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More coming your way soon

An hovercraft streaked across the steel-blue skyline of the Mona Capitolinus➖the district capital of Oberon, and the seat of the Capitol building, where the cardinals meets, leaving a scintillant line of cloud as a trail through its wings and a sonic boom. Shortly, the craft nosed down in a downward slope, slewing past several steeple-crowned buildings within a quarter mile radius of the Capitol building.

Director Klast Jansen of the PHS sat leg-crossed behind the glass partitioned cockpit of the craft, stroking the muzzle of a dead ringer poodle dog nestled on the cliff of his thigh. His gaze rambled off into the distance, stopping over on the stately columned-telamon front of the steep glazed Capitol building, and winding up its idle course at its side vast awing stretch of lawn.

This wasn't the cardinals first summon of him. Ever since he took on as the head of the PHS, there's always been too much for him to bear on his shoulders, more than enough calls for him to answer to, an article of faith and laid up code he must live by, and a stream of head he had to ford with or without good conscience.

The craft plunged into its final descent, with its engine on the cusp of sound barrier whirring on a low as the pilot drew up in a lots, few yards from the Capitol.

"How much long for the session sir?" The pilot radioed from the cockpit.

"Half an hour should do." He took a flashing glance at his gold-plated watch and added. "We'll be having a little discuss, nothing more."

"Alright sir." He ducked his head in curtsy and heard the slam of the portal, followed by the yelp of slip creature the director had left behind.

"C'mon Malcolm, draw out already." Malcolm heard the seal-brown haired psychic trainer said snappishly to him the umpteenth time. Since he was called-up from the stand amidst the scant psychal-physics foregathered in the court-like training room, geared with dummies and several callisthenics apparatus; he hasn't drew out a driblet of power from the well of his psychic gift, let alone sent the dummy ten yards out from him crashing against a wall with a kinematic blast.

Standing in heart-sickening chagrin, he could feel the squint glances of other paranormals seated on the tiered seats of the training room burning at an intense therm on his nape, likewise the wheedling look he had seen on Musonda's visage while sliding a glance his way. Through the thick of his misery, which has the slithery floor of the room quechy under him. His gaze skidded over to the balustrade balcony of the room, past the anomal perverse he had met during his psychoscopy test, and settling over the maroon-haired man, who he presumed to be the leader of the psychics and a tops in the agency. He wasn't in any means a Clairaudient, but he could tell the weasel-faced man was talking about him with the woman.

"You think he's got enough psyche power in him?" He asked whisperingly, bracing his elbows on the silver-plated balusters.

The woman wavered before giving a response. She was conscious the man had the test-room wired, and listen in on every test carried through in the double-glazed walls of the room.

Back in there, through the session with the boy, she had sapiently held back information a great deal. The boy wasn't just any psychic, but a rare stock of their kind; he was a universal, a strain of the paranormals that could route through every house of the psychics, and access as many of its super powers. Being a universal, the kid was a high-octane psychic with a sea as the measure of his power, rather than the well quantify of most psychics, including herself.

"What I discern about him through the test was, he is still a newbie to our world." She returned over the long haul in her apt low-pitch tone.

"Remember what you said about him back in there?" He perturbed her with another question, knowing how well she was indisposed to answering questions and long discuss.

"About seeing into the supernatant power of the well in his mind right?"

"Exactly. I was wondering what's wrong with you back in there." He stared at the kid with an indignant expression embed on his face.

"Nothing really. Guess I was dog-tired already." She gave a transparent lie, looking away from him. She hadn't lied back in there when she had talked about seeing the kid's supernatant powers. Through the session with him, she had channeled into his mind, groping for the spring of his connation power, only to find to her own dismay, the great rolling ocean within him. Like a sharp-witted swimmer faced by a limitless ocean, she had swung around before making the mistake of scrying any longer and getting drown in the sea housed within the young psychic soul.

"So what do you say we do?"

"Time." She tossed a look at the boy, who stood like a sculpt on a spot, helpless and unable to reach out into the overflowing luxury of his mind. "let's give him some time."

"That we'll do." He said, marching out through the door on the balcony, and out of eyeshot.

