The Fox and The Flame

by CyberPyro (cybrpyro@infinet.com) 

This is a tale of how J. FoxGlov and CyberPyro met in the Jihad 
Universe. Any resemblance to events fictional, real, or otherwise 
fantastically factual is purely coincidental. Then again ... maybe not. 
- CP 

Place: San Francisco, California
Time: Summer of 1995


Derek sat on the wide steps of the townhouse he shared with 5 other men 
watching a shiny new BMW turn off Clipper onto Douglas and roll down 
the hill. He thought of the day ahead with his roommates and smiled. 
It'd been a long time since this group of old friends had done 
something together, even longer since some their of mutual friends had 
been involved.


They'd all met during their Berkeley years, Robert and Alex quickly 
becoming a couple despite the three years age difference. Likewise, 
Gavin and John, fast friends from introductions, found themselves in 
each other's arms before graduation. Mark, always fluctuating, found 
himself single as often as Derek.


This fact created an odd kinship between the two, fed by mutual 
loneliness and nurtured by genuine, platonic affection. Not that this 
created instability in the group friendship; it seemed to enhance it, 
drawing the six of them closer together. In many ways, they had become 
their own family, their bonds recognized by friends and parents alike.


The BMW slid into the two empty parking places, a rarity for San 
Francisco, across from Derek's townhouse. He started to rise, a smile 
curling his lips, and called through the open door to everyone inside.


"Hey! Todd and Angie are here!" Cheers and the shuffling of feet 
answered his announcement. Derek bounded down the steps, rushing across 
the street to greet his friends.


"DEREK!" yelled Angie as she laid eyes on her friends for the first 
time in months, but what felt like decades. She met him in the middle 
of the street, her tight embrace returned with equal vigor. Todd laid 
his arms around both of them, hugging them in greeting.


"Oh, get the group hug out of the street and over here before you get 
run over!" greeted Alex, grinning from ear to ear, and beckoned them 
towards the townhouse. The trio crossed the empty street to greet their 
other friends who were all descending the steps to meet them.


"It's been so long," said Todd as he hugged Gavin, his best friend.


"Yeah, way too long," he acknowledged. The eight friends greeted each 
other, conversing about life, and generally catching up on what their 
schedules had kept them from discussing since they'd last talked.


The group informally decided to remain on the stairs and talk. The 
couples sat close to one another, Derek at the top of the steps and 
Mark sitting in the middle.

... 

The conversation proved very engrossing. The clock ticked away and they 
soon found themselves without a schedule to keep. No one seemed to care 
about the time, though. Talking was more important.


"Tell me you didn't!" exclaimed Angie about Derek's recent clubbing 
escapades. Everyone laughed, humored by her reaction.


"I..." stopped Derek, watching a magenta and neon green colored Dodge 
Ram Van drove in front of the townhouse. A strange feeling lingered at 
the edge of his mind. He didn't like the look of the vehicle or the 
driver, but the feeling came from nowhere. What was causing...


"Hello?" cut in Robert, "Earth to Derek..."


"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, quickly focusing back on the convo, "that van 
drew my attention. Sorry."


"Well," breathed Mark, "someone sure as hell never bothered to consult 
their color wheel before painting THAT thing!" The brief joke told at 
the expense of the vehicle, the conversation returned to normal, the 
friends joking and playing around as always.
Time: Shortly after sunset 



"I've really enjoyed today," stated John as walked towards the door. 
They'd scrapped the plans of shopping, clubbing, and running around the 
city in favor of a leisurely day drinking coffee, laying on couches, 
and holding the conversation only good friends can.


"Ditto," smiled Todd to the agreement of everyone else. The group took 
its time saying farewell at the door. The fog, which was beginning to 
overtake the Castro from the North while they began to say good-bye, 
had found its way over and between the hills into Noe Valley as they 
finished.


"Take care," wished Angie as she fired up the motor of the BMW.


"You too," responded Alex.


"We have to do this again soon," commented Gavin.


"We will," yelled Todd out of the passenger's window. The car slid out 
of its parking place and down the slope of Douglas street. Its 
taillights disappeared around the corner as Angie hung a right.


"I'm going to miss them," sighed John.


"You had some meeting at ten PM, didn't you?" asked Mark.


"Dammit!" exclaimed Derek, his watch reading 10:37, "I'm outta here."

... 

Derek walked North and West into the thickening fog towards the Haight-
Ashbury district. He'd met a rather interesting, odd-looking man named 
Rich Chalfant a few days back and had been endlessly amused with his 
conversation. It had been mutual, the two shared several pots of coffee 
before Derek's new-found friend declared he must be off to verify the 
placement of several stealth sheep around the city.


Derek'd laughed at the time, positive the man was joking. But now that 
he thought about ... was he? You never could tell. Maybe he'd find out 
tonight.


Window after window of tie-dyed and psychedelic curtains floated past 
as he searched for the address he'd been given. One apartment stuck out 
like a naked man at a British Coronation. Its curtains were a uniform 
shade of black, matching the shutters and trim. In fact, it matched 
everything.


The outer walls of the apartment were painted black, an incongruous 
patch in an otherwise robin's egg blue building. The door, its mat, 
frame, landing, rails, and bottom of the walkway above were all black 
as well.


"Must be the place," thought Derek aloud, confirming every hideout is 
best concealed by being blatantly obvious. It pointedly confuses those 
snoopy-snoop FBI agents who always look for minor differences in a 
monotonous landscape. And I suppose you're saying to yourself 'That's 
really obvious. What a stupid thing to do.' Well, you found it, didn't 
you? So obviously you're supposed to be 'In-The-Know' or you wouldn't 
have realized this was the hideout.


"Look!" yelled a member of the audience, "that whole sentence made 
absolutely no sense whatsoever!"


"Yeah, and Mondale is a good name for a heavy metal band," replied the 
Narrator.


"This is ridiculous!" yelled another member of the audience.


"Look, dear, you're ruining my fun," snapped Derek, staring out of the 
story at you, "Now go translate the Universal Oxford Unabridged 
Dictionary into something Beluga whales will understand. Sheesh... just 
when I was going to have some fun!"


"Anyway, going on with the story..." interrupted the Narrator.


Derek climbed the staircase leading up to the apartment, slowing to a 
stop just before the entrance. He could hear laughter coming from just 
inside the door... disturbing laughter, the kind reserved for the near-
insane. And it wasn't from just one person ... there were at least five 
voices laughing in this manner. Derek stood on the landing, looking at 
the door -- someone had even painted the peephole black -- and tried to 
decide if he wanted to go in.


"Welcome to the Peanut Butter Factory!" yelled a middle-aged man as he 
yanked the door open, "Har dee har har har."


"Ummmm," started Derek.


"Ummmm..." replied the man, the tilt of his head and stance indicating 
he was amused. A bright red Mad Hatter Matrix reading '9x2' glistened 
on the pocket of his shirt.


"Name's Derek."


"Name's Flaagg," he responded, extending a voodoo doll made of 
marshmallows, carrots, and duct tape in greeting.


"... Thanks," replied Derek, gingerly taking hold of the thing.


"Yer welcome. Waddayawant?"


"Chalfant.."


"... is busy trying to unglue himself from a ceiling at the moment."


"Great. He said I might..."


"C'mon in! Join the fun!" answered Flaagg, dragging Derek over the 
threshold and then melodramatically slamming the door.


"You're locked in," announced Flaagg breathlessly as he walked down the 
hallway.


"Umm ... yeah. So where is everyone?"


"Down there," pointed Flaagg, who stopped in his tracks as an 
undulating, warbling noise accompanied a clanging from the kitchen, 
"You must excuse me, I have to take care of the sea monkeys. Everyone 
is down the hall."


"Sure," responded Derek, walking towards the source of an uproarious 
wave of laughter. "What have I gotten myself into?" he wondered aloud.

... 

Derek stood at the doorway and looked in. In one corner sat a skinny, 
pasty young man dressed entirely in black. He sat in a large chair 
mostly concealed by crushed Coca-Cola cans and wore a comically 
exaggerated, red and white striped, felt top hat that swayed with the 
slightest movement of his head. Something amused him and he began to 
laugh, the hat shaking so uncontrollably one would think it should 
collapse.


A group of people in similar dress laughed as well, the apparent source 
of amusement a man wearing mock priest gear. He lectured onwards, not 
listening to the giggles and guffaws from the crowd. Derek decided to 
listen as well, taking a seat between two young women.


"... masturbation is the tool of the devil!," admonished the man, "It 
will corrupt you into heathens and unwholesome folk! It's even been 
shown to turn someone to a..." The man's voice trailed off in a 
dramatic pause as he drew himself up to his full height. "HOMOSECHUAL!"


"Oh, dread!" mocked one of the men in the crowd as he nibbled on the 
ear of another male.


"But ... we're not homophobic," spoke the woman next to Derek.


"I dunno," spoke Brad from his throne of crushed Coke cans, "does the 
homosexual have a gun?" A round of laughter echoed about the room as 
the young woman whispered into Derek's ear.


"Hi. Name's Space Girl. The guy on the throne is our Benevolent Supreme 
Dictator, the Mad Hatter. We call him Brad for short. We're known as 
the Flonkers."


"Nice to meet you. I'm known as me," smiled Derek.


"MASTURBATION IS THE IMPLEMENT OF *SATAN*!!" yelled Herb, the fake-
preacher as he tried to convince his audience through volume. "I LOST A 
TESTICLE TO MASTURBATION!!!! YOU WILL TOO!!!"


