Author's Note: Many, many apologies for taking this long to post an update! It's longer (and has some climactic stuff), if that counts for anything? Probably could use much more editing/polishing, but I think I am just sick of being stuck on this chapter, so... enjoy?


His body automatically attempted to render itself as small as possible. Curled up on his side, Becker briefly wondered at the origins of the instinct to revert to the fetal position when in severe pain. Why was it supposedly so comforting?

The benefits were utterly lost upon the abused soldier.

There was only agony.

Yes, it was about time to call it a day...a week, a month, a year, an existence. Never before had he so badly wanted to quit in his life. No, that wasn't right. It wasn't just a desire. It was a physical need, the only outcome possible given present circumstances. He simply had no choice in the matter. His body could not go on. And he was rather doubtful about his mind, as well as his soul (if he ever possessed one in the first place).

And then that bastard started whispering, shouting. How Becker despised him! And how he loathed Becker, always pushing, always criticizing. That damn voice that appeared when he wanted its presence the least, when he just wanted a moment's peace, to crawl into a dark corner and die.

It wouldn't let him.

This time it didn't point out all of his failings, his faults. Unfortunate. That would've probably driven him into that black corner to reside there for the rest of eternity.

No, it whispered just one thing, the only thing that could stir him from the abyss.

The girls.

They would be found, if they hadn't been discovered already. They would be dragged into the disgusting, gruesome room, just like Davey and Cynthia before them. They would be tortured and then executed while Becker was forced to watch.

No. That was untrue.

He'd break. He'd break for them. And that made him by far a worse person. No moral high ground for the likes of him, when closer acquaintances-friends- could sway him while others' lives did not merit enough to part his lips.

Get up, you bastard.

Time to accept the horrible person that he was and get on with it.

Slowly he levered himself to his feet, not quite straightening completely, unsure whether he'd ever be able to rise to his full height again. His stomach was a burning mess of knotted muscle and stinging, gaping wound.

He found his shirt, folded neatly atop his boots with socks tucked in. Add obsessive-compulsive disorder to the late Sadist's Little Buddy's list of mental defects.

Becker dressed hastily, feeling somewhat more complete in the garb that had become like second skin to him over the years.

If he were to spare Abby and Sarah, he had to be gone. There was no guarantee, besides that he had killed the obviously insane mercenary, that they would not be harmed despite his absence, or because of it. However, that rock-heart son of a bitch was blatantly driven by a cold sort of logic, so he wouldn't waste time torturing the women barring any tangible result.

Convincing himself that it was the best decision, and shoving aside the doubt and concern for their safety, Becker fled the room within which his soul would forever be trapped, shoving down all the self-loathing and agony into the deepest recess he could find.

This crisis was not over yet. But if he had anything to do with it, it would be very soon...

The roof was where the device was being taken. So that's where Becker went. Might as well see what this whole hullabaloo was fucking about, since he had sacrificed blood, bile, flesh, and parts of his conscience for its completion.

He opted for the ventilation shafts, easily finding an unguarded point of entry and climbing with more difficulty than which he'd ever thought he'd be prone. Not thinking to bring proper mechanical disabling devices, he employed his not-so-beloved-anymore combat knife to unscrew the grating keeping him precariously pinned within the vent rather than kicking mercenary ass upon the roof.

From his hiding place, he could see them, off to the side, standing around what was blatantly a creation of the mind of Connor Temple; an odd conglomeration of random everyday objects, strangled by wires and electrical tape. It even boasted some sort of array...so very sci-fi geek, Becker wasn't sure it hadn't built by some nerds in their parents' garage.

The innocuous banality of it, however, was not enough to fool the ARC soldier, who had witnessed some of the more severe aspects of the young scientist's machinations. Perhaps he did not look the part, or act it, but Connor Temple possessed substantial genius that could no doubt be applied to deleterious designs on the global scale. And there was a menacing edge to that device that put Becker at considerable unease.

Then again it could just be the price paid for its construction.

He shoved down the memories and thoughts that would only take him to a bad, debilitating place. Instead, he evaluated the scenario laid out before him upon the stark cement roof of the ARC. Two mercenaries. One device. One shifty-eyed Weasel.

Easy enough to handle. He just needed to-

The door opened, and another joined the party of hostiles on the roof, perhaps the only individual that would make Becker hesitate. That damn tough-as-nails, rock-hearted leader of the mercenaries. The only one who would be the ARC soldier's match were he in full physical health. In his present condition, strategy needed to be re-evaluated.