"You really must learn Malcolm." She said to herself, sauntering down the opposite way the man had gone.

Malcolm sat high-strung in his seat alone in a room with a woman of zaftig body-build and limpid sapphire eyes, that could turn most beholder molten at sight. He shammed composure, while the bundle of filiform nerve cells tendriled tautly through his body, with his viscera looped by an unseen hands from the inside, out of anxiety. Before walking up into the room, he had the precognition of what lies within its walls. Their fate are to be sealed as promised earlier, within the core of the room's double-glaze walls, which dampen noise and heat transmission.

They had been gathered earlier in a large hall on a level they were denied the access to see on their expedition yesterday. And he had sat back watching as the assembly thinned-out at the annunciation of a female voice which calls them into a walk-in at the leftmost end of the hall, with none of the young psychics returning back to the hall.

Last not least, he had been called in as the last name on the rung of the long list of the psychics assembled in the hall, and he had stepped into the room aware of the psyche testing that will landmarked his induction into the agency.

Psychics had been assorted into four dissenting circles or houses: The Undaunted; a faction with superhuman strength, agility, reflexes and innate combative skills. They're the warriors, the roughshod of all the houses, the brockish of the psychics, whose instinctive impulse is blood-and-guts for mayhem. The Anomals, are those affinal with ESP: Telepathy, clairaudience, remote sensing, psychometry, clairvoyance, retrocognition, scrying in all. The Variant, are a strain of psychics affined with shapeshifting/mimicry, invincibility, apportation, transvection, levitation, prehensory and lapidification. While the psychal-physics, a breed of paranormal that could handle the Empedoclean elements[I.e fire, water, air and earth], the kinematics, and acoustic manipulation are the last phase of the factions.

He watched as the perverse psychic across him shut her eyes, straining to hit the vacuous space within her soul.

A perverse is any psychic that could ramble through or harness two or more superpower abilities within the compass of a house. This he had learnt overnight by listening in to the talk of his roomie, and with the aura of apparent power spreading through the room, likewise the tentacles his mind was caught in, he could tell the woman was an anomal perverse. She had an absolute control over his mind, no matter how badly he endeavoured to pull her out.

"Malcolm Selwyn, age; fifteen." The woman began with her oral profiling of him in a trance-like medium. Her eyes still tightly sealed in. "Breach birth, only child, telekine affinity." A groan escaped her mouth has she reached deeper into the abysmal depth of his soul. "Could only see the supernatant power in his mind, any more trials would run down my psychic strength." She managed out through clinched teeth, heaving heavily afterwards.

Malcolm fixed a naive regard on the woman, not solely because she had taken him on a spin to his past, but also to his own deniable shock as sweat jetted down the side of her face. "Does it takes that much inner strength?' He asked, wondering what it really takes for a psychometry inquiry.

"Go through that door Malcolm." She said in a hedged response, pointing him to a door he had barely noticed when walking into the room.

He shot to his feet, disregarding the woman's feckless attempt to pointedly evade his question.

"Take the first bend to your right down the hall. There you'll find your kind; the psychal-physics." She gave an offhanded description and watched as he made trippingly through the door.

The PHS HQ run over with activities just like normal times, with fleet-footed guards and agents bristling through every level while a workforce from a private corporation charged with the restitution of the incursive meltdown, a day ago were wrapped up in the rebuilding process of the building.

On the fifteenth level of the tower, the director; a man of midget make-up walked fleetly down the hall with the two jumbo agents assigned to him after the psychics' penetration into the building yesterday. He set his gaze straight before him and watched the cybernated door of the staging room discerped sibilantly, while he stepped to the fore of the room, where the operatives engaged in the busywork of gaining intelligence on the attack yesterday bounced to their feet.

"But you shouldn't be here today Director." Fontaine faltered, pressing lightly on the gauze-patched spot on his temple. He had suffered a major cut from the bop yesterday and has been sutured up shortly after regaining consciousness, but still, he felt a little throb in his head.

