors and hues, which we theorize to be some level of perception of the world at the quantum level."

"... heightened senses, you say?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"So he could be listening to us right now."

The room was silent. On the other side of the mirror, Nathan fought to keep his composure. He knew he'd heard too much - he hadn't wanted to, but he'd heard it all the same. If they decided he was a liability -

A new voice spoke, and Nathan recognized it.

"Let me talk to him alone," said Mister Jones.

There was shuffling, and the sound of a door being closed. Nathan continued to read his book.

"I saw you momentarily pause when I spoke, Agent Dayes, so I know you can hear me. How are they keeping you here?"

Nathan set his book down. He spoke to the air. "I can't complain, sir."

"Good. I imagine this has all come as quite a shock."

"It has, sir."

"If you're waiting for permission to speak freely, agent, you have it."

"Am I going to lose my job, sir?"

"Why would you?"

"I screwed up. I didn't figure out what Longbow could do. He saw the burst transmission and - "

"No one's perfect, agent. That's why there's erasers on the ends of pencils. And I don't think that's what you're really worried about."

"It's true, right? I'm a nova now?"

"You are."

"And the Directive doesn't like to hire novas, do they?"

"Opinions on the policy differ."

"What's your opinion, then?"

There was a chuckle. "Agent Dayes, do you really think me to be so important that I have control over Directive policy?"

"I don't know what to think, sir."

"Then listen. Yes, things have changed. Yes, you are currently considered a risk until they assess if your brain has been damaged by eruption - early prognosis, however, is good, and novas with heightened mental capacity tend to be resistant to that sort of thing. Yes I made quite a lengthly speech about the dangers inherent to novas - how they consider themselves superior to all others and beholden to no one. Do you remember that day?"

"I'll never forget it." Nathan closed his eyes, and imagined the bathroom, and the television, with its frozen image of a showdown between man and monster. "You said that none of them are very far from thinking that way, even the ones that don't just yet."

"You can say that of anyone, Agent. Our fear is not that novas aren't human - but that they are very human indeed. Because when humans are granted power and fame and influence, it is rarely spent altruistically - too often it becomes a means to its own end, the accumulation of more influence, more power. That's what we fear about them. That's what you fear about yourself, isn't it?"

Nathan swallowed thickly. "I can still see the look on Geryon's face."

"And you wonder if it will ever be the look on yours."

"I - yeah."

"That's what will keep you on the straight and narrow, Agent - knowing how easily you could stray. And no, we're not going to fire you. We are considering retraining you."

"For what?"

"I've one question first."

"Okay."

"What were you thinking when Aaron Blisney grabbed you around your neck? I know you were scared - I saw your face on the video chips. But beyond that, what were you thinking, deep down?"

"I - I could feel his hand shaking. That force bolt he can - he could generate, sorry. I'd seen the reports. What he did to people. What he did to that girl. All because he had power and they didn't. I was... I got angry. So angry. I wanted to take that bolt and shove it right back in his face."

"I see. That fits with my theory. Nathan, I believe that your heightened physical and mental abilities are only part of what you can do. You may have a rare gift, even amongst novas. You may be able to copy the 'quantum overlay' of other novas, and use their powers as your own. The bolt you used to sever Aaron Blisney's hand and shoot him in the head had the same visual signature as Blisney. This, along with your other abilities, would make you an ideal candidate for an OpCell."

"Field operations, sir?" Nathan's eyes went wide.

"Yes. With your abilities, you could confront novas with their own powers - evening the odds. You would need retraining at the Forgotten City, but we could see to it that you get special treatment. Once trained, you would be assigned to an OpCell and you would spend far less time discovering what is wrong with novas and far more time doing something about it. Of course, we can't force you - but going back to IntCell work would be a waste of what you can do."

"I - field work. Wow." Nathan nodded. "Field work. Yeah. When can I start? When do I head to the Forgotten City?"

"You're here right now. We had to hold you in the holding facility here until we were sure you weren't a threat."

Nathan's face fell. "Oh."

"Don't take it personally, Agent."

"I - no, I understand. You didn't know."

"No, and we still don't know. So I'll have my eye on you, Nathan Dayes - and I'll be very keen to find out."

