Season of Reckoning
Ordinary People. Extraordinary Abilities.
Real People. Unreal Adventure.

Episode 6 –
The Walls of Jericho
Part Two
Written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples
Co-directed by: Rebecca Yu, Benedict Almirol, and Myrtle Antioquia

Previously, on SR…

The intruders to the island were already at their doorstep.
Rows of windows above them dim as massive silhouettes block out the sunlight. The mind-numbing drone of helicopter propellers fills the mansion, and the ground begins to quake. The glass shatters, simultaneously, as military raiders break through to the front lobby.
The ancient oak double doors tower over them for fractions of a second more, before being blown apart completely. Fire sears through the cracks, and smoke floods the hall. Grappling hooks and rappel lines fall from the sky like rain. Like ants overwhelming their quarry, soldiers spill in from all sides, encircling the two Company Executives.
Once more, the Company was under siege. But this time, there had been no warning.

Now, SR continues.
__________________________________________________________________

The very first thing that pops into Rebecca Yu’s head as the invaders tighten their circle is not escape, or combat techniques, or even the safety of her coworkers. The Company High Executive’s brain is going overtime calculating the odds.
On one hand, there are a hundred or more men, separated into organized platoons, equipped with weapons and tactical knowledge. They are dressed in thick, insulating uniforms and laced leather boots, and wear utility belts stocked with unnamed and unfamiliar projectiles.
And on the other hand, there are the specials - trained in stealth and efficiency. Of course, there was no way to figure powers into the equation, but Becca supposes it would be a boost. How many were they left? Not counting all the Tenten clones, she guesses ten, maybe twenty agents.
Red and orange lights continue to flash through the lobbies and corridors, seemingly changing the flow of time itself. Becca didn’t know how long it took her to realize that the odds were against them.
“This is a government sanctioned raid!” bellows a voice from above. Looking up, the High Executives see Renz Cabanto descending from a rope ladder, megaphone in hand. “All posthumans under the employment and care of the Company are hereby turned over to the Posthuman Crises Aversion Team, or PCAT, effective immediately!”
As his feet touch the ground, Becca marches toward him, huffing. Her armor plates were bulging out of her skin now, and it was taking an incredible amount of self-control not to flatten the politician into a pancake on sight.
“What do you think you’re doing?! Whose idea was this?”
Several men cock their stun guns, awaiting orders. Renz holds up his hand, hair ruffling like grass in the hurricane created by the helicopter propellers. A woman enters the scene, framed by the weak beams of sunlight from outside. She picks her way through scattered glass and charred wood, places a hand on her hips, and raises her chin.
“Mine.”
Becca very slowly cranes her neck toward the voice. Desi.
“You. I should’ve known.”
Desi waves her hand around, dismissing several platoons. They charge down the hallways, systematically kicking down doors and disabling security. The warning lights sputter and lock, leaving the rooms and lobby bathed in a permanent sickening orange.
Becca looks around her; only Myrtle is standing, tense, behind her. The other agents were engaged in battle – she could hear their powers wreaking havoc further into the mansion.
“I guess the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime,” laughs Desi. Becca nearly lunges for her throat. Everything had started with Desi – the Icarus incident, the Company dropouts, and now, this raid.
“I tolerated you,” she hisses, “because back then I had some respect for Iego. I really, really hated your lack of work ethics and your tendency to just fail at everything you did. I wanted to get rid of you. But no. Iego wanted to keep you. So we did. But now that you’ve brought the fight to us, there’s nothing stopping me from pummeling you to the ground.”
Renz, caught up in the bravado, steps forward.
“Any action against us will result in incarceration and other measures deemed appropriate by the leader of this operation!”
Becca’s lip twitches.
“That would be you?”
“Yes,” replies Renz, eyebrow raised defiantly.
“Good.”
The odds were completely against them, Becca knew. Twice, perhaps thrice before the Company had been under siege. By now they’d learned the only way out was fighting. And she would put up a hell of a fight.
Tucking her face and stomach inward, Becca allows herself to be consumed by rage, folding into a massive golden armadillo sphere. The High Executive barrels along the carpet, knocking Renz to the side, before ricocheting off the wall. Men are tossed into the air like bowling pins.
Myrtle smiles grimly, before morphing into a hawk and flying off to assist the other agents.