"Not after the sock to our face yesterday captain." The director paced to the middle of the room, to have the centered attention of the room. "The ground attack here yesterday may never see past the wall of silence to get to the masses, but will never be overlooked by the authority." He added in a harsh-tight tone.

"We ain't conscious of any possible attack from any side, sir. We won't take no chances anymore." The captain explained in a falling pitch.

The director gave a nervous guffaw and made amblingly over to him. "Wouldn't take chances anymore? I guess, there's no room for that captain." He said susuringly against his neck, inflecting his next words for all to hear. "I just receive a summon from the cardinals, guess they'll be needing some explanations at their next sitting."

"All we need now is some time, Director..." Fontaine bumbled.

The director hushed him up before he blether on with a wave of his index. "There's nothing to say here captain, nothing I say. You've hi-tech intelligence contrivances at your disposal for Bleep's sake. So you better step up your pace or I shut down this unit of yours for a much better team out there." He landed up with his harsh on, shooting out of the room like an arrow with his details.

Fontaine sneaked a fleeting glance over to his team, cognizant of the blue look on their faces. "Mona, what've we got this time?"

"Nothing real promising." She wheeled herself over to the front of an active matrix screened-computer surmounting a tabletop in the room. "Every lead is pointing to this." She magnified a 'S' and saltire logo on the screen.

"Supernaculars? What's their stand in this?" Greg asked with a popeyed expression.

"Supernaculars are a belligerent sub-rosa agency of the psychics, whose goals are basically pinned on working havoc on the human race." Mona explicated double quickly.

"But why are we just knowing this?" Johannes enquired this time.

Mia gave a mercurial answer to his question. "Because they've long been planning something big in the shadows, and now they've got bigger than that shadow."

"I found this confusing anyway." Greg respired and continued. "There wasn't a known figure of a psyche survivor after 'PROJECT VESUVIUS'

"I guess that's what they want us to believe." Fontaine came out after his long respite from the discourse. "Now you get to have yourself a new article of faith since we've a rogue agency of the psychic out there, somewhere."

"There isn't a cue on this subject anymore than we already had." Mona said despondingly, burying her face in her palms.

"Anything but the fact that this rogue agency has an unknown figure of personnels and has already inducted a score of psychics we held captive in Hades." Mia surmised with hard-nosed intelligence.

"And having them on the loose is quite a disaster." Johannes added glumly.

Fontaine strode over to the wall hanging partitioned computes, his black eyes turned flickly icy. "Now we have a game at hand with no chances to spare."

Malcolm pulled at the slide fastener, built-in at the side of his jumpsuit, and which run the length from below his armpit down to his hip bone. He drew in a breath, taking it easy on his bed in a room he shared with three other roomies. The room was small but nice, with no mod con, yet affording the comfort he yearned in the throat of Hades.

After the jaunt through the entrails of their new home, which was a right-down rubbernecking through the grand hallways of the levels in the dugout, of which several rooms open. Mahalia McKee, the toothsome woman, who had played their tour guide all through the pleasure-trip had shown them to the staging area of the building, fitted out with lots of high-tech widgets. And later on to the domiciliary level, where they were stripped of their old rigs➖an orange bodysuit which markedly keyed them as inmates of the PHS, and handed with similar rigs worn by every psychics in their new domicile.

Mahalia had also shown them to the array of block of cans, before walking off to grant them the room for a private space in their own little circle.

Long after his insession in the tub, a fling of scrubbing and lathering his body in a powerwash, spanning ten minutes, and which left his skin paper-thin with a backwash of titillating freshness. He had walked into the room at the prescription of a chest tone voice of a lady blasting through the squawker within the level, pointing them into their various rooms.

"Now, you can all turn in on your bed, tomorrow marks a new beginning for you all." The voice boomed again, creating a niche in his mentation.

It really was a new turn in the course of his life, and that of the bunch, who had nailed through the tendrils of the PHS with him. A new dawn has just arrive for them and their kind.

He plonked into his bed flat on his back as his system was switched-over by the flash flood of sleep, which takes him on a swing to dream world.

About to drop Nagasaki!

More coming your way!

CHAPTER TWO: HARD TO CRACK.