And wait. Was that...?

A flash of movement across the roof, barely noticeable, hidden behind some architectural structure or another that really served no functional purpose. At least the structural frivolity was currently providing some use, for Becker recognized in that brief glimpse Danny Quinn and Connor Temple.

Anger and grief momentarily choked him. He could have told the bad guys precisely where they had agreed Quinn would stash Temple and the device, and the mercenaries would've come up empty handed. He could have spared innocent people's lives. It was somewhat difficult to convince himself that Weasel would've snapped entirely into homicidal rage, killing many more in an attempt to glean information that Becker simply would not have possessed, had things played out in such a manner.

But he tried to believe things had turned out for the best, squashing down his damn emotional frailty once more.

If he felt like he needed to atone for the deaths he had caused, this was a good a chance as any for some severe suffering on his part. Maybe he'd even get killed. Sincerely, that was not his goal in this endeavour, but if it were the outcome, so be it.

He only wished he were closer to the figures milling about what seemed like a vast expanse of concrete away, for there was no way he could traverse the distance in anywhere near as good a time as normal.

Accepting his current maddening condition was necessary were he to take on these bastards with only his combat knife of dubious loyalty. He really should've made a stop at the armoury, even in the slim chance of acquiring a firearm... or some body armour-yeah, that would've probably been nice. There simply hadn't been the time, and judging by the way Weasel was fidgeting about with the device, time was running out for everyone.

If he threw his knife, burying it into one of the mercenaries' chests, he'd no longer have it. However, if he didn't dispatch the blade, the likelihood he'd be shot dead relatively quickly after making his move was absolute.

The best bet would be to wait for the unlikely event of all four persons simultaneously turning their backs to him and sneak up behind them, stab one through the heart (or cut his throat) and use him as a human shield against the others.

Becker could wing it, but plans were so much lovelier; easier to execute in the long run and much, much less likely to get you killed. Yes, he had done a rather sloppy job of it today. And at this point, there was nothing else for it but jumping in head first.

The heavens aligned.

He really didn't deserve such goddamn good luck, but he'd contemplate the purveyors of his fate at a later time. They did not pity a fool who would squander such a gift.

Danny Quinn, idiot he may be for keeping Temple on the premises, was at least smart enough to bring along some friends-the best kind, of the Beretta and SIG Sauer variety to judge by the efficiency in which the ex-copper's bullets brought down the mercenary. The unfortunate man must have royally pissed off the fates (God, gods, whomever), to have not only been born such an ugly bastard but to die such a pointless death.

Well, his death did serve a purpose of sorts, even if it only benefited the 'opposing' side to the mercenary's, in that it provided enough distraction for those not wanting to become Danny Quinn' next victim to allow Becker to extricate himself from the air duct. The screaming agony that was his body at the moment was brutally squelched by shear force of will in favor of more pressing matters.

His only focus was the neutralization of the hostiles.

Chop the head off the snake... was generally held to be apt advice in situations such as these. However, Becker opted to tackle neither the Stone-Hearted CO who was deftly returning Quinn's hail of bullets, pinning the ARC team members down where they had first acquired cover, or the shifty, criminally insane blighter who was crouching behind the Doomsday device, continuing to fiddle with what appeared to be a laptop built into the magpie's nest of tech. Instead, he took out the slightly more vulnerable mercenary (better to work one's way up to the main event-and maybe buy Quinn time to take out the mercenary of steel for Becker's very beaten-down sake), knocking the smaller man to the hard concrete of the roof and wrestling the SA80 out of his hands. A quick smack to the head with the butt of the assault rifle effectively neutralized the man.

Physically, Weasel was not much of a threat, so Becker's next target would be-

SHIT!

The strike caused him to stagger back, trying to recover from the dizzying blow. He had barely managed to rise to his feet, let alone acquire his target, only to realize (apparently at the precise moment as Stone-Hearted Bastard) that they had inadvertently ended up practically on top of one another through their separate struggles.

He had been faster than Becker.

And Becker's jaw felt the brunt of such depressing knowledge, which was fortunately not as severe as it could've been, for the man had been caught relatively off-guard, mitigating the force of his punch.

They were at too close a range for firearms to be effective. Both of the highly trained military men attempted to use them as blunt instruments to aid their close-quarters combat, but rather quickly they were knocked aside or wrenched free to fall to the wayside.

