More on way! ETA: two hours.

Malcolm stood deadpan, rubbing the pad of his thumbs in circles over his blood-shotten eyes within the walls of his small, dead-air space room, deep in the depth of the bunker's stomach proper. He had been motioned from the cold water room he shared with other paranormals at the domiciliary level, to a similary space, rigorous and noxious as the cells in Hades, after recent failures on trails set up to bring his latent gift to surface level by the agency. They had him on constraint after a week of his good show of failure, down in the abdominal region of the site, voided of comfort and pleasingness, as a measure to stir up the berserker of his soul into a frenzy.

Also, the private tryst he had with the perverse anomal, he had come to know as Omni has proven but a small beer➖He hadn't the faintest speck of her name and had no mind of asking her no sooner. She had found the session as a medium to help bolster and fast-pace him into drawing into the well spring within him, but all he has done through the sessions was bungled things up, in cold sweat of the giddy, noisome feeling brought about by enterprising to get into the core of that depth in him.

The cause of which made him a prey, prone to the severe penalization meted out to him by the agency. They didn't only lop him off from comforts, but gassed him with agypnotic substance, straining through the grain-like holes of the overhead blowhole in the room. They had thought depriving him of sleep will be action-stirring.

His scatty obsession of the room was truncated as the metal door, blocking him off in the cavity trudged open, while two muscle-bound psychics stamped in with below freezing point faces. From his little acquisition with the psyche's domain, and the evident abstraction of the duo; of which are, their powerful physique, and fine-wired nerves across the tract of their bod, he could easily distinguish them as undaunted.

The undaunted from birth are a martial with a frame shift in their physiological state. An average strain of their kind could weigh the size of an elephant's calf in pounds a month after parturition, also, their bodies gain-ground brawn along with maturation, with or without anaerobics. This unfounded theory yields them the superiority complex as the better of the psychic mansions.

"You'll come with us now." One of the key-cold eyed undaunted informed in the
most grating voice he has ever heard with his auditive sense.

Malcolm led the way down the hall with no nous arrester summiting his head, what to him was the few difference from relapsing into the terror life he once had in Hades. Still, without the orange uniform which marks him as an inmate in the PHS dungeon, there was plausible likeness in his life over there and the present.

The two undaunted psychics shacking behind him for dragging minutes cannonballed along with him on the last lap of their walk down the hall, bundling him along with them into the cavity of an elevator. The car welcomed them with a ping, tight-sealing them in its oral fissure, before starting out in a crawl and later breasting on the drop at full stretch.

Their stint in the car was drawn up in the lower confines of the bunker, the only region where few personnels of the agency are granted access to roam without preordain authorization from the honchos.

Malcolm took stock of the echo chamber space, skimmimg his gaze over the high-rising chinked walls, an effect of the steaming heat down here. He had felt the high-reaching somatic sensation right away as he stepped into the hall from the car, unable to get the slightest hunch of what awaits him in the bowels of the dug out, hollowed out eight hundred feet below ground level.

Before he could gather his wits, he felt a sudden shift in the ground under him. Cogwheel rolled in motion, submerging him into a free fall, down into a tubiform cell, to shake off every percepted thoughts of illusory motion waxed on his mind.

As the tool down the shaft on the cylindric-head platform came to a final halt, a light hit the heart of his conscience with a dead weight impact. He had been too deep-set in the scrutiny of the place to noticed that the two muscle-bound undaunted had stayed clear of the platform, while he had walked right into the snare. This really was the stratagem all along, to get him down into the this sempiternal pit, that was tunneled out by God knows what creation. He had learnt this way too late for him to come up with a maneuver of his own.

"Hey Malcolm boy." A voice he assumed to be that of the maroon-haired man, he hasn't a name to place on cried out from the cap of the recessed space. "This is no place to coddle kids, this you'd have learn from the start. But now that you bring it all to this end, there's nothing no one could do to help. Enjoy your timeout in there boy." The voice added succinctly.

Realization of the difficult juncture he was walled in set in like a shot, as the growl of a creature locked in on that level bounced off the walls of the room.

He spun round in eccentric circles, doing a 360 degree resolution of the room for the whereabouts of the grumbling creature, whose unremitting growls overshadowed the gurgles of several running streams. From the corner of his right eye, he caught the faint shadow of a quadruped creature, moving with stealth and fluent grace of a felid from the umbrageous space in the room.

Commoved, he met the liquid, molten-red eyes of the creature, choking back the vomit forming at the back of his throat at the sight of those off-the-wall, high-red eyes. His every atom of moxie was squashed down to a zero as he ranged in on its dead tapered, sabre-teeth hovering over its mandible with a mordant gleam to its surface. Also, air was suctioned out his lung at the hair-raising sight of its scaled body.

Mutt. It was indeed a mutt, the thought rang on forever in his head. Not just a mutt, but a cross of sabre-toothed tiger and firedrake. All it takes for his last premiss was its scaled skin.

He had read about mutts in his advanced science text editions, but hasn't the permittance or supernatural manifestation to see one as real and formidable as this. For once, he had one of his whimsy came to light but not in the best way he had fancied.

"We breed soldiers not chickens boy." The voice called out steely-cold again.

As if spurred by the voice, the cross-mutt stretched out its hind legs, swoop-bound with its eyes kindled in an intense ominous red.

With an automate ingenuity he could wager on wasn't from the fountain of his subconscious, he pieced the junk of the puzzle at hand mentally, realizing his long walk down here wasn't a sashay or an act of living up a teenage fancy, rather, it was all staged to get out the beast in him, and rived apart the wall he has raised around the kernel of his soul.

While this process undulatory in his head, the mutt charged at him within the millisecond it takes for an overly inflated balloon to pop. Sabre-fangs unsheathed, forelegs reared in a bloodlust dive, retractable claws strung out in a dead aim for flesh and vital organs.

