'They're humans like we are, with the same red fluid surging through their bodies, and down a cycle to their veins; the only difference with them is, they're tinctured with orphic powers from nascency. They're detested among men, spurned by the society and hexed by their own cord from birth. Long since their emergence, they'd always been drummed out by their own race, yet they keep rising like a phoenix, burnt from its own blood...'



BLURB
Earth is under siege to a turm of greater evil forces than man could ever be➖the Gorgons, marshalled by a roughshod heretoch;lord Taranis, held an undisputed dominion over our planet, and have hundred of millions of surviving humans in flight to a far unreachable planet, after their incursive campaign on earth. While hope seemed bleak and each passing seconds drill in despair, the human race must come together like never before, stay united for an only noble cause➖to reclaim their true abode, and redeem their respect and glory. Will the human race reclaim mother earth? Or lose out to Taranis 's monstrous host, who has earth nabbed with a leash?

PROLOGUE}

In the beginning, there was nothing but mist and void, until man rise on the planet for the onslaught of the process called 'Living'. Ever since the ascent of man on Earth, they had revolved into what is now called 'History', the only relic of their years.

The history of man could best be chronicled by war, and war, by the gory tale of battle fought by men. Time they is a continuum, just as the tussle of man on Earth is infinitum. To keep balance with the flux nature of life, man had to step up against the tidal flow of their world. Against the inclement weather, they sought the solace of raiment; while against the brocks' with whom they struggled for dominion, they had themselves crude weapons. This had been the evolution of man from the stone age to this millennium. Higher animals as we really are, there's always a hunch to tug for dominion, a call to fight for and keep what deemed ours, a spoil to seek further for more turfs. Owing to this; men had graduated from honed stones, spears, javelins, fledged arrows to battering rams, trebuchets, canons, artilleries and to the crest of the echelon, where lies the WMDS and its kith and kins, with which many blood are spilled and sundry lives taken for the acclaimed purpose of seeking freedom, for the better tomorrow of posterity, the promise of melioration of a far future, all for which men had turned death's incarnate.

In present time:2096AD, earth has fallen to the itching clutch of an ogre heretoch and his horde➖an interbreed of man and demon marauding across the planets and astral bodies for ascendance, and dead-set on claiming every empyrean sphere. On making headway against the human race, Taranis had many men compelled against their will, quashed to no resistance for them to do his bidding.

Long before the intrusion of the Gorgons on earth, the world powers had machinated a scheme to decimate the supernaturals that has fraughted every acres on earth, due to their preconception of the threat they posed to the human race. But years after the black operation dubbed 'PROJECT VESUVIUS' brought on from the tale of Pompeii, an ancient city to the southeast of Naples that was buried by a volcanic eruption of the same name; the fate of mother earth may once again rest on the shoulders of the spurned supernatural beings.

Also, before earth and her governance systems was usurped by this darker force, the world powers had an objective rolled in motion for their fear of an imminent danger that might beset earth. 'MAYDAY' was a space program assigned to a small circle of cosmonaut, to seek out an asylum in the case of any inadvertent danger that might set upon man and their abode. As the tread of life was loomed, the program paid off prettily, for it served as a means of flight for many blue bloods of the world and hundreds of millions, fortunate to channeled into the escape route long forged after the success of 'PROJECT MAYDAY' and be conveyed by a capsule to a new planetal bodies.

Once again, man found himself as a commorant of a new planetary systems that comprises seven planet gears running a course of epicyclic train around the sun's twin (). The planets are: Althasia, Demetus, Eleggua, Oberon, Azion, Brynhild and Ramessses, from which OBERON suited man most. Again, man must build from scratch, stay true to themselves and a cause➖to repossess earth before their short time frame on Oberon tick off, leading everything amuck.

Fellas you oughtta check this out! It's a new piece from me, a foray into a different house of literature; Sci-fantasy

[CHAPTER ONE: LIVE AND LET'S LIVE]


Malcolm Selwyn sat pasted in his chair in the ninth grade classroom, beautifully appointed with indispensable gizmo needed for contemporary erudition, with molten brown eyes locked on the projector screen strapped against the wall from across him, and arms lithely folded to his chest. He listened flippantly to Mr. Hughes's history class while his mind swan off to a distant land. He was unhinged by an unshakeable thought weighed on his mind➖Munro, his only acquaintance amidst the caboodle in class was absent this early morning for reasons unsung to him. Not that they're real best chums, but they're mileage from being sworn foes. Munro was a pariah in class, an easy prey for the bullyrags in class and their ridicule. Malcolm pretty badly wants to pal up with him on several occasions as he was large-hearted, but the deplorable part was; Munro wouldn't give the room for such, he had the threshold to his heart barred, and won't give concession to draw him into the small circle in the depth of his soul. He had his feelings introverted and lived alone to himself. This hurts so bad, but he hadn't a choice rather than taking the bold step of sympathizing with his individualism, that they say is the fruit of friendship.
Stuck on the spot, he drum up the strength to shook the thought of him and focused on Mr. Hughes class. It could all wait till the history class lapse out, he thought quietly.

