Deep within the snowy woods of southern Alberta, a boy of around nineteen stood between the trees. His form was incased in the flurry of snowflakes that surrounded him; though he felt no pain from the bitter cold around him.

He couldn't tell just where exactly he was within the wilderness. Which direction had he come from? Where was his house? Nothing felt familiar to him. The boy had never been one to just get lost in the woods; he had lived near them his entire life. But, how did he even get here? Better yet, how long had he been outside? Frostbite was certainly a concern during this time of the winter and the boy wanted to take no chances.

The boy looked around, seeing no signs of and end to the pine trees around him. The sky above was a glowing periwinkle colour; It was the early hours of dawn, as far as he could tell. He then chose to walk forward, not knowing which way lead deeper into the sea of trees and which way was back to civilization. He continued, slowly walking through the snow as it crunched beneath his feet. The harsh wind caused him to stop in his place for a moment; This didn't feel right. He was sure he wasn't going the right way. As he looked around for anything, just one sign of life around him, the boy saw something in the distance. Though it was blurred by the hundreds, even thousands of snowflakes in front of him, he was sure it was something. It was short and the shape of a box from what he could tell. The boy felt something in his mind stir at the sight of the strange, distant object; but he chose to turn and walk towards it.

For a while, it felt as if he wasn't moving at all. Everything around him felt as though it was in slow motion. Eventually he reached the object in question; it was indeed what looked like a box. The boy circled it before finally kneeling in front of it. He noticed that wilted and dying white roses encased it beneath the heavy layer of snow. The flowers were of course long dead, but they remained coiled against the box tightly through the harsh winter. What were these flowers doing in this part of the woods? He stared at them for a moment in silence, listening to the sounds of the wind that howled against the pine trees. He was beginning to feel the cold now, but tried to ignore it.

The 'box' in front of him was covered in a thick blanket of ice and snow; obscuring it from the boy's view. Like the feeling of the cold he was trying so hard to ignore, another feeling was brewing in him. Something didn't feel right.

He slowly reached up to the object, feeling the cold stone beneath his palm as he wiped the snow from the front of it. Just what it was became clear as the boy read the text that was engraved into it.

'THOMAS MCGREGGOR

1947-1983'

The boy recoiled violently, letting out a sharp gasp that lingered in the cold air before him. He shot up from the ground and looked around, feeling as if the forest was closing in around him. The world was spinning. The entire aura of everything around him felt heavy; he felt truly helpless then and there. The boy tried to stable himself, pulling at his hair with his hands as he looked up at the falling snow above him. He was looking for a way, any way, to distance himself from the world right now. He felt a sob rise in his throat as tears of panic streamed down his cheeks. The boy then stared down at the gravestone once more. Wanting to cry for help, cry in vain for him to help though he knew he wouldn't answer. He hadn't answered for a long time.

But, just as the boy was about to collapse to his knees again, he felt something behind him. He couldn't explain it, but he felt a presence. It was a strong presence, and a dark one at that. It was a presence he hadn't felt in years. The boy's blood ran cold. As he turned to face whoever was behind him, he felt his stomach pool with dread.

A tall, brooding man with dark hair now dotted with tiny snowflakes met the boy's gaze. The sight of him made his eyes widen with fear as he took a few steps back out of pure shock. The man's piercing, ice blue eyes met the boy's hazel ones with a stare of hatred; though, the boy could've sworn something else was glimmering in them. As the boy's gaze traveled, he noticed the man's clothes were singed and burnt; and he himself was drenched in a visible spray of blood. The boy was stunned silent at the sight of him.

How? Just...how?

Before he could question anything else, the older man slowly outstretched his hand to the boy as his deep, menacing voice bellowed,

"TROY!"

Troy McGreggor suddenly and violently shot up from where he lay in his bed. His breathing was heavy as he franticly looked around his room for the man in his dreams. A light sheen of sweat covered Troy's body as he panted, still looking at each and every shadow in his room. There was nothing; just the usual mess of his room that was illuminated by the moon that shone through his window. Troy let out a choked sigh, his throat sore with the strong urge to cry. Wondering what his father would say, Troy held those tears in his throat and swallowed hard.

He looked towards the window across from him; the pane of glass was frosted with ice, but Troy could make out the full moon in the sky. The light from it illuminated the fields that surrounded Troy's home. They landscape was blanketed in snow, just as it had been in his dream- no, his nightmare. Troy stood from his bed, feeling the cold hardwood flooring beneath him. He shivered as he emerged from his blankets; Aunt Betty must've turned the air conditioning up again. Troy chuckled to himself a bit, Before walking into the hallway outside of his room, he captured a glance of the LED clock that sat beside his bed.