Just in time, he felt the opening of a flap-like sheet in his mind, equal to stomatal openings at the feel of touch and sensation of sunlight. In that short hint of a time, he was out of this world, felt so real and overfilled with a flash flood of strange powers. Also, he felt motivity within him➖a sprint or scurry of motor-driven forces down the trenches, long delved within the closet of his soul.

The inward feel slacked off and was later replaced by an unshakeable hand presence in his head. The automaton-like hand lingered over in his psyche for several passing seconds, before dipping into course, shuffling through shady alcoves to reach a jetton, loaded-full with court cards, from which the hand picked a suit with grandmaster's deftness.

The effect was brief and speedy. As the mutt was about to lashed on him with a slash, it was reined in by an unforeseen mystic agent.

Puzzled, he noted its tarry, quicksilver backdown, the drawing in of its flesh-tearing claws, likewise the chromatic translation of its eyes from blood-red to sunset-violet.

Maroon-haired stared down at the profound depth of the cell from a platform that afford him the bird's-eye-view of the unsounded hole, screening his shock, mix-in with over the edge fury under the great care of an insentiate look, as he watched the teenage boy stroke down the mutt's pineweed-like spinal colum. The mutt gave a slavish purr at his touch.

"Guess our little big surprise hasn't a feel to hunt on the Malcolm boy." Omni said in a little voice.

"But how could that be possible? How can the mutt be friendly with him?" He asked in a rush out of building conjectures in his head.

She shrugged her flimsy shoulders, and looked him square in the eye before giving a response. "Perhaps, they have some sort of primal connection between them." She tried to sound plausible as much as she could, in a way to keep in line with her specious former claims.

"Attack they say is the best form of defense if am right."

"You're definitely right." She agreed in a less fainty tone. "But a lot doesn't work that way, no more."

"I don't give a damn on that myself." He said and turned to face her, their gaze levelled off. "That kid better be ready to bend to my will or what comes next will be more shocking than this." He said snappishly to her, and steamed down into the elevator with the undaunteds flanking him on both sides.

Omni slipped a glance down at the boy, stabbing her pointer on a button in a wall to make a depression on its face, and watched the ascent of the boy on a cylindric-head plate from the pit, over to her side of level. "Now, you'll come with me Malcolm." She said to him, turning her back on him to walk the length back to the elevator, while he followed at her heels.

More on the way!

Napalm coming through!

Coming through!

Fontaine pushed forward in his seat, training his gaze on Mona, who was working, a touch-sensitive tabletop console at the center of the room, modeled with self-luminous diode, that gives off simulated graphical mapping of planet Oberon. Recently, their session had been aimed at discovering any psychic activity and pinpointing a location, which might perhaps be a cell or base of the rogue psychic agency.

"There has been no recent activity." Mona said, rounding her vowels, while also withdrawing her gaze from the console to stare straight at her team.

"It's well over a week now. You think they're tired already?" Greg offered with a certain fleck of dubiety to his voice.

Johannes flicked a ring fried cake in his mouth, chowing lightly on it for couple seconds, before putting into the talk. "I would wager there's more to their silence these days."

Seated across from him, with pear-shaped face that gave nothing away but stolid indifference, Mia whirled her fingers around her blond curls, dangling over her shoulders. She wore her hair in a dip, subjecting it to a gravitational pull like it was some rain sheeting down the sky. "Perhaps, they've lost the feel for action..."

"Or want us to sit back and be lost in some idle pranks while they strike again." Greg muscled in from a far off perspective.

Johannes gave a toss of his head in credence, propping his head against the plateau of his linked hands. "You may be right. You know, bud?"

"You all gat some points guys." Fontaine said in a pitch a little past a whisper. He already had enough theories through the past weeks, and being a man of more pragmatic ideals, he wasn't incited at all. Not until they nail those combatant psychics, deemed unfit for the society by his kind will he have peace of mind, and have the scuffle going right on in his head abated. For that sole reason, he had a plan to blindside them already in mind. "How about we settle for this way?"

"What way captain?" Johannes sat bolt upright, his eyes brimming to full stretch in their sockets in curiosity. His demeanor had his team pondering on what might have get hold of him.

"Mona, I need you to access into the eagles planted at the various rescued inmates homes, check if there's a thickhead among them fool enough to visit home."

"Am on it captain." Mona cleared away the debris of the mappings stuck on the screen of the tabletop console with a push on a button, foraying through the array of protocols available at her call.

Fontaine shot up from his seat, taking rigid steps to her side, as she toggled with the operation system of the console. He was of high hopes that his new maneuver will be promising. At least, with the eagles, they might stand a chance to track down one of those psychics, he had garbled his mind to believe in.

Eagles as they're codenamed are a surveillance system, an ovoid flying objects, lacking true wings with digitalized camera lens, that could cover a demesne of a quarter mile radius, planted all through Oberon by a cardinal intelligence agency. Technically, they may be called CCTV, although they're mobile and extremely versatile.

"Found something already?"

Mona shuffled through the lifelike icons projected on top of the console, taking her precious time before giving a response. "The violet dots sprinkled about are indicators of the inmates various homes across Oberon." She said to her team, all of whom stood riveted with her by the console. "I already initiated a scan. Artemia is running through the data of the eagles within the perimeter of possible targets."

"For how long do we've to wait for the scan to be up, Mona?" Johannes asked with a yawn, which earn him glares from his team, likewise a poke to the rib by Greg.

"C'mon bud, we've got something to stick our heads into here." Greg said crossly to him.

"We're up already." Mona informed, gaining the undiluted attention of the room once more.