*****

Joseph zigzags through the corridors, snatching enemy weapons away and tossing them out open windows. He knocks several soldiers down with quick jabs, and speeds away before they can even register what’s happened. Left, right, left, stairs – not even a mansion was too big for his superspeed.
BAM.
Sean collides into him, bangs thrown back by the gust of wind. Both young men screech across the carpet, smarting. Wordlessly they get up, and have only moments to recover before five or six men appear at the corner.
“Don’t move! We don’t want to hurt you!”
“That makes one of us, then,” says Sean, eyes glinting. Joseph reads his expression and bolts into another room, just as a barrage of bone spikes nails several of the intruders to a wall. Domz enters the scene, followed by more minions.
“Relax, relax,” he says in a sticky voice. “There’s no need to get physical.”
“No, of course not. But you are carrying a gun.”
“We just want to offer you a way to learn to master your powers. We can help you protect yourself and others from the nasty side eff-”
Sean holds up his hand, and the men behind Domz flinch.
“Who are you?”
“Dominic Albao, primary consultant and supplier of advanced posthuman control technology.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sean, Company employee for three months, totally pissed. Okay, Mr. Albao: you are an idiot. Don’t give me that speech. This Company has been going at it for almost twenty five years now. It’s our job to watch specials, our job to take care of them. You do not have permission to butt in.”
The PCAT officers all fire their tasers simultaneously; Sean shuts his eyes and freezes time. The needles hang in mid-air, wires taut, and the men stand like statues. Domz’s mouth hangs open, lips contorted as a breathless order waits trapped between his teeth.
Joseph casually walks past them at normal speed, grinning to Sean. He takes all of their weapons, and pulls their pants down. He also makes a note to shift Domz’s position, leaning him forwards, before tying his shoelaces together.
When time snaps back into action, the inventor falls flat on his nose, gathering up a clump of carpet lint in his mouth. His men gasp, looking around for their equipment, before hastily stepping back into their trousers.
“Where are they?” screams Domz, voice pitching higher. “I want those two gagged and chained, immediately!”


*****

It was one of those days, Poco realizes. Every now and again the world would turn away from the important chores of managing the water cycle and encouraging predator-prey relationships to focus on him – a young boy in a government school, dark skin and dark outlook. It was as if everything about today was meant to goad a reaction out of him.
He looks up at the sky. Thousands of feet above him, rain clouds are gathering, and if there was a silver lining, Poco was too far away to see it. The girls’ dormitory, across from where he was sitting on the back steps to the ASTB, was standing tall but tired, shadowed stone housing secrets and whispers. He knew they talked about him – not as someone important, or someone helpful, but as an enigma. The boy whose father was murdered.
Not how he would’ve wanted to be known. He flips open his notebook, and scans the parking lot for inspiration. The words would come easy enough if he tried. The rhythm was no problem – lately there had always been something thump-thump-thumping inside of him. His heart, he guessed.
Eyes fall on the paper now, and as he uncaps his pen, the pitter-patter of rain echoes around him. Further into the hallway, some classes were going on, and Poco was glad to be alone on the steps. He needed silence to write.
“Hey, Poco,” says a familiar voice, and Poco looks up just in time to catch the full, searing brilliance of a camera flash. He staggers back, dropping his pen, and listens to the sounds it makes clattering down the steps.
“Shit, man,” goes another recognizable voice. It was a classroom catchphrase in Strontium now. “Were you trying to blast his eyes out?”
Poco rubs his eyes, registering only half of Jethro’s long, rambling apology. Something about him being small and dark and against the light. Funny, he thinks, since the light always seemed against him.
Chester crashes beside him, just a bit too close for comfort. He begins an awkward “uhm”, but the lanky teenager takes the hint and scoots to the opposite corner. So much for writing.
“Dude, why so emo?” Jethro asks. He appears not to notice Poco flinching. Again, an undesirable label.
“I’m not emo. I just need time to be alone.”
Chester watches the two, smirking. Jethro was big and clumsy, even with his words, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought this was a case of high school bullying. As it was – as it always was – Jethro had neatly walked himself into an awkward situation and it would be Chester’s job to fix it.
“Go, on Jet,” he says, and the photographer shrugs comically, remorse evident in the eyes behind his thick-framed glasses. His DSLR bounces on his stomach as he breathes. “Poco and I are just gonna chill for a minute.”
An audible “argh” and yet another mumbled apology are the last they hear of him before he turns around and walks away. Poco can’t help wondering if Jethro’s tendency for easy-going and culturally-charged conversation made him intolerable. The only way he ever talked was through his poetry, which of course, no one could ever read.
“I know why you’re here,” says Poco. His demeanor had already deflected poor Jethro; he might as well send Chester away too. For his own good. “And I’m fine, seriously. No need to…check up on me.”
Poco didn’t want to call it drunk, but at the moment that was exactly how Chester’s squinty-eyed ear-to-ear grin made him look. His cheek muscles, on the other hand, were out of practice.
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” yawns Chester. The intense smell of the creek in the rain shows up in his vision as diamonds of green and yellow. “Just wanted to ask about your…notebook. Heard you wrote poetry.”
And there it was. Poco could tell it was going to be one of those days, when the universe would irresponsibly take a break from conducting the delicate dance of life and death to pick on him – poor, small, defenseless, shy Poco.

