“Sir,” said Szekely, “I am not of the rank to question you, but we were unable to receive your transmissions and I would like to know where the Adventist is.”

“Well I’m sorry Corporal, was too busy doing my job,” he said as he walked past him and over to two of the Bolivians. They were thoroughly bound and placed next to one of the larger boxes, which had been opened. Inside were dozens of smaller boxes, all filled with food, ammunition, and bibles. However, it was the two guards he was most concerned about, leading him to ask in a bewildered tone, “Why are these men still alive? I respect your clemency, Szekely, but we have a No Prisoner Order.”

The corporal did not respond. He had no reason to and, now that the Bolivians were bound, he knew that Sorenson could not execute them without reason. Granted, the corporal knew little of what had just occurred on the dirt road only half  a mile away. And, as if trying to reestablish himself, Sorenson walked within a few feet on the two and knelt down.

“What are you names?” he asked, only to hear Szekely come up from behind.

“Sir,” he said, “we should hurry, we do have wounded men.”

“What are you names?” he asked once more, ignoring the corporal altogether.

The silence, which had surrounded the four men, became alarming. Atlas was certain the captain would lose his temper once more and further embarrass himself. Either way, though, he already knew what he was going to do. All members of Black Sun were brothers, that was something he was certain of. Nevertheless, the ruthless execution of a valued target was little more than sheer idiocy. Atlas wanted to consider it simply the folly of youth, but as he stood there and waited for either Szekely or Sorenson to react, he realized it was far beyond his age or maturity. In all ways, Sorenson was the brutalized dog who bit everyone who passed by except those who he considered his owners, for he was too afraid of them.

“Sir,” said Szekely, “they may not speak English.”

He let out a laugh before turning to the corporal and asking, “Who doesn’t speak English? We’re not in the Middle Ages, corporal.”

“The South American countries who have united have banned English from their dialect. For all we know he never learned it because he was a farmer or…”

Sorenson interrupted his corporal with no words but actions. He had pulled out his pistol and aimed down towards one of the Bolivians. The man’s eyes grew horribly wide and his mouth slung open. Turning back around to him, Sorenson asked in a calm voice, “What is your name, señor?”

The man, whose face was as close to petrified as one could get, replied in a stuttering fashion, “Alejandro Matos…”

“See!” Sorenson shouted, jumping to his feet with a spring and hearty laugh. “He speaks fantastic English. Hell, if it weren’t for his skin I probably wouldn’t even know he was a foreigner.” He stopped for a moment and holstered his gun, then ushering the soldiers standing around them to begin taking them up the hill like the others.

“Do you know your biggest setback is, corporal?” he asked as they both watched the Bolivians. “You’re too nice… too womanly. These men, these Mexicans and South Americans, are little more than rats without homes. They should be happy with their own country, but they’re not, so they infest ours. The Bolivians have no right to be here, corporal. Yet you give them mercy and let these invaders live. That is your biggest setback, your compassion.”

It was with that parting message that the scene suddenly died down. The only tension still standing was the fear Atlas had in regards to how the Bolivians would survive the trip back. Then again, they were little more than dead no matter what. Black Sun had only a few rules when it came to foreigners and none of them fell in their favor.

It didn’t take long for the soldiers to pack up. They were like ants and all moved in the same direction at the same time, only reacting when the entirety of them did. By the time the afternoon came and the sun reached a point where it was simply inescapable by all those not covered by a roof, the soldiers finished their work and hastily left the scene.

By the time that they had gotten back to OC:3, Atlas had fallen asleep. Though, the sudden rattling of the transport van shook him awake just as it had before. Most of the other soldiers were in the same position, falling asleep every now and then and trying their best to not snore. Once the vehicle came to a thundering halt at the bottom of the vehicle depot, the doors unlocked and popped open. The terrible light came in with a sudden burst, forcing their eyes to dilate.

One by one the men began to lackadaisically climb out. They had all removed their helmets and their gloves, some even going as far to take off their boots. The sudden cold which came through the garage startled them all, though. It felt as if the whole room had begun to freeze and, surely enough, it had. A soldier quickly shot over to one of the depot computers, which controlled the entire room.

“It’s set at thirty-two, sir…”

“I wanted each of you to feel what it is like to fall into the embrace of your inevitable death,” said a man who walked in from the side of the room. He was finely dressed, though his suit was more of a uniform. It was dark green and he wore a tan tie which sat expertly tied. Several awards and strips sat on his chest and his arm was covered in multiple corresponding marks and patches. “Captain Sorenson,” he continued on as he walked over to the men “unfortunately I haven’t the time to convey my displeasure with your incapability to accept the orders Commander Helios had given you. As for you, Atlas, I will be promoting you once you have found Evelyn. Your empathy is laudable.”

And with that he walked out, ignoring the sound of soldiers whispering to one another. Even though most weren’t aware of it, they had all just met personally with the Black Sun Commander General, Apollo. He was the fabled soldier who led the campaign in the Korean Conflict. He was the one who had essentially started the entire Black Sun organization.

The soldiers accepted the negative report on their mission and began to unload the dead. Over the course of the entire fight, three Black Sun soldiers fell in combat. While they honored them by sending their remains to the mortuary, the dead Bolivians were left to rot by the church. Some of the soldiers had taken their corpses and knifed them or strung them up from the bell, which had fallen down and into the lower sections of the church. The crosses were broken off from around their neck and tossed into the lake, forever forgotten from the scene.

In regards to the prisoners, they were each taken into the holding rooms two floors above the depot. Like most jails, it was little more than three walls and a heavily secured door. Each man, before entering the room, was stripped and cleaned with a hose they would normally use in case of a fire. The men were then thoroughly searched by doctors for hidden weapons and finally they were placed in the holding room.

And then there was the Adventist, the single survivor of the entire congregation. He was immediately placed in a room with scarlet walls and a white ceiling and floor. The man knew as soon as he was put into the room that others were watching. On each side of the wall, with the exception of the entrance’s, sat a window that stretched all the way across the three remaining. Strangely, they were openly exposed and he could see the group of five individuals standing and staring at him.

As for what was actually in the room, it was quite inauspicious. The only bit of furniture was a meek looking sink in the right corner, right in front of one of the windows. In the middle of the room sat a small drain and, as he took notice to it, he also realized the entire floor was beveled down so that everything would eventually move down to it.

For hours he waited. At first he stood and watched the men just sitting there, doing paperwork. As time went on, he gave into the idea that he would be waiting there for quite some time. None of the men behind the windows were very rushed, they even looked quite comfortable, all the while he stood looking foolish. So, after about forty minutes of pacing, his hands stuffed angrily in the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, he took a deep breath and let it all go in a torrent. It gave him enough bravery to go and sit down next to the sink. For whatever reason, it seemed better to be with something, even if it were a sink and little more, than be all alone in the bowels of misery.