"What do we have?" Mia inquired, sick of the wait and the building suspense in the room.

"I'm sorry guys, Artemia found nothing worthy to point to. None of the targets paid their homes a visit over the weeks." She landed the bombshell, staring at the pained expression on the faces of her team. The heart snapping concurrence of loosed sighs traveled the space of the still room➖a perfect match to a dead house.

Having his hope dashed and faith crushed to nothing, Fontaine mustered the strength needed to be shown as a leader right on the spot, walked straight back to his chair, and sheet his face with the nicest look in his inventory. "This is pitting us way behind for whatever they might be cooking up, so I say we keep on digging." He addressed his team with the mind that those words has a feel of power to them, as a war cry is to soldiers on a field of honor.

Omni looked away from the hapless teenage psychic, who sat shrunken against a wall, barricading his chest with his knees, rising up to his chin. Since setting foot on the safe soil of the agency, he had been a mystery as much as a headache to her. While others brought in along with him are making headway with their latent abilities, in what would see them reach the climax of their gifts. He had done nothing, an act more than ensuing she was wedge in an all bleeped up compromise situation as him.

She was a perverse psychic, just like every cream on the cone of the agency, but there's more to her power as a psychic than a fledgling in their compass could ever see. Omni, as her name derives, wasn't just any perverse psychic, but a scant strain of the perverse that could revolve along the orbit of three super powers of a house➖clairvoyancy being an add-on to her stock of powers. And likewise the backdoor access to most ESP engine rooms. All these earn her the top rundle on the echelon of her kind and mark her as one of the powerful psychic that has ever been covered by the skin of man.

"Now, you'll draw Malcolm." She said firmly but mildly to him. She had enough of his showdown already, and would go through any obstacle to see his failure-bound fate, reshaped from scratch to breast the summit of success.

"But I can't and you know." He refuted, funking deeper against the wall. Being a telepath or whatsoever doesn't bestow her the privilege to know all about him, at least no one could.

"You can and you will Malcolm." She returned sternly. If he was more than willing to go down, she wouldn't be drag along with him to the bottom pit of hell. This time, she would give her all to see a better result, she had decided on earlier.

Before now, she had set a ball in motion, although a peek into the depth of her soul, revealed every of her lies about the teenage psychic before her was gossamery. It wouldn't take long for her to be made, and now, she had a doubt if her try would ever worth it.

She had crossed the line of the loyalty she owed the agency by paltering on the boy's real affinity back in the test room. Also, she had plainly marked herself as a ratter by lying straight to the face of Mitchell, when the boy was subjected to an awful fate in the bowels of the dug out.

There wasn't a primordial connection with the boy and the mutt, rather, what's happened back there was pure faunal manipulation, which she presumed to be induced by some sort of reflex mechanism in the boy, for such feat takes supra mastery and several years of being an active psychic, even for an universal like he was.

She hadn't put some bones to her fib to convince Mitchell back then, of that she was sure, and more than ever, she would need to shake the columns of his soul with something concrete, get back on track with her run of acceptance of their cause, or otherwise, face the implacable wrath of the agency.

"Then, help make it surface. Will you?"

She waggled her head in negation. "No one has the key to your mind, but you."

"Shucks! How the hell am I suppose to bring it on then?" He was in no fit state to continue with this encounter, and he was outerly sick of this hellhole of a life as a paranormal. Now, more than ever, he felt the pressing need to have his life back; travel back in time, lead on a normal life, go to school and sit around in his home to enjoy one of her mom's delicacy. All of which, a life as a psychic had stripped him. He wished all of this was a head game, or a sort of dream he needed to be shaken off.

"There's but a way boy; open your mind and see." She prodded in a voice light as air.

Malcolm felt a presence drag down on his mind outright. First off, it was an intangible feel, imperceptible as a mist, but soon transmuted into something real, so real that he could feel its whale bulk in the pit of his mind.

Oh no! It was her, he could wager his life on that. He could feel her heavily in his head. She had snaffled his mind from him with the sheer force that could match the hold of a Sauropod on its prey. Omni was as real to him as the air he breathe.

There was an opening in his mind-eye, a blip, and the rolling of reels as he felt the vivid transference of her thought in his mind. It started out with the opening draw of a curtain, then darkness stretched out like a lawn before him.

Once again, there's light, blindingly bright as a shooting star at first, and then he was back in the underbelly of Hades's infinite gloomth and severe comfort. But this time, he was alone, in the company of his parent. His mother's alabaster skin glowing against the pervading darkness, her sunset-violet eyes alarmed and threatening. She flourished her pointer like a dagger before her. Beside her, standing a head taller was the figure he assumed to be his father, with brown cautioning pair of eyes, lustering with unrepressed rage.

Never had he laid eyes on him before, not until now, and the very image of him was real, just as it spoke volumes on how identical he was to him. He had died months before his birth➖a breach process that has almost cost the life of his mother.

'In here is hell; save us, we're dying. Fight Malcolm! End this!' Their voice boomed through every chamber in his mind, like the sound of an heavy flak shelling at multiple air-borne tangos.

Soon, there was a hollow to their voice in his head, along with the gradual burning out of their eidetic image from his mind, as the session was drawn to a close with a descent of the curtain.

A grunt expelled his mouth as the last shred of the ocular thought fizzled out of his mind, only to be replaced by a force bubbling to the surface from a deepened underside in his soul. The force culminated, till it reach a flashpoint, and spilled over in current.

The effect of which was supercharged and rapid, as a strong blow of kinetic surge was hurled at Omni, who whooped squarely against a wall in the tiny room, and laid sprawled on her face on the floor.

"Oh no!" Malcolm shoot from the bedside to her side like a missile, his face riddled with guilt. "I didn't mean to hurt you I swear. Somebody help!" He said desperately, praying to be out of the dire straits he was caught in sooner than ever.