"Darling!" yelled Flaagg to Herb as he stood in another doorway in a 
skimpy pink gauze nighty and high heels, "You shouldn't be sharing our 
love life difficulties with the world!"


"I. DO. NOT. KNOW. YOU!" yelled Herb, his response drown out by the 
Flonkers' uproarious laughter.


"I *TOLD* him not to use the Freddy Kreuger glove while masturbating 
with me," teased Chalfant from his glued position on the ceiling, "but 
would he listen to me?! NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"


"I. NEVER. DID. SUCH. A. THING. WITH. YOU!" screamed Herb, his reddened 
face indicating he really didn't like being the butt of every joke. 
Brad fell out of his chair laughing uncontrollably, holding his stomach 
as he rode an avalanche of crushed cans down to the floor.


"Hi Rick!" said Derek craning his neck to see his friend stuck to the 
ceiling. The plaster suddenly gave way, depositing Rick rather 
unceremoniously into a heap of packaging peanuts and bubble wrap 
someone had built below him. A blizzard of settling Styrofoam peanuts 
obliged everyone to brush them off as Rick struggled to remove bits of 
plaster from his chest.


"Welcome to Flonkland!" greeted Rick, happy to see his friend showed 
up.


"Now about the voodoo doll..." cut in the Mad Hatter.


[Time: Roughly 4am] 

"There!" yelled Lord Tilden Owsen, pointing the Barney Slayer at a 
fleeing squad of sponge minions.


"Get 'em! Get 'em! GET 'EM!" yelled Ozzy as he ran after the saboteur 
spongin squad the Jihad had finally identified and located. Warrior 
Ashur Galand followed closely after Ozzy, conscious that Neon Wizard 
behind them was casting a spell of some sort.


"I have now put everyone the in city to sleep," announced Neon Wizard.


"Brilliant," snarled Serp as powered up his chainsaw, "it's not like 
anyone wasn't already sleeping."


"I mean that I cast a spell on them so I could make as much noise as I 
want to now," snipped Neon in response, "You have I to thank for this."


"Whatever," yawned Serp at the sight of Ozzy and Galand cornering, then 
terminating the spongin. "Now that we have those f*ckers out of the 
way.."


"Hit the deck!" yelled J. FoxGlov in warning. Samhain, Neon Wizard, 
Owsen, and others dropped to the cement as dozens of bullets filled the 
air overhead from incoming spongin troops. Serp took several slugs and 
snarled in rage. He hated getting shot, but his 12 foot tall, furry 
frame made him a great target.


With the battle cry of the Maenads in his throat, SilverWulf revved his 
chainsaw on high and charged the spongin hiding behind cars and other 
pieces of the city landscape. The chainsaw chewed through steel, stone, 
flesh, trees, and bone with equal vigor. Those spongin not mauled by 
his chainsaw quickly met his claws which tore out their life.


Samhain, stood behind the wave of death created by the werewolf, leaned 
against a street lamp and watched the less than dramatic, complex 
battle rage. Ennio stomped, kicked, chainsawed, clawed, bit, and 
punched his way through the spongin who fell back before him. Soon, he 
was standing in the middle of an intersection, his chainsaw idling.


"All in a night's work," Serp yawned, shutting off his chainsaw.


"C'mon kid!" giggled the Mad Hatter from a darkened doorway, "pull up 
your pants already; your enormous manhood is blocking my view of the 
battlefield." The other Flonkers quickly came into view, laughing and 
shouting an occasional jibe, as they struck Vogue-like poses throughout 
the street.


"YOU!!" snarled Serp, yanking the cord on his chainsaw. It started and 
promptly sputtered out. Derek, not quite sure what to do from his 
vantage point in the alley, simply hung back in the shadows and 
watched.


"ME!" glowed the Mad Hatter, visibly perking up, "What a wonderful 
subject!"


"Thanks for volunteering to donate your guts, Brad," snarled the 
Jihad's Praetor. He dropped his chainsaw and began advancing on the 
Flonkers. Their response, far from concern, was to walk in place, 
mocking the Jihaddi's menacing advance.


"I'm quite gutless," quipped Brad, "I'm afraid you'll have to find 
something else to do to me."


"You f*cking worm," snarled the werewolf, stomping closer.


"I'M the worm around here! Twit," responded Flaagg who had shed the 
pinky gauzy dress he'd worn earlier to taunt Herb.


"You're all going to DIE!" snapped the lupus, foaming at the mouth.


"Have they done something wrong, Centurion?" asked Trooper Antigone, 
aka Joanna Calvin, from behind Serp. Her battle vest clearly displayed 
the markings of the Doberman Empire Trooper, as well as sported a 
flashy Mad-Hatter-Matrix number in gold beads and blue sequins.


"My, my, my, the psychotic vampire comes to defend her friends," he 
snarled, "I'll do everyone a favor and destroy you first."


"Since when are we the Jihad to Destroy the Flonkers?" fired back 
Joanna, standing her ground. Her vampiric temper began to show, claws 
elongating and eyes flashing a dull red.


"They attacked me, and the Jihad!"


"You threw the first spitball, doofus," laughed the Mad Hatter, "You 
expect us to go away? Hehehehehe ... you're more fun to play with than 
the last shipment of wiffle bats we got in."


"DIE!!" screamed Serp, charging directly for Trooper Antigone. A white 
blur passed in front of Flaagg's vision on an intercept course with the 
12 foot tall wolf.


A solid THUMP echoed down the street, accompanied by a high pitched 
whelp from Serp as he rolled over onto his side, holding his muzzle in 
his claws. Over him stood an angry, snarling, albino atshen who glared 
down at him with enough intensity to make him shudder.


"Wondering who the hell you think you are, I am," snarled Windigo, her 
question coming out in alternating gutturals and half-formed human 
words. Serp met her gaze, challenging it. Silvery metal flowed freely 
from his muzzle where Windigo's open-clawed hit had inevitably ripped 
his flesh due to her nails' downward curvature.


"Somebody's getting in trouble!" sang the Flonkers out loud, delighting 
in the turn of events. Several produced Polaroid cameras and took snap 
shots to commemorate the event. Brad, promptly recognizing a photo-
shoot opportunity, began doing his best Vanna White imitation to 
illustrate the events.


"I'm sorry," whispered Serp, breaking his gaze into Windigo's eyes.


"Oh!" exclaimed Rick Chalfant clutching at the lapels of his jacket, 
"the glamour has left the building! We must be off!" The Flonkers 
departed in chaotic fashion, laughing like loons into the night, 
careless of the baleful eye cast at their backs by Serp.


A man shook himself from the near-trance this series of events had put 
him in. He looked around, realizing the Flonkers were all nearly gone, 
and weighed his options. 'A vampire, atshen, and werewolf in the same 
place,' he thought to himself, 'interesting..'


Windigo sniffed the air, turning her head to look at the shadows which 
concealed her observer. What was that she sensed? Serp looked up from 
his licking his wounds, an unspoken query in his eyes.


"What?" asked Joanna, breaking the moment. Windigo looked at Joanna for 
the briefest of seconds to acknowledge her, and turned her head back. 
It was gone. 

Time: Early evening the same day. 

"I think congratulations are in order, people." Ozzy the Feral stood at 
the head of the table surrounded by Jihaddi in the briefing room. "The 
spongin slowed us down a little... but now that we've taken out their 
saboteur teams, cleansing the rest of the city'll be cake."


"Also," spoke Samhain, "we've weakened the their defensive forces 
significantly in several sectors of the city. DobIntel has narrowed the 
location of the Hell Wyrm's nexus down to three possible locations."


"We don't have enough forces to attack them all," observed Owsen.


"That's why we're going to hit two locations at the same time," replied 
Brigadier General Sheridan Iscarius, "nothing is certain, but we're 
going to go after the two that look the most promising."


"This could really back-fire, you realize," said J. FoxGlov.


"How so?" demanded Ozzy, settling a bit into his black trench coat.


"Well, suppose we pick two duds," thought J aloud, "then what? Couldn't 
b'harnii run while we're fighting elsewhere?"


"I prefer a simple chase over a shell game," coolly stated Samhain.


"All right," decided Ozzy, "it's settled. We strike at 2200 hours." ... 


The military forces of the Doberman Empire, Legion of Doom, TRES Corps, 
and the Maenads deployed around the city with a precision virtually 
unrivaled on the planet. Shells fired from rifles on both battle zones 
at exactly 2200 hours. The fight was on, and unfortunately for the 
Jihaddi, the Hell Wyrm was waiting for them.


"SIR!" screamed Trooper Mars to Fleet Commander Samhain over the 
cacophony of the battle field.


"WHAT?!?" yelled Samhain as dodged several shells fired at him.


"IT'S THE HELL WYRM!!"


"NO SHIT!" observed Samhain he rolled away from his old cover which was 
rapidly disintegrating under fire. He returned fire, blasting a sponge 
minion into the after-life.


"NO! THEY'RE TAKING CIVVIE HOSTAGES!"


"What?" said Samhain, his blood running cold. This was the last thing 
they needed to deal with in a heavy fire-fight.


"CONFIRMED!!" yelled an operative of TRESIntel as she jumped into the 
area near Samhain, bullets hissing through the air above her.


"Did you hear that?" asked Samhain of all the commanding officers over 
the TacNet.


"Yeah," snapped Ozzy, blowing a spongin away before continuing, "we've 
gotta stop them."


"J, Samhain, you're on it," replied Owsen, "get moving. NOW!" ... 


J sat in the passenger side of a TRES humvee. He spoke very little, the 
rising acid in his stomach keeping him company.


"Innocent civilians," he said aloud.


"What, sir?" asked the Lieutenant driving.