[Nathan Dayes]

Situation One was something Forgotten City trainees drilled in. It meant that all cadets were to draw arms but not to engage the enemy. They were also to don their commlinks and wait for any further situation updates. Due to the unusual nature of the novas held in the industrial area's reconverted prisons, going in guns blazing could empower, rather than kill, any escapee.

Situation Two was to form into assault squads and engage via orders shared over the commlinks. Situation Three was the evacuation of the Forgotten City. Everyone was hoping for Situation Three. Nathan could see it on everyone's faces.

Christopher and Nathan had rushed back into their dormitory, flinging open their lockers and grabbing their commlinks They were small, ergonomic devices that clipped onto the side of your head, putting a small lens over one eye that projected HUD data and providing an earphone and microphone. Nathan's pet project had been to mount one of the Directive's micro-cameras on the tip of a carbine and patch it through to the HUD, letting him point the barrel around corners and still aim perfectly. It was only ever good for one shot, though - the recoil invariably dislodged the camera.

Once linked up, they ran at top speed towards the quartermaster, who was no longer making jokes, but handing out rifles with practiced speed. The guns were AK47s, rifles that had done well by Russia. Everyone got three clips.

Once Nathan received his, he found himself outside, in the company of Chris, Marty, and a few others. None of them could meet his eyes. No one had orders yet - there was that tang in the air, the anticipation.

Tom cleared his throat, looking nervously upwards, as if waiting for the enemy to swoop down out of the sky and get it over with. "I heard, a few months back - before my time - that they had this guy in there who could make drugs and shoot them into people with little barbs in his skin the size of human hairs. He drove half a dozen guys in there into comas before they put two in his head."

Nathan's mind, against his will, dredged up an image of his mother, staring into space in a hospital room. He pushed the memory back down.

Edward spoke up, his gaze not quite focused. "I heard - they were talking about this when I first got here - that there was this one girl who could make you think you were in one place when you were somewhere else. And that one day she vanished and they never found her. And that some people think that we only think we're all here in the City - we're actually all somewhere else and she's just dicking us around - "

"Stop with that shit, Ed. Seriously." Chris shook his head. "Situation One is nothing. You know that, right? Just someone forgot to lock a door and they're freaking out. Besides, you remember your thought pattern training, right? How to keep 'em out of your head. How could this lady do that to us if we're trained to stop her?"

"Well - well, they can do anything, right? Maybe this one has special get-around-the-thought-pattern-training powers or something. You just never know with them - "

"Ed, stop it. You're not doing anyone any good."

"I heard that there's this big scary thing - they don't even know what gender it was - that's just all tentacles and God knows what." It was James this time. He was shaking a little. "It just got stronger and stronger and one day it started just digging straight down. And they couldn't pursue, because it dug so fast that they had to reseal the tunnel before it hit the molten core of the planet - "

"What about you, Nate?" Marty pointed a finger at Nathan. "What'd you do if you broke out of there?"

"I didn't break - "

"I heard that you didn't step off the chopper at commencement like the rest of us. I know I don't recall seeing your dumb ass during the ride. That you were in the holding facility. Why's that then?"

Nathan scowled. "That's none of your goddamn - "

"Had a nice look around? 'Cause you'd better get used to it, you freak - "

Nathan stepped forward, his face inches from Marty's. "Call me that one more time. One more fucking time. I dare you, you prick - "

The look on Marty's face was transparent. Nathan had seen it a long time ago, on shaky handicam footage, on a security guard's face as he was face to face with something he barely understood and hadn't had a hope of standing up to.

Nathan was almost too angry to care.

Almost.

He stepped away, holding up his hands. "I erupted on the job, okay? I worked an IntCell. An Elite busted through my window, grabbed me, I erupted. I killed him. It was self-defense. I barfed up half my stomach and I fainted. That's why I was in the City's holding grounds, okay? They needed to make sure I was still cool. And here I am. So I'm still cool, okay? I'm one of you guys."

None of them looked like they believed him. Nathan wasn't even sure he believed himself.

His keen ears picked up a subtle whistle to the air. He turned, and looked over the houses, his eyes opening wide.

"Move!"

"What- "

"Move!" Nathan grabbed Marty and Edward by their collars and dragged them - the others were already scattering. He spared a look back...