"Scared the living hell out of you, huh?" He turned around in disbelief, in search of the source of the voice. There wasn't a ventriloquist in the room with them, he was right sure of that, leaving him with an only answer, which he has his doubt on.

Malcolm spun round once more, his gaze charged on her face that has a trail of wry smile still trapped on its finely expanse. The shock expression registered on his visage yield into a scorching grimace, on impulse.

"Am sorry, if that caught you off guard." She sat up with a sorry look on her face. A dull pain still coursed down the length of her back from the impact.

She had seen her long hoped-for fancy materialize wholly as truth. She had propelled him into reaching into that vacuum chamber within him to kick up his power, with a warp visual thought of his parent. This she had done to save his skin and hers from the burn of a living fire➖Mitchell, who would be anything from nice and cool, if they failed him this time.

She had felt him drew up enough potential kinetic drop, before sealing up the portal to the sea of wealth within him with her telepathic latch, which dampened the effect of the kine blast.

"That was way too expensive, you know?"

"Of course, I do." She smiled.

"I did all you ask of me already." He turned away from her, as the wave of the eidetic thought came crashing down on his mind once more. "Now I earn the licence to be out of this goddamn place, I guess."

"Sure you do Malcolm."


Mitchell sat with a smile spread over his face like a mat in a large room on the domiciliary level. The room was fitted out with cutting-edge surveillance and electronic appliances, for gathering Intel and electronic eavesdropping, barren of furnishment and other room conveniences.

He had sat back in here, watching as the scene in the cell played on to an end. Like most places in the bunker, the cell was wired and set up with hidden modular surveillance system, which gave him an undeniable access to the fore of everywhere within the bunker proper at anytime.

At long last, he had seen the obstinate prick of a boy bend to the will of their cause. It has taken longer than ever to see him tap into the essence of his soul, to bring on his kinematic power to surface. It has taken long to break into the crypt of his subconscious, to see what he really was made of. It has taken more than he ever spent to crack this sole boy➖Malcolm Selwyn, his very kind.

"Better now that you're ready boy." He said with a pint of a smile crossing his face, leaning back in his chair to vegetate.

CHAPTER THREE: RAMPAGE

"This just came in; it was caught on several windows of recon eagles in a mile radius of Percival." Mona said to her team. A footage snagged the screens, flooded with motley wave of data and icons at the swipe of her finger across the face of the tabletop console.

The first take of the footage was shot from an aerial view. An airfarer➖a motorbike that rides on air current, with ramjet engine and twin silencers hurtled along the steely blue skyline, leaving a birr of its rolling engine and a trail of smoke coming through its double-silencers in its wake. There were two figures aboard, both has their head crested with helmets.

Airfarer as they're called are super-fast flying motorbikes, made of ninety percent aluminum and a tiny speck of iron metal that fill out the quota. With an enhanced steering lever that level up its handling and a table-flat leather seat, that could hold up three more passengers. Also, the motorbike has been designed with a cap limit of six hundred feet in altitude.

With the passing of several minutes, the airfarer made a nose-dive from its level-off position in the sky, taking on several bends along its descent, before hauling up at a district on the outpost of Percival.

Both figures climbed down from the ride soon as the engine's sound died out, stripped the helmets off their heads and walked up to a vinery on their left at their level-most stretch.

Taken with the footage, Fontaine and his team watched as the coppery-haired man with his pudding-faced accomplice, both clad in exact jumpsuit, silkscreened at the chest with a 'S' and saltire at its bow, marched into the vineyard in a second and poisoned the entire atmosphere in another.

Three shots went off at the instance of their arrival, which set off the vintagers on the yard into a frenzy of scrambling and scrumming through the lined plaits of grapevines, for the sake of dear life.

Pudding-face gave a derisive laugh at their ridiculous frantic race for flight. 'C'mon folks, we're all gonna have fun, ain't we?'

With an outward thrust of his arm, and a remarkable outflow of kine, he brought the lot of vintagers hightailing to safety to a halt against their accord, each adhering to a spot and threshing as they were glued to the ground under them by an imperceptible wrench.

'Yippee! Dirge, it's your call now.' He said to his henchman, with his kinetic hold still imposed on their preys.

'Aight, I'll make it count." He thrummed out an incoherent chant, with his eyes tightly shut in right-down immersion.

"Bleep! What the hell are they gonna do to them?" Johannes eyes popped as the scene roll out to what he preconceived will be a grim end.

"Shut up and pay attention Johannes." Fontaine cautioned, pushing forward in his seat, as he was held spell-bound by the cliff-hanging footage on screen.

Dirge's chant undulated, soon as he was deeply submerged into the head sea of his psychic energy, of which brought rapid manifestation of his acoustic power, which is ostensibly normal to auditory apparatus, but a menace to body and soul.

Death knell is a variant of sonic scream, capable of depleting any targets within a quarter-mile orbit of its root of their strength, and psychic potency, if a paranormal. While also subjecting them to a wave train of malefic radiation.

On average, the damage ratio is always on a high, and now is no exception, as the biome was assaulted by a sheer force of radiation. Grapevines withered at once, ground opened a crack in a network of spirals, bodies were stripped to their birthday suit, with some reduced to a chunk of blood, others ground to ashes, and scattered by wind.

'Impressive.' Pudding-face said from behind him. He was spared from the wrath of his confederate by the impregnable field orb he had formed around himself with his tekekine power.

'We should get going.' Was Dirge's response to his remark as they stood, watching the grisly backwash of their lash out with eyes spilling over with gratification.

"Damn it!" Greg growled, as he put away from the faces of his jaw-fallen teammates. "That was fucking brutal."