Once again, Malcolm found the wheels of his life turned, not to his own influence or whimsy, but to the greater will of a force of nature; fate, whose thread has been spun not to his liking. The fifteen minutes ride over here on the hovercraft was snippy and filled with thrills and ineffable mirth and feel of freedom. While riding on high altitude and bypassing the ineluctable train of patrolling crafts of the CPF➖a bureau initiated by the cardinals as an equivalent for police forces on earth, with selfsame judicial purport and orbit over sting operation carried out to nail criminals; the panoramic view of the urban sprawl had warped into exurbia layout as he stared down through the window screen, until there wasn't a tint of building structures and life at their bearing, a place he had assumed to be at the tail-end of the planet Oberon. They had been saved from the prickling hurt of Hades and brought on to the middle of nowhere, in a bunker.

Before long, a string of jump-suited men, pullulating through the thick of the bunch of inmates like an arm of the sea riveted him. At the runghead of the herd was a man with maroon hair and contrastive black soul patch, followed in turn by a voluptuous gold -haired woman, and the spare figure of a silver-grey-eyed man.

The hums and buzzes within the clump abated as the man ascended the dais from across them in the vast proportional vestibule, bared of modern conveniences, with high-rising walls and ceiling. His electric blue eyes zeroed in over their billowy sea of heads.

"Welcome home friends." He started plausibly on a high. "You all have been a witness to the cruelty of the human race, the black undertakings set before them by their hands, and the cold deeds of their own hearts. They've killed many of our kind without compunction, and won't stop until they rid everyone of us from their world, our world."

Malcolm lopped his gaze away from the man, navigating down to the golden-haired woman, who stood at attention just like everyone trigged in the jumpsuit, with arms turned up behind her back; and over to the cluster of psychics; old and young assumed in suits, silkscreened on the breast with a big 'S' crossed at the bow by a symbol equal to a saltire. They were his kind and would take them in with good spirits, he presumed inwardly.

The blue-eyed man continued with his address ever more glibly, homing his point into their hearts. "Humans has failed the law of the universe by attacking our kind and deeming us a threat to their world. But still, we rise again over the ruins, all because we put a bold front, all because we're supernaturals, the crown of the human race."

With bravery rooting from impudency, the stacked woman minced up to the dais, eye-beaming the pack. "There's no silver bullet to saving the current world of man. You and I are the only answer to the dashing hope of the human race. And now that we can hold on to ourselves, we must seek a new balance."

The slenderly built man with wring up nose also climbed up to the dais, standing cheek by jowl with the other speakers. "Your parents, families, friends are now of the past. Now, you'll make new friends and families in a world, where no one will judge you with your inborn gifts, nor be treated as garbage." He added monotonously with a dart of his index. "The humans: Your parents, friends and families are a bunch who get you all here, they pay you no regard while you're been locked up in that blinking black hole of the PHS, and now that you're gone from their claws, you must be more than willing for a payback."

Malcolm goggled as the pack hollered back in affirmative like a thunderclap, with a flare of blood-and- guts delight coupled with rage.

"That we'll all do." The maroon-haired man said this time, drawing the curtain of glib screening his left eye with his thumb. "We're wounded wolves driven to the background by them, and by our law, we'll strike back in packs." He paid no mind to the clamor of the pack of the sallow-faced psychics. "This we owe to the forgotten souls of our kind, who has suffered a dreary lot at the hands of humans. By this vow, we'll live till we see an end to the human race..." Another ear-splitting holloa rendered the air. "With our strength, might and blood and our last breath."

"Yeah!" The crowd yelled in a war-like cry with a wild toss of their arms in midair.

"The rise of a new dawn has just set in. Now, you'll all be given a walkthrough in your new home, make friends and use the wealth of the place to your good." He mopped up, climbed down the soapbox, and walked down the way he had come with his train of jump-suited psychics on his tail.

The long-haired woman stepped prissily out of line of the ribbon-like stream of psychics trudging behind the man. An alluring smile flying over her delectable mug hollowed her cheeks. "I'll be your tour guide, you follow my lead." She pronounced each words with a prim of her lips at a time, waddling into the open embrace of an elevator on her left, while the pack followed at her heels.