A snowmobile cleared the tops of the houses, sailing end over end, landing in a snowdrift. The driver was thrown clear, straight into a wall.

"Jesus - "

"Oh my fuckin' God - "

Nathan ran towards the driver, trying not to throw up at all the blood that filled the cockpit of the snowmobile. He looked back at where the it had come from, calculating angle, velocity, what he knew of the City...

"The converted refinery," said Marty, completing his thought.

Chris nodded. "Okay, leave the snowmobile. Maybe there's something we can do for this guy. We gotta get out of here, though. More could come along at any second. Nate?"

"Give me a second." Nathan plucked his commlink out of his ear and reached down, removing the commlink from the driver's head. The eyepiece was lit up with text.

"What're you doing?"

"I want an update. We're in the dark here. You guys go on without me, I'll catch up. The QM has a first aid kit and a stretcher. I saw it in the back earlier today." He tapped the side slightly. There was blood on the eyepiece, but the text was still readable.

He gave Chris a thumbs up, and reluctantly, Chris went inside. Nathan read the text quickly.

The escapee was Stephen Klein, whose powers were primarily the generation and control of magnetic fields. He'd mostly used his powers in live, highly-paid and televised expositions, levitating cars and creating an airborne ballet of metal. One year and five months ago he had grown fed up with fans who mobbed him at an airport, and he'd ripped the fillings out of their teeth. He was charged with and convicted of aggravated assault, and sent here.

Comm chatter rang in Nathan's ear.

" - fall back. I repeat, fall back. Subject is untouchable with conventional weapons. Snipers are in position but can't land a bullet. Special non-ferrous weaponry will be inbound shortly."

"Acknowledged - subject is making no attempt to flee. Subject is, uh... floating in the air."

"Say again?"

"I say again, subject is making no attempt to flee. Subject is floating in the air above the refinery, looking straight down."

Why isn't he bolting? If I were in his position I'd be off like a shot...

Nathan looked at the snowmobile and thought of the man who'd been inside. He looked at his HUD and into the mugshot of Stephen Klein.

He's up to something...

"We can't take any chances. Prepare for Situation Four."

Nathan went slightly pale. He'd only heard rumors about Situation Four, which was apparently the detonation of several highly cloaked nuclear devices throughout the Forgotten City. Officially it didn't exist. Unofficially, it was only to be used when the possibility of a mass nova breakout loomed large on the horizon.

He thought of Chris, and Marty, and James and Tom and the other Tom and Edwards. He thought of the quartermaster and the two women he'd seen on the shooting range, realizing that he'd never even asked either of them how they were doing. He looked around at all the buildings and tried to imagine them gone.

He looked over at Chris, who had emerged from the QM's with a stretcher, and Nathan saw the look on his face. Nathan looked to the HUD, to Stephen Klein's mugshot, and imagined the look on his.

Somewhere inside of him, a decision was made.

He reached over and righted the snowmobile. The engine still purred, and with a quick rev it roared back to life.

"Nathan? What - "

Chris was drowned out in the roar of the snowmobile as Nathan rode off on it.

The snowmobile was multi-terrain - it could handle reasonably well on the pavement in the City, but it would really cut loose once it was out in the snow. He knew the way to the refinery, its giant smokestacks looming through the haze, like the fingers of a giant reaching for the sky.

The jacket's fasteners and zipper were metal, so he ditched it. His AK47 was metal, so he stuck it in the snowmobile's rifle wedge, a small gap near the front that was ideal for storing long arms. The commlink was metal, but it was feeding him updates, so it would go last. And of course, the snowmobile was metal, but without it he'd never get there in time.

He barreled up a hill, and caught a brief glimpse of the refinery - and a man in prison fatigues floating in the middle of the parking lot, looking straight down. Then he was gone, swallowed up by another hill, one of the two between him and the refinery. Atop the upcoming one was a small huddled form, lying prone.

" - control, I see indicators that Kitson's snowmobile is heading back towards the refinery."

"He survived?"

"Maybe. Kitson, if you can hear us, turn back. Klein can manipulate magnetic fields. You'd be wasting your bullets - "

"Sir, I just got word from the hospital in the City. They've admitted Agent Kitson for severe head trauma and broken bones."

"What? Then who the hell is - "

Nathan pressed the stub on the side of the earpiece. "This is Cadet Nathan Dayes, sir. I think I can stop him."