Becker managed to retain his SA80 a fraction longer, enhancing a blow to Rock-hearted Mercenary's gut with reinforced steel. Unfortunately, the man barely recoiled, maintaining the mind to grab the assault rifle, grapple with Becker briefly over it, head butt the soldier with his granite-like skull, and toss the weapon aside, coming back with a forceful fist, bolstered by the pendulum momentum of the movement.

Having survived being a soldier for this long, Becker at least possessed the ability to recoup expeditiously, and ducked the fist aimed at his face (which was by far more difficult an endeavour than the typical pub brawl punch that comes swinging from a mile away and could be evaded by a half-blind grandmother).

Momentum was a beautiful thing if you could use it to your advantage.

A couple strategically placed hands and the much abused soldier sent his opponent staggering on his way.

It really wasn't fair.

The mercenary recovered his balance faster than any human had the right to do. He was simply better, stronger than Becker (at the moment). But the captain had reserves of stubbornness to the degree that probably qualified the trait as the eighth deadly sin.

He threw himself at his opponent. Sloppy, yet the only maneuver left to him. And aside from fatal injury and death, there was really no way to harm his flesh any further. The adrenalin and endorphins washing over him like a Tsunami had seen to any negative protestations of nerve endings.

A small victory, knocking the sturdy man to the ground. However, there was no clear winner as they grappled futilely, both men knowing all the moves and counter-moves and neither gaining a superior hold upon the other.

Just as his muscles threatened rebellion due to fatigue, and he felt his body growing weak despite his determined mind, Becker managed to gain the advantage.

One knee on his chest, the captain pinned the mercenary to the ground, and struck him multiple times in the face with his less than normally powerful-but hopefully effective enough-fist.

The success was fleeting, however, for the Hard-Eyed Bastard attained the leverage to flip Becker off from him, causing the soldier to land roughly on his back upon the concrete roof. Taking fistfuls of his shirt, the lethal man began to bash the back of Becker's head against the unyielding, cold cement.

The blue of the sky was oddly cheerful for such a shit sort of day. It's happy, care-free cotton wool clouds began to blur. Becker felt the urge to wretch but at this point it was a physical impossibility for his stomach to expel anything, since it was devoid of even the minutest drop of bile.

And then the severe rocking motion of the world ceased, leaving only a comparatively (but just as disorienting) spinning sensation behind.

Combat boots echoed across hard concrete, cutting through the blackness that threatened to claim Becker's consciousness. And behind the clomp, clomp, clomp of hard-soled rubber was a muffled sort of disturbance. His addled brain could only conjure the capacity to focus on one piece of stimuli at the moment. And thankfully, it sensed which was the more threatening to Becker's survival, analyzing the clomp, clomp, clomp that seemed to be in slow motion.

The mercenary was walking away, while Becker still alive?

Walking away, turning his back...

Walking away from Becker towards...towards what?

Walking towards what?

A gun.

A gun to finish off the die-hard ARC captain.

Move or Die!

Through sheer force of will, Becker managed to urge his incapacitated body to respond, rolling over onto his stomach and compelling his eyes to locate the threat despite their objections against the still-fuzzy world.

It hadn't just been the fucked-up state of his muddled brain. Steel Mercenary was walking away in a sort of slow motion, favouring one leg over the other.

Oh-ho!

Had he the capacity and would it not alert his target and would-be executioner, Becker would've laughed. One of those random bouts of chuckling that overtakes one when things turn out surprisingly well, generally creditable to your own cleverness.

Funny thing, knee injuries.

Torn ACLs are a life sentence, you know? They can put in as many staples and pins as will set off every metal detector within a hundred metres, but the joint will just never be the same, never as flexible, never as strong.

Vulnerable to future injury.

Half-stumbling, half-running, Becker came up behind the loathsome mercenary with what would soon prove to be a fatal old football injury.

He mustered his remaining strength, concentrating it into his right arm, and punched through the mercenary's gimp-knee aiming the focal point of its force far beyond the flesh and bone itself.

There was a satisfying 'pop' and crunch of tearing tissue as the limb took on a resemblance closer to a carpenter's square than the functional bipedal appendage, prior to the complete collapse of its owner with an agonized outcry.

The once seemingly invincible mercenary writhed about in pain.

And what's that, dear beloved, Fate?

His combat knife had been lost to him in the fray, only to appear just a few feet beyond the downed Goliath. Or would he be Achilles? Arrogant wanker!

The sun, the happy sun, glinted off the parts of its blade not crusted with blood. Poor, little knife had fallen into less doting hands. But he'd soon remedy the mistake.