Waiting on ya views on the latest updates... C'mon drop ya comments ya'll!

[quote author=Pinkfeet post=65842414]thanks for mention[/quote

You're right welcome. And hope you do enjoy?

This is what y'all been waiting for folks.

labi1977:
Please put action from the first page there's not much interesting about flying spaceships or history cheers

It's almost time for action, no more waiting.

godamnit:
You have a nice story, but you overemphasize with your vocabularies(making minute mistake)and extending your scenes with long sentences.
You know what you are doing, you just need to do it quicker.

The wait in itself is the thrill boss

Fontaine with his team, comprising of Johannes, Mia and other two agents caught up with the target on the eighteenth level as he was on the cusp of inching into an elevator. They had picked the dissipated sound of gunfire on a level above the attack scene, combing through halls to find the telltale tint of the work done by the target.

"You stop right there, throw your hands where I can see them and go down on your knees." Fontaine pronounced the words out like a mantra, sceptic of the man conceding to his bidding. No hostile target will give in on the border of the havoc already done by him, for that alone he was glad he had his team, trained in hand to hand combat by his side. The target had taken on a kamikaze charge by intruding into the PHS tower, and now he will meet his untimely end. He clumped his hand into a fist, ready to pounce on the target.

"You're very welcome Captain. What took you so long?" Russell said to him with his back still turned to their faces, am action that seemed a turn-up to the operatives.

"Guess you won't have to wait no more." He charged at him with his team following suite.

Russell ske-daddled from the lunges and thrusts hurled at him from oblique directions by the agents, tap dancing lithely from a crescent kick thrown by the captain. With scant regard to the spray of blows and kicks, he scooted fluidly past the other two agents, sending the first hard against a wall with a heavy-pound kick, and the other face-first to the ground with a karate chop. Just before he could springly duck, a deadweight cut connect with his chest, the pain of which seared along the double plates sculpted out of his chest. He deflected three more blows following on its tail with inhuman reflex, sending the only lady on the team heavily to the floor with a submarine, and finishing up with double kicks that landed squarely on Johannes pectorals, which sent him reeling backward for few paces, before he lost his footing and blanked-out.

"it's you and I now captain." He said with a flash of brown teeth.

"Bleep you." The captain said in an irate tone, lunging at him with flood tide of strength high-rising in him.

Russell scuddled into thin air like a cloud swerved by wind with his every lunges and swings, while he followed-up blindingly as rage blanketed his reasoning.

Timing his every move with his transference into the shadow, Russell preconceived the backward jerk of his head and the flitting forward follow through before its impact. And swiftly teleported to the far-right hand of the hall on impulse induction. He gave a thin, narrow smile as the captain bonked his head against a wall and slumped to oblivion. "Nice try Captain." He theatrically smoothened his jumpsuit and sidled into the elevator.

"Time to take flight Russell." Chaos blasted into the comm from the other end.

"Coming through, hold on tight. Will you?" He rejoindered and scrammed out of sight like a blip on a boob-tube screen.


"You guys will have hold on to me, if we're gonna get a chance to take flight." Russell spoke flatly to the inmates.

"But how?" A skin head boy asked in a tinny voice.

"Like this." Chaos edged toward his counterpart, holding on to the tail of his suit. "Now you follow suite." He said with a glance slid back at them.

Without an ado but brows shot up in question, the inmates followed his gesture, forming a human chain along the process, and waiting on Russell's ineffable little promise.

"Hold on a little more guys." He had the visual graphic of the hovercraft slit through the membrane of the several images of vivid places on his mind before burrowing deep into the gold mine of his soul, to bring on his priceless stock.

All it takes was a lightning shift in time for them to be transported into another space➖the hovercraft. Afterward, they took into altitude, riding on air current, on to safe land, under the keen guidance of their lead pilot and his sub.

