Allan's eyes snapped open.

He found himself staring up at a blank silver ceiling of dull metal. For a long moment, he didn't move, as he was utterly bewildered. There was tension in him, adrenaline singing through his veins, but he had literally no idea where he was or why he was there, only that he ached, a lot. Some places hurt more than others, but his whole body throbbed dully in pain. He swallowed and found his mouth and throat dry.

Allan closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. What was the last thing he remembered? His squad, dying. It was the first thing that came to mind. Only-no, his second squad dying. The outpost. The distress call. The killer. The chaos. The death. Allan's eyes opened again and he sat up abruptly and groaned as the world swam, his equilibrium thrown wretchedly out of balance. He laid back down, unable to remain upright, and closed his eyes once more. For another long moment, he simply lay there, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

The memories slowed, settled, ordered themselves. Once more, he opened his eyes. It was then that he realized he was still in his armor. Slowly, cautiously, Allan sat up. His view tilted slightly, but not enough to cause any real problems. He sorted through his memories as he climbed to his feet. He remembered the killer, and the men in black armor with their guns that shot electrically charged bolts. For a moment, he felt hope spear him.

There was something that could take this jerkoff down.

Unfortunately, they'd also nabbed him and the other two in the process. What was the last thing he'd heard? The very last thing...

Take them to Obsidian Station.

So this was Obsidian Station. Allan turned in a slow circle, feeling like he'd just woken up from a ten-day binge. He was in an almost totally bare cell of metal. A single strip of light lit the room from overhead. The pallid white luminosity fell on the single slab of metal meant to serve as a bed that occupied one corner and the toilet that occupied the other. That was it. There was nothing else in the room with him.

No window, a pair of very small ventilation grilles and a single door that was barely discernible from the wall around it, separated only by a razor thin dark line in the metal. There was no way to open it from the inside. Allan walked over to the 'bed', his legs feeling something close to stilts, and sat down heavily.

He searched his mind for any clues that might shed some light on his current situation but could think of nothing concrete. Lindholm was a backwater colony world, barely more than a couple million people across the entire planet. Nothing happened there. That was kind of the point, the whole reason he'd sought it out.

So what the fuck was all this?

Allan's head continued to clear. How was he going to get out of this? He still had his suit of armor. Allan began checking all his pockets and pouches, anywhere he might have any kind of gear left on him. After several moments, he realized that he'd been stripped of literally everything but his uniform and his armor. He didn't have a bullet to his name. So what did that leave him with? Barely anything. Just his armor and...

His radio.

He turned it on and found that it still worked. Dialing into the team's frequency, he hoped that Lucy still had the tiny radio they'd given her. Nestled in her ear, it might have gone unnoticed by their captors.

"Banks, can you hear me?"

There was a lengthy pause, then, "Yes."

"Are you okay?"

"I guess so...I'm not hurt, well, I feel hurt, but I think I'm actually okay." She paused. "They electrocuted me."

"Yeah...do you know where we are?"

"Not really. I remember waking up at some point. We were driving. I looked out a window and saw a mountain and we were headed towards it. Then I was out again, then I woke up in this cell. Where are you?"

"I'm in a cell, too. Last thing I remember is getting hit with the volts...did you see what happened to the killer?"

"No. Just the mountains, then I passed back out. I don't suppose you know who these people are or why they took us?"

"No. No idea. Might be some kind of corporation or some government branch maybe...what about Johnson, did you see him?"

"Yeah." There was a long pause. "...Allan?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

"...me too."

Allan stood up as the door to his cell slid into the wall without warning. Two men in dark armor stepped in. He only had a moment to study them before they came forward and grabbed him. Their armor was a flat black and totally featureless. There were no markings, no insignias to identify rank or affiliation. Their faces were hidden behind shiny black visors that revealed nothing. They each had a pistol on their hip, a rifle across their back.

They hauled Allan out of the cell and into the corridor beyond, which was little more than starkly-lit bland metal, no windows and the vague outlines of doors along the walls. They grabbed him by the forearms, one on each side, and marched him down the corridor. For a long moment, none of the three of them spoke.

They passed through doorways and more corridors, occasionally encountering other men and women in suits of dark armor. There was a hushed feel to the base that seemed to mute everything. Even the colors were pallid and weak. Allan spent a few moments trying to learn more about his captors, but couldn't quite place them. Everything certainly had the feel of a military operation, or perhaps a very highly trained, serious corporation. But corporations had insignias, and military business had a particular feel to it.

This lacked both.

So who were they? The only thing his mind fell on was that they were spooks: government. He knew that there was a branch of the government called Spec Ops, which handled some of the more high-risk jobs. Or the dirtier ones. But he'd heard whispers that there was something beyond even that. A black ops branch that no one knew the name of. A curious concoction of research and defense, intelligence and military action.

Maybe that was this.

"Who are you guys?" he asked, figuring why not? Maybe he'd get an answer.