"I said, Innocent civilians," replied J, "the Hell Wyrm's using 'em as 
pawns to slow us down. No concern for their lives ... hey, don't worry 
about what I'm thinking, STEP ON IT!"


"YES SIR!" yelled the driver, slamming the gas to the floor. ... 


The Jihaddi Humvees rolled into the intersection of Clipper and 
Douglas. The vehicles turned right, heading into the area the spongin 
had attacked. All the doors to the houses were wide open, smashed open 
with battering rams, and their residents taken by force from their 
beds.


J's ears drooped at the sight. "We're too late."


"WHAT happened over there?" said Samhain pointing to a largish 
townhouse with wide steps. Seven spongin lay dead in the street as 
smoke rolled out the front door.


"Make that eight," coughed J as he stepped over a spongin corpse on the 
threshold into the foyer. J started inside, jumping back in shock at 
the sight of yet another spongin body that had literally been pegged to 
the wall by a rung ripped from the banister leading upstairs.


"I don't like this," said Samhain drawing his wakizashi and advancing 
silently into the smoky interior of the house. Another spongin soldier 
in magenta camouflage lay face-up in a pool of its own blood, a large 
meat knife buried to the hilt in its heart.


"Found the source of the smoke," announced J from another room. Large 
holes in the walls served as testimony there had been a fire-fight in 
here. A large screen TV had caught on fire, its smoke partially 
obscuring the body of yet another spongin soldier.


"Looks like these spongin picked on the wrong house," observed Samhain, 
kicking another corpse he found.


"Maybe they ran into a militia man who actually knew how to use his 
guns," quipped J. FoxGlov.


"And his hands," announced a TRES Ensign as he examined another 
spongin. The obvious cause of death: its neck had been snapped in two. 
Cleanly.


"Everyone out," ordered Samhain, "I want a full forensics team in here! 
PRONTO! I want to know what happened, in great detail." ... 


While the forensic team worked, the Hell Wyrm played its card: the 
Jihad knew the exact location of the nexus and the hostages. A dozen 
men, women, and children stood chained to the walls of its chamber. 
Trigger happy spongin periodically swapped out an exhausted hostage 
with a fresh one.


The Jihad didn't attack. They couldn't risk the lives of innocent 
civilians. ... 


"Sir, you gotta look at this," spoke the Dobe tech to Samhain.


"Yes?"


"We counted 24 dead sponge minions inside of the town house, AND" 
asserted the tech, raising his voice a bit to make himself heard, "in 
the immediate area."


"Whoop-tee-f*cking-do," mocked Serp, clearly not impressed.


"Go on, tech," urged Shardik the Feral, shooting a sideways glance at 
his fellow Maenad.


"Well, here's the spooky thing," said the tech, pausing to swallow, 
"they were all killed by the same person. The cause of death, in every 
case, was a single area of damage."


"What?" asked J FoxGlov.


"The fingerprints on all objects used matched. The residual oils, 
indentations caused by fingers, and damaging force per blow all 
matched," recited the forensics man, "bullets..."


"I get the f*cking point," snapped Serp, clearly impatient with the 
detailed, technical reports.


"Ignore the Centurion," ordered Samhain, with just a slight edge of 
mockery, "I want to hear this." Serp exhaled sharply through his 
nostrils, clearly restraining a come-back.


"All evidence points to a single killer of the spongin," reported the 
tech, showing the lab results, "and the scariest thing: they all died 
with 15 minutes of each other."


"Wow," whistled J. FoxGlov, "someone opened a can whup-ass when those 
spongin showed up."


"Agreed," said Shardik, "What do we ..."


"So we've got a green beret or something floating about. Big deal," 
yawned Serp. "This is really dull."


"Then go inspect the northern perimeter," ordered Samhain. Serp stomped 
off in a huff, clearly displeased. He wanted to kill, not talk or worry 
about much else.


"Now, what do we know about the people who lived in the house?" asked 
Shardik.


"Six males," read the Tech as he leafed through his printouts, "named 
Alex Stone, John Smith, Gavin Armstrong, Richard Baker, Mark Esoldo, 
and Derek Hughes. First five check out, perfectly clean..."


"But?" prompted Shardik.


"The last one is, well, a whole different ball game," said the Tech, a 
bit uneasy.


"Special forces? What?" demanded J. FoxGlov.


"We don't know. We don't have a clue."


"How?" asked Samhain.


"We checked everything," responded the tech, "U.S., International 
population databases. Hell, we even pulled some strings in the CIA and 
FBI to see if we could get hints of a Witness Protection Program. Fact 
is, Derek Hughes simply did *NOT* exist until 1990."


"Greeeeaaaaaaaaat," thought Shardik aloud. He didn't like variables and 
they found more with every passing moment.


"Entered Berkeley, Fall 1991. Graduated, Summer 1994, dual major in 
Computer Science and Engineering Physics. Perfect 4.0, honors in both 
programs. Works at.." recited the Tech.


"That's enough," cut in Samhain, "we get the idea. Now..."


"DIE!! YOU F*CKER!!" screamed Serp as he charged up Douglas, chainsaw 
whining in high gear. J. Foxglov looked in the direction of Serp's 
charge and spotted someone standing underneath a blown-out street 
light. The guy was BIG, Samhain noted, 6'3" and heavily muscled. Not 
someone you'd want to tangle with in hand-to-hand.


"Oh no..." sighed J. FoxGlov. Samhain concentrated, animating the 
shadows into his service, and lashed out. Serp's snarl became a howl of 
surprise, his momentum preventing him from reacting to the bars of 
blackness that appeared in front of his running legs.


He smacked into the concrete with a dull thwap and skidded until a 
large Volvo stopped his movement. The chainsaw, free of its owner's 
grip, bounced down the hill, coughed once, and died.


"You OK, Serp?" asked Samhain, stifling a chuckle.


"No F*CKING thanks to you," he snapped.


"He's gone," observed Shardik, noting the empty air where the man had 
been.


"Centurion, make it known to the Empire that this man is not to be 
disturbed unless he attacks," ordered Samhain. Serp stormed off, 
muttering under his breath, and occasionally kicking a trash can down 
an alley. ... 


"Admiral?" asked the field officer into the radio.


"Yes?" crackled J's voice.


"You won't believe what our patrol just found..."


"Humor me," came back the response, clearly not in the mood for a joke.


"Snipers, sir."


"Great.."


"Dead ones. Thrown from the rooftops, a trail heading in your general 
direction."


"Lemme guess," asked J. FoxGlov, "one wound on them, right?"


"Unless you count the one impaled on a parking meter before it hit the 
cement, yes."

... 

Time: the next day, 0900 hours 

Trooper Charcharadon sat opposite of Fleet Commander Samhain and 
Commander Inagei (aka Windigo the Feral (NYAR!)) in private briefing 
chambers. The Fleet Commander's gaze bore into his face. Neither of the 
DE's senior officers were amused and Charcharadon found himself wishing 
with every fiber of his being that he could simply dissolve into 
quicksilver and flow out of the room.


"How many?" asked Samhain, shattering his hopes of escape.


"ahem" started the Trooper, clearing his throat as much as his nerves, 
"six. Six, sir."


"Six dobermensch dead," stated Samhain. Dead. There was an eerie 
finality with which he pronounced that word. The end, termination of 
life.


"Know of this, what do you, Trooper?" asked Inagei.


"Umm..." swallowed Charcharadon, this whole event was drawing his 
nerves taut, "at 0851 hours Patrol 85 failed to report on the standard 
ten minute interval. 0852, members of Patrols 97 and 55 arrived at 
their last known location. They found the bodies for all members of 
Patrol 85, we think."


"You think?" demanded Samhain.


"Something...horrible... happened to one of them. He was burned alive, 
3rd degree burns covering 100% of his body. We're waiting on dental 
records to provide a positive ID, assuming there's enough left to work 
with."


"Burned?" asked Inagei.


"Yes."


"And the rest?" asked Samhain.


"Two died from gun shot fatalities, chest wounds..."


"Wearing flak armor?!" exclaimed Inagei.


"Yes. The other from a head shot. Other two are indeterminate."


"All right," said Samhain. Silence fell on the room as the Fleet 
Commander didn't continue his sentence. Seconds passed, then a complete 
minute.


"Sir?"


"Seal off the area. Two block radius. DE access ONLY. Limited to 
myself, Commander Inagei, and a full W.E.D.J.E.E. analysis team; you'll 
have the names in a moment."


"What of Centurion Hades and the others?" asked Trooper Charcharadon.


"Access denied by my order. Shoot them for insubordination if they try 
to get access."


"Can we...?"


"Those are my orders," pronounced Samhain, his tone indicating the 
conversation was at an end.


"Yes, Sir."
... 

Time: 1400 hours 

Elektra rolled to a silent stop in front of the large yellow barricades 
that had been erected around the scene. Several DE Troopers holstered 
their weapons as Samhain stepped from his car.


The guards silently admitted him into an oddly still area of an 
otherwise bustling city. A team of W.E.D.J.E.E. scientists greeted him 
a few moments later.


"Cut to the chase," ordered Samhain as the lead scientist handed him a 
crisp, neatly typed report.


"Our boys fired first."


"Any indication why?"


"All data shows they opened fire without being fired upon."


"I see," thought Samhain, his demeanor betraying none of his thoughts. 
Standard DE policy was never to attack unless provoked. These soldiers 
ignored that. Why?


"Last, informal radio contact was at 0836. Autopsies indicate they all 
died two to three minutes later."


"Let me guess ... by the same person?"


"Yes, sir."
... 