Oh, how the blade sung to him, whispered devilish, gruesomely satisfying games to him! It winked repeatedly, sharing a dark secret, beckoning. Becker received the message.

The trusty companion was light in his grip, like a weight had been lifted. He forgave it the betrayal of being employed to flay flesh from his body. The knife forgave Becker all of his hesitancy in its use on prior occasions.

Presently, they were of one mind.

The bastards had broken the captain, just not in the way they had intended. He could no longer claim the moral high ground. Honour was no longer a trait he possessed. And he no longer cared.

What had being civilized done for him?

This man had hurt him, in so many ways. And Becker was going to hurt him back. More. The captain was going to win in a most glorious, epic way.

Time to do as the ancient Greeks did; Right by your friends and harm to your enemies.

The good life.

Holding the defeated mercenary down, Becker nicked the man's neck ever so slightly with the tip of his voracious combat knife, strategically opening the carotid artery. The adrenalin-fueled rapidity of his heartbeat would pump the bastard dry. Slow, but not as painful as the maniacally broken soldier would have wished.

The captain forced himself to look the dying man in the eyes as he began to panic, desperately clutching at the side of his neck, trying to stem the flood of red that flowed forth like a gruesome font. Eyes like steel, as hard as diamonds, finally appeared human. Yet Becker felt nothing.

He felt nothing.

What had they done to him, he who suffered an avalanche of conscience over every human life he had ever taken (and they were always quick and merciful), even though they were righteous, in service of Queen and Country. Now an act of personal, vicious vengeance and he didn't feel a thing; satisfaction, remorse, pleasure, hatred. Not a thing.

What sort of monster was he?

Becker collapsed on his back, tossing the siren blade aside. The world was reduced to his breathing and the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.

No rest for the wicked.

The snap back to reality was so sudden, Becker's brain felt as if it had whiplash. The extreme highs and lows he had suffered all day begged the question as to whether he were bipolar. But there wasn't time for that particular contemplation at the moment.

His new code for living encompassed grave harm to one's enemies, but it also mandated doing right by one's friends. And they needed him.

It was unclear whether it had been the mercenary Becker had initially took down in the roof melee or the one Quinn had put a couple of lead bullets into earlier.

Either way, he was a resilient bastard, for he was presently holding his own against Danny Quinn. A few feet away, Temple was wrestling over the bizarre conglomeration of tech with Weasel. It appeared as though he were winning, too. That was, until Weasel grabbed hold of the geek's leg, sending him crashing backwards onto the concrete roof. Becker's own skull could attest to the uninviting reception it gave.

The older, rougher leader of the ARC's primary team seemed to be handling things in his usual manner of getting the shit kicked out of him. But situations in which the man invariably emerged on top always appeared so. Connor Temple, on the other hand, was often a hopeless cause, well-intentioned though he was. How he had survived this job when several more capable people had not was beyond Becker's capacity to discern.

Perhaps, it was because the others had always come to the young genius' aide, that he was still alive. Perhaps, that was why they ultimately were not.

No matter.

Becker easily snuck up behind Weasel as the detestable little man pawed frantically at the laptop that was buried in the heart of Connor Temple's Ominous Doomsday Device. His arms, tired and weak as they'd become, were still more than ample to restrain the psychopath he pulled away from the now humming tech.

Proving that he was indeed the master of timing, Danny Quinn appeared at his side, with a much-too-carefree smile for someone with a gash over one eye and a bloodied lip and knuckles.

Becker accepted the handcuffs Quinn dangled in offering, noting the unconscious but apparently still breathing mercenary behind him. And further beyond, the (finally) deceased body of the CO laying in a large reservoir of coagulating blood, trailed from a smaller pool where he had originally fallen. He had fought to live until the bitter end, crawling a few miserable metres before his strength failed him.

Death had been cruelly slow for the man, but doubtless justly deserved.

Shaking the dark thoughts and fledgling, and persisting concern about the quality or even existence of his soul, Becker restrained Weasel's hands behind his back, locking them in the metal circlets, and pushing him down to sit upon the roof. Quinn was helping Temple to his feet, the science geek rubbing the back of his head and bringing a bloodied, hobo-gloved hand forward to examine. He paled at the site of it.

"Ow." was the only comment he made.

"I thought you were going to stash him in one of the safe houses," Becker accused Quinn.

"Well, I thought you said you could handle this on your own," Quinn countered, "Which obviously you could not."