Both men remained silent, as if he'd never spoken.

"You know I'm a Sergeant in the Investigations portion of SI, right? This is pretty illegal. You're going to be fucked," he said matter-of-factly.

Still the two men remained silent.

Allan sighed and kept walking. Eventually, they came to one door among many and opened it. The two men walked him in and sat him down at one of two chairs in the room. The room itself was all but barren, nothing more than two chairs facing each other, a rectangular metal table in between them. The other chair was empty.

"Stay," one of the men said, his voice coming out mechanical through the filter in his helmet.

"Oh, you got it, sir," Allan replied, rolling his eyes.

Both men left the room, the door closing behind them. Allan looked around. Still no windows. Not that it mattered. When he finally figured out why he wanted to see windows, to determine how long he'd been out, he wanted to kick himself. Stupid. He had a chronometer built into the head's up display of his suit.

He activated it and saw that they'd been out for nearly four hours. What a huge waste of time. He began tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair while he waited, letting his mind wander. There was little doubt that the killer was somewhere nearby, somewhere inside the facility. Contained? It didn't seem possible, but there were no alarms, no dead bodies, no one running around screaming and crying uselessly for help.

The door opened and someone stepped in.

He was a man of average height and weight, although perhaps a little on the slender side. He wore a simple black uniform with no rank, nametag, or insignia. His head was shaved bald, his skin very pale, and his eyes were like emeralds lit from within by some malignant flame. Allan noted that both of his hands were skeletal and black, cast in metal and technology. He smiled as he walked in and took a seat across from Allan.

"Hello, Sergeant Gray. My name is Director Blackwell. I'm pleased to meet you," he said, speaking slowly and clearly.

He reached across the table, extending his metal hand. Allan remained motionless. "Director of what, exactly?" he asked, finally crossing his arms over his chest.

Blackwell's smile widened and he withdrew his hand. "Ah yes, information. Unless rather dire techniques are employed, typically information comes easiest when exchanged."

Allan stayed immobile, staring at the man from behind his opaque visor.

"I'm the Director of this particular cell of a branch of the government. We do...experimental research, let's say."

"And I'm inclined to believe that I've met your 'research'," Allan said, his voice low.

Blackwell nodded, losing his smile. "Yes, unfortunately...you know, I know you, Sergeant Gray. I know all about you. Why do you think I left that suit on? I have...well, you could say, respect, for you, I suppose. I was hoping we could talk about all of your interactions with the subject, starting from the very beginning to-"

"To when your boys shot me full of volts?" Allan snapped.

"Yes...I do apologize for that. But we...needed you. Now, I'd like you to tell me-"

"First, tell me the name of your branch. The real name. Who do you work for?"

Blackwell paused. After a moment's consideration, he finally said, "The Office of Intelligence. OI. Happy?"

Allan thought he was lying, could almost taste the lie, but he supposed it was as close to the truth as he was going to get. He had heard of the OI. For the next however long, he recounted his experiences involving the killer. This went for awhile, Blackwell occasionally asking questions, going down different paths.

Finally, Allan fell silent.

"Any chance I could get some water?" he asked.

"There will be some waiting for you back at your cell. You see, I find you and your two friends fascinating. So far, you're the only people we've found to have come in direct contact with the subject and lived to tell about it. And, not only that, you actually went after him! Truly remarkable," Blackwell said, seemingly lost in the notion.

"Who is he?" Allan asked. "He doesn't seem...human." It wasn't the word he intended to use, it simply popped out, but he realized it was correct.

The killer didn't seem human.

"I'm afraid that's all classified, Sergeant Gray. I can't tell you any more."

Blackwell stood up and walked to the door. He opened it and motioned to the two guards who'd been standing outside.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Blackwell said, the two guards now coming to 'escort' him once more back to his cell. "It all depends on how things play out."

"He's here, isn't he?"

"Yes. He's here. Back under our control and-" Someone else appeared in the door, another faceless guard. Blackwell turned to face him. "Yes?"

"Sir, Montgomery is asking for you again," he said.

Blackwell heaved a sigh. "Fucking military bitch...I'm sick of these idiots looking over my shoulder all the fucking..." he hesitated and glanced at Allan. "Tell her I'll be in at once." He looked at the two guards holding Allan. "Bring him back to his cell and bring me the woman." With that, Blackwell left the room.

The two began walking Allan back to his cell.

* * *

When Allan came back to his cell and sat down on the bed, all his thoughts came to a halt as he realized how tired he truly was. The combined events of not only the chase of the killer, but the sleepless previous night and the failed assault on the smuggling operation weighed heavily on him. It became so difficult to keep his eyes open that he finally decided to give in to the lethargy. Allan laid down, closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep.

* * *

Alarms.

Allan's eyes snapped open, staring up at a bland metal ceiling. He sat up, swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. The first thing he noticed was that the door to his cell was open. The second thing, he was shocked to find when he checked his chronometer, was that ten hours had passed. He still felt groggy and dislocated from the world, but the alarms and a chance at escape gave him a much-needed shot of adrenaline.