*****

Jethro throws open his locker door just a little too hard, and it rebounds off the other lockers standing against the wall. He himself flinches at the noise, and running a broad hand over his face, takes inventory.
Two books, Chemistry and Biology, hardly ever opened; lunch kit, contents digested – dear God, he was getting fat; PE uniforms, carelessly stacked in the back. And a dictionary. Jethro figures if he looked up the word “awkward”, he would find a picture of himself surrounded by blocks of text detailing his failed attempts at conversation.
He couldn’t even make friends with Poco - a boy, younger than him, who would probably have agreed to anything he said. How was he going to pull off a dazzling prom proposal? And for Elise, no less – the loudest, scariest loose cannon of a girl he’d ever met?
The bubbliest, prettiest one, too. But that was beside the point.
The photographer blinks at his camera. That was his language – snapshots, paintings, music, and movies. If he could get her into an animated discussion of The Royal Tenenbaums or Radiohead, maybe he could slip in a sly string of lyrics or quotes, and he’d have asked her without her even knowing.
Facepalming was becoming regular for him, and as he brings down his arm, he snags the strap of his camera. It falls three feet, with him wasting precious seconds uttering a curse. Before it hits the ground, however, something invisible buoys it back up onto his locker.
(You’re welcome,) whispers a voice.
Jethro had watched plenty of movies about ghosts, and being a special, had seen things that were far out of the ordinary. Still, his initial reactions involve prickling hairs and shivers down his spine.
“Who’s there?”
(I’m the spirit that haunts your locker. You’re going to die in seven days.)
The boy might have been convinced, if the voice hadn’t immediately burst into a fit of giggles. Jethro looks around him, and notes that the back lobby corridor is empty. Whoever was talking was a girl, and she was having a good time mocking him.
“Are you serious?”
(No! I’m a special,) she answers, clearly irritated. (My gosh, Jethro Jamon.)
It knew his name. Of course it knew his name.
“A special? So you’re…invisible?”
(Close enough.)
“What do you want?” In Jethro’s experience, specials always wanted something from other specials if they were brave enough to reveal themselves.
(Nothing. Just to hang out.)
Something soft and warm slides under his elbow, and Jethro nearly jumps into the air. He waves his arms around, and touches nothing. He might as well have been blindfolded, but this was worse, because he could see and also not see. Perhaps he was losing his mind.
“Have you been stalking me?”
(Don’t flatter yourself, Jamon. If I have, then you’d never know.)
The voice’s answer was definitely less than comforting. Where had she been following him? And for how long? Jethro resists the urge to look at the boys’ bathroom, just outside.
“I…have to go,” he says, before he can stop himself. It didn’t make sense to continue talking to this figment of his imagination. He should’ve just walked away, but it was part of his charm that the words came out before he could screen them with his brain.
(Off to see the wizard? Your biology teacher arrived on campus half an hour ago.)
Jethro halts. He’d been planning to see David, but how did the voice know that?
“And you know this because…?”
(I’m a stalker, remember? And sometimes you talk to yourself. It’s a bit creepy, but I don’t judge.)
“Hey! Those are private conversations.”
(Being invisible and able to cross between dimensions, I have a little problem with privacy. And boundaries. So are you going to see him?)
Jethro whirls around, backpack straps tightening around his shoulders. A fierce look comes over his face. He looks left, and then right, and settles with talking straight ahead.
“It’s none of your business, whoever you are. Dude, just…leave me alone.”
(You know,) comes the voice from behind him, close to his ear, (I’ve tried talking to a lot of people here. You’re the only one who didn’t faint. Or run away. So I was kind of thinking we could be friends.)
“You saved my camera, okay,” sighs Jethro. “Thanks. But that’s it.”
At that moment, his DSLR appears, floating in the air, and a soft arm goes around his waist. The camera activates, flashing, and then hangs itself around his neck.
(There. To commemorate our first day together.)
“But you’re invisible,” Jethro points out, opening the door to the Biology Unit. The voice remains quiet for a few seconds.
(You are funny, Jethro Jamon. Now go!) she whispers, shoving him through.