"Uh, guys?" Connor Temple interrupted, pushing between the semi-serious posturing of the pair of alpha males to study his latest piece of tech.

"Did he do anything to the Cascade?" The science geek indicated with a jab of his thumb the device and the madman grinning in an unnerving manner from where Becker had sat him.

"He was punching away at the keyboard like a trained chimp on crack when I pulled him away," Becker replied, identifying the cause for the blatantly obvious lack of relief he was feeling. "Should it be making that noise?"

There was a low hum, barely audible to human perception, the kind that tensed one's muscles and nauseated the brain. It began to scale up through various octaves, building, building, building... to what?

"It's charging up!" Connor announced loudly to be heard over the now deafening hum. "I can't believe the idiot actually turned it on."

"Why would you ever build a device for a nutter that actually worked?" Quinn exclaimed, exasperation edging his voice and face.

"The 'Differentiator' was totally bogus," Connor replied with air quotes and a shrug. "I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to set off the Cascade without it. He'd have no way of knowing-"

"Can you shut it down?" Becker interrupted the borderline argumentative round of The Blame Game.

"Once it's begun cycling up, there's no way the energy build can be disrupted," he offered sheepishly. "Sorry."

"And what exactly does it do?"

The horrified look on Quinn's face should've been enough to measure the degree to which they were fucked; if the perpetual optimist couldn't see the bright side or a way out... But Becker desperately wanted to know what had been worth all of this, this...There was no word appropriate for the events that had preceded this moment.

"We're about to find out!" Connor shouted over the whining din currently emanating from the dubious, loathsome device. The tech geek threw himself flat upon the roof. Quinn shrugged and did likewise. His body protested to the harsh impact, but Becker followed suit as well.

The soldier had expected a massive fireball, a laser beam worthy of a Bond villain, or some sort of explosion, in the least. There wasn't even a sound wave to rumble through the ground, vibrate through the air, shatter windows and set burglar alarms off in the parking lot.

Becker glared at Connor for the additional ache of throwing himself to the ground and having to struggle to his unsteady feet once more.

"Better safe than sorry, mate," the young man offered as apology.

"I take it that it didn't work after all?" Becker observed dryly. Shouldn't that have made him happy?

"Not exactly," Connor drawled hesitantly, pointing his finger at something in the distance.

Shit!

It sat like a tumor, bulging from the side of a ten story building about a mile away. At that distance, without the aide of a scope or binoculars, Becker had been taught never to assume anything. The details were always important. However, there was no doubting the glittering tear in time and space for what is was. There simply was nothing that compared to an Anomaly.

"It opened an anomaly?" Becker queried incredulously. "I didn't think you had even figured out how to close them."

"Amazin' what motivators big scary men with guns pointed at your friends are," Connor replied. "I'd some theories, just never the time to explore them."

"I'm happy things worked out so well for you," Becker said wryly. His intention wasn't to take out what was promising to be the most spectacular of bad moods on the young scientist. He just had compressed the anger into such a tight little knot, there was no telling when and where it'd burst.

"Look, there," Danny Quinn said, pointing at a faint sparkling in the distant sky. He turned slightly, jabbing his finger in a different direction. "And there."

Anomalies were blinking on like stars appearing a twilight sky. Becker lost count after a dozen.

"Connor?"

Quinn had certainly been a cop for good reason. The authoritative aspect of the man's tone caused Temple to shrink and cast his eyes downward like an admonished child.

"It is called the Anomaly Cascade Device for a reason," He offered lamely as excuse.

"You mean that every anomaly in a range of...?" Becker prompted.

"50 kilometres, give or take."

"50 kilometres," Becker growled, before continuing, "-is now open, letting god knows what kind of creatures run amok."

"How many are we talking here?" Quinn asked.

"Er..."

Becker was so in a killing mood. He was going to murder the annoying little geek. That's all there was to it. Nothing, absolutely nothing he could do but embrace his fate.

The soldier sighed.

This day was too fucking long already, and the possibility that it had only just begun made him more than a little want to dive head-first off the roof into the sweet embrace of the asphalt below.

"It worked!"

The maniacal laughter that followed the outburst disturbed Becker beyond almost everything he had witnessed since that morning which seemed an eternity ago. Honestly, he had never encountered that many certifiably insane persons in the combined experience of his life previous. Persons with terrible motivations and flawed systems of logic, yes, but completely off-the-wall lunatics? Less than a handful. What was it like begin trapped in such a mind? What could push one over the edge like that?