Mia wiped at a tear sliding down her cheek with the cuff her bodysuit, taking extra caution to contain the tidal wave of emotion within her. "For weeks now, they've been out of action, and now they pop out of nowhere with this."

"They want our attention, and now they have what they wished."

Johannes sat planted in his seat, a silent wound in his heart pulsed chills over him as he watched his captain speak in a voice made coarse by bottled-up emotion.

"This is way too much to seek out attention." Mona choked between whimpers as her heart imploded. She had been a witness to cold-blood killings, even worse, the paring of the skin of a day old kid by a psychopath some time ago. But this was in no range to the killings she had witnessed, and possibly would be a scepter, through the bulk of her life.

Those two are not just any killers, they were not just random slayers, but psychic sociopath, who took pleasure in dropping lives with utter enjoyment in watching their kills suffer to death. The sparkling glow on their faces was a concrete attest to that.

"Now that our rogue friends has gone berserk, it's high time we step up our game and give a good fight to save our skin." Fontaine said to his team, all ridden with grief, and walked off the room chopfallen.

More coming your way!

What ya think now?

Malcolm wrenched a pipe from a wall in the training room without a gesture, but a roll of his eyes. Eager for more exploit, he brought it closer to him with a fizz, and with a thrust of kinetic gust, the pipe was wrung like a wet cloth squeezed by powerful hands.

Through rigorous training in recent weeks, he could easily draw out from that essence of his soul with as much ease it takes to unsheathe a brand from its scabbard. As he could used the drawn power to his craved influence.

As Omni painted the picture; psychics wield an inherent power that could do and undo, a force to choose and not choose, to mold and deform, just because they're the crown of human kind.

What's more to that, he had learnt through his training session, that he was a links man, his psychic ability the club, which he could upsway the hell way he choose, at any point in time. All required of him was scrounge into that undersurface place in his mind, to bring the dark alcoves within to implosive light.

"Wanna take me on this time?" A placeable voice said from behind him.

He spun around to meet the face he had grown wonted with in the past months like the air he breathe, a smile cut through his youthy visage. "Wouldn't mind a try Musonda?"

"So be it." Fire crackled at the detrition of his palm over the other. "Let's see who's the boss here."

Malcolm gave a swift nod taken as acceptance of the gauntlet to him, backed off ten paces from where he was before, took a stance, with every trace of a smile thinned from his face.

"What you waiting for dude? C'mon give me the fight, let's spark this off already." Malcolm hit his bunched hand against his palms, jouncing on a spot. He hated challenges of any sort, but turning down this kind will be a disrepute to his name.

With feet planted firm on the ground and arms put out before him, Musonda sent a bolide of his pyro blast at him.

The ball of fire traveled at light speed with a whizz, a network of sparkling twine bordered its surface.

Malcolm met the fireball head-on with a wall of his own kine force. On impact, both blast were guzzled, fading into thin-air.

Inflamed by his show of defiance, Musonda showered him with confetti of disc-like fire with yet another stretch of his arm, like he was some sort of a mechanical man.

Malcolm reacted to this with par prowess of his telekinetic power, sending a downpour of his already drawn power before him, to press out every last bit of the fire.

Giving him little space to as much as think, Musonda hurled supergiant balls of fire at him and watched as he dealt with it in ease, knowing all he need to parcel out a blow on him was an opening in its firewall of defense, which he will get sooner or later as his strength wane.

Long into the scrimmage, Malcolm felt a tug in his heart, a crack in a nut within him that opens into a capacious world, the walls of which were crystal clear to see through.

A peek through those walls led to a path hewn by the foreign force in him, rummaging through a strange place; in seek for a goldmine kept in a chest. At this, his mind fed straight into Musonda's, rendering him an access to the surface area of his mind. A glance around afford him a look into his cerebration. In that dead end, he could see his thought, like some sort of icons, pinned on a wall and ready to be ticked off.

He was more than appalled by this revelation of a thing from within. With his little knowledge of the super powers, a gift bestowed on his kind, it was enough for him to denote his new discovery as telepathy. A psyche thing that has nothing to do with sensory perceptions.

holarbolu:
What ya think now?

guy abeg try and reduce your grammar, not all of us are English gurus na. The story seems interesting sha but the big big words and kind of unnecessary use of them are 'turning me off'

Dranoid:
guy abeg try and reduce your grammar, not all of us are English gurus na. The story seems interesting sha but the big big words and kind of unnecessary use of them are 'turning me off'

Real sorry bro... But anyways, I'll find a way too slow it down a bit. Thanks for the comment.

This holds the promise of being the best sci-fantasy novel you will ever come across on this platform... As the story is just kicking to life. Anyways, don't you mind the slow start, it's the sacrifice I demanded of you all my dearly readers.

Don't just read, kindly drop a comment. Good or caustic, I don't mind either.

Always refreshing ur page .nyc work bro But abeg reduce ur grammar, its causing lost of interest in the story

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emarkson:
Always refreshing ur page .nyc work bro
But abeg reduce ur grammar, its causing lost of interest in the story

Thanks so very much bro... Quite appreciate this... Promise to amend a little for your interest,

With his telepathy as a whip hand, he cancelled out Musonda's every move long before he brought the thought to bear.

Angered by this unnatural effect, Musonda dug deeper into the wellspring of his psychic power, drew off more than enough, and with a grunt, cast a large mass of fireball at him.

Malcolm met the meteor of fire square with a burst of his own, that did little to hold off the ball, furious to deal him some damage. At the last gasp, before the meteor of rageful fire inflicted a severe damage, an unseen wall rose ten feet before him, barring the passage of the ball, which in turn fade out in transcient sparkles.