"A cadet? A what? Cadet, turn back!"

"I heard you talking about Situation Four, sir."

There was a pause. Up ahead, the lookout on the hill turned around, staring at Nathan in surprise as he went over the hill. Nathan caught another glimpse of Klein, still staring straight down, and then the last hill blocked his sight.

"You don't know what you're getting into! Or what Situation Four even is! Now turn around!"

Okay, adjust your weight. And don't punch the throttle until you know you can bite into that snow. The angle's about right, so's the velocity...

"Turn around! That's an - "

Nathan plucked the earpiece out of his ear. It tumbled behind him.

"Okay," he said to himself. "If I didn't hear it, it's not an order and I didn't disobey it. Yeah."

He pictured saying that again at his court martial, and then he punched the throttle, and the last hill loomed...

And the world tilted...

And everything froze.

He took the scene in instantly. The bodies littered all along the ground. A giant hunk of metal and stone lying off to the side - it looked like an ore deposit. Overturned snowmobiles, M-60s on upset tripods, and in the center of it all was Klein, staring straight down. Nathan wondered for a moment, just where Klein had escaped from - there was no hole in the ground.

Nathan had pitched the angle perfectly. The snowmobile was headed right for Klein. Of course, he knew that it wouldn't connect - nothing would, otherwise the snipers that had Klein dead in their sights would take the shot. That was all right. It didn't need to connect. It just needed to get him close enough...

Nathan stood on the snowmobile at the apex of the jump. Klein looked up.

The look on Klein's face as he held out his hand was exactly as Nathan pictured it.

The snowmobile came to a sudden, dead stop in midair. He could have made it stop slowly, or overturn, or fly straight up, any one of a dozen solutions that would have foiled Nathan's plan. But if there was one thing novas loved, it was to show off. So a dead stop it was, and physics took over from here.

Nathan flew off the snowmobile at the same speed it was going, and connected with Klein. His hands wrapped around Klein's throat, and he felt that crackle of power again as Klein's power became Nathan's as well.

Nathan's gaze shifted into what he'd come to term as the Q-zone, where he could see the waves of quantum energy crawling underneath a nova's skin. His sense of scale expanded and he could feel the magnetic waves of force pouring off of Klein, and suddenly Nathan realized why he hadn't run.

He was reaching straight down. Trying to dislodge something deep under the earth, and the way the magnetic waves bounced around there was a lot of metal down there in a grid-like formation. There was another nova being held down there.

And once he was free, they could free two more.

And those four could free four more.

And then -

Klein kicked Nathan in the stomach and Nathan lost his grip. Instinctively, he mimicked Klein's magnetic levitation, coasting to a gentle stop in midair.

I'm flying. Holy shit.

Klein must have sensed the magnetic waves washing off of Nathan as surely as Nathan had felt them off of Klein, because the look on his face was priceless.

"You're like me."

Nathan bore in, slamming Klein in the throat wth his forearm. It was a basic anti-nova technique - they might be bullet resistant, even bullet-proof, but lots and lots of them still needed to breathe. Klein sailed backwards a dozen feet, end over end, clutching at his throat.

"I'm nothing like you."

Klein's throat made a pop noise. He glared daggers at Nathan. Nathan felt magnetic waves wash out, and then something - movement - made him look -

He raised his hands, deflecting the chunk of ore on instinct. Even then, it clipped him as it sailed past. He hissed in pain as it tore a flap of flesh out of his arm.

The snowmobile threw itself at Nathan like a missile. He saw it coming and arched out of he way, letting it sail past. He drove himself towards Klein, determined to get his hands around the bastard's throat -

Klein swooped up and the chunk of ore interposed itself between them. Nathan heard the snowmobile coming in from behind and he spun around, and reached out...

He jerked the snowmobile out of the way and sent it sailing into the ore deposit. The clang rang out across the hills and the snow. The ore jerked out of the way just enough -

Nathan bore in, past the makeshift iron shield, and grabbed Klein by the arm. Klein kicked Nathan in the stomach, and Nathan's grip loosened, but not enough. Nathan twisted and Klein cried out in pain as something in his arm make a crackling noise.