Malcolm stood idly close to a recess in the wall, watching the bunch of inmates soaked up in hell raising for guards on watch in Hades. Doors tore off their hinges and were sent flying by unseen kinetic forces at the guards armed with maser submachine firearms, tongues of fire lapped at men and walls by God knows mystic power that has the unlucky lot of the guards flailing on the ground as they were suck up by fire. Many were sent flying like a lance by hooks, kicks, boxes, and bunts impacted by the husky pack among the inmates, while some were lapidified and frozened to their bones.

He hadn't the faintest hint to channel into that spring of incomputable wealth within him, and without such power in a seance like this, he was a sitting duck that could easily be brought down by the guards' maser guns, that bore deep holes in the walls about.

Twice, he had seen his friend set the guards aflamed with his pyro kine, and a tall girl with low-set ears, who had sent three of the guards against a wall, to their death with a torrid gust of air. He had appraised the girl not to be any younger than eighteen years right on the spot, but what's was the point in that; he was fifteen with no soupcon to accessing his imbred powers. He pouted in utter mortification of the thought.


Russell hid himself behind a column at the tramps of approaching feets, his gaze travelled along with the flutter of monochromatic lights scudding across the face of the walls in the gloom, from the flash of the maser riffles wielded by the operatives. Now, it seemed he had drawn more than necessary attention to himself. More than twenty PHS operatives were on his tail and there's apparently no way of shaking them off.

"Looking for someone?" He asked from behind the column, picking the sound of stirs among the operatives, who stood trigger-ready with their weapons.

"Show your face, and we won't have to settle for the worst." A harsh-sounding voice he inferred to be that of the team leader called out.

He glided into view like a breeze, aware of the sprinkling red lights of laser sights over his body. "And if I say otherwise?"

"Then you'll leave us no chance but to make it rain hell on you." The team leader returned with cold look.

"Let's leave it at that then." He sidestepped before the first laser shot made impact, reflexly slipping behind a column that was instantly riddled by particle beams.

"Take him down!" The team leader shrilled and stared long as the column was taken down by the laser shots expelled from their submachine riffles. But to his level-most dismay, the target was nowhere to be found. He caught a glimpse of a figure in his left eye and within the span of an eye blink, six of his men were crumbling up on the floor like a pile of clothes, knocked off their feets by the target's dazzling combo of kicks and punches.

Russell shimmied through the line of armed operatives, landing punches on faces, and noses, side-swiping with helicopter kicks, and sidling away from laser shots popped from the riffles, leaving a trail of blood and stirless bodies at the wake of his every move.

"We shouldn't have settle for this, you know?" He said to the team leader, who gave an affirmative nod of his head in the stead of a word as he was the last-ditch of putting the man down of all his team, who were either threshing and writhing in pain or long gone from this life. "Since you've seen it rain, I guess this has a long lasting impression on you that my kind can't be Bleep with by people like you." He shot up his arm, connecting an arcing Sunday punch with his jaw, and watched as he toppled to the ground out cold.

ExInferis:
Disjointed, amorphous, half-baked ideas strung together in unnecessary verbosity resulting in a writhing mass of incoherent pretentiousness.


Choose your tone properly; shakespearean English or everyday informality. You can't have a mishmash of biblical, victorian, classical, and post-modernist tone in your narrative.

Choose your images clearly; don't clutter your descriptions with mundane details that serve no purpose than to make you sound smart.

Choose your characters wisely and define who they are by their thoughts and actions; long descriptions of their intent which we can already surmise from their tones is windy and useless. Your characters are as hideously paper-thin as your dialogs.

Obviously you just thought up the central plot but none of the connective tissue between subplots.

You can do better than this if you take the time out to flesh your characters, dialog and story, and drop the unnecessary and thick prose.

Thanks man for the critics... Quite appreciate this

What you think already folks?

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Kindly tell me what ya feel. Little did you know that this is just amplifying, y'all gonna enjoy the trills therein.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes sir." They chorused chest out.

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

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

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

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

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

I'll love some reviews folks. Kindly drop ya comment on this piece.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hades, the place was called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just2day:
I hope my previous comment was not construed as a request for a change in your current parlance. It's nice to see certain choices outside classic literary works. I merely wanted to draw your attention to the increased importance of the other aspects of a literary work when working with striking vocabulary.

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

No offenses taken bro, I really do appreciate