Time: 1700 hours 

"Not liking this one bit, I am," responded Windigo after reading all 
the reports Samhain offered her. He sat on the other side of the desk 
in his private office. No one else was around, dozens of W.E.D.J.E.E. 
security devices worked silently to ensure their conversation would 
remain private and unrecordable.


"Nor I." The albino's eyes narrowed and ears lowered as she let out a 
low hiss.


"His orders, if we can prove he made them, are a gross violation of 
Empire policy and insubordinate. They may have also been treasonous."


Windigo's ears laid flat her head as she let out a slow, low hiss. ... 

Time: 2000 hours. 

"So who the hell is this person?" Ozzy's greeting to the Intel 
operatives entering the briefing room was less than cordial.


"You've spotted this person?" asked Samhain of a DobIntel operative. 
She shook her head, indicating they had nothing to report.


"You mean to tell ME," demanded Ozzy, "the Intel forces of 4 JAOs can't 
locate one damn person in less than 4 square miles in 24 hours?!? I'd 
think that knowledge of this asshole wiping out 6 Jihaddi might be 
impetus for you to look a little harder!"


The agents' shoulders sagged, indicating their failure and 
demoralization.


"Wonderful," sighed Owsen, rocking back in his chair.


"I know you don't like variables," addressed J. FoxGlov to everyone, 
"but we can't obsess about finding this guy. There are 235 hostages 
held by the Hell Wyrm guarding his Nexus. It has to be destroyed, and 
the civilians set free."


"I say we snuff this son of a bitch," snarled Serp, "I can hunt his ass 
down and have his hide inside of twelve hours."


"I don't know if we can spare the time..." suggested Neon Wizard.


"I'll rip the f*cker's head off and shit down his neck," swore Serp, 
never quite satisfied he'd demonstrated his proficiency with curses.


"You're just a tad hostile..." started Shardik.


"... fired first, they did," asserted Windigo.


"What?" asked a shocked Serp, his bravado momentarily gone.


"Our people, fired first, they did. Without cause," stated Windigo in 
her typical, halting English.


"That's not impor.." replied Serp.


"I think you're forgetting, Centurion," snapped Samhain, his tone 
sending a visible wave of chills through everyone, "we're not here to 
settle personal vendettas or pursue private projects. We're here to 
destroy the Hell Wyrm, and in the immediacy, set those hostages free. 
Your motion is denied."


"Agreeing with you, I am," spoke Windigo after a long moment, sealing 
the debate.


"All right, then," said Owsen, leaning forward in his chair to push the 
meeting along, "here's what we're going to do..." ... 

Time: 2323 hours Place: the Wharves of San Francisco 

The last spongin screamed and fell to the floor. Its life blood flowed 
out from multiple bullet holes and diffused across the wet floor. 
Jihaddi slowly came out from protected cover, securing their hard-won 
territory.


"Why does this Operation have to be so damn difficult?" asked Neon 
Wizard as he checked the inventory on his spell components. A sharp 
cracking noise from the roof above caused everyone to dive for cover 
and scan the rooftops for enemies.


A man flew off the roof, his arms and legs not moving in a manner that 
would indicate alarm at a free-fall destination of hardened concrete. 
He landed with a sickening splut, his skin tearing in several areas and 
releasing floods of vital fluids.


"Wonder who did this," quipped Owsen as he kicked the body over. An AK-
47 slid off the sniper's chest and clattered to the cement, its clip 
missing.
... 

Time: 2347 Hours Place: Some warehouse 

"FALL BACK!! FALL BACK!!!" yelled Owsen, his Alpha-Omega pistols 
blazing. The spongin had attacked by surprise, their armored vehicles 
and heavy weaponry proving to be too much for the unprepared Jihaddi to 
handle. Retreat was the only option.


An armored car roared forwards from behind spongin lines. Bullets 
sparked and ricocheted from its magenta armor plates as it streaked 
through the cross-fire between the two enemy forces. In a chilling 
moment, the vehicle rammed full-force into a wall of wooden crates used 
to hold laundry detergent.


A flood of bright-blue gushed forth, rapidly spreading across the moist 
floor, as other crate toppled and smashed open. Several Jihaddi 
suddenly found themselves exposed to enemy fire. Lieutenant Yearnshaw 
leapt for cover, a bullet striking him in the hip. His partner landed 
beside him.


"I'm wounded, help me!" demanded Yearnshaw. He didn't receive a 
response and made to nudge his partner, but a shower of wood fragments 
and nails interrupted him.


"Dammit," he swore, punching his partner in the shoulder. His partner 
rolled over, the large hole blown in his rib cage providing free egress 
to organs. Yearnshaw made a noise as though he were to be sick, but 
yelped in surprise as someone forcibly drug him from his position.


"I said get ya butt in gear!" yelled Owsen as he wrapped the 
Lieutenant's arm around his shoulder and drug him towards safety. Some 
crates exploded, sending a raging fireball to rattle the warehouse, 
threatening to shake it to the ground.


Hot liquid rained down on the Jihaddi along with burning debris from 
the crates. A moment later, the sharp smell of chlorine hit everyone's 
nostrils. Captain Harris, an expert in chemical weaponry, looked at the 
reaction occurring under their feet. This was bad, very bad.


"MOVE!" he screamed, opening up with his M-16 on full auto to provide 
cover fire. J. Foxglov, knowing Harris' specialty and the fact he was 
obviously alarmed, started shoving officers towards the door, ordering 
evacuation with every breath.


Across the warehouse, the spongin with the RPG reloaded and selected a 
new target. She squeezed off a shot and watched it explode. She loved 
the bright colors Lord b'harnii had put on this weapon as well as the 
wonderful explosions it made when used. All of this made b'harnii happy 
and encouraged her to work harder.


The spongin giggled to herself as she reloaded. Laughing aloud, she 
selected a target and fired. "I luv you, b'harnii." The grenade 
whistled through the air, the images of several crates labeled "3M" 
growing rapidly in the reflection off its nose.


Harris, the last Jihaddi in the warehouse, bolted for the door. 
Instinct took command, ignoring every instruction from his higher 
brain. As he reached the door frame, the grenade smashed the wooden 
protection of a crate. A split second later, it swam in petroleum-based 
cleaning fluid. Then it exploded.


A noise like someone strapping a throw-rug rolled through the 
warehouse. Then the fire came. A billowing sphere of yellow and white 
expanded in all directions. What it touched, it burned. If it didn't 
burn it swept it into the shockwave. Eventually the entire warehouse, 
floor to walls to crates to walls to ceilings crumpled under the 
explosion.


The shockwave seized Harris as he ran from the door and pulled him from 
his feet. It carried his unconscious form across the dock, over the 
security fence, and out onto the ocean. A split second later the cool 
waters claimed him.


... 

Time: 2351 

"Get up," encouraged a red-haired woman kneeling over Owsen's 
unconscious form. The warehouse had disappeared in a fantastic 
explosion that echoed across the northern half of San Francisco. The 
full moonlight revealed the concern on her porcelain white face.


"Mmmgrgkj huhmmmm," responded Owsen.


"JACE WAKE UP!" yelled Admiral Morgenna. Recognizing the voice of a 
fellow Maenad, Owsen snapped awake. The agate eyes of the vampyress 
glared down at him.


"What happened?"


"Look around. The warehouse exploded."


"I see..." said Owsen as he checked Lieutenant Yearnshaw for life. He'd 
made it through.


"We have to get out of here. Now."


"What happened to all my men?" demanded the Grand Admiral as he forced 
himself to stand.


"Some are dead, some aren't. Tasha is trying to find J." Around the 
scene, numerous Jihaddi struggled to get their feet or regain 
consciousness. ... 

Time: 2353 

The sound of rapidly approaching vehicles made Owsen and a few others 
look up in hope. Heavy, sinking dread slammed into every Jihaddi 
present as pairs of magenta and green colored vans roared towards them.


"Get everyone out of here, NOW," snarled Owsen as he began casting a 
spell. ... 

J rolled over onto his back so he could look up into the night sky with 
five full moons. Five? This was a problem.


"I'm not doing well," moaned the Vulpine as he shook his head. It 
seemed to help a little.


"Great," he sighed, feeling the sharp pain from several burns on his 
chest. He fiddled with his Glov through clenched teeth, turning dials 
and pressing buttons. A blue electric pulse flowed through his body. 
Its corona clearly outlined him in the night as its passage left whole 
flesh in its wake.


"There's one!" giggled the leader of a spongin squad. Seconds later, 
bullets began whistling through the air as J ran for the only cover he 
could think of: the ocean. The cold water closed over J's head, 
snapping him instantly awake.


He swam under the docks as the open water filled with the bright white 
traces of bullets meant for him. A sound like a heavy stone dropped 
into water registered in J's filled ears. A shockwave ripped through 
the water from the explosion, causing J's sensitive ears great pain.


J surfaced for a breath, spat out an "OUCH," then dove again.


"He's under the dock!" screamed one of the spongin as he began firing 
his weapon into the wooden floor, hoping to hit the Vulpine.


"Shit!" thought J as he repulsed away from the pillar he'd been holding 
onto, "these sneckers are really after me." Behind him, splinters fell 
into the water as a barrage of bullets generated dozens of little 
waves.


J made his way underneath the docks until he was confident at least 200 
feet were between him and his adversaries. His claws hooked into the 
algae-covered pole and began to climb.


A moment later, a dripping, lanky, anthropomorphic vulpine stood 
shivering on the dock. His enemies had their backs to him as he headed 
away from them.


"Not so fast!" yelled a spongin from behind him. The cry alerted its 
fellows who began pounding down the dock.