Nathan pulled Klein closer, grabbing Klein by the throat. He started to squeeze -

The ore slammed into Nathan's back, sending them sprawling. Nathan cried out in pain, losing his grip, and the two of them crashed to the floor.

The snowmobile followed. Nathan rolled out of the way, pushing the snowmobile aside magnetically. It shattered on the ground.

He groaned. His back was on fire. His vision was swimming. Klein was better off, already rising back into the air. The ore deposit reared back like a batter's club.

Nathan reached out to the remains of the snowmobile, and grabbed both halves. As the ore swung down, he swung back, one half of the snowmobile colliding with the ore, turning it just enough. It impacted with the pavement next to him, spewing asphalt like a geyser. Nathan took the other one and swung it for Klein -

It went wide. Like water sliding off a duck. It sailed out of the range of Nathan's control and landed in a snowbank.

Of course. Of course his magnetic repulsion field's still in place. Why would he drop it? Idiot, Nathan. You idiot. That's what magnets do...

No.

No, that's half of what magnets do.

The idea turned his stomach. But it could work...

He saw the M-60 lying on the ground right itself of its own accord, and sight on him. Magnetic waves were pulsing around it. Nathan grabbed the ore, twisting it free from the asphalt, and swung it around.

The air was filled with the bzzzzzzzt noise of a high caliber machine gun. The asphalt was riddled with pock marks, like the face of the man in the moon, as most of them bounced off the ore. He felt one thump into his left arm, and bit down on the scream. He wouldn't give Klein even that.

He looked up at Klein. Klein didn't look like Geryon - he didn't look like someone stepping on ants. He had the look he'd seen on the faces of so many bullies, so many dictators, so many of the world's powerful - the look that said, you're not supposed to fight back.

He reached out with his stolen magnetism, and suddenly, the M-60 went dead. Klein stared at it, confused, for half a second -

Nathan surged upwards, grabbing him by his wounded arm, twisting it into a finger lock with Nathan's one good arm. Klein screamed in pain.

"I bent the firing pin, Klein." Nathan twisted the arm behind Klein's back. "Not as showy as tying a gun in a knot but it works. Now surrender."

"Fuck you, you monkey-fucker."

Nathan struggled to get Klein in a choke hold, but his arm was bleeding enthusiastically - it had no strength left to it. "I say again - "

"I say again, fuck you. You're a traitor, whoever the hell you are. You think they know what it's like? Being like us? They don't. All they see in you is a gun, man - just like that M-60. Something they can shoot at whatever they want. What do you think they'll do once you don't like what it is you're pointed at?"

"Just remember when you get to Hell, Klein. I gave you a choice." He then raised his voice. "I know you're out there! Take the shot!"

Klein laughed. He reached out, grabbing half of the snowmobile, swinging it around behind him...

"His field's down! The bullet'll connect! Take the shot!"

"Yeah, right. My field's still up, you idiot. What good will - "

A flat crack rang out, and a dull thump shook through them both. Klein's face went pale. The remains of the snowmobile fell back to the ground.

Klein stared down at the hole in his chest. It was half a foot wide.

"How - but - my field - "

Another shot rang out, hitting Klein in the stomach. Nathan grunted.

A third one made Klein's shoulder disintegrate in a red mist. Then another shot hit him in the chest, and the two of them fell. Klein landed in a splayed mess of blood and tangled limbs. Nathan landed wrong on his leg, and it broke with a flat snapping sound.

Nathan's chest was covered in blood, and holes roughly analogous to where Klein had been shot. He crumpled to the cold asphalt. With fading strength, he looked to the other nova, whose face was frozen in almost comical surprise.

"Two parts to a magnet," Nathan whispered. "One side repels, and that was you. The other attracts, and that - "

He coughed up a wad of blood, and then saw only black.

* * *

November 11th, 2008

0840 Hours Local Time

Omsk, Siberia - AKA The Forgotten City

His head looked like a blueberry.

Nathan stared into the mirror. He was in his grey dress uniform, long on aesthetics and short on practicality. He tugged on the thing he spoke about - the blue beret on his head, stamped with the badge of the Directive, a shield with seven stars.

A lock of his red hair poked underneath. Nathan couldn't stop staring at it.