“My name is Atlas,” he began as he slid his hand behind the man’s back and slowly pushed him forward until he sat upright, all while holding the knife gently against his throat. “I’m an Inspector with Black Sun. I don’t think I have to go into why you’re being arrested, do I?”

He nearly wanted to argue with the man, but the Adventist said nothing. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and said just barely under his breath in a quick repeating tone: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me a sinner.

Atlas grabbed the Adventists left hand and then his right, placing both behind his back and binding each, all the while keeping the knife motionless. Once he was bound, however, Atlas quickly sheathed his knife back into his boot and pulled the man up into a standing position. As he did so he could already hear the sound of panting in the background. He grabbed for his G27 and, with a quick turn, aimed it at the man who now stood like a tired dog up on the road.

“Good Lord,” Captain Sorenson said, “put that down.”

For a second he hesitated, but ultimately he lowered his pistol. The captain was as white as a ghost and his breath evaded him. For whatever reason, the captain had taken his helmet off, much to the chagrin of Atlas, who grew tired of even looking at him in full R5290. He was a young man with average length brown hair, his eyes were as blue as they could be, and normally his skin was quite colorful. Then again, Atlas gave little thought of how he looked.

“So then,” the captain began as he climbed down the embankment, “what’s your name?”

The Adventist gave him no heed and kept his head down. Atlas, losing interest quickly, let go of him and began to scale the sloping wall.

“Hello?” Sorenson asked. “Why doesn’t he talk? You cut his tongue out?”

“Do you see any blood?”

Sorenson let out a giggle and grabbed the man by the wrists. He led him up the embankment slowly, each step being a slight shoving match between the captain and the Adventist. Once he did get him up there, the man fell to his knees, his head slowly coming to rest on the dirt road below him. Sorenson joined Atlas and looked down at the man, snickering in that snide way of his.

“Angel of God,” the Adventist began to whisper “my guardian dear, to whom His love entrusts me here, ever this day be at my side to light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen.”

“Come again, Bishop?” Sorenson asked, squatting down in front of the man and taunting him.

“Angel of God…” he began to say once more, only to feel a sudden shock run through his spine.

Sorenson had jumped to his feet and swiftly swung his foot forward into the man’s ribs. With his action came another snicker and a jubilant laugh to follow it. As the man laid there, his eyes now closed and his mouth slightly bloodied, he began to recite the prayer once more, his voice slightly lower than before. Again, with a swift kick, the Adventist went silent. This time he bit down onto his lip so hard he felt the pop of his skin breaking and his teeth driving themselves into the flesh.

“Can we go now?” Atlas asked, suddenly interrupting another kick not yet received.

Sorenson, with a furled brow, replied, “This ass killed one of my men, do you honestly think I’m not going to punish him before I kill him?”

Both Atlas and the Adventist opened their eyes as though they were in the dark. The very notion that Sorenson would kill the man was alone sadistically intolerable, but the fact he went directly against the orders of Commander Helios was little more than certifiably insane. With his threat, however, the captain let loose another kick.

“What’s your name you filthy Jesuit?” he asked as he pulled the man up by his jacket.

Thin strands of scarlet fell down from his broken lip and his eyes were soaked in tears. By force, Sorenson moved the man over to the side of the embankment, nearly having to drag him every inch of the five feet. Atlas took notice immediately, still on edge from the comment, and reached for his G27.

“We weren’t given permission by the commander to execute hostages during the assault, captain. I do hope you’ve retained your sense of loyalty to Black Sun.”

The captain turned around and replied, his face and voice full of venom, “Three of my men are now dead! This insolent ass has the nerve to flee? To hell with Helios’ grand orders, he’s a damned Jew anyhow. He’s probably working with them.”

With that, Sorenson checked the chamber of his gun and aimed it squarely at the back of the Adventists head. Atlas’ reflex was to do the same, but instead he aimed it at Sorenson. The rules, however, were as simple as they came when in regards to friendly fire and so was its punishment. Instead, Atlas swallowed his desire to pull the trigger and cleared his throat.

“They’re going to promote you soon, captain,” he replied. “You go against a direct order given by Commander Helios and you won’t see much more than your own grave. I don’t care what your view of the commander is, what matters is that you’re about to ruin your entire service history in Black Sun.”

Sorenson thought about it for a moment, but as quickly as the idea passed through his head, so did his finger against the small piece of metal dangling just below the barrel. The shot went off. The Adventist, who struggled to stand and yet found the strength to pray under his breath, hoping his death would come soon, smiled as though God had gave him one final comfort. His eyes just barely opened before the horrible sound, but for that millennium of time he saw the beauty of the sun rising and the sky lit aflame by the very God which blessed him with a decent life thus far. And then it ended. His body slipped down the embankment and into the now pooling scarlet puddle.

“Put your gun away, sir,” said Sorenson, whose voracious smile had perverted his face. “If you kill me because I executed a criminal Adventist, you’ll be dragged through the streets.”

“Our entire goal here was to capture intelligence…”

“Corporal Szekely secured several Bolivian soldiers,” the captain said, interrupting him.

Atlas still held his gun towards the back of Sorenson’s head. So dearly did he wish to end the entire situation and face the consequences at OC:3. While they wouldn’t have dragged him through the streets, his act of sedition would most certainly lead to his indefinite detainment.

“Please, sir, I understand that you’re in a bind right now.”

Atlas’ head, which had begun to wander, popped back up and with a furled brow he replied, “How do you mean I’m in a bind?”

With a voice on the precipice of shaking, Sorenson said in response, “You are soon to become a full Rank 3 member of Black Sun’s higher up’s, the officers. You need this done so that you can start gaining points quicker. I know the whole deal, I’ve got friends who are officers.”

Atlas lowered his G27 and let out a deep exhale, the captain was soon to follow. For a moment they stood in silence, neither men wanting to bring up the obvious. Instead, Sorenson cleared his throat as he walked past him, trying his best to forget the situation. Even then, as he looked down the embankment and thought of what had happened on the other side, Sorenson thoroughly trusted and respected Atlas. He couldn’t explain it, but the very idea of ever hurting him was, by all accounts, incomprehensible.

The unit, under command of Szekely, readied themselves and tossed a WP779 Canister into the long corridor of the open church. With a horrible pop, the canister exploded, pouring a large amount of white smoke into the air. The very presence of it would burn exposed flesh, though not to the point of death. Instead, it felt like salt on an exposed wound.

Following the explosion, Szekely lead his men in. As they passed through the smoke, they found a small group, no more than five, of Bolivian soldiers in a corner, their weapons thrown aside. Without so much as even asking, Szekely said in haste, “Bind them, they’re coming as prisoner.”