J turned around, swallowing hard as he looked down the barrel of a 
sponge soldier's rifle. Something brushed past his ear. To his surprise 
and horror, a long knife pierced the spongin's throat. Rather than stay 
and argue with the dozen or more armed spongin closing on him, J ducked 
behind a boat in dry dock and ran.

... 


J ran for his life, sea water flying from his fur as he pounded across 
the blacktop. He could hear the noises of combat: gun shots, 
explosions, and the screams of dying men all around him. Some were far 
away, some far too close for him to be comfortable. He'd never been a 
combatant, never made any claims to even knowing how to use a gun or 
damage someone. He was a diplomat, plain and simple, dammit. Someone 
who made his living by hogging the lime-light and talking a great deal.


"And here I am," thought J to himself aloud, "being chased by a 
shitload of spongies!" Someone had killed the spongie trying to take 
him prisoner back there, but he didn't have the time to look for the 
person or even offer a curt 'thanks.' But, then again, he had a 
sneaking suspicion who it was anyway. J turned down an alley running 
between two buildings. Hopefully he could work his way out of the piers 
and warehouse and get into the city where other Jihaddi could find him.


"He cares," spoke J to himself. The side door of large, dark building 
with boarded windows had been conveniently forced opened, providing him 
a place to hide. Or was it a trap? It wouldn't be the first time the 
Hell Wyrm had set a snare for a Maenad. Maybe he should rethink this 
option.


A bullet whistled past J.


"Surrender immediately!" barked the sergeant in charge of the spongin 
squad. He looked to either side, noted spongin at both ends of the 
alley.


"Always take the best option," said J as he dove for the open door. 
Sharp chunks of brick found their way through his fur and pierced his 
skin as he dove inside and slammed the door. J slapped a thin metal rod 
into the loop attached to the door to hold a pad lock and ran. He'd 
apparently entered a boiler room of sorts; the ceiling was completely 
covered in pipes, air ducts, and other things which serviced the 
building.


The spongin arrived a few moments later, busted out the windows, and 
realized it would take a few moments to gain access. Their target had 
escaped for the time being. ... 


A set of predatory eyes glistened in the dark, first watching the 
vulpine run past below and then waiting for the Enemy to enter. The 
spongin kicked the door, sending echoes throughout the boiler room and 
building. Finally, out of frustration, they simply shot at the door 
until the obstruction came free.


"You two stay out here," ordered their leader.


"10 ... 12 ... 14," counted the voice to itself as they filed beneath 
it.


A few moments after the footsteps of the main troops faded, one of the 
men started whining, "I gotta pee."


"Gosh, we don't have a bathroom."


"I know. What should I do?" A long pause, punctuated by shuffling feet.


"Maybe you could pee in there and no one would care."


"OK .. I'll do it. Hope I don't get in trouble...." A man in brightly 
colored camouflage, rather defeating its purpose, walked through the 
door and off towards a corner.


Above, a dark form silently negotiated the pipes, following him. 
Stopping in a darkened corner, the spongin unzipped and began 
urinating. Rather intent on its bodily functions, the spongin didn't 
notice the pair of black combat boots lowering from the pipes near its 
neck.


A sponge looked up and suddenly noticed something on either side of its 
head. A dry snapping of bone announced its passage into the afterlife. 
Its partner outside sensed something and came to the door.


"You OK in there? ... Hey! We're not supposed to play hide and seek 
now!" The spongin walked through the door. "We could get into trouble 
for this! Come.. glurk" A fire-ax blurred in a swipe downwards from the 
ceiling and cleanly cut through three-fourths of the spongin's neck. 
The body fell backwards, spasming in shock.


A moment later, the predator descended from the ceiling. ... 


J knew they were here. The heavy clomp! clomp! clomp! of the combat 
boots echoed throughout the building. It used to be some sort of 
shipping company he realized. Wood flats, dollies, cardboard boxes, and 
metal filing cabinets lay strewn about the building.


The worst thing about it was the dust. J hated dust, always had and 
always would. He found himself fighting the urge to sneeze more often 
than he cared to think about. One noise and his pursuers would be onto 
him. Then what would he do? He could take three or four by himself, but 
over a dozen?


Escape was the best option, but damned if he knew how he'd pull this 
off. ... 


"Sir! The door guards have not checked in!" announced a corporal.


"If those two are playing patty-cake again, I'll have their heads," 
growled the sergeant. "You two! Go check on 'em!" ... 


The predator emerged from the boiler room into a service corridor. His 
muscular frame seemed too large for the narrow passage, but he moved 
with both speed and silence towards his destination. A few moments 
later and he emerged in a corridor running the length of the first 
floor.


The black ski mask covering his face matched the rest of his attire, 
covering every square inch of flesh but eyes and mouth. He stood 
motionless, as though waiting for something, and moved.


An observer would have felt a slight movement of air and, perhaps, 
detected a brief shift in the shadows of an otherwise pitch black 
hallway, but nothing else. He stopped at the base the stairs, conscious 
of two men descending from the third or forth floor.


The Beretta 92F fit snugly in his gloved right hand as the other 
quickly screwed a silencer into the gun. The stairs vibrated slightly 
from the men descending it. They were bringing a light source with 
them, causing the blackness of the stairwell to recede in shades of 
gray. ... 


The spongin charged down the stairs, trying to find their fellows as 
quickly as possible. Tommy hopped down the stairs to the last landing 
before the first floor, his comrade half a flight behind him. He slowed 
down a bit, waiting for his partner to catch up, then hopped down the 
last few stairs.


Tommy jerked suddenly to the side and collapsed on the floor, a growing 
stain on the chest of his uniform. Greggy stopped, panicked, and jumped 
when something black moved at the edge of the light from his rifle.


He'd meant to say something, but his last thought before his heart 
imploded was 'Why did my flashlight explode?' The predator waited until 
the body rolled down the stairs, kicked it out of the way, and 
ascended. ... 


J crouched behind an old desk. His anthropomorphic form had allowed 
easy adaptation to operating in the dark. The faint orange glow in the 
night streets seeped through the chinks of boarded windows providing 
all the light he needed.


His hunters did not have the ability to evolve on demand, or at the 
twist of a dial. They were static, dependent on primitive chemical 
reactions to give them sight in this environment. "There's not much 
room left to play hide-and-seek in the dark," thought J. "This is the 
top floor. The roof is all I have after this."


Dim, white halogen light refracted in the corridor outside the office. 
It was time to move again. Suddenly, the hallway filled with harsh, 
bright light. A couple of the spongin had entered the floor blindly, 
correctly guessing their quarry was evading them by monitoring the 
light levels, and switched their flashlights very near where J crouched 
behind a desk.


They entered abandoned offices, opening closets, cabinets, turning over 
furniture. "They must want me really bad," thought J as his eyes 
scoured the room for an alternate exit. There. A door into some sort of 
large storage area. But a filing cabinet partially blocked it.


"Hopefully it's empty," thought J as he padded across the room towards 
the door. The handle turned easily enough, allowing the door to swing 
freely. Too free in fact. It slipped from J's clutching claws and 
noisily creaked open.


"In there!" yelled a soldier.


"Jig's up," said J as he yanked on the filing cabinet. Booted feet 
pounded down the hallway towards his office. The cabinet refused to 
move. "MOVE!" snarled J, pulling with all his strength.


"FREEZE!!!" commanded a soldier, his light shining directly on J. In 
desperation, J pulled again ... and it moved. A split second later he 
dove for the narrow space between door frame and filing cabinet. The 
soldier flicked the safety from his rifle. The head and shoulders of 
the vulpine disappeared behind the cabinet. The soldier took aim, the 
target's torso hidden by the cabinet. The trigger eased down, upper 
body gone from view. Tails and knees disappear behind cover, the 
trigger catches. Knees move behind cover, the hammer struck, powder 
exploded. Calves moved behind cover, bullet whistled through the air. 
Feet flexed. Bullet connects with sole of foot, crosses its width, 
takes fur and 1/32 of an inch of flesh in its passage.


J flopped onto the dusty floor, whining in pain as he held his bleeding 
foot. A bullet punched through the cabinet and door, showering the 
vulpine with splinters and shredded paper. Then another bullet fired, 
and another.


"DIE YOU F*CKER!!!" screamed the soldier as he pumped round after round 
into the cabinet. J hobbled away, leaving a bloody foot print with 
every other step. He'd gone, perhaps, a score of steps before the shots 
ceased.


"This is the end," observed J as he limped away. The cabinet screeched, 
a soldier dragging it clear of the door. They were through in an 
instant, their harsh white flashlights spotlighting the wounded 
Jihaddi. He kept moving away from them, out into the open of the empty 
room.


"That's right," teased the sergeant, "get out in the open so we can get 
a clear shot." A moment later, J found himself surrounded by a ring of 
ten sponge soldiers, all rifles and lights pointing at his chest. The 
nearest exit was thirty feet away, a ten foot long staircase leading up 
to a glassed-in office. Who knew how many feet to the roof from there?


"Any last requests?" queried the spongin's leader.


"I ... ARHHHH" screamed J as a a storm of shots thundered through the 
room. He knew he was dead. There was BLOOD everywhere on him! Another 
deafeningly roar of shots, much shorter than the first, and the world 
was silent.


Well, almost silent. The ringing in J's ears found a sharp compliment 
in numerous metal bullet cases clattering down cement stairs. He looked 
at his chest, his hands feeling around, not believing the visual 
reports his body hadn't been ripped several new orifices.


Next, he registered a ring of ten fresh, twitching corpses around him 
and the spreading pools of blood from each. They were dead? The large 
holes where vital organs, heads, or throat existed confirmed they each 
died from a single bullet. How..