4:19 AM

Troy groaned under his still wavering breath as he walked into the darkness of his home. He knew his way around the house well enough to not need to turn the lights on; He didn't want to risk waking his Aunt anyways. Troy made his way downstairs and into the kitchen below, making sure to be as quiet as possible.

He opened the fridge and grabbed the lone carton of milk that sat on one of the shelves. After checking to see if it was still good, Troy took a few sips from it before shutting the refrigerator's door. Troy sat the carton of milk on the countertop near him and paused for a moment. He sighed loudly, resting his head in his hands for a moment.

This, unfortunately, hadn't been the first time he had experienced a night terror about the Ziox. They had been happening for a while; Ever since Troy had returned home from that fateful journey with that man named Zap Rowsdower. Troy smiled to himself a bit at the mention of his name. Then, his smile faded once more as he remembered Rowsdower's words about his nightmares involving that damned cult. That's how it all started; Rowsdower said they we're "calling him".

He had experienced them for a while at the hand's of... what had that man's name been?

Satoris.

Troy's face awkwardly flushed at the thought of the man's name. It was an unusual name fit for an unusual man. Satoris was dead though, wasn't he? Troy had shot the cult leader after he had set himself aflame whilst battling Rowsdower. A shiver ran through the young boy's spine; the mere thought of his nightmares possibly being Satoris-induced made him cringe with a soupy mixture of fear and disgust. What if the cult was calling him?

It was impossible though! The man was dead!

It could definitely be a possibility though. There was no way of knowing how many of the cults members were still out there and just how many of them were still loyal to their dead leader. Cults work in mysterious ways, and the Ziox were for sure a mysterious one. Amongst his thoughts, Troy lifted his head to stare at the clock on the wall; watching it tick away to 4:27. He probably wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. He didn't want to even slightly risk the fact he'd probably have more nightmares. Troy rested his head on the counter top for a moment, feeling the cold tile against his pale skin. Troy listened to the ticking of the clock as he felt his eyes close. He was beginning to feel himself be lulled back into what he hoped would be a peaceful sleep. He knew the possibilities of that were slim though.

"...Troy?"

Troy let out a startled yelp at the sudden sound of his name, bolting up from the counter top in a panicked hurry. His eyes met his own startled Aunt's and he sighed. The woman was clutching a small candle in her hands as she stared at Troy with a worried expression.

"Oh, Aunt Betty, I'm so sorry. Did I wake you?" Troy said to her as he walked closer to her and laughing a bit at his own sheepishness.

"Troy, what on Earth are you doing up so early?" Aunt Betty asked him, then gasped as she saw his current state. "Troy, you're sweating. Are you alright, dear?"

Troy felt his own forehead; he hadn't even noticed. He laughed nervously and hoped doing so would hide his true worry as well. "Y-Yeah I'm fine. I had a nightmare is all."

Aunt Betty hesitated before replying to him. "...Was it about the Ziox again?"

His Aunt had always been one to worry about him. Ever since she had taken him under her wing, she had been the type to always be looking out for him wether it was for better or for worse. In a way, Troy was of course thankful for her. When he had gotten back from 'defeating' the Ziox, Rowsdower had taken him back home.

Aunt Betty had been waiting, worried sick that her nephew had been missing for at least three days straight. Troy explained to her what had happened; and of course she had known about the Ziox. She knew her brother's past and his secrets; she had tried to keep them hidden from Troy. The last thing she had wanted was for Thomas' past to haunt Troy as well. Troy had known this though. She had felt awful, knowing that she should've destroyed that map when she had found it. Rowsdower had assured her that what had happened was for the greater good, though.

It took a lot of explaining to tell her just what had happened. Aunt Betty said that they had returned just in time; she had been close to calling the police and filing a missing person report. Troy had laughed, knowing the situation might have turned out awfully worse if that had been the case.

Troy couldn't remember much else from the day he returned. It had been nearly three and a half years though.

Now, here he was, an emotional wreck in front of his aunt at four in the morning. He sighed, nodding in response to her question.

"Yes; just like it always is. It was different this time! I saw him...I saw my father's grave. But he was there!" Troy cried, desperately hoping his aunt would have a good idea of what all of this meant. She had been around Troy's father her entire life; She had to know how to deal with this, at least in some way.

She stayed silent for a moment, pondering on her nephew's words. Troy felt like he was crazy; He had wondered in the past if he needed some sort of therapy after all the things he had been through. he was certain he had some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Maybe that's where the nightmares were coming from.

"Troy, that cult leader is dead. You should know that." She said, her voice soft as she rested a hand on Troy's cheek. "You're safe now. It's over."

How do you know that?

Troy nodded despite his intrusive thoughts. He weakly smiled at his aunt before speaking. "I know. It's just..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. Troy didn't know what he could say to make this whole situtation seem better.