“Commander Helios ordered no prisoners, sir,” said one of the men behind him.

“We’re not murderers,” he replied.

Quickly, the unit proceeded, tying their hands together. As they did so, the Bolivians cried out, kicking and pushing, only to be held down by the Black Sun soldiers.

Once more the sound of the XM312 began to ring off, firing into the open church in hopes of hitting one of the Black Sun soldiers. Instead, as the men aimed down into the smoke, Atlas moved back a few feet and took aim. With one bullet, the Bolivian fell to the ground, silencing the .50 caliber. The other man panicked and ran away, thinking a sniper had got his ally. As he did so, he came across the second Black Sun unit, who had scaled the ladder and killed those in the other room. Without Szekely’s mercy behind them, the team leader raised his pistol and pressed down in the small metal trigger. With a bang and a thud, the team moved on.

Atlas began to circle around and head towards the backdoor. As he did so, the sound of fire came rumbling past and an Adventist carrying an M4 backed out and into the exposed open. He let loose and emptied the magazine and, before he noticed Atlas was standing there, he began to run off. Taking chase, Atlas checked his own magazine and reloaded.

“Do not fire on him!” he shouted.

“I’ve got the Adventist in my sights, requesting permission to kill, Captain Sorenson.” said what Atlas figured was one of the snipers.

“No!” Atlas shouted. “You are not to fire, this is Investigator Atlas.”

“Captain are you there?!”

A silence came over them as Atlas followed the fleeing man. Yet, in a stressed voice, Captain Sorenson said as simply as he could, “Take him out.”

Like a bull charging through the trees, the sniper’s bullet rang out and could not be stopped. Even if it were to graze the man’s shoulder it would most certainly rip it off. And yet, the sound faded and the man still ran forward. Instead of hitting him, it passed by Atlas and ripped the generation which powered his suit, including his helmet, into a thousand little pieces.

“Shot missed, shot missed,” the sniper said, though Atlas could only hear a jumbled mess.

Before he could go any further, Atlas stopped and began the painstaking process of taking his helmet off. Quickly his hands ran from the top of his head down to his neckline, popping all three fasteners loose and ripping the chunk of metal off from around his head. In the distance he could see the man, who had gained quite a bit of space as Atlas fiddled with his suit. Nevertheless, the chase began again and he took off.

The sound of both men and women in the church screaming could be heard, only to be followed by the eternal silencer that was Black Sun. The gunfire lit up the morning and the sun burst out from the hills in the deep foreground where the lake ended.

The Adventist began to creep on the edge of the water, looking back periodically as Atlas tried his best to catch up. Unlike him, however, the Adventist lacked the Atom which now surged through Atlas’ blood like a thousand galleon’s all sailing for war. He didn’t feel the pain shooting up from his ankles and even though he hadn’t slept for quite some time he was more alert than most people after a full night’s sleep. Unfortunately, he wasn’t a very quick runner to begin with.

The two continued their chase up a small embankment and onto one of the many dirt roads. The Adventists stopped for a moment, trying his damndest to find his breath again. Before leaving once more, he peered back over and into the fields, only to see an empty shore and trees in the distance. A sudden wave of levity hit him and a smile came to his face. There was no reason to run, he was sure he had gotten away. Though, as he stood there for a moment, trying his best to recover even more before running off, he began to think of the possibilities. His pursuer may have disappeared, but what were the chances he would return, not to mention the now constant threat of a sniper hiding in one of the many rural areas.

In a quick bit of brilliance, he jumped back to his feet and ran over to the other side of the embankment. As soon as he reached a decently low level, he fell to the ground and dug his head into the grass sitting loosely atop it. It was a beautiful day, he thought to himself as he watched the peach-colored clouds hover delicately above. He closed his eyes and silently recited what he had each and every morning from the very first days he could speak:

Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed by thy name;

Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done in Earth as it is in Heaven;

Give us this day our daily bread; And forgive us for our trespasses,

as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen.

Again he opened his eyes, watching the oil painted sky above him. Surely they would be looking for him, yet, as he laid there, he found it hard to run. That day he had sinned, the very act stung him. “They fired first,” he said to himself just loud enough to hear. Nevertheless, he still wondered as he laid there what the man’s face looked like. As soon as the first few bullets began to cascade off of the R5290 armor, his mind began to wonder who the man was. And then, as the system overloaded, he saw blood fall and drip onto the cement floor.

As the Adventist laid there, Atlas slowly crept up the rest of the embankment. He had stuck to the ground as soon as the man got to the road. Whether or not he was armed, Atlas wanted to be as safe as he could. The electric shields were of high quality and protected against most types of ammunition, but after a while the system would short circuit and allow bullets to pass through with ease. Seeing that his suit was all but dead, he knew he had no real protection that close up.

He reached the road and took to his feet, though he walked low and used both his knees and elbows. There was little use of a firearm and thus, as he neared the other side of the road, he holstered his and slowly pulled out his knife. From his perspective he could see the Adventists hair slowly flickering from the wind that came down from the hills and washed through the valley.

“Charge,” he said, shouting into his communicator

His unit took to their feet and began to sneak forward, taking cover behind trees whenever they could. As they moved they took shots, killing only a few Bolivians each time. With a heavy bit of impatience, Captain Sorenson marched forward without thought of his action. He carried a father large pistol, which when fired nearly made the sniper rifles pale in comparison. His men tried their best to follow, but by the time they would catch up, he would go quicker.

“Begin flank,” said the captain, but little to his knowledge they had already began their advance. Atlas, humiliated by the captain, reloaded his G27 and quickly made his way forward. The men followed, only to stop when they fired, making sure it was a kill each time. As they began to reach the tree line,  Sorenson stopped and took cover behind a tree to reload and prepare for a final push. The others joined him, though they began to hear the trees chirping as bullets dug deep into their trunks.

On count, the first unit lurched out from their cover and began their charge. The Bolivians quickly retreated back into the church, though some stayed out and took cover behind the boxes. As for the 10o5, they suffered no casualties up to that point. The bullets which did hit them were affected immediately by the Concussive Guard, an electric shield which covered the front of the R5290 combat armor. Unfortunately, as they advanced on the church, they came closer to the enemy and, with a sudden shock of pain running down his leg, an AnR soldier fell to his knees and keeled over in pain.

“We need a…” Atlas began to say, only to hear Captain Sorenson scream over his words as he charged into and behind one of the cargo boxes. He reloaded before turning and killing the Bolivian behind it, shooting him through the right side of his temple. He continued on, killing two more who hid behind one of the large boxes. As he did so, from one of the many windows on the second floor of the church, the sound of an XM312 began to ring off as rounds shot out into the tree line. They tore through the trunks and began to riddle the ground on the opposite side.