The sound of a clip being slammed into a pistol shook J from his 
questions. A figure dressed from head to toe in black stood at the 
midpoint of the stairs leading up to the office. A ski mask obscured 
his face, revealing only lips and a set of bright, icy blue eyes.


"ahem" said J, trying to swallow, but having the noise escape his mouth 
instead.


"Who are you?" demanded the man, his gun pointed in J's general 
direction.


"Nice shooting, Tex," responded J, trying his best to strike a friendly 
cord. It failed.


"...Texas."


"Pardon me?"


"I said, I'm not from Texas. Who are you?"


"Admiral J. FoxGlov, TRES Corps. Jihad to Destroy Barney."


"Why have your people tried to kill me?" the man demanded as he 
descended the stairs.


"Would you mind," motioned J to all the dead spongin, "explaining to me 
HOW you shot all them before they could return fire?" His ears and 
tails twitched back and forth. He wasn't sure he was in a much better 
situation than before, but at least the spongin were talkative. "If you 
would explain this to me, I'd feel a little better."


"It's called fast reflexes, Admiral."


"I'll say."


"NOW WHY HAVE YOUR PEOPLE TRIED TO KILL ME?!" he demanded, pointing his 
gun for emphasis. 

"You mean the six men who attacked you?"


"I didn't enjoy killing men with families. Why are you people here? Why 
am I your enemy?"


"You're not our enemy."


"You have a strange way of indicating friendship."


"As do you..."


"I'm not a friend. Why did they shoot at me?"


"Can I sit down?" asked J, standing on one foot to emphasize his wound.


"You're not a prisoner. Do as you wish."


"Then I'll call for a medical ..." stopped J as the man's gun swung in 
his direction.


"No."


"I thought I wasn't a prisoner."


"I want answers. Then you're free to call anyone you want."


"That makes me a prisoner," dryly observed J.


"The questions..."


"All right, dammit. The men who attacked you belong to a group in the 
Jihad known as the Doberman Empire. They were under orders not to shoot 
first, but we have reason to believe someone encouraged them to do so. 
We don't know why."


"So I have enemies I've never met."


"I didn't say that."


"Then what?"


"I don't know, but what happened with those men was not my intent or 
the man's who runs the DE."


"Why are you here?"


"You don't waste any time," observed J. The man simply looked at him 
without response. "Right, we're here to stop a hell spawned-evil named 
b'harnii. We're trying to destroy something named The Nexus. Don't ask 
me what it does, because I'm not a technical person and don't know all 
the details.


"What I do know is: If the Hell Wyrm manages to learn to use the 
device, its power will be greatly magnified. This would be very bad. 
The Wyrm's already taken hostages..."


"This is the thing responsible?!" the man demanded.


"Yes," agreed J, an idea now forming into certainty, "what concern of 
yours is it?"


"Private."


"If you'd share your needs with me, I might be able to help."


"My interests are private. I can pursue them without help."


"Five interests?" asserted J, taking a very large risk. The man didn't 
reply, simply stared at the Jihaddi.


"I know who you are," continued the Vulpine, "Derek Hughes, Berkeley 
graduate, summer 1994. Engineering Physics and Computer Science, honors 
in both. Lived on Douglas Street with 5 other men..."


"I don't what you're referring to..."


"And I'm a spring green color," retorted J, raising his voice slightly, 
"you've been watching us since the spongin came to take hostages, if 
not before. Spongin have mysteriously died the whole time we've been 
performing operations in this city, all with the same pattern, and they 
all point to you. Now why don't you cut the shit and level with me so 
we don't waste our time in evasion games?!"


"All right," agreed the man, "let's talk business..." ... 

Time: 8 minutes later 

"Are you there?" crackled Owsen's voice over J's JihadLinker[TM].


"Yes," snapped J, irritated at the interruption. He looked up and 
couldn't find a trace of the man with whom he'd been holding a 
conversation.


"Well, maybe you'd like to just rescue your own butt," responded Owsen.


"It's already done, send a medical team up here."


"Oh?"


"Our 'friend' did me the favor of getting the spongin off my case."


"I see. Is there a body?"


"Twelve of them, he's just fine."


"Still there?"


"Gone."


"Gimme the briefing, J."


"He's not hostile, nor is he friendly. We've some things in common, but 
they're limited."


"That's it?"


"Unfortunately."


"Any idea who he is?" asked Owsen.


After a long pause, "No. I've no idea. Our Intel was wrong."

... 


The Mission District had experienced some unexpected economic 
prosperity a few months ago. Someone identifying herself only as Madam 
Iibahb had bought up empty abandoned buildings and brought in 
specialists to work on technical aspects of the buildings. All general 
labor was hired locally, and paid very handsomely for their work.


Families which had scraped by on public assistance suddenly found 
themselves with a full time job and the ability to purchase things 
they'd always assumed were out of their range. Sales of macaroni and 
cheese dropped to near nothing and grocers had trouble keeping lobster, 
steak, and other 'too expensive' food in stock.


Houses were repainted, repaired, or renovated. Shiny new cars sat in 
many garages adjacent to living rooms filled with new furniture and 
TVs. Life had taken a dramatic upswing for this area of town, crime 
dropped off, and everyone sang praises to Madam Iibahb who consistently 
declined to appear in public or be interviewed by the press.


It came as little surprise that no one asked, or cared, what her 
intentions were with the buildings. After the construction stopped, 
workers found their jobs converted into secretarial, administrative, 
and maintenance positions. What were seen as temporary positions became 
permanent.


Three days after the new buildings opened for business some lunatics 
had tried to attack the buildings. The police arrived in record time 
and drove them off. The next morning, armed security guards began 
patrolling the areas around the buildings and the roofs.


Though the presence of armed men 24 hours a day raised some eyebrows, 
no one was willing to complain and risk derailing the gravy train they 
found themselves riding. What sort of a nut would risk that?


Likewise, when the guard towers on the roofs and search lights went up, 
no one complained. The buildings had become fortresses over a short 
period of time, but its vault of gold was open to everyone willing to 
work there. No one asked questions.
... 


Time: the next day, 0300 hours Place: The Mission District 

The main building of Madam Iibahb's complex sat at the corner of 
Mission and Freedom. Built as an architectural novelty in the 1940s, 
the three-floor building resembled a medieval castle, complete with 
crenils, towers, and doors entrance fashioned to resemble the gates of 
a castle.


Further adding to this mystique was a facade of limestone bricks, tall, 
narrow windows, and a subtle illusion that on a rainy day, would give 
the impression the water-filled streets were a moat. Fallen into disuse 
in the 1970s, the building sat vacant until Madam Iibahb bought it.


A discreetly placed antenna on top of the building's roof hummed to 
life, broadcasting a tight-beam transmission North and West to the 
Doberman Empire's Naval Yards. ... 


"Why, hello there!" bubbled the Hell Wyrm at the conference room full 
of Jihaddi. "I'm so glad you could..."


"Get to the point, asshole," cut in Samhain, not in the mood to be 
looking at the plush demon, let alone talking to it.


"OK, since you're not in the mood to luv me," observed the Wyrm, as the 
camera shifted to reveal a dozen hostages tied and bound around the 
Nexus, "I'll get right to the point."


"Hostages?" asked J. Foxglov aloud, his stomach sinking.


"Very good, I'm glad you're observant!" giggled It of the One Tooth, 
"You and all your friends have 8 hours to get out of San Francisco."


"And if we don't, pus-bag?" snarled Ozzy.


"Well, my bestest friend Ozzy, this'll happen to them all," coolly 
replied the Magenta Monstrosity, motioning to a sponge soldier. The 
spongie drug a woman from the group of hostages, kicked her so she fell 
in front of the camera, and drew his pistol.


"NO!!!!!!" yelled Owsen, standing up from his seat.


"You meany Jihaddi just won't leave me alone," replied b'harnii in a 
cold, lethal tone. It spoke loudly, its voice cutting through the 
woman's pleas for mercy. "One hostage will die every thirty minutes. 
Your military presence here is a threat to me. Remove it and the others 
will live."


The camera zoomed in on the woman's terrified, pleading face. The 
spongin pulled the trigger, erasing her life in a splatter of gore. 
Windigo snarled, clearly losing all self control as her claws dug into 
the table.


"You..." started the Indigo Infant Ingester as it grabbed the camera 
and turned it so as to be on-screen, "You have 29 minutes until the 
next one dies. Get out of San Francisco and the killings stop. Attack 
me in any way and they all die. b'harnii out."


The channel crackled with static for a brief second and then closed. 
The screen turned blue, indicating a completely idle system.


"Now what?" asked Neon Wizard. The expressions on everyone's faces told 
him this wouldn't be an easy decision. ... 


"You IDIOT," snapped Samhain, his patience rapidly dissolving.


"We can do it!" retorted Ozzy, his temper flaring.


"WE NOT GOING TO RISK HUNDREDS OF CIVILIAN LIVES ON ONE ATTACK!," 
shouted Owsen. "TRES CORPS FORCES ARE NOW OUT OF THE FIELD!"


"Ditto," agreed Samhain. keying in the appropriate orders to DE staff.


"I can't believe this!" snarled Ozzy, his temper not abating.


"We'll find another way," spoke J, trying to calm everyone's tempers, 
"We Have to do it. We can't have all those people die." Silence fell in 
the room. Ozzy stood near the window, his face twisted in a mask of 
hatred and anger.


"All right," he bit off, "Find another way. Find it NOW. This son of a 
bitch is going down." ... 


b'habii b'hopp stood beside her cousin as they watched the Jihaddi 
forces pull back from around the city. They began dancing in glee; 
their gamble had worked.