Then again, sometimes people just jumped.

"All I have to do is find the right one!" Weasel cried, struggling to his feet. The crazed man's eyes seemed to water. Wait, no. There was something glittering in them, a reflection of intangible particles sparkling in the air.

Along with Quinn and Temple, Becker turned around slowly, already knowing what they'd find behind them. An anomaly in full-event, strong, stable, tugging at the metal on their clothing from over ten metres away.

Hands still bound behind his back, Weasel gleefully belted for the great tear in time. Becker couldn't say he was sorry to see him go, except perhaps he'd never witness the come-uppence the little bastard had earned, to see the realization and remorse in the man's eyes.

Then again, the notion of justice would be lost on such a man. No last minute repentance for the sins he had committed, not when reality had so been warped in his brain.

There was a rattling from a few feet behind them, a kind of metallic shaking. And then the Cascade Device went whipping past them, pulled by the electromagnetic siren song. Quinn had the faculty to dive after it, grabbing hold of something (which could possibly have been a hair dryer) apparently attached solidly enough to the main body, to prevent it from being sucked into the anomaly and lost for all time. Becker dove after him, placing himself between the tech and the anomaly, holding it still.

"Connor, shut them down!" Quinn barked, his jaw clenched, straining against the powerful pull in an attempt to aide Becker's hold on the Cascade Device. Under normal circumstances, either man could've managed on his own, but both were obviously worn by the struggles of the day.

"Alright, Alright. Keep your socks on," Temple threw his hands into the air in a show of false surrender. "No need to get snippy, I should be able to get this baby to emit an EMP on a reverse frequency."

"And that will work?" Becker just had to ask. With Connor Temple, science was never an exacting endeavour.

"It's all I've got," he replied, the worry and fear apparent in his wide eyes. And then it dissipated, replaced by his 'focused geek' mode, as his fingers began to dance across the keyboard.

"How much longer?" Becker could feel the lactic acid pooling in his muscles, the overwhelming fatigue of continuous strain on already exhausted tissue. And judging by the expression on Quinn's face, the stubborn (possibly even more so than Becker) man also was growing weary of battling the anomaly's unwavering determination to claim the technological monstrosity.

"It took me over an hour to program the Cascade pulse," Connor explained without removing his gaze from the laptop screen. The rapid clicking of keys denoted his ability to multitask under pressure. "So work with me people, give me a few minutes."

"We might not have a few minutes. Hundreds, if not thousands of people all over London might not have those few minutes," Quinn growled.

"Whoa now," Temple defended. "I'm working as fast as I can."

There was a rumbling, which went unnoticed by the bickering pair, but was picked up by the unease that had not yet left the soldier despite the seeming neutralization of the hostiles. Maybe it was just coming down off the adrenaline high achieved by running about the ARC, causing explosions, being tortured, engaging in hand-to-hand combat, that had left him feeling edgy. But it was definitely a good thing. It gave him enough to time to motion for the others to be silent, and back them away from the anomaly.

And then there was shouting, incoherent, crazed, as the anomaly spit a looney out onto the roof. Weasel ran, yelling gibberish. The rumbling turned into a distinct thump thump. It was Steven Spielberg worthy in its theatricality, and should've been ironically comical, but it was unnerving. Becker glanced down, half expecting to find a pool of water with ripples rhythmically marring its placid service in time with the thundering thump thump, thump thump.

It seemed slow motion, yet occurred in a matter of seconds from that first faint rumbling, to the reappearance of Weasel, the footsteps, the deafening roar, the giant, scarred, lizard head with menacingly soiled teeth and a gaping mouth scooping up the madman, chopping down with a sickening crunch, a twitching leg disappearing back through the anomaly, and the eerie silence of shock.

"Allosaurus or possibly Saurophaganax ," Connor whispered mechanically before falling silent once more.

"Guess that wasn't the 'right' anomaly," Quinn observed dryly after another moment had passed.

"It's ready!" Temple announced, cracking his fingers. He grinned idiotically at them, no doubt satisfied with his amazing tech geek skills, and expecting some sort of praise from his audience.

He did not receive such.

"Well? Do it, then," Quinn barked.

"Oh, right." The dark-haired young man turned his attention back towards the godforsaken device, finger hovering over a key.

"In five, four..." He caught his teammates expressions. "Fine."

He pressed the button.


A/N: Just a couple more chapters to go... if anyone is still interested after this update taking so long. (Those chapters are actually partially written, however.)