"Earth used to be our home, before the incursion of the Gorgon army." Mr. Hughes said in his clipped accent as he traipsed along the row of chairs and desks with a tablet computer in his webby veinous hand. He swiped a finger across the face of the tablet and watched as a three-dimensional image of earth flitted on the screen. "Earth is a world of different man, of different races, skin colors, beliefs, cultures, heritages and religions. All these helps in our furtherance as humans, and just like everything has its bad side. It creates schism, that later wind up our world to a sad end. Killings, bombings, terrorism and wars are its offshoot." Mappings blipped across the screen in a new window. "Now that earth is lost to the Gorgons, we have ourselves a new creed, a new world in which we put our differences aside and embrace the only truth there's; love➖in it lies our strength, and with it we put up a strong front that waxes like the moon. It has taken us the loss our precious home to get to this, and now that we have learnt to live as brothers, we'll never let go of love."

A yawn in the class stole his attention, and with face mapped with rage, he strode briskly to the front of the class. "Mr. Neal, it will be right nice of you to stifle a yawn while the class is on."

"Couldn't help it Mr. Hughes." The boy returned indifferently, his tubby features scrunched in a smirk.

"Fair enough, I bet next time will be a little better." He watched as he gave a curt nod of his head. "Would you sit upright, please?"

"Alright Mr. Hughes." Neal slurred his response and reluctantly sat stiffly in his chair.

Mr. Hughes put up a faint smile and continued. "Different folks has variant article of faith, which they adhere strictly to, no matter how bigoted this apparently may be." He projected an image of a red cross with the arms bent at right angles in a clockwise direction on screen. "This emblem class is called 'Swastika' or otherwise known as the 'Hekenkreuz' . It is the official emblem of the Nazi Germany, a form of political socialism featuring racism and expansionism and obedience to a leader: Third Reich, under this man Adolph Hitler, which spanned twelve years; 1933➖1945." A monochrome image of a man with toothbrush fluttered on screen.

"Mr. Hughes." A voice called out from the bunch of students in the classroom.

"Miss Rodriguez, how may I help you?" He asked in a politic demeanance, his gaze sweeping across the class like that of an eagle perched on a bough, scanning and waiting on its prey.

"What's that on his face?" The slight-figured girl wearing her hair in a ponytail asked in a thin winsing tone. "That doesn't seem to me like a moustache. He looks grotesque to me like some freaks have seen on screen." The class burst out laughing at her remarks.

"Enough!" He yelled and watched the class blanketed by silence. "Miss Rodriguez that may be true to you, but that simply was the voguish style back then, and it's called 'the soup-strainer'. Many a man wore that on their faces back in time."

"But why would they do that? It seems a bit off." Neal objected this time.

"I guess they did for same reason you had that cuckoo barb on your head." Once again the class went into a paroxysm of giggling and sneering.

Irked by Mr. Hughes impudent response, Neal sat back in his chair hissingly, his face masked his utter mortification.

"May I have your attention now?" Mr. Hughes demanded in high-geared voice, and what followed in a shot was, an eery silence that gripped the class. "Now I'll continue; The Nazi regime was wholly responsible for the genocide of at least 5.5 million Jews➖a figure of victims deemed as Untermenschen(Sub-humans), and death of an estimated 19.3 million civilians and POWS, likewise an unprecedented figures killed in World war II which has never been recorded in the history of Warfare."

"The Nazis must be monstrous like the Gorgons, Mr. Hughes." Another kid of colored skin interjected.

"It's not in our best choice to criticize the Nazis, Mr. Geremi. Our only task here is to learn from their mistake, that no man his better or a sub to the other in the face of man and God." He shrewdly discerned on the spot that his message was getting across to them, on having a clutch on their attention, he forged ahead to nail in more riveting point. "Look about you; you all are of different races, religions and colors, and with all these patent differences, you're willing and ready to put them behind you to sit together as brothers, not as factions. That you see is the change in our sphere, the breathe of peace brought on by love, the gift of God to man." He paused, sucked in some air and added glibly. "That's pretty cool, isn't it?"

Y'all should feel free to drop ya comment, criticism is also allowed, please.

"Yes, real cool Mr. Hughes." The class chorused.

"Good. Moving on to what's next." He had a picture of a blunt javelin materialized on screen at a flick of his finger across the tablet.

"That's a sort of spear, Mr. Hughes." A walleyed boy with soil-brown hair cited.

"You're definately right Mr. Dirk. The image displayed is that of a blunt javelin used by Levant folks in mock fights from time immemorial." He sighted a raised arm at the far back and motioned the blubbery figure of a girl to her feet. " Go on and ask your question Miss Enaud."

"What's that called Mr. Hughes?" She asked bashfully.

"Djereed. You can have your seat Miss Enaud." He continued. "It's also used in military games in most Moslem countries..." The tinkling of the bell trumpeting the end of the class knocked his socks off, making him cursed under his breath.

"History class is off for today, I guess." Neal sputtered with a titter.

"No, Mr. Neal, not until I say it's over." He rejoindered sharply, his visage betraying the hint of calmness in his voice. " Now, I'll deal out assignments." There was a sudden wave of fizzles in the class as he landed his shocker. "I want the names of the countries occupying the eastern Mediterranean geographical zone. Every books must be submitted on my table before your first class tomorrow, do that and you don't have to see the other side of Mr. Hughes, prove otherwise, then you leave me no choice but to cross the line of sanity. Good day class." He ended in a final note and marched briskly out the door.

Malcolm scrabbled on his notepad, he had sheerly been silent all through the History class. In normal times, he would have had a mention in class, but today, he was a bit off to care to have a say. And besides, he had something pressing on his mind. In no time, he wrapped up his writing, retrieved his notepad off his desk, and slipped it back in his bag. He was willing to short-circuit the frenetic task of pressing out the doorway, along with his mates, the shoves and nudges are quesy enough, and owing to his saturnine comport today, he wasn't ready for any of it.