"I know, Troy. You'll get through this though, I know you will." His Aunt smiled gently and leaned forward, planting a kiss on Troy's cheek. "You shouldn't let this worry you, Troy. The cult is long gone...Plus, I'm sure your father is watching over you."

Troy instinctively perked up at the mention of his father. "You think?"

Aunt Betty smiled. "Yes. Troy, you've already avenged his death; You got what both of you wanted in the end. It's over, Troy."

He crossed his arms over the cold granite of the counter top and rested his head in them. His Aunt sighed, turning and beginning to walk back up the stairs. "Come to bed soon, Troy." She said, looking back at him. Troy could tell she was truly concerned; maybe he did need professional help with all of this.

He said nothing and nodded. She was right, it probably wasn't a good idea to stay up pondering on the subject. But Troy knew he probably wouldn't be able to sleep again tonight. It would be masochistic to try to. Troy lifted his head a bit, looking towards the mess of phonebooks and magazines that were scattered across the coffee table in the living room across from him. Seeing them gave him an idea.

Troy slowly stood, then put the carton of milk back in the refrigerator. He walked back up to his room, careful of his footsteps on the creaking floorboards. When he returned to his room, Troy walked over the the lonely desk that sat adjacent to his bed. He flipped on the lamp that sat on it before sitting down.

He needed to find that one 'special' folder that sat on his bookshelf amongst the others. Troy had attempted to hide it well, but figured his Aunt already knew he had kept some relics from him and Rowsdower's cult adventure. Troy had even managed to recover the map from that strange Mike Pipper man, or rather, what was left of the map. The relic had been strangely burned along the lines of the large, centered hourglass that connected the symbols on each of the corners. Troy never figured out just why or how it happened; and he didn't want to question it.

Troy spotted said folder peeking out from under his bed. He reached down, grabbing it and putting up onto his desk. It was dusty, and much heavier than he remembered. Troy flipped it open, seeing the many sheets of drawings left behind by his father. The sight of the Zioxian symbols made Troy's blood run cold. A rush of memories flooded back to him in a mere instant; Troy cringed, attempting to push the thoughts aside. He flipped through the many sheets of paper, seeing notes, drawings, even the map that the cult so desperately needed, before coming to a small scrap of paper. Troy read over it, smiling; He had found what he needed.

In sloppy handwriting a phone number was written on the paper. Under the digits, there was a note.

'Call if you ever have any trouble. Stay safe, kid.

- Z. Rowsdower'

Troy beamed at the sight of Rowsdower's phone number. Him and Rowsdower had talked a bit since the cult issue, Troy checked in with himThey had promised to stay in touch, both because they had grown so close through their whole ordeal with the cult and also due to the fact Rowsdower wanted to make sure the cult wasn't giving Troy any trouble. Though Satoris was dead, they knew there would always be a risk. Pipper never did say just how big the cult was...Besides, how could they ever know? Cults could be long-reaching; Troy was sure there were more Ziox out there. How could there not be? The thought alone of more Zioxians hunting him and Rowsdower down all over again was enough to keep him up at night. But, the nightmares already did that job just fine.

The phone's dial tone rang for a while, causing Troy's hope to dwindle as he chose to fidget with the loose, frayed strings on the edge of his shirt. He wouldn't be surprised if Rowsdower didn't answer. The man was probably sleeping, much to Troy's envy. But, just as Troy was about to give up and put the phone down, he heard the line pick up. A pause, a groan, and then...

"...H-Hello?"

Troy's face lit up with a hopeful smile as he heard Rowsdower's rough, mumbling voice. "...Rowsdower?" Troy asked, just to be sure.

Rowsdower knew that voice anywhere. In a rather run-down apartment on the other side of Edmonton, Rowsdower sat up in bed and flipped on a light. He rubbed his eyes before groggily speaking, "Troy..? My God, kid, do you know what time it is?!" His tone escalated a bit as he read the time on his bedside clock that sat near a group of empty beer bottles; Troy laughed sheepishly under his breath.

"I know, I know. I'm so sorry, Rowsdower. It's just..." Troy trailed off, his voice wavering a bit as he looked for the right words. He could hear Rowsdower's demeanor shift from the other end of the line.

"Troy? Is everything okay?"

Though he knew Rowsdower couldn't see, Troy shook his head as he felt hot tears sting his eyes. He still wasn't sure which words to string together, or if he could even find words themselves. Troy didn't want to seem desperate, even though he was just that. Did he even want to hear Rowsdower's response to this whole thing? Was Troy even prepared to accept the probability of the cult being after only him now? He sighed, hopeless, before he choking out,

"It happened again."