*****

If he could help it, Poco almost never looked anyone in the eye. It wasn’t that he was afraid of seeing their disapproval, or worse, their pity – he already knew that would be waiting. He was more worried of what they would see in his eyes.
Unable to form a conclusion based on Chester’s facial expressions as he read, Poco resigns himself to waiting. He wonders if Chester is the type to sugarcoat, and quickly decides he isn’t. This was just what he needed: to have his feelings put under the spotlight. Why had he let Chester get his hands on the notebook?
As these thoughts run through Poco’s head, wild, fanciful colors make their way through Chester’s field of vision. The letters pop off the pages as he scans, fluorescent with vein-river red, floodwater blue, and a green he was sure the young poet must’ve stolen from the kalachuchi trees standing proudly by the field.
Suddenly, something stirs in his bones. The feeling pervades his entire body, climaxing in the gulf of his ears. A tingling, a sort of whimsical ringing.
Music. He was hearing music as he read.
“Poco, my friend,” he begins, peeling himself away from the paper with some difficulty. “You have some real talent here. Incredible colors, man. Thumbs up.”
Relieved, the boy retrieves his notebook respectfully and beams. Not bad for his first critique. Maybe there was hope for a future in writing after all. Something about Chester’s choice of words piques his interest, though.
“What do you mean, colors? I used black ink.”
In the space before Chester’s reply, Poco dimly realizes how parched his voice sounds.
“Your poetry. It’s… I dunno, this sounds stupid, but I wanna say that it’s like, real poetry in motion. Might’ve mentioned it before, but I’m a synesthete. I see sounds as colors, cool stuff like that. And your writing, it literally speaks to me. Sings, actually.”
For once Poco is glad of his dark complexion. Those longs hours helping his father in the field were now hiding the faint red patch on his cheeks.
His father…
“You’re a special, Chester?”
Something that Chari had said to him earlier floats back to memory. Poco’s father was a special murdered by a special. I kind of feel sorry for him. The synesthete wonders how to turn the conversation around.
“Yeah, I guess.” No luck in the evasion department. He was just going to have to be careful with his words. He wondered if Poco was a crier. Then again, anyone who survived the dormitory, like he did, was probably pretty tough. “Powers. World’s saying something to us. Things gotta change.”
“It’s a brave new world we’re walking into,” says Poco thoughtfully. “There’s that feeling – like anyone can do anything now. People are strong. Special.”
Chester grins in reply. That wasn’t so bad. What was everyone making a fuss about? Poco knew how to handle his grief.
“Except…” Poco continues. Chester’s smile sags. “One minute, you’re feeling pretty lucky. And then the next, someone with powers takes away the ones close to you. And suddenly you don’t feel so big or special. Then you just feel…small.”
Chester tries to move his arm, going for an awkward pat on the back. It wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he nods solemnly.
“That’s what my name means,” Poco sighs. “Poco is Spanish…for small.”