Before Atlas could react, he heard the horrible sound echoing in the communicator. To his right, a young Black Sun soldier fell to the ground, his shoulder having only a bit left attached, screaming and crying out loud. Soon, the sound which had filled the hillside stopped. The XM312 had ceased firing for a few seconds. Seizing the opportunity, Atlas charged out and into the field before the church, the men following behind him. They made no sounds, whether it be a scream or a even a breath. As they came onto the cargo boxes, they knew they had to keep going. The food and the supplies inside would not stop the .50 caliber rounds.

Soon the flanking units came in distance of the church and took cover behind many of the trucks which sat on both sides. Captain Sorenson, seeing his men line up, took to one of the windows, spying in. With only a second to react, a man carrying a modded M4 sat there, ready to fire. With a squeeze, the trigger was pressed and a horrible sound echoed through the trees. A bullet, one single fragment of metal, darted across the hillside and into the throat of the Bolivian insurgent. By the time he had fallen, the snipers bullet had done more than enough work to have killed him immediately. Taking full advantage of it, Sorenson began to fire madly into the room, though he screamed his loudest as he did so and found himself squinting his eyes. He failed to hit anyone or thing other than the walls.

From behind, he felt a firm embrace on his shoulder – it was Atlas grabbing and pulled him away. Only seconds after Sorenson fell back and against the wall a volley of Bolivian M4 fire responded, riddling the windowpane with holes and destroying the boxes in front of it.

“Are you god damn insane?” Atlas asked in a shockingly calm manner.

Sorenson replied, “Don’t you ever…”

“You better hope Helios is a forgiving man!” Atlas shouted.

“To hell with Helios…”

“You do know that they listen to your communicator while in battle, right, Sorenson?” Atlas paused a moment as the silence grew. “Commander Helios is hearing everything you’re saying; I’d wager Apollo is listening as well.”

Captain Sorenson leaned forward to Atlas and tapped him on the shoulder, saying stiffly, “Sir, it’s time to wake up. We’re nearly there.”

He couldn’t even feel the captain’s hand because of the armor. What woke him was the transport van jerking back and forth, finally moving so violently that it pushed him into the door. Shaking his head, he looked up at the captain and replied, “How much longer until we’re there?”

“ETA is five minutes, sir.”

Atlas nodded, though he wasn’t sure if the captain had even seen it. The darkness inside the vehicle was still staggering. The limited radiance which came from the dimmed blue lights was barely enough to check their weapons and armor, then again the men around him had become accustomed to checking their equipment in the dark.

From his peripheral vision, Captain Sorenson saw Atlas as he reached for his sidearm. He checked the chamber and the magazine, making sure both were ready. Unlike the men around him, however, he wasn’t as prolific in the complete void of the lightless van. His helmet’s communicator began to fizzle as he went through and checked everything. After a moment or two of bewilderment as to what the sound was, he realized it was Captain Sorenson.

“You’re using a baby of a gun, aren’t you?” he asked. “You might as well throw a rock at them.”

“When you judge an item purely on its size, you will ultimately find the power behind it to be far more important than the strength it takes to carry it. I don’t need artillery strapped to my hand to be effective at my job, captain.”

The captain let out a deep laugh and moved forward from his position, staring into the faceplate of Atlas. “I only have to shoot my target once,” he said. “I wonder, if they have more than normal BDU’s, if you’ll even kill a single one of them. I’m not speaking ill of your accuracy, sir. I am just taken back by the size of your sidearm.”

Atlas could hear the others laughing through his communicator, but he left it alone. He had grown worried over what Helios had told him of Sorenson. Already was he was becoming a different person. He had gone from being entirely respectful of Atlas to openly mocking him. It was a bad sign and Atlas saw little good in his new disposition.

With a sudden and jolting thud, the transport van ran over what felt like a log. Immediately the men became quiet and they finished checking their gear as quickly as they could. It was almost here and they knew it. Their senses were keenly developed to thrive on the anticipation of battle, making the conflict that much more fun. Even when he was in the 10o5 he couldn’t help but shake the feeling of being little more than a ravenous dog.

“You move as the hand of the State,” Commander Helios had told him after the conflict in Ensenada, once he had unwittingly joined Black Sun.

With another abrupt thud, the transport van stopped and Captain Sorenson took to his feet, though he could only stand half way up. The doors unlocked and after a second or two of waiting, the passenger who road with the driver opened the door and ushered the men out. One by one they lurched from their caves and into their standard formation. Without words, the group split up into three groups, each with eight members except for the captain’s.

The church was barely a mile away, though as the men began to run up the grassy hills around it, they suddenly came to the realization that the Bolivians had heard them. The sound of men shouting in the distance could be heard down in the valley below them. Trees, newly planted by the State, clogged their view, though they also gave them a perfect way to sneak up on the Bolivians.

The three groups split and all went into different areas of the hillside. The captain’s group, to whom Atlas was stationed with, began their descent from in front of their transport vans. Thankfully, the hills were sloped but not to the point of absurdity. Slowly they slid down half and began to walk as quickly as they could, sneaking around the trees and past the rather large rocks. Eventually, all three groups made it down to the same level, though their positions were still elevated. They hid behind the rocks and placed their rifles down on the ground, aiming carefully at the church.

It stood before an open lake like a statue before a cathedral. The roof had nearly been blown apart and the walls stood by the grace of their God. Around the perimeter sat large boxes alongside old transport trucks dating backing to the twentieth century. Around all it, however, was the constant presence of the Bolivian insurgents, whose numbers were far higher than Helios had told them. Under his breath, Atlas cursed violently and readied his pistol. From his position, nearly a hundred feet away from the church itself, he could see the AnR snipers setting up a little further up the hill.

“Twenty and go,” Captain Sorenson said over the communicator.

Slowly he counted each second as though they were of the upmost importance. The morning was nearly upon them and the surprise they held over the Bolivians was all but a charade. The sky was now blue, coating what looked like the entire world in a same hue. Between the trees, he looked through to see a yellow sky burgeoning in the horizon just beyond the water and the hills and all those just about to wake up to try and enjoy a peaceful day. By the time he took his first breath, his mind still busy with counting, he was already at ten seconds.

“Ten and go,” Captain Sorenson said.

Atlas began to think of his days in the Southern Front. When they would raid enemy bunkers or locations by making the first offensive move, they were to chose a target and kill them first. And, as he counted down past seven and then six and so on, he found a young man in his early twenties. He was no different than those he fought seven years prior. His dark complexion and black hair sat neatly, both reminding him of the countless men he came across in Mexico during those years.

“Go now, go now!” the captain shouted, immediately alerting the guards who were close.

Helios walked back over to the table and shrugged.