Soon, he bolted for the door at a pace that could rival that of a bullet, out of the classroom, in seek of solitude, knowing he could never be tired of himself.

"Why would you stay out of class?" Malcolm asked Munro. He had found him morosely seated in a cubby while foraying into alcoves and basements in seek of a solitary place. His bag sat idly beside him as he shrank against the drab wall of the cubby, with his head cradled in his palms, and knees propped up to support his arms. His green luminous eyes planted in a glare on Malcolm's molten brown own. Malcolm has made his stand lucid to him, he wants to be his sympathetic ear, the rose in his vicious world of thorns.

"You wouldn't understand, would you?" He asked glumly, keeping a rein on the rush to tear.

Malcolm suppressed the stirring urge to laugh at his lumpen countenance, setting his visage in a cloaked stern look. "Trust me I would, just spill it all out already."

"Have you a feel of never hoping to see the light of another day before? Do you know what it feels like to be at the receiving end of a whole lot of ridicules, jeers and taunts? You don't and I'm skeptic you would ever feel the anguish of being bullied day in day out, and what of being an outcast, the tainted one?" He demanded desperately as he was swept away by the throes of his disconsolate experiences.

Malcolm watched in gorgorian asperity as tears fluxed down his cheeks, his heart sunk deep in his chest and it takes every ounce of strength in him to bolster his heartstring from snapping. "I wouldn't know of any of that." He conceded in a hoarse tone, impulsively reaching out for him, and sealing him in a consolatory embrace. "Everything will be fine." He whispered, stroking down the length of his back.

"No, all could never be fine." He protested.

"You've got to believe in that, anyway."

Munro disengaged from the embrace, and look him square in the eye. "Somethings couldn't be right Malcolm, not in this world. There'll always be heads and tails, and I guess I'm nothing but a tail, a piece in every game."

"No, I quite disagree with that." He contended with a shake of his head. "All we need is take a stand, and right the wrongs piled up in this world."

Feeling a need for divagation in the course of their confab, Munro knavishly tossed him a question. "How's history class today?"

Malcolm was balled over by the flukiness in his demeanor; his gaze had swiftly turned flinty, his countenance steely-hard, and his lips rucked in a grim set. "Hmmm, well great. Mr Hughes had the attendance without you."

"I blinking hate to miss out on his class, but I couldn't summon the courage to show my face."

"I get it, now you wouldn't have to worry about Neal and his pack of hellions." Munro gave him a smile taken as agreement by him. "We can get to have a nice time-out in here." He said with a balmy smile and later heard the tramp of booted feets approaching the cubby doorway.

Munro funked deeper against the wall, his defences fragmented, and his collected mien already lapsed into a tensed state. "They're here, they must've made us, they've come for me again. Look out!" He had his voice inflected into a whisper.

Malcom heard the opening of a door and whirled around in time to level his gaze with Neal's➖His face upturned in a smirk as he schlepped into the room, winged at both sides by two steeplejacks.

"See who's hiding over here." He said with an even broader smirk on his face. "Why would you miss out the class Munro? Afraid of me, huh? I would really enjoy it if you could say that to my face."

Malcolm felt a kick of apprehension in his gut, but quickly shove it down the depth from which it sprang. If there was anytime to play Munro's backbone, now would be the better. With a gutsy feel, he sprang to his feet, barring Neal from taking further steps. "What's it you guys want with him this time?"

"Got yourself a knight to act your hero this time, huh?" One of Neal's sinewy hellion returned a question deridingly.

"You'll have to get through me to lay a hand on him." Malcolm had his hands bunched into a fist at his side.

"I don't have a game to pick with you, so stay clear of this Mulatto." Neal said indignantly, his facial muscles convulsed in rage. His steely fibres of muscles evidently rising through his blue leotard.

Mulatto. The word looped a thousand time in his head, tincturing his long, thin nose red with miff. He had known the meaning of the abusive slang to be the offspring of a white and black parents in one of his English class in seventh grade. He really was a mulatto, his brown skin was an attestant to that, and he would have let the remark slide if it was anyone but Neal, a kid notoriety known for bullying. This was his first of crossing his path, and would definately marked his last.

"You shouldn't have said that you know." He bit out umbrageously.

"You shouldn't have cross my path, either." Neal returned in self-same furror, shrugging him off to a side with his massive arm like he weigh no more than a paper. "Would you be kind enough to admit it to my face now that you have yourself no hero to save the day." He scrunched up beside Munro, who recoiled at the closeness of him. "Admit defeat, will you Munro?"

"No! He wouldn't bow in defeat before you." Malcolm yelled as he walked up close to Neal, tugged at the collar of his cat suit, and pulled him to his feet.

"That was daring, I must admit. But, you've gone too far this time to bring the story to a sad end." Neal's rageful eyes swept over him as he clumped his fingers into a monolithic fist, drew his arm back in a fleet, ready to connect a wild swing with his head.

Before the impact of the swing deadened his senses, he felt a surgent charge of strange feeling from the depths of his being. His mind blanked out within a span of nanosecond, and that very nanosecond was all it takes for the vile feeling that was the offshoot of the strange feel to garble out into a floodtide of a force, greater than that of a megaweber. He watched Neal's balled fist stopped a whisker from his head, and as he was sequentially tossed away with his confederates to oblique angles of the cubbyhole by an unseen force field orbed around him. Afterward, he turned and met the askance look on Munro.

