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What's your experience like with bedwetting? Drop ya comment.

Bedwetting... What ya think about this phenomenon folks?

I dreamt again today.

Again, I found myself in that world, a world within the realm of Quietude, where all seems to me an elysian fields➖a place of utter bliss.

I found myself on a shingly beach on a fair night, brightly litted by thousand squadron of fluttering stars.

Far beyond lies a roaring sea, tossing, rolling toward the beach in its fitful show of might and strength.

I trudged onward to the mighty formidable sea, plunging into it in a daring dive, just in the manner of a flying dolphin. I started out within its affable expanse in a crawl, arms flailing at my sides, legs paddling at its pullulating wave, in the signature manner of the Baltimore bullet➖Michael Phelps.

I switched to the butterfly, meeting the undulating current face up. My breath coming in even spurts, runnel of water oozing into the pores of my flexile body. And the feel of that was mirth coupled with bliss.

I swam on, on and on, relishing in the refreshing luxury of such aerobic activity. I changed course from right to left, from left to right and it whatsoever direction and angle there is.

As this went on in that beyond realm, I found a hand shaking, and calling me from another. The shriek of that piercing voice slit through me and the inner world I live at the present. Its sheer force slammed into that glassy world, shook every inch of it, and splintered it into shards.

At that, I found myself back in a world; tiny, compact, and cluttered with clothes, books and other trivial things.

It was my room.


I sat up in a blink, and leveled my gaze to meet that of my mother, whose expression was blank and blanch.

And that was all I need, for a light bulb to flicker on in my conscience, knowing the worst must have been done again.

I patted down my nightclothe, to that fulcrum of the man in me. Alas! The deed has been done yet again. Again, I had soaked by mat, just like every other time i had dreamt of swimming while sleeping.

On reflex my hand swept over my forehead, down to my chin, as I have again been shamed by this belittling act. Bedwetting.

More on the way!

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.

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,

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

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.

LarrySun:
II
Far away indeed did the bus carry Peter Black, truly never would the thugs see him again; besides, how would they locate him in a city of about thrity million inhabitants? Such chances were the slimmest. Even if by sheer luck they did, Peter would still find a way to wring himself off their clutches. They were strong thugs, but dumb as bells. For over an hour, the bus transported Peter deeper into the heart of Lagos. He got off the bus only at the final destination.

This new section of Lagos was even more crowded and noisier than Oshodi; but somehow, Peter found this new location appealing, as he could see that there was more life here. What was most interesting to him was the fact that it would provide an easy opportunity for him to exercise his skill – his one major skill. A large billboard with the word ‘EKO’ boldly printed on it gave Peter a sense of where he was. This was the real Lagos, he decided within himself. He suddenly felt like he could achieve anything here. With the money on him, he was certain that he could get a modest place to stay around the area. The thugs’ money combined with his made a little fortune.

Still with his load on his head, he waded through the crowd, searching around for an apartment vacancy, preferably a room, and precisely a servants’ quarters like the one he and Basket had lived in at Port-Harcourt. Peter, over the course of the year, had come to be appreciative about the freedom that came with living in a ‘Boys’ Quarter’ as it was being wrongly called by most Nigerians. The local term ‘Boys’ Quarters’is a misinterpreted synonym for ‘Servants’ Quarters’ which constitute a part of a building that traditionally contain staff accommodation in the earlier days. Generally, ‘Servants’ Quarters’ are usually grander and more spacious than what landlords in Nigeria usually built. Quarters are built in such foul manners that even servans of old will reject living there. Ironically, Peter Black – who wasn’t a servant, a boy who was a boy of himself – desired such apartment. Whatever he found appealing in tis kind of accommodation remained a mystery, especially his claim of freedom.

He suddenly felt something crawl around his waist. Looking down to see what it was, he discovered a and reaching towards his pocket. Before he could react at the assault, the hand had reached into his pocket and had extracted the money therein. The activity was carried out in a split second. The pickp[ocket grabbed the money firmly and disappeared in the crowd. Peter Black was too dumbfounded to give a chase. The thief was too swift for him to react. Only he knew that he was robbed, no other person in the crowd saw the thief’s action. He could not even raise an alarm for fear of being considered mentally unstable, for thievery might be a normal pastime in Lagos as opposed to Port-Harcourt where it was considered a sacrilege by the general public.

Rather than raising an exclamation of plea, Black did something particularly strange – he began to clap in the middle of the street, among the crowd. People who noticed him turned a careful distance away from him; they were already rewarding him with such stares reserved for cretins. But Peter had no mental shortcoming – at least not at that moment –, he was only impressed by the thief’s level of professionalism even at such a tender age. The person who robbed Peter was a boy of about twelve years old. Peter saw the thief as a younger and faster version of himself; but he was still unaware that he would be seeing more of himself around. He considered himself fortunate that the thief had stolen only one-quarter of all the money on him. When he was in the vehicle before arriving here, he had divided the money into four equal parts and had distributed them in his four pockets. He had not really done that as a precaution against theft but just to avoid the bulge such huge sum of money would impress if stuck in one pocket, and unnecessary bulges always made him feel uncomfortable. But here he was, smoothly robbed even as smart as he claimed to be. He soon realised that there were people who might be smarter than he was. Lagos had an assortment of different evil geniuses. He might just be a little spoke in a large wheel.