It was the men's dorm, and everyone was getting dressed up for the commencement ceremony that was due in fifteen minutes. He'd matched a few names to faces already - Chris, who seemed a nice enough guy, and Marty, who he got the feeling he'd get along with great. There was a freshness to the air. It wouldn't last, and he knew that, but beginnings were always nice.

He resigned himself to wearing the beret - it was part of the uniform, after all, and only the uniform, and when he was in his own OpCell he'd only have to pull the thing out when the time came to be public about it, which if Nathan had his way would be at precisely never o'clock.

He gave himself a nod and proceeded out the door. Snow had been light the previous week, so it was almost livable without a jacket for a normal person. It was perfectly livable for him, and he didn't bother with one. He headed down the street, waving to anyone else he saw.

He'd lucked out for once. A nova! Just thinking the word gave him a tingle. Whenever he moved now, it was so precise and quiet. He could stay up for weeks. His eyes were sharper, he thought faster, and things seemed so much clearer to him now. He would eat this training school alive. And then, once he was out there...

They'd brought in another nova. He hadn't recognized her, he'd never seen her before, but it was love at first sight. She was gorgeous. Her skin was perfect. And when his fingers brushed hers, he felt it. The power lurking just beneath her skin. And just as Mister Jones had thought, that power was now his. Not as precise, not as finely controlled, and it faded eventually... but his, nonetheless. He'd be heading out and meeting more novas, sampling more power.

It was all he could do to keep from skipping down the street as he approached the bus. He all but bounced on.

After a short trip, they unloaded and filed into a large auditorium, which looked much fresher than the other buildings - it was one of the ones they'd erected when they'd taken over the Forgotten City. It had a nice sloped, no-right-angle architecture to it. It was heated well. The anticipation was thick here, too.

After a moment, a stocky man of Indian descent walked out on stage. The lights dimmed, and he spoke with perfect English.

"My name is Commander Sujar. I am senior instructor here at the Forgotten City. I thank you all for coming. I have to ask, though: are you all fucking insane?"

A murmur of confusion rolled through the audience. The screen lit up with a picture of Totentanz, his golden mask smeared with blood, his spears stabbing through two separate men. "If you stay here, this is the sort of man you'll face. This man is the deadliest assassin on Earth. He's killed a Team Tomorrow agent right in front of his teammates. It's only a matter of time before someone scrapes up enough change to send him after the Prime Minister or the President of whatever country you may've come from, and when that happens you'll have to stop him."

The slide changed to a nondescript German man behind a desk. "This is Heinrich Keld. The Newsman. Using an extensive social network and aggressive persuasive powers, he influenced public discourse over an entire country in the direction he wanted. Even the agent sent to sting him - even knowing what Keld could do - said he was almost swayed by the Newsman's words. Could you spot a man like this before it was too late?"

The slide changed again, and Nathan heard a few gasps. The man on the screen was a huge wall of muscle, all visible through his blue and gold jumpsuit. His head was bald and his face was stern. "You've all seen the news about a Team Tomorrow agent being murdered in her own home, and another ex-Team Tomorrow agent is the prime suspect. Some say it wasn't Corbin, but one or more people within Project Utopia who conspired towards murder. Whether or not that is true is irrelevant next to the fact that it very well could be true. Utopia is beholden to no nation and no shareholders, only the dictates of its own conscience. It answers to virtually no one. It employs more novas than any other organization on the planet. Even if they're innocent this time they could be guilty tomorrow. How eager are you to go after them, knowing how much power they hold at their beck and call - such as men like this one, who's said to be the most powerful nova on Earth?"

He let the statement hag in the air for a moment. Then he smiled. "You're scared. I know. But they all have weaknesses. If we keep our wits around us, if we are smart and we plan and we are dedicated, we can take any of them on. The only thing that will kill us is being afraid of them. Fear clouds the mind and kills the judgment. It will make you hesitate at the moment of truth. If you take nothing else away from this City, take this -"

The slide changed again. It was white text on black.

NO ONE

IS WORTHY OF

YOUR FEAR

"If you remember this slogan - if you embrace it, live it, and apply it - you will be more than who you are. You will be part of a mighty machine that stands between people like this and the average Joe Baseline. You will be like this city - claimed and remade to serve something greater. Hidden away in the shadows and standing guard. Forgotten but not gone."