"How'd you do that?" He mumbled out.

"I didn't do that." He managed to answer in a slur, before the quesy feeling doubled him over and sent him reeling against a wall. Fagged, he toppled to the ground and conked.

What do you guys think of this piece already?

I will invite few people on this platform, am hoping you guys are gonna help to invite more. Divepen1, souloho, meneski, Erf, galacious1, chrisbaby24, stephengee12, Apollux

Fifty miles south to the eye of Edinburgh sits the imposing PHS towers, which spired high up to five-hundred and ninety feet, with three paned sides flimsily slanted into the face of the terra firma. The building had been reared five years back by a private construction house, who built in state of the art in construction, in conformity with the Cardinals' scheme of having the building set up here in Edinburgh, a wide urbanized street stretching as far to Mona Capitolinus, where the capitol was set. To the starry-eyed, the PHS tower was a building of the Cardinal's administrative unit, but within the depth lies the inherent purport of the organization, whose proles in jumpsuit care has nothing to do with an audit, nor administration, but to run with the high-tech contrivance at their disposal as the Cardinal's operatives, cloakedly insuring that the vestige of 'PROJECT VESUVIUS' are walled up with squalid measures.

An elevator car pinged to a halt on the fiftieth level of PHS tower, and regorged its only content with a moan as the automated double door coast open. A whitewashed face man of gargantuan bod emerged from the car with firm steps, his greyly-silver hair was permed and matted against his brow, tar-black eyes stared owlishly ahead at the stretch of the hallway opening to the staging room. The black jumpsuit he was assumed in fit snugly to his skin, ostentatiously telling of the two great hills bore on his six-feet-two frame. The clicks of the buskin wore halfway to his knees telltale the snappy pace of his walk down the silent hallway.

His tiring walk down the hallway, spanning five minutes came to a stop by a cybernated door that dissevered to let him walk-into the belly of the staging room.

On sighting the strapping man of two decades and five years➖Captain Fontaine Dowding; a tops pugilist with two belt to his name. The four operatives circled round the compact table set at the center of the sizable staging room, geared up in mod con and accessorized with fast-paced computers fastened against the wall sprang to their feet, with heads straightly set and chest puffed out firmly.

"What've you got?" Fontaine asked straight off as he made floatingly to the table.

Mona Vasari, an abasic young woman on a wheelchair with loopy dark hair gave an abrupt reply to his question. "Arthemia found an activity five hundred mile radius from here." She propelled the wheelchair forward at a rattling rate, stopping few feet away from a large touch-screen computer.

"Give me the read Mona." Fontaine said to the tech-savvy in his team in his crisp signature, watching as the software programme dubbed 'Arthemia' fast tracked under the adept guidance of his favorite team member.

Artemia had been initiated along with the onset of 'PROJECT VESUVIUS' to track down and pinpoint supernaturals around the universe, just as he and his team of operatives are charged on snooping out the psychics and parceling out the reprisal under their jurisdiction.

"I have a location." Mona informed as fast-breaking windows darted on screen. " Nelson's high on Whitehall street is our location."

"How many target do we have out there?" Greg, the tallest of all in the room asked. He stood supplely at six-feet-five with huge, clear blue eyes, that could enthrall most hard-hearted ladies. His long fluxive hair bordered strong jaw, etched out of a luscious face.

"Apparently, target figures are unknown." She answered with eyes still fixed on the screen, stippled with markers indicating location on the azimuth of Oberon. "But with the wave of signal reflection, I guess we're having something real big out there waiting."

"We should grab our gears and hit location asap." Johannes, the exact reverse of Greg imputed. He was a butterball that bore two hundred and twenty pounds on his five-nine frame, flaccid around his mid-section, cheery round every tick of the clock, quick-witted, a crackshot and chivalrous as need might ask.

"No, not this time Johannes." Fontaine fenced, resting his steely arms on the tabletop. "We don't wanna go in there and scare the wit outta those kids."

Mia, a yellow-skinned lady with bunch up brown hair and stone-grey eyes has her first mention in the talk. "I'll say we go out there as real cool guys, have some words with the school authority and bring in our targets."

Fontaine gave a slight jerk of his head in concurrence with her opinion. This was life with his team, and he couldn't be more than appreciative for having them at his disposal. As a leader, he had the abilities of his team members keyed out: Mia was the witty one, an introvert and open hearted. Mona, on the other hand, was well-informed, partially distant and a partisan to her call. Greg was the philanderer, and the get-up-and-go case, while on the crest of the rung seats the jocular Johannes, who spent his hours cooling his heels and entertaining the room with his bantering remarks.

"Let's have it Mia's way." He said with a final note of injunction. "Let's get air-borne team." He took a flying glance at their faces, before marching out of the room while they followed in his wake.

Fontaine handed his team down to the pad on the rooftop of the tower, overlooking the vast reaches of the district refined milieu and the traversal of airbuses and fast-flying solar powered cab that trapped energy on their roof-racks. They were ushered into an hovercraft by two pilots, who hurriedly took up a place in the cockpit, ready to trigger the lift off.

"Always an exciting adventure, isn't it?" Johannes said to Mona with a sunny smile as they sat snugly in the hovercraft. Soon, they will be soaring high as the eagle, the thrill of which gave him gooseflesh all the time when granted the chance to have the panoramic view of the city. It was a fortune he chanced upon in a world crowding with few that could channel the access, on the account that little power could be generated here in Oberon, for many crafts to be fabricated. The best access of conveyance for the great unwashed being the fewer airbuses and flying cabs. A cardinal operative like he was could only earn such invaluable wealth.