At the back of his mind, Malcolm knew the fight wasn't squared on his side, he was really holding back so much, and if he was to stand a chance at victory, there need to be a transition in the tactics, a sort of maneuver from defense to attack. Musonda already had a long-drawn spell on the attack side, now, was his time to make it rain, or else, he will lose out as his strength was now running on a low.

"Now my turn." He said to his friend, who stood on the balls of his feet, his face set in defiance. At the snap of his fingers, dummies, poles, rods and all sorts within the room bore away from their normal places, hovering in mid-air, ready and waiting on a go.

"C'mon, what's the hold up for?" Musonda said with arms outspread in an all welcome manner.

Malcolm set off his little army on a raid with a clap, each flying of its own accord and bearing down on their target with the celerity of a supersonic jet.

Musonda, on the other hand geared up for the flurry of activity in the air, taking as much drop of power from the fountain within, in order to churn out a force to hold them back. With this ready to hand, he knocked over Malcolm's horde with a fireball of his own.

In that instance, Malcolm took yet another peek into his mind, at his thought organization. This time, the icons were in line, filing into a box, where they were mold into defense operation against the hail of his summoned flying objects.

Doing such was a cheat, he had known from his first attempt, but now that he has such power at his disposal, he was more than ready to explore and make the chance count. After which, he must sought some answers to the questions cropping up in his head.

A rod pulled out from an upright post stand at the end of the room at the dart of his finger, drawing a bead for Musonda's back.

Preoccupied with knocking off the objects hurtled at him by his telekine friend, Musonda wasn't conscious of the rod whipping from behind him. Just in time, he spun around to find the rod a hair's breadth from him. With a deadly reflex, he sent it clattering down with a flare of fire.

Before he could as much as move a muscle, a wall of kinetic blast bonked into him from behind, with a mass equal to that of a minivan, almost at the reach of its speed boundary. He was thrown fifty metres away and landed face-first on the ground, blood dribbled down his nose in droplets.

"Oh, I didn't mean that." Malcolm said with a dash to his side, his eyes filled with alarm.

"I know Malcolm." He waved his remark off and struggled to sit up. "I'd prefer you give me a hand."

On reflex, he literally bound to his side, pulled him to his feet, slung his arm over his shoulder, while they both stumbled along in a snail-pace.

"That was a good fight you pull, you know?" Musonda said with a wince bracketing his face.

"You ain't bad either."

"Never could guess you can hold up that long."

"I just got a bit of luck on my side, nothing more." Not just that, he thought. The little edge he had was, his telepathy➖as a combo with psychokinesis, he could take on as many psychic targets, a platoon on the average for normal humans. He wished he could spill it out already and make peace with his moiling head, but there're little he could share such words with, of which Musonda wasn't a part of, in fact, there was a lone soul seal in that circle.

"There won't be a room for luck, if there's a next time." Musonda said with concrete conviction, as they bubbled out through the door.

More on the way!

Been cooking up a lot for ya'll... Just hold on a bit.

And now is the time to have what you've all been waiting for good people

Mitchell slipped into view within the enclosure of the training room out of nowhere, in the blinking second it takes to flicker on a Lucifer. His gaze ran down the length of the vast mighty room in the wake of the little face-off by the two teenage psychics, which left the floor cluttered with sticks, poles, rods and debris. All of this; the disorderliness, the damage inflicted on the room itself, doesn't move a hair on him. The whole of it was meant to be, for such ensued as a backwash after a hassle between psychics, and even in a trivial fight between their kind. This and many implicit reasons made his kind a threat to humankind.

Being an universal, he had been there from the start, watching in the backdrop, cloudy to the most argus-eyed, in the very manner of Chaos. He had watched the wrangle with a mix of delight and awe, with Malcolm surpassing beyond the cap he had him placed on through his assessment.

The boy had fought with eye-popping array of skills, of which he had never stumbled upon in his whole life as a paranormal. His every moves were fluid, his counter well-timed, his tidy fling of offenses, a pure bliss to watch.

This breathe life into the questions budding in his mind, and also gave backing to his suspicion of Omni's assessment of the boy. Even as a skilled universal with a wide range of powers that could be tap into, he had his weak link, a point vulnerable as that of Achilles, that wouldn't give enough claim to tackle Omni's valuation.

His blunt skills with the anomal house serves as hindrance to double check on Omni's valuation, not only was he unable to read minds, he couldn't as much as tell which was which when it comes to psychometry.

This alone had him at a strait; a juncture where he must choose to trust Omni, a top shot of the mansion as well as the agency, whose unfaltering loyalty couldn't be questioned, according to the creed of the organization, the very corner-stone of their operations was 'Trust must be squared on all sides, it's always a give and take.' Or otherwise, choose to see her as a rat that must be removed at once with no relic of her to be seen anymore.

At the moment, he had chosed not to take sides, willing to see and reason unbiased, till the wheels are set in motion and whatever Omni was scheming became plain as day, of which he was sure the wait will be a thrill.


"Here you are. Have you any mind the hell I've been through rummaging through the nooks of this place all for you?" Malcolm said, closing the door of the three-bedded room noiselessly behind him.

"You could have search better, you know?" Omni returned with the frivolity of a child, her legs dangling off the fringe of his bed.

Her devil-may-care demeanance was nothing short of a spark to his anger at her for meeting her sitting idly in his room while he had navigated through every damn concourse, combed through as many rooms in the bunker in seek of her. Her flippant response, a salt to his growing hurt, and along with it came the question 'Why have I got myself winded by a lost cause?'

With the toss and sway of fury in his head, he took a seat beside her on the bed, allowing sleeping dog to lie for the time being, likewise burning out every coal of rage within him to embers. Now, he had something vital to retrieve from her, which an outburst at the very moment may deprive him of.

"I've got something to ask you, anyway..."