He kept his eyes peeled as he walked on to avoid further victimisation; and so a few metres away he saw activities not easily seen by the naked eyes of the uninitiated. Before him were people rushing to get on a waiting van with Lagos State colour; and among the strugglers was a young boy of about Peter’s age doing something particularly different from trying to get in a vehicle. He brought out a switchknife and cut a hole through the side of a woman’s armbag. He deftly reached into the armbag through the open slit and took something – possibly money before he disappeared among the crowd just like the little boy that had robbed him. These thieves seemed to be everywhere.

Peter was smiling. He was indeed where he was supposed to be. Lagos was home. He knew he would become great. He would do some great things here in this city called Eko. Right there on the spot, Peter declared himself a Lagosian – he was now a self-acclaimed ‘Omo Eko’: Lagos Child.

Reading this piece of yours is pure ecstasy... Ride on on your chariot of fire like Helios!

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.

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.

What ya think now?

More coming your way!

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.

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.

C'mon drop something folks!

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.

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.

Coming through!

Napalm coming through!

More on the way!

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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.

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.

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.

More on way! ETA: two hours.

What ya think of this folks?

What ya think of this already?

Dedicated to #M10 and #Cr7...#The best... The GOATS...

Of a twain in the great game I will write
At the current age myselven was found
The forme; tall, manly and uses his right
The other; a pygmy, a southpaw, too
Since their bloom, their story went the world round
Like the eye of the sky forever do.

Lo, the wonder, Leo could than a wizard
When he snaked through the heart of most defense
See magic, as Chris struck from outer yard
And when he pace as lightning on offense.

Behold Chris! As he bound light in the air
And thus circle mates with tricky step-o'ers
Watch wide-eyed, as Leo dribbles and hovers
On along the pitch of play, here and there.

itsandi:
Interesting update Enjoy other interesting stories on Tushstories via

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Hope it's worth your time

You needn't wait any longer.

Director Klast stood, running his eyes down the planated ceiling of the Capitol's turgid hall; a network of pane glasses from which an icicle of inverse parabola modular surveillance camera protruded. Gradually, his gaze traveled down the caput of the two-tiered seatings of the squared hall, that was the seat of the cardinal's head, and lower down to the neck region which seats other members of the coterie. The building had been built in a three-tier level; the caput, neck and the stomach level, with the seats plugged deep into the glass walls.

"Director Klast, we've summoned you here for a briefing on the ground attack carried out by psychics within the secured walls of the PHS, that led to the escape of no less than a score of psychics held captive by your agency." The man seated on the crest level of the building addressed. Mr. Walter Marlowe was the chair head of the cardinals➖a coterie of prominent leaders of the human race, equal to that of the church in all prospects, only that they are fifty in number. This was his third year as the prime capital of the human race, and with no dotage to assail the seventy-nine years old man; whose face was a track of interstice stenciled lines, and head, an acre sparse of hair. He had the right mind and firm grasp on the reins of administration.

"I'm ready and willing to answer every question asked by the house." Klast spoke unblinkingly with no waver to his voice.

"Well spoken." Marlowe pounded a hammer on an anvil once. "Let the session commence now."

Klast nerved himself against the tangle network of Q and A session he was caught up in, feeling the sudden race of streamlet of sweat down his spine.

"Director Klast, will you be kind enough to explain before the house how an hostile duo of psychic infiltrate into the highly secured building of the PHS." The first kind of various in line tiresome questions was tossed at him by a rum-nosed man dressed in the cardinal's heraldic tunic emblazoned at the breast with a crowned eagle and a lying lion bearing a pitchfork.

Klast loosed a breath and gave a pat response. "The attackers accessed the building through paranormal means which I feared our hi-tech security measures couldn't keep a track on."

"Director Klast." A lady's balmy voice called this time.

"Yes Ma'am."

"What was the attackers escape route and how well did your team of operatives countered the sudden sabotage carried out by the psychics?" The short-bodied lady asked.

"Well, every PHS operatives are combat ready round the clock and we'll put up a good fight, only that we lost out to the rogue psychics." He took a breath and continued. "They escaped through the lots in an unidentified craft."

"Director Klast, I'll like to know if the PHS already has a concrete lead on the attack." A tufty-haired man asked from the stand.

"No sir." He explicated. "One of the psychics was caught on several windows of the building's surveillance system. I had a team run his face under facial recognition, but we found nothing on him on our database."

One of the cardinal's fireball, a flap-mouthed man with ropey magenta hair had his first mention in the treatment. "Director Klast, did your agency in any way found something noteworthy on this case yet?"

"Actually, we did." He laid his palm flat against the border of the stump he was boxed in at the foot of the hall. "We've a name of a hostile psychic agency called the Supernaculars." He said in accordance with the fill-in he had received from the captain. "We think they're responsible for the rescue attack and has already inducted the figures once in our hold and many more."

"Director Klast, can we get to know for how long this agency has been in operation while off the radar?" A voice asked in a broken note from the assembly of bigwig faces.

"Am afraid we don't have a thing on that. But we can easily surmise that they've got a low-profile operation going on for long and off grid."

"This has called for a bold step now, Director Klast." Marlowe, the top dog of the sitting said. "With the vast flux of high intelligence with the PHS, the cardinals and the whole lot of the surviving human race on planet Oberon are expecting you and your team to put a stop to the menace of the supernaculars, curb them at all cost, and pick up as many as possible belligerent psychics." He slapped the hammer against the face of the anvil twice and added. "This will be an end to your session."