"Always always, Johannes." Mona said pro forma as she felt a shift in her gut as the aerofoil impelled them into the atmosphere.

Greg, to the contrary crisped his face as the rankly feel of kinetosis set on him again.

"You're gonna be fine." Fontaine said to him, stroking comfortingly on his thigh with his firm hand.

"Yeah, I should." He grinned his thanks amidst his inner struggles to squelch the nauseous feeling.

"Will you ever be able to skin this demon of yours Greg?" Johannes asked tauntingly.

"Not your business fat-mouth." He retorted sharply, narrowing a grouchy look at Mona, who giggled softly beside Johannes.

"Wouldn't mind taking that with a good spirit."

"You can do the hell you like Johannes." He sputtered.

"Well, good for me." He shrugged his shoulders abjectly.

"What's the status on target?" Fontaine enquired this time, clasting the wall built by Johannes irrelevant comment.

Mona plopped her tablet computer in her laps, quickly interacting with its interface with fast-swipe gestures. "Target still engaged in location." She came back after some moment.

"Good. Plan is still on course guys, till this go otherwise. We keep our cool, and if targets get hostile don't hesitate to bring them down."

"Aye captain!" The chorused with Mia in exception.

The hovercraft glided past at transonic speed with the vista of the city below blurring along. It was only six minutes since their take off and they had covered five hundred miles, a feat breezily accomplished as a result of their running start. The flyspeck figures of buildings and people escalated as they edged closer to Whitehall, a borough occupying mostly the phronistery institutes, issued by the Cardinals for proper erudition of every child.
."We're landing; ETA: Sixty seconds." The pilot radioed in on the intercom, with the craft steeping low from high altitude, ready and longing to land in seconds.

"We're here guys, ready to rock n roll?" Fontaine said.

"Like hell, am damn ready." Johannes responded curtly, with a smile patently emblazoned on his face. "And I guess we all are ready." He added poutingly.

Fontaine led his team into the five demesne premises of Nelson's high while the pilots sat by in the craft within the perimeter, warding off the quizzical stares of the cheerleading girls, the glares of the ball playing boys, and the whispers of pack bundled around bleachers or hallways as they marched headlong to the Director's office on the east wing of the school's tumid building.

At the sight of her unexpected guests, the director, a low-set woman with hoary hair worn in an outré way shoot up from her seat by a table, loaded with files, tape dispensers, folders and the sorts. She dared a keen look at them, muttering in a pinched voice. "Welcome ladies and gentlemen, you can have your seat."

Fontaine shoot a glance at the older woman, whose sage-green eyes roamed over he and his team, before subsiding into a plush cushioned chair from across her. "Thank you madam." He said with a slighty smile and watched the woman flumped back in her seat. "Am captain Fontaine from the PHS and this are my team." He flagged her his badge.

She gave him a knowing smile with a stroke down her seamed throat. Sure he was indeed a captain from the PHS, the red flash sewn on his right arm denoted him as an operative. "Allison Willow. So, how may I help you captain?" She said maintaining an urbane ring in her voice while also scanning the faces of the figures, who had pointedly cut her request of getting seated, opting to stand right behind their captain.

"I'll love to know if there's something unusual here today Mrs. Allison." Fontaine came straight out.

"I'll prefer you call me Allison, captain."

"Aight, I'll love to have some tips, Allison."

"There's nothing out of the ordinary since the start of today, save for the case of Mr. Malcolm Selwyn, a ninth grader." She sat straight in her seat with her hands pillowed on the table before her.

"What 'bout him Allison?" Fontaine enquired curiously.

"We feared Mr. Malcolm attack some of his mates in a cubbyhole with an unusual force never seen before. They're all lock in the infirmary."

Fontaine twirled around in his seat, tossing his team a revealing glance. "Can we see Mr. Malcolm, please?" He asked, turning to face her.

"Of course, you can." She gave the green light.

"Alright, we'll follow your lead Allison."

Quite an interesting, expansive and ambitious world you are attempting to build

That said,

Though there's nothing wrong in being a wordsmith and showing of your extensive vocabulary, it becomes glaring when it is not used properly; turning your work into a turbulent read rife with syntax, tenses and grammar problems.

It is especially heavy in the prologue but with each chapter you tamp it down bit by bit leading to less and less misuse which invariably makes for a better rhythm and flow to the story.

Rereading your story out loud sometimes helps

Goodluck, i'll check in for your next update

just2day:
Quite an interesting, expansive and ambitious world you are attempting to build

That said,

Though there's nothing wrong in being a wordsmith and showing of your extensive vocabulary, it becomes glaring when it is not used properly; turning your work into a turbulent read rife with syntax, tenses and grammar problems.

It is especially heavy in the prologue but with each chapter you tamp it down bit by bit leading to less and less misuse which invariably makes for a better rhythm and flow to the story.

Rereading your story out loud sometimes helps

Goodluck, i'll check in for your next update

Am glad you do enjoy this, and I'm sorry I had to break into diction vault, and you have to bear with me.

holarbolu:

Am glad you do enjoy this, and I'm sorry I had to break into diction vault, and you have to bear with me.