“For all we know,” he said “they’ve got a thousand people hiding in that basement, but something tells me they don’t. These men are fanatics and they are not afraid to kill. They’ve been attacking soft targets near Mexico City for the past three months, killing politicians and kidnapping the children of highly influential individuals.  Then again, they’re little more than Bolivian thugs sent on a mission by some zealot who thinks John Haley is actually God incarnate,” Helios suddenly stopped as the men all let out a chuckle. “Our mission this evening, gentlemen, is as simple as they come: kill the Bolivians – no prisoners will be taken – and capture all Adventists.”

“Are we to kill them as well?” the captain asked.

“No!” he replied forcefully. “Every single Šero Adventist will walk out of that church unscathed. We are to treat them as though they truly are the children of God.”

“And why do we have to favor them?” one of the other soldiers asked.

Captain Sorenson took to his feet and with a horrid look on his face he said to the man, “You will not speak to Commander Helios unless given permission by not only myself by him as well, do you understand, Corporal Szekely?”

Szekely nodded, saying nothing more.

“We’re not here to kill, we’re above that,” the captain continued, his voice full of confidence and pride. “Our orders in regards to the Adventists is to keep them alive so that I.O. can gather information that they would not be able to obtain otherwise. After we bleed them dry we’ll have them executed.”

For a moment, as Helios took a long look over at the captain, who stood as though he were the commander, Atlas found himself holding in his laughs. The suit helped, he found. After a few seconds passed and Captain Sorenson saw the smirking gaze of Helios, he quickly sat back down.

“Thank you,” Helios replied to his action. “The stereotype of the Bolivian insurgents is somewhat true: they aren’t very well trained and they haven’t the greatest armor. However, they’re heavily funded and backed thoroughly. These men are effective in their vocations, to say the least. In the past two weeks alone we’ve lost seven Black Sun soldiers, all of whom were wearing their R5290′s, to a group of guerillas. Unlike us, they’ve got the entire Vatican and every zealot, extremist, and loon supporting them.

“Captain Sorenson, you are to take point and head the main assault. Ackley will take the left flank, Donaldson will take the right. As for your escort, Investigator Atlas, he’ll tag along with you, Captain Sorenson.”

“I am aware, sir. I’m proud to have him with us, we’ve all heard of his excellence in the field.”

Helios was quick to respond, saying, “Captain, Atlas is not here to lead the charge. We have sent him along with you so that we can continue an ongoing investigation. Killing any Adventist for any reason will harm that investigation, so if Atlas says jump I don’t even want you to ask how high… just jump.”

It sounded so strange to Atlas. He had no real abilities other than a keen aim, but even then he wasn’t the greatest shot. He used no specialized Atom, his statistics were average at best, and he had lost much of his strength over the years as he began to exercise less. For the prior two years he spent under the command of Helios, he did very little in terms of fighting. The scratches on his body, his bruised skin, and even his broken bones were all caused by climbing through the half destroyed and often times burnt churches and communes once used by the Advent.

As soon as Helios saluted, the soldiers reciprocated before racing down and into one of the vehicle depots. Even though he knew exactly what to expect, Atlas still figured he’d see something new or in the very least something absurd. Instead, he stepped into the depot and found little more than normal transport vans, sedans, SUVs, and trucks.

“Five groups,” Captain Sorenson shouted to his men.

They immediately lined up, though the last group was missing one man. Atlas stood as though it was his first time. During the Southern Front, after the major conflicts ended and he began working for special operations, he found himself in a type of war which did not require standing at attention. Instead of acting confused, Atlas ignored the captain and walked past the groups. His rank saved him from a violent tirade at the hands of Captain Sorenson, whose admiration stretched far beyond his discipline.

“Sir,” the captain spoke up, “please line up.”

Atlas turned and with a smirk on his face he replied, “We’re in a hurry, yes? Shouldn’t we start to move before it’s too late?”

Sorenson let out a groan and began to walk to each unit, tapping their leader on the shoulder and pointing to their van. Oddly enough, the vans themselves were quite different, but only in that they were only vans because they had an open area in the back. The truth was they were built more like tanks, but then again they were used to transport State Guard from point A to point B. At the back of each, ten men lined up while two others took positions in the front. As they did this, Atlas stood back and watched, trying to hold back his laughs. The back doors opened and the men climbed the step ladder, piling in like bees in a hive.

“Usually they don’t have twenty-five men,” said Helios, who had wandered in and next to Atlas. “Captain Sorenson is fairly new at all of this, but he’s preformed quite well. The unfortunate issue with him is his disposition during battle.”

“Does he get scared?” asked Atlas.

“No, though I almost wish he would. Instead, I think he becomes too confident and begins to forget proper strategy. Nevertheless, he’s done a decent job and he’s up for a promotion in two months. While you two have different career paths, you come into conflict when it comes to promotions. If you finish this mission and we find Evelyn through one of the Adventists, you’ll be granted that promotion. If not, you’ll be waiting another year.”

It hit him like a brick to the chest. Though, he kept his cool and he stood calmly. Instead of replying, he nodded. He watched the soldiers get into the van, one by one, and thought about the 5o5. It was so long ago that he actually drove one, let alone sat in the back.

Impulsively, Atlas turned to Helios and asked, “Why doesn’t Captain Sorenson have a title such as myself? We are of the same rank, aren’t we?”

Before ambling off in his typically odd manner, he replied, “If he dies today, we can replace him with somebody else without much trouble. If, however, you die today, we’ll have lost someone irreplaceable. Don’t let that go to your head, though. Virgil is impressing Apollo.”

The sound of the communicator inside of Atlas’ helmet beeped and with a sizzle turned on. He could hear every breath and every movement of his new teammates, though unless they were speaking it was somewhat muted. He turned around, noticing Captain Sorenson standing on the edge of the rumbling second car, all the while ushering him forward.

“When I was in Mexico seven years ago,” Atlas said over the helmet communicator “we walked everywhere.”

With a chorus of laughs ringing in his ear, he climbed into the vehicle and sat down across from the captain, who closed the hatch. The sound reminded him immediately of the jet door unlocking and locking, like all the air was being sucked out and the final goodbye was little more than an unsympathetic thud. As it closed, the darkness grew in scope and the only light came from a small window up near the drivers. Soon, as he waited, he began to see little blue lights flicker below and above them.

“All this machinery and they still can’t afford a normal light bulb,” one man joked.

The transport jerked and the rumbling of the engine grew heavier. Soon they were moving, or at least Atlas thought he was. Every inch of the vehicle vibrated thoroughly, quickly numbing his legs. Though as they passed through the first gate and began up the ramp, the tremors grew calmer until it became a fly in Atlas’ peripheral vision.