*****

Peering behind a large bookcase, Jethro waits as his biology teacher whispers to two men standing at the back entrance to the unit. One of the men shakes his head and stalks off; his companion follows him shortly thereafter.
Cold air on his neck alerts him to the presence of his disembodied voice. Wasn’t she ever going to leave him alone? He merely waves impatiently behind him, and the breath vanishes.
When he turns around, David looms over him.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Jamon?”
For a moment, the teenager is lost in the emerald and lime whorl of David’s pupils. Those were no ordinary eyes, and this was no ordinary teacher.
“I need to ask you something…Sir.”
“Alright, but anything you say can and will be used against your final average.”
The professor leads Jethro further into the unit. All the other teachers either had a class or were eating a late lunch, which suited him just fine, as their discussion would soon turn toward covert matters.
“No offense, Sir,” Jethro begins, “but…why are you here? Does the Company have another mission? Do you need me for something?”
David’s laughter, similar to the sound of crunching bark and bending branches, startles Jethro, and he is taken aback.
“You? Why would I need you?”
Straightening out his labcoat, David gets up and pretends to make himself busy with paperwork. He watches Jethro’s disappointed frown out of the corner of his eye, and licks his lips.
“Maybe I need Chester. Or Chari.”
Jethro had known his trip to the office wouldn’t be a waste of his time.
“You know about his powers? And…wait, what? Chari’s a posthuman?”
“She’s probably in a better position to tell you about it herself. Some touchy stuff there,” David says. “As for Chester? I’ve always known, even before he did. Ancer moonlights as a precog for us; I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
It was difficult for Jethro to digest all this, partly because dozens of new questions were springing up in his mind. He fidgets a bit, and notices that one of the seat cushions is being weighed down by an unseen object.
“Dude. Wow. It’s like we’re everywhere.”
“Specials find each other, Jethro,” says David, rather amused. “It’s hardwired into us, together with the powers and the genes. Safety in numbers and all that. We have to protect our species.”
Jethro finds himself frowning at the notion. His teacher’s use of the word species couldn’t have put him farther away from Elise. He actually liked to think they had something in common.
“We’re all still people.”
“Most of us. I’m currently straddling the line between Kingdom Animalia and Kingdom Plantae. The point is, when you’re a special, there’s no doubt about it – you’re going to run into others like you. And sometimes, you’re going to butt heads with people who aren’t. They won’t have any respect for you and will probably like nothing better than to knock you back down to their level.”
David’s voice is matter-of-factly, and although he hates the way it sounds, Jethro can’t help wondering how often he’s used that tone on Chester lately.
“When you find friends, Jethro,” David continues, a shadow falling over his eyes as the tangles of his vine-like hair are capped by a fedora, “be sure to hold on tight.”
A moment passes, in which the teenager’s ears patiently take in the ticking of the wall clock. David, however, is sifting through memories of his past – a part of his life that seemed light-years behind him.
Normal, uncomplicated laughter. Freedom from the responsibility of uniqueness. And a distant, barely recognizable feeling. The feeling of…belonging. Of family.
“Run along now Jethro,” the professor sighs, plunking into his seat. He reclines, and lets his fedora cover most of his face. “I have some things to think about, and I’d prefer it if you weren’t watching me reminisce.”
Wordlessly, his student gets up and disappears out the door.

*****

Seeing through the eyes of an elephant did nothing to assuage the horror of Desi’s siege on the Company. Myrtle could feel each floor beneath her trembling; the vibrations caused by the merciless march of soldiers made her legs, thick as tree trunks, weak. The wide mantles of her ears could pick up the sounds of their agents losing the battle.
Levynce’s body seizes with electricity just as her fingers brush the door to the control room; Gabby Nolasco’s weight is pinned down and his head is bagged; Hannah is backed into a corner and captured with a heavy steel net; Albert is pelted with a viscous pink ooze that prevents him from escaping.
Myrtle charges down the hallway, tossing her tusks from side to side; she catches men in their ivory curves and hurls them out of sight, giving little thought to their screams of pain.
Another platoon jogs toward her, weapons at the ready. Her tough, gray hide melts to give way to black and orange stripes; she pounces, her tiger claws slicing through their uniforms. They twist and writhe on the ground, bleeding.
Just below her, on the stairs, Becca is pressed against the wall. Pain shoots up her sides as a broken rib juts into her flesh; crimson leaks through the spaces between her bruised armor plates. Renz inches closer, armed with enough nerve to pull his shades off and grin.
“It’s over, Miss Yu. We’ve captured the east and west wings, the function rooms, the wards, and the hills out back. All that’s left is for Desi to secure Level Five. If you give up now, I’m sure we can work out the details of your holding cell.”
Exhausted from combat, Becca merely spits a curse at him. “Fuck you.”
Images assault her, remnants of her once powerful memory – the sight of David squaring off against Micah on the roof of their old headquarters, his ability pumped up way past its limits. Where was their founder now?
Wherever he was, she knew she couldn’t let him come back to this mess. She was a big girl now, a Company High Executive, and she was going to clean this up. But first she would have to knock a few skulls together.
Biting her tongue to keep from screaming, Becca rolls into a golden ball once more, revving up for speed. Before she can launch herself at the politician, Domz appears, holding a massive crossbow. He has mere seconds to look into the crosshairs and pull the trigger.
A metallic diamond shoots forward like a bullet, and as it hurtles through the air, it unfolds into a much larger jointed cross. The contraption clamps onto Becca like a claw; anti-gravity technology wired into the braces lifts her into the air. The ball heaves, and her muffled shrieking eventually fades away.