I hope my previous comment was not construed as a request for a change in your current parlance. It's nice to see certain choices outside classic literary works. I merely wanted to draw your attention to the increased importance of the other aspects of a literary work when working with striking vocabulary.

Imperfections playing Bach's Chaconne should seem more evident than lets say Allegro.

just2day:


I hope my previous comment was not construed as a request for a change in your current parlance. It's nice to see certain choices outside classic literary works. I merely wanted to draw your attention to the increased importance of the other aspects of a literary work when working with striking vocabulary.

Imperfections playing Bach's Chaconne should seem more evident than lets say Allegro.

No offenses taken bro, I really do appreciate

Dear honorable admin; Divepen 1, I am having problem updating more chapters in this thread. I'll be glad you help me out.

Malcolm eyes tugged open just as five figures led by the Director burst through the metal door of the infirmatory. He was out cold, he was all sure but for how long? He strained to get up on his elbows but was restrained by tubules sticked on his left arm.

"You would do better lying on that bed." The Director caveated, her gaze nailed on him.

Disinclined, he dropped headfirst on his back against the flossy bed, probingly reaching to the back of his mind for the fragment of the tableau back in the snug. Neal and his hellions had been tossed like a javelin hurled by a skilled javelinier back in there by an unobserved force fuzzy to his own head. They must have been badly injured, he thought sourly to himself as he watched their abeyant bodies over the beds lined perpendicularly against the metallic-colored walls. Munro, the flash image of him evaded his thought in a split second, only to be disrupted by a voice calling from the figures walled in with him in the confines of the infirmary.

"Mr. Malcolm!" The voice; deep and strong called again. "I'm captain Fontaine from the PHS, and this are my team. I'll like to have some words."

Malcolm met the gaze of the man with a bleeped-up expression as deepening guilt pang shrouded his soul. "If the talk is about the shitty occurrence back in that hole of a place, I've got nothing to say. I don't know a thing about what happened." He blundered out.

The kid was right. Fontaine could wager on his words, only that it could amount to naught. The thing about psychic power from his intimacy with their world was, it's always connatural, and budding along with time till it turn up from the unfathomed depths of its bearer, at the ready to be explored. And that marks the stand of his agency➖Psyche Hunt Squad, they will and must thwart that budding gift from becoming full-fledged.

"Alright then, Mr. Malcolm." Fontaine finished with him, making an abrupt turn
of his head to face the Director. "I believe Mr. Malcolm is doing fine now, Allison."

"Yeah sure, he was only out for some couple of minutes."

"Good, my team and I will like to go for a spin with Mr. Malcolm and I'm guessing you won't be a sort of hindrance Director."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't mind that captain." She said agreeably. What choice has her in such straits? She was far astute to leave the ball in their court now. The poor boy has reached a junction in his life where he hadn't a province over himself; now, the PHS will have to choose him a fate in whatever way they hold right to their cause.

"Very wise decision Director." He said, now facing the teenage boy. "Now, you will come with me Mr. Malcolm."

"Where do I have to go with you?" Malcolm asked with an ascent of his brows.

Johannes answered in the stead of his captain. "On a turn to a safe place Mr. Malcolm."

Malcolm sat on the edge of his bed in a cell thumbing the straps of the helmet worn on his head➖the helmet; 'Nous arrester' as it's called was inlaid with twine beads that relays electromagnetic pulse of moderate electric current to the brain, to debilitate its wearer of any psychic powers. On arrival at the PHS tower after the snippy ride on the hovercraft➖his first enterprise on a sonic craft three days back. Incognizant of it use, he was ordered to put it on, before being conveyed by a car down to the throat of a vasiform underground cored out a thousand feet below the building.

Now, the reality of his doom was limpid, it wouldn't take a bit for even a changeling to know he was a yardbird serving a time here in this blackhole for the conviction of sins he had no nuance or whatsoever about.

Hades, the place was called.

He had learnt about this from one of the inmates wearing selfsame helmet on his head on his first day here. The retroussé -nosed boy, whom he assumed to be two years older than he was had also tipped him 'that no one was coming for them'.

That was indeed a factual expression which he found hard ti believe, though he could also affirm to it. No one would really come, not to this penal facility of the PHS, depthen as most seas, and which debar the wealth the life outside affords with its rigorous lay out that allows no daylight, little air flow that has its occupants asphyxiated and intense heat dissipation.

At long last, the walls he had built around his mind foundered, allowing the thought of his mother to cross the pass and the steady run of tears down his cheeks.

What state of mind is she now? What trials has she been through these gone days? Did she give a living care about what trouble he's in here? Those stirring heart-sickening questions assailed his thought, leaving him too despondent to hang tight on hope.

"Feeling home sick?" A boy of colored skin asked from across him, settling on the concrete floor of the cell. He was the boy he had a brief encounter with on his first day here➖the better of the stone-hearted packs in the cell.

He wiped the sleeve of his bodysuit over his face, staring straight ahead at the brown-eyed boy. "Yeah, somehow."

"You remember my word the other time?" The boy asked, with his gaze glued to the floor.

"Yeah... No one is coming for us."

The boy gave a swift nod. "That's it, we'll never find help till they do whatever they do to people like us."

"People like us? What'd you mean by that?" He watched as the boy jerked his head up, with evident disbelief flashing through his brown eyes.

"So you don't know what this is all about?"

"I don't know a thing." He sighed.