Scattered clapping turned into full on applause. If Nathan felt any resentment over the comment towards 'people like this,' he was too busy bringing his hands together to notice.

"Over the next sixteen weeks, this city will do its best to break you. You will learn how to order your thoughts, and how to keep them safe. You will learn firearms and unarmed combat. You will learn the rules of engagement, the procedures in the field, the arts of shadowing and stealth, the secrets of tradecraft. You will climb and swim and run and jump. You will do these things over and over until the thought of them makes you sick. And you will then do them over and over until you beg for more. And when you are done you will walk out of here with honor, purpose, and pride, and when you bleed you will bleed royal Directive blue."

More applause. Commander Sujar held up his hands. "There is a cadet out there. His name is Nathan Dayes. Cadet Dayes - would you please come up here?"

Nathan blinked, and then he stood. He felt all eyes upon him, and he couldn't help but grin. He took the steps up to the podium two at a time, and saluted.

"Cadet, remove your beret and face your fellow cadets."

Nathan pulled the hat off, relieved, and turned around. He spotted Marty and Chris and a few of the others out in the crowd.

"Cadet Dayes is a nova."

Nathan saw it on everyone's faces - some just for an instant, others for a lot longer. A very familiar look. He suddenly felt cold.

"Now, normally the Directive recruits baseline personnel to avoid conflicts of interest. Dayes here is an exception. We have decided to give him special treatment. I want each and every cadet, instructor and member of the support personnel to treat him with exactly the respect he deserves. Is that clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Remember what I said - " The Commander pointed at the slide on display. "No one, means no one. Report to your dorms. Your schedules will be posted this afternoon. Dismissed."

Nathan watched them file out, not sure what to think. He spotted Chris, who gave him a neutral look - and Marty, who wouldn't meet his gaze. He turned to the commander.

"'Dismissed' means you too, Dayes."

He saluted, and exited. He turned the speech over in his head. Everyone else seemed pumped and enthusiastic, and he felt... ill at ease, was the best phrase for it.

He made for the exit, and shuffled towards the bus. He was at the back of the crowd, so when he got to the bus, the driver shook his head. "Full up."

So did the next driver.

And the other two.

Nathan watched them pull out and drive off. He looked through the windows, and saw them looking back at him, their expressions unreadable.

He twisted his beret in his hands, then forced himself calm. He started the walk back.

* * *

January 26th, 2009

???? Hours Local Time

Omsk, Siberia - AKA The Forgotten City

At the time, he hadn't known why they'd done it. Even though he was observant and intelligent and fast on the uptake, he was too angry to think it through. Now, however, there were no drills, no tests, and no instructors, and he was made of time.

At the moment, he was lying in a hospital bed, and had just had fragments from a sniper bullet pulled out of his chest. They said that he might have a scar, or he might not. It was tough to tell with novas, after all.

It was his old hospital room, with the two-way glass and the old familiar bed. They'd brought him a new stack of books, as well as a table to hold all the gifts he was getting. Marty, of all people, had gotten permission to go into a Russian city armed with a fistful of cash and a shopping list. He'd brought back gifts that only those who cheated death would appreciate, such as a t-shirt with a gunsight on it and TAKE THE SHOT in bold letters. They'd gotten him a stack of the finest Russian pornography, a Nerf gun styled to look like a Walther PPK, a bottle of 1981 vodka and a blow up doll with a T2M uniform.

There were signatures on his leg cast and cards from everyone, including the two girls at the sniper range. Rose wore black lipstick and Melissa wore red - at least, that was the conclusion he'd drawn from analyzing the lipstick prints they'd left on his card. Thinking of the overlapping lip prints made his skin tingle. Of course, fraternization between Directive cadets was strongly discouraged. But there would be a twenty-four hour gap between graduation and ship-out when they'd be neither agents nor cadets. He looked forward to it.

At the time, he hadn't know why they'd done it, but he'd figured it out. It was, after all, the slowest student who needed the most instruction, and he was probably the smartest person in the city, if not the most experienced. He was capable of more, so they put him through more. But more than that - his ego, the day of the commencement ceremony, was beginning to swell just that little bit. And it had to be deflated fast, because ego killed just as many men as fear did. It would have killed him, or worse, one of his partners. It needed a healthy dose of scorn to keep the swelling down, and nothing earnt scorn from one's peers faster than giving that someone 'special treatment.'