"Don't." She cut him off, cupping his mouth with her hands.

If floored by her strange act, he gave as little away, his only reaction being a heft of his brows. Soon, he felt a ripple in his mind, a vigorous split through the curtain of web in the choicest part of him, then a life-like feel in that far and away place. He knew at once what the foreign feel was, it was her again in his head, just like the last time she had triggered her into drawing into the prized part of him.

'I know what's in that little head of yours Malcolm, long before you made the choice of coming over to ask, long before the break of dawn.' The voice in his head began in a metallic note.

But how could that be possible? He wondered. It doesn't make any sense in the real world at least, for someone to know what's going to happen in the far beyond without divination, a gift he was 110% assure Omni lacked.

'Your doubts, I can see them as vivid as an image.' The voice said again. 'What you seek is but an answer, isn't it? But even you lack the true answer to what's so intrinsic as that. Doubts are 99.9% of what made us as humans, it's the drive that pull us up to seek more every now and then. Our doubts are the fountain from which our curiousity spring, and this made us who we're, what we're.'

If you have the answer and knew of it all from the start, why keep it away from me? Malcolm wondered. He couldn't get a hold on why this should drag on.

'Somethings are better to be lock in the shadows Malcolm, for death is fairer than their knowledge to us.' There was silence for a second span. 'You're never a psychal-physics boy, but a psychic of the rarest substance; universal. Your power is never limited within a house, you can have as much of the mansions at your call anytime.'

Thought as much, he cognitated. With her presence in his head, thinking was a strain. "But how can you even tell this was gonna happen in the first place?"

'Through foreknowledge boy. I even had doubt in that myself.'

"Why would you ever doubt your own power? I think it's kinda odd."

'Yes, it really is odd, but you wouldn't know until you have to juggle more than two gifts at once. When you have to choose between light and darkness.'

"One last question, anyway. What kind of psychic have such powers as you? you know having almost every power in a house within your reach."

'The perverse, those are my kind. A piece of advice for you boy; you'll keep your knowledge of this a secret, as much as you must stick with your psychal-physics affinity, nothing more will be brought to light.'

"But why should I?" He snapped. Shucks! After all he had endured, he wasn't going to be allowed a taste of the riches of his new discovery.

'Not all questions can be suited with answers. Sometimes, we need to hold on to a thing without a bit of reason to. Do this, for what lies beyond is by far greater.'

Once more, he felt the withdrawal of the presence in his head, every single feel of telepathic hold stub out, for him to have the totalitarian rule of his mind.

Omni sprang to her feet at once, her gaze lingering on him. "Guess that fills your curiousity to satisfaction boy?"

He didn't as much as gave a nod, before she waltzed out of the room with stealthy footsteps.

More coming on the tail of this!!!!

The beauty about Cornwall➖a residential district on the fringe of Oberon has got little to do with its striking craggy scenery, let alone with its bustling around-the-clock, or with the cluster of apartment buildings spread upon its face, like a butter on bread. The real deal was, of course the sight of Sistine chapel, an exact replica of its derivative, built by Pope Sixtus IV in 1473, taking up as much as five acres on the landmass of the community.

Sistine Chapel was precellence to many other chapels across Oberon; her beauty, ever warming to hearts, her giant dome, a pure grandeur of artistic man-made structure, the vast halls on her inside, a hallmark of old-fashioned masonry work, mixed with updated strokes in constructions. Not only was she beautiful and alluring in the eyes of most iron-hearted trippers, but a place where incomputable worshippers converged to pray to a higher self on Sabbath.

Seeing religion as the best shot to keep up order among the masses, the Cardinals had enacted a rule that allows every man to live according to their whims on religion, to hold a conviction to himself/herself, in as much as he/she keep off from forcing it on the other. Aside that, they could as much as rear a shrine anywhere, anytime.

Just like most time on Sabbath, Sistine chapel was filled with life, so as she erupt with untellable worship activity. Her very walls shook with chants and hymn of praises.

The growing feeling of disport and glee in the air was truncated as men and women, assumed in black jumpsuits obstrude upon the masses taken up in act of worship. The atmosphere was at once intoxicated, panic gripped all within the hall, silence enclosed, leaving no room for a tiny gasp or breath, as the crowd of worshippers held the gaze of their aggressors, whose eyes gleamed with murderous intent.

At the head of the band of psychics was, the knockout;Mahalia Mckee, also, lady Proteus, who swaiped through the rows of neatly array pews, followed in tow by her small army.

From the far-right of the column trailing behind her was the cutesy teenage, Setya, with flowing platinum-blonde hair, drop-dead beautiful teal eyes, that could give off the reflection of a beholder through its glassy surface. With her luxuriant body length of five-feet-nine, one could easily deduce she verges on adulthood.

Right beside her stood Geoffrey with charcoal-black, close-set eyes, cropped short sinewy hair of distinct brown and lips charred beyond his vivid black eyes. His mammoth bod will set even the hardy on an autopilot of tremor.

Inches away from the gigantesque lad; a distinct undaunted psychic, Musonda walked side-long with his soul-brother with hands bunched into fists at his side and a hard visage born of hate against the human kind from the rock bottom part of his soul. They are here on a job, one which he was white-fire to be a part of. He had come with a full to bursting zeal ti make a statement right here and now.

At the far-flung end of the chain, Fleming, an underslung grownup with thick-lips, sharp nose and frosted hair unleashed two shots from his firearm, zeroed in at the vaulted ceiling of the chapel.

Thawed from their frozen state, the white-lipped crowds kicked back to life with a rustle, a jostle here and there, desperate scrambling through the chapel's hall, with other actions triggered by their surviving instinct.

Thrilled by their display of counterplot to the attack, lady Proteus giggled softly. "Now!' She said with a raise of her right hand.