"Those people hunts psychic beings like we are. They found an unusual force in you, they bring you in here to never see daylight again." He paused, gazing acutely at him like a phrenologer busily reading the character of his case study by the shape of his skull. "They don't go around hunting after ordinary peoples . They must have pick a scent on you earlier."

In the moment that takes lightning sparks to flitter across the sky, Malcolm pieced every past puzzle of his life together and arrived at a quick answer to the cryptical question looming over his fate. If those facts were true, which he was damn sure they were; The occurrence in the snug had been the watershed, that has the course of his life swayed to this sad end. Now, he would have to breast the fact and be at the ready to bear province for the situation back in that cubbyhole. He really was responsible for the damage done on Neal and his pack by whatsoever mystic force that sent them flying against the wall. He was indeed a paranormal.

"They made us wear these crappy helmets to keep our powers on restraint." The boy continued with his effusion.

That answers it all, he thought softly to himself. The helmets are meant to wall up their powers in case they might revolt. "Why not take them off?" He impetuously reached for the headgear, eager to rip it off and send it crashing against a wall.

"No!" The other boy cautioned in an unplanned for shout. "Do that and you'll feel the greatest pain you'll ever have to endure. If you're lucky, you'll be out cold for days, and if the other way round a week." He had witnessed the redoubtable scene of the electroshocking capacity of the 'Nous arrester' six months back, when a girl attempted pulling it off. She had syncoped right on the spot, only to be awakened a week after. "You gotta be strong homesick boy." He said and reared to his feet.

Stunned by the heartrending revelation, Malcolm watched as he padded away from him at a springy pace. "Hey! I don't even know your name." He hollered out to him.

"The name's Musonda." He called back.

"Malcolm. I'm Malcolm." He returned, taking a thoroughgoing scan of the wide cell, sparsely occupied by young and old paranormal beings, with no hope of ever seeing the light of day again. Beds ranged in unending lines all through, with residuum of the day's can foods, that could do little to afford the consolation and comfort of their various homes strewn over the floor. This really was a home to sad end and no one was ever coming to get them out of the black hole. With the thought of a bleaky hope registered on his mind, he slid down on the bed and drowsed off.

Late in the fall of the day, an hovercraft steeped swishly into the enclosed lots of the PHS tower. The lead pilot keyed the craft engine to a stop with swift switch over of buttons and levers, and later flipped his bound up attention to his co-pilot, who was wrapped up in a jumpsuit, tightly fitting to his body length and topped by an helmet. They had both been equipped with gears needed for their work here.

"You ready for this?" The lead pilot enquired from his proud-browed counterpart.

"Let's get it on, shall we?" He turned his flinty gaze on him.

"Aight, let's play." He gave a twinkly smile, before evanescing into thin air like a jelly faced by a high-red sun.

With a slight shift in time and space, he materialized within the core of the PHS tower, on the level that housed the control room. Being a variant, a faction of the supernaturals affined with shapeshifting, levitation, apportation and invisibleness, he could be just anywhere at any time. All that is requisitive of him was having a graphic description of his target, aside that, all else was under his command to keep in line. With the schematic plans of the building already impregnated on his mind, the nook and cranies of the tower are for grasp for him to explore.

And besides, his charge here had little to do with idly junket in the PHS tower. He was here to put a change to the long run of foul plays of the organization which in a way or the other might kindle their choler and landmarked a new dawn for himself and his kind.

After an oblique glance thrown at his side, he made down the hall with big, long strides, dissembling operatives dressed in similary getups he was assumed in with crisp nods as he passed by, turning corners and walking in and out of outlets.


On the ground floor of the tower; Chaos, his stringy counterpart glided invisibly past the agents and sharp-sighted guards manning entryways and miling about every concourse, like a cloud drifted by a gust. He had swept through every security measures on the floor, likewise the next generation closed-circuit television that could trap a reverse lightning on its window frame.

After taking on several bends, he edged up into an elevator car with four PHS operatives, who stood tight knitted, unaware of his presence. He had made out this priceless gift of his from a tender year, when he could become misty and unseen to his peers. Ever since then, he had learnt to tap into that well of wealth within him to lead a double life: one living in void and gliding like elementals; the other, the life where he can be perceived as a matter with mass and which could occupy space. Soon, the car began its descent, thundering down the deep-set space of the building's underground. The very black site of the organization for his kind.

Shortly after the jumpy ride on the car, Chaos snuck into the heart of the underground region, breezily making past heavily armed guards on the qui vive stationed at every corners on the level. He took on several bends which lead on to more big concourse lighted by fluorescent lamps slung over mealy ceilings, knocking off a card from the pocket of one of the patrolling guards with a mastery that eclipsed that of a skilled cut-purse. The only trail of him being the equal of the frequent breeze the guards felt on their napes.

In the end of his expedition, Chaos fetched up by cell number 'Thirty-five', brought the card against the panel of an identification system hollowed out in a wall, and watched the green incandescence glow on its squared screen, followed by two low beeps and the message 'ACCESS GRANTED'.

While the gate of the cell trundled open with no guards standing by the entry, the awe-struck inmates bound to their feet, each throwing the other a quizzical look. They were fudled not only for the absence of guards at the opening of the gate, but because the gate itself was opened➖never has it be opened, not during mealtimes alone. Their foods were conveyed down here in the pit by a metal receptacle that sprang forth from one of the walls every meal time, through a mechanism powered by pulleys and levers, running a cycle from the kitchen on a conveyer back down here.

Or could it be one of the authority's stunts pulled to play on their various minds, to check on the drive of their surviving instincts. A dare.

