Operation: Pacifica, Sequestration by CyberPyro (deadlock@one.net) CP's eyes snapped open, pupils focused on something that couldn't be seen in the pure, moonless dark. The distant rat-a-tat-tat-tat of fire fights had ceased completely, a sign the enemy forces had given up until dawn. He leaned over the edge of his cot, planted his hands on the dirt floor of the command tent and swiveled his legs into the air to point towards the canvas roof. His trunk twisted sharply, legs gracefully flexing away sleep in a simple Tai Chi exercise. A moment later, he flipped over to land in silent, cat-like grace. ... "Sir!" announced the Lieutenant. Her rigid at-attention stance failed to conceal her uncertainty at the coordinator of TRES forces entering the armory this early in the morning. CP brushed past her without acknowledgment and snapped on bare lightbulbs inside with the distinctive crackle-hum of electricity. She stood outside, debating the merits of going inside to question her superior officer's intentions while Jenkins was still in the latrine. The dry sound of magazines being slapped into housings echoed off the corrugated aluminum walls. A rustle, then another finally convinced the Lieutenant to go inside and ask questions. "Sir, What.." started the Lieutenant before she met the gaze of her commander. His eyes, usually a bright, glacial blue conveying an impassive prudence and distant compassion that set people at ease, raked across her face with a harsh, almost terrifying intensity. She held his gaze, unconsciously afraid to look away, as he continued stuffing ammo clips and survival items into a large backpack. "Inform Admiral J-Rock and Rear Admiral Korth they are in charge of all Corps forces for the remainder of this expedition, effective immediately," ordered CP as he broke the stare to bundle up a collection of ammo clips. The Lieutenant started as though she had been slapped. The tone and harshness of her superior officer's voice taking her completely off guard. "Sir, but I don't.." "Find them. Wake them up," he replied as he slung the backpack across his shoulders. CP hoisted his XRifle[tm] and walked towards the exit. "Sir, what are you.." she questioned. "You have your orders," he snapped, stepping through the door. The Lieutenant followed immediately after, but the darkness claimed him before her eyes could adjust from the brightly lit shed. "What's going on?" asked Jenkins as he approached their post again. "I don't know," she replied. ... CP passed through Jihaddi-held territory as little more than a flickering shadow cast by a lone candle. Those who thought they'd seen something looked twice, only to find nothing. He covered distance at a surprising rate, silent despite the bulk of equipment and gear he carried. Another shadow mirrored him, easily keeping pace and uniform distance despite the criss-crossing sensor sweeps and abundance of alert guards in its path. CP ignored it, moving dead northeast, towards the deserts and wastelands which lay between he and his goal. A shadowy cloud erupted from the earth, its inky darkness a spot of pure black in the nearly lightless landscape. It roiled inwards, twisting upon itself in an ever-shrinking pattern. Two tiny red slivers shone faintly, then grew in size and luminosity as the cloud settled into a tight, churning pattern. Samhain's likeness alternately formed, dissolved, and reformed from shadows of a thousand different intensities. The Samhain's spirit stood in CP's path. His eyes held an unspoken challenge, demanding it be met. CP returned his stare, eyes glinting harshly from the faint starlight. The air between them wavering and rippled as though uncertain it wanted to be present. The spirit reached out; each gripped the other's right forearm, as unspoken agreement passing between them. A curt nod and the hold broke. CP continued his path to the northeast, Samhain's likeness dissolving like smoke on the breeze. Neither looked back. ... Dawn gingerly crept up on Pacifica. The sun's rays warmed the sheer cliff faces of the eastern side as the sun rose into the sky. The altitude of the mountains, when contrasted with the near-zero altitude of the sponge city and western parts of the island, had the practical effect of holding most of the land in an unnatural darkness while the sky on the northern and southern horizons brightened dramatically. Throughout the mountains' long shadows, light flashed and smoke rumbled towards the heavens. The Jihaddi and b'harnate forces resumed their combat in earnest. Demoralized by the death of their idol, b'harnii, at the hands of Sir Timothy, the spongin and bot forces proved less resilient and fell to Jihaddi guns. ... [place: Jihad War Room] "He's *gone*?!" exclaimed Yearnshaw, clearly astounded 'the big cheese' would go AWOL in the middle of a war zone. "I don't think I stuttered," replied Shardik. Malaclypse huffed and shifted his weight in the swivel chair. "Great, CP decides *now* is the time to play DOOM: The Ultimate Experience..." he muttered. Shardik said nothing, letting the news sink in. "How long's he been gone?" asked Trooper Palaemon. "Five hours, seventeen minutes," replied Shardik without tone or expression. "Ferals," snorted DarkSide, "Go figure. What else can you expect..." Shardik's eyes flashed briefly at DS' humor. He plucked his staff from leaning against the table and got a good grip on it. "Umm...DS..." warned Malaclypse, trying to draw the TRES Captain's attention. "I mean, really! What else... *OUCH!*" quipped DarkSide before the staff rapped him smartly upside the head. DS rubbed the spot of impact, clearly aware the soft blow was to get his attention, not do real damage. "He didn't do this for light reasons," snapped Shardik. "I have no choice but to abide by that decision, as must we all. Now let's get to work..." ... [time: late afternoon] [place: the wastelands] "*Hhuurrruuhllll*," gulped the last Lyran mage, the Barney Slayer emerging violently beneath his sternum and sending a stream of bright lavender blood splashing to the ashen grey earth. The sorcerer convulsed, the blade twisting cruelly and then ripping through muscle and organs to cleave bone before stopping two inches above his nipples. The Owsenite blade pulled free, leaving the corpse to stand without support momentarily before toppling forwards, landing face-first in the grey, powdery ash of the wastes. CP staggered to a large rock, the battle having taken an incredible toll on him. Wounds glistened with fresh blood across his entire body, spreading patches sticking cloth to his skin. The ambush had been amazingly well planned by the Lyrans and M.E.N.S.A.ns. It had not only caught him off guard, but forced counter measures which drained his body and mind to the point of collapse. Nor had it been kind to his supplies. What ammo had not been dumped to grant emergency maneuverability quickly disappeared in the ensuing fire-fight. Sometimes exposing their flanks to a clean shot, the M.E.N.S.A.ns took great pains to destroy anything on the battlefield which could be used later. So it was that CP found himself in middle of a flat, grey, lifeless wasteland with twelve dead M.E.N.S.A.ns, five forcibly decorpreated Lyrans, dozens of minor wounds, a not-so-minor one, little ammo, even fewer supplies, and no Jihaddi for aid. The dream which called him remained crisp and unbroken in his mind, dismissing his physical environment as another obstacle towards his goal. Grim resolution steeled his body, forcing him to walk onwards to look for a place to hide and heal for the final length of the journey. CP Copyright, Pyrokinetic Productions, Inc. (1997)