That alone was the gesture needed by her army to spring into action. They charged at the fleeing throng of worshippers like a wounded lion, that they really are.

After an inhuman bound forward, a feat that even a kangaroo will come short of. Geoffrey set at work with a round-house kick that sent two of the hapless crowd flying, like a shot fired by a ballista to their death. He followed that up with a hook to the face of one of the unlucky lots, with the fellow's head snapping to a side, before going on a three-sixty-degree revolution, that later left him for dead. With his every super-human moves, bodies toppled to their end, just as blade of grasses do at the sweep of a strimmer over them.

From across the grisly scene, which was the backwash of Geoffrey's outrage, Setya stood with her beautiful pair of eyes dilated in maddening fury, a reaction that's an equal to 8.1 magnitude seismic force on Richter scale, because whenever she's at such remote extreme of anger, things get far-off from worse, beholders of those beautiful eyes are lapidified, while her luxuriant hair lash out like a scorpion's stinger.

In no time, her hair was radiating life, with almost every chorl curling outward like tentacles, grabbing at men and women, to heft them off their feet. While also creeping at the neck of some with taut and firm hold on their jugular, straggling them till they choke to their death. She drew few close to herself, at a look at her eyes , they were all turned to stones, their animate lives stripped away from them in a wink.

With springy steps, Musonda walked through the hall working havoc on the crowds sealed behind the close-barred doors of the chapel, with a smirk visible on his face and flames spouting anywhere and everywhere at the squeeze of his hand. He was enjoying every bit of the moment with gusto.

Walls caved in as balls after balls of great mass of fire came in contact with them, the barf-invoking smell of burning flesh filled the air and was rocked through the hall like a wrecking ball by the breeze blasting around at the hour.

Fleming swept through the hall, turning every one in close range with him to a pillar of frost with his sub-zero temperature manipulation, from which he also made an orb of frost that he later mould into daggers.

Wielding the daggers in both hands, he swiped its serrated edges against flesh, buried its pointy nose in chests, gutting, slashing at any of the crowds, like he was some berserker already work into a frenzy.

Like every member on her little army, Lady Proteus raged like a sandstorm through the armada of worshippers, levitating almost everyone within her sight with an upward raise of her arm and dropping them heavily from great height to their death. If being a psychic was to any a pleasure, there's no living soul that could edge past her at that, but still, that could never have amount to being a perverse psychic, not just a perverse of any house, but that of the variant mansion.

As a paranormal with the gift of shapeshifting/power mimicry and levitation, she could use almost every powers to her pleasure, bend to different shapes and mold, influence the current of a particular affair to her will, turn the tides, as she could easily put things to ruin.

Now in a half-and-half appearance of the undaunted on her team, likewise that of the pyro, she was a mixed of fury and terror. With every punch she landed, the lots were sent crashing against a wall, the others kindled by flames, shrieking, till the life leapt out of them.

Debris of a frosted tower of a lady sprayed across the floor at the impact of Geoffrey's pounding fist, several were hurtled to their death at the waggle of Setya's resilient hair that retracted easily as the claw of a cat to her scalp, while many turned to a column of ice, some burnt to ashes as every corpuscle of life in the chapel was shredded to nothing at once.

With a dart of her eyes across the big hall, now devoid of life of a human kind, and the crinkle of the corners of her mouth in a grin, Lady Proteus said to her troop in a teeny voice. "It's been quite a show guys, now we'll draw the curtain.'

Await more folks

More coming ya way... Hold on and hang tight

Pardon my shortcomings folks, promise to drop as soon as i can

Early this morning, the staging room put on a gloomy look, as did despondency roved over the faces sitting across the large table at the center of the room. Silence was the sovereign at the dark hour as a result of the devastating attack on the Sistine chapel by some rogue psychics, which left no less than five hundred living soul dead, and led them into a sad box. That of course was no glitch to Fontaine and his team of operatives, neither was it a trivial matter to any in the agency, and every big wig in the cardinal.

"That's quite a number they did out there." Fontaine said to his team in a voice tinctured with grief and gloom, as band of glow from the array of computers across him reflected off his face.

Mona sniffed, cupping her face with quaking hands. "They've made more than they could stomach now. This is well over what our wall of silence could contain."

"Almost every soul out there knew what from what now." Johannes put in dourly. There was no visible trace of a grin or smirk upon his face.

"The masses will be uptight several weeks from now." Greg's voice was merely a whisper.

"Now is the time to put something real big in motion team. We can't take any chances no more."

"We don't stand a chance against them captain." Johannes said with a resigned sigh. His sanguinary demeanance abs and view at checking problems was now a thing of the past.

"Sitting with folded arms is no way to solving the problems either." Greg argued at once.

"There's but a way out I guess."

Mia's first mention in the talk got a leash on the team's attention, each stirred in their seat, preening their ears to hear the way out from the astute young lady.

"What'd that be anyway, Mia?" Fontaine asked straight-away, unable to contain his overflowing curiosity.

"If we're gonna stand a chance at outmaneuvering this bunch of belligerent psychics, then we'll need a call-up to the P.C.S, at least to staunch their flowing surge of power." Mia said from the standpoint of a hard-nosed lady.

Her notion took the team by surprise. The very word being the least they expected of her. The PCS➖Psyche counter squad are a division of the PHS, composed of captive psychics placed under severe mind-altering function, to withstand and curb the dark force of the psychics. With the PCS, there's always a chance for the human kind against the roguish psychics, that at least they had believed.

"Well, that's a good one Mia."

"You think the Director will buy into that captain?" Mona asked in an incertain voice.

"There's not much choice for now, I guess." Fontaine said. "That's the last card on our deck, and I'm afraid he wouldn't go for something less."