Just before any of them could come through with a thought, Chaos shot into view, his arms impulsively glued to his sides, blue crystalloid eyes fixed in a roving gaze, with long spindle legs sprawled apart in an at ease stance. "Hey guys, I'm Elias Iyke, but most of my kind know me as Chaos. I'm here to help, I'll help get you all out." He said, denoting the puzzled expression registered on their faces.

"Give us a good reason to trust you that any of this isn't the agency's simulation to fool us and get us all killed." One of the kid babbled from behind the wall formed by the inmates.

"A good reason is I'm your kind and I've come a long way to get you out of this hellpit." He retrieved a hand-held microcomputer strapped to his waist. "Satisfied huh? We haven't got much time, anyway." He manipulated the interface expeditiously, fast-typing logins and details and initiating a hack.

Malcolm watched as the scene played out, trying hard to harness his heart wanting to rip out of his chest in awing joy. He wasn't the only one caught up in this new feeling of brio, the look on the faces of the other inmates in the cell was lifted from gloom to cheer, kindled by the bellow of joy from within the depth of their souls. Freedom was at last here for them.

He jimmied his gaze into the bunched circle of the inmates, seeking for the sight of an only face➖that of his friend; Musonda. He pinpointed him after sifting through several faces and heads, wedged between two other colored, brawned inmates. There was an undeniable spark of joy in his brown eyes and the corners of his mouth were quirked in a soft pleasing smile. That was all he wanted, nothing in the whole wide universe means so much to his world but that smile, that smile of freedom, that smile of a new dawn, that smile of a new feel that beat out the bleaky hopes of the past.

"You can get to rip that crappy thing from your heads now." Chaos informed as the hack overrun windup.

There was a stir among the inmates coupled on with exchange of questioning glances.

Seeing their hesitation, Chaos walked with liquid grace toward one of the inmates, tore off the 'Nous arrester' from his head and sent it crashing against a wall. "Nothing happened you see. You guys better start trusting me before it's too late." He said with a little choler to his voice.

Agnizing that the 'Nous arrester' had been neutralized by God knows what way, which only could be Chaos doing➖the man's mo has been a mystery like his name since his showing. Malcom ripped the helmet surmounting his head for the past days like he was some windup toys, dropping it hard on the floor with a loud smash. His daring gesture was followed by all in the room, the drops of the helmets forming a resonant clang like that of many bells tolling at once.

Chaos gave a truimphal sigh and muttered on comm, which was planted at the root of his crown. "I have packages, heading out of the target."

"Copy that." He heard Russell returned from the other end.

"Come on guys , let's bring some hell raising on." He said and led the ruck of inmates out of the cell, on to safety, forward to freedom.

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Russell set out on the last lap of his mission, whipping through the big hall, past offices and the bureau's personnels. His charge was to play as a screen to the bigger picture being handled by Chaos, to draw attention to himself like an honey enamored by ants, while Chaos rescuing charge play to an end. Everyone must stick to the plot, that was the stringent order they had received before setting out for this.

With keen chariness, he pushed a door tagged with 'Control room' opened without a sound, slipping stealthily into the room with the door closing noiselessly behind him. He came up close to a control board on a wall at the far end of the room, handling the dials and switches to his own influence.

"Time to see who's afraid of the dark." He said grimly with a final pull on a switch that brought a permeant darkness to the room.

The overhaul on the control board led up to a power outage through half the section of the building. The burst out of strobe along with raging blast of alarum rippled the building, followed by the hum of voices on the intercom calling personnels to be still and assuring that the power failure would soon be fixed.


Captain Fontaine sat sprawled on a swivel chair in the staging room with his team, who seems unconcerned with the toned down blare of the alarum outside the room. The warning signal had went off soon as power goes off through the half of the section in the PHS tower, signaling a distress and a warning for all. But fortuitously, the power on their section was spared, affording them the luxury of a run on through their ongoing session.

"Artemia got a fix on a target within the perimeter." Mona said to her enraptured team members, while also proficiently handling the software program with several taps and input of necessary parameters.

"We'll need an exact location Mona." Fontaine spoke in low key, his gaze firmly set on the computer screen.

"Just a mo captain." She manipulated the high-speed computer with swipes and Clicks and watched a new window dartled on screen. " Oh, this can't be real."

"What do you have Mona?" Greg asked with heightened curiosity.

"The target is right within the building." She said, staring at the shock expression on their faces. "The signal I pick on the target suggest target is currently on the twentieth level."

"But how could that be even possible?" Johannes haffled out a question. His porcelain-teal eyes widened in full befuddlement.

"That remains the mystery here Johannes." She shrugged.

"Unravelling the mystery is a thing apart now. We must find and get our man." Mia put in slickly as if bobbing up from a trance.

Fontaine pushed to his feet with a sweeping glance at his team. "Being a psychic is a thing, having the balls to infiltrate into the PHS tower is another. We must take out the tango, even if there're multiples right now in the building. It's our call to make."

"Yes sir." They chorused chest out.

"Mona, I want every access within the building sealed ASAP."

"I'm on it captain." She wheeled herself back to the computer, wrapping herself up in the manipulation of its sophistic interface, and initiating a lockdown.

"Greg, you're up on seeing to the safety of the Director and other easy mark in the building. You're to get them to a safe position on any level and take as many men with you."

"Alright Captain." Greg nodded in affirmative and walked off the room.

"You two are with me. Let's go say hi to our friend."

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