Allan hurried over to the door and stepped out. The corridor was empty. There was only one other door open in the long corridor. Allan nearly ignored it, noting that it was just another cell, but something made him stop. The open door had an ominous feel to it, as though there was something held within.

Something he didn't want to see.

Allan swallowed nervously, his throat still dry. He didn't have time for this. Yet...he approached the cell. Peering cautiously in, Allan's gaze immediately fell on exactly what he didn't want to see. A body on the floor, the neck crushed like an empty can of Vex. Blood had pooled beneath the corpse's head. It looked very fresh.

Lucy Banks stared at the ceiling, or perhaps beyond it.

Her gaze seemed accusing.

Allan lingered for a moment, then slowly turned and walked away, making his way to the end of the corridor. He moved through the door and hesitated once more. Three corpses, men in suits of dark armor, lined the floor. Their chestplates, and the torsos beneath, were all caved in. Allan walked over to the nearest one and patted him down. He took the man's pistol and holster and added it to his own suit, then took the man's rifle and slung it over his neck. Finally, he finished field-searching the corpses and gathered up some ammo.

They were armor-piercers, he noted, not that it seemed to have done them any good. Allan took the bullets anyway. He began working his way through the base, slowly tracing a path of destruction through the ruined Obsidian Station. At first he encountered only a dozen or so dead guards along the way, all killed in the same manner. But as he moved out of the holding and storage areas and into the center of the installation, he began to encounter dozens of bodies. Men and women in black armor and jumpsuits.

Finally, he located a terminal and plugged into it. There was no password or encryption or any kind of lockout. Unfortunately, he could also only access the most rudimentary of functions. He called up the map and studied it for a moment. After firmly fixing three points in his head, the command center, the armory, and the garage, Allan abandoned the terminal and set off deeper into the base. He ignored the death and destruction as best he could.

His mind remained surprisingly quiet as he made for the command center. Maybe it was the quiet dislocation from the world he felt, both due to his long sleep and all the murder he'd encountered so far, most of all Banks's death. Or maybe he finally had a single, clear-cut, all-consuming goal for once in his miserable life.

Kill the killer.

Allan came to the command center and stopped in the doorway. It was a broad, rectangular room, the walls of which were taken up by all manner of instrumentation and workstations. On a raised platform in the center of the room was a chair and a command terminal, likely where Blackwell would have sat and lorded over all he surveyed, Allan imagined. There were bodies in the command center, but none of them belonged to Blackwell.

He left the command room and began making for the armory. He began to ask questions and formulate a plan. Why hadn't the men used the same electrical weapons on the killer a second time when he obviously woke up and escaped? Maybe the weapons were rare. Or, perhaps they had underestimated the abilities of the killer. He could easily see a force like this being overconfident in itself.

And they had all paid the price.

Allan came to the armory and opened the door. It was half-empty, lockers still hanging open from the panic that no doubt ensued once they realized there was an unstoppable killing machine in their midst. He forced himself to go slow, hunting through the weapons for the special kind of gun that had taken down the killer. After several long, quiet moments, he finally found the model rifle that the strike team had used.

It was long, sleek, and black. The hole for the magazine was larger and he found a pair of magazines in the case with the rifle. Abandoning the rifle he'd grabbed from the dead soldier, Allan slung the electrical weapon over his shoulder, loaded it up with one magazine and pocketed the other. Then he left the armory.

Moving once more through the dead silence of the facility turned tomb, he thought about what he was going to do. His plan was simple. First, he would incapacitate the killer by emptying the magazine into him. Then, he'd removed the bastard's helmet, take a moment to see just who...or what, had caused all this trouble, then he'd pull out his pistol and empty that magazine into the bastard's face. And that would be the end of that.

Allan came to the garage. He walked across the room and opened the far door, which slid into the ceiling, revealing a pair of twin setting suns, casting a familiar red glow across the wastelands. Allan made his way back to an all terrain jeep, got in and started it up. He checked the power levels, found them acceptable and then froze.

How would he find the killer?

After a long moment, the idea came to him. He fired up the navigational computer and found himself on the map. He was nearly a hundred miles from where he'd last been. Zooming out and studying the map, he used the original comms relay as a point of origin and tracing the route the killer had relentlessly walked. He saw that Obsidian Station was very roughly in the same direction. Continuing along the dead straight path, he found another settlement and immediately began driving. It was as close as he was going to get.

As Allan began driving, he had the distinct impression that he'd forgotten something. It came to him after a moment. Johnson. He'd never found the whiny technician. Allan decided that it didn't matter. Either he was dead or he was still alive. If he was still alive, he'd likely find his own way out and then do what he'd always wanted.

High-tail it to the nearest sign of civilization and hide under a bed somewhere. Which was fine by Allan.

He'd always been a bit of a lone wolf.

He drove off into the setting suns.