*****

Desi briskly moves down the hallway, her shadow magnified a thousand times in size by the lamps at her feet. The number 5 is painted at regular intervals along the walls; impregnable glass walls skew her reflections, only inches separating her from The Company’s most vicious prisoners.
Her heels quiver as a deafening stampede turns the corner – all Tenten clones, their narrow eyes and pointed noses giving them the appearance of ravenous vultures. She stands her ground, aiming what looks to be a barcode reader at the approaching swarm. She flips her hair to the side and pulls the trigger.
A beam of red light falls over the army of clones, and rapidly flickers along both walls. The duplicates fizzle out, bursting into angry puffs of smoke. Desi puts her hand on her waist and smirks.
The dull thud of a pale white hand on the glass beside her snaps her to attention. She peers long and hard into the face of a familiar enemy – dressed in a polka dotted hospital gown, Shaula Geraldino bears more than a passing resemblance to her creepy six year old self. Desi notices the IV tubes and sensors hooked up to her arms and face.
Shaula’s head tilts lazily to the side as a tunnel of sound blasts Desi against the wall. She merely yawns as Sean attacks again, knocking away Desi’s weapons.
The traitorous witch begins to get to her feet, but a hooded figure appears before her. Romeo Manangu’s swift Bo staff strike throws her back onto the ground, and she whimpers.
“What did you think you were going to achieve by putting us behind bars?” roars Sean, stepping forward. Desi swings her arms in a wide arc, catching both agents; her ability crawls under their skin, anchoring itself in their bones. She rises, and brings her arms together so that Sean and Romeo are forced to kneel.
“Revenge. Financial security. Control. All of the above.”
Sean glares at her through his mottled bangs; Romeo rages against her invisible strings. She wiggles her fingers, and Romeo tosses his staff to one side, far out of reach.
“Do you have any idea what the world stands to lose if we go down?”
Desi’s sudden, slicing laughter chills the entire floor.
“You’re all self-important pigs. Nothing’s changed – all of you Company cronies think you’re the only ones who can handle a job. You think you’re all that, but you’re not. If you disappear from the face of the Earth for a while, well… We could all do without you. I’m in charge now.”
“Go to hell,” barks Sean, and Desi deftly twists his neck, breaking it. Romeo forces himself up, but before he can do anything, the puppetmaster coils his right arm backward. The bone crunches audibly as it fractures.
She takes two steps toward Romeo, cracking her knuckles. She’d enjoyed putting an end to the Company’s star agent, hero of the eclipse. Now she was going to get a kick out of snapping Romeo like a twig.
A gust of wind sets her spinning, and before she can recover, Joseph doubles back. He snatches up Romeo and Sean’s limp body, straining against their weight, and hurtles up the stairs.

*****

Myrtle grabs a windowsill for support. Becca was down for the count, and she knew she would be too. Soon. There was barely any fight left in her. If Renz was telling the truth, then it was going to be over in minutes.
A streak of orange arrives at her side – Joseph. He sports his own set of cuts and injuries, but puts his arm under her to help her up.
“Jowi, no…Stop. You have to get out of here.”
“No! I can still fight!”
The High Executive’s heart lightens for a brief moment as she meets the determination in his eyes. An explosion erupts bellow them, and dust falls from the ceiling.
“But you’re not a killer, Jowi. None of us are. We can keep on fighting and fighting, but we’re outnumbered. Eventually you’ll tire out and they’ll catch you. We can’t let that happen.”
Joseph can’t bring himself to understand where Myrtle is going with this.
“You have to run,” she says, coughing up blood. “Take whoever you can with you and get the hell out of here. Find David. No…find Adre. He’ll know what to do. Just run and don’t look back.”
“I can’t leave you here to die!” cries Joseph incredulously.
“They want us alive,” says Myrtle. “I don’t know what for. They won’t kill us…yet. There’s still time to regroup. To live to fight another day. Get out now, Jowi.”
Every fibre of the agent’s body tells him to stay. It was like being torn in half, the way his muscles tensed, all of him pulsating with superspeed. Fight? Or flight?
Joseph has his decision made for him, as a plasma noose goes around one of Myrtle’s fragile hands. He tries to pry it off, but it burns his fingers. Myrtle shoots him a pleading look, and opens her mouth to beckon him away, but a second noose goes around her head.
The agent zips to the other end of the corridor, and watches as Myrtle fights her captors. She shapeshifts into a gorilla, a hawk, and a mouse in turn, but the nooses change size along with her. Finally, someone gets several shots of tranquilizer into her system, and she collapses to the floor. Before her eyes close, she mouths him a final warning.
“Go.”
The PCAT soldiers turn their attention to Joseph, but with a final, clammy gust of wind, he vanishes, leaving behind the infested ruins of the Company headquarters.