"OK, let's move it," growled b'hii j'haa. The demonic trio waddled out 
of the command room. ... 


The streets outside the Mission and Freedom building were dead silent. 
The soldiers walking the course of their patrol made the only noise 
besides the occasional clatter of switching mechanisms in the traffic 
lights. It was nearly 3:30 am and nothing was happening.


"Time for another walk on the roof," said the soldier to his superior 
officer.


"Go on," he replied. The soldier opened the tower door and stepped 
outside. He sighed, pulled his jacket a little closer together, hoisted 
his rifle, and walked along his standard patrol route.


The walk around the roof proved very uneventful, as always. He waved 
hello to the spongin guards in the other three towers and walked back 
towards his post. Sighing in his boredom, the spongin mounted the 
stairs of the tower and began to climb. A few seconds later he opened 
the door and stepped in. The commander's back was to him, watching some 
monitors.


"Nothing to report, sir." Waiting a brief couple of seconds for a 
response, the spongin restated his report, louder this time.


"Nothing to report, SIR!" The spongin stepped forward, puzzled by his 
superior's lack of a response, and touched his shoulder. His 
commander's body fell from the chair, lifeless.


"Hel...glurk!!" screamed the spongin as four silent, precisely fired 
shots destroyed heart, voice box, and internal organs. The corpse fell 
to the floor, twitching in a pool of its own fluids, as a black-clad 
figure smoothly dropped from the supports overhead and walked out the 
door.


The man crossed the roof with speed and purpose in his stride. A small 
duffel bag hung at his side as he closed on his target. The bag zipped 
open, revealing two compact crossbows and four bolts with egg-shaped 
charges on the ends. He loaded them, cocked the crossbows, and stepped 
out into the open holding one in each hand.


"Intru...!!" started to yell the first spongin who spotted him. The 
crossbows twanged. The bolts streaked towards the towers with deadly 
speed and accuracy. Glass shattered as the man dove for cover.


Twin clouds of fire blossomed inside the guard towers, shattering their 
windows, and setting them ablaze. The man reloaded, aimed, and fired. 
The two bolts pierced the last tower with live occupants.


A fantastic flood of flame ripped through the tower, lighting it like a 
Jack-O-Lantern. Spongin who had been yelling to sound the alarm found 
themselves howling in agony as they beat frantically at the flames 
consuming their flesh.


The dark figure ran to a cluster of exhaust pipes. After a moment's 
examination, he located the correct pipe. He held his gloved hand over 
the pipe, hot gases forcing the leather to give off an aroma, as 
orangish-red tendrils of lights flowed across his forearm.


They wound themselves together in his closing hand, growing brighter 
and stronger as the space for them lessened. His finger spread apart 
making more room for the expanding ball of fiery energy as it grew. 
Illuminary tendrils emerged from the man's body, his physical form 
becoming insubstantial. A moment later, a wafting cloud of fiery energy 
floated above the exhaust pipe.


Suddenly, it shot down the pipe with a loud WHOOSH!. ... 


The spongin corporal in charge of the building's boiler system looked 
up. The door of the incinerator rattled, fire flaring around the edges, 
as combustion inside threatened to tear it from its hinges.


He ran over to the area, unsure of what to do. The spongin shrieked as 
the door blew open. An animated mass of fire rushed at the minion, 
enveloped, and carbonized its body.


The ashes swirled into the hovering, fiery cloud and then began to 
coalesce. A moment later, the man from the roof looked around, 
listening to all the internal alarms of the building.


"Wonderful," he said. ... 



"WHAT'S GOING ON?!?" demanded the Hell Wyrm.


"Sir, three guard towers are ablaze!" informed the command center tech, 
"All personnel have been terminated."


"The Jihaddi are attacking?" asked b'habii b'hopp, her claws extending 
from under the candy-apple green plush.


"No one is in the area, Ma'am," informed the tech. b'harnii looked at 
b'habii b'hopp, an unspoken understanding passing between them. ... 


"What's going on," demanded Admiral J-Rock of the tech who had burst 
into his quarters unannounced. He was the Admiral on duty, had turned 
his beeper off, and had no one to blame but himself for the Ensign's 
rude behavior.


"Sir! b'harnii's main complex is on fire!"


"I see."


"Sir, at..."


"If anyone attacked prematurely, I'll have their hides!" swore J-Rock 
as he slammed the comm-link to wake Owsen. Ten minutes later Jihaddi 
forces roared across San Francisco. The time to attack had come. ... 


"Line 'em up!" yelled the Captain as his subordinates drug the hostages 
from the cells into the open. His boots echoed on the cold cement 
floor. What had been a large wine cellar for a restaurant had been 
turned into a prison block. "Lord b'harnii says they're all to be 
killed, immediately."


The spongin busied themselves in preparing a chopping block, wicker 
baskets, and other essential items for mass decapitation. The Sponge 
Executioner arrived, his form covered in bright magenta robes and an 
equally bright hood. Unfortunately, the hood also had a bright yellow 
circle painted on it so that when one looked at the executioner, you 
couldn't help but view the smiley face created by the eye and mouth 
holes in the hood.


"Get the first one in place!" giggled the Captain. He always loved the 
Executioner's outfit. He looked at the hefty ax, the mouth of a smiley 
painted along the tool's edge. As far as he was concerned, b'harnii 
always had good taste.


The first one to the block was a man in his early twenties. He'd been 
struck several times by his captors, yet still fought. A few vicious 
blows ended his resistance, but not the protests from his friends.


"ALEX!" yelled one of the hostages. He pushed his arms between the bars 
as though he could stretch the 40 feet to his husband. The spongin 
pushed the red haired man onto the chopping block. The executioner took 
his position, hefting the ax to waist level.


"Lord b'harnii has commanded you are all to be slain," spoke a 
b'harnate chaplain. "May Lord b'harnii have mercy on your souls." The 
chaplain sprinkled some sort of powder on Alex's neck and stepped back. 
"You may proceed."


The executioner hefted the ax high over his head, and brought it down 
in a whistling arc. The chaplain gurgled, his torso nearly cloven in 
two by the ax. The soldiers hovering near the hostage jumped in 
surprise. The executioner's fist struck out, rocking the soldier's head 
back in a spout of blood.


The executioner reached under his robes and pulled out twin Beretta 
92Fs. The sponge Captain screamed and crashed to the floor. His 
lifeblood oozed out from a large hole over his heart.


The spongin guarding the cells pulled their weapons up. The 
executioner's twin Berettas thundered, sending bullets on lethal 
courses. Spongin jerked violently and fell to the floor. One's hand 
clamped down the trigger of its M-16 sending bullets spraying into the 
ceiling until the clip emptied.


"ARRHHH!" screamed the last spongin as he opened fire on full auto. 
Plaster exploded from the walls as he made a desperate attempt to kill 
the executioner. His target dove for the floor, took a bullet in the 
shoulder, and returned fire. The spongin's knees, upper legs, groin, 
and stomach exploded as the executioner emptied his clips.


He collapsed silently onto the concrete, his agony too intense to 
vocalize in a scream. The executioner stood up, ripped the magenta 
robes from his body revealing a black body suit. He tore off the 
leggings and fake sleeves, tossed them aside and removed the hood. His 
light brown crew-cut looked a little flat, but otherwise passable.


The black-clad man drew a knife from his boot and walked over to the 
bound, terrified hostage on the chopping block. He cut the cords 
holding Alex's legs together then pinched the steel links between the 
handcuffs with his index finger and thumb. The metal melted away is an 
instant.


"Alex," called the man as he turned his friend over.


"DEREK?!" shouted Alex. "How'd you..."


"No time. Everyone needs out of this building."


"But.."


"Grab those keys. Get these cells open."


"I..." Alex was clearly in shock. He couldn't see to process the data 
his world was giving him.


"These!" snapped Derek, thrusting the keys into his hands. "Open the 
cells! Now!" Alex numbly walked to the first cell and started fumbling 
with the keys. Derek walked to the cell opposite Alex, laid a fiery 
hand on the lock, and pulled his fingers through the liquefying metal.


The wide-eyed occupants of the cell pressed against the back wall as 
though the sparks from the melting metal would kill them. Struggling 
desires flashed across their faces. They desperately wanted out of 
their cells, but the strange man in black who could melt metal with a 
touch terrified them.


"I only bite on request," sarcastically replied Derek as he moved to 
the next cell. Mark, Gavin, and John all stood in place, thunder-
struck, as they watched their friend continue to melt heavy guage steel 
at a touch. Another two minutes of work and every civilian was free 
from captivity.


"Are there any military men here?" queried Derek, his voice snapping 
the uncertain, traumatized crowd into attention.


"Aye," answered a man with salt and pepper hair, "Captain Mitchell, 
United States Army, retired." Seven other men answered in the 
affirmative.


"Gentlemen, your task is simple. Get these civilians out of this 
building. The quickest exit is up those stairs two flights, make a 
left, then a right at the first corridor. It's a straight shot from 
there."


"Understood," replied the U.S. Army Captain.


"Now why would all of my super special friends want to leave?" chuckled 
the Hell Wyrm as he descended the staircase the hostages were to take 
to freedom. He waddled towards Derek with murder in his plushy eyes.


"Let these people go," demanded Derek, pointing his Beretta at the Hell 
Wyrm's chest. The Magenta Monstrosity kept advancing. Derek fired, a 
bullet punching through It of the One Tooth's blubber where its heart 
should be. The plush demon laughed uproariously.