He began to close his eyes and take the ride as a reason to fall asleep. There was none to be had the night before. Even the Atom which inhibited insomnia was unable to force him into a slumber. Instead, as he sat in the plane heading down to Mexico City, he read a book Thom had given him. Every page was read, yet he did not remember a single word. His mind was set entirely on the image of Elizabeth MacArthur. And now, as he sat with his eyes closed in the transport van, he could only remember the face of Thom as he stood there and heard the news of his wife. He did not cry, but instead he cleared his throat and took the holy bible which sat as a constant reminder of her.

“I don’t need it anymore,” he said, giving it to Atlas before meandering back into his apartment.

When he arrived in Mexico City he was immediately shuttled to OC:3 by Helios himself, who said little during the drive. The day went no better than the night prior – his hours were spent pouring himself over the bible and reading every verse until he memorized them. Yet, somehow and beyond his comprehension, as he sat in that transport the only one he could remember was the one written on the very back page, Psalm 23:

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures,

he leads me besides quiet waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for

his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the…

His attention, which was carried so heavily on the psalm he recited in his mind, was then averted as another voice crept into his head via the helmet communicator. His eyes broke open and he let out an audible sigh, much to the chagrin of the captain, who said vehemently, “I respect the hell out of Commander Helios.” He paused a moment before continuing on, saying, “However, if you come into direct harm from a member of the Šero Advent, I give you full permission to kill them. We are to follow the orders of Helios, but your safety is number one above his approval of our mission status.”

Atlas nodded and turned, ignoring him thoroughly. After a few steps, however, the sound of Captain Sorenson’s boots against the concrete floor echoed. He was being followed, much to his chagrin. It wasn’t necessarily that he disliked the Black Sun soldiers, but there was just something which rang out as wildly offensive to him. Perhaps, as he thought about it, it was simply jealousy. When he was the captain of the 5o5 they were never given anything even close to the R5290 combat armor.

“Is there something I can help you with, Captain?” he asked, turning back around to face the man.

The captain, whose face was hidden entirely, looked down for a moment before replying, “I was a corporal in the 915th with you, sir. I did not serve in your unit, but in Ensenada we assaulted the main seven blocks with one another.”

Atlas let out a deep exhale and replied stiffly, “Yes, well I’m quite happy you survived, captain.”

Before he was able to walk off, the captain reached behind his helmet and unhooked the metal fasteners. After a bit of configuring, the piece of metal popped off and he lowered it. For a moment Atlas expected to see a horrible scar or something traumatically repulsive lingering on his face as a constant reminder of the battle. Instead, he was an average looking man without any deformities to speak of.

“Sir,” he continued, “when we were moving through the blockade near the port…” he paused a moment, catching his breath, which seemed to elude him as he retold the story. “We came under heavy fire by the Venezuelan insurgents. They started throwing cocktails and grenades, usually missing or only getting a few of us. Then, when I looked over, I saw you charging through the flank with your men. You killed so many of them that the rest just sort of stood there in awe…”

“Is there an end to this story?” Atlas found himself saying, interrupting the Captain.

“I apologize, sir. Firstly, I must tell you that I thought your strategy was brilliant. However, I must admit that I am uncertain of your current health. Rather, I don’t know how you’re standing here today. I saw you get shot in the abdomen, sir. You fell to the ground and stopped moving. Your men pressed forward, but the corpsmen check on you and left you back there. I saw you die, sir.”

Atlas smiled and left the man where he was standing. Though, as he neared the entrance of the locker room, he thought of that day. With an empathic look on his face he turned and said, “They had to replace a few parts, but I did not die, Captain Sorenson.”

With that, he left the captain standing there in bewilderment. He walked over to one of the lockers which was left closed, signaling the armor inside remained there. Automatically the door unlocked as soon as he stood before it. In regards to the armor itself, the sheer amount of pieces to configure were a headache in its only right, only to become far worse when considering the complicated system of attaching them all.

Firstly, he stripped his jacket and collared shirt, along with his slacks and leather shoes. The first layer was a bodysuit of sorts, which went from the top of his neck, right below his ears, down to his ankles. Over his feet were specially woven socks, which were then covered by a thick set of metal reinforced boots. He covered his legs with a pair of black pants, which fit over the bodysuit, as well as several pieces of leather. Attached to those pieces of leather, which encircled his thighs and lower legs, were darkly painted metal plates.

His upper half, unfortunately, was quite a bit harder, especially with the forty pounds of armor now coating his lower half. First was the leather and metal plates, which were attached to him much as a roman chest plate would have been. He continued up with the shoulder guards, both of which sticking out slightly on each side. Finally, to finish his chest armor, he placed the thick cloth guard, which was about an inch in width, on top. The full weight of the combat armor now circulated above ninety-five pounds, though he knew he was not quite finished yet. His upper arms were strapped with the same sort of protection as his legs, only to go down and hook up to wrist guards placed just before his hand. Over the wrist guards were the specially designed gloves, which fit each soldier according to the size of their hands.

Lastly, after thirty minutes of hard work, he sat there on a bench with his head hanging low. So dearly did he want to complain, but the combat armor wasn’t constrictive even in the slightest. The suit , as well as his vital signs and general health, was continually monitored by the internal central processing unit on the back of his armor. Nevertheless, it wasn’t quite finished yet. He got to his feet once more and found the last piece of armor sitting on a small shelf near the top. The faceplate was silver and shined brilliantly, having only the black lettering of “R5290″ on the bottom half near the mouth. With a last breath as though he would never have one again, Atlas closed his eyes and squeezed his head into the mask.

There was nothing but utter blackness and for a moment he began to try to convince himself to rip it off. With a few deep breaths, however, the screen turned on and his oxygen began to work properly. He could see his vitals near the side of his vision, which was as it would have been without the mask. The only difference was that he could use several devices simply with a feed sent by his C.Eve Unit, allowing him access to maps, his teammates whereabouts, and even their health; it was their HUD. With it all working and the statistics quickly loading, he locked the final metal fastener.

Unlike most of the Black Sun soldiers of the Assault and Recon unit, Atlas, who in all fairness was a step above them in rank and position, used his antique G27. Though, he wasn’t the only officer to use a personal weapon; Helios himself used a CZ 75 SP-01. Then again, as he walked out from the room and placed his sidearm in its holster, he came to the realization he would most certainly be required to shoulder a rifle once more, something he wanted little to do with.

Even during his days as captain of the 5o5, he used a pistol. At the time, however, it was a specially modified Jericho 941. Just as his G27 was, it was an antique. It was as well a gift from his father, who had himself used it during his career in the United Army. It proved to be his best ally and even in situations which required range, he found himself preferring the handgun to a normal rifle.