Commander Sujar had come and seen him. Nathan had been dressed down for disobeying orders. Officially, his punishment was 100 hours of extra study in Advanced Anti-Nova Combat Tactics, since he seemed to be so eager to engage them. Unofficially, though, good job, but try not to get shot the next time. Nathan had asked the commander what Situation Four was. The commander had said that if he told Nathan he'd have to kill him, and it'd be a waste of the money they'd spent training him. Nathan took the hint.

He'd be up on his feet in a few days, said the doctors. So he sat, and read, and waited.

Eventually, he heard someone in the next room, and put down his book.

"Hello, Agent Dayes."

"Hello, Mister Jones. It's Cadet Dayes, actually, sir."

"You were an agent under your old name, and an agent the last time we spoke. Unless you screw up thoroughly in the next few weeks, you will be Agent Nathan Dayes again. Indulge me."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong."

"That was actually something I was wondering about, sir..."

"Yes?"

"Commander Sujar had a point. I did disobey orders. Everything turned out all right, but... I still shouldn't have done it. But everyone seems more or less okay with it."

"Our business pits us up against people who can read minds, run at the speed of sound, blink halfway around the world with a thought and twist matter around their little fingers, agent. There is a time for internal discipline, the chain of command, and a measured response, and there are times when things happen so fast and are so strange that how you act is not as important as that you acted in the first place. Yes, officially, you disobeyed orders and you have to eat a little shit for it. But everyone has been, or will be, in your position. None of them can truly fault you."

"No one's told me how he got out."

"Half an adrenocilin tablet left in a wastebasket. It countered the moxinoquantamine he was doused with long enough to reach down and magnetically tear loose a vein of iron ore. We should have seen it coming - his cell was uncomfortably close to what used to be a mine, after all. Security is reviewing the situation and tightening up disposal procedures. Be thankful there was still some moxinoquantamine dulling his powers - at his fullest strength, he may have already unleashed one of our other prisoners by the time you'd gotten there."

Nathan suppressed a shiver. "And you saw it all?"

"Orbital satellite footage, direction microphones, video displays mounted on the sniper guns - yes, Nathan, your idea has merit, though you are about five years too late. I wen through it all, combined with the after-action reports of all those involved. I wasn't there, but I have a good idea of what happened."

"Any tips for me, then?"

"I would have grabbed a polycarbonate knife from the quartermaster first. They're small, easily concealed knives that don't set off metal detectors. It would have given you an advantage."

"I - yeah. Yeah, I should have. It just happened so fast - "

"You did it and lived, Agent. So you did it right."

"Yes. Thank you, sir."

"There are things I must attend to. If you would excuse me?"

"Yes - actually, sir...?"

"Yes?"

"You remember what we talked about when you first confirmed my recruitment?"

"Geryon versus the doomed security guard. The looks on their faces."

"You saw the video footage. You told me, the last time I was here - " He waved his hand around, indicating the room. "That you never wanted to see that look on my face."

"And I didn't, Agent."

"What look did I have, then?"

There was a pause - Nathan felt a slight swell of pride, as he realized he'd finally surprised whoever Mister Jones really was. When he spoke, it sounded as if his mind was far away.

"Not fear. Not the look on the security guard's face. It was a look I've seen on generations of brave men. Those who charged out of trenches, who climbed up hills, who held their ground under a hail of bullets. Those who climbed into cockpits and behind machine guns. Those who snuck around in the darkness and ripped the instruments out of planes with their bare hands. The look I am proud to see on so many of our agent's faces as they face the worst this world has to offer. Determination. The will to win. The strength of spirit to take a stand and say 'no more, and no further.' Because somebody has to."

Nathan allowed himself a smile. Because somebody has to. "Good words."

"The best. Now I take my leave, Agent Dayes. See you around."

Mister Jones exited the observation booth, and left Nathan behind in his hospital room, hundreds of feet below the surface of the earth, tucked away in a corner of the world hardly anyone looked at. All eyes were on Ibiza, or Los Angeles, or New York or Addis Ababa, but rarely did the eyes of the world fall on little Omsk, much like the eyes of the world never focused for long on the men and women in their blue berets.

All forgotten.

But never gone.

THE END