"You can't kill me with bullets, silly human," laughed b'harnii. Its 
rolls of fat quivering in its mirth. "You will..." Derek rapidly 
emptied the clips of both Berettas into the wyrm's chest, causing it to 
land on the floor with a sickening thud. Bright magenta blood coursed 
from the raw flesh on the beast's chest and pooled around its 
shoulders.


"OUT!" yelled Derek as he reloaded his pistols. The civilians ran for 
the door and began climbing the staircase.


"You're starting to annoy me," snarled the Hell Wyrm as it rolled over 
and began the tedious process of getting to its feet. The hostages 
continued to file out the door, more and more running for their freedom 
every minute.


"NO!" hissed b'harnii. It stomped forward, eyes aglow with rage. Derek 
fired again. He emptied his dozen-bullet clips into the beast's head. A 
large, grotesque, cow-like eye exploded. A cascade of plushy goo 
splattered across the floor as b'harnii hit the floor. Derek reloaded 
and shot out of the demon's knees and elbows. Its body just twitched, 
showing no other signs of life.


"Maybe that'll hold it," Derek thought aloud. A check showed the last 
civilians were almost out of the room. He pulled a grenade for a dead 
spongin, held the handle, and yanked the pin. When the last civilian 
passed through the door, one of the military volunteers called to him.


"Are you coming?"


"Close the door. Now." Derek walked as close as he dared to the wyrm, 
dropped the live grenade into its gaping maw, and sprinted for cover. A 
tide of magenta gore splashed throughout the cell block. The floor was 
slick with the remains of the plushy.


Derek made a break from behind his cover towards an alternate exit. 
Behind him a lavender light flared. It burned brighter than the sun and 
brought an inhuman howling. The pieces of the wyrm moved on their own 
accord as they slithered towards an amorphous, pulsating lump.


"Divine," said Derek, his sarcasm threatening to wash away a sense of 
dread: things had just become much more serious. He sprinted for the 
stairs trying to argue away the inevitable conclusion. ... 


After a minor fire-fight, the twelve civilians used as a human shield 
for the nexus were free. The black-clad man lead them to an exit and 
then disappeared into the shadows. ... 


The battle to cleanse the city of the Hell Wyrm's forces had been 
intense. Jihaddi forces descended on b'harnii's complexes with 
unrivaled ferocity. The auxiliary buildings were ultimately bombed out 
of existence, only their charred foundations testifying to what had 
been there before.


The headquarters at Mission and Freedom had to be stormed, captured 
from room to room. The demonic trio had fought to defend the nexus and 
remove it from harm's way.


The full fury of the Maenads and the might of the Barney Slayer 
ultimately tipped the scales of the battle. The demonic trio was forced 
from the battlefield lest they face a permanent death at the hands of 
Lord Tilden Owsen's weapon.


The departure of the Hell Wyrm stripped its forces of the will to 
fight. Soon they were mowed down, the carcasses piled up in the streets 
for clean-up teams to cart away.


The Jihaddi found the nexus, removed it from the building, laid charges 
throughout the Hell Wyrm's building, and evacuated. A dull rumbling 
from the guts of the building signaled its imminent collapse. Without 
the support of the foundation, walls crumbled inwards as the roof came 
down.


A huge cloud of dust drifted across the Mission District as Jihaddi 
forces cleaned up the remaining spongin incursion. Windigo, Owsen, 
Morgenna, and other magically inclined Jihaddi headed out of the city 
to dispose of the nexus. The remainer of the forces had little trouble 
mopping up. ... 

Time: The next morning 

The five friends sat around the table in shocked silence. The past few 
days had been a traumatic blur to them. First they'd been forcibly 
removed from their home and hauled to some place they never knew 
existed. Their lives had been threatened at gun point as some demonic 
creature used them in its power games.


When they expected to die, Derek had appeared and rescued them. Now he 
was gone again. Calls to friends, relatives, even the police all turned 
up negative. He simply couldn't be found. And there was still the 
matter of the cleanup...


The front door opened and someone entered without announcing 
themselves. The person walked down the corridor and into the kitchen.


"Derek!" yelled Mark as he stood up. The others stood a split second 
later. The five of them looked at someone they'd known for years and 
didn't know anymore.


"Hi. I came because I have to talk to everyone..."


"That would be an understatement." John sipped at his coffee, failing 
to stop his hand from shaking.


"Where the Hell did you learn how to do that stuff?" demanded Gavin. "I 
never even knew you owned a gun!"


"That's a long story ... Look, I can't go into the details..."


"Oh, I think details are good," contradicted Richard. He wanted 
answers.


"You guys aren't making this any easier on me," sighed Derek.


"What do you mean?" asked Alex. He had a nasty feeling in his gut and 
didn't like it one bit.


"I have to leave," answered Derek, "There's something I have to do, and 
it can't happen if I'm here."


"What do you mean you're leaving?" John tried to fight off the cold 
feeling inside but couldn't shake it.


"I mean, I came to stay good-bye. For good."


"No," breathed Mark as he crossed the space to Derek.


"It's not safe for you if I stay here," responded Derek as he embraced 
Mark. His tears fell on Mark's shoulder. "That thing I shot in the 
prison cells is immortal."


"What are you talking about?" asked Alex. He embraced his long-time 
friend as well.


"It's a demon, come here to enslave our planet and destroy humanity. 
I'm caught up in the game played out between higher forces now. I can't 
hide, because it'll look for me. I can't live here because assassins 
will come. They won't care who dies, so long as there's blood on their 
blades."


"This is nonsense." Richard crossed his arms across his chest, not 
wanting to believe any of this.


"And I suppose melting steel at a touch in nonsense too."


"SHUT UP!" screamed Richard. He started, surprised at his rage in that 
command. 'Where did so much anger and fear towards Derek come from, 
Richard?' he mentally asked himself.


"Please don't go," pleaded Gavin as he walked towards his friend. He 
could see the pain in his friend's eyes and it only drew more grief.


"I can't stay," choked out Derek as he took Gavin's hand and pulled him 
closer. ... 

Time: Late afternoon, the same day 

Derek opened the door of what had been his home for the past year and 
walked out. He turned left and walked down Douglas without looking 
back. There was a task for him to accomplish and he couldn't run away.


He caught the 48 bus and rode it until the junction point with another 
route. Half an hour later he rode the Muni system to his destination. 
... 

Time: Not much later Place: Fisherman's Wharf 

J. FoxGlov walked along in human form with Samhain. They'd had an 
incredible conflict with the Hell Wyrm and came out victorious. 
Exhaustion set in as the adrenaline wore off.


As a method of recreation, the two officers decided to hold on informal 
meeting while they examined the local tourist spot. J still wore his 
Glov, a rather odd item for human to wear, but this was San Francisco 
and no one really paid much attention to strange looking things.


"Chili?" suggested Samhain. The smells of a local chili joint drifted 
into J's nostrils.


"Sure," he agreed, licking his lips. They took a seat in the restaurant 
where they could look at everyone walk past and watch the docks. Hot 
bowls of chili were placed in front of them and the two commenced 
eating. ... 


"Yummy" moaned J as he rubbed his stomach. Samhain didn't respond. He 
was too busy draining the last of his Extra Large glass of Mountain 
Dew.


J looked out the window, scanned the docks, and looked at the bill. He 
snapped his head back to something he'd spotted. At the end of a dock 
stood a man dressed in black. His mask was gone, revealing his 
identity.


"If you'll excuse me," said J as he exited the restaurant. He pushed 
his way through the milling crowds and made it to the end of one of the 
docks. An odd collection of barrels and miscellany stood between him 
and the man he wanted to speak with.


The man didn't move, but looked directly at him, encouraging him to 
approach. J finally made his way down the rhythmically flexing dock.


"Hello, nice to see you," greeted J.


"I didn't know you were human."


"I had no idea what you looked like in person until now."


"You saw my driver's license photos. You knew."


"OK. Point taken. So what brings you by?"


"The demon."


"b'harnii?" queried J.


"To be exact, yes. I can't let that thing live."


"So you want to join the Jihad?"


"If that's what it takes to kill it, yes."


"So what's your name? That identity someone generated for you is 
bullshit."


"I was rather proud of my work on that one. What's my real name to 
you?"


"We need it for TRES Corps personnel records."


"And your real name is J. FoxGlov, eh?"


"OK, point taken. What do you want to be called?"


"CP."


"CP? OK, we can do that."


"So what do I have to do to enter this 'TRES Corps' you're talking 
about?"


"You're in," answered J, "I'm second in command and hereby welcome you 
aboard, Ensign."


"Thank you, Sir."


"There will be proficiency tests to pass, but I don't think you've much 
to worry about.."


"J!!" yelled Samhain from the end of the dock. He'd been watching the 
exchange. Rather than yell at J's rude behavior of walking out with 
warning, he'd chosen to be silent. If his guess was right, this is 
someone he wouldn't want to scare away, but rather meet. The two walked 
towards him, the TRES Admiral smiles broadly.


"I'd like you to meet TRES Corps' newest member," announced J once he 
was within conversational distance, "Ensign CP. This is Fleet Commander 
Samhain of the Doberman Empire."


"Nice to meet you, Ensign," replied Samhain. He bowed slightly at the 
waist, a sign of polite greeting.


The Ensign held his gaze for a moment as though searching his face for 
something and then replied, "Greetings, Fleet Commander."


"You like Chili?" asked Samhain with a wry smile.


"The hotter the better," answered CP, returning the smile. The three 
Jihaddi walked back into the restaurant and ordered another round, 
extra hot. - CP 

Copyright, Pyrokinetic Production, Inc. (1996)