Soon after he finished equipping himself with the R5290, he made his way to Operation Room San. It was a small office-type room with a table in the middle and about two dozen chairs without a back or sides sitting all around it. The walls were covered in papers and photos; Black Sun never used computers when it came to such sensitive information. “Any child or fool, if you can delineate between them, can hack into your computer,” Helios informed Atlas when he first joined. “Sure, we can update our security, or we can just pass information along the good old fashioned way: ink, paper, and person.”

Atlas took a chair, or rather a stool, and sat down at the end of the long table. The room was immaculate and pallid in all ways, from the crystal-like walls to the milk-colored floors. Though, as he sat there he came to the realization that the entire complex was made in similar fashion. The only flaw in it all was the furniture, which lacked quality to say the least. The tables ends were dented and the legs were bent and had begun to gather a slight bit of a rust.

On the opposite side of the room, as the door shut, Helios walked in, immediately causing every soldier with the exception of Atlas to stand at attention and salute. Unlike the others, Helios had no combat armor or weapon, with the exception of his sidearm. Instead, he wore a tan suit and a white collared shirt without the tie. At times he left people wondering what he truly cared more about, the mission or the way that he dressed. Either way, as he arrived at the table and nodded, the soldiers of the 10o5 sat down.

“The I.O. has obtained information which had led us to believe that the Šero Advent is holding meetings in a large church in Iguala,” he said in a strictly formal fashion. “We have reason to believe that this church is full of Mexican independence sympathizers, all of whom are thought to be male. There are as well Adventists, of course, but they are numbered only in a few.”

“How well are the insurgents armed?” Captain Sorenson asked.

Helios walked over to the wall behind him and grabbed a few photos, tossing them onto the table. Immediately the captain grabbed for them and let out a deep sigh. Whoever it was who had taken the photos, they were able to sneak up close and show the insurgents on their patrols. Easily three dozen men, all armed to the teeth with the antique M4′s, could be seen in each photo.

In regards to their main weapon, the M4, it was quite understandable why they had them. The United Army improved their weaponry after foreign militaries began to use far superior weapons. Instead of selling the weapons to their allies, all of whom used better versions, they decided to dump them in South American, where a large drug war was taking place between Venezuela and Columbia.

After several generations of carbines and rifles, all taking advantage of new technology, it was a far simpler version which came to popularity in the United Army. The NAR 42-50, a light automatic rifle with enough stopping power to cut through every type of armor, with the exception of the R5290.  Unfortunately, it was only in the last months of the Southern Front that most soldiers were given the new rifle. Their older yet far more technologically advance rifles, which shot highly specialized ammo, were generally useless compared to the M4′s the Mexican army used.

“How many are there?” the captain asked, this time hoping for an actual answer.

Helios walked back over to the table and shrugged.

There were theories abound that Black Sun used the armories as a place to study the habits of their soldiers. Whether this was true or not was unknown, but it didn’t matter much. Once you joined Black Sun, you were unable to leave.

On the very bottom level of the armory sat the gym and corresponding showers, all lined up and readily available for use. Not far away was the locker room, which sat split into two sections: the clothing area and the armor area. It was there that the 10o5 gathered, suiting up and getting ready to leave for a mission they were relatively blind about.

The captain of the 10o5 cleared his throat and read aloud from a flyer, “Soldiers of Christ, we fight our last battles now amongst the North American land. Stolen of its sovereignty, this dictatorial regime has razed our great country. It sits now in shambles, it cries to be freed. Gather, children of Christ, sing your hymns and pray your prayers, for we shall send our enemy into the ocean, one push at a time.”

A chorus of laughter rang out, echoing in the room and down the hall. As Atlas made his way towards them he could hear the song they sang. For a moment he pictured John Haley as an intelligent fellow whose goal was worthwhile, but his means to reaching it flawed. Yet, as the sound of the captain reading from the propaganda continued, he began to realize it was little more than zealotry. It was no different than the European anti-Semitism.

The captain cleared his throat once more and began again, saying, “Our enemy breeds like swine, they release their garbage onto society and now we are to deal with them.” For a moment he paused as he silently read the new few sentences. With a heavy heart he continued, saying, “No matter their age, whether fifty or newborn, they are to be ruined. They poisoned our waters, they forced sterility onto us, so in turn we shall show them the wrath of our Lord.”

John Haley was considered by most of society, the section of which who had no ties to the military, as a peaceful individual. Many thought of him as innocent, persecuted by Black Sun simply for his religious beliefs, and yet as the captain tossed the propaganda onto the floor, the entire room grew silent.

The men, trying their best to ignore what was read to them, began to put on the very last pieces of their armor. Mechanical and entirely run by a generator on their back, the plated armor was mostly bulletproof and yet gave them an amazingly agile fit. Unfortunately, it was suffocating to wear. The blackened leather sat tight on the body, only to be covered by metal plates. To top it all, they wore helmets whose faceplate was blank, giving them a strangely robotic look.

It was known colloquially as the Black Face of the Sun, but its proper code was R5290 combat armor. Truly it was the greatest form of protection that a soldier could have. Granted, it was unavailable to most everyone with few exception. It seemed that only the soldiers of Black Sun were allotted use of the R5290 series, giving them the upper hand in all situations. But then, many thought little of the suits, considering them cowardly. Without the chance of death, Helios once stated, there is no understanding of life. As for Atlas, he had little good to speak of them.

“I’d rather die in a collared shirt,” he had told Helios before entering the OC:3 Armory. When he was given the news that he was to help with a mission dealing with Adventists and insurgents, he nearly laughed in disbelief. Nonetheless, within a day he stood before the immaculate looking OC:3.

No matter his opinion, however, Atlas knew he was doomed to wear the tight fitting armor. By the time that he had come into the hallway just before the locker room, the men inside began to zip up the thick cloth guard which was used much like a tabard, covering the chest plate of the armor. On it, in white lettering, it read: State Guard Special Operations Unit 795. In truth, none of the soldiers who stood before Atlas were members of the State Guard. Instead, they were once the proud soldiers of the United Army, only to be recruited into the Assault and Recon Unit of Black Sun, known colloquially as AnR.

Helios passed Atlas in the hall and walked into the locker room. The sound of boots automatically hitting the floor were soon followed by the sight of the soldiers saluting. Of all the rumors spread of and about the Black Sun, it was always Helios who was mentioned. He was the great commander whose tactical precision allotted him control over the entire military force behind Black Sun. The only people whose power was greater was Apollo and Haden, both of whom had little to do with the dirty work.

“Good morning, sir,” said captain of the newly formed Black Sun unit 10o5.

Helios acknowledged the men and immediately they relaxed their stature, going back to putting the overbearing R5290 armor on.

“Good Morning, Captain,” he replied. “The briefing will be in Operation Room San in forty minutes. I’d advise everyone to be on time. During this mission you will be given an escort in the form of Atlas, one of our veteran recruits. He lead the 5o5, so I’d advise you to respect his orders.”

With that, he saluted the soldiers once more and walked out and back into the hall, only to find Atlas standing there with a smile running across his face. It was true, mind you, that he was a veteran recruit, but that only meant he had lived through the Southern Front incursion. In all fairness, he was barely even recognizable in terms of rank. Yet, most of the Black Sun soldiers knew him from his days as a captain.

He brushed off his smile and continued past Helios. As he drew closer he could hear the sound of men marching toward him. The sudden appearance of twenty-four well armed and geared men took him back a little. Truly they were frightening in the broadest of senses, though he couldn’t figure out why he loathed their presence so much. However, instead of taunting him or poking fun at the suit he wore, the soldiers all stopped and saluted, only to continue marching as he did the same. Behind the soldiers who now hurriedly continued on was the captain, a particularly forgettable man.

Unlike the other soldiers, whose faceplates were solid and clean, having nothing but a small text on the side of it, the captain had outfitted his with specialized mods. Even his normal armor was different in a few ways, though none as up front as his faceplate.

“Officer Atlas,” he said as he passed. Unlike the others he did not salute and he did not continue on down the hall. Instead, he stood there and waited for a response, only to receive a blank stare. “I’m Captain Aaron Sorenson of Black Sun AnR Unit 10o5.”

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She jumped to her feat and pushed Nathan onto his, shouting as she did, “Run, run!”

He took off without thought and ran as quickly as he could, though soon he stopped and looked back, realizing Ophelia, his beloved protector, was refusing to move. She had stood up, of course, but she stayed there and gave a horrible stare towards the man. He was just like them, she decided. The man had a white shirt and black tie, not to mention the horrendous amount of stains, all of scarlet, running down it.

“My name is Atlas,” he said, shutting the door and walking closer. As soon as he got within a few feet of her, he knelt down to her level and continued, “Is everything alright? I don’t think it’s often that two children sleep in the middle of the road…”

“We’re poor!” she shouted, interrupting him.

He let out an innocent laugh and replied quickly, “Still, even the poor sleep in some sort of shelter, lest they don’t care about being struck by a passing car. I take it you’re here hoping to find help.”

She tried her best to seem taller, as though it actually mattered. Sucking up all her pride and letting loose, she said in a vindictive voice, “There isn’t anything wrong, go away.”

“You’re covered in mud and you smell like a pig’s ass,” he shot back to her, snickering all the while.

Atlas was no farther than two feet away from the girl, but he never expected the suddenly swipe. For a second he blinked his eyes erratically and shook his head, unsure of what had happened. As he regained his composure, he realized the girl had a moderately sized rock in her right hand. With a swift hit, he fell back and gave her enough time to shoot forward and off into the hills, avoiding the road entirely.

As he watched her disappear into the distance, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. he didn’t want to answer, knowing entirely what to expect from the other end. If it was Haden, which he knew it wouldn’t be, then the conversation would be little more than a message.

Ignoring his disposition, he reached into his pocket and, without looking at the picture of the caller, answered with a spitefully apathetic tone, “Yes?”

“Atlas, are you able to talk?”

Just as he had expected, it was Helios. Begrudgingly, Atlas replied, “Yes, sir, how can I help you?”

Without any delay, as though he were reading off of a script, he said, “We sent two men over to a small vagabond city on the outskirts. They were to question some residence as to whether or not Elizabeth MacArthur had recently visited. Unfortunately, while they did so, they ran into her.”

Atlas felt his stomach sink. He already knew the end to it, especially if Pallas was involved. With exception to Virgil, he knew of no one else other than Pallas who was in the region.

“Are you still there?” Helios asked as the silence grew a bit overwhelming.

“Yes, sir, I’m listening.”

After a second to gather himself, Helios replied, “Unfortunately, she attacked them and in the scuffle she was shot twice. Pallas tried to question her as she died, but apparently she was unable to answer anything. If it validates her death at all, she had shot her brother-in-law and his son, not to mention her own sister. Apparently they did it so that you wouldn’t find them.”

“Thom agreed to help,” Atlas said, nearly interrupting his commander. “He gave me their address. Apparently they’re all Advent sympathizers. So, what do I do now, sir?”

“After you’ve finishing talking with Pallas we’ll see where we can go from there.”

One by one the bodies were scanned. Tiny beams of green light shot out from fixed position on the long plastic ceiling of the coffin-like chamber. Instead of digging through the insides of the body, it scanned every inch and every fiber. The machines were so excellent at doing their job that it was theorized they could identify the shape of each Atom now laying dormant in the body by using only half of the magnification the sensors actually used.

As for the person being scanned, she was barely into her fifties and her face spoke of a difficult life. Her skin was bruised in many spots and imperfections sat scattered all across her back and her knees. Her black hair was combed back and now hung off of a small platform, the one she laid upon. Not five feet away was her husband. Between both of them was Samuel.

Pallas grew impatient and sighed heavily, groaning at the idea of having to wait around. His head bobbed back and forth, all the while whistling a roaming song without a hint of even a tempo. Men and women of the Inspection Ops team from Black Sun scoured the house, searching every inch for that one piece of evidence that they needed.

Unlike Thom, whose eyes sat nearly blinded and infected by sloppy work, those in I.O. had the finest implants. Like most people, they replaced a natural body part with one of more value. The same was said for most snipers, whose sight and ability to hold their rifle still often failed them as they grew older. In regards to Pallas, however, he had far too much replaced to actually count. The only exception was his eyes, which he openly claimed were perfect.

“Why did you execute Elizabeth?” a man asked as he came in from the front door.

Pallas jumped to his feet like a spring and peered around the corner, watching as Atlas gave him a cold stare. With a wicked smile, he let out a barking laugh and walked over to him. The two men were quite different in both size an height, Atlas winning both.

“Calm down, Atlas,” he said, patting the man on the shoulders. “She was carrying a pistol on her and when I caught up, she pulled it on me. Thankfully I was able to react quick enough and BOOM!” he shouted, his hands coming together and imitating an explosion. “No more Adventist to worry about, eh?”

A feeling of hatred filled him, but Atlas ignored it. The years on the Southern Front had forced into his psyche the ability to willingly chose his emotion, though it rarely worked as he tried to perfect it. At times the anger would return, finding itself being expressed needlessly in a situation which had no use of anger. Nevertheless, at that moment, as he stared down into Pallas’ eyes, he tried his best to hide it.

“She could have had intelligence on the whereabouts of Evelyn,” Atlas finally replied.

With a snicker, Pallas said, “And I’ve got this fantastic bridge down near Iguala that I really want to sell you – only forty Amero’s. You’ll even get a